10771	----	PHILIPPINE FOLKLORE STORIES By John Maurice Miller, Boston, U.S.A. 1904 Preface As these stories are only legends that have been handed down from remote times, the teacher must impress upon the minds of the children that they are myths and are not to be given credence; otherwise the imaginative minds of the native children would accept them as truth, and trouble would be caused that might be hard to remedy. Explain then the fiction and show the children the folly of belief in such fanciful tales. Contents The Tobacco of Harisaboqued The Pericos Quicoy and the Ongloc The Passing of Loku The Light of the Fly Mangita and Larina How the World Was Made The Silver Shower The Faithlessness of Sinogo Catalina of Dumaguete The Fall of Polobolac The Escape of Juanita The Anting-Anting of Manuelito When the Lilies Return The Tobacco of Harisaboqued A legend of the volcano of Canlaon on the island of Negros. It is told generally in Western Negros and Eastern Cebu. The volcano is still active, and smoke and steam rise from its crater. Long before the strange men came over the water from Spain, there lived in Negros, on the mountain of Canlaon, an old man who had great power over all the things in the earth. He was called Harisaboqued, King of the Mountain. When he wished anything done he had but to tap the ground three times and instantly a number of little men would spring from the earth to answer his call. They would obey his slightest wish, but as he was a kind old man and never told his dwarfs to do anything wrong, the people who lived near were not afraid. They planted tobacco on the mountain side and were happy and prosperous, The fields stretched almost to the top of the mountain and the plants grew well, for every night Harisaboqued would order his dwarfs to attend to them, and though the tobacco was high up it grew faster and better than that planted in the valley below. The people were very grateful to the old man and were willing to do anything for him; but he only asked them not to plant above a line he had ordered his little men to draw around the mountain near the top. He wished that place for himself and his dwarfs. All obeyed his wish and no one planted over the line. It was a pretty sight to see the long rows of tobacco plants extending from the towns below far up to the line on the mountain side. One day Harisaboqued called the people together and told them that he was going away for a long time. He asked them again not to plant over the line, and told them that if they disregarded this wish he would carry all the tobacco away and permit no more to grow on the mountain side until he had smoked what he had taken. The people promised faithfully to obey him. Then he tapped on the ground, the earth opened, and he disappeared into the mountain. Many years passed and Harisaboqued did not come back. All wondered why he did not return and at last decided that he would never do so. The whole mountain side was covered with tobacco and many of the people looked with greedy eyes at the bare ground above the line, but as yet they were afraid to break their promise. At last one man planted in the forbidden ground, and, as nothing happened, others did the same, until soon the mountain was entirely covered with the waving plants. The people were very happy and soon forgot about Harisaboqued and their promise to him. But one day, while they were laughing and singing, the earth suddenly opened and Harisaboqued sprang out before them. They were very much frightened and fled in terror down the mountain side. When they reached the foot and looked back they saw a terrible sight. All the tobacco had disappeared and, instead of the thousands of plants that they had tended so carefully, nothing but the bare mountain could be seen. Then suddenly there was a fearful noise and the whole mountain top flew high in the air, leaving an immense hole from which poured fire and smoke. The people fled and did not stop until they were far away. Harisaboqued had kept his word. Many years have come and gone, but the mountain is bare and the smoke still rolls out of the mountain top. Villages have sprung up along the sides, but no tobacco is grown on the mountain. The people remember the tales of the former great crops and turn longing eyes to the heights above them, but they will have to wait. Harisaboqued is still smoking his tobacco. The Pericos Throughout the Visayan islands almost every family owns a pericos, kept as American children keep canary birds. The pericos is about the size and color of a Crow, but has a hard white hood that entirely covers its head. The people teach it but one phrase, which it repeats continually, parrot fashion. The words are, "Comusta pari? Pericos tao." (How are you, father? Parrot-man.) "Pari" means padre or priest. The people address the pericos as "pari" because its white head, devoid of feathers, seems to resemble the shaven crowns of the friars and native priests. I In his small wooden box That hangs on the wall Sits a queer-looking bird That in words sounds his call. From daybreak to twilight His cry he repeats, Resting only whenever He drinks or he eats. He never grows weary,-- Hear! There he goes now! "Comusta pari? Pericos tao." II And all the day long You can hear this strange cry: "How are you, father? A parrot-man I." He sits on his perch, In his little white cap, And pecks at your hand If the cage door you tap. Now give him some seeds, Hear him say with a bow, "Comusta pari? Pericos tao." III Poor little birdie! How hard it must be To sit there in prison And never be free! I'll give you a mango, And teach you to say "Thank you," and "Yes, sir," And also "Good day." You'll find English as easy As what you say now, "Comusta pari? Pericos tao." IV I'll teach you "Good morning" And "How do you do?" Or "I am well, thank you," And "How are you too?" "Polly is hungry" or "It's a fine day." These and much more I am sure you could say. But now I must go, So say with your bow, "Comusta pari? Pericos tao." Quicoy and the Ongloc This story is known generally in the southern Islands. The Ongloc is feared by the children just as some little boys and girls fear the Bogy Man. The tale is a favorite one among the children and they believe firmly in the fate of Quicoy. Little Quicoy's name was Francisco, but every one called him Quicoy, which, in Visayan, is the pet name for Francisco. He was a good little boy and helped his mother grind the corn and pound the rice in the big wooden bowl, but one night he was very careless. While playing in the corner with the cat he upset the jar of lubi lana, and all the oil ran down between the bamboo strips in the floor and was lost. There was none left to put in the glass and light, so the whole family had to go to bed in the dark. Quicoy's mother was angry. She whipped him with her chinela and then opened the window and cried: "Ongloc of the mountains! Fly in through the door. Catch Quicoy and eat him, He is mine no more." Quicoy was badly frightened when he heard this, for the Ongloc is a big black man with terrible long teeth, who all night goes searching for the bad boys and girls that he may change them into little cocoanuts and put them on a shelf in his rock house in the mountains to eat when he is hungry. So when Quicoy went to his bed in the corner he pulled the matting over his head and was so afraid that he did not go to sleep for a long time. The next morning he rose very early and went down to the spring where the boys get the water to put in the bamboo poles and carry home. Some boys were already there, and he told them what had taken place the night before. They were all sorry that his mother had called the Ongloc, but they told him not to be afraid for they would tell him how he could be forever safe from that terrible man. It was very easy. All he had to do was to go at dusk to the cocoanut grove by the river and dig holes under two trees. Then he was to climb a tree, get the cocoanut that grew the highest, and, after taking off the husk and punching in one of the little eyes, whisper inside: "Ongloc of the mountains! Ongloc! Ugly man! I'm a little cocoanut, Catch me if you can!" Then he was to cut the cocoanut in halves, quickly bury one piece in one of the holes, and, running to the other tree, bury the remaining half in the other hole. After that he might walk home safely, being sure not to run, for the Ongloc has always to obey the call of the cocoanut, and must hunt through the grove to find the one that called him. Should he cross the line between the holes, the buried pieces would fly out of the holes, snap together on him, and, flying up the tree from which they came, would keep him prisoner for a hundred years. Quicoy was happy to think that he could capture the Ongloc, and resolved to go that very night. He wanted some of the boys to go with him, but they said he must go alone or the charm would be broken. They also told him to be careful himself and not cross the line between the holes or he would be caught as easily as the Ongloc. So Quicoy went home and kept very quiet all day. His mother was sorry she had frightened him the night before, and was going to tell him not to be afraid; but when she thought of the lubi lana spilled on the ground, she resolved to punish him more by saying nothing to him. Just at dark, when no one was looking, Quicoy took his father's bolo and quietly slipped away to the grove down by the river. He was not afraid of ladrones, but he needed the bolo because it is not easy to open a cocoanut, and it takes some time, even with a bolo, to get the husk chopped from the fruit. Quicoy felt a little frightened when he saw all the big trees around him. The wind made strange noises in the branches high above him, and all the trees seemed to be leaning over and trying to speak to him. He felt somewhat sorry that he had come, but when he thought of the Ongloc he mustered up courage and went on until he found an open space between two high trees. He stopped here and dug a hole under each of the trees. Then he put his feet in the notches and climbed one of the trees. It was hard work, for the notches were far apart; but at last he reached the branches and climbed to the top. The wind rocked the tree and made him dizzy, but he reached the highest cocoanut, threw it to the ground, and then 'started down the tree. It was easy to come down, though he went too fast and slipped and slid some distance, skinning his arms and legs. He did not mind that, however, for he knew he had the cocoanut that would capture the Ongloc. He picked it up, chopped off the husk, punched in one of the little eyes, and whispered inside: "Ongloc of the mountains! Ongloc! Ugly man! I'm a little cocoanut, Catch me if you can!" He then chopped it in halves and buried one piece, and, running to the other tree, buried the remaining piece. Just as he finished he thought he heard a noise in the grove, and, instead of walking, he started to run as fast as he could. It was very dark now, and the noise grew louder and made him run faster and faster, until suddenly a dreadful scream sounded directly in front of him, and a terrible black thing with fiery eyes came flying at him. He turned in terror and ran back toward the trees. He knew it was the Ongloc answering the call of the cocoanut, and he ran like mad, but the monster had seen him and flew after him, screaming with rage. Faster and faster he ran, but nearer and nearer sounded the frightful screams until, just as he felt two huge claws close on his neck, there was a bump, a loud snap, and he felt himself being carried high in the air. When the shock was over he found that he was squeezed tightly between two hard walls, and he could hear the Ongloc screaming and tearing at the outside with his claws. Then he knew what had happened. He had crossed the line between the buried pieces and they had snapped on him and carried him up the tree from which they came. He was badly squeezed but he felt safe from the Ongloc, who finally went away in disappointment; for, although he likes cocoanuts, he cannot take one from a tree, but must change a boy or girl into the fruit if he wishes to eat of it. Quicoy waited a long, long time and then knocked on the shell in the hope that some one would hear him. All that night and the next day and the next he knocked and cried and knocked, but, though people passed under the tree and found the bolo, he was so high up they did not hear him. Days and weeks went by and the people wondered what had become of Quicoy. Many thought he had run away and were sorry for his poor mother, who grieved very much to think she had terrified him by calling the Ongloc. Of course the boys who had sent him to the grove could have told something of his whereabouts, but they were frightened and said nothing, so no one ever heard of poor little Quicoy again. If you pass a cocoanut grove at night you can hear a noise like some one knocking. The older people say that the cocoanuts grow so closely together high up in the branches that the wind, when it shakes the tree, bumps them together. But the children know better. They say, "Quicoy is knocking to get out, but he must stay there a hundred years." The Passing of Loku The tale of Loku is applied to a large, ugly lizard which climbs to the rafters of houses and gives the peculiar cry that suggests its name. This lizard, although hideous, is harmless; it lives on centipedes. Its strange cry may be heard everywhere in the Philippine Islands. Hundreds of years ago a very wicked king named Loku ruled the Philippines. He was cruel and unjust, and condemned to death all who refused to do his bidding. He had vast armies and made war on all until his name was feared everywhere. His power was very great. He conquered every nation that opposed him and killed so many people that the god, viewing the slaughter from his throne above, sent an angel to order him to cease from warfare and to rule the land in peace. Loku was in his palace, planning an assault on his neighbors, when a soft light filled the chamber, and a beautiful angel appeared and delivered the mandate of the master. The cruel king paid no heed, but dismissed the holy messenger in scorn. "Tell your master," said he, "to deliver his message in person. I do not deal with messengers. I am Loku. All fear my name. I am the great Loku." Hardly had he spoken when the palace shook to its foundations and a mighty voice thundered, "Is it thus thou Slightest my word? Thou art Loku. All shall indeed know thy name. From every crevice thou shalt forever cry it in a form that suits thy ill nature." The courtiers, alarmed by the shock, rushed to the king's chamber, but Loku was nowhere to be found. The royal robes lay scattered on the floor and the only living thing to be seen was an ugly lizard that blinked at them from among the plans on the table. They searched far and wide, and when no trace of the king could be found the courtiers divided the kingdom and ruled so wisely and well that there was peace for many years. As for Loku, you may still hear him fulfilling his punishment. From crack and crevice, tree and shrub, he calls his name from dark till dawn: "Lok-u! Lok-u! Lok-u!" And he must cry it forever. The Light of the Fly The firefly abounds everywhere in the Islands. I The King of the Air was in terrible rage, For some one had stolen his ring; And every one wondered whoever could dare To do such a terrible thing. He called all his subjects together and said, "To him that shall find it I'll give Whatever he asks, and this bounty of mine Shall last while his family live." II Away went his good loyal subjects to search, And no one remained but a fly. "Be off!" said the King, "go and join in the search; Would you slight such a ruler as I?" Then up spoke the fly with his little wee voice: "The ring is not stolen," he said. "It stuck to your crown when you put it away, And now it's on top of your head." III The King in surprise took the crown from his head, And there, sure enough, was the ring. "No wonder you saw it, with so many eyes; But what is your wish?" said the King. "O King," said the fly, "I work hard all the day, And I never can go out at night. I should like to go then and be gay with my friends, So all that I wish is a light." IV "You shall have it at once," said the gratified King, And he fastened a light to the fly, Who straightway returned to his home with the prize That was worth more than money could buy. So now you can see him at night with his light And from him this lesson may learn: To keep your eyes open and see the least thing, And Fortune will come in its turn. Mangita and Larina This is a tale told in the lake district of Luzon. At times of rain or in winter the waters of the Laguna de Bai rise and detach from the banks a peculiar vegetation that resembles lettuce. These plants, which float for months down the Pasig River, gave rise, no doubt, to the story. Many years ago there lived on the banks of the Laguna de Bai a poor fisherman whose wife had died, leaving him two beautiful daughters named Mangita and Larina. Mangita had hair as black as night and a dark skin. She was as good as she was beautiful, and was loved by all for her kindness. She helped her father mend the nets and make the torches to fish with at night, and her bright smile lit up the little nipa house like a ray of sunshine. Larina was fair and had long golden hair of which she was very proud. She was different from her sister, and never helped with the work, but spent the day combing her hair and catching butterflies. She would catch a pretty butterfly, cruelly stick a pin through it, and fasten it in her hair. Then she would go down to the lake to see her reflection in the clear water, and would laugh to see the poor butterfly struggling in pain. The people disliked her for her cruelty, but they loved Mangita very much. This made Larina jealous, and the more Mangita was loved, the more her sister thought evil of her. One day a poor old woman came to the nipa house and begged for a little rice to put in her bowl. Mangita was mending a net and Larina was combing her hair in the doorway. When Larina saw the old woman she spoke mockingly to her and gave her a push that made her fall and cut her head on a sharp rock; but Mangita sprang to help her, washed the blood away from her head, and filled her bowl with rice from the jar in the kitchen. The poor woman thanked her and promised never to forget her kindness, but to her sister she spoke not a word. Larina did not care, however, but laughed at her and mocked her as she painfully made her way again down the road. When she had gone Mangita took Larina to task for her cruel treatment of a stranger; but, instead of doing any good, it only caused Larina to hate her sister all the more. Some time afterwards the poor fisherman died. He had gone to the big city down the river to sell his fish, and had been attacked with a terrible sickness that was raging there. The girls were now alone in the world. Mangita carved pretty shells and earned enough to buy food, but, though she begged Larina to try to help, her sister would only idle away the time. The terrible sickness now swept everywhere and poor Mangita, too, fell ill. She asked Larina to nurse her, but the latter was jealous of her and would do nothing to ease her pain. Mangita grew worse and worse, but finally, when it seemed as if she would soon die, the door opened and the old woman to whom she had been so kind came into the room. She had a bag of seeds in her hand, and taking one she gave it to Mangita, who soon showed signs of being better, but was so weak that she could not give thanks. The old woman then gave the bag to Larina and told her to give a seed to her sister every hour until she returned. She then went away and left the girls alone. Larina watched her sister, but did not give her a single seed. Instead, she hid them in her own long hair and paid no attention to Mangita's moans of pain. The poor girl's cries grew weaker and weaker, but not a seed would her cruel sister give her. In fact, Larina was so jealous that she wished her sister to die. When at last the old woman returned, poor Mangita was at the point of death. The visitor bent over the sick girl and then asked her sister if she had given Mangita the seeds. Larina showed her the empty bag and said she had given them as directed. The old woman searched the house, but of course could not find the seeds. She then asked Larina again if she had given them to Mangita. Again the cruel girl said that she had done so. Suddenly the room was filled with a blinding light, and when Larina could see once more, in place of the old woman stood a beautiful fairy holding the now well Mangita in her arms. She pointed to Larina and said, "I am the poor woman who asked for rice. I wished to know your hearts. You were cruel and Mangita was kind, so she shall live with me in my island home in the lake. As for you, because you tried to do evil to your good sister, you shall sit at the bottom of the lake forever, combing out the seeds you have hidden in your hair." Then, she clapped her hands and a number of elves appeared and carried the struggling Larina away. "Come," said the fairy to Mangita, and she carried her to her beautiful home, where she lives in peace and happiness. As for Larina, she sits at the bottom of the lake and combs her hair. As she combs a seed out, another comes in, and every seed that is combed out becomes a green plant that floats out of the lake and down the Pasig. And to this day people can see them, and know that Larina is being punished for her wickedness. How the World Was Made This is the ancient Filipino account of the creation. Thousands of years ago there was no land nor sun nor moon nor stars, and the world was only a great sea of water, above which stretched the sky. The water was the kingdom of the god Maguayan, and the sky was ruled by the great god Captan. Maguayan had a daughter called Lidagat, the sea, and Captan had a son known as Lihangin, the wind. The gods agreed to the marriage of their children, so the sea became the bride of the wind. Three sons and a daughter were born to them. The sons were called Licalibutan, Liadlao, and Libulan, and the daughter received the name of Lisuga. Licalibutan had a body of rock and was strong and brave; Liadlao was formed of gold and was always happy; Libulan was made of copper and was weak and timid; and the beautiful Lisuga had a body of pure silver and was sweet and gentle. Their parents were very fond of them, and nothing was wanting to make them happy. After a time Lihangin died and left the control of the winds to his eldest son Licalibutan. The faithful wife Lidagat soon followed her husband, and the children, now grown up, were left without father or mother. However, their grandfathers, Captan and Maguayan, took care of them and guarded them from all evil. After a time, Licalibutan, proud of his power over the winds, resolved to gain more power, and asked his brothers to join him in an attack on Captan in the sky above. At first they refused; but when Licalibutan became angry with them, the amiable Liadlao, not wishing to offend his brother, agreed to help. Then together they induced the timid Libulan to join in the plan. When all was ready the three brothers rushed at the sky, but they could not beat down the gates of steel that guarded the entrance. Then Licalibutan let loose the strongest winds and blew the bars in every direction. The brothers rushed into the opening, but were met by the angry god Captan. So terrible did he look that they turned and ran in terror; but Captan, furious at the destruction of his gates, sent three bolts of lightning after them. The first struck the copper Libulan and melted him into a ball. The second struck the golden Liadlao and he too was melted. The third bolt struck Licalibutan and his rocky body broke into many pieces and fell into the sea. So huge was he that parts of his body stuck out above the water and became what is known as land. In the meantime the gentle Lisuga had missed her brothers and started to look for them. She went toward the sky, but as she approached the broken gates, Captan, blind with anger, struck her too with lightning, and her silver body broke into thousands of pieces. Captan then came down from the sky and tore the sea apart, calling on Maguayan to come to him and accusing him of ordering the attack on the sky. Soon Maguayan appeared and answered that he knew nothing of the plot as he had been asleep far down in the sea. After a time he succeeded in calming the angry Captan. Together they wept at the loss of their grandchildren, especially the gentle and beautiful Lisuga; but with all their power they could not restore the dead to life. However, they gave to each body a beautiful light that will shine forever. And so it was that golden Liadlao became the sun and copper Libulan the moon, while the thousands of pieces of silver Lisuga shine as the stars of heaven. To wicked Licalibutan the gods gave no light, but resolved to make his body support a new race of people. So Captan gave Maguayan a seed and he planted it on the land, which, as you will remember, was part of Licalibutan's huge body. Soon a bamboo tree grew up, and from the hollow of one of its branches a man and a woman came out. The man's name was Sicalac, and the woman was called Sicabay. They were the parents of the human race. Their first child was a son whom they called Libo; afterwards they had a daughter who was known as Saman. Pandaguan was a younger son and he had a son called Arion. Pandaguan was very clever and invented a trap to catch fish. The very first thing he caught was a huge shark. When he brought it to land, it looked so great and fierce that he thought it was surely a god, and he at once ordered his people to worship it. Soon all gathered around and began to sing and pray to the shark. Suddenly the sky and sea opened, and the gods came out and ordered Pandaguan to throw the shark back into the sea and to worship none but them. All were afraid except Pandaguan. He grew very bold and answered that the shark was as big as the gods, and that since he had been able to overpower it he would also be able to conquer the gods. Then Captan, hearing this, struck Pandaguan with a small thunderbolt, for he did not wish to kill him but merely to teach him a lesson. Then he and Maguayan decided to punish these people by scattering them over the earth, so they carried some to one land and some to another. Many children were afterwards born, and thus the earth became inhabited in all parts. Pandaguan did not die. After lying on the ground for thirty days he regained his strength, but his body was blackened from the lightning, and all his descendants ever since that day have been black. His first son, Arion, was taken north, but as he had been born before his father's punishment he did not lose his color, and all his people therefore are white. Libo and Saman were carried south, where the hot sun scorched their bodies and caused all their descendants to be of a brown color. A son of Saman and a daughter of Sicalac were carried east, where the land at first was so lacking in food that they were compelled to eat clay. On this account their children and their children's children have always been yellow in color. And so the world came to be made and peopled. The sun and moon shine in the sky and the beautiful stars light up the night. All over the land, on the body of the envious Licalibutan, the children of Sicalac and Sicabay have grown great in numbers. May they live forever in peace and brotherly love! The Silver Shower Every night in Manila, when the bells of the city boom out the Angelus and lights begin to appear in the windows, the walks are filled with people hurrying toward the bay. In the streets hundreds of carriages, their lamps twinkling like fireflies, speed quickly by, as the cocheros urge on the little Filipino ponies. All are bound for the Luneta to hear the evening concert. A pretty place is the Luneta, the garden spot of the city. It is laid out in elliptical form and its green lawns are covered with benches for the people. A broad driveway surrounds it and hundreds of electric lights transform the night into day. A band stand is located at each end of the oval, and at night concerts are given by the military bands. Thousands of people gather to listen to the music. The bright uniforms of officers and men, the white dresses of American ladies, the black mantillas of the dark-eyed señoritas, and the gayly colored camisas of the Filipino girls show that the beauty and chivalry of Manila have assembled at the concert. The band plays many beautiful selections and finally closes with the "Star-Spangled Banner." At once every head is bared and all stand at rigid attention till the glorious old song is finished. Then the musicians disperse, the carriages drive away, and people return to their homes. Many, however, linger on the benches or stroll along the beach, watching the water curling upon the shore. As the waves reach the land a soft light seems to spring from them and to break into thousands of tiny stars. Now and then some one idly skips a stone over the water. Where it touches, a little fountain of liquid fire springs upward, and the water ripples away in gleaming circles that, growing wider and wider, finally disappear in a flash of silvery light. Of all the beauties of the Islands, the water of Manila Bay at night ranks among the first. And those who ask why it flashes and glows in this way are told the story of the silver shower that saved the Pasig villages from the Moro Datto Bungtao. Hundreds of years ago messengers came hurrying from the south of Luzon with the news that the great Datto Bungtao, with many ships and men, was on his way to the island to burn the villages and carry the people away into slavery. Then great fear came into the hearts of the people, for the fierce Datto was the terror of the eastern seas, and all the southern islands were reported captured. Nevertheless, they resolved to defend their homes and save their people from shame and slavery. The news proved true, for the Moro chief landed a great army on the shore of the Bay of Batangas, and his fierce followers, with fire and sword, started north to lay waste the country. For a time they drove all before them, but soon Luzon was up in arms against them and great numbers of warriors hurried southward to battle with the Moros. All tribal feeling was forgotten and Tagalos, Macabebes, Igorrotes, and Pangasinanes hurried southward in thousands. The Moros presently found themselves checked by a large army of men determined to save their homes or to die fighting. Near the present town of Imus, in Cavite, a battle was fought and the Moros were defeated. They then retreated southward, but great numbers of Vicoles and Tinguianes rushed up from the southern part of the island and blocked their way. On the shore of the great Lake Bombon the final battle was fought. The Moros were killed to a man, and with great rejoicing the tribes returned north and south to their homes. But in the meantime Bungtao had not been idle. After landing his men, with his two hundred ships he set sail northward, never doubting that his army would sweep all before it. A typhoon carried his fleet far south into the China Sea, but he steered again for Luzon and three weeks later was in sight of Corregidor Island. He sailed down Manila Bay and drew up his fleet in front of the villages on the Pasig River, the present site of Manila. On the shore the people gathered in terror, for all the warriors had gone to fight the invading army, and only old men and women and children remained in the villages. Hastily they called a council and finally decided to send a messenger out to the Moro chief with all the gold and things of value they possessed, thinking thus to satisfy the fierce Datto and save their villages from harm. Accordingly the women gave their rings and bracelets and the men their bangles and chains. Everything of value was taken from the houses. Even the temples of prayer were stripped and all the ornaments taken. So great was the fear of the people that they even sent the gold statue of the great god Captan that was the pride of the tribe, whose members came miles to worship it. As Bungtao was preparing to land and attack the town with his sailors, the messenger in his canoe came alongside the ship and was at once taken before the Datto. Trembling with fear, the old man, with signs, begged for mercy for the people on the shore. He pointed to the presents and offered them to Bungtao. Then, placing the golden image of Captan at the feet of the Moro and bowing low, he again pleaded for the women and children. Bungtao laughed in scorn at the offer. On his island was gold enough to satisfy his people. He needed slaves to work in the fields, for it was beneath the dignity of such warriors as himself and his companions to labor. So he kicked the messenger from him and, with a curse, picked up the sacred golden image and threw it far over the water. Instantly the sky grew dark and blackest night covered the land. The messenger felt himself seized by invisible hands and carried to the shore. Then suddenly the heavens opened, and a shower of silver fire rained on the Moro boats. In vain the Moros tried to escape. The fire hemmed them in on every side. Many leaped from the burning ships into the boiling water. When the darkness cleared, boats and Moros had disappeared. Joyfully the people on the shore ran to the temple of worship to pray to Captan. What was their surprise to find the golden image of the god in its usual place, and around it the bracelets and rings offered to the Moros! When the warriors, a few days later, returned from their great victory in the south, they could hardly believe the story of the wonderful escape of their people. But at night, when they saw the heretofore dull waters dashing and breaking on the shore in crystals of silvery light, they knew that it was Captan who had saved their homes and families. The villages are a thing of the past. The modern city of Manila now stands on the banks of the Pasig. The nights here are very beautiful. The breeze sighs softly through the palm trees and the golden moon gleams on the waters of Manila Bay. On the shore the waves break gently and little balls of silver light go rushing up the beach. Wise men say that the water is full of phosphorus. But they have never heard the story of the Silver Shower. The Faithlessness of Sinogo Somewhere off the northern coast of Mindanao a strong current begins to travel northward. It runs to the island of Siquijor and then, turning slightly to the east, goes racing between the islands of Cebu and Negros. At the narrow entrance between San Sebastian and Ayucatan it breaks up into hundreds of small whirlpools that make the water hiss and bubble for a distance of nearly three miles. For steamers and large boats there is not the slightest danger, but to the native in his little sacayan with its bamboo outriggers these whirlpools are objects of dread and fear. He will go miles out of his way to escape them. If you inquire as to the reason, he will explain that the Liloan, or whirlpool, is a thing always to be avoided, and then he will tell you the story of Sinogo. Years and years ago, when Maguayan ruled the sea and the terrible Captan launched his thunderbolts from above, the water and air were filled with swimming and flying monsters. Those that lived in the air were armed with great teeth and sharp claws; but, though they were fierce and savage, they lived together in peace, for they feared the anger of their master Captan. In the sea, however, all was not so peaceful, for some of the monsters were so huge and savage and so confident in their strength that Maguayan could do nothing with them. He lived in constant fear of attack from these fierce subjects and finally, in despair, called on Captan to help him in his trouble. Accordingly Captan sent his swift messengers to every part of the earth, air, and sea, and ordered that a council of all the creatures in the world should be held. He named the little island of Caueli in the center of the Sulu Sea as the meeting place, and commanded all to hasten there without delay. Soon the members of the council began to arrive, and the sky was darkened by flying monsters, and the water boiled as the terrible reptiles of the sea rushed to the place appointed. In a short time the little island was crowded with these dreadful creatures. There were huge Buayas from Mindanao, fierce Tic-bolans from Luzon, savage Sigbins from Negros and Bohol, hundreds of Unglocs from Panay and Leyte, and great Uak Uaks and other frightful monsters from Samar and Cebu. They grouped themselves in a large circle around a golden throne on which sat Captan and Maguayan, and while waiting the commands of their master filled the air with shrieks and howls. At length Captan raised his hand and the noise instantly stopped. Then he announced his decree. He said that Maguayan was his brother god and should be treated with the same respect. He commanded all his subjects to obey the god of the sea and told them that he would kill with a thunderbolt any that disobeyed this order. Then he desired all to return to their own regions, and again the air was filled with a noise of thunder and the sea roared and foamed as the monsters went back to their homes. Soon there remained on the island only Captan, Maguayan, and three messengers of Captan, who were called Sinogo, Dalagan, and Guidala. These were giants in size and had large wings which enabled them to fly with great swiftness. They had long spears and sharp swords and were very brave and powerful. Of the three, Dalagan was the swiftest, Guidala the bravest, and Sinogo the handsomest and best loved by Captan. When all the creatures were gone Maguayan thanked Captan, but the great god said that he had only done his duty in helping his brother. Then he gave Maguayan a little golden shell and explained to him its wonderful power. Maguayan had but to put it in his mouth and he could change his form to that of any creature he pleased. In case a monster, defying Captan's orders, should attack him, he had simply to change himself into a stronger monster of twice the size of his enemy, and then fight and kill him easily. Again Maguayan thanked his brother god and, taking the shell, placed it on the throne beside him. Then Captan ordered his messengers to bring food and drink, and soon the two gods were feasting merrily. Now it happened that Sinogo had been standing behind the throne and had heard all that had been said. He was filled with a desire to own the wonderful shell, and in spite of the many favors he had received from Captan he resolved to steal it. The more he thought of its great power, the more he longed for it. With it he could rule the earth and sea as a god, and, by hiding, he might avoid the anger of Captan. So he watched for an opportunity to make away with it. Finally his chance came. While handing Maguayan some food, he slyly caught up the shell, and soon afterwards quietly slipped away. For some time his absence was not discovered, but all at once Captan called for his favorite messenger and, receiving no reply, ordered Dalagan to search for him. Soon Dalagan returned and reported that Sinogo could not be found on the island. At the same time Maguayan noticed that the golden shell was gone. Then Captan knew that his messenger had stolen the shell and escaped. He flew into a great rage and swore he would kill Sinogo. He ordered Dalagan and Guidala to hasten to the north in search of the faithless messenger and to bring him back a prisoner. Swiftly northward over the blue sea flew the messengers, and near the island of Guimaras caught sight of Sinogo. He saw his pursuers and flew all the swifter, but he was no match for them in speed. Nearer and nearer they came and then, drawing their swords, rushed forward to seize him. But Sinogo was not to be easily caught. Quick as a flash, he placed the shell in his mouth and dived down into the water, at the same time changing himself into a huge crocodile-shaped Buaya with scales like armor of steel. In vain Dalagan and Guidala rained blows on the monster. The swords could not pierce the heavy scales. Up through Guimaras Strait the chase went on, and Sinogo tore up the water in his flight. So great was the disturbance of the ocean that, as they rounded the northern coast of Negros, the waves dashed completely over the little island of Bacabac, sweeping away the hills and bringing the land to the level of the sea. Still the rapid flight went on. Straight for Bantayan headed Sinogo, but suddenly changing his course he dashed into the narrow channel between Negros and Cebu. Then Dalagan, leaving Guidala to continue the chase alone, flew swiftly back to Caueli and told Captan that Sinogo was in the little strait. Up sprang the god and, flying directly east, he posted himself at the southern entrance of the channel. In his hand he held an enormous thunderbolt, and thus armed he waited for the appearance of Sinogo. Down into the narrow entrance sped the faithless messenger, tearing up the water in his mad flight, while the brave Guidala struck in vain at his huge body. Suddenly a roar of thunder sounded and the thunderbolt fell on the back of the monster, bearing him down beneath the waves and then, stiffening like a bar of iron, pinning him to the bottom far below. In vain he struggled to free himself; the bar held him fast and sure. In his struggles the shell fell from his mouth, but a little Tamban caught it and brought it safely to Captan. Thousands of years have passed, but far under the water, like a fly on a pin, Sinogo struggles in the form of a huge Buaya. The water bubbles around him and for three miles little whirlpools go racing up the channel. And the native in his little sacayan avoids the narrow entrance where the water boils and foams, for Sinogo still twists and squirms, and the Liloan is a thing to be feared and dreaded. Catalina of Dumaguete This is a legend of Dumaguete, the capital of the province of Negros Occidental. From this town can be seen five islands, viz., Negros, Cebu, Bohol, Mindanao, and Siquijor. There is no one on the great island of Negros who does not love the name of Catalina. Even the wild mountain men speak it with respect, and down in the coast towns at night, when the typhoon is lashing the waters of Tañon Strait, and the rain and wind make the nipa leaves on the roofs dance and rattle, the older people gather their little black-eyed grandchildren around the shell of burning cocoanut oil and tell them her story. Many years ago there lived in Dumaguete a poor tuba seller named Banog, who made his daily rounds to the houses just as the milkman does in far-off America. But instead of a rattling wagon he had only a long bamboo from which he poured the drink, and in place of sweet milk he left the sap of the cocoanut tree. The bad custom of mixing tuñgud, a kind of red bark, with the sap, and thus making of it a strong liquor, had not yet been known, so Banog, though poor, was respected, and the people tried in every way to help him and his daughter Catalina. Catalina was a beautiful girl of sixteen and very good and industrious, but with many strange ways. She scarcely ever spoke a word and spent most of her time in looking out over the sea. Sometimes she would suddenly stand erect and, clasping her hands, would remain for a long time looking up at the sky as if she saw something that no one else could see. On account of these strange manners the people thought her a wonderful girl and she was supposed to have mysterious powers. One day many ships came up from the island of Mindanao and hundreds of fierce Moros landed. Shouting and waving their terrible knives, they fell upon the peaceful people and killed many, among them poor Banog. Then they robbed and burned the houses and, seizing all the women they could find, set sail for their great southern island. Among the prisoners was Catalina. With her eyes fixed on the sky she sat very quiet and still in the bow of one of the boats, and though her companions spoke often to her she made no reply. Suddenly she sprang into the water and a wonderful thing occurred, for, instead of sinking, she walked lightly over the waves toward the distant shore. The Moros were so astonished that they did not try to stop her and she reached the land safely. Many people who had hidden in the forests ran out to meet her but she spoke to no one. With her eyes still fixed above she walked through the burning town and along the road to Dalugdug, the Thunder mountain, that lies behind Dumaguete. On Dalugdug there lived a terrible Sigbin. Its body was like that of a monstrous crow, but just under its neck were two long legs like those of a grasshopper, which enabled it to leap great distances without using its wings. It ate any one who came near its home, so when the people saw Catalina start to climb the mountain they begged her to come back. She paid no heed to their cries, however, but went up higher and higher, till her white dress seemed merely a speck on the mountain side. All at once she seemed to stop and raise her hands. Then a fearful shriek was heard, and the fierce Sigbin came rushing down the mountain. It appeared to be greatly frightened, for it took tremendous leaps and screamed as if in terror. Over the heads of the people it jumped, and, reaching the shore, cleared the narrow channel and disappeared among the mountains of the island of Cebu. When the people saw that the Sigbin had gone they ran up the mountain and searched everywhere for Catalina, but they could find no trace of her. Sorrowfully they returned to their homes and busied themselves in building new houses and in making their town beautiful once more. Several years passed in peace and then again the Moro boats came up from Mindanao. The men hurriedly gathered on the beach to meet them, and the women and children hid in the cocoanut groves. This time the Moros had no quick and easy victory, for the Visayans, armed with bolos and remembering their lost wives and sisters, fought furiously, and for a time drove the enemy before them. But more Moro boats arrived and numbers told against the defenders. Slowly but surely they fell fighting until but a few remained. Suddenly a bridge of clouds unfolded from Dalugdug to the town, and across it came the lost Catalina holding a beehive in her hands. Then she spoke and thousands of bees flew from the hive to the ground. Again she spoke and waved her hand, and the bees changed into little black men with long sharp spears, who charged the Moros and killed every one of them. Then Catalina, the hive still in her hand, went back over the bridge and disappeared once more in the mountain. The people came out of their hiding places, crowding around the little black men and questioning them, but they received no answer. Instead the little warriors gathered together and ran into the forest and up the mountain side, where they were soon lost to view. Such is the story of Catalina, Since that time Dumaguete has been safe from the Moros. The Sigbin has never returned to Negros. It still lives in the mountains of Cebu and the people are so afraid of it that they lock themselves in their houses after dark and can hardly be induced to come out. Up in the mountains of Negros live the little black men. They are called Negritos and are very savage and wild. The savior of Dumaguete still lives in Dalugdug and is worshiped by the people. And in the town, now grown into a big busy city, the old people for years to come will tell their grandchildren the story of Catalina. The Fall of Polobulac This is a tale from Panay. It probably originated with the Spanish fathers, who wished to impress the doctrine of the Seven Deadly Sins on the natives. The islands are just off Iloilo. A little way from Iloilo there once was a beautiful island called Polobulac, or Isle of Flowers. Its shores were covered with beautiful trees and plants; splendid gardens of flowers were found everywhere; fruits grew in abundance; fountains sparkled in the sunlight; and the people were the happiest in the world. They danced and sang to gay music, and were free from every care and sorrow. Filled with confidence in their good fortune, and proud of their beautiful island, they began to slight the people of the neighboring islands, and to treat them with insolence and scorn. One night the sky was darkened, the lightning flashed, the rain fell in torrents, and a voice cried from the clouds, above the roar of the thunder: "I am Pride. Avoid me or perish." Terrified, they prayed to God for protection, but with the morning sun their fears left them and they continued as before. Days passed and the people grew richer, but, not satisfied with their wealth and with their own beautiful island, they longed to possess the lands of their neighbors. Again came the storm, and again a voice cried from the heavens: "I am Covetousness. Come to me and die." Once more they appealed for protection, but they did not change their ways. Weeks went by, and with wealth came low and base desires. The storm came as before and brought the warning: "I am Evil Desire. Fly from me or be lost." But again it sounded to sealed ears. Months rolled on. The people quarreled with their neighbors, and sent forth an army to make war upon them. The voice thundered: "I am Anger. I give eternal torment." Years followed, and the tables of the people of Polobulac were loaded with the finest foods and wines. Day and night found them feasting. The cry sounded above them: "I am Gluttony. I devour my children." The winds alone echoed the warning. Time flew by. Each man sought to outdo the others in display of luxury and magnificence. The poor grudged the rich their fortunes, and sought in every way to injure them. Again a voice came through the darkness: "I am Envy. My people are condemned." But they closed their ears and would not hear. More wealth brought greater luxury. They lolled in idleness. They idled in the midst of magnificence. The voice warned: "I am Sloth. I bring final warning." They were used to the voices now, and gave them not the slightest heed. Their insolence and greed grew greater. The fair island shook with dissension and strife. One day the sun was hidden by blackness. A fearful tempest burst over the land. The people on the other islands saw Polobulac wrapped in seven huge pillars of flame. When the sky cleared, Polobulac was nowhere to be seen. In its place, seven blackened rocks marked the spot where stood the beautiful isle. They are there to this day. You can see them as you leave the harbor for southern ports. Sometimes they appear as one. Again they seem to group in twos and threes. But there are seven. They are called the Deadly Sins. The Escape of Juanita Have you heard of the terrible Tic-balan, A tall and thin and very black man, With terrible teeth and a horse's head, And covered with hair that is long and red? He lives in the awful Balete tree, And to pass the place you must say "Tabi"; If you do not, the Asuang comes at night, And throws big stones till you die of fright. Now once there lived in Santa Cruz town A little girl known as Juanita Calaon; She was gentle and sweet and as good as could be, And she always bowed low to the Balete tree. One day to the forest alone she did roam To get some good wood for the fire at home; She gathered some twigs that she found on the ground, And all of them fast in a bundle she bound. Then happy and free, with the pack on her head, She followed the road that back to town led. She sang as she walked, and so happy was she That alas! she bowed not to the Balete tree. All at once then she heard a most terrible roar, And the Tic-balan fierce through the air seemed to soar. He seized poor Juanita, and quick as could be He shut her inside of the Balete tree. Two days passed, and when the girl failed to come back, Her parents went out, and no friends did they lack To help in the search, for the whole pueblo came, And loudly they shouted poor Juanita's name. At last when they thought that the search brought no good, One man found Juanita's neat bundle of wood; He called the good news, and as more came to see, Loud knocking was heard in the Balete tree. Then many were frightened, but many were brave, And wondered by what means the girl they could save; For they knew that it must be Juanita who knocked, And that inside the Balete tree she was locked. Soon they ordered that candles and music be brought, And a crucifix holy was what they next sought; And when all was ready they closed round the tree, While they prayed to the true God to set the girl free. They lighted the candles and then the band played, And Juanita's mother, who was not afraid, Advanced with the crucifix held in her hand, And tapped with the cross on the evil tree grand. Then a roar shook the forest and chilled all their hearts, And the awful Balete split into two parts; Then they saw in the center, as each big half fell, Their darling Juanita all smiling and well. She ran from the tree to her fond mother dear, While the band played and every one gave a loud cheer; Then back to the pueblo they danced in delight, And kept up their singing through all the long night. Still there to this day lies the Balete tree, But no more do the people that pass say "Tabi." And the spirit no more can molest any man, For God has more power than the fierce Tic-balan. The Anting-Anting of Manuelito The Anting-Anting is a stone or other small object covered with cabalistic inscriptions. It is worn around the neck, and is supposed to render its owner impervious to knife or bullet. Many are wearing these charms, especially the Tulisanes or outlaws. The Anting-Anting must not be confused, however, with the scapular, a purely religious symbol worn by a great number of the Christian Filipinos. Many of the older Filipinos remember Manuelito, the great Tulisane, who, more than fifty years ago, kept all the Laguna de Bai district in a state of fear. His robber band was well organized and obeyed his slightest wish. He had many boats on the lake and many hiding places in the mountains, and throughout the country there was no villager who did not fear to oppose him, or who would refuse to help him in any way when required to do so. In vain the Guardia Civil hunted him. Many times they surrounded the band, but Manuelito always escaped. Many shots were fired at him, but he was never hit; and once, when he was cut off from his men and surrounded, he broke through the line, and though fifty bullets whistled around him he did not receive a scratch. The officers of the Guardia Civil blamed their men for the bad marksmanship that allowed Manuelito to escape. They told all the people that it should never occur again, and promised that the next fight should end in the death of the outlaw. The people, however, did not believe that Manuelito could be killed, for he wore on his breast a famous Anting-Anting that he had received from Mangagauay, the giver of life and death. This charm was a stone covered with mysterious signs. It was wrapped in silk and hung by a string from the robber's neck, and even if a gun were fired within a few feet of him the Anting-Anting was sure to turn the bullet in another direction. It was this charm that always saved him from the Guardia Civil. Manuelito was very proud of his Anting-Anting, and many times, when a fiesta was being held in some town, he and his band would come down from the mountains and take part in the games. Manuelito would stand in the town plaza and allow his men to shoot at him, and each time the Anting-Anting would turn aside the bullets. The people were very much impressed, and though a few of the wiser ones secretly thought that the guns were only loaded with powder, they were afraid to say anything; so the greater number thought it very wonderful and believed that there was no charm so powerful as the Anting-Anting of Manuelito. For years the Tulisane, protected by his charm, continued to rob and plunder. The Guardia Civil hunted him everywhere, but could never kill him. He grew bolder and bolder, and even came close to Manila to rob the little towns just outside the city. At last the government grew tired of sending out the Guardia Civil, and ordered a regiment of Macabebes to hunt and kill the Tulisane and his men. Manuelito was at Pasay when news was brought to him that the Macabebes were coming. Instead of running from these fierce little fighters, he decided to meet them, and many people offered to help him, believing that the Anting-Anting would turn away all bullets and give them victory. So Manuelito and many men left the town, built trenches in the hills near San Pedro Macati, and waited for the Macabebes to appear. They had not long to wait. The Macabebes, hurrying from Manila, reached San Pedro Macati and soon found that Manuelito was waiting to fight them. They left the town at once and advanced on the Tulisane trenches. It was a great fight. From the other hills close by many people watched the battle. Five times the Macabebes advanced, and were forced to fall back before the fierce fire of the Tulisanes. But the Macabebe never knows defeat, and once more their line went forward and in one terrible charge swept over the trenches and bayoneted the outlaws. In vain Manuelito called on his men to fight. They broke and ran in every direction. Then, seeing that all was lost, Manuelito started to follow them; but a volley rang out, and, struck by twenty bullets, he fell to the ground dead. The Macabebes chased the flying Tulisanes and killed that of all the band only a few many, safely reached the mountains. While the Macabebes were chasing the outlaws, many people came down from the hills and stood around the body of Manuelito. They could hardly believe their eyes, but the many wounds and the blood staining the ground proved that the great Tulisane was indeed dead. What of the Anting-Anting? Had it lost its power? One man timidly unbuttoned the shirt of the dead robber and pulled out the charm. The mystery was explained. Fixed firmly in the center of the Anting-Anting was a silver bullet. There was but one explanation. The Macabebes had melted a statue of the Virgin and used it to make bullets to fire at Manuelito. Against such bullets the charm was useless, but against ordinary lead it never would have failed. Had not the people seen Manuelito's own men fire at him? The charm was taken from the neck of the dead Tulisane and many copies were made of it. Even to this day hundreds of people are wearing them. They will tell you about Manuelito's great fight and also about his famous Anting-Anting. "But," you say, "the Anting-Anting was useless. Manuelito was killed." They answer, "Yes, Señor, it is true; but the Macabebes used bullets of silver. Had they used lead the story would have been different. Poor Manuelito!" When the Lilies Return A legend of the Chinese Invasion. Quiapo, even at the time of the early Spaniards, and for years after, was a deserted field. The story is an old one and generally known to the Tagallos. At the time when the Pasig flowed peacefully along between flowery banks; when its breast was not torn by puffing steamers; and when only a few clustering huts marked the present site of Manila, there grew on the banks of the river a beautiful field of lilies. The lilies glistened like silver in the sunlight, and their sweet odor filled the air with delicious perfume. No hand plucked them from the earth, and no foot trampled out their fragrance; for an ancient prophecy had said that while the lilies stood the happiness of the people should endure. But after a time there came dark days in the history of the Philippines. Yellow hordes swept across the water and carried all before them. The people could hardly expect to resist the invaders, for their warrior king, Loku, had profaned the word of the god, and, in the form of a lizard, was fulfilling his punishment. Their armies were weak and scattered, and the conquerors marched on in triumph. As report after report of disaster reached Luzon, the people trembled for the safety of their fair land. Warriors gathered hastily for the defense of the nation, and all waited for the enemy to appear. One day the water was dotted with the junks of the invaders. They came slowly down the bay, and anchored near the mouth of the Pasig. Then from the boats poured the yellow warriors. Spears rained upon them, stones and arrows laid them low, but their numbers were countless. The people were swept back along the river banks. Fiercely they fought, but numbers told against them. Foot by foot they were pressed back, till they stood on the border of the field of lilies, where they made their last stand. But it was to no purpose. The invaders poured from the ships, and in one desperate charge drove back the ranks of the people, who fought and died among their sacred lilies. All through the night the battle raged, and at daybreak, when the victorious invaders rested on their spears, the beautiful field was no more. The lilies were crushed and torn. The bodies of dead and dying warriors lay everywhere, and the crushed flowers were stained with the blood of friend and foe. The peace of the land was lost. Many years have passed since then. New races have come to the Islands, and new manners and customs have been introduced. The Pasig still flows on to the sea, but its banks are harnessed by bridges. Lofty dwellings and stores take the place of the little huts, and a great city marks the site of the little village. Where once was the beautiful field is now a busy part of the great city. It is called Quiapo, after the lilies. Many of the older people remember the prophecy and wonder if the lilies will ever return. The land is now a peaceful and contented one. Comfort and happiness may be found among its inhabitants. Perhaps the fair, strange women from the great land over the sea are the lilies. Who can tell? Glossary balete tree = a type of tree, Ficus indica, often believed to be the home of evil and vengeful spirits. camisas = shirts. chinela = slipper. cocheros = drivers of horse-drawn carriages. Datto = chief. Guardia Civil = Spanish police. ladrones = thieves. lubi lana = coconut oil. Moro = Muslim's from the southern islands of the Philippines. Negritos = Negroid people indigenous in some parts of the Philippines. nipa = palm leaf of which the roofs of cheap houses are made. sacayan = small outrigger boat. tuba = alcoholic drink made from the sap of the coconut tree. tuñgud = the red bark of a mangrove tree. 
10999	----	produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Million Book Project) TALES OF BENGAL by S. B. Banerjea Edited by Francis Henry Skrine. Contents. I. The Pride of Kadampur II. The Rival Markets III. A Foul Conspiracy IV. The Biter Bitten V. All's Well That Ends Well VI. An Outrageous Swindle VII. The Virtue of Economy VIII. A Peacemaker IX. A Brahman's Curse X. A Roland for His Oliver XI. Rámdá XII. A Rift in the Lute XIII. Debenbra Babu in Trouble XIV. True to His Salt XV. A Tame Rabbit XVI. Gobardhan's Triumph XVII. Patience is a Virtue Introduction. That "east is east, and west is west, and never the twain shall meet," is an axiom with most Englishmen to whom the oriental character seems an insoluble enigma. This form of agnosticism is unworthy of a nation which is responsible for the happiness of 300,000,000 Asiatics. It is not justified by history, which teaches us that civilisation is the result of the mutual action of Europe and Asia; and that the advanced races of India are our own kinsfolk. The scene of Mr. Banerjea's tales has been won from the sea by alluvial action. Its soil, enriched by yearly deposits of silt, yields abundantly without the aid of manure. A hothouse climate and regular rainfall made Bengal the predestined breeding-ground of mankind; the seat of an ancient and complex civilisation. But subsistence is too easily secured in those fertile plains. Malaria, due to the absence of subsoil drainage, is ubiquitous, and the standard of vitality extremely low. Bengal has always been at the mercy of invaders. The earliest inroad was prompted by economic necessity. About 2000 B.C. a congeries of races which are now styled "Aryan" were driven by the shrinkage of water from their pasture-grounds in Central Asia. They penetrated Europe in successive hordes, who were ancestors of our Celts, Hellenes, Slavs, Teutons and Scandinavians. Sanskrit was the Aryans' mother-tongue, and it forms the basis of nearly every European language. A later swarm turned the western flank of the Himalayas, and descended on Upper India. Their rigid discipline, resulting from vigorous group-selection, gave the invaders an easy victory over the negroid hunters and fishermen who peopled India. All races of Aryan descent exhibit the same characteristics. They split into endogamous castes, each of which pursues its own interests at the expense of other castes. From the dawn of history we find kings, nobles and priests riding roughshod over a mass of herdsmen, cultivators and artisans. These ruling castes are imbued with pride of colour. The Aryans' fair complexions differentiated them from the coal-black aborigines; varna in Sanskrit means "caste" and "colour". Their aesthetic instinct finds expression in a passionate love of poetry, and a tangible object in the tribal chiefs. Loyalty is a religion which is almost proof against its idol's selfishness and incompetence. Caste is a symptom of arrested social development; and no community which tolerates it is free from the scourge of civil strife. Class war is the most salient fact in history. Warriors, termed Kshatriyas in Sanskrit, were the earliest caste. Under the law of specialisation defence fell to the lot of adventurous spirits, whose warlike prowess gave them unlimited prestige with the peaceful masses. They became the governing element, and were able to transmit their privileges by male filiation. But they had to reckon with the priests, descended from bards who attached themselves to the court of a Kshatriya prince and laid him under the spell of poetry. Lust of dominion is a manifestation of the Wish to Live; the priests used their tremendous power for selfish ends. They imitated the warriors in forming a caste, which claimed descent from Brahma, the Creator's head, while Kshatriyas represented his arms, and the productive classes his less noble members. In the eleventh century B.C. the warrior clans rose in revolt against priestly arrogance: and Hindustan witnessed a conflict between the religious and secular arms. Brahminism had the terrors of hell fire on its side; feminine influence was its secret ally; the world is governed by brains, not muscles; and spiritual authority can defy the mailed fist. After a prolonged struggle the Kshatriyas were fain to acknowledge their inferiority. When a hierocracy has been firmly established its evolution always follows similar lines. Ritual becomes increasingly elaborate: metaphysical dogma grows too subtle for a layman's comprehension. Commercialism spreads from the market to the sanctuary, whose guardians exploit the all-pervading fear of the unknown to serve their lust of luxury and rule. Brahminism has never sought to win proselytes; the annals of ancient India record none of those atrocious persecutions which stained mediaeval Christianity. It competed with rival creeds by offering superior advantages: and the barbarous princes of India were kept under the priestly heel by an appeal to their animal instincts. A fungoid literature of abominations grew up in the Tantras, which are filthy dialogues between Siva, the destroying influence in nature, and his consorts. One of these, Káli by name, is the impersonation of slaughter. Her shrine, near Calcutta, is knee-deep in blood, and the Dhyán or formula for contemplating her glories, is a tissue of unspeakable obscenity. Most Hindus are Saktas, or worshippers of the female generative principle: happily for civilisation they are morally in advance of their creed. But it is a significant fact that Káli is the tutelary goddess of extremist politicians, whose minds are prepared for the acceptance of anarchism by the ever-present ideal of destruction. It was Bengal's misfortune that its people received Brahminism in a corrupt and degenerate form. According to legend, King Adisur, who reigned there in the ninth century of our era, imported five priests from Kanauj to perform indispensable sacrifices. From this stock the majority of Bengali Brahmins claim descent. The immigrants were attended by five servants, who are the reputed ancestors of the Kayasth caste. In Sanskrit this word means "Standing on the Body," whence Kayasths claim to be Kshatriyas. But the tradition of a servile origin persisted, and they were forbidden to study the sacred writings. An inherited bent for literature has stood them in good stead: they became adepts in Persian, and English is almost their second mother-tongue to-day. Kayasths figure largely in Mr. Banerjea's tales: their history proves that the pen is mightier than the sword. Economic necessity was the cause of the first invasion of India: the second was inspired by religion. The evolution of organised creeds is not from simple to complex, but vice versa. From the bed-rock of magic they rise through nature-worship and man-worship to monotheism. The god of a conquering tribe is imposed on subdued enemies, and becomes Lord of Heaven and Earth. Monotheism of this type took root among the Hebrews, from whom Mohammed borrowed the conception. His gospel was essentially militant and proselytising. Nothing can resist a blend of the aesthetic and combative instincts; within a century of the founder's death his successors had conquered Central Asia, and gained a permanent footing in Europe. In the tenth century a horde of Afghan Moslems penetrated Upper India. The Kshatriya princes fought with dauntless courage, but unity of action was impossible; for the Brahmins fomented mutual jealousies and checked the growth of national spirit. They were subdued piecemeal; and in 1176 A.D. an Afghan Emperor governed Upper India from Delhi. The Aryan element in Bengal had lost its martial qualities; and offered no resistance to Afghan conquest, which was consummated in 1203. The invaders imposed their religion by fire and sword. The Mohammadans of Eastern Bengal, numbering 58 per cent., of the population, represent compulsory conversions effected between the thirteenth and seventeenth centuries. Eight hundred years of close contact have abated religious hatred; and occasional outbursts are due to priestly instigation. Hindus borrowed the Zenana system from their conquerors, who imitated them in discouraging widow-remarriages. Caste digs a gulf between followers of the rival creeds, but Mr. Banerjea's tales prove that a good understanding is possible. It is now imperilled by the curse of political agitation. In 1526 the Afghan dynasty was subverted by a Mongol chieftain lineally descended from Tamerlane. His grandson Akbar's reign (1560-1605) was India's golden age. Akbar the Great was a ruler of the best modern type, who gave his subjects all the essentials of civilisation. But he knew that material prosperity is only the means to an end. Man, said Ruskin, is an engine whose motive power is the soul; and its fuel is love. Akbar called all the best elements in society to his side and linked them in the bonds of sympathy. Religion in its highest phase is coloured by mysticism which seeks emblems of the hidden source of harmony in every form of life. Anthropomorphic conceptions are laid aside; ritual is abandoned as savouring of magic; hierocracy as part of an obsolete caste system; metaphysical dogma because the Infinite cannot be weighed in the balances of human reason. The truce to fanaticism called by Akbar the Great encouraged a poet and reformer named Tulsi Dása (1532-1623) to point a surer way to salvation. He adored Krishna, the preserving influence incarnate as Ráma, and rehandled Valmiki's great epic, the Rámáyana, in the faint rays of Christian light which penetrated India during that age of transition. Buddha had proclaimed the brotherhood of man; Tulsi Dása deduced it from the fatherhood of God. The Preserver, having sojourned among men, can understand their infirmities, and is ever ready to save his sinful creatures who call upon him. The duty of leading others to the fold is imposed on believers, for we are all children of the same Father. Tulsi Dása's Rámáyana is better known in Bihar and the United Provinces than is the Bible in rural England. The people of Hindustan are not swayed by relentless fate, nor by the goddess of destruction. Their prayers are addressed to a God who loves his meanest adorer; they accept this world's buffetings with resignation: while Ráma reigns all is well. If the hereditary principle were sound, the Empire cemented together by Akbar's statecraft might have defied aggression. His successors were debauchees or fanatics. They neglected the army; a recrudescence of the nomad instinct sent them wandering over India with a locust-like horde of followers; Hindus were persecuted, and their temples were destroyed. So the military castes whose religion was threatened, rose in revolt; Viceroys threw off allegiance, and carved out kingdoms for themselves. Within a century of Akbar's death his Empire was a prey to anarchy. India had hitherto enjoyed long spells of immunity from foreign interference. Her people, defended by the Himalayan wall and the ocean, were free to develop their own scheme of national life; and world-forces which pierce the thickest crust of custom, reached them in attenuated volume. Their isolation ended when the sea was no longer a barrier; and for maritime nations it is but an extension of their territory. A third invasion began in the sixteenth century, and has continued till our own day. The underlying motive was not economic necessity, nor religious enthusiasm, but sheer lust of gain. In 1498 Vasco da Gama discovered an all-sea route to India, thus opening the fabulous riches of Asia to hungry Europe. Portuguese, Dutch, French and English adventurers embarked in a struggle for Indian commerce, in which our ancestors were victorious because they obtained the command of the sea, and had the whole resources of the mother-country at their back. Westerners are so imbued with the profit-making instinct that they mentally open, a ledger account in order to prove that India gains more than she loses by dependence on the people of these islands. It cannot be denied that the fabric of English administration is a noble monument of the civil skill and military prowess developed by our race. We have given the peninsula railways and canals, postal and telegraph systems, a code of laws which is far in advance of our own. Profound peace broods over the empire, famine and pestilence are fought with the weapons of science. It would be easy to pile up items on the debit side of our imaginary cash-book. Free trade has destroyed indigenous crafts wholesale, and quartered the castes who pursued them on an over-taxed soil. Incalculable is the waste of human life and inherited skill caused by the shifting of productive energy from India to Great Britain, Germany and America. It cannot be said that the oversea commerce, which amounted in 1907-8 to £241,000,000, is an unmixed benefit. The empire exports food and raw materials, robbing the soil of priceless constituents, and buys manufactured goods which ought to be produced at home. Foreign commerce is stimulated by the home charges, which average £18,000,000, and it received an indirect bounty by the closure of the mints in 1893. The textile industry of Lancashire was built upon a prohibition of Indian muslins: it now exports yarn and piece goods to the tune of £32,000,000, and this trade was unjustly favoured at the expense of local mills under the Customs Tariff of 1895. But there are forces in play for good or evil which cannot be appraised in money. From a material point of view our Government is the best and most honest in existence. If it fails to satisfy the psychical cravings of India there are shortcomings on both sides; and some of them are revealed by Mr. Banerjea's tales. Caste.--As a Kulin, or pedigreed Brahmin, he is naturally prone to magnify the prestige of his order. It has been sapped by incidents of foreign rule and the spread of mysticism. Pandits find their stupendous lore of less account than the literary baggage of a university graduate. Brahmin pride is outraged by the advancement of men belonging to inferior castes. The priesthood's dream is to regain the ascendancy usurped by a race of Mlecchas (barbarians); and it keeps orthodox Hindus in a state of suppressed revolt. One centre of the insidious agitation is the fell goddess Káli's shrine near Calcutta; another is Puna, which has for centuries been a stronghold of the clannish Máráthá Brahmans. Railways have given a mighty impetus to religion by facilitating access to places of pilgrimage; the post office keeps disaffected elements in touch; and English has become a lingua franca. While Brahminism, if it dared, could proclaim a religious war, it has powerful enemies within the hierarchy. A desire for social recognition is universal. It was the Patricians' refusal to intermarry with Plebeians that caused the great constitutional struggles of Ancient Rome. Many of the lowest castes are rebelling against Brahmin arrogance. They have waxed rich by growing lucrative staples, and a strong minority are highly educated. Mystical sects have already thrown off the priestly yoke. But caste is by no means confined to races of Indian blood. What is the snobbery which degrades our English character but the Indo-German Sudra's reverence for his Brahmin? The Europeans constitute a caste which possesses some solidarity against "natives," and they have spontaneously adopted these anti-social distinctions. At the apex stand covenanted civilians; whose service is now practically a close preserve for white men. It is split into the Secretariat, who enjoy a superb climate plus Indian pay and furlough, and the "rank and file" doomed to swelter in the plains. Esprit de corps, which is the life-blood of caste, has vanished. Officers of the Educational Service, recruited from the same social strata, rank as "uncovenanted"; and a sense of humiliation reacts on their teaching. The Land.--In 1765 Clive secured for the East India Company the right of levying land-tax in Bengal. It was then collected by zemindars, a few of whom were semi-independent nobles, and the rest mere farmers of revenue, who bid against one another at the periodical settlements. Tenant right apart, the conception of private property in the soil was inconceivable to the Indian mind. Every one knows that it was borrowed by English lawyers from the Roman codes, when commercialism destroyed the old feudal nexus. Lord Cornwallis's permanent Settlement of 1793 was a revolution as drastic in its degree as that which Prance was undergoing. Zemindars were presented with the land for which they had been mere rakers-in of revenue. It was parcelled out into "estates," which might be bought and sold like moveable property. A tax levied at customary rates became "rent" arrived at by a process of bargaining between the landlord and ignorant rustics. The Government demand was fixed for ever, but no attempt was made to safeguard the ryot's interests. Cornwallis and his henchmen fondly supposed that they were manufacturing magnates of the English type, who had made our agriculture a model for the world. They were grievously mistaken. Under the cast-iron law of sale most of the original zemindars lost their estates, which passed into the hands of parvenus saturated with commercialism. Bengal is not indebted to its zemindars for any of the new staples which have created so vast a volume of wealth. They are content to be annuitants on the land, and sub-infeudation has gone to incredible lengths. Most of them are absentees whose one thought is to secure a maximum of unearned increment from tillers of the soil. In 1765 the land revenue amounted to £3,400,000, of which £258,000 was allotted to zemindars. A century afterwards their net profits were estimated at £12,000,000, and they are now probably half as much again. The horrible oppression described by Mr. Banerjea is impossible in our era of law-courts, railways and newspapers. But it is always dangerous to bring the sense of brotherhood, on which civilisation depends, into conflict with crude animal instincts. In days of American slavery the planter's interest prompted him to treat his human cattle with consideration, yet Simon Legrees were not unknown. It is a fact that certain zemindars are in the habit of remeasuring their ryots' holdings periodically, and always finding more land than was set forth in the lease. The Police.--A pale copy of Sir Robert Peel's famous system was introduced in 1861, when hosts of inspectors, sub-inspectors and head constables were let loose on Bengal. The new force was highly unpopular, and failed to attract the educated classes. Subaltern officers, therefore, used power for private ends, while the masses were so inured to oppression that they offered no resistance. There has been a marked improvement in the personnel of late years; and Mr. Banerjea's lurid pictures of corruption and petty tyranny apply to a past generation of policemen. The Lieutenant-Governor of Eastern Bengal does justice to a much-abused service in his Administrative Report for 1907-8. His Honour "believes the force to be a hard-working body of Government servants, the difficulties, trials, and even dangers of whose duties it is impossible for the public at large really to appreciate". He acknowledges that "India is passing through a period of transition. Old pre-possessions and unscientific methods must be cast aside, and the value of the confession must be held at a discount." Bengal policemen fail as egregiously as their British colleagues in coping with professional crime. Burglary is a positive scourge, and the habit of organising gang-robberies has spread to youths of the middle class. Education.--Though Mr. Banerjea has no experience of the inner working of our Government offices, he speaks on education with an expert's authority. Lord Macaulay, who went to India in 1834 as legal member of Council, was responsible for the introduction of English as the vehicle of instruction. He had gained admission to the caste of Whigs, whose battle-cry was "Knowledge for the People," and his brilliant rhetoric overpowered the arguments of champions of oriental learning. Every one with a smattering of Sanskrit, Arabic or Persian, regrets the fact that those glorious languages have not been adequately cultivated in modern India. Bengali is a true daughter of the Sanskrit; it has Italian sweetness and German capacity for expressing abstract ideas. No degree of proficiency in an alien tongue can compensate for the neglect of the vernacular. Moreover, the curriculum introduced in the "thirties" was purely academic. It came to India directly from English universities, which had stuck fast in the ruts of the Renaissance. Undue weight was given to literary training, while science and technical skill were despised. Our colleges and schools do not attempt to build character on a foundation of useful habits and tastes that sweeten life; to ennoble ideals, or inspire self-knowledge, self-reliance, and self-control. Technical education is still in its infancy; and the aesthetic instinct which lies dormant in every Aryan's brain is unawakened. A race which invented the loom now invents nothing but grievances. In 1901 Bengal possessed 69,000 schools and colleges, attended by 1,700,000 pupils, yet only one adult male in 10 and one female in 144 can read and write! The Calcutta University is an examining body on the London model. It does not attempt to enforce discipline in a city which flaunts every vice known to great seaports and commercial centres, unmitigated by the social instinct. Nor is the training of covenanted civilians more satisfactory. In 1909 only 1 out of 50 selected candidates presented himself for examination in Sanskrit or Arabic! Men go out to India at twenty-four, knowing little of the ethnology, languages or history, of the races they are about to govern. Agriculture.--Seventy-two per cent. of the Bengalis live by cultivating the soil. The vast majority are in the clutches of some local Shylock, who sweeps their produce into his garners, doling out inadequate supplies of food and seed grain. Our courts of law are used by these harpies as engines of oppression; toil as he may the ryot is never free from debt. The current rates of interest leave no profit from agriculture or trade. Twelve to 18 per cent. is charged for loans on ample landed security; and ordinary cultivators are mulcted in 40 to 60. A haunting fear of civil discord, and purblind conservatism in the commercial castes, are responsible for the dearth of capital. India imports bullion amounting to £25,000,000 a year, to the great detriment of European credit, and nine-tenths of it is hoarded in the shape of ornaments or invested in land, which is a badge of social rank. Yet the Aryan nature is peculiarly adapted to co-operation. If facilities for borrowing at remunerative rates existed in towns, agricultural banks on the Schulze-Delitzsch and Raiffeisen systems would soon overspread the land. Credit and co-operative groupings for the purchase of seed, fertilisers and implements, are the twin pillars of rural industry. Indian ryots are quite as receptive of new ideas as English farmers. They bought many thousands of little iron sugar mills, placed on the market a generation back by some English speculators, and will adopt any improvements of practical value if the price is brought within their slender means. The revolution which began a decade ago in America has not spread to Bengal, where the average yield of grain per acre is only 10 bushels as compared with 30 in Europe. Yet it has been calculated that another bushel would defray the whole cost of Government! Bengalis obey the injunction "increase and multiply" without regard for consequences. Their habitat has a population of 552 per square mile, and in some districts the ratio exceeds 900. Clearly there is a pressing need of scientific agriculture, to replace or supplement the rule-of-thumb methods in which the ryot is a past master. The Bengali Character.--Mr. Banerjea has lifted a corner of the veil that guards the Indian's home from prying eyes. He shows that Bengalis are men of like passions with us. The picture is perhaps overcharged with shade. Sycophants, hustlers and cheats abound in every community; happily for the future of civilisation there is also a leaven of true nobility: "The flesh striveth against the spirit," nor does it always gain mastery. Having mixed with all classes for twenty eventful years, and speaking the vernacular fluently, I am perhaps entitled to hold an opinion on this much-vexed question. The most salient feature in the Indian nature is its boundless charity. There are no poor laws, and the struggle for life is very severe; yet the aged and infirm, the widow and the orphan have their allotted share in the earnings of every household. It is a symptom of approaching famine that beggars are perforce refused their daily dole. Cruelty to children is quite unknown. Parents will deny themselves food in order to defray a son's schooling-fees or marry a daughter with suitable provision. Bengalis are remarkably clannish: they will toil and plot to advance the interests of anyone remotely connected with them by ties of blood. Their faults are the outcome of superstition, slavery to custom, and an unhealthy climate. Among them is a lack of moral courage, a tendency to lean on stronger natures, and to flatter a superior by feigning to agree with him. The standard of truth and honesty is that of all races which have been ground under heel for ages: deceit is the weapon of weaklings and slaves. Perjury has become a fine art, because our legal system fosters the chicane which is innate in quick-witted peoples. The same man who lies unblushingly in an English court, will tell the truth to an assembly of caste-fellows, or to the Panohayat (a committee of five which arbitrates in private disputes). Let British Pharisees study the working of their own Divorce and County Courts: they will not find much evidence of superior virtue! As for honesty, the essence of commercialism is "taking advantage of other people's needs," and no legal code has yet succeeded in drawing a line between fair and unfair trade. In India and Japan merchants are an inferior class; and loss of self-respect reacts unfavourably on the moral sense. Ingratitude is a vice attributed to Bengalis by people who have done little or nothing to elicit the corresponding virtue. As a matter of fact their memory is extremely retentive of favours. They will overlook any shortcomings in a ruler who has the divine gift of sympathy, and serve him with devotion. Macaulay has branded them with cowardice. If the charge were true, it was surely illogical and unmanly to reproach a community numbering 50,000,000 for inherited defects. Difference of environment and social customs will account for the superior virility of Europeans as compared with their distant kinsmen whose lot is cast in the sweltering tropics. But no one who has observed Bengali schoolboys standing up bare-legged to fast bowling will question their bravery. In fact, the instinct of combativeness is universal, and among protected communities it finds vent in litigation. Englishmen who seek to do their duty by India have potential allies in the educated classes, who have grafted Western learning on a civilisation much more ancient than their own. Bengal has given many illustrious sons to the empire. Among the dead I may mention Pandits Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar and Kissari Mohan Ganguli, whose vast learning was eclipsed by their zeal for social service; Dr. Sambhu Chandra Mukharji, whose biography I wrote in 1895; and Mr. Umesh Chandra Banarji, a lawyer who held his own with the flower of our English bar. A Bengali Brahmin is still with us who directs one of the greatest contracting firms in the empire. How much brighter would India's outlook be if this highly-gifted race were linked in bonds of sympathy with our own! The women of the Gangetic delta deserve a better fate than is assigned to them by Hindu and Mohammadan custom. They are kept in leading-strings from the cradle to the grave; their intellect is rarely cultivated, their affections suffer atrophy from constant repression. Yet Mr. Banerjea draws more than one picture of wifely devotion, and the instinctive good sense which is one of the secrets of feminine influence. Women seldom fail to rise to the occasion when opportunity is vouchsafed them. The late Maharani Surnomoyi of Cossimbazar managed her enormous estates with acumen; and her charities were as lavish as Lady Burdett-Coutts's. Toru Dutt, who died in girlhood, wrote French and English verses full of haunting sweetness. It is a little premature for extremists to prate of autonomy while their women are prisoners or drudges. Superstition.--Modes of thought surviving from past ages of intellectual growth are the chief obstacles in the path of progress. Mr. Banerjea's tales contain many references to magic--a pseudo-science which clings to the world's religions and social polity. It is doubtful whether the most civilised of us has quite shaken off the notion that mysterious virtues may be transmitted without the impetus of will-power. Latin races are haunted by dread of the Evil Eye; advertisements of palmists, astrologers and crystal-gazers fill columns of our newspapers. Rational education alone enables us to trace the sequence of cause and effect which is visible in every form of energy. Until this truth is generally recognised no community can eradicate the vices of superstition. The "unrest" of which we hear so much finds no echo in Mr. Banerjea's pages. It is, indeed, confined to a minute percentage of the population, even including the callow schoolboys who have been tempted to waste precious years on politics. The masses are too ignorant and too absorbed by the struggle for existence to care one jot for reforms. They may, however, be stirred to blind fury by appealing to their prejudices. Therein lies a real danger. Divergence of religious ideals, to which I have already alluded, accounts for the tranquillity that prevails throughout Bihar as compared with the spirit of revolution in Bengal proper. The microbe of anarchy finds an excellent culture-ground in minds which grovel before the goddess Káli. But the unrest cannot be isolated from other manifestations of cosmic energy, which flash from mind to mind and keep the world in turmoil. Every force of nature tends to be periodic. The heart's systole and diastole; alternations of day and night, of season and tide, are reflected in the history of our race. Progress is secured by the swing of a giant pendulum from East to West, the end of each beat ushering in drastic changes in religion, economics and social polity. It is probable that one of these cataclysmic epochs opened with the victories wrested from Russia by Japan. The democratic upheaval which began five hundred years ago is assuming Protean forces; and amongst them is the malady aptly styled "constitutionalitis" by Dr. Dillon. The situation in India demands prescience and statecraft. Though world-forces cannot be withstood, they are susceptible of control by enlightened will-power. Will peace be restored by the gift of constitutional government at a crisis when the august Mother of Parliaments is herself a prey to faction? It is worthy of note that the self-same spirit has always been rife in Bengal, where every village has its Dals--local Montagues and Capulets, whose bickerings are a fertile source of litigation. Mr. Banerjea's tales were written for his own countrymen, and needed extensive revision in order to render them intelligible to Western readers. I have preserved the author's spirit and phraseology; and venture to hope that this little book will shed some light on the problem of Indian administration. Francis H. Skrine. CHAPTER I The Pride of Kadampur. Kadampur is a country village which is destitute of natural or artificial attractions and quite unknown to fame. Its census population is barely 1,500, four-fifths of whom are low-caste Hindus, engaged in cultivation and river-fishing; the rest Mohammadans, who follow the same avocations but dwell in a Párá (quarter) of their own. The Bhadralok, or Upper Crust, consists of two Brahman and ten Kayastha (writer-caste) families. Among the latter group Kumodini Kanta Basu's took an unquestioned lead. He had amassed a modest competence as sub-contractor in the Commissariat during the second Afghan War, and retired to enjoy it in his ancestral village. His first care was to rebuild the family residence, a congenial task which occupied five years and made a large hole in his savings. It slowly grew into a masonry structure divided into two distinct Maháls (wings)--the first inhabited by men-folk; the second sacred to the ladies and their attendants. Behind it stood the kitchen; and the Pujardálán (family temple) occupied a conspicuous place in front, facing south. The usual range of brick cattle-sheds and servants' quarters made up quite an imposing group of buildings. Villagers classed amongst the gentry are wont to gather daily at some Chandimandap (a rustic temple dedicated to the goddess Durga, attached to most better-class houses). Kumodini Babu's was a favourite rendezvous, and much time was killed there in conversation, card-playing, and chess. Among the group assembled, one crisp afternoon in February, was an old gentleman, called Shámsundar Ghosh, and known to hosts of friends as "Shám Babu". He was head clerk in a Calcutta merchant's office, drawing Rs. 60 a month (£48 a year at par), which sufficed for the support of his wife and a son and daughter, respectively named Susil and Shaibalini. After a vain attempt to make two ends meet in expensive Calcutta, he had settled down at the outskirts of Kadampur, which has a railway station within half an hour's run of the Metropolis. Shám Babu's position and character were generally respected by neighbours, who flocked to his house for Calcutta gossip. On this particular occasion talk ran on Kadampur requirements, and somebody opined that another tank for bathing and drinking purposes ought to be excavated at once; he did not say by whom. "True," observed Sham Babu, "but a market is still more necessary. We have to trudge four miles for our vegetables and fish, which are obtainable in a more or less stale condition only twice a week. If one were started here, it would be a great boon to ten villages at least." Kumodini Babu assented, without further remark, and the subject dropped. It came up again on the following Sunday, when Kumodini Babu said to his friend:-- "I have been thinking about your idea of a market in this village, and should like, if possible, to establish one myself. How much would it cost me? As an old commissariat contractor, I am well up in the price of grain, fodder and ghi (clarified butter used in cooking), but I really know very little about other things." The confession elicited a general laugh, and Shám Babu replied, "It will be a matter of Rs. 200". "Two hundred rupees! Surely that is far too much for a range of huts." "True enough. Your own bamboo clumps, straw-stacks and stores of cordage would provide raw material; and as for labour, all you have to do is to order some of your ryots (tenants) who are behindhand with their rent to work for you gratis." "That would be contrary to my principles. How are these poor people to live while engaged in begár (forced labour) on my behalf? They must be paid." "Very well, then, let us set apart Rs. 20 to meet the cost of market buildings. But, for the first few weeks, you will have to buy up the unsold stock of perishable goods brought by Farias (hucksters); you must patronise the shopkeepers who open stalls for selling grain, cloth, confectionery, tobacco and trinkets. Once these people find that they are making fair profits they will gladly pay you rent for space allotted, besides tolls on the usual scale. At least Rs. 180 must be set apart for these preliminary expenses." Kumodini Babu never did anything in haste. A fortnight elapsed ere he announced to the neighbours gathered in his Chandimandap that he intended starting a bi-weekly market on a vacant plot measuring one Bigha (one-third of an acre), known as the Kamárbári (Anglice, "Abode of Blacksmiths"). On an auspicious day towards the end of April, he inaugurated the new enterprise with some ceremony. His own ryots were enjoined to attend; shopkeepers, hucksters, and fishermen who had hitherto gone much further afield, came in considerable numbers; and business was amazingly brisk. Zemindars (landed proprietors) generally have to wait for months and spend money like water before they gain a pice (a bronze coin worth a farthing) from a new market. Kumodini Babu, however, began to reap where he had sown in less than a fortnight. Not an inch of space in the Karmárbári remained unoccupied; his Hát-Gomastha, or bailiff, levied rent and tolls for vendors, at whose request the market was proclaimed a tri-weekly one. His fame as a man of energy and public spirit spread over ten villages, whose people felt that he was one who would give them good counsel in times of difficulty. There is some truth in the notion that fortune's gifts seldom come singly. Kumodini Babu's success in a business venture was immediately followed by one in his domestic affairs. It fell out in this wise. Shám Babu's daughter, Shaibalini, was still unmarried, though nearly thirteen and beautiful enough to be the pride of Kadampur. Money was, indeed, the only qualification she lacked, and Sham Babu's comparative poverty kept eligible suitors at a distance. For three years he had sought far and wide for a son-in-law and was beginning to fear that he might, after all, be unable to fulfil the chief duty of a Hindu parent. One evening his wife unexpectedly entered the parlour where he was resting after a heavy day at office. "Why has the moon risen so early?" he asked. "Because the moon can't do otherwise," she answered, with a faint smile. "But, joking apart, I want to consult you about Saili. Our neighbour Kanto Babu's wife called on me just before you returned from Calcutta, and, after beating about the bush, suggested Kumodini Babu's younger son, Nalini, as a suitable match for her." Shám Babu's face wore a worried look. "Surely that would be flying too high for such as us," he rejoined. "The Basus are comparatively rich, and very proud of their family which settled here during the Mughal days (i.e., before British rule, which in Bengal date from 1765). Young Nalini is reading for his B.A. examination and wants to be a pleader (advocate). Kumodini Babu would hardly allow his son to marry the daughter of a poor clerk." "Still, there is no harm in trying," remarked the wife. "If you don't feel equal to approaching him, there's Kanto Babu who would do so. It was his wife who broached the subject to me, which makes me think that they have been discussing it together." "An excellent idea," exclaimed Shám Babu. "I'll go to him at once." And taking his stick, he set out for Kanto Babu's house, which was barely fifty yards off. In half an hour he returned to gladden his wife with the news that their neighbour had consented to act as a go-between. Kanto Babu was as good as his word. That very evening he called on Kumodini Babu, whom he found reading the Mahábhárata (an epic poem). After dwelling now on this matter, now on that, he asked casually:-- "Have you never thought of getting Nalini married? He is over twenty, I believe." "My wife has been urging me to look out for a wife for him, but in my opinion he is too young for such responsibilities. Better wait till he has passed the B.A. examination." "Your wife's idea is sounder than yours, if I may be permitted to say so. Just think of the awful temptations to which unmarried students are exposed in that sink of profligacy, Calcutta! How many promising lads have succumbed to them, wrecking their own lives and causing bitter grief to their parents!" Kumodini Babu started. "You surprise me! I had no idea that Calcutta was as bad as you paint it. We must certainly get Nalini married at once. I wonder whether you know of a likely match for him. I don't care about money, but--" "That I do," interrupted Kanto Babu, "There's Shám Babu's daughter, Shaibalini. What a pretty creature she is; modest, loving and kind-hearted! You won't find her equal in this eláqa (lit. jurisdiction). If you approve, I will gladly be your spokesman with her family." Kumodini Babu mused awhile before answering. "I know Shaibalini well by reputation, and she is all you describe her. Shám Babu, too, comes of excellent lineage, though he is not a Zemindar, and depends on service. I should not object to marrying Nalini with his daughter. But wait a bit: what gotra (clan) does he belong to?" "I believe he is a Dakhin Rárhi," answered Kanto Babu. "But I am an Uttar Rárhi," remarked Kumodini Babu. "Is not that a fatal objection?" For the benefit of non-Hindu readers I may explain that Kayasthas are split into clans--probably a survival of the tribal organisation which preceded the family almost everywhere. According to tradition, a King of Bengal named Ádisur imported five Brahmans, and as many Kayastha servants from Kanauj in Upper India. From the latter are descended the Ghosh, Basu, Mitra, Guha, and Datta families. The first four are generally recognised as Kúlin (Angl., "aristocratic") Kayasthas, while the Dattas and seven other families are known as Sindhu Maulik--"coming of a good stock". Ádisur and his companions found 700 Brahmans and the same number of Kayasthas already established in Bengal. These are the supposed ancestors of a large number of Kayastha families still termed Saptasati, "the Seven Hundred". The ancient Greeks reckoned their neighbours beyond the Hellenic pale as "barbarians". So Brahmans and Kayasthas of Central Bengal styled their congeners north of the Ganges Rárh, or "uncivilised". The epithet survives in Uttar (north) and Dakhin (south) Rárhi, but has lost its offensive meaning. Bárendra is another phrase for the inhabitants of a tract north of the Ganges, which answers to the modern districts of Rajshahi, Pabna, and Bogra. Kanto Babu was evidently perplexed; but after reflecting for a short time he asked, "Now why should such a trifling matter cause any trouble whatever? The time has long since passed away when arbitrary difference of clan was considered a bar to marriage among Kayasthas." "You are quite right," was Kumodini Babu's reply, "and personally I am above these old-fashioned prejudices. My daughter-in-law may be Dakhin Rárhi, Banga-ja, or Bárendri for all I care, provided she be comely, well-mannered and come of good stock. But will Shám Babu be equally tolerant?" "That I can't say until I have consulted him," answered Kanto Babu. "One thing more I must know. What is your idea of Dená Páona (a word answering to our 'settlements')?" "Rám, Rám!" exclaimed Kumodini Babu. "Am I the man to sell my son for filthy lucre? I hear that Calcutta folks occasionally do so, but I am quite opposed to the custom. Should Shám Babu agree to this match, I will make no stipulations whatever as to a money payment. He is in very moderate circumstances, and may give whatever he chooses. Please see him at once and let me have his decision." Kanto Babu promised to do so and withdrew, inwardly chuckling over his diplomacy. Shám Babu called on him the same evening to learn its issue. He was delighted to find that Kumodini Babu was not averse to the match, but his face fell on hearing of the difference of clan. Observing his agitation, Kanto Babu observed gently, "I don't see why a matter, which is not even mentioned in our Shástras (holy books), should cause one moment's hesitation. Pluck up your courage, man, and all will go well." "Perhaps so," murmured Shám Babu. "But I do stand in awe of the Samáj" (a caste-assembly which pronounces excommunication for breaches of custom). "That's all nonsense! Look at our friend Kunjalál Babu who has just married his son to a Bárendri girl. Is he an outcast? Certainly not. It is true that the ultra-orthodox kicked a bit at first; but they all came round, and joined in the ceremony with zest. I can quote scores of similar instances to prove that this prejudice against marrying into a different clan is quite out of date." Shám Babu had nothing to urge in opposition to these weighty arguments. He promised to let Kanto Babu have a definite reply on the morrow and kept his word. Having endured a curtain lecture from his wife, who proved to him that an alliance with the Basu family offered advantages far outweighing the slight risk there was of excommunication, he authorised Kanto Babu to assure Kumodini Babu that the proposed match had his hearty approval. Once preliminaries were satisfactorily settled, all other arrangements proceeded apace. The Páká Dekhá is a solemn visit paid by males of the future bridegroom's family to that of his betrothed, during which they are feasted and decide all details regarding the marriage ceremonies. It passed off without a hitch, and the purohit (family priest) fixed Sravan 17th as an auspicious day for consummating the union. Thenceforward preparations were made for celebrating it in a manner worthy of the esteem in which both families were held. Kumodini Babu issued invitations to all his relatives. Chief amongst these was a younger brother, Ghaneshyám Basu by name, who practised as a pleader (advocate) at Ghoria, where he had built a house after disposing of his interest in the family estate to Kumodini Babu. This important person was asked to supervise the ceremonies, inasmuch as Kumodini Babu's increasing age and infirmities rendered him unfit to do so efficiently, while his eldest son, yclept Jadu Babu, had barely reached man's estate. The letter of invitation referred incidentally to the difference of clan as a matter of no importance. Kumodini Babu's disappointment may be conceived when he got an answer from his younger brother, expressing strong disapproval of the match and ending with a threat to sever all connection with the family if it were persisted in! The recipient at first thought of running up to Ghoria, in view of softening Ghaneshyám Babu's heart by a personal appeal, but the anger caused by his want of brotherly feeling prevailed. Kumodini Babu and his wife agreed that matters had gone too far to admit of the marriage being broken off. If Ghaneshyám did not choose to take part in it, so much the worse for him! Soon after dusk on Sraván 17th, Nalini entered his palanquin, arrayed in a beautiful costume of Benares silk. The wedding procession set out forthwith, amid a mighty blowing of conch-shells and beating of drums. At 8 P.M. it reached the bride's abode, where her family, with Shám Babu at the head, were ready to receive them. An hour later Nalini was conducted to the inner apartments, where the marriage ceremony began. It lasted until nearly eleven o'clock, when the young couple were taken to the Básárghar, or nuptial apartment. During these rites the men-folk were perhaps more pleasantly engaged in doing ample justice to a repast provided for them in the outer rooms. Then they chewed betels in blissful rumination, before separating with emphatic acknowledgments of the hospitality they had enjoyed. On the following afternoon both bridegroom and bride were taken in palanquins to Kumodini Babu's house, where she instantaneously won every heart by her grace and beauty. Two days later the Bau-Bhát ceremony was held. This is a feast in the course of which the bride (bau) distributes cooked rice (bhát) with her own hands to bidden guests, in token of her reception into her husband's family and clan. Kumodini Babu had requisitioned an immense supply of dainties from local goálas (dairymen) and moiras (confectioners) with a view to eclipsing all previous festivals of the kind. Early in the morning of the Bau-Bhát day a palanquin was carried into Kumodini Babu's courtyard; and who should emerge from it but Ghaneshyám Babu! He ran up to his brother, who was sitting with some neighbours in the parlour, and, clasping his feet, implored forgiveness. Kumodini Babu's heart leaped for joy. Tenderly did he embrace the penitent, who admitted that his peace of mind had fled from the moment he penned that cruel letter. He now saw the absurdity of his prejudices, and begged Kumodini Babu to forget his unbrotherly conduct. It is needless to add that the prayer was cordially granted and that Ghaneshyám Babu received a blessing from his elder brother. Thanks to his supervision the Bau-Bhát feast passed off at night without the slightest contretemps. Ten years later people still dwelt on the magnificent hospitality they had received, and held Kumodini Babu up as a model to fathers-in-law. In order that all classes might rejoice with him, he remitted a year's rent to every ryot, besides lavishing considerable sums on Brahmans and poor folk. The more enlightened section of Kayasthas were unanimous in pronouncing him to be a true Hindu, on whose descendants the gods on high would pour down their choicest blessings. There were others, however, whose malignity found material to work on in his disregard of caste prejudices. CHAPTER II The Rival Markets. The immediate success of Kumodini Babu's market caused infinite annoyance to Ramani Babu, who owned one long established in the neighbourhood. Hucksters and country-folk found the tolls levied there so much lighter, that the attendance at Ramani's fell off grievously. It is well known that when a new market is started, proprietors already in the field endeavour to break it up with the aid of paid láthiáls (clubmen). If, as often happens, the daring speculator be a man of substance, he employs similar means in his defence. Free fights occur on market-days, ending in many a broken head--sometimes in slaughter. The battle is directed by Gomasthas (bailiffs) on either side, with the full knowledge of their masters, who keep discreetly aloof from the fray. Ramani Babu did not foresee that his property would be injured by the new venture, and allowed it to be firmly established without striking a single blow. Finding a lamentable decrease in his receipts, he ordered the bailiff to "go ahead," and took an early train for Calcutta in order to set up an alibi in case of legal proceedings. A day or two later his bailiff, attended by six or seven men armed with iron-shod bamboo staves, assembled at the outskirts of Kumodini Babu's market, on a spot where four roads met. Ere long a cart was descried approaching from eastwards, whose driver bawled snatches of song and puffed his hookah between whiles. When it reached the crossing, the bailiff shouted:-- "Stop! whither so early, friend?" "To market," the man replied carelessly. "Whose market?" "The new one, started by Kumodini Babu." "What have you got in those baskets of yours?" "Oh, sweet potatoes, brinjáls (egg-plants), and a lot of other vegetables." "Why don't you attend Ramani Babu's market?" "Because it does not pay me to go there." "So you used to take your vegetables to Ramani Babu's market?" "Yes; but there are hardly any customers left. Now please let me go; the sun is high up." "So you won't obey me!" "No!" roared the carter, prodding his oxen viciously. "Stop a minute, I tell you! Whose ryot (tenant) are you?" "Ramani Babu's." "What, you are his ryot and yet are acting against his interests? If he hears of your perfidy he will certainly turn you out of his estate!" "Why should he?" asked the fellow, now thoroughly frightened. "I am a very poor man, and Ramani Babu is my father and mother. He cannot object to my selling a few vegetables wherever I please." "But he does object," rejoined the bailiff sternly. "What's your name and residence?" "Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi." "Now, do you know who I am?" "No-o," replied Sádhu, hesitatingly. "I am Ramani Babu's new bailiff, sent with these men to see that his market is well attended." Sádhu's tone completely changed. "Sálam, Babu," he whined. "I did not know who you were. Please let me pass or I shall be too late." "Not so fast, friend," shouted the bailiff. "Once for all, are you going to obey me or not?" Sádhu prodded his bullocks into a lumbering canter; but the bailiff gave a signal to his clubmen, who ran after him, dragged him out of the cart, and thrashed him soundly. Then two of them escorted him, with his wares, to their master's market, which was being held about three miles away. The bailiff waited at the crossing for new arrivals. They were not long in coming. A fishwoman, heavily laden, passed by. He hailed her, and on learning whither she was bound, ordered his men to drag her to their master's market, which they did, despite the volume of abuse which she hurled at their heads. In this manner some half a dozen deserters were captured and escorted to the old market. The story of his tyranny spread like wildfire through neighbouring villages, with many amplifications, of course. Kumodini Babu heard that his rival had arrested a hundred frequenters of his market and was about to destroy the shelters he had erected for salesmen. This information filled him with anxiety and, after consulting friends, he lodged a complaint at the police station. In the remote interior of Bengal policemen are all-powerful. They usurp authority to which they are not entitled by law, and use it for private ends. All classes go in perpetual fear of them; for, by a stroke of the pen, they can ruin reputations and defeat justice. No one has recourse to their dreaded agency who can avoid doing so or has the means of gratifying their greed. By giving a handsome douceur to the Sub-Inspector, Kumodini Babu obtained a promise of support, which he was simple enough to rely upon. Meantime Ramani Babu's market bailiff was not idle. Knowing that he had acted illegally, he resolved to "square" the executive. So, one evening, he persuaded his master to accompany him to the police station, provided with a bundle of ten-rupee currency notes. After discussing commonplaces with the Sub-Inspector, they adjourned to an inner room, where they induced him to take their side--for very weighty reasons. Matters now began to look ugly for Kumodini Babu. Every vendor who approached his market was intercepted. He implored the help of the Sub-Inspector, who, however, observed a strict neutrality, hinting that the complainant was at liberty to defend himself with the aid of clubmen. But Kumodini Babu was a man of peace, and finding the policeman something less than lukewarm, he resigned himself to the inevitable. His evil star continued to prevail, for, soon after these untoward events, it brought him into collision with the police. In consequence of an understanding with Ramani Babu, the Sub-Inspector took to buying provisions from the few shopkeepers who still attended Kumodini Babu's market and referring them to him for payment. His constables, too, helped themselves freely to rice and vegetables without even asking the price, and had their shoes blacked gratis by Kumodini Babu's muchis (leather-dressers). His bailiff put up with their vagaries, until the shopkeepers came in a body to say that unless they were stopped, the market would be entirely deserted. The luckless Zemindar was staggered by the tale of oppression. He paid for every article extorted by the police, but strictly forbade the vendors to give any further credit. The Sub-Inspector was deeply incensed in finding this source of illicit profit cut off, and his vengeance was perpetrated under the pretence of law. One evening, while Kumodini Babu was conning the Mahábhárata (an ancient epic) in his parlour, the Sub-Inspector came in, armed with a search warrant issued by the Deputy Magistrate of Ghoria, which he showed the astonished master of the house. A charge of receiving stolen property brought against him was indeed a bolt from the blue; but when Kumodini Babu regained his scattered wits, he told the Sub-Inspector scornfully that he might search every hole and corner of his house. For half an hour the police were occupied in turning his furniture and boxes topsy-turvy; and at last the Sub-Inspector went alone into a lumber-room, while his head constable kept Kumodini's attention fixed on the contents of an almeira (ward-robe) which he was searching. Shouting, "I have found the property!" he emerged from the room with a box containing various articles of gold and silver, which he said were hidden under some straw. On comparing them with a list in his possession he declared that they exactly tallied with property reported as part of the spoils of a burglary in the neighbouring village. In vain Kumodini Babu protested his entire innocence and asked whether he, a respectable Zemindar, was likely to be a receiver of stolen goods. He was handcuffed and taken to the police station on foot, while the Sub-Inspector followed in a palanquin. Kumodini Babu's women-folk filled the house with their lamentations; and his eldest son, Jadu Náth, was the first to recover from the prostration caused by sudden misfortune. He had a pony saddled and galloped to the railway station, whence he telegraphed to his uncle, Ghaneshyám Babu, the pleader, "Father arrested: charge receiving stolen goods". Ghaneshyám arrived by the next train, and after hearing the facts returned to Ghoria, where he applied to the Deputy Magistrate for bail. There was a strong disinclination to grant it, owing to the gravity of the charge; but finally an order was issued, releasing the prisoner on personal recognisance of Rs. 10,000 and two sureties of Rs. 5,000. The necessary security was immediately forthcoming, and Kumodini Babu found himself temporarily a free man, after enduring nearly forty-eight hours of unspeakable misery in the station lock-up. In due course his case came on for hearing before the Deputy Magistrate. Ghaneshyám Babu secured the services of a fighting member of the Calcutta bar and was indefatigable in his efforts to unearth the nefarious plot against his brother. Proceedings lasted for four days in a court packed with spectators. The Sub-Inspector and his accomplices told their story speciously enough. A burglary had really been committed and the jewellery found in Kumodini Babu's outhouse was proved to have been part of the stolen goods. The issue was--who placed them there? On this point the Sub-Inspector's evidence was not by any means satisfactory. He finally broke down under rigorous cross-examination, and was forced to admit that it was quite possible that some one acting on his behalf had hidden the property in Kumodini Babu's lumber-room. The battle of the markets was related in all its dramatic details. Shopkeepers and ryots alike, seeing that justice was likely to prevail, came forward to depose to acts of tyranny by Ramani Babu's servants and their allies, the police. Evidence of the prisoner's high character was forthcoming, while his age and dignified bearing spoke strongly in his favour. The Magistrate saw that he had been the victim of an abominable conspiracy and released him amid the suppressed plaudits of the audience. His reasons for discharge contained severe strictures on the local police, and even suggested their prosecution. Thus, after weeks of agonising suspense and an expenditure on legal fees running into thousands of rupees, Kumodini Babu was declared innocent. He took the humiliation so much to heart, that he meditated retiring to that refuge for storm-tossed souls, Benares. But Ghaneshyám Babu strongly dissuaded him from abandoning the struggle, at least until he had turned the tables on his enemies. So Kumodini Babu moved the District Magistrate to issue process against Ramani Babu and the Sub-Inspector. He met with a refusal, however, probably because the higher authorities thought fit to hush up a glaring scandal which might "get into the papers," and discredit the administration. Ramani Babu, therefore, was not molested, but his accomplice was departmentally censured, and transferred to an unhealthy district. Kumodini Babu also thought of discontinuing the market which had been the fount and origin of his misfortunes. Here again his brother objected that such a course would be taken to indicate weakness and encourage further attacks. His advice was followed. The new market throve amazingly, while Ramani Babu's was quite deserted. CHAPTER III A Foul Conspiracy. On a certain morning in February Ramani Babu sprung a mine on his tenants by circulating a notice among them to the effect that they would have to pay up every pice of rent on or before the 10th prox. Some hastened to discharge their liabilities, while others ran about asking for loans or sat with downcast eyes, unable to decide what course to take. The English reader is perhaps unaware that every Bengal landowner is required to pay revenue to Government four times a year, vis., on the 28th January, March, June and September. Any one failing to do so before sunset on these dates becomes a defaulter, and his estate is put up to auction in order to satisfy the demand, however small it may be. Property worth many thousands of rupees has often been sold for arrears of eight annas (a shilling) or even less. The near approach of these kist (rent) days is of course a period of great anxiety to landlords; some of whom are forced to borrow the necessary amount on the security of their wives' ornaments. On March 28th, 18--, Ramani Babu had to pay about Rs. 10,000 as land revenue; but his ryots' crops had failed, owing to want of rain, and by the end of February he had been able to realise only Rs. 1,000, the greater portion by threats of force. The Indian peasant's lot is not a happy one. He depends solely on the produce of the soil, which yields little or nothing if the annual rains should fail, or there be an excess of moisture. Millions of cultivators never know what it is to have a good, solid meal. In order to meet the landlord's demands they have recourse to a Mahájan (moneylender) whose exactions leave them a slender margin for subsistence. But religion and ages of slavery render them submissive creatures. They murmur only when very hard pressed. Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi, lived by raising vegetables for sale in Kumodini Babu's market, until he was forbidden to do so by Ramani Babu's clubmen. Failing this resource, he abandoned the little trade; and thus got deeper into the books of his moneylender. At this crisis he received a written notice ordering him to attend Ramani Babu's kucheri (office) on 17th March without fail. A visit to the local moneylender was fruitless and only led to a hint that old scores must be cleared off. So Sádhu returned home crestfallen and determined to abide by his fate. On obeying the summons, he found Ramani Babu, sitting in his office to receive rent, which was brought him by a crowd of dejected-looking ryots. A great hubbub was going on; one Bemani insisting that he had paid up to date while Ramani Babu's gomastha (bailiff) stoutly denied the assertion and called n the objector to produce his receipt. This was not forthcoming for the simple reason that Ramani had mislaid it. He asked the bailiff to show him the ledger account, and after spelling through the items laboriously be found that not a pice stood to his credit, although he had paid nearly sixty rupees since the last hist (rent) day. There are few who understand the value of the dákhilas (rent receipts) which landlords are compelled by law to give them. The little slips of paper are lost or destroyed, with the result that many ryots have had to pay twice over. Bemani vainly invoked Allah to witness that he had discharged his dues; the bailiff ordered him to pay within twenty-four hours on pain of severe punishment. Goaded to fury by this palpable injustice the poor man declined to do anything of the kind. At this stage Ramani Babu intervened:-- "You son of a pig, are you going to obey my orders or not?" "No, I have paid once, and I won't pay again," yelled Bemani, thoroughly roused. Ramani Babu beckoned to a stalwart doorkeeper from the Upper Provinces, who was standing near. "Sarbeshwar, give this rascal a taste of your Shámchand (cane)!" He was zealously obeyed and poor Bemani was thrashed until he lay writhing in agony on the ground. After taking his punishment he rose, and looking defiantly at Ramani Babu said:-- "You have treated me cruelly; but you will find that there is a God who watches all our actions. He will certainly deal out retribution to you!" He then turned to go. "I see you are not yet cured," exclaimed Ramani Babu. "Let him have another dose of Shámchand." "Yes, go on!" roared Bemani, "beat me as much as you please; you'll have reason to repent sooner or later!" With this remark he stood erect, looking fearlessly at his tormentors. Sarbeshwar administered another welting, which drew blood at every stroke but was borne without sound or movement. When the doorkeeper stopped for want of breath, Bemani cast a look of scorn at Ramani Babu and strode out of the house in silence, full of rage. Presently another disturbance was heard. One of the ryots had paid his rent in full but declined to add the usual commission exacted by the bailiffs, who fell on him in a body and pummelled him severely. Sádhu witnessed these horrors from a corner of the room and inwardly besought Allah to save him from the clutches of those demons. But Srikrishna, who was the bailiff of his circle, happened to see him and asked whether he had brought his rent. Sádhu got up, salámed humbly, and replied, "Babuji, you know my present circumstances well". "Answer yes or no," thundered Srikrishna, "I have no time to listen to your excuses." "Your servant is a very poor man," continued Sádhu, shaking from head to foot. "Who is this person?" inquired Ramani Babu. "This is Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi," was the bailiff's reply, "the very same rascal who gave evidence against your honour in that faujdári (criminal) case." "Is that so?" roared Ramani Babu. "And the son of a pig owes me rent?" "Now, please, do not abuse me, Babuji," protested Sádhu, "only listen to my tale for one minute!" "What, you dare to bandy words with me, haramzúdú (bastard)?" shouted Ramani Babu, rising from his seat. "Doorkeeper, let him have fifty cuts, laid on hard!" Swish, swish, swish, sounded the nimble cane, and made a grey pattern on Sádhu's naked flesh. His screams and prayers for mercy were mocked by the obsequious crowd, and at length he fell senseless on the floor. "Look, he is shamming," observed Ramani Babu; "drag him outside and souse him with water until he comes to." The command was obeyed, and when Sádhu was able to sit up he was brought back to the dreaded presence. Again his arrears of rent were demanded, and once more he feebly protested that he could not discharge them. Thereon Ramani Babu ordered him to be hung up. Forthwith, a dozen eager hands were laid on him, a rope was passed under his armpits, and the free end thrown over a rafter of the office. By this means he was hauled from the ground and swung suspended, a butt of sarcasm and abuse for Ramani Babu's myrmidons. After enduring this humiliation for an hour or so, he was let down and a final demand made on him for the arrears of rent. On his again asserting inability Ramani Babu ordered his hut to be levelled with the ground and pulse to be sown on its site, as a punishment for his disobedience. He was then allowed to leave the scene of his misery. On reaching home he found Bemani seated in the porch, in expectation of his arrival. His fellow-victim said that he had lodged an information against Ramani Babu and his servants at the police station and intended going to Ghoria, next day, to complain to the Deputy Magistrate. Would Sádhu help him by giving evidence? he asked. "That I will," was the reply, "but I must first consult Jadunath Babu, who, I am sure, will help me." After Bemani's departure Sádhu went to his protector and told the story of his sufferings in full. Jadunath Babu bade him be of good cheer; for he would do all in his power to bring Ramani Babu to justice. Sádhu was comforted by this promise. He returned home and soon forgot all his sorrows in sleep. About midnight he was aroused by voices in his yard, and, sallying forth, discovered a gang of clubmen employed by Ramani Babu, in the act of tearing the roof from his hut. Remonstrance was met by jeering and threats of violence; so the luckless man stood helplessly under a neighbouring tamarind tree, while his house was reduced to a heap of bamboos and thatch. The material was taken away in carts, the site dug up, and pulse sown thereon. Thus not a trace of Sádhu's home was left. He passed the remaining hours of the night under the tree; and early next morning he called on Jadu Babu, to whom he unfolded the story of this latest outrage. His patron boiled over with indignation. He sent Sádhu to the police station, in order to lay an information against his persecutors, promising to give him a house and land to compensate his losses. In less than a fortnight, the injured man was installed in a new hut and in possession of enough land to support him comfortably. Then he settled down, with heartfelt prayers for Jadu Babu's long life and prosperity. He even sent for his wife and a young sister-in-law, who had been staying with her brother near Calcutta. Meantime Bemani had taken out a summons for causing grievous hurt against Ramani Babu and his servants. When the case came on for hearing before a Deputy Magistrate at Ghoria, all the accused pleaded "not guilty." They could not deny the fact that he had been beaten within an inch of his life, but alleged provocation on his part, inasmuch as he had fomented a rebellion among the ryots. Jadu Babu was not idle. He provided the complainant with first-rate legal advice and paid all the expenses of adducing witnesses. Emboldened by his support, at least a dozen of Ramani Babu's ryots who were present while he was being thrashed, came forward to give evidence of the brutal treatment he had received and to deny the counter charge brought by the defendants. Thus the case ended in the conviction of Ramani Babu and three of his servants, who were sentenced to fines aggregating Rs. 200. Then the charges preferred by Sádhu were taken up by the Deputy Magistrate. As they were of a far graver character, the barrister brought from Calcutta by Ramani Babu obtained a week's adjournment in order to procure rebutting evidence. At this time the Muharram festival was in full swing. Sádhu was too busy in getting up his case to take part in it; but he sent his wife to some relatives at Ghoria, while his young sister-in-law, who was suffering from fever, remained at home. He was aroused one night by loud screams coming from the hut occupied by this girl. On running out to see what was the matter, he fell into the arms of a stranger who was crossing his yard in a desperate hurry. A struggle ensued, but the intruder managed to escape, not before Sádhu had recognised him as a ryot of Ramani Babu, named Karim. On asking his sister-in-law what had happened, the poor girl told him with many sobs that a man had broken into the hut, and awakened her by seizing her throat, but had been scared away by her screams. As soon as day dawned, Sádhu ran to the house of Karim's uncle, in the hope of finding him there. The uncle, however, declared that Karim had been absent since the previous evening, and on learning the grave charge preferred by Sádhu, he begged with folded hands that the scandal might be stifled, at any cost, for the sake of both families. Sádhu would promise nothing, but for obvious reasons he laid no information against Karim. Two days later he was engaged on his evening meal, when a Sub-Inspector appeared. After asking whether his name was Sádhu, the policeman slipped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists and turned a deaf ear to his bewildered request for information as to the charge preferred against him. Thus he was ignominiously taken to the station lock-up, followed by a crowd, whom he begged to inform Jadu Babu of his trouble. The latter was speedily fetched by a compassionate neighbour, and, after conversing with the police officer, he told Sádhu that he was actually charged with murder! Karim's uncle had informed the police that, his nephew having disappeared since the day of the alleged trespass, he suspected Sádhu of foul play. An inquiry followed which led to Sádhu's transfer to the district jail. Jadu Babu was certain that his enemy had instigated the charge, and knew that he was quite capable of suppressing Karim in order to get Sádhu into trouble. He was advised by friends whom he consulted not to poke his nose into so ugly an affair: but his sense of justice prevailed. He went to Ghaneshyám Babu, whom he told the whole story related by Sádhu. On learning that Ramani Babu was implicated, the pleader saw an opportunity of wreaking vengeance on the persecutor of his brother. Gladly did he undertake the prisoner's defence. In due course the charge preferred by Sádhu against Ramani Babu was heard by a Deputy Magistrate. With Ghaneshyám Babu's aid, the complainant proved it up to the hilt, and all concerned were heavily fined. Soon afterwards Sádhu himself appeared before the Deputy Magistrate to answer a charge of murder. The circumstantial evidence against him was so strong that he was committed to the Sessions Court. When brought up for trial there, he astounded his backers by pleading guilty and offering to point out the spot where he had buried Karim's corpse. The case was forthwith adjourned for a local inquiry; and the European District Superintendent of Police took Sádhu to the place indicated, where he had the soil turned up in all directions without result. Sádhu admitted that he was mistaken and piloted the police to another spot, where they again failed to discover any trace of the missing man. On these facts being reported to the judge, he fixed the morrow for final hearing. At 11 A.M. he took his seat on the bench in a Court packed with eager spectators, and was reading a charge to the jury, strongly adverse to the prisoner, when an uproar was heard outside. Proceedings were suspended while the judge sent an usher to ascertain the cause; but ere he returned, half a dozen men burst into the courtroom crying Dohai! (justice!). Jadu Babu, who was one of the intruders, signalled the others to be silent, and thus addressed the judge with folded hands:-- "Your Honour, the dead has come to life! Here is Karim, who was supposed to have been murdered!" There was a tremendous sensation in Court. When it subsided the judge thrust aside his papers and asked for evidence as to Karim's identity, which was soon forthcoming on oath. Then he ordered him to be sworn, and recorded the following deposition:-- "Incarnation of Justice! I will make a full confession, whatever may happen to me. I was sent for about a month ago by my landlord Ramani Babu, who ordered me to insult some woman of Sádhu's household, in order that he might be excommunicated. In fear of my life I consented to do so, and that very night I broke into the hut where Sádhu's sister-in-law lay asleep. Her cries attracted Sádhu, who grappled with me in his yard. However, I managed to escape, and on reporting my failure to Ramani Babu, he sent me in charge of a Barkamdúz (guard) to Paliti, which is ten coss (20 miles) away. There I was confined in a Kacheri (office building) until yesterday, when I got away after nightfall. I had to pass through Ghoria Bazar, on my way home this morning, and there I ran up against Jadu Babu, who stopped and questioned me closely about my movements. There was nothing for me but to make a clean breast of everything. He took me to a babu's house where he was staying, and thence brought me to your honour's presence." Karim's confession took every one by surprise, and it was corroborated by Jadu Babu in the witness-box. The judge then asked Sadhu why he pleaded guilty. "Incarnation of Justice," was the reply, "it was the Daroga Babu (Sub-Inspector of Police) who frightened me into making a confession. He told me again and again that he had quite enough evidence to hang me, and advised me to escape death by admitting the charge of murdering Karim. While I was shut up alone in jail, I had no one to consult or rely on. Through fear, my wits entirely left me and I resolved to obtain mercy by making a false confession." These circumstances, strange as they may appear to the Western reader, were no novelty to the Sessions Judge. In charging the jury, he commented severely on the conduct of the station police and directed them to return a verdict of not guilty, which they promptly did. Ghaneshyám Babu did not let the matter drop. He moved the District Magistrate to prosecute Ramani Babu and his bailiff, Srikrishna, for conspiring to charge an innocent man with murder. Both were brought to trial and, despite the advocacy of a Calcutta barrister, they each received a sentence of six months' rigorous imprisonment. Justice, lame-footed as she is, at length overtook a pair of notorious evil-doers. CHAPTER IV The Biter Bitten. Babu Chandra Mohan Bai, or Chandra Babu, as he was usually called, was a rich banker with many obsequious customers. He was a short choleric man, very fond of his hookah, without which he was rarely seen in public. He had no family, except a wife who served him uncomplainingly, and never received a letter or was known to write one except in the course of business. His birthplace, nay his caste, were mysteries. But wealth conceals every defect, and no one troubled to inquire into Chandra Babu's antecedents. This much was known--that he had come to Kadampur fifteen years before my tale opens with a brass drinking-pot and blanket, and obtained a humbly-paid office as a clerk under a local Zemindar. In this capacity he made such good use of the means it offered of extorting money that he was able to set up as a moneylender at Simulgachi, close to Kadampur. When people learnt that a new Shylock was at their service, they flocked to him in times of stress. His usual rate of interest being only 5 per cent, per mensem, he cut into the business of other moneylenders, and in four or five years had no serious competitor within a radius of four miles from Kadampur itself. Once master of the situation he drew in his horns, lending money only to people who could give ample security in land, government papers, or jewellery. He also started a tejárati business (loans of rice, for seed and maintenance during the "slack" months, repaid in kind, with heavy interest, after the harvest). Although few Khátaks (customers) were able to extricate their property from his clutches or clear off their debit balances, Chandra Babu continued to be in great request. He was heard to boast that every family in or near Kadampur, except the Basus, were on his books. The rapid growth of his dealings compelled him to engage a gomastha (manager) in the person of Santi Priya Dás, who had been a village schoolmaster notorious for cruelty. The duties of his new office were entirely to Santi Priya's liking, and he performed them to Chandra Babu's unqualified approval. On a certain morning in late August, Chandra Babu sat in his office to receive applications for money or grain. One of his customers named Karim Sheikh came in and squatted close to the door, after salaming profoundly. On seeing him Chandra Babu at once remembered that his bond had run out on 15th July, and that he owed nearly Rs. 100, principal and interest. He therefore addressed the newcomer in accents of wrath. "What do you want here, you son of a pig?" "Babuji," pleaded Karim, "my stars are unlucky. You know how wretched the rice harvest has been." "Yes, we know all that," replied Santi, who sat near his master. "It's the old story, when people who can pay won't pay. Have you brought the money, eh?" Karim was obliged to confess he had not. "Then why have you come here?" roared Chandra Babu. "To show your face, I suppose. We see hundreds of better-looking fellows than you daily. You have got to pay up at once, you badmásh (rascal)." Karim's wrath was stirred by this expression. He replied, "Now, Babu, don't be abusive; I won't stand it". "What, do you want to teach me manners, Maulvie Saheb (doctor learned in Mohammadan law)?" asked Chandra Babu sarcastically. An exchange of compliments followed which were not altogether to Shylock's advantage, and at length he roared, "Get out of this office, you rascal, and look out for squalls! I'll sell you up!" Karim left in high dudgeon, inviting Chandra Babu to do his worst, and the latter forthwith concocted a scheme of vengeance with his manager. Next day Santi obtained a summons against Karim from the Munsiff (civil judge of first instance) of Ghoria and, by bribing the court process-server, induced him to make a false return of service. In due course the suit came on for hearing, and as the defendant was of course absent, it was decreed against him ex parte. Execution being also granted, Santi accompanied the court bailiff to Karim's house, where they seized all his movable property and carried it off to the Court, leaving him in bewilderment and tears. He was unable to tear himself away from his gutted home but sat for hours under a tree hard by, pondering on his ill-fortune. Not until the sun had set and village cattle began to file in from pasture, did he cast one lingering look on the scene of his childhood and walk away with a sigh, whither no one cared to inquire. A week later, however, Karim strode into Chandra Babu's office attended by two friends, and counted out ten ten-rupee notes, which he handed to the moneylender, with a peremptory request to release his chattels at once. Chandra Babu was greatly surprised by the turn matters had taken, but he was not the man to let property slip from his clutches. So he asked Santi whether the debtor did not owe a bill of costs. The manager referred to his books and declared that Rs. 33 8. 0. were still due. Karim planked down the money without further ado and asked for a receipt, which Santi reluctantly gave him. Then he again demanded the immediate release of his property. On receiving an evasive answer, he remarked that Chandra Babu would hear from him shortly and left the office. About a month later, Chandra Babu was aroused from sleep in the dead of night by shouts coming from his inner courtyard. He jumped up and popped his head out of the window, but withdrew it hastily on seeing twenty or thirty men running about his premises, with lighted torches, and shouting--"Loot! loot!" Paralysed by fear, he crawled under the bed and lay in breathless expectation of further developments. Presently the door was forced open, and a crowd poured into the room. Chandra Babu's hiding place was soon discovered by the dacoits (gang robbers), who dragged him out by the legs and demanded his keys on pain of instant death. Seeing a rusty talwár (sword) flourished within an inch of his throat, the unhappy man at once produced them, whereon the dacoits opened his safe and took out several bags of rupees. Then at a signal from their sardar (leader), they bound Chandra Babu hand and foot and squatted round him in a circle. The sardar thus addressed him:-- "Babuji, do you know us?" "How can I know you?" groaned their victim. "Your faces are blackened and concealed by your turbans. Gentlemen, I implore you to spare my life! I never injured any of you." "Indeed!" replied the sardar sarcastically; "you have been the ruin of us all. Look you, Chandra Babu, we are all Khátaks (customers) of yours whom you have fleeced by levying exorbitant interest on loans and falsifying our accounts. It's no use going to law for our rights; you are hand in glove with the civil court amla (clerks) and peons (menials) and can get them to do whatever you wish. So we have determined to take the law into our own hands. We have made up our accounts and find that you have extorted from us Rs. 5,000, over and above advances of rice and cash with reasonable interest. Now we're going to help ourselves to that sum, besides damages at four annas in the rupee (twenty-five per cent.). This makes just Rs. 6,250 you owe us." Thereon the dacoits counted out cash to that amount and no more, which was placed in bags containing Rs. 1,000 each, ready for removal. Chandra Babu heaved a sigh of relief, thinking that he had got off rather cheaply, but his troubles were not at an end. The sardar came close to him and asked:-- "Look at me carefully: do you know me?" "No bábá, but you are my son. Pray, spare my life! See, I am half dead already and ruined as well!" "I am Karim Sheikh," said the sardar impressively. "So you are," replied Chandra Babu, after recovering from his intense surprise; "but why have you turned dacoit?" "It was owing to your oppression, which drove me from my house, and deprived me of the means of livelihood. All my companions here have been beggared by you, and scores of other families too. The whole of Kadampur and Simulgachi are clamouring for your blood, and Allah has appointed me to be the minister of his vengeance. Time was when I had to cringe to you, just as you are doing to me, but never did I receive mercy from you. Now the tables are turned. I might kill you, and who would dare to inform the police folk?" (Here Karim made a vicious prod with his talwár, which passed within half an inch of the terror-stricken victim's throat.) "I might put you out of caste by slaying one of your cows and forcing you to eat its flesh. You deserve all this and more--but we will be merciful. Swear by your goddesses Kali and Durga that you will never in future demand more than four annas in the rupee yearly for loans of money or rice. Swear that you will never again bribe the amla or peons of the Courts; swear that you will never again falsify the accounts of your Khátaks." Chandra Babu took the oaths demanded with an appearance of unction and then implored his captors to release him. "Wait a minute," was Karim's reply, "we must collect our belongings." So saying he ordered the dacoits to extinguish their torches and follow him with the bags of money. He led them to a ravine on the river bank, about a coss (two miles) distant, where the spoil was equitably divided according to a list of names and amounts due in Karim's possession. Then after arranging for alibis in case of criminal proceedings, the band dispersed, well satisfied with their night's work. Chandra Babu's neighbours made no sign until the dacoits were well out of hearing, when they flocked in to unloose his bonds and offer hypocritical condolences. The village Chaukidar (watchman) was sent off to the police station, and next day arrived the Sub-Inspector with a posse of constables to investigate the dacoity. After recording the complainant's statement, they endeavoured to secure additional evidence, but Chandra Babu was so cordially disliked, and the dacoits' vengeance so dreaded, that not a soul came forward to corroborate his story. Karim was arrested, with half a dozen accomplices named by Chandra Babu. They had no difficulty in proving that they were attending a wedding ceremony five miles away on the night of the alleged dacoity. So the case was reported to headquarters as false; and Chandra Babu escaped prosecution for deceiving the police, by giving a heavy bribe to the Sub-Inspector. His evil star continued in the ascendant. About a week afterwards, he discovered a heavy deficit in his cash book, kept by Santi Priya, which that rascal failed to explain, and next day the trusty manager did not attend office. Indeed he has never been heard of since. This new calamity was Chandra Babu's "last straw". He hastened to realise outstanding debts and left the village, bag and baggage, to the intense relief of its inhabitants, who celebrated his exit by offering pujá or namáz (Mohammadan prayers) according to the religion they severally professed. CHAPTER V All's Well That End's Well. Every good Hindu feels bound to get his daughter or sister, as the case may be, married before she attains puberty. Rich people find little difficulty in securing suitable matches for their girls; but Babu Jadunath Basu, widely known as "Jadu Babu," was not blessed with a large share of this world's goods; and his sister Basumati was close on her teens. The marriage-broker had certainly suggested more than one aspirant for her hand, but they were not to Jadu Babu's liking. As years rolled by, his anxiety deepened into despair. A match was at length offered which was passably good, although it did not answer Jadu Babu's expectations. He learnt from private inquiry that the boy proposed bore a good character, never mixed with doubtful associates, and had no constitutional defect. Hindu parents are very careful to ascertain the health of a suitor, and should they suspect any inherited disease, such as consumption, they reject him remorselessly. It must not be supposed that such lads are always doomed to celibacy, for their unsoundness may be hidden or counterbalanced by a substantial money payment. Jadu Babu found out that the boy had matriculated at Calcutta and was attending the second year class at a Metropolitan College; more important still, his father, Amarendra Babu, had money invested in Government paper, besides a substantial brick house--qualifications which augured well for his sister's wedded happiness. The next step was to invite his own father, Kumodini Babu, to come from Benares and help him to clinch matters. The old man pleaded that he had done with the world and all its vanities; so Jadu Babu had to make a pilgrimage to the Holy City, where he induced Kumodini Babu to return home with him. Three days later the pair went to Calcutta with two friends, in order to make the suitor's acquaintance. They were welcomed by Amarendra Babu, who at once sent for his son. The boy came in with eyes fixed on the ground and shyly took a seat near Kumodini Babu. He underwent a severe scrutiny, and at last the old man broke silence by asking the lad his name. Being informed that it was Samarendra Nath, he inquired the names of his father and grandfather, which were promptly given. "Good boy," observed Kumodini Babu, "the times are so completely out of joint that youths are ashamed to, utter their father's name, let alone their grandfather's. Where are you studying?" "At the Metropolitan Institution," was the reply. "An excellent college," said Kumodini Babu; then after a whispered consultation with Jadu Babu, he said, "I am delighted with Samarendra's modesty and good manners, and have no objection whatever to giving my daughter to him in marriage--provided Prajapati (the Lord of All) causes no hitch". Samarendra thought that his ordeal was over, but he was mistaken. One of Kumodini Babu's friends, who happened to be a Calcutta B.A., would not lose the opportunity of airing his superior learning. "What are your English text-books?" he asked. "Blackie's Self-culture, Helps' Essays, Milton's Paradise Lost, and Tennyson's Enoch Arden," gabbled Samarendra in one breath. "Very good, now please fetch your Paradise Lost." The boy disappeared, returning shortly with a well-thumbed volume, which the B.A. opened and selected Satan's famous apostrophe to the Sun for explanation. Samarendra was speechless. After waiting for a minute, the B.A. asked what text-book he studied in physics and was told that it was Ganot's Natural Philosophy. He asked Samarendra to describe an electrophone, whereon the lad began to tremble violently. Kumodini Babu had pity on his confusion and told him to run away. Needless to say he was promptly obeyed. It has become a Calcutta custom for possible fathers-in-law to cross-examine suitors on their text-books; but few boys are able to satisfy the test, however brilliant their acquirements may be. Poor Samarendra was too overwhelmed with the strangeness of his position to do himself justice. When the elder folks were quite alone they plunged into business. Kumodini Babu sounded his host as to dena paona (settlements) on either side; but the latter courteously left them entirely to his discretion. It was settled that Basumati's pákká dekhá (betrothal) should be celebrated on 12th November at Kumodini Babu's, and that of Samarendra's at his father's, two days later. Basumati being an only daughter, Kumodini Babu determined to conduct her marriage on a magnificent scale. In anticipation of the betrothal feast, he brought three Brahman cooks from Calcutta to prepare curries, pillaos and sweetmeats under the supervision of the ladies of his household. At length the auspicious day came round. At 5 P.M. Amarendra Babu, with half a dozen friends, arrived at Kumodini Babu's house from Calcutta. They were received with great courtesy and conducted to seats, where a plentiful supply of tobacco and betel awaited them. At half-past seven, Jadu Babu presented the bride-elect to her future family. She looked charming in a Parsi shawl and Victoria jacket, decked out with glittering jewels, and sat down near Amarendra Babu, after saluting him respectfully. He took up some dhán, durba and chandan (paddy, bent grass and sandal-wood paste) and blessed her, presenting her at the same time with a gold chur (bracelet). After again saluting him, the timid girl was led back to the inner apartments. Then the guests were taken to a large hall where supper was ready for their delectation. Full justice was done to the repast; and after it was over, they washed their hands in the yard and smoked or chewed betel in perfect bliss until half-past ten. Then Amarendra Babu asked leave to return by the last train, declining hospitality for the night on the plea of previous engagements. While saying "good-bye" he called Jadu Babu aside and thrust Rs. 30 into his hands, to be distributed among the guru (spiritual guide), purohit (family priest), and servants. Two days afterwards, Kumodini Babu and his son went to Calcutta for the boy's betrothal. He blessed Samarendra, presenting him with a gold mohur (an obsolete coin worth sixteen rupees) besides Rs. 50 for the priest and servants of his household. A feast followed on the same scale as the previous one. Kumodini Babu's family priest decided that Ásár 28th would be a lucky day for the wedding, which was to be held at the bride's great-uncle's house in Calcutta. Early on the 26th, the Gaihálud (turmeric smearing) ceremony took place. Amarendra Babu rubbed his son's body with a mixture of turmeric and oil and despatched a supply to Kumodini Babu by his own barber, with injunctions to have it applied to his daughter's person before 9 A.M., because subsequent hours would be inauspicious. On the barber's arrival, the ladies of Kumodini Babu's household anointed Basumati with turmeric and oil and clad her in a gorgeous wrapper. Then they conducted her to another room where a jánti (instrument for cracking betel-nuts) was given her and certain nitkits (minor ceremonies) were performed. At 11 A.M. the presents given on the occasion of the turmeric-smearing (gaihálud) were brought by twenty servants who were regaled with a feast made ready in anticipation of their arrival. After partaking of it they were dismissed with a largesse of one rupee each. During the next two days presents continued to pour in from relatives of both families. At length the fateful 28th Ásár dawned, bringing a mighty commotion in the respective houses. Shouts and laughter echoed from every side. Amarendra Babu had resolved to marry his son in a style which, sooth to say, was far above his means, hoping to recoup himself from the large cash payment which he expected from Kumodini Babu. On his side the latter had consulted relatives as to the proper dowry. All agreed that Rs. 2,000 worth of ornaments; Rs. 1,001 in cash; Rs. 500 for Barabharan (gifts to a bridegroom); and Rs. 500 for Phúlsajya (lit. a bed of flowers) would be sufficient. Thus Kumodini Babu provided Rs. 4,001 and imagined that he was acting generously. At 7.30 P.M. the bridegroom's procession was formed. A Sub-Inspector of Police and three constables led the way, followed by a band of music. Next came a carriage and four conveying Samarendra, his younger brother, and the family priest. Carriages belonging to Amarendra Babu's friends, and some hired ones full of invited guests, brought up the rear. When a start was made, the little police force hustled vehicles out of the way and even stopped tram-cars when necessary; while the band tortured selections from Handel and Beethoven to the intense delight of passers-by, many of whom paused to criticise shortcomings in the procession among themselves. In about an hour it reached its destination, where Kumodini Babu's uncle received the guests. The family barber carried Samarendra in his arms to a chair which had been provided for him. There he sat with eyes fixed steadily on the ground, while his friends squatted round and cracked jokes at his expense. He smiled, but modestly implored them not to put him out of countenance. The Lagna (auspicious time) was determined to be 9.30; meanwhile the guests sat on carpets or chairs, beguiling the delay with hookahs. While mirth was at its height, strange things were happening in a private room adjoining. Soon after arriving, Amarendra Babu asked Kumodini Babu and Jadunath to display the presents destined for the young couple. They took him into a room where all were set forth to the best advantage. After examining them in silence awhile, Amarendra Babu kicked the nearest contemptuously aside, remarking that they were "mere rubbish". In point of fact he fully expected Kumodini Babu to give Rs. 4,000 in cash, Rs. 2,000 in respect of Barabharan and Phulsajya and Rs. 4,000 worth of jewellery--Rs. 10,000 in all. To judge by the ornaments shown him, the total dowry would be barely half as much and he could not help expressing disappointment. On asking Kumodini Babu what he intended paying down in cash, and learning that Rs. 1,001 was all he could afford, Amarendra Babu's indignation knew no bounds. He demanded Rs. 5,000, declaring that if it were not paid on the nail, he would take his son away! The wretched father implored twelve hours' delay, but was told in as many words that his promise could not be relied on. The deadlock soon got wind, and Amarendra Babu's action was severely commented on by the guests, but he remained obdurate. Kumodini Babu's uncle ran to a wealthy acquaintance for a loan of Rs. 4,000, but was told that so large a sum was not available at short notice. On his return, Amarendra Babu delivered his ultimatum--Rs. 4,000 cash to be paid forthwith; and finding that it was hopeless to expect so much, he hailed a cab, hurried Samarendra into it, and drove home in high dudgeon, followed by all his relatives and friends. This unexpected calamity brought mourning into a house of mirth; people spoke in whispers; and anguish left its mark on every face. Shám Babu was supervising the Hálûikars (confectioners) when the awful news reached his ears. For a few minutes he stood transfixed to the spot; but ere long a happy thought struck him. He clapped his hands in silent glee, and ran to an inner room, where Kumodini Babu lay groaning on the bare floor, guarded by his son who feared that he would do something rash. "Mahásay," he said soothingly. "Do not take on like this! God's ways are inscrutable; perchance He has broken the match off for your daughter's good." "Yes, God's will be done," replied Kumodini Babu in sepulchral tones. "We are but His instruments." Then after a pause he added, "What I dread most is loss of caste". "Who will dare to excommunicate you for such a trifle?" asked Shám Babu indignantly. "Alas, you know too well that my family's position in society is terribly compromised. A marriage postponed is a marriage lost!" groaned Kumodini Babu. "But why should it be postponed?" was Sham Babu's eager question. "I have a proposal to make, if you will only give it a moment's thought." Kumodini Babu looked up, and a ray of hope dried his tears; he waited anxiously for further particulars. "You know my son Susil, I suppose? He is just sixteen and has passed the Entrance Examination." "Yes, yes," answered Kumodini Babu. "He is a fine lad, obedient and well-mannered. But what has he got to do with our present fix?" "Will you give your daughter to him in marriage? I will not ask a single pice as dowry." Kumodini Babu sprang to his feet and embraced Shám Babu with fervour, saying, "You have saved my life. Personally, I should be delighted to have Susil as a son-in-law, but you must let me consult my son and wife." He ran to the inner apartments, and communicated Shám Babu's offer to his near relatives. This unexpected solution of the dilemma filled them with surprise; and a loud clamour of voices echoed through the house. Finally all, without exception, agreed that the match would be an excellent one. Kumodini Babu brought news of its acceptance to Shám Babu, and it spread among the wedding guests, who were loud in their praises of his true Hindu spirit. Shám Babu went into the courtyard where Susil sat talking with some other boys about the astounding piece of good fortune which awaited him. That he, the son of a humble clerk, should espouse the daughter of a Zemindar was more than his wildest dreams had anticipated. He joyfully accompanied Shám Babu to a room, where he was clad in silken attire, and thence to the hall, where he was solemnly inducted into the empty bridegroom's chair amid the acclamations of the assembled guests. As the Lagna (auspicious time) had not run out the actual marriage ceremony began forthwith. Basumati was given away by her father; while the ladies performed Satpák (lit. going round seven times--a ceremony without which a Hindu marriage is not binding) and other minor ceremonies with zest. After all had been well and duly gone through, the bride and bridegroom were conducted to an inner apartment. Susil underwent the customary "chaff" from the ladies, which he bore with great good humour and was at last left alone with his young companion for life; while some of the fair guests sang wedding songs to the intense delight of their friends. Nor were the men-folk idle. They sat down to a sumptuous feast prepared for the recreant bridegroom's family, nor did they separate till daybreak. At 3 P.M. on the morrow Shám Babu took Sasil and Basumati to his own home, where the Bau-Bhát ceremony was performed in grand style. It was attended by all their caste-fellows, who were loud in extolling his magnanimity. Shám Babu accepted their praises meekly, remarking that he had done nothing more than his duty, by neglecting which he would have rendered himself accountable to God. CHAPTER VI An Outrageous Swindle Amarendra Babu had expected Kumodini Babu to run after him, with entreaties to return and the promise of a note of hand for Rs. 4,000. Disappointment became downright wrath when he heard that his son's prospective bride had been forthwith married to another boy. After pondering awhile on this grievance, he sent an anonymous letter to Shám Babu's employers, to the effect that their clerk was robbing them right and left and running a business of his own with their money, under a fictitious name. They had implicit confidence in his honesty, and the only action they took was to hand the scrawl to him with a remark that they hoped he would discover and prosecute the writer. Meanwhile Amarendra Babu cast about him for a suitable match for his son. Hearing of a likely girl from the marriage-broker, he visited her parents, who accepted his overtures with alacrity. The young lady's father, Jogesh by name, was a commission agent, whose regular earnings did not exceed thirty rupees a month; but he lived in such style that his neighbours believed him to be comfortably off. Amarendra Babu, too, was deceived by appearances, while the girl, who was exhibited to him, seemed intelligent and pretty. On his side, Jogesh knew his visitor to be a house-owner of some means; and learning from him that his son was a second-year student, he gladly consented to the match. The pair next broached a delicate question, that of dowry. Amarendra Babu had learnt by bitter experience of the folly of pitching expectations too high. He told Jogesh that he should be quite satisfied with Rs. 4,001, viz., ornaments 2,000, barabharan and phulsajya Rs. 500 each, and cash Rs. 1,001. On Jogesh's expressing willingness to provide that amount, the purohit (family priest) was sent for who, after referring to a panjika (almanac), announced that Srában 20th would be an auspicious day for the marriage. They then separated with many protestations of mutual good-will. Meantime Jogesh made minute inquiries as to Amarendra Babu's position and the health of his son. Their result was satisfactory enough; not so the fiasco related in my last chapter, which reached him with amplification, and made him resolve that Amarendra Babu should not play such tricks on him. He ordered no ornaments for his daughter, because he had little cash or credit, but simply borrowed Rs. 300 to meet absolutely necessary expenses. On the afternoon of Srában 20th he called in half a dozen city roughs, armed them with thick sticks, and plied them with spirits, telling them on no account to appear in the public apartments of his house until they received a signal agreed on. At seven o'clock Amarendra Babu, with his son and an uncle named Rashbehari, arrived at Jogesh's house in a second-class cab. No procession attended them, partly because the last had cost so much money, partly owing to the fear that another hitch might cover them with ridicule. After exchanging hearty salutations with Jogesh, they asked him to exhibit the ornaments prepared for the bride-elect. He took them to a side room and left them there a while, presently introducing a well-dressed man as his family goldsmith. The latter unlocked a tin box which he was carrying and took out a number of glittering gold trinkets, one by one. After examining them carefully, Amarendra Babu asked him to weigh them, which he did, proving that their weight exceeded 120 bháris (forty-eight ounces), and their total value, at Rs. 20 per bhári, no less than Rs. 2,400. This was far more than he had bargained for, and Amarendra Babu was highly delighted; but his uncle insisted on sending for his own goldsmith to weigh the ornaments. Jogesh at once fell in with the suggestion, and this tradesman, on arrival, valued them at Rs. 2,700. Rashbehari Babu's scepticism vanished, and he assented to his nephew's whispered hint that they need not ask Jogesh to produce the barabharan. He, however, insisted on satisfying them as to its worth and placed in their hands a heavy gold watch by McCabe, with an albert chain, equally ponderous; and assured them that he had paid Rs. 800 for the two. Amarendra's joy was perhaps excessive, and when the lagna (auspicious time) came round, he permitted the marriage to be celebrated. Every ceremony went off without a hitch, and the evening closed in feasting and mirth. On the following afternoon Amarendra Babu took the bridegroom and bride with the box of ornaments to his own home, while Rashbehari Babu remained behind at Jogesh's to receive the cash. On mentioning this little formality he was assured that the sum of Rs. 1,001 had been duly counted out to his nephew; so he took his leave. When he reached home, he discovered the dirty trick that had been played by Jogesh. Amarendra stoutly denied having received any cash; and the tin box was proved to contain only fragments of brick neatly wrapped in paper, and covered with pink cotton wool. The pair of dupes hurried to Jogesh's house for an explanation. He sat in the parlour, in evident expectation of their arrival, and asked with an air of unconcern what was the matter. "You son of a pig!" roared Amarendra Babu, shaking his clenched fist close to Jogesh's nose. "Tell me where are the ornaments--where is the cash?" "Why, did you not take away a box full of trinkets? and you must admit that the Rs. 1,001 were handed you in a cotton bag," This impudence was too much. Both uncle and nephew fell upon Jogesh and belaboured him sorely with their shoes. He did not retaliate, but consoled himself with the thought that he had done his duty, to God and society, by marrying his daughter, whatever fate might await him. After vowing to bring a suit against the swindler, Amarendra Babu and his uncle left the premises and did what they would have done much earlier had they not been in such a desperate hurry to marry the lad. They made inquiries as to Jogesh's position and soon discovered that he was a man of straw, quite unworthy of powder and shot. They learned, too, that he had hired Rs. 3,000 worth of trinkets for one night from a goldsmith, who never let them out of his possession. From a wealthy neighbour he had borrowed a McCabe's watch and chain, also for one night only. His arrangements made with a gang of city roughs, in order to prevent the marriage being broken off, also came to light. Amarendra Babu saw that he had been dealing with a cunning and desperate man and prudently determined to give him a wide berth in future. But his daughter was in Amarendra Babu's clutches, and she was forced to expiate the sins of her father. The luckless girl was kept on very short commons and locked into a dark room when she was not engaged in rough household work. Contrary to custom, she was not sent to her father's house three days after the marriage; nor was the Bau-Bhát ceremony performed. But Jogesh was on the alert; he managed to communicate with her by bribing a maid-servant, and one morning Amarendra Babu's household discovered that the half-starved bird had flown. A year passed away without news of the truants; but, one evening, Amarendra Babu was sitting in his parlour, spelling out a spicy leader in the Indian Mirror, when, to his unqualified amazement, Jogesh stepped in and unbidden took a seat. Amarendra Babu's first impulse was to shout for help and eject the intruder with every species of ignominy, but second thoughts are proverbially peaceful. "This Jogesh," he reflected, "must be a very smart fellow, or he would never have taken us all in as he did. It is better to be on the side of the sacrificial knife than the goat that awaits its stroke. Why should I not hear what he has to say? He would not have come here without some excellent reason--perhaps he wants to pay up part of his debt to me, or maybe he has some scheme with money in it to unfold. He'll certainly try to overreach me again; but then once bitten twice shy. I'll be on my guard." Then with an attempt at irony he asked:-- "What brings you of all people to my house? Have you got another daughter to marry?" Had Amarendra Babu observed the gleam which shot from Jogesh's shifty eyes, he would have kicked him out at once, but he waited for a reply, which came in honeyed accents:-- "Now, Babuji, please don't rake up old stories; what is done cannot be undone. You, as a father, ought to excuse little subterfuges, contrived in order to get a daughter off one's hands. I was so anxious to ally myself with your distinguished family that I did sail rather near the wind. But I have come to offer you some amends by putting you on a really good thing." Amarendra Babu's cupidity was excited by these words. He asked with apparent indifference: "Well, let me hear more of your famous plans, and meantime I'll call for a hookah". Jogesh was overjoyed by the success of his manoeuvres. He answered, punctuating his sentences by inhaling fragrant Bhilsi, "You have heard of Campbell & Co., the big cooly recruiters of Azimganj? Well, they have an agency in Calcutta for supplying emigrants to Mauritius, Trinidad, and other outlandish places; and it is run by one Ganesh Sen who is a close friend of mine. He tells me that a number of sub-contracts will be given out to-morrow, and I have made up my mind to apply for one. Ganesh Babu is sure to come to terms with me; and I know a very smart sardár (ganger) who will supply me with any number of coolies I want. But I shall take care to keep a large margin between the rate per head, at which they will be delivered to Campbell & Co., and that which my sardár will receive. All this will be clear profit." "It seems a good speculation," said Amarendra Babu musingly, "but I should like to have further particulars. What do you expect to make per head delivered; and what capital will be required?" Jogesh pulled out a paper covered with calculations, and proved to his host's satisfaction that as much as Rs. 5 might be expected on each cooly. As for capital, a few hundreds would be needed in the first instance as an advance to the sardár, and other sums later, to provide outfits for the coolies according to law. Campbell & Co. settled the accounts of sub-contractors monthly, so that Amarendra would not have to wait long for his money. Jogesh concluded by urging his baibáhik (father of a son-in-law) to call with him on Messrs. Campbell & Co.'s Calcutta manager, who would corroborate his statements. Amarendra Babu thought that there would be no harm in going into matters further. He fixed 4 P.M. on the following day for a visit to 809 Strand, where Campbell & Co.'s branch offices were said to be located. On arriving there punctually, he was met by Jogesh, who took him through a courtyard where twenty or thirty coolies were squatting, shepherded by a stalwart Mohammadan, wearing a blue turban, who was introduced as Salim Sardár, his ganger. Pushing through the little crowd, they entered a well-furnished office, where several clerks sat writing busily. One of them looked up when Jogesh said: "Ganesh Babu, I have brought you my baibáhik, who is thinking of joining me in a sub-contract". The manager, for such he was, received Amarendra Babu politely and said that he would gladly come to terms with them. He then produced a written contract in duplicate on stamped paper, by which the partners agreed to furnish at least 1,000 coolies monthly, during the emigration season, at rates which left a net profit of Rs. 5 per head, to be shared equally between them. After reading both documents over twice, Amarendra Babu executed them, as did Jogesh; and the former took possession of his copy. On returning home with his new partner, he entered on a discussion as to ways and means. It was agreed that he should advance Rs. 5,000 for preliminaries, which he did a week later, raising the amount on a mortgage of his Calcutta house property. Everything went swimmingly at first; Jogesh calling daily to report progress; and a month later he burst into Amarendra Babu's parlour, with a cash-book and bundle of currency notes. The latter learnt to his intense delight that his share of the profits amounted to Rs. 1268 12.4. which was promptly paid him. Two or three days afterwards Jogesh again called to tell him that an opportunity of making Rs. 10,000 net had occurred owing to the pressing demand for cooly freight from a ship which was lying half-empty, and costing large sums for demurrage. Rs. 10,000 must be forthcoming at once for advances and perhaps special railway trucks, but Amarendra Babu might calculate on receiving 100 per cent. in three weeks at the latest. Such a chance of money-making was not to be lost. Amarendra Babu rushed off to his broker and sold nearly all his Government paper for Rs. 10,000 in cash, which he handed to Jogesh, against a formal acknowledgment. Seeing nothing of his partner for several days, Amarendra called to inquire how the new contract fared and was thunderstruck to find Jogesh's house locked up. Hastening to Campbell & Co.'s Strand offices, he saw a notice "to let" exhibited there. This spectacle confirmed his worst fears--he had been twice swindled outrageously. His only hope lay in the scoundrel's arrest; so he laid an information at the police station, and a clever detective was told off to investigate the charge. Strange was the story which came to light. No such firm as "Campbell & Co." existed; Ganesh Babu and Salim Sardár were both accomplices of Jogesh, who had rented an office on the Strand for one month at Rs. 300 which was never paid. He had also engaged twenty or thirty loafers at 4 annas (4d.) a head to personate coolies for a couple of hours. This part of the inquiry was satisfactory enough--for the police; not so the efforts they made to trace Jogesh and his accomplices. From that day to this nothing has been heard of them. Amarendra Babu never recovered from this crushing blow. The loss of nearly Rs. 14,000 is a very serious matter for any one of moderate means; to him it was doubly grievous, for he worshipped money and valued nothing but success. By constantly brooding on his misfortunes and folly he developed symptoms of madness and was at times so violent that his relatives were obliged to confine him in a dark room. One afternoon he eluded their vigilance and hurried to the office of "Campbell & Co." on the Strand. After gazing for several minutes at the empty building, he heaved a deep sigh, ran across the road, and sprang into the River Hughli. The undercurrent sucked his body in, and it was never recovered. Perhaps Mother Ganges was loath to keep a carcase so tainted in her bosom, and so whirled it southwards to the ocean. CHAPTER VII The Virtue of Economy. Shám Babu was a clerk of nearly thirty years' standing, and the approach of old age made him anxious to escape from the daily grind of business. He asked permission to resign, which was reluctantly granted; his employers signifying their appreciation of his faithful service by granting him a pension of Rs. 30 a month and offering to provide for any of his relatives who might be fit for clerical work. Shám Babu thanked them warmly and retired to his native village, with the intention of passing the evening of life in peace. He had always lived well within his means. People who were thrice as rich could not imagine how he contrived to bring up a family on the salary which he was known to enjoy. Some folks insinuated that he had made money by giving his son in marriage to Kumodini Babu's daughter, never remembering that a dowry is reserved for the bride's benefit, while the cash payment made to a father-in-law barely suffices to meet the expenses of elaborate nuptial ceremonies. Others hinted that he had waxed rich on illicit commissions--another charge which was quite without foundation. Shám Babu was strictly honest, and besides, the opportunities within the reach of clerks employed by a private firm are not worth mentioning. After settling down at Kadampur he cudgelled his brains for some means of increasing his slender resources. Friends advised him to try farming, or start a business in lending grain to cultivators. Neither trade was to his liking. Clerks are of little use outside their own sphere; and Shám Babu was too soft-hearted to succeed as a village Shylock. A matter of pressing importance was to establish his son Susil, who had passed the First Arts examination and was hanging about the Government offices at Ghoria, in the hope of securing a post. Shám Babu took advantage of his late employer's offer and sent the young man off to Calcutta armed with a sheaf of certificates. To his great delight, Susil was appointed clerk on Rs. 25--a magnificent start, which relieved his father's most pressing anxiety. Shám Babu had begun life with a small patrimony which was slowly increased by savings from his monthly pay. He was worth nearly Rs. 10,000, the whole of which was lent by him to a trader named Gopál Datta, certified by Shám Babu's brother-in-law Hari to be thoroughly trustworthy. This Gopál dealt in jute; and being a man of great daring, he speculated so successfully with Shám Babu's money that, within three or four years, he amassed a fortune of two lakhs (£13,333). He paid 12 per cent. interest on the loan regularly, which made a comfortable addition to Shám Babu's pension. It was the latter's habit to visit his Calcutta relatives at least once a month. So, one day in June, 18--, he went to Hari Babu's house with the intention of passing the night there. His brother-in-law was absent and not expected till the morrow; but Shám Babu was welcomed by the ladies of the family, who made all arrangements for his comfort. In the evening he sat in the Baitakhana (parlour) reading the Bhagavat Gita (a mystical poem). A carriage drove up to the door whence alighted Rámanáth Babu, who was Gopál's younger brother. After the usual compliments had been exchanged, Shám Babu asked what business his visitor was engaged in. "I have started as a broker in jute and oil-seeds," was the reply. "I hope you will do as well as Gopál," said Shám Babu, "but I suppose you have joined him?" "Certainly not," replied Rámanáth impulsively; then he checked himself, as though he had said too much. Shám Babu was astonished by the tone adopted by his visitor. He asked, "Why, what's the matter with Gopál, nothing wrong I hope and trust?" "No, not exactly; but I'm in a hurry to-day, you must excuse my taking leave." Shám Babu, however, would not be put off with vague insinuations. He said, "I must ask you, Rámanáth, to be more precise. You know your brother has borrowed Rs. 10,000 from me on a mere note of hand, and I am naturally very anxious to learn the truth." Rámanáth Babu paused for a few seconds before replying. "It is a fact that my brother's speculations have been unfortunate of late. He certainly made a good deal of money at one time, but sunk the bulk of it in bricks and mortar, which you know are not easily turned into liquid capital. You, as a large creditor, ought to be told how the land lies." "This is the first I have heard of Gopál's difficulties," groaned Shám Babu. "Yes, because no one troubled himself to tell you the truth; but I can assure you that Gopál's liabilities are something awful, and it is quite possible that he may have to take insolvency proceedings." "You don't say so! What shall I do? If Gopál becomes bankrupt, I shall be utterly ruined." "Well, I cannot advise you fully," replied Rámanáth Babu, "but forewarned is forearmed. If I were in your shoes I would certainly call in my loan." Thereon he took leave. Shám Babu passed a restless night, dreaming of the debtor's jail and a starving family. On Hari Babu's return, next morning, he related the purport of his conversation with Rámanáth. His host said: "You should not attach too much importance to such tittle-tattle. Rámanáth has had a quarrel with his brother about family matters, and he is not at all averse to doing him a bad turn." Shám Babu was not satisfied with this explanation. He answered:-- "I can hardly believe Rámanáth capable of telling deliberate lies, which must inevitably be detected." "Perhaps not. It is quite possible that Gopál may be in temporary straits. But can you point to a single merchant among your acquaintances whose career has been uniformly prosperous? There are ups and downs in commerce, which no one can avoid. Mark my words, Gopál will soon pull himself together again!" Shám Babu was by no means convinced by his brother-in-law's optimism. He remarked, "In any case I ought not to allow my loan to stand without some tangible security. Gopál has house property in Calcutta, I believe?" "To be sure he has. There is his new house at Entally, which must have cost Rs. 20,000; and another in Barabazar, letting at Rs. 3,000. Just calculate what this property must be worth. If I doubted Gopál's solvency, do you suppose I would have lent him Rs. 20,000 on his note of hand?" Shám Babu was quite reassured. He came to the conclusion that Rámanáth had attempted to injure his own brother, and returned home with a firm resolve to disregard such scandalous talk in future. About three months afterwards he met Rámanáth Babu quite casually in Harrison Road and, in the course of conversation, the latter asked whether he had called in his loan to Gopál. "I have done nothing of the kind," was the curt reply. "My brother-in-law tells me that he is quite solvent." "It was just like him to say so--the selfish fellow! I am sorry to say that my brother has lost heavily by speculating in jute and is, in fact, a ruined man. If you don't believe me, ask Hari Babu again and you will see what tune he sings. Perhaps you don't know that he has called in his loan of Rs. 20,000?" "That is certainly strange," replied Shám Babu with tears in his voice. "He never breathed a word of any such intention to me." "Hari Babu is your brother-in-law," continued Rámanáth, "but Gopál is my own brother. Is it likely that I would injure his reputation gratuitously? No; you are an old friend whom I cannot allow to be ruined without a word of warning. If you do not choose to act upon it, so much the worse for you." Shám Babu was now convinced that no time was to be lost in demanding proper security for the loan. He went straight to his brother-in-law, to whom he repeated the information which he had received. Hari Babu shook his head sadly. "Yes," he said, "I am afraid there is some truth in it. Gopál is in temporary difficulties; but you need not be anxious. I will get him to give you a mortgage on landed property worth much more than his debt to you." Shám Babu felt somewhat reassured, but there was a point to be cleared up. "One word more," he said, "have you called in your loan of Rs. 20,000?" Hari Babu looked at him suspiciously. "Who told you so?" "I heard it from a reliable source." "It must have been Rámanáth, who is always seeking to make mischief. Well, yes, I did ask Gopál to repay me, not that I distrusted him but because I wanted to invest the money in land." Shám Babu felt indignant at the man's gross selfishness, but he concealed his feelings and merely remarked that he would not leave Calcutta till the mortgage was settled. Next morning he insisted on Hari Babu accompanying him to Gopál's house at Entally. They found the debtor apparently in high spirits, although he admitted that certain speculations had turned out badly. When pressed by Shám Babu to repay the loan, he asked for time, pleading that his whole capital was locked up. Shám Babu, however, was obdurate, and with his brother-in-law's help he brought such pressure to bear on Gopál that the latter sulkily agreed to give him a mortgage on an ancestral estate in the Mufassil (interior of Bengal). Shám Babu stuck closely to him until the bargain had been fulfilled, and managed matters so expeditiously that the mortgage deed was drawn up, executed, and registered in a week. Though he had now something tangible to rely on in case of accidents still he was not happy, for Gopál discontinued paying interest on the loan and he did not dare to press him, lest he should precipitate a crash. Misfortunes never come singly. Soon after settling this unpleasant affair, Shám Babu was laid low by fever; and doctor's bills trenched sadly on his slender resources. Susil, too, the hope of the family, caught a mysterious disease and was absent from office so long that his employers were obliged to replace him. For the first time in his life, the poor old father felt the pinch of want, but he bore up bravely hoping for better times. When he was able to crawl about again, he applied to his old employers for work of any kind, but learnt to his sorrow that they intended winding up the business and were not able to increase their establishment. Shám Babu scanned the advertisement columns of the daily paper and answered many offers of employment, learning, on each occasion, that he was far too old to fill the coveted post. One evening he sat in his parlour brooding over the many misfortunes which encompassed him. A distant connection named Srish Babu came in and, hearing that his host sorely needed work, said:-- "I am going to start a business in country produce and shall want several experienced clerks. I must provide for relatives first and strangers afterwards. Now, would you be inclined to come to me as manager, on Rs. 75 a month to begin with?" Shám Babu jumped at the offer, which would restore him to comparative affluence, and it was agreed that he should enter on his new duties in three weeks. A month passed by without news from his relative, and meantime Shám Babu received a tempting offer of employment. Before deciding what to do he wrote to Srish Babu, informing him of the fact and asking whether he could rely on him. A reply came to the effect that he might do as he pleased, but that the business in country produce, which he was to manage, would positively be started in a fortnight. After another month of suspense, Shám Babu learnt that Srish's bubble had been pricked, and that he had levanted, no one knew whither, to escape a swarm of creditors. The poor old man was now on his beam-ends. The only course open to him was to sue Gopál for arrears of interest and foreclose his mortgage. After a year and a half's attendance in divers civil courts and spending his last rupee on lawyers' fees, he obtained a decree. When, however, he tried to execute it, it turned out that the estate on which he had a lien was a joint family possession, with the shares so inextricably mixed up that he could neither trace the property mortgaged to him nor discover who was liable for the proportion of profit derived from it. As well poke one's fingers into a hornet's nest as into a joint family estate! Shám Babu was glad to accept an offer of Rs. 5,000 from Gopál's co-sharers, in return for a surrender of his claims. Despite his heavy loss, enough remained to preserve him from penury; and he was even able to start Susil in a small way of business. Great is the virtue of economy! CHAPTER VIII A Peacemaker. Young Samarendra Dass of Calcutta hoped to enter Government service as a Sub-Deputy Magistrate; but this ambition was thwarted by the sudden decease of his father, who left a widow and two sons entirely unprovided for. After dutifully performing the srádh (funeral rites), he waited on the dead man's uncle, Rashbehári Babu by name, with a request that he would support the little family until the sons were in a position to do so. No good Hindu in comfortable circumstances ever turns a deaf ear to such appeals. Rashbehári Babu at once invited the trio to take up their abode with him. Having no nearer relatives, he had resolved to leave his whole fortune to Samarendra and his brother Nagendra; and long before his nephew's death he had executed a will to that effect, which for obvious reasons was kept a profound secret. The young men were, therefore, ignorant of the brilliant prospects in store for them, and worked hard to prepare themselves for earning a livelihood. Samarendra was soon provided with a post as clerk, which yielded enough to provide the cost of his father's funeral ceremony and also enabled him to pay Nagendra's school fees. One evening Rashbehári Babu went to bed supperless, complaining of indisposition. At midnight, Samarendra was awakened by his groans and found him writhing in agony on the floor. A doctor was summoned in hot haste; but ere his arrival the poor old man had expired in Samarendra's arms. His case was diagnosed as one of failure of the heart's action. Samarendra and his mother were prostrated by this sudden calamity; but there is no time to be lost in hot weather. Calling in three or four neighbours, they had the body carried to Nimtala Ghat for cremation. Sufficient money was given to the Muchis (low-caste men who serve as undertakers) for purchasing an abundant supply of fuel and ghi (clarified butter) with which a chilla (pyre) was constructed. After the corpse had been laid reverently thereon, Samarendra performed Mukhagni ("putting fire in its mouth," the duty of the eldest son or nearest relative). Fire was then applied on four sides, and when the body had been reduced to ashes, Samarendra bathed in the Ganges with his companions, and returned home with wet clothes, shouting "Haribol!" (a cry used at funerals). Next day Samarendra discovered the dead man's keys, one of which opened a drawer where Rashbehári Babu kept his private papers. Among them was a will, which made himself and his brother sole heirs to the deceased's estate. He ran with the glad news to his mother, who, in the exuberance of her joy, vowed to offer a sumptuous pujá at Kali Ghát temple after the srádh had been duly performed. Rashbehári Babu left landed property yielding an annual income of Rs. 1,200, besides Rs. 10,000 deposited in a Calcutta bank, and a substantial house. His estate was worth not less than Rs. 40,000--a lucky windfall for the penniless brothers. It is needless to add that the testator's srádh was celebrated with great pomp, which over, Samarendra applied for and obtained probate of the will. A sudden change from dependence to comparative wealth is trying to the best-balanced character. Samarendra's head was turned by the accession of fortune; he began to give himself airs in dealing with acquaintances, and was not over-kind to his mother, who bore her sufferings patiently. A landed proprietor holds service in contempt. Samarendra at once resigned his post and settled down at Ratnapur, where Rashbehári Babu had owned a house and the bulk of his estate was situated. Soon afterwards he yielded to the repeated advice of his mother by marrying the daughter of a caste-fellow, endowed with goods on a par with her husband's new position. His brother Nagendra passed the Entrance Examination, but failed to secure a First Arts certificate. This rebuff so disheartened him that he gave up all idea of continuing the University course and returned to Ratnapur with the intention of living in idleness on his property. In vain did Samarendra point out the advantages of a degree. Nagendra declared that such distinctions were beyond his reach. Sudden wealth, in fact, was injurious to both of them. Two uneventful years passed away. Samarendra's wife was the mother of an idolised boy and was herself adored by her mother-in-law, who never allowed her to do any manner of household work. The result was that her temper changed for the worse. When the old lady fell ill, the young one made horrible messes of her curry and rice. If her husband ventured to remonstrate, she silenced him with abuse, and even emphasised her remarks with a broomstick. Samarendra, in fact, was completely under his wife's thumb. Her word was law in the household; her mother-in-law a mere cypher, who found both husband and wife perpetually leagued against her. Shortly after his arrival at Ratnapur, Nagendra espoused the daughter of Kanto Babu, a Zemindar residing in the neighbourhood. At first Samarendra's wife received the new-comer graciously enough; but finding that she was of a submissive disposition, she soon began to lord it over her sister-in-law. Nagendra sympathised heartily with his young wife, but had such a horror of family quarrels that he was very loath to intervene on her behalf. One evening, however, he ventured on a word of reproof, which was received with angry words and threats of his eldest brother's vengeance. Next day Samarendra called him into the parlour, and, after they were seated, said: "I hear you have been rude to Barabau (the elder wife). Is that so?" Nagendra raised his hands in wonder. "No, brother, it was she who showed disrespect to me, simply because I objected to her bullying my wife." "Do you mean to say that Barabau has lied?" thundered Samarendra. His brother was nettled by the tone adopted. He replied hotly, "Yes, she has lied!" "What!" asked Samarendra beside himself with indignation. "Is my wife a liar and are you a Judisthir?" (the elder of the five Pandav brothers, heroes of the Mahabharata). "You are a creature without shame!" So saying, he shook his fist at Nagendra who started from his seat as if to attack him. Luckily a respectable neighbour came in at the very nick of time and separated the would-be combatants. On the morrow, Nagendra told his brother curtly that these perpetual bickerings must be avoided at all cost, and that the only course open to them was to separate. Samarendra raised not the slightest objection, and from that day forward two distinct establishments were set up in the same house. It only remained to divide the estates equally, and as a preliminary step Nagendra asked for accounts during the last three years. They were furnished in a few weeks, and he spent several nights in examining them carefully, taking lists of defaulters in order to verify them by independent inquiry. While returning home, one evening, from supper at a friend's house, he met a Mohammadan ryot who, according to the accounts, was heavily in arrears of rent. He paused and, after acknowledging the man's salám, remarked that he ought to make an effort to pay a part at least of what was due. The ryot stood aghast with surprise, but invoked Allah to witness that he had paid up every pice, adding that he held Dákhilas (rent receipts) from Bara Babu (the elder brother) which would prove his assertion. Nagendra asked him to call next day with the receipts in question. When the man presented himself, Nagendra, in his brother's presence, asked for the arrears of rent shown in the jamá wásil báqi (accounts). Again the ryot affirmed that he owned nothing and appealed to the Bara Babu for corroboration. Samarendra was taken aback. "Yes," he stammered, "you did pay me something about a month ago." "Why do you say 'something,' Babu? You know quite well that I discharged my rent in full; and what is more I have receipts." So saying he untied a knot in his gamcha (wrapper) and extracted some greasy papers, which he flourished in Samarendra's face, shouting, "Will you swear by your gods that these are not in your writing?" Nagendra took the receipts, which bore his brother's signature. The latter looked somewhat sheepish as he answered: "My memory failed me; I now recollect receiving our rent from you." Nagendra turned sharply on his brother with the question: "Then why did you not enter these receipts in your karcha (cash-book)?" "I'm sure I don't know," was the reply; "probably I forgot to do so." Though Nagendra said nothing at the time, his doubts of Samarendra's probity became certainties. From that day onward he was indefatigable in studying the copy of the siah (rent-roll) furnished him, the cash-book, and statement of arrears. Figures set down in these accounts were checked by private inquiries among the ryots themselves. Then the truth dawned on Nagendra, that his brother had misappropriated large sums, which should have been paid to him, and concealed his fraud by falsifying the Zemindari papers. After preparing a list of defalcations, he showed it to his brother and asked for an explanation. None was forthcoming; nay, Samarendra made his case worse by flying into a passion and ordering him out of the room. He went straight to Kanto Babu for advice, and was told that the only course open to him was to sue his brother for recovery of the amount wrongfully appropriated. He resolved to do so forthwith. On the self-same night his wife, after discussing household affairs with him as usual, asked casually why he had paid her father a visit. He told her everything that occurred without reserve. The young lady listened with breathless attention, but heaved a deep sigh on learning that he intended suing his elder brother. Nagendra paused and asked what was on her mind. "My lord," was her reply, "I am only a woman, knowing nothing of the world except things within my sphere. Any attempt on my part to meddle in business matters may seem extremely presumptuous. But this is such a grave and risky matter that I cannot help speaking out. If you file a suit against your brother, he will of course defend himself; for to lose it would ruin him in purse and honour. It will drag on for months. If you get a decree, the defendant will appeal to the Sub-Judge, and eventually to the High Court. To fight your way step by step will cost a fortune; and even should you win all along the line, the lawyers will not leave you enough to keep body and soul together. How can a small estate like yours bear the costs of both sides? So in my humble opinion it would be much better to allow your brother to enjoy his ill-gotten gains. Make up your mind, from this day forward, to look carefully after your interests, and you may rest assured that your brother will never try any such tricks again." Nagendra listened with open mouth to this discourse, and when his wife had done speaking, he embraced her fondly again and again, murmuring:-- "My dearest love, I never knew your real worth till now. The Goddess of Wisdom has chosen you as her messenger and has convinced me that lawsuits are luxuries which only the rich folk can enjoy--not people in my position. I will certainly see your father to-morrow and tell him my resolve to take no steps whatever against Samarendra." A Hindu wife is her husband's truest friend; ever eager to share his sorrows and to proffer sound advice in times of difficulty. Yet these sweet, unselfish creatures are systematically libelled by men who owe everything to them. It was soon noised abroad that Nagendra's wife had saved him from inevitable ruin. Everyone praised her common-sense--not excepting Samarendra and his wife, who thenceforward treated her with more consideration. Nagendra, therefore, began to hope that peace and unity would again rule the family. CHAPTER IX A Brahman's Curse. Despite his lack of training Samarendra Babu had great capacities for business, and seldom lost a chance of profit-making. He saw that people around him stood in constant need of funds to defray the cost of religious and family rites, and were ready to pay 60 per cent for loans--at least they undertook to do so. It occurred to him that if he lent money on unimpeachable security at something under the market rates, he could not fail to make a large fortune. Soon after he had set up as a banker, the neighbours flocked to him for advances, which he granted only to such as could offer substantial security; his charges by way of interest being 30 to 40 per cent. He also started a business in lending ryots rice for their seed-grain and support till the harvest should be reaped. It is needless to add that his clients paid heavily for this accommodation. So rapidly did his dealings increase that he sought an agent to represent him at the district headquarters; and particularly to buy up defaulters' estates at the auctions which are held periodically under Government auspices. His choice fell upon one Bipinbehári Bhur, who had a widespread reputation for acuteness. It was not belied. In less than a year Bipin had secured for his master estates yielding a net income of nearly Rs. 1,200, which had cost a mere song at auction. Samarendra Babu never failed to reward him for such bargains. On one occasion he had such a slice of luck that it is worth while to narrate it in some detail. He had just retired to rest for the night, when a servant knocked at the door to say that Bipin had come on very urgent business. Samarendra Babu went downstairs to his parlour, clad in a wrapper, to find his agent pacing up and down in evident agitation. After the usual compliments had been exchanged, he asked why Bipin had called so late. "I have bad news for you, Mahásay," was the reply. "You remember buying the Shibprakásh estate at last auction? Well, that property may slip through your fingers." He paused to watch the effect of the announcement on his master, and then went on: "The late proprietor has lodged an objection to its sale, on the ground that no arrears were due, producing a receipt to substantiate his contention. The Collector has just called on us to show cause against the cancellation of the sale and will take the case up the day after to-morrow." Samarendra was thunderstruck by this information, the Shibprakásh estate being one of the best bargains he had ever got. After pondering a while, he asked, "What would you advise me to do? I am afraid it is hopeless to contend against a receipt in full!" Bipin was not so easily disheartened. He replied, "Let us consult our pleader, Asu Babu, who is sure to have some plan for upholding the sale. He won't ask more than Rs. 100, which is not a tenth of the annual profits for Shibprakásh." This course commended itself to Samarendra, who sent his headman back to Ghoria, promising to follow next day, with the necessary sinews of war. He arrived betimes at Bipin's house there, and took him to the Bar Library, where Asu Babu was sure to be found when not engaged in Court. A few minutes later the limb of the law came in, and asked what business brought Samarendra to Ghoria. After hearing the story of Shibprakásh and its vicissitudes of ownership, he asked:-- "How much will you pay me if I win your case?" Glancing at Bipin, Samarendra answered hesitatingly, "Well, I might go as far as fifty rupees". "Nonsense," was the rejoinder. "I won't take a pice less than Rs. 100." After several minutes wasted on haggling, it was agreed that Asu Babu should be paid Rs. 40 on the nail and Rs. 35 more if he won the suit. The pleader pocketed this first instalment, and assured Samarendra that he would prove the sale to have been perfectly valid. Then the trio separated, Samarendra returning to Bipin's house where they passed the day in forming plans for further purchases. At 10.30 on the morrow, both attended at the Collectorate and found that the Shibprakásh objection stood first for hearing. It was opened by the appellant's pleader, who rose armed with a huge account book and bundle of receipts, in order to prove that his client owed nothing to Government, and that the sale proceedings were a blunder from beginning to end. Asu Babu waited till his turn came, and then informed the Collector that he would find, on examining his books, that the appellant was Rs. 1 11. 0. in arrears at the date of the sale. The Collector ordered his head clerk to produce the ledger account of payments on account of the Shibprakásh estates, and, sure enough, they showed a short payment of the amount stated. This was a thunderbolt for the appellant, whose pleader vainly tried to pick holes in the accounts, but was at last obliged to confess that a mistake had been made. The only course open to him was to sue for mercy. The Collector, however, was inexorable, and indeed he had no power to mitigate the Draconian law of sale. That of Shibprakásh was duly confirmed, and its new owner adjourned to the bar library to settle matters with his pleader. The meeting was joyful indeed. After congratulating Asu Babu on his unexpected success, Samarendra asked how he had managed it. The pleader at first refused to gratify his curiosity, but yielded to entreaty. "The tiger has a jackal," he said, "and I, who cannot stoop to dirty tricks myself, have a certain mukhtiár (the lowest grade of advocates) who is hand-in-glove with all the amlas (clerks) and can twist them round his finger--for a consideration. I gave him Rs. 10 out of the advance money and promised as much more if he could persuade the Collectorate clerks to cook the appellant's accounts, so as to show a short payment. You see how well he has succeeded, and now I think the least you can do is to refund the douceur to me." Samarendra agreed and handed Asu Babu Rs. 55, prophesying that he would have a brilliant career at the bar. He had to stop for a fortnight or so at Ghoria, in order to get possession of his purchase from the Collectorate názir (bailiff) who, according to custom, planted a bamboo thereon, as a symbol of its transfer. While waiting for this formality he attended another sale for arrears of revenue, in the hope of picking up some profitable bargains. He was not disappointed. The last lot was the whole of Jayrámpur, a small village quite close to his house, inhabited by hardworking and submissive ryots, who paid their rent punctually. Samarendra was all agog when the názir read out the names of its proprietors, the amount of arrears, and the boundaries, calling on the crowd to bid. A dead silence followed, which was at last broken by a timid offer of Rs. 1,000. Samarendra promptly bid Rs. 6,000; which he knew was hardly three years' purchase of the net rental, and the rise was so tremendous that it choked off all competition. Jayrámpur was knocked down to him; but his exultation was tempered by the discovery that he had not nearly enough to meet the amount of earnest money which had to be paid down at once. A mukhtiár came to his aid by whispering offers of a loan, and the requisite amount was forthcoming in five minutes, on Samarendra's giving his note of hand with a bonus of 10 per cent. payable next day. His star continued to be in the eleventh heaven; for this was one of a series of profitable purchases. In seven or eight years he owned estates yielding an income of Rs. 8,000, while his dealings in grain produced half as much again. Samarendra's ambition rose with growing prosperity. Visions of a title hovered in his brain, and being a man of resource, he hit upon an ingenious method of converting them into realities. Close to his house there was an extensive bil (marsh) peopled in season by swarms of wild-duck, teal and snipe. It was visited occasionally by Europeans from Calcutta, who are always on the alert for a day's sport, but they were inconvenienced by the total lack of accommodation. So Samarendra built a neat bungalow, equipped it with European furniture, and placed an old Khánsámá (Mohammadan butler) in charge, who was versed in all the customs of Sáheb-log (Englishmen). This menial had orders to report the arrival of white visitors and offer them hospitality. His courtesy was highly appreciated, and there was scarcely a Sunday during the cold weather which did not bring a couple of sportsmen to the bungalow. Samarendra attended personally to their comforts, thus making many friends. Through their influence he secured carte blanche in the matter of guns and ammunition--a boon which seldom falls to the lot of middle-class Indians. At their request he subscribed to various European clubs, winning the reputation of being "not half a bad sort of fellow". All this hospitality, however, was terribly expensive, and it soon exceeded Samarendra's income. But he went on spending money like water, in the assurance that one day it would yield a golden return. On a bright morning, in January, 18--, he was sitting in his bungalow, in the hope of welcoming guests, when a European entered it, attended by two orderlies; and seeing a well-dressed Indian, was about to retire. Samarendra introduced himself as the local Zemindar and offered to send a shikári (game-keeper) with the visitor in order to show him some sport. His overtures were gratefully received, and the European, on returning at noon with a heavy bag, was delighted to find an appetising tiffin ready for his acceptance. Samarendra kept out of the way until it was finished, and then asked whether his guest had enjoyed himself. The latter was profuse in thanks and, ere leaving for the neighbouring railway station, asked whether he could be of any service, tendering a card inscribed, "Mr. Charles Bernardson, Indian Civil Service". He was none other than the Chief Secretary to Government. Such an acquaintance was not to be lost sight of. A week later Samarendra went to Calcutta and called on Mr. Bernardson at his chambers in the United Service Club. He was received, so to speak, with open arms, questioned about crops, crime, sport, and other commonplace topics, and again assured that Mr. Bernardson would serve him in any way within his power. The latter hint was promptly taken. On receiving permission to quit the great man's presence he timidly suggested that he would like to be an Honorary Magistrate. Mr. Bernardson took note of the wish, and a few weeks later the Gazette announced Samarendra's nomination to the Ghoria Independent Bench, with power to try cases singly. The next point was to attract the attention of the district authorities. Samarendra pored over the Penal and Procedure Codes, took lessons in law from Asu Babu, and soon mastered the routine of a petty Court of Justice. He never missed any sitting of the Bench and signalised himself by a rigorous interpretation of the law. Offenders had short shrift from him; and the police moved heaven and earth to get their cases disposed of in his Court. His percentage of convictions was larger than that of any honorary magistrate. Such zeal deserved a suitable reward, and it soon attracted the attention of the authorities. On New Year's Day, 189-, the Calcutta Gazette came out with its usual list of honours, amongst which was seen a Rái Bahádurship for Samarendra. This dignity answers to the English knighthood, and it is usually made an excuse for rejoicings shared by all classes. Samarendra, however, thought it unnecessary to waste money on junketings. He preferred subscribing to movements favoured by the "little tin gods" of Darjiling. Towards the end of the same year, he was accosted, while leaving Court one afternoon, by a chuprássi (orderly) attached to the magistrate-collector's person, who salámed obsequiously and said that the Bara Saheb wished to see him at once. Hastening to the district chief's bungalow he was graciously received, and in the course of conversation a remark fell from the great man's lips, which made the blood course wildly through his veins. It seemed that a fund had been started in Calcutta for the purpose of erecting some permanent memorial to the late Viceroy, and a hint was thrown out that if Samarendra subscribed liberally, he might possibly find himself gazetted a "Rájá Bahádur". He assured the magistrate that the Memorial Fund would receive a handsome donation from him and asked for a few days in order to decide the amount. On returning home, he made a rough calculation of his assets and liabilities. The latter amounted to nearly a lakh of rupees (£6,666), or about five times his net annual income. Common prudence suggested that he ought not to increase the burden; but ambition prevailed, and the only question which Samarendra set himself was, "What is the least amount I can decently give?" After thinking over pros and cons for a whole night, he decided that Rs. 10,000 would be enough; raised that sum at 12 per cent, by mortgaging some landed property, and sent it with a flowery letter to the District Magistrate, as a humble donation to the Viceroy's Memorial Eund. A few days later Samarendra was preparing for a visit to his favourite rest-house, in the vague hope that Mr. Bernardson might turn up again, when a strange Brahman entered the courtyard and thus addressed him:-- "Sir, you are an Amir, and I am a beggar. I have a request to make." "Cut it short," replied Samarendra testily. "Come to the point--what do you want?" "Sir, I have a grown-up daughter who positively must be married; but I cannot raise a sufficient dowry. Will your honour give me a trifle towards making one up?" "No, I won't; if you belonged to this village you would know that I cannot afford to fling money about. My expenses are enormous!" "Now, please, don't refuse me, Rái Bahádur; surely you can spare a couple of rupees to a poor Brahman!" Samarendra was exasperated by the man's importunity. He replied sharply, "You and your kind seem to think that I am Kuver (the God of Wealth) incarnate, who is able to satisfy every human need! I won't give you anything!" "Only one rupee, Rái Bahádur," pleaded the Brahman with folded hands. "No! no! Get out of my house at once!" bellowed Samarendra; then turning to his doorkeeper, he ordered him to "run the fellow out of the yard by the neck". The Brahman was deeply incensed. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looked scornfully at Samarendra, and said:-- "Babu, you dare to order me, a Brahman, to be ejected with violence from your house. Is there no religion left in this world? Mark my words, a day is coming when you will be poorer even than myself. I have spoken." Then he strode out of the courtyard in high dudgeon. Samarendra merely laughed aloud and hurled mocking epithets after his retreating figure, to which no reply was vouchsafed. Next morning he received a letter from the District Magistrate which filled him with mingled joy and terror. It contained a curt request to call at once on a matter of great importance. He drove to the great man's bungalow arrayed in his best, but was kept waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour in the porch. When he was ushered into the magistrate's study he saw intuitively that something was wrong. His salám was returned by a mere inclination of the head and a request to be seated. Then the Magistrate spoke in tones of chilling politeness:-- "Rái Bahádur, I've sent for you to say that a subscription of Rs. 10,000 is wholly unworthy of your position. If you wish, I will send it to the Secretary of the Memorial Fund; but I warn you plainly that the most you can expect in return is an expression of the Lieutenant-Governor's thanks in the Gazette. I could not possibly recommend you for a title for such a paltry sum." Poor Samarendra's heart beat more loudly than the clock on the magistrate's mantelpiece. He stammered out: "I need only assure your honour that I have given as much as I could afford; but if your honour thinks the amount insufficient--er--er--er--I am quite willing to give--twice as much". So saying he awaited a reply in trembling apprehension. It was satisfactory. "Now, Rái Bahádur, you are talking sense. Send me Rs. 10,000 more for the fund and I'll undertake to submit your name to Government for a Rájáship. It will be just in time for the New Year's Gazette. Now you may take leave." Samarendra bowed himself out with precipitation and, on returning home, sent for his factotum, Bipin, to whom he related this momentous interview, with an injunction to raise Rs. 10,000 more by hook or by crook. Bipin shook his head ominously and feared that no moneylender would advance any considerable sum on estates already over-burdened. However, he promised to do his best and negotiated so successfully that Rs. 10,000 were procured at 24 per cent. in less than a week. This additional subscription was gracefully acknowledged by the District Magistrate, and a fortnight later Samarendra's drooping spirits were revived by the appearance of a notification in the Gazette thanking him warmly for his "munificence and public spirit". There was nothing for it but to count the days of the expiring year. On 31st December, 189-, his impatience could brook no further delay. Hurrying to Calcutta by train, he sent a trusty servant to the Government printing office with orders to obtain the earliest copy of the Gazette at any price. He slept not a wink on that fateful night and rose betimes to intercept the messenger. At last the bulky document was thrust into his hands. He unfolded it with trembling fingers and glanced downwards through an interminable list of newly-made Máhárájas, Nawáb Bahádurs, Rájá Bahádurs, and Rájás--in the hope of finding his own name. Alas, it was conspicuous by its absence. Oh, the pangs of hope deferred and wounded pride! Death seemed to Samarendra preferable to a life of poverty and despair. He returned home crestfallen and nursed his disappointment until it landed him in a severe attack of brain fever. As soon as he felt strong enough to leave the house, he drove to the magistrate's house for explanation and comfort. He was courteously received, but the Chief hinted that there might be a hitch about the title, as he himself had enemies in the Secretariat, who would be glad of an opportunity of placing him in a false position. He counselled patience and expressed a conviction that the birthday Gazette would contain the notification so ardently desired. This was comforting, but Samarendra resolved to push his own interests. He remembered the promises made by Mr. Bernardson and took the next train to Calcutta in order to secure his influence. On reaching the Secretariat he learnt, with deep annoyance, that Mr. Bernardson had taken sick leave to England and was not likely to return. So the only course open was to wait for 24th May. Again he was disappointed, the list of birthday honours ignoring him completely. Samarendra had not even the resource of consulting the official who had lured him into extravagant expenditure. The District Magistrate was transferred to a distant and unhealthy part of the province, and his successor disclaimed all knowledge of the bargain. Samarendra's long suspense and repeated disappointments told severely on his health. He neglected business, leaving everything in the hands of Bipin, who was more anxious to feather his own nest than extricate his master from difficulties; so the interest in mortgages fell into arrears. One creditor bolder than the rest sued him and foreclosed; then others were encouraged to attack the ruined man. In less than a year, Samarendra was stripped of every bigha (one-third of an acre) of land he once possessed, and attachments galore were issued against his moveable property. Too late did he see the depths of folly into which he had fallen. Grief and despair brought on a second attack of brain fever, which exhausted his failing strength. After tossing for several weeks in delirium he regained sense only to feel assured that the end of all worldly ambition was fast approaching. Then he remembered the Brahman's curse, and knowing that it was the cause of all his misfortunes he endeavoured to make some reparation; but the holy man was not to be found. One evening he fell into a deep slumber from which he never awoke, leaving a wife and several helpless children in comparative penury. Then a hush fell on the land, and people whispered that Brahmateja (the power of Brahmans) was by no means extinct. CHAPTER X A Roland for His Oliver. Nagendra's soul was not haunted by any such ambitions. He was content with the surplus profits from his landed estates, which he did not invest in trade or even Government paper, but hoarded in a safe. By slow degrees he amassed a small fortune, and when Samarendra's growing impecuniosity forced him to ask his brother for a loan of Rs. 2,000, it was readily granted on a mere note of hand. In less than six months the borrower died and, after waiting as long, Nagendra pressed his sister-in-law for payment of the debt. She referred him to her brother, Priyanath Guha, who, she said, was manager of what property she had left. This man was a scoundrel of the deepest dye, and Samarendra, who was fully aware of the fact, never allowed him inside the house. After his death Priya made himself so useful to the widow that she invited him to live in her house and trusted him implicitly. When the neighbours learnt this arrangement they whispered that the poor woman would inevitably be reduced to beggary. Nagendra reluctantly applied to Priya for a refund of the loan, producing Samarendra's note of hand, which was about a year overdue. After examining it, Priya said:-- "The matter is simple enough. My sister must repay you; but you know the muddle in which her husband's affairs were left, and I'm sure you won't refuse to renew the bond." Nagendra replied that he would gladly give his sister any reasonable time to discharge her debt. "Very well," rejoined Priya. "What do you say to my renewing this note of hand for six months, with 12 per cent. interest?" "I have no objection," said Nagendra, "but you must satisfy me first that you hold a general power of attorney to act for her." "Oh, you doubt my word," sneered Priya, "but I don't blame you; such is the way of the world." So saying he took a registered power of attorney out of his sister's strong box, which Nagendra saw entitled him to transact any business whatever relating to her estate. He handed the bond to Priya and asked him to endorse the conditions agreed on. While doing so Priya looked up. "Have you any objection," he asked, "to my antedating the renewal a week or so. The fact is, Baisakh 12th has always been a lucky day in my family and I should like to date my endorsement then." "Just as you like," answered Nagendra indifferently; and after reading the endorsement through very carefully he took the note of hand away without saluting Priya. Not hearing from him when the note matured, Nagendra called at his sister's house and pressed Priya, whom he found there, for payment of the Rs. 2,000 and interest. Priya gazed at him with feigned astonishment "What loan are you talking about?" he asked. Nagendra attempted to jog his memory, but he stoutly denied having renewed any note of hand which purported to have been executed by Samarendra. When the document was shown him, he boldly declared that the endorsement was a forgery, and further that the handwriting on the note of hand itself was not Samarendra's. Nagendra stood aghast for awhile and, on regaining his wits, he said, "I ought to have known better than trust a haramzádá like you!" "Now don't descend to personalities," rejoined Priya. "I can prove that the endorsement could not have been executed by me; and the whole transaction looks fishy." This was too much for Nagendra, who lost his temper and abused the scoundrel roundly. They separated with threats of mutual vengeance. On the morrow, Nagendra instructed a pleader to file a suit against his sister for recovery of the principal and interest due on the promissory note. When it came on for hearing before the Subordinate Judge, Nagendra Babu was dumbfoundered by hearing the defendant's pleader aver that the endorsement could not possibly be genuine, inasmuch as his client was fifteen hundred miles from Ratnapur at the alleged date of execution. He then placed Priya in the box, to swear that, on Baisakh 12th, he was at Lahore, in order to give evidence in a civil suit. All doubt vanished in the Sub Judge's mind when the pleader handed him a document bearing the seal of the Chief Court of the Punjab, certifying that Priya had been in attendance on that day. He dismissed the suit with costs against Nagendra, and remarked that this palpable forgery cast discredit on the whole transaction. It was a wise man who said that we hate our enemies less for the harm they have done us than for the harm we have done them. Priya was not content with depriving Nagendra of his dues; he resolved to injure him more materially. About a month after his unlucky lawsuit, Nagendra learnt quite by accident that one of his estates named Lakhimpur had been notified for sale for arrears of land revenue amounting to Rs. 197 odd. The Naib (manager), on being asked to account for this, laid all the blame on the ryots, who, he said, would not be made to pay their rent and thus deprived him of the means of satisfying the Government demand. Nagendra rebuked him for gross negligence and failing to report the matter, for, he added, the arrears would have been paid from his own pocket. He at once dismissed the Naib from his employ and hastened to Ghoria, where he instructed a pleader named Asu Babu to petition the collector for leave to make good the arrears on Lakhimpur. The request was perforce rejected. Lakhimpur was put up for sale and Nagendra ascertained that the purchaser was a man of straw representing Priya himself. He endured the loss of a valuable property, resolving to be even some day with his enemy. On the following night he was about to retire to bed, when the Lakhimpur Naib burst into the parlour and clasped his master's feet which he bedewed with tears. Nagendra shook him off roughly and asked how he dared to intrude upon him. "Mahásay," whined the Naib, "I want to make a clean breast of my misdeeds. It was Priya who persuaded me to withhold the revenue due on Lakhimpur, by promising me a reward of Rs. 2,000 if the estate was auctioned. Now that he has got possession of it, he refuses to carry out his bargain and actually offers me Rs. 20, saying that I deserved no more. The black-hearted villain! Now I am come to implore forgiveness of my sin and to make amends for it." Nagendra was amazed by the fellow's villainy and impudence. He reflected, however, that nothing was to be gained by kicking him out of the house, while his offer of reparation was not to be despised. He replied, "You have been faithless to your salt; but I will pardon you on one condition that you help me to regain my estate, lost through your treachery." "That I will," protested the Naib. "Only let me have Rs. 300 in currency notes of one hundred rupees each, previously recording the numbers. I swear by Mother Káli, not only to pay the arrears of revenue but to get the sale quashed." Nagendra at first thought that to do so would be only throwing good money after bad; but the man was terribly in earnest, and evidently hostile to their common enemy. He opened his safe and handed the Naib the amount he asked, after carefully taking the numbers of the notes. At the same hour on the morrow, the Naib returned in high glee to say that the business had been satisfactorily concluded. All Nagendra had to do was to file a petition praying for the cancellation of the sale, and it could not fail to be granted. On being asked how he had contrived to evade the law, the Naib went on:-- "I will tell you the whole truth, Mahásay, only concealing names; for the people, who helped me extracted an oath that I would keep them a profound secret. I went straight from your house last night to that of an office tout, who is a precious rascal, but tolerated because he is in some way related to the Collectorate head clerk. On hearing my story he said he thought the matter could be settled, and asked me to meet him at 1 P.M. under a Nim tree north of the Collectorate, when he would bring a man to me who was able to do all we wished. I was punctual to the minute, and sure enough the tout came with one of the Collectorate clerks. I asked him whether it would not be possible so to manipulate the accounts of Lakhimpur, as to show that all Government revenue had been paid prior to the alleged default. The clerk at first refused to have hand in such a transaction, as it would be too risky; but when I produced my currency notes he thought the job might be attempted, and added that some of the Treasury amlas (clerks) would have to be squared as well as himself. I thereupon handed him Rs. 300, saying that it was enough to discharge the revenue due on Lakhimpur and leave more than Rs. 100 to divide as bakshish (gratuity). He said that he would do his best and made me swear never to divulge his name. We then separated, and only two hours ago the tout came to my house with the news that the accounts had been corrected." Nagendra was delighted on hearing these clever tactics and straightway ordered his pleader, Asutosh Sen, widely known as Asu Babu, to file a petition praying for the cancellation of the sale. It came in due course before the Collector for hearing. He called for the accounts, which fully substantiated the petitioner's statements. After hearing the arguments of Priya's representative the Collector said that he was fully satisfied that a mistake had been made, and called on the head clerk to explain the non-entry of a payment made before the due date. That officer laid the whole blame on an unfortunate apprentice, who was promptly dismissed. The sale was declared null and void, and Nagendra regained his own to the intense disgust of the rascally Priya. CHAPTER XI Rámdá. Nagendra Babu was now the wealthiest man in Ratnapur. Puffed up by worldly success, he began to treat his neighbours arrogantly and, with one exception, they did not dare to pay him back in his own coin. Rámdás Ghosal, known far and wide as Rámdá, flattered or feared no one. Having a little rent-free and inherited land, he was quite independent of patronage. Rámdá was "everyone's grandfather," a friend of the poor, whose joys and sorrows he shared. He watched by sick-beds, helped to carry dead bodies to the burning-ghát, in short did everything in his power for others, refusing remuneration in any shape. He was consequently loved and respected by all classes. Rámdá was the consistent enemy of hypocrisy and oppression--qualities which became conspicuous in Nagendra Babu's nature under the deteriorating influence of wealth. He met the great man's studied insolence with a volley of chaff, which is particularly galling to vain people because they are incapable of understanding it. Nagendra Babu did not forget the Brahman's presumption and determined to teach him a lesson. So, one day, he sent him a written notice demanding the immediate payment of arrears of rent due for a few bighas (one-third of an acre) of land which Rámdá held on a heritable lease. As luck would have it the crops had failed miserably, and Rámdá was unable to discharge his debts. On receiving a more peremptory demand seven days later, he called on Nagendra Babu, whom he thus addressed:-- "Why, Nagen, what's the matter with you? You are plaguing me to death with notices, yet you must be aware that I can't pay you a pice at present." "Thákur," replied Nagendra Babu in stern accents, "I will listen to none of your excuses. Do you mean to tell me that you decline to discharge your arrears?" "I never said that," protested Rámdá; "but you must really wait till the beginning of next year. My cold weather crops are looking well; and--" "No, that won't do at all. If you do not pay up in a week, I will certainly have recourse to the civil court." "Do so by all means if your sense of religion permits," rejoined Rámdá, leaving the parlour in smothered wrath. When the week of grace had expired, Nagendra Babu filed a suit in the local Múnsiffs Court against his defaulter. As soon as the fact was bruited abroad a universal protest was roused against Nagendra Babu's harshness. Some of the village elders remonstrated with him, but were told to mind their own business; whereon they laid their heads together and subscribed the small sum due from the Brahman. A deputation of five waited on him with entreaties to accept it, but he refused to take the money on any other footing than a loan. So Rámdá paid his arrears and costs into Court, to the plaintiff's intense annoyance. Samarendra Babu had left his wife and children in comparatively poor circumstances; for, after discharging his debts, they had barely Rs. 300 a year to live on. The widow declined to seek Nagendra Babu's help, even if she were reduced to beg in the streets. After her brother's imprisonment, she had no one to manage her little property which, as a Purdanashin (lit. "one sitting behind the veil"), she was unable to do herself. After mature reflection she sent for Rámdá, who had known her from infancy. He obeyed the summons with alacrity and gave the poor woman sound advice regarding the direction of the Zemindary. By acting on it she was able to increase her income and live in tolerable comfort. Observing that Rámdá was a frequent visitor, Nagendra Babu hinted to his sister-in-law that, if she cared for her reputation, she would not be so thick with him. She flared up instantly. "I will talk to any of my friends I please," said she, "and you shan't poke your nose into my affairs!" "Very well," replied Nagendra angrily, "but you may rely on my making it hot for that old scoundrel shortly!" This threat was of course repeated to Rámdá, who merely laughed. As far as he was concerned Nagendra might act as he pleased. A few days afterwards the bailiff of Nagendra Babu's estate, known as Lakhimpur, called on Rámdá with a verbal request that he should surrender his ancestral tenure and, meeting with a curt refusal, left the house threatening all sorts of evil consequences. Next day, indeed, Rámdá received a notice from Nagendra Babu, calling on him to show cause against the cancellation of his lease on the ground that, by mismanaging the land, he had rendered it unfit for cultivation. Rámdá called some of his neighbours together, to whom he exhibited the document. They expressed the greatest indignation and assured him that they would spend their last rupee in defending his interests. Rámdá gave them a heartfelt blessing and promised a divine reward for their sympathy. Calling on Samarendra's widow the same day, he was distressed to find that she had received a similar notice, which aimed at robbing her of a small estate, on the ground that it had been surrendered by her husband in part payment of his debt to Nagendra Babu. She knew nothing of any such arrangement and assured Rámdá that, if the property was lost, her income would fall to little more than Rs. 100, meaning starvation for herself and little ones. Her trusty counsellor told her not to lose heart, for she might rely on his help. In due course the suit against Rámdá came on for hearing before the Munsiff. His pleader established by documentary evidence that the tenure was one without any condition whatever; while the neighbours came forward to prove that the land in dispute had been admirably tilled. The plaintiff, therefore, was non-suited, with costs. The very same result attended Nagendra Babu's action against his sister-in-law, whose case excited universal sympathy. He lost heavily in purse and left the Court with a ruined reputation. It was natural that a man so evil-minded should regard Rámdá as the author of misfortunes due to his own wicked nature. He plotted the poor Brahman's destruction, but no effectual means of compassing it suggested itself. As days and weeks wore on, his despondency became deeper and, one evening, while sitting with the Lakhimpur bailiff, he asked whether there was any remedy which would restore his peace of mind. The cunning rascal said nothing at the time; but at a late hour on the morrow he came to Nagendra Babu's house with a large bottle hidden under his wrapper. It contained some light brown fluid, which the bailiff poured into a tumbler. Then adding a small quantity of water, he invited his master to swallow the mixture. A few minutes after doing so, the patient was delighted to find that gloomy thoughts disappeared as if by magic. An unwonted elation of spirits succeeded; he broke into snatches of song, to the intense surprise of the household! His amateur physician left the bottle, advising him to take a similar dose every night; and Nagendra Babu followed the prescription punctiliously, with the best effect on his views of life. After finishing the bottle he asked for another, which was brought to him secretly. It had a showy label reading, "Exshaw No. 1 Cognac". Nagendra Babu's conscience accused him of disobeying the Shástras; but the die was cast. He could no longer exist without a daily dose of the subtle poison; and gradually increased it to a tumblerful, forgetting to add water. His faithful wife did her best to wean him from the fatal habit. She even ventured to abstract his brandy bottle and dilute its contents. On being detected, she underwent a personal correction which was not soon forgotten. The poor creature, indeed, underwent every sort of humiliation from her worthless husband, which she bore in silence, hoping that time would bring him to his senses. Drunken men are proverbially cunning. After brooding long over his supposed grievances Nagendra matured a scheme of revenge. He intercepted Rámdá, one afternoon, on his way to visit Samarendra's widow, and, affecting sincere penitence for the injury he had endeavoured to work, he invited the unsuspecting Brahman into his sitting-room. Once inside, he suddenly thrust a brass vessel into his visitor's hand and dragged him into the yard, shouting "Thief! thief!" The Lakhimpur bailiff, who was sitting on the verandah, also laid hands on Rámdá and, with the aid of two up-country servants, he was dragged to the police station, too bewildered to resist. On their way thither they met one of Nagendra's neighbours named Harish Chandra Pál, who stopped them and asked what was the matter. On learning particulars of the charge, he saw how the land lay, and resolved to defeat an infamous plot. So waiting till the little crowd was out of sight, he ran back to Nagendra's house and whispered to him that the bailiff had sent for more property, in order that the case against Rámdá might look blacker. Nagendra handed him a fine muslin shawl and loin-cloth, and a set of gold buttons, adding that he would follow in half an hour in order to depose against the thief. On reaching the police station, Harish found the Sub-Inspector recording the statements of the witnesses. He looked on in silence until Nagendra arrived. Then he asked the Sub-Inspector: "Do these people mean to say that the brass vessel belongs to Nagendra Babu?" "Certainly," was the reply. "Here are three witnesses who have identified it." "Well, that's strange," said Harish; then producing the shawl and loin-cloth he said: "These are mine, but if you ask Nagen Babu he will tell you a different story". "But they are mine!" roared Nagendra, "and part of the stolen property." "Dear me," said Harish, "perhaps you will say that these buttons are yours too?" "Of course they are," was the rejoinder. "Now, Sub-Inspector Babu," said Harish, "you must see that Nagendra Babu is subject to strange hallucinations since he has taken to drink. He fancies that he is the god of wealth personified, and that everything belongs to him. I am quite certain that Rámdá has been falsely charged with stealing a brass vessel which is his own property." The Sub-Inspector evidently thought so too. He called the prosecutor into an inner room. What passed between them there was never known; but presently the Sub-Inspector returned to the office and ordered the prisoner to be at once released. Rámdá was truly grateful to Harish Pál for having so cleverly saved him from ruin, and the whole story soon became common property. Nagendra overheard his neighbours whispering and pointing to him significantly, and village boys called him ill-natured nicknames in the street. His irritation was increased by recourse to the brandy bottle, and he vented it on his luckless wife. She suffered so terribly that, one morning, Nagendra found her hanging from a rafter in his cowshed. This suicide was the last straw. Nagendra saved himself from prosecution for murder by a heavy bribe, and got leave from the police to burn his wife's body. But so universally was he execrated that not a man in the village would help him to take her body to the burning-ghát. In dire despair he humbled himself so far as to implore Rámdá's assistance. The magnanimous Brahman forgot his wrongs and cheerfully consented to bear a hand. Others followed his example, and thus Nagendra was able to fulfil the rites prescribed by religion. The lesson was not altogether lost on him. The scales fell from his eyes; he dismissed the rascally servant, who had led him from the path of duty, and foreswore his brandy bottle. CHAPTER XII A Rift in the Lute. Nalini Chandra Basu worked hard for the B.L. degree, not to fill his pockets by juggling with other people's interests, but in order to help the poor, who are so often victims of moneyed oppression. After securing the coveted distinction, he was enrolled as a pleader of the Calcutta High Court and began to practise there, making it a rule to accept no fees from an impoverished client. But two years of constant attendance at Court convinced Nalini that Calcutta had far too many lawyers already. He therefore removed to Ghoria, knowing that he would find plenty of wrongs to redress there. About a month after his arrival, a Zemindar of Kadampur, named Debendra Chandra Mitra, sued one of his ryots for ejectment in the local Múnsiff's Court. Nalini espoused the defendant's cause and showed so stout a fight that the case was dismissed with costs. Debendra Babu was deeply offended with the young pleader, and determined to do him a bad turn if possible. About a week later Nalini got a telegram from Benares announcing his mother's death. He promptly donned the customary Kácha (mourning-cloth) and hurried home, only to find his brother, Jadunáth Babu, already in possession of the sad news; and they went to Benares to comfort their stricken father. After the customary month of mourning Jadu Babu made preparations for celebrating the srádh on a grand scale, by giving presents to distinguished Brahmans, feasting his relatives, and distributing alms to the poor. No money was spared in order to keep his mother's memory green. The family's position would have been most enviable, but for a slight unpleasantness which was created by some of the villagers. Debendra Babu, who had been waiting for an opportunity of revenge, went from house to house urging his neighbours not to participate in the srádh, on the score that Nalini had married into a strange clan and was ipso facto an outcast. Jadu Babu was stung to the quick on learning these machinations. He consulted Nalini as to the best method of parrying them, and was consoled by his brother's assurance that it would be quite easy to win over his opponents except, perhaps, Debendra Babu himself. When the time for distributing Samájik (gifts) came round, Jadu Babu sent one to every caste-fellow in the village, but all returned them without a word of explanation. Nalini was not so much distressed as he by the rebuff. He advised an attempt to pacify Debendra Babu; which failing, he would put his scheme into execution. The two brothers, therefore, called on their enemy, and falling at his feet, implored him to say how they had offended him. "You are much better off than I am," replied Debendra Babu sarcastically; "it would be presumptuous for me to consort with such people. You remember the old fable of the earthen pot and brass vessel?" "Mahásay," pleaded Jadu Babu, "we are young enough to be your sons. If we have unwittingly caused you offence, we beg to be forgiven." "You have learnt how to talk sweetly enough," rejoined Debendra Babu. "Nalini fancies himself a Lát (lord) or bádsháh at the very least. What times we live in! The young have no respect whatever for their seniors!" "Nalini is hardly more than a boy," said Jadu Babu with folded hands. "I am sure he had not the slightest intention of hurting your feelings." "What's the use of talking nonsense?" growled Debendra Babu. "Go away!" and he pointed to the door. The brothers did not stir; but Jadu Babu asked, "So you won't overlook our faults, or even tell us what they are?" "Well, if you will have it," replied Debendra Babu in measured accents, "Nalini is an outcast; and no respectable Kayastha can take part in your mother's srádh." Jadu Babu fairly lost his temper. He exclaimed: "If there is a flaw in my sister-in-law's pedigree, what is to be said of people who visit women of alien religions, take food from their hands, and tipple strong liquor with them?" This was a home thrust. Debendra Babu was well-known to be carrying on an intrigue with a Mohammadan woman, named Seráji, but as he was well-to-do, no one had dared to propose his excommunication. He started from his feet in an outburst of fury. "What! you have the audacity to lecture me--a wretched brat like you? Leave my house at once." So saying he flounced into his inner apartments; while the brothers went away rather crestfallen. After returning home Nalini disclosed his famous scheme for circumventing the boycott, which Jadu Babu heartily approved. To every Samájik they added an envelope containing a new ten-rupee note and sent them round to their caste-fellows. The sight of money banished prejudices; one and all received the gifts, and some were so shameless as to hint that similar largesse would be acceptable to their uncles or cousins. Debendra Babu was deeply annoyed by the success of the strategy. He swore a mighty oath not to rest until he had destroyed the Basu family root and branch. After a good deal of thought he matured a plan which was to be executed through a notorious widow belonging to the village. This creature, Hiramani by name, had passed middle life and lived on a little money left by her husband, in a hut close to Debendra's residence. People used to say that God had created her a female by oversight, for she had every bad quality which a man could possess. She was noted for the fact that misfortune invariably fell on a house which she honoured with her intimacy. People were very shy indeed of inviting her. One bright afternoon Hiramani called at the Basus and started a conversation with the wives of Jadu and Nalini by inquiring about their household affairs, and offering advice which is generally acceptable if seldom acted on. While they sat talking Jadu Babu's eldest boy came to his mother, whimpering:-- "Chota Káká (my young uncle) has whipped me because an inkpot of his slipped from my hand, while I was playing with it, and got broken!" "He served you rightly, naughty boy!" observed his mother administering a sharp slap which sent the child off bellowing loudly. Hiramani remarked, "You ought not to beat him for so trivial a fault". "That's a terrible boy," explained the mother. "He is up to all manner of tricks, and if he is not checked, he will grow up a regular Badmásh." "God forbid!" remarked Hiramani; "but has he not been too cruelly used by his uncle? You must have noticed the welts on his naked back. I counted five as broad as my forefinger. How could a grown-up man torture a child like that?"--and she looked meaningly at her hostess. The mother was evidently impressed by these words. She undertook to speak to Nalini about his treatment of her son. Hiramani was delighted to see that the poison was beginning to work. She went straight from the Basus' house to Debendra Babu and reported her success. He praised her warmly, presented her with a rupee, and offered further instructions. Hiramani soon became a regular visitor of the Basu ladies. She lost no opportunity of poisoning the mind of Jadu Babu's wife, by retailing Nalini's iniquities. At the outset her insinuations were disregarded; but in time the elder wife fell so completely under Hiramani's influence as to accept her stories as gospel truth. One day, indeed, she ventured to ask her husband to separate from his brother and, on meeting with a peremptory refusal, declared that she would take no food while Nalini remained in the house. Ending that she really meant to carry out this awful threat, Jadu Babu apparently yielded, promising to eject his brother. When the villagers saw Hiramani so thick with the Basu ladies, they prophesied ill-luck for the family, and on learning Jadu Babu's resolve they remarked that the old woman had not belied her reputation. As for Nalini, he knew that something was in the wind, but carefully avoided broaching the subject to his brother, lest he should widen the breach. Like a sacrificial goat, he waited for the stroke to fall on his devoted head. Shortly afterwards, Jadu Babu told his wife to make arrangements for setting up a separate establishment. Her heart leapt for joy. She cooked twice the number of dishes usually prepared for her husband's midday meal, and anxiously waited for him in her kitchen. Jadu Babu went about his duties as usual, never mentioning the coming separation to Nalini. After bathing at 11 A.M. he took Nalini into the latter's kitchen, and asked his sister-in-law to give them something to eat. The pair sat down to a hastily-prepared repast, Jadu Babu chatting and joking with his brother according to his wont. After dinner he took his betel box and adjourned to the parlour for rumination and a siesta. Nalini and his wife were surprised by Jadu Babu's behaviour. They dared not ask him why he had invited himself to eat with them, but waited anxiously for further developments. Meanwhile the elder wife was eating her heart with vexation and forming resolutions to give her husband a curtain lecture. But he slept that night in the parlour and on the morrow took both meals with Nalini. When a woman fails to gain her object she is apt to take refuge in tears, which are generally enough to force a mere man to bend to her wishes. Jadu's wife watched for an opportunity of having it out with her husband. On finding him alone, she burst into lamentations, beating her heart and praying that God would put an end to her wretched life. He calmly asked what was the matter and, on receiving no reply, went to bed. Presently she asked, "What has induced you to put me to shame?" Jadu Babu pretended ignorance, and thus made her only the more angry. "Oh, you Neka" (buffoon), she groaned, "didn't you swear to separate from Nalini, and have you not taken all your meals with him ever since? Is that the action of a truthful man?" "Well, I should like to know how Nalini has injured me?" "I say that he is your enemy!" "Tut, tut, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Where could I find a brother so faithful and obedient as he? You wish to live apart from him? Very well; I have made separate arrangements for you." Then in dispassionate tones Jadu Babu pointed out the treachery of Debendra and his parasite. The woman's eyes were opened. She fell at her husband's feet and implored his pardon. Then she suddenly rose, went across the courtyard to Nalini's room, and knocked at his door. He came out and, seeing his sister-in-law there at an unusual hour, asked anxiously whether Jadu was ill. She reassured him and took him by the hand to his brother, in whose presence she asked him to forgive and forget the offence. Nalini was nothing loth; and harmony was soon restored in the family. Meanwhile old Hiramani had not failed to report progress to her patron daily. He was delighted to think that the rift in the Basu lute was widening, and promised her a handsome reward when the estrangement should take place. On learning the failure of the plot, he paid Hiramani a surprise visit, abused her roundly, and, when she retorted in the like strain, he administered a wholesome correction with his shoe. On his departure she ran to Jadu Babu's house intending to have it out with his wife for her breach of faith. The doorkeeper, however, roughly denied her entrance; and when she threatened to report him to his mistress, he ran her out by the neck. Hiramani went home in a state of impatient anger and despair, and for several days she dared not show her face in the village. The spell cast by her malice was broken. CHAPTER XIII Debendra Babu in Trouble. One chilly morning in February a Mohammadan neighbour of Nalini's named Sadhu Sheikh burst into his parlour crying, "Chota Babu, Chota Babu (lit. 'little babu,' used for younger brother, to distinguish him from the elder, styled 'bara babu'), Siráji is dying!" "Who is she?" asked Nalini looking up from a law book which he was studying. "Surely you know my sister, Chota Babu?" "Yes, of course, what's the matter with her?" "She has been ill for three days, with excruciating internal pains; what am I to do, Bábuji?" "Who is treating her?" asked Nalini. "Abdullah has been giving her the usual remedies." "Why, he is a peasant and knows nothing of medicine. You should not have called him in." "Sir, we are poor folk. Abdullah is very clever and his fee is a mere trifle." "What drugs has he been administering?" "Homopotik (homoeopathic), they are called." "Now you had better return home at once to find out how she is progressing. Let me know if she grows worse and I will send Hriday Doctor. Don't trouble about his fees; I will pay them myself. Why did you not come to me earlier?" Sadhu muttered some words, which Nalini could not distinguish, and left the room hurriedly. After waiting for an hour for news, Nalini threw a wrapper over his shoulders and went to Siráji's cottage. On nearing it he learnt from Sadhu's loud lamentations that she was beyond the reach of medicine; so, after a few words of sympathy, he went home. Presently Sadhu sallied forth to ask the neighbours' help in carrying the dead body to burial. One and all refused to lay a hand on it because, they said, she had lived with an unbeliever. In dire distress Sadhu again appealed to Nalini, who summoned the chief inhabitants of the Musalmánpára (Mohammadan quarter) to his house and ordered them to take Siraji's body to the burial ground. They reluctantly agreed to do so, and assembled at Sadhu's cottage; but at the last moment all of them refused to touch the corpse. Nalini was puzzled by their behaviour. He asked for an explanation, whereon the Mohammadans whispered together and nudged a grey-beard, who became their spokesman. "Mahásay," he said, "the fact is Siráji lived with Debendra Babu and was actually made enceinte by him. In order to save himself from exposure and shame, Debendra Babu got Abdullah to administer powerful drugs to the woman. After taking these she was attacked by violent pains in the abdomen and vomiting, which ended in her death. The Chaukidar (village watchman) knows all the facts, and he is sure to give information to the police. You know, sir, that no one would dare to touch a corpse without their permission, if there is any suspicion of foul play." Nalini was greatly surprised; he asked Sádhu whether the old man's words were true and, getting no reply except a significant silence, said: "You may now go about your business, but mind I shall expect you all to assemble here and carry Siráji to the burial ground as soon as the police give you leave to do so". There was a chorus of assent, and the crowd dispersed. Nalini was about to return home too, when the Chaukidar came in and told him that he had reported Siráji's death to the Sub-Inspector of police, who had ordered him not to permit the corpse to be touched by any one until his arrival. About three o'clock on the same day Nalini heard that the police had come to investigate the cause of Siráji's death. He went at once to Sádhu's house, where the Sub-Inspector was recording the statements of eye-witnesses. When Abdullah's turn came, the police officer surveyed him from head to foot, saying:-- "I have heard of you before; what is your occupation?" "Sir, I am a Hakim (doctor)." "Anything else?" "Yes, sir, I have a little cultivation and sometimes lend money." "Did you attend the deceased woman?" "Yes, I was called in by Sádhu a week ago, and treated her for fever." "A nice mess you have made of the case too! Swear on the Quran that you gave her no poison or drug!" "Sir, I am ready to declare in the name of God and His Prophet that I gave her nothing but homopotik, only nuxo bomicka (nux vomica) in doses which would not have harmed a baby." "Now, remember you are on your oath. Did you administer anything else?" Abdullah's shaking limbs proved that he was terribly apprehensive of evil consequences to himself. He muttered, "I gave her a little patal-juice too." "So I thought," said the Sub-Inspector. "Now all present will follow me." With the assistance of his constable and chaukidars, he led them to Debendra Babu's house. The latter received them in his parlour. He affected to be surprised and shocked by the news of Siráji's death. "That is strange," retorted the Sub-Inspector. "Abdullah here has sworn that he poisoned her at your request." Debendra Babu became ashen pale, but he soon regained self-possession. Turning on Abdullah he shouted:--"How dare you say that I gave you any such orders?" "Babu," whined Abdullah, "I never said so. The Darogaji is mistaken." The Sub-Inspector perceived that, all the witnesses being tenants of Debendra Babu, there was no hope of getting them to stick to any statement inculpating him. He sulkily told the Mohammadans present that they might bury Siráji's corpse, and accompanied Debendra Babu to his house, where he was royally entertained till next morning. However, on taking leave, he hinted that enough evidence had been secured to warrant his reporting the case as one of causing abortion by means of drugs, and that the Pulis Saheb (District Superintendent) would probably order further investigation. Debendra Babu was seriously alarmed by the implied threat. Visions of jail--perchance transportation across the dark ocean--floated in his sensorium. He resolved to submit the case to an astrologer. Gobardhan Chakravarti was an old Brahman neighbour who lived by casting nativities, giving weather and crop forecasts, and prophesying good or evil things in proportion to the fee he received. Debendra Babu paid him a visit next morning and was received with the servile courtesy due to a wealthy client. After beating about the bush for a while he said: "My fate just now seems very unpropitious; when may I expect better times?" Gobardhan covered a slate with mysterious calculations and, after poring over them for ten or fifteen minutes, he looked up with the remark:--"Your luck is really atrocious and has been so for more than three months." "Quite true, but what I want to know is--how long is this going to last?" "I am afraid that you may expect one misfortune after another; I can't quite see the end of your evil destiny." "Goodness gracious! what shall I do? Are there no means of conjuring it away?" "Certainly, the Shástras prescribe certain Grahasanti (propitiation of planets) processes, which will enable you to counteract the influence of malign stars." The cunning bait was swallowed by Debendra Babu, who asked: "How much would these ceremonies cost?" After thinking out the maximum amount he could decently demand, the astrologer said: "About one hundred rupees." "Oh, that's far too much," was the reply. "Do you want to ruin me? Can't you do it for less?" "Not a pice less. I could perform a jog (sacrifice) for as little as ten rupees; but such maimed rites are quite contrary to the Shástras." "Will you guarantee definite results for Rs. 100?" asked Debendra Babu anxiously. "I promise nothing; if you have faith in my ceremonies, you must pay me my own price; if not--I leave you to Fate." "I have implicit faith in you," groaned Debendra Babu, who was now terribly alarmed, "and will pay you Rs. 100 to-morrow, but please don't delay; the matter is very pressing." Gobardhan agreed to the proposal; but seeing that his client was loth to go and evidently had something on his mind, he remarked:-- "When a wise man consults a physician, he always discloses his symptoms. You must be quite frank and tell me how your affairs have been progressing lately, in order that I may address my incantations to the proper quarter. Be sure that I will divulge nothing." Thus encouraged Debendra Babu revealed his relations with Siráji, confessed that he had bribed Abdullah to administer a powerful drug to her, and expatiated on the very awkward predicament in which her sudden death had placed him. Gobardhan listened with breathless attention and then remarked: "You have acted rightly in telling me the whole truth. I will perform a homa (burnt sacrifice) and verily believe that it will have the desired effect. Let me have Rs. 200 and I will set about it at once." Debendra Babu groaned inwardly at the thought of so heavy an expenditure; but after all, the prospect of escaping deadly peril was well worth Rs. 200. So he returned home and thence despatched the amount in currency notes to Gobardhan. The astrologer spent about Rs. 5 on ghi (clarified butter), rice, and plantains for his homa sacrifice, and completed it in three days. Then he called on the police Sub-Inspector, who received him cordially. After the usual compliments had been, exchanged, Grobardhan asked how his host was faring. "Things are not going well with me," was the reply. "Most of the people in those parts are miserably poor; and what I can extract from the well-to-do hardly suffices for my horse-keep. Thákurji (a term used in addressing Brahmans), I want you to examine my palm and say when good times are coming for me." After poring over the proffered hand for fully a minute, muttering and shaking his head the while, Gobardhan said: "I am delighted to tell you that your good star is in the ascendant. Very soon you will make something handsome." "I wish I could think so!" observed the policeman, "but it is impossible. I have only one likely case on my file, and prospects are not brilliant even in that quarter." Then, in answer to leading questions from Gobardhan, he told the story of Siráji's death--adding that he had decided to send Debendra Babu and Abdullah up for trial, but doubted whether he could adduce sufficient evidence to convict them of murder or anything like it. Gobardhan asked: "Now, why should you lose such a splendid opportunity of making money?" and seeing the policeman's eyes twinkle, he went on, "Oh, you need not appear in this transaction yourself. I will do the needful. Tell me frankly--how much money would satisfy you?" "I could not run the risk of reporting the case as false for less than Rs. 100." "That is too much," was the wily astrologer's reply. "Mention a reasonable sum, and I will see what can be done." "Well, I will take Rs. 75, and not a pice less; and understand, if the money is not paid before this evening, I will send Debendra Babu up for trial." "Very good; I will call on him at once and frighten him into paying up; but I must have something for myself." "Certainly, if you can get Rs. 75 from the defendant you may keep Rs. 15 as commission." Gobardhan returned home, took the required amount from the Rs. 200 paid him by Debendra Babu, and handed it privately to the Sub-Inspector, who swore by all the gods that he would take no further steps against the inculpated men. Knowing well that the policeman would keep faith with a Brahman, Gobardhan went straight to Debendra Babu with the glad news that the homa sacrifice had been completely successful, and not a hair of his head would be injured. Debendra felt as though a mountain was lifted from his heart; he stooped to wipe the dust from Gobardhan's feet. On learning a few days later that the case had been reported to headquarters as false, he was firmly convinced that Gobardhan's magical rites had saved him from ruin, and presented him with a bonus of Rs. 50. Nalini Babu was not long in ascertaining how the land lay. He was exasperated by the sordid wrong-doing which reached his ears and resolved to report it to the District Magistrate. But in the end he kept silent, because Sadhu came to him with tearful eyes, saying that he had already suffered deep humiliation; and if old scandals were raked up, the community would certainly excommunicate him. CHAPTER XIV True to His Salt. Hiramani did not forget the thrashing given her by Debendra Babu for failing to cause a rupture between the Basu brothers. She took a vow of vengeance and laid in wait for an opportunity of fulfilling it. Meeting him one day in the village street, she asked with an air of mystery:-- "Have you heard the news?" "What's that?" replied Debendra Babu carelessly. "It concerns the woman Siráji," she whispered. All Debendra Babu's fears revived; he exclaimed: "Speak plainly, what is the matter?" "The matter stands thus. You know that her case was hushed up by the police? Well, I hear on good authority that the District Magistrate has received an anonymous letter relating the real cause of her death and has ordered a fresh investigation. So I am afraid you will soon be in hot water again. As I am your well-wisher in spite of the cruel treatment I have received, I think it my duty to warn you of this new danger." Hiramani spoke in faltering accents and wiped away an imaginary tear with the corner of her cloth. "How did yon learn all this?" asked Debendra Babu in deep anxiety. "I got the news only last night from the wife of the new Sub-Inspector who has come here on transfer. On paying my respects to her, I was told in confidence that her husband had orders to make a searching inquiry into the cause of Siráji's death." Debendra Babu saw that his secret was at the woman's discretion. He answered in an apologetic tone: "It was certainly foolish of me to lose my temper with you, but I had some provocation. Forgive me, and let bye-gones be bye-gones. Whom do you suspect of sending the anonymous letter?" Hiramani bit her lips; she knew the author, who was none other than herself, and replied: "It might have been written by Jadu Babu; but I suspect his brother Nalini, who is as venomous as a snake and hates you mortally". Debendra Babu stamped his foot in annoyance and, after musing awhile, asked, "What would you advise me to do?" Hiramani wagged her head sententiously. "Babuji, I am afraid you are in a serious scrape. The matter has gone too far to be hushed up a second time. You cannot do anything directly without increasing the suspicion which attaches to you; but I will watch events and keep you informed of all that happens at the police station. You know I have friends there." Debendra Babu was profuse in his thanks. He pressed a couple of rupees into the old woman's willing palm, saying: "Hiramani, I see that you are really my well-wisher. Come to my house as often as you like; and if you have anything particular to say to me, I shall always be glad to hear it--and grateful too." Then the pair separated, and Hiramani took advantage of the Babu's invitation by visiting his daughter Kamini that very evening. She was made welcome in the inner apartment and sat down for a long chat, in the course of which she asked after Kamini's husband. "He has gone out for a stroll," her hostess replied, "but I expect him back every minute." The words were hardly out of her mouth ere a young man came in hurriedly and, not noticing Hiramani who sat in the shade, asked for a drink of water. Hiramani doubted not that he was Debendra Babu's son-in-law, Pulin by name, who had lately come to live with his wife's family. She introduced herself as a friend of his father-in-law's and, being very witty when she chose to exert herself, soon managed to make a favourable impression on the young man, He asked her to come again whenever she pleased, adding that he was generally at home after sunset. Hiramani had prepared the ground for a further attack. She left the house with a certainty that she had made a good impression. Thenceforward hardly a day passed without at least one visit to Debendra Babu's. Hiramani wormed all Kamini's little harmless secrets out of her and obtained enough knowledge of the girl's tastes and habits to serve her own designs. One day, finding herself alone with Pulin, she threw out dark hints against his wife's character. The young man's suspicion was excited. He pressed for more explicit information, but Hiramani shook her head mysteriously without replying. Pulin insisted on being told the truth, whereon Hiramani poured out a whispered story of Kamini's intrigues, mentioning names of male relatives who were known to frequent the house. Pulin was stung to the quick. Regardless of a stranger's presence, he called Kamini into the room, abused her roundly, and declared that he would never live with her again. Then gathering up a few belongings in a bundle, he quitted the house, leaving his wife in a flood of tears. Hiramani was overjoyed by the results of her machinations. She affected sympathy with the deserted wife, who was too young and innocent to suspect her of having caused the quarrel. Debendra Babu had a servant, Rám Harak by name, who had been in the family for nearly forty years and was treated as one of them. He had watched the growing intimacy between Hiramani and the young couple and, knowing the old woman's character well, endeavoured to counteract her evil influence. Finding this impossible he sought Debendra Babu in the parlour, salámed profoundly, and stood erect, without uttering a word. His master asked, with some surprise, what he wanted. "Mahásay," replied Rám Harak, "have I not served you for two-score years with obedience and fidelity? Have you ever found me untrue to my salt?" "Certainly not; I know you are a good and faithful servant." "Then, Mahásay, you ought to protect me against enemies of your house. That odious hag, Hiramani, has abused me foully." "Now, Rám Harak, it is you who are abusive. What have you done to offend her?" "You are my father and mother," replied Rám Harak with his eyes full of tears. "Let me explain fully. I have long since suspected Hiramani of making mischief in this house, and have kept a close watch on her movements. The very day of Pulin Babu's departure I overheard her whispering all manner of false insinuations against my young mistress. Then came the quarrel between husband and wife, which ended in Pulin Babu's leaving your house. After he had gone I ventured to remonstrate with Hiramani for poisoning jamai (son-in-law) Babu's mind against his wife; whereon she overwhelmed me with abuse and actually threatened to get me dismissed! I want to know whether this woman is mistress of the family? Am I to have no redress?" "Leave all this to me, Rám Harak, and go to your work. I'll speak to Hiramani myself." "Babuji, you are treading the matter far too lightly. I would never have complained on my own account, but I cannot bear to see her plotting against your daughter's happiness, which she has, perhaps, destroyed for ever!" Debendra Babu went into his inner apartments and, seeing Hiramani engaged in close conversation with his daughter, he asked her why she had used bad language to Rám Harak. The old woman beckoned him to come outside; and after making sure that no one was listening, she poured into his ears a long tale of Rám Harak's misdoings. He was robbing his master, she declared, taking dasturi (commission on purchases) at twice the customary rates. What was far worse, the "faithful servant" had spoken freely of Debendra Babu's relations with Siráji in the village, and it was he who instigated the anonymous letter which was about to bring the police down on his master. Though all this was the purest fiction, Debendra Babu swallowed it greedily. He shouted for Rám Harak and, on the man's appearance, charged him with fraud and unfaithfulness to his salt. Rám Harak stood silent with folded hands, not deigning to exculpate himself, which so enraged Debendra Babu that he gave the poor old man a sharp blow on the head with his shoe, bidding him begone and never to cross his threshold again. Rám Harak went to his hut, collected his possessions in a bundle, and left the house where forty years of his life had been spent. Hiramani's plans of vengeance were prospering. Soon after these unpleasant events the new Sub-Inspector of police arrived at Debendra Babu's house with a warrant for his arrest, and took him to the station despite loud protests of innocence. There he applied for bail, which was of course refused, and he spent the night in the lock-up. Knowing well that he had a very bad case, he humbled himself so far as to send for Nalini, whom he implored with folded hands to save him from destruction. Nalini was deeply moved by his appeal. He heartily despised the fellow's unutterable baseness, but reflected that he had been an old friend of his father's. He undertook the prisoner's defence. In due course Debendra Babu, with Abdullah, was brought before the Deputy Magistrate of Ghoria on various grave charges. The evidence established a strong prima facie case against both, and Nalini Babu reserved his defence. They were committed for trial. When the case came before the Sessions Judge the Government Pleader (public prosecutor) adduced many witnesses proving the prisoner's guilt, the last of whom was Hiramani, who admitted on cross-examination that she had caused the anonymous letter to be sent to headquarters, which led to the charge being reopened. She protested that she had done so from a feeling that so great a crime should not be hushed up. Nalini Babu, in his turn, put forward some witnesses for the defence; but their statements were not of material advantage to the prisoner. It was, in fact, a losing game, but he played it manfully. After all evidence had been recorded, the Government Pleader was about to sum up for the prosecution, when the Court rose suddenly, as it was past five o'clock. Nalini was going homewards in the dusk, when he felt a hand laid timidly on his shoulder. Turning sharply round, he saw an old man standing by his side. On being asked his name and business, the newcomer whispered some information which must have interested Nalini greatly for he rubbed his hands, smiled, and nodded several times. After a few minutes' talk the pair went together to a spot where a palanquin with bearers was waiting. Into it got Nalini and was carried off at a smart trot, while his companion hobbled behind. When the Court assembled next day Nalini thus addressed the judge: "May it please your honour, I have, by the greatest good luck, obtained certain evidence which will, I think, place this case in a new light". On getting leave to adduce an additional witness, he beckoned to an old man, standing at the back of the Court, who entered the witness-box and declared that his name was Rám Harak and that he was a dismissed servant of the prisoner. This was a curious opening for a witness for the defence, and dead silence fell on the Court while Rám Harak proceeded to swear that it was he, and not Debendra Babu, who had been intimate with the deceased, and that she had poisoned herself to avoid excommunication. "Did she tell you so herself?" asked the judge sharply. "No, your highness; I learnt this only yesterday from Maina Bibi, Karim's own sister; Piyari Bibi, Sádhu's daughter; and Nasiban Bibi, his sister-in-law, who all lived with the deceased." The Government Pleader at once objected to this statement being recorded, as it was hearsay. Nalini, however, assured the judge that the eye-witnesses were in attendance, and called them, one by one, to give evidence. Passing strange was their story. On the evening of Siráji's death they found her writhing in agony on the floor and, on being questioned, she gasped out that she could bear her kinsfolks' tyranny no longer. They had just told her that she was to be excommunicated for intriguing with an infidel. So she had got some yellow arsenic from the domes (low-caste leather-dressers) and swallowed several tolas weight of the poison in milk. The other women were thunderstruck. They sat down beside her and mingled their lamentations until Siráji's sufferings ended for ever. They afterwards agreed to say nothing about the cause of her death for fear of the police. But Rám Harak had come to them privately and frightened them into promising to tell the whole truth, by pointing out the awful consequences of an innocent man's conviction. Their evidence was not shaken by the Government Pleader's cross-examination, and it was corroborated by a dome, who swore that Siráji had got some arsenic from him a few days before her death, on the pretext that it was wanted in order to poison some troublesome village dogs. After consulting with the jury for a few minutes, the judge informed Nalini that his client was acquitted, and Debendra Babu left the Court, as the newspapers say, "without a stain on his character". Seeing Rám Harak standing near the door with folded hands, he clasped the good old man to his bosom, with many protestations of gratitude, and begged him to forgive the injustice with which he had been treated. When Rám Harak found himself alone with his master at the close of this exciting day, he repeated the vile insinuations which Hiramani had made regarding the daughter's character. Debendra Babu was highly indignant and vowed that the scandal-monger should never cross his threshold again. He then implored Rám Harak to trace his son-in-law, authorising him to offer any reparation he might ask. The old man smiled, and left the house, but returned a quarter of an hour later with a Sanyási (religious mendicant) who revealed himself as the missing Pulin. Debendra Babu received him with warm embraces and many entreaties for pardon; while Pulin said modestly that he alone was to blame, for he ought not to have believed the aspersions cast on his wife by Hiramani, which led him to quit the house in disgust. He added that Rám Harak had found him telling his beads near a temple, and persuaded him to wait close at hand until he had opened Debendra Babu's eyes. Meanwhile the whole house echoed with songs and laughter. Debendra Babu rewarded Rám Harak's fidelity with a grant of rent-free land, and publicly placed a magnificent turban on his head. He resolved to celebrate his own escape from jail by feasting the neighbours. The entire arrangements were left in the hands of the two Basus, who managed matters so admirably that every one was more than satisfied and Debendra Babu's fame was spread far and wide. When things resumed their normal aspect, he held a confab with the brothers as to the punishment which should be meted out to Hiramani, and it was unanimously resolved to send her to Coventry. They, therefore, forbade the villagers to admit her into their houses, and the shopkeepers to supply her wants. Hiramani soon found Kadampur too hot to hold her and took her departure for ever, to every one's intense relief. CHAPTER XV A Tame Rabbit. When a penniless Hindu marries into a wealthy family he is sorely tempted to live with, and upon, his father-in-law. But the ease thus secured is unattended by dignity. The gharjamái, "son-in-law of the house," as he is styled, shocks public opinion, which holds it disgraceful for an able-bodied man to eat the bread of idleness. Pulin incurred a certain degree of opprobrium by quartering himself on Debendra Babu; neighbours treated him with scant courtesy, and the very household servants made him feel that he was a person of small importance. He bore contumely with patience, looking forward to the time when Debendra Babu's decease would give him a recognised position. His wife was far more ambitious. She objected strongly to sharing her husband's loss of social standing and frequently reproached him with submitting to be her father's annadás (rice-slave). So, one morning, he poured his sorrows into Nalini's sympathetic ear. "Mahásay," he said, "you know that people are inclined to blame me for living in idleness, and I do indeed long to chalk out a career for myself. But I don't know how to set about it and have no patron to back me. Do you happen to know of any job which would give me enough to live on? Salary is less an object with me than prospects. I would gladly accept a mastership in some high school." "You are quite right in seeking independence," replied Nalini, "and I shall be glad to help you. But lower-grade teachers are miserably paid, and their prospects are no better. It is only graduates who can aspire to a head-mastership. Are you one?" "No, sir, but I passed the F.A. examination in 1897." "Ah, then, you are a Diamond Jubilee man--that's a good omen," rejoined Nalini, with a shade of sarcasm in his voice. "What were your English text-books?" "I read Milton's Absalom and Achitophel, Dryden's Holy Grail, and many other poems, but I'm not sure of their titles after all these years." Nalini suspected that his friend's English lore was somewhat rusty. In order to test him further, he asked, "Can you tell me who wrote 'Life is real, life is earnest,'--that line applies to you!" Pulin fidgeted about before answering. "It must have been Tennyson--or was it Wordsworth? I never could keep poetry in my head." Nalini thought that an F.A. might have remembered Longfellow's Psalm of Life, but he refrained from airing superior knowledge. "Do you know any mathematics?" he inquired. "Mathematics!" replied Pulin joyously. "Why, they're my forte---I am quite at home in arithmetic, algebra, and geometry. Please ask me any question you like." "Well, let us have Prop. 30, Book I. of Euclid." Pulin rattled off Proposition 13 of that book, without the aid of a diagram. Nalini now saw that the young man's mental equipment was of the slenderest description. He said, "Well, you may call on me another day, when I may be able to tell you of some vacancy". Pulin, however, would take no denial. He became so insistent that Nalini reluctantly gave him a letter of introduction to Babu Kaliprasanna Som, Secretary of the Rámnagar High School, who, he said, was looking about him for a fourth master. Pulin lost no time in delivering it and was immediately appointed to the vacant post. English education in Bengal is not regarded as a key which opens the door of a glorious literature, but simply and solely as a stepping-stone in the path of worldly success. The Department seems to aim at turning out clerks and lawyers in reckless profusion. Moreover, academic degrees are tariffed in the marriage market. The "F.A." commands a far higher price than the "entrance-passed," while an M.A. has his pick of the richest and prettiest girls belonging to his class. Hence parents take a keen interest in their boys' progress and constantly urge them to excel in class. With such lessons ringing in his ears, the Bengali schoolboy is consumed with a desire to master his text-books. The great difficulty is to tear him away from them, and insist on his giving sufficient time to manly games. When a new teacher takes the helm, he is closely watched in order to test his competence. The older lads take a cruel pleasure in plying him with questions which they have already solved from the Dictionary. Pulin did not emerge from this ordeal with credit, and the boys concocted a written complaint of his shortcomings, which they despatched to the Secretary of the School Committee, The answer was a promise to redress their grievances. At 10.30 next morning Kaliprasanna Babu entered Pulin's classroom and stood listening to his method of teaching English literature. Presently one of the boys asked him to explain the difference between "fort" and "fortress". After scratching his head for fully half a minute he replied that the first was a castle defended by men, while the second had a female garrison! The Secretary was quite satisfied. He left the room and sent Pulin a written notice of dismissal. The latter was disheartened beyond measure by this unkind stroke of fortune. He shook the dust of Rámnagar from his feet and returned home to lay his sorrows before Nalini, seasoning the story with remarks highly derogatory to Kaliprasanna Babu's character. In order to get rid of an importunate suitor Nalini gave him another letter of introduction, this time to an old acquaintance named Debnath Lahiri who was head clerk in the office of Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop, one of the largest mercantile firms of Calcutta. Pulin was heartily sick of school-mastering, and the prospect of making a fortune in business filled his soul with joy. He borrowed Rs. 30 from Debendra Babu and took the earliest train for Calcutta. On arriving there he joined a mess of waifs and strays like himself, who herded in a small room and clubbed their pice to provide meals. Then he waited on Debnath Babu, whom he found installed in a sumptuous office overlooking the river Hughli. The great man glanced at his credentials and, with an appearance of cordiality, promised to let him know in case a vacancy occurred in the office. For nearly a month Pulin called daily for news at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's, and generally managed to waylay the head clerk, whose reply was invariably, "I have nothing to suit you at present". One morning, however, he was stopped by the darwán (doorkeeper) who told him gruffly that the "Bara Babu did not like to have outsiders hanging about the office". The baffled suitor reflected on his miserable position. He had just eleven rupees and two pice left, which he calculated would last him, with strict economy, for another fortnight. When they were spent, he would have to return crestfallen to Kadampur. But could he face the neighbours' sneers, the servants' contumely--worse than all, his wife's bitter tongue? No, that was not to be thought of. It were better to plunge into the river whose turbid waters rolled only a few feet away. Pulin was roused from this unpleasant train of thought by hearing his name pronounced. It came from a well-dressed man, who was just entering Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's office, welcomed by a salám from the surly doorkeeper. Pulin was delighted to recognise in the stranger a certain Kisari Mohan Chatterji, who had taught him English in the General Assembly's College more than a decade back. In a few words he told his sad story and learnt that Kisari Babu had taken the same step as he himself contemplated, with the result that he was now head clerk in Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's export department. This news augured well for his own ambition, but poor Pulin was disgusted on hearing that no less than three vacancies had occurred in as many weeks, and that all had been filled by relatives of Babu Debnath Lahiri. Kisari Babu added: "A junior clerk is to be appointed to-morrow. Write out an application in your very best hand, with copies of your testimonials, and bring it to me here this evening at five. I'll see that it reaches our manager, Henderson Saheb." Pulin punctually followed his friend's advice, and dreamed all night of wealth beyond a miser's utmost ambition. On arriving at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's office next morning he joined a crowd of twenty or thirty young men who were bent on a like errand. His spirits sank to zero, nor were they raised when after hanging about in the rain for nearly two hours the aspirants were told that the vacancy had been filled up. Thereupon the forlorn group dispersed, cursing their ill-luck and muttering insinuations against Mr. Henderson and his head clerk. Pulin, however, lingered behind. By tendering a rupee to the doorkeeper he got a slip of paper and pencil, with which he indited a piteous appeal to Kisari Babu, and a promise that it should reach him. Presently his friend came out in a desperate hurry, with a stylograph behind his ear, and his hands laden with papers. "It's just as I anticipated," he whispered to Pulin. "The head clerk has persuaded Henderson Saheb to bestow the post on his wife's nephew. But don't be disheartened. I will speak to our Saheb about you this very day. Come here at five to learn the result." Pulin did so and was overjoyed to find that he had been appointed probationary clerk in the export department on Rs. 20 per mensem, in supersession of Debnath Babu's nominee. On the morrow he entered on his new duties with some trepidation, but Kisari Babu took him under his wing and spared no pains to "teach him the ropes". Pulin spent his evenings in furbishing up his English and arithmetic, mastered the whole art of book-keeping, and, being naturally intelligent, he soon had the office routine at his fingers' ends. He grasped the fact that a young man who wishes to succeed in life must make himself indispensable. In course of time Pulin's industry and trustworthiness attracted the attention of Mr. Henderson, who confirmed him as clerk, with a salary of Rs. 35. But every cup has its bitter drop; and Pulin's was the persistent enmity of the head clerk, who bore him a grudge for ousting his wife's nephew and seized every opportunity of annoying him. Leagued with the arch-enemy were two subordinate clerks, Gyánendra and Lakshminarain by name, who belonged to Debnath Babu's gústi (family). This trio so managed matters that all the hardest and most thankless work fell to Pulin's lot. He bore their pin-pricks with equanimity, secure in the constant support of Kisari Babu. One muggy morning in August he awoke with a splitting headache, the harbinger of an attack of fever, and was obliged to inform the head clerk, by means of a note, of his inability to attend office. An answer was brought by Gyánendra to the effect that three days' leave of absence was granted, but that his work must be carried on by some other clerk. He was, therefore, ordered to send the key of his desk by the bearer. For three days the patient endured alternations of heat and cold; but his malady yielded to quinine, and on the fourth he was able to resume work. Soon after reaching the office, he was accosted by one of the bearers, named Rámtonu, who told him that the Bara Sahebwished to see him at once. The moment he entered the manager's sanctum he saw that something unpleasant had occurred. Without wishing him good morning, as usual, Mr. Henderson handed him a cheque and asked sternly whether he had filled it up. Pulin examined the document, which turned out to be an order on the Standard Bank to pay Tárak Ghose & Co. Rs. 200, signed by Mr. Henderson. He was obliged to admit that the payee's name, as also the amount in words and figures, seemed to be in his handwriting. "Yes," rejoined the manager, "and the signature is very like my own; but it is a forgery. Do you hear me, Babu, a forgery!" To Pulin's disordered senses the room, with its furniture and Mr. Henderson's angry face, seemed to be turning round. He gasped out, "I'm ill, sir!" and sank into a chair. The manager mistook the remains of fever for a tacit admission of guilt. He waited till Pulin had regained a share of his wits and said gravely: "I did not think that one whom I trusted with my cheque-book would act thus. Now you will search your books, to see whether they contain a record of any payment of the kind, and return with them in half an hour. But I must warn you that if this forgery is traced to you, I shall have to call in the police." Pulin staggered back to his room in despair and observed that Gyánendra and Lakshminarain, who sat at the next desk, were evidently enjoying his mental agony. Alas! the books showed no trace of any payment to Tárak Ghose & Co. He wrung his hands in great distress and sat bewildered, until Rámtonu came to summon him to the manager's tribunal. In the corridor Rámtonu glanced round, to make sure that no one was within hearing, and said, "Don't be afraid, Babuji. You did me a good turn, and I may be able to help you now." This Rámtonu was an office menial hailing from the district of Gáya, in Behar. He was an intelligent man, but rather unlicked, and was the butt of the younger clerks, who delighted in mocking his uncouth up-country dialect. Pulin, however, had never joined in "ragging" him, and, on one occasion, he lent Rámtonu Rs. 7 for his wife, who was about to increase the population of Gáya. Gratitude for kindness is a marked trait in the Indian character, and Pulin bethought him of the old fable of the Lion and Mouse. He asked: "Why, what do you know about lekha-para (reading and writing)?" "Never mind," rejoined Rámtonu. "We must not loiter, for we should be suspected of plotting together. Come to the Saheb's room. I shall be admitted, for he knows that I don't understand English. All I ask is that you will clasp your hands as a signal when I may come forward and tell my story." A European police officer was seated by Mr. Henderson's side, engaged in writing from his dictation. They looked up, and the manager asked whether Pulin had found any record of the payment in dispute. On receiving a negative answer, he said: "Then I shall be obliged to hand you over to the police". Pulin clasped his hands in a mute appeal for mercy, whereon Rámtonu stepped forward. Carefully extracting a folded sheet of foolscap from the pocket of his chapkan (a tight-fitting garment, worn by nearly all classes in full dress), he spread it out on the table and respectfully asked the manager to run his eye over it. "By Jove," remarked the latter, with great surprise, "here's some one has been copying my signature--and Pulin's writing too!" All eyes were now bent on the incriminating document. It was made up of many fragments of paper, carefully pasted on a sheet of foolscap, and bore the words, "Tárak Ghose & Co., two hundred rupees, 200," repeated at least twenty times. Below was "A.G. Henderson," also multiplied many-fold. The manager asked where Rámtonu had found the paper, and received the following answer:--"Your Highness, Pulin Babu here did not come to office on Monday; and for the next few days his work was done by Gyánendra Babu, who got the keys of his desk. I knew that he and some other clerks detested Pulin Babu, so I watched their movements narrowly, to see whether they would try to get him into a scrape, and more than once I surprised Gyánendra and Lakshminarain whispering together. On Tuesday neither of them left the office for lunch with the other clerks, and I seized some pretext for entering the room where they sit. Gyánendra roughly bade me begone; so I went to the verandah outside and peeped through the jilmils (Venetian blinds) of a window close to their desk. Lakshminarain was copying some English words from a paper on his left side, while the other clerk looked on, nodding and shaking his head from time to time. After writing in this fashion for a while, Lakshminarain took a sheet of notepaper covered with writing and copied the signature many times, until both babus were satisfied with the result. Then I saw Gyánendra unlock Pulin Babu's desk, take out a cheque-book, and hand it to the other man, who filled up the counterfoil and body of one blank cheque, glancing sometimes at the paper in front of him. He returned it to Gyánendra who placed it in a pocket-book. After tearing up the papers they had used and throwing them into the waste-paper basket, they left the room. I ran round, carefully avoiding them, picked the fragments of paper out of the basket, tied them in a corner of my gamcha (wrapper), and left the office quickly, asking the doorkeeper what direction they had taken. When he said that they had turned northwards, I guessed that they were off to the Bank, in order to cash the cheque, and sure enough I overtook them not more than a rassi from the office. Following them at a little distance on the other side of the street, I saw them stop outside the Standard Bank and look anxiously around. Presently a schoolboy passed by, whom they hailed and, after talking for a while, Gyánendra handed him the cheque with a small linen money-bag, and pointed to the door of the Bank. The lad went inside, while both babus waited round the corner. In a short time he came out and handed the bag full of money to Gyánendra, who gave him something and hurried back to the office with his companion. Putting two and two together I felt assured that those clerks had forged the cheque; and had I known where Pulin Babu lived, I would certainly have communicated my suspicions to him. Having to work without his help, I persuaded a student, who lodges near my quarters, to piece the scraps of paper together. It took him two hours to do so, and we then pasted them carefully on this sheet of foolscap. You will see, Saheb, that there are thirty-seven in all, and only three missing." The story made a deep impression on Mr. Henderson and the Police Inspector, while Pulin was raised to the seventh heaven of delight by the thought that his innocence might yet be established. "Could you identify the boy?" asked the Europeans with one breath. "I don't know his name," was Rámtonu's rejoinder; "but I think I could pick him out, for he passes this office daily on his way to and from school. But this is just the time when he goes home for tiffin. With your Highness's permission, I will watch for him in the street." "Do so by all means," was the Inspector's reply. "Meanwhile, I'll take down notes of your statement." Rámtonu went out and in a few minutes returned dragging with him triumphantly a well-dressed lad of fifteen, who seemed terribly alarmed by the company into which he was thrust. The Inspector calmed his fears by assuring him that he would come to no harm if only he spoke the whole truth. "You have been unwittingly made the instrument of a forgery," he added, "and we want your help towards detecting it." The boy plucked up courage and answered every question put him quite candidly. His tale corroborated Rámtonu's in most particulars, with the addition that the tall babu had given him eight annas bakshish for cashing the cheque. He had not seen either of the men previously, but thought he should be able to recognise one of them owing to his unusual height. "Now, bearer," said Mr. Henderson, "go and fetch both the clerks; bring in the tall one first, but keep an eye on the other outside and beyond earshot." Rámtonu left the room with alacrity and presently returned ushering Lakshminarain into the dreaded presence. The newcomer was beside himself with terror; and when he was identified by the schoolboy as one of the men who had employed him to cash the cheque, he did not wait to be asked for an explanation. Throwing himself at Mr. Henderson's feet he begged for mercy, promising to reveal the entire truth. The Inspector would make no promises but simply adjured him to make a clean breast of his share in the transaction. Lakshminarain obeyed, and his statement, interrupted by many sobs, was duly recorded. His accomplice was next introduced. At first Gyánendra was inclined to put a bold face on the matter, stoutly affirming that it was a put-up affair between Pulin and Rámtonu. When, however, the Inspector read out to him the deposition of the bearer and schoolboy, he saw that the game was up and confessed his misdoings, accusing the head clerk of having prompted them. The culprits were taken in a ticcá gári (four-wheeled cab) to the police station Pulin occupying the box, while Rámtonu ran behind. Well, to cut a long story short, the prisoners stuck to their confession and refunded their ill-gotten gains. They were duly committed to the High Court on charges of forgery and conspiring to accuse an innocent man of the like offence. They both pleaded guilty, and the judge remarked that it was one of the worst cases of the kind he had ever tried. In passing sentence of two years rigorous imprisonment on each prisoner, he added that they would have fared worse but for the patent fact that they had been made catspaws of by some one who kept in the background. As there was no evidence against Debnath Babu, except that of accomplices, he was not prosecuted; but immediately after the trial, Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop dismissed him without notice. Kisari Babu was promoted to the vacant office of head clerk, while Pulin stepped into his friend's shoes. By unfailing application to duty, he won Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's entire confidence, and in fulness of time succeeded Kisari Babu as head clerk. Ten or twelve years later, Pulin was rich enough to build a pakka (masonry) house at Kadampur, which far eclipsed his father-in-law's, and had a well-paid doorkeeper in the person of Rámtonu. The once-despised gharjamái took a leading position among the local gentry. CHAPTER XVI Gobardhan's Triumph. Jadu Babu's four-year-old daughter, Mrinalini, or Mrinu as she was called in the family, came to her mother one evening to say that her kitten was lost. In vain was she taken on the maternal lap, her tears gently wiped away, and all manner of pretty toys promised. Her little frame was convulsed with sobs, and she refused to be comforted. So her mother sent a maidservant to search for the plaything. The girl returned shortly and said that the kitten was certainly not in the house. At this Mrinu howled more loudly than ever, bringing her father on the scene. He pacified the child by undertaking to produce her pet, and told the servants that the finder would be handsomely rewarded. Meanwhile his wife was trying to keep Mrinu's attention engaged by telling her a long story, when she suddenly exclaimed, "What has become of your jasam (gold bracelet)?" Mrinu replied, "I took it off to play with kitty and laid it down somewhere". This was all the information she could vouchsafe in answer to repeated questions. The mother set her down and proceeded to search every hole and corner for the jasam, but it was not to be found. Her husband was greatly alarmed on hearing of this untoward event. The loss of Rs. 100, at which the trinket was valued, might have been borne; but Hindus believe that misfortune invariably follows the loss of gold. He set all his servants and hangers-on to look for the jasam, but they were unsuccessful. In despair he hurried to Nalini for advice and was told to send for Gobardhan, which he promptly did. The astrologer listened attentively to his story and then asked whether Jadu Babu would try Báti Chálá (divination by the báta leaf), or some simpler method of discovering the lost jasam. On learning that the matter would be left entirely in his hands, he told Jadu Babu to collect all his servants in the parlour and let him have half a seer (1 lb.) of raw rice, with as many strips of banana leaf as there were servants. When all were assembled, Gobardhan thus addressed them, "Mrinu has lost her jasam, have any of you seen it?" The reply was a chorus of "Noes" with emphatic head-shakings. "Then none of you have stolen it?" Again a volume of protestations. "Very well, then," said Gobardhan, "I must try the ordeal of chewed rice." After uttering many mantras (incantations) and waving his hand over the pile of grain and banana leaves, he dealt out a quotum of each to the servants. "Now" he said, "you will masticate the rice for a minute thoroughly and then drop the result on your leaves. I warn you that it will be deadly poison for the thief." All obeyed with alacrity, and Gobardhan, after examining the contents of each leaf, assured Jadu Babu that the jasam had not been stolen. My readers who are versed in science will understand that, in point of fact, there is nothing magical about this rite, which is based on the circumstance that fear checks the flow of saliva. In all probability a thief would eject the rice absolutely dry. The inference was that the jasam had been mislaid; and Jadu Babu asked whether Gobardhan's lore was equal to recovering it. "Possibly," answered the astrologer, "but it is not a case of Báti Chálá; if you can guarantee me Rs. 10, I will perform Nákha Darpan (literally 'nail-mirror'). Let me have an almanac, please, to find an auspicious day." After examining it and receiving a ten-rupee note from Jadu Babu, the astrologer said oracularly that he would return on the following afternoon, with a lad of twelve, who had been born under the Constellation of the Scales. At the appointed hour, Gobardhan came accompanied by his acolyte, with whom he sat down at the Chandimandab (a shrine of the goddess Durga, found in most Hindu houses, which serves for social gatherings). Jadu Babu and the bhadra-lok (gentle-folk) took their seats there too, while the underlings formed a respectful half-circle in front. Adjuring all to keep perfect silence, he asked the lad to gaze into the nail on his own right index finger and tell the people what he saw there. After staring at it for a minute or so, the boy began to tremble violently and whispered: "I see a mango-tope (orchard); a little girl is playing with her kitten under the trees. Now I see her slipping a jasam from her arm, the kitten frisks about, and the child follows it; now it disappears, and the child runs indoors." Then, raising his voice to a shrill scream, he pointed with his left hand to the north and asked:-- "What are those animals which are prowling in the orchard? Are they dogs? No--they are jackals--one, two, three jackals! They pounce on the kitten, and tear her limb from limb! Now everything is growing hazy; I can't see any more!" A thrill of fear ran through the audience, and one might have heard a pin drop. At length Gobardhan broke the silence:-- "Let us go to the mango-tope north of this house," he said solemnly. Thither they hurried and, after a few minutes' search, one of the maidservants cried out that she had found the jasam half-hidden by the gnarled roots of a tree. Jadu Babu was overjoyed by the recovery of his missing jewel, and pressed another fee of ten rupees on the astrologer. As for Gobardhan, his fame spread far and wide, and his hut was rarely without some client, eager to learn the future. CHAPTER XVII Patience is a Virtue. Sádhu Sheikh of Simulgachi was not long in finding a husband for his half-sister, Maini Bibi. Before she was fourteen, a young farmer named Ramzán proposed for her hand, offering a den mohur of Rs. 100. The den mohur is a device recognised by Mohammadan law for protecting married women from capricious repudiation. The husband binds himself to refund a fictitious dowry, generally far above his means, in case he should divorce his wife for no fault of hers. Ramzán was accepted by Sádhu, and the marriage was duly celebrated. Maini Bibi was a handsome girl; but beauty was among the least of her gifts. She was sweet-tempered, thrifty, and obedient, winning sympathy on all sides. The one discordant note was struck by Ramzán's mother, Fatima Bibi by name, who took a violent dislike to the bride and evinced it by persistently scolding and ill-using her. Ramzán was completely under his mother's thumb and saw everything with her eyes. His love for Maini was slowly sapped by her innuendoes, and he treated the poor girl with something worse than coldness. Maini, however, bore her hard lot without a murmur, hoping that time and patience would win back her husband's heart. On returning one evening from the fields, Ramzán was hailed by his mother who was evidently in a worse temper than usual. "Hi! Ramzán," she shrieked, "I am an old woman, and you, doubtless, find me an incumbrance. Speak out, my son; you have only to say 'go,' and I will leave this house in half an hour." "Why, what's the matter, mother?" asked Ramzán with open eyes. "Matter," she yelled. "Would you believe it, that black-faced daughter of a pig has actually abused me--me, your old mother!" "What did she say?" rejoined Ramzán angrily. "My son," was the answer, "you know how she neglects household duties, leaving all the hard jobs to me. Well, this afternoon, I ventured on a word of remonstrance, and she actually abused me." And the old woman wiped her tears away with a corner of her cotton wrapper, adding with eyes cast heavenwards, "Merciful Allah, to think that I should come to this in my old age!" "But what did she say?" repeated Ramzán wearily. "She told me to my face that I had forgotten to put salt into the curry!" "That's hardly abusive," rejoined Ramzán. "You think so," shouted Fatima. "Now you're taking sides with her against your mother, who bore you. You will assuredly suffer in Jehannam (hell) for such a crime! But I'll have it out with that she-devil!" So saying, she dashed from the room to the kitchen, where the luckless Maini was cowering in anticipation of a coming storm. She was not deceived. Fatima seized her by the hair and administered a sound thumping. Several days passed by, bringing no alleviation to her fate. But matters came to a crisis on a certain morning, owing to Ramzán's complaint that his wife had over-salted the curry. On tasting the food, Fatima burst into violent imprecations and "went for" her daughter-in-law, who took refuge in the neighbouring brushwood. At nightfall she crept back to the house and found Ramzán closeted with his mother. They were talking earnestly, but Maini could not distinguish the purport of the conversation. It seemed to her that Fatima's voice was raised in entreaty, and Ramzán was objecting to some scheme proposed by her. She passed the night sleepless and in tears. Early next day Ramzán entered her room and said gruffly, "Get up, collect your chattels, and follow me. I am going to take you back to Sádhu's." Maini obeyed without a word of remonstrance, and a quarter of an hour later the ill-assorted pair might have been seen walking towards Simulgachi. The rainy season was now in full swing, and their path lay across a deep nullah (ravine) through which mighty volumes of drainage water were finding their way to the Ganges. On reaching a bamboo foot-bridge which spanned it, Ramzán ordered his wife to go first. Ere she reached the opposite bank, he gave her a violent shove, which sent her shrieking vainly for help into the swirling torrent below. Hardly had Ramzán perpetrated this odious deed than he felt he would give his chances of bihisht (paradise) to recall it. He ran along the bank shouting frantically, "Maini! Maini!" Alas! her slender body was carried like a straw by the foaming water towards the Ganges and soon disappeared in a bend of the nullah. Then her murderer sat down and gave himself up to despair. But the sun was up; people were stirring in the fields; and so he slunk homewards. Fatima stood on the threshold and raised her eyebrows inquiringly; but Ramzán thrust her aside, muttering, "It is done," and shut himself up in his wife's room. There everything reminded him of her; the scrupulous neatness of floor and walls--no cobwebs hanging from the rafters, the kitchen utensils shining like mirrors. He sat down and burst into a flood of tears. For several days he did not exchange a word with his accomplice, and dared not go to market lest his worst fears should be realised. Dread of personal consequences added new torture to unavailing remorse. Every moment he expected the red-pagried ministers of justice to appear and hale him to the scaffold. The position was clearly past bearing. So, too, thought Fatima, for she waylaid her son one afternoon and said: "Ramzán, I cannot stand this life any longer; let me go to my brother Mahmud Sardar, the cooly-catcher". "Go," he replied sullenly, and the old woman gathered up her belongings in a bundle and departed, leaving him to face the dark future alone. While brooding over his fate, he was startled by the sudden arrival of Sádhu. "Now I'm in for it," he thought and began to tremble violently while his features assumed an ashen hue. But Sadhu sat down by his side and said, "Ramzán, I've come about Maini". "Then she's drowned!" gasped Ramzán. "By Allah the Highest, I swear that I did my best to save her." "Hullo!" rejoined Sádhu with great surprise; "you must have been with her when she fell into the nullah." Ramzán bent his head in silence. After a few moments he looked up, clasped his hands, and said:-- "Tell me the truth, Sádhu, is Maini alive?" "She is," was the reply. "On Thursday morning she came to our house dripping wet and quite exhausted, with a story that your mother had turned her out of doors and that she was on her way to live with us when, on crossing the Padmajali Nullah, her foot slipped and she fell into the water. She told us how, after being carried for nearly a gau-coss (lit. cow league, the distance at which a cow's lowing can be heard), she was swept by the stream against the overhanging roots of a pipal tree (ficus religiosa) and managed to clamber up the bank. But Maini never told us that you were with her. Why, Ramzán, you're quaking in every limb. I always suspected Maini had concealed the truth. Swear on the Quran that you did not try to drown her." Ramzán feebly protested innocence, and the two men sat awhile without speaking. At length Sádhu said: "I've come to make you a proposal. Young Esáf, the son of Ibrahim of our village, has fallen in love with Maini and wants to marry her. He is willing to pay the den mohur of Rs. 100 which would be due from you in case of repudiation. Now we want you to divorce her." Ramzán was overcome by his wife's magnanimity, and the thought of losing her drove him to distraction. "No!" he shouted, "I won't divorce her. I'll fetch her back this very day!" "That's quite out of the question," rejoined Sádhu. "Maini cannot bear her mother-in-law's cruelty, and I'm sure she'll never consent to live with you again. Besides, Esáf is a rich man and will make her happy. She shall marry him." "I say she shan't," said Ramzán emphatically. Sádhu got up and moved off, remarking, "Very well, I will go to the police station at once and charge you with attempting to kill her! We shall soon worm the truth out of Maini, and get plenty of eye-witnesses too." Ramzán was beside himself with terror. He followed Sádhu, clasped his feet, and groaned, "No, you won't do that! I am ready to divorce Maini. Let Allah's will be done." "Ah," replied Sádhu, "so you can listen to reason after all. Come to our house to-morrow evening; we will have witnesses ready, and Esáf will be there with the den mohur." Ramzán had a sleepless night and was too downcast to work on the morrow. When evening came, he walked wearily to Simulgachi. There was quite a small crowd in Sádhu's courtyard. On one side sat Maini and some other women with faces closely covered; Esáf and the witnesses were on the other. Between them was a mat, on which lay a bag full of money. Ramzán was received without salutations, and squatted down by Sádhu's side. Moslem husbands can get rid of their wives by repeating the word talaq (surrender) thrice, in the presence of witnesses. Every one expected him to utter the formula, which would release Maini from his power. However, he sat silent, with downcast eyes. After a minute or two, he rose and, looking steadily at Maini, was just about to speak, when she sprang forward, laid her hand on his arm, and said: "Surely you are not going to divorce me, your faithful wife, who loves you dearly and seeks only to make you happy? What have I done to be treated thus?" A murmur was heard in the assembly, but Sádhu raised his hand in token of silence. "Foolish girl!" he exclaimed, "do you wish to return to a mother-in-law who hates and persecutes you? Will Ramzán be able to protect you?" Then lowering his voice, he added, "Is your life safe with those people?" "Life and death," rejoined Maini, "are in Allah's hands. It is his will that we should fulfil our destinies, and mine is to cling to my husband. I would not change him for Hátim Tái (a legendary hero, very rich and generous) himself!" Then nestling closer to Ramzán, she pleaded in a voice of music, "Surely you don't want to get rid of me?" He was quite overcome and burst into tears. "No," he sobbed, "I will never separate from my treasure. Come back to me, and you need not fear my mother's tongue. She has left my house for good, and I swear by Allah, in the presence of all these people, that she shall not live with us again. You, Maini, shall be sole mistress of my house." Maini was overjoyed by this decision. She clapped her hands twice, and then, picking up the bag of money, said to the crestfallen Esáf, "Take back your rupees; I am going home with my husband". So speaking, she took Ramzán's hand and led him out of the house, while a great silence fell on the crowd, broken at length by many exclamations and a buzz of loud talk. My readers who know Maini's sweet nature will not be surprised to learn that her happiness was thenceforward without a single cloud. THE END 
17269	----	WEATHER AND FOLK LORE OF PETERBOROUGH AND DISTRICT. BY CHARLES DACK. PUBLISHED BY AND FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE PETERBOROUGH NATURAL HISTORY, SCIENTIFIC, AND ARCHÆOLOGICAL SOCIETY. 1911. PETERBOROUGH: CHARLES HAWKINS, PRINTER, KING STREET [Illustration: MAY DAY, AT GLATTON, HUNTS. 1856. FROM A DRAWING BY THE REV. E. Bradley, (_Cuthbert Bede_).] _Old Customs! Oh! I love the sound. However simple they may be, What e'er with time hath sanction found, Is welcome and is dear to me. John Clare._ WEATHER AND FOLK LORE OF PETERBOROUGH AND DISTRICT. (Second Series). This is a continuation of a Paper on the "Survival of Old Customs" in Peterborough and the neighbourhood which was read at the Royal Archæological Society's meeting in 1898, with an addition of a few more old customs, and more particulars of others, to which I have also added a collection of the quaint Weather and Folk Lore of this district. Being at a point where four counties are almost within a stone's throw, Peterborough possesses the traditions of the Counties of Huntingdon, Cambridge, and Lincoln, as well as Northampton. It is rather difficult to locate these sayings to one particular County, so I have taken those current within a radius of about fifteen miles. Most of them have been repeated to me personally and only in a very few cases have I copied any which have been printed and then only to make the collection more complete. The two Northamptonshire Poets, Dryden and John Clare, often notice the phases of the Weather, and John Clare, especially, describes the Rural Customs and weather Lore of this district with a true Poets feeling and amongst his M.S.S., now the property of the Peterborough Museum, are many unpublished poems and also his Diary which, at present, is unknown to the general public. John Clare was well styled the English Burns and his notes and Memoranda on the various local events are most valuable to those who take an interest in the sayings and doings of the early part of the 19th century. Many charms are used at the present time and, altho' reticent, the villagers, (when you have gained their confidence), will tell you of their belief in the various whims and of the successful results of their practice. In almost every proverb where Peterborough is mentioned it is associated with pride, and some people say that they are still applicable. The first and second of the following rhymes date from before the Reformation: Crowland as courteous, as courteous may be, Thorney the bane of many a good tree, Ramsey the rich and Peterborough the proud, Sawtry, by the way, that poor Abbey, Gave more alms than all they. Ramsey the rich of gold and of fee, Thorney the flower of the Fen Country, Crowland so courteous of meat and of drink, Peterborough the proud, as all men do think, And Sawtry by the way, that poor Abbaye, Gave more alms in one day, than all they. Peterborough the proud of their ancient See, Thorney the flower of many a fair tree, Crowland the courteous of their meat and drink, Spalding the gluttons as all men do think, Sawtry by the way, that old Abbaye, Gave more in one day than all they. Peterborough poor and proud. Another version gives Peterborough: Famous for pride and Stamford for poor. The next two belong exclusively to Peterborough, and the first I have only just obtained from a lady who remembers the verses, as they were repeated early in the 19th Century: When the Clock of the Abbey strikes three minutes fast, There will be a gay wedding before the month's past; When the Clock of the Abbey strikes three minutes slow, The river's bright waters will soon overflow; When the Church Clock and Abbey Clock strike both together, There will soon be a death or a change of the weather. The Abbey or Cathedral is dedicated to St. Peter, and the Parish Church to St. John. The Head Verger of the Cathedral until recently had charge of both clocks, and St. John's Clock was always kept slightly faster than the Cathedral Clock. Canon Jones, when Vicar of St. John's, one day met the late Verger, (Mr. H. Plowman, Senr.) and asked him why St John's Clock was always faster than the Cathedral Clock, and the Verger replied:--"Well Vicar, you know, the other disciple did outrun St. Peter on the way to the Tomb, so St. John has always kept in front ever since." Sometimes the coincidences mentioned in the verses occur and maintain their reputation for veracity: If in the Minster Close a Hare, Should for herself have made a lair, Be sure before the week is down, A fire will rage within the town It is very strange but these two events have sometimes happened. One fire brings two more. This too has often occurred and in April of this year (1911) three fires occurred in this district within a week. These are all I can remember which refer to Peterborough. Beginning with the County of Northampton we have: Northamptonshire, more Spires, more Squires, more haughtiness, and less hospitality than any other County in England. Northamptonshire for Spires and Squires. Northamptonshire for Springs and Spinsters. Thack and Dyke Northamptonshire like. Marholm, a village near Peterborough. "They held together like the men of Marholm when they lost their Common." This is used when people are divided one against another. Caster where the woman is master. "To lose a hog for a ha'porth of tar." The hog referred to is a yearling sheep. "To live by the penny." Buying only when anything is absolutely required. "As cross as two sticks." "As cross as old Wilks." Who old Wilks was and why he was cross is lost in oblivion. "As wise as Walton's calf who ran nine miles to suck a bull." "Black as the pot." "Topsy turvey Moses Webster." Used when things are in a disorderly state. "Dance a jig, then come back and buy a pig." "Go to Farcet." This is a village near Peterborough and the expression is used instead of advising people to go to Jericho or any other place. "As fat as moles." "You've gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick," was a common expression when I was a school boy, when anyone was relating something which was incorrect. Come day, Go day, God sends Sunday. Sunday moon, flood before it is out. Singing before breakfast on Monday, cry before the week is out. As Friday so Sunday. Friday is either the fairest or foulest day of the week. Sun always shines on Saturday little or much. Saturday new moon and Sunday full, Never good and never wull. JANUARY. On corner walls, A glittering row, Hang pit irons less for use than show, With horse-shoe brightened as a spell, Witchcraft's evil powers to quell. _John Clare._ The first thing on New Year's morning, open your Bible and the first verse your finger or thumb touches that verse, will betoken what will occur during the year. On New Year's morning if a sprig of green is placed in the Bible, the verse on which it lies fortells the events of the year. It is lucky for a dark man to enter the house first on New Year's morning, and I know a man who used to see the Old Year out and the New Year in with a friend who always arranged for a very dark man to wait for him outside his own house until he returned. The man then entered the house first, and after a glass of something warm and good wishes, he left. It is also a custom on New Year's Eve for some people to hide a sovereign or half-sovereign outside the house and when leaving the house on New Year's morning to pick up the piece of gold which is said to ensure their having gold in their pockets all that year. Whatever is done on New Year's day, you will do throughout the year. As the weather is the first twelve days of January so it will be for the twelve months. Each day's weather is taken for the corresponding month. Plough Monday, First Monday after Epiphany. This custom has almost passed away. Only two lots of men were seen in Peterborough this year, the Stores no doubt not encouraging them as the tradesmen did in the old times. In Northampton, in 1910, I saw numerous groups of children with blackened faces and grotesque dresses going about the streets on this day as Plough witches. When the day lengthens, Then the cold strengthens, On Old Christmas day (7th January new style) the day has lengthened a cock's skip. January White. If the grass grows in January it grows the worse for it all the year. ST. PAUL'S DAY, 25TH JANUARY. In some verses dedicated To all my worthy Masters and Mistresses, by _John Small_, Bell-man, Stamford, 1850, is the following:-- If Saint Paul's day be fair and clear, It doth betide a happy year; If blustering winds do blow aloft, Then wars will trouble our realm full oft, And if by chance to snow or rain, Then will be dear all sorts of grain. FEBRUARY. February fill dyke. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. Children used to go round the villages and city on this day and sing: Good Morrow, Valentine; Please to give me a valentine; I'll be yourn, if you'll be mine; Good Morrow, Valentine. Good Morrow, Valentine First its yourn and then tis mine So please give me a valentine. Holly and ivy tickle my toe Give me red apple and let me go. Good Morrow, Valentine, Parsley grows by savoury Savoury grows by thyme A new pair of gloves on Easter Day Good Morrow, Valentine. This was called going Valentining and some money or apples were given to the children. In Peterborough and district sweet plum buns used to be made and were called Valentine Buns. They were given by Godparents to their Godchildren the Sunday before and the next Sunday after Valentine's Day. MARCH. March, many weathers. John Clare says: March month of "many weathers" wildly comes, In hail and snow and rain, and threatening hums and floods. March wind. A wet March makes a sad harvest. A March without water dowers the hind's daughter. If March comes in smiling and gay Saddle your horses and go and buy hay. March, Hic, Hac, Ham' Comes in like a lion And goes out like a lamb. If March comes in stormy and black, she carries the winter away on her back. MOTHERING SUNDAY. This is Midlent Sunday when it was the regular custom, and even now very general, for the children, especially those in service, to visit their parents on that day. Children away from home write to their parents on Mothering Sunday if unable to get home. A special kind of cake was made for this day. PALM SUNDAY. It is known as Fig Sunday as figs are eaten and a fig pudding is a regular dish on this day. There used to be a great display of figs in the Grocers' windows the week preceding Palm Sunday, but there is not such a show now. GOOD FRIDAY. On Good Friday, in 1904, I was reminded of an old custom by an old friend who was staying with me. When some hot cross buns were offered, he took one and told me to hold it with him and, whilst we were holding it together to repeat with him this couplet:-- Half for you half for me Between us two good luck shall be. When this was being said we broke the bun in two. This is said to cement friendship between the two who break the bun. APRIL. ST. MARK'S EVE. Take three tufts of grass plucked from a Churchyard, place them under your pillow and repeat aloud:-- Let me know my fate, whether weal or woe Whether my rank's to be high or low, Whether to live single or be a bride, And the destiny my star doth provide. If this is done one dreams of the future. When April blows his horn 'Tis good for hay and corn. April showers make May flowers. 26th April was called Break Day. The Fen Commons were broke or opened by turning in stock. MAY. The May Day Garlands are of various forms. Those in Peterborough are formed of two hoops fastened together to form a globe and a stick or stave through the centre. The hoops are decorated with flowers and ribbons, and when the children possess one, the best doll is fixed on the stick inside the garland. Two girls carry the garland which is carefully covered with a white cloth. This is lifted at the houses and the wondrous garland is exposed whilst the children sing the following song, which is the favourite May Day song in the City. A friend has kindly given me the music and words which she wrote on the 1st May, 1904: from the children's performance: [Illustration: Music] I. Good morrow, Lords and Ladies It is the first of May, We hope you'll view our garlands, They are so bright and gay. Chorus--To the green woods we will go, To the green woods we will go, To the green woods we will go, To the green woods we will go. II. This bunch of May it looks so gay, Before your door it stands; It is but a sprout, but it's well spread out By the work of our Lord's hands. Chorus--To the green woods, etc. III. The Cuckoo sings in April, The Cuckoo sings in May, The Cuckoo sings in June; In July she flies away. Chorus--To the green woods, etc. IV. I'm very glad the Spring has come, The sun shines out so bright; The little birds upon the trees Are singing for delight. Chorus--To the green woods, etc. V. The roads are very dusty, Our shoes are very thin; We have a little money box To put our money in. Chorus--To the green woods, etc. The Garlands are carried round on 1st May and on Old May Day. The Huntingdonshire Garlands are usually of a pryamidical form of flowers and streamers, surmounted by a doll. The frontispiece of May garland at Glatton is a copy of a water colour drawing by the Rev. E. Bradley (Cuthbert Bede) when living there in 1856. In the earlier part of the last century it was the custom for a young man to get as large a branch as possible of May in flower on May 1st and fix it to his sweetheart's window. If the shutters were closed it was thrust through the diamond, oval, round, or heartshaped openings at the top of the shutters. The larger the branch and the more the blossoms the greater the compliment. If a quarrel had taken place, and peace not made, then the angry swain would fix a branch of blackthorn in the place which otherwise should have held the May blossom. In the country if the servant maids had not pleased the farm boys they used to get a branch of the crab apple and put it in the girl's window. MAY DAY. A branch of May I have brought you, And at your door it stands; Well set out, and well spread about By the work of our Lord's hands. Take a Bible in your hands, And read a chapter through; And when the day of Judgement comes, God will remember you, God bless ye all both great and small, And I wish you a merry May. Another variation is:-- Arise! Arise! ye dairy maids, Shake off your drowsy dreams, Step straightway to your dairies And fetch us a bowl of cream, If not a bowl of your sweet cream, A pot of your brown beer; And if we should tarry in this town, We'll come again next year. When Caster Common Lands were open to all and the gates taken off on May 13th, there was a struggle with the cottagers as to whose cow would get through the gateway first and the cow which secured the place of honour had a garland of flowers put round its horns when driven home at night, and the cow which was last to get on the Common returned with a "Dish Clout" tied to its tail. Sunny May. Cold May, good for corn and Hay. Rain in May, makes plenty of Hay. A May flood never did good. The last two appear to be contradictory but the flood refers to the valley of the Nene and the lowlands which are apt to be flooded when the river overflows its banks. The mud and dirt consequently settle on the grass and make it unfit for hay, but the rainfall does good, causes the grass to grow and it is not injured by the silt. Till May goes out, change not a clout. 29th May, Restoration Day, commonly called Oak Apple Day from an oak apple with oak leaves being generally worn on that day until noon. The leaves or apple at that time were put out of sight. Before noon everyone was challenged to "show your oak" and if none could be seen a blow or a pinch could be given, but after that hour the wearer of the oak could be struck. School boys used to fix leaves on the top of their boots, hidden by their trousers, and when challenged would lift their foot and kick the challenger, and so showing their oak and punishing the other boy. When you hear the cuckoo for the first time you must run or you will be late for everything during the year. WHIT SUNDAY. In South Northamptonshire it is said:-- "Whatsoever one did ask of God upon Whit Sunday Morning, at the instant when the sun arose and played, God would grant him." Turn your money in your pocket the first time you hear the cuckoo. Count the number of times the cuckoo calls when you hear it for the first time and, as many times as it calls, so many years will it be before you are married. If a maid hears a cuckoo on the first of May, and takes off her left shoe, she will find inside a hair the colour of her future husband's hair. Girls used to get up early on May morning and go into the country and wait to hear the cuckoo. An old adage is:--Don't change your clothes until the cuckoo picks up dirt. JUNE. The oak's slow opening leaf, of deepening hue, Bespeaks the power of Summer once again. _Clare._ JUNE ROSES. The two June sayings are very optimistic: A fine June, puts all things in tune. A rainy June, sets all things in tune. ST. PETER'S DAY, 29TH JUNE. The gates of the Minster Precincts are still closed on this day to maintain the right of privacy. The Proclamations of St. Peter's and Bridge Fair by the Town Crier, in the presence of the Mayor and Corporation, is still continued. A copy of the proclamation was fortunately obtained for me before the old Beadle died. He had not a copy but used to repeat it from memory. SHEEP SHEARING. (JUNE). It was the custom, when the shearing was finished, for the Shepherds and Shearers to be entertained at supper by the Farmer. The Farmer's Daughter used to tie up posies of roses with ribbons and give a posy to each man, but the Head Shepherd always had the largest and best posy. It was considered by the girls to be great fun to put a quantity of pepper in the roses for the Head Shepherd, so that the poor Shepherd had severe fits of sneezing. Being expected, the joke never failed to cause a tremendous noise of sneezing, both natural and mock. June was the month during which the feast was held and it was held as recently as 1856. In some parts of Northamptonshire the last sheep to be sheared had a garland of roses placed round its neck. MIDSUMMER EVE CHARMS. As the clock strikes Midnight take some hempseed and go into the garden and begin to throw the hempseed on the ground, repeating these words:-- Hempseed I sow, Hempseed I hoe, He that is my true love, Come after me and mow. After this, look over your left shoulder and you will see your future spouse. In some places the sower goes round the house. Another is to go into the garden backwards, in silence, and gather a rose and keep it in a clean sheet of paper without looking at it, until Christmas Day, when it will be as fresh as in June, and if it is worn on that day on the bosom he that is to be the husband will come and take it out. Just before twelve o'clock at night take a clean chemise, wet it and turn it inside out and put over a chair before the fire, and when the clock strikes midnight your future spouse will come and turn the chemise. This must be done in perfect silence as a single word will break the spell. DUMB CAKE. On Midsummer Eve three girls are required to make a dumb cake. Two must make it, two bake it, two break it, and the third put a piece under each of their pillows. Strict silence must be preserved. The following are the directions given how to proceed: The two must go to the larder and jointly get the various ingredients. First they get a bowl, each holding it and wash and dry it together. Then each gets a spoonful of flour, a spoonful of water and a little salt. When making the cake they must stand on something they have never stood on before. They must mix it together and roll it. Then they draw a line across the middle of the cake and each girl cuts her initials each on opposite sides of the line. Then both put it into the oven and bake it. The two take it out of the oven, and break it across the line and the two pieces are given to the third girl who places a piece under each pillow and they will dream of their future. Not a word must be spoken and the two girls after giving the pieces to the third girl have to walk backwards to bed and get into bed backwards. One word or exclamation by either of the three girls will break the charm. Should a gale arise and the wind appear to be rustling in the room, during the baking or latter part of the preparation, if they look over their left shoulder they will see their future husbands. In some districts the pieces of cake are eaten in bed and not put under their pillows but nothing must be drank before breakfast next morning. Another variation is that two only make the cake and go through the same form as the preceding, only they divide it themselves, then each eats her portion and goes to bed backwards as in the first case and nothing must be drank or a word spoken. An uncooked dried salt fish eaten before going to bed in silence and walking backwards and getting into bed the same way, causes ones future husband to appear in a dream with a glass of water in his hand if a teetotaller, or a glass of beer if he is not one. Nothing must be drank before breakfast. An old woman said she had tried it over 40 years ago and her husband brought her a glass of beer and he was not an abstainer but rather the reverse. SEPTEMBER. Right glad to meet the evening's dewy veil And see the light fade into glooms around. _Clare._ The Harvest Home Suppers are now almost a thing of the past. I went to one about eight years ago and suppose it will be the last. It is held when the last load of corn is taken home. This load used to be decorated with boughs and flowers and the youngest boy employed used to ride on it singing:-- Harvest Home! Harvest Home; Two plum puddings are better than one, We've plowed, we've sowed, We've reaped, we've mowed, We've got our harvest home. They also used to shout Largess! Largess! but seldom got anything given them. It was merely an old custom. In the evening the supper was held, and after supper songs were sung. The oldest labourer used to propose the health of the Master and Mistress and all would sing:-- HARVEST HOME. Here's a health unto our Master, the giver of the feast, Not only to our Master, but to our Mistress; We wish all things may prosper whate'er he take in hand, For we are all his servants, and all at his command. Drink, boys drink, and see you do not spill, For if you do you shall drink two, it is our Master's will. I've been to France, I've been to Dover, I've been to Harvest Home all the world over, over, and over, Drink up your liquor and turn the bowl over. Another:-- Here's health unto our Master the founder of the feast, God bless his endeavours and give him increase, And send him good crops that we may meet another year, Here's our Master's good health boys come drink off your beer. Some of the old songs used to be regularly sung. "The Poacher" was always a great favourite and the chorus, "For its my delight on a starry night" used to be given with great force and feeling. I wish I could remember the old songs which are now forgotten. The day on which Harvest was finished, and the corn safely "Hovelled" used to be called "Wheat Hovel Day." It was also the custom to decorate the last sheaf of corn with ribbons and flowers (It was only a small sheaf) and it was fastened to the wall inside the barn and left there until the next Harvest. OCTOBER. Hail, falling leaves! that patter round, Admonishers and friends. Come pensive Autumn, with thy clouds and storms, And falling leaves and pastimes lost to flowers. _Clare._ MOPS. These were assemblies of people after Michaelmas in want of servants (male or female) who were not hired at the Statutes held before Michaelmas. ST. MARTIN'S DAY. The 11th November is generally called Martlemas Day and old people still watch for the direction of the wind at noon on this day as they believe it will continue in that quarter for the next three months. It is also a saying that if the ice will bear a duck before Martlemas it will not bear a goose all winter. NOVEMBER. When Winter comes in earnest to fulfil His yearly task at bleak November's close. Sybil of months, and worshipper of winds I love thee, rude and boisterous as thou art. _Clare._ ST. CECILIA'S Day. NOV. 22. The Lay Clerks of the Cathedral and friends used to be entertained by the Dean and Chapter at a dinner at which a boiled leg of mutton was the principal dish. After dinner songs and glees were sung. ST. CATHERINE'S DAY, NOV. 25TH. The female children belonging to the Workhouse were dressed in white, trimmed with coloured ribbons, and went in a procession headed by the Workhouse Master and the tallest girl who wore a crown of gilt paper and carried a sceptre and distaff. They stopped at the houses of the principal inhabitants and sang this song. Money was given them and they had rump steak and onions for dinner, and a tea party, and games in the evening: Here comes Queen Katrin as fine as any Queen, With a coach and six horses a coming to be seen, And a spinning we will go, will go, will go, And a spinning we will go. Some say she is alive, and some say she is dead, And now she does appear with a crown upon her head, And a spinning we will go, etc. Old Madam Marshall she takes up her pen And then she sits and calls for all her royal men. And a spinning we will go, etc. All that want employment though spinning is but small, Come list and don't stand still, but go and work for all. And a spinning we will go, etc. If we set a spinning we will either work or play, But if we set a spinning we can earn a crown a day. And a spinning we will go, etc. And if there be some young men, as I suppose there's some, We'll hardly let them stand alone upon the cold, cold, stone. And a spinning we will go. Spinning was the employment for the females in the old Work house, and in the Dean and Chapter's accounts of payments there are entries of payments on St. Catherine's Day for wheels and reels for the children of the Workhouse. DECEMBER. ST. ANDREW'S DAY. December 11th, commonly called "Tander," used to be kept by the Lace-makers as a feast day. St. Andrew was their Patron Saint. On that day men and women used to go about dressed in each other's clothes, and calling at various houses and drinking hot elder wine. On this day the Morris Dancers or Mummers began their visits. There were from four to eight people who took part in the Mummery. The King, Beelzebub, Doctor, Doctor's man and Jack, the fool. Sometimes one took the part of the Doctor's horse and the Doctor made his entry riding on the horse, who was on his hands and knees but he generally had a small stool in his hands to make him a little higher, when moving about. This is described in Old Customs. On St. Andrew's Day it was a custom called "Tander" at Easton on the Hill, about 12 miles from Peterborough, and other places, of the boys locking the village Schoolmaster out of School and demanding the rest of the day as a holiday, before the door was reopened. If the Schoolmaster could obtain an entrance to the School before giving his consent, the holiday was not given. ST. THOMAS'S DAY, 21ST DECEMBER. The practice of women going Gooding is fast passing away. Very few bands of women are seen now in the towns, but at Farcet last year (1910) the widows received about two shillings each for their share. CHRISTMAS. For a few weeks before Christmas Day the Waits and Singers still come round during the night time and on Boxing Days they call for their Christmas Boxes. The singers have now degenerated into two or three children who huddle together on the doorsteps of houses and sing through the keyhole and letter box as fast and as loud as they can utter the various hymns of which, "When shepherds watched their flocks by night." As soon as they receive a halfpenny away they trot to the next house to repeat the performance. A Green Christmas makes a fat Churchyard. If a Christmas Day on a Thursday be, A windy winter we shall see. If the sun shines on Christmas day for however short a time, the following year will be good for fruit. INNOCENTS DAY, DECEMBER 28TH. Called "Dyzemass Day," it is considered very unlucky to begin anything on this day and about sixty or seventy years ago many old people kept this day more sacred than an ordinary Sunday. COUNTRY DANCES. In the old County families the Christmas or New Year's dances in which tenants and servants all united together are still kept up in this district and anticipated and enjoyed as heartily as ever. The up-to-date dances are divided by the old Country dances which go with a vim and are enjoyed by all. In these dances the Master, Mistress, family and friends dance with the servants to the mutual good will and good feeling of all concerned. The dance is generally opened by a Country dance in which the Lady has the Butler for a partner and the Master the Housekeeper, and it is generally a handsacross and down the middle so that everyone meets during the dance. "The triumph" is a great favourite and opens with the lady being taken down the centre by the gentleman next to her partner who follows them to the bottom of the room and the two bring her back, each holding her by one hand and their other hands clasped and held over the ladys head with a very pretty effect. "La Tempête" for noise and merriment takes a lot of beating and would suit the modern dancing as it partakes more of a romp than a dance. The "Ribbon Dance" when each couple holds the end of a ribbon (red, white, or blue). This is very pretty when the ribbons are held up in the dance. There are many others which might be mentioned but space is limited. Sir Roger de Coverley always closed the ball. SEDAN CHAIRS. A Sedan Chair used to be seen in the streets of Peterborough until the early seventies. Certain old ladies would only go to Church or entertainments in it because it was taken into the entrance of the house or other place so that they could get in and out without being exposed to the weather. The harness worn by one of the men is seen in Peterborough Museum. In 1905; for the first time within the recollection of the inhabitants of Peterborough, St. John's Church Bells were not rung on Wyldbore's day as the bell tower was not considered safe. The sermon was preached as usual. At the end of the sowing season a large "Siblet" or seed cake, was made for the farm labourers who ate it, and drank success to the sowing in home brewed ale or mead. The Curfew Bell is still rung at the Minster from May 1st, to August 31st, at 8-50 p.m., and from September 1st, to April 30th, at 7-50 p.m. It has only been discontinued for a short time and this was during the Commonwealth, since it was first started. FIT RINGS. To cure fits:--If a female, she collects nine pieces of silver and nine three half-pennies from bachelors. The silver money is made into a ring, to be worn by the afflicted person and the half-pence is paid to the maker of the ring for his work. If a male, he collects from females. I knew an old silversmith who was in great request to make these rings. He used to save broken silver spoons to make the rings but lately he found out he could buy the rings ready made so he did not trouble to make any afterwards. WEDDING RINGS. It is unlucky for a bride to reverse her wedding ring on her wedding day. If a bride can be persuaded to remove her ring and have some bride cake passed through the ring, and the cake, so passed, put under the pillow, the person will dream of her future spouse. GAMES. EARTH AIR AND WATER. This was a favourite game at Christmas parties for forfeits. The players sit all round the room, a small ball or a handkerchief tied up is then thrown by the leader at one. After several feints so as to catch one not watching and throw the ball at that one and shouting Earth Air, or Water, and as soon as the word is said begins to count up to ten as fast as possible. The person hit by the ball has to name a bird, beast, or fish before ten has been counted or pays a forfeit. A name must not be mentioned which has been used by another person as that also entails a forfeit. It was not a game for a stammering person. I LOVE MY LOVE. This is another forfeit game. All sit round the room and one begins I love my love with an A, because he is amiable, and everyone follows in their turn by repeating the form and qualification, beginning with the same letter as Active, Artful, &c. Anyone using the word which has been used pays a forfeit. Then it goes round with the letter B and so on through the alphabet. The Quaker Wedding:--The leader goes round with his eyes looking on the ground and sings "Hast thou ever been to a Quaker's Wedding."? This is repeated until he or she stops before one of the party, who then answers--Nay, friend, nay. The leader then says, "Do as I do, Twiddle thy thumbs and follow me." The selected one follows the leader singing the same words and both twiddling their thumbs. Then they are all got in line facing one way and kneel together as close as possible. When all are kneeling the leader gives a sly push to the one next to her and the whole row fall over amidst great laughter. I have played this game at Christmas time and it was sometimes fixed as a forfeit. When playing a losing game at Cards, Dominoes, etc., the chair in which the unlucky player is sitting should be turned (by the occupant) from right to left, to change the luck. It has been thought that this turning is a form of Sun Worship. Crane.:--This game was generally played during the Harvest Home Feast. "A man holds in his hand a long stick, with another tied to the top of it, in the form of an L. reversed, which represents the long neck and beak of the crane. This with himself, is entirely covered with a large sheet. He mostly makes excellent sport as he puts the whole company to the rout, pecking at the young girl's and old men's heads, nor stands he upon the least ceremony in this character, but he takes the liberty to break the master's pipe, and spill his beer, as freely as those of his men." This mostly begins the night's diversions, as the prologue to the rest, while the booted boys wind up the entertainment. _Clare._ Village Minstrel. HANDSELL. It is still a custom if a child has anything new to wear, to handsell it. That is to give a small coin to put in the pocket. The first money received on the day is called taking Handsell, and some spit on it and turn it to get good luck. When anything is used for the first time it is handselled. BOOT. This was a kind of punishment for such boys as have carelessly neglected their duty in the harvest, or treated their labour with negligence instead of attention, as letting their cattle get pounded or overthrowing their loads, etc. A long form is placed in the kitchen upon which the boys who have worked well sit, as a terror and disgrace to the rest in a bent posture, with their hands laid on each others backs forming a hedge for the "boys," as the truant boys are called to pass over; while a strong chap stands on each side with a boot-legging strongly strapping them as they scuffle over the bridge, which is done as fast as their ingenuity can carry them. _Clare's_ Village Minstrel. Meeting eyebrows are lucky, and those having them are said to have great luck with stock. CUTTING NAILS. Cut your nails on a Monday, cut for a gift. Cut your nails on a Tuesday, cut them for thrift. Cut your nails on a Wednesday, cut them for news. Cut your nails on a Thursday, cut for a new pair of shoes. Cut your nails on a Friday, cut them for sorrow, Cut your nails on a Saturday, see your sweetheart to-morrow. Cut them on Sunday, cut them for evil. Cut them all the week round, and you'll go to the devil. Better that child had ne'er been born, Who cuts its nails on a Sunday morn. Of a Friday's pare, No good will come near. If you cut your nails on Monday morning before breakfast, and without thinking of a fox's tail, you will have a gift before the week is out. When told this, I asked, Why not a fox's brush? "Oh, no!" was the reply, "you may think of the brush but not the tail." White specks on the nails are called gifts, and the rhyme says:-- A gift on the finger is sure to linger, A gift on the thumb, is sure to come. In this district many mothers will not allow their babie's nails to be cut before they are a year old, but they bite the edges off. If the nails are cut the children grow up thieves. A new born babe, before being taken out of the house, should be carried up some stairs, but if it is born in a room at the top of the house, the nurse lifts it up and gets on a chair, and puts the child on the top of something high, so that it may rise in the world. If a pair of shoes are placed on the table a quarrel is sure to ensue. This part of the county appears to possess more than the normal number of senses. I have often heard people speak of their seven senses. Only a short time ago a woman speaking of a neighbour who was a great sleeper, and also of her child, said they would sleep away their seven senses. And another woman who was startled said, "You're enough to frighten me out of my seven senses." I should like to know what the two extra senses are. Instinct may, perhaps, be one! MARRIAGE. Three times a bridesmaid, will die an old maid. BRIDE'S DRESS. Married in Grey, you will go far away. Married in Black, you will wish yourself back. Married in Brown, you will live out of town. Married in Red, you will wish yourself dead. Married in Pearl, you will live in a whirl. Married in Green, ashamed to be seen. Married in Yellow, ashamed of your fellow. Married in Blue, he will always be true. Married in Pink, your spirits will sink. Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday the best day of all. Thursday for losses, Friday for crosses, Saturday no luck at all. Marry on Sunday so that you cannot repent before the week is out. ANIMALS. If a dog howls in front of a house it is a sign of a death very soon. If a woman in the house takes off her left shoe and turns it upside down and puts her foot on it the dog ceases howling. I know of one instance where a dog howled in front of a house, and the mistress seeing and hearing the dog took off her left shoe and put her foot on it. The dog was in the midst of a howl, and he finished it with a yell and turned away and ran from the house as fast as possible, but he returned very soon and howled again. It was very strange, but an invalid visitor was staying in the house, and he died exactly a week after the howling. To be followed by a strange dog is lucky. If a cat licks her foot and passes it over her left ear it is a sign that a stranger will soon come. When a cat lies with her tail turned to the fire it is a sign of hard weather. If a cat licks her tail it betokens rain. A strange black cat brings good luck into a house. When a cat is taken to a new home its feet should be buttered, and it will stop. If a cat has a cold and sneezes, all the people in the house will catch it. When Noah's Ark is seen in the sky it is a sign of much rain. It is described by Clare as "a long dark cloud stretching across the heavens, broad in the centre and tapering at each end, resembling the figure of the ark, and supposed to foretell great floods. But it depends on the direction of the ark. If it is from south to north it is a sign of good weather, but if from east to west bad weather." Rain before seven, clear up before eleven. Rain water collected as it falls on Holy Thursday is very good for diseases of the eye. If it rains on St. Swithin's day it portends a good crop of apples. Rain in the east, three days at least. You should always wish when on strange ground. If you shiver someone is walking over your grave. This means someone is talking of your death. If you have a toothache you don't love true. Wounds and corns aching are signs of rain or frost. Left cheek burning someone is speaking well of you, Right cheek burning someone is speaking ill of you. But if you bite your finger when your cheek burns the person speaking ill of you will bite his or her tongue. Right cheek, left friend, Left cheek, right friend. It is unlucky for a man to meet a cross-eyed woman, but the ill-luck is broken if he spits on the opposite side to that by which he passes her. To lay an umbrella on a bed is to bring disappointment to the occupant. If a shirt, or any other garment, is put on inside out, it must remain so all day and so avoid bad luck. A Caul or Kell is the thin membrane which sometimes covers the face of an infant at its birth, and is supposed to betoken good fortune. Sometimes they are sold, and the general price used to be about three guineas. Seafaring men would buy them as preservatives from drowning, and also for good luck. In 1862 a poor woman wanted to sell one to my mother for my welfare, and all sorts of good luck and fortune were to belong to the possessor, but my mother would not speculate, so I lost the chance. When pricked by a thorn, and to prevent the wound from festing, the following verse should be repeated: Our Saviour was of a Virgin born, His head was crowned with a crown of thorn, It never cankered or festered at all, And I hope in Christ Jesus this never shall. When a wise woman, or anyone, is called in to attend and charm anyone, the person to be operated upon must have an earnest belief that a cure will be effected, and the words "Please" and "Thank you" must not be used or the charm fails. In some cases the charmer blesses or hallows cords or leather thongs which the patient wore tied round the neck. WHOOPING COUGH. On the 22nd January, 1908, two women were talking together in Long Causeway. One asked the other how her child was? (It was suffering from whooping cough). The mother replied, "No better. The other day Mrs. ---- told me to steal a bit of raw meat from a butcher's and cut a hole in it, and put a lock of my hair in the hole and give it to a dog to eat. I did it, but it is no better." I had previously heard this, but with the difference that it should be a lock of the child's hair. WASHING. They who wash on a Monday have all the week to dry, They who wash on a Tuesday are not so much awry, They who wash on a Wednesday not so much to blame, They who wash on a Thursday wash for shame, They who wash on a Friday wash in need, But they who wash on Saturday are sluts indeed. It is unlucky to wash on "Good Friday." The legend says:--"A woman who was washing when Our Lord was passing on his way to be crucified threw some dirty water over him." Two persons washing together in the same basin or bowl, or drying themselves with the same towel, will very soon quarrel, but this may be prevented by each making the sign of a cross with their finger-tips on the surface of the water. If, when washing, the soap slips from your hands and falls on the ground you will hear of a death before the week is out. If a woman has a fine day for washing the first time after Michaelmas Day, she will have fine washing days all the year. SNEEZING. Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for danger, sneeze on Tuesday, kiss a stranger, sneeze on Wednesday get a letter, sneeze on Thursday, something better, sneeze on Friday, sneeze for sorrow, Saturday, see your true love to-morrow. To sneeze three times in succession, is a sign of a gift. PETERBOROUGH CATHEDRAL. On July 26th, 1681, the Rev. John Wray, M.A., F.R.S., writes in his diary:-- "We (Mr. Wray and Mr. Willoughby) began our journey northwards from Cambridge, and that day, passing through Huntingdon and Stilton, we rode as far as Peterborough, 25 miles. There I first heard the Cathedral Service. The Choristers made us pay money for coming into the choir with our spurs on." BELLS. Helpston cracked pippins, And Northborough cracked pans, Glinton fine Organs, And Peakirk tin pans. The Churches of Tansor and Cotterstock are not very far from each other. Cotterstock has four bells, and Tansor only two. The villagers say that the Cotterstock bells ask: "Who rings the best? Who rings the best?" and Tansor proudly and rapidly replies, "We do, We do, We do, We do." Tansor now possesses three bells, so their answer now is "We three do." The Pancake bell is still rung regularly in Peterborough on Shrove Tuesday. The Gleaning bell is rung in the district. In some Parishes a bell was tolled during the time of a corpse being put in its shroud, and was called the "Winding Bell." The Church Bells of Helpston, Northborough, Glinton, and Peakirk are described as:-- PERSONAL. A mole spot on the body, is considered lucky. One with the mole on the neck, will gather money by the peck. A mole on the left shoulder, betokens a drunken husband. Right eye itching, sign of joy, Left eye itching, sign of sorrow. Right eye joy, left eye cry. If your nose itches, you will kiss or shake hands with a fool. Nose itching, going to hear news. Rub it on wood and it's sure to come good. Palm of right hand itching, you will receive money. Left palm itching, you will pay money away. If your knee itches, you will kneel in a strange Church. If your foot itches, you will walk on strange ground. FOLK LORE (3) The moon, meek guardian of the night. _John Clare_ (unpub.) To see the new moon for the first time through glass is unlucky especially the first one in the year. You should always turn the money in your pockets when you see the first new moon in the year, and if one of the other sex is near an interchange of kisses increases the good luck. To see the new moon the first time over your right shoulder is lucky, but if over the left shoulder it is unlucky. The first new moon in the year is stronger in its influence than the others. If the new moon does not appear until the fourth day, it foretells a troubled time for the whole month. When the moon appears on the fourth day very clear and sharp and rather on the slant, it promises mostly fair weather for the month. An erect moon is said to threaten wind. Near full moon a misty sunrise, Bodes fair weather and cloudless skies. When the clouds of the moon to the West fly away, You may safely rely on a settled fair day. When mountains and cliffs in the clouds appear, Some sudden or violent showers are near. Sun rising red and fiery foretells wind and rain. If cloudy and the clouds decrease it is a sign of fair weather. If after rising the sun goes to bed again (that is going behind clouds) it is a sure sign of rain. The evening red, the morning grey, Are surely signs of a very fine day. Children are told they may go and play in the fields, or open, when the sun shines on both sides of the hedge. A black cat following anyone into a home brings good luck. Mice coming into a house indicate a death. A mouse running over anyone is an infallible sign of death. The squeaking of mice behind the bed of an invalid, or the appearance of a white mouse running across a room, are also signs of death. Pigs should be killed when the moon is on the rise. If killed when the moon is waning the fat of the pork will shrink. It is unlucky to bring a squirrel into a house. The first time you see any lambs turn your money. If their heads are turned towards you it is lucky, but if their tails it is the reverse. Moles work harder than general before rain. A mole's foot carried in the pocket is a sure prevention against witches. BIRDS. Crows foretell rain when they caw and walk along on the banks of rivers and pools. A crow alighting in front of anyone walking is unlucky. Two crows bring good luck, and if they fly away over the person's head it is very great good luck. Four crows foretell a death in the person's family. I was recently told that two crows alighting on a house betokens a death, and a very peculiar instance was given. My informant told me that his coat of arms bears three Choughs and the night before his father died two crows sat on the window sill of his father's bedroom, and it was remarked that one of the three birds being absent foretold the death which occurred next day. A bird flying into a house foretells a death. A white pigeon is a bird of ill omen, and if after hovering about it alights on a house it is a token of the death of one of the inmates. A hen crowing is a sign of death. When swallows fly low it foretells rain. The cuckoo comes in May. In June he changes his tune. In July he goes away. In August away he must, for a cuckoo in September nobody can remember. It is said woodlarks are never found in Northamptonshire. Larks rising very high and singing for a long time is a sign of fine weather. Kites flying aloft betokens fine weather. Peacock's feathers, even now, are considered to bring bad luck into a house. When you see a heron flying the first time in the year put the tips of your right thumb and the finger nearest the thumb together and form a ring. Then wish and at the same time spit through the opening, and if the spittle does not touch the hand the wish comes to pass. This, I believe, is a strictly local custom, as there is a heronry in Milton Park, about three miles from Peterborough. BEES. On the death of their master or mistress one of the family or household must go to the hives and tap on them and say who is dead and who is to be their new master. If this is neglected the bees will pine away. Some sugared beer is given to the bees at these times. The various flights of bees are named as follows: A swarm. 2. A cast. 3. A colt or second cast, and should there be a fourth, which is very rare, it is called a spem--a swarm from a swarm is called a virgin swarm. The different values of the swarms are described in this rhyme: A swarm of bees in May Is worth a load of hay; A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoon; A swarm of bees in July Is not worth a fly. Bees flying far from their hives and coming home late foretells fine weather. Bees are more industrious just before rain, but do their best to reach their hives before the rain falls. INSECTS. Spiders were considered efficacious in cases of Ague. If put alive in a bag and tied round the neck or swallowed alive wrapped in paste. If you wish to live and thrive Let the spiders run alive. Spider webs in the air or on the grass and nets foretells fair weather. A spider on one's clothes means a new suit or dress. Woodlice, of the kind which roll themselves up when touched, if swallowed in that state, were taken for the ague. With regard to wearing out boots, there is a doggrel on this subject:-- Trip at the toe, live to know woe, Trip at the ball, live to spend all, Trip at the heel, live to do well. One funeral brings two more. A variation of this makes the "two more" dependent on a Sunday intervening between the death and burial of the body. Another variation affirms that the first death must be that of a female. When a grave opens for a "she," it will open for three. It is the custom, in some places, to place some salt, in a pewter plate, on the chest of a dead body; but especially when the death has been through dropsy. This was done only a short time since. The roaring noise of a fire foretells a quarrel in the house. A thin flake of smut on a bar of the grate betokens a visit from a stranger. Cinders flying out of the fire, taking the form of a purse and giving a jingling noise when shaken, foretells the receiving of money. When they are in the shape of a coffin (and with no jingling) this betokens a death. If anyone by stirring or otherwise makes a dull fire get bright, it is said to make his or her sweetheart smile. To prevent cramp at night place your shoes by the bedside in the form of a T. One end pointed to, and the end of the other shoe pointed from the bed, is also considered a preventative. Knives laid edge upwards on the table cut Angels' feet. Two knives, crossed on the table, foretells a quarrel within an hour. To drop a knife mean a male visitor and, in the case of a fork, a female visitor. Never give, or accept, a sharp edged or pointed present without giving a coin in exchange, or friendship will be broken. Knives crossed and laid on the floor is a strong protection against the power of witchcraft. A very old woman told me she once tried the knives on one of her neighbours, as she suspected the woman of overlooking her; so she asked the woman to come and see her one day but before the woman came into the house she crossed two knives and put them on the floor in a dark corner. When the suspected person came in she wouldn't sit down and soon left, appearing to be very uncomfortable; so she was a "wrong un" but the old lady said she was all right after that, and had no more trouble. Straws crossed and placed on a footpath, or on the road, prevents a witch from passing. Many years since I remember hearing of this being done as a suspected woman was coming along, and it was said the woman got very angry and foamed at the mouth but she didn't pass the straws. The following is in use at the present time:-- If a husband runs away from his wife she buys a pennyworth of Dragon's Blood, wraps it in paper, and places it under her pillow when she goes to bed, and it is sure to draw him back again. A chemist in Peterborough had a letter a few years since, from a woman in the Fens, asking him to send her a "pennorth of Dragons Blood" for this very purpose; and the following shows that the custom is in use, even in the United States of America, at the present time according to the following extract from the "Daily Express" of 18th February, 1905: Drank Dragon's Blood. Buffalo Bill's wife gave him love Philtres. "Express" Correspondent. Cheyenne (Wyoming), Friday, February 17th., 1905. It came out, during the hearing of Buffalo Bill's divorce case to-day, that he had been dosed with many love Philtres. Mrs. Cody, his wife, was extremely jealous of him and imagining that his affection for her was gone, mixed gipsy love potions in his drinks. One of these, which was supposed to be particularly efficacious, was known as "Dragon's Blood." Mrs. Parker, a witness, told the court that Mrs. Cody believed that every woman was infatuated with her husband, and confided to her the names of many prominent women who, she said, were in love with him. The witness stated, in cross examination, that during these outbursts of jealousy Colonel Cody was beside himself with rage. Dragon's Blood is not a fluid. It is a resin from certain kinds of palm. At Oundle "There is a Well that is credibly reported to drum as a presage of very great alterations to publick affairs." M.S.S. dated 1703, of the Phillips Stourhead Collection, No. 22244. I came across this Croyland rhyme some time since:-- In Holland fen, now mark the name, Old Croyland stands, of mickle fame, There is a wine of a certain class, There is fodder like sword grass, There's a bed as hard as stone, Thence depart, with "get ye gone." If you can peel an apple with the paring in one piece take the peel by one end with the right hand and wave it three times over your head and throw it over your left shoulder, and it will fall in the form of the first letter of your sweetheart's christian or surname. With the first cherry pie of the season, those who partake of it count the stones, to know their prospect of matrimony. The counting is done in this manner and, at the same time, repeating these words over and over again until all the stones on the plate have been counted:-- 1st. stone "This year," 2nd stone "Next year," 3rd stone "Sometime," 4th. stone "Never," and on which word the last stone falls, that is the fate. GENERAL. "Grandfather" Clocks, and especially those which have been in a family for two or three generations, are regarded as capable of foretelling deaths in a family. If one falls down, stops without any apparent cause, or strikes several times more that it ought to do without stopping, then these events are certain signs of death. A well known barrister told me he had bought an old Grandfather clock, and his man had entire charge of it. One morning the man found the clock had fallen down during the night and he was very much disturbed about it and said there would be a death soon, and within a week the man's father died. In another case a man said he was cleaning a clock which his father had made, and the owner told him what a good clock it was, but, said she, "It was completely master of your father for a time. He came to clean it one day, and after a few weeks it stopped, and he went again and attended to it, but it was no use, so was given up as a bad job. The owner was certain a death would soon occur, and shortly after her husband's mother died. When she heard of the death she set the pendulum swinging, and it had never stopped since, except to be cleaned." It is very seldom that other kinds of clocks are credited with these powers although at Werrington there was, in a cottage, a small wooden Dutch clock called in this neighbourhood a "Sheep's head" clock. It was hanging on the wall and had not been going for some years, the weights and pendulum had been lost and the lines were wrapped round the clock. One Sunday morning before the woman and her husband had risen from bed, but were both wide awake, they distinctly heard this clock strike "one" and by the next mail they received notice that their son, a soldier on Foreign service, had died that Sunday morning, and at one o'clock. There are several things worn as charms and amulets, which are attributed with various powers, and one favourite is a "Lucky bone" which is worn for good luck. This bone is taken from a sheep's head, and is in the form of a T. A stone with a hole through it, is worn and highly valued for its Good Luck. The stones that have only one large hole, are hung on bed heads, and in stables. Horse shoes, when found, are very lucky and should be nailed over the threshold, or over the hearth. I have seen some at Cotterstock Hall, Alwalton Hall, and other houses, attached to the door. They are also nailed over stable doors. If there are any nails in the shoe, when found by a single person, then, as many nails as there are, so many years will it be before the marriage of that person. Thorney men, seeing a small portion of a horse shoe lying in the road, pick it up and throw it over their shoulder, so that no ill-luck may befall them. A knuckle bone or a cramp bone carried in the pocket prevents cramp. A potato, chestnut or a nutmeg carried in the pocket prevents rheumatism. A piece of wicken is worn as a cure for the ague. A mole's foot or a load stone, in the pocket, is a protection against witches. Although lamps and gas have generally supplanted candles, in the country where candles are still used, the spark on the wick is considered to denote the coming of a letter, and the melted tallow or composition forming a winding sheet denotes a death. When a candle burns blue or dim, a spirit is said to be in the room. It is very unlucky to return to the house for anything after leaving it, although the spell is broken if the person sits down before coming out of the house again. Two people, meeting on a staircase, is a sign of an approaching wedding. When walking together, two lovers must not pass on different sides of turnstiles, road posts, or lamp posts, or they will certainly quarrel. It is bad luck, when two persons are walking together, to separate and one to turn back against a gate; but if one of them sits down for a time, whilst the other walks away, the bad luck is turned. To spill salt is a sign of sorrow or anger; but if the spilt salt is gathered up in a spoon and thrown over the left shoulder the luck is turned. An old shoe thrown after anyone starting on a new undertaking is considered to carry good luck; especially if it goes over the head and does not hit the person. Flies are more troublesome before rain. Gnats playing up and down in the open air near sunset is a sign of heat. If in the shade, warm and mild showers, but if they join in stinging those who pass them it presages cold weather and rain. Children, even now, when they find a Ladybird or cow lady say:-- Click, Clock, Clay. What time o'day. One o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock, Click, clock, clay. Another custom is to get a ladybird and put it on the back of the hand and say:-- Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, Your horse is on foot, your children are gone; All but one, and that's little John, And he lies under the grindle stone. If it does not fly away then it is thrown up into the air. In some places the insect is called cow lady, and then the rhyme begins cow lady, cow lady, etc. PLANTS. When the Dandelion clocks are blowing children carefully pluck them and with as perfect a head as possible hold it upright in front of them and say:-- Clicketty, Clock, what's o'clock? and then try and blow as much off the head as possible, and as many times as it takes to blow the down off the heads such will be the time. Children gather Timothy grass and beginning with the top seed say:-- Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor, Rich man, Poor man, Beggar man, Thief. At each word the hand touches the next seed and on whichever name the last seed comes such will be the sweetheart. The words are repeated over and over again until all the seeds are counted. FLOWERS AND SEEDS. Clare mentions these signs in his Shepherds Calender And scarlet-starry points of flowers, Pimpernel, dreading nights and showers Oft call'd "the Shepherd's weather-glass," That sleeps till suns have dried the grass, Then wakes, and spreads its creeping bloom, Till clouds with threatening shadows come, Then close it shuts to sleep again; Which weeders see and talk of rain, And boys, that mark them shut so soon, Call "John that goes to bed at noon." Seeds should be sown and plants and roots planted when the moon is on the rise to ensure successful results. If seeds are sown when the moon is on the wane there will be bad crops. If a man or woman plants a sage tree and it thrives, the one who planted the tree will rule the house. If a single man pulls up a sage tree at midnight on Christmas Eve a storm will arise and the man's future wife will appear. It is unlucky to bring holly into the house before Christmas Eve. All evergreens used for Christmas decoration should be burnt on Candlemas day and care must be taken to burn all the holly berries, otherwise a death in the family may be expected for each berry left in the house unburnt. Mistletoe should hang in the house from one Christmas to another. It is unlucky to bring the May flower or the Chestnut blossom into the house. If flowers like the Dandelion or Pimpernel are closed or shut up it fortells rain and bad weather, but if quite open fine weather. When the mulberry tree begins to shoot, the last frost has gone. In Hunts it is called the wise tree. The shooting of the Ash and Oak in the Spring is carefully watched, and the first appearance of the new shoots accords with this rhyme:-- If the Ash before the Oak, Then there'll be a regular soak; But if the Oak before the Ash, Then there'll only be a splash, I have seen children eating apples and taking the pips one by one and repeating this doggrel:-- Cobbley, Cobbley, fly away Bring me an apple tomorrow day. At the words "fly away" they used to throw the pip away, in the firm belief that they would have another apple the next day for every pip thrown; but only one pip from each apple could be used by each child. KING'S CLIFFE. On Palm Sunday the Church used to be decorated with palm branches in the seats and windows. On Christmas Day the parishoners and clerk used to meet at the Church, at three o'clock in the morning and sing a Psalm and then proceed to the Cross, and to every gentleman's house in the town for which they received a largesse during the holidays. A winding bell used be tolled on a dead person being put into her shroud. GODMANCHESTER. If a man dies intestate and leaves a family the youngest son becomes the heir to the property. HUNTINGDON. Once a year, the Freemen of Huntingdon used to meet on the Market Hill, they then proceeded in procession dragging a horse's skull with them and perambulated the bounds of the Freemen's lands. At certain points there are boundry holes dug, these holes they re-dig and hold a boy (one of the Freemen's sons) up by his heels with his head in the hole, and strike him (on the part prepared by nature for that purpose), with the spade. This is done at each hole. A different boy was whipped at every hole so that several could remember where the holes were dug, especially the hole at which each individual had suffered, and the memory of the hole was impressed on mind and body, and the position of the boundary marks were thus registered. For many years the annual custom has been discontinued, and takes place at irregular intervals. It has only occurred once during this century. The men of Godmanchester sometimes formed bands on the same day and when they met the men of Huntingdon a free fight and struggle took place between them to secure the horse's skull. 
15186	----	FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS SCANDINAVIAN W. W. Gibbings 18 Bury St., London, W.C. 1890 PREFATORY NOTE. Thanks to Thiele, to Hylten-Cavallius and Stephens, and to Asbjörnsen and Moe, Scandinavian Folklore is well to the front. Its treasures are many, and of much value. One may be almost sorry to find among them the originals of many of our English tales. Are we indebted to the folk of other nations for all our folk-tales? It would almost seem so. I have introduced into the present volume only one or two stories from the Prose Edda. Space would not allow me to give so much of the Edda as I could have wished. In selecting and translating the matter for this volume, I have endeavoured to make the book such as would afford its readers a fair general view of the main features of the Folklore of the North. C.J.T. CONTENTS The Wonderful Plough (Isle of Rugen) How a Lad stole the Giant's Treasure (Sweden) Tales of Cats (Denmark) The Magician's Daughter (Sweden) The Hill-man invited to the Christening (Denmark) The Meal of Frothi (Norway) The Lost Bell (Isle of Rugen) Maiden Swanwhite and Maiden Foxtail (Sweden) Tales of Treasure (Denmark) Holger Danske (Denmark) Tales from the Prose Edda-- The Gods and the Wolf The Strange Builder Thor's Journey to the Land of Giants How Thor Went a-Fishing The Death of Baldur The Punishment of Loki The Origin of Tiis Lake (Denmark) There are such Women (Norway) Tales of the Nisses (Denmark) The Dwarfs' Banquet (Norway) The Icelandic Sorceresses (Eyrbiggia Saga) The Three Dogs (Sweden) The Legend of Thorguima (Eyrbiggia Saga) The Little Glass Shoe (Isle of Rugen) How Loki Wagered his Head (Edda Resenii) The Adventures of John Dietrich (Isle of Rugen) How Thorston Became Rich (Thorston's Saga) Gudbrand of the Hillside (Norway) The Dwarf-Sword Tirfing (Hervarar Saga) THE WONDERFUL PLOUGH. There was once a farmer who was master of one of the little black dwarfs that are the blacksmiths and armourers, and he got him in a very curious way. On the road leading to this farmer's ground there stood a stone cross, and every morning as he went to his work he used to stop and kneel down before this cross, and pray for some minutes. On one of these occasions he noticed on the cross a pretty, bright insect, of such a brilliant hue that he could not recollect having ever before seen the like in an insect. He wondered greatly at this, but still he did not disturb it. The insect did not remain long quiet, but ran without ceasing backwards and forwards upon the cross, as if it was in pain and wanted to get away. Next morning the farmer again saw the very same insect, and again it was running to and fro in the same state of uneasiness. The farmer began now to have some suspicions about it, and thought to himself-- "Would this now be one of the little black enchanters? It runs about just like one that has an evil conscience, as one that would, but cannot, get away." A variety of thoughts and conjectures passed through his mind, and he remembered what he had often heard from his father and other old people, that when any of the underground people chance to touch anything holy they are held fast and cannot quit the spot, and so they are extremely careful to avoid all such things. "But," thought he, "you may even be something else, and I should, perhaps, be committing a sin in taking the little insect away." So he let it stay where it was. When, however, he twice again found it in the same place, and still running about with the same signs of uneasiness, he said-- "No, it is not all right with it, so now, in the name of God." He made a grasp at the insect, which resisted and clung fast to the stone; but he held it tight, and tore it away by main force, and lo! then he found he had, by the top of the head, a little ugly black chap, about six inches long, screeching and kicking at a furious rate. The farmer was greatly astounded at this sudden transformation. Still he held his prize fast, and kept calling to him, while he administered to him a few smart slaps-- "Be quiet, be quiet, my little man! If crying was to do the business, we might look for heroes in swaddling-clothes. We'll just take you with us a bit, and see what you are good for." The little fellow trembled and shook in every limb, and then began to whimper most piteously, and begged of the farmer to let him go. "No, my lad," replied the farmer, "I will not let you go till you tell me who you are, and how you came here, and what trade you know that enables you to earn your bread in the world." At this the little man grinned and shook his head, but said not a word in reply, only begging and praying the more to get loose. The farmer thought he must now entreat him if he would coax any information out of him. But it was all to no purpose. He then adopted the contrary method, and whipped and slashed him, but just to as little effect. The little black thing remained as dumb as the grave, for this species is the most malicious and obstinate of all the underground folk. The farmer now got angry, and said-- "Do but be quiet, my child. I should be a fool to put myself into a passion with such a little brat. Never fear, I shall soon make you tame enough." So saying, he ran home with him, and clapped him into a black sooty iron pot, and put the iron lid upon it, and laid on the top of the lid a great heavy stone. Then he set the pot in a dark, cold room, and as he was going out, said to him-- "Stay there, now, and freeze till you are black! I'll engage that at last you will answer me civilly." Twice a week the farmer went regularly into the room and asked his little black captive if he would answer him now, but the little one still obstinately persisted in his silence. The farmer had, without success, pursued this course for six weeks, at the end of which time his prisoner at last gave up. One day, as the farmer was opening the room door, of his own accord he asked him to come and take him out of his dirty, gloomy dungeon, promising that he would now cheerfully do all that was wanted of him. The farmer first ordered him to tell him his history. The black one replied-- "My dear friend, you know it just as well as I do, or else you never would have had me here. You see I happened by chance to come too near the cross, a thing we little people may not do, and then I was held fast, and obliged instantly to let my body become visible. In order that people might not recognise me, I turned myself into an insect. But you found me out. When we get fastened to holy or consecrated things we can never get away from them unless a man takes us off. That, however, does not happen without plague and annoyance to us; though, indeed, to say the truth, the staying fastened there is not over pleasant. So I struggled against you too, for we have a natural aversion to let ourselves be taken in a man's hand." "Ho, ho! is that the tune with you?" cried the farmer. "You have a natural aversion have you? Believe me, my sooty friend, I have just the same for you, and so you shall be away without a moment's delay, and we will lose no time in making our bargain with each other. But you must first make me some present." "What you will you have only to ask," said the little one, "silver and gold, and precious stones, and costly furniture--all shall be thine in less than an instant." "Silver and gold, and precious stones, and all such glittering fine things, will I none," said the farmer. "They have turned the heart and broken the neck of many a one before now, and few are they whose lives they make happy. I know that you are handy smiths, and have many a strange thing with you that other smiths know nothing about. So, come now, swear to me that you will make me an iron plough, such that the smallest foal may be able to draw it without being tired, and then run off with you as fast as your legs will carry you." So the black swore, and then the farmer cried out-- "Now, in the name of God. There you are at liberty," and the little one vanished like lightning. Next morning, before the sun was up, there stood in the farmer's yard a new iron plough, and he yoked his dog, Water, to it; and though it was of the size of an ordinary plough, Water drew it with ease through the heaviest clayland, and it tore up prodigious furrows. The farmer used this plough for many years, and the smallest foal or the leanest little horse could draw it through the ground, to the amazement of every one who beheld it, without turning a single hair. This plough made a rich man of the farmer, for it cost him no horse-flesh, and he led a cheerful and contented life by means of it. Hereby we may see that moderation holds out the longest, and that it is not good to covet too much. HOW A LAD STOLE THE GIANT'S TREASURE. Once upon a time there lived a peasant who had three sons. The two elder ones used to go with him to the field and to the forest, and helped him in his work, but the youngest remained at home with his mother, to help her in the house. His brothers despised him for doing this, and whenever they had a chance they used him badly. At length the father and mother died, and the sons divided the property among them. As might have been looked for, the elder brothers took all that was of any value for themselves, leaving nothing to the youngest but an old cracked kneading-trough, which neither of them thought worth the having. "The old trough," said one of the brothers, "will do very well for our young brother, for he is always baking and scrubbing." The boy thought this, as was only natural, a poor thing to inherit, but he could do nothing, and he now recognised that it would be no use his remaining at home, so he wished his brothers good-bye, and went off to seek his fortune. On coming to the side of a lake he made his trough water-tight with oakum, and converted it into a little boat. Then he found two sticks, and using these as oars rowed away. When he had crossed the water, he saw a large palace, and entering it, he asked to speak with the king. The king questioned him respecting his family and the purpose of his visit. "I," said the boy, "am the son of a poor peasant, and all I have in the world is an old kneading-trough. I have come here to seek work." The king laughed when he heard this. "Indeed," said he, "you have not inherited much, but fortune works many a change." He took the lad to be one of his servants, and he became a favourite for his courage and honesty. Now the king who owned this palace had an only daughter, who was so beautiful and so clever that she was talked of all through the kingdom, and many came from the east and from the west to ask her hand in marriage. The princess, however, rejected them all, saying that none should have her for his wife unless he brought her for a wedding-present four valuable things belonging to a giant who lived on the other side of the lake. These four treasures were a gold sword, three gold hens, a gold lantern, and a gold harp. Many king's sons and many good warriors tried to win these treasures, but none of them came back, for the giant caught them all and eat them. The king was very sorrowful, for he feared that at this rate his daughter would never get a husband, and so he would not have a son-in-law to whom to leave his kingdom. The boy when he heard of this thought that it might be well worth his while to try to win the king's beautiful daughter. So he went to the king one day, and told him what he meant to do. When the king heard him, he got angry, and said-- "Do you think that you, who are only a servant, can do what great warriors have failed in?" The boy, however, was not to be dissuaded, and begged him so to let him go that at last the king grew calmer and gave him his permission. "But," said he, "you will lose your life, and I shall be sorry to miss you." With that they parted. The boy went down to the shore of the lake, and, having found his trough, he looked it over very closely. Then he got into it and rowed across the lake, and coming to the giant's dwelling he hid himself, and stayed the night there. Very early in the morning, before it was light, the giant went to his barn, and began to thrash, making such a noise that the mountains all around echoed again. When the boy heard this he collected some stones and put them in his pouch. Then he climbed up on to the roof of the barn and made a little hole so that he could look in. Now the giant had by his side his golden sword, which had the strange property that it clanked whenever the giant was angry. While the giant was busy thrashing at full speed, the boy threw a little stone which hit the sword, and caused it to clank. "Why do you clank?" said the giant. "I am not angry." He went on thrashing, but the next moment the sword clanked again. Once more the giant pursued his work, and the sword clanked a third time. Then the giant got so angry that he undid the belt, and threw the sword out of the barn door. "Lie there," said he, "till I have done my thrashing." The lad waited no longer, but slipping down from the roof seized on the sword, ran to his boat, and rowed across the water. On reaching the other side he hid his treasure, and was full of glee at the success of his adventure. The next day he filled his pouch with corn, put a bundle of bast-twine in his boat, and once more set off to the giant's dwelling. He lay hiding for a time, and then he saw the giant's three golden hens walking about on the shore, and spreading their feathers, which sparkled beautifully in the bright sunshine. He was soon near them, and began to softly lead them on, scattering corn for them out of his pouch. While they were picking the boy gradually led them to the water, till at last he got them into his little boat. Then he jumped in himself, secured the fowl with his twine, pushed out from the shore, and rowed as quickly as he could to the other side of the water. The third day he put some lumps of salt into his pouch, and again rowed across the lake. As night came on he noticed how the smoke rose from the giant's dwelling, and concluded that the giant's wife was busy getting ready his food. He crept up on to the roof, and, looking down through the hole by which the smoke escaped, saw a large caldron boiling on the fire. Then he took the lumps of salt out of his pouch, and threw them one by one into the pot. Having done this, he crept down from the roof, and waited to see what would follow. Soon after the giant's wife took the caldron off the fire, poured out the porridge into a bowl, and put it on the table. The giant was hungry, and he fell to at once, but scarcely had he tasted the porridge when he found it too salt. He got very angry, and started from his seat. The old woman made what excuse she could, and said that the porridge must be good; but the giant declared he would eat no more of the stuff, and told her to taste it for herself. She did so, and pulled a terrible face, for she had never in her life tasted such abominable stuff. There was nothing for it but she must make some new porridge. So she seized a can, took the gold lantern down from the wall, and went as fast as she could to the well to draw some water. She put the lantern down by the side of the well, and was stooping down to get the water, when the boy ran to her, and, laying hold of her by the feet, threw her head over heels into the well. He seized hold of the golden lantern, ran away as fast as he could to his boat, and rowed across the water in safety. The giant sat for a long time wondering why his wife was away so long. At last he went to look for her, but nothing could he see of her. Then he heard a splashing in the well, and finding she was in the water, he, with a lot of work, got her out. "Where is my gold lantern?" was the first thing he asked, as the old woman came round a little. "I don't know," answered she. "Somebody came, caught me by the feet, and threw me into the well." The giant was very angry at this. "Three of my treasures," said he, "have gone, and I have now only my golden harp left. But, whoever the thief may be, he shall not have that; I will keep that safe under twelve locks." While these things occurred at the giant's dwelling, the boy sat on the other side of the water, rejoicing that he had got on so well. The most difficult task, however, had yet to be done, and for a long time he thought over how he could get the golden harp. At length he determined to row over to the giant's place and see if fortune would favour him. No sooner said than done. He rowed over and went to a hiding-place. The giant had, however, been on the watch, and had seen him. So he rushed forward in a terrible rage and seized the boy, saying-- "So I have caught you at last, you young rascal. You it was who stole my sword, my three gold hens, and my gold lantern." The boy was terribly afraid, for he thought his last hour was come. "Spare my life, father," said he humbly, "and I will never come here again." "No," replied the giant, "I will do the same with you as with the others. No one slips alive out of my hands." He then shut the boy up in a sty, and fed him with nuts and sweet milk, so as to get him nice and fat preparatory to killing and eating him. The lad was a prisoner, but he ate and drank and made himself as easy as he could. After some time the giant wanted to find out if he were fat enough to be killed. So he went to the sty, made a little hole in the wall, and told the boy to put his finger through it. The lad knew what he wanted; so instead of putting out his finger he poked out a little peeled alder twig. The giant cut the twig, and the red sap ran out. Then he thought the boy must be yet very lean since his flesh was so hard, so he caused a greater supply of milk and nuts to be given to him. Some time after, the giant again visited the sty, and ordered the boy to put his finger through the hole in the wall. The lad now poked out a cabbage-stalk, and the giant, having cut it with his knife, concluded that the lad must be fat enough, his flesh seemed so soft. The next morning the giant said to his wife-- "The boy seems to be fat enough now, mother; take him then to-day, and bake him in the oven, while I go and ask our kinsfolk to the feast." The old woman promised to do what her husband told her. So, having heated the oven, she dragged out the boy to bake him. "Sit on the shovel," said she. The boy did so, but when the old woman raised the shovel the boy always fell off. So they went on many times. At last the giantess got angry, and scolded the boy for being so awkward; the lad excused himself, saying that he did not know the way to sit on the shovel. "Look at me," said the woman, "I will show you." So she sat herself down on the shovel, bending her back and drawing up her knees. No sooner was she seated than the boy, seizing hold of the handle, pushed her into the oven and slammed the door to. Then he took the woman's fur cloak, stuffed it out with straw, and laid it on the bed. Seizing the giant's bunch of keys, he opened the twelve locks, snatched up the golden harp, and ran down to his boat, which he had hidden among the flags on the shore. The giant soon afterwards came home. "Where can my wife be?" said he. "No doubt she has lain down to sleep a bit. Ah! I thought so." The old woman, however, slept a long while, and the giant could not wake her, though he was now expecting his friends to arrive. "Wake up, mother," cried he, but no one replied. He called again, but there was no response. He got angry, and, going to the bed, he gave the fur cloak a good shake. Then he found that it was not his wife, but only a bundle of straw put in her clothes. At this the giant grew alarmed, and he ran off to look after his golden harp. He found his keys gone, the twelve locks undone, and the harp missing. He went to the oven and opened the door to see how the meat for the feast was going on. Behold! there sat his wife, baked, and grinning at him. Then the giant was almost mad with grief and rage, and he rushed out to seek the lad who had done him all this mischief. He came down to the edge of the water and found him sitting in his boat, playing on the harp. The music came over the water, and the gold strings shone wonderfully in the sunshine. The giant jumped into the water after the boy; but finding that it was too deep, he laid himself down, and began to drink the water in order to make the lake shallower. He drank with all his might, and by this means set up a current which drew the boat nearer and nearer to the shore. Just when he was going to lay hold of it he burst, for he had drunk too much; and there was an end of him. The giant lay dead on the shore, and the boy moved away across the lake, full of joy and happiness. When he came to land, he combed his golden hair, put on fine clothes, fastened the giant's gold sword by his side, and, taking the gold harp in one hand and the gold lantern in the other, he led the gold fowl after him, and went to the king, who was sitting in the great hall of the palace surrounded by his courtiers. When the king saw the boy he was heartily glad. The lad went to the king's beautiful daughter, saluted her courteously, and laid the giant's treasures before her. Then there was great joy in the palace, that the princess had after all got the giant's treasures and so bold and handsome a bridegroom. The wedding was celebrated soon after with very much splendour and rejoicing; and when the king died the lad succeeded him, ruling over all the land both long and happily. I know no more respecting them. TALES OF CATS. The house of Katholm (Cat-isle) near Grenaac, in Jutland, got its name from the following circumstance. There was a man in Jutland who had made a good deal of money by improper means. When he died he left his property equally among his three sons. The youngest, when he got his share, thought to himself-- "What comes with sin goes with sorrow," and he resolved to submit his money to the water-ordeal, thinking that the ill-got money would sink to the bottom, and what was honestly acquired swim on the top. He accordingly cast all his money into the water, and only one solitary farthing swam. With this he bought a cat, and he went to sea and visited foreign parts. At length he chanced to come to a place where the people were sadly plagued by an enormous number of rats and mice, and as his cat had had kittens by this time, he acquired great wealth by selling them. So he came home to Jutland, and built himself a house, which he called Katholm. There was one time a poor sailor out of Ribe, who came to a foreign island whose inhabitants were grievously plagued with mice. By good luck he had a cat of his own on board, and the people of the island gave him so much gold for it that he went home as fast as he could to fetch more cats, and by this traffic he in a short time grew so rich that he had no need of any more. Some time after, when he was on his deathbed, he bequeathed a large sum of money for the building of Ribe Cathedral, and a proof of this is still to be seen in a carving over the east door of the church, representing a cat and four mice. The door is called Cat-head Door (Kathoved Dor). THE MAGICIAN'S DAUGHTER Just on the Finland frontiers there is situated a high mountain, which, on the Swedish side, is covered with beautiful copsewood, and on the other with dark pine-trees, so closely ranked together, and so luxuriant in shade, that one might almost say the smallest bird could not find its way through the thickets. Below the copsewood there stands a chapel with the image of St. George, as guardian of the land and as a defence against dragons, if there be such, and other monsters of paganism, while, on the other side, on the borders of the dark firwood, are certain cottages inhabited by wicked sorcerers, who have, moreover, a cave cut so deep into the mountain that it joins with the bottomless abyss, whence come all the demons that assist them. The Swedish Christians who dwelt in the neighbourhood of this mountain thought it would be necessary, besides the chapel and statue of St. George, to choose some living protector, and therefore selected an ancient warrior, highly renowned for his prowess in the battle-field, who had, in his old age, become a monk. When this man went to take up his abode upon the mountains, his only son (for he had formerly lived as a married man in the world) would on no account leave him, but lived there also, assisting his father in his duties as watcher, and in the exercises of prayer and penitence, fully equalling the example that was now afforded him as he had formerly done his example as a soldier. The life led by those two valiant champions is said to have been most admirable and pious. Once on a time it happened that the young hero went out to cut wood in the forest. He bore a sharp axe on his shoulders, and was besides girded with a great sword; for as the woods were not only full of wild beasts, but also haunted by wicked men, the pious hermits took the precaution of always going armed. While the good youth was forcing his way through the thickest of the copsewood, and already beheld over it the pointed tops of the fir-trees (for he was close on the Finland frontier), there rushed out against him a great white wolf, so that he had only just time enough to leap to one side, and not being able immediately to draw his sword, he flung his axe at his assailant. The blow was so well aimed that it struck one of the wolf's fore-legs, and the animal, being sorely wounded, limped back, with a yell of anguish, into the wood. The young hermit warrior, however, thought to himself-- "It is not enough that I am rescued, but I must take such measures that no one else may in future be injured, or even terrified by this wild beast." So he rushed in as fast as possible among the fir-trees, and inflicted such a vehement blow with his sword on the wolf's head, that the animal, groaning piteously, fell to the ground. Hereupon there came over the young man all at once a strange mood of regret and compassion for his poor victim. Instead of putting it immediately to death, he bound up the wounds as well as he could with moss and twigs of trees, placed it on a sort of canvas sling on which he was in the habit of carrying great fagots, and with much labour brought it home, in hopes that he might be able at last to cure and tame his fallen adversary. He did not find his father in the cottage, and it was not without some fear and anxiety that he laid the wolf on his own bed, which was made of moss and rushes, and over which he had nailed St. George and the Dragon. He then turned to the fire-place of the small hut, in order to prepare a healing salve for the wounds. While he was thus occupied, how much was he astonished to hear the moanings and lamentations of a human voice from the bed on which he had just before deposited the wolf. On returning thither his wonder was inexpressible on perceiving, instead of the frightful wild beast, a most beautiful damsel, on whose head the wound which he had inflicted was bleeding through her fine golden hair, and whose right arm, in all its grace and snow-white luxuriance, was stretched out motionless, for it had been broken by the blow from his axe. "Pray," said she, "have pity, and do not kill me outright. The little life that I have still left is, indeed, painful enough, and may not last long; yet, sad as my condition is, it is yet tenfold better than death." The young man then sat down weeping beside her, and she explained to him that she was the daughter of a magician, on the other side of the mountain, who had sent her out in the shape of a wolf to collect plants from places which, in her own proper form, she could not have reached. It was but in terror she had made that violent spring which the youth had mistaken for an attack on him, when her only wish had been to pass by him. "But you directly broke my right arm," said she, "though I had no evil design against you." How she had now regained her proper shape she could not imagine, but to the youth it was quite clear that the picture of St. George and the Dragon had broken the spell by which the poor girl had been transformed. While the son was thus occupied, the old man returned home, and soon heard all that had occurred, perceiving, at the same time, that if the young pagan wanderer had been released from the spells by which she had been bound, the youth was, in his turn, enchanted and spellbound by her beauty and amiable behaviour. From that moment he exerted himself to the utmost for the welfare of her soul, endeavouring to convert her to Christianity, while his son attended to the cure of her wounds; and, as their endeavours were on both sides successful, it was resolved that the lovers should be united in marriage, for the youth had not restricted himself by any monastic vows. The magician's daughter was now restored to perfect health. A day had been appointed for her baptism and marriage. It happened that one evening the bride and bridegroom went to take a pleasure walk through the woods. The sun was yet high in the west, and shone so fervently through the beech-trees on the green turf that they could never resolve on turning home, but went still deeper and deeper into the forest. Then the bride told him stories of her early life, and sang old songs which she had learned when a child, and which sounded beautifully amid the woodland solitude. Though the words were such that they could not be agreeable to the youth's ears (for she had learned them among her pagan and wicked relations), yet he could not interrupt her, first, because he loved her so dearly, and, secondly, because she sang in a voice so clear and sweet that the whole forest seemed to rejoice in her music. At last, however, the pointed heads of the pine-trees again became visible, and the youth wished to turn back, in order that he might not come again too near the hated Finnish frontier. His bride, however, said to him-- "Dearest Conrad, why should we not walk on a little further? I would gladly see the very place where you so cruelly wounded me on the head and arm, and made me prisoner, all which has, in the end contributed to my happiness. Methinks we are now very near the spot." Accordingly they sought about here and there until at last the twilight fell dim and heavy on the dense woods. The sun had long since set. The moon, however, had risen, and, as a light broke forth, the lovers stood on the Finland frontier, or rather they must have gone already some distance beyond it, for the bridegroom was exceedingly terrified when he found his cap lifted from his head, as if by human hand, though he saw only the branch of a fir-tree. Immediately thereafter the whole air around them was filled with strange and supernatural beings--witches, devils, dwarfs, horned-owls, fire-eyed cats, and a thousand other wretches that could not be named and described, whirled around them as if dancing to rapid music. When the bride had looked on for a while, she broke out into loud laughter, and at last began to dance furiously along with them. The poor bridegroom might shout and pray as much and as earnestly as he would, for she never attended to him, but at last transformed herself in a manner so extraordinary that he could not distinguish her from the other dancers. He thought, however, that he had kept his eyes upon her, and seized on one of the dancers; but alas! it was only a horrible spectre which held him fast, and threw its wide waving shroud around him, so that he could not make his escape, while, at the same time, some of the subterraneous black demons pulled at his legs, and wanted to bear him down along with them into their bottomless caves. Fortunately he happened at that moment to cross himself and call on the name of the Saviour, upon which the whole of this vile assembly fell into confusion. They howled aloud and ran off in all directions, while Conrad in the meantime saved himself by recrossing the frontier, and getting under the protection of the Swedish copsewood. His beautiful bride, however, was completely lost; and by no endeavours could he ever obtain her again, though he often came to the Finland border, called out her name aloud, wept and prayed, but all in vain. Many times, it is true, he saw her floating about through the pine-trees, as if in chase, but she was always accompanied by a train of frightful creatures, and she herself also looked wild and disfigured. For the most part she never noticed Conrad, but if she could not help fixing her eyes upon him, she laughed so immoderately, and in a mood of merriment so strange and unnatural, that he was terrified and made the sign of the cross, whereupon she always fled away, howling, into one of the thickets. Conrad fell more and more into melancholy abstraction, hardly ever spoke, and though he had given over his vain walks into the forest, yet if one asked him a question, the only answer he returned was-- "Ay, she is gone away beyond the mountains," so little did he know or remember of any other object in the world but the lost beauty. At last he died of grief; and according to a request which he had once made, his father prepared a grave for him on the place where the bride was found and lost, though during the fulfilment of this duty he had enough to do--one while in contending with his crucifix against evil spirits, and at another, with his sword against wild beasts, which were no doubt sent thither by the magicians to attack and annoy him. At length, however, he brought his task to an end, and thereafter it seemed as if the bride mourned for the youth's untimely death, for there was heard often a sound of howling and lamentation at the grave. For the most part, indeed, this voice is like the voices of wolves, yet, at the same time, human accents are to be distinguished, and I myself have often listened thereto on dark winter nights. Alas! that the poor maiden should have ventured again so near the accursed paths she had once renounced. A few steps in the backward course, and all is lost! THE HILL-MAN INVITED TO THE CHRISTENING. The hill-people are excessively frightened during thunder. When, therefore, they see bad weather coming on, they lose no time in getting to the shelter of their hills. This terror is also the cause of their not being able to endure the beating of a drum. They take it to be the rolling of thunder. It is, therefore, a good recipe for banishing them to beat a drum every day in the neighbourhood of their hills, for they immediately pack up, and depart to some quieter residence. A farmer lived once in great friendship and concord with a hill-man, whose hill was in his lands. One time when his wife was about to have a child, it gave him great perplexity to think that he could not well avoid inviting the hill-man to the christening, which might, not improbably, bring him into ill repute with the priest and the other people of the village. He was going about pondering deeply, but in vain, how he might get out of this dilemma, when it came into his head to ask the advice of the boy that kept his pigs, who had a great head-piece, and had often helped him before. The pig-boy instantly undertook to arrange the matter with the hill-man in such a manner that he should not only stay away without being offended, but, moreover, give a good christening present. Accordingly, when it was night, he took a sack on his shoulder, went to the hill-man's hill, knocked, and was admitted. He delivered his message, gave his master's compliments, and requested the honour of his company at the christening. The hill-man thanked him, and said-- "I think it is but right I should give you a christening present." With these words he opened his money-chests, bidding the boy hold up his sack while he poured money into it. "Is there enough now?" said he, when he had put a good quantity into it. "Many give more, few give less," replied the boy. The hill-man once more fell to filling the sack, and again asked-- "Is there enough now?" The boy lifted the sack a little off the ground to see if he was able to carry any more, and then answered-- "It is about what most people give." Upon this the hill-man emptied the whole chest into the bag, and once more asked-- "Is there enough now?" The guardian of the pigs now saw that there was as much in the sack as he would be able to carry, so he answered-- "No one gives more, most people give less." "Come now," said the hill-man, "let us hear who else is to be at the christening." "Ah," said the boy, "we are to have a great many strangers and great people. First and foremost, we are to have three priests and a bishop." "Hem!" muttered the hill-man; "however, those gentlemen usually look only after the eating and drinking; they will never take any notice of me. Well, who else?" "Then we have asked St. Peter and St. Paul." "Hem! hem! However, there will be a bye-place for me behind the stove. Well, and what then?" "Then Our Lady herself is coming." "Hem! hem! hem! However, guests of such high rank come late and go away early. But tell me, my lad, what sort of music is it you are to have?" "Music," said the boy, "why, we are to have drums." "Drums!" repeated the troll, quite terrified. "No, no! Thank you. I shall stay at home in that case. Give my best respects to your master, and I thank him for the invitation, but I cannot come. I did but once go out to take a little walk, and some people began to beat a drum. I hurried home, and was but just got to my door when they flung the drum-stick after me, and broke one of my shins. I have been lame of that leg ever since, and I shall take good care in future to avoid that sort of music." So saying he helped the boy to put the sack on his back, once more charging him to present his best respects to his master. THE MEAL OF FROTHI. Gold is called by the poets the meal of Frothi, and the origin of the term is found in this story. Odin had a son named Skioldr who settled and reigned in the land which is now called Denmark, but was then called Gotland. Skioldr had a son named Frithleif, who reigned after him. Frithleif's son was called Frothi, and succeeded him on the throne. At the time that the Emperor Augustus made peace over the whole world, Christ was born, but as Frothi was the most powerful of all the monarchs of the north, that peace, wherever the Danish language was spoken, was imputed to him, and the Northmen called it Frothi's peace. At that time no man hurt another, even if he found the murderer of his father or brother, loose or bound. Theft and robbery were then unknown, insomuch that a gold armlet lay for a long time untouched in Jalangursheath. Frothi chanced to go on a friendly visit to a certain king in Sweden, named Fiolnir, and there purchased two female slaves, called Fenia and Menia, equally distinguished for their stature and strength. In those days there were found in Denmark two quern-stones of such a size, that no one was able to move them, and these mill-stones were endued with such virtue, that the quern in grinding produced whatever the grinder wished for. The quern was called Grotti. He who presented this quern to Frothi was called Hengikioptr (hanging-chops). King Frothi caused these slaves to be brought to the quern, and ordered them to grind gold, peace, and prosperity for Frothi. The king allowed them no longer rest or sleep than while the cuckoo was silent or a verse could be recited. Then they are said to have sung the lay called Grotta-Savngr, and before they ended their song to have ground a hostile army against Frothi, insomuch, that a certain sea-king, called Mysingr, arriving the same night, slew Frothi, taking great spoil. And so ended Frothi's peace. Mysingr took with him the quern, Grotti, with Fenia and Menia, and ordered them to grind salt. About midnight they asked Mysingr whether he had salt enough. On his ordering them to go on grinding, they went on a little longer till the ship sank under the weight of the salt. A whirlpool was produced, where the waves are sucked up by the mill-eye, and the waters of the sea have been salt ever since. THE LOST BELL. A shepherd's boy, belonging to Patzig, about half a mile from Bergen, where there are great numbers of underground people in the hills, found one morning a little silver bell on the green heath among the giants' graves, and fastened it on him. It happened to be the bell belonging to the cap of one of the little brown ones, who had lost it while he was dancing, and did not immediately miss it or observe that it was no longer tinkling in his cap. He had gone down into the hill without his bell, and, having discovered his loss, was filled with melancholy, for the worst thing that can befall the underground people is to lose their cap, or their shoes; but even to lose the bell from their caps, or the buckle from their belts, is no trifle to them. Whoever loses his bell must pass some sleepless nights, for not a wink of sleep can he get till he has recovered it. The little fellow was in the greatest trouble, and looked and searched about everywhere. But how could he learn who had the bell? for only on a very few days in the year may they come up to daylight, nor can they then appear in their true form. He had turned himself into every form of birds, beasts, and men, and he had sung and groaned and lamented about his bell, but not the slightest tidings or trace of tidings had he been able to get. Most unfortunately for him, the shepherd's boy had left Patzig the very day he found the little bell, and he was now keeping sheep at Unrich, near Gingst, so that it was not till many a day after, and then by mere chance, that the little underground fellow recovered his bell, and with it his peace of mind. He had thought it not unlikely that a raven, or a crow, or a jackdaw, or a magpie, had found his bell, and from its thievish disposition, which attracts it to anything bright and shining, had carried it into its nest. With this thought he turned himself into a beautiful little bird, and searched all the nests in the island, and he'd sang before all kinds of birds to see if they had found what he had lost, and could restore to him his sleep. He had, however, been able to learn nothing from the birds. As he now, one evening, was flying over the waters of Ralov and the fields of Unrich, the shepherd's boy, whose name was John Schlagenteufel (Smite-devil), happened to be keeping his sheep there at the very time. Several of the sheep had bells about their necks, and they tinkled merrily when the boy's dog set them trotting. The little bird who was flying over them thought of his bell, and sang in a melancholy tone---- "Little bell, little bell, Little ram as well, You, too, little sheep, If you've my tingle too, No sheep's so rich as you, My rest you keep." The boy looked up and listened to this strange song which came out of the sky, and saw the pretty bird, which seemed to him still more strange. "If one," said he to himself, "had but that bird that's singing up there, so plain that one of us could hardly match him! What can he mean by that wonderful song? The whole of it is, it must be a feathered witch. My rams have only pinchbeck bells, he calls them rich cattle; but I have a silver bell, and he sings nothing about me." With these words he began to fumble in his pocket, took out his bell, and rang it. The bird in the air instantly saw what it was, and rejoiced beyond measure. He vanished in a second, flew behind the nearest bush, alighted, and drew off his speckled feather dress, and turned himself into an old woman dressed in tattered clothes. The old dame, well supplied with sighs and groans, tottered across the field to the shepherd-boy, who was still ringing his bell and wondering what was become of the beautiful bird. She cleared her throat, and coughing, bid him a kind good evening, and asked him which was the way to Bergen. Pretending then that she had just seen the little bell, she exclaimed-- "Well now, what a charming pretty little bell! Well, in all my life, I never beheld anything more beautiful. Hark ye, my son, will you sell me that bell? What may be the price of it? I have a little grandson at home, and such a nice plaything as it would make for him!" "No," replied the boy, quite short; "the bell is not for sale. It is a bell that there is not such another bell in the whole world. I have only to give it a little tinkle, and my sheep run of themselves wherever I would have them go. And what a delightful sound it has! Only listen, mother," said he, ringing it; "is there any weariness in the world that can hold out against this bell? I can ring with it away the longest time, so that it will be gone in a second." The old woman thought to herself-- "We will see if he can hold out against bright shining money," and she took out no less than three silver dollars and offered them to him, but he still replied-- "No, I will not sell the bell." She then offered him five dollars. "The bell is still mine," said he. She stretched out her hand full of ducats. He replied this third time-- "Gold is dirt, and does not ring." The old dame then shifted her ground, and turned the discourse another way. She grew mysterious, and began to entice him by talking of secret arts and of charms by which his cattle might be made to thrive prodigiously, relating to him all kinds of wonders of them. It was then the young shepherd began to long, and he lent a willing ear to her tales. The end of the matter was, that she said to him-- "Hark ye, my child, give me your bell; and see, here is a white stick for you," said she, taking out a little white stick which had Adam and Eve very ingeniously cut upon it as they were feeding their flocks in the Garden, with the fattest sheep and lambs dancing before them. There, too, was the shepherd David, as he stood up with his sling against the giant Goliath. "I will give you," said the woman, "this stick for the bell, and as long as you drive the cattle with it they will be sure to thrive. With this you will become a rich shepherd. Your wethers will be always fat a month sooner than the wethers of other shepherds, and every one of your sheep will have two pounds of wool more than others, and yet no one will ever be able to see it on them." The old woman handed him the stick. So mysterious was her gesture, and so strange and bewitching her smile, that the lad was at once in her power. He grasped eagerly at the stick, gave her his hand, and cried-- "Done! strike hands! The bell for the stick!" Cheerfully the old woman took the bell for the stick, and departed like a light breeze over the field and the heath. He saw her vanish, and she seemed to float away before his eyes like a mist, and to go off with a slight whiz and whistle that made the shepherd's hair stand on end. The underground one, however, who, in the shape of an old woman, had wheedled him out of his bell, had not deceived him. For the underground people dare not lie, but must ever keep their word--a breach of it being followed by their sudden change into the shape of toads, snakes, dunghill beetles, wolves, and apes, forms in which they wander about, objects of fear and aversion, for a long course of years before they are freed. They have, therefore, naturally a great dread of lying. John Schlagenteufel gave close attention and made trial of his new shepherd's staff, and he soon found that the old woman had told him the truth, for his flocks and his work, and all the labour of his hands, prospered with him, and he had wonderful luck, so that there was not a sheep-owner or head shepherd but was desirous of having him in his employment. It was not long, however, that he remained an underling. Before he was eighteen years of age he had got his own flocks, and in the course of a few years was the richest sheep-master in the whole island of Bergen. At last he was able to buy a knight's estate for himself, and that estate was Grabitz, close by Rambin, which now belongs to the Lords of Sunde. My father knew him there, and how from a shepherd's boy he became a nobleman. He always conducted himself like a prudent, honest, and pious man, who had a good word for every one. He brought up his sons like gentlemen, and his daughters like ladies, some of whom are still alive, and accounted people of great consequence. Well may people who hear such stories wish that they had met with such an adventure, and had found a little silver bell which the underground people had lost! MAIDEN SWANWHITE AND MAIDEN FOXTAIL. There was once upon a time a wicked woman who had a daughter and a step-daughter. The daughter was ugly and of an evil disposition, but the step-daughter was most beautiful and good, and all who knew her wished her well. When the girl's step-mother and step-sister saw this they hated the poor girl. One day it chanced that she was sent by her step-mother to the well to draw water. When the girl came there she saw a little hand held out of the water, and a voice said-- "Maiden, beautiful and good, give me your golden apple, and in return for it I will thrice wish you well." The girl thought that one who spoke so fairly to her would not do her an ill turn, so she put the apple into the little hand. Then she bent down over the spring, and, taking care not to muddy the water, filled her bucket. As she went home the guardian of the well wished that the girl would become thrice as beautiful as she was, that whenever she laughed a gold ring might fall from her mouth, and that red roses might spring up wherever she trod. The same hour all that he wished came to pass. From that day the girl was called the Maiden Swanwhite, and the fame of her loveliness spread all through the land. When the wicked step-mother perceived this, she was filled with rage, and she thought how her own daughter might become as beautiful as Swanwhite. With this object she set herself to learn all that had happened, and then she sent her own daughter to fetch water. When the wicked girl had come to the well, she saw a little hand rise up out of the water, and heard a voice which said-- "Maiden, beautiful and good, give me your gold apple and I will thrice wish thee well." But the hag's daughter was both wicked and avaricious, and it was not her way to make presents. She therefore made a dash at the little hand, wished the guardian of the well evil, and said pettishly-- "You need not think you'll get a gold apple from me." Then she filled her bucket, muddying the water, and away she went in a rage. The guardian of the well was enraged, so he wished her three evil wishes, as a punishment for her wickedness. He wished that she should become three times as ugly as she was, that a dead rat should fall from her mouth whenever she laughed, and that the fox-tail grass might spring up in the footsteps wherever she trod. So it was. From that day the wicked girl was called Maiden Foxtail, and very much talk was there among the folk of her strange looks and her ill-nature. The hag could not bear her step-daughter should be more beautiful than her own daughter, and poor Swanwhite had to put up with all the ill-usage and suffering that a step-child can meet with. Swanwhite had a brother whom she loved very much, and he also loved her with all his heart. He had long ago left home, and he was now the servant of a king, far, far off in a strange land. The other servants of the king bore him no good-will because he was liked by his master, and they wished to ruin him if they could find anything against him. They watched him closely, and one day, coming to the king, said-- "Lord king, we know well that you do not like evil or vice in your servants. Thence we think it is only right to tell you that the young foreigner, who is in your service, every morning and evening bows the knee to an idol." When the king heard that he set it down to envy and ill-will, and did not think there was any truth in it, but the courtiers said that he could easily discover for himself whether what they said was true or not. They led the king to the young man's rooms, and told him to look through the key-hole. When the king looked in he saw the young man on his knees before a fine picture, and so he could not help believing that what the courtiers had told him was true. The king was much enraged, and ordered the young man to come before him, when he condemned him to die for his great wickedness. "My lord king," said he, "do not imagine that I worship any idol. That is my sister's picture, whom I commend to the care of God every morning and evening, asking Him to protect her, for she remains in a wicked step-mother's power." The king then wished to see the picture, and he never tired of looking on its beauty. "If it is true," said he, "what you tell me, that that is your sister's picture, she shall be my queen, and you yourself shall go and fetch her; but if you lie, this shall be your punishment,--you shall be cast into the lions' den." The king then commanded that a ship should be fitted out in grand style, having wine and treasure in it. Then he sent away the young man in great state to fetch his beautiful sister to the court. The young man sailed away over the ocean, and came at length to his land. Here he delivered his master's message, as became him, and made preparations to return. Then the step-mother and step-sister begged that they might go with him and his sister. The young man had no liking for them, so he said no, and refused their request, but Swanwhite begged for them, and got them what they wanted. When they had put to sea and were on the wide ocean, a great storm arose so that the sailors expected the vessel and all on her to go to the bottom. The young man was, however, in good spirits, and went up the mast in order to see if he could discover land anywhere. When he had looked out from the mast, he called to Swanwhite, who stood on the deck-- "Dear sister, I see land now." It was, however, blowing so hard that the maiden could not hear a word. She asked her step-mother if she knew what her brother said. "Yes," said the false hag; "he says we shall never come to God's land unless you throw your gold casket into the sea." When Swanwhite heard that, she did what the hag told her, and cast the gold casket into the deep sea. A while after her brother once more called to his sister, who stood on the deck-- "Swanwhite, go and deck yourself as a bride, for we shall soon be there." But the maiden could not hear a word for the raging of the sea. She asked her step-mother if she knew what her brother had said. "Yes," said the false hag; "he says we shall never come to God's land unless you cast yourself into the sea." While Swanwhite thought of this, the wicked step-mother sprang to her, and thrust her on a sudden overboard. The young girl was carried away by the blue waves, and came to the mermaid who rules over all those who are drowned in the sea. When the young man came down the mast, and asked whether his sister was attired, the step-mother told him many falsehoods about Swanwhite having fallen into the sea. When the young man heard this he and all the ship-folk were afraid, for they well knew what punishment awaited them for having so ill looked after the king's bride. The false hag then thought of another deception. She said they had better dress her own daughter as the bride, and then no one need know that Swanwhite had perished. The young man would not agree to this, but the sailors, being in fear of their lives, made him do as the step-mother had suggested. Maiden Foxtail was dressed out in the finest manner with red rings and a gold girdle, but the young man was ill at ease, and could not forget what had happened to his sister. In the midst of this the vessel came to shore, where was the king with all his court with much splendour awaiting their arrival. Carpets were spread upon the ground, and the king's bride left the ship in great state. When the king beheld Maiden Foxtail, and was told that that was his bride, he suspected some cheat, and was very angry, and he ordered that the young man should be thrown into the lions' den. He would not, however, break his kingly word, so he took the ugly maiden for his wife, and she became queen in the place of her step-sister. Now Maiden Swanwhite had a little dog of which she was very fond, and she called it Snow-white. Now that its mistress was lost, there was no one who cared for it, so it came into the king's palace and took refuge in the kitchen, where it lay down in front of the fire. When it was night and all had gone to bed, the master-cook saw the kitchen door open of itself and a beautiful little duck, fastened to a chain, came into the kitchen. Wherever the little bird trod the most beautiful roses sprang up. The duck went up to the dog upon the hearth, and said-- "Poor little Snow-white! Once on a time you lay on blue silk cushions. Now you must lie on the grey ashes. Ah! my poor brother, who is in the lions' den! Shame on Maiden Foxtail! she sleeps in my lord's arms." "Alas, poor me!" continued the duck, "I shall come here only on two more nights. After that I shall see you no more." Then it caressed the little dog, and the dog returned its caresses. After a little while the door opened of itself and the little bird went its way. The next morning, when it was daylight, the master-cook took the beautiful roses that lay strewn on the floor and with them decorated the dishes for the king's table. The king so much admired the flowers that he ordered the master-cook to be called to him, and asked him where he had found such magnificent roses. The cook told him all that had happened, and what the duck had said to the little dog. When the king heard it he was much perplexed, and he told the cook to let him know as soon as the bird showed itself again. The next night the little duck again came to the kitchen, and spoke to the dog as before. The cook sent word to the king, and he came just as the bird went out at the door. However he saw the beautiful roses lying all over the kitchen floor, and from them came such a delightful scent that the like had never been known. The king made up his mind that if the duck came again he would see it, so he lay in wait for it. He waited a long while, when, at midnight, the little bird, as before, came walking up to the dog which lay on the hearth, and said-- "Poor little Snow-white! once on a time you lay on blue silk cushions. Now you must lie on grey ashes. Ah! my poor brother, who is in the lions' den. Shame on Maiden Foxtail! she sleeps in my lord's arms." Then it went on-- "Alas! poor me! I shall see thee no more." Then it caressed the little dog, and the dog returned its caresses. As the bird was about to go away, the king sprang out and caught it by the foot. Then the bird changed its form and became a horrible dragon, but the king held it fast. It changed itself again, and took the forms of snakes, wolves, and other fierce animals, but the king did not lose his hold. Then the mermaid pulled hard at the chain, but the king held so fast that the chain broke in two with a great snap and rattling. That moment there stood there a beautiful maiden much more beautiful than that in the fine picture. She thanked the king for having saved her from the power of the mermaid. The king was very glad, and took the beautiful maiden in his arms, kissed her, and said-- "I will have no one else in the world for my queen, and now I well see that your brother was guiltless." Then he sent off at once to the lions' den to learn if the young man was yet alive. There the young man was safe and sound among the wild beasts, which had done him no injury. Then the king was in a happy mood, and rejoiced that everything had chanced so well. The brother and sister told him all that the step-mother had done. When it was daylight the king ordered a great feast to be got ready, and asked the foremost people in the country to the palace. As they all sat at table and were very merry, the king told a story of a brother and sister who had been treacherously dealt with by a step-mother, and he related all that had happened from beginning to end. When the tale was ended the king's folk looked at one another, and all agreed that the conduct of the step-mother in the tale was a piece of unexampled wickedness. The king turned to his mother-in-law, and said-- "Some one should reward my tale. I should like to know what punishment the taking of such an innocent life deserves." The false hag did not know that her own treachery was aimed at, so she said boldly-- "For my part, I certainly think she should be put into boiling lead." The king then turned himself to Foxtail, and said-- "I should like to have your opinion; what punishment is merited by one who takes so innocent a life?" The wicked woman answered at once-- "For my part, I think she deserves to be put into boiling tar." Then the king started up from the table in a great rage, and said-- "You have pronounced doom on yourselves. Such punishment shall you suffer!" He ordered the two women to be taken out to die as they themselves had said, and no one save Swanwhite begged him to have mercy on them. After that the king was married to the beautiful maiden, and all folk agreed that nowhere could be found a finer queen. The king gave his own sister to the brave young man, and there was great joy in all the king's palace. There they live prosperous and happy unto this day, for all I know. TALES OF TREASURE. There are still to be seen near Flensborg the ruins of a very ancient building. Two soldiers once stood on guard there together, but when one of them was gone to the town, it chanced that a tall white woman came to the other, and spoke to him, and said-- "I am an unhappy spirit, who has wandered here these many hundred years, but never shall I find rest in the grave." She then informed him that under the walls of the castle a great treasure was concealed, which only three men in the whole world could take up, and that he was one of the three. The man, who now saw that his fortune was made, promised to follow her directions in every particular, whereupon she desired him to come to the same place at twelve o'clock the following night. The other soldier meanwhile had come back from the town just as the appointment was made with his comrade. He said nothing about what, unseen, he had seen and heard, but went early the next evening and concealed himself amongst some bushes. When his fellow-soldier came with his spade and shovel he found the white woman at the appointed place, but when she perceived they were watched she put off the appointed business until the next evening. The man who had lain on the watch to no purpose went home, and suddenly fell ill; and as he thought he should die of that sickness, he sent for his comrade, and told him how he knew all, and conjured him not to have anything to do with witches or with spirits, but rather to seek counsel of the priest, who was a prudent man. The other thought it would be the wisest plan to follow the advice of his comrade, so he went and discovered the whole affair to the priest, who, however, desired him to do as the spirit had bidden him, only he was to make her lay the first hand to the work herself. The appointed time was now arrived, and the man was at the place. When the white woman had pointed out to him the spot, and they were just beginning the work, she said to him that when the treasure was taken up one-half of it should be his, but that he must divide the other half equally between the church and the poor. Then the devil entered into the man, and awakened his covetousness, so that he cried out-- "What! shall I not have the whole?" Scarcely had he spoken when the figure, with a most mournful wail, passed in a blue flame over the moat of the castle, and the man fell sick, and died within three days. The story soon spread through the country, and a poor scholar who heard it thought he had now an opportunity of making his fortune. He therefore went at midnight to the place, and there he met with the wandering white woman, and he told her why he was come, and offered his services to raise the treasure. She, however, answered that he was not one of the three, one of whom alone could free her, and that the wall in which was the money would still remain so firm that no human being should be able to break it. She also told him that at some future time he should be rewarded for his good inclination; and, it is said, when a long time after he passed by that place, and thought with compassion on the sufferings of the unblest woman, he fell on his face over a great heap of money, which soon put him again on his feet. The wall still remains undisturbed, and as often as any one has attempted to throw it down, whatever is thrown down in the day is replaced again in the night. * * * * * Three men went once in the night-time to Klumhöi to try their luck, for a dragon watches there over a great treasure. They dug into the ground, giving each other a strict charge not to utter a word whatever might happen, otherwise all their labour would be in vain. When they had dug pretty deep, their spades struck against a copper chest. They then made signs to one another, and all, with both hands, laid hold of a great copper ring that was on the top of the chest, and pulled up the treasure. When they had just got it into their possession, one of them forgot the necessity of silence, and shouted out-- "One pull more, and we have it!" That very instant the chest flew away out of their hands to the lake Stöierup, but as they all held hard on the ring it remained in their grasp. They went and fastened the ring on the door of St. Olaf's church, and there it remains to this very day. * * * * * Near Dangstrup there is a hill which is called Dangbjerg Dons. Of this hill it is related that it is at all times covered with a blue mist, and that under it there lies a large copper kettle full of money. One night two men went there to dig after this treasure, and they had got so far as to lay hold of the handle of the kettle. All sorts of wonderful things began then to appear to disturb them at their work. One time a coach, drawn by four black horses, drove by them. Then they saw a black dog with a fiery tongue. Then there came a cock drawing a load of hay. Still the men persisted in not letting themselves speak, and still dug on without stopping. At last a fellow came limping up to them and said-- "See, Dangstrup is on fire!" When the men looked towards the town, it appeared exactly as if the whole place were in a bright flame. Then at length one of the men forgot to keep silence, and the moment he uttered an exclamation the treasure sank deeper and deeper, and as often since as any attempt has been made to get it up, the trolls have, by their spells and artifices, prevented its success. HOLGER DANSKE. The Danish peasantry of the present day relate many wonderful things of an ancient hero whom they name Holger Danske, _i.e_. Danish Holger, and to whom they ascribe wonderful strength and dimensions. Holger Danske came one time to a town named Bagsvoer, in the isle of Zealand, where, being in want of a new suit of clothes, he sent for twelve tailors to make them. He was so tall that they were obliged to set ladders to his back and shoulders to take his measure. They measured and measured away, but unluckily a man, who was on the top of one of the ladders, happened, as he was cutting a mark in the measure, to give Holger's ear a clip with the scissors. Holger, forgetting what was going on, thinking that he was being bitten by a flea, put up his hand and crushed the unlucky tailor to death between his fingers. It is also said that a witch one time gave him a pair of spectacles which would enable him to see through the ground. He lay down at a place not far from Copenhagen to make a trial of their powers, and as he put his face close to the ground, he left in it the mark of his spectacles, which mark is to be seen at this very day, and the size of it proves what a goodly pair they must have been. Tradition does not say at what time it was that this mighty hero honoured the isles of the Baltic with his actual presence, but, in return, it informs us that Holger, like so many other heroes of renown, "is not dead, but sleepeth." The clang of arms, we are told, was frequently heard under the castle of Cronberg, but in all Denmark no one could be found hardy enough to penetrate the subterranean recesses and ascertain the cause. At length a slave, who had been condemned to death, was offered his life and a pardon if he would go down, proceed through the subterranean passage as far as it went, and bring an account of what he should meet there. He accordingly descended, and went along till he came to a great iron door, which opened of itself the instant he knocked at it, and he beheld before him a deep vault. From the roof in the centre hung a lamp whose flame was nearly extinct, and beneath was a huge great stone table, around which sat steel-clad warriors, bowed down over it, each with his head on his crossed arms. He who was seated at the head of the board then raised himself up. This was Holger Danske. When he had lifted his head up from off his arms, the stone table split throughout, for his beard was grown into it. "Give me thy hand," said he to the intruder. The slave feared to trust his hand in the grasp of the ancient warrior, and he reached him the end of an iron bar which he had brought with him. Holger squeezed it so hard, that the mark of his hand remained in it. He let it go at last, saying-- "Well! I am glad to find there are still men in Denmark." TALES FROM THE PROSE EDDA THE GODS AND THE WOLF. Among the Æsir, or gods, is reckoned one named Loki or Loptur. By many he is called the reviler of the gods, the author of all fraud and mischief, and the shame of gods and men alike. He is the son of the giant Farbauti, his mother being Laufey or Nal, and his brothers Byleist and Helblindi. He is of a goodly appearance and elegant form, but his mood is changeable, and he is inclined to all wickedness. In cunning and perfidy he excels every one, and many a time has he placed the gods in great danger, and often has he saved them again by his cunning. He has a wife named Siguna, and their son is called Nari. Loki had three children by Angurbodi, a giantess of Jotunheim (the giants' home). The first of these was Fenris, the wolf; the second was Jörmungand, the Midgard serpent; and the third was Hela, death. Very soon did the gods become aware of this evil progeny which was being reared in Jotunheim, and by divination they discovered that they must receive great injury from them. That they had such a mother spoke bad for them, but their coming of such a sire was a still worse presage. All-father therefore despatched certain of the gods to bring the children to him, and when they were brought before him he cast the serpent down into the ocean which surrounds the world. There the monster waxed so large that he wound himself round the whole globe, and that with such ease that he can with his mouth lay hold of his tail. Hela All-father cast into Niflheim, where she rules over nine worlds. Into these she distributes all those who are sent to her,--that is to say, all who die through sickness or old age. She has there an abode with very thick walls, and fenced with strong gates. Her hall is Elvidnir; her table is Hunger; her knife, Starvation; her man-servant, Delay; her maid-servant, Sloth; her threshold, Precipice; her bed, Care; and her curtains, Anguish of Soul. The one half of her body is livid, the other half is flesh-colour. She has a terrible look, so that she can be easily known. As to the wolf, Fenris, the gods let him grow up among themselves, Tyr being the only one of them who dare give him his food. When, however, they perceived how he every day increased prodigiously in size, and that the oracles warned them that he would one day prove fatal to them, they determined to make very strong iron fetters for him which they called Loeding. These they presented to the wolf, and desired him to put them on to show his strength by endeavouring to break them. The wolf saw that it would not be difficult for him to burst them, so he let the gods put the fetters on him, then violently stretching himself he broke the fetters asunder, and set himself free. Having seen this, the gods went to work, and prepared a second set of fetters, called Dromi, half as strong again as the former, and these they persuaded the wolf to put on, assuring him that if he broke them he would then furnish them with an undeniable proof of his power. The wolf saw well enough that it would not be easy to break this set, but he considered that he had himself increased in strength since he broke the others, and he knew that without running some risk he could never become celebrated. He therefore allowed the gods to place the fetters on him. Then Fenris shook himself, stretched his limbs, rolled on the ground, and at length burst the fetters, which he made fly in all directions. Thus did he free himself the second time from his chains, and from this has arisen the saying, "To get free from Loeding, or to burst from Dromi," meaning to perform something by strong exertion. The gods now despaired of ever being able to secure the wolf with any chain of their own making. All-father, however, sent Skirnir, the messenger of the god Frey, into the country of the Black Elves, to the dwarfs, to ask them to make a chain to bind Fenris with. This chain was composed of six things--the noise made by the fall of a cat's foot, the hair of a woman's beard, the roots of stones, the nerves of bears, the breath of fish, and the spittle of birds. The fetters were as smooth and as soft as silk, and yet, as you will presently see, of great strength. The gods were very thankful for them when they were brought to them, and returned many thanks to him who brought them. Then they took the wolf with them on to the island Lyngvi, which is in the lake Amsvartnir, and there they showed him the chain, desiring him to try his strength in breaking it. At the same time they told him that it was a good deal stronger than it looked. They took it in their own hands and pulled at it, attempting in vain to break it, and then they said to Fenris-- "No one else but you, Fenris, can break it." "I don't see," replied the wolf, "that I shall gain any glory by breaking such a slight string, but if any artifice has been employed in the making of it, you may be sure, though it looks so fragile, it shall never touch foot of mine." The gods told him he would easily break so slight a bandage, since he had already broken asunder shackles of iron of the most solid make. "But," said they, "if you should not be able to break the chain, you are too feeble to cause us any anxiety, and we shall not hesitate to loose you again." "I very much fear," replied the wolf, "that if you once tie me up so fast that I cannot release myself, you will be in no haste to unloose me. I am, therefore, unwilling to have this cord wound around me; but to show you I am no coward, I will agree to it, but one of you must put his hand in my mouth, as a pledge that you intend me no deceit." The gods looked on one another wistfully, for they found themselves in an embarrassing position. Then Tyr stepped forward and bravely put his right hand in the monster's mouth. The gods then tied up the wolf, who forcibly stretched himself, as he had formerly done, and exerted all his powers to disengage himself; but the more efforts he made the tighter he drew the chain about him, and then all the gods, except Tyr, who lost his hand, burst out into laughter at the sight. Seeing that he was so fast tied that he would never be able to get loose again, they took one end of the chain, which was called Gelgja, and having drilled a hole for it, drew it through the middle of a large broad rock, which they sank very deep in the earth. Afterwards, to make all still more secure, they tied the end of the chain, which came through the rock to a great stone called Keviti, which they sank still deeper. The wolf used his utmost power to free himself, and, opening his mouth, tried to bite them. When the gods saw that they took a sword and thrust it into his mouth, so that it entered his under jaw right up to the hilt, and the point reached his palate. He howled in the most terrible manner, and since then the foam has poured from his mouth in such abundance that it forms the river called Von. So the wolf must remain until Ragnarök. Such a wicked race has Loki begot. The gods would not put the wolf to death because they respected the sanctity of the place, which forbade blood being shed there. THE STRANGE BUILDER. Once upon a time, when the gods were building their abodes, a certain builder came and offered to erect them, in the space of three half-years, a city so well fortified that they should be quite safe in it from the incursions of the forest-giants and the giants of the mountains, even although these foes should have already penetrated within the enclosure Midgard. He asked, however, for his reward, the goddess Freyja, together with the sun and moon. The gods thought over the matter a long while, and at length agreed to his terms, on the understanding that he would finish the whole work himself without any one's assistance, and that all was to be finished within the space of one single winter. If anything remained to be done when the first day of summer came, the builder was to entirely forfeit the reward agreed on. When the builder was told this he asked that he might be allowed the use of his horse, Svadilfari, and to this the gods, by the advice of Loki, agreed. On the first day of winter the builder set to work, and during the night he caused his horse to draw stones for the building. The gods beheld with astonishment the extraordinary size of these, and marked with wonder that the horse did much more work than his master. The contract between them and the giant had, however, been confirmed with many oaths and in the presence of many witnesses, for without such a precaution a giant would not have trusted himself among the gods, especially at a time when Thor was returning from an expedition he had made into the east against the giants. The winter was far advanced, and towards its end the city had been built so strongly and so lofty as to be almost secure. The time was nearly expired, only three days remaining, and nothing was wanted to complete the work save the gates, which were not yet put up. The gods then began to deliberate, and to ask one another who it was that had advised that Freyja should be given to one who dwelt in Jotunheim, and that they should plunge the heavens in darkness by allowing one to carry away with him the sun and moon. They all agreed that only Loki could have given such bad counsel, and that it would be only just to either make him contrive some way or other to prevent the builder accomplishing his work and having a right to claim his reward, or to put him to death. They at once laid hands on Loki, who, in his fright, promised upon oath to do what they desired, let it cost him what it might. That very night, while the builder was employing his horse to convey stones, a mare suddenly ran out of a neighbouring forest and commenced to neigh. The horse broke loose and ran after the mare into the forest, and the builder ran after his horse. Between one thing and another the whole night was lost, so that when day broke the work was not completed. The builder, recognising that he could by no means finish his task, took again his giant form; and the gods, seeing that it was a mountain-giant with whom they had to deal, feeling that their oath did not bind them, called on Thor. He at once ran to them, and paid the builder his fee with a blow of his hammer which shattered his skull to pieces and threw him down headlong into Niflhel. The horse Sleipner comes of the horse Svadilfari, and it excels all others possessed by gods or men. THOR'S JOURNEY TO THE LAND OF GIANTS. One day the god Thor set out with Loki in his chariot drawn by two he-goats. Night coming on they were obliged to put up at a peasant's cottage, when Thor slew his goats, and having skinned them, had them put into the pot. When this had been done he sat down to supper and invited the peasant and his children to take part in the feast. The peasant had a son named Thjalfi, and a daughter, Röska. Thor told them to throw the bones into the goatskins, which were spread out near the hearth, but young Thjalfi, in order to get at the marrow, broke one of the shank bones with his knife. Having passed the night in this place, Thor rose early in the morning, and having dressed himself, held up his hammer, Mjolnir, and thus consecrating the goatskins; he had no sooner done it than the two goats took again their usual form, only one of them was now lame in one of its hind-legs. When Thor saw this he at once knew that the peasant or one of his family had handled the bones of the goat too roughly, for one was broken. They were terribly afraid when Thor knit his brows, rolled his eyes, seized his hammer, and grasped it with such force that the very joints of his fingers were white again. The peasant, trembling, and fearful that he would be struck down by the looks of the god, begged with his family for pardon, offering whatever they possessed to repair the damage they might have done. Thor allowed them to appease him, and contented himself with taking with him Thjalfi and Röska, who became his servants, and have since followed him. Leaving his goats at that place, Thor set out to the east, to the country of the giants. At length they came to the shore of a wide and deep sea which Thor, with Loki, Thjalfi, and Röska passed over. Then they came to a strange country, and entered an immense forest in which they journeyed all day. Thjalfi was unexcelled by any man as a runner, and he carried Thor's bag, but in the forest they could find nothing eatable to put in it. As night came on they searched on all sides for a place where they might sleep, and at last they came to what appeared to be a large hall, the gate of which was so large that it took up the whole of one side of the building. Here they lay down to sleep, but about the middle of the night they were alarmed by what seemed to be an earthquake which shook the whole of the building. Thor, rising, called his companions to seek with him some safer place. Leaving the apartment they were in, they found on their right hand an adjoining chamber into which they entered, but while the others, trembling with fear, crept to the farthest corner of their retreat, Thor, armed with his mace, remained at the entrance ready to defend himself, happen what might. Throughout the night they heard a terrible groaning, and when the morning came, Thor, going out, observed a man of enormous size, lying near, asleep and snoring heavily. Then Thor knew that this was the noise he had heard during the night. He immediately girded on his belt of prowess which had the virtue of increasing his strength. The giant awoke and stood up, and it is said that for once Thor was too frightened to use his hammer, and he therefore contented himself with inquiring the giant's name. "My name," replied the giant, "is Skrymir. As for you it is not necessary I should ask your name. You are the god Thor. Tell me, what have you done with my glove?" Then Skrymir stretched out his hand and took it up, and Thor saw that what he and his companions had taken for a hall in which they had passed the night, was the giant's glove, the chamber into which they had retreated being only the thumb. Skrymir asked whether they might not be friends, and Thor agreeing, the giant opened his bag and took out something to eat. Thor and his companions also made their morning meal, but eat in another place. Then Skrymir, proposing that they should put their provisions together, and Thor assenting to it, put all into one bag, and laying it on his shoulder marched before them, with huge strides, during the whole day. At night he found a place where Thor and his companions might rest under an oak. There, he said, he would lie down and sleep. "You take the bag," said he, "and make your supper." He was soon asleep, and, strange as it may seem, when Thor tried to open the bag he could not untie a single knot nor loose the string. Enraged at this he seized his hammer, swayed it in both his hands, took a step forward, and hurled it at the giant's head. This awoke the giant, who asked him if a leaf had not fallen on his head, and whether they had finished their supper. Thor said they were just about to lie down to sleep, and went to lie under another oak-tree. About midnight, observing that Skrymir was snoring so loudly that the forest re-echoed the din, Thor grasped his hammer and hurled it with such force at him that it sank up to the handle in his head. "What is the matter?" asked he, awakening. "Did an acorn fall on my head? How are you going on, Thor?" Thor departed at once, saying that it was only midnight and that he hoped to get some more sleep yet. He resolved, however, to have a third blow at the giant, hoping that with this he might settle everything. Seizing his hammer, he, with all his force, threw it at the giant's cheek, into which it buried itself up to the handle. Skrymir, awaking, put his hand to his cheek, and said-- "Are there any birds perched on this tree? I thought some moss fell upon me. How! art thou awake, Thor? It is time, is it not, for us to get up and dress ourselves? You have not far, however, to go before you arrive at the city Utgard. I have heard you whispering together that I am a very tall fellow, but there you will see many larger than me. Let me advise you then when you get there not to take too much upon yourselves, for the men of Utgard-Loki will not bear much from such little folk as you. I believe your best way would even be to turn back again, but if you are determined to proceed take the road that goes towards the east, as for me mine now lies to the north." After he had said this, he put his bag upon his shoulder and turned away into a forest; and I could never hear that Thor wished him a good journey. Proceeding on his way with his companions, Thor saw towards noon a city situated in the middle of a vast plain. The wall of the city was so lofty that one could not look up to the top of it without throwing one's head quite back upon the shoulder. On coming to the wall, they found the gate-way closed with bars, which Thor never could have opened, but he and his companions crept in between them, and thus entered the place. Before them was a large palace, and as the door of it was open, they entered and found a number of men of enormous size, seated on benches. Going on they came into the presence of the king, Utgard-Loki, whom they saluted with great respect, but he, looking upon them for a time, at length cast a scornful glance at them, and burst into laughter. "It would take up too much time," said he, "to ask you concerning the long journey you have made, but if I am not mistaken that little man there is Aku-Thor. You may," said he to Thor, "be bigger than you seem to be. What are you and your companions skilled in that we may see what they can do, for no one may remain here unless he understands some art and excels in it all other men?" "I," said Loki, "can eat quicker than any one else, and of that I am ready to give proof if there is here any one who will compete with me." "It must, indeed, be owned," replied the king, "that you are not wanting in dexterity, if you are able to do what you say. Come, let us test it." Then he ordered one of his followers who was sitting at the further end of the bench, and whose name was Logi (Flame) to come forward, and try his skill with Loki. A great tub or trough full of flesh meat was placed in the hall, and Loki having placed himself at one end of the trough, and Logi having set himself at the other end, the two commenced to eat. Presently they met in the middle of the trough, but Loki had only devoured the flesh of his portion, whereas the other had devoured both flesh and bones. All the company therefore decided that Loki was beaten. Then Utgard-Loki asked what the young man could do who accompanied Thor. Thjalfi said that in running he would compete with any one. The king admitted that skill in running was something very good, but he thought Thjalfi must exert himself to the utmost to win in the contest. He rose and, accompanied by all the company, went to a plain where there was a good place for the match, and then calling a young man named Hugi (Spirit or Thought), he ordered him to run with Thjalfi. In the first race Hugi ran so fast away from Thjalfi that on his returning to the starting-place he met him not far from it. Then said the king-- "If you are to win, Thjalfi, you must run faster, though I must own no man has ever come here who was swifter of foot." In the second trial, Thjalfi was a full bow-shot from the boundary when Hugi arrived at it. "Very well do you run, Thjalfi," said Utgard-Loki; "but I do not think you will gain the prize. However, the third trial will decide." They ran a third time, but Hugi had already reached the goal before Thjalfi had got half-way. Then all present cried out that there had been a sufficient trial of skill in that exercise. Then Utgard-Loki asked Thor in what manner he would choose to give them a proof of the dexterity for which he was so famous. Thor replied that he would contest the prize for drinking with any one in the court. Utgard-Loki consented to the match, and going into the palace, ordered his cup-bearer to bring the large horn out of which his followers were obliged to drink when they had trespassed in any way against the customs of the court. The cup-bearer presented this to Thor, and Utgard-Loki said-- "Whoever is a good drinker will empty that horn at a draught. Some men make two draughts of it, but the most puny drinker of all can empty it in three." Thor looked at the horn, which seemed very long, but was otherwise of no extraordinary size. He put it to his mouth, and, without drawing breath, pulled as long and as deeply as he could, that he might not be obliged to make a second draught of it. When, however, he set the horn down and looked in it he could scarcely perceive that any of the liquor was gone. "You have drunk well," said Utgard-Loki; "but you need not boast. Had it been told me that Asu-Thor could only drink so little, I should not have credited it. No doubt you will do better at the second pull." Without a word, Thor again set the horn to his lips and exerted himself to the utmost. When he looked in it seemed to him that he had not drunk quite so much as before, but the horn could now be carried without danger of spilling the liquor. Then Utgard-Loki said-- "Well, Thor, you should not spare yourself more than befits you in such drinking. If now you mean to drink off the horn the third time it seems to me you must drink more than you have done. You will never be reckoned so great a man amongst us as the Æsir make you out to be if you cannot do better in other games than it appears to me you will do in this." Thor, angry, put the horn to his mouth and drank the best he could and as long as he was able, but when he looked into the horn the liquor was only a little lower. Then he gave the horn to the cup-bearer, and would drink no more. Then said Utgard-Loki-- "It is plain that you are not so mighty as we imagined. Will you try another game? It seems to me there is little chance of your taking a prize hence." "I will try more contests yet," answered Thor. "Such draughts as I have drunk would not have seemed small to the Æsir. But what new game have you?" Utgard-Loki answered-- "The lads here do a thing which is not much. They lift my cat up from the ground. I should not have thought of proposing such a feat to Asu-Thor, had I not first seen that he is less by far than we took him to be." As he spoke there sprang upon the hall floor a very large grey cat. Thor went up to it and put his hand under its middle and tried to lift it from the floor. The cat bent its back as Thor raised his hands, and when Thor had exerted himself to the utmost the cat had only one foot off the floor. Then Thor would make no further trial. "I thought this game would go so," said Utgard-Loki. "The cat is large and Thor is little when compared with our men." "Little as you call me," answered Thor, "let any one come here and wrestle with me, for now I am angry." Utgard-Loki looked along the benches, and said-- "I see no man here who would not think it absurd to wrestle with you, but let some one call here the old woman, my nurse, Elli, and let Thor wrestle with her, if he will. She has cast to the ground many a man who seemed to me to be as strong as Thor." Then came into the hall a toothless old woman, and Utgard-Loki told her to wrestle with Asu-Thor. The story is not a long one. The harder Thor tightened his hold, the firmer the old woman stood. Then she began to exert herself, Thor tottered, and at last, after a violent tussle, he fell on one knee. On this Utgard-Loki told them to stop, adding that Thor could not desire any one else to wrestle with him in the hall, and the night had closed in. He showed Thor and his companions to seats, and they passed the night, faring well. At daybreak the next morning, Thor and his companions rose, dressed themselves, and prepared to leave at once. Then Utgard-Loki came to them and ordered a table to be set for them having on it plenty of meat and drink. Afterwards he led them out of the city, and on parting asked Thor how he thought his journey had prospered, and whether he had met with any stronger than himself. Thor said he must own he had been much shamed. "And," said he, "I know you will call me a man of little might, and I can badly bear that." "Shall I tell you the truth?" said Utgard-Loki. "We are now out of the city, and while I live and have my own way, you will never again enter it. By my word you had never come in had I known before you had been so strong and would bring us so near to great misfortune. I have deluded thee with vain shows; first in the forest, where I met you, and where you were unable to untie the wallet because I had bound it with iron-thread so that you could not discover where the knot could be loosened. After that you gave me three blows with your hammer. The first blow, though the lightest, would have killed me had it fallen on me, but I put a rock in my place which you did not see. In that rocky mountain you will find three dales, one of which is very deep, those are the dints made by your hammer. In the other games, I have deceived you with illusions. The first one was the match with Loki. He was hungry and eat fast, but Logi was Flame, and he consumed not only the flesh but the trough with it. When Thjalfi contended with Hugi in running, Hugi was my thought, and it was not possible for Thjalfi to excel that in swiftness. When you drank of the horn and the liquor seemed to get lower so slowly, you did, indeed, so well that had I not seen it, I should never have believed it. You did not see that one end of the horn was in the sea, but when you come to the shore you will see how much the sea has shrunk in consequence of your draughts, which have caused what is called the ebb. Nor did you do a less wondrous thing when you lifted up the cat, and I can assure you all were afraid when you raised one of its paws off the ground. The cat was the great Midgard serpent which lies stretched round the whole earth, and when you raised it so high then did its length barely suffice to enclose the earth between its head and tail. Your wrestling match with Elli was, too, a great feat, for no one has there been yet, and no one shall there be whom old age does not come and trip up, if he but await her coming. Now we must part, and let me say that it will be better for both of us if you never more come to seek me, for I shall always defend my city with tricks, so that you will never overcome me." When Thor heard that he grasped his mace in a rage, and raised it to hurl it at Utgard-Loki, but he had disappeared. Then Thor wanted to return to the city, but he could see nothing but a wide fair plain. So he turned, and went on his way till he came to Thrudvang, resolving if he had an opportunity to attack the Midgard serpent. HOW THOR WENT A-FISHING. Thor had not been long at home before he left it so hastily that he did not take his car, his goats, or any follower with him. He left Midgard disguised as a young man, and when night was coming on, arrived at the house of a giant, called Hymir. Thor stayed there as a guest for the night, and when he saw in the morning that the giant rose, dressed himself, and prepared to go out to sea-fishing in his boat, he begged him to let him go also. Hymir said he was too little and young to be of much use. "And besides," added he, "you will die of cold, if I go so far out and sit so long as I am accustomed." Thor said he would row as far out as ever Hymir wanted, and he thought he might not be the first to want to row back. While he said this he was in such a rage that he had much to do to keep himself from throwing the hammer at once at the giant's head, but he calmed himself thinking that he might soon try his strength elsewhere. He asked Hymir what bait he should use, but Hymir told him to look out for himself. Then Thor went up to a herd of oxen belonging to Hymir, and capturing the largest bull, called Himinbrjot, he wrung off its head, and went with it to the sea-shore. Hymir launched the skiff, and Thor, sitting down in the after-part, rowed with two oars so that Hymir, who rowed in the fore-part, wondered to see how fast the boat went on. At length he said they had arrived at the place where he was accustomed to fish for flat fish, but Thor told him they had better go on further. So they rowed till Hymir cried out that if they proceeded further they might be in danger from the Midgard serpent. In spite of this, Thor said he would row further, and so he rowed on, disregarding Hymir's words. When he laid down his oars, he took out a very strong fishing line to which was a no less strong hook. On this he fixed the bull's head and cast it over into the sea. The bait soon reached the ground, and then truly Thor deceived the Midgard serpent no less than Utgard-Loki deceived Thor when he gave him the serpent to lift in his hand. The Midgard serpent gaped wide at the bait, and the hook stuck fast in his mouth. When the worm felt this he tugged at the hook so that Thor's hands were dashed against the side of the boat. Then Thor got angry, and, collecting to himself all his divine strength, he pulled so hard that his feet went through the bottom of the boat and down to the sea's bottom. Then he drew the serpent up on board. No one can be said to have seen an ugly sight who did not see that. Thor threw wrathful looks on the serpent, and the monster staring at him from below cast out venom at him. The giant Hymir, it is said, turned pale when he saw the serpent, quaked, and, seeing that the sea ran in and out of the skiff, just as Thor raised aloft his mace, took out his knife and cut the line so that the serpent at once sank under the water. Thor cast his mace at the serpent, and some say it cut off its head at the bottom, but it is more true that the Midgard serpent is yet alive lying at the bottom of the ocean. With his fist Thor struck Hymir such a blow over the ear that the giant tumbled headlong into the water, and Thor then waded to land. THE DEATH OF BALDUR. Baldur the Good had dreams which forewarned him that his life was in danger, and he told the gods of them. The gods took counsel together what should be done, and it was agreed that they should conjure away all danger that might threaten him. Frigga took an oath of fire, water, iron, and all other metals, stones, earth, trees, sicknesses, beasts, birds, poisons, and worms, that these would none of them hurt Baldur. When this had been done the gods used to divert themselves, Baldur standing up in the assembly, and all the others throwing at him, hewing at him, and smiting him with stones, for, do all they would, he received no hurt, and in this sport all enjoyed themselves. Loki, however, looked on with envy when he saw that Baldur was not hurt. So he assumed the form of a woman, and set out to Fensalir to Frigga. Frigga asked if the stranger knew what the gods did when they met. He answered that they all shot at Baldur and he was not hurt. "No weapon, nor tree may hurt Baldur," answers Frigga, "I have taken an oath of them all not to do so." "What," said the pretended woman, "have all things then sworn to spare Baldur?" "There is only one little twig which grows to the east of Valhalla, which is called the mistletoe. Of that I took no oath, for it seemed to me too young and feeble to do any hurt." Then the strange woman departed, and Loki having found the mistletoe, cut it off, and went to the assembly. There he found Hodur standing apart by himself, for he was blind. Then said Loki to him-- "Why do you not throw at Baldur?" "Because," said he, "I am blind and cannot see him, and besides I have nothing to throw." "Do as the others," said Loki, "and honour Baldur as the rest do. I will direct your aim. Throw this shaft at him." Hodur took the mistletoe and, Loki directing him, aimed at Baldur. The aim was good. The shaft pierced him through, and Baldur fell dead upon the earth. Surely never was there a greater misfortune either among gods or men. When the gods saw that Baldur was dead then they were silent, aghast, and stood motionless. They looked on one another, and were all agreed as to what he deserved who had done the deed, but out of respect to the place none dared avenge Baldur's death. They broke the silence at length with wailing, words failing them with which to express their sorrow. Odin, as was right, was more sorrowful than any of the others, for he best knew what a loss the gods had sustained. At last when the gods had recovered themselves, Frigga asked-- "Who is there among the gods who will win my love and good-will? That shall he have if he will ride to Hel, and seek Baldur, and offer Hela a reward if she will let Baldur come home to Asgard." Hermod the nimble, Odin's lad, said he would make the journey. So he mounted Odin's horse, Sleipner, and went his way. The gods took Baldur's body down to the sea-shore, where stood Hringhorn, Baldur's vessel, the biggest in the world. When the gods tried to launch it into the water, in order to make on it a funeral fire for Baldur, the ship would not stir. Then they despatched one to Jotunheim for the sorceress called Hyrrokin, who came riding on a wolf with twisted serpents by way of reins. Odin called for four Berserkir to hold the horse, but they could not secure it till they had thrown it to the ground. Then Hyrrokin went to the stem of the ship, and set it afloat with a single touch, the vessel going so fast that fire sprang from the rollers, and the earth trembled. Then Thor was so angry that he took his hammer and wanted to cast it at the woman's head, but the gods pleaded for her and appeased him. The body of Baldur being placed on the ship, Nanna, the daughter of Nep, Baldur's wife, seeing it, died of a broken heart, so she was borne to the pile and thrown into the fire. Thor stood up and consecrated the pile with Mjolnir. A little dwarf, called Litur, ran before his feet, and Thor gave him a push, and threw him into the fire, and he was burnt. Many kinds of people came to this ceremony. With Odin came Frigga and the Valkyrjor with his ravens. Frey drove in a car drawn by the boar, Gullinbursti or Slidrugtanni. Heimdall rode the horse Gulltopp, and Freyja drove her cats. There were also many of the forest-giants and mountain-giants there. On the pile Odin laid the gold ring called Draupnir, giving it the property that every ninth night it produces eight rings of equal weight. In the same pile was also consumed Baldur's horse. For nine nights and days Hermod rode through deep valleys, so dark that he could see nothing. Then he came to the river Gjöll which he crossed by the bridge which is covered with shining gold. The maid who keeps the bridge is called Modgudur. She asked Hermod his name and family, and told him that on the former day there had ridden over the bridge five bands of dead men. "They did not make my bridge ring as you do, and you have not the hue of the dead. Why ride you thus on the way to Hel?" He said-- "I ride to Hel to find Baldur. Have you seen him on his way to that place?" "Baldur," answered she, "has passed over the bridge, but the way to Hel is below to the north." Hermod rode on till he came to the entrance of Hel, which was guarded by a grate. He dismounted, looked to the girths of his saddle, mounted, and clapping his spurs into the horse, cleared the grate easily. Then he rode on to the hall and, dismounting, entered it. There he saw his brother, Baldur, seated in the first place, and there Hermod stopped the night. In the morning he saw Hela, and begged her to let Baldur ride home with him, telling her how much the gods had sorrowed over his death. Hela told him she would test whether it were true that Baldur was so much loved. "If," said she, "all things weep for him, then he shall return to the gods, but if any speak against him or refuse to weep, then he shall remain in Hel." Then Hermod rose to go, and Baldur, leading him out of the hall, gave him the ring, Draupnir, which he wished Odin to have as a keepsake. Nanna also sent Frigga a present, and a ring to Fulla. Hermod rode back, and coming to Asgard related all he had seen and heard. Then the gods sent messengers over all the world seeking to get Baldur brought back again by weeping. All wept, men and living things, earth, stones, trees, and metals, all weeping as they do when they are subjected to heat after frost. Then the messengers came back again, thinking they had done their errand well. On their way they came to a cave wherein sat a hag named Thaukt. The messengers prayed her to assist in weeping Baldur out of Hel. "I will weep dry tears," answered she, "over Baldur's pyre. What gain I by the son of man, be he live or dead? Let Hela hold what she has." It was thought that this must have been Loki, Laufey's son, he who has ever wrought such harm to the gods. THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKI. The gods were so angry with Loki that he had to run away and hide himself in the mountains, and there he built a house which had four doors, so that he could see around him on every side. He would often in the day-time change himself into a salmon and hide in the water called Franangursfors, and he thought over what trick the gods might devise to capture him there. One day while he sat in his house, he took flax and yarn, and with it made meshes like those of a net, a fire burning in front of him. Then he became aware that the gods were near at hand, for Odin had seen out of Hlidskjalf where he was. Loki sprang up, threw his work into the fire, and went to the river. When the gods came to the house, the first that entered was Kvasir, who was the most acute of them all. In the hot embers he saw the ashes of a net, such as is used in fishing, and he told the gods of it, and they made a net like that which they saw in the ashes. When it was ready they went to the river and cast the net in, Thor holding one end and the rest of the gods the other, and so they drew it. Loki travelled in front of it and lay down between two stones so that the net went over him, but the gods felt that something living had been against the net. Then they cast the net a second time, binding up in it a weight so that nothing could pass under it. Loki travelled before it till he saw the sea in front of him. Then he leapt over the top of the net and again made his way up the stream. The gods saw this, so they once more dragged the stream, while Thor waded in the middle of it. So they went to the sea. Then Loki saw in what a dangerous situation he was. He must risk his life if he swam out to sea. The only other alternative was to leap over the net. That he did, jumping as quickly as he could over the top cord. Thor snatched at him, and tried to hold him, but he slipped through his hand, and would have escaped, but for his tail, and this is the reason why salmon have their tails so thin. Loki being captured, they took him to a certain cavern, and they took three rocks, through each of which they bored a hole. Then they took Loki's sons Vali and Nari, and having changed Vali into a wolf, he tore his brother Nari into pieces. Then the gods took his intestines and bound Loki with them to the three stones, and they changed the cord into bands of iron. Skadi then took a serpent and suspended it over Loki's head so that the venom drops from it on to his face. Siguna, Loki's wife, stands near him, and holds a dish receiving the venom as it falls, and when the dish is full she goes out and pours its contents away. While she is doing this, however, the venom falls on Loki, and causes him such intense pain that he writhes so that the earth is shaken as if by an earthquake. There he lies till Ragnarök (the twilight of the gods). ORIGIN OF TIIS LAKE. A troll had once taken up his abode near the village of Kund, in the high bank on which the church now stands, but when the people about there had become pious, and went constantly to church, the troll was dreadfully annoyed by their almost incessant ringing of bells in the steeple of the church. He was at last obliged, in consequence of it, to take his departure, for nothing has more contributed to the emigration of the troll-folk out of the country, than the increasing piety of the people, and their taking to bell-ringing. The troll of Kund accordingly quitted the country, and went over to Funen, where he lived for some time in peace and quiet. Now it chanced that a man who had lately settled in the town of Kund, coming to Funen on business, met this same troll on the road. "Where do you live?" asked the troll. Now there was nothing whatever about the troll unlike a man, so he answered him, as was the truth-- "I am from the town of Kund." "So?" said the troll, "I don't know you then. And yet I think I know every man in Kund. Will you, however," said he, "be so kind as to take a letter for me back with you to Kund?" The man, of course, said he had no objection. The troll put a letter into his pocket and charged him strictly not to take it out until he came to Kund church. Then he was to throw it over the churchyard wall, and the person for whom it was intended would get it. The troll then went away in great haste, and with him the letter went entirely out of the man's mind. But when he was come back to Zealand he sat down by the meadow where Tiis lake now is, and suddenly recollected the troll's letter. He felt a great desire to look at it at least, so he took it out of his pocket and sat a while with it in his hands, when suddenly there began to dribble a little water out of the seal. The letter now unfolded itself and the water came out faster and faster, and it was with the utmost difficulty the poor man was able to save his life, for the malicious troll had enclosed a whole lake in the letter. The troll, it is plain, had thought to avenge himself on Kund church by destroying it in this manner, but God ordered it so that the lake chanced to run out in the great meadow where it now stands. THERE ARE SUCH WOMEN. There was once upon a time a man and his wife, and they wanted to sow their fields, but they had neither seed nor money to buy it with. However, they had one cow, and so they decided that the man should drive it to the town and sell it, so that they might buy seed with the money. When the time came, however, the woman was afraid to let her husband take the cow, fearing he would spend the money in drink. So she set off herself with the cow, and took a hen with her also. When she was near the town she met a butcher, who said-- "Do you want to sell the cow, mother?" "Yes," answered she, "I do." "How much do you want for it?" "I want a mark for the cow, and you shall have the hen for sixty marks." "Well," said he, "I have no need of the hen. You can get rid of that when you come to the town, but I will give you a mark for the cow." She sold him the cow and got the mark for it, but when she came to the town she could find no one who would give her sixty marks for a tough lean hen. So she went back to the butcher and said-- "I cannot get this hen off, master, so you had better take it also with the cow." "We will see about it," said the butcher. So he gave her something to eat, and gave her so much brandy that she became tipsy and lost her senses, and fell asleep. When he saw that, the butcher dipped her in a barrel of tar, and then laid her on a heap of feathers. When she awoke she found herself feathered all over, and wondered at herself. "Is it me or some one else?" said she. "No, it cannot be me. It must be a strange bird. How shall I find out whether it is me or not? Oh, I know. When I get home, if the calves lick me, and the dog does not bark at me, then it is me myself." The dog had no sooner seen her than he began to bark, as if there were thieves and robbers in the yard. "Now," said she, "I see it is not me." She went to the cow-house but the calves would not lick her, for they smelt the strong tar. "No," said she, "I see it cannot be me. It must be some strange bird." So she crept up to the top of the barn, and began to flap her arms as if they had been wings, and tried to fly. Her husband saw her, so he came out with his gun and took aim. "Don't shoot, don't shoot," called his wife. "It is me." "Is it you?" said the man. "Then don't stand there like a goat. Come down and tell me what account you can give of yourself." She crept down again; but she had not a shilling, for she had lost the mark the butcher had given her while she was drunk. When the man heard that he was very angry, and declared he would leave her, and never come back again until he had found three women as big fools as his wife. So he set off, and when he had gone a little way he saw a woman who ran in and out of a newly built wood hut with an empty sieve. Every time she ran in she threw her apron over the sieve, as if she had something in it. "Why do you do that, mother?" asked he. "Why, I am only carrying in a little sun," said she, "but I don't understand how it is, when I am outside I get the sunshine in the sieve, but when I get in I have somehow lost it. When I was in my old hut I had plenty of sunshine, though I never carried it in. I wish I knew some one who would give me sunshine. I would give him three hundred dollars." "Have you an axe?" asked the man. "If so I will get you sunshine." She gave him an axe and he cut some windows in the hut, for the carpenter had forgotten them. Then the sun shone in, and the woman gave him three hundred dollars. "That's one," said the man, and he set out once more. Some time after he came to a house in which he heard a terrible noise and bellowing. He went in and saw a woman who was beating her husband across the head with a stick with all her might. Over the man's head there was a shirt in which there was no hole for his head to go through. "Mother," said he, "will you kill your husband?" "No," said she, "I only want a hole for his head in the shirt." The man called out and, struggling, cried-- "Heaven preserve and comfort all such as have new shirts! If any one would only teach my wife some new way to make a head-hole in them I would gladly give him three hundred dollars." "That shall soon be done. Give me a pair of scissors," said the other. The woman gave him the scissors, and he cut a hole in the shirt for the man's head to go through, and took the three hundred dollars. "That is number two," said he to himself. After some time he came to a farm-house, where he thought he would rest a while. When he went in the woman said-- "Where do you come from, father?" "I am from Ringerige (Paradise)," said he. "Ah! dear, dear! Are you from Himmerige (Heaven)?" said she. "Then you will know my second husband, Peter; happy may he be!" The woman had had three husbands. The first and third had been bad and had used her ill, but the second had used her well, so she counted him as safe. "Yes," said the man, "I know him well." "How does he get on there?" asked the woman. "Only pretty well," said the man. "He goes about begging from one house to another, and has but little food, or clothes on his back. As to money he has nothing." "Heaven have mercy on him!" cried the woman. "He ought not to go about in such a miserable state when he left so much behind. There is a cupboard full of clothes which belonged to him, and there is a big box full of money, too. If you will take the things with you, you can have a horse and cart to carry them. He can keep the horse, and he can sit in the cart as he goes from house to house, for so he ought to go." The man from Ringerige got a whole cart-load of clothes and a box full of bright silver money, with meat and drink, as much as he wanted. When he had got all he wished, he got into the cart, and once more set out. "That is the third," said he to himself. Now the woman's third husband was ploughing in a field, and when he saw a man he did not know come out of his yard with his horse and cart, he went home and asked his wife, who it was that was going off with the black horse. "Oh," said the woman, "that is a man from Himmerige (Heaven). He told me that things went so miserably with my second Peter, my poor husband, that he had to go begging from house to house and had no money or clothes. I have therefore sent him the old clothes he left behind, and the old money box with the money in it." The man saw how matters were, so he saddled a horse and went out of the yard at full speed. It was not long before he came up to the man who sat and drove the cart. When the other saw him he drove the horse and cart into a wood, pulled a handful of hair out of the horse's tail, and ran up a little hill, where he tied the hair fast to a birch-tree. Then he lay down under the tree and began to look and stare at the sky. "Well, well," said he, as if talking to himself, when Peter the third came near. "Well! never before have I seen anything to match it." Peter stood still for a time and looked at him, and wondered what was come to him. At last he said-- "Why do you lie there and stare so?" "I never saw anything like it," said the other. "A man has gone up to heaven on a black horse. Here in the birch-tree is some of the horse's tail hanging, and there in the sky you may see the black horse." Peter stared first at the man and then at the sky, and said-- "For my part, I see nothing but some hair out of a horse's tail in the birch-tree." "Yes," said the other, "you cannot see it where you stand, but come here and lie down, and look up, and take care not to take your eyes off the sky." Peter the third lay down and stared up at the sky till the tears ran from his eyes. The man from Ringerige took his horse, mounted it, and galloped away with it and the horse and cart. When he heard the noise on the road, Peter the third sprang up, but when he found the man had gone off with his horse he was so astonished that he did not think of going after him till it was too late. He was very down-faced when he went home to his wife, and when she asked him what he had done with the horse, he said-- "I gave it to Peter the second, for I didn't think it was right he should sit in a cart and jolt about from house to house in Himmerige. Now then he can sell the cart, and buy himself a coach, and drive about." "Heaven bless you for that," said the woman. "I never thought you were so kind-hearted a man." When the Ringerige man reached home with his six hundred dollars, his cart-load of clothes, and the money, he saw that all his fields were ploughed and sown. The first question he put to his wife was how she had got the seed. "Well," said she, "I always heard that what a man sowed he reaped, so I sowed the salt the North-people left here, and if we only have rain I don't doubt but that it will come up nicely." "You are silly," said the man, "and silly you must remain, but that does not much matter, for the others are as silly as yourself." TALES OF THE NISSES. The Nis is the same being that is called Kobold in Germany, and Brownie in Scotland. He is in Denmark and Norway also called Nisse god Dreng (Nissè good lad), and in Sweden, Tomtegubbe (the old man of the house). He is of the dwarf family, and resembles them in appearance, and, like them, has the command of money, and the same dislike to noise and tumult. His usual dress is grey, with a pointed red cap, but on Michaelmas-day he wears a round hat like those of the peasants. No farm-house goes on well without there is a Nis in it, and well is it for the maids and the men when they are in favour with him. They may go to their beds and give themselves no trouble about their work, and yet in the morning the maids will find the kitchen swept up, and water brought in; and the men will find the horses in the stable well cleaned and curried, and perhaps a supply of corn cribbed for them from the neighbours' barns. There was a Nis in a house in Jutland. He every evening got his groute at the regular time, and he, in return, used to help both the men and the maids, and looked to the interest of the master of the house in every respect. There came one time a mischievous boy to live at service in this house, and his great delight was, whenever he got an opportunity, to give the Nis all the annoyance in his power. Late one evening, when everything was quiet in the house, the Nis took his little wooden dish, and was just going to eat his supper, when he perceived that the boy had put the butter at the bottom and had concealed it, in hopes that he might eat the groute first, and then find the butter when all the groute was gone. He accordingly set about thinking how he might repay the boy in kind. After pondering a little he went up into the loft where a man and the boy were lying asleep in the same bed. The Nis whisked off the bed clothes, and when he saw the little boy by the tall man, he said-- "Short and long don't match," and with this word he took the boy by the legs and dragged him down to the man's feet. He then went up to the head of the bed, and-- "Short and long don't match," said he again, and then he dragged the boy up to the man's head. Do what he would he could not succeed in making the boy as long as the man, but persisted in dragging him up and down in the bed, and continued at this work the whole night long till it was broad daylight. By this time he was well tired, so he crept up on the window stool, and sat with his legs dangling down into the yard. The house-dog--for all dogs have a great enmity to the Nis--as soon as he saw him began to bark at him, which afforded him much amusement, as the dog could not get up to him. So he put down first one leg and then the other, and teased the dog, saying-- "Look at my little leg. Look at my little leg!" In the meantime the boy had awoke, and had stolen up behind him, and, while the Nis was least thinking of it, and was going on with his, "Look at my little leg," the boy tumbled him down into the yard to the dog, crying out at the same time-- "Look at the whole of him now!" * * * * * There lived a man in Thyrsting, in Jutland, who had a Nis in his barn. This Nis used to attend to his cattle, and at night he would steal fodder for them from the neighbours, so that this farmer had the best fed and most thriving cattle in the country. One time the boy went along with the Nis to Fugleriis to steal corn. The Nis took as much as he thought he could well carry, but the boy was more covetous, and said-- "Oh! take more. Sure, we can rest now and then!" "Rest!" said the Nis. "Rest! and what is rest?" "Do what I tell you," replied the boy. "Take more, and we shall find rest when we get out of this." The Nis took more, and they went away with it, but when they came to the lands of Thyrsting, the Nis grew tired, and then the boy said to him-- "Here now is rest!" and they both sat down on the side of a little hill. "If I had known," said the Nis, as they sat. "If I had known that rest was so good, I'd have carried off all that was in the barn." It happened, some time after, that the boy and the Nis were no longer friends, and as the Nis was sitting one day in the granary-window with his legs hanging out into the yard, the boy ran at him and tumbled him back into the granary. The Nis was revenged on him that very night, for when the boy was gone to bed he stole down to where he was lying and carried him as he was into the yard. Then he laid two pieces of wood across the well and put him lying on them, expecting that when he awoke he would fall, from the fright, into the well and be drowned. He was, however, disappointed, for the boy came off without injury. * * * * * There was a man who lived in the town of Tirup who had a very handsome white mare. This mare had for many years belonged to the same family, and there was a Nis attached to her who brought luck to the place. This Nis was so fond of the mare that he could hardly endure to let them put her to any kind of work, and he used to come himself every night and feed her of the best; and as for this purpose he usually brought a superfluity of corn, both thrashed and in the straw, from the neighbours' barns, all the rest of the cattle enjoyed the advantage, and they were all kept in exceedingly good condition. It happened at last that the farm-house passed into the hands of a new owner, who refused to put any faith in what they told him about the mare, so the luck speedily left the place, and went after the mare to a poor neighbour who had bought her. Within five days after his purchase, the poor farmer began to find his circumstances gradually improving, while the income of the other, day after day, fell away and diminished at such a rate that he was hard set to make both ends meet. If now the man who had got the mare had only known how to be quiet and enjoy the good times that were come upon him, he and his children and his children's children after him would have been in flourishing circumstances till this very day. But when he saw the quantity of corn that came every night to his barn, he could not resist his desire to get a sight of the Nis. So he concealed himself one evening at nightfall in the stable, and as soon as it was midnight he saw how the Nis came from his neighbour's barn and brought a sack full of corn with him. It was now unavoidable that the Nis should get a sight of the man who was watching, so he, with evident marks of grief, gave the mare her food for the last time, cleaned and dressed her to the best of his ability, and when he had done, turned round to where the man was lying, and bid him farewell. From that day forward the circumstances of both the neighbours were on an equality, for each now kept his own. THE DWARFS' BANQUET. There lived in Norway, not far from the city of Drontheim, a powerful man who was blessed with all the goods of fortune. A part of the surrounding country was his property, numerous herds fed on his pastures, and a great retinue and a crowd of servants adorned his mansion. He had an only daughter, called Aslog, the fame of whose beauty spread far and wide. The greatest men of the country sought her, but all were alike unsuccessful in their suit, and he who had come full of confidence and joy, rode away home silent and melancholy. Her father, who thought his daughter delayed her choice only to select, forbore to interfere, and exulted in her prudence, but when at length the richest and noblest tried their fortune with as little success as the rest, he grew angry and called his daughter, and said to her-- "Hitherto I have left you to your free choice, but since I see that you reject all without any distinction, and the very best of your suitors seems not good enough for you, I will keep measures no longer with you. What! shall my family become extinct, and my inheritance pass away into the hands of strangers? I will break your stubborn spirit. I give you now till the festival of the great winter-night. Make your choice by that time, or prepare to accept him whom I shall fix on." Aslog loved a youth named Orm, handsome as he was brave and noble. She loved him with her whole soul, and she would sooner die than bestow her hand on another. But Orm was poor, and poverty compelled him to serve in the mansion of her father. Aslog's partiality for him was kept a secret, for her father's pride of power and wealth was such that he would never have given his consent to a union with so humble a man. When Aslog saw the darkness of his countenance, and heard his angry words, she turned pale as death, for she knew his temper, and doubted not that he would put his threats into execution. Without uttering a word in reply, she retired to her chamber, and thought deeply but in vain how to avert the dark storm that hung over her. The great festival approached nearer and nearer, and her anguish increased every day. At last the lovers resolved on flight. "I know," said Orm, "a secure place where we may remain undiscovered until we find an opportunity of quitting the country." At night, when all were asleep, Orm led the trembling Aslog over the snow and ice-fields away to the mountains. The moon and the stars, sparkling still brighter in the cold winter's night, lighted them on their way. They had under their arms a few articles of dress and some skins of animals, which were all they could carry. They ascended the mountains the whole night long till they reached a lonely spot enclosed with lofty rocks. Here Orm conducted the weary Aslog into a cave, the low and narrow entrance to which was hardly perceptible, but it soon enlarged to a great hall, reaching deep into the mountain. He kindled a fire, and they now, reposing on their skins, sat in the deepest solitude far away from all the world. Orm was the first who had discovered this cave, which is shown to this very day, and as no one knew anything of it, they were safe from the pursuit of Aslog's father. They passed the whole winter in this retirement. Orm used to go a-hunting, and Aslog stayed at home in the cave, minded the fire, and prepared the necessary food. Frequently did she mount the points of the rocks, but her eyes wandered as far as they could reach only over glittering snow-fields. The spring now came on: the woods were green, the meadows pat on their various colours, and Aslog could but rarely, and with circumspection, venture to leave the cave. One evening Orm came in with the intelligence that he had recognised her father's servants in the distance, and that he could hardly have been unobserved by them whose eyes were as good as his own. "They will surround this place," continued he, "and never rest till they have found us. We must quit our retreat then without a minute's delay." They accordingly descended on the other side of the mountain, and reached the strand, where they fortunately found a boat. Orm shoved off, and the boat drove into the open sea. They had escaped their pursuers, but they were now exposed to dangers of another kind. Whither should they turn themselves? They could not venture to land, for Aslog's father was lord of the whole coast, and they would infallibly fall into his hands. Nothing then remained for them but to commit their bark to the wind and waves. They drove along the entire night. At break of day the coast had disappeared, and they saw nothing but the sky above, the sea beneath, and the waves that rose and fell. They had not brought one morsel of food with them, and thirst and hunger began now to torment them. Three days did they toss about in this state of misery, and Aslog, faint and exhausted, saw nothing but certain death before her. At length, on the evening of the third day, they discovered an island of tolerable magnitude, and surrounded by a number of smaller ones. Orm immediately steered for it, but just as he came near to it there suddenly arose a violent wind, and the sea rolled higher and higher against him. He turned about with a view of approaching it on another side, but with no better success. His vessel, as often as he approached the island, was driven back as if by an invisible power. "Lord God!" cried he, and blessed himself and looked on poor Aslog, who seemed to be dying of weakness before his eyes. Scarcely had the exclamation passed his lips when the storm ceased, the waves subsided, and the vessel came to the shore without encountering any hindrance. Orm jumped out on the beach. Some mussels that he found upon the strand strengthened and revived the exhausted Aslog so that she was soon able to leave the boat. The island was overgrown with low dwarf shrubs, and seemed to be uninhabited; but when they had got about the middle of it, they discovered a house reaching but a little above the ground, and appearing to be half under the surface of the earth. In the hope of meeting human beings and assistance, the wanderers approached it. They listened if they could hear any noise, but the most perfect silence reigned there. Orm at length opened the door, and with his companion walked in; but what was their surprise to find everything regulated and arranged as if for inhabitants, yet not a single living creature visible. The fire was burning on the hearth in the middle of the room, and a kettle with fish hung on it, apparently only waiting for some one to take it off and eat. The beds were made and ready to receive their weary tenants. Orm and Aslog stood for some time dubious, and looked on with a certain degree of awe, but at last, overcome with hunger, they took up the food and ate. When they had satisfied their appetites, and still in the last beams of the setting sun, which now streamed over the island far and wide, discovered no human being, they gave way to weariness, and laid themselves in the beds to which they had been so long strangers. They had expected to be awakened in the night by the owners of the house on their return home, but their expectation was not fulfilled. They slept undisturbed till the morning sun shone in upon them. No one appeared on any of the following days, and it seemed as if some invisible power had made ready the house for their reception. They spent the whole summer in perfect happiness. They were, to be sure, solitary, yet they did not miss mankind. The wild birds' eggs and the fish they caught yielded them provisions in abundance. When autumn came, Aslog presented Orm with a son. In the midst of their joy at his appearance they were surprised by a wonderful apparition. The door opened on a sudden, and an old woman stepped in. She had on her a handsome blue dress. There was something proud, but at the same time strange and surprising in her appearance. "Do not be afraid," said she, "at my unexpected appearance. I am the owner of this house, and I thank you for the clean and neat state in which you have kept it, and for the good order in which I find everything with you. I would willingly have come sooner, but I had no power to do so, till this little heathen (pointing to the new-born babe) was come to the light. Now I have free access. Only, fetch no priest from the mainland to christen it, or I must depart again. If you will in this matter comply with my wishes, you may not only continue to live here, but all the good that ever you can wish for I will cause you. Whatever you take in hand shall prosper. Good luck shall follow you wherever you go; but break this condition, and depend upon it that misfortune after misfortune will come on you, and even on this child will I avenge myself. If you want anything, or are in danger, you have only to pronounce my name three times, and I will appear and lend you assistance. I am of the race of the old giants, and my name is Guru. But beware of uttering in my presence the name of him whom no giant may hear of, and never venture to make the sign of the cross, or to cut it on beam or on board of the house. You may dwell in this house the whole year long, only be so good as to give it up to me on Yule evening, when the sun is at the lowest, as then we celebrate our great festival, and then only are we permitted to be merry. At least, if you should not be willing to go out of the house, keep yourselves up in the loft as quiet as possible the whole day long, and, as you value your lives, do not look down into the room until midnight is past. After that you may take possession of everything again." When the old woman had thus spoken she vanished, and Aslog and Orm, now at ease respecting their situation, lived, without any disturbance, content and happy. Orm never made a cast of his net without getting a plentiful draught. He never shot an arrow from his bow that missed its aim. In short, whatever they took in hand, were it ever so trifling, evidently prospered. When Christmas came, they cleaned up the house in the best manner, set everything in order, kindled a fire on the hearth, and, as the twilight approached, they went up to the loft, where they remained quiet and still. At length it grew dark. They thought they heard a sound of flying and labouring in the air, such as the swans make in the winter-time. There was a hole in the roof over the fire-place which might be opened or shut either to let in the light from above or to afford a free passage for the smoke. Orm lifted up the lid, which was covered with a skin, and put out his head, but what a wonderful sight then presented itself to his eyes! The little islands around were all lit up with countless blue lights, which moved about without ceasing, jumped up and down, then skipped down to the shore, assembled together, and now came nearer and nearer to the large island where Orm and Aslog lived. At last they reached it and arranged themselves in a circle around a large stone not far from the shore, and which Orm well knew. What was his surprise when he saw that the stone had now completely assumed the form of a man, though of a monstrous and gigantic one! He could clearly perceive that the little blue lights were borne by dwarfs, whose pale clay-coloured faces, with their huge noses and red eyes, disfigured, too, by birds' bills and owls' eyes, were supported by misshapen bodies. They tottered and wobbled about here and there, so that they seemed to be, at the same time, merry and in pain. Suddenly the circle opened, the little ones retired on each side, and Guru, who was now much enlarged and of as immense a size as the stone, advanced with gigantic steps. She threw both her arms about the stone image, which immediately began to receive life and motion. As soon as the first sign of motion showed itself the little ones began, with wonderful capers and grimaces, a song, or, to speak more properly, a howl, with which the whole island resounded and seemed to tremble. Orm, quite terrified, drew in his head, and he and Aslog remained in the dark, so still that they hardly ventured to draw their breath. The procession moved on towards the house, as might be clearly perceived by the nearer approach of the shouting and crying. They were now all come in, and, light and active, the dwarfs jumped about on the benches, and heavy and loud sounded, at intervals, the steps of the giants. Orm and his wife heard them covering the table, and the clattering of the plates, and the shouts of joy with which they celebrated their banquet. When it was over, and it drew near to midnight, they began to dance to that ravishing fairy air which charms the mind into such sweet confusion, and which some have heard in the rocky glens, and learned by listening to the underground musicians. As soon as Aslog caught the sound of the air she felt an irresistible longing to see the dance, nor was Orm able to keep her back. "Let me look," said she, "or my heart will burst." She took her child and placed herself at the extreme end of the loft whence, without being observed, she could see all that passed. Long did she gaze, without taking off her eyes for an instant, on the dance, on the bold and wonderful springs of the little creatures who seemed to float in the air and not so much as to touch the ground, while the ravishing melody of the elves filled her whole soul. The child, meanwhile, which lay in her arms, grew sleepy and drew its breath heavily, and without ever thinking of the promise she had given to the old woman, she made, as is usual, the sign of the cross over the mouth of the child, and said-- "Christ bless you, my babe!" The instant she had spoken the word there was raised a horrible, piercing cry. The spirits tumbled head over heels out at the door, with terrible crushing and crowding, their lights went out, and in a few minutes the whole house was clear of them and left desolate. Orm and Aslog, frightened to death, hid themselves in the most retired nook in the house. They did not venture to stir till daybreak, and not till the sun shone through the hole in the roof down on the fire-place did they feel courage enough to descend from the loft. The table remained still covered as the underground people had left it. All their vessels, which were of silver, and manufactured in the most beautiful manner, were upon it. In the middle of the room there stood upon the ground a huge copper kettle half-full of sweet mead, and, by the side of it, a drinking-horn of pure gold. In the corner lay against the wall a stringed instrument not unlike a dulcimer, which, as people believe, the giantesses used to play on. They gazed on what was before them full of admiration, but without venturing to lay their hands on anything; but great and fearful was their amazement when, on turning about, they saw sitting at the table an immense figure, which Orm instantly recognised as the giant whom Guru had animated by her embrace. He was now a cold and hard stone. While they were standing gazing on it, Guru herself entered the room in her giant form. She wept so bitterly that the tears trickled down on the ground. It was long ere her sobbing permitted her to utter a single word. At length she spoke-- "Great affliction have you brought on me, and henceforth must I weep while I live. I know you have not done this with evil intentions, and therefore I forgive you, though it were a trifle for me to crush the whole house like an egg-shell over your heads." "Alas!" cried she, "my husband, whom I love more than myself, there he sits petrified for ever. Never again will he open his eyes! Three hundred years lived I with my father on the island of Kunnan, happy in the innocence of youth, as the fairest among the giant maidens. Mighty heroes sued for my hand. The sea around that island is still filled with the rocky fragments which they hurled against each other in their combats. Andfind won the victory, and I plighted myself to him; but ere I was married came the detestable Odin into the country, who overcame my father, and drove us all from the island. My father and sisters fled to the mountains, and since that time my eyes have beheld them no more. Andfind and I saved ourselves on this island, where we for a long time lived in peace and quiet, and thought it would never be interrupted. Destiny, which no one escapes, had determined it otherwise. Oluf came from Britain. They called him the Holy, and Andfind instantly found that his voyage would be inauspicious to the giants. When he heard how Oluf's ship rushed through the waves, he went down to the strand and blew the sea against him with all his strength. The waves swelled up like mountains, but Oluf was still more mighty than he. His ship flew unchecked through the billows like an arrow from a bow. He steered direct for our island. When the ship was so near that Andfind thought he could reach it with his hands, he grasped at the fore-part with his right hand, and was about to drag it down to the bottom, as he had often done with other ships. Then Oluf, the terrible Oluf, stepped forward, and, crossing his hands over each other, he cried with a loud voice--" "'Stand there as a stone till the last day!' and in the same instant my unhappy husband became a mass of rock. The ship went on unimpeded, and ran direct against the mountain, which it cut through, separating from it the little island which lies yonder." "Ever since my happiness has been annihilated, and lonely and melancholy have I passed my life. On Yule eve alone can petrified giants receive back their life, for the space of seven hours, if one of their race embraces them, and is, at the same time, willing to sacrifice a hundred years of his own life. Seldom does a giant do that. I loved my husband too well not to bring him back cheerfully to life, every time that I could do it, even at the highest price, and never would I reckon how often I had done it that I might not know when the time came when I myself should share his fate, and, at the moment I threw my arms around him, become the same as he. Alas! now even this comfort is taken from me. I can never more by any embrace awake him, since he has heard the name which I dare not utter, and never again will he see the light till the dawn of the last day shall bring it." "Now I go hence! You will never again behold me! All that is here in the house I give you! My dulcimer alone will I keep. Let no one venture to fix his habitation on the little islands which lie around here. There dwell the little underground ones whom you saw at the festival, and I will protect them as long as I live." With these words Guru vanished. The next spring Orm took the golden horn and the silver ware to Drontheim where no one knew him. The value of the things was so great that he was able to purchase everything a wealthy man desires. He loaded his ship with his purchases, and returned to the island, where he spent many years in unalloyed happiness, and Aslog's father was soon reconciled to his wealthy son-in-law. The stone image remained sitting in the house. No human power was able to move it. So hard was the stone that hammer and axe flew in pieces without making the slightest impression upon it. The giant sat there till a holy man came to the island, who, with one single word, removed him back to his former station, where he stands to this hour. The copper kettle, which the underground people left behind them, was preserved as a memorial upon the island, which bears the name of House Island to the present day. THE ICELANDIC SORCERESSES. "Tell me," said Katla, a handsome and lively widow, to Gunlaugar, an accomplished and gallant young warrior, "tell me why thou goest so oft to Mahfahlida? Is it to caress an old woman?" "Thine own age, Katla," answered the youth inconsiderately, "might prevent thy making that of Geirrida a subject of reproach." "I little deemed," replied the offended matron, "that we were on an equality in that particular--but thou, who supposest that Geirrida is the sole source of knowledge, mayst find that there are others who equal her in science." It happened in the course of the following winter that Gunlaugar, in company with Oddo, the son of Katla, had renewed one of those visits to Geirrida with which Katla had upbraided him. "Thou shalt not depart to-night," said the sage matron; "evil spirits are abroad, and thy bad destiny predominates." "We are two in company," answered Gunlaugar, "and have therefore nothing to fear." "Oddo," replied Geirrida, "will be of no aid to thee; but go, since thou wilt go, and pay the penalty of thy own rashness." In their way they visited the rival matron, and Gunlaugar was invited to remain in her house that night. This he declined, and, passing forward alone, was next morning found lying before the gate of his father Thorbiorn, severely wounded and deprived of his judgment. Various causes were assigned for this disaster; but Oddo, asserting that they had parted in anger that evening from Geirrida, insisted that his companion must have sustained the injury through her sorcery. Geirrida was accordingly cited to the popular assembly and accused of witchcraft. But twelve witnesses, or compurgators, having asserted upon their oath the innocence of the accused party, Geirrida was honourably freed from the accusation brought against her. Her acquittal did not terminate the rivalry between the two sorceresses, for, Geirrida belonging to the family of Kiliakan, and Katla to that of the pontiff Snorro, the animosity which still subsisted between these septs became awakened by the quarrel. It chanced that Thorbiorn, called Digri (or the corpulent), one of the family of Snorro, had some horses which fed in the mountain pastures, near to those of Thorarin, called the Black, the son of the enchantress Geirrida. But when autumn arrived, and the horses were to be withdrawn from the mountains and housed for the winter, those of Thorbiorn could nowhere be found, and Oddo, the son of Katla, being sent to consult a wizard, brought back a dubious answer, which seemed to indicate that they had been stolen by Thorarin. Thorbiorn, with Oddo and a party of armed followers, immediately set forth for Mahfahlida, the dwelling of Geirrida and her son Thorarin. Arrived before the gate, they demanded permission to search for the horses which were missing. This Thorarin refused, alleging that neither was the search demanded duly authorised by law, nor were the proper witnesses cited to be present, nor did Thorbiorn offer any sufficient pledge of security when claiming the exercise of so hazardous a privilege. Thorbiorn replied, that as Thorarin declined to permit a search, he must be held as admitting his guilt; and constituting for that purpose a temporary court of justice, by choosing out six judges, he formally accused Thorarin of theft before the gate of his own house. At this the patience of Geirrida forsook her. "Well," said she to her son Thorarin, "is it said of thee that thou art more a woman than a man, or thou wouldst not bear these intolerable affronts." Thorarin, fired at the reproach, rushed forth with his servants and guests; a skirmish soon disturbed the legal process which had been instituted, and one or two of both parties were wounded and slain before the wife of Thorarin and the female attendants could separate the fray by flinging their mantles over the weapons of the combatants. Thorbiorn and his party retreating, Thorarin proceeded to examine the field of battle. Alas! among the reliques of the fight was a bloody hand too slight and fair to belong to any of the combatants. It was that of his wife Ada, who had met this misfortune in her attempts to separate the foes. Incensed to the uttermost, Thorarin threw aside his constitutional moderation, and, mounting on horseback, with his allies and followers, pursued the hostile party, and overtook them in a hay-field, where they had halted to repose their horses, and to exult over the damage they had done to Thorarin. At this moment he assailed them with such fury that he slew Thorbiorn upon the spot, and killed several of his attendants, although Oddo, the son of Katla, escaped free from wounds, having been dressed by his mother in an invulnerable garment. After this action, more blood being shed than usual in an Icelandic engagement, Thorarin returned to Mahfahlida, and, being questioned by his mother concerning the events of the skirmish, he answered in the improvisatory and enigmatical poetry of his age and country-- "From me the foul reproach be far, With which a female waked the war, From me, who shunned not in the fray Through foemen fierce to hew my way (Since meet it is the eagle's brood On the fresh corpse should find their food); Then spared I not, in fighting field, With stalwart hand my sword to wield; And well may claim at Odin's shrine The praise that waits this deed of mine." To which effusion Geirrida answered-- "Do these verses imply the death of Thorbiorn?" And Thorarin, alluding to the legal process which Thorbiorn had instituted against him, resumed his song-- "Sharp bit the sword beneath the hood Of him whose zeal the cause pursued, And ruddy flowed the stream of death, Ere the grim brand resumed the sheath; Now on the buckler of the slain The raven sits, his draught to drain, For gore-drenched is his visage bold, That hither came his courts to hold." As the consequence of this slaughter was likely to be a prosecution at the instance of the pontiff Snorro, Thorarin had now recourse to his allies and kindred, of whom the most powerful were Arnkill, his maternal uncle, and Verimond, who readily premised their aid both in the field and in the Comitia, or popular meeting, in spring, before which it was to be presumed Snorro would indict Thorarin for the slaughter of his kinsman. Arnkill could not, however, forbear asking his nephew how he had so far lost his usual command of temper. He replied in verse-- "Till then, the master of my mood, Men called me gentle, mild, and good; But yon fierce dame's sharp tongue might wake In wintry den the frozen snake." While Thorarin spent the winter with his uncle Arnkill, he received information from his mother Geirrida that Oddo, son of her old rival Katla, was the person who had cut off the hand of his wife Ada, and that he gloried in the fact. Thorarin and Arnkill determined on instant vengeance, and, travelling rapidly, surprised the house of Katla. The undismayed sorceress, on hearing them approach, commanded her son to sit close beside her, and when the assailants entered they only beheld Katla, spinning coarse yarn from what seemed a large distaff, with her female domestics seated around her. "My son," she said, "is absent on a journey;" and Thorarin and Arnkill, having searched the house in vain, were obliged to depart with this answer. They had not, however, gone far before the well-known skill of Katla, in optical delusion occurred to them, and they resolved on a second and stricter search. Upon their return they found Katla in the outer apartment, who seemed to be shearing the hair of a tame kid, but was in reality cutting the locks of her son Oddo. Entering the inner room, they found the large distaff flung carelessly upon a bench. They returned yet a third time, and a third delusion was prepared for them; for Katla had given her son the appearance of a hog, which seemed to grovel upon the heap of ashes. Arnkill now seized and split the distaff, which he had at first suspected, upon which Kalta tauntingly observed, that if their visits had been frequent that evening, they could not be said to be altogether ineffectual, since they had destroyed a distaff. They were accordingly returning completely baffled, when Geirrida met them, and upbraided them with carelessness in searching for their enemy. "Return yet again," she said, "and I will accompany you." Katla's maidens, still upon the watch, announced to her the return of the hostile party, their number augmented by one who wore a blue mantle. "Alas!" cried Katla, "it is the sorceress Geirrida, against whom spells will be of no avail." Immediately rising from the raised and boarded seat which she occupied, she concealed Oddo beneath it, and covered it with cushions as before, on which she stretched herself complaining of indisposition. Upon the entrance of the hostile party, Geirrida, without speaking a word, flung aside her mantle, took out a piece of sealskin, in which she wrapped up Katla's head, and commanded that she should be held by some of the attendants, while the others broke open the boarded space, beneath which Oddo lay concealed, seized upon him, bound him, and led him away captive with his mother. Next morning Oddo was hanged, and Katla stoned to death; but not until she had confessed that, through her sorcery, she had occasioned the disaster of Gunlaugar, which first led the way to these feuds. THE THREE DOGS. Once upon a time there was a king who travelled to a strange country, where he married a queen. When they had been married some time the queen had a daughter, which gave rise to much joy through the whole land, for all people liked the king, he was so kind and just. As the child was born there came an old woman into the room. She was of a strange appearance, and nobody could guess where she came from, or to what place she was going. This old woman declared that the royal child must not be taken out under the sky until it was fifteen years old. If she was she would be in danger of being carried away by the giants of the mountains. The king, when he was told what the woman had said, heeded her words, and set a guard to see that the princess did not come out into the open air. In a short time the queen bore another daughter, and there was again much joy in the land. The old woman once more made her appearance, and she said that the king must not let the young princess go out under the sky before she was fifteen. The queen had a third daughter, and the third time the old woman came, warning the king respecting this child as she had done regarding the two former. The king was much distressed, for he loved his children more than anything else in the world. So he gave strict orders that the three princesses should be always kept indoors, and he commanded that every one should respect his edict. A considerable time passed by, and the princesses grew up to be the most beautiful girls that could be seen far or near. Then a war began, and the king had to leave his home. One day, while he was away at the seat of war, the three princesses sat at a window looking at how the sun shone on the flowers in the garden. They felt that they would like very much to go and play among the flowers, and they begged the guards to let them out for a little while to walk in the garden. The guards refused, for they were afraid of the king, but the girls begged of them so prettily and so earnestly that they could not long refuse them, so they let them do as they wished. The princesses were delighted, and ran out into the garden, but their pleasure was short-lived. Scarcely had they got into the open air when a cloud came down and carried them off, and no one could find them again, though they searched the wide world over. The whole of the people mourned, and the king, as you may imagine, was very much grieved when, on his return home, he learned what had happened. However, there is an old saying, "What's done cannot be undone," so the king had to let matters remain as they were. As no one could advise him how to recover his daughters, the king caused proclamation to be made throughout the land that whoever should bring them back to him from the power of the mountain-giants should have one of them for his wife, and half the kingdom as a wedding present. As soon as this proclamation was made in the neighbouring countries many young warriors went out, with servants and horses, to look for the three princesses. There were at the king's court at that time two foreign princes and they started off too, to see how fortunate they might be. They put on fine armour, and took costly weapons, and they boasted of what they would do, and how they would never come back until they had accomplished their purpose. We will leave these two princes to wander here and there in their search, and look at what was passing in another place. Deep down in the heart of a wild wood there dwelt at that time an old woman who had an only son, who used daily to attend to his mother's three hogs. As the lad roamed through the forest, he one day cut a little pipe to play on. He found much pleasure in the music, and he played so well that the notes charmed all who heard him. The boy was well built, of an honest heart, and feared nothing. One day it chanced that, as he was sitting in the wood playing on his pipe, while his three hogs grubbed among the roots of the pine-trees, a very old man came along. He had a beard so long that it reached to his waist, and a large dog accompanied him. When the lad saw the dog he said to himself-- "I wish I had a dog like that as a companion here in the wood. Then there would be no danger." The old man knew what the boy thought, and he said-- "I have come to ask you to let me give you my dog for one of your hogs." The lad was ready to close the bargain, and gave a gray hog in exchange for the big dog. As he was going the old man said-- "I think you will be satisfied with your bargain. The dog is not like other dogs. His name is Hold-fast, and if you tell him to hold, hold he will whatever it may be, were it even the fiercest giant." Then he departed, and the lad thought that for once, at all events, fortune had been kind to him. When evening had come, the lad called his dog, and drove the hogs to his home in the forest. When the old woman learnt how her son had given away the gray hog for a dog, she flew into a great rage, and gave him a good beating. The lad begged her to be quiet, but it was of no use, for she only seemed to get the more angry. When the boy saw that it was no good pleading, he called to the dog-- "Hold fast." The dog at once rushed forward, and, seizing the old woman, held her so firmly that she could not move; but he did her no harm. The old woman now had to promise that she would agree to what her son had done; but she could not help thinking that she had suffered a great misfortune in losing her fat gray hog. The next day the boy went once more to the forest with his dog and the two hogs. When he arrived there he sat down and played upon his pipe as usual, and the dog danced to the music in such a wonderful manner that it was quite amazing. While he thus sat, the old man with the gray beard came up to him out of the forest. He was accompanied by a dog as large as the former one. When the boy saw the fine animal, he said to himself-- "I wish I had that dog as a companion in this wood. Then there would be no danger." The old man knew what he thought, and said-- "I have come to ask you to let me give you my dog for one of your hogs." The boy did not hesitate long, but agreed to the bargain. He got the big dog, and the man took the hog in exchange. As he went, the old man said-- "I think you will be satisfied with your bargain. The dog is not like other dogs. He is called Tear, and if you tell him to tear, tear he will in pieces whatever it be, even the fiercest mountain giant." Then he departed, and the boy was glad at heart, thinking he had made a good bargain, though he well knew his old mother would not be much pleased at it. Towards evening he went home, and his mother was not a bit less angry than she had been on the previous day. She dared not beat her son, however, for his big dogs made her afraid. It usually happens that when women have scolded enough they at last give in. So it was now. The boy and his mother became friends once more; but the old woman thought she had sustained such a loss as could never again be made good. The boy went to the forest again with the hog and the two dogs. He was very happy, and, sitting down on the trunk of a tree he played, as usual, on his pipe; and the dogs danced in such fine fashion that it was a treat to look at them. While the boy thus sat amusing himself, the old man with the gray beard again appeared out of the forest. He had with him a third dog as large as either of the others. When the boy saw it, he said to himself-- "I wish I had that dog as a companion in this wood. Then there would be no danger." The old man said-- "I came because I wished you to see my dog, for I well know you would like to have him." The lad was ready enough, and the bargain was made. So he got the big dog, giving his last hog for it. The old man then departed, saying-- "I think you will be satisfied with your bargain. The dog is not like other dogs. He is called Quick-ear, and so quick does he hear, that he knows all that takes place, be it ever so many miles away. Why, he hears even the trees and the grass growing in the fields!" Then the old man went off, and the lad felt very happy, for he thought he had nothing now to be afraid of. As evening came on the boy went home, and his mother was sorely grieved when she found her son had parted with her all; but he told her to bid farewell to sorrow, saying that he would see she had no loss. The lad spoke so well that the old woman was quite pleased. At daybreak the lad went out a-hunting with his two dogs, and in the evening he came back with as much game as he could carry. He hunted till his mother's larder was well stocked, then he bade her farewell, telling her he was going to travel to see what fortune had in store for him, and called his dogs to him. He travelled on over hills, and along gloomy roads, till he got deep in a dark forest. There the old man with the gray beard met him. The lad was very glad to fall in with him again, and said to him-- "Good-day, father. I thank you for our last meeting." "Good-day," answered the old man. "Where are you going?" "I am going into the world," said the boy, "to see what fortune I shall have." "Go on," said the old man, "and you will come to a royal palace; there you will have a change of fortune." With that they parted; but the lad paid good heed to the old man's words, and kept on his way. When he came to a house, he played on his pipe while his dogs danced, and so he got food and shelter, and whatever he wanted. Having travelled for some days, he at last entered a large city, through the streets of which great crowds of people were passing. The lad wondered what was the cause of all this. At last he came to where proclamation was being made, that whoever should rescue the three princesses from the hands of the mountain giants should have one of them for his wife and half the kingdom with her. Then the lad remembered what the old man had told him, and understood what he meant. He called his dogs to him, and went on till he came to the palace. There, from the time that the princesses disappeared, the place had been filled with sorrow and mourning, and the king and the queen grieved more than all the others. The boy entered the palace, and begged to be allowed to play to the king and show him his dogs. The people of the palace were much pleased at this, for they thought it might do something to make the king forget his grief. So they let him go in and show what he could do. When the king heard how he played, and saw how wonderfully his dogs danced, he was so merry that no one had seen him so during the seven long years that had passed since he lost his daughters. When the dancing was finished, the king asked the boy what he should give him as a return for the amusement he had given them. "My lord king," said the boy, "I am not come here for silver, goods, or gold! I ask one thing of you, that you will give me leave to go and seek the three princesses who are now in the hands of the mountain giants." When the king heard this he knit his brow--"So you think," said he, "that you can restore my daughters. The task is a dangerous one, and men who were better than you have suffered in it. If, however, any one save the princesses I will never break my word." The lad thought these words kingly and honest. He bade farewell to the king and set out, determined that he would not rest till he had found what he wanted. He travelled through many great countries without any extraordinary adventure, and wherever he went his dogs went with him. Quick-ear ran and heard what there was to hear in the place; Hold-fast carried the bag; and on Tear, who was the strongest of the three, the lad rode when he was tired. One day Quick-ear came running fast to his master to tell him that he had been near a high mountain, and had heard one of the princesses spinning within it. The giant, Quick-ear said, was not at home. At this the boy felt very glad, and he made haste to the mountain with his dogs. When they were come to it, Quick-ear said-- "We have no time to lose. The giant is only ten miles away, and I can hear his horse's golden shoes beating on the stones." The lad at once ordered his dogs to break in the door of the mountain, which they did. He entered, and saw a beautiful maiden who sat spinning gold thread on a spindle of gold. He stepped forward and spoke to her. She was much astonished, and said--"Who are you, that dare to come into the giant's hall? For seven long years have I lived here, and never during that time have I looked on a human being. Run away, for Heaven's sake, before the giant comes, or you will lose your life." The boy told her his errand, and said he would await the troll's coming. While they were talking, the giant came, riding on his gold-shod horse, and stopped outside the mountain. When he saw that the door was open he was very angry, and called out, in such a voice that the whole mountain shook to its base, "Who has broken open my door?" The boy boldly answered-- "I did it, and now I will break you too. Hold-fast, hold him fast; Tear and Quick-ear, tear him into a thousand pieces!" Hardly had he spoken the words when the three dogs rushed forward, threw themselves on the giant, and tore him into numberless pieces. The princess was very glad, and said-- "Heaven be thanked! Now I am free." She threw herself on the lad's neck and kissed him. The lad would not stop in the place, so he saddled the giant's horses, put on them all the goods and gold he found, and set off with the beautiful young princess. They travelled together for a long time, the lad waiting on the maiden with that respect and attention that such a noble lady deserved. It chanced one day that Quick-ear, who had gone before to obtain news, came running fast to his master and informed him that he had been to a high mountain, and had heard another of the king's daughters sitting within it spinning gold thread. The giant, he said, was not at home. The lad was well pleased to hear this, and hastened to the mountain with his three dogs. When they arrived there, Quick-ear said-- "We have no time to waste. The giant is but eight miles off. I can hear the sound of his horse's gold shoes on the stones!" The lad ordered the dogs to break in the door, and when they had done so he entered and found a beautiful maiden sitting in the hall, winding gold thread. The lad stepped forward and spoke to her. She was much surprised, and said-- "Who are you, who dare to come into the giant's dwelling? Seven long years have I lived here, and never during that time have I looked on a human being. Run away, for Heaven's sake, before the giant comes, or you will lose your life." The lad told her why he had come, and said he would wait for the giant's return home. In the midst of their talk the giant came, riding on his gold-shod horse, and stopped outside the mountain. When he saw the door was open he was in a great rage, and called out with such a voice that the mountain shook to its base. "Who," said he, "has broken open my door?" The lad answered boldly-- "I did it, and now I will break you. Hold-fast, hold him fast; Tear and Quick-ear, tear him into a thousand pieces!" The dogs straightway sprang forward and threw themselves on the giant, and tore him into pieces as numberless as are the leaves which fall in the autumn. Then the princess was very glad, and said-- "Heaven be thanked! Now I am free!" She threw herself on the lad's neck and kissed him. He led her to her sister, and one can well imagine how glad they were to meet. The lad took all the treasures that the giant's dwelling contained, put them on the gold-shod horses, and set out with the two princesses. They again travelled a great distance, and the youth waited on the princesses with the respect and care they deserved. It chanced one day that Quick-ear, who went before to get news, came running fast to his master, and told him he had been near a high mountain, and had heard the third princess sitting within, spinning cloth of gold. The giant himself was not in. The youth was well pleased to hear this, and he hurried to the mountain accompanied by his dogs. When they came there, Quick-ear said-- "There is no time to be lost. The giant is not more than five miles off. I well know it. I hear the sound of his horse's gold shoes on the stones." The lad told his dogs to break in the door, and they did so. When he entered the mountain he saw there a maiden, sitting and weaving cloth of gold. She was so beautiful that the lad thought another such could not be found in the world. He advanced and spoke to her. The young princess was much astonished, and said-- "Who are you, who dare to come into the giant's hall? For seven long years have I lived here, and never during that time have I looked on a human being. For Heaven's sake," added she, "run away before the giant comes, or he will kill you!" The lad, however, was brave, and said that he would lay down his life for the beautiful princess. In the middle of their talk home came the giant, riding on his horse with the golden shoes, and stopped at the mountain. When he came in and saw what unwelcome visitors were there he was very much afraid, for he knew what had happened to his brethren. He thought it best to be careful and cunning, for he dared not act openly. He began therefore with fine words, and was very smooth and amiable. He told the princess to dress meat, so that he might entertain the guest, and behaved in such a friendly manner that the lad was perfectly deceived, and forgot to be on his guard. He sat down at the table with the giant. The princess wept in secret, and the dogs were very uneasy, but no one noticed it. When the giant and his guest had finished the meal, the youth said-- "I am no longer hungry. Give me something to drink." "There is," said the giant, "a spring up in the mountain which runs with sparkling wine, but I have no one to fetch of it." "If that is all," said the lad, "one of my dogs can go up there." The giant laughed in his false heart when he heard that, for what he wanted was that the lad should send away his dogs. The lad told Hold-fast to go for the wine, and the giant gave him a large jug. The dog went, but one might see that he did so very unwillingly. Time went on and on, but the dog did not come back. After some time the giant said-- "I wonder why the dog is so long away. It might, perhaps, be as well to let another dog go to help him. He has to go a long distance, and the jug is a heavy one to carry." The lad, suspecting no trickery, fell in with the giant's suggestion, and told Tear to go and see why Hold-fast did not come. The dog wagged his tail and did not want to leave his master, but he noticed it, and drove him off to the spring. The giant laughed to himself, and the princess wept, but the lad did not mark it, being very merry, jested with his entertainer, and did not dream of any danger. A long time passed, but neither the wine nor the dogs appeared. "I can well see," said the giant, "that your dogs do not do what you tell them, or we should not sit here thirsty. It seems to me it would be best to send Quick-ear to ascertain why they don't come back." The lad was nettled at that, and ordered his third dog to go in haste to the spring. Quick-ear did not want to go, but whined and crept to his master's feet. Then the lad became angry, and drove him away. The dog had to obey, so away he set in great haste to the top of the mountain. When he reached it, it happened to him as it had to the others. There arose a high wall around him, and he was made a prisoner by the giant's sorcery. When all the three dogs were gone, the giant stood up, put on a different look, and gripped his bright sword which hung upon the wall. "Now will I avenge my brethren," said he, "and you shall die this instant, for you are in my hands." The lad was frightened, and repented that he had parted with his dogs. "I will not ask my life," said he, "for I must die some day. I only ask one thing, that I may say my _Paternoster_ and play a psalm on my pipe. That is the custom in my country." The giant granted him his wish, but said he would not wait long. The lad knelt down, and devoutly said his _Paternoster_, and began to play upon his pipe so that it was heard over hill and dale. That instant the magic lost its power, and the dogs were once more set free. They came down like a blast of wind, and rushed into the mountain. Then the lad sprang up and cried-- "Hold-fast, hold him; Tear and Quick-ear, tear him into a thousand pieces." The dogs flew on the giant, and tore him into countless shreds. Then the lad took all the treasures in the mountain, harnessed the giant's horses to a golden chariot, and made haste to be gone. As may well be imagined, the young princesses were very glad at being thus saved, and they thanked the lad for having delivered them from the power of mountain giants. He himself fell deep in love with the youngest princess, and they vowed to be true and faithful. So they travelled, with mirth and jest and great gladness, and the lad waited on the princesses with the respect and care they deserved. As they went on, the princesses played with the lad's hair, and each one hung her finger-ring in his long locks as a keepsake. One day as they were journeying, they came up with two wanderers who were going the same way. They had on tattered clothes, their feet were sore, and altogether one would have thought they had come a long distance. The lad stopped his chariot and asked them who they were and where they came from. The strangers said they were two princes who had gone out to look for the three maidens who had been carried off to the mountains. They had, however, searched in vain, so they had now to go home more like beggars than princes. When the lad heard that, he had pity on the two wanderers, and he asked them to go with him in the beautiful chariot. The princes gave him many thanks for the favour. So they travelled on together till they came to the land over which the father of the princesses ruled. Now when the princes heard how the poor lad had rescued the princesses, they were filled with envy, thinking how they themselves had wandered to no purpose. They considered how they could get rid of him, and obtain the honour and rewards for themselves. So one day they suddenly set on him, seized him by the throat, and nearly strangled him. Then they threatened to kill the princesses unless they took an oath not to reveal what they had done, and they, being in the princes' power, did not dare to refuse. However, they were very sorry for the youth who had risked his life for them, and the youngest princess mourned him with all her heart, and would not be comforted. After having done this, the princes went on to the king's demesnes, and one can well imagine how glad the king was to once more see his three daughters. Meanwhile the poor lad lay in the forest as if he were dead. He was not, however, forsaken, for the three dogs lay down by him, kept him warm, and licked his wounds. They attended to him till he got his breath again, and came once more to life. When he had regained life and strength, he began his journey, and came, after having endured many hardships, to the king's demesnes, where the princesses lived. When he went into the palace, he marked that the whole place was filled with mirth and joy, and in the royal hall he heard dancing and the sound of harps. The lad was much astonished, and asked what it all meant. "You have surely come from a distance," said the servant, "not to know that the king has got back his daughters from the mountain giants. The two elder princesses are married to-day." The lad asked about the youngest princess, whether she was to be married. The servant said she would have no one, but wept continually, and no one could find out the reason for her sorrow. Then the lad was glad, for he well knew that his love was faithful and true to him. He went up into the guard-room, and sent a message to the king that a guest had come who prayed that he might add to the wedding mirth by exhibiting his dogs. The king was pleased, and ordered that the stranger should be well received. When the lad came into the hall, the wedding guests much admired his smartness and his manly form, and they all thought they had never before seen so brave a young man. When the three princesses saw him they knew him at once, rose from the table, and ran into his arms. Then the princes thought they had better not stay there, for the princesses told how the lad had saved them, and how all had befallen. As a proof of the truth of what they said, they showed their rings in the lad's hair. When the king knew how the two foreign princes had acted so treacherously and basely he was much enraged, and ordered that they should be driven off his demesnes with disgrace. The brave youth was welcomed with great honour, as, indeed, he deserved, and he was, the same day, married to the youngest princess. When the king died, the youth was chosen ruler over the land, and made a brave king. There he yet lives with his beautiful queen, and there he governs prosperously to this day. I know no more about him. THE LEGEND OF THORGUNNA. A ship from Iceland chanced to winter in a haven near Helgafels. Among the passengers was a woman named Thorgunna, a native of the Hebrides, who was reported by the sailors to possess garments and household furniture of a fashion far surpassing those used in Iceland. Thurida, sister of the pontiff Snorro, and wife of Thorodd, a woman of a vain and covetous disposition, attracted by these reports, made a visit to the stranger, but could not prevail upon her to display her treasures. Persisting, however, in her inquiries, she pressed Thorgunna to take up her abode at the house of Thorodd. The Hebridean reluctantly assented, but added, that as she could labour at every usual kind of domestic industry, she trusted in that manner to discharge the obligation she might lie under to the family, without giving any part of her property in recompense of her lodging. As Thurida continued to urge her request, Thorgunna accompanied her to Froda, the house of Thorodd, where the seamen deposited a huge chest and cabinet, containing the property of her new guest, which Thurida viewed with curious and covetous eyes. So soon as they had pointed out to Thorgunna the place assigned for her bed, she opened the chest, and took forth such an embroidered bed coverlid, and such a splendid and complete set of tapestry hangings, and bed furniture of English linen, interwoven with silk, as had never been seen in Iceland. "Sell to me," said the covetous matron, "this fair bed furniture." "Believe me," answered Thorgunna, "I will not lie upon straw in order to feed thy pomp and vanity;" an answer which so greatly displeased Thurida that she never again repeated her request. Thorgunna, to whose character subsequent events added something of a mystical solemnity, is described as being a woman of a tall and stately appearance, of a dark complexion, and having a profusion of black hair. She was advanced in age; assiduous in the labours of the field and of the loom; a faithful attendant upon divine worship; grave, silent, and solemn in domestic society. She had little intercourse with the household of Thorodd, and showed particular dislike to two of its inmates. These were Thorer, who, having lost a leg in the skirmish between Thorbiorn and Thorarin the Black, was called Thorer-Widlegr (wooden-leg), from the substitute he had adopted; and his wife, Thorgrima, called Galldra-Kinna (wicked sorceress), from her supposed skill in enchantments. Kiartan, the son of Thurida, a boy of excellent promise, was the only person of the household to whom Thorgunna showed much affection; and she was much vexed at times when the childish petulance of the boy made an indifferent return to her kindness. After this mysterious stranger had dwelt at Froda for some time, and while she was labouring in the hay-field with other members of the family, a sudden cloud from the northern mountain led Thorodd to anticipate a heavy shower. He instantly commanded the hay-workers to pile up in ricks the quantity which each had been engaged in turning to the wind. It was afterwards remembered that Thorgunna did not pile up her portion, but left it spread on the field. The cloud approached with great celerity, and sank so heavily around the farm, that it was scarce possible to see beyond the limits of the field. A heavy shower next descended, and so soon as the clouds broke away and the sun shone forth it was observed that it had rained blood. That which fell upon the ricks of the other labourers soon dried up, but what Thorgunna had wrought upon remained wet with gore. The unfortunate Hebridean, appalled at the omen, betook herself to her bed, and was seized with a mortal illness. On the approach of death she summoned Thorodd, her landlord, and intrusted to him the disposition of her property and effects. "Let my body," said she, "be transported to Skalholt, for my mind presages that in that place shall be founded the most distinguished church in this island. Let my golden ring be given to the priests who shall celebrate my obsequies, and do thou indemnify thyself for the funeral charges out of my remaining effects. To thy wife I bequeath my purple mantle, in order that, by this sacrifice to her avarice, I may secure the right of disposing of the rest of my effects at my own pleasure. But for my bed, with its coverings, hangings, and furniture, I entreat they may be all consigned to the flames. I do not desire this because I envy any one the possession of these things after my death, but because I wish those evils to be avoided which I plainly foresee will happen if my will be altered in the slightest particular." Thorodd promised faithfully to execute this extraordinary testament in the most exact manner. Accordingly, so soon as Thorgunna was dead, her faithful executor prepared a pile for burning her splendid bed. Thurida entered, and learned with anger and astonishment the purpose of these preparations. To the remonstrances of her husband she answered that the menaces of future danger were only caused by Thorgunna's selfish envy, who did not wish any one should enjoy her treasures after her decease. Then, finding Thorodd inaccessible to argument, she had recourse to caresses and blandishments, and at length extorted permission to separate from the rest of the bed-furniture the tapestried curtains and coverlid; the rest was consigned to the flames, in obedience to the will of the testator. The body of Thorgunna, being wrapped in new linen and placed in a coffin, was next to be transported through the precipices and morasses of Iceland to the distant district she had assigned for her place of sepulture. A remarkable incident occurred on the way. The transporters of the body arrived at evening, late, weary, and drenched with rain, in a house called Nether-Ness, where the niggard hospitality of the proprietor only afforded them house-room, without any supply of food or fuel. But, so soon as they entered, an unwonted noise was heard in the kitchen of the mansion, and the figure of a woman, soon recognised to be the deceased Thorgunna, was seen busily employed in preparing victuals. Their inhospitable landlord, being made acquainted with this frightful circumstance, readily agreed to supply every refreshment which was necessary, on which the vision instantly disappeared. The apparition having become public, they had no reason to ask twice for hospitality as they proceeded on their journey, and they came to Skalholt, where Thorgunna, with all due ceremonies of religion, was deposited quietly in the grave. But the consequences of the breach of her testament were felt severely at Froda. The dwelling at Froda was a simple and patriarchal structure, built according to the fashion used by the wealthy among the Icelanders. The apartments were very large, and a part boarded off contained the beds of the family. On either side was a sort of store-room, one of which contained meal, the other dried fish. Every evening large fires were lighted in this apartment for dressing the victuals; and the domestics of the family usually sat around them for a considerable time, until supper was prepared. On the night when the conductors of Thorgunna's funeral returned to Froda, there appeared, visible to all who were present, a meteor, or spectral appearance, resembling a half-moon, which glided around the boarded walls of the mansion in an opposite direction to the course of the sun, and continued to perform its revolutions until the domestics retired to rest. This apparition was renewed every night during a whole week, and was pronounced by Thorer with the wooden leg to presage pestilence or mortality. Shortly after a herdsman showed signs of mental alienation, and gave various indications of having sustained the persecution of evil demons. This man was found dead in his bed one morning, and then commenced a scene of ghost-seeing unheard of in the annals of superstition. The first victim was Thorer, who had presaged the calamity. Going out of doors one evening, he was grappled by the spectre of the deceased shepherd as he attempted to re-enter the house. His wooden leg stood him in poor stead in such an encounter; he was hurled to the earth, and so fearfully beaten, that he died in consequence of the bruises. Thorer was no sooner dead than his ghost associated itself to that of the herdsman, and joined him in pursuing and assaulting the inhabitants of Froda. Meantime an infectious disorder spread fast among them, and several of the bondsmen died one after the other. Strange portents were seen within-doors, the meal was displaced and mingled, and the dried fish flung about in a most alarming manner, without any visible agent. At length, while the servants were forming their evening circle round the fire, a spectre, resembling the head of a seal-fish, was seen to emerge out of the pavement of the room, bending its round black eyes full on the tapestried bed-curtains of Thorgunna. Some of the domestics ventured to strike at this figure, but, far from giving way, it rather erected itself further from the floor, until Kiartan, who seemed to have a natural predominance over these supernatural prodigies, seizing a huge forge-hammer, struck the seal repeatedly on the head, and compelled it to disappear, forcing it down into the floor, as if he had driven a stake into the earth. This prodigy was found to intimate a new calamity. Thorodd, the master of the family, had some time before set forth on a voyage to bring home a cargo of dried fish; but in crossing the river Enna the skiff was lost and he perished with the servants who attended him. A solemn funeral feast was held at Froda, in memory of the deceased, when, to the astonishment of the guests, the apparition of Thorodd and his followers seemed to enter the apartment dripping with water. Yet this vision excited less horror than might have been expected, for the Icelanders, though nominally Christians, retained, among other pagan superstitions, a belief that the spectres of such drowned persons as had been favourably received by the goddess Rana were wont to show themselves at their funeral feast. They saw, therefore, with some composure, Thorodd and his dripping attendants plant themselves by the fire, from which all mortal guests retreated to make room for them. It was supposed this apparition would not be renewed after the conclusion of the festival. But so far were their hopes disappointed, that, so soon as the mourning guests had departed, the fires being lighted, Thorodd and his comrades marched in on one side, drenched as before with water; on the other entered Thorer, heading all those who had died in the pestilence, and who appeared covered with dust. Both parties seized the seats by the fire, while the half-frozen and terrified domestics spent the night without either light or warmth. The same phenomenon took place the next night, though the fires had been lighted in a separate house, and at length Kiartan was obliged to compound matters with the spectres by kindling a large fire for them in the principal apartment, and one for the family and domestics in a separate hut. This prodigy continued during the whole feast of Jol. Other portents also happened to appal this devoted family: the contagious disease again broke forth, and when any one fell a sacrifice to it his spectre was sure to join the troop of persecutors, who had now almost full possession of the mansion of Froda. Thorgrima Galldrakinna, wife of Thorer, was one of these victims, and, in short, of thirty servants belonging to the household, eighteen died, and five fled for fear of the apparitions, so that only seven remained in the service of Kiartan. Kiartan had now recourse to the advice of his maternal uncle Snorro, in consequence of whose counsel, which will perhaps appear surprising to the reader, judicial measures were instituted against the spectres. A Christian priest was, however, associated with Thordo Kausa, son of Snorro, and with Kiartan, to superintend and sanctify the proceedings. The inhabitants were regularly summoned to attend upon the inquest, as in a cause between man and man, and the assembly was constituted before the gate of the mansion, just as the spectres had assumed their wonted station by the fire. Kiartan boldly ventured to approach them, and, snatching a brand from the fire, he commanded the tapestry belonging to Thorgunna to be carried out of doors, set fire to it, and reduced it to ashes with all the other ornaments of her bed, which had been so inconsiderately preserved at the request of Thurida. A tribunal being then constituted with the usual legal solemnities, a charge was preferred by Kiartan against Thorer with the wooden leg, by Thordo Kausa against Thorodd, and by others chosen as accusers against the individual spectres present, accusing them of molesting the mansion, and introducing death and disease among its inhabitants. All the solemn rites of judicial procedure were observed on this singular occasion; evidence was adduced, charges given, and the cause formally decided. It does not appear that the ghosts put themselves on their defence, so that sentence of ejectment was pronounced against them individually in due and legal form. When Thorer heard the judgment, he arose, and saying-- "I have sat while it was lawful for me to do so," left the apartment by the door opposite to that at which the judicial assembly was constituted. Each of the spectres, as it heard its individual sentence, left the place, saying something which indicated its unwillingness to depart, until Thorodd himself was solemnly called on to leave. "We have here no longer," said he, "a peaceful dwelling, therefore will we remove." Kiartan then entered the hall with his followers, and the priest, with holy water, and celebration of a solemn mass, completed the conquest over the goblins, which had been commenced by the power and authority of the Icelandic law. THE LITTLE GLASS SHOE. A peasant, named John Wilde, who lived in Rodenkirchen, found, one time, a little glass shoe on one of the hills, where the little people used to dance. He clapped it instantly in his pocket, and ran away with it, keeping his hand as close on his pocket as if he had a dove in it, for he knew he had found a treasure which the underground people must redeem at any price. Others say that John Wilde lay in ambush one night for the underground people, and snatched an opportunity to pull off one of their shoes by stretching himself there with a brandy bottle beside him, and acting like one that was dead drunk, for he was a very cunning man, not over scrupulous in his morals, and had taken in many a one by his craftiness, and, on this account, his name was in no good repute among his neighbours, who, to say the truth, were willing to have as little to do with him as possible. Many hold, too, that he was acquainted with forbidden acts, and used to carry on an intercourse with the fiends and old women that raised storms, and such like. However, be this as it may, when John had got the shoe he lost no time in letting the folk that dwell under the ground know that he had it. At midnight he went to the Nine-hills, and cried with all his might-- "John Wilde of Rodenkirchen has got a beautiful glass shoe. Who will buy it? who will buy it?" for he knew that the little one who had lost the shoe must go barefoot till he got it again; and that is no trifle, for the little people have generally to walk upon very hard and stony ground. John's advertisement was speedily attended to. The little fellow who had lost the shoe made no delay in setting about redeeming it. The first free day he got that he might come out in the daylight, he came as a respectable merchant, knocked at John Wilde's door, and asked if John had not got a glass shoe to sell: "For," says he, "they are an article now in great demand, and are sought for in every market." John replied that it was true that he had a very pretty little glass shoe; but it was so small that even a dwarf's foot would be squeezed in it, and that a person must be made on purpose to suit it before it could be of use. For all that, it was an extraordinary shoe, a valuable shoe, and a dear shoe, and it was not every merchant that could afford to pay for it. The merchant asked to see it, and when he had examined it-- "Glass shoes," said he, "are not by any means such rare articles, my good friend, as you think here in Rodenkirchen, because you do not happen to go much into the world. However," said he, after humming a little, "I will give you a good price for it, because I happen to have the very fellow of it." He bid the countryman a thousand dollars for it. "A thousand dollars are money, my father used to say when he drove fat oxen to market," replied John Wilde, in a mocking tone; "but it will not leave my hands for that shabby price, and, for my own part, it may ornament the foot of my daughter's doll! Hark ye, my friend, I have heard a sort of little song sung about the glass shoe, and it is not for a parcel of dirt it will go out of my hands. Tell me now, my good fellow, should you happen to know the knack of it, how in every furrow I make when I am ploughing I may find a ducat? If not, the shoe is still mine; and you may inquire for glass shoes at those other markets." The merchant made still a great many attempts, and twisted and turned in every direction to get the shoe; but when he found the farmer inflexible, he agreed to what John desired, and swore to the performance of it. Cunning John believed him, and gave him up the glass shoe, for he knew right well with whom he had to do. So, the business being ended, away went the merchant with his glass shoe. Without a moment's delay John repaired to his stable, got ready his horses and his plough, and went out to the field. He selected a piece of ground where he would have the shortest turns possible, and began to plough. Hardly had the plough turned up the first sod when up sprang a ducat out of the ground, and it was the same with every fresh furrow he made. There was now no end of his ploughing, and John Wilde soon bought eight new horses, and put them into the stable to the eight he already had, and their mangers were never without plenty of oats in them, that he might be able every two hours to yoke two fresh horses, and so be enabled to drive them the faster. John was now insatiable in ploughing. Every morning he was out before sunrise, and many a time he ploughed on till after midnight. Summer and winter it was plough, plough with him ever-more, except when the ground was frozen as hard as a stone. He always ploughed by himself, and never suffered any one to go out with him, or to come to him when he was at work, for John understood too well the nature of his crop to let people see for what it was he ploughed so constantly. However, it fared far worse with him than with his horses, who ate good oats, and were regularly changed and relieved, for he grew pale and meagre by reason of his continual working and toiling. His wife and children had no longer any comfort for him. He never went to the ale-house or to the club. He withdrew himself from every one, and scarcely ever spoke a single word, but went about silent and wrapped up in his own thoughts. All the day long he toiled for his ducats, and at night he had to count them, and to plan and meditate how he might find out a still swifter kind of plough. His wife and the neighbours lamented over his strange conduct, his dulness and melancholy, and began to think he was grown foolish. Everybody pitied his wife and children, for they imagined the numerous horses that he kept in his stable, and the preposterous mode of agriculture he pursued, with his unnecessary and superfluous ploughing, must soon leave him without house or land. Their anticipations, however, were not fulfilled. True it is, the poor man never enjoyed a happy or contented hour since he began to plough the ducats up out of the ground. The old saying held good in his case, that he who gives himself up to the pursuit of gold is half-way in the claws of the evil one. Flesh and blood cannot bear perpetual labour, and John Wilde did not long hold out against his running through the furrows day and night. He got through the first spring; but one day in the second he dropped down at the tail of the plough like an exhausted November fly. Out of the pure thirst for gold he was wasted away and dried up to nothing, whereas he had been a very strong and hearty man the day the shoe of the little underground man fell into his hands. His wife, however, found he had left a great treasure--two great nailed-up chests full of good new ducats; and his sons purchased large estates for themselves, and became lords and noblemen. But what good did all that to poor John Wilde? HOW LOKI WAGERED HIS HEAD. Loki, the son of Laufey, out of mischief cut off all the hair of Sif. When Thor discovered this he seized Loki, and would have broken every bone in his body, only he swore that he would get the black dwarfs to make hair of gold for Sif, which should grow like any other hair. Loki then went to the dwarfs that are called the sons of Ivallda. They first made the hair, which, as soon as it was put on the head, grew like natural hair. Then they made the ship Skidbladnir, which always had the wind with it wherever it would sail. Lastly, they made the spear Gugner, which always hit its mark in battle. Then Loki wagered his head against the dwarf Brock, that his brother, Eitri, could not forge three such valuable things as these. They went to the forge. Eitri set the bellows to the fire, and bid his brother, Brock, blow. While he was blowing there came a fly that settled on his hand and bit him, but he blew without stopping till the smith took the work out of the fire, and it was a boar, and its bristles were of gold. Eitri then put gold into the fire, and bid his brother not stop blowing till he came back. He went away, and the fly came and settled on Brock's neck, and bit him more severely than before, but he blew on till the smith came back, and took out of the fire the gold ring which is called Draupnir. Then he put iron into the fire, and bid Brock blow, and said that if he stopped blowing all the work would be lost. The fly settled between Brock's eyes, and bit so hard that the blood ran down so that he could not see. So, when the bellows were down, he caught at the fly in all haste, and tore off its wings. When the smith came he said that all that was in the fire was nearly spoiled. Then he took out of it the hammer, Mjolnir. He then gave all the things to his brother Brock, and bade him go with them to Asgard, and settle the wager. Loki produced his articles, and Odin, Thor, and Frey were the judges. Then Loki gave to Odin the spear Gugner, and to Thor the hair that Sif was to have, and to Frey Skidbladnir, and told them what virtues those things possessed. Brock took out his articles, and gave to Odin the ring, and told him that every ninth night there would drop from it eight other rings as valuable as itself. To Frey he gave the boar, and said that it would run through air and water, by night and by day, better than any horse, and that never was there night so dark that the way by which he went would not be light from his hide. The hammer he gave to Thor, and said that it would never fail to hit a troll, and that at whatever he threw it, it would never miss the mark, and that Thor could never throw it so far that it would not return to his hand. It would also, when Thor chose, become so small that he could put it in his pocket. The only fault of the hammer was that its handle was a little too short. Their judgment was that the hammer was the best of all the things before them, and that the dwarf had won his wager. Then Loki prayed hard not to lose his head, but the dwarf said that could not be. "Catch me, then!" said Loki, and when the dwarf sought to catch him he was far away, for Loki had shoes with which he could run through air and water. Then the dwarf prayed Thor to catch him, and he did so. The dwarf now proceeded to cut off his head, but Loki objected that he was to have the head only, and not the neck. As he would not be quiet, the dwarf took a knife and a thong, and began to sew his mouth up; but the knife was bad, so the dwarf wished that he had his brother's awl, and as soon as he wished it, it was there. So he sewed Loki's lips together. THE ADVENTURES OF JOHN DIETRICH. There once lived in Rambin an honest, industrious man, named James Dietrich. He had several children, all of a good disposition, especially the youngest, whose name was John. John Dietrich was a handsome, smart boy, diligent at school, and obedient at home. His great passion was for hearing stories, and whenever he met any one who was well stored he never let him go till he had heard them all. When John was about eight years old he was sent to spend a summer with his uncle, a farmer, in Rodenkirchen. Here John had to keep cows with other boys, and they used to drive them to graze about the Nine-hills. There was an old cowherd, one Klas Starkwolt who used frequently to join the boys, and then they would sit down together and tell stories. Klas abounded in these, and he became John Dietrich's dearest friend. In particular, he knew a number of stories of the Nine-hills, and the underground people in the old times, when the giants disappeared from the country and the little ones came into the hills. These tales John swallowed so eagerly that he thought of nothing else, and was for ever talking of golden cups, and crowns, and glass shoes, and pockets full of ducats, and gold rings, and diamond coronets, and snow-white brides, and such like. Old Klas used often to shake his head at him, and say-- "John! John! what are you about? The spade and scythe will be your sceptre and crown, and your bride will wear a garland of rosemary, and a gown of striped drill." Still John almost longed to get into the Nine-hills, for Klas told him that every one who by luck or cunning should get a cap of the little ones might go down with safety, and instead of their making a servant of him, he would be their master. The person whose cap he got would be his servant, and obey all his commands. St. John's day, when the days were longest and the nights shortest, was now come. Old and young kept the holiday, had all sorts of plays, and told all kinds of stories. John could now no longer contain himself, but the day after the festival he slipt away to the Nine-hills, and when it grew dark laid himself down on the top of the highest of them, where Klas had told him the underground people had their principal dancing-place. John lay quite still from ten till twelve at night. At last it struck twelve. Immediately there was a ringing and a singing in the hills, and then a whispering and a lisping, and a whiz and a buzz all about him, for the little people were now, some whirling round and round in the dance, and others sporting and tumbling about in the moonshine, and playing a thousand merry pranks and tricks. He felt a secret dread come over him at this whispering and buzzing, for he could see nothing of them, as the caps they wore made them invisible, but he lay quite still with his face in the grass, and his eyes fast shut, snoring a little, just as if he were asleep. Now and then he ventured to open his eyes a little and peep out, but not the slightest trace of them could he see, though it was bright moonlight. It was not long before three of the underground people came jumping up to where he was lying, but they took no heed of him, and flung their brown caps up into the air, and caught them from one another. At length one snatched the cap out of the hand of another and flung it away. It flew direct, and fell upon John's head. The moment he felt it he caught hold of it, and, standing up, bid farewell to sleep. He flung his cap about for joy and made the little silver bell of it jingle, then set it upon his head, and--oh wonderful! that instant he saw the countless and merry swarm of the little people. The three little men came slily up to him, and thought by their nimbleness to get back the cap, but he held his prize fast, and they saw clearly that nothing was to be done in this way with him, for in size and strength John was a giant in comparison with these little fellows, who hardly came up to his knee. The owner of the cap now came up very humbly to the finder, and begged, in as supplicating a tone as if his life depended upon it, that he would give him back his cap. "No," said John, "you sly little rogue, you will get the cap no more. That's not the sort of thing one gives away for buttered cake. I should be in a nice way with you if I had not something of yours, but now you have no power over me, but must do what I please. I will go down with you and see how you live down below, and you shall be my servant. Nay, no grumbling. You know you must. I know that just as well as you do, for Klas Starkwolt told it to me often and often!" The little man made as if he had not heard or understood one word of all this. He began his crying and whining over again, and wept and screamed and howled most piteously for his little cap. John, however, cut the matter short by saying-- "Have done. You are my servant, and I intend to make a trip with you." So he gave up, especially as the others told him there was no remedy. John now flung away his old hat, and put on the cap, and set it firm on his head lest it should slip off or fly away, for all his power lay in the cap. He lost no time in trying its virtues, and commanded his new servant to fetch him food and drink. The servant ran away like the wind, and in a second was there again with bottles of wine, and bread, and rich fruits. So John ate and drank, and looked at the sports and dancing of the little ones, and it pleased him right well, and he behaved himself stoutly and wisely, as if he had been a born master. When the cock had now crowed for the third time, and the little larks had made their first twirl in the sky, and the infant light appeared in solitary white streaks in the east, then it went hush, hush, hush, through the bushes and flowers and stalks, and the hills rent again, and opened up, and the little men went down. John gave close attention to everything, and found that it was exactly as he had been told, and, behold! on the top of the hill, where they had just been dancing, and where all was full of grass and flowers, as people see it by day, there rose of a sudden, when the retreat was sounded, a bright glass point. Whoever wanted to go in stepped upon this. It opened, and he glided gently in, the grass closing again after him; and when they had all entered it vanished, and there was no further trace of it to be seen. Those who descended through the glass point sank quite gently into a wide silver tun, which held them all, and could have easily harboured a thousand such little people. John and his man went down into such a one along with several others, all of whom screamed out, and prayed him not to tread on them, for if his weight came on them they were dead men. He was, however, careful, and acted in a very friendly way towards them. Several tuns of this kind went up and down after each other, until all were in. They hung by long silver chains, which were drawn and hung without. In his descent John was amazed at the brilliancy of the walls between which the tun glided down. They were all, as it were, beset with pearls and diamonds, glittering and sparkling brightly, and below him he heard the most beautiful music tinkling at a distance, so that he did not know what was become of him, and from excess of pleasure he fell fast asleep. He slept a long time, and when he awoke he found himself in the most beautiful bed that could be, such as he had never seen the like of in his father's house, and it was in the prettiest chamber in the world, and his servant was beside him with a fan to keep away the flies and gnats. He had hardly opened his eyes when his little servant brought him a basin and towel, and held him the nicest new clothes of brown silk to put on, most beautifully made. With these was a pair of new black shoes with red ribbons, such as John had never beheld in Rambin or in Rodinkirchen either. There were also there several pairs of beautiful shining glass shoes, such as are only used on great occasions. John was, as we may well suppose, delighted to have such clothes to wear, and he put them upon him joyfully. His servant then flew like lightning, and returned with a breakfast of wine and milk, and beautiful white bread and fruits, and such other things as boys are fond of. He now perceived every moment more and more, that Klas Starkwolt, the old cowherd, knew what he was talking about, for the splendour and magnificence he saw here surpassed anything he had ever dreamt of. His servant, too, was the most obedient one possible, a nod or a sign was enough for him, for he was as wise as a bee, as all these little people are by nature John's bedchamber was all covered with emeralds and other precious stones, and in the ceiling was a diamond as big as a nine-pin bowl, that gave light to the whole chamber. In this place they have neither sun nor moon nor stars to give them light, neither do they use lamps or candlesticks of any kind, but they live in the midst of precious stones, and have the purest of gold and silver in abundance, and the skill to make it light both by day and night, though indeed, properly speaking, as there is no sun there, there is no distinction between day and night, and they reckon only by weeks. They set the brightest and clearest precious stones in their dwellings, and in the ways and passages leading underground, and in the places where they had their large halls, and their dances and their feasts, where they sparkled so as to make it eternal day. When John had finished breakfast, his servant opened a little door in the wall, where was a closet with the most beautiful silver and gold cups and dishes and other vessels and baskets filled with ducats and boxes of jewels and precious stones. There were also charming pictures, and the most delightful books he had seen in the whole course of his life. John spent the morning looking at these things, and when it was midday a bell rang, and his servant said-- "Will you dine alone, sir, or with the large company?" "With the large company, to be sure," replied John. So his servant led him out. John, however, saw nothing but solitary halls lighted up with precious stones, and here and there little men and women, who appeared to him to glide in and out of the clefts and fissures of the rocks. Wondering what it was the bells rang for, he said to his servant-- "But where is the company?" Scarcely had he spoken when the hall they were in opened out to a great extent, and a canopy set with diamonds and precious stones was drawn over it. At the same moment he saw an immense throng of nicely dressed little men and women pouring in through several open doors. The floor opened in several places, and tables, covered with the most beautiful ware, and the most luscious meats and fruits and wines, placed themselves beside each other, and the chairs arranged themselves along the tables, and then the men and women took their seats. The principal persons now came forward and bowed to John, and led him to their table, where they placed him among their most beautiful maidens, a distinction which pleased John well. The party, too, was very merry, for the underground people are extremely lively and cheerful, and can never stay long quiet. Then the most charming music sounded over their heads, and beautiful birds, flying about, sang most sweetly, and these were not real birds but artificial ones which the little men make so ingeniously that they can fly about and sing like natural ones. The servants of both sexes who waited at table and handed about the golden cups, and the silver and crystal baskets with fruit, were children belonging to this world, whom some casualty or other had thrown among the underground people, and who, having come down without securing any pledge, were fallen into the power of the little ones. These were differently clad. The boys and girls were dressed in short white coats and jackets, and wore glass shoes so fine that their step could never be heard, with blue caps on their heads, and silver belts round their waists. John at first pitied them, seeing how they were forced to run about and wait on the little people, but as they looked cheerful and happy, and were handsomely dressed, and had such rosy cheeks, he said to himself--"After all, they are not so badly off, and I was myself much worse when I had to be running after the cows and bullocks. To be sure I am now a master here, and they are servants, but there is no help for it. Why were they so foolish as to let themselves be taken and not get some pledge beforehand? At any rate the time must come when they will be set at liberty, and they will certainly not be longer than fifty years here." With these thoughts he consoled himself, and sported and played away with his little play-fellows, and ate, and drank, and made his servant tell him stories, for he would know everything exactly. They sat at table about two hours. The principal person then rang a bell, and the tables and chairs all vanished in a whiff, leaving all the company on their feet. The birds now struck up a most lively air, and the little people danced their rounds most merrily. When they were done, the joyous sets jumped and leaped, and whirled themselves round and round, as if the world was grown dizzy. The pretty girls who sat next John caught hold of him and whirled him about, and, without making any resistance, he danced round and round with them for two good hours. Every afternoon while he remained there he used to dance thus merrily with them, and, to the last hour of his life, he used to speak of it with the greatest glee. His language was--that the joys of heaven and the songs and music of the angels, which the righteous hope to enjoy there, might be excessively beautiful, but that he could conceive nothing to surpass the music and the dancing under the earth, the beautiful and lively little men, the wonderful birds in the branches, and the tinkling silver bells in their caps. "No one," said he, "who has not seen and heard it, can form any idea whatever of it." When the music and dancing were over it might be about four o'clock. The little people then disappeared, and went each about his own business or pleasure. After supper they sported and danced in the same way, and at midnight, especially on star-light nights, they slipped out of their hills to dance in the open air. John used then to say his prayers, a duty he never neglected either in the evening or in the morning, and go to sleep. For the first week John was in the glass hill, he only went from his chamber to the great hall and back again. After the first week, however, he began to walk about, making his servant show and explain everything to him. He found that there were in that place the most beautiful walks in which he might ramble about for miles, in all directions, without ever finding an end to them, so immensely large was the hill in which the little people lived, and yet outwardly it seemed but a little place, with a few bushes and trees growing on it. It was extraordinary that, between the meads and fields, which were thick sown with hills and lakes and islands, and ornamented with trees and flowers in great variety, there ran, as it were, small lanes, through which, as through crystal rocks, one was obliged to pass to come to any new place; and the single meads and fields were often a mile long, and the flowers were so brilliant and so fragrant, and the songs of the numerous birds so sweet, that John had never seen anything on earth like it. There was a breeze, and yet one did not feel the wind. It was quite clear and bright, and yet there was no heat. The waves were dashing, still there was no danger, and the most beautiful little barks and canoes came, like white swans, when one wanted to cross the water, and went backwards and forwards of themselves. Whence all this came no one knew, nor could John's servant tell anything about it, but one thing John saw plainly, which was, that the large carbuncles and diamonds that were set in the roof and walls gave light instead of the sun, moon, and stars. These lovely meads and plains were, for the most part, all lonesome. Few of the underground people were to be seen upon them, and those that were just glided across them as if in the greatest hurry. It very rarely happened that any of them danced out there in the open air. Sometimes about three of them did so, or, at the most, half a dozen. John never saw a greater number together. The meads were never cheerful except when the servants, of whom there might be some hundreds, were let out to walk. This, however, happened but twice a week, for they were mostly kept employed in the great hall and adjoining apartments or at school. For John soon found they had schools there also. He had been there about ten months when one day he saw something snow-white gliding into a rock and disappearing. "What!" said he to his servant, "are there some of you that wear white like the servants?" He was informed that there were, but they were few in number, and never appeared at the large tables or the dances, except once a year, on the birthday of the great Hill-king, who dwelt many thousand miles below in the great deep. These were the oldest among them, some of them many thousand years old, who knew all things and could tell of the beginning of the world, and were called the Wise. They lived all alone, and only left their chambers to instruct the underground children and the attendants of both sexes, for whom there was a great school. John was much pleased with this intelligence, and he determined to take advantage of it; so next morning he made his servant conduct him to the school, and was so well pleased with it that he never missed a day going there. They were there taught reading, writing, and accounts, to compose and relate histories, stories, and many elegant kinds of work, so that many came out of the hills, both men and women, very prudent and knowing people in consequence of what they were taught there. The biggest, and those of best capacity, received instruction in natural science and astronomy, and in poetry and in riddle-making, arts highly esteemed among the little people. John was very diligent, and soon became a most clever painter and drawer. He wrought, too, most ingeniously in gold and silver and stones, and in verse and riddle-making he had no fellow. John had spent many a happy year here without ever thinking of the upper world, or of those he had left behind, so pleasantly passed the time--so many agreeable companions had he. Of all of them there was none of whom he was so fond as of a fair-haired girl named Elizabeth Krabbe. She was from his own village, and was the daughter of Frederick Krabbe, the minister of Rambin. She was but four years old when she was taken away, and John had often heard tell of her. She was not, however, stolen by the little people, but had come into their power in this manner. One day in summer she and other children ran out into the fields. In their rambles they went to the Nine-hills, where little Elizabeth fell asleep, and was forgotten by the rest. At night when she awoke, she found herself under the ground among the little people. It was not merely because she was from his own village that John was so fond of Elizabeth, but she was very beautiful, with clear blue eyes and ringlets of fair hair, and a most angelic smile. Time flew away unperceived. John was now eighteen, and Elizabeth sixteen. Their childish fondness was now become love, and the little people were pleased to see it, thinking that by means of her they might get John to renounce his power, and become their servant, for they were fond of him, and would willingly have had him to wait upon them, for the love of dominion is their vice. They were, however, mistaken. John had learned too much from his servant to be caught in that way. John's chief delight was walking about with Elizabeth, for he now knew every place so well that he could dispense with the attendance of his servant. In these rambles he was always gay and lively, but his companion was frequently sad and melancholy, thinking on the land above, where men live, and where the sun, moon, and stars shine. Now it happened in one of their walks, as they talked of their love, and it was after midnight, they passed under the place where the tops of the glass hills used to open and let the underground people in and out. As they went along, they heard of a sudden the crowing of several cocks above. At this sound, which she had not heard for several years, Elizabeth felt her heart so affected that she could contain herself no longer, but throwing her arms about John's neck, she bathed his cheek with her tears. At length she said-- "Dearest John, everything down here is very beautiful, and the little people are kind and do nothing to injure me, but still I have been always uneasy, nor ever felt any pleasure till I began to love you; and yet that is not pure pleasure, for this is not a right way of living, such as is fit for human beings. Every night I dream of my father and mother, and of our churchyard where the people stand so pious at the church door waiting for my father, and I could weep tears of blood that I cannot go into the church with them and worship God as a human being should, for this is no Christian life we lead down here, but a delusive half-heathen one. And only think, dear John, that we can never marry, as there is no priest to join us. Do, then, plan some way for us to leave this place, for I cannot tell you how I long to get once more to my father, and among pious Christians." John, too, had not been unaffected by the crowing of the cocks, and he felt what he had never felt there before, a longing after the land where the sun shines. "Dear Elizabeth," said he, "all you say is true, and I now feel it is a sin for Christians to stay here, and it seems to me as if our Lord said to us in that cry of the cocks, 'Come up, ye Christian children, out of those abodes of illusion and magic. Come to the light of the stars, and act as children of the light.' I now feel that it was a great sin for me to come down here, but I trust I shall be forgiven on account of my youth, for I was only a boy, and knew not what I did. But now I will not stay a day longer. They cannot keep _me_ here." At these last words Elizabeth turned pale, for she recollected that she was a servant, and must serve her fifty years. "And what will it avail me," cried she, "that I shall continue young, and be but as of twenty years when I go out, for my father and mother will be dead, and all my companions old and grey; and you, dearest John, will be old and grey also," cried she, throwing herself on his bosom. John was thunderstruck at this, for it had never before occurred to him. He, however, comforted her as well as he could, and declared he would never leave the place without her. He spent the whole night in forming various plans. At last he fixed on one, and in the morning he despatched his servant to summon to his apartment six of the principal of the little people. When they came, John thus mildly addressed them-- "My friends, you know how I came here, not as a prisoner or servant, but as a lord and master over one of you, and of consequence over all. You have now for the ten years I have been with you treated me with respect and attention, and for that I am your debtor. But you are still more my debtors, for I might have given you every sort of vexation and annoyance, and you must have submitted to it. I have, however, not done so, but have behaved as your equal, and have sported and played with you rather than ruled over you. I have now one request to make. There is a girl among your servants whom I love, Elizabeth Krabbe, of Rambin, where I was born. Give her to me and let us depart, for I will return to where the sun shines and the plough goes through the land. I ask to take nothing with me but her and the ornaments and furniture of my chamber." He spoke in a determined tone, and they hesitated and cast their eyes upon the ground. At last the oldest of them replied-- "Sir, you ask what we cannot grant. It is a fixed law that no servant can leave this place before the appointed time. Were we to break through this law our whole subterranean empire would fall. Anything else you desire, for we love and respect you, but we cannot give up Elizabeth." "You can, and you shall, give her up!" cried John in a rage. "Go, think of it till to-morrow. Return then at this hour. I will show you whether or not I can triumph over your hypocritical and cunning stratagems." The six retired. Next morning, on their return, John addressed them in the kindest manner, but to no purpose. They persisted in their refusal. He gave them till the next day, threatening them severely in case they still proved refractory. Next day, when the six little people appeared before him, John looked at them sternly, and made no return to their salutations, but said to them shortly-- "Yes, or No?" They answered, with one voice, "No." He then ordered his servant to summon twenty-four more of the principal persons, with their wives and children. When they came they were in all five hundred men, women, and children. John ordered them forthwith to go and fetch pick-axes, spades, and bars, which they did in a second. He now led them out to a rock in one of the fields, and ordered them to fall to work at blasting, hewing, and dragging stones. They toiled patiently, and made as if it were only sport to them. From morning till night their task-master made them labour without ceasing, standing over them constantly to prevent them resting. Still their obstinacy was inflexible, and at the end of some weeks his pity for them was so great that he was obliged to give over. He now thought of a new species of punishment for them. He ordered them to appear before him next morning, each provided with a new whip. They obeyed, and John commanded them to lash one another, and he stood looking on while they did it, as grim and cruel as an Eastern tyrant. Still the little people cut and slashed themselves and mocked at John, and refused to comply with his wishes. This he did for three or four days. Several other courses did he try, but all in vain. His temper was too gentle to struggle with their obstinacy, and he commenced to despair of ever accomplishing his dearest wish. He began now to hate the little people of whom he had before been so fond. He kept away from their banquets and dances, and associated with none but Elizabeth, and ate and drank quite solitary in his chamber. In short, he became almost a hermit, and sank into moodiness and melancholy. While in this temper, as he was taking a solitary walk in the evening, and, to divert his melancholy, was flinging the stones that lay in his path against each other, he happened to break a tolerably large one, and out of it jumped a toad. The moment John saw the ugly animal he caught him up in ecstasy, and put him in his pocket and ran home, crying-- "Now I have her! I have my Elizabeth! Now you shall get it, you little mischievous rascals!" On getting home he put the toad into a costly silver casket, as if it was the greatest treasure. To account for John's joy, you must know that Klas Starkwolt had often told him that the underground people could not endure any ill smell, and that the sight, or even the smell, of a toad made them faint, and suffer the most dreadful tortures, and that by means of one of those odious animals one could compel them to do anything. Hence there are no bad smells to be found in the whole glass empire, and a toad is a thing unheard of there. This toad must certainly have been enclosed in the stone from the creation, as it were, for the sake of John and Elizabeth. Resolved to try the effect of his toad, John took the casket under his arm and went out, and on the way he met two of the little people in a lonesome place. The moment he approached they fell to the ground, and whimpered and howled most lamentably as long as he was near them. Satisfied now of his power, he, the next morning, summoned the fifty principal persons, with their wives and children, to his apartment. When they came he addressed them, reminding them once again of his kindness and gentleness towards them, and of the good terms on which they had hitherto lived. He reproached them with their ingratitude in refusing him the only favour he had ever asked of them, but firmly declared that he would not give way to their obstinacy. "Therefore," said he, "for the last time, think for a minute, and if you then say 'No,' you shall feel that pain which is to you and your children the most terrible of all pains." They did not take long to deliberate, but unanimously replied "No"; and they thought to themselves, "What new scheme has the youth hit on with which he thinks to frighten wise ones like us?" and they smiled as they said "No." Their smiling enraged John above all, and he ran back a few hundred paces to where he had laid the casket with the toad under a bush. He was hardly come within a few hundred paces of them when they all fell to the ground as if struck with a thunderbolt, and began to howl and whimper, and to writhe, as if suffering the most excruciating pain. They stretched out their hands, and cried-- "Have mercy, have mercy! We feel you have a toad, and there is no escape for us. Take the odious beast away, and we will do all you require." He let them kick a few seconds longer, and then took the toad away. They then stood up and felt no more pain. John let all depart but the six chief persons, to whom he said-- "This night, between twelve and one, Elizabeth and I will depart. Load then for me three waggons with gold and silver and precious stones. I might, you know, take all that is in the hill, and you deserve it; but I will be merciful. Further, you must put all the furniture of my chamber in two waggons, and get ready for me the handsomest travelling carriage that is in the hill, with six black horses. Moreover, you must set at liberty all the servants who have been so long here that on earth they would be twenty years old and upwards; and you must give them as much silver and gold as will make them rich for life, and make a law that no one shall be detained here longer than his twentieth year." The six took the oath, and went away quite melancholy; and John buried his toad deep in the ground. The little people laboured hard, and prepared everything. At midnight everything was out of the hill; and John and Elizabeth got into the silver tun, and were drawn up. It was then one o'clock, and it was midsummer, the very time that, twelve years before, John had gone down into the hill. Music sounded around them, and they saw the glass hill open, and the rays of the light of heaven shine on them after so many years. And when they got out, they saw the first streaks of dawn already in the east. Crowds of the underground people were around them, busied about the waggons. John bid them a last farewell, waved his brown cap three times in the air, and then flung it among them. At the same moment he ceased to see them. He beheld nothing but a green hill, and the well-known bushes and fields, and heard the town-clock of Rambin strike two. When all was still, save a few larks, who were tuning their morning songs, they all fell on their knees and worshipped God, resolving henceforth to live a pious and a Christian life. When the sun rose, John arranged the procession, and they set out for Rambin. Every well-known object that they saw awoke pleasing recollections in the bosom of John and his bride; and as they passed by Rodenkirchen, John recognised, among the people that gazed at and followed them, his old friend Klas Starkwolt, the cowherd, and his dog Speed. It was about four in the morning when they entered Rambin, and they halted in the middle of the village, about twenty paces from the house where John was born. The whole village poured out to gaze on these Asiatic princes, for such the old sexton, who had in his youth been at Constantinople and at Moscow, said they were. There John saw his father and mother, and his brother Andrew, and his sister Trine. The old minister Krabbe stood there too, in his black slippers and white nightcap, gaping and staring with the rest. John discovered himself to his parents, and Elizabeth to hers; and the wedding-day was soon fixed. And such a wedding was never seen before or since in the island of Rügen, for John sent to Stralsund and Greifswald for whole boat-loads of wine and sugar and coffee; and whole herds of oxen, sheep, and pigs were driven to the feast. The quantity of harts and roes and hares that were shot upon the occasion it were vain to attempt to tell, or to count the fish that was caught. There was not a musician in Rügen or in Pomerania that was not engaged, for John was immensely rich, and he wished to display his wealth. John did not neglect his old friend Klas Starkwolt, the cowherd. He gave him enough to make him comfortable for the rest of his days, and insisted on his coming and staying with him as often and as long as he wished. After his marriage John made a progress through the country with his wife; and he purchased towns and villages and lands until he became master of nearly half Rügen and a very considerable Count in the country. His father, old James Dietrich, was made a nobleman, and his brothers and sisters gentlemen and ladies--for what cannot money do? John and his wife spent their days in doing acts of piety and charity. They built several churches, and had the blessing of every one that knew them, and died universally lamented. It was Count John Dietrich that built and richly endowed the present church of Rambin. He built it on the site of his father's house, and presented to it several of the cups and plates made by the underground people, and his own and Elizabeth's glass-shoes, in memory of what had befallen them in their youth. But they were taken away in the time of the great Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, when the Russians came on the island and the Cossacks plundered even the churches, and took away everything. HOW THORSTON BECAME RICH. When spring came Thorston made ready his ship and put twenty-four men on board of her. When they came to Finland they ran her into a harbour, and every day he went on shore to amuse himself. He came one day to an open part of the wood, where he saw a great rock, and a little way out from it was a horribly ugly dwarf. He was looking over his head, with his mouth wide open, and it appeared to Thorston that it stretched from ear to ear, and that the lower jaw came down to his knees. Thorston asked him why he acted so foolishly. "Do not be surprised, my good lad," answered the dwarf, "do you not see that great dragon that is flying up there? He has taken off my son, and I believe that it is Odin himself that has sent the monster to do it. I shall burst and die if I lose my son." Then Thorston shot at the dragon, and hit him under one of the wings, so that he fell dead to the earth; but Thorston caught the dwarf's child in the air, and brought him to his father. The dwarf was very glad, more rejoiced than any one can tell, and he said-- "I have to reward you for a great service, you who are the deliverer of my son. Now choose your reward in silver or gold." "Take your son," said Thorston; "but I am not used to accept rewards for my services." "It would not be becoming," said the dwarf, "if I did not reward you. I will give you my vest of sheep's wool. Do not think it is a contemptible gift, for you will never be tired when swimming, or wounded, if you wear it next your skin." Thorston took it and put it on, and it fitted him well, though it had appeared too small for the dwarf. The dwarf next took a gold ring out of his purse and gave it to Thorston, and bade him take good care of it, telling him he should never want money while he had the ring. Next he gave him a black stone, and said-- "If you hide this stone in the palm of your hand no one will see you. I have not many more things to offer you, or that would be of any value to you. I will, however, give you a firestone for your amusement." He took the stone out of his purse, and with it a steel point. The stone was triangular, white on one side and red on the other, and a yellow border ran round it. The dwarf said-- "If you prick the stone with the point in the white side there will come on such a hailstorm that no one will be able to look at it. If you want to stop the shower you have only to prick on the yellow part, and there will come so much sunshine that the hail will melt away. If you prick the red side then there will come out of it such fire, with sparks and crackling, that no one will be able to look at it. You may also get whatever you will by means of this point and stone, and they will come of themselves back to your hand when you call them. I can give you no more of such gifts." Thorston then thanked the dwarf for his presents, and returned to his men; and it was better for him to have made that voyage than to have stayed at home. GUDBRAND. There was once upon a time a man who was called Gudbrand. He had a farm which lay far away on a hill, and he was therefore known as Gudbrand of the Hillside. He and his wife lived so happily together, and were so well matched, that do what the man would his wife was well pleased, thinking nothing in the world could be better. Whatever he did she was satisfied. The farm was their own, and they had a hundred dollars which lay in a box, and in the stall they had two cows. One day the woman said to Gudbrand. "I think it would be well to take one of the cows to town and sell it, and so we shall have some money at hand. We are such fine folk that we ought to have a little ready money, as other people have. As for the hundred dollars which lie in the chest, we must not make a hole in them, but I do not see why we should keep more than one cow. We shall, too, gain something, for I shall then have only to look after one cow, instead of having to litter and feed two." This Gudbrand thought was right and reasonable, so he took the cow, and set off to town to sell it. When he arrived there he could find no one who would buy the beast. "Well, well," said he, "I can go home again with the cow. I have stall and litter for her, and the road home is no longer than the road here." So he began to go homewards again. When he had gone a little distance he met a man who had a horse he wanted to sell. So Gudbrand thought it was better to have a horse than a cow, and exchanged with him. He went on a bit further, and met a man walking along driving a fat pig before him, and he thought it would be better to have a fat pig than a horse. So he exchanged with the man. He went on a bit further, and met a man with a goat. A goat, he thought, was better than a pig. So he exchanged with him. He went on a good bit further till he met a man who had a sheep, and he exchanged with him, for he thought a sheep was always better than a goat. He went on again, and met a man with a goose. So he exchanged the sheep for the goose. Then he went a long, long way, and met a man with a cock. So he gave the goose for the cock, for he thought to himself-- "It is better to have a cock than a goose." He walked on till late in the day, and then as he was getting hungry he sold the cock for twelve shillings, and bought something to eat, for, thought Gudbrand of the Hillside-- "It is better to save one's life than have a cock." Then he walked on homeward till he came to the house of his nearest neighbour, and there he looked in. "Well, how did you get on at the town?" asked the neighbour. "Only so and so," said the man. "I cannot say I have had good or bad luck," and then he began and told them all that had happened. "Well," said the neighbour, "you will catch it when you get home to your wife. Heaven help you! I would not stand in your shoes." "I think things might have been much worse," said Gudbrand of the Hillside; "but whether things have gone well or badly, I have such a gentle wife that she never says anything, do what I will." "Ah," said the neighbour, "I hear what you say, but I don't believe it." "Shall we make a bet?" said Gudbrand. "I have a hundred dollars lying at home in a chest, will you lay as much?" The neighbour was willing, so the bet was made. They waited till evening, and then set out for Gudbrand's house. The neighbour stood outside the door, while Gudbrand went inside to his wife. "Good evening," said Gudbrand, when he was inside. "Good evening," said his wife. "Heaven be praised. Is it you?" Yes, it was he. His wife then asked him how things went at the town. "Oh, but so-so," said Gudbrand, "not much to boast of. When I came to the town I could find no one to buy the cow, so I exchanged it for a horse." "Thanks for that!" said the wife; "we are such fine folk that we can ride to church the same as other people, and as we can keep a horse we might as well have one. Go and put the horse up, children." "But," said Gudbrand, "I have not got the horse. After I had gone a bit further I exchanged it for a pig." "Well, well," said his wife, "that was good. I should have done the same. Thanks for that! now I shall have meat in the house to put before folk when they come to see me. What could we do with a horse? People would only have said that we had got too proud to walk to church. Go along, children, and put the pig in the sty." "But I have not got the pig either," said Gudbrand. "When I had gone on a bit further I exchanged it for a milch goat." "Bless me," said the wife, "you do everything well! When I think of it, what could we have done with a pig? Folk would only have said we eat up all we had. Now we have a goat we shall have milk and cheese, and we shall have the goat too. Run, children, and put up the goat." "But I have not got the goat," said Gudbrand. "I went on a bit, and exchanged it for a fine sheep." "Well," said the wife, "you have done just what I should have wished--just as if I had done it myself. What did we want a goat for? I should have had to go over hill and dale after it. Now we have a sheep I shall have wool and clothes in the house, and food as well. Go, children, and put up the sheep." "But I have not got the sheep either," said Gudbrand. "I went on a while, and then I exchanged it for a goose." "You shall have thanks for that," said the wife, "many thanks! What would we have done with a sheep? I have no spinning-wheel nor distaff, and I should not care to bother about making clothes. We can buy clothes, as we have always done. Now we shall have roast goose, which I have so often wished for, and I shall be able to stuff my little pillow with the down. Go and bring in the goose, children." "But," said Gudbrand, "I have not got the goose either. When I had gone a bit further I gave it in exchange for a cock." "Heaven knows," said his wife, "how you thought all this out so well! It is just what I should have done myself. A cock! why it is just the same as if you had bought an eight-day clock, for the cock crows at four o'clock every morning, so we shall be able to get up in good time. What could we have done with a goose? I don't know how to cook it, and I can stuff my pillow with moss. Run and fetch the cock in, children." "But," said Gudbrand, "I have not got the cock either. When I had gone a bit further I got hungry, and so I sold the cock for twelve shillings so that I might live." "Thank God you did so," said his wife; "whatever you do you do it just as I should have wished. What could we have done with a cock? We are our own masters, and can lie in bed in the morning as late as we please. Thank Heaven you have come back again safe. You do everything so well that we can well spare the cock, the goose, the pig, and the cow." Then Gudbrand opened the door. "Have I won the hundred dollars?" said he, and the neighbour was obliged to own that he had. THE DWARF-SWORD TIRFING. Suaforlami, the second in descent from Odin, was king over Gardarike (Russia). One day he rode a-hunting, and sought long after a hart, but could not find one the whole day. When the sun was setting, he found himself plunged so deep in the forest that he knew not where he was. On his right hand he saw a hill, and before it he saw two dwarfs. He drew his sword against them, and cut off their retreat by getting between them and the rock. They offered him ransom for their lives, and he asked them their names, and they said that one of them was called Dyren and the other Dualin. Then he knew that they were the most ingenious and the most expert of all the dwarfs, and he therefore demanded that they should make for him a sword, the best that they could form. Its hilt was to be of gold, and its belt of the same metal. He moreover commanded that the sword should never miss a blow, should never rust, that it should cut through iron and stone as through a garment, and that it should always be victorious in war and in single combat. On these conditions he granted the dwarfs their lives. At the time appointed he came, and the dwarfs appearing, they gave him the sword. When Dualin stood at the door, he said-- "This sword shall be the bane of a man every time it is drawn, and with it shall be perpetrated three of the greatest atrocities, and it will also prove thy bane." Suaforlami, when he heard that, struck at the dwarf, so that the blade of the sword penetrated the solid rock. Thus Suaforlami became possessed of this sword, and he called it Tirfing. He bore it in war and in single combat, and with it he slew the giant Thiasse, whose daughter Fridur he took. Suaforlami was soon after slain by the Berserker Andgrim, who then became master of the sword. When the twelve sons of Andgrim were to fight with Hialmar and Oddur for Ingaborg, the beautiful daughter of King Inges, Angantyr bore the dangerous Tirfing, but all the brethren were slain in the combat, and were buried with their arms. Angantyr left an only daughter, Hervor, who, when she grew up, dressed herself in man's attire, and took the name of Hervardar, and joined a party of Vikinger, or pirates. Knowing that Tirfing lay buried with her father, she determined to awaken the dead, and obtain the charmed blade. She landed alone, in the evening, on the Island of Sams, where her father and uncles lay in their sepulchral mounds, and ascending by night to their tombs, that were enveloped in flame, she, by the force of entreaty, obtained from the reluctant Angantyr the formidable Tirfing. Hervor proceeded to the court of King Gudmund, and there one day, as she was playing at tables with the king, one of the servants chanced to take up and draw Tirfing, which shone like a sunbeam. But Tirfing was never to see the light but for the bane of men, and Hervor, by a sudden impulse, sprang from her seat, snatched the sword, and struck off the head of the unfortunate man. After this she returned to the house of her grandfather, Jarl Biartmar, where she resumed her female attire, and was married to Haufud, the son of King Gudmund. She bore him two sons, Angantyr and Heidreker; the former of a mild and gentle disposition, the latter violent and fierce. Haufud would not permit Heidreker to remain at his court, and as he was departing, his mother, among other gifts, presented him with Tirfing. His brother accompanied him out of the castle. Before they parted, Heidreker drew out his sword to look at and admire it, but scarcely did the rays of light fall on the magic blade, when the Berserker rage came on its owner, and he slew his gentle brother. After this he joined a body of Vikinger, and became so distinguished that King Harold, for the aid he lent him, gave him his daughter Helga in marriage. But it was the destiny of Tirfing to commit crime, and Harold fell by the sword of his son-in-law. Heidreker was afterwards in Russia, and the son of the king was his foster-son. One day as they were out hunting, Heidreker and his foster-son happened to be separated from the rest of the party, when a wild boar appeared before them. Heidreker ran at him with his spear, but the beast caught it in his mouth and broke it across. Then he alighted and drew Tirfing, and killed the boar. On looking round him, he saw no one but his foster-son, and Tirfing could only be appeased with warm human blood, so Heidreker slew the poor youth. In the end Heidreker was murdered in his bed by his Scottish slaves, who carried off Tirfing. His son Angantyr, who succeeded him, discovered the thieves and put them to death, and recovered the magic blade. He made great slaughter in battle against the Huns, but among the slain was discovered his own brother, Landur. So ends the history of the Dwarf-Sword Tirfing. * * * * * Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, at the Edinburgh University Press. 
12814	----	a copy made available at The Internet Archive. Philippine Folk Tales Compiled and Annotated by Mabel Cook Cole 1916 PREFACE From time to time since the American occupation of the Islands, Philippine folk-tales have appeared in scientific publications, but never, so far as the writer is aware, has there been an attempt to offer to the general public a comprehensive popular collection of this material. It is my earnest hope that this collection of tales will give those who are interested opportunity to learn something of the magic, superstitions, and weird customs of the Filipinos, and to feel the charm of their wonder-world as it is pictured by these dark-skinned inhabitants of our Island possessions. In company with my husband, who was engaged in ethnological work for the Field Museum of Natural History, it was my good fortune to spend four years among the wild tribes of the Philippines, During this time we frequently heard these stories, either related by the people in their homes and around the camp fires or chanted by the pagan priests in communion with the spirits. The tales are now published in this little volume, with the addition of a few folk-legends that have appeared in the _Journal of American Folk-Lore_ and in scientific publications, here retold with some additions made by native story-tellers. I have endeavored to select typical tales from tribes widely separated and varying in culture from savagery to a rather high degree of development. The stories are therefore divided into five groups, as follows: Tinguian, Igorot, the Wild Tribes of Mindanao, Moro, and Christian, The first two groups, Tinguian and Igorot, are from natives who inhabit the rugged mountain region of northwestern Luzon. From time immemorial they have been zealous head-hunters, and the stories teem with references to customs and superstitions connected with their savage practices. By far the largest number belong to the Tinguian group. In order to appreciate these tales to the fullest extent, we must understand the point of view of the Tinguian. To him they embody all the known traditions of "the first times"--of the people who inhabited the earth before the present race appeared, of the ancient heroes and their powers and achievements. In them he finds an explanation of and reason for many of his present laws and customs. A careful study of the whole body of Tinguian mythology points to the conclusion that the chief characters of these tales are not celestial beings but typical, generalized heroes of former ages, whose deeds have been magnified in the telling by many generations of their descendants. These people of "the first times" practiced magic. They talked with jars, created human beings out of betel-nuts, raised the dead, and had the power of changing themselves into other forms. This, however, does not seem strange or impossible to the Tinguian of today, for even now they talk with jars, perform certain rites to bring sickness and death to their foes, and are warned by omens received through the medium of birds, thunder and lightning, or the condition of the liver of a slaughtered animal. They still converse freely with certain spirits who during religious ceremonies are believed to use the bodies of men or women as mediums for the purpose of advising and instructing the people. Several of the characters appear in story after story. Sometimes they go under different names, but in the minds of the story-tellers their personality and relationships are definitely established. Thus Ini-init of the first tale becomes Kadayadawan in the second, Aponitolau in the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth, and Ligi in the seventh. Kanag, the son of Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen, in the fifth tale is called Dumalawi. These heroes had most unusual relations with the heavenly bodies, all of which seem to have been regarded as animate beings. In the fourth tale Aponitolau marries Gaygayoma, the star maiden who is the daughter of the big star and the moon. In the first story the same character under the name of Ini-init seems to be a sun-god: we are told that he is "the sun," and again "a round stone which rolls." Thereupon we might conclude that he is a true solar being; yet in the other tales of this collection and in many more known to the Tinguian he reveals no celestial qualities. Even in the first story he abandons his place in the sky and goes to live on earth. In the first eight stories we read of many customs of "the first times" which differ radically from those of the present. But a careful analysis of all the known lore of this people points to the belief that many of these accounts depict a period when similar customs did exist among the people, or else were practiced by emigrants who generations ago became amalgamated with the Tinguian and whose strange customs finally became attributed to the people of the tales. The stories numbered nine to sixteen are of a somewhat different type, and in them the Tinguian finds an explanation of many things, such as, how the people learned to plant, and to cure diseases, where they secured the valuable jars and beads, and why the moon has spots on its face. All these stories are fully believed, the beads and jars are considered precious, and the places mentioned are definitely known. While the accounts seem to be of fairly recent origin they conflict neither with the fundamental ideas and traditions of "the first times" nor with the beliefs of today. Stories seventeen to twenty-three are regarded as fables and are told to amuse the children or to while away the midday hours when the people seek shaded spots to lounge or stop on the trail to rest. Most of them are known to the Christianized tribes throughout the Islands and show great similarity to the tales found in the islands to the south and, in some cases, in Europe. In many of them the chief incidents are identical with those found elsewhere, but the story-tellers, by introducing old customs and beliefs, have moulded and colored them until they reflect the common ideas of the Tinguian. The third group includes stories from several wild tribes who dwell in the large island of Mindanao. Here are people who work in brass and steel, build good dwellings, and wear hemp clothing elaborately decorated with beads, shell disks, and embroidery, but who still practice many savage customs, including slavery and human sacrifice. The fourth division gives two tales from the Moro (hardy Malayan warriors whose ancestors early became converts to the faith of Mohammed). Their teachers were the Arabian traders who, about 1400, succeeded in converting many of the Malay Islanders to the faith of the prophet. The last group contains the stories of the Christianized natives--those who accepted the rule of Spain and with it the Catholic religion. Their tales, while full of local color, nevertheless show the influence of the European tutors. They furnish an excellent opportunity to contrast the literature of the savage head-hunters with that of the Moro and Christian tribes and to observe how various recent influences have modified the beliefs of people who not many centuries ago were doubtless of a uniform grade of culture. It is interesting, too, to note that European tales brought into the Islands by Mohammedan and Christian rulers and traders have been worked over until, at first glance, they now appear indigenous. Owing to local coloring, these tales have various forms. Still we find many incidents which are held in common by all the tribes of the Archipelago and even by the people of Borneo, Java, Sumatra, and India. Some of these similarities and parallelisms are indicated in the foot-notes throughout the book. CONTENTS Group I: Tinguian Aponibolinayen and the Sun Aponibolinayen Gawigawen of Adasen The Story of Gaygayoma Who Lives up Above The Story of Dumalawi The Story of Kanag The Story of Tikgi The Story of Sayen The Sun and the Moon How the Tinguian Learned to Plant Magsawi The Tree with the Agate Beads The Striped Blanket The Alan and the Hunters The Man and the Alan Sogsogot The Mistaken Gifts The Boy Who Became a Stone The Turtle and the Lizard The Man with the Cocoanuts The Carabao and the Shell The Alligator's Fruit Dogedog Group II: Igorot The Creation The Flood Story Lumawig on Earth How the First Head Was Taken The Serpent Eagle The Tattooed Men Tilin, the Rice Bird Group III: The Wild Tribes of Mindanao _Bukidnon_ How the Moon and Stars Came to Be The Flood Story Magbangal How Children Became Monkeys Bulanawan and Aguio _Bagobo_ Origin Lumabet _Bilaan_ The Story of the Creation In the Beginning _Mandaya_ The Children of the Limokon The Sun and the Moon _Subanun_ The Widow's Son Group IV: Moro Mythology of Mindanao The Story of Bantugan Group V: The Christianized Tribes _Ilocano_ The Monkey and the Turtle The Poor Fisherman and His Wife The Presidente Who Had Horns The Story of a Monkey The White Squash _Tagalog_ The Creation Story The Story of Benito The Adventures of Juan Juan Gathers Guavas _Visayan_ The Sun and the Moon The First Monkey The Virtue of the Cocoanut Mansumandig Why Dogs Wag Their Tails The Hawk and the Hen The Spider and the Fly The Battle of the Crabs Pronunciation of Philippine Names TINGUIAN Introduction The dim light of stars filtered through the leafy canopy above us, and the shadowy form of our guide once more appeared at my horse's head. It was only for an instant, however, and then we were plunged again into the inky darkness of a tropical jungle. We had planned to reach the distant Tinguian village in the late afternoon, but had failed to reckon with the deliberateness of native carriers. It was only by urging our horses that we were able to ford the broad Abra ere the last rays of the sun dropped behind the mountains. And then, in this land of no twilights, night had settled quickly over us. We had made our way up the mountain-side, through the thick jungle, only to find that the trail, long imperceptible to us, had escaped even the keen eyes of our guide. For several hours we wandered about, lost in the darkness. On and on we went, through narrow paths, steep in places, and made rough and dangerous by sharp rocks as well as by those long creepers of the jungle whose thorny fingers are ever ready to seize horse or rider. Occasionally we came out of the forest, only to cross rocky mountain streams; or perhaps it was the same stream that we crossed many times. Our horses, becoming weary and uncertain of foot, grew more and more reluctant to plunge into the dark, swiftly flowing water. And our patience was nearly exhausted when we at last caught sight of dim lights in the valley below. Half an hour later we rode into Manabo. I shall never forget that first picture. It was a weird spectacle. Coming out of the darkness, we were almost convinced that we had entered a new world. Against the blackness of the night, grass-roofed houses stood outlined in the dim light of a bonfire; and squatting around that fire, unclad save for gay blankets wrapped about their shoulders, were brown-skinned men smoking long pipes, while women bedecked with bright beads were spinning cotton. As they worked in the flickering light, they stretched their distaffs at arm's length into the air like witches waving their wands; and with that the elfland picture was complete. In the stillness of the night a single voice could be heard reciting some tale in a singsong tone, which was interrupted only when peals of laughter burst forth from the listeners, or when a scrawny dog rose to bark at an imaginary noise until the shouts of the men quieted him and he returned to his bed in the warm ashes. Later we learned that these were the regular social gatherings of the Tinguian, and every night during the dry season one or more of these bonfires were to be seen in the village. After we had attained to the footing of welcome guests in these circles, we found that a good story-teller was always present, and, while the men smoked, the women spun, and the dogs slept, he entertained us with tales of heroes who knew the magic of the betel-nut, or with stories of spirits and their power over the lives of men. The following are some of the tales heard first around the camp fire of the distant mountain village. Aponibolinayen and the Sun _Tinguian_ One day Aponibolinayen and her sister-in-law went out to gather greens. They walked to the woods to the place where the siksiklat grew, for the tender leaves of this vine are very good to eat. Suddenly while searching about in the underbrush, Aponibolinayen cried out with joy, for she had found the vine, and she started to pick the leaves. Pull as hard as she would, however, the leaves did not come loose, and all at once the vine wound itself around her body and began carrying her upward. [1] Far up through the air she went until she reached the sky, and there the vine set her down under a tree. Aponibolinayen was so surprised to find herself in the sky that for some time she just sat and looked around, and then, hearing a rooster crow, she arose to see if she could find it. Not far from where she had sat was a beautiful spring surrounded by tall betel-nut trees whose tops were pure gold. Rare beads were the sands of the spring, and the place where the women set their jars when they came to dip water was a large golden plate. As Aponibolinayen stood admiring the beauties of this spring, she beheld a small house nearby, and she was filled with fear lest the owner should find her there. She looked about for some means of escape and finally climbed to the top of a betel-nut tree and hid. Now the owner of this house was Ini-init, [2] the Sun, but he was never at home in the daylight, for it was his duty to shine in the sky and give light to all the world. At the close of the day when the Big Star took his place in the sky to shine through the night, Ini-init returned to his house, but early the next morning he was always off again. From her place in the top of the betel-nut tree, Aponibolinayen saw the Sun when he came home at evening time, and again the next morning she saw him leave. When she was sure that he was out of sight she climbed down and entered his dwelling, for she was very hungry. She cooked rice, and into a pot of boiling water she dropped a stick which immediately became fish, [3] so that she had all she wished to eat. When she was no longer hungry, she lay down on the bed to sleep. Now late in the afternoon Ini-init returned from his work and went to fish in the river near his house, and he caught a big fish. While he sat on the bank cleaning his catch, he happened to look up toward his house and was startled to see that it appeared to be on fire. [4] He hurried home, but when he reached the house he saw that it was not burning at all, and he entered. On his bed he beheld what looked like a flame of fire, but upon going closer he found that it was a beautiful woman fast asleep. Ini-init stood for some time wondering what he should do, and then he decided to cook some food and invite this lovely creature to eat with him. He put rice over the fire to boil and cut into pieces the fish he had caught. The noise of this awakened Aponibolinayen, and she slipped out of the house and back to the top of the betel-nut tree. The Sun did not see her leave, and when the food was prepared he called her, but the bed was empty and he had to eat alone. That night Ini-init could not sleep well, for all the time he wondered who the beautiful woman could be. The next morning, however, he rose as usual and set forth to shine in the sky, for that was his work. That day Aponibolinayen stole again to the house of the Sun and cooked food, and when she returned to the betel-nut tree she left rice and fish ready for the Sun when he came home. Late in the afternoon Ini-init went into his home, and when he found pots of hot rice and fish over the fire he was greatly troubled. After he had eaten he walked a long time in the fresh air. "Perhaps it is done by the lovely woman who looks like a flame of fire," he said. "If she comes again I will try to catch her." The next day the Sun shone in the sky as before, and when the afternoon grew late he called to the Big Star to hurry to take his place, for he was impatient to reach home. As he drew near the house he saw that it again looked as if it was on fire. He crept quietly up the ladder, and when he had reached the top he sprang in and shut the door behind him. Aponibolinayen, who was cooking rice over the fire, was surprised and angry that she had been caught; but the Sun gave her betel-nut [5] which was covered with gold, and they chewed together and told each other their names. Then Aponibolinayen took up the rice and fish, and as they ate they talked together and became acquainted. After some time Aponibolinayen and the Sun were married, and every morning the Sun went to shine in the sky, and upon his return at night he found his supper ready for him. He began to be troubled, however, to know where the food came from, for though he brought home a fine fish every night, Aponibolinayen always refused to cook it. One night he watched her prepare their meal, and he saw that, instead of using the nice fish he had brought, she only dropped a stick into the pot of boiling water. "Why do you try to cook a stick?" asked Ini-init in surprise. "So that we can have fish to eat," answered his wife. "If you cook that stick for a month, it will not be soft," said Ini-init. "Take this fish that I caught in the net, for it will be good." But Aponibolinayen only laughed at him, and when they were ready to eat she took the cover off the pot and there was plenty of nice soft fish. The next night and the next, Aponibolinayen cooked the stick, and Ini-init became greatly troubled for he saw that though the stick always supplied them with fish, it never grew smaller. Finally he asked Aponibolinayen again why it was that she cooked the stick instead of the fish he brought, and she said: "Do you not know of the woman on earth who has magical power and can change things?" "Yes," answered the Sun, "and now I know that you have great power." "Well, then," said his wife, "do not ask again why I cook the stick." And they ate their supper of rice and the fish which the stick made. One night not long after this Aponibolinayen told her husband that she wanted to go with him the next day when he made light in the sky. "Oh, no, you cannot," said the Sun, "for it is very hot up there, [6] and you cannot stand the heat." "We will take many blankets and pillows," said the woman, "and when the heat becomes very great, I will hide under them." Again and again Ini-init begged her not to go, but as often she insisted on accompanying him, and early in the morning they set out, carrying with them many blankets and pillows. First, they went to the East, and as soon as they arrived the Sun began to shine, and Aponibolinayen was with him. They traveled toward the West, but when morning had passed into noontime and they had reached the middle of the sky Aponibolinayen was so hot that she melted and became oil. Then Ini-init put her into a bottle and wrapped her in the blankets and pillows and dropped her down to earth. Now one of the women of Aponibolinayen's town was at the spring dipping water when she heard something fall near her. Turning to look, she beheld a bundle of beautiful blankets and pillows which she began to unroll, and inside she found the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Frightened at her discovery, the woman ran as fast as she could to the town, where she called the people together and told them to come at once to the spring. They all hastened to the spot and there they found Aponibolinayen for whom they had been searching everywhere. "Where have you been?" asked her father; "we have searched all over the world and we could not find you.' "I have come from Pindayan," answered Aponibolinayen. "Enemies of our people kept me there till I made my escape while they were asleep at night" All were filled with joy that the lost one had returned, and they decided that at the next moon [7] they would perform a ceremony for the spirits [8] and invite all the relatives who were mourning for Aponibolinayen. So they began to prepare for the ceremony, and while they were pounding rice, Aponibolinayen asked her mother to prick her little finger where it itched, and as she did so a beautiful baby boy popped out. The people were very much surprised at this, and they noticed that every time he was bathed the baby grew very fast so that, in a short time, he was able to walk. Then they were anxious to know who was the husband of Aponibolinayen, but she would not tell them, and they decided to invite everyone in the world to the ceremony that they might not overlook him. They sent for the betel-nuts that were covered with gold, [9] and when they had oiled them they commanded them to go to all the towns and compel the people to come to the ceremony. "If anyone refuses to come, grow on his knee," said the people, and the betel-nuts departed to do as they were bidden. As the guests began to arrive, the people watched carefully for one who might be the husband of Aponibolinayen, but none appeared and they were greatly troubled. Finally they went to the old woman, Alokotan, who was able to talk with the spirits, and begged her to find what town had not been visited by the betel-nuts which had been sent to invite the people. After she had consulted the spirits the old woman said: "You have invited all the people except Ini-init who lives up above. Now you must send a betel-nut to summon him. It may be that he is the husband of Aponibolinayen, for the siksiklat vine carried her up when she went to gather greens." So a betel-nut was called and bidden to summon Ini-init. The betel-nut went up to the Sun, who was in his house, and said: "Good morning, Sun. I have come to summon you to a ceremony which the father and mother of Aponibolinayen are making for the spirits. If you do not want to go, I will grow on your head." [10] "Grow on my head," said the Sun. "I do not wish to go." So the betel-nut jumped upon his head and grew until it became so tall that the Sun was not able to carry it, and he was in great pain. "Oh, grow on my pig," begged the Sun. So the betel-nut jumped upon the pig's head and grew, but it was so heavy that the pig could not carry it and squealed all the time. At last the Sun saw that he would have to obey the summons, and he said to the betel-nut: "Get off my pig and I will go." So Ini-init came to the ceremony, and as soon as Aponibolinayen and the baby saw him, they were very happy and ran to meet him. Then the people knew that this was the husband of Aponibolinayen, and they waited eagerly for him to come up to them. As he drew near, however, they saw that he did not walk, for he was round; and then they perceived that he was not a man but a large stone. All her relatives were very angry to find that Aponibolinayen had married a stone; and they compelled her to take off her beads [11] and her good clothes, for, they said, she must now dress in old clothes and go again to live with the stone. So Aponibolinayen put on the rags that they brought her and at once set out with the stone for his home. No sooner had they arrived there, however, than he became a handsome man, and they were very happy. "In one moon," said the Sun, "we will make a ceremony for the spirits, and I will pay your father and mother the marriage price [12] for you." This pleased Aponibolinayen very much, and they used magic so that they had many neighbors who came to pound rice [13] for them and to build a large spirit house. [14] Then they sent oiled betel-nuts to summon their relatives to the ceremony. The father of Aponibolinayen did not want to go, but the betel-nut threatened to grow on his knee if he did not. So he commanded all the people in the town to wash their hair and their clothes, and when all was ready they set out. When they reached the town they were greatly surprised to find that the stone had become a man, and they chewed the magic betel-nuts to see who he might be. It was discovered that he was the son of a couple in Aponibolinayen's own town, and the people all rejoiced that this couple had found the son whom they had thought lost. They named him Aponitolau, and his parents paid the marriage price for his wife--the spirit house nine times full of valuable jars. [15] After that all danced and made merry for one moon, and when the people departed for their homes Ini-init and his wife went with them to live on the earth. Aponibolinayen _Tinguian_ The most beautiful girl in all the world was Aponibolinayen of Nalpangan. Many young men had come to her brother, Aponibalagen, to ask for her hand in marriage, but he had refused them all, for he awaited one who possessed great power. Then it happened that the fame of her beauty spread over all the world till it reached even to Adasen; and in that place there lived a man of great power named Gawigawen. Now Gawigawen, who was a handsome man, had sought among all the pretty girls but never, until he heard of the great beauty of Aponibolinayen, had he found one whom he wished to wed. Then he determined that she should be his wife; and he begged his mother to help him win her. So Dinawagen, the mother of Gawigawen, took her hat which looked like a sunbeam and set out at once for Nalpangan; and when she arrived there she was greeted by Ebang, the mother of the lovely maiden, who presently began to prepare food for them. [16] She put the pot over the fire, and when the water boiled she broke up a stick and threw the pieces into the pot, and immediately they became fish. Then she brought basi [17] in a large jar, and Dinawagen, counting the notches in the rim, [18] perceived that the jar had been handed down through nine generations. They ate and drank together, and after they had finished the meal, Dinawagen told Aponibalagen of her son's wishes, and asked if he was willing that his sister should marry Gawigawen. Aponibalagen, who had heard of the power of the suitor, at once gave his consent. And Dinawagen departed for home, leaving a gold cup as an engagement present. [19] Gawigawen was watching at the door of his house for his mother's return, and when she told him of her success, he was so happy that he asked all the people in the town to go with him the next day to Nalpangan to arrange the amount he must pay for his bride. [20] Now the people of Nalpangan wanted a great price for this girl who was so beautiful, and the men of the two towns debated for a long time before they could come to an agreement. Finally, however, it was decided that Gawigawen should fill the spirit house eighteen times with valuable things; and when he had done this, they were all satisfied and went to the yard where they danced and beat on the copper gongs. [21] All the pretty girls danced their best, and one who wore big jars about her neck made more noise than the others as she danced, and the jars sang "Kitol, kitol, kanitol; inka, inka, inkatol." But when Aponibolinayen, the bride of Gawigawen, came down out of the house to dance, the sunshine vanished, so beautiful was she; and as she moved about, the river came up into the town, and striped fish bit at her heels. For three months the people remained here feasting and dancing, and then early one morning they took Aponibolinayen to her new home in Adasen. The trail that led from one town to the other had become very beautiful in the meantime: the grass and trees glistened with bright lights, and the waters of the tiny streams dazzled the eyes with their brightness as Aponibolinayen waded across. When they reached the spring of Gawigawen, they found that it, too, was more beautiful than ever before. Each grain of sand had become a bead, and the place where the women set their jars when they came to dip water had become a big dish. Then said Aponibalagen to his people, "Go tell Gawigawen to bring an old man, for I want to make a spring for Aponibolinayen." So an old man was brought and Aponibalagen cut off his head and put it in the ground, and sparkling water bubbled up. [22] The body he made into a tree to shade his sister when she came to dip water, and the drops of blood as they touched the ground were changed into valuable beads. Even the path from the spring to the house was covered with big plates, and everything was made beautiful for Aponibolinayen. Now during all this time Aponibolinayen had kept her face covered so that she had never seen her husband, for although he was a handsome man, one of the pretty girls who was jealous of the bride had told her that he had three noses, and she was afraid to look at him. After her people had all returned to their homes, she grew very unhappy, and when her mother-in-law commanded her to cook she had to feel her way around, for she would not uncover her face. Finally she became so sad that she determined to run away. One night when all were asleep, she used magical power and changed herself into oil. [23] Then she slid through the bamboo floor and made her escape without anyone seeing her. On and on she went until she came to the middle of the jungle, and then she met a wild rooster who asked her where she was going. "I am running away from my husband," replied Aponibolinayen, "for he has three noses and I do not want to live with him." "Oh," said the rooster, "some crazy person must have told you that. Do not believe it. Gawigawen is a handsome man, for I have often seen him when he comes here to snare chickens." [24] But Aponibolinayen paid no heed to the rooster, and she went on until she reached a big tree where perched a monkey, and he also asked where she was going. "I am running away from my husband," answered the girl, "for he has three noses and I do not want to live with him." "Oh, do not believe that," said the monkey. "Someone who told you that must have wanted to marry him herself, for he is a handsome man." Still Aponibolinayen went on until she came to the ocean, and then, as she could go no farther, she sat down to rest. As she sat there pondering what she should do, a carabao [25] came along, and thinking that she would ride a while she climbed up on its back. No sooner had she done so than the animal plunged into the water and swam with her until they reached the other side of the great ocean. There they came to a large orange tree, and the carabao told her to eat some of the luscious fruit while he fed on the grass nearby. As soon as he had left her, however, he ran straight to his master, Kadayadawan, and told him of the beautiful girl. Kadayadawan was very much interested and quickly combed his hair and oiled it, put on his striped coat [26] and belt, and went with the carabao to the orange tree. Aponibolinayen, looking down from her place in the tree, was surprised to see a man coming with her friend, the carabao, but as they drew near, she began talking with him, and soon they became acquainted. Before long, Kadayadawan had persuaded the girl to become his wife, and he took her to his home. From that time every night his house looked as if it was on fire, because of the beauty of his bride. After they had been married for some time, Kadayadawan and Aponibolinayen decided to make a ceremony [27] for the spirits, so they called the magic betel-nuts [28] and oiled them and said to them, "Go to all the towns and invite our relatives to come to the ceremony which we shall make. If they do not want to come, then grow on their knees until they are willing to attend." So the betel-nuts started in different directions and one went to Aponibalagen in Nalpangan and said, "Kadayadawan is making a ceremony for the spirits, and I have come to summon you to attend." "We cannot go," said Aponibalagen, "for we are searching for my sister who is lost" "You must come," replied the betel-nut, "or I shall grow on your knee," "Grow on my pig," answered Aponibalagen; so the betel-nut went on to the pig's back and grew into a tall tree, and it became so heavy that the pig could not carry it, but squealed all the time. Then Aponibalagen, seeing that he must obey, said to the betel-nut, "Get off my pig, and we will go." The betel-nut got off the pig's back, and the people started for the ceremony. When they reached the river, Gawigawen was there waiting to cross, for the magic nuts had forced him to go also. Then Kadayadawan, seeing them, sent more betel-nuts to the river, and the people were carried across by the nuts. As soon as they reached the town the dancing began, and while Gawigawen was dancing with Aponibolinayen he seized her and put her in his belt. [29] Kadayadawan, who saw this, was so angry that he threw his spear and killed Gawigawen. Then Aponibolinayen escaped and ran into the house, and her husband brought his victim back to life, and asked him why he had seized the wife of his host. Gawigawen explained that she was his wife who had been lost, and the people were very much surprised, for they had not recognized her at first. Then all the people discussed what should be done to bring peace between the two men, and it was finally decided that Kadayadawan must pay both Aponibalagen and Gawigawen the price that was first demanded for the beautiful girl. After this was done all were happy; and the guardian spirit of Kadayadawan gave them a golden house in which to live. Gawigawen of Adasen _Tinguian_ Aponibolinayen was sick with a headache, and she lay on a mat alone in her house. Suddenly she remembered some fruit that she had heard of but had never seen, and she said to herself, "Oh, I wish I had some of the oranges of Gawigawen of Adasen." Now Aponibolinayen did not realize that she had spoken aloud, but Aponitolau, her husband, lying in the spirit house [30] outside, heard her talking and asked what it was she said. Fearing to tell him the truth lest he should risk his life in trying to get the oranges for her, she said: "I wish I had some biw" (a fruit). Aponitolau at once got up, and, taking a sack, went out to find some of the fruit for his wife. When he returned with the sack full, she said: "Put it on the bamboo hanger above the fire, and when my head is better I will eat it." So Aponitolau put the fruit on the hanger and returned to the spirit house, but when Aponibolinayen tried to eat, the fruit made her sick and she threw it away. "What is the matter?" called Aponitolau as he heard her drop the fruit. "I merely dropped one," she replied, and returned to her mat. After a while Aponibolinayen again said: "Oh, I wish I had some of the oranges of Gawigawen of Adasen," and Aponitolau, who heard her from the spirit house, inquired: "What is that you say?" "I wish I had some fish eggs," answered his wife; for she did not want him to know the truth. Then Aponitolau took his net and went to the river, determined to please his wife if possible. When he had caught a nice fish he opened it with his knife and took out the eggs. Then he spat on the place he had cut, and it was healed and the fish swam away. [31] Pleased that he was able to gratify his wife's wishes, he hastened home with the eggs; and while his wife was roasting them over the fire, he returned to the spirit house. She tried to eat, but the eggs did not taste good to her, and she threw them down under the house to the dogs. "What is the matter?" called Aponitolau. "Why are the dogs barking?" "I dropped some of the eggs," replied his wife, and she went back to her mat. By and by she again said: "I wish I had some of the oranges of Gawigawen of Adasen." But when her husband asked what she wished, she replied: "I want a deer's liver to eat" So Aponitolau took his dogs to the mountains, where they hunted until they caught a deer, and when he had cut out its liver he spat on the wound, and it was healed so that the deer ran away. But Aponibolinayen could not eat the liver any more than she could the fruit or the fish eggs; and when Aponitolau heard the dogs barking, he knew that she had thrown it away. Then he grew suspicious and, changing himself into a centipede, [32] hid in a crack in the floor. And when his wife again wished for some of the oranges, he overheard her. "Why did you not tell me the truth, Aponibolinayen?" he asked. "Because," she replied, "no one Who has gone to Adasen has ever come back, and I did not want you to risk your life." Nevertheless Aponitolau determined to go for the oranges, and he commanded his wife to bring him rice straw. After he had burned it he put the ashes in the water with which he washed his hair. [33] Then she brought cocoanut oil and rubbed his hair, and fetched a dark clout, a fancy belt, and a head-band, and she baked cakes for him to take on the journey. Aponitolau cut a vine [34] which he planted by the stove, [35] and told his wife that if the leaves wilted she would know that he was dead. Then he took his spear and head-ax [36] and started on the long journey. When Aponitolau arrived at the well of a giantess, all the betel-nut trees bowed. Then the giantess shouted and all the world trembled. "How strange," thought Aponitolau, "that all the world shakes when that woman shouts." But he continued on his way without stopping. As he passed the place of the old woman, Alokotan, she sent out her little dog and it bit his leg. "Do not proceed," said the old woman, "for ill luck awaits you. If you go on, you will never return to your home." But Aponitolau paid no attention to the old woman, and by and by he came to the home of the lightning. "Where are you going?" asked the lightning. "I am going to get some oranges of Gawigawen of Adasen," replied Aponitolau. "Go stand on that high rock that I may see what your sign is," commanded the lightning. So he stood on the high rock, but when the lightning flashed Aponitolau dodged. "Do not go," said the lightning, "for you have a bad sign, and you will never come back." Still Aponitolau did not heed. Soon he arrived at the place of Silit (loud thunder), [37] who also asked him: "Where are you going, Aponitolau?" "I am going to get oranges of Gawigawen of Adasen," he replied. Then the thunder commanded: "Stand on that high stone so that I can see if you have a good sign." He stood on the high stone, and when the thunder made a loud noise he jumped. Whereupon Silit also advised him not to go on. In spite of all the warnings, Aponitolau continued his journey, and upon coming to the ocean he used magical power, so that when he stepped on his head-ax it sailed away, carrying him far across the sea to the other side. Then after a short walk he came to a spring where women were dipping water, and he asked what spring it was. "This is the spring of Gawigawen of Adasen," replied the women. "And who are you that you dare come here?" Without replying he went on toward the town, but he found that he could not go inside, for it was surrounded by a bank which reached almost to the sky. While he stood with bowed head pondering what he should do, the chief of the spiders came up and asked why he was so sorrowful. "I am sad," answered Aponitolau, "because I cannot climb up this bank." Then the spider went to the top and spun a thread, [38] and upon this Aponitolau climbed up into town. Now Gawigawen was asleep in his spirit house, and when he awoke and saw Aponitolau sitting near, he was surprised and ran toward his house to get his spear and head-ax, but Aponitolau called to him, saying: "Good morning, Cousin Gawigawen. Do not be angry; I only came to buy some of your oranges for my wife." Then Gawigawen took him to the house and brought a whole carabao [39] for him to eat, and he said: "If you cannot eat all the carabao, you cannot have the oranges for your wife." Aponitolau grew very sorrowful, for he knew that he could not eat all the meat, but just at that moment the chief of the ants and flies came to him and inquired what was the trouble. As soon as he was told, the chief called all the ants and flies and they ate the whole carabao. Aponitolau, greatly relieved, went then to Gawigawen and said: "I have finished eating the food which you gave me." Gawigawen was greatly surprised at this, and, leading the way to the place where the oranges grew, he told Aponitolau to climb the tree and get all he wanted. As he was about to ascend the tree Aponitolau noticed that the branches were sharp knives, so he went as carefully as he could. Nevertheless, when he had secured two oranges, he stepped on one of the knives and was cut. He quickly fastened the fruit to his spear, and immediately it flew away straight to his town and into his house. Aponibolinayen was just going down the bamboo ladder out of the house, and hearing something drop on the floor she went back to look and found the oranges from Adasen. She eagerly ate the fruit, rejoicing that her husband had been able to reach the place where they grew. Then she thought to look at the vine, whose leaves were wilted, and she knew that her husband was dead. Soon after this a son was born to Aponibolinayen, and she called his name Kanag. He grew rapidly, becoming a strong lad, and he was the bravest of all his companions. One day while Kanag was playing out in the yard, he spun his top and it struck the garbage pot of an old woman, who became very angry and cried: "If you were a brave boy, you would get your father whom Gawigawen killed." Kanag ran to the house crying, and asked his mother what the old woman meant, for he had never heard the story of his father's death. As soon as he learned what had happened, the boy determined to search for his father, and, try as she would, his mother could not dissuade him. As he was departing through the gate of the town with his spear and head-ax, Kanag struck his shield and it sounded like a thousand warriors. "How brave that boy is!" said the surprised people. "He is braver even than his father." When he reached the spring of the giantess, he again struck his shield and shouted so that the whole world trembled. Then the giantess said: "I believe that someone is going to fight, and he will have success." As soon as Kanag reached the place where the old woman, Alokotan, lived, she sent her dog after him, but with one blow of his head-ax he cut off the dog's head. Then Alokotan asked where he was going, and when he had told her, she said: "Your father is dead, but I believe that you will find him, for you have a good sign." He hurried on and arrived at the place where lightning was, and it asked: "Where are you going, little boy?" "I am going to Adasen to get my father," answered Kanag. "Go stand on that high rock that I may see what your sign is," said the lightning. So he stood on the high rock, and when the bright flash came he did not move, and the lightning bade him hasten on, as he had a good sign. The thunder, which saw him passing, also called to ask where he was going, and it commanded him to stand on the high rock. And when the thunder made a loud noise Kanag did not move, and it bade him go on, as his sign was good. The women of Adasen were at the spring of Gawigawen dipping water, when suddenly they were startled by a great noise. They rose up, expecting to see a thousand warriors coming near; but though they looked all around they could see nothing but a young boy striking a shield. "Good morning, women who are dipping water," said Kanag. "Tell Gawigawen that he must prepare, for I am coming to fight him." So all the women ran up to the town and told Gawigawen that a strange boy was at the spring and he had come to fight. "Go and tell him," said Gawigawen, "that if it is true that he is brave, he will come into the town, if he can." When Kanag reached the high bank outside the town, he jumped like a flitting bird up the bank into the town and went straight to the spirit house of Gawigawen. He noticed that the roofs of both the dwelling and the spirit houses were of hair, and that around the town were many heads, [40] and he pondered: "This is why my father did not return. Gawigawen is a brave man, but I will kill him." As soon as Gawigawen saw him in the yard he said: "How brave you are, little boy; why did you come here?" "I came to get my father," answered Kanag; "for you kept him when he came to get oranges for my mother. If you do not give him to me, I will kill you." Gawigawen laughed at this brave speech and said: "Why, one of my fingers will fight you. You shall never go back to your town, but you shall stay here and be like your father." "We shall see," said Kanag. "Bring your arms and let us fight here in the yard." Gawigawen was beside himself with rage at this bold speech, and he brought his spear and his head-ax which was as big as half the sky. Kanag would not throw first, for he wanted to prove himself brave, so Gawigawen took aim and threw his head-ax at the boy. Now Kanag used magical power, so that he became an ant and was not hit by the weapon. Gawigawen laughed loudly when he looked around and could not see the boy, for he thought that he had been killed. Soon, however, Kanag reappeared, standing on the head-ax, and Gawigawen, more furious than ever, threw his spear. Again Kanag disappeared, and Gawigawen was filled with surprise. Then it was Kanag's turn and his spear went directly through the body of the giant. He ran quickly and cut off five of the heads, [41] but the sixth he spared until Gawigawen should have shown him his father. As they went about the town together, Kanag found that the skin of his father had been used for a drum-head. His hair decorated the house, and his head was at the gate of the town, while his body was put beneath the house. After he had gathered all the parts of the body together, Kanag used magical power, and his father came to life. "Who are you?" asked Aponitolau; "how long have I slept?" "I am your son," said Kanag. "You were not asleep but dead, and here is Gawigawen who kept you. Take my head-ax and cut off his remaining head." So Aponitolau took the head-ax, but when he struck Gawigawen it did not injure him. "What is the matter, Father?" asked Kanag; and taking the weapon he cut off the sixth head of Gawigawen. Then Kanag and his father used magic so that the spears and head-axes flew about, killing all the people in the town, and the heads and valuable things went to their home. When Aponibolinayen saw all these come into her house, she ran to look at the vine by the stove, and it was green and looked like a jungle. Then she knew that her son was alive, and she was happy. And when the father and son returned, all the relatives came to their house for a great feast, and all were so happy that the whole world smiled. The Story of Gaygayoma who Lives up Above _Tinguian_ One day, while Aponitolau sat weaving a basket under his house, he began to feel very hungry and longed for something sweet to chew. Then he remembered that his field was still unplanted. He called to his wife who was in the room above, and said: "Come, Aponibolinayen, let us go to the field and plant some sugar-cane." So Aponibolinayen came down out of the house with a bamboo tube, [42] and while she went to the spring to fill it with water, Aponitolau made some cuttings, and they went together to the field, which was some distance from the house. Aponitolau loosened the earth with his long stick [43] and set out the cuttings he had brought, while his wife sprinkled them with water from the bamboo tube. And when they had filled the field, they returned home, happy to think of the splendid cane they should have. After seven days Aponitolau went back to the field to see if the plants had lived, and he found that the leaves were already long and pointed. This delighted him, and while he stood looking at it he grew impatient and determined to use his magical power so that the cane would grow very fast. In five days he again visited the field and found that the stalks were tall and ready to chew. He hurried home to tell Aponibolinayen how fast their plants had grown, and she was proud of her powerful husband. Now about this time Gaygayoma, who was the daughter of Bagbagak, a big star, and Sinag, the moon, looked down from her home in the sky, and when she saw the tall sugar-cane growing below, she was seized with a desire to chew it. She called to her father, Bagbagak, and said: "Oh, Father, please send the stars down to the earth to get some of the sugar-cane that I see, for I must have it to chew." So Bagbagak sent the stars down, and when they reached the bamboo fence that was around the field they sprang over it, and each broke a stalk of the cane and pulled some beans which Aponibolinayen had planted, and the stems of these beans were of gold. Gaygayoma was delighted with the things that the stars brought her. She cooked the beans with the golden stems and spent long hours chewing the sweet cane. When all that the stars brought was gone, however, she grew restless and called to her father, the big star: "Come, Father, and go with me to the place where the sugar-cane grows, for I want to see it now." Bagbagak called many stars to accompany him, and they all followed Gaygayoma down to the place where the sugar-cane grew. Some sat on the bamboo fence, while others went to the middle of the field, and all ate as much as they wished. The day following this, Aponitolau said to his wife: "Aponibolinayen, I am going to the field to see if the bamboo fence is strong, for the carabao will try to get in to eat our sugar-cane." So he set out, and when he reached the field and began looking along the fence to see if it was strong, he kept finding the stalks that the stars had chewed, and he knew that someone had been there. He went into the middle of the field, and there on the ground was a piece of gold, and he said to himself: "How strange this is! I believe some beautiful girl must have chewed my cane. I will watch tonight, and maybe she will return for more." As darkness came on he had no thought of returning home, but he made his meal of the sugar-cane, and then hid in the tall grass near the field to wait. By and by dazzling lights blinded his eyes, and when he could see again he was startled to find many stars falling from the sky, and soon he heard someone breaking the cane. Suddenly a star so large that it looked like a flame of fire fell into the field, and then a beautiful object near the fence took off her dress which looked like a star, and she appeared like the half of the rainbow. Never had Aponitolau seen such sights; and for a while he lay shaking with fear. "What shall I do?" he said to himself. "If I do not frighten these companions of the beautiful girl, they may eat me." With a great effort he jumped up and frightened the stars till they all flew up, and when the pretty girl came looking for her dress she found Aponitolau sitting on it. [44] "You must forgive us," she said, "for your sugar-cane is very sweet, and we wanted some to chew." "You are welcome to the sugar-cane," answered Aponitolau. "But now we must tell our names according to our custom, for it is bad for us to talk until we know each other's names." Then he gave her some betel-nut and they chewed together, [45] and he said: "Now it is our custom to tell our names." "Yes," said she; "but you tell first" "My name is Aponitolau and I am the husband of Aponibolinayen." "I am Gaygayoma, the daughter of Bagbagak and Sinag up in the air," said the girl. "And now, Aponitolau, even though you have a wife, I am going to take you up to the sky, for I wish to marry you. If you are not willing to go, I shall call my companion stars to eat you." Aponitolau shook with fear, for he knew now that the woman was a spirit; and as he dared not refuse, he promised to go with her. Soon after that the stars dropped a basket that Gaygayoma had ordered them to make, and Aponitolau stepped in with the lovely star and was drawn quickly through the air up to the sky. They were met on their arrival by a giant star whom Gaygayoma introduced as her father, and he told Aponitolau that he had acted wisely in coming, for had he objected, the other stars would have eaten him. After Aponitolau had lived with the stars for some time, Gaygayoma asked him to prick between her last two fingers, and as he did so a beautiful baby boy popped out. They named him Takyayen, and he grew very fast and was strong. All this time Aponitolau had never forgotten Aponibolinayen who, he knew, was searching for him on the earth, but he had been afraid to mention her to the stars. When the boy was three months old, however, he ventured to tell Gaygayoma of his wish to return to the earth. At first she would not listen to him, but he pleaded so hard that at last she consented to let him go for one moon [46]. If he did not return at the end of that time, she said, she would send the stars to eat him. Then she called for the basket again, and they were lowered to the earth. There Aponitolau got out, but Gaygayoma and the baby returned to the sky. Aponibolinayen was filled with joy at the sight of her husband once more, for she had believed him dead, and she was very thin from not eating while he was away. Never did she tire of listening to his stories of his life among the stars, and so happy was she to have him again that when the time came for him to leave she refused to let him go. That night many stars came to the house. Some stood in the windows, while others stayed outside by the walls; and they were so bright that the house appeared to be on fire. Aponitolau was greatly frightened, and he cried out to his wife: "You have done wrong to keep me when I should have gone. I feared that the stars would eat me if I did not obey their command, and now they have come. Hide me, or they will get me." But before Aponibolinayen could answer, Bagbagak himself called out: "Do not hide from us, Aponitolau, for we know that you are in the corner of the house. Come out or we shall eat you." Trembling with fear, Aponitolau appeared, and when the stars asked him if he was willing to go with them he dared not refuse. Now Gaygayoma had grown very fond of Aponitolau, and she had commanded the stars not to harm him if he was willing to return to her. So when he gave his consent, they put him in the basket and flew away with him, leaving Aponibolinayen very sad and lonely. After that Aponitolau made many trips to the earth, but at Gaygayoma's command he always returned to the sky to spend part of the time with her. One day when Takyayen was a little boy, Aponitolau took him down to the earth to see his half-brother, Kanag. The world was full of wonders to the boy from the sky, and he wanted to stay there always. But after some time while he and Kanag were playing out in the yard, big drops of water began to fall on them. Kanag ran to his mother and cried: "Oh, Mother, it is raining, and the sun is shining brightly!" But Aponitolau, looking out, said, "No, they are the tears of Gaygayoma, for she sees her son down below, and she weeps for him." Then he took Takyayen back to his mother in the sky, and she was happy again. After that Takyayen was always glad when he was allowed to visit the earth, but each time when his mother's tears began to fall, he returned to her. When he was old enough, Aponitolau selected a wife for him, and after that Takyayen always lived on the earth, but Gaygayoma stayed in the sky. The Story of Dumalawi _Tinguian_ Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen had a son whose name was Dumalawi. [47] When the son had become a young man, his father one day was very angry with him, and tried to think of some way in which to destroy him. The next morning he said to Dumalawi: "Son, sharpen your knife, and we will go to the forest to cut some bamboo." So Dumalawi sharpened his knife and went with his father to the place where the bamboo grew, and they cut many sticks and sharpened them like spears at the end. Dumalawi wondered why they made them thus, but when they had finished, Aponitolau said: "Now, Son, you throw them at me, so that we can see which is the braver." "No, Father," answered Dumalawi. "You throw first, if you want to kill me." So Aponitolau threw the bamboo sticks one by one at his son, but he could not hit him. Then it was the son's turn to throw, but he said: "No, I cannot. You are my father, and I do not want to kill you." So they went home. But Dumalawi was very sorrowful, for he knew now that his father wanted to destroy him. When his mother called him to dinner he could not eat. Although he had been unsuccessful in his first attempt, Aponitolau did not give up the idea of getting rid of his son, and the next day he said: "Come, Dumalawi, we will go to our little house in the field [48] and repair it, so that it will be a protection when the rainy season sets in." The father and son went together to the field, and when they reached the little house, Aponitolau, pointing to a certain spot in the ground, said: "Dig there, and you will find a jar of basi [49] which I buried when I was a boy. It will be very good to drink now." Dumalawi dug up the jar and they tasted the wine, and it was so pleasing to them that they drank three cocoanut shells full, and Dumalawi became drunk. While his son lay asleep on the ground, Aponitolau decided that this was a good time to destroy him, so he used his magical power and there arose a great storm which picked up Dumalawi in his sleep and carried him far away. And the father went home alone. Now when Dumalawi awoke, he was in the middle of a field so wide that whichever way he looked, he could not see the end. There were neither trees nor houses in the field and no living thing except himself. And he felt a great loneliness. By and by he used his magical power, and many betel-nuts grew in the field, and when they bore fruit it was covered with gold, "This is good," said Dumalawi, "for I will scatter these betel-nuts and they shall become people, [50] who will be my neighbors." So in the middle of the night he cut the gold-covered betel-nuts into many small pieces which he scattered in all directions. And in the early morning, when he awoke, he heard many people talking around the house, and many roosters crowed. Then Dumalawi knew that he had companions, and upon going out he walked about where the people were warming themselves [51] by fires in their yards, and he visited them all. In one yard was a beautiful maiden, Dapilisan, and after Dumalawi had talked with her and her parents, he went on to the other yards, but she was ever in his thoughts. As soon as he had visited all the people, he returned to the house of Dapilisan and asked her parents if he might marry her. They were unwilling at first, for they feared that the parents of Dumalawi might not like it; but after he had explained that his father and mother did not want him, they gave their consent, and Dapilisan became his bride. Soon after the marriage they decided to perform a ceremony [52] for the spirits. So Dapilisan sent for the betel-nuts which were covered with gold, [53] and when they were brought to her, she said: "You betel-nuts that are covered with gold, come here and oil yourselves and go and invite all the people in the world to come to our ceremony." So the betel-nuts oiled themselves and went to invite the people in the different towns. Soon after this Aponibolinayen, the mother of Dumalawi, sat alone in her house, still mourning the loss of her son, when suddenly she was seized with a desire to chew betel-nut. "What ails me?" she said to herself; "why do I want to chew? I had not intended to eat anything while Dumalawi was away." So saying, she took down her basket that hung on the wall, and saw in it a betel-nut covered with gold, and when she was about to cut it, it said: "Do not cut me, for I have come to invite you to the ceremony which Dumalawi and his wife are to make." Aponibolinayen was very happy, for she knew now that her son still lived, and she told all the people to wash their hair and prepare to go to the rite. So they washed their clothes and their hair and started for the home of Dumalawi; and Aponitolau, the father of the boy, followed, but he looked like a crazy man. When the people reached the river near the town, Dumalawi sent alligators to take them across, but when Aponitolau got on the alligator's back it dived, and he was thrown back upon the bank of the river. All the others were carried safely over, and Aponitolau, who was left on the bank alone, shouted as if crazy until Dumalawi sent another alligator to carry him across. Then Dumalawi had food brought [54] and Dapilisan passed basi in a little jar that looked like a fist, [55] and though each guest drank a cupful of the sweet wine the little jar was still a third full. After they had eaten and drunk, Aponibolinayen spoke, and, telling all the people that she was glad to have Dapilisan for a daughter-in-law, added: "Now we are going to pay the marriage price [56] according to our custom. We shall fill the spirit house [57] nine times with different kinds of jars." Then she called, "You spirits [58] who live in different springs, get the jars which Dumalawi must pay as a marriage price for Dapilisan," The spirits did as they were commanded, and when they brought the jars and had filled the spirit house nine times, Aponibolinayen said to the parents of Dapilisan: "I think that now we have paid the price for your daughter." But Dalonagan, the mother of Dapilisan, was not satisfied, and said: "No, there is still more to pay." "Very well," replied Aponibolinayen. "Tell us what it is and we will pay it." Then Dalonagan called a pet spider and said: "You big spider, go all around the town, and as you go spin a thread [59] on which Aponibolinayen must string golden beads." So the spider spun the thread and Aponibolinayen again called to the spirits of the springs, and they brought golden beads which they strung on the thread. Then Dalonagan hung on the thread, and when it did not break she declared that the debt was all paid. After this the people feasted and made merry, and when at last they departed for home Dumalawi refused to go with his parents, but remained with his wife in the town he had created. The Story of Kanag _Tinguian_ When the rice [60] had grown tall and it was near the time for it to ripen, Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen grew fearful lest the wild pigs should break in and destroy all their crop, so they sent their son, Kanag, to the field to guard the grain. Kanag willingly went to the place, but when he found that the fences were all strong so that the pigs could not get in, and he was left with nothing to do, life in the little watch-house [61] grew lonely, and the boy became very unhappy. Each day Aponitolau carried cooked rice and meat to his son in the field, but Kanag could not eat and always bade his father hang it in the watch-house until he should want it Each time Aponitolau found the food of the day before still untouched, and he began to suspect that the boy was unhappy at having to guard the grain. But he said nothing of his fears to Aponibolinayen. One day after his father had returned home, Kanag was so lonely that he used his magical power and became a little bird and flew up into the top of a tree. The next day when Aponitolau came to the field he looked everywhere for his son, and when he could not find him he called, and from the top of a bamboo tree a little bird answered him. Realizing what had happened, the father was very sad and begged his son to come back and be a boy again, but Kanag only answered: "I would rather be a bird [62] and carry the messages of the spirits to the people." At last the father went home alone, and he and the boy's mother were filled with grief that they had lost their son. Some time after this, Aponitolau prepared to go out to fight. He took his spear and shield and head-ax and started early one morning, but when he reached the gate of the town, Kanag flew over him, giving him a bad sign, so he turned back. The next morning he started again, and this time the little bird gave him a good sign, and knowing that nothing would injure him, he went on. After a long journey he reached a hostile town where the people said they were glad to see him, and added that because he was the first of his people who had dared to enter their town they intended to keep him there. "Oh," said Aponitolau, "if you say that I cannot return home, call all your people together and we will fight." "You are very brave," answered his enemies, "if you wish to fight us all." And when the people had gathered together they laughed at him and said, "Why, one of our fingers would fight you." Nevertheless, Aponitolau prepared to fight, and when the bravest of the enemy threw his spear and head-ax at him he jumped and escaped. They noticed that he jumped very high, so they all ran at him, throwing their spears and trying to kill him. But Aponitolau caught all their weapons, and then while they were unarmed he threw his own spear, and it flew about among them until it had killed them all. Then he sent his head-ax, and it cut off all the heads of the enemy; and he used magical power so that these heads went to his home in Kadalayapan. After that Aponitolau sat down by the gate of the town to rest, and the little bird, flying over his head, called down: "The sign that I gave you was good, Father, and you have killed all your enemies." "Yes," said the man, and as he started on the home-ward journey the little bird always flew near him. When he reached home, he stuck the heads around the town, [63] and commanded the people to go out all over the world and invite everyone and especially the pretty girls to come to a party in celebration of his victory. The people came from all parts of the world, and while they played on the gongs and danced, Aponitolau called to Kanag and said: "Come down, my son; do not stay always in the tops of the trees. Come and see the pretty girls and see which one you want to marry. Get the golden cup and give them basi to drink." But Kanag answered, "I would rather stay in the tops of the trees and give the signs when anyone goes to fight." Then the father and mother pleaded with him to become a boy once more, begging his forgiveness and promising never again to send him to guard the rice. But he would not listen to them, and only flew away. Finding that they could not win him that way, Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen called the spirit servants, and commanded them to follow Kanag wherever he went, and to find a girl whom he would want to marry. So the spirit servants went after him, and wherever he went they followed. By and by they stopped near a well, and there the spirit servants used magic so that all the pretty girls nearby felt very hot; and in the early morning, they came to the well to bathe. One among them was so beautiful that she looked like a flame of fire [64] among the betel-nut blossoms, and when the servants saw her washing her hair they ran to Kanag and begged him to come and see her. At first he would not listen to them, but after a while he flew into the top of a betel-nut tree near by, and when he caught sight of her, he flew into the tree above her head. "But," said he to the servants, "what can I do if I become a man now, for I have no clothes and no head-band?" "Do not worry about that," said the spirit servants, "for we have everything here for you." So Kanag became a man and put on the clothes and head-band, and he went to speak to the girl. He gave her betel-nut, and they chewed together, and he said: "My name is Kanag and I am the son of Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen." Then the girl said: "My name is Dapilisan and I am the daughter of Bangan and Dalonagan." When Dapilisan went home Kanag followed her, and he told her parents his name and how he had changed into a little bird. And when he had finished he asked if he might marry their daughter. Bangan and his wife were greatly pleased that Kanag wanted Dapilisan for his wife, but they were afraid that his parents might object, so they sent a messenger to invite Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen to come to visit them. As soon as Kanag's parents heard that their son had become a man they were very happy and started at once to go to him, carrying many fine presents. Before arrangements for the wedding could be made, it was necessary to decide on the price to be paid for the girl. A long discussion took place. Bangan and Dalonagan finally said that the spirit house must be filled nine times with different kinds of jars. When this was done Dalonagan raised her eyebrows, and half of the jars disappeared. Aponibolinayen used her magical power and the spirit house was filled again, and then Dalonagan said to her: "Now the web of the spider shall be put around the town and you must put gold beads on it. If it does not break, Kanag may marry Dapilisan." When Aponibolinayen had put the gold beads on the thread, Dalonagan hung on it to see if it would hold. As it did not break, she declared that the sign was good; and Kanag and Dapilisan were married. Then the people played on the copper gongs, danced, and made merry for a long time, and when they returned to their homes Kanag and his bride went with Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen. The Story of the Tikgi _Tinguian_ "Tikgi, tikgi, tikgi, we will come to work for you. Let us cut your rice." Ligi [65] had gone to the field to look at his growing rice, but when he heard this sound he looked up and was surprised to see some birds circling above and calling to him. "Why, you cannot cut rice," said Ligi. "You are birds and know only how to fly." But the birds insisted that they knew how to cut rice; so finally he told them to come again when the grain was ripe, and they flew away. No sooner had the birds gone than Ligi was filled with a great desire to see them again. As he went home he wished over and over that his rice were ready to cut. As soon as Ligi left the field the tikgi birds began using magic so that the rice grew rapidly, and five days later when he returned he found the birds there ready to cut the ripened grain. Ligi showed them where to begin cutting, and then he left them. When he was out of sight, the tikgi said to the rice cutters: "Rice cutters, you cut the rice alone." And to the bands which were lying nearby they said: "Bands, you tie into bundles the rice which the cutters cut" And the rice cutters and the bands worked alone, doing as they were told. When Ligi went again to the field in the afternoon, the tikgi said: "Come, Ligi, and see what we have done, for we want to go home now." Ligi was amazed, for he saw five hundred bundles of rice cut. And he said: "Oh, Tikgi, take all the rice you wish in payment, for I am very grateful to you." Then the tikgi each took one head of rice, saying it was all they could carry, and they flew away. The next morning when Ligi reached the field, he found the birds already there and he said: "Now, Tikgi, cut the rice as fast as you can, for when it is finished I will make a ceremony for the spirits, and you must come." "Yes," replied the tikgi, "and now we shall begin the work, but you do not need to stay here." So Ligi went home and built a rice granary to hold his grain, and when he returned to the field the rice was all cut. Then the tikgi said: "We have cut all your rice, Ligi, so give us our pay, and when you go home the rice will all be in your granary." Ligi wondered at this, and when he reached home and saw that his granary was full of rice, he doubted if the tikgi could be real birds. Not long after this Ligi invited all his relatives from the different towns to help him make the ceremony for the spirits. [66] As soon as the people arrived, the tikgi came also; and they flew over the people's heads and made them drink basi until they were drunk. Then they said to Ligi: "We are going home now; it is not good for us to stay here, for we cannot sit among the people." When they started home Ligi followed them until they came to the bana-asi tree, and here he saw them take off their feathers and put them in the rice granary. Then suddenly they became one beautiful maiden. "Are you not the tikgi who came to cut my rice?" asked Ligi. "You look to me like a beautiful maiden." "Yes," she replied; "I became tikgi and cut rice for you, for otherwise you would not have found me." Ligi took her back to his house where the people were making the ceremony, and as soon as they saw her they began chewing the magic betel-nuts to find who she might be. The quid [67] of Ebang and her husband and that of the tikgi went together, so they knew that she was their daughter who had disappeared from their house one day long ago while they were in the fields. In answer to their many questions, she told them that she had been in the bana-asi tree, where Kaboniyan [68] had carried her, until the day that she changed herself into the tikgi birds and went to the field of Ligi. Ligi was very fond of the beautiful girl and he asked her parents if he might marry her. They were very willing and decided on a price he should pay. After the wedding all the people remained at his house, feasting and dancing for three months. The Story of Sayen [69] _Tinguian_ In the depths of a dark forest where people seldom went, lived a wizened old Alan. [70] The skin on her wrinkled face was as tough as a carabao hide, and her long arms with fingers pointing back from the wrist were horrible to look at. Now this frightful creature had a son whose name was Sayen, and he was as handsome as his mother was ugly. He was a brave man, also, and often went far away alone to fight. On these journeys Sayen sometimes met beautiful girls, and though he wanted to marry, he could not decide upon one. Hearing that one Danepan was more beautiful than any other, he determined to go and ask her to be his wife. Now Danepan was very shy, and when she heard that Sayen was coming to her house she hid behind the door and sent her servant, Laey, out to meet him. And so it happened that Sayen, not seeing Danepan, married Laey, thinking that she was her beautiful mistress. He took her away to a house he had built at the edge of the forest, for though he wished to be near his old home, he dared not allow his bride to set eyes on his ugly mother. For some time they lived happily together here, and then one day when Sayen was making a plow under his house, he heard Laey singing softly to their baby in the room above, and this is what she sang: "Sayen thinks I am Danepan, but Laey I am. Sayen thinks I am Danepan, but Laey I am." When Sayen heard this he knew that he had been deceived, and he pondered long what he should do. The next morning he went to the field to plow, for it was near the rice-planting time. Before he left the house he called to his wife: "When the sun is straight above, you and the baby bring food to me, for I shall be busy in the field." Before he began to plow, however, he cut the bamboo supports of the bridge which led to the field, so that when Laey and the baby came with his food, they had no sooner stepped on the bridge than it went down with them and they were drowned. Sayen was again free. He took his spear and his shield and head-ax and went at once to the town of Danepan, and there he began killing the people on all sides. Terror spread through the town. No one could stop his terrible work of destruction until Danepan came down out of her house, and begged him to spare part of the people that she might have some from whom to borrow fire. [71] Her great beauty amazed him and he ceased killing, and asked her to prepare some betel-nut for him to chew, as he was very tired. She did so, and when he had chewed the nut he spat on the people he had killed and they came to life again. Then he married Danepan and took her to his home. Now it happened about this time that the people of Magosang were in great trouble. At the end of a successful hunt, while they were dividing the meat among themselves, the Komow, [72] a murderous spirit that looks like a man, would come to them and ask how many they had caught. If they answered, "Two," then he would say that he had caught two also; and when they went home, they would find two people in the town dead. As often as they went to hunt the Komow did this, and many of the people of Magosang were dead and those living were in great fear. Finally they heard of the brave man, Sayen, and they begged him to help them. Sayen listened to all they told, and then said: "I will go with you to hunt, and while you are dividing the meat, I will hide behind the trees. When the Komow comes to ask how many deer you have, he will smell me, but you must say that you do not know where I am," So the people went to hunt, and when they had killed two deer, they singed them over a fire and began to divide them. Just then the Komow arrived and said: "How many have you?" "We have two," replied the people. "I have two also," said the Komow, "but I smell Sayen." "We do not know where Sayen is," answered the people; and just then he sprang out and killed the Komow, and the people were greatly relieved. Now when Kaboniyan, [73] a great spirit, heard what Sayen had done, he went to him and said: "Sayen you are a brave man because you have killed the Komow, Tomorrow I will fight with you. You must remain on the low ground by the river, and I will go to the hill above." So the following day Sayen went to the low ground by the river. He had not waited long before he heard a great sound like a storm, and he knew that Kaboniyan was coming. He looked up, and there stood the great warrior, poising his spear which was as large as a big tree. "Are you brave, Sayen?" called he in a voice like thunder as he threw the weapon. "Yes," answered Sayen, and he caught the spear. This surprised Kaboniyan, and he threw his head-ax which was as large as the roof of a house, and Sayen caught that also. Then Kaboniyan saw that this was indeed a brave man, and he went down to Sayen and they fought face to face until both were tired, but neither could overcome the other. When Kaboniyan saw that in Sayen he had found one as strong and brave even as himself, he proposed that they go together to fight the people of different towns. And they started out at once. Many people were killed by this strong pair, and why they themselves could never be captured was a great mystery. For it was not known that one was the spirit Kaboniyan, and the other the son of an Alan. If he was surrounded in a river, Sayen would become a fish [74] and hide so that people could not find him. And if he was entrapped in a town, he would become a chicken and go under the house in a chicken-coop. In this way he escaped many times. Finally one night after he had killed many in one town, the people decided to watch him, and they saw him go to roost with the chickens. The next day they placed a fish trap under the house near the chicken-coop, and that night when Sayen went under the house he was caught in the trap and killed. The Sun and the Moon _Tinguian_ Once the Sun and the Moon quarreled with each other, and the Sun said: "You are only the Moon and are not much good. If I did not give you light, you would be no good at all." But the Moon answered: "You are only the Sun, and you are very hot. The women like me better, for when I shine at night, they go out doors and spin." These words of the Moon made the Sun so angry that he threw sand in her face, and you can still see the dark spots on the face of the Moon. How the Tinguian Learned to Plant _Tinguian_ In the very old times the Tinguian did not know how to plant and harvest as they now do. For food they had only the things that grew in the forests and fish from the streams. Neither did they know how to cure people who became ill or were injured by evil spirits, and many died who might otherwise have lived. [75] Then Kadaklan, the Great Spirit who lives in the sky, saw that the people often were hungry and sick, and he sent one of his servants, Kaboniyan, to the earth to teach them many things. And it happened this way: Dayapan, a woman who lived in Caalang, had been sick for seven years. One day when she went to the spring to bathe, there entered her body a spirit who had rice and sugar-cane with him, and he said to her: "Dayapan, take these to your home and plant them in the ground, and after a while they will grow large enough to reap. Then when they are ripe, build a granary to put the rice in until you shall need it, and a sugar-press to crush the cane. And when these are finished, make the ceremony Sayung, and you will be well." Dayapan was filled with wonder at these strange things, but she took the rice and the sugar-cane and went home as she was commanded. While she was trying to plant them in the ground the Spirit again entered her body and showed her just what to do. Since then the Tinguian have planted crops every year, and because they do as Kaboniyan [76] taught the woman they have plenty to eat. When Dayapan had reaped the first rice and cane, she began to make the ceremony Sayung, and the Spirit came again and directed her. And when it was finished and she was cured, he told her to take a dog and a cock and go to bathe in the river as a sign that the ceremony was finished. So she went to the river and tied the dog and the cock near the water, but while she was bathing the dog ate the cock. Dayapan wept bitterly at this and waited a long time for Kaboniyan, and when at last he came, he said: "If the dog had not killed the cock, no person would die when you make this ceremony; but this is a sign, and now some will die and some will get well." Dayapan called all the people together, and told them the things that the spirit had taught her; and they could see that she had been made well. After that, when people became ill they called Dayapan to treat them. And it was as the Spirit had said; some died and others were made well. Magsawi _Tinguian_ A great many years ago some Tinguian left their little village in the valley early one morning and made their way toward the mountains. They were off on a deer hunt, [77] and each carried his spear and head-ax, while one held in leash a string of lean dogs eager for the chase. Part way up the mountainside the dogs were freed, and the men separated, going different ways in search of game. But ere long the sharp barking of a dog called all in his direction, for they believed that he had a deer at bay. As they approached the spot, however, the object did not look like a deer, and as they drew nearer they were surprised to find that it was a large jar. [78] Filled with curiosity they pressed on, but the jar evaded them. Faster and faster they ran, but the object, disappearing at times and then coming into view again, always escaped them. On and on they went until at last, tired out, they sat down on a wooded hill to rest and to refresh themselves with betel-nut which they took from brass boxes attached to their belts. As they slowly cut the nuts and wrapped them in the lime and leaf ready for chewing, they talked of nothing but the wonderful jar and the mysterious power it possessed. Then just as they were about to put the tempting morsels into their mouths they stopped, startled by a strange soft voice which seemed to be near them. They turned and listened, but could see no person. "Find a pig which has no young," said the voice, "and take its blood, for then you will be able to catch the jar which your dog pursued." The men knew then that the mysterious jar belonged to a spirit, so they hastened to do as the voice commanded, and when they had secured the blood the dog again brought the jar to bay. The hunters tried to seize it, but it entered a hole in the ground and disappeared. They followed, and found themselves in a dark cave [79] where it was easy to catch the jar, for there was no outlet save by the hole through which they had entered. Though that was many years ago, the jar still lives, and its name is Magsawi. Even now it talks; but some years ago a crack appeared in its side, and since then its language has not been understood by the Tinguian. [80] Sometimes Magsawi goes on long journeys alone when he visits his wife, a jar in Ilocos Norte, or his child, a small jar in San Quintin; but he always returns to Domayco on the hillside near the cave. The Tree with the Agate Beads _Tinguian_ More than a hundred seasons ago, a Tinguian went one day to the mountains to hunt. Accompanied by his faithful dog, he made his way steadily up the mountain side, only halting where it was necessary to cut a path through the jungle. And the dog ran here and there searching in the thick underbrush. On and on he went without seeing any game, and then, when he was almost at the top of the highest peak, the dog gave a sharp yelp, and out of the brush leaped a fine deer. Zip! went the man's spear, and it pierced the animal's side. For an instant he waited, but the deer did not fall. On it ran with unslackened speed, and a moment later it plunged into a hole in the ground with the man and dog in close pursuit. A short distance from the entrance the cave opened out into large, spacious rooms, and before he realized it the man was hopelessly lost In the distance he could hear the baying of the dog, and with no other guide he hurried on through the darkness. Following the sound, he went for a long time from one unfamiliar room to another, stumbling in the darkness and striking against the stone walls, and then suddenly his outstretched hands grasped a small tree on which berries grew. Astonished at finding anything growing in this dark place, he broke off a branch, and as he did so the shrub began to talk in a strange language. Terrified, the man ran in the direction he had last heard the dog, and a moment later he found himself in the open air on the banks of the Abra River, with the dead deer at his feet. When he examined the twig which he still held in his hand, he saw to his great surprise that the berries were agate beads of great value. [81] And packing the deer on his back, he hastened home where he told his wonderful story. The sight of the beautiful beads convinced the people that he told the truth, and a number of men at once returned with him to secure the tree. Their quest, however, was unsuccessful, for ere they reached the spot the evil spirit had taken the tree away and on the walls of the cave it had made strange carvings which even to this day can be seen. The Striped Blanket _Tinguian_ Three Tinguian once went to the mountains to hunt deer. They took their blankets with them, for they expected to be gone several days, and the nights in the mountains are cold. The blankets of two of the men were of the blue-and-white designs such as are commonly worn by the Tinguian, but that of the third was covered with red and yellow stripes like the back of a little wild pig. At night the men rolled up in their blankets and lay down under a tree to sleep; but while the one in the striped blanket was still awake two spirits came near and saw him. "Oh," he heard one spirit say to the other, "here we have something to eat, for here is a little wild pig." Then the man quickly took the blanket off one of his sleeping companions and put his own in its place. Very soon the spirits came and ate the man under the striped blanket. Since that time the Tinguian never sleep under that kind of a blanket if they are where the spirits can get them. The Alan and the Hunters _Tinguian_ Two men once went to hunt wild pig in the mountains, and after some time they speared and killed one, but they had no fire over which to singe it. One man climbed a tree to see if there was a fire near by, and discovering smoke at some distance, he started toward it. When he reached the place, he found that the fire was in the house of an Alan, [82] and he was very much afraid; but creeping up into the house, he found that the Alan and her baby were fast asleep. He stepped on tip-toe, but nevertheless the Alan was awakened and called out: "Epogow, [83] what do you want?" "I should like to get some fire," said the man, "for we have killed a wild pig." The Alan gave him the fire, and then taking her basket she went with him to the place where the pig was. After they had singed the animal, the Alan cut it up with her long nails and handed the liver to the man, telling him to take it to her house to feed the baby. The man started, and on the way he ate the liver. When he reached the Alan's house he did not know what to do. For some time he looked around, and then seeing a large caldron of hot water on the fire, he threw the baby into it and went back. "Did the baby eat well?" asked the Alan. "Very well," said the man. Then she put most of the meat into her basket and started home. As soon as she had gone, the man told his companion what he had done, and they were so frightened that they ran to hide. When the Alan reached home and found the baby dead in the hot water, she was very angry and started back immediately to find the men, who, in the meantime, had climbed a high tree that stood near the water. The Alan looked down into the water, and seeing the reflection of the men, she reached in her long hand with the fingers that pointed backward, but when she could not touch them, she looked up and saw them in the tall tree. "How did you get up there?" she cried angrily. "We climbed up feet first," called down the men. The Alan, determined to get them, caught hold of a vine and started up the tree feet first, but before she quite reached them, they cut the vine and she fell to the ground and was killed. [84] Then the men came down and went to the Alan's house, where they found a jar full of beads and another of gold, and these they brought with them when they returned home. Man and the Alan _Tinguian_ A Tinguian was once walking along a trail in the wood when he heard a strange sound in a large tree near him, and looking up he was startled to see that it was the home of the Alan--spirits who live in the wood. He stopped and gazed for a moment at the horrible creatures, large as people, hanging from the limbs of the tree with their heads down like bats. They had wings to fly, and their toes were at the back of their feet, while their long fingers, which pointed backward, were fastened at the wrist. "Surely," thought the man, "these terrible beings will eat me if they can catch me. I will run away as fast as I can while they are asleep." He tried to run but he was too frightened, and after a few steps he fell face down on the ground. At this the Alan began to wail loudly, for they saw him fall and believed him dead And they came down out of the tree with gold and beads which they laid on him. After a while the man gathered courage and, jumping up, he cried as loudly as he could, "Go away!" The Alan did not move, but they looked at him and said: "Give us the one bead _nagaba_ [a peculiar bead of double effect], and you may have the rest." When the man refused to do this, they were angry and turned away, crying, "Then we are going to burn your house, for you are a bad man." Thereupon the man went home as fast as he could go, but very soon after that his house burned, for the Alan kept their word. Sogsogot _Tinguian_ One day, a long time ago, some men went to the mountains to hunt deer and wild pig, and among them was one named Sogsogot. They all went into the thick forest to look for game, but after a while Sogsogot called his dog and withdrew to an open spot near by, where he waited for the deer to come out. While he stood there eagerly watching, a big bird [85] swooped down, caught him in its claws, and carried him away. Far off over the mountains the bird soared, until finally it came to a big tree where it had its nest, and here it left the man and flew away. Sogsogot's first thought was to make his escape, but he found that the tree was so tall that he could not get down, and after a time he ceased his attempts to get away and began to look over his companions in the nest--two young birds and three little pigs. By and by he became hungry, so he cut up the three little pigs, and after he had eaten all he wished he fed the two birds. When this meat was gone the mother bird brought more pigs and deer, and the man had all he could eat. Then he fed the little birds, which grew very fast and soon were able to fly. One day when they were standing on the edge of the nest Sogsogot caught hold of the birds' legs, and they fluttered down and carried him safely to the ground. He hastened home as fast as he could go and told the people of his wonderful trip. They made a ceremony for the spirits, and all the people rejoiced that the lost man had returned. Some time after this Sogsogot went to a hostile town to fight, and while he was gone his wife died. On the way back to his town he met the spirit of his wife driving a cow and two pigs, and not knowing that she was a spirit he asked her where she was going. "I am not a person any more," she answered him; "I am dead." And when he wanted to touch her hand, she gave him only her shortest finger. He begged to go with her so she said, "Go first to our home and get a white chicken; then follow the footmarks of the cow and pigs." He did as she commanded him, and after a while he came to a place where she was bathing in the river. She said to him: "Now you may come with me to our spirit town. [86] I shall hide you in the rice-bin and shall bring food to you every day. But at night the people in the town will want to eat you, and when they come to the bin you must take some of the feathers of the white chicken and throw at them." The man went with her, and when they arrived at the spirit town she hid him in the rice-bin. At night the people came to eat him, as she had said they would; but when he threw the chicken feathers at them they were frightened away. For two weeks Sogsogot lived in this place, but when the feathers were nearly gone he was afraid to stay any longer, for every night the spirits came to eat him. He begged his wife to allow him to go, and finally she showed him the way home, giving him rice to eat on his journey. As soon as the man arrived home and inquired for his wife, the people told him that she had died and they had buried her under the house. Then he knew that it was her spirit that had taken him to the strange town. The Mistaken Gifts _Tinguian_ When Siagon was about eight years old his parents began looking for a girl who would make a suitable wife. At last when they had decided on a beautiful maiden, who lived some distance from them, they sent a man to her parents to ask if they would like Siagon for a son-in-law. Now when the man arrived at the girl's house the people were all sitting on the floor eating periwinkle, and as they sucked the meat out of the shell, they nodded their heads. The man, looking in at the door, saw them nod, and he thought they were nodding at him. So he did not tell them his errand, but returned quickly to the boy's parents and told them that all the people at the girl's house were favorable to the union. Siagon's parents were very much pleased that their proposal had been so kindly received, and immediately prepared to go to the girl's house to arrange for the wedding. Finally all was ready and they started for her house, carrying with them as presents for her parents two carabao, two horses, two cows, four iron kettles, sixteen jars of basi, two blankets, and two little pigs. The surprise of the girl's people knew no bounds when they saw all this coming to their house, for they had not even thought of Siagon marrying their daughter. [87] The Boy who Became a Stone _Tinguian_ One day a little boy named Elonen sat out in the yard making a bird snare, and as he worked, a little bird called to him: "Tik-tik-lo-den" (come and catch me). "I am making a snare for you," said the boy; but the bird continued to call until the snare was finished. Then Elonen ran and threw the snare over the bird and caught it, and he put it in a jar in his house while he went with the other boys to swim. While he was away, his grandmother grew hungry, so she ate the bird, and when Elonen returned and found that his bird was gone, he was so sad that he wished he might go away and never come back. He went out into the forest and walked a long distance, until finally he came to a big stone and said: "Stone, open your mouth and eat me." And the stone opened its mouth and swallowed the boy. When his grandmother missed the boy, she went out and looked everywhere, hoping to find him. Finally she passed near the stone and it cried out, "Here he is." Then the old woman tried to open the stone but she could not, so she called the horses to come and help her. They came and kicked it, but it would not break. Then she called the carabao and they hooked it, but they only broke their horns. She called the chickens, which pecked it, and the thunder, which shook it, but nothing could open it, and she had to go home without the boy. The Turtle and the Lizard _Tinguian_ A turtle and a big lizard once went to the field of Gotgotapa to steal ginger, [88] When they reached the place the turtle said to the lizard: "We must be very still or the man will hear us and come out." But as soon as the lizard tasted the ginger he was so pleased that he said: "The ginger of Gotgotapa is very good." "Be still," said the turtle; but the lizard paid no attention to the warning, and called louder than ever: "The ginger of Gotgotapa is very good." Again and again he cried out, until finally the man heard him and came out of the house to catch the robbers. The turtle could not run fast, so he lay very still, and the man did not see him. But the lizard ran and the man chased him. When they were out of sight, the turtle went into the house and hid under a cocoanut shell upon which the man used to sit. [89] The man ran after the lizard for a long distance, but he could not catch him. After a while he came back to the house and sat down on the shell. By and by, the turtle called, "Kook." The man jumped up and looked all around. Unable to tell where the noise came from, he sat down again, A second time the turtle called, and this time the man looked everywhere in the house except under the shell, but could not find the turtle. Again and again the turtle called, and finally the man, realizing that all his attempts were unsuccessful, grew so excited that he died. Then the turtle ran out of the house, and he had not gone far before he met the lizard again. They walked along together until they saw some honey in a tree, and the turtle said: "I will go first and get some of the honey." The lizard would not wait, but ran ahead, and when he seized the honey, the bees came out and stung him. So he ran back to the turtle for help. After a while they came to a bird snare, and the turtle said: "That is the silver wire that my grandfather wore about his neck." Then the lizard ran fast to get it first, but he was caught in the snare and was held until the man came and killed him. Then the wise turtle went on alone. The Man with the Cocoanuts _Tinguian_ One day a man who had been to gather his cocoanuts loaded his horse heavily with the fruit. On the way home he _met_ a boy whom he asked how long it would take to reach the house. "If you go slowly," said the boy, looking at the load on the horse, "you will arrive very soon; but if you go fast, it will take you all day." The man could not believe this strange speech, so he hurried his horse. But the cocoanuts fell off and he had to stop to pick them up. Then he hurried his horse all the more to make up for lost time, but the cocoanuts fell off again. Many times he did this, and it was night when he reached home. [90] The Carabao and the Shell _Tinguian_ One very hot day, when a carabao went into the river to bathe, he met a shell and they began talking together. "You are very slow," said the carabao to the shell. "Oh, no," replied the shell. "I can beat you in a race." "Then let us try and see," said the carabao. So they went out on the bank and started to run. After the carabao had gone a long distance he stopped and called, "Shell!" And another shell lying by the river answered, "Here I am!" Then the carabao, thinking that it was the same shell with which he was racing, ran on. By and by he stopped again and called, "Shell!" Again another shell answered, "Here I am!" The carabao was surprised that the shell could keep up with him. But he ran on and on, and every time he stopped to call, another shell answered him. But he was determined that the shell should not beat him, so he ran until he dropped dead. [91] The Alligator's Fruit _Tinguian_ Two women went to gather some wild fruit from a vine which belonged to the alligator. "You must be careful not to throw the rind with your teeth marks on it where the alligator can see it," said one of the women to the other as they sat eating the fruit. But the other woman paid no attention and threw the rind showing teeth marks into the river, where the alligator saw it. Thus he knew at once who had taken his fruit, and he was very angry. He went to the house of the woman and called to the people: "Bring out the woman that I may eat her, for she has eaten my fruit" "Very well," answered the people. "But sit down and wait a little while." Then they put the iron soil-turner into the fire, and when it was red hot, they took it to the door and said to the alligator: "Here, eat this first." He opened his mouth, and they pushed the red hot iron down his throat, and he died. Dogedog _Tinguian_ Dogedog had always been very lazy, and now that his father and mother were dead and he had no one to care for him, he lived very poorly. He had little to eat. His house was old and small and so poor that it had not even a floor. Still he would rather sit all day and idle away his time than to work and have more things. One day, however, when the rainy season was near at hand, Dogedog began thinking how cold he would be when the storms came, and he felt so sorry for himself that he decided to make a floor in his house. Wrapping some rice in a banana leaf for his dinner, he took his long knife and went to the forest to cut some bamboo. He hung the bundle of rice in a tree until he should need it; but while he was working a cat came and ate it. When the hungry man came for his dinner, there was none left. Dogedog went back to his miserable little house which looked forlorn to him even, now that he had decided to have a floor. The next day he went again to the forest and hung his rice in the tree as he did before, but again the cat came and ate it. So the man had to go home without any dinner. The third day he took the rice, but this time he fixed a trap in the tree, and when the cat came it was caught. "Now I have you!" cried the man when he found the cat; "and I shall kill you for stealing my rice." "Oh, do not kill me," pleaded the cat, "and I will be of some use to you." So Dogedog decided to spare the cat's life, and he took it home and tied it near the door to guard the house. Some time later when he went to look at it, he was very much surprised to find that it had become a cock. "Now I can go to the cock-fight at Magsingal," cried the man. And he was very happy, for he had much rather do that than work. Thinking no more of getting wood for his floor, he started out at once for Magsingal with the cock under his arm. As he was crossing a river he met an alligator which called out to him: "Where are you going, Dogedog?" "To the cock-fight at Magsingal," replied the man as he fondly stroked the rooster. "Wait, and I will go with you," said the alligator; and he drew himself out of the water. The two walking along together soon entered a forest where they met a deer and it asked: "Where are you going, Dogedog?" "To the cock-fight at Magsingal," said the man. "Wait and I will go with you," said the deer; and he also joined them. By and by they met a mound of earth that had been raised by the ants, and they would have passed without noticing it had it not inquired: "Where are you going, Dogedog?" "To the cock-fight at Magsingal," said the man once more; and the mound of earth joined them. The company then hurried on, and just as they were leaving the forest, they passed a big tree in which was a monkey. "Where are you going, Dogedog?" shrieked the monkey. And without waiting for an answer he scrambled down the tree and followed them. As the party walked along they talked together, and the alligator said to Dogedog: "If any man wants to dive into the water, I can stay under longer than he." Then the deer, not to be outdone, said: "If any man wants to run, I can run faster." The mound of earth, anxious to show its strength, said: "If any man wants to wrestle, I can beat him." And the monkey said: "If any man wants to climb, I can go higher." They reached Magsingal in good time and the people were ready for the fight to begin. When Dogedog put his rooster, which had been a cat, into the pit, it killed the other cock at once, for it used its claws like a cat. The people brought more roosters and wagered much money, but Dogedog's cock killed all the others until there was not one left in Magsingal, and Dogedog won much money. Then they went outside the town and brought all the cocks they could find, but not one could win over that of Dogedog. When the cocks were all dead, the people wanted some other sport, so they brought a man who could stay under water for a long time, and Dogedog made him compete with the alligator. But after a while the man had to come up first Then they brought a swift runner and he raced with the deer, but the man was left far behind. Next they looked around until they found a very large man who was willing to contend with the mound of earth, but after a hard struggle the man was thrown. Finally they brought a man who could climb higher than anyone else, but the monkey went far above him, and he had to give up. All these contests had brought much money to Dogedog, and now he had to buy two horses to carry his sacks of silver. As soon as he reached home, he bought the house of a very rich man and went to live in it. And he was very happy, for he did not have to work any more. [92] IGOROT Introduction Three or four days' journey to the south and east of the Tinguian live the Igorot; but so difficult are the trails over the mountains and through the swift rivers that there is little intercourse between the two tribes, consequently each believes the other a people to be feared. Salt, weapons, and jars are sometimes exchanged, but the customs and beliefs are not similar. Each group leads its own life and is governed by its own spirits. From a distance an Igorot village looks like a group of haystacks nestling among the hills; but viewed more closely, it is found to consist of houses whose board sides are almost hidden by the overhanging grass roofs. The upper part of the house is used as a storehouse, while below, on a ground floor, the family cooks and eats. In one end there is a tiny boxlike bedroom where the father, mother, and small children sleep. After they are two or three years old the girls spend the night in a dormitory, while the boys sleep in the men's council house. These people have splendid terraced fields on the mountain sides where water is brought from the streams through troughs and ditches. Here both men and women are busy early and late cultivating the rice, sweet potatoes, and small vegetables on which they live. The men are head-hunters and ardent warriors, each village demanding a head in payment for any taken by a hostile village. Watching over the Igorot, controlling the winds and the rains, and providing good crops and health for the people, is the Great Spirit, Lumawig, who lives in the sky. He is believed to have created the Igorot and even to have lived among them on the earth. He no longer visits them in person, they say, but each month they perform a ceremony at which they pray to him to protect them and entreat him to favor them with health and good crops. The following tales are told by the fathers and mothers to the children to teach them how things came to be as they are. The Creation _Igorot_ In the beginning there were no people on the earth. Lumawig, [93] the Great Spirit, came down from the sky and cut many reeds. [94] He divided these into pairs which he placed in different parts of the world, and then he said to them, "You must speak." Immediately the reeds became people, and in each place was a man and a woman who could talk, but the language of each couple differed from that of the others. Then Lumawig commanded each man and woman to marry, which they did. By and by there were many children, all speaking the same language as their parents. These, in turn, married and had many children. In this way there came to be many people on the earth. Now Lumawig saw that there were several things which the people on the earth needed to use, so he set to work to supply them. He created salt, and told the inhabitants of one place to boil it down and sell it to their neighbors. But these people could not understand the directions of the Great Spirit, and the next time he visited them, they had not touched the salt. Then he took it away from them and gave it to the people of a place called Mayinit. [95] These did as he directed, and because of this he told them that they should always be owners of the salt, and that the other peoples must buy of them. Then Lumawig went to the people of Bontoc and told them to get clay and make pots. They got the clay, but they did not understand the moulding, and the jars were not well shaped. Because of their failure, Lumawig told them that they would always have to buy their jars, and he removed the pottery to Samoki. [96] When he told the people there what to do, they did just as he said, and their jars were well shaped and beautiful. Then the Great Spirit saw that they were fit owners of the pottery, and he told them that they should always make many jars to sell. In this way Lumawig taught the people and brought to them all the things which they now have. The Flood Story _Igorot_ Once upon a time, when the world was flat and there were no mountains, there lived two brothers, sons of Lumawig, the Great Spirit. The brothers were fond of hunting, and since no mountains had formed there was no good place to catch wild pig and deer, and the older brother said: "Let us cause water to flow over all the world and cover it, and then mountains will rise up." [97] So they caused water to flow over all the earth, and when it was covered they took the head-basket [98] of the town and set it for a trap. The brothers were very much pleased when they went to look at their trap, for they had caught not only many wild pigs and deer but also many people. Now Lumawig looked down from his place in the sky and saw that his sons had flooded the earth and that in all the world there was just one spot which was not covered. And he saw that all the people in the world had been drowned except one brother and sister who lived in Pokis. Then Lumawig descended, and he called to the boy and girl, saying: "Oh, you are still alive." "Yes," answered the boy, "we are still alive, but we are very cold." So Lumawig commanded his dog and deer to get fire [99] for the boy and girl. The dog and the deer swam quickly away, but though Lumawig waited a long time they did not return, and all the time the boy and girl were growing colder. Finally Lumawig himself went after the dog and the deer, and when he reached them he said: "Why are you so long in bringing the fire to Pokis? Get ready and come quickly while I watch you, for the boy and girl are very cold." Then the dog and the deer took the fire and started to swim through the flood, but when they had gone only a little way the fire was put out. Lumawig commanded them to get more fire and they did so, but they swam only a little way again when that of the deer went out, and that of the dog would have been extinguished also had not Lumawig gone quickly to him and taken it. As soon as Lumawig reached Pokis he built a big fire which warmed the brother and sister; and the water evaporated so that the world was as it was before, except that now there were mountains. The brother and sister married and had children, and thus there came to be many people on the earth. Lumawig on Earth _Igorot_ One day when Lumawig, [100] the Great Spirit, looked down from his place in the sky he saw two sisters gathering beans. And he decided to go down to visit them. When he arrived at the place he asked them what they were doing. The younger, whose name was Fukan, answered: "We are gathering beans, but it takes a long time to get enough, for my sister wants to go bathing all the time." Then Lumawig said to the older sister: "Hand me a single pod of the beans." And when she had given it to him, he shelled it into the basket and immediately the basket was full. [101] The younger sister laughed at this, and Lumawig said to her: "Give me another pod and another basket." She did so, and when he had shelled the pod, that basket was full also. Then he said to the younger sister: "Go home and get three more baskets." She went home, but when she asked for three more baskets her mother said that the beans were few and she could not need so many. Then Fukan told her of the young man who could fill a basket from one pod of beans, and the father, who heard her story, said: "Go bring the young man here, for I think he must be a god." So Fukan took the three baskets back to Lumawig, and when he had filled them as he did the other two, he helped the girls carry them to the house. As they reached their home, he stopped outside to cool himself, but the father called to him and he went up into the house and asked for some water. The father brought him a cocoanut shell full, and before drinking Lumawig looked at it and said: "If I stay here with you, I shall become very strong." The next morning Lumawig asked to see their chickens, and when they opened the chicken-coop out came a hen and many little chicks. "Are these all of your chickens?" asked Lumawig; and the father assured him that they were all. He then bade them bring rice meal that he might feed them, and as the chickens ate they all grew rapidly till they were cocks and hens. Next Lumawig asked how many pigs they had, and the father replied that they had one with some little ones. Then Lumawig bade them fill a pail with sweet potato leaves and he fed the pigs. And as they ate they also grew to full size. The father was so pleased with all these things that he offered his elder daughter to Lumawig for a wife. But the Great Spirit said he preferred to marry the younger; so that was arranged. Now when his brother-in-law learned that Lumawig desired a feast at his wedding, he was very angry and said: "Where would you get food for your wedding feast? There is no rice, nor beef, nor pork, nor chicken," But Lumawig only answered, "I shall provide our wedding feast." In the morning they all set out for Lanao, for Lumawig did not care to stay any longer in the house with his brother-in-law. As soon as they arrived he sent out for some tree trunks, but the trees that the people brought in were so small that Lumawig himself went to the forest and cut two large pine trees which he hurled to Lanao. When the people had built a fire of the trees he commanded them to bring ten kettles filled with water. Soon the water was boiling hot and the brother-in-law laughed and said: "Where is your rice? You have the boiling water, but you do not seem to think of the rice." In answer to this Lumawig took a small basket of rice and passed it over five kettles and they were full. Then he called "Yishtjau," and some deer came running out of the forest. These were not what he wanted, however, so he called again and some pigs came. He told the people that they were each to catch one and for his brother-in-law he selected the largest and best. They all set out in pursuit of the pigs and the others quickly caught theirs, but though the brother-in-law chased his until he was very tired and hot he could not catch it Lumawig laughed at him and said: "You chase that pig until he is thin and still you cannot catch it, though all the others have theirs." Thereupon he grasped the hind legs of the pig and lifted it. All the people laughed and the brother-in-law said: "Of course you can catch it, because I chased it until it was tired." Lumawig then handed it to him and said, "Here, you carry it." But no sooner had the brother-in-law put it over his shoulder than it cut loose and ran away. "Why did you let it go?" asked Lumawig. "Do you care nothing for it, even after I caught it for you? Catch it again and bring it here." So the brother-in-law started out again, and he chased it up stream and down, but he could not catch it. Finally Lumawig reached down and picked up the pig and carried it to the place where the others were cooking. After they had all eaten and drunk and made their offerings to the spirits, Lumawig said: "Come, let us go to the mountain to consult the omen concerning the northern tribes." So they consulted the omen, but it was not favorable, and they were starting home when the brother-in-law asked Lumawig to create some water, as the people were hot and thirsty. "Why do you not create water, Lumawig?" he repeated as Lumawig paid no attention to him. "You care nothing that the people are thirsty and in need of drink." Then they quarreled and were very angry and Lumawig said to the people, "Let us sit down and rest." While they rested, Lumawig struck the rock with his spear and water came out. [102] The brother-in-law jumped up to get a drink first, but Lumawig held him back and said he must be the last to drink. So they all drank, and when they had finished, the brother-in-law stepped up, but Lumawig gave him a push which sent him into the rock and water came from his body. "You must stay there," said Lumawig, "because you have troubled me a great deal." And they went home, leaving him in the rock. Some time after this Lumawig decided to go back to the sky to live, but before he went he took care that his wife should have a home. He made a coffin of wood [103] and placed her in it with a dog at her feet and a cock at her head. And as he set it floating on the water, [104] he told it not to stop until it reached Tinglayen. Then, if the foot end struck first, the dog should bark; and if the head end was the first to strike, the cock should crow. So it floated away, and on and on, until it came to Tinglayen. Now a widower was sharpening his ax on the bank of the river, and when he saw the coffin stop, he went to fish it out of the water. On shore he started to open it, but Fugan cried out, "Do not drive a wedge, for I am here," So the widower opened it carefully and took Fugan up to the town, and then as he had no wife of his own, he married her. How the First Head was Taken [105] _Igorot_ One day the Moon, who was a woman named Kabigat, sat out in the yard making a large copper pot. The copper was still soft and pliable like clay, and the woman squatted on the ground with the heavy pot against her knees while she patted and shaped it. [106] Now while she was working a son of Chal-chal, the Sun, came by and stopped to watch her mould the form. Against the inside of the jar she pressed a stone, while on the outside with a wooden paddle dripping with water she pounded and slapped until she had worked down the bulges and formed a smooth surface. The boy was greatly interested in seeing the jar grow larger, more beautiful, and smoother with each stroke, and he stood still for some time. Suddenly the Moon looked up and saw him watching her. Instantly she struck him with her paddle, cutting off his head. Now the Sun was not near, but he knew as soon as the Moon had cut off his son's head. And hurrying to the spot, he put the boy's head back on, and he was alive again. Then the Sun said to the Moon, "You cut off my son's head, and because you did this ever after on the earth people will cut off each other's heads." The Serpent Eagle [107] _Igorot_ Once there lived two boys whose mother sent them every day to the forest to get wood [108] for her fires. Each morning, as they started out, she gave them some food for their trip, but it was always poor and there was little of it, and she would say: "The wood that you brought yesterday was so poor that I cannot give you much to eat today." The boys tried very hard to please her, but if they brought nice pine wood she scolded them, and if they brought large dry reeds she said: "These are no good for my fire, for they leave too much ashes in the house." Try as they would, they failed to satisfy her; and their bodies grew very thin from working hard all day and from want of enough to eat. One morning when they left for the mountains the mother gave them a bit of dog meat to eat, and the boys were very sad. When they reached the forest one of them said: "You wait here while I climb the tree and cut off some branches." He went up the tree and soon called down, "Here is some wood," and the bones of his arm dropped to the ground. "Oh," cried his brother, "it is your arm!" "Here is some more wood," cried the other, and the bones of the other arm dropped to the ground. Then he called again, and the bones of his leg fell, then those of his other leg, and so on till all the bones of his body lay on the ground. "Take these home," he said, "and tell the woman that here is her wood; she only wanted my bones." The younger boy was very sad, for he was alone, and there was no one to go down the mountain with him. He gathered up the bundle of wood, wondering meanwhile what he should do, but just as he finished a serpent eagle called down from the tree tops: "I will go with you, Brother." So the boy put the bundle of wood on his shoulder, and as he was going down the mountain, his brother, who was now a serpent eagle, flew over his head. When he reached the house, he put down the bundle and said to his mother: "Here is your wood." When she looked at it she was very much frightened and ran out of the house. Then the serpent eagle circled round and round above her head and called: "Quiukok! quiukok! quiukok! I do not need your food any more." The Tattooed Men [109] _Igorot_ Once there were two young men, very good friends, who were unhappy because neither of them had been tattooed. [110] They felt that they were not as beautiful as their friends. One day they agreed to tattoo each other. One marked the breast and back of the other, his arms and legs, and even his face. And when he had finished, he took soot off the bottom of a cooking-pot and rubbed it into all the marks; and he was tattooed beautifully. The one who had done the work said to the other: "Now, my friend, you are very beautiful, and you must tattoo me." Then the tattooed one scraped a great pile of black soot off the cooking-pots, and before the other knew what he was about, he had rubbed it all over him from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet; and he was very black and greasy. The one who was covered with soot became very angry and cried: "Why do you treat me so when I tattooed you so carefully?" They began to fight, but suddenly the beautifully tattooed one became a great lizard which ran away and hid in the tall grass, while the sooty one became a crow and flew away over the village. [111] Tilin, The Rice Bird [112] _Igorot_ One day when a mother was pounding out rice to cook for supper, her little girl ran up to her and cried: "Oh, Mother, give me some of the raw rice to eat." "No," said the mother, "it is not good for you to eat until it is cooked. Wait for supper." But the little girl persisted until the mother, out of patience, cried: "Be still. It is not good for you to talk so much!" When she had finished pounding the rice, the woman poured it into a rice winnower and tossed it many times into the air. As soon as the chaff was removed she emptied the rice into her basket and covered it with the winnower. Then she took the jar upon her head, and started for the spring to get water. Now the little girl was fond of going to the spring with her mother, for she loved to play in the cool water while her mother filled the jars. But this time she did not go, and as soon as the woman was out of sight, she ran to the basket of rice. She reached down to take a handful of the grain. The cover slipped so that she fell, and was covered up in the basket. When the mother returned to the house, she heard a bird crying, "King, king, nik! nik! nik!" She listened carefully, and as the sound seemed to come from the basket, she removed the cover. To her surprise, out hopped a little brown rice bird, and as it flew away it kept calling back: "Goodbye, Mother; goodbye, Mother. You would not give me any rice to eat." WILD TRIBES OF MINDANAO Introduction About one thousand miles to the south and east of the Tinguian and Igorot is the Island of Mindanao, which is inhabited by mortals and immortals entirely unknown to the mountain tribes of the north. In the northern part of this great island are the Bukidnon--timid, wild people who, attacked from time to time by the Moro on one side and the Manobo on the other, have drawn back into scattered homes in the hills. Here they live in poor dwellings raised high from the ground. Some even build in trees, their sheltered and secret positions making them less subject to attack. They are not a warlike people, and their greatest concern is for the good will of the numerous spirits who watch over their every act. At times they gather a little hemp or coffee from the hillside or along the stream bank and carry it to the coast to exchange for the bright cloth which they make into gay clothes. But they do not love work, and the most of their time is spent in resting or attending ceremonies made to gain the good will of the immortals. In this country the belief prevails that there are spirits in the stones, in the baliti trees, in the vines, the cliffs, and even the caves. And never does a man start on a journey or make a clearing on the mountain side until he has first besought these spirits not to be angry with him but to favor him with prosperity and bring good crops. The greatest of the spirits is Diwata Magbabaya, who is so awe-inspiring that his name is never mentioned above a whisper. He lives in the sky in a house made of coins, and there are no windows in this building, for if men should look upon him they would melt into water. About the Gulf of Davao, in the southeastern part of this island, are a number of small tribes, each differing somewhat from the other in customs and beliefs. Of these the most influential are the Bagobo who dwell on the lower slopes of Mt. Apo, the highest peak in the Philippines. They are very industrious, forging excellent knives, casting fine articles in brass, and weaving beautiful hemp cloth which they make into elaborate garments decorated with beads and shell disks. The men are great warriors, each gaining distinction among his people according to the number of human lives he has taken. A number of them dress in dark red suits and peculiar headbands which they are permitted to wear only after they have taken six lives. Notwithstanding their bravery in battle, these people fear and have great respect for the numerous spirits who rule over their lives. From a great fissure in the side of Mt. Apo, clouds of sulphur fumes are constantly rising, and it is believed to be in this fissure that Mandarangan and his wife Darago live--evil beings who look after the fortunes of the warriors. These spirits are feared and great care is taken to appease them with offerings, while once a year a human sacrifice is made to them. The following tales show something of the beliefs of these and the neighboring tribes in Mindanao. How the Moon and the Stars Came to Be _Bukidnon_ (_Mindanao_) One day in the times when the sky was close to the ground a spinster went out to pound rice. [113] Before she began her work, she took off the beads from around her neck and the comb from her hair, and hung them on the sky, which at that time looked like coral rock. Then she began working, and each time that she raised her pestle into the air it struck the sky. For some time she pounded the rice, and then she raised the pestle so high that it struck the sky very hard. Immediately the sky began to rise, [114] and it went up so far that she lost her ornaments. Never did they come down, for the comb became the moon and the beads are the stars that are scattered about. The Flood Story _Bukidnon_ (_Mindanao_) A long time ago there was a very big crab [115] which crawled into the sea. And when he went in he crowded the water out so that it ran all over the earth and covered all the land. Now about one moon before this happened, a wise man had told the people that they must build a large raft. [116] They did as he commanded and cut many large trees, until they had enough to make three layers. These they bound tightly together, and when it was done they fastened the raft with a long rattan cord to a big pole in the earth. Soon after this the floods came. White water poured out of the hills, and the sea rose and covered even the highest mountains. The people and animals on the raft were safe, but all the others drowned. When the waters went down and the raft was again on the ground, it was near their old home, for the rattan cord had held. But these were the only people left on the whole earth. Magbangal [117] _Bukidnon_ (_Mindanao_) Magbangal was a good hunter, and he often went to a certain hill where he killed wild pigs for food. One night as it was nearing the planting season, he sat in his house thinking, and after a long time he called to his wife. She came to him, and he said: "Tomorrow I shall go to the hill and clear the land for our planting, but I wish you to stay here." "Oh, let me go with you," begged his wife, "for you have no other companion." "No," said Magbangal, "I wish to go alone, and you must stay at home." So finally his wife agreed, and in the morning she arose early to prepare food for him. When the rice was cooked and the fish ready she called him to come and eat, but he said: "No, I do not want to eat now, but I will return this afternoon and you must have it ready for me." Then he gathered up his ten hatchets and bolos, [118] a sharpening stone, and a bamboo tube for water, and started for the hill. Upon reaching his land he cut some small trees to make a bench. When it was finished, he sat down on it and said to the bolos, "You bolos must sharpen yourselves on the stone." And the bolos went to the stone and were sharpened. Then to the hatchets he said, "You hatchets must be sharpened," and they also sharpened themselves. When all were ready, he said: "Now you bolos cut all the small brush under the trees, and you hatchets must cut the large trees." So the bolos and the hatchets went to work, and from his place on the bench Magbangal could see the land being cleared. Magbangal's wife was at work in their house weaving a skirt, but when she heard the trees continually falling she stopped to listen and thought to herself, "My husband must have found many people to help him clear our land. When he left here, he was alone, but surely he cannot cut down the trees so fast. I will see who is helping him." She left the house and walked rapidly toward the field, but as she drew nearer she proceeded more slowly, and finally stopped behind a tree. From her hiding-place, she could see her husband asleep on the bench, and she could also see that the bolos and hatchets were cutting the trees with no hands to guide them. "Oh," said she, "Magbangal is very powerful. Never before have I seen bolos and hatchets working without hands, and he never told me of his power." Suddenly she saw her husband jump up, and, seizing a bolo, he cut off one of his own arms. He awoke and sat up and said: "Someone must be looking at me, for one of my arms is cut off." When he saw his wife he knew that she was the cause of his losing his arm, and as they went home together, he exclaimed: "Now I am going away. It is better for me to go to the sky where I can give the sign to the people when it is time to plant; and you must go to the water and become a fish." Soon after he went to the sky and became the constellation Magbangal; and ever since, when the people see these stars appear in the sky, they know that it is time to plant their rice. How Children Became Monkeys _Bukidnon_ (_Mindanao_) One day a mother took her two children with her when she went to color cloth. Not far from her home was a mud hole [119] where the carabao liked to wallow, and to this hole she carried her cloth, some dye pots, and two shell spoons. After she had put the cloth into the mud to let it take up the dark color, she built a fire and put over it a pot containing water and the leaves used for dyeing. Then she sat down to wait for the water to boil, while the children played near by. By and by when she went to stir the leaves with a shell spoon, some of the water splashed up and burned her hand, so that she jumped and cried out. This amused the children and their laughter changed them into monkeys, and the spoons became their tails. [120] The nails of the monkeys are still black, because while they were children they had helped their mother dye the cloth. Bulanawan and Aguio _Bukidnon_ (_Mindanao_) Langgona and his wife had twin boys named Bulanawan and Aguio. One day, when they were about two years old, the mother took Bulanawan to the field with her when she went to pick cotton. She spread the fiber she had gathered the day before on the ground to dry near the child, and while she was getting more a great wind suddenly arose which wound the cotton around the baby and carried him away. Far away to a distant land the wind took Bulanawan, and in that place he grew up. When he was a man, he became a great warrior. [121] One day while Bulanawan and his wife were walking along the seashore, they sat down to rest on a large, flat rock, and Bulanawan fell asleep. Now Aguio, the twin brother of Bulanawan, had become a great warrior also, and he went on a journey to this distant land, not knowing that his brother was there. It happened that he was walking along the seashore in his war-dress [122] on this same day, and when he saw the woman sitting on the large, flat rock, he thought her very beautiful, and he determined to steal her. As he drew near he asked her to give him some of her husband's betel-nut to chew, and when she refused he went forward to fight her husband, not knowing they were brothers. As soon as his wife awakened him Bulanawan sprang up, seized her, put her in the cuff of his sleeve, [123] and came forth ready to fight. Aguio grew very angry at this, and they fought until their weapons were broken, and the earth trembled. Now the two brothers of the rivals felt the earth tremble although they were far away, and each feared that his brother was in trouble. One was in the mountains and he started at once for the sea; the other was in a far land, but he set out in a boat for the scene of the trouble. They arrived at the same time at the place of battle, and they immediately joined in it. Then the trembling of the earth increased so much that Langgona, the father of Aguio and Bulanawan, sought out the spot and tried to make peace. But he only seemed to make matters worse, and they all began fighting him. So great did the disturbance become that the earth was in danger of falling to pieces. Then it was that the father of Langgona came and settled the trouble, and when all were at peace again they discovered that Aguio and Bulanawan were brothers and the grandsons of the peacemaker. Origin _Bagobo_ (_Mindanao_) In the beginning there lived one man and one woman, Toglai and Toglibon. Their first children were a boy and a girl. When they were old enough, the boy and the girl went far away across the waters seeking a good place to live in. Nothing more was heard of them until their children, the Spaniards and Americans, came back. After the first boy and girl left, other children were born to the couple, but they all remained at Cibolan on Mt. Apo with their parents, until Toglai and Toglibon died and became spirits. Soon after that there came a great drought which lasted for three years. All the waters dried up, so that there were no rivers, and no plants could live. "Surely," said the people, "Manama is punishing us and we must go elsewhere to find food and a place to dwell in." So they started out. Two went in the direction of the sunset, carrying with them stones from Cibolan River. After a long journey they reached a place where were broad fields of cogon grass and an abundance of water, and there they made their home. Their children still live in that place and are called Magindanau, because of the stones which the couple carried when they left Cibolan. Two children of Toglai and Toglibon went to the south, seeking a home, and they carried with them women's baskets (baraan). When they found a good spot, they settled down. Their descendants, still dwelling at that place, are called Baraan or Bilaan, because of the women's baskets. So two by two the children of the first couple left the land of their birth. In the place where each settled a new people developed, and thus it came about that all the tribes in the world received their names from things that the people carried out of Cibolan, or from the places where they settled. All the children left Mt. Apo save two (a boy and a girl), whom hunger and thirst had made too weak to travel. One day when they were about to die the boy crawled out to the field to see if there was one living thing, and to his surprise he found a stalk of sugar-cane growing lustily. He eagerly cut it, and enough water came out to refresh him and his sister until the rains came. Because of this, their children are called Bagobo. [124] Lumabet _Bagobo_ (_Mindanao_) Soon after people were created on the earth, there was born a child named Lumabet, who lived to be a very, very old man. He could talk when he was but one day old, and all his life he did wonderful things until the people came to believe that he had been sent by Manama, the Great Spirit. When Lumabet was still a young man he had a fine dog, and he enjoyed nothing so much as taking him to the mountains to hunt. One day the dog noticed a white deer. Lumabet and his companions started in pursuit, but the deer was very swift and they could not catch it. On and on they went until they had gone around the world, and still the deer was ahead. One by one his companions dropped out of the chase, but Lumabet would not give up until he had the deer. All the time he had but one banana and one camote (sweet potato) for food, but each night he planted the skins of these, and in the morning he found a banana tree with ripe fruit and a sweet potato large enough to eat. So he kept on until he had been around the world nine times, and he was an old man and his hair was gray. At last he caught the deer, and then he called all the people to a great feast, to see the animal. While all were making merry, Lumabet told them to take a knife and kill his father. They were greatly surprised, but did as he commanded, and when the old man was dead, Lumabet waved his headband over him and he came to life again. Eight times they killed the old man at Lumabet's command, and the eighth time he was small like a little boy, for each time they had cut off some of his flesh. They all wondered very much at Lumabet's power, and they were certain that he was a god. One morning some spirits came to talk with Lumabet, and after they had gone he called the people to come into his house. "We cannot all come in," said the people, "for your house is small and we are many." "There is plenty of room," said he; so all went in and to their surprise it did not seem crowded. Then he told the people that he was going on a long journey and that all who believed he had great power could go with him, while all who remained behind would be changed into animals and buso. [125] He started out, many following him, and it was as he said. For those that refused to go were immediately changed into animals and buso. He led the people far away across the ocean to a place where the earth and the sky meet. When they arrived they saw that the sky moved up and down like a man opening and closing his jaws. "Sky, you must go up," commanded Lumabet. But the sky would not obey. So the people could not go through. Finally Lumabet promised the sky that if he would let all the others through, he might have the last man who tried to pass. Agreeing to this, the sky opened and the people entered. But when near the last the sky shut down so suddenly that he caught not only the last man but also the long knife of the man before. On that same day, Lumabet's son, who was hunting, did not know that his father had gone to the sky. When he was tired of the chase, he wanted to go to his father, so he leaned an arrow against a baliti tree and sat down on it. Slowly it began to go down and carried him to his father's place, but when he arrived he could find no people. He looked here and there and could find nothing but a gun made of gold. [126] This made him very sorrowful and he did not know what to do until some white bees which were in the house said to him: "You must not weep, for we can take you to the sky where your father is." So he did as they bade, and rode on the gun, and the bees flew away with him, until in three days they reached the sky. Now, although most of the men who followed Lumabet were content to live in the sky, there was one who was very unhappy, and all the time he kept looking down on the land below. The spirits made fun of him and wanted to take out his intestines so that he would be like them and never die, but he was afraid and always begged to be allowed to go back home. Finally Manama told the spirits to allow him to go, so they made a chain of the leaves of the karan grass and tied it to his legs. Then they let him down slowly head first, and when he reached the ground he was no longer a man but an owl. [127] The Story of the Creation [128] _Bilaan_ (_Mindanao_) In the very beginning there lived a being so large that he can not be compared with any known thing. His name was Melu, [129] and when he sat on the clouds, which were his home, he occupied all the space above. His teeth were pure gold, and because he was very cleanly and continually rubbed himself with his hands, his skin became pure white. The dead skin which he rubbed off his body [130] was placed on one side in a pile, and by and by this pile became so large that he was annoyed and set himself to consider what he could do with it. Finally Melu decided to make the earth; so he worked very hard in putting the dead skin into shape, and when it was finished he was so pleased with it that he determined to make two beings like himself, though smaller, to live on it. Taking the remnants of the material left after making the earth he fashioned two men but just as they were all finished except their noses, Tau Tana from below the earth appeared and wanted to help him. Melu did not wish any assistance, and a great argument ensued. Tau Tana finally won his point and made the noses which he placed on the people upside down. When all was finished, Melu and Tau Tana whipped the forms until they moved. Then Melu went to his home above the clouds, and Tau Tana returned to his place below the earth. All went well until one day a great rain came, and the people on the earth nearly drowned from the water which ran off their heads into their noses. Melu, from his place on the clouds, saw their danger, and he came quickly to earth and saved their lives by turning their noses the other side up. The people were very grateful to him, and promised to do anything he should ask of them. Before he left for the sky, they told him that they were very unhappy living on the great earth all alone, so he told them to save all the hair from their heads and the dry skin from their bodies and the next time he came he would make them some companions. And in this way there came to be a great many people on the earth. In the Beginning _Bilaan_ (_Mindanao_) In the beginning there were four beings, [131] and they lived on an island no larger than a hat. On this island there were no trees or grass or any other living thing besides these four people and one bird. [132] One day they sent this bird out across the waters to see what he could find, and when he returned he brought some earth, a piece of rattan, and some fruit. Melu, the greatest of the four, took the soil and shaped it and beat it with a paddle in the same manner in which a woman shapes pots of clay, and when he finished he had made the earth. Then he planted the seeds from the fruit, and they grew until there was much rattan and many trees bearing fruit. The four beings watched the growth for a long time and were well pleased with the work, but finally Melu said: "Of what use is this earth and all the rattan and fruit if there are no people?" And the others replied, "Let us make some people out of wax." So they took some wax and worked long, fashioning it into forms, but when they brought them to the fire the wax melted, and they saw that men could not be made in that way. Next they decided to try to use dirt in making people, and Melu and one of his companions began working on that. All went well till they were ready to make the noses. The companion, who was working on that part, put them on upside down. Melu told him that the people would drown if he left them that way, but he refused to change them. When his back was turned, however, Melu seized the noses, one by one, and turned them as they now are. But he was in such a hurry that he pressed his finger at the root, and it left a mark in the soft clay which you can still see on the faces of people. The Children of the Limokon [133] _Mandaya_ (_Mindanao_) In the very early days before there were any people on the earth, the limokon (a kind of dove) [134] were very powerful and could talk like men though they looked like birds. One limokon laid two eggs, one at the mouth of the Mayo River and one farther up its course. After some time these eggs hatched, and the one at the mouth of the river became a man, while the other became a woman. The man lived alone on the bank of the river for a long time, but he was very lonely and wished many times for a companion. One day when he was crossing the river something was swept against his legs with such force that it nearly caused him to drown. On examining it, he found that it was a hair, and he determined to go up the river and find whence it came. He traveled up the stream, looking on both banks, until finally he found the woman, and he was very happy to think that at last he could have a companion. They were married and had many children, who are the Mandaya still living along the Mayo River, The Sun and the Moon _Mandaya_ (_Mindanao_) The Sun and the Moon were married, but the Sun was very ugly and quarrelsome. One day he became angry at the Moon and started to chase her. She ran very fast until she was some distance ahead of him, when she grew tired and he almost caught her. Ever since he has been chasing her, at times almost reaching her, and again falling far behind. The first child of the Sun and Moon was a large star, and he was like a man. One time the Sun, becoming angry at the star, cut him up into small pieces and scattered him over the whole sky just as a woman scatters rice, and ever since there have been many stars. Another child of the Sun and Moon was a gigantic crab. [135] He still lives and is so powerful that every time he opens and closes his eyes there is a flash of lightning. Most of the time the crab lives in a large hole in the bottom of the sea, and when he is there we have high tide; but when he leaves the hole, the waters rush in and there is low tide. His moving about also causes great waves on the surface of the sea. The crab is quarrelsome like his father; and he sometimes becomes so angry with his mother, the Moon, that he tries to swallow her. [136] When the people on earth, who are fond of the Moon, see the crab near her, they run out of doors and shout and beat on gongs until he is frightened away, and thus the Moon is saved. The Widow's Son [137] _Subanun_ (_Mindanao_) In a little house at the edge of a village lived a widow with her only son, and they were very happy together. The son was kind to his mother, and they made their living by growing rice in clearings on the mountain side and by hunting wild pig in the forest. One evening when their supply of meat was low, the boy said: "Mother, I am going to hunt pig in the morning, and I wish you would prepare rice for me before daylight." So the widow rose early and cooked the rice, and at dawn the boy started out with his spear and dog. Some distance from the village, he entered the thick forest. He walked on and on, ever on the lookout for game, but none appeared. At last when he had traveled far and the sun was hot, he sat down on a rock to rest and took out his brass box [138] to get a piece of betel-nut. He prepared the nut and leaf for chewing, and as he did so he wondered why it was that he had been so unsuccessful that day. But even as he pondered he heard his dog barking sharply, and cramming the betel-nut into his mouth he leaped up and ran toward the dog. As he drew near he could see that the game was a fine large pig, all black save its four legs which were white. He lifted his spear and took aim, but before he could throw the pig started to run, and instead of going toward a water course it ran straight up the mountain. The boy went on in hot pursuit, and when the pig paused he again took aim, but before he could throw it ran on. Six times the pig stopped just long enough for the boy to take aim, and then started on before he could throw. The seventh time, however, it halted on the top of a large flat rock and the boy succeeded in killing it. He tied its legs together with a piece of rattan and was about to start for home with the pig on his back, when to his surprise a door in the large stone swung open and a man stepped out. "Why have you killed my master's pig?" asked the man. "I did not know that this pig belonged to anyone," replied the widow's son. "I was hunting, as I often do, and when my dog found the pig I helped him to catch it" "Come in and see my master," said the man, and the boy followed him into the stone where he found himself in a large room. The ceiling and floor were covered with peculiar cloth that had seven wide stripes of red alternating with a like number of yellow stripes. When the master of the place appeared his trousers were of seven colors, [139] as were also his jacket and the kerchief about his head. The master ordered betel-nut, and when it was brought they chewed together. Then he called for wine, and it was brought in a jar so large that it had to be set on the ground under the house, and even then the top came so high above the floor that they brought a seat for the widow's son, and it raised him just high enough to drink from the reed in the top of the jar. He drank seven cups of wine, and then they ate rice and fish and talked together. The master did not blame the boy for killing the pig, and declared that he wished to make a brother of him. So they became friends, and the boy remained seven days in the stone. At the end of that time, he said that he must return to his mother who would be worried about him. In the early morning he left the strange house and started for home. At first he walked briskly, but as the morning wore on he went more slowly, and finally when the sun was high he sat down on a rock to rest. Suddenly looking up, he saw before him seven men each armed with a spear, a shield, and a sword. They were dressed in different colors, and each man had eyes the same color as his clothes. The leader, who was dressed all in red with red eyes to match, spoke first, asking the boy where he was going. The boy replied that he was going home to his mother who would be looking for him, and added: "Now I ask where you are going, all armed ready for war." "We are warriors," replied the man in red. "And we go up and down the world killing whatever we see that has life. Now that we have met you, we must kill you also." The boy, startled by this strange speech, was about to answer when he heard a voice near him say: "Fight, for they will try to kill you," and upon looking up he saw his spear, shield, and sword which he had left at home. Then he knew that the command came from a spirit, so he took his weapons and began to fight. For three days and nights they contended, and never before had the seven seen one man so brave. On the fourth day the leader was wounded and fell dead, and then, one by one, the other six fell. When they were all killed, the widow's son was so crazed with fighting that he thought no longer of returning home, but started out to find more to slay. In his wanderings he came to the home of a great giant whose house was already full of the men he had conquered in battle, and he called up from outside: "Is the master of the house at home? If he is, let him come out and fight." This threw the giant into a rage, and seizing his shield and his spear, the shaft of which was the trunk of a tree, he sprang to the door and leaped to the ground, not waiting to go down the notched pole which served for steps. He looked around for his antagonist, and seeing only the widow's son he roared: "Where is the man that wants to fight? That thing? It is only a fly!" The boy did not stop to answer, but rushed at the giant with his knife; and for three days and nights they struggled, till the giant fell, wounded at the waist. After that the widow's son stopped only long enough to burn the giant's house, and then rushed on looking for someone else to slay. Suddenly he again heard the voice which had bade him fight with the seven men, and this time it said: "Go home now, for your mother is grieved at your absence." In a rage he sprang forward with his sword, though he could see no enemy. Then the spirit which had spoken to him made him sleep for a short time. When he awoke the rage was spent. Again the spirit appeared, and it said: "The seven men whom you killed were sent to kill you by the spirit of the great stone, for he looked in your hand and saw that you were to marry the orphan girl whom he himself wished to wed. But you have conquered. Your enemies are dead. Go home now and prepare a great quantity of wine, for I shall bring your enemies to life again, and you will all live in peace." So the widow's son went home, and his mother, who had believed him dead, was filled with joy at his coming, and all the people in the town came out to welcome him. When he had told them his story, they hastened to get wine, and all day they bore jarsful to the widow's house. That night there was a great feast, and the spirit of the great stone, his seven warriors, the friendly spirit, and the giant all came. The widow's son married the orphan girl, while another beautiful woman became the wife of the spirit of the stone. MORO Introduction About the year 1400 something happened which changed the beliefs and customs of many of the tribes of the southern Philippines and made of them a powerful and dreaded people. It was about this time that Arabian traders and missionaries began to establish themselves in the Islands, and soon these were followed by hordes of Mohammedan converts from the islands to the south. Among the newcomers were men who became powerful rulers, and they, in time, brought together many of the settlements which formerly had been hostile to each other and united them under the faith of Islam. Those who accepted the new faith adopted the dress and many of the customs of their teachers and came to be known as Moro. With the possession of firearms, which were introduced by the newcomers, the Moro grew very daring and were greatly feared by the other natives. And soon they began to make long trips on the sea to the north and south, carrying on trade and making many surprise attacks for loot and slaves. At the time the Spaniards discovered the Philippines, the Moro were a terror to the other inhabitants, and they continued to be so until very recent years. They became ferocious pirates infesting the southern seas and preying upon the rich trade which the Spaniards carried on with Mexico. Stone walls and watch towers were built at advantageous points to guard against them, but bays and creeks which afforded opportunities for lurking, surprise, and attack continued to be frequented by the treacherous warriors. Since American occupation the waters have been made practically free from their ravages, but on land they have continued to give trouble. The greater part of the Moro now live in the Sulu Archipelago and on the Island of Mindanao. They range in degree of civilization from sea "gypsies," who wander from place to place, living for months in their rude outrigger boats, to settled communities which live by fishing and farming, and even by manufacturing some cloth, brass, and steel. Their villages are near the coast, along rivers, or about the shores of the interior lakes, the houses being raised high on poles near or over the water, for they live largely on food from the sea. Their folk-lore, as will be seen from the following tales, shows decided influence from Arabia and India, which has filtered in through the islands to the south. [140] Mythology of Mindanao [141] _Moro_ A long, long time ago Mindanao was covered with water, and the sea extended over all the lowlands so that nothing could be seen but mountains. Then there were many people living in the country, and all the highlands were dotted with villages and settlements. For many years the people prospered, living in peace and contentment. Suddenly there appeared in the land four horrible monsters which, in a short time, had devoured every human being they could find. Kurita, a terrible creature with many limbs, lived partly on land and partly in the sea, but its favorite haunt was the mountain where the rattan grew; and here it brought utter destruction on every living thing. The second monster, Tarabusaw, an ugly creature in the form of a man, lived on Mt. Matutun, and far and wide from that place he devoured the people, laying waste the land. The third, an enormous bird called Pah, [142] was so large that when on the wing it covered the sun and brought darkness to the earth. Its egg was as large as a house. Mt. Bita was its haunt, and there the only people who escaped its voracity were those who hid in caves in the mountains. The fourth monster was a dreadful bird also, having seven heads and the power to see in all directions at the same time. Mt. Gurayn was its home and like the others it wrought havoc in its region. So great was the death and destruction caused by these terrible animals that at length the news spread even to the most distant lands, and all nations were grieved to hear of the sad fate of Mindanao. Now far across the sea in the land of the golden sunset was a city so great that to look at its many people would injure the eyes of man. When tidings of these great disasters reached this distant city, the heart of the king Indarapatra [143] was filled with compassion, and he called his brother, Sulayman, [144] begging him to save the land of Mindanao from the monsters. Sulayman listened to the story, and as he heard he was moved with pity. "I will go," said he, zeal and enthusiasm adding to his strength, "and the land shall be avenged." King Indarapatra, proud of his brother's courage, gave him a ring and a sword as he wished him success and safety. Then he placed a young sapling by his window [145] and said to Sulayman: "By this tree I shall know your fate from the time you depart from here, for if you live, it will live; but if you die, it will die also." So Sulayman departed for Mindanao, and he neither walked nor used a boat, but he went through the air and landed on the mountain where the rattan grew. There he stood on the summit and gazed about on all sides. He looked on the land and the villages, but he could see no living thing. And he was very sorrowful and cried out: "Alas, how pitiful and dreadful is this devastation!" No sooner had Sulayman uttered these words than the whole mountain began to move, and then shook. Suddenly out of the ground came the horrible creature, Kurita. It sprang at the man and sank its claws into his flesh. But Sulayman, knowing at once that this was the scourge of the land, drew his sword and cut the Kurita to pieces. Encouraged by his first success, Sulayman went on to Mt. Matutun where conditions were even worse. As he stood on the heights viewing the great devastation there was a noise in the forest and a movement in the trees. With a loud yell, forth leaped Tarabusaw. For a moment they looked at each other, neither showing any fear. Then Tarabusaw threatened to devour the man, and Sulayman declared that he would kill the monster. At that the animal broke large branches off the trees and began striking at Sulayman who, in turn, fought back. For a long time the battle continued until at last the monster fell exhausted to the ground and then Sulayman killed him with his sword. The next place visited by Sulayman was Mt. Bita. Here havoc was present everywhere, and though he passed by many homes, not a single soul was left. As he walked along, growing sadder at each moment, a sudden darkness which startled him fell over the land. As he looked toward the sky he beheld a great bird descending upon him. Immediately he struck at it, cutting off its wing with his sword, and the bird fell dead at his feet; but the wing fell on Sulayman, and he was crushed. Now at this very time King Indarapatra was sitting at his window, and looking out he saw the little tree wither and dry up. "Alas!" he cried, "my brother is dead"; and he wept bitterly. Then although he was very sad, he was filled with a desire for revenge, and putting on his sword and belt he started for Mindanao in search of his brother. He, too, traveled through the air with great speed until he came to the mountain where the rattan grew. There he looked about, awed at the great destruction, and when he saw the bones of Kurita he knew that his brother had been there and gone. He went on till he came to Matutun, and when he saw the bones of Tarabusaw he knew that this, too, was the work of Sulayman. Still searching for his brother, he arrived at Mt. Bita where the dead bird lay on the ground, and as he lifted the severed wing he beheld the bones of Sulayman with his sword by his side. His grief now so overwhelmed Indarapatra that he wept for some time. Upon looking up he beheld a small jar of water by his side. This he knew had been sent from heaven, and he poured the water over the bones, and Sulayman came to life again. They greeted each other and talked long together. Sulayman declared that he had not been dead but asleep, and their hearts were full of joy. After some time Sulayman returned to his distant home, but Indarapatra continued his journey to Mt. Gurayn where he killed the dreadful bird with the seven heads. After these monsters had all been destroyed and peace and safety had been restored to the land, Indarapatra began searching everywhere to see if some of the people might not be hidden in the earth still alive. One day during his search he caught sight of a beautiful woman at a distance. When he hastened toward her she disappeared through a hole in the ground where she was standing. Disappointed and tired, he sat down on a rock to rest, when, looking about, he saw near him a pot of uncooked rice with a big fire on the ground in front of it. This revived him and he proceeded to cook the rice. As he did so, however, he heard someone laugh near by, and turning he beheld an old woman watching him. As he greeted her, she drew near and talked with him while he ate the rice. Of all the people in the land, the old woman told him, only a very few were still alive, and they hid in a cave in the ground from whence they never ventured. As for herself and her old husband, she went on, they had hidden in a hollow tree, and this they had never dared leave until after Sulayman killed the voracious bird, Pah. At Indarapatra's earnest request, the old woman led him to the cave where he found the headman with his family and some of his people. They all gathered about the stranger, asking many questions, for this was the first they had heard about the death of the monsters. When they found what Indarapatra had done for them, they were filled with gratitude, and to show their appreciation the headman gave his daughter to him in marriage, and she proved to be the beautiful girl whom Indarapatra had seen at the mouth of the cave. Then the people all came out of their hiding-place and returned to their homes where they lived in peace and happiness. And the sea withdrew from the land and gave the lowlands to the people. The Story of Bantugan _Moro_ Before the Spaniards occupied the island of Mindanao, there lived in the valley of the Rio Grande a very strong man, Bantugan, whose father was the brother of the earthquake and thunder. [146] Now the Sultan of the Island [147] had a beautiful daughter whom Bantugan wished to marry, but the home of the Sultan was far off, and whoever went to carry Bantugan's proposal would have a long and hazardous journey. All the head men consulted together regarding who should be sent, and at last it was decided that Bantugan's own son, Balatama, was the one to go. Balatama was young but he was strong and brave, and when the arms of his father were given him to wear on the long journey his heart swelled with pride. More than once on the way, however, his courage was tried, and only the thought of his brave father gave him strength to proceed. Once he came to a wooden fence which surrounded a stone in the form of a man, and as it was directly in his path he drew his fighting knife to cut down the fence. Immediately the air became as black as night and stones rained down as large as houses. This made Balatama cry, but he protected himself with his father's shield and prayed, calling on the winds from the homeland until they came and cleared the air again. Thereupon Balatama encountered a great snake [148] in the road, and it inquired his errand. When told, the snake said: "You cannot go on, for I am guard of this road and no one can pass." The animal made a move to seize him, but with one stroke of his fighting knife the boy cut the snake into two pieces, one of which he threw into the sea and the other into the mountains. After many days the weary lad came to a high rock in the road, which glistened in the sunlight. From the top he could look down into the city for which he was bound. It was a splendid place with ten harbors. Standing out from the other houses was one of crystal and another of pure gold. Encouraged by this sight he went on, but though it seemed but a short distance, it was some time before he at last stood at the gate of the town. It was not long after this, however, before Balatama had made known his errand to the Sultan, and that monarch, turning to his courtiers, said: "You, my friends, decide whether or not I shall give the hand of my daughter to Bantugan in marriage." The courtiers slowly shook their heads and began to offer objections. Said one, "I do not see how Bantugan can marry the Sultan's daughter because the first gift must be a figure of a man or woman in pure gold." "Well," said the son of Bantugan, "I am here to learn what you want and to say whether or not it can be given." Then a second man spoke: "You must give a great yard with a floor of gold, which must be three feet thick." "All this can be given," answered the boy. And the sister of the Princess said: "The gifts must be as many as the blades of grass in our city." "It shall be granted," said Balatama. "You must give a bridge built of stone to cross the great river," said one. And another: "A ship of stone you must give, and you must change into gold all the cocoanuts and leaves in the Sultan's grove." "All this can be done," said Balatama. "My uncles will give all save the statue of gold, and that I shall give myself. But first I must go to my father's town to secure it." At this they were angry and declared that he had made sport of them and unless he produced the statue at once they would kill him. "If I give you the statue now," said he, "there will come dreadful storms, rain, and darkness." But they only laughed at him and insisted on having the statue, so he reached in his helmet and drew it forth. Immediately the earth began to quake. A great storm arose, and stones as large as houses rained until the Sultan called to Balatama to put back the statue lest they all be killed. "You would not believe what I told you," said the boy; "and now I am going to let the storm continue." But the Sultan begged him and promised that Bantugan might marry his daughter with no other gifts at all save the statue of gold. Balatama put back the statue into his helmet, and the air became calm again to the great relief of the Sultan and his courtiers. Then Balatama prepared to return home, promising that Bantugan would come in three months for the wedding. All went well with the boy on the way home until he came to the fence surrounding the stone in the form of a man, and there he was detained and compelled to remain four months. Now about this time a Spanish general heard that Bantugan was preparing to marry the Sultan's daughter, whom he determined to wed himself. A great expedition was prepared, and he with all his brothers embarked on his large warship which was followed by ten thousand other ships. They went to the Sultan's city, and their number was so great that they filled the harbor, frightening the people greatly. Then the General's brother disembarked and came to the house of the Sultan. He demanded the Princess for the General, saying that if the request were refused, the fleet would destroy the city and all its people. The Sultan and his courtiers were so frightened that they decided to give his daughter to the General, the next full moon being the date set for the wedding. In the meantime Bantugan had been preparing everything for the marriage which he expected to take place at the appointed time. But as the days went by and Balatama did not return, they became alarmed, fearing he was dead. After three months had passed, Bantugan prepared a great expedition to go in search of his son, and the great warship was decorated with flags of gold. As they came in sight of the Sultan's city, they saw the Spanish fleet in the harbor, and one of his brothers advised Bantugan not to enter until the Spaniards left They then brought their ship to anchor. But all were disappointed that they could not go farther, and one said, "Why do we not go on? Even if the blades of grass turn into Spaniards we need not fear." Another said: "Why do we fear? Even if the cannon-balls come like rain, we can always fight." Finally some wanted to return to their homes and Bantugan said: "No, let us seek my son. Even though we must enter the harbor where the Spaniards are, let us continue our search." So at his command the anchors were lifted, and they sailed into the harbor where the Spanish fleet lay. Now at this very time the Spanish general and his brother were with the Sultan, intending to call upon the Princess. As the brother talked with one of the sisters of the Princess they moved toward the window, and looking down they saw Bantugan's ships entering the harbor. They could not tell whose flags the ships bore. Neither could the Sultan when he was called. Then he sent his brother to bring his father who was a very old man, to see if he could tell. The father was kept in a little dark room by himself that he might not get hurt, and the Sultan said to his brother: "If he is so bent with age that he cannot see, talk, or walk, tickle him in the ribs and that will make him young again; and, my Brother, carry him here yourself lest one of the slaves should let him fall and he should hurt himself." So the old man was brought, and when he looked out upon the ships he saw that the flags were those of the father of Bantugan who had been a great friend of his in his youth. And he told them that he and Bantugan's father years ago had made a contract that their children and children's children should intermarry, and now since the Sultan had promised his daughter to two people, he foresaw that great trouble would come to the land. Then the Sultan said to the General: "Here are two claimants to my daughter's hand. Go aboard your ships and you and Bantugan make war on each other, and the victor shall have my daughter." So the Spaniards opened fire upon Bantugan, and for three days the earth was so covered with smoke from the battle that neither could see his enemy. Then the Spanish general said: "I cannot see Bantugan or the fleet anywhere, so let us go and claim the Princess." But the Sultan said: "We must wait until the smoke rises to make sure that Bantugan is gone." When the smoke rose, the ships of Bantugan were apparently unharmed and the Sultan said: "Bantugan has surely won, for his fleet is uninjured while yours is badly damaged. You have lost." "No," said the General, "we will fight it out on dry land." So they both landed their troops and their cannon, and a great fight took place, and soon the ground was covered with dead bodies. And the Sultan commanded them to stop, as the women and children in the city were being killed by the cannon-balls, but the General said: "If you give your daughter to Bantugan we shall fight forever or until we die." Then the Sultan sent for Bantugan and said: "We must deceive the Spaniard in order to get him to go away. Let us tell him that neither of you will marry my daughter, and then after he has gone, we shall have the wedding." Bantugan agreed to this, and word was sent to the Spaniards that the fighting must cease since many women and children were being killed. So it was agreed between the Spaniard and Bantugan that neither of them should marry the Princess. Then they both sailed away to their homes. Bantugan soon returned, however, and married the Princess, and on the way back to his home they found his son and took him with them. For about a week the Spanish general sailed toward his home and then he, too, turned about to go back, planning to take the Princess by force. When he found that she had already been carried away by Bantugan, his wrath knew no bounds. He destroyed the Sultan, his city, and all its people. And then he sailed away to prepare a great expedition with which he should utterly destroy Bantugan and his country as well. One morning Bantugan looked out and saw at the mouth of the Rio Grande the enormous fleet of the Spaniards whose numbers were so great that in no direction could the horizon be seen. His heart sank within him, for he knew that he and his country were doomed. Though he could not hope to win in a fight against such great numbers, he called his headmen together and said: "My Brothers, the Christian dogs have come to destroy the land. We cannot successfully oppose them, but in the defense of the fatherland we can die." So the great warship was again prepared, and all the soldiers of Islam embarked, and then with Bantugan standing at the bow they sailed forth to meet their fate. The fighting was fast and furious, but soon the great warship of Bantugan filled with water until at last it sank, drawing with it hundreds of the Spanish ships. And then a strange thing happened. At the very spot where Bantugan's warship sank, there arose from the sea a great island which you can see today not far from the mouth of the Rio Grande. It is covered with bongo palms, and deep within its mountains live Bantugan and his warriors. A Moro sailboat passing this island is always scanned by Bantugan's watchers, and if it contains women such as he admires, they are snatched from their seats and carried deep into the heart of the mountain. For this reason Moro women fear even to sail near the island of Bongos. When the wife of Bantugan saw that her husband was no more and that his warship had been destroyed, she gathered together the remaining warriors and set forth herself to avenge him. In a few hours her ship was also sunk, and in the place where it sank there arose the mountain of Timaco. On this thickly wooded island are found white monkeys, the servants of the Princess, who still lives in the center of the mountain. On a quiet day high up on the mountain side one can hear the chanting and singing of the waiting-girls of the wife of Bantugan. CHRISTIANIZED TRIBES Introduction When the Spaniards discovered the Philippines in the sixteenth century, they found the tribes along the coasts of the different islands already somewhat influenced by trade with China, Siam, and the islands to the south. Under Spanish rule the coast inhabitants, with the exception of the Moro, soon became converts to Christianity and adopted the dress of their conquerors, though they retained their several dialects and many of their former customs. Then, no longer being at war with one another, they made great advances in civilization, while the hill tribes have remained isolated, retaining their old customs and beliefs. The tales of the Christianized tribes include a great mixture of old ideas and foreign influences obtained through contact with the outside world. The Monkey and the Turtle _Ilocano_ A monkey, looking very sad and dejected, was walking along the bank of the river one day when he met a turtle. "How are you?" asked the turtle, noticing that he looked sad. The monkey replied, "Oh, my friend, I am very hungry. The squash of Mr. Farmer were all taken by the other monkeys, and now I am about to die from want of food." "Do not be discouraged," said the turtle; "take a bolo and follow me and we will steal some banana plants." So they walked along together until they found some nice plants which they dug up, and then they looked for a place to set them. Finally the monkey climbed a tree and planted his in it, but as the turtle could not climb he dug a hole in the ground and set his there. When their work was finished they went away, planning what they should do with their crop. The monkey said: "When my tree bears fruit, I shall sell it and have a great deal of money." And the turtle said: "When my tree bears fruit, I shall sell it and buy three varas of cloth to wear in place of this cracked shell." A few weeks later they went back to the place to see their plants and found that that of the monkey was dead, for its roots had had no soil in the tree, but that of the turtle was tall and bearing fruit. "I will climb to the top so that we can get the fruit," said the monkey. And he sprang up the tree, leaving the poor turtle on the ground alone. "Please give me some to eat," called the turtle, but the monkey threw him only a green one and ate all the ripe ones himself. When he had eaten all the good bananas, the monkey stretched his arms around the tree and went to sleep. The turtle, seeing this, was very angry and considered how he might punish the thief. Having decided on a scheme, he gathered some sharp bamboo which he stuck all around under the tree, and then he exclaimed: "Crocodile is coming! Crocodile is coming!" The monkey was so startled at the cry that he fell upon the sharp bamboo and was killed. Then the turtle cut the dead monkey into pieces, put salt on it, and dried it in the sun. The next day, he went to the mountains and sold his meat to other monkeys who gladly gave him squash in return. As he was leaving them he called back: "Lazy fellows, you are now eating your own body; you are now eating your own body." Then the monkeys ran and caught him and carried him to their own home. "Let us take a hatchet," said one old monkey, "and cut him into very small pieces." But the turtle laughed and said: "That is just what I like, I have been struck with a hatchet many times. Do you not see the black scars on my shell?" Then one of the other monkeys said: "Let us throw him into the water," At this the turtle cried and begged them to spare his life, but they paid no heed to his pleadings and threw him into the water. He sank to the bottom, but very soon came up with a lobster. The monkeys were greatly surprised at this and begged him to tell them how to catch lobsters. "I tied one end of a string around my waist," said the turtle. "To the other end of the string I tied a stone so that I would sink." The monkeys immediately tied strings around themselves as the turtle said, and when all was ready they plunged into the water never to come up again. And to this day monkeys do not like to eat meat, because they remember the ancient story. [149] The Poor Fisherman and His Wife _Ilocano_ Many, many years ago a poor fisherman and his wife lived with their three sons in a village by the sea. One day the old man set his snare in the water not far from his house, and at night when he went to look at it, he found that he had caught a great white fish. This startled the old man very much, for he had never seen a fish like this before, and it occurred to him that it was the priest of the town. He ran to his wife as fast as he could and cried: "My wife, I have caught the priest." "What?" said the old woman, terrified at the sight of her frightened husband. "I have caught the priest," said the old man again. They hurried together to the river where the snare was set, and when the old woman saw the fish, she cried: "Oh, it is not the priest but the governor." "No, it is the priest," insisted the old man, and they went home trembling with fear. That night neither of them was able to sleep for thought of the terrible thing that had happened and wondering what they should do. Now the next day was a great holiday in the town. At four o'clock in the morning cannons were fired and bells rang loudly. The old man and woman, hearing all the noise and not knowing the reason for it, thought that their crime had been discovered, and the people were searching for them to punish them, so they set out as fast as they could to hide in the woods. On and on they went, stopping only to rest so as to enable them to resume their flight. The next morning they reached the woods near Pilar, where there also was a great holiday, and the sexton was ringing the bells to call the people to mass. As soon as the old man and woman heard the bells they thought the people there had been notified of their escape, and that they, too, were trying to catch them. So they turned and started home again. As they reached their house, the three sons came home with their one horse and tied it to the trunk of the caramay tree. Presently the bells began to ring again, for it was twelve o'clock at noon. Not thinking what time of day it was, the old man and woman ran out of doors in terror, and seeing the horse jumped on its back with the intention of riding to the next town before anyone could catch them. When they had mounted they began to whip the horse. In their haste, they had forgotten to untie the rope which was around the trunk of the caramay tree. As the horse pulled at the rope fruit fell from the tree upon the old man and woman. Believing they were shot, they were so frightened that they died. [150] The Presidente who had Horns _Ilocano_ Once there was a presidente [151] who was very unjust to his people, and one day he became so angry that he wished he had horns so that he might frighten them. No sooner had he made this rash wish, than horns began to grow on his head. He sent for a barber who came to his house to cut his hair, and as he worked the presidente asked: "What do you see on my head?" "I see nothing," answered the barber; for although he could see the horns plainly, he was afraid to say so. Soon, however, the presidente put up his hands and felt the horns, and then when he inquired again the barber told him that he had two horns. "If you tell anyone what you have seen, you shall be hanged," said the presidente as the barber started away, and he was greatly frightened. When he reached home, the barber did not intend to tell anyone, for he was afraid; but as he thought of his secret more and more, the desire to tell someone became so strong that he knew he could not keep it. Finally he went to the field and dug a hole under some bamboo, and when the hole was large enough he crawled in and whispered that the presidente had horns. He then climbed out, filled up the hole, and went home. By and by some people came along the road on their way to market, and as they passed the bamboo they stopped in amazement, for surely a voice came from the trees, and it said that the presidente had horns. These people hastened to market and told what they had heard, and the people there went to the bamboo to listen to the strange voice. They informed others, and soon the news had spread all over the town. The councilmen were told, and they, too, went to the bamboo. When they had heard the voice, they ran to the house of the presidente. But his wife said that he was ill and they could not see him. By this time the horns had grown until they were one foot in length, and the presidente was so ashamed that he bade his wife tell the people that he could not talk. She told this to the councilmen when they came on the following day, but they replied that they must see him, for they had heard that he had horns, and if this were true he had no right to govern the people. She refused to let them in, so they broke down the door. They saw the horns on the head of the presidente and killed him. For, they said, he was no better than an animal. [152] The Story of a Monkey _Ilocano_ One day when a monkey was climbing a tree in the forest in which he lived, he ran a thorn into his tail. Try as he would, he could not get it out, so he went to a barber in the town and said: "Friend Barber, I have a thorn in the end of my tail. Pull it out, and I will pay you well." The barber tried to pull out the thorn with his razor, but in doing so he cut off the end of the tail. The monkey was very angry and cried: "Barber, Barber, give me back my tail, or give me your razor!" The barber could not put back the end of the monkey's tail, so he gave him his razor. On the way home the monkey met an old woman who was cutting wood for fuel, and he said to her: "Grandmother, Grandmother, that is very hard. Use this razor and then it will cut easily." The old woman was very pleased with the offer and began to cut with the razor, but before she had used it long it broke. Then the monkey cried: "Grandmother, Grandmother, you have broken my razor! You must get a new one for me or else give me all the firewood." The old woman could not get a new razor so she gave him the firewood. The monkey took the wood and was going back to town to sell it, when he saw a woman sitting beside the road making cakes. "Grandmother, Grandmother," said he, "your wood is most gone; take this of mine and bake more cakes." The woman took the wood and thanked him for his kindness, but when the last stick was burned, the monkey cried out: "Grandmother, Grandmother, you have burned up all my wood! Now you must give me all your cakes to pay for it." The old woman could not cut more dry wood at once, so she gave him all the cakes. The monkey took the cakes and started for the town, but on the way he met a dog which bit him so that he died. And the dog ate all the cakes. The White Squash _Ilocano_ In a queer little bamboo house in front of a big garden lived a man and his wife all alone. They had always been kind and good to everyone, but still they were not happy, because the child for which they longed had never come to them. Each day for many years they had prayed for a son or a daughter, but their prayers had been unanswered. Now that they were growing old they believed that they must always live alone. In the garden near their house this couple grew fine white squash, and as the vines bore the year around, they had never been in need of food. One day, however, they discovered that no new squash had formed to take the place of those they had picked, and for the first time in many seasons they had no vegetables. Each day they examined the vines, and though the big, yellow flowers continued to bloom and fade, no squash grew on the stems. Finally, one morning after a long wait, the woman cried out with delight, for she had discovered a little green squash. After examining it, they decided to let it ripen that they might have the seeds to plant. They eagerly watched it grow, and it became a beautiful white vegetable, but by the time it was large enough for food they were so hungry that they decided to eat it. They brought a large knife and picked it, but scarcely had they started to open it when a voice cried out from within, "Please be careful that you do not hurt me." The man and woman stopped their work, for they thought that a spirit must have spoken to them. But when the voice again called and begged them to open the squash, they carefully opened it, and there inside was a nice baby boy. [153] He could already stand alone and could talk. And the man and his wife were overjoyed. Presently the woman went to the spring for a jar of water, and when she had brought it she spread a mat on the floor and began to bathe the baby. As the drops of water fell off his body, they were immediately changed to gold, so that when the bath was finished gold pieces covered the mat. The couple had been so delighted to have the baby that it had seemed as if there was nothing more to wish for, but now that the gold had come to them also they were happier than ever. The next morning the woman gave the baby another bath, and again the water turned to gold. They now had enough money to build a large house. The third morning she brought water for his bath again, but he grew very sad and flew away. At the same time all the gold disappeared also, and the man and his wife were left poor and alone. The Creation Story _Tagalog_ When the world first began there was no land, but only the stea and the sky, and between them was a kite. [154] One day the bird which had nowhere to light grew tired of flying about, so she stirred up the sea until it threw its waters against the sky. The sky, in order to restrain the sea, showered upon it many islands until it could no longer rise, but ran back and forth. Then the sky ordered the kite to light on one of the islands to build her nest, and to leave the sea and the sky in peace. Now at this time the land breeze and the sea breeze were married, and they had a child which was a bamboo. One day when this bamboo was floating about on the water, it struck the feet of the kite which was on the beach. The bird, angry that anything should strike it, pecked at the bamboo, and out of one section came a man and from the other a woman. Then the earthquake called on all the birds and fish to see what should be done with these two, and it was decided that they should marry. Many children were born to the couple, and from them came all the different races of people. After a while the parents grew very tired of having so many idle and useless children around, and they wished to be rid of them, but they knew of no place to send them to. Time went on and the children became so numerous that the parents enjoyed no peace. One day, in desperation, the father seized a stick and began beating them on all sides. This so frightened the children that they fled in different directions, seeking hidden rooms in the house--some concealed themselves in the walls, some ran outside, while others hid in the fireplace, and several fled to the sea. Now it happened that those who went into the hidden rooms of the house later became the chiefs of the Islands; and those who concealed themselves in the walls became slaves. Those who ran outside were free men; and those who hid in the fireplace became negroes; while those who fled to the sea were gone many years, and when their children came back they were the white people. [155] The Story of Benito _Tagalog_ Benito was an only son who lived with his father and mother in a little village. They were very poor, and as the boy grew older and saw how hard his parents struggled for their scanty living he often dreamed of a time when he might be a help to them. One evening when they sat eating their frugal meal of rice the father told about a young king who lived in a beautiful palace some distance from their village, and the boy became very much interested. That night when the house was dark and quiet and Benito lay on his mat trying to sleep, thoughts of the young king repeatedly came to his mind, and he wished he were a king that he and his parents might spend the rest of their lives in a beautiful palace. The next morning he awoke with a new idea. He would go to the king and ask for work, that he might in that way be able to help his father and mother. He was a long time in persuading his parents to allow him to go, however, for it was a long journey, and they feared that the king might not be gracious. But at last they gave their consent, and the boy started out The journey proved tiresome. After he reached the palace, he was not at first permitted to see the king. But the boy being very earnest at last secured a place as a servant. It was a new and strange world to Benito who had known only the life of a little village. The work was hard, but he was happy in thinking that now he could help his father and mother. One day the king sent for him and said: "I want you to bring to me a beautiful princess who lives in a land across the sea. Go at once, and if you fail you shall be punished severely," The boy's heart sank within him, for he did not know what to do. But he answered as bravely as possible, "I will, my lord," and left the king's chamber. He at once set about preparing things for a long journey, for he was determined to try at least to fulfil the command. When all was ready Benito started. He had not gone far before he came to a thick forest, where he saw a large bird bound tightly with strings. "Oh, my friend," pleaded the bird, "please free me from these bonds, and I will help you whenever you call on me." Benito quickly released the bird, and it flew away calling back to him that its name was Sparrow-hawk. Benito continued his journey till he came to the sea. Unable to find a way of crossing, he stopped and gazed sadly out over the waters, thinking of the king's threat if he failed. Suddenly he saw swimming toward him the King of the Fishes who asked: "Why are you so sad?" "I wish to cross the sea to find the beautiful Princess," answered the boy. "Well, get on my back," said the Fish, "and I will carry you across." So Benito stepped on his back and was carried to the other shore. Soon he met a strange woman who inquired what it was he sought, and when he had told her she said: "The Princess is kept in a castle guarded by giants. Take this magic sword, for it will kill instantly whatever it touches." And she handed him the weapon. Benito was more than grateful for her kindness and went on full of hope. As he approached the castle he could see that it was surrounded by many giants, and as soon as they saw him they ran out to seize him, but they went unarmed for they saw that he was a mere boy. As they approached he touched those in front with his sword, and one by one they fell dead. Then the others ran away in a panic, and left the castle unguarded. Benito entered, and when he had told the Princess of his errand, she was only too glad to escape from her captivity and she set out at once with him for the palace of the king. At the seashore the King of the Fishes was waiting for them, and they had no difficulty in crossing the sea and then in journeying through the thick forest to the palace, where they were received with great rejoicing. After a time the King asked the Princess to become his wife, and she replied: "I will, O King, if you will get the ring I lost in the sea as I was crossing it" The King immediately thought of Benito, and sending for him he commanded him to find the ring which had been lost on the journey from the land of the giants. It seemed a hopeless task to the boy, but, anxious to obey his master, he started out. At the seaside he stopped and gazed over the waters until, to his great delight, he saw his friend, the King of the Fishes, swimming toward him. When he had been told of the boy's troubles, the great fish said: "I will see if I can help you," and he summoned all his subjects to him. When they came he found that one was missing, and he sent the others in search of it. They found it under a stone so full that it could not swim, and the larger ones took it by the tail and dragged it to the King. "Why did you not come when you were called?" inquired the King Fish. "I have eaten so much that I cannot swim," replied the poor fish. Then the King Fish, suspecting the truth, ordered it cut open, and inside they found the lost ring. Benito was overjoyed at this, and expressing his great thanks, hastened with the precious ring to his master. The King, greatly pleased, carried the ring to the Princess and said: "Now that I have your ring will you become my wife?" "I will be your wife," replied the Princess, "if you will find my earring that I lost in the forest as I was journeying with Benito." Again the King sent for Benito, and this time he commanded him to find the earring. The boy was very weary from his long journeys, but with no complaint he started out once more. Along the road through the thick forest he searched carefully, but with no reward. At last, tired and discouraged, he sat down under a tree to rest. Suddenly there appeared before him a mouse of great size, and he was surprised to find that it was the King of Mice. "Why are you so sad?" asked the King Mouse. "Because," answered the boy, "I cannot find an earring which the Princess lost as we were going through the forest together." "I will help you," said the Mouse, and he summoned all his subjects. When they assembled it was found that one little mouse was missing, and the King sent the others to look for him. In a small hole among the bamboo trees they found him, and he begged to be left alone, for, he said, he was so full that he could not walk. Nevertheless they pulled him along to their master, who, upon finding that there was something hard inside the mouse, ordered him cut open; and inside they found the missing earring. Benito at once forgot his weariness, and after expressing his great thanks to the King Mouse he hastened to the palace with the prize. The King eagerly seized the earring and presented it to the Princess, again asking her to be his wife. "Oh, my King," replied the Princess, "I have one more request to make. Only grant it and I will be your wife forever." The King, believing that now with the aid of Benito he could grant anything, inquired what it was she wished, and she replied: "Get me some water from heaven and some from the lower world, and I shall ask nothing more." Once more the King called Benito and sent him on the hardest errand of all. The boy went out not knowing which way to turn, and while he was in a deep study his weary feet led him to the forest. Suddenly he thought of the bird who had promised to help him, and he called, "Sparrowhawk!" There was a rustle of wings, and the bird swooped down. He told it of his troubles and it said: "I will get the water for you." Then Benito made two light cups of bamboo which he fastened to the bird's legs, and it flew away. All day the boy waited in the forest, and just as night was coming on the bird returned with both cups full. The one on his right foot, he told Benito, was from heaven, and that on his left was from the lower world. The boy unfastened the cups, and then, as he was thanking the bird, he noticed that the journey had been too much for it and that it was dying. Filled with sorrow for his winged friend, he waited and carefully buried it, and then he hastened to the palace with the precious water. When the Princess saw that her wish had been fulfilled she asked the King to cut her in two and pour over her the water from heaven. The King was not able to do this, so she cut herself, and then as he poured the water over her he beheld her grow into the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Eager to become handsome himself, the King then begged her to pour over him the water from the other cup. He cut himself, and she did as he requested, but immediately there arose a creature most ugly and horrible to look upon, which soon vanished out of sight. Then the Princess called Benito and told him that because he had been so faithful to his master and so kind to her, she chose him for her husband. They were married amid great festivities and became king and queen of that broad and fertile land. During all the great rejoicing, however, Benito never forgot his parents. One of the finest portions of his kingdom he gave to them, and from that time they all lived in great happiness. [156] The Adventures of Juan _Tagalog_ Juan was always getting into trouble. He was a lazy boy, and more than that, he did not have good sense. When he tried to do things, he made such dreadful mistakes that he might better not have tried. His family grew very impatient with him, scolding and beating him whenever he did anything wrong. One day his mother, who was almost discouraged with him, gave him a bolo [157] and sent him to the forest, for she thought he could at least cut firewood. Juan walked leisurely along, contemplating some means of escape. At last he came to a tree that seemed easy to cut, and then he drew his long knife and prepared to work. Now it happened that this was a magic tree and it said to Juan: "If you do not cut me I will give you a goat that shakes silver from its whiskers." This pleased Juan wonderfully, both because he was curious to see the goat, and because he would not have to chop the wood. He agreed at once to spare the tree, whereupon the bark separated and a goat stepped out. Juan commanded it to shake its whiskers, and when the money began to drop he was so delighted that he took the animal and started home to show his treasure to his mother. On the way he met a friend who was more cunning than Juan, and when he heard of the boy's rich goat he decided to rob him. Knowing Juan's fondness for tuba [158], he persuaded him to drink, and while he was drunk, the friend substituted another goat for the magic one. As soon as he was sober again, Juan hastened home with the goat and told his people of the wonderful tree, but when he commanded the animal to shake its whiskers, no money fell out. The family, believing it to be another of Juan's tricks, beat and scolded the poor boy. He went back to the tree and threatened to cut it down for lying to him, but the tree said: "No, do not cut me down and I will give you a net which you may cast on dry ground, or even in the tree tops, and it will return full of fish." So Juan spared the tree and started home with his precious net, but on the way he met the same friend who again persuaded him to drink tuba. While he was drunk, the friend replaced the magic net with a common one, so that when Juan reached home and tried to show his power, he was again the subject of ridicule. Once more Juan went to his tree, this time determined to cut it down. But the offer of a magic pot, always full of rice and spoons which provided whatever he wished to eat with his rice, dissuaded him, and he started home happier than ever. Before reaching home, however, he met with the same fate as before, and his folks, who were becoming tired of his pranks, beat him harder than ever. Thoroughly angered, Juan sought the tree a fourth time and was on the point of cutting it down when once more it arrested his attention. After some discussion, he consented to accept a stick to which he had only to say, "Boombye, Boomba," and it would beat and kill anything he wished. When he met his friend on this trip, he was asked what he had and he replied: "Oh, it is only a stick, but if I say 'Boombye, Boomba' it will beat you to death." At the sound of the magic words the stick leaped from his hands and began beating his friend until he cried: "Oh, stop it and I will give back everything that I stole from you." Juan ordered the stick to stop, and then he compelled the man to lead the goat and to carry the net and the jar and spoons to his home. There Juan commanded the goat, and it shook its whiskers until his mother and brothers had all the silver they could carry. Then they ate from the magic jar and spoons until they were filled. And this time Juan was not scolded. After they had finished Juan said: "You have beaten me and scolded me all my life, and now you are glad to accept my good things. I am going to show you something else: 'Boombye, Boomba'." Immediately the stick leaped out and beat them all until they begged for mercy and promised that Juan should ever after be head of the house. From that time Juan was rich and powerful, but he never went anywhere without his stick. One night, when some thieves came to his house, he would have been robbed and killed had it not been for the magic words "Boombye, Boomba," which caused the death of all the robbers. Some time after this he married a beautiful princess, and because of the kindness of the magic tree they always lived happily. [159] Juan Gathers Guavas _Tagalog_ One day Juan's father sent him to get some ripe guavas, for a number of the neighbors had come in and he wanted to give them something to eat. Juan went to the guava bushes and ate all the fruit he could hold, and then he decided to play a joke on his father's guests instead of giving them a feast of guavas. A wasp's nest hung near by. With some difficulty he succeeded in taking it down and putting it into a tight basket that he had brought for the fruit. He hastened home and gave the basket to his father, and then as he left the room where the guests were seated he closed the door and fastened it. As soon as Juan's father opened the basket the wasps flew over the room; and when the people found the door locked they fought to get out of the windows. After a while Juan opened the door, and when he saw the swollen faces of the people, he cried. "What fine, rich guavas you must have had! They have made you all so fat!". The Sun and the Moon [160] _Visayan_ Once upon a time the Sun and the Moon were married, and they had many children who were the stars. The Sun was very fond of his children, but whenever he tried to embrace any of them, he was so hot that he burned them up. This made the Moon so angry that finally she forbade him to touch them again, and he was greatly grieved. One day the Moon went down to the spring to do some washing, and when she left she told the Sun that he must not touch any of their children in her absence. When she returned, however, she found that he had disobeyed her, and several of the children had perished. She was very angry, and picked up a banana tree to strike him, whereupon he threw sand in her face, and to this day you can see the dark marks on the face of the Moon. Then the Sun started to chase her, and they have been going ever since. Sometimes he gets so near that he almost catches her, but she escapes, and by and by she is far ahead again. [161] The First Monkey _Visayan_ Many years ago at the foot of a forest-covered hill was a small town, and just above the town on the hillside was a little house in which lived an old woman and her grandson. The old woman, who was very industrious, earned their living by removing the seeds from cotton, and she always had near at hand a basket in which were cotton and a long stick that she used for a spindle. The boy was lazy and would not do anything to help his grandmother, but every day went down to the town and gambled. One day, when he had been losing money, the boy went home and was cross because his supper was not ready. "I am hurrying to get the seeds out of this cotton," said the grandmother, "and as soon as I sell it, I will buy us some food." At this the boy fell into a rage, and he picked up some cocoanut shells and threw them at his grandmother. Then she became angry and began to whip him with her spindle, when suddenly he was changed into an ugly animal, and the cotton became hair which covered his body, while the stick itself became his tail. As soon as the boy found that he had become an ugly creature he ran down into the town and began whipping his companions, the gamblers, with his tail, and immediately they were turned into animals like himself. Then the people would no longer have them in the town, but drove them out. They went to the forest where they lived in the trees, and ever since they have been known as monkeys. [162] The Virtue of the Cocoanut _Visayan_ One day a man took his blow-gun [163]and his dog and went to the forest to hunt. As he was making his way through the thick woods he chanced upon a young cocoanut tree growing in the ground. It was the first tree of this kind that he had ever seen, and it seemed so peculiar to him that he stopped to look at it. When he had gone some distance farther, his attention was attracted by a noisy bird in a tree, and he shot it with his blow-gun. By and by he took aim at a large monkey, which mocked him from another treetop, and that, too, fell dead at his feet. Then he heard his dog barking furiously in the distant bushes, and hastening to it he found it biting a wild pig. After a hard struggle he killed the pig, and then, feeling satisfied with his success, he took the three animals on his back and returned to the little plant. "I have decided to take you home with me, little plant," he said, "for I like you and you may be of some use to me." He dug up the plant very carefully and started home, but he had not gone far when he noticed that the leaves had begun to wilt, and he did not know what to do, since he had no water. Finally, in despair, he cut the throat of the bird and sprinkled the blood on the cocoanut. No sooner had he done this than the plant began to revive, and he continued his journey. Before he had gone far, however, the leaves again began to wilt, and this time he revived it with the blood of the monkey. Then he hastened on, but a third time the leaves wilted, and he was compelled to stop and revive it with the blood of the pig. This was his last animal, so he made all the haste possible to reach home before his plant died. The cocoanut began to wilt again before he reached his house, but when he planted it in the ground, it quickly revived, and grew into a tall tree. This hunter was the first man to take the liquor called tuba [164] from the cocoanut tree, and he and his friends began to drink it. After they had become very fond of it, the hunter said to his friends: "The cocoanut tree is like the three animals whose blood gave it life when it would have died. The man who drinks three or four cups of tuba becomes like the noisy bird that I shot with my blow-gun. One who drinks more than three or four cups becomes like the big monkey that acts silly; and one who becomes drunk is like the pig that sleeps even in a mud-hole." Mansumandig _Visayan_ One day a man said to his wife: "My wife, we are getting very poor and I must go into business to earn some money." "That is a good idea," replied his wife. "How much capital have you?" "I have twenty-five centavos," [165] answered the man; "and I am going to buy rice and carry it to the mines, for I have heard that it brings a good price there." So he took his twenty-five centavos and bought a half-cavan of rice which he carried on his shoulder to the mine. Arriving there he told the people that he had rice for sale, and they asked eagerly how much he wanted for it. "Why, have you forgotten the regular price of rice?" asked the man. "It is twenty-five centavos." They at once bought the rice, and the man was very glad because he would not have to carry it any longer. He put the money in his belt and asked if they would like to buy any more. "Yes," said they, "we will buy as many cavans as you will bring." When the man reached home his wife asked if he had been successful. "Oh, my wife," he answered, "it is a very good business. I could not take the rice off my shoulder before the people came to buy it." "Well, that is good," said the wife; "we shall become very rich." The next morning the man bought a half-cavan of rice the same as before and carried it to the mine and when they asked how much it would be, he said: "It is the same as before--twenty-five centavos." He received the money and went home. "How is the business today?" asked his wife. "Oh, it is the same as before," he said. "I could not take the rice off my shoulder before they came for it." And so he went on with his business for a year, each day buying a half-cavan of rice and selling it for the price he had paid for it. Then one day his wife said that they would balance accounts, and she spread a mat on the floor and sat down on one side of it, telling her husband to sit on the opposite side. When she asked him for the money he had made during the year, he asked: "What money?" "Why, give me the money you have received," answered his wife; "and then we can see how much you have made." "Oh, here it is," said the man, and he took the twenty-five centavos out of his belt and handed it to her. "Is that all you have received this year?" cried his wife angrily. "Haven't you said that rice brought a good price at the mines?" "That is all," he replied. "How much did you pay for the rice?" "Twenty-five centavos." "How much did you receive for it?" "Twenty-five centavos." "Oh, my husband," cried his wife, "how can you make any gain if you sell it for just what you paid for it." The man leaned his head against the wall and thought. Ever since then he has been called "Mansumandig," a man who leans back and thinks. Then the wife said, "Give me the twenty-five centavos, and I will try to make some money." So he handed it to her, and she said, "Now you go to the field where the people are gathering hemp and buy twenty-five centavos worth for me, and I will weave it into cloth." When Mansumandig returned with the hemp she spread it in the sun, and as soon as it was dry she tied it into a long thread and put it on the loom to weave. Night and day she worked on her cloth, and when it was finished she had eight varas. This she sold for twelve and a half centavos a vara, and with this money she bought more hemp. She continued weaving and selling her cloth, and her work was so good that people were glad to buy from her. At the end of a year she again spread the mat on the floor and took her place on one side of it, while her husband sat on the opposite side. Then she poured the money out of the blanket in which she kept it upon the mat. She held aside her capital, which was twenty-five centavos, and when she counted the remainder she found that she had three hundred pesos. Mansumandig was greatly ashamed when he remembered that he had not made cent, and he leaned his head against the wall and thought After a while the woman pitied him, so she gave him the money and told him to buy carabao. He was able to buy ten carabao and with these he plowed his fields. By raising good crops they were able to live comfortably all the rest of their lives. Why Dogs Wag their Tails _Visayan_ A rich man in a certain town once owned a dog and a cat, both of which were very useful to him. The dog had served his master for many years and had become so old that he had lost his teeth and was unable to fight any more, but he was a good guide and companion to the cat who was strong and cunning. The master had a daughter who was attending school at a convent some distance from home, and very often he sent the dog and the cat with presents to the girl. One day he called the faithful animals and bade them carry a magic ring to his daughter. "You are strong and brave," he said to the cat "You may carry the ring, but you must be careful not to drop it" And to the dog he said: "You must accompany the cat to guide her and keep her from harm." They promised to do their best, and started out. All went well until they came to a river. As there was neither bridge nor boat, there was no way to cross but to swim. "Let me take the magic ring," said the dog as they were about to plunge into the water. "Oh, no," replied the cat, "the master gave it to me to carry." "But you cannot swim well," argued the dog. "I am strong and can take good care of it." But the cat refused to give up the ring until finally the dog threatened to kill her, and then she reluctantly gave it to him. The river was wide and the water so swift that they grew very tired, and just before they reached the opposite bank the dog dropped the ring. They searched carefully, but could not find it anywhere, and after a while they turned back to tell their master of the sad loss. Just before reaching the house, however, the dog was so overcome with fear that he turned and ran away and never was seen again. The cat went on alone, and when the master saw her coming he called out to know why she had returned so soon and what had become of her companion. The poor cat was frightened, but as well as she could she explained how the ring had been lost and how the dog had run away. On hearing her story the master was very angry, and commanded that all his people should search for the dog, and that it should be punished by having its tail cut off. He also ordered that all the dogs in the world should join in the search, and ever since when one dog meets another he says: "Are you the old dog that lost the magic ring? If so, your tail must be cut off." Then immediately each shows his teeth and wags his tail to prove that he is not the guilty one. Since then, too, cats have been afraid of water and will not swim across a river if they can avoid it. The Hawk and the Hen _Visayan_ A hawk flying about in the sky one day decided that he would like to marry a hen whom he often saw on earth. He flew down and searched until he found her, and then asked her to become his wife. She at once gave her consent on the condition that he would wait until she could grow wings like his, so that she might also fly high. The hawk agreed to this and flew away, after giving her a ring as an engagement present and telling her to take good care of it. The hen was very proud of the ring and placed it around her neck. The next day, however, she met the cock who looked at her in astonishment and said: "Where did you get that ring? Do you not know that you promised to be my wife? You must not wear the ring of anyone else. Throw it away." And the hen threw away the beautiful ring. Not long after this the hawk came down bringing beautiful feathers to dress the hen. When she saw him coming she was frightened and ran to hide behind the door, but the hawk called to her to come and see the beautiful dress he had brought her. The hen came out, and the hawk at once saw that the ring was gone. "Where is the ring I gave you?" he asked. "Why do you not wear it?" The hen was frightened and ashamed to tell the truth so she answered: "Oh, sir, yesterday when I was walking in the garden, I met a large snake and he frightened me so that I ran as fast as I could to the house. Then I missed the ring and I searched everywhere but could not find it." The hawk looked sharply at the hen, and he knew that she was deceiving him. Then he said to her: "I did not believe that you could behave so badly. When you have found the ring I will come down again and make you my wife. But as a punishment for breaking your promise, you must always scratch the ground to look for the ring. And every chicken of yours that I find, I shall snatch away." Then he flew away, and ever since all the hens throughout the world have been scratching to find the hawk's ring. The Spider and the Fly _Visayan_ Mr. Spider wanted to marry Miss Fly. Many times he told her of his love and begged her to become his wife, but she always refused for she did not like him. One day when she saw Mr. Spider coming again Miss Fly closed all the doors and windows of her house and made ready a pot of boiling water. Then she waited, and when Mr. Spider called, begging her to allow him to enter, she answered by throwing boiling water at him. This made Mr. Spider very angry and he cried: "I will never forgive you for this, but I and my descendants will always despise you. We will never give you any peace." Mr. Spider kept his word, and even today one can see the hatred of the spider for the fly. The Battle of the Crabs _Visayan_ One day the land crabs had a meeting and one of them said: "What shall we do with the waves? They sing so loudly all the time that we cannot possibly sleep." "Well," answered one of the oldest of the crabs, "I think we should make war on them." The others agreed to this, and it was decided that the next day all the male crabs should get ready to fight the waves. They started for the sea, as agreed, when they met a shrimp. "Where are you going, my friends?" asked the shrimp. "We are going to fight the waves," answered the crabs, "for they make so much noise at night that we cannot sleep." "I do not think you will succeed," said the shrimp, "for the waves are very strong and your legs are so weak that even your bodies bend almost to the ground when you walk." Wherewith he laughed loudly. This made the crabs very angry, and they pinched the shrimp until he promised to help them win the battle. Then they all went to the shore. But the crabs noticed that the eyes of the shrimp were set unlike their own, so they thought his must be wrong and they laughed at him and said: "Friend shrimp, your face is turned the wrong way. What weapon have you to fight with the waves?" "My weapon is a spear on my head," replied the shrimp, and just then he saw a big wave coming and ran away. The crabs did not see it, however, for they were all looking toward the shore, and they were covered with water and drowned. By and by the wives of the crabs became worried because their husbands did not return, and they went down to the shore to see if they could help in the battle. No sooner had they reached the water, however, than the waves rushed over them and killed them. Some time after this thousands of little crabs appeared near the shore, and the shrimp often visited them and told them of the sad fate of their parents. Even today these little crabs can be seen on the shore, continually running back and forth. They seem to rush down to fight the waves, and then, as their courage fails, they run back to the land where their forefathers lived. They neither live on dry land, as their ancestors did, nor in the sea where the other crabs are, but on the beach where the waves wash over them at high tide and try to dash them to pieces. Pronunciation of Philippine Names The vowel sounds in the following pronunciations are those used in Webster's dictionary. _Adasen_, a-dä'sen _Aguio_, a'ge-o _Alan_, ä'län _Alokotan_, ä-lo-ko-tän' _Aponibalagen_, apo-ne-bä-lä-gen' _Aponibolinayen_, apo-ne-bo-le-nä'yen _Aponitolau_, apo-ne-to'lou _Bagbagak_, bäg-bä-gäk' _Bagobo_, ba-go'bo _Balatama_, bä-lä-tä'ma _Bangan_, bän'gän _Bantugan_, bän-too'gan _Benito_, be-ne'to _Bilaan_, be-lä'an _Bita_, be'ta _Bontoc_, bon'tok _Bukidnon_, boo-kid'non _Bulanawan_, boo-la-nä'wan _Caalang_, kä-ä'läng _Cabildo_, kä-bil'do _Cibolan_, ci-bo'lan _Dalonagan_, da-lo-na'gan _Danepan_, dä-ne-pan' _Dapilisan_, da-pe-le'san _Dayapan_, di-a-pan _Dinawagen_, de-nä-wä'gen _Dodedog_, dog-e-dog _Domayco_, do-mi'ko _Dumalawi_, doo-mä-lä-we' _Epogow_, e-po-gou' _Gawigawen_, gä-we-gä'wen _Gaygayoma_, gi-gi-o'ma _Gotgotapa_, got-go-ta'pa _Igorot_, ig-o-rot' _Ilocano_, il-o-kä'no _Ilocos Norte_, il-o'kos no'rte _Indarapatra_, in-dä-rä-pä'tra _Ini-init_, e-ni-e'nit _Kabigat_, ka-be-gat' _Kaboniyan_, kä-bo-ne-yan' _Kadaklan_, ka-dak-lan' _Kadalayapan_, kä-dä-lä-yä'pan _Kadayadawan_, kä-dä-yä-dä'wan _Kanag_, kä'näg _Komow_, ko'mou _Kurita_, ku-re'ta _Langgona_, läng-go'na _Ligi_, le'ge _Limokon_, le-mo'kon _Lumabet_, loo-mä'bet _Lumawig_, loo-mä'wig _Magbangal_, mäg-bäng'al _Magindanau_, mä-gin-dä'nou _Magosang_, ma-go'sang _Magsawi_, mäg-sä-we' _Magsingal_, mäg'sin-gäl _Manama_, män-ä'ma _Mandaya_, män-di'ya _Mansumandig_, män-su-män-dig _Mayinit_, mi-i'nit _Mayo_, mi'yo _Mindanao_, min-da-nou' _Nalpangan_, nal-pan-gan' _Pilar_, pe'lär' _Samoki_, sa-mo'ki _Sayen_, sä-yen' _Siagon_, së-ä'gon _Silit_, se'let _Sinag_, se'nag _Sogsogot_, sog-so-got' _Subanun_, soo-bä'nun _Sulayman_, soo-li'man _Tagalog_, ta-ga'log _Tarabusaw_, ta-ra-boo'sou _Tikgi_, tik'ge _Timaco_, ti-mä'ko _Tinguian_, ting-gi-an' _Toglai_, tog-lä'e _Toglibon_, tog-le'bon _Visayan_, vi-si'yan NOTES [1] This incident is strikingly similar to the story in North American folk-lore of the maiden captured and carried upward by a vine. Several other points of likeness appear in the lore of Malaysia, Polynesia, and America. [2] See Preface, p. vii. [3] This incident is unique so far as American or European folk-lore is concerned, yet it is common in Tinguian tales, while similar stories are found among the neighboring Ilocano and Igorot tribes of the Philippines, as well as in Borneo, Java, and India. [4] The belief that beauty is capable of radiating great light is not peculiar to Tinguian tales, for it is also found in the Malay legends and in those of India. It is not impossible that they had a common origin. [5] The betel-nut is the nut of the areca palm. It is prepared for chewing by being cut into quarters, each piece being wrapped in betel-leaf spread with lime. It produces a blood-red spittle which greatly discolors the teeth and lips, and it is used extensively throughout the Philippines. While it appears to have been in common use among the Tinguian at the time these stories originated, it has now been displaced by tobacco, except at ceremonies when it is prepared for chewing; it is also placed on the animals offered for sacrifice to the spirits. Throughout the tales great significance is given to the chewing of betel-nuts before names are told or introductions given, while from the quids and spittle it appears to have been possible to foretell events and establish relationships. [6] Compare with the story of Phæton in Bulfinch, _The Age of Fable_, p. 50. [7] The Tinguian have no calendar, but reckon time by the recurrence of the moon. [8] It is the present custom of the Tinguian to make numerous ceremonies for the spirits. These vary in length from a few hours to seventeen days. During this period animals are slaughtered, small houses are built, mediums deliver messages from the spirits, and there is much feasting and dancing. [9] When ripe, the betel-nut is covered with a golden husk, and it is possibly because of this that they were said to be covered with gold. The present-day Tinguian, in place of sending the betel-nut, sends a small piece of gold to any relative or friend whom he specially wishes to induce to attend a ceremony. [10] This seems to be peculiar to Tinguian folk-lore. [11] Except when she is in mourning a Tinguian woman's arms are always covered with beads placed strand above strand. [12] The parents of a boy choose his bride when the children are very young. A great celebration is then held, and relatives and friends of both parties decide on the price to be paid for the girl. Partial payment is made at once, and the remainder goes over until the marriage proper takes place, when the boy and girl are about twelve or fourteen years of age. In this instance Ini-init makes the customary payment for his bride, though the marriage had already taken place. [13] The friends and retainers pound rice and prepare food for all the guests who attend the ceremony. [14] A spirit house is one of the small houses built during a ceremony. [15] reference is probably to ancient Chinese jars. [16] The custom, which still exists to a certain degree, was to offer food to a guest before any matter was discussed. In ancient times this was considered very necessary, as it still is among the Apayao who live north of the Tinguian. With them to refuse food is to refuse friendship. [17] A drink made of fermented sugar-cane. [18] The old jars possessed by the Tinguian today have notches broken in the rim, one for each generation through whose hands it has passed. [19] When the first negotiations are made the boy's parents offer some gift, nowadays usually a small bead. If this is accepted it signifies the willingness of the girl's parents to consider the match. [20] See note 1, p. 15. [21] The music for the dances is made by beating on drums and copper gongs. A man and a woman enter the circle, each carrying a large square of cloth on outstretched arms. Keeping time to the music with their hands and feet, they move about, coming near to each other and then drawing farther apart The woman follows the movements of the man and finally places her cloth on his outstretched arms, thus ending the dance; another couple then takes their place. [22] An interesting parallel to this is found in the Dayak legend of Limbang, where a tree springs from the head of a dead giant; its flowers are beads; its leaves, cloth; and the fruit, jars. See Roth, _The Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo_, Vol. I, p. 372. [23] Throughout the Tinguian tales the characters are frequently described as changing themselves into oil, centipedes, birds, and other forms. This power is also found among the heroes of Dayak and Malay tales. See Roth, op. cit., Vol. I, p. 312; Perham, _Journal Straits Branch R., Asiatic Society, No. 16_, 1886; Wilkinson, _Malay Beliefs_, pp. 32, 59 (London, 1906). [24] The Tinguian place a tame rooster in an open spot in the forest and surround him with a line to which slip nooses are attached. The crowing of this bird attracts wild ones which come to fight him and are caught in the nooses. [25] The water buffalo now used as the beast of burden throughout the Philippines. [26] The ordinary dress of the Tinguian man is a clout and a striped belt, in which he carries his tobacco and small articles. Some of them also possess striped cotton coats, which they wear on special occasions. [27] See note 2, p. 12. [28] See note 1, p. 13. [29] This peculiar idea, which frequently appears in Tinguian tales, is also found in Javanese literature. See Bezemer, _Volksdichtung aus Indonesien_, p. 47 (Haag, 1904). [30] See note 3, p. 15. [31] The powerful deeds of these heroes often resemble the miraculous achievements of biblical and ancient times. [32] See note 2, p. 20. [33] The Tinguian of today do not possess soap, but in its place they use the ashes from rice straw, or not infrequently they soak the bark from a certain tree in the water in which they are to wash their hair. [34] The lawed vine. In ancient Egypt and in India it was a common belief that friends or relatives could tell from the condition of a certain tree or vine whether the absent one was well or dead: if the vine thrived, they knew that all was well, but if it wilted they mourned for him as dead. It is interesting to find the identical belief in the northern Philippines. [35] The Tinguian stove consists of a bed of ashes in which three stones are sunk, and on these the pots are placed. [36] It appears that these people of ancient times possessed the same weapons as those of today. The Tinguian ordinarily wears a head-ax thrust into his belt, and when at work this is his hand tool. When on a hunt or during warfare he also carries a wooden shield and a steel-pointed spear from eight to ten feet in length. For attacks at a distance he depends on the spear, but in a close encounter he uses his head-ax and shield, the latter being oblong in shape and having two prongs at one end and three at the other. The two prongs are to be slipped about the neck of the victim while the head-ax does its work, or the three prongs may be slipped about the legs in the same way. [37] From this and other incidents it is evident that these people talked with the lightning and thunder. They still have great regard for the omens derived from these forces; but it is now believed that thunder is the dog of Kadaklan, the greatest of all the spirits, and that by the barking of this dog, the god makes known his desires. [38] Stories in which animals come to the assistance of human beings are found in many lands. One of those best known to Europeans is where the ants sort the grain for Cinderella. [39] See note 2, p. 21. [40] It was the ancient custom to place the heads of slain enemies at the gate or around the town, and this practice still prevails with some of the surrounding tribes. More recently it was the custom to expose the head at the gate of the town for three days, after which followed a great celebration when the skulls were broken and pieces were given to the guests. [41] In their beliefs of today the Tinguian recognize many giants, some with more than one head. In a part of the ritual of one ceremony we read, "A man opens the door to learn the cause of the barking and he sees a man, fat and tall, with nine heads." [42] A large bamboo pole, with all but the end section cut out, serves for a water bucket. [43] A long bamboo pole, in one end of which a hard-wood point is inserted. This is thrust into the ground, and in the hole thus made the grain or cuttings are planted. This old method is still in use in some sections of the mountains, but on the lowlands a primitive plow is used to break the soil. [44] In European, Asiatic, African, and Malaysian lore we find stones of beings with star dresses: when they wear the dresses they are stars; when they take them off they are human. See Cox, _An Introduction to Folklore_, p. 121 (London, 1904.). [45] note 1, p. 9. [46] See note 1, p. 12. [47] Preface, p. vii. [48] It is the custom to have a small bamboo house built from fifteen to twenty feet from the ground near the rice fields, and in this someone watches every day during the growing season to see that nothing breaks in to destroy the grain. Often flappers are placed in different parts of the field and a connecting string leads from these to the little house, so that the watcher by pulling this string may frighten the birds away from the grain. [49] See note 1, p. 18. [50] Preface, p. vi. [51] The nights in the mountains are cold, and it is not at all uncommon in the early morning to see groups of people with blankets wrapped tightly about them, squatting around small fires in the yards. [52] See note 2, p. 12. [53] See note 1, p. 13. [54] See note 1, p. 17. [55] Compare with the biblical story of the loaves and fishes. For similar incidents among the Igorot of the Philippines, in Borneo, and in India, see Jenks, _The Bontoc Igorot_, p. 202; Seidenadel, _The Language of the Bontoc Igorot_, pp. 491, 41 ff. (Chicago, 1909); Roth, _The Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo_, Vol. I, p. 319; Tawney, _Katha Sarit Sagara_, Vol. II, p. 3 (Calcutta, 1880); Bezemer, _Volksdichtung aus Indonesien_, p. 49 (Haag, 1904). [56] See note 1, p. 15. [57] See note 3, p. 15. [58] There appear to have been two classes of spirits, one for whom the people had the utmost respect and reverence, and another whom they looked upon as being of service to mortals. [59] See note 1, p. 30. [60] The word used in the original is langpadan, meaning mountain rice. This variety requires no irrigation and is planted to some extent at the present day, but the great bulk of the grain now used is grown in wonderfully terraced fields on the mountain sides, where water for irrigating is brought from distant streams through a system of flume and bamboo tubes. The fact that only the mountain rice is mentioned in the tales reflects a very ancient life before irrigated fields were known. [61] See note 1, p. 45. [62] The labeug is the omen bird and is believed to be the direct messenger of Kadaklan, the great spirit, to the people. [63] See note 1, p. 34. [64] See note 1, p. 8. [65] See Preface, p. vii. [66] Before the bundles of ripened rice can be put into the granary a ceremony is made for the spirits. The blood of a pig is mixed with cooked rice and put in the granary as an offering for the spirit who multiplies the grain, otherwise the crop would run out in a short time. [67] See note 1, p. 9. [68] The spirit who stands next in importance to Kadaklan, the great spirit. It was he who taught the people all good things, and finally he married a woman from Manabo in order to bind himself more closely to them. See "How the Tinguian Learned to Plant." [69] This story is considered by the Tinguian to be of rather recent origin. They believe that Sayen lived not so very long ago, yet the stories woven around him are very similar to the ancient ones. [70] See "The Alan and the Hunters." [71] The Tinguian now use flint and steel for making a flame, but it is not at all uncommon for them to go to a neighbor's house to borrow a burning ember to start their own fire. [72] The neighboring Ilocano, a Christianized tribe, know the Komow as a fabulous bird which is invisible, yet steals people and their possessions. [73] See note 1, p. 59. [74] See note 2, p. 20. [75] This tale is of special importance to the Tinguian since it explains how they learned two of the most important things of their present life--to plant and to cure the sick. It also shows how death came into the world. [76] See note 1, p. 59. [77] It is a common sight in a Tinguian village early in the morning during the dry season to see a number of men armed with spears and head-axes leaving for the mountains. They usually take with them, to assist in the chase, a string of half-starved dogs. Often a net is stretched across the runway of game, and then, while some of the hunters conceal themselves near by, others seek to drive the game into the net, where it is speared to death. [78] Ancient Chinese jars are found throughout the interior of the Philippines and are very closely associated with the folk-lore of the Tinguian. Some of the jars date back to the 10th century, while many are from the 12th and 14th centuries, and evidently entered the Islands through pre-Spanish trade. They are held in great value and are generally used in part payment for a bride and for the settlement of feuds. For more details see Cole, _Chinese Pottery in the Philippines_, Pub. Field Museum of Nat. Hist, Vol. XII, No. 1. [79] This cave is situated in the mountains midway between Patok and Santa Rosa. In this vicinity are numerous limestone caves, each of which has its traditions. [80] Cabildo of Domayco, the envied owner of this jar, has refused great sums offered for its purchase, and though men from other tribes come bringing ten carabao at one time, they cannot tempt him to sell. [81] These beautiful agate beads are still worn by the Tinguian women, who prize them very highly. They are rarely sold and each is worth more than a carabao. [82] The Alan are supposed to be deformed spirits who live in the forests. They are as large as people, but have wings and can fly. Their toes are at the back of their feet, and their fingers point backward from their wrists. [83] The name by which spirits call human beings. [84] This treatment of the Alan is typical of that accorded to the less powerful of the spirits by the Tinguian today. At the ceremonies they often make fun of them and cheat them in the sacrifices. [85] Known to the Tinguian as Banog. This bird occupies much the same place with the Tinguian as does the garuda in East Indian folk-lore. [86] This tale gives to the Tinguian his idea of the future world. Sogsogot is supposed to have lived only a short time ago, and his experiences are well known to all the people. [87] See note 1, p. 15. Practically this same tale is told by the neighboring Ilocano, from whom it may have been borrowed; but here the Tinguian custom of paying a marriage price is introduced. [88] This type of story is also found farther to the south, where the cleverness of the small animal causes him to triumph over the strong. [89] The Tinguian house contains neither tables nor chairs. The people usually squat on the floor, sitting on their heels; if anything is used as a seat it is a bit of cocoanut shell or a small block of wood. [90] Here we have a proverbial tale, one in which the Tinguian expresses the idea, "Haste makes waste." [91] Another version of this tale is found in British North Borneo in the story of the plandok and the crab, while to European children it is known as the race between the turtle and the hare. [92] The story shows the influence of the Christianized natives, among whom cock-fighting is a very popular sport. It is found only among those Tinguian who come into contact with this class. [93] Lumawig is the greatest of all spirits and now lives in the sky, though for a time his home was in the Igorot village of Bontoc, He married a Bontoc girl, and the stones of their house are still to be seen in the village. It was Lumawig who created the Igorot, and ever since he has taken a great interest in them, teaching them how to overcome the forces of nature, how to plant, to reap and, in fact, everything that they know. Once each month a ceremony is held in his honor in a sacred grove, whose trees are believed to have sprung from the graves of his children. Here prayers are offered for health, good crops, and success in battle. A close resemblance exists between Lumawig of the Igorot and Kaboniyan of the Tinguian, the former being sometimes called Kambun'yan. [94] The Bukidnon of Mindanao have the following story: During a great drought Mampolompon could grow nothing on his clearing except one bamboo, and during a high wind this was broken. From this bamboo came a dog and a woman, who were the ancestors of the Moro. See "The White Squash," note 1, p. 186. [95] At the north end of the village of Mayinit are a number of brackish hot springs, and from these the people secure the salt which has made the spot famous for miles around. Stones are placed in the shallow streams flowing from these springs, and when they have become encrusted with salt (about once a month) they are washed and the water is evaporated by boiling. The salt, which is then a thick paste, is formed into cakes and baked near the fire for about half an hour, when it is ready for use. It is the only salt in this section, and is in great demand. Even hostile tribes come to a hill overlooking the town and call down, then deposit whatever they have for trade and withdraw, while the Igorot take up the salt and leave it in place of the trade articles. [96] The women of Samoki are known as excellent potters, and their ware is used over a wide area. From a pit on a hillside to the north of the village they dig a reddish-brown clay, which they mix with a bluish mineral gathered on another hillside. When thoroughly mixed, this clay is placed on a board on the ground, and the potter, kneeling before it, begins her moulding. Great patience and skill are required to bring the vessel to the desired shape. When it is completed it is set in the sun to dry for two or three days, after which it is ready for the baking. The new pots are piled tier above tier on the ground and blanketed with grass tied into bundles. Then pine bark is burned beneath and around the pile for about an hour, when the ware is sufficiently fired. It is then glazed with resin and is ready to market. [97] The mythology of nearly all peoples has a flood story. For the Tinguian account see note on page 103. For the Bukidnon story see p. 125. [98] A bamboo basket, in which the heads of victims are kept prior to the head-taking celebration. [99] The folk-lore of all countries has some story accounting for the acquisition of fire. The Tinguian tale is as follows: Once in the very old times Kaboniyan sent a flood which covered all the land. Then there was no place for the fire to stay, so it went into the bamboo, the stones, and iron. That is why one who knows how can still get fire out of bamboo and stones. [100] See note 1, p. 99. [101] The magical increase of food is a popular subject with the Tinguian, appearing in many of their folk-tales. See note 2, p. 48. [102] Note the similarity to the story of Moses in this account of Lumawig striking the rock and water coming out. There is a possibility that this incident was added to the story after the advent of the Catholic missionaries. [103] Usually one or more new coffins can be found in an Igorot village. They are made from a log split in two lengthwise, each half being hollowed out. Since their manufacture requires some days, it is necessary to prepare them ahead of time. After the body is put in, the cover is tied on with rattan and the chinks sealed with mud and lime. [104] A somewhat similar idea is found among the Kulaman of southern Mindanao. Here when an important man dies he is placed in a coffin, which resembles a small boat, the coffin being then fastened on high poles near the sea. See Cole, _Wild Tribes of Davao District, Mindanao_, Pub. Field Museum of Nat Hist, Vol. XII, No. 2, 1913. [105] This story, first recorded by Dr. A.E. Jenks, gives the origin of the custom of head-hunting, which plays such an important part in the life of the Igorot. The Igorot claim to have taken heads ever since Lumawig lived on earth and taught them to go to war, and they declare that it makes them brave and manly. The return of a successful war party is the signal for a great celebration. [106] This is also the common way of making pottery. [107] Here we have a story, recorded by Dr. A.E. Jenks, with a twofold value: it is told to the children as a warning against stinginess, and it also explains the origin of the serpent eagle. [108] There is no jungle in the greater part of the Igorot country, the mountains being covered by cogon grass with occasional pine trees. At a distance these have a strange appearance, for only the bushy tops are left, the lower branches being cut off for fuel. [109] First recorded by Dr. A.E. Jenks. [110] Tattooing is a painful process, but Igorot men, women, and children willingly submit to it for the sake of beauty. The design is first drawn on the skin with an ink made of soot and water: then the skin is pricked through the pattern and the soot is rubbed into the wounds. Various designs appear on the face, arms, stomach, and other parts of the body, but the most important of all markings is that on the breast of an Igorot man. This designates him as the taker of at least one human head, and he is thus shown to be worthy of the respect of his tribe. [111] This story also accounts for the origin of the crow and the lizard, both of which are common in the Igorot country. [112] This story, first recorded by Dr. A.E. Jenks, while it explain the origin of the little rice bird, also points a moral, namely, that there is punishment for the disobedient child. [113] The common way to pound rice is to place a bundle of the grain on the ground on a dried carabao hide and pound it with a pestle to loosen the heads from the straw. When they are free they are poured into a mortar and again pounded with the pestle until the grain is separated from the chaff, after which it is winnowed. [114] According to the Klemantin myth (Borneo), the sky was raised when a giant named Usai accidentally struck it with his mallet while pounding rice. See Hose and McDougall, _Pagan Tribes of Borneo_, p. 142. [115] A somewhat similar belief that a giant crab is responsible for the tides is widespread throughout Malaysia. The Batak of Palawan now believe, as also do the Mandaya of eastern Mindanao, that the tides are caused by a giant crab going in and out of his hole in the sea. [116] The similarity of this to the biblical story of the Flood leads us to suppose that it has come from the neighboring Christianized or Mohammedanized people and has been worked by the Bukidnon into the mould of their own thought. However, the flood story is sometimes found in such a guise that it cannot be accounted for by Christian influence. See for example, _The Flood Story_ as told in the folk-lore of the Igorot tribe, on p. 102. [117] This celestial myth accounts for a number of constellations which are of great importance to the Bukidnon. Magbangal appears in the sky in almost dipper shape, the handle being formed by his one remaining arm. To the west and nearly above him is a V-shaped constellation which is believed to be the jaw of one of the pigs which he killed. Still farther to the west appears the hill on which he hunted, while three groups of stars which toward dawn seem to be following him are said to be his hatchet, the bamboo pole in which he carried water, and his large pet lizard. It is the appearance and position of these constellations in the sky that show the Bukidnon when it is the time to clear land for the yearly crops and to plant the grain; and since this knowledge is of the utmost importance to the people, they feel that Magbangal does them a lasting service. The hero Lafaang of a Borneo myth, who is represented by the constellation Orion, lost his arm while trying to cut down a tree in a manner different from that prescribed by his celestial wife, the constellation Pegasen. See Hose and McDougall, _Pagan Tribes of Borneo_, Vol. II, p. 141. [118] Long knives. [119] Cloth is dyed in various colors by boiling it in water in which different kinds of leaves or roots have been steeped. But to produce a bluish-black shade the fabric is partly buried in mud until the desired color is obtained. [120] Monkeys are numerous throughout the Philippines, and it is doubtless their human appearance and actions that have caused the different tribes to try to account for their origin from man. Here we have the most likely way that the Bukidnon can see for their coming. [121] This is one of a series of tales dealing with mythical heroes of former times whose acts of prowess are still recounted by Bukidnon warriors. [122] A heavy padded hemp coat with a kilt which is supposed to turn spears. Over the shoulder is worn a sash in which are a few peculiar stones and charms which are believed to protect its wearer. Warriors who have taken thirty human lives are permitted to wear a peculiar crown-shaped headdress with upstanding points. [123] See note 1, p. 23. [124] This is a good example of the way in which people at a certain stage try to account for their surroundings. Nearly all consider themselves the original people. We find the Bagobo no exception to this. In this tale, which is evidently very old, they account for themselves and their neighbors, and then, to meet present needs, they adapt the story to include the white people whom they have known for not more than two hundred years. [125] These are evil spirits who have power to injure people. They are ugly to look at and go about eating anything, even dead persons. A young Bagobo described his idea of a buso as follows: "He has a long body, long feet and neck, curly hair, and black face, flat nose, and one big red or yellow eye. He has big feet and fingers, but small arms, and his two big teeth are long and pointed. Like a dog, he goes about eating anything, even dead persons." Cole, _Wild Tribes of Davao District_, Field Museum Nat. Hist., Vol. XII, No. 2, p. 107. [126] This is evidently an old tale in which the story-teller introduces modern ideas. [127] Here, as is often the case, an origin story has been added to a tale with which it has no logical connection. [128] This story is well known among the Bilaan, who are one of the tribes least influenced by the Spaniards, and yet it bears so many incidents similar to biblical accounts that there is a strong suggestion of Christian influence. It is possible that these ideas came through the Mohammedan Moro. [129] The most powerful of the spirits and the one to whom the people resort in times of danger. [130] A similar story is found in British North Borneo. See Evans, _Journal of Royal Anthropological Institute_, 1913, p. 423. [131] Melu, Fiuweigh, Diwata, and Saweigh. [132] Buswit. [133] An origin story of a very different type from those of the Bukidnon and Bagobo. While the others show foreign influence, this appears to be typically primitive. [134] The omen bird of the Mandaya. It is believed to be a messenger from the spirit world which, by its calls, warns the people of danger or promises them success. If the coo of this bird comes from the right side, it is a good sign, but if it is on the left, in back, or in front, it is a bad sign, and the Mandaya knows that he must change his plans. [135] The crab was called Tambanokano. [136] An eclipse of the moon. This belief in a monster swallowing the moon and the wild efforts to frighten it away are very widespread. It is found among the Batak of Palawan and in other parts of Malaysia as well as in the South Sea, Mongol, Chinese, Siamese, and Hindoo mythology. Even in Peru we find the belief that an evil spirit in the form of a beast was eating the moon, and that in order to scare it the people shouted and yelled and beat their dogs to make them add to the noise. See Karlson, _Journal of Religious Psychology,_ November, 1914, p. 164. [137] First recorded by Emerson B. Christie. [138] A brass box having three compartments, one for lime, one for the nut, and another for the betel-leaf, which is used in preparing the nut for chewing. [139] The Subanun have adopted the Moro dress, which consists of long trousers and a coat. The tale shows strong Moro influence throughout. Seven is a mystic and magical number among the Malay. It is constantly used in divination and magical practices and repeatedly occurs in their folk-lore. Skeat explains its importance by referring to the seven souls which each mortal is supposed to possess. See Skeat, _Malay Magic_, p. 50. [140] No tales illustrate to better advantage the persistence of old stories and beliefs than do these of the Moro. They are permeated with incidents very similar to those still found among the pagan tribes of the Archipelago, while associated with these are the spirits and demons of Hindu mythology. Finally we find the semi-historical events recorded by the Mohammedanized Malay, the ancestors of the tellers of the tales. [141] First recorded by N.M. Saleeby. [142] Those great birds are doubtless derived from Indian literature in which the fabulous bird garuda played such an important part. [143] A common name in Malay and Sumatran tales. [144] Probably Solomon of the Old Testament, who is a great historic figure among the Malay and who plays an important part in their romances. [145] See note 1, p. 28. [146] In this case of a semi-historic being, whose father was said to be the brother of the earthquake and thunder, we have an interesting blending of mythological and historical facts. [147] Among Malay people the sultan is the supreme ruler of a district, while petty rulers are known as datos. [148] Here, as in the Tinguian lore, we find heroes conversing with animals and commanding the forces of nature to come to their aid. [149] This tale told by the Ilocano is well known among both the Christianized and the wild tribes of the Philippines, and also in Borneo and Java. However, the Ilocano is the only version, so far as known, which has the explanatory element: the reason is given here why monkeys do not eat meat. The turtle is accredited with extraordinary sagacity and cunning. It is another example of the type of tale showing the victory of the weak and cunning over the strong but stupid. See "The Turtle and the Lizard," p. 86. [150] All the events here given represent present-day occurrences, and the story appears to have been invented purely to amuse. [151] The headman of the town. [152] Here we have an excellent illustration of how a story brought in by the Spaniards has been worked over into Philippine setting. This is doubtless the classical story of Midas, but since the ass is practically unknown in the Philippines, horns (probably carabao horns) have been substituted for the ass's ears, which grew on Midas' head. Likewise the bamboo, which grows in abundance, takes the place of the reeds in the original tale. [153] A common fancy in Malay legends is the supernatural origin of a child in some vegetable, usually a bamboo. See note 2, p. 99. [154] A bird something like a hawk. [155] See note 1, p. 134. [156] This is undoubtedly a worked-over story, probably brought in from Europe. Kings, queens, palaces, etc., were, of course, unknown to the people before the advent of the Spaniards. [157] A long knife. [158] The fermented juice of the cocoanut. [159] This tale bears a striking resemblance to Grimm's "The Table, the Ass, and the Stick," _Fairy Tales_. [160] These Visayan tales reflect old beliefs covered with a veneer of European ideas. The Visayan still holds to many of the old superstitions, not because he has reasoned them out for himself, but because his ancestors believed them and transmitted them to him in such stories as these. [161] A very old explanatory tale. In a slightly varying form it is found in other parts of the Islands. [162] Here we have an old type of tale explaining where monkeys came from. See note 2, p. 130. [163] The blow-gun is a Malayan weapon, which is used extensively in the Philippines. Among certain wild tribes poisoned darts are blown through it, but among the Christianized tribes a clay pellet is used. [164] See note 1, p. 197. [165] A Spanish coin worth half a cent. 
1061	----	MYTHS AND MYTH-MAKERS Old Tales and Superstitions Interpreted by Comparative Mythology By John Fiske La mythologie, cette science toute nouvelle, qui nous fait suivre les croyances de nos peres, depuis le berceau du monde jusqu'aux superstitions de nos campagnes.--EDMOND SCHERER TO MY DEAR FRIEND, WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS, IN REMEMBRANCE OF PLEASANT AUTUMN EVENINGS SPENT AMONG WEREWOLVES AND TROLLS AND NIXIES, I dedicate THIS RECORD OF OUR ADVENTURES. PREFACE. IN publishing this somewhat rambling and unsystematic series of papers, in which I have endeavoured to touch briefly upon a great many of the most important points in the study of mythology, I think it right to observe that, in order to avoid confusing the reader with intricate discussions, I have sometimes cut the matter short, expressing myself with dogmatic definiteness where a sceptical vagueness might perhaps have seemed more becoming. In treating of popular legends and superstitions, the paths of inquiry are circuitous enough, and seldom can we reach a satisfactory conclusion until we have travelled all the way around Robin Hood's barn and back again. I am sure that the reader would not have thanked me for obstructing these crooked lanes with the thorns and brambles of philological and antiquarian discussion, to such an extent as perhaps to make him despair of ever reaching the high road. I have not attempted to review, otherwise than incidentally, the works of Grimm, Muller, Kuhn, Breal, Dasent, and Tylor; nor can I pretend to have added anything of consequence, save now and then some bit of explanatory comment, to the results obtained by the labour of these scholars; but it has rather been my aim to present these results in such a way as to awaken general interest in them. And accordingly, in dealing with a subject which depends upon philology almost as much as astronomy depends upon mathematics, I have omitted philological considerations wherever it has been possible to do so. Nevertheless, I believe that nothing has been advanced as established which is not now generally admitted by scholars, and that nothing has been advanced as probable for which due evidence cannot be produced. Yet among many points which are proved, and many others which are probable, there must always remain many other facts of which we cannot feel sure that our own explanation is the true one; and the student who endeavours to fathom the primitive thoughts of mankind, as enshrined in mythology, will do well to bear in mind the modest words of Jacob Grimm,--himself the greatest scholar and thinker who has ever dealt with this class of subjects,--"I shall indeed interpret all that I can, but I cannot interpret all that I should like." PETERSHAM, September 6, 1872. CONTENTS. I. THE ORIGINS OF FOLK-LORE II. THE DESCENT OF FIRE III. WEREWOLVES AND SWAN-MAIDENS IV. LIGHT AND DARKNESS V. MYTHS OF THE BARBARIC WORLD VI. JUVENTUS MUNDI VII. THE PRIMEVAL GHOST-WORLD NOTE MYTHS AND MYTH-MAKERS. I. THE ORIGINS OF FOLK-LORE. FEW mediaeval heroes are so widely known as William Tell. His exploits have been celebrated by one of the greatest poets and one of the most popular musicians of modern times. They are doubtless familiar to many who have never heard of Stauffacher or Winkelried, who are quite ignorant of the prowess of Roland, and to whom Arthur and Lancelot, nay, even Charlemagne, are but empty names. Nevertheless, in spite of his vast reputation, it is very likely that no such person as William Tell ever existed, and it is certain that the story of his shooting the apple from his son's head has no historical value whatever. In spite of the wrath of unlearned but patriotic Swiss, especially of those of the cicerone class, this conclusion is forced upon us as soon as we begin to study the legend in accordance with the canons of modern historical criticism. It is useless to point to Tell's lime-tree, standing to-day in the centre of the market-place at Altdorf, or to quote for our confusion his crossbow preserved in the arsenal at Zurich, as unimpeachable witnesses to the truth of the story. It is in vain that we are told, "The bricks are alive to this day to testify to it; therefore, deny it not." These proofs are not more valid than the handkerchief of St. Veronica, or the fragments of the true cross. For if relics are to be received as evidence, we must needs admit the truth of every miracle narrated by the Bollandists. The earliest work which makes any allusion to the adventures of William Tell is the chronicle of the younger Melchior Russ, written in 1482. As the shooting of the apple was supposed to have taken place in 1296, this leaves an interval of one hundred and eighty-six years, during which neither a Tell, nor a William, nor the apple, nor the cruelty of Gessler, received any mention. It may also be observed, parenthetically, that the charters of Kussenach, when examined, show that no man by the name of Gessler ever ruled there. The chroniclers of the fifteenth century, Faber and Hammerlin, who minutely describe the tyrannical acts by which the Duke of Austria goaded the Swiss to rebellion, do not once mention Tell's name, or betray the slightest acquaintance with his exploits or with his existence. In the Zurich chronicle of 1479 he is not alluded to. But we have still better negative evidence. John of Winterthur, one of the best chroniclers of the Middle Ages, was living at the time of the battle of Morgarten (1315), at which his father was present. He tells us how, on the evening of that dreadful day, he saw Duke Leopold himself in his flight from the fatal field, half dead with fear. He describes, with the loving minuteness of a contemporary, all the incidents of the Swiss revolution, but nowhere does he say a word about William Tell. This is sufficiently conclusive. These mediaeval chroniclers, who never failed to go out of their way after a bit of the epigrammatic and marvellous, who thought far more of a pointed story than of historical credibility, would never have kept silent about the adventures of Tell, if they had known anything about them. After this, it is not surprising to find that no two authors who describe the deeds of William Tell agree in the details of topography and chronology. Such discrepancies never fail to confront us when we leave the solid ground of history and begin to deal with floating legends. Yet, if the story be not historical, what could have been its origin? To answer this question we must considerably expand the discussion. The first author of any celebrity who doubted the story of William Tell was Guillimann, in his work on Swiss Antiquities, published in 1598. He calls the story a pure fable, but, nevertheless, eating his words, concludes by proclaiming his belief in it, because the tale is so popular! Undoubtedly he acted a wise part; for, in 1760, as we are told, Uriel Freudenberger was condemned by the canton of Uri to be burnt alive, for publishing his opinion that the legend of Tell had a Danish origin. [1] The bold heretic was substantially right, however, like so many other heretics, earlier and later. The Danish account of Tell is given as follows, by Saxo Grammaticus:-- "A certain Palnatoki, for some time among King Harold's body-guard, had made his bravery odious to very many of his fellow-soldiers by the zeal with which he surpassed them in the discharge of his duty. This man once, when talking tipsily over his cups, had boasted that he was so skilled an archer that he could hit the smallest apple placed a long way off on a wand at the first shot; which talk, caught up at first by the ears of backbiters, soon came to the hearing of the king. Now, mark how the wickedness of the king turned the confidence of the sire to the peril of the son, by commanding that this dearest pledge of his life should be placed instead of the wand, with a threat that, unless the author of this promise could strike off the apple at the first flight of the arrow, he should pay the penalty of his empty boasting by the loss of his head. The king's command forced the soldier to perform more than he had promised, and what he had said, reported, by the tongues of slanderers, bound him to accomplish what he had NOT said. Yet did not his sterling courage, though caught in the snare of slander, suffer him to lay aside his firmness of heart; nay, he accepted the trial the more readily because it was hard. So Palnatoki warned the boy urgently when he took his stand to await the coming of the hurtling arrow with calm ears and unbent head, lest, by a slight turn of his body, he should defeat the practised skill of the bowman; and, taking further counsel to prevent his fear, he turned away his face, lest he should be scared at the sight of the weapon. Then, taking three arrows from the quiver, he struck the mark given him with the first he fitted to the string..... But Palnatoki, when asked by the king why he had taken more arrows from the quiver, when it had been settled that he should only try the fortune of the bow ONCE, made answer, 'That I might avenge on thee the swerving of the first by the points of the rest, lest perchance my innocence might have been punished, while your violence escaped scot-free.'" [2] This ruthless king is none other than the famous Harold Blue-tooth, and the occurrence is placed by Saxo in the year 950. But the story appears not only in Denmark, but in England, in Norway, in Finland and Russia, and in Persia, and there is some reason for supposing that it was known in India. In Norway we have the adventures of Pansa the Splay-footed, and of Hemingr, a vassal of Harold Hardrada, who invaded England in 1066. In Iceland there is the kindred legend of Egil brother of Wayland Smith, the Norse Vulcan. In England there is the ballad of William of Cloudeslee, which supplied Scott with many details of the archery scene in "Ivanhoe." Here, says the dauntless bowman, "I have a sonne seven years old; Hee is to me full deere; I will tye him to a stake-- All shall see him that bee here-- And lay an apple upon his head, And goe six paces him froe, And I myself with a broad arrowe Shall cleave the apple in towe." In the Malleus Maleficarum a similar story is told Puncher, a famous magician on the Upper Rhine. The great ethnologist Castren dug up the same legend in Finland. It is common, as Dr. Dasent observes, to the Turks and Mongolians; "and a legend of the wild Samoyeds, who never heard of Tell or saw a book in their lives relates it, chapter and verse, of one of their marksmen." Finally, in the Persian poem of Farid-Uddin Attar, born in 1119, we read a story of a prince who shoots an apple from the head of a beloved page. In all these stories, names and motives of course differ; but all contain the same essential incidents. It is always an unerring archer who, at the capricious command of a tyrant, shoots from the head of some one dear to him a small object, be it an apple, a nut, or a piece of coin. The archer always provides himself with a second arrow, and, when questioned as to the use he intended to make of his extra weapon, the invariable reply is, "To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my son." Now, when a marvellous occurrence is said to have happened everywhere, we may feel sure that it never happened anywhere. Popular fancies propagate themselves indefinitely, but historical events, especially the striking and dramatic ones, are rarely repeated. The facts here collected lead inevitably to the conclusion that the Tell myth was known, in its general features, to our Aryan ancestors, before ever they left their primitive dwelling-place in Central Asia. It may, indeed, be urged that some one of these wonderful marksmen may really have existed and have performed the feat recorded in the legend; and that his true story, carried about by hearsay tradition from one country to another and from age to age, may have formed the theme for all the variations above mentioned, just as the fables of La Fontaine were patterned after those of AEsop and Phaedrus, and just as many of Chaucer's tales were consciously adopted from Boccaccio. No doubt there has been a good deal of borrowing and lending among the legends of different peoples, as well as among the words of different languages; and possibly even some picturesque fragment of early history may have now and then been carried about the world in this manner. But as the philologist can with almost unerring certainty distinguish between the native and the imported words in any Aryan language, by examining their phonetic peculiarities, so the student of popular traditions, though working with far less perfect instruments, can safely assert, with reference to a vast number of legends, that they cannot have been obtained by any process of conscious borrowing. The difficulties inseparable from any such hypothesis will become more and more apparent as we proceed to examine a few other stories current in different portions of the Aryan domain. As the Swiss must give up his Tell, so must the Welshman be deprived of his brave dog Gellert, over whose cruel fate I confess to having shed more tears than I should regard as well bestowed upon the misfortunes of many a human hero of romance. Every one knows how the dear old brute killed the wolf which had come to devour Llewellyn's child, and how the prince, returning home and finding the cradle upset and the dog's mouth dripping blood, hastily slew his benefactor, before the cry of the child from behind the cradle and the sight of the wolf's body had rectified his error. To this day the visitor to Snowdon is told the touching story, and shown the place, called Beth-Gellert, [3] where the dog's grave is still to be seen. Nevertheless, the story occurs in the fireside lore of nearly every Aryan people. Under the Gellert-form it started in the Panchatantra, a collection of Sanskrit fables; and it has even been discovered in a Chinese work which dates from A. D. 668. Usually the hero is a dog, but sometimes a falcon, an ichneumon, an insect, or even a man. In Egypt it takes the following comical shape: "A Wali once smashed a pot full of herbs which a cook had prepared. The exasperated cook thrashed the well-intentioned but unfortunate Wali within an inch of his life, and when he returned, exhausted with his efforts at belabouring the man, to examine the broken pot, he discovered amongst the herbs a poisonous snake." [4] Now this story of the Wali is as manifestly identical with the legend of Gellert as the English word FATHER is with the Latin pater; but as no one would maintain that the word father is in any sense derived from pater, so it would be impossible to represent either the Welsh or the Egyptian legend as a copy of the other. Obviously the conclusion is forced upon us that the stories, like the words, are related collaterally, having descended from a common ancestral legend, or having been suggested by one and the same primeval idea. Closely connected with the Gellert myth are the stories of Faithful John and of Rama and Luxman. In the German story, Faithful John accompanies the prince, his master, on a journey in quest of a beautiful maiden, whom he wishes to make his bride. As they are carrying her home across the seas, Faithful John hears some crows, whose language he understands, foretelling three dangers impending over the prince, from which his friend can save him only by sacrificing his own life. As soon as they land, a horse will spring toward the king, which, if he mounts it, will bear him away from his bride forever; but whoever shoots the horse, and tells the king the reason, will be turned into stone from toe to knee. Then, before the wedding a bridal garment will lie before the king, which, if he puts it on, will burn him like the Nessos-shirt of Herakles; but whoever throws the shirt into the fire and tells the king the reason, will be turned into stone from knee to heart. Finally, during the wedding-festivities, the queen will suddenly fall in a swoon, and "unless some one takes three drops of blood from her right breast she will die"; but whoever does so, and tells the king the reason, will be turned into stone from head to foot. Thus forewarned, Faithful John saves his master from all these dangers; but the king misinterprets his motive in bleeding his wife, and orders him to be hanged. On the scaffold he tells his story, and while the king humbles himself in an agony of remorse, his noble friend is turned into stone. In the South Indian tale Luxman accompanies Rama, who is carrying home his bride. Luxman overhears two owls talking about the perils that await his master and mistress. First he saves them from being crushed by the falling limb of a banyan-tree, and then he drags them away from an arch which immediately after gives way. By and by, as they rest under a tree, the king falls asleep. A cobra creeps up to the queen, and Luxman kills it with his sword; but, as the owls had foretold, a drop of the cobra's blood falls on the queen's forehead. As Luxman licks off the blood, the king starts up, and, thinking that his vizier is kissing his wife, upbraids him with his ingratitude, whereupon Luxman, through grief at this unkind interpretation of his conduct, is turned into stone. [5] For further illustration we may refer to the Norse tale of the "Giant who had no Heart in his Body," as related by Dr. Dasent. This burly magician having turned six brothers with their wives into stone, the seventh brother--the crafty Boots or many-witted Odysseus of European folk-lore--sets out to obtain vengeance if not reparation for the evil done to his kith and kin. On the way he shows the kindness of his nature by rescuing from destruction a raven, a salmon, and a wolf. The grateful wolf carries him on his back to the giant's castle, where the lovely princess whom the monster keeps in irksome bondage promises to act, in behalf of Boots, the part of Delilah, and to find out, if possible, where her lord keeps his heart. The giant, like the Jewish hero, finally succumbs to feminine blandishments. "Far, far away in a lake lies an island; on that island stands a church; in that church is a well; in that well swims a duck; in that duck there is an egg; and in that egg there lies my heart, you darling." Boots, thus instructed, rides on the wolf's back to the island; the raven flies to the top of the steeple and gets the church-keys; the salmon dives to the bottom of the well, and brings up the egg from the place where the duck had dropped it; and so Boots becomes master of the situation. As he squeezes the egg, the giant, in mortal terror, begs and prays for his life, which Boots promises to spare on condition that his brothers and their brides should be released from their enchantment. But when all has been duly effected, the treacherous youth squeezes the egg in two, and the giant instantly bursts. The same story has lately been found in Southern India, and is published in Miss Frere's remarkable collection of tales entitled "Old Deccan Days." In the Hindu version the seven daughters of a rajah, with their husbands, are transformed into stone by the great magician Punchkin,--all save the youngest daughter, whom Punchkin keeps shut up in a tower until by threats or coaxing he may prevail upon her to marry him. But the captive princess leaves a son at home in the cradle, who grows up to manhood unmolested, and finally undertakes the rescue of his family. After long and weary wanderings he finds his mother shut up in Punchkin's tower, and persuades her to play the part of the princess in the Norse legend. The trick is equally successful. "Hundreds of thousands of miles away there lies a desolate country covered with thick jungle. In the midst of the jungle grows a circle of palm-trees, and in the centre of the circle stand six jars full of water, piled one above another; below the sixth jar is a small cage which contains a little green parrot; on the life of the parrot depends my life, and if the parrot is killed I must die." [6] The young prince finds the place guarded by a host of dragons, but some eaglets whom he has saved from a devouring serpent in the course of his journey take him on their crossed wings and carry him to the place where the jars are standing. He instantly overturns the jars, and seizing the parrot, obtains from the terrified magician full reparation. As soon as his own friends and a stately procession of other royal or noble victims have been set at liberty, he proceeds to pull the parrot to pieces. As the wings and legs come away, so tumble off the arms and legs of the magician; and finally as the prince wrings the bird's neck, Punchkin twists his own head round and dies. The story is also told in the highlands of Scotland, and some portions of it will be recognized by the reader as incidents in the Arabian tale of the Princess Parizade. The union of close correspondence in conception with manifest independence in the management of the details of these stories is striking enough, but it is a phenomenon with which we become quite familiar as we proceed in the study of Aryan popular literature. The legend of the Master Thief is no less remarkable than that of Punchkin. In the Scandinavian tale the Thief, wishing to get possession of a farmer's ox, carefully hangs himself to a tree by the roadside. The farmer, passing by with his ox, is indeed struck by the sight of the dangling body, but thinks it none of his business, and does not stop to interfere. No sooner has he passed than the Thief lets himself down, and running swiftly along a by-path, hangs himself with equal precaution to a second tree. This time the farmer is astonished and puzzled; but when for the third time he meets the same unwonted spectacle, thinking that three suicides in one morning are too much for easy credence, he leaves his ox and runs back to see whether the other two bodies are really where he thought he saw them. While he is framing hypotheses of witchcraft by which to explain the phenomenon, the Thief gets away with the ox. In the Hitopadesa the story receives a finer point. "A Brahman, who had vowed a sacrifice, went to the market to buy a goat. Three thieves saw him, and wanted to get hold of the goat. They stationed themselves at intervals on the high road. When the Brahman, who carried the goat on his back, approached the first thief, the thief said, 'Brahman, why do you carry a dog on your back?' The Brahman replied, 'It is not a dog, it is a goat.' A little while after he was accosted by the second thief, who said, 'Brahman, why do you carry a dog on your back?' The Brahman felt perplexed, put the goat down, examined it, took it up again, and walked on. Soon after he was stopped by the third thief, who said, 'Brahman, why do you carry a dog on your back?' Then the Brahman was frightened, threw down the goat, and walked home to perform his ablutions for having touched an unclean animal. The thieves took the goat and ate it." The adroitness of the Norse King in "The Three Princesses of Whiteland" shows but poorly in comparison with the keen psychological insight and cynical sarcasm of these Hindu sharpers. In the course of his travels this prince met three brothers fighting on a lonely moor. They had been fighting for a hundred years about the possession of a hat, a cloak, and a pair of boots, which would make the wearer invisible, and convey him instantly whithersoever he might wish to go. The King consents to act as umpire, provided he may once try the virtue of the magic garments; but once clothed in them, of course he disappears, leaving the combatants to sit down and suck their thumbs. Now in the "Sea of Streams of Story," written in the twelfth century by Somadeva of Cashmere, the Indian King Putraka, wandering in the Vindhya Mountains, similarly discomfits two brothers who are quarrelling over a pair of shoes, which are like the sandals of Hermes, and a bowl which has the same virtue as Aladdin's lamp. "Why don't you run a race for them?" suggests Putraka; and, as the two blockheads start furiously off, he quietly picks up the bowl, ties on the shoes, and flies away! [7] It is unnecessary to cite further illustrations. The tales here quoted are fair samples of the remarkable correspondence which holds good through all the various sections of Aryan folk-lore. The hypothesis of lateral diffusion, as we may call it, manifestly fails to explain coincidences which are maintained on such an immense scale. It is quite credible that one nation may have borrowed from another a solitary legend of an archer who performs the feats of Tell and Palnatoki; but it is utterly incredible that ten thousand stories, constituting the entire mass of household mythology throughout a dozen separate nations, should have been handed from one to another in this way. No one would venture to suggest that the old grannies of Iceland and Norway, to whom we owe such stories as the Master Thief and the Princesses of Whiteland, had ever read Somadeva or heard of the treasures of Rhampsinitos. A large proportion of the tales with which we are dealing were utterly unknown to literature until they were taken down by Grimm and Frere and Castren and Campbell, from the lips of ignorant peasants, nurses, or house-servants, in Germany and Hindustan, in Siberia and Scotland. Yet, as Mr. Cox observes, these old men and women, sitting by the chimney-corner and somewhat timidly recounting to the literary explorer the stories which they had learned in childhood from their own nurses and grandmas, "reproduce the most subtle turns of thought and expression, and an endless series of complicated narratives, in which the order of incidents and the words of the speakers are preserved with a fidelity nowhere paralleled in the oral tradition of historical events. It may safely be said that no series of stories introduced in the form of translations from other languages could ever thus have filtered down into the lowest strata of society, and thence have sprung up again, like Antaios, with greater energy and heightened beauty." There is indeed no alternative for us but to admit that these fireside tales have been handed down from parent to child for more than a hundred generations; that the primitive Aryan cottager, as he took his evening meal of yava and sipped his fermented mead, listened with his children to the stories of Boots and Cinderella and the Master Thief, in the days when the squat Laplander was master of Europe and the dark-skinned Sudra was as yet unmolested in the Punjab. Only such community of origin can explain the community in character between the stories told by the Aryan's descendants, from the jungles of Ceylon to the highlands of Scotland. This conclusion essentially modifies our view of the origin and growth of a legend like that of William Tell. The case of the Tell legend is radically different from the case of the blindness of Belisarius or the burning of the Alexandrian library by order of Omar. The latter are isolated stories or beliefs; the former is one of a family of stories or beliefs. The latter are untrustworthy traditions of doubtful events; but in dealing with the former, we are face to face with a MYTH. What, then, is a myth? The theory of Euhemeros, which was so fashionable a century ago, in the days of the Abbe Banier, has long since been so utterly abandoned that to refute it now is but to slay the slain. The peculiarity of this theory was that it cut away all the extraordinary features of a given myth, wherein dwelt its inmost significance, and to the dull and useless residuum accorded the dignity of primeval history. In this way the myth was lost without compensation, and the student, in seeking good digestible bread, found but the hardest of pebbles. Considered merely as a pretty story, the legend of the golden fruit watched by the dragon in the garden of the Hesperides is not without its value. But what merit can there be in the gratuitous statement which, degrading the grand Doric hero to a level with any vulgar fruit-stealer, makes Herakles break a close with force and arms, and carry off a crop of oranges which had been guarded by mastiffs? It is still worse when we come to the more homely folk-lore with which the student of mythology now has to deal. The theories of Banier, which limped and stumbled awkwardly enough when it was only a question of Hermes and Minos and Odin, have fallen never to rise again since the problems of Punchkin and Cinderella and the Blue Belt have begun to demand solution. The conclusion has been gradually forced upon the student, that the marvellous portion of these old stories is no illegitimate extres-cence, but was rather the pith and centre of the whole, [8] in days when there was no supernatural, because it had not yet been discovered that there was such a thing as nature. The religious myths of antiquity and the fireside legends of ancient and modern times have their common root in the mental habits of primeval humanity. They are the earliest recorded utterances of men concerning the visible phenomena of the world into which they were born. That prosaic and coldly rational temper with which modern men are wont to regard natural phenomena was in early times unknown. We have come to regard all events as taking place regularly, in strict conformity to law: whatever our official theories may be, we instinctively take this view of things. But our primitive ancestors knew nothing about laws of nature, nothing about physical forces, nothing about the relations of cause and effect, nothing about the necessary regularity of things. There was a time in the history of mankind when these things had never been inquired into, and when no generalizations about them had been framed, tested, or established. There was no conception of an order of nature, and therefore no distinct conception of a supernatural order of things. There was no belief in miracles as infractions of natural laws, but there was a belief in the occurrence of wonderful events too mighty to have been brought about by ordinary means. There was an unlimited capacity for believing and fancying, because fancy and belief had not yet been checked and headed off in various directions by established rules of experience. Physical science is a very late acquisition of the human mind, but we are already sufficiently imbued with it to be almost completely disabled from comprehending the thoughts of our ancestors. "How Finn cosmogonists could have believed the earth and heaven to be made out of a severed egg, the upper concave shell representing heaven, the yolk being earth, and the crystal surrounding fluid the circumambient ocean, is to us incomprehensible; and yet it remains a fact that they did so regard them. How the Scandinavians could have supposed the mountains to be the mouldering bones of a mighty Jotun, and the earth to be his festering flesh, we cannot conceive; yet such a theory was solemnly taught and accepted. How the ancient Indians could regard the rain-clouds as cows with full udders milked by the winds of heaven is beyond our comprehension, and yet their Veda contains indisputable testimony to the fact that they were so regarded." We have only to read Mr. Baring-Gould's book of "Curious Myths," from which I have just quoted, or to dip into Mr. Thorpe's treatise on "Northern Mythology," to realize how vast is the difference between our stand-point and that from which, in the later Middle Ages, our immediate forefathers regarded things. The frightful superstition of werewolves is a good instance. In those days it was firmly believed that men could be, and were in the habit of being, transformed into wolves. It was believed that women might bring forth snakes or poodle-dogs. It was believed that if a man had his side pierced in battle, you could cure him by nursing the sword which inflicted the wound. "As late as 1600 a German writer would illustrate a thunder-storm destroying a crop of corn by a picture of a dragon devouring the produce of the field with his flaming tongue and iron teeth." Now if such was the condition of the human intellect only three or four centuries ago, what must it have been in that dark antiquity when not even the crudest generalizations of Greek or of Oriental science had been reached? The same mighty power of imagination which now, restrained and guided by scientific principles, leads us to discoveries and inventions, must then have wildly run riot in mythologic fictions whereby to explain the phenomena of nature. Knowing nothing whatever of physical forces, of the blind steadiness with which a given effect invariably follows its cause, the men of primeval antiquity could interpret the actions of nature only after the analogy of their own actions. The only force they knew was the force of which they were directly conscious,--the force of will. Accordingly, they imagined all the outward world to be endowed with volition, and to be directed by it. They personified everything,--sky, clouds, thunder, sun, moon, ocean, earthquake, whirlwind. [9] The comparatively enlightened Athenians of the age of Perikles addressed the sky as a person, and prayed to it to rain upon their gardens. [10] And for calling the moon a mass of dead matter, Anaxagoras came near losing his life. To the ancients the moon was not a lifeless ball of stones and clods: it was the horned huntress, Artemis, coursing through the upper ether, or bathing herself in the clear lake; or it was Aphrodite, protectress of lovers, born of the sea-foam in the East near Cyprus. The clouds were no bodies of vaporized water: they were cows with swelling udders, driven to the milking by Hermes, the summer wind; or great sheep with moist fleeces, slain by the unerring arrows of Bellerophon, the sun; or swan-maidens, flitting across the firmament, Valkyries hovering over the battle-field to receive the souls of falling heroes; or, again, they were mighty mountains piled one above another, in whose cavernous recesses the divining-wand of the storm-god Thor revealed hidden treasures. The yellow-haired sun, Phoibos, drove westerly all day in his flaming chariot; or perhaps, as Meleagros, retired for a while in disgust from the sight of men; wedded at eventide the violet light (Oinone, Iole), which he had forsaken in the morning; sank, as Herakles, upon a blazing funeral-pyre, or, like Agamemnon, perished in a blood-stained bath; or, as the fish-god, Dagon, swam nightly through the subterranean waters, to appear eastward again at daybreak. Sometimes Phaethon, his rash, inexperienced son, would take the reins and drive the solar chariot too near the earth, causing the fruits to perish, and the grass to wither, and the wells to dry up. Sometimes, too, the great all-seeing divinity, in his wrath at the impiety of men, would shoot down his scorching arrows, causing pestilence to spread over the land. Still other conceptions clustered around the sun. Now it was the wonderful treasure-house, into which no one could look and live; and again it was Ixion himself, bound on the fiery wheel in punishment for violence offered to Here, the queen of the blue air. This theory of ancient mythology is not only beautiful and plausible, it is, in its essential points, demonstrated. It stands on as firm a foundation as Grimm's law in philology, or the undulatory theory in molecular physics. It is philology which has here enabled us to read the primitive thoughts of mankind. A large number of the names of Greek gods and heroes have no meaning in the Greek language; but these names occur also in Sanskrit, with plain physical meanings. In the Veda we find Zeus or Jupiter (Dyaus-pitar) meaning the sky, and Sarameias or Hermes, meaning the breeze of a summer morning. We find Athene (Ahana), meaning the light of daybreak; and we are thus enabled to understand why the Greek described her as sprung from the forehead of Zeus. There too we find Helena (Sarama), the fickle twilight, whom the Panis, or night-demons, who serve as the prototypes of the Hellenic Paris, strive to seduce from her allegiance to the solar monarch. Even Achilleus (Aharyu) again confronts us, with his captive Briseis (Brisaya's offspring); and the fierce Kerberos (Carvara) barks on Vedic ground in strict conformity to the laws of phonetics. [11] Now, when the Hindu talked about Father Dyaus, or the sleek kine of Siva, he thought of the personified sky and clouds; he had not outgrown the primitive mental habits of the race. But the Greek, in whose language these physical meanings were lost, had long before the Homeric epoch come to regard Zeus and Hermes, Athene, Helena, Paris, and Achilleus, as mere persons, and in most cases the originals of his myths were completely forgotten. In the Vedas the Trojan War is carried on in the sky, between the bright deities and the demons of night; but the Greek poet, influenced perhaps by some dim historical tradition, has located the contest on the shore of the Hellespont, and in his mind the actors, though superhuman, are still completely anthropomorphic. Of the true origin of his epic story he knew as little as Euhemeros, or Lord Bacon, or the Abbe Banier. After these illustrations, we shall run no risk of being misunderstood when we define a myth as, in its origin, an explanation, by the uncivilized mind, of some natural phenomenon; not an allegory, not an esoteric symbol,--for the ingenuity is wasted which strives to detect in myths the remnants of a refined primeval science,--but an explanation. Primitive men had no profound science to perpetuate by means of allegory, nor were they such sorry pedants as to talk in riddles when plain language would serve their purpose. Their minds, we may be sure, worked like our own, and when they spoke of the far-darting sun-god, they meant just what they said, save that where we propound a scientific theorem, they constructed a myth. [12] A thing is said to be explained when it is classified with other things with which we are already acquainted. That is the only kind of explanation of which the highest science is capable. We explain the origin, progress, and ending of a thunder-storm, when we classify the phenomena presented by it along with other more familiar phenomena of vaporization and condensation. But the primitive man explained the same thing to his own satisfaction when he had classified it along with the well-known phenomena of human volition, by constructing a theory of a great black dragon pierced by the unerring arrows of a heavenly archer. We consider the nature of the stars to a certain extent explained when they are classified as suns; but the Mohammedan compiler of the "Mishkat-ul-Ma'sabih" was content to explain them as missiles useful for stoning the Devil! Now, as soon as the old Greek, forgetting the source of his conception, began to talk of a human Oidipous slaying a leonine Sphinx, and as soon as the Mussulman began, if he ever did, to tell his children how the Devil once got a good pelting with golden bullets, then both the one and the other were talking pure mythology. We are justified, accordingly, in distinguishing between a myth and a legend. Though the words are etymologically parallel, and though in ordinary discourse we may use them interchangeably, yet when strict accuracy is required, it is well to keep them separate. And it is perhaps needless, save for the sake of completeness, to say that both are to be distinguished from stories which have been designedly fabricated. The distinction may occasionally be subtle, but is usually broad enough. Thus, the story that Philip II. murdered his wife Elizabeth, is a misrepresentation; but the story that the same Elizabeth was culpably enamoured of her step-son Don Carlos, is a legend. The story that Queen Eleanor saved the life of her husband, Edward I., by sucking a wound made in his arm by a poisoned arrow, is a legend; but the story that Hercules killed a great robber, Cacus, who had stolen his cattle, conceals a physical meaning, and is a myth. While a legend is usually confined to one or two localities, and is told of not more than one or two persons, it is characteristic of a myth that it is spread, in one form or another, over a large part of the earth, the leading incidents remaining constant, while the names and often the motives vary with each locality. This is partly due to the immense antiquity of myths, dating as they do from a period when many nations, now widely separated, had not yet ceased to form one people. Thus many elements of the myth of the Trojan War are to be found in the Rig-Veda; and the myth of St. George and the Dragon is found in all the Aryan nations. But we must not always infer that myths have a common descent, merely because they resemble each other. We must remember that the proceedings of the uncultivated mind are more or less alike in all latitudes, and that the same phenomenon might in various places independently give rise to similar stories. [13] The myth of Jack and the Beanstalk is found not only among people of Aryan descent, but also among the Zulus of South Africa, and again among the American Indians. Whenever we can trace a story in this way from one end of the world to the other, or through a whole family of kindred nations, we are pretty safe in assuming that we are dealing with a true myth, and not with a mere legend. Applying these considerations to the Tell myth, we at once obtain a valid explanation of its origin. The conception of infallible skill in archery, which underlies such a great variety of myths and popular fairy-tales, is originally derived from the inevitable victory of the sun over his enemies, the demons of night, winter, and tempest. Arrows and spears which never miss their mark, swords from whose blow no armour can protect, are invariably the weapons of solar divinities or heroes. The shafts of Bellerophon never fail to slay the black demon of the rain-cloud, and the bolt of Phoibos Chrysaor deals sure destruction to the serpent of winter. Odysseus, warring against the impious night-heroes, who have endeavoured throughout ten long years or hours of darkness to seduce from her allegiance his twilight-bride, the weaver of the never-finished web of violet clouds,--Odysseus, stripped of his beggar's raiment and endowed with fresh youth and beauty by the dawn-goddess, Athene, engages in no doubtful conflict as he raises the bow which none but himself can bend. Nor is there less virtue in the spear of Achilleus, in the swords of Perseus and Sigurd, in Roland's stout blade Durandal, or in the brand Excalibur, with which Sir Bedivere was so loath to part. All these are solar weapons, and so, too, are the arrows of Tell and Palnatoki, Egil and Hemingr, and William of Cloudeslee, whose surname proclaims him an inhabitant of the Phaiakian land. William Tell, whether of Cloudland or of Altdorf, is the last reflection of the beneficent divinity of daytime and summer, constrained for a while to obey the caprice of the powers of cold and darkness, as Apollo served Laomedon, and Herakles did the bidding of Eurystheus. His solar character is well preserved, even in the sequel of the Swiss legend, in which he appears no less skilful as a steersman than as an archer, and in which, after traversing, like Dagon, the tempestuous sea of night, he leaps at daybreak in regained freedom upon the land, and strikes down the oppressor who has held him in bondage. But the sun, though ever victorious in open contest with his enemies, is nevertheless not invulnerable. At times he succumbs to treachery, is bound by the frost-giants, or slain by the demons of darkness. The poisoned shirt of the cloud-fiend Nessos is fatal even to the mighty Herakles, and the prowess of Siegfried at last fails to save him from the craft of Hagen. In Achilleus and Meleagros we see the unhappy solar hero doomed to toil for the profit of others, and to be cut off by an untimely death. The more fortunate Odysseus, who lives to a ripe old age, and triumphs again and again over all the powers of darkness, must nevertheless yield to the craving desire to visit new cities and look upon new works of strange men, until at last he is swallowed up in the western sea. That the unrivalled navigator of the celestial ocean should disappear beneath the western waves is as intelligible as it is that the horned Venus or Astarte should rise from the sea in the far east. It is perhaps less obvious that winter should be so frequently symbolized as a thorn or sharp instrument. Achilleus dies by an arrow-wound in the heel; the thigh of Adonis is pierced by the boar's tusk, while Odysseus escapes with an ugly scar, which afterwards secures his recognition by his old servant, the dawn-nymph Eurykleia; Sigurd is slain by a thorn, and Balder by a sharp sprig of mistletoe; and in the myth of the Sleeping Beauty, the earth-goddess sinks into her long winter sleep when pricked by the point of the spindle. In her cosmic palace, all is locked in icy repose, naught thriving save the ivy which defies the cold, until the kiss of the golden-haired sun-god reawakens life and activity. The wintry sleep of nature is symbolized in innumerable stories of spell-bound maidens and fair-featured youths, saints, martyrs, and heroes. Sometimes it is the sun, sometimes the earth, that is supposed to slumber. Among the American Indians the sun-god Michabo is said to sleep through the winter months; and at the time of the falling leaves, by way of composing himself for his nap, he fills his great pipe and divinely smokes; the blue clouds, gently floating over the landscape, fill the air with the haze of Indian summer. In the Greek myth the shepherd Endymion preserves his freshness in a perennial slumber. The German Siegfried, pierced by the thorn of winter, is sleeping until he shall be again called forth to fight. In Switzerland, by the Vierwald-stattersee, three Tells are awaiting the hour when their country shall again need to be delivered from the oppressor. Charlemagne is reposing in the Untersberg, sword in hand, waiting for the coming of Antichrist; Olger Danske similarly dreams away his time in Avallon; and in a lofty mountain in Thuringia, the great Emperor Yrederic Barbarossa slumbers with his knights around him, until the time comes for him to sally forth and raise Germany to the first rank among the kingdoms of the world. The same story is told of Olaf Tryggvesson, of Don Sebastian of Portugal, and of the Moorish King Boabdil. The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, having taken refuge in a cave from the persecutions of the heathen Decius, slept one hundred and sixty-four years, and awoke to find a Christian emperor on the throne. The monk of Hildesheim, in the legend so beautifully rendered by Longfellow, doubting how with God a thousand years ago could be as yesterday, listened three minutes entranced by the singing of a bird in the forest, and found, on waking from his revery, that a thousand years had flown. To the same family of legends belong the notion that St. John is sleeping at Ephesus until the last days of the world; the myth of the enchanter Merlin, spell-bound by Vivien; the story of the Cretan philosopher Epimenides, who dozed away fifty-seven years in a cave; and Rip Van Winkle's nap in the Catskills. [14] We might go on almost indefinitely citing household tales of wonderful sleepers; but, on the principle of the association of opposites, we are here reminded of sundry cases of marvellous life and wakefulness, illustrated in the Wandering Jew; the dancers of Kolbeck; Joseph of Arimathaea with the Holy Grail; the Wild Huntsman who to all eternity chases the red deer; the Captain of the Phantom Ship; the classic Tithonos; and the Man in the Moon. The lunar spots have afforded a rich subject for the play of human fancy. Plutarch wrote a treatise on them, but the myth-makers had been before him. "Every one," says Mr. Baring-Gould, "knows that the moon is inhabited by a man with a bundle of sticks on his back, who has been exiled thither for many centuries, and who is so far off that he is beyond the reach of death. He has once visited this earth, if the nursery rhyme is to be credited when it asserts that 'The Man in the Moon Came down too soon And asked his way to Norwich'; but whether he ever reached that city the same authority does not state." Dante calls him Cain; Chaucer has him put up there as a punishment for theft, and gives him a thorn-bush to carry; Shakespeare also loads him with the thorns, but by way of compensation gives him a dog for a companion. Ordinarily, however, his offence is stated to have been, not stealing, but Sabbath-breaking,--an idea derived from the Old Testament. Like the man mentioned in the Book of Numbers, he is caught gathering sticks on the Sabbath; and, as an example to mankind, he is condemned to stand forever in the moon, with his bundle on his back. Instead of a dog, one German version places with him a woman, whose crime was churning butter on Sunday. She carries her butter-tub; and this brings us to Mother Goose again:-- "Jack and Jill went up the hill To get a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after." This may read like mere nonsense; but there is a point of view from which it may be safely said that there is very little absolute nonsense in the world. The story of Jack and Jill is a venerable one. In Icelandic mythology we read that Jack and Jill were two children whom the moon once kidnapped and carried up to heaven. They had been drawing water in a bucket, which they were carrying by means of a pole placed across their shoulders; and in this attitude they have stood to the present day in the moon. Even now this explanation of the moon-spots is to be heard from the mouths of Swedish peasants. They fall away one after the other, as the moon wanes, and their water-pail symbolizes the supposed connection of the moon with rain-storms. Other forms of the myth occur in Sanskrit. The moon-goddess, or Aphrodite, of the ancient Germans, was called Horsel, or Ursula, who figures in Christian mediaeval mythology as a persecuted saint, attended by a troop of eleven thousand virgins, who all suffer martyrdom as they journey from England to Cologne. The meaning of the myth is obvious. In German mythology, England is the Phaiakian land of clouds and phantoms; the succubus, leaving her lover before daybreak, excuses herself on the plea that "her mother is calling her in England." [15] The companions of Ursula are the pure stars, who leave the cloudland and suffer martyrdom as they approach the regions of day. In the Christian tradition, Ursula is the pure Artemis; but, in accordance with her ancient character, she is likewise the sensual Aphrodite, who haunts the Venusberg; and this brings us to the story of Tannhauser. The Horselberg, or mountain of Venus, lies in Thuringia, between Eisenach and Gotha. High up on its slope yawns a cavern, the Horselloch, or cave of Venus within which is heard a muffled roar, as of subterranean water. From this cave, in old times, the frightened inhabitants of the neighbouring valley would hear at night wild moans and cries issuing, mingled with peals of demon-like laughter. Here it was believed that Venus held her court; "and there were not a few who declared that they had seen fair forms of female beauty beckoning them from the mouth of the chasm." [16] Tannhauser was a Frankish knight and famous minnesinger, who, travelling at twilight past the Horselberg, "saw a white glimmering figure of matchless beauty standing before him and beckoning him to her." Leaving his horse, he went up to meet her, whom he knew to be none other than Venus. He descended to her palace in the heart of the mountain, and there passed seven years in careless revelry. Then, stricken with remorse and yearning for another glimpse of the pure light of day, he called in agony upon the Virgin Mother, who took compassion on him and released him. He sought a village church, and to priest after priest confessed his sin, without obtaining absolution, until finally he had recourse to the Pope. But the holy father, horrified at the enormity of his misdoing, declared that guilt such as his could never be remitted sooner should the staff in his hand grow green and blossom. "Then Tannhauser, full of despair and with his soul darkened, went away, and returned to the only asylum open to him, the Venusberg. But lo! three days after he had gone, Pope Urban discovered that his pastoral staff had put forth buds and had burst into flower. Then he sent messengers after Tannhauser, and they reached the Horsel vale to hear that a wayworn man, with haggard brow and bowed head, had just entered the Horselloch. Since then Tannhauser has not been seen." (p. 201.) As Mr. Baring-Gould rightly observes, this sad legend, in its Christianized form, is doubtless descriptive of the struggle between the new and the old faiths. The knightly Tannhauser, satiated with pagan sensuality, turns to Christianity for relief, but, repelled by the hypocrisy, pride, and lack of sympathy of its ministers, gives up in despair, and returns to drown his anxieties in his old debauchery. But this is not the primitive form of the myth, which recurs in the folk-lore of every people of Aryan descent. Who, indeed, can read it without being at once reminded of Thomas of Erceldoune (or Horsel-hill), entranced by the sorceress of the Eilden; of the nightly visits of Numa to the grove of the nymph Egeria; of Odysseus held captive by the Lady Kalypso; and, last but not least, of the delightful Arabian tale of Prince Ahmed and the Peri Banou? On his westward journey, Odysseus is ensnared and kept in temporary bondage by the amorous nymph of darkness, Kalypso (kalnptw, to veil or cover). So the zone of the moon-goddess Aphrodite inveigles all-seeing Zeus to treacherous slumber on Mount Ida; and by a similar sorcery Tasso's great hero is lulled in unseemly idleness in Armida's golden paradise, at the western verge of the world. The disappearance of Tannhauser behind the moonlit cliff, lured by Venus Ursula, the pale goddess of night, is a precisely parallel circumstance. But solar and lunar phenomena are by no means the only sources of popular mythology. Opposite my writing-table hangs a quaint German picture, illustrating Goethe's ballad of the Erlking, in which the whole wild pathos of the story is compressed into one supreme moment; we see the fearful, half-gliding rush of the Erlking, his long, spectral arms outstretched to grasp the child, the frantic gallop of the horse, the alarmed father clasping his darling to his bosom in convulsive embrace, the siren-like elves hovering overhead, to lure the little soul with their weird harps. There can be no better illustration than is furnished by this terrible scene of the magic power of mythology to invest the simplest physical phenomena with the most intense human interest; for the true significance of the whole picture is contained in the father's address to his child, "Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind; In durren Blattern sauselt der Wind." The story of the Piper of Hamelin, well known in the version of Robert Browning, leads to the same conclusion. In 1284 the good people of Hamelin could obtain no rest, night or day, by reason of the direful host of rats which infested their town. One day came a strange man in a bunting-suit, and offered for five hundred guilders to rid the town of the vermin. The people agreed: whereupon the man took out a pipe and piped, and instantly all the rats in town, in an army which blackened the face of the earth, came forth from their haunts, and followed the piper until he piped them to the river Weser, where they alls jumped in and were drowned. But as soon as the torment was gone, the townsfolk refused to pay the piper on the ground that he was evidently a wizard. He went away, vowing vengeance, and on St. John's day reappeared, and putting his pipe to his mouth blew a different air. Whereat all the little, plump, rosy-cheeked, golden-haired children came merrily running after him, their parents standing aghast, not knowing what to do, while he led them up a hill in the neighbourhood. A door opened in the mountain-side, through which he led them in, and they never were seen again; save one lame boy, who hobbled not fast enough to get in before the door shut, and who lamented for the rest of his life that he had not been able to share the rare luck of his comrades. In the street through which this procession passed no music was ever afterwards allowed to be played. For a long time the town dated its public documents from this fearful calamity, and many authorities have treated it as an historical event. [17] Similar stories are told of other towns in Germany, and, strange to say, in remote Abyssinia also. Wesleyan peasants in England believe that angels pipe to children who are about to die; and in Scandinavia, youths are said to have been enticed away by the songs of elf-maidens. In Greece, the sirens by their magic lay allured voyagers to destruction; and Orpheus caused the trees and dumb beasts to follow him. Here we reach the explanation. For Orpheus is the wind sighing through untold acres of pine forest. "The piper is no other than the wind, and the ancients held that in the wind were the souls of the dead." To this day the English peasantry believe that they hear the wail of the spirits of unbaptized children, as the gale sweeps past their cottage doors. The Greek Hermes resulted from the fusion of two deities. He is the sun and also the wind; and in the latter capacity he bears away the souls of the dead. So the Norse Odin, who like Hermes fillfils a double function, is supposed to rush at night over the tree-tops, "accompanied by the scudding train of brave men's spirits." And readers of recent French literature cannot fail to remember Erokmann-Chatrian's terrible story of the wild huntsman Vittikab, and how he sped through the forest, carrying away a young girl's soul. Thus, as Tannhauser is the Northern Ulysses, so is Goethe's Erlking none other than the Piper of Hamelin. And the piper, in turn, is the classic Hermes or Orpheus, the counterpart of the Finnish Wainamoinen and the Sanskrit Gunadhya. His wonderful pipe is the horn of Oberon, the lyre of Apollo (who, like the piper, was a rat-killer), the harp stolen by Jack when he climbed the bean-stalk to the ogre's castle. [18] And the father, in Goethe's ballad, is no more than right when he assures his child that the siren voice which tempts him is but the rustle of the wind among the dried leaves; for from such a simple class of phenomena arose this entire family of charming legends. But why does the piper, who is a leader of souls (Psychopompos), also draw rats after him? In answering this we shall have occasion to note that the ancients by no means shared that curious prejudice against the brute creation which is indulged in by modern anti-Darwinians. In many countries, rats and mice have been regarded as sacred animals; but in Germany they were thought to represent the human soul. One story out of a hundred must suffice to illustrate this. "In Thuringia, at Saalfeld, a servant-girl fell asleep whilst her companions were shelling nuts. They observed a little red mouse creep from her mouth and run out of the window. One of the fellows present shook the sleeper, but could not wake her, so he moved her to another place. Presently the mouse ran back to the former place and dashed about, seeking the girl; not finding her, it vanished; at the same moment the girl died." [19] This completes the explanation of the piper, and it also furnishes the key to the horrible story of Bishop Hatto. This wicked prelate lived on the bank of the Rhine, in the middle of which stream he possessed a tower, now pointed out to travellers as the Mouse Tower. In the year 970 there was a dreadful famine, and people came from far and near craving sustenance out of the Bishop's ample and well-filled granaries. Well, he told them all to go into the barn, and when they had got in there, as many as could stand, he set fire to the barn and burnt them all up, and went home to eat a merry supper. But when he arose next morning, he heard that an army of rats had eaten all the corn in his granaries, and was now advancing to storm the palace. Looking from his window, he saw the roads and fields dark with them, as they came with fell purpose straight toward his mansion. In frenzied terror he took his boat and rowed out to the tower in the river. But it was of no use: down into the water marched the rats, and swam across, and scaled the walls, and gnawed through the stones, and came swarming in about the shrieking Bishop, and ate him up, flesh, bones, and all. Now, bearing in mind what was said above, there can be no doubt that these rats were the souls of those whom the Bishop had murdered. There are many versions of the story in different Teutonic countries, and in some of them the avenging rats or mice issue directly, by a strange metamorphosis, from the corpses of the victims. St. Gertrude, moreover, the heathen Holda, was symbolized as a mouse, and was said Go lead an army of mice; she was the receiver of children's souls. Odin, also, in his character of a Psychopompos, was followed by a host of rats. [20] As the souls of the departed are symbolized as rats, so is the psychopomp himself often figured as a dog. Sarameias, the Vedic counterpart of Hermes and Odin, sometimes appears invested with canine attributes; and countless other examples go to show that by the early Aryan mind the howling wind was conceived as a great dog or wolf. As the fearful beast was heard speeding by the windows or over the house-top, the inmates trembled, for none knew but his own soul might forthwith be required of him. Hence, to this day, among ignorant people, the howling of a dog under the window is supposed to portend a death in the family. It is the fleet greyhound of Hermes, come to escort the soul to the river Styx. [21] But the wind-god is not always so terrible. Nothing can be more transparent than the phraseology of the Homeric Hymn, in which Hermes is described as acquiring the strength of a giant while yet a babe in the cradle, as sallying out and stealing the cattle (clouds) of Apollo, and driving them helter-skelter in various directions, then as crawling through the keyhole, and with a mocking laugh shrinking into his cradle. He is the Master Thief, who can steal the burgomaster's horse from under him and his wife's mantle from off her back, the prototype not only of the crafty architect of Rhampsinitos, but even of the ungrateful slave who robs Sancho of his mule in the Sierra Morena. He furnishes in part the conceptions of Boots and Reynard; he is the prototype of Paul Pry and peeping Tom of Coventry; and in virtue of his ability to contract or expand himself at pleasure, he is both the Devil in the Norse Tale, [22] whom the lad persuades to enter a walnut, and the Arabian Efreet, whom the fisherman releases from the bottle. The very interesting series of myths and popular superstitions suggested by the storm-cloud and the lightning must be reserved for a future occasion. When carefully examined, they will richly illustrate the conclusion which is the result of the present inquiry, that the marvellous tales and quaint superstitions current in every Aryan household have a common origin with the classic legends of gods and heroes, which formerly were alone thought worthy of the student's serious attention. These stories--some of them familiar to us in infancy, others the delight of our maturer years--constitute the debris, or alluvium, brought down by the stream of tradition from the distant highlands of ancient mythology. September, 1870. II. THE DESCENT OF FIRE. IN the course of my last summer's vacation, which was spent at a small inland village, I came upon an unexpected illustration of the tenacity with which conceptions descended from prehistoric antiquity have now and then kept their hold upon life. While sitting one evening under the trees by the roadside, my attention was called to the unusual conduct of half a dozen men and boys who were standing opposite. An elderly man was moving slowly up and down the road, holding with both hands a forked twig of hazel, shaped like the letter Y inverted. With his palms turned upward, he held in each hand a branch of the twig in such a way that the shank pointed upward; but every few moments, as he halted over a certain spot, the twig would gradually bend downwards until it had assumed the likeness of a Y in its natural position, where it would remain pointing to something in the ground beneath. One by one the bystanders proceeded to try the experiment, but with no variation in the result. Something in the ground seemed to fascinate the bit of hazel, for it could not pass over that spot without bending down and pointing to it. My thoughts reverted at once to Jacques Aymar and Dousterswivel, as I perceived that these men were engaged in sorcery. During the long drought more than half the wells in the village had become dry, and here was an attempt to make good the loss by the aid of the god Thor. These men were seeking water with a divining-rod. Here, alive before my eyes, was a superstitious observance, which I had supposed long since dead and forgotten by all men except students interested in mythology. As I crossed the road to take part in the ceremony a farmer's boy came up, stoutly affirming his incredulity, and offering to show the company how he could carry the rod motionless across the charmed spot. But when he came to take the weird twig he trembled with an ill-defined feeling of insecurity as to the soundness of his conclusions, and when he stood over the supposed rivulet the rod bent in spite of him,--as was not so very strange. For, with all his vague scepticism, the honest lad had not, and could not be supposed to have, the foi scientifique of which Littre speaks. [23] Hereupon I requested leave to try the rod; but something in my manner seemed at once to excite the suspicion and scorn of the sorcerer. "Yes, take it," said he, with uncalled-for vehemence, "but you can't stop it; there's water below here, and you can't help its bending, if you break your back trying to hold it." So he gave me the twig, and awaited, with a smile which was meant to express withering sarcasm, the discomfiture of the supposed scoffer. But when I proceeded to walk four or five times across the mysterious place, the rod pointing steadfastly toward the zenith all the while, our friend became grave and began to philosophize. "Well," said he, "you see, your temperament is peculiar; the conditions ain't favourable in your case; there are some people who never can work these things. But there's water below here, for all that, as you'll find, if you dig for it; there's nothing like a hazel-rod for finding out water." Very true: there are some persons who never can make such things work; who somehow always encounter "unfavourable conditions" when they wish to test the marvellous powers of a clairvoyant; who never can make "Planchette" move in conformity to the requirements of any known alphabet; who never see ghosts, and never have "presentiments," save such as are obviously due to association of ideas. The ill-success of these persons is commonly ascribed to their lack of faith; but, in the majority of cases, it might be more truly referred to the strength of their faith,--faith in the constancy of nature, and in the adequacy of ordinary human experience as interpreted by science. [24] La foi scientifique is an excellent preventive against that obscure, though not uncommon, kind of self-deception which enables wooden tripods to write and tables to tip and hazel-twigs to twist upside-down, without the conscious intervention of the performer. It was this kind of faith, no doubt, which caused the discomfiture of Jacques Aymar on his visit to Paris, [25] and which has in late years prevented persons from obtaining the handsome prize offered by the French Academy for the first authentic case of clairvoyance. But our village friend, though perhaps constructively right in his philosophizing, was certainly very defective in his acquaintance with the time-honoured art of rhabdomancy. Had he extended his inquiries so as to cover the field of Indo-European tradition, he would have learned that the mountain-ash, the mistletoe, the white and black thorn, the Hindu asvattha, and several other woods, are quite as efficient as the hazel for the purpose of detecting water in times of drought; and in due course of time he would have perceived that the divining-rod itself is but one among a large class of things to which popular belief has ascribed, along with other talismanic properties, the power of opening the ground or cleaving rocks, in order to reveal hidden treasures. Leaving him in peace, then, with his bit of forked hazel, to seek for cooling springs in some future thirsty season, let us endeavour to elucidate the origin of this curious superstition. The detection of subterranean water is by no means the only use to which the divining-rod has been put. Among the ancient Frisians it was regularly used for the detection of criminals; and the reputation of Jacques Aymar was won by his discovery of the perpetrator of a horrible murder at Lyons. Throughout Europe it has been used from time immemorial by miners for ascertaining the position of veins of metal; and in the days when talents were wrapped in napkins and buried in the field, instead of being exposed to the risks of financial speculation, the divining-rod was employed by persons covetous of their neighbours' wealth. If Boulatruelle had lived in the sixteenth century, he would have taken a forked stick of hazel when he went to search for the buried treasures of Jean Valjean. It has also been applied to the cure of disease, and has been kept in households, like a wizard's charm, to insure general good-fortune and immunity from disaster. As we follow the conception further into the elf-land of popular tradition, we come upon a rod which not only points out the situation of hidden treasure, but even splits open the ground and reveals the mineral wealth contained therein. In German legend, "a shepherd, who was driving his flock over the Ilsenstein, having stopped to rest, leaning on his staff, the mountain suddenly opened, for there was a springwort in his staff without his knowing it, and the princess [Ilse] stood before him. She bade him follow her, and when he was inside the mountain she told him to take as much gold as he pleased. The shepherd filled all his pockets, and was going away, when the princess called after him, 'Forget not the best.' So, thinking she meant that he had not taken enough, he filled his hat also; but what she meant was his staff with the springwort, which he had laid against the wall as soon as he stepped in. But now, just as he was going out at the opening, the rock suddenly slammed together and cut him in two." [26] Here the rod derives its marvellous properties from the enclosed springwort, but in many cases a leaf or flower is itself competent to open the hillside. The little blue flower, forget-me-not, about which so many sentimental associations have clustered, owes its name to the legends told of its talismanic virtues. [27] A man, travelling on a lonely mountain, picks up a little blue flower and sticks it in his hat. Forthwith an iron door opens, showing up a lighted passage-way, through which the man advances into a magnificent hall, where rubies and diamonds and all other kinds of gems are lying piled in great heaps on the floor. As he eagerly fills his pockets his hat drops from his head, and when he turns to go out the little flower calls after him, "Forget me not!" He turns back and looks around, but is too bewildered with his good fortune to think of his bare head or of the luck-flower which he has let fall. He selects several more of the finest jewels he can find, and again starts to go out; but as he passes through the door the mountain closes amid the crashing of thunder, and cuts off one of his heels. Alone, in the gloom of the forest, he searches in vain for the mysterious door: it has disappeared forever, and the traveller goes on his way, thankful, let us hope, that he has fared no worse. Sometimes it is a white lady, like the Princess Ilse, who invites the finder of the luck-flower to help himself to her treasures, and who utters the enigmatical warning. The mountain where the event occurred may be found almost anywhere in Germany, and one just like it stood in Persia, in the golden prime of Haroun Alraschid. In the story of the Forty Thieves, the mere name of the plant sesame serves as a talisman to open and shut the secret door which leads into the robbers' cavern; and when the avaricious Cassim Baba, absorbed in the contemplation of the bags of gold and bales of rich merchandise, forgets the magic formula, he meets no better fate than the shepherd of the Ilsenstein. In the story of Prince Ahmed, it is an enchanted arrow which guides the young adventurer through the hillside to the grotto of the Peri Banou. In the tale of Baba Abdallah, it is an ointment rubbed on the eyelid which reveals at a single glance all the treasures hidden in the bowels of the earth. The ancient Romans also had their rock-breaking plant, called Saxifraga, or "sassafras." And the further we penetrate into this charmed circle of traditions the more evident does it appear that the power of cleaving rocks or shattering hard substances enters, as a primitive element, into the conception of these treasure-showing talismans. Mr. Baring-Gould has given an excellent account of the rabbinical legends concerning the wonderful schamir, by the aid of which Solomon was said to have built his temple. From Asmodeus, prince of the Jann, Benaiah, the son of Jehoiada, wrested the secret of a worm no bigger than a barley-corn, which could split the hardest substance. This worm was called schamir. "If Solomon desired to possess himself of the worm, he must find the nest of the moor-hen, and cover it with a plate of glass, so that the mother bird could not get at her young without breaking the glass. She would seek schamir for the purpose, and the worm must be obtained from her." As the Jewish king did need the worm in order to hew the stones for that temple which was to be built without sound of hammer, or axe, or any tool of iron, [28] he sent Benaiah to obtain it. According to another account, schamir was a mystic stone which enabled Solomon to penetrate the earth in search of mineral wealth. Directed by a Jinni, the wise king covered a raven's eggs with a plate of crystal, and thus obtained schamir which the bird brought in order to break the plate. [29] In these traditions, which may possibly be of Aryan descent, due to the prolonged intercourse between the Jews and the Persians, a new feature is added to those before enumerated: the rock-splitting talisman is always found in the possession of a bird. The same feature in the myth reappears on Aryan soil. The springwort, whose marvellous powers we have noticed in the case of the Ilsenstein shepherd, is obtained, according to Pliny, by stopping up the hole in a tree where a woodpecker keeps its young. The bird flies away, and presently returns with the springwort, which it applies to the plug, causing it to shoot out with a loud explosion. The same account is given in German folk-lore. Elsewhere, as in Iceland, Normandy, and ancient Greece, the bird is an eagle, a swallow, an ostrich, or a hoopoe. In the Icelandic and Pomeranian myths the schamir, or "raven-stone," also renders its possessor invisible,--a property which it shares with one of the treasure-finding plants, the fern. [30] In this respect it resembles the ring of Gyges, as in its divining and rock-splitting qualities it resembles that other ring which the African magrician gave to Aladdin, to enable him to descend into the cavern where stood the wonderful lamp. According to one North German tradition, the luck-flower also will make its finder invisible at pleasure. But, as the myth shrewdly adds, it is absolutely essential that the flower be found by accident: he who seeks for it never finds it! Thus all cavils are skilfully forestalled, even if not satisfactorily disposed of. The same kind of reasoning is favoured by our modern dealers in mystery: somehow the "conditions" always are askew whenever a scientific observer wishes to test their pretensions. In the North of Europe schamir appears strangely and grotesquely metamorphosed. The hand of a man that has been hanged, when dried and prepared with certain weird unguents and set on fire, is known as the Hand of Glory; and as it not only bursts open all safe-locks, but also lulls to sleep all persons within the circle of its influence, it is of course invaluable to thieves and burglars. I quote the following story from Thorpe's "Northern Mythology": "Two fellows once came to Huy, who pretended to be exceedingly fatigued, and when they had supped would not retire to a sleeping-room, but begged their host would allow them to take a nap on the hearth. But the maid-servant, who did not like the looks of the two guests, remained by the kitchen door and peeped through a chink, when she saw that one of them drew a thief's hand from his pocket, the fingers of which, after having rubbed them with an ointment, he lighted, and they all burned except one. Again they held this finger to the fire, but still it would not burn, at which they appeared much surprised, and one said, 'There must surely be some one in the house who is not yet asleep.' They then hung the hand with its four burning fingers by the chimney, and went out to call their associates. But the maid followed them instantly and made the door fast, then ran up stairs, where the landlord slept, that she might wake him, but was unable, notwithstanding all her shaking and calling. In the mean time the thieves had returned and were endeavouring to enter the house by a window, but the maid cast them down from the ladder. They then took a different course, and would have forced an entrance, had it not occurred to the maid that the burning fingers might probably be the cause of her master's profound sleep. Impressed with this idea she ran to the kitchen and blew them out, when the master and his men-servants instantly awoke, and soon drove away the robbers." The same event is said to have occurred at Stainmore in England; and Torquermada relates of Mexican thieves that they carry with them the left hand of a woman who has died in her first childbed, before which talisman all bolts yield and all opposition is benumbed. In 1831 "some Irish thieves attempted to commit a robbery on the estate of Mr. Naper, of Loughcrew, county Meath. They entered the house armed with a dead man's hand with a lighted candle in it, believing in the superstitious notion that a candle placed in a dead man's hand will not be seen by any but those by whom it is used; and also that if a candle in a dead hand be introduced into a house, it will prevent those who may be asleep from awaking. The inmates, however, were alarmed, and the robbers fled, leaving the hand behind them." [31] In the Middle Ages the hand of glory was used, just like the divining-rod, for the detection of buried treasures. Here, then, we have a large and motley group of objects--the forked rod of ash or hazel, the springwort and the luck-flower, leaves, worms, stones, rings, and dead men's hands--which are for the most part competent to open the way into cavernous rocks, and which all agree in pointing out hidden wealth. We find, moreover, that many of these charmed objects are carried about by birds, and that some of them possess, in addition to their generic properties, the specific power of benumbing people's senses. What, now, is the common origin of this whole group of superstitions? And since mythology has been shown to be the result of primeval attempts to explain the phenomena of nature, what natural phenomenon could ever have given rise to so many seemingly wanton conceptions? Hopeless as the problem may at first sight seem, it has nevertheless been solved. In his great treatise on "The Descent of Fire," Dr. Kuhn has shown that all these legends and traditions are descended from primitive myths explanatory of the lightning and the storm-cloud. [32] To us, who are nourished from childhood on the truths revealed by science, the sky is known to be merely an optical appearance due to the partial absorption of the solar rays in passing through a thick stratum of atmospheric air; the clouds are known to be large masses of watery vapour, which descend in rain-drops when sufficiently condensed; and the lightning is known to be a flash of light accompanying an electric discharge. But these conceptions are extremely recondite, and have been attained only through centuries of philosophizing and after careful observation and laborious experiment. To the untaught mind of a child or of an uncivilized man, it seems far more natural and plausible to regard the sky as a solid dome of blue crystal, the clouds as snowy mountains, or perhaps even as giants or angels, the lightning as a flashing dart or a fiery serpent. In point of fact, we find that the conceptions actually entertained are often far more grotesque than these. I can recollect once framing the hypothesis that the flaming clouds of sunset were transient apparitions, vouchsafed us by way of warning, of that burning Calvinistic hell with which my childish imagination had been unwisely terrified; [33] and I have known of a four-year-old boy who thought that the snowy clouds of noonday were the white robes of the angels hung out to dry in the sun. [34] My little daughter is anxious to know whether it is necessary to take a balloon in order to get to the place where God lives, or whether the same end can be accomplished by going to the horizon and crawling up the sky; [35] the Mohammedan of old was working at the same problem when he called the rainbow the bridge Es-Sirat, over which souls must pass on their way to heaven. According to the ancient Jew, the sky was a solid plate, hammered out by the gods, and spread over the earth in order to keep up the ocean overhead; [36] but the plate was full of little windows, which were opened whenever it became necessary to let the rain come through. [37] With equal plausibility the Greek represented the rainy sky as a sieve in which the daughters of Danaos were vainly trying to draw water; while to the Hindu the rain-clouds were celestial cattle milked by the wind-god. In primitive Aryan lore, the sky itself was a blue sea, and the clouds were ships sailing over it; and an English legend tells how one of these ships once caught its anchor on a gravestone in the churchyard, to the great astonishment of the people who were coming out of church. Charon's ferry-boat was one of these vessels, and another was Odin's golden ship, in which the souls of slain heroes were conveyed to Valhalla. Hence it was once the Scandinavian practice to bury the dead in boats; and in Altmark a penny is still placed in the mouth of the corpse, that it may have the means of paying its fare to the ghostly ferryman. [38] In such a vessel drifted the Lady of Shalott on her fatal voyage; and of similar nature was the dusky barge, "dark as a funeral-scarf from stem to stern," in which Arthur was received by the black-hooded queens. [39] But the fact that a natural phenomenon was explained in one way did not hinder it from being explained in a dozen other ways. The fact that the sun was generally regarded as an all-conquering hero did not prevent its being called an egg, an apple, or a frog squatting on the waters, or Ixion's wheel, or the eye of Polyphemos, or the stone of Sisyphos, which was no sooner pushed to the zenith than it rolled down to the horizon. So the sky was not only a crystal dome, or a celestial ocean, but it was also the Aleian land through which Bellerophon wandered, the country of the Lotos-eaters, or again the realm of the Graiai beyond the twilight; and finally it was personified and worshipped as Dyaus or Varuna, the Vedic prototypes of the Greek Zeus and Ouranos. The clouds, too, had many other representatives besides ships and cows. In a future paper it will be shown that they were sometimes regarded as angels or houris; at present it more nearly concerns us to know that they appear, throughout all Aryan mythology, under the form of birds. It used to be a matter of hopeless wonder to me that Aladdin's innocent request for a roc's egg to hang in the dome of his palace should have been regarded as a crime worthy of punishment by the loss of the wonderful lamp; the obscurest part of the whole affair being perhaps the Jinni's passionate allusion to the egg as his master: "Wretch! dost thou command me to bring thee my master, and hang him up in the midst of this vaulted dome?" But the incident is to some extent cleared of its mystery when we learn that the roc's egg is the bright sun, and that the roc itself is the rushing storm-cloud which, in the tale of Sindbad, haunts the sparkling starry firmament, symbolized as a valley of diamonds. [40] According to one Arabic authority, the length of its wings is ten thousand fathoms. But in European tradition it dwindles from these huge dimensions to the size of an eagle, a raven, or a woodpecker. Among the birds enumerated by Kuhn and others as representing the storm-cloud are likewise the wren or "kinglet" (French roitelet); the owl, sacred to Athene; the cuckoo, stork, and sparrow; and the red-breasted robin, whose name Robert was originally an epithet of the lightning-god Thor. In certain parts of France it is still believed that the robbing of a wren's nest will render the culprit liable to be struck by lightning. The same belief was formerly entertained in Teutonic countries with respect to the robin; and I suppose that from this superstition is descended the prevalent notion, which I often encountered in childhood, that there is something peculiarly wicked in killing robins. Now, as the raven or woodpecker, in the various myths of schamir, is the dark storm-cloud, so the rock-splitting worm or plant or pebble which the bird carries in its beak and lets fall to the ground is nothing more or less than the flash of lightning carried and dropped by the cloud. "If the cloud was supposed to be a great bird, the lightnings were regarded as writhing worms or serpents in its beak. These fiery serpents, elikiai gram-moeidws feromenoi, are believed in to this day by the Canadian Indians, who call the thunder their hissing." [41] But these are not the only mythical conceptions which are to be found wrapped up in the various myths of schamir and the divining-rod. The persons who told these stories were not weaving ingenious allegories about thunder-storms; they were telling stories, or giving utterance to superstitions, of which the original meaning was forgotten. The old grannies who, along with a stoical indifference to the fate of quails and partridges, used to impress upon me the wickedness of killing robins, did not add that I should be struck by lightning if I failed to heed their admonitions. They had never heard that the robin was the bird of Thor; they merely rehearsed the remnant of the superstition which had survived to their own times, while the essential part of it had long since faded from recollection. The reason for regarding a robin's life as more sacred than a partridge's had been forgotten; but it left behind, as was natural, a vague recognition of that mythical sanctity. The primitive meaning of a myth fades away as inevitably as the primitive meaning of a word or phrase; and the rabbins who told of a worm which shatters rocks no more thought of the writhing thunderbolts than the modern reader thinks of oyster-shells when he sees the word ostracism, or consciously breathes a prayer as he writes the phrase good bye. It is only in its callow infancy that the full force of a myth is felt, and its period of luxuriant development dates from the time when its physical significance is lost or obscured. It was because the Greek had forgotten that Zeus meant the bright sky, that he could make him king over an anthropomorphic Olympos. The Hindu Dyaus, who carried his significance in his name as plainly as the Greek Helios, never attained such an exalted position; he yielded to deities of less obvious pedigree, such as Brahma and Vishnu. Since, therefore, the myth-tellers recounted merely the wonderful stories which their own nurses and grandmas had told them, and had no intention of weaving subtle allegories or wrapping up a physical truth in mystic emblems, it follows that they were not bound to avoid incongruities or to preserve a philosophical symmetry in their narratives. In the great majority of complex myths, no such symmetry is to be found. A score of different mythical conceptions would get wrought into the same story, and the attempt to pull them apart and construct a single harmonious system of conceptions out of the pieces must often end in ingenious absurdity. If Odysseus is unquestionably the sun, so is the eye of Polyphemos, which Odysseus puts out. [42] But the Greek poet knew nothing of the incongruity, for he was thinking only of a superhuman hero freeing himself from a giant cannibal; he knew nothing of Sanskrit, or of comparative mythology, and the sources of his myths were as completely hidden from his view as the sources of the Nile. We need not be surprised, then, to find that in one version of the schamir-myth the cloud is the bird which carries the worm, while in another version the cloud is the rock or mountain which the talisman cleaves open; nor need we wonder at it, if we find stories in which the two conceptions are mingled together without regard to an incongruity which in the mind of the myth-teller no longer exists. [43] In early Aryan mythology there is nothing by which the clouds are more frequently represented than by rocks or mountains. Such were the Symplegades, which, charmed by the harp of the wind-god Orpheus, parted to make way for the talking ship Argo, with its crew of solar heroes. [44] Such, too, were the mountains Ossa and Pelion, which the giants piled up one upon another in their impious assault upon Zeus, the lord of the bright sky. As Mr. Baring-Gould observes: "The ancient Aryan had the same name for cloud and mountain. To him the piles of vapour on the horizon were so like Alpine ranges, that he had but one word whereby to designate both. [45] These great mountains of heaven were opened by the lightning. In the sudden flash he beheld the dazzling splendour within, but only for a moment, and then, with a crash, the celestial rocks closed again. Believing these vaporous piles to contain resplendent treasures of which partial glimpse was obtained by mortals in a momentary gleam, tales were speedily formed, relating the adventures of some who had succeeded in entering these treasure-mountains." This sudden flash is the smiting of the cloud-rock by the arrow of Ahmed, the resistless hammer of Thor, the spear of Odin, the trident of Poseidon, or the rod of Hermes. The forked streak of light is the archetype of the divining-rod in its oldest form,--that in which it not only indicates the hidden treasures, but, like the staff of the Ilsenstein shepherd, bursts open the enchanted crypt and reveals them to the astonished wayfarer. Hence the one thing essential to the divining-rod, from whatever tree it be chosen, is that it shall be forked. It is not difficult to comprehend the reasons which led the ancients to speak of the lightning as a worm, serpent, trident, arrow, or forked wand; but when we inquire why it was sometimes symbolized as a flower or leaf; or when we seek to ascertain why certain trees, such as the ash, hazel, white-thorn, and mistletoe, were supposed to be in a certain sense embodiments of it, we are entering upon a subject too complicated to be satisfactorily treated within the limits of the present paper. It has been said that the point of resemblance between a cow and a comet, that both have tails, was quite enough for the primitive word-maker: it was certainly enough for the primitive myth-teller. [46] Sometimes the pinnate shape of a leaf, the forking of a branch, the tri-cleft corolla, or even the red colour of a flower, seems to have been sufficient to determine the association of ideas. The Hindu commentators of the Veda certainly lay great stress on the fact that the palasa, one of their lightning-trees, is trident-leaved. The mistletoe branch is forked, like a wish-bone, [47] and so is the stem which bears the forget-me-not or wild scorpion grass. So too the leaves of the Hindu ficus religiosa resemble long spear-heads. [48] But in many cases it is impossible for us to determine with confidence the reasons which may have guided primitive men in their choice of talismanic plants. In the case of some of these stories, it would no doubt be wasting ingenuity to attempt to assign a mythical origin for each point of detail. The ointment of the dervise, for instance, in the Arabian tale, has probably no special mythical significance, but was rather suggested by the exigencies of the story, in an age when the old mythologies were so far disintegrated and mingled together that any one talisman would serve as well as another the purposes of the narrator. But the lightning-plants of Indo-European folk-lore cannot be thus summarily disposed of; for however difficult it may be for us to perceive any connection between them and the celestial phenomena which they represent, the myths concerning them are so numerous and explicit as to render it certain that some such connection was imagined by the myth-makers. The superstition concerning the hand of glory is not so hard to interpret. In the mythology of the Finns, the storm-cloud is a black man with a bright copper hand; and in Hindustan, Indra Savitar, the deity who slays the demon of the cloud, is golden-handed. The selection of the hand of a man who has been hanged is probably due to the superstition which regarded the storm-god Odin as peculiarly the lord of the gallows. The man who is raised upon the gallows is placed directly in the track of the wild huntsman, who comes with his hounds to carry off the victim; and hence the notion, which, according to Mr. Kelly, is "very common in Germany and not extinct in England," that every suicide by hanging is followed by a storm. The paths of comparative mythology are devious, but we have now pursued them long enough I believe, to have arrived at a tolerably clear understanding of the original nature of the divining-rod. Its power of revealing treasures has been sufficiently explained; and its affinity for water results so obviously from the character of the lightning-myth as to need no further comment. But its power of detecting criminals still remains to be accounted for. In Greek mythology, the being which detects and punishes crime is the Erinys, the prototype of the Latin Fury, figured by late writers as a horrible monster with serpent locks. But this is a degradation of the original conception. The name Erinys did not originally mean Fury, and it cannot be explained from Greek sources alone. It appears in Sanskrit as Saranyu, a word which signifies the light of morning creeping over the sky. And thus we are led to the startling conclusion that, as the light of morning reveals the evil deeds done under the cover of night, so the lovely Dawn, or Erinys, came to be regarded under one aspect as the terrible detector and avenger of iniquity. Yet startling as the conclusion is, it is based on established laws of phonetic change, and cannot be gainsaid. But what has the avenging daybreak to do with the lightning and the divining-rod? To the modern mind the association is not an obvious one: in antiquity it was otherwise. Myths of the daybreak and myths of the lightning often resemble each other so closely that, except by a delicate philological analysis, it is difficult to distinguish the one from the other. The reason is obvious. In each case the phenomenon to be explained is the struggle between the day-god and one of the demons of darkness. There is essentially no distinction to the mind of the primitive man between the Panis, who steal Indra's bright cows and keep them in a dark cavern all night, and the throttling snake Ahi or Echidna, who imprisons the waters in the stronghold of the thunder-cloud and covers the earth with a short-lived darkness. And so the poisoned arrows of Bellerophon, which slay the storm-dragon, differ in no essential respect from the shafts with which Odysseus slaughters the night-demons who have for ten long hours beset his mansion. Thus the divining-rod, representing as it does the weapon of the god of day, comes legitimately enough by its function of detecting and avenging crime. But the lightning not only reveals strange treasures and gives water to the thirsty land and makes plain what is doing under cover of darkness; it also sometimes kills, benumbs, or paralyzes. Thus the head of the Gorgon Medusa turns into stone those who look upon it. Thus the ointment of the dervise, in the tale of Baba Abdallah, not only reveals all the treasures of the earth, but instantly thereafter blinds the unhappy man who tests its powers. And thus the hand of glory, which bursts open bars and bolts, benumbs also those who happen to be near it. Indeed, few of the favoured mortals who were allowed to visit the caverns opened by sesame or the luck-flower, escaped without disaster. The monkish tale of "The Clerk and the Image," in which the primeval mythical features are curiously distorted, well illustrates this point. In the city of Rome there formerly stood an image with its right hand extended and on its forefinger the words "strike here." Many wise men puzzled in vain over the meaning of the inscription; but at last a certain priest observed that whenever the sun shone on the figure, the shadow of the finger was discernible on the ground at a little distance from the statue. Having marked the spot, he waited until midnight, and then began to dig. At last his spade struck upon something hard. It was a trap-door, below which a flight of marble steps descended into a spacious hall, where many men were sitting in solemn silence amid piles of gold and diamonds and long rows of enamelled vases. Beyond this he found another room, a gynaecium filled with beautiful women reclining on richly embroidered sofas; yet here, too, all was profound silence. A superb banqueting-hall next met his astonished gaze; then a silent kitchen; then granaries loaded with forage; then a stable crowded with motionless horses. The whole place was brilliantly lighted by a carbuncle which was suspended in one corner of the reception-room; and opposite stood an archer, with his bow and arrow raised, in the act of taking aim at the jewel. As the priest passed back through this hall, he saw a diamond-hilted knife lying on a marble table; and wishing to carry away something wherewith to accredit his story, he reached out his hand to take it; but no sooner had he touched it than all was dark. The archer had shot with his arrow, the bright jewel was shivered into a thousand pieces, the staircase had fled, and the priest found himself buried alive. [49] Usually, however, though the lightning is wont to strike dead, with its basilisk glance, those who rashly enter its mysterious caverns, it is regarded rather as a benefactor than as a destroyer. The feelings with which the myth-making age contemplated the thunder-shower as it revived the earth paralyzed by a long drought, are shown in the myth of Oidipous. The Sphinx, whose name signifies "the one who binds," is the demon who sits on the cloud-rock and imprisons the rain, muttering, dark sayings which none but the all-knowing sun may understand. The flash of solar light which causes the monster to fling herself down from the cliff with a fearful roar, restores the land to prosperity. But besides this, the association of the thunder-storm with the approach of summer has produced many myths in which the lightning is symbolized as the life-renewing wand of the victorious sun-god. Hence the use of the divining-rod in the cure of disease; and hence the large family of schamir-myths in which the dead are restored to life by leaves or herbs. In Grimm's tale of the "Three Snake Leaves," a prince is buried alive (like Sindbad) with his dead wife, and seeing a snake approaching her body, he cuts it in three pieces. Presently another snake, crawling from the corner, saw the other lying dead, and going, away soon returned with three green leaves in its mouth; then laying the parts of the body together so as to join, it put one leaf on each wound, and the dead snake was alive again. The prince, applying the leaves to his wife's body, restores her also to life." [50] In the Greek story, told by AElian and Apollodoros, Polyidos is shut up with the corpse of Glaukos, which he is ordered to restore to life. He kills a dragon which is approaching the body, but is presently astonished at seeing another dragon come with a blade of grass and place it upon its dead companion, which instantly rises from the ground. Polyidos takes the same blade of grass, and with it resuscitates Glaukos. The same incident occurs in the Hindu story of Panch Phul Ranee, and in Fouque's "Sir Elidoc," which is founded on a Breton legend. We need not wonder, then, at the extraordinary therapeutic properties which are in all Aryan folk-lore ascribed to the various lightning-plants. In Sweden sanitary amulets are made of mistletoe-twigs, and the plant is supposed to be a specific against epilepsy and an antidote for poisons. In Cornwall children are passed through holes in ash-trees in order to cure them of hernia. Ash rods are used in some parts of England for the cure of diseased sheep, cows, and horses; and in particular they are supposed to neutralize the venom of serpents. The notion that snakes are afraid of an ash-tree is not extinct even in the United States. The other day I was told, not by an old granny, but by a man fairly educated and endowed with a very unusual amount of good common-sense, that a rattlesnake will sooner go through fire than creep over ash leaves or into the shadow of an ash-tree. Exactly the same statement is made by Piny, who adds that if you draw a circle with an ash rod around the spot of ground on which a snake is lying, the animal must die of starvation, being as effectually imprisoned as Ugolino in the dungeon at Pisa. In Cornwall it is believed that a blow from an ash stick will instantly kill any serpent. The ash shares this virtue with the hazel and fern. A Swedish peasant will tell you that snakes may be deprived of their venom by a touch with a hazel wand; and when an ancient Greek had occasion to make his bed in the woods, he selected fern leaves if possible, in the belief that the smell of them would drive away poisonous animals. [51] But the beneficent character of the lightning appears still more clearly in another class of myths. To the primitive man the shaft of light coming down from heaven was typical of the original descent of fire for the benefit and improvement of the human race. The Sioux Indians account for the origin of fire by a myth of unmistakable kinship; they say that "their first ancestor obtained his fire from the sparks which a friendly panther struck from the rocks as he scampered up a stony hill." [52] This panther is obviously the counterpart of the Aryan bird which drops schamir. But the Aryan imagination hit upon a far more remarkable conception. The ancient Hindus obtained fire by a process similar to that employed by Count Rumford in his experiments on the generation of heat by friction. They first wound a couple of cords around a pointed stick in such a way that the unwinding of the one would wind up the other, and then, placing the point of the stick against a circular disk of wood, twirled it rapidly by alternate pulls on the two strings. This instrument is called a chark, and is still used in South Africa, [53] in Australia, in Sumatra, and among the Veddahs of Ceylon. The Russians found it in Kamtchatka; and it was formerly employed in America, from Labrador to the Straits of Magellan. [54] The Hindus churned milk by a similar process; [55] and in order to explain the thunder-storm, a Sanskrit poem tells how "once upon a time the Devas, or gods, and their opponents, the Asuras, made a truce, and joined together in churning the ocean to procure amrita, the drink of immortality. They took Mount Mandara for a churning-stick, and, wrapping the great serpent Sesha round it for a rope, they made the mountain spin round to and fro, the Devas pulling at the serpent's tail, and the Asuras at its head." [56] In this myth the churning-stick, with its flying serpent-cords, is the lightning, and the armrita, or drink of immortality, is simply the rain-water, which in Aryan folk-lore possesses the same healing virtues as the lightning. "In Sclavonic myths it is the water of life which restores the dead earth, a water brought by a bird from the depths of a gloomy cave." [57] It is the celestial soma or mead which Indra loves to drink; it is the ambrosial nectar of the Olympian gods; it is the charmed water which in the Arabian Nights restores to human shape the victims of wicked sorcerers; and it is the elixir of life which mediaeval philosophers tried to discover, and in quest of which Ponce de Leon traversed the wilds of Florida. [58] "Jacky's next proceeding was to get some dry sticks and wood, and prepare a fire, which, to George's astonishment, he lighted thus. He got a block of wood, in the middle of which he made a hole; then he cut and pointed a long stick, and inserting the point into the block, worked it round between his palms for some time and with increasing rapidity. Presently there came a smell of burning wood, and soon after it burst into a flame at the point of contact. Jacky cut slices of shark and roasted them."--Reade, Never too Late to Mend, chap. xxxviii. The most interesting point in this Hindu myth is the name of the peaked mountain Mandara, or Manthara, which the gods and devils took for their churning-stick. The word means "a churning-stick," and it appears also, with a prefixed preposition, in the name of the fire-drill, pramantha. Now Kuhn has proved that this name, pramantha, is etymologically identical with Prometheus, the name of the beneficent Titan, who stole fire from heaven and bestowed it upon mankind as the richest of boons. This sublime personage was originally nothing but the celestial drill which churns fire out of the clouds; but the Greeks had so entirely forgotten his origin that they interpreted his name as meaning "the one who thinks beforehand," and accredited him with a brother, Epimetheus, or "the one who thinks too late." The Greeks had adopted another name, trypanon, for their fire-drill, and thus the primitive character of Prometheus became obscured. I have said above that it was regarded as absolutely essential that the divining-rod should be forked. To this rule, however, there was one exception, and if any further evidence be needed to convince the most sceptical that the divining-rod is nothing but a symbol of the lightning, that exception will furnish such evidence. For this exceptional kind of divining-rod was made of a pointed stick rotating in a block of wood, and it was the presence of hidden water or treasure which was supposed to excite the rotatory motion. In the myths relating to Prometheus, the lightning-god appears as the originator of civilization, sometimes as the creator of the human race, and always as its friend, [59] suffering in its behalf the most fearful tortures at the hands of the jealous Zeus. In one story he creates man by making a clay image and infusing into it a spark of the fire which he had brought from heaven; in another story he is himself the first man. In the Peloponnesian myth Phoroneus, who is Prometheus under another name, is the first man, and his mother was an ash-tree. In Norse mythology, also, the gods were said to have made the first man out of the ash-tree Yggdrasil. The association of the heavenly fire with the life-giving forces of nature is very common in the myths of both hemispheres, and in view of the facts already cited it need not surprise us. Hence the Hindu Agni and the Norse Thor were patrons of marriage, and in Norway, the most lucky day on which to be married is still supposed to be Thursday, which in old times was the day of the fire-god. [60] Hence the lightning-plants have divers virtues in matters pertaining to marriage. The Romans made their wedding torches of whitethorn; hazel-nuts are still used all over Europe in divinations relating to the future lover or sweetheart; [61] and under a mistletoe bough it is allowable for a gentleman to kiss a lady. A vast number of kindred superstitions are described by Mr. Kelly, to whom I am indebted for many of these examples. [62] Thus we reach at last the completed conception of the divining-rod, or as it is called in this sense the wish-rod, with its kindred talismans, from Aladdin's lamp and the purse of Bedreddin Hassan, to the Sangreal, the philosopher's stone, and the goblets of Oberon and Tristram. These symbols of the reproductive energies of nature, which give to the possessor every good and perfect gift, illustrate the uncurbed belief in the power of wish which the ancient man shared with modern children. In the Norse story of Frodi's quern, the myth assumes a whimsical shape. The prose Edda tells of a primeval age of gold, when everybody had whatever he wanted. This was because the giant Frodi had a mill which ground out peace and plenty and abundance of gold withal, so that it lay about the roads like pebbles. Through the inexcusable avarice of Frodi, this wonderful implement was lost to the world. For he kept his maid-servants working at the mill until they got out of patience, and began to make it grind out hatred and war. Then came a mighty sea-rover by night and slew Frodi and carried away the maids and the quern. When he got well out to sea, he told them to grind out salt, and so they did with a vengeance. They ground the ship full of salt and sank it, and so the quern was lost forever, but the sea remains salt unto this day. Mr. Kelly rightly identifies Frodi with the sun-god Fro or Freyr, and observes that the magic mill is only another form of the fire-churn, or chark. According to another version the quern is still grinding away and keeping the sea salt, and over the place where it lies there is a prodigious whirlpool or maelstrom which sucks down ships. In its completed shape, the lightning-wand is the caduceus, or rod of Hermes. I observed, in the preceding paper, that in the Greek conception of Hermes there have been fused together the attributes of two deities who were originally distinct. The Hermes of the Homeric Hymn is a wind-god; but the later Hermes Agoraios, the patron of gymnasia, the mutilation of whose statues caused such terrible excitement in Athens during the Peloponnesian War, is a very different personage. He is a fire-god, invested with many solar attributes, and represents the quickening forces of nature. In this capacity the invention of fire was ascribed to him as well as to Prometheus; he was said to be the friend of mankind, and was surnamed Ploutodotes, or "the giver of wealth." The Norse wind-god Odin has in like manner acquired several of the attributes of Freyr and Thor. [63] His lightning-spear, which is borrowed from Thor, appears by a comical metamorphosis as a wish-rod which will administer a sound thrashing to the enemies of its possessor. Having cut a hazel stick, you have only to lay down an old coat, name your intended victim, wish he was there, and whack away: he will howl with pain at every blow. This wonderful cudgel appears in Dasent's tale of "The Lad who went to the North Wind," with which we may conclude this discussion. The story is told, with little variation, in Hindustan, Germany, and Scandinavia. The North Wind, representing the mischievous Hermes, once blew away a poor woman's meal. So her boy went to the North Wind and demanded his rights for the meal his mother had lost. "I have n't got your meal," said the Wind, "but here's a tablecloth which will cover itself with an excellent dinner whenever you tell it to." So the lad took the cloth and started for home. At nightfall he stopped at an inn, spread his cloth on the table, and ordered it to cover itself with good things, and so it did. But the landlord, who thought it would be money in his pocket to have such a cloth, stole it after the boy had gone to bed, and substituted another just like it in appearance. Next day the boy went home in great glee to show off for his mother's astonishment what the North Wind had given him, but all the dinner he got that day was what the old woman cooked for him. In his despair he went back to the North Wind and called him a liar, and again demanded his rights for the meal he had lost. "I have n't got your meal," said the Wind, "but here's a ram which will drop money out of its fleece whenever you tell it to." So the lad travelled home, stopping over night at the same inn, and when he got home he found himself with a ram which did n't drop coins out of its fleece. A third time he visited the North Wind, and obtained a bag with a stick in it which, at the word of command, would jump out of the bag and lay on until told to stop. Guessing how matters stood as to his cloth and ram, he turned in at the same tavern, and going to a bench lay down as if to sleep. The landlord thought that a stick carried about in a bag must be worth something, and so he stole quietly up to the bag, meaning to get the stick out and change it. But just as he got within whacking distance, the boy gave the word, and out jumped the stick and beat the thief until he promised to give back the ram and the tablecloth. And so the boy got his rights for the meal which the North Wind had blown away. October, 1870. III. WEREWOLVES AND SWAN-MAIDENS. IT is related by Ovid that Lykaon, king of Arkadia, once invited Zeus to dinner, and served up for him a dish of human flesh, in order to test the god's omniscience. But the trick miserably failed, and the impious monarch received the punishment which his crime had merited. He was transformed into a wolf, that he might henceforth feed upon the viands with which he had dared to pollute the table of the king of Olympos. From that time forth, according to Pliny, a noble Arkadian was each year, on the festival of Zeus Lykaios, led to the margin of a certain lake. Hanging his clothes upon a tree, he then plunged into the water and became a wolf. For the space of nine years he roamed about the adjacent woods, and then, if he had not tasted human flesh during all this time, he was allowed to swim back to the place where his clothes were hanging, put them on, and return to his natural form. It is further related of a certain Demainetos, that, having once been present at a human sacrifice to Zeus Lykaios, he ate of the flesh, and was transformed into a wolf for a term of ten years. [64] These and other similar mythical germs were developed by the mediaeval imagination into the horrible superstition of werewolves. A werewolf, or loup-garou [65] was a person who had the power of transforming himself into a wolf, being endowed, while in the lupine state, with the intelligence of a man, the ferocity of a wolf, and the irresistible strength of a demon. The ancients believed in the existence of such persons; but in the Middle Ages the metamorphosis was supposed to be a phenomenon of daily occurrence, and even at the present day, in secluded portions of Europe, the superstition is still cherished by peasants. The belief, moreover, is supported by a vast amount of evidence, which can neither be argued nor pooh-poohed into insignificance. It is the business of the comparative mythologist to trace the pedigree of the ideas from which such a conception may have sprung; while to the critical historian belongs the task of ascertaining and classifying the actual facts which this particular conception was used to interpret. The mediaeval belief in werewolves is especially adapted to illustrate the complicated manner in which divers mythical conceptions and misunderstood natural occurrences will combine to generate a long-enduring superstition. Mr. Cox, indeed, would have us believe that the whole notion arose from an unintentional play upon words; but the careful survey of the field, which has been taken by Hertz and Baring-Gould, leads to the conclusion that many other circumstances have been at work. The delusion, though doubtless purely mythical in its origin, nevertheless presents in its developed state a curious mixture of mythical and historical elements. With regard to the Arkadian legend, taken by itself, Mr. Cox is probably right. The story seems to belong to that large class of myths which have been devised in order to explain the meaning of equivocal words whose true significance has been forgotten. The epithet Lykaios, as applied to Zeus, had originally no reference to wolves: it means "the bright one," and gave rise to lycanthropic legends only because of the similarity in sound between the names for "wolf" and "brightness." Aryan mythology furnishes numerous other instances of this confusion. The solar deity, Phoibos Lykegenes, was originally the "offspring of light"; but popular etymology made a kind of werewolf of him by interpreting his name as the "wolf-born." The name of the hero Autolykos means simply the "self-luminous"; but it was more frequently interpreted as meaning "a very wolf," in allusion to the supposed character of its possessor. Bazra, the name of the citadel of Carthage, was the Punic word for "fortress"; but the Greeks confounded it with byrsa, "a hide," and hence the story of the ox-hides cut into strips by Dido in order to measure the area of the place to be fortified. The old theory that the Irish were Phoenicians had a similar origin. The name Fena, used to designate the old Scoti or Irish, is the plural of Fion, "fair," seen in the name of the hero Fion Gall, or "Fingal"; but the monkish chroniclers identified Fena with phoinix, whence arose the myth; and by a like misunderstanding of the epithet Miledh, or "warrior," applied to Fion by the Gaelic bards, there was generated a mythical hero, Milesius, and the soubriquet "Milesian," colloquially employed in speaking of the Irish. [66] So the Franks explained the name of the town Daras, in Mesopotamia, by the story that the Emperor Justinian once addressed the chief magistrate with the exclamation, daras, "thou shalt give": [67] the Greek chronicler, Malalas, who spells the name Doras, informs us with equal complacency that it was the place where Alexander overcame Codomannus with dorn, "the spear." A certain passage in the Alps is called Scaletta, from its resemblance to a staircase; but according to a local tradition it owes its name to the bleaching skeletons of a company of Moors who were destroyed there in the eighth century, while attempting to penetrate into Northern Italy. The name of Antwerp denotes the town built at a "wharf"; but it sounds very much like the Flemish handt werpen, "hand-throwing": "hence arose the legend of the giant who cut of the hands of those who passed his castle without paying him black-mail, and threw them into the Scheldt." [68] In the myth of Bishop Hatto, related in a previous paper, the Mause-thurm is a corruption of maut-thurm; it means "customs-tower," and has nothing to do with mice or rats. Doubtless this etymology was the cause of the floating myth getting fastened to this particular place; that it did not give rise to the myth itself is shown by the existence of the same tale in other places. Somewhere in England there is a place called Chateau Vert; the peasantry have corrupted it into Shotover, and say that it has borne that name ever since Little John shot over a high hill in the neighbourhood. [69] Latium means "the flat land"; but, according to Virgil, it is the place where Saturn once hid (latuisset) from the wrath of his usurping son Jupiter. [70] It was in this way that the constellation of the Great Bear received its name. The Greek word arktos, answering to the Sanskrit riksha, meant originally any bright object, and was applied to the bear--for what reason it would not be easy to state--and to that constellation which was most conspicuous in the latitude of the early home of the Aryans. When the Greeks had long forgotten why these stars were called arktoi, they symbolized them as a Great Bear fixed in the sky. So that, as Max Muller observes, "the name of the Arctic regions rests on a misunderstanding of a name framed thousands of years ago in Central Asia, and the surprise with which many a thoughtful observer has looked at these seven bright stars, wondering why they were ever called the Bear, is removed by a reference to the early annals of human speech." Among the Algonquins the sun-god Michabo was represented as a hare, his name being compounded of michi, "great," and wabos, "a hare"; yet wabos also meant "white," so that the god was doubtless originally called simply "the Great White One." The same naive process has made bears of the Arkadians, whose name, like that of the Lykians, merely signified that they were "children of light"; and the metamorphosis of Kallisto, mother of Arkas, into a bear, and of Lykaon into a wolf, rests apparently upon no other foundation than an erroneous etymology. Originally Lykaon was neither man nor wolf; he was but another form of Phoibos Lykegenes, the light-born sun, and, as Mr. Cox has shown, his legend is but a variation of that of Tantalos, who in time of drought offers to Zeus the flesh of his own offspring, the withered fruits, and is punished for his impiety. It seems to me, however, that this explanation, though valid as far as it goes, is inadequate to explain all the features of the werewolf superstition, or to account for its presence in all Aryan countries and among many peoples who are not of Aryan origin. There can be no doubt that the myth-makers transformed Lykaon into a wolf because of his unlucky name; because what really meant "bright man" seemed to them to mean "wolf-man"; but it has by no means been proved that a similar equivocation occurred in the case of all the primitive Aryan werewolves, nor has it been shown to be probable that among each people the being with the uncanny name got thus accidentally confounded with the particular beast most dreaded by that people. Etymology alone does not explain the fact that while Gaul has been the favourite haunt of the man-wolf, Scandinavia has been preferred by the man-bear, and Hindustan by the man-tiger. To account for such a widespread phenomenon we must seek a more general cause. Nothing is more strikingly characteristic of primitive thinking than the close community of nature which it assumes between man and brute. The doctrine of metempsychosis, which is found in some shape or other all over the world, implies a fundamental identity between the two; the Hindu is taught to respect the flocks browsing in the meadow, and will on no account lift his hand against a cow, for who knows but it may he his own grandmother? The recent researches of Mr. M`Lennan and Mr. Herbert Spencer have served to connect this feeling with the primeval worship of ancestors and with the savage customs of totemism. [71] The worship of ancestors seems to have been every where the oldest systematized form of fetichistic religion. The reverence paid to the chieftain of the tribe while living was continued and exaggerated after his death The uncivilized man is everywhere incapable of grasping the idea of death as it is apprehended by civilized people. He cannot understand that a man should pass away so as to be no longer capable of communicating with his fellows. The image of his dead chief or comrade remains in his mind, and the savage's philosophic realism far surpasses that of the most extravagant mediaeval schoolmen; to him the persistence of the idea implies the persistence of the reality. The dead man, accordingly, is not really dead; he has thrown off his body like a husk, yet still retains his old appearance, and often shows himself to his old friends, especially after nightfall. He is no doubt possessed of more extensive powers than before his transformation, [72] and may very likely have a share in regulating the weather, granting or withholding rain. Therefore, argues the uncivilized mind, he is to be cajoled and propitiated more sedulously now than before his strange transformation. This kind of worship still maintains a languid existence as the state religion of China, and it still exists as a portion of Brahmanism; but in the Vedic religion it is to be seen in all its vigour and in all its naive simplicity. According to the ancient Aryan, the pitris, or "Fathers" (Lat. patres), live in the sky along with Yama, the great original Pitri of mankind. This first man came down from heaven in the lightning, and back to heaven both himself and all his offspring must have gone. There they distribute light unto men below, and they shine themselves as stars; and hence the Christianized German peasant, fifty centuries later, tells his children that the stars are angels' eyes, and the English cottager impresses it on the youthful mind that it is wicked to point at the stars, though why he cannot tell. But the Pitris are not stars only, nor do they content themselves with idly looking down on the affairs of men, after the fashion of the laissez-faire divinities of Lucretius. They are, on the contrary, very busy with the weather; they send rain, thunder, and lightning; and they especially delight in rushing over the housetops in a great gale of wind, led on by their chief, the mysterious huntsman, Hermes or Odin. It has been elsewhere shown that the howling dog, or wish-hound of Hermes, whose appearance under the windows of a sick person is such an alarming portent, is merely the tempest personified. Throughout all Aryan mythology the souls of the dead are supposed to ride on the night-wind, with their howling dogs, gathering into their throng the souls of those just dying as they pass by their houses. [73] Sometimes the whole complex conception is wrapped up in the notion of a single dog, the messenger of the god of shades, who comes to summon the departing soul. Sometimes, instead of a dog, we have a great ravening wolf who comes to devour its victim and extinguish the sunlight of life, as that old wolf of the tribe of Fenrir devoured little Red Riding-Hood with her robe of scarlet twilight. [74] Thus we arrive at a true werewolf myth. The storm-wind, or howling Rakshasa of Hindu folk-lore, is "a great misshapen giant with red beard and red hair, with pointed protruding teeth, ready to lacerate and devour human flesh; his body is covered with coarse, bristling hair, his huge mouth is open, he looks from side to side as he walks, lusting after the flesh and blood of men, to satisfy his raging hunger and quench his consuming thirst. Towards nightfall his strength increases manifold; he can change his shape at will; he haunts the woods, and roams howling through the jungle." [75] Now if the storm-wind is a host of Pitris, or one great Pitri who appears as a fearful giant, and is also a pack of wolves or wish-hounds, or a single savage dog or wolf, the inference is obvious to the mythopoeic mind that men may become wolves, at least after death. And to the uncivilized thinker this inference is strengthened, as Mr. Spencer has shown, by evidence registered on his own tribal totem or heraldic emblem. The bears and lions and leopards of heraldry are the degenerate descendants of the totem of savagery which designated the tribe by a beast-symbol. To the untutored mind there is everything in a name; and the descendant of Brown Bear or Yellow Tiger or Silver Hyaena cannot be pronounced unfaithful to his own style of philosophizing, if he regards his ancestors, who career about his hut in the darkness of night, as belonging to whatever order of beasts his totem associations may suggest. Thus we not only see a ray of light thrown on the subject of metempsychosis, but we get a glimpse of the curious process by which the intensely realistic mind of antiquity arrived at the notion that men could be transformed into beasts. For the belief that the soul can temporarily quit the body during lifetime has been universally entertained; and from the conception of wolf-like ghosts it was but a short step to the conception of corporeal werewolves. In the Middle Ages the phenomena of trance and catalepsy were cited in proof of the theory that the soul can leave the body and afterwards return to it. Hence it was very difficult for a person accused of witchcraft to prove an alibi; for to any amount of evidence showing that the body was innocently reposing at home and in bed, the rejoinder was obvious that the soul may nevertheless have been in attendance at the witches' Sabbath or busied in maiming a neighbour's cattle. According to one mediaeval notion, the soul of the werewolf quit its human body, which remained in a trance until its return. [76] The mythological basis of the werewolf superstition is now, I believe, sufficiently indicated. The belief, however, did not reach its complete development, or acquire its most horrible features, until the pagan habits of thought which had originated it were modified by contact with Christian theology. To the ancient there was nothing necessarily diabolical in the transformation of a man into a beast. But Christianity, which retained such a host of pagan conceptions under such strange disguises, which degraded the "All-father" Odin into the ogre of the castle to which Jack climbed on his bean-stalk, and which blended the beneficent lightning-god Thor and the mischievous Hermes and the faun-like Pan into the grotesque Teutonic Devil, did not fail to impart a new and fearful character to the belief in werewolves. Lycanthropy became regarded as a species of witchcraft; the werewolf was supposed to have obtained his peculiar powers through the favour or connivance of the Devil; and hundreds of persons were burned alive or broken on the wheel for having availed themselves of the privilege of beast-metamorphosis. The superstition, thus widely extended and greatly intensified, was confirmed by many singular phenomena which cannot be omitted from any thorough discussion of the nature and causes of lycanthropy. The first of these phenomena is the Berserker insanity, characteristic of Scandinavia, but not unknown in other countries. In times when killing one's enemies often formed a part of the necessary business of life, persons were frequently found who killed for the mere love of the thing; with whom slaughter was an end desirable in itself, not merely a means to a desirable end. What the miser is in an age which worships mammon, such was the Berserker in an age when the current idea of heaven was that of a place where people could hack each other to pieces through all eternity, and when the man who refused a challenge was punished with confiscation of his estates. With these Northmen, in the ninth century, the chief business and amusement in life was to set sail for some pleasant country, like Spain or France, and make all the coasts and navigable rivers hideous with rapine and massacre. When at home, in the intervals between their freebooting expeditions, they were liable to become possessed by a strange homicidal madness, during which they would array themselves in the skins of wolves or bears, and sally forth by night to crack the backbones, smash the skulls, and sometimes to drink with fiendish glee the blood of unwary travellers or loiterers. These fits of madness were usually followed by periods of utter exhaustion and nervous depression. [77] Such, according to the unanimous testimony of historians, was the celebrated "Berserker rage," not peculiar to the Northland, although there most conspicuously manifested. Taking now a step in advance, we find that in comparatively civilized countries there have been many cases of monstrous homicidal insanity. The two most celebrated cases, among those collected by Mr. Baring-Gould, are those of the Marechal de Retz, in 1440, and of Elizabeth, a Hungarian countess, in the seventeenth century. The Countess Elizabeth enticed young girls into her palace on divers pretexts, and then coolly murdered them, for the purpose of bathing in their blood. The spectacle of human suffering became at last such a delight to her, that she would apply with her own hands the most excruciating tortures, relishing the shrieks of her victims as the epicure relishes each sip of his old Chateau Margaux. In this way she is said to have murdered six hundred and fifty persons before her evil career was brought to an end; though, when one recollects the famous men in buckram and the notorious trio of crows, one is inclined to strike off a cipher, and regard sixty-five as a sufficiently imposing and far less improbable number. But the case of the Marechal de Retz is still more frightful. A marshal of France, a scholarly man, a patriot, and a man of holy life, he became suddenly possessed by an uncontrollable desire to murder children. During seven years he continued to inveigle little boys and girls into his castle, at the rate of about TWO EACH WEEK, (?) and then put them to death in various ways, that he might witness their agonies and bathe in their blood; experiencing after each occasion the most dreadful remorse, but led on by an irresistible craving to repeat the crime. When this unparalleled iniquity was finally brought to light, the castle was found to contain bins full of children's bones. The horrible details of the trial are to be found in the histories of France by Michelet and Martin. Going a step further, we find cases in which the propensity to murder has been accompanied by cannibalism. In 1598 a tailor of Chalons was sentenced by the parliament of Paris to be burned alive for lycanthropy. "This wretched man had decoyed children into his shop, or attacked them in the gloaming when they strayed in the woods, had torn them with his teeth and killed them, after which he seems calmly to have dressed their flesh as ordinary meat, and to have eaten it with a great relish. The number of little innocents whom he destroyed is unknown. A whole caskful of bones was discovered in his house." [78] About 1850 a beggar in the village of Polomyia, in Galicia, was proved to have killed and eaten fourteen children. A house had one day caught fire and burnt to the ground, roasting one of the inmates, who was unable to escape. The beggar passed by soon after, and, as he was suffering from excessive hunger, could not resist the temptation of making a meal off the charred body. From that moment he was tormented by a craving for human flesh. He met a little orphan girl, about nine years old, and giving her a pinchbeck ring told her to seek for others like it under a tree in the neighbouring wood. She was slain, carried to the beggar's hovel, and eaten. In the course of three years thirteen other children mysteriously disappeared, but no one knew whom to suspect. At last an innkeeper missed a pair of ducks, and having no good opinion of this beggar's honesty, went unexpectedly to his cabin, burst suddenly in at the door, and to his horror found him in the act of hiding under his cloak a severed head; a bowl of fresh blood stood under the oven, and pieces of a thigh were cooking over the fire. [79] This occurred only about twenty years ago, and the criminal, though ruled by an insane appetite, is not known to have been subject to any mental delusion. But there have been a great many similar cases, in which the homicidal or cannibal craving has been accompanied by genuine hallucination. Forms of insanity in which the afflicted persons imagine themselves to be brute animals are not perhaps very common, but they are not unknown. I once knew a poor demented old man who believed himself to be a horse, and would stand by the hour together before a manger, nibbling hay, or deluding himself with the presence of so doing. Many of the cannibals whose cases are related by Mr. Baring-Gould, in his chapter of horrors, actually believed themselves to have been transformed into wolves or other wild animals. Jean Grenier was a boy of thirteen, partially idiotic, and of strongly marked canine physiognomy; his jaws were large and projected forward, and his canine teeth were unnaturally long, so as to protrude beyond the lower lip. He believed himself to be a werewolf. One evening, meeting half a dozen young girls, he scared them out of their wits by telling them that as soon as the sun had set he would turn into a wolf and eat them for supper. A few days later, one little girl, having gone out at nightfall to look after the sheep, was attacked by some creature which in her terror she mistook for a wolf, but which afterwards proved to be none other than Jean Grenier. She beat him off with her sheep-staff, and fled home. As several children had mysteriously disappeared from the neighbourhood, Grenier was at once suspected. Being brought before the parliament of Bordeaux, he stated that two years ago he had met the Devil one night in the woods and had signed a compact with him and received from him a wolf-skin. Since then he had roamed about as a wolf after dark, resuming his human shape by daylight. He had killed and eaten several children whom he had found alone in the fields, and on one occasion he had entered a house while the family were out and taken the baby from its cradle. A careful investigation proved the truth of these statements, so far as the cannibalism was concerned. There is no doubt that the missing children were eaten by Jean Grenier, and there is no doubt that in his own mind the halfwitted boy was firmly convinced that he was a wolf. Here the lycanthropy was complete. In the year 1598, "in a wild and unfrequented spot near Caude, some countrymen came one day upon the corpse of a boy of fifteen, horribly mutilated and bespattered with blood. As the men approached, two wolves, which had been rending the body, bounded away into the thicket. The men gave chase immediately, following their bloody tracks till they lost them; when, suddenly crouching among the bushes, his teeth chattering with fear, they found a man half naked, with long hair and beard, and with his hands dyed in blood. His nails were long as claws, and were clotted with fresh gore and shreds of human flesh." [80] This man, Jacques Roulet, was a poor, half-witted creature under the dominion of a cannibal appetite. He was employed in tearing to pieces the corpse of the boy when these countrymen came up. Whether there were any wolves in the case, except what the excited imaginations of the men may have conjured up, I will not presume to determine; but it is certain that Roulet supposed himself to be a wolf, and killed and ate several persons under the influence of the delusion. He was sentenced to death, but the parliament of Paris reversed the sentence, and charitably shut him up in a madhouse. The annals of the Middle Ages furnish many cases similar to these of Grenier and Roulet. Their share in maintaining the werewolf superstition is undeniable; but modern science finds in them nothing that cannot be readily explained. That stupendous process of breeding, which we call civilization, has been for long ages strengthening those kindly social feelings by the possession of which we are chiefly distinguished from the brutes, leaving our primitive bestial impulses to die for want of exercise, or checking in every possible way their further expansion by legislative enactments. But this process, which is transforming us from savages into civilized men, is a very slow one; and now and then there occur cases of what physiologists call atavism, or reversion to an ancestral type of character. Now and then persons are born, in civilized countries, whose intellectual powers are on a level with those of the most degraded Australian savage, and these we call idiots. And now and then persons are born possessed of the bestial appetites and cravings of primitive man, his fiendish cruelty and his liking for human flesh. Modern physiology knows how to classify and explain these abnormal cases, but to the unscientific mediaeval mind they were explicable only on the hypothesis of a diabolical metamorphosis. And there is nothing strange in the fact that, in an age when the prevailing habits of thought rendered the transformation of men into beasts an easily admissible notion, these monsters of cruelty and depraved appetite should have been regarded as capable of taking on bestial forms. Nor is it strange that the hallucination under which these unfortunate wretches laboured should have taken such a shape as to account to their feeble intelligence for the existence of the appetites which they were conscious of not sharing with their neighbours and contemporaries. If a myth is a piece of unscientific philosophizing, it must sometimes be applied to the explanation of obscure psychological as well as of physical phenomena. Where the modern calmly taps his forehead and says, "Arrested development," the terrified ancient made the sign of the cross and cried, "Werewolf." We shall be assisted in this explanation by turning aside for a moment to examine the wild superstitions about "changelings," which contributed, along with so many others, to make the lives of our ancestors anxious and miserable. These superstitions were for the most part attempts to explain the phenomena of insanity, epilepsy, and other obscure nervous diseases. A man who has hitherto enjoyed perfect health, and whose actions have been consistent and rational, suddenly loses all self-control and seems actuated by a will foreign to himself. Modern science possesses the key to this phenomenon; but in former times it was explicable only on the hypothesis that a demon had entered the body of the lunatic, or else that the fairies had stolen the real man and substituted for him a diabolical phantom exactly like him in stature and features. Hence the numerous legends of changelings, some of which are very curious. In Irish folk-lore we find the story of one Rickard, surnamed the Rake, from his worthless character. A good-natured, idle fellow, he spent all his evenings in dancing,--an accomplishment in which no one in the village could rival him. One night, in the midst of a lively reel, he fell down in a fit. "He's struck with a fairy-dart," exclaimed all the friends, and they carried him home and nursed him; but his face grew so thin and his manner so morose that by and by all began to suspect that the true Rickard was gone and a changeling put in his place. Rickard, with all his accomplishments, was no musician; and so, in order to put the matter to a crucial test, a bagpipe was left in the room by the side of his bed. The trick succeeded. One hot summer's day, when all were supposed to be in the field making hay, some members of the family secreted in a clothes-press saw the bedroom door open a little way, and a lean, foxy face, with a pair of deep-sunken eyes, peer anxiously about the premises. Having satisfied itself that the coast was clear, the face withdrew, the door was closed, and presently such ravishing strains of music were heard as never proceeded from a bagpipe before or since that day. Soon was heard the rustle of innumerable fairies, come to dance to the changeling's music. Then the "fairy-man" of the village, who was keeping watch with the family, heated a pair of tongs red-hot, and with deafening shouts all burst at once into the sick-chamber. The music had ceased and the room was empty, but in at the window glared a fiendish face, with such fearful looks of hatred, that for a moment all stood motionless with terror. But when the fairy-man, recovering himself, advanced with the hot tongs to pinch its nose, it vanished with an unearthly yell, and there on the bed was Rickard, safe and sound, and cured of his epilepsy. [81] Comparing this legend with numerous others relating to changelings, and stripping off the fantastic garb of fairy-lore with which popular imagination has invested them, it seems impossible to doubt that they have arisen from myths devised for the purpose of explaining the obscure phenomena of mental disease. If this be so, they afford an excellent collateral illustration of the belief in werewolves. The same mental habits which led men to regard the insane or epileptic person as a changeling, and which allowed them to explain catalepsy as the temporary departure of a witch's soul from its body, would enable them to attribute a wolf's nature to the maniac or idiot with cannibal appetites. And when the myth-forming process had got thus far, it would not stop short of assigning to the unfortunate wretch a tangible lupine body; for all ancient mythology teemed with precedents for such a transformation. It remains for us to sum up,--to tie into a bunch the keys which have helped us to penetrate into the secret causes of the werewolf superstition. In a previous paper we saw what a host of myths, fairy-tales, and superstitious observances have sprung from attempts to interpret one simple natural phenomenon,--the descent of fire from the clouds. Here, on the other hand, we see what a heterogeneous multitude of mythical elements may combine to build up in course of time a single enormous superstition, and we see how curiously fact and fancy have co-operated in keeping the superstition from falling. In the first place the worship of dead ancestors with wolf totems originated the notion of the transformation of men into divine or superhuman wolves; and this notion was confirmed by the ambiguous explanation of the storm-wind as the rushing of a troop of dead men's souls or as the howling of wolf-like monsters. Mediaeval Christianity retained these conceptions, merely changing the superhuman wolves into evil demons; and finally the occurrence of cases of Berserker madness and cannibalism, accompanied by lycanthropic hallucinations, being interpreted as due to such demoniacal metamorphosis, gave rise to the werewolf superstition of the Middle Ages. The etymological proceedings, to which Mr. Cox would incontinently ascribe the origin of the entire superstition, seemed to me to have played a very subordinate part in the matter. To suppose that Jean Grenier imagined himself to be a wolf, because the Greek word for wolf sounded like the word for light, and thus gave rise to the story of a light-deity who became a wolf, seems to me quite inadmissible. Yet as far as such verbal equivocations may have prevailed, they doubtless helped to sustain the delusion. Thus we need no longer regard our werewolf as an inexplicable creature of undetermined pedigree. But any account of him would be quite imperfect which should omit all consideration of the methods by which his change of form was accomplished. By the ancient Romans the werewolf was commonly called a "skin-changer" or "turn-coat" (versipellis), and similar epithets were applied to him in the Middle Ages The mediaeval theory was that, while the werewolf kept his human form, his hair grew inwards; when he wished to become a wolf, he simply turned himself inside out. In many trials on record, the prisoners were closely interrogated as to how this inversion might be accomplished; but I am not aware that any one of them ever gave a satisfactory answer. At the moment of change their memories seem to have become temporarily befogged. Now and then a poor wretch had his arms and legs cut off, or was partially flayed, in order that the ingrowing hair might be detected. [82] Another theory was, that the possessed person had merely to put on a wolf's skin, in order to assume instantly the lupine form and character; and in this may perhaps be seen a vague reminiscence of the alleged fact that Berserkers were in the habit of haunting the woods by night, clothed in the hides of wolves or bears. [83] Such a wolfskin was kept by the boy Grenier. Roulet, on the other hand, confessed to using a magic salve or ointment. A fourth method of becoming a werewolf was to obtain a girdle, usually made of human skin. Several cases are related in Thorpe's "Northern Mythology." One hot day in harvest-time some reapers lay down to sleep in the shade; when one of them, who could not sleep, saw the man next him arise quietly and gird him with a strap, whereupon he instantly vanished, and a wolf jumped up from among the sleepers and ran off across the fields. Another man, who possessed such a girdle, once went away from home without remembering to lock it up. His little son climbed up to the cupboard and got it, and as he proceeded to buckle it around his waist, he became instantly transformed into a strange-looking beast. Just then his father came in, and seizing the girdle restored the child to his natural shape. The boy said that no sooner had he buckled it on than he was tormented with a raging hunger. Sometimes the werewolf transformation led to unlucky accidents. At Caseburg, as a man and his wife were making hay, the woman threw down her pitchfork and went away, telling her husband that if a wild beast should come to him during her absence he must throw his hat at it. Presently a she-wolf rushed towards him. The man threw his hat at it, but a boy came up from another part of the field and stabbed the animal with his pitchfork, whereupon it vanished, and the woman's dead body lay at his feet. A parallel legend shows that this woman wished to have the hat thrown at her, in order that she might be henceforth free from her liability to become a werewolf. A man was one night returning with his wife from a merry-making when he felt the change coming on. Giving his wife the reins, he jumped from the wagon, telling her to strike with her apron at any animal which might come to her. In a few moments a wolf ran up to the side of the vehicle, and, as the woman struck out with her apron, it bit off a piece and ran away. Presently the man returned with the piece of apron in his mouth and consoled his terrified wife with the information that the enchantment had left him forever. A terrible case at a village in Auvergne has found its way into the annals of witchcraft. "A gentleman while hunting was suddenly attacked by a savage wolf of monstrous size. Impenetrable by his shot, the beast made a spring upon the helpless huntsman, who in the struggle luckily, or unluckily for the unfortunate lady, contrived to cut off one of its fore-paws. This trophy he placed in his pocket, and made the best of his way homewards in safety. On the road he met a friend, to whom he exhibited a bleeding paw, or rather (as it now appeared) a woman's hand, upon which was a wedding-ring. His wife's ring was at once recognized by the other. His suspicions aroused, he immediately went in search of his wife, who was found sitting by the fire in the kitchen, her arm hidden beneath her apron, when the husband, seizing her by the arm, found his terrible suspicions verified. The bleeding stump was there, evidently just fresh from the wound. She was given into custody, and in the event was burned at Riom, in presence of thousands of spectators." [84] Sometimes a werewolf was cured merely by recognizing him while in his brute shape. A Swedish legend tells of a cottager who, on entering the forest one day without recollecting to say his Patter Noster, got into the power of a Troll, who changed him into a wolf. For many years his wife mourned him as dead. But one Christmas eve the old Troll, disguised as a beggarwoman, came to the house for alms; and being taken in and kindly treated, told the woman that her husband might very likely appear to her in wolf-shape. Going at night to the pantry to lay aside a joint of meat for tomorrow's dinner, she saw a wolf standing with its paws on the window-sill, looking wistfully in at her. "Ah, dearest," said she, "if I knew that thou wert really my husband, I would give thee a bone." Whereupon the wolf-skin fell off, and her husband stood before her in the same old clothes which he had on the day that the Troll got hold of him. In Denmark it was believed that if a woman were to creep through a colt's placental membrane stretched between four sticks, she would for the rest of her life bring forth children without pain or illness; but all the boys would in such case be werewolves, and all the girls Maras, or nightmares. In this grotesque superstition appears that curious kinship between the werewolf and the wife or maiden of supernatural race, which serves admirably to illustrate the nature of both conceptions, and the elucidation of which shall occupy us throughout the remainder of this paper. It is, perhaps, needless to state that in the personality of the nightmare, or Mara, there was nothing equine. The Mara was a female demon, [85] who would come at night and torment men or women by crouching on their chests or stomachs and stopping their respiration. The scene is well enough represented in Fuseli's picture, though the frenzied-looking horse which there accompanies the demon has no place in the original superstition. A Netherlandish story illustrates the character of the Mara. Two young men were in love with the same damsel. One of them, being tormented every night by a Mara, sought advice from his rival, and it was a treacherous counsel that he got. "Hold a sharp knife with the point towards your breast, and you'll never see the Mara again," said this false friend. The lad thanked him, but when he lay down to rest he thought it as well to be on the safe side, and so held the knife handle downward. So when the Mara came, instead of forcing the blade into his breast, she cut herself badly, and fled howling; and let us hope, though the legend here leaves us in the dark, that this poor youth, who is said to have been the comelier of the two, revenged himself on his malicious rival by marrying the young lady. But the Mara sometimes appeared in less revolting shape, and became the mistress or even the wife of some mortal man to whom she happened to take a fancy. In such cases she would vanish on being recognized. There is a well-told monkish tale of a pious knight who, journeying one day through the forest, found a beautiful lady stripped naked and tied to a tree, her back all covered with deep gashes streaming with blood, from a flogging which some bandits had given her. Of course he took her home to his castle and married her, and for a while they lived very happily together, and the fame of the lady's beauty was so great that kings and emperors held tournaments in honor of her. But this pious knight used to go to mass every Sunday, and greatly was he scandalized when he found that his wife would never stay to assist in the Credo, but would always get up and walk out of church just as the choir struck up. All her husband's coaxing was of no use; threats and entreaties were alike powerless even to elicit an explanation of this strange conduct. At last the good man determined to use force; and so one Sunday, as the lady got up to go out, according to custom, he seized her by the arm and sternly commanded her to remain. Her whole frame was suddenly convulsed, and her dark eyes gleamed with weird, unearthly brilliancy. The services paused for a moment, and all eyes were turned toward the knight and his lady. "In God's name, tell me what thou art," shouted the knight; and instantly, says the chronicler, "the bodily form of the lady melted away, and was seen no more; whilst, with a cry of anguish and of terror, an evil spirit of monstrous form rose from the ground, clave the chapel roof asunder, and disappeared in the air." In a Danish legend, the Mara betrays her affinity to the Nixies, or Swan-maidens. A peasant discovered that his sweetheart was in the habit of coming to him by night as a Mara. He kept strict watch until he discovered her creeping into the room through a small knot-hole in the door. Next day he made a peg, and after she had come to him, drove in the peg so that she was unable to escape. They were married and lived together many years; but one night it happened that the man, joking with his wife about the way in which he had secured her, drew the peg from the knot-hole, that she might see how she had entered his room. As she peeped through, she became suddenly quite small, passed out, and was never seen again. The well-known pathological phenomena of nightmare are sufficient to account for the mediaeval theory of a fiend who sits upon one's bosom and hinders respiration; but as we compare these various legends relating to the Mara, we see that a more recondite explanation is needed to account for all her peculiarities. Indigestion may interfere with our breathing, but it does not make beautiful women crawl through keyholes, nor does it bring wives from the spirit-world. The Mara belongs to an ancient family, and in passing from the regions of monkish superstition to those of pure mythology we find that, like her kinsman the werewolf, she had once seen better days. Christianity made a demon of the Mara, and adopted the theory that Satan employed these seductive creatures as agents for ruining human souls. Such is the character of the knight's wife, in the monkish legend just cited. But in the Danish tale the Mara appears as one of that large family of supernatural wives who are permitted to live with mortal men under certain conditions, but who are compelled to flee away when these conditions are broken, as is always sure to be the case. The eldest and one of the loveliest of this family is the Hindu nymph Urvasi, whose love adventures with Pururavas are narrated in the Puranas, and form the subject of the well-known and exquisite Sanskrit drama by Kalidasa. Urvasi is allowed to live with Pururavas so long as she does not see him undressed. But one night her kinsmen, the Gandharvas, or cloud-demons, vexed at her long absence from heaven, resolved to get her away from her mortal companion, They stole a pet lamb which had been tied at the foot of her couch, whereat she bitterly upbraided her husband. In rage and mortification, Pururavas sprang up without throwing on his tunic, and grasping his sword sought the robber. Then the wicked Gandharvas sent a flash of lightning, and Urvasi, seeing her naked husband, instantly vanished. The different versions of this legend, which have been elaborately analyzed by comparative mythologists, leave no doubt that Urvasi is one of the dawn-nymphs or bright fleecy clouds of early morning, which vanish as the splendour of the sun is unveiled. We saw, in the preceding paper, that the ancient Aryans regarded the sky as a sea or great lake, and that the clouds were explained variously as Phaiakian ships with bird-like beaks sailing over this lake, or as bright birds of divers shapes and hues. The light fleecy cirrhi were regarded as mermaids, or as swans, or as maidens with swan's plumage. In Sanskrit they are called Apsaras, or "those who move in the water," and the Elves and Maras of Teutonic mythology have the same significance. Urvasi appears in one legend as a bird; and a South German prescription for getting rid of the Mara asserts that if she be wrapped up in the bedclothes and firmly held, a white dove will forthwith fly from the room, leaving the bedclothes empty. [86] In the story of Melusina the cloud-maiden appears as a kind of mermaid, but in other respects the legend resembles that of Urvasi. Raymond, Count de la Foret, of Poitou, having by an accident killed his patron and benefactor during a hunting excursion, fled in terror and despair into the deep recesses of the forest. All the afternoon and evening he wandered through the thick dark woods, until at midnight he came upon a strange scene. All at once "the boughs of the trees became less interlaced, and the trunks fewer; next moment his horse, crashing through the shrubs, brought him out on a pleasant glade, white with rime, and illumined by the new moon; in the midst bubbled up a limpid fountain, and flowed away over a pebbly-floor with a soothing murmur. Near the fountain-head sat three maidens in glimmering white dresses, with long waving golden hair, and faces of inexpressible beauty." [87] One of them advanced to meet Raymond, and according to all mythological precedent, they were betrothed before daybreak. In due time the fountain-nymph [88] became Countess de la Foret, but her husband was given to understand that all her Saturdays would be passed in strictest seclusion, upon which he must never dare to intrude, under penalty of losing her forever. For many years all went well, save that the fair Melusina's children were, without exception, misshapen or disfigured. But after a while this strange weekly seclusion got bruited about all over the neighbourhood, and people shook their heads and looked grave about it. So many gossiping tales came to the Count's ears, that he began to grow anxious and suspicious, and at last he determined to know the worst. He went one Saturday to Melusina's private apartments, and going through one empty room after another, at last came to a locked door which opened into a bath; looking through a keyhole, there he saw the Countess transformed from the waist downwards into a fish, disporting herself like a mermaid in the water. Of course he could not keep the secret, but when some time afterwards they quarrelled, must needs address her as "a vile serpent, contaminator of his honourable race." So she disappeared through the window, but ever afterward hovered about her husband's castle of Lusignan, like a Banshee, whenever one of its lords was about to die. The well-known story of Undine is similar to that of Melusina, save that the naiad's desire to obtain a human soul is a conception foreign to the spirit of the myth, and marks the degradation which Christianity had inflicted upon the denizens of fairy-land. In one of Dasent's tales the water-maiden is replaced by a kind of werewolf. A white bear marries a young girl, but assumes the human shape at night. She is never to look upon him in his human shape, but how could a young bride be expected to obey such an injunction as that? She lights a candle while he is sleeping, and discovers the handsomest prince in the world; unluckily she drops tallow on his shirt, and that tells the story. But she is more fortunate than poor Raymond, for after a tiresome journey to the "land east of the sun and west of the moon," and an arduous washing-match with a parcel of ugly Trolls, she washes out the spots, and ends her husband's enchantment. [89] In the majority of these legends, however, the Apsaras, or cloud-maiden, has a shirt of swan's feathers which plays the same part as the wolfskin cape or girdle of the werewolf. If you could get hold of a werewolf's sack and burn it, a permanent cure was effected. No danger of a relapse, unless the Devil furnished him with a new wolfskin. So the swan-maiden kept her human form, as long as she was deprived of her tunic of feathers. Indo-European folk-lore teems with stories of swan-maidens forcibly wooed and won by mortals who had stolen their clothes. A man travelling along the road passes by a lake where several lovely girls are bathing; their dresses, made of feathers curiously and daintily woven, lie on the shore. He approaches the place cautiously and steals one of these dresses. [90] When the girls have finished their bathing, they all come and get their dresses and swim away as swans; but the one whose dress is stolen must needs stay on shore and marry the thief. It is needless to add that they live happily together for many years, or that finally the good man accidentally leaves the cupboard door unlocked, whereupon his wife gets back her swan-shirt and flies away from him, never to return. But it is not always a shirt of feathers. In one German story, a nobleman hunting deer finds a maiden bathing in a clear pool in the forest. He runs stealthily up to her and seizes her necklace, at which she loses the power to flee. They are married, and she bears seven sons at once, all of whom have gold chains about their necks, and are able to transform themselves into swans whenever they like. A Flemish legend tells of three Nixies, or water-sprites, who came out of the Meuse one autumn evening, and helped the villagers celebrate the end of the vintage. Such graceful dancers had never been seen in Flanders, and they could sing as well as they could dance. As the night was warm, one of them took off her gloves and gave them to her partner to hold for her. When the clock struck twelve the other two started off in hot haste, and then there was a hue and cry for gloves. The lad would keep them as love-tokens, and so the poor Nixie had to go home without them; but she must have died on the way, for next morning the waters of the Meuse were blood-red, and those damsels never returned. In the Faro Islands it is believed that seals cast off their skins every ninth night, assume human forms, and sing and dance like men and women until daybreak, when they resume their skins and their seal natures. Of course a man once found and hid one of these sealskins, and so got a mermaid for a wife; and of course she recovered the skin and escaped. [91] On the coasts of Ireland it is supposed to be quite an ordinary thing for young sea-fairies to get human husbands in this way; the brazen things even come to shore on purpose, and leave their red caps lying around for young men to pick up; but it behooves the husband to keep a strict watch over the red cap, if he would not see his children left motherless. This mermaid's cap has contributed its quota to the superstitions of witchcraft. An Irish story tells how Red James was aroused from sleep one night by noises in the kitchen. Going down to the door, he saw a lot of old women drinking punch around the fireplace, and laughing and joking with his housekeeper. When the punchbowl was empty, they all put on red caps, and singing "By yarrow and rue, And my red cap too, Hie me over to England," they flew up chimney. So Jimmy burst into the room, and seized the housekeeper's cap, and went along with them. They flew across the sea to a castle in England, passed through the keyholes from room to room and into the cellar, where they had a famous carouse. Unluckily Jimmy, being unused to such good cheer, got drunk, and forgot to put on his cap when the others did. So next morning the lord's butler found him dead-drunk on the cellar floor, surrounded by empty casks. He was sentenced to be hung without any trial worth speaking of; but as he was carted to the gallows an old woman cried out, "Ach, Jimmy alanna! Would you be afther dyin' in a strange land without your red birredh?" The lord made no objections, and so the red cap was brought and put on him. Accordingly when Jimmy had got to the gallows and was making his last speech for the edification of the spectators, he unexpectedly and somewhat irrelevantly exclaimed, "By yarrow and rue," etc., and was off like a rocket, shooting through the blue air en route for old Ireland. [92] In another Irish legend an enchanted ass comes into the kitchen of a great house every night, and washes the dishes and scours the tins, so that the servants lead an easy life of it. After a while in their exuberant gratitude they offer him any present for which he may feel inclined to ask. He desires only "an ould coat, to keep the chill off of him these could nights"; but as soon as he gets into the coat he resumes his human form and bids them good by, and thenceforth they may wash their own dishes and scour their own tins, for all him. But we are diverging from the subject of swan-maidens, and are in danger of losing ourselves in that labyrinth of popular fancies which is more intricate than any that Daidalos ever planned. The significance of all these sealskins and feather-dresses and mermaid caps and werewolf-girdles may best be sought in the etymology of words like the German leichnam, in which the body is described as a garment of flesh for the soul. [93] In the naive philosophy of primitive thinkers, the soul, in passing from one visible shape to another, had only to put on the outward integument of the creature in which it wished to incarnate itself. With respect to the mode of metamorphosis, there is little difference between the werewolf and the swan-maiden; and the similarity is no less striking between the genesis of the two conceptions. The original werewolf is the night-wind, regarded now as a manlike deity and now as a howling lupine fiend; and the original swan-maiden is the light fleecy cloud, regarded either as a woman-like goddess or as a bird swimming in the sky sea. The one conception has been productive of little else but horrors; the other has given rise to a great variety of fanciful creations, from the treacherous mermaid and the fiendish nightmare to the gentle Undine, the charming Nausikaa, and the stately Muse of classic antiquity. We have seen that the original werewolf, howling in the wintry blast, is a kind of psychopomp, or leader of departed souls; he is the wild ancestor of the death-dog, whose voice under the window of a sick-chamber is even now a sound of ill-omen. The swan-maiden has also been supposed to summon the dying to her home in the Phaiakian land. The Valkyries, with their shirts of swan-plumage, who hovered over Scandinavian battle-fields to receive the souls of falling heroes, were identical with the Hindu Apsaras; and the Houris of the Mussulman belong to the same family. Even for the angels,--women with large wings, who are seen in popular pictures bearing mortals on high towards heaven,--we can hardly claim a different kinship. Melusina, when she leaves the castle of Lusignan, becomes a Banshee; and it has been a common superstition among sailors, that the appearance of a mermaid, with her comb and looking-glass, foretokens shipwreck, with the loss of all on board. October, 1870. IV. LIGHT AND DARKNESS. WHEN Maitland blasphemously asserted that God was but "a Bogie of the nursery," he unwittingly made a remark as suggestive in point of philology as it was crude and repulsive in its atheism. When examined with the lenses of linguistic science, the "Bogie" or "Bug-a-boo" or "Bugbear" of nursery lore turns out to be identical, not only with the fairy "Puck," whom Shakespeare has immortalized, but also with the Slavonic "Bog" and the "Baga" of the Cuneiform Inscriptions, both of which are names for the Supreme Being. If we proceed further, and inquire after the ancestral form of these epithets,--so strangely incongruous in their significations,--we shall find it in the Old Aryan "Bhaga," which reappears unchanged in the Sanskrit of the Vedas, and has left a memento of itself in the surname of the Phrygian Zeus "Bagaios." It seems originally to have denoted either the unclouded sun or the sky of noonday illumined by the solar rays. In Sayana's commentary on the Rig-Veda, Bhaga is enumerated among the seven (or eight) sons of Aditi, the boundless Orient; and he is elsewhere described as the lord of life, the giver of bread, and the bringer of happiness. [94] Thus the same name which, to the Vedic poet, to the Persian of the time of Xerxes, and to the modern Russian, suggests the supreme majesty of deity, is in English associated with an ugly and ludicrous fiend, closely akin to that grotesque Northern Devil of whom Southey was unable to think without laughing. Such is the irony of fate toward a deposed deity. The German name for idol--Abgott, that is, "ex-god," or "dethroned god"--sums up in a single etymology the history of the havoc wrought by monotheism among the ancient symbols of deity. In the hospitable Pantheon of the Greeks and Romans a niche was always in readiness for every new divinity who could produce respectable credentials; but the triumph of monotheism converted the stately mansion into a Pandemonium peopled with fiends. To the monotheist an "ex-god" was simply a devilish deceiver of mankind whom the true God had succeeded in vanquishing; and thus the word demon, which to the ancient meant a divine or semi-divine being, came to be applied to fiends exclusively. Thus the Teutonic races, who preserved the name of their highest divinity, Odin,--originally, Guodan,--by which to designate the God of the Christian, [95] were unable to regard the Bog of ancient tradition as anything but an "ex-god," or vanquished demon. The most striking illustration of this process is to be found in the word devil itself: To a reader unfamiliar with the endless tricks which language delights in playing, it may seem shocking to be told that the Gypsies use the word devil as the name of God. [96] This, however, is not because these people have made the archfiend an object of worship, but because the Gypsy language, descending directly from the Sanskrit, has retained in its primitive exalted sense a word which the English language has received only in its debased and perverted sense. The Teutonic words devil, teufel, diuval, djofull, djevful, may all be traced back to the Zend dev, [97] a name in which is implicitly contained the record of the oldest monotheistic revolution known to history. The influence of the so-called Zoroastrian reform upon the long-subsequent development of Christianity will receive further notice in the course of this paper; for the present it is enough to know that it furnished for all Christendom the name by which it designates the author of evil. To the Parsee follower of Zarathustra the name of the Devil has very nearly the same signification as to the Christian; yet, as Grimm has shown, it is nothing else than a corruption of deva, the Sanskrit name for God. When Zarathustra overthrew the primeval Aryan nature-worship in Bactria, this name met the same evil fate which in early Christian times overtook the word demon, and from a symbol of reverence became henceforth a symbol of detestation. [98] But throughout the rest of the Aryan world it achieved a nobler career, producing the Greek theos, the Lithuanian diewas, the Latin deus, and hence the modern French Dieu, all meaning God. If we trace back this remarkable word to its primitive source in that once lost but now partially recovered mother-tongue from which all our Aryan languages are descended, we find a root div or dyu, meaning "to shine." From the first-mentioned form comes deva, with its numerous progeny of good and evil appellatives; from the latter is derived the name of Dyaus, with its brethren, Zeus and Jupiter. In Sanskrit dyu, as a noun, means "sky" and "day"; and there are many passages in the Rig-Veda where the character of the god Dyaus, as the personification of the sky or the brightness of the ethereal heavens, is unmistakably apparent. This key unlocks for us one of the secrets of Greek mythology. So long as there was for Zeus no better etymology than that which assigned it to the root zen, "to live," [99] there was little hope of understanding the nature of Zeus. But when we learn that Zeus is identical with Dyaus, the bright sky, we are enabled to understand Horace's expression, "sub Jove frigido," and the prayer of the Athenians, "Rain, rain, dear Zeus, on the land of the Athenians, and on the fields." [100] Such expressions as these were retained by the Greeks and Romans long after they had forgotten that their supreme deity was once the sky. Yet even the Brahman, from whose mind the physical significance of the god's name never wholly disappeared, could speak of him as Father Dyaus, the great Pitri, or ancestor of gods and men; and in this reverential name Dyaus pitar may be seen the exact equivalent of the Roman's Jupiter, or Jove the Father. The same root can be followed into Old German, where Zio is the god of day; and into Anglo-Saxon, where Tiwsdaeg, or the day of Zeus, is the ancestral form of Tuesday. Thus we again reach the same results which were obtained from the examination of the name Bhaga. These various names for the supreme Aryan god, which without the help afforded by the Vedas could never have been interpreted, are seen to have been originally applied to the sun-illumined firmament. Countless other examples, when similarly analyzed, show that the earliest Aryan conception of a Divine Power, nourishing man and sustaining the universe, was suggested by the light of the mighty Sun; who, as modern science has shown, is the originator of all life and motion upon the globe, and whom the ancients delighted to believe the source, not only of "the golden light," [101] but of everything that is bright, joy-giving, and pure. Nevertheless, in accepting this conclusion as well established by linguistic science, we must be on our guard against an error into which writers on mythology are very liable to fall. Neither sky nor sun nor light of day, neither Zeus nor Apollo, neither Dyaus nor Indra, was ever worshipped by the ancient Aryan in anything like a monotheistic sense. To interpret Zeus or Jupiter as originally the supreme Aryan god, and to regard classic paganism as one of the degraded remnants of a primeval monotheism, is to sin against the canons of a sound inductive philosophy. Philology itself teaches us that this could not have been so. Father Dyaus was originally the bright sky and nothing more. Although his name became generalized, in the classic languages, into deus, or God, it is quite certain that in early days, before the Aryan separation, it had acquired no such exalted significance. It was only in Greece and Rome--or, we may say, among the still united Italo-Hellenic tribes--that Jupiter-Zeus attained a pre-eminence over all other deities. The people of Iran quite rejected him, the Teutons preferred Thor and Odin, and in India he was superseded, first by Indra, afterwards by Brahma and Vishnu. We need not, therefore, look for a single supreme divinity among the old Aryans; nor may we expect to find any sense, active or dormant, of monotheism in the primitive intelligence of uncivilized men. [102] The whole fabric of comparative mythology, as at present constituted, and as described above, in the first of these papers, rests upon the postulate that the earliest religion was pure fetichism. In the unsystematic nature-worship of the old Aryans the gods are presented to us only as vague powers, with their nature and attributes dimly defined, and their relations to each other fluctuating and often contradictory. There is no theogony, no regular subordination of one deity to another. The same pair of divinities appear now as father and daughter, now as brother and sister, now as husband and wife; and again they quite lose their personality, and are represented as mere natural phenomena. As Muller observes, "The poets of the Veda indulged freely in theogonic speculations without being frightened by any contradictions. They knew of Indra as the greatest of gods, they knew of Agni as the god of gods, they knew of Varuna as the ruler of all; but they were by no means startled at the idea that their Indra had a mother, or that their Agni [Latin ignis] was born like a babe from the friction of two fire-sticks, or that Varuna and his brother Mitra were nursed in the lap of Aditi." [103] Thus we have seen Bhaga, the daylight, represented as the offspring, of Aditi, the boundless Orient; but he had several brothers, and among them were Mitra, the sun, Varuna, the overarching firmament, and Vivasvat, the vivifying sun. Manifestly we have here but so many different names for what is at bottom one and the same conception. The common element which, in Dyaus and Varuna, in Bhaga and Indra, was made an object of worship, is the brightness, warmth, and life of day, as contrasted with the darkness, cold, and seeming death of the night-time. And this common element was personified in as many different ways as the unrestrained fancy of the ancient worshipper saw fit to devise. [104] Thus we begin to see why a few simple objects, like the sun, the sky, the dawn, and the night, should be represented in mythology by such a host of gods, goddesses, and heroes. For at one time the Sun is represented as the conqueror of hydras and dragons who hide away from men the golden treasures of light and warmth, and at another time he is represented as a weary voyager traversing the sky-sea amid many perils, with the steadfast purpose of returning to his western home and his twilight bride; hence the different conceptions of Herakles, Bellerophon, and Odysseus. Now he is represented as the son of the Dawn, and again, with equal propriety, as the son of the Night, and the fickle lover of the Dawn; hence we have, on the one hand, stories of a virgin mother who dies in giving birth to a hero, and, on the other hand, stories of a beautiful maiden who is forsaken and perhaps cruelly slain by her treacherous lover. Indeed, the Sun's adventures with so many dawn-maidens have given him quite a bad character, and the legends are numerous in which he appears as the prototype of Don Juan. Yet again his separation from the bride of his youth is described as due to no fault of his own, but to a resistless decree of fate, which hurries him away as Aineias was compelled to abandon Dido. Or, according to a third and equally plausible notion, he is a hero of ascetic virtues, and the dawn-maiden is a wicked enchantress, daughter of the sensual Aphrodite, who vainly endeavours to seduce him. In the story of Odysseus these various conceptions are blended together. When enticed by artful women, [105] he yields for a while to the temptation; but by and by his longing to see Penelope takes him homeward, albeit with a record which Penelope might not altogether have liked. Again, though the Sun, "always roaming with a hungry heart," has seen many cities and customs of strange men, he is nevertheless confined to a single path,--a circumstance which seems to have occasioned much speculation in the primeval mind. Garcilaso de la Vega relates of a certain Peruvian Inca, who seems to have been an "infidel" with reference to the orthodox mythology of his day, that he thought the Sun was not such a mighty god after all; for if he were, he would wander about the heavens at random instead of going forever, like a horse in a treadmill, along the same course. The American Indians explained this circumstance by myths which told how the Sun was once caught and tied with a chain which would only let him swing a little way to one side or the other. The ancient Aryan developed the nobler myth of the labours of Herakles, performed in obedience to the bidding of Eurystheus. Again, the Sun must needs destroy its parents, the Night and the Dawn; and accordingly his parents, forewarned by prophecy, expose him in infancy, or order him to be put to death; but his tragic destiny never fails to be accomplished to the letter. And again the Sun, who engages in quarrels not his own, is sometimes represented as retiring moodily from the sight of men, like Achilleus and Meleagros: he is short-lived and ill-fated, born to do much good and to be repaid with ingratitude; his life depends on the duration of a burning brand, and when that is extinguished he must die. The myth of the great Theban hero, Oidipous, well illustrates the multiplicity of conceptions which clustered about the daily career of the solar orb. His father, Laios, had been warned by the Delphic oracle that he was in danger of death from his own son. The newly born Oidipous was therefore exposed on the hillside, but, like Romulus and Remus, and all infants similarly situated in legend, was duly rescued. He was taken to Corinth, where he grew up to manhood. Journeying once to Thebes, he got into a quarrel with an old man whom he met on the road, and slew him, who was none other than his father, Laios. Reaching Thebes, he found the city harassed by the Sphinx, who afflicted the land with drought until she should receive an answer to her riddles. Oidipous destroyed the monster by solving her dark sayings, and as a reward received the kingdom, with his own mother, Iokaste, as his bride. Then the Erinyes hastened the discovery of these dark deeds; Iokaste died in her bridal chamber; and Oidipous, having blinded himself, fled to the grove of the Eumenides, near Athens, where, amid flashing lightning and peals of thunder, he died. Oidipous is the Sun. Like all the solar heroes, from Herakles and Perseus to Sigurd and William Tell, he performs his marvellous deeds at the behest of others. His father, Laios, is none other than the Vedic Dasyu, the night-demon who is sure to be destroyed by his solar offspring In the evening, Oidipous is united to the Dawn, the mother who had borne him at daybreak; and here the original story doubtless ended. In the Vedic hymns we find Indra, the Sun, born of Dahana (Daphne), the Dawn, whom he afterwards, in the evening twilight, marries. To the Indian mind the story was here complete; but the Greeks had forgotten and outgrown the primitive signification of the myth. To them Oidipous and Iokaste were human, or at least anthropomorphic beings; and a marriage between them was a fearful crime which called for bitter expiation. Thus the latter part of the story arose in the effort to satisfy a moral feeling As the name of Laios denotes the dark night, so, like Iole, Oinone, and Iamos, the word Iokaste signifies the delicate violet tints of the morning and evening clouds. Oidipous was exposed, like Paris upon Ida (a Vedic word meaning "the earth"), because the sunlight in the morning lies upon the hillside. [106] He is borne on to the destruction of his father and the incestuous marriage with his mother by an irresistible Moira, or Fate; the sun cannot but slay the darkness and hasten to the couch of the violet twilight. [107] The Sphinx is the storm-demon who sits on the cloud-rock and imprisons the rain; she is the same as Medusa, Ahi, or Echidna, and Chimaira, and is akin to the throttling snakes of darkness which the jealous Here sent to destroy Herakles in his cradle. The idea was not derived from Egypt, but the Greeks, on finding Egyptian figures resembling their conception of the Sphinx, called them by the same name. The omniscient Sun comprehends the sense of her dark mutterings, and destroys her, as Indra slays Vritra, bringing down rain upon the parched earth. The Erinyes, who bring to light the crimes of Oidipous, have been explained, in a previous paper, as the personification of daylight, which reveals the evil deeds done under the cover of night. The grove of the Erinyes, like the garden of the Hyperboreans, represents "the fairy network of clouds, which are the first to receive and the last to lose the light of the sun in the morning and in the evening; hence, although Oidipous dies in a thunder-storm, yet the Eumenides are kind to him, and his last hour is one of deep peace and tranquillity." [108] To the last remains with him his daughter Antigone, "she who is born opposite," the pale light which springs up opposite to the setting sun. These examples show that a story-root may be as prolific of heterogeneous offspring as a word-root. Just as we find the root spak, "to look," begetting words so various as sceptic, bishop, speculate, conspicsuous, species, and spice, we must expect to find a simple representation of the diurnal course of the sun, like those lyrically given in the Veda, branching off into stories as diversified as those of Oidipous, Herakles, Odysseus, and Siegfried. In fact, the types upon which stories are constructed are wonderfully few. Some clever playwright--I believe it was Scribe--has said that there are only seven possible dramatic situations; that is, all the plays in the world may be classed with some one of seven archetypal dramas. [109] If this be true, the astonishing complexity of mythology taken in the concrete, as compared with its extreme simplicity when analyzed, need not surprise us. The extreme limits of divergence between stories descended from a common root are probably reached in the myths of light and darkness with which the present discussion is mainly concerned The subject will be best elucidated by taking a single one of these myths and following its various fortunes through different regions of the Aryan world. The myth of Hercules and Cacus has been treated by M. Breal in an essay which is one of the most valuable contributions ever made to the study of comparative mythology; and while following his footsteps our task will be an easy one. The battle between Hercules and Cacus, although one of the oldest of the traditions common to the whole Indo-European race, appears in Italy as a purely local legend, and is narrated as such by Virgil, in the eighth book of the AEneid; by Livy, at the beginning of his history; and by Propertius and Ovid. Hercules, journeying through Italy after his victory over Geryon, stops to rest by the bank of the Tiber. While he is taking his repose, the three-headed monster Cacus, a son of Vulcan and a formidable brigand, comes and steals his cattle, and drags them tail-foremost to a secret cavern in the rocks. But the lowing of the cows arouses Hercules, and he runs toward the cavern where the robber, already frightened, has taken refuge. Armed with a huge flinty rock, he breaks open the entrance of the cavern, and confronts the demon within, who vomits forth flames at him and roars like the thunder in the storm-cloud. After a short combat, his hideous body falls at the feet of the invincible hero, who erects on the spot an altar to Jupiter Inventor, in commemoration of the recovery of his cattle. Ancient Rome teemed with reminiscences of this event, which Livy regarded as first in the long series of the exploits of his countrymen. The place where Hercules pastured his oxen was known long after as the Forum Boarium; near it the Porta Trigemina preserved the recollection of the monster's triple head; and in the time of Diodorus Siculus sight-seers were shown the cavern of Cacus on the slope of the Aventine. Every tenth day the earlier generations of Romans celebrated the victory with solemn sacrifices at the Ara Maxima; and on days of triumph the fortunate general deposited there a tithe of his booty, to be distributed among the citizens. In this famous myth, however, the god Hercules did not originally figure. The Latin Hercules was an essentially peaceful and domestic deity, watching over households and enclosures, and nearly akin to Terminus and the Penates. He does not appear to have been a solar divinity at all. But the purely accidental resemblance of his name to that of the Greek deity Herakles, [110] and the manifest identity of the Cacus-myth with the story of the victory of Herakles over Geryon, led to the substitution of Hercules for the original hero of the legend, who was none other than Jupiter, called by his Sabine name Sancus. Now Johannes Lydus informs us that, in Sabine, Sancus signified "the sky," a meaning which we have already seen to belong to the name Jupiter. The same substitution of the Greek hero for the Roman divinity led to the alteration of the name of the demon overcome by his thunderbolts. The corrupted title Cacus was supposed to be identical with the Greek word kakos, meaning "evil" and the corruption was suggested by the epithet of Herakles, Alexikakos, or "the averter of ill." Originally, however, the name was Caecius, "he who blinds or darkens," and it corresponds literally to the name of the Greek demon Kaikias, whom an old proverb, preserved by Aulus Gellius, describes as a stealer of the clouds. [111] Thus the significance of the myth becomes apparent. The three-headed Cacus is seen to be a near kinsman of Geryon's three-headed dog Orthros, and of the three-headed Kerberos, the hell-hound who guards the dark regions below the horizon. He is the original werewolf or Rakshasa, the fiend of the storm who steals the bright cattle of Helios, and hides them in the black cavernous rock, from which they are afterwards rescued by the schamir or lightning-stone of the solar hero. The physical character of the myth is apparent even in the description of Virgil, which reads wonderfully like a Vedic hymn in celebration of the exploits of Indra. But when we turn to the Veda itself, we find the correctness of the interpretation demonstrated again and again, with inexhaustible prodigality of evidence. Here we encounter again the three-headed Orthros under the identical title of Vritra, "he who shrouds or envelops," called also Cushna, "he who parches," Pani, "the robber," and Ahi, "the strangler." In many hymns of the Rig-Veda the story is told over and over, like a musical theme arranged with variations. Indra, the god of light, is a herdsman who tends a herd of bright golden or violet-coloured cattle. Vritra, a snake-like monster with three heads, steals them and hides them in a cavern, but Indra slays him as Jupiter slew Caecius, and the cows are recovered. The language of the myth is so significant, that the Hindu commentators of the Veda have themselves given explanations of it similar to those proposed by modern philologists. To them the legend never became devoid of sense, as the myth of Geryon appeared to Greek scholars like Apollodoros. [112] These celestial cattle, with their resplendent coats of purple and gold, are the clouds lit up by the solar rays; but the demon who steals them is not always the fiend of the storm, acting in that capacity. They are stolen every night by Vritra the concealer, and Caecius the darkener, and Indra is obliged to spend hours in looking for them, sending Sarama, the inconstant twilight, to negotiate for their recovery. Between the storm-myth and the myth of night and morning the resemblance is sometimes so close as to confuse the interpretation of the two. Many legends which Max Muller explains as myths of the victory of day over night are explained by Dr. Kuhn as storm-myths; and the disagreement between two such powerful champions would be a standing reproach to what is rather prematurely called the SCIENCE of comparative mythology, were it not easy to show that the difference is merely apparent and non-essential. It is the old story of the shield with two sides; and a comparison of the ideas fundamental to these myths will show that there is no valid ground for disagreement in the interpretation of them. The myths of schamir and the divining-rod, analyzed in a previous paper, explain the rending of the thunder-cloud and the procuring of water without especial reference to any struggle between opposing divinities. But in the myth of Hercules and Cacus, the fundamental idea is the victory of the solar god over the robber who steals the light. Now whether the robber carries off the light in the evening when Indra has gone to sleep, or boldly rears his black form against the sky during the daytime, causing darkness to spread over the earth, would make little difference to the framers of the myth. To a chicken a solar eclipse is the same thing as nightfall, and he goes to roost accordingly. Why, then, should the primitive thinker have made a distinction between the darkening of the sky caused by black clouds and that caused by the rotation of the earth? He had no more conception of the scientific explanation of these phenomena than the chicken has of the scientific explanation of an eclipse. For him it was enough to know that the solar radiance was stolen, in the one case as in the other, and to suspect that the same demon was to blame for both robberies. The Veda itself sustains this view. It is certain that the victory of Indra over Vritra is essentially the same as his victory over the Panis. Vritra, the storm-fiend, is himself called one of the Panis; yet the latter are uniformly represented as night-demons. They steal Indra's golden cattle and drive them by circuitous paths to a dark hiding-place near the eastern horizon. Indra sends the dawn-nymph, Sarama, to search for them, but as she comes within sight of the dark stable, the Panis try to coax her to stay with them: "Let us make thee our sister, do not go away again; we will give thee part of the cows, O darling." [113] According to the text of this hymn, she scorns their solicitations, but elsewhere the fickle dawn-nymph is said to coquet with the powers of darkness. She does not care for their cows, but will take a drink of milk, if they will be so good as to get it for her. Then she goes back and tells Indra that she cannot find the cows. He kicks her with his foot, and she runs back to the Panis, followed by the god, who smites them all with his unerring arrows and recovers the stolen light. From such a simple beginning as this has been deduced the Greek myth of the faithlessness of Helen. [114] These night-demons, the Panis, though not apparently regarded with any strong feeling of moral condemnation, are nevertheless hated and dreaded as the authors of calamity. They not only steal the daylight, but they parch the earth and wither the fruits, and they slay vegetation during the winter months. As Caecius, the "darkener," became ultimately changed into Cacus, the "evil one," so the name of Vritra, the "concealer," the most famous of the Panis, was gradually generalized until it came to mean "enemy," like the English word fiend, and began to be applied indiscriminately to any kind of evil spirit. In one place he is called Adeva, the "enemy of the gods," an epithet exactly equivalent to the Persian dev. In the Zendavesta the myth of Hercules and Cacus has given rise to a vast system of theology. The fiendish Panis are concentrated in Ahriman or Anro-mainyas, whose name signifies the "spirit of darkness," and who carries on a perpetual warfare against Ormuzd or Ahuramazda, who is described by his ordinary surname, Spentomainyas, as the "spirit of light." The ancient polytheism here gives place to a refined dualism, not very different from what in many Christian sects has passed current as monotheism. Ahriman is the archfiend, who struggles with Ormuzd, not for the possession of a herd of perishable cattle, but for the dominion of the universe. Ormuzd creates the world pure and beautiful, but Ahriman comes after him and creates everything that is evil in it. He not only keeps the earth covered with darkness during half of the day, and withholds the rain and destroys the crops, but he is the author of all evil thoughts and the instigator of all wicked actions. Like his progenitor Vritra and his offspring Satan, he is represented under the form of a serpent; and the destruction which ultimately awaits these demons is also in reserve for him. Eventually there is to be a day of reckoning, when Ahriman will be bound in chains and rendered powerless, or when, according to another account, he will be converted to righteousness, as Burns hoped and Origen believed would be the case with Satan. This dualism of the ancient Persians has exerted a powerful influence upon the development of Christian theology. The very idea of an archfiend Satan, which Christianity received from Judaism, seems either to have been suggested by the Persian Ahriman, or at least to have derived its principal characteristics from that source. There is no evidence that the Jews, previous to the Babylonish captivity, possessed the conception of a Devil as the author of all evil. In the earlier books of the Old Testament Jehovah is represented as dispensing with his own hand the good and the evil, like the Zeus of the Iliad. [115] The story of the serpent in Eden--an Aryan story in every particular, which has crept into the Pentateuch--is not once alluded to in the Old Testament; and the notion of Satan as the author of evil appears only in the later books, composed after the Jews had come into close contact with Persian ideas. [116] In the Book of Job, as Reville observes, Satan is "still a member of the celestial court, being one of the sons of the Elohim, but having as his special office the continual accusation of men, and having become so suspicious by his practice as public accuser, that he believes in the virtue of no one, and always presupposes interested motives for the purest manifestations of human piety." In this way the character of this angel became injured, and he became more and more an object of dread and dislike to men, until the later Jews ascribed to him all the attributes of Ahriman, and in this singularly altered shape he passed into Christian theology. Between the Satan of the Book of Job and the mediaeval Devil the metamorphosis is as great as that which degraded the stern Erinys, who brings evil deeds to light, into the demon-like Fury who torments wrong-doers in Tartarus; and, making allowance for difference of circumstances, the process of degradation has been very nearly the same in the two cases. The mediaeval conception of the Devil is a grotesque compound of elements derived from all the systems of pagan mythology which Christianity superseded. He is primarily a rebellious angel, expelled from heaven along with his followers, like the giants who attempted to scale Olympos, and like the impious Efreets of Arabian legend who revolted against the beneficent rule of Solomon. As the serpent prince of the outer darkness, he retains the old characteristics of Vritra, Ahi, Typhon, and Echidna. As the black dog which appears behind the stove in Dr. Faust's study, he is the classic hell-hound Kerberos, the Vedic Carvara. From the sylvan deity Pan he gets his goat-like body, his horns and cloven hoofs. Like the wind-god Orpheus, to whose music the trees bent their heads to listen, he is an unrivalled player on the bagpipes. Like those other wind-gods the psychopomp Hermes and the wild huntsman Odin, he is the prince of the powers of the air: his flight through the midnight sky, attended by his troop of witches mounted on their brooms, which sometimes break the boughs and sweep the leaves from the trees, is the same as the furious chase of the Erlking Odin or the Burckar Vittikab. He is Dionysos, who causes red wine to flow from the dry wood, alike on the deck of the Tyrrhenian pirate-ship and in Auerbach's cellar at Leipzig. He is Wayland, the smith, a skilful worker in metals and a wonderful architect, like the classic fire-god Hephaistos or Vulcan; and, like Hephaistos, he is lame from the effects of his fall from heaven. From the lightning-god Thor he obtains his red beard, his pitchfork, and his power over thunderbolts; and, like that ancient deity, he is in the habit of beating his wife behind the door when the rain falls during sunshine. Finally, he takes a hint from Poseidon and from the swan-maidens, and appears as a water-imp or Nixy (whence probably his name of Old Nick), and as the Davy (deva) whose "locker" is situated at the bottom of the sea. [117] According to the Scotch divines of the seventeenth century, the Devil is a learned scholar and profound thinker. Having profited by six thousand years of intense study and meditation, he has all science, philosophy, and theology at his tongue's end; and, as his skill has increased with age, he is far more than a match for mortals in cunning. [118] Such, however, is not the view taken by mediaeval mythology, which usually represents his stupidity as equalling his malignity. The victory of Hercules over Cacus is repeated in a hundred mediaeval legends in which the Devil is overreached and made a laughing-stock. The germ of this notion may be found in the blinding of Polyphemos by Odysseus, which is itself a victory of the sun-hero over the night-demon, and which curiously reappears in a Middle-Age story narrated by Mr. Cox. "The Devil asks a man who is moulding buttons what he may be doing; and when the man answers that he is moulding eyes, asks him further whether he can give him a pair of new eyes. He is told to come again another day; and when he makes his appearance accordingly, the man tells him that the operation cannot be performed rightly unless he is first tightly bound with his back fastened to a bench. While he is thus pinioned he asks the man's name. The reply is Issi (`himself'). When the lead is melted, the Devil opens his eyes wide to receive the deadly stream. As soon as he is blinded, he starts up in agony, bearing away the bench to which he had been bound; and when some workpeople in the fields ask him who had thus treated him, his answer is, 'Issi teggi' (`Self did it'). With a laugh they bid him lie on the bed which he has made: 'selbst gethan, selbst habe.' The Devil died of his new eyes, and was never seen again." In his attempts to obtain human souls the Devil is frequently foiled by the superior cunning of mortals. Once, he agreed to build a house for a peasant in exchange for the peasant's soul; but if the house were not finished before cockcrow, the contract was to be null and void. Just as the Devil was putting on the last tile the man imitated a cockcrow and waked up all the roosters in the neighbourhood, so that the fiend had his labour for his pains. A merchant of Louvain once sold himself to the Devil, who heaped upon him all manner of riches for seven years, and then came to get him. The merchant "took the Devil in a friendly manner by the hand and, as it was just evening, said, 'Wife, bring a light quickly for the gentleman.' 'That is not at all necessary,' said the Devil; 'I am merely come to fetch you.' 'Yes, yes, that I know very well,' said the merchant, 'only just grant me the time till this little candle-end is burnt out, as I have a few letters to sign and to put on my coat.' 'Very well,' said the Devil, 'but only till the candle is burnt out.' 'Good,' said the merchant, and going into the next room, ordered the maid-servant to place a large cask full of water close to a very deep pit that was dug in the garden. The men-servants also carried, each of them, a cask to the spot; and when all was done, they were ordered each to take a shovel, and stand round the pit. The merchant then returned to the Devil, who seeing that not more than about an inch of candle remained, said, laughing, 'Now get yourself ready, it will soon be burnt out.' 'That I see, and am content; but I shall hold you to your word, and stay till it IS burnt.' 'Of course,' answered the Devil; 'I stick to my word.' 'It is dark in the next room,' continued the merchant, 'but I must find the great book with clasps, so let me just take the light for one moment.' 'Certainly,' said the Devil, 'but I'll go with you.' He did so, and the merchant's trepidation was now on the increase. When in the next room he said on a sudden, 'Ah, now I know, the key is in the garden door.' And with these words he ran out with the light into the garden, and before the Devil could overtake him, threw it into the pit, and the men and the maids poured water upon it, and then filled up the hole with earth. Now came the Devil into the garden and asked, 'Well, did you get the key? and how is it with the candle? where is it?' 'The candle?' said the merchant. 'Yes, the candle.' 'Ha, ha, ha! it is not yet burnt out,' answered the merchant, laughing, 'and will not be burnt out for the next fifty years; it lies there a hundred fathoms deep in the earth.' When the Devil heard this he screamed awfully, and went off with a most intolerable stench." [119] One day a fowler, who was a terrible bungler and could n't hit a bird at a dozen paces, sold his soul to the Devil in order to become a Freischutz. The fiend was to come for him in seven years, but must be always able to name the animal at which he was shooting, otherwise the compact was to be nullified. After that day the fowler never missed his aim, and never did a fowler command such wages. When the seven years were out the fowler told all these things to his wife, and the twain hit upon an expedient for cheating the Devil. The woman stripped herself, daubed her whole body with molasses, and rolled herself up in a feather-bed, cut open for this purpose. Then she hopped and skipped about the field where her husband stood parleying with Old Nick. "there's a shot for you, fire away," said the Devil. "Of course I'll fire, but do you first tell me what kind of a bird it is; else our agreement is cancelled, Old Boy." There was no help for it; the Devil had to own himself nonplussed, and off he fled, with a whiff of brimstone which nearly suffocated the Freischutz and his good woman. [120] In the legend of Gambrinus, the fiend is still more ingloriously defeated. Gambrinus was a fiddler, who, being jilted by his sweetheart, went out into the woods to hang himself. As he was sitting on the bough, with the cord about his neck, preparatory to taking the fatal plunge, suddenly a tall man in a green coat appeared before him, and offered his services. He might become as wealthy as he liked, and make his sweetheart burst with vexation at her own folly, but in thirty years he must give up his soul to Beelzebub. The bargain was struck, for Gambrinus thought thirty years a long time to enjoy one's self in, and perhaps the Devil might get him in any event; as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. Aided by Satan, he invented chiming-bells and lager-beer, for both of which achievements his name is held in grateful remembrance by the Teuton. No sooner had the Holy Roman Emperor quaffed a gallon or two of the new beverage than he made Gambrinus Duke of Brabant and Count of Flanders, and then it was the fiddler's turn to laugh at the discomfiture of his old sweetheart. Gambrinus kept clear of women, says the legend, and so lived in peace. For thirty years he sat beneath his belfry with the chimes, meditatively drinking beer with his nobles and burghers around him. Then Beelzebub sent Jocko, one of his imps, with orders to bring back Gambrinus before midnight. But Jocko was, like Swiveller's Marchioness, ignorant of the taste of beer, never having drunk of it even in a sip, and the Flemish schoppen were too much for him. He fell into a drunken sleep, and did not wake up until noon next day, at which he was so mortified that he had not the face to go back to hell at all. So Gambrinus lived on tranquilly for a century or two, and drank so much beer that he turned into a beer-barrel. [121] The character of gullibility attributed to the Devil in these legends is probably derived from the Trolls, or "night-folk," of Northern mythology. In most respects the Trolls resemble the Teutonic elves and fairies, and the Jinn or Efreets of the Arabian Nights; but their pedigree is less honourable. The fairies, or "White Ladies," were not originally spirits of darkness, but were nearly akin to the swan-maidens, dawn-nymphs, and dryads, and though their wrath was to be dreaded, they were not malignant by nature. Christianity, having no place for such beings, degraded them into something like imps; the most charitable theory being that they were angels who had remained neutral during Satan's rebellion, in punishment for which Michael expelled them from heaven, but has left their ultimate fate unannounced until the day of judgment. The Jinn appear to have been similarly degraded on the rise of Mohammedanism. But the Trolls were always imps of darkness. They are descended from the Jotuns, or Frost-Giants of Northern paganism, and they correspond to the Panis, or night-demons of the Veda. In many Norse tales they are said to burst when they see the risen sun. [122] They eat human flesh, are ignorant of the simplest arts, and live in the deepest recesses of the forest or in caverns on the hillside, where the sunlight never penetrates. Some of these characteristics may very likely have been suggested by reminiscences of the primeval Lapps, from whom the Aryan invaders wrested the dominion of Europe. [123] In some legends the Trolls are represented as an ancient race of beings now superseded by the human race. "'What sort of an earth-worm is this?' said one Giant to another, when they met a man as they walked. 'These are the earth-worms that will one day eat us up, brother,' answered the other; and soon both Giants left that part of Germany." "'See what pretty playthings, mother!' cries the Giant's daughter, as she unties her apron, and shows her a plough, and horses, and a peasant. 'Back with them this instant,' cries the mother in wrath, 'and put them down as carefully as you can, for these playthings can do our race great harm, and when these come we must budge.'" Very naturally the primitive Teuton, possessing already the conception of night-demons, would apply it to these men of the woods whom even to this day his uneducated descendants believe to be sorcerers, able to turn men into wolves. But whatever contributions historical fact may have added to his character, the Troll is originally a creation of mythology, like Polyphemos, whom he resembles in his uncouth person, his cannibal appetite, and his lack of wit. His ready gullibility is shown in the story of "Boots who ate a Match with the Troll." Boots, the brother of Cinderella, and the counterpart alike of Jack the Giant-killer, and of Odysseus, is the youngest of three brothers who go into a forest to cut wood. The Troll appears and threatens to kill any one who dares to meddle with his timber. The elder brothers flee, but Boots puts on a bold face. He pulled a cheese out of his scrip and squeezed it till the whey began to spurt out. "Hold your tongue, you dirty Troll," said he, "or I'll squeeze you as I squeeze this stone." So the Troll grew timid and begged to be spared, [124] and Boots let him off on condition that he would hew all day with him. They worked till nightfall, and the Troll's giant strength accomplished wonders. Then Boots went home with the Troll, having arranged that he should get the water while his host made the fire. When they reached the hut there were two enormous iron pails, so heavy that none but a Troll could lift them, but Boots was not to be frightened. "Bah!" said he. "Do you suppose I am going to get water in those paltry hand-basins? Hold on till I go and get the spring itself!" "O dear!" said the Troll, "I'd rather not; do you make the fire, and I'll get the water." Then when the soup was made, Boots challenged his new friend to an eating-match; and tying his scrip in front of him, proceeded to pour soup into it by the ladleful. By and by the giant threw down his spoon in despair, and owned himself conquered. "No, no! don't give it up yet," said Boots, "just cut a hole in your stomach like this, and you can eat forever." And suiting the action to the words, he ripped open his scrip. So the silly Troll cut himself open and died, and Boots carried off all his gold and silver. Once there was a Troll whose name was Wind-and-Weather, and Saint Olaf hired him to build a church. If the church were completed within a certain specified time, the Troll was to get possession of Saint Olaf. The saint then planned such a stupendous edifice that he thought the giant would be forever building it; but the work went on briskly, and at the appointed day nothing remained but to finish the point of the spire. In his consternation Olaf rushed about until he passed by the Troll's den, when he heard the giantess telling her children that their father, Wind-and-Weather, was finishing his church, and would be home to-morrow with Saint Olaf. So the saint ran back to the church and bawled out, "Hold on, Wind-and-Weather, your spire is crooked!" Then the giant tumbled down from the roof and broke into a thousand pieces. As in the cases of the Mara and the werewolf, the enchantment was at an end as soon as the enchanter was called by name. These Trolls, like the Arabian Efreets, had an ugly habit of carrying off beautiful princesses. This is strictly in keeping with their character as night-demons, or Panis. In the stories of Punchkin and the Heartless Giant, the night-demon carries off the dawn-maiden after having turned into stone her solar brethren. But Boots, or Indra, in search of his kinsfolk, by and by arrives at the Troll's castle, and then the dawn-nymph, true to her fickle character, cajoles the Giant and enables Boots to destroy him. In the famous myth which serves as the basis for the Volsunga Saga and the Nibelungenlied, the dragon Fafnir steals the Valkyrie Brynhild and keeps her shut up in a castle on the Glistening Heath, until some champion shall be found powerful enough to rescue her. The castle is as hard to enter as that of the Sleeping Beauty; but Sigurd, the Northern Achilleus, riding on his deathless horse, and wielding his resistless sword Gram, forces his way in, slays Fafnir, and recovers the Valkyrie. In the preceding paper the Valkyries were shown to belong to the class of cloud-maidens; and between the tale of Sigurd and that of Hercules and Cacus there is no difference, save that the bright sunlit clouds which are represented in the one as cows are in the other represented as maidens. In the myth of the Argonauts they reappear as the Golden Fleece, carried to the far east by Phrixos and Helle, who are themselves Niblungs, or "Children of the Mist" (Nephele), and there guarded by a dragon. In all these myths a treasure is stolen by a fiend of darkness, and recovered by a hero of light, who slays the demon. And--remembering what Scribe said about the fewness of dramatic types--I believe we are warranted in asserting that all the stories of lovely women held in bondage by monsters, and rescued by heroes who perform wonderful tasks, such as Don Quixote burned to achieve, are derived ultimately from solar myths, like the myth of Sigurd and Brynhild. I do not mean to say that the story-tellers who beguiled their time in stringing together the incidents which make up these legends were conscious of their solar character. They did not go to work, with malice prepense, to weave allegories and apologues. The Greeks who first told the story of Perseus and Andromeda, the Arabians who devised the tale of Codadad and his brethren, the Flemings who listened over their beer-mugs to the adventures of Culotte-Verte, were not thinking of sun-gods or dawn-maidens, or night-demons; and no theory of mythology can be sound which implies such an extravagance. Most of these stories have lived on the lips of the common people; and illiterate persons are not in the habit of allegorizing in the style of mediaeval monks or rabbinical commentators. But what has been amply demonstrated is, that the sun and the clouds, the light and the darkness, were once supposed to be actuated by wills analogous to the human will; that they were personified and worshipped or propitiated by sacrifice; and that their doings were described in language which applied so well to the deeds of human or quasi-human beings that in course of time its primitive purport faded from recollection. No competent scholar now doubts that the myths of the Veda and the Edda originated in this way, for philology itself shows that the names employed in them are the names of the great phenomena of nature. And when once a few striking stories had thus arisen,--when once it had been told how Indra smote the Panis, and how Sigurd rescued Brynhild, and how Odysseus blinded the Kyklops,--then certain mythic or dramatic types had been called into existence; and to these types, preserved in the popular imagination, future stories would inevitably conform. We need, therefore, have no hesitation in admitting a common origin for the vanquished Panis and the outwitted Troll or Devil; we may securely compare the legends of St. George and Jack the Giant-killer with the myth of Indra slaying Vritra; we may see in the invincible Sigurd the prototype of many a doughty knight-errant of romance; and we may learn anew the lesson, taught with fresh emphasis by modern scholarship, that in the deepest sense there is nothing new under the sun. I am the more explicit on this point, because it seems to me that the unguarded language of many students of mythology is liable to give rise to misapprehensions, and to discredit both the method which they employ and the results which they have obtained. If we were to give full weight to the statements which are sometimes made, we should perforce believe that primitive men had nothing to do but to ponder about the sun and the clouds, and to worry themselves over the disappearance of daylight. But there is nothing in the scientific interpretation of myths which obliges us to go any such length. I do not suppose that any ancient Aryan, possessed of good digestive powers and endowed with sound common-sense, ever lay awake half the night wondering whether the sun would come back again. [125] The child and the savage believe of necessity that the future will resemble the past, and it is only philosophy which raises doubts on the subject. [126] The predominance of solar legends in most systems of mythology is not due to the lack of "that Titanic assurance with which we say, the sun MUST rise"; [127] nor again to the fact that the phenomena of day and night are the most striking phenomena in nature. Eclipses and earthquakes and floods are phenomena of the most terrible and astounding kind, and they have all generated myths; yet their contributions to folk-lore are scanty compared with those furnished by the strife between the day-god and his enemies. The sun-myths have been so prolific because the dramatic types to which they have given rise are of surpassing human interest. The dragon who swallows the sun is no doubt a fearful personage; but the hero who toils for others, who slays hydra-headed monsters, and dries the tears of fair-haired damsels, and achieves success in spite of incredible obstacles, is a being with whom we can all sympathize, and of whom we never weary of hearing. With many of these legends which present the myth of light and darkness in its most attractive form, the reader is already acquainted, and it is needless to retail stories which have been told over and over again in books which every one is presumed to have read. I will content myself with a weird Irish legend, narrated by Mr. Patrick Kennedy, [128] in which we here and there catch glimpses of the primitive mythical symbols, as fragments of gold are seen gleaming through the crystal of quartz. Long before the Danes ever came to Ireland, there died at Muskerry a Sculloge, or country farmer, who by dint of hard work and close economy had amassed enormous wealth. His only son did not resemble him. When the young Sculloge looked about the house, the day after his father's death, and saw the big chests full of gold and silver, and the cupboards shining with piles of sovereigns, and the old stockings stuffed with large and small coin, he said to himself, "Bedad, how shall I ever be able to spend the likes o' that!" And so he drank, and gambled, and wasted his time in hunting and horse-racing, until after a while he found the chests empty and the cupboards poverty-stricken, and the stockings lean and penniless. Then he mortgaged his farm-house and gambled away all the money he got for it, and then he bethought him that a few hundred pounds might be raised on his mill. But when he went to look at it, he found "the dam broken, and scarcely a thimbleful of water in the mill-race, and the wheel rotten, and the thatch of the house all gone, and the upper millstone lying flat on the lower one, and a coat of dust and mould over everything." So he made up his mind to borrow a horse and take one more hunt to-morrow and then reform his habits. As he was returning late in the evening from this farewell hunt, passing through a lonely glen he came upon an old man playing backgammon, betting on his left hand against his right, and crying and cursing because the right WOULD win. "Come and bet with me," said he to Sculloge. "Faith, I have but a sixpence in the world," was the reply; "but, if you like, I'll wager that on the right." "Done," said the old man, who was a Druid; "if you win I'll give you a hundred guineas." So the game was played, and the old man, whose right hand was always the winner, paid over the guineas and told Sculloge to go to the Devil with them. Instead of following this bit of advice, however, the young farmer went home and began to pay his debts, and next week he went to the glen and won another game, and made the Druid rebuild his mill. So Sculloge became prosperous again, and by and by he tried his luck a third time, and won a game played for a beautiful wife. The Druid sent her to his house the next morning before he was out of bed, and his servants came knocking at the door and crying, "Wake up! wake up! Master Sculloge, there's a young lady here to see you." "Bedad, it's the vanithee [129] herself," said Sculloge; and getting up in a hurry, he spent three quarters of an hour in dressing himself. At last he went down stairs, and there on the sofa was the prettiest lady ever seen in Ireland! Naturally, Sculloge's heart beat fast and his voice trembled, as he begged the lady's pardon for this Druidic style of wooing, and besought her not to feel obliged to stay with him unless she really liked him. But the young lady, who was a king's daughter from a far country, was wondrously charmed with the handsome farmer, and so well did they get along that the priest was sent for without further delay, and they were married before sundown. Sabina was the vanithee's name; and she warned her husband to have no more dealings with Lassa Buaicht, the old man of the glen. So for a while all went happily, and the Druidic bride was as good as she was beautiful But by and by Sculloge began to think he was not earning money fast enough. He could not bear to see his wife's white hands soiled with work, and thought it would be a fine thing if he could only afford to keep a few more servants, and drive about with Sabina in an elegant carriage, and see her clothed in silk and adorned with jewels. "I will play one more game and set the stakes high," said Sculloge to himself one evening, as he sat pondering over these things; and so, without consulting Sabina, he stole away to the glen, and played a game for ten thousand guineas. But the evil Druid was now ready to pounce on his prey, and he did not play as of old. Sculloge broke into a cold sweat with agony and terror as he saw the left hand win! Then the face of Lassa Buaicht grew dark and stern, and he laid on Sculloge the curse which is laid upon the solar hero in misfortune, that he should never sleep twice under the same roof, or ascend the couch of the dawn-nymph, his wife, until he should have procured and brought to him the sword of light. When Sculloge reached home, more dead than alive, he saw that his wife knew all. Bitterly they wept together, but she told him that with courage all might be set right. She gave him a Druidic horse, which bore him swiftly over land and sea, like the enchanted steed of the Arabian Nights, until he reached the castle of his wife's father who, as Sculloge now learned, was a good Druid, the brother of the evil Lassa Buaicht. This good Druid told him that the sword of light was kept by a third brother, the powerful magician, Fiach O'Duda, who dwelt in an enchanted castle, which many brave heroes had tried to enter, but the dark sorcerer had slain them all. Three high walls surrounded the castle, and many had scaled the first of these, but none had ever returned alive. But Sculloge was not to be daunted, and, taking from his father-in-law a black steed, he set out for the fortress of Fiach O'Duda. Over the first high wall nimbly leaped the magic horse, and Sculloge called aloud on the Druid to come out and surrender his sword. Then came out a tall, dark man, with coal-black eyes and hair and melancholy visage, and made a furious sweep at Sculloge with the flaming blade. But the Druidic beast sprang back over the wall in the twinkling of an eye and rescued his rider, leaving, however, his tail behind in the court-yard. Then Sculloge returned in triumph to his father-in-law's palace, and the night was spent in feasting and revelry. Next day Sculloge rode out on a white horse, and when he got to Fiach's castle, he saw the first wall lying in rubbish. He leaped the second, and the same scene occurred as the day before, save that the horse escaped unharmed. The third day Sculloge went out on foot, with a harp like that of Orpheus in his hand, and as he swept its strings the grass bent to listen and the trees bowed their heads. The castle walls all lay in ruins, and Sculloge made his way unhindered to the upper room, where Fiach lay in Druidic slumber, lulled by the harp. He seized the sword of light, which was hung by the chimney sheathed in a dark scabbard, and making the best of his way back to the good king's palace, mounted his wife's steed, and scoured over land and sea until he found himself in the gloomy glen where Lassa Buaicht was still crying and cursing and betting on his left hand against his right. "Here, treacherous fiend, take your sword of light!" shouted Sculloge in tones of thunder; and as he drew it from its sheath the whole valley was lighted up as with the morning sun, and next moment the head of the wretched Druid was lying at his feet, and his sweet wife, who had come to meet him, was laughing and crying in his arms. November, 1870. V. MYTHS OF THE BARBARIC WORLD. THE theory of mythology set forth in the four preceding papers, and illustrated by the examination of numerous myths relating to the lightning, the storm-wind, the clouds, and the sunlight, was originally framed with reference solely to the mythic and legendary lore of the Aryan world. The phonetic identity of the names of many Western gods and heroes with the names of those Vedic divinities which are obviously the personifications of natural phenomena, suggested the theory which philosophical considerations had already foreshadowed in the works of Hume and Comte, and which the exhaustive analysis of Greek, Hindu, Keltic, and Teutonic legends has amply confirmed. Let us now, before proceeding to the consideration of barbaric folk-lore, briefly recapitulate the results obtained by modern scholarship working strictly within the limits of the Aryan domain. In the first place, it has been proved once for all that the languages spoken by the Hindus, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Kelts, Slaves, and Teutons are all descended from a single ancestral language, the Old Aryan, in the same sense that French, Italian, and Spanish are descended from the Latin. And from this undisputed fact it is an inevitable inference that these various races contain, along with other elements, a race-element in common, due to their Aryan pedigree. That the Indo-European races are wholly Aryan is very improbable, for in every case the countries overrun by them were occupied by inferior races, whose blood must have mingled in varying degrees with that of their conquerors; but that every Indo-European people is in great part descended from a common Aryan stock is not open to question. In the second place, along with a common fund of moral and religious ideas and of legal and ceremonial observances, we find these kindred peoples possessed of a common fund of myths, superstitions, proverbs, popular poetry, and household legends. The Hindu mother amuses her child with fairy-tales which often correspond, even in minor incidents, with stories in Scottish or Scandinavian nurseries; and she tells them in words which are phonetically akin to words in Swedish and Gaelic. No doubt many of these stories might have been devised in a dozen different places independently of each other; and no doubt many of them have been transmitted laterally from one people to another; but a careful examination shows that such cannot have been the case with the great majority of legends and beliefs. The agreement between two such stories, for instance, as those of Faithful John and Rama and Luxman is so close as to make it incredible that they should have been independently fabricated, while the points of difference are so important as to make it extremely improbable that the one was ever copied from the other. Besides which, the essential identity of such myths as those of Sigurd and Theseus, or of Helena and Sarama, carries us back historically to a time when the scattered Indo-European tribes had not yet begun to hold commercial and intellectual intercourse with each other, and consequently could not have interchanged their epic materials or their household stories. We are therefore driven to the conclusion--which, startling as it may seem, is after all the most natural and plausible one that can be stated--that the Aryan nations, which have inherited from a common ancestral stock their languages and their customs, have inherited also from the same common original their fireside legends. They have preserved Cinderella and Punchkin just as they have preserved the words for father and mother, ten and twenty; and the former case, though more imposing to the imagination, is scientifically no less intelligible than the latter. Thirdly, it has been shown that these venerable tales may be grouped in a few pretty well defined classes; and that the archetypal myth of each class--the primitive story in conformity to which countless subsequent tales have been generated--was originally a mere description of physical phenomena, couched in the poetic diction of an age when everything was personified, because all natural phenomena were supposed to be due to the direct workings of a volition like that of which men were conscious within themselves. Thus we are led to the striking conclusion that mythology has had a common root, both with science and with religious philosophy. The myth of Indra conquering Vritra was one of the theorems of primitive Aryan science; it was a provisional explanation of the thunder-storm, satisfactory enough until extended observation and reflection supplied a better one. It also contained the germs of a theology; for the life-giving solar light furnished an important part of the primeval conception of deity. And finally, it became the fruitful parent of countless myths, whether embodied in the stately epics of Homer and the bards of the Nibelungenlied, or in the humbler legends of St. George and William Tell and the ubiquitous Boots. Such is the theory which was suggested half a century ago by the researches of Jacob Grimm, and which, so far as concerns the mythology of the Aryan race, is now victorious along the whole line. It remains for us to test the universality of the general principles upon which it is founded, by a brief analysis of sundry legends and superstitions of the barbaric world. Since the fetichistic habit of explaining the outward phenomena of nature after the analogy of the inward phenomena of conscious intelligence is not a habit peculiar to our Aryan ancestors, but is, as psychology shows, the inevitable result of the conditions under which uncivilized thinking proceeds, we may expect to find the barbaric mind personifying the powers of nature and making myths about their operations the whole world over. And we need not be surprised if we find in the resulting mythologic structures a strong resemblance to the familiar creations of the Aryan intelligence. In point of fact, we shall often be called upon to note such resemblance; and it accordingly behooves us at the outset to inquire how far a similarity between mythical tales shall be taken as evidence of a common traditional origin, and how far it may be interpreted as due merely to the similar workings of the untrained intelligence in all ages and countries. Analogies drawn from the comparison of languages will here be of service to us, if used discreetly; otherwise they are likely to bewilder far more than to enlighten us. A theorem which Max Muller has laid down for our guidance in this kind of investigation furnishes us with an excellent example of the tricks which a superficial analogy may play even with the trained scholar, when temporarily off his guard. Actuated by a praiseworthy desire to raise the study of myths to something like the high level of scientific accuracy already attained by the study of words, Max Muller endeavours to introduce one of the most useful canons of philology into a department of inquiry where its introduction could only work the most hopeless confusion. One of the earliest lessons to be learned by the scientific student of linguistics is the uselessness of comparing together directly the words contained in derivative languages. For example, you might set the English twelve side by side with the Latin duodecim, and then stare at the two words to all eternity without any hope of reaching a conclusion, good or bad, about either of them: least of all would you suspect that they are descended from the same radical. But if you take each word by itself and trace it back to its primitive shape, explaining every change of every letter as you go, you will at last reach the old Aryan dvadakan, which is the parent of both these strangely metamorphosed words. [130] Nor will it do, on the other hand, to trust to verbal similarity without a historical inquiry into the origin of such similarity. Even in the same language two words of quite different origin may get their corners rubbed off till they look as like one another as two pebbles. The French words souris, a "mouse," and souris, a "smile," are spelled exactly alike; but the one comes from Latin sorex and the other from Latin subridere. Now Max Muller tells us that this principle, which is indispensable in the study of words, is equally indispensable in the study of myths. [131] That is, you must not rashly pronounce the Norse story of the Heartless Giant identical with the Hindu story of Punchkin, although the two correspond in every essential incident. In both legends a magician turns several members of the same family into stone; the youngest member of the family comes to the rescue, and on the way saves the lives of sundry grateful beasts; arrived at the magician's castle, he finds a captive princess ready to accept his love and to play the part of Delilah to the enchanter. In both stories the enchanter's life depends on the integrity of something which is elaborately hidden in a far-distant island, but which the fortunate youth, instructed by the artful princess and assisted by his menagerie of grateful beasts, succeeds in obtaining. In both stories the youth uses his advantage to free all his friends from their enchantment, and then proceeds to destroy the villain who wrought all this wickedness. Yet, in spite of this agreement, Max Muller, if I understand him aright, would not have us infer the identity of the two stories until we have taken each one separately and ascertained its primitive mythical significance. Otherwise, for aught we can tell, the resemblance may be purely accidental, like that of the French words for "mouse" and "smile." A little reflection, however, will relieve us from this perplexity, and assure us that the alleged analogy between the comparison of words and the comparison of stories is utterly superficial. The transformations of words--which are often astounding enough--depend upon a few well-established physiological principles of utterance; and since philology has learned to rely upon these principles, it has become nearly as sure in its methods and results as one of the so-called "exact sciences." Folly enough is doubtless committed within its precincts by writers who venture there without the laborious preparation which this science, more than almost any other, demands. But the proceedings of the trained philologist are no more arbitrary than those of the trained astronomer. And though the former may seem to be straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel when he coolly tells you that violin and fiddle are the same word, while English care and Latin cura have nothing to do with each other, he is nevertheless no more indulging in guess-work than the astronomer who confesses his ignorance as to the habitability of Venus while asserting his knowledge of the existence of hydrogen in the atmosphere of Sirius. To cite one example out of a hundred, every philologist knows that s may become r, and that the broad a-sound may dwindle into the closer o-sound; but when you adduce some plausible etymology based on the assumption that r has changed into s, or o into a, apart from the demonstrable influence of some adjacent letter, the philologist will shake his head. Now in the study of stories there are no such simple rules all cut and dried for us to go by. There is no uniform psychological principle which determines that the three-headed snake in one story shall become a three-headed man in the next. There is no Grimm's Law in mythology which decides that a Hindu magician shall always correspond to a Norwegian Troll or a Keltic Druid. The laws of association of ideas are not so simple in application as the laws of utterance. In short, the study of myths, though it can be made sufficiently scientific in its methods and results, does not constitute a science by itself, like philology. It stands on a footing similar to that occupied by physical geography, or what the Germans call "earth-knowledge." No one denies that all the changes going on over the earth's surface conform to physical laws; but then no one pretends that there is any single proximate principle which governs all the phenomena of rain-fall, of soil-crumbling, of magnetic variation, and of the distribution of plants and animals. All these things are explained by principles obtained from the various sciences of physics, chemistry, geology, and physiology. And in just the same way the development and distribution of stories is explained by the help of divers resources contributed by philology, psychology, and history. There is therefore no real analogy between the cases cited by Max Muller. Two unrelated words may be ground into exactly the same shape, just as a pebble from the North Sea may be undistinguishable from another pebble on the beach of the Adriatic; but two stories like those of Punchkin and the Heartless Giant are no more likely to arise independently of each other than two coral reefs on opposite sides of the globe are likely to develop into exactly similar islands. Shall we then say boldly, that close similarity between legends is proof of kinship, and go our way without further misgivings? Unfortunately we cannot dispose of the matter in quite so summary a fashion; for it remains to decide what kind and degree of similarity shall be considered satisfactory evidence of kinship. And it is just here that doctors may disagree. Here is the point at which our "science" betrays its weakness as compared with the sister study of philology. Before we can decide with confidence in any case, a great mass of evidence must be brought into court. So long as we remained on Aryan ground, all went smoothly enough, because all the external evidence was in our favour. We knew at the outset, that the Aryans inherit a common language and a common civilization, and therefore we found no difficulty in accepting the conclusion that they have inherited, among other things, a common stock of legends. In the barbaric world it is quite otherwise. Philology does not pronounce in favour of a common origin for all barbaric culture, such as it is. The notion of a single primitive language, standing in the same relation to all existing dialects as the relation of old Aryan to Latin and English, or that of old Semitic to Hebrew and Arabic, was a notion suited only to the infancy of linguistic science. As the case now stands, it is certain that all the languages actually existing cannot be referred to a common ancestor, and it is altogether probable that there never was any such common ancestor. I am not now referring to the question of the unity of the human race. That question lies entirely outside the sphere of philology. The science of language has nothing to do with skulls or complexions, and no comparison of words can tell us whether the black men are brethren of the white men, or whether yellow and red men have a common pedigree: these questions belong to comparative physiology. But the science of language can and does tell us that a certain amount of civilization is requisite for the production of a language sufficiently durable and wide-spread to give birth to numerous mutually resembling offspring Barbaric languages are neither widespread nor durable. Among savages each little group of families has its own dialect, and coins its own expressions at pleasure; and in the course of two or three generations a dialect gets so strangely altered as virtually to lose its identity. Even numerals and personal pronouns, which the Aryan has preserved for fifty centuries, get lost every few years in Polynesia. Since the time of Captain Cook the Tahitian language has thrown away five out of its ten simple numerals, and replaced them by brand-new ones; and on the Amazon you may acquire a fluent command of some Indian dialect, and then, coming back after twenty years, find yourself worse off than Rip Van Winkle, and your learning all antiquated and useless. How absurd, therefore, to suppose that primeval savages originated a language which has held its own like the old Aryan and become the prolific mother of the three or four thousand dialects now in existence! Before a durable language can arise, there must be an aggregation of numerous tribes into a people, so that there may be need of communication on a large scale, and so that tradition may be strengthened. Wherever mankind have associated in nations, permanent languages have arisen, and their derivative dialects bear the conspicuous marks of kinship; but where mankind have remained in their primitive savage isolation, their languages have remained sporadic and transitory, incapable of organic development, and showing no traces of a kinship which never existed. The bearing of these considerations upon the origin and diffusion of barbaric myths is obvious. The development of a common stock of legends is, of course, impossible, save where there is a common language; and thus philology pronounces against the kinship of barbaric myths with each other and with similar myths of the Aryan and Semitic worlds. Similar stories told in Greece and Norway are likely to have a common pedigree, because the persons who have preserved them in recollection speak a common language and have inherited the same civilization. But similar stories told in Labrador and South Africa are not likely to be genealogically related, because it is altogether probable that the Esquimaux and the Zulu had acquired their present race characteristics before either of them possessed a language or a culture sufficient for the production of myths. According to the nature and extent of the similarity, it must be decided whether such stories have been carried about from one part of the world to another, or have been independently originated in many different places. Here the methods of philology suggest a rule which will often be found useful. In comparing, the vocabularies of different languages, those words which directly imitate natural sounds--such as whiz, crash, crackle--are not admitted as evidence of kinship between the languages in which they occur. Resemblances between such words are obviously no proof of a common ancestry; and they are often met with in languages which have demonstrably had no connection with each other. So in mythology, where we find two stories of which the primitive character is perfectly transparent, we need have no difficulty in supposing them to have originated independently. The myth of Jack and his Beanstalk is found all over the world; but the idea of a country above the sky, to which persons might gain access by climbing, is one which could hardly fail to occur to every barbarian. Among the American tribes, as well as among the Aryans, the rainbow and the Milky-Way have contributed the idea of a Bridge of the Dead, over which souls must pass on the way to the other world. In South Africa, as well as in Germany, the habits of the fox and of his brother the jackal have given rise to fables in which brute force is overcome by cunning. In many parts of the world we find curiously similar stories devised to account for the stumpy tails of the bear and hyaena, the hairless tail of the rat, and the blindness of the mole. And in all countries may be found the beliefs that men may be changed into beasts, or plants, or stones; that the sun is in some way tethered or constrained to follow a certain course; that the storm-cloud is a ravenous dragon; and that there are talismans which will reveal hidden treasures. All these conceptions are so obvious to the uncivilized intelligence, that stories founded upon them need not be supposed to have a common origin, unless there turns out to be a striking similarity among their minor details. On the other hand, the numerous myths of an all-destroying deluge have doubtless arisen partly from reminiscences of actually occurring local inundations, and partly from the fact that the Scriptural account of a deluge has been carried all over the world by Catholic and Protestant missionaries. [132] By way of illustrating these principles, let us now cite a few of the American myths so carefully collected by Dr. Brinton in his admirable treatise. We shall not find in the mythology of the New World the wealth of wit and imagination which has so long delighted us in the stories of Herakles, Perseus, Hermes, Sigurd, and Indra. The mythic lore of the American Indians is comparatively scanty and prosaic, as befits the product of a lower grade of culture and a more meagre intellect. Not only are the personages less characteristically pourtrayed, but there is a continual tendency to extravagance, the sure index of an inferior imagination. Nevertheless, after making due allowances for differences in the artistic method of treatment, there is between the mythologies of the Old and the New Worlds a fundamental resemblance. We come upon solar myths and myths of the storm curiously blended with culture-myths, as in the cases of Hermes, Prometheus, and Kadmos. The American parallels to these are to be found in the stories of Michabo, Viracocha, Ioskeha, and Quetzalcoatl. "As elsewhere the world over, so in America, many tribes had to tell of.... an august character, who taught them what they knew,--the tillage of the soil, the properties of plants, the art of picture-writing, the secrets of magic; who founded their institutions and established their religions; who governed them long with glory abroad and peace at home; and finally did not die, but, like Frederic Barbarossa, Charlemagne, King Arthur, and all great heroes, vanished mysteriously, and still lives somewhere, ready at the right moment to return to his beloved people and lead them to victory and happiness." [133] Everyone is familiar with the numerous legends of white-skinned, full-bearded heroes, like the mild Quetzalcoatl, who in times long previous to Columbus came from the far East to impart the rudiments of civilization and religion to the red men. By those who first heard these stories they were supposed, with naive Euhemerism, to refer to pre-Columbian visits of Europeans to this continent, like that of the Northmen in the tenth century. But a scientific study of the subject has dissipated such notions. These legends are far too numerous, they are too similar to each other, they are too manifestly symbolical, to admit of any such interpretation. By comparing them carefully with each other, and with correlative myths of the Old World, their true character soon becomes apparent. One of the most widely famous of these culture-heroes was Manabozho or Michabo, the Great Hare. With entire unanimity, says Dr. Brinton, the various branches of the Algonquin race, "the Powhatans of Virginia, the Lenni Lenape of the Delaware, the warlike hordes of New England, the Ottawas of the far North, and the Western tribes, perhaps without exception, spoke of this chimerical beast,' as one of the old missionaries calls it, as their common ancestor. The totem, or clan, which bore his name was looked up to with peculiar respect." Not only was Michabo the ruler and guardian of these numerous tribes,--he was the founder of their religious rites, the inventor of picture-writing, the ruler of the weather, the creator and preserver of earth and heaven. "From a grain of sand brought from the bottom of the primeval ocean he fashioned the habitable land, and set it floating on the waters till it grew to such a size that a strong young wolf, running constantly, died of old age ere he reached its limits." He was also, like Nimrod, a mighty hunter. "One of his footsteps measured eight leagues, the Great Lakes were the beaver-dams he built, and when the cataracts impeded his progress he tore them away with his hands." "Sometimes he was said to dwell in the skies with his brother, the Snow, or, like many great spirits, to have built his wigwam in the far North on some floe of ice in the Arctic Ocean..... But in the oldest accounts of the missionaries he was alleged to reside toward the East; and in the holy formulae of the meda craft, when the winds are invoked to the medicine lodge, the East is summoned in his name, the door opens in that direction, and there, at the edge of the earth where the sun rises, on the shore of the infinite ocean that surrounds the land, he has his house, and sends the luminaries forth on their daily journeys." [134] From such accounts as this we see that Michabo was no more a wise instructor and legislator than Minos or Kadmos. Like these heroes, he is a personification of the solar life-giving power, which daily comes forth from its home in the east, making the earth to rejoice. The etymology of his name confirms the otherwise clear indications of the legend itself. It is compounded of michi, "great," and wabos, which means alike "hare" and "white." "Dialectic forms in Algonquin for white are wabi, wape, wampi, etc.; for morning, wapan, wapanch, opah; for east, wapa, wanbun, etc.; for day, wompan, oppan; for light, oppung." So that Michabo is the Great White One, the God of the Dawn and the East. And the etymological confusion, by virtue of which he acquired his soubriquet of the Great Hare, affords a curious parallel to what has often happened in Aryan and Semitic mythology, as we saw when discussing the subject of werewolves. Keeping in mind this solar character of Michabo, let us note how full of meaning are the myths concerning him. In the first cycle of these legends, "he is grandson of the Moon, his father is the West Wind, and his mother, a maiden, dies in giving him birth at the moment of conception. For the Moon is the goddess of night; the Dawn is her daughter, who brings forth the Morning, and perishes herself in the act; and the West, the spirit of darkness, as the East is of light, precedes, and as it were begets the latter, as the evening does the morning. Straightway, however, continues the legend, the son sought the unnatural father to revenge the death of his mother, and then commenced a long and desperate struggle. It began on the mountains. The West was forced to give ground. Manabozho drove him across rivers and over mountains and lakes, and at last he came to the brink of this world. 'Hold,' cried he, 'my son, you know my power, and that it is impossible to kill me.' What is this but the diurnal combat of light and darkness, carried on from what time 'the jocund morn stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops,' across the wide world to the sunset, the struggle that knows no end, for both the opponents are immortal?" [135] Even the Veda nowhere affords a more transparent narrative than this. The Iroquois tradition is very similar. In it appear twin brothers, [136] born of a virgin mother, daughter of the Moon, who died in giving them life. Their names, Ioskeha and Tawiskara, signify in the Oneida dialect the White One and the Dark One. Under the influence of Christian ideas the contest between the brothers has been made to assume a moral character, like the strife between Ormuzd and Ahriman. But no such intention appears in the original myth, and Dr. Brinton has shown that none of the American tribes had any conception of a Devil. When the quarrel came to blows, the dark brother was signally discomfited; and the victorious Ioskeha, returning to his grandmother, "established his lodge in the far East, on the horders of the Great Ocean, whence the sun comes. In time he became the father of mankind, and special guardian of the Iroquois." He caused the earth to bring forth, he stocked the woods with game, and taught his children the use of fire. "He it was who watched and watered their crops; 'and, indeed, without his aid,' says the old missionary, quite out of patience with their puerilities, 'they think they could not boil a pot.'" There was more in it than poor Brebouf thought, as we are forcibly reminded by recent discoveries in physical science. Even civilized men would find it difficult to boil a pot without the aid of solar energy. Call him what we will,--Ioskeha, Michabo, or Phoibos,--the beneficent Sun is the master and sustainer of us all; and if we were to relapse into heathenism, like Erckmann-Chatrian's innkeeper, we could not do better than to select him as our chief object of worship. The same principles by which these simple cases are explained furnish also the key to the more complicated mythology of Mexico and Peru. Like the deities just discussed, Viracocha, the supreme god of the Quichuas, rises from the bosom of Lake Titicaca and journeys westward, slaying with his lightnings the creatures who oppose him, until he finally disappears in the Western Ocean. Like Aphrodite, he bears in his name the evidence of his origin, Viracocha signifying "foam of the sea"; and hence the "White One" (l'aube), the god of light rising white on the horizon, like the foam on the surface of the waves. The Aymaras spoke of their original ancestors as white; and to this day, as Dr. Brinton informs us, the Peruvians call a white man Viracocha. The myth of Quetzalcoatl is of precisely the same character. All these solar heroes present in most of their qualities and achievements a striking likeness to those of the Old World. They combine the attributes of Apollo, Herakles, and Hermes. Like Herakles, they journey from east to west, smiting the powers of darkness, storm, and winter with the thunderbolts of Zeus or the unerring arrows of Phoibos, and sinking in a blaze of glory on the western verge of the world, where the waves meet the firmament. Or like Hermes, in a second cycle of legends, they rise with the soft breezes of a summer morning, driving before them the bright celestial cattle whose udders are heavy with refreshing rain, fanning the flames which devour the forests, blustering at the doors of wigwams, and escaping with weird laughter through vents and crevices. The white skins and flowing beards of these American heroes may be aptly compared to the fair faces and long golden locks of their Hellenic compeers. Yellow hair was in all probability as rare in Greece as a full beard in Peru or Mexico; but in each case the description suits the solar character of the hero. One important class of incidents, however is apparently quite absent from the American legends. We frequently see the Dawn described as a virgin mother who dies in giving birth to the Day; but nowhere do we remember seeing her pictured as a lovely or valiant or crafty maiden, ardently wooed, but speedily forsaken by her solar lover. Perhaps in no respect is the superior richness and beauty of the Aryan myths more manifest than in this. Brynhild, Urvasi, Medeia, Ariadne, Oinone, and countless other kindred heroines, with their brilliant legends, could not be spared from the mythology of our ancestors without, leaving it meagre indeed. These were the materials which Kalidasa, the Attic dramatists, and the bards of the Nibelungen found ready, awaiting their artistic treatment. But the mythology of the New World, with all its pretty and agreeable naivete, affords hardly enough, either of variety in situation or of complexity in motive, for a grand epic or a genuine tragedy. But little reflection is needed to assure us that the imagination of the barbarian, who either carries away his wife by brute force or buys her from her relatives as he would buy a cow, could never have originated legends in which maidens are lovingly solicited, or in which their favour is won by the performance of deeds of valour. These stories owe their existence to the romantic turn of mind which has always characterized the Aryan, whose civilization, even in the times before the dispersion of his race, was sufficiently advanced to allow of his entertaining such comparatively exalted conceptions of the relations between men and women. The absence of these myths from barbaric folk-lore is, therefore, just what might be expected; but it is a fact which militates against any possible hypothesis of the common origin of Aryan and barbaric mythology. If there were any genetic relationship between Sigurd and Ioskeha, between Herakles and Michabo, it would be hard to tell why Brynhild and Iole should have disappeared entirely from one whole group of legends, while retained, in some form or other, throughout the whole of the other group. On the other hand, the resemblances above noticed between Aryan and American mythology fall very far short of the resemblances between the stories told in different parts of the Aryan domain. No barbaric legend, of genuine barbaric growth, has yet been cited which resembles any Aryan legend as the story of Punchkin resembles the story of the Heartless Giant. The myths of Michabo and Viracocha are direct copies, so to speak, of natural phenomena, just as imitative words are direct copies of natural sounds. Neither the Redskin nor the Indo-European had any choice as to the main features of the career of his solar divinity. He must be born of the Night,--or of the Dawn,--must travel westward, must slay harassing demons. Eliminating these points of likeness, the resemblance between the Aryan and barbaric legends is at once at an end. Such an identity in point of details as that between the wooden horse which enters Ilion, and the horse which bears Sigurd into the place where Brynhild is imprisoned, and the Druidic steed which leaps with Sculloge over the walls of Fiach's enchanted castle, is, I believe, nowhere to be found after we leave Indo-European territory. Our conclusion, therefore, must be, that while the legends of the Aryan and the non-Aryan worlds contain common mythical elements, the legends themselves are not of common origin. The fact that certain mythical ideas are possessed alike by different races, shows that in each case a similar human intelligence has been at work explaining similar phenomena; but in order to prove a family relationship between the culture of these different races, we need something more than this. We need to prove not only a community of mythical ideas, but also a community between the stories based upon these ideas. We must show not only that Michabo is like Herakles in those striking features which the contemplation of solar phenomena would necessarily suggest to the imagination of the primitive myth-maker, but also that the two characters are similarly conceived, and that the two careers agree in seemingly arbitrary points of detail, as is the case in the stories of Punchkin and the Heartless Giant. The mere fact that solar heroes, all over the world, travel in a certain path and slay imps of darkness is of great value as throwing light upon primeval habits of thought, but it is of no value as evidence for or against an alleged community of civilization between different races. The same is true of the sacredness universally attached to certain numbers. Dr. Blinton's opinion that the sanctity of the number four in nearly all systems of mythology is due to a primitive worship of the cardinal points, becomes very probable when we recollect that the similar pre-eminence of seven is almost demonstrably connected with the adoration of the sun, moon, and five visible planets, which has left its record in the structure and nomenclature of the Aryan and Semitic week. [137] In view of these considerations, the comparison of barbaric myths with each other and with the legends of the Aryan world becomes doubly interesting, as illustrating the similarity in the workings of the untrained intelligence the world over. In our first paper we saw how the moon-spots have been variously explained by Indo-Europeans, as a man with a thorn-bush or as two children bearing a bucket of water on a pole. In Ceylon it is said that as Sakyamuni was one day wandering half starved in the forest, a pious hare met him, and offered itself to him to be slain and cooked for dinner; whereupon the holy Buddha set it on high in the moon, that future generations of men might see it and marvel at its piety. In the Samoan Islands these dark patches are supposed to be portions of a woman's figure. A certain woman was once hammering something with a mallet, when the moon arose, looking so much like a bread-fruit that the woman asked it to come down and let her child eat off a piece of it; but the moon, enraged at the insult, gobbled up woman, mallet, and child, and there, in the moon's belly, you may still behold them. According to the Hottentots, the Moon once sent the Hare to inform men that as she died away and rose again, so should men die and again come to life. But the stupid Hare forgot the purport of the message, and, coming down to the earth, proclaimed it far and wide that though the Moon was invariably resuscitated whenever she died, mankind, on the other hand, should die and go to the Devil. When the silly brute returned to the lunar country and told what he had done, the Moon was so angry that she took up an axe and aimed a blow at his head to split it. But the axe missed and only cut his lip open; and that was the origin of the "hare-lip." Maddened by the pain and the insult, the Hare flew at the Moon and almost scratched her eyes out; and to this day she bears on her face the marks of the Hare's claws. [138] Again, every reader of the classics knows how Selene cast Endymion into a profound slumber because he refused her love, and how at sundown she used to come and stand above him on the Latmian hill, and watch him as he lay asleep on the marble steps of a temple half hidden among drooping elm-trees, over which clambered vines heavy with dark blue grapes. This represents the rising moon looking down on the setting sun; in Labrador a similar phenomenon has suggested a somewhat different story. Among the Esquimaux the Sun is a maiden and the Moon is her brother, who is overcome by a wicked passion for her. Once, as this girl was at a dancing-party in a friend's hut, some one came up and took hold of her by the shoulders and shook her, which is (according to the legend) the Esquimaux manner of declaring one's love. She could not tell who it was in the dark, and so she dipped her hand in some soot and smeared one of his cheeks with it. When a light was struck in the hut, she saw, to her dismay, that it was her brother, and, without waiting to learn any more, she took to her heels. He started in hot pursuit, and so they ran till they got to the end of the world,--the jumping-off place,--when they both jumped into the sky. There the Moon still chases his sister, the Sun; and every now and then he turns his sooty cheek toward the earth, when he becomes so dark that you cannot see him. [139] Another story, which I cite from Mr. Tylor, shows that Malays, as well as Indo-Europeans, have conceived of the clouds as swan-maidens. In the island of Celebes it is said that "seven heavenly nymphs came down from the sky to bathe, and they were seen by Kasimbaha, who thought first that they were white doves, but in the bath he saw that they were women. Then he stole one of the thin robes that gave the nymphs their power of flying, and so he caught Utahagi, the one whose robe he had stolen, and took her for his wife, and she bore him a son. Now she was called Utahagi from a single white hair she had, which was endowed with magic power, and this hair her husband pulled out. As soon as he had done it, there arose a great storm, and Utahagi went up to heaven. The child cried for its mother, and Kasimbaha was in great grief, and cast about how he should follow Utahagi up into the sky." Here we pass to the myth of Jack and the Beanstalk. "A rat gnawed the thorns off the rattans, and Kasimbaha clambered up by them with his son upon his back, till he came to heaven. There a little bird showed him the house of Utahagi, and after various adventures he took up his abode among the gods." [140] In Siberia we find a legend of swan-maidens, which also reminds us of the story of the Heartless Giant. A certain Samojed once went out to catch foxes, and found seven maidens swimming in a lake surrounded by gloomy pine-trees, while their feather dresses lay on the shore. He crept up and stole one of these dresses, and by and by the swan-maiden came to him shivering with cold and promising to become his wife if he would only give her back her garment of feathers. The ungallant fellow, however, did not care for a wife, but a little revenge was not unsuited to his way of thinking. There were seven robbers who used to prowl about the neighbourhood, and who, when they got home, finding their hearts in the way, used to hang them up on some pegs in the tent. One of these robbers had killed the Samojed's mother; and so he promised to return the swan-maiden's dress after she should have procured for him these seven hearts. So she stole the hearts, and the Samojed smashed six of them, and then woke up the seventh robber, and told him to restore his mother to life, on pain of instant death, Then the robber produced a purse containing the old woman's soul, and going to the graveyard shook it over her bones, and she revived at once. Then the Samojed smashed the seventh heart, and the robber died; and so the swan-maiden got back her plumage and flew away rejoicing. [141] Swan-maidens are also, according to Mr. Baring-Gould, found among the Minussinian Tartars. But there they appear as foul demons, like the Greek Harpies, who delight in drinking the blood of men slain in battle. There are forty of them, who darken the whole firmament in their flight; but sometimes they all coalesce into one great black storm-fiend, who rages for blood, like a werewolf. In South Africa we find the werewolf himself. [142] A certain Hottentot was once travelling with a Bushwoman and her child, when they perceived at a distance a troop of wild horses. The man, being hungry, asked the woman to turn herself into a lioness and catch one of these horses, that they might eat of it; whereupon the woman set down her child, and taking off a sort of petticoat made of human skin became instantly transformed into a lioness, which rushed across the plain, struck down a wild horse and lapped its blood. The man climbed a tree in terror, and conjured his companion to resume her natural shape. Then the lioness came back, and putting on the skirt made of human skin reappeared as a woman, and took up her child, and the two friends resumed their journey after making a meal of the horse's flesh. [143] The werewolf also appears in North America, duly furnished with his wolf-skin sack; but neither in America nor in Africa is he the genuine European werewolf, inspired by a diabolic frenzy, and ravening for human flesh. The barbaric myths testify to the belief that men can be changed into beasts or have in some cases descended from beast ancestors, but the application of this belief to the explanation of abnormal cannibal cravings seems to have been confined to Europe. The werewolf of the Middle Ages was not merely a transformed man,--he was an insane cannibal, whose monstrous appetite, due to the machinations of the Devil, showed its power over his physical organism by changing the shape of it. The barbaric werewolf is the product of a lower and simpler kind of thinking. There is no diabolism about him; for barbaric races, while believing in the existence of hurtful and malicious fiends, have not a sufficiently vivid sense of moral abnormity to form the conception of diabolism. And the cannibal craving, which to the mediaeval European was a phenomenon so strange as to demand a mythological explanation, would not impress the barbarian as either very exceptional or very blameworthy. In the folk-lore of the Zulus, one of the most quick-witted and intelligent of African races, the cannibal possesses many features in common with the Scandinavian Troll, who also has a liking for human flesh. As we saw in the preceding paper, the Troll has very likely derived some of his characteristics from reminiscences of the barbarous races who preceded the Aryans in Central and Northern Europe. In like manner the long-haired cannibal of Zulu nursery literature, who is always represented as belonging to a distinct race, has been supposed to be explained by the existence of inferior races conquered and displaced by the Zulus. Nevertheless, as Dr. Callaway observes, neither the long-haired mountain cannibals of Western Africa, nor the Fulahs, nor the tribes of Eghedal described by Barth, "can be considered as answering to the description of long-haired as given in the Zulu legends of cannibals; neither could they possibly have formed their historical basis..... It is perfectly clear that the cannibals of the Zulu legends are not common men; they are magnified into giants and magicians; they are remarkably swift and enduring; fierce and terrible warriors." Very probably they may have a mythical origin in modes of thought akin to those which begot the Panis of the Veda and the Northern Trolls. The parallelism is perhaps the most remarkable one which can be found in comparing barbaric with Aryan folk-lore. Like the Panis and Trolls, the cannibals are represented as the foes of the solar hero Uthlakanyana, who is almost as great a traveller as Odysseus, and whose presence of mind amid trying circumstances is not to be surpassed by that of the incomparable Boots. Uthlakanyana is as precocious as Herakles or Hermes. He speaks before he is born, and no sooner has he entered the world than he begins to outwit other people and get possession of their property. He works bitter ruin for the cannibals, who, with all their strength and fleetness, are no better endowed with quick wit than the Trolls, whom Boots invariably victimizes. On one of his journeys, Uthlakanyana fell in with a cannibal. Their greetings were cordial enough, and they ate a bit of leopard together, and began to build a house, and killed a couple of cows, but the cannibal's cow was lean, while Uthlakanyana's was fat. Then the crafty traveller, fearing that his companion might insist upon having the fat cow, turned and said, "'Let the house be thatched now then we can eat our meat. You see the sky, that we shall get wet.' The cannibal said, 'You are right, child of my sister; you are a man indeed in saying, let us thatch the house, for we shall get wet.' Uthlakanyana said, 'Do you do it then; I will go inside, and push the thatching-needle for you, in the house.' The cannibal went up. His hair was very, very long. Uthlakanyana went inside and pushed the needle for him. He thatched in the hair of the cannibal, tying it very tightly; he knotted it into the thatch constantly, taking it by separate locks and fastening it firmly, that it might be tightly fastened to the house." Then the rogue went outside and began to eat of the cow which was roasted. "The cannibal said, 'What are you about, child of my sister? Let us just finish the house; afterwards we can do that; we will do it together.' Uthlakanyana replied, 'Come down then. I cannot go into the house any more. The thatching is finished.' The cannibal assented. When he thought he was going to quit the house, he was unable to quit it. He cried out saying, 'Child of my sister, how have you managed your thatching?' Uthlakanyana said, 'See to it yourself. I have thatched well, for I shall not have any dispute. Now I am about to eat in peace; I no longer dispute with anybody, for I am now alone with my cow.'" So the cannibal cried and raved and appealed in vain to Uthlakanyana's sense of justice, until by and by "the sky came with hailstones and lightning Uthlakanyana took all the meat into the house; he stayed in the house and lit a fire. It hailed and rained. The cannibal cried on the top of the house; he was struck with the hailstones, and died there on the house. It cleared. Uthlakanyana went out and said, 'Uncle, just come down, and come to me. It has become clear. It no longer rains, and there is no more hail, neither is there any more lightning. Why are you silent?' So Uthlakanyana ate his cow alone, until he had finished it. He then went on his way." [144] In another Zulu legend, a girl is stolen by cannibals, and shut up in the rock Itshe-likantunjambili, which, like the rock of the Forty Thieves, opens and shuts at the command of those who understand its secret. She gets possession of the secret and escapes, and when the monsters pursue her she throws on the ground a calabash full of sesame, which they stop to eat. At last, getting tired of running, she climbs a tree, and there she finds her brother, who, warned by a dream, has come out to look for her. They ascend the tree together until they come to a beautiful country well stocked with fat oxen. They kill an ox, and while its flesh is roasting they amuse themselves by making a stout thong of its hide. By and by one of the cannibals, smelling the cooking meat, comes to the foot of the tree, and looking up discovers the boy and girl in the sky-country! They invite him up there; to share in their feast, and throw him an end of the thong by which to climb up. When the cannibal is dangling midway between earth and heaven, they let go the rope, and down he falls with a terrible crash. [145] In this story the enchanted rock opened by a talismanic formula brings us again into contact with Indo-European folk-lore. And that the conception has in both cases been suggested by the same natural phenomenon is rendered probable by another Zulu tale, in which the cannibal's cave is opened by a swallow which flies in the air. Here we have the elements of a genuine lightning-myth. We see that among these African barbarians, as well as among our own forefathers, the clouds have been conceived as birds carrying the lightning which can cleave the rocks. In America we find the same notion prevalent. The Dakotahs explain the thunder as "the sound of the cloud-bird flapping his wings," and the Caribs describe the lightning as a poisoned dart which the bird blows through a hollow reed, after the Carib style of shooting. [146] On the other hand, the Kamtchatkans know nothing of a cloud-bird, but explain the lightning as something analogous to the flames of a volcano. The Kamtchatkans say that when the mountain goblins have got their stoves well heated up, they throw overboard, with true barbaric shiftlessness, all the brands not needed for immediate use, which makes a volcanic eruption. So when it is summer on earth, it is winter in heaven; and the gods, after heating up their stoves, throw away their spare kindlingwood, which makes the lightning. [147] When treating of Indo-European solar myths, we saw the unvarying, unresting course of the sun variously explained as due to the subjection of Herakles to Eurystheus, to the anger of Poseidon at Odysseus, or to the curse laid upon the Wandering Jew. The barbaric mind has worked at the same problem; but the explanations which it has given are more childlike and more grotesque. A Polynesian myth tells how the Sun used to race through the sky so fast that men could not get enough daylight to hunt game for their subsistence. By and by an inventive genius, named Maui, conceived the idea of catching the Sun in a noose and making him go more deliberately. He plaited ropes and made a strong net, and, arming himself with the jawbone of his ancestress, Muri-ranga-whenua, called together all his brethren, and they journeyed to the place where the Sun rises, and there spread the net. When the Sun came up, he stuck his head and fore-paws into the net, and while the brothers tightened the ropes so that they cut him and made him scream for mercy, Maui beat him with the jawbone until he became so weak that ever since he has only been able to crawl through the sky. According to another Polynesian myth, there was once a grumbling Radical, who never could be satisfied with the way in which things are managed on this earth. This bold Radical set out to build a stone house which should last forever; but the days were so short and the stones so heavy that he despaired of ever accomplishing his project. One night, as he lay awake thinking the matter over, it occurred to him that if he could catch the Sun in a net, he could have as much daylight as was needful in order to finish his house. So he borrowed a noose from the god Itu, and, it being autumn, when the Sun gets sleepy and stupid, he easily caught the luminary. The Sun cried till his tears made a great freshet which nearly drowned the island; but it was of no use; there he is tethered to this day. Similar stories are met with in North America. A Dog-Rib Indian once chased a squirrel up a tree until he reached the sky. There he set a snare for the squirrel and climbed down again. Next day the Sun was caught in the snare, and night came on at once. That is to say, the sun was eclipsed. "Something wrong up there," thought the Indian, "I must have caught the Sun"; and so he sent up ever so many animals to release the captive. They were all burned to ashes, but at last the mole, going up and burrowing out through the GROUND OF THE SKY, (!) succeeded in gnawing asunder the cords of the snare. Just as it thrust its head out through the opening made in the sky-ground, it received a flash of light which put its eyes out, and that is why the mole is blind. The Sun got away, but has ever since travelled more deliberately. [148] These sun-myths, many more of which are to be found collected in Mr. Tylor's excellent treatise on "The Early History of Mankind," well illustrate both the similarity and the diversity of the results obtained by the primitive mind, in different times and countries, when engaged upon similar problems. No one would think of referring these stories to a common traditional origin with the myths of Herakles and Odysseus; yet both classes of tales were devised to explain the same phenomenon. Both to the Aryan and to the Polynesian the steadfast but deliberate journey of the sun through the firmament was a strange circumstance which called for explanation; but while the meagre intelligence of the barbarian could only attain to the quaint conception of a man throwing a noose over the sun's head, the rich imagination of the Indo-European created the noble picture of Herakles doomed to serve the son of Sthenelos, in accordance with the resistless decree of fate. Another world-wide myth, which shows how similar are the mental habits of uncivilized men, is the myth of the tortoise. The Hindu notion of a great tortoise that lies beneath the earth and keeps it from falling is familiar to every reader. According to one account, this tortoise, swimming in the primeval ocean, bears the earth on his back; but by and by, when the gods get ready to destroy mankind, the tortoise will grow weary and sink under his load, and then the earth will be overwhelmed by a deluge. Another legend tells us that when the gods and demons took Mount Mandara for a churning-stick and churned the ocean to make ambrosia, the god Vishnu took on the form of a tortoise and lay at the bottom of the sea, as a pivot for the whirling mountain to rest upon. But these versions of the myth are not primitive. In the original conception the world is itself a gigantic tortoise swimming in a boundless ocean; the flat surface of the earth is the lower plate which covers the reptile's belly; the rounded shell which covers his back is the sky; and the human race lives and moves and has its being inside of the tortoise. Now, as Mr. Tylor has pointed out, many tribes of Redskins hold substantially the same theory of the universe. They regard the tortoise as the symbol of the world, and address it as the mother of mankind. Once, before the earth was made, the king of heaven quarrelled with his wife, and gave her such a terrible kick that she fell down into the sea. Fortunately a tortoise received her on his back, and proceeded to raise up the earth, upon which the heavenly woman became the mother of mankind. These first men had white faces, and they used to dig in the ground to catch badgers. One day a zealous burrower thrust his knife too far and stabbed the tortoise, which immediately sank into the sea and drowned all the human race save one man. [149] In Finnish mythology the world is not a tortoise, but it is an egg, of which the white part is the ocean, the yolk is the earth, and the arched shell is the sky. In India this is the mundane egg of Brahma; and it reappears among the Yorubas as a pair of calabashes put together like oyster-shells, one making a dome over the other. In Zulu-land the earth is a huge beast called Usilosimapundu, whose face is a rock, and whose mouth is very large and broad and red: "in some countries which were on his body it was winter, and in others it was early harvest." Many broad rivers flow over his back, and he is covered with forests and hills, as is indicated in his name, which means "the rugose or knotty-backed beast." In this group of conceptions may be seen the origin of Sindbad's great fish, which lay still so long that sand and clay gradually accumulated upon its back, and at last it became covered with trees. And lastly, passing from barbaric folk-lore and from the Arabian Nights to the highest level of Indo-European intelligence, do we not find both Plato and Kepler amusing themselves with speculations in which the earth figures as a stupendous animal? VI. JUVENTUS MUNDI. [150] TWELVE years ago, when, in concluding his "Studies on Homer and the Homeric Age," Mr. Gladstone applied to himself the warning addressed by Agamemnon to the priest of Apollo, "Let not Nemesis catch me by the swift ships." he would seem to have intended it as a last farewell to classical studies. Yet, whatever his intentions may have been, they have yielded to the sweet desire of revisiting familiar ground,--a desire as strong in the breast of the classical scholar as was the yearning which led Odysseus to reject the proffered gift of immortality, so that he might but once more behold the wreathed smoke curling about the roofs of his native Ithaka. In this new treatise, on the "Youth of the World," Mr. Gladstone discusses the same questions which were treated in his earlier work; and the main conclusions reached in the "Studies on Homer" are here so little modified with reference to the recent progress of archaeological inquiries, that the book can hardly be said to have had any other reason for appearing, save the desire of loitering by the ships of the Argives, and of returning thither as often as possible. The title selected by Mr. Gladstone for his new work is either a very appropriate one or a strange misnomer, according to the point of view from which it is regarded. Such being the case, we might readily acquiesce in its use, and pass it by without comment, trusting that the author understood himself when he adopted it, were it not that by incidental references, and especially by his allusions to the legendary literature of the Jews, Mr. Gladstone shows that he means more by the title than it can fairly be made to express. An author who seeks to determine prehistoric events by references to Kadmos, and Danaos, and Abraham, is at once liable to the suspicion of holding very inadequate views as to the character of the epoch which may properly be termed the "youth of the world." Often in reading Mr. Gladstone we are reminded of Renan's strange suggestion that an exploration of the Hindu Kush territory, whence probably came the primitive Aryans, might throw some new light on the origin of language. Nothing could well be more futile. The primitive Aryan language has already been partly reconstructed for us; its grammatical forms and syntactic devices are becoming familiar to scholars; one great philologist has even composed a tale in it; yet in studying this long-buried dialect we are not much nearer the first beginnings of human speech than in studying the Greek of Homer, the Sanskrit of the Vedas, or the Umbrian of the Igovine Inscriptions. The Aryan mother-tongue had passed into the last of the three stages of linguistic growth long before the break-up of the tribal communities in Aryana-vaedjo, and at that early date presented a less primitive structure than is to be seen in the Chinese or the Mongolian of our own times. So the state of society depicted in the Homeric poems, and well illustrated by Mr. Gladstone, is many degrees less primitive than that which is revealed to us by the archaeological researches either of Pictet and Windischmann, or of Tylor, Lubbock, and M'Lennan. We shall gather evidences of this as we proceed. Meanwhile let us remember that at least eleven thousand years before the Homeric age men lived in communities, and manufactured pottery on the banks of the Nile; and let us not leave wholly out of sight that more distant period, perhaps a million years ago, when sparse tribes of savage men, contemporaneous with the mammoths of Siberia and the cave-tigers of Britain, struggled against the intense cold of the glacial winters. Nevertheless, though the Homeric age appears to be a late one when considered with reference to the whole career of the human race, there is a point of view from which it may be justly regarded as the "youth of the world." However long man may have existed upon the earth, he becomes thoroughly and distinctly human in the eyes of the historian only at the epoch at which he began to create for himself a literature. As far back as we can trace the progress of the human race continuously by means of the written word, so far do we feel a true historical interest in its fortunes, and pursue our studies with a sympathy which the mere lapse of time is powerless to impair. But the primeval man, whose history never has been and never will be written, whose career on the earth, dateless and chartless, can be dimly revealed to us only by palaeontology, excites in us a very different feeling. Though with the keenest interest we ransack every nook and corner of the earth's surface for information about him, we are all the while aware that what we are studying is human zoology and not history. Our Neanderthal man is a specimen, not a character. We cannot ask him the Homeric question, what is his name, who were his parents, and how did he get where we found him. His language has died with him, and he can render no account of himself. We can only regard him specifically as Homo Anthropos, a creature of bigger brain than his congener Homo Pithekos, and of vastly greater promise. But this, we say, is physical science, and not history. For the historian, therefore, who studies man in his various social relations, the youth of the world is the period at which literature begins. We regard the history of the western world as beginning about the tenth century before the Christian era, because at that date we find literature, in Greece and Palestine, beginning to throw direct light upon the social and intellectual condition of a portion of mankind. That great empires, rich in historical interest and in materials for sociological generalizations, had existed for centuries before that date, in Egypt and Assyria, we do not doubt, since they appear at the dawn of history with all the marks of great antiquity; but the only steady historical light thrown upon them shines from the pages of Greek and Hebrew authors, and these know them only in their latest period. For information concerning their early careers we must look, not to history, but to linguistic archaeology, a science which can help us to general results, but cannot enable us to fix dates, save in the crudest manner. We mention the tenth century before Christ as the earliest period at which we can begin to study human society in general and Greek society in particular, through the medium of literature. But, strictly speaking, the epoch in question is one which cannot be fixed with accuracy. The earliest ascertainable date in Greek history is that of the Olympiad of Koroibos, B. C. 776. There is no doubt that the Homeric poems were written before this date, and that Homer is therefore strictly prehistoric. Had this fact been duly realized by those scholars who have not attempted to deny it, a vast amount of profitless discussion might have been avoided. Sooner or later, as Grote says, "the lesson must be learnt, hard and painful though it be, that no imaginable reach of critical acumen will of itself enable us to discriminate fancy from reality, in the absence of a tolerable stock of evidence." We do not know who Homer was; we do not know where or when he lived; and in all probability we shall never know. The data for settling the question are not now accessible, and it is not likely that they will ever be discovered. Even in early antiquity the question was wrapped in an obscurity as deep as that which shrouds it to-day. The case between the seven or eight cities which claimed to be the birthplace of the poet, and which Welcker has so ably discussed, cannot be decided. The feebleness of the evidence brought into court may be judged from the fact that the claims of Chios and the story of the poet's blindness rest alike upon a doubtful allusion in the Hymn to Apollo, which Thukydides (III. 104) accepted as authentic. The majority of modern critics have consoled themselves with the vague conclusion that, as between the two great divisions of the early Greek world, Homer at least belonged to the Asiatic. But Mr. Gladstone has shown good reasons for doubting this opinion. He has pointed out several instances in which the poems seem to betray a closer topographical acquaintance with European than with Asiatic Greece, and concludes that Athens and Argos have at least as good a claim to Homer as Chios or Smyrna. It is far more desirable that we should form an approximate opinion as to the date of the Homeric poems, than that we should seek to determine the exact locality in which they originated. Yet the one question is hardly less obscure than the other. Different writers of antiquity assigned eight different epochs to Homer, of which the earliest is separated from the most recent by an interval of four hundred and sixty years,--a period as long as that which separates the Black Prince from the Duke of Wellington, or the age of Perikles from the Christian era. While Theopompos quite preposterously brings him down as late as the twenty-third Olympiad, Krates removes him to the twelfth century B. C. The date ordinarily accepted by modern critics is the one assigned by Herodotos, 880 B. C. Yet Mr. Gladstone shows reasons, which appear to me convincing, for doubting or rejecting this date. I refer to the much-abused legend of the Children of Herakles, which seems capable of yielding an item of trustworthy testimony, provided it be circumspectly dealt with. I differ from Mr. Gladstone in not regarding the legend as historical in its present shape. In my apprehension, Hyllos and Oxylos, as historical personages, have no value whatever; and I faithfully follow Mr. Grote, in refusing to accept any date earlier than the Olympiad of Koroibos. The tale of the "Return of the Herakleids" is undoubtedly as unworthy of credit as the legend of Hengst and Horsa; yet, like the latter, it doubtless embodies a historical occurrence. One cannot approve, as scholarlike or philosophical, the scepticism of Mr. Cox, who can see in the whole narrative nothing but a solar myth. There certainly was a time when the Dorian tribes--described in the legend as the allies of the Children of Herakles--conquered Peloponnesos; and that time was certainly subsequent to the composition of the Homeric poems. It is incredible that the Iliad and the Odyssey should ignore the existence of Dorians in Peloponnesos, if there were Dorians not only dwelling but ruling there at the time when the poems were written. The poems are very accurate and rigorously consistent in their use of ethnical appellatives; and their author, in speaking of Achaians and Argives, is as evidently alluding to peoples directly known to him, as is Shakespeare when he mentions Danes and Scotchmen. Now Homer knows Achaians, Argives, and Pelasgians dwelling in Peloponnesos; and he knows Dorians also, but only as a people inhabiting Crete. (Odyss. XIX. 175.) With Homer, moreover, the Hellenes are not the Greeks in general but only a people dwelling in the north, in Thessaly. When these poems were written, Greece was not known as Hellas, but as Achaia,--the whole country taking its name from the Achaians, the dominant race in Peloponnesos. Now at the beginning of the truly historical period, in the eighth century B. C., all this is changed. The Greeks as a people are called Hellenes; the Dorians rule in Peloponnesos, while their lands are tilled by Argive Helots; and the Achaians appear only as an insignificant people occupying the southern shore of the Corinthian Gulf. How this change took place we cannot tell. The explanation of it can never be obtained from history, though some light may perhaps be thrown upon it by linguistic archaeology. But at all events it was a great change, and could not have taken place in a moment. It is fair to suppose that the Helleno-Dorian conquest must have begun at least a century before the first Olympiad; for otherwise the geographical limits of the various Greek races would not have been so completely established as we find them to have been at that date. The Greeks, indeed, supposed it to have begun at least three centuries earlier, but it is impossible to collect evidence which will either refute or establish that opinion. For our purposes it is enough to know that the conquest could not have taken place later than 900 B. C.; and if this be the case, the MINIMUM DATE for the composition of the Homeric poems must be the tenth century before Christ; which is, in fact, the date assigned by Aristotle. Thus far, and no farther, I believe it possible to go with safety. Whether the poems were composed in the tenth, eleventh, or twelfth century cannot be determined. We are justified only in placing them far enough back to allow the Helleno-Dorian conquest to intervene between their composition and the beginning of recorded history. The tenth century B. C. is the latest date which will account for all the phenomena involved in the case, and with this result we must be satisfied. Even on this showing, the Iliad and Odyssey appear as the oldest existing specimens of Aryan literature, save perhaps the hymns of the Rig-Veda and the sacred books of the Avesta. The apparent difficulty of preserving such long poems for three or four centuries without the aid of writing may seem at first sight to justify the hypothesis of Wolf, that they are mere collections of ancient ballads, like those which make up the Mahabharata, preserved in the memories of a dozen or twenty bards, and first arranged under the orders of Peisistratos. But on a careful examination this hypothesis is seen to raise more difficulties than it solves. What was there in the position of Peisistratos, or of Athens itself in the sixth century B. C., so authoritative as to compel all Greeks to recognize the recension then and there made of their revered poet? Besides which the celebrated ordinance of Solon respecting the rhapsodes at the Panathenaia obliges us to infer the existence of written manuscripts of Homer previous to 550 B. C. As Mr. Grote well observes, the interference of Peisistratos "presupposes a certain foreknown and ancient aggregate, the main lineaments of which were familiar to the Grecian public, although many of the rhapsodes in their practice may have deviated from it both by omission and interpolation. In correcting the Athenian recitations conformably with such understood general type, Peisistratos might hope both to procure respect for Athens and to constitute a fashion for the rest of Greece. But this step of 'collecting the torn body of sacred Homer' is something generically different from the composition of a new Iliad out of pre-existing songs: the former is as easy, suitable, and promising as the latter is violent and gratuitous." [151] As for Wolf's objection, that the Iliad and Odyssey are too long to have been preserved by memory, it may be met by a simple denial. It is a strange objection indeed, coming from a man of Wolf's retentive memory. I do not see how the acquisition of the two poems can be regarded as such a very arduous task; and if literature were as scanty now as in Greek antiquity, there are doubtless many scholars who would long since have had them at their tongues' end. Sir G. C. Lewis, with but little conscious effort, managed to carry in his head a very considerable portion of Greek and Latin classic literature; and Niebuhr (who once restored from recollection a book of accounts which had been accidentally destroyed) was in the habit of referring to book and chapter of an ancient author without consulting his notes. Nay, there is Professor Sophocles, of Harvard University, who, if you suddenly stop and interrogate him in the street, will tell you just how many times any given Greek word occurs in Thukydides, or in AEschylos, or in Plato, and will obligingly rehearse for you the context. If all extant copies of the Homeric poems were to be gathered together and burnt up to-day, like Don Quixote's library, or like those Arabic manuscripts of which Cardinal Ximenes made a bonfire in the streets of Granada, the poems could very likely be reproduced and orally transmitted for several generations; and much easier must it have been for the Greeks to preserve these books, which their imagination invested with a quasi-sanctity, and which constituted the greater part of the literary furniture of their minds. In Xenophon's time there were educated gentlemen at Athens who could repeat both Iliad and Odyssey verbatim. (Xenoph. Sympos., III. 5.) Besides this, we know that at Chios there was a company of bards, known as Homerids, whose business it was to recite these poems from memory; and from the edicts of Solon and the Sikyonian Kleisthenes (Herod., V. 67), we may infer that the case was the same in other parts of Greece. Passages from the Iliad used to be sung at the Pythian festivals, to the accompaniment of the harp (Athenaeus, XIV. 638), and in at least two of the Ionic islands of the AEgaean there were regular competitive exhibitions by trained young men, at which prizes were given to the best reciter. The difficulty of preserving the poems, under such circumstances, becomes very insignificant; and the Wolfian argument quite vanishes when we reflect that it would have been no easier to preserve a dozen or twenty short poems than two long ones. Nay, the coherent, orderly arrangement of the Iliad and Odyssey would make them even easier to remember than a group of short rhapsodies not consecutively arranged. When we come to interrogate the poems themselves, we find in them quite convincing evidence that they were originally composed for the ear alone, and without reference to manuscript assistance. They abound in catchwords, and in verbal repetitions. The "Catalogue of Ships," as Mr. Gladstone has acutely observed, is arranged in well-defined sections, in such a way that the end of each section suggests the beginning of the next one. It resembles the versus memoriales found in old-fashioned grammars. But the most convincing proof of all is to be found in the changes which Greek pronunciation went through between the ages of Homer and Peisistratos. "At the time when these poems were composed, the digamma (or w) was an effective consonant, and figured as such in the structure of the verse; at the time when they were committed to writing, it had ceased to be pronounced, and therefore never found a place in any of the manuscripts,--insomuch that the Alexandrian critics, though they knew of its existence in the much later poems of Alkaios and Sappho, never recognized it in Homer. The hiatus, and the various perplexities of metre, occasioned by the loss of the digamma, were corrected by different grammatical stratagems. But the whole history of this lost letter is very curious, and is rendered intelligible only by the supposition that the Iliad and Odyssey belonged for a wide space of time to the memory, the voice, and the ear exclusively." [152] Many of these facts are of course fully recognized by the Wolfians; but the inference drawn from them, that the Homeric poems began to exist in a piecemeal condition, is, as we have seen, unnecessary. These poems may indeed be compared, in a certain sense, with the early sacred and epic literature of the Jews, Indians, and Teutons. But if we assign a plurality of composers to the Psalms and Pentateuch, the Mahabharata, the Vedas, and the Edda, we do so because of internal evidence furnished by the books themselves, and not because these books could not have been preserved by oral tradition. Is there, then, in the Homeric poems any such internal evidence of dual or plural origin as is furnished by the interlaced Elohistic and Jehovistic documents of the Pentateuch? A careful investigation will show that there is not. Any scholar who has given some attention to the subject can readily distinguish the Elohistic from the Jehovistic portions of the Pentateuch; and, save in the case of a few sporadic verses, most Biblical critics coincide in the separation which they make between the two. But the attempts which have been made to break up the Iliad and Odyssey have resulted in no such harmonious agreement. There are as many systems as there are critics, and naturally enough. For the Iliad and the Odyssey are as much alike as two peas, and the resemblance which holds between the two holds also between the different parts of each poem. From the appearance of the injured Chryses in the Grecian camp down to the intervention of Athene on the field of contest at Ithaka, we find in each book and in each paragraph the same style, the same peculiarities of expression, the same habits of thought, the same quite unique manifestations of the faculty of observation. Now if the style were commonplace, the observation slovenly, or the thought trivial, as is wont to be the case in ballad-literature, this argument from similarity might not carry with it much conviction. But when we reflect that throughout the whole course of human history no other works, save the best tragedies of Shakespeare, have ever been written which for combined keenness of observation, elevation of thought, and sublimity of style can compare with the Homeric poems, we must admit that the argument has very great weight indeed. Let us take, for example, the sixth and twenty-fourth books of the Iliad. According to the theory of Lachmann, the most eminent champion of the Wolfian hypothesis, these are by different authors. Human speech has perhaps never been brought so near to the limit of its capacity of expressing deep emotion as in the scene between Priam and Achilleus in the twenty-fourth book; while the interview between Hektor and Andromache in the sixth similarly wellnigh exhausts the power of language. Now, the literary critic has a right to ask whether it is probable that two such passages, agreeing perfectly in turn of expression, and alike exhibiting the same unapproachable degree of excellence, could have been produced by two different authors. And the physiologist--with some inward misgivings suggested by Mr. Galton's theory that the Greeks surpassed us in genius even as we surpass the negroes--has a right to ask whether it is in the natural course of things for two such wonderful poets, strangely agreeing in their minutest psychological characteristics, to be produced at the same time. And the difficulty thus raised becomes overwhelming when we reflect that it is the coexistence of not two only, but at least twenty such geniuses which the Wolfian hypothesis requires us to account for. That theory worked very well as long as scholars thoughtlessly assumed that the Iliad and Odyssey were analogous to ballad poetry. But, except in the simplicity of the primitive diction, there is no such analogy. The power and beauty of the Iliad are never so hopelessly lost as when it is rendered into the style of a modern ballad. One might as well attempt to preserve the grandeur of the triumphant close of Milton's Lycidas by turning it into the light Anacreontics of the ode to "Eros stung by a Bee." The peculiarity of the Homeric poetry, which defies translation, is its union of the simplicity characteristic of an early age with a sustained elevation of style, which can be explained only as due to individual genius. The same conclusion is forced upon us when we examine the artistic structure of these poems. With regard to the Odyssey in particular, Mr. Grote has elaborately shown that its structure is so thoroughly integral, that no considerable portion could be subtracted without converting the poem into a more or less admirable fragment. The Iliad stands in a somewhat different position. There are unmistakable peculiarities in its structure, which have led even Mr. Grote, who utterly rejects the Wolfian hypothesis, to regard it as made up of two poems; although he inclines to the belief that the later poem was grafted upon the earlier by its own author, by way of further elucidation and expansion; just as Goethe, in his old age, added a new part to "Faust." According to Mr. Grote, the Iliad, as originally conceived, was properly an Achilleis; its design being, as indicated in the opening lines of the poem, to depict the wrath of Achilleus and the unutterable woes which it entailed upon the Greeks The plot of this primitive Achilleis is entirely contained in Books I., VIII., and XI.-XXII.; and, in Mr. Grote's opinion, the remaining books injure the symmetry of this plot by unnecessarily prolonging the duration of the Wrath, while the embassy to Achilleus, in the ninth book, unduly anticipates the conduct of Agamemnon in the nineteenth, and is therefore, as a piece of bungling work, to be referred to the hands of an inferior interpolator. Mr. Grote thinks it probable that these books, with the exception of the ninth, were subsequently added by the poet, with a view to enlarging the original Achilleis into a real Iliad, describing the war of the Greeks against Troy. With reference to this hypothesis, I gladly admit that Mr. Grote is, of all men now living, the one best entitled to a reverential hearing on almost any point connected with Greek antiquity. Nevertheless it seems to me that his theory rests solely upon imagined difficulties which have no real existence. I doubt if any scholar, reading the Iliad ever so much, would ever be struck by these alleged inconsistencies of structure, unless they were suggested by some a priori theory. And I fear that the Wolfian theory, in spite of Mr. Grote's emphatic rejection of it, is responsible for some of these over-refined criticisms. Even as it stands, the Iliad is not an account of the war against Troy. It begins in the tenth year of the siege, and it does not continue to the capture of the city. It is simply occupied with an episode in the war,--with the wrath of Achilleus and its consequences, according to the plan marked out in the opening lines. The supposed additions, therefore, though they may have given to the poem a somewhat wider scope, have not at any rate changed its primitive character of an Achilleis. To my mind they seem even called for by the original conception of the consequences of the wrath. To have inserted the battle at the ships, in which Sarpedon breaks down the wall of the Greeks, immediately after the occurrences of the first book, would have been too abrupt altogether. Zeus, after his reluctant promise to Thetis, must not be expected so suddenly to exhibit such fell determination. And after the long series of books describing the valorous deeds of Aias, Diomedes, Agamemnon, Odysseus, and Menelaos, the powerful intervention of Achilleus appears in far grander proportions than would otherwise be possible. As for the embassy to Achilleus, in the ninth book, I am unable to see how the final reconciliation with Agamemnon would be complete without it. As Mr. Gladstone well observes, what Achilleus wants is not restitution, but apology; and Agamemnon offers no apology until the nineteenth book. In his answer to the ambassadors, Achilleus scornfully rejects the proposals which imply that the mere return of Briseis will satisfy his righteous resentment, unless it be accompanied with that public humiliation to which circumstances have not yet compelled the leader of the Greeks to subject himself. Achilleus is not to be bought or cajoled. Even the extreme distress of the Greeks in the thirteenth book does not prevail upon him; nor is there anything in the poem to show that he ever would have laid aside his wrath, had not the death of Patroklos supplied him with a new and wholly unforeseen motive. It seems to me that his entrance into the battle after the death of his friend would lose half its poetic effect, were it not preceded by some such scene as that in the ninth book, in which he is represented as deaf to all ordinary inducements. As for the two concluding books, which Mr. Grote is inclined to regard as a subsequent addition, not necessitated by the plan of the poem, I am at a loss to see how the poem can be considered complete without them. To leave the bodies of Patroklos and Hektor unburied would be in the highest degree shocking to Greek religious feelings. Remembering the sentence incurred, in far less superstitious times, by the generals at Arginusai, it is impossible to believe that any conclusion which left Patroklos's manes unpropitiated, and the mutilated corpse of Hektor unransomed, could have satisfied either the poet or his hearers. For further particulars I must refer the reader to the excellent criticisms of Mr. Gladstone, and also to the article on "Greek History and Legend" in the second volume of Mr. Mill's "Dissertations and Discussions." A careful study of the arguments of these writers, and, above all, a thorough and independent examination of the Iliad itself, will, I believe, convince the student that this great poem is from beginning to end the consistent production of a single author. The arguments of those who would attribute the Iliad and Odyssey, taken as wholes, to two different authors, rest chiefly upon some apparent discrepancies in the mythology of the two poems; but many of these difficulties have been completely solved by the recent progress of the science of comparative mythology. Thus, for example, the fact that, in the Iliad, Hephaistos is called the husband of Charis, while in the Odyssey he is called the husband of Aphrodite, has been cited even by Mr. Grote as evidence that the two poems are not by the same author. It seems to me that one such discrepancy, in the midst of complete general agreement, would be much better explained as Cervantes explained his own inconsistency with reference to the stealing of Sancho's mule, in the twenty-second chapter of "Don Quixote." But there is no discrepancy. Aphrodite, though originally the moon-goddess, like the German Horsel, had before Homer's time acquired many of the attributes of the dawn-goddess Athene, while her lunar characteristics had been to a great extent transferred to Artemis and Persephone. In her renovated character, as goddess of the dawn, Aphrodite became identified with Charis, who appears in the Rig-Veda as dawn-goddess. In the post-Homeric mythology, the two were again separated, and Charis, becoming divided in personality, appears as the Charites, or Graces, who were supposed to be constant attendants of Aphrodite. But in the Homeric poems the two are still identical, and either Charis or Aphrodite may be called the wife of the fire-god, without inconsistency. Thus to sum up, I believe that Mr. Gladstone is quite right in maintaining that both the Iliad and Odyssey are, from beginning to end, with the exception of a few insignificant interpolations, the work of a single author, whom we have no ground for calling by any other name than that of Homer. I believe, moreover, that this author lived before the beginning of authentic history, and that we can determine neither his age nor his country with precision. We can only decide that he was a Greek who lived at some time previous to the year 900 B.C. Here, however, I must begin to part company with Mr. Gladstone, and shall henceforth unfortunately have frequent occasion to differ from him on points of fundamental importance. For Mr. Gladstone not only regards the Homeric age as strictly within the limits of authentic history, but he even goes much further than this. He would not only fix the date of Homer positively in the twelfth century B. C., but he regards the Trojan war as a purely historical event, of which Homer is the authentic historian and the probable eye-witness. Nay, he even takes the word of the poet as proof conclusive of the historical character of events happening several generations before the Troika, according to the legendary chronology. He not only regards Agamemnon, Achilleus, and Paris as actual personages, but he ascribes the same reality to characters like Danaos, Kadmos, and Perseus, and talks of the Pelopid and Aiolid dynasties, and the empire of Minos, with as much confidence as if he were dealing with Karlings or Capetians, or with the epoch of the Crusades. It is disheartening, at the present day, and after so much has been finally settled by writers like Grote, Mommsen, and Sir G. C. Lewis, to come upon such views in the work of a man of scholarship and intelligence. One begins to wonder how many more times it will be necessary to prove that dates and events are of no historical value, unless attested by nearly contemporary evidence. Pausanias and Plutarch were able men no doubt, and Thukydides was a profound historian; but what these writers thought of the Herakleid invasion, the age of Homer, and the war of Troy, can have no great weight with the critical historian, since even in the time of Thukydides these events were as completely obscured by lapse of time as they are now. There is no literary Greek history before the age of Hekataios and Herodotos, three centuries subsequent to the first recorded Olympiad. A portion of this period is satisfactorily covered by inscriptions, but even these fail us before we get within a century of this earliest ascertainable date. Even the career of the lawgiver Lykourgos, which seems to belong to the commencement of the eighth century B. C., presents us, from lack of anything like contemporary records, with many insoluble problems. The Helleno-Dorian conquest, as we have seen, must have occurred at some time or other; but it evidently did not occur within two centuries of the earliest known inscription, and it is therefore folly to imagine that we can determine its date or ascertain the circumstances which attended it. Anterior to this event there is but one fact in Greek antiquity directly known to us,--the existence of the Homeric poems. The belief that there was a Trojan war rests exclusively upon the contents of those poems: there is no other independent testimony to it whatever. But the Homeric poems are of no value as testimony to the truth of the statements contained in them, unless it can be proved that their author was either contemporary with the Troika, or else derived his information from contemporary witnesses. This can never be proved. To assume, as Mr. Gladstone does, that Homer lived within fifty years after the Troika, is to make a purely gratuitous assumption. For aught the wisest historian can tell, the interval may have been five hundred years, or a thousand. Indeed the Iliad itself expressly declares that it is dealing with an ancient state of things which no longer exists. It is difficult to see what else can be meant by the statement that the heroes of the Troika belong to an order of men no longer seen upon the earth. (Iliad, V. 304.) Most assuredly Achilleus the son of Thetis, and Sarpedon the son of Zeus, and Helena the daughter of Zeus, are no ordinary mortals, such as might have been seen and conversed with by the poet's grandfather. They belong to an inferior order of gods, according to the peculiar anthropomorphism of the Greeks, in which deity and humanity are so closely mingled that it is difficult to tell where the one begins and the other ends. Diomedes, single-handed, vanquishes not only the gentle Aphrodite, but even the god of battles himself, the terrible Ares. Nestor quaffs lightly from a goblet which, we are told, not two men among the poet's contemporaries could by their united exertions raise and place upon a table. Aias and Hektor and Aineias hurl enormous masses of rock as easily as an ordinary man would throw a pebble. All this shows that the poet, in his naive way, conceiving of these heroes as personages of a remote past, was endeavouring as far as possible to ascribe to them the attributes of superior beings. If all that were divine, marvellous, or superhuman were to be left out of the poems, the supposed historical residue would hardly be worth the trouble of saving. As Mr. Cox well observes, "It is of the very essence of the narrative that Paris, who has deserted Oinone, the child of the stream Kebren, and before whom Here, Athene, and Aphrodite had appeared as claimants for the golden apple, steals from Sparta the beautiful sister of the Dioskouroi; that the chiefs are summoned together for no other purpose than to avenge her woes and wrongs; that Achilleus, the son of the sea-nymph Thetis, the wielder of invincible weapons and the lord of undying horses, goes to fight in a quarrel which is not his own; that his wrath is roused because he is robbed of the maiden Briseis, and that henceforth he takes no part in the strife until his friend Patroklos has been slain; that then he puts on the new armour which Thetis brings to him from the anvil of Hephaistos, and goes forth to win the victory. The details are throughout of the same nature. Achilleus sees and converses with Athene; Aphrodite is wounded by Diomedes, and Sleep and Death bear away the lifeless Sarpedon on their noiseless wings to the far-off land of light." In view of all this it is evident that Homer was not describing, like a salaried historiographer, the state of things which existed in the time of his father or grandfather. To his mind the occurrences which he described were those of a remote, a wonderful, a semi-divine past. This conclusion, which I have thus far supported merely by reference to the Iliad itself, becomes irresistible as soon as we take into account the results obtained during the past thirty years by the science of comparative mythology. As long as our view was restricted to Greece, it was perhaps excusable that Achilleus and Paris should be taken for exaggerated copies of actual persons. Since the day when Grimm laid the foundations of the science of mythology, all this has been changed. It is now held that Achilleus and Paris and Helena are to be found, not only in the Iliad, but also in the Rig-Veda, and therefore, as mythical conceptions, date, not from Homer, but from a period preceding the dispersion of the Aryan nations. The tale of the Wrath of Achilleus, far from originating with Homer, far from being recorded by the author of the Iliad as by an eyewitness, must have been known in its essential features in Aryana-vaedjo, at that remote epoch when the Indian, the Greek, and the Teuton were as yet one and the same. For the story has been retained by the three races alike, in all its principal features; though the Veda has left it in the sky where it originally belonged, while the Iliad and the Nibelungenlied have brought it down to earth, the one locating it in Asia Minor, and the other in Northwestern Europe. [153] In the Rig-Veda the Panis are the genii of night and winter, corresponding to the Nibelungs, or "Children of the Mist," in the Teutonic legend, and to the children of Nephele (cloud) in the Greek myth of the Golden Fleece. The Panis steal the cattle of the Sun (Indra, Helios, Herakles), and carry them by an unknown route to a dark cave eastward. Sarama, the creeping Dawn, is sent by Indra to find and recover them. The Panis then tamper with Sarama, and try their best to induce her to betray her solar lord. For a while she is prevailed upon to dally with them; yet she ultimately returns to give Indra the information needful in order that he might conquer the Panis, just as Helena, in the slightly altered version, ultimately returns to her western home, carrying with her the treasures (ktemata, Iliad, II. 285) of which Paris had robbed Menelaos. But, before the bright Indra and his solar heroes can reconquer their treasures they must take captive the offspring of Brisaya, the violet light of morning. Thus Achilleus, answering to the solar champion Aharyu, takes captive the daughter of Brises. But as the sun must always be parted from the morning-light, to return to it again just before setting, so Achilleus loses Briseis, and regains her only just before his final struggle. In similar wise Herakles is parted from Iole ("the violet one"), and Sigurd from Brynhild. In sullen wrath the hero retires from the conflict, and his Myrmidons are no longer seen on the battle-field, as the sun hides behind the dark cloud and his rays no longer appear about him. Yet toward the evening, as Briseis returns, he appears in his might, clothed in the dazzling armour wrought for him by the fire-god Hephaistos, and with his invincible spear slays the great storm-cloud, which during his absence had wellnigh prevailed over the champions of the daylight. But his triumph is short-lived; for having trampled on the clouds that had opposed him, while yet crimsoned with the fierce carnage, the sharp arrow of the night-demon Paris slays him at the Western Gates. We have not space to go into further details. In Mr. Cox's "Mythology of the Aryan Nations," and "Tales of Ancient Greece," the reader will find the entire contents of the Iliad and Odyssey thus minutely illustrated by comparison with the Veda, the Edda, and the Lay of the Nibelungs. Ancient as the Homeric poems undoubtedly are, they are modern in comparison with the tale of Achilleus and Helena, as here unfolded. The date of the entrance of the Greeks into Europe will perhaps never be determined; but I do not see how any competent scholar can well place it at less than eight hundred or a thousand years before the time of Homer. Between the two epochs the Greek, Latin, Umbrian, and Keltic lauguages had time to acquire distinct individualities. Far earlier, therefore, than the Homeric "juventus mundi" was that "youth of the world," in which the Aryan forefathers, knowing no abstract terms, and possessing no philosophy but fetichism, deliberately spoke of the Sun, and the Dawn, and the Clouds, as persons or as animals. The Veda, though composed much later than this,--perhaps as late as the Iliad,--nevertheless preserves the record of the mental life of this period. The Vedic poet is still dimly aware that Sarama is the fickle twilight, and the Panis the night-demons who strive to coax her from her allegiance to the day-god. He keeps the scene of action in the sky. But the Homeric Greek had long since forgotten that Helena and Paris were anything more than semi-divine mortals, the daughter of Zeus and the son of the Zeus-descended Priam. The Hindu understood that Dyaus ("the bright one") meant the sky, and Sarama ("the creeping one") the dawn, and spoke significantly when he called the latter the daughter of the former. But the Greek could not know that Zeus was derived from a root div, "to shine," or that Helena belonged to a root sar, "to creep." Phonetic change thus helped him to rise from fetichism to polytheism. His nature-gods became thoroughly anthropomorphic; and he probably no more remembered that Achilleus originally signified the sun, than we remember that the word God, which we use to denote the most vast of conceptions, originally meant simply the Storm-wind. Indeed, when the fetichistic tendency led the Greek again to personify the powers of nature, he had recourse to new names formed from his own language. Thus, beside Apollo we have Helios; Selene beside Artemis and Persephone; Eos beside Athene; Gaia beside Demeter. As a further consequence of this decomposition and new development of the old Aryan mythology, we find, as might be expected, that the Homeric poems are not always consistent in their use of their mythic materials. Thus, Paris, the night-demon, is--to Max Muller's perplexity--invested with many of the attributes of the bright solar heroes. "Like Perseus, Oidipous, Romulus, and Cyrus, he is doomed to bring ruin on his parents; like them he is exposed in his infancy on the hillside, and rescued by a shepherd." All the solar heroes begin life in this way. Whether, like Apollo, born of the dark night (Leto), or like Oidipous, of the violet dawn (Iokaste), they are alike destined to bring destruction on their parents, as the night and the dawn are both destroyed by the sun. The exposure of the child in infancy represents the long rays of the morning-sun resting on the hillside. Then Paris forsakes Oinone ("the wine-coloured one"), but meets her again at the gloaming when she lays herself by his side amid the crimson flames of the funeral pyre. Sarpedon also, a solar hero, is made to fight on the side of the Niblungs or Trojans, attended by his friend Glaukos ("the brilliant one"). They command the Lykians, or "children of light"; and with them comes also Memnon, son of the Dawn, from the fiery land of the Aithiopes, the favourite haunt of Zeus and the gods of Olympos. The Iliad-myth must therefore have been current many ages before the Greeks inhabited Greece, long before there was any Ilion to be conquered. Nevertheless, this does not forbid the supposition that the legend, as we have it, may have been formed by the crystallization of mythical conceptions about a nucleus of genuine tradition. In this view I am upheld by a most sagacious and accurate scholar, Mr. E. A. Freeman, who finds in Carlovingian romance an excellent illustration of the problem before us. The Charlemagne of romance is a mythical personage. He is supposed to have been a Frenchman, at a time when neither the French nation nor the French language can properly be said to have existed; and he is represented as a doughty crusader, although crusading was not thought of until long after the Karolingian era. The legendary deeds of Charlemagne are not conformed to the ordinary rules of geography and chronology. He is a myth, and, what is more, he is a solar myth,--an avatar, or at least a representative, of Odin in his solar capacity. If in his case legend were not controlled and rectified by history, he would be for us as unreal as Agamemnon. History, however, tells us that there was an Emperor Karl, German in race, name, and language, who was one of the two or three greatest men of action that the world has ever seen, and who in the ninth century ruled over all Western Europe. To the historic Karl corresponds in many particulars the mythical Charlemagne. The legend has preserved the fact, which without the information supplied by history we might perhaps set down as a fiction, that there was a time when Germany, Gaul, Italy, and part of Spain formed a single empire. And, as Mr. Freeman has well observed, the mythical crusades of Charlemagne are good evidence that there were crusades, although the real Karl had nothing whatever to do with one. Now the case of Agamemnon may be much like that of Charlemagne, except that we no longer have history to help us in rectifying the legend. The Iliad preserves the tradition of a time when a large portion of the islands and mainland of Greece were at least partially subject to a common suzerain; and, as Mr. Freeman has again shrewdly suggested, the assignment of a place like Mykenai, instead of Athens or Sparta or Argos, as the seat of the suzerainty, is strong evidence of the trustworthiness of the tradition. It appears to show that the legend was constrained by some remembered fact, instead of being guided by general probability. Charlemagne's seat of government has been transferred in romance from Aachen to Paris; had it really been at Paris, says Mr. Freeman, no one would have thought of transferring it to Aachen. Moreover, the story of Agamemnon, though uncontrolled by historic records, is here at least supported by archaeologic remains, which prove Mykenai to have been at some time or other a place of great consequence. Then, as to the Trojan war, we know that the Greeks several times crossed the AEgaean and colonized a large part of the seacoast of Asia Minor. In order to do this it was necessary to oust from their homes many warlike communities of Lydians and Bithynians, and we may be sure that this was not done without prolonged fighting. There may very probably have been now and then a levy en masse in prehistoric Greece, as there was in mediaeval Europe; and whether the great suzerain at Mykenai ever attended one or not, legend would be sure to send him on such an expedition, as it afterwards sent Charlemagne on a crusade. It is therefore quite possible that Agamemnon and Menelaos may represent dimly remembered sovereigns or heroes, with their characters and actions distorted to suit the exigencies of a narrative founded upon a solar myth. The character of the Nibelungenlied here well illustrates that of the Iliad. Siegfried and Brunhild, Hagen and Gunther, seem to be mere personifications of physical phenomena; but Etzel and Dietrich are none other than Attila and Theodoric surrounded with mythical attributes; and even the conception of Brunhild has been supposed to contain elements derived from the traditional recollection of the historical Brunehault. When, therefore, Achilleus is said, like a true sun-god, to have died by a wound from a sharp instrument in the only vulnerable part of his body, we may reply that the legendary Charlemagne conducts himself in many respects like a solar deity. If Odysseus detained by Kalypso represents the sun ensnared and held captive by the pale goddess of night, the legend of Frederic Barbarossa asleep in a Thuringian mountain embodies a portion of a kindred conception. We know that Charlemagne and Frederic have been substituted for Odin; we may suspect that with the mythical impersonations of Achilleus and Odysseus some traditional figures may be blended. We should remember that in early times the solar-myth was a sort of type after which all wonderful stories would be patterned, and that to such a type tradition also would be made to conform. In suggesting this view, we are not opening the door to Euhemerism. If there is any one conclusion concerning the Homeric poems which the labours of a whole generation of scholars may be said to have satisfactorily established, it is this, that no trustworthy history can be obtained from either the Iliad or the Odyssey merely by sifting out the mythical element. Even if the poems contain the faint reminiscence of an actual event, that event is inextricably wrapped up in mythical phraseology, so that by no cunning of the scholar can it be construed into history. In view of this it is quite useless for Mr. Gladstone to attempt to base historical conclusions upon the fact that Helena is always called "Argive Helen," or to draw ethnological inferences from the circumstances that Menelaos, Achilleus, and the rest of the Greek heroes, have yellow hair, while the Trojans are never so described. The Argos of the myth is not the city of Peloponnesos, though doubtless so construed even in Homer's time. It is "the bright land" where Zeus resides, and the epithet is applied to his wife Here and his daughter Helena, as well as to the dog of Odysseus, who reappears with Sarameyas in the Veda. As for yellow hair, there is no evidence that Greeks have ever commonly possessed it; but no other colour would do for a solar hero, and it accordingly characterizes the entire company of them, wherever found, while for the Trojans, or children of night, it is not required. A wider acquaintance with the results which have been obtained during the past thirty years by the comparative study of languages and mythologies would have led Mr. Gladstone to reconsider many of his views concerning the Homeric poems, and might perhaps have led him to cut out half or two thirds of his book as hopelessly antiquated. The chapter on the divinities of Olympos would certainly have had to be rewritten, and the ridiculous theory of a primeval revelation abandoned. One can hardly preserve one's gravity when Mr. Gladstone derives Apollo from the Hebrew Messiah, and Athene from the Logos. To accredit Homer with an acquaintance with the doctrine of the Logos, which did not exist until the time of Philo, and did not receive its authorized Christian form until the middle of the second century after Christ, is certainly a strange proceeding. We shall next perhaps be invited to believe that the authors of the Volsunga Saga obtained the conception of Sigurd from the "Thirty-Nine Articles." It is true that these deities, Athene and Apollo, are wiser, purer, and more dignified, on the whole, than any of the other divinities of the Homeric Olympos. They alone, as Mr. Gladstone truly observes, are never deceived or frustrated. For all Hellas, Apollo was the interpreter of futurity, and in the maid Athene we have perhaps the highest conception of deity to which the Greek mind had attained in the early times. In the Veda, Athene is nothing but the dawn; but in the Greek mythology, while the merely sensuous glories of daybreak are assigned to Eos, Athene becomes the impersonation of the illuminating and knowledge-giving light of the sky. As the dawn, she is daughter of Zeus, the sky, and in mythic language springs from his forehead; but, according to the Greek conception, this imagery signifies that she shares, more than any other deity, in the boundless wisdom of Zeus. The knowledge of Apollo, on the other hand, is the peculiar privilege of the sun, who, from his lofty position, sees everything that takes place upon the earth. Even the secondary divinity Helios possesses this prerogative to a certain extent. Next to a Hebrew, Mr. Gladstone prefers a Phoenician ancestry for the Greek divinities. But the same lack of acquaintance with the old Aryan mythology vitiates all his conclusions. No doubt the Greek mythology is in some particulars tinged with Phoenician conceptions. Aphrodite was originally a purely Greek divinity, but in course of time she acquired some of the attributes of the Semitic Astarte, and was hardly improved by the change. Adonis is simply a Semitic divinity, imported into Greece. But the same cannot be proved of Poseidon; [154] far less of Hermes, who is identical with the Vedic Sarameyas, the rising wind, the son of Sarama the dawn, the lying, tricksome wind-god, who invented music, and conducts the souls of dead men to the house of Hades, even as his counterpart the Norse Odin rushes over the tree-tops leading the host of the departed. When one sees Iris, the messenger of Zeus, referred to a Hebrew original, because of Jehovah's promise to Noah, one is at a loss to understand the relationship between the two conceptions. Nothing could be more natural to the Greeks than to call the rainbow the messenger of the sky-god to earth-dwelling men; to call it a token set in the sky by Jehovah, as the Hebrews did, was a very different thing. We may admit the very close resemblance between the myth of Bellerophon and Anteia, and that of Joseph and Zuleikha; but the fact that the Greek story is explicable from Aryan antecedents, while the Hebrew story is isolated, might perhaps suggest the inference that the Hebrews were the borrowers, as they undoubtedly were in the case of the myth of Eden. Lastly, to conclude that Helios is an Eastern deity, because he reigns in the East over Thrinakia, is wholly unwarranted. Is not Helios pure Greek for the sun? and where should his sacred island be placed, if not in the East? As for his oxen, which wrought such dire destruction to the comrades of Odysseus, and which seem to Mr. Gladstone so anomalous, they are those very same unhappy cattle, the clouds, which were stolen by the storm-demon Cacus and the wind-deity Hermes, and which furnished endless material for legends to the poets of the Veda. But the whole subject of comparative mythology seems to be terra incognita to Mr. Gladstone. He pursues the even tenour of his way in utter disregard of Grimm, and Kuhn, and Breal, and Dasent, and Burnouf. He takes no note of the Rig-Veda, nor does he seem to realize that there was ever a time when the ancestors of the Greeks and Hindus worshipped the same gods. Two or three times he cites Max Muller, but makes no use of the copious data which might be gathered from him. The only work which seems really to have attracted his attention is M. Jacolliot's very discreditable performance called "The Bible in India." Mr. Gladstone does not, indeed, unreservedly approve of this book; but neither does he appear to suspect that it is a disgraceful piece of charlatanry, written by a man ignorant of the very rudiments of the subject which he professes to handle. Mr. Gladstone is equally out of his depth when he comes to treat purely philological questions. Of the science of philology, as based upon established laws of phonetic change, he seems to have no knowledge whatever. He seems to think that two words are sufficiently proved to be connected when they are seen to resemble each other in spelling or in sound. Thus he quotes approvingly a derivation of the name Themis from an assumed verb them, "to speak," whereas it is notoriously derived from tiqhmi, as statute comes ultimately from stare. His reference of hieros, "a priest," and geron, "an old man," to the same root, is utterly baseless; the one is the Sanskrit ishiras, "a powerful man," the other is the Sanskrit jaran, "an old man." The lists of words on pages 96-100 are disfigured by many such errors; and indeed the whole purpose for which they are given shows how sadly Mr. Gladstone's philology is in arrears. The theory of Niebuhr--that the words common to Greek and Latin, mostly descriptive of peaceful occupations, are Pelasgian--was serviceable enough in its day, but is now rendered wholly antiquated by the discovery that such words are Aryan, in the widest sense. The Pelasgian theory works very smoothly so long as we only compare the Greek with the Latin words,--as, for instance, sugon with jugum; but when we add the English yoke and the Sanskrit yugam, it is evident that we have got far out of the range of the Pelasgoi. But what shall we say when we find Mr. Gladstone citing the Latin thalamus in support of this antiquated theory? Doubtless the word thalamus is, or should be, significative of peaceful occupations; but it is not a Latin word at all, except by adoption. One might as well cite the word ensemble to prove the original identity or kinship between English and French. When Mr. Gladstone, leaving the dangerous ground of pure and applied philology, confines himself to illustrating the contents of the Homeric poems, he is always excellent. His chapter on the "Outer Geography" of the Odyssey is exceedingly interesting; showing as it does how much may be obtained from the patient and attentive study of even a single author. Mr. Gladstone's knowledge of the SURFACE of the Iliad and Odyssey, so to speak, is extensive and accurate. It is when he attempts to penetrate beneath the surface and survey the treasures hidden in the bowels of the earth, that he shows himself unprovided with the talisman of the wise dervise, which alone can unlock those mysteries. But modern philology is an exacting science: to approach its higher problems requires an amount of preparation sufficient to terrify at the outset all but the boldest; and a man who has had to regulate taxation, and make out financial statements, and lead a political party in a great nation, may well be excused for ignorance of philology. It is difficult enough for those who have little else to do but to pore over treatises on phonetics, and thumb their lexicons, to keep fully abreast with the latest views in linguistics. In matters of detail one can hardly ever broach a new hypothesis without misgivings lest somebody, in some weekly journal published in Germany, may just have anticipated and refuted it. Yet while Mr. Gladstone may be excused for being unsound in philology, it is far less excusable that he should sit down to write a book about Homer, abounding in philological statements, without the slightest knowledge of what has been achieved in that science for several years past. In spite of all drawbacks, however, his book shows an abiding taste for scholarly pursuits, and therefore deserves a certain kind of praise. I hope,--though just now the idea savours of the ludicrous,--that the day may some time arrive when OUR Congressmen and Secretaries of the Treasury will spend their vacations in writing books about Greek antiquities, or in illustrating the meaning of Homeric phrases. July, 1870. VII. THE PRIMEVAL GHOST-WORLD. NO earnest student of human culture can as yet have forgotten or wholly outlived the feeling of delight awakened by the first perusal of Max Muller's brilliant "Essay on Comparative Mythology,"--a work in which the scientific principles of myth-interpretation, though not newly announced, were at least brought home to the reader with such an amount of fresh and striking concrete illustration as they had not before received. Yet it must have occurred to more than one reader that, while the analyses of myths contained in this noble essay are in the main sound in principle and correct in detail, nevertheless the author's theory of the genesis of myth is expressed, and most likely conceived, in a way that is very suggestive of carelessness and fallacy. There are obvious reasons for doubting whether the existence of mythology can be due to any "disease," abnormity, or hypertrophy of metaphor in language; and the criticism at once arises, that with the myth-makers it was not so much the character of the expression which originated the thought, as it was the thought which gave character to the expression. It is not that the early Aryans were myth-makers because their language abounded in metaphor; it is that the Aryan mother-tongue abounded in metaphor because the men and women who spoke it were myth-makers. And they were myth-makers because they had nothing but the phenomena of human will and effort with which to compare objective phenomena. Therefore it was that they spoke of the sun as an unwearied voyager or a matchless archer, and classified inanimate no less than animate objects as masculine and feminine. Max Muller's way of stating his theory, both in this Essay and in his later Lectures, affords one among several instances of the curious manner in which he combines a marvellous penetration into the significance of details with a certain looseness of general conception. [155] The principles of philological interpretation are an indispensable aid to us in detecting the hidden meaning of many a legend in which the powers of nature are represented in the guise of living and thinking persons; but before we can get at the secret of the myth-making tendency itself, we must leave philology and enter upon a psychological study. We must inquire into the characteristics of that primitive style of thinking to which it seemed quite natural that the sun should be an unerring archer, and the thunder-cloud a black demon or gigantic robber finding his richly merited doom at the hands of the indignant Lord of Light. Among recent treatises which have dealt with this interesting problem, we shall find it advantageous to give especial attention to Mr. Tylor's "Primitive Culture," [156] one of the few erudite works which are at once truly great and thoroughly entertaining. The learning displayed in it would do credit to a German specialist, both for extent and for minuteness, while the orderly arrangement of the arguments and the elegant lucidity of the style are such as we are accustomed to expect from French essay-writers. And what is still more admirable is the way in which the enthusiasm characteristic of a genial and original speculator is tempered by the patience and caution of a cool-headed critic. Patience and caution are nowhere more needed than in writers who deal with mythology and with primitive religious ideas; but these qualities are too seldom found in combination with the speculative boldness which is required when fresh theories are to be framed or new paths of investigation opened. The state of mind in which the explaining powers of a favourite theory are fondly contemplated is, to some extent, antagonistic to the state of mind in which facts are seen, with the eye of impartial criticism, in all their obstinate and uncompromising reality. To be able to preserve the balance between the two opposing tendencies is to give evidence of the most consummate scientific training. It is from the want of such a balance that the recent great work of Mr. Cox is at times so unsatisfactory. It may, I fear, seem ill-natured to say so, but the eagerness with which Mr. Cox waylays every available illustration of the physical theory of the origin of myths has now and then the curious effect of weakening the reader's conviction of the soundness of the theory. For my own part, though by no means inclined to waver in adherence to a doctrine once adopted on good grounds, I never felt so much like rebelling against the mythologic supremacy of the Sun and the Dawn as when reading Mr. Cox's volumes. That Mr. Tylor, while defending the same fundamental theory, awakens no such rebellious feelings, is due to his clear perception and realization of the fact that it is impossible to generalize in a single formula such many-sided correspondences as those which primitive poetry end philosophy have discerned between the life of man and the life of outward nature. Whoso goes roaming up and down the elf-land of popular fancies, with sole intent to resolve each episode of myth into some answering physical event, his only criterion being outward resemblance, cannot be trusted in his conclusions, since wherever he turns for evidence he is sure to find something that can be made to serve as such. As Mr. Tylor observes, no household legend or nursery rhyme is safe from his hermeneutics. "Should he, for instance, demand as his property the nursery 'Song of Sixpence,' his claim would be easily established,--obviously the four-and-twenty blackbirds are the four-and-twenty hours, and the pie that holds them is the underlying earth covered with the overarching sky,--how true a touch of nature it is that when the pie is opened, that is, when day breaks, the birds begin to sing; the King is the Sun, and his counting out his money is pouring out the sunshine, the golden shower of Danae; the Queen is the Moon, and her transparent honey the moonlight; the Maid is the 'rosy-fingered' Dawn, who rises before the Sun, her master, and hangs out the clouds, his clothes, across the sky; the particular blackbird, who so tragically ends the tale by snipping off her nose, is the hour of sunrise." In all this interpretation there is no a priori improbability, save, perhaps, in its unbroken symmetry and completeness. That some points, at least, of the story are thus derived from antique interpretations of physical events, is in harmony with all that we know concerning nursery rhymes. In short, "the time-honoured rhyme really wants but one thing to prove it a sun-myth, that one thing being a proof by some argument more valid than analogy." The character of the argument which is lacking may be illustrated by a reference to the rhyme about Jack and Jill, explained some time since in the paper on "The Origins of Folk Lore." If the argument be thought valid which shows these ill-fated children to be the spots on the moon, it is because the proof consists, not in the analogy, which is in this case not especially obvious, but in the fact that in the Edda, and among ignorant Swedish peasants of our own day, the story of Jack and Jill is actually given as an explanation of the moon-spots. To the neglect of this distinction between what is plausible and what is supported by direct evidence, is due much of the crude speculation which encumbers the study of myths. It is when Mr. Tylor merges the study of mythology into the wider inquiry into the characteristic features of the mode of thinking in which myths originated, that we can best appreciate the practical value of that union of speculative boldness and critical sobriety which everywhere distinguishes him. It is pleasant to meet with a writer who can treat of primitive religious ideas without losing his head over allegory and symbolism, and who duly realizes the fact that a savage is not a rabbinical commentator, or a cabalist, or a Rosicrucian, but a plain man who draws conclusions like ourselves, though with feeble intelligence and scanty knowledge. The mystic allegory with which such modern writers as Lord Bacon have invested the myths of antiquity is no part of their original clothing, but is rather the late product of a style of reasoning from analogy quite similar to that which we shall perceive to have guided the myth-makers in their primitive constructions. The myths and customs and beliefs which, in an advanced stage of culture, seem meaningless save when characterized by some quaintly wrought device of symbolic explanation, did not seem meaningless in the lower culture which gave birth to them. Myths, like words, survive their primitive meanings. In the early stage the myth is part and parcel of the current mode of philosophizing; the explanation which it offers is, for the time, the natural one, the one which would most readily occur to any one thinking on the theme with which the myth is concerned. But by and by the mode of philosophizing has changed; explanations which formerly seemed quite obvious no longer occur to any one, but the myth has acquired an independent substantive existence, and continues to be handed down from parents to children as something true, though no one can tell why it is true: Lastly, the myth itself gradually fades from remembrance, often leaving behind it some utterly unintelligible custom or seemingly absurd superstitious notion. For example,--to recur to an illustration already cited in a previous paper,--it is still believed here and there by some venerable granny that it is wicked to kill robins; but he who should attribute the belief to the old granny's refined sympathy with all sentient existence, would be making one of the blunders which are always committed by those who reason a priori about historical matters without following the historical method. At an earlier date the superstition existed in the shape of a belief that the killing of a robin portends some calamity; in a still earlier form the calamity is specified as death; and again, still earlier, as death by lightning. Another step backward reveals that the dread sanctity of the robin is owing to the fact that he is the bird of Thor, the lightning god; and finally we reach that primitive stage of philosophizing in which the lightning is explained as a red bird dropping from its beak a worm which cleaveth the rocks. Again, the belief that some harm is sure to come to him who saves the life of a drowning man, is unintelligible until it is regarded as a case of survival in culture. In the older form of the superstition it is held that the rescuer will sooner or later be drowned himself; and thus we pass to the fetichistic interpretation of drowning as the seizing of the unfortunate person by the water-spirit or nixy, who is naturally angry at being deprived of his victim, and henceforth bears a special grudge against the bold mortal who has thus dared to frustrate him. The interpretation of the lightning as a red bird, and of drowning as the work of a smiling but treacherous fiend, are parts of that primitive philosophy of nature in which all forces objectively existing are conceived as identical with the force subjectively known as volition. It is this philosophy, currently known as fetichism, but treated by Mr. Tylor under the somewhat more comprehensive name of "animism," which we must now consider in a few of its most conspicuous exemplifications. When we have properly characterized some of the processes which the untrained mind habitually goes through, we shall have incidentally arrived at a fair solution of the genesis of mythology. Let us first note the ease with which the barbaric or uncultivated mind reaches all manner of apparently fanciful conclusions through reckless reasoning from analogy. It is through the operation of certain laws of ideal association that all human thinking, that of the highest as well as that of the lowest minds, is conducted: the discovery of the law of gravitation, as well as the invention of such a superstition as the Hand of Glory, is at bottom but a case of association of ideas. The difference between the scientific and the mythologic inference consists solely in the number of checks which in the former case combine to prevent any other than the true conclusion from being framed into a proposition to which the mind assents. Countless accumulated experiences have taught the modern that there are many associations of ideas which do not correspond to any actual connection of cause and effect in the world of phenomena; and he has learned accordingly to apply to his newly framed notions the rigid test of verification. Besides which the same accumulation of experiences has built up an organized structure of ideal associations into which only the less extravagant newly framed notions have any chance of fitting. The primitive man, or the modern savage who is to some extent his counterpart, must reason without the aid of these multifarious checks. That immense mass of associations which answer to what are called physical laws, and which in the mind of the civilized modern have become almost organic, have not been formed in the mind of the savage; nor has he learned the necessity of experimentally testing any of his newly framed notions, save perhaps a few of the commonest. Consequently there is nothing but superficial analogy to guide the course of his thought hither or thither, and the conclusions at which he arrives will be determined by associations of ideas occurring apparently at haphazard. Hence the quaint or grotesque fancies with which European and barbaric folk-lore is filled, in the framing of which the myth-maker was but reasoning according to the best methods at his command. To this simplest class, in which the association of ideas is determined by mere analogy, belong such cases as that of the Zulu, who chews a piece of wood in order to soften the heart of the man with whom he is about to trade for cows, or the Hessian lad who "thinks he may escape the conscription by carrying a baby-girl's cap in his pocket,--a symbolic way of repudiating manhood." [157] A similar style of thinking underlies the mediaeval necromancer's practice of making a waxen image of his enemy and shooting at it with arrows, in order to bring about the enemy's death; as also the case of the magic rod, mentioned in a previous paper, by means of which a sound thrashing can be administered to an absent foe through the medium of an old coat which is imagined to cover him. The principle involved here is one which is doubtless familiar to most children, and is closely akin to that which Irving so amusingly illustrates in his doughty general who struts through a field of cabbages or corn-stalks, smiting them to earth with his cane, and imagining himself a hero of chivalry conquering single-handed a host of caitiff ruffians. Of like origin are the fancies that the breaking of a mirror heralds a death in the family,--probably because of the destruction of the reflected human image; that the "hair of the dog that bit you" will prevent hydrophobia if laid upon the wound; or that the tears shed by human victims, sacrificed to mother earth, will bring down showers upon the land. Mr. Tylor cites Lord Chesterfield's remark, "that the king had been ill, and that people generally expected the illness to be fatal, because the oldest lion in the Tower, about the king's age, had just died. 'So wild and capricious is the human mind,'" observes the elegant letter-writer. But indeed, as Mr. Tylor justly remarks, "the thought was neither wild nor capricious; it was simply such an argument from analogy as the educated world has at length painfully learned to be worthless, but which, it is not too much to declare, would to this day carry considerable weight to the minds of four fifths of the human race." Upon such symbolism are based most of the practices of divination and the great pseudo-science of astrology. "It is an old story, that when two brothers were once taken ill together, Hippokrates, the physician, concluded from the coincidence that they were twins, but Poseidonios, the astrologer, considered rather that they were born under the same constellation; we may add that either argument would be thought reasonable by a savage." So when a Maori fortress is attacked, the besiegers and besieged look to see if Venus is near the moon. The moon represents the fortress; and if it appears below the companion planet, the besiegers will carry the day, otherwise they will be repulsed. Equally primitive and childlike was Rousseau's train of thought on the memorable day at Les Charmettes when, being distressed with doubts as to the safety of his soul, he sought to determine the point by throwing a stone at a tree. "Hit, sign of salvation; miss, sign of damnation!" The tree being a large one and very near at hand, the result of the experiment was reassuring, and the young philosopher walked away without further misgivings concerning this momentous question. [158] When the savage, whose highest intellectual efforts result only in speculations of this childlike character, is confronted with the phenomena of dreams, it is easy to see what he will make of them. His practical knowledge of psychology is too limited to admit of his distinguishing between the solidity of waking experience and what we may call the unsubstantialness of the dream. He may, indeed, have learned that the dream is not to be relied on for telling the truth; the Zulu, for example, has even reached the perverse triumph of critical logic achieved by our own Aryan ancestors in the saying that "dreams go by contraries." But the Zulu has not learned, nor had the primeval Aryan learned, to disregard the utterances of the dream as being purely subjective phenomena. To the mind as yet untouched by modern culture, the visions seen and the voices heard in sleep possess as much objective reality as the gestures and shouts of waking hours. When the savage relates his dream, he tells how he SAW certain dogs, dead warriors, or demons last night, the implication being that the things seen were objects external to himself. As Mr. Spencer observes, "his rude language fails to state the difference between seeing and dreaming that he saw, doing and dreaming that he did. From this inadequacy of his language it not only results that he cannot truly represent this difference to others, but also that he cannot truly represent it to himself. Hence in the absence of an alternative interpretation, his belief, and that of those to whom he tells his adventures, is that his OTHER SELF has been away and came back when he awoke. And this belief, which we find among various existing savage tribes, we equally find in the traditions of the early civilized races." [159] Let us consider, for a moment, this assumption of the OTHER SELF, for upon this is based the great mass of crude inference which constitutes the primitive man's philosophy of nature. The hypothesis of the OTHER SELF, which serves to account for the savage's wanderings during sleep in strange lands and among strange people, serves also to account for the presence in his dreams of parents, comrades, or enemies, known to be dead and buried. The other self of the dreamer meets and converses with the other selves of his dead brethren, joins with them in the hunt, or sits down with them to the wild cannibal banquet. Thus arises the belief in an ever-present world of souls or ghosts, a belief which the entire experience of uncivilized man goes to strengthen and expand. The existence of some tribe or tribes of savages wholly destitute of religious belief has often been hastily asserted and as often called in question. But there is no question that, while many savages are unable to frame a conception so general as that of godhood, on the other hand no tribe has ever been found so low in the scale of intelligence as not to have framed the conception of ghosts or spiritual personalities, capable of being angered, propitiated, or conjured with. Indeed it is not improbable a priori that the original inference involved in the notion of the other self may be sufficiently simple and obvious to fall within the capacity of animals even less intelligent than uncivilized man. An authentic case is on record of a Skye terrier who, being accustomed to obtain favours from his master by sitting on his haunches, will also sit before his pet india-rubber ball placed on the chimney-piece, evidently beseeching it to jump down and play with him. [160] Such a fact as this is quite in harmony with Auguste Comte's suggestion that such intelligent animals as dogs, apes, and elephants may be capable of forming a few fetichistic notions. The behaviour of the terrier here rests upon the assumption that the ball is open to the same sort of entreaty which prevails with the master; which implies, not that the wistful brute accredits the ball with a soul, but that in his mind the distinction between life and inanimate existence has never been thoroughly established. Just this confusion between things living and things not living is present throughout the whole philosophy of fetichism; and the confusion between things seen and things dreamed, which suggests the notion of another self, belongs to this same twilight stage of intelligence in which primeval man has not yet clearly demonstrated his immeasurable superiority to the brutes. [161] The conception of a soul or other self, capable of going away from the body and returning to it, receives decisive confirmation from the phenomena of fainting, trance, catalepsy, and ecstasy, [162] which occur less rarely among savages, owing to their irregular mode of life, than among civilized men. "Further verification," observes Mr. Spencer, "is afforded by every epileptic subject, into whose body, during the absence of the other self, some enemy has entered; for how else does it happen that the other self on returning denies all knowledge of what his body has been doing? And this supposition, that the body has been 'possessed' by some other being, is confirmed by the phenomena of somnambulism and insanity." Still further, as Mr. Spencer points out, when we recollect that savages are very generally unwilling to have their portraits taken, lest a portion of themselves should get carried off and be exposed to foul play, [163] we must readily admit that the weird reflection of the person and imitation of the gestures in rivers or still woodland pools will go far to intensify the belief in the other self. Less frequent but uniform confirmation is to be found in echoes, which in Europe within two centuries have been commonly interpreted as the voices of mocking fiends or wood-nymphs, and which the savage might well regard as the utterances of his other self. With the savage's unwillingness to have his portrait taken, lest it fall into the hands of some enemy who may injure him by conjuring with it, may be compared the reluctance which he often shows toward telling his name, or mentioning the name of his friend, or king, or tutelar ghost-deity. In fetichistic thought, the name is an entity mysteriously associated with its owner, and it is not well to run the risk of its getting into hostile hands. Along with this caution goes the similarly originated fear that the person whose name is spoken may resent such meddling with his personality. For the latter reason the Dayak will not allude by name to the small pox, but will call it "the chief" or "jungle-leaves"; the Laplander speaks of the bear as the "old man with the fur coat"; in Annam the tiger is called "grandfather" or "Lord"; while in more civilized communities such sayings are current as "talk of the Devil, and he will appear," with which we may also compare such expressions as "Eumenides" or "gracious ones" for the Furies, and other like euphemisms. Indeed, the maxim nil mortuis nisi bonum had most likely at one time a fetichistic flavour. In various islands of the Pacific, for both the reasons above specified, the name of the reigning chief is so rigorously "tabu," that common words and even syllables resembling that name in sound must be omitted from the language. In New Zealand, where a chiefs name was Maripi, or "knife," it became necessary to call knives nekra; and in Tahiti, fetu, "star," had to be changed into fetia, and tui, "to strike," became tiai, etc., because the king's name was Tu. Curious freaks are played with the languages of these islands by this ever-recurring necessity. Among the Kafirs the women have come to speak a different dialect from the men, because words resembling the names of their lords or male relatives are in like manner "tabu." The student of human culture will trace among such primeval notions the origin of the Jew's unwillingness to pronounce the name of Jehovah; and hence we may perhaps have before us the ultimate source of the horror with which the Hebraizing Puritan regards such forms of light swearing--"Mon Dieu," etc.--as are still tolerated on the continent of Europe, but have disappeared from good society in Puritanic England and America. The reader interested in this group of ideas and customs may consult Tylor, Early History of Mankind, pp. 142, 363; Max Muller, Science of Language, 6th edition, Vol. II. p. 37; Mackay, Religious Development of the Greeks and Hebrews, Vol. I. p. 146. Chamisso's well-known tale of Peter Schlemihl belongs to a widely diffused family of legends, which show that a man's shadow has been generally regarded not only as an entity, but as a sort of spiritual attendant of the body, which under certain circumstances it may permanently forsake. It is in strict accordance with this idea that not only in the classic languages, but in various barbaric tongues, the word for "shadow" expresses also the soul or other self. Tasmanians, Algonquins, Central-Americans, Abipones, Basutos, and Zulus are cited by Mr. Tylor as thus implicitly asserting the identity of the shadow with the ghost or phantasm seen in dreams; the Basutos going so far as to think "that if a man walks on the river-bank, a crocodile may seize his shadow in the water and draw him in." Among the Algonquins a sick person is supposed to have his shadow or other self temporarily detached from his body, and the convalescent is at times "reproached for exposing himself before his shadow was safely settled down in him." If the sick man has been plunged into stupor, it is because his other self has travelled away as far as the brink of the river of death, but not being allowed to cross has come back and re-entered him. And acting upon a similar notion the ailing Fiji will sometimes lie down and raise a hue and cry for his soul to be brought back. Thus, continues Mr. Tylor, "in various countries the bringing back of lost souls becomes a regular part of the sorcerer's or priest's profession." [164] On Aryan soil we find the notion of a temporary departure of the soul surviving to a late date in the theory that the witch may attend the infernal Sabbath while her earthly tabernacle is quietly sleeping at home. The primeval conception reappears, clothed in bitterest sarcasm, in Dante's reference to his living contemporaries whose souls he met with in the vaults of hell, while their bodies were still walking about on the earth, inhabited by devils. The theory which identifies the soul with the shadow, and supposes the shadow to depart with the sickness and death of the body, would seem liable to be attended with some difficulties in the way of verification, even to the dim intelligence of the savage. But the propriety of identifying soul and breath is borne out by all primeval experience. The breath, which really quits the body at its decease, has furnished the chief name for the soul, not only to the Hebrew, the Sanskrit, and the classic tongues; not only to German and English, where geist, and ghost, according to Max Muller, have the meaning of "breath," and are akin to such words as gas, gust, and geyser; but also to numerous barbaric languages. Among the natives of Nicaragua and California, in Java and in West Australia, the soul is described as the air or breeze which passes in and out through the nostrils and mouth; and the Greenlanders, according to Cranz, reckon two separate souls, the breath and the shadow. "Among the Seminoles of Florida, when a woman died in childbirth, the infant was held over her face to receive her parting spirit, and thus acquire strength and knowledge for its future use..... Their state of mind is kept up to this day among Tyrolese peasants, who can still fancy a good man's soul to issue from his mouth at death like a little white cloud." [165] It is kept up, too, in Lancashire, where a well-known witch died a few years since; "but before she could 'shuffle off this mortal coil' she must needs TRANSFER HER FAMILIAR SPIRIT to some trusty successor. An intimate acquaintance from a neighbouring township was consequently sent for in all haste, and on her arrival was immediately closeted with her dying friend. What passed between them has never fully transpired, but it is confidently affirmed that at the close of the interview this associate RECEIVED THE WITCH'S LAST BREATH INTO HER MOUTH AND WITH IT HER FAMILIAR SPIRIT. The dreaded woman thus ceased to exist, but her powers for good or evil were transferred to her companion; and on passing along the road from Burnley to Blackburn we can point out a farmhouse at no great distance with whose thrifty matron no neighbouring farmer will yet dare to quarrel." [166] Of the theory of embodiment there will be occasion to speak further on. At present let us not pass over the fact that the other self is not only conceived as shadow or breath, which can at times quit the body during life, but is also supposed to become temporarily embodied in the visible form of some bird or beast. In discussing elsewhere the myth of Bishop Hatto, we saw that the soul is sometimes represented in the form of a rat or mouse; and in treating of werewolves we noticed the belief that the spirits of dead ancestors, borne along in the night-wind, have taken on the semblance of howling dogs or wolves. "Consistent with these quaint ideas are ceremonies in vogue in China of bringing home in a cock (live or artificial) the spirit of a man deceased in a distant place, and of enticing into a sick man's coat the departing spirit which has already left his body and so conveying it back." [167] In Castren's great work on Finnish mythology, we find the story of the giant who could not be killed because he kept his soul hidden in a twelve-headed snake which he carried in a bag as he rode on horseback; only when the secret was discovered and the snake carefully killed, did the giant yield up his life. In this Finnish legend we have one of the thousand phases of the story of the "Giant who had no Heart in his Body," but whose heart was concealed, for safe keeping, in a duck's egg, or in a pigeon, carefully disposed in some belfry at the world's end a million miles away, or encased in a wellnigh infinite series of Chinese boxes. [168] Since, in spite of all these precautions, the poor giant's heart invariably came to grief, we need not wonder at the Karen superstition that the soul is in danger when it quits the body on its excursions, as exemplified in countless Indo-European stories of the accidental killing of the weird mouse or pigeon which embodies the wandering spirit. Conversely it is held that the detachment of the other self is fraught with danger to the self which remains. In the philosophy of "wraiths" and "fetches," the appearance of a double, like that which troubled Mistress Affery in her waking dreams of Mr. Flintwinch, has been from time out of mind a signal of alarm. "In New Zealand it is ominous to see the figure of an absent person, for if it be shadowy and the face not visible, his death may erelong be expected, but if the face be seen he is dead already. A party of Maoris (one of whom told the story) were seated round a fire in the open air, when there appeared, seen only by two of them, the figure of a relative, left ill at home; they exclaimed, the figure vanished, and on the return of the party it appeared that the sick man had died about the time of the vision." [169] The belief in wraiths has survived into modern times, and now and then appears in the records of that remnant of primeval philosophy known as "spiritualism," as, for example, in the case of the lady who "thought she saw her own father look in at the church-window at the moment he was dying in his own house." The belief in the "death-fetch," like the doctrine which identifies soul with shadow, is instructive as showing that in barbaric thought the other self is supposed to resemble the material self with which it has customarily been associated. In various savage superstitions the minute resemblance of soul to body is forcibly stated. The Australian, for instance, not content with slaying his enemy, cuts off the right thumb of the corpse, so that the departed soul may be incapacitated from throwing a spear. Even the half-civilized Chinese prefer crucifixion to decapitation, that their souls may not wander headless about the spirit-world. [171] Thus we see how far removed from the Christian doctrine of souls is the primeval theory of the soul or other self that figures in dreamland. So grossly materialistic is the primitive conception that the savage who cherishes it will bore holes in the coffin of his dead friend, so that the soul may again have a chance, if it likes, to revisit the body. To this day, among the peasants in some parts of Northern Europe, when Odin, the spectral hunter, rides by attended by his furious host, the windows in every sick-room are opened, in order that the soul, if it chooses to depart, may not be hindered from joining in the headlong chase. And so, adds Mr. Tylor, after the Indians of North America had spent a riotous night in singeing an unfortunate captive to death with firebrands, they would howl like the fiends they were, and beat the air with brushwood, to drive away the distressed and revengeful ghost. "With a kindlier feeling, the Congo negroes abstained for a whole year after a death from sweeping the house, lest the dust should injure the delicate substance of the ghost"; and even now, "it remains a German peasant saying that it is wrong to slam a door, lest one should pinch a soul in it." [172] Dante's experience with the ghosts in hell and purgatory, who were astonished at his weighing down the boat in which they were carried, is belied by the sweet German notion "that the dead mother's coming back in the night to suckle the baby she has left on earth may be known by the hollow pressed down in the bed where she lay." Almost universally ghosts, however impervious to thrust of sword or shot of pistol, can eat and drink like Squire Westerns. And lastly, we have the grotesque conception of souls sufficiently material to be killed over again, as in the case of the negro widows who, wishing to marry a second time, will go and duck themselves in the pond, in order to drown the souls of their departed husbands, which are supposed to cling about their necks; while, according to the Fiji theory, the ghost of every dead warrior must go through a terrible fight with Samu and his brethren, in which, if he succeeds, he will enter Paradise, but if he fails he will be killed over again and finally eaten by the dreaded Samu and his unearthly company. From the conception of souls embodied in beast-forms, as above illustrated, it is not a wide step to the conception of beast-souls which, like human souls, survive the death of the tangible body. The wide-spread superstitions concerning werewolves and swan-maidens, and the hardly less general belief in metempsychosis, show that primitive culture has not arrived at the distinction attained by modern philosophy between the immortal man and the soulless brute. Still more direct evidence is furnished by sundry savage customs. The Kafir who has killed an elephant will cry that he did n't mean to do it, and, lest the elephant's soul should still seek vengeance, he will cut off and bury the trunk, so that the mighty beast may go crippled to the spirit-land. In like manner, the Samoyeds, after shooting a bear, will gather about the body offering excuses and laying the blame on the Russians; and the American redskin will even put the pipe of peace into the dead animal's mouth, and beseech him to forgive the deed. In Assam it is believed that the ghosts of slain animals will become in the next world the property of the hunter who kills them; and the Kamtchadales expressly declare that all animals, even flies and bugs, will live after death,--a belief, which, in our own day, has been indorsed on philosophical grounds by an eminent living naturalist. [173] The Greenlanders, too, give evidence of the same belief by supposing that when after an exhausting fever the patient comes up in unprecedented health and vigour, it is because he has lost his former soul and had it replaced by that of a young child or a reindeer. In a recent work in which the crudest fancies of primeval savagery are thinly disguised in a jargon learned from the superficial reading of modern books of science, M. Figuier maintains that human souls are for the most part the surviving souls of deceased animals; in general, the souls of precocious musical children like Mozart come from nightingales, while the souls of great architects have passed into them from beavers, etc., etc. [174] The practice of begging pardon of the animal one has just slain is in some parts of the world extended to the case of plants. When the Talein offers a prayer to the tree which he is about to cut down, it is obviously because he regards the tree as endowed with a soul or ghost which in the next life may need to be propitiated. And the doctrine of transmigration distinctly includes plants along with animals among the future existences into which the human soul may pass. As plants, like animals, manifest phenomena of life, though to a much less conspicuous degree, it is not incomprehensible that the savage should attribute souls to them. But the primitive process of anthropomorphisation does not end here. Not only the horse and dog, the bamboo, and the oak-tree, but even lifeless objects, such as the hatchet, or bow and arrows, or food and drink of the dead man, possess other selves which pass into the world of ghosts. Fijis and other contemporary savages, when questioned, expressly declare that this is their belief. "If an axe or a chisel is worn out or broken up, away flies its soul for the service of the gods." The Algonquins told Charlevoix that since hatchets and kettles have shadows, no less than men and women, it follows, of course, that these shadows (or souls) must pass along with human shadows (or souls) into the spirit-land. In this we see how simple and consistent is the logic which guides the savage, and how inevitable is the genesis of the great mass of beliefs, to our minds so arbitrary and grotesque, which prevail throughout the barbaric world. However absurd the belief that pots and kettles have souls may seem to us, it is nevertheless the only belief which can be held consistently by the savage to whom pots and kettles, no less than human friends or enemies, may appear in his dreams; who sees them followed by shadows as they are moved about; who hears their voices, dull or ringing, when they are struck; and who watches their doubles fantastically dancing in the water as they are carried across the stream. [175] To minds, even in civilized countries, which are unused to the severe training of science, no stronger evidence can be alleged than what is called "the evidence of the senses"; for it is only long familiarity with science which teaches us that the evidence of the senses is trustworthy only in so far as it is correctly interpreted by reason. For the truth of his belief in the ghosts of men and beasts, trees and axes, the savage has undeniably the evidence of his senses which have so often seen, heard, and handled these other selves. The funeral ceremonies of uncultured races freshly illustrate this crude philosophy, and receive fresh illustration from it. On the primitive belief in the ghostly survival of persons and objects rests the almost universal custom of sacrificing the wives, servants, horses, and dogs of the departed chief of the tribe, as well as of presenting at his shrine sacred offerings of food, ornaments, weapons, and money. Among the Kayans the slaves who are killed at their master's tomb are enjoined to take great care of their master's ghost, to wash and shampoo it, and to nurse it when sick. Other savages think that "all whom they kill in this world shall attend them as slaves after death," and for this reason the thrifty Dayaks of Borneo until lately would not allow their young men to marry until they had acquired some post mortem property by procuring at least one human head. It is hardly necessary to do more than allude to the Fiji custom of strangling all the wives of the deceased at his funeral, or to the equally well-known Hindu rite of suttee. Though, as Wilson has shown, the latter rite is not supported by any genuine Vedic authority, but only by a shameless Brahmanic corruption of the sacred text, Mr. Tylor is nevertheless quite right in arguing that unless the horrible custom had received the sanction of a public opinion bequeathed from pre-Vedic times, the Brahmans would have had no motive for fraudulently reviving it; and this opinion is virtually established by the fact of the prevalence of widow sacrifice among Gauls, Scandinavians, Slaves, and other European Aryans. [176] Though under English rule the rite has been forcibly suppressed, yet the archaic sentiments which so long maintained it are not yet extinct. Within the present year there has appeared in the newspapers a not improbable story of a beautiful and accomplished Hindu lady who, having become the wife of a wealthy Englishman, and after living several years in England amid the influences of modern society, nevertheless went off and privately burned herself to death soon after her husband's decease. The reader who thinks it far-fetched to interpret funeral offerings of food, weapons, ornaments, or money, on the theory of object-souls, will probably suggest that such offerings may be mere memorials of affection or esteem for the dead man. Such, indeed, they have come to be in many countries after surviving the phase of culture in which they originated; but there is ample evidence to show that at the outset they were presented in the belief that their ghosts would be eaten or otherwise employed by the ghost of the dead man. The stout club which is buried with the dead Fiji sends its soul along with him that he may be able to defend himself against the hostile ghosts which will lie in ambush for him on the road to Mbulu, seeking to kill and eat him. Sometimes the club is afterwards removed from the grave as of no further use, since its ghost is all that the dead man needs. In like manner, "as the Greeks gave the dead man the obolus for Charon's toll, and the old Prussians furnished him with spending money, to buy refreshment on his weary journey, so to this day German peasants bury a corpse with money in his mouth or hand," and this is also said to be one of the regular ceremonies of an Irish wake. Of similar purport were the funeral feasts and oblations of food in Greece and Italy, the "rice-cakes made with ghee" destined for the Hindu sojourning in Yama's kingdom, and the meat and gruel offered by the Chinaman to the manes of his ancestors. "Many travellers have described the imagination with which the Chinese make such offerings. It is that the spirits of the dead consume the impalpable essence of the food, leaving behind its coarse material substance, wherefore the dutiful sacrificers, having set out sumptuous feasts for ancestral souls, allow them a proper time to satisfy their appetite, and then fall to themselves." [177] So in the Homeric sacrifice to the gods, after the deity has smelled the sweet savour and consumed the curling steam that rises ghost-like from the roasting viands, "the assembled warriors devour the remains." [178] Thus far the course of fetichistic thought which we have traced out, with Mr. Tylor's aid, is such as is not always obvious to the modern inquirer without considerable concrete illustration. The remainder of the process, resulting in that systematic and complete anthropomorphisation of nature which has given rise to mythology, may be more succinctly described. Gathering together the conclusions already obtained, we find that daily or frequent experience of the phenomena of shadows and dreams has combined with less frequent experience of the phenomena of trance, ecstasy, and insanity, to generate in the mind of uncultured man the notion of a twofold existence appertaining alike to all animate or inanimate objects: as all alike possess material bodies, so all alike possess ghosts or souls. Now when the theory of object-souls is expanded into a general doctrine of spirits, the philosophic scheme of animism is completed. Once habituated to the conception of souls of knives and tobacco-pipes passing to the land of ghosts, the savage cannot avoid carrying the interpretation still further, so that wind and water, fire and storm, are accredited with indwelling spirits akin by nature to the soul which inhabits the human frame. That the mighty spirit or demon by whose impelling will the trees are rooted up and the storm-clouds driven across the sky should resemble a freed human soul, is a natural inference, since uncultured man has not attained to the conception of physical force acting in accordance with uniform methods, and hence all events are to his mind the manifestations of capricious volition. If the fire burns down his hut, it is because the fire is a person with a soul, and is angry with him, and needs to be coaxed into a kindlier mood by means of prayer or sacrifice. Thus the savage has a priori no alternative but to regard fire-soul as something akin to human-soul; and in point of fact we find that savage philosophy makes no distinction between the human ghost and the elemental demon or deity. This is sufficiently proved by the universal prevalence of the worship of ancestors. The essential principle of manes-worship is that the tribal chief or patriarch, who has governed the community during life, continues also to govern it after death, assisting it in its warfare with hostile tribes, rewarding brave warriors, and punishing traitors and cowards. Thus from the conception of the living king we pass to the notion of what Mr. Spencer calls "the god-king," and thence to the rudimentary notion of deity. Among such higher savages as the Zulus, the doctrine of divine ancestors has been developed to the extent of recognizing a first ancestor, the Great Father, Unkulunkulu, who made the world. But in the stratum of savage thought in which barbaric or Aryan folk-lore is for the most part based, we find no such exalted speculation. The ancestors of the rude Veddas and of the Guinea negroes, the Hindu pitris (patres, "fathers"), and the Roman manes have become elemental deities which send rain or sunshine, health or sickness, plenty or famine, and to which their living offspring appeal for guidance amid the vicissitudes of life. [179] The theory of embodiment, already alluded to, shows how thoroughly the demons which cause disease are identified with human and object souls. In Australasia it is a dead man's ghost which creeps up into the liver of the impious wretch who has ventured to pronounce his name; while conversely in the well-known European theory of demoniacal possession, it is a fairy from elf-land, or an imp from hell, which has entered the body of the sufferer. In the close kinship, moreover, between disease-possession and oracle-possession, where the body of the Pythia, or the medicine-man, is placed under the direct control of some great deity, [180] we may see how by insensible transitions the conception of the human ghost passes into the conception of the spiritual numen, or divinity. To pursue this line of inquiry through the countless nymphs and dryads and nixies of the higher nature-worship up to the Olympian divinities of classic polytheism, would be to enter upon the history of religious belief, and in so doing to lose sight of our present purpose, which has merely been to show by what mental process the myth-maker can speak of natural objects in language which implies that they are animated persons. Brief as our account of this process has been, I believe that enough has been said, not only to reveal the inadequacy of purely philological solutions (like those contained in Max Muller's famous Essay) to explain the growth of myths, but also to exhibit the vast importance for this purpose of the kind of psychological inquiry into the mental habits of savages which Mr. Tylor has so ably conducted. Indeed, however lacking we may still be in points of detail, I think we have already reached a very satisfactory explanation of the genesis of mythology. Since the essential characteristic of a myth is that it is an attempt to explain some natural phenomenon by endowing with human feelings and capacities the senseless factors in the phenomenon, and since it has here been shown how uncultured man, by the best use he can make of his rude common sense, must inevitably come, and has invariably come, to regard all objects as endowed with souls, and all nature as peopled with supra-human entities shaped after the general pattern of the human soul, I am inclined to suspect that we have got very near to the root of the whole matter. We can certainly find no difficulty in seeing why a water-spout should be described in the "Arabian Nights" as a living demon: "The sea became troubled before them, and there arose from it a black pillar, ascending towards the sky, and approaching the meadow,.... and behold it was a Jinni, of gigantic stature." We can see why the Moslem camel-driver should find it most natural to regard the whirling simoom as a malignant Jinni; we may understand how it is that the Persian sees in bodily shape the scarlet fever as "a blushing maid with locks of flame and cheeks all rosy red"; and we need not consider it strange that the primeval Aryan should have regarded the sun as a voyager, a climber, or an archer, and the clouds as cows driven by the wind-god Hermes to their milking. The identification of William Tell with the sun becomes thoroughly intelligible; nor can we be longer surprised at the conception of the howling night-wind as a ravenous wolf. When pots and kettles are thought to have souls that live hereafter, there is no difficulty in understanding how the blue sky can have been regarded as the sire of gods and men. And thus, as the elves and bogarts of popular lore are in many cases descended from ancient divinities of Olympos and Valhalla, so these in turn must acknowledge their ancestors in the shadowy denizens of the primeval ghost-world. August, 1872. NOTE. THE following are some of the modern works most likely to be of use to the reader who is interested in the legend of William Tell. HISELY, J. J. Dissertatio historiea inauguralis de Oulielmo Tellio, etc. Groningae, 1824. IDELER, J. L. Die Sage von dem Schuss des Tell. Berlin, 1836. HAUSSER, L. Die Sage von Tell aufs Neue kritisch untersucht. Heidelberg, 1840. HISELY, J. J. Recherches critiques sur l'histoire de Guillaume Tell. Lausanne, 1843. LIEBENAU, H. Die Tell-Sage zu dem Jahre 1230 historisoh nach neuesten Quellen. Aarau, 1864. VISCHER, W. Die Sage von der Befreinng der Waldstatte, etc. Nebst einer Beilage: das alteste Tellensehauspiel. Leipzig, 1867. BORDIER, H. L. Le Grutli et Guillaume Tell, ou defense de la tradition vulgaire sur les origines de la confederation suisse. Geneve et Bale, 1869. The same. La querelle sur les traditions concernant l'origine de la confederation suisse. Geneve et Bale, 1869. RILLIET, A. Les origines de la confederation suisse: histoire et legende. 2eS ed., revue et corrigee. Geneve et Bale, 1869. The same. Lettre a M. Henri Bordier a propos de sa defense de la tradition vulgaire sur les origines de la confederation suisse. Geneve et Bale, 1869. HUNGERBUHLER, H. Etude critique sur les traditions relatives aux origines de la confederation suisse. Geneve et Bale, 1869. MEYER, KARL. Die Tellsage. [In Bartsch, Germanistische Studien, I. 159-170. Wien, 1872.] See also the articles by M. Scherer, in Le Temps, 18 Feb., 1868; by M. Reuss, in the Revue critique d'histoire, 1868; by M. de Wiss, in the Journal de Geneve, 7 July, 1868; also Revue critique, 17 July, 1869; Journal de Geneve, 24 Oct., 1868; Gazette de Lausanne, feuilleton litteraire, 2-5 Nov., 1868, "Les origines de la confederation suisse," par M. Secretan; Edinburgh Review, Jan., 1869, "The Legend of Tell and Rutli." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: See Delepierre, Historical Difficulties, p. 75.] [Footnote 2: Saxo Grammaticus, Bk. X. p. 166, ed. Frankf. 1576.] [Footnote 3: According to Mr. Isaac Taylor, the name is really derived from "St. Celert, a Welsh saint of the fifth century, to whom the church of Llangeller is consecrated." (Words and Places, p. 339.)] [Footnote 4: Compare Krilof's story of the Gnat and the Shepherd, in Mr. Ralston's excellent version, Krilof and his Fables, p. 170. Many parallel examples are cited by Mr. Baring-Gould, Curious Myths, Vol. I. pp. 126-136. See also the story of Folliculus,--Swan, Gesta Romanorum, ad. Wright, Vol. I. p. lxxxii] [Footnote 5: See Cox, Mythology of the Aryan Nations, Vol. I. pp. 145-149.] [Footnote 6: The same incident occurs in the Arabian story of Seyf-el-Mulook and Bedeea-el-Jemal, where the Jinni's soul is enclosed in the crop of a sparrow, and the sparrow imprisoned in a small box, and this enclosed in another small box, and this again in seven other boxes, which are put into seven chests, contained in a coffer of marble, which is sunk in the ocean that surrounds the world. Seyf-el-Mulook raises the coffer by the aid of Suleyman's seal-ring, and having extricated the sparrow, strangles it, whereupon the Jinni's body is converted into a heap of black ashes, and Seyf-el-Mulook escapes with the maiden Dolet-Khatoon. See Lane's Arabian Nights, Vol. III. p. 316.] [Footnote 7: The same incident is repeated in the story of Hassan of El-Basrah. See Lane's Arabian Nights, Vol. III p. 452.] [Footnote 8: "Retrancher le merveilleux d'un mythe, c'est le supprimer."--Breal, Hercule et Cacus, p. 50.] [Footnote 9: "No distinction between the animate and inanimate is made in the languages of the Eskimos, the Choctaws, the Muskoghee, and the Caddo. Only the Iroquois, Cherokee, and the Algonquin-Lenape have it, so far as is known, and with them it is partial." According to the Fijians, "vegetables and stones, nay, even tools and weapons, pots and canoes, have souls that are immortal, and that, like the souls of men, pass on at last to Mbulu, the abode of departed spirits."--M'Lennan, The Worship of Animals and Plants, Fortnightly Review, Vol. XII. p, 416.] [Footnote 10: Marcus Aurelius, V. 7.] [Footnote 11: Some of these etymologies are attacked by Mr. Mahaffy in his Prolegomena to Ancient History, p. 49. After long consideration I am still disposed to follow Max Muller in adopting them, with the possible exception of Achilleus. With Mr. Mahaffy s suggestion (p. 52) that many of the Homeric legends may have clustered around some historical basis, I fully agree; as will appear, further on, from my paper on "Juventus Mundi."] [Footnote 12: Les facultes qui engendrent la mythologie sont les memes que celles qui engendront la philosophie, et ce n'est pas sans raison que l'Inde et la Grece nous presentent le phenomene de la plus riche mythologie a cote de la plus profonde metaphysique. "La conception de la multiplicite dans l'univers, c'est le polytheisme chez les peuples enfants; c'est la science chez les peuples arrives a l'age mur."--Renan, Hist. des Langues Semitiques, Tom. I. p. 9.] [Footnote 13: Cases coming under this head are discussed further on, in my paper on "Myths of the Barbaric World."] [Footnote 14: A collection of these interesting legends may be found in Baring-Gould's "Curious Myths of the Middle Ages," of which work this paper was originally a review.] [Footnote 15: See Procopius, De Bello Gothico, IV. 20; Villemarque, Barzas Breiz, I. 136. As a child I was instructed by an old nurse that Vas Diemen's Land is the home of ghosts and departed spirits.] [Footnote 16: Baring-Gould, Curious Myths, Vol. I. p. 197.] [Footnote 17: Hence perhaps the adage, "Always remember to pay the piper."] [Footnote 18: And it reappears as the mysterious lyre of the Gaelic musician, who "Could harp a fish out o' the water, Or bluid out of a stane, Or milk out of a maiden's breast, That bairns had never nane."] [Footnote 19: Baring-Gould, Curious Myths, Vol. II. p. 159.] [Footnote 20: Perhaps we may trace back to this source the frantic terror which Irish servant-girls often manifest at sight of a mouse.] [Footnote 21: In Persia a dog is brought to the bedside of the person who is dying, in order that the soul may be sure of a prompt escort. The same custom exists in India. Breal, Hercule et Cacus, p. 123.] [Footnote 22: The Devil, who is proverbially "active in a gale of wind," is none other than Hermes.] [Footnote 23: "Il faut que la coeur devienne ancien parmi les aneiennes choses, et la plenitude de l'histoire ne se devoile qu'a celui qui descend, ainsi dispose, dans le passe. Mais il faut que l'esprit demeure moderne, et n'oublie jamais qu'il n'y a pour lui d'autre foi que la foi scientifique."--LITTRS.] [Footnote 24: For an admirable example of scientific self-analysis tracing one of these illusions to its psychological sources, see the account of Dr. Lazarus, in Taine, De l'Intelligence, Vol. I. pp. 121-125.] [Footnote 25: See the story of Aymar in Baring-Gould, Curious Myths, Vol. I. pp. 57-77. The learned author attributes the discomfiture to the uncongenial Parisian environment; which is a style of reasoning much like that of my village sorcerer, I fear.] [Footnote 26: Kelly, Indo-European Folk-Lore, p. 177.] [Footnote 27: The story of the luck-flower is well told in verse by Mr. Baring Gould, in his Silver Store, p. 115, seq.] [Footnote 28: 1 Kings vi. 7.] [Footnote 29: Compare the Mussulman account of the building of the temple, in Baring-Gould, Legends of the Patriarchs and Prophets, pp. 337, 338. And see the story of Diocletian's ostrich, Swan, Gesta Romanorum, ed. Wright, Vol I. p. lxiv. See also the pretty story of the knight unjustly imprisoned, id. p. cii.] [Footnote 30: "We have the receipt of fern-seed. We walk invisible." --Shakespeare, Henry IV. See Ralston, Songs of the Russian People, p. 98] [Footnote 31: Henderson, Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties of England, p. 202] [Footnote 32: Kuhn, Die Herabkunft des Feuers und des Gottertranks. Berlin, 1859.] [Footnote 33: "Saga me forwhan byth seo sunne read on aefen? Ic the secge, forthon heo locath on helle.--Tell me, why is the sun red at even? I tell thee, because she looketh on hell." Thorpe, Analecta Anglo-Saxonica, p. 115, apud Tylor, Primitive Culture, Vol. II. p. 63. Barbaric thought had partly anticipated my childish theory.] [Footnote 34: "Still in North Germany does the peasant say of thunder, that the angels are playing skittles aloft, and of the snow, that they are shaking up the feather beds in heaven."--Baring-Gould, Book of Werewolves, p. 172.] [Footnote 35: "The Polynesians imagine that the sky descends at the horizon and encloses the earth. Hence they call foreigners papalangi, or 'heaven-bursters,' as having broken in from another world outside."--Max Muller, Chips, II. 268.] [Footnote 36: "--And said the gods, let there be a hammered plate in the midst of the waters, and let it be dividing between waters and waters." Genesis i. 6.] [Footnote 37: Genesis vii. 11.] [Footnote 38: See Kelly, Indo-European Folk-Lore, p 120; who states also that in Bengal the Garrows burn their dead in a small boat, placed on top of the funeral-pile. In their character of cows, also, the clouds were regarded as psychopomps; and hence it is still a popular superstition that a cow breaking into the yard foretokens a death in the family.] [Footnote 39: The sun-god Freyr had a cloud-ship called Skithblathnir, which is thus described in Dasent's Prose Edda: "She is so great, that all the AEsir, with their weapons and war-gear, may find room on board her"; but "when there is no need of faring on the sea in her, she is made.... with so much craft that Freyr may fold her together like a cloth, and keep her in his bag." This same virtue was possessed by the fairy pavilion which the Peri Banou gave to Ahmed; the cloud which is no bigger than a man's hand may soon overspread the whole heaven, and shade the Sultan's army from the solar rays.] [Footnote 40: Euhemerism has done its best with this bird, representing it as an immense vulture or condor or as a reminiscence of the extinct dodo. But a Chinese myth, cited by Klaproth, well preserves its true character when it describes it as "a bird which in flying obscures the sun, and of whose quills are made water-tuns." See Nouveau Journal Asiatique, Tom. XII. p. 235. The big bird in the Norse tale of the "Blue Belt" belongs to the same species.] [Footnote 41: Baring-Gould, Curious Myths, Vol. II. p. 146. Compare Tylor, Primitive Culture, Vol. II. p. 237, seq.] [Footnote 42: "If Polyphemos's eye be the sun, then Odysseus, the solar hero, extinguishes himself, a very primitive instance of suicide." Mahaffy, Prolegomena, p. 57. See also Brown, Poseidon, pp. 39, 40. This objection would be relevant only in case Homer were supposed to be constructing an allegory with entire knowledge of its meaning. It has no validity whatever when we recollect that Homer could have known nothing of the incongruity.] [Footnote 43: The Sanskrit myth-teller indeed mixes up his materials in a way which seems ludicrous to a Western reader. He describes Indra (the sun-god) as not only cleaving the cloud-mountains with his sword, but also cutting off their wings and hurling them from the sky. See Burnouf, Bhagavata Purana, VI. 12, 26.] [Footnote 44: Mr. Tylor offers a different, and possibly a better, explanation of the Symplegades as the gates of Night through which the solar ship, having passed successfully once, may henceforth pass forever. See the details of the evidence in his Primitive Culture, I. 315.] [Footnote 45: The Sanskrit parvata, a bulging or inflated body, means both "cloud" and "mountain." "In the Edda, too, the rocks, said to have been fashioned out of Ymir's bones, are supposed to be intended for clouds. In Old Norse Klakkr means both cloud and rock; nay, the English word CLOUD itself has been identified with the Anglo-Saxon clud, rock. See Justi, Orient und Occident, Vol. II. p. 62." Max Muller, Rig-Veda, Vol. 1. p. 44.] [Footnote 46: In accordance with the mediaeval "doctrine of signatures," it was maintained "that the hard, stony seeds of the Gromwell must be good for gravel, and the knotty tubers of scrophularia for scrofulous glands; while the scaly pappus of scaliosa showed it to be a specific in leprous diseases, the spotted leaves of pulmonaria that it was a sovereign remedy for tuberculous lungs, and the growth of saxifrage in the fissures of rocks that it would disintegrate stone in the bladder." Prior, Popular Names of British Plants, Introd., p. xiv. See also Chapiel, La Doctrine des Signatures. Paris, 1866.] [Footnote 47: Indeed, the wish-bone, or forked clavicle of a fowl, itself belongs to the same family of talismans as the divining-rod.] [Footnote 48: The ash, on the other hand, has been from time immemorial used for spears in many parts of the Aryan domain. The word oesc meant, in Anglo-Saxon, indifferently "ash-tree," or "spear"; and the same is, or has been, true of the French fresne and the Greek melia. The root of oesc appears in the Sanskrit as, "to throw" or "lance," whence asa, "a bow," and asana, "an arrow." See Pictet, Origines Indo-Europeennes, I. 222.] [Footnote 49: Compare Spenser's story of Sir Guyon, in the "Faery Queen," where, however, the knight fares better than this poor priest. Usually these lightning-caverns were like Ixion's treasure-house, into which none might look and live. This conception is the foundation of part of the story of Blue-Beard and of the Arabian tale of the third one-eyed Calender] [Footnote 50: Cox, Mythology of the Aryan Nations, Vol. 1. p. 161.] [Footnote 51: Kelly, Indo-European Folk-Lore, pp. 147, 183, 186, 193.] [Footnote 52: Brinton, Myths of the New World, p. 151.] [Footnote 53: Callaway, Zulu Nursery Tales, I. 173, Note 12.] [Footnote 54: Tylor, Early History of Mankind, p. 238; Primitive Culture, Vol. II. p. 254; Darwin, Naturalist's Voyage, p. 409.] [Footnote 55: The production of fire by the drill is often called churning, e. g. "He took the uvati [chark], and sat down and churned it, and kindled a fire." Callaway, Zulu Nursery Tales, I. 174.] [Footnote 56: Kelly, Indo-European Folk-Lore, p. 39. Burnouf, Bhagavata Purana, VIII. 6, 32.] [Footnote 57: Baring-Gould, Curious Myths, p. 149.] [Footnote 58: It is also the regenerating water of baptism, and the "holy water" of the Roman Catholic.] [Footnote 59: In the Vedas the rain-god Soma, originally the personification of the sacrificial ambrosia, is the deity who imparts to men life, knowledge, and happiness. See Breal, Hercule et Cacus, p. 85. Tylor, Primitive Culture, Vol. II. p. 277.] [Footnote 60: We may, perhaps, see here the reason for making the Greek fire-god Hephaistos the husband of Aphrodite.] [Footnote 61: "Our country maidens are well aware that triple leaves plucked at hazard from the common ash are worn in the breast, for the purpose of causing prophetic dreams respecting a dilatory lover. The leaves of the yellow trefoil are supposed to possess similar virtues."--Harland and Wilkinson, Lancashire Folk-Lore, p. 20.] [Footnote 62: In Peru, a mighty and far-worshipped deity was Catequil, the thunder-god,.... "he who in thunder-flash and clap hurls from his sling the small, round, smooth thunder-stones, treasured in the villages as fire-fetishes and charms to kindle the flames of love."--Tylor, op. cit. Vol. II. p. 239] [Footnote 63: In Polynesia, "the great deity Maui adds a new complication to his enigmatic solar-celestial character by appearing as a wind-god."--Tylor, op. cit. Vol. II. p. 242.] [Footnote 64: Compare Plato, Republic, VIII. 15.] [Footnote 65: Were-wolf = man-wolf, wer meaning "man." Garou is a Gallic corruption of werewolf, so that loup-garou is a tautological expression.] [Footnote 66: Meyer, in Bunsen's Philosophy of Universal History, Vol. I. p. 151.] [Footnote 67: Aimoin, De Gestis Francorum, II. 5.] [Footnote 68: Taylor, Words and Places, p. 393.] [Footnote 69: Very similar to this is the etymological confusion upon which is based the myth of the "confusion of tongues" in the eleventh chapter of Genesis. The name "Babel" is really Bab-Il, or "the gate of God"; but the Hebrew writer erroneously derives the word from the root balal, "to confuse"; and hence arises the mythical explanation,--that Babel was a place where human speech became confused. See Rawlinson, in Smith's Dictionary of the Bible, Vol. I. p. 149; Renan, Histoire des Langues Semitiques, Vol. I. p. 32; Donaldson, New Cratylus, p. 74, note; Colenso on the Pentateuch, Vol. IV. p. 268.] [Footnote 70: Vilg. AEn. VIII. 322. With Latium compare plat?s, Skr. prath (to spread out), Eng. flat. Ferrar, Comparative Grammar of Greek, Latin, and Sanskrit, Vol. I. p. 31.] [Footnote 71: M`Lennan, "The Worship of Animals and Plants," Fortnightly Review, N. S. Vol. VI. pp. 407-427, 562-582, Vol. VII. pp 194-216; Spencer, "The Origin of Animal Worship," Id. Vol. VII. pp. 535-550, reprinted in his Recent Discussions in Science, etc., pp. 31-56.] [Footnote 72: Thus is explained the singular conduct of the Hindu, who slays himself before his enemy's door, in order to acquire greater power of injuring him. "A certain Brahman, on whose lands a Kshatriya raja had built a house, ripped himself up in revenge, and became a demon of the kind called Brahmadasyu, who has been ever since the terror of the whole country, and is the most common village-deity in Kharakpur. Toward the close of the last century there were two Brahmans, out of whose house a man had wrongfully, as they thought, taken forty rupees; whereupon one of the Brahmans proceeded to cut off his own mother's head, with the professed view, entertained by both mother and son, that her spirit, excited by the beating of a large drum during forty days might haunt, torment, and pursue to death the taker of their money and those concerned with him." Tylor, Primitive Culture, Vol. II. p. 103.] [Footnote 73: Hence, in many parts of Europe, it is still customary to open the windows when a person dies, in order that the soul may not be hindered in joining the mystic cavalcade.] [Footnote 74: The story of little Red Riding-Hood is "mutilated in the English version, but known more perfectly by old wives in Germany, who can tell that the lovely little maid in her shining red satin cloak was swallowed with her grandmother by the wolf, till they both came out safe and sound when the hunter cut open the sleeping beast." Tylor, Primitive Culture, I. 307, where also see the kindred Russian story of Vasilissa the Beautiful. Compare the case of Tom Thumb, who "was swallowed by the cow and came out unhurt"; the story of Saktideva swallowed by the fish and cut out again, in Somadeva Bhatta, II. 118-184; and the story of Jonah swallowed by the whale, in the Old Testament. All these are different versions of the same myth, and refer to the alternate swallowing up and casting forth of Day by Night, which is commonly personified as a wolf, and now and then as a great fish. Compare Grimm's story of the Wolf and Seven Kids, Tylor, loc. cit., and see Early History of Mankind, p. 337; Hardy, Manual of Budhism, p. 501.] [Footnote 75: Baring-Gould, Book of Werewolves, p. 178; Muir, Sanskrit Texts, II. 435.] [Footnote 76: In those days even an after-dinner nap seems to have been thought uncanny. See Dasent, Burnt Njal, I. xxi.] [Footnote 77: See Dasent, Burnt Njai, Vol. I. p. xxii.; Grettis Saga, by Magnusson and Morris, chap. xix.; Viga Glum's Saga, by Sir Edmund Head, p. 13, note, where the Berserkers are said to have maddened themselves with drugs. Dasent compares them with the Malays, who work themselves into a frenzy by means of arrack, or hasheesh, and run amuck.] [Footnote 78: Baring-Gould, Werewolves, p. 81.] [Footnote 79: Baring-Gould, op. cit. chap. xiv.] [Footnote 80: Baring-Gould, op. cit. p. 82.] [Footnote 81: Kennedy, Fictions of the Irish Celts, p. 90.] [Footnote 82: "En 1541, a Padoue, dit Wier, un homme qui se croyait change en loup courait la campagne, attaquant et mettant a mort ceux qu'il rencontrait. Apres bien des difficultes, on parvint s'emparer de lui. Il dit en confidence a ceux qui l'arreterent: Je suis vraiment un loup, et si ma peau ne parait pas etre celle d'un loup, c'est parce qu'elle est retournee et que les poils sont en dedans.--Pour s'assurer du fait, on coupa le malheureux aux differentes parties du corps, on lui emporta les bras et les jambes."--Taine, De l'Intelligence, Tom. II. p. 203. See the account of Slavonic werewolves in Ralston, Songs of the Russian People, pp. 404-418.] [Footnote 83: Mr. Cox, whose scepticism on obscure points in history rather surpasses that of Sir G. C. Lewis, dismisses with a sneer the subject of the Berserker madness, observing that "the unanimous testimony of the Norse historians is worth as much and as little as the convictions of Glanvil and Hale on the reality of witchcraft." I have not the special knowledge requisite for pronouncing an opinion on this point, but Mr. Cox's ordinary methods of disposing of such questions are not such as to make one feel obliged to accept his bare assertion, unaccompanied by critical arguments. The madness of the bearsarks may, no doubt, be the same thing us the frenzy of Herakles; but something more than mere dogmatism is needed to prove it.] [Footnote 84: Williams, Superstitions of Witchcraft, p. 179. See a parallel case of a cat-woman, in Thorpe's Northern Mythology, II. 26. "Certain witches at Thurso for a long time tormented an honest fellow under the usual form of cats, till one night he put them to flight with his broadsword, and cut off the leg of one less nimble than the rest; taking it up, to his amazement he found it to be a woman's leg, and next morning he discovered the old hag its owner with but one leg left."--Tylor, Primitive Culture, I. 283.] [Footnote 85: "The mare in nightmare means spirit, elf, or nymph; compare Anglo-Saxon wudurmaere (wood-mare) = echo."--Tylor, Primitive Culture, Vol. II. p. 173.] [Footnote 86: See Kuhn, Herabkunft des Feuers, p. 91; Weber, Indische Studien. I. 197; Wolf, Beitrage zur deutschen Mythologie, II. 233-281 Muller, Chips, II. 114-128.] [Footnote 87: Baring-Gould, Curious Myths, II. 207.] [Footnote 88: The word nymph itself means "cloud-maiden," as is illustrated by the kinship between the Greek numph and the Latin nubes.] [Footnote 89: This is substantially identical with the stories of Beauty and the Beast, Eros and Psyche, Gandharba Sena, etc.] [Footnote 90: The feather-dress reappears in the Arabian story of Hasssn of El-Basrah, who by stealing it secures possession of the Jinniya. See Lane's Arabian Nights, Vol. III. p. 380. Ralston, Songs of the Russian People, p. 179.] [Footnote 91: Thorpe, Northern Mythology, III. 173; Kennedy, Fictions of the Irish Celts, p. 123.] [Footnote 92: Kennedy, Fictions of the Irish Celts, p. 168.] [Footnote 93: Baring-Gould, Book of Werewolves, p. 133.] [Footnote 94: Muir's Sanskrit Texts, Vol. IV. p. 12; Muller, Rig-Veda Sanhita, Vol. I. pp. 230-251; Fick, Woerterbuch der Indogermanischen Grundsprache, p. 124, s v. Bhaga.] [Footnote 95: In the North American Review, October, 1869, p. 354, I have collected a number of facts which seem to me to prove beyond question that the name God is derived from Guodan, the original form of Odin, the supreme deity of our Pagan forefathers. The case is exactly parallel to that of the French Dieu, which is descended from the Deus of the pagan Roman.] [Footnote 96: See Pott, Die Zigeuner, II. 311; Kuhn, Beitrage, I. 147. Yet in the worship of dewel by the Gypsies is to be found the element of diabolism invariably present in barbaric worship. "Dewel, the great god in heaven (dewa, deus), is rather feared than loved by these weather-beaten outcasts, for he harms them on their wanderings with his thunder and lightning, his snow and rain, and his stars interfere with their dark doings. Therefore they curse him foully when misfortune falls on them; and when a child dies, they say that Dewel has eaten it." Tylor, Primitive Culture, Vol. II. p. 248.] [Footnote 97: See Grimm, Deutsche Mythologie, 939.] [Footnote 98: The Buddhistic as well as the Zarathustrian reformation degraded the Vedic gods into demons. "In Buddhism we find these ancient devas, Indra and the rest, carried about at shows, as servants of Buddha, as goblins, or fabulous heroes." Max Muller, Chips, I. 25. This is like the Christian change of Odin into an ogre, and of Thor into the Devil.] [Footnote 99: Zeus--Dia--Zhna--di on............ Plato Kratylos, p. 396, A., with Stallbaum's note. See also Proklos, Comm. ad Timaeum, II. p. 226, Schneider; and compare Pseudo-Aristotle, De Mundo, p. 401, a, 15, who adopts the etymology. See also Diogenes Laertius, VII. 147.] [Footnote 100: Marcus Aurelius, v. 7; Hom. Iliad, xii. 25, cf. Petronius Arbiter, Sat. xliv.] [Footnote 101: "Il Sol, dell aurea luce eterno forte." Tasso, Gerusalemme, XV. 47; ef. Dante, Paradiso, X. 28.] [Footnote 102: The Aryans were, however, doubtless better off than the tribes of North America. "In no Indian language could the early missionaries find a word to express the idea of God. Manitou and Oki meant anything endowed with supernatural powers, from a snake-skin or a greasy Indian conjurer up to Manabozho and Jouskeha. The priests were forced to use a circumlocution,--`the great chief of men,' or 'he who lives in the sky.'" Parkman, Jesuits in North America, p. lxxix. "The Algonquins used no oaths, for their language supplied none; doubtless because their mythology had no beings sufficiently distinct to swear by." Ibid, p. 31.] [Footnote 103: Muller, Rig-Veda-Sanhita, I. 230.] [Footnote 104: Compare the remarks of Breal, Hercule et Cacus, p. 13.] [Footnote 105: It should be borne in mind, however, that one of the women who tempt Odysseus is not a dawn-maiden, but a goddess of darkness; Kalypso answers to Venus-Ursula in the myth of Tannhauser. Kirke, on the other hand, seems to be a dawn-maiden, like Medeia, whom she resembles. In her the wisdom of the dawn-goddess Athene, the loftiest of Greek divinities, becomes degraded into the art of an enchantress. She reappears, in the Arabian Nights, as the wicked Queen Labe, whose sorcery none of her lovers can baffle, save Beder, king of Persia.] [Footnote 106: The Persian Cyrus is an historical personage; but the story of his perils in infancy belongs to solar mythology as much as the stories of the magic sleep of Charlemagne and Barbarossa. His grandfather, Astyages, is purely a mythical creation, his name being identical with that of the night-demon, Azidahaka, who appears in the Shah-Nameh as the biting serpent Zohak. See Cox, Mythology of the Aryan Nations, II. 358.] [Footnote 107: In mediaeval legend this resistless Moira is transformed into the curse which prevents the Wandering Jew from resting until the day of judgment.] [Footnote 108: Cox, Manual of Mythology, p. 134.] [Footnote 109: In his interesting appendix to Henderson's Folk Lore of the Northern Counties of England, Mr. Baring-Gould has made an ingenious and praiseworthy attempt to reduce the entire existing mass of household legends to about fifty story-roots; and his list, though both redundant and defective, is nevertheless, as an empirical classification, very instructive.] [Footnote 110: There is nothing in common between the names Hercules and Herakles. The latter is a compound, formed like Themistokles; the former is a simple derivative from the root of hercere, "to enclose." If Herakles had any equivalent in Latin, it would necessarily begin with S, and not with H, as septa corresponds to epta, sequor to epomai, etc. It should be noted, however, that Mommsen, in the fourth edition of his History, abandons this view, and observes: "Auch der griechische Herakles ist fruh als Herclus, Hercoles, Hercules in Italien einheimisch und dort in eigenthumlicher Weise aufgefasst worden, wie es scheint zunachst als Gott des gewagten Gewinns und der ausserordentlichen Vermogensvermehrung." Romische Geschichte, I. 181. One would gladly learn Mommsen's reasons for recurring to this apparently less defensible opinion.] [Footnote 111: For the relations between Sancus and Herakles, see Preller, Romische Mythologie, p. 635; Vollmer, Mythologie, p. 970.] [Footnote 112: Burnouf, Bhagavata-Purana, III. p. lxxxvi; Breal, op. cit. p. 98.] [Footnote 113: Max Muller, Science of Language, II 484.] [Footnote 114: As Max Muller observes, "apart from all mythological considerations, Sarama in Sanskrit is the same word as Helena in Greek." Op. cit. p. 490. The names correspond phonetically letter for letter, as, Surya corresponds to Helios, Sarameyas to Hermeias, and Aharyu to Achilleus. Muller has plausibly suggested that Paris similarly answers to the Panis.] [Footnote 115: "I create evil," Isaiah xiv. 7; "Shall there be evil in the city, and the Lord hath not done it?" Amos iii. 6; cf. Iliad, xxiv. 527, and contrast 2 Samuel xxiv. 1 with 1 Chronicles xxi. 1.] [Footnote 116: Nor is there any ground for believing that the serpent in the Eden myth is intended for Satan. The identification is entirely the work of modern dogmatic theology, and is due, naturally enough, to the habit, so common alike among theologians and laymen, of reasoning about the Bible as if it were a single book, and not a collection of writings of different ages and of very different degrees of historic authenticity. In a future work, entitled "Aryana Vaedjo," I hope to examine, at considerable length, this interesting myth of the garden of Eden.] [Footnote 117: For further particulars see Cox, Mythology of the Aryan Nations, Vol. II. pp 358, 366; to which I am indebted for several of the details here given. Compare Welcker, Griechische Gotterlehre, I. 661, seq.] [Footnote 118: Many amusing passages from Scotch theologians are cited in Buckle's History of Civilization, Vol. II. p. 368. The same belief is implied in the quaint monkish tale of "Celestinus and the Miller's Horse." See Tales from the Gesta Romanorum, p. 134.] [Footnote 119: Thorpe, Northern Mythology, Vol. 11. p. 258.] [Footnote 120: Thorpe, Northern Mythology, Vol. II. p. 259. In the Norse story of "Not a Pin to choose between them," the old woman is in doubt as to her own identity, on waking up after the butcher has dipped her in a tar-barrel and rolled her on a heap of feathers; and when Tray barks at her, her perplexity is as great as the Devil's when fooled by the Frenschutz. See Dasent, Norse Tales, p. 199.] [Footnote 121: See Deulin, Contes d'un Buveur de Biere, pp. 3-29.] [Footnote 122: Dasent, Popular Tales from the Norse, No. III. and No. XLII.] [Footnote 123: See Dasent's Introduction, p. cxxxix; Campbell, Tales of the West Highlands, Vol. IV. p. 344; and Williams, Indian Epic Poetry, p. 10.] [Footnote 124: "A Leopard was returning home from hunting on one occasion, when he lighted on the kraal of a Ram. Now the Leopard had never seen a Ram before, and accordingly, approaching submissively, he said, 'Good day, friend! what may your name be?' The other, in his gruff voice, and striking his breast with his forefoot, said, 'I am a Ram; who are you?' 'A Leopard,' answered the other, more dead than alive; and then, taking leave of the Ram, he ran home as fast as he could." Bleek, Hottentot Fables, p. 24.] [Footnote 125: I agree, most heartily, with Mr. Mahaffy's remarks, Prolegomena to Ancient History, p. 69.] [Footnote 126: Sir George Grey once told some Australian natives about the countries within the arctic circle where during part of the year the sun never sets. "Their astonishment now knew no bounds. 'Ah! that must be another sun, not the same as the one we see here,' said an old man; and in spite of all my arguments to the contrary, the others adopted this opinion." Grey's Journals, I. 293, cited in Tylor, Early History of Mankind, p. 301.] [Footnote 127: Max Muller, Chips, II. 96.] [Footnote 128: Fictions of the Irish Celts, pp. 255-270.] [Footnote 129: A corruption of Gaelic bhan a teaigh, "lady of the house."] [Footnote 130: For the analysis of twelve, see my essay on "The Genesis of Language," North American Review, October 1869, p. 320.] [Footnote 131: Chips from a German Workshop, Vol. II. p. 246.] [Footnote 132: For various legends of a deluge, see Baring-Gould, Legends of the Patriarchs and Prophets, pp. 85-106.] [Footnote 133: Brinton, Myths of the New World, p. 160.] [Footnote 134: Brinton, op. cit. p. 163.] [Footnote 135: Brinton, op. cit. p. 167.] [Footnote 136: Corresponding, in various degrees, to the Asvins, the Dioskouroi, and the brothers True and Untrue of Norse mythology.] [Footnote 137: See Humboldt's Kosmos, Tom. III. pp. 469-476. A fetichistic regard for the cardinal points has not always been absent from the minds of persons instructed in a higher theology as witness a well-known passage in Irenaeus, and also the custom, well-nigh universal in Europe, of building Christian churches in a line east and west.] [Footnote 138: Bleek, Hottentot Fables and Tales, p. 72. Compare the Fiji story of Ra Vula, the Moon, and Ra Kalavo, the Rat, in Tylor, Primitive Culture, I. 321.] [Footnote 139: Tylor, Early History of Mankind, p. 327.] [Footnote 140: Tylor, op. cit., p. 346.] [Footnote 141: Baring-Gould, Curious Myths, II. 299-302.] [Footnote 142: Speaking of beliefs in the Malay Archipelago, Mr. Wallace says: "It is universally believed in Lombock that some men have the power to turn themselves into crocodiles, which they do for the sake of devouring their enemies, and many strange tales are told of such transformations." Wallace, Malay Archipelago, Vol. I. p. 251.] [Footnote 143: Bleek, Hottentot Fables and Tales, p. 58.] [Footnote 144: Callaway, Zulu Nursery Tales, pp. 27-30.] [Footnote 145: Callaway, op. cit. pp. 142-152; cf. a similar story in which the lion is fooled by the jackal. Bleek, op. cit. p. 7. I omit the sequel of the tale.] [Footnote 146: Brinton, op. cit. p. 104.] [Footnote 147: Tylor, op. cit. p. 320.] [Footnote 148: Tylor, op. cit. pp. 338-343.] [Footnote 149: Tylor, op. cit. p. 336. November, 1870] [Footnote 150: Juventus Mundi. The Gods and Men of the Heroic Age. By the Rt. Hon. William Ewart Gladstone. Boston: Little, Brown, & Co. 1869.] [Footnote 151: Hist. Greece, Vol. II. p. 208.] [Footnote 152: Grote, Hist. Greece, Vol. II. p. 198.] [Footnote 153: For the precise extent to which I would indorse the theory that the Iliad-myth is an account of the victory of light over darkness, let me refer to what I have said above on p. 134. I do not suppose that the struggle between light and darkness was Homer's subject in the Iliad any more than it was Shakespeare's subject in "Hamlet." Homer's subject was the wrath of the Greek hero, as Shakespeare's subject was the vengeance of the Danish prince. Nevertheless, the story of Hamlet, when traced back to its Norse original, is unmistakably the story of the quarrel between summer and winter; and the moody prince is as much a solar hero as Odin himself. See Simrock, Die Quellen des Shakespeare, I. 127-133. Of course Shakespeare knew nothing of this, as Homer knew nothing of the origin of his Achilleus. The two stories, therefore, are not to be taken as sun-myths in their present form. They are the offspring of other stories which were sun-myths; they are stories which conform to the sun-myth type after the manner above illustrated in the paper on Light and Darkness. [Hence there is nothing unintelligible in the inconsistency--which seems to puzzle Max Muller (Science of Language, 6th ed. Vol. II. p. 516, note 20)--of investing Paris with many of the characteristics of the children of light. Supposing, as we must, that the primitive sense of the Iliad-myth had as entirely disappeared in the Homeric age, as the primitive sense of the Hamlet-myth had disappeared in the times of Elizabeth, the fit ground for wonder is that such inconsistencies are not more numerous.] The physical theory of myths will be properly presented and comprehended, only when it is understood that we accept the physical derivation of such stories as the Iliad-myth in much the same way that we are bound to accept the physical etymologies of such words as soul, consider, truth, convince, deliberate, and the like. The late Dr. Gibbs of Yale College, in his "Philological Studies,"--a little book which I used to read with delight when a boy,--describes such etymologies as "faded metaphors." In similar wise, while refraining from characterizing the Iliad or the tragedy of Hamlet--any more than I would characterize Le Juif Errant by Sue, or La Maison Forestiere by Erckmann-Chatrian--as nature-myths, I would at the same time consider these poems well described as embodying "faded nature-myths."] [Footnote 154: I have no opinion as to the nationality of the Earth-shaker, and, regarding the etymology of his name, I believe we can hardly do better than acknowledge, with Mr. Cox, that it is unknown. It may well be doubted, however, whether much good is likely to come of comparisons between Poseidon, Dagon, Oannes, and Noah, or of distinctions between the children of Shem and the children of Ham. See Brown's Poseidon; a Link between Semite, Hamite, and Aryan, London, 1872,--a book which is open to several of the criticisms here directed against Mr. Gladstone's manner of theorizing.] [Footnote 155: "The expression that the Erinys, Saranyu, the Dawn, finds out the criminal, was originally quite free from mythology; IT MEANT NO MORE THAN THAT CRIME WOULD BE BROUGHT TO LIGHT SOME DAY OR OTHER. It became mythological, however, as soon as the etymological meaning of Erinys was forgotten, and as soon as the Dawn, a portion of time, assumed the rank of a personal being."--Science of Language, 6th edition, II. 615. This paragraph, in which the italicizing is mine, contains Max Muller's theory in a nutshell. It seems to me wholly at variance with the facts of history. The facts concerning primitive culture which are to be cited in this paper will show that the case is just the other way. Instead of the expression "Erinys finds the criminal" being originally a metaphor, it was originally a literal statement of what was believed to be fact. The Dawn (not "a portion of time,"(!) but the rosy flush of the morning sky) was originally regarded as a real person. Primitive men, strictly speaking, do not talk in metaphors; they believe in the literal truth of their similes and personifications, from which, by survival in culture, our poetic metaphors are lineally descended. Homer's allusion to a rolling stone as essumenos or "yearning" (to keep on rolling), is to us a mere figurative expression; but to the savage it is the description of a fact.] [Footnote 156: Primitive Culture: Researches into the Development of Mythology, Philosophy, Religion, Art, and Custom By Edward B. Tylor. 2 vols. 8vo. London. 1871.] [Footnote 157: Tylor, op. cit. I. 107.] [Footnote 158: Rousseau, Confessions, I. vi. For further illustration, see especially the note on the "doctrine of signatures," supra, p. 55.] [Footnote 159: Spencer, Recent Discussions in Science, etc., p. 36, "The Origin of Animal Worship."] [Footnote 160: See Nature, Vol. VI. p. 262, August 1, 1872. The circumstances narrated are such as to exclude the supposition that the sitting up is intended to attract the master's attention. The dog has frequently been seen trying to soften the heart of the ball, while observed unawares by his master.] [Footnote 161: "We would, however, commend to Mr. Fiske's attention Mr. Mark Twain's dog, who 'couldn't be depended on for a special providence,' as being nearer to the actual dog of every-day life than is the Skye terrier mentioned by a certain correspondent of Nature, to whose letter Mr. Fiske refers. The terrier is held to have had 'a few fetichistic notions,' because he was found standing up on his hind legs in front of a mantel-piece, upon which lay an india-rubber ball with which he wished to play, but which he could not reach, and which, says the letter-writer, he was evidently beseeching to come down and play with him. We consider it more reasonable to suppose that a dog who had been drilled into a belief that standing upon his hind legs was very pleasing to his master, and who, therefore, had accustomed himself to stand on his hind legs whenever he desired anything, and whose usual way of getting what he desired was to induce somebody to get it for him, may have stood up in front of the mantel-piece rather from force of habit and eagerness of desire than because he had any fetichistic notions, or expected the india-rubber ball to listen to his supplications. We admit, however, to avoid polemical controversy, that in matter of religion the dog is capable of anything." The Nation, Vol. XV. p. 284, October 1, 1872. To be sure, I do not know for certain what was going on in the dog's mind; and so, letting both explanations stand, I will only add another fact of similar import. "The tendency in savages to imagine that natural objects and agencies are animated by spiritual or living essences is perhaps illustrated by a little fact which I once noticed: my dog, a full-grown and very sensible animal, was lying on the lawn during a hot and still day; but at a little distance a slight breeze occasionally moved an open parasol, which would have been wholly disregarded by the dog, had any one stood near it. As it was, every time that the parasol slightly moved, the dog growled fiercely and barked. He must, I think, have reasoned to himself, in a rapid and unconscious manner, that movement without any apparent cause indicated the presence of some strange living agent, and no stranger had a right to be on his territory." Darwin, Descent of Man, Vol. 1. p. 64. Without insisting upon all the details of this explanation, one may readily grant, I think, that in the dog, as in the savage, there is an undisturbed association between motion and a living motor agency; and that out of a multitude of just such associations common to both, the savage, with his greater generalizing power, frames a truly fetichistic conception.] [Footnote 162: Note the fetichism wrapped up in the etymologies of these Greek words. Catalepsy, katalhyis, a seizing of the body by some spirit or demon, who holds it rigid. Ecstasy, ekstasis, a displacement or removal of the soul from the body, into which the demon enters and causes strange laughing, crying, or contortions. It is not metaphor, but the literal belief ill a ghost-world, which has given rise to such words as these, and to such expressions as "a man beside himself or transported."] [Footnote 163: Something akin to the savage's belief in the animation of pictures may be seen in young children. I have often been asked by my three-year-old boy, whether the dog in a certain picture would bite him if he were to go near it; and I can remember that, in my own childhood, when reading a book about insects, which had the formidable likeness of a spider stamped on the centre of the cover, I was always uneasy lest my finger should come in contact with the dreaded thing as I held the book.] [Footnote 164: Tylor, Primitive Culture, I. 394. "The Zulus hold that a dead body can cast no shadow, because that appurtenance departed from it at the close of life." Hardwick, Traditions, Superstitions, and Folk-Lore, p. 123.] [Footnote 165: Tylor, op. cit. I. 391.] [Footnote 166: Harland and Wilkinson, Lancashire Folk-Lore, 1867, p. 210.] [Footnote 167: Tylor, op. cit. II. 139.] [Footnote 168: In Russia the souls of the dead are supposed to be embodied in pigeons or crows. "Thus when the Deacon Theodore and his three schismatic brethren were burnt in 1681, the souls of the martyrs, as the 'Old Believers' affirm, appeared in the air as pigeons. In Volhynia dead children are supposed to come back in the spring to their native village under the semblance of swallows and other small birds, and to seek by soft twittering or song to console their sorrowing parents." Ralston, Songs of the Russian People, p. 118.] [Footnote 169: Tylor, op. cit. I. 404.] [Footnote 171: Tylor, op. cit. I. 407.] [Footnote 172: Tylor, op. cit. I. 410. In the next stage of survival this belief will take the shape that it is wrong to slam a door, no reason being assigned; and in the succeeding stage, when the child asks why it is naughty to slam a door, he will be told, because it is an evidence of bad temper. Thus do old-world fancies disappear before the inroads of the practical sense.] [Footnote 173: Agassiz, Essay on Classification, pp. 97-99.] [Footnote 174: Figuier, The To-morrow of Death, p. 247.] [Footnote 175: Here, as usually, the doctrine of metempsychosis comes in to complete the proof. "Mr. Darwin saw two Malay women in Keeling Island, who had a wooden spoon dressed in clothes like a doll; this spoon had been carried to the grave of a dead man, and becoming inspired at full moon, in fact lunatic, it danced about convulsively like a table or a hat at a modern spirit-seance." Tylor, op. cit. II. 139.] [Footnote 176: Tylor, op. cit. I. 414-422.] [Footnote 177: Tylor, op. cit. I. 435, 446; II. 30, 36.] [Footnote 178: According to the Karens, blindness occurs when the SOUL OF THE EYE is eaten by demons. Id., II. 353.] [Footnote 179: The following citation is interesting as an illustration of the directness of descent from heathen manes-worship to Christian saint-worship: "It is well known that Romulus, mindful of his own adventurous infancy, became after death a Roman deity, propitious to the health and safety of young children, so that nurses and mothers would carry sickly infants to present them in his little round temple at the foot of the Palatine. In after ages the temple was replaced by the church of St. Theodorus, and there Dr. Conyers Middleton, who drew public attention to its curious history, used to look in and see ten or a dozen women, each with a sick child in her lap, sitting in silent reverence before the altar of the saint. The ceremony of blessing children, especially after vaccination, may still be seen there on Thursday mornings." Op. cit. II. 111.] [Footnote 180: Want of space prevents me from remarking at length upon Mr. Tylor's admirable treatment of the phenomena of oracular inspiration. Attention should be called, however, to the brilliant explanation of the importance accorded by all religions to the rite of fasting. Prolonged abstinence from food tends to bring on a mental state which is favourable to visions. The savage priest or medicine-man qualifies himself for the performance of his duties by fasting, and where this is not sufficient, often uses intoxicating drugs; whence the sacredness of the hasheesh, as also of the Vedic soma-juice. The practice of fasting among civilized peoples is an instance of survival.] 
10118	----	THE FOLK-LORE OF PLANTS BY T.F. THISELTON-DYER 1889 PREFACE. Apart from botanical science, there is perhaps no subject of inquiry connected with plants of wider interest than that suggested by the study of folk-lore. This field of research has been largely worked of late years, and has obtained considerable popularity in this country, and on the Continent. Much has already been written on the folk-lore of plants, a fact which has induced me to give, in the present volume, a brief systematic summary--with a few illustrations in each case--of the many branches into which the subject naturally subdivides itself. It is hoped, therefore, that this little work will serve as a useful handbook for those desirous of gaining some information, in a brief concise form, of the folk-lore which, in one form or another, has clustered round the vegetable kingdom. T.F. THISELTON-DYER. November 19, 1888. CONTENTS. I. PLANT LIFE II. PRIMITIVE AND SAVAGE NOTIONS RESPECTING PLANTS III. PLANT WORSHIP IV. LIGHTNING PLANTS V. PLANTS IN WITCHCRAFT VI. PLANTS IN DEMONOLOGY VII. PLANTS IN FAIRY-LORE VIII. LOVE-CHARMS IX. DREAM-PLANTS X. PLANTS AND THE WEATHER XI. PLANT PROVERBS XII. PLANTS AND THEIR CEREMONIAL USE XIII. PLANT NAMES XIV. PLANT LANGUAGE XV. FABULOUS PLANTS XVI. DOCTRINE OF SIGNATURES XVII. PLANTS AND THE CALENDAR XVIII. CHILDREN'S RHYMES AND GAMES XIX. SACRED PLANTS XX. PLANT SUPERSTITIONS XXI. PLANTS IN FOLK-MEDICINE XXII. PLANTS AND THEIR LEGENDARY HISTORY XXIII. MYSTIC PLANTS CHAPTER I. PLANT LIFE. The fact that plants, in common with man and the lower animals, possess the phenomena of life and death, naturally suggested in primitive times the notion of their having a similar kind of existence. In both cases there is a gradual development which is only reached by certain progressive stages of growth, a circumstance which was not without its practical lessons to the early naturalist. This similarity, too, was held all the more striking when it was observed how the life of plants, like that of the higher organisms, was subject to disease, accident, and other hostile influences, and so liable at any moment to be cut off by an untimely end.[1] On this account a personality was ascribed to the products of the vegetable kingdom, survivals of which are still of frequent occurrence at the present day. It was partly this conception which invested trees with that mystic or sacred character whereby they were regarded with a superstitious fear which found expression in sundry acts of sacrifice and worship. According to Mr. Tylor,[2] there is reason to believe that, "the doctrine of the spirits of plants lay deep in the intellectual history of South-east Asia, but was in great measure superseded under Buddhist influence. The Buddhist books show that in the early days of their religion it was matter of controversy whether trees had souls, and therefore whether they might lawfully be injured. Orthodox Buddhism decided against the tree souls, and consequently against the scruple to harm them, declaring trees to have no mind nor sentient principle, though admitting that certain dewas or spirits do reside in the body of trees, and speak from within them." Anyhow, the notion of its being wrong to injure or mutilate a tree for fear of putting it to unnecessary pain was a widespread belief. Thus, the Ojibways imagined that trees had souls, and seldom cut them down, thinking that if they did so they would hear "the wailing of the trees when they suffered in this way."[3] In Sumatra[4] certain trees have special honours paid to them as being the embodiment of the spirits of the woods, and the Fijians[5] believe that "if an animal or a plant die, its soul immediately goes to Bolotoo." The Dayaks of Borneo[6] assert that rice has a living principle or spirit, and hold feasts to retain its soul lest the crops should decay. And the Karens affirm,[7] too, that plants as well as men and animals have their "la" or spirit. The Iroquois acknowledge the existence of spirits in trees and plants, and say that the spirit of corn, the spirit of beans, and the spirit of squashes are supposed to have the forms of three beautiful maidens. According to a tradition current among the Miamis, one year when there was an unusual abundance of corn, the spirit of the corn was very angry because the children had thrown corn-cobs at each other in play, pretending to have suffered serious bodily injury in consequence of their sport[8]. Similarly, when the wind blows the long grass or waving corn, the German peasant will say, "the Grass-wolf," or "the Corn-wolf" is abroad. According to Mr. Ralston, in some places, "the last sheaf of rye is left as a shelter to the _Roggenwolf_ or Rye-wolf during the winter's cold, and in many a summer or autumn festive rite that being is represented by a rustic, who assumes a wolf-like appearance. The corn spirit was, however, often symbolised under a human form." Indeed, under a variety of forms this animistic conception is found among the lower races, and in certain cases explains the strong prejudice to certain herbs as articles of food. The Society Islanders ascribed a "varua" or surviving soul to plants, and the negroes of Congo adored a sacred tree called "Mirrone," one being generally planted near the house, as if it were the tutelar god of the dwelling. It is customary, also, to place calabashes of palm wine at the feet of these trees, in case they should be thirsty. In modern folk-lore there are many curious survivals of this tree-soul doctrine. In Westphalia,[9] the peasantry announce formally to the nearest oak any death that may have occurred in the family, and occasionally this formula is employed--"The master is dead, the master is dead." Even recently, writes Sir John Lubbock[10], an oak copse at Loch Siant, in the Isle of Skye, was held so sacred that no persons would venture to cut the smallest branch from it. The Wallachians, "have a superstition that every flower has a soul, and that the water-lily is the sinless and scentless flower of the lake, which blossoms at the gates of Paradise to judge the rest, and that she will inquire strictly what they have done with their odours."[11] It is noteworthy, also, that the Indian belief which describes the holes in trees as doors through which the special spirits of those trees pass, reappears in the German superstition that the holes in the oak are the pathways for elves;[12] and that various diseases may be cured by contact with these holes. Hence some trees are regarded with special veneration--particularly the lime and pine[13]--and persons of a superstitious turn of mind, "may often be seen carrying sickly children to a forest for the purpose of dragging them through such holes." This practice formerly prevailed in our own country, a well-known illustration of which we may quote from White's "History of Selborne:" "In a farmyard near the middle of the village," he writes, "stands at this day a row of pollard ashes, which by the seams and long cicatrices down their sides, manifestly show that in former times they had been cleft asunder. These trees, when young and flexible, were severed and held open by wedges, while ruptured children, stripped naked, were pushed through the apertures."[14] In Somersetshire the superstition still lingers on, and in Cornwall the ceremony to be of value must be performed before sunrise; but the practice does not seem to have been confined to any special locality. It should also be added, as Mr. Conway[15] has pointed out, that in all Saxon countries in the Middle Ages a hole formed by two branches of a tree growing together was esteemed of highly efficacious value. On the other hand, we must not confound the spiritual vitality ascribed to trees with the animistic conception of their being inhabited by certain spirits, although, as Mr. Tylor[16] remarks, it is difficult at times to distinguish between the two notions. Instances of these tree spirits lie thickly scattered throughout the folk-lore of most countries, survivals of which remain even amongst cultured races. It is interesting, moreover, to trace the same idea in Greek and Roman mythology. Thus Ovid[17] tells a beautiful story of Erisicthon's impious attack on the grove of Ceres, and it may be remembered how the Greek dryads and hamadryads had their life linked to a tree, and, "as this withers and dies, they themselves fall away and cease to be; any injury to bough or twig is felt as a wound, and a wholesale hewing down puts an end to them at once--a cry of anguish escapes them when the cruel axe comes near." In "Apollonius Rhodius" we find one of these hamadryads imploring a woodman to spare a tree to which her existence is attached: "Loud through the air resounds the woodman's stroke, When, lo! a voice breaks from the groaning oak, 'Spare, spare my life! a trembling virgin spare! Oh, listen to the Hamadryad's prayer! No longer let that fearful axe resound; Preserve the tree to which my life is bound. See, from the bark my blood in torrents flows; I faint, I sink, I perish from your blows.'" Aubrey, referring to this old superstition, says: "I cannot omit taking notice of the great misfortune in the family of the Earl of Winchelsea, who at Eastwell, in Kent, felled down a most curious grove of oaks, near his own noble seat, and gave the first blow with his own hands. Shortly after his countess died in her bed suddenly, and his eldest son, the Lord Maidstone, was killed at sea by a cannon bullet." Modern European folk-lore still provides us with a curious variety of these spirit-haunted trees, and hence when the alder is hewn, "it bleeds, weeps, and begins to speak.[18]" An old tree in the Rugaard forest must not be felled for an elf dwells within, and another, on the Heinzenberg, near Zell, "uttered a complaint when the woodman cut it down, for in it was our Lady, whose chapel now stands upon the spot."[19] An Austrian Märchen tells of a stately fir, in which there sits a fairy maiden waited on by dwarfs, rewarding the innocent and plaguing the guilty; and there is the German song of the maiden in the pine, whose bark the boy splits with a gold and silver horn. Stories again are circulated in Sweden, among the peasantry, of persons who by cutting a branch from a habitation tree have been struck with death. Such a tree was the "klinta tall" in Westmanland, under which a mermaid was said to dwell. To this tree might occasionally be seen snow-white cattle driven up from the neighbouring lake across the meadows. Another Swedish legend tells us how, when a man was on the point of cutting down a juniper tree in a wood, a voice was heard from the ground, saying, "friend, hew me not." But he gave another stroke, when to his horror blood gushed from the root[20]. Then there is the Danish tradition[21] relating to the lonely thorn, occasionally seen in a field, but which never grows larger. Trees of this kind are always bewitched, and care should be taken not to approach them in the night time, "as there comes a fiery wheel forth from the bush, which, if a person cannot escape from, will destroy him." In modern Greece certain trees have their "stichios," a being which has been described as a spectre, a wandering soul, a vague phantom, sometimes invisible, at others assuming the most widely varied forms. It is further added that when a tree is "stichimonious" it is dangerous for a man, "to sleep beneath its shade, and the woodcutters employed to cut it down will lie upon the ground and hide themselves, motionless, and holding their breath, at the moment when it is about to fall, dreading lest the stichio at whose life the blow is aimed with each stroke of the axe, should avenge itself at the precise moment when it is dislodged."[22] Turning to primitive ideas on this subject, Mr. Schoolcraft mentions an Indian tradition of a hollow tree, from the recesses of which there issued on a calm day a sound like the voice of a spirit. Hence it was considered to be the residence of some powerful spirit, and was accordingly deemed sacred. Among rude tribes trees of this kind are held sacred, it being forbidden to cut them. Some of the Siamese in the same way offer cakes and rice to the trees before felling them, and the Talein of Burmah will pray to the spirit of the tree before they begin to cut the tree down[23]. Likewise in the Australian bush demons whistle in the branches, and in a variety of other eccentric ways make their presence manifest--reminding us of Ariel's imprisonment:[24] "Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison'd, thou didst painfully remain, A dozen years; ... ... Where thou didst vent thy groans, As fast as mill-wheels strike." Similarly Miss Emerson, in her "Indian Myths" (1884, p. 134), quotes the story of "The Two Branches": "One day there was a great noise in a tree under which Manabozho was taking a nap. It grew louder, and, at length exasperated, he leaped into the tree, caught the two branches whose war was the occasion of the din, and pulled them asunder. But with a spring on either hand, the two branches caught and pinioned Manabozho between them. Three days the god remained imprisoned, during which his outcries and lamentations were the subject of derision from every quarter--from the birds of the air, and from the animals of the woods and plains. To complete his sad case, the wolves ate the breakfast he had left beneath the tree. At length a good bear came to his rescue and released him, when the god disclosed his divine intuitions, for he returned home, and without delay beat his two wives." Furthermore, we are told of the West Indian tribes, how, if any person going through a wood perceived a motion in the trees which he regarded as supernatural, frightened at the prodigy, he would address himself to that tree which shook the most. But such trees, however, did not condescend to converse, but ordered him to go to a boie, or priest, who would order him to sacrifice to their new deity.[25] From the same source we also learn[26] how among savage tribes those plants that produce great terrors, excitement, or a lethargic state, are supposed to contain a supernatural being. Hence in Peru, tobacco is known as the sacred herb, and from its invigorating effect superstitious veneration is paid to the weed. Many other plants have similar respect shown to them, and are used as talismans. Poisonous plants, again, from their deadly properties, have been held in the same repute;[27] and it is a very common practice among American Indians to hang a small bag containing poisonous herbs around the neck of a child, "as a talisman against diseases or attacks from wild beasts." It is commonly supposed that a child so protected is proof against every hurtful influence, from the fact of its being under the protection of the special spirits associated with the plant it wears. Again, closely allied to beliefs of this kind is the notion of plants as the habitation of the departing soul, founded on the old doctrine of transmigration. Hence, referring to bygone times, we are told by Empedocles that "there are two destinies for the souls of highest virtue --to pass either into trees or into the bodies of lions."[28] Amongst the numerous illustrations of this mythological conception may be noticed the story told by Ovid,[29] who relates how Baucis and Philemon were rewarded in this manner for their charity to Zeus, who came a poor wanderer to their home. It appears that they not only lived to an extreme old age, but at the last were transformed into trees. Ovid, also, tells how the gods listened to the prayer of penitent Myrrha, and eventually turned her into a tree. Although, as Mr. Keary remarks, "she has lost understanding with her former shape, she still weeps, and the drops which fall from her bark (_i.e._, the myrrh) preserve the story of their mistress, so that she will be forgotten in no age to come." The sisters of Phaëthon, bewailing his death on the shores of Eridanus, were changed into poplars. We may, too, compare the story of Daphne and Syrinx, who, when they could no longer elude the pursuit of Apollo and Pan, change themselves into a laurel and a reed. In modern times, Tasso and Spenser have given us graphic pictures based on this primitive phase of belief; and it may be remembered how Dante passed through that leafless wood, in the bark of every tree of which was imprisoned a suicide. In German folk-lore[30] the soul is supposed to take the form of a flower, as a lily or white rose; and according to a popular belief, one of these flowers appears on the chairs of those about to die. In the same way, from the grave of one unjustly executed white lilies are said to spring as a token of the person's innocence; and from that of a maiden, three lilies which no one save her lover must gather. The sex, moreover, it may be noted, is kept up even in this species of metempsychosis[31]. Thus, in a Servian folk-song, there grows out of the youth's body a green fir, out of the maiden's a red rose, which entwine together. Amongst further instances quoted by Grimm, we are told how, "a child carries home a bud which the angel had given him in the wood, when the rose blooms the child is dead. The Lay of Eunzifal makes a blackthorn shoot out of the bodies of slain heathens, a white flower by the heads of fallen Christians." It is to this notion that Shakespeare alludes in "Hamlet," where Laertes wishes that violets may spring from the grave of Ophelia (v. I): "Lay her in the earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring." A passage which is almost identical to one in the "Satires" of Persius (i. 39): "E tumulo fortunataque favilla, Nascentur violae;" And an idea, too, which Tennyson seems to have borrowed: "And from his ashes may be made, The violet of his native land." Again, in the well-known story of "Tristram and Ysonde," a further reference occurs: "From his grave there grew an eglantine which twined about the statue, a marvel for all men to see; and though three times they cut it down, it grew again, and ever wound its arms about the image of the fair Ysonde[32]." In the Scottish ballad of "Fair Margaret and Sweet William," it is related-- "Out of her breast there sprang a rose, And out of his a briar; They grew till they grew unto the church top, And there they tied in a true lovers' knot." The same idea has prevailed to a large extent among savage races. Thus, some of the North-Western Indians believed that those who died a natural death would be compelled to dwell among the branches of tall trees. The Brazilians have a mythological character called Mani--a child who died and was buried in the house of her mother. Soon a plant sprang out of the grave, which grew, flourished, and bore fruit. This plant, says Mr. Dorman,[33] was the Mandioca, named from _Mani_, and _Oca_, house. By the Mexicans marigolds are known as "death-flowers," from a legend that they sprang up on the ground stained by, "the life-blood of those who fell victims to the love of gold and cruelty of the early Spanish settlers in America." Among the Virginian tribes, too, red clover was supposed to have sprung from and to be coloured by the blood of the red men slain in battle, with which may be compared the well-known legend connected with the lily of the valley formerly current in St. Leonard's Forest, Sussex. It is reported to have sprung from the blood of St. Leonard, who once encountered a mighty worm, or "fire-drake," in the forest, engaging with it for three successive days. Eventually the saint came off victorious, but not without being seriously wounded; and wherever his blood was shed there sprang up lilies of the valley in profusion. After the battle of Towton a certain kind of wild rose is reported to have sprung up in the field where the Yorkists and Lancastrians fell, only there to be found: "There still wild roses growing, Frail tokens of the fray; And the hedgerow green bears witness Of Towton field that day."[33] In fact, there are numerous legends of this kind; and it may be remembered how Defoe, in his "Tour through Great Britain," speaks of a certain camp called Barrow Hill, adding, "they say this was a Danish camp, and everything hereabout is attributed to the Danes, because of the neighbouring Daventry, which they suppose to be built by them. The road hereabouts too, being overgrown with Dane-weed, they fancy it sprung from the blood of Danes slain in battle, and that if cut upon a certain day in the year, it bleeds."[34] Similarly, the red poppies which followed the ploughing of the field of Waterloo after the Duke of Wellington's victory were said to have sprung from the blood of the troops who fell during the engagement;[35] and the fruit of the mulberry, which was originally white, tradition tells us became empurpled through human blood, a notion which in Germany explains the colour of the heather. Once more, the mandrake, according to a superstition current in France and Germany, sprang up where the presence of a criminal had polluted the ground, and hence the old belief that it was generally found near a gallows. In Iceland it is commonly said that when innocent persons are put to death the sorb or mountain ash will spring up over their graves. Similar traditions cluster round numerous other plants, which, apart from being a revival of a very early primitive belief, form one of the prettiest chapters of our legendary tales. Although found under a variety of forms, and in some cases sadly corrupted from the dress they originally wore, yet in their main features they have not lost their individuality, but still retain their distinctive character. In connection with the myths of plant life may be noticed that curious species of exotic plants, commonly known as "sensitive plants," and which have generally attracted considerable interest from their irritability when touched. Shelley has immortalised this curious freak of plant life in his charming poem, wherein he relates how, "The sensitive plant was the earliest, Up-gathered into the bosom of rest; A sweet child weary of its delight, The feeblest and yet the favourite, Cradled within the embrace of night." Who can wonder, on gazing at one of these wonderful plants, that primitive and uncultured tribes should have regarded such mysterious and inexplicable movements as indications of a distinct personal life. Hence, as Darwin in his "Movements of Plants" remarks: "why a touch, slight pressure, or any other irritant, such as electricity, heat, or the absorption of animal matter, should modify the turgescence of the affected cells in such a manner as to cause movement, we do not know. But a touch acts in this manner so often, and on such widely distinct plants, that the tendency seems to be a very general one; and, if beneficial, it might be increased to any extent." If, therefore, one of the most eminent of recent scientific botanists confessed his inability to explain this strange peculiarity, we may excuse the savage if he regard it as another proof of a distinct personality in plant life. Thus, some years ago, a correspondent of the _Botanical Register_, describing the toad orchis (_Megaclinium bufo_), amusingly spoke as follows of its eccentric movements: "Let the reader imagine a green snake to be pressed flat like a dried flower, and then to have a road of toads, or some such speckled reptiles, drawn up along the middle in single file, their backs set up, their forelegs sprawling right and left, and their mouths wide open, with a large purple tongue wagging about convulsively, and a pretty considerable approach will be gained to an idea of this plant, which, if Pythagoras had but known of it, would have rendered all arguments about the transmigration of souls superfluous." But, apart from the vein of jocularity running through these remarks, such striking vegetable phenomena are scientifically as great a puzzle to the botanist as their movements are to the savage, the latter regarding them as the outward visible expression of a real inward personal existence. But, to quote another kind of sympathy between human beings and certain plants, the Cingalese have a notion that the cocoa-nut plant withers away when beyond the reach of a human voice, and that the vervain and borage will only thrive near man's dwellings. Once more, the South Sea Islanders affirm that the scent is the spirit of a flower, and that the dead may be sustained by their fragrance, they cover their newly-made graves with many a sweet smelling blossom. Footnotes: 1. See Tylor's "Primitive Culture," 1873, i. 474-5; also Dorman's "Primitive Superstitions," 1881, p. 294. 2. "Primitive Culture," i. 476-7. 3. Jones's "Ojibways," p. 104. 4. Marsden's "History of Sumatra," p. 301. 5. Mariner's "Tonga Islands," ii. 137. 6. St. John, "Far East," i. 187. 7. See Tylor's "Primitive Culture," i. 475. 8. Dorman's "Primitive Superstitions," p. 294; also Schoolcraft's "Indian Tribes." 9. See Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," iii. 61. 10. "Origin of Civilisation," 1870, p. 192. See Leslie Forbes' "Early Races of Scotland," i. 171. 11. Folkard's "Plant-lore, Legends, and Lyrics," p. 463. 12. Conway's "Mystic Trees and Flowers," _Blackwood's Magazine_, 1870, p. 594. 13. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," i. 212. 14. See Black's "Folk-Medicine." 15. "Mystic Trees and Flowers," p. 594. 16. "Primitive Culture," ii. 215. 17. Metam., viii. 742-839; also Grimm's Teut. Myth., 1883, ii. 953-4 18. Grimm's Teut. Myth., ii. 653. 19. Quoted in Tylor's "Primitive Culture," ii. 221. 20. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," ii. 72, 73. 21. Ibid., p. 219. 22. "Superstitions of Modern Greece," by M. Le Baron d'Estournelles, in _Nineteenth, Century_, April 1882, pp. 394, 395. 23. See Dorman's "Primitive Superstitions," p. 288. 24. "The Tempest," act i. sc. 2. 25. Dorman's "Primitive Superstitions," p. 288. 26. _Ibid.,_ p. 295. 27. See chapter on Demonology. 28. See Keary's "Outlines of Primitive Belief," 1882, pp. 66-7. 29. Metam., viii. 714:-- "Frondere Philemona Baucis, Baucida conspexit senior frondere Philemon. ... 'Valeque, O conjux!' dixere simul, simul abdita texit Ora frutex." 30. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," i. 290, iii. 271. 31. Grimm's "Teut. Mythology," ii. 827. 32. Cox and Jones' "Popular Romances of the Middle Ages," 1880, p. 139 33. Smith's "Brazil," p. 586; "Primitive Superstitions," p. 293. 34. See Folkard's "Plant-lore, Legends, and Lyrics," p. 524. 35. See the _Gardeners' Chronicle_, 1875, p. 315. 36. According to another legend, forget-me-nots sprang up. CHAPTER II. PRIMITIVE AND SAVAGE NOTIONS RESPECTING PLANTS The descent of the human race from a tree--however whimsical such a notion may seem--was a belief once received as sober fact, and even now-a-days can be traced amongst the traditions of many races.[1] This primitive idea of man's creation probably originated in the myth of Yggdrasil, the Tree of the Universe,[2] around which so much legendary lore has clustered, and for a full explanation of which an immense amount of learning has been expended, although the student of mythology has never yet been able to arrive at any definite solution on this deeply intricate subject. Without entering into the many theories proposed in connection with this mythical tree, it no doubt represented the life-giving forces of nature. It is generally supposed to have been an ash tree, but, as Mr. Conway[3] points out, "there is reason to think that through the confluence of traditions other sacred trees blended with it. Thus, while the ash bears no fruit, the Eddas describe the stars as the fruit of Yggdrasil." Mr. Thorpe,[4] again, considers it identical with the "Robur Jovis," or sacred oak of Geismar, destroyed by Boniface, and the Irminsul of the Saxons, the _Columna Universalis_, "the terrestrial tree of offerings, an emblem of the whole world." At any rate the tree of the world, and the greatest of all trees, has long been identified in the northern mythology as the ash tree,[5] a fact which accounts for the weird character assigned to it amongst all the Teutonic and Scandinavian nations, frequent illustrations of which will occur in the present volume. Referring to the descent of man from the tree, we may quote the Edda, according to which all mankind are descended from the ash and the elm. The story runs that as Odhinn and his two brothers were journeying over the earth they discovered these two stocks "void of future," and breathed into them the power of life[6]: "Spirit they owned not, Sense they had not, Blood nor vigour, Nor colour fair. Spirit gave Odhinn, Thought gave Hoenir, Blood gave Lodr And colour fair." This notion of tree-descent appears to have been popularly believed in olden days in Italy and Greece, illustrations of which occur in the literature of that period. Thus Virgil writes in the _AEneid_[7]: "These woods were first the seat of sylvan powers, Of nymphs and fauns, and savage men who took Their birth from trunks of trees and stubborn oak." Romulus and Remus had been found under the famous _Ficus Ruminalis_, which seems to suggest a connection with a tree parentage. It is true, as Mr. Keary remarks,[8] that, "in the legend which we have received it is in this instance only a case of finding; but if we could go back to an earlier tradition, we should probably see that the relation between the mythical times and the tree had been more intimate." Juvenal, it may be remembered, gives a further allusion to tree descent in his sixth satire[9]: "For when the world was new, the race that broke Unfathered, from the soil or opening oak, Lived most unlike the men of later times." In Greece the oak as well as the ash was accounted a tree whence men had sprung; hence in the "Odyssey," the disguised hero is asked to state his pedigree, since he must necessarily have one; "for," says the interrogator, "belike you are not come of the oak told of in old times, nor of the rock."[10] Hesiod tells us how Jove made the third or brazen race out of ash trees, and Hesychius speaks of "the fruit of the ash the race of men." Phoroneus, again, according to the Grecian legend, was born of the ash, and we know, too, how among the Greeks certain families kept up the idea of a tree parentage; the Pelopidae having been said to be descended from the plane. Among the Persians the Achaemenidae had the same tradition respecting the origin of their house.[11] From the numerous instances illustrative of tree-descent, it is evident, as Mr. Keary points out, that, "there was once a fuller meaning than metaphor in the language which spoke of the roots and branches of a family, or in such expressions as the pathetic "Ah, woe, beloved shoot!" of Euripides."[12] Furthermore, as he adds, "Even when the literal notion of the descent from a tree had been lost sight of, the close connection between the prosperity of the tribe and the life of its fetish was often strictly held. The village tree of the German races was originally a tribal tree, with whose existence the life of the village was involved; and when we read of Christian saints and confessors, that they made a point of cutting down these half idols, we cannot wonder at the rage they called forth, nor that they often paid the penalty of their courage." Similarly we can understand the veneration bestowed on the forest tree from associations of this kind. Consequently, as it has been remarked,[13] "At a time when rude beginnings were all that were of the builder's art, the human mind must have been roused to a higher devotion by the sight of lofty trees under an open sky, than it could feel inside the stunted structures reared by unskilled hands. When long afterwards the architecture peculiar to the Teutonic reached its perfection, did it not in its boldest creations still aim at reproducing the soaring trees of the forest? Would not the abortion of miserably carved or chiselled images lag far behind the form of the god which the youthful imagination of antiquity pictured to itself throned on the bowery summit of a sacred tree." It has been asked whether the idea of the Yggdrasil and the tree-descent may not be connected with the "tree of life" of Genesis. Without, however, entering into a discussion on this complex point, it is worthy of note that in several of the primitive mythologies we find distinct counterparts of the biblical account of the tree of life; and it seems quite possible that these corrupt forms of the Mosaic history of creation may, in a measure, have suggested the conception of the world tree, and the descent of mankind from a tree. On this subject the late Mr. R.J. King[14] has given us the following interesting remarks in his paper on "Sacred Trees and Flowers": "How far the religious systems of the great nations of antiquity were affected by the record of the creation and fall preserved in the opening chapters of Genesis, it is not, perhaps, possible to determine. There are certain points of resemblance which are at least remarkable, but which we may assign, if we please, either to independent tradition, or to a natural development of the earliest or primeval period. The trees of life and of knowledge are at once suggested by the mysterious sacred tree which appears in the most ancient sculptures and paintings of Egypt and Assyria, and in those of the remoter East. In the symbolism of these nations the sacred tree sometimes figures as a type of the universe, and represents the whole system of created things, but more frequently as a tree of life, by whose fruit the votaries of the gods (and in some cases the gods themselves) are nourished with divine strength, and are prepared for the joys of immortality. The most ancient types of this mystical tree of life are the date palm, the fig, and the pine or cedar." By way of illustration, it may be noted that the ancient Egyptians had their legend of the "Tree of Life". It is mentioned in their sacred books that Osiris ordered the names of souls to be written on this tree of life, the fruit of which made those who ate it become as gods.[15] Among the most ancient traditions of the Hindoos is that of the tree of life--called Soma in Sanskrit--the juice of which imparted immortality; this marvellous tree being guarded by spirits. Coming down to later times, Virgil speaks of a sacred tree in a manner which Grimm[16] considers highly suggestive of the Yggdrasil: "Jove's own tree, High as his topmost boughs to heaven ascend, So low his roots to hell's dominions tend." As already mentioned, numerous legendary stories have become interwoven with the myth of the Yggdrasil, the following sacred one combining the idea of tree-descent. According to a _trouvere_ of the thirteenth century,[17] "The tree of life was, a thousand years after the sin of the first man, transplanted from the Garden of Eden to the Garden of Abraham, and an angel came from heaven to tell the patriarch that upon this tree should hang the freedom of mankind. But first from the same tree of life Jesus should be born, and in the following wise. First was to be born a knight, Fanouel, who, through the scent merely of the flower of that living tree, should be engendered in the womb of a virgin; and this knight again, without knowing woman, should give birth to St. Anne, the mother of the Virgin Mary. Both these wonders fell out as they were foretold. A virgin bore Fanouel by smelling the tree; and Fanouel having once come unawares to that tree of life, and cut a fruit from it, wiped his knife against his thigh, in which he inflicted a slight wound, and thus let in some of the juice. Presently his thigh began to swell, and eventually St. Anne was born therefrom." But turning to survivals of this form of animism among uncultured tribes, we may quote the Damaras, a South African race, with whom "a tree is supposed to be the universal progenitor, two of which divide the honour."[18] According to their creed, "In the beginning of things there was a tree, and out of this tree came Damaras, bushmen, oxen, and zebras. The Damaras lit a fire which frightened away the bushmen and the oxen, but the zebras remained." Hence it is that bushmen and wild beasts live together in all sorts of inaccessible places, while the Damaras and oxen possess the land. The tree gave birth to everything else that lives. The natives of the Philippines, writes Mr. Marsden in his "History of Sumatra," have a curious tradition of tree-descent, and in accordance with their belief, "The world at first consisted only of sky and water, and between these two a glede; which, weary with flying about, and finding no place to rest, set the water at variance with the sky, which, in order to keep it in bounds, and that it should not get uppermost, loaded the water with a number of islands, in which the glede might settle and leave them at peace. Mankind, they said, sprang out of a large cane with two joints, that, floating about in the water, was at length thrown by the waves against the feet of the glede as it stood on shore, which opened it with its bill; the man came out of one joint, the woman out of the other. These were soon after married by the consent of their god, Bathala Meycapal, which caused the first trembling of the earth,[19] and from thence are descended the different nations of the world." Several interesting instances are given by Mr. Dorman, who tells us how the natives about Saginaw had a tradition of a boy who sprang from a tree within which was buried one of their tribe. The founders of the Miztec monarchy are said to be descended from two majestic trees that stood in a gorge of the mountain of Apoala. The Chiapanecas had a tradition that they sprang from the roots of a silk cotton tree; while the Zapotecas attributed their origin to trees, their cypresses and palms often receiving offerings of incense and other gifts. The Tamanaquas of South America have a tradition that the human race sprang from the fruits of the date palm after the Mexican age of water.[20] Again, our English nursery fable of the parsley-bed, in which little strangers are discovered, is perhaps, "A remnant of a fuller tradition, like that of the woodpecker among the Romans, and that of the stork among our Continental kinsmen."[21] Both these birds having had a mystic celebrity, the former as the fire-singing bird and guardian genius of children, the latter as the baby-bringer.[22] In Saterland it is said "infants are fetched out of the cabbage," and in the Walloon part of Belgium they are supposed "to make their appearance in the parson's garden." Once more, a hollow tree overhanging a pool is known in many places, both in North and South Germany, as the first abode of unborn infants, variations of this primitive belief being found in different localities. Similar stories are very numerous, and under various forms are found in the legendary lore and folk-tales of most countries. Footnotes: 1. See Keary's "Outlines of Primitive Belief," 1882, pp. 62-3. 2. See Grimm's "Teutonic Mythology," 1883, ii. 796-800; _Quarterly Review_, cxiv. 224; Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," i. 154; "Asgard and the Gods," edited by W. S. W. Anson, 1822, pp. 26, 27. 3. _Fraser's Magazine_, 1870, p. 597. 4. "Northern Mythology," i. 154-5. 5. See Max Miller's "Chips from a German Workshop." 6. See Keary's "Outlines of Primitive Belief," p. 64. 7. Book viii. p. 314. 8. "Outlines of Primitive Belief," p. 63. 9. Gifford. 10. Kelly's "Indo-European Folk-lore," p. 143. 11. Keary's "Outlines of Primitive Belief," p. 63; Fiske, "Myth and Myth Makers," 1873, pp. 64-5. 12. "Primitive Belief," p. 65. 13. Grimm's "Teutonic Mythology," i. 69. 14. _Quarterly Review_, 1863, cxiv. 214-15. 15. See Bunsen's "The Keys of St Peter," &c., 1867, p. 414. 16. "Teutonic Mythology." 17. Quoted by Mr. Keary from Leroux de Lincy, "Le Livre des Légendes," p. 24. 18. Gallon's "South Africa," p. 188. 19. "Primitive Superstitions," p. 289. 20. Folkard's "Plant Lore," p. 311. 21. "Indo-European Folk-lore," p. 92. 22. Grimm's "Teutonic Mythology," ii. 672-3. CHAPTER III. PLANT-WORSHIP. A form of religion which seems to have been widely-distributed amongst most races of mankind at a certain stage of their mental culture is plant-worship. Hence it holds a prominent place in the history of primitive belief, and at the present day prevails largely among rude and uncivilised races, survivals of which even linger on in our own country. To trace back the history of plant-worship would necessitate an inquiry into the origin and development of the nature-worshipping phase of religious belief. Such a subject of research would introduce us to those pre-historic days when human intelligence had succeeded only in selecting for worship the grand and imposing objects of sight and sense. Hence, as Mr. Keary observes,[1] "The gods of the early world are the rock and the mountain, the tree, the river, the sea;" and Mr. Fergusson[2] is of opinion that tree-worship, in association with serpent-worship, must be reckoned as the primitive faith of mankind. In the previous chapter we have already pointed out how the animistic theory which invested the tree and grove with a conscious personality accounts for much of the worship and homage originally ascribed to them--identified, too, as they were later on, with the habitations of certain spirits. Whether viewed, therefore, in the light of past or modern inquiry, we find scattered throughout most countries various phases of plant-worship, a striking proof of its universality in days gone by.[3] According to Mr. Fergusson, tree-worship has sprung from a perception of the beauty and utility of trees. "With all their poetry," he argues, "and all their usefulness, we can hardly feel astonished that the primitive races of mankind should have considered trees as the choicest gifts of the gods to men, and should have believed that their spirits still delighted to dwell among their branches, or spoke oracles through the rustling of their leaves." But Mr. McLennan[4] does not consider that this is conclusive, adding that such a view of the subject, "Does not at all meet the case of the shrubs, creepers, marsh-plants, and weeds that have been worshipped." He would rather connect it with Totemism,[5] urging that the primitive stages of religious evolution go to show that, "The ancient nations came, in pre-historic times, through the Totem stage, having animals, and plants, and the heavenly bodies conceived as animals, for gods before the anthropomorphic gods appeared;" While Mr. Herbert Spencer[6] again considers that, "Plant-worship, like the worship of idols and animals, is an aberrant species of ancestor-worship--a species somewhat more disguised externally, but having the same internal nature." Anyhow the subject is one concerning which the comparative mythologist has, at different times, drawn opposite theories; but of this there can be no doubt, that plant-worship was a primitive faith of mankind, a fact in connection with which we may quote Sir John Lubbock's words,[7] how, "By man in this stage of progress everything was regarded as having life, and being more or less a deity." Indeed, sacred rivers appear in the very earliest mythologies which have been recovered, and lingered among the last vestiges of heathenism long after the advent of a purer creed. As, too, it has been remarked,[8] "Either as direct objects of worship, or as forming the temple under whose solemn shadow other and remoter deities might be adored, there is no part of the world in which trees have not been regarded with especial reverence. 'In such green palaces the first kings reigned; Slept in their shade, and angels entertained. With such old counsellors they did advise, And by frequenting sacred shades grew wise.' Even Paradise itself, says Evelyn, was but a kind of 'nemorous temple or sacred grove,' planted by God himself, and given to man _tanquam primo sacerdoti_; and he goes on to suggest that the groves which the patriarchs are recorded to have planted in different parts of Palestine may have been memorials of that first tree-shaded paradise from which Adam was expelled." Briefly noticing the antecedent history of plant-worship, it would seem to have lain at the foundation of the old Celtic creed, although few records on this point have come down to us.[9] At any rate we have abundant evidence that this form of belief held a prominent place in the religion of these people, allusions to which are given by many of the early classical writers. Thus the very name of Druidism is a proof of the Celtic addiction to tree-worship, and De Brosses,[10] as a further evidence that this was so, would derive the word kirk, now softened into church, from _quercus_, an oak; that species having been peculiarly sacred. Similarly, in reviewing the old Teutonic beliefs, we come across the same references to tree-worship, in many respects displaying little or no distinction from that of the Celts. In explanation of this circumstance, Mr. Keary[11] suggests that, "The nature of the Teutonic beliefs would apply, with only some slight changes, to the creed of the predecessors of the Germans in Northern and Western Europe. Undoubtedly, in prehistoric days, the Germans and Celts merged so much one into the other that their histories cannot well be distinguished." Mr. Fergusson in his elaborate researches has traced many indications of tree-adoration in Germany, noticing their continuance in the Christian period, as proved by Grimm, whose opinion is that, "the festal universal religion of the people had its abode in woods," while the Christmas tree of present German celebration in all families is "almost undoubtedly a remnant of the tree-worship of their ancestors." According to Mr. Fergusson, one of the last and best-known examples of the veneration of groves and trees by the Germans after their conversion to Christianity, is that of the "Stock am Eisen" in Vienna, "The sacred tree into which every apprentice, down to recent times, before setting out on his "Wanderjahre", drove a nail for luck. It now stands in the centre of that great capital, the last remaining vestige of the sacred grove, round which the city has grown up, and in sight of the proud cathedral, which has superseded and replaced its more venerable shade." Equally undoubted is the evidence of tree-worship in Greece--particular trees having been sacred to many of the gods. Thus we have the oak tree or beech of Jupiter, the laurel of Apollo, the vine of Bacchus. The olive is the well-known tree of Minerva. The myrtle was sacred to Aphrodite, and the apple of the Hesperides belonged to Juno.[12] As a writer too in the _Edinburgh Review_[13] remarks, "The oak grove at Dodona is sufficiently evident to all classic readers to need no detailed mention of its oracles, or its highly sacred character. The sacrifice of Agamemnon in Aulis, as told in the opening of the 'Iliad,' connects the tree and serpent worship together, and the wood of the sacred plane tree under which the sacrifice was made was preserved in the temple of Diana as a holy relic so late, according to Pausanias, as the second century of the Christian era." The same writer further adds that in Italy traces of tree-worship, if not so distinct and prominent as in Greece, are nevertheless existent. Romulus, for instance, is described as hanging the arms and weapons of Acron, King of Cenina, upon an oak tree held sacred by the people, which became the site of the famous temple of Jupiter. Then, again, turning to Bible history,[14] the denunciations of tree-worship are very frequent and minute, not only in connection with the worship of Baal, but as mentioned in 2 Kings ix.: "And they (the children of Israel) set themselves up images and groves in every high hill, and under every green tree." These acts, it has been remarked, "may be attributable more to heretical idolatrous practices into which the Jews had temporarily fallen in imitation of the heathen around them, but at the same time they furnish ample proof of the existence of tree and grove worship by the heathen nations of Syria as one of their most solemn rites." But, from the period of King Hezekiah down to the Christian era, Mr. Fergusson finds no traces of tree-worship in Judea. In Assyria tree-worship was a common form of idolatrous veneration, as proved by Lord Aberdeen's black-stone, and many of the plates in the works of Layard and Botta.[15] Turning to India, tree-worship probably has always belonged to Aryan Hinduism, and as tree-worship did not belong to the aboriginal races of India, and was not adopted from them, "it must have formed part of the pantheistic worship of the Vedic system which endowed all created things with a spirit and life--a doctrine which modern Hinduism largely extended[16]." Thus when food is cooked, an oblation is made by the Hindu to trees, with an appropriate invocation before the food is eaten. The Bo tree is extensively worshipped in India, and the Toolsee plant (Basil) is held sacred to all gods--no oblation being considered sacred without its leaves. Certain of the Chittagong hill tribes worship the bamboo,[17] and Sir John Lubbock, quoting from Thompson's "Travels in the Himalaya," tells us that in the Simla hills the _Cupressus toridosa_ is regarded as a sacred tree. Further instances might be enumerated, so general is this form of religious belief. In an interesting and valuable paper by a Bengal civilian--intimately acquainted with the country and people[18]--the writer says:--"The contrast between the acknowledged hatred of trees as a rule by the Bygas,[19] and their deep veneration for certain others in particular, is very curious. I have seen the hillsides swept clear of forests for miles with but here and there a solitary tree left standing. These remain now the objects of the deepest veneration. So far from being injured they are carefully preserved, and receive offerings of food, clothes, and flowers from the passing Bygas, who firmly believe that tree to be the home of a spirit." To give another illustration[20], it appears that in Beerbhoom once a year the whole capital repairs to a shrine in the jungle, and makes simple offerings to a ghost who dwells in the Bela tree. The shrine consists of three trees--a Bela tree on the left, in which the ghost resides, and which is marked at the foot with blood; in the middle is a Kachmula tree, and on the right a Saura tree. In spite of the trees being at least seventy years old, the common people claim the greatest antiquity for the shrine, and tradition says that the three trees that now mark the spot neither grow thicker nor increase in height, but remain the same for ever. A few years ago Dr. George Birwood contributed to the _Athenaeum_ some interesting remarks on Persian flower-worship. Speaking of the Victoria Gardens at Bombay, he says:--"A true Persian in flowing robe of blue, and on his head his sheep-skin hat--black, glossy, curled, the fleece of Kar-Kal--would saunter in, and stand and meditate over every flower he saw, and always as if half in vision. And when the vision was fulfilled, and the ideal flower he was seeking found, he would spread his mat and sit before it until the setting of the sun, and then pray before it, and fold up his mat again and go home. And the next night, and night after night, until that particular flower faded away, he would return to it, and bring his friends in ever-increasing troops to it, and sit and play the guitar or lute before it, and they would all together pray there, and after prayer still sit before it sipping sherbet, and talking the most hilarious and shocking scandal, late into the moonlight; and so again and again every evening until the flower died. Sometimes, by way of a grand finale, the whole company would suddenly rise before the flower and serenade it, together with an ode from Hafiz, and depart." Tree-worship too has been more or less prevalent among the American Indians, abundant illustrations of which have been given by travellers at different periods. In many cases a striking similarity is noticeable, showing a common origin, a circumstance which is important to the student of comparative mythology when tracing the distribution of religious beliefs. The Dacotahs worship the medicine-wood, so called from a belief that it was a genius which protected or punished them according to their merits or demerits.[21] Darwin[22] mentions a tree near Siena de la Ventana to which the Indians paid homage as the altar of Walleechu; offerings of cigars, bread, and meat having been suspended upon it by threads. The tree was surrounded by bleached bones of horses that had been sacrificed. Mr. Tylor[23] speaks of an ancient cypress existing in Mexico, which he thus describes:--"All over its branches were fastened votive offerings of the Indians, hundreds of locks of coarse black hair, teeth, bits of coloured cloth, rags, and morsels of ribbon. The tree was many centuries old, and had probably had some mysterious influence ascribed to it, and been decorated with such simple offerings long before the discovery of America." Once more, the Calchaquis of Brazil[24] have been in the habit of worshipping certain trees which were frequently decorated by the Indians with feathers; and Charlevoix narrates another interesting instance of tree-worship:--"Formerly the Indians in the neighbourhood of Acadia had in their country, near the sea-shore, a tree extremely ancient, of which they relate many wonders, and which was always laden with offerings. After the sea had laid open its whole root, it then supported itself a long time almost in the air against the violence of the winds and waves, which confirmed those Indians in the notion that the tree must be the abode of some powerful spirit; nor was its fall even capable of undeceiving them, so that as long as the smallest part of its branches appeared above the water, they paid it the same honours as whilst it stood." In North America, according to Franklin,[25] the Crees used to hang strips of buffalo flesh and pieces of cloth on their sacred tree; and in Nicaragua maize and beans were worshipped. By the natives of Carolina the tea-plant was formerly held in veneration above all other plants, and indeed similar phases of superstition are very numerous. Traces of tree-worship occur in Africa, and Sir John Lubbock[26] mentions the sacred groves of the Marghi--a dense part of the forest surrounded with a ditch--where in the most luxuriant and widest spreading tree their god, Zumbri, is worshipped. In his valuable work on Ceylon, Sir J. Emerson Tennent gives some interesting details about the consecration of trees to different demons to insure their safety, and of the ceremonies performed by the kattadias or devil-priests. It appears that whenever the assistance of a devil-dancer is required in extreme cases of sickness, various formalities are observed after the following fashion. An altar is erected, profusely adorned with garlands and flowers, within sight of the dying man, who is ordered to touch and dedicate to the evil spirit the wild flowers, rice, and flesh laid upon it. Traces of plant-worship are still found in Europe. Before sunrise on Good Friday the Bohemians are in the habit of going into their gardens, and after falling on their knees before a tree, to say, "I pray, O green tree, that God may make thee good," a formula which Mr. Ralston[27] considers has probably been altered under the influence of Christianity "from a direct prayer to the tree to a prayer for it." At night they run about the garden exclaiming, "Bud, O trees, bud! or I will flog you." On the following day they shake the trees, and clank their keys, while the church bells are ringing, under the impression that the more noise they make the more fruit will they get. Traces, too, of tree-worship, adds Mr. Ralston,[28] may be found in the song which the Russian girls sing as they go out into the woods to fetch the birch tree at Whitsuntide, and to gather flowers for wreaths and garlands: "Rejoice not, oaks; Rejoice not, green oaks. Not to you go the maidens; Not to you do they bring pies, Cakes, omelettes. So, so, Semik and Troitsa [Trinity]! Rejoice, birch trees, rejoice, green ones! To you go the maidens! To you they bring pies, Cakes, omelettes." The eatables here mentioned probably refer to the sacrifices offered in olden days to the birch--the tree of the spring. With this practice we may compare one long observed in our own country, and known as "wassailing." At certain seasons it has long been customary in Devonshire for the farmer, on the eve of Twelfth-day, to go into the orchard after supper with a large milk pail of cider with roasted apples pressed into it. Out of this each person in the company takes what is called a clome--i.e., earthenware cup--full of liquor, and standing under the more fruitful apple trees, address them in these words: "Health to thee, good apple tree, Well to bear pocket fulls, hat fulls, Peck fulls, bushel bag fulls." After the formula has been repeated, the contents of the cup are thrown at the trees.[29] There are numerous allusions to this form of tree-worship in the literature of the past; and Tusser, among his many pieces of advice to the husbandman, has not omitted to remind him that he should, "Wassail the trees, that they may bear You many a plum and many a pear; For more or less fruit they will bring, As you do them wassailing." Survivals of this kind show how tenaciously old superstitious rites struggle for existence even when they have ceased to be recognised as worthy of belief. Footnotes: 1. "Outlines of Primitive Belief," 1882, p. 54. 2. "Tree and Serpent Worship." 3. See Sir John Lubbock's "Origin of Civilisation," pp. 192-8. 4. _Fortnightly Review_, "The Worship of Animals and Plants," 1870, vii. 213. 5. _Ibid._, 1869, vi. 408. 6. "Principles of Sociology," 1885, i. p. 359. 7. "The Origin of Civilisation and Primitive Condition of Man." 8. _Quarterly Review_, cxiv. 212. 9. Keary's "Primitive Brlief," pp. 332-3; _Edinburgh Review_, cxxx. 488-9. 10. "Du Culte des Dieux Fetiches," p. 169. 11. "Primitive Belief," pp. 332-3. 12. Fergusson's "Tree and Serpent Worship," p. 16. 13. cxxx. 492; see Tacitus' "Germania," ix. 14. See _Edinburgh Review_, cxxx. 490-1. 15. _Edinburgh Review_, cxxx. 491. 16. Mr. Fergusson's "Tree and Serpent Worship." See _Edinburgh Review_, cxxx. 498. 17. See Lewin's "Hill Tracts of Chittagong," p. 10. 18. _Cornhill Magazine_, November 1872, p. 598. 19. An important tribe in Central India. 20. See Sherring's "Sacred City of the Hindus," 1868, p. 89. 21. Dorman's "Primitive Superstitions," p. 291. 22. See "Researches in Geology and Natural History," p. 79. 23. "Anahuac," 215, 265. 24. Dorman's "Primitive Superstitions." p. 292. 25. "Journeys to the Polar Sea." i. 221. 26. "The Origin of Civilisation." 27. "Songs of the Russian People." p. 219. 28. _Ibid._, p. 238. 29. See my "British Popular Customs." p. 21. CHAPTER IV. LIGHTNING PLANTS. Amongst the legends of the ancient world few subjects occupy a more prominent place than lightning, associated as it is with those myths of the origin of fire which are of such wide distribution.[1] In examining these survivals of primitive culture we are confronted with some of the most elaborate problems of primeval philosophy, many of which are not only highly complicated, but have given rise to various conjectures. Thus, although it is easy to understand the reasons which led our ancestors, in their childlike ignorance, to speak of the lightning as a worm, serpent, trident, arrow, or forked wand, yet the contrary is the case when we inquire why it was occasionally symbolised as a flower or leaf, or when, as Mr. Fiske[2] remarks, "we seek to ascertain why certain trees, such as the ash, hazel, white thorn, and mistletoe, were supposed to be in a certain sense embodiments of it." Indeed, however satisfactory our explanations may apparently seem, in many cases they can only be regarded as ingenious theories based on the most probable theories which the science of comparative folk-lore may have suggested. In analysing, too, the evidence for determining the possible association of ideas which induced our primitive forefathers to form those mythical conceptions that we find embodied in the folk-tales of most races, it is necessary to unravel from the relics of the past the one common notion that underlies them. Respecting the origin of fire, for instance, the leading idea--as handed down to us in myths of this kind--would make us believe that it was originally stolen. Stories which point to this conclusion are not limited to any one country, but are shared by races widely remote from one another. This circumstance is important, as helping to explain the relation of particular plants to lightning, and accounts for the superstitious reverence so frequently paid to them by most Aryan tribes. Hence, the way by which the Veda argues the existence of the palasa--a mystic tree with the Hindus--is founded on the following tradition:--The demons had stolen the heavenly soma, or drink of the gods, and cellared it in some mythical rock or cloud. When the thirsty deities were pining for their much-prized liquor, the falcon undertook to restore it to them, although he succeeded at the cost of a claw and a plume, of which he was deprived by the graze of an arrow shot by one of the demons. Both fell to the earth and took root; the claw becoming a species of thorn, which Dr. Kuhn identifies as the "_Mimosa catechu_," and the feather a "palasa tree," which has a red sap and scarlet blossoms. With such a divine origin--for the falcon was nothing less than a lightning god[3]--the trees naturally were incorporations,[4] "not only of the heavenly fire, but also of the soma, with which the claw and feather were impregnated." It is not surprising, therefore, that extraordinary virtues were ascribed to these lightning plants, qualities which, in no small degree, distinguish their representatives at the present day. Thus we are told how in India the mimosa is known as the imperial tree on account of its remarkable properties, being credited as an efficacious charm against all sorts of malignant influences, such as the evil eye. Not unlike in colour to the blossom of the Indian palasa are the red berries of the rowan or mountain-ash (_Pyrus aucuparia_), a tree which has acquired European renown from the Aryan tradition of its being an embodiment of the lightning from which it was sprung. It has acquired, therefore, a mystic character, evidences of which are numerously represented throughout Europe, where its leaves are reverenced as being the most potent talisman against the darker powers. At the present day we still find the Highland milkmaid carrying with her a rowan-cross against unforeseen danger, just as in many a German village twigs are put over stables to keep out witches. Illustrations of this kind support its widespread reputation for supernatural virtues, besides showing how closely allied is much of the folk-lore of our own with that of continental countries. At the same time, we feel inclined to agree with Mr. Farrer that the red berries of the mountain-ash probably singled it out from among trees for worship long before our ancestors had arrived at any idea of abstract divinities. The beauty of its berries, added to their brilliant red colour, would naturally excite feelings of admiration and awe, and hence it would in process of time become invested with a sacred significance. It must be remembered, too, that all over the world there is a regard for things red, this colour having been once held sacred to Thor, and Grimm suggests that it was on this account the robin acquired its sacred character. Similarly, the Highland women tie a piece of red worsted thread round their cows' tails previous to turning them out to grass for the first time in spring, for, in accordance with an old adage: "Rowan-ash, and red thread, Keep the devils from their speed." In the same way the mothers in Esthonia put some red thread in their babies' cradles as a preservative against danger, and in China something red is tied round children's wrists as a safeguard against evil spirits. By the aid of comparative folk-lore it is interesting, as in this case, to trace the same notion in different countries, although it is by no means possible to account for such undesigned resemblance. The common ash (_Fraxinus excelsior_), too, is a lightning plant, and, according to an old couplet: "Avoid an ash, It counts the flash." Another tree held sacred to Thor was the hazel (_Corylus avellana_), which, like the mountain-ash, was considered an actual embodiment of the lightning. Indeed, "so deep was the faith of the people in the relation of this tree to the thunder god," says Mr. Conway,[5] "that the Catholics adopted and sanctioned it by a legend one may hear in Bavaria, that on their flight into Egypt the Holy Family took refuge under it from a storm." Its supposed immunity from all damage by lightning has long caused special reverence to be attached to it, and given rise to sundry superstitious usages. Thus, in Germany, a twig is cut by the farm-labourer, in spring, and on the first thunderstorm a cross is made with it over every heap of grain, whereby, it is supposed, the corn will remain good for many years. Occasionally, too, one may see hazel twigs placed in the window frames during a heavy shower, and the Tyroleans regard it as an excellent lightning conductor. As a promoter of fruitfulness it has long been held in high repute--a character which it probably derived from its mythic associations--and hence the important part it plays in love divinations. According to a Bohemian belief, the presence of a large number of hazel-nuts betokens the birth of many illegitimate children; and in the Black Forest it is customary for the leader of a marriage procession to carry a hazel wand. For the same reason, in many parts of Germany, a few nuts are mingled with the seed corn to insure its being prolific. But leaving the hazel with its host of superstitions, we may notice the white-thorn, which according to Aryan tradition was also originally sprung from the lightning. Hence it has acquired a wide reverence, and been invested with supernatural properties. Like, too, the hazel, it was associated with marriage rites. Thus the Grecian bride was and is still decked with its blossoms, whereas its wood formed the torch which lighted the Roman bridal couple to their nuptial chamber on the wedding day. It is evident, therefore, that the white-thorn was considered a sacred tree long before Christian tradition identified it as forming the Crown of Thorns; a medieval belief which further enhanced the sanctity attached to it. It is not surprising, therefore, that the Irish consider it unlucky to cut down this holy tree, especially as it is said to be under the protection of the fairies, who resent any injury done to it. A legend current in county Donegal, for instance, tells us how a fairy had tried to steal one Joe M'Donough's baby, but the poor mother argued that she had never affronted the fairy tribe to her knowledge. The only cause she could assign was that Joe, "had helped Mr. Todd's gardener to cut down the old hawthorn tree on the lawn; and there's them that says that's a very bad thing to do;" adding how she "fleeched him not to touch it, but the master he offered him six shillings if he'd help in the job, for the other men refused." The same belief prevails in Brittany, where it is also "held unsafe to gather even a leaf from certain old and solitary thorns, which grow in sheltered hollows of the moorland, and are the fairies' trysting-places."[6] Then there is the mistletoe, which, like the hazel and the white-thorn, was also supposed to be the embodiment of lightning; and in consequence of its mythical character held an exalted place in the botanical world. As a lightning-plant, we seem to have the key to its symbolical nature, in the circumstance that its branch is forked. On the same principle, it is worthy of note, as Mr. Fiske remarks[7] that, "the Hindu commentators of the Veda certainly lay great stress on the fact that the palasa is trident-leaved." We have already pointed out, too, how the red colour of a flower, as in the case of the berries of the mountain-ash, was apparently sufficient to determine the association of ideas. The Swiss name for mistletoe, _donnerbesen_, "thunder besom," illustrates its divine origin, on account of which it was supposed to protect the homestead from fire, and hence in Sweden it has long been suspended in farm-houses, like the mountain-ash in Scotland. But its virtues are by no means limited, for like all lightning-plants its potency is displayed in a variety of ways, its healing properties having from a remote period been in the highest repute. For purposes also of sorcery it has been reckoned of considerable importance, and as a preventive of nightmare and other night scares it is still in favour on the Continent. One reason which no doubt has obtained for it a marked degree of honour is its parasitical manner of growth, which was in primitive times ascribed to the intervention of the gods. According to one of its traditionary origins, its seed was said to be deposited on certain trees by birds, the messengers of the gods, if not the gods themselves in disguise, by which this plant established itself in the branch of a tree. The mode of procedure, say the old botanists, was through the "mistletoe thrush." This bird, it was asserted, by feeding on the berries, surrounded its beak with the viscid mucus they contain, to rid itself of which it rubbed its beak, in the course of flying, against the branches of trees, and thereby inserted the seed which gave birth to the new plant. When the mistletoe was found growing on the oak, its presence was attributed specially to the gods, and as such was treated with the deepest reverence. It was not, too, by accident that the oak was selected, as this tree was honoured by Aryan tradition with being of lightning origin. Hence when the mistletoe was found on its branches, the occurrence was considered as deeply significant, and all the more so as its existence in such a locality was held to be very rare[8]. Speaking of the oak, it may be noted, that as sacred to Thor, it was under his immediate protection, and hence it was considered an act of sacrilege to mutilate it in ever so small a degree. Indeed, "it was a law of the Ostrogoths that anybody might hew down what trees he pleased in the common wood, except oaks and hazels; those trees had peace,_ i.e._, they were not to be felled[9]." That profanity of this kind was not treated with immunity was formerly fully believed, an illustration of which is given us by Aubrey,[10] who says that, "to cut oakwood is unfortunate. There was at Norwood one oak that had mistletoe, a timber tree, which was felled about 1657. Some persons cut this mistletoe for some apothecaries in London, and sold them a quantity for ten shillings each time, and left only one branch remaining for more to sprout out. One fell lame shortly after; soon after each of the others lost an eye, and he that felled the tree, though warned of these misfortunes of the other men, would, notwithstanding, adventure to do it, and shortly afterwards broke his leg; as if the Hamadryads had resolved to take an ample revenge for the injury done to their venerable and sacred oak." We can understand, then, how the custom originated of planting the oak on the boundaries of lands, a survival of which still remains in the so-called gospel oaks of many of our English parishes. With Thor's tree thus standing our forefathers felt a sense of security which materially added to the peace and comfort of their daily life. But its sacred attributes were not limited to this country, many a legend on the Continent testifying to the safety afforded by its sheltering branches. Indeed, so great are its virtues that, according to a Westphalian tradition, the Wandering Jew can only rest where he shall happen to find two oaks growing in the form of a cross. A further proof of its exalted character may be gathered from the fact that around its roots Scandinavian mythology has gathered fairyland, and hence in Germany the holes in its trunk are the pathways for elves. But the connection between lightning and plants extends over a wide area, and Germany is rich in legends relative to this species of folk-lore. Thus there is the magic springwort, around which have clustered so many curious lightning myths and talismanic properties. By reason of its celestial origin this much-coveted plant, when buried in the ground at the summit of a mountain, has the reputation of drawing down the lightning and dividing the storm. It is difficult, however, to procure, especially as there is no certainty as to the exact species of plants to which it belongs, although Grimm identifies it with the _Euphorbia lathyris_. At any rate, it is chiefly procurable by the woodpecker--a lightning-bearer; and to secure this much-prized treasure, its nest must be stopped up, access to which it will quickly gain by touching it with the springwort. But if one have in readiness a pan of water, a fire, or a red cloth, the bird will let the plant fall, which otherwise it would be a difficult work to obtain, "the notion, no doubt, being that the bird must return the mystic plant to the element from which it springs, that being either the water of the clouds or the lightning fire enclosed therein."[11] Professor Gubernatis, referring to the symbolical nature of this tradition, remarks that, "this herb may be the moon itself, which opens the hiding-place of the night, or the thunderbolt, which opens the hiding-places of the cloud." According to the Swiss version of the story it is the hoopoe that brings the spring-wort, a bird also endowed with mystic virtues,[12] while in Iceland, Normandy, and ancient Greece it is an eagle, a swallow, or an ostrich. Analogous to the talismanic properties of the springwort are those of the famous luck or key-flower of German folk-lore, by the discovery of which the fortunate possessor effects an entrance into otherwise inaccessible fairy haunts, where unlimited treasures are offered for his acceptance. There then, again, the luck-flower is no doubt intended to denote the lightning, which reveals strange treasures, giving water to the parched and thirsty land, and, as Mr. Fiske remarks, "making plain what is doing under cover of darkness."[13] The lightning-flash, too, which now and then, as a lesson of warning, instantly strikes dead those who either rashly or presumptuously essay to enter its awe-inspiring portals, is exemplified in another version of the same legend. A shepherd, while leading his flock over the Ilsentein, pauses to rest, but immediately the mountain opens by reason of the springwort or luck-flower in the staff on which he leans. Within the cavern a white lady appears, who invites him to accept as much of her wealth as he choses. Thereupon he fills his pockets, and hastening to quit her mysterious domains, he heeds not her enigmatical warning, "Forget not the best," the result being that as he passes through the door he is severed in twain amidst the crashing of thunder. Stories of this kind, however, are the exception, legendary lore generally regarding the lightning as a benefactor rather than a destroyer. "The lightning-flash," to quote Mr. Baring-Gould's words, "reaches the barren, dead, and thirsty land; forth gush the waters of heaven, and the parched vegetation bursts once more into the vigour of life restored after suspended animation." That this is the case we have ample proof in the myths relating to plants, in many of which the life-giving properties of the lightning are clearly depicted. Hence, also, the extraordinary healing properties which are ascribed to the various lightning plants. Ash rods, for instance, are still used in many parts of England for the cure of diseased sheep, cows, and horses, and in Cornwall, as a remedy for hernia, children are passed through holes in ash trees. The mistletoe has the reputation of being an antidote for poisons and a specific against epilepsy. Culpepper speaks of it as a sure panacea for apoplexy, palsy, and falling sickness, a belief current in Sweden, where finger rings are made of its wood. An old-fashioned charm for the bite of an adder was to place a cross formed of hazel-wood on the wound, and the burning of a thorn-bush has long been considered a sure preventive of mildew in wheat. Without multiplying further illustrations, there can be no doubt that the therapeutic virtues of these so-called lightning plants may be traced to, in very many cases, their mythical origin. It is not surprising too that plants of this stamp should have been extensively used as charms against the influences of occult powers, their symbolical nature investing them with a potency such as was possessed by no ordinary plant. Footnotes: 1. See an article on "Myths of the Fire Stealer," _Saturday Review_, June 2, 1883, p. 689; Tylor's "Primitive Culture." 2. "Myths and Myth Makers," p. 55. 3. See Keary's "Outlines of Primitive Belief," 1882, p. 98. 4. "Indo-European Tradition and Folk-lore," p. 159. 5. "Mystic Trees and Shrubs," _Fraser's Magazine_, Nov. 1870, p. 599. 6. "Sacred Trees and Flowers," _Quarterly Review_, July 1863, pp. 231, 232. 7. "Myths and Myth Makers," p. 55. 8. See "Flower Lore," pp. 38, 39. 9. Kelly's "Indo-European Folk-lore," p. 179. 10. "Natural History and Antiquities of Surrey," ii. 34. 11. Kelly's "Indo-European Folk-lore," p. 176; Grimm's "Teutonic Mythology," 1884, chap, xxxii.; Gubernatis' "Zoological Mythology," ii. 266-7. See Albertus Magnus, "De Mirab. Mundi," 1601, p. 225. 12. Gubernatis' "Zoological Mythology," ii. 230. 13. "Myths and Mythmakers," p. 58. See Baring-Gould's "Curious Myths of the Middle Ages," 1877, pp. 386-416. 14. Folkard's "Plant-lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 460. 15. See Kelly's "Indo-European Folk-lore," pp. 47-8. CHAPTER V. PLANTS IN WITCHCRAFT. The vast proportions which the great witchcraft movement assumed in bygone years explains the magic properties which we find ascribed to so many plants in most countries. In the nefarious trade carried on by the representatives of this cruel system of sorcery certain plants were largely employed for working marvels, hence the mystic character which they have ever since retained. It was necessary, however, that these should be plucked at certain phases of the moon or seasons of the year, or from some spot where the sun was supposed not to have shone on it.[1] Hence Shakespeare makes one of his witches speak of "root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark," and of "slips of yew sliver'd in the moon's eclipse," a practice which was long kept up. The plants, too, which formed the witches' pharmacopoeia, were generally selected either from their legendary associations or by reason of their poisonous and soporific qualities. Thus, two of those most frequently used as ingredients in the mystic cauldron were the vervain and the rue, these plants having been specially credited with supernatural virtues. The former probably derived its notoriety from the fact of its being sacred to Thor, an honour which marked it out, like other lightning plants, as peculiarly adapted for occult uses. It was, moreover, among the sacred plants of the Druids, and was only gathered by them, "when the dog-star arose, from unsunned spots." At the same time, it is noteworthy that many of the plants which were in repute with witches for working their marvels were reckoned as counter-charms, a fact which is not surprising, as materials used by wizards and others for magical purposes have generally been regarded as equally efficacious if employed against their charms and spells.[2] Although vervain, therefore, as the "enchanters' plant," was gathered by witches to do mischief in their incantations, yet, as Aubrey says, it "hinders witches from their will," a circumstance to which Drayton further refers when he speaks of the vervain as "'gainst witchcraft much avayling." Rue, likewise, which entered so largely into magic rites, was once much in request as an antidote against such practices; and nowadays, when worn on the person in conjunction with agrimony, maiden-hair, broom-straw, and ground ivy, it is said in the Tyrol to confer fine vision, and to point out the presence of witches. It is still an undecided question as to why rue should out of all other plants have gained its widespread reputation with witches, but M. Maury supposes that it was on account of its being a narcotic and causing hallucinations. At any rate, it seems to have acquired at an early period in this country a superstitious reverence, for, as Mr. Conway says,[3] "We find the missionaries sprinkling holy water from brushes made of it, whence it was called 'herb of grace'." Respecting the rendezvous of witches, it may be noted that they very frequently resorted to hills and mountains, their meetings taking place "on the mead, on the oak sward, under the lime, under the oak, at the pear tree." Thus the fairy rings which are often to be met with on the Sussex downs are known as hag-tracks,[4] from the belief that "they are caused by hags and witches, who dance there at midnight."[5] Their love for sequestered and romantic localities is widely illustrated on the Continent, instances of which have been collected together by Grimm, who remarks how "the fame of particular witch mountains extends over wide kingdoms." According to a tradition current in Friesland,[6] no woman is to be found at home on a Friday, because on that day they hold their meetings and have dances on a barren heath. Occasionally, too, they show a strong predilection for certain trees, to approach which as night-time draws near is considered highly dangerous. The Judas tree (_Cercis siliquastrum_) was one of their favourite retreats, perhaps on account of its traditionary association with the apostle. The Neapolitan witches held their tryst under a walnut tree near Benevento,[7] and at Bologna the peasantry tell how these evil workers hold a midnight meeting beneath the walnut trees on St. John's Eve. The elder tree is another haunt under whose branches witches are fond of lurking, and on this account caution must be taken not to tamper with it after dark.[8] Again, in the Netherlands, experienced shepherds are careful not to let their flocks feed after sunset, for there are wicked elves that prepare poison in certain plants--nightwort being one of these. Nor does any man dare to sleep in a meadow or pasture after sunset, for, as the shepherds say, he would have everything to fear. A Tyrolese legend[9] relates how a boy who had climbed a tree, "overlooked the ghastly doings of certain witches beneath its boughs. They tore in pieces the corpse of a woman, and threw the portions in the air. The boy caught one, and kept it by him; but the witches, on counting the pieces, found that one was missing, and so replaced it by a scrap of alderwood, when instantly the dead came to life again." Similarly, also, they had their favourite flowers, one having been the foxglove, nicknamed "witches' bells," from their decorating their fingers with its blossoms; while in some localities the hare-bell is designated the "witches' thimble." On the other hand, flowers of a yellow or greenish hue were distasteful to them.[10] In the witchcraft movement it would seem that certain plants were in requisition for particular purposes, these workers of darkness having utilised the properties of herbs to special ends. A plant was not indiscriminately selected, but on account of possessing some virtue as to render it suitable for any design that the witches might have in view. Considering, too, how multitudinous and varied were their actions, they had constant need of applying to the vegetable world for materials with which to carry out their plans. But foremost amongst their requirements was the power of locomotion wherewith to enable them with supernatural rapidity to travel from one locality to another. Accordingly, one of their most favourite vehicles was a besom or broom, an implement which, it has been suggested, from its being a type of the winds, is an appropriate utensil "in the hands of the witches, who are windmakers and workers in that element.[11]" According to the _Asiatic Register_ for 1801, the Eastern as well as the European witches "practise their spells by dancing at midnight, and the principal instrument they use on such occasions is a broom." Hence, in Hamburg, sailors, after long toiling against a contrary wind, on meeting another ship sailing in an opposite direction, throw an old broom before the vessel, believing thereby to reverse the wind.[12] As, too, in the case of vervain and rue, the besom, although dearly loved by witches, is still extensively used as a counter-charm against their machinations--it being a well-known belief both in England and Germany that no individual of this stamp can step over a besom laid inside the threshold. Hence, also, in Westphalia, at Shrovetide, white besoms with white handles are tied to the cows' horns; and, in the rites connected with the Midsummer fires kept up in different parts of the country, the besom holds a prominent place. In Bohemia, for instance, the young men collect for some weeks beforehand as many worn-out brooms as they can lay their hands on. These, after dipping in tar, they light--running with them from one bonfire to another--and when burnt out they are placed in the fields as charms against blight.[13] The large ragwort--known in Ireland as the "fairies' horse"--has long been sought for by witches when taking their midnight journeys. Burns, in his "Address to the Deil," makes his witches "skim the muirs and dizzy crags" on "rag-bred nags" with "wicked speed." The same legendary belief prevails in Cornwall, in connection with the Castle Peak, a high rock to the south of the Logan stone. Here, writes Mr. Hunt,[14] "many a man, and woman too, now quietly sleeping in the churchyard of St. Levan, would, had they the power, attest to have seen the witches flying into the Castle Peak on moonlight nights, mounted on the stems of the ragwort." Amongst other plants used for a similar purpose were the bulrush and reed, in connection with-which may be quoted the Irish tale of the rushes and cornstalks that "turn into horses the moment you bestride them[15]." In Germany[16] witches were said to use hay for transporting themselves through the air. When engaged in their various occupations they often considered it expedient to escape detection by assuming invisibility, and for this object sought the assistance of certain plants, such as the fern-seed[17]. In Sweden, hazel-nuts were supposed to have the power of making invisible, and it may be remembered how in one of Andersen's stories the elfin princess has the faculty of vanishing at will, by putting a wand in her mouth.[18] But these were not the only plants supposed to confer invisibility, for German folk-lore tells us how the far-famed luck-flower was endowed with the same wonderful property; and by the ancients the heliotrope was credited with a similar virtue, but which Boccaccio, in his humorous tale of Calandrino in the "Decameron," applies to the so-called stone. "Heliotrope is a stone of such extraordinary virtue that the bearer of it is effectually concealed from the sight of all present." Dante in his "Inferno," xxiv. 92, further alludes to it: "Amid this dread exuberance of woe Ran naked spirits winged with horrid fear, Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide, Or heliotrope to charm them out of view." In the same way the agate was said to render a person invisible, and to turn the swords of foes against themselves.[19] The Swiss peasants affirm that the Ascension Day wreaths of the amaranth make the wearer invisible, and in the Tyrol the mistletoe is credited with this property. But some plants, as we have already pointed out, were credited with the magic property of revealing the presence of witches, and of exposing them engaged in the pursuit of plying their nefarious calling. In this respect the St. John's wort was in great request, and hence it was extensively worn as an amulet, especially in Germany on St. John's Eve, a time when not only witches by common report peopled the air, but evil spirits wandered about on no friendly errand. Thus the Italian name of "devil-chaser," from the circumstance of its scaring away the workers of darkness, by bringing their hidden deeds to light. This, moreover, accounts for the custom so prevalent in most European countries of decorating doorways and windows with its blossoms on St. John's Eve. In our own country Stowe[20] speaks of it as its having been placed over the doors together with green birch, fennel, orpine, and white lilies, whereas in France the peasantry still reverence it as dispersing every kind of unseen evil influence. The elder was invested with similar properties, which seem to have been more potent than even those attributed to the St. John's wort. According to an old tradition, any baptized person whose eyes were anointed with the green juice of its inner bark could see witches in any part of the world. Hence the tree was extremely obnoxious to witches, a fact which probably accounts for its having been so often planted near cottages. Its magic influence has also caused it to be introduced into various rites, as in Styria on Bertha Night (January 6th), when the devil goes about in great force.[21] As a safeguard, persons are recommended to make a magic circle, in the centre of which they should stand with elder-berries gathered on St. John's Night. By so doing the mystic fern seed may be obtained, which possesses the strength of thirty or forty men. In Germany, too, a species of wild radish is said to reveal witches, as also is the ivy, and saxifrage enables its bearer to see witches on Walpurgis Night. But, in spite of plants of this kind, witches somehow or other contrived to escape detection by the employment of the most subtle charms and spells. They generally, too, took the precaution of avoiding such plants as were antagonistic to them, displaying a cunning ingenuity in most of their designs which it was by no means easy to forestall. Hence in the composition of their philtres and potions they infused the juices of the most deadly herbs, such as that of the nightshade or monkshood; and to add to the potency of these baleful draughts they considered it necessary to add as many as seven or nine of the most poisonous plants they could obtain, such, for instance, as those enumerated by one of the witches in Ben Jonson's "Masque of Queens," who says:-- "And I ha' been plucking plants among Hemlock, Henbane, Adder's Tongue; Nightshade, Moonwort, Libbard's bane, And twice, by the dogs, was like to be ta'en." Another plant used by witches in their incantations was the sea or horned poppy, known in mediaeval times as _Ficus infernolis_; hence it is further noticed by Ben Jonson in the "Witches' Song": "Yes, I have brought to help our vows, Horned poppy, cypress boughs, The fig tree wild that grows on tombs, And juice that from the larch tree comes." Then, of course, there was the wondrous moonwort (_Botrychium lunaria_), which was doubly valuable from its mystic virtue, for, as Culpepper[22] tells us, it was believed to open locks and possess other magic virtues. The mullein, popularly termed the hag-taper, was also in request, and the honesty (_Lunaria biennis_), "in sorceries excelling," was equally employed. By Scotch witches the woodbine was a favourite plant,[23] who, in effecting magical cures, passed their patients nine times through a girth or garland of green woodbine. Again, a popular means employed by witches of injuring their enemies was by the briony. Coles, in his "Art of Simpling," for instance, informs us how, "they take likewise the roots of mandrake, according to some, or, as I rather suppose, the roots of briony, which simple folk take for the true mandrake, and make thereof an ugly image, by which they represent the person on whom they intend to exercise their witchcraft." And Lord Bacon, speaking of the mandrake, says--"Some plants there are, but rare, that have a mossie or downy root, and likewise that have a number of threads, like beards, as mandrakes, whereof witches and impostours make an ugly image, giving it the form of a face at the top of the root, and leave those strings to make a broad beard down to the foot." The witchcraft literature of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries contains numerous allusions to the diabolical practice--a superstition immortalised by Shakespeare. The mandrake, from its supposed mysterious character, was intimately associated with witches, and Ben Jonson, in his "Masque of Queens," makes one of the hags who has been gathering this plant say, "I last night lay all alone On the ground, to hear the mandrake groan; And plucked him up, though he grew full low, And, as I had done, the cock did crow." We have already incidentally spoken of the vervain, St. John's wort, elder, and rue as antagonistic to witchcraft, but to these may be added many other well-known plants, such as the juniper, mistletoe, and blackthorn. Indeed, the list might be greatly extended--the vegetable kingdom having supplied in most parts of the world almost countless charms to counteract the evil designs of these malevolent beings. In our own country the little pimpernel, herb-paris, and cyclamen were formerly gathered for this purpose, and the angelica was thought to be specially noisome to witches. The snapdragon and the herb-betony had the reputation of averting the most subtle forms of witchcraft, and dill and flax were worn as talismans against sorcery. Holly is said to be antagonistic to witches, for, as Mr. Folkard[24] says, "in its name they see but another form of the word 'holy,' and its thorny foliage and blood-red berries are suggestive of the most Christian associations." Then there is the rowan-tree or mountain-ash, which has long been considered one of the most powerful antidotes against works of darkness of every kind, probably from its sacred associations with the worship of the Druids. Hence it is much valued in Scotland, and the following couplet, of which there are several versions, still embodies the popular faith: "Rowan-tree and red thread, Put the witches to their speed." But its fame has not been confined to any one locality, and as far south as Cornwall the peasant, when he suspects that his cow has been "overlooked," twists an ashen twig round its horns. Indeed, so potent is the ash as a counter charm to sorcery, that even the smallest twig renders their actions impotent; and hence, in an old ballad entitled "Laidley Wood," in the "Northumberland Garland," it is said: "The spells were vain, the hag returned To the queen in sorrowful mood, Crying that witches have no power, Where there is row'n-tree wood." Hence persons carry an ashen twig in their pocket, and according to a Yorkshire proverb: "If your whipsticks made of row'n, You may ride your nag through any town;" But, on the other hand, "Woe to the lad without a rowan-tree gall." Possessed of such virtues, it is not surprising that the mystic ash should have been held in the highest repute, in illustration of which we find many an amusing anecdote. Thus, according to a Herefordshire tradition, some years ago two hogsheads full of money were concealed in an underground cellar belonging to the Castle of Penyard, where they were kept by supernatural force. A farmer, however, made up his mind to get them out, and employed for the purpose twenty steers to draw down the iron door of the vault. On the door being slightly opened, a jackdaw was seen sitting on one of the casks, but the door immediately closed with a bang--a voice being heard to say, "Had it not been For your quicken tree goad, And your yew tree pin, You and your cattle Had all been drawn in." Another anecdote current in Yorkshire is interesting, showing how fully superstitions of this kind are believed[25]:--"A woman was lately in my shop, and in pulling out her purse brought out also a piece of stick a few inches long. I asked her why she carried that in her pocket. 'Oh,' she replied, 'I must not lose that, or I shall be done for.' 'Why so?' I inquired. 'Well,' she answered, 'I carry that to keep off the witches; while I have that about me, they cannot hurt me.' On my adding that there were no witches nowadays, she instantly replied, 'Oh, yes! there are thirteen at this very time in the town, but so long as I have my rowan-tree safe in my pocket they cannot hurt me.'" Occasionally when the dairymaid churned for a long time without making butter, she would stir the cream with a twig of mountain ash, and beat the cow with another, thus breaking the witch's spell. But, to prevent accidents of this kind, it has long been customary in the northern countries to make the churn-staff of ash. For the same reason herd-boys employ an ash-twig for driving cattle, and one may often see a mountain-ash growing near a house. On the Continent the tree is in equal repute, and in Norway and Denmark rowan branches are usually put over stable doors to keep out witches, a similar notion prevailing in Germany. No tree, perhaps, holds such a prominent place in witchcraft-lore as the mountain-ash, its mystic power having rarely failed to render fruitless the evil influence of these enemies of mankind. In our northern counties witches are said to dislike the bracken fern, "because it bears on its root the initial C, which may be seen on cutting the root horizontally."[26] and in most places equally distasteful to them is the yew, perhaps for no better reason than its having formerly been much planted in churchyards. The herb-bennett (_Geum urbanum_), like the clover, from its trefoiled leaf, renders witches powerless, and the hazel has similar virtues. Among some of the plants considered antagonistic to sorcery on the Continent may be mentioned the water-lily, which is gathered in the Rhine district with a certain formula. In Tuscany, the lavender counteracts the evil eye, and a German antidote against the hurtful effects of any malicious influence was an ointment made of the leaves of the marsh-mallow. In Italy, an olive branch which has been blessed keeps the witch from the dwelling, and in some parts of the Continent the plum-tree is used. Kolb, writes Mr. Black,[27] who became one of the first "wonder-doctors" of the Tyrol, "when he was called to assist any bewitched person, made exactly at midnight the smoke of five different sorts of herbs, and while they were burning the bewitched was gently beaten with a martyr-thorn birch, which had to be got the same night. This beating the patient with thorn was thought to be really beating the hag who had caused the evil." Some seasons, too, have been supposed to be closely associated with the witches, as in Germany, where all flax must be spun before Twelfth Night, for one who spins afterwards is liable to be bewitched. Lastly, to counteract the spell of the evil eye, from which many innocent persons were believed to suffer in the witchcraft period, many flowers have been in requisition among the numerous charms used. Thus, the Russian maidens still hang round the stem of the birch-tree red ribbon, the Brahmans gather rice, and in Italy rue is in demand. The Scotch peasantry pluck twigs of the ash, the Highland women the groundsel, and the German folk wear the radish. In early times the ringwort was recommended by Apuleius, and later on the fern was regarded as a preservative against this baneful influence. The Chinese put faith in the garlic; and, in short, every country has its own special plants. It would seem, too, that after a witch was dead and buried, precautionary measures were taken to frustrate her baneful influence. Thus, in Russia, aspen is laid on a witch's grave, the dead sorceress being then prevented from riding abroad. Footnotes: 1. See Moncure Conway's "Demonology and Devil Lore," 1880, ii. 324. 2. See Friend's "Flower Lore," ii. 529-30. 3. "Demonology and Devil Lore," ii. 324. 4. Grimm, "Teutonic Mythology," 1883, iii. 1051. 5. Folkard's "Plant Lore, Legends, and Lyrics," 1884, p. 91. 6. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," iii. 19. 7. Grimm's "Teutonic Mythology," iii. 1052. 8. See Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," iii. 267. 9. See Folkard's "Plant Lore, Legends, and Lyrics," p. 209. 10. _Ibid._, p. 104. 11. See Kelly's "Indo-European Folk-lore," pp. 225-7. 12. See Hardwick's "Traditions, Superstitions, and Folk-lore," p. 117; also Grimm's "Teutonic Mythology," 1883, iii. 1083. 13. See Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," 1852, iii. 21, 137. 14. "Popular Romances of the West of England," 1871, p. 330. 15. Grimm's "Teutonic Mythology," iii. 1084. 16. See Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," iii. 208-9. 17. See chap. "Doctrine of Signatures." 18. See Yardley's "Supernatural in Romantic Fiction," 1880, pp. 131-2. 19. See Fiske, "Myths and Mythmakers," p. 44; also Baring-Gould's "Curious Myths of the Middle Ages," 1877, p. 398. 20. "Survey of London." See Mason's "Folk-lore of British Plants" in _Dublin University Magazine_, September 1873, p. 326-8. 21. Mr. Conway's "Mystic Trees and Flowers," _Fraser's Magazine_, 1870, 602. 22. "British Herbal." 23. See Folkard's "Plant-lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 380. 24. "Plant-lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 376. 25. Henderson's "Folk-lore of Northern Counties," 1879, p. 225. 26. "Folk-lore of Northern Counties," 1879. 27. "Folk-medicine," p. 202. CHAPTER VI. PLANTS IN DEMONOLOGY. The association of certain plants with the devil forms an extensive and important division in their folk-lore, and in many respects is closely connected with their mystic history. It is by no means easy always to account for some of our most beautiful flowers having Satanic surroundings, although frequently the explanation must be sought in their poisonous and deadly qualities. In some cases, too, the student of comparative mythology may trace their evil reputation to those early traditions which were the expressions of certain primitive beliefs, the survivals of which nowadays are found in many an apparently meaningless superstition. Anyhow, the subject is a very wide one, and is equally represented in most countries. It should be remembered, moreover, that rudimentary forms of dualism--the antagonism of a good and evil deity[1]--have from a remote period occupied men's minds, a system of belief known even among the lower races of mankind. Hence, just as some plants would in process of time acquire a sacred character, others would do the reverse. Amongst the legendary stories and folktales of most countries we find frequent allusion to the devil as an active agent in utilising various flowers for his mischievous pursuits; and on the Continent we are told of a certain evil spirit named Kleure who transforms himself into a tree to escape notice, a superstition which under a variety of forms still lingers here and there.[2] It would seem, too, that in some of our old legends and superstitions the terms Puck and Devil are synonymous, a circumstance which explains the meaning, otherwise unintelligible, of many items of plant-lore in our own and other countries. Thus the word "Puck" has been identified with _Pogge_--toad, under which form the devil was supposed to be personified; and hence probably originated such expressions as toadstools, paddock-stools, &c. The thorns of the eglantine are said to point downwards, because when the devil was excluded from heaven he tried to regain his lost position by means of a ladder composed of its thorns. But when the eglantine was only allowed to grow as a bush, out of spite he placed its thorns in their present eccentric position. The seed of the parsley, "is apt to come up only partially, according as the devil takes his tithe of it."[3] In Germany "devil's oaks" are of frequent occurrence, and "one of these at Gotha is held in great regard."[4] and Gerarde, describing the vervain, with its manifold mystic virtues, says that "the devil did reveal it as a secret and divine medicine." Belladonna, writes Mr. Conway, is esteemed in Bohemia a favourite plant of the devil, who watches it, but may be drawn from it on Walpurgis Night by letting loose a black hen, after which he will run. Then there is the sow-thistle, which in Russia is said to belong to the devil; and Loki, the evil spirit in northern mythology, is occasionally spoken of as sowing weeds among the good seed; from whence, it has been suggested, originated the popular phrase of "sowing one's wild oats."[5] The German peasantry have their "rye-wolf," a malignant spirit infesting the rye-fields; and in some parts of the Continent orchards are said to be infested by evil demons, who, until driven away by various incantations, are liable to do much harm to the fruit. The Italians, again, affirm that in each leaf of the fig-tree an evil spirit dwells; and throughout the Continent there are various other demons who are believed to haunt the crops. Evil spirits were once said to lurk in lettuce-beds, and a certain species was regarded with ill favour by mothers, a circumstance which, Mr. Folkard rightly suggests,[6] may account for a Surrey saying, "O'er much lettuce in the garden will stop a young wife's bearing." Among similar legends of the kind it is said that, in Swabia, fern-seed brought by the devil between eleven and twelve o'clock on Christmas night enables the bearer to do as much work as twenty or thirty ordinary men. According to a popular piece of superstition current in our southern counties, the devil is generally supposed to put his cloven foot upon the blackberries on Michaelmas Day, and hence after this date it is considered unlucky to gather them during the remainder of the year. An interesting instance of this superstition is given by Mrs. Latham in her "West Sussex Superstitions," which happened to a farmer's wife residing in the neighbourhood of Arundel. It appears that she was in the habit of making a large quantity of blackberry jam, and finding that less fruit had been brought to her than she required, she said to the charwoman, "I wish you would send some of your children to gather me three or four pints more." "Ma'am," exclaimed the woman in astonishment, "don't you know this is the 11th October?" "Yes," she replied. "Bless me, ma'am! And you ask me to let my children go out blackberrying! Why, I thought every one knew that the devil went round on the 10th October, and spat on all the blackberries, and that if any person were to eat on the 11th, he or some one belonging to him would either die or fall into great trouble before the year was out." In Scotland the devil is said to but throw his cloak over the blackberries and render them unwholesome, while in Ireland he is said to stamp on them. Among further stories of this kind may be quoted one current in Devonshire respecting St. Dunstan, who, it is said, bought up a quantity of barley for brewing beer. The devil, knowing how anxious the saint would be to get a good sale for his beer, offered to blight the apple trees, so that there should be no cider, and hence a greater demand for beer, on condition that he sold himself to him. St. Dunstan accepted the offer, and stipulated that the trees should be blighted on the 17th, 18th, and 19th May. Should the apple-blossom be nipped by cold winds or frost about this time, many allusions are still made to St. Dunstan. Of the plants associated personally with the evil one may be mentioned the henbane, which is known in Germany as the "devil's eye," a name applied to the stich-wort in Wales. A species of ground moss is also styled in Germany the "devil's claws;" one of the orchid tribe is "Satan's hand;" the lady's fingers is "devil's claws," and the plantain is "devil's head." Similarly the house-leek has been designated the "devil's beard," and a Norfolk name for the stinkhorn is "devil's horn." Of further plants related to his Satanic majesty is the clematis, termed "devil's thread," the toad-flax is his ribbon, the indigo his dye, while the scandix forms his darning-needles. The tritoma, with its brilliant red blossom, is familiar in most localities as the "devil's poker," and the ground ivy has been nicknamed the "devil's candlestick," the mandrake supplying his candle. The puff-balls of the lycoperdon form the devil's snuff-box, and in Ireland the nettle is his apron, and the convolvulus his garter; while at Iserlohn, in Germany,[7] "the mothers, to deter their children eating the mulberries, sing to them that the devil requires them for the purpose of blacking his boots." The _Arum maculatum_ is "devil's ladies and gentlemen," and the _Ranunculus arvensis_ is the "devil on both sides." The vegetable kingdom also has been equally mindful of his majesty's food, the spurge having long been named "devil's milk" and the briony the "devil's cherry." A species of fungus, known with us as "witches' butter," is called in Sweden "devil's butter," while one of the popular names for the mandrake is "devil's food." The hare-parsley supplies him with oatmeal, and the stichwort is termed in the West of England "devil's corn." Among further plants associated with his Satanic majesty may be enumerated the garden fennel, or love-in-a-mist, to which the name of "devil-in-a-bush" has been applied, while the fruit of the deadly nightshade is commonly designated "devil's berries." Then there is the "devil's tree," and the "devil's dung" is one of the nicknames of the assafoetida. The hawk-weed, like the scabious, was termed "devil's bit," because the root looks as if it had been bitten off. According to an old legend, "the root was once longer, until the devil bit away the rest for spite, for he needed it not to make him sweat who is always tormented with fear of the day of judgment." Gerarde further adds that, "The devil did bite it for envy, because it is an herb that hath so many great virtues, and is so beneficial to mankind." A species of ranunculus supplies his coach-wheels, and in some parts of the country ferns are said to supply his brushes. His majesty's wants, therefore, have been amply provided for by the vegetable kingdom, for even the wild garlic affords him a posy[8]. Once more, in Sweden, a rose-coloured flower, known as "Our Lady's hand," "has two roots like hands, one white, the other black, and when both are placed in water the black one will sink, this is called 'Satan's hand;' but the white one, called 'Mary's hand,' will float."[9] Hence this flower is held in deep and superstitious veneration among the peasantry; and in Crete the basil is considered an emblem of the devil, and is placed on most window-ledges, no doubt as a charm. Some plants, again, have been used for exorcism from their reputed antagonism to all Satanic influence. Thus the avens or herb-bennett, when kept in a house, was believed to render the devil powerless, and the Greeks of old were in the habit of placing a laurel bough over their doorways to keep away evil spirits. The thistle has been long in demand for counteracting the powers of darkness, and in Esthonia it is placed on the ripening corn to drive and scare away malignant demons. In Poland, the disease known among the poorer classes as "elf-lock" is supposed to be the work of wicked spirits, but tradition says it will gradually disappear if one buries thistle seed.[10] The aloe, by the Egyptians, is reputed to resist any baleful influence, and the lunary or "honesty" is by our own country people said to put every evil influence to flight. In Germany the juniper disperses evil spirits, and in ancient times the black hellebore, peony, and mugwort were largely used for this purpose. According to a Russian belief the elder-tree drives away evil spirits, and hence this plant is held in high respect. Among further plants possessing the same quality are the nettle and milfoil, and then there is the famous St. John's wort, popularly nicknamed "devil's flight." Closely allied with this part of our subject are those plants connected with serpents, here forming a very numerous class. Indeed, it was only natural that our ancestors, from their dread of the serpent on account of its poisonous sting, as well as from their antipathy to it as the symbol of evil, should ascertain those plants which seemed either attractive, or antagonistic, to this much-dreaded reptile. Accordingly certain plants, from being supposed to be distasteful to serpents, were much used as amulets to drive them away. Foremost among these may be mentioned the ash, to escape contact with which a serpent, it has been said, would even creep into the fire, in allusion to which Cowley thus writes: "But that which gave more wonder than the rest, Within an ash a serpent built her nest And laid her eggs, when once to come beneath The very shadow of an ash was death." Gerarde notices this curious belief, and tells us that, "the leaves of this tree are so great virtue against serpents that they dare not so much as touch the morning and evening shadows of the tree, but shun them afar off." Hence ash-sap was a German remedy for serpent bites. Lucan, in his "Pharsalia" (915-921), has enumerated some of the plants burned for the purpose of expelling serpents: "Beyond the farthest tents rich fires they build, That healthy medicinal odours yield, There foreign galbanum dissolving fries, And crackling flames from humble wallwort rise. There tamarisk, which no green leaf adorns, And there the spicy Syrian costos burns; There centaury supplies the wholesome flame, That from Therssalian Chiron takes its name; The gummy larch tree, and the thapsos there, Woundwort and maidenweed perfume the air, There the long branches of the long-lived hart With southernwood their odours strong impart, The monsters of the land, the serpents fell, Fly far away and shun the hostile smell." The smoke of the juniper was equally repellent to serpents, and the juice of dittany "drives away venomous beasts, and doth astonish them." In olden times, for serpent bites, agrimony, chamomile, and the fruit of the bramble, were held efficacious, and Gerarde recommends the root of the bugloss, "as it keepeth such from being stung as have drunk it before; the leaves and seeds do the same." On the other hand, some plants had the reputation of attracting serpents, one of these being the moneywort or creeping loosestrife, with which they were said to heal themselves when wounded. As far back as the time of Pliny serpents were supposed to be very fond of fennel, restoring to them their youth by enabling them to cast their old skins. There is a belief in Thuringia that the possession of fern seed causes the bearer to be pursued by serpents till thrown away; and, according to a curious Eussian proverb, "from all old trees proceeds either an owl or a devil," in reference, no doubt, to their often bare and sterile appearance. Footnotes: 1. See Tylor's "Primitive Culture," ii. 316. 2. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," iii. 193. 3. "Plant-lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 486. 4. Mr. Conway, _Fraser's Magazine_, 1870, p. 593. 5. Mr. Conway, _Fraser's Magazine_, 1870, p. 107. 6. "Plant-lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 411. 7. Folkard's "Plant-lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 448. 8. See Friend's "Flower-lore," i. 68. 9. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," ii. 104. 10. "Mystic Trees and Flowers," Fraser's Magazine. CHAPTER VII. PLANTS IN FAIRY-LORE. Many plants have gained a notoriety from their connection with fairyland, and although the belief in this romantic source of superstition has almost died out, yet it has left its traces in the numerous legends which have survived amongst us. Thus the delicate white flowers of the wood-sorrel are known in Wales as "fairy bells," from a belief once current that these tiny beings were summoned to their moonlight revels and gambols by these bells. In Ireland they were supposed to ride to their scenes of merrymaking on the ragwort, hence known as the "fairies' horse." Cabbage-stalks, too, served them for steeds, and a story is told of a certain farmer who resided at Dundaniel, near Cork, and was considered to be under fairy control. For a long time he suffered from "the falling sickness," owing to the long journeys which he was forced to make, night by night, with the fairy folk on one of his own cabbage stumps. Sometimes the good people made use of a straw, a blade of grass, or a fern, a further illustration of which is furnished by "The Witch of Fife:" "The first leet night, quhan the new moon set, Quhan all was douffe and mirk, We saddled our naigis wi' the moon-fern leif, And rode fra Kilmerrin kirk. Some horses were of the brume-cow framit, And some of the greine bay tree; But mine was made of ane humloke schaw, And a stour stallion was he."[1] In some folk-tales fairies are represented as employing nuts for their mode of conveyance, in allusion to which Shakespeare, in "Romeo and Juliet," makes Mercutio speak of Queen Mab's arrival in a nut-shell. Similarly the fairies selected certain plants for their attire. Although green seems to have been their popular colour, yet the fairies of the moon were often clad in heath-brown or lichen-dyed garments, whence the epithet of "Elfin-grey." Their petticoats, for instance, were composed of the fox-glove, a flower in demand among Irish fairies for their gloves, and in some parts of that country for their caps, where it is nicknamed "Lusmore," while the _Cuscuta epithymum_ is known in Jersey as "fairies' hair." Their raiment was made of the fairy flax, and the wood-anemone, with its fragile blossoms, was supposed to afford them shelter in wet weather. Shakespeare has represented Ariel reclining in "a cowslip's bell," and further speaks of the small crimson drops in its blossom as "gold coats spots"--"these be rubies, fairy favours." And at the present day the cowslip is still known in Lincolnshire as the "fairy cup." Its popular German name is "key-flower;" and no flower has had in that country so extensive an association with preternatural wealth. A well-known legend relates how "Bertha" entices some favoured child by exquisite primroses to a doorway overgrown with flowers. This is the door to an enchanted castle. When the key-flower touches it, the door gently opens, and the favoured mortal passes to a room with vessels covered over with primroses, in which are treasures of gold and jewels. When the treasure is secured the primroses must be replaced, otherwise the finder will be for ever followed by a "black dog." Sometimes their mantles are made of the gossamer, the cobwebs which may be seen in large quantities on the furze bushes; and so of King Oberon we are told: "A rich mantle did he wear, Made of tinsel gossamer, Bestarred over with a few Diamond drops of morning dew." Tulips are the cradles in which the fairy tribe have lulled their offspring to rest, while the _Pyrus japonica_ serves them for a fire.[2] Their hat is supplied by the _Peziza coccinea_; and in Lincolnshire, writes Mr. Friend,[3] "A kind of fungus like a cup or old-fashioned purse, with small objects inside, is called a fairy-purse." When mending their clothes, the foxglove gives them thimbles; and many other flowers might be added which are equally in request for their various needs. It should be mentioned, however, that fairies, like witches, have a strange antipathy to yellow flowers, and rarely frequent localities where they grow. In olden times, we read how in Scandinavia and Germany the rose was under the special protection of dwarfs and elves, who were ruled by the mighty King Laurin, the lord of the rose-garden: "Four portals to the garden lead, and when the gates are closed, No living might dare touch a rose, 'gainst his strict command opposed; Whoe'er would break the golden gates, or cut the silken thread, Or who would dare to crush the flowers down beneath his tread, Soon for his pride would have to pledge a foot and hand; Thus Laurin, king of Dwarfs, rules within his land." We may mention here that the beautiful white or yellow flowers that grow on the banks of lakes and rivers in Sweden are called "neck-roses," memorials of the Neck, a water-elf, and the poisonous root of the water-hemlock was known as neck-root.[4] In Brittany and in some parts of Ireland the hawthorn, or, as it is popularly designated, the fairy-thorn, is a tree most specially in favour. On this account it is held highly dangerous to gather even a leaf "from certain old and solitary thorns which grow in sheltered hollows of the moorlands," for these are the trysting-places of the fairy race. A trace of the same superstition existed in Scotland, as may be gathered from the subjoined extract from the "Scottish Statistical Report" of the year 1796, in connection with New parish:--"There is a quick thorn of a very antique appearance, for which the people have a superstitious veneration. They have a mortal dread to lop off or cut any part of it, and affirm with a religious horror that some persons who had the temerity to hurt it, were afterwards severely punished for their sacrilege." One flower which, for some reason or other, is still held in special honour by them, is the common stichwort of our country hedges, and which the Devonshire peasant hesitates to pluck lest he should be pixy-led. A similar idea formerly prevailed in the Isle of Man in connection with the St. John's wort. If any unwary traveller happened, after sunset, to tread on this plant, it was said that a fairy-horse would suddenly appear, and carry him about all night. Wild thyme is another of their favourite plants, and Mr. Folkard notes that in Sicily rosemary is equally beloved; and that "the young fairies, under the guise of snakes, lie concealed under its branches." According to a Netherlandish belief, the elf-leaf, or sorceresses' plant, is particularly grateful to them, and therefore ought not to be plucked.[5] The four-leaved clover is a magic talisman which enables its wearer to detect the whereabouts of fairies, and was said only to grow in their haunts; in reference to which belief Lover thus writes: "I'll seek a four-leaved clover In all the fairy dells, And if I find the charmed leaf, Oh, how I'll weave my spells!" And according to a Danish belief, any one wandering under an elder-bush at twelve o'clock on Midsummer Eve will see the king of fairyland pass by with all his retinue. Fairies' haunts are mostly in picturesque spots (such as among the tufts of wild thyme); and the oak tree, both here and in Germany, has generally been their favourite abode, and hence the superstitious reverence with which certain trees are held, care being taken not to offend their mysterious inhabitants. An immense deal of legendary lore has clustered round the so-called fairy-rings--little circles of a brighter green in old pastures--within which the fairies were supposed to dance by night. This curious phenomenon, however, is owing to the outspread propagation of a particular mushroom, the fairy-ringed fungus, by which the ground is manured for a richer following vegetation.[6] Amongst the many other conjectures as to the cause of these verdant circles, some have ascribed them to lightning, and others have maintained that they are produced by ants.[7] In the "Tempest" (v. i) Prospero invokes the fairies as the "demi-puppets" that: "By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms." And in the "Merry Wives of Windsor" (v. 5) Mistress Quickly says: "And nightly, meadow-fairies, look, you sing, Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring; The expressure that it bears, green let it be, More fertile-fresh than all the field to see." Drayton, in his "Nymphidia" (1. 69-72), tells how the fairies: "In their courses make that round, In meadows and in marshes found, Of them so called the fayrie ground, Of which they have the keeping." These fairy-rings have long been held in superstitious awe; and when in olden times May-dew was gathered by young ladies to improve their complexion, they carefully avoided even touching the grass within them, for fear of displeasing these little beings, and so losing their personal charms. At the present day, too, the peasant asserts that no sheep nor cattle will browse on the mystic patches, a natural instinct warning them of their peculiar nature. A few miles from Alnwick was a fairy-ring, round which if people ran more than nine times, some evil was supposed to befall them. It is generally agreed that fairies were extremely fond of dancing around oaks, and thus in addressing the monarch of the forest a poet has exclaimed: "The fairies, from their nightly haunt, In copse or dell, or round the trunk revered Of Herne's moon-silvered oak, shall chase away Each fog, each blight, and dedicate to peace Thy classic shade." In Sweden the miliary fever is said by the peasantry to be caused by the elf-mote or meeting with elves, as a remedy for which the lichen aphosus or lichen caninus is sought. The toadstools often found near these so-called fairy-rings were also thought to be their workmanship, and in some localities are styled pixy-stools, and in the North of Wales "fairy-tables," while the "cheeses," or fruit of the mallow, are known in the North of England as "fairy-cheeses." A species of wood fungus found about the roots of old trees is designated "fairy-butter," because after rain, and when in a certain degree of putrefaction, it is reduced to a consistency which, together with its colour, makes it not unlike butter. The fairy-butter of the Welsh is a substance found at a great depth in cavities of limestone rocks. Ritson, in his "Fairy Tales," speaking of the fairies who frequented many parts of Durham, relates how "a woman who had been in their society challenged one of the guests whom she espied in the market selling fairy-butter," an accusation, however, which was deeply resented. Browne, in his "Britannia's Pastorals," makes the table on which they feast consist of: "A little mushroom, that was now grown thinner By being one time shaven for the dinner." Fairies have always been jealous of their rights, and are said to resent any infringement of their privileges, one of these being the property of fruit out of season. Any apples, too, remaining after the crop has been gathered in, they claim as their own; and hence, in the West of England, to ensure their goodwill and friendship, a few stray ones are purposely left on the trees. This may partially perhaps explain the ill-luck of plucking flowers out of season[8]. A Netherlandish piece of folk-lore informs us that certain wicked elves prepare poison in some plants. Hence experienced shepherds are careful not to let their flocks feed after sunset. One of these plants, they say, is nightwort, "which belongs to the elves, and whoever touches it must die[9]." The disease known in Poland as "elf-lock" is said to be the work of evil fairies or demons, and is cured by burying thistle-seed in the ground. Similarly, in Iceland, says Mr. Conway, "the farmer guards the grass around his field lest the elves abiding in them invade his crops." Likewise the globe-flower has been designated the troll-flower, from the malignant trolls or elves, on account of its poisonous qualities. On the other hand, the Bavarian peasant has a notion that the elves are very fond of strawberries; and in order that they may be good-humoured and bless his cows with abundance of milk, he is careful to tie a basket of this fruit between the cow's horns. Of the many legendary origins of the fairy tribe, there is a popular one abroad that mortals have frequently been transformed into these little beings through "eating of ambrosia or some peculiar kind of herb."[10] According to a Cornish tradition, the fern is in some mysterious manner connected with the fairies; and a tale is told of a young woman who, when one day listlessly breaking off the fronds of fern as she sat resting by the wayside, was suddenly confronted by a "fairy widower," who was in search of some one to attend to his little son. She accepted his offer, which was ratified by kissing a fern leaf and repeating this formula: "For a year and a day I promise to stay." Soon she was an inhabitant of fairyland, and was lost to mortal gaze until she had fulfilled her stipulated engagement. In Germany we find a race of elves, somewhat like the dwarfs, popularly known as the Wood or Moss people. They are about the same size as children, "grey and old-looking, hairy, and clad in moss." Their lives, like those of the Hamadryads, are attached to the trees; and "if any one causes by friction the inner bark to loosen a Wood-woman dies."[11] Their great enemy is the Wild Huntsman, who, driving invisibly through the air, pursues and kills them. On one occasion a peasant, hearing the weird baying in a wood, joined in the cry; but on the following morning he found hanging at his stable door a quarter of a green Moss-woman as his share of the game. As a spell against the Wild Huntsman, the Moss-women sit in the middle of those trees upon which the woodcutter has placed a cross, indicating that they are to be hewn, thereby making sure of their safety. Then, again, there is the old legend which tells how Brandan met a man on the sea,[12] who was, "a thumb long, and floated on a leaf, holding a little bowl in his right hand and a pointer in his left; the pointer he kept dipping into the sea and letting water drop from it into the bowl; when the bowl was full, he emptied it out and began filling it again, his doom consisting in measuring the sea until the judgment-day." This floating on the leaf is suggestive of ancient Indian myths, and reminds us of Brahma sitting on a lotus and floating across the sea. Vishnu, when, after Brahma's death, the waters have covered all the worlds, sits in the shape of a tiny infant on a leaf of the fig tree, and floats on the sea of milk sucking the toe of his right foot.[13] Another tribe of water-fairies are the nixes, who frequently assume the appearance of beautiful maidens. On fine sunny days they sit on the banks of rivers or lakes, or on the branches of trees, combing and arranging their golden locks: "Know you the Nixes, gay and fair? Their eyes are black, and green their hair, They lurk in sedgy shores." A fairy or water-sprite that resides in the neighbourhood of the Orkneys is popularly known as Tangie, so-called from _tang,_, the seaweed with which he is covered. Occasionally he makes his appearance as a little horse, and at other times as a man.[14] Then there are the wood and forest folk of Germany, spirits inhabiting the forests, who stood in friendly relation to man, but are now so disgusted with the faithless world, that they have retired from it. Hence their precept-- "Peel no tree, Relate no dream, _Pipe_ no bread, _or_ Bake no cumin in bread, So will God help thee in thy need." On one occasion a "forest-wife," who had just tasted a new baked-loaf, given as an offering, was heard screaming aloud: "They've baken for me cumin bread, That on this house brings great distress." The prosperity of the poor peasant was soon on the wane, and before long he was reduced to abject poverty.[15] These legends, in addition to illustrating the fairy mythology of bygone years, are additionally interesting from their connection with the plants and flowers, most of which are familiar to us from our childhood. Footnotes: 1. See Crofton Croker's "Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland," 1862, p. 98. 2. Folkard's "Plant-lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 30. 3. Friend, "Flowers and Flower Lore," p. 34. 4. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," ii. 81-2. 5. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," iii. 266. 6. See "The Phytologist," 1862, p. 236-8. 7. "Folk-lore of Shakespeare," p. 15. 8. See Friend's "Flower Lore," i. 34. 9. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," iii. 266. 10. Friend's "Flower Lore," i. 27. 11. See Keightley's "Fairy Mythology," p. 231. 12. Grimm's "Teut. Myth.," 1883, ii. 451; 13. "Asiatic Researches," i. 345. 14. See Keightley's "Fairy Mythology," p. 173. 15. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," i. 251-3. CHAPTER VIII. LOVE-CHARMS. Plants have always been largely used for testing the fidelity of lovers, and at the present day are still extensively employed for this purpose by the rustic maiden. As in the case of medical charms, more virtue would often seem to reside in the mystic formula uttered while the flower is being secretly gathered, than in any particular quality of the flower itself. Then, again, flowers, from their connection with certain festivals, have been consulted in love matters, and elsewhere we have alluded to the knowledge they have long been supposed to give in dreams, after the performance of certain incantations. Turning to some of the well-known charm formulas, may be mentioned that known as "a clover of two," the mode of gathering it constituting the charm itself: "A clover, a clover of two, Put it in your right shoe; The first young man you meet, In field, street, or lane, You'll get him, or one of his name." Then there is the hempseed formula, and one founded on the luck of an apple-pip, which, when seized between the finger and thumb, is supposed to pop in the direction of the lover's abode; an illustration of which we subjoin as still used in Lancashire: "Pippin, pippin, paradise, Tell me where my true love lies, East, west, north, and south, Pilling Brig, or Cocker Mouth." The old custom, too, of throwing an apple-peel over the head, marriage or single blessedness being foretold by its remaining whole or breaking, and of the peel so cast forming the initial of the future loved one, finds many adherents. Equally popular, too, was the practice of divining by a thistle blossom. When anxious to ascertain who loved her most, a young woman would take three or four heads of thistles, cut off their points, and assign to each thistle the name of an admirer, laying them under her pillow. On the following morning the thistle which has put forth a fresh sprout will denote the man who loves her most. There are numerous charms connected with the ash-leaf, and among those employed in the North of England we may quote the following: "The even ash-leaf in my left hand, The first man I meet shall be my husband; The even ash-leaf in my glove, The first I meet shall be my love; The even ash-leaf in my breast, The first man I meet's whom I love best; The even ash-leaf in my hand, The first I meet shall be my man. Even ash, even ash, I pluck thee, This night my true love for to see, Neither in his rick nor in his rear, But in the clothes he does every day wear." And there is the well-known saying current throughout the country: "If you find an even ash or a four-leaved clover, Rest assured you'll see your true love ere the day is over." Longfellow alludes to the husking of the maize among the American colonists, an event which was always accompanied by various ceremonies, one of which he thus forcibly describes: "In the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field: Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover." Charms of this kind are common, and vary in different localities, being found extensively on the Continent, where perhaps even greater importance is attached to them than in our own country. Thus, a popular French one--which many of our young people also practise--is for lovers to test the sincerity of their affections by taking a daisy and plucking its leaflets off one by one, saying, "Does he love me?--a little--much--passionately--not at all!" the phrase which falls to the last leaflet forming the answer to the inquiry: "La blanche et simple Paquerette, Que ton coeur consult surtout, Dit, Ton amant, tendre fillette, T'aime, un peu, beaucoup, point du tout." Perhaps Brown alludes to the same species of divination when he writes of: "The gentle daisy with her silver crown, Worn in the breast of many a shepherd lass." In England the marigold, which is carefully excluded from the flowers with which German maidens tell their fortunes as unfavourable to love, is often used for divination, and in Germany the star-flower and dandelion. Among some of the ordinary flowers in use for love-divination may be mentioned the poppy, with its "prophetic leaf," and the old-fashioned "bachelor's buttons," which was credited with possessing some magical effect upon the fortunes of lovers. Hence its blossoms were carried in the pocket, success in love being indicated in proportion as they lost or retained their freshness. Browne alludes to the primrose, which "maidens as a true-love in their bosoms place;" and in the North of England the kemps or spikes of the ribwort plantain are used as love-charms. The mode of procedure as practised in Northamptonshire is thus picturesquely given by Clare in his "Shepherd's Calendar:": "Or trying simple charms and spells, Which rural superstition tells, They pull the little blossom threads From out the knotweed's button heads, And put the husk, with many a smile, In their white bosom for a while; Then, if they guess aright the swain Their love's sweet fancies try to gain, 'Tis said that ere it lies an hour, 'Twill blossom with a second flower, And from the bosom's handkerchief Bloom as it ne'er had lost a leaf." Then there are the downy thistle-heads, which the rustic maiden names after her lovers, in connection with which there are many old rhymes. Beans have not lost their popularity; and the leaves of the laurel still reveal the hidden fortune, having been also burnt in olden times by girls to win back their errant lovers. The garden scene in "Faust" is a well-known illustration of the employment of the centaury or bluebottle for testing the faith of lovers, for Margaret selects it as the floral indication whence she may learn the truth respecting Faust: "And that scarlet poppies around like a bower, The maiden found her mystic flower. 'Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell If my love loves, and loves me well; So may the fall of the morning dew Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue; Now I remember the leaves for my lot-- He loves me not--he loves me--he loves me not-- He loves me! Yes, the last leaf--yes! I'll pluck thee not for that last sweet guess; He loves me!' 'Yes,' a dear voice sighed; And her lover stands by Margaret's side." Another mode of love-divination formerly much practised among the lower orders was known as "peascod-wooing." The cook, when shelling green peas, would, if she chanced to find a pod having _nine_, lay it on the lintel of the kitchen-door, when the first man who happened to enter was believed to be her future sweetheart; an allusion to which is thus given by Gay: "As peascod once I pluck'd, I chanced to see One that was closely fill'd with three times three, Which, when I cropp'd, I safely home couvey'd, And o'er the door the spell in secret laid. The latch mov'd up, when who should first come in, But, in his proper person, Lublerkin." On the other hand, it was customary in the North of England to rub a young woman with pease-straw should her lover prove unfaithful: "If you meet a bonnie lassie, Gie her a kiss and let her gae; If you meet a dirty hussey, Fie, gae rub her o'er wi' strae!" From an old Spanish proverb it would seem that the rosemary has long been considered as in some way connected with love: "Who passeth by the rosemarie And careth not to take a spraye, For woman's love no care has he, Nor shall he though he live for aye." Of flowers and plants employed as love-charms on certain festivals may be noticed the bay, rosebud, and the hempseed on St. Valentine's Day, nuts on St. Mark's Eve, and the St. John's wort on Midsummer Eve. In Denmark[1] many an anxious lover places the St. John's wort between the beams under the roof for the purpose of divination, the usual custom being to put one plant for herself and another for her sweetheart. Should these grow together, it is an omen of an approaching wedding. In Brittany young people prove the good faith of their lovers by a pretty ceremony. On St. John's Eve, the men, wearing bunches of green wheat ears, and the women decorated with flax blossoms, assemble round an old historic stone and place upon it their wreaths. Should these remain fresh for some time after, the lovers represented by them are to be united; but should they wither and die away, it is a certain proof that the love will as rapidly disappear. Again, in Sicily it is customary for young women to throw from their windows an apple into the street, which, should a woman pick up, it is a sign that the girl will not be married during the year. Sometimes it happens that the apple is not touched, a circumstance which indicates that the young lady, when married, will ere long be a widow. On this festival, too, the orpine or livelong has long been in request, popularly known as "Midsummer men," whereas in Italy the house-leek is in demand. The moss-rose, again, in years gone by, was plucked, with sundry formalities, on Midsummer Eve for love-divination, an allusion to which mode of forecasting the future, as practised in our own country, occurs in the poem of "The Cottage Girl:" "The moss-rose that, at fall of dew, Ere eve its duskier curtain drew, Was freshly gathered from its stem, She values as the ruby gem; And, guarded from the piercing air, With all an anxious lover's care, She bids it, for her shepherd's sake, Awake the New Year's frolic wake: When faded in its altered hue, She reads--the rustic is untrue! But if its leaves the crimson paint, Her sick'ning hopes no longer faint; The rose upon her bosom worn, She meets him at the peep of morn." On the Continent the rose is still thought to possess mystic virtues in love matters, as in Thuringia, where girls foretell their future by means of rose-leaves. A ceremony belonging to Hallowe'en is observed in Scotland with some trepidation, and consists in eating an apple before a looking-glass, when the face of the desired one will be seen. It is thus described by Burns: "Wee Jenny to her granny says, 'Will ye gae wi' me, granny? I'll eat the apple at the glass I gat frae uncle Johnny.' She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, In wrath she was sae vap'rin, She notic't na an aizle brunt Her braw new worset apron Out thro' that night. 'Ye little skelpie limmer's face! I daur you try sic sportin' As seek the foul thief ony place, For him to spae your fortune; Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! Great cause ye hae to fear it, For mony a ane has gotten a fright, And lived and died deleeret On sic a night.'" Hallowe'en also is still a favourite anniversary for all kinds of nut-charms, and St. Thomas was long invoked when the prophetic onion named after him was placed under the pillow. Rosemary and thyme were used on St. Agnes' Eve with this formula: "St. Agnes, that's to lovers kind, Come, ease the troubles of my mind." In Austria, on Christmas Eve, apples are used for divination. According to Mr. Conway, the apple must be cut in two in the dark, without being touched, the left half being placed in the bosom, and the right laid behind the door. If this latter ceremony be carefully carried out, the desired one may be looked for at midnight near the right half. He further tells us that in the Erzgebirge, the maiden, having slept on St. Andrew's, or Christmas, night with an apple under her pillow, "takes her stand with it in her hand on the next festival of the Church thereafter; and the first man whom she sees, other than a relative, will become her husband." Again, in Bohemia, on Christmas Eve, there is a pretty practice for young people to fix coloured wax-lights in the shells of the first nuts they have opened that day, and to float them in water, after silently assigning to each the name of some fancied wooer. He whose little barque is the first to approach the girl will be her future husband; but, on the other hand, should an unwelcome suitor seem likely to be the first, she blows against it, and so, by impeding its progress, allows the favoured barque to win. In very early times flowers were mcuh in request as love-philtres, various allusions to which occur in the literature of most ages. Thus, in "A Midsummer Night's Dream," Oberon tells Puck to place a pansy on the eyes of Titania, in order that, on awaking, she may fall in love with the first object she encounters. Gerarde speaks of the carrot as "serving for love matters," and adds that the root of the wild species is more effectual than that of the garden. Vervain has long been in repute as a love-philtre, and in Germany now-a-days endive-seed is sold for its supposed power to influence the affections. The root of the male fern was in years gone by used in love-philtres, and hence the following allusion: "'Twas the maiden's matchless beauty That drew my heart a-nigh; Not the fern-root potion, But the glance of her blue eye." Then there is the basil with its mystic virtues, and the cumin-see and cyclamen, which from the time of Theophrastus have been coveted for their magic virtues. The purslane, crocus, and periwinkle were thought to inspire love; while the agnus castus and the Saraca Indica (one of the sacred plants of India), a species of the willow, were supposed to drive away all feelings of love. Similarly in Voigtland, the common basil was regarded as a test of chastity, withering in the hands of the impure. The mandrake, which is still worn in France as a love-charm, was employed by witches in the composition of their philtres; and in Bohemia, it is said that if a maiden can secretly put a sprig of the common clover into her lover's shoe ere he sets out on a journey, he will be faithful to her during his absence. As far back as the time of Pliny, the water-lily was regarded as an antidote to the love-philtre, and the amaranth was used for curbing the affections. On the other hand, Our Lady's bedstraw and the mallow were supposed to have the reverse effect, while the myrtle not only created love, but preserved it. The Sicilians still employ hemp to secure the affections of those they love, and gather it with various formalities,[2] fully believing in its potency. Indeed, charms of this kind are found throughout the world, every country having its own special plants in demand for this purpose. However whimsical they may seem, they at any rate have the sanction of antiquity, and can claim an antecedent history certainly worthy of a better cause. Footnotes: 1. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology." 2. _Fraser's Magazine_, 1870, p. 720. CHAPTER IX. DREAM-PLANTS. The importance attached to dreams in all primitive and savage culture accounts for the significance ascribed to certain plants found by visitors to dreamland. At the outset, it may be noticed that various drugs and narcotic potions have, from time immemorial, been employed for producing dreams and visions--a process still in force amongst uncivilised tribes. Thus the Mundrucus of North Brazil, when desirous of gaining information on any special subject, would administer to their seers narcotic drinks, so that in their dreams they might be favoured with the knowledge required. Certain of the Amazon tribes use narcotic plants for encouraging visions, and the Californian Indians, writes Mr. Tylor,[1] "would give children narcotic potions, to gain from the ensuing visions information about their enemies;" whilst, he adds, "the Darien Indians used the seeds of the _Datura sanguinca_ to bring on in children prophetic delirium, in which they revealed hidden treasure." Similarly, the Delaware medicine-men used to drink decoctions of an intoxicating nature, "until their minds became wildered, so that they saw extraordinary visions."[2] The North American Indians also held intoxication by tobacco to be supernatural ecstasy. It is curious to find a survival of this source of superstition in modern European folk-lore. Thus, on the Continent, many a lover puts the four-leaved clover under his pillow to dream of his lady-love; and in our own country, daisy-roots are used by the rustic maiden for the same purpose. The Russians are familiar with a certain herb, known as the _son-trava_, a dream herb, which has been identified with the _Pulsatilla patens,_ and is said to blossom in April, and to have an azure-coloured flower. When placed under the pillow, it will induce dreams, which are generally supposed to be fulfilled. It has been suggested that it was from its title of "tree of dreams" that the elm became a prophetic tree, having been selected by Virgil in the Aeneid (vi.) as the roosting-place of dreams in gloomy Orcus: "Full in the midst a spreading elm displayed His aged arms, and cast a mighty shade; Each trembling leaf with some light visions teems, And leaves impregnated with airy dreams." At the present day, the yarrow or milfoil is used by love-sick maidens, who are directed to pluck the mystic plant from a young man's grave, repeating meanwhile this formula: "Yarrow, sweet yarrow, the first that I have found, In the name of Jesus Christ I pluck it from the ground; As Jesus loved sweet Mary and took her for His dear, So in a dream this night I hope my true love will appear." Indeed, many other plants are in demand for this species of love-divination, some of which are associated with certain days and festivals. In Sweden, for instance, "if on Midsummer night nine kinds of flowers are laid under the head, a youth or maiden will dream of his or her sweetheart."[3] Hence in these simple and rustic love-charms may be traced similar beliefs as prevail among rude communities. Again, among many of the American Indian tribes we find, according to Mr. Dorman,[4] "a mythical tree or vine, which has a sacredness connected with it of peculiar significance, forming a connecting-link and medium of communication between the world of the living and the dead. It is generally used by the spirit as a ladder to pass downward and upward upon; the Ojibways having possessed one of these vines, the upper end of which was twined round a star." He further adds that many traditions are told of attempts to climb these heavenly ladders; and, "if a young man has been much favoured with dreams, and the people believe he has the art of looking into futurity, the path is open to the highest honours. The future prophet puts down his dreams in pictographs, and when he has a collection of these, if they prove true in any respect, then this record of his revelations is appealed to as proof of his prophetic power." But, without enumerating further instances of these savage dream-traditions, which are closely allied with the animistic theories of primitive culture, we would turn to those plants which modern European folk-lore has connected with dreamland. These are somewhat extensive, but a brief survey of some of the most important ones will suffice to indicate their general significance. Firstly, to dream of white flowers has been supposed to prognosticate death; with which may be compared the popular belief that "if a white rosebush puts forth unexpectedly, it is a sign of death to the nearest house;" dream-omens in many cases reflecting the superstitions of daily life. In Scotch ballads the birch is associated with the dead, an illustration of which we find in the subjoined lines:-- "I dreamed a dreary dream last nicht; God keep us a' frae sorrow! I dreamed I pu'd the birk sae green, Wi' my true love on Yarrow. I'll redde your dream, my sister dear, I'll tell you a' your sorrow; You pu'd the birk wi' your true love; He's killed,--he's killed on Yarrow." Of the many plants which have been considered of good omen when seen in dreams, may be mentioned the palm-tree, olive, jasmine, lily, laurel, thistle, thorn, wormwood, currant, pear, &c.; whereas the greatest luck attaches to the rose. On the other hand, equally numerous are the plants which denote misfortune. Among these may be included the plum, cherry, withered roses, walnut, hemp, cypress, dandelion, &c. Beans are still said to produce bad dreams and to portend evil; and according to a Leicestershire saying, "If you wish for awful dreams or desire to go crazy, sleep in a bean-field all night." Some plants are said to foretell long life, such as the oak, apricot, apple, box, grape, and fig; and sickness is supposed to be presaged by such plants as the elder, onion, acorn, and plum. Love and marriage are, as might be expected, well represented in the dream-flora; a circumstance, indeed, which has not failed to impress the young at all times. Thus, foremost amongst the flowers which indicate success in love is the rose, a fact which is not surprising when it is remembered how largely this favourite of our gardens enters into love-divinations. Then there is the clover, to dream of which foretells not only a happy marriage, but one productive of wealth and prosperity. In this case, too, it must be remembered the clover has long been reckoned as a mystic plant, having in most European countries been much employed for the purposes of divination. Of further plants credited as auguring well for love affairs are the raspberry, pomegranate, cucumber, currant, and box; but the walnut implies unfaithfulness, and the act of cutting parsley is an omen that the person so occupied will sooner or later be crossed in love. This ill-luck attached to parsley is in some measure explained from the fact that in many respects it is an unlucky plant. It is a belief, as we have noticed elsewhere, widely spread in Devonshire, that to transplant parsley is to commit a serious offence against the guardian genius who presides over parsley-beds, certain to be punished either on the offender himself or some member of his family within the course of the year. Once more "to dream of cutting cabbage," writes Mr. Folkard,[5] "Denotes jealousy on the part of wife, husband, or lover, as the case may be. To dream of any one else cutting them portends an attempt by some person to create jealousy in the loved one's mind. To dream of eating cabbages implies sickness to loved ones and loss of money." The bramble, an important plant in folk-lore, is partly unlucky, and, "To dream of passing through places covered with brambles portends troubles; if they prick you, secret enemies will do you an injury with your friends; if they draw blood, expect heavy losses in trade." But to dream of passing through brambles unhurt denotes a triumph over enemies. To dream of being pricked with briars, says the "Royal Dream Book,"[6] "shows that the person dreaming has an ardent desire to something, and that young folks dreaming thus are in love, who prick themselves in striving to gather their rose." Some plants are said to denote riches, such as the oak, marigold, pear and nut tree, while the gathering of nuts is said to presage the discovery of unexpected wealth. Again, to dream of fruit or flowers out of season is a bad omen, a notion, indeed, with which we find various proverbs current throughout the country. Thus, the Northamptonshire peasant considers the blooming of the apple-tree after the fruit is ripe as a certain omen of death--a belief embodied in the following proverb: "A bloom upon the apple-tree when the apples are ripe, Is a sure termination to somebody's life." And once more, according to an old Sussex adage-- "Fruit out of season Sounds out of reason." On the other hand, to dream of fruit or any sort of crop during its proper season is still an indication of good luck.[7] Thus it is lucky to dream of daisies in spring-time or summer, but just the reverse in autumn or winter. Without enumerating further instances of this kind, we may quote the subjoined rhyme relating to the onion, as a specimen of many similar ones scattered here and there in various countries:[8] "To dream of eating onions means Much strife in thy domestic scenes, Secrets found out or else betrayed, And many falsehoods made and said." Many plants in dream-lore have more than one meaning attached to them. Thus from the, "Royal Dream Book" we learn that yellow flowers "predict love mixed with jealousy, and that you will have more children to maintain than what justly belong to you." To dream of garlic indicates the discovery of hidden treasures, but the approach of some domestic quarrel. Cherries, again, indicate inconstancy; but one would scarcely expect to find the thistle regarded as lucky; for, according to an old piece of folk-lore, to dream of being surrounded by this plant is a propitious sign, foretelling that the person will before long have some pleasing intelligence. In the same way a similar meaning in dream-lore attaches to the thorn. According to old dream-books, the dreaming of yew indicates the death of an aged person, who will leave considerable wealth behind him; while the violet is said to devote advancement in life. Similarly, too, the vine foretells prosperity, "for which," says a dream interpreter, "we have the example of Astyages, king of the Medes, who dreamed that his daughter brought forth a vine, which was a prognostic of the grandeur, riches, and felicity of the great Cyrus, who was born of her after this dream." Plucking ears of corn signifies the existence of secret enemies, and Mr. Folkard quotes an old authority which tells us that the juniper is potent in dreams. Thus, "it is unlucky to dream of the tree itself, especially if the person be sick; but to dream of gathering the berries, if it be in winter, denotes prosperity. To dream of the actual berries signifies that the dreamer will shortly arrive at great honours and become an important person. To the married it foretells the birth of a male child." Again, eating almonds signifies a journey, its success or otherwise being denoted by their tasting sweet or the contrary. Dreaming of grass is an auspicious omen, provided it be green and fresh; but if it be withered and decayed, it is a sign of the approach of misfortune and sickness, followed perhaps by death. Woe betide, too, the person who dreams that he is cutting grass. Certain plants produce dreams on particular occasions. The mugwort and plantain have long been associated with Midsummer; and, according to Thomas Hill in his "Natural and Artificial Conclusions," a rare coal is to be found under these plants but one hour in the day, and one day in the year. When Aubrey happened to be walking behind Montague House at twelve o'clock on Midsummer day, he relates how he saw about twenty-two young women, most of them well dressed, and apparently all very busy weeding. On making inquiries, he was informed that they were looking for a coal under the root of a plantain, to put beneath their heads that night, when they would not fail to dream of their future husbands. But, unfortunately for this credulity, as an old author long ago pointed out, the coal is nothing but an old dead root, and that it may be found almost any day and hour when sought for. By lovers the holly has long been supposed to have mystic virtues as a dream-plant when used on the eve of any of the following festivals: Christmas, New Year's Day, Midsummer, and All Hallowe'en. According to the mode of procedure practised in the northern counties, the anxious maiden, before retiring to rest, places three pails full of water in her bedroom, and then pins to her night-dress three leaves of green holly opposite to her heart, after which she goes to sleep. Believing in the efficacy of the charm, she persuades herself that she will be roused from her first slumber by three yells, as if from the throats of three bears, succeeded by as many hoarse laughs. When these have died away, the form of her future husband will appear, who will show his attachment to her by changing the position of the water-pails, whereas if he have no particular affection he will disappear without even touching them. Then, of course, from time immemorial all kinds of charms have been observed on St. Valentine's Day to produce prophetic dreams. A popular charm consisted of placing two bay leaves, after sprinkling them with rose-water, across the pillow, repeating this formula:-- "Good Valentine, be kind to me, In dream let me my true love see." St. Luke's Day was in years gone by a season for love-divination, and among some of the many directions given we may quote the subjoined, which is somewhat elaborate:-- "Take marigold flowers, a sprig of marjoram, thyme, and a little wormwood; dry them before a fire, rub them to powder, then sift it through a fine piece of lawn; simmer these with a small quantity of virgin honey, in white vinegar, over a slow fire; with this anoint your stomach, breasts, and lips, lying down, and repeat these words thrice:-- 'St Luke, St. Luke, be kind to me, In dream let me my true love see!' This said, hasten to sleep, and in the soft slumbers of night's repose, the very man whom you shall marry shall appear before you." Lastly, certain plants have been largely used by gipsies and fortune-tellers for invoking dreams, and in many a country village these are plucked and given to the anxious inquirer with various formulas. Footnotes: 1. "Primitive Culture," 1873, ii. 416, 417. 2. See Dorman's "Primitive Superstition," p. 68. 3. Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," 1851, ii. 108. 4. "Primitive Superstitions," p. 67. 5. "Plant-lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 265. 6. Quoted in Brand's "Popular Antiquities," 1849, iii. 135. 7. See Friend's "Flower-Lore," i. 207. 8. Folkard's "Plant-lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 477. CHAPTER X. PLANTS AND THE WEATHER. The influence of the weather on plants is an agricultural belief which is firmly credited by the modern husbandman. In many instances his meteorological notions are the result of observation, although in some cases the reason assigned for certain pieces of weather-lore is far from obvious. Incidental allusion has already been made to the astrological doctrine of the influence of the moon's changes on plants--a belief which still retains its hold in most agricultural districts. It appears that in years gone by "neither sowing, planting, nor grafting was ever undertaken without a scrupulous attention to the increase or waning of the moon;"[1] and the advice given by Tusser in his "Five Hundred Points of Husbandry" is not forgotten even at the present day:-- "Sow peas and beans in the wane of the moon, Who soweth them sooner, he soweth too soon, That they with the planet may rest and rise, And flourish with bearing, most plentiful-wise." Many of the old gardening books give the same advice, although by some it has been severely ridiculed. Scott, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," notes how, "the poor husbandman perceiveth that the increase of the moon maketh plants fruitful, so as in the full moone they are in best strength, decaying in the wane, and in the conjunction do entirely wither and fade." Similarly the growth of mushrooms is said to be affected by the weather, and in Devonshire apples "shrump up" if picked during a waning moon.[2] One reason, perhaps, for the attention so universally paid to the moon's changes in agricultural pursuits is, writes Mr. Farrer, "that they are far more remarkable than any of the sun's, and more calculated to inspire dread by the nocturnal darkness they contend with, and hence are held in popular fancy nearly everywhere, to cause, portend, or accord with changes in the lot of mortals, and all things terrestrial."[3] On this assumption may be explained the idea that the, "moon's wane makes things on earth to wane; when it is new or full it is everywhere the proper season for new crops to be sown." In the Hervey Islands cocoa-nuts are generally planted in the full of the moon, the size of the latter being regarded as symbolical of the ultimate fulness of the fruit. In the same way the weather of certain seasons of the year is supposed to influence the vegetable world, and in Rutlandshire we are told that "a green Christmas brings a heavy harvest;" but a full moon about Christmas Day is unlucky, hence the adage: "Light Christmas, light wheatsheaf, Dark Christmas, heavy wheatsheaf." If the weather be clear on Candlemas Day "corn and fruits will then be dear," and "whoever doth plant or sow on Shrove Tuesday, it will always remain green." According to a piece of weather-lore in Sweden, there is a saying that to strew ash branches in a field on Ash Wednesday is equivalent to three days' rain and three days' sun. Rain on Easter Day foretells a good harvest but poor hay crop, while thunder on All Fool's Day "brings good crops of corn and hay." According to the "Shepherd's Calendar," if, "Midsummer Day be never so little rainy the hazel and walnut will be scarce; corn smitten in many places; but apples, pears, and plums will not be hurt." And we are further reminded:-- "Till St. James's Day be come and gone, There may be hops or there may be none." Speaking of hops, it is said, "plenty of ladybirds, plenty of hops." It is also a popular notion among our peasantry that if a drop of rain hang on an oat at this season there will be a good crop. Another agricultural adage says:-- "No tempest, good July, lest corn come off bluely." Then there is the old Michaelmas rhyme:-- "At Michaelmas time, or a little before, Half an apple goes to the core; At Christmas time, or a little after, A crab in the hedge, and thanks to the grafter." On the other hand, the blossoming of plants at certain times is said to be an indication of the coming weather, and so when the bramble blooms early in June an early harvest may be expected; and in the northern counties the peasant judges of the advance of the year by the appearance of the daisy, affirming that "spring has not arrived till you can set your foot on twelve daisies." We are also told that when many hawthorn blossoms are seen a severe winter will follow; and, according to Wilsford, "the broom having plenty of blossoms is a sign of a fruitful year of corn." A Surrey proverb tells us that "It's always cold when the blackthorn comes into flower;" and there is the rhyme which reminds us that:-- "If the oak is out before the ash, 'Twill be a summer of wet and splash; But if the ash is before the oak, 'Twill be a summer of fire and smoke." There are several versions of this piece of weather-lore, an old Kentish one being "Oak, smoke; ash, quash;" and according to a version given in Notes and Queries (1st Series v. 71):-- "If the oak's before the ash, then you'll only get a splash, If the ash precedes the oak, then you may expect a soak." From the "Shepherd's Calendar" we learn that, "If in the fall of the leaf in October many leaves wither on the boughs and hang there, it betokens a frosty winter and much snow," with which may be compared a Devonshire saying:-- "If good apples you would have The leaves must go into the grave." Or, in other words, "you must plant your trees in the fall of the leaf." And again, "Apples, pears, hawthorn-quick, oak; set them at All-hallow-tide and command them to prosper; set them at Candlemas and entreat them to grow." In Germany,[4] too, there is a rhyme which may be thus translated:-- "When the hawthorn bloom too early shows, We shall have still many snows." In the same way the fruit of trees and plants was regarded as a prognostication of the ensuing weather, and Wilsford tells us that "great store of walnuts and almonds presage a plentiful year of corn, especially filberts." The notion that an abundance of haws betokens a hard winter is still much credited, and has given rise to the familiar Scotch proverb:-- "Mony haws, Mony snaws." Another variation of the same adage in Kent is, "A plum year, a dumb year," and, "Many nits, many pits," implying that the abundance of nuts in the autumn indicates the "pits" or graves of those who shall succumb to the hard and inclement weather of winter; but, on the other hand, "A cherry year, a merry year." A further piece of weather-lore tells us:-- "Many rains, many rowans; Many rowans, many yawns," The meaning being that an abundance of rowans--the fruit of the mountain-ash--denote a deficient harvest. Among further sayings of this kind may be noticed one relating to the onion, which is thus:-- "Onion's skin very thin, Mild-winter's coming in; Onion's skin thick and tough, Coming winter cold and rough." Again, many of our peasantry have long been accustomed to arrange their farming pursuits from the indications given them by sundry trees and plants. Thus it is said-- "When the sloe tree is as white as a sheet, Sow your barley whether it be dry or wet." With which may be compared another piece of weather-lore:-- "When the oak puts on his gosling grey, 'Tis time to sow barley night or day." The leafing of the elm has from time immemorial been made to regulate agricultural operations, and hence the old rule:-- "When the elmen leaf is as big as a mouse's ear, Then to sow barley never fear. When the elmen leaf is as big as an ox's eye, Then say I, 'Hie, boys, hie!'" A Warwickshire variation is:-- "When elm leaves are big as a shilling, Plant kidney beans, if to plant 'em you're willing. When elm leaves are as big as a penny, You _must_ plant kidney beans if you mean to have any." But if the grass grow in January, the husbandman is recommended to "lock his grain in the granary," while a further proverb informs us that:-- "On Candlemas Day if the thorns hang a drop, You are sure of a good pea crop." In bygone times the appearance of the berries of the elder was held to indicate the proper season for sowing wheat:-- "With purple fruit when elder branches bend, And their high hues the hips and cornels lend, Ere yet chill hoar-frost comes, or sleety rain, Sow with choice wheat the neatly furrowed plain." The elder is not without its teaching, and according to a popular old proverb:-- "When the elder is white, brew and bake a peck, When the elder is black, brew and bake a sack." According to an old proverb, "You must look for grass on the top of the oak tree," the meaning being, says Ray, that "the grass seldom springs well before the oak begins to put forth." In the Western Counties it is asserted that frost ceases as soon as the mulberry tree bursts into leaf, with which may be compared the words of Autolycus in the "Winter's Tale" (iv. 3):-- "When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy over the dale, Why, then conies in the sweet o' the year." The dairyman is recommended in autumn to notice the appearance of the fern, because:-- "When the fern is as high as a ladle, You may sleep as long as you are able. When the fern begins to look red, Then milk is good with brown bread." Formerly certain agricultural operations were regulated by the seasons, and an old rule tells the farmer-- "Upon St. David's Day, put oats and barley in the clay." Another version being:-- "Sow peas and beans on David and Chad, Be the weather good or bad." A Somersetshire piece of agricultural lore fixes an earlier date, and bids the farmer to "sow or set beans in Candlemas waddle." In connection with the inclement weather that often prevails throughout the spring months it is commonly said, "They that go to their corn in May may come weeping away," but "They that go in June may come back with a merry tune." Then there is the following familiar pretty couplet, of which there are several versions:-- "The bee doth love the sweetest flower, So doth the blossom the April shower." In connection with beans, there is a well-known adage which says:-- "Be it weal or be it woe, Beans should blow before May go." Of the numerous other items of plant weather-lore, it is said that "March wind wakes the ether (_i. e_., adder) and blooms the whin;" and many of our peasantry maintain that:-- "A peck of March dust and a shower in May, Makes the corn green and the fields gay." It should also be noted that many plants are considered good barometers. Chickweed, for instance, expands its leaves fully when fine weather is to follow; but "if it should shut up, then the traveller is to put on his greatcoat."[5] The same, too, is said to be the case with the pimpernel, convolvulus, and clover; while if the marigold does not open its petals by seven o'clock in the morning, either rain or thunder may be expected in the course of the day. According to Wilsford, "tezils, or fuller's thistle, being gathered and hanged up in the house, where the air may come freely to it, upon the alteration of cold and windy weather will grow smoother, and against rain will close up its prickles." Once more, according to the "Shepherd's Calendar," "Chaff, leaves, thistle-down, or such light things whisking about and turning round foreshows tempestuous winds;" And Coles, in his introduction to the "Knowledge of Plants," informs us that, "If the down flieth off colt's-foot, dandelion, and thistles when there is no wind, it is a sign of rain." Some plants, again, have gained a notoriety from opening or shutting their flowers at the sun's bidding; in allusion to which Perdita remarks in the "Winter's Tale" (iv. 3):-- "The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, and with him rises weeping." It was also erroneously said, like the sun-flower, to turn its blossoms to the sun, the latter being thus described by Thomson:-- "The lofty follower of the sun, Sad when he sets, shuts up her yellow leaves, Drooping all night, and, when he warm returns, Points her enamour'd bosom to his ray." Another plant of this kind is the endive, which is said to open its petals at eight o'clock in the morning, and to close them at four in the afternoon. Thus we are told how:-- "On upland slopes the shepherds mark The hour when, to the dial true, Cichorium to the towering lark, Lifts her soft eye, serenely blue." And as another floral index of the time of day may be noticed the goat's-beard, opening at sunrise and closing at noon--hence one of its popular names of "Go to bed at noon." This peculiarity is described by Bishop Mant:-- "And goodly now the noon-tide hour, When from his high meridian tower The sun looks down in majesty, What time about, the grassy lea. The goat's-beard, prompt his rise to hail, With broad expanded disk, in veil Close mantling wraps its yellow head, And goes, as peasants say, to bed." The dandelion has been nicknamed the peasant's clock, its flowers opening very early in the morning; while its feathery seed-tufts have long been in requisition as a barometer with children:-- "Dandelion, with globe of down, The schoolboy's clock in every town, Which the truant puffs amain To conjure lost hours back again." Among other flowers possessing a similar feature may be noticed the wild succory, creeping mallow, purple sandwort, small bindweed, common nipplewort, and smooth sow-thistle. Then of course there is the pimpernel, known as the shepherd's clock and poor man's weather-glass; while the small purslane and the common garden lettuce are also included in the flower-clock.[6] Among further items of weather-lore associated with May, we are told how he that "sows oats in May gets little that way," and "He who mows in May will have neither fruit nor hay." Calm weather in June "sets corn in tune;" and a Suffolk adage says:-- "Cut your thistles before St. John, You will have two instead of one." But "Midsummer rain spoils hay and grain," whereas it is commonly said that, "A leafy May, and a warm June, Bring on the harvest very soon." Again, boisterous wet weather during the month of July is to be deprecated, for, as the old adage runs:-- "No tempest, good July, Lest the corn look surly." Flowers of this kind are very numerous, and under a variety of forms prevail largely in our own and other countries, an interesting collection of which have been collected by Mr. Swainson in his interesting little volume on "Weather Folk-lore," in which he has given the parallels in foreign countries. It must be remembered, however, that a great number of these plant-sayings originated very many years ago--long before the alteration in the style of the calendar--which in numerous instances will account for their apparent contradictory character. In noticing, too, these proverbs, account must be taken of the variation of climate in different countries, for what applies to one locality does not to another. Thus, for instance, according to a Basque proverb, "A wet May, a fruitful year," whereas it is said in Corsica, "A rainy May brings little barley and no wheat." Instances of this kind are of frequent occurrence, and of course are in many cases explained by the difference of climate. But in comparing all branches of folk-lore, similar variations, as we have already observed, are noticeable, to account for which is often a task full of difficulty. Of the numerous other instances of weather-lore associated with agricultural operations, it is said in relation to rain:-- "Sow beans in the mud, and they'll grow like wood." And a saying in East Anglia is to this effect:-- "Sow in the slop (or sop), heavy at top." A further admonition advises the farmer to "Sow wheat in dirt, and rye in dust;" While, according to a piece of folk-lore current in East Anglia, "Wheat well-sown is half-grown." The Scotch have a proverb warning the farmer against premature sowing:-- "Nae hurry wi' your corns, Nae hurry wi' your harrows; Snaw lies ahint the dyke, Mair may come and fill the furrows." And according to another old adage we are told how:-- "When the aspen leaves are no bigger than your nail, Is the time to look out for truff and peel."[7] In short, it will be found that most of our counties have their items of weather-lore; many of which, whilst varying in some respect, are evidently modifications of one and the same belief. In many cases, too, it must be admitted that this species of weather-wisdom is not based altogether on idle fancy, but in accordance with recognised habits of plants under certain conditions of weather. Indeed, it has been pointed out that so sensitive are various flowers to any change in the temperature or the amount of light, that it has been noticed that there is as much as one hour's difference between the time when the same flower opens at Paris and Upsala. It is, too, a familiar fact to students of vegetable physiology that the leaves of _Porleria hygrometrica_ fold down or rise up in accordance with the state of the atmosphere. In short, it was pointed out in the _Standard_, in illustration of the extreme sensitiveness of certain plants to surrounding influences, how the _Haedysarums_ have been well known ever since the days of Linnseus to suddenly begin to quiver without any apparent cause, and just as suddenly to stop. Force cannot initiate the movement, though cold will stop it, and heat will set in motion again the suspended animation of the leaves. If artificially kept from moving they will, when released, instantly begin their task anew and with redoubled energy. Similarly the leaves of the _Colocasia esculenta_--the tara of the Sandwich Islands--will often shiver at irregular times of the day and night, and with such energy that little bells hung on the petals tinkle. And yet, curious to say, we are told that the keenest eye has not yet been able to detect any peculiarity in these plants to account for these strange motions. It has been suggested that they are due to changes in the weather of such a slight character that, "our nerves are incapable of appreciating them, or the mercury of recording their accompanying oscillations." Footnotes: 1. Tylor's "Primitive Culture," 1873, i. 130. 2. See "English Folk-lore," pp. 42, 43. 3. "Primitive Manners and Customs," p. 74. 4. Dublin University Magazine, December 1873, p. 677. 5. See Swainson's "Weather-lore," p. 257. 6. See "Flower-lore," p. 226. 7. See _Notes and Queries_, 1st Ser. II. 511. CHAPTER XI PLANT PROVERBS. A host of curious proverbs have, from the earliest period, clustered round the vegetable world, most of which--gathered from experience and observation--embody an immense amount of truth, besides in numerous instances conveying an application of a moral nature. These proverbs, too, have a very wide range, and on this account are all the more interesting from the very fact of their referring to so many conditions of life. Thus, the familiar adage which tells us that "nobody is fond of fading flowers," has a far deeper signification, reminding us that everything associated with change and decay must always be a matter of regret. To take another trite proverb of the same kind, we are told how "truths and roses have thorns about them," which is absolutely true; and there is the well-known expression "to pipe in an ivy leaf," which signifies "to go and engage in some futile or idle pursuit" which cannot be productive of any good. The common proverb, "He hath sown his wild oats," needs no comment; and the inclination of evil to override good is embodied in various adages, such, as, "The weeds o'ergrow the corn," while the tenacity with which evil holds its ground is further expressed in such sayings as this--"The frost hurts not weeds." The poisonous effects, again, of evil is exemplified thus--"One ill-bred mars a whole pot of pottage," and the rapidity with which it spreads has, amongst other proverbs, been thus described, "Evil weeds grow apace." Speaking of weeds in their metaphorical sense, we may quote one further adage respecting them:-- "A weed that runs to seed Is a seven years' weed." And the oft-quoted phrase, "It will be a nosegay to him as long as he lives," implies that disagreeable actions, instead of being lost sight of, only too frequently cling to a man in after years, or, as Ray says, "stink in his nostrils." The man who abandons some good enterprise for a worthless, or insignificant, undertaking is said to "cut down an oak and plant a thistle," of which there is a further version, "to cut down an oak and set up a strawberry." The truth of the next adage needs no comment--"Usurers live by the fall of heirs, as swine by the droppings of acorns." Things that are slow but sure in their progress are the subject of a well-known Gloucestershire saying:-- "It is as long in coming as Cotswold barley." "The corn in this cold country," writes Ray, "exposed to the winds, bleak and shelterless, is very backward at the first, but afterwards overtakes the forwardest in the country, if not in the barn, in the bushel, both for the quantity and goodness thereof." According to the Italians, "Every grain hath its bran," which corresponds with our saying, "Every bean hath its black," The meaning being that nothing is without certain imperfections. A person in extreme poverty is often described as being "as bare as the birch at Yule Even," and an ill-natured or evil-disposed person who tries to do harm, but cannot, is commonly said to:-- "Jump at it like a cock at a gooseberry." Then the idea of durableness is thus expressed in a Wiltshire proverb:-- "An eldern stake and a blackthorn ether [hedge], Will make a hedge to last for ever"-- an elder stake being commonly said to last in the ground longer than an iron bar of the same size.[1] A person who is always on the alert to make use of opportunities, and never allows a good thing to escape his grasp, is said to "have a ready mouth for a ripe cherry." The rich beauty, too, of the cherry, which causes it to be gathered, has had this moral application attached to it:-- "A woman and a cherry are painted for their own harm." Speaking of cherries, it may be mentioned that the awkwardness of eating them on account of their stones, has given rise to sundry proverbs, as the following:-- "Eat peas with the king, and cherries with the beggar," and:-- "Those that eat cherries with great persons shall have their eyes squirted out with the stones." A man who makes a great show without a corresponding practice is said to be like "fig-tree fuel, much smoke and little fire," and another adage says:-- "Peel a fig for your friend, and a peach for your enemy." This proverb, however, is not quite clear when applied to this country. "To peel a fig, so far as we are concerned," writes Mr. Hazlitt[2], "can have no significance, except that we should not regard it as a friendly service; but, in fact, the proverb is merely a translation from the Spanish, and in that language and country the phrase carries a very full meaning, as no one would probably like to eat a fig without being sure that the fruit had not been tampered with. The whole saying is, however, rather unintelligible. 'Peeling a peach' would be treated anywhere as a dubious attention." Of the many proverbs connected with thorns, there is the true one which tells us how, "He that goes barefoot must not plant thorns," The meaning of which is self-evident, and the person who lives in a chronic state of uneasiness is said to, "sit on thorns." Then there is the oft-quoted adage:-- "While thy shoe is on thy foot, tread upon the thorns." On the other hand, that no position in life is exempt from trouble of some kind is embodied in this proverb:-- "Wherever a man dwells he shall be sure to have a thorn bush near his door," which Ray also explains in its literal sense, remarking that there "are few places in England where a man can dwell, but he shall have one near him." Then, again, thorns are commonly said to "make the greatest crackling," and "the thorn comes forth with its point forward." Many a great man has wished himself poor and obscure in his hours of adversity, a sentiment contained in the following proverb:-- "The pine wishes herself a shrub when the axe is at her root." A quaint phrase applied to those who expect events to take an unnatural turn is:-- "Would you have potatoes grow by the pot-side?" Amongst some of the other numerous proverbs may be mentioned a few relating to the apple; one of these reminding us that, "An apple, an egg, and a nut, You may eat after a slut." Selfishness in giving is thus expressed:-- "To give an apple where there is an orchard." And the idea of worthlessness is often referred to as when it is said that "There is small choice in rotten apples," with which may be compared another which warns us of the contagious effects of bad influence:-- "The rotten apple injures its neighbour." The utter dissimilarity which often exists between two persons, or things, is jocularly enjoined in the familiar adage:-- "As like as an apple is to a lobster," And the folly of taking what one knows is paltry or bad has given rise to an instructive proverb:-- "Better give an apple than eat it." The folly of expecting good results from the most unreasonable causes is the subject of the following old adage:-- "Plant the crab where you will, it will never bear pippins." The crab tree has also been made the subject of several amusing rhymes, one of which is as follows:-- "The crab of the wood is sauce very good for the crab of the sea, But the wood of the crab is sauce for a drab that will not her husband obey." The coolness of the cucumber has long ago become proverbial for a person of a cold collected nature, "As cool as a cucumber," and the man who not only makes unreasonable requests, but equally expects them to be gratified, is said to "ask an elm-tree for pears." Then, again, foolish persons who have no power of observation, are likened to "a blind goose that knows not a fox from a fern bush." The willow has long been a proverbial symbol of sadness, and on this account it was customary for those who were forsaken in love to wear a garland made of willow. Thus in "Othello," Desdemona (Act iv. sc. 3) anticipating her death, says:-- "My mother had a maid called Barbara: She was in love; and he she loved proved mad, And did forsake her: she had a song of willow; An old thing 'twas, but it expressed her fortune, And she died singing it: that song to-night Will not go from my mind." According to another adage:-- "Willows are weak, yet they bind other wood," The significance of which is clear. Then, again, there is the not very complimentary proverbial saying, of which there are several versions:-- "A spaniel, a woman, and a walnut-tree, The more they're beaten, the better they be." Another variation, given by Moor in his "Suffolk Words" (p. 465), is this:-- "Three things by beating better prove: A nut, an ass, a woman; The cudgel from their back remove, And they'll be good for no man." A curious phrase current in Devonshire for a young lady who jilts a man is, "She has given him turnips;" and an expressive one for those persons who in spite of every kindness are the very reverse themselves is this:-- "Though you stroke the nettle ever so kindly, yet it will sting you;" With which may be compared a similar proverb equally suggestive:-- "He that handles a nettle tenderly is soonest stung." The ultimate effects of perseverance, coupled with time, is thus shown:-- "With time and patience the leaf of the mulberry tree becomes satin." A phrase current, according to Ray, in Gloucestershire for those "who always have a sad, severe, and terrific countenance," is, "He looks as if he lived on Tewkesbury mustard"--this town having been long noted for its "mustard-balls made there, and sent to other parts." It may be remembered that in "2 Henry IV." (Act ii. sc. 4) Falstaff speaks of "wit as thick as Tewkesbury mustard." Then there is the familiar adage applied to the man who lacks steady application, "A rolling stone gathers no moss," with which may be compared another, "Seldom mosseth the marble-stone that men [tread] oft upon." Among the good old proverbs associated with flax may be mentioned the following, which enjoins the necessity of faith in our actions:-- "Get thy spindle and thy distaff ready, and God will send the flax." A popular phrase speaks of "An owl in an ivy-bush," which perhaps was originally meant to denote the union of wisdom with conviviality, equivalent to "Be merry and wise." Formerly an ivy-bush was a common tavern sign, and gave rise to the familiar proverb, "Good wine needs no bush," this plant having been selected probably from having been sacred to Bacchus. According to an old proverb respecting the camomile, we are told that "the more it is trodden the more it will spread," an allusion to which is made by Falstaff in "I Henry IV." (Act ii. sc. 4):-- "For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows; yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears." There are many proverbs associated with the oak. Referring to its growth, we are told that "The willow will buy a horse before the oak will pay for a saddle," the allusion being, of course, to the different rates at which trees grow. That occasionally some trifling event may have the most momentous issues is thus exemplified:-- "The smallest axe may fell the largest oak;" Although, on the other hand, it is said that:-- "An oak is not felled at one chop." A further variation of the same idea tells us how:-- "Little strokes fell great oaks," In connection with which may be quoted the words of Ovid to the same effect:-- "Quid magis est durum saxo? Quid mollius unda? Dura taneu molli saxa cavantur aqua?" Then, again, it is commonly said that:-- "Oaks may fall when seeds brave the storm." And to give one more illustration:-- "The greatest oaks have been little acorns." Similarly, with trees in general, we find a good number of proverbs. Thus one informs us that "Wise men in the world are like timber trees in a hedge, here and there one." That there is some good in every one is illustrated by this saying--"There's no tree but bears some fruit." The familiar proverb, that "The tree is no sooner down but every one runs for his hatchet," explains itself, whereas "The highest tree hath the greater fall," which, in its moral application, is equally true. Again, an agricultural precept enjoins the farmer to "Set trees poor and they will grow rich; set them rich and they will grow poor," that is, remove them out of a more barren into a fatter soil. That success can only be gained by toil is illustrated in this proverb--"He that would have the fruit must climb the tree," and once more it is said that "He who plants trees loves others beside himself." In the Midland counties there is a proverbial saying that "if there are no kegs or seeds in the ash trees, there will be no king within the twelvemonth," the ash never being wholly destitute of kegs. Another proverb refers to the use of ash-wood for burning:-- "Burn ash-wood green, 'Tis a fire for a queen, Burn ash-wood dear, 'Twill make a man swear;" The meaning being that the ash when green burns well, but when dry or withered just the reverse. A form of well-wishing formerly current in Yorkshire was thus:-- "May your footfall be by the root of an ash," In allusion, it has been suggested, to the fact that the ash is a capital tree for draining the soil in its vicinity. But leaving trees, an immense number of proverbs are associated with corn, many of which are very varied. Thus, of those who contrive to get a good return for their meagre work or money, it is said:-- "You have made a long harvest for a little corn," With which may be compared the phrase:-- "You give me coloquintida (colocynth) for Herb-John." Those who reap advantage from another man's labour are said to "put their sickle into another man's corn," and the various surroundings of royalty, however insignificant they may be, are generally better, says the proverb, than the best thing of the subjects:-- "The king's chaff is better than other people's corn." Among the proverbs relating to grass may be mentioned the popular one, "He does not let the grass grow under his feet;" another old version of which is, "No grass grows on his heel." Another well-known adage reminds us that:-- "The higher the hill the lower the grass." And equally familiar is the following:-- "While the grass groweth the seely horse starveth." In connection with hops, the proverb runs that "hops make or break;" and no hop-grower, writes, Mr. Hazlitt,[3] "will have much difficulty in appreciating this proverbial dictum. An estate has been lost or won in the course of a single season; but the hop is an expensive plant to rear, and a bad year may spoil the entire crop." Actions which produce different results to what are expected are thus spoken of:-- "You set saffron and there came up wolfsbane." In Devonshire it may be noted that this plant is used to denote anything of value; and it is related of a farmer near Exeter who, when praising a certain farm, remarked, "'Tis a very pretty little place; he'd let so dear as saffron." Many, again, are the proverbial sayings associated with roses--most of these being employed to indicate what is not only sweet and lovely, but bright and joyous. Thus, there are the well-known phrases, "A bed of roses," and "As sweet as a rose," and the oft-quoted popular adage:-- "The rose, called by any other name, would smell as sweet," Which, as Mr. Hazlitt remarks, "although not originally proverbial, or in its nature, or even in the poet's intention so, has acquired that character by long custom." An old adage, which is still credited by certain of our country folk, reminds us that:-- "A parsley field will bring a man to his saddle and a woman to her grave," A warning which is not unlike one current in Surrey and other southern counties:-- "Where parsley's grown in the garden, there'll be a death before the year's out." In Devonshire it has long been held unlucky to transplant parsley, and a poor woman in the neighbourhood of Morwenstow attributed a certain stroke with which one of her children had been afflicted after whooping-cough to the unfortunate undoing of the parsley bed. In the "Folk-lore Record," too, an amusing instance is related of a gardener at Southampton, who, for the same reason, refused to sow some parsley seed. It may be noted that from a very early period the same antipathy has existed in regard to this plant, and it is recorded how a few mules laden with parsley threw into a complete panic a Greek force on its march against the enemy. But the plant no doubt acquired its ominous significance from its having been largely used to bestrew the tombs of the dead; the Greek term "dehisthai selinou"--to be in need of parsley--was a common phrase employed to denote those on the point of death. There are various other superstitions attached to this plant, as in Hampshire, where the peasants dislike giving any away for fear of some ill-luck befalling them. Similarly, according to another proverb:-- "Sowing fennel is sowing sorrow." But why this should be so it is difficult to explain, considering that by the ancients fennel was used for the victor's wreath, and, as one of the plants dedicated to St. John, it has long been placed over doors on his vigil. On the other hand, there is a common saying with respect to rosemary, which was once much cultivated in kitchen gardens:-- "Where rosemary flourishes the lady rules." Vetches, from being reputed a most hardy grain, have been embodied in the following adage:-- "A thetch will go through The bottom of an old shoe," Which reminds us of the proverbial saying:-- "Like a camomile bed, The more it is trodden The more it will spread." The common expression:-- "Worth a plum," Is generally said of a man who is accredited with large means, and another adage tells us that, "The higher the plum-tree, the riper the plum." To live in luxury and affluence is expressed by the proverbial phrase "To live in clover," with which may be compared the saying "Do it up in lavender," applied to anything which is valuable and precious. A further similar phrase is "Laid up in lavender," in allusion to the old-fashioned custom of scenting newly-washed linen with this fragrant plant. Thus Shenstone says:-- "Lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound, To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, And crown her kerchiefs clean with micklc rare perfume." According to Gerarde, the Spartans were in the habit of eating cress with their bread, from a popular notion very generally held among the ancients, that those who ate it became noted for their wit and decision of character. Hence the old proverb:-- "Eat cress to learn more wit." Of fruit proverbs we are told that, "If you would enjoy the fruit, pluck not the flower." And again:-- "When all fruit fails, welcome haws." And "If you would have fruit, you must carry the leaf to the grave;" which Ray explains, "You must transplant your trees just about the fall of the leaf," and then there is the much-quoted rhyme:-- "Fruit out of season, Sorrow out of reason." Respecting the vine, it is said:-- "Make the vine poor, and it will make you rich," That is, prune off its branches; and another adage is to this effect: "Short boughs, long vintage." The constant blooming of the gorse has given rise to a popular Northamptonshire proverb:-- "When gorse is out of bloom, kissing is out of season." The health-giving properties of various plants have long been in the highest repute, and have given rise to numerous well-known proverbs, which are still heard in many a home. Thus old Gerarde, describing the virtues of the mallow, tells us:-- "If that of health you have any special care, Use French mallows, that to the body wholesome are." Then there is the time-honoured adage which says that:-- "He that would live for aye Must eat sage in May." And Aubrey has bequeathed us the following piece of advice:-- "Eat leeks in Lide, and ramsines in May, And all the year after physicians may play." There are many sayings of this kind still current among our country-folk, some of which no doubt contain good advice; and of the plaintain, which from time immemorial has been used as a vulnerary, it is said:-- "Plantain ribbed, that heals the reaper's wounds." In Herefordshire there is a popular rhyme associated with the aul (_Alnus glutinosus_):-- "When the bud of the aul is as big as the trout's eye, Then that fish is in season in the river Wye." A Yorkshire name for the quaking grass (_Briza media_) is "trembling jockies," and according to a local proverb:-- "A trimmling jock i' t' house, An' you weeant hev a mouse," This plant being, it is said, obnoxious to mice. According to a Warwickshire proverb:-- "Plant your sage and rue together, The sage will grow in any weather." This list of plant proverbs might easily be extended, but the illustrations quoted in the preceding pages are a fair sample of this portion of our subject. Whereas many are based on truth, others are more or less meaningless. At any rate, they still thrive to a large extent among our rural community, by whom they are regarded as so many household sayings. Footnotes: 1. See Akerman's "Wiltshire Glossary," p. 18. 2. "English Proverbs and Proverbial Phrases," pp. 327-8. 3. "Proverbs and Proverbial Phrases," p. 207. CHAPTER XII. PLANTS AND THEIR CEREMONIAL USE. In the earliest period of primitive society flowers seem to have been largely used for ceremonial purposes. Tracing their history downwards up to the present day, we find how extensively, throughout the world, they have entered into sacred and other rites. This is not surprising when we remember how universal have been the love and admiration for these choice and lovely productions of nature's handiwork. From being used as offerings in the old heathen worship they acquired an additional veneration, and became associated with customs which had important significance. Hence the great quantity of flowers required, for ceremonial purposes of various kinds, no doubt promoted and encouraged a taste for horticulture even among uncultured tribes. Thus the Mexicans had their famous floating gardens, and in the numerous records handed down of social life, as it existed in different countries, there is no lack of references to the habits and peculiarities of the vegetable world. Again, from all parts of the world, the histories of bygone centuries have contributed their accounts of the rich assortment of flowers in demand for the worship of the gods, which are valuable as indicating how elaborate and extensive was the knowledge of plants in primitive periods, and how magnificent must have been the display of these beautiful and brilliant offerings. Amongst some tribes, too, so sacred were the flowers used in religious rites held, that it was forbidden so much as to smell them, much less to handle them, except by those whose privileged duty it was to arrange them for the altar. Coming down to the historic days of Greece and Rome, we have abundant details of the skill and care that were displayed in procuring for religious purposes the finest and choicest varieties of flowers; abundant allusions to which are found in the old classic writings. The profuseness with which flowers were used in Rome during triumphal processions has long ago become proverbial, in allusion to which Macaulay says:-- "On they ride to the Forum, While laurel boughs, and flowers, From house-tops and from windows, Fell on their crests in showers." Flowers, in fact, were in demand on every conceivable occasion, a custom which was frequently productive of costly extravagance. Then there was their festival of the Floralia, in honour of the reappearance of spring-time, with its hosts of bright blossoms, a survival of which has long been kept up in this country on May Day, when garlands and carols form the chief feature of the rustic merry-making. Another grand ceremonial occasion, when flowers were specially in request, was the Fontinalia, an important day in Rome, for the wells and fountains were crowned with flowers:-- "Fontinalia festus erat dies Romae, quo in fontes coronas projiciebant, puteosque coronabant, ut a quibus pellucidos liquores at restinguendam sitim acciperent, iisdem gratiam referre hoc situ viderentur." A pretty survival of this festival has long been observed in the well-dressing of Tissington on Ascension Day, when the wells are most beautifully decorated with leaves and flowers, arranged in fanciful devices, interwoven into certain symbols and texts. This floral rite is thus described in "The Fleece":-- "With light fantastic toe, the nymphs Thither assembled, thither every swain; And o'er the dimpled stream a thousand flowers, Pale lilies, roses, violets and pinks, Mix'd with the greens of bouret, mint, and thyme, And trefoil, sprinkled with their sportive arms, Such custom holds along th' irriguous vales, From Wreken's brow to rocky Dolvoryn, Sabrina's early haunt." With this usage may be compared one performed by the fishermen of Weymouth, who on the first of May put out to sea for the purpose of scattering garlands of flowers on the waves, as a propitiatory offering to obtain food for the hungry. "This link," according to Miss Lambert, "is but another link in the chain that connects us with the yet more primitive practice of the Red Indian, who secures passage across the Lake Superior, or down the Mississippi, by gifts of precious tobacco, which he wafts to the great spirit of the Flood on the bosom of its waters." By the Romans a peculiar reverence seems to have attached to their festive garlands, which were considered unsuitable for wearing in public. Hence, any person appearing in one was liable to punishment, a law which was carried out with much rigour. On one occasion, Lucius Fulvius, a banker, having been convicted at the time of the second Punic war, of looking down from the balcony of a house with a chaplet of roses on his head, was thrown into prison by order of the Senate, and here kept for sixteen years, until the close of the war. A further case of extreme severity was that of P. Munatius, who was condemned by the Triumviri to be put in chains for having crowned himself with flowers from the statue of Marsyas. Allusions to such estimation of garlands in olden times are numerous in the literature of the past, and it may be remembered how Montesquieu remarked that it was with two or three hundred crowns of oak that Rome conquered the world. Guests at feasts wore garlands of flowers tied with the bark of the linden tree, to prevent intoxication; the wreath having been framed in accordance with the position of the wearer. A poet, in his paraphrase on Horace, thus illustrates this custom:-- "Nay, nay, my boy, 'tis not for me This studious pomp of Eastern luxury; Give me no various garlands fine With linden twine; Nor seek where latest lingering blows The solitary rose." Not only were the guests adorned with flowers, but the waiters, drinking-cups, and room, were all profusely decorated.[1] "In short," as the author of "Flower-lore" remarks, "it would be difficult to name the occasions on which flowers were not employed; and, as almost all plants employed in making garlands had a symbolical meaning, the garland was composed in accordance with that meaning." Garlands, too, were thrown to actors on the stage, a custom which has come down to the present day in an exaggerated form. Indeed, many of the flowers in request nowadays for ceremonial uses in our own and other countries may be traced back to this period; the symbolical meaning attached to certain plants having survived after the lapse of many centuries. For a careful description of the flowers thus employed, we would refer the reader to two interesting papers contributed by Miss Lambert to the _Nineteenth Century_,[2] in which she has collected together in a concise form all the principal items of information on the subject in past years. A casual perusal of these papers will suffice to show what a wonderful knowledge of botany the ancients must have possessed; and it may be doubted whether the most costly array of plants witnessed at any church festival supersedes a similar display witnessed by worshippers in the early heathen temples. In the same way, we gain an insight into the profusion of flowers employed by heathen communities in later centuries, showing how intimately associated these have been with their various forms of worship. Thus, the Singhalese seem to have used flowers to an almost incredible extent, and one of their old chronicles tells us how the Ruanwellé dagoba--270 feet high--was festooned with garlands from pedestal to pinnacle, till it had the appearance of one uniform bouquet. We are further told that in the fifteenth century a certain king offered no less than 6,480,320 sweet-smelling flowers at the shrine of the tooth; and, among the regulations of the temple at Dambedenia in the thirteenth century, one prescribes that "every day an offering of 100,000 blossoms, and each day a different kind of flower," should be presented. This is a striking instance, but only one of many. "With regard to Greece, there are few of our trees and flowers," writes Mr. Moncure Conway,[3] "which were not cultivated in the gorgeous gardens of Epicurus, Pericles, and Pisistratus." Among the flowers chiefly used for garlands and chaplets in ceremonial rites we find the rose, violet, anemone, thyme, melilot, hyacinth, crocus, yellow lily, and yellow flowers generally. Thucydides relates how, in the ninth year of the Peloponnesian War, the temple of Juno at Argos was burnt down owing to the priestess Chrysis having set a lighted torch too near the garlands and then fallen asleep. The garlands caught fire, and the damage was irremediable before she was conscious of the mischief. The gigantic scale on which these floral ceremonies were conducted may be gathered from the fact that in the procession of Europa at Corinth a huge crown of myrtle, thirty feet in circumference, was borne. At Athens the myrtle was regarded as the symbol of authority, a wreath of its leaves having been worn by magistrates. On certain occasions the mitre of the Jewish high priest was adorned with a chaplet of the blossoms of the henbane. Of the further use of garlands, we are told that the Japanese employ them very freely;[4] both men and women wearing chaplets of fragrant blossoms. A wreath of a fragrant kind of olive is the reward of literary merit in China. In Northern India the African marigold is held as a sacred flower; they adorn the trident emblem of Mahádivá with garlands of it, and both men and women wear chaplets made of its flowers on his festivals. Throughout Polynesia garlands have been habitually worn on seasons of "religious solemnity or social rejoicing," and in Tonga they were employed as a token of respect. In short, wreaths seem to have been from a primitive period adopted almost universally in ceremonial rites, having found equal favour both with civilised as well as uncivilised communities. It will probably, too, always be so. Flowers have always held a prominent place in wedding ceremonies, and at the present day are everywhere extensively used. Indeed, it would be no easy task to exhaust the list of flowers which have entered into the marriage customs of different countries, not to mention the many bridal emblems of which they have been made symbolical. As far back as the time of Juno, we read, according to Homer's graphic account, how:-- "Glad earth perceives, and from her bosom pours Unbidden herbs and voluntary flowers: Thick, new-born violets a soft carpet spread, And clust'ring lotos swelled the rising bed; And sudden hyacinths the earth bestrow, And flamy crocus made the mountain glow." According to a very early custom the Grecian bride was required to eat a quince, and the hawthorn was the flower which formed her wreath, which at the present day is still worn at Greek nuptials, the altar being decked with its blossoms. Among the Romans the hazel held a significant position, torches having been burnt on the wedding evening to insure prosperity to the newly-married couple, and both in Greece and Rome young married couples were crowned with marjoram. At Roman weddings, too, oaken boughs were carried during the ceremony as symbols of fecundity; and the bridal wreath was of verbena, plucked by the bride herself. Holly wreaths were sent as tokens of congratulation, and wreaths of parsley and rue were given under a belief that they were effectual preservatives against evil spirits. In Germany, nowadays, a wreath of vervain is presented to the newly-married bride; a plant which, on account of its mystic virtues, was formerly much used for love-philtres and charms. The bride herself wears a myrtle wreath, as also does the Jewish maiden, but this wreath was never given either to a widow or a divorced woman. Occasionally, too, it is customary in Germany to present the bride and bridegroom with an almond at the wedding banquet, and in the nuptial ceremonies of the Czechs this plant is distributed among the guests. In Switzerland so much importance was in years past attached to flowers and their symbolical significance that, "a very strict law was in force prohibiting brides from wearing chaplets or garlands in the church, or at any time during the wedding feast, if they had previously in any way forfeited their rights to the privileges of maidenhood."[5] With the Swiss maiden the edelweiss is almost a sacred flower, being regarded as a proof of the devotion of her lover, by whom it is often gathered with much risk from growing in inaccessible spots. In Italy, as in days of old, nuts are scattered at the marriage festival, and corn is in many cases thrown over the bridal couple, a survival of the old Roman custom of making offerings of corn to the bride. A similar usage prevails at an Indian wedding, where, "after the first night, the mother of the husband, with all the female relatives, comes to the young bride and places on her head a measure of corn--emblem of fertility. The husband then comes forward and takes from his bride's head some handfuls of the grain, which he scatters over himself." As a further illustration we may quote the old Polish custom, which consisted of visitors throwing wheat, rye, oats, barley, rice, and beans at the door of the bride's house, as a symbol that she never would want any of these grains so long as she did her duty. In the Tyrol is a fine grove of pine-trees--the result of a long-established custom for every newly united couple to plant a marriage tree, which is generally of the pine kind. Garlands of wild asparagus are used by the Boeotians, while with the Chinese the peach-blossom is the popular emblem of a bride. In England, flowers have always been largely employed in the wedding ceremony, although they have varied at different periods, influenced by the caprice of fashion. Thus, it appears that flowers were once worn by the betrothed as tokens of their engagement, and Quarles in his "Sheapheard's Oracles," 1646, tells us how, "Love-sick swains Compose rush-rings and myrtle-berry chains, And stuck with glorious kingcups, and their bonnets Adorn'd with laurell slips, chaunt their love sonnets." Spenser, too, in his "Shepherd's Calendar" for April, speaks of "Coronations and sops in wine worn of paramours"--sops in wine having been a nickname for pinks (_Dianthus plumarius_), although Dr. Prior assigns the name to _Dianthus caryophyllus_. Similarly willow was worn by a discarded lover. In the bridal crown, the rosemary often had a distinguished place, besides figuring at the ceremony itself, when it was, it would seem, dipped in scented water, an allusion to which we find in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Scornful Lady," where it is asked, "Were the rosemary branches dipped?" Another flower which was entwined in the bridal garland was the lily, to which Ben Jonson refers in speaking of the marriage of his friend Mr. Weston with the Lady Frances Stuart:-- "See how with roses and with lilies shine, Lilies and roses (flowers of either sex), The bright bride's paths." It was also customary to plant a rose-bush at the head of the grave of a deceased lover, should either of them die before the wedding. Sprigs of bay were also introduced into the bridal wreath, besides ears of corn, emblematical of the plenty which might always crown the bridal couple. Nowadays the bridal wreath is almost entirely composed of orange-blossom, on a background of maiden-hair fern, with a sprig of stephanotis interspersed here and there. Much uncertainty exists as to why this plant was selected, the popular reason being that it was adopted as an emblem of fruitfulness. According to a correspondent of _Notes and Queries_, the practice may be traced to the Saracens, by whom the orange-blossom was regarded as a symbol of a prosperous marriage--a circumstance which is partly to be accounted for by the fact that in the East the orange-tree bears ripe fruit and blossom at the same time. Then there is the bridal bouquet, which is a very different thing from what it was in years gone by. Instead of being composed of the scarcest and most costly flowers arranged in the most elaborate manner, it was a homely nosegay of mere country flowers--some of the favourite ones, says Herrick, being pansy, rose, lady-smock, prick-madam, gentle-heart, and maiden-blush. A spray of gorse was generally inserted, in allusion, no doubt, to the time-honoured proverb, "When the furze is out of bloom, kissing is out of fashion." In spring-time again, violets and primroses were much in demand, probably from being in abundance at the season; although they have generally been associated with early death. Among the many floral customs associated with the wedding ceremony may be mentioned the bridal-strewings, which were very prevalent in past years, a survival of which is still kept up at Knutsford, in Cheshire. On such an occasion, the flowers used were emblematical, and if the bride happened to be unpopular, she often encountered on her way to the church flowers of a not very complimentary meaning. The practice was not confined to this country, and we are told how in Holland the threshold of the newly-married couple was strewn with flowers, the laurel being as a rule most conspicuous among the festoons. Lastly, the use of flowers in paying honours to the dead has been from time immemorial most widespread. Instances are so numerous that it is impossible to do more than quote some of the most important, as recorded in our own and other countries. For detailed accounts of these funereal floral rites it would be necessary to consult the literature of the past from a very early period, and the result of such inquiries would form material enough for a goodly-sized volume. Therespect for the dead among the early Greeks was very great, and Miss Lambert[6] quotes the complaint of Petala to Simmalion, in the Epistles of Alciphron, to show how special was the dedication of flowers to the dead:--"I have a lover who is a mourner, not a lover; he sends me garlands and roses as if to deck a premature grave, and he says he weeps through the live-long night." The chief flowers used by them for strewing over graves were the polyanthus, myrtle, and amaranth; the rose, it would appear from Anacreon, having been thought to possess a special virtue for the dead:-- "When pain afflicts and sickness grieves, Its juice the drooping heart relieves; And after death its odours shed A pleasing fragrance o'er the dead." And Electra is represented as complaining that the tomb of her father, Agamemnon, had not been duly adorned with myrtle-- "With no libations, nor with myrtle boughs, Were my dear father's manes gratified." The Greeks also planted asphodel and mallow round their graves, as the seeds of these plants were supposed to nourish the dead. Mourners, too, wore flowers at the funeral rites, and Homer relates how the Thessalians used crowns of amaranth at the burial of Achilles. The Romans were equally observant, and Ovid, when writing from the land of exile, prayed his wife--"But do you perform the funeral rites for me when dead, and offer chaplets wet with your tears. Although the fire shall have changed my body into ashes, yet the sad dust will be sensible of your pious affection." Like the Greeks, the Romans set a special value on the rose as a funeral flower, and actually left directions that their graves should be planted with this favourite flower, a custom said to have been introduced by them into this country. Both Camden and Aubrey allude to it, and at the present day in Wales white roses denote the graves of young unmarried girls. Coming down to modern times, we find the periwinkle, nicknamed "death's flower," scattered over the graves of children in Italy--notably Tuscany--and in some parts of Germany the pink is in request for this purpose. In Persia we read of:-- "The basil-tuft that waves Its fragrant blossoms over graves;" And among the Chinese, roses, the anemone, and a species of lycoris are planted over graves. The Malays use a kind of basil, and in Tripoli tombs are adorned with such sweet and fragrant flowers as the orange, jessamine, myrtle, and rose. In Mexico the Indian carnation is popularly known as the "flower of the dead," and the people of Tahiti cover their dead with choice flowers. In America the Freemasons place twigs of acacia on the coffins of brethren. The Buddhists use flowers largely for funeral purposes, and an Indian name for the tamarisk is the "messenger of Yama," the Indian God of Death. The people of Madagascar have a species of mimosa, which is frequently found growing on the tombs, and in Norway the funeral plants are juniper and fir. In France the custom very largely nourishes, roses and orange-blossoms in the southern provinces being placed in the coffins of the young. Indeed, so general is the practice in France that, "sceptics and believers uphold it, and statesmen, and soldiers, and princes, and scholars equally with children and maidens are the objects of it." Again, in Oldenburg, it is said that cornstalks must be scattered about a house in which death has entered, as a charm against further misfortune, and in the Tyrol an elder bush is often planted on a newly-made grave. In our own country the practice of crowning the dead and of strewing their graves with flowers has prevailed from a very early period, a custom which has been most pathetically and with much grace described by Shakespeare in "Cymbeline" (Act iv. sc. 2):-- "With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddock would, With charitable bill, O bill, sore-shaming Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie Without a monument! bring thee all this; Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, To winter-ground thy corse." Allusions to the custom are frequently to be met with in our old writers, many of which have been collected together by Brand.[7] In former years it was customary to carry sprigs of rosemary at a funeral, probably because this plant was considered emblematical of remembrance:-- "To show their love, the neighbours far and near, Follow'd with wistful look the damsel's bier; Spring'd rosemary the lads and lasses bore, While dismally the parson walked before." Gay speaks of the flowers scattered on graves as "rosemary, daisy, butter'd flower, and endive blue," and Pepys mentions a churchyard near Southampton where the graves were sown with sage. Another plant which has from a remote period been associated with death is the cypress, having been planted by the ancients round their graves. In our own country it was employed as a funeral flower, and Coles thus refers to it, together with the rosemary and bay:-- "Cypresse garlands are of great account at funerals amongst the gentler sort, but rosemary and bayes are used by the commons both at funerals and weddings. They are all plants which fade not a good while after they are gathered, and used (as I conceive) to intimate unto us that the remembrance of the present solemnity might not die presently (at once), but be kept in mind for many years." The yew has from time immemorial been planted in churchyards besides being used at funerals. Paris, in "Romeo and Juliet", (Act v. sc. 3), says:-- "Under yon yew trees lay thee all along, Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground; So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread, Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves, But thou shall hear it." Shakespeare also refers to the custom of sticking yew in the shroud in the following song in "Twelfth Night" (Act ii. sc. 4):-- "My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, Oh, prepare it; My part of death, no one so true Did share it." Unhappy lovers had garlands of willow, yew, and rosemary laid on their biers, an allusion to which occurs in the "Maid's Tragedy":-- "Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear-- Say I died true. My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth; Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth." Among further funeral customs may be mentioned that of carrying a garland of flowers and sweet herbs before a maiden's coffin, and afterwards suspending it in the church. Nichols, in his "History of Lancashire" (vol. ii. pt. i. 382), speaking of Waltham in Framland Hundred, says: "In this church under every arch a garland is suspended, one of which is customarily placed there whenever any young unmarried woman dies." It is to this custom Gay feelingly alludes:-- "To her sweet mem'ry flowing garlands strung, On her now empty seat aloft were hung." Indeed, in all the ceremonial observances of life, from the cradle to the grave, flowers have formed a prominent feature, the symbolical meaning long attached to them explaining their selection on different occasions. Footnotes: 1. See "Flower-lore," p. 147. 2. "The Ceremonial Use of Flowers." 3. _Fraser's Magazine_, 1870, p. 711. 4. "Flower-lore," pp. 149-50. 5. Miss Lambert, _Nineteenth Century_, May 1880, p. 821. 6. _Nineteenth Century_, September 1878, p. 473. 7. "Popular Antiquities," 1870, ii. 24, &c. CHAPTER XIII. PLANT NAMES. The origin and history of plant names is a subject of some magnitude, and is one that has long engaged the attention of philologists. Of the many works published on plant names, that of the "English Dialect Society"[1] is by far the most complete, and forms a valuable addition to this class of literature. Some idea of the wide area covered by the nomenclature of plants, as seen in the gradual evolution and descent of vernacular names, may be gathered even from a cursory survey of those most widely known in our own and other countries. Apart, too, from their etymological associations, it is interesting to trace the variety of sources from whence plant names have sprung, a few illustrations of which are given in the present chapter. At the outset, it is noteworthy that our English plant names can boast of a very extensive parentage, being, "derived from many languages--Latin, Greek, ancient British, Anglo-Saxon, Norman, Low German, Swedish, Danish, Arabic, Persian."[2] It is not surprising, therefore, that in many cases much confusion has arisen in unravelling their meaning, which in the course of years would naturally become more or less modified by a succession of influences such as the intercommunication and change of ideas between one country and another. On the other hand, numerous plant names clearly display their origin, the lapse of years having left these unaffected, a circumstance which is especially true in the case of Greek and Latin names. Names of French origin are frequently equally distinct, a familiar instance being dandelion, from the French _dent-de-lion_, "lion's tooth," although the reason for its being so called is by no means evident. At the same time, it is noticeable that in nearly every European language the plant bears a similar name; whereas Professor De Gubernatis connects the name with the sun (Helios), and adds that a lion was the animal symbol of the sun, and that all plants named after him are essentially plants of the sun.[3] One of the popular names of the St. John's wort is tutsan, a corruption of the French _toute saine_, so called from its healing properties, and the mignonette is another familiar instance. The flower-de-luce, one of the names probably of the iris, is derived from _fleur de Louis_, from its having been assumed as his device by Louis VII. of France. It has undergone various changes, having been in all probability contracted into fleur-de-luce, and finally into fleur-de-lys or fleur-de-lis. An immense deal of discussion has been devoted to the history of this name, and a great many curious theories proposed in explanation of it, some being of opinion that the lily and not the iris is referred to. But the weight of evidence seem to favour the iris theory, this plant having been undoubtedly famous in French history. Once more, by some,[4] the name fleur-de-lys has been derived from Löys, in which manner the twelve first Louis signed their names, and which was easily contracted into Lys. Some consider it means the flower that grows on the banks of the river Lis, which separated France and Artois from Flanders. Turning to the literature of the past, Shakespeare has several allusions to the plant, as in "I Henry VI," where a messenger enters and exclaims:-- "Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your honours new begot; Cropp'd are the flower-de-luces in your arms; Of England's coat one half is cut away." Spenser mentions the plant, and distinguishes it from the lily:-- "Show mee the grounde with daifadown-dillies, And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lillies; The pretty pawnee, And the cherisaunce, Shall march with the fayre flowre delice." Another instance is the mignonette of our French neighbours, known also as the "love-flower." One of the names of the deadly nightshade is belladonna which reminds us of its Italian appellation, and "several of our commonest plant names are obtained from the Low German or Dutch, as, for instance, buckwheat (_Polygonum fagopyrum_), from the Dutch _bockweit_." The rowan-tree (_Pyrus aucuparia_) comes from the Danish _röun_, Swedish _rünn_, which, as Dr. Prior remarks, is traceable to the "old Norse _runa_, a charm, from its being supposed to have power to avert evil." Similarly, the adder's tongue (_Ophioglossum vulgatum_) is said to be from the Dutch _adder-stong_, and the word hawthorn is found in the various German dialects. As the authors of "English Plant Names" remark (Intr. xv.), many north-country names are derived from Swedish and Danish sources, an interesting example occurring in the word _kemps_, a name applied to the black heads of the ribwort plantain (_Plantago lanceolata_). The origin of this name is to be found in the Danish _kaempe_, a warrior, and the reason for its being so called is to be found in the game which children in most parts of the kingdom play with the flower-stalks of the plantain, by endeavouring to knock off the heads of each other's mimic weapons. Again, as Mr. Friend points out, the birch would take us back to the primeval forests of India, and among the multitudinous instances of names traceable to far-off countries may be mentioned the lilac and tulip from Persia, the latter being derived from _thoulyban_, the word used in Persia for a turban. Lilac is equivalent to _lilag_, a Persian word signifying flower, having been introduced into Europe from that country early in the sixteenth century by Busbeck, a German traveller. But illustrations of this land are sufficient to show from how many countries our plant names have been brought, and how by degrees they have become interwoven into our own language, their pronunciation being Anglicised by English speakers. Many plants, again, have been called in memory of leading characters in days gone by, and after those who discovered their whereabouts and introduced them into European countries. Thus the fuchsia, a native of Chili, was named after Leonard Fuchs, a well-known German botanist, and the magnolia was so called in honour of Pierre Magnol, an eminent writer on botanical subjects. The stately dahlia after Andrew Dahl, the Swedish botanist. But, without enumerating further instances, for they are familiar to most readers, it may be noticed that plants which embody the names of animals are very numerous indeed. In many cases this has resulted from some fancied resemblance to some part of the animal named; thus from their long tongued-like leaves, the hart's-tongue, lamb's-tongue, and ox-tongue were so called, while some plants have derived their names from the snouts of certain animals, such as the swine's-snout (_Lentodon taraxacum_), and calf's-snout, or, as it is more commonly termed, snapdragon (_Antirrhinum majus_). The gaping corollas of various blossoms have suggested such names as dog's-mouth, rabbit's-mouth, and lion's-snap, and plants with peculiarly-shaped leaves have given rise to names like these--mouse-ear (_Stachys Zanaia_), cat's-ears, and bear's-ears. Numerous names have been suggested by their fancied resemblance to the feet, hoofs, and tails of animals and birds; as, for instance, colt's-foot, crow-foot, bird's-foot trefoil, horse-shoe vetch, bull-foot, and the vervain, nicknamed frog's-foot. Then there is the larkspur, also termed lark's-claw, and lark's-heel, the lamb's-toe being so called from its downy heads of flowers, and the horse-hoof from the shape of the leaf. Among various similar names may be noticed the crane's-bill and stork's-bill, from their long beak-like seed-vessels, and the valerian, popularly designated capon's-tail, from its spreading flowers. Many plant names have animal prefixes, these indeed forming a very extensive list. But in some instances, "the name of an animal prefixed has a totally different signification, denoting size, coarseness, and frequently worthlessness or spuriousness." Thus the horse-parsley was so called from its coarseness as compared with smallage or celery, and the horse-mushroom from its size in distinction to a species more commonly eaten. The particular uses to which certain plants have been applied have originated their names: the horse-bean, from being grown as a food for horses; and the horse-chestnut, because used in Turkey for horses that are broken or touched in the wind. Parkinson, too, adds how, "horse-chestnuts are given in the East, and so through all Turkey, unto horses to cure them of the cough, shortness of wind, and such other diseases." The germander is known as horse-chere, from its growing after horse-droppings; and the horse-bane, because supposed in Sweden to cause a kind of palsy in horses--an effect which has been ascribed by Linnaeus not so much to the noxious qualities of the plant itself, as to an insect (_Curculio paraplecticus_) that breeds in its stem. The dog has suggested sundry plant names, this prefix frequently suggesting the idea of worthlessness, as in the case of the dog-violet, which lacks the sweet fragrance of the true violet, and the dog-parsley, which, whilst resembling the true plant of this name, is poisonous and worthless. In like manner there is the dog-elder, dog's-mercury, dog's-chamomile, and the dog-rose, each a spurious form of a plant quite distinct; while on the other hand we have the dog's-tooth grass, from the sharp-pointed shoots of its underground stem, and the dog-grass (_Triticum caninu_), because given to dogs as an aperient. The cat has come in for its due share of plant names, as for instance the sun-spurge, which has been nicknamed cat's-milk, from its milky juice oozing in drops, as milk from the small teats of a cat; and the blossoms of the talix, designated cats-and-kittens, or kittings, probably in allusion to their soft, fur-like appearance. Further names are, cat's-faces (_Viola tricolor_), cat's-eyes (_Veronica chamcaedrys_), cat's-tail, the catkin of the hazel or willow, and cat's-ear (_Hypochaeris maculata_). The bear is another common prefix. Thus there is the bear's-foot, from its digital leaf, the bear-berry, or bear's-bilberry, from its fruit being a favourite food of bears, and the bear's-garlick. There is the bear's-breech, from its roughness, a name transferred by some mistake from the Acanthus to the cow-parsnip, and the bear's-wort, which it has been suggested "is rather to be derived from its use in uterine complaints than from the animal." Among names in which the word cow figures may be mentioned the cow-bane, water-hemlock, from its supposed baneful effects upon cows, because, writes Withering, "early in the spring, when it grows in the water, cows often eat it, and are killed by it." Cockayne would derive cowslip from _cu_, cow, and _slyppe_, lip, and cow-wheat is so nicknamed from its seed resembling wheat, but being worthless as food for man. The flowers of the _Arum maculatum_ are "bulls and cows;" and in Yorkshire the fruit of _Crataegus oxyacantha_ is bull-horns;--an old name for the horse-leek being bullock's-eye. Many curious names have resulted from the prefix pig, as in Sussex, where the bird's-foot trefoil is known as pig's-pettitoes; and in Devonshire the fruit of the dog-rose is pig's-noses. A Northamptonshire term for goose-grass (_Galium aparine_) is pig-tail, and the pig-nut (_Brunium flexuosum_) derived this name from its tubers being a favourite food of pigs, and resembling nuts in size and flavour. The common cyclamen is sow-head, and a popular name for the _Sonchus oleraceus_ is sow-thistle. Among further names also associated with the sow may be included the sow-fennel, sow-grass, and sow-foot, while the sow-bane (_Chenopodium rubrum_), is so termed from being, as Parkinson tells us, "found certain to kill swine." Among further animal prefixes may be noticed the wolfs-bane (_Aconitum napellus_), wolf's-claws (_Lycopodium clavatum_), wolf's-milk (_Euphorbia helioscopia_), and wolfs-thistle (_Carlina acaulis_). The mouse has given us numerous names, such as mouse-ear (_Hieracium pilosella_), mouse-grass (_Aira caryophyllea_), mouse-ear scorpion-grass (_Myosotis palustris_), mouse-tail (_Myosurus minimus_), and mouse-pea. The term rat-tail has been applied to several plants having a tail-like inflorescence, such as the _Plantago lanceolata_ (ribwort plantain). The term toad as a prefix, like that of dog, frequently means spurious, as in the toad-flax, a plant which, before it comes into flower, bears a tolerably close resemblance to a plant of the true flax. The frog, again, supplies names, such as frog's-lettuce, frog's-foot, frog-grass, and frog-cheese; while hedgehog gives us such names as hedgehog-parsley and hedgehog-grass. Connected with the dragon we have the name dragon applied to the snake-weed (_Polygonum bistorta_), and dragon's-blood is one of the popular names of the Herb-Robert. The water-dragon is a nickname of the _Caltha palustris_, and dragon's-mouth of the _Digitalis purpurea_. Once more, there is scorpion-grass and scorpion-wort, both of which refer to various species of Myosotis; snakes and vipers also adding to the list. Thus there is viper's-bugloss, and snake-weed. In Gloucestershire the fruit of the _Arum maculatum_ is snake's-victuals, and snake's-head is a common name for thefritillary. There is the snake-skin willow and snake's-girdles;--snake's-tongue being a name given to the bane-wort (_Ranunculus flammula_). Names in which the devil figures have been noticed elsewhere, as also those in which the words fairy and witch enter. As the authors, too, of the "Dictionary of Plant Names" have pointed out, a great number of names may be called dedicatory, and embody the names of many of the saints, and even of the Deity. The latter, however, are very few in number, owing perhaps to a sense of reverence, and "God Almighty's bread and cheese," "God's eye," "God's grace," "God's meat," "Our Lord's, or Our Saviour's flannel," "Christ's hair," "Christ's herb," "Christ's ladder," "Christ's thorn," "Holy Ghost," and "Herb-Trinity," make up almost the whole list. On the other hand, the Virgin Mary has suggested numerous names, some of which we have noticed in the chapter on sacred plants. Certain of the saints, again, have perpetuated their names in our plant nomenclature, instances of which are scattered throughout the present volume. Some plants, such as flea-bane and wolf's-bane, refer to the reputed property of the plant to keep off or injure the animal named,[5] and there is a long list of plants which derived their names from their real or imaginary medicinal virtues, many of which illustrate the old doctrine of signatures. Birds, again, like animals, have suggested various names, and among some of the best-known ones may be mentioned the goose-foot, goose-grass, goose-tongue. Shakespeare speaks of cuckoo-buds, and there is cuckoo's-head, cuckoo-flower, and cuckoo-fruit, besides the stork's-bill and crane's-bill. Bees are not without their contingent of names; a popular name of the _Delphinium grandiflorum_ being the bee-larkspur, "from the resemblance of the petals, which are studded with yellow hairs, to the humble-bee whose head is buried in the recesses of the flower." There is the bee-flower (_Ophrys apifera_), because the, "lip is in form and colour so like a bee, that any one unacquainted therewith would take it for a living bee sucking of the flower." In addition to the various classes of names already mentioned, there are a rich and very varied assortment found in most counties throughout the country, many of which have originated in the most amusing and eccentric way. Thus "butter and eggs" and "eggs and bacon" are applied to several plants, from the two shades of yellow in the flower, and butter-churn to the _Nuphar luteum_, from the shape of the fruit. A popular term for _Nepeta glechoma_ is "hen and chickens," and "cocks and hens" for the _Plantago lanceolata_. A Gloucestershire nickname for the _Plantago media_ is fire-leaves, and the hearts'-ease has been honoured with all sorts of romantic names, such as "kiss me behind the garden gate;" and "none so pretty" is one of the popular names of the saxifrage. Among the names of the Arum may be noticed "parson in the pulpit," "cows and calves," "lords and ladies," and "wake-robin." The potato has a variety of names, such as leather-jackets, blue-eyes, and red-eyes. A pretty name in Devonshire for the _Veronica chamcaedrys_ is angel's-eyes:-- "Around her hat a wreath was twined Of blossoms, blue as southern skies; I asked their name, and she replied, We call them angel's-eyes."[6] In the northern counties the poplar, on account of its bitter bark, was termed the bitter-weed.[7] "Oak, ash, and elm-tree, The laird can hang for a' the three; But fir, saugh, and bitter-weed, The laird may flyte, but make naething be'et." According to the compilers of "English Plant Names," "this name is assigned to no particular species of poplar, nor have we met with it elsewhere." The common Solomon's seal (_Polygonatum multiflorum_) has been nicknamed "David's harp,"[8] and, "appears to have arisen from the exact similarity of the outline of the bended stalk, with its pendent bill-like blossoms, to the drawings of monkish times in which King David is represented as seated before an instrument shaped like the half of a pointed arch, from which are suspended metal bells, which he strikes with two hammers." In the neighbourhood of Torquay, fir-cones are designated oysters, and in Sussex the Arabis is called "snow-on-the-mountain," and "snow-in-summer." A Devonshire name for the sweet scabriosis is the mournful-widow, and in some places the red valerian (_Centranthus ruber_) is known as scarlet-lightning. A common name for _Achillaea ptarmica_ is sneezewort, and the _Petasites vulgaris_ has been designated "son before the father." The general name for _Drosera rotundifolia_ is sun-dew, and in Gloucestershire the _Primula auricula_ is the tanner's-apron. The _Viola tricolor_ is often known as "three faces in a hood," and the _Aconitum napellus_ as "Venus's chariot drawn by two doves." The _Stellaria holostea_ is "lady's white petticoat," and the _Scandix pecten_ is "old wife's darning-needles." One of the names of the Campion is plum-pudding, and "spittle of the stars" has been applied to the _Nostoc commune_. Without giving further instances of these odd plant names, we would conclude by quoting the following extract from the preface of Mr. Earle's charming little volume on "English Plant Names," a remark which, indeed, most equally applies to other sections of our subject beyond that of the present chapter:--"The fascination of plant names has its foundation in two instincts, love of Nature, and curiosity about Language. Plant names are often of the highest antiquity, and more or less common to the whole stream of related nations. Could we penetrate to the original suggestive idea that called forth the name, it would bring valuable information about the first openings of the human mind towards Nature; and the merest dream of such a discovery invests with a strange charm the words that could tell, if we could understand, so much of the forgotten infancy of the human race." Footnotes: 1. "Dictionary of English Plant Names," by J. Britten and Robert Holland. 1886. 2. "English Plant Names," Introduction, p. xiii. 3. See Folkard's "Legends," p. 309; Friend's "Flowers and Flowerlore," ii. 401-5. 4. See "Flower-lore," p. 74. 5. Friend's "Flower-lore," ii. 425. 6. _Garden_, June 29, 1872. 7. Johnston's "Botany of Eastern Borders," 1853, p. 177. 8. Lady Wilkinson's "Weeds and Wild Flowers," p. 269. CHAPTER XIV. PLANT LANGUAGE. Plant language, as expressive of the various traits of human character, can boast of a world-wide and antique history. It is not surprising that flowers, the varied and lovely productions of nature's dainty handiwork, should have been employed as symbolic emblems, and most aptly indicative oftentimes of what words when even most wisely chosen can ill convey; for as Tennyson remarks:-- "Any man that walks the mead In bud, or blade, or bloom, may find A meaning suited to his mind." Hence, whether we turn to the pages of the Sacred Volume, or to the early Greek writings, we find the symbolism of flowers most eloquently illustrated, while Persian poetry is rich in allusions of the same kind. Indeed, as Mr. Ingram has remarked in his "Flora Symbolica,"[1]--Every age and every clime has promulgated its own peculiar system of floral signs, and it has been said that the language of flowers is as old as the days of Adam; having, also, thousands of years ago, existed in the Indian, Egyptian, and Chaldean civilisations which have long since passed away. He further adds how the Chinese, whose, "chronicles antedate the historic records of all other nations, seem to have had a simple but complete mode of communicating ideas by means of florigraphic signs;" whereas, "the monuments of the old Assyrian and Egyptian races bear upon their venerable surfaces a code of floral telegraphy whose hieroglyphical meaning is veiled or but dimly guessed at in our day." The subject is an extensive one, and also enters largely into the ceremonial use of flowers, many of which were purposely selected for certain rites from their long-established symbolical character. At the same time, it must be remembered that many plants have had a meaning attached to them by poets and others, who have by a license of their own made them to represent certain sentiments and ideas for which there is no authority save their own fancy. Hence in numerous instances a meaning, wholly misguiding, has been assigned to various plants, and has given rise to much confusion. This, too, it may be added, is the case in other countries as well as our own. Furthermore, as M. de Gubernatis observes, "there exist a great number of books which pretend to explain the language of flowers, wherein one may occasionally find a popular or traditional symbol; but, as a rule, these expressions are generally the wild fancies of the author himself." Hence, in dealing with plant language, one is confronted with a host of handbooks, many of which are not only inaccurate, but misleading. But in enumerating the recognised and well-known plants that have acquired a figurative meaning, it will be found that in a variety of cases this may be traced to their connection with some particular event in years past, and not to some chance or caprice, as some would make us believe. The amaranth, for instance, which is the emblem of immortality, received its name, "never-fading," from the Greeks on account of the lasting nature of its blossoms. Accordingly, Milton crowns with amaranth the angelic multitude assembled before the Deity:-- "To the ground, With solemn adoration, down they cast Their crowns, inwove with amaranth and gold. Immortal amaranth, a flower which once In Paradise, fast by the tree of life, Began to bloom; but soon, for man's offence, To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows And flowers aloft, shading the font of life," &c. And in some parts of the Continent churches are adorned at Christmas-tide with the amaranth, as a symbol "of that immortality to which their faith bids them look." Grass, from its many beneficial qualities, has been made the emblem of usefulness; and the ivy, from its persistent habit of clinging to the heaviest support, has been universally adopted as the symbol of confiding love and fidelity. Growing rapidly, it iron clasps:-- "The fissured stone with its entwining arms, And embowers with leaves for ever green, And berries dark." According to a Cornish tradition, the beautiful Iseult, unable to endure the loss of her betrothed--the brave Tristran--died of a broken heart, and was buried in the same church, but, by order of the king, the two graves were placed at a distance from each other. Soon, however, there burst forth from the tomb of Tristran a branch of ivy, and another from the grave of Iseult; these shoots gradually growing upwards, until at last the lovers, represented by the clinging ivy, were again united beneath the vaulted roof of heaven.[2] Then, again, the cypress, in floral language, denotes mourning; and, as an emblem of woe, may be traced to the familiar classical myth of Cyparissus, who, sorrow-stricken at having skin his favourite stag, was transformed into a cypress tree. Its ominous and sad character is the subject of constant allusion, Virgil having introduced it into the funeral rites of his heroes. Shelley speaks of the unwept youth whom no mourning maidens decked, "With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath, The love-couch of his everlasting sleep." And Byron describes the cypress as, "Dark tree! still sad when other's grief is fled, The only constant mourner o'er the dead." The laurel, used for classic wreaths, has long been regarded emblematical of renown, and Tasso thus addresses a laurel leaf in the hair of his mistress:-- "O glad triumphant bough, That now adornest conquering chiefs, and now Clippest the bows of over-ruling kings From victory to victory. Thus climbing on through all the heights of story, From worth to worth, and glory unto glory, To finish all, O gentle and royal tree, Thou reignest now upon that flourishing head, At whose triumphant eyes love and our souls are led." Like the rose, the myrtle is the emblem of love, having been dedicated by the Greeks and Romans to Venus, in the vicinity of whose temples myrtle-groves were planted; hence, from time immemorial, "Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade." This will explain its frequent use in bridal ceremonies on the Continent, and its employment for the wedding wreath of the Jewish damsel. Herrick, mindful of its associations, thus apostrophises Venus:-- "Goddess, I do love a girl, Ruby lipp'd and toothed like pearl; If so be I may but prove Lucky in this maid I love, I will promise there shall be Myrtles offered up to thee." To the same goddess was dedicated the rose, and its world-wide reputation as "the flower of love," in which character it has been extolled by poets in ancient and modern times, needs no more than reference here. The olive indicates peace, and as an emblem was given to Judith when she restored peace to the Israelites by the death of Holofernes.[3] Shakespeare, in "Twelfth Night" (Act i. sc. 5), makes Viola say:--"I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as full of peace as of matter." Similarly, the palm, which, as the symbol of victory, was carried before the conqueror in triumphal processions, is generally regarded as denoting victory. Thus, palm-branches were scattered in the path of Christ upon His public entry into Jerusalem; and, at the present day, a palm-branch is embroidered on the lappet of the gown of a French professor, to indicate that a University degree has been attained.[4] Some flowers have become emblematical from their curious characteristics. Thus, the balsam is held to be expressive of impatience, because its seed-pods when ripe curl up at the slightest touch, and dart forth their seeds, with great violence; hence one of its popular names, "touch-me-not." The wild anemone has been considered indicative of brevity, because its fragile blossom is so quickly scattered to the wind and lost:-- "The winds forbid the flowers to flourish long, Which owe to winds their name in Grecian song." The poppy, from its somniferous effects, has been made symbolic of sleep and oblivion; hence Virgil calls it the Lethean poppy, whilst our old pastoral poet, William Browne, speaks of it as "sleep-bringing poppy." The heliotrope denotes devoted attachment, from its having been supposed to turn continually towards the sun; hence its name, signifying the _sun_ and _to turn_. The classic heliotrope must not be confounded with the well-known Peruvian heliotrope or "cherry-pie," a plant with small lilac-blue blossoms of a delicious fragrance. It would seem that many of the flowers which had the reputation of opening and shutting at the sun's bidding were known as heliotropes, or sunflowers, or turnesol. Shakespeare alludes to the, "Marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, And with him rises weeping." And Moore, describing its faithful constancy, says:-- "The sunflower turns on her god when he sets The same look which she did when he rose." Such a flower, writes Mr. Ellacombe, was to old writers "the emblem of constancy in affection and sympathy in joy and sorrow," though it was also the emblem of the fawning courtier, who can only shine when everything is right. Anyhow, the so-called heliotrope was the subject of constant symbolic allusion:-- "The flower, enamoured of the sun, At his departure hangs her head and weeps, And shrouds her sweetness up, and keeps Sad vigils, like a cloistered nun, Till his reviving ray appears, Waking her beauty as he dries her tears."[5] The aspen, from its tremulous motion, has been made symbolical of fear. The restless movement of its leaves is "produced by the peculiar form of the foot-stalks, and, indeed, in some degree, the whole tribe of poplars are subject to have their leaves agitated by the slightest breeze."[6] Another meaning assigned to the aspen in floral language is scandal, from an old saying which affirmed that its tears were made from women's tongues--an allusion to which is made in the subjoined rhyme by P. Hannay in the year 1622:-- "The quaking aspen, light and thin, To the air quick passage gives; Resembling still The trembling ill Of tongues of womankind, Which never rest, But still are prest To wave with every wind." The almond, again, is regarded as expressive of haste, in reference to its hasty growth and early maturity; while the evening primrose, from the time of its blossoms expanding, indicates silent love--refraining from unclosing "her cup of paly gold until her lowly sisters are rocked into a balmy slumber." The bramble, from its manner of growth, has been chosen as the type of lowliness; and "from the fierceness with which it grasps the passer-by with its straggling prickly stems, as an emblem of remorse." Fennel was in olden times generally considered an inflammatory herb, and hence to eat "conger and fennel" was to eat two high and hot things together, which was an act of libertinism. Thus in "2 Henry IV." (Act ii. sc. 4), Falstaff says of Poins, "He eats conger and fennel." Rosemary formerly had the reputation of strengthening the memory, and on this account was regarded as a symbol of remembrance. Thus, according to an old ballad:-- "Rosemary is for remembrance Between us day and night, Wishing that I may always have You present in my sight." And in "Hamlet," where Ophelia seems to be addressing Laertes, she says (Act iv. sc. 5):-- "There's rosemary, that's for remembrance." Vervain, from time immemorial, has been the floral symbol of enchantment, owing to its having been in ancient times much in request for all kinds of divinations and incantations. Virgil, it may be remembered, alludes to this plant as one of the charms used by an enchantress:-- "Bring running water, bind those altars round With fillets, with vervain strew the ground." Parsley, according to floral language, has a double signification, denoting feasting and death. On festive occasions the Greeks wore wreaths of parsley, and on many other occasions it was employed, such as at the Isthmian games. On the other hand, this plant was strewn over the bodies of the dead, and decked their graves. "The weeping willow," as Mr. Ingram remarks, "is one of those natural emblems which bear their florigraphical meaning so palpably impressed that their signification is clear at first sight." This tree has always been regarded as the symbol of sorrow, and also of forsaken love. In China it is employed in several rites, having from a remote period been regarded as a token of immortality. As a symbol of bitterness the aloe has long been in repute, and "as bitter as aloes" is a proverbial expression, doubtless derived from the acid taste of its juice. Eastern poets frequently speak of this plant as the emblem of bitterness; a meaning which most fitly coincides with its properties. The lily of the valley has had several emblems conferred upon it, each of which is equally apposite. Thus in reference to the bright hopeful season of spring, in which it blossoms, it has been regarded as symbolical of the return of happiness, whilst its delicate perfume has long been indicative of sweetness, a characteristic thus beautifully described by Keats:-- "No flower amid the garden fairer grows Than the sweet lily of the lowly vale, The queen of flowers." Its perfect snow-white flower is the emblem of purity, allusions to which we find numerously scattered in the literature of the past. One of the emblems of the white poplar in floral language is time, because its leaves appear always in motion, and "being of a dead blackish-green above, and white below," writes Mr. Ingram, "they were deemed by the ancients to indicate the alternation of night and day." Again, the plane-tree has been from early times made the symbol of genius and magnificence; for in olden times philosophers taught beneath its branches, which acquired for it a reputation as one of the seats of learning. From its beauty and size it obtained a figurative meaning; and the arbutus or strawberry-tree (_Arbutus unedo_) is the symbol of inseparable love, and the narcissus denotes self-love, from the story of Narcissus, who, enamoured of his own beauty, became spell-bound to the spot, where he pined to death. Shelley describes it as one of the flowers growing with the sensitive plant in that garden where:-- "The pied wind flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Till they die at their own dear loveliness." The sycamore implies curiosity, from Zacchaeus, who climbed up into this tree to witness the triumphal entry of Christ into Jerusalem; and from time immemorial the violet has been the emblem of constancy:-- "Violet is for faithfulness, Which in me shall abide, Hoping likewise that from your heart You will not let it hide." In some cases flowers seem to have derived their symbolism from certain events associated with them. Thus the periwinkle signifies "early recollections, or pleasures of memory," in connection with which Rousseau tells us how, as Madame Warens and himself were proceeding to Charmattes, she was struck by the appearance of some of these blue flowers in the hedge, and exclaimed, "Here is the periwinkle still in flower." Thirty years afterwards the sight of the periwinkle in flower carried his memory back to this occasion, and he inadvertently cried, "Ah, there is the periwinkle." Incidents of the kind have originated many of the symbols found in plant language, and at the same time invested them with a peculiar historic interest. Once more, plant language, it has been remarked, is one of those binding links which connects the sentiments and feelings of one country with another; although it may be, in other respects, these communities have little in common. Thus, as Mr. Ingram remarks in the introduction to his "Flora Symbolica" (p. 12), "from the unlettered North American Indian to the highly polished Parisian; from the days of dawning among the mighty Asiatic races, whose very names are buried in oblivion, down to the present times, the symbolism of flowers is everywhere and in all ages discovered permeating all strata of society. It has been, and still is, the habit of many peoples to name the different portions of the year after the most prominent changes of the vegetable kingdom." In the United States, the language of flowers is said to have more votaries than in any other part of the world, many works relative to which have been published in recent years. Indeed, the subject will always be a popular one; for further details illustrative of which the reader would do well to consult Mr. H.G. Adams's useful work on the "Moral Language and Poetry of Flowers," not to mention the constant allusions scattered throughout the works of our old poets, such as Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Drayton. Footnotes: 1. Introduction, p. 12. 2. Folkard's "Plant Legends," p. 389. 3. See Judith xv. 13. 4. "Flower-lore," pp. 197-8. 5. "Plant-lore of Shakespeare." 6. "Flower-lore," p. 168. CHAPTER XV. FABULOUS PLANTS. The curious traditions of imaginary plants found amongst most nations have partly a purely mythological origin. Frequently, too, they may be attributed to the exaggerated accounts given by old travellers, who, "influenced by a desire to make themselves famous, have gone so far as to pretend that they saw these fancied objects." Anyhow, from whatever source sprung, these productions of ignorance and superstition have from a very early period been firmly credited. But, like the accounts given us of fabulous animals, they have long ago been acknowledged as survivals of popular errors, which owed their existence to the absence of botanical knowledge. We have elsewhere referred to the great world tree, and of the primitive idea of a human descent from trees. Indeed, according to the early and uncultured belief of certain communities, there were various kinds of animal-producing trees, accounts of which are very curious. Among these may be mentioned the vegetable lamb, concerning which olden writers have given the most marvellous description. Thus Sir John Maundeville, who in his "Voyage and Travel" has recorded many marvellous sights which either came under his notice, or were reported to him during his travels, has not omitted to speak of this remarkable tree. Thus, to quote his words:--"There groweth a manner of fruit as though it were gourdes; and when they be ripe men cut them in two, and men find within a little beast, in flesh, in bone, and blood--as though it were a little lamb withouten wolle--and men eat both the fruit and the beast, and that is a great marvel; of that fruit I have eaten although it were wonderful; but that I know well that God is marvellous in His works." Various accounts have been given of this wondrous plant, and in Parkinson's "Paradisus" it is represented as one of the plants which grew in the Garden of Eden. Its local name is the Scythian or Tartarian Lamb; and, as it grows, it might at a short distance be taken for an animal rather than a vegetable production. It is one of the genus Polypodium; root decumbent, thickly clothed with a very soft close hoal, of a deep yellow colour. It is also called by the Tartars "Barometz," and a Chinese nickname is "Rufous dog." Mr. Bell, in his "Journey to Ispahan," thus describes a specimen which he saw:--"It seemed to be made by art to imitate a lamb. It is said to eat up and devour all the grass and weeds within its reach. Though it may be thought that an opinion so very absurd could never find credit with people of the meanest understanding, yet I have conversed with some who were much inclined to believe it; so very prevalent is the prodigious and absurd with some part of mankind. Among the more sensible and experienced Tartars, I found they laughed at it as a ridiculous fable." Blood was said to flow from it when cut or injured, a superstition which probably originated in the fact that the fresh root when cut yields a tenacious gum like the blood of animals. Dr. Darwin, in his "Loves of the Plants," adopts the fable thus:-- "E'en round the pole the flames of love aspire, And icy bosoms feel the sacred fire, Cradled in snow, and fanned by arctic air, Shines, gentle Barometz, the golden hair; Rested in earth, each cloven hoof descends, And round and round her flexile neck she bends. Crops of the grey coral moss, and hoary thyme, Or laps with rosy tongue the melting rime, Eyes with mute tenderness her distant dam, Or seems to bleat a vegetable lamb." Another curious fiction prevalent in olden times was that of the barnacle-tree, to which Sir John Maundeville also alludes:--"In our country were trees that bear a fruit that becomes flying birds; those that fell in the water lived, and those that fell on the earth died, and these be right good for man's meat." As early as the twelfth century this idea was promulgated by Giraldus Cambrensis in his "Topographia Hiberniae;" and Gerarde in his "Herball, or General History of Plants," published in the year 1597, narrates the following:--"There are found in the north parts of Scotland, and the isles adjacent, called Orcades, certain trees, whereon do grow small fishes, of a white colour, tending to russet, wherein are contained little living creatures; which shells, in time of maturity, do open, and out of them grow those little living things which, falling into the water, do become fowls, whom we call barnacles, in the north of England brant-geese, and in Lancashire tree-geese; but the others that do fall upon the land perish, and do come to nothing." But, like many other popular fictions, this notion was founded on truth, and probably originated in mistaking the fleshy peduncle of the barnacle (_Lepas analifera_) for the neck of a goose, the shell for its head, and the tentacula for a tuft of feather. There were many versions of this eccentric myth, and according to one modification given by Boëce, the oldest Scottish historian, these barnacle-geese are first produced in the form of worms in old trees, and further adds that such a tree was cast on shore in the year 1480, when there appeared, on its being sawn asunder, a multitude of worms, "throwing themselves out of sundry holes and pores of the tree; some of them were nude, as they were new shapen; some had both head, feet, and wings, but they had no feathers; some of them were perfect shapen fowls. At last, the people having this tree each day in more admiration, brought it to the kirk of St. Andrew's, beside the town of Tyre, where it yet remains to our day." Du Bartas thus describes the various transformations of this bird:-- "So, slowe Boôtes underneath him sees, In th' ycie iles, those goslings hatcht of trees; Whose fruitful leaves, falling into the water, Are turn'd, they say, to living fowls soon after. So, rotten sides of broken ships do change To barnacles; O transformation change, 'Twas first a green tree, then a gallant hull, Lately a mushroom, now a flying gull." Meyer wrote a treatise on this strange "bird without father or mother," and Sir Robert Murray, in the "Philosophical Transactions," says that, "these shells are hung at the tree by a neck, longer than the shell, of a filmy substance, round and hollow and creased, not unlike the windpipe of a chicken, spreading out broadest where it is fastened to the tree, from which it seems to draw and convey the matter which serves for the growth and vegetation of the shell and the little bird within it. In every shell that I opened," he adds, "I found a perfect sea-fowl; the little bill like that of a goose, the eyes marked; the head, neck, breast, wing, tail, and feet formed; the feathers everywhere perfectly shaped, and the feet like those of other water-fowl." The Chinese have a tradition of certain trees, the leaves of which were finally changed into birds. With this story may be compared that of the oyster-bearing tree, which Bishop Fleetwood describes in his "Curiosities of Agriculture and Gardening," written in the year 1707. The oysters as seen, he says, by the Dominican Du Tertre, at Guadaloupe, grew on the branches of trees, and, "are not larger than the little English oysters, that is to say, about the size of a crown-piece. They stick to the branches that hang in the water of a tree called Paretuvier. No doubt the seed of the oysters, which is shed in the tree when they spawn, cleaves to those branches, so that the oysters form themselves there, and grow bigger in process of time, and by their weight bend down the branches into the sea, and then are refreshed twice a day by the flux and reflux of it." Kircher speaks of a tree in Chili, the leaves of which brought forth a certain kind of worm, which eventually became changed into serpents; and describes a plant which grew in the Molucca Islands, nicknamed "catopa," on account of its leaves when falling off being transformed into butterflies. Among some of the many other equally wonderful plants may be mentioned the "stony wood," which is thus described by Gerarde:--"Being at Rugby, about such time as our fantastic people did with great concourse and multitudes repair and run headlong unto the sacred wells of Newnam Regis, in the edge of Warwickshire, as unto the Waters of Life, which could cure all diseases." He visited these healing-wells, where he, "found growing over the same a fair ash-tree, whose boughs did hang over the spring of water, whereof some that were seare and rotten, and some that of purpose were broken off, fell into the water and were all turned into stone. Of these, boughs, or parts of the tree, I brought into London, which, when I had broken into pieces, therein might be seen that the pith and all the rest was turned into stones, still remaining the same shape and fashion that they were of before they were in the water." Similarly, Sir John Maundeville notices the "Dead Sea fruit"--fruit found on the apple-trees near the Dead Sea. To quote his own words:-- "There be full fair apples, and fair of colour to behold; but whoso breaketh them or cutteth them in two, he shall find within them coals and cinders, in token that by the wrath of God, the city and the land were burnt and sunken into hell." Speaking of the many legendary tales connected with the apple, may be mentioned the golden apples which Hera received at her marriage with Zeus, and placed under the guardianship of the dragon Ladon, in the garden of the Hesperides. The northern Iduna kept guarded the sacred apples which, by a touch, restored the aged gods to youth; and according to Sir J. Maundeville, the apples of Pyban fed the pigmies with their smell only. This reminds us of the singing apple in the fairy romance, which would persuade by its smell alone, and enable the possessor to write poetry or prose, and to display the most accomplished wit; and of the singing tree in the "Arabian Nights," each leaf of which was musical, all the leaves joining together in a delightful harmony. But peculiarities of this kind are very varied, and form an extensive section in "Plant-lore;"--very many curious examples being found in old travels, and related with every semblance of truth. In some instances trees have obtained a fabulous character from being connected with certain events. Thus there was the "bleeding tree."[1] It appears that one of the indictments laid to the charge of the Marquis of Argyll was this:--"That a tree on which thirty-six of his enemies were hanged was immediately blasted, and when hewn down, a copious stream of blood ran from it, saturating the earth, and that blood for several years was emitted from the roots." Then there is the "poet's tree," which grows over the tomb of Tan-Sein, a musician at the court of Mohammed Akbar. Whoever chews a leaf of this tree was long said to be inspired with sweet melody of voice, an allusion to which is made by Moore, in "Lalla Kookh:":--"His voice was sweet, as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree which grows over the tomb of the musician Tan-Sein." The rare but occasional occurrence of vegetation in certain trees and shrubs, happening to take place at the period of Christ's birth, gave rise to the belief that such trees threw out their leaves with a holy joy to commemorate that anniversary. An oak of the early budding species for two centuries enjoyed such a notoriety, having been said to shoot forth its leaves on old Christmas Day, no leaf being seen either before or after that day during winter. There was the famous Glastonbury thorn, and in the same locality a walnut tree was reported never to put forth its leaves before the feast of St. Barnabas, the 11th June. The monkish legend runs thus: Joseph of Arimathaea, after landing at no great distance from Glastonbury, walked to a hill about a mile from the town. Being weary he sat down here with his companions, the hill henceforth being nicknamed "Weary-All-Hill," locally abbreviated into "Werral." Whilst resting Joseph struck his staff into the ground, which took root, grew, and blossomed every Christmas Day. Previous to the time of Charles I a branch of this famous tree was carried in procession, with much ceremony, at Christmas time, but during the Civil War the tree was cut down. Many plants, again, as the "Sesame" of the "Arabian Nights," had the power of opening doors and procuring an entrance into caverns and mountain sides--a survival of which we find in the primrose or key-flower of German legend. Similarly, other plants, such as the golden-rod, have been renowned for pointing to hidden springs of water, and revealing treasures of gold and silver. Such fabulous properties have been also assigned to the hazel-branch, popularly designated the divining-rod:-- "Some sorcerers do boast they have a rod, Gather'd with vows and sacrifice, And, borne aloft, will strangely nod The hidden treasure where it lies." With plants of the kind we may compare the wonder-working moonwort (_Botrychium lunaria_), which was said to open locks and to unshoe horses that trod on it, a notion which Du Bartas thus mentions in his "Divine Weekes"-- "Horses that, feeding on the grassy hills, Tread upon moonwort with their hollow heels, Though lately shod, at night go barefoot home, Their maister musing where their shoes become. O moonwort! tell me where thou bid'st the smith, Hammer and pinchers, thou unshodd'st them with. Alas! what lock or iron engine is't, That can thy subtle secret strength resist, Still the best farrier cannot set a shoe So sure, but thou (so shortly) canst undo." The blasting-root, known in Germany as spring-wurzel, and by us as spring-wort, possesses similar virtues, for whatever lock is touched by it must yield. It is no easy matter to find this magic plant, but, according to a piece of popular folk-lore, it is obtained by means of the woodpecker. When this bird visits its nest, it must have been previously plugged up with wood, to remove which it goes in search of the spring-wort. On holding this before the nest the wood shoots out from the tree as if driven by the most violent force. Meanwhile, a red cloth must be placed near the nest, which will so scare the woodpecker that it will let the fabulous root drop. There are several versions of this tradition. According to Pliny the bird is the raven; in Swabia it is the hoopoe, and in Switzerland the swallow. In Russia, there is a plant growing in marshy land, known as the rasir-trava, which when applied to locks causes them to open instantly. In Iceland similar properties are ascribed to the herb-paris, there known as lasa-grass. According to a piece of Breton lore, the selago, or "cloth of gold," cannot be cut with steel without the sky darkening and some disaster taking place:-- "The herb of gold is cut; a cloud Across the sky hath spread its shroud To war." On the other hand, if properly gathered with due ceremony, it conferred the power of understanding the language of beast or bird.[2] As far back as the time of Pliny, we have directions for the gathering of this magic plant. The person plucking it was to go barefoot, with feet washed, clad in white, after having offered a sacrifice of bread and wine. Another plant which had to be gathered with special formalities was the magic mandragora. It was commonly reported to shriek in such a hideous manner when pulled out of the earth that, "Living mortals hearing them run mad." Hence, various precautions were adopted. According to Pliny, "When they intended to take up the root of this plant, they took the wind thereof, and with a sword describing three circles about it, they digged it up, looking towards the west." Another old authority informs us that he "Who would take it up, in common prudence should tie a dog to it to accomplish his purpose, as if he did it himself, he would shortly die." Moore gives this warning:-- "The phantom shapes--oh, touch them not That appal the maiden's sight, Look in the fleshy mandrake's stem, That shrieks when plucked at night." To quote one or two more illustrations, we may mention the famous lily at Lauenberg, which is said to have sprung up when a poor and beautiful girl was spirited away out of the clutches of a dissolute baron. It made its appearance annually, an event which was awaited with much interest by the inhabitants of the Hartz, many of whom made a pilgrimage to behold it. "They returned to their homes," it is said, "overpowered by its dazzling beauty, and asserting that its splendour was so great that it shed beams of light on the valley below." Similarly, we are told how the common break-fern flowers but once a year, at midnight, on Michaelmas Eve, when it displays a small blue flower, which vanishes at the approach of dawn. According to a piece of folk-lore current in Bohemia and the Tyrol, the fern-seed shines like glittering gold at the season, so that there is no chance of missing its appearance, especially as it has its sundry mystic properties which are described elsewhere. Professor Mannhardt relates a strange legend current in Mecklenburg to the effect that in a certain secluded and barren spot, where a murder had been committed, there grows up every day at noon a peculiarly-shaped thistle, unlike any other of its kind. On inspection there are to be seen human arms, hands, and heads, and as soon as twelve heads have appeared, the weird plant vanishes. It is further added that on one occasion a shepherd happened to pass the mysterious spot where the thistle was growing, when instantly his arms were paralysed and his staff became tinder. Accounts of these fabulous trees and plants have in years gone been very numerous, and have not yet wholly died out, surviving in the legendary tales of most countries. In some instances, too, it would seem that certain trees like animals have gained a notoriety, purely fabulous, through trickery and credulity. About the middle of the last century, for instance, there was the groaning-tree at Badesly, which created considerable sensation. It appears that a cottager, who lived in the village of Badesly, two miles from Lymington, frequently heard a strange noise behind his house, like a person in extreme agony. For about twenty months this tree was an object of astonishment, and at last the owner of the tree, in order to discover the cause of its supposed sufferings, bored a hole in the trunk. After this operation it ceased to groan, it was rooted up, but nothing appeared to account for its strange peculiarity. Stories of this kind remind us of similar wonders recorded by Sir John Maundeville, as having been seen by him in the course of his Eastern travels. Thus he describes a certain table of ebony or blackwood, "that once used to turn into flesh on certain occasions, but whence now drops only oil, which, if kept above a year, becomes good flesh and bone." Footnotes: 1. Laing's "History of Scotland," 1800, ii. p. II. 2. "Flower-lore," p. 46. CHAPTER XVI. DOCTRINE OF SIGNATURES. The old medical theory, which supposed that plants by their external character indicated the particular diseases for which Nature had intended them as remedies, was simply a development of the much older notion of a real connection between object and image. Thus, on this principle, it was asserted that the properties of substances were frequently denoted by their colour; hence, white was regarded as refrigerant, and red as hot. In the same way, for disorders of the blood, burnt purple, pomegranate seeds, mulberries, and other red ingredients were dissolved in the patient's drink; and for liver complaints yellow substances were recommended. But this fanciful and erroneous notion "led to serious errors in practice," [1] and was occasionally productive of the most fatal results. Although, indeed, Pliny spoke of the folly of the magicians in using the catanance (Greek: katanhankae, compulsion) for love-potions, on account of its shrinking "in drying into the shape of the claws of a dead kite," [2] and so holding the patient fast; yet this primitive idea, after the lapse of centuries, was as fully credited as in the early days when it was originally started. Throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, for instance, it is noticed in most medical works, and in many cases treated with a seriousness characteristic of the backward state of medical science even at a period so comparatively recent. Crollius wrote a work on the subject; and Langham, in his "Garden of Health," published in the year 1578, accepted the doctrine. Coles, in his "Art of Simpling" (1656), thus describes it:-- "Though sin and Satan have plunged mankind into an ocean of infirmities, yet the mercy of God, which is over all His workes, maketh grasse to growe upon the mountains and herbes for the use of men, and hath not only stamped upon them a distinct forme, but also given them particular signatures, whereby a man may read even in legible characters the use of them." John Ray, in his treatise on "The Wisdom of God in Creation," was among the first to express his disbelief of this idea, and writes:--"As for the signatures of plants, or the notes impressed upon them as notices of their virtues, some lay great stress upon them, accounting them strong arguments to prove that some understanding principle is the highest original of the work of Nature, as indeed they were could it be certainly made to appear that there were such marks designedly set upon them, because all that I find mentioned by authors seem to be rather fancied by men than designed by Nature to signify, or point out, any such virtues, or qualities, as they would make us believe." His views, however, are somewhat contradictory, inasmuch as he goes on to say that, "the noxious and malignant plants do, many of them, discover something of their nature by the sad and melancholick visage of their leaves, flowers, or fruit. And that I may not leave that head wholly untouched, one observation I shall add relating to the virtues of plants, in which I think there is something of truth--that is, that there are of the wise dispensation of Providence such species of plants produced in every country as are made proper and convenient for the meat and medicine of the men and animals that are bred and inhabit therein." Indeed, however much many of the botanists of bygone centuries might try to discredit this popular delusion, they do not seem to have been wholly free from its influence themselves. Some estimate, also, of the prominence which the doctrine of signatures obtained may be gathered from the frequent allusions to it in the literature of the period. Thus, to take one illustration, the euphrasia or eye-bright (_Euphrasia officinalis_), which was, and is, supposed to be good for the eye, owing to a black pupil-like spot in its corolla, is noticed by Milton, who, it may be remembered, represents the archangel as clearing the vision of our first parents by its means:-- "Then purged with euphrasy and rue His visual orbs, for he had much to see." Spenser speaks of it in the same strain:-- "Yet euphrasie may not be left unsung, That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around." And Thomson says:-- "If she, whom I implore, Urania, deign With euphrasy to purge away the mists, Which, humid, dim the mirror of the mind." With reference to its use in modern times, Anne Pratt[3] tells us how, "on going into a small shop in Dover, she saw a quantity of the plant suspended from the ceiling, and was informed that it was gathered and dried as being good for weak eyes;" and in many of our rural districts I learn that the same value is still attached to it by the peasantry. Again, it is interesting to observe how, under a variety of forms, this piece of superstition has prevailed in different parts of the world. By virtue of a similar association of ideas, for instance, the gin-seng [4] was said by the Chinese and North American Indians to possess certain virtues which were deduced from the shape of the root, supposed to resemble the human body [5]--a plant with which may be compared our mandrake. The Romans of old had their rock-breaking plant called "saxifraga" or _sassafras_; [6] and we know in later times how the granulated roots of our white meadow saxifrage (_Saxifraga granulata_), resembling small stones, were supposed to indicate its efficacy in the cure of calculous complaints. Hence one of its names, stonebreak. The stony seeds of the gromwell were, also, used in cases of stone--a plant formerly known as lichwale, or, as in a MS. of the fifteenth century, lythewale, stone-switch. [7] In accordance, also, with the same principle it was once generally believed that the seeds of ferns were of an invisible sort, and hence, by a transference of properties, it came to be admitted that the possessor of fern-seed could likewise be invisible--a notion which obtained an extensive currency on the Continent. As special good-luck was said to attend the individual who succeeded in obtaining this mystic seed, it was eagerly sought for--Midsummer Eve being one of the occasions when it could be most easily procured. Thus Grimm, in his "Teutonic Mythology," [8] relates how a man in Westphalia was looking on Midsummer night for a foal he had lost, and happened to pass through a meadow just as the fern-seed was ripening, so that it fell into his shoes. In the morning he went home, walked into the sitting-room and sat down, but thought it strange that neither his wife nor any of the family took the least notice of him. "I have not found the foal," said he. Thereupon everybody in the room started and looked alarmed, for they heard his voice but saw him not. His wife then called him, thinking he must have hid himself, but he only replied, "Why do you call me? Here I am right before you." At last he became aware that he was invisible, and, remembering how he had walked in the meadow on the preceding evening, it struck him that he might possibly have fern-seed in his shoes. So he took them off, and as he shook them the fern-seed dropped out, and he was no longer invisible. There are numerous stories of this kind; and, according to Dr. Kuhn, one method for obtaining the fern-seed was, at the summer solstice, to shoot at the sun when it had attained its midday height. If this were done, three drops of blood would fall, which were to be gathered up and preserved--this being the fern-seed. In Bohemia, [9] on old St. John's Night (July 8), one must lay a communion chalice-cloth under the fern, and collect the seed which will fall before sunrise. Among some of the scattered allusions to this piece of folk-lore in the literature of our own country, may be mentioned one by Shakespeare in "I Henry IV." (ii. 1):-- "_Gadshill_. We have the receipt of fern-seed, we walk invisible----[10] "_Chamberlain_. Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night than to fern-seed for your walking invisible." In Ben Jonson's "New Inn" (i. 1), it is thus noticed:-- "I had No medicine, sir, to go invisible, No fern-seed in my pocket." Brand [11] was told by an inhabitant of Heston, in Middlesex, that when he was a young man he was often present at the ceremony of catching the fern-seed at midnight, on the eve of St. John Baptist. The attempt was frequently unsuccessful, for the seed was to fall into a plate of its own accord, and that too without shaking the plate. It is unnecessary to add further illustrations on this point, as we have had occasion to speak elsewhere of the sundry other magical properties ascribed to the fern-seed, whereby it has been prominently classed amongst the mystic plants. But, apart from the doctrine of signatures, it would seem that the fern-seed was also supposed to derive its power of making invisible from the cloud, says Mr. Kelly, [12] "that contained the heavenly fire from which the plant is sprung." Whilst speaking, too, of the fern-seed's property of making people invisible, it is of interest to note that in the Icelandic and Pomeranian myths the schamir or "raven-stone" renders its possessor invisible; and according to a North German tradition the luck-flower is enbued with the same wonderful qualities. It is essential, however, that the flower be found by accident, for he who seeks it never finds it. In Sweden hazel-nuts are reputed to have the power of making invisible, and from their reputed magical properties have been, from time immemorial, in great demand for divination. All those plants whose leaves bore a fancied resemblance to the moon were, in days of old, regarded with superstitious reverence. The moon-daisy, the type of a class of plants resembling the pictures of a full moon, were exhibited, says Dr. Prior, "in uterine complaints, and dedicated in pagan times to the goddess of the moon." The moonwort (_Botrychium lunaria_), often confounded with the common "honesty" (_Lunaria biennis_) of our gardens, so called from the semi-lunar shape of the segments of its frond, was credited with the most curious properties, the old alchemists affirming that it was good among other things for converting quicksilver into pure silver, and unshoeing such horses as trod upon it. A similar virtue was ascribed to the horse-shoe vetch (_Hippocrepis comosa_), so called from the shape of the legumes, hence another of its mystic nicknames was "unshoe the horse." But referring to the doctrine of signatures in folk-medicine, a favourite garden flower is Solomon's seal (_Polygonatum multiflorum_). On cutting the roots transversely, some marks are apparent not unlike the characters of a seal, which to the old herbalists indicated its use as a seal for wounds. [13] Gerarde, describing it, tells us how, "the root of Solomon's seal stamped, while it is fresh and greene, and applied, taketh away in one night, or two at the most, any bruise, black or blue spots, gotten by falls, or women's wilfulness in stumbling upon their hasty husbands' fists." For the same reason it was called by the French herbalists "l'herbe de la rupture." The specific name of the tutsan [14] (_Hypericum androsoemum_), derived from the two Greek words signifying man and blood, in reference to the dark red juice which exudes from the capsules when bruised, was once applied to external wounds, and hence it was called "balm of the warrior's wound," or "all-heal." Gerarde says, "The leaves laid upon broken skins and scabbed legs heal them, and many other hurts and griefs, whereof it took its name 'toute-saine' of healing all things." The pretty plant, herb-robert (_Geranium robertianum_), was supposed to possess similar virtues, its power to arrest bleeding being indicated by the beautiful red hue assumed by the fading leaves, on account of which property it was styled "a stauncher of blood." The garden Jerusalem cowslip (_Pulmonaria offinalis_) owes its English name, lungwort, to the spotting of the leaves, which were said to indicate that they would be efficacious in healing diseases of the lungs. Then there is the water-soldier (_Stratiotes aloides_), which from its sword-shaped leaves was reckoned among the appliances for gun-shot wounds. Another familiar plant which has long had a reputation as a vulnerary is the self-heal, or carpenter's herb (_Prunella vulgaris_), on account of its corolla being shaped like a bill-hook. Again, presumably on the doctrine of signatures, the connection between roses and blood is very curious. Thus in France, Germany, and Italy it is a popular notion that if one is desirous of having ruddy cheeks, he must bury a drop of his blood under a rose-bush. [15] As a charm against haemorrhage of every kind, the rose has long been a favourite remedy in Germany, and in Westphalia the following formula is employed: "Abek, Wabek, Fabek; in Christ's garden stand three red roses--one for the good God, the other for God's blood, the third for the angel Gabriel: blood, I pray you, cease to flow." Another version of this charm is the following [16]:--"On the head of our Lord God there bloom three roses: the first is His virtue, the second is His youth, the third is His will. Blood, stand thou in the wound still, so that thou neither sore nor abscess givest." Turning to some of the numerous plants which on the doctrine of signatures were formerly used as specifics from a fancied resemblance, in the shape of the root, leaf, or fruit, to any particular part of the human body, we are confronted with a list adapted for most of the ills to which the flesh is heir. [17] Thus, the walnut was regarded as clearly good for mental cases from its bearing the signature of the whole head; the outward green cortex answering to the pericranium, the harder shell within representing the skull, and the kernel in its figure resembling the cover of the brain. On this account the outside shell was considered good for wounds of the head, whilst the bark of the tree was regarded as a sovereign remedy for the ringworm. [18] Its leaves, too, when bruised and moistened with vinegar were used for ear-ache. For scrofulous glands, the knotty tubers attached to the kernel-wort (_Scrophularia nodosa_) have been considered efficacious. The pith of the elder, when pressed with the fingers, "doth pit and receive the impress of them thereon, as the legs and feet of dropsical persons do," Therefore the juice of this tree was reckoned a cure for dropsy. Our Lady's thistle (_Cardmis Marianus_), from its numerous prickles, was recommended for stitches of the side; and nettle-tea is still a common remedy with many of our peasantry for nettle-rash. The leaves of the wood-sorrel (_Oxalis acetosella_) were believed to preserve the heart from many diseases, from their being "broad at the ends, cut in the middle, and sharp towards the stalk." Similarly the heart-trefoil, or clover (_Medicago maculata_), was so called, because, says Coles in his "Art of Simpling," "not only is the leaf triangular like the heart of a man, but also because each leaf contains the perfect image of an heart, and that in its proper colour--a flesh colour. It defendeth the heart against the noisome vapour of the spleen." Another plant which, on the same principle, was reckoned as a curative for heart-disease, is the heart's-ease, a term meaning a _cordial_, as in Sir Walter Scott's "Antiquary" (chap, xi.), "try a dram to be eilding and claise, and a supper and heart's-ease into the bargain." The knot-grass (_Polygonum aviculare_), with its reddish-white flowers and trailing pointed stems, was probably so called "from some unrecorded character by the doctrine of signatures," Suggests Mr. Ellacombe, [19] that it would stop the growth of children. Thus Shakespeare, in his "Midsummer Night's Dream" (Act iii. sc. 2), alludes to it as the "hindering knot-grass," and in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Coxcomb" (Act ii. sc. 2) it is further mentioned:-- "We want a boy extremely for this function, Kept under for a year with milk and knot-grass." According to Crollius, the woody scales of which the cones of the pine-tree are composed "resemble the fore-teeth;" hence pine-leaves boiled in vinegar were used as a garlic for the relief of toothache. White-coral, from its resemblance to the teeth, was also in requisition, because "it keepeth children to heed their teeth, their gums being rubbed therewith." For improving the complexion, an ointment made of cowslip-flowers was once recommended, because, as an old writer observes, it "taketh away the spots and wrinkles of the skin, and adds beauty exceedingly." Mr. Burgess, in his handy little volume on "English Wild Flowers" (1868, 47), referring to the cowslip, says, "the village damsels use it as a cosmetic, and we know it adds to the beauty of the complexion of the town-immured lassie when she searches for and gathers it herself in the early spring morning." Some of the old herbalists speak of moss gathered from a skull as useful for disorders of the head, and hence it was gathered and preserved. The rupture-wort (_Herniaria glabra_) was so called from its fancied remedial powers, and the scabious in allusion to the scaly pappus of its seeds, which led to its use in leprous diseases. The well-known fern, spleen-wort (_Asplenium_), had this name applied to it from the lobular form of the leaf, which suggested it as a remedy for diseases of the spleen. Another of its nicknames is miltwaste, because:-- "The finger-ferne, which being given to swine, It makes their milt to melt away in fine--" A superstition which seems to have originated in a curious statement made by Vitruvius, that in certain localities in the island of Crete the flocks and herds were found without spleen from their browsing on this plant, whereas in those districts in which it did not grow the reverse was the case. [20] The yellow bark of the berberry-tree (_Berberis vulgaris_), [21] when taken as a decoction in ale, or white wine, is said to be a purgative, and to have proved highly efficacious in the case of jaundice, hence in some parts of the country it is known as the "jaundice-berry." Turmeric, too, was formerly prescribed--a plant used for making a yellow dye; [22] and celandine, with its yellow juice, was once equally in repute. Similar remedies we find recommended on the Continent, and in Westphalia an apple mixed with saffron is a popular curative against jaundice. [23] Rhubarb, too, we are told, by the doctrine of signatures, was the "life, soul, heart, and treacle of the liver." Mr. Folkard [24] mentions a curious superstition which exists in the neighbourhood of Orleans, where a seventh son without a daughter intervening is called a Marcon. It is believed that, "the Marcon's body is marked somewhere with a Fleur-de-Lis, and that if a patient suffering under king's-evil touch this Fleur-de-Lis, or if the Marcon breathe upon him, the malady will be sure to disappear." As shaking is one of the chief characteristics of that tedious and obstinate complaint ague, so there was a prevalent notion that the quaking-grass (_Briza media_), when dried and kept in the house, acted as a most powerful deterrent. For the same reason, the aspen, from its constant trembling, has been held a specific for this disease. The lesser celandine (_Ranunculus ficaria_) is known in many country places as the pilewort, because its peculiar tuberous root was long thought to be efficacious as a remedial agent. And Coles, in his "Art of Simpling," speaks of the purple marsh-wort (_Comarum palustre_) as "an excellent remedy against the purples." The common tormentil (_Tormentilla officinalis_), from the red colour of its root, was nicknamed the "blood-root," and was said to be efficacious in dysentery; while the bullock's-lungwort derives its name from the resemblance of its leaf to a dewlap, and was on this account held as a remedy for the pneumonia of bullocks.[25] Such is the curious old folk-lore doctrine of signatures, which in olden times was regarded with so much favour, and for a very long time was recognised, without any questioning, as worthy of men's acceptation. It is one of those popular delusions which scientific research has scattered to the winds, having in its place discovered the true medicinal properties of plants, by the aid of chemical analysis. Footnotes: 1. Pettigrew's "Medical Superstitions," 1844, p. 18. 2. Tylor's "Researches into the Early History of Mankind," 1865, p. 123; Chapiel's "La Doctrine des Signatures," Paris, 1866. 3. "Flowering Plants of Great Britain," iv. 109; see Dr. Prior's "Popular Names of British Plants," 1870-72. 4. Tylor's "Researches into the Early History of Mankind," p. 123. 5. See Porter Smith's "Chinese Materia Medica," p. 103; Lockhart, "Medical Missionary in China," 2nd edition, p. 107; "Reports on Trade at the Treaty Ports of China," 1868, p. 63. 6. Fiske, "Myths and Mythmakers," 1873, p. 43. 7. Dr. Prior's "Popular Names of British Plants," p. 134. 8. See Kelly's "Indo-European Tradition Folk-lore," 1863, pp. 193-198; Ralston's "Russian Folk-Songs," 1872, p. 98. 9. "Mystic Trees and Flowers," Mr. D. Conway, _Frasers Magazine_, Nov. 1870, p. 608. 10. The "receipt," so called, was the formula of magic words to be employed during the process. See Grindon's "Shakspere Flora," 1883, p. 242. 11. "Popular Antiquities," 1849, i. 315. 12. "Indo-European Tradition and Folk-lore," p. 197. 13. See Dr. Prior's "Popular Names of British Plants," p. 130; Phillips' "Flora Historica," i. 163. 14. See Sowerby's "English Botany," 1864, i., p. 144. 15. See "Folk-lore of British Plants," _Dublin University Magazine_, September 1873, p. 318. 15. See Thorpe's "Northern Mythology," 1852, iii. 168. 17. "Sketches of Imposture, Deception, and Credulity," 1837, p. 300. 18. See Phillips' "Pomarium Britannicum," 1821, p. 351. 19. "Plant-lore of Shakespeare," 1878, p. 101. 20. See Dr. Prior's "Popular Names of British Plants," p. 154. 21. Hogg's "Vegetable Kingdom," p. 34. 22. See Friend's "Flowers and Flower-lore," ii. 355. 23. "Mystic Trees and Flowers," _Fraser's Magazine_, November 1870, p. 591. 24. "Plant Lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 341. 25. _Ibid_., pp, 150-160. CHAPTER XVII. PLANTS AND THE CALENDAR. A goodly array of plants have cast their attractions round the festivals of the year, giving an outward beauty to the ceremonies and observances celebrated in their honour. These vary in different countries, although we frequently find the same flower almost universally adopted to commemorate a particular festival. Many plants, again, have had a superstitious connection, having in this respect exercised a powerful influence among the credulous of all ages, numerous survivals of which exist at the present day. Thus, in Westphalia, it is said that if the sun makes its appearance on New Year's Day, the flax will be straight; and there is a belief current in Hessia, that an apple must not be eaten on New Year's Day, as it will produce an abscess. According to an old adage, the laurestinus, dedicated to St. Faine (January 1), an Irish abbess in the sixth century, may be seen in bloom:-- "Whether the weather be snow or rain, We are sure to see the flower of St. Faine; Rain comes but seldom and often snow, And yet the viburnum is sure to blow." And James Montgomery notices this cheerful plant, speaking of it as the, "Fair tree of winter, fresh and flowering, When all around is dead and dry, Whose ruby buds, though storms are lowering, Spread their white blossoms to the sky." Then there is the dead nettle, which in Italy is assigned to St. Vincent; and the Christmas rose (_Helleboris niger_), dedicated to St. Agnes (21st January), is known in Germany as the flower of St. Agnes, and yet this flower has generally been regarded a plant of evil omen, being coupled by Campbell with the hemlock, as growing "by the witches' tower," where it seems to weave, "Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower, For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour." At Candlemas it was customary, writes Herrick, to replace the Christmas evergreens with sprigs of box, which were kept up till Easter Eve:-- "Down with the rosemary and bays, Down with the mistletoe, Instead of holly now upraise The greener box for show." The snowdrop has been nicknamed the "Fair Maid of February," from its blossoming about this period, when it was customary for young women dressed in white to walk in procession at the Feast of the Purification, and, according to the old adage:-- "The snowdrop in purest white array, First rears her head on Candlemas Day." The dainty crocus is said to blow "before the shrine at vernal dawn of St. Valentine." And we may note here how county traditions affirm that in some mysterious way the vegetable world is affected by leap-year influences. A piece of agricultural folk-lore current throughout the country tells us how all the peas and beans grow the wrong way in their pods, the seeds being set in quite the contrary to what they are in other years. The reason assigned for this strange freak of nature is that, "it is the ladies' year, and they (the peas and beans) always lay the wrong way in leap year." The leek is associated with St. David's Day, the adoption of this plant as the national device of Wales having been explained in various ways. According to Shakespeare it dates from the battle of Cressy, while some have maintained it originated in a victory obtained by Cadwallo over the Saxons, 640, when the Welsh, to distinguish themselves, wore leeks in their hats. It has also beeen suggested that Welshmen "beautify their hats with verdant leek," from the custom of every farmer, in years gone by, contributing his leek to the common repast when they met at the Cymortha or Association, and mutually helped one another in ploughing their land. In Ireland the shamrock is worn on St. Patrick's Day. Old women, with plenteous supplies of trefoil, may be heard in every direction crying, "Buy my shamrock, green shamrocks," while little children have "Patrick's crosses" pinned to their sleeves, a custom which is said to have originated in the circumstance that when St. Patrick was preaching the doctrine of the Trinity he made use of the trefoil as a symbol of the great mystery. Several plants have been identified as the shamrock; and in "Contributions towards a Cybele Hibernica," [1] is the following extensive note:--"_Trifolium repens_, Dutch clover, shamrock.--This is the plant still worn as shamrock on St. Patrick's Day, though _Medicago lupulina_ is also sold in Dublin as the shamrock. Edward Lhwyd, the celebrated antiquary, writing in 1699 to Tancred Robinson, says, after a recent visit to Ireland: 'Their shamrug is our common clover' (_Phil. Trans._, No. 335). Threkeld, the earliest writer on the wild plants of Ireland, gives _Seamar-oge_ (young trefoil) as the Gaelic name for _Trifolium pratense album,_ and expressly says this is the plant worn by the people in their hats on St. Patrick's Day." Some, again, have advocated the claims of the wood-sorrel, and others those of the speedwell, whereas a correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ (4th Ser. iii. 235) says the _Trifolium filiforme_ is generally worn in Cork, the _Trifolium minus_ also being in demand. It has been urged that the watercress was the plant gathered by the saint, but this plant has been objected to on the ground that its leaf is not trifoliate, and could not have been used by St. Patrick to illustrate the doctrine of the Trinity. On the other hand, it has been argued that the story is of modern date, and not to be found in any of the lives of that saint. St. Patrick's cabbage also is a name for "London Pride," from its growing in the West of Ireland, where the Saint lived. Few flowers have been more popular than the daffodil or lent-lily, or, as it is sometimes called, the lent-rose. There are various corruptions of this name to be found in the West of England, such as lentils, lent-a-lily, lents, and lent-cocks; the last name doubtless referring to the custom of cock-throwing, which was allowed in Lent, boys, in the absence of live cocks, having thrown sticks at the flower. According also to the old rhyme:-- "Then comes the daffodil beside Our Lady's smock at our Lady's tide." In Catholic countries Lent cakes were flavoured with the herb-tansy, a plant dedicated to St. Athanasius. In Silesia, on Mid-Lent Sunday, pine boughs, bound with variegated paper and spangles, are carried about by children singing songs, and are hung over the stable doors to keep the animals from evil influences. Palm Sunday receives its English and the greater part of its foreign names from the old practice of bearing palm-branches, in place of which the early catkins of the willow or yew have been substituted, sprigs of box being used in Brittany. Stow, in his "Survey of London," tells us that:--"In the weeke before Easter had ye great shows made for the fetching in of a twisted tree or with, as they termed it, out of the wodes into the king's house, and the like into every man's house of honour of worship." This anniversary has also been nicknamed "Fig Sunday," from the old custom of eating figs; while in Wales it is popularly known as "Flowering Sunday," because persons assemble in the churchyard and spread fresh flowers upon the graves of their friends and relatives. In Germany, on Palm Sunday, the palm is credited with mystic virtues; and if as many twigs, as there are women of a family, be thrown on a fire--each with a name inscribed on it--the person whose leaf burns soonest will be the first to die. On Good Friday, in the North of England, an herb pudding was formerly eaten, in which the leaves of the passion-dock (_Polygonum bistorta_) formed the principal ingredient. In Lancashire fig-sue is made, a mixture consisting of sliced figs, nutmeg, ale, and bread. Wreaths of elder are hung up in Germany after sunset on Good Friday, as charms against lightning; and in Swabia a twig of hazel cut on this day enables the possessor to strike an absent person. In the Tyrol, too, the hazel must be cut on Good Friday to be effectual as a divining-rod. A Bohemian charm against fleas is curious. During Holy Week a leaf of palm must be placed behind a picture of the Virgin, and on Easter morning taken down with this formula: "Depart, all animals without bones." If this rite is observed there will be no more fleas in the house for the remainder of the year. Of the flowers associated with Eastertide may be mentioned the garden daffodil and the purple pasque flower, another name for the anemone (_Anemone pulsatilla_), in allusion to the Passover and Paschal ceremonies. White broom is also in request, and indeed all white flowers are dedicated to this festival. On Easter Day the Bavarian peasants make garlands of coltsfoot and throw them into the fire; and in the district of Lechrain every household brings to the sacred fire which is lighted at Easter a walnut branch, which, when partially burned, is laid on the hearth-fire during tempests as a charm against lightning. In Slavonian regions the palm is supposed to specially protect the locality where it grows from inclement weather and its hurtful effects; while, in Pomerania, the apple is eaten against fevers. In Bareuth young girls go at midnight on Easter Day to a fountain silently, and taking care to escape notice, throw into the water little willow rings with their friends' names inscribed thereon, the person whose ring sinks the quickest being the first to die. In years past the milkwort (_Polygala vulgaris_), from being carried in procession during Rogation Week, was known by such names as the rogation-flower, gang-flower, procession-flower, and cross-flower, a custom noticed by Gerarde, who tells us how, "the maidens which use in the countries to walke the procession do make themselves garlands and nosegaies of the milkwort." On Ascension Day the Swiss make wreaths of the edelweisse, hanging them over their doors and windows; another plant selected for this purpose being the amaranth, which, like the former, is considered an emblem of immortality. In our own country may be mentioned the well-dressing of Tissington, near Dovedale, in Derbyshire, the wells in the village having for years past been most artistically decorated with the choicest flowers. [2] Formerly, on St. George's Day (April 23), blue coats were worn by people of fashion. Hence, the harebell being in bloom, was assigned to the saint:-- "On St. George's Day, when blue is worn, The blue harebells the fields adorn." Flowers have always entered largely into the May Day festival; and many a graphic account has been bequeathed us of the enthusiasm with which both old and young went "a-Maying" soon after midnight, breaking down branches from the trees, which, decorated with nosegays and garlands of flowers, were brought home soon after sunrise and placed at the doors and windows. Shakespeare ("Henry VIII.," v. 4), alluding to the custom, says:-- "'Tis as much impossible, Unless we sweep them from the doors with cannons, To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em sleep On May Day morning." Accordingly, flowers were much in demand, many being named from the month itself, as the hawthorn, known in many places as May-bloom and May-tree, whereas the lily of the valley is nicknamed May-lily. Again, in Cornwall lilac is termed May-flower, and the narrow-leaved elm, which is worn by the peasant in his hat or button-hole, is called May. Similarly, in Germany, we find the term May-bloom applied to such plants as the king-cup and lily of the valley. In North America, says the author of "Flower-lore," the podophyllum is called "May-apple," and the fruit of the _Passiflora incarnata_ "May-hops." The chief uses of these May-flowers were for the garlands, the decoration of the Maypole, and the adornment of the home:-- "To get sweet setywall (red valerian), The honeysuckle, the harlock, The lily, and the lady-smock, To deck their summer hall." But one plant was carefully avoided--the cuckoo flower.[3] As in other floral rites, the selection of plants varies on the Continent, branches of the elder being carried about in Savoy, and in Austrian Silesia the Maypole is generally made of fir. According to an Italian proverb, the universal lover is "one who hangs every door with May." Various plants are associated with Whitsuntide, and according to Chaucer, in his "Romaunt of the Rose":-- "Have hatte of floures fresh as May, Chapelett of roses of Whitsunday, For sich array be costeth but lite." In Italy the festival is designated "Pasqua Rosata," from falling at a time when roses are in bloom, while in Germany the peony is the Pentecost rose. Herrick tells us it was formerly the practice to use birch and spring-flowers for decorative purposes at Whitsuntide:-- "When yew is out then birch comes in, And May-flowers beside, Both of a fresh and fragrant kinne, To honour Whitsontide." At this season, too, box-boughs were gathered to deck the large open fire-places then in fashion, and the guelder rose was dedicated to the festival. Certain flower-sermons have been preached in the city at Whitsuntide, as, for instance, that at St. James's Church, Mitre Court, Aldgate, and another at St. Leonard's Church, Shoreditch, known as the Fairchild Lecture. Turning to the Continent, it is customary in Hanover on Whit-Monday to gather the lily of the valley, and at the close of the day there is scarcely a house without a large bouquet, while in Germany the broom is a favourite plant for decorations. In Russia, at the completion of Whitsuntide, young girls repair to the banks of the Neva and cast in wreaths of flowers in token of their absent friends. Certain flowers, such as the rose, lavender, woodruff, and box were formerly in request for decking churches on St. Barnabas' Day, the officiating clergy having worn wreaths of roses. Among the allusions to the usage may be mentioned the following entries in the churchwarden's accounts of St. Mary-at-Hill, London, in the reigns of Edward IV. and Henry VII.:--"For rose garlondis and woodrolf garlondis on St. Barnabe Daye, xj'd." "Item, for two doss (dozen?) di bocse (box) garlands for prestes and clerkes on St. Barnabe Day, j's. v'd." St. Barnabas' thistle (_Centaurea solstitialis_) derived its name from flowering at the time of the saint's festival, and we are told how:-- "When St. Barnaby bright smiles night and day, Poor ragged robin blooms in the hay." To Trinity Sunday belong the pansy, or herb-trinity and trefoil, hence the latter has been used for decorations on this anniversary. In commemoration of the Restoration of Charles II., oak leaves and gilded oak apples have been worn; oak branches having been in past years placed over doors and windows. Stowe, in his "Survey of London," speaks of the old custom of hanging up St. John's wort over the doors of houses, along with green birch or pine, white lilies, and other plants. The same practice has existed very largely on the Continent, St. John's wort being still regarded as an effective charm against witchcraft. Indeed, few plants have been in greater request on any anniversary, or been invested with such mystic virtues. Fennel, another of the many plants dedicated to St. John, was hung over doors and windows on his night in England, numerous allusions to which occur in the literature of the past. And in connection with this saint we are told how:-- "The scarlet lychnis, the garden's pride, Flames at St. John the Baptist's tyde." Hemp was also in demand, many forms of divination having been practised by means of its seed. According to a belief in Iceland, the trijadent (_Spiraea ulmaria_) will, if put under water on this day, reveal a thief; floating if the thief be a woman, and sinking if a man. In the Harz, on Midsummer night, branches of the fir-tree are decorated with flowers and coloured eggs, around which the young people dance, singing rhymes. The Bolognese, who regard garlic as the symbol of abundance, buy it at the festival as a charm against poverty during the coming year. The Bohemian, says Mr. Conway, "thinks he can make himself shot-proof for twenty-four hours by finding on St. John's Day pine-cones on the top of a tree, taking them home, and eating a single kernel on each day that he wishes to be invulnerable." In Sicily it is customary, on Midsummer Eve, to fell the highest poplar, and with shouts to drag it through the village, while some beat a drum. Around this poplar, says Mr. Folkard,[4] "symbolising the greatest solar ascension and the decline which follows it, the crowd dance, and sing an appropriate refrain;" and he further mentions that, at the commencement of the Franco-German War, he saw sprigs of pine stuck on the railway carriages bearing the German soldiers into France. In East Prussia, the sap of dog-wood, absorbed in a handkerchief, will fulfil every wish; and a Brandenburg remedy for fever is to lie naked under a cherry-tree on St. John's Day, and to shake the dew on one's back. Elsewhere we have alluded to the flowering of the fern on this anniversary, and there is the Bohemian idea that its seed shines like glittering gold. Corpus Christi Day was, in olden times, observed with much ceremony, the churches being decorated with roses and other choice garlands, while the streets through which the procession passed were strewn with flowers. In North Wales, flowers were scattered before the door; and a particular fern, termed Rhedyn Mair, or Mary's fern--probably the maiden-hair--was specially used for the purpose. We may mention here that the daisy (_Bellis perennis_) was formerly known as herb-Margaret or Marguerite, and was erroneously supposed to have been named after the virtuous St. Margaret of Antioch:-- "Maid Margarete, that was so meek and mild;" Whereas it, in all probability, derives its name from St. Margaret of Cortona. According to an old legend it is stated:-- "There is a double flouret, white and red, That our lasses call herb-Margaret, In honour of Cortona's penitent, Whose contrite soul with red remorse was rent; While on her penitence kind heaven did throw The white of purity, surpassing snow; So white and red in this fair flower entwine, Which maids are wont to scatter at her shrine." Again, of the rainy saint, St. Swithin, we are reminded that:-- "Against St. Swithin's hastie showers, The lily white reigns queen of the flowers"-- A festival around which so much curious lore has clustered. In former years St. Margaret's Day (July 20) was celebrated with many curious ceremonies, and, according to a well-known couplet in allusion to the emblem of the vanquished dragon, which appears in most pictures of St. Margaret:-- "Poppies a sanguine mantle spread For the blood of the dragon that Margaret shed." Archdeacon Hare says the Sweet-William, designated the "painted lady," was dedicated to Saint William (June 25), the term "sweet" being a substitution for "saint." This seems doubtful, and some would corrupt the word "sweet" from the French _oeillet_, corrupted to Willy, and thence to William. Mr. King, however, considers that the small red pink (_Dianthus prolifer_), found wild in the neighbourhood of Rochester, "is perhaps the original Saint Sweet-William," for, he adds, the word "saint" has only been dropped since days which saw the demolition of St. William's shrine in the cathedral. This is but a conjecture, it being uncertain whether the masses of bright flowers which form one of the chief attractions of old-fashioned gardens commemorate St. William of Rochester, St. William of York, or, likeliest perhaps of the three, St. William of Aquitaine, the half soldier, half monk, whose fame was so widely spread throughout the south of Europe. Roses were said to fade on St. Mary Magdalene's Day (July 20), to whom we find numerous flowers dedicated, such as the maudlin, a nickname of the costmary, either in allusion to her love of scented ointment, or to its use in uterine affections, over which she presided as the patroness of unchaste women, and maudlin-wort, another name for the moon-daisy. But, as Dr. Prior remarks, it should, "be observed that the monks in the Middle Ages mixed up with the story of the Magdalene that of another St. Mary, whose early life was passed in a course of debauchery." A German piece of folk-lore tells us that it is dangerous to climb a cherry-tree on St. James's Night, as the chance of breaking one's neck will be great, this day being held unlucky. On this day is kept St. Christopher's anniversary, after whom the herb-christopher is named, a species of aconite, according to Gerarde. But, as Dr. Prior adds, the name is applied to many plants which have no qualities in common, some of these being the meadow-sweet, fleabane, osmund-fern, herb-impious, everlasting-flower, and baneberry. Throughout August, during the ingathering of the harvest, a host of customs have been kept up from time immemorial, which have been duly noticed by Brand, while towards the close of the month we are reminded of St. Bartholomew's Day by the gaudy sunflower, which has been nicknamed St. Bartholomew's star, the term "star" having been often used "as an emblematical representation of brilliant virtues or any sign of admiration." It is, too, suggested by Archdeacon Hare that the filbert may owe its name to St. Philbert, whose festival was on the 22nd August. The passion-flower has been termed Holy Rood flower, and it is the ecclesiastical emblem of Holy Cross Day, for, according to the familiar couplet:-- "The passion-flower long has blow'd To betoken us signs of the Holy Rood." Then there is the Michaelmas Day, which:-- "Among dead weeds, Bloom for St. Michael's valorous deeds," and the golden star lily, termed St. Jerome's lily. On St. Luke's Day, certain flowers, as we have already noticed, have been in request for love divinations; and on the Continent the chestnut is eaten on the festival of St. Simon, in Piedmont on All Souls' Day, and in France on St. Martin's, when old women assemble beneath the windows and sing a long ballad. Hallowe'en has its use among divinations, at which time various plants are in request, and among the observance of All Souls' Day was blessing the beans. It would appear, too, that in days gone by, on the eve of All Saints' Day, heath was specially burnt by way of a bonfire:-- "On All Saints' Day bare is the place where the heath is burnt; The plough is in the furrow, the ox at work." From the shape of its flower, the trumpet-flowered wood-sorrel has been called St. Cecilia's flower, whose festival is kept on November 22. The _Nigella damascena_, popularly known as love-in-a-mist, was designated St. Catherine's flower, "from its persistent styles," writes Dr. Prior,[5] "resembling the spokes of her wheel." There was also the Catherine-pear, to which Gay alludes in his "Pastorals," where Sparabella, on comparing herself with her rival, says:-- "Her wan complexion's like the withered leek, While Catherine-pears adorn my ruddy cheek." Herb-Barbara, or St. Barbara's cress (_Barbarea vulgaris_), was so called from growing and being eaten about the time of her festival (December 4). Coming to Christmas, some of the principal evergreens used in this country for decorative purposes are the ivy, laurel, bay, arbor vitae, rosemary, and holly; mistletoe, on account of its connection with Druidic rites, having been excluded from churches. Speaking of the holly, Mr. Conway remarks that, "it was to the ancient races of the north a sign of the life which preserved nature through the desolation of winter, and was gathered into pagan temples to comfort the sylvan spirits during the general death." He further adds that "it is a singular fact that it is used by the wildest Indians of the Pacific coast in their ceremonies of purification. The ashen-faggot was in request for the Christmas fire, the ceremonies relating to which are well known." Footnotes: 1. By D. Moore and A.G. Moore, 1866. 2. See "Journal of the Arch. Assoc.," 1832, vii. 206. 3. See "British Popular Customs." 4. "Plant Lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 504. 5. "Popular Names of British Plants," 1879, p. 204. CHAPTER XVIII. CHILDREN'S RHYMES AND GAMES. Children are more or less observers of nature, and frequently far more so than their elders. This, perhaps, is in a great measure to be accounted for from the fact that childhood is naturally inquisitive, and fond of having explained whatever seems in any way mysterious. Such especially is the case in the works of nature, and in a country ramble with children their little voices are generally busy inquiring why this bird does this, or that plant grows in such a way--a variety of questions, indeed, which unmistakably prove that the young mind instinctively seeks after knowledge. Hence, we find that the works of nature enter largely into children's pastimes; a few specimens of their rhymes and games associated with plants we quote below. In Lincolnshire, the butter-bur (_Petasites vulgaris_) is nicknamed bog-horns, because the children use the hollow stalks as horns or trumpets, and the young leaves and shoots of the common hawthorn (_Cratoegus oxyacantha_), from being commonly eaten by children in spring, are known as "bread and cheese;" while the ladies-smock (_Cardamine pratensis_) is termed "bread and milk," from the custom, it has been suggested, of country people having bread and milk for breakfast about the season when the flower first comes in. In the North of England this plant is known as cuckoo-spit, because almost every flower stem has deposited upon it a frothy patch not unlike human saliva, in which is enveloped a pale green insect. Few north-country children will gather these flowers, believing that it is unlucky to do so, adding that the cuckoo has spit upon it when flying over. [1] The fruits of the mallow are popularly termed by children cheeses, in allusion to which Clare writes:-- "The sitting down when school was o'er, Upon the threshold of the door, Picking from mallows, sport to please, The crumpled seed we call a cheese." A Buckinghamshire name with children for the deadly nightshade (_Atropa belladonna_) is the naughty-man's cherry, an illustration of which we may quote from Curtis's "Flora Londinensis":--"On Keep Hill, near High Wycombe, where we observed it, there chanced to be a little boy. I asked him if he knew the plant. He answered 'Yes; it was naughty-man's cherries.'" In the North of England the broad-dock (_Rumex obtusifolius_), when in seed, is known by children as curly-cows, who milk it by drawing the stalks through their fingers. Again, in the same locality, children speaking of the dead-man's thumb, one of the popular names of the _Orchis mascula_, tell one another with mysterious awe that the root was once the thumb of some unburied murderer. In one of the "Roxburghe Ballads" the phrase is referred to:-- "Then round the meadows did she walke, Catching each flower by the stalke, Suche as within the meadows grew, As dead-man's thumbs and harebell blue." It is to this plant that Shakespeare doubtless alludes in "Hamlet" (Act iv. sc. 7), where:-- "Long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead-men's fingers call them." In the south of Scotland, the name "doudle," says Jamieson, is applied to the root of the common reed-grass (_Phragmites communis_), which is found, partially decayed, in morasses, and of "which the children in the south of Scotland make a sort of musical instrument, similar to the oaten pipes of the ancients." In Yorkshire, the water-scrophularia (_Scrophularia aquatica_), is in children's language known as "fiddle-wood," so called because the stems are by children stripped of their leaves, and scraped across each other fiddler-fashion, when they produce a squeaking sound. This juvenile music is the source of infinite amusement among children, and is carried on by them with much enthusiasm in their games. Likewise, the spear-thistle (_Carduus lanceolatus_) is designated Marian in Scotland, while children blow the pappus from the receptacle, saying:-- "Marian, Marian, what's the time of day, One o'clock, two o'clock--it's time we were away." In Cheshire, when children first see the heads of the ribwort plantain (_Plantago lanceolata_) in spring, they repeat the following rhyme:-- "Chimney sweeper all in black, Go to the brook and wash your back, Wash it clean, or wash it none; Chimney sweeper, have you done?":-- Being in all probability a mode of divination for insuring good luck. Another name for the same plant is "cocks," from children fighting the flower-stems one against another. The common hazel-nut (_Corylus avellana_) is frequently nicknamed the "cob-nut," and was so called from being used in an old game played by children. An old name for the devil's-bit (_Scabiosa succisa_), in the northern counties, and in Scotland, is "curl-doddy," from the resemblance of the head of flowers to the curly pate of a boy, this nickname being often used by children who thus address the plant:-- "Curly-doddy, do my biddin', Soop my house, and shoal my widden'." In Ireland, children twist the stalk, and as it slowly untwists in the hand, thus address it:-- "Curl-doddy on the midden, Turn round an' take my biddin'." In Cumberland, the _Primula farinosa_, commonly known as bird's-eye, is called by children "bird-een." "The lockety-gowan and bonny bird-een Are the fairest flowers that ever were seen." And in many places the _Leontodon taraxacum_ is designated "blow-ball," because children blow the ripe fruit from the receptacle to tell the time of day and for various purposes of divination. Thus in the "Sad Shepherd," page 8, it is said:-- "Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk." In Scotland, one of the popular names of the _Angelica sylvestris_ is "aik-skeiters," or "hear-skeiters," because children shoot oats through the hollow stems, as peas are shot through a pea-shooter. Then there is the goose-grass (_Galium aparine_), variously called goose-bill, beggar's-lice, scratch-weed, and which has been designated blind-tongue, because "children with the leaves practise phlebotomy upon the tongue of those playmates who are simple enough to endure it," a custom once very general in Scotland. [2] The catkins of the willow are in some counties known as "goslings," or "goslins,"--children, says Halliwell, [3] sometimes playing with them by putting them in the fire and singeing them brown, repeating verses at the same time. One of the names of the heath-pea (_Lathyrus macrorrhizus_) is liquory-knots, and school-boys in Berwickshire so call them, for when dried their taste is not unlike that of the real liquorice. [4] Again, a children's name of common henbane (_Hyoscyamus niger_) is "loaves of bread," an allusion to which is made by Clare in his "Shepherd's Calendar":-- "Hunting from the stack-yard sod The stinking henbane's belted pod, By youth's warm fancies sweetly led To christen them his loaves of bread." A Worcestershire name for a horse-chestnut is the "oblionker tree." According to a correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ (5th Ser. x. 177), in the autumn, when the chestnuts are falling from their trunks, boys thread them on string and play a "cob-nut" game with them. When the striker is taking aim, and preparing for a shot at his adversary's nut, he says:-- "Oblionker! My first conker (conquer)." The word oblionker apparently being a meaningless invention to rhyme with the word conquer, which has by degrees become applied to the fruit itself. The wall peniterry (_Parietaria officinalis_) is known in Ireland as "peniterry," and is thus described in "Father Connell, by the O'Hara Family" (chap, xii.):-- "A weed called, locally at least, peniterry, to which the suddenly terrified [schoolboy] idler might run in his need, grasping it hard and threateningly, and repeating the following 'words of power':-- 'Peniterry, peniterry, that grows by the wall, Save me from a whipping, or I'll pull you roots and all.'" Johnston, who has noticed so many odd superstitions, tells us that the tuberous ground-nut (_Bunium flexuosum_), which has various nicknames, such as "lousy," "loozie," or "lucie arnut," is dug up by children who eat the roots, "but they are hindered from indulging to excess by a cherished belief that the luxury tends to generate vermin in the head." [5] An old rhyme often in years past used by country children when the daffodils made their annual appearance in early spring, was as follows:-- "Daff-a-down-dill Has now come to town, In a yellow petticoat And a green gown." A name for the shepherd's purse is "mother's-heart," and in the eastern Border district, says Johnston, children have a sort of game with the seed-pouch. They hold it out to their companions, inviting them to "take a haud o' that." It immediately cracks, and then follows a triumphant shout, "You've broken your mother's heart." In Northamptonshire, children pick the leaves of the herb called pick-folly, one by one, repeating each time the words, "Rich man, poor man, beggar-man, thief," &c., fancying that the one which comes to be named at the last plucking will prove the conditions of their future partners. Variations of this custom exist elsewhere, and a correspondent of "Science Gossip" (1876, xi. 94). writes:--"I remember when at school at Birmingham that my playmates manifested a very great repugnance to this plant. Very few of them would touch it, and it was known to us by the two bad names, "haughty-man's plaything," and "pick your mother's heart out." In Hanover, as well as in the Swiss canton of St. Gall, the same plant is offered to uninitiated persons with a request to pluck one of the pods. Should he do so the others exclaim, "You have stolen a purse of gold from your father and mother."" "It is interesting to find," writes Mr. Britten in the "Folk-lore Record" (i. 159), "that a common tropical weed, _Ageratum conyzoides_, is employed by children in Venezuela in a very similar manner." The compilers of the "Dictionary of Plant Names" consider that the double (garden) form of _Saxifraga granulata_, designated "pretty maids," may be referred to in the old nursery rhyme:-- "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? Cockle-shells, and silver bells, And pretty maids all in a row." The old-man's-beard (_Clematis vitalba_) is in many places popularly known as smoke-wood, because "our village-boys smoke pieces of the wood as they do of rattan cane; hence, it is sometimes called smoke-wood, and smoking-cane." [6] The children of Galloway play at hide-and-seek with a little black-topped flower which is known by them as the Davie-drap, meantime repeating the following rhyme:-- "Within the bounds of this I hap My black and bonnie Davie-drap: Wha is he, the cunning ane, To me my Davie-drap will fin'?" This plant, it has been suggested, [7] being the cuckoo grass (_Luzula campestris_), which so often figures in children's games and rhymes. Once more, there are numerous games played by children in which certain flowers are introduced, as in the following, known as "the three flowers," played in Scotland, and thus described in Chambers's "Popular Rhymes," p. 127:--"A group of lads and lasses being assembled round the fire, two leave the party and consult together as to the names of three others, young men or girls, whom they designate as the red rose, the pink, and the gillyflower. The two young men then return, and having selected a member of the fairer group, they say to her:-- 'My mistress sent me unto thine, Wi' three young flowers baith fair and fine:-- The pink, the rose, and the gillyflower, And as they here do stand, Whilk will ye sink, whilk will ye swim, And whilk bring hame to land?' The maiden must choose one of the flowers named, on which she passes some approving epithet, adding, at the same time, a disapproving rejection of the other two, as in the following terms: 'I will sink the pink, swim the rose, and bring hame the gillyflower to land.' The young men then disclose the names of the parties upon whom they had fixed those appellations respectively, when it may chance she has slighted the person to whom she is most attached, and contrariwise." Games of this kind are very varied, and still afford many an evening's amusement among the young people of our country villages during the winter evenings. Footnotes: 1. _Journal of Horticulture_, 1876, p. 355. 2. Johnston's "Botany of Eastern Borders." 3. "Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words." 4. Johnston's "Botany of Eastern Borders," p. 57. 5. "Botany of Eastern Borders," p. 85. 6. "English Botany," ed. I, iii. p. 3. 7. "Dictionary of Plant Names" (Britten and Holland), p. 145. CHAPTER XIX. SACRED PLANTS. Closely allied with plant-worship is the sacred and superstitious reverence which, from time immemorial, has been paid by various communities to certain trees and plants. In many cases this sanctity originated in the olden heathen mythology, when "every flower was the emblem of a god; every tree the abode of a nymph." From their association, too, with certain events, plants frequently acquired a sacred character, and occasionally their specific virtues enhanced their veneration. In short, the large number of sacred plants found in different countries must be attributed to a variety of causes, illustrations of which are given in the present chapter. Thus going back to mythological times, it may be noticed that trees into which persons were metamorphosed became sacred. The laurel was sacred to Apollo in memory of Daphne, into which tree she was changed when escaping from his advances:-- "Because thou canst not be My mistress, I espouse thee for my tree; Be thou the prize of honour and renown, The deathless poet and the poet's crown; Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn, And, after poets, be by victors won." But it is unnecessary to give further instances of such familiar stories, of which early history is full. At the same time it is noteworthy that many of these plants which acquired a sanctity from heathen mythology still retain their sacred character--a fact which has invested them with various superstitions, in addition to having caused them to be selected for ceremonial usage and homage in modern times. Thus the pine, with its mythical origin and heathen associations, is an important tree on the Continent, being surrounded with a host of legends, most of which, in one shape or another, are relics of early forms of belief. The sacred character of the oak still survives in modern folk-lore, and a host of flowers which grace our fields and hedges have sacred associations from their connection with the heathen gods of old. Thus the anemone, poppy, and violet were dedicated to Venus; and to Diana "all flowers growing in untrodden dells and shady nooks, uncontaminated by the tread of man, more especially belonged." The narcissus and maidenhair were sacred to Proserpina, and the willow to Ceres. The pink is Jove's flower, and of the flowers assigned to Juno may be mentioned the lily, crocus, and asphodel. Passing on to other countries, we find among the plants most conspicuous for their sacred character the well-known lotus of the East (_Nelunibium speciosum_), around which so many traditions and mythological legends have clustered. According to a Hindu legend, from its blossom Brahma came forth:-- "A form Cerulean fluttered o'er the deep; Brightest of beings, greatest of the great, Who, not as mortals steep Their eyes in dewy sleep, But heavenly pensive on the lotus lay, That blossom'd at his touch, and shed a golden ray. Hail, primal blossom! hail, empyreal gem, Kemel, or Pedma, [1] or whate'er high name Delight thee, say. What four-formed godhead came, With graceful stole and beamy diadem, Forth from thy verdant stem." [2] Buddha, too, whose symbol is the lotus, is said to have first appeared floating on this mystic flower, and, indeed, it would seem that many of the Eastern deities were fond of resting on its leaves; while in China, the god Pazza is generally represented as occupying this position. Hence the lotus has long been an object of worship, and as a sacred plant holds a most distinguished place, for it is the flower of the, "Old Hindu mythologies, wherein The lotus, attribute of Ganga--embling The world's great reproductive power--was held In veneration." We may mention here that the lotus, known also as the sacred bean of Egypt, and the rose-lily of the Nile, as far back as four thousand years ago was held in high sanctity by the Egyptian priests, still retaining its sacred character in China, Japan, and Asiatic Russia. Another famous sacred plant is the soma or moon-plant of India, the _Asclepias acida_, a climbing plant with milky juice, which Windischmann has identified with the "tree of life which grew in paradise." Its milk juice was said to confer immortality, the plant itself never decaying; and in a hymn in the _Rig Veda_ the soma sacrifice is thus described:-- "We've quaffed the soma bright And are immortal grown, We've entered into light And all the gods have known. What mortal can now harm, Or foeman vex us more? Through thee beyond alarm, Immortal God! we soar." Then there is the peepul or bo-tree (_Ficus religiosa_), which is held in high veneration by the followers of Buddha, in the vicinity of whose temples it is generally planted. One of these trees in Ceylon is said to be of very great antiquity, and according to Sir J. E. Tennant, "to it kings have even dedicated their dominions in testimony of their belief that it is a branch of the identical fig-tree under which Gotama Buddha reclined when he underwent his apotheosis." The peepul-tree is highly venerated in Java, and by the Buddhists of Thibet is known as the bridge of safety, over which mortals pass from the shores of this world to those of the unseen one beyond. Occasionally confounded with this peepul is the banyan (_Ficus indica_), which is another sacred tree of the Indians. Under its shade Vishnu is said to have been born; and by the Chinese, Buddha is represented as sitting beneath its leaves to receive the homage of the god Brahma. Another sacred tree is the deodar (_Cedrus deodara_), a species of cedar, being the Devadara, or tree-god of the Shastras, which in so many of the ancient Hindu hymns is depicted as the symbol of power and majesty. [3] The aroka, or _Saraca indica_, is said to preserve chastity, and is dedicated to Kama, the Indian god of love, while with the negroes of Senegambia the baobab-tree is an object of worship. In Borneo the nipa-palm is held in veneration, and the Mexican Indians have their moriche-palm (_Mauritia flexuosa_). The _Tamarindus Indica_ is in Ceylon dedicated to Siva, the god of destruction; and in Thibet, the jambu or rose-apple is believed to be the representative of the divine amarita-tree which bears ambrosia. The pomegranate, with its mystic origin and early sacred associations, was long reverenced by the Persians and Jews, an old tradition having identified it as the forbidden fruit given by Eve to Adam. Again, as a sacred plant the basil has from time immemorial been held in high repute by the Hindus, having been sacred to Vishnu. Indeed it is worshipped as a deity itself, and is invoked as the goddess Tulasî for the protection of the human frame. It is further said that "the heart of Vishnu, the husband of the Tulasî, is agitated and tormented whenever the least sprig is broken of a plant of Tulasî, his wife." Among further flowers holding a sacred character may be mentioned the henna, the Egyptian privet (_Lawsonia alba_), the flower of paradise, which was pronounced by Mahomet as "chief of the flowers of this world and the next," the wormwood having been dedicated to the goddess Iris. By the aborigines of the Canary Islands, the dragon-tree (_Dracoena draco_) of Orotava was an object of sacred reverence; [4] and in Burmah at the present day the eugenia is held sacred. [5] It has been remarked that the life of Christ may be said to fling its shadow over the whole vegetable world. [6] "From this time the trees and the flowers which had been associated with heathen rites and deities, began to be connected with holier names, and not unfrequently with the events of the crucifixion itself." Thus, upon the Virgin Mary a wealth of flowers was lavished, all white ones, having been "considered typical of her purity and holiness, and consecrated to her festivals." [7] Indeed, not only, "were the finer flowers wrested from the classic Juno and Diana, and from the Freyja and Bertha of northern lands given to her, but lovely buds of every hue were laid upon her shrines." [8] One species, for instance, of the maiden-hair fern, known also as "Our Lady's hair," is designated in Iceland "Freyja's hair," and the rose, often styled "Frau rose," or "Mother rose," the favourite flower of Hulda, was transferred to the Virgin. On the other hand, many plants bearing the name of Our Lady, were, writes Mr. Folkard, in Puritan times, "replaced by the name of Venus, thus recurring to the ancient nomenclature; 'Our Lady's comb' becoming 'Venus's comb.'" But the two flowers which were specially connected with the Virgin were the lily and the rose. Accordingly, in Italian art, a vase of lilies stands by the Virgin's side, with three flowers crowning three green stems. The flower is generally the large white lily of our gardens, "the pure white petals signifying her spotless body, and the golden anthers within typifying her soul sparkling with divine light." [9] The rose, both red and white, appears at an early period as an emblem of the Virgin, "and was specially so recognised by St. Dominic when he instituted the devotion of the rosary, with direct reference to her." [10] Among other flowers connected with the Virgin Mary may be mentioned the flowering-rod, according to which Joseph was chosen for her husband, because his rod budded into flower, and a dove settled upon the top of it. In Tuscany a similar legend is attached to the oleander, and elsewhere the white campanula has been known as the "little staff of St. Joseph," while a German name for the white double daffodill is "Joseph's staff." Then there is "Our Lady's bed-straw," which filled the manger on which the infant Jesus was laid; while of the plant said to have formed the Virgin's bed may be mentioned the thyme, woodroof, and groundsel. The white-spotted green leaves of "Our Lady's thistle" were caused by some drops of her milk falling upon them, and in Cheshire we find the same idea connected with the pulmonaria or "lady's milk sile," the word "sile" being a provincialism for "soil," or "stain." A German tradition makes the common fern (_Polypodium vulgare_) to have sprung from the Virgin's milk. Numerous flowers have been identified with her dress, such as the marigold, termed by Shakespeare "Mary-bud," which she wore in her bosom. The cuckoo-flower of our meadows is "Our Lady's smock," which Shakespeare refers to in those charming lines in "Love's Labour's Lost," where:-- "When daisies pied and violets blue, And lady's smocks all silver white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then on every tree Mocks married men, for thus sings he, Cuckoo." And one of the finest of our orchids is "Our Lady's slipper." The ribbon grass is "Our Lady's garters," and the dodder supplies her "laces." In the same way many flowers have been associated with the Virgin herself. Thus, there is "Our Lady's tresses," and a popular name for the maiden-hair fern and quaking-grass is "Virgin's hair." The lilies of the valley are her tears, and a German nickname for the lungwort is "Our Lady's milk-wort." The _Anthlyllis vulneraria_ is "Our Lady's fingers," and the kidney-wort has been designated "lady's navel." Certain orchids, from the peculiar form of their hand-shaped roots, have been popularly termed "Our Lady's hands," a name given in France to the dead-nettle. Of the many other plants dedicated to the Virgin may be mentioned the snowdrop, popularly known as the "fair maid of February," opening its floweret at the time of Candlemas. According to an old monkish tradition it blooms at this time, in memory of the Virgin having taken the child Jesus to the temple, and there presented her offering. A further reason for the snowdrop's association with the Virgin originated in the custom of removing her image from the altar on the day of the Purification, and strewing over the vacant place with these emblems of purity. The bleeding nun (_Cyclamen europoeum_) was consecrated to the Virgin, and in France the spearmint is termed "Our Lady's mint." In Germany the costmary (_Costaminta vulgaris_) is "Our Lady's balsam," the white-flowered wormwood the "smock of our Lady," and in olden days the iris or fleur-de-lis was held peculiarly sacred. The little pink is "lady's cushion," and the campanula is her looking-glass. Then there is "Our Lady's comb," with its long, fragile seed-vessels resembling the teeth of a comb, while the cowslip is "Our Lady's bunch of keys." In France, the digitalis supplies her with gloves, and in days gone by the _Convallaria polygonatum_ was the "Lady's seal." According to some old writers, the black briony went by this name, and Hare gives this explanation:--"'Our Lady's seal' (_Sigillum marioe_) is among the names of the black briony, owing to the great efficacy of its roots when spread in a plaster and applied as it were to heal up a scar or bruise." Formerly a species of primula was known as "lady's candlestick," and a Wiltshire nickname for the common convolvulus is "lady's nightcap," Canterbury bells in some places supplying this need. The harebell is "lady's thimble," and the plant which affords her a mantle is the _Alchemilla vulgaris_, with its grey-green leaf covered with a soft silky hair. This is the Maria Stakker of Iceland, which when placed under the pillow produces sleep. Once more, the strawberry is one of the fruits that has been dedicated to her; and a species of nut, popularly known as the molluka bean, is in many parts called the "Virgin Mary's nut." The cherry-tree, too, has long been consecrated to the Virgin from the following tradition:-- Being desirous one day of refreshing herself with some cherries which she saw hanging upon a tree, she requested Joseph to gather some for her. But he hesitated, and mockingly said, "Let the father of thy child present them to you." But these words had been no sooner uttered than the branch of the cherry-tree inclined itself of its own accord to the Virgin's hand. There are many other plants associated in one way or another with the Virgin, but the instances already given are representative of this wide subject. In connection, too, with her various festivals, we find numerous plants; and as the author of "Flower-lore" remarks, "to the Madonna were assigned the white iris, blossoming almond-tree, narcissus, and white lily, all appropriate to the Annunciation." The flowers appropriate to the "Visitation of Our Lady" were, in addition to the lily, roses red and white, while to the "Feast of Assumption" is assigned the "Virgin's bower," "worthy to be so called," writes Gerarde, "by reason of the goodly shadow which the branches make with their thick bushing and climbing, as also for the beauty of the flowers, and the pleasant scent and savour of the same." Many plants have been associated with St. John the Baptist, from his having been the forerunner of Christ. Thus, the common plant which bears his name, St. John's wort, is marked with blood-like spots, known as the "blood of St. John," making their appearance on the day he was beheaded. The scarlet lychnis, popularly nicknamed the "great candlestick," was commonly said to be lighted up for his day. The carob tree has been designated "St. John's bread," from a tradition that it supplied him with food in the wilderness; and currants, from beginning to ripen at this time, have been nicknamed "berries of St. John." The artemisia was in Germany "St. John's girdle," and in Sicily was applied to his beard. In connection with Christ's birth it may be noted that the early painters represent the Angel Gabriel with either a sceptre or spray of the olive tree, while in the later period of Italian art he has in his hand a branch of white lilies.[11] The star which pointed out the place of His birth has long been immortalised by the _Ornithogalum umbellatum_, or Star of Bethlehem, which has been thought to resemble the pictures descriptive of it; in France there is a pretty legend of the rose-coloured sainfoin. When the infant Jesus was lying in the manger the plant was found among the grass and herbs which composed his bed. But suddenly it opened its pretty blossom, that it might form a wreath around His head. On this account it has been held in high repute. Hence the practice in Italy of decking mangers at Christmas time with moss, sow-thistle, cypress, and holly. [12] Near the city of On there was shown for many centuries the sacred fig-tree, under which the Holy Family rested during their "Flight into Egypt," and a Bavarian tradition makes the tree under which they found shelter a hazel. A German legend, on the other hand, informs us that as they took their flight they came into a thickly-wooded forest, when, on their approach, all the trees, with the exception of the aspen, paid reverential homage. The disrespectful arrogance of the aspen, however, did not escape the notice of the Holy Child, who thereupon pronounced a curse against it, whereupon its leaves began to tremble, and have done so ever since:-- "Once as our Saviour walked with men below, His path of mercy through a forest lay; And mark how all the drooping branches show What homage best a silent tree may pay. Only the aspen stood erect and free, Scorning to join the voiceless worship pure, But see! He cast one look upon the tree, Struck to the heart she trembles evermore." The "rose of Jericho" has long been regarded with special reverence, having first blossomed at Christ's birth, closed at His crucifixion, and opened again at the resurrection. At the flight into Egypt it is reported to have sprung up to mark the footsteps of the sacred family, and was consequently designated Mary's rose. The pine protected them from Herod's soldiers, while the juniper opened its branches and offered a welcome shelter, although it afterwards, says an old legend, furnished the wood for the cross. But some trees were not so thoughtful, for "the brooms and the chick-peas rustled and crackled, and the flax bristled up." According to another old legend we are informed that by the fountain where the Virgin Mary washed the swaddling-clothes of her sacred infant, beautiful bushes sprang up in memory of the event. Among the many further legends connected with the Virgin may be mentioned the following connected with her death:--The story runs that she was extremely anxious to see her Son again, and that whilst weeping, an angel appeared, and said, "Hail, O Mary! I bring thee here a branch of palm, gathered in paradise; command that it be carried before thy bier in the day of thy death, for in three days thy soul shall leave thy body, and thou shalt enter into paradise, where thy Son awaits thy coming." The angel then departed, but the palm-branch shed a light from every leaf, and the apostles, although scattered in different parts of the world, were miraculously caught up and set down at the Virgin's door. The sacred palm-branch she then assigned to the care of St. John, who carried it before her bier at the time of her burial. [13] The trees and flowers associated with the crucifixion are widely represented, and have given rise to many a pretty legend. Several plants are said to owe their dark-stained blossoms to the blood-drops which trickled from the cross; amongst these being the wood-sorrel, the spotted persicaria, the arum, the purple orchis, which is known in Cheshire as "Gethsemane," and the red anemone, which has been termed the "blood-drops of Christ." A Flemish legend, too, accounts in the same way for the crimson-spotted leaves of the rood-selken. The plant which has gained the unenviable notoriety of supplying the crown of thorns has been variously stated as the boxthorn, the bramble, the buckthorns, [14] and barberry, while Mr. Conway quotes an old tradition, which tells how the drops of blood that fell from the crown of thorns, composed of the rose-briar, fell to the ground and blossomed to roses. [15] Some again maintain that the wild hyssop was employed, and one plant which was specially signalled out in olden times is the auberpine or white-thorn. In Germany holly is Christ-thorn, and according to an Eastern tradition it was the prickly rush, but as Mr. King [16] remarks, "the belief of the East has been tolerably constant to what was possibly the real plant employed, the nabk (_Zizyphus spina-Christi_), a species of buckthorn." The negroes of the West Indies say that, "a branch of the cashew tree was used, and that in consequence one of the bright golden petals of the flower became black and blood-stained." Then again, according to a Swedish legend, the dwarf birch tree afforded the rod with which Christ was scourged, which accounts for its stunted appearance; while another legend tells us it was the willow with its drooping branches. Rubens, together with the earlier Italian painters, depict the reed-mace [17] or bulrush (_Typha latifolia_) as the rod given to Him to carry; a plant still put by Catholics into the hands of statues of Christ. But in Poland, where the plant is difficult to procure, "the flower-stalk of the leek is substituted." The mournful tree which formed the wood of the cross has always been a disputed question, and given rise to a host of curious legends. According to Sir John Maundeville, it was composed of cedar, cypress, palm, and olive, while some have instituted in the place of the two latter the pine and the box; the notion being that those four woods represented the four quarters of the globe. Foremost amongst the other trees to which this distinction has been assigned, are the aspen, poplar, oak, elder, and mistletoe. Hence is explained the gloomy shivering of the aspen leaf, the trembling of the poplar, and the popular antipathy to utilising elder twigs for fagots. But it is probable that the respect paid to the elder "has its roots in the old heathenism of the north," and to this day, in Denmark, it is said to be protected by "a being called the elder-mother," so that it is not safe to damage it in any way. [18] The mistletoe, which exists now as a mere parasite, was before the crucifixion a fine forest tree; its present condition being a lasting monument of the disgrace it incurred through its ignominious use. [19] A further legend informs us that when the Jews were in search of wood for the cross, every tree, with the exception of the oak, split itself to avoid being desecrated. On this account, Grecian woodcutters avoid the oak, regarding it as an accursed tree. The bright blue blossoms of the speedwell, which enliven our wayside hedges in spring-time, are said to display in their markings a representation of the kerchief of St Veronica, imprinted with the features of Christ. [20] According to an old tradition, when our Lord was on His way to Calvary, bearing His Cross, He happened to pass by the door of Veronica, who, beholding the drops of agony on His brow, wiped His face with a kerchief or napkin. The sacred features, however, remained impressed upon the linen, and from the fancied resemblance of the blossom of the speedwell to this hallowed relic, the plant was named Veronica. A plant closely connected by tradition with the crucifixion is the passion-flower. As soon as the early Spanish settlers in South America first glanced on it, they fancied they had discovered not only a marvellous symbol of Christ's passion, but received an assurance of the ultimate triumph of Christianity. Jacomo Bosio, who obtained his knowledge of it from certain Mexican Jesuits, speaks of it as "the flower of the five wounds," and has given a very minute description of it, showing how exactly every part is a picture of the mysteries of the Passion. "It would seem," he adds, "as if the Creator of the world had chosen it to represent the principal emblems of His Son's Passion; so that in due season it might assist, when its marvels should be explained to them, in the condition of the heathen people, in whose country it grew." In Brittany, vervain is popularly termed the "herb of the cross," and when gathered with a certain formula is efficacious in curing wounds. [21] In legendary lore, much uncertainty exists as to the tree on which Judas hanged himself. According to Sir John Maundeville, there it stood in the vicinity of Mount Sion, "the tree of eldre, that Judas henge himself upon, for despeyr," a legend which has been popularly received. Shakespeare, in his "Love's Labour's Lost," says "Judas was hanged on an elder," and the story is further alluded to in Piers Plowman's vision:-- "Judas, he japed With Jewen silver, And sithen on an eller, Hanged himselve." Gerarde makes it the wild carob, a tree which, as already stated, was formerly known as "St. John's bread," from a popular belief that the Baptist fed upon it while in the wilderness. A Sicilian tradition identifies the tree as a tamarisk, and a Russian proverb, in allusion to the aspen, tells us "there is an accursed tree which trembles without even a breath of wind." The fig, also, has been mentioned as the ill-fated tree, and some traditions have gone so far as to say that it was the very same one as was cursed by our Lord. As might be expected, numerous plants have become interwoven with the lives of the saints, a subject on which many works have been written. Hence it is unnecessary to do more than briefly note some of the more important items of sacred lore which have been embodied in many of the early Christian legends. The yellow rattle has been assigned to St. Peter, and the _Primula veris_, from its resemblance to a bunch of keys, is St. Peter's wort. Many flowers, too, from the time of their blossoming, have been dedicated to certain saints, as the square St. John's wort (_Hypericum quadrangulare_), which is also known as St. Peter's wort; while in Germany wall-barley is termed Peter's corn. Of the many legends connected with the cherry we are reminded that on one occasion Christ gave one to St. Peter, at the same time reminding him not to despise little things. St. James is associated with several plants--the St. James' wort (_Senecio Jacoboea_), either from its having been much used for the diseases of horses, of which the saint was the patron, or owing to its blossoming on his festival. The same name was applied to the shepherd's purse and the rag-weed. Incidentally, too, in our chapter on the calendar we have alluded to many flowers associated with the saints, and spoken of the customs observed in their honour. Similarly the later saints had particular flowers dedicated to their memory; and, indeed, a complete catalogue of flowers has been compiled--one for each day in the year--the flower in many cases having been selected because it flowered on the festival of that saint. Thus the common bean was dedicated to St. Ignatius, and the blue hyacinth to St. Dorothy, while to St. Hilary the barren strawberry has been assigned. St. Anne is associated with the camomile, and St. Margaret with the Virginian dragon's head. Then there is St. Anthony's turnips and St. Barbara's cress--the "Saints' Floral Directory," in "Hone's Every-Day Book," giving a fuller and more extensive list. But the illustrations we have already given are sufficient to show how fully the names of the saints have been perpetuated by so many of our well-known plants not only being dedicated to, but named after them, a fact which is perhaps more abundantly the case on the Continent. Then, as it has been remarked, flowers have virtually become the timepieces of our religious calendar, reminding us of the various festivals, as in succession they return, in addition to immortalising the history and events which such festivals commemorate. In many cases, too, it should be remembered, the choice of flowers for dedication to certain saints originated either in their medical virtues or in some old tradition which was supposed to have specially singled them out for this honour. Footnotes: 1. Sanscrit for lotus. 2. Hindu poem, translated by Sir William Jones. 3. "Flower-lore," p. 118. 4. Folkard's "Plant Legends," p. 245. 5. "Flower-lore," p. 120. 6. _Quarterly Review_, cxiv. 231. 7. "Flower-lore," p. 2. 8. Ibid. 9. _Quarterly Review_, cxiv. 235. 10. Ibid., p. 239. 11. "Flower-lore." 12. Folkard's "Plant Legends," p. 44. 13. Folkard's "Plant Legends," p. 395. 14. "Flower-lore," p. 13. 15. _Fraser's Magazine_, 1870, p. 714. 16. "Flower-lore," p. 14. 17. "Flower-lore," p. 14. 18. _Quarterly Review_, cxiv. 233; "Flower-lore," p. 15. 19. See Baring-Gould's "Myths of the Middle Ages." 20. "Flower-lore," p. 12. 21. See chapter on Folk-Medicine. CHAPTER XX. PLANT SUPERSTITIONS. The superstitious notions which, under one form or another, have clustered round the vegetable kingdom, hold a prominent place in the field of folk-lore. To give a full and detailed account of these survivals of bygone beliefs, would occupy a volume of no mean size, so thickly scattered are they among the traditions and legendary lore of almost every country. Only too frequently, also, we find the same superstition assuming a very different appearance as it travels from one country to another, until at last it is almost completely divested of its original dress. Repeated changes of this kind, whilst not escaping the notice of the student of comparative folk-lore, are apt to mislead the casual observer who, it may be, assigns to them a particular home in his own country, whereas probably they have travelled, before arriving at their modern destination, thousands of miles in the course of years. There is said to be a certain mysterious connection between certain plants and animals. Thus, swine when affected with the spleen are supposed to resort to the spleen-wort, and according to Coles, in his "Art of Simpling," the ass does likewise, for he tells us that, "if the asse be oppressed with melancholy, he eates of the herbe asplemon or mill-waste, and eases himself of the swelling of the spleen." One of the popular names of the common sow-thistle (_Sonchus oleraceus_) is hare's-palace, from the shelter it is supposed to afford the hare. According to the "Grete Herbale," "if the hare come under it, he is sure that no beast can touch hym." Topsell also, in his "Natural History," alludes to this superstition:--"When hares are overcome with heat, they eat of an herb called _Latuca leporina_, that is, hare's-lettuce, hare's-house, hare's-palace; and there is no disease in this beast the cure whereof she does not seek for in this herb." The hound's-tongue (_cynoglossum_) has been reputed to have the magical property of preventing dogs barking at a person, if laid beneath the feet; and Gerarde says that wild goats or deer, "when they be wounded with arrows, do shake them out by eating of this plant, and heal their wounds." Bacon in his "Natural History" alludes to another curious idea connected with goats, and says, "There are some tears of trees, which are combed from the beards of goats; for when the goats bite and crop them, especially in the morning, the dew being on, the tear cometh forth, and hangeth upon their beards; of this sort is some kind of laudanum." The columbine was once known as _Herba leonis_, from a belief that it was the lion's favourite plant, and it is said that when bears were half-starved by hybernating--having remained for days without food--they were suddenly restored by eating the arum. There is a curious tradition in Piedmont, that if a hare be sprinkled with the juice of henbane, all the hares in the neighbourhood will run away as if scared by some invisible power. Gerarde also alludes to an old belief that cats, "Are much delighted with catmint, for the smell of it is so pleasant unto them, that they rub themselves upon it, and swallow or tumble in it, and also feed on the branches very greedily." And according to an old proverb they have a liking for the plant maram:-- "If you set it, the cats will eat it; If you sow it, the cats won't know it." Equally fond, too, are cats of valerian, being said to dig up the roots and gnaw them to pieces, an allusion to which occurs in Topsell's "Four-footed Beasts" (1658-81):--"The root of the herb valerian (commonly called Phu) is very like to the eye of a cat, and wheresoever it groweth, if cats come thereunto they instantly dig it up for the love thereof, as I myself have seen in mine own garden, for it smelleth moreover like a cat." Then there is the moonwort, famous for drawing the nails out of horses' shoes, and hence known by the rustic name of "unshoe the horse;" while the mouse-ear was credited with preventing the horses being hurt when shod. We have already alluded to the superstitions relating to birds and plants, but may mention another relating to the celandine. One of the well-known names of this plant is swallow-wort, so termed, says Gerarde, not, "because it first springeth at the coming in of the swallows, or dieth when they go away, for it may be found all the year, but because some hold opinion that with this herbe the darns restore eyesight to their young ones, when their eye be put out." Coles strengthens the evidence in favour of this odd notion by adding: "It is known to such as have skill of nature, what wonderful care she hath of the smallest creatures, giving to them a knowledge of medicine to help themselves, if haply diseases annoy them. The swallow cureth her dim eyes with celandine; the wesell knoweth well the virtue of herb-grace; the dove the verven; the dogge dischargeth his mawe with a kind of grasse," &c. In Italy cumin is given to pigeons for the purpose of taming them, and a curious superstition is that of the "divining-rod," with "its versatile sensibility to water, ore, treasure and thieves," and one whose history is apparently as remote as it is widespread. Francis Lenormant, in his "Chaldean Magic," mentions the divining-rods used by the Magi, wherewith they foretold the future by throwing little sticks of tamarisk-wood, and adds that divination by wands was known and practised in Babylon, "and that this was even the most ancient mode of divination used in the time of the Accadians." Among the Hindus, even in the Vedic period, magic wands were in use, and the practice still survives in China, where the peach-tree is in demand. Tracing its antecedent history in this country, it appears that the Druids were in the habit of cutting their divining-rods from the apple-tree; and various notices of this once popular fallacy occur from time to time, in the literature of bygone years. The hazel was formerly famous for its powers of discernment, and it is still held in repute by the Italians. Occasionally, too, as already noticed, the divining-rod was employed for the purpose of detecting the locality of water, as is still the case in Wiltshire. An interesting case was quoted some years ago in the _Quarterly Review_ (xxii. 273). A certain Lady N----is here stated to have convinced Dr. Hutton of her possession of this remarkable gift, and by means of it to have indicated to him the existence of a spring of water in one of his fields adjoining the Woolwich College, which, in consequence of the discovery, he was enabled to sell to the college at a higher price. This power Lady N----repeatedly exhibited before credible witnesses, and the _Quarterly Review_ of that day considered the fact indisputable. The divining-rod has long been in repute among Cornish miners, and Pryce, in his "Mineralogia Cornubiensis," says that many mines have been discovered by this means; but, after giving a minute account of cutting, tying, and using it, he rejects it, because, "Cornwall is so plentifully stored with tin and copper lodes, that some accident every week discovers to us a fresh vein." Billingsley, in his "Agricultural Survey of the County of Cornwall," published in the year 1797, speaks of the belief of the Mendip miners in the efficacy of the mystic rod:--"The general method of discovering the situation and direction of those seams of ore (which lie at various depths, from five to twenty fathoms, in a chasm between two inches of solid rock) is by the help of the divining-rod, vulgarly called _josing_; and a variety of strong testimonies are adduced in supporting this doctrine. So confident are the common miners of the efficacy, that they scarcely ever sink a shaft but by its direction; and those who are dexterous in the use of it, will mark on the surface the course and breadth of the vein; and after that, with the assistance of the rod, will follow the same course twenty times following blindfolded." Anecdotes of the kind are very numerous, for there are few subjects in folk-lore concerning which more has been written than on the divining-rod, one of the most exhaustive being that of Mr. Baring-Gould in his "Curious Myths of the Middle Ages." The literature, too, of the past is rich in allusions to this piece of superstition, and Swift in his "Virtues of Sid Hamet the Magician's Rod" (1710) thus refers to it:-- "They tell us something strange and odd About a certain magic rod That, bending down its top, divines Whene'er the soil has golden mines; Where there are none, it stands erect, Scorning to show the least respect. As ready was the wand of Sid To bend where golden mines were hid. In Scottish hills found precious ore, Where none e'er looked for it before; And by a gentle bow divined, How well a Cully's purse was lined; To a forlorn and broken rake, Stood without motion like a stake." De Quincey has several amusing allusions to this fallacy, affirming that he had actually seen on more than one occasion the process applied with success, and declared that, in spite of all science or scepticism might say, most of the tea-kettles in the Vale of Wrington, North Somersetshire, are filled by rhabdomancy. But it must be admitted that the phenomena of the divining-rod and table-turning are of precisely the same character, both being referable to an involuntary muscular action resulting from a fixedness of idea. Moreover, it should be remembered that experiments with the divining-rod are generally made in a district known to be metalliferous, and therefore the chances are greatly in favour of its bending over or near a mineral lode. On the other hand, it is surprising how many people of culture have, at different times, in this and other countries, displayed a lamentable weakness in partially accepting this piece of superstition. Of the many anecdotes related respecting it, we may quote an amusing one in connection with the celebrated botanist, Linnaeus:--"When he was on one of his voyages, hearing his secretary highly extol the virtues of his divining-wand, he was willing to convince him of its insufficiency, and for that purpose concealed a purse of one hundred ducats under a ranunculus, which grew up by itself in a meadow, and bid the secretary find it if he could. The wand discovered nothing, and Linnaeus' mark was soon trampled down by the company who were present, so that when he went to finish the experiment by fetching the gold himself, he was utterly at a loss where to find it. The man with the wand assisted him, and informed him that it could not lie in the way they were going, but quite the contrary, so pursued the direction of the wand, and actually dug out the gold. Linnaeus thereupon added that such another experiment would be sufficient to make a proselyte of him." [1] In 1659, the Jesuit, Gaspard Schott, tells us that this magic rod was at this period used in every town in Germany, and that he had frequently had opportunities of seeing it used in the discovery of hidden treasure. He further adds:--"I searched with the greatest care into the question whether the hazel rod had any sympathy with gold and silver, and whether any natural property set it in motion. In like manner, I tried whether a ring of metal, held suspended by a thread in the midst of a tumbler, and which strikes the hours, is moved by any similar force." But many of the mysterious effects of these so-called divining-rods were no doubt due to clever imposture. In the year 1790, Plunet, a native of Dauphiné, claimed a power over the divining-rod which attracted considerable attention in Italy. But when carefully tested by scientific men in Padua, his attempts to discover buried metals completely failed; and at Florence he was detected trying to find out by night what he had secreted to test his powers on the morrow. The astrologer Lilly made sundry experiments with the divining-rod, but was not always successful; and the Jesuit, Kircher, tried the powers of certain rods which were said to have sympathetic influences for particular metals, but they never turned on the approach of these. Once more, in the "Shepherd's Calendar," we find a receipt to make the "Mosaic wand to find hidden treasure" without the intervention of a human operator:--"Cut a hazel wand forked at the upper end like a Y. Peel off the rind, and dry it in a moderate heat, then steep it in the juice of wake-robin or nightshade, and cut the single lower end sharp; and where you suppose any rich mine or hidden treasure is near, place a piece of the same metal you conceive is hid, or in the earth, to the top of one of the forks by a hair, and do the like to the other end; pitch the sharp single end lightly to the ground at the going down of the sun, the moon being in the increase, and in the morning at sunrise, by a natural sympathy, you will find the metal inclining, as it were pointing, to the places where the other is hid." According to a Tuscany belief, the almond will discover treasures; and the golden rod has long had the reputation in England of pointing to hidden springs of water, as well as to treasures of gold and silver. Similarly, the spring-wort and primrose--the key-flower--revealed the hidden recesses in mountains where treasures were concealed, and the mystic fern-seed, termed "wish-seed," was supposed in the Tyrol to make known hidden gold; and, according to a Lithuanian form of this superstition, one who secures treasures by this means will be pursued by adders, the guardians of the gold. Plants of this kind remind us of the magic "sesame" which, at the command of Ali Baba, in the story of the "Forty Thieves," gave him immediate admission to the secret treasure-cave. Once more, among further plants possessing the same mystic property may be mentioned the sow-thistle, which, when invoked, discloses hidden treasures. In Sicily a branch of the pomegranate tree is considered to be a most effectual means of ascertaining the whereabouts of concealed wealth. Hence it has been invested with an almost reverential awe, and has been generally employed when search has been made for some valuable lost property. In Silesia, Thuringia, and Bohemia the mandrake is, in addition to its many mystic properties, connected with the idea of hidden treasures. Numerous plants are said to be either lucky or the reverse, and hence have given rise to all kinds of odd beliefs, some of which still survive in our midst, having come down from a remote period. There is in many places a curious antipathy to uprooting the house-leek, some persons even disliking to let it blossom, and a similar prejudice seems to have existed against the cuckoo-flower, for, if found accidentally inverted in a May garland, it was at once destroyed. In Prussia it is regarded as ominous for a bride to plant myrtle, although in this country it has the reputation of being a lucky plant. According to a Somersetshire saying, "The flowering myrtle is the luckiest plant to have in your window, water it every morning, and be proud of it." We may note here that there are many odd beliefs connected with the myrtle. "Speaking to a lady," says a correspondent of the _Athenaeum_ (Feb. 5, 1848), "of the difficulty which I had always found in getting a slip of myrtle to grow, she directly accounted for my failure by observing that perhaps I had not spread the tail or skirt of my dress, and looked proud during the time I was planting it. It is a popular belief in Somersetshire that unless a slip of myrtle is so planted, it will never take root." The deadly nightshade is a plant of ill omen, and Gerarde describing it says, "if you will follow my counsel, deal not with the same in any case, and banish it from your gardens, and the use of it also, being a plant so furious and deadly; for it bringeth such as have eaten thereof into a dead sleep, wherein many have died." There is a strong prejudice to sowing parsley, and equally a great dislike to transplanting it, the latter notion being found in South America. Likewise, according to a Devonshire belief, it is highly unlucky to plant a bed of lilies of the valley, as the person doing so will probably die in the course of the next twelve months. The withering of plants has long been regarded ominous, and, according to a Welsh superstition, if there are faded leaves in a room where a baby is christened it will soon die. Of the many omens afforded by the oak, we are told that the change of its leaves from their usual colour gave more than once "fatal premonition" of coming misfortunes during the great civil wars; and Bacon mentions a tradition that "if the oak-apple, broken, be full of worms, it is a sign of a pestilent year." In olden times the decay of the bay-tree was considered an omen of disaster, and it is stated that, previous to the death of Nero, though the winter was very mild, all these trees withered to the roots, and that a great pestilence in Padua was preceded by the same phenomenon. [2] Shakespeare speaks of this superstition:-- "'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay, The bay-trees in our county are all withered." Lupton, in his "Notable Things," tells us that, "If a fir-tree be touched, withered, or burned with lightning, it signifies that the master or mistress thereof shall shortly die." It is difficult, as we have already noted in a previous chapter, to discover why some of our sweetest and fairest spring-flowers should be associated with ill-luck. In the western counties, for instance, one should never take less than a handful of primroses or violets into a farmer's house, as neglect of this rule is said to affect the success of the ducklings and chickens. A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ (I. Ser. vii. 201) writes:--"My gravity was sorely tried by being called on to settle a quarrel between two old women, arising from one of them having given one primrose to her neighbour's child, for the purpose of making her hens hatch but one egg out of each set of eggs, and it was seriously maintained that the charm had been successful." In the same way it is held unlucky to introduce the first snowdrop of the year into a house, for, as a Sussex woman once remarked, "It looks for all the world like a corpse in its shroud." We may repeat, too, again the familiar adage:-- "If you sweep the house with blossomed broom in May, You are sure to sweep the head of the house away." And there is the common superstition that where roses and violets bloom in autumn, it is indicative of some epidemic in the following year; whereas, if a white rose put forth unexpectedly, it is believed in Germany to be a sign of death in the nearest house; and in some parts of Essex there is a current belief that sickness or death will inevitably ensue if blossoms of the whitethorn be brought into a house; the idea in Norfolk being that no one will be married from the house during the year. Another ominous sign is that of plants shedding their leaves, or of their blossoms falling to pieces. Thus the peasantry in some places affirm that the dropping of the leaves of a peach-tree betokens a murrain; and in Italy it is held unlucky for a rose to do so. A well-known illustration of this superstition occurred many years ago in the case of the unfortunate Miss Bay, who was murdered at the piazza entrance of Covent Garden by Hackman (April 1779), the following account of which we quote from the "Life and Correspondence of M. G. Lewis":-- "When the carriage was announced, and she was adjusting her dress, Mr. Lewis happened to make some remark on a beautiful rose which Miss Kay wore in her bosom. Just as the words were uttered the flower fell to the ground. She immediately stooped to regain it, but as she picked it up, the red leaves scattered themselves on the carpet, and the stalk alone remained in her hand. The poor girl, who had been depressed in spirits before, was evidently affected by this incident, and said, in a slightly faltering voice, 'I trust I am not to consider this as an evil omen!' But soon rallying, she expressed to Mr. Lewis, in a cheerful tone, her hope that they would meet again after the theatre--a hope, alas! which it was decreed should not be realised." According to a German belief, one who throws a rose into a grave will waste away. There is a notion prevalent in Dorsetshire that a house wherein the plant "bergamot" is kept will never be free from sickness; and in Norfolk it is said to be unlucky to take into a house a bunch of the grass called "maiden-hair," or, as it is also termed, "dudder-grass." Among further plants of ill omen may be mentioned the bluebell (_Campanula rotundifolia_), which in certain parts of Scotland was called "The aul' man's bell," and was regarded with a sort of dread, and commonly left unpulled. In Cumberland, about Cockermouth, the red campion (_Lychnis diurna_) is called "mother-die," and young people believe that if plucked some misfortune will happen to their parents. A similar belief attaches to the herb-robert (_Geranium robertianum_) in West Cumberland, where it is nicknamed "Death come quickly;" and in certain parts of Yorkshire there is a notion that if a child gather the germander speedwell (_Veronica chamoedrys_), its mother will die during the year. Herrick has a pretty allusion to the daffodil:-- "When a daffodil I see Hanging down her head t'wards me, Guess I may what I must be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead; Lastly, safely buried." In Germany, the marigold is with the greatest care excluded from the flowers with which young women test their love-affairs; and in Austria it is held unlucky to pluck the crocus, as it draws away the strength. An ash leaf is still frequently employed for invoking good luck, and in Cornwall we find the old popular formula still in use:-- "Even ash, I do thee pluck, Hoping thus to meet good luck; If no good luck I get from thee, I shall wish thee on the tree." And there is the following well-known couplet:-- "With a four-leaved clover, a double-leaved ash, and a green-topped leave, You may go before the queen's daughter without asking leave." But, on the other hand, the finder of the five-leaved clover, it is said, will have bad luck. In Scotland [3] it was formerly customary to carry on the person a piece of torch-fir for good luck--a superstition which, Mr. Conway remarks, is found in the gold-mines of California, where the men tip a cone with the first gold they discover, and keep it as a charm to ensure good luck in future. Nuts, again, have generally been credited with propitious qualities, and have accordingly been extensively used for divination. In some mysterious way, too, they are supposed to influence the population, for when plentiful, there is said to be a corresponding increase of babies. In Russia the peasantry frequently carry a nut in their purses, from a belief that it will act as a charm in their efforts to make money. Sternberg, in his "Northamptonshire Glossary" (163), says that the discovery of a double nut, "presages well for the finder, and unless he mars his good fortune by swallowing both kernels, is considered an infallible sign of approaching 'luck.' The orthodox way in such cases consists in eating one, and throwing the other over the shoulder." The Icelanders have a curious idea respecting the mountain-ash, affirming that it is an enemy of the juniper, and that if one is planted on one side of a tree, and the other on the other, they will split it. It is also asserted that if both are kept in the same house it will be burnt down; but, on the other hand, there is a belief among some sailors that if rowan-tree be used in a ship, it will sink the vessel unless juniper be found on board. In the Tyrol, the _Osmunda regalis_, called "the blooming fern," is placed over the door for good teeth; and Mr. Conway, too, in his valuable papers, to which we have been often indebted in the previous chapters, says that there are circumstances under which all flowers are injurious. "They must not be laid on the bed of a sick person, according to a Silesian superstition; and in Westphalia and Thuringia, no child under a year old must be permitted to wreathe itself with flowers, or it will soon die. Flowers, says a common German saying, must in no case be laid on the mouth of a corpse, since the dead man may chew them, which would make him a 'Nachzehrer,' or one who draws his relatives to the grave after him." In Hungary, the burnet saxifrage (_Pimpinella saxifraga_) is a mystic plant, where it is popularly nicknamed Chaba's salve, there being an old tradition that it was discovered by King Chaba, who cured the wounds of fifteen thousand of his men after a bloody battle fought against his brother. In Hesse, it is said that with knots tied in willow one may slay a distant enemy; and the Bohemians have a belief that seven-year-old children will become beautiful by dancing in the flax. But many superstitions have clustered round the latter plant, it having in years gone by been a popular notion that it will only flower at the time of day on which it was originally sown. To spin on Saturday is said in Germany to bring ill fortune, and as a warning the following legend is among the household tales of the peasantry:--"Two old women, good friends, were the most industrious spinners in their village, Saturday finding them as engrossed in their work as on the other days of the week. At length one of them died, but on the Saturday evening following she appeared to the other, who, as usual, was busy at her wheel, and showing her burning hand, said:-- 'See what I in hell have won, Because on Saturday eve I spun.'" Flax, nevertheless, is a lucky plant, for in Thuringia, when a young woman gets married, she places flax in her shoes as a charm against poverty. It is supposed, also, to have health-giving virtues; for in Germany, when an infant seems weakly and thrives slowly, it is placed naked upon the turf on Midsummer day, and flax-seed is sprinkled over it; the idea being that as the flax-seed grows so the infant will gradually grow stronger. Of the many beliefs attached to the ash-tree, we are told in the North of England that if the first parings of a child's nails be buried beneath its roots, it will eventually turn out, to use the local phrase, a "top-singer," and there is a popular superstition that wherever the purple honesty (_Lunaria biennis_) flourishes, the cultivators of the garden are noted for their honesty. The snapdragon, which in years gone by was much cultivated for its showy blossoms, was said to have a supernatural influence, and amongst other qualities to possess the power of destroying charms. Many further illustrations of this class of superstition might easily be added, so thickly interwoven are they with the history of most of our familiar wild-flowers. One further superstition may be noticed, an allusion to which occurs in "Henry V." (Act i. sc. i):-- "The strawberry grows underneath the nettle, And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality;" It having been the common notion that plants were affected by the neighbourhood of other plants to such an extent that they imbibed each other's virtues and faults. Accordingly sweet flowers were planted near fruit-trees, with the idea of improving the flavour of the fruit; and, on the other hand, evil-smelling trees, like the elder, were carefully cleaned away from fruit-trees, lest they should become tainted. [4] Further superstitions have been incidentally alluded to throughout the present volume, necessarily associated as they are with most sections of plant folk-lore. It should also be noticed that in the various folk-tales which have been collected together in recent years, many curious plant superstitions are introduced, although, to suit the surroundings of the story, they have only too frequently been modified, or the reverse. At the same time, embellishments of the kind are interesting, as showing how familiar these traditionary beliefs were in olden times to the story-teller, and how ready he was to avail himself of them. Footnotes: 1. See Baring-Gerald's "Curious Myths of the Middle Ages." 2. Ingram's "Florica Symbolica," p. 326. 3. Stewart's "Popular Superstitions of the Highlanders." 4. See Ellacombe's "Plant-lore of Shakespeare," p. 319. CHAPTER XXI. PLANTS IN FOLK-MEDICINE. From the earliest times plants have been most extensively used in the cure of disease, although in days of old it was not so much their inherent medicinal properties which brought them into repute as their supposed magical virtues. Oftentimes, in truth, the only merit of a plant lay in the charm formula attached to it, the due utterance of which ensured relief to the patient. Originally there can be no doubt that such verbal forms were prayers, "since dwindled into mystic sentences." [1] Again, before a plant could work its healing powers, due regard had to be paid to the planet under whose influence it was supposed to be; [2] for Aubrey mentions an old belief that if a plant "be not gathered according to the rules of astrology, it hath little or no virtue in it." Hence, in accordance with this notion, we find numerous directions for the cutting and preparing of certain plants for medicinal purposes, a curious list of which occurs in Culpepper's "British Herbal and Family Physician." This old herbalist, who was a strong believer in astrology, tells us that such as are of this way of thinking, and none else, are fit to be physicians. But he was not the only one who had strict views on this matter, as the literature of his day proves--astrology, too, having held a prominent place in most of the gardening books of the same period. Michael Drayton, who has chronicled so many of the credulities of his time, referring to the longevity of antediluvian men, writes:-- "Besides, in medicine, simples had the power That none need then the planetary hour To help their workinge, they so juiceful were." The adder's-tongue, if plucked during the wane of the moon, was a cure for tumours, and there is a Swabian belief that one, "who on Friday of the full moon pulls up the amaranth by the root, and folding it in a white cloth, wears it against his naked breast, will be made bullet-proof." [3] Consumptive patients, in olden times, were three times passed, "Through a circular wreath of woodbine, cut during the increase of the March moon, and let down over the body from head to foot." [4] In France, too, at the present day, the vervain is gathered under the different changes of the moon, with secret incantations, after which it is said to possess remarkable curative properties. In Cornwall, the club-moss, if properly gathered, is considered "good against all diseases of the eye." The mode of procedure is this:--"On the third day of the moon, when the thin crescent is seen for the first time, show it the knife with which the moss is to be cut, and repeat this formula:-- 'As Christ healed the issue of blood, Do thou cut what thou cuttest for good.' At sundown, the operator, after carefully washing his hands, is to cut the club-moss kneeling. It is then to be wrapped in a white cloth, and subsequently boiled in water taken from the spring nearest to its place of growth. This may be used as a fomentation, or the club-moss may be made into an ointment with the butter from the milk of a new cow." [5] Some plants have, from time immemorial, been much in request from the season or period of their blooming, beyond which fact it is difficult to account for the virtues ascribed to them. Thus, among the Romans, the first anemone of the year, when gathered with this form of incantation, "I gather thee for a remedy against disease," was regarded as a preservative from fever; a survival of which belief still prevails in our own country:-- "The first spring-blown anemone she in his doublet wove, To keep him safe from pestilence wherever he should rove." On the other hand, in some countries there is a very strong prejudice against the wild anemone, the air being said "to be so tainted by them, that they who inhale it often incur severe sickness." [6] Similarly we may compare the notion that flowers blooming out of season have a fatal significance, as we have noted elsewhere. The sacred associations attached to many plants have invested them, at all times, with a scientific repute in the healing art, instances of which may be traced up to a very early period. Thus, the peony, which, from its mythical divine origin, was an important flower in the primitive pharmacopoeia, has even in modern times retained its reputation; and to this day Sussex mothers put necklaces of beads turned from the peony root around their children's necks, to prevent convulsions and to assist them in their teething. When worn on the person, it was long considered, too, a most effectual remedy for insanity, and Culpepper speaks of its virtues in the cure of the falling sickness. [7] The thistle, sacred to Thor, is another plant of this kind, and indeed instances are very numerous. On the other hand, some plants, from their great virtues as "all-heals," it would seem, had such names as "Angelica" and "Archangel" bestowed on them. [8] In later times many plants became connected with the name of Christ, and with the events of the crucifixion itself--facts which occasionally explain their mysterious virtues. Thus the vervain, known as the "holy herb," and which was one of the sacred plants of the Druids, has long been held in repute, the subjoined rhyme assigning as the reason:-- "All hail, thou holy herb, vervin, Growing on the ground; On the Mount of Calvary There wast thou found; Thou helpest many a grief, And staunchest many a wound. In the name of sweet Jesu, I lift thee from the ground." To quote one or two further instances, a popular recipe for preventing the prick of a thorn from festering is to repeat this formula:-- "Christ was of a virgin born, And he was pricked with a thorn, And it did neither bell nor swell, And I trust in Jesus this never will." In Cornwall, some years ago, the following charm was much used, forms of which may occasionally be heard at the present day:-- "Happy man that Christ was born, He was crowned with a thorn; He was pierced through the skin, For to let the poison in. But His five wounds, so they say, Closed before He passed away. In with healing, out with thorn, Happy man that Christ was born." Another version used in the North of England is this:-- "Unto the Virgin Mary our Saviour was horn, And on his head he wore a crown of thorn; If you believe this true, and mind it well, This hurt will never fester nor swell." The _Angelica sylvestris_ was popularly known as "Holy Ghost," from the angel-like properties therein having been considered good "against poisons, pestilent agues, or the pestilence." Cockayne, in his "Saxon Leechdoms," mentions an old poem descriptive of the virtues of the mugwort:-- "Thou hast might for three, And against thirty, For venom availest For plying vile things." So, too, certain plants of the saints acquired a notoriety for specific virtues; and hence St. John's wort, with its leaves marked with blood-like spots, which appear, according to tradition, on the anniversary of his decollation, is still "the wonderful herb" that cures all sorts of wounds. Herb-bennet, popularly designated "Star of the earth," a name applied to the avens, hemlock, and valerian, should properly be, says Dr. Prior, "St. Benedict's herb, a name assigned to such plants as were supposed to be antidotes, in allusion to a legend of this saint, which represents that upon his blessing a cup of poisoned wine which a monk had given to destroy him, the glass was shivered to pieces." In the same way, herb-gerard was called from St. Gerard, who was formerly invoked against gout, a complaint for which this plant was once in high repute. St. James's wort was so called from its being used for the diseases of horses, of which this great pilgrim-saint was the patron. It is curious in how many unexpected ways these odd items of folk-lore in their association with the saints meet us, showing that in numerous instances it is entirely their association with certain saints that has made them of medical repute. Some trees and plants have gained a medical notoriety from the fact of their having a mystical history, and from the supernatural qualities ascribed to them. But, as Bulwer-Lytton has suggested in his "Strange Story," the wood of certain trees to which magical properties are ascribed may in truth possess virtues little understood, and deserving of careful investigation. Thus, among these, the rowan would take its place, as would the common hazel, from which the miner's divining-rod is always cut. [9] An old-fashioned charm to cure the bite of an adder was to lay a cross formed of two pieces of hazel-wood on the ground, repeating three times this formula [10]:-- "Underneath this hazelin mote, There's a braggotty worm with a speckled throat, Nine double is he; Now from nine double to eight double And from eight double to seven double-ell." The mystical history of the apple accounts for its popularity as a medical agent, although, of course, we must not attribute all the lingering rustic cures to this source. Thus, according to an old Devonshire rhyme, "Eat an apple going to bed, Make the doctor beg his bread." Its juice has long been deemed potent against warts, and a Lincolnshire cure for eyes affected by rheumatism or weakness is a poultice made of rotten apples. The oak, long famous for its supernatural strength and power, has been much employed in folk-medicine. A German cure for ague is to walk round an oak and say:-- "Good evening, thou good one old; I bring thee the warm and the cold." Similarly, in our own country, oak-trees planted at the junction of cross-roads were much resorted to by persons suffering from ague, for the purpose of transferring to them their complaint, [11] and elsewhere allusion has already been made to the practice of curing sickly children by passing through a split piece of oak. A German remedy for gout is to take hold of an oak, or of a young shoot already felled, and to repeat these words:-- "Oak-shoot, I to thee complain, All the torturing gout plagues me; I cannot go for it, Thou canst stand it. The first bird that flies above thee, To him give it in his flight, Let him take it with him in the air." Another plant, which from its mystic character has been used for various complaints, is the elder. In Bohemia, three spoonsful of the water which has been used to bathe an invalid are poured under an elder-tree; and a Danish cure for toothache consists in placing an elder-twig in the mouth, and then sticking it in a wall, saying, "Depart, thou evil spirit." The mysterious origin and surroundings of the mistletoe have invested it with a widespread importance in old folk-lore remedies, many of which are, even now-a-days, firmly credited; a reputation, too, bestowed upon it by the Druids, who styled it "all-heal," as being an antidote for all diseases. Culpepper speaks of it as "good for the grief of the sinew, itch, sores, and toothache, the biting of mad dogs and venomous beasts;" while Sir Thomas Browne alludes to its virtues in cases of epilepsy. In France, amulets formed of mistletoe were much worn; and in Sweden, a finger-ring made of its wood is an antidote against sickness. The mandrake, as a mystic plant, was extensively sold for medicinal purposes, and in Kent may be occasionally found kept to cure barrenness; [12] and it may be remembered that La Fontaine's fable, _La Mandragore_, turns upon its supposed power of producing children. How potent its effects were formerly held may be gathered from the very many allusions to its mystic properties in the literature of bygone years. Columella, in his well-known lines, says:-- "Whose roots show half a man, whose juice With madness strikes." Shakespeare speaks of it as an opiate, and on the Continent it was much used for amulets. Again, certain plants seem to have been specially in high repute in olden times from the marvellous influence they were credited with exercising over the human frame; consequently they were much valued by both old and young; for who would not retain the vigour of his youth, and what woman would not desire to preserve the freshness of her beauty? One of the special virtues of rosemary, for instance, was its ability to make old folks young again. A story is told of a gouty and crooked old queen, who sighed with longing regret to think that her young dancing-days were gone, so:-- "Of rosmaryn she took six pownde, And grounde it well in a stownde," And then mixed it with water, in which she bathed three times a day, taking care to anoint her head with "gode balm" afterwards. In a very short time her old flesh fell away, and she became so young, tender, and fresh, that she began to look out for a husband. [13] The common fennel (_Foeniculum vulgare_) was supposed to give strength to the constitution, and was regarded as highly restorative. Longfellow, in his "Goblet of Life," apparently alludes to our fennel:-- "Above the lowly plant it towers, The fennel, with its yellow flowers; And in an earlier age than ours Was gifted with the wondrous powers Lost vision to restore. It gave new strength and fearless mood, And gladiators, fierce and rude, Mingled it in their daily food, And he who battled and subdued, The wreath of fennel wore." The lady's-mantle, too (_Alchemilla vulgaris_), was once in great request, for, according to Hoffman, it had the power of "restoring feminine beauty, however faded, to its early freshness;" and the wild tansy (_Tanacetum vulgare_), laid to soak in buttermilk for nine days, had the reputation of "making the complexion very fair." [14] Similarly, also, the great burnet saxifrage was said to remove freckles; and according to the old herbalists, an infusion of the common centaury (_Erythroea centaurium_) possessed the same property. [15] The hawthorn, too, was in repute among the fair sex, for, according to an old piece of proverbial lore:-- "The fair maid who, the first of May, Goes to the fields at break of day, And washes in dew from the hawthorn tree, Will ever after handsome be;" And the common fumitory, "was used when gathered in wedding hours, and boiled in water, milk, and whey, as a wash for the complexion of rustic maids." [16] In some parts of France the water-hemlock (_�nanthe crocata_), known with us as the "dead-tongue," from its paralysing effects on the organs of voice, was used to destroy moles; and the yellow toad-flax (_Linaria vulgaris_) is described as "cleansing the skin wonderfully of all sorts of deformity." Another plant of popular renown was the knotted figwort (_Scrophularia nodosa_), for Gerarde censures "divers who doe rashly teach that if it be hanged about the necke, or else carried about one, it keepeth a man in health." Coles, speaking of the mugwort (_Artemisia vulgaris_), says that, "if a footman take mugwort and put it in his shoes in the morning, he may go forty miles before noon and not be weary;" but as far back as the time of Pliny its remarkable properties were known, for he says, "The wayfaring man that hath the herb tied about him feeleth no weariness at all, and he can never be hurt by any poisonous medicine, by any wild beast, neither yet by the sun itself." The far-famed betony was long credited with marvellous medicinal properties, and hence the old saying which recommends a person when ill "to sell his coat and buy betony." A species of thistle was once believed to have the curious virtue of driving away melancholy, and was hence termed the "melancholy thistle." According to Dioscorides, "the root borne about one doth expel melancholy and remove all diseases connected therewith," but it was to be taken in wine. On the other hand, certain plants have been credited at most periods with hurtful and injurious properties. Thus, there is a popular idea that during the flowering of the bean more cases of lunacy occur than at any other season. [17] It is curious to find the apple--such a widespread curative--regarded as a bane, an illustration of which is given by Mr. Conway. [18] In Swabia it is said that an apple plucked from a graft on the whitethorn will, if eaten by a pregnant woman, increase her pains. On the Continent, the elder, when used as a birch, is said to check boys' growth, a property ascribed to the knot-grass, as in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Coxcomb" (Act ii. sc. 2):-- "We want a boy extremely for this function, Kept under for a year with milk and knot-grass." The cat-mint, when chewed, created quarrelsomeness, a property said by the Italians to belong to the rampion. Occasionally much attention in folk-medicine has been paid to lucky numbers; a remedy, in order to prove efficacious, having to be performed in accordance with certain numerical rules. In Devonshire, poultices must be made of seven different kinds of herbs, and a cure for thrush is this:--"Three rushes are taken from any running stream, passed separately through the mouth of the infant, and then thrown back into the water. As the current bears them away, so, it is believed, will the thrush leave the child." Similarly, in Brandenburg, if a person is afflicted with dizziness, he is recommended to run after sunset, naked, three times through a field of flax; after doing so, the flax will at once "take the dizziness to itself." A Sussex cure for ague is to eat sage leaves, fasting, nine mornings in succession; while Flemish folk-lore enjoins any one who has the ague to go early in the morning to an old willow, make three knots in one of its branches, and say "Good morrow, old one; I give thee the cold; good morrow, old one." A very common cure for warts is to tie as many knots on a hair as there are warts, and to throw the hair away; while an Irish charm is to give the patient nine leaves of dandelion, three leaves being eaten on three successive mornings. Indeed, the efficacy of numbers is not confined to any one locality; and Mr. Folkard [19] mentions an instance in Cuba where, "thirteen cloves of garlic at the end of a cord, worn round the neck for thirteen days, are considered a safeguard against jaundice." It is necessary, however, that the wearer, in the middle of the night of the thirteenth day, should proceed to the corner of two streets, take off his garlic necklet, and, flinging it behind him, run home without turning round to see what has become of it. Similarly, six knots of elderwood are employed "in a Yorkshire incantation to ascertain if beasts are dying from witchcraft." [20] In Thuringia, on the extraction of a tooth, the person must eat three daisies to be henceforth free from toothache. In Cornwall [21] bramble leaves are made use of in cases of scalds and inflammatory diseases. Nine leaves are moistened with spring-water, and "these are applied to the burned or diseased parts." While this is being done, for every bramble leaf the following charm is repeated three times:-- "There came three angels out of the east, One brought fire and two brought frost; Out fire and in frost, In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." Of the thousand and one plants used in popular folk-medicine we can but give a few illustrations, so numerous are these old cures for the ills to which flesh is heir. Thus, for deafness, the juice of onion has been long recommended, and for chilblains, a Derbyshire cure is to thrash them with holly, while in some places the juice of the leek mixed with cream is held in repute. To exterminate warts a host of plants have been recommended; the juice of the dandelion being in favour in the Midland counties, whereas in the North, one has but to hang a snail on a thorn, and as the poor creature wastes away the warts will disappear. In Leicestershire the ash is employed, and in many places the elder is considered efficacious. Another old remedy is to prick the wart with a gooseberry thorn passed through a wedding-ring; and according to a Cornish belief, the first blackberry seen will banish warts. Watercress laid against warts was formerly said to drive them away. A rustic specific for whooping-cough in Hampshire is to drink new milk out of a cup made of the variegated holly; while in Sussex the excrescence found on the briar, and popularly known as "robin red-breast's cushion," is in demand. In consumption and diseases of the lungs, St. Fabian's nettle, the crocus, the betony, and horehound, have long been in request, and sea-southern-wood or mugwort, occasionally corrupted into "muggons," was once a favourite prescription in Scotland. A charming girl, whom consumption had brought to the brink of the grave, was lamented by her lover, whereupon a good-natured mermaid sang to him:-- "Wad ye let the bonnie May die in your hand, And the mugwort flowering i' the land?" Thereupon, tradition says, he administered the juice of this life-giving plant to his fair lady-love, who "arose and blessed the bestower for the return of health." Water in which peas have been boiled is given for measles, and a Lincolnshire recipe for cramp is cork worn on the person. A popular cure for ringworm in Scotland is a decoction of sun-spurge (_Euphorbia helioscopia_), or, as it is locally termed, "mare's milk." In the West of England to bite the first fern seen in spring is an antidote for toothache, and in certain parts of Scotland the root of the yellow iris chopped up and chewed is said to afford relief. Some, again, recommend a double hazel-nut to be carried in the pocket, [22] and the elder, as a Danish cure, has already been noticed. Various plants were, in days gone by, used for the bites of mad dogs and to cure hydrophobia. Angelica, madworts, and several forms of lichens were favourite remedies. The root of balaustrium, with storax, cypress-nuts, soot, olive-oil, and wine was the receipt, according to Bonaventura, of Cardinal Richelieu. Among other popular remedies were beetroot, box leaves, cabbage, cucumbers, black currants, digitalis, and euphorbia. [23] A Russian remedy was _Genista sentoria_, and in Greece rose-leaves were used internally and externally as a poultice. Horse-radish, crane's-bill, strawberry, and herb-gerard are old remedies for gout, and in Westphalia apple-juice mixed with saffron is administered for jaundice; while an old remedy for boils is dock-tea. For ague, cinquefoil and yarrow were recommended, and tansy leaves are worn in the shoe by the Sussex peasantry; and in some places common groundsel has been much used as a charm. Angelica was in olden times used as an antidote for poisons. The juice of the arum was considered good for the plague, and Gerarde tells us that Henry VIII. was, "wont to drink the distilled water of broom-flowers against surfeits and diseases thereof arising." An Irish recipe for sore-throat is a cabbage leaf tied round the throat, and the juice of cabbage taken with honey was formerly given as a cure for hoarseness or loss of voice. [24] Agrimony, too, was once in repute for sore throats, cancers, and ulcers; and as far back as the time of Pliny the almond was given as a remedy for inebriety. For rheumatism the burdock was in request, and many of our peasantry keep a potato in their pocket as charms, some, again, carrying a chestnut, either begged or stolen. As an antidote for fevers the carnation was prescribed, and the cowslip, and the hop, have the reputation of inducing sleep. The dittany and plantain, like the golden-rod, nicknamed "wound-weed," have been used for the healing of wounds, and the application of a dock-leaf for the sting of a nettle is a well-known cure among our peasantry, having been embodied in the old familiar adage:-- "Nettle out, dock in-- Dock remove the nettle-sting," Of which there are several versions; as in Wiltshire, where the child uses this formula:-- "Out 'ettle In dock. Dock shall ha'a a new smock, 'Ettle zbant Ha' nanun." The young tops of the common nettle are still made by the peasantry into nettle-broth, and, amongst other directions enjoined in an old Scotch rhyme, it is to be cut in the month of June, "ere it's in the blume":-- "Cou' it by the auld wa's, Cou' it where the sun ne'er fa' Stoo it when the day daws, Cou' the nettle early." The juice of fumitory is said to clear the sight, and the kennel-wort was once a popular specific for the king's-evil. As disinfectants, wormwood and rue were much in demand; and hence Tusser says:-- "What savour is better, if physicke be true, For places infected, than wormwood and rue?" For depression, thyme was recommended, and a Manx preservative against all kinds of infectious diseases is ragwort. The illustrations we have given above show in how many ways plants have been in demand as popular curatives. And although an immense amount of superstition has been interwoven with folk-medicine, there is a certain amount of truth in the many remedies which for centuries have been, with more or less success, employed by the peasantry, both at home and abroad. Footnotes: 1. See Tylor's "Primitive Culture," ii. 2. See Folkard's "Plant-lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 164. 3. "Mystic Trees and Shrubs," p. 717. 4. Folkard's "Plant-lore," p. 379. 5. Hunt's "Popular Romances of the West of England," 1871, p. 415 6. Folkard's "Plant-lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 216. 7. See Black's "Folk-medicine," 1883, p.195. 8. _Quarterly Review_, cxiv. 245. 9. "Sacred Trees and Flowers," _Quarterly Review_, cxiv. 244. 10. Folkard's "Plant Legends," 364. 11. _Fraser's Magazine_, 1870, p. 591. 12. "Mystic Trees and Plants;" _Fraser's Magazine_, 1870, p. 708. 13. "Reliquiae Antiquse," Wright and Halliwell, i. 195; _Quarterly Review_, 1863, cxiv. 241. 14. Coles, "The Art of Simpling," 1656. 15. Anne Pratt's "Flowering Plants of Great Britain," iv. 9. 16. Black's "Folk-medicine," p. 201. 17. Folkard's "Plant-Lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 248. 18. _Fraser's Magazine_, 1870, p. 591. 19. "Plant-Lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 349. 20. Black's "Folk-medicine," p. 185. 21. See Hunt's "Popular Romances of the West of England." 22. Black's "Folk-medicine," p. 193. 23. "Rabies or Hydrophobia," T. M. Dolan, 1879, p. 238. 24. Black's "Folk-medicine," p. 193. CHAPTER XXII. PLANTS AND THEIR LEGENDARY HISTORY. Many of the legends of the plant-world have been incidentally alluded to in the preceding pages. Whether we review their mythological history as embodied in the traditionary stories of primitive times, or turn to the existing legends of our own and other countries in modern times, it is clear that the imagination has at all times bestowed some of its richest and most beautiful fancies on trees and flowers. Even, too, the rude and ignorant savage has clothed with graceful conceptions many of the plants which, either for their grandeur or utility, have attracted his notice. The old idea, again, of metamorphosis, by which persons under certain peculiar cases were changed into plants, finds a place in many of the modern plant-legends. Thus there is the well-known story of the wayside plantain, commonly termed "way-bread," which, on account of its so persistently haunting the track of man, has given rise to the German story that it was formerly a maiden who, whilst watching by the wayside for her lover, was transformed into this plant. But once in seven years it becomes a bird, either the cuckoo, or the cuckoo's servant, the "dinnick," as it is popularly called in Devonshire, the German "wiedhopf" which is said to follow its master everywhere. This story of the plantain is almost identical with one told in Germany of the endive or succory. A patient girl, after waiting day by day for her betrothed for many a month, at last, worn out with watching, sank exhausted by the wayside and expired. But before many days had passed, a little flower with star-like blossoms sprang up on the spot where the broken-hearted maiden had breathed her final sigh, which was henceforth known as the "Wegewarte," the watcher of the road. Mr. Folkard quotes an ancient ballad of Austrian Silesia which recounts how a young girl mourned for seven years the loss of her lover, who had fallen in war. But when her friends tried to console her, and to procure for her another lover, she replied, "I shall cease to weep only when I become a wild-flower by the wayside." By the North American Indians, the plantain or "way-bread" is "the white man's foot," to which Longfellow, in speaking of the English settlers, alludes in his "Hiawatha":-- "Wheresoe'er they move, before them Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, Swarms the bee, the honey-maker; Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them Springs a flower unknown among us, Springs the white man's foot in blossom." Between certain birds and plants there exists many curious traditions, as in the case of the nightingale and the rose. According to a piece of Persian folklore, whenever the rose is plucked, the nightingale utters a plaintive cry, because it cannot endure to see the object of its love injured. In a legend told by the Persian poet Attar, we are told how all the birds appeared before Solomon, and complained that they were unable to sleep from the nightly wailings of the nightingale. The bird, when questioned as to the truth of this statement, replied that his love for the rose was the cause of his grief. Hence this supposed love of the nightingale for the rose has been frequently the subject of poetical allusion. Lord Byron speaks of it in the "Giaour":-- "The rose o'er crag or vale, Sultana of the nightingale, The maid for whom his melody, His thousand songs are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover's tale, His queen, the garden queen, his rose, Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows." Thackeray, too, has given a pleasing rendering of this favourite legend:-- "Under the boughs I sat and listened still, I could not have my fill. 'How comes,' I said, 'such music to his bill? Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill.' 'Once I was dumb,' then did the bird disclose, 'But looked upon the rose, And in the garden where the loved one grows, I straightway did begin sweet music to compose.'" Mrs. Browning, in her "Lay of the Early Rose," alludes to this legend, and Moore in his "Lalla Rookh" asks:-- "Though rich the spot With every flower this earth has got, What is it to the nightingale, If there his darling rose is not?" But the rose is not the only plant for which the nightingale is said to have a predilection, there being an old notion that its song is never heard except where cowslips are to be found in profusion. Experience, however, only too often proves the inaccuracy of this assertion. We may also quote the following note from Yarrell's "British Birds" (4th ed., i. 316):--"Walcott, in his 'Synopsis of British Birds' (vol. ii. 228), says that the nightingale has been observed to be met with only where the _cowslip_ grows kindly, and the assertion receives a partial approval from Montagu; but whether the statement be true or false, its converse certainly cannot be maintained, for Mr. Watson gives the cowslip (_Primula veris_) as found in all the 'provinces' into which he divides Great Britain, as far north as Caithness and Shetland, where we know that the nightingale does not occur." A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ (5th Ser. ix. 492) says that in East Sussex, on the borders of Kent, "the cowslip is quite unknown, but nightingales are as common as blackberries there." A similar idea exists in connection with hops; and, according to a tradition current in Yorkshire, the nightingale made its first appearance in the neighbourhood of Doncaster when hops were planted. But this, of course, is purely imaginary, and in Hargrove's "History of Knaresborough" (1832) we read: "In the opposite wood, called Birkans Wood (opposite to the Abbey House), during the summer evenings, the nightingale:-- 'Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid, Tunes her nocturnal lay.'" Of the numerous stories connected with the origin of the mistletoe, one is noticed by Lord Bacon, to the effect that a certain bird, known as the "missel-bird," fed upon a particular kind of seed, which, through its incapacity to digest, it evacuated whole, whereupon the seed, falling on the boughs of trees, vegetated and produced the mistletoe. The magic springwort, which reveals hidden treasures, has a mysterious connection with the woodpecker, to which we have already referred. Among further birds which are in some way or other connected with plants is the eagle, which plucks the wild lettuce, with the juice of which it smears its eyes to improve its vision; while the hawk was supposed, for the same purpose, to pluck the hawk-bit. Similarly, writes Mr. Folkard, [1] pigeons and doves made use of vervain, which was termed "pigeon's-grass." Once more, the cuckoo, according to an old proverbial rhyme, must eat three meals of cherries before it ceases its song; and it was formerly said that orchids sprang from the seed of the thrush and the blackbird. Further illustrations might be added, whereas some of the many plants named after well-known birds are noticed elsewhere. An old Alsatian belief tells us that bats possessed the power of rendering the eggs of storks unfruitful. Accordingly, when once a stork's egg was touched by a bat it became sterile; and in order to preserve it from the injurious influence, the stork placed in its nest some branches of the maple, which frightened away every intruding bat. [2] There is an amusing legend of the origin of the bramble:--The cormorant was once a wool merchant. He entered into partnership with the bramble and the bat, and they freighted a large ship with wool. She was wrecked, and the firm became bankrupt. Since that disaster the bat skulks about till midnight to avoid his creditors, the cormorant is for ever diving into the deep to discover its foundered vessel, while the bramble seizes hold of every passing sheep to make up his loss by stealing the wool. Returning to the rose, we may quote one or two legendary stories relating to its origin. Thus Sir John Mandeville tells us how when a holy maiden of Bethlehem, "blamed with wrong and slandered," was doomed to death by fire, "she made her prayers to our Lord that He would help her, as she was not guilty of that sin;" whereupon the fire was suddenly quenched, and the burning brands became red "roseres," and the brands that were not kindled became white "roseres" full of roses. "And these were the first roseres and roses, both white and red, that ever any man soughte." Henceforth, says Mr. King,[3] the rose became the flower of martyrs. "It was a basket full of roses that the martyr Saint Dorothea sent to the notary of Theophilus from the garden of Paradise; and roses, says the romance, sprang up all over the field of Ronce-vaux, where Roland and the douze pairs had stained the soil with their blood." The colour of the rose has been explained by various legends, the Turks attributing its red colour to the blood of Mohammed. Herrick, referring to one of the old classic stories of its divine origin, writes:-- "Tis said, as Cupid danced among the gods, he down the nectar flung, Which, on the white rose being shed, made it for ever after red." A pretty origin has been assigned to the moss-rose (_Rosa muscosa_):-- "The angel who takes care of flowers, and sprinkles upon them the dew in the still night, slumbered on a spring day in the shade of a rosebush, and when she awoke she said, 'Most beautiful of my children, I thank thee for thy refreshing odour and cooling shade; could you now ask any favour, how willingly would I grant it!' 'Adorn me then with a new charm,' said the spirit of the rose-bush; and the angel adorned the loveliest of flowers with the simple moss." A further Roumanian legend gives another poetic account of the rose's origin. "It is early morning, and a young princess comes down into her garden to bathe in the silver waves of the sea. The transparent whiteness of her complexion is seen through the slight veil which covers it, and shines through the blue waves like the morning star in the azure sky. She springs into the sea, and mingles with the silvery rays of the sun, which sparkle on the dimples of the laughing waves. The sun stands still to gaze upon her; he covers her with kisses, and forgets his duty. Once, twice, thrice has the night advanced to take her sceptre and reign over the world; twice had she found the sun upon her way. Since that day the lord of the universe has changed the princess into a rose; and this is why the rose always hangs her head and blushes when the sun gazes on her." There are a variety of rose-legends of this kind in different countries, the universal popularity of this favourite blossom having from the earliest times made it justly in repute; and according to the Hindoo mythologists, Pagoda Sin, one of the wives of Vishnu, was discovered in a rose--a not inappropriate locality. Like the rose, many plants have been extensively associated with sacred legendary lore, a circumstance which frequently explains their origin. A pretty legend, for instance, tells us how an angel was sent to console Eve when mourning over the barren earth. Now, no flower grew in Eden, and the driving snow kept falling to form a pall for earth's untimely funeral after the fall of man. But as the angel spoke, he caught a flake of falling snow, breathed on it, and bade it take a form, and bud and blow. Ere it reached the ground it had turned into a beautiful flower, which Eve prized more than all the other fair plants in Paradise; for the angel said to her:-- "This is an earnest, Eve, to thee, That sun and summer soon shall be." The angel's mission ended, he departed, but where he had stood a ring of snowdrops formed a lovely posy. This legend reminds us of one told by the poet Shiraz, respecting the origin of the forget-me-not:--"It was in the golden morning of the early world, when an angel sat weeping outside the closed gates of Eden. He had fallen from his high estate through loving a daughter of earth, nor was he permitted to enter again until she whom he loved had planted the flowers of the forget-me-not in every corner of the world. He returned to earth and assisted her, and they went hand in hand over the world planting the forget-me-not. When their task was ended, they entered Paradise together; for the fair woman, without tasting the bitterness of death, became immortal like the angel, whose love her beauty had won, when she sat by the river twining the forget-me-not in her hair." This is a more poetic legend than the familiar one given in Mill's "History of Chivalry," which tells how the lover, when trying to pick some blossoms of the myosotis for his lady-love, was drowned, his last words as he threw the flowers on the bank being "Forget me not." Another legend, already noticed, would associate it with the magic spring-wort, which revealed treasure-caves hidden in the mountains. The traveller enters such an opening, but after filling his pockets with gold, pays no heed to the fairy's voice, "Forget not the best," _i.e.,_ the spring-wort, and is severed in twain by the mountain clashing together. In speaking of the various beliefs relative to plant life in a previous chapter, we have enumerated some of the legends which would trace the origin of many plants to the shedding of human blood, a belief which is a distinct survival of a very primitive form of belief, and enters very largely into the stories told in classical mythology. The dwarf elder is said to grow where blood has been shed, and it is nicknamed in Wales "Plant of the blood of man," with which may be compared its English name of "death-wort." It is much associated in this country with the Danes, and tradition says that wherever their blood was shed in battle, this plant afterwards sprang up; hence its names of Dane-wort, Dane-weed, or Dane's-blood. One of the bell-flower tribe, the clustered bell-flower, has a similar legend attached to it; and according to Miss Pratt, "in the village of Bartlow there are four remarkable hills, supposed to have been thrown up by the Danes as monumental memorials of the battle fought in 1006 between Canute and Edmund Ironside. Some years ago the clustered bell-flower was largely scattered about these mounds, the presence of which the cottagers attributed to its having sprung from the Dane's blood," under which name the flower was known in the neighbourhood. The rose-coloured lotus or melilot is, from the legend, said to have been sprung from the blood of a lion slain by the Emperor Adrian; and, in short, folk-lore is rich in stories of this kind. Some legends are of a more romantic kind, as that which explains the origin of the wallflower, known in Palestine as the "blood-drops of Christ." In bygone days a castle stood near the river Tweed, in which a fair maiden was kept prisoner, having plighted her troth and given her affection to a young heir of a hostile clan. But blood having been shed between the chiefs on either side, the deadly hatred thus engendered forbade all thoughts of a union. The lover tried various stratagems to obtain his fair one, and at last succeeded in gaining admission attired as a wandering troubadour, and eventually arranged that she should effect her escape, while he awaited her arrival with an armed force. But this plan, as told by Herrick, was unsuccessful:-- "Up she got upon a wall, Attempted down to slide withal; But the silken twist untied, She fell, and, bruised, she died. Love, in pity to the deed, And her loving luckless speed, Twined her to this plant we call Now the 'flower of the wall.'" The tea-tree in China, from its marked effect on the human constitution, has long been an agent of superstition, and been associated with the following legend, quoted by Schleiden. It seems that a devout and pious hermit having, much against his will, been overtaken by sleep in the course of his watchings and prayers, so that his eyelids had closed, tore them from his eyes and threw them on the ground in holy wrath. But his act did not escape the notice of a certain god, who caused a tea-shrub to spring out from them, the leaves of which exhibit, "the form of an eyelid bordered with lashes, and possess the gift of hindering sleep." Sir George Temple, in his "Excursions in the Mediterranean," mentions a legend relative to the origin of the geranium. It is said that the prophet Mohammed having one day washed his shirt, threw it upon a mallow plant to dry; but when it was afterwards taken away, its sacred contact with the mallow was found to have changed the plant into a fine geranium, which now for the first time came into existence. Footnotes: 1. "Plant-Lore Legends and Lyrics." 2. Folkard's "Plant Lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 430. 3. "Sacred Trees and Flowers," _Quarterly Review_, cxiv. 239. CHAPTER XXIII. MYSTIC PLANTS. The mystic character and history of certain plants meet us in every age and country. The gradual evolution of these curious plants of belief must, no doubt, partly be ascribed to their mythical origin, and in many cases to their sacred associations; while, in some instances, it is not surprising that, "any plant which produced a marked effect upon the human constitution should become an object of superstition." [1] A further reason why sundry plants acquired a mystic notoriety was their peculiar manner of growth, which, through not being understood by early botanists, caused them to be invested with mystery. Hence a variety of combinations have produced those mystic properties of trees and flowers which have inspired them with such superstitious veneration in our own and other countries. According to Mr. Conway, the apple, of all fruits, seems to have had the widest and most mystical history. Thus, "Aphrodite bears it in her hand as well as Eve; the serpent guards it, the dragon watches it. It is the healing fruit of the Arabian tribes. Azrael, the Angel of Death, accomplishes his mission by holding it to the nostrils, and in the prose Edda it is written, 'Iduna keeps in a box apples which the gods, when they feel old age approaching, have only to taste to become young again.'" Indeed, the legendary mythical lore connected with the apple is most extensive, a circumstance which fully explains its mystic character. Further, as Mr. Folkard points out,[2] in the popular tales of all countries the apple is represented as the principal magical fruit, in support of which he gives several interesting illustrations. Thus, "In the German folk-tale of 'The Man of Iron,' a princess throws a golden apple as a prize, which the hero catches three times, and carries off and wins." And in a French tale, "A singing apple is one of the marvels which Princess Belle-Etoile and her brothers and her cousin bring from the end of the world." The apple figures in many an Italian tale, and holds a prominent place in the Hungarian story of the Iron Ladislas.[3] But many of these so-called mystic trees and plants have been mentioned in the preceding pages in their association with lightning, witchcraft, demonology, and other branches of folk-lore, although numerous other curious instances are worthy of notice, some of which are collected together in the present chapter. Thus the nettle and milfoil, when carried about the person, were believed to drive away fear, and were, on this account, frequently worn in time of danger. The laurel preserved from misfortune, and in olden times we are told how the superstitious man, to be free from every chance of ill-luck, was wont to carry a bay leaf in his mouth from morning till night. One of the remarkable virtues of the fruit of the balm was its prolonging the lives of those who partook of it to four or five hundred years, and Albertus Magnus, summing up the mystic qualities of the heliotrope, gives this piece of advice:--"Gather it in August, wrap it in a bay leaf with a wolf's tooth, and it will, if placed under the pillow, show a man who has been robbed where are his goods, and who has taken them. Also, if placed in a church, it will keep fixed in their places all the women present who have broken their marriage vow." It was formerly supposed that the cucumber had the power of killing by its great coldness, and the larch was considered impenetrable by fire; Evelyn describing it as "a goodly tree, which is of so strange a composition that 'twill hardly burn." In addition to guarding the homestead from ill, the hellebore was regarded as a wonderful antidote against madness, and as such is spoken of by Burton, who introduces it among the emblems of his frontispiece, in his "Anatomie of Melancholy:"-- "Borage and hellebore fill two scenes, Sovereign plants to purge the veins Of melancholy, and cheer the heart Of those black fumes which make it smart; To clear the brain of misty fogs, Which dull our senses and Soul clogs; The best medicine that e'er God made For this malady, if well assay'd." But, as it has been observed, our forefathers, in strewing their floors with this plant, were introducing a real evil into their houses, instead of an imaginary one, the perfume having been considered highly pernicious to health. In the many curious tales related of the mystic henbane may be quoted one noticed by Gerarde, who says: "The root boiled with vinegar, and the same holden hot in the mouth, easeth the pain of the teeth. The seed is used by mountebank tooth-drawers, which run about the country, to cause worms to come forth of the teeth, by burning it in a chafing-dish of coles, the party holding his mouth over the fume thereof; but some crafty companions, to gain money, convey small lute-strings into the water, persuading the patient that those small creepers came out of his mouth or other parts which he intended to cure." Shakespeare, it may be remembered, alludes to this superstition in "Much Ado About Nothing" (Act iii. sc. 2), where Leonato reproaches Don Pedro for sighing for the toothache, which he adds "is but a tumour or a worm." The notion is still current in Germany, where the following incantation is employed:-- "Pear tree, I complain to thee Three worms sting me." The henbane, too, according to a German belief, is said to attract rain, and in olden times was thought to produce sterility. Some critics have suggested that it is the plant referred to in "Macbeth" by Banquo (Act i. sc. 3):-- "Have we eaten of the insane root That takes the reason prisoner?" Although others think it is the hemlock. Anyhow, the henbane has long been in repute as a plant possessed of mysterious attributes, and Douce quotes the subjoined passage:--"Henbane, called insana, mad, for the use thereof is perillous, for if it be eate or dronke, it breedeth madness, or slowe lykeness of sleepe." In days gone by, when the mandrake was an object of superstitious veneration by reason of its supernatural character, the Germans made little idols of its root, which were consulted as oracles. Indeed, so much credence was attached to these images, that they were manufactured in very large quantities for exportation to various other countries, and realised good prices. Oftentimes substituted for the mandrake was the briony, which designing people sold at a good profit. Gerarde informs us, "How the idle drones, that have little or nothing to do but eat and drink, have bestowed some of their time in carving the roots of briony, forming them to the shape of men and women, which falsifying practice hath confirmed the error amongst the simple and unlearned people, who have taken them upon their report to be the true mandrakes." Oftentimes, too, the root of the briony was trained to grow into certain eccentric shapes, which were used as charms. Speaking of the mandrake, we may note that in France it was regarded as a species of elf, and nicknamed _main de gloire_; in connection with which Saint-Palaye describes a curious superstition:-- "When I asked a peasant one day why he was gathering mistletoe, he told me that at the foot of the oaks on which the mistletoe grew he had a mandrake; that this mandrake had lived in the earth from whence the mistletoe sprang; that he was a kind of mole; that he who found him was obliged to give him food--bread, meat, and some other nourishment; and that he who had once given him food was obliged to give it every day, and in the same quantity, without which the mandrake would assuredly cause the forgetful one to die. Two of his countrymen, whom he named to me, had, he said, lost their lives; but, as a recompense, this _main de gloire_ returned on the morrow double what he had received the previous day. If one paid cash for the _main de gloire's_ food one day, he would find double the amount the following, and so with anything else. A certain countryman, whom he mentioned as still living, and who had become very rich, was believed to have owed his wealth to the fact that he had found one of these _mains de gloire_." Many other equally curious stories are told of the mandrake, a plant which, for its mystic qualities, has perhaps been unsurpassed; and it is no wonder that it was a dread object of superstitious fear, for Moore, speaking of its appearance, says:-- "Such rank and deadly lustre dwells, As in those hellish fires that light The mandrake's charnel leaves at night." But these mandrake fables are mostly of foreign extraction and of very ancient date. Dr. Daubeny, in his "Roman Husbandry," has given a curious drawing from the Vienna MS. of Dioscorides in the fifth century, representing the Goddess of Discovery presenting to Dioscorides the root of the mandrake (of thoroughly human shape), which she has just pulled up, while the unfortunate dog which had been employed for that purpose is depicted in the agonies of death. Basil, writes Lord Bacon in his "Natural History," if exposed too much to the sun, changes into wild thyme; and a Bavarian piece of folk-lore tells us that the person who, during an eclipse of the sun, throws an offering of palm with crumbs on the fire, will never be harmed by the sun. In Hesse, it is affirmed that with knots tied in willow one may slay a distant enemy; and according to a belief current in Iceland, the _Caltha palustris_, if taken with certain ceremonies and carried about, will prevent the bearer from having an angry word spoken to him. The virtues of the dittany were famous as far back as Plutarch's time, and Gerarde speaks of its marvellous efficacy in drawing forth splinters of wood, &c., and in the healing of wounds, especially those "made with envenomed weapons, arrows shot out of guns, and such like." Then there is the old tradition to the effect that if boughs of oak be put into the earth, they will bring forth wild vines; and among the supernatural qualities of the holly recorded by Pliny, we are told that its flowers cause water to freeze, that it repels lightning, and that if a staff of its wood be thrown at any animal, even if it fall short of touching it, the animal will be so subdued by its influence as to return and lie down by it. Speaking, too, of the virtues of the peony, he thus writes:--"It hath been long received, and confirmed by divers trials, that the root of the male peony dried, tied to the necke, doth helpe the falling sickness, and likewise the incubus, which we call the mare. The cause of both these diseases, and especially of the epilepsie from the stomach, is the grossness of the vapours, which rise and enter into the cells of the brain, and therefore the working is by extreme and subtle alternation which that simple hath." Worn as an amulet, the peony was a popular preservative against enchantment. Footnotes: 1. _Fraser's Magazine_ 1870, p. 709. 2. "Plant Lore Legends and Lyrics," p. 224. 3. See Miss Busk's "Folk-lore of Rome." 
13032	----	Distributed Proofreaders THE BOOK OF NOODLES: _STORIES OF SIMPLETONS; OR, FOOLS AND THEIR FOLLIES_. BY W.A. CLOUSTON, _Author of "Popular Tales and Fictions; their Migrations and Transformations_" "Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling when all is done."--_Twelfth Night_. LONDON: ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW. 1888. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 67-24351 TO MY DEAR FRIEND DAVID ROSS, LL.D., M.A., B.Sc., PRINCIPAL OF THE CHURCH OF SCOTLAND TRAINING COLLEGE, GLASGOW, THIS COLLECTION OF FACETIÆ IS DEDICATED. _PREFACE_. _Like popular tales in general, the original sources of stories of simpletons are for the most part not traceable. The old Greek jests of this class had doubtless been floating about among different peoples long before they were reduced to writing. The only tales and apologues of noodles or stupid folk to which an approximate date can be assigned are those found in the early Buddhist books, especially in the "Játakas," or Birth-stories, which are said to have been related to his disciples by Gautama, the illustrious founder of Buddhism, as incidents which occurred to himself and others in former births, and were afterwards put into a literary form by his followers. Many of the "Játakas" relate to silly men and women, and also to stupid animals, the latter being, of course, men re-born as beasts, birds, or reptiles. But it is not to be supposed that all are of Buddhist invention; some had doubtless been current for ages among the Hindus before Gautama promulgated his mild doctrines. Scholars are, however, agreed that these fictions date at latest from a century prior to the Christian era._ _Of European noodle-stories, as of other folk-tales, it may be said that, while they are numerous, yet the elements of which they are composed are comparatively very few. The versions domiciled in different countries exhibit little originality, farther than occasional modifications in accordance with local manners and customs. Thus for the stupid Brahman of Indian stories the blundering, silly son is often substituted in European variants; for the brose in Norse and Highland tales we find polenta or macaroni in Italian and Sicilian versions. The identity of incidents in the noodle-stories of Europe with those in what are for us their oldest forms, the Buddhist and Indian books, is very remarkable, particularly so in the case of Norse popular fictions, which, there is every reason to believe, were largely introduced through the Mongolians; and the similarity of Italian and West Highland stories to those of Iceland and Norway would seem to indicate the influence of the Norsemen in the Western Islands of Scotland and in the south of Europe._ _It were utterly futile to attempt to trace the literary history of most of the noodle-stories which appear to have been current throughout European countries for many generations, since they have practically none. Soon after the invention of printing collections of facetiæ were rapidly multiplied, the compilers taking their material from oral as well as written sources, amongst others, from mediæval collections of "exempla" designed for the use of preachers and the writings of the classical authors of antiquity. With the exception of those in Buddhist works, it is more than probable that the noodle-stories which are found among all peoples never had any other purpose than that of mere amusement. Who, indeed, could possibly convert the "witless devices" of the men of Gotham into vehicles of moral instruction? Only the monkish writers of the Middle Ages, who even "spiritualised" tales which, if reproduced in these days, must be "printed for private circulation"!_ _Yet may the typical noodle of popular tales "point a moral," after a fashion. Poor fellow! he follows his instructions only too literally, and with a firm conviction that he is thus doing a very clever thing. But the consequence is almost always ridiculous. He practically shows the fallacy of the old saw that "fools learn by experience," for his next folly is sure to be greater than the last, in spite of every caution to the contrary. He is generally very honest, and does everything, like the man in the play, "with the best intentions." His mind is incapable of entertaining more than one idea at a time; but to that he holds fast, with the tenacity of the lobster's claw: he cannot be diverted from it until, by some accident, a fresh idea displaces it; and so on he goes from one blunder to another. His blunders, however, which in the case of an ordinary man would infallibly result in disaster to himself or to others, sometimes lead him to unexpected good fortune. He it is, in fact, to whom the great Persian poet Sádí alludes when he says, in his charming "Gulistán," or Rose Garden, "The alchemist died of grief and distress, while the blockhead found a treasure under a ruin." Men of intelligence toil painfully to acquire a mere "livelihood"'; the noodle stumbles upon great wealth in the midst of his wildest vagaries. In brief, he is--in stories, at least--a standing illustration of the "vanity of human life"!_ _And now a few words as to the history and design of the following work. When the Folk-lore Society was formed, some nine years since, the late Mr. W.J. Thoms, who was one of the leading men in its formation, promised to edit for the Society the "Merry Tales of the Mad Men of Gotham," furnishing notes of analogous stories, a task which he was peculiarly qualified to perform. As time passed on, however, the infirmities of old age doubtless rendered the purposed work less and less attractive to him, and his death, after a long, useful, and honourable career, left it still undone. What particular plan he had sketched out for himself I do not know; but there can be no doubt that had he carried it out the results would have been most valuable. And, since he did not perform his self-allotted task, his death is surely a great loss, perhaps an irreparable loss, to English students of comparative folk-lore._ _More than five years ago, with a view of urging Mr. Thoms to set about the work, I offered to furnish him with some material in the shape of Oriental noodle-stories; but from a remark in his reply I feared there would be no need for such services as I could render him. That fear has been since realised, and the present little book is now offered as a humble substitute for the intended work of Mr. Thoms, until it is displaced by a more worthy one._ _Since the "Tales of the Men of Gotham" ceased to be reproduced in chap-book form, the first reprint of the collection was made in 1840, with an introduction by Mr. J.O. Halliwell (now Halliwell-Phillipps); and that brochure is become almost as scarce as the chap-book copies themselves: the only copy I have seen is in the Euing collection in the Glasgow University Library. The tales were next reprinted in the "Shakespeare Jest-books," so ably edited and annotated by Mr. W. Carew Hazlitt, in three volumes (1864). They were again reproduced in Mr. John Ashton's "Chap-books of the Eighteenth Century" (1882)._ _It did not enter into the plan of any of these editors to cite analogues or variants of the Gothamite Tales; nor, on the other hand, was it any part of my design in the present little work to reproduce the Tales in the same order as they appear in the printed collection. Yet all that are worth reproducing in a work of this description will be found in the chapters entitled "Gothamite Drolleries," of which they form, indeed, but a small portion._ _My design has been to bring together, from widely scattered sources, many of which are probably unknown or inaccessible to ordinary readers, the best of this class of humorous narratives, in their oldest existing Buddhist and Greek forms as well as in the forms in which they are current among the people in the present day. It will, perhaps, be thought by some that a portion of what is here presented might have been omitted without great loss; but my aim has been not only to compile an amusing story-book, but to illustrate to some extent the migrations of popular fictions from country to country. In this design I was assisted by Captain R.C. Temple, one of the editors of the "Indian Antiquary," and one of the authors of "Wide-awake Stories," from the Punjab and Kashmir, who kindly directed me to sources whence I have drawn some curious Oriental parallels to European stories of simpletons._ _W.A.C._ *.* _While my "Popular Tales and Fictions" was passing through the press, in 1886, I made reference (in vol. i., p. 65) to the present work, as it was purposed to be published that year, but Mr. Stock has had unavoidably to defer its publication till now._ _W.A.C_. GLASGOW, _March_, 1888. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. ANCIENT GRECIAN NOODLES 1-15 CHAPTER II. GOTHAMITE DROLLERIES: Reputed communities of stupids in different countries--The noodles of Norfolk: their lord's bond; the dog and the honey; the fool and his sack of meal--Tales of the Mad Men of Gotham: Andrew Borde not the author-- The two Gothamites at Notts Bridge--The hedging of the cuckoo--How the men of Gotham paid their rents--The twelve fishers and the courtier--The _Gúrú Paramartan_--The brothers of Bakki--Drowning the eel--The Gothamite and his cheese--The trivet--The buzzard--The gossips at the alehouse--The cheese on the highway--The wasp's nest--Casting sheep's eyes--The devil in the meadow--The priest of Gotham--The "boiling" river--The moon a green cheese--The "carles of Austwick"--The Wiltshire farmer and his pigs 16-55 CHAPTER III. GOTHAMITE DROLLERIES (_continued_): The men of Schilda: the dark council-house; the mill-stone; the cat-- Sinhalese noodles: the man who observed Buddha's five precepts--The fool and the _Rámáyana_--The two Arabian noodles--The alewife and her hens--"Sorry he has gone to heaven"--The man of Hama and the man of Hums--_Bizarrures_ of the Sieur Gaulard--The rustic and the dog 56-80 CHAPTER IV. GOTHAMITE DROLLERIES (_continued_): The simpleton and the sharpers--The schoolmaster's lady-love--The judge and the thieves--The calf's head--The Kashmírí and his store of rice-- The Turkish noodle: the kerchief; the caftan; the wolf's tail; the right hand and the left; the stolen cheese; the moon in the well--The good dreams--Chinese noodles: the lady and her husband; the stolen spade; the relic-hunter--Indian noodles: the fools and the mosquitoes; the fools and the palm-trees; the servants and the trunks; taking care of the door; the fool and the aloes-wood; the fool and the cotton; the cup lost in the sea; the fool and the thieves; the simpletons who ate the buffalo; the princess who was made to grow; the washerman's ass transformed; the foolish herdsman--Noodle-stories moralised--The brothers and their heritage--Sowing roasted sesame 81-120 CHAPTER V. THE SILLY SON: Simple Simon--The Norse booby--The Russian booby--The Japanese noodle-- The Arabian idiot--The English silly son--The Sinhalese noodle with the robbers--The Italian booby--The Arab simpleton and his cow--The Russian fool and the birch-tree--The silly wife deceived by her husband--The Indian fool on the tree-branch--The Indian monk who believed he was dead--The Florentine fool and the young men--The Indian silly son as a fisher; as a messenger; killing a mosquito; as a pupil--The best of the family--The doctor's apprentice 121-170 CHAPTER VI. THE FOUR SIMPLE BRÁHMANS: Introduction 171 Story of the first Bráhman 176 Story of the second Bráhman 178 Story of the third Bráhman 181 Story of the fourth Bráhman 185 Conclusion 190 CHAPTER VII. THE THREE GREAT NOODLES 191-218 * * * * * APPENDIX. JACK OF DOVER'S QUEST OF THE FOOL OF ALL FOOLS 219 THE BOOK OF NOODLES. CHAPTER I. ANCIENT GRECIAN NOODLES. "Old as the days of Hierokles!" is the exclamation of the "classical" reader on hearing a well-worn jest; while, on the like occasion, that of the "general" reader--a comprehensive term, which, doubtless, signifies one who knows "small Latin and less Greek"--is, that it is "a Joe Miller;" both implying that the critic is too deeply versed in _joke-ology_ to be imposed upon, to have an old jest palmed on him as new, or as one made by a living wit. That the so-called jests of Hierokles are _old_ there can be no doubt whatever; that they were collected by the Alexandrian sage of that name is more than doubtful; while it is certain that several of them are much older than the time in which he flourished, namely, the fifth century: it is very possible that some may date even as far back as the days of the ancient Egyptians! It is perhaps hardly necessary to say that honest Joseph Miller, the comedian, was not the compiler of the celebrated jest-book with which his name is associated; that it was, in fact, simply a bookseller's trick to entitle a heterogeneous collection of jokes, "quips, and cranks, and quiddities," _Joe Millers Jests; or, The Wit's Vade Mecum_. And when one speaks of a jest as being "a Joe Miller," he should only mean that it is "familiar as household words," not that it is of contemptible antiquity, albeit many of the jokes in "Joe Miller" are, at least, "as old as Hierokles," such, for instance, as that of the man who trained his horse to live on a straw _per diem_, when it suddenly died, or that of him who had a house to sell and carried about a brick as a specimen of it. The collection of facetiæ ascribed to Hierokles, by whomsoever it was made, is composed of very short anecdotes of the sayings and doings of pedants, who are represented as noodles, or simpletons. In their existing form they may not perhaps be of much earlier date than the ninth century. They seem to have come into the popular facetiæ of Europe through the churchmen of the Middle Ages, and, after having circulated long orally, passed into literature, whence, like other kinds of tales, they once more returned to the people. We find in them the indirect originals of some of the bulls and blunders which have in modern times been credited to Irishmen and Scotch Highlanders, and the germs also, perhaps, of some stories of the Gothamite type: as brave men lived before Agamemnon, so, too, the race of Gothamites can boast of a very ancient pedigree! By far the greater number of them, however, seem now pithless and pointless, whatever they may have been considered in ancient days, when, perhaps, folk found food for mirth in things which utterly fail to tickle our "sense of humour" in these double-distilled days. Of the [Greek: Asteia], or facetiæ, of Hierokles, twenty-eight only are appended to his Commentary on Pythagoras and the fragments of his other works edited, with Latin translations, by Needham, and published at Cambridge in 1709. A much larger collection, together with other Greek jests--of the people of Abdera, Sidonia, Cumæ, etc.--has been edited by Eberhard, under the title of _Philogelos Hieraclis el Philagrii Facetia_ which was published at Berlin in 1869. In attempting to classify the best of these relics of ancient wit--or witlessness, rather--it is often difficult to decide whether a particular jest is of the Hibernian bull, or blunder, genus or an example of that droll stupidity which is the characteristic of noodles or simpletons. In the latter class, however, one need not hesitate to place the story of the men of Cumæ, who were expecting shortly to be visited by a very eminent man, and having but one bath in the town, they filled it afresh, and placed an open grating in the middle, in order that half the water should be kept clean for his sole use. But we at once recognise our conventional Irishman in the pedant who, on going abroad, was asked by a friend to buy him two slave-boys of fifteen years each, and replied, "If I cannot find such a pair, I will bring you one of thirty years;" and in the fellow who was quarrelling with his father, and said to him, "Don't you know how much injury you have done me? Why, had you not been born, I should have inherited my grandfather's estate;" also in the pedant who heard that a raven lived two hundred years, and bought one that he should ascertain the fact for himself. Among Grecian Gothamites, again, was the hunter who was constantly disturbed by dreams of a boar pursuing him, and procured dogs to sleep with him. Another, surely, was the man of Cumæ who wished to sell some clothes he had stolen, and smeared them with pitch, so that they should not be recognised by the owner. They were Gothamites, too, those men of Abdera who punished a runaway ass for having got into the gymnasium and upset the olive oil. Having brought all the asses of the town together, as a caution, they flogged the delinquent ass before his fellows. Some of the jests of Hierokles may be considered either as witticisms or witless sayings of noodles; for example, the story of the man who recovered his health though the doctor had sworn he could not live, and afterwards, being asked by his friends why he seemed to avoid the doctor whenever they were both likely to meet, he replied, "He told me I should not live, and now I am ashamed to be alive;" or that of the pedant who said to the doctor, "Pardon me for not having been sick so long;" or this, "I dreamt that I saw and spoke to you last night:" quoth the other, "By the gods, I was so busy, I did not hear you." But our friend the Gothamite reappears in the pedant who saw some sparrows on a tree, and went quietly under it, stretched out his robe, and shook the tree, expecting to catch the sparrows as they fell, like ripe fruit again, in the pedant who lay down to sleep, and, finding he had no pillow, bade his servant place a jar under his head, after stuffing it full of feathers to render it soft; again, in the cross-grained fellow who had some honey for sale, and a man coming up to him and inquiring the price, he upset the jar, and then replied, "You may shed my heart's blood like that before I tell such as you;" and again, in the man of Abdera who tried to hang himself, when the rope broke, and he hurt his head; but after having the wound dressed by the doctor, he went and accomplished his purpose. And we seem to have a trace of them in the story of the pedant who dreamt that a nail had pierced his foot, and in the morning he bound it up; when he told a friend of his mishap, he said, "Why do you sleep barefooted?" The following jest is spread--_mutatis mutandis_--over all Europe: A pedant, a bald man, and a barber, making a journey in company, agreed to watch in turn during the night. It was the barber's watch first. He propped up the sleeping pedant, and shaved his head, and when his time came, awoke him. When the pedant felt his head bare, "What a fool is this barber," he cried, "for he has roused the bald man instead of me!" A variant of this story is related of a raw Highlander, fresh from the heather, who put up at an inn in Perth, and shared his bed with a negro. Some coffee-room jokers having blackened his face during the night, when he was called, as he had desired, very early next morning, and got up, he saw the reflection of his face in the mirror, and exclaimed in a rage, "Tuts, tuts! The silly body has waukened the wrang man." In connection with these two stories may be cited the following, from a Persian jest-book: A poor wrestler, who had passed all his life in forests, resolved to try his fortune in a great city, and as he drew near it he observed with wonder the crowds on the road, and thought, "I shall certainly not be able to know myself among so many people if I have not something about me that the others have not." So he tied a pumpkin to his right leg and, thus decorated, entered the town. A young wag, perceiving the simpleton, made friends with him, and induced him to spend the night at his house. While he was asleep, the joker removed the pumpkin from his leg and tied it to his own, and then lay down again. In the morning, when the poor fellow awoke and found the pumpkin on his companion's leg, he called to him, "Hey! get up, for I am perplexed in my mind. Who am I, and who are you? If I am myself, why is the pumpkin on your leg? And if you are yourself, why is the pumpkin not on my leg?" Modern counterparts of the following jest are not far to seek: Quoth a man to a pedant, "The slave I bought of you has died." Rejoined the other, "By the gods, I do assure you that he never once played me such a trick while I had him." The old Greek pedant is transformed into an Irishman, in our collections of facetiæ, who applied to a farmer for work. "I'll have nothing to do with you," said the farmer, "for the last five Irishmen I had all died on my hands." Quoth Pat, "Sure, sir, I can bring you characters from half a dozen gentlemen I've worked for that I never did such a thing." And the jest is thus told in an old translation of _Les Contes Facetieux de Sieur Gaulard_: "Speaking of one of his Horses which broake his Neck at the descent of a Rock, he said, Truly it was one of the handsomest and best Curtails in all the Country; he neuer shewed me such a trick before in all his life."[1] Equally familiar is the jest of the pedant who was looking out for a place to prepare a tomb for himself, and on a friend indicating what he thought to be a suitable spot, "Very true," said the pedant, "but it is unhealthy." And we have the prototype of a modern "Irish" story in the following: A pedant sealed a jar of wine, and his slaves perforated it below and drew off some of the liquor. He was astonished to find his wine disappear while the seal remained intact. A friend, to whom he had communicated the affair, advised him to look and ascertain if the liquor had not been drawn off from below. "Why, you fool," said he, "it is not the lower, but the upper, portion that is going off." It was a Greek pedant who stood before a mirror and shut his eyes that he might know how he looked when asleep--a jest which reappears in Taylor's _Wit and Mirth_ in this form: "A wealthy monsieur in France (hauing profound reuenues and a shallow braine) was told by his man that he did continually gape in his sleepe, at which he was angry with his man, saying he would not belieue it. His man verified it to be true; his master said that he would neuer belieue any that told him so, except (quoth hee) I chance to see it with mine owne eyes; and therefore I will have a great Looking glasse at my bed's feet for the purpose to try whether thou art a lying knaue or not."[2] Not unlike some of our "Joe Millers" is the following: A citizen of Cumæ, on an ass, passed by an orchard, and seeing a branch of a fig-tree loaded with delicious fruit, he laid hold of it, but the ass went on, leaving him suspended. Just then the gardener came up, and asked him what he did there. The man replied, "I fell off the ass."--An analogue to this drollery is found in an Indian story-book, entitled _Katha Manjari_: One day a thief climbed up a cocoa-nut tree in a garden to steal the fruit. The gardener heard the noise, and while he was running from his house, giving the alarm, the thief hastily descended from the tree. "Why were you up that tree?" asked the gardener. The thief replied, "My brother, I went up to gather grass for my calf." "Ha! ha! is there grass, then, on a cocoa-nut tree?" said the gardener. "No," quoth the thief; "but I did not know; therefore I came down again."--And we have a variant of this in the Turkish jest of the fellow who went into a garden and pulled up carrots, turnips, and other kinds of vegetables, some of which he put into a sack, and some into his bosom. The gardener, coming suddenly on the spot, laid hold of him, and said, "What are you seeking here?" The simpleton replied, "For some days past a great wind has been blowing, and that wind blew me hither." "But who pulled up these vegetables?" "As the wind blew very violently, it cast me here and there; and whatever I laid hold of in the hope of saving myself remained in my hands." "Ah," said the gardener, "but who filled this sack with them?" "Well, that is the very question I was about to ask myself when you came up." The propensity with which Irishmen are credited of making ludicrous bulls is said to have its origin, not from any lack of intelligence, but rather in the fancy of that lively race, which often does not wait for expression until the ideas have taken proper verbal form. Be this as it may, a considerable portion of the bulls popularly ascribed to Irishmen are certainly "old as the jests of Hierokles," and are, moreover, current throughout Europe. Thus in Hierokles we read that one of twin-brothers having recently died, a pedant, meeting the survivor, asked him whether it was he or his brother who had deceased.--Taylor has this in his _Wit and Mirth_, and he probably heard it from some one who had read the facetious tales of the Sieur Gaulard: "A nobleman of France (as he was riding) met with a yeoman of the Country, to whom he said, My friend, I should know thee. I doe remember I haue often seene thee. My good Lord, said the countriman, I am one of your Honers poore tenants, and my name is T.J. I remember better now (said my Lord); there were two brothers of you, but one is dead; I pray, which of you doth remaine alive?"--Mr. W. Carew Hazlitt, in the notes to his edition of Taylor's collection _(Shakespeare Jest Books_, Third Series), cites a Scotch parallel from _The Laird of Logan_: "As the Paisley steamer came alongside the quay[3] at the city of the Seestus,[4] a denizen of St. Mirren's hailed one of the passengers: 'Jock! Jock! distu hear, man? Is that you or your brother?'" And to the same point is the old nursery rhyme,-- "Ho, Master Teague, what is your story? I went to the wood, and killed a tory;[5] I went to the wood, and killed another: Was it the same, or was it his brother?"[6] We meet with a very old acquaintance in the pedant who lost a book and sought for it many days in vain, till one day he chanced to be eating lettuces, when, turning a corner, he saw it on the ground. Afterwards meeting a friend who was lamenting the loss of his girdle, he said to him, "Don't grieve; buy some lettuces; eat them at a corner; turn round it, go a little way on, and you will find your girdle." But is there anything like this in "Joe Miller"?--Two lazy fellows were sleeping together, when a thief came, and drawing down the coverlet made off with it. One of them was aware of the theft, and said to the other, "Get up, and run after the man that has stolen our coverlet." "You blockhead," replied his companion, "wait till he comes back to steal the bolster, and we two will master him." And has "Joe" got this one?--A pedant's little boy having died, many friends came to the funeral, on seeing whom he said, "I am ashamed to bring out so small a boy to so great a crowd." An epigram in the _Anthologia_ may find a place among noodle stories: "A blockhead, bit by fleas, put out the light, And, chuckling, cried, 'Now you can't see to bite!'" This ancient jest has been somewhat improved in later times. Two Irishmen in the East Indies, being sorely pestered with mosquitoes, kept their light burning in hopes of scaring them off, but finding this did not answer, one suggested they should extinguish the light and thus puzzle their tormentors to find them, which was done. Presently the other, observing the light of a firefly in the room, called to his bedfellow, "Arrah, Mike, sure your plan's no good, for, bedad, here's one of them looking for us wid a lantern!" Our specimens may be now concluded with what is probably the best of the old Greek jokes. The father of a man of Cumæ having died at Alexandria, the son dutifully took the body to the embalmers. When he returned at the appointed time to fetch it away, there happened to be a number of bodies in the same place, so he was asked if his father had any peculiarity by which his body might be recognised, and the wittol replied, "He had a cough." [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [1] Etienne Tabourot, the author of this amusing little book, who was born at Dijon in 1549 and died in 1590, is said to have written the tales in ridicule of the inhabitants of Franche Comte, who were then the subjects of Spain, and reputed to be stupid and illiterate. From a manuscript translation, entitled _Bizarrures; or, The Pleasant and Witlesse and Simple Speeches of the Lord Gaulard of Burgundy_, purporting to be made by "J.B., of Charterhouse," probably about the year 1660, in the possession of Mr. Frederick William Cosens, London, fifty copies, edited, with a preface, by "A.S." (Alexander Smith), were printed at Glasgow in 1884. I am indebted to the courtesy of my friend Mr. F.T. Barrett, Librarian of the Mitchell Library, Glasgow, for directing my attention to this curious work, a copy of which is among the treasures of that already important institution. [2] "_Wit and Mirth_. Chargeably collected out of Taverns, Ordinaries, Innes, Bowling-greenes and Allyes, Alehouses, Tobacco-shops, Highwayes, and Water-passages. Made up and fashioned into Clinches, Bulls, Quirkes, Yerkes, Quips, and Jerkes. Apothegmatically bundled vp and garbled at the request of John Garrett's Ghost." (1635)--such is the elaborate title of the collection of jests made by John Taylor, the Water Poet, which owes very little to preceding English jest-books. The above story had, however, been told previously in the _Bizarrures_ of the Sieur Gaulard: "His cousine Dantressesa reproued him one day that she had found him sleeping in an ill posture with his mouth open, to order which for the tyme to come he commanded his seruant to hang a looking glasse upon the curtaine at his Bed's feet, that he might henceforth see if he had a good posture in his sleep." [3] Only a Liliputian steamer could go up the "river" Cart! [4] "Seestu" is a nickname for Paisley, the good folks of that busy town being in the habit of frequently interjecting, "Seestu?"--_i.e.,_ "Seest thou?"--in their familiar colloquies. [5] "Tory" is said to be the Erse term for a robber. [6] Halliwell's _Nursery Rhymes of England_, vol. iv. of Percy Society's publications. CHAPTER II. GOTHAMITE DROLLERIES, WITH VARIANTS AND ANALOGUES. It seems to have been common to most countries, from very ancient times, for the inhabitants of a particular district, town, or village to be popularly regarded as pre-eminently foolish, arrant noodles or simpletons. The Greeks had their stories of the silly sayings and doings of the people of Bæotia, Sidonia, Abdera, etc. Among the Perso-Arabs the folk of Hums (ancient Emessa) are reputed to be exceedingly stupid. The Kabaïl, or wandering tribes of Northern Africa, consider the Beni Jennad as little better than idiots. The Schildburgers are the noodles of German popular tales. In Switzerland the townsmen of Belmont, near Lausanne, are typical blockheads. And England has her "men of Gotham"--a village in Nottinghamshire--who are credited with most of the noodle stories which have been current among the people for centuries past, though other places share to some extent in their not very enviable reputation: in Yorkshire the "carles" of Austwick, in Craven; some villages near Marlborough Downs, in Wiltshire; and in the counties of Sutherland and Ross, the people of Assynt. But long before the men of Gotham were held up to ridicule as fools, a similar class of stories had been told of the men of Norfolk, as we learn from a curious Latin poem, _Descriptio Norfolciensium_, written, probably, near the end of the twelfth century, by a monk of Peterborough, which is printed in Wright's _Early Mysteries and Other Latin Poems_. This poem sets out with stating that Cæsar having despatched messengers throughout the provinces to discover which were bad and which were good, on their return they reported Norfolk as the most sterile, and the people the vilest and different from all other peoples. Among the stories related of the stupidity of the men of Norfolk is the following: Being oppressed by their lord, they gave him a large sum of money on condition that he should relieve them from future burdens, and he gave them his bond to that effect, sealed with a seal of green wax. To celebrate this, they all went to the tavern and got drunk. When it became dark, they had no candle, and were puzzled how to procure one, till a clever fellow among the revellers suggested that they should use the wax seal of the bond for a candle--they should still have the words of the bond, which their lord could not repudiate; so they made the wax seal into a candle, and burned it while they continued their merry-making. This exploit coming to the knowledge of their lord, he reimposes the old burdens on the rustics, who complain of his injustice, at the same time producing the bond. The lord calls a clerk to examine the document, who pronounces it to be null and void in the absence of the lord's seal, and so their oppression continues. Another story is of a man of Norfolk who put some honey in a jar, and in his absence his dog came and ate it all up. When he returned home and was told of this, he took the dog and forced him to disgorge the honey, put it back into the jar, and took it to market. A customer having examined the honey, declared it to be putrid. "Well," said the simpleton, "it was in a vessel that was not very clean."--Wright has pointed out that this reappears in an English jest-book of the seventeenth century. "A cleanly woman of Cambridgeshire made a good store of butter, and whilst she went a little way out of the town about some earnest occasions, a neighbour's dog came in in the meantime, and eat up half the butter. Being come home, her maid told her what the dog had done, and that she had locked him up in the dairy-house. So she took the dog and hang'd him up by the heels till she had squeez'd all the butter out of his throat again, whilst she, pretty, cleanly soul, took and put it to the rest of the butter, and made it up for Cambridge market. But her maid told her she was ashamed to see such a nasty trick done. 'Hold your peace, you fool!' says she; ''tis good enough for schollards. Away with it to market!'"[1]--Perhaps the original form is found in the _Philogelos Hieraclis et Philagrii Facetiæ_, edited by Eberhard. A citizen of Cumæ was selling honey. Some one came up and tasted it, and said that it was all bad. He replied, "If a mouse had not fallen into it, I would not sell it." The well-known Gothamite jest of the man who put a sack of meal on his own shoulders to save his horse, and then got on the animal's back and rode home, had been previously told of a man of Norfolk, thus: "Ad foram ambulant diebus singulis; Saccum de lolio portant in humeris, Jumentis ne noccant: bene fatuis, Ut prolocutiis sum acquantur bestiis." It reappears in the _Bizarrures_ of the Sieur Gaulard:[2] "Seeing one day his mule charged with a verie great Portmantle, [he] said to his groome that was upon the back of the mule, thou lasie fellowe, hast thou no pitie upon that poore Beast? Take that portmantle upon thine owne shoulders to ease the poore Beast." And in our own time it is told of an Irish exciseman with a keg of smuggled whisky. How such stories came to be transferred to the men of Gotham, it were fruitless to inquire.[3] Similar jests have been long current in other countries of Europe and throughout Asia, and accident or malice may have fixed the stigma of stupidity on any particular spot. There is probably no ground whatever for crediting the tale of the origin of the proverb, "As wise as the men of Gotham," although it is reproduced in Thoroton's _Nottinghamshire_, i. 42-3: "King John, intending to pass through this place, towards Nottingham, was prevented by the inhabitants, they apprehending that the ground over which a king passed was for ever after to become a public road. The King, incensed at their proceedings, sent from his court soon afterwards some of his servants to inquire of them the reason of their incivility and ill-treatment, that he might punish them. The villagers, hearing of the approach of the King's servants, thought of an expedient to turn away his Majesty's displeasure from them. When the messengers arrived at Gotham, they found some of the inhabitants engaged in endeavouring to drown an eel in a pool of water; some were employed in dragging carts upon a large barn to shade the wood from the sun; and others were engaged in hedging a cuckoo, which had perched itself upon an old bush. In short, they were all employed in some foolish way or other, which convinced the King's servants that it was a village of fools." The fooleries ascribed to the men of Gotham were probably first collected and printed in the sixteenth century; but that jests of the "fools of Gotham" were current among the people long before that period is evident from a reference to them in the _Widkirk Miracle Plays_, the only existing MS. of which was written about the reign of Henry VI.: "Foles al sam; Sagh I never none so fare Bote the soles of Gotham." The oldest known copy of the _Merie Tales of the Mad Men of Gotam_ was printed in 1630, and is preserved in the Bodleian Library, Oxford. Warton, in his _History of English Poetry_, mentions an edition, which he says was printed about 1568, by Henry Wikes, but he had never seen it. But Mr. Halliwell (now Halliwell-Phillips), in his _Notices of Popular English Histories_, cites one still earlier, which he thinks was probably printed between 1556 and 1566: "Merie Tales of the Mad Men of Gotam, gathered together by A.B., of Phisike Doctour. [colophon:] Imprinted at London, in Flet-Stret, beneath the Conduit, at the signe of S. John Evangelist, by Thomas Colwell, n.d. 12°, black letter." The book is mentioned in _A Briefe and Necessary Introduction_, etc., by E.D. (8vo, 1572), among a number of other folk-books: "Bevis of Hampton, Guy of Warwicke, Arthur of the Round Table, Huon of Bourdeaux, Oliver of the Castle, The Four Sonnes of Amond, The Witles Devices of Gargantua, Howleglas, Esop, Robyn Hoode, Adam Bell, Frier Rushe, The Fooles of Gotham, and a thousand such other."[4] And Anthony à Wood, in his _Athenæ Oxonienses_ (1691-2), says it was "printed at London in the time of K. Hen. 8, in whose reign and after it was accounted a book full of wit and mirth by scholars and gentlemen. Afterwards being often printed, [it] is now sold only on the stalls of ballad-singers." It is likely that the estimation in which the book was held "by scholars and gentlemen" was not a little due to the supposition that "A.B., of Phisike Doctour," by whom the tales were said to have been "gathered together," was none other than Andrew Borde, or Boorde, a Carthusian friar before the Reformation, one of the physicians to Henry VIII., a great traveller, even beyond the bounds of Christendom, "a thousand or two and more myles," a man of great learning, withal "of fame facete." For to Borde have the _Merie Tales of the Mad Men of Gotham_ been generally ascribed down to our own times. There is, however, as Dr. F.J. Furnivall justly remarks, "no good external evidence that the book was written by Borde, while the internal evidence is against his authorship."[5] In short, the ascription of its compilation to "A.B., of Phisike Doctour," was clearly a device of the printer to sell the book.[6] The _Tales of the Mad Men of Gotham_ continued to be printed as a chap-book down to the close of the first quarter of the present century; and much harmless mirth they must have caused at cottage firesides in remote rural districts occasionally visited by the ubiquitous pedlar, in whose well-filled pack of all kinds of petty merchandise such drolleries were sure to be found. Unlike other old collections of facetiæ, the little work is remarkably free from objectionable stories; some are certainly not very brilliant, having, indeed, nothing in them particularly "Gothamite," and one or two seem to have been adapted from the Italian novelists. Of the twenty tales comprised in the collection, the first is certainly one of the most humorous: There were two men of Gotham, and one of them was going to the market at Nottingham to buy sheep, and the other was coming from the market, and both met on Nottingham bridge. "Well met!" said the one to the other. "Whither are you a-going?" said he that came from Nottingham. "Marry," said he that was going thither, "I am going to the market to buy sheep." "Buy sheep!" said the other. "And which way will you bring them home?" "Marry," said the other, "I will bring them over this bridge." "By Robin Hood," said he that came from Nottingham, "but thou shalt not." "By Maid Marian," said he that was going thither, "but I will." "Thou shalt not," said the one. "I will," said the other. Then they beat their staves against the ground, one against the other, as if there had been a hundred sheep betwixt them. "Hold them there," said the one. "Beware of the leaping over the bridge of my sheep," said the other. "They shall all come this way," said one. "But they shall not," said the other. And as they were in contention, another wise man that belonged to Gotham came from the market, with a sack of meal upon his horse; and seeing and hearing his neighbours at strife about sheep, and none betwixt them, said he, "Ah, fools, will you never learn wit? Then help me," said he that had the meal, "and lay this sack upon my shoulder." They did so, and he went to the one side of the bridge and unloosed the mouth of the sack, and did shake out all the meal into the river. Then said he, "How much meal is there in the sack, neighbours?" "Marry," answered they, "none." "Now, by my faith," answered this wise man, "even so much wit is there in your two heads to strive for the thing which you have not." Now which was the wisest of these three persons, I leave you to judge. Allusions to these tales are of frequent occurrence in our literature of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Dekker, in his _Gul's Horn Book_ (1609), says, "It is now high time for me to have a blow at thy head, which I will not cut off with sharp documents, but rather set it on faster, bestowing upon it such excellent serving that if all the wise men of Gotham should lay their heads together, their jobbernowls should not be able to compare with thine;" and Wither, in his _Abuses_, says, "And he that tryes to doe it might have bin One of the crew that hedged the cuckoo in," alluding to one of the most famous exploits of the wittols: On a time the men of Gotham would have pinned in the cuckoo, whereby she should sing all the year, and in the midst of the town they made a hedge round in compass, and they had got a cuckoo, and had put her into it, and said, "Sing here all the year, and thou shalt lack neither meat nor drink." The cuckoo, as soon as she perceived herself encompassed within the hedge, flew away. "A vengeance on her!" said they. "We made not our hedge high enough." The tales had, however, attained popular favour much earlier. Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps has pointed out that in _Philotimus_ (1583) the men of Gotham are remembered as having "tied their rentes in a purse about an hare's necke, and bade her to carrie it to their landlord," an excellent plan, which is thus described: On a time the men of Gotham had forgotten to pay their rent to their landlord. The one said to the other, "To-morrow is our payday, and what remedy shall we find to send our money to our lord?" The one said, "This day I have taken a quick [i.e., live] hare, and she shall carry it, for she is light of foot." "Be it so," said all. "She shall have a letter and a purse to put in our money, and we shall direct her the ready way." And when the letters were written, and the money put in a purse, they did tie them about the hare's neck, saying, "First thou must go to Loughborough, and then to Leicester; and at Newark there is our lord, and commend us to him, and there is his duty [i.e., due]." The hare, as soon as she was out of their hands, she did run a clean contrary way. Some cried to her, saying, "Thou must go to Loughborough first." Some said, "Let the hare alone; she can tell a nearer way than the best of us all do: let her go." Another said, "It is a noble hare; let her alone; she will not keep the highway for fear of the dogs." The well-worn "Joe Miller" of the Irishman who tried to count the party to which he belonged, and always forgot to count himself, which is also known in Russia and in the West Highlands of Scotland, is simply a variant of this drollery: On a certain day there were twelve men of Gotham that went to fish, and some stood on dry land; and in going home one said to the other, "We have ventured wonderfully in wading: I pray God that none of us come home and be drowned." "Nay, marry," said one to the other, "let us see that; for there did twelve of us come out." Then they told (i.e., counted) themselves, and every one told eleven. Said one to the other, "There is one of us drowned." They went back to the brook where they had been fishing, and sought up and down for him that was wanting, making great lamentation. A courtier, coming by, asked what it was they sought for, and why they were sorrowful. "Oh," said they, "this day we went to fish in the brook; twelve of us came out together, and one is drowned." Said the courtier, "Tell [count] how many there be of you." One of them said, "Eleven," and he did not tell himself. "Well," said the courtier, "what will you give me, and I will find the twelfth man?" "Sir," said they, "all the money we have got." "Give me the money," said the courtier, and began with the first, and gave him a stroke over the shoulders with his whip, which made him groan, saying, "Here is one," and so served them all, and they all groaned at the matter. When he came to the last, he paid him well, saying, "Here is the twelfth man." "God's blessing on thy heart," said they, "for thus finding our dear brother!" This droll adventure is also found in the _Gooroo Paramartan_, a most amusing work, written in the Tamil language by Beschi, an Italian Jesuit, who was missionary in India from 1700 till his death, in 1742. The Gooroo (teacher) and his five disciples, who are, like himself, noodles, come to a river which they have to cross, and which, as the Gooroo informs them, is a very dangerous stream. To ascertain whether it is at present "asleep," one of them dips his lighted cheroot in the water, which, of course, extinguishes it, upon which he returns to the Gooroo and reports that the river is still in a dangerous mood. So they all sit down, and begin to tell stories of the destructive nature of this river. One relates how his grandfather and another man were journeying together, driving two asses laden with bags of salt, and coming to this river, they resolved to bathe in it, and the asses, tempted by the coolness of the water, at the same time knelt down in it. When the men found that their salt had disappeared, they congratulated themselves on their wonderful escape from the devouring stream, which had eaten up all their salt without even opening the bags. Another disciple relates a story similar to the so-called Æsopian fable of the dog and his shadow, this river being supposed to have devoured a piece of meat which the dog had dropped into it. At length the river is found to be quiescent, a piece of charred wood having been plunged into it without producing any effect like that of the former experiment; and they determine to ford it, but with great caution. Arrived on the other side, they count their number, like the men of Gotham, and discover that one is not present. A traveller, coming up, finds the missing man by whacking each of them over the shoulder. The Gooroo, while gratified that the lost one was found, was grumbling at his sore bones--for the traveller had struck pretty hard--when an old woman, on learning of their adventure, told them that, in her young days, she and her female companions were once returning home from a grand festival, and adopted another plan for ascertaining if they were all together. Gathering some of the cattle-droppings, they kneaded them into a cake, in which they each made a mark with the tip of the nose, and then counted the marks--a plan which the Gooroo and his disciples should make use of on future occasions. The Abbé Dubois has given a French translation of the Adventures of the Gooroo Paramartan among the _Contes Divers_ appended to his not very valuable selection of tales and apologues from Tamil, Telegu, and Cannada versions of the _Panchatantra_ (Five Chapters, not "Cinq Ruses," as he renders it), a Sanskrit form of the celebrated Fables of Bidpaï, or Pilpay. An English rendering of Beschi's work, by Babington, forms one of the publications of the Oriental Translation Fund. Dubois states that he found the tales of the Gooroo current in Indian countries where Beschi's name was unknown, and he had no doubt of their Indian origin. However this may be, the work was probably designed, as Babington thinks, to satirise the Bráhmans, as well as to furnish a pleasing vehicle of instruction to those Jesuits in India whose duties required a knowledge of the Tamil language. A story akin to that of the Gothamite fishers, if not, indeed, an older form of it, is told in Iceland of the Three Brothers of Bakki, who came upon one of the hot springs which abound in that volcanic island, and taking off their boots and stockings, put their feet into the water and began to bathe them. When they would rise up, they were perplexed to know each his own feet, and so they sat disconsolate, until a wayfarer chanced to pass by, to whom they told their case, when he soon relieved their minds by striking the feet of each, for which important service they gave him many thanks.[7] This story reappears, slightly modified, in Campbell's _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_: A party of masons, engaged in building a dyke, take shelter during a heavy shower, and when it has passed, they continue sitting, because their legs had got mixed together, and none knew his own, until they were put right by a traveller with a big stick. We have here an evident relic of the Norsemen's occupation of the Hebrides. Several of the tales of the Gothamites are found almost unaltered in Gaelic. That of the twelve fishers has been already mentioned, and here is the story of the attempt to drown an eel, which Campbell gives in similar terms in his _Tales of the West Highlands_: When that Good Friday was come, the men of Gotham did cast their heads together what to do with their white herring, their red herring, their sprats, and salt fish. One consulted with the other, and agreed that such fish should be cast into a pond or pool (the which was in the middle of the town), that it might increase the next year; and every man did cast them into the pool. The one said, "I have thus many white herrings;" another said, "I have thus many sprats;" another said, "I have thus many salt fishes; let us all go together into the pool, and we shall fare like lords the next Lent." At the beginning of next Lent the men did draw the pond, to have their fish, and there was nothing but a great eel. "Ah," said they all, "a mischief on this eel, for he hath eat up all our fish!" "What shall we do with him?" said the one to the other. "Kill him!" said one of them. "Chop him all to pieces!" said another. "Nay, not so," said the other; "let us drown him." "Be it so," said all. They went to another pool, and did cast the eel into the water. "Lie there," said they, "and shift for thyself, for no help thou shalt have of us;" and there they left the eel to be drowned. Campbell's Gaelic story differs so little from the above that we must suppose it to have been derived directly from the English chap-book. Oral tradition always produces local variations from a written story, of which we have an example in a Gaelic version of this choice exploit: There was a man of Gotham who went to the market of Nottingham to sell cheese; and as he was going down the hill to Nottingham Bridge, one of his cheeses fell out of his wallet and ran down the hill. "Ah," said the fellow, "can you run to the market alone? I will now send one after the other;" then laying down the wallet and taking out the cheeses, he tumbled them down the hill one after the other; and some ran into one bush, and some into another; so at last he said, "I do charge you to meet me in the market-place." And when the man came into the market to meet the cheeses, he stayed until the market was almost done, then went and inquired of his neighbours and other men if they did see his cheeses come to market. "Why, who should bring them?" said one of the neighbours. "Marry, themselves," said the fellow; "they knew the way well enough," said he: "a vengeance on them! For I was afraid to see my cheeses run so fast, that they would run beyond the market. I am persuaded that they are at this time almost as far as York." So he immediately takes a horse and rides after them to York; but to this day no man has ever heard of the cheeses. In one Gaelic variant a woman is going to Inverness with a basket filled with balls of worsted of her own spinning, and going down a hill, one of the balls tumbles out and rolls along briskly, upon which she sends the others after it, holding the ends of each in her hand; and when she reaches the town, she finds a "ravelled hank" instead of her neat balls of worsted. In another version a man goes to market with two bags of cheese, and sends them downhill, like the Gothamite. After waiting at the market all day in vain, he returns home, and tells his wife of his misfortune. She goes to the foot of the hill and finds all the cheese. The next Gothamite tale also finds its counterpart in the Gaelic stories: There was a man of Gotham who bought at Nottingham a trivet, or brandiron, and as he was going home his shoulders grew sore with the carriage thereof, and he set it down; and seeing that it had three feet, he said, "Ha! hast thou three feet, and I but two? Thou shalt bear me home, if thou wilt," and set himself down thereupon, and said to the trivet, "Bear me as long as I have borne thee; but if thou do not, thou shalt stand still for me." The man of Gotham did see that his trivet would not go farther. "Stand still, in the mayor's name," said he, "and follow me if thou wilt. I will tell thee right the way to my home." When he did come to his house, his wife said, "Where is my trivet?" The man said, "He hath three legs, and I have but two; and I did teach him the way to my house. Let him come home if he will." "Where left ye the trivet?" said the woman. "At Gotham hill," said the man. His wife did run and fetch home the trivet her own self, or else she had lost it through her husband's wit. In Campbell's version a man having been sent by his wife with her spinning-wheel to get mended, as he was returning home with it the wind set the wheel in motion, so he put it down, and bidding it go straight to his house, set off himself. When he reached home, he asked his wife if the spinning-wheel had arrived yet, and on her replying that it had not, "I thought as much," quoth he, "for I took the shorter way." A somewhat similar story is found in Rivière's French collection of tales of the Kabaïl, Algeria, to this effect: The mother of a youth of the Beni-Jennad clan gave him a hundred reals to buy a mule; so he went to market, and on his way met a man carrying a water-melon for sale. "How much for the melon?" he asks. "What will you give?" says the man. "I have only got a hundred reals," answered the booby; "had I more, you should have it." "Well," rejoined the man, "I'll take them." Then the youth took the melon and handed over the money. "But tell me," says he, "will its young one be as green as it is?" "Doubtless," answered the man, "it will be green." As the booby was going home, he allowed the melon to roll down a slope before him. It burst on its way, when up started a frightened hare. "Go to my house, young one," he shouted. "Surely a green animal has come out of it." And when he got home, he inquired of his mother if the young one had arrived. In the _Gooroo Paramartan_ there is a parallel incident to this last. The noodles are desirous of providing their Gooroo with a horse, and a man sells them a pumpkin, telling them it is a mare's egg, which only requires to be sat upon for a certain time to produce a fine young horse. The Gooroo himself undertakes to hatch the mare's egg, since his disciples have all other matters to attend to; but as they are carrying it through a jungle, it falls down and splits into pieces; just then a frightened hare runs before them; and they inform the Gooroo that, a fine young colt came out of the mare's egg, with very long ears, and ran off with the speed of the wind. It would have proved a fine horse for their revered Gooroo, they add; but he consoles himself for the loss by reflecting that such an animal would probably have run away with him. A number of the Gothamite tales in the printed collection are not only inferior to those which are preserved orally, but can be considered in no sense examples of preeminent folly. Three consist of tricks played by women upon their husbands, such as are found in the ordinary jest-books of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In one a man, who had taken a buzzard, invites some friends to dine with him. His wife, with two of her gossips, having secretly eaten the buzzard, kills and cooks an old goose, and sets it before him and his guests; the latter call him a knave to mock them thus with an old goose, and go off in great anger. The husband, resolved to put himself right with his friends, stuffs the buzzard's feathers into a sack, in order to show them that they were mistaken in thinking he had tried to deceive them with an old goose instead of a fine fat buzzard. But before he started on this business, his wife contrived to substitute the goose's feathers, which he exhibited to his friends as those of the buzzard, and was soundly cudgelled for what they believed to be a second attempt to mock them.-- Two other stories seem to be derived from the Italian novelists: of the man who intended cutting off his wife's hair[8] and of the man who defied his wife to cuckold him. Two others turn upon wrong responses at a christening and a marriage, which have certainly nothing Gothamite in them. Another is a dull story of a Scotchman who employed a carver to make him as a sign of his inn a boar's head, the tradesman supposing from his northern pronunciation that he meant _bare_ head.--In the nineteenth tale, a party of gossips are assembled at the alehouse, and each relates in what manner she is profitable to her husband: one saves candles by sending all her household to bed in daylight; another, like the old fellow and Tib his wife in _Jolly Good Ale and Old_, eats little meat, but can swig a gallon or two of ale, and so forth. We have, however, our Gothamite once more in the story of him who, seeing a fine cheese on the ground as he rode along the highway, tried to pick it up with his sword, and finding his sword too short, rode back to fetch a longer one for his purpose, but when he returned, he found the cheese was gone. "A murrain take it!" quoth he. "If I had had this sword, I had had this cheese myself, and now another hath got it!" Also in the smith who took a red-hot iron bar and thrust it into the thatch of his smithy to destroy a colony of wasps, and, of course, burned down the smithy--a story which has done duty in modern days to "point a moral" in the form of a teetotal tract, with a drunken smith in place of the honest Gothamite![9] The following properly belongs to stories of the "silly son" class: There was a young man of Gotham the which should go wooing to a fair maid. His mother did warn him beforehand, saying, "When thou dost look upon her, cast a sheep's-eye, and say, 'How do ye, sweet pigsnie?'" The fellow went to the butcher's and bought seven or eight sheep's eyes; and when this lusty wooer did sit at dinner, he would cast in her face a sheep's eye, saying, "How dost thou, my pretty pigsnie?" "How do I?" said the wench. "Swine's-face, why dost thou cast the sheep's eye upon me?" "O sweet pigsnie, have at thee another!" "I defy thee, Swine's-face," said the wench. The fellow, being abashed, said, "What, sweet pigsnie! Be content, for if thou do live until the next year, thou wilt be a foul sow." "Walk, knave, walk!" said she; "for if thou live till the next year, thou wilt be a stark knave, a lubber, and a fool." It is very evident that the men of Gotham were of "honest" Jack Falstaff's opinion that the better part of valour is discretion: On a time there was a man of Gotham a-mowing in the meads and found a great grasshopper. He cast down his scythe, and did run home to his neighbours, and said that there was a devil in the field that hopped in the grass. Then there was every man ready with clubs and staves, with halberts, and with other weapons, to go and kill the grasshopper. When they did come to the place where the grasshopper should be, said the one to the other, "Let every man cross himself from the devil, or we will not meddle with him." And so they returned again, and said, "We were all blessed this day that we went no farther." "Ah, cowards," said he that had his scythe in the mead, "help me to fetch my scythe." "No," said they; "it is good to sleep in a whole skin: better it is to lose thy scythe than to mar us all." There is some spice of humour in the concluding tale of the printed collection, although it has no business there: On Ash Wednesday the priest said to the men of Gotham, "If I should enjoin you to prayer, there is none of you that can say your paternoster; and you be now too old to learn. And to enjoin you to fast were foolishness, for you do not eat a good meal's meat in a year. Wherefore do I enjoin thee to labour all the week, that thou mayest fare well to dine on Sunday, and I will come to dinner and see it to be so, and take my dinner." Another man he did enjoin to fare well on Monday, and another on Tuesday, and one after another that one or other should fare well once a week, that he might have part of his meat. "And as for alms," said the priest, "ye be beggars all, except one or two; therefore bestow alms on yourselves." Among the numerous stories of the Gothamites preserved orally, but not found in the collection of "A.B., of Phisicke Doctour," is the following, which seems to be of Indian extraction: One day some men of Gotham were walking by the riverside, and came to a place where the contrary currents caused the water to boil as in a whirlpool. "See how the water boils!" says one. "If we had plenty of oatmeal," says another, "we might make enough porridge to serve all the village for a month." So it was resolved that part of them should go to the village and fetch their oatmeal, which was soon brought and thrown into the river. But there presently arose the question of how they were to know when the porridge was ready. This difficulty was overcome by the offer of one of the company to jump in, and it was agreed that if he found it ready for use, he should signify the same to his companions. The man jumped in, and found the water deeper than he expected. Thrice he rose to the surface, but said nothing. The others, impatient at his remaining so long silent, and seeing him smack his lips, took this for an avowal that the porridge was good, and so they all jumped in after him and were drowned. Another traditional Gothamite story is related of a villager coming home at a late hour and, seeing the reflection of the moon in a horse-pond, believed it to be a green cheese, and roused all his neighbours to help him to draw it out. They raked and raked away until a passing cloud sank the cheese, when they returned to their homes grievously disappointed.[10]--This is also related of the villagers near the Marlborough Downs, in Wiltshire, and the _sobriquet_ of "moon-rakers," applied to Wiltshire folk in general, is said to have had its origin in the incident; but they assert that it was a keg of smuggled brandy, which had been sunk in a pond, that the villagers were attempting to fish up, when the exciseman coming suddenly upon the scene, they made him believe they were raking the reflection of the moon, thinking it a green cheese, an explanation which is on a par with the apocryphal tale of the Gothamites and the messengers of King John. The absurd notion of the moon being a fine cheese is of very respectable antiquity, and occurs in the noodle-stories of many countries. It is referred to by Rabelais, and was doubtless the subject of a popular French tale in his time. In the twenty-second story of the _Disciplina Clericalis_ of Peter Alfonsus, a Spanish Jew, who was baptised in 1106, a fox leaves a wolf in a well, looking after a supposed cheese, made by the image of the moon in the water; and the same fable had been told by the Talmudists in the fifth century.[11] The well-known "Joe Miller" of the party of Irishmen who endeavoured to reach a "green cheese" in the river by hanging one by another's legs finds its parallel in a Mecklenburg story, in which some men by the same contrivance tried to get a stone from the bottom of a well, and the incident is thus related in the old English jest-book entitled _The Sacke Full of Newes_: There were three young men going to Lambeth along by the waterside, and one played with the other, and they cast each other's caps into the water in such sort as they could not get their caps again. But over the place where their caps were did grow a great old tree, the which did cover a great deal of the water. One of them said to the rest, "Sirs, I have found a notable way to come by them. First I will make myself fast by the middle with one of your girdles unto the tree, and he that is with you shall hang fast upon my girdle, and he that is last shall take hold on him that holds fast on my girdle, and so with one of his hands he may take up all our caps, and cast them on the sand." And so they did; but when they thought that they had been most secure and fast, he that was above felt his girdle slack, and said, "Soft, sirs! My girdle slacketh." "Make it fast quickly," said they. But as he was untying it to make it faster they fell all three into the water, and were well washed for their pains. Closely allied to these tales is the Russian story of the old man who planted a cabbage-head in the cellar, under the floor of his cottage, and, strange to say, it grew right up to the sky. He climbs up the cabbage-stalk till he reaches the sky. There he sees a mill, which gives a turn, and out come a pie and a cake, with a pot of stewed grain on the top. The old man eats his fill and drinks his fill; then he lies down to sleep. By-and-bye he awakes, and slides down to earth again. He tells his wife of the good things up in the sky, and she induces him to take her with him. She slips into a sack, and the old man takes it in his teeth and begins to climb up. The old woman, becoming tired, asked him if it was much farther, and just as he was about to say, "Not much farther," the sack slipped from between his teeth, and the old woman fell to the ground and was smashed to pieces. There are many variants of this last story (which is found in Mr. Ralston's most valuable and entertaining collection of Russian folk-tales), but observe the very close resemblance which it bears to the following Indian tale of the fools and the bull of Siva, from the _Kathá Sarit Ságara_ (Ocean of the Streams of Story), the grand collection, composed in Sanskrit verse by Somadeva in the eleventh century, from a similar work entitled _Vrihat Kathá_ (Great Story), written in Sanskrit prose by Gunadhya, in the sixth century:[12] In a certain convent, which was full of fools, there was a man who was the greatest fool of the lot. He once heard in a treatise on law, which was being read aloud, that a man who has a tank made gains a great reward in the next world. Then, as he had a large fortune, he had made a large tank full of water, at no great distance from his own convent. One day this prince of fools went to take a look at that tank of his, and perceived that the sand had been scratched up by some creature. The next day too he came, and saw that the bank had been torn up in another part of the tank, and being quite astonished, he said to himself, "I will watch here to-morrow the whole day, beginning in the early morning, and I will find out what creature it is that does this." After he had formed this resolution, he came there early next morning, and watched, until at last he saw a bull descend from heaven and plough up the bank with its horns. He thought, "This is a heavenly bull, so why should I not go to heaven with it?" And he went up to the bull, and with both his hands laid hold of the tail behind. Then the holy bull lifted up, with the utmost force, the foolish man who was clinging to its tail, and carried him in a moment to its home in Kailása.[13] There the foolish man lived for some time in great comfort, feasting on heavenly dainties, sweetmeats, and other things which he obtained. And seeing that the bull kept going and returning, that king of fools, bewildered by destiny, thought, "I will go down clinging to the tail of the bull and see my friends, and after I have told them this wonderful tale, I will return in the same way." Having formed this resolution, the fool went and clung to the tail of the bull one day when it was setting out, and so returned to the surface of the earth. When he entered the convent, the other blockheads who were there embraced him, and asked him where he had been, and he told them. Then all these foolish men, having heard the tale of his adventures, made this petition to him: "Be kind, and take us also there; enable us also to feast on sweetmeats." He consented, and told them his plan for doing it, and next day led them to the border of the tank, and the bull came there. And the principal fool seized the tail of the bull with his two hands, and another took hold of his feet, and a third in turn took hold of his. So, when they had formed a chain by hanging on to one another's feet, the bull flew rapidly up into the air. And while the bull was going along, with all the fools clinging to its tail, it happened that one of the fools said to the principal fool, "Tell us now, to satisfy our curiosity, how large were the sweetmeats which you ate, of which a never-failing supply can be obtained in heaven?" Then the leader had his attention diverted from the business in hand, and quickly joined his hands together like the cup of a lotus, and exclaimed in answer, "So big." But in so doing he let go the tail of the bull, and accordingly he and all those others fell from heaven, and were killed; and the bull returned to Kailása; but the people who saw it were much amused.[14] "Thus," remarks the story-teller, "fools do themselves injury by asking questions and giving answers without reflection"; he then proceeds to relate a story in illustration of the apothegm that "association with fools brings prosperity to no man": A certain fool, while going to another village, forgot the way. And when he asked the way, the people said to him, "Take the path that goes up by the tree on the bank of the river." Then the fool went and got on the trunk of that tree, and said to himself, "The men told me that my way lay up the trunk of this tree." And as he went on climbing up it, the bough at the end bent with his weight, and it was all he could do to avoid falling by clinging to it. While he was clinging to it, there came that way an elephant that had been drinking water, with his driver on his back. And the fool called to him, saying, "Great sir, take me down." The elephant-driver laid hold of him by the feet with both his hands, to take him down from the tree. Meanwhile the elephant went on, and the driver found himself clinging to the feet of the fool, who was clinging to the end of the tree. Then said the fool to the driver, "Sing something, in order that the people may hear, and come at once and take us down." So the elephant-driver, thus appealed to, began to sing, and he sang so sweetly that the fool was much pleased; and in his desire to applaud him, he forgot what he was about, let go his hold of the tree, and prepared to clap him with both his hands; and immediately he and the elephant-driver fell into the river and were drowned. The germ of all stories of this class is perhaps found in the _Játakas_, or Buddhist Birth Stories: A pair of geese resolve to migrate to another country, and agree to carry with them a tortoise, their intimate friend, taking the ends of a stick between their bills, and the tortoise grasping it by the middle with his mouth. As they are flying over Bánáres, the people exclaim in wonder to one another at such a strange sight, and the tortoise, unable to maintain silence, opens his mouth to rebuke them, and by so doing falls to the ground, and is dashed into pieces. This fable is also found in Babrius. (115); in the _Kathá Sarit Ságara_; in the several versions of the Fables of Bidpaï; and in the _Avadánas_, translated into French from the Chinese by Stanislas Julien. * * * * * To return to Gothamite stories. According to one of those which are current orally, the men of Gotham had but one knife among them, which was stuck in a tree in the middle of the village for their common use, and many amusing incidents, says Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps, arose out of their disputes for the use of this knife. The "carles" of Austwick, in Yorkshire, are said also to have had but one knife, or "whittle," which was deposited under a tree, and if it was not found there when wanted, the "carle" requiring it called out, "Whittle to the tree!" This plan did very well for some years, until it was taken one day by a party of labourers to a neighbouring moor, to be used for cutting their bread and cheese. When the day's labour was done, they resolved to leave the knife at the place, to save themselves the trouble of carrying it back, as they should want it again next day; so they looked about for some object to mark the spot, and stuck it into the ground under a black cloud that happened to be the most remarkable object in sight. But next day, when they returned to the place, the cloud was gone, and the "whittle" was never seen again. When an Austwick "carle" comes into any of the larger towns of Yorkshire, it is said he is greeted with the question, "Who tried to lift the bull over the gate?" in allusion to the following story: An Austwick farmer, wishing to get a bull out of a field--how the animal got into it, the story does not inform us--procured the assistance of nine of his neighbours to lift the animal over the gate. After trying in vain for some hours, they sent one of their number to the village for more help. In going out he opened the gate, and after he had gone away, it occurred to one of those who remained that the bull might be allowed to go out in the same manner. Another Austwick farmer had to take a wheelbarrow to a certain town, and, to save a hundred yards by going the ordinary road, he went through the fields, and had to lift the barrow over twenty-two stiles. It was a Wiltshire man, however (if all tales be true), who determined to cure the filthy habits of his hogs by making them roost upon the branches of a tree, like birds. Night after night the pigs were hoisted up to their perch, and every morning one of them was found with its neck broken, until at last there were none left.--And quite as witless, surely, was the device of the men of Belmont, who once desired to move their church three yards farther westward, so they carefully marked the exact distance by leaving their coats on the ground. Then they set to work to push with all their might against the eastern wall. In the meantime a thief had gone round to the west side and stolen their coats. "Diable!" exclaimed they on finding that their coats were gone, "we have pushed too far!" [Illustration] [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [1] _Coffee House Jests_. Fifth edition. London. 1688. P. 36. [2] "See _ante_, p. 8, note." [Transcriber's note: This is Chapter I, Footnote 1 in this etext.] [3] Fuller, while admitting that "an hundred fopperies are forged and fathered on the townsfolk of Gotham," maintains that "Gotham doth breed as wise people as any which laugh at their simplicity." [4] Collier's _Bibliographical Account_, etc., vol. i., p. 327. [5] Forewords to Borde's _Introduction of Knowledge_, etc., edited, for the Early English Text Society, by F.J. Furnivall. [6] It is equally certain that Borde had no hand either in the _Jests of Scogin_ or _The Mylner of Abyngton_, the latter an imitation of Chaucer's _Reve's Tale_. [7] Powell and Magnusson's _Legends of Iceland_, Second Series. [8] An imitation of Boccaccio, _Decameron_, Day vii., nov. 8, who perhaps borrowed the story from Guerin's _fabliau_ "De la Dame qui fit accroire a son Mari qu'il avait rêve; _alias_, Les Cheveux Coupés" (Le Grand's _Fabliaux_, ed. 1781, tome ii., 280). [9] A slightly different version occurs in the _Tale of Beryn_, which is found in a unique MS. of Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_, and which forms the first part of the old French romance of the _Chevalier Berinus_. In the English poem Beryn, lamenting his misfortunes, and that he had disinherited himself, says: "But I fare like the man, that for to swale his vlyes [i.e. flies] He stert in-to the bern, and aftir stre he hies, And goith a-bout with a brennyng wase, Tyll it was atte last that the leam and blase Entryd in-to the chynys, wher the whete was, And kissid so the evese, that brent was al the plase." It is certain that the author of the French original of the _Tale of Beryn_ did not get this story out of our jests of the men of Gotham. [10] There is an analogous Indian story of a youth who went to a tank to drink, and observing the reflection of a golden-crested bird that was sitting on a tree, he thought it was gold in the water, and entered the tank to take it up, but he could not lay hold of it as it appeared and disappeared in the water. But as often as he ascended the bank he again saw it in the water, and again he entered the tank to lay hold of it, and still he got nothing. At length his father saw and questioned him, then drove away the bird, and explaining the matter to him, took the foolish fellow home. We have already seen that the men of Abdera (p. 5) flogged an ass before its fellows for upsetting a jar of olive oil, but what is that compared with the story of the ass that drank up the moon? According to Ludovicus Vives, a learned Spanish writer, certain townspeople imprisoned an ass for drinking up the moon, whose reflection, appearing in the water, was covered with a cloud while the ass was drinking. Next day the poor beast was brought to the bar to be sentenced according to his deserts. After the grave burghers had discussed the affair for some time, one at length rose up and declared that it was not fit the town should lose its moon, but rather that the ass should be cut open and the moon he had swallowed taken out of him, which, being cordially approved by the others, was done accordingly. [11] This is also one of the Fables of Marie de France (thirteenth century). [12] A complete translation of the _Kathá Sarit Ságara_, by Professor C.H. Tawney, with notes of variants, which exhibit his wide acquaintance with the popular fictions of all lands, has been recently published at Calcutta (London agents, Messrs. Trübner and Co.), a work which must prove invaluable to every English student of comparative folk-lore. [13] Siva's paradise, according to Hindu mythology, is on Mount Kailása, in the Himályas, north of Mánasa. [14] Tawney's translation, which is used throughout this work. CHAPTER III. GOTHAMITE DROLLERIES (_continued_). The Schildburgers, it has been already remarked, are the Gothamites of Germany, and the stories of their stupidity, after being orally current for years among the people, were collected near the close of the sixteenth century, the earliest known edition being that of 1597. In a most lively and entertaining article on "Early German Comic Romances" (_Foreign Quarterly Review_, No. 40, 1837), the late Mr. W.J. Thoms has furnished an account of the exploits of the Schildburgers, from which the following particulars and tales are extracted: "There have been few happier ideas than that of making these simpletons descend from one of the wise men of Greece, and representing them as originally gifted with such extraordinary talents as to be called to the councils of all the princes of the earth, to the great detriment of their circumstances and the still greater dissatisfaction of their wives, and then, upon their being summoned home to arrange their disordered affairs, determining, in their wisdom, to put on the garb of stupidity, and persevering so long and so steadfastly in their assumed character as to prove 'plain fools at last.' No way inferior is the end of this strange tale, which assumes even somewhat of serious interest when the Schildburgers, after performing every conceivable piece of folly, and receiving the especial privilege of so doing under the seal and signature of the emperor, by the crowning act of their lives turn themselves out of house and home, whereby they are compelled, like the Jews, to become outcasts and wanderers over the face of the earth, by which means it has arisen that there is no spot, however remote, on which some of their descendants, who may be known by their characteristic stupidity, are not to be found." Their first piece of folly was to build a council-house without windows. When they entered it, and, to use the words of the nursery ballad, "saw they could not see," they were greatly puzzled to account for such a state of things; and having in vain gone outside and examined the building to find why the inside was dark, they determined to hold a council upon the subject on the following day. At the time appointed they assembled, each bringing with him a torch, which, on seating himself, he stuck in his hat. After much discussion, one genius, brighter than the rest, decided that they could not see for want of daylight, and that they ought on the morrow to carry in as much of it as possible. Accordingly, the next day, when the sun shone, all the sacks, bags, boxes, baskets, tubs, pans, etc. of the village were filled with its beams and carefully carried into the council-house and emptied there, but with no good effect. After this they removed the roof, by the advice of a traveller, whom they rewarded amply for the suggestion. This plan answered famously during the summer, but when the rains of winter fell, and they were forced to replace the roof, they found the house just as dark as ever. Again they met, again they stuck their torches in their hats, but to no purpose, until by chance one of them was quitting the house, and groping his way along the wall, when a ray of light fell through a crevice and upon his beard, whereupon he suggested, what had never occurred to any of them, that it was possible they might get daylight in by making a window. Another tale relates how the boors of Schilda contrived to get their millstone twice down from a high mountain: The boors of Schilda had built a mill, and with extraordinary labour they had quarried a millstone for it out of a quarry which lay on the summit of a high mountain; and when the stone was finished, they carried it with great labour and pain down the hill. When they had got to the bottom, it occurred to one of them that they might have spared themselves the trouble of carrying it down by letting it roll down. "Verily," said he, "we are the stupidest of fools to take these extraordinary pains to do that which we might have done with so little trouble. We will carry it up, and then let it roll down the hill by itself, as we did before with the tree which we felled for the council-house." This advice pleased them all, and with greater labour they carried the stone to the top of the mountain again, and were about to roll it down, when one of them said, "But how shall we know where it runs to? Who will be able to tell us aught about it?" "Why," said the bailiff, who had advised the stone being carried up again, "this is very easily managed. One of us must stick in the hole [for the millstone, of course, had a hole in the middle], and run down with it." This was agreed to, and one of them, having been chosen for the purpose, thrust his head through the hole, and ran down the hill with the millstone. Now at the bottom of the mountain was a deep fish-pond, into which the stone rolled, and the simpleton with it, so that the Schildburgers lost both stone and man, and not one among them knew what had become of them. And they felt sorely angered against their old companion who had run down the hill with the stone, for they considered that he had carried it off for the purpose of disposing of it. So they published a notice in all the neighbouring boroughs, towns, and villages, calling on them, that "if any one come there with a millstone round his neck, they should treat him as one who had stolen the common goods, and give him to justice." But the poor fellow lay in the pond, dead. Had he been able to speak, he would have been willing to tell them not to worry themselves on his account, for he would give them their own again. But his load pressed so heavily upon him, and he was so deep in the water, that he, after drinking water enough--more, indeed, than was good for him--died; and he is dead at the present day, and dead he will, shall, and must remain! The forty-seventh chapter recounts "How the Schildburgers purchased a mouser, and with it their own ruin": Now it happened that there were no cats in Schilda, and so many mice that nothing was safe, even in the bread-basket, for whatsoever they put there was sure to be gnawed or eaten; and this grieved them sorely. And upon a time there came a traveller into the village, carrying a cat in his arms, and he entered the hostel. The host asked him, "What sort of a beast is that?" Said he, "It is a mouser." Now the mice at Schilda were so quiet and so tame that they never fled before the people, but ran about all day long, without the slightest fear. So the traveller let the cat run, who, in the sight of the host, soon caught numbers of mice. Now when the people were told this by the host, they asked the man whether the mouser was to be sold, for they would pay him well for it. He said, "It certainly was not to be sold; but seeing that it would be so useful to them, he would let them have it if they would pay him what was right," and he asked a hundred florins for it. The boors were glad to find that he asked so little, and concluded a bargain with him, he agreeing to take half the money down, and to come again in six months to fetch the rest. As soon as the bargain was struck on both sides, they gave the traveller the half of the money, and he carried the mouser into the granary, where they kept their corn, for there were most mice there. The traveller went off with the money at full speed, for he feared greatly lest they should repent them of the bargain, and want their money back again; and as he went along he kept looking behind him to see that no one was following him. Now the boors had forgotten to ask what the cat was to be fed upon, so they sent one after him in haste to ask him the question. But when he with the gold saw that some one was following him, he hastened so much the more, so that the boor could by no means overtake him, whereupon he called out to him from afar off, "What does it eat?" "What you please! What you please!" quoth the traveller. But the peasant understood him to say, "Men and beasts! Men and beasts!" Therefore he returned home in great affliction, and said as much to his worthy masters. On learning this they became greatly alarmed, and said, "When it has no more mice to eat, it will eat our cattle; and when they are gone, it will eat us! To think that we should lay out our good money in buying such a thing!" And they held counsel together and resolved that the cat should be killed. But no one would venture to lay hold of it for that purpose, whereupon it was determined to burn the granary, and the cat in it, seeing that it was better they should suffer a common loss than all lose life and limb. So they set fire to the granary. But when the cat smelt the fire, it sprang out of a window and fled to another house, and the granary was burned to the ground. Never was there sorrow greater than that of the Schildburgers when they found that they could not kill the cat. They counselled with one another, and purchased the house to which the cat had fled, and burned that also. But the cat sprang out upon the roof, and sat there, washing itself and putting its paws behind its ears, after the manner of cats; and the Schildburgers understood thereby that the cat lifted up its hands and swore an oath that it would not leave their treatment of it unrevenged. Then one of them took a long pole and struck at the cat, but the cat caught hold of the pole, and began to clamber down it, whereupon all the people grew greatly alarmed and ran away, and left the fire to burn as it might. And because no one regarded the fire, nor sought to put it out, the whole village was burned to a house, and notwithstanding that, the cat escaped. And the Schildburgers fled with their wives and children to a neighbouring forest. And at this time was burned their chancery and all the papers therein, which is the reason why their history is not to be found described in a more regular manner. Thus ended the career of the Schildburgers as a community, according to the veracious chronicle of their marvellous exploits, the first of which, their carrying sunshine into the council-house, is a favourite incident in the noodle-stories of many countries, and has its parallel in the Icelandic story of the Three Brothers of Bakki: They had observed that in winter the weather was colder than in summer, also that the larger the windows of a house were the colder it was. All frost and sharp cold, therefore, they thought sprang from the fact that houses had windows in them. So they built themselves a house on a new plan, without windows in it at all. It followed, of course, that there was always pitch darkness in it. They found that this was rather a fault in the house, but comforted themselves with the certainty that in winter it would be very warm; and as to light, they thought they could contrive some easy means of getting the house lighted. One fine day in the middle of summer, when the sunshine was brightest, they began to carry the darkness out of the house in their caps, and emptied it out when they came into the sunshine, which they then carried into the dark room. Thus they worked hard the whole day, but in the evening, when they had done all their best, they were not a little disappointed to find that it was as dark as before, so much so that they could not tell one hand from the other.[1] There is a Kashmírí story which bears a slight resemblance to the exploit of the Schildburgers with the cat. A poor old woman used to beg her food by day and cook it at night. Half of the food she would eat in the morning, and the other half in the evening. After a while a cat got to know of this arrangement, and came and ate the meal for her. The old woman was very patient, but at last could no longer endure the cat's impudence, and so she laid hold of it. She argued with herself as to whether she should kill it or not. "If I slay it," she thought, "it will be a sin; but if I keep it alive, it will be to my heavy loss." So she determined only to punish it. She procured some cotton wool and some oil, and soaking the one in the other, tied it on to the cat's tail and then set it on fire. Away rushed the cat across the yard, up the side of the window, and on to the roof, where its flaming tail ignited the thatch and set the whole house on fire. The flames soon spread to other houses, and the whole village was destroyed.[2] An older form of this incident is found in the introduction to a Persian poetical version of the Book of Sindibád (_Sindibád Náma_), of which a unique MS. copy, very finely illuminated, but imperfect, is preserved in the Library of the India Office:[3] In a village called Buzina-Gird (i.e., Monkey Town) there was a goat that was in the habit of butting at a certain old woman whenever she came into the street. One day the old woman had been to ask fire from a neighbour, and on her return the goat struck her so violently with his horns when she was off her guard as to draw blood. Enraged at this, she applied the fire which she held to the goat's fleece, which kindled, and the animal ran to the stables of the elephant-keeper, and rubbed his sides against the reeds and willows. They caught fire, which the wind soon spread, and the heads and faces of the warlike elephants were scorched. With the sequel--how the king caused all the monkeys to be slaughtered, as their fat was required to cure the scorched elephants--we have no concern at present.[4] * * * * * In Ceylon whole districts, such as Tumpane, in the central province, Morora Korle, in the southern province, and Rayigam Korle, in the western province, are credited with being the abode of fools. A learned writer on the proverbial sayings of the Sinhalese states that these often refer to "popular stories of stupid people to which foolish actions are likened. The stories of the Tumpane villagers who tried to unearth and carry off a well because they saw a bees' nest reflected in the water; of the Morora Korle boatmen who mistook a bend in the river for the sea, left their cargo there, and returned home; of the Rayigam Korle fools who threw stones at the moon to frighten her off one fine moonlight night when they thought she was coming too near, and that there was danger of her burning their crops, are well known, and it is customary to ask a man if he was born in one of these places if he has done anything particularly foolish. The story of the double-fool--i.e., of the man who tried to lighten the boat by carrying his pingo load over his shoulders;[5] of the man who stretched out his hands to be warmed by the fire on the other side of the river; of the rustic's wife who had her own head shaved, so as not to lose the barber's services for the day when he came, and her husband was away from home; of the villagers who tied up their mortars in the village in the belief that the elephant tracks in the rice fields were caused by the mortars wandering about at night; of the man who would not wash his body in order to spite the river; of the people who flogged the elk-skin at home to avenge themselves on the deer that trespassed in the fields at night; and of the man who performed the five precepts--all these are popular stories of foolish people which have passed into proverbs."[6] The last of the stories referred to in the above extract is as follows: A woman once rebuked her husband for not performing the five (Buddhist) precepts. "I don't know what they are," he replied. "Oh, it's very easy," she said; "all you have to do is to go to the priest and repeat what he says after him." "Is that all?" he answered. "Then I'll go and do it at once." Off he went, and as he neared the temple the priest saw him and called out, "Who are you?" to which he replied, "Who are you?" "What do you want?" demands the priest. "What do you want?" the blockhead answers dutifully. "Are you mad?" roared the priest. "Are you mad?" returned the rustic. "Here," said the priest to his attendants, "take and beat him well;" and notwithstanding that he carefully repeated the words again, taken and thoroughly well thrashed he was, after which he crawled back to his wife and said, "What a wonderful woman you are! You manage to repeat the five precepts every day, and are strong and healthy, while I, who have only said them once, am nearly dead with fever from the bruises."[7] To this last may be added a story in the _Kathá Manjari_, a Canarese collection, of the stupid fellow and the _Rámáyana_, one of the two great Hindú epics: One day a man was reading the _Rámáyana_ in the bazaar, and a woman, thinking her husband might be instructed by hearing it, sent him there. He went, and stood leaning on his crook--for he was a shepherd--when presently a practical joker, seeing his simplicity, jumped upon his shoulders, and he stood with the man on his back until the discourse was concluded. When he reached home, his wife asked him how he liked the _Rámáyana_. "Alas!" said he, "it was not easy; it was a man's load." * * * * * The race of Gothamites is indeed found everywhere--in popular tales, if not in actual life; and their sayings and doings are not less diverting when husband and wife are well mated, as in the following story: An Arab observing one morning that his house was ready to tumble about his ears from decay, and being without the means of repairing it, went with a long face to his wife, and informed her of his trouble. She said, "Why, my dear, need you distress yourself about so small a matter? You have a cow worth thirty dirhams; take her to the market and sell her for that sum. I have some thread, which I will dispose of to-day, and I warrant you that between us both we shall manage very well." The man at once drove the cow to the market, and gave her over for sale to the appraiser of cattle. The salesman showed her to the bystanders, directed their attention to all her good points, expatiated on all her good qualities, and, in short, passed her off as a cow of inestimable value. To all this the simpleton listened with delight and astonishment; he heard his cow praised for qualities that no other cow ever possessed, and determined in his own mind not to lose so rare a bargain, but purchase her himself and balk the chapmen. He therefore called out to the appraiser, and asked him what she was going at. The salesman replied, "At fifteen dirhams and upwards." "By the head of the Prophet," exclaimed the wittol, "had I known that my cow was such a prodigy of excellence, you should not have caught me in the market with her for sale." Now it happened that he had just fifteen dirhams, and no more, and these he thrust upon the broker, exclaiming, "The cow is mine; I have the best claim to her." He then seized the cow and drove her home, exulting all the way as if he had found a treasure. On reaching home he inquired eagerly for his wife, to inform her of his adventure, but was told she was not returned from market. He waited impatiently for her return, when he sprang up to meet her, crying, "Wife, I have done something to-day that will astonish you. I have performed a marvellous exploit!" "Patience!" says his wife. "Perhaps I have done something myself to match it. But hear my story, and then talk of cleverness, if you please." The husband desired her to proceed. "When I went to market," says she, "I found a man in want of thread. I showed him mine, which he approved of, and having bargained for it, he agreed to pay me according to the weight. I told him it weighed so much, which he seemed to discredit, and weighed it himself. Observing it to fall short of the weight I had mentioned, and fearing I should lose the price I at first expected, I requested him to weigh it over again, and make certain. In the meantime, taking an opportunity unobserved, I stripped off my silver bracelets and put them slily into the scale with my thread. The scale, of course, now preponderated, and I received the full price I had demanded." Having finished her story, she cried out, "Now, what do you think of your wife?" "Amazing! amazing!" said he. "Your capacity is supernatural. And now, if you please, I will give you a specimen of mine," and he related his adventure at the market. "O husband," she exclaimed when he had told his story, "had we not possessed such consummate wisdom and address, how could we have contrived means to repair our old house? In future vex not yourself about domestic concerns, since by the exercise of our talents we need never want for anything!" The exploits of that precious pair may be compared with the following: An alewife went to the market with a brood of chickens and an old black hen. For the hen and one chicken she could not find a purchaser; so, before leaving the town, she called upon a surgeon, to try to effect a sale. He bought the chicken, but declined taking the hen. She then asked him if he would draw a tooth for it. The tooth was drawn, and he expressed his surprise on finding it was perfectly sound. "Oh," said she, "I knew it was sound; but it was worth while having it drawn for the old hen." She then called upon another surgeon, and had a second tooth drawn, as sound as the other. "What's to pay?" she inquired. "A shilling," said the surgeon. "Very well," rejoined the hostess, with a chuckle; "you left a shilling due in my house the other night, and now we are quits." "Certainly we are," responded the perplexed tooth-drawer, and the delighted old woman returned to her hostelry, to acquaint all her gossips of how cleverly she had outwitted the doctors. * * * * * Ferrier says, in his _Illustrations of Sterne_, that the facetious tales of the Sieur Gaulard laid the foundation of some of the jests in our old English collections. A few of them found their way somehow into Taylor's _Wit and Mirth_, and this is one: A monsieur chanced to meet a lady of his acquaintance, and asked her how she did and how her good husband fared, at which she wept, saying that her husband was in heaven. "In heaven!" quoth he. "It is the first time that I heard of it, and I am sorry for it with all my heart." Similar in its point is a story in _Archie Armstrong's Banquet of Jests_:[8] Sitting over a cup of ale in a winter night, two widows entered into discourse of their dead husbands, and after ripping up their good and bad qualities, saith one of them to the maid, "I prithee, wench, reach us another light, for my husband (God rest his soul!) above all things loved to see good lights about the house. God grant him light everlasting!" "And I pray you, neighbour," said the other, "let the maid lay on some more coals or stir up the fire, for my husband in his lifetime ever loved to see a good fire. God grant him fire everlasting!" This seems cousin-german to the Arabian story of two men, one of whom hailed from the town of Hama (ancient Hamath), the other from Hums (ancient Emessa). Those towns are not far apart, but the people of the former have the reputation of being very clever, while those of the latter are proverbially as stupid. (And for the proper understanding of the jest it should perhaps be explained that the Arabic verb _hama_ means to "protect" or "defend," the verb _hamasa_ to "roast" or "toast.") These men had some business of importance with the nearest magistrate, and set out together on their journey. The man of Hums, conscious of his own ignorance, begged his companion to speak first in the audience, in order that he might get a hint as to how such a formal matter should be conducted. Accordingly, when they came into the pasha's presence, the man of Hama went forward, and the pasha asked him, "Where are you from?" "Your servant is from Hama," said he. "May Allah PROTECT (_hama_) your excellency!" The pasha then turned to the other man, and asked, "And where are you from?" to which he answered, "Your servant is from Hums. May Allah ROAST _(hamasa)_ your excellency!" * * * * * Not a few of the _Bizarrures_ of the Sieur Gaulard are the prototypes of bulls and foolish sayings of the typical Irishman, which go their ceaseless round in popular periodicals, and are even audaciously reproduced as original in our "comic" journals--save the mark! To cite some examples: A friend one day told M. Gaulard that the Dean of Besançon was dead. "Believe it not," said he; "for had it been so he would have told me himself, since he writes to me about everything." M. Gaulard asked his secretary one evening what hour it was. "Sir," replied the secretary, "I cannot tell you by the dial, because the sun is set." "Well," quoth M. Gaulard, "and can you not see by the candle?" On another occasion the Sieur called from his bed to a servant desiring him to see if it was daylight yet. "There is no sign of daylight," said the servant. "I do not wonder," rejoined the Sieur, "that thou canst not see day, great fool as thou art. Take a candle and look with it out at the window, and thou shalt see whether it be day or not." In a strange house, the Sieur found the walls of his bedchamber full of great holes. "This," exclaimed he in a rage, "is the cursedest chamber in all the world. One may see day all the night through." Travelling in the country, his man, to gain the fairest way, rode through a field sowed with pease, upon which M. Gaulard cried to him, "Thou knave, wilt thou burn my horse's feet? Dost thou not know that about six weeks ago I burned my mouth with eating pease, they were so hot?" A poor man complained to him that he had had a horse stolen from him. "Why did you not mark his visage," asked M. Gaulard, "and the clothes he wore?" "Sir," said the man, "I was not there when he was stolen." Quoth the Sieur, "You should have left somebody to ask him his name, and in what place he resided." M. Gaulard felt the sun so hot in the midst of a field at noontide in August that he asked of those about him, "What means the sun to be so hot? How should it not keep its heat till winter, when it is cold weather?" A proctor, discoursing with M. Gaulard, told him that a dumb, deaf, or blind man could not make a will but with certain additional forms. "I pray you," said the Sieur, "give me that in writing, that I may send it to a cousin of mine who is lame." One day a friend visited the Sieur and found him asleep in his chair. "I slept," said he, "only to avoid idleness; for I must always be doing something." The Abbé of Poupet complained to him that the moles had spoiled a fine meadow, and he could find no remedy for them. "Why, cousin," said M. Gaulard, "it is but paving your meadow, and the moles will no more trouble you." M. Gaulard had a lackey belonging to Auvergne, who robbed him of twelve crowns and ran away, at which he was very angry, and said he would have nothing that came from that country. So he ordered all that was from Auvergne to be cast out of the house, even his mule; and to make the animal more ashamed, he caused his servants to take off its shoes and its saddle and bridle. * * * * * Although Taylor's _Wit and Mirth_ is the most "original" of our old English jest-books--that is to say, it contains very few stories in common with preceding collections--yet some of the diverting tales he relates are traceable to very distant sources, more especially the following: A country fellow (that had not walked much in streets that were paved) came to London, where a dog came suddenly out of a house, and furiously ran at him. The fellow stooped to pick up a stone to cast at the dog, and finding them all fast rammed or paved in the ground, quoth he, "What a strange country am I in, where the people tie up the stones and let the dogs loose!" Three centuries and a half before the Water Poet heard this exquisitely humorous story, the great Persian poet Sa'dí related it in his _Gulistán_ (or Rose-garden), which was written A.D. 1278: A poor poet presented himself before the chief of a gang of robbers, and recited some verses in his praise. The robber-chief, however, instead of rewarding him, as he fondly expected, ordered him to be stripped of his clothes and expelled from the village. The dogs attacking him in the rear, the unlucky bard stooped to pick up a stone to throw at them, and finding the stones frozen in the ground, he exclaimed, "What a vile set of men are these, who set loose the dogs and fasten the stones!" Now here we have a very curious instance of the migration of a popular tale from Persia--perchance it first set out on its travels from India --in the thirteenth century, when grave and reverend seigniors wagged their beards and shook their portly sides at its recital, to London in the days of the Scottish Solomon (more properly dubbed "the wisest fool in Christendom"!), when Taylor, the Water Poet, probably heard it told, in some river-side tavern, amidst the clinking of beer-cans and the fragrant clouds blown from pipes of Trinidado, and "put it in his book!" How it came into England it would be interesting to ascertain. It may have been brought to Europe by the Venetian merchants, who traded largely in the Levant and with the Moors in Northern Africa. FOOTNOTES: [1] Powell and Magnusson's _Legends of Iceland_, Second Series, p. 626. [2] _Dictionary of Kashmírí Proverbs and Sayings_. Explained and illustrated from the rich and interesting folk-lore of the Valley. By the Rev. J. Hinton Knowles. Bombay: 1885. [3] This work was composed A.H. 776 (A.D. 1374-5), as the anonymous author takes care to inform us in his opening verses. [4] A still older form of the story occurs in the _Pancha Tantra_ (Five Sections), a Sanskrit version of the celebrated Fables of Bidpai, in which a gluttonous ram is in the habit of going to the king's kitchen and devouring all food within his reach. One of the cooks beat him with a burning log of wood, and the ram rushed off with his blazing fleece and set the horses' stables on fire, and so forth. The story is most probably of Buddhist extraction. [5] A Sinhalese variant of the exploit of the man of Norfolk and of the man of Gotham with the sack of meal. "See _ante_, p. 19." [Transcriber's note: this approximates to the text reference for Chapter II Footnote 1 in this etext.] [6] Mr. C.J.R. le Mesurier in _The Orientalist_ (Kandy, Ceylon: 1884), pp. 233-4. [7] _The Orientalist_, 1884, p. 234. A much fuller version, with subsequent incidents, is given in the same excellent periodical, pp. 36-38. [8] Archie Armstrong was Court jester to James I. of England. It is needless, perhaps, to say that he had no hand in this book of facetiæ, which is composed for the most part of jests taken out of earlier collections. CHAPTER IV. GOTHAMITE DROLLERIES _(continued)._ Tales of sharpers' tricks upon simpletons do not quite fall within the scope of the present series of papers, but there is one, in the _Arabian Nights_--not found, however, in our common English version of that fascinating story-book--which deserves a place among noodle-stories, since it is so diverting, is not very generally known, and is probably the original of the early Italian novel of the _Monk Transformed_, which is ascribed to Michele Colombo: A rustic simpleton was walking homeward dragging his ass after him by the halter, which a brace of sharpers observing, one said to his fellow, "Come with me, and I will take the ass from that man." He then quietly advanced to the ass, unloosed it from the halter, and gave the animal to his companion, who went off with it, after which he put the halter over his own head, and allowed the rustic to drag him for some little distance, until he with the ass was fairly out of sight, when he suddenly stopped, and the man having tugged at the halter several times without effect, looked round, and, amazed to see a human being in place of his beast, exclaimed, "Who art thou?" The sharper answered, "I was thy ass; but hear my story, for it is wonderful. I had a good and pious mother, and one day I came home intoxicated. Grieved to see me in such a state, she gently reproved me, but I, instead of being penetrated with remorse, beat her with a stick, whereupon she prayed to Allah, and, in answer to her supplication, lo! I was transformed into an ass. In that shape I have continued until this day, when my mother, as it appears, has interceded for my restoration to human form, as before." The simpleton, believing every word of this strange story, raised his eyes to heaven, saying, "Of a truth there is no power but from Allah! But, pray, forgive me for having used thee as I have done." The sharper readily granted his forgiveness, and went off to rejoin his companion and dispose of the ass; while the simpleton returned home, and showing his wife the bridle, told her of the marvellous transformation which had occurred. His wife, in hopes of propitiating Heaven, gave alms and offered up many prayers to avert evil from them, on account of their having used a human being as an ass. At length the simpleton, having remained idle at home for some time, went one day to the market to purchase another ass, and on entering the place where all the animals were fastened, he saw with astonishment his old ass offered for sale. Putting his mouth to its ear, he whispered, "Woe to thee, unlucky! Doubtless thou hast again been intoxicated; but, by Allah, I will never buy thee!" Another noodle-story, of a different class, in the _Arabian Nights_, may be here cited in full from Sir R.F. Burton's translation of that delightful work, privately printed for the subscribers, and it will serve, moreover, as a fair specimen of the admirable manner in which that ripe scholar has represented in English the quaint style of his original: [Quoth one of the learned,] I passed once by a school wherein a schoolmaster was teaching children; so I entered, finding him a good-looking man, and a well-dressed, when he rose to me and made me sit with him. Then I examined him in the Koran, and in syntax and prosody, and lexicography; and behold, he was perfect in all required of him; and I said to him, "Allah strengthen thy purpose! Thou art indeed versed in all that is requisite." Thereafter I frequented him a while, discovering daily some new excellence in him, and quoth I to myself, "This is indeed a wonder in any dominie; for the wise are agreed upon a lack of wit in children's teachers."[1] Then I separated myself from him, and sought him and visited him only every few days, till coming to see him one day, as of wont, I found the school shut, and made inquiry of his neighbours, who replied, "Some one is dead in his house." So I said in my mind, "It behoveth me to pay him a visit of condolence," and going to his house, knocked at the door, when a slave-girl came out to me and asked, "What dost thou want?" and I answered, "I want thy master." She replied, "He is sitting alone mourning;" and I rejoined, "Tell him that his friend So-and-so seeketh to console him." She went in and told him; and he said, "Admit him." So she brought me in to him, and I found him seated alone, and his head bound with mourning fillets. So I said to him, "Allah requite thee amply! This is a path all must perforce tread, and it behoveth thee to take patience," adding, "but who is dead unto thee?" He answered, "One who was dearest of the folk to me, and best beloved." "Perhaps thy father?" "No." "Thy brother?" "No." "One of thy kindred?" "No." Then asked I, "What relation was the dead to thee?" and he answered, "My lover." Quoth I to myself, "This is the first proof to swear by of his lack of wit." So I said to him, "Assuredly there be others than she, and fairer;" and he made answer, "I never saw her that I might judge whether or no there be others fairer than she." Quoth I to myself, "This is another proof positive." Then I said to him, "And how couldst thou fall in love with one thou hast never seen?" He replied, "Know that I was sitting one day at the window, when, lo! there passed by a man, singing the following distich: "'Umm Amr', thy boons Allah repay! Give back my heart, be't where it may!'" The schoolmaster continued, "When I heard the man humming these words as he passed along the street, I said to myself, 'Except this Umm Amru were without equal in the world, the poets had not celebrated her in ode and canzon.' So I fell in love with her; but two days after, the same man passed, singing the following couplet: "'Ass and Umm Amr' went their way, Nor she nor ass returned for aye.' Thereupon I knew that she was dead, and mourned for her. This was three days ago, and I have been mourning ever since." So I left him and fared forth, having assured myself of the weakness of the gerund-grinder's wit[2]. Here, surely, was the very Father of Folly, but what shall we say of judges and magistrates being sometimes (represented as) equally witless? Thus we are told, among the cases decided by a Turkish Kází, that two men came before him one of whom complained that the other had almost bit his ear off. The accused denied this, and declared that the fellow had bit his own ear. After pondering the matter for some time, the judge told them to come again two hours later. Then he went into his private room, and attempted to bring his ear and his mouth together; but all he did was to fall backwards and break his head. Wrapping a cloth round his head, he returned to court, and the two men coming in again presently, he thus decided the question: "No man can bite his own ear, but in trying to do so he may fall down and break his head." A Sinhalese story, which is also well known in various forms in India, furnishes a still more remarkable example of forensic sagacity. It is thus related by the able editor of _The Orientalist_, vol. i., p. 191: One night some thieves broke into the house of a rich man, and carried away all his valuables. The man complained to the justice of the peace, who had the robbers captured, and when brought before him, inquired of them whether they had anything to say in their defence. "Sir," said they, "we are not to blame in this matter; the robbery was entirely due to the mason who built the house; for the walls were so badly made, and gave way so easily, that we were quite unable to resist the temptation of breaking in." Orders were then given to bring the mason to the court-house. On his arrival he was informed of the charge brought against him. "Ah," said he, "the fault is not mine, but that of the coolie, who made mortar badly." When the coolie was brought, he laid the blame on the potter, who, he said, had sold him a cracked chattie, in which he could not carry sufficient water to mix the mortar properly. Then the potter was brought before the judge, and he explained that the blame should not be laid upon him, but upon a very pretty woman, who, in a beautiful dress, was passing at the time he was making the chattie, and had so riveted his attention, that he forgot all about the work. When the woman appeared, she protested that the fault was not hers, for she would not have been in that neighbourhood at all had the goldsmith sent home her earrings at the proper time; the charge, she argued, should properly be brought against him. The goldsmith was brought, and as he was unable to offer any reasonable excuse, he was condemned to be hanged. Those in the court, however, begged the judge to spare the goldsmith's life; "for," said they, "he is very sick and ill-favoured, and would not make at all a pretty spectacle." "But," said the judge, "somebody must be hanged." Then they drew the attention of the court to the fact that there was a fat Moorman in a shop opposite, who was a much fitter subject for an execution, and asked that he might be hanged in the goldsmith's stead. The learned judge, considering that this arrangement would be very satisfactory, gave judgment accordingly. If some of the last-cited stories are not precisely Gothamite drolleries, though all are droll enough in their way, there can be no doubt whatever that we have a Sinhalese brother to the men of Gotham in the following: A villager in Ceylon, whose calf had got its head into a pot and could not get it out again, sent for a friend, celebrated for his wisdom, to release the poor animal. The sagacious friend, taking in the situation at a glance, cut off the calf's head, broke the pot, and then delivered the head to the owner of the calf, saying, "What will you do when I am dead and gone?"--And we have another Gothamite in the Kashmírí who bought as much rice as he thought would suffice for a year's food, and finding he had only enough for eleven months, concluded it was better to fast the other month right off, which he did accordingly; but he died just before the month was completed, leaving eleven months' rice in his house. * * * * * The typical noodle of the Turks, the Khoja Nasru-'d-Dín, is said to have been a subject of the independent prince of Karaman, at whose capital, Konya, he resided, and he is represented as a contemporary of Timúr (Tamerlane), in the middle of the fourteenth century. The pleasantries which are ascribed to him are for the most part common to all countries, but some are probably of genuine Turkish origin. To cite a few specimens: The Khoja's wife said to him one day, "Make me a present of a kerchief of red Yemen silk, to put on my head." The Khoja stretched out his arms and said, "Like that? Is that large enough?" On her replying in the affirmative he ran off to the bazaar, with his arms still stretched out, and meeting a man on the road, he bawled to him, "Look where you are going, O man, or you will cause me to lose my measure!" Another day the Khoja's wife washed his caftan and spread it upon a tree in the garden of the house. That night the Khoja goes out, and thinks he sees in the moonlight a man motionless upon a tree in the garden. "Give me my bow and arrows," said he to his wife, and having received them, he shot the caftan, piercing it through and through, and then returned into the house. Next morning, when he discovered that it was his own caftan he had shot at, he exclaimed, "By Allah, had I happened to be in it, I should have killed myself!" The Ettrick Shepherd's well-known story of the two Highlanders and the wild boar has its exact parallel in the Turkish jest-book, as follows: One day the Khoja went with his friend Sheragh Ahmed to the den of a wolf, in order to take the cubs. Said the Khoja to Ahmed, "Do you go in, and I will watch without;" and Ahmed went in, to take the cubs in the absence of the old wolf. But she came back presently, and had got half-way into her den when the Khoja seized hold of her tail. The wolf in her struggles cast up a great dust into the eyes of Ahmed, who called out to the Khoja, "Hallo! what does all this dust mean?" The Khoja replied, "If the wolf's tail breaks, you will soon know what the dust means!" Several of the jests closely resemble "Joe Millers" told of Irishmen, such as this: It happened one night, after the Khoja and a guest had lain down to sleep, that the taper went out. "O Khoja Effendi," said the guest, "the taper is gone out. But there is a taper at your right side. Pray bring it and let us light it." Quoth the Khoja, "You must surely be a fool to think that I should know my right hand in the dark." And this: A thief having stolen a piece of salted cheese from the Khoja, he ran immediately and seated himself on the border of a fountain. Said the people to him, "O Khoja, what have you come here to look for in such a hurry?" The Khoja replied, "The thief will certainly come here to drink as soon as he has eaten my salted cheese; I always do so myself." And here is one of the Gothamite class: One evening the Khoja went to the well to draw water, and seeing the moon reflected in the water, he exclaimed, "The moon has fallen into the well; I must pull it out." So he let down the rope and hook, and the hook became fastened to a stone, whereupon he exerted all his strength, and the rope broke, and he fell upon his back. Looking into the sky, he saw the moon, and cried out joyfully, "Praise be to Allah! I am sorely bruised, but the moon has got into its place again." There is a well-worn jest of an Irishman who, being observed by a friend to look exceedingly blank and perplexed, was asked what ailed him. He replied that he had had a dream. "Was it a good or a bad dream?" "Faith," said he, "it was a little of both; but I'll tell ye. I dreamt that I was with the Pope, who was the finest gentleman in the whole district; and after we had conversed a while, his Holiness axed me, Would I drink? Thinks I to myself, 'Would a duck swim?' So, seeing the whisky and the lemons and the sugar on the side-board, I said, I didn't mind if I took a drop of punch. 'Cold or hot?' says his Holiness. 'Hot, your Holiness,' says I. So on that he steps down to the kitchen for the boiling water, but, bedad, before he came back, I woke straight up; and now it's distressing me that I didn't take it cold!" We have somewhat of a parallel to this in a Turkish jest: The Khoja dreamt that some one gave him nine pieces of money, but he was not content, and said, "Make it ten." Then he awoke and found his hands empty. Instantly closing his eyes again, and holding out his hand, he said, "I repent; give me the nine pieces[3]." But the Chinese relate the very counterpart of our Irishman's story. A confirmed drunkard dreamt that he had been presented with a cup of excellent wine, and set it by the fire to warm[4], that he should better enjoy the flavour of it; but just as he was about to drink off the delicious draught he awoke. "Fool that I am," he cried, "why was I not content to drink it cold?"[5] * * * * * The Chinese seem to have as keen a sense of humour as any other people. They tell a story, for instance, of a lady who had been recently married, and on the third day saw her husband returning home, so she slipped quietly behind him and gave him a hearty kiss. The husband was annoyed, and said she offended all propriety. "Pardon! pardon!" said she. "I did not know it was you." Thus the excuse may sometimes be worse than the offence. There is exquisite humour in the following noodle-story: Two brothers were tilling the ground together. The elder, having prepared dinner, called his brother, who replied in a loud voice, "Wait till I have hidden my spade, and I shall at once be with you." When he joined his elder brother, the latter mildly reproached him, saying, "When one hides anything, one should keep silence, or at least should not cry aloud about it, for it lays one open to be robbed." Dinner over, the younger went back to the field, and looked for his spade, but could not find it; so he ran to his brother and _whispered_ mysteriously in his ear, "My spade is stolen!"--The passion for collecting antique relics is thus ridiculed: A man who was fond of old curiosities, though he knew not the true from the false, expended all his wealth in purchasing mere imitations of the lightning-stick of Tchew-Koung, a glazed cup of the time of the Emperor Cheun, and the mat of Confucius; and being reduced to beggary, he carried these spurious relics about with him, and said to the people in the streets, "Sirs, I pray you, give me some coins struck by Taï-Koung." * * * * * Indian fiction abounds in stories of simpletons, and probably the oldest extant drolleries of the Gothamite type are found in the _Játakas_, or Buddhist Birth-stories. Assuredly they were own brothers to our mad men of Gotham, the Indian villagers who, being pestered by mosquitoes when at work in the forest, bravely resolved, according to _Játaka_ 44, to take their bows and arrows and other weapons and make war upon the troublesome insects until they had shot dead or cut in pieces every one; but in trying to shoot the mosquitoes they only shot, struck, and injured one another. And nothing more foolish is recorded of the Schildburgers than Somadeva relates, in his _Kathá Sarit Ságara_, of the simpletons who cut down the palm-trees: Being required to furnish the king with a certain quantity of dates, and perceiving that it was very easy to gather the dates of a palm which had fallen down of itself, they set to work and cut down all the date-palms in their village, and having gathered from them their whole crop of dates, they raised them up and planted them again, thinking they would grow. In illustration of the apothegm that "fools who attend only to the words of an order, and do not understand the meaning, cause much detriment," is the story of the servants who kept the rain off the trunks: The camel of a merchant gave way under its load on a journey. He said to his servants, "I will go and buy another camel to carry the half of this camel's load. And you must remain here, and take particular care that if it clouds over the rain does not wet the leather of these trunks, which are full of clothes." With these words the merchant left the servants by the side of the camel and went off, and suddenly a cloud came up and began to discharge rain. Then the fools said, "Our master told us to take care that the rain did not touch the leather of the trunks;" and after they had made this sage reflection they dragged the clothes out of the trunks and wrapped them round the leather. The consequence was that the rain spoiled the clothes. Then the merchant returned, and in a rage said to his servants, "You rascals! Talk of water! Why, the whole stock of clothes is spoiled by the rain!" And they answered him, "You told us to keep the rain off the leather of the trunks. What fault have we committed?" He answered, "I told you that if the leather got wet the clothes would be spoiled. I told you so in order to save the clothes, not the leather." The story of the servant who looked after the door is a farther illustration of the same maxim. A merchant said to his foolish servant, "Take care of the door of my shop; I am going home for a short time." After his master was gone, the fool took the shop-door on his shoulder and went off to see an actor perform. As he was returning his master met him, and gave him a scolding, and he answered, "I have taken care of this door, as you told me." This jest had found its way into Europe three centuries ago. It is related of Giufa, the typical Sicilian booby, and probably came to England from Italy. This is how it is told in the _Sacke Full of Newes_, a jest-book originally printed in the sixteenth century: "In the countrey dwelt a Gentlewoman who had a French man dwelling with her, and he did ever use to go to Church with her; and upon a time he and his mistresse were going to church, and she bad him pull the doore after him and follow her to the church; and so he took the doore betweene his armes, and lifted it from the hooks, and followed his mistresse with it. But when she looked behinde her and saw him bring the doore upon his back, 'Why, thou foolish knave,' qd she, 'what wilt thou do with the door?' 'Marry, mistresse,' qd he, 'you bad me pull the doore after me.' 'Why, fool,' qd she, 'I did command thee that thou shouldest make fast the doore after thee, and not bring it upon thy back after me.' But after this there was much good sport and laughing at his simplicity and foolishnesse therein." In the capacity of a merchant the simpleton does very wonderful things, and plumes himself on his sagacity, as we have already seen in the case of the Arab and his cow. And here are a brace of similar stories: A foolish man once went to the island of Katáha to trade, and among his wares was a quantity of fragrant aloes-wood. After he had sold his other goods, he could not find any one to take the aloes-wood off his hands, for the people who live there are not acquainted with that article of commerce. Then seeing people buying charcoal from the woodmen, he burnt his stock of aloes-wood and reduced it to charcoal. He sold it for the price which charcoal usually fetched, and returning home, boasted of his cleverness, and became the laughing-stock of everybody.--Another blockhead went to the market to sell cotton, but no one would buy it from him, because it was not properly cleaned. In the meanwhile he saw in the bazaar a goldsmith selling gold which he had purified by heating it, and he saw it taken by a customer. Seeing that, he threw his cotton into the fire in order to purify it, and it was all burned to ashes. There must be few who have not heard of the Irishman who was hired by a Yarmouth maltster to help in loading a ship. As the vessel was about to sail, the Irishman cried out from the quay, "Captain, I lost your shovel overboard, but I cut a big notch on the rail-fence, round the stern, just where it went down, so you will find it when you come back."--A similar story is told of an Indian simpleton. He was sailing in a ship when he let a silver cup fall from his hand into the water. Having taken notes of the spot by observing the eddies and other signs in the water, he said to himself, "I will bring it up from the bottom when I return." As he was recrossing the sea, he saw the eddies and other signs, and thinking he recognised the spot, he plunged into the water again and again, to recover his cup, but he only got well laughed at for his pains. We have an amusing commentary on the maxim that "distress is sure to come from being in the company of fools" in the following, from the Canarese story-book entitled _Kathé Manjari_: A foolish fellow travelled with a shopkeeper. When it became dark, the fool lay down in the road to sleep, but the shopkeeper took shelter in a hollow tree. Presently some thieves came along the road, and one struck his feet against the fool's legs, upon which he exclaimed to his companions, "What is this? Is it a piece of wood?" The fool was angry, and said, "Go away! go away! Is there a knot, well tied, containing five annas, in the loins of a plank in your house?" The thieves then seized him, and took away his annas. As they were moving off, they asked if the money was good or bad, to which the noodle replied, "Ha! ha! is it of my money you speak in that way, and want to know whether it is good or bad? Look-- there is a shopkeeper in that tree," pointing with his finger--"show it to him." Then the thieves went up to the shopkeeper and robbed him of two hundred pagodas. In our next story, of the villagers who ate the buffalo, is exemplified the fact that "fools, in the conceit of their folly, while they deny what need not be denied, reveal what it is their interest to suppress, in order to get themselves believed." Some villagers took a buffalo belonging to a certain man, and killed it in an enclosure outside the village, under a banyan tree, and dividing the flesh, ate it up. The owner of the buffalo went and complained to the king, and he had the villagers who had eaten the animal brought before him. The proprietor of the buffalo said before the king, in their presence, "These men took my buffalo under a banyan tree near the tank, and killed and ate it before my eyes," whereupon an old fool among the villagers said, "There is no tank or banyan tree in our village. He says what is not true; where did we kill his buffalo or eat it?" When the man heard this, he replied, "What! are there not a banyan tree and a tank on the east side of the village? Moreover, you ate my buffalo on the eighth day of the lunar month." The old fool then said, "There is no east side or eighth day in our village." On hearing this, the king laughed, and said, to encourage the fool, "You are a truthful person; you never say anything false; so tell me the truth: did you eat that buffalo, or did you not?" The old fool answered, "I was born three years after my father died, and he taught me skill in speaking. So I never say what is untrue, my king. It is true that we ate his buffalo, but all the rest that he alleges is false." When the king heard this, he and his courtiers could not restrain their laughter; but he restored the price of the buffalo to the man, and fined the villagers. But sometimes even kings have been arrant noodles, and their credulity quite as amusing--or amazing--as that of their subjects. Once on a time there was a king who had a handsome daughter, and he summoned his physicians, and said to them, "Make some preparation of salutary drugs, which will cause my daughter to grow up quickly, so that she may be married to a good husband." The physicians, wishing to get a living out of this royal fool, replied, "There is a medicine which will do this, but it can only be procured in a distant country; and while we are sending for it, we must shut up your daughter in concealment, for this is the treatment laid down in such cases." The king having consented, they placed his daughter in concealment for several years, pretending that they were engaged in procuring the medicine; and when she was grown up, they presented her to the king, saying that she had been made to grow by the preparation; so the king was highly pleased, and gave them much wealth. Between an Indian rájá and an Indian dhobie, or washerman, there is the greatest possible difference socially, but individually--when both are noodles--there may be sometimes very little to choose; indeed, of the two, all things considered, the difference, if any, is perhaps in favour of the humble cleanser of body-clothes. A favourite story in various parts of India, near akin to that last cited, is of a poor washerman and his young ass. This simpleton one day, passing a school kept by a mullah, or Muhammedan doctor of laws, heard him scolding his pupils, exclaiming that they were still asses, although he had done so much to make them men. The washerman thought that here was a rare chance, for he happened to have the foal of the ass that carried his bundles of clothes, which, since he had no child, he should get the learned mullah to change into a boy. Thus thinking, he goes next day to the mullah, and asks him to admit his foal into his school, in order that it should be changed into the human form and nature. The preceptor, seeing the poor fellow's simplicity, answered that the task was very laborious, and he must have a fee of a hundred rupís. So the washerman went home, and soon returned leading his foal, which, with the money, he handed over to the teacher, who told him to come again on such a day and hour, when he should find that the change he desired had been effected. But the washerman was so impatient that he went to the teacher several times before the day appointed, and was informed that the foal was beginning to learn manners, that its ears were already become very much shorter, and, in short, that it was making satisfactory progress. It happened, when the day came on which he was to receive his young ass transformed into a fine, well-educated boy, the simpleton was kept busy with his customers' clothes, but on the day following he found time to go to the teacher, who told him it was most unfortunate he had not come at the appointed hour, since the youth had quitted the school yesterday, refusing to submit any longer to authority; but the teacher had just learned that he had been made kází (or judge) in Cawnpore. At first the washerman was disposed to be angry, but reflecting that, after all, the business was better even than he anticipated, he thanked the preceptor for all his care and trouble, and returned home. Having informed his wife of his good luck, they resolved to visit their quondam young foal, and get him to make them some allowance out of his now ample means. So, shutting up their house, they travelled to Cawnpore, which they reached in safety. Being directed to the kází's court, the washerman, leaving his wife outside, entered, and discovered the kází seated in great dignity, and before him were the pleaders, litigants, and officers of the court. He had brought a bridle in one hand and a wisp of hay in the other; but being unable, on account of the crowd, to approach the kází, he got tired of waiting, so, holding up the bridle and the hay, he cried out, "Khoor! khoor! khoor!" as he used to do in calling his donkeys, thinking this would induce the kází to come to him. But, instead of this, he was seized by the kází's order and locked up for creating a disturbance. When the business of the court was over, the kází, pitying the supposed madman, sent for him to learn the reason of his strange behaviour, and in answer to his inquiries the simpleton said, "You don't seem to know me, sir, nor recognise this bridle, which has been in your mouth so often. You appear to forget that you are the foal of one of my asses, that I got changed into a man, for the fee of a hundred rupis, by a learned mullah who transforms asses into educated men. You forget what you were, and, I suppose, will be as little submissive to me as you were to the mullah when you ran away from him." All present were convulsed with laughter: such a "case" was never heard of before. But the kází, seeing how the mullah had taken advantage of the poor fellow's simplicity, gave him a present of a hundred rupis, besides sufficient for the expenses of his journey home, and so dismissed him. A party of rogues once found as great a blockhead in a rich Indian herdsman, to whom they said, "We have asked the daughter of a wealthy inhabitant of the town in marriage for you, and her father has promised to give her." He was much pleased to hear this, and gave them an ample reward for their trouble. After a few days they came again and told him that his marriage had taken place. Again he gave them rich presents for their good news. Some more days having passed, they said to him, "A son has been born to you," at which he was in ecstacies and gave them all his remaining wealth; but the next day, when he began to lament, saying, "I am longing to see my son," the people laughed at him on account of his having been cheated by the rogues, as if he had acquired the stupidity of cattle from having so much to do with them. It is not generally known that the incident which forms the subject of the droll Scotch song "The Barring of the Door," which also occurs in the _Nights_ of Straparola, is of Eastern origin. In an Arabian tale, a blockhead, having married his pretty cousin, gave the customary feast to their relations and friends. When the festivities were over, he conducted his guests to the door, and from absence of mind neglected to shut it before returning to his wife. "Dear cousin," said his wife to him when they were alone, "go and shut the street door." "It would be strange indeed," he replied, "if I did such a thing. Am I just made a bridegroom, clothed in silk, wearing a shawl and a dagger set with diamonds, and am I to go and shut the door? Why, my dear, you are crazy. Go and shut it yourself." "Oh, indeed!" exclaimed the wife. "Am I, young, robed in a dress, with lace and precious stones--am I to go and shut the street door? No, indeed! It is you who are become crazy, and not I. Come, let us make a bargain," she continued; "and let the first who speaks go and fasten the door." "Agreed," said the husband, and immediately he became mute, and the wife too was silent, while they both sat down, dressed as they were in their nuptial attire, looking at each other and seated on opposite sofas. Thus they remained for two hours. Some thieves happened to pass by, and seeing the door open, entered and laid hold of whatever came to their hands. The silent couple heard footsteps in the house, but opened not their mouths. The thieves came into the room and saw them seated motionless and apparently indifferent to all that might take place. They continued their pillage, therefore, collecting together everything valuable, and even dragging away the carpets from beneath them; they laid hands on the noodle and his wife, taking from their persons every article of jewellery, while they, in fear of losing the wager, said not a word. Having thus cleared the house, the thieves departed quietly, but the pair continued to sit, uttering not a syllable. Towards morning a police officer came past on his tour of inspection, and seeing the door open, walked in. After searching all the rooms and finding no person, he entered their apartment, and inquired the meaning of what he saw. Neither of them would condescend to reply. The officer became angry, and ordered their heads to be cut off. The executioner's sword was about to perform its office, when the wife cried out, "Sir, he is my husband. Do not kill him!" "Oh, oh," exclaimed the husband, overjoyed and clapping his hands, "you have lost the wager; go and shut the door." He then explained the whole affair to the police officer, who shrugged his shoulders and went away.[6] A party of noodles are substituted for the husband and wife in a Turkish version of the tale, in the _History of the Forty Vazirs. _ Some bang-eaters,[7] while out walking, found a sequin. They said, "Let us go to a cook, and buy food and eat." So they went and entered a cook's shop and said, "Master, give us a sequin's worth of food." The cook prepared all kinds of food, and loaded a porter with it; and the bang-eaters took him without the city, where there was a ruined tomb, which they entered and sat down in, and the porter deposited the food and went away. The bang-eaters began to partake of the food, when suddenly one of them said, "The door is open; do one of you shut it, else some other bang-eaters will come in and annoy us: even though they be friends, they will do the deeds of foes." One of them replied, "Go thou and shut the door," and they fell a-quarrelling. At length one said, "Come, let us agree that whichever of us speaks or laughs shall rise and fasten the door." They all agreed to this proposal, and left the food and sat quite still. Suddenly a great number of dogs came in; not one of the bang-eaters stirred or spoke, for if one spoke he would have to rise and shut the door, so they spoke not. The dogs made an end of the food, and ate it all up. Just then another dog leapt in from without, but no food remained. Now one of the bang-eaters had partaken of everything, and some of the food remained about his mouth and on his beard. That newly come dog licked up the particles of food that were on the bang-eater's breast, and while he was licking up those about his mouth, he took his lip for a piece of meat and bit it. The bang-eater did not stir, for he said within himself, "They will tell me to shut the door." But to ease his soul he cried, "Ough!" inwardly cursing the dog. When the other bang-eaters heard him make that noise, they said, "Rise, fasten the door." He replied, "After loss, attention! Now that the food is gone, and my lip is wounded, what is the use of shutting that door?" and crying, "Woe! alas!" they each went in a different direction.[8] A similar story is known in Kashmir: Five friends chanced to meet, and all having leisure, they decided to go to the bazaar and purchase a sheep's head, and have a great feast in the house of one of the party, each of whom subscribed four annas. The head was bought, but while they were returning to the house it was remembered that there was not any butter. On this one of the five proposed that the first of them that should break silence by speaking should go for the butter. Now it was no light matter to have to retrace one's steps back to the butter-shop, as the way was long and the day was very hot. So they all five kept strict silence. Pots were cleaned, the fire was prepared, and the head laid thereon. Now and then one would cough, and another would groan, but never a tongue uttered a word, though the fire was fast going out, and the head was getting burnt, owing to there being no fat or butter wherewith to grease the pot. Thus matters were when a policeman passed by, and, attracted by the smell of cooking, looked in at the window, and saw these five men perfectly silent and sitting around a burnt sheep's head. Not knowing the arrangement, he supposed that these men were either mad or were thieves, and so he inquired how they came there, and how they obtained the head. Not a word was uttered in reply. "Why are you squatting there in that stupid fashion?" shouted the policeman. Still no reply. Then the policeman, full of rage that these wretched men should thus mock at his authority, took them all off straight to the police inspectors office. On arrival the inspector asked them the reason of their strange behaviour, but he also got no reply. This rather tried the patience and temper of the man of authority, who was generally feared, and flattered, and bribed. So he ordered one of the five to be immediately flogged. The poor fool bore it bravely, and uttered never a sound; but when the blows repeatedly fell on the same wounded parts, he could endure no longer, and cried out, "Oh! oh! Why do you beat me? Enough, enough! Is it not enough that the sheep's head has been spoiled?" His four associates now cried out, "Go to the bazaar and fetch the butter."[9] There is quite as droll a version current among the people of Ceylon, to the following effect: A gentleman once had in his employment twenty-five idiots. In the old times it was customary with Sinhalese high families not to allow their servants to eat from plates, but every day they were supplied with plantain leaves, from which they took their food. After eating, they were accustomed to shape the leaf into the form of a cup and drink out of it. Now in this gentleman's house the duty of providing the leaves devolved upon the twenty-five idiots, who were scarcely fit for any other work. One day, when they had gone into the garden to cut the leaves, they spoke among themselves and said, "Why should we, every one of us, trouble ourselves to fetch plantain leaves, when one only could very easily do it? Let us therefore lie down on the ground and sleep like dead men, and let him who first utters a sound or opens his eyes undertake the work." It was no sooner said than done. The men lay in a heap like so many logs. At breakfast-time that day the hungry servants went to the kitchen for their rice, only to be disappointed. No leaves were forthcoming on which to distribute the food, and a complaint was made to the master that the twenty-five idiots had not returned to the house since they went out in the morning. Search was at once made, and they were found fast asleep in the garden. After vainly endeavouring to rouse them, the master concluded that they were dead, and ordered his servants to dig a deep hole and bury them. A grave was then dug, and the idiots were, one by one, thrown into it, but still there was no noise or motion on their part. At length, when they were all put into the grave, and were being covered up, a tool employed by one of the servants hit sharply by accident against the leg of one of the idiots, who then involuntarily moaned. Thereupon all the others exclaimed, "You were the first to utter a sound; therefore from henceforth you must take upon yourself the duty of providing the plantain leaves."[10] It has already been remarked that a literary Italian version of the Silent Couple is found in the _Nights_ of Straparola, but there are other variants orally current among the common people in different parts of Italy. This is one from Venice: There were once a husband and a wife. The former said one day to the latter, "Let us have some fritters." She replied, "What shall we do for a frying-pan?" "Go and borrow one from my godmother." "You go and get it; it is only a little way off." "Go yourself, and I will take it back when we are done with it." So she went and borrowed the pan, and when she returned said to her husband, "Here is the pan, but you must carry it back." So they cooked the fritters, and after they had eaten, the husband said, "Now let us go to work, both of us, and the one who speaks first shall carry back the pan." Then she began to spin, and he to draw his thread--for he was a shoemaker--and all the time keeping silence, except that when he drew his thread he said, "Leulerò! leulerò!" and she, spinning, answered, "Picicì! picicì! piciciò!" And they said not another word. Now there happened to pass that way a soldier with a horse, and he asked a woman if there was any shoemaker in that street. She said there was one near by, and took him to the house. The, soldier asked the shoemaker to come and cut his horse a girth, and he would pay him. The latter made no answer but "Leulerò! leulerò!" and his wife "Picicì! picicì! piciciò!" Then the soldier said, "Come and cut my horse a girth, or I will cut your head off." The shoemaker only answered, "Leulerò! leulerò!" and his wife "Picicì! picicì! piciciò!" Then the soldier began to grow angry, and seized his sword, and said to the shoemaker, "Either come and cut my horse a girth, or I will cut your head off." But to no purpose. The shoemaker did not wish to be the first one to speak, and only replied, "Leulerò! leulerò!" and his wife "Picicì! picicì! piciciò!" Then the soldier got mad in good earnest, seized the shoemaker's head, and was going to cut it off. When his wile saw that, she cried out, "Ah, don't, for mercy's sake!" "Good!" exclaimed her husband, "good! Now you go and carry the pan back to my godmother, and I will go and cut the horse's girth." In a Sicilian version the man and wife fry some fish, and then set about their respective work--shoemaking and spinning--and the one who finishes first the piece of work begun is to eat the fish. While they are singing and whistling at their work, a friend comes along, who knocks at the door, but receives no answer. Then he enters and speaks to them, but still no reply. Finally, in anger, he sits down at the table, and eats up all the fish himself.[11] Thus, it will be observed, the droll incident which forms the subject of the old Scotch song of "The Barring of the Door" is of world-wide celebrity. * * * * * Gothamite stories appear to have been familiar throughout Europe during the later Middle Ages, if we may judge from a chapter of the _Gesta Romanorum_ in which the monkish compiler has curiously "moralised" the actions of three noodles: We read in the "Lives of the Fathers" that an angel showed to a certain holy man three men labouring under a triple fatuity. The first made a faggot of wood, and because it was too heavy for him to carry, he added to it more wood, hoping by such means to make it light. The second drew water with great labour from a very deep well with a sieve, which he incessantly filled. The third carried a beam in his chariot, and, wishing to enter his house, whereof the gate was so narrow and low that it would not admit him, he violently whipped his horse until they both fell together into a deep well. Having shown this to the holy man, the angel said, "What think you of these three men?" "That they are fools," answered he. "Understand, however," returned the angel, "that they represent the sinners of this world. The first describes that kind of men who from day to day do add new sins to the old, because they cannot bear the weight of those which they already have. The second man represents those who do good, but do it sinfully, and therefore it is of no benefit. And the third person is he who would enter the kingdom of heaven with all his world of vanities, but is cast down into hell." * * * * * And now a few more Indian and other stories of the Gothamite class to conclude the present section. In Málava there were two Bráhman brothers, and the wealth inherited from their father was left jointly between them. And while they were dividing that wealth they quarrelled about one having too little and one having too much, and they made a teacher learned in the Vedas arbitrator, and he said to them, "You must divide everything your father left into two halves, so that you may not quarrel about the inequality of the division." When the two fools heard this, they divided every single thing into two equal parts--house, beds, in fact, all their property, including their cattle. Henry Stephens (Henri Estienne), in the Introduction to his Apology for Herodotus,[12] relates some very amusing noodle-stories, such as of him who, burning his shins before the fire, and not having wit enough to go back from it, sent for masons to remove the chimney; of the fool who ate the doctor's prescription, because he was told to "take it;" of another wittol who, having seen one spit upon iron to try whether it was hot, did likewise with his porridge; and, best of all, he tells of a fellow who was hit on the back with a stone as he rode upon his mule, and cursed the animal for kicking him. This last exquisite jest has its analogue in that of the Irishman who was riding on an ass one fine day, when the beast, by kicking at the flies that annoyed him, got one of its hind feet entangled in the stirrup, whereupon the rider dismounted, saying, "Faith, if you're going to get up, it's time I was getting down." The poet Ovid alludes to the story of Ino persuading the women of the country to roast the wheat before it was sown, which may have come to India through the Greeks, since we are told in the _Kathá Sarit Ságara_ of a foolish villager who one day roasted some sesame seeds, and finding them nice to eat, he sowed a large quantity of roasted seeds, hoping that similar ones would come up. The story also occurs in Coelho's _Contes Portuguezes_, and is probably of Buddhistic origin. And an analogous story is told of an Irishman who gave his hens hot water, in order that they should lay boiled eggs! FOOTNOTES: [1] This notion, that schoolmasters "lack wit," however absurd, seems to have been entertained from ancient times, and to be still prevalent in the East; the so-called jests of Hierokles are all at the expense of pedants; and the Turkish typical noodle is Khoja _(i.e.,_ Teacher) Nasru-'d-Dín, some of whose "witless devices" shall be cited presently. [2] _Elf Laylawa Layla_, or, The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night. Translated, with Introduction, Notes on the Manners and Customs of Moslem Men, and a Terminal Essay on the History of _The Nights_, by R.F. Burton. Vol. v. [3] The Khoja, however, was not such a fool as we might conclude from the foregoing examples of his sayings and doings; for, being asked one day what musical instrument he liked best, he answered, "I am very fond of the music of plates and saucepans." [4] In China wine is almost invariably taken hot, according to Davis, in his work on the Chinese. [5] This and the following specimens of Chinese stories of simpletons are from "Contes et Bon Mots extraits d'un livre chinois intitule _Siao li Siao_, traduit par M. Stanislas Julien," (_Journal Asiatique_, tom. iv., 1824). [6] In another Arabian version, the man desires his wife to moisten some stale bread she has set before him for supper, and she refuses. After an altercation it is agreed that the one who speaks first shall get up and moisten the bread. A neighbour comes in, and, to his surprise, finds the couple dumb; he kisses the wife, but the man says nothing; he gives the man a blow, but still he says nothing; he has the man taken before the kází, but even yet he says nothing; the kází orders him to be hanged, and he is led off to execution, when the wife rushes up and cries out, "Oh, save my poor husband!" "You wretch," says the man, "go home and moisten the bread!" [7] Bang is a preparation of hemp and coarse opium. [8] From Mr. E.J.W. Gibb's translation of the _Forty Vazirs_ (London: 1886). [9] Knowles' _Dictionary of Kashmírí Proverbs and Sayings_, pp. 197-8. The article bought by the five men is called a _hir_, which Mr. Knowles says "is the head of any animal used for food," and a _sheep's_ head were surely fitting food for such noodles. Mr. Knowles makes it appear that the whole affair of keeping silence was a mere jest, but we have before seen that it is decidedly meant for a noodle-story. [10] _The Orientalist_, 1884, p. 136. [11] Crane's _Italian Popular Tales_, pp. 284-5. [12] A separate work from the _Apologie pour Herodote_ Such was the exasperation of the French clerics at the bitter truths set forth in it, that the author had to flee the country. An English translation, entitled "_A World of Wonders;_ or, an introduction to a Treatise tovching the Conformitie of Ancient and Modern Wonders; or, a Preparative Treatise to the 'Apologie for Herodotus,'" etc., was published at London in 1607, folio, and at Edinburgh 1608, also folio. The _Apologie pour Herodote_ was printed at the Hague. CHAPTER V. THE SILLY SON. Among the favourite jests of all peoples, from Iceland to Japan, from India to England, are the droll adventures and mishaps of the silly son, who contrives to muddle everything he is set to do. In vain does his poor mother try to direct him in "the way he should go": she gets him a wife, as a last resource; but a fool he is still, and a fool he will always be. His blunders and disasters are chronicled in penny chap-books and in nursery rhymes, of infinite variety. Who has not heard how Simple Simon went a-fishing For to catch a whale, But all the water he had got Was in his mother's pail? an adventure which recalls another nursery rhyme regarding Simon's still more celebrated prototypes: Three men of Gotham Went to sea in a bowl; If the bowl had been stronger, My tale had been longer. Then there is the prose history of _Simple Simon's Misfortunes; or, his Wife Marjory's Outrageous Cruelty_, which tells (1) of Simon's wedding, and how his wife Marjory scolded him for putting on his roast-meat clothes (_i.e.,_ Sunday clothes) the very next morning after he was married; (2) how she dragged him up the chimney in a basket, a-smoke-drying, wherein they used to dry bacon, which made him look like a red herring; (3) how Simon lost a sack of corn as he was going to the mill to have it ground; (4) how Simon went to market with a basket of eggs, but broke them by the way: also how he was put into the stocks; (5) how Simon's wife cudgelled him for not bringing her money for the eggs; (6) how Simon lost his wife's pail and burnt the bottom of her kettle; (7) how Simon's wife sent him to buy two pounds of soap, but going over the bridge, he let his money fall in the river: also how a ragman ran away with his clothes. No wonder if, after this crowning misfortune, poor Simon "drank a bottle of sack, to poison himself, as being weary of his life"! Again, we have _The Unfortunate Son; or, a Kind Wife is worth Gold, being full of Mirth and Pastime_, which commences thus: There was a man but one son had, And he was all his joy; But still his fortune was but bad, Though he was a pretty boy. His father sent him forth one day To feed a flock of sheep, And half of them were stole away While he lay down asleep! Next day he went with one Tom Goff To reap as he was seen, When he did cut his fingers off, The sickle was so keen! Another of the chap-book histories of noodles is that of _Simple John and his Twelve Misfortunes_, an imitation of _Simple Simon_; it was still popular amongst the rustics of Scotland fifty years ago. * * * * * The adventures of Silly Matt, the Norwegian counterpart of our typical English booby, as related in Asbjornson's collection of Norse folk-tales, furnish some curious examples of the transmission of popular fictions: The mother of Silly Matt tells him one day that he should build a bridge across the river and take toll of every one who wished to go over it; so he sets to work with a will, and when the bridge is finished, stands at one end--"at the receipt of custom." Three men come up with loads of hay, and Matt demands toll of them, so they each give him a wisp of hay. Next comes a pedlar, with all sorts of small wares in his pack, and Matt gets from him two needles. On his return home his mother asks him what he has got that day. "Hay and needles," says Matt. Well! and what had he done with the hay? "I put some of it in my mouth," quoth he, "and as it tasted like grass, I threw it into the river." She says he ought to have spread it on the byre-floor. "Very good," replies the dutiful Matt; "I'll remember that next time." And what had he done with the needles? He stuck them into the hay. "Ah," says the mother, "you should rather have stuck them in and out of your cap, and brought them home to me." Well! well! Matt will not forget to do so next time. The following day a man comes to the bridge with a sack of meal and gives Matt a pound of it; then comes a smith, who gives him a gimlet: the meal he spread on the byre-floor, and the gimlet he stuck in and out of his cap. His mother tells him he should have come home for a bucket to hold the meal, and the gimlet he should have put up his sleeve. Very good! Matt will not forget next time. Another day some men come to the bridge with kegs of brandy, of which Matt gets a pint, and pours it into his sleeve; next comes a man driving some goats and their young ones, and gives Matt a kid, which he treads down into a bucket. His mother says he should have led the goat home with a cord round its neck, and put the brandy in a pail. Next day he gets a pat of butter and drags it home with a string. After this his mother despairs of his improvement, till it occurs to her that he might not be such a noodle if he had a wife. So she bids him go and see whether he cannot find some lass who will take him for a husband. Should he meet any folk on his way, he ought to say to them, "God's peace!" Matt accordingly sets off in quest of a wife, and meets a she-wolf and her seven cubs. "God's peace!" says Matt, and then returns home. When his mother learns of this, she tells him he should have cried, "Huf! huf! you jade wolf!" Next day he goes off again, and meeting a bridal party, he cries, "Huf! huf! you jade wolf!" and goes back to his mother and acquaints her of this fresh adventure. "O you great silly!" says she; "you should have said, 'Ride happily, bride and bridegroom!'" Once more Matt sets out to seek a wife, and seeing on the road a bear taking a ride on a horse, he exclaims joyfully, "Ride happily, bride and bridegroom!" and then returns home. His mother, on hearing of this new piece of folly, tells him he should have cried, "To the devil with you!" Again he sets out, and meeting a funeral procession, he roars, "To the devil with you!" His mother says he should have cried, "May your poor soul have mercy!" and sends him off for the fifth time to look for a lass. On the road he sees some gipsies busy skinning a dead dog, upon which he piously exclaims, "May your poor soul have mercy!" His mother now goes herself to get him a wife, finds a lass that is willing to marry him, and invites her to dinner. She privately tells Matt how he should comport himself in the presence of his sweetheart; he should cast an eye at her now and then. Matt understands her instruction most literally: stealing into the sheepfold, he plucks out the eyes of all the sheep and goats, and puts them in his pocket. When he is seated beside his sweetheart, he casts a "sheep's eye" at her, which hits her on the nose.[1] This last incident, as we have seen, occurs in the _Tales of the Men of Gotham ("ante_, p. 41" in original. This section is to be found immediately after the reference to Chapter II, Footnote 9 in this e-text), and it is also found in a Venetian story (Bernoni, _Fiabe_, No. 11) entitled "The Fool," of which the following is the first part: Once upon a time there was a mother who had a son with little brains. One morning she said, "We must get up early, for we have to make bread." So they both rose early, and began to make bread. The mother made the loaves, but took no pains to make them the same size. Her son said to her finally, "How small you have made this loaf, mother." "Oh," said she, "it does not matter whether they are big or little, for the proverb says, 'Large and small, all must go to mass.'" "Good! good!" said her son. When the bread was made, instead of taking it to the baker's, the son took it to the church, for it was the hour for mass, saying, "My mother said that, 'large and small, all must go to mass.'" So he threw the loaves down in the middle of the church. Then he went home to his mother, and said, "I have done what you told me to do," "Good! Did you take the bread to the baker's?" "O mother, if you had seen how they all looked at me!" "You might also have cast an eye on them in return," said his mother. "Wait; wait. I will cast an eye at them too," he exclaimed, and went to the stable and cut out the eyes of all the animals, and putting them in a handkerchief, went to the church, and when any man or woman looked at him, he threw an eye at them.[2] Silly Matt has a brother in Russia, according to M. Leger's _Contes Populaires Slaves_, published at Paris in 1882: An old man and his wife had a son, who was about as great a noodle as could be. One day his mother said to him, "My son, thou shouldst go about among people, to get thyself sharpened and rubbed down a little." "Yes, mother," says he; "I'm off this moment." So he went to the village, and saw two men threshing pease. He ran up to them, and rubbed himself now on one and then on the other. "No nonsense!" cried the men. "Get away." But he continued to rub himself on them, till at last they would stand it no longer, and beat him with their flails so lustily that he could hardly crawl home. "What art thou crying about, child?" asked his mother. He related his misfortune. "Ah, my child," said she, "how silly thou art! Thou shouldst have said to them, 'God aid you, good men! Do you wish me to help you to thresh?' and then they would have given thee some pease for thy trouble, and we should have had them to cook and eat." On another occasion the noodle again went through the village, and met some people carrying a dead man. "May God aid you, good men!" he exclaimed. "Do you wish me to help you to thresh?" But he got himself well thrashed once more for this ill-timed speech. When he reached home, he howled, "They've felled me to the ground, beaten me, and plucked my beard and hair!" and told of his new mishap. "Ah, noodle!" said his mother, "thou shouldst have said, 'God give peace to his soul!' Thou shouldst have taken off thy bonnet, wept, and fallen upon thy knees. They would then have given thee meat and drink." Again he went to the village, and met a marriage procession. So he took off his bonnet, and cried with all his might, "God grant peace to his soul!" and then burst into tears. "What brute is this?" said the wedding company. "We laugh and amuse ourselves, and he laments as if he were at a funeral." So they leaped out of the carriages, and beat him soundly on the ribs. Home he returned, crying, "They've beaten me, thrashed me, and torn my beard and hair!" and related what had happened. "My son," said his mother, "thou shouldst have leaped and danced with them." The next time he went to the village he took his bagpipe under his arm. At the end of the street a cart-shed was on fire. The noodle ran to the spot, and began to play on his bagpipe and to dance and caper about, for which he was abused as before. Going back to his mother in tears, he told her how he had fared. "My son," said she, "thou shouldst have carried water and thrown it on the fire, like the other folks." Three days later, when his ribs were well again, the noodle went through the village once more, and seeing a man roasting a little pig, he seized a vessel of water, ran up with it, and threw the water on the fire. This time also he was beaten, and when he got home, and told his mother of his ill-luck, she resolved never again to allow him to go abroad; so he remains by the fireside, as great a fool as ever. This species of noodle is also known in Japan. He is the hero of a farce entitled _Hone Kaha_, or Ribs and Skin, which has been done into English by Mr. Basil Hall Chamberlain, in his _Classical Poetry of the Japanese_. The rector of a Buddhist temple tells his curate that he feels he is now getting too old for the duties of his office, and means to resign the benefice in his favour. Before retiring to his private chamber, he desires the curate to let him know if any persons visit the temple, and bids him, should he be in want of information regarding any matter, to come to him. A parishioner calls to borrow an umbrella. The curate lends him a new one, and then goes to the rector and informs him of this visitor. "You have done wrong," says the rector. "You ought to have said that you should have been happy to comply with such a small request, but, unfortunately, the rector was walking out with it the other day, when, at a place where four roads meet, a sudden gust of wind blew the skin to one side and the ribs to another; we have tied the ribs and skin together in the middle, and hung it from the ceiling. Something like that," adds the rector, "something with an air of truth about it, is what you should have said." Next comes another parishioner, who wishes to borrow a horse. The curate replies with great politeness, "The request with which you honour me is a mere trifle, but the rector took it out with him a few days since, and coming to the junction of four cross roads, a gust of wind blew the ribs to one side and the skin to another, and we have tied them together, and hung them from the ceiling; so I fear it would not suit your purpose." "It is a horse I want," said the man. "Precisely--a horse: I am aware of it," quoth the curate, and the man went off, not a little perplexed, after which the curate reports this new affair to the rector, who says it was to an umbrella, not to a horse, that such a story was applicable. Should any one come again to borrow a horse, he ought to say, "I much regret that I cannot comply with your request. The fact is, we lately turned him out to grass, and becoming frolicsome, he dislocated his thigh, and is now lying, covered with straw, in a corner of the stable." "Something like that," adds the rector, "something with an air of truth about it, is what you should say." A third parishioner comes to invite the rector and the curate to a feast at his house. "For myself," says the curate, "I promise to come; but I fear it will not be convenient for the rector to accompany me." "I presume then," says the man, "that he has some particular business on hand?" "No, not any particular business," answers the curate; "but the truth is, we lately turned him out to grass, and becoming frisky, he dislocated his thigh, and now lies in a corner of the stable, covered with straw." "I spoke of the rector," says the parishioner. "Yes, of the rector. I quite understand," responds the curate, very complaisantly, upon which the man goes away, not knowing what to make of such a strange account of the rector's condition. This last affair puts the rector into a fury, and he cuffs his intended successor, exclaiming, "When was I ever frisky, I should like to know?" As great a jolterhead as any of the foregoing was the hero of a story in Cazotte's "Continuation" of the _Arabian Nights_, entitled "L'Imbécille; ou, L'Histoire de Xailoun,"[3] This noodle's wife said to him one day, "Go and buy some pease, and don't forget that it is pease you are to buy; continually repeat 'Pease!' till you reach the market-place." So he went off, with "Pease! pease!" always in his mouth. He passed the corner of a street where a merchant who had pearls for sale was proclaiming his wares in a loud voice, saying, "In the name of the Prophet, pearls!" Xailoun's attention was at once attracted by the display of pearls, and at the same time he was occupied in retaining the lesson his wife had taught him, and putting his hand in the box of pearls, he cried out, "Pease! pease!" The merchant, supposing Xailoun played upon him and depreciated his pearls by wishing to make them pass for false ones, struck him a severe blow. "Why do you strike me?" said Xailoun. "Because you insult me," answered the merchant. "Do you suppose I am trying to deceive people?" "No," said the noodle. "But what must I say, then?" "If you will cry properly, say as I do, 'Pearls, in the name of the Prophet!'" He next passed by the shop of a merchant from whom some pearls had been stolen, and his manner of crying, "Pearls!" etc., which was not nearly so loud as usual, appeared to the merchant very suspicious. "The man who has stolen my pearls," thought he, "has probably recognised me, and when he passes my shop lowers his voice in crying the goods." Upon this suspicion he ran after Xailoun, and stopping him, said, "Show me your pearls." The poor fool was in great confusion, and the merchant thought he had got the thief. The supposed seller of pearls was soon surrounded by a great crowd, and the merchant at last discovered that he was a perfect simpleton. "Why," said he, "do you cry that you sell pearls?" "What should I say, then?" asked Xailoun. "It is not true," said the merchant, not listening to him. "It is not true," exclaimed the noodle. "Let me repeat, 'It is not true,' that I may not forget it;" and as he went on he kept crying, "It is not true." His way led him towards a place where a man was proclaiming, "In the name of the Prophet, lentils!" Xailoun, induced by curiosity, went up to the man, his mouth full of the last words he remembered, and putting his hand into the sack, cried, "It is not true." The sturdy villager gave him a blow that caused him to stagger, saying, "What d'ye mean by giving me the lie about my goods, which I both sowed and reaped myself?" Quoth the noodle, "I have only tried to say what I ought to say." "Well, then," rejoined the dealer, "you ought to say, as I do, 'Lentils, in the name of the Prophet!'" So our noodle at once took up this new cry, and proceeded on his way till he came to the bank of the river, where a fisherman had been casting his net for hours, and had frequently changed his place, without getting any fish. Xailoun, who was amused with every new thing he saw, began to follow the fisherman, and, that he should not forget his lesson, continued to repeat, "Lentils, in the name of the Prophet!" Suddenly the fisherman made a pretence of spreading his net, in order to wring and dry it, and having folded in his hand the rope to which it was fastened, he took hold of the simpleton and struck him some furious blows with it, saying, "Vile sorcerer! cease to curse my fishing." Xailoun struggled, and at length disengaged himself. "I am no sorcerer," said he. "Well, if you are not," answered the fisherman, "why do you cause me bad luck by your words every time I throw my net?" "I didn't mean to bring you bad luck," said the noodle. "I only repeat what I was told to repeat." The fisherman then concluded that some of his enemies, who wished to do him an ill turn without exposing themselves, had prevailed upon this poor fellow to come and curse his fishing, so he said, "I am sorry, brother, for having beaten you, but you were wrong to pronounce the words you did, thereby bringing bad luck to me, who never did you any harm." Quoth the simpleton, "I only tried to say the words my wife told me not to forget." "Do you know them?" "Yes." "Well, place yourself beside me, and each time I cast my net you must say, 'In the name of the Prophet, instead of one, seven of the greatest and best!'" But Xailoun thought what his wife had said was not so long as that. "Oh, yes, it was," said the fisherman; "and take care you don't miss a single word, and I shall give you some of the fish to take home with you." That he might not forget, Xailoun repeated it very loud, but as 'he was afraid of the cord whenever he saw the fisherman drawing in his net, he ran away as fast as he could, but still repeating, "In the name of the Prophet, instead of one, seven of the greatest and best!" These words he pronounced in the midst of a crowd of people, through which the corpse of the kází (magistrate, or judge) was being carried to the burying ground, and the mullahs who surrounded the bier, scandalised by what they thought a horrible imprecation, exclaimed, "How darest thou, wicked wretch, thus blaspheme? Is it not enough that Death has taken one of the greatest men of Baghdád?" The poor simpleton was skulking off in fear and trembling, when his sleeve was pulled by an aged slave, who told him that he ought to say, "May Allah preserve his body and save his soul!" So our noodle went on, repeating this new cry till he came to a street where a dead ass was being carted away. "May Allah preserve his body and save his soul!"' he exclaimed. "How he blasphemes!" said the folk, and they set upon him with their fists and sticks, and gave him a sound drubbing. At length he got clear of them, and by chance came to the house of his wife's mother, but he only ventured to stand at the door and peep within. He was recognised, however, and asked what he would have to eat--goat's flesh? rice? _pease?_ Yes, it was pease he wanted, and having got some, he hastened home, and after relating all his mishaps, informed his wife, that her sister was very sick. His wife, having prepared herself to go to her mother's house, tells the simpleton to rock the baby should it awake and cry; feed the hen that was sitting; if the ass was thirsty, give her to drink; shut the door, and take care not to go to sleep, lest robbers should come and plunder the house. The baby awakes, and Xailoun rocks it to sleep again; so far, well. The hen seems uneasy; he concludes she is troubled with insects, like himself. So he takes up the hen, and thinking the best way to kill the insects was to stick a pin into them, he unluckily kills the hen. This was a serious matter, and while he considers what he should do in the circumstances, the ass begins to bray. "Ah," says he, "I've no time to attend to you just now; but when I am on your back, you can carry me to the river." Then he opened the door and let out the ass and her colt. After this he sat down on the eggs, and took the baby in his arms. His wife returning, knocks at the door. "Let me in, you fool," she cries. "I can't, for I am nursing the baby and hatching the eggs." At length she contrived to force open the door, and running up to her idiot of a husband, fetched him a blow that caused him to crush all the half-hatched eggs. Luckily she had met the ass and her foal on the road, so the amount of mischief done by her stupid spouse in her absence was not so great, all things considered.[4] The misadventures of the Arabian idiot in his expedition to purchase pease present a close analogy to those of the typical English booby, only the latter end tragically: A woman sent her son one day to buy a sheep's head and pluck, and, lest he should forget his message, he kept bawling loudly as he went along, "Sheep's head and pluck! sheep's head and pluck!" In getting over a stile he fell and hurt himself, and forgot what he was sent for, so he stood a little to consider; and at last he thought he recollected it, and began to shout, "Liver and lights and gall and all!" which he was repeating when he came up to a man who was very sick. The man, thinking the booby was mocking him, laid hold of him, and after cuffing him, bade the booby cry, "Pray God, send no more up!" So he ran along uttering these words till he came to a field where a man was sowing wheat, who, on hearing what he took for a curse upon his labour, seized and thrashed him, and told him to repeat, "Pray God, send plenty more!" So the young jolterhead at once "changed his tune," and was loudly singing out these words when he met a funeral. The chief mourner punished him for what he thought his fiendish wish, and bade him say, "Pray God, send the soul to heaven!" which he was bawling when he met a he and a she-dog going to be hanged. The good people who heard him were greatly shocked at his seeming profanity, and striking him, strictly charged him to cry, "A he and a she-dog going to be hanged!" On he went, accordingly, repeating this new cry, till he met a man and a woman going to be married. When the bridegroom heard what the booby said, he gave him many a good thump, and bade him say, "I wish you much joy!" This he was crying at the top of his voice when he came to a pit into which two labourers had fallen, and one of them, enraged at what he thought his mockery of their misfortune, exerted all his strength and scrambled out, then beat the poor simpleton, and told him to say, "The one is out; I wish the other was!" Glad to be set free, the booby went on shouting these words till he met with a one-eyed man, who, like the others, taking what he was crying for a personal insult, gave him another drubbing, and then bade him cry, "The one side gives good light, and I wish the other did!" So he adopted this new cry, and continued his adventurous journey till he came to a house, one side of which was on fire. The people, hearing him bawling, "The one side gives good light, and I wish the other did!" at once concluded that he had set the house a-blazing; so they put him in prison, and the end was, the judge put on the black cap and condemned him to be hanged![5] * * * * * When the noodle is persuaded, as in the following case of a Sinhalese wittol, by a gang of thieves to join them in a plundering expedition, they have little reason to be pleased with him, for he does not make a good "cat's-paw." The Sinhalese noodle joined some thieves, took readily to their ways, and was always eager to accompany them on their marauding excursions. One night they took him with them, and boring a large hole in the wall of a house,[6] they sent him in, telling him to hand out the heaviest article he could lay hands upon. He readily went in, and seeing a large kurakkan-grinder,[7] thought that was the heaviest thing in the room, and attempted to remove it. But it proved too much for him alone, so he gently awoke a man who was sleeping in the room, and said to him, "My friend, pray help me to remove this kurakkan-grinder." The man immediately guessed that thieves had entered the house, and gave the alarm. The thieves, who were waiting outside quite expectant, rushed away, and the noodle somehow or other managed to escape with them. Next night they again took him along with them, and after boring a hole in the wall of another house, sent him in with strict injunctions not to make a noise or wake anybody. He crept in noiselessly and entered a large room, in which was an old woman, fast asleep by the fire, with wide-open mouth. An earthen chattie, a wooden spoon, and a small bag of pease were also placed by the fire. The noodle first proceeded to roast some pease in the chattie. When they were roasted to a nice brownish colour, and emitted a very tempting smell, he thought that the old woman might also enjoy a mouthful. He considered for a while how he might best offer some to her. He did not wish to wake her, as he was ordered not to wake anybody. Suddenly a bright idea struck him. Why should he not feed her? There she was sleeping with her mouth wide open. Surely it would be no difficult task to put some pease into her mouth. Taking some of the hot, smoking pease into the wooden spoon, he put the contents into her mouth. The woman awoke, screaming with all her might. The noise roused the other inmates of the house, who came rushing to the spot to see what was the matter. This time also the noodle managed to escape with the thieves; but in a subsequent adventure he, as well as the thieves, came to grief.[8] The silly son of Italian popular tales is represented as being sent by his mother to sell a piece of linen which she had woven, saying to him, "Now listen attentively to what I say: Walk straight along the road. Don't take less than such a price for this linen. Don't have any dealings with women who chatter. Whether you sell it to any one you meet on the way, or carry it into the market, offer it only to some quiet sort of body whom you may see standing apart and not gossiping or prating, for such as they will persuade you to take some sort of price that won't suit me at all." The booby answers, "Yes, mamma," and goes off on his errand, keeping straight on, instead of taking the turnings leading to villages. It happened, as he went along, that the wife of the syndic of the next town was driving out with her maids, and had got out of the carriage, to walk a short distance, as the day was fine. Her maid tells her that there goes the simple son of the poor widow by the brook. "What are you going to do, my good lad?" kindly asks the lady. "I'm not going to tell you," says the booby, "because you were chattering." "I see your mother has sent you to sell this linen," continues the lady; "I will buy it of you," and she offers to pay twice as much as his mother had said she wanted. "Can't sell it to you," replies he, "for you were chattering," and he continues his journey. Farther along he comes to a plaster statue by the roadside, so he says to himself, "Here's one who stands apart and doesn't chatter; this is the one to sell the linen to," then aloud, "Will you buy my linen, good friend?" The statue maintained its usual taciturnity, and the booby concluded, as it did not speak, it was all right, so he said, "The price is so-and-so; have the money ready by the time I come back, as I have to go on and buy some yarn for mother." On he went accordingly, and bought the yarn, and then came back to the statue. Some one passing by had in the meantime taken the linen. Finding it gone, "It's all right," says he to himself; "she's taken it," then aloud, "Where's the money I told you to have ready?" The statue remained silent. "If you don't give me the money, I'll hit you on the head," he exclaimed, and raising his stick, he knocked the head off, and found it filled with gold coin. "That's where you keep your money, is it? All right; I can pay myself." So saying, he filled his pockets with the coin and went home. When he handed his mother the money, and told her of his adventure with the quiet body by the roadside, she was afraid lest the neighbours should learn of her windfall if the booby knew its value, so she said to him, "You've only brought me a lot of rusty nails; but never mind: you'll know better what to do next time," and put the money in an earthen jar. In her absence, a ragman comes to the house, and the booby asks him, "Will you buy some rusty nails?" The man desires to see them. "Well," quoth he on beholding the treasure, "they're not much worth, but I'll give you twelve pauls for the lot," and having handed over the sum, went off with his prize. When his mother comes home, the booby tells her what a bargain he had made for the rusty nails. "Nails!" she echoes, in consternation. "Why, you foolish thing, they were gold coins!" "Can't help that now, mamma," he answers philosophically; "you told me they were old rusty nails." By another lucky adventure, however, the booby is enabled to make up his mother's loss, finding a treasure which a party of robbers had left behind them at the foot of a tree. The incident of a simpleton selling something to an inanimate object and discovering a hidden treasure occurs, in different forms, in the folk-tales of Asiatic as well as European countries. In a manuscript text of the _Arabian Nights_, brought from Constantinople by Wortley Montague, and now preserved in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, a more elaborate version of the Italian booby's adventure with the statue is found, in the "Story of the Bang-eater and his Wife:" In former times there lived not far from Baghdad a half-witted fellow, who was much addicted to the use of bang. Being reduced to poverty, he was obliged to sell his cow, which he took to the market one day, but the animal being in such a poor condition, no one would buy it, and after waiting till he was weary he returned homeward. On the way he stopped to repose himself under a tree, and tied the cow to one of the branches, while he ate some bread, and drank an infusion of his bang, which he always carried with him. In a short time it began to operate, so as to bereave him of the little sense he had, and his head was filled with ridiculous reveries. While he was musing, a bird beginning to chatter from her nest in the tree, he fancied it was a human voice, and that some woman had offered to purchase his cow, upon which he said, "Reverend mother of Solomon,[9] dost thou wish to buy my cow?" The bird again chattered. "Well," replied he, "what wilt thou give? I will sell her a bargain." The bird repeated her noise. "Never mind," said the fool, "for though thou hast forgotten to bring thy purse, yet, as I daresay thou art an honest woman, and hast bidden me ten dinars, I will trust thee with the cow, and call on Friday for the money." The bird renewed her chattering; so, leaving the cow tied to a branch of the tree, he returned home, exulting in the good bargain he had made for the animal. When he entered the house, his wife inquired what he had got for the cow, and he replied that he had sold her to an honest woman, who had promised to pay him ten pieces of gold next Friday. The wife was contented; and when Friday arrived, her noodle of a husband having, as usual, taken a dose of bang, repaired to the tree, and hearing the bird chattering as before, said, "Well, good mother, hast thou brought the gold?" The bird croaked. The blockhead, supposing the imaginary woman refused to pay him, became angry, and threw up a stone, which frightening the bird, it flew from its nest in the tree and alighted on a heap of ruins at some little distance. He now concluded that the woman had desired him to take his money from the heap, into which he accordingly dug, and found a copper vessel full of coin. This discovery convinced him he was right, and being withal an honest fellow, he only took ten pieces; then replacing the soil, "May Allah requite thee for thy punctuality, good mother!" he exclaimed, and returned to his wife, to whom he gave the money, informing her at the same time of the great treasure his friend the imaginary old woman possessed, and where it was concealed. The wife waited till night, when she brought away the pot of gold, which her foolish husband observing, he said, "It is dishonest to rob one who has paid us so punctually; and if thou dost not return it to its place, I will inform the walí" (governor of the city). She laughed at his simplicity, but fearing that he would execute his threat, she planned a stratagem to render it of no avail. Going to market, she purchased some meat and fish ready cooked, which she brought privately home, and concealed in the house. At night, while her husband was sleeping off the effects of his favourite narcotic, she strewed the provisions she had brought outside the door, and then awakening him, cried out, "Dear husband, a most wonderful thing has occurred: there has been a violent storm while you slept, and, strange to tell, it has rained pieces of broiled meat and fish, which now lie at the door!" The blockhead got up, and seeing the food, was persuaded of the truth of his wife's story. The flesh and fish were gathered up, and he partook with much glee of the miraculous treat, but still said he would tell the walí of her having stolen the treasure of the honest old woman. In the morning he actually repaired to the walí, and informed him that his wife had stolen a pot of gold, which she had still in her possession. Upon this the walí had the woman apprehended. She denied the accusation, and was then threatened with death. "My lord," said she, "the power is in your hands; but I am an injured woman, as you will find by questioning my husband, who is deranged in his intellect. Ask him when I committed the theft." The walí did so, and the simpleton answered, "It was the evening of that night when it rained broiled fish and ready-cooked flesh." On hearing this, "Wretch!" exclaimed the walí in a fury, "dost thou dare to utter falsehoods before me? Who ever saw it rain anything but water?" "As I hope for life," replied the fool, "I speak the truth; for my wife and myself ate of the fish and flesh which fell from the clouds." The woman, being appealed to, denied the assertion of her husband. The walí, now convinced that the man was crazy, released the woman, and sent her husband to the madhouse, where he remained for some days, till his wife, pitying his condition, contrived to get him set at liberty. She visited her husband, and counselled him, should any one ask him if he had seen it rain fish and flesh, to answer, "No; who ever saw it rain anything but water?" Then she informed the keeper that he was come to his senses, and suggested he should question him; and on the poor fellow answering properly he was released. * * * * * In a Russian variant, an old man had three sons, one of whom was a noodle. When the old man died, his property was shared between the brothers, but all that the simpleton received was one ox, which he took to the market to sell. On his way he chanced to pass an old birch-tree, which creaked and groaned in the wind. He thinks the tree is offering to buy his ox, and so he says, "Well, you shall have it for twenty roubles." But the tree only creaked and creaked, and he fancied it was asking the ox on credit. "Very good," says he. "You'll pay me tomorrow? I'll wait till then." So he ties the ox to the tree and goes home. His brothers question him about his ox, and he tells them he has sold it for twenty roubles and is to get the money to-morrow, at which they laugh; he is, they think; a greater fool than ever. Next morning he went to the birch-tree, and found the ox was gone, for, in truth, the wolves had eaten it. He demanded his money, but the tree only creaked and groaned, as usual. "You'll pay me to-morrow?" he exclaimed. "That's what you said yesterday. I'll have no more of your promises." So saying, he struck the old birch-tree with his hatchet and sent the chips flying about. Now the tree was hollow, and it soon split asunder from his blows; and in the hollow trunk he found a pot full of gold, which some robbers had hidden there. Taking some of the gold, he returns home, and shows it to his brothers, who ask him how he got so much money. "A neighbour," he replies, "gave it to me for my ox. But this is nothing like the whole of it. Come along, brothers, and let us get the rest." They go, and fetch the rest of the treasure, and on their way home they meet a diachok (one of the inferior members of the Russian clerical body, though not one of the clergy), who asks them what they are carrying. "Mushrooms," say the two clever brothers; but the noodle cries, "That's not true; we're carrying money: here, look at it." The diachok, with an exclamation, flung himself upon the gold and began stuffing it into his pockets. At this the noodle grew angry, dealt him a blow with his hatchet, and killed him on the spot. The brothers dragged the body to an empty cellar, and flung it in. Later in the evening the eldest said to the other, "This business is sure to turn out badly. When they look for the diachok, Simpleton will be sure to tell them all about it. So we had better hide the body in some other place, and kill a goat and bury it in the cellar." This they did accordingly. And after several days had passed the people asked the noodle if he had seen the diachok. "Yes," he answered. "I killed him some time ago with my hatchet, and my brothers carried him to the cellar." They seize upon him and compel him to go down into the cellar and bring out the body. He gets hold of the goat's head, and asks, "Was your diachok dark-haired?" "He was." "Had he a beard?" "Yes." "And horns?" "What horns are you talking of?" "Well, see for yourselves," said he, tossing up the head to them. They saw it was a goat's head, and went away home. * * * * * The reader cannot fail to remark the close resemblance there is between the first parts of the Arabian and Russian stories; and the second parts of both reappear in many tales of the Silly Son. The goat's carcase substituted for the dead man occurs, for instance, in the Norse story of Silly Matt; in the Sicilian story of Giufa; in M. Rivière's _Contes Populaires de la Kabylie du Djurdjura_; and "Foolish Sachúli," in Miss Stokes' _Indian Fairy Tales_. The incident of the pretended shower of broiled fish and flesh is found in Campbell's _Tales of the West Highlands_ (porridge and pancakes); in Rivière's Tales of the Kabaïl (fritters); "Foolish Sachúli" (sweetmeats); Giufà, the Sicilian Booby (figs and raisins); and in M. Leger's _Contes Populaires Slaves_, where, curiously enough, the trick is played by a husband upon his wife. It is perhaps worth while reproducing the Russian story from Leger, in a somewhat abridged form, as follows: In tilling the ground a labourer found a treasure, and carrying it home, said to his wife, "See! Heaven has sent us a fortune. But where can we conceal it?" She suggested he should bury it under the floor, which he did accordingly. Soon after this the wife went out to fetch water, and the labourer reflected that his wife was a dreadful gossip, and by to-morrow night all the village would know their secret. So he removed the treasure from its hiding-place and buried it in his barn, beneath a heap of corn. When the wife came back from the well, he said to her quite gravely, "To-morrow we shall go to the forest to seek fish; they say there's plenty there at present." "What! fish in the forest?" she exclaimed. "Of course," he rejoined; "and you'll see them there." Very early next morning he got up, and took some fish, which he had concealed in a basket. He went to the grocer's and bought a quantity of sweet cakes. He also caught a hare and killed it. The fish and cakes he disposed of in different parts of the wood, and the hare he hooked on a fishing-line, and then threw it in the river. After breakfast he took his wife with him into the wood, which they had scarcely entered when she found a pike, then a perch, and then a roach, on the ground. With many exclamations of surprise, she gathered up the fish and put them in her basket. Presently they came to a pear-tree, from the branches of which hung sweet cakes. "See!" she cried. "Cakes on a pear-tree!" "Quite natural," replied he; "it has rained cakes, and some have remained on this tree; travellers have picked up the rest." Continuing their way to the village, they passed near a stream. "Wait a little," said the husband; "I set my line early this morning, and I'll look if anything is caught on it." He then pulled in the line, and behold, there was a hare hooked on to it! "How extraordinary!" cries the good wife--"a hare in the water!" "Why," says he, "don't you know there are hares in the water as well as rats?" "No, indeed, I knew it not." They now returned home, and the wife set about preparing all the nice eatables for supper. In a day or two the labourer found from the talk of his acquaintances that his finding the treasure was no secret in the village, and in less than a week he was summoned to the castle. "Is it true," said the lord, "that you have found a treasure?" "It is not true," was his reply. "But your wife has told me all." "My wife does not know what she says--she is mad, my lord." Hereupon the woman cries, "It is the truth, my lord; he has found a treasure and buried it beneath the floor of our cottage." "When?" "On the eve before the day we went into the forest to look for fish." "What do you say?" "Yes; it was on the day that it rained cakes; we gathered a basketful of them, and coming home, my husband fished a fine hare out of the river." My lord declared the woman to be an idiot; nevertheless he caused his servants to search under the labourer's cottage floor, but nothing was found there, and so the shrewd fellow secured his treasure. The silly son figures frequently in Indian story-books; sometimes a number of fools' exploits are strung together and ascribed to one individual, as in the tale of "Foolish Sachúli;" but generally they are told as separate stories. The following adventure of Sachúli is also found, in varied form, in Beschi's _Gooroo Paramartan_: One day Sachúli climbed up a tree, and sat on a long branch, and began cutting off the branch between the tree and himself. A man passing by called to him, saying, "What are you doing up there? You will be killed if you cut that branch off." "What do you say?" asked the booby, coming down. "When shall I die?" "How can I tell?" said the man. "Let me go." "I will not let you go until you tell me when I shall die." At last the man, in order to get rid of him, said, "When you find a scarlet thread on your jacket, then you will die." After this Sachúli went to the _bazaar_, and sat down by some tailors, and in throwing away shreds, a scarlet thread fell on his clothes. "Now I shall die!" exclaimed the fool. "How do you know that?" the tailors inquired, when he told them what the man had said about a scarlet thread, at which they all laughed. Nevertheless, Sachúli went and dug a grave in the jungle and lay down in it. Presently a sepoy comes along, bearing a pot of _ghi_, or clarified butter, which he engages Sachúli to carry for him, and the noodle, of course, lets it fall in the midst of his calculations of the uses to which he should put the money he is promised by the sepoy. The incident of a blockhead cutting off the branch on which he is seated seems to be almost universal. It occurs in the jests of the typical Turkish noodle, the Khoja Nasr-ed-Dín, and there exist German, Saxon, and Lithuanian variants of the same story. It is also known in Ceylon, and the following is a version from a Hindú work entitled _Bharataka Dwátrinsati_, Thirty-two Tales of Mendicant Monks: In Elákapura there lived several mendicant monks. One of them, named Dandaka, once went, in the rainy season, into a wood in order to procure a post for his hut. There he saw on a tree a fine branch bent down, and he climbed the tree, sat on the branch, and began to cut it. Then there came that way some travellers, who, seeing what he was doing, said, "O monk, greatest of all idiots, you should not cut a branch on which you yourself are sitting, for if you do so, when the branch breaks you will fall down and die." After saying this the travellers went their way. The monk, however, paid no attention to their speech, but continued to cut the branch, remaining in the same posture, until at length the branch broke, and he tumbled down. He then thought within himself, "Those travellers are indeed wise and truthful, for everything has happened just as they predicted; consequently I must be dead." So he remained on the ground as if dead; he did not speak, nor did he stand up, nor did he even breathe. People who came there from the neighbourhood raised him up, but he did not stand; they endeavoured to make him speak, but could not succeed. They then sent word to the other monks, saying, "Your associate Dandaka fell down from a tree and died." Then came the monks in large numbers, and when they saw that he was "dead," they lifted him up in order to carry him to the place of cremation. Now when they had gone a short distance they came upon a spot where the road divided itself before them. Then said some, "We must go to the left," but others said, "It is to the right that we must go." Thus a dispute arose among them, and they were unable to come to any conclusion. The "dead" monk, who was borne on a bier, said, "Friends, quarrel not among yourselves; when I was alive, I always went by the left road." Then said some, "He always spoke the truth; all that he ever said was nothing but the simple fact. Let us therefore take the left road." This was agreed upon, and as they were about to proceed towards the left some people who happened to be present said, "O ye monks, ye are the greatest of all blockheads that ye should proceed to burn this man while he is yet alive." They answered, "Nay, but he is dead." Then the bystanders said, "He cannot be dead, seeing that he yet speaks." They then set down the bier on the ground, and Dandaka persistently declared that he was actually dead, and related to them with the most solemn protestations the prediction of the travellers, and how it was fulfilled. Hereupon the other monks remained quite bewildered, unable to arrive at any decision as to whether Dandaka was dead or alive, until at length, after a great deal of trouble, the bystanders succeeded in convincing them that the man was not dead and in inducing them to return to their dwelling. Dandaka also now stood up and went his way, after having been heartily laughed at by the people.[11] A diverting story in the _Facetiæ_ of Poggius, entitled "Mortuus Loqueus," from which it was reproduced in the Italian novels of Grazzini and in our old collection _Tales and Quicke Answeres_, has a near affinity with jests of this class, and also with the wide cycle of stories in which a number of rogues combine to cheat a simpleton out of his property. In the early English jest-book,[12] it is, in effect, as follows: There once dwelt in Florence a noodle called Nigniaca, upon whom a party of young men resolved to play a practical joke. Having arranged their plans, one of them met him early one morning, and asked him if he was not ill. "No," says the wittol. "I am well enough." "By my faith," quoth the joker, "but you have a pale, sickly colour," and went his way. Presently a second of the complotters came up to him, and asked him if he was not suffering from an ague, for he certainly looked very ill. The poor fellow now began to think that he was really sick, and was convinced of this when a third man in passing told him that he should be in his bed--he had evidently not an hour to live. Hearing this, Nigniaca stood stock-still, saying to himself, "Verily, I have some sharp ague," when a fourth man came and bade him go home at once, for he was a dying man. So the simpleton begged this fourth man to help him home, which he did very willingly, and after laying him in his bed, the other jokers came to see him, and one of them, pretending to be a physician, felt his pulse and declared the patient would die within an hour.[13] Then, standing all about his bed, they said to each other, "Now he is sinking fast; his speech and sight have failed him; he will soon give up the ghost. Let us therefore close his eyes, cross his hands on his breast, and carry him forth to be buried." The simpleton lay as still as though he was really dead, so they laid him on a bier and carried him through the city. A great crowd soon gathered, when it was known that they were carrying the corpse of Nigniaca to his grave. And among the crowd was a taverner's boy, who cried out, "What a rascal and thief is dead! By the mass, he should have been hanged long ago." When the wittol heard himself thus vilified, he lifted up his head and exclaimed, "I wish, you scoundrel, I were alive now, as I am dead, and I would prove thee a false liar to thy face;" upon which the jokers burst into laughter, set down the "body" and ran away--leaving Nigniaca to explain the whole affair to the marvelling multitude.[14] We read of another silly son, in the _Kathá Manjari_, whose father said to him one day, "My boy, you are now grown big, yet you don't seem to have much sense. You must, however, do something for your living. Go, therefore, to the tank, and catch fish and bring them home." The lad accordingly went to the tank, and having caused all the water--which was required for the irrigation of his father's fields--to run to waste, he picked up from the mud all the fishes he could find, and took them to his father, not a little proud of his exploit.--In the _Kathá Sarit Ságara_ it is related that a Bráhman told his foolish son one evening that he must send him to the village early on the morrow, and thither the lad went, without asking what he was to do. Returning home at night very tired, he said to his father, "I have been to the village." "Yes," said the Bráhman, "you went thither without an object, and have done no good by it."--And in the Buddhist _Játakas_ we find what is probably the original of a world-wide story: A man was chopping a felled tree, when a mosquito settled on his bald head and stung him severely. Calling to his son, who was sitting near him, he said, "My boy, there is a mosquito stinging my head, like the thrust of a spear--drive it off." "Wait a bit, father," said the boy, "and I will kill him with one blow." Then he took up an axe and stood behind his father's back; and thinking to kill the mosquito with the axe, he only killed his father. Among numerous variants is the story of the Sicilian booby, Giufà, who was annoyed by the flies, and complained of them to the judge, who told him that he was at liberty to kill a fly wherever he saw it: just then a fly happened to alight on the judge's nose, which Giufà observing, he immediately aimed at it so furious a blow with his fist, that he smashed his worship's nose! The hopelessness of attempting to impart instruction to the silly son is farther illustrated by the story in a Sinhalese collection: A gúrú was engaged in teaching one of his disciples, but whilst he was teaching the youth was watching the movements of a rat which was entering its hole. As soon as the gúrú had finished his teaching, he said, "Well, my son, has all entered in?" to which the youth replied, "Yes, all has entered in except the tail." And from the same work is the following choice example of "a happy family": A priest went one day to the house of one of his followers, and amongst other things he said, "Tell me now, which of your four children is the best-behaved?" The father replied, "Look, sir, at that boy who has climbed to the top of that thatched building, and is waving aloft a firebrand. Among them all, he is the divinely excellent one." Whereupon the priest placed his finger on his nose, drew a deep, deep sigh, and said, "Is it indeed so? What, then, must the other three be?" The Turkish romance of the Forty Vazírs--the plan of which is similar to that of the Book of Sindibád and its derivatives--furnishes us with two stories of the same class, one of which is as follows, according to my friend Mr. Gibb's complete translation (the first that has been made in English), recently published:[15] They have told that in bygone times there was a king, and he had a skilful minstrel. One day a certain person gave to the latter a little boy, that he might teach him the science of music. The boy abode a long time by him, and though the master instructed him, he succeeded not in learning, and the master could make nothing of him. He arranged a scale, and said, "Whatsoever thou sayest to me, say in this scale." So whatsoever the boy said he used to say in that scale. Now one day a spark of fire fell on the master's turban. The boy saw it and chanted, "O master, I see something; shall I say it or no?" and he went over the whole scale. Then the master chanted, "O boy, what dost thou see? Speak!" and he too went over all that the boy had gone over. Then the turn came to the boy, and he chanted, "O master, a spark has fallen on thy turban, and it is burning." The master straightway tore off his turban and cast it on the ground, and saw that it was burning. He blew out the fire on this side and on that, and took it in his hand, and said to the boy, "What time for chanting is this? Everything is good in its own place," and he admonished him.[16] The other story tells how a king had a stupid son, and placed him in charge of a cunning master, learned in the sciences, who declared it would be easy for him to teach the boy discretion, and, before dismissing him, the king gave the sage many rich gifts. After the boy has been long under the tuition of his learned master, the latter, conceiving him to be well versed in all the sciences, takes him to the king, his father, who says to him, "O my son, were I to hold a certain thing hidden in my hand, couldst thou tell me what it is?" "Yes," answers the youth. Upon this the king secretly slips the ring off his finger, and hides it in his hand, and then asks the boy, "What have I in my hand?" Quoth the clever youth, "O father, it first came from the hills." (The king thinks to himself, "He knows that mines are in the hills.") "And it is a round thing," continues he--"it must be a millstone." "Blockhead!" exclaims the irate king, "could a millstone be hidden in a man's hand?" Then addressing the learned man, "Take him away," he says, "and _teach_ him." Lastly, we have a somewhat different specimen of the silly son in the doctor's apprentice, whose attempt to imitate his master was so ludicrously unsuccessful. He used to accompany his master on his visits to patients, and one day the doctor said to a sick man, to whom he had been called, "I know what is the matter with you, and it is useless to deny it;--you have been eating beans." On their way home, the apprentice, admiring his master's sagacity, begged to be informed how he knew that the patient had been eating beans. "Boy," said the doctor, loftily, "I drew an inference." "An inference!" echoed this youth of inquiring mind; "and what is an inference?" Quoth the doctor, "Listen: when we came to the door, I observed the shells of beans lying about, and I drew the inference that the family had had beans for dinner." Another day it chanced that the doctor did not take his apprentice with him when he went his rounds, and in his absence a message came for him to visit a person who had been taken suddenly ill. "Here," thought the apprentice, "is a chance for my putting master's last lesson into practice;" so off he went to the sick man, and assuming as "knowing" an air as he could, he felt his pulse, and then said to him severely, "Don't deny it; I see by your pulse that you have been eating a horse. I shall send you some medicine." When the doctor returned home he inquired of his hopeful pupil, whether any person had called for him, upon which the wittol proudly told him of his own exploit. "Eaten a horse!" exclaimed the man of physic. "In the name of all that's wonderful, what induced you to say such a thing?" Quoth the youth, simpering, "Why, sir, I did as you did the other day, when we visited the old farmer--I drew an inference." "You drew an inference, did you? And how did you draw the inference that the man had eaten a horse?" "Why, very readily, sir; for as I entered the house I saw a saddle hanging on the wall."[17] FOOTNOTES: [1] Abridged from the story of "Silly Matt" in Sir George W. Dasent's _Tales from the Fjeld_. [2] Professor Crane's _Italian Popular Tales_, p. 302. This actual throwing of eyes occurs in the folk-tales of Europe generally. [3] In _Le Cabinet des Fées, 1788_ (tome xxxviii., p. 337 ff.).-- There can be no such name as Xailoun in Arabic; that of the noodle's wife, Oitba, may be intended for "Utba." Cazotte has so Frenchified the names of the characters in his tales as to render their identification with the Arabic originals (where he had any such) often impossible. Although this story is not found in any known Arabian text of the _Book of the Thousand and One Nights_, yet the incidents for the most part occur in several Eastern story-books. [4] On a similar occasion Giufà, the Sicilian brother to the Arabian fool, did somewhat more mischief. Once his mother went to church and told him to make some porridge for his baby-sister. Giufà made a great pot of porridge and fed the baby with it, and burned her mouth so that she died. Another time his mother on leaving home told him to feed the hen that was sitting and put her back in the nest, so that the eggs should not get cold. Giufà stuffed the hen with food so that he killed her, and then sat on the eggs himself until his mother returned.--See Crane's _Italian Popular Tales_, pp. 296-7. [5] Abridged and modified from a version in the _Folk-Lore Record_, vol. iii., pp. 153-5. [6] The usual mode by which in the East thieves break into houses, which are for the most part constructed of clay. See Job xxiv. 16. [7] Kurakkan is a species of grain. [8] _The Orientalist_, June, 1884, pp. 137-8. [9] Ummu Sulayman. In Arabia the mother is generally addressed in this way as a mark of respect for having borne children, and the eldest gives the title. Our bang-eater supposed he was addressing an old woman who had (or might have had) a son named Solomon. [10] See Ralston's _Russian Folk-Tales._ [Transcriber's note: Footnote reference missing from original, p. 153] [11] From a paper on "Comparative Folk-lore," by W. Goonetilleke, in _The Orientalist_, i., p. 122. [12] _Mery Tales, Wittie Questions, and Quicke Answeres, very pleasant to be Readde._ Imprinted at London by H. Wykes, 1567. [13] Thus, too, Scogin and his "chamber-fellow" successively declared to a rustic that the sheep he was driving were pigs. In Fortini's novels, in like manner, a simpleton is persuaded that the kid he offered for sale was a capon; and in the Spanish _El Conde Lucanor_, and the German _Tyl Eulenspiegel_, a countryman is cheated out of a piece of cloth. The original form of the incident is found in the _Hitopadesa_, where three sharpers persuade a Bráhman that the goat he is carrying for a sacrifice is a dog. This story of the Florentine noodle--or rather Poggio's version--may have been suggested by a tale in the _Gesta Romanorum_, in which the emperor's physician is made to believe that he had leprosy. See my _Popular Tales and Fictions_, where these and similar stories are compared in a paper entitled "The Sharpers and the Simpleton." [14] In Powell and Magnusson's _Legends of Iceland_ (Second Series, p. 627), a woman makes her husband believe that he is dressed in fine clothes when he is naked; another persuades her husband that he is dead, and as he is being carried to the burying-ground, he perceives the naked man, who asserts that he is dressed, upon which he exclaims, "How I should laugh if I were not dead!" And in a _fabliau_ by Jean de Boves, "Le Villain de Bailleul; _aliàs_, Le Femme qui fit croire à son Mari qu'il était mort," the husband exclaims, "Rascal of a priest, you may well thank Heaven that I am dead, else I would belabour you soundly with my stick."--See M. Le Grand's _Fabliaux_, ed. 1781, tome v., pp. 192, 193. [5] _History of the Forty Viziers; or, The Forty Morns and Forty Eves._ Translated from the Turkish, by E.J.W. Gibb, M.R.A.S. London: G. Redway, 1886. [16] A variant of this is found in John Bromyard's _Summa Prædicantium_, A 26, 34, as follows: Quidam sedebat juxta igneum, cujus vestem ignis intrabat. Dixit socius suus, "Vis audire rumores?" "Ita," inquit, "bonos et non alios." Cui alius, "Nescio nisi malos." "Ergo," inquit, "nolo audire." Et quum bis aut ter ei hoc diceret, semper idem respondit. In fine, quum sentiret vestem combustam, iratus ait socio, "Quare non dixisti mihi?" "Quia (inquit) dixista quod noluisti audire rumores nisi placentes et illi non erant tales." [17] Under the title of "The Phisitian that bare his Paciente in honde that he had eaten an Asse" this jest occurs in _Merry Tales and Quicke Answeres_, and Professor Crane gives a Sicilian version in his _Italian Popular Tales_. CHAPTER VI. THE FOUR SIMPLE BRÁHMANS. [As a sort of supplement to the sayings and doings of the silly son, the following highly diverting Indian tale is here inserted, from the Abbé Dubois' French rendering of the Tamil original, appended, with others, to his selections from the _Panchatantra_. The story is known in the north as well as in the south of India: in the Panjábi version there are, however, but three noodle-heroes. It will be seen that the third Bráhman's tale is another of the numerous silent couple class, and it may possibly be the original form.] _Introduction._ In a certain district, proclamation had been made of a Samaradanam being about to be held.[1] Four Bráhmans, from different villages, going thither, fell in upon the road, and, finding that they were all upon the same errand, they agreed to proceed in company. A soldier, happening to meet them, saluted them in the usual way, by touching hands and pronouncing the words always applied on such occasions to Bráhmans, "_Dandamarya_!" or "Health to my lord!" The four travellers made the customary return, "_Asirvadam!_" and going on, they came to a well, where they quenched their thirst and reposed themselves in the shade of some trees. Sitting there, and finding no better subject of conversation, one of them asked the others, whether they did not remark how particularly the soldier had distinguished him by his polite salutation. "You!" said another; "it was not you that he saluted, but me." "You are both mistaken," says a third; "for you may remember that when the soldier said, '_Dandamarya!_' he cast his eyes upon me." "Not at all," replied the fourth; "it was I only he saluted; otherwise, should I have answered him as I did, by saying, '_Asirvadam_'?" Each maintained his argument obstinately; and as none of them would yield, the dispute had nearly come to blows, when the least stupid of the four, seeing what was likely to happen, put an end to the brawl by the following advice: "How foolish it is in us," said he, "thus to put ourselves in a passion! After we have said all the ill of one another that we can invent--nay, after going stoutly to fisticuffs, like Sudra rabble, should we be at all nearer to the decision of our difference? The fittest person to determine the controversy, I think, would be the man who occasioned it. The soldier, who chose to salute one of us, cannot yet be far off: let us therefore run after him as quickly as we can, and we shall soon know for which of us he intended his salutation." This advice appeared wise to them all, and was immediately adopted. The whole of them set off in pursuit of the soldier, and at last overtook him, after running a league, and all out of breath. As soon as they came in sight of him, they cried out to him to stop; and before they had well approached him, they had put him in full possession of the nature of their dispute, and prayed him to terminate it, by saying to which of them he had directed his salutation. The soldier instantly perceiving the character of the people he had to do with, and being willing to amuse himself a little at their expense, coolly replied, that he intended his salutation for the greatest fool of all four, and then, turning on his heel, he continued his journey. The Bráhmans, confounded at this answer, turned back in silence. But all of them had deeply at heart the distinction of the salutation of the soldier, and the dispute was gradually renewed. Even the awkward decision of the warrior could not prevent each of them from arrogating to himself the pre-eminence of being noticed by him, to the exclusion of the others. The contention, therefore, now became, which of the four was the stupidest; and strange to say, it grew as warm as ever, and must have come to blows, had not the person who gave the former advice, to follow the soldier, interposed again with his wisdom, and spoken as follows: "I think myself the greatest fool of us all. Each of you thinks the same thing of himself. And after a fight, shall we be a bit nearer the decision of the question? Let us, therefore, have a little patience. We are within a short distance of Dharmapuri, where there is a choultry, at which all little causes are tried by the heads of the village; and let ours be judged among the rest." The others agreed in the soundness of this advice; and having arrived at the village, they eagerly entered the choultry, to have their business settled by the arbitrator. They could not have come at a better season. The chiefs of the district, Bráhmans and others, had already met in the choultry; and no other cause being brought forward, they proceeded immediately to that of the four Bráhmans, who advanced into the middle of the court, and stated that a sharp contest having arisen among them, they were come to have it decided with fairness and impartiality. The court desired them to proceed and explain the ground of their controversy. Upon this, one of them stood forward and related to the assembly all that had happened, from their meeting with the soldier to the present state of the quarrel, which rested on the superior degree of stupidity of one of their number. The detail created a general shout of laughter. The president, who was of a gay disposition, was delighted beyond measure to have fallen in with so diverting an incident. But he put on a grave face, and laid it down, as the peculiarity of the cause, that it could not be determined on the testimony of witnesses, and that, in fact, there was no other way of satisfying the minds of the judges than by each, in his turn, relating some particular occurrence of his life, on which he could best establish his claim to superior folly. He clearly showed that there could be no other means of determining to which of them the salutation of the soldier could with justice be awarded. The Bráhmans assented, and upon a sign being made to one of them to begin, and the rest to keep silence, the first thus spoke: _Story of the First Bráhman_. I am poorly provided with clothing, as you see; and it is not to-day only that I have been covered with rags. A rich and very charitable Bráhman merchant once made a present of two pieces of cloth to attire me--the finest that had ever been seen in our village. I showed them to the other Bráhmans of the village, who all congratulated me on so fortunate an acquisition. They told me it must be the fruit of some good deeds that I had done in a preceding generation. Before I should put them on, I washed them, according to the custom, in order to purify them from the soil of the weaver's touch, and hung them up to dry, with the ends fastened to two branches of a tree. A dog, then happening to come that way, ran under them, and I could not discover whether he was high enough to touch the clothes or not. I asked my children, who were present, but they said they were not quite certain. How, then, was I to discover the fact? I put myself upon all-fours, so as to be of the height of the dog, and in that posture I crawled under the clothing. "Did I touch it?" said I to the children, who were observing me. They answered, "No," and I was filled with joy at the news. But after reflecting a while, I recollected that the dog had a turned-up tail, and that by elevating it above the rest of his body, it might well have reached my cloth. To ascertain that, I fixed a leaf in my loin-cloth, turning upwards, and then, creeping again on all-fours, I passed a second time under the clothing. The children immediately cried out that the point of the leaf on my back had touched the cloth. This proved to me that the point of the dog's tail must have done so too, and that my garments were therefore polluted. In my rage I pulled down the beautiful raiment, and tore it in a thousand pieces, loading with curses both the dog and his master. When this foolish act was known, I became the laughing-stock of all the world, and I was universally treated as a madman. "Even if the dog had touched the cloth," said they, "and so brought defilement upon it, might not you have washed it a second time, and so have removed the stain? Or might you not have given it to some poor Sudra, rather than tear it in pieces? After such egregious folly, who will give you clothes another time?" This was all true; for ever since, when I have begged clothing of any one, the constant answer has been, that, no doubt, I wanted a piece of cloth to pull to pieces. He was going on, when a bystander interrupted him by remarking that he seemed to understand going on all-fours. "Exceedingly well," said he, "as you shall see;" and off he shuffled, in that posture, amidst the unbounded laughter of the spectators. "Enough! enough!" said the president. "What we have both heard and seen goes a great way in his favour. But let us now hear what the next has to say for himself in proof of his stupidity." The second accordingly began by expressing his confidence that if what they had just heard appeared to them to be deserving of the salutation of the soldier, what he had to say would change their opinion. _Story of the Second Bráhman_. Having got my hair and beard shaven one day, in order to appear decent at a public festival of the Bráhmans, which had been proclaimed throughout the district, I desired my wife to give the barber a penny for his trouble. She heedlessly gave him a couple. I asked him to give me one of them back, but he refused. Upon that we quarrelled, and began to abuse each other; but the barber at length pacified me, by offering, in consideration of the double fee, to shave my wife also. I thought this a fair way of settling the difference between us. But my wife, hearing the proposal, and seeing the barber in earnest, tried to make her escape by flight. I took hold of her, and forced her to sit down, while he shaved her poll in the same manner as they serve widows.[2] During the operation she cried out bitterly; but I was inexorable, thinking it less hard that my wife should be close-shaven than that my penny should be given away for nothing. When the barber had finished, I let her go, and she retired immediately to a place of concealment, pouring down curses on me and the barber. He took his departure, and meeting my mother in his way, told her what he had done, which made her hasten to the house, to inquire into the outrage; and when she saw that it was all true she also loaded me with incivilities. The barber published everywhere what had happened at our house; and the villain added to the story that I had caught her with another man, which was the cause of my having her shaved; and people were no doubt expecting, according to our custom in such a case, to see her mounted on an ass, with her face turned towards the tail. They came running to my dwelling from all quarters, and actually brought an ass to make the usual exhibition in the streets. The report soon reached my father-in-law, who lived at a distance of ten or twelve leagues, and he, with his wife, came also to inquire into the affair. Seeing their poor daughter in that degraded state, and being apprised of the only reason, they reproached me most bitterly; which I patiently endured, being conscious that I was in the wrong. They persisted, however, in taking her with them, and keeping her carefully concealed from every eye for four whole years; when at length they restored her to me. This little accident made me lose the Samaradanam, for which I had been preparing by a fast of three days; and it was a great mortification to me to be excluded from it, as I understood it was a most splendid entertainment. Another Samaradanam was announced to be held ten days afterwards, at which I expected to make up for my loss. But I was received with the hisses of six hundred Bráhmans, who seized my person, and insisted on my giving up the accomplice of my wife, that he might be prosecuted and punished, according to the severe rules of the caste. I solemnly attested her innocence, and told the real cause of the shaving of her hair; when a universal burst of surprise took place, every one exclaiming, how monstrous it was that a married woman should be so degraded, without having committed the crime of infidelity. "Either this man," said they, "must be a liar, or he is the greatest fool on the face of the earth!" Such, I daresay, gentlemen, you will think me, and I am sure you will consider my folly [looking with great disdain on the first speaker] as being far superior to that of the render of body-clothing. The court agreed that the speaker had put in a very strong case; but justice required that the other two should also be heard. The third claimant was indeed burning with impatience for his turn, and as soon as he had permission, he thus spoke: _Story of the Third Brahman_. My name was originally Anantya; now all the world call me Betel Anantya, and I will tell you how this nickname arose. My wife, having been long detained at her father's house, on account of her youth, had cohabited with me but about a month when, going to bed one evening, I happened to say (carelessly, I believe), that all women were babblers. She retorted, that she knew men who were not less babblers than women. I perceived at once that she alluded to myself; and being somewhat piqued at the sharpness of her retort, I said, "Now let us see which of us shall speak first." "Agreed," quoth she; "but what shall be the forfeit?" "A leaf of betel," said I. Our wager being thus made, we both addressed ourselves to sleep, without speaking another word. Next morning, as we did not appear at our usual hour, after some interval, they called us, but got no answer. They again called, and then roared stoutly at the door, but with no success. The alarm began to spread in the house. They began to fear that we had died suddenly. The carpenter was called with his tools. The door of our room was forced open, and when they got in they were not a little surprised to find both of us wide awake, in good health, and at our ease, though without the faculty of speech. My mother was greatly alarmed, and gave loud vent to her grief. All the Bráhmans in the village, of both sexes, assembled, to the number of one hundred; and after close examination, every one drew his own conclusion on the accident which was supposed to have befallen us. The greater number were of opinion that it could have arisen only from the malevolence of some enemy who had availed himself of magical incantations to injure us. For this reason, a famous magician was called, to counteract the effects of the witchcraft, and to remove it. As soon as he came, after steadfastly contemplating us for some time, he began to try our pulses, by putting his finger on our wrists, on our temples, on the heart, and on various other parts of the body; and after a great variety of grimaces, the remembrance of which excites my laughter, as often as I think of him, he decided that our malady arose wholly from the effect of malevolence. He even gave the name of the particular devil that possessed my wife and me and rendered us dumb. He added that the devil was very stubborn and difficult to allay, and that it would cost three or four pagodas for the offerings necessary for compelling him to fly. My relations, who were not very opulent, were astonished at the grievous imposition which the magician had laid on them. Yet, rather than we should continue dumb, they consented to give him whatsoever should be necessary for the expense of his sacrifice; and they farther promised that they would reward him for his trouble as soon as the demon by whom we were possessed should be expelled. He was on the point of commencing his magical operations, when a Bráhman, one of our friends, who was present, maintained, in opposition to the opinion of the magician and his assistants, that our malady was not at all the effect of witchcraft, but arose from some simple and ordinary cause, of which he had seen several instances, and he undertook to cure us without any expense. He took a chafing-dish filled with burning charcoal, and heated a small bar of gold very hot. This he took up with pincers, and applied to the soles of my feet, then to my elbows, and the crown of my head. I endured these cruel operations without showing the least symptom of pain, or making any complaint; being determined to bear anything, and to die, if necessary, rather than lose the wager I had laid. "Let us try the effect on the woman," said the doctor, astonished at my resolution and apparent insensibility. And immediately taking the bit of gold, well heated, he applied it to the sole of her foot. She was not able to endure the pain for a moment, but instantly screamed out, "Enough!" and turning to me, "I have lost my wager," she said; "there is your leaf of betel." "Did I not tell you," said I, taking the leaf, "that you would be the first to speak out, and that you would prove by your own conduct that I was right in saying yesterday, when we went to bed, that women are babblers?" Every one was surprised at the proceeding; nor could any of them comprehend the meaning of what was passing between my wife and me; until I explained the kind of wager we had made overnight, before going to sleep. "What!" they exclaimed, "was it for a leaf of betel that you have spread this alarm through your own house and the whole village?--for a leaf of betel that you showed such constancy, and suffered burning from the feet to the head upwards? Never in the world was there seen such folly!" And so, from that time, I have been constantly known by the name of Betel Anantya. The narrative being finished, the court were of opinion that so transcendent a piece of folly gave him high pretensions in the depending suit; but it was necessary also to hear the fourth and last of the suitors, who thus addressed them: _Story of the Fourth Bráhman_. The maiden to whom I was betrothed, having remained six or seven years at her father's house, on account of her youth, we were at last apprised that she was become marriageable; and her parents informed mine that she was in a situation to fulfil all the duties of a wife, and might therefore join her husband. My mother being at that time sick, and the house of my father-in-law being at the distance of five or six leagues from ours, she was not able to undertake the journey. She therefore committed to myself the duty of bringing home my wife, and counselled me so to conduct myself, in words and actions, that they might not see that I was only a brute. "Knowing thee as I do," said my mother, as I took leave of her, "I am very distrustful of thee." But I promised to be on my good behaviour; and so I departed. I was well received by my father-in-law, who gave a great feast to all the Bráhmans of the village on the occasion. He made me stay three days, during which there was nothing but festivity. At length the time of our departure having arrived, he suffered my wife and myself to leave him, after pouring out blessings on us both, and wishing us a long and happy life, enriched with a numerous progeny. When we took leave of him, he shed abundance of tears, as if he had foreseen the misery that awaited us. It was then the summer solstice, and the day was exceedingly hot. We had to cross a sandy plain of more than two leagues; and the sand, being heated by the burning sun, scorched the feet of my young wife, who, being brought up too tenderly in her father's house, was not accustomed to such severe trials. She began to cry, and being unable to go on, she lay down on the ground, saying she wished to die there. I was in dreadful trouble, and knew not what step to take; when a merchant came up, travelling the contrary way. He had a train of fifty bullocks, loaded with various kinds of merchandise. I ran to meet him, and told him the cause of my anxiety with tears in my eyes; and entreated him to aid me with his good advice in the distressing circumstances in which I was placed. He immediately answered, that a young and delicate woman, such as my wife was, could neither remain where she lay nor proceed on her journey, under a hot sun, without being exposed to certain death. Rather than that I should see her perish, and run the hazard of being suspected of having killed her myself, and being guilty of one of the five crimes which the Bráhmans consider as the most heinous, he advised me to give her to him, and then he would mount her on one of his cattle and take her along with him. That I should be a loser, he admitted; but, all things considered, it was better to lose her, with the merit of having saved her life, than equally to lose her, under the suspicion of being her murderer. "Her trinkets," he said, "may be worth fifteen pagodas; take these twenty and give me your wife." The merchant's arguments appeared unanswerable; so I yielded to them, and delivered to him my wife, whom he placed on one of his best oxen, and continued his journey without delay. I continued mine also, and got home in the evening, exhausted with hunger and fatigue, and with my feet almost roasted with the burning sand, over which I had walked the greater part of the day. Frightened to see me alone, "Where is your wife?" cried my mother. I gave her a full account of everything that had happened from the time I left her. I spoke of the agreeable and courteous manner in which my father-in-law had received me, and how, by some delay, we had been overtaken by the scorching heat of the sun at noon, so that my wife must have perished and myself suspected of having caused her death, had we proceeded; and that I had preferred to sell her to a merchant who met us for twenty pagodas. And I showed my mother the money. When I had done, my mother fell into an ecstasy of fury. She lifted up her voice against me with cries of rage, and overwhelmed me with imprecations and awful curses. Having given way to these first emotions of despair, she sank into a more moderate tone: "What hast thou done! Sold thy wife, hast thou! Delivered her to another man! A Bráhmanari is become the concubine of a vile merchant! Ah, what will her kindred and ours say when they hear the tale of this brutish stupidity--of folly so unexampled and degrading?" The relations of my wife were soon informed of the sad adventure that had befallen their unhappy girl. They came over to attack me, and would certainly have murdered me and my innocent mother, if we had not both made a sudden escape. Having no direct object to wreak their vengeance upon, they brought the matter before the chiefs of the caste, who unanimously fined me in two hundred pagodas, as a reparation to my father-in-law, and issued a proclamation against so great a fool being ever allowed to take another wife; denouncing the penalty of expulsion from the caste against any one who should assist me in such an attempt. I was therefore condemned to remain a widower all my life, and to pay dear for my folly. Indeed, I should have been excluded for ever from my caste, but for the high consideration in which the memory of my late father is still held, he having lived respected by all the world. Now that you have heard one specimen of the many follies of my life, I hope you will not consider me as beneath those who have spoken before me, nor my pretensions altogether undeserving of the salutation of the soldier. _Conclusion_. The heads of the assembly, several of whom were convulsed with laughter while the Bráhmans were telling their stories, decided, after hearing them all, that each had given such absolute proofs of folly as to be entitled, in justice, to a superiority in his own way: that each of them, therefore, should be at liberty to call himself the greatest fool of all, and to attribute to himself the salutation of the soldier. Each of them having thus gained his suit, it was recommended to them all to continue their journey, if it were possible, in amity. The delighted Brahmans then rushed out of court, each exclaiming that he had gained his cause. FOOTNOTES: [1] A Samaradanam is one of the public festivals given by pious people, and sometimes by those in power, to the Bráhmans, who on such occasions assemble in great numbers from all quarters. [2] In a Sinhalese story, referred to on ["p. 68" in original. This approximates to the reference to Chapter III, Footnote 5 in this e-text], it is, curiously enough, the woman herself "who has her head shaved, so as not to lose the services of the barber for the day when he came, and her husband was away from home." The story probably was introduced into Ceylon by the Tamils; both versions are equally good as noodle-stories. CHAPTER VII. THE THREE GREAT NOODLES. Few folk-tales are more widely diffused than that of the man who set out in quest of as great noodles as those of his own household. The details may be varied more or less, but the fundamental outline is identical, wherever the story is found; and, whether it be an instance of the transmission of popular tales from one country to another, or one of those "primitive fictions" which are said to be the common heritage of the Aryans, its independent development by different nations and in different ages cannot be reasonably maintained. Thus, in one Gaelic version of this diverting story--in which our old friends the Gothamites reappear on the scene to enact their unconscious drolleries--a lad marries a farmer's daughter, and one day while they are all busily engaged in peat-cutting, she is sent to the house to fetch the dinner. On entering the house, she perceives the speckled pony's packsaddle hanging from the roof, and says to herself, "Oh, if that packsaddle were to fall and kill me, what should I do?" and here she began to cry, until her mother, wondering what could be detaining her, comes, when she tells the old woman the cause of her grief, whereupon the mother, in her turn, begins to cry, and when the old man next comes to see what is the matter with his wife and daughter, and is informed about the speckled pony's packsaddle, he, too, "mingles his tears" with theirs. At last the young husband arrives, and finding the trio of noodles thus grieving at an imaginary misfortune, he there and then leaves them, declaring his purpose not to return until he has found three as great fools as themselves. In the course of his travels he meets with some strange folks: men whose wives make them believe whatever they please--one, that he is dead; another, that he is clothed, when he is stark naked; a third, that he is not himself. He meets with the twelve fishers who always miscounted their number; the noodles who went to drown an eel in the sea; and a man trying to get his cow on the roof of his house, in order that she might eat the grass growing there. But the most wonderful incident was a man coming with a cow in a cart: and the people had found out that the man had stolen the cow, and that a court should be held upon him, and so they did; and the justice they did was to put the horse to death for carrying the cow.[1] In another Gaelic version a young husband had provided his house with a cradle, in natural anticipation that such an interesting piece of furniture would be required in due time. In this he was disappointed, but the cradle stood in the kitchen all the same. One day he chanced to throw something into the empty cradle, upon which his wife, his mother, and his wife's mother set up loud lamentations, exclaiming, "Oh, if _he_ had been there, he had been killed!" alluding to a potential son. The man was so much shocked at such an exhibition of folly that he left the country in search of three greater noodles. Among other adventures, he goes into a house and plays tricks on some people there, telling them his name is "_Saw ye ever my like_?" When the old man of the house comes home he finds his people tied upon tables, and asks, "What's the reason of this?" "Saw ye ever my like?" says the first. Then going to a second man, he asks, "What's the reason of this?" "Saw ye ever my like?" says the second. "I saw thy like in the kitchen," replies the old man, and then he goes to the third: "What's the reason of this?" "Saw ye ever my like?" says the third. "I have seen plenty of thy like," quoth the old man; "but never before this day," and then he understood that some one had been playing tricks on his people.[2] In Russian variants the old parents of a youth named Lutonya weep over the supposititious death of a potential grandchild, thinking how sad it would have been if a log which the old woman had dropped had killed that hypothetical infant. The parents' grief appears to Lutonya so uncalled for that he leaves the house, declaring he will not return until he has met with people more foolish than they. He travels long and far, and sees several foolish doings. In one place a horse is being inserted into its collar by sheer force; in another, a woman is fetching milk from the cellar a spoonful at a time; and in a third place some carpenters are attempting to stretch a beam which is not long enough, and Lutonya earns their gratitude by showing them how to join a piece to it.[3] A well-known English version is to this effect: There was a young man who courted a farmer's daughter, and one evening when he came to the house she was sent to the cellar for beer. Seeing an axe stuck in a beam above her head, she thought to herself, "Suppose I were married and had a son, and he were to grow up, and be sent to this cellar for beer, and this axe were to fall and kill him--oh dear! oh dear!" and there she sat crying and crying, while the beer flowed all over the cellar-floor, until her old father and mother come in succession and blubber along with her about the hypothetical death of her imaginary grown-up son. The young man goes off in quest of three bigger fools, and sees a woman hoisting a cow on to the roof of her cottage to eat the grass that grew among the thatch, and to keep the animal from falling off, she ties a rope round its neck, then goes into the kitchen, secures at her waist the rope, which she had dropped down the chimney, and presently the cow stumbles over the roof, and the woman is pulled up the flue till she sticks half-way. In an inn he sees a man attempting to jump into his trousers--a favourite incident in this class of stories; and farther along he meets with a party raking the moon out of a pond. Another English variant relates that a young girl having been left alone in the house, her mother finds her in tears when she comes home, and asks the cause of her distress. "Oh," says the girl, "while you were away, a brick fell down the chimney, and I thought, if it had fallen on me I might have been killed!" The only novel adventure which the girl's betrothed meets with, in his quest of three bigger fools, is an old woman trying to drag an oven with a rope to the table where the dough lay. Several versions are current in Italy and Sicily, which present a close analogy to those of other European countries. The following is a translation of one in Bernoni's Venetian collection: Once upon a time there were a husband and a wife who had a son. This son grew up, and said one day to his mother, "Do you know, mother, I would like to marry?" "Very well, marry! Whom do you want to take?" He answered, "I want the gardener's daughter." "She is a good girl--take her; I am willing." So he went, and asked for the girl, and her parents gave her to him. They were married, and when they were in the midst of their dinner, the wine gave out. The husband said, "There is no more wine!" The bride, to show that she was a good housekeeper, said, "I will go and get some." She took the bottles and went to the cellar, turned the cock, and began to think, "Suppose I should have a son, and we should call him Bastianelo, and he should die! Oh, how grieved I should be! oh, how grieved I should be!" And thereupon she began to weep and weep; and meanwhile the wine was running all over the cellar. When they saw that the bride did not return, the mother said, "I will go and see what the matter is." So she went into the cellar, and saw the bride, with the bottle in her hand, and weeping. "What is the matter with you that you are weeping?" "Ah, my mother, I was thinking that if I had a son, and should name him Bastianelo, and he should die, oh, how I should grieve! oh, how I should grieve!" The mother, too, began to weep, and weep, and weep; and meanwhile the wine was running over the cellar. When the people at the table saw that no one brought the wine, the groom's father said, "I will go and see what is the matter. Certainly something wrong has happened to the bride." He went and saw the whole cellar full of wine, and the mother and bride weeping. "What is the matter?" he said; "has anything wrong happened to you?" "No," said the bride; "but I was thinking that if I had a son, and should call him Bastianelo, and he should die, oh, how I should grieve! oh, how I should grieve!" Then he, too, began to weep, and all three wept; and meanwhile the wine was running over the cellar. When the groom saw that neither the bride, nor the mother, nor the father came back, he said, "Now I will go and see what the matter is that no one returns." He went into the cellar and saw all the wine running over the cellar. He hastened and stopped the cask, and then asked, "What is the matter that you are all weeping, and have let the wine run all over the cellar?" Then the bride said, "I was thinking that if I had a son and called him Bastianelo, and he should die, oh, how I should grieve! oh, how I should grieve!" Then the groom said, "You stupid fools! Are you weeping at this and letting all the wine run into the cellar? Have you nothing else to think of? It shall never be said that I remained with you. I will roam about the world, and until I find three fools greater than you, I will not return home." He had a bread-cake made, took a bottle of wine, a sausage, and some linen, and made a bundle, which he put on a stick and carried over his shoulder. He journeyed and journeyed, but found no fool. At last he said, worn out, "I must turn back, for I see I cannot find a greater fool than my wife." He did not know what to do, whether to go on or turn back. "Oh," said he, "it is better to try and go a little farther." So he went on, and shortly saw a man in his shirt-sleeves at a well, all wet with perspiration, and water. "What are you doing, sir, that you are so covered with water and in such a sweat?" "Oh, let me alone," the man answered; "for I have been here a long time drawing water to fill this pail, and I cannot fill it." "What are you drawing the water in?" he asked him. "In this sieve," he said. "What are you thinking about, to draw water in that sieve? Just wait!" He went to a house near by and borrowed a bucket, with which he returned to the well and filled the pail. "Thank you, good man. God knows how long I should have had to remain here!"--"Here," thought he, "is one who is a greater fool than my wife." He continued his journey, and after a time he saw at a distance a man in his shirt, who was jumping down from a tree. He drew near, and saw a woman under the same tree, holding a pair of breeches. He asked them what they were doing, and they said that they had been there a long time, and that the man was trying on those breeches and did not know how to get into them. "I have jumped and jumped," said the man, "until I am tired out, and I cannot imagine how to get into those breeches." "Oh," said the traveller, "you might stay here as long as you wished, for you would never get into them this way. Come down and lean against the tree." Then he took his legs and put them in the breeches, and after he had put them on, he said, "Is that right?" "Very good; bless you; for if it had not been for you, God knows how long I should have had to jump." Then the traveller said to himself, "I have seen two greater fools than my wife." Then he went his way, and as he approached a city, he heard a great noise. When he drew near he asked what it was, and was told it was a marriage, and that it was the custom in that city for the brides to enter the city gate on horseback, and that there was a great discussion on this occasion between the groom and the owner of the horse, for the bride was tall and the horse high, and they could not get through the gate; so that they must either cut off the bride's head or the horse's legs. The groom did not wish his bride's head cut off, and the owner of the horse did not wish his horse's legs cut off, and hence this disturbance. Then the traveller said, "Just wait," and came up to the bride and gave her a slap that made her lower her head, and then he gave the horse a kick, and so they passed through the gate and entered the city. The groom and the owner of the horse asked the traveller what he wanted, for he had saved the groom his bride and the owner of the horse his horse. He answered that he did not wish anything, and said to himself, "Two and one make three! that is enough. Now I will go home." He did so, and said to his wife, "Here I am, my wife; I have seen three greater fools than you;--now let us remain in peace, and think of nothing else." They renewed the wedding, and always remained in peace. After a time the wife had a son, whom they named Bastianelo, and Bastianelo did not die, but still lives with his father and mother.[4] There is (Professor Crane remarks) a Sicilian version in Pitré's collection, called "The Peasant of Larcàra," in which the bride's mother imagines that her daughter has a son who falls into the cistern. The groom--they are not yet married--is disgusted, and sets out on his travels with no fixed purpose of returning if he finds some fools greater than his mother-in-law, as in the Venetian tale. The first fool he meets is a mother, whose child, in playing the game called _nocciole_.[5] tries to get his hand out of the hole whilst his fist is full of stones. He cannot, of course, and the mother thinks they will have to cut off his hand. The traveller tells the child to drop the stones, and then he draws out his hand easily enough. Next he finds a bride who cannot enter the church because she is very tall and wears a high comb. The difficulty is settled as in the former story. After a while he comes to a woman who is spinning and drops her spindle. She calls out to the pig, whose name is Tony, to pick it up for her. The pig does nothing but grunt, and the woman in anger cries, "Well, you won't pick it up? May your mother die!" The traveller, who had overheard all this, takes a piece of paper, which he folds up like a letter, and then knocks at the door. "Who is there?" "Open the door, for I have a letter for you from Tony's mother, who is ill and wishes to see her son before she dies." The woman wonders that her imprecation has taken effect so soon, and readily consents to Tony's visit. Not only this, but she loads a mule with everything necessary for the comfort of the body and soul of the dying pig. The traveller leads away the mule with Tony, and returns home so pleased with having found that the outside world contains so many fools that he marries as he had first intended.[6] In other Italian versions, a man is trying to jump into his stockings; another endeavours to put walnuts into a sack with a fork; and a woman dips a knotted rope into a deep well, and then having drawn it up, squeezes the water out of the knots into a pail. The final adventure of the traveller in quest of the greatest noodles is thus related in Miss Busk's _Folk-lore of Rome_: Towards nightfall he arrived at a lone cottage, where he knocked, and asked for a night's lodging. "I can't give you that," said a voice from the inside; "for I am a lone widow. I can't take a man in to sleep here." "But I am a pilgrim," replied he; "let me in at least to cook a bit of supper." "That I don't mind doing," said the good wife, and she opened the door. "Thanks, good friend," said the pilgrim, as he sat down by the stove. "Now add to your charity a couple of eggs in a pan." So she gave him a pan and two eggs, and a bit of butter to cook them in; but he took the six eggs out of his staff and broke them into the pan too. Presently, when the good wife turned her head his way again, and saw eight eggs swimming in the pan instead of two, she said, "Lack-a-day! you must surely be some strange being from the other world. Do you know So-and-so?" naming her husband. "Oh yes," said he, enjoying the joke; "I know him very well: he lives just next to me." "Only to think of that!" replied the poor woman. "And, do tell me, how do you get on in the other world? What sort of a life is it?" "Oh, not so very bad; it depends what sort of a place you get. The part where we are is pretty good, except that we get very little to eat. Your husband, for instance, is nearly starved." "No, really?" cried the good wife, clasping her hands. "Only fancy, my good husband starving out there, so fond as he was of a good dinner, too!" Then she added, coaxingly, "As you know him so well, perhaps you wouldn't mind doing him the charity of taking him a little somewhat, to give him a treat. There are such lots of things I could easily send him." "Oh dear, no, not at all. I'll do so with pleasure," answered he. "But I'm not going back till to-morrow, and if I don't sleep here I must go on farther, and then I shan't come by this way." "That's true," replied the widow. "Ah, well, I mustn't mind what the folks say; for such an opportunity as this may never occur again. You must sleep in my bed, and I must sleep on the hearth; and in the morning I'll load a donkey with provisions for my poor husband." "Oh, no," replied the pilgrim, "you shan't be disturbed in your bed. Only let me sleep on the hearth--that will do for me; and as I am an early riser, I can be gone before any one's astir, so folks won't have anything to say." So it was done, and an hour before sunrise the woman was up, loading the donkey with the best of her stores--ham, macaroni, flour, cheese, and wine. All this she committed to the pilgrim, saying, "You'll send the donkey back, won't you?" "Of course I would send him back," he replied; "he'd be of no use to me out there. But I shan't get out again myself for another hundred years or so, and I fear he won't find his way back alone, for it's no easy way to find." "To be sure not; I ought to have thought of that," replied the widow. "Ah, well, so as my poor husband gets a good meal, never mind the donkey." So the pretended pilgrim from the other world went his way. He hadn't gone a hundred yards before the widow called him back. "Ah, she's beginning to think better of it," said he to himself, and he continued his way, pretending not to hear. "Good pilgrim," shouted the widow, "I forgot one thing: would money be of any use to my poor husband?" "Oh dear, yes," said he, "all the use in the world. You can always get anything for money anywhere." "Oh, do come back, then, and I'll trouble you with a hundred scudi for him." He went back, willingly, for the hundred scudi, which the widow counted out to him. "There's no help for it," said he to himself as he went his way: "I must go back to those at home." From sunny Italy to bleak Norway is certainly a "far cry," yet the adventure of the "Pilgrim from Paradise" is also known to the Norse peasants, in connection with the quest of the greatest noodles: A goody goes to market, with a cow and a hen for sale. She wants five shillings for the cow and ten pounds for the hen. A butcher buys the cow, but doesn't want the hen. As she cannot find a buyer for the hen, she goes back to the butcher, who treats her to so much brandy that she gets dead-drunk, and in this condition the butcher tars and feathers her. When she awakes, she fancies that she must be some strange bird, and cries out, "Is this me, or is it not me? I'll go home, and if our dog barks, then it is not me." Thus far we have a variant of our favourite nursery rhyme: There was an old woman, as I've heard tell, She went to market her eggs for to sell; She went to market, all on a market-day, And she fell asleep on the king's highway. There came a pedlar, whose name was Stout, He cut her petticoats all round about; He cut her petticoats up to the knees, Which made the old woman to shiver and freeze. When the little woman first did wake, She began to shiver and she began to shake; She began to wonder, and she began to cry, "Lauk-a-mercy on me, this is none of I!" "But if this be I, as I do hope it be, I've a little dog at home, and he'll know me; If it be I, he'll wag his little tail, And if it be not I, he loudly bark and wail." Home went the little woman all in the dark, Up got the little dog, and began to bark; He began to bark, and she began to cry, "Lauk-a-mercy on me, this can't be I!" To return to the Norse tale. As in our nursery rhyme, when the goody reaches home, the dog barks at her; then she goes to the calves' house, but the calves, having sniffed the tar with which she was smeared, turn away from her in disgust. She is now fully convinced that she has been transformed into some outlandish bird, so she climbs on to the roof of a shed, and begins to flap her arms as if she were about to fly, when out comes her goodman, and seeing a suspicious-looking creature on the roof of the shed, he fetches his gun and is going to shoot at his goody, when he recognises her voice. Amazed at such a piece of folly, he resolves to leave her and not come back till he has found three goodies as silly. He meets with a female descendant of the Schildburgers, evidently, carrying into her cottage sunshine in a sieve, there being no window in the house: he cuts out a window for her and is well paid for his trouble. He next comes to a house where an old woman is thumping her goodman on the head with a beetle, in order to force over him a shirt without a slit for the neck, which she had drawn over his head: he cuts a slit in the shirt with a pair of scissors, and is amply rewarded for his ingenuity. His third adventure is similar to that of the "pilgrim" in the Italian version: At another house he informs the goody that he came from Paradise Place-- which was the name of his own farm--and she asks him if he knew her second husband in paradise. (She had been married twice before she took her present husband, who was an old curmudgeon, and she liked her second husband best--she was sure he had gone to heaven.) He replies that he knew him very intimately, but, poor man, he was far from well off, having to go about begging from house to house. The goody gives him a cart-load of clothes and a box of shining dollars, for her dear second husband; for why should he go about begging in paradise when there was so much of everything in their house? So the stranger, jumps into the cart and drives off, as fast as possible. But Peter, the goody's third husband, sees him on the road, and recognising his own horse and cart, hastens home to his wife, and asks why a stranger has gone off with his property. She explains the whole affair, upon which he mounts a horse and gallops away after the rogue who had thus taken advantage of his wife's simplicity. The stranger, perceiving him approach, hides the horse and cart behind a high hedge, takes part of the horse's tail and hangs it on the branches of a birch-tree, and then lays himself down on his back and gazes up into the sky. When Peter comes up to him, he exclaims, still looking at the sky, "What a wonder! there is a man going straight to heaven on a black horse!" Peter can see no such thing. "Can you not?" says the stranger. "See, there is his tail, still on the birch-tree. You must lie down in this very spot, and look straight up, and don't for a moment take your eyes off the sky, and then you'll see-- what you'll see." So Peter lies down and gazes up at the sky very intently, looking for the man going straight to heaven on a black horse. Meanwhile the traveller escapes, with the cart-load of clothes and the box of shining dollars, and the second horse besides. Peter, when he reaches home, tells his wife that he had given the man from paradise the other horse for her second husband to ride about on, for he was ashamed to confess that he had been cheated as well as herself.[7] As to our traveller, having found three goodies as great fools as his own, he returned home, and saw that all his fields had been ploughed and sown; so he asked his wife where she had got the seed from. "Oh," says she, "I have always heard that what a man sows he shall also reap, so I sowed the salt that our friends the north-countrymen laid up with us, and if we only have rain, I fancy it will come up nicely."[8] "Silly you are," said her husband, "and silly you will be as long as you live. But that is all one now, for the rest are not a bit wiser than you;--_there is not a pin to choose between you_!"[9] Now, if it be "a far cry" from Italy to Norway, it is still farther from Norway to India; and yet it is in the southern provinces of our great Asiatic empire that a story is current among the people, which, strange as it may seem, is almost the exact counterpart of the Norse version of the pretended pilgrim from paradise, of which the above is an abstract. It is found in Pandit S.M. Natésa Sástrí's _Folk-lore in Southern India_, now in course of publication at Bombay; a work which, when completed, will be of very great value, to students of comparative folk-tales, as well as prove an entertaining story-book for general readers. After condensation in some parts, this story--which the Pandit entitles "The Good Wife and the Bad Husband"--runs thus: In a secluded village there lived a rich man, who was very miserly, and his wife, who was very kind-hearted and charitable, but a stupid little woman that believed everything she heard. And there lived in the same village a clever rogue, who had for some time watched for an opportunity for getting something from this simple woman during her husband's absence. So one day, when he had seen the old miser ride out to inspect his lands, this rogue of the first water came to the house, and fell down at the threshold as if overcome by fatigue. The woman ran up to him at once and inquired whence he came. "I am come from Kailása,"[10] said he; "having been sent down by an old couple living there, for news of their son and his wife." "Who are those fortunate dwellers in Siva's mountain?" she asked. And the rogue gave the names of her husband's deceased parents, which he had taken good care, of course, to learn from the neighbours. "Do you really come from them?" said the simple woman. "Are they doing well there? Dear old people! How glad my husband would be to see you, were he here! Sit down, please, and rest until he returns. How do they live there? Have they enough to eat and dress themselves withal?" These and a hundred other questions she put to the rogue, who, for his part, wished to get away as soon as possible, knowing full well how he would be treated if the miser should return while he was there. So he replied, "Mother, language has no words to describe the miseries they are undergoing in the other world. They have not a rag of clothing, and for the last six days they have eaten nothing, and have lived on water only. It would break your heart to see them." The rogue's pathetic words deceived the good woman, who firmly believed that he had come down from Kailása, a messenger from the old couple to herself. "Why should they so suffer," said she, "when their son has plenty to eat and clothe himself withal, and when their daughter-in-law wears all sorts of costly garments?" So saying, she went into the house, and soon came out again with two boxes containing all her own and her husband's clothes, which she handed to the rogue, desiring him to deliver them to the poor old couple in Kailása. She also gave him her jewel-box, to be presented to her mother-in-law. "But dress and jewels will not fill their hungry stomachs," said the rogue. "Very true; I had forgot: wait a moment," said the simple woman, going into the house once more. Presently returning with her husband's cash chest, she emptied its glittering contents into the rogue's skirt, who now took his leave in haste, promising to give everything to the good old couple in Kailása; and having secured all the booty in his upper garment, he made off at the top of his speed as soon as the silly woman had gone indoors. Shortly after this the husband returned home, and his wife's pleasure at what she had done was so great that she ran to meet him at the door, and told him all about the arrival of the messenger from Kailása, how his parents were without clothes and food, and how she had sent them clothes and jewels and store of money. On hearing this, the anger of the husband was great; but he checked himself, and inquired which road the messenger from Kailása had taken, saying that he wished to follow him with a further message for his parents. So she very readily pointed out the direction in which the rogue had gone. With rage in his heart at the trick played upon his stupid wife, he rode off in hot haste, and after having proceeded a considerable distance, he caught sight of the flying rogue, who, finding escape hopeless, climbed up into a _pipal_ tree. The husband soon reached the foot of the tree, when he shouted to the rogue to come down. "No, I cannot," said he; "this is the way to Kailása," and then climbed to the very top of the tree. Seeing there was no chance of the rogue coming down, and there being no one near to whom he could call for help, the old miser tied his horse to a neighbouring tree, and began to climb up the _pípal_ himself. When the rogue observed this, he thanked all his gods most fervently, and having waited until his enemy had climbed nearly up to him, he threw down his bundle of booty, and then leapt nimbly from branch to branch till he reached the ground in safety, when he mounted the miser's horse and with his bundle rode into a thick forest, where he was not likely to be discovered. Being thus balked the miser came down the _pípal_ tree slowly cursing his own stupidity in having risked his horse to recover the things which his wife had given the rogue, and returned home at leisure. His wife, who was waiting his return, welcomed him with a joyous countenance, and cried, "I thought as much: you have sent away your horse to Kailása, to be used by your old father." Vexed at his wife's words, as he was, he replied in the affirmative, to conceal his own folly. Through the Tamils it is probable this story reached Ceylon, where it exists in a slightly different form: A young girl, named Kaluhámi, had lately died, when a beggar came to the parents' house, and on being asked by the mother where he had come from, he said that he had just come from the other world to this world, meaning that he had only just recovered from severe illness. "Then," said the woman, "since you have come from the other world, you must have seen my daughter Kaluhámi there, who died but a few days ago. Pray tell me how she is." The beggar, seeing how simple she was, replied, "She is my wife, and lives with me at present, and she has sent me to you for her dowry." The woman at once gave him all the money and jewels that were in the house, and sent him away delighted with his unexpected good luck. Soon after, the woman's husband returned, and learning how silly she had been, mounted his horse and rode after the beggar. The rest of the story corresponds to the Tamil version, as above, with the exception that when the husband saw the beggar slide down the tree, get on his horse, and ride off, he cried out to him, "Hey, son-in-law, you may tell Kaluhámi that the money and jewels are from her mother, and that the horse is from me;" which is altogether inconsistent, since he is represented as the reverse of a simpleton in pursuing the beggar, on hearing what his wife had done. It is curious, also, to observe that in the Tamil version the man goes to the house with the deliberate purpose of deceiving the simple woman, while in the Sinhalese the beggar is evidently tempted by her mistaking the meaning of his words. But both present very close points of resemblance to the Norwegian story of the pretended pilgrim from paradise. There are indeed few instances of a story having travelled so far and lost so little of its original details, allowing for the inevitable local colouring. FOOTNOTES: [1] Campbell's _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_, vol. ii., pp. 373-381. In a note to these adventures Campbell gives a story of some women who, as judges, doomed a horse to be hanged: the thief who stole the horse got off, because it was his first offence; the horse went back to the house of the thief, because he was the better master, and was condemned for stealing himself! [2]: Campbell's _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_, vol. ii., pp. 385--387. In a Northumberland popular tale a child in bed sees a little fairy come down the chimney, and the child tells the creature that his name is My-ainsel. They play together, and the little fairy is burnt with a cinder, and on its mother appearing when it cries, and asking it who had hurt it, the imp answers, "It was My-ainsel."--There is a somewhat similar story current in Finland: A man is moulding lead buttons, when the Devil appears, and asks him what he is doing. "Making eyes." "Could you make me new ones?" "Yes." So he ties the Devil to a bench, and, in reply to the fiend, tells him that his name is Myself _(Issi)_, and then pours lead into his eyes. The Devil starts up with the bench on his back, and runs off howling. Some people working in a field ask him who did it. Quoth the fiend, "Myself did it" (_Issi teggi_). Cf. the _Odyssey_, Book ix., where Ulysses informs the Cyclops that his name is No-man, and when the monster, after having had his eye put out in his sleep, awakes in agony, he roars to his comrades for help: "Friends, No-man kills me, No-man, in the hour Of sleep, oppresses me with fraudful power!" "If no man hurt thee, but the hand divine Inflict disease, it fits thee to resign;-- To Jove, or to thy father, Neptune, pray," The brethren cried, and instant strode away. [3] Ralston's _Russian Folk-Tales_. [4] Crane's _Italian Popular Tales_, pp. 279--282. [5] A game played with peach-pits, which are thrown into holes made in the ground, and to which certain numbers are attached. [6] Crane's _Italian Popular Tales_, pp. 282-3. [7] The same story is told in Brittany, with no important variations. [8] Quite as literally did the rustic understand the priest's assurance, that whatsoever one gave in charity, for the love of God, should be repaid him twofold: next day he takes his cow to the priest, who accepts it as sent by Heaven--and the poor man did _not_ get two cows in return. The story is known in various forms all over Europe; it was a special favourite in mediæval times. See Le Grand's _Fabliaux_, tome iii., 376: "La Vache du Curé," by the trouvère Jean de Boves; Wright's _Latin Stories; Icelandic Legends_, etc. [9] Dasent's _Popular Tales from the Norse_. [10] "See note, p. 49" in original. This is Chapter II, Footnote 13 in this e-text. APPENDIX. The idea of the old English jest-book, _Jacke of Dover His Quest of Inquirie, or His Privy Search for the Veriest Foole in England_ (London: 1604), may perhaps have been suggested by such popular tales as those of the man going about in quest of three greater fools than his wife, father-in-law, and mother-in-law. It is, however, simply a collection of humorous anecdotes, not specially examples of folly or stupidity, most of which are found in earlier jest-books. The introduction is rather curious: "When merry Jacke of Dover had made his privy search for the Foole of all Fooles, and making his inquirie in most of the principal places in England, at his return home he was adjudged to be the fool himself; but now wearied with the motley coxcombe, he hath undertaken in some place or other to find a verier foole than himself. But first of all, coming to London, he went into Paul's Church, where walking very melancholy in the middle aisle with Captain Thingut and his fellowes, he was invited to dine at Duke Humphry's ordinary,[1] where, amongst other good stomachs that repaired to his bountiful feast, there came a whole jury of penniless poets, who being fellows of a merry disposition (but as necessary in a commonwealth as a candle in a straw bed), he accepted of their company, and as from poets cometh all kind of folly, so he hoped by their good directions to find out his Foole of Fooles, so long looked for. So, thinking to pass away the dinner-hour with some pleasant chat (lest, being overcloyed with too many dishes, they should surfeit), he discovered to them his merry meaning, who, being glad of so good an occasion of mirth, instead of a cup of sack and sugar for digestion, these men of little wit began to make inquiry and to search for the aforesaid fool, thinking it a deed of charity to ease him of so great a burden as his motley coxcomb was, and because such weak brains as are now resident almost in every place, might take benefit hereat. In this manner began the inquiry: _The Foole of Hereford._ "'Upon a time (quoth one of the jury) it was my chance to be in the city of Hereford, when, lodging at an inn, I was told of a certain silly-witted gentleman there dwelling, that would assuredly believe all things that he heard for a truth; to whose house I went upon a sleeveless errand, and finding occasion to be acquainted with him, I was well entertained, and for three days' space had my bed and board in his house; where, amongst many other fooleries, I, being a traveller, made him believe that the steeple of Brentwood, in Essex, sailed in one night as far as Calais, in France, and afterwards returned again to its proper place. Another time I made him believe that in the forest of Sherwood, in Nottinghamshire, were seen five hundred of the King of Spain's galleys, which went to besiege Robin Hood's Well, and that forty thousand scholars with elder squirts performed such a piece of service as they were all in a manner taken and overthrown in the forest. Another time I made him believe that Westminster Hall, for suspicion of treason, was banished for ten years into Staffordshire. And last of all, I made him believe that a tinker should be baited to death at Canterbury for getting two and twenty children in a year; whereupon, to prove me a liar, he took his horse and rode thither, and I, to verify him a fool, took my horse and rode hither.' "'Well,' quoth Jacke of Dover, 'this in my mind was pretty foolery, but yet the Foole of all Fooles is not here found that I looked for.' _The Fool of Huntington._ "'And it was my chance (quoth another of the jury) upon a time to be at Huntington, where I heard tell of a simple shoemaker there dwelling, who having two little boys whom he made a vaunt to bring up to learning, the better to maintain themselves when they were men; and having kept them a year or two at school, he examined them saying, "My good boy," quoth he to one of them, "what dost thou learn and where is thy lesson?" "O father," said the boy, "I am past grace." "And where art thou?" quoth he to the other boy, who likewise answered that he was at the devil and all his works. "Now Lord bless us," quoth the shoemaker, "whither are my children learning? The one is already past grace and the other at the devil and all his works!" Whereupon he took them both from school and set them to his own occupation.[2]'" A number of others of the jury of penniless poets having related their stories, at last it is agreed that if the Foole of all Fooles cannot be found among those before named, one of themselves must be the fool, for there cannot be a verier fool than a poet, "for poets have good wits, but cannot use them, great store of money, but cannot keep it," etc. * * * * * It is doubtful what the name "Jack of Dover" imports, as that of the imaginary inquirer after fools. The author of the Cook's Tale of Gamelyn--which is generally considered as a spurious "Canterbury" tale-- represents, in the prologue, mine host of the Tabard as saying to Roger the Cook: "Full many a pastie hast thou lettin blode; And many a jack of Dovyr hast thou sold, That hath ben twicè hot and twicè cold." Dr. Brewer says--apparently on the strength of these lines--that a "Jack of Dover" is a fish that has been cooked a second time. But it may have been a name of a particular kind of fish caught in the waters off Dover. If, however, a "Jack of Dover" is a twice-cooked fish, the title of the jest-book is not inappropriate, since all the stories it comprises are at least "twice-told." FOOTNOTES: [1] To "dine with Duke Humphry" meant not to dine at all. See Brewer's _Dictionary of Phrase and Fable_ for the origin of the expression. [2] The jest is thus told in some parts of Scotland: An old gentleman, walking in the country, met three small boys on their way home from school, and asked them how they progressed in their learning. The youngest--referring, of course, to the _Shorter Catechism_--replied that he was "in a state of sin and misery;" the second, that he was past "redemption;" and the eldest, that he was "in the pains of hell for ever." INDEX. * * * * * Abdera, Man of, 6. Alewife and her Hens, 73. Alfonsus, Peter, 45. Arab and his Cow, 70. Arab Schoolmaster, 83. Arabian Idiot, 133. _Arabian Nights_, 81, 83, 133, 146. Arabian Noodles, 70,75,107, 147. Armstrong's, Archie, _Banquet of Jests_, 74. Ashton, John, xiv. Ass and the Two Sharpers, 81. Austwick, Carles of, 17,53,54. _Avadánas_, 53. Babrius, 53. Bakki, Brothers of, 32, 64. Bang-eater and his Wife, 147. Bang-eaters and the Dogs, 109. Barrett, F.T., 9. _Barrin' o' the Door_, 107. Belmont, Fools of, 55. _Beryn, Tale of_, 40. Beschi, Father, 29. _Bharataka Dwatrinsati_, 158. _Bizarrures of the Sieur Gaulard_, 8, 12, 20, 76. Bidpaï's Fables, 53. Birth-Stories--_see_ Játakas. Boccaccio's _Decameron_, 39. "Boiling" River, 30, 43. Bond, The Lord's, 17. Borde, Andrew, 23. Bráhmans, Four Simple, 171. Bromyard, John, 167. Buddha's Five Precepts, 69. Bull and the Gate, 54. Bull of Siva, 48. Burton's _Arabian Nights_, 83. Busk's _Folk-Lore of Rome_, 204. Butter eaten by a Dog, 18. Buzzard, The Gothamite's, 38. Cabbage-Tree, 47. Caftan on Tree, 90. Calf's Head in a Pot, 89. Campbell's _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 154, 193. Cat and old Woman, 65. Cat, Men of Schilda's, 61. Cazotte's _New Arabian Nights_, 133. Ceylon--_see_ Sinhalese Noodles. Chamberlain, B.H., 130. Cheese, The Gothamite's, 34. Cheese on the Highway, 40. Cheese, The Stolen, 91. Chinese Noodles, 93, 94. Coelho's _Contes Portuguezes_, 120. Colombo, Michele, 81. Countryman and Dog, 79. Cozens, F.W., 9. Council-House, Dark, 57. Crane's _Italian Popular Tales_, 117, 128, 139, 202, 204. Cuckoo, Hedging in the, 26. Cumeans and the bath, 4; and the father's corpse,15; and the fig-tree, 10; and the pot of honey, 19; and the stolen clothes, 4. Dark Council-House, 57. Dasent's _Norse Tales_, 126, 212. Dekker's _Gul's Horn Book_, 26. Devil in the Meadow, 42. _Disciplina Clericalis_, 45. Doctor and Patients, 5. Doctor's Apprentice, 168. Dog that ate Honey, 18. Door, Taking Care of the, 97, 98. Dreams, The Good, 92, 93. Dubois, Abbé, 171. Ear, Biting one's own, 86. Eberhard's _Hieraclis_, 3. Eel, Drowning the, 33. _El Conde Lucanor_, 162. English typical booby, 139. _Fabliaux_, Le Grand's, 39,163. Family, Best of the, 165. Farmer and his Pigs, 54. Fisher, Indian Silly Son as, 163. Fishers, Gothamite, 28. Fleas, Bit by, 14. _Folk-Lore in Southern India_, 212. Fool and the aloes-wood, 98; and the birch-tree, 151; and the cotton, 99; and the cup lost in the sea, 99; and the elephant-driver, 51; and his porridge, 119; and the _Ramayana_, 70; and the sack of meal, 19, 25, 68; and the shopkeeper, 100; at his fireside, 119; kicked by his mule, 119; of Hereford, 221; of Huntingdon, 222. Fools and the buffalo, 101; and the Bull of Siva, 48; and their inheritance, 118; and the mosquitoes, 95; and the palm-trees, 96; and the trunks, 96. Fortini's Italian Novels, 162. Fuller, Thomas, on the Gothamites, 20. Fumivall, F.J., 23. Gaulard, The Sieur, 8, 12, 20, 76. Geese and Tortoise, 52. _Gesta Romanorum_, 117,163. Gibb's _Forty. Vazírs_, 109, 166, 167. Giufà, the Sicilian Booby, 97, 130, 165. Goat and Old Woman, 66. _Gooroo Paramartan_, 29, 37, 157. Gossips and their late Husbands, 74. Gossips at the Alehouse, 43. _Gotham, Tales of the Mad Men of_, xiii., 20, 24-44. Grazzini's Florentine Fool, 161. Grecian Noodles, 1-15. Halliwell-Phillipps, J.O., xiii., 13, 22, 27, 53. Hama and Hums, Men of, 75. Hazlitt, W.C., xiii., 12. Heaven, Sorry he has gone to, 74. Herdsman, The Foolish, 106. Herodotus, Stephens' _Apology_ for, 119. Hierokles, Jests of, 2. _Hitopadesa_, 162. Honey, Pot of, 6, 18. Hunter's Dream of a Boar, 4. Icelandic Noodles, 32, 64, 163. Indian Noodles, 29, 37, 44, 48, 51, 70, 96, 97-106, 111, 1l8, 158, l6l, 163, 170, 212. Italian Noodles, 115, 127, 143, 160, 197, 202, 204. Irish Labourer and Farmer, 8. Irishman and his ass, 119. Irishman and his hens, 120. Irishman and lost shovel, 99. Irishmen and mosquitoes, 14. Irishman's Dream, 92. Jack of Dover's Quest, 219. Japanese Noodle, 130. Jatakas (Buddhist Birth-Stories), 52, 65, 95, 164. _Jests of Scogin_, 162. Joe Miller's Jest-Book, 1, 2. Judge and Thieves, 87. Kabaïl Tales, 37, 154. Kashmírí Tales, 65, 89, 111. _Katha Manjari_, 11, 70, 100, 163. _Katha Sarit Sagara_, 48, 53, 120, 164. Kerchief, The, 90. Khoja Nasr-ed-Din, 89. King's Stupid Son, The, 167. Knite, 'The Gothamites', 53. Knowles, J.H., 66, 113. _Laird of Logan_, 13. Leger's _Contes Populaires Slaves_, 128, 154. Marie de France, 46. _Mery Tales and Quicke Answeres_, 161. Miller's Jest-Book, 1, 2. Millstone of the Schildburgers, 59. Minstrel and Pupil, 166. Monk Transformed, 81. Moon a green cheese, 44. Moon in the well, 92. Moon swallowed by an ass, 46. "Mortuus Loquens," 160. Mummy, The, 15. Nasr-ed-Din Khoja, 89. Natesa Sastri Pandit, 212. Needham's _Hieroclis_, 3. Noodles, The Three Great, 191. Norfolk Noodles, 17. Norse Noodles, 123, 207. Notts Bridge, 24. _Orientalist, The_, 69, 87, 114, 143, 160. _Pancha Tantra_, 67, 171. Paradise, Man who came from, 204, 210, 212, 217. Pedant, bald man, and barber, 6; and the lost book, 13; and his dream, 5,6; and the jar of feathers, 5; and his jar of wine, 9; and the mirror, 9; and the two slave-boys, 4; and his slave who died, 8; and the sparrows, 5; and the twin-brothers, 12; and his tomb, 8. Persian Noodle, 7. Persian Tales, 7, 66, 79. _Philotimus_, 27. Poet and the Dogs, 79. Poggius' _Facetiæ_ 160, 162. Priest of Gotham, 42. Princess caused to grow, 102. Pupil, The Attentive, 165. Ralston's _Russian Folk-Tales,_ 48, 153. Relic-hunter, 95. Rents of Gothamites, 27. Right Hand or Left, 91. River, "Boiling," 30, 43. Riviere's _Contes Populaires de la Kabylie du Djurdjura_, 37, 154. Russian Noodles, 47, 128, 151, 154, 195 Rustic and the Dog, 79. _Sacke Full of Newes_, 46, 97. Sa'dí's _Gulistán_, xi, 79. Schilda, The Men of, 56. Schoolmaster's Lady-love, 83. Sesame, Roasted, 120. Sheep's Eyes, Casting, 41, 126, 127. Sicilian Boobies, 97, 116, 139, 165. Silent Noodles, 107-117. Silly Matt, 123. Silly Son, The, 121. Simple Simon, 121, 122. Simpleton and Sharpers, 81. _Sindibád Náma_, 66. Sinhalese Noodles, 67-69, 87, 89, 113, 141, 165, 179, 217. Smith, Alexander, 9. Spade, The Stolen, 94. Spinning-Wheel, The, 36. Stephens, Henry, Tales by, 119. Stokes' _Indian Fairy Tales_, 154. _Summa Praædicantium_, The, 167. Tabourot, Etienne, 8. _Tales and Quicke Answeres_, 161. Tawney, C.H., 48. Taylor's _Wit and Mirth_, 9, 10, 74, 78. Thief on a Tree, 11. Thoms, W.J., xii., 56. Thoroton's _History of Nottinghamshire_, 21. Three Greatest Noodles, 191. Treasure Trove, 144, 151, 154. Trivet, The Gothamite's, 36. Turkish Noodles, 11, 86, 90, 93, 109, 166, 167. Twelve Fishers, The, 28. Twin Brothers, 12. Vives, Ludovicus, 46. Warton's _History of English Poetry_, 22. Washerman and his young Ass, 103. Wasp's Nest, 40. "Whittle to the Tree," 53. Widows, The Two, 74. Wiltshire Noodles, 17, 54. Wither's _Abuses Whipt and Stript_, 26. Wolf's Tail, The, 91. Wood, Anthony, on the Gotham Tales, 23. Worsted Balls, The, 35. Wrestler and the Wag, 7. Wrong Man wakened, 6, 7. 
17190	----	GREEK AND ROMAN GHOST STORIES by LACY COLLISON-MORLEY Formerly Scholar of St. John's College, Oxford Author of "Giuseppe Baretti and His Friends," "Modern Italian Literature" Oxford B. H. Blackwell, Broad Street London Simpkin, Marshall & Co., Limited MCMXII This collection was originally begun at the suggestion of Mr. Marion Crawford, whose wide and continual reading of the classics supplied more than one of the stories. They were put together during a number of years of casual browsing among the classics, and will perhaps interest others who indulge in similar amusements. CONTENTS PAGE I. THE POWER OF THE DEAD TO RETURN TO EARTH 1 II. THE BELIEF IN GHOSTS IN GREECE AND ROME 13 III. STORIES OF HAUNTING 19 IV. NECROMANCY 33 V. VISIONS OF THE DEAD IN SLEEP 45 VI. APPARITIONS OF THE DEAD 54 VII. WARNING APPARITIONS 72 I THE POWER OF THE DEAD TO RETURN TO EARTH Though there is no period at which the ancients do not seem to have believed in a future life, continual confusion prevails when they come to picture the existence led by man in the other world, as we see from the sixth book of the _Æneid_. Combined with the elaborate mythology of Greece, we are confronted with the primitive belief of Italy, and doubtless of Greece too--a belief supported by all the religious rites in connection with the dead--that the spirits of the departed lived on in the tomb with the body. As cremation gradually superseded burial, the idea took shape that the soul might have an existence of its own, altogether independent of the body, and a place of abode was assigned to it in a hole in the centre of the earth, where it lived on in eternity with other souls. This latter view seems to have become the official theory, at least in Italy, in classical days. In the gloomy, horrible Etruscan religion, the shades were supposed to be in charge of the Conductor of the Dead--a repulsive figure, always represented with wings and long, matted hair and a hammer, whose appearance was afterwards imitated in the dress of the man who removed the dead from the arena. Surely something may be said for Gaston Boissier's suggestion that Dante's Tuscan blood may account to some extent for the gruesome imagery of the _Inferno_. Cicero[1] tells us that it was generally believed that the dead lived on beneath the earth, and special provision was made for them in every Latin town in the "mundus," a deep trench which was dug before the "pomerium" was traced, and regarded as the particular entrance to the lower world for the dead of the town in question. The trench was vaulted over, so that it might correspond more or less with the sky, a gap being left in the vault which was closed with the stone of the departed--the "lapis manalis." Corn was thrown into the trench, which was filled up with earth, and an altar erected over it. On three solemn days in the year--August 25, October 5, and November 8--the trench was opened and the stone removed, the dead thus once more having free access to the world above, where the usual offerings were made to them.[2] These provisions clearly show an official belief that death did not create an impassable barrier between the dead and the living. The spirits of the departed still belonged to the city of their birth, and took an interest in their old home. They could even return to it on the days when "the trench of the gods of gloom lies open and the very jaws of hell yawn wide."[3] Their rights must be respected, if evil was to be averted from the State. In fact, the dead were gods with altars of their own,[4] and Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, could write to her sons, "You will make offerings to me and invoke your parent as a god."[5] Their cult was closely connected with that of the Lares--the gods of the hearth, which symbolized a fixed abode in contrast with the early nomad life. Indeed, there is practically no distinction between the Lares and the Manes, the souls of the good dead. But the dead had their own festival, the "Dies Parentales," held from the 13th to the 21st of February, in Rome;[6] and in Greece the "Genesia," celebrated on the 5th of Boedromion, towards the end of September, about which we know very little.[7] There is nothing more characteristic of paganism than the passionate longing of the average man to perpetuate his memory after death in the world round which all his hopes and aspirations clung. Cicero uses it as an argument for immortality.[8] Many men left large sums to found colleges to celebrate their memories and feast at their tombs on stated occasions.[9] Lucian laughs at this custom when he represents the soul of the ordinary man in the next world as a mere bodiless shade that vanishes at a touch like smoke. It subsists on the libations and offerings it receives from the living, and those who have no friends or relatives on earth are starving and famished.[10] Violators of tombs were threatened with the curse of dying the last of their race--a curse which Macaulay, with his intense family affection, considered the most awful that could be devised by man; and the fact that the tombs were built by the high road, so that the dead might be cheered by the greeting of the passer-by, lends an additional touch of sadness to a walk among the crumbling ruins that line the Latin or the Appian Way outside Rome to-day. No one of the moderns has caught the pagan feeling towards death better than Giosuè Carducci, a true spiritual descendant of the great Romans of old, if ever there was one. He tells how, one glorious June day, he was sitting in school, listening to the priest outraging the verb "amo," when his eyes wandered to the window and lighted on a cherry-tree, red with fruit, and then strayed away to the hills and the sky and the distant curve of the sea-shore. All Nature was teeming with life, and he felt an answering thrill, when suddenly, as if from the very fountains of being within him, there welled up a consciousness of death, and with it the formless nothing, and a vision of himself lying cold, motionless, dumb in the black earth, while above him the birds sang, the trees rustled in the wind, the rivers ran on in their course, and the living revelled in the warm sun, bathed in its divine light. This first vision of death often haunted him in later years;[11] and one realizes that such must often have been the feelings of the Romans, and still more often of the Greeks, for the joy of the Greek in life was far greater than that of the Roman. Peace was the only boon that death could bring to a pagan, and "Pax tecum æterna" is among the commonest of the inscriptions. The life beyond the grave was at best an unreal and joyless copy of an earthly existence, and Achilles told Odysseus that he would rather be the serf of a poor man upon earth than Achilles among the shades. When we come to inquire into the appearance of ghosts revisiting the glimpses of the moon, we find, as we should expect, that they are a vague, unsubstantial copy of their former selves on earth. In Homer[12] the shade of Patroclus, which visited Achilles in a vision as he slept by the sea-shore, looks exactly as Patroclus had looked on earth, even down to the clothes. Hadrian's famous "animula vagula blandula" gives the same idea, and it would be difficult to imagine a disembodied spirit which retains its personality and returns to earth again except as a kind of immaterial likeness of its earthly self. We often hear of the extreme pallor of ghosts, which was doubtless due to their being bloodless and to the pallor of death itself. Propertius conceived of them as skeletons;[13] but the unsubstantial, shadowy aspect is by far the commonest, and best harmonizes with the life they were supposed to lead. Hitherto we have been dealing with the spirits of the dead who have been duly buried and are at rest, making their appearance among men only at stated intervals, regulated by the religion of the State. The lot of the dead who have not been vouchsafed the trifling boon of a handful of earth cast upon their bones was very different. They had not yet been admitted to the world below, and were forced to wander for a hundred years before they might enter Charon's boat. Æneas beheld them on the banks of the Styx, stretching out their hands "ripæ ulterioris amore." The shade of Patroclus describes its hapless state to Achilles, as does that of Elpenor to Odysseus, when they meet in the lower world. It is not surprising that the ancients attached the highest importance to the duty of burying the dead, and that Pausanias blames Lysander for not burying the bodies of Philocles and the four thousand slain at Ægospotami, seeing that the Athenians even buried the Persian dead after Marathon.[14] The spirits of the unburied were usually held to be bound, more or less, to the spot where their bodies lay, and to be able to enter into communication with the living with comparative ease, even if they did not actually haunt them. They were, in fact, evil spirits which had to be propitiated and honoured in special rites. Their appearances among the living were not regulated by religion. They wandered at will over the earth, belonging neither to this world nor to the next, restless and malignant, unable to escape from the trammels of mortal life, in the joys of which they had no part. Thus, in the _Phædo_[15] we read of souls "prowling about tombs and sepulchres, near which, as they tell us, are seen certain ghostly apparitions of souls which have not departed pure ... These must be the souls, not of the good, but of the evil, which are compelled to wander about such places in payment of the penalty of their former evil way of life." Apuleius[16] classifies the spirits of the departed for us. The Manes are the good people, not to be feared so long as their rites are duly performed, as we have already seen; Lemures are disembodied spirits; while Larvæ are the ghosts that haunt houses. Apuleius, however, is wholly uncritical, and the distinction between Larvæ and Lemures is certainly not borne out by facts. The Larvæ had distinct attributes, and were thought to cause epilepsy or madness. They were generally treated more or less as a joke,[17] and are spoken of much as we speak of a bogey. They appear to have been entrusted with the torturing of the dead, as we see from the saying, "Only the Larvæ war with the dead."[18] In Seneca's _Apocolocyntosis_,[19] when the question of the deification of the late Emperor Claudius is laid before a meeting of the gods, Father Janus gives it as his opinion that no more mortals should be treated in this way, and that "anyone who, contrary to this decree, shall hereafter be made, addressed, or painted as a god, should be delivered over to the Larvæ" and flogged at the next games. Larva also means a skeleton, and Trimalchio, following the Egyptian custom, has one brought in and placed on the table during his famous feast. It is, as one would expect, of silver, and the millionaire freedman points the usual moral--"Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die."[20] The Larvæ were regular characters in the Atellane farces at Rome, where they performed various "danses macabres." Can these possibly be the prototypes of the Dances of Death so popular in the Middle Ages? We find something very similar on the well-known silver cups discovered at Bosco Reale, though Death itself does not seem to have been represented in this way. Some of the designs in the medieval series would certainly have appealed to the average bourgeois Roman of the Trimalchio type--e.g., "Les Trois Vifs et les Trois Morts," the three men riding gaily out hunting and meeting their own skeletons. Such crude contrasts are just what one would expect to find at Pompeii. Lemures and Larvæ are often confused, but Lemures is the regular word for the dead not at rest--the "Lemuri," or spirits of the churchyard, of some parts of modern Italy. They were evil spirits, propitiated in early days with blood. Hence the first gladiatorial games were given in connection with funerals. Both in Greece and in Rome there were special festivals for appeasing these restless spirits. Originally they were of a public character, for murder was common in primitive times, and such spirits would be numerous, as is proved by the festival lasting three days. In Athens the Nemesia were held during Anthesterion (February-March). As in Rome, the days were unlucky. Temples were closed and business was suspended, for the dead were abroad. In the morning the doors were smeared with pitch, and those in the house chewed whitethorn to keep off the evil spirits. On the last day of the festival offerings were made to Hermes, and the dead were formally bidden to depart.[21] Ovid describes the Lemuria or Lemuralia.[22] They took place in May, which was consequently regarded as an unlucky month for marriages, and is still so regarded almost as universally in England to-day as it was in Rome during the principate of Augustus. The name of the festival Ovid derives from Remus, as the ghost of his murdered brother was said to have appeared to Romulus in his sleep and to have demanded burial. Hence the institution of the Lemuria. The head of the family walked through the house with bare feet at dead of night, making the mystic sign with his first and fourth fingers extended, the other fingers being turned inwards and the thumb crossed over them, in case he might run against an unsubstantial spirit as he moved noiselessly along. This is the sign of "le corna," held to be infallible against the Evil Eye in modern Italy. After solemnly washing his hands, he places black beans in his mouth, and throws others over his shoulders, saying, "With these beans do I redeem me and mine." He repeats this ceremony nine times without looking round, and the spirits are thought to follow unseen and pick up the beans. Then he purifies himself once more and clashes brass, and bids the demons leave his house. When he has repeated nine times "Manes exite paterni," he looks round, and the ceremony is over, and the restless ghosts have been duly laid for a year. Lamiæ haunted rooms, which had to be fumigated with sulphur, while some mystic rites were performed with eggs before they could be expelled. The dead not yet at rest were divided into three classes--those who had died before their time, the [Greek: aôroi], who had to wander till the span of their natural life was completed;[23] those who had met with violent deaths, the [Greek: biaiothanatoi]; and the unburied, the [Greek: ataphoi]. In the Hymn to Hecate, to whom they were especially attached, they are represented as following in her train and taking part in her nightly revels in human shape. The lot of the murdered is no better, and executed criminals belong to the same class. Spirits of this kind were supposed to haunt the place where their bodies lay. Hence they were regarded as demons, and were frequently entrusted with the carrying out of the strange curses, which have been found in their tombs, or in wells where a man had been drowned, or even in the sea, written on leaden tablets, often from right to left, or in queer characters, so as to be illegible, with another tablet fastened over them by means of a nail, symbolizing the binding effect it was hoped they would have--the "Defixiones," to give them their Latin name, which are very numerous among the inscriptions. So real was the belief in these curses that the elder Pliny says that everyone is afraid of being placed under evil spells;[24] and they are frequently referred to in antiquity. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: _Tusc. Disp._, i. 16.] [Footnote 2: Ov., _Fast._, iv. 821; Fowler, _Roman Festivals_, p. 211.] [Footnote 3: Macrob., _Sat._, i. 16.] [Footnote 4: Cic., _De Leg._, ii. 22.] [Footnote 5: "Deum parentem" (Corn. Nep., _Fragm._, 12).] [Footnote 6: Cp. Fowler, _Rom._ _Fest._] [Footnote 7: Rohde, _Psyche_, p. 216. Cp. Herod., iv. 26.] [Footnote 8: _Tusc._ _Disp._, i. 12, 27.] [Footnote 9: Dill, _Roman Society from Nero to Marcus Aurelius_, p. 259 _ff._] [Footnote 10: _De Luctu_, 9.] [Footnote 11: Carducci, "Rimembranze di Scuola," in _Rime Nuove_.] [Footnote 12: _Il._, 23. 64.] [Footnote 13: "Turpia ossa," 4. 5. 4.] [Footnote 14: Paus., 9. 32.] [Footnote 15: 81 D.] [Footnote 16: _De Genio Socratis_, 15.] [Footnote 17: Cp. Plautus, _Cas._, iii. 4. 2; _Amphitr._, ii. 2. 145; _Rudens_, v. 3. 67, etc.; and the use of the word "larvatus."] [Footnote 18: Pliny, _N.H._, 1, Proef. 31: "Cum mortuis non nisi Larvas luctari."] [Footnote 19: Seneca, _Apocol._, 9. At the risk of irrelevance, I cannot refrain from pointing out the enduring nature of proverbs as exemplified in this section. Hercules grows more and more anxious at the turn the debate is taking, and hastens from one god to another, saying: "Don't grudge me this favour; the case concerns me closely. I shan't forget you when the time comes. One good turn deserves another" (Manus manum lavat). This is exactly the Neapolitan proverb, "One hand washes the other, and both together wash the face." "Una mano lava l'altra e tutt'e due si lavano la faccia," is more or less the modern version. In chapter vii. we have also "gallum in suo sterquilino plurimum posse," which corresponds to our own, "Every cock crows best on its own dunghill."] [Footnote 20: Petr., _Sat._, 34.] [Footnote 21: [Greek: thhyraze, kêres, oukhet Anthestêria.] Cp. Rohde, _Psyche_, 217.] [Footnote 22: _Fast._, v. 419 _ff._] [Footnote 23: Tertull., _De An._, 56.] [Footnote 24: _N.H._, 28. 2. 19.] II THE BELIEF IN GHOSTS IN GREECE AND ROME Ghost stories play a very subordinate part in classical literature, as is only to be expected. The religion of the hard-headed, practical Roman was essentially formal, and consisted largely in the exact performance of an elaborate ritual. His relations with the dead were regulated with a care that might satisfy the most litigious of ghosts, and once a man had carried out his part of the bargain, he did not trouble his head further about his deceased ancestors, so long as he felt that they, in their turn, were not neglecting his interests. Yet the average man in Rome was glad to free himself from burdensome and expensive duties towards the dead that had come down to him from past generations, and the ingenuity of the lawyers soon devised a system of sham sales by which this could be successfully and honourably accomplished.[25] Greek religion, it is true, found expression to a large extent in mythology; but the sanity of the Greek genius in its best days kept it free from excessive superstition. Not till the invasion of the West by the cults of the East do we find ghosts and spirits at all common in literature. The belief in apparitions existed, however, at all times, even among educated people. The younger Pliny, for instance, writes to ask his friend Sura for his opinion as to whether ghosts have a real existence, with a form of their own, and are of divine origin, or whether they are merely empty air, owing their definite shape to our superstitious fears. We must not forget that Suetonius, whose superstition has become proverbial, was a friend of Pliny, and wrote to him on one occasion, begging him to procure the postponement of a case in which he was engaged, as he had been frightened by a dream. Though Pliny certainly did not possess his friend's amazing credulity, he takes the request with becoming seriousness, and promises to do his best; but he adds that the real question is whether Suetonius's dreams are usually true or not. He then relates how he himself once had a vision of his mother-in-law, of all people, appearing to him and begging him to abandon a case he had undertaken. In spite of this awful warning he persevered, however, and it was well that he did so, for the case proved the beginning of his successful career at the Bar.[26] His uncle, the elder Pliny, seems to have placed more faith in his dreams, and wrote his account of the German wars entirely because he dreamt that Drusus appeared to him and implored him to preserve his name from oblivion.[27] The Plinies were undoubtedly two of the ablest and most enlightened men of their time; and the belief in the value of dreams is certainly not extinct among us yet. If we possess Artemidorus's book on the subject for the ancient world, we have also the "Smorfia" of to-day, so dear to the heart of the lotto-playing Neapolitan, which assigns a special number to every conceivable subject that can possibly occur in a dream--not excluding "u murtu che parl'" (the dead man that speaks)--for the guidance of the believing gambler in selecting the numbers he is to play for the week. Plutarch placed great faith in ghosts and visions. In his Life of Dion[28] he notes the singular fact that both Dion and Brutus were warned of their approaching deaths by a frightful spectre. "It has been maintained," he adds, "that no man in his senses ever saw a ghost: that these are the delusive visions of women and children, or of men whose intellects are impaired by some physical infirmity, and who believe that their diseased imaginations are of divine origin. But if Dion and Brutus, men of strong and philosophic minds, whose understandings were not affected by any constitutional infirmity--if such men could place so much faith in the appearance of spectres as to give an account of them to their friends, I see no reason why we should depart from the opinion of the ancients that men had their evil genii, who disturbed them with fears and distressed their virtues ..." In the opening of the _Philopseudus_, Lucian asks what it is that makes men so fond of a lie, and comments on their delight in romancing themselves, which is only equalled by the earnest attention with which they receive other people's efforts in the same direction. Tychiades goes on to describe his visit to Eucrates, a distinguished philosopher, who was ill in bed. With him were a Stoic, a Peripatetic, a Pythagorean, a Platonist, and a doctor, who began to tell stories so absurd and abounding in such monstrous superstition that he ended by leaving them in disgust. None of us have, of course, ever been present at similar gatherings, where, after starting with the inevitable Glamis mystery, everybody in the room has set to work to outdo his neighbour in marvellous yarns, drawing on his imagination for additional material, and, like Eucrates, being ready to stake the lives of his children on his veracity. Another scoffer was Democritus of Abdera, who was so firmly convinced of the non-existence of ghosts that he took up his abode in a tomb and lived there night and day for a long time. Classical ghosts seem to have affected black rather than white as their favourite colour. Among the features of the gruesome entertainments with which Domitian loved to terrify his Senators were handsome boys, who appeared naked with their bodies painted black, like ghosts, and performed a wild dance.[29] On the following day one of them was generally sent as a present to each Senator. Some boys in the neighbourhood wished to shake Democritus's unbelief, so they dressed themselves in black with masks like skulls upon their heads and danced round the tomb where he lived. But, to their annoyance, he only put his head out and told them to go away and stop playing the fool. The Greek and Roman stories hardly come up to the standards required by the Society for Psychical Research. They are purely popular, and the ghost is regarded as the deceased person, permitted or condemned by the powers of the lower world to hold communication with survivors on earth. Naturally, they were never submitted to critical inquiry, and there is no foreshadowing of any of the modern theories, that the phenomenon, if caused by the deceased, is not necessarily the deceased, though it may be an indication that "some kind of force is being exercised after death which is in some way connected with a person previously known on earth," or that the apparitions may be purely local, or due entirely to subjective hallucination on the part of the person beholding them. Strangely enough, we rarely find any of those interesting cases, everywhere so well attested, of people appearing just about the time of their death to friends or relatives to whom they are particularly attached, or with whom they have made a compact that they will appear, should they die first, if it is possible. The classical instance of this is the well-known story of Lord Brougham who, while taking a warm bath in Sweden, saw a school friend whom he had not met for many years, but with whom he had long ago "committed the folly of drawing up an agreement written with our blood, to the effect that whichever of us died first should appear to the other, and thus solve any doubts we had entertained of the life after death." There are, however, a number of stories of the passing of souls, which are curiously like some of those collected by the Society for Psychical Research, in the Fourth Book of Gregory the Great's Dialogues. Another noticeable difference is that apparitions in most well-authenticated modern ghost stories are of a comforting character, whereas those in the ancient world are nearly all the reverse. This difference we may attribute to the entire change in the aspect of the future life which we owe to modern Christianity. As we have seen, there was little that was comforting in the life after death as conceived by the old pagan religions, while in medieval times the horrors of hell were painted in the most lurid colours, and were emphasized more than the joys of heaven. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 25: Cic., _Murena_, 27.] [Footnote 26: _Ep._, i. 18.] [Footnote 27: _Ibid._, 3. 5. 4.] [Footnote 28: Chap. II] [Footnote 29: Dio Cass., _Domitian_, 9.] III STORIES OF HAUNTING In a letter to Sura[30] the younger Pliny gives us what may be taken as a prototype of all later haunted-house stories. At one time in Athens there was a roomy old house where nobody could be induced to live. In the dead of night the sound of clanking chains would be heard, distant at first, proceeding doubtless from the garden behind or the inner court of the house, then gradually drawing nearer and nearer, till at last there appeared the figure of an old man with a long beard, thin and emaciated, with chains on his hands and feet. The house was finally abandoned, and advertised to be let or sold at an absurdly low price. The philosopher Athenodorus read the notice on his arrival in Athens, but the smallness of the sum asked aroused his suspicions. However, as soon as he heard the story he took the house. He had his bed placed in the front court, close to the main door, dismissed his slaves, and prepared to pass the night there, reading and writing, in order to prevent his thoughts from wandering to the ghost. He worked on for some time without anything happening; but at last the clanking of chains was heard in the distance. Athenodorus did not raise his eyes or stop his work, but kept his attention fixed and listened. The sounds gradually drew nearer, and finally entered the room where he was sitting. Then he turned round and saw the apparition. It beckoned him to follow, but he signed to it to wait and went on with his work. Not till it came and clanked its chains over his very head would he take up a lamp and follow it. The figure moved slowly forward, seemingly weighed down with its heavy chains, until it reached an open space in the courtyard. There it vanished. Athenodorus marked the spot with leaves and grass, and on the next day the ground was dug up in the presence of a magistrate, when the skeleton of a man with some rusty chains was discovered. The remains were buried with all ceremony, and the apparition was no more seen. Lucian tells the same story in the _Philopseudus_, with some ridiculous additions, thoroughly in keeping with the surroundings. An almost exactly similar story has been preserved by Robert Wodrow, the indefatigable collector, in a notebook which he appears to have intended to be the foundation of a scientific collection of marvellous tales. Wodrow died early in the eighteenth century. Gilbert Rule, the founder and first Principal of Edinburgh University, once reached a desolate inn in a lonely spot on the Grampians. The inn was full, and they were obliged to make him up a bed in a house near-by that had been vacant for thirty years. "He walked some time in the room," says Wodrow,[31] "and committed himself to God's protection, and went to bed. There were two candles left on the table, and these he put out. There was a large bright fire remaining. He had not been long in bed till the room door is opened and an apparition in shape of a country tradesman came in, and opened the curtains without speaking a word. Mr. Rule was resolved to do nothing till it should speak or attack him, but lay still with full composure, committing himself to the Divine protection and conduct. The apparition went to the table, lighted the two candles, brought them to the bedside, and made some steps toward the door, looking still to the bed, as if he would have Mr. Rule rising and following. Mr. Rule still lay still, till he should see his way further cleared. Then the apparition, who the whole time spoke none, took an effectual way to raise the doctor. He carried back the candles to the table and went to the fire, and with the tongs took down the kindled coals, and laid them on the deal chamber floor. The doctor then thought it time to rise and put on his clothes, in the time of which the spectre laid up the coals again in the chimney, and, going to the table, lifted the candles and went to the door, opened it, still looking to the Principal, as he would have him following the candles, which he now, thinking there was something extraordinary in the case, after looking to God for direction, inclined to do. The apparition went down some steps with the candles, and carried them into a long trance, at the end of which there was a stair which carried down to a low room. This the spectre went down, and stooped, and set down the lights on the lowest step of the stair, and straight disappears." "The learned Principal," continues Burton, "whose courage and coolness deserve the highest commendation, lighted himself back to bed with the candles, and took the remainder of his rest undisturbed. Being a man of great sagacity, on ruminating over his adventure, he informed the Sheriff of the county 'that he was much of the mind there was murder in the case.' The stone whereon the candles were placed was raised, and there 'the plain remains of a human body were found, and bones, to the conviction of all.' It was supposed to be an old affair, however, and no traces could be got of the murderer. Rule undertook the functions of the detective, and pressed into the service the influence of his own profession. He preached a great sermon on the occasion, to which all the neighbouring people were summoned; and behold in the time of his sermon, an old man near eighty years was awakened, and fell a-weeping, and before the whole company acknowledged that at the building of that house, he was the murderer." The main features of the story have changed very little in the course of ages, except in the important point of the conviction of the murderer, which would have been effected in a very different way in a Greek story. Doubtless a similar tale could be found in the folk-lore of almost any nation. Plutarch[32] relates how, in his native city of Chæronæa, a certain Damon had been murdered in some baths. Ghosts continued to haunt the spot ever afterwards, and mysterious groans were heard, so that at last the doors were walled up. "And to this very day," he continues, "those who live in the neighbourhood imagine that they see strange sights and are terrified with cries of sorrow." It is quite clear from Plautus that ghost stories, even if not taken very seriously, aroused a wide-spread interest in the average Roman of his day, just as they do in the average Briton of our own. They were doubtless discussed in a half-joking way. The apparitions were generally believed to frighten people, just as they are at present, though the well-authenticated stories of such occurrences would seem to show that genuine ghosts, or whatever one likes to call them, have the power of paralyzing fear. In the _Mostellaria_,[33] Plautus uses a ghost as a recognized piece of supernatural machinery. The regulation father of Roman comedy has gone away on a journey, and in the meantime the son has, as usual, almost reached the end of his father's fortune. The father comes back unexpectedly, and the son turns in despair to his faithful slave, Tranio, for help. Tranio is equal to the occasion, and undertakes to frighten the inconvenient parent away again. He gives an account of an apparition that has been seen, and has announced that it is the ghost of a stranger from over-seas, who has been dead for six years. "Here must I dwell," it had declared, "for the gods of the lower world will not receive me, seeing that I died before my time. My host murdered me, his guest, villain that he was, for the gold that I carried, and secretly buried me, without funeral rites, in this house. Be gone hence, therefore, for it is accursed and unholy ground." This story is enough for the father. He takes the advice, and does not return till Tranio and his dutiful son are quite ready for him. Great battlefields are everywhere believed to be haunted. Tacitus[34] relates how, when Titus was besieging Jerusalem, armies were seen fighting in the sky; and at a much later date, after a great battle against Attila and the Huns, under the walls of Rome, the ghosts of the dead fought for three days and three nights, and the clash of their arms was distinctly heard.[35] Marathon is no exception to the rule. Pausanias[36] says that any night you may hear horses neighing and men fighting there. To go on purpose to see the sight never brought good to any man; but with him who unwittingly lights upon it the spirits are not angry. He adds that the people of Marathon worship the men who fell in the battle as heroes; and who could be more worthy of such honour than they? The battle itself was not without its marvellous side. Epizelus, the Athenian, used to relate how a huge hoplite, whose beard over-shadowed all his shield, stood over against him in the thick of the fight. The apparition passed him by and killed the man next him, but Epizelus came out of the battle blind, and remained so for the rest of his life.[37] Plutarch[38] also relates of a place in Boeotia where a battle had been fought, that there is a stream running by, and that people imagine that they hear panting horses in the roaring waters. But the strangest account of the habitual haunting of great battlefields is to be found in Philostratus's _Heroica_, which represents the spirits of the Homeric heroes as still closely connected with Troy and its neighbourhood. How far the stories are based on local tradition it is impossible to say; they are told by a vine-dresser, who declares that he lives under the protection of Protesilaus. At one time he was in danger of being violently ousted from all his property, when the ghost of Protesilaus appeared to the would-be despoiler in a vision, and struck him blind. The great man was so terrified at this event that he carried his depredations no further; and the vine-dresser has since continued to cultivate what remained of his property under the protection of the hero, with whom he lives on most intimate terms. Protesilaus often appears to him while he is at work and has long talks with him, and he keeps off wild beasts and disease from the land. Not only Protesilaus, but also his men, and, in fact, virtually all of the "giants of the mighty bone and bold emprise" who fought round Troy, can be seen on the plain at night, clad like warriors, with nodding plumes. The inhabitants are keenly interested in these apparitions, and well they may be, as so much depends upon them. If the heroes are covered with dust, a drought is impending; if with sweat, they foreshadow rain. Blood upon their arms means a plague; but if they show themselves without any distinguishing mark, all will be well. Though the heroes are dead, they cannot be insulted with impunity. Ajax was popularly believed, owing to the form taken by his madness, to be especially responsible for any misfortune that might befall flocks and herds. On one occasion some shepherds, who had had bad luck with their cattle, surrounded his tomb and abused him, bringing up all the weak points in his earthly career recorded by Homer. At last they went too far for his patience, and a terrible voice was heard in the tomb and the clash of armour. The offenders fled in terror, but came to no harm. On another occasion some strangers were playing at draughts near his shrine, when Ajax appeared and begged them to stop, as the game reminded him of Palamedes. Hector was a far more dangerous person. Maximus of Tyre[39] says that the people of Ilium often see him bounding over the plain at dead of night in flashing armour--a truly Homeric picture. Maximus cannot, indeed, boast of having seen Hector, though he also has had his visions vouchsafed him. He had seen Castor and Pollux, like twin stars, above his ship, steering it through a storm. Æsculapius also he has seen--not in a dream, by Hercules, but with his waking eyes. But to return to Hector. Philostratus says that one day an unfortunate boy insulted him in the same way in which the shepherds had treated Ajax. Homer, however, did not satisfy this boy, and as a parting shaft he declared that the statue in Ilium did not really represent Hector, but Achilles. Nothing happened immediately, but not long afterwards, while the boy was driving a team of ponies, Hector appeared in the form of a warrior in a brook which was, as a rule, so small as not even to have a name. He was heard shouting in a foreign tongue as he pursued the boy in the stream, finally overtaking and drowning him with his ponies. The bodies were never afterwards recovered. Philostratus gives us a quantity of details about the Homeric heroes, which the vine-dresser has picked up in his talks with Protesilaus. Most of the heroes can be easily recognized. Achilles, for instance, enters into conversation with various people, and goes out hunting. He can be recognized by his height and his beauty and his bright armour; and as he rushes past he is usually accompanied by a whirlwind--[Greek: podarkês, dios], even after death. Then we hear the story of the White Isle. Helen and Achilles fell in love with one another, though they had never met--the one hidden in Egypt, the other fighting before Troy. There was no place near Troy suited for their eternal life together, so Thetis appealed to Poseidon to give them an island home of their own. Poseidon consented, and the White Isle rose up in the Black Sea, near the mouth of the Danube. There Achilles and Helen, the manliest of men and the most feminine of women, first met and first embraced; and Poseidon himself, and Amphitrite, and all the Nereids, and as many river gods and spirits as dwell near the Euxine and Mæotis, came to the wedding. The island is thickly covered with white trees and with elms, which grow in regular order round the shrine; and on it there dwell certain white birds, fragrant of the salt sea, which Achilles is said to have tamed to his will, so that they keep the glades cool, fanning them with their wings and scattering spray as they fly along the ground, scarce rising above it. To men sailing over the broad bosom of the sea the island is holy when they disembark, for it lies like a hospitable home to their ships. But neither those who sail thither, nor the Greeks and barbarians living round the Black Sea, may build a house upon it; and all who anchor and sacrifice there must go on board at sunset. No man may pass the night upon the isle, and no woman may even land there. If the wind is favourable, ships must sail away; if not, they must put out and anchor in the bay and sleep on board. For at night men say that Achilles and Helen drink together, and sing of each other's love, and of the war, and of Homer. Now that his battles are over, Achilles cultivates the gift of song he had received from Calliope. Their voices ring out clear and godlike over the water, and the sailors sit trembling with emotion as they listen. Those who had anchored there declared that they had heard the neighing of horses, and the clash of arms, and shouts such as are raised in battle. Maximus of Tyre[40] also describes the island, and tells how sailors have often seen a fair-haired youth dancing a war-dance in golden armour upon it; and how once, when one of them unwittingly slept there, Achilles woke him, and took him to his tent and entertained him. Patroclus poured the wine and Achilles played the lyre, while Thetis herself is said to have been present with a choir of other deities. If they anchor to the north or the south of the island, and a breeze springs up that makes the harbours dangerous, Achilles warns them, and bids them change their anchorage and avoid the wind. Sailors relate how, "when they first behold the island, they embrace each other and burst into tears of joy. Then they put in and kiss the land, and go to the temple to pray and to sacrifice to Achilles." Victims stand ready of their own accord at the altar, according to the size of the ship and the number of those on board. Pausanias also mentions the White Isle.[41] On one occasion, Leonymus, while leading the people of Croton against the Italian Locrians, attacked the spot where he was informed that Ajax Oïleus, on whom the people of Locris had called for help, was posted in the van. According to Conon,[42] who, by the way, calls the hero Autoleon, when the people of Croton went to war, they also left a vacant space for Ajax in the forefront of their line. However this may be, Leonymus was wounded in the breast, and as the wound refused to heal and weakened him considerably, he applied to Delphi for advice. The god told him to sail to the White Isle, where Ajax would heal him of his wound. Thither, therefore, he went, and was duly healed. On his return he described what he had seen--how that Achilles was now married to Helen; and it was Leonymus who told Stesichorus that his blindness was due to Helen's wrath, and thus induced him to write the _Palinode_. Achilles himself is once said to have appeared to a trader who frequently visited the island. They talked of Troy, and then the hero gave him wine, and bade him sail away and fetch him a certain Trojan maiden who was the slave of a citizen of Ilium. The trader was surprised at the request, and ventured to ask why he wanted a Trojan slave. Achilles replied that it was because she was of the same race as Hector and his ancestors, and of the blood of the sons of Priam and Dardanus. The trader thought that Achilles was in love with the girl, whom he duly brought with him on his next visit to the island. Achilles thanked him, and bade him keep her on board the ship, doubtless because women were not allowed to land. In the evening he was entertained by Achilles and Helen, and his host gave him a large sum of money, promising to make him his guest-friend and to bring luck to his ship and his business. At daybreak Achilles dismissed him, telling him to leave the girl on the shore. When they had gone about a furlong from the island, a horrible cry from the maiden reached their ears, and they saw Achilles tearing her to pieces, rending her limb from limb. In this brutal savage it is impossible to recognize Homer's chivalrous hero, who sacrificed the success of a ten years' war, fought originally for the recovery of one woman, to his grief at the loss of another, and has thus made it possible to describe the _Iliad_ as the greatest love-poem ever written. One cannot help feeling that Pindar's Isle of the Blest, whither he was brought by Thetis, whose mother's prayer had moved the Heart of Zeus, to dwell with Cadmus and Peleus, is Achilles' true home; or the isle of the heroes of all time, described by Carducci, where King Lear sits telling OEdipus of his sufferings, and Cordelia calls to Antigone, "Come, my Greek sister! We will sing of peace to our fathers." Helen and Iseult, silent and thoughtful, roam under the shade of the myrtles, while the setting sun kisses their golden hair with its reddening rays. Helen gazes across the sea, but King Mark opens his arms to Iseult, and the fair head sinks on the mighty beard. Clytemnestra stands by the shore with the Queen of Scots. They bathe their white arms in the waves, but the waves recoil swollen with red blood, while the wailing of the hapless women echoes along the rocky strand. Among these heroic souls Shelley alone of modern poets--that Titan spirit in a maiden's form--may find a place, according to Carducci, caught up by Sophocles from the living embrace of Thetis.[43] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 30: _Ep._, vii. 27.] [Footnote 31: Burton's _The Book-Hunter: Robert Wodrow_.] [Footnote 32: _Cimon_, i.] [Footnote 33: II. 5. 67.] [Footnote 34: _Hist._, v. 13.] [Footnote 35: Damascius, _Vita Isidori_, 63.] [Footnote 36: I. 32. 4.] [Footnote 37: Herod., vi. 117.] [Footnote 38: _Parallel_, 7.] [Footnote 39: _Dissert._, 15. 7.] [Footnote 40: _Dissert._, 15. 7.] [Footnote 41: 3. 19. 12.] [Footnote 42: _Narr._, 18.] [Footnote 43: G. Carducci, "Presso l'urna di P.B. Shelley," in the _Odi Barbare_.] IV NECROMANCY The belief that it was possible to call up the souls of the dead by means of spells was almost universal in antiquity. We know that even Saul, who had himself cut off those that had familiar spirits and the wizards out of the land, disguised himself and went with two others to consult the witch of En-dor; that she called up the spirit of Samuel at his request; that Samuel asked Saul, "Why hast thou disquieted me, to bring me up?" and then prophesied his ruin and death at the hands of the Philistines at Mount Gilboa. We find frequent references to the practice in classical literature. The elder Pliny[44] gives us the interesting information that spirits refuse to obey people afflicted with freckles. There were always certain spots hallowed by tradition as particularly favourable to intercourse with the dead, or even as being actual entrances to the lower world. For instance, at Heraclea in Pontus there was a famous [Greek: psychomanteion], or place where the souls of the dead could be conjured up and consulted, as Hercules was believed to have dragged Cerberus up to earth here. Other places supposed to be connected with this myth had a similar legend attached to them, as also did all places where Pluto was thought to have carried off Persephone. Thus we hear of entrances to Hades at Eleusis,[45] at Colonus,[46] at Enna in Sicily,[47] and finally at the lovely pool of Cyane, up the Anapus River, near Syracuse, one of the few streams in which the papyrus still flourishes.[48] Lakes and seas also were frequently believed to be entrances to Hades.[49] The existence of sulphurous fumes easily gave rise to a belief that certain places were in direct communication with the lower world. This was the case at Cumæ where Æneas consulted the Sybil, and at Colonus; while at Hierapolis in Phrygia there was a famous "Plutonium," which could only be safely approached by the priests of Cybele.[50] It was situated under a temple of Apollo, a real entrance to Hades; and it is doubtless to this that Cicero refers when he speaks of the deadly "Plutonia" he had seen in Asia.[51] These "Plutonia" or "Charonia" are, in fact, places where mephitic vapours exist, like the Grotto del Cane and other spots in the neighbourhood of Naples and Pozzuoli. The priests must either have become used to the fumes, or have learnt some means of counteracting them; otherwise their lives can hardly have been more pleasant than that of the unfortunate dog which used to be exhibited in the Naples grotto, though the control of these very realistic entrances to the kingdom of Pluto must have been a very profitable business, well worth a little personal inconvenience. Others are mentioned by Strabo at Magnesia and Myus,[52] and there was one at Cyllene, in Arcadia. In addition to these there were numerous special temples or places where the souls of the dead, which were universally thought to possess a knowledge of the future, could be called up and consulted--e.g., the temple at Phigalia, in Arcadia, used by Pausanias, the Spartan commander;[53] or the [Greek: nekyomanteion], the oracle of the dead, by the River Acheron, in Threspotia, to which Periander, the famous tyrant of Corinth, had recourse;[54] and it was here, according to Pausanias, that Orpheus went down to the lower world in search of Eurydice. Lucian[55] tells us that it was only with Pluto's permission that the dead could return to life, and they were invariably accompanied by Mercury. Consequently, both these gods were regularly invoked in the prayers and spells used on such occasions. Only the souls of those recently dead were, as a rule, called up, for it was naturally held that they would feel greater interest in the world they had just left, and in the friends and relations still alive, to whom they were really attached. Not that it was impossible to evoke the ghosts of those long dead, if it was desired. Even Orpheus and Cecrops were not beyond reach of call, and Apollonius of Tyana claimed to have raised the shade of Achilles.[56] All oracles were originally sacred to Persephone and Pluto, and relied largely on necromancy, a snake being the emblem of prophetic power. Hence, when Apollo, the god of light, claimed possession of the oracles as the conqueror of darkness, the snake was twined round his tripod as an emblem, and his priestess was called Pythia. When Alexander set up his famous oracle, as described by Lucian, the first step taken in establishing its reputation was the finding of a live snake in an egg in a lake. The find had, of course, been previously arranged by Alexander and his confederates. We still possess accounts of the working of these oracles of the dead, especially of the one connected with the Lake of Avernus, near Naples. Cicero[57] describes how, from this lake, "shades, the spirits of the dead, are summoned in the dense gloom of the mouth of Acheron with salt blood"; and Strabo quotes the early Greek historian Ephorus as relating how, even in his day, "the priests that raise the dead from Avernus live in underground dwellings, communicating with each other by subterranean passages, through which they led those who wished to consult the oracle hidden in the bowels of the earth." "Not far from the lake of Avernus," says Maximus of Tyre, "was an oracular cave, which took its name from the calling up of the dead. Those who came to consult the oracle, after repeating the sacred formula and offering libations and slaying victims, called upon the spirit of the friend or relation they wished to consult. Then it appeared, an unsubstantial shade, difficult both to see and to recognize, yet endowed with a human voice and skilled in prophecy. When it had answered the questions put to it, it vanished." One is at once struck with the similarity of this account to those of the spiritualistic séances of the famous Eusapia in the same part of the world, not so very long ago. In most cases those consulting the oracle would probably be satisfied with hearing the voice of the dead man, or with a vision of him in sleep, so that some knowledge of ventriloquism or power of hypnotism or suggestion would often be ample stock-in-trade for those in charge. This consulting of the dead must have been very common in antiquity. Both Plato[58] and Euripides[59] mention it; and the belief that the dead have a knowledge of the future, which seems to be ingrained in human nature, gave these oracles great power. Thus, Cicero tells[60] us that Appius often consulted "soul-oracles" (psychomantia), and also mentions a man having recourse to one when his son was seriously ill.[61] The poets have, of course, made free use of this supposed prophetic power of the dead. The shade of Polydorus, for instance, speaks the prologue of the Hecuba, while the appearance of the dead Creusa in the _Æneid_ is known to everyone. In the _Persæ_, Æschylus makes the shade of Darius ignorant of all that has happened since his death, and is thus able to introduce his famous description of the battle of Salamis; but Darius, nevertheless, possesses a knowledge of the future, and can therefore give us an equally vivid account of the battle of Platæa, which had not yet taken place. The shade of Clytemnestra in the _Eumenides_, however, does not prophesy. Pliny mentions the belief that the dead had prophetic powers, but declares that they could not always be relied on, as the following instance proves.[62] During the Sicilian war, Gabienus, the bravest man in Cæsar's fleet, was captured by Sextus Pompeius, and beheaded by his orders. For a whole day the corpse lay upon the shore, the head almost severed from the body. Then, towards evening, a large crowd assembled, attracted by his groans and prayers; and he begged Sextus Pompeius either to come to him himself or to send some of his friends; for he had returned from the dead, and had something to tell him. Pompeius sent friends, and Gabienus informed them that Pompeius's cause found favour with the gods below, and was the right cause, and that he was bidden to announce that all would end as he wished. To prove the truth of what he said, he announced that he would die immediately, as he actually did. This knowledge of the future by the dead is to be found in more than one well-authenticated modern ghost story, where the apparition would seem to have manifested itself for the express purpose of warning those whom it has loved on earth of approaching danger. We may take, for instance, the story[63] where a wife, who is lying in bed with her husband, suddenly sees a gentleman dressed in full naval uniform sitting on the bed. She was too astonished for fear, and waked her husband, who "for a second or two lay looking in intense astonishment at the intruder; then, lifting himself a little, he shouted: 'What on earth are you doing here, sir?' Meanwhile the form, slowly drawing himself into an upright position, now said in a commanding, yet reproachful voice, 'Willie! Willie!' and then vanished." Her husband got up, unlocked the door, and searched the house, but found nothing. On his return he informed his wife that the form was that of his father, whom she had never seen. He had left the navy before this son was born, and the son had, therefore, only seen his father in uniform a very few times. It afterwards came out that her husband was about to engage in some speculations which, had he done so, would have proved his ruin; but, fortunately, this vision of his father made such an impression on him that he abandoned the idea altogether. Lucan[64] describes how Sextus Pompeius went to consult Erichtho, one of the famous Thessalian witches, as to the prospects of his father's success against Cæsar, during the campaign that ended in the disastrous defeat at Pharsalia. It is decided that a dead man must be called back to life, and Erichtho goes out to where a recent skirmish has taken place, and chooses the body of a man whose throat had been cut, which was lying there unburied. She drags it back to her cave, and fills its breast with warm blood. She has chosen a man recently dead, because his words are more likely to be clear and distinct, which might not be the case with one long accustomed to the world below. She then washes it, uses various magic herbs and potions, and prays to the gods of the lower world. At last she sees the shade of the man, whose lifeless body lies stretched before her, standing close by and gazing upon the limbs it had left and the hated bonds of its former prison. Furious at the delay and the slow working of her spells, she seizes a live serpent and lashes the corpse with it. Even the last boon of death, the power of dying, is denied the poor wretch. Slowly the life returns to the body, and Erichtho promises that if the man speaks the truth she will bury him so effectually that no spells will ever be able to call him back to life again. He is weak and faint, like a dying man, but finally tells her all she wishes to know, and dies once again. She fulfills her promise and burns the body, using every kind of magic spell to make it impossible for anyone to trouble the shade again. Indeed, it seems to have been unusual to summon a shade from the lower world more than once, except in the case of very famous persons. This kind of magic was nearly always carried on at night. Statius[65] has also given us a long and characteristically elaborate account of the calling up of the shade of Laius by Eteocles and Tiresias. Apuleius,[66] in his truly astounding account of Thessaly in his day, gives a detailed description of the process of calling back a corpse to life. "The prophet then took a certain herb and laid it thrice upon the mouth of the dead man, placing another upon the breast. Then, turning himself to the east with a silent prayer for the help of the holy sun, he drew the attention of the audience to the great miracle he was performing. Gradually the breast of the corpse began to swell in the act of breathing, the arteries to pulsate, and the body to be filled with life. Finally the dead man sat up and asked why he had been brought back to life and not left in peace." One is reminded of the dead man being carried out to burial who meets Dionysus in Hades, in Aristophanes' _Frogs_, and expresses the wish that he may be struck alive again if he does what is requested of him. If ghosts are often represented as "all loath to leave the body that they love," they are generally quite as loath to return to it, when once they have left it, though whether it is the process of returning or the continuance of a life which they have left that is distasteful to them is not very clear. The painfulness of the process of restoration to life after drowning seems to favour the former explanation. These cases of resurrection are, of course, quite different from ordinary necromancy--the summoning of the shade of a dead man from the world below, in order to ask its advice with the help of a professional diviner. As religious faith decayed and the superstitions of the East and the belief in magic gained ground, necromancy became more and more common. Even Cicero charges Vatinius[67] with evoking the souls of the dead, and with being in the habit of sacrificing the entrails of boys to the Manes. Tacitus mentions a young man trying to raise the dead by means of incantations,[68] while Pliny[69] speaks of necromancy as a recognized branch of magic, and Origen classes it among the crimes of the magicians in his own day. After murdering his mother, Nero often declared that he was troubled by her spirit and by the lashes and blazing torches of the Furies.[70] One would imagine that the similarity of his crime and his punishment to those of Orestes would have been singularly gratifying to a man of Nero's theatrical temperament; yet we are informed that he often tried to call up her ghost and lay it with the help of magic rites. Nero, however, took particular pleasure in raising the spirits of the dead, according to the Elder Pliny,[71] who adds that not even the charms of his own singing and acting had greater attractions for him. Caracalla, besides his bodily illnesses, was obviously insane and often troubled with delusions, imagining that he was being driven out by his father and also by his brother Geta, whom he had murdered in his mother's arms, and that they pursued him with drawn swords in their hands. At last, as a desperate resource, he endeavoured to find a cure by means of necromancy, and called up, among others, the shade of his father, Septimius Severus, as well as that of Commodus. But they all refused to speak to him, with the exception of Commodus; and it was even rumoured that the shade of Severus was accompanied by that of the murdered Geta, though it had not been evoked by Caracalla. Nor had Commodus any comfort for him. He only terrified the suffering Emperor the more by his ominous words.[72] Philostratus[73] has described for us a famous interview which Apollonius of Tyana maintained that he had had with the shade of Achilles. The philosopher related that it was not by digging a trench nor by shedding the blood of rams, like Odysseus, that he raised the ghost of Achilles; but by prayers such as the Indians are said to make to their heroes. In his prayer to Achilles he said that, unlike most men, he did not believe that the great warrior was dead, any more than his master Pythagoras had done; and he begged him to show himself. Then there was a slight earthquake shock, and a beautiful youth stood before him, nine feet in height, wearing a Thessalian cloak. He did not look like a boaster, as some men had thought him, and his expression, if grim, was not unpleasant. No words could describe his beauty, which surpassed anything imaginable. Meanwhile he had grown to be twenty feet high, and his beauty increased in proportion. His hair he had never cut. Apollonius was allowed to ask him five questions, and accordingly asked for information on five of the most knotty points in the history of the Trojan War--whether Helen was really in Troy, why Homer never mentions Palamedes, etc. Achilles answered him fully and correctly in each instance. Then suddenly the cock crew, and, like Hamlet's father, he vanished from Apollonius's sight. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 44: _N.H._, 30. 1. 16.] [Footnote 45: _Hymn. Orph._, 18. 15.] [Footnote 46: Soph., _O.C._, 1590.] [Footnote 47: Cic., _Verr._, iv. 107.] [Footnote 48: Diodor., v. 4. 2.] [Footnote 49: Cp. Gruppe, _Griechische Mythologie und Religionsgeschichte_, p. 815, where the whole question is discussed in great detail.] [Footnote 50: Strabo, 13. 29, 30; Pliny, _N.H._, 2. 208.] [Footnote 51: _De Div._, i. 79.] [Footnote 52: Strabo, 14, 636; 12, 579.] [Footnote 53: Paus., 3. 17, 19.] [Footnote 54: Herod., v. 92.] [Footnote 55: _Dial. Deor._, 7. 4.] [Footnote 56: Philostr., _Apoll. Tyan._, 4. 16.] [Footnote 57: _Tusc. Disp._, 1. 16.] [Footnote 58: _Leg._, x. 909B.] [Footnote 59: _Alc._, 1128.] [Footnote 60: _De Div._, 1. 58.] [Footnote 61: _Tusc._, 1. 48.] [Footnote 62: Pliny, _N.H._, 7. 52, 178.] [Footnote 63: Myers, _Human Personality_, ii. 328, 329.] [Footnote 64: _Pharsal._, vi. _ad fin._] [Footnote 65: _Theb._, 4. 405 _ff._] [Footnote 66: _Met._, ii. 28.] [Footnote 67: _In Vat._, 6.] [Footnote 68: _An._, ii. 28.] [Footnote 69: _N.H._, 30. 5.] [Footnote 70: Suet., _Nero_, 34.] [Footnote 71: _N.H._, 30. 5] [Footnote 72: Dio Cassius, 77. 15.] [Footnote 73: _Apollon. Tyan._, 4. 16.] V VISIONS OF THE DEAD IN SLEEP In most of the Greek and Roman stories that survive, the wraiths of the dead are represented as revisiting their friends on earth in sleep. These instances I have not, as a rule, troubled to collect, for they cannot strictly be classed as ghost stories; but since the influence of the dead was generally considered to be exercised in this way, I shall give a few stories which seem particularly striking. That it was widely believed that the dead could return at night to those whom they loved is proved by the touching inscription in which a wife begs that her husband may sometimes be allowed to revisit her in sleep, and that she may soon join him. The most interesting passage that has come down to us, dealing with the whole question of the power of the dead to appear to those whom they love in dreams, is undoubtedly Quintilian's Tenth Declamation. The fact that the greatest teacher of rhetoric of his day actually chose it as a subject for one of his model speeches shows how important a part it must have played in the feelings of educated Romans of the time. The story is as follows. A mother was plunged in grief at the loss of her favourite son, when, on the night of the funeral, which had been long delayed at her earnest request, the boy appeared to her in a vision, and remained with her all night, kissing her and fondling her as if he were alive. He did not leave her till daybreak. "All that survives of a son," says Quintilian, "will remain in close communion with his mother when he dies." In her unselfishness, she begs her son not to withhold the comfort which he has brought to her from his father. But the father, when he hears the story, does not at all relish the idea of a visit from his son's ghost, and is, in fact, terrified at the prospect. He says nothing to the mother, who had moved the gods of the world above no less than those of the world below by the violence of her grief and the importunity of her prayers, but at once sends for a sorcerer. As soon as he arrives, the sorcerer is taken to the family tomb, which has its place in the city of the dead that stretches along the highway from the town gate. The magic spell is wound about the grave, and the urn is finally sealed with the dread words, until at last the hapless boy has become, in very truth, a lifeless shade. Finally, we are told, the sorcerer threw himself upon the urn itself and breathed his spells into the very bones and ashes. This at least he admitted, as he looked up: "The spirit resists. Spells are not enough. We must close the grave completely and bind the stones together with iron." His suggestions are carried out, and at last he declares that all has been accomplished successfully. "Now he is really dead. He cannot appear or come out. This night will prove the truth of my words." The boy never afterwards appeared, either to his mother or to anyone else. The mother is beside herself with grief. Her son's spirit, which had successfully baffled the gods of the lower world in its desire to visit her, is now, thanks to these foreign spells, dashing itself against the top of the grave, unable to understand the weight that has been placed upon it to keep it from escaping. Not only do the spells shut the boy in--he might possibly have broken through these--but the iron bands and solid fastenings have once again brought him face to face with death. This very realistic, if rather material, picture of a human soul mewed up for ever in the grave gives us a clear idea of the popular belief in Rome about the future life, and enables us to realize the full meaning of the inscription, "Sit tibi terra levis" (May the earth press lightly upon thee), which is so common upon Roman tombs as often to be abbreviated to "S.T.T.L." The speech is supposed to be delivered in an action for cruelty[74] brought by the wife against her husband, and in the course of it the father is spoken of as a parricide for what he has done. He defends himself by saying that he took the steps which are the cause of the action for his wife's peace of mind. To this plea it is answered that the ghost of a son could never frighten a mother, though other spirits, if unknown to her, might conceivably do so. In the course of the speech we are told that the spirit, when freed from the body, bathes itself in fire and makes for its home among the stars, where other fates await it. Then it remembers the body in which it once dwelt. Hence the dead return to visit those who once were dear to them on earth, and become oracles, and give us timely warnings, and are conscious of the victims we offer them, and welcome the honours paid them at their tombs. The Declamation ends, like most Roman speeches, with an appeal: in this case to the sorcerer and the husband to remove the spells; especially to the sorcerer, who has power to torture the gods above and the spirits of the dead; who, by the terror of his midnight cries, can move the deepest caves, can shake the very foundations of the earth. "You are able both to call up the spirits that serve you and to act as their cruel and ruthless gaoler. Listen for once to a mother's prayers, and let them soften your heart." Then we have the story of Thrasyllus, as told by Apuleius,[75] which is thoroughly modern in its romantic tone. He was in love with the wife of his friend, Tlepolemus, whom he treacherously murdered while out hunting. His crime is not discovered, and he begins to press his suit for her hand to her parents almost immediately. The widow's grief is heart-rending. She refuses food and altogether neglects herself, hoping that the gods will hear her prayer and allow her to rejoin her husband. At last, however, she is persuaded by her parents, at Thrasyllus's instance, to give ordinary care to her own health. But she passes her days before the likeness of the deceased, which she has had made in the image of that of the god Liber, paying it divine honours and finding her one comfort in thus fomenting her own sufferings. When she hears of Thrasyllus's suit, she rejects it with scorn and horror; and then at night her dead husband appears to her and describes exactly what happened, and begs her to avenge him. She requires no urging, and almost immediately decides on the course that her vengeance shall take. She has Thrasyllus informed that she cannot come to any definite decision till her year of mourning is over. Meanwhile, however, she consents to receive his visits at night, and promises to arrange for her old nurse to let him in. Overjoyed at his success, Thrasyllus comes at the hour appointed, and is duly admitted by the old nurse. The house is in complete darkness, but he is given a cup of wine and left to himself. The wine has been drugged, however, and he sinks into a deep slumber. Then Tlepolemus's widow comes and triumphs over her enemy, who has fallen so easily into her hands. She will not kill him as he killed her husband. "Neither the peace of death nor the joy of life shall be yours," she exclaims. "You shall wander like a restless shade between Orcus and the light of day.... The blood of your eyes I shall offer up at the tomb of my beloved Tlepolemus, and with them I shall propitiate his blessed spirit." At these words she takes a pin from her hair and blinds him. Then she rushes through the streets, with a sword in her hand to frighten anyone who might try to stop her, to her husband's tomb, where, after telling all her story, she slays herself. Thither Thrasyllus followed her, declaring that he dedicated himself to the Manes of his own free-will. He carefully shut the tomb upon himself, and starved himself to death. This is by far the best of the stories in which we find a vision of the dead in sleep playing an important part; but there is also the well-known tale of the Byzantine maiden Cleonice.[76] She was of high birth, but had the misfortune to attract the attention of the Spartan Pausanias, who was in command of the united Greek fleet at the Hellespont after the battle of Platæa. Like many Spartans, when first brought into contact with real luxury after his frugal upbringing at home, he completely lost his mental balance, and grew intoxicated with the splendour of his position, endeavouring to imitate the Persians in their manners, and even aspiring, it is said, to become tyrant of the whole of Greece. Cleonice was brutally torn from her parents and brought to his room at night. He was asleep at the time, and being awakened by the noise, he imagined that someone had broken into his room with the object of murdering him, and snatched up a sword and killed her. After this her ghost appeared to him every night, bidding him "go to the fate which pride and lust prepare." He is said to have visited a temple at Heraclea, where he had her spirit called up and implored her pardon. She duly appeared, and told him that "he would soon be delivered from all his troubles after his return to Sparta"--an ambiguous way of prophesying his death, which occurred soon afterwards. She was certainly avenged in the manner of it. Before leaving these stories of visions of the dead, we must not omit to mention that charming poem of Virgil's younger days, the _Culex_ (The Gnat). Just as the first sketch of Macaulay's famous character of William III. is said to be contained in a Cambridge prize essay on the subject, so the _Culex_ contains the first draft of some of the greatest passages in Virgil's later works--the beautiful description of the charms of country life in the _Georgics_, for instance, and the account of Tartarus in the sixth book of the _Æneid_. The story is slight, as was usually the case in these little epics, where the purple patches are more important than the plot. A shepherd falls asleep in the shade by a cool fountain, just as he would do in Southern Italy to-day, for his rest after the midday meal. Suddenly a snake, the horrors of which are described with a vividness that is truly Virgilian, appears upon the scene and prepares to strike the shepherd. A passing gnat, the hero of the poem, sees the danger, and wakes the shepherd by stinging him in the eye. He springs up angrily, brushes it off with his hand, and dashes it lifeless to the ground. Then, to his horror, he sees the snake, and promptly kills it with the branch of a tree. While he lies asleep that night, the ghost of the gnat appears to him in a dream, and bitterly reproaches him for the cruel death with which it has been rewarded for its heroic services. Charon has now claimed it for his own. It goes on to give a lurid description of the horrors of Tartarus, and contrasts its hard lot with that of the shepherd. When he wakes, the shepherd is filled with remorse for his conduct and is also, perhaps, afraid of being continually haunted by the ghost of his tiny benefactor. He therefore sets to work to raise a mound in honour of the gnat, facing it with marble. Round it he plants all kinds of flowers, especially violets and roses, the flowers usually offered to the dead, and cuts on a marble slab the following inscription: "Little gnat, the shepherd dedicates to thee thy meed of a tomb in return for the life thou gavest him."[77] There is also an interesting story of Pindar, told by Pausanias.[78] In his old age the great poet dreamt that Persephone appeared to him and told him that she alone of all the goddesses had not been celebrated in song by him, but that he should pay the debt when he came to her. Shortly after this he died. There was, however, a relation of his, a woman then far advanced in years, who had practised the singing of most of his hymns. To her Pindar appeared in a dream and sang the hymn to Proserpine, which she wrote down from memory when she awoke. I have included one or two stories of apparitions in dreams among those in the next section, as they seemed to be more in place there. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 74: Malæ tractationis.] [Footnote 75: _Met._, viii. 4.] [Footnote 76: Plutarch, _Cimon_, Chap. VI.] [Footnote 77: "Parve culex, pecudum custos tibi tale merenti Funeris officium vitæ pro munere reddit."] [Footnote 78: 9. 21. 3.] VI APPARITIONS OF THE DEAD Among the tall stories in Lucian's _Philopseudus_[79] is an amusing account of a man whose wife, whom he loved dearly, appeared to him after she had been dead for twenty days. He had given her a splendid funeral, and had burnt everything she possessed with her. One day, as he was sitting quietly reading the Phædo, she suddenly appeared to him, to the terror of his son. As soon as he saw her he embraced her tearfully, a fact which seems to show that she was of a more substantial build than the large majority of ghosts of the ancient world; but she strictly forbade him to make any sound whatever. She then explained that she had come to upbraid the unfortunate man for having neglected to burn one of her golden slippers with her at the funeral. It had fallen behind the chest, she explained, and had been forgotten and not placed upon the pyre with the other. While they were talking, a confounded little Maltese puppy suddenly began to bark from under the bed, when she vanished. But the slipper was found exactly where she had described, and was duly burnt on the following day. The story is refreshingly human. This question of dress seems to have been a not infrequent source of anxiety to deceased ladies in the ancient world. Periander,[80] the tyrant of Corinth, on one occasion wished to consult his wife's spirit upon a very important matter; but she replied, as she had doubtless often done when alive, that she would not answer his questions till she had some decent clothes to wear. Periander waited for a great festival, when he knew that all the women of Corinth would be assembled in their best, and then gave orders that they should one and all strip themselves. He burnt the clothes on a huge pyre in his wife's honour; and one can imagine his satisfaction at feeling that he had at last settled the question for ever. He applied to his wife once more with a clear conscience, when she gave him an unmistakable sign that she was speaking the truth, and answered his questions as he desired. That small household matters may weigh heavily upon a woman's conscience, even nowadays, is shown by the following interesting story, which may well be compared with the foregoing.[81] In July, 1838, a Catholic priest, who had gone to Perth to take charge of a mission, was called upon by a Presbyterian woman. For many weeks past, she explained, she had been anxious to see a priest. A woman, lately dead, whom she knew very slightly, had appeared to her during the night for several nights, urging her to go to a priest and ask him to pay three shillings and tenpence to a person not specified. The priest made inquiries, and learnt that the deceased had acted as washerwoman and followed the regiment. At last, after careful search, he found a grocer with whom she had dealt, and, on being asked whether a female of the name owed him anything, the grocer turned up his books and informed him that she owed him three shillings and tenpence. He paid the sum. Subsequently the Presbyterian woman came to him, saying that she was no more troubled. The spirits of the worst of the Roman Emperors were, as we should expect, especially restless. Pliny[82] tells us how Fannius, who was engaged upon a Life of Nero, was warned by him of his approaching death. He was lying on his couch at dead of night with a writing-desk in front of him, when Nero came and sat down by his side, took up the first book he had written on his evil deeds, and read it through to the end; and so on with the second and the third. Then he vanished. Fannius was terrified, for he thought the vision implied that he would never get beyond the third book of his work, and this actually proved to be the case. Nero, in fact, had a romantic charm about him, in spite of, or perhaps because of, the wild recklessness of his life; and he possessed the redeeming feature of artistic taste. Like Francis I. of France, or our own Charles II., he was irresistible with the ladies, and must have been the darling of all the housemaids of Rome. People long refused to believe in his death, and for many years it was confidently affirmed that he would appear again. His ghost was long believed to walk in Rome, and the church of Santa Maria del Popolo is said to have been built as late as 1099 by Pope Paschalis II. on the site of the tombs of the Domitii, where Nero was buried, near the modern Porta del Popolo, where the Via Flaminia entered the city, in order to lay his restless shade. Caligula also appeared shortly after his death, and frequently disturbed the keepers of the Lamian Gardens, for his body had been hastily buried there without due ceremony. Not till his sisters, who really loved him, in spite of his many faults, had returned from exile were the funeral rites properly performed, after which his ghost gave no more trouble.[83] On the night of the day of Galba's murder, the Emperor Otho was heard groaning in his room by his attendants. They rushed in, and found him lying in front of his bed, endeavouring to propitiate Galba's ghost, by whom he declared that he saw himself being driven out and expelled.[84] Otho was a strange mixture of superstition and scepticism, for when he started on his last fatal expedition he treated the unfavourable omens with contempt. By this time, however, he may have become desperate. Moreover, irreligious people are notoriously superstitious, and at this period it would be very difficult to say just where religion ended and superstition began. We have one or two ghost stories connected with early Greek mythology. Cillas, the charioteer of Pelops, though Troezenius gives his name as Sphærus, died on the way to Pisa, and appeared to Pelops by night, begging that he might be duly buried. Pelops took pity on him and burnt[85] his body with all ceremony, raised a huge mound in his honour, and built a chapel to the Cillean Apollo near it. He also named a town after him. Strabo even says that there was a mound in Cillas' honour at Crisa in the Troad. This dutiful attention did not go unrewarded. Cillas appeared to Pelops again, and thanked him for all he had done, and to Cillas also he is said to have owed the information by which he was able to overthrow OEnomaus in the famous chariot race which won him the hand of Hippodamia. Pelops' shameless ingratitude to OEnomaus's charioteer, Myrtilus, who had removed the pin of his master's chariot, and thus caused his defeat and death in order to help Pelops, on the promise of the half of the kingdom, is hardly in accordance with his treatment of Cillas, though it is thoroughly Greek. However, on the theory that a man who betrays one master will probably betray another, especially if he is to be rewarded for his treachery with as much as half a kingdom, Pelops was right in considering that Myrtilus was best out of the way; and he can hardly have foreseen the curse that was to fall upon his family in consequence. With this story we may compare the well-known tale of the poet Simonides, who found an unknown corpse on the shore, and honoured it with burial.[86] Soon afterwards he happened to be on the point of starting on a voyage, when the man whom he had buried appeared to him in a dream, and warned him on no account to go by the ship he had chosen, as it would undoubtedly be wrecked. Impressed by the vision, the poet remained behind, and the ship went down soon afterwards, with all on board. Simonides expressed his gratitude in a poem describing the event, and in several epigrams. Libanius even goes so far as to place the scene of the event at Tarentum, where he was preparing to take ship for Sicily. The tale is probably mythical. It belongs to a group of stories of the grateful dead, which have been the subject of an interesting book recently published by the Folk-Lore Society.[87] Mr. Gerould doubts whether it really belongs to the cycle, as it is nearly two centuries earlier, even in Cicero's version, than any other yet discovered; but it certainly inspired Chaucer in his Nun's Priest's Tale, and it may well have influenced other later versions. The Jewish version is closer to the Simonides story than any of the others, and I will quote it in Mr. Gerould's words.[88] "The son of a rich merchant of Jerusalem sets off after his father's death to see the world. At Stamboul he finds hanging in chains the body of a Jew, which the Sultan has commanded to be left there till his co-religionists shall have repaid the sum that the man is suspected of having stolen from his royal master. The hero pays this sum, and has the corpse buried. Later, during a storm at sea he is saved by a stone, on which he is brought to land, whence he is carried by an eagle back to Jerusalem. There a white-clad man appears to him, explaining that he is the ghost of the dead, and that he has already appeared as stone and eagle. The spirit further promises the hero a reward for his good deed in the present and in the future life." This is one of the simplest forms in which the story appears. It is generally found compounded with some other similar tale; but the main facts are that a man buries a corpse found on the sea-shore from philanthropic motives. "Later he is met by the ghost of the dead man, who in many cases promises him help on condition of receiving, in return, half of whatever he gets. The hero obtains a wife (or some other reward), and, when called upon, is ready to fulfil his bargain as to sharing his possessions,"[89] not excepting the wife. Some of the characteristics of the tale are to be found in the story of Pelops and Cillas, related above, which Mr. Gerould does not mention. Pausanias[90] has a story of one of Ulysses' crew. Ulysses' ship was driven about by the winds from one city to another in Sicily and Italy, and in the course of these wanderings it touched at Tecmessa. Here one of the sailors got drunk and ravished a maiden, and was stoned to death in consequence by the indignant people of the town. Ulysses did not trouble about what had occurred, and sailed away. Soon, however, the ghost of the murdered man became a source of serious annoyance to the people of the place, killing the inhabitants of the town, regardless of age and sex. Finally, matters came to such a pass that the town was abandoned. But the Pythian priestess bade the people return to Tecmessa and appease the hero by building him a temple and precinct of his own, and giving him every year the fairest maiden of the town to wife. They took this advice, and there was no more trouble from the ghost. It chanced, however, that Euthymus came to Tecmessa just when the people were paying the dead sailor the annual honours. Learning how matters stood, he asked to be allowed to go into the temple and see the maiden. At their meeting he was first touched with pity, and then immediately fell desperately in love with her. The girl swore to be his, if he would save her. Euthymus put on his armour and awaited the attack of the monster. He had the best of the fight, and the ghost, driven from its home, plunged into the sea. The wedding was, of course, celebrated with great splendour, and nothing more was heard of the spirit of the drunken sailor. The story is obviously to be classed with that of Ariadne. The god-fearing Ælian seeks to show that Providence watches over a good man and brings his murderers to justice by a story taken from Chrysippus.[91] A traveller put up at an inn in Megara, wearing a belt full of gold. The innkeeper discovered that he had the money about him, and murdered him at night, having arranged to carry his body outside the gates in a dung-cart. But meanwhile the murdered man appeared to a citizen of the town and told him what had happened. The man was impressed by the vision. Investigations were made, and the murderer was caught exactly where the ghost had indicated, and was duly punished. This is one of the very few stories in which the apparition is seen at or near the moment of death, as is the case in the vast majority of the well-authenticated cases collected during recent years. Aristeas of Proconesus, a man of high birth, died quite suddenly in a fulling establishment in his native town.[92] The owner locked the building and went to inform his relatives, when a man from Cyzicus, hearing the news, denied it, saying that Aristeas had met him on the way thither and talked to him; and when the relatives came, prepared to remove the body, they found no Aristeas, either alive or dead. Altogether, he seems to have been a remarkable person. He disappeared for seven years, and then appeared in Proconesus and wrote an epic poem called _Arimispea_, which was well known in Herodotus's day. Two hundred and forty years later he was seen again, this time at Metapontum, and bade the citizens build a shrine to Apollo, and near it erect a statue to himself, as Apollo would come to them alone of the Italian Greeks, and he would be seen following in the form of a raven. The townsmen were troubled at the apparition, and consulted the Delphic oracle, which confirmed all that Aristeas had said; and Apollo received his temple and Aristeas his statue in the market-place. Apollonius[93] tells virtually the same story, except that in his version Aristeas was seen giving a lesson in literature by a number of persons in Sicily at the very hour he died in Proconesus. He says that Aristeas appeared at intervals for a number of years after his death. The elder Pliny[94] also speaks of Aristeas, saying that at Proconesus his soul was seen to leave his body in the form of a raven, though he regards the tale as in all probability a fabrication. The doctor in Lucian's _Philopseudus_ (_c._ 26) declares that he knew a man who rose from the dead twenty days after he was buried, and that he attended him after his resurrection. But when asked how it was the body did not decompose or the man die of hunger, he has no answer to give. Dio Cassius[95] describes how, when Nero wished to cut a canal through the Isthmus of Corinth, blood spurted up in front of those who first touched the earth, groans and cries were heard, and a number of ghosts appeared. Not till Nero took a pickaxe and began to work himself, to encourage the men, was any real progress made. Pliny[96] quotes an interesting account, from Hermotimus of Clazomenæ, of a man whose soul was in the habit of leaving his body and wandering abroad, as was proved by the fact that he would often describe events which had happened at a distance, and could only be known to an actual eyewitness. His body meanwhile lay like that of a man in a trance or half dead. One day, however, some enemies of his took the body while in this state and burnt it, thus, to use Pliny's phrase, leaving the soul no sheath[97] to which it could return. No one can help being struck by the bald and meagre character of these stories as a whole. They possess few of the qualities we expect to find in a good modern ghost story. None of them can equal in pathetic beauty many of those to be found in Myers's _Human Personality_. Take, for example, the story of the lady[98] who was waked in the night by the sound of moaning and sobbing, as of someone in great distress of mind. Finding nothing in her room, she went and looked out of the landing window, "and there, on the grass, was a very beautiful young girl in a kneeling posture before a soldier, in a General's uniform, clasping her hands together and entreating for pardon; but, alas! he only waived her away from him." The story proved to be true. The youngest daughter of the old and distinguished family to which the house had belonged had had an illegitimate child. Her parents and relations refused to have anything more to do with her, and she died broken-hearted. The lady who relates the story saw the features so clearly on this occasion that she afterwards recognized the soldier's portrait some six months later, when calling at a friend's house, and exclaimed: "Why, look! There is the General!" as soon as she noticed it. One really beautiful ghost story has, however, come down to us.[99] Phlegon of Tralles was a freedman of the Emperor Hadrian. His work is not of great merit. The following is a favourable specimen of his stories. A monstrous child was born in Ætolia, after the death of its father, Polycrates. At a public meeting, where it was proposed to do away with it, the father suddenly appeared, and begged that the child might be given him. An attempt was made to seize the father, but he snatched up the child, tore it to pieces, and devoured all but the head. When it was proposed to consult the Delphic oracle on the matter, the head prophesied to the crowd from where it lay on the ground. Then comes the following story. The early part is missing, but Erwin Rohde, in an interesting article,[100] has cleared up all the essential details. Proclus's treatises on Plato's Republic are complete only in the Vatican manuscripts. Of these Mai only published fragments,[101] but an English theologian, Alexander Morus, took notes from the manuscript when it was in Florence, and quoted from it in a commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews.[102] One of the treatises is called [Greek: pôs dei noein eisienai kai exienai psuchên apo sômatos]. The ending in Phlegon[103] proves that the story was given in the form of a letter, and we learn that the scene was laid at Amphipolis, on the Strymon, and that the account was sent by Hipparchus in a letter to Arrhidæus, half-brother of Alexander the Great, the events occurring during the reign of Philip II. of Macedon. Proclus says that his information is derived from letters, "some written by Hipparchus, others by Arrhidæus." Philinnion was the daughter of Demostratus and Charito. She had been married to Craterus, Alexander's famous General, but had died six months after her marriage. As we learn that she was desperately in love with Machates, a foreign friend from Pella who had come to see Demostratus, the misery of her position may possibly have caused her death. But her love conquered death itself, and she returned to life again six months after she had died, and lived with Machates, visiting him for several nights. "One day an old nurse went to the guest-chamber, and as the lamp was burning, she saw a woman sitting by Machates. Scarcely able to contain herself at this extraordinary occurrence, she ran to the girl's mother, calling: 'Charito! Demostratus!' and bade them get up and go with her to their daughter, for by the grace of the gods she had appeared alive, and was with the stranger in the guest-chamber. "On hearing this extraordinary story, Charito was at first overcome by it and by the nurse's excitement; but she soon recovered herself, and burst into tears at the mention of her daughter, telling the old woman she was out of her senses, and ordering her out of the room. The nurse was indignant at this treatment, and boldly declared that she was not out of her senses, but that Charito was unwilling to see her daughter because she was afraid. At last Charito consented to go to the door of the guest-chamber, but as it was now quite two hours since she had heard the news, she arrived too late, and found them both asleep. The mother bent over the woman's figure, and thought she recognized her daughter's features and clothes. Not feeling sure, as it was dark, she decided to keep quiet for the present, meaning to get up early and catch the woman. If she failed, she would ask Machates for a full explanation, as he would never tell her a lie in a case so important. So she left the room without saying anything. "But early on the following morning, either because the gods so willed it or because she was moved by some divine impulse, the woman went away without being observed. When she came to him, Charito was angry with the young man in consequence, and clung to his knees, and conjured him to speak the truth and hide nothing from her. At first he was greatly distressed, and could hardly be brought to admit that the girl's name was Philinnion. Then he described her first coming and the violence of her passion, and told how she had said that she was there without her parents' knowledge. The better to establish the truth of his story, he opened a coffer and took out the things she had left behind her--a ring of gold which she had given him, and a belt which she had left on the previous night. When Charito beheld all these convincing proofs, she uttered a piercing cry, and rent her clothes and her cloak, and tore her coif from her head, and began to mourn for her daughter afresh in the midst of her friends. Machates was deeply distressed on seeing what had happened, and how they were all mourning, as if for her second funeral. He begged them to be comforted, and promised them that they should see her if she appeared. Charito yielded, but bade him be careful how he fulfilled his promise. "When night fell and the hour drew near at which Philinnion usually appeared, they were on the watch for her. She came, as was her custom, and sat down upon the bed. Machates made no pretence, for he was genuinely anxious to sift the matter to the bottom, and secretly sent some slaves to call her parents. He himself could hardly believe that the woman who came to him so regularly at the same hour was really dead, and when she ate and drank with him, he began to suspect what had been suggested to him--namely, that some grave-robbers had violated the tomb and sold the clothes and the gold ornaments to her father. "Demostratus and Charito hastened to come at once, and when they saw her, they were at first speechless with amazement. Then, with cries of joy, they threw themselves upon their daughter. But Philinnion remained cold. 'Father and mother,' she said, 'cruel indeed have ye been in that ye grudged my living with the stranger for three days in my father's house, for it brought harm to no one. But ye shall pay for your meddling with sorrow. I must return to the place appointed for me, though I came not hither without the will of Heaven.' With these words she fell down dead, and her body lay stretched upon the bed. Her parents threw themselves upon her, and the house was filled with confusion and sorrow, for the blow was heavy indeed; but the event was strange, and soon became known throughout the town, and finally reached my ears. "During the night I kept back the crowds that gathered round the house, taking care that there should be no disturbance as the news spread. At early dawn the theatre was full. After a long discussion it was decided that we should go and open the tomb, to see whether the body was still on the bier, or whether we should find the place empty, for the woman had hardly been dead six months. When we opened the vault where all her family was buried, the bodies were seen lying on the other biers; but on the one where Philinnion had been placed, we found only the iron ring which had belonged to her lover and the gilt drinking-cup Machates had given her on the first day. In utter amazement, we went straight to Demostratus's house to see whether the body was still there. We beheld it lying on the ground, and then went in a large crowd to the place of assembly, for the whole event was of great importance and absolutely past belief. Great was the confusion, and no one could tell what to do, when Hyllus, who is not only considered the best diviner among us, but is also a great authority on the interpretation of the flight of birds, and is generally well versed in his art, got up and said that the woman must be buried outside the boundaries of the city, for it was unlawful that she should be laid to rest within them; and that Hermes Chthonius and the Eumenides should be propitiated, and that all pollution would thus be removed. He ordered the temples to be re-consecrated and the usual rites to be performed in honour of the gods below. As for the King, in this affair, he privately told me to sacrifice to Hermes, and to Zeus Xenius, and to Ares, and to perform these duties with the utmost care. We have done as he suggested. "The stranger Machates, who was visited by the ghost, has committed suicide in despair. "Now, if you think it right that I should give the King an account of all this, let me know, and I will send some of those who gave me the various details." The story is particularly interesting, as the source of Goethe's _Braut von Korinth_. In Goethe's poem the girl is a Christian, while her lover is a pagan. Their parents are friends, and they have been betrothed in their youth. He comes to stay with her parents, knowing nothing of her death, when she appears to him. As in the Greek story, her body is material, though cold and bloodless, and he thinks her still alive. He takes her in his arms and kisses her back to life and love, breathing his own passion into her. Then the mother surprises them, and the daughter upbraids her for her cruelty, but begs that she and her lover may be buried together, as he must pay for the life he has given her with his own. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 79: _Philops._, 27.] [Footnote 80: Herod., v. 92.] [Footnote 81: _Human Personality_, ii. 348.] [Footnote 82: _Ep._, v. 5.] [Footnote 83: Suet., _Gaius_, 59.] [Footnote 84: Suet., _Otho_, 7.] [Footnote 85: If that is the meaning of [Greek: exerruparou] in the Homeric Scholia of Theopompus.] [Footnote 86: Cic., _De Div._, i. 27, 56. Cp. Val. Max., i. 7; Libanius, iv. 1101.] [Footnote 87: _The Grateful Dead_, by G.H. Gerould.] [Footnote 88: _The Grateful Dead_, p. 27.] [Footnote 89: _Ibid._, p. 10.] [Footnote 90: 6. 6. 7.] [Footnote 91: Ælian, _Fragm._, 82.] [Footnote 92: Herod., iv. 14, 15.] [Footnote 93: _Hist. Mir._, 11.] [Footnote 94: _N.H._, 7. 52. 174.] [Footnote 95: 67. 16.] [Footnote 96: _N.H._, 7. 52. 174.] [Footnote 97: Vagina.] [Footnote 98: _Human Personality_, ii. 383.] [Footnote 99: Phlegon of Tralles, _De Rebus Mirabilibus_, _ad fin._] [Footnote 100: _Rhein. Mus._, vol. xxxii., p. 329.] [Footnote 101: Mai, _Script. Vet. Nov. Coll._, ii. 671.] [Footnote 102: London, 1616.] [Footnote 103: [Greek: errhô]] VII WARNING APPARITIONS As we should expect, there are a number of instances of warning apparitions in antiquity; and it is interesting to note that the majority of these are gigantic women endowed with a gift of prophecy. Thus the younger Pliny[104] tells us how Quintus Curtius Rufus, who was on the staff of the Governor of Africa, was walking one day in a colonnade after sunset, when a gigantic woman appeared before him. She announced that she was Africa, and was able to predict the future, and told him that he would go to Rome, hold office there, return to the province with the highest authority, and there die. Her prophecy was fulfilled to the letter, and as he landed in Africa for the last time the same figure is reported to have met him. So, again, at the time of the conspiracy of Callippus, Dion was meditating one evening before the porch of his house, when he turned round and saw a gigantic female figure, in the form of a Fury, at the end of the corridor, sweeping the floor with a broom. The vision terrified him, and soon afterwards his only son committed suicide and he himself was murdered by the conspirators.[105] A similar dramatic story is related of Drusus during his German campaigns.[106] While engaged in operations against the Alemanni, he was preparing to cross the Elbe, when a gigantic woman barred the way, exclaiming, "Insatiate Drusus, whither wilt thou go? Thou art not fated to see all things. Depart hence, for the end of thy life and of thy deeds is at hand." Drusus was much troubled by this warning, and instantly obeyed the words of the apparition; but he died before reaching the Rhine. We meet with the same phenomenon again in Dio Cassius, among the prodigies preceding the death of Macrinus, when "a dreadful gigantic woman, seen of several, declared that all that had happened was as nothing compared with what they were soon to endure"--a prophecy which was amply fulfilled by the reign of Heliogabalus. But the most gigantic of all these gigantic women was, as we should only expect from his marvellous power of seeing ghosts, the one who appeared to Eucrates in the _Philopseudus_.[107] Eucrates has seen over a thousand ghosts in his time, and is now quite used to them, though at first he found them rather upsetting; but he had been given a ring and a charm by an Arab, which enabled him to deal with anything supernatural that came in his way. The ring was made from the iron of a cross on which a criminal had been executed, and doubtless had the same value in Eucrates' eyes that a piece of the rope with which a man has been hung possesses in the eyes of a gambler to-day. On this particular occasion he had left his men at work in the vineyard, and was resting quietly at midday, when his dog began to bark. At first he thought it was only a favourite boy of his indulging in a little hunting with some friends; but on looking up he saw in front of him a woman at least three hundred feet high, with a sword thirty feet long. Her lower extremities were like those of a dragon, and snakes were coiling round her neck and shoulders. Eucrates was not in the least alarmed, but turned the seal of his ring, when a vast chasm opened in the earth, into which she disappeared. This seems rather to have astonished Eucrates; but he plucked up courage, caught hold of a tree that stood near the edge, and looked over, when he saw all the lower world lying spread before him, including the mead of asphodel, where the shades of the blessed were reclining at ease with their friends and relations, arranged according to clans and tribes. Among these he recognized his own father, dressed in the clothes in which he was buried; and it must have been comforting to the son to have such good evidence that his parent was safely installed in the Elysian Fields. In a few moments the chasm closed. Dio Cassius[108] relates how Trajan was saved in the great earthquake that destroyed nearly the whole of Antioch by a phantom, which appeared to him suddenly, and warned him to leave his house by the window. A similar story is told of the poet Simonides, who was warned by a spectre that his house was going to fall, and thus enabled to make his escape in time. I will include here a couple of stories which, if they cannot exactly be classed as stories of warning apparitions, are interesting in themselves, and may at least be considered as ghost stories. Pliny the Younger[109] tells us how a slave of his, named Marcus, imagined that he saw someone cutting his hair during the night. When he awoke, the vision proved to have been a true one, for his hair lay all round him. Soon afterwards the same thing happened again. His brother, who slept with him, saw nothing; but Marcus declared that two people came in by the windows, dressed in white, and, after cutting his hair, disappeared. "Nothing astonishing happened," adds Pliny, "except that I was not prosecuted, as I undoubtedly should have been, had Domitian lived; for this happened during his principate. Perhaps the cutting of my slave's hair was a sign of my approaching doom, for accused people cut their hair," as a sign of mourning. One may be allowed to wonder whether, after all, a fondness for practical joking is not even older than the age of the younger Pliny. This story, like nearly every other that we have come across, has a parallel in the _Philopseudus_. Indeed, Lucian seems to have covered almost the whole field of the marvellous, as understood at that time, in his determination to turn it into ridicule in that amusing dialogue. In this case we are told of a little statue of Æsculapius, which stood in the house of the narrator of the story, and at the feet of which a number of pence had been placed as offerings, while other coins, some of them silver, were fastened to the thighs with wax. There were also silver plates which had been vowed or offered by those who had been cured of fever by the god. The offerings and tablets are just such as might be found in a Catholic church in the South of Europe to-day; but the coins, in our more practical modern world, would have found their way into the coffers of the church. One would like to know what was the ultimate destination of these particular coins--whether they were to be sent as contributions to one of the temples of Æsculapius, which were the centre of the medical world at this period, and had elaborate hospitals attached to them, about which we learn so much from Aristides. In this case they were merely a source of temptation to an unfortunate Libyan groom, who stole them one night, intending to make his escape. But he had not studied the habits of the statue, which, we are told, habitually got down from its pedestal every night; and in this case such was the power of the god that he kept the man wandering about all night, unable to leave the court, where he was found with the money in the morning, and soundly flogged. The god, however, considered that he had been let off much too easily; and he was mysteriously flogged every night, as the weals upon him showed, till he ultimately died of the punishment. Ælian[110] has a charming story of Philemon, the comic poet. He was still, apparently, in the full vigour of his powers when he had a vision of nine maidens leaving his house in the Piræus and bidding him farewell. When he awoke, he told his slave the story, and set to work to finish a play with which he was then busy. After completing it to his satisfaction, he wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down upon his bed. His slave came in, and, thinking he was asleep, went to wake him, when he found that he was dead. Ælian challenges the unbelieving Epicureans to deny that the nine maidens were the nine Muses, leaving a house which was so soon to be polluted by death. Many stories naturally gather round the great struggle for the final mastery of the Roman world which ended in the overthrow of the Republic. Shakespeare has made us familiar with the fate of the poet Cinna, who was actually mistaken for one of the conspirators against Cæsar and murdered by the crowd. He dreamt, on the night before he met his death, that Cæsar invited him to supper, and when he refused the invitation, took him by the hand and forced him down into a deep, dark abyss, which he entered with the utmost horror. But there is a story connected with the crossing of the Rubicon by Cæsar that certainly deserves to be better known than it is.[111] It is only fitting that an event fraught with such momentous consequences should have a supernatural setting of some kind; and Suetonius relates that while Cæsar was still hesitating whether he should declare himself an enemy of his country by crossing the little river that bounded his province at the head of an army, a man of heroic size and beauty suddenly appeared, playing upon a reed-pipe. Some of the troops, several trumpeters among them, ran up to listen, when the man seized a trumpet, blew a loud blast upon it, and began to cross the Rubicon. Cæsar at once decided to advance, and the men followed him with redoubled enthusiasm after what they had just seen. It is to Plutarch that we owe the famous story of the apparition that visited Brutus in his tent the night before the battle of Philippi, and again during the battle. Shakespeare represents it to be Cæsar's ghost, but has otherwise strictly followed Plutarch. It would be absurd to give the scene in any other words than Shakespeare's.[112] BRUTUS. How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou any thing? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That mak'st my blood cold, and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou art! GHOST. Thy evil spirit, Brutus. BRUTUS. Why com'st thou? GHOST. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi. BRUTUS. Well; then I shall see thee again? GHOST. Ay, at Philippi. BRUTUS. Why, I will see thee at Philippi, then. Now I have taken heart, thou vanishest: Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. But it had already disappeared, only to meet Brutus again on the fatal day that followed. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 104: _Ep._, vii. 27.] [Footnote 105: Plutarch, _Dion_, ii. 55.] [Footnote 106: Dio Cassius, 55. 1. Cp. Suet., _Claud._, i.] [Footnote 107: Lucian, _Philops._, 20.] [Footnote 108: 68. 25.] [Footnote 109: _Ep._, vii. 27. 12.] [Footnote 110: _Fragm._, 84.] [Footnote 111: Suet., _Julius_, 32.] [Footnote 112: _Julius Cæsar_, iv. 3.] THE END Billing and Sons, Ltd., Printers, Guildford 
20170	----	[Illustration: G.W.R: The Line to Legend Land THE HURLERS Page 8 PERRAN SANDS Page 12 ST ALLEN Page 16 ZENNOR Page 4 ST MICHAEL'S MOUNT Page 20 THE LOOE BAR Page 24 "FURRY DAY SONG" Page 52 Vol. One Front End] * * * * * LEGEND LAND Being a collection of some of the _OLD TALES_ told in those Western Parts of Britain served by the _GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY_, now retold by _LYONESSE_ [Illustration] VOLUME ONE _Published in 1922 by_ THE GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY [FELIX J. C. POLE, GENERAL MANAGER] PADDINGTON STATION, LONDON CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS The Mermaid of Zennor _Page_ 4 The Stone Men of St. Cleer 8 How St. Piran Came to Cornwall 12 The Lost Child of St. Allen 16 The Giants who Built the Mount 20 The Tasks of Tregeagle 24 The Lady of Llyn-y-Fan Fach 28 St. David and His Mother 32 The Vengeance of the Fairies 36 The Old Woman who Fooled the Devil 40 The Women Soldiers of Fishguard 44 How Bala Lake Began 48 The Furry Day Song (_Supplement_) 52 * * * * * This is a reprint in book form of the first series of _The Line to Legend Land_ leaflets, together with a Supplement, "The Furry Day Song." The Map at the beginning provides a guide to the localities of the six Cornish legends and the "Furry Day Song"; that at the back to the six stories of Wales. * * * * * _Printed by_ SPOTTISWOODE, BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LIMITED, _One New Street Square, London, E.C.4_ FOREWORD In those older, simpler days, when reading was a rare accomplishment, our many times great-grandparents would gather round the blazing fire of kitchen or hall on the long, dark winter nights and pass away the hours before bedtime in conversation and story-telling. The old stories were told again and again. The children learned them in their earliest years and passed them on to their children and grandchildren in turn. And, as is natural, in all this telling the stories changed little by little. New and more familiar characters were introduced, or a story-teller with more vivid imagination than his fellows would add a bit here and there to make a better tale of it. But in origin most of these old legends date from the very dawn of our history. In a primitive form they were probably told round the camp-fires of that British army that went out to face invading Cæsar. Then with the spread of education they began to die. When many folk could read and books grew cheap there was no longer the need to call upon memory for the old-fashioned romances. Yet there have always been those who loved the old tales best, and they wrote them down before it was too late, so that they might be preserved for ever. A few of them are retold briefly here. All people should like the old stories; all nice people do. To them I commend these tales of Legend Land, in the hope that they may grow to love them and the countries about which they are written. LYONESSE [Illustration] THE MERMAID OF ZENNOR Carved on one of the pews in the church of Zennor in West Cornwall is a strange figure of a mermaid. Depicted with flowing hair, a mirror in one hand and a comb in the other, the Zennor folk tell a strange story about her. Years and years ago, they say, a beautiful and richly dressed lady used to attend the church sometimes. Nobody knew where she came from, although her unusual beauty and her glorious voice caused her to be the subject of discussion throughout the parish. So attractive was she that half the young men of the village fell in love with her, and one of them, Mathey Trewella, a handsome youth and one of the best singers in the neighbourhood, determined that he would discover who she was. The beautiful stranger had smiled at him in church one Sunday, and after service he followed her as she walked away towards the cliffs. Mathey Trewella never returned to Zennor, nor did the lovely stranger ever attend church again. Years passed by, and Mathey's strange disappearance was almost forgotten when, one Sunday morning, a ship cast anchor off Pendower Cove, near Zennor. The captain of the vessel was sitting idling on the deck when he heard a beautiful voice hailing him from the sea. Looking over the side he saw the mermaid, her long yellow hair floating all around her. She asked him to be so kind as to pull up his anchor, for it was resting upon the doorway of her house under the sea and she was anxious to get back to Mathey, her husband, and her children. In alarm, the captain weighed anchor and stood out to sea, for sailors fear that mermaids will bring bad luck. But later he returned and told the Zennor folk of Mathey's fate, and they, to commemorate the strange event, and to warn other young men against the wiles of the merrymaids, had the mermaid figure carved in the church. And there it is to-day for all the world to see, and to prove, to those who do not believe the old stories, the truth of poor Mathey Trewella's sad fate. Zennor is a lovely moorland village in the neighbourhood of some of the wildest scenery in Cornwall. To the south-west rugged moors stretch away to the Land's End. To the north a quarter of an hour's walk brings you to the coast with its sheltered coves and its cruel cliffs. Gurnard's Head, one of the most famous of all Cornish promontories, is less than two miles away. Grim, remote, yet indescribably fascinating, the country around Zennor is typical of that far western corner of England which is swept continually by the great health-giving winds of the Atlantic. In its sheltered valleys flowers bloom all the year round. On its bold hill-tops, boulder-strewn and wild, there remain still the old mysterious stones and the queer beehive huts erected by men who inhabited this land in the dark days before Christianity. Gorse and heather riot over the moorland. There is a charm and peace about this too little known country that compels health and well-being. Yet Zennor is only five and a half miles by the moorland road from St. Ives, that picturesque little fishing town that artists and golfers know so well. St. Ives, less than seven hours' journey from Paddington, is an ideal centre from which to explore the coast and moorland beauties of England's furthest west. [Illustration: _The Mermaid of Zennor: Bench End in Zennor Church_] [Illustration] THE STONE MEN OF ST. CLEER A thousand feet above sea level among the heather and bracken of Craddock Moor, four or five miles north of Liskeard, you may find to-day the remains of three ancient stone circles known as "The Hurlers." Antiquaries will tell you that the Druids first erected them, but the people of the countryside know better. From father to son, from grandparent to child, through long centuries, the story has been handed down of how "The Hurlers" came to be fixed in eternal stillness high up there above the little village of St. Cleer. Exactly how long ago it was nobody knows, but it happened in those early days when pious saints were settling down in the remote parts of savage Cornwall and striving to convert the wild Cornish from their pagan ways. Then, as even to this day, the game of Hurling--a sort of primitive Rugby football--was a popular pastime with the people. Village used to play against village, with goals perhaps four or five miles apart. And the good folk of St. Cleer were as fond of the game as any of their neighbours--so fond, in fact, that they would play it on any and every occasion, despite the admonitions of their local saint and parson, after whom the village was named. Again and again he would notice that his little church was empty on Sunday mornings while the shouts and noise of a hard-fought Hurling match drifted across the moorland in through the open church door. Again and again he would take his flock to task for their godless ways and their Sabbath-breaking games. But it was of little use. For a Sunday or two they would be penitent and attend service. Then would come a fine morning, and a challenge perhaps from the Hurlers of St. Ive or North Hill, on the other side of the moors, and the young men would decide to chance another lecture from the patient saint, and out they would go to the hillside to do battle for the honour of their parish. But even the patience of saints comes to an end at last, and good St. Cleer saw something more than words was needed to lead his people into the right way. And so it happened one Sunday morning, in the midst of a hot tussle on Craddock Moor, the outraged St. Cleer arrived in search of his erring flock. He bade them cease their game at once and return to church. Some of them obeyed, wandering sheepishly off down the hill; some were defiant and told the worthy man to go back to his prayers and not to come up there to spoil sport. Then St. Cleer spoke in anger. Raising his staff he told them in solemn and awful tones that it should be as they had chosen. Since they preferred their game on the moor to their service in church, on the moor at their game they should stay for ever. He lowered his staff and to the horror of all onlookers the defiant ones were seen to be turned into stone. Many centuries have passed since then. Time, wind and rain have weathered the stone men out of all semblance of humanity. Some have been destroyed, but most still remain as an awful example to impious Sabbath profaners. And there you may see them silent and still, just as they were struck on that grim Sunday in the dark long ago. The glorious moorland, rugged and wild, stretches all about them--a wonderful walking country, where one may escape from all cares and wander for hours amid the bracken and sweet-smelling grasses and find strange prehistoric remains seldom visited by any but the moorland sheep and the wild birds. It is a country of vast spaces and far views. You may see on one hand the Severn Sea, on the other the Channel; to the east the upstanding blue hills of Dartmoor and to the west the rugged highlands by Land's End--and then trudge back at night weary but happy to Liskeard, described as "the pleasantest town in Cornwall," and find it hard to believe that only five hours away is the toil and turmoil of London. [Illustration: _"The Hurlers," St. Cleer_] [Illustration] HOW ST. PIRAN CAME TO CORNWALL Some sixteen hundred years ago, so tradition tells, there lived in the South of Ireland a very holy man named Piran. Such was his piety that he was able to perform miracles. Once he fed ten Irish kings and their armies for ten days on end with three cows. Men sorely wounded in battle were brought to him to be cured, and he cured them. Yet the Irish grew jealous of his power and decided he must be killed. And so one stormy, boisterous morning the pious Piran was brought in chains to the summit of a high cliff, and with a huge millstone tied to his neck his ungrateful neighbours hurled him into the raging billows beneath. This horrible deed was marked, as the holy man left the top of the cliff, with a blinding flash of lightning and a terrifying crash of thunder, and then, to the amazement of the savages who had thus sought to destroy him, a wonderful thing happened. As man and millstone reached the sea the storm instantly ceased. The sun shone out, the waves and the wind died down, and, peering over the edge of the cliff, the wondering crowd saw the holy man, seated peacefully upon a floating millstone, drifting slowly away in the direction of the Cornish shore, some hundreds of miles to the south-east. St. Piran's millstone bore him safely across the Atlantic waves until at length--on the fifth day of March--it grounded gently upon the Cornish coast, between Newquay and Perranporth, on that glorious stretch of sand known to-day as Perran Beach. Here the Saint landed, and, taking his millstone with him, proceeded a little distance inland and set himself to work to convert the heathen Cornish to Christianity. He built himself a little chapel in the sands and lived a useful and pious life for many years, loved by his people, until at last, at the great age of two hundred and six, he died. Then his sorrowing flock buried him and built over his grave St. Piran's Chapel, the remains of which you can see to-day hidden away in the sandhills of the Penhale Sands. Although Cornwall can boast many saints, St. Piran has greater right than any other to be called the patron of the Duchy. To him the Cornish in the old days attributed a vast number of good actions, among them the discovery of tin, the mining of which has for centuries formed one of the chief Cornish industries. This came about, according to the old story, from the saint making use of some strange black stones that he found, to make a foundation for his fire. The heat being more intense than usual one day, these stones melted and a stream of white metal flowed from them. The saint and his companion, St. Chiwidden, told the Cornish people of their discovery, and taught them to dig and smelt the ore, thus bringing much prosperity to the country, the story of which eventually reached the far-away Phoenicians and brought them in their ships to trade with the Cornish for their valuable metal. Good St. Piran has left his name all over the wonderful country south-west of Newquay. In Perranporth, with its rocks and caves and glorious bathing beach; in St. Piran's Round, that strange old earth-work not far away; in the parish of Perranzabuloe, which means Perran in the Sands; in Perranwell, near Falmouth, and even further south in Perranuthnoe, which looks out across the waters of Mounts Bay. But although memorials of him are to be found over most of South Cornwall, it is the district of the Perran Sands, where he landed, lived and died, that is his true home. There, where the soft Atlantic breezes or the fierce winter gales sweep in to Perran Bay, you may look out over the dancing sea towards Ireland and America with nothing but Atlantic rollers between, or wander amid the waste of sand dunes that comprise the Perran Sands and breathe in health with every breath you take. Perranporth is on the edge of these sandhills, which stretch away north-east to within four miles of Newquay--all within seven hours' journey from London. [Illustration: _St. Piran's Chapel_] [Illustration] THE LOST CHILD OF ST. ALLEN They never talk of fairies in Cornwall; what "foreigners" call fairies the Cornish call "piskies," or "small people." And all about the Duchy piskies still abound for those who are fitted to see them. The old folk will still tell you many strange stories of the piskies. One of the best known is that of the lost child of St. Allen. St. Allen is a parish on the high ground about four miles from Truro, and there, in the little hamlet of Treonike, or, as it is now called, Trefronick, on a lovely spring evening years and years ago, a small village boy wandered out to pick flowers in a little copse not far from his parents' cottage. His mother, looking from the kitchen door, saw him happily engaged in his innocent amusement, then turned to make ready the supper for her good man, whom she saw trudging home in the distance across the fields. When, a few minutes later, she went to call her boy in to his evening meal, he had vanished. At first it was thought that the child had merely wandered further into the wood, but after a while, when he did not return, his parents grew alarmed and went in search of him. Yet no sign of the boy was discovered. For two days the villagers sought high and low for the missing child, and then, on the morning of the third day, to the delight of the distracted parents, their boy was found sleeping peacefully upon a bed of fern within a few yards of the place where his mother had last seen him. He was perfectly well, quite happy, and entirely ignorant of the length of time that had elapsed. And he had a wonderful story to tell. While picking the flowers, he said, he had heard a bird singing in more beautiful tones than any he had heard before. Going into the wood to see what strange songster this was, the sound changed to most wonderful music which compelled him to follow it. Thus lured onward he came at length to the edge of an enchanted lake, and he noticed that night had fallen but that the sky was ablaze with huge stars. Then more stars rose up all around him, and, looking, he saw that each was in reality a pisky. These small people formed themselves into a procession, singing strange fascinating songs the while, and under the leadership of one who was more brilliant and more beautiful than the rest they led the boy through their dwelling place. This, he said, was like a palace. Crystal pillars supported arches hung with jewels which glistened with every colour of the rainbow. Far more wonderful, the child said, were the crystals than any he had seen in a Cornish mine. The piskies were very kind to him, and seemed to enjoy his wonder and astonishment at their gorgeous cave. They gave him a fairy meal of the purest honey spread on dainty little cakes, and when at last he grew tired numbers of the small folk fell to work to build him a bed of fern. Then, crowding around him, they sang him to sleep with a strange soothing lullaby, which for the rest of his life he was always just on the point of remembering, but which as certainly escaped him. He remembered nothing more until he was awakened and taken home to his parents. The wise folk of St. Allen maintained that only a child of the finest character ever received such honour from the small people, and that the fact that they had shown him the secrets of their hidden dwelling augured that for ever afterwards they would keep him under their especial care. And so it was; the boy lived to a ripe old age and prospered amazingly. He never knew illness or misfortune, and died at last in his sleep; and those that were near him say that as he breathed his last a strange music filled the room. Some say that the piskies still haunt the woods and fields around Trefronick, but that they only show themselves to children and grown-ups of simple, trusting nature. Anyhow, those that wish to try to see them may reach the place where the lost child was spirited away in an hour and a half's walk from Truro, Cornwall's cathedral city, which is at the head of one of the most beautiful rivers in the world. The trip from Truro down the Truro river and the Fal to Falmouth at any time of the year is a pleasurable experience that can never be forgotten. Truro is an ideal centre for South Cornwall. Wild sea coast and moorland, and woods and sheltered creeks, are all close at hand, yet the city itself has the cloistered calm peculiar to all our cathedral towns. The tourist neglects Truro too much, for as a lover of the Duchy once said: "It is the most convenient town in Cornwall; it seems to be within an hour and a half's journey of any part of the county." [Illustration: _Truro Cathedral_] [Illustration] THE GIANTS WHO BUILT THE MOUNT St. Michael's Mount, that impressive castle-crowned pyramid of rock that rises from the waters of Mounts Bay, was not always an island. In fact, it is not always an island now. At low tide you may reach it from the mainland along a causeway. But once upon a time the Mount stood in the midst of a forest; its old name, "Caraclowse in Cowse," means "the Grey Rock in the Wood," and that was at the time when the Giants built it. Cormoran was one of the Giants; he lived in this great western forest, which is now swallowed up by the sea, and there he determined to erect for himself a stronghold that should rise well above the trees. So he set to work to collect huge stones from the neighbouring granite hills, and his new home grew apace. But the labour of searching far afield for suitable stones, and of carrying them to the forest and piling them one upon another, was a wearying task even for a giant, and as Cormoran grew tired he forced his unfortunate Giantess wife, Cormelian, to help him in his task, and to her he gave the most toilsome of the labour. Was there a gigantic boulder in a far part of the Duchy that Cormoran coveted, unhappy Cormelian was sent to fetch it; and she, like a dutiful wife, never complained, but went meekly about her work, collecting the finest and biggest stones and carrying them back to the forest in her apron. Meanwhile Cormoran, growing more lazy, spent much of his time in sleep, waking up only very occasionally to admonish his wife or to incite her to greater efforts. One day, when Cormelian had been twice as far as the Bodmin moors to fetch some particularly fine stones Cormoran had seen, and was about to set off on a third journey, she, noticing her husband fast asleep, thought to save herself another weary walk by going only a short distance and breaking off some huge masses of greenstone rock which existed in the neighbourhood and placing them upon the nearly completed Mount without being seen. Although Cormoran had insisted that the stone be grey, Cormelian could see no reason why one stone was not as good as another. So, carrying out her plan, she was returning with the first enormous piece of greenstone, walking ever so carefully so as not to awaken Cormoran, when, unfortunately, he did awake. He flew into a terrible rage on seeing how his wife was trying to delude him, and, rising with a dreadful threat, he ran after her, overtaking her just before she reached the Mount. Scolding her for her deceit, he gave her a terrific box on the ear. Poor Cormelian, in her fright, dropped the huge greenstone she was carrying, and ran sobbing from her angry husband to seek refuge in the deepest part of the forest; and it was not until Cormoran himself had finished building the Mount that she would return to him. And to-day, as you walk along the causeway from Marazion to St. Michael's Mount, you will see on your right hand an isolated mass of greenstone, the very rock that Cormelian dropped. It is called Chapel Rock now, because years and years afterwards, when pious monks lived upon the summit of the Mount and devout pilgrims used to visit their church to pay homage at a shrine, they built a little chapel, upon poor Cormelian's green rock, of which only a few stones now remain. You may visit Chapel Rock and St. Michael's Mount from Penzance, which is between three and four miles away and is the ideal centre for some of the most wonderful scenery in Cornwall. Both Land's End and the Lizard are within easy reach of this, England's westernmost town, where a climate that rivals that of the Mediterranean may be enjoyed in the depth of winter. Semi-tropical flowers and trees bloom in the open, and in February and early March--in what is, in fact, winter weather for those in less favoured parts--Penzance and its neighbourhood are surrounded by glorious spring flowers, the growing of which forms a very considerable industry. London and our other big towns often get their first glimpse of coming spring in the narcissi and wallflowers grown around the shores of Mounts Bay, and packed off to the grim cold cities only a few hours away. [Illustration: _St. Michael's Mount_] [Illustration] THE TASKS OF TREGEAGLE The name of the demon Tregeagle is a household word in nearly every part of Cornwall. His wild spirit rages of nights along the rocky coasts, across the bleak moors and through the sheltered valleys. For Tregeagle is a Cornish "Wandering Jew"; his spirit can never rest, since in life he was the most evil man the Duchy ever knew. His story, as the legend has it, is that he was a man who amassed great wealth by robbing his neighbours in the cruellest manner. As he approached the end of his most evil life remorse seized him. There was no sin he had not committed, and hoping to escape from the just reward of so wicked a life, in the hereafter, he lavished money upon the Church and the poor, trusting to obtain the help of the holy priests to save him from the clutches of the Evil One. The priests, ever anxious to save a soul, banded themselves together, and by constant prayer and powerful exorcisms kept the powers of darkness at bay, and Tregeagle died and was buried in St. Breock Church. But the demons were not so ready to give up what they felt was their lawful prey. An important lawsuit occurred shortly after his death, and as the judge was about to give his decision against the unjustly accused defendant, to the horror of all in court, the gaunt figure of the dead Tregeagle stalked into the room. His evidence saved the defendant. Now Tregeagle being brought from the grave, despite the honesty of his mission, placed himself once more in danger of the demons. The defendant, who had raised the spirit, calmly left him to the Churchmen to put once more to rest, and after a long conference, presided over by the Prior of Bodmin, it was decided that the only hope of ultimate peace for the evil man's spirit was that he be set to some task which might last until the Day of Judgment. And so long as he worked unceasingly at that task he might still hope for salvation. So the task appointed him was to empty out Dozmary Pool, a gloomy lake on the Bodmin Moors, with a limpet-shell with a hole in it. For years Tregeagle laboured at this, until one day during a terrible storm he ceased work for a moment. Then the demons descended upon him. He fled from his pursuers, and only escaped them by leaping right across the lake--for demons cannot cross water--and rushing for sanctuary to the little chapel on the Roche Rock, where he managed just in time to get his head in at the east window. But the howls of the demons outside, and the roaring of the terrified Tregeagle within, made the life of the unfortunate priest of the Roche chapel unbearable, and he appealed to his brethren of the Church to do something about it. So they bound the wicked spirit with holy spells and took him safely across to the north coast, where another task was set him. He was to weave a truss of sand and spin a sand rope to bind it with. But as soon as he started on his work the winds or the waves destroyed it, and the luckless creature's roars of anger so disturbed the countryside that the holy St. Petroc was prevailed upon to move him once more, to a wilder part of the country, and the saint took him to the coast near Helston. Here Tregeagle was set to the task of carrying all the sand from the beach below Bareppa across the estuary of the Looe river to Porthleven, for St. Petroc knew that each tide would sweep the sand back again and the task could never be completed. But the demons were always watching Tregeagle, and one of them contrived one day to trip him up as he was wading across the river. The sand poured from the huge sack Tregeagle was carrying and dammed up the stream, thus forming the Looe Pool, which you may see to-day just by Helston, and the Looe Bar, which separates it from the sea. Tregeagle's next task he is engaged upon to-day. He was taken to near the Land's End, and there he is still endeavouring to sweep the sand from Porthcurnow Cove round the headland of Tol-Peden-Penwith into Nanjisal Bay, and on many a winter night if you are there you can hear him howling and roaring at the hopelessness of his task. These scenes of Tregeagle's labours are all situated amid most glorious scenery. Dozmary Pool, bleak and lonely amid the Bodmin Moors, the little chapel on the Roche Rock near St. Austell, and the beautiful Looe Pool by Helston, that attractive little town on a hillside, which is the tourist centre for that country full of colour, deep sheltered valleys, and magnificent coast scenery, the Lizard peninsula. Porthcurnow, the miserable man's present abode, you will find nestling amid the grim cliffs near the Land's End. And if you doubt this sad history of the demon-ridden Tregeagle, go and look at the Looe Bar and explain if you can how otherwise so strange a place could have been created. [Illustration: _The Roche Rocks_] [Illustration] THE LADY OF LLYN-Y-FAN FACH Not many miles from Llandovery, in the midst of glorious mountain scenery, is a lovely little lake known as Llyn-y-Fan-Fach, the scene of a very remarkable occurrence. Once upon a time a simple cowherd, eating his frugal meal by the edge of the water, observed with amazement, seated upon the calm surface of the lake, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. So great was his admiration for her that he cried out, and she, turning to him, gave a rapturous smile and silently disappeared beneath the waters. The peasant was distracted, for he had fallen deeply in love with the beautiful lady. He waited until dark, but she did not appear again; but at daybreak the next morning he returned once more, and was again rewarded by the sight of his enchantress and another of her alluring smiles. Several times more he saw her and each time he besought her to be his wife, but she only smiled and disappeared, until at length one evening, just as the sun was setting, the beautiful lady appeared, and this time, instead of diving beneath the surface, she came to the shore, and, after some persuasion, consented to marry the youth. But she made one condition: if ever he should strike her three blows without cause she would leave him, she said, and their marriage would be at an end. So the two were married happily and went to live at Esgair Laethdy, near Myddfai, the maiden bringing with her as dowry a large number of cattle and horses which she called up from the bottom of the lake. For years the couple lived in great prosperity and happiness, and three handsome sons were born to them; then the day arrived when husband and wife were setting out for a christening, and, being rather late, the husband slapped his wife merrily on the shoulder, urging her to hurry. Sadly she reminded him that he had struck her the first of the causeless blows. Years passed by, and the couple were at a wedding. In the midst of all the merry-making the wife burst suddenly into tears. Patting her sympathetically on the arm, the man inquired the cause of her weeping, and she, sobbing the harder, reminded him that he had struck her a second time. Now that he had only one chance left, the husband was particularly careful never to forget and strike the third and last blow; but, after a long while, at a funeral one day, while all were sobbing and weeping, the beautiful lady suddenly began laughing merrily. Touching her gently to quiet her, the husband realised that the end had come. "The last blow has been struck; our marriage is ended," said the wife, now in tears; and with that she started off across the hills to their farm. There she called together her cattle and other stock, which immediately obeyed her voice, and, led by the beautiful lady, the whole procession moved off across the mountains back to the lake. Among the animals was a team of four oxen which were ploughing at the time. They followed, too, plough and all, and, they say, to this very day you may see a well-marked furrow running right across the Myddfai mountain to the edge of Llyn-y-Fan-Fach, which proves the truth of this story. The disconsolate husband never saw his lady again, but she used sometimes to appear to her sons, and she gave them such wonderful knowledge that all three became the most famous doctors in that part of Wales. Llandovery, from which place you may visit the scenes of this legend, is a charming little town in East Carmarthenshire, situated in glorious surroundings of mountains, vale, and moorland, where some of the finest salmon and trout fishing in South Wales may be enjoyed. It stands in the beautiful Towy Valley, on a branch line which runs up into the mountain country from Llanelly. Llandovery is famous for its air, which is said to be the purest and most bracing in the district. [Illustration: _Landovery Castle_] [Illustration] ST. DAVID AND HIS MOTHER St. David, everybody knows, is the patron saint of Wales, but few know the unique little "village-city," the smallest cathedral city in the United Kingdom, St. Davids, in the far south-west of Wales; and fewer still the story of the holy David himself. This story really begins with St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. As the old legends tell, St. Patrick sailed on his mission to Ireland from the neighbourhood of present-day St. Davids, and he liked the look of the country so well that many years afterwards he established there a sort of missionary college known as "Ty Gwyn," or the "White House," and here on the slopes of Carn Llidi some of the earliest of the old Celtic holy men and women were educated. Among them, some fifteen hundred years ago, was a Welsh Princess named Non, daughter of Cynyr of Caer Gawch, a powerful chieftain of the district. Non was as pious as she was beautiful. There were few maidens in the land who could compare with her. But on what seemed to be an evil day--although it became really for Wales a very lucky one--a barbarous chieftain from the north, called Sant son of Ceredig, espied the rapturous Non picking flowers on a lonely part of the hillside, and in the manner of those boisterous times he decided to carry her off and make her his wife. And so despite her struggles the unfortunate Non was kidnapped. After some while she managed to escape from her fierce captor and returned to live in a little cottage on the cliffs just south of St. Davids, where subsequently a son was born to her. At the time of his birth they say Non clutched at a stone in the wall of her cottage room, and the marks of her fingers remained on it for ever. This stone was seen by many people for years afterwards and was eventually placed over her tomb. The little son grew up and was baptised David by a kinsman of Non's, one St. Ailbe. Like his mother, he was sent to the "Ty Gwyn" to school and he became a very pious youth. Then he was sent away to the holy St. Illtyd to be trained as a priest. His grandfather Cynyr, who was by no means a holy man, growing remorseful in his old age, was so much impressed by David's piety, that for the good of his soul he made over to him all his lands, and on this estate David founded a sanctuary for men of all tribes and nationalities, and, to mark the privileged ground, he caused a deep trench to be dug, and traces of this trench you may find to-day known as "The Monk's Dyke." Here in his sanctuary the holy David lived his pious, peaceful life for many years, converting the heathen and performing miracles. And when at last he died his sorrowing companions built over his grave a great church to his memory, which years afterwards, when David had become recognised as a saint, was replaced by the wonderful old building which stands there now--St. David's Cathedral. The remains of Non's old cottage on the cliff, which the monks afterwards turned into a Chapel, may still be seen, and because of her holy life she also became a saint. Near to the ruined Chapel you will find, too, St. Non's well, or St. Nunn's well as it is sometimes called, from which the holy woman drew her water when she lived her lonely life at the time of St. David's birth. Quaint little St. Davids lies far from a railway station, but a road motor service will take you there in a two hours' journey across magnificent country from Haverfordwest in Pembrokeshire, or you may approach it along a wild, hilly road from Fishguard. St. Davids is unique: it is literally both village and city. Situated right by the coast of picturesque St. Bride's Bay on one side and Whitesand Bay on the other, it occupies a position of peculiar beauty. Good bathing, fishing and shooting abound; there is a golf course, and, chief of its attractions, the glorious Norman architecture of its jewel-like cathedral, its ancient monastic ruins, its old cross and all the other relics of the careful work of the old ecclesiastical builders in the far-away days. [Illustration: _St. David's Cathedral_] [Illustration] THE VENGEANCE OF THE FAIRIES Overlooking the sea that washes the beautiful coast of the Gower Peninsula in Glamorganshire stands the ruined castle of Pennard. All about it is a waste of sandhills, beneath which, so the old stories have it, a considerable village lies buried. For it is told that in the old days, when the lands about Pennard were fertile and populous, the lord of the castle was holding a great feast one day to rejoice over the wedding of his daughter. This happy event was being celebrated by the villagers too, and, unknown to lord or serf, by the "Tylwyth Teg," or the fairy folk who abounded in the neighbourhood, for the little people enjoy an innocent merry-making as much as do mere mortals. And that night, long after the villagers had gone to bed, the festivities in the castle were continued. Wine flowed free and the revellers became more and more boisterous. From mere jesting they came to quarrelling, and, in the midst of their drunken orgy, there was heard an alarm. A sentry on the walls of the castle reported that he heard stealthy movements in the distance as of a large number of people approaching with care. The frenzied warriors, fearing a surprise from their enemies, armed themselves and rushed from the castle to attack the intruders. They, too, could hear a gentle murmur in the valley below, and towards it they charged, uttering terrible threats, striking right and left with their swords at the unseen foe. But, apart from a few shadowy forms that quickly faded away into the undergrowth, nothing was to be seen, and at length the knights and soldiers returned rather crestfallen, and much more sober, to their stronghold. Now the truth of the whole matter was that the alarm had been caused by the festivities of the fairies, and they were so deeply incensed at having their party broken up by this violent intrusion of wine-maddened men that they determined to be revenged. That very night the whole family set out for Ireland, where they descended upon a huge mountain of sand, and each one of the small people, loading himself with as much sand as he could carry, returned to Pennard and deposited it upon the village at the base of the castle, intending to bury both village and castle in sand. To and fro the fairies went, intent upon their task of vengeance, and, when morning broke, those in the castle looked out to see what they thought was a violent sand-storm raging. By mid-day the village below the castle was overwhelmed, and those in the stronghold began to fear that it too would be smothered. But fortunately for them the Irish sand-mountain gave out, and the fairies' complete vengeance was thwarted. Still, they had destroyed the rich and valuable lands that belonged to the castle, and from that day its fortunes and those of its lords began to decline. In proof of this story the old Irish records maintain that an extraordinary storm arose that night and blew away a whole sand-mountain. Few tourists ever explore the beauties of the little Gower Peninsula, save holiday-makers from the neighbouring town of Swansea; yet it is a country of amazing charm, with a glorious coast and high ridges of heather and moorland. It is only about eighty square miles in extent, but it has over fifty miles of coast. Remote from the world, this country, with its churches, castles, and many prehistoric remains, is an ideal holiday land. [Illustration: _Pennard Castle_] [Illustration] THE OLD WOMAN WHO FOOLED THE DEVIL One of the most beautiful spots in all Wales is the Devil's Bridge--an easy excursion into the hills from Aberystwyth--which spans the gorge through which the Mynach cataract descends in four boiling leaps a distance of two hundred and ten feet. How this place received its name is an old story, which goes back to the days before the monks of sweetly named Strata Florida, who subsequently replaced the earlier bridge across the gorge. The beginning of the story is told in an old rhyme which runs:-- "_Old Megan Llandunach of Pont-y-Mynach_ _Had lost her only cow;_ _Across the ravine the cow was seen,_ _But to get it she could not tell how._" Such was the sad plight of old Megan, who was bemoaning the loss of her property on the wrong side of the gorge so many years ago, when there appeared to her suddenly a cowled monk, whose dark face was scarcely discernible, with a rosary hanging to his girdle, and a deep but pleasant voice. Enquiring the cause of her distress, the monk, in sympathetic tones, promised to aid her. He would, he said, build a bridge across the ravine, so that she might recover her lost cow, if she would promise to give him the first living being to cross the bridge. This seemed a natural enough suggestion to the sorrowing old dame, for the good monks of the neighbourhood were ever about the countryside, seeking converts; so Megan agreed, and the monk set to work with amazing energy and skill to construct the bridge. And as he worked Megan sat on a boulder and watched him. Before sundown the marvellous bridge was finished, and the smiling monk, walking over it, invited Megan to follow him and seek her cow. But Megan had been observant. She had noticed two or three things. One, that there was no cross attached to the monk's rosary; another, that while he was labouring at his building he had slipped, and his left leg was exposed through his long habit, and the knee was on the back of the leg, and not the front; also the leg ended not in a foot, but in a cloven hoof. And cunning old Megan was taking no chances. Feeling in the pocket of her skirt she found a crust, and walking to her side of the bridge she called to a black cur that was playing about. Hurling the crust across the bridge she bade the dog fetch it. He ran over the bridge, and Megan, smiling at the monk, thanked him, and told him to take the dog as his reward. The devil, realising that he had been fooled, disappeared in an awe-inspiring cloud of smoke and sulphur fumes; but the bridge remained, and its name to this day recalls the discomfiture of his evil plans. So, having fooled the devil, Megan was able to recover her lost cow. Wordsworth and Borrow, among other famous writers, have immortalised the impressive beauties of the Devil's Bridge and its roaring cataract. It is easily reached from that most attractive of Welsh seaside towns, Aberystwyth, and lies in a country dominated by great Plinlimmon, from the top of which a view of unrivalled beauty may be obtained. All about this country of mountain and moorland are scenes of intense historic interest and natural beauty. It is a district bleak and bracing on the summits, warm and sheltered in the valleys, and as yet quite unspoiled by the crowd, as too is the charming town which is the centre of this country. Aberystwyth retains the quiet charm of an old-world "watering-place," and glories in its wonderful climate and healing sea breezes that blow in across Cardigan Bay, which have won for it its reputation in winter and summer for being a British Biarritz. [Illustration: _Devil's Bridge, Aberystwyth_] [Illustration] THE WOMEN SOLDIERS OF FISHGUARD They tell a story down in Pembrokeshire of how the Welsh country-women once defeated an invading army. It was in the days of the Napoleonic wars when, on a winter's afternoon, four hostile ships appeared unexpectedly off Fishguard Bay. On board were fourteen hundred soldiers intent upon an invasion of Britain. The wild country of the far west of Wales was in those days even more remote than it is now. In the neighbourhood were but three hundred militiamen, and the invaders had an easy task in landing at Llanwnda, about two miles away from modern Fishguard, in a charming sheltered inlet known as Careg Gwastad Bay. But the gallant Welsh determined to drive out the invader. They were furious, and, armed with scythes and other farm implements, they quickly gathered together. For such firearms as they had there was little ammunition, so they stripped the roof of beautiful little St. David's Cathedral of its lead in order to make bullets. And the women of the country followed their men. Clad in their red cloaks and high black steeple-crowned hats, in the distance they had all the appearance of regular soldiers, and the leader of the defending forces was quick to realise this fact. He marshalled them into something like military formation and marched them about in various places where they could be seen by the invading troops. Up and down hill the willing Welsh women trudged until darkness fell and they were tired out. Meanwhile there was consternation in the invaders' camp. The commander knew that scarlet was the colour of our soldiers' uniform, and he could only conclude that overwhelming reinforcements were arriving from the interior. Believing his cause hopeless, he sent in a letter under a flag of truce to the British commander, offering to surrender, and within three days of landing the whole invading force was made prisoner. There is an amazing sequel to this invasion, for it seems that most of the troops employed were criminals, released from French gaols, and other similar undesirable characters, and since they had failed in their primary object the French Government was none too anxious to have them back in France again, and refused to exchange them. The British Government was no more pleased than the French to have so unsavoury a band of ruffians in its midst, and it had at last to force the Frenchmen to receive their own rogues back again. This was done by threatening that if the prisoners were not exchanged within a certain time they would be landed with arms on the coast of Brittany and left to do their worst. The French preferred to have them in control and exchanges were promptly arranged, the discomfited invaders going back, it is assumed, to the safety of the French prisons from which they had been brought. Careg Gwastad Bay, the scene of this landing, is but one of the many fascinating little inlets that abound along the coast in the Fishguard neighbourhood. Excellent fishing--for sea fish, trout, sewin, and often salmon--abounds off the coast or in the streams. Fishguard is fortunate in possessing a modern steam-heated hotel close to the station--the Fishguard Bay--which is equipped with every modern luxury and comfort. From Fishguard one can approach, too, that romantic and historic country known as Kemaes Land, which extends away to the borders of Cardiganshire, a country--bounded on the north by the cliffs that run down to the waters of Cardigan Bay--full of old churches, castles, and strange remains of earlier civilisations, standing remote upon its mountains and moorlands. This is a land of flowers too, for its mild winter climate enables many plants to flourish in the open that must seek the security of greenhouses in the bleaker parts of the south. [Illustration: _Welsh National Costume_] [Illustration] HOW BALA LAKE BEGAN There is a Welsh couplet, still well known in the neighbourhood of beautiful Bala Lake in Merionethshire, which, translated into English, runs: "_Bala old the lake has had, and Bala new_ _The lake will have, and Llanfor, too._" For there is an ages-old belief in the countryside that Bala will continue to grow bigger until it has swallowed up the village of Llanfor, now about a couple of miles from the water's edge. According to the old story the site of the original town is near the middle of the present lake, at a spot opposite Llangower. There, years and years ago, a peaceful community lived a happy, prosperous life in their houses clustering around a well called Ffynnon Gwyer, or Gower's Well. Only one very important thing had these long-ago people to remember, and that was to cover up their well every night, otherwise, as they knew from their fathers and grandfathers before them, the spirit of the well would grow angry with them and wreak some dire punishment upon them. But one night, after some special festivities, the guardian of the well forgot his task. Too late this omission was discovered, for as soon as the last inhabitant was in bed, the well began to gush forth water. Soon the whole village was in a state of alarm. The quickly rising waters began to flow into the cottages, and young and old rushed to Ffynnon Gower, which they realised was the cause of their distress. There they saw a great stream of water gushing upward. In their anger they called upon the negligent guardian, but he, seeing the harm that had come of his forgetfulness, had fled, though it is said he did not escape the angry waters, for they overtook him and drowned him miserably. A frenzied effort was made to cover up the well and stop the unwelcome flow, but it was useless, and the people of old Bala had to escape as best they could to higher ground. When morning broke they looked out to where their homes had been and saw, instead of their fields and houses, a great lake three miles long and a mile wide. To-day the lake is five miles long; and they say that on clear days, when its surface is absolutely calm, you may see at the bottom, off Llangower, the ruins and chimneys of the old town that was overwhelmed so long ago. And, as the old couplet tells, they say too that the spirit of Gower's Well is not yet appeased. On stormy days water appears to ooze up through the ground at new Bala, which is built at the lower end of the lake, and some day they believe that too will be swamped and the waters will cover the valley as far down as Llanfor. Llyn Tegid is the old name for Bala Lake; it means the lake of beauty, and Bala well deserves that title. Its shores are verdant and beautifully wooded, commanding in many places magnificent distant views of the mountains which encircle it only a few miles away. Its waters teem with fish; trout up to fourteen pounds and pike twice as big have been caught there--but the flyfisher must not expect always such giants. There is salmon-fishing to be had in the Treweryn river in September. In the neighbourhood are places of wonderful beauty. Dolgelly, nestling beneath great Cader Idris, is easily accessible, as also is that charming seaside town of Barmouth. Bwlch-y-Groes, one of the finest mountain passes in the Principality, is only ten miles away, and an easy excursion takes one across another very beautiful pass to Lake Vyrnwy, which gives to Liverpool its splendid water supply, and provides anglers with magnificent baskets of Loch Leven trout. All around is a paradise for artists and fishermen, and a country rich in mountain streams, wild woods, and wide, far views unbeaten in any part of Wales. [Illustration: _Bala Lake_] [Illustration] THE FURRY DAY SONG The celebration of "Furry Day," on May 8th each year, at Helston, in South Cornwall, is one of the most interesting survivals of an old custom in the whole country. On "Furry Day" the whole town makes holiday. The people go first into the surrounding country to gather flowers and branches, and return about noon, when the Furry dance begins and continues until dusk; the merrymakers, hand in hand, dancing through the streets and in and out of the houses, the doors of which are kept open for the purpose. The origin of the word "Furry," and of the song and dance, is lost in the ages. Some authorities hold that these celebrations are a survival of the old Roman Floralia, others that it began in celebration of a great victory gained by the Cornish over the Saxons. The words and music, as they have come down to us, show many signs of Elizabethan origin. The music reproduced here is from a very old setting and contains many crude harmonies unfamiliar at the present day. There is one line of the song, "God bless Aunt Mary Moses," that most people will find incomprehensible. It refers to the Virgin Mary, "Aunt" being among the Cornish a term of great respect; "Moses" being a corruption of the old Cornish word "Mowes," a maid. "Mary Moses" means literally "Mary the Maid." THE FURRY-DAY SONG [Illustration: THE FURRY-DAY SONG (Sheet Music page 1)] [Illustration: THE FURRY-DAY SONG (Sheet Music page 2)] Robin Hood and little John, They both are gone to fair, O! And we will go to the merry green wood To see what they do there, O! And for to chase, O! To chase the buck and doe. With Halantow, Rumble Ow! For we were up as soon as any day, O! And for to fetch the Summer home, The Summer and the May, O! For Summer is a-come, O! And Winter is a-gone, O! Where are those Spaniards, That make so great a boast, O? They shall eat the grey goose feather, And we will eat the roast, O, In every land, O, The land where'er we go. With _Halantow, &c._ As for Saint George, O, Saint George he was a Knight, O! Of all the Knights in Christendom, Saint Georgy is the right, O! In every land, O, The land where'er we go. With _Halantow, &c_. God bless Aunt Mary Moses, And all her powers and might, O, And send us peace in merry England, Both day and night, O, And send us peace in merry England, Both now and evermore, O! With _Halantow, &c_. THE FURRY-DANCE TUNE [Illustration: THE FURRY-DANCE TUNE (Sheet Music)] The simple air only of "The Furry Dance" is given here. It was probably originally played by a musician on the pipe, accompanying himself on the tabor. Remote Cornwall is still full of queer old customs and survivals of other days. Helston, the "Metropolis" of that picturesque wild district near the Lizard, forms a perfect setting for this interesting relic of the past, and an ideal centre for those who wish to enjoy the beauties and mystery of one of the most remote corners of our island. [Illustration: _The Furry Dance To-day_] * * * * * [Illustration: G.W.R: The Line to Legend Land BALA Page 48 CARREGGWASTAD COVE Page 44 DEVIL'S BRIDGE Page 40 ST. DAVID'S Page 52 PENNARD CASTLE Page 36 LLYN-Y-FAN-FACH Page 28 Vol. One Back End] 
15792	----	FOLK LORE Or, Superstitious Beliefs in the West of Scotland within This Century With an Appendix, Shewing the Probable Relation of the Modern Festivals of Christmas, May Day, St. John's Day, and Hallowe'en, to Ancient Sun and Fire Worship by JAMES NAPIER, F.R.S.E., F.C.S., &c., Author of _Manufacturing Art in Ancient Times_, _Notes and Reminiscences of Partick_, &c., &c. Paisley: Alex. Gardner. 1879 CONTENTS. PREFACE, v. Introduction, 1 Birth and Childhood, 29 Marriage, 43 Death, 56 Witchcraft, Second Sight, and the Black Art, 67 Charms and Counter Charms, 79 Divining, 105 Superstitions Relating to Animals, 111 Superstitions Concerning Plants, 122 Miscellaneous Superstitions, 132 APPENDIX. Yule, Beltane, and Hallowe'en Festivals, 145 Yule, 149 Beltane, 161 Midsummer, 170 Hallowe'en, 175 PREFACE The doctrine taught concerning Satan, his motives and influence in the beginning of this century, supplied the popular mind with reasons to account for almost all the evils, public and private, which befell society; and as the observed ills of life, real or imaginary, greatly outnumbered the observed good occurrences, the thought of Satan was more constantly before the people's mind than was the thought of God. Practically, it might be said, and said with a very near approach to truth, that Satan, in popular estimation, was the greater of the two; but theoretically, the superiority of God was allowed, for Satan it was believed, was permitted by God to do what he did. It was commonly said, "Never speak evil of the Deil, for he has a long memory." This Satanic belief gave rise to a great amount of Folk Lore, and affected the whole social system. Historians who take no account of such beliefs, but regard them as trivialities, cannot but fail to represent faithfully the condition and action of the people. Folk Lore has thus an important historical bearing. Every age has had its own living Folk Lore, and, beside this, a residuum of waning lore, regarded as superstitious, and so it is at the present day. When we speak of the Folk Lore of our grandfathers and great-grandfathers, we believe that we are speaking of beliefs which have past away, beliefs from which we ourselves are free; but if we consider the matter carefully we will find that in many respects our beliefs and practices, although somewhat modernized, are essentially little different from those of last century. Among the better educated classes it may be said that much of the superstitions of former times have passed away, and as education is extended they will more and more become eradicated; but at present, in our rural districts especially, the old beliefs still linger in considerable force. Many think that the superstitions of last century died with the century, but this is not so; and as these notions are curious and in many respects important historical factors, I have thought it worth while to jot down what of this Folk Lore has come under my observation during these last sixty years. In this collection I do not profess to include all that may come under the head of Folk Lore, such, for example, as the reading of dreams and cups, spaeing fortunes by cards or other methods--that class of superstitions by which designing persons prey upon weak-minded people. One principal object which I had in view in forming this collection, was that it might supply a nucleus for the further development of the subject. The instances which I have adduced belong to one locality, the West of Scotland, and chiefly the neighbourhood west of Glasgow, but different localities have different methods of formulating the same superstition. By comparison, by separation of the local accretion from the constant element, an approach to the original source and meaning of a superstition may be obtained. I have hope that the Folk Lore Society, just instituted, will consider such details and variations, and endeavour to trace their history and origin, and fearlessly give prominence to the still existing superstitions, and exhibit their degrading influence on society. FOLK LORE. CHAPTER I. _INTRODUCTORY._ The primary object of the following short treatise is to give an account of some of those superstitions, now either dead or in their decadence, but which, within the memory of persons now living, had a vigorous existence, at least in the West of Scotland. A secondary object shall be to trace out, where I think I can discover ground for so doing, the origin of any particular superstition, and in passing I may notice the duration in time and geographical distribution of some superstitions. But, on the threshold of our inquiry, it may be of advantage to pause and endeavour to reach a mutual understanding of the precise meaning of the word Superstition--a word apparently, from the varied dictionary renderings given of it, difficult to define. However we may disagree in our definitions of the word, we all agree in regarding a superstitious tone of mind as weak and foolish, and as no one desires to be regarded as weak-minded or foolish, we naturally repel from ourselves as best we can the odious imputation of being superstitious. There are few who seek to know what superstition in its essence really is; most people are satisfied to frame an answer to suit their own case, and so it happens that we have a multiplicity of definitions for the word, many of which are devoid of scientific solidity, and others have not even the merit of intelligibility. A recent definition, extremely elastic, was propounded by a popular preacher in a lecture delivered before the Glasgow Young Men's Christian Association and reported in the newspapers,--"Superstition is Scepticism," which may be legitimately paraphrased "Superstition is not believing what I believe." Although this definition may be very gratifying to the self pride of most of us, we must nevertheless reject it, and look for a more definite and instructive signification, and for this end we may very properly consult the meanings given in several standard dictionaries and lexicons, for in them we expect to find precision of statement, although in this instance I believe we shall be disappointed. Theophrastus, who lived several centuries before the Christian era, defines "Superstition" according to the translation given of his definition in the _Encyclopædia Metropolitana_, as "A cowardly state of mind with respect to the supernatural," and supplies the following illustration: "The superstitious man is one, who, having taken care to wash his hands and sprinkle himself in the temple, walks about during the day with a little laurel in his mouth, and if he meets a weasel on the road, dares not proceed on his way till some person has passed, or till he has thrown three stones across the road." Under "Superstition," in the _Encyclopædia Metropolitana_, the following definitions are given:-- 1st.--Excess of scruple or ceremony in matters of religion: idle worship: vain reverence: a superfluous, needless, or ill-governed devotion. 2nd.--Any religious observance contrary to, or not sanctioned by, Scripture or reason. 3rd.--All belief in supernatural agency, or in the influence of casual occurrences, or of natural phenomena on the destinies of man which has no foundation in Scripture, reason, or experience. 4th.--All attempts to influence the destiny of man by methods which have no Scriptural or rational connection with their object. _Walker's Dictionary_:-- "Unnecessary fear or scruple in religion: religion without morality: false religion: reverence of beings not properly objects of reverence: over-nicety: exactness: too scrupulous." _Chambers' Dictionary_:-- "A being excessive (in religion) over a thing as if in wonder or fear: excessive reverence or fear: excessive exactness in religious opinions and practice: false worship or religion: the belief in supernatural agency: belief in what is absurd without evidences: excessive religious belief." These dictionary meanings do not, of course, attempt to decide what should be the one only scientifically correct significance of the term, but only supply the varying senses in which the word is used in literature and in common speech, but they suffice to show that it is used by different persons with different significations, each person apparently gauging first his own position, and defining superstition as something which cannot be brought to tell against himself. After pondering over the various renderings, it occurred to me that the following definition would embrace the whole in a few words: _Religion founded on erroneous ideas of God._ But when I set this definition alongside the case of an otherwise intelligent man carrying in his trousers' pocket a raw potato as a protection against rheumatism, and alongside the case of another man carrying in his vest pocket a piece of brimstone to prevent him taking cramp in the stomach; and when I consider the case of ladies wearing earrings as a preventive against, or cure for, sore eyes; and, again, when I remembered a practice, very frequent a few years ago, of people wearing what were known as galvanic rings in the belief that these would prevent their suffering from rheumatism, I could not perceive any direct connection between such superstitious practices and religion, and the construction of a new definition was rendered necessary. The following, I think, covers the whole ground: _Beliefs and practices founded upon erroneous ideas of God and nature._ With this meaning the term "Superstition" is employed in the following pages, and if the definition commend itself to the reader, it will at once become apparent that the only way by which freedom from superstition can be attained is to search Nature and Revelation for correct views of God and His methods of working. Notwithstanding our pretensions to a correct religious knowledge, a pure theology, and freedom from everything like superstition, it is strange yet true, that, if we except the formulated reply to the question in the Westminster Catechism, "What is God," scarcely two persons--perhaps no two persons--have exactly the same idea of God. We each worship a God of our own. In one of the late Douglas Jerrold's "Hedgehog Letters" he introduces two youths passing St Giles' Church at a lonely hour, when the one addresses the other thus:--"The old book and the parson tell us that at the beginning God made man in his own image. We have now reversed this, and make God in our image." A sad truth, although not new; Saint Paul made a similar remark to the philosophic Athenians; but the remark applies not to this age or to Saint Paul's age alone--its applicability extends to every age and every people. As Goethe remarks, "Man never knows how anthropomorphic he is." Our minds instinctively seek an explanation of the cause or causes of the different phenomena constantly occurring around us, but instinct does not supply the solution. Only by patient watching and consideration can this be arrived at; but in former ages scientific methods of investigation were either not known, or not cared for, and so men were satisfied with merely guessing at the causes of natural phenomena, and these guesses were made from the standpoint of their own human passionate intelligence. Alongside the intelligence everywhere observable in the operations of nature they placed their own passionate humanity, they projected themselves into the universe and anthropomorphised nature. Thus came men to regard natural phenomena as manifestations of supernatural agency; as expressions of the wrath or pleasure of good or evil genii, and although in our day we have made great advances in our knowledge of natural phenomena, the majority of men still regard the ways of providence from a false standpoint, a standpoint erected in the interests of ecclesiasticism. Churchmanship acts as a distorting medium, twisting and displacing things out of their natural relations, and although this influence was stronger in the past than it is now, still there remains a considerable residuum of the old influence among us yet. For example, we are not yet rid of the belief that God has set apart times, places, and duties as specially sacred, that what is not only sinless but a moral obligation at certain times and places becomes sinful at other times and places. Ecclesiastical influence thus familiarises us with the distinctions of secular and sacred, and we hear frequent mention made of our duties to God and our duties to man, of our religious duties and our worldly duties, and we frequently hear religion spoken of as something readily distinguishable from business. But not only are these things separated by name from one another, they are often regarded as opposites, having no fellowship together. Hence has arisen in many minds a slavish fear of performing at certain times and in certain places the ordinary duties of life, lest by so doing they anger God. In certain conditions of society such belief, erroneous though it be, may have served a useful purpose in restraining, and thereby so far elevating a rude people, just as now we may see many among ourselves restrained from evil, and influenced to the practice of good, by beliefs which, to the enlightened among us, are palpable absurdities. Before reviewing the superstitious beliefs and practices of our immediate forefathers, we may, I think, profitably occupy a short time in gaining some general idea of the prominent features of ancient Pagan religions, for without doubt much of the mythology and superstitious practice of our forefathers had a Pagan origin. I shall not attempt any exhaustive treatise on this subject, for the task is beyond me, but a slight notice of ancient theology may not here be irrelevant. The late George Smith, the eminent Assyriologist, says:-- "Upwards of 2000 years B.C. the Babylonians had three great gods--_Anu_, _Bel_, and _Hea_. These three leading deities formed members of twelve gods, also called great. These were-- 1. Anu, King of Angels and Spirits. Lord of the city Eresh. 2. Bel, Lord of the world, Father of the Gods, Creator. Lord of the city of Nipur. 3. Hea, Maker of fate, Lord of the deep, God of wisdom and knowledge. Lord of the city of Eridu. 4. Sin, Lord of crowns, Maker of brightness. Lord of the city Urr. 5. Merodash, Just Prince of the Gods, Lord of birth. Lord of the city Babylon. 6. Vul, the strong God, Lord of canals and atmosphere. Lord of the city Mura. 7. Shama, Judge of heaven and earth, Director of all. Lord of the cities of Larsa and Sippara. 8. Ninip, Warrior of the warriors of the Gods, Destroyer of wicked. Lord of the city Nipur. 9. Nergal, Giant King of war. Lord of the city Cutha. 10. Nusku, Holder of the Golden Sceptre, the lofty God. 11. Belat, Wife of Bel, Mother of the great Gods. Lady of the city Nipur. 12. Ishtar, Eldest of Heaven and Earth, Raising the face of warriors. "Below these deities there were a large body of gods, forming the bulk of the Pantheon; and below these were arranged the Igege or angels of heaven; and the anunaki or angels of earth; below these again came curious classes of spirits or genii, some were evil and some good." The gods of the Greeks were numbered by thousands, and this at a time when--according to classical scholars--the arts and sciences were at their highest point of development in that nation. Their religion was of the grossest nature. Whatever conception they may have had of a first cause--a most high Creator of heaven and earth--it is evident they did not believe he took anything to do directly with man or the phenomena of nature; but that these were under the immediate control of deputy-deities or of a conclave of divinities, who possessed both divine and human attributes--having human appetites, passions, and affections. Some of these were local deities, others provincial, others national, and others again phenomenal: every human emotion, passion and affection, every social circumstance, public or private, was under the control or guardianship of one or more of these divinities, who claimed from men suitable honour and worship, the omission of which honour and worship was considered to be not only offensive to the divinities, but as likely to be followed by punishment. The vengeance of the deities was thought to be avertable by the performance of certain propitiatory deeds, or by offering certain sacrifices. The kind of sacrifice required had relation to the particular department over which the divinity was supposed to be guardian; and these deeds and sacrifices were in many cases most gross and offensive to morality. The phenomena of nature, being under the direction of one or more divinities, every aspect of nature was regarded as an expression of anger or pleasure on the part of the divinities. Thunder, lightning, eclipses, comets, drought, floods, storms--anything strange or terrible, the cause of which was not understood, was ascribed to the wrath of some divinity; and men hastened to propitiate, as best they might, the divinities who were supposed to be scourging or threatening them. These deputy-gods were supposed to occupy the space between the earth and moon, and, being almost numberless and invisible, their worshippers held them in the same dread as if they possessed the attribute of omniscience. For the purpose of guiding men in their relations towards these gods, there existed a large body of men whose office it was to understand the divinities, their natures and attributes, and direct men in their religious duties. This body of men acted as mediums between the gods and the people, and not only were they held in high esteem as priests, but frequently they attained great power in the State. Often this priestly incorporation had greater influence and control than the civil power; nor is this to be wondered at, when we remember that they were supposed to be in direct communication with the holy gods, in whose hands were the destinies of men. The sun, the giver and vivifier of all life, was the primary god of antiquity, being worshipped by Assyrians, Chaldeans, Phoenicians, and Hebrews under the name of Baal or Bell, and by other nations under other names. The priests of Baal always held a high position in the State. As the sun was his image or symbol in heaven, so fire was his symbol on earth, and hence all offerings made to Baal were burned or made to pass through the fire, or were presented before the sun. Wherever, in the worship of any nation, we find the fire element, we may at once suspect that there we have a survival of ancient sun-worship. The moon was regarded as a female deity, consort of the sun or Baal, and was worshipped by the Jews under the name of Ashtoreth, or Astarte. Her worship was of the most sensual description. The worship of sun and moon formed one system, the priests of the one being also priests of the other. Apart from the priestly incorporation of which we have spoken, there was another class of men who assumed knowledge of supernatural phenomena. These were known as astrologers or star-gazers, wizards, magicians, witches, sooth-sayers. By the practice of certain arts and repetition of certain formula, these pretended to divine and foretell events both of a public and private nature. They were believed in by the mass of people, and were consulted on all sorts of matters. By both the civil and ecclesiastical authorities their practices and pretensions were sometimes condemned, and themselves forbidden to exercise their peculiar gifts, but nevertheless the people continued to believe in them and consult them. Their pretensions were considerable, extending even to raising and consulting the spirits of the dead. This leads me to notice the ancient belief concerning the souls of the departed. By almost all nations, Jews and Gentiles, there was a prevailing belief that at death the souls of good men were taken possession of by good spirits and carried to Paradise, but the souls of wicked men were left to wander in the space between the earth and moon, or consigned to Hades, or Unseen World. These wandering spirits were in the habit of haunting the living, especially their relations, so that the living were surrounded on every side by the spirits of their wicked ancestors, who were always at hand tempting them to evil. However, there were means by which these ghosts might be exorcised. A formula for expelling wicked spirits is given by Ovid in Book V. of the Fasti:-- "In the dread silence of midnight, upon the eighth day of May, the votary rises from his couch barefooted, and snapping his fingers as a sure preventative against meeting any ghost during his subsequent operations, thrice washing his hands in spring water, he places nine black beans in his mouth, and walks out. These he throws behind him one by one, carefully guarding against the least glance backwards, and at each cast he says, 'With these beans I ransom myself and mine.' The spirits of his ancestors follow him and gather the beans as they fall. Then, performing another ablution as he enters his house, he clashes cymbals of brass, or rather some household utensil of that metal, entreating the spirits to quit his roof. He then repeats nine times these words, 'Avaunt ye ancestral manes.' After this he looks behind, and is free for one year." Some nations in addition to a personal formula for laying the ghosts of departed relatives, had a national ritual for ghost-laying, a public feast in honour of departed spirits. Such a feast is still held in China, and also in Burmah. In 1875 the following placard was posted throughout the district of Rangoon, proclaiming a feast of forty-nine days by order of the Emperor of China:-- "There will this year be scarcity of rice and plenty of sickness. Evil spirits will descend to examine and inquire into the sickness. If people do not believe this, many will die in September and October. Should any people call on you at midnight, do not answer; it is not a human being that calls, but an evil spirit. Do not be wicked, but be good." But I do not propose to write a treatise on Pagan theology, nor do I propose to trace in historical detail the progress through which Christian and Pagan beliefs have in process of time become assimilated, when I have occasion, I may notice these things. I intend, as I said at the beginning, to deal with superstition, no matter from what source it may have arisen, recognising superstition to be as already defined--beliefs and practices founded upon erroneous ideas of God and the laws of nature. In many things, I believe, we are yet too superstitious, and our popular theology, instead of aiding to destroy these erroneous beliefs, aids them in maintaining their vitality. Orthodox Christians believe in a general and also in a special providence; the ancients, on the other hand, believed that all events were under the control and direction of separate and special divinities, so that when praying for certain results, they addressed the divinity having control over that phenomenon or circumstance by which they were affected, and when their desires were gratified, they expressed their thankfulness by offerings to that divinity. If their desires were not granted, they regarded that circumstance as a token of displeasure on the part of that divinity, and besought the aid of their priests and sooth-sayers to discover the reason of his anger, and offered sacrifices and peace offerings. Now, orthodox Christians in the same circumstances pray to God for special and personal blessings, and when they are granted, they feel grateful, and sometimes express their gratitude. A common method of expressing this gratitude is by giving something to the church. Thus we find in our church records entries like the following:-- From ---- ----, As a thank-offering for the recovery £ S. D. of a dear child. ------- " ---- ----, Peace-offering for reconciliation with an old friend. ------- " ---- ----, Offering for the preservation of a friend going abroad. ------- " ---- ----, Thank-offering for a fortunate transaction in business. ------- Such offerings are remarked upon favourably by the leaders of the Church, and regarded as examples worthy of being imitated by all pious Christians. But should the prayers not be granted, there is no gift. The non-fulfilment of their desires is regarded perhaps not altogether as an evidence of God's displeasure, but at least as a token that what was asked it was not His pleasure to grant. They make little enquiry concerning the real cause of failure, but take credit to themselves for humbly submitting to God's will. This unenquiring submission is often, however, both sinful and superstitious. Every result has its cause, and it is surely our duty, as far as observation and reason can guide us, to discover the causes which operate against us. The great majority of the afflictions and misfortunes which befall us are punishments for the breakage of some law, the committal of some sin physical or moral, and this being the case, it behoves us to find out what law has been transgressed, what the nature of the sin committed. This principle is acknowledged by our religious teachers, but the laws which have been broken, have not been wisely sought after. The field of search has been almost exclusively the moral, or the theological field; whereas the correct rule is, for physical effects, look for physical causes; for moral effects, moral causes. This rule has not been followed. A few cases illustrative of what I mean will clearly demonstrate the superstitious nature of what is a widely diffused opinion among the religious societies of this country at the present time. Forty-six years ago, when cholera first broke out in this country, it was immediately proclaimed to be a judgment for a national sin; and so it was, but for a sin against physical laws. I well remember the indignation which arose and found expression in almost every pulpit in the country, when the Prime Minister of that day, in reply to a petition from the Church asking him to proclaim a national fast for the removal of the plague, told his petitioners to first remove every source of nuisance by cleansing drains and ditches, and removing stagnant pools, and otherwise observe the general laws of health, then having done all that lay in our power, we could ask God to bless our efforts, and He would hear us. All sorts of absurd causes were seriously advanced to account for the presence of this alarming malady. One party discovered the cause in a movement for the disestablishment of religion. Another considered it was a judgment from God for asking the Reform Bill. The Radicals proclaimed it to be a trick of the Tories to prevent agitation for reform, and added that medical men were bribed to poison wells and streams. The non-religious displayed as great superstition in this matter as did the religious. Large bills, headed in large type "Cholera Humbug," were at that time posted on the blank walls of the streets of Glasgow. The feeling against medical men was then so intense, that some of them were mobbed, and narrowly escaped with their lives. In Paisley, considered to be the most intelligent town in Scotland, a doctor, who was working night and day for the relief of the sufferers, had his house and shop sacked, and was obliged to fly for shelter, or his life would have been sacrificed to the fury of the mob. When we read that epidemics which broke out in the times of our forefathers, were ascribed to such absurd causes as the introduction of forks, or because the nation neglected to prosecute with sufficient vigour alleged cases of compact with the devil, we wonder at and pity their ignorance, and rejoice that we live in a more enlightened age. But the fact is, that among the mass of the people there is really no great difference between the present and the past. There is a close family likeness in this matter of superstition between now and long ago, and this state of matters will continue so long as a knowledge of physical science--that science which treats of the laws by which God is pleased to overrule and direct material things--is not made a religious duty. There are physical sins and there are moral sins, and the punishment for the first is apparently even more direct than for the second, for in the case of physical sins we are punished without mercy. Through neglect of these laws, we are continually suffering punishment, shortening and making miserable our own lives and the lives of those dependent upon us; and periodically judgments descend on the careless community, in the form of severe epidemics. Any religion which advocates practices, or teaches doctrines inconsistent with our physical, intellectual, or moral well-being, cannot be from God, and _vice versa_; and this is a strong argument in favour of Christianity _as taught by its Founder_. I wish I could say the same of the Christianity taught by our ecclesiastics, either Protestant or Catholic. The introduction into the heathen world of the fundamental truths that there is but one God, omnipotent and omniscient, who overrules every event, that He has revealed Himself through His Son as a God of love and mercy, and that man's duty to Him is obedience to His laws, was a mighty step in advance of the gross conceptions of idolatry formerly prevalent among these nations. But neither heathens nor Christians had for a long time any clear idea that the overruling of God in Providence was according to fixed laws. Being ignorant on this point, they ascribed to unseen supernatural agency, working in a capricious fashion, all phenomena which appeared to differ from, or disturb the ordinary course of events. Upon such matters heathen and Christian ideas commingled, and thus heathen ideas and practices were incorporated with Christian ideas and practices. Then, when ecclesiastical councils met to determine truth, and formulate their creeds, these combined heathen and Christian ideas being accepted by them, became dogmas of the Church, and henceforth those who differed from the dogmatic creed of the Church, or advocated views in advance of these confessions, were regarded as enemies of truth. Naturally, as the Church became powerful she became more repressive, and opposed all enquiry which appeared to lead to conclusions different from those already promulgated by her, and finally, it became a capital offence to teach any other doctrines than those sanctioned by the Church. The beliefs of the members of these councils being, as we have already seen, a mixture of heathen and Christian ideas, the Church thus became a great conservator of superstition; and to show that this was really so, we may adduce one example:--Pope Innocent VIII. issued a Bull as follows:--"It has come to our ears that members of both sexes do not avoid to have intercourse with the infernal fiends, and that, by this service, they afflict both man and beast, that they blight the marriage bed, destroy the births of women and the increase of cattle, they blast the corn on the ground, the grapes of the vineyard and the fruits of the trees, and the grass and herbs of the field." The promulgation of this Bull is said to have produced dreadful consequences, by thousands being burned and otherwise put to death, for having intercourse with the fiends. We regret to say such beliefs and such means of repressing free enquiry were not confined to one branch of the Christian Church. Protestants as well as Roman Catholics, when they had the power, suppressed many of the practices of heathenism after a cruel fashion, but at the same time fostered the superstitions and Pagan beliefs which had originated these practices, and punished those who protested against these beliefs. The same method of procedure is in operation at the present day. Nevertheless, the introduction of Christianity into the heathen world made a wonderful revolution in their religious practices as well as in their beliefs. Their idols and the symbols of their divinities were abolished, along with the sacrifices offered to these. Their great festivals, at which human sacrifices were offered and abominable practices committed, were so modified as to be stripped of their immorality and cruelty, and while being retained--retained because they could not be utterly abolished--they were Christianized,--that is, a Christian colouring was given to them,--and they became Church festivals or holydays,--a subject I will treat more fully of in another chapter. It is not, as I have already said, my intention to trace the gradual development of our modern idea of Providence, our ascription of universal government, of all direction of the phenomena of nature and of life to the one only omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent God, but rather to place before the reader the practices and beliefs which prevailed in this country during the early years of the present century. And from this survey we shall discover what a mass of old Pagan ideas still survived and influenced the minds and practice of the people,--how they yet clung to the notion that many of the phenomena of nature and life were under the control of supernatural agents, although they did not regard these agents, as what in olden times they were considered to be--divinities, but believed them to be a class of beings living upon or within the earth, and endowed by the devil with supernatural powers. In the northern sagas, and in the old ballads and saintly legends of the Middle Ages--supernatural agents who played a prominent part--there are giants of enormous size and little dwarfs who can make themselves invisible, and do all sorts of good to their favourites, and harm to their enemies. We are also introduced there to dragons and other monsters which have human understandings, and, guided by a wicked spirit, could do great mischief. Such beings took the place of the ancient divinities, and in many cases when the hero or saint is in great straits, in combat with these evil spirits or fiends, Jesus Christ comes to their assistance. One instance will exemplify this: "O'er him stood the foul fiends, And with their clubs of steel, Struck him o'er the helmit That in deadly swound he fell. But God his sorrow saw, To the fiends his Son he sent; From the earth they vanished With howling and lament. The Christian hero thanked his God, From the ground he rose with speed, Joyfully he sheathed his sword, And mounted on his steed." _Illustrations of "Northern Antiquities."_ By the beginning of this century these ideas of the _personel_ of supernatural agencies had become slightly modified in this country at least, giants and dragons having given way to fairies, brownies, elves, witches, etc. The Rev. Mr. Kirk, of Aberfeldy, published a work descriptive of these supernatural beings. He says they are a kind of astral spirits between angels and humanity, being like men and women in appearance, and similar in many of their habits; some of them, however, are double. They marry and have children, for which they keep nurses; have deaths and burials amongst them, and they can make themselves visible or invisible at pleasure. They live in subterranean habitations, and in an invisible condition attend very constantly on men. They are very fond of human children and pretty women, both of which they will steal if not protected by some superior influence. Women in childbed stand in danger of being taken, but if a piece of cold iron be kept in the bed in which they lie, the spirits won't come near. Children are in greater danger of being stolen before baptism than after. They sometimes, to supply their own needs, spirit away the milk from cows, but more frequently they transfer the milk to the cows of some person who stands high in their favour. This they do by making themselves invisible, and silently milking and removing the milk in invisible vessels. When people offend them they shoot flint-tipped arrows, and by this means kill either the persons who have offended them or their cattle. They cause these arrows to strike the most vital part, but the stroke does not visibly break the skin, only a _blae_ mark is the result visible on the body after death. These flint arrow-heads are occasionally found, and the possession of one of these will protect the possessor against the power of these astral beings, and at the same time enable him or her to cure disease in cattle and women. These flints were often sewed into the dresses of children to protect them from the Evil-eye. There were many other means of protection against the power of these beings, which we shall have occasion to refer to again. There is one method, however, which may be mentioned now. If, when a calf is born, its mouth be smeared with a balsam of dung, before it is allowed to suck, the fairies cannot milk that cow. Those taken to fairyland lose the power of calculating the lapse of time, although they are not unconscious of what is going on around them. Those spirited away to fairyland may be recovered by their friends or relatives, by performing certain formula, or--and this was often the method resorted to--by out-witting the fairies, getting possession of their stolen friends, and then doing or saying something which fairies cannot bear, upon which they are forced to depart, leaving the recovered party behind them. The following information concerning the government, &c., of fairyland, is taken from Aytoun:--The queen of fairyland was a kind of feudatory sovereign under Satan, to whom she was obliged to pay _kave_, or tithe in kind; and, as her own fairy subjects strongly objected to transfer their allegiance, the quota was usually made up in children who had been stolen before the rite of baptism had been administered to them. This belief was at one time universal throughout all Scotland, and was still prevalent at the beginning of this century. Charms were quite commonly employed to defend houses from the inroads of the fairies before the infants were baptised; but even baptism did not always protect the baby from being stolen. During the period of infancy, the mother required to be ever watchful; but the risks were especially great before baptism. It is difficult to define exactly the power which the queen of elfland had, for besides carrying off Thomas the Rhymer, she was supposed to have carried off no less a personage than James IV. from the field of Flodden, and to have detained him in her enchanted country. There was also a king of elfland. From the accounts extracted from or volunteered by witches, &c., preserved to us in justiciary and presbyterial records, he appears to have been a peaceable, luxurious, indolent personage, who entrusted the whole business of his kingdom, including the recruiting department, to his wife. We get a glimpse of both their majesties in the confessions of Isabella Gowdie, in Aulderne, a parish in Nairnshire, who was indicted for witchcraft in 1662. She said--"I was in Downie Hills, and got meat there from the queen of the fairies, more than I could eat. The queen is brawly clothed in white linen, and in white and brown cloth; and the king is a braw man, well-favoured, and broad-faced. There were plenty of elf bulls rowting and skoyling up and down, and affrighted me." Mr. Kirk says "that in fairyland they have also books of various kinds--history, travels, novels, and plays--but no sermons, no Bible, nor any book of a religious kind." Every reader of Hogg's _Queen's Wake_ knows the beautiful legend of the abduction of "Bonny Kilmeny"; but in Dr. Jamieson's _Illustrations of Northern Antiquities_ we have found amongst these heroic and romantic ballads another legend more fully descriptive of fairyland. In this legend, a young lady is carried away to fairyland, and recovered, by her brother:-- "King Arthur's sons o' merry Carlisle Were playing at the ba', And there was their sister, burd Ellen, I' the midst, amang them a'. Child Rowland kicked it wi' his foot, And keppit it wi' his knee; And aye as he played, out o'er them a'. O'er the kirk he gar'd it flee. Burd Ellen round about the aisle To seek the ba' has gane: But she bade lang, and ay langer, And she came na back again. They sought her east, they sought her west, They sought her up and down, And wae were the hearts in merry Carlisle, For she was nae gait found." Merlin, the warlock, being consulted, told them that burd Ellen was taken away by the fairies, and that it would be a dangerous task to recover her if they were not well instructed how to proceed. The instructions which Merlin gave were, that whoever undertook the quest for her should, after entering elfland, kill every person he met till he reached the royal apartments, and taste neither meat nor drink offered to them, for by doing otherwise they would come under the fairy spell, and never again get back to earth. Two of her brothers undertook the journey, but disobeyed the instructions of the warlock, and were retained in elfland. Child Rowland, her youngest brother, then arming himself with his father's claymore, _excalibar_--that never struck in vain--set out on the dangerous quest. Strictly observing the warlock's instructions, after asking his way to the king of elfland's castle of every servant he met, he, in accordance with these instructions, when he had received the desired information, slew the servant. The last fairy functionary he met was the hen-wife, who told him to go on a little further till he came to a round green hill surrounded with rings from the bottom to the top, then go round it _widershins_ (contrary to the sun) and every time he made the circuit, say--"Open door, open door, and let me come in," and on the third repetition of this incantation they would open, and he might then go in. Having received this information, he fulfilled his instructions, and slew the hen-wife. Then proceeding as directed, he soon reached the green hill, and made the circuit of it three times, repeating the words before mentioned. On the third repetition of the words the door opened, and he went in, the door closing behind him. "He proceeded through a long passage, where the air was soft and agreeably warm, like a May evening, as is all the air in elfland. The light was a sort of twilight or gloaming; but there were neither windows nor candles, and he knew not whence it came if it was not from the walls and roof, which were rough and arched like a grotto, and composed of a clear transparent rock incrusted with _sheep's silver_, and spar and various bright stones." At last he came to two lofty folding doors which stood ajar. Passing through these doors, he entered a large and spacious hall, the richness and brilliance of which was beyond description. It seemed to extend throughout the whole length and breadth of the hill. The superb Gothic pillars by which the roof was supported were so large and lofty, that the pillars of the "Chaury Kirk or of the Pluscardin Abbey are no more to be compared to them than the Knock of Alves is to be compared to Balrimes or Ben-a-chi." They were of gold and silver, and were fretted like the west window of the Chaury Kirk (Elgin Cathedral), with wreaths of flowers, composed of diamonds and precious stones of all manner of beautiful colours. The key stones of the arches, instead of being escutcheoned, were ornamented also with clusters of diamonds in brilliant devices. From the middle of the roof, where the arches met, was hung, suspended by a gold chain, an immense lamp of one hollowed pearl, and perfectly transparent, in the centre of which was a large carbuncle, which, by the power of magic, turned round continually, and shed throughout all the hall a clear mild light like that of the setting sun. But the hall was so large, and these dazzling objects so far removed, that their blended radiance cast no more than a pleasing mellow lustre around, and excited no other than agreeable sensations in the eyes of Child Rowland. The furniture of the hall was suitable to its architecture; and at the further end, under a splendid canopy, sitting on a gorgeous sofa of velvet, silk and gold, and "kembing her yellow hair wi' a silver kemb," "Was his sister Burd Ellen. She stood up him before, God rue or thee poor luckless fode (man), What hast thou to do here? And hear ye this my youngest brother, Why badena ye at hame? Had ye a hunder and thousand lives Ye canna brook are o' them. And sit thou down; and wae, oh wae! That ever thou was born, For came the King o' Elfland in, Thy leccam (body) is forlorn." After a long conversation with his sister, the two folding doors were burst open with tremendous violence, and in came the King of Elfland, shouting-- "With _fi_, _fe_, _fa_, and _fum_, I smell the blood of a Christian man, Be he dead, be he living, with my brand I'll clash his harns frae his harn pan." Child Rowland drew his good claymore (_excalibar_) that never struck in vain. A furious combat ensued, and the king was defeated; but Child Rowland spared his life on condition that he would free his sister, Burd Ellen, and his two brothers, who were lying in a trance in a corner of the hall. The king then produced a small crystal phial containing a bright red liquor, with which he anointed the lips, nostrils, ears and finger tips of the two brothers, who thereupon awoke as from a profound sleep, and all four returned in triumph to "merry Carlisle." The Rev. Mr. Kirk's descriptions of the subterranean homes of the fairies and of their social habits are just the counterparts of the fairyland of this beautiful ballad legend. There can be little doubt that such beliefs are but survivals in altered form of what were in still more ancient times religious tenets. What were formerly divinities have given place to the more lowly fairies, brownies, &c., and from the position of Pagan gods they have, through the opposing influence of Christianity, been removed to the other side, and became servants of the devil, actively opposing the kingdom of Christ. Some have supposed that the fairies may have originally been considered to be descendants of the Druids, for some reason consigned to inhabit subterranean caves under green hills in wild and lonely glens. Others have identified them with the fallen angels. One thing is certain, that the notion that there exists supernatural men, women, and animals who inhabit subterranean and submarine regions, and yet can indulge in intercourse with the human race, is of very great antiquity, and widely spread, existing in Arabia, Persia, India, Thibet, among the Tartars, Swedes, Norwegians, British, and also among the savage tribes of Africa. In the west of Scotland there was a class of fairies who acted a friendly part towards their human neighbours, helping the weak or ill-used, and generally busying themselves with acts of kindness; these were called "brownies." The fairies proper were a merry race, full of devilment, and malicious, tricky, and troublesome, and the cause of much annoyance and fear among the people. Besides these supernatural beings--brownies, fairies, &c.--there existed a belief in persons who were possessed of supernatural powers--magicians, sorcerers, &c. About the Reformation period, these persons were considered to be in the actual service of the devil, who was then thought to be raising a more determined opposition than ever to the spread of the kingdom of God, and adopting the insidious means of enlisting men and women into his service by conferring upon them supernatural powers; so that by this contract they were bound to do mischief to all good Christian people; and the more mischief they could do the greater would be the favours they received from their master. This belief was not confined to the ignorant, but was equally accepted by the educated and by the Church. Measures were taken to frustrate the devil, and the faithful were recommended to make search for those who had compacted with his Satanic Majesty, and laws were enacted for the punishment of the compacters when found. The faithful, under the belief that they were fighting the battle of the Lord, brought numbers of poor wretches to trial, many of whom, strangely enough, believed themselves guilty of the crime imputed to them. After trial and conviction, they were put to death. The belief that the devil could and did invest men and women with supernatural powers affected all social relations, for everything strange and unaccountable--and, in a non-scientific age, we can readily conceive how almost everything would be brought into this category--was ascribed to this cause, and each suspected his or her neighbour; even the truest friendship was sometimes broken through this suspicion. The laws against witchcraft in this country were abrogated last century, but the abrogation of the law could not be expected to work any sudden change in the belief of the people; at most, the alteration only paved the way for the gradual departure of the superstition, and since the abrogation of the law the belief has been decaying, but still in many parts of the country it lingers on till the present time, instances of which appear every now and again in the newspapers of the day. CHAPTER II. _BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD._ When writing of fairies I noticed,--but as it is connected with birth, I may here mention it again,--a practice common in some localities of placing in the bed where lay an expectant mother, a piece of cold iron to scare the fairies, and prevent them from spiriting away mother and child to elfland. An instance of this spiriting away at the time of child-bearing is said to have occurred in Arran within these fifty years. It is given by a correspondent in _Long Ago_:--"There was a woman near Pladda, newly delivered, who was carried away, and on a certain night her wraith stood before her husband telling him that the yearly riding was at hand, and that she, with all the rout, should ride by his house at such an hour, on such a night; that he must await her coming, and throw over her her wedding gown, and so she should be rescued from her tyrants. With that she vanished. And the time came, with the jingling of bridles and the tramping of horses outside the cottage; but this man, feeble-hearted, had summoned his neighbours to bear him company, who held him, and would not suffer him to go out. So there arose a bitter cry and a great clamour, and then all was still; but in the morning, roof and wall were dashed with blood, and the sorrowful wife was no more seen upon earth. This," says the writer, "is not a tale from an old ballad, it is the narrative of what was told not fifty years ago." Immediately after birth, the newly-born child was bathed in salted water, and made to taste of it three times. This, by some, was considered a specific against the influence of the evil eye; but doctors differ, and so among other people and in other localities different specifics were employed. I quote the following from _Ross' Helenore_:-- "Gryte was the care and tut'ry that was ha'en, Baith night and day about the bonny weeane: The jizzen-bed, wi' rantry leaves was sain'd, And sic like things as the auld grannies kend; Jean's paps wi' saut and water washen clean, Reed that her milk gat wrang, fan it was green; Neist the first hippen to the green was flung, And there at seelfu' words, baith said and sung: A clear brunt coal wi' the het tangs was ta'en, Frae out the ingle-mids fu' clear and clean, And throu' the cosey-belly letten fa', For fear the weeane should be ta'en awa'." Before baptism the child was more liable to be influenced by the evil eye than after that ceremony had been performed, consequently before that rite had been administered the greatest precautions were taken, the baby during this time being kept as much as possible in the room in which it was born, and only when absolutely necessary, carried out of it, and then under the careful guardianship of a relative, or of the mid-wife, who was professionally skilled in all the requisites of safety. Baptism was therefore administered as early as possible after birth. Another reason for the speedy administration of this rite was that, should the baby die before being baptised, its future was not doubtful. Often on calm nights, those who had ears to hear heard the wailing of the spirits of unchristened bairns among the trees and dells. I have known of an instance in which the baby was born on a Saturday, and carried two miles to church next day, rather than risk a week's delay. It was rare for working people to bring the minister to the house. Another superstitious notion in connection with baptism was that until that rite was performed, it was unlucky to name the child by any name. When, before the child had been christened, any one asked the name of the baby, the answer generally was, "It has not been out yet." Let it be remembered that these notions were entertained by people who were not Romanists, but Protestants, and therefore did not profess to believe in the saving efficacy of baptism,--who could answer every question in the Shorter Catechism, and repeat the Creed, and Ten Commandments, to the satisfaction of elder and minister. But all this verbal acquaintance with dogma was powerless to eradicate, even, we may venture to say, from the minds of elder and minister, the deeply-rooted fibres of ancient superstition, which had been long crystallised in the Roman Catholic Church, and could not be easily forgot in that of the Protestant. When a child was taken from its mother and carried outside the bedroom for the first time after its birth, it was lucky to take it up stairs, and unlucky to take it down stairs. If there were no stairs in the house, the person who carried it generally ascended three steps of a ladder or temporary erection, and this, it was supposed, would bring prosperity to the child. A child born with a caul--a thin membrane covering the head of some children at birth--would, if spared, prove a notable person. The carrying of a caul on board ship was believed to prevent shipwreck, and masters of vessels paid a high price for them. I have seen an advertisement for such in a local paper. When baby was being carried to church to be baptised, it was of importance that the woman appointed to this post should be known to be lucky. Then she took with her a parcel of bread and cheese, which she gave to the first person she met. This represented a gift from the baby--a very ancient custom. Again, it was of importance that the person who received this gift should be lucky--should have lucky marks upon their person. Forecasts were made from such facts as the following concerning the recipient of the gift:--Was this person male or female, deformed, disfigured, plain-soled, etc. If the party accepted the gift willingly, tasted it, and returned a few steps with the baptismal party, this was a good sign; if they asked to look at the baby, and blessed it, this was still more favourable: but should this person refuse the gift, nor taste it, nor turn back, this was tantamount to wishing evil to the child, and should any serious calamity befall the child, even years after, it was connected with this circumstance, and the party who had refused the baptismal gift was blamed for the evil which had befallen the child. It was also a common belief that if, as was frequently the case, there were several babies, male and female, awaiting baptism together, and the males were baptised before the females, all was well; but if, by mistake, a female should be christened before a male, the characters of the pair would be reversed--the female would grow up with a masculine character, and would have a beard, whereas the male would display a feminine disposition and be beardless. I have known where such a mistake has produced real anxiety and regret in the minds of the parents. We have seen that it was not until after baptism that the child was allowed out of the room in which it was born, except under the skilful guardianship of a relative or the midwife; but, further than this, it was not considered safe or proper to carry it into any neighbour's house until the mother took it herself, and this it was unlucky even for her to do until she had been to church. Indeed, few mothers would enter any house until they had been to the house of God. After this had been accomplished, however, she visited with the baby freely. In visiting any house with baby for the first time, it was incumbent on the person whom they were visiting to put a little salt or sugar into baby's mouth, and wish it well: the omission of this was regarded as a very unlucky omen for the baby. Here we may note the survival of a very ancient symbolic practice in this gift of salt. Salt was symbolical of favour or good will, and covenants of friendship in very early times were ratified with this gift; sugar, as in this instance, is no doubt a modern substitute for salt. Among Jews, Greeks, and Romans, as well as among less civilised nations, salt was used in their sacrifices as emblematic of fidelity, and for some reason or other it also came to be regarded as a charm against evil fascinations. By Roman Catholics in the middle ages, salt was used to protect children from evil influences before they had received the sacrament of baptism. This practice is referred to in many of the old ballads and romances. In a ballad called _The King's Daughter_, a child is born, but in circumstances which do not admit of the rite of baptism being administered. The mother privately puts the baby into a casket, and, like the mother of Moses, sends it afloat, and as a protection places beside it a quantity of salt and candles. The words of the ballad are-- "The bairnie she swyl'd in linen so fine, In a gilded casket she laid it syne, Mickle saut and light she laid therein, Cause yet in God's house it had'na been." Let us return to the mother and child whom we left visiting at a friend's house, and receiving the covenant of friendship. It was unsafe to be lavish in praise of the child's beauty, for although such commendation would naturally be gratifying to the mother, it would at the same time increase her fears, for the _well faured_ ran the greatest risk from evil influences, and of being carried off by the fairies. There was also the superadded danger of the mother setting her affections too much upon her child and forgetting God, who then in jealousy and mercy would remove it from her. This latter was a very widespread superstition among religiously-minded people, even among those who, from their education, ought to have known better. I well remember the case of a young mother,--a tender loving woman, who, quite in keeping with her excitable affectionate nature, was passionately fond of her baby, her first-born. But baby sickened and died, and the poor mother, borne down with grief, wept bitterly, like Rachel refusing to be comforted. In the depth of her affliction she was visited by both her pastor and elder. They admonished her to turn her mind from the selfish sorrow in which she was indulging, and thank God for His kindly dealing toward her, in that He had removed from her the cause of sin on her part. She had been guilty, they said, of loving the baby too much, and God, who was a jealous God, would not suffer His people to set their affections on any object in a greater degree than on Himself; and therefore, He, in his mercy toward her, had removed from her the object of her idolatry. The poor woman in her agony could only sob out, "Surely it was no sin to love my own child that God gave me." The more correct term for such a theological conception would not be superstition, but blasphemy. Another danger from which children required to be shielded was the baneful influence of the _evil eye_. Malicious people were believed to possess the power of doing harm by merely looking upon those whom they wished to injure. This belief is very ancient. From Professor Conington's _Satires of A. Persius Flaccus_, I extract the following notice of it:--"Look here--a grandmother or a superstitious aunt has taken baby from his cradle, and is charming his forehead and his slavering lips against mischief by the joint action of her middle finger and her purifying spittle; for she knows right well how to check the evil eye. Then she dandles him in her arms, and packs off the pinched little hope of the family, so far as wishing can do it, to the domains of Licinus, or the palace of Croesus. 'May he be a catch for my lord and lady's daughter! May the pretty ladies scramble for him! May the ground he walks on turn to a rose-bed.' But _I_ will never trust a nurse to pray for me or mine; good Jupiter, be sure to refuse her, though she may have put on white for the occasion." The Romans used to hang red coral round the necks of their children to save them from falling-sickness, sorcery, charms, and poison. In this country coral beads were hung round the necks of babies, and are still used in country districts to protect them from an evil eye. Coral bells are used at present. The practice was originated by the Roman Catholics to frighten away evil spirits. I have quite a vivid remembrance of being myself believed to be the unhappy victim of an evil eye. I had taken what was called a _dwining_, which baffled all ordinary experience; and, therefore, it was surmised that I had got "a blink of an ill e'e." To remove this evil influence, I was subjected to the following operation, which was prescribed and superintended by a neighbour "skilly" in such matters:--A sixpence was borrowed from a neighbour, a good fire was kept burning in the grate, the door was locked, and I was placed upon a chair in front of the fire. The operator, an old woman, took a tablespoon and filled it with water. With the sixpence she then lifted as much salt as it could carry, and both were put into the water in the spoon. The water was then stirred with the forefinger till the salt was dissolved. Then the soles of my feet and the palms of my hands were bathed with this solution thrice, and after these bathings I was made to taste the solution three times. The operator then drew her wet forefinger across my brow,--called _scoring aboon the breath_. The remaining contents of the spoon she then cast right over the fire, into the hinder part of the fire, saying as she did so, "_Guid preserve frae a' skaith._" These were the first words permitted to be spoken during the operation. I was then put in bed, and, in attestation of the efficacy of the charm, recovered. To my knowledge this operation has been performed within these 40 years, and probably in many outlying country places it is still practised. The origin of this superstition is probably to be found in ancient fire worship. The great blazing fire was evidently an important element in the transaction; nor was this a solitary instance in which regard was paid to fire. I remember being taught that it was unlucky to spit into the fire, some evil being likely shortly after to befall those who did so. Crumbs left upon the table after a meal were carefully gathered and put into the fire. The cuttings from the nails and hair were also put into the fire. These freaks certainly look like survivals of fire worship. The influence of those possessing the evil eye was not confined to children, but might affect adults, and also goods and cattle. But for the bane there was provided the antidote. One effective method of checking the evil influence was by _scoring aboon the breath_. In my case, as I was the victim, _scoring_ with a wet finger was sufficient; but the suspected possessor of the evil eye was more roughly treated, _scoring_ in this case being effected with some sharp instrument so as to draw blood. I have never seen this done, but some fifty years ago an instance occurred in my native village. A child belonging to a poor woman in this village was taken ill and had convulsive fits, which were thought to be due to the influence of the evil eye. An old woman in the neighbourhood, whose temper was not of the sweetest, was suspected. She was first of all invited to come and see the child in the hope that sympathy might change the influence she was supposed to be exerting; but as the old woman appeared quite callous to the sufferings of the child, the mother, as the old woman was leaving the house, scratched her with her nails across the brow, and drew blood. This circumstance raised quite a sensation in the village. Whether the child recovered after this operation I do not remember. Many other instances of the existence of this superstitious practice in Scotland within the present century might be presented, but I content myself with quoting one which was related in a letter to the _Glasgow Weekly Herald_, under the signature F.A.:--"I knew of one case of the kind in Wigtownshire, in the south of Scotland, about the year 1825, as near as I can mind. I knew all parties very well. A farmer had some cattle which died, and there was an old woman living about a mile from the farm who was counted no very canny. She was heard to say that there would be mair o' them wad gang the same way. So one day, soon after, as the old woman was passing the farmhouse, one of the sons took hold of her and got her head under his arm, and cut her across the forehead. By the way, the proper thing to be cut with is a nail out of a horse-shoe. He was prosecuted and got imprisonment for it." This style of antidote against the influence of an evil eye was common in England within the century, as the following, which is also taken from a letter which appeared in the same journal, seems to show:--"Drawing blood from above the mouth of the person suspected is the favourite antidote in the neighbourhood of Burnley; and in the district of Craven, a few miles within the borders of Yorkshire, a person who was ill-disposed towards his neighbours is believed to have slain a pear-tree which grew opposite his house by directing towards it 'the first morning glances' of his evil eye. Spitting three times in the person's face; turning a live coal on the fire; and exclaiming, 'The Lord be with us,' are other means of averting its influence." We must not, however, pursue this digression further, but return to our proper subject. It was not necessary that the person possessed of the evil eye, and desirous of inflicting evil upon a child, should see the child. All that was necessary was that the person with the evil eye should get possession of something which had belonged to the child, such as a fragment of clothing, a toy, hair, or nail parings. I may note here that it was not considered lucky to pare the nails of a child under one year old, and when the operation was performed the mother was careful to collect every scrap of the cutting, and burn them. It was considered a great offence for any person, other than the mother or near relation, in whom every confidence could be placed, to cut a baby's nails; if some forward officious person should do this, and baby afterwards be taken ill, this would give rise to grave suspicions of evil influence being at work. The same remarks apply to the cutting of a baby's hair. I have seen the door locked during hair-cutting, and the floor swept afterwards, and the sweepings burned, lest perchance any hairs might remain, and be picked up by an enemy. Dr. Livingstone, in his book on the Zambesi, mentions the existence of a similar practice among some African tribes. "They carefully collect and afterwards burn or bury the hair, lest any of it fall into the hands of a witch." Mr. Munter mentions that the same practice is common amongst the Patagonians, and the practice extends to adults. He says that after bathing, which they do every morning, "the men's hair is dressed by their wives, daughters, or sweethearts, who take the greatest care to burn the hairs that may be brushed out, as they fully believe that spells may be wrought by evil-intentioned persons who can obtain a piece of their hair. From the same idea, after cutting their nails the parings are carefully committed to the flames." Besides this danger--this blighting influence of the evil eye which environed the years of childhood--there was also this other danger, already mentioned, that of being spirited away by fairies. The danger from this source was greater when the baby was pretty, and what fond mother did not consider her baby pretty? Early in the century, a labourer's wife living a few miles west of Glasgow, became the mother of a very pretty baby. All who saw it were charmed with its beauty, and it was as good as it was bonnie. The neighbours often urged on the mother the necessity of carefulness, and advised her to adopt such methods as were, to their minds, well-attested safe-guards for the preservation of children from fairy influence and an evil eye. She was instructed never to leave the child without placing near it an open Bible. One unhappy day the mother went out for a short time, leaving the baby in its cradle, but she forgot or neglected to place the open Bible near the child as directed. When she returned baby was crying, and could by no means be quieted, and the mother observed several blue marks upon its person, as if it had been pinched. From that day it became a perfect plague; no amount of food or drink would satisfy it, and yet withal it became lean. The _girn_, my informant said, was never out its face, and it _yammered_ on night and day. One day an old highland woman having seen the child, and inspected it carefully, affirmed that it was a fairy child. She went the length of offering to put the matter to the test, and this is how she tested it. She put the poker in the fire, and hung a pot over the fire wherein were put certain ingredients, an incantation being said as each new ingredient was stirred into the pot. The child was quiet during these operations, and watched like a grown person all that was being done, even rising upon its elbow to look. When the operations were completed, the old woman took the poker out of the fire, and carrying it red hot over to the cradle, was about to burn the sign of the cross on the baby's brow, when the child sprung suddenly up, knocked the old woman down and disappeared up the _lum_ (chimney,) filling the house with smoke, and leaving behind it a strong smell of brimstone. When the smoke cleared away, the true baby was found in the cradle sleeping as if it never had been taken away. Another case was related to me as having occurred in the same neighbourhood, but in this instance the theft was not discovered until after the death of the child. The surreptitious or false baby, having apparently died, was buried; but suspicion having been raised, the grave was opened and the coffin examined, when there was found in it, not a corpse, but a wooden figure. The late Mr. Rust, in his _Druidism Exhumed_, states that this superstition is common in the North of Scotland, and adds that it is also believed that if the theft be discovered before the apparent death of the changling, there are means whereby the fairies may be propitiated and induced to restore the real baby. One of these methods is the following:--The parents or friends of the stolen baby must take the fairy child to some known haunt of the fairies, generally some spot where peculiar _soughing_ sounds are heard, where there are remains of some ancient cairn or stone circle, or some green mound or shady dell, and lay the child down there, repeating certain incantations. They must also place beside it a quantity of bread, butter, milk, cheese, eggs, and flesh of fowl, then retire to a distance and wait for an hour or two, or until after midnight. If on going back to where the child was laid they find that the offerings have disappeared, it is held as evidence that the fairies have been satisfied, and that the human child is returned. The baby is then carried home, and great rejoicing made. Mr. Rust states that he knew a woman who, when a baby, had been stolen away, but was returned by this means. CHAPTER III. _MARRIAGE._ The next very important event in man's life is marriage, and naturally, therefore, to this event there attached a multitude of superstitious notions and practices, many of which, indeed, do still exist. The time when marriage took place was of considerable importance. One very prevalent superstition, common alike to all classes in the community, and whose force is not yet spent, was the belief that it was unlucky to marry in the month of May. The aversion to marrying in May finds expression in the very ancient and well-known proverb, "Marry in May, rue for aye," and thousands still avoid marrying in this month who can render no more solid reason for their aversion than the authority of this old proverb. But in former times there were reasons given, varying, however, in different localities. Some of the reasons given were the following:--That parties so marrying would be childless, or, if they had children, that the first-born would be an idiot, or have some physical deformity; or that the married couple would not lead a happy life, and would soon tire of each other's society. The origin of this superstition is to be found in ancient heathen religious beliefs and practices. We have already noticed the ancient belief that the spirits of dead ancestors haunted the living, and I have given a formula whereby a single person could exorcise the ghosts of his departed relatives, and I have also mentioned that national festivals to propitiate the spirits of the dead were appointed by some nations. Now, we find that among the Romans this national festival was held during the month of May, and during its continuance all other forms of worship were suspended, and the temples shut; and further, for any couple to contract marriage during this season was held to be a daring of the Fates which few were found hardy enough to venture. Ovid says-- "Pause while we keep these rites, ye widowed dames, The marriage time a purer season claims; Pause, ye fond mothers, braid not yet her hair, Nor the ripe virgin for her lord prepare. O, light not, Hymen, now your joyous fires, Another torch nor yours the tomb requires! Close all the temples on these mourning days, And dim each altar's spicy, steaming blaze; For now around us roams a spectred brood, Craving and keen, and snuffing mortal food: They feast and revel, nor depart again, Till to the month but ten days more remain." Superstitions of this sort linger much longer in the country than in towns, and the larger the town the more speedily do they die out; but, judging from the statistics of late years, this superstition has still a firm hold of the inhabitants of Glasgow, the second city of the Empire. During the year 1874 the marriages in May were only 204, against 703 in June; but as the removal term occurs at the end of May, that must materially affect the relations, in this respect, between May and June, and accounts, in part, for the great excess of marriages in June. But if the average of the eleven months, excluding May, be taken, then during that year there was a monthly average of 441, against 204 in May--being rather more than double. For the ten years preceding 1874, the average of the eleven months was 388, against 203 in May. As if to compensate for the restraint put upon the people in May, _Juno_, the wife of Jupiter, after whom June was named, and whose influence was paramount during that month, took special guardianship over births and marriages; hence June was a lucky month to be born in or get married in, and thus June is known as the marrying month. Here, again, our registers show that the number of marriages are in June nearly double the average of the other months, excluding May and June. The average during the ten years is, for the ten months, 375 per month, whilst the average for June is 598. It may be noticed in passing that, in Glasgow, January and July stand as high as June, owing, doubtless, to the holidays which occur during these two months making marriage at those times more convenient for the working classes. There were many marriage observances of a religious or superstitious character practised in ancient Rome which were quite common among us within this century, especially in the country districts, but which now are either extinct or fast dying out. When a Roman girl was betrothed, she received from her intended a ring which she wore as evidence of her betrothal. When betrothed she laid aside her girlish or maiden dress,--some parts of which were offered as a sacrifice to the household gods,--and she was then clothed in the dress of a wife, and secluded from her former companions, and put under training for her new duties. When the time drew near for the consummation of the ceremony, it became an important consideration to fix upon a lucky day and hour for the knot to be tied. With this object astrologers, sooth-sayers, and others of that class were consulted, who, by certain divinations ascertained the most auspicious time for the union to take place in. When the day arrived every occurrence was watched for omens. A crow or turtle dove appearing near was a good omen: for these birds symbolized conjugal fidelity. The ceremony was begun by sacrificing a sheep to Juno, the fleece being spread upon two chairs on which the bride and bridegroom sat: then a prayer was said over them. The young wife, carrying a distaff and spindle filled with wool, was conducted to her house, a cake, baked by the vestal virgins, being carried before her. The threshold of the house was disenchanted by charms, and by annointing it with certain unctuous perfumes; but as it was considered unlucky for the new-made wife to tread upon the threshold on first entering her house, she was lifted over it and seated upon a piece of wool, a symbol of domestic industry. The keys of the house were then put into her hand, and the cake was divided among the guests. The first work of the young wife was to spin new garments for her husband. It will be seen that many of these practices were mixed up with superstitious notions, many of which were prevalent in this country sixty years ago, and some of which still remain in country districts. Sixty years ago when a young woman became a bride, she in a great measure secluded herself from society, and mixed but little even with her companions, and on no account would she show herself at church until after her marriage, as that was considered very unlucky. The evening before the marriage her presents and outfit were conveyed to her future home under the superintendence of the best maid (bridesmaid), who carried with her a certain domestic utensil filled with salt, which was the first article of the bride's furnishing taken into the house. A portion of the salt was sprinkled over the floor as a protection against an evil eye. The house being set in order, the best maid returned to the bride's house where a company of the bride's companions were met, and then occurred the ceremony of washing the bride's feet. This was generally the occasion of much mirth. And this was in all probability a survival of an old Scandinavian custom under which the Norse bride was conducted by her maiden friends to undergo a bath, called the bride's bath, a sort of religious purification. On the marriage day, every trifling circumstance which would have passed without notice at other times was noted and scanned for omens of good or evil. If the morning was clear and shining, this betokened a happy cheerful life; if dull and raining, the contrary result might be anticipated. I have known the following incidents cause grave concern about the future prospects of the young couple:--A clot of soot coming down the chimney and spoiling the breakfast; the bride accidentally breaking a dish; a bird sitting on the window sill chirping for some time; the bird in the cage dying that morning; a dog howling, and the postman forgetting to deliver a letter to the bride until he was a good way off, and had to return. Some of these were defined for good, but most of them were evil omens. The ceremony was generally performed at the minister's residence, which was often a considerable distance off. The marriage party generally walked all the way, but if the distance was unusually great, the company rode the journey, and this was called "a riding wedding." There were two companies--the bride's party and the bridegroom's party. The bride's party met in the bride's parents' house, the best man being with them, and the groom's party met in his parents' house, the best maid being with them--the males conducting the females to their respective parties. At the time appointed the bride's party left first, followed immediately by the groom's party--each company headed by the respective fathers. They so arranged their walk that both parties would reach the minister's house together. As soon as the ceremony was concluded, there was a rush on the part of the young men to get the first kiss of the newly-made wife. This was frequently taken by the clergyman himself, a survival of an old custom said to have been practised in the middle ages. This custom is referred to in the following old song. The bridegroom, addressing the minister, says:-- "It's no very decent for you to be kissing, It does not look weel wi' the black coat ava, 'Twould hae set you far better tae hae gi'en us your blessing, Than thus by such tricks to be breaking the law. Dear Watty, quo Robin, it's just an auld custom, And the thing that is common should ne'er be ill taen, For where ye are wrong, if ye hadna a wished him You should have been first. It's yoursel it's to blame." The party now returned in the following order: first, the two fathers in company together, then the newly-married couple, behind them the best man and the best maid, and the others following in couples as they might arrange. There were frequently as many as twenty couples. On coming within a mile or so of the young couple's house, where the mother of the young good man was waiting, a few of the young men would start on a race home. This race was often keenly contested, and was termed _running the brooze_ or _braize_. The one who reached the house first and announced the happy completion of the wedding, was presented with a bottle of whiskey and a glass, with which he returned to meet the marriage procession, and the progress of the procession was generally so arranged that he would meet them before they arrived at the village or town where the young couple were to be resident. He was therefore considered their _first foot_, and distributed the contents of his bottle among the party, each drinking to the health of the young married pair, and then bottle and glass were thrown away and broken. The whole party then proceeded on their way to the young folks' house. To be the successful runner in this race was an object of considerable ambition, and the whole town and neighbourhood took great interest in it. At riding weddings it was the great ambition of farmers' sons to succeed in winning the _braize_, and they would even borrow racing horses for the occasion. The origin of this custom of running the _braize_--it was so pronounced in the west county--has long been a puzzle to antiquarians. Probably it is the survival of a custom practised by our Scandinavian forefathers. A Scandinavian hero or warrior considered it beneath his dignity to court a lady's favour by submitting the matter of marriage to her decision. When he saw or heard of a beauty whom he decided to make his wife, he either went direct and took her away by force from her home, or he gained the right to make her his bride by success in battle with his opponents. Often, however, one who was no hero might gain the consent of the parents to his marriage with their daughter, she having little or no voice in the matter; and when she and her friends were on their way to the church, some heroic but unapproved admirer, determined to win her by force of arms, having collected his followers and friends who were ever ready for a fight, would fall upon the marriage cortege, and carry off the bride. Under those circumstances there was often great anxiety on the part of both the groom's and bride's relations, who remained at home when they had reason to apprehend that such attack might be made, and so, whenever the marriage ceremony was over, some of the company hasted home with the glad news; but commonly youths stationed themselves at the church-door, ready to run the moment the ceremony was over, and whether on foot or horseback, the race became an exciting one. He who first brought the good news received as a reward a bowl of brose, and such brose as was made in those days for this occasion was an acceptable prize. Although the necessity for running ceased, the sport occasioned by these contentions was too good and exciting to be readily given up, but it came to be confined to those who were at the wedding, and many young men looked forward eagerly to taking part in the sport. The prize which originally was brose, came to be changed to something more congenial to the tastes and usages of the times, viz., a bottle of whiskey. In this way, I think, we may account for the custom of "running the braize." It has been mentioned already that the best man went with the bride to the minister. His duty it was to take charge of the bride and hand her over to the bridegroom, a duty now performed by the bride's father, and in this now obsolete custom, I think we may find a still further proof that the management and customs of the marriage procession were founded upon the old practice of wife-capture. The best man is evidently just the bridegroom's friend, who, in the absence of the bridegroom, undertakes to protect the bride against a raid until she reaches the church, when he hands her over to his friend the bridegroom. To meet a funeral either in going to or coming from marriage was very unlucky. If the funeral was that of a female, the young wife would not live long; if a male, the bridegroom would die soon. After partaking of the _braize's_ hospitality,--for the bottle of whiskey was his by right,--the wedding party proceeded to the house of the young couple, and in some parts of Scotland, at the beginning of the century, the young wife was lifted over the threshold, or first step of the door, lest any witchcraft or _ill e'e_ should be cast upon and influence her. Just at the entering of the house, the young man's mother broke a cake of bread, prepared for the occasion, over the young wife's head. She was then led to the hearth, and the poker and tongs--in some places the broom also--were put into her hands, as symbols of her office and duty. After this, her mother-in-law handed her the keys of the house and furniture, thus transferring the mother's rights over her son to his wife. Again the glass went round, and each guest drank and wished happiness to the young pair. The cake which was broken over the young wife's head was now gathered and distributed among the unmarried female guests, and by them retained to be placed under their pillows, so that they might dream of their future husbands. This is a custom still practised, but what is now the bridescake is not a cake broken over the bride's head, but a larger and more elaborately-prepared article, which is cut up and distributed immediately after the marriage ceremony. Young girls still put a piece of it under their pillows in order to obtain prophetic dreams. In some cases, this is done by a friend writing the names of three young men on a piece of paper, and the cake, wrapped in it, is put under the pillow for three nights in succession before it is opened. Should the owners of the cake have dreamed of one of the three young men therein written, it is regarded as a sure proof that he is to be her future husband. After drinking to the health and happiness of the young couple, the wedding party then went to the house of the bridegroom's father where they partook of supper, generally a very substantial meal; and this being finished, the young people of the party became restless for a change of amusement, and generally all then repaired to some hall or barn, and there spent the night in dancing. It was the custom for the young couple, with their respective parents and the best man and the best maid, to lead off by dancing the first reel. Should the young couple happen to have either brothers or sisters older than themselves, but unmarried, these unfortunate brethren danced the first reel without their shoes. Probably this has its origin in the old Jewish custom of giving up the shoe or sandal when the right or priority passed from one to another. For an instance of this see Ruth iv. 7. Having danced till far on in the morning of next day, the young couple were then conducted home. The young wife, assisted by her female friends, undressed and got to bed, then the young man was sent into bed by his friends, and then all the marriage party entered the bedroom, when the young wife took one of her stockings, which had been put in bed with her, and threw it among the company. The person who got this was to be the first married. The best man then handed round the glass, and when all had again drank to the young couple, the company retired. This custom was termed _the bedding_, and was regarded as a ceremony necessary to the completion of the marriage; and there can be little doubt that it is a survival of a very ancient ceremony of the same family as the old Grecian custom of removing the bride's coronet and putting her to bed. This particular form of ceremony was also found in Scotland, and continued to comparatively modern times. Young Scotch maidens formerly wore a snood, a sort of coronet, open at the top, called the virgin snood, and before being put to bed on the marriage night this snood was removed by the young women of the party. This custom is referred to in an ancient ballad. "They've ta'en the bride to the bridal bed, To loose her snood nae mind they had. 'I'll loose it,' quo John." On the morning after some of the married women of the neighbourhood met in the young wife's house and put on her the _curtch_ or closs cap (_mutch_), a token of the marriage state. In my young days unmarried women went with the head uncovered; but after marriage, never were seen without a cap. On the morning after marriage the best man and maid breakfasted with the young couple, after which they spent the day in the country, or if they lived in the country, they went to town for a change. Weddings were invariably celebrated on a Friday,--the reason for this preference being, as is supposed, that Friday was the day dedicated by the Norsemen to the goddess, Friga, the bestower of joy and happiness. The wedding day being Friday, the walking-day was a Saturday; and on Sunday the young couple, with their best man and best maid, attended church in the forenoon, and took a walk in the afternoon, then spent the evening in the house of one of their parents, the meeting there being closed by family worship, and a pious advice to the young couple to practise this in their own house. If the bride had been courted by other sweethearts than he who was now her husband, there was a fear that those discarded suitors might entertain unkindly feelings towards her, and that their evil wishes might supernaturally influence her, and affect her first-born. This evil result was sought to be averted by the bride wearing a sixpence in her left shoe till she was _kirked_; but should the bride have made a vow to any other, and broken it, this wearing of the sixpence did not prevent the evil consequences from falling upon her first-born. Many instances were currently quoted among the people of first-born children, under such circumstances, having been born of such unnatural shapes and natures that, with the sanction of the minister and the relations, the monster birth was put to death. Captain Burt, in his letters from the Highlands, written early in the eighteenth century, says that "soon after the wedding day the newly-married wife sets herself about spinning her winding sheet, and a husband that shall sell or pawn it is esteemed among all men one of the most profligate." And Dr. Jamieson says--"When a woman of the lower class in Scotland, however poor, or whether married or single, commences housekeeping, her _first care_, after what is absolutely necessary for the time, is to provide _death linen_ for herself and those who look to her for that office, and _her next_ to earn, save, and _lay up (not put out to interest)_ such money as may decently serve for funeral expenses. And many keep secret these honorable deposits and salutary _mementoes_ for two or threescore years." This practice was continued within my recollection. The first care of the young married wife was still, in my young days, to spin and get woven sufficient linen to make for herself and her husband their _dead claes_. I can well remember the time when, in my father's house, these things were spread out to air before the fire. This was done periodically, and these were days when mirth was banished from the household, and everything was done in a solemn mood. The day was kept as a Sabbath. The reader will not fail to observe in some of these modern customs and beliefs modified survivals of the old Roman practices and superstitious beliefs. CHAPTER IV. _DEATH._ It is not surprising that the solemn period of death should have been surrounded with many superstitious ideas,--with a great variety of omens and warnings, many of which, however, were only called to mind after the event. In the country, when any person was taken unwell, it was very soon known over the whole neighbourhood, and all sorts of remedies were recommended. Generally a doctor was not sent for until the patient was considered in a dangerous state, and then began the search for omens or warnings. If the patient recovered, these premonitions were forgotten, but if death ensued, then everything was remembered and rendered significant. Was a dog heard to howl and moan during the night, with his head in the direction of the house where the patient lay; was there heard in the silent watches of the night in the room occupied by the sick person, a tick, ticking as of a watch about the bed or furniture, these were sure signs of approaching death, and adult patients hearing these omens, often made sure that their end was near. Many pious people also improved the circumstance, pointing out that these omens were evidence of God's great mercy, inasmuch as He vouchsafed to give a timely warning in order that the dying persons might prepare for death, and make their peace with the great Judge. To have hinted, under such circumstances, that the ticking sounds were caused by a small wood moth tapping for its mate, would have subjected the hinter to the name of infidel or unbeliever in Scripture, as superstitious people always took shelter in Scripture. Persons hearing a tingling sound in their ears, called the _deid bells_, expected news of the death of a friend or neighbour. A knock heard at the door of the patient's room, and on opening no person being found, was a sure warning of approaching death. If the same thing occurred where there was no patient, it was a sign that some relation at a distance had died. I was sitting once in the house of a newly married couple, when a loud knock was heard upon the floor under a chair, as if some one had struck the floor with a flat piece of wood. The young wife removed the chair, and seeing nothing, remarked with some alarm, "It is hasty news of a death." Next day she received word of the death of two of her brothers, soldiers in India, the deaths having occurred nearly a year before. There was no doubt in the mind of the young wife that the knock was a supernatural warning. The natural explanation probably was that the sound came from the chair, which being new, was liable to shrink at the joints for some time, and thus cause the sound heard. This cracking sound is quite common with new furniture. If, again, some one were to catch a glimpse of a person whom they knew passing the door or window, and on looking outside were to find no such person there, this was a sign of the approaching death of the person seen. There were many instances quoted of the accuracy of this omen, instances generally of persons who, in good health at the time of their illusionary presence, died shortly after. Another form of this superstition was connected with those who were known to be seriously ill. Should the observer see what he felt convinced was the unwell person, say, walking along the street, and on looking round as the presence passed, see no person, this was a token of the death of the person whose spectre was seen. I knew of a person who, on going home from his work one evening, came suddenly upon an old man whom he knew to be bed-ridden, dressed as was formerly his wont, with knee breeches, blue coat, and red nightcap. Although he knew that the old man had for some time been confined to bed, so distinct was the illusion that he bid him "good night" in passing, but receiving no reply, looked behind and saw no one. Seized with fright, he ran home and told what he had seen. On the following morning it was known through the village that the old man was dead. And his death had taken place at the time when the young man had seen him on the previous evening. This was considered a remarkably clear instance of a person's wraith or spirit being seen at the time of death. However, the seeing of a person's wraith was not always an omen of death. There were certain rules observed in relation to wraiths, by which their meaning could be ascertained, but these rules differed in different localities. In my native village a wraith seen during morning, or before twelve noon, betokened that the person whose wraith was seen would be fortunate in life, or if unwell at the time, would recover; but when the wraith was seen in the afternoon or evening, this betokened evil or approaching death, and the time within which death would occur was considered to be within a year. This belief in wraiths goes back to a very early period of man's history. The ancient Persians and Jews believed that every person had a spirit or guardian angel attending him, and although generally invisible, it had the power of becoming visible, and separating itself for a time from the person it attended, and of appearing to other persons in the guise of the individual from whom it emanated. An excellent example of this superstitious belief is recorded in the Acts of the Apostles. When Peter, who was believed to be in prison, knocked at the "door of the gate" of the house where the disciples were met, the young woman who went to open the door, on recognising Peter's voice, was overjoyed, and, instead of opening, ran into the house, and told the disciples Peter was at the door. Then they said "It is his angel" (wraith). Thus the whole company expressed their belief in attending angels. The belief in wraiths was prevalent throughout all Scotland. It is beautifully introduced in the song of "Auld Robin Gray." When the young wife narrates her meeting with her old sweetheart, she says, "I thought it was his wraith, I could not think it he," and the belief survives in some parts of the country to the present day. If a dying person struggled hard and long, it was believed that the spirit was kept from departing by some magic spell. It was therefore customary, under these circumstances, for the attendants to open every lock in the house, that the spell might be broken, and the spirit let loose. J. Train refers to this superstition in his _Mountain Muse_, published 1814:-- "The chest unlocks to ward the power, Of spells in Mungo's evil hour." After death there came a new class of superstitious fears and practices. The clock was stopped, the looking-glass was covered with a cloth, and all domestic animals were removed from the house until after the funeral. These things were done, however, by many from old custom, and without their knowing the reason why such things were done. Originally the reason for the exclusion of dogs and cats arose from the belief that, if either of these animals should chance to leap over the corpse, and be afterwards permitted to live, the devil would gain power over the dead person. When the corpse was laid out, a plate of salt was placed upon the breast, ostensibly to prevent the body swelling. Many did so in this belief, but its original purpose was to act as a charm against the devil to prevent him from disturbing the body. In some localities the plate of salt was supplemented with another filled with earth. A symbolical meaning was given for this; that the earth represented the corporeal body, the earthly house,--the salt the heavenly state of the soul. But there was an older superstition which gave another explanation for the plate of salt on the breast. There were persons calling themselves "_sin eaters_" who, when a person died, were sent for to come and eat the sins of the deceased. When they came, their _modus operandi_ was to place a plate of salt and a plate of bread on the breast of the corpse, and repeat a series of incantations, after which they ate the contents of the plates, and so relieved the dead person of such sins as would have kept him hovering around his relations, haunting them with his imperfectly purified spirit, to their great annoyance, and without satisfaction to himself. This form of superstition has evidently a close relation to such forms of ancestor-worship as we know were practised by the ancients, and to which reference has already been made. Until the funeral, it was the practice for some of the relations or friends to sit up all night, and watch the corpse. In my young days this duty was generally undertaken by youths, male and female friends, who volunteered their services; but these watchings were not accompanied by the unseemly revelries which were common in Scotland in earlier times, or as are still practised in Ireland. The company sitting up with the corpse generally numbered from two to six, although I have myself been one of ten. They went to the house about ten in the evening, and before the relations went to bed each received a glass of spirits; about midnight there was a refreshment of tea or ale and bread, and the same in the morning, when the relations of the deceased relieved the watchers. Although during these night sittings nothing unbefitting the solemnity of the occasion was done, the circumstances of the meeting gave opportunity for love-making. The first portion of the night was generally passed in reading,--some one reading aloud for the benefit of the company, afterwards they got to story-telling, the stories being generally of a ghostly description, producing such a weird feeling, that most of the company durst hardly look behind them for terror, and would start at the slightest noise. I have seen some so affected by this fear that they would not venture to the door alone if the morning was dark. These watchings of the dead were no doubt efficacious in perpetuating superstitious ideas. The reasons given for watching the corpse differed in different localities. The practice is still observed, I believe, in some places; but probably now it is more the result of habit--a custom followed without any basis of definite belief, and merely as a mark of respect for the dead; but in former times, and within this century, it was firmly held that if the corpse were not watched, the devil would carry off the body, and many stories were current of such an awful result having happened. One such story was told me by a person who had received the story from a person who was present at the wake where the occurrence happened. I thus got it at second hand. The story ran as follows:--The corpse was laid out in a room, and the watchers had retired to another apartment to partake of refreshments, having shut the door of the room where the corpse lay. While they were eating there was heard a great noise, as of a struggle between two persons, proceeding from the room where the corpse lay. None of the party would venture into the room, and in this emergency they sent for the minister, who came, and, with the open Bible in his hand, entered the room and shut the door. The noise then ceased, and in about ten minutes he came out, lifted the tongs from the fireplace, and again re-entered the room. When he came out again, he brought out with the tongs a glove, which was seen to be bloody, and this he put into the fire. He refused, however, to tell either what he had seen or heard; but on the watchers returning to their post, the corpse lay as formerly, and as quiet and unruffled as if nothing had taken place, whereat they were all surprised. From the death till the funeral it was customary for neighbours to call and see the corpse, and should any one see it and not touch it, that person would be haunted for several nights with fearful dreams. I have seen young children and even infants made to touch the face of the corpse, notwithstanding their terror and screams. If a child who had seen the corpse, but had not been compelled to touch it, had shortly afterwards awakened from a sleep crying, it would have been considered that its crying was caused by its having seen the ghost of the dead person. If, when the funeral left the house, the company should go in a scattered, straggling manner, this was an omen that before long another funeral would leave the same house. If the company walked away quickly, it was also a bad omen. It was believed that the spirit of the last person buried in any graveyard had to keep watch lest any suicide or unbaptized child should be buried in the consecrated ground, so that, when two burials took place on the same day, there was a striving to be first at the churchyard. In some parts of the Highlands this superstition led to many unseemly scenes when funerals occurred on the same day. Those attending the funeral who were not near neighbours or relations were given a quantity of bread and cakes to take home with them, but relations and near neighbours returned to the house, where their wives were collected, and were liberally treated to both meat and drink. This was termed the _dredgy_ or _dirgy_, and to be present at this was considered a mark of respect to the departed. This custom may be the remnant of an ancient practice--in some sort a superstition--which existed in Greece, where the friends of the deceased, after the funeral, held a banquet, the fragments of which were afterwards carried to the tomb. Upon the death of a wealthy person, when the funeral had left the house, sums of money were divided among the poor. In Catholic times this was done that the poor might pray for the soul of the deceased. In the Danish _Niebellungen_ song it is stated that, at the burial of the hero Seigfried, his wife caused upwards of thirty thousand merks of gold to be distributed among the poor for the welfare and repose of his soul. This custom became in this country and century in Protestant times an occasion for the gathering of beggars and sorners from all parts. At the funeral of George Oswald of Scotstoun, three miles from Glasgow, there were gathered several hundreds, who were each supplied with a silver coin and a drink of beer, and many were the blessings wished. A similar gathering occurred at the funeral of old Mr. Bogle of Gilmourhill, near Glasgow; but when announcement was made that nothing was to be given, there rose a fearful howl of execration and cursing both of dead and living from the mendacious crowd. The village of Partick in both these cases was placed under a species of black-mail for several days by beggars, who would hardly take any denial, and in many instances appropriated what was not their own. I am not aware that this custom is retained in any part of the country now. As the funerals fifty years ago were mostly walking funerals, the coffin being carried between two spokes, the sort of weather during the funeral had its omens, for in these days the weather was believed to be greatly under the control of the devil, or rather it was considered that he was permitted to tamper with the weather. If the day was fine, this was naturally a good omen for the soul's welfare. I remember that the funeral of the only daughter of a worthy couple happened on a wet day, but just as the funeral was leaving the house the sun broke through and the day cleared, whereupon the mother, with evident delight, as she stood at the door, thanked God that Mary was getting a good blink. Stormy weather was a bad omen, being regarded as due to Satan's influence. Burns refers to this belief in his "Tam o' Shanter." When referring to the storm, he says:-- "Even a bairn might understand The deil had business on his hand." The following old rhyme mentions the most propitious sort of weather for the christening, marriage, and funeral:-- "West wind to the bairn when gaun for its name, Gentle rain to the corpse carried to its lang hame, A bonny blue sky to welcome the bride, As she gangs to the kirk, wi' the sun on her side." The wake in the Highlands during last century was a very common affair. Captain Burt, in his letters from Scotland, 1723, says that when a person dies the neighbours gather in the evening in the house where the dead lies, with bagpipe, and spend the evening in dancing--the nearest relative to the corpse leading off the dance. Whisky and other refreshments are provided, and this is continued every night until the funeral. Pennant, in his tour through the Highlands, 1772, says that, at a death, the friends of the deceased meet with bagpipe or fiddle, when the nearest of kin leads off a melancholy ball, dancing and wailing at the same time, which continue till daybreak, and is continued nightly till the interment. This custom is to frighten off or protect the corpse from the attack of wild beasts, and evil spirits from carrying it away. Another custom of olden times, and which was continued till the beginning of this century, was that of announcing the death of any person by sending a person with a bell--known as the "deidbell"--through the town or neighbourhood. The same was done to invite to the funeral. In all probability, the custom of ringing the bell had its origin in the church custom, being a call to offer prayers for the soul of the departed. Bell-ringing was also considered a means of keeping away evil spirits. Joseph Train, writing in 1814, refers to another practice common in some parts of Scotland. Whenever the corpse is taken from the house, the bed on which the deceased lay is taken from the house, and all the straw or heather of which it was composed is taken out and burned in a place where no beast can get at it, and in the morning the ashes are carefully examined, believing that the footprint of the next person of the family who will die will be seen. This practice of burning the contents of the bed is commendable for sanitary purposes. CHAPTER V. _WITCHCRAFT, SECOND-SIGHT, AND THE BLACK ART._ That the devil gave to certain persons supernatural power, which they might exercise at their pleasure, was a belief prevalent throughout all Scotland during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. But at the same time this compacting with the devil was reprobated, nay more, was a capital offence, both in civil and ecclesiastical law, and during these two centuries thousands of persons were convicted and executed for this crime. But during the latter part of the seventeenth century the civil courts refused to convict upon the usual evidence, to the great alarm and displeasure of the ecclesiastical authorities, who considered this refusal a great national sin--a direct violation of the law of God, which said--"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." To arrest the punishment which this direct violation of God's written law was supposed to incur, prayers were offered, and fasts were appointed. As samples of the kind of evidence on which reputed witches were convicted and executed, I extract the following from the Records of Lanark Presbytery, 1650:--"Likewise he reported that the Commissioners and brethren did find these poynts delated against Janet M'Birnie, one of the suspected women, to wit: "1st. That on a time the said Janet M'Birnie followed Wm. Brown, sclater, to Robert Williamson's house in Water Meetings, to crave somewhat, and fell in evil words. After which time, and within four and twenty hours, he fell off ane house and brake his neck. "2nd. After some outcast between Bessie Achison's house and Janet M'Birnie's house, the said Janet M'Birnie prayed that there might be bloody beds and a light house, and after that the said Bessie Achison her daughter took sickness, and the lassie said there is fyre in my bed, and died. And the said Bessie Achison her gudeman dwyned. "3rd. It was alleged that the said Janet M'Birnie was the cause of the dispute between Newton and his wife, and that she and others were the death of William Geddese. And also that they fand against Marian Laidlaw, another suspected, these particulars: that the said Marian and Jean Blacklaw differed in words for the said Marian's hay; and after that the said Jean her kye died." They were remitted for trial. In these same Records there is in 1697 the following entry:--"Upon the recommendation of the Synod, the Presbytery appoynts a Fast to be keeped upon the 28th instant, in regard to the great prevalence of witchcraft which abounds at several places at this time within the bounds of the Synod." At this time the laws against witchcraft had become practically a dead letter, but it was not till 1735 that they were repealed. Still, the abolition of the legal penalty did not kill the popular belief in the power and reality of witchcraft; and even now, at this present day, we find proof every now and again in newspaper reports that this belief still lingers among certain classes. Within these fifty years, in a village a little to the west of Glasgow, lived an old woman, who was not poor, but had a very irritable temper, and was unsocial in her habits. A little boy having called her names and otherwise annoyed her, she scolded him, and, in the heat of her rage, prophesied that before a twelvemonth elapsed the devil would get his own. A few months after this the boy sickened and died, and the villagers had no hesitation in ascribing the cause of death to this old woman. Again, a farmer in the neighbourhood had bought a horse, and in the evening a servant was leading it to the water to drink, when this same old woman, who was sitting near at hand, remarked upon the beauty of the horse, and asked for a few hairs from the tail, which the servant with some roughness refused. When the stable was entered next morning the horse was found dead. On the above circumstance of the old woman's request being related to the farmer, he regretted the servant's refusal of the hairs, and said that, if the same woman had asked him, he would have given every hair in the tail rather than offend her, showing thereby his undoubted belief in the woman's power. Fortunately for her, she lived in a storeyed building--in local vernacular, a _land_--or in all probability her house would have been set on fire in order to burn her. At the same time, while she was hated and dreaded, everybody for their own safety paid her the most marked respect. Had she lived a century earlier, such evidence would have brought her to the stake. In 1666, before the Lanark Presbytery, a woman was tried for bewitching cattle:-- "The said William Smith said that she was the death of twa meires, and Elizabeth Johnstone, his wife, reported that she saw her sitting on their black meire's tether, and that she ran over the dyke in the likeness of a hare." This belief in the ability of witches to convert themselves into the appearance of animals at pleasure was prevalent even during this century. In 1828, or there-about, there died an old woman, who when alive had gone about with a crutch, and it was reported of her, and generally believed, that in her younger days she had the power of witchcraft, and that one morning as she was out about some of her unhallowed sports, disporting herself in the shape of a hare, that a man who was out with a gun saw, as he thought, in the moonlight, a hare, and fired at it, breaking its leg; but it took shelter behind a stone, and when he went to get the hare, he found instead a young woman sitting bandaging with a handkerchief her leg, which was bleeding. He knew her, and upon her entreaty promised never to disclose her secret, and ever after she went with a crutch. I have heard similar stories told of other women in other localities, showing the prevalence of this form of belief. As those who had dealings with the devil were believed to have renounced their baptism or their allegiance to Christ, they never went to church, and hated the Bible. Therefore, all who did not follow the custom of believers were not only considered infidels, but as having enlisted in the devil's corps, and such people in small localities were kept at an outside, and suspected, being regarded as capable of any wickedness, and untrustworthy. I remember several persons, both men and women, against intercourse with whom we were earnestly warned, and were instructed that it was not even safe to play with their children. There were other supernatural powers thought to be possessed by certain persons, which differed from witchcraft in this, that they were not regarded as the result of a compact with the devil, but in some cases were thought to be rather a gift from God. For example, there was second-sight, a gift bestowed upon certain persons without any previous compact or solicitation. Sometimes the seer fell into a trance, in which state he saw visions; at other times the visions were seen without the trance condition. Should the seer see in a vision a certain person dressed in a shroud, this betokened that the death of that person would surely take place within a year. Should such a vision be seen in the morning, the person seen would die before that evening; should such a vision be seen in the afternoon, the person seen would die before next night; but if the vision were seen late in the evening, there was no particular time of death intimated, further than that it would take place within the year. Again, if the shroud did not cover the whole body, the fulfilment of the vision was at a great distance. If the vision were that of a man with a woman standing at his left hand, then that woman will be that man's wife, although they may both at the time of the vision be married to others. It was reported that one having second-sight saw in vision a young man with three women standing at his left side, and in course of time each became his wife in the order in which they were seen standing. These seers could often foretell coming visitors to a family months before they came, and even point out places where houses would be built years before the buildings were erected. The seer could not communicate the gift to any other person, not even to those of his own family, as he possessed it without any conscious act on his part; but if any person were near him at the time he was having a vision, and he were consciously to touch the person with his left foot, the person touched would see that particular vision. I had a conversation with a woman who when young was in company with one who had the gift of second-sight. They went out together one Sabbath evening, and while sitting on the banks of the Kelvin the seer had a vision, and touched my informant with her left foot, and she also saw it. It rose from the water like the full moon, and was transparent; and in it she saw a young man whom she did not know, and her own likeness standing at his left side. Before many weeks were passed, a new servant-man came to the farm where my informant was then serving, and whom she recognised as the person whose image she had seen in the vision, and in little more than a year after the two were married. Deaf and dumb persons were considered to possess something like second-sight, by which they were enabled to foretell events which happen to certain persons. This is a very old belief. I extract the following from _Memorials of the Rev. R. Law_:-- "Anno 1676.--A daughter of the laird of Bardowie, in Badenoch parish, intending to go fra that to Hamilton to see her sister-in-law, there is at the same time a woman come into the house born deaf and dumb. She makes many signs to her not to go, and takes her down to the yaird and cutts at the root of a tree, making signs that it would fall and kill her. That not being understood by her or any of them, she takes the journey--the dumb lass holding her to stay. When the young gentlewoman is there at Hamilton, a few days after, her sister and she goes forth to walk in the park, and in their walking they both come under a tree. In that very instant they come under it, they hear it shaking and coming down. The sister-in-law flees to the right, and she herself flees to the left hand, that way that the tree fell, so it crushed her and wounded her sore, so that she dies in two or three days' sickness." Until about 30 years ago, a deaf and dumb man was in the habit of visiting my native village, who was believed to possess wonderful gifts of foresight. This _dummy_ carried with him a slate, a pencil, and a piece of chalk, by use of which he gave his answers, and often he volunteered to give certain information concerning the future; he would often write down occurrences which he averred would happen to parties in the village, or to persons then present. He did not beg nor ask alms, but only visited certain houses as a sort of friend, and information of his presence in the village was quickly conveyed to the neighbours, so that he generally had a large gathering of women who were all friendly to him, and he was never allowed to go away without reward. When any stranger was present he would point them out, and write down the initials of their name, and sometimes their names in full, without being asked. He would also, at times, write down the names of relatives of those present who lived at a distance, and tell them when they would receive letters from them, and whether these letters would contain good or bad news. He disclosed the whereabouts of sailor lads and absent lovers, detected thefts, foretold deaths and marriages, and the names of the parties on both sides who were to be married. He wrote of a young woman, a stranger in the village, but who was present on one of his visits, and was on the eve of being married to a tradesman, that she would not be married to him, but would marry one who would keep her counting money; which came to pass. The tradesman and she fell out, and afterwards she married a haberdasher, and for a long time was in the shop as cashier. This woman still lives, and firmly believes in the prophetic gift of _dummy_. Another woman, a stranger also, asked him some questions relative to herself; he shook his head, and for a long time refused to answer, desiring her not to insist. This made her the more anxious, and at last he drew upon the slate the figure of a coffin. This was all the length he would go. In less than twelve months the woman was in her grave. During one of his visits the husband of one of the women who attended him was seriously ill, and the wife, a stout healthy woman, was anxious to hear from _dummy_ the result of her husband's illness. He wrote that the husband would recover, and that she would die before him; and she did die not long after. In short, this _dummy_ was a regular prophet, and his predictions were implicitly believed by all who attended upon him. In his case there was no pretension to visions, the form which he allowed his gift to assume was that of intuition. Some few men in the village suspected the _dummy's_ honesty, and thought that he heard and assiduously and cunningly picked up knowledge of the parties; but such doubts were regarded as bordering upon blasphemy by the believers in _dummy_. I was never present at any of these gatherings, but my information is gathered from those who were present. Some months ago I was talking to an ordinarily intelligent person on this subject, and he gave it as his opinion that dumb persons had their loss of the faculties of hearing and speech recompensed to them in the gift of supernatural knowledge, and he related how a certain widow lady of his acquaintance had been informed of the death of her son. This son was abroad, and she had with her in the house a mute, who one day made signs to her that she would never see her son again, and a few weeks after she received word of his death. There was another phase of supernatural power, different from witchcraft, and which the devil granted to certain parties: this was called the _Black Airt_. The possession of this power was mostly confined to Highlanders, and probably at this present day there are still those who believe in it. The effects produced by this power did not, however, differ much from those produced by witchcraft. A farmer in the north-west of Glasgow engaged a Highland lad as herd, and my informant also served with this farmer at the time. It was observed by the family that, after the lad came to them, everything went well with the farmer. During the winter, however, the _kye_ became _yell_, and the family were consequently short of milk. The cows of a neighbouring farmer were at the same time giving plenty of milk. Under these circumstances, the Highland lad proposed to his mistress that he would bring milk from their neighbour's cows, which she understood to be by aid of the _black airt_, through the process known as _milking the tether_. The tether is the rope halter, and by going through the form of milking this, repeating certain incantations, the magic transference was supposed capable of being effected. This proposal to exercise the _black airt_ becoming known among the servants, they were greatly alarmed, and showed their terror by all at once becoming very kind to the lad, and very watchful of what he did. He was known to have in his possession a pack of cards; and during family worship he displayed great restlessness, generally falling asleep before these services were concluded, and he was averse to reading the Bible. One night, for a few pence, he offered to tell the names of the sweethearts of the two servant-men, and they having agreed to the bargain, he shuffled the cards and said certain words which they did not understand, and then named two girls the lads were then courting. They refused to give him the promised reward, and he told them they would be glad to pay him before they slept. When the two men were going to their bed, which was over the stable, they were surprised to find two women draped in black closing up the stable door. As they stepped back, the women disappeared; but every time they tried to get in, the door was blocked up as before. The men then remembered what the lad had said to them, and going to where he slept, found him in bed, and gave him the promised reward. He then told them to go back, and they would not be further disturbed. Next morning, the servant-men told what had taken place, and refused to remain at the farm any longer with the lad; and the farmer had thus to part with him, but he and the servants gave him little gifts that they might part good friends. My informant believed himself above superstition, yet he related this as evidence of the truth of the _black airt_. It is a very old belief that those who had made compacts with the devil could afflict those they disliked with certain diseases, and even cause their death, by making images in clay or wax of the persons they wished to injure, and then, by baptizing these images with mock ceremony, the persons represented were brought under their influence, so that whatever was then done to the image was felt by the living original. This superstition is referred to by Allan Ramsay in his _Gentle Shepherd_:-- "Pictures oft she makes Of folk she hates, and gaur expire Wi' slow and racking pain before the fire. Stuck fu' o' preens, the devilish picture melt, The pain by folk they represent is felt." This belief survived in great force in this century, and probably in country places is not yet extinct. Several persons have been named to me who suffered long from diseases the doctor could not understand, nor do anything to remove, and therefore these obscure diseases could only be ascribed to the devil-aided practices of malicious persons. In some cases, cures were said to have been effected through making friends of the supposed originators of the disease. The custom not yet extinct of burning persons in effigy is doubtless a survival of this old superstition. A newly-married woman with whom I was acquainted took a sudden fit of mental derangement, and screamed and talked violently to herself. Her friends and neighbours concluded that she was under the spell of the evil one. The late Dr. Mitchell was sent for to pray for her, but when he began to pray she set up such hideous screams that he was obliged to stop. He advised her friends to call in medical aid. But this conduct on the part of the woman made it all the more evident to her relations and neighbours that her affliction was the work of the devil, brought about through the agency of some evil-disposed person. Several such persons were suspected, and sent for to visit the afflicted woman; and, while they were in the house, a relation of the sufferer's secretly cut out a small portion of the visitor's dress and threw it into the fire, by which means it was believed that the influence of the _ill e'e_ would be destroyed. At all events, the woman suddenly got well again, and as a consequence the superstitious belief of those who were in the secret was strengthened. CHAPTER VI. _CHARMS AND COUNTER CHARMS._ During these times when such superstitious beliefs were almost universally accepted--when the sources from which evils might be expected to spring were about as numerous as the unchecked fancies of men could make them--we must naturally conceive that the people who believed such things must have lived in a continual state of fear. And in many instances this was really the case; but the common result was not so, for fortunately the bane and antidote were generally found together, and the means for preventing or exorcising these devil-imposed evils were about as numerous as the evils themselves. I have already in a former chapter mentioned incidentally some of these charms and preventives, but as this incidental treatment cannot possibly cover the field, I shall here speak of them separately. Tennant, in his _Tour through Scotland_, states that farmers placed boughs of the mountain ash in their cow-houses on the second day of May to protect their cows from evil influences. The rowan tree possessed a wonderful influence against all evil machinations of witchcraft. A staff made of this tree laid above the boothy or milk-house preserved the milk from witch influence. A churn-staff made of this wood secured the butter during the process of churning. So late as 1860 I have seen the rowan tree trained in the form of an arch over the byre door, and in another case over the gate of the farmyard, as a protection to the cows. It was also believed that a rowan tree growing in a field protected the cattle against being struck by lightning. Mr. Train describes the action of a careful farmer's wife or dairymaid thus:-- "Lest witches should obtain the power Of Hawkie's milk in evil hour, She winds a red thread round her horn, And milks thro' row'n tree night and morn; Against the blink of evil eye She knows each andidote to ply." The same author, writing in 1814, says:--"I am acquainted myself with an Anti-Burgher clergyman who actually procured from a person who pretended to such skill in these charms two small pieces of carved wood, to be kept in his father's cow-house as a security for the health of his cows." The belief in the potency of the rowan tree to ward off evil is no doubt a survival of ancient tree worship. Of this worship, the Rev. F.W. Farrar says:--"It may be traced from the interior of Africa, not only in Egypt and Arabia, but also onwards uninterruptedly into Palestine and Syria, Assyria, Persia, India, Thibet, Siam, the Philippine Islands, China, Japan, and Siberia; also westward into Asia Minor, Greece, Italy, and other countries; and in most of the countries here named it obtains at the present day, combined, as it has been, in other parts with various forms of idolatry." Were it our object, it could also be shown that tree worship has been combined with Christianity. The rowan tree was held sacred by the Druids, and is often found among their stone monuments. There is a northern legend that the god of thunder (Thor), when wading the river Vimar, was in danger of being swept away by its current, but that, grasping a tree which grew on the bank, he got safely across. This tree was the mountain ash, which was ever after held sacred; and when these nations were converted to Christianity, they did not fall away from their belief in the sanctity of the rowan tree. Not many years ago, I was told of a miraculous make of butter which was reported to have occurred in the west of Lanarkshire a short time before. One morning, a farmer's wife in that district and her maid-servant wrought at the kirn, but, do as they would, no butter would appear. In this dilemma, they sat down to consider about the cause, and then they recollected that a neighbouring woman had come into the kitchen, where the kirn was standing the previous evening, to borrow something, but was refused. The servant was at once despatched with the article in question, and half-a-dozen eggs as a gift, to the old woman, and instructed to make an apology for not having given the loan the evening before. The woman received the gift, and gratefully expressed her wish that the farmer and his wife would be blest both in their basket and their store. The effect, said my informant, was miraculous. Before the servant returned, the butter began to flow, and in such quantity as had never before been experienced. Apropos of this superstition with reference to milk, the following incident occurred not many years back in the West Highlands. An old woman, who kept a few cows, was in sore distress of mind because some of her ill-disposed neighbours had cast an evil eye upon them, in consequence of which their milk in a very short time _blinked_ (turned sour), and churn as she might, she could never obtain any butter. She had tried every remedy she knew of, or that had been recommended to her, but without any good effect. At length, in her extremity, she applied to the parish minister, and laid her case before him. He patiently listened to her complaint, and expressed great sympathy for her, and then very wisely said, "I'll tell you how I think you will succeed in driving away the evil eye. It seems to me that it has not been cast on your cows, but on your dishes. Gang hame and tak' a' your dishes down to the burn, and let them lie awhile in the running stream; then rub them well and dry with a clean clout. Tak' them hame and fill each with boiling water. Pour it out and lay them aside to dry. The evil eye cannot withstand boiling water. Sca'd it out and ye'll get butter." The prescription was followed, and a few weeks after the woman called upon the minister and thanked him for the cure, remarking that she had never seen anything so wonderful. Mr. Joseph Train, from whose notes we have already quoted, mentions a ceremony, not of a private but of a public nature, and embracing a large district of country, at the performance of which he was present. The object to be obtained was the prevention of a threatened outbreak of disease among the cattle. "In the summer of 1810," says Mr. Train, "while remaining at Balnaguard, a village of Perthshire, as I was walking along the banks of the Tay, I observed a crowd of people convened on the hill above Pitna Cree; and as I recollected having seen a multitude in the same place the preceding day, my curiosity was roused, so that I resolved to learn the reason of this meeting in such an unfrequented place. I was close beside them before any of the company had observed me ascending the hill, their attention being fixed upon two men in the centre. One was turning a small stock, which was supported by two stakes standing perpendicularly, with a cleft at the top, in which the crown piece went round in the form a carpenter holds a chisel on a grinding stone; the other was holding a small branch of fir on that which was turning. Directly below it was a quantity of tow spread on the ground. I observed that this work was taken alternately by men and women. As I was turning about in order to leave them, a man whom I had seen before, laid his hand on my shoulder, and solicited me to put my finger to the stick; but I refused, merely to see if my obstinacy would be resented; and suddenly a sigh arose from every breast, and anger kindled in every eye. I saw, therefore, that immediate compliance with the request was necessary to my safety. "I was soon convinced that this was some mysterious rite performed either to break or ward off the power of witchcraft; but, so intent were they on the prosecution of their design, that I could obtain no satisfactory information, until I met an old schoolmaster in the neighbourhood, from whom I had obtained much insight into the manners and customs of that district. He informed me that there is a distemper occasioned by want of water, which cattle are subject to, called in the Gaelic language _shag dubh_, which in English signifies 'black haunch.' It is a very infectious disease, and, if not taken in time, would carry off most of the cattle in the country." The method taken by the Highlanders to prevent its destructive ravages is thus: "All fires are extinguished between the two nearest rivers, and all the people within that boundary convene in a convenient place, where they erect a machine, as above described; and, after they have commenced, they continue night and day until they have forced fire by the friction of the two sticks. Every person must perform a portion of this labour, or touch the machine in order not to break the charm. "During the continuance of the ceremony they appear melancholy and dejected, but when the fire, which they say is brought from heaven by an angel, blazes in the tow, they resume their wonted gaiety; and while one part of the company is employed feeding the flame, the others drive all the cattle in the neighbourhood over it. When this ceremony is ended, they consider the cure complete; after which they drink whiskey, and dance to the bagpipe or fiddle round the celestial fire till the last spark is extinguished." Here, within our own day, is evidently an act of fire-worship: a direct worship of Baal by a Christian community in the nineteenth century. There were other means of preventing disease spreading among cattle practised within this century. When murrain broke out in a herd, it was believed that, if the first one taken ill were buried alive, it would stop the spread of the disease, and that the other animals affected would then soon recover. Were a cow to cast her calf: if the calf were to be buried at the byre door, and a short prayer or a verse of Scripture said over it, it would prevent the same misfortune from happening with the rest of the herd. If a sheep dropped a dead lamb, the proper precaution to take was to place the lamb upon a rowan tree, and this would prevent the whole flock from a repetition of the mishap. It was an old superstition that the body of a murdered person would bleed on the presence or touch of the murderer. We find this belief mentioned as far back as the eleventh century. In an old ballad of that period occurs the following passage:-- "A marvel high and strange is seen full many a time-- When to the murdered body nigh the man that did the crime, Afresh the wounds will bleed. The marvel now was found-- That Hagan felled the champion with treason to the ground." Several centuries after this, we find it mentioned in another ballad, entitled "Young Huntin":-- "O white were his wounds washen, As white as a linen clout, But when Lady Maisry she cam' near, His wounds they gushed out." The reason for this marvel was ascribed by the Rev. Mr. Wodrow, to the wonderful providence of God, who had said, "thou shalt not suffer a murderer to live," and had, in order that the command might be justly carried out, provided the means whereby murderers might be readily detected. This superstition certainly survived within this century, and I have heard many instances adduced to prove the truth of bleeding taking place on the introduction of the murderer. Another curious form of belief was prevalent among some persons, that the body of a suicide would not decay until the time arrived when, in the ordinary course of nature, he would have died. This was founded upon another belief, that there is a day of death appointed for every man, which no one can pass; but as man is possessed of a free will, he may, by his own wicked determination, shorten the union of his soul and body, but that there his power ends: he cannot in reality kill either soul or body, for were he to possess this power, he would possess the power to alter the decrees of God, which is a power impossible for man to possess. This was a mad, not deep, sort of metaphysics; but there was sufficient method in its madness to cause it to gain the suffrages of a large number of people. It was affirmed that those who had examined into the matter had found that the bodies of suicides were mysteriously preserved from decomposition until the day arrived on which they would naturally--that is, according to God's decree--have died. About the year 1834, I was taking a walk along the banks of the canal north of Glasgow, and sat down beside a group of well-dressed men, who were conversing on general topics, and amongst other things touched on the matter of suicides--proximity to the canal probably suggested the subject. One of the group pointed out a quiet spot where he affirmed that _Bob Dragon_, an old Glasgow celebrity, had been buried. Bob, he said, had committed suicide; but his relations being aware that, in consequence of this act, his property, according to law, became forfeited to the Crown, had him buried secretly in this out-of-the-way spot, and obtained another corpse, which they put into the coffin in his house. But, several years after, some persons who were digging at this quiet spot on the canal bank discovered the real body of Bob--the throat being cut--and the corpse as fresh as the day on which the act was committed. Bob's relations, on hearing of this discovery, gave the finders a handsome gift to rebury the body and keep the matter secret. Within the last ten years I have heard the same affirmation made respecting persons who have drowned themselves. Persons whose _yea_ is unvaryingly _yea_, and whose _nay_ is unvaryingly _nay_, generally resort to no form of oath or imprecation to gain credence to their statements, for their truthfulness is seldom called in question--at least, where they are well known. But with those who are lax in their statements--who tell the truth or tell lies just as for the moment the one or the other appears to suit them best--the case is different. When they speak something strange or important, they find their veracity questioned, and require to place themselves in circumstances where it may be thought they are under compulsion, for their own welfare, to speak the truth. Commonly, they ask Providence to injure them in some way if in the present instance they have said the thing which is not true. Well, it was believed in the days of which I write, and within my own day, that Providence did interfere in this way, and many stories were current in confirmation of this belief. One such will suffice as an illustration. A married woman, _enciente_ for the first time, having had words with her husband about something she denied having either said or done, wished that, if her statement were untrue, she might never give birth to the child. She was taken at her word, for she lived many years in delicate health, but the child was never born. The villagers who remembered her said that at times she _swelled_ as if she was about to be confined, and at other times was as _jimp_ as a young girl. Akin to belief in the potency of such wishes as were uttered as tests of truthfulness was doubtless the generally accredited, though of course seldom witnessed, form of compact with the devil. When a person agreed to serve the devil, his Satanic Majesty caused the mortals who sought his service and favour to place one hand under their thigh and the other over their head, and wish that the devil would take all that lay between their hands if they were unfaithful to their vow. The form of oath by expression of a wish was common to both Jews and Gentiles. There was another kind of wish which was believed to obtain fulfilment during life, that was the expressed wish of the innocent against those who had wronged them. The belief in the fulfilment of such wishes was grounded on the theological supposition that God in his justice would in time punish the wrong-doer. I remember a rather pertinent example of this: a proof they would have said in former days--a coincidence we would say in these days. A simple-minded--_half-witted_--young woman was taken advantage of by a young man resident in the neighbourhood, to the public scandal of the village. He denied the paternity of the baby, and made oath to that effect before the kirk-session. As he did so, the girl, looking at him, wished that the hand he held up might lose its cunning, as evidence of God's judgment upon the false swearer. In less than a year from that time a disease came into his right hand, and he was never afterwards able to use it. Not many years ago, I saw the same man going through the village selling tea, and, as he passed along the street, many of the older inhabitants remarked how wonderfully _Poor Meg's_ wish had been fulfilled. Employment of certain charms to influence for good or evil prevailed in this century to a great extent. Some of these it is difficult to trace to their origin. About forty years ago, a certain married couple lived unhappily together. The wife did all she could to make her husband comfortable, but still he abused her without cause. At length, after suffering much, she applied to a woman who professed to have power over the affections, and for this purpose prepared love philters. The woman gave her a charm, which was to be sewn between the lining and cloth of her husband's vest without his knowledge. She carried these instructions out, and with extraordinarily successful results, for, while the husband wore this vest, he never gave her so much as an angry word. One Walter Donaldson was in the habit of beating his wife, and making her life bitter. She made application to Isabell Straguhan, who possesses magic influences, who took pieces of paper and sewed them thick with thread of divers colours, and put them in the barn among the corn. From that time forth the said Walter never lifted hand against his wife, nor did once find fault with her whatsoever she did, and was entirely subdued to her love. The following was related to me as a fact, by a person who said that he tried it:--There is a certain crooked bone in a frog, which, when cleaned and dried over a fire on St. John's eve, and then ground fine and given in food to any person, will win the affections of the receiver to the giver, and in young persons will produce a desire for each other's society, culminating eventually in marriage; also, when a married couple do not agree well together, it will reconcile them, and bring about a mutual affection. At the commencement of this century, belief in the influence of the mandrake plant over the affections still existed in this country. Belief in this plant is as old as history. Leah, the neglected wife of Jacob, doubtless intended to influence her husband by the use of it, whilst Rachel procured the plant for a different purpose, but for both purposes it was considered efficatious, and in both cases, the narrative shows, successful. By both eastern and western nations this plant was credited with wonderful powers, even to the extent of working miracles. In this country it was believed to be watched by Satan, but if the plant were pulled during certain holy seasons, or by holy persons, Satan could not only be robbed with impunity, but he would become the servant of the person who pulled the plant, and do for him whatever he desired; but woe to the unholy person who attempted to pull the plant, especially at a non-sacred time; he drops down dead, and Satan possesses his soul. It was a prevalent belief that the seventh son in a family had the gift of curing diseases, and that he was by nature a doctor who could effect cures by the touch of his hand. It was reported that such a man resided in Iona, who had effected cures by rubbing the diseased part with his hand on two Thursdays and two Sundays successively, doing so in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. It was requisite to the cure that no fee should be taken by such endowed persons. In the West of Scotland the formula of cure was different in different localities; in some parts a mere touch was all that was necessary, in others, and this was the more general method, some medicine was given to assist the cure. Written charms were also believed in as capable of effecting cures, or, at least, of preventing people from taking diseases. I have known people who wore written charms, sewed into the necks of their coats, if men, and into the headbands of petticoats if women. These talismans, in many cases, I have little doubt, did real good in this way, that they supplied their wearers with a courage which sufficed to brace up their nervous system--which drove out fear, in fact,--a very important condition for health, as physicians well know. These talismans were so generally and thoroughly believed in, and so numerous and apparently well-attested were the evidences of their beneficial effects, that in years not long past, medical men believed in their efficacy, and promulgated various theories to account for it. It was also an accepted belief that diseases could be transferred to animals, and even to vegetables. Cures held to be so effected were, according to one medical theory, cures by "sympathy." A few instances, culled from a work published during the latter half of the seventeenth century (1663), entitled _The Usefulness of Experimental Philosophy_, will illustrate this theory:--A medical man had been very ill of an obstinate _marasmar_ (?) which so consumed him that he became quite a skeleton, notwithstanding every remedy which he had tried. At length he tried a sympathetic remedy: he took an egg, and having boiled it hard in his own urine, he then with a bodkin perforated the shell in different parts, and then buried it in an ant-hill. As the ants wasted the egg he found his strength increase, and he soon was completely cured. A daughter of a French officer was so tormented by a _paronychia_ (?) for four days together, that the pain kept her from sleeping; by the order of a medical man she put her finger into a cat's ear, and within two hours was delivered from her pain. And a councillor's wife was cured of a _panaritium_ (?) which had vexed her for four days by the same means. In both cases the cat had received the pain in its ear and required to be held. The gout is cured by sympathy: by the patient sleeping with puppies, they take the disease, and the person recovers. A boy ill with the king's evil could not be cured, his father's dog took to licking the sores, the dog took the sores, and the boy was completely cured. A gentleman having a severe pain in the arm was cured by beating red coral with oak leaves, and applying it to the part affected till suppuration: a hole was then made in the root of an oak towards the east, and the mixture put into it and the hole plugged up with a peg of the same tree, and from that time the pain did altogether cease; and when afterwards the mixture was removed from the tree, immediately the torments returned worse than before. Sir Francis Bacon records a cure of warts: he took a piece of lard with the skin on it, and after rubbing the warts with it the lard was exposed out of a southern window to putrify, and the warts wore away as it putrified. Harvey tried to remove tumours and excrescences by putting the hand of a dead person that had died of a lingering disease upon them till the part felt cold. In general the application was effective. This idea of cure by sympathy retained its hold on the people till this century, and is not yet entirely gone. There was another theory, which we may call the magnetic theory. The philosophy of this theory contended that "The body when diseased resembled a gun; when loaded, it contains powder and ball, which, by the mere touch of a little spring, sets the whole machinery of the gun in motion, whereby the ball is expelled. So also the mere touch or outward contact of certain bodies or substances has power, like a magnet, to set in action the machinery of nature by which the disease is dispelled--sometimes slowly, but often suddenly like the bullet from the gun. Helmont had a little stone, which, by plunging in oil of almonds, imbued the oil with such sanative power that it cured almost any disease. It was sometimes applied inwardly, sometimes outwardly. A gentleman who had an unwieldy groom procured for him a small fragment of this stone, and, by licking it with the tip of his tongue every morning, in three weeks he was reduced in bulk round the waist by a span without affecting his general health. A gentleman in France who procured a small fragment of this stone cured several persons of inveterate diseases by letting them lick it. The stone _Lapis Nephriticus_ bound upon the pulse of the wrist of the left hand prevents stone, hysterics, and stops the flux of blood in any part. A compound metal called _electrum_, which is a mixture of all metals made under certain constellations and shaped into rings and worn, prevents cramps and palsy, apoplexy, epilepsy, and severe pains; and in the case of a person in a fit of the falling sickness, a ring of this metal put on the ring finger is an immediate cure. A little yarrow and mistletoe put into a bag and worn upon the stomach, prevents ague and chilblains. A powder made of the common mistletoe, given in doses of three grains at the full of the moon to persons troubled with epilepsy, prevents fits; and if given during a fit it will effect an immediate and permanent cure. A woman with rupture of the bladder was reported to have been cured by wearing a little bag hung about her neck containing the powder made from a toad burnt alive in a new pot. The same prescription was also said to have cured a man of stone in the bladder." Such theories left ample room for the creation of all sorts of cure charms, and when such ideas prevailed among the educated in the medical profession, we need not be surprised that they still survive among many uneducated persons, although two centuries have gone since. In 1714 one of the most eminent physicians in Europe, Boerhaave, wrote of chemistry and medicine:--"Nor even in this affair don't medicine receive some advantage; witness the cups made of regulus of antimony, tempered with other metals which communicate a medicinal quality to wine put in them, and it is ten thousand pities the famous _Van Helmont_ should have been so unkind to his poor fellow creatures in distress as to conceal from us the art of making a particular metal which he tells us, made into rings, and worn only while one might say the Lord's Prayer, would remove the most exquisite hæmorrhoidal pains, both internal and external, quiet the most violent hysteric disorders, and give ease in the severest spasms of the muscles. 'Tis right, therefore, to prosecute enquiries of this nature, for there is very frequently some hidden virtues in these compositions, and we may make a vast number of experiments of this kind without any danger or inconvenience." As it illustrates the theories just mentioned, we notice here the influence attributed to the wonderful Lee Penny. This famous charm is a stone set in gold. It is said to have been brought home by Lochart of Lee, who accompanied the Earl of Douglas in carrying Robert the Bruce's heart to the Holy Land. It is called Lee Penny, and was credited with the virtue of imparting to water into which it was dipped curative properties, specially influential to the curing of cattle when diseased, or preventing them taking disease. Many people from various parts of Scotland whose cattle were affected have made application within these few years for water in which this stone has been dipped. It is believed that this stone cannot be lost. It is still in the possession of the family of Lochart. Ague, it was believed, could be cured by putting a spider into a goose quill, sealing it up, and hanging it about the neck, so that it would be near the stomach. This disease might also be cured by swallowing pills made of a spider's web. One pill a morning for three successive mornings before breakfast. There were numerous cures for hooping-cough of a superstitious character, practised extensively during the earlier years of this century, and some are still recommended. The following are a few of these. Pass the patient three times under the belly, and three times over the back of a donkey. Split a sapling or a branch of the ash tree, and hold the split open while the patient is passed three times through the opening. Find a man riding on a piebald horse, and ask him what should be given as a medicine, and whatever he prescribes will prove a certain cure. "I recollect," says Jamieson, "a friend of mine that rode a piebald horse, that he used to be pursued by people running after him bawling,-- "Man wi' the piety horse, What's gude for the kink host?" He said he always told them to give the bairn plenty of sugar candy. Put a piece of _red_ flannel round the neck of a child, and it will ward off the hooping cough. The virtue lay not in the flannel, but in the red colour. Red was a colour symbolical of triumph and victory over all enemies. Find a hairy caterpillar, put it into a bag, and hang it round the neck of the child. This will prove a cure. Take some of the child's hair and put it between slices of bread and butter, and give it to a dog; if in eating it, the dog cough, the child will be cured, and the hooping cough transferred to the dog. A very common practice at the present day is to take the patient into a place where there is a tainted atmosphere, such as a byre or a stable, a gas work, or chemical work. I have seen the gas blown on the child's face, so that it might breath some of it, and be set a coughing. If during the process the child take a _kink_, it is a good sign. This idea must, I think, be of modern origin. It was believed that if a present were given, especially if it were given to a sweetheart, and then asked back again, the giver would have a stye on the eye. Again, a stye on the eye was removable by rubbing it with a wedding ring. I suspect these two superstitions are portions of an ancient allegory, which, in time loosing their figurative meanings, came to be treated as literal facts. Warts, especially when they are upon exposed parts of the body, are sometimes a source of annoyance to their possessors, and various and curious methods were taken for their removal. From their position on the body they also were regarded as prognostications of good or bad luck. To have warts on the right hand foreboded riches; a wart on the face indicated troubles of various kinds. We have already noticed the cure recommended by the learned Sir Francis Bacon. The following are a few of the cures which were believed in within this century. Rub the wart with a piece of stolen bacon. Rub the wart with a black snail, and lay the snail upon a hedge or dyke. As the animal decays so will the wart. Wash the wart with sow's blood for three days in succession. Upon the first sight of the new moon stand still and take a small portion of earth from under the right foot, make it into a paste, put it on the wart and wrap it round with a cloth, and thus let it remain till that moon is out. The moon's influence and the fasting spittle are very old superstitions. The moon or Ashtoreth, the consort of Baal, was the great female deity of the ancients, and so an appeal to the moon for the purpose of removing interferences with beauty, such as skin excrescences, was quite appropriate. Moon worship was practised in this country in prehistoric times. Bailey, in his _Etymological Dictionary_, under article "Moon," says, "The moon was an ancient idol of England, and worshipped by the Britons in the form of a beautiful maid, having her head covered, with two ears standing out. The common people in some counties of England are accustomed at the prime of the moon to say '_It is a fine moon. God bless her._'" From a custom in Scotland (particularly in the Highlands) where the young women make courtesy to the new moon by getting upon a gate or style and sitting astride, they say-- "All hail to the moon, all hail to thee, I prithee good moon declare to me This very night who my husband shall be." Every one knows the popular adage about having money in the pocket when the new moon is first seen, and that if the coins be turned over at the time, money will not fail you during that moon. To see the new moon through glass, however, breaks the charm. It was a prevalent belief that if a person on catching the first glimpse of new moon, were to instantly stand still, kiss their hand three times to the moon, and bow to it, that they would find something of value before that moon was out. Such practices are evidently survivals of moon worship. How closely does this last practice agree with what Job says (chap. xxxi, 26),--"If I beheld the sun when it shined, or the moon walking in brightness, and my heart hath been secretly enticed, or my mouth hath kissed my hand: this also were an iniquity to be punished by the Judge: for I should have denied the God that is above." The good influence of the fasting spittle in destroying the influence of an evil eye has been already referred to in the previous pages, but it was also esteemed a potent remedy in curing certain diseases. To moisten a wart for several days in succession with the fasting spittle removes it. I have often seen a nurse bathe the eyes of a baby in the morning with her fasting spittle, to cure or prevent sore eyes. I have heard the same cure recommended for roughness of the skin and other skin diseases. Maimonides states that the Jews were expressly forbidden by their traditions to put fasting-spittle upon the eyes on the Sabbath day, because to do so was to perform work, the great Sabbath crime in the eyes of the Pharisees which Christ committed when he moistened the clay with his spittle and anointed the eyes of the blind man therewith on the Sabbath day. To both Greeks and Romans the fasting spittle was a charm against fascination. Persius Flaccus says:--"A grandmother or a superstitious aunt has taken baby from his cradle, and is charming his forehead and his slavering lips against mischief by the joint action of her middle finger and her purifying spittle." Here we find that it is not the spittle alone, but the joint action of the spittle and the middle finger which works the influence. The middle finger was commonly, in the early years of this century, believed to possess a favourable influence on sores; or, rather, it might be more correct to say that it possessed no damaging influence, while all the other fingers, in coming into contact with a sore, were held to have a tendency to defile, to poison, or canker the wound. I have heard it asserted that doctors know this, and never touch a sore but with the mid-finger. There were other practices and notions appertaining to the spittle and spitting, some of which continue to this day. To spit for luck upon the first coin earned or gained by trading, before putting it into the pocket or purse, is a common practice. To spit in your hand before grasping the hand of a person with whom you are dealing, and whose offer you accept, is held to clinch the bargain, and make it binding on both sides. This is a very old custom. Captain Burt, in his letters, says that when in a bargain between two Highlanders, each of them wets the ball of his thumb with his mouth, and then they press their wet thumb balls together, it is esteemed a very binding bargain. Children in their games, which are often imitations of the practices of men, make use of the spittle. When playing at games of chance, such as _odds or evens_, _something or nothing_, etc., before the player ventures his guess he consults an augury, of a sort, by spitting on the back of his hand, and striking the spittle with his mid-finger, watching the direction in which the superfluous spittle flies, from him or to him, to right or left, and therefrom, by a rule of his own, he determines what shall be his guess. Again, boys often bind one another to a bargain or promise by a sort of oath, which is completed by spitting. It runs thus: "Chaps ye, chaps ye, Double, double daps ye, Fire aboon, fire below, Fire on every side o' ye." After saying this, the boy spits over his head three times, and without this the oath is not considered binding; but when properly done, and the promise not fulfilled, the defaulter is regarded as a liar, and is kept for a time at an outside by his companions. When two boys made an arrangement (I am speaking of what was the custom fifty years back), either to meet together at a stated time or to do some certain thing, the arrangement was confirmed by each spitting on the ground. When a number of boys or girls were trying to find out a puzzle or guess put to them, and which they failed to unravel or answer, and when they were searching for something which had been hidden from them, and which they could not discover, the usual method of acknowledging that they were outwitted was by spitting on the ground; in the language of the day, they would be requested to "spit and gie't o'er," that is, own that they were beaten. The propounder of the puzzle, or the party who had hidden the object, was then bound to disclose the matter. When two boys quarrelled, and one wet the other boy's buttons with his spittle, this was a challenge to fight or be dubbed a coward. Mahomet held that bad dreams were from the devil, and advised the dreamers to seek protection by addressing a short prayer to God, and then spitting three times over their left shoulder. He further counselled them to tell the dream to no one, and by following these instructions no harm, such as the dreams had foreshadowed, would befall them. In the case of a person bitten by a dog, a few hairs taken from the dog's tail, and placed upon the wound either upon or under a poultice, was regarded as a protection from evil consequences, such as hydrophobia. I know of an instance in which this remedy was applied so lately as 1876. This practice is unmistakeably the origin of the toper's proverb when suffering from headache in the morning, "Take a hair of the dog that bit you." I will not enter into the subject of faith in the influence of relics. Such beliefs existed in Scotland in my young days, and it is almost unnecessary to say that belief in such things is older than history. In my youth there was also a belief in the virtue of precious stones, which added a value to them beyond their real value as ornaments. An investigation into this matter would tend to throw much light upon many ancient practices and beliefs, as each stone had its own symbolic meaning, and its own peculiar influence for imparting good and protecting from evil and from sickness, its fortunate possessor. Probably John's description of heaven with its windows of agate, its doors of pearls or carbuncles, its foundations of amethyst, with sapphires blue, and sardines clear and red, had relation to the popular beliefs of the time. I have seen at Mill More, Killin, stones which are reported to have been used by St. Fillan for curing all sorts of diseases; and there are not a few persons at the present day who wear certain polished stones about their persons as a protective influence against certain diseases. The ancient Jews had a superstitious idea respecting precious stones, which gave that strong desire for their possession, which is still characteristic of the race. The Diamond was an antidote to Satanic temptation. Ruby made the possessor brave. Topaz preserved the bearer against being poisoned. Amethyst preserved from drunkenness. Emerald promoted piety. Sardonyx dispelled unholy thoughts. There is a legend that God gave to Abraham a precious stone which had the power of preserving him from all kinds of sickness. When any person was troubled with a morbid hunger accompanied with pain in the stomach, it was believed that that affliction was caused by the sufferer having swallowed some animal, which continued to live in the stomach, and that when this was empty it knawed the stomach and produced the pain felt. Several strange instances illustrative of the truth of this theory were current in my native village. Let one case suffice. An old soldier having on some long march been induced through extreme thirst to drink from a ditch, had swallowed some animal. Years after he was taken ill, and came home. His hunger for food was so great that he could scarcely be satisfied, and notwithstanding the great quantities of food which he consumed, he became thinner and thinner, and his hunger was accompanied with great pain. Doctors could do him no good. At length he met with a skilly old man, who told him that there was an animal in his stomach, and advised him to procure a salt herring and eat it raw, and on no account to take any drink, but go at once to the side of a pool or burn and lie down there with his mouth open, and watch the result. He had not lain long when he felt something moving within him, and by and bye an ugly toad came out of his mouth, and made for the water. Having drank its fill, it was returning to its old quarters, when the old soldier rose and killed it. Many in the village had seen the dead toad. After this the man recovered rapidly. Many other stories of people swallowing _asks_ (newts), and other water animals which lived in their stomachs, and produced serious diseases, were current in my young days. This gave boys a great fear of stretching down and drinking from a pool, or even a running stream. CHAPTER VII. _DIVINING._ There is another class of superstitions which have prevailed from ages the most remote to the present day, although now they are dying out--at least, they are not now employed to determine such important matters as they once were. I refer to the practice of divining, or casting lots. In early times such practices were regarded as a direct appeal to God. From the Old and New Testaments we learn that these practices were resorted to by the Jews; but in modern times, and among Western nations, the lot was regarded as an appeal to the devil as much as to God. I have known people object to the lot as a sinful practice; but, at the same time, they were in the constant habit of directing their own course by such an appeal, as, for instance, when they were about to travel on some important business, they would fix that, if certain events happened, they would regard such as a good omen from God, and would accordingly undertake their journey; but if not, they would regard the non-occurrence as an unfavourable omen, and defer their journey, in submission, as they supposed, to the will of God. In modern times, the practice of casting lots to determine legal or other important questions has been abandoned by civilized nations; but the practice still exists in less civilized communities, and is employed to determine such serious matters as involve questions of life or death, and it still survives among us in trivial matters, as games. In my young days, a process of divining, allied to casting lots, was resorted to by young women in order to discover a thief, or to ascertain whether a young man who was courting one of them was in earnest, and would in the future become that girl's husband. The process was called the Bible and key trial, and the formula was as follows:--A key and Bible were procured, the key being so much longer than the Bible that, when placed between the leaves, the head and handle would project. If the enquiry was about the good faith of a sweetheart, the key was placed in Ruth i. 16, on the words, "Entreat me not to leave thee: where thou goest I will go," etc. The Bible was then closed, and tied round with tape. Two neutral persons, sitting opposite each other, held out the forefingers of their right hands, and the person who was consulting the oracle suspended the Bible between their two hands, resting the projecting parts of the key on the outstretched forefingers. No one spoke except the enquirer, and she, as she placed the key and Bible in position, repeated slowly the whole passage, "Entreat me not to leave thee," John or James, or whatever the name of the youth was, "for where thou goest I will go," etc. If the key and Bible turned and fell off the fingers, the answer was favourable; and generally by the time the whole passage was repeated this was the result, provided the parties holding up the key and Bible were firm and steady. For the detection of a thief, the formula was the same, with only this difference, that the key was put into the Bible at the fiftieth Psalm, and the enquirer named the suspected thief, and then repeated the eighteenth verse of that Psalm, "When thou sawest a thief then thou consentest with him," etc. If the Bible turned round and fell, it was held to be proof that the person named was the thief. This method of divining was not frequently practised, not through want of faith in its efficacy, but through superstitious terror, for the movement of the key was regarded as evidence that some unseen dread power was present, and so overpowering occasionally was the impression produced that the young woman who was chief actor in the scene fainted. The parties holding the key and Bible were generally old women, whose faith in the ordeal was perfect, and who, removed by their age from the intenser sympathies of youth, could therefore hold their hands with steadier nerve. It is only when firm hands hold it that the turning takes place, for this phenomenon depends upon the regular and steady pulsations in the fingers, and when held steadily the ordeal never fails. There were various other methods for divining or consulting fate or deity. M'Tagart refers to a practice of divining by the staff. When a pilgrim at any time got bewildered, he would poise his staff perpendicularly, and there leave it to fall of itself; and in whatever direction it fell, that was the road he would take, believing himself supernaturally directed. Townsmen when they wished to go on a pleasure excursion to the country, and careless or unsettled which way to go, would apply to this form of lot. In the old song of "Jock Burnie" there occurs the following verse:-- "En' on en' he poised his rung, then Watch'd the airt its head did fa', Whilk was east, he lapt and sung then, For there his dear bade, Meg Macraw." This practice was common with boys in the country fifty years ago, both for determining where to go for pleasure, or if in a game one of their number had hidden, and could not be found, as a last resort the stick was poised, and in whatever direction the stick fell, search was renewed in that direction. Such things as these seem trifling, and it would seem folly to treat them seriously; but they were not always trifling matters. Some of our Biblical scholars say that it was to this kind of divining that the prophet Hosea referred when he said, "Their staff declareth unto them," and at the present day there are nations who practice such methods for determining important affairs of life. The New Zealand sorcerers use sticks for divining, which they throw into the air, and come to their decisions by observing in which direction these sticks fall. Even in such matters as sickness or bodily injury, the direction in which the falling sticks lie, or it may be a certain stick in the group, directs the way to a physician. In ancient times the Magian form of divining was by staves or sticks. The diviner carried with him a bundle of willow wands, and when about to divine he untied the bundle and laid the wands upon the ground; then he gathered them and threw them from him, repeating certain words as if consulting some divinity. The wands were of different lengths, and their numbers varied from three to nine, but only the odd numbers 1, 3, 5, 7, 9 belonged to heaven, the even numbers 2, 4, 6, 8 belonged to earth. The Chinese divine after this fashion at the present day. From such ideas has doubtless arisen the saying that there is luck in odd numbers, a belief which, after a fashion, still prevails. The virtue and mysterious power of the divining rod is still believed by many, and has frequently been resorted to during this century for the purpose of discovering water springs and metallic veins. The diviner takes a willow wand with a forked end: the forked points are held in his two hands, the other end pointing horizontally in front of him, and as he walks slowly over a field he watches the movements of the rod. When it bends towards the earth, as if apparently strongly attracted thereto, he feels certain he is passing over a spring or metallic vein. But the phenomenon, it is believed, will not take place with every one who may try it, there being only certain parties, mediums as we would name them in these days, who have the gift of operating successfully; and such parties obtained great fame in countries and districts where water was scarce, as they were able to point out the exact spots where wells should be dug, and also in such counties as Cornwall, where they could point out the spots where a mine could profitably be sunk. Again and again within these few years have warm controversies been carried on in public papers on the question of the reality of the virtue and power of the _dousing rod_ for discovering minerals or mineral veins. Some have argued that a hazel rod is as perfect as a willow rod, and have adduced instances of its successful application. There was another form of divining essentially an appeal to the lot, in which a stick was used, and which was frequently employed to determine matters of considerable importance. Boys resorted to it in their games in order to determine between two parties, to settle for example which side should take a certain part in a game, or which of two lads, leaders in a game, should have the first choice of associates. A long stick was thrown into the air and caught by one of the parties, then each alternately grasped it hand over hand, and he who got the last hold was the successful party. He might not have sufficient length of stick to fill his whole hand, but if by closing his hand upon the end projecting from his opponent's hand, he could support the weight of the stick, this was enough. The various methods of divining which are generally regarded as modern inventions, such as the many forms of divining by cards, the reading of the future from the position of the leaves of tea in a tea-cup, etc., we will pass by without comment, only remarking that the prevalence among us still of such superstitious notions shows that men, notwithstanding our boasted civilisation, are still open to believe in mysteries which, to common sense, are incredible, without exhibiting the slightest trace of scepticism, and without taking any trouble to investigate the truth of the pretensions, contenting themselves with a saying I have often heard--"Wonderful things were done of old which we cannot understand, and God's hand is not yet shortened. He can do now what He did then." And so they save themselves trouble of reasoning, a process which, to the majority, is disagreeable. CHAPTER VIII. _SUPERSTITIONS RELATING TO ANIMALS._ Many other superstitious notions still exist among us with respect to certain animals, which have, no doubt, had their origin in remote times--some of them, doubtless, being survivals of ancient forms of animal worship. The ancient Egyptians worshipped animals, or held certain animals as symbols of divine powers. The Jews made a division of animals into clean and unclean, and the ancient Persians held certain animals in detestation as having a connection with the evil spirit; while others were esteemed by them as connected with the good spirit or principle. Other ancient nations held certain animals as more sacred than others, and these ideas still exist among us, modified and transformed to a greater or less extent. The robin is a familiar example of a bird which is held in veneration by the popular mind. The legend of the robins in the _Babes in the Wood_ may have increased this veneration. There was a popular saying that the robin had a drop of God's blood in its veins, and that therefore to kill or hurt it was a sin, and that some evil would befall anyone who did so, and, conversely, any kindness done to poor robin would be repaid in some fashion. Boys did not dare to harry a robin's nest. The _yellow yite_, or yellow hammer, was held in just the opposite estimation, and although one of the prettiest of birds, their nests were remorselessly harried, and their young often cruelly killed. When young, I was present at an act of this sort, and, as an illustration of courage and affection in the parent bird, I may relate the circumstance. The nest, with four fledglings, was about a quarter of a mile outside the village. It was carried through the village to a quarry, as far on the opposite side. The parent bird followed the boys, uttering a plaintive cry all the way. On reaching the quarry, the nest was laid on the ground, and a certain distance measured off, where the boys were to stand and throw stones at it. While this was being done, the parent bird flew to the nest, and made strenuous efforts to draw it away; and when the stones were thrown, it flew to a little distance, continuing its cry; and only flew away when it was made the mark for the stones. These boys would never have thought of doing the same thing to a nest of robins. It was said to have a drop of the devil's blood in its veins, and that its jerky and unsteady flight was a consequence of this. The hatred to the yellow hammer, however, was only local. The swallow was also considered to have a drop of the _deil's_ blood in its veins; but, unlike the yellow hammer, instead of being persecuted, it was feared, and therefore let alone. If a swallow built its nest in a window-corner, it was regarded as a lucky omen, and the annoyance and filth arising therefrom was patiently borne with under the belief that such a presence brought luck and prosperity to the house. To tear down a swallow's nest was looked upon as a daring of the fates, and when this was done by the proprietor or tenant, there were many who would prophesy that death or some other great calamity would overtake, within a twelvemonth, the family of the perpetrator. To possess a hen which took to crowing like a cock boded ill to the possessor or his family if it were not disposed of either by killing or selling. They were generally sold to be killed. Only a few years ago I had such a prodigy among a flock of hens which I kept about my works, and one day it was overheard crowing, when one of the workmen came to me, and, with a solemn face, told the circumstance, and advised me strongly to have it destroyed or put away, as some evil would surely follow, relating instances he had known in Ireland. This superstition has found expression in the Scotch proverb: "Whistling maids and crowing hens are no canny about a house." Seeing magpies before breakfast was a good or bad omen according to the number seen up to four. This was expressed in the following rhyme, which varies slightly in different localities. The following version was current in my native village:-- "One bodes grief, two's a death, Three's a wedding, four's a birth." Chambers in his Scottish Rhymes has it thus:-- "One's joy, two's grief. Three's a wedding, four's a birth." I knew a man who, if on going to his work he had seen two _piets_ together, would have refrained from working before he had taken breakfast, believing that if he did so it would result in evil either to himself or his family. If a cock crew in the morning with its head in at the door of the house, it was a token that a stranger would pay the family a visit that day; and so firm was the _faith_ in this that it was often followed by works, the house being _redd_ up for the occasion. I remember lately visiting an old friend in the country, and on making my appearance I was hailed with the salutation, "Come awa, I knew we would have a visit from strangers to-day, for the cock crowed thrice over with his head in at the door." If a horse stood and looked through a gateway or along a road where a bride or bridegroom dwelt, it was a very bad omen for the future happiness of the intending couple. The one dwelling in that direction would not live long. If a bird got any human hair, and used it in building its nest, the person on whose head the hair grew would be troubled with headaches, and would very soon get bald. It is still a common belief that crows begin to build their nests on the first Sabbath of March. A bird coming into a house and flying over any one's head was an unlucky omen for the person over whose head it flew. It was said that eggs laid upon Good Friday never got stale, and that butter made on that day possessed medicinal properties. If a horse neighed at the door of a house, it boded sickness to some of the inmates. A cricket singing on the hearth was a good omen, a token of coming riches to the family. If a bee came up in a straight line to a person's face, it was regarded as a forerunner of important news. If a servant wilfully killed a spider, she would certainly, it was said, break a piece of crockery or glass during that day. Spiders were, as they are still, generally detested in a house, and were often very roughly dislodged; but yet their lives were protected by a very old superstition. There is an old English proverb-- "If you wish to live and thrive, Let the spider run alive." When my mother saw a spider's web in the house she swept it away very roughly, but the spider was not wilfully killed. If it was not seen it was considered all right, but if it fell on the floor or was seen running along the wall, it was brushed out of the room; none of us were allowed to put our foot on it, or wilfully kill it. This care for the life of the spider is probably due to the influence of an old legend that a spider wove its web over the place where the baby Christ was hid, thus preserving his life by screening him from sight of those who sought to kill him. Stories of a similar character are related in connection with King Robert Bruce, and several other notable persons during times of persecution, who, while hiding in caves, spiders came and wove their webs over the entrances, which, when their enemies saw, convinced them that the parties they were in search of had not taken refuge there, or the webs would have been destroyed. The common white butterfly was a favourite with children, and to catch one and preserve it alive was considered lucky. Care was taken to preserve them by feeding them with sugar. But the dark brown and spotted butterflies were always detested, and were named witch butterflies. Ill luck, it was believed, would attend any one who kept one alive, but to kill one was an unlucky transaction, which would be attended by evil to the killer before evening. Beetles were held in aversion by most people, and if one was found upon the person, if they were at all nervous, it was sufficient to cause a fit, at least would set them screaming with a shudder of detestation. But there was a variety of small beetles with a beautiful bronze coloured back, called _gooldies_ by children, which were held in great favour. They were sometimes kept by children as little pets, and allowed to run upon their hands and clothes, and this was not because of their beauty, but because to possess a _gooldie_ was considered very lucky. To kill a beetle brought rain the following day. The lady bird, with its scarlet coat spotted with black, was another great favourite with most people. Very few would kill a lady bird, as such an act would surely be followed by calamity of some sort. Children were eager to catch one and watch it gracefully spreading out its wings from under its coat of mail, and then taking flight, while the group of youthful onlookers would repeat the rhyme, "Lady bird, lady bird, fly away home, Your house is on fire, and your children at home." or "Lady lady landers, fly away to Flanders." But these practices were not altogether confined to children. Grown up girls, when they caught a lady bird, held it in their hands, and repeated the following couplet-- "Fly away east or fly away west, And show me where lives the one I like best." Its flight was watched with great anxiety, and when it took the direction which the young girl wished, it was not only a sort of pleasure, but a proof of the augury. If a person on going to his work, or while going an errand, were to see a hare cross the road in front of him, it was a token that ill luck would shortly befall him. Many under such circumstances would return home and not pursue their quest until the next meal had been eaten, for beyond that the evil influence did not extend. This superstition is very old, but it is not in every country or age connected with the hare. We have already seen in a quotation from Ovid that this superstition existed in his day, (page 2.) Probably the hare has been adopted in this country from the belief that witches assumed the form of that animal when on their nightly rambles, for how was the wayfarer to know that the hare which he saw was not a transformed witch, intent on working him mischief? The cat was always a favourite in a family, and nothing was more unlucky than for one to die inside the house. I have known cases where, when such a misfortune occurred, the family were thrown into great consternation, surmising what possible form of evil this omen portended to them. Generally when a cat was known to be ailing, the animal was removed from the house and placed in the coal cellar, or other outhouse, with plenty of food, and kept there until it either recovered or died. With the ancient Egyptians the cat was one of their favourite animals. The death of a cat belonging to a family was considered a great misfortune. Upon the occurrence of such an event the household went into mourning, shaving off their eyebrows, and otherwise indicating their sorrow. In Scotland it was believed that witches often assumed the cat form while exercising their evil influence over a family. It was pretty generally believed a few years ago that in large fires kept continually burning there was generated an animal called a salamander. It required seven years to grow and attain maturity, and if the fires were kept burning longer than that there was great danger that the animal might make its escape from its fiery matrix, and, if this should happen, it would range round the world, destroying all it came in contact with, itself almost indestructible. Hence large fires, such as those of blast furnaces in ironworks, were extinguished before the expiry of the seven years, and the embryo monster taken out. Such an idea may have had its origin in a misinterpretation of some of St. John's apocalyptic visions, or may have been a survival of the legend of the fiery dragon whose very breath was fire, a legend common during the middle ages and also in ancient Rome. Bacon, in his _Natural History_, says--"There is an ancient tradition of the salamander that it liveth in the fire, and hath force also to extinguish the fire"; and, according to Pliny, Book X. chap. 67,--"The salamander, made in fashion of a lizard, with spots like to stars, never comes abroad, and sheweth itself only during great showers. In fair weather, he is not seen; he is of so cold a complexion that if he do but touch the fire he would quench it."--_Holland_. This is quite opposite to the modern notion of it that it was generated in the fire, but such legends take transformations suitable to the age and locality. The goat has been associated both in ancient and modern times with the devil, or evil spirit, who is depicted with horns, hoofs, and a tail. In modern times, he was supposed to haunt streams and woods in this disguise, and to be present at many social gatherings. He was popularly credited with assisting, in this disguise, in the instruction of a novice into the mysteries of Freemasonry, and was supposed to allow the novice to ride on his back, and go withershins three times round the room. I have known men who were anxious to be admitted into the order deterred by the thought of thus meeting with the devil at their initiation. While staying at Luss lately, I was informed that a mill near to Loch Lomond had formerly been haunted by the goat demon, and that the miller had suffered much from its mischievous disposition. It frequently let on the water when there was no grain to grind. But one night the miller watched his mill, and had a meeting with the goblin, who demanded the miller's name, and was informed that it was _myself_. After a trial of strength, the miller got the best of it, and the spirit departed. After hearing this, I remembered that the same story, under a slightly different form, had been told me when a boy in my native village. This was the story as then told:--A certain miller in the west missed a quantity of his meal every day, although his mill was carefully and securely locked. One night he sat up and watched, hiding himself behind the hopper. After a time, he was surprised to see the hopper beginning to go, and, looking up, he saw a little manakin holding a little cappie in his hand and filling it at the hopper. The miller was so frightened that this time he let him go; but, in a few minutes, the manakin returned again with his cappie. Then the miller stepped out from his hiding-place, and said, "Aye, my manakin, and wha may you be, and what's your name?" To which the manakin, without being apparently disturbed, replied, "My name is Self, and what's your name?" "My name is Self, too," replied the miller. The manakin's cappie being by this time again full, he began to walk off, but the miller gave him a whack with his stick, and then ran again to his hiding-place. The manakin gave a terrible yell, which brought from a hidden corner an old woman, crying, "Wha did it? Wha did it?" The manakin answered, "It was Self did it." Whereat, slapping the manakin on the cheek, the old woman said, "If Self did it, Self must mend it again." After this, they both left the mill, which immediately stopped working. The miller was never afterwards troubled in this way, and, at the same time, a goat which for generations had been observed at gloaming and on moonlight nights in the dell, and on the banks of the stream which drove the mill, disappeared, and was never seen again. To meet a sow the first thing in the morning boded bad luck for the day. If a male cat came into the house and shewed itself friendly to any one, it was a lucky omen for that person. To meet a piebald horse was lucky. If two such horses were met apart, the one after the other, and if then the person who met them were to spit three times, and express any reasonable wish, it would be granted within three days. If a stray dog followed any person on the street, without having been enticed, it was lucky, and success was certain to attend the errand on which the person was engaged. CHAPTER IX. _SUPERSTITIONS CONCERNING PLANTS._ Superstitions connected with plants were more numerous than those connected with animals. We have already noticed widespread prevalence of tree worship in early times. The Bible is full of evidence bearing upon this point, from the earliest period of Jewish history until the time of the captivity. Even concerning those Kings of Judah and Israel who are recorded to have walked in the ways of their father David, it is frequently remarked of them that they did not remove or hew down the _groves_, but permitted them to remain a snare to the people. In several instances the word translated grove cannot properly be applicable to a grove of trees, but must signify something much smaller, for it is in these instances described as being located in the temple. It can therefore refer only to a tree or stump of a tree, or it may be only the symbol of a tree. The story of the tree of good and evil, and the tree of life, has been the origin of many superstitious notions regarding trees. The notion that the tree of the knowledge of good and evil was an apple tree, caused the apple to have a great many mystic meanings, and gave it a prominent place in many legends, and also brought it into prominence as a divining medium. In many parts of Scotland the apple was believed to have great influence in love affairs. If an apple seed were shot between the fingers it was understood that it would, by the direction of its flight, indicate the direction from which that person's future partner in life would come. If a couple took an apple on St. John's eve and cut it in two, and if the seeds on each half were found to be equal in number, this was a token that these two would be soon united in marriage; or if the halves contained an unequal number of seeds, the one who possessed the half with the greater number would be married first. If a seed were cut in two, it denoted trouble to the party holding the larger portion of the seed. If two seeds were cut, it denoted early death or widowhood to one of the parties. If the apple were sour or sweet, the flavour indicated the temper of the parties. There was a practice common among young people of peeling an apple in an unbroken peel, and throwing the peeled skin over the right shoulder in order to ascertain from the manner in which it fell, first, whether the person who threw it would be married soon, and second, the trade or profession of the person to whom they would be married. If the skin after being thrown remained unbroken, they would be married soon, and the person to whom they would be married was ascertained from the form which the fallen skin presented; this form might assume the shape of a letter, in that case it was the initial letter of the unknown parties name, or it might assume the form of some trade tool, &c. Imagination had free scope here. The apple tree itself was considered a lucky tree to have near a house, but its principal virtue lay in the fruit. _Holly_. This name is probably a corruption of the word holy, as this plant has been used from time immemorial as a protection against evil influence. It was hung round, or planted near houses, as a protection against lightning. Its common use at Christmas is apparently the survival of an ancient Roman custom, occurring during the festival to Saturn, to which god the holly was dedicated. While the Romans were holding this feast, which occurred about the time of the winter solstice, they decked the outsides of their houses with holly; at the same time the Christians were quietly celebrating the birth of Christ, and to avoid detection they outwardly followed the custom of their heathen neighbours, and decked their houses with holly also. In this way the holly came to be connected with our Christmas customs. (See chapter on Festivals.) This plant was also regarded as a symbol of the resurrection. The use of mistletoe along with holly is probably due to the notion that in winter the fairies took shelter under its leaves, and that they protected all who sheltered the plant. The origin of kissing under the mistletoe is considered to have come from our Saxon ancestors, who regarded this plant as dedicated to _Friga_, the goddess of love. The _Aspen_ was said to have been the tree on which Judas hanged himself after the betrayal of his Master, and ever since its leaves have trembled with shame. The _Ash_ had wonderful influence. The old Christmas log was of ash wood, and the use of it at this time was helpful to the future prosperity of the family. Venomous animals, it was said, would not take shelter under its branches. A carriage with its axles made of ash wood was believed to go faster than a carriage with its axles made of any other wood; and tools with handles made of this wood were supposed to enable a man to do more work than he could do with tools whose handles were not of ash. Hence the reason that ash wood is generally used for tool handles. It was upon ash branches that witches were enabled to ride through the air; and those who ate on St. John's eve the red buds of the tree, were rendered invulnerable to witch influence. The _Hazel_ was dedicated to the god _Thor_, and, in the Roman Catholic Church, was esteemed a plant of great virtue for the cure of fevers. When used as a divining rod, the rod, if it were cut on St. John's Day or Good Friday, would be certain to be a successful instrument of divination. A hazel rod was a badge of authority, and it was probably this notion which caused it to be made use of by school masters. Among the Romans, a hazel rod was also a symbol of authority. The _Willow_, as might be expected, had many superstitious notions connected with it, since, according to the authorized version of the English Bible, the Israelites are said to have hung their harps on willow trees. The weeping willow is said to have, ever since the time of the Jews' captivity in Babylon, drooped its branches, in sympathy with this circumstance. The common willow was held to be under the protection of the devil, and it was said that, if any were to cast a knot upon a young willow, and sit under it, and thereupon renounce his or her baptism, the devil would confer upon them supernatural power. The _Elder_, or _Bourtree_ had wonderful influence as a protection against evil. Wherever it grew, witches were powerless. In this country, gardens were protected by having elder trees planted at the entrance, and sometimes hedges of this plant were trained round the garden. There are very few old gardens in country places in which are not still seen remains of the protecting elder tree. In my boyhood, I remember that my brothers, sisters, and myself were warned against breaking a twig or branch from the elder hedge which surrounded my grandfather's garden. We were told at the time, as a reason for this prohibition, that it was poisonous; but we discovered afterwards that there was another reason, viz., that it was unlucky to break off even a small twig from a bourtree bush. In some parts of the Continent this superstitious feeling is so strong that, before pruning it, the gardener says--"Elder, elder, may I cut thy branches?" If no response be heard, it is considered that assent has been given, and then, after spitting three times, the pruner begins his cutting. According to Montanus, elder wood formed a portion of the fuel used in the burning of human bodies as a protection against evil influences; and, within my own recollection, the driver of a hearse had his whip handle made of elder wood for a similar reason. In some parts of Scotland, people would not put a piece of elder wood into the fire, and I have seen, not many years ago, pieces of this wood lying about unused, when the neighbourhood was in great straits for firewood; but none would use it, and when asked why? the answer was--"We don't know, but folks say it is not lucky to burn the bourtree." It was believed that children laid in a cradle made in whole or in part of elderwood, would not sleep well, and were in danger of falling out of the cradle. Elder berries, gathered on St. John's Eve, would prevent the possessor suffering from witchcraft, and often bestowed upon their owners magical powers. If the elder were planted in the form of a cross upon a new-made grave, and if it bloomed, it was a sure sign that the soul of the dead person was happy. The _Onion_ was regarded as a symbol of the universe among the ancient Egyptians, and many curious beliefs were associated with it. It was believed by them that it attracted and absorbed infectious matters, and was usually hung up in rooms to prevent maladies. This belief in the absorptive virtue of the onion is prevalent even at the present day. When a youth, I remember the following story being told, and implicitly believed by all. There was once a certain king or nobleman who was in want of a physician, and two celebrated doctors applied. As both could not obtain the situation, they agreed among themselves that the one was to try to poison the other, and he who succeeded in overcoming the poison would thus be left free to fill the situation. They drew lots as to who should first take the poison. The first dose given was a stewed toad, but the party who took it immediately applied a poultice of peeled onions over his stomach, and thus abstracted all the poison of the toad. Two days after, the other doctor was given the onions to eat. He ate them, and died. It was generally believed that a poultice of peeled onions laid on the stomach, or underneath the armpits, would cure any one who had taken poison. My mother would never use onions which had lain for any length of time with their skins off. So lately as 1849, Mr. J.B. Wolff, in the _Scientific American_, states that he had charge of one hundred men on shipboard, cholera raging among them; they had onions on board, which a number of the men freely ate, and these were soon attacked by the cholera and nearly all died. As soon as this discovery was made, the eating of the onions was forbidden. Mr. Wolff came to the conclusion that onions should never be eaten during an epidemic; he remarks, "After many years experience, I have found that onions placed in a room where there is small-pox, will blister and decompose with great rapidity,--not only so, but will prevent the spread of disease;" and he thinks that, as a disinfectant, they have no equal, only keep them out of the stomach. It was believed that, when peeling onions, if an onion were stuck on the point of the knife which was being used, it would prevent the eyes being affected. The common _Fern_, it was believed, was in flower at midnight on St. John's Eve, and whoever got possession of the flower would be protected from all evil influences, and would obtain a revelation of hidden treasure. _St.-John's-Wort_. In heathen mythology the summer solstice was a day dedicated to the sun, and was believed to be a day on which witches held their festivities. St.-John's-Wort was their symbolical plant, and people were wont to judge from it whether their future would be lucky or unlucky; as it grew they read in its progressive character their future lot. The Christians dedicated this festive period to St. John the Baptist, and the sacred plant was named St.-John's-Wort or root, and became a talisman against evil. In one of the old romantic ballads a young lady falls in love with a demon, who tells her "Gin you wish to be Leman mine, Lay aside the St.-John's-wort and the vervain." When hung up on St. John's day together with a cross over the doors of houses it kept out the devil and other evil spirits. To gather the root on St. John's day morning at sunrise, and retain it in the house, gave luck to the family in their undertakings, especially in those begun on that day. Plants with _lady_ attached to their names were in ancient times dedicated to some goddess; and in Christian times the term was transferred to the Virgin Mary. Such plants have good qualities, conferring protection and favour on their possessors. From the earliest times the _Rose_ has been an emblem of silence. _Eros_, in the Greek mythology, presents a rose to the god of silence, and to this day _sub rosa_, or "under the rose," means the keeping of a secret. Roses were used in very early times as a potent ingredient in love philters. In Greece it was customary to leave bequests for the maintenance of rose gardens, a custom which has come down to recent times. Rose gardens were common during the middle ages. According to Indian mythology, one of the wives of Vishna was found in a rose. In Rome it was the custom to bless the rose on a certain Sunday, called _Rose Sunday_. The custom of blessing the golden rose came into vogue about the eleventh century. The golden rose thus consecrated was given to princes as a mark of the Roman Pontifs' favour. In the east it is still believed that the first rose was generated by a tear of the prophet Mahomet, and it is further believed that on a certain day in the year the rose has a heart of gold. In the West of Scotland if a white rose bloomed in autumn it was a token of early death to some one, but if a red rose did the same, it was a token of an early marriage. The red rose, it was said, would not bloom over a grave. If a young girl had several lovers, and wished to know which of them would be her husband, she would take a rose leaf for each of her sweethearts, and naming each leaf after the name of one of her lovers, she would watch them till one after another they sank, and the last to sink would be her future husband. Rose leaves thrown upon a fire gave good luck. If a rose bush were pruned on St. John's eve, it would bloom again in the autumn. Superstitions respecting the rose are more numerous in England than in Scotland. The _Lily_ had a sacredness associated with it, probably on account of Christ's reference to it. It was employed as a charm against evil influence, and as an antidote to love philters; but I am not aware of any of these uses being put in practice during this century. The four-leaved _Clover_ had extraordinary influence in preserving its possessor from magical and witch influence, and enabled their possessors also to see through any deceit or device which might be tried against them. I have seen a group of young women within these few years searching eagerly for this charmed plant. The _Oak_, from time immemorial, has held a high place as a sacred tree. The Druids worshipped the oak, and performed many of their rites under the shadow of its branches. When Augustine preached Christianity to the ancient Britons, he stood under an oak tree. The ancient Hebrews evidently held the oak as a sacred tree. There is a tradition that Abraham received his heavenly visitors under an oak. Rebekah's nurse was buried under an oak, called afterwards the oak of weeping. Jacob buried the idols of Shechem under an oak. It was under the oak of Ophra, Gideon saw the angel sitting, who gave him instructions as to what he was to do to free Israel. When Joshua and Israel made a covenant to serve God, a great stone was set up in evidence under an oak that was by the sanctuary of the Lord. The prophet sent to prophesy against Jeroboam was found at Bethel sitting under an oak. Saul and his sons were buried under an oak, and, according to Isaiah, idols were made of oak wood. Abimelech was made king by the oak that was in Shechem. From these proofs we need not be surprised that the oak continued to be held in veneration, and was believed to possess virtues overcoming evil. During last century its influence in curing diseases was believed in. The toothache could be cured by boring with a nail the tooth or gum till blood came, and then driving the nail into an oak tree. A child with rupture could be cured by splitting an oak branch, and passing the child through the opening backwards three times; if the splits grew together afterwards, the child would be cured. The same was believed in as to the ash tree. In the Presbytery Records of Lanark, 1664:--"Compeirs Margaret Reid in the same parish, (Carnwath), suspect of witchcraft, and confessed she put a woman newlie delivered, thrice through a green halshe, for helping a grinding of the bellie; and that she carried a sick child thrice about ane aikine post for curing of it." Such means of curing diseases were practised within this century, and many things connected with the oak were held potent as curatives. CHAPTER X. _MISCELLANEOUS SUPERSTITIONS._ Glamour was a kind of witch power which certain people were supposed to be gifted with; by the exercise of such influence they took command over their subjects' sense of sight, and caused them to see whatever they desired that they should see. Sir Walter Scott describes the recognised capability of glamour power in the following lines:-- "It had much of glamour might, Could make a lady seem a knight. The cobwebs on a dungeon wall, Seem tapestry in lordly hall. A nutshell seem a gilded barge, A sheeling seem a palace large, And youth seem age, and age seem youth, All was delusion, nought was truth." Gipsies were believed to possess this power, and for their own ends to exercise it over people. In the ballad of "Johnny Faa," Johnny is represented as exercising this power over the Countess of Cassillis-- "And she came tripping down the stairs, With a' her maids before her, And soon as he saw her weel faured face, He coost the glamour o'er her." To possess a four-leaved clover completely protected any one from this power. I remember a story which I heard when a boy, and the narrator of it I recollect spoke as if he were quite familiar with the fact. A certain man came to the village to exhibit the strength of a wonderful cock, which could draw, when attached to its leg by a rope, a large log of wood. Many people went and paid to see this wonderful performance, which was exhibited in the back yard of a public house. One of the spectators present on one occasion had in his possession a four-leaved clover, and while others saw, as they supposed, a log of wood drawn through the yard, this person saw only a straw attached to the cock's leg by a small thread. I may mention here that the four-leaved clover was reputed to be a preventative against madness, and against being drafted for military service. One very ancient and persistent superstition had regard to the direction of movement either of persons or things. This direction should always be with the course of the sun. To move against the sun was improper and productive of evil consequences, and the name given to this direction of movement was _withershins_. Witches in their dances and other pranks, always, it was said, went _withershins_. Mr. Simpson in his work, _Meeting the Sun_, says, "The Llama monk whirls his praying cylinder in the way of the sun, and fears lest a stranger should get at it and turn it contrary, which would take from it all the virtue it had acquired. They also build piles of stone, and always pass them on one side, and return on the other, so as to make a circuit with the sun. Mahommedans make the circuit of the Caaba in the same way. The ancient dagobas of India and Ceylon were also traversed round in the same way, and the old Irish and Scotch custom is to make all movements _Deisual_, or sunwise, round houses and graves, and to turn their bodies in this way at the beginning and end of a journey for luck, as well as at weddings and other ceremonies." To go _withershins_ and to read prayers or the creed backwards were great evils, and pointed to connection with the devil. The author of _Olrig Grange_, in an early poem, sketches this superstition very graphically:-- "Hech! sirs, but we had grand fun Wi' the meikle black deil in the chair, And the muckle Bible upside doon A' ganging withershins roun and roun, And backwards saying the prayer About the warlock's grave, Withershins ganging roun; And kimmer and carline had for licht The fat o' a bairn they buried that nicht, Unchristen'd, beneath the moon." If a tree or plant grew with a twist contrary to the direction of the sun's movement, that portion was considered to possess certain powers, which are referred to in the following verse of an old song:-- "I'll gar my ain Tammy gae doun to the Howe And cut me a rock of the widdershins grow, Of good rantree for to carry my tow, And a spindle of the same for the twining o't." Pennant refers to some other practices in Scotland in his day, that were no doubt survivals of ancient heathen worship. Such as on certain occasions kindling a fire, and the people joining hands and dancing three times round it south-ways, or according to the course of the sun. At baptisms and marriages they walked three times round the church sun-ways. The Highlanders, in going to bathe or drink in a consecrated fountain, approach it by going round the place from east to west on the south side. When the dead are laid in their grave, the grave is approached by going round in the same manner. The bride is conducted to the spouse in presence of the minister round the company in the same direction; indeed, all public matters were done according to certain fixed ideas in relation to the sun, all pointing to a lingering ray of sun worship. If a fire were slow or _dour_ to kindle, the poker was taken and placed in front of the grate, one end resting on the fender, the other on the front bar of the grate, and this, it was believed, would cause the fire to kindle quickly. This practice is still followed by many, but being compelled now to give an apparently scientific reason for their conduct, they say that it is so placed to produce a draught. But this it does not do. The practice originated in the belief that the slow or dour fire was spell-bound by witchcraft, and the poker was so placed that it would form the shape of a cross with the front bar of the grate, and thus the witch power be destroyed. In early times when the poker was placed in this position, the person who placed it repeated an _Ave Marie_ or _Paternoster_, but this feature of the ceremony died out, and with it the reason for the practice was forgotten. I have seen it done in private houses, and very frequently in the public rooms of country inns. Indeed, in such public rooms it was the common practice when the servant put on a fire, that after sweeping up the dust she placed the poker in this position, and left the room. Probably she had no idea why she did it, but merely followed the custom. In a general chapter, such as this, I can find room for some things which could not properly find a place in other chapters. The subject of omens has by no means been exhausted. The late George Smith, in his work upon the Chaldean Account of Genesis, says that in ancient Babylonia, 1600 B.C., everything in nature was supposed to portend some coming event. Without much exaggeration, the same might be said of the people of this country during the earlier part of this century. On seeing the first plough in the season, it was lucky if it were seen coming towards the observer, and he or she, in whatever undertaking then engaged, might be certain of success in it; but, if seen going from the observer, the omen was reversed. If a farmer's cows became restive without any apparent cause, it foreboded trouble to either master or mistress. On going on any business, if the first person met with was plain-soled, the journey might be given up, for, if proceeded with, the business to be transacted would prove a failure; but, by turning and entering the house again, with the right foot first, and then partaking of food before resuming the journey, it might be undertaken without misgiving. It was unlucky to walk under a ladder set up against a wall, but if passing under it could not be avoided, then, if before doing so, you wished for anything, your wish would be fulfilled. It was unlucky to eat twin nuts found in one shell. If the eye or nose itched, it was a sign that the person so affected would be vexed in some way that day. If the foot itched, it was a sign that the owner of the foot was about to undertake a strange journey. If the elbow itched, it betokened the coming of a strange bedfellow. If the right hand itched, it signified that money would shortly be received by it; and, if the left hand itched, that money would shortly have to be paid away. If the ear tingled, it was a sign that some one was speaking of the person so affected. If it were the right ear which did so, then the speech was favourable; if the left ear, the reverse. In this latter case, if the persons whose ears tingled were to bite their little fingers, this would cause the persons speaking evil of them to bite their tongues. To break a looking-glass, hanging against a wall, was a sign that death would shortly occur in the family. If a daughter's petticoat was longer than her frock, it shewed that her father loved her better than her mother did. If you desired luck with any article of dress, it should be worn first at church. If a person unwittingly put on an article of dress outside in, it was an omen that he or she would succeed in what they undertook that day; but it was requisite that this portion of dress should remain with the wrong side out until night, for, if reversed earlier, the luck was reversed also. To weigh children was considered an objectionable practice, as it was believed to injure their health, and cause them to grow up weakly. If a child cut the upper teeth before the lower, it was very unlucky for the child. If a cradle were rocked when the child was not in it, it was said to give the child a headache; but if it so happened that the child was too old to be rocked in a cradle, but its baby clothes were still in the house, then this incident portended that its mother would have another baby. To make a present of a knife or a pair of scissors, and refuse to accept anything in return, was said to cut or sever friendship between giver and receiver. If, at a social gathering, a bachelor or maid were placed inadvertently betwixt a man and his wife, the person so seated would be married within a year. If a person in rising from table overturned his chair, this shewed that he had been speaking untruths. To feel a cold tremor along the spine was a sign that some one was treading on the spot of earth in which the person so affected would be buried. If a person spoke aloud to himself, it was a sign that he would meet with a violent death. If a girl married a man the initial letter of whose name was the same as her own, it was held that the union would not be a happy one. This notion was formulated into this proverb-- "To change the name and not the letter. Is a change for the worse, and not for the better." If thirteen people sat down to dinner, the first who rose from table would, it was said, either die or meet with some terrible calamity within a year's time. When burning caking coal it often happens that a small piece of fused matter is projected from the fire. When this took place the piece was searched for and examined, and from its shape certain events were prognosticated concerning the person in whose direction it had fallen. If shaped like a coffin it presaged death, if like a cradle it foretold a birth. I have seen such an incident produce a considerable sensation among a group sitting round a fire. To find the shoe of a horse and hang it behind the house door was considered to bring good luck to the household, and protection from witchcraft or evil eye. I have seen this charm in large beer shops in London, and I was present in the parlour of one of these beer shops when an animated discussion arose as to whether it was most effective to have the shoe nailed behind the door, or upon the first step of the door. Each position had its advocates, and instances of extraordinary luck were recounted as having attended each position. If a youth sat musing and intently looking into the fire, it was a sign that some one was throwing an evil spell over him, or fascinating him for evil. When this was observed, if any one without speaking were to take the tongs and turn the centre coal or piece of wood in the grate right over, and while doing so say, "_Gude preserve us frae a' skaith_," it would break the spell, and cause the intended evil to revert on the evil-disposed person who was working the spell. I have not only seen the operation performed many times, but have had it performed in my own favour by my worthy grandmother, whose belief in such things could never be shaken. If the nails of a child were cut before it was a year old, the chances were that it would grow up a thief. To spill salt while handing it to any one was unlucky, a sign of an impending quarrel between the parties; but if the person who spilled the salt carefully lifted it up with the blade of a knife, and cast it over his or her shoulder, all evil consequences were prevented. In Leonardo de Vinci's celebrated painting of the Last Supper, the painter has indicated the enmity of Judas by representing him in the act of upsetting the salt dish, with the right hand resting on the table, grasping the bag. If a double ear of corn were put over the looking glass, it prevented the house from being struck by lightning. I have seen corn stalks hung over a looking glass, and was told that it brought luck. It was customary for farmers to leave a portion of their fields uncropped, which was a dedication to the evil spirit, and called good man's croft. The Church exerted itself for a long time to abolish this practice, but farmers, who are generally very superstitious, were afraid to discontinue the practice for fear of ill luck. I remember a farmer as late as 1825 always leaving a small piece of a field uncropped, but then did not know why. At length he gave the right of working these bits to a poor labourer, who did well with it, and in a few years the farmer cultivated the whole himself. Water that had been used in baptism was believed to have virtue to cure many distempers. It was a preventive against witchcraft, and eyes bathed with it would never see a ghost. To see a dot of soot hanging on the bars of the grate indicated a visit from a stranger. By clapping the hands close to it, if the current produced by this, blew it off at the first clap, the stranger would visit that day. Every clap indicated the day before the visit would be made. This is still a common practice, of which the following lines taken from _Glasgow Weekly Herald_, 1877, is a graphic illustration:-- "_Rab_-- Eh! Willie, come your wa's, and peace be wi' ye; Wi' a' my heart, I'm truly glad to see ye. Wee Geordie, wha sat gazing in the fire, In that prophetic mood I oft admire, Declar'd he saw a stranger on the grate-- And Geordie's auguries are true as fate. He gied his hands a dap wi' a' his micht, And said that stranger's coming here the nicht, Wi' the first clap it's off. Ye see how true Appears the future on wee Geordie's view. What's in the wind, or what may be the news, That brings ye here, in heedless waste o' shoes?" An eclipse of the sun was looked on as an omen of coming calamity. This is a very ancient superstition, and remained with us to a very late date, if it is even yet extinct. In 1597, during an eclipse of the sun, it is stated by Calderwood that men and women thought the day of judgment was come. Many women swooned, the streets of Edinburgh was full of crying, and in fear some ran to the kirk to pray. I remember an eclipse about 1818, when about three parts of the sun was covered. The alarm in the village was very great, indoor work was suspended for the time, and in several families prayers were offered for protection, believing that it portended some awful calamity; but when it passed off there was a general feeling of relief. Fishers on the West Coast believe that were they to set their nets so that in any way it would encroach upon the Sabbath, the herrings would leave the district. Two years ago I was told that herrings were very plentiful at one time at Lamlash, but some thoughtless person set his net on a Sabbath evening. He caught none, and the herrings left and never returned. I know several persons who refuse to have their likeness taken lest it prove unlucky; and give as instances the cases of several of their friends who never had a day's health after being photographed. In addition to the many forms of superstition which we have been recalling, there were, and still are a great many superstitions connected with the phenomenon of dreaming, but as the notions in this series were very varied, differing very much in different localities, and everywhere subject less or more to the fancy of the interpreter, and as I believe that the notions and practices now in vogue in this connection are of comparatively recent origin, I will not enter upon the subject. APPENDIX. YULE, BELTANE, & HALLOWE'EN FESTIVALS: _Survivals of Ancient Sun and Fire Worship._ History and prehistoric investigations have shown quite clearly that prehistoric man worshipped the Sun, the giver and vivifier of all life, as the supreme God. To the sun they offered sacrifices, and at stated periods celebrated festivals in his honour; and at these festivals bread and wine and meat were partaken of, with observances very similar in many respects to the practices of the Jews during their religious feasts. But although the sun was the supreme deity, other objects were also worshipped as subordinate deities. These objects, however, were generally in some manner representative of sun attributes; for example, the Moon was worshipped as the spouse of the Sun, Venus as his page. The pleiades and other constellations, and single stars were also deified; the rainbow and the lightning were sun servants, the elements, the sun's offspring. Many animals and trees were reverenced as representatives of sun attributes. Above all, fire was worshipped as the truest symbol of the sun upon earth, and all offerings and sacrifices in honour of the sun were presented through fire; thus sun and fire worship became identified. In Britain sun-worship appears to have been purer in prehistoric than it afterwards was in historic times, purer also than the sun-cult of historic Egypt, Greece, or Rome; that is, there appears to have been in British sun-worship less of polytheism than prevailed in Egypt, Greece, or Rome. But during the historic period, the numerous invasions and the colonizations of different portions of this country by the Romans and other nations, who brought with them their special religious beliefs and formulæ of worship, caused the increase of polytheism by the commingling of the foreign and native elements of belief, and later on, these were mixed with Christianity, and in these mixings all the elements became modified, so that now it is very difficult to separate with certainty the aboriginal, invasional, and Christian elements. From many indications it seems more than probable that the sun-cult in prehistoric Britain was very similar, even in many minor points, to the solar worship of the ancient Peruvians. At the same time, there is not the slightest probability that these two widely separated sun-cults ever had a common point of historical connection, nor, in order to explain their similarities, is such an historical explanation necessary. Quite sufficient is the explanation that both possessed in common a human nature, emotional and intellectual, moving on the same plane of childlike intelligence, and that both from this common standpoint had regard to the same striking and regularly recurring scenes of natural phenomena. Prescott thus describes the worship of these ancient Peruvians:--"The Sun was their primary God; to it was built a vast temple in the capital, more radiant with gold than that of Solomon's; and every city had a temple dedicated to the sun, and blasphemy against the sun was punished with death. The principal festivals of the year were at the equinoxes and solstices. That at midsummer was the grandest. It was preceded by a three days' fast; then every one who had time and money visited the city. Great fires were kindled from the sun's rays or by friction, from which sacred fires people kindled their hearth;" all household fires having previously been extinguished. Poor countries and districts, where the arts were in a backward condition, instead of having temples like the Peruvians, dedicated mountains and stone circles to the great luminary. It is the all but universal opinion that in this country, centuries before the Christian era, the religion of the people was Druidism; but this is merely the name of a system, and is equivalent to our saying that the present religion of our country is Presbyterianism, a statement which conveys no idea of the nature of our religious worship. The Druids were a priestly order who governed the country, and directed the worship of the people, the principal objects of worship being, as we have already said, the sun and fire. "The Druids," says the late Rev. James Rust, "formed an ecclesiastico-political association, and professed to explain the deep mysteries respecting God and man, and were the sacerdotal rulers, and called in consequence Druids or mystery-keepers. They were not allowed to commit anything to writing respecting their mysteries, and no one was allowed to enter their order till after a prolonged probation, terminating in swearing most solemnly to keep their mysteries secret for ever; and by this means they obtained great power and influence over all classes of the people." Concerning the name Druid, the writer in the _Encyclopedia Metropolitana_ says, "The name Druid is derived from _deru_, an oak." The Druids were an order of priests; they were divided into three classes, resembling the Persian magi. The first class were the Druids proper; they were the highest nobility, to whom was entrusted all religious rites and education. The second class were the bards; they were principally employed in public instruction, which was given in verse. The third class was called _Euvates_; whose office it was to deliver the responses of the oracles, and to attend the people who consulted them. The knowledge of astronomy and computation of time possessed by the Druids was of a high order, and, no doubt, was the form of worship imported from Chaldea. It is known that the Phoenicians had colonized Britain at least 1000 years B.C., and doubtless they would bring with them their form of worship, their gods being the sun, the moon, and fire. We may here find a very early source for the institution of sun-worship in these islands, if we can believe that such a very partial colonization as was effected by the Phoenicians could work a religious similarity throughout the entire island. I think it probable that sun-worship existed before the Phoenicians came to the island, but they may have elevated its practice. Following the writer in the _Encyclopedia Metropolitana_, we are told that in addition to their worship of the sun, the Druids "held sacred the spirits of their ancestors, paid great honour to mountains, lakes, and groves. Groves of oak were their temples, and their places of worship were open to heaven, such as stone circles. They had also a ceremony of baptism, dipping in the sacred lake, as an initiatory rite, and had also a sacrament of bread and wine. They paid great reverence to the egg of the serpent, the seed of the oak, and above all, the mistletoe that grew upon the oak; and they offered in sacrifice to the sun and fire, men and animals." Many of the localities where their worship was observed in this country can still be identified through the names which these places still bear. One or two are here given, because they refer to sun-worship:-- Grenach (in Perthshire), means _Field of the Sun_. Greenan (a stream in Perthshire), means _River of the Sun_. Balgreen (a town in Perthshire and other counties), means _Town of the Sun_. Grian chnox (Greenock), means _Knoll of the Sun_. Granton, means _Sun's Fire_. Premising, therefore, that sun-worship and Druidical customs form the original base of all our old national festivals, we will now direct attention to the great festival of _YULE._ The term _Yule_ was the name given to the festival of the winter solstice by our northern invaders, and means _the Festival of the Sun_. One of the names by which the Scandinavians designated the sun was _Julvatter_, meaning _Yule-father_ or _Sun-father_. In Saxon the festival was called _Gehul_, meaning _Sun-feast_. In Danish it is _Juul_; in Swedish _Oel_. Chambers supposes that the name is from a root word meaning _wheel_. We have no trace of the name by which the Druids knew this feast. The Rev. Mr. Smiddy in his book on _Druidism in Ireland_, says, "Their great feast was that called in the Irish tongue _Nuadhulig_, meaning _new all heal_, or new mistletoe. When the day came the priests assembled outside the town, and the people gathered shouting _all heal_. Then began a solemn procession into the forests in search of the mistletoe growing on the favourite oak. When found, the priests ascended the tree, and cut down the divine plant with a golden knife, which was secured below upon a linen cloth of spotless white; two white bulls were then conducted to the spot for the occasion, and there sacrificed to the sun god. The plant was then brought home with shouts of joy, mingled with prayers and hymns, and then followed a general religious feast, and afterwards scenes of boisterous merriment, to which all were admitted." From other accounts of this sun feast at the winter solstice in this country, we are given to understand that besides white bulls there were also human victims offered in sacrifice. The mistletoe gathered was divided among the people, who hung the sprays over their doorways as a protection from evil influences, and as a propitiation to the sylvan deities, and to form sheltering places for those fairy beings during the frosts. The day after the sacrifices was kept as a day of rejoicing, neighbours visited each other with gifts, and with expressions of good will. From all I have been able to gather respecting this great sun feast at the winter solstice as it was celebrated in this country in prehistoric times, I am of opinion that the sacrifices were offered to the sun on the shortest day, to propitiate his return, and that that day was a day of great solemnity, but that the day following when the mistletoe was distributed and hung up, was a day of rejoicing and thanksgiving on this account, that the sacrifices had proved acceptable and efficacious, the sun having returned again to begin his course for another year, and this day was the first day of the year. I am aware that the Romans appointed the first of January as the first day of the year as early as B.C. 600, and dedicated it to the goddess _Stranoe_. This, however, could not affect the inhabitants of Britain, at least not until the Roman invasion, and this influence did not reach our northern counties. There can be little doubt, I think, that the great festival of the Romans, the Saturnalia, held in honour of _Saturn_, the father of the gods, and which lasting seven days, including the winter solstice, was introduced into this country, and in course of time became identified with the Druidical festival of the natives. Other elements conspired to modify the ancient druidical festival. After the Romans withdrew their armies from the island at the commencement of the fifth century, other invaders took their place. Saxons, Jutes, Angles, and Normans occupied large tracts of the country; but as these were mostly all sun-worshippers, their festivals and ceremonies would, for the most part, coincide with the native usages, and whatever peculiarities they might bring with them in the matter of formulas, would take root in the localities where they were settled, and eventually the indigenous and introduced formulas would coalesce. Another element which materially influenced and, _vice versa_, was materially influenced by Pagan formulæ, was Christianity. Introduced into Rome at a very early period, it was for a long time opposed as subversive of the established religion of the empire. Now, during the festival of the Saturnalia, the Romans decorated their houses, both inside and out, with evergreens, the Christian converts refraining from this were easily discovered and set upon by the people, were brought before the judges and condemned, in many cases, to death, for their infidelity to the national gods. But as a result of this severity the Christians learned to be politic, and during the Saturnalia, hung evergreens round their houses, while they kept festival within doors in commemoration of the birth of Christ. This Christian festival, with its heathen attachments, soon spread throughout the Roman empire, and thus became introduced into Britain also. It appears however, that the day on which this feast was kept differed in different localities, until towards the middle of the fourth century Julius I., Bishop of Rome, appointed the 25th December as the festival day for the whole Church, an edict which was universally obeyed. As was to be expected, many of the ceremonies and superstitious beliefs emanating from the Saturnalia were merged in the customs of the Christian feast, and do still survive in modified forms till the present day. In many of our Christmas customs we can thus perceive the influence of the self-preservation policy of the early Roman Christians, and in the survival of many other pagan customs in this and other of our festivals, we can trace the influence of another policy, the worldly-wise policy of the Roman Church. At the close of the sixth century, Pope Gregory sent St. Augustine, or Austin, to this country as a missionary, and by his preaching, many thousands of the people were converted to Christianity. This Pope's instructions to Augustine concerning his treatment of heathen festivals, were that "the heathen temples were not to be destroyed, but turned into Christian churches; that the oxen killed in sacrifice should still be killed with rejoicing, but their bodies given to the poor, and that the refreshment booths round the heathen temples should be allowed to remain as places of jollity and amusement for the people on Christian festivals, for it is impossible to cut abruptly from hard and rough minds all their old habits and customs. He who wishes to reach the highest place must rise by steps, and not by jumps." From the enunciation of this policy, we can readily understand how the festive observances connected with heathen worship remained in the Christian observance. I have stated what is supposed to have been the Druidical manner of keeping this festival of the winter solstice, but I have not seen any account of how the festival was observed in this country when Augustine arrived as missionary. I have no information concerning the manner in which the oxen were sacrificed, nor the character of the refreshment booths round the temples. We know that there were booths in connection with heathen temples where women were kept, but whether this practice was indigenous in Britain, or was imported into this country by the Romans, or whether Pope Gregory may have written without any special knowledge of the customs here, but merely from his knowledge of heathen customs in general, we do not know. Nothing is said in these instructions about changing the day of keeping the festival from the solstice to the 25th of December. It is probable that no change of date was made at this time, at all events we may, from the following circumstance, infer that the change, if made, did not reach the northern portion of the island. Haco, King of Norway, in the the tenth century fixed the 25th December as the day for keeping the feast of Yule. King Haco's fixing on this particular date would be a resultant from the Romish edict, for the Norwegians were at this time Christians, although their Christianity was a conglomerate of heathen superstition and church dogma. According to Jamieson, the eve of Yule was termed by the Northmen _Hoggunott_, meaning Slaughter night, probably because then the cattle for the coming feast were killed. During the feast, one of the leading toasts was called _minnie_, meaning the cup of remembrance, and Dr. Jamieson thinks that the popular cry which has come down to our times as _Hogmany, trol-lol-lay_, was originally _Hogminne, thor loe loe_, meaning the feast of Thor. After the Reformation, the Scotch transferred Hogmanay to the last day of December, as a preparation day for the New Year. The practice of children going from door to door in little bands, singing the following rhyme, was in vogue at the beginning of this century in country places in the West of Scotland:-- "Rise up, gudewife, and shake your feathers, Dinna think that we are beggars, We're girls and boys come out to-day, For to get our Hogmanay, Hogmanay, trol-lol-lay. "Give us of your white bread, and not of your gray, Or else we'll knock at your door a' day." This rhyme has a stronger reference to Yule or Christmas than to the New Year, and is doubtless a relic of pre-Reformation times. At the Reformation, the Scottish Church, probably following the dictum of Calvin, who condemned Yule as a pagan festival, forbade the people to observe it because of its heathen origin; but probably the more potent reason was that it was a Romish feast, for no objection was made against keeping the New Year or _hansell Monday_, on which occasion practices similar to those of Yule were observed, and I believe it was the non-condemnation of these later festivals which enabled the Scottish Church to abolish Yule. In fact, it would appear that the Yule practices were simply transferred from a few days earlier to a few days later, and thereby retained their original connection with the close of the year. Prior to the Church interference there is no evidence that the first of January was observed by the people as a general feast, but even with this safety valve of a popular and yearly festival, the Church encountered great difficulty in abolishing Yule. A few instances of the opposition of the people will suffice. The Glasgow Kirk Session, on the 26th December, 1583, had five persons before them who were ordered to make public repentance, because they kept the superstitious day called Yule. The _baxters_ were required to give the names of those for whom they had baked Yule bread, so that they might be dealt with by the Church. Ten years after this, in 1593, an Act was again passed by the Glasgow Session against the keeping of Yule, and therein it was ordained that the keepers of this feast were to be debarred from the privileges of the Church, and also punished by the magistrates. Notwithstanding these measures, the people still inclined to observe Yule, for fifty-six years after, in 1649, the General Assembly appointed a commission to make report of the public practices, among others, "The druidical customs observed at the fires of _Beltane_, _Midsummer_, _Hallowe'en_, and _Yule_." In the same year appears the following minute in the session-book of the Parish of Slains.--(See Rust's _Druidism Exhumed_.) 26th Nov., 1649.--"The said day, the minister and elders being convened in session, and after invocation of the name of God, intimate that Yule be not kept, but that they yoke their oxen and horse, and employ their servants in their service that day as well as on other work days." Dr. Jamieson quotes the opinion of an English clergyman in reference to such proceedings of the Scotch Church:--"The ministers of Scotland, in contempt of the holy-day observed by England, cause their wives and servants to spin in open sight of the people upon Yule day, and their affectionate auditors constrain their servants to yoke their plough on Yule day, in contempt of Christ's nativity. Which our Lord has not left unpunished, for their oxen ran wud, and brak their necks and lamed some ploughmen, which is notoriously known in some parts of Scotland." By going back to the time of the Reformation, and finding what then were the practices of the people in the celebration of the Yule festival, and then by comparing these with the practices in vogue at the commencement of this century during the New Year festivities, we shall be led to conclude that the principal change effected by the Church was only respecting the time of the feasts, and we can thus perceive that the veto was not directed against the practices _per se_, but only against the conjunction of these practices, Pagan in their origin, with a feast commemorative of the birth of Christ. As they could not hold Christmas without retaining the Yule practices along with it, they resolved to abolish both. Let us then pursue this retrospect and comparison. About the time of the Reformation the day preceding Yule was a day of general preparation. Houses were cleaned out and borrowed articles were returned to their owners. Work of all kind was stopped, and a general appearance of completion of work was established; yarn was reeled off, no lint was allowed to remain on the rock of the wheel, and all work implements were laid aside. In the evening cakes were baked, one for each person, and duly marked, and great care was taken that none should break in the firing, as such an accident was a bad omen for the person whose cake met with the mishap. These cakes were eaten at the Yule breakfast. A large piece of wood was placed upon the fire in such time that it would be kindled before twelve p.m., and extreme care was taken that the fire should not go out, for not only was it unlucky, but no one would oblige a neighbour, with a kindling on Yule. On Yule eve those possessing cattle went to the byre and stable and repeated an _Ave Marie_, and a _Paternoster_, to protect their cattle from an evil eye. On Yule morning, attention was paid to the first person who entered the house, as it was important to know whether such a person were lucky or otherwise. It was an unfriendly act to enter a house on Yule day without bringing a present of some kind. Nothing was permitted to be taken out of the house on that day; this prohibition of course, did not extend to such things as were taken for presents. Servants or members of the family who had gone out in the morning, when they returned to the house brought in with them something, although it might only be some trivial article, say for instance, garden stuff. This was done that they might bring, or, at least, not cause bad luck to the household. Masters or parents gave gifts to their servants and children, and owners of cattle gave their beasts, with their own hand their first food on Yule morning. After mass in church, a table was spread in the house with meat and drink, and all who entered were invited to partake. On this day neighbours and relations visited each other, bearing with them meat and drink warmed with condiments, and as they drank they expressed mutual wishes for each other's welfare. If not a Christian day, it was at least a day of good will to men. In the evening, the great family feast was held. In the more northern parts, where the Scandinavian national element was principally settled, a boar's head was the correct dish at this feast, and, by the better class, was always provided; but the common people were content with venison, beef, and poultry, beginning their feast with a dish of plum porridge. A large candle, prepared for the occasion, was lighted at the commencement, and it was intended to keep in light till twelve p.m., and if it went out before it was regarded as a bad omen for the next year; and what of it was left unconsumed at twelve o'clock was carefully laid past, to be used at the dead wake of the heads of the family. Now, let us compare with this the practices current at Hogmanay (31st December), and New Year's Day, about the commencement of this century. In doing so, I will pass over without notice many superstitious observances which, though curious and interesting, belong rather to the general fund of superstitious belief than to the special festival at New Year, and confine myself to those which were peculiar to the time. In my grandfather's house, between sixty and seventy years ago, on the 31st December (_Hogmanay_), all household work was stopped, rock emptied, yarn reeled and _hanked_, and wheel and reel put into an outhouse. The house itself was white-washed and cleaned. A block of wood or large piece of coal was put on the fire about ten p.m., so that it would be burning briskly before the household retired to bed. The last thing done by those who possessed a cow or horse was to visit the byre or stable, and I have been told that it was the practice with some, twenty years before my recollection, to say the Lord's Prayer during this visit. After rising on New Year's Day, the first care of those who possessed cattle was to visit the byre or stable, and with their own hands give the animals a feed. Burns followed this habit, and refers to it in one of his poems:-- "A gude New Year I wish thee, Maggy, Hae, there's a rip to thy auld baggie." The following was the practice in my father's house in Partick, between fifty and sixty years ago, on New Year's day:--On _Hogmanay_ evening, children were all washed before going to bed. An oat bannock was baked for each child: it was nipped round the edge, had a hole in the centre, and was flavoured with carvey (carroway) seed. Great care was taken that none of these bannocks should break in the firing, as such an occurrence was regarded as a very unlucky omen for the child whose bannock was thus damaged. It denoted illness or death during the year. Parents sat up till about half-past eleven, when the fire was covered, and every particle of ash swept up and carried out of the house. All retired to bed before twelve o'clock, as it was unlucky not to be in bed as the New Year came in. A watchful eye was kept on the fire lest it should go out, for such an event was regarded as very unlucky, and they would neither give nor receive a light from any one on New Year's day. Neither fire, ashes, nor anything belonging to the house was taken out of it on that day. In the morning we children got our bannocks to breakfast. They were small, and it was unlucky to leave any portion of them, although this was frequently done. The first-foot was an important episode. To visit empty-handed on this day was tantamount to wishing a curse on the family. A plane-soled person was an unlucky first-foot; a pious sanctimonious person was not good, and a hearty ranting merry fellow was considered the best sort of first-foot. It was necessary for luck that what was poured out of the first-foot's gift, be it whiskey or other drink, should be drunk to the dregs by each recipient, and it was requisite that he should do the same by their's. It was against rule for any portion to be left, but if there did happen to be an unconsumed remnant, it was cast out. With any subsequent visitor these particulars were not observed. I remember that one year our first-foot was a man who had fallen and broken his bottle, and cut and bleeding was assisted into our house. My mother made up her mind that this was a most unfortunate first-foot, and that something serious would occur in the family during that year. I believe had the whole family been cut off, she would not have been surprised. However, it was a prosperous year, and a bleeding first-foot was not afterwards considered bad. If anything extraordinary did occur throughout the year, it was remembered and referred to afterwards. One New Year's day something was stolen out of our house; that year father and mother were confined to bed for weeks; the cause and effect were quite clear. During the day neighbours visited each other with bottle and bun, every one overflowing with good wishes. In the evening the family, old and young, were gathered together, those who during the year were out at service, the married with their families, and at this meal the best the family could afford was produced. It was a happy time, long looked forward to, and long remembered by all. _BELTANE._ Beltane or Beilteine means _Baals fire_, Baal (Lord) was the name under which the Phoenicians recognized their primary male god, the Sun: fire was his earthly symbol and the medium through which sacrifices to him were offered. Hence sun and fire-worship were identical. I am of opinion that originally the Beltane festival was held at the Spring equinox but that its original connection with the equinox, in process of time was forgotten, and it became a festival inaugurative of summer. There is some difference of opinion as to the particular day on which the Beltane festival was held in this country. Dr. Jamieson, Dr. R. Chambers, and others who have studied this subject say that the 1st May (old style) was Beltane day. Professor Veitch; in his _History and Poetry of the Scottish Border_, (p. 118,) says, speaking of the Druids:--"They worshipped the sun god, the representative of the bright side of nature--Baal, the fire-giver--and to him on the hill tops they lit the fire on the end of May, the Beltane." And again, in his remarks on _Peblis to the Play_, (p. 315,) he says:--"The play was not the name for a stage play, but indicated the sports and festivals which took place at Peebles annually at Beltane, the second of May, not the first of May, as is usually supposed. These had in all probability come in place of the ancient British practice of lighting fires on the hill tops in honour of Baal, the sun god, hence the name _Baaltein_, Beltane, i.e. Baal's fire. The Christian Church had so far modified the ceremonial as to substitute for the original idolatrous practice that of a day of rustic amusements. A fair or market at the same period which lasted for eight days had also been instituted by Royal charter. But even the practice of lighting fires on the hill tops was late in dying out, with the usual tenacity of custom it survived for long all memory of its original meaning." The Professor writes very positively as to Beltane day being the second day of May, not the first day as is supposed. The Royal Charter granted to the Burgh of Peebles for holding a fair or market on Beltane day, is given in the Burgh Records of Peebles, p. 85:--"As also of holding, using, enjoying, and exercising within the foresaid Burgh weekly market days according to the use and custom of the said Burgh, together with three fairs, thrice in the year, the first thereof beginning yearly upon the third day of May, called Beltane day, the same to be held and continued for the space of forty-eight hours thereafter." The date of the Charter is 1621, but it is evident that the third of May had been previously kept as Beltane day. The Professor is also mistaken in stating that the Beltane fair of Peebles was to be kept for eight days. The third fair, held in August, continued eight days, but the fairs in May and June were kept for two days according to the Charter. That there were two days known as Beltane at the beginning of last century is evident from a book of Scotch proverbs published in 1721 by James Kelly, A.M., in which occurs the following,-- "You have skill of man and beast, Ye was born between the Beltans." In all probability the discrepancy as to the day originated through the Church substituting a Christian festival for a heathen one; and although the date was changed, yet through force of custom the name of the old festival was retained, and in localities where the power of the Church was comparatively weak, the older, the original day for the festival would probably be kept as well as the newly appointed Church festival. This view of the matter is rendered probable from the fact that the Church did institute a great festival, to be held on the third of May, to commemorate the finding of the cross of Christ. The legend is as follows:--When the Empress Helena was at Jerusalem about the end of the third century, she discovered the cross on which Christ was crucified, and had it conveyed to the great church built by Constantine her son. This cross was exhibited yearly to the people, and many miracles were wrought by it. A festival, as I have said, was instituted in commemoration of the discovery, and this was held on the third of May, and was called _Rood_ or _rude_ day. Churches were built and dedicated to the Holy Rood, among which was that which is now Holyrood Palace. Where the Church was powerful, as in Edinburgh and Peebles, Rood day would be the important festival, and Beltane would gradually become incorporated with it, the names Beltane day and Rood day becoming synonymous. Thus we may account for Edinburgh and Peebles keeping Beltane on the third day of May, while in Perth and other northern counties where the Church influence was weaker, the festival would be kept according to the older custom on the first of May. In Druidical times the people allowed their fires to go out on Beltane eve, and on Beltane day the priests met on a hill dedicated to the Sun, and obtained fire from heaven. When the fire was obtained, sacrifices were offered, and the people danced round the fire with shoutings till the sacrifices were consumed; after which they received portions of the sacred fire with which to rekindle their hearths for another twelve months. Besides mountains, there were evidently other localities where sacrifices and the ritual of Sun-worship were observed, and which received appropriate names in accordance with their character as sacred places. Some of these names still survive, as for instance:-- _Ard-an-teine_--The light of the fire. _Craig-an-teine_--The rock of the fire. _Auch-an-teine_--The field of the fire. _Tillie-bet-teine_--The knoll of the fire; and so through a great many other names of places we find traces of the Baal and fire worship. So widespread and numerous are the names which recall this ritual, that we can see quite clearly that the spirit of their religion thoroughly dominated the people. In Ireland, at Beltane, the Pagan Kings are said to have convoked the people for State purposes. The last of these heathen kings convoked a grand assembly of the nation to meet with him on _Tara_, at the feast of Beltane, which the old chroniclers say was the principal feast of the year. Respecting this feast, Dr. Jamieson says, introducing a quotation from O'Brien, "_Ignis Bei Dei Aseatica ea lineheil_, or May-day, so called from large fires which the Druids were used to light on the summits of the highest hills, into which they drove four-footed beasts, using certain ceremonies to expiate for the sins of the people. The Pagan ceremony of lighting these fires in honour of the Asiatic god Belus gave its name to the entire month of May, which to this day is called _Me-na-bealtine_, in the Irish, _Dor Keating_." He says again, speaking of these fires of _Baal_, that the cattle were driven through them and not sacrificed, the chief design being to avert contagious disorders from them for the year. And quoting from an ancient glossary, O'Brien says, "The Druids lighted two solemn fires every year, and drove all four-footed beasts through them, in order to preserve them from contagious distempers during the current year." I am inclined to think that these notices describe a sort of modified or Christianized Beltane, that driving the cattle through the fire was a substitute for the older form of sacrificing cattle to the sun. Until very lately in different parts of Ireland, it was the common practice to kindle fires in milking yards on the first day of May, and then men, women, and children leaped through them, and the cattle were driven through in order to avert evil influences. They were also in the habit of quenching their fires on the last day of April, and rekindling them on the first day of May. In certain localities in Perthshire, so lately as 1810, (I have referred to this before), the inhabitants collected and kindled a fire by friction, and through the fire thus kindled they drove their cattle in order to protect them against disease, and at the same time they held a feast of rejoicing. As already mentioned, the Romans held several festivals at the beginning of summer, and many of their observances on these occasions were introduced into this country, and became incorporated with the Beltane practices. For example, the Romans held a festival in honour of _Pales_, the goddess of flocks and sheepfolds. The feast was termed _Palilia_. Lempriere states that some of the ceremonies accompanying the feast consisted in "burning heaps of straw, and in leaping over them; no sacrifices were offered, but purifications were made with the smoke of horse's blood, and with the ashes of a calf that had been taken from the belly of its mother after it had been sacrificed, and with the ashes of beans; the purification of the flocks was also made with the smoke of sulphur, also of the olive, the pine, the laurel, and rosemary. Offerings of mild cheese, boiled wine, and cakes of millet were afterwards made. Some call this festival _Palilia_, because the sacrifices were offered to the divinity for the fecundity of their flocks." There was also a large cake prepared for _Pales_, and a prayer was addressed to the divinity by shepherds, as thus given by Dr. Jamieson:-- "O let me propitious find, And to the shepherd and his sheep be kind; Far from my flocks drive noxious things away, And let my flocks in wholesome pastures stray. May I, at night, my morning's number take, Nor mourn a theft the prowling wolf may make. May all my rams the ewes with vigour press, To give my flocks a yearly due increase." The Romans held another festival in honour of the goddess _Flora_. It began on the 28th April, and lasted three days. The people wore garlands of flowers, and carried them about with branches of newly-budded trees. There was much licentiousness connected with this feast. Reference has already been made to another Roman festival which was celebrated early in May. This was called the _Lamuralia_, and its purport was to propitiate the favour of the ghosts or spirits of their ancestors. I am of opinion that the English May feasts are a survival of the _Floralia_, and, as kept during the middle ages, were not free from some of the indecencies of the _Floralia_. In my remembrance, the first of May, in the country west of Glasgow, was honoured by decking the houses with tree branches and flowers. Horses were also similarly decked. The Church did not attempt to abolish these heathen festivals, but endeavoured to dominate them, and substitute for legends of heathen origin connected with them legends of Church origin. In this they partly succeeded. The following account of the Beltane festival, as it was kept in some districts in Perthshire at the close of last century, taken from the statistical accounts of certain parishes, will shew how persistent these ancient customs were, and also how some other festivals latterly became amalgamated and identified with Beltane:-- "In the Parish of Callander, upon the first day of May," says the minister of the parish, "all the boys in the town or hamlet meet on the moors. They cut a table on the green sod, of a round shape, to hold the whole company. They kindle a fire, and dress a repast of eggs and milk in the consistence of a custard. They knead a cake of oatmeal, which is baked at the fire upon a stone. After the custard is eaten up, they divide the cake into as many portions, and as similar as possible, as there are persons in the company. They blacken one of these portions with charcoal until it is perfectly black. They put all the bits of cake into a bonnet. Every one blindfolded draws a portion--he who holds the bonnet is entitled to the last. Who draws the black bit is the devoted person to be sacrificed to Baal, whose favour they mean to implore in rendering the year productive of substance for man and beast. There is little doubt of these human sacrifices being once offered in the country, but the youth who has got the black bit must leap through the flame of the fire three times." I have myself conversed with old men who, when boys, were present at, and took part in these observances; and they told me that in their grandfathers' time it was the men who practised these rites, but as they were generally accompanied with much drinking and riot, the clergy set their faces against the customs, and subjected the parties observing them to church discipline, so that in course of time the practices became merely the frolic of boys. In the Parish of Logierait, Beltane is celebrated by the shepherds and cowherds in the following manner. They assemble in the fields and dress a dinner of milk and eggs. This dish they eat with a sort of cake baked for the occasion, having small lumps or nipples raised all over its surface. These knobs are not eaten, but broken off, and given as offerings to the different supposed powers or influences that protect or destroy their flocks, to the one as a thank-offering, to the other as a peace-offering. Mr. Pennant, in his _Tour through Scotland_, thus describes the Beltane observances as they were observed at the end of last century. "The herds of every village hold their Beltane (a rural sacrifice.) They cut a square trench in the ground, leaving the turf in the middle. On that they make a fire of wood, on which they dress a large caudle of eggs, oatmeal, butter, and milk, and bring besides these plenty of beer and whiskey. Each of the company must contribute something towards the feast. The rites begin by pouring a little of the caudle upon the ground, by way of a libation. Every one then takes a cake of oatmeal, on which are raised nine square knobs, each dedicated to some particular being who is supposed to preserve their herds, or to some animal the destroyer of them. Each person then turns his face to the fire, breaks off a knob, and, flinging it over his shoulder, says--'_This I give to thee_,' naming the being whom he thanks, '_preserver of my sheep_,' &c.; or to the destroyer, '_This I give to thee, (O fox or eagle)_,' _spare my lambs_,' &c. When this ceremony is over they all dine on the caudle." The shepherds in Perthshire still hold a festival on the 1st of May, but the practices at it are now much modified. As may readily be surmised, there were a great many superstitious beliefs connected with Beltane, some of which still survive, and tend to maintain its existence. Dew collected on the morning of the first day of May is supposed to confer witch power on the gatherer, and give protection against an evil eye. To be seen in a field at day-break that morning, rendered the person seen an object of fear. A story is told of a farmer who, on the first of May discovered two old women in one of his fields, drawing a hair rope along the grass. On being seen, they fled. The farmer secured the rope, took it home with him, and hung it in the byre. When the cows were milked every spare dish about the farm-house was filled with milk, and yet the udders remained full. The farmer being alarmed, consigned the rope to the fire, and then the milk ceased to flow. It was believed that first of May dew preserved the skin from wrinkles and freckles, and gave a glow of youth. To this belief Ferguson refers in the following lines:-- "On May day in a fairy ring, We've seen them round St. Anthon's spring, Frae grass the caller dew to wring, To wet their een; And water clear as crystal spring, To synd them clean." _MIDSUMMER._ To sun worshippers no season would be better calculated to excite devotional feelings towards the great luminary than the period when he attained the zenith of his strength. It is probable, therefore, that as his movements must have been closely observed, and his various phases regarded by the people, in the language of Scripture, "for signs and for seasons, for days and for years," that the turning points in the sun's yearly course, the solstices, would naturally become periods of worship. That the Summer solstice was an important religious period is rendered probable from the following curious observation concerning Stonehenge, which appeared in the Notes and Queries portion of the _Scotsman_ newspaper for July 31, 1875. The _Scotsman's_ correspondent states that "a party of Americans went on midsummer morning this year to see the sun rise upon Stonehenge. They found crowds of people assembled. Stonehenge," continues the writer, "may roughly be described as comprising seven-eighths of a circle, from the open ends of which there runs eastward an avenue having upright stones on either side. At some distance beyond this avenue, but in a direct line with its centre, stands one solitary stone in a sloping position; in front of which, but at a considerable distance, is an eminence or hill. The point of observation chosen by the excursion party was the stone table or altar near the head of, and within the circle, directly looking down. The morning was unfavourable, but, fortunately, just as the sun was beginning to appear over the top of the hill, the mist disappeared, and then, for a few moments, the onlookers stood amazed at the spectacle presented to their view. While it lasted, the sun, like an immense ball, appeared actually to rest on the isolated stone of which mention has been made. Now, in this," says a writer in the _New Quarterly Magazine_ for January, 1876, commenting upon the statement of the _Scotsman's_ correspondent, "we find strong proof that Stonehenge was really a mighty almanack in stone; doubtless also a temple of the sun, erected by a race which has long perished without intelligible record." I think it is not a very fanciful supposition to suppose, from the still existing names of places in this country bearing reference to sun-worship, that there were other places than Stonehenge which were used as stone almanacks "for signs and for seasons," and also for temples. _Grenach_ in Perthshire, meaning _Field of the Sun_, where there is a large stone circle, may have been such a place; and _Grian-chnox_, now Greenock, meaning _Knoll of the Sun_, may have originally marked the place where the sun's rising became visible at a certain period of the year, from a stone circle in the neighbourhood. As far as I have been able to discover, there remains to us little trace of the manner in which the midsummer feast was kept in this country in prehistoric times, but so far as traces do remain, they appear to indicate that it was celebrated much after the same manner as the Scottish Celts are said to have celebrated Beltane. Indeed, the Celtic Irish hold their _Beilteme_ feast on the 21st June, and their fires are kindled on the tops of hills, and each member of a family is, in order to secure good luck, obliged to pass through the fire. On this occasion also, a feast is held. A similar practice was common in West Cornwall at midsummer. Fires were kindled, and the people danced round them, and leaped singly through the flames to ensure good luck and protection against witchcraft. The following passage occurs in _Traditions and Hearthside Stories of West Cornwall_, by William Bottreill, 1873:--"Many years ago, on Midsummer eve, when it became dusk, very old people in the west country would hobble away to some high ground whence they obtained a view of the most prominent high hill, such as Bartinney-Chapel, Cambrae, Sancras Bickan, Castle-au-dinas, Cam-Gulver, St. Agnes-Bickan, and many other beacon hills far away to the north and east which vied with each other in their midsummer night blaze. They counted the fires, and drew a presage from the number of them. There are now but few bonfires to be seen on the western heights; yet we have observed that Tregonan, Godolphin, and Carnwath hills, with others far away towards Redruth, still retain their Baal fires. We would gladly go many miles to see the weird-looking, yet picturesque dancers around the flames, on a cairn or high hill top, as we have seen them some forty years ago." The ancient Egyptians had their midsummer feasts, as also had the Greeks and Romans. During these festivals, we are told that the people, headed by the priests, walked in procession, carrying flowers and other emblems of the season in honour of their gods. Such processions were continued during the early years of the Christian Church, and the Christian priests in their vestments went into the fields to ask a blessing on the agricultural produce of the year. Towards the beginning of the twelfth century the Church introduced the _Feast of God_, and fixed the 19th June for its celebration. The eucharistic elements were declared to be the actual presence of God, and this, the consecrated Host or God himself was carried through the open streets by a procession of priests, the people turning out to do it honour, kneeling and worshipping as it passed. This feast of God may have absorbed some of the ancient midsummer practices, but the _Feast of St. John's Day_, which is held upon the 24th June, has in its customs a greater similarity to the ancient sun feast. On the eve of St. John's day, people went to the woods and brought home branches of trees, which they fixed over their doorways. Towards night of St. John's Day, bonfires were kindled, and round them the people danced with frantic mirth, and men and boys leaped through the flames. Leaping through the flames is a common practice at these survivals of sun festivals, and although done now, partly for luck and partly for sport, there can be little doubt but that originally human sacrifices were then offered to the sun god. There was quite a host of curious superstitions connected with this midsummer feast, especially in Ireland and Germany, and many of these were similar to those connected with the feast of _Hallowe'en_ in Scotland. In Ireland, in olden times, it was believed that the souls of people left their sleeping bodies, and visited the place where death would ultimately overtake them; and there were many who, in consequence, would not sleep, but sat up all night. People also went out on St. John's eve to gather certain plants which were held as sacred, such as _the rose_, _the trifoil_, _St. John's wort_, and _vervain_, the possession of which gave them influence over evil. To catch the seed of the fern as it fell to the ground on St. John's eve, exactly at twelve o'clock, was believed to confer upon the persons who caught it the power of rendering themselves invisible at will. In my opinion, the great prehistoric midsummer festival to the sun god has diverged into the two Church feasts, Eucharist and St. John's day; but St. John's day has absorbed the greater share of old customs and superstitious ideas, and so numerous are they that the most meagre description of them would yield matter for an hour's reading. _HALLOWE'EN._ The northern nations, like the Hebrews, began their day in the evening. Thus we have Yule Eve, and Hallow Eve (Hallowe'en), the evenings preceding the respective feasts. The name Hallowe'en is of Christian origin, but the origin of the feast itself is hidden in ancient mythology. The Celtic name for the autumn festival was _Sham-in_, meaning Baal's Fire. The Irish Celts called it _Sainhain_, or _Sainfuin_; _Sain_, summer, and _Fuin_, end,--i.e., the end of summer. The Hebrews and Phoenicians called this festival _Baal-Shewin_, a name signifying the principle of order. The feast day in Britain and Ireland is the first of November. The Druids are said on this day to have sacrificed horses to the sun, as a thank-offering for the harvest. An Irish king, who reigned 400 A.D., commanded sacrifices to be made to a moon idol, which was worshipped by the people on the evening of _Sain-hain_. Sacrifices were also offered on this night to the spirits of the dead, who were believed to have liberty at this season to visit their old earthly haunts and their friends,--a belief this, which was entertained by many ancient nations, and was the origin of many of the curious superstitious customs still extant in this country on Hallowe'en. Dr. Smith, commenting in _Jamieson's Dictionary_ on the solemnities of Beltane, says, "The other of these solemnities was held upon Hallow Eve, which in Gaelic still retains the name of _Sham-in_,--this word signifying the Fire of Peace, or the time of kindling the fire for maintaining peace. It was at this season that the Druids usually met in the most central places of every country to adjust every dispute and decide every controversy. On that occasion, all the fires in the country were extinguished on the preceding evening, in order to be supplied next day by a portion of the holy fire which was kindled and consecrated by the Druids. Of this, no person who had infringed the peace, or become obnoxious by any breach of law, or guilty of any failure in duty, was to have share, till he had first made all the reparation and submission which the Druids required of him. Whoever did not, with the most implicit obedience, agree to this, had the sentence of excommunication passed against him, which was more dreaded than death; none being allowed to give him house or fire, or shew him the least office of humanity, under the penalty of incurring the same sentence." The ancient Romans held a great and popular festival at the end of February, called the _Ferralia_. At this season, they visited the graves of their departed friends, and offered sacrifices and oblations to the spirits of the dead; they believed that the spirits of the departed, both the good and the bad, were released on that particular night, and that, if they were not propitiated, these spirits would haunt throughout the coming year their undutiful living relatives. In all probability, though the time of celebration is different, these Roman ceremonies and the Hallowe'en ceremonies in this country had a common origin. In the year 610, the Bishop of Rome ordained that the heathen Pantheon should be converted into a Christian church, and dedicated to all the martyrs; and a festival was instituted to commemorate the event. This was held on the first of May, and continued to be held on this day till 834, when the time of celebration was altered to the first of November, and it was then called _All Hallow_, from a Saxon word, _Haligan_, meaning to keep holy. This change was doubtless made in order to supply a Christian substitute for some heathen festival--in all probability the festival of _Sham-in_, which, as we have seen, was an old Druidical feast. Some time after this alteration in the time of holding the feast in honour of the martyrs, in 993, another festival was instituted for the purpose of offering prayers for the souls of those in purgatory, and this feast was kept on the second of November, and was called _All Souls_. The following legend was either invented as a plausible reason for instituting this additional feast, or the legend, being previously well known and accepted as truth, was really the _bona fide_ reason for the institution:--"A pilgrim, returning from the Holy Land, was compelled by storm to land upon a rocky island, where he found a hermit, who told him that among the cliffs of the island was an opening into the infernal regions, through which huge flames ascended, and where the groans of the tormented were distinctly audible. The pilgrim, on his return, told the Abbot of Clugny of this, and the Abbot appointed the second day of November to be set apart for the benefit of souls in purgatory, which was to be kept by prayers and almsgiving." It is easy to perceive that, while in the festival of Hallowe'en we have the survival of the old Druidical festival of thank-offering to the sun-god for the ingathering of the fruits of the earth, we have also in these two festivals of _All Saints_ and _All Souls_ the survival of the ancient _Ferralia_, or festival to the dead, when offerings were made to both good and bad spirits, to prevent them haunting the living; and thus we can account for the prevalence of the numerous superstitions concerning ghosts and evil spirits connected with the festival of Hallowe'en. That these Church feasts were regarded as the substitute for the _Ferralia_ of Pagan Rome is verified by Father Meagan in his work on _The Mass_. We quote from Jamieson:--"Such was the devotion of the heathen on this day by offering sacrifices for the souls in purgatory, by praying at the graves, and performing processions round the churchyards with lighted tapers, that they called the month the month of pardons, indulgences, and absolutions for souls in purgatory; or, as Plutarch calls it, the purifying month, or season of purification, because the living and dead were supposed to be purged and purified on these occasions from their sins by sacrifices, flagellations, and other works of mortification." Plutarch, I think, must have referred to the month of February as the purifying month. Father Meagan has not referred to the change of date made by the Church. Doubtless the Christian Church, in instituting these festivals, intended, by divesting them of their heathen basis, to christianise the people; but, like Naaman of old, the worshippers, while they worshipped in the buildings in conformity with the regulations of their new teachers, yet retained many of their old Pagan beliefs and ceremonies, and even their teachers were not thoroughly de-Paganised,--and so the old and new commingled and crystallized together. In all the four festivals we have been considering, there survive relics of fire-worship, and through all there runs a similarity of observance and belief; but the special practices are not everywhere joined to the same festival in all localities. In this part of the country, the special observances connected with Hallowe'en were, in other parts of the country, observed in connection with the summer festival. Now, however, we are glad to say, these superstitious ceremonies and beliefs in their old gross forms are fast passing away, or have become so modified that we can scarcely recognise their relations to the old fire-worship. In 1860, I was residing near the head of Loch Tay during the season of the Hallowe'en feast. For several days before Hallowe'en, boys and youths collected wood and conveyed it to the most prominent places on the hill sides in their neighbourhood. Some of the heaps were as large as a corn-stack or hay-rick. After dark on Hallowe'en, these heaps were kindled, and for several hours both sides of Loch Tay were illuminated as far as the eye could see. I was told by old men that at the beginning of this century men as well as boys took part in getting up the bonfires, and that, when the fire was ablaze, all joined hands and danced round the fire, and made a great noise; but that, as these gatherings generally ended in drunkenness and rough and dangerous fun, the ministers set their faces against the observance, and were seconded in their efforts by the more intelligent and well-behaved in the community; and so the practice was discontinued by adults and relegated to school boys. In the statistical account of the parish of Callander, the same practice is referred to. It is stated that "When the bonfire was consumed, the ashes of the fire were carefully collected in the form of a circle, and a stone put in near the circumference for every person in the several families concerned in getting up the fire; and whatever stone is moved out its place or injured before next morning, the person represented by the stone is devoted or fey, and is supposed not to live twelve months from that day." In all probability this devoted person was in olden times offered as a sacrifice to the fire god on the great day of sacrifice, which was the festival day. The belief that the spirits of the dead were free to roam about on that night is still held by many in this country. Indeed, where the forms of the feast have all but disappeared, the superstitious auguries connected with it survive. Burns particularises very fully the formulæ of Hallowe'en, as practised in Ayrshire in his day, and as this poem is well known, it would be superfluous to follow it in detail here; but I cannot refrain from drawing attention to the suggestions which one of the practices which he mentions affords in favour of the supposition that it is a relic of an ancient form of appeal to the fire god--I refer to the practice of burning nuts. It seems likely that in ancient times the priests, who claimed prophetic power through the reading of auguries, used this method of deciding the future at this particular season of the year, and chiefly during the holding of the feast. Although I have confined my remarks to the four feasts, Yule, Beltane, Midsummer, and Hallowe'en, because they are the oldest and most properly national, there were a number of other heathen feasts, emanating principally from Roman practice, which the Church converted into Christian feasts, notably what is now called Candlemass. On the second day of February, the Romans perambulated their city with torches and candles burning in honour of _Februa_; and the Greeks at this same period held their feast of lights in honour of Ceres. Pope Innocent explains the origin of this feast of Candlemass. He states that "The heathens dedicated this month to the infernal gods. At its beginning Pluto stole away Proserpine, and her mother Ceres sought for her in the night with lighted torches. In the beginning of this month the idolaters walked about the city with lighted candles, and as some of the holy fathers could not extirpate such a custom, they ordained that Christians should carry about candles in honour of the Virgin Mary." This method of keeping the feast of Candlemass does not now prevail in this country; so far as the laity are concerned, the festival may be said to have died out, but according to Dr. Brewer, the festival is kept by the Roman Catholic Church as the time for consecrating the candles used in the Church service. Formerly there were other public festivals, as Lammas, Michaelmass, &c., which the Church had substituted for heathen feasts which have ceased to be public festivals, and I trust we may indulge the hope that the time is not far distant when, instead of all such festive relics of heathenism, the Church and people will substitute one daily festival of obedience to the honour of the founder of Christianity, viz., the festival of a righteous life. INDEX. Page. Acts of Assembly against keeping Popular Festivals, 155 Acts of Sessions against keeping Yule, 155 Ague, A Cure for, 95 All Hallow's Festival, its Origin, 177 Animals in People's Stomachs, 103 Anthropomorphism, 5 Appendix, 143 Appointment of 25th December for Christmas, 152 Apple, The, Superstitions concerning, 122 Aspen, Superstitions connected with, the 124 Ash, Superstitions connected with, the 124 Astoreth, The, of the Jews, 10 Augustine's, St., or Austin's Mission, 152 Auguries connected with Funerals, 64 Aytoun on Fairyland, 21 Baal, Name of Sun-God, 10, 161 Babies Carried off by Fairies, 34, 40 Babies to be taken up a Stair first time taken out, 31 Bannocks at Yule and New-Year's Day, 160 Baptism, Early Practices at, 31 Baptismal Water, 140 Bedding at Weddings, 53 Beetles, Superstitions connected with, 116 Beilteine, Baal's Fire, 161 Belief in Fairies in this Country, 27 in Ghosts Visiting People, 176 in Witchcraft still Survives, 68 Beltane, 161 Customs in Ireland, 166 Festival in Perthshire, 168 Day, First of May, 162 Held in some Counties on 3rd May, 162 Birds Flying over a Person's Head, 114 Black Art, The, 75 Blessing the Candles to be Used in Church, 181 Bonfires at Hallowe'en, 179 Bonny Kilmeny, 22 Booths in connection with Temples, 153 Bottreill's Hearth Stories of West Cornwall, 173 Boutree, or Bourtree, Defence against Evil-Eye, 126 Breaking Looking-Glass on the Wall, 137 Bride's Cake, Practices connected with, 51 Bull of Innocent VIII. against making Compacts with the Devil, 17 Candlemas, Relation of, to Festival of Februa, 181 Casting of Calf by Cows Prevented, 84 Cats Dying in the House not Lucky, 117 Caul, Child's, its Influence, 32 Celtic Irish hold Beltane at Midsummer, 172 Celtic Names of Places indicate Sun-Worship, 149 Ceremonies on St. John's Day, 174 Changing of Babies by Fairies, 46 Charms and Counter Charms, 79 for Curing Diseases, 91, 93 Child Rowland in Elfland, 26 Children Cutting Teeth, 137 Cholera, its First Visit to this Country, 14 National Fast for, Refused, 15 Christianity consistent with Nature, 16 Christian Creeds not always consistent with Nature, 16 Christmas Fixed to be kept on the 25th December, 152 Church's, The, Enactments against Devil's Devices, 27 Church, The, Punishing Deviation from her Creed, 17 Clover, Four-Leaved, its Influence, 130 Coal Explosions, Prognostics concerning, 138 Cock Crowing with his Head to the Door, 114 Cold Tremour, foreboding Death, 138 Coral Beads, their Influence, 36 Cornwall, Beltane Fires in Midsummer, 172 Cows, Restive, foreboding Evil, 136 Cricket in the House, 114 Cure for an Evil Eye, 36 Cutting the Nails of Young Children, 139 Deaf and Dumb possessing Second Sight, 72 Death Warnings, 56 Defending the Bride against Evil Influences, 51, 54 Deid Bell, 66 Deification of Stars, 145 Devil conferring Supernatural Power, 28 Making Compacts with the, 77 Dew-Collecting on First May, 170 Different Nations modifying Customs, 151 Dirgy, or Dredgy, after Funerals, 63 Disease Transferred to the Lower Animals, 92, 96 Divining by Bible and Key, 106 by Cups, 110 by a Staff, 108 Double Ears of Corn, 139 Dousing Rod to find Springs or Mineral Veins, 109 Dress put on Wrong Side Out, 137 Druids, 147 Druidism in Ireland, 150 Druidical Customs at Beltane, 164 Duties of New-Married Wife in Old Times, 55 Ear Tingling, 137 Ecclesiastical Influence Leading to Wrong Ideas of God, 6 Eclipses Portending Evil, 141 Eggs Laid upon Good Friday, 114 Elder, or Bourtree, The, 125 English Opinions of Yule Feasts in Scotland, 156 Evil Eye, Influence of, 30, 35, 37 Exorcising Ghosts, 11 Extracts from Presbytery Records on Witchcraft, 67 Fairy Legend, A, 119 Fairies, What They Are, 26 Fairies, Brownies, and Elfs, by Rev. Mr. Kirk, 19 Fairyland, its Government, 21 Family Feasts at New-Year, 161 Fascinating Children Prevented, 139 Fasting Spittle, 98 Feast of God, 173 Feasts to Evil Spirits, 12 Ferralia Festival like Hallowe'en, 176 Ferns, Common, its Seed, 128 Festivals of Druids at Winter Solstice, 153 Fire, the Earthly Symbol of the Sun, 10 Fire-Worship in Scotland in 1810, 84 Fires Kindled on Mountains at Midsummer, 173 First of May Customs, 167 First-Footing at Yule, 156 First-Foot to Present a Gift, 160 Flora, Goddess, her Feast at Beltane, 167 Floralia, or First of May Observances, 167 Foot Itching, Sign of, 137 Formula for Exorcising Ghosts, 11 Forks, their First Use and Effects of, 15 Four-Leaved Clover, 130 Funeral Customs, 63 Old, in Highlands, 65 Guardian Angels, 59 Gems, their Significance, 102 Glamour, 132 Giants and Dwarfs of Middle Ages, 19 Girl's Petticoat Longer than Frock, Omen of, 137 Goat, Beliefs concerning, 119 Goodman's Croft, 140 Golden Rose, 129 Gods of the Babylonians, B.C. 2000, 7 Greeks in Classical Times, 8 God, Different Ideas concerning, 5 Haco Fixing 25th December for holding Christmas, 154 Hades, 11 Hallowe'en Practices, 175 Hallowe'en Practices in Perthshire, 180 Hand over Hand Divining, 110 Hand Itching, its Meaning, 137 Hansel Monday, 155 Hare Crossing Road, Seeing a, 117 Hazel, The, 125 Hen, A, Crowing like a Cock, 113 Herring-Fishing on Sabbath, its Consequences, 142 Hogmanay, 154 Hooping-Cough, Cure for the, 95 Holly, The, 123 Holy Fire, 176 Holyrood, Origin of, 163 Horse Shoe, Protection from Witchcraft, 139 Horse, A, Neighing Towards a House, 114 Human Hair in Birds' Nests, 114 Hydrophobia, How to Prevent, 101 Influence of Charms, 89 Influence of May Dew, 170 Influences, The Evil, Communicated by Dress, 39 Initial Letters of Man and Wife's Name, 138 Intermixing of Heathen with Christian Practices, 18 Intercourse held with Infernal Fiends, 17 Isabella Goudie's Confessions, 22 Itching of the Nose, 136 Jamieson, Dr. on Pales' Customs, 167 Killing Spiders, 115 Kirk, Rev. Mr., on the Nature of Fairies, 20 Knife Presented as a Gift, 138 Ladybirds, 116 Lammas Festival, 181 Lamuralia, an Ancient Festival, 167 Lee Penny, The, 95 Legend of Burd Ellen, 22 Legend of Purgatory, 177 Lily, The, 130 Like Wakes: and reasons for keeping them, 61 Love Charms, 89 Luck for new dress, How to procure, 137 Lucky Animals, 120 Lucky People to meet first, 32 as First Foot, 160 Making Effigies to Torment People, 77 Mandrake, its Influence, 90 Marriage Customs Sixty Years Ago, 46 Party meeting a Funeral, 51 Marrying in May, 43 Merlin the Wizard, 23 Metals made under certain Constellations, 93 Michælmas, 181 Midfinger free from Canker, 99 Midsummer Feast among the Ancients, 173 Festivals in this Country, 170 Milk Bewitched, 81 Milking the Tether, 75 Mistletoe Gathering, 150 its Influence, 124 Modern Superstitions, 34 Money given to Poor at Funerals, 64 Moon Worship, 98 a Female Deity, 10 Murders discovered by Bleeding of Corpse, 85 Murrain in Cattle Prevented, 84 Mutes have Supernatural Gifts, 72 Names of Places connected with Fire Worship, 164 with Sun Worship, 172 Natural Phenomena ascribed to Divinities, 9 New Year's Day, an Ancient Roman Festival, 151 Observances, 159 Festival, 154 New Moon, Prognostics, 98 New Zealand Divining, 108 Oak, a Sacred Tree, 131 Oaths to Satan, 88 O'Brien on Beltane, 165 Observances at Loch Tay on Hallowe'en, 178 at Yule, 156 Odd Numbers Lucky, 109 Old Religions mixing with Christianity, 179 Omens connected with Bees, 115 with Magpies, 115 Onion, a Disinfectant, 127 Origin of Hallowe'en, 177 of All Souls, 177 Overturning Chair on Leaving Table, 138 Pales, Goddess of Flocks, 166 Palilia, Ancient Festival, 166 Pennant's Account of Beltane in the Highlands, 169 People Selling themselves to the Devil, 27 Person first met in the Morning, 136 Peruvian Ancient Sun Worship, 146 Phoenicians in Britain 1000 B.C., 148 Photographs not Lucky, 142 Place at Dinner, 138 Plants Gathered on St. John's Eve, 174 Plough first seen in Season, 136 Portends for Good or Evil, 136 Prayers Unanswered, Cause not Sought, 14 said Backwards, 134 Prayers to the Gods, 13 Precious Stones: their Virtue, 102 Preparations made for Yule, 156 Priests, their Office and Power, 9 Professor Veitch on Beltane, 162 Providence--General and Special, 18 Purgatory, Proof for, 172 Recovering Stolen Babies, 40 Red Colour a Charm, 80 Relics in Curing Diseases, 102 Repeal of Law against Witchcraft, 68 Ringing Bells at Funerals, 66 Robin Redbreast, 111 Rocking an Empty Cradle, 137 Rood Day Changed to Beltane, 162 Roman Festivals in Spring, 166 Marriage Customs, 45 Rose, an Emblem of Silence, 129 Running the Broose, 49 Rowan Tree Protection against Witchcraft, 79 Sacred Fire Practice this Century, 83 Salamander, The, 118 Salt: its Influence, 33 to Spill: its Significance, 139 Scissors Presented as a Gift, 138 Scoreing aboon the Breath, 38 Second Sight, 71 Session: Acts against keeping Yule, 155 Seventh Son a Doctor, 90 Sheep Prevented Casting their Lambs, 84 Sham-in, Ancient Feast of Druids, 175 Shepherds keeping Beltane in Perthshire, 169 Sin Eaters, 60 Speaking Aloud to One's Self, 138 Spell to make a Fire Kindle, 135 Spider, A Legend concerning, 115 Spittle Confirming Bargain, 100 Spittle, Customs connected with, 100 Social Habits of Elfland, 26 Sorcerers, 108 Souls of the Departed, 11 Sooth Sayers, 10 Sow to Meet in the Morning, 120 St. Augustus, 152 St. John's Day Festival, 174 St. John's Wort: a Talisman, 128 Stealing Children and Youths by Fairies, 21 Star Gazers, 10 Stonehenge, 171 Strangers on the Grate, 140 Stye, Cause of, 96 Stye, Cure for, 97 Suicides, Superstition relating to, 85 Sun Worship in Ancient Times, 146 Sun, Primary God of the Ancient, 9 Survival of Sun Worship, 145 Superstitious Rites with a Corpse, 60 Superstition, Meaning of, 2 Swallows, Omens connected with, 112 Sympathetic Cures, 91 Thank-offering for Answer to Prayer, 13 Theory of Curing by Charms, 91 Touching for Disease, 91 Touching of a Corpse to Prevent Dreaming of it, 63 Twin Nuts in One Shell, 136 Visions, Seeing, 72 Visit to Stonehenge on Midsummer, 171 Warts, Cure for, 97 Weighing Children Unlucky, 137 Willow, The, 125 White Butterfly, 115 Wishes Fulfilled, 87 Wishes against Self: an Oath Fulfilled, 88 Withershins, 133 Witches, A, Account of Fairyland, 22 Witches Changing their Shape, 70 Wizards, 10 Wodrow's Opinion on Murdered Corpse Bleeding, 85 Woman Carried away by Fairies in Arran, 29 Wraiths, 58 Written Charms, 91 Yellow Hammer, The, 112 Yule: its Meaning, 149 Yule converted into Christmas, 154 Yule Observances Transferred to New Year's Day, 157 
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18992	----	public domain works from the University of Michigan Digital Libraries.) Transcriber's Note: A number of typographical errors and inconsistencies found in the original book have been maintained in this version. A complete list is found at the end of the text. CURRENT SUPERSTITIONS COLLECTED FROM THE ORAL TRADITION OF ENGLISH SPEAKING FOLK EDITED BY FANNY D. BERGEN _WITH NOTES, AND AN INTRODUCTION BY_ WILLIAM WELLS NEWELL BOSTON AND NEW YORK Published for The American Folk Lore Society by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY LONDON: DAVID NUTT, 270, 271 STRAND LEIPZIG: OTTO HARRASSOWITZ, QUERSTRASSE, 14 1896 Four hundred and fifty copies printed, of which this is No. ---- Copyright, 1896, BY THE AMERICAN FOLK-LORE SOCIETY. _All rights reserved._ _The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A._ Electrotyped and Printed by H.O. Houghton and Company. PREFACE. In the "Popular Science Monthly" for July, 1886, there was printed a somewhat miscellaneous assortment of customs and superstitions under the title: _Animal and Plant Lore of Children_. This article was in the main composed of reminiscences of my own childhood spent in Northern Ohio, though two or three friends of New England rearing contributed personal recollections. Seldom is a line cast which brings ashore such an abundant catch as did my initial folk-lore paper. A footnote had, by the advice of a friend, been appended asking readers to send similar lore to the writer. About seventy answers were received, from all sorts of localities, ranging from Halifax to New Orleans. These numerous letters convinced me that there was even then, before the foundation of the national Society, a somewhat general interest in folk-lore,--not a scientific interest, but a fondness for the subject-matter itself. Many who do not care for folk-lore as a subject of research are pleased to have recalled to them the fancies, beliefs, and customs of childhood and early youth. A single proverb, superstition, riddle, or tradition may, by association of ideas, act like a magic mirror in bringing back hundreds of long-forgotten people, pastimes, and occupations. And whatever makes one young, if only for an hour, will ever fascinate. The greater number of those who kindly responded to the request for additional notes to my animal and plant lore were naturally those of somewhat literary or scientific tastes and pursuits. Many letters were from teachers, many others from physicians, a few from professional scientists, the rest from men and women of various callings, who had been pleased by suggestions that aroused memories of the credulous and unreflecting period in their own lives. The abundant material thus brought in, which consisted of folk-lore items of the most varied kind, was read gratefully and with pleasant surprise. The items were assorted and catalogued after some provisional fashion of my own. Succeeding papers issued in the "Popular Science Monthly" brought in further accessions. I gradually formed the habit of asking, as opportunity offered, any one and every one for folk-lore. Nurses abound in such knowledge. Domestic help, whether housekeepers, seamstresses, or servants, whether American or foreign, all by patient questioning were induced to give of their full store. The folk-lorist who chances to have a pet superstition or two of his own that he never fails to observe, has an open-sesame to beliefs of this sort held by any one with whom he comes in contact. The fact that I have (I blush to confess it) a preference for putting on my right shoe before the left has, I dare say, been the providential means of bringing to me hundreds of bits of folk-lore. Many times has the exposure of this weakness instantly opened up an opportunity for asking questions about kindred customs and superstitions. I once asked an Irish peasant girl from County Roscommon if she could tell me any stories about fairies. "Do ye give in to fairies then, ma'am?" she joyously asked, adding, "A good many folks don't give in to them" (believe in them, _i.e._, the fairies). Apparently she was heartily glad to meet some one who spoke her own language. From that hour she was ever ready to tell me tales or recall old sayings and beliefs about the doings and powers of the "good people" of old Ireland. A stewardess, properly approached, can communicate a deal of lore in her leisure hours during a three or four days' ocean trip. Oftentimes a caller has by chance let drop a morsel that was quickly picked up and preserved. The large amount of botanical and zoölogical mythology that has gradually accumulated in my hands is reserved for separate treatment. Now and then some individual item of the sort appears in the following pages, but only for some special reason. A considerable proportion of my general folk-lore was orally collected from persons of foreign birth. There were among these more Irish than of any other one nationality, but Scotch and English were somewhat fully represented, and Scandinavians (including one Icelander), Italians, a Syrian, a Parsee, and several Japanese contributed to the collection. It has been a puzzling question to decide just where to draw the line in separating foreign from what we may call current American folk-lore. The traditions and superstitions that a mother as a child or girl heard in a foreign land, she tells her children born here, and the lore becomes, as it were, naturalized, though sometimes but little modified from the form in which it was current where the mother originally heard it. Whether to include any folk-lore collected from oral narrators or from correspondents, even if it had been very recently brought hither, was the question. At length it has been decided to print only items taken down from the narration of persons born in America, though frequent parallels and numberless variants have been obtained from persons now resident here, though reared in other countries. It would be a most interesting task to collate the material embraced in the present collection with the few published lists of American superstitions, customs, and beliefs, and with the many dialect and other stories, the books of travel, local histories, and similar sources of information in regard to our own folk-lore. Equally valuable would be the endeavor to trace the genesis of the most important of the superstitions here set down. But the limits of the present publication make any such attempt wholly out of the question, and the brief notes which are appended refer to but a few of the matters which invite comment and discussion. Some few repetitions have been almost unavoidable, since not infrequently a superstition might consistently be classified under more than one head; besides, it is not unusual to find that varied significations are attributed to the same act, accident, or coincidence. When localities are wanting it is sometimes because the narrator could not tell where he had become familiar with the items communicated; again, a chance correspondent failed to note the locality. In putting on paper these popular beliefs and notions, the abbreviated, often rather elliptical, vernacular in which they are passed about from mouth to mouth has to a great extent been followed. It is impossible here to name the legion of individuals from whom the subject-matter of the various chapters of this volume has been gathered. But thanks are especially due to the following persons, who have contributed largely to the contents of the book:-- Charles Aldrich, Webster City, Iowa. Miss Ellen Beauchamp, Baldwinsville, N.Y. John G. Bourke, Capt. 3d Cavalry U.S.A., Ft. Ethan Allen, Vt. Miss M.A. Caller, A.C.F. College, Tuskeegee, Ala. John S. Caulkins, M.D., Thornville, Mich. Miss Ellen Chase, Brookline, Mass. Miss Ruth R. Cronyn, Bernardston, Mass. Uriah A. Greene, Flint, Mich. Professor George M. Harmon, Tufts College, Mass. W.J. McGee, U.S. Geol. Survey, Washington, D.C. Hector McInnes, Halifax, N.S. John B. Nichols, Washington, D.C. John G. Owens,[viii-1] Lewisburg, Pa. Prof. Frederick Reed, Talladega, Ala. Mrs. Amanda M. Thrush, Plymouth, O. Miss Helen S. Thurston, Providence, R.I. Rev. A.C. Waghorne, New Harbor, N.F. Miss Susan Hayes Ward, "The Independent," New York, N.Y. Miss Ellen L. Wickes, Chestertown, Md. Above all am I indebted to Mr. Newell, whose generous coöperation and advice have been invaluable to one working under peculiar hindrances. FANNY D. BERGEN. CAMBRIDGE, MASS., 1. 15. 1896. [viii-1] Deceased. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE INTRODUCTION 1 I. BABYHOOD 21 Baptism.--Physiognomy.--Introduction to the World.--First Actions.--Various. II. CHILDHOOD 26 Asseveration.--Challenge.--Fortune.--Friendship.-- Mythology.--Punishment.--Sport.--Various. III. PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS 32 Beauty.--Dimple.--Ears.--Eyes and Eyebrows.-- Finger-nails.--Foot.--Forehead.--Hair.--Hand.--Moles.-- Nose.--Teeth. IV. PROJECTS 38 Apples.--Apple-seeds.--Babies.--Bed.--Bible.--Birds.-- Buttons.--Four-leaved Clover.--Counting.--Daisy Petals.-- Doorway.--Eggs.--Fingers.--Garments.--Letters of the Alphabet.--Midnight.--Plants.--Ring.--Stars.--Tea-leaves.-- Walking Abroad.--Water.--Various. V. HALLOWEEN AND OTHER FESTIVALS 55 VI. LOVE AND MARRIAGE 59 Engagement.--Attire of the Bride.--Lucky Days.--The Marriage Ceremony.--Courting and Wedding Signs. VII. WISHES 67 VIII. DREAMS 70 Animals.--Colors.--Dead Persons.--Earth.--Eggs.--Fire and Smoke.--Human Beings.--Meteorological Phenomena.--Money and Metals.--Teeth.--Water.--Weddings and Funerals.-- Miscellaneous IX. LUCK 79 Cards.--Days.--Dressing.--Horseshoes.--Pins.--Salt.-- Sweeping.--Turning Back.--Miscellaneous. X. MONEY 87 XI. VISITORS 89 XII. CURES 94 Amulets.--Charm.--Water.--Miscellaneous. XIII. WARTS 101 Causes.--Cures. XIV. WEATHER 106 Cold.--Days and Times.--Fair or Foul.--Moon.--Rain.--Wind and Storm. XV. MOON 117 Divination.--Fortune.--Moonlight.--Wax and Wane. XVI. SUN 123 Domestic and Mechanical Operations.--Cures. XVII. DEATH OMENS 125 XVIII. MORTUARY CUSTOMS 131 XIX. MISCELLANEOUS 134 Actions.--Bodily Affections.--Apparel.--Customs.--Days.-- Domestic Life.--Various. NOTES 151 CURRENT SUPERSTITIONS. INTRODUCTION. The record contained in the present volume forms the first considerable printed collection made in America of superstitions belonging to English-speaking folk. Numerous as are the items here presented, only a part of the matter is included, the collector having preferred to reserve for separate presentation superstitions connected with animal and plant lore, material which would require a space about equal to that here occupied. Again, the present gathering by no means pretends to completeness; while certain departments may be adequately represented, other sections exhibit scarce more than a gleaning. The collection, therefore, will be looked on as a first essay, subject to revision and enlargement. The designations of locality will suffice to show the width of the area from which information has been obtained, as well as the degree of similarity which appears in the folk-lore of different regions belonging to this wide territory. Here and there may be observed items showing a measure of originality; a new superstition may have arisen, or an ancient one been modified, according to the fancy of an individual, in consequence of defective memory, or in virtue of misapprehension. But on the whole such peculiarities make no figure, nor does recent immigration play any important part. Almost the entire body of this tradition belongs to the English stock; it is the English population which, together with the language, has imposed on other elements of American life its polity, society, ethics, and tradition. This relation is not an isolated phenomenon; on the contrary, it is entirely in the line of experience. Language is the most important factor which determines usage and influences character; this result is effected through the literature, oral or written, with which, in virtue of the possession of a particular speech, any given people is brought into contact. In this process race goes for little. Borrowing the tongue of a superior race, a subject population receives also the songs, tales, habits, inclinations which go with the speech; human nature, in all times essentially imitative, copies qualities which are united with presumed superiority; to this process not even racial hostility is a bar; assimilation and transmission go on in spite of hatred directed against the persons who are the object of the imitation; such a process may be observed in the recent history of Ireland. Reception of new ideas, however, though promoted by the possession of a common language constituting a means of exchange, is not limited by its absence; on the contrary, in all historical time among contiguous races takes place a transference of ideas which dislike and even warfare do not prevent. Here the law seems to be that the lower culture has relatively little effect on the higher with which it is in contact, while the superior civilization speedily influences an inferior one. Nor is the effect confined to the higher classes of any given society; beginning with these, the new knowledge descends through all ranks, and everywhere carries its transforming influence. What is true of written literature in a less degree is true of oral; songs and tales, rites and customs, beliefs and superstitions, diffuse themselves from the civilization which happens to be in fashion, with a rapidity greater or less according to the interworking of a multitude of modifying forces. In the other direction, from the lower culture to the higher, exchange is slow, albeit likely to be promoted, in certain cases, by peculiar conditions, such as the deliberate literary choice which seeks opportunity for archaistic representation, or the respect which an advanced race may have for the magical ability of a simple tribe, believed to be nearer to nature, and therefore more likely to remain in communion with natural forces. But these exceptional effects are of small relative moment; the general principle, continually at work, in the main controls the result. In regard to the themes of stories especially, the many tongues and dialects of Western Europe offer scarcely more variation than will be often found to exist among the versions of the same tale which may be discovered in a single canton. The spirit of the language, already mentioned as constituting the element of nationality, taking possession of this common stock of knowledge, moulds its precise form and sentiment in accordance with its own character; it is in details, rather than in outlines, that racial differences are found to exist; this principle applies in a considerable degree in the field of folk-tales, even between cultures so opposite as those of Western Europe and Western Africa. In the case of superstitions, the diffusive process, though less rapid or effectual than in tales, is nevertheless continually active; in Europe, at least, a similar identity will probably be discovered. But in this category the problem of separating what is general, because human, from that which is common, because diffused, always a complicated task, will be found more difficult than in literary matter, and without the aid of extensive collection insoluble. It is possible to fall back on the consideration that, after all, such resolution matters not very much, since in any case the survival of the belief indicates its humanity, and for the purpose of the study of human nature borrowed superstitions may be cited as confidently as if original in the soil to which they have emigrated, and where they have indissolubly intertwined themselves with thought and habit. Again, it is to be considered that while differences of speech impede, but do not prevent integration, changes of condition may have an immediate effect in producing differentiation. Protestantism, by banishing complicated usages connected with sacred days, has caused English folk-lore to vary from Continental; so far this contrast seems a result of the alterations of the last three hundred years, rather than of more remote inconsistency. If these remarks are in any degree valid, it follows that from the presence or absence of any particular item of belief in this or that English-speaking district no conclusion is to be drawn; the deficiency must be supposed to proceed from absence of record, and seldom to depend on the structure of the population. To this general doctrine, as usual with such propositions, may be observed minor exceptions. Whatever doubts may be cast on the operation of the principle as applicable to England, there can be no doubt that it is valid in the United States and Canada. It is not, however, intended to assert that the contributions of the entire region covered in this collection are identical in character. On the contrary, it will be seen that the record made in certain districts, as for example in Newfoundland and among the Mountain Whites of the Alleghanies, presents superstition as more primitive and active than in the eastern United States. But this vitality is only to be regarded as the persistence of a stock once proper to English-speaking folk, and by no means as indicating a diversity of origins. The chief value of a collection such as the present consists in the light it may be made to cast on the history of mental processes; in other words, on its psychologic import. To appreciate this value, it is needful to understand the quality in which superstition really consists. This distinguishing characteristic is obscured by the definitions of English dictionaries, which describe superstition as a disease, depending on an excess of religious sentiment, which disposes the person so affected to unreasonable credulity. In the same spirit, it has been the wont of divines to characterize superstition and unbelief as opposite poles, between which lies the golden mean of discreet faith. But this view is inadequate and erroneous. The manner of conception mentioned has been borrowed from Latin and Greek writers of the Roman republic and of the Imperial period. In primitive Roman usage, _superstitio_ and _religio_ were synonyms; both, perhaps, etymologically considered, expressed no more than that habit of careful consideration with which a prudent man will measure the events which encounter him, and determine his conduct with a view to consequences. _Superstitio_ may have indicated only the _overstanding_ of the phenomenon, the pause necessary for its deliberate inspection. By Cicero a distinction was made; the word was now employed to designate a state of mind under the influence of supernatural terrors. In the Greek tongue a similar conception was expressed by the word _deisidaimonia_, or fear of dæmons, a term in bad odor as associated with practices of Oriental temple worship representing primitive conceptions, and therefore odious to later and more enlightened Hellenic thought. Established as a synonym of the Greek noun, _superstitio_ received all the meaning which Plutarch elaborated as to the former; the idea of that excellent heathen, that true piety is the mean between atheism and credulity, has given a sense to the word superstition, and become a commonplace of Christian hortatory literature. It is, however, sufficiently obvious that the signification mentioned does not have application to the omens recorded in the present volume, the majority of which have no direct connection with spiritual beings, while it will also be allowed that these do not lie without the field ordinarily covered by the word superstition. For our purposes, therefore, it is necessary to enlarge this definition. This may be done by emphasizing the first component part of the word, and introducing into it the notion of what has been left over, or of survival, made familiar by the genius of Edward B. Tylor. In these lingering notions we have opinions respecting relations of cause and effect which have resulted as a necessary consequence from past intellectual conditions. A superstition, accordingly, I should define as a belief respecting causal sequence, depending on reasoning proper to an outgrown culture. According to this view, with adequate information it would be possible to trace the mental process in virtue of which arise such expectations of futurity, and to discover the methods of their gradual modification and eventual supersession by generalizations founded on experience more accurate and extensive. Yet it is not to be assumed that in each and every case such elucidation will be possible. In all human conduct there is an element which cannot be designated otherwise than as accidental; this uncertainty appears to be greater, the reaction against the natural conditions less definite, the more primitive is the life. It is impossible to forecast in what manner a savage may be impressed by an event of which he can note only external conditions, or how his action may respond to the impression. One may guess what opinion an augur would form concerning the appearance of a single eagle or raven; but it would be labor lost to attempt to conjecture the manner in which the imagination of the observer would explain a flight of these birds, or what complicated rules augural art might evolve to guide the interpretation. This accidental quality, and the arbitrariness with which phenomena are judged to be ominous, will be visible in the numerous "signs" here recorded. At first sight, it may be thought that extreme folly is their salient quality. Yet if we take a wide view the case is reversed; we are surprised, not at the unintelligibility of popular belief, but at its simplicity, and at the frequency with which we can discern the natural process of unsystematic conjecture. Such judgments are not to be treated with derision, as subjects of ridicule, but to be seriously examined, as revealing the natural procedure of intelligence limited to a superficial view of phenomena. This consideration leads to an important remark. The term survival expresses a truth, but only a part of the truth. Usages, habits, opinions, which are classed as superstition, exhibit something more than the unintelligent and unconscious persistence of habit. Folk-lore survives, and popular practices continue, only so long as endures a method of thinking corresponding to that in which these had their origin. Individual customs may be preserved simply as a matter of thoughtless habit; yet in general it is essential that these usages should be related to conscious intellectual life; so soon as they cease to be so explicable, they begin to pass into oblivion. The chapters of this collection, therefore, will emphasize the doctrine that the essential elements of human nature continue to exist, however opposite may be the actions in which its operations are manifested. In examining many of the maxims of conduct here set forth, we are able to understand the motives in which they had their being; we perceive that the inclination has not disappeared, however checked by mediation through complex experience, and however counteracted by the weight of later maxims. The examiner finds that he himself shares the mental state of the superstitious person; if not, he can easily make an effort of imagination which will enable him to comprehend its evident reasonableness. Thus, while superstitions are properly designated as survivals, it will in many cases be found that they represent a survival of ratiocination as well as of action. In some striking examples, also, it happens that the modern notion indicates the continuance of conceptions more ancient than a mass of connected ideas which have wholly perished. The former endure, because, being simple in their nature, they represent a human impulse, an impulse which animated the prehistoric ancestor as well as the modern descendant. When this tendency ceases to operate, the plant suddenly withers. So it is that an elimination of these beliefs, which formed the science of remote antiquity, has taken place in our own century, which has worked a change greater than fifty preceding generations, because it has been able to introduce generalizations with which ancient notions and habits are perceived no longer to coincide. As illustrations of the psychologic value of the material, it may be permitted to offer brief comments on the several sections. In the usages of mothers and nurses, it is interesting to observe with what persistence survives the conception that the initial action of the series determines the character of events sequent in order. It is still a universal practice to consecrate every baby by a rite not ecclesiastical. The infant, on his first journey, must be taken to a height symbolic of his future fortune, an elevation believed to secure the prosperity of his whole subsequent career. It would be of interest to learn what analogies the practice has among races in a primitive condition of culture. The babe of the Pueblo of Sia, when on the fourth day (four being a sacred number) for the first time he is taken from the dark chamber, is ritually presented to his father the Sun; similarly, in a superstition of the present series (I know not how generally observed) Sunday is said to be the day on which the infant is first to be carried into the sunshine. It is likely that such continuing customs represent feeble echoes of pre-Christian dedicatory ceremonies, which in the first instance were themselves founded on a corresponding habit of thought; according to an opposite, yet connected system of notions, we find Protestant Christianity still preserving a memento of the world-old and universal belief in a crowd of malicious spirits, prepared at every moment to take up their residence in the convenient shelter of the human frame, as a hermit crab watches for a suitable shell in which to make his home. It must be owned that the volume of observances connected with infancy, here presented, is very inadequate; it is certain that a nurse of a century ago would have been familiar with a vastly more extensive array of duties and cautions. As we go back in time and culture, action becomes more restricted. Where the effects of any line of conduct are unknown, adherence to precedent is all-important; every part of the life must be administered according to a complicated system of rules, while common prudence is considered as inseparable from religious obligation. The following section presents us with interesting material, in the exhibition of ideas and customs which are maintained by children themselves, and which they learn from one another rather than from their elders. It is true that these are of necessity the reflection of the conceptions and practice of older persons; but, according to the law of their nature, it is found that children often exhibit a peculiar conservatism, in virtue of which habits of thought still exercise control, which among men and women have been outgrown. This is illustrated in popular games and songs which children have orally preserved; and the same is true of their superstitions. Women, especially, who may peruse this collection will be surprised to find how many of the items here recorded will seem familiar, and at the same time to have received credence; in the case of a particularly clear-minded person, free from any disposition toward credulity, nearly a hundred of these superstitions were remembered. The ideas in question, perhaps at no time more than half believed, have frequently altogether faded into oblivion. Attention should be paid, also, to the imaginative power of the youthful mind, and the manner in which beliefs are visualized, and appear as realities of perception. To illustrate this principle have been included a few examples belonging rather to individual than to general opinion. The little girl who without any direct instruction imagines that the light of the heaven gleams through the orifices we call stars, who sees celestial beings in meteor form winging their way across the skies, or who is surrounded by the benevolent spirits which her discriminating education, banishing the terrors of the supernatural world, has permitted to exist for her comprehension, illustrates that readiness of fancy and control of vision by expectation which belongs to humanity in the reverse degree of the reflective habit. Herein childish conceptions and vivacity of feeling represent the human faculty which education may control but cannot obliterate. Beliefs relating to the influence of physiognomy present us with a very limited anthology of popular ideas, which in elaborate developments have been expanded into pseudo-sciences, and fill whole libraries of learned misinformation. These notions may be divided into two classes. On the one hand appear indications founded on natural analogies, as when we still speak of close-fistedness. On the other side, many of these associations are arbitrary, as when the study of spots on the nails is supposed to give means for determining future fortune. Such conclusions depend partly on the correct opinion that in the cradle lies the future man, with all elements of his complex nature, and partly on external marks, the interpretation of which is purely arbitrary. The chapter on "Projects" presents the reader with a class of usages, sufficiently foolish when considered in themselves, but none the less demanding attention, as exhibiting, in full energy, the survival, at the end of the nineteenth century, of the practice of divination. It is true that these attempts to forecast the future are commonly made in a sportive manner and only with partial belief, being now for the most part reduced to social sports. They belong also almost exclusively to the female sex, who by way of amusement still keep up rites which are to determine the future partner in life. Yet that these observances were formerly performed with sober forethought may be seen by the superstitious character with which in retired districts they are still invested; it is likely that in this limited field we have the final echoes of ceremonies employed to determine action and to supply means for the estimation of every species of good or evil fortune. Among these customs a considerable part may be of relatively recent origin, but a number are undoubtedly ancient. Particularly remarkable is the word by which in the English folk-lore of America, at least, these practices seem to have been popularly entitled. Dictionaries give no aid in explaining the signification of the word "project," here used in the sense of a ceremony of divination. I cannot offer any explanation as to the probable antiquity of the term; neither middle-Latin nor Romance languages seem to offer parallels. One might guess that if all were known, the use might be found to proceed from the special language of mediæval magic or astrology (perhaps mirror-divination). With practices of this sort has been connected an incident of colonial history. During the accusations brought against alleged witches of Salem, Massachusetts, in 1692, the chief agents were a group of "children" belonging to a particular neighborhood of that town. It has been asserted that these young persons, previous to the outbreak of the excitement, formed a "circle" of girls in the habit of meeting for the purpose of performing "magical tricks" (to use a phrase employed by Cotton Mather), and that it was experience so acquired that fitted them for the part afterwards played in the trials. This statement has been repeated by so many recent writers as to become a commonplace of accepted history; it would seem, however, that the representation depends on the invention of a modern essayist, who transferred to the colonial period ideas derived from his acquaintance with the phenomena of contemporary spiritualistic _séances_, and that the habit of "trying projects," no doubt universal in colonial times, had nothing to do with the delusion in question. (See note, p. 153.) Ancient popular divination would, as a matter of course, have taken a ritual character, and been associated especially with particular seasons. It is therefore more than an accident, that many of these harmless observations seem especially connected with Halloween. The Day of All Saints, of which name our English title is a translation, precedes that of All Souls; for the institution and significance of both the church has its explanation. Yet this account is not the correct one: these feasts descend, not from any Christian ecclesiastical ordination, but from an ancient festival of the dead; they represent the survival of a celebration which probably consisted in the bestowing on the departed, after the ingathering of the harvest, his share of the fruits of the ground, conveyed by direct material administration. That at such a period spirits of the dead should be supposed to walk the earth, would be a matter of course; in early time these would be conceived as returning in order to behold and join the sacred dances of the tribe. Accordingly, there seem to be indications showing an original association of some of these usages with the lower world; such may be the significance of the backward movement, or the inversion of garments, occasionally recommended. In order to put one's self in connection with the world of darkness, it is essential to reverse the procedure which is proper for the realm of light. This principle, appearing in mediæval magic, could also be illustrated from savage custom. It can hardly be doubted that the limitation of such forecasts to the field of choosing partners for life is but a survival of an older practice, in which divinations of fortune in other directions also were sought; on the day sacred to the dead, it may be that the latter, as having power and knowledge, were invoked to act as illuminators. The stress laid on dreams appears to imply a practice of evoking spirits, whether of the deceased or of the living. In the division entitled "Love and Marriage" we are dealing not with ceremonies, but "signs;" in the former case a voluntary action is implied in the consulter of fate; in the latter, the subject is passive. The word "signs" is a popular term for omens of any kind; in this case we cannot be in error in seeking a Latin derivation, _signum_ being classically used in this sense. Here, again, the prognostics in question are respected only by women, and at the present time, with but a light admixture of genuine credulity, unless among people of secluded districts, retaining old-world notions. Foolish as are these ideas of sequence, they indicate a habit of association anciently prevalent, which in early times had the most serious consequences. The gathering of expectations relating to "Wishes" shows that the name and idea of folk-lore must not be limited to primitive beliefs, or to the ideas of uneducated persons. The assumption that an occurrence, neither unusual nor characterized by any correspondent quality, may promote the fulfilment of a contemporaneous desire, illustrates the arbitrary nature of a considerable part of this lore. Nevertheless, it cannot be doubted that many of these beliefs, if they could be followed back to their origins, would be found to exhibit some process of consistent though erroneous reasoning, as exhibited in the case of wishes made with reference to the state of the moon, hereafter to be mentioned. It is also to be observed that prayer to the evening star forms a feature of the usages in question. Of dreams we are presented with a series in some degree representing their function in surviving belief. The comparison of these with dream books, still sold and used, and with a more extensive collection of superstitions, retained in this and other continents, would no doubt offer curious results. At present attention may be called only to one remarkable trait, namely: the interpretation of dreams by contraries. This practice I conceive to be altogether modern, and to have resulted from the extension of scientific culture, which has lead to the discredit of more direct explanations. So far as I am aware, dreams in literature, ancient or mediæval, are always presumed symbolically to represent the future, and to be capable of straightforward interpretation. The usages of folk-medicine form a wide subject, which would occupy many volumes such as the present; a mere bibliography of the literature could not be included in the number of pages here allowed. The gleaning, also, is in this case very imperfect; the greater number of such "Cures" would fall in that part of the subject here omitted, relating to the function of animals and plants. In this field, conceptions formerly operative have not yet disappeared; "the doctrine of signatures," that is to say, the rule that the healing object is indicated by its resemblance to the organ affected, has scarcely passed into oblivion, while popular systems of treatment are still based on rules not essentially different. In addition to this guiding idea, an exorcistic method has survived; in our folk-lore is retained the removal of the trouble in virtue of its transfer to another place or person. Especially in the significant case of warts, such rule of early medicine operates with full force. Here, as in other instances, the obscure influence of suggestion plays a complicated part; belief in the efficacy of any system of treatment appears sufficient to promote its effect. These charms are perhaps sometimes effective, even although no conscious attention is paid to the process; but to enter on this field would be foreign to the present discussion. It is sufficient to point out that in popular belief the preservation of the theory goes hand in hand with the survival of the practice. Weather proverbs form an extensive body of popular observations, here only partially recorded. From the psychologic point of view, the principal interest attaches to the mental causes of these prognostics. Collectors have generally assumed that in this field experience is at the basis of a great part of the alleged knowledge. It may be so with a few of the simpler signs; yet, even in respect to these, great diversity is visible. In general, I should myself attach small importance to this consideration. Remarkable in man regarded as an intellectual being is the variation to be observed in the effect of experience. In certain relations of daily life the savage is as quick to learn, and as accurate in his judgment, as civilized man; mention need only be made of his skill in the hunt, and his intimacy with the forest. But under complicated conditions, whenever this action falls outside of daily habit, he appears incapable of profiting by observation; on the contrary, it is usually imagination which dictates presumed experience. The latter rarely corrects a superstition; as already remarked, discovery of error in the application of inherited theory is applied only to increase the complexity of the formula. Not until the existence of a means of record, and the formation of a body of observations capable of methodical arrangement, is an erroneous belief superseded, when the true causes of the events become manifest; of this principle ideas respecting the weather constitute good illustrations. Students of this collection will be surprised by the number and vitality of formulas and beliefs relative to the moon. It is probable that the majority of the readers of the male sex will have no other associations with the newly born moon than that poetic sentiment which delights in the vision of the faint sickle silver through the twilight; if they possess any further association with the planet, it is likely to be no more than a vague dread of the effect of its radiance falling on a sleeper. Women, on the contrary, will remember that the moon should be first seen not "full face," but "over the the[TN-1] right shoulder;" they will be aware that with such vision may be united a wish, to which jesting fancy assigns a probability of accomplishment. But these, also, will be surprised by the discovery that lunar divination is maintained with profound seriousness, and that the honor paid to the orb is nothing else than a continued worship, still connected with material blessings expected from its bounty. This record reveals the central principle and natural cause of moon worship, by making clear the effect still ascribed to the variation of the luminary. It is the night which is especially the season of primitive worship; from times long antecedent to written history, as well among the lowest savages as among tribes possessing the beginnings of civilization, changes of the starry heavens have been the object of devout contemplation and of reverent study. To the watcher it is the rapid growth of the lunar crescent that is the most distinctive feature of differences between the nights, an alteration which could not but be supposed to exercise control over human and animal life. According to natural processes of thought, it was inevitable that during the time when it so rapidly increases, and becomes dominant in the sky, the principle of growth should appear to prevail; and on the other hand, that the time of lunar diminution should be the season of decay. Hence the conclusion, probably prevalent in all times and countries, that designs and undertakings which expect increase should belong to the new moon, and that only operations which aim at the annihilation of existence should be carried on during the waning quarter. In Hellenic antiquity, the dark of the moon is mentioned as the suitable time for magical operations; for such, no doubt, as were concerned with a forwarding of life. Our collection exhibits the full survival of the usage and theory. It is the new moon to which is dedicated the money that under its expanding influence will be sure to multiply; it is at such time that the seed is to be put into the ground. On the contrary, the abolishment of pests and diminution of objects in which shrinkage is desired may be obtained by connecting these with the waning sphere. Lunar change has had an important connection with ancient myth as well as with primitive ritual. For the reason indicated, the crescent was assigned as an emblem to goddesses of growth. This ornament passed from Cybele and Diana to Mary; as on the vault of St. Mark's the Virgin wears the starry robe of the earlier goddess, so on garden walls of Venice she stands crowned with the crescent, in the same manner as the divinities whom she has superseded. In this connection is especially to be considered the habit of personification implied in our English rhymes. Of late, the doctrine which perceives in myth a symbolic expression of the forces of nature has fallen into comparative discredit, a contempt explicable in view of the unscientific manner in which "sun-myths" have been exploited; our English sayings, therefore, are to be received as a welcome demonstration that one must not proceed too far in his attitude of doubt. If the popular mind, to-day, and in a country particularly accessible to the influences of modern culture, worships the personified moon, it may be considered as certain that antiquity did the like. Mythology is woven out of so many strands that goddesses like Artemis and Diana may have been much more than lunar personifications; but I think it can scarce be doubted that in a measure such they were. There is to be noted a most important characteristic of modern superstition, namely, that the original usage, and also the primitive theory, has sometimes continued the longest, because founded on the broadest and most human foundation. The modern survival exhibits those fundamental conceptions out of which grew the complicated rites and elaborate mythologies of ancient religions. In this manner, as from a height of observation, we are able to look back beyond recorded history, and to trace the principles of historic development. So may be elucidated problems which neither metaphysical speculation nor historical research has proved adequate to expound. Comparative study of folk-lore has placed in our hands a key which ingenious theorists, proceeding with that imperfect knowledge of antiquity which can be gathered from books, have lacked, and for the want of which they have wandered in hopeless error. In modern folk-belief the influence of the sun is less directly apparent. The custom of saluting the rising orb, with which the day was once begun, or of ascending high places where the benediction of the luminary could be obtained, and the direct reverence to solar rays belonging to all primitive life, survives only in the vague symbolism which, until very lately, has caused churches to be built on hills. But a single essential feature of sun-worship still survives, not only among ignorant and isolated peasants, but in the households and among the matrons of educated English-speaking folk. To this significant relic, so far as I know, Mrs. Bergen has been the first to direct attention. That the sun moves in a particular course must have been one of the first observations which primitive man made in regard to the movements of celestial bodies. His cardinal rule being to perform everything decently and in order, it followed that the precedent set in heaven was to be imitated on earth. In any operation for which success must be sought, progress must be sun-wise; the reverse order could be suitable only for operations of destructive magic, tending to undo natural sequences. Nevertheless, even primitive man has a passion for originality, a desire to obtain peculiarly intimate relations with nature, which may be to the advantage of his own people; probably from this consideration certain American tribes have reversed the ceremonial order, so far at least as to make their processional movements in the opposite direction; but our modern customs or household life show, among the ancestors of English folk, that the sun-wise circuit entered not only into the religious life, but also mingled with and directed the most ordinary actions. Little does the modern housewife, who in beating the egg instinctively stirs her spoon in one direction,--a form of movement usually recommended by no conscious association of ideas,--imagine that in the method of her action she is bearing testimony to the deepest ethical and ceremonial conceptions of remote ancestors; yet there can be no doubt that such is the case. Here also prevails the remarkable principle to which attention has already been directed. The mythology of the ancient worship has perished, but the notion which inspired the ritual practice has survived; sun-worship is thus shown to have been characteristic of our forefathers, as indeed, in all probability, it was an original feature of primitive human life. In this case, also, could we go back a little way in time, we should probably find a conception of the sun as a personal being united with usages arising from contemplation of this path. It is always found that especial conservatism attaches to customs and ideas associated with death; the disinclination to exercise independent thought on a subject so serious leaves the field open for the continuance of ancestral notions and practices. It is therefore natural that the volume of superstition associated with the end of life should only be paralleled by that connected with the marriage relation. A vast number of actions and experiences still pass as the "signs" of approaching departure. As in omens generally, the prevailing principle is usually the effect of association of ideas; the shock to the nerves consequent on the imagination of the occurrence is, in the popular fancy, inseparable from belief in its reality. Hence the general tendency to insist on euphemistic speech, the required abstinence from unpleasant suggestions, the _favete linguis_ of the Roman. In this body of deeds to be avoided, ancient and modern notions are interwoven. One must not pass under a ladder, for a ladder is used in modern executions; one must not carry a spade through the house, for with a spade is dug a grave. More in accordance with fundamentally human ideas, the delicate rose of fall presages the untimely waning of a youthful life. As with all superstition, the sign is not merely the prediction of an event; it is felt that as the avoidance of the omen would be to escape its consequence, so the careless action, in becoming the presage of calamity, is likewise its cause. Here appear natural antinomies of human thought: on the one hand, the sense of the inevitableness of the designated fate; on the other hand, the consciousness of ability by altering conditions to change conclusions. Thus the thoughts and actions of primitive man are inspired by the same contending intellectual forces which in later time appear under the guise of warring philosophies. Still more remarkable are the remains of world-old usage, wherein may be remarked tendencies which have formerly been expressed in elaborate rituals. In customs relating to death, a controlling feature is that sense of individual possession which has been prevalent from a time antecedent to the rudimentary beginnings of civilization. To early man, doubt is but a change of state; the head of the household, in his place, be it the tumulus erected for his shelter, be it the distant land to which his spirit has been transported, holds the same rights and is entitled to the same privileges which on earth he enjoyed. His wives, his slaves, his steeds, his arms, are his own,[TN-2] property, which none dare meddle with, inasmuch as the departed, now more than heretofore, has the power to enforce his title. In a measure, therefore, these possessions must accompany him on his voyage, and remain with him in his new abode. But this deprivation is too great: in the natural course of things, the living cannot waive so much and continue to live. A part is given for the whole; substitution takes the place of direct offering. The dead is no more to be received among the living, bringing with him, as he does, a claim on other lives; by many methods, by concealment, placation, substitution, ritual exile, he must be banned to the place where only on occasions he may be sought and consulted. One of these methods of avoidance is the habit of making the return of the funeral procession so intricate that the spirit may be deceived in its attempt to retrace the route; it is perhaps a consequence of this manner of thought that even now, in retired districts, it is held unwise for the mourners to return on the same path by which they proceeded. These usages change their character, inasmuch as the original intent of ceremonial actions being forgotten, acts intended to secure more practical ends are performed in order to correspond to supposed obligations of decency. Such is the case with the arrangement of the chamber of death, with the stoppage of the clock, of which traces are found in customary usage; so it is with the inversion of garments, of which also in our lore traces seem to linger. Different, perhaps, is the idea underlying the covering of the mirror; indications show that the practice was once extended to all objects in the room, which formerly seems to have been draped with white cloth. The object appears to have been to protect domestic objects from the contamination caused by contact with the dead, which would protect them from subsequent employment by the living, who otherwise could not with safety associate themselves with the other world, just as even at the present time it is not held lucky to wear the garments of the departed. In the same manner the Mosaic law commanded the Israelite to cover, at the time of death, the vessels used in his tent. It has been remarked that white, and not black, is the proper color for such drapery. The association of white with the dead, as the hue of mourning, is ancient; it appears to me that the idea of ritual purity, expressed by the color, is at the bottom of the custom. In Hellenic times white continued to be the hue most closely associated with the dead, albeit black, as the sign of melancholy, was also introduced. The character of funeral rites, from Western Europe to Japan, exhibits a similarity which, in my judgment, is to be explained only on the supposition of very early and long continued historical contact,--a contact otherwise demonstrable. On the other hand, a world-old custom, which may be set down as human and universal, dictated, and among all nomadic peoples continues to dictate, the abandonment of any habitation in which a death has occurred. The obvious motive is expressed in a surviving superstition that a second decease is likely to follow a first. Death, naturally impersonated and identified with the spirit of the departed, will return to the place where he has once made himself at home, and in which he has proprietary rights. This idea constitutes a superstition which stands directly in the way of progress; thus the Navajo refuses to build a house, which at the first mortality among his family it would be necessary to desert. The cause of the general custom is to be sought, not in any sanitary principle, but in the associations explained, acting with superstitious force. In the course of time and with the advance of culture such desertion is no longer possible, and some means must be found by which the requirement shall be evaded; the desired escape is effected by such alterations as shall vary the character of the mansion and indicate it as a new place of abode, not subject to the perils of the home invaded by death. The remarks which have been offered are presented only by way of suggestions which could be indefinitely extended. To construct a commentary on the body of beliefs presented in this volume would be an enticing but a laborious task; such notes, also, would far exceed in volume the compass of this work. Besides, as originally remarked, the present collection contains but a part of the volume of surviving superstitions. For these reasons, it will be possible to proceed no farther. In commending this collection to the attention of psychologists, and to the continuing industry of students of folk-lore, I need only express my hope that it may be sufficient to make clear how far-reaching are the studies for which folk-lore supplies material. The history of religion, the theory of mythologies, cannot afford to overlook modern popular beliefs, in which ancient conceptions appear as still effective. In the same way, archæology, regarded only as the investigation of monuments and literatures, and dissociated from the observation of continuing human life, is devoid of inspiration and vitality. These studies, when accompanied with disregard of the existing world, and indifference to the fortunes and relations of humanity as a whole, remain not only incomplete, but positively misleading, and devoid of their best claim on respect and attention. It is to be hoped that this interesting collection, made under so many difficulties, will have a useful effect in helping to emphasize this truth, and to render obvious the possible uses of traditional information. CAMBRIDGE, MASS., Dec. 24, 1895. CURRENT SUPERSTITIONS. CHAPTER I. BABYHOOD. 1. The bairn that is born on fair Sunday Is bonny and loving, and blithe and gay. Monday's bairn is fair in the face, Tuesday's bairn is full of grace, Wednesday's bairn is loving and giving, Thursday's bairn works hard for a living, Friday's bairn is a child of woe, Saturday's bairn has far to go. _Massachusetts._ 2. Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is sour and sad, Thursday's child is merry and glad, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child must work for a living; But the child that is born on the Sabbath day Is blithe and bonny, good and gay. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ (Some put it, Sunday's child shall never know want.) 3. He who is born on New Year's morn Will have his own way as sure as you're born. 4. He who is born on an Easter morn Shall never know want, or care, or harm. 5. A child born on a saint's day must bear the saint's name. It is unlucky to take away the day from it. _Catholic superstition._ 6. Thursday has one lucky hour, just before sunrise, for birth. BAPTISM. 7. If a child cries during baptism, it is the devil going out of it. _Niagara Falls, Ont._ 8. It is lucky for the child to cry at baptism, but unlucky for the godmother to wear mourning. 9. If twins are brought to baptism at the same time, christen the boy first, or else he will have no beard, and the girl will be beggared. PHYSIOGNOMY. 10. An open hand in a baby is a sign of a generous disposition, but a habit of closing the fingers indicates avarice, or, as we say, closefistedness. _Cambridge, Mass._ 11. If a child "favors its father," it is good luck for it. It will get on well in the world. _Salem, Mass._ 12. A baby that has two crowns will live in two continents or kingdoms. _Massachusetts._ 13. A double crown on the head means that the owner will "break bread in two kingdoms." _Northern Ohio._ 14. "Two crowns will never be satisfied." This is a sign of a very changeable disposition. _Chestertown, Md._ 15. A baby born with a veil over its face has good luck. _General._ 16. A child born with a veil over its face will never be drowned. Many sailors are known to wear the caul, with which they were born, about the person as a charm against death by drowning. _Sailor's superstition._ INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 17. Take the baby first into the sunlight on Sunday. Put it into short clothes and make all changes on that day. 18. To make a child rise in the world, carry it upstairs (or to the attic) first. _Mifflintown, Pa._ 19. The baby must go upstairs before it goes downstairs, or it will never rise in the world. _Massachusetts._ 20. To be a bright baby, it must go up before it is carried down, and it must be bumped to the attic roof for luck. _New England._ 21. A young baby was taken up a short step-ladder by its nurse before being for the first time carried downstairs lest it should die before it was a year old. _Holyoke, Mass._ 22. A child will have a nature and disposition similar to that of the person who first takes him out of doors. _Georgia._ 23. The first time a baby is taken out of its room, it must be taken up, or it will not go to heaven. If the door of the room steps down, then the person carrying the baby must step up on a chair or book with the baby in her arms. _North Carolina._ 24. Let the baby have or touch the thing he starts after on taking the first step, and he will always get what he wishes. If it be the moon, then let him touch something light, on which its light shines. 25. When taking the child into your arms for the first time, make a good wish for him; if you give him his full name and he opens his eyes and looks at you (answers to his name), it is good luck. 26. To be a bright baby, it must fall out of the crib before it is eleven months old. _Brookline, Mass._ 27. If a baby does not fall out of bed, it will be a fool. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 28. A child's tumbling out of bed is a sign he will never be a fool. _Maine._ 29. To drink water out of a bucket which is being carried on a child's head stops its growth. _Virginia._ 30. To step over a young child stops its growing. _Virginia._ 31. About 1860 the Alabama negresses believed that if any one stepped on their pickaninnies it would dwarf them. 32. Pass a baby through a window and it will never grow. _South Carolina._ 33. Do not go for the first time into the room where the infant is without removing the veil and gloves. 34. If the "cradle cap" of a baby be combed with a (fine?) tooth comb, the child will be blind. _Labrador._ 35. A baby should not look into a glass before it is a year old; if it does it will die. _Deer Isle, Me._ 36. Hold a baby to a looking-glass, he will die before he completes his first year. _Massachusetts._ 37. If you let a child look into a looking-glass before it is a year old, it will cut its teeth hard. _Baltimore, Md. (negro), and Virginia._ 38. It is bad luck not to weigh the baby before it is dressed. When it is first dressed put the clothes on over the feet instead of the head for good luck. 39. The common nurse has an objection to weighing a new-born baby. 40. Always give a baby salt before it tastes aught else. The child will not choke, and in general it is a good thing to do. _Mansfield, O._ FIRST ACTIONS. 41. If a child cries at birth and lifts up one hand, he is born to command. 42. If the baby smiles in its sleep, it is talking with angels. 43. If a baby yawns, the sign of the cross should be made over it that the evil spirit may not enter. _Niagara Falls, Ont._ 44. While tying on a baby's cap repeat,-- Look up there and see a fly, Look down there and see it die. Its chin will follow the direction indicated, and the tying is hastened. _Brookline, Mass._ VARIOUS. 45. First a daughter, then a son, The world is well begun. First a son, then a daughter, Trouble follows after. _Maine and Massachusetts._ 46. First a son, then a daughter, You've begun just as you oughter. _Brookline, Mass._ 47. Rock a cradle empty, Babies will be plenty. _Peabody, Mass._ 48. Rock the cradle empty, Have children a plenty, Rock the chair empty, Have sickness a plenty. _Nashua, N.H._ 49. To rock the cradle when the baby is not in it will kill it. _New York._ 50. If the empty cradle be rocked, the baby will have the colic. _New York and Ohio._ 51. The first time a baby is taken visiting, if it is laid on a married couple's bed there will be a baby for that couple. _Salem, Mass._ 52. The mother who gives away all the clothes of her dead baby will eventually be comforted by the coming of another child. 53. However many children a woman may have, the last will be of the same gender as the first, and they will look alike. _Maine and Massachusetts._ 54. One article of an unborn infant's wardrobe must be left unmade or unbought or the child is liable not to live. _Salem, Mass._ 55. A baby's nails must not be cut with scissors before it is a year old; it will make it steal. _North Carolina._ 56. To cut a baby's finger-nails deforms it; if the baby is a month old, to do this will cause the child to have fits. _Georgia._ 57. To allow a child to look into a mirror before it is a month old will cause it trouble in teething. _Georgia._ 58. Tickling a baby causes stuttering. _Georgia._ 59. If an infant be measured, it will die before its growing time is over. _Georgia._ CHAPTER II. CHILDHOOD. ASSEVERATION. 60. A child to whom is told any story which he considers remarkable will usually reply by an expression of skepticism, such as: "Really and truly?" "Honestly?" "Earnest, now?" or, "You are fooling." The first speaker answers by some formula or asseveration, as, "Honor bright" (_New England_); "Deed, deed, and double deed" (_Pennsylvania_); "True as I live," or, "Hope I'll die if it isn't so," or simply, "Hope I'll die." _General in the United States._ 61. A formula of asseveration in Maryland and Pennsylvania is, "I cross my heart," accompanied by the sign of the cross. 62. A sign resembling that of the cross is made on the chin or throat. "You won't tell?" "No." "Well, cross your throat." _Cambridge, Mass._ 63. When a child wishes to make an asseveration, he wets his finger on his mouth and signs a cross on his throat. _Salem, Mass._ 64. In asseveration, the proper method is to use the words, "Hope to die if I don't," the speaker drawing the forefinger across the throat from ear to ear. _Biddeford, Me._ 65. Asseveration in Maine and Massachusetts is often made by the following formula. First boy: "Honor bright?" Second boy: "Hope to die." First boy: "Cut your throat?" Second boy draws finger across throat. This is the strongest possible form of oath that can be taken by a boy. 66. Little girls, without any idea of the meaning, employ the following formula of asseveration:-- Certain, true, Black and blue. A variant of the first line: "Certain and true." _Massachusetts._ 67. A form fuller than the preceding:-- Certain, true, Black and blue, Lay me down and cut me in two. 68. A boy who desires to tell an extravagant story without being guilty of a lie would point with his thumb over his left shoulder. If he should succeed in accomplishing this without the observation of the boy to whom he is talking, so much the better. _Biddeford, Me._ 69. "In my school-days, if a boy crossed his fingers, elbows, and legs, though the act might not be noticed by the companion accosted, no blame was attached to the falsehood." _New York city._ 70. The addition of the words "in a horn" justify a falsehood. In the childhood of the informant, it was not considered honorable to express the words in such manner that they could not be heard by the child with whom conversation was carried on. _Cambridge, Mass._ 71. In making a false statement, it was proper to say "over the left." This was often uttered in such manner that the person addressed should not perceive the qualification. Or, the statement would be made, and after it had been taken in and believed, the words "over the left" would be added. _Ohio and Cambridge, Mass._ 72. A formula for making a false statement: "As true as I lie here," said, as one fools, gives free scope to white lies. _Roxbury, Mass._ 73. An imprecation of children against disloyalty:-- Tell tale tit, Your tongue shall be slit, And every dog in our town It shall have a bit. _Ohio._ CHALLENGE. To "stump" another boy to do a thing is considered as putting a certain obligation on him to perform the action indicated. The phrase is sometimes used, although the person giving the "stump" may not himself be able to accomplish the feat. 74. We used to "dare" or "stump" one another to eat green "chuckcherries." _Brookline, Mass._ 75. Daring or "stumping" is or has been common among children generally. Sometimes it is to jump a certain distance; sometimes to skate out on thin ice; again, to touch something very hot. Once in Ohio several lads were collected together about a spring. One of them drew a pail of fresh water and by chance brought up a small live fish. One of the boys "stumped" his companions to eat the fish alive, without dressing or cooking. The boys took the "stump," one quickly cut up the unfortunate little animal and each boy swallowed a bit. Often the dare is to eat some very untoothsome morsel. FORTUNE. 76. Put a mark upon a paper for every bow you get, and when you have one hundred bury the paper and wish. When the paper is decayed you will find your wish in its place. _Cambridge and Bedford, Mass._ 77. Children collect two or three hundred names of persons, asking each to give a bow with the name. This bow is expressed after the name on a sheet of paper on which the latter is written by this sign [Symbol: H with slanted cross-bar]. After all are collected the paper is secretly buried face downward, and then dug up after two or three months, when money is sometimes found under it. _North Cambridge, Mass._ 78. At Christmas or New Year's children, on first meeting, call out "My Christmas-gift," or "New Year's-gift," and the one who calls first is to receive a gift from the other. _Mansfield, O._ FRIENDSHIP. 79. If two persons, while walking, divide so as to pass an obstruction one on one side and one on the other, they will quarrel. Children avert this catastrophe by exclaiming, "bread and butter," which is a counter charm. On the other hand, if they say "pepper and salt," the quarrel is made doubly certain. So universal is the practice that many grown people of the best social class (women) still involuntarily avoid such separation, and even use the childish words. In country towns, when girls are walking with young men, if the latter pass on the other side of the tree it is considered as rude, and as a token of indifference; in such a case one girl will cast a meaning look on her companion as much as to say, "he does not care for you." To use the local phrase, it would be said, So-and-so is "mad" with ---- (naming the girl). _Massachusetts._ 80. In passing a tree in the middle of the sidewalk, children used to pass it on one side going one way and on the other side going the other way for luck. _Billerica, Mass._ MYTHOLOGY. 81. The stars are angels' eyes. _Westminster, Mass._ 82. The stars are holes made in the sky, so that the light of heaven shines through. "I remember, as a child, that this idea was suggested to me on seeing the effect of holes in the lamp shade. I think, however, that I rather liked to suppose it true and firmly believed in the explanation." _Cambridge, Mass._ 83. "As a child, I constantly looked into lilies and tulips in the expectation of finding fairies lying within them." _Mansfield, O._ 84. "I remember that as a child, while walking with a companion, she cried: 'Why, a fairy lighted on my hand!' The child believed that this had been the case." _Cambridge, Mass._ 85. The children used to fearfully look in the well, and on seeing the reflected face in the bottom, would cry out, "Face in the well, pull me down in the well," and would then run away quickly. _Bruynswick, N.Y._ 86. At the age of six or seven years, a child, while going to a spring to draw water, saw a little creature with wings fly from one star to another, leaving behind an arc of light. She cried to her aunt: "Oh, aunt, I saw a little gold-boy!" Her aunt, somewhat shocked, rebuked the child, who insisted on the literal truth of her vision. _Mansfield, O._ 87. Stick your thumb through a knothole and say:-- Old Gran'f'ther Graybeard, without tooths or tongue, If you'll give me a little finger I'll give you a thumb. Thumb'll go away and little finger'll come. 88. Go to the woodpile and say, "Johnnie with your fingers, and Willie with your toes," and something (suthin) will come out of the woodpile and tear off all your clothes (close). _Gilsum, N.H._ PUNISHMENT. 89. An "eyewinker" placed in the palm of the hand will cause the ferule to break when the teacher strikes the palm with it. _Portsmouth, N.H._ 90. Pine tar or pitch in the hand will prevent the blows of the ferule from causing pain. (_Portsmouth, N.H._, sixty years ago.) Believed by most schoolboys there at that time. SPORT. 91. At croquet, if your ball was about to be sent flying, the safeguard was to draw an imaginary X with your mallet, saying, "Criss cross." It made your enemy's foot slip, and many a girl would get "mad" and not play, if you did it often. _Brookline, Mass._ 92. Children believe it is unlucky to step on the cracks in the flagstones, which are believed to contain poison. It is a game to walk a long distance on such stones without setting foot on the interstices. _Cambridge, Mass._ 93. When children are tired of swinging, or think it is time for the swinger to give way to another, the phrase is "let the old cat die." After this has been said, it is unlucky to quicken the motion of the swing again. _General._ VARIOUS. 94. When a child loses a tooth, if the tongue is not put into the cavity a gold tooth will come in place of it. _New York and Northern Ohio._ 95. The ideas of children about the significance of color are mixed. Thus in croquet no child (in a town near Boston) would take the red ball, because it was supposed to mean hate. Blue is the favorite color. 96. Red and yellow, catch a fellow. _Brookline, Mass._ Pink and blue, he'll catch you. _Deerfield, Mass._ Pink and blue, he'll be true. _Deerfield, Mass._ Black and white, hold him tight. _Pennsylvania._ 97. An old superstition which still survives among children is, that if they crawl over an older person and do not crawl back they will never grow again. _Haverhill, Mass._ 98. "We used always as children to get X's scored with a pin on our new 'village gaiters.' We were told it was to make them safe and take the slipperiness off." _Brookline, Mass._ 99. Children say that the one who takes the first bite of an apple that is to be passed about for eating will fail in his or her lesson. _Chelsea, Mass._ 100. Boys believe that they can prevent the stitch in the side which is liable to be induced by running, by means of holding a pebble under the tongue. "I believe I could run all day, and not get tired, if I could hold a pebble under my tongue," said one. _Cambridge, Mass._ CHAPTER III. PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS. BEAUTY. 101. If a person is very handsome, it is a sign that he will have one of the infectious diseases of childhood (measles, whooping cough, etc.) more than once. _Massachusetts._ DIMPLE. 102. Dimple in chin. Devil within. _Chestertown, Md._ 103. A dimple in the chin is lucky. Some say "it shows you're no fool." 104. A dimple is the mark left by the angel's finger in turning up the face to kiss it when asleep. _Pennsylvania._ EARS. 105. Small ears indicate that a person is stingy. Large ones show that he is generous. _General._ 106. Large ears are a mark of a liar. Small ears show that one is truthful. _Boston, Mass._ 107. Long, slim ears are a sign that you will steal. _Chestertown, Md._ 108. If the protuberance behind the ear is large, it indicates generosity. _Massachusetts._ EYES AND EYEBROWS. 109. Hazel eyes betoken a good disposition. _Boston, Mass._ 110. If your eyebrows meet, you will be rich. _Somerville and Bedford, Mass._ 111. A well-known children's rhyme runs:-- Blue-eye beauty, do your mammy's duty! Black eye, pick a pie, Run around and tell a lie! Gray-eye greedy gut Eat all the world up! _General in the United States._ 112. If the eyebrows meet, one is ill-tempered. _General in the United States._ 113. If the eyebrows are far apart, you will live away from home; if near together, you will live near home, or at home. _Massachusetts._ 114. Heavy eyebrows are a sign of long life. _Lawrence, Mass._ FINGER-NAILS. 115. Always keep your nails clean and you will be rich. _Peabody, Mass._ 116. A white spot in the nail, when it comes, means a present. You get the present when it grows to the end and is cut. _Boston, Mass._ 117. White spots on the nails of the left hand denote the number of lies one has told. _Maine and Central Illinois._ 118. Count on finger-nail spots:-- Friends, Foes, Money, Beaux. Begin with the first nail spotted, and the noun falling to the last nail thus marked gives the sign. _Deerfield, Mass._ 119. Another formula:-- (First finger) a friend, (Second finger) a foe, (Third finger) a gift, (Fourth finger) a beau, (Fifth finger) a journey to go. _Mansfield, O._ An almost identical variant is found in Prince Edward Island. FOOT. 120. If your instep is high enough to have water flow under it, you are of good descent. _Brookline, Mass._ 121. A mole on the sole of the left foot means trouble and hardships during life. _Boston, Mass._ FOREHEAD. 122. If there is a blue vein in the child's forehead extending down upon the nose, it is one of the surest signs of early death. _Maine and Massachusetts._ 123. Vertical wrinkles in the brow show the number of husbands one will have. Horizontal ones show the number of children. _Northern Ohio._ HAIR. 124. Coarse hair indicates good nature; fine hair quick temper. _Northern Ohio._ 125. Red hair indicates a "spit-fire." _Massachusetts and Chestertown, Md._ 126. Beware of that man, Be he friend or brother, Whose hair is one color And moustache another. _Portland, Me._ 127. The color of the hair growing on the neck indicates the color of the hair of one's future husband. 128. A single white hair means genius; it must not be pulled out. 129. If you pull out a white hair, two will come in its place. _Somewhat general in the United States._ 130. Hair growing upon the upper lip of a woman means riches. _Boston, Mass._ 131. The point formed by the hair growing on the forehead is called "A widow's peak." _Eastern Massachusetts._ 132. When a woman's hair parts where it should not, it is a sure sign she will be a widow. _Springfield, Mass._ 133. Draw a single hair from the head strongly between the thumb and finger-nail. If it curls up, you are proud. _St. John, N.B., and Prince Edward Island._ The same result indicates that you are cross. _Cape Breton._ 134. Hairy arms mean wealth. _Northern Ohio._ 135. Hairy arms mean strength. _General in the United States._ 136. Scrape the finger-nail and the thumb-nail along a hair, and if, by the third time, it curls up, the owner is high-tempered. _Boston, Mass._ 137. Put some of your hair in the fire. If it burns slowly you will have a long life. If quickly, a short one. _Chestertown, Md._ HAND. 138. A straight line in the palm of the hand is an omen of early death. _Massachusetts._ 139. The letter formed by the veins on the inside of the wrist is the initial of the name of the future husband or wife. _St. John, N.B._ 140. A person with an initial in his hand will be very fortunate in selecting a companion for life. _Alabama._ 141. In clasping your own hand, you put uppermost either your right or your left thumb. If the former, you are to rule; _vice versa_, you yield. _Brookline, Mass._ 142. If the thumb sticks up in the closed fist, you are either capable or honest, probably the latter, as thieves are said to double theirs in. _New England._ 143. If you cannot make your thumb and one finger meet around your wrist, you are a glutton. _Province of Quebec._ 144. If you cannot touch the tips of your little finger and first finger together behind the two middle fingers, on both hands, then you will not marry the man you want to marry. _Province of Quebec._ 145. Clasp your fingers, and if the right thumb lap over the left you were born in the daytime. If the left overlap, you were born at night. 146. The number of folds on your wrist as you bend your hand shows the number of thirties you are to live. _Massachusetts._ 147. If the ends of the fingers are capable of being bent far back, it indicates a thief. MOLES. 148. A mole on the eyebrow denotes that one will be hanged. On the ear it denotes that he will be drowned. _Chestertown, Md._ 149. Mole above breath Means wealth. 150. Moles on the neck, Money by the peck. _Prince Edward Island and Northern Ohio._ 151. A mole on the neck indicates that its owner will be hanged. _Boston, Mass._ 152. A mole on the side of the neck means a death by hanging. _Central Maine._ 153. A mole on the arm indicates riches. _Boston, Mass._ 154. Mole on your arm, Live on a farm. _Alabama._ 155. A mole on the arm means that you will fight many battles, and will be very successful in them. _Prince Edward Island._ NOSE. 156. A vein across the nose is an omen of short life. _General in the United States._ TEETH. 157. A broad space between the teeth indicates a liar. _Biddeford, Me._ 158. Broad front teeth mean that one is generous. _Biddeford, Me._ 159. A space between the two front upper incisors signifies wealth. _Mansfield, O._ 160. If the front teeth are wide apart, it means one can't keep a secret. If overlapping, one is close-mouthed. _Boston, Mass._ 161. Do not trust people with pointed teeth. _Chestertown, Md._ 162. If you have a space between your teeth, it is a sign that you will die of consumption. _Baltimore, Md._ 163. A lump (enlarged papilla) on the tongue is a sign one has told a lie. _Mansfield, O._ CHAPTER IV. PROJECTS. Love divinations or love charms, I have found, are popularly known as "projects" in parts of New England and on Mt. Desert. On Prince Edward Island and in various parts of the Canadian provinces the practice of such divinations is usually spoken of as "trying tricks." If a number of young people are together, one will say, "Let's try tricks." In the Middle and Western United States the usual colloquial expression for these love divinations is "trying fortunes." One girl will say to another at some appropriate time, "Let's try our fortunes." APPLES. 164. Eat an apple at midnight before the glass, saying,-- Whoever my true love may be, Come and eat this apple with me, holding the lamp in the hand. The true love will appear. _Winn, Me._ 165. Throw a whole apple-paring on the floor, after swinging it three times around your head. It will form your true love's initial letter. _General in the United States._ APPLE-SEEDS. 166. When eating an apple, snap it with the fingers and name it for a person of the opposite sex. Count the fully developed seeds (all of the others are kisses), and the last one must correspond to the following formula:-- One's my love, Two's my love, Three's my heart's desire. Four I'll take and never forsake, Five I'll cast in the fire. Six he loves, Seven she loves, Eight they both love, Nine he comes, Ten he tarries, Eleven he goes, Twelve he marries. Thirteen honor, Fourteen riches, All the rest are little witches. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ Some change the latter lines of this formula into Thirteen they quarrel, Fourteen they part, Fifteen they die with a broken heart. 167. Similar rhymes commonly repeated in northern Ohio, after naming an apple and counting the seeds, are,-- One I love, Two I love, Three I love, I say. Four I love with all my heart, And five I cast away. Six he loves, Seven she loves, Eight they both love. Nine he comes, Ten he tarries, Eleven he courts, And twelve he marries. _Prince Edward Island and Mansfield, O._ 168. Lay in the hand four apple-seeds and have some one name them, then pick them up, saying,-- This one I love all others above, And this one I greatly admire, And this one I'll take and never forsake. And this one I'll cast in the fire. _St. John, N.B._ 169. A love divination by way of apple-seeds, much practiced when a number of young people were spending the evening together, or perhaps by grown-up boys and girls in district schools as they ate their noon-day lunch about the stove, was as follows:-- Two seeds were named, one for a girl and one for a young man, and placed on a hot stove or in front of an open fire. The augury, concerning the future relations of the young people was derived from the behavior of the two seeds. If as they heated they jumped away from one another, the two persons would become estranged or their friendship die; if the seeds moved nearer together, marriage was implied; if the one named for the girl moved towards the other, it signified that the young woman was fonder of the young man than he was of her, and so on. _Northern Ohio._ 170. "A common project in my girlhood was to place an apple-seed on each of the four fingers of the right hand, that is, on the knuckles, first moistening them with spittle. A companion then 'named' them, and the fingers were worked so as to move slightly. The seed that stayed on the longest indicated the name of your future husband." _Stratham, N.H._ 171. Name apple-seeds and place on the lids of the closed eyes. Wink and the first to fall off shows the name of your future husband. _Winn, Me., New York, and Pennsylvania._ 172. To name apple-seeds, put one on each temple, get some one to name them, and the one that sticks the longest will be the true one. 173. Name apple pips, put them on the grate, saying,-- If you love me, live and fly; If you do not, lie and die. BABIES. 174. Kiss the baby when nine days old, and the first gentleman you kiss afterward will be your future husband. _New England._ BED. 175. Go upstairs backward, into a chamber backward, and into bed backward. Drink some salt and water, and if you dream of some one bringing you drink it will be your future husband. _Maine and Salem, Mass._ 176. The first time two girls sleep together let them tie two of their big toes together with woollen yarn, and the one with the shortest piece of broken string left attached in the morning will be married first. _Northern Ohio._ 177. If two girls on sleeping together for the first time tie their waists together with string or thread, and the thread gets broken in the night, the first man who puts his arm round the waist of either will have the first name of the man whom that girl will marry, whether that man is the one or not. _Province of Quebec._ 178. After getting ready for bed in silence, take a ball of string and wind about the wrist, repeating,-- I wind, I wind, This night to find, Who my true love's to be; The color of his eyes, The color of his hair, And the night he'll be married to me. _Chestertown, Md._ 179. Name the bed-posts for four different men. The one you dream about you will marry. _General._ 180. The first time you sleep in a room name the corners each with a different (man's) name. The first corner you face on waking indicates whom you will marry. (_New England._) The same thing is done with the bed-posts in Ohio. 181. Put four names of boys on four slips of paper and take one blank slip. Intermingle them, and then without looking at them put one under each leg of the bed and one under the pillow. The name of the last will be that of your future husband. _Franklin, Mass._ 182. Rub the four bed-posts with a lemon and carry the lemon in the pocket the next day, and the first man you speak to you will marry. _New Hampshire._ BIBLE. 183. Read the third verse of the third chapter of Hosea, Joel, and Amos for three Sundays in succession, and the first gentleman you walk with you will marry. _Nashua, N.H._ 184. Put the end of a key in the Bible, on the verse of Solomon's Song reading, "I am my beloved's and he is mine;" close the book and bind it round with string or garter, each girl supporting the key with the first finger of the right hand. One of them repeats a verse to each letter as the other girl names it, beginning the alphabet, till it turns at the initial of the future husband or lover. _General in the United States._ BIRDS. 185. When you see a turkey-buzzard flying alone, repeat,-- Hail! Hail! Lonely, lonesome turkey-buzzard: Hail to the East, hail to the West, Hail to the one that I love best. Let me know by the flap of your wing Whether he (or she) loves me or not. Note the manner of the bird's flight: if he flaps his wings your lover is true; if not, the lover is false. _Tennessee._ 186. When the call of the first turtle-dove is heard, sit down and remove the shoe and stocking from the left foot, turn the stocking inside out, in the heel of which if a hair is found, it will be of the color of the hair of the future husband or wife. _Tennessee._ In Mt. Desert, Maine, and Prince Edward Island the same project is tried on hearing the first robin. BUTTONS. 187. The coming husband is determined by repeating the following words, touching each button of the coat, vest, or dress in order:-- Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. Or, Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief. Or, Doctor, lawyer, merchant, cheat. _Ohio._ 188. With reference to the habitation to be occupied:-- Big house, little house, pig-sty, barn. _New Hampshire._ 189. As to the wedding dress:-- Silk, satin, velvet, cotton, woolen. _Massachusetts._ 190. In regard to the vehicle:-- Carriage, wagon, wheelbarrow, chaise. _Massachusetts._ 191. The first of these button formulæ is used by boys to foretell their profession in life. A friend remembers how in childhood his buttons were completely worn out by the continual practice of the inquiry. 192. With reference to the acquisition of a coat:-- Bought, given, stolen. _Massachusetts._ 193. "Rich man, poor man, beggar, thief, doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief." Said over by little girls on their back hair combs to find the occupation of their future husbands. _New York._ FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER. 194. If a girl puts a two-leaved clover in her shoe, the first man who comes on the side where the clover is will be her future husband. _Michigan._ 195. Put a four-leaved clover in your shoe, and you will marry a man having the first name of the man whom you meet first after doing it. _Province of Quebec._ 196. With a four-leaved clover in your shoe, you will meet your lover. _Michigan._ 197. If the finder of a four-leaved clover put it in her own shoe, she will marry the first person with whom she crosses a bridge. _Michigan._ 198. Put a four-leaved clover over the door. The first person to pass beneath will be your future mate. _Newport, R.I., and Michigan._ COUNTING. 199. Count sixty white horses and one white mule, then you will marry the first man with whom you shake hands. _Chestertown, Md._ 200. Count a hundred white horses and two white mules, and the first person you shake hands with you'll marry. _Pennsylvania._ 201. Count a hundred white horses during leap year. The first man that shakes hands with you after you have your hundred will be your future husband. _Bedford, Mass._ 202. Count one hundred gray horses (one mule stands for ten horses), and the first gentleman with whom you shake hands is your intended. _Alabama._ 203. After meeting ninety-nine white horses and a brown one for the hundredth, the first person with whom you shake hands will be your future mate. _Newport, R.I._ 204. Count five hundred colored people, and the next gentleman you meet you will marry. _Cambridge, Mass._ 205. Count ninety-nine negroes and one white horse, and the first boy you answer "yes" or "no" to you will marry. _South Boston, Mass._ 206. Count forty white horses, the first man you meet afterwards you'll marry. _Champaign, Ill._ 207. In crossing a bridge, if one sees two white horses on it (in different teams) and wishes at once for a man to marry her, she'll get him. _Peabody, Mass._ 208. Count a hundred "tips" (a bow with the lifting of the hat). The hundredth will be your future husband. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 209. Count the buttons of an old boot. The number of buttons indicates the number of years before marriage. _Massachusetts._ 210. If you count the boards of the ceiling (loft) in a strange room before going to sleep, you will dream of your lover. _Newfoundland._ DAISY PETALS. 211. Pull off the "petals" of a daisy one by one, naming a boy (or a girl as the case may be) at each one, thus, "Jenny, Fanny, Jenny, Fanny," etc. The one named with the last petal is your sweetheart. The seeds which remain on the back of your hand after taking them up show the number of your children. 212. Common at the present time is the formula:-- He loves me, he loves me not. 213. To tell the fortune, take an "ox-eye daisy," and pluck the "petals" one by one, using the same words as have been given above for buttons. _General in the United States._ In Ohio and other Western States where the ox-eye daisy is not common, children use instead the bloom of the despised dog-fennel. 214. Fortunes are told by pulling off leaflets of a compound leaf, such as the locust, repeating, "Rich man, poor man," etc. _Central Illinois._ 215. Name a daisy, and then pull off the petals (ray-flowers) one by one, saying "yes, no," and if "yes" falls on the last, the person loves you, and _vice versa_. _Alabama._ 216. A formula for daisy petals:-- He loves me, He don't; He'll have me, He won't; He would if he could, But he can't. _New Brunswick._ 217. If you find a five-leaf daisy (that is, one with five ray-flowers) and swallow it without chewing, you will in the course of the day shake hands with your intended. _Alabama._ 218. Another:-- Hate her, Have her, This year, Next year, Sometime, Never. _New Brunswick._ 219. Another:-- He loves, She loves, Hate her, Have her, This year, Next year, Now or never. _Cape Breton._ Girls repeat the last three lines only of the above rhyme. _Prince Edward Island._ DOORWAY. 220. Put the breast-bone of a fowl over the front door, and the first one of the opposite sex that enters is to be your future companion. _Alabama._ 221. Hang over the door a corn-cob from which you have shelled all but twenty grains. The first man that enters you'll marry. _Arlington, Mass._ 222. Nail a horseshoe over the door, and the first one who enters is your true love. _Massachusetts._ 223. Hang a wishbone over the door. The first one who enters will be your lover. _Somewhat general._ 224. Two girls break a wishbone together. The one who gets the longest bit will remain longest unmarried, or, as the familiar rhyme runs,-- Shortest to marry, Longest to tarry. If the "knot" (that is, the flattened portion at the junction of the two prongs of the bone) flies away and does not stick to either prong, the two girls are to remain unmarried. Each girl puts her bit of the wishbone over a different door. The first man who enters either door is to marry the girl who has placed her bit of wishbone over the door. _Prince Edward Island._ EGGS. 225. Take an egg to your window; break it over a knife; remember the day and date. Wish that your true love would come to you. If you go too high, he will be killed. _Nashua, N.H._ 226. Put two eggs in front of the open fire on a very windy day, and soon two men will come in with a coffin. The man at the foot will be your future husband. _Chestertown, Md. (negro)._ 227. One or more girls put eggs to roast before an open fire, seating themselves in chairs before it. Each puts one egg to roast, and when her egg begins to sweat (it will sweat blood), she is to rise and turn it. At this time the one whom that projector is to marry will come in through a door or window (all of which must be left open throughout) and take her vacant chair. If she is to die before she marries, two black dogs will enter, bearing a coffin, which they will deposit on her chair. _Quaker Neck, Kent Co., Md._ 228. Boil an egg hard, take out the yolk, and fill its place with salt. Eat it before going to bed. The one you dream of as bringing you water is your future husband. _Mansfield, O._ To be done by two girls in silence, going backward as they retire. FINGERS. 229. Name each of the four fingers of one hand for some person of the opposite sex, then press them tightly together with the other hand; the one that hurts the worst indicates whom you will marry. _Prince Edward Island._ GARMENTS. 230. Scatter your clothes in the four corners of the room, naming them. The man you are to marry will bring you your clothes in a dream. _Maine._ 231. The first time you sleep in a room, name the corners each a different (man's) name. The first corner you face on waking indicates whom you will marry. The same thing is done with bed-posts in Ohio. 232. On your birthday, as you retire at night, take off your slipper or boot. Stand with your back to the door and throw it over your head. If the toe points to the door, you go out of the chamber a bride before the year is out. You must not look at the boot until the morning. _Bedford, Mass._ 233. At night before going to bed take one of your garters and tie it in a knot and hang it on the bed-post above your head. While tying repeat,-- This knot I tie, this knot I knit, To see the young man I haven't seen yet. _Chestertown, Md._ 234. Young girls on going to bed at night place their shoes at right angles to one another, in the form of the letter T, repeating this rhyme:-- Hoping this night my true love to see, I place my shoes in the form of a T. _Northern Ohio._ 235. The first time you sleep in a house, upon retiring place the shoes in the form of a T, and say over,-- My true love by-and-by for to see, Be as she (or he) be, Bear as she (or he) may, The clothes she (or he) wears every day. _Boston, Mass._ 236. Catch the four corners of a handkerchief up in the hand, then let some one wishing to try her fortune draw two. If she gets two corners on the same side, she will not be married. If she gets opposite ones, she will be married. _Prince Edward Island and Chestertown, Md._ 237. A rhyme on stockings and shoes:-- Point your shoes towards the street, Leave your garters on your feet, Put your stockings on your head, You'll dream of the man you are going to wed. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 238. Put the chemise, inside out, on the foot of the bed and under it a board with ashes upon it; then go to bed backwards, saying,-- Whoever my true love may be, Come write his name in these ashes for me. _Winn, Me._ 239. Place the heel of one shoe against the instep of the other for three nights in a row. You will dream of your future husband. _Franklin, Mass._ 240. On Friday night after getting all ready for bed, roll your petticoat up, and before lying down put it under your pillow, repeating this verse:-- This Friday night while going to bed, I put my petticoat under my head, To dream of the living and not of the dead, To dream of the man I am to wed, The color of his eyes, the color of his hair, The color of the clothes he is to wear, And the night the wedding is to be. _Rock Hall, Md._ LETTERS OF THE ALPHABET. 241. Write names on three pieces of paper, throw them up in the air (in the dark); feel for one, put it under the pillow, and in the morning look at it to see the name of the man you are to marry. _Salem, Mass._ 242. Put pieces of paper, each bearing one letter of the alphabet, in water face down, and then place them under the bed. Those turned up in the morning are the initials of your future husband. _Prince Edward Island and Northern Ohio._ 243. Write the names of several men friends, each on a slip of paper. On three successive mornings choice is made from these. If the name drawn is always the same, it is the name of your future husband. If the lot falls differently every morning, you will never be married. 244. Write two names (of possible lovers), cross out the common letters. Touch the uncrossed letters, repeating in turn, "Love, friendship, hate," and the last uncrossed letter will indicate the state of the heart. _Prince Edward Island, St. John, N.B., and Northern Ohio._ MIDNIGHT. 245. Go out at midnight and walk around a peach-tree, repeating,-- Low for a foreigner, Bark for a near one, Crow for a farmer, Screek, tree, screek, if I'm to die first. _Quaker Neck, Md._ 246. Eat an apple at midnight before the glass, saying, "Whoever my true love may be, come and eat this apple with me," while holding a lamp in the hand. Your true love will appear. _Winn, Me._ 247. Set the table in silence for two at eleven o'clock P.M., with bread and butter and silver knives and forks. Two girls sit down at twelve, and say, "Whoever my true love may be, come and eat this supper with me." _Winn, Me._ PLANTS. 248. Take beans in the hand, go out of doors and throw them against the window. The first man's name that you hear spoken is the name of the man you will marry. _Connecticut._ 249. Put three raw beans in your mouth, go out of doors, stand in front of some one's window and listen. The first man's name you hear spoken will be either that of your future husband or of the one having the same name. _Salem, Mass._ 250. If a piece of brush or brier sticks to the dress, name it. If it drops, the lover is false; if it sticks, he is true. _Northern Ohio._ 251. Blow seeds from the dandelion until none remain, counting each puff as a letter of the alphabet; the letter which ends the blowing is the initial of the name of the person the blower marries. 252. Rub your hands in sweet fern. The first one you shake hands with afterward is your true love. _Prince Edward Island._ 253. Wear a piece of fern in the toe of your shoe, and the first person you meet you will marry. _New Hampshire._ 254. Take a live-forever leaf, squeeze it to loosen the inner and outer skin. If it makes a balloon as you blow into it, you will be married and live a long time. If it does not, you will be an old maid. _St. John, N.B._ 255. Stick a piece of live-forever up on the wall, and in whatever direction it leans, the lover will come from that quarter. _Miramichi, N.B._ 256. Take two shoots of live-forever and pin them together on the wall. If they grow towards each other, the couple will marry; if away, they will become estranged. _Nantucket, Mass., and Western Massachusetts._ 257. Break off a piece of dodder or "lovevine," twirl it round the head three times and drop it on a bush behind you. If it grows, the lover is true; if not, he is false. _Tennessee._ 258. Twist a mullein-stalk nearly off after naming it. If it lives, he or she loves you; if not, not. _Newton, Mass., and Tennessee._ 259. After proceeding as above, count the number of new shoots that spring up (if any). The number shows how many children will result from the marriage. _Greene Co., Mo._ 260. Put a pea-pod with nine peas over the door. The first one who comes under it you will marry. _New England._ 261. Pluck three thistles in bloom, cut off the purple part and put the remainder of the flower in water over night, after naming. The one that blooms out over night you will marry. _St. John, N.B., and Northern Ohio._ 262. Saturday night walk round a tall white yarrow three times, saying,-- Good evening, good evening, Mr. Yarrow. I hope I see you well to-night, And trust I'll see you at meetin' to-morrow. Then pluck the head, put it inside the dress, and sleep with it. The first person you meet with, to speak to, at church will be your husband. _Deerfield, Mass._ RING. 263. Suspend a ring by a hair from the finger. Let it swing over a tumbler. The number of strokes against the side of the tumbler indicates the number of years of age of the future husband. _Prince Edward Island._ 264. Hang a gold ring over a glass of water, from a hair, saying the name of some man. If the ring strikes the side of the glass three times you will marry him. _Willimantic, Conn._ 265. Put three saucers on the table, and walk round it blindfolded three times, then put a finger in a saucer. One saucer contains a gold ring, one soapsuds, one is empty. Repeat twice (making nine in all). If one touches the ring, she will marry an unmarried man; if the suds, she will marry a widower; if the empty one, she will be an old maid. The one touched two out of three times is the fate. _Central Maine._ 266. If a piece of wedding-cake is passed through a ring and put in the left stocking, then placed under the pillow and slept on three nights running, you will dream of your lover, or he or she will come to you. _New England._ STARS. 267. If you look at a bright star intently before retiring, you will dream of your sweetheart. _Alabama._ 268. Count nine stars for nine successive nights. (If a rainy or cloudy night intervene, the charm is broken, and the project must be begun again.) The person you dream of on the ninth night will be your future partner in life. _Prince Edward Island._ 269. Count nine stars for nine consecutive nights, and the person you dream of the last night is your intended. _Prince Edward Island and Alabama._ 270. Count nine stars for nine nights in succession, and the first young gentleman with whom you shake hands is to be your future husband. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 271. For three successive nights look out of the window and name three stars. Walk to bed backward and without speaking. The one you dream of two nights out of three will be your husband. _Central Maine._ 272. Have some one call a star which you have picked out, by the name of a young man. The next time you meet this man, if his face is toward you, he loves you; if his side, he likes you; if his back, he hates you. _Province of Quebec and Bedford, Mass._ TEA-LEAVES. 273. After drinking tea, turn the cup upside down, whirl it round three times, set it down in the saucer, whirl again, take it up, turn right side up, and look at the grounds. If all are settled in the bottom of the cup, you will be married right off. If they stay on the side, the number of grounds will be the number of years before marriage. The fine dust in the bottom means trouble, a wish, a letter, or a journey. _Somewhat general in the United States._ 274. Take a "beau" (a little stem) from the tea and put it in your shoe. The first man you meet you will marry. _St. John, N.B._ 275. Sticks of tea in the teacup denote beaux. Name them, and bite them, and the hardest loves you best. _Massachusetts._ WALKING ABROAD. 276. Go to walk and turn back. The first man you meet you'll marry. _Massachusetts._ 277. If you walk the length of seven rails of a railroad track, the first man that speaks to you after you get off will be your future husband. _Bedford, Mass._ 278. Take a looking-glass and walk backwards to the wall, and you will see your future husband's picture. _Nashua, N.H._ 279. If you walk with a gentleman (for the first time), and have on new shoes and go over a bridge, you will marry him. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 280. If a young woman walking into a strange place picks up three pebbles and puts them under her pillow, she will marry the young man she dreams of. _Carbonear, N.F._ 281. Run three times around the house, and on the third round a vision of your husband will rise before you. _Alabama._ WATER. 282. Float two cambric needles on water and name them. If they float together, they'll marry. If they float apart, they won't marry. _Petit Codiac, N.B._ 283. Girls prepare basins of dirty and of clean water. If a blindfolded girl puts a stick, with which she reaches about, into the dirty water, she will marry a widower. If into clean water, she will marry a young man. _Labrador._ 284. Place three basins on the floor, one containing dirty water, another clear water, and the third empty. Let the (blindfolded?) person crawl up to them on her hands and knees. The one she touches will foretell her fate. The clear water means she is to marry a rich man, the dirty water, a poor man, and the empty basin no man at all. 285. Make ready a mirror, a lamp, a basin of water, a towel and soap. Go to bed backward, not speaking afterwards, and lie awake till midnight. If your sweetheart comes and washes, combs his hair, and looks at you, you'll be married. If you don't see him, you'll see your coffin. (Both sexes.) _Labrador._ 286. When a pot is boiling over, put a small stick in one of the ears and name it for the one you like best. If he loves you in return, the water will cease to boil over; if not, it will continue. _Double Creek, Md._ 287. Let two girls wash and wipe the dishes together, then put a dish of water behind the door with a broom-handle in it. Two men will come in who will be the husbands of the two projectors. _Deer Isle, Me._ 288. Run molten lead into hot water; the shape of the pellets formed shows the occupation of your future sweetheart. _Labrador._ 289. Pour molten lead on a hearth; the shape the metal assumes in cooling foretells the occupation of one's future husband. _General in the United States._ VARIOUS. 290. On accidentally making two lines rhyme, kiss your hand, and you will be so fortunate as to see your lover before nine that night. _Alabama._ 291. Put a looking-glass under the pillow, and you will dream of your lover. _Green Harbor, N.F._ 292. Tie a true lover's knot (of shavings) and place it under the pillow. You will dream of your lover, even if at that time he is unknown to you. _Newfoundland._ 293. Steal a salt herring from a grocery store, eat it, don't speak after eating, and the first man you dream of will marry you. 294. Make a little ladder of sticks, place it under the head at night, and you'll dream of your future husband. _Patten, Me._ 295. Swallow a chicken's heart whole, and the first man you kiss afterwards will be your future husband. _Winn, Me._ 296. Take three grains of coffee, put one notch on one, two on another, put them in a glass of water under your bed, and name them. The one that sprouts is the one you are going to marry. _Alabama._ 297. Light a match, and the way the flame goes shows where your future husband lives. _Bedford, Mass._ 298. Stand two matches on a hot stove, sulphur end down, and name them for yourself and a marriageable acquaintance of the opposite sex. If both stand or fall together, it is a sign that you will live and die together. If one fall, it is a sign that one will leave the other. _Cape Breton._ 299. Go out in spring and turn up a brick on the ground, and look under it at the clay. The color of the clay denotes the color of the hair of your future husband. _Chestertown, Md._ 300. Cut your finger-nails nine Sundays in succession, and your sweetheart will dine with you. _Alabama._ 301. Throw a ball of yarn into an unoccupied house, and holding the end of the yarn, wind, saying, "I wind and who holds?" The one who is to be your future wife or husband will be seen in the house. _Ohio._ 302. Take a hair from your head. Have some one else take one from his, cross them, and rub them over each other, and the last thing you say before one breaks will be the first thing said after you are married. _Cambridge, Mass._ CHAPTER V. HALLOWEEN AND OTHER FESTIVALS. Any of the projects quoted in the last chapter are perhaps more likely to be practised on Halloween than at other times. However, as girls do amuse themselves by such fortune-seeking at other times, particularly the first time they sleep in a room, the various projects have been divided into two chapters, according to the way in which the various narrators classed them. That is, when a charm was said to belong to Halloween, it was so classed. When no definite time was set for trying the charm, it was simply put under "projects." 303. A Halloween custom is to fill a tub with water and drop into it as many apples as there are young folks to try the trick. Then each one must kneel before the tub and try to bite the apples without touching them with the hands. The one who bites one first will marry first. _Alabama._ 304. On Halloween hang an apple by the door just the height of the chin. Rub the chin with saliva, stand about six inches from the apple, and hit the chin against the apple. If it sticks to the chin, you will be married, and your true love will stick to you. _St. John, N.B._ 305. A girl goes to a field on Halloween at midnight to steal cabbages. The first one whom she meets on her return will be her husband. _Boston, Mass._ 306. On Halloween at midnight a young lady in her night-dress walks backward into the garden and pulls up a cabbage. She will see her future husband over her shoulder. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 307. I wind, I wind, my true love to find, The color of his hair, the clothes he'll wear, The day he is married to me. Throw a ball of yarn into a barn, old house, or cellar, and wind, repeating the above lines, and the true love will appear and wind with you. To be tried at twelve o'clock at night, on Halloween. _Maine._ 308. Shortly before midnight a pure white bowl is procured, that has never been touched by any lips save those of a new-born infant. If it is a woman whose fortune is to be tried (and it generally is) the child must be a male. The bowl is filled with water from a spring-well, after which twenty-six pieces of white paper about an inch square, on each of which must be written one letter of the alphabet, are placed in the bowl with the letters turned downward. These must be dropped in as the clock strikes midnight, or all will fail. All being ready, the maiden interested repeats the lines:-- Kind fortune, tell me where is he Who my future lord shall be; From this bowl all that I claim Is to know my lover's name. The bowl is then securely locked away, and must not be disturbed till sunrise the following morning, when she is placed before it blindfolded. She then picks out the same number of letters as there are in her own name. After these are all out the bandage is removed from her eyes, and the paper letters spread out before her. She manages them so as to spell a man's name as best she can with the letters at her disposal. The name thus found will be that of her future husband. _Trinity and Catalina Bays, N.F._ 309. On Halloween a girl is to go through a graveyard, steal a cabbage and place it above the house-door. The one on whom the cabbage falls as the door is opened is to be the girl's husband. _Massachusetts._ 310. On Halloween walk backwards from the front door, pick up dust or grass, bring it in, wrap it in paper, put it under your pillow, and dream. _Pennsylvania._ 311. On Halloween put an egg to roast before the fire and leave the doors and windows open. When it begins to sweat a cat will come in and turn it. After the cat will come the man you are to marry, and he will turn it. If you are to die unmarried, the shadow of a coffin will appear. _Chestertown, Md._ 312. On Halloween go upstairs backwards, eating a hard boiled egg without salt, and looking in the glass. You will see your future husband in the glass, looking over your shoulder. _St. John, N.B._ 313. On Halloween go down the cellar stairs backward, carrying a mirror into which you look. A face will be seen over your shoulder which will be that of your future husband. _General in the United States._ 314. On the last night of October place a mirror and a clock in a room that has not been used for some time, and at a quarter to twelve take a lighted candle and an apple, and finish eating the apple just as the clock strikes twelve, and then look in the mirror and you will see your future husband. _Alabama._ 315. On Halloween put a ring in a dish of mashed potatoes, and the one who gets the ring will be married first. _Boston, Mass._ 316. On Halloween mash potatoes and conceal in the mass a ring, a coin, and a button. Divide it into as many portions as there are persons present. The ring denotes marriage, the coin riches, and the button misfortune. _Massachusetts._ 317. "Silent Supper." On Halloween set a table as if for supper, with as many seats at the table as there are girls, each girl standing behind a chair at the table. The one you are to marry will come in and take the chair in front of you. _Chestertown, Md._ 318. On Halloween write names of three men on three pieces of paper, roll them into balls, put these into balls made of Indian meal (wet so as to roll up), put the balls of meal into a basin of water: whichever one rises to the top bears the name of the one you'll marry. _Salem, Mass._ 319. On Halloween, girls place three saucers beside each other, two filled with earth and water, in the other a ring. They are respectively death, cloister or unmarried life, and marriage. _Convent School, Manchester, N.H._ 320. On Easter Monday, put on one black garter and one yellow one, and wear them constantly, and you'll have a proposal before the year is out. _Chestertown, Md._ 321. Knit a garter and color it yellow. Don it on Easter Day. Wear it for a year. The wearer will be engaged before the year is out. _Salem, Mass._ 322. On May first look in an unused well, and you'll see the face of your future husband or wife. _New Hampshire._ 323. If you look into a well at exactly twelve o'clock, on the first day of May, through a smoked glass, you will see your future husband. _Alabama._ 324. Hold a mirror over a well on May first, and you will see the image of your future husband or wife. _Talladega, Ala._ 325. On Midsummer's Day wet a new garment in running water and hang across a chair, wrong side out, to dry. At twelve noon or midnight the one who is to marry you will be seen turning the garment. _Labrador._ 326. Place an egg in a tumbler on St. John's Day. The tumbler being half filled with water, an egg is broken into it at early dawn, and it is placed in the window, where it remains untouched till sundown. At that time the broken egg is supposed to have assumed a special shape, in which the ingenious maiden sees dimly outlined the form of her future lord, or some emblem of his calling. _Newfoundland._ CHAPTER VI. LOVE AND MARRIAGE. ENGAGEMENT. 327. If you are a bridesmaid three times you will never stand in the middle. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 328. Three times a bridesmaid, never a bride. _New England._ 329. Don't let another person put on your engagement ring, taken from your finger, or the engagement will be broken. _Bathurst, N.B._ 330. The mother-in-law's test of the incoming daughter-in-law is to place a broom on the floor. If the daughter removes it and places it on one side, she will be a good housewife; if she steps over it, she will be a bad housewife. _Labrador._ 331. A girl will have as many children after marriage as she has "holders" given her before marriage. _Eastern Massachusetts._ ATTIRE OF THE BRIDE. 332. If you try on your wedding dress before the ceremony, you will not be happy. _Cambridge, Mass._ 333. The bride should wear a borrowed garter, and also a yellow garter. _Boston, Mass._ 334. If a bride wear a yellow garter tied on by a girl friend, the latter will be married inside the year. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 335. The bride should wear Something old, Something new, Something borrowed, And something blue. _Very common._ 336. Wear no black at a wedding; it foretells ill luck. _Massachusetts._ 337. To be married in a brown dress is good luck; black is bad. _Bathurst, N.B._ 338. To be married in anything but white garments indicates bad luck for the bride, white being emblematical of innocence. They say that white is a heavenly hue. Another has added, It may be so, but the sky is blue. _Massachusetts._ 339. White is emblematical of holiness and truth. Blue is emblematical of peace and security; bright green of true learning, as being the uniform clothing of nature. _Maine and Massachusetts._ 340. A bride must not look in the glass after her toilet is complete, _i.e._, she must add a glove or some article after leaving the mirror. _Maine and Massachusetts._ 341. It is bad luck for a bride to keep any of the pins that she used when she was married. _Alabama._ 342. You will be unhappy if you lose your wedding ring. _General in the United States._ 343. If the bride just before leaving the house throws her bouquet over the banisters, the one who catches it is next to be wedded. _Philadelphia, Pa._ 344. If a drop of blood gets on a garment in making, it will be one of your wedding garments. LUCKY DAYS. 345. Marry in Lent, Live to repent. _New York._ 346. The day after a wedding is called the bride's day, the next day the groom's day; the condition of the weather on these days will indicate whether their lives are to be happy or otherwise. _Salem, Mass., and Queen Anne Co., Md._ 347. The wedding day is the bride's day, and the weather foretells her married life. The following is the bridegroom's, and his married life is shown in the same manner. The third day shows how they will live together. _New York._ 348. The two days before the wedding are the bride's days. If they are pleasant, she will have good luck, etc. _Waltham, Mass._ 349. Marriage days. Monday--a bad day. Tuesday--you will have a good husband and will live long. Wednesday--a grand day; you will have a good husband, and will live happily, but will have some trouble. Thursday--a bad day. Friday--a bad day. Saturday--no luck at all. Sunday--no luck at all. _Baltimore, Md. (negro)._ 350. Wednesday is the luckiest day on which to be married. Saturday is the unluckiest. Friday is also unlucky. _Bathurst, N.B._ THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY. 351. Happy is the bride that the sun shines on. _Northern Ohio._ 352. If it rains on the wedding, the bride will cry all her married life. _Talladega, Ala._ 353. To marry in a storm betokens an unhappy life. _Peabody, Mass._ 354. It is unlucky to drop the ring at the marriage ceremony. _New York._ 355. A bride must step over the church sill with her right foot. _Orange Co., N.Y._ 356. A double wedding is unlucky; one of the marriages will be unhappy. _Massachusetts._ 357. The pair to be married should stand in line with the cracks in the floor, and not at right angles to them. _Omaha, Neb._ 358. When a couple are married and are driving off, if old shoes are thrown after them for good luck, and one of the shoes lodges on the coach or carriage, it is a sign that one of the party will die before the year is out. _Waltham, Mass._ 359. After the marriage ceremony is performed, the one that walks first from the altar is the one who will die first, either bride or groom. _Alabama._ 360. Old slippers or rice must be thrown after a bride for good luck. _General in the United States._ 361. If the younger sister is married before the elder, the latter will have to dance in a pig's trough. _Western Massachusetts._ 362. Runaway matches will prove unlucky. _New York._ 363. It is a sign of ill luck to take off the wedding ring. _General in the United States._ COURTING AND WEDDING SIGNS. 364. If your apron string becomes loosened, your true love is thinking of you. _New York._ 365. If your apron drops off, you'll lose your beau. The same is true if you lose your garter. _Stevens Point, Wis._ 366. If you sink a bottle in water, it will weaken your love. _Massachusetts._ 367. Step over the broom, and you will be an old maid. 368. If a girl wet her apron in washing, it is a sign that she will have a drunken husband. _Labrador, Scilly Cove, N.F., and New England._ 369. To hang clothes wrong side out is an antidote for a drunken husband. _Maine._ 370. If a girl finds a cobweb in the door, it is a sign that her beau calls elsewhere. _Northern Ohio._ 371. To find many cobwebs in the kitchen means that there is no courting there. _Boston, Mass._ 372. When the collar slips around and the opening comes to the ear, your lover is thinking of you. _Salem, Mass._ 373. If you button your dress up unevenly, it is a sign that your lover is thinking of you. _Miramichi, N.B._ 374. If you begin to button your dress unevenly, you will be a widow. _Central Maine._ 375. If you are cross when you are young, you will be an old maid. _Alabama._ 376. If you fall up stairs, you will have a new beau. _Winn, Me._ 377. Tumble up stairs and you'll not get married within the year. (Hence old maids were formerly said to be careful how they went up stairs.) _New England._ 378. Stumbling either up or down stairs means you'll be married inside a year. _Cape Breton._ 379. If you sit on a table, you will not be married that year. _New England, New York, and Alabama._ 380. Dropping hairpins from your hair means that your beau is thinking of you. _General in the United States._ 381. If a lady dons a gentleman's hat, it is a sign that she wants a kiss. 382. If your lips itch, it is a sign some one will kiss you. _Boston, Mass._ 383. If the outside of your nose itches, some one out of town loves you, and if the inside of your nose, then you are loved by some one in town. _Western Massachusetts._ 384. If a gentleman and lady are riding and are tipped out, they will be married. _Nashua, N.H._ 385. Make a rhyme when talking, and you'll see your true love before Saturday night. _Massachusetts._ 386. Should your shoestring come unloosened, 'T is a sure sign and a true, At that very moment Your true love thinks of you. _New York._ 387. If your shoe comes untied, your sweetheart is talking about you. _Alabama._ 388. If you want to sneeze and can't, it is a sign some one loves you, and doesn't dare to tell it. _Boston, Mass._ 389. If you can't drink a cup of tea, you must be love-sick. _Labrador._ 390. Stub your toe See your beau. _Massachusetts and Maine._ 391. If four persons cross hands in shaking hands on taking leave, one will marry before the year is out. _Prince Edward Island, Eastern Massachusetts, and New York._ 392. If hands are crossed at the table while passing a dish, a wedding will follow. The top hand belongs to the person who will be married. _Pennsylvania._ 393. To have two teaspoons in a saucer signifies marriage in a year. 394. If a gentleman stayed to dinner and by accident got two knives, two forks, or two spoons, at his plate, he would be married within a year, and there was no help for it. _Connecticut._ 395. Knock over your chair on rising from the table, and you won't get married that year. _Peabody, Mass., New York, and Talladega, Ala._ 396. If a girl sew a button on the clothing of a marriageable man, she will marry him within the year. _New England._ 397. If you have a dress with rings for a figure in it, it is a sign you will be married before it is worn out. _New York._ 398. If you have hearts in a figure in a dress or in a shawl, you will be married before it is worn out. _New York._ 399. If you have a new dress and there are roses in it, the person who owns the dress will be married before the dress is worn out. _Salem, Mass._ 400. Pins in the front of a dress waist are a sign that the wearer will be an old maid. _New Hampshire._ 401. If, in making a dress, the thread kinks badly, the person for whom it is made will either die or get married before the dress is worn out. _Alabama._ 402. If you have a dress tried on, and any pin catches in the underclothing, every pin means that it is a year before you will be married; hence dressmakers are especially careful to pin the dress in such a way that it will slip off easily. _Boston, Mass._ 403. If you have good success in building a fire, you will have a smart husband; if bad success, a lazy husband. _St. John, N.B., and Ohio._ 404. If a lock of hair over the forehead ("widow's lock") be cut before marriage, the girl will be a widow. _Labrador._ 405. Get a lady friend to knit you a yellow garter. She must ask a gentleman unknown to you to knit ten rows. You will meet and marry the gentleman within a year. 406. The exchange of one yellow garter means a proposal in six months. _Washington, D.C._ 407. If a girl wears a yellow garter (which has been given to her) every day for a year, or every day and night for six months, at the end of that time she will be married. _Montreal, P.Q._ 408. If you burn a lover's letter, he will never marry you. _Central Maine._ 409. If, at a dinner, a single person is inadvertently placed between two married people (husband or wife), it means marriage for him or her within a year. 410. If you pass between two men on the street, you'll marry both of them sometime. _Champaign, Ill._ 411. If you drop a knitting-needle, you won't be married during the present year. 412. If you break many needles in a garment, it will be worn at a wedding. 413. If you draw blood from a prick of the needle while making a garment, it is a sign you will be kissed the first time you wear it. _Boston, Mass._ 414. Should needles break while sewing on a new garment, it is a sign that the owner will be married before it is worn out. _New York._ 415. When a young man goes to see a girl for the first time, and the signs of the zodiac are in the heart, they will one day marry. _Harmony, Me._ 416. If you step on a cigar stub, you will marry the first man you meet. _Salem, Mass._ 417. Two spoons in a cup is the sign of a wedding. _Bathurst, N.B., and Wisconsin._ 418. If you get two spoons in your cup or saucer, you'll marry a second husband or wife. 419. If a couple out walking together stumble, it is a sign that they will be married. _Labrador._ 420. Sit on the table, Married before you're able. _Mattawamkeag, Me._ 421. If a girl gets the last piece of bread on a plate at the table, she will have a handsome husband. _Massachusetts._ 422. If all of three dishes at the table are eaten, all of the unmarried people at the table will be married within the year. _Northern Massachusetts._ 423. "If the tea-kettle boils, you will boil your beaux away," is an old saying. _Salem, Mass._ 424. If you have a cup of tea handed to you, and there are little bits floating on top, they represent the number of husbands you will have--one, two, or three. 425. A girl that takes her thimble to the table will be an old maid. _Northern Ohio._ 426. Three in a row, Meet your beau. The one in the middle will have him. _Massachusetts._ 427. Three lamps in a row, the one who sets down the third will be soon married. _Massachusetts._ 428. Three lamps in a row foretell a wedding in the family. _New York._ 429. To look into a tumbler when you are drinking is a sign that you will be an old maid. If you look over the side, you are a flirt. _Massachusetts._ 430. To wash the hands under a pump denotes that you will be a widow. _Chestertown, Md._ CHAPTER VII. WISHES. 431. If you take a baby in your arms for the first time, and at the same time wish, you will get your wish before the year is out. _Quebec._ 432. Take your Bible and wish. If it opens at "and it came to pass," you will get your wish. 433. Wish upon a candle on blowing it out. If it glows long, you will get your wish. If it smokes, it signifies a death. _Ohio._ 434. If a speck of carbon comes on the wick when burning, and you wish for something, wet your finger and touch the speck. If it sticks to your finger, you will get the wish, and _vice versa_. _Plymouth, O._ 435. Swallow a chicken's heart whole and make a wish. It will come true. _Pennsylvania and Ohio._ 436. Throw an egg out of the second story window and wish. If it does not break, you will get your wish. _Deer Isle, Me._ 437. Throw an eyelash over your shoulder. If it falls from your finger in doing this, your wish will come true. If it remains on the finger, your wish will not come to pass. _New York._ 438. Find a stray eyelash; place it on the back of the hand with a wish; blow it off. If it blows off at the first trial, the wish will come true. _St. John, N.B., and Pennsylvania._ 439. Put a loose eyelash on the back of your hand. It signifies a letter. Wish from whom the letter may come, carry it three times around your head, then throw it over your shoulder, and you will get your wish. _New England._ 440. Put an eyewinker down inside your clothes, wish, and you'll get your wish. _Maine._ 441. Put an eyewinker on the back of the hand, knock that hand with the other so as to throw the eyewinker over the shoulder, and at the same time wish. If the eyewinker is not seen again, the wish will come true. _Stoneham, Mass._ 442. If you wish on the first thing you eat in the season, the wish will come true. 443. Wish with two paper slips or grass blades, the ends only being shown. The longer wins. 444. Wish on a load of hay, and you'll be sure to get it. _Winn, Me._ 445. Wish when you see a hay-cart, don't look at it again, and you'll get the wish. _New Jersey._ 446. See a white horse; don't look at his tail, but wish. 447. Wish on a "calico" horse. 448. You may wish on a row of empty barrels, or on a piebald horse, but you must not look on the object a second time. 449. Wish on a load of empty barrels, and you will get your wish. _Peabody, Mass._ 450. Write the names of one hundred people who (by request) have bowed to you, bury the paper in a secret spot, and at the same time wish. If no one sees you, you will get your wish. 451. Wish while holding a lighted match until it is extinct, and you'll get the wish. 452. If by chance two use the same words, lock the little fingers, and wish before speaking, saying "Shakespeare" at the end. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 453. Let two persons break the wishing-bone of a fowl; the one who gets the longest piece will get his wish. _New Jersey and Ohio._ 454. If you say two sentences that rhyme, make a wish, then if you make a rhyme unintentionally and wish before you speak again, your wish will come to pass. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 455. When you first see a sleigh in the fall of the year, make a wish, and you will get it. _Winn, Me._ 456. Wish at the first snowflake of the season, and you will get your wish. _Westport, Mass._ 457. Put a ring on the finger of another person, saying, "I wish it on until such a time," and if it is not removed before the expiration of the period named, the wish will come to pass. _Connecticut and Ohio._ 458. When you see a falling star, wish. _New Jersey._ 459. To wish on a star, when you see the first star come out, say: Star light, star bright, First star I see to-night, I wish I may, I wish I might Have the wish I wish to-night. Wish what you please and it will come true, but the wish must not be mentioned to any one. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 460. Count nine evening stars in succession, and you will have your wish. _Massachusetts._ 461. Capture a floating thistledown, breathe on it, make a wish to see or hear from an absent friend, blow in his or her supposed direction, and it will carry your message. _Ohio._ 462. Make a wish while throwing a leaf into running water. If it lands right side up, you will have your wish or good luck. _Lebanon, N.H._ CHAPTER VIII. DREAMS. ANIMALS. 463. To dream of cod or caplin is a sign of rain[TN-3] _Newfoundland._ 464. To dream of a good catch of fish is a sign of rain. _Heart's Content, N.F._ 465. To dream of catching fish is good luck. _Prince Edward Island._ 466. If you dream you catch fish, it is a sign you will make a good bargain, according to the size of the fish. 467. To dream of catching a fish means money. _Cape Breton._ 468. To dream of flies means sickness. _Massachusetts._ 469. To dream of flies is good luck. _Peabody, Mass._ 470. To dream of lice is a sign of death. _New Harbor, N.F._ 471. To dream of lice is a sign of enemies. _Topsail, N.F._ 472. To dream of lice is a sign of "coming wealth." _Alabama._ 473. To dream of lice means sickness in the family. _Ohio._ 474. To dream of snakes means enemies. _Cape Breton. General in the United States._ In some localities it is said if you kill the snake in your dream you will conquer your enemies. 475. To dream of porpoises is bad luck. _Labrador._ 476. It is lucky to dream of pigs. _Bruynswick, N.Y._ 477. Dreaming of (or seeing) rats (numerous) is a sign of death. _Heart's Content, N.F._ 478. To dream of a rat is the sign of an enemy. _Boston, Mass._ 479. To dream of rats is a sign of thieves. _Central Maine and Chestertown, Md._ 480. It is a sign of bad news to dream about a white horse. _Quebec._ 481. To dream of a white horse three nights in succession is a sign of the death of an elderly person. _Central New York._ 482. To dream of a white horse is a sign some one of the family will die within a year. _Maine._ 483. To dream of three white colts is a sign of a young person dying. _Central New York._ 484. If you dream of a black horse, it is a sure sign of death. _Peabody, Mass._ 485. To dream of a black horse is a sign of a wedding; of a white horse is a sign of a letter. _Cape Breton._ 486. To dream of a horse is a sign of a letter. _Miramichi, N.B._ 487. To dream of horses is a sign of wind. _Topsail, N.F._ 488. Dreaming of cows is a sign of a hostile, angry woman. _Bay Roberts, N.F._ 489. To dream of dogs and horses is a sign of good luck. _St. John, N.B._ 490. To dream of catching a bird is a sign of a letter. _Cape Breton._ 491. If you dream of a bird in a cage you will have trouble with your beau. _New England._ 492. To dream of cats means enemies. _Cape Breton._ 493. To dream of a cat means an enemy. If in the dream you conquer the cat, you will conquer the enemy. _Miramichi, N.B._ COLORS. 494. To dream of white things is lucky (or sign of death?). _Newfoundland._ 495. Dreaming of white things is a sign of snow in summer. _Labrador and Newfoundland._ 496. Dreaming of working on white cloth is a sign of death. _Newfoundland._ 497. To dream of white or red is unlucky. To dream of black is lucky. DEAD PERSONS. 498. To dream of a dead father is lucky. _Labrador._ 499. To dream of a dead mother is unlucky; it brings sorrow. _Labrador._ 500. To dream of the dead is a sign of hearing from the living. _Topsail and New Harbor, N.F._ 501. To dream of the dead is a sign of rain. _New Harbor, N.F._ 502. To dream of seeing a deceased friend means rain within a few days. _Talladega, Ala._ 503. To dream of a dead person means a letter next day. _Northern Maine._ 504. If you dream of the dead, you'll hear from the living. _Prince Edward Island; General in the United States._ EARTH. 505. To dream of walking in a garden is a sign of a graveyard. 506. To dream of ploughed ground indicates that a grave will be dug for some member of the family before the year ends. _Western New York._ 507. To dream of seeing fresh earth bodes misfortune. _Northern Ohio._ 508. To dream of digging ground, or white potatoes, is a sign of death. _Harbor Grace, N.F._ 509. To dream of seeing the ground unseasonably ploughed means death. _Nova Scotia._ EGGS. 510. To dream of eggs means you will get a beating,[TN-4] _Prince Edward Island._ 511. Dreaming of eggs is a sign of anger; if broken, all over. _New Harbor, N.F._ 512. To dream of whole eggs is a sign of a "fuss;" of broken eggs is not. _Chestertown, Md._ 513. To dream of a nest full of eggs and a bird sitting on them means you will receive something new. _Cape Breton._ FIRE AND SMOKE. 514. It is bad luck to dream of fire. _St. John, N.B._ 515. To dream of fire portends sickness. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 516. If you dream of fire, it is a sign of trouble in the family. _Alabama._ 517. If you dream of fire, you'll have a row. _Massachusetts._ 518. To dream of fire is a sign of anger. _Newfoundland and Labrador._ 519. To dream of fire means hasty news. To dream of smoke means trouble. _Miramichi, N.B._ 520. Dream of flame out of season, You will be angry without a reason. 521. If you dream about a large blaze of fire, you will get some money unexpectedly. _Alabama._ 522. Dreaming of smoke indicates trouble. _Alabama._ 523. To dream of smoke means death. _Wisconsin._ HUMAN BEINGS. 524. To dream of a baby is a sign of death. 525. To dream of babies is unlucky or is a sign of trouble. _General in the United States._ 526. To dream of carrying a child is unlucky. 527. It is bad luck or death to dream of naked clinging (climbing?) children. _Labrador and Newfoundland._ 528. It is ill luck to dream of a priest. _Central Maine._ 529. If you dream of a negro, you will surely quarrel. 530. If you dream of being kissed by or being very intimate with a woman friend, it means a disagreement. 531. If you dream of a person of the opposite sex three nights in succession, you are sure to marry him. _Alabama._ 532. If you dream of a gentleman, you will never marry him. _Bedford, Mass._ 533. If you dream of a person as going two ways at once, it is a sign the person dreamed of will die before the year is out. _Boston, Mass._ 534. To dream of a naked man is a sign of the death of a woman, and _vice versa_. _Baltimore, Md. (negro)._ 535. To dream of a drunken husband or man is unlucky. _Labrador._ 536. To dream of men is lucky. _Newfoundland._ 537. To dream of women is unlucky. _Bay Roberts, N.F._ METEOROLOGICAL PHENOMENA. 538. To dream of walking through snow means sickness. _St. John, N.B._ 539. To dream of a snowstorm is a sign of the speedy death of a relative. _South Framingham, Mass._ 540. To dream of snow in spring (May) is a sign of a good catch of fish. _Trinity Bay, N.F._ 541. If a fisherman dreams of its raining, it is a sign of a good catch of fish. _Green Harbor, N.F._ 542. Anything dreamed "on the east wind," _i.e._, when the east wind is blowing, will come true. _Chestertown, Md. (negro)._ MONEY AND METALS. 543. To dream of silver money is a sign of sickness. 544. To dream of small change (money) is bad luck. _Newfoundland._ 545. To dream of gold or silver is good luck; of paper is bad. _Boston, Mass._ 546. If you dream of gold, it is a sign of an increase of property. _Alabama._ TEETH. 547. To dream of teeth is unlucky. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 548. It is death or bad luck to dream of teeth falling out. _Newfoundland and Northern Ohio._ 549. To dream of losing a tooth means a death. _Nova Scotia and Cape Breton._ 550. To dream of pulling out your teeth means sickness. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 551. To dream of losing a tooth means losing a friend. _Virginia._ 552. If you dream of having a front tooth drop out, you will lose a near relative within a year. If a back tooth, a distant relative. WATER. 553. To dream of smooth water means good luck; of rough water means ill luck. _St. John, N.B._ 554. Dreaming of running water means approaching death to the dreamer or some near relative. 555. To dream of clear, sparkling water means good luck. _Miramichi, N.B._ 556. To dream of milky or roily water means death or disaster. _Miramichi, N.B._ 557. To dream of seeing muddy water signifies that you will have trouble. _Alabama._ 558. To dream of clear water means prosperity; of muddy water means trouble. _Boston, Mass._ 559. To dream of washing is a sign of a move. _Cape Breton and Wisconsin._ WEDDINGS AND FUNERALS. 560. To dream of marriage is a sign of a funeral. _Topsail and Carbonear, Trinity Bay, N.F._ 561. If you dream of a marriage, it is the sign of a death; and if you dream of a death, it is the sign of a marriage. _Alabama._ 562. If you dream of a marriage, you will hear of a death next day. _Talladega, Ala._ 563. If you dream of a wedding, you will hear of the death of a friend in that month. _Pennsylvania._ 564. To dream of a wedding means death. _Mifflintown, Pa._ 565. Dream on a piece of wedding cake. Write names on slips of paper and pull them out. The one you pull twice is the one you will marry. _Massachusetts._ 566. Sleep on a piece of wedding cake, and the one you dream about will be your future partner in life. _New Brunswick._ 567. Sleep on a piece of wedding cake, and if you have the same dream three nights in succession, your dream will come to pass. _New York._ 568. To dream of a funeral means a wedding. MISCELLANEOUS. 569. To dream of raw meat is a sign of ill luck. 570. To dream of eating meat is a sign of sickness. _Boston._ 571. To see while asleep fresh meats of any kind is a warning of death. _Alabama._ 572. To dream of blood is a sign of sickness. _Alabama._ 573. To dream of blood is a sign that some one will "scandalize" you. _Baltimore, Md. (negro)._ 574. To dream of onions is good. 575. To dream of flowers is a sign of sickness. _Alabama._ 576. To dream of Fruit out of season, Trouble without reason. _Northern Ohio._ 577. To dream of cherries is evil. 578. To dream of an anchor means good luck. _St. John, N.B._ 579. To dream on land of a vessel (with sails set?) is a sign of a funeral. _Labrador and Trinity Bay, N.F._ 580. To dream of small beads or sewing silk is lucky. _Labrador._ 581. What you dream the first night you are in a strange house will come true. _General in the United States._ 582. If you dream the first night you are in a strange bed, your dream will come true. If the dream was of a sweetheart, you will be married. _Trinity Bay and Bay Roberts, N.F._ 583. To dream of losing the sole of your shoe indicates the death of a near friend. _Cape Breton._ 584. To dream of seeing any one wear worn-out shoes means the death of a near relative. _Cape Breton._ 585. To dream of a hole worn in a boot is a sign of being sick. _Newfoundland._ 586. To dream of bad boots is unlucky. _Newfoundland._ 587. Saturday night's dream, Sunday morning told, Will come to pass before it's a week old. _Maine and Massachusetts._ 588. Saturday night dreamt, Sunday morning told, Sure to come true Before a month old. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 589. Relate the dream before breakfast, and it will come true. _General in the United States._ 590. If you dream the same thing three times, it will come true. 591. Dreaming of handling new-made boards is a sign of a coffin. (A carpenter's notion.) _Heart's Content, N.F._ 592. If you dream of seeing a boat drawn or sailing on land, it is a sign of death. _Cape Breton._ 593. If you dream that you see an empty coffin, you will see it filled within a year. 594. To dream of dough in a bread pan is the sign of a coffin. _New Brunswick._ 595. To dream of dough in a black pan is a sign of a corpse. _Miramichi, N.B._ 596. To dream of bread is good luck. _Boston, Mass._ 597. To dream of going in a carriage means you'll travel with a friend. _Cape Breton._ 598. Pick up a stone in a strange place and put it under the pillow for three nights. If you dream, it will come true. _Newfoundland._ 599. To dream of being in a new house is a sign of death. _Harbor Grace, N.F._ 600. Place the heel of one shoe against the instep of the other three nights in a row, and you will dream of your future husband. _Franklin, Mass._ 601. To dream that your sweetheart has the ague means that he loves you. 602. To dream you are a fool is good luck and increase of wealth. 603. Dreaming of persons being sick is a sign of being well. _Newfoundland and New Hampshire._ 604. To dream of a death is a sign of life. 605. To dream of the devil is a sign of good luck. _Trinity Bay, N.F._ 606. To dream you cry means you will laugh. _Boston, Mass._ 607. Dreams go by contraries. _General in the United States._ CHAPTER IX. LUCK. CARDS. 608. At cards, if your luck is poor, walk round your chair three times, lift it, sit down, and your luck is assured. _General in the United States._ 609. At cards, it is bad luck to play against the grain of the table. _General in the United States._ 610. At cards, it is unlucky to turn up your hand before the dealer is through. _Alabama._ 611. At cards, it is common to blow on the deal, without looking at it, for good luck. _Providence, R.I., and Salem, Mass._ DAYS. 612. It is unlucky to travel on Friday. _New York and Pennsylvania._ 613. Never begin a piece of work on Friday; it is bad luck. _General in the United States._ 614. Seafaring men will not sail on Friday. _Somewhat general in the United States._ 615. If you begin a piece of work on Friday, it will be a very short or a very long job. _St. John, N.B._ 616. It is bad luck to cut your finger-nails on Friday. _Pigeon Cove, Mass._ 617. As with the superstitious generally, Friday is a very unlucky day. Housekeepers will prefer paying a quarter's rent extra to going into a house on that day. It is, of course, most unlucky to be married on it. Wednesday is the day considered most favorable for the purpose. _Newfoundland._ 618. If you cut your nails on Sunday, you'll do something you're ashamed of before the week is out. _Maine._ 619. If business is transacted on Sunday, you will lose by it on the coming week. _New York._ 620. Pancake Day is Shrove Tuesday. If you do not eat pancakes on that day, you will have no luck throughout the year. The hens won't lay, etc. _Chestertown, Md._ 621. When the two figures that tell one's age are alike, as 22, 33, etc., some great change in life is to be expected. _Nashua, N.H._ DRESSING. 622. If you put on any garment wrong side out, as, for example, a pair of stockings, never change it, as to do so brings ill luck. This direction is intuitively followed by many people who are entirely free from conscious superstition. _General in the United States._ 623. If you put a garment on wrong side out, you mustn't speak of it, or you will have bad luck. _Maine._ 624. If you put a garment on wrong side out, or a hat on wrong end before, spit on it before turning, to prevent bad luck. _Maine and Ohio._ 625. If a garment is put on wrong side out, it is lucky, but unlucky to turn it. _Prince Edward Island and Massachusetts._ 626. To clothe the left foot before the right one is a sign of misfortune. _Ohio._ 627. If you button up your dress wrong, _i.e._, do not begin with the button and button-hole opposite each other, it means bad luck, or good luck if worn uneven until after sunset. _Cape Breton._ 628. The putting of the left shoe on the right foot, lacing it wrong, or losing a button, are all bad signs. _Alabama._ 629. Walking across the room with one shoe off is a sign of ill luck. _Alabama._ 630. When putting on your shoes and stockings, if you complete dressing one foot before beginning to dress the other, it is a sign you will be disappointed. _Northern Ohio._ HORSESHOES. 631. It is good luck to find a horseshoe. _General in the United States and Canada._ 632. The luck is especially good if the loop end is towards you, that is, if you meet it. _Miramichi, N.B._ 633. If you find horseshoes and pick them up, you will have a horse. 634. The more nails in the horseshoe, the more luck. _Western Pennsylvania._ 635. To find a horseshoe nail is good luck, especially if the head is towards you. _Miramichi, N.B._ 636. If horseshoes are put up over a house for luck, the points should not be placed downwards, or the luck will slip through. PINS. 637. See a pin and pick it up, All the day you'll have good luck; See a pin and pass it by (or "let it lie"), All the day your luck will fly. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 638. See a pin and pick it up, All the day you'll have good luck; See a pin and let it lie, Come to sorrow by and by. _New York._ 639. See a pin and pick it up for luck. If the head is towards you, the luck is slow in coming; if the point is towards you, the luck is quick and sharp. _Boston, Mass._ 640. If you see a pin crosswise, that is, across your path, it means a ride if you pick it up. _Boston, Mass._ 641. "I have known a young lady form a habit of stooping in consequence of keeping the eyes fixed on the ground, in the streets of New York city, in order not to miss the good fortune that might come of picking up a pin. The pin must be thrust into a tree or post, in order to keep the luck as long as it remains fast." _New York, N.Y._ 642. Find a pin and let it lie, You'll want a pin before you die. _Alabama._ 643. See a pin and let it lie, You'll want that pin before you die. _Peabody, Mass._ SALT. 644. It is unlucky to pass salt across the table. 645. Spilling salt is unlucky; throw some over your left shoulder, or burn a pinch to avert ill luck. _Northern Ohio._ 646. It is bad luck to spill salt unless it is burned. _Virginia._ 647. If you spill salt, throw some over your left shoulder, and then crawl under one side of the table and come out on the other, to prevent bad luck. _Bucks Co., Pa._ 648. Spilling salt at table is ill luck to the one towards whom it is spilled. _Iowa._ 649. If you spill salt, you will have a whipping. _New England and Canada._ SWEEPING. 650. If the broom is moved with the rest of the household furniture, you will not be successful. The broom should be burned while standing in the corner, being watched meanwhile, to prevent the house from taking fire. 651. Never sweep the floor after sunset; it is bad luck. _Alabama._ 652. Carrying ashes out of the house after sunset is bad luck. _Virginia._ 653. It is ill luck to sweep dirt out of doors after sunset. _Virginia._ 654. Dirt must not be swept out of doors after dark, or it will bring disaster to the master of the house. This belief is common among negroes and superstitious whites. _Chestertown, Md._ 655. Sailors are unwilling that their friends should sweep after dark, because in that case their wages will be swept away by sickness or otherwise. _Westport, Mass._ TURNING BACK. 656. It is unlucky to turn back for anything after you have set out to go anywhere. _Prince Edward Island._ 657. Returning to the house for something and starting again without sitting down is bad luck. _Virginia._ 658. It will prove unlucky if you return for a forgotten article after you have left the house; but if you seat yourself before leaving the house again, the misfortune will be averted. _New York._ 659. To avert ill luck or disappointment that will come if a person comes back to a house for something forgotten, he must sit down a minute. _General in New England._ 660. To go back into the house for something after starting on a journey is unpropitious. To have it brought out is all right. _Iowa._ 661. If you have to go back to the house after something forgotten, you must not sit down, but stand a moment or two, or else it is bad luck. _Cape Breton._ 662. If you start anywhere and go back, it is bad luck unless you make a cross-mark and spit in it. _Alabama and Kentucky._ MISCELLANEOUS. 663. If two persons shake hands across the gate, they are bringing on themselves ill luck. _Alabama._ 664. It is unlucky to pass under a ladder. _Canada._ 665. Go under a ladder and you will be hanged. 666. Walking under a ladder is considered very unlucky. In the outposts girls will climb the rockiest cliffs to avoid such a contingency. On one occasion in St. John's, where a ladder extended across the sidewalk, of one hundred and twenty-seven girls who came along, only six ventured under it, the rest going along the gutter in mud ankle deep. _Newfoundland._ 667. If, in passing, one parts two people, it is a sign of disappointment to the parter. 668. When two or three people go between different posts, in the entrance of gardens, cemeteries, etc., it is a sign they will be separated or disappointed. _General in the United States._ 669. Sing on the street, Disappointment you'll meet. 670. To count the steps of stairs, as you lie on your back, indicates the number of your troubles. 671. To fall upstairs means good luck; downstairs, ill luck. _Massachusetts._ 672. To stumble downstairs, or on going out in the morning, means bad luck. _Peabody, Mass._ 673. Opals are unlucky. _General in the United States._ 674. The opal is unlucky, unless set with diamonds. _New York._ 675. Don't let the tea-kettle boil so as to make a bubbling or thumping noise, as some say it is unlucky. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 676. A tea-kettle boiling so as to make a bubbling sound is said to boil away luck, and should be removed from the flame. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 677. Never let your dish-water come to a boil, as every bubble means bad luck to the family. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 678. Sewing in the twilight is an ill omen. _Chatham, N.H._ 679. To look over another person's shoulder into a looking-glass means disappointment. _Deer Isle, Me._ 680. When going fishing, fishermen wear white mittens for luck. _Portsmouth, N.H._ 681. It is unlucky to lose a glove. _Bathurst, N.B._ 682. It is bad luck to have any one step across the fishing-pole; you will catch no fish. _Talladega, Ala._ 683. Crawl under a fence, and you will have bad luck. _Western Masssachusetts.[TN-5]_ 684. To step over the feet of any one who is sitting is ill luck. 685. Getting out of bed with the left foot first, or taking anything with the left hand when the right is disengaged, is a sign of bad luck. _Alabama._ 686. In getting out of bed in the morning, the right foot is always to be placed first. _Ohio._ 687. To get out of bed left foot first makes one cross. "He got out of bed left foot first," is a universal saying. 688. In going in at the house door, always put the right foot foremost. This practice is observed by many intelligent people. 689. To sing at the table is a sign you will be disappointed. 690. It is an ill omen to leave the table while eating, to light the lamp. _Western Massachusetts._ 691. To lay the knife and fork crosswise is ill luck. _Peabody, Mass._ 692. When you drop a knife or fork, and it sticks up in the floor, you will have good luck. 693. It is lucky to find a rusty knife or other steel instrument. _Maine._ 694. If a knife be spun round, care should be taken to spin it back again, otherwise it insures bad luck. 695. Often verses of Proverbs xxxi. are assigned to girls and boys respectively according to the day of the month of the birth. _Labrador and Brookline, Mass._ 696. It brings bad luck to the bearer of a ring to have it taken from her finger by another person. _Massachusetts._ 697. Measuring one's waist, as for a dress, will bring ill luck. 698. To turn a loaf of bread upside down is ill luck. _Northern Ohio._ 699. To find a four-leaved clover is lucky; but five-leaved, unlucky. _General in the United States._ 700. When a vessel is launched, break a bottle of wine over her for luck. The bottle is to be broken by a lady. _General in the United States._ 701. Never carry clean wet clothes from one house to another, as it will bring ill luck. _Chestertown, Md._ 702. Do not go into your new house by the back door; if you do you take disaster with you. 703. Never build on a spot where a house has been burned. The second house is likely to go in the same manner. _Maine and Massachusetts._ 704. Light coming in at the window is a bad sign. _Peabody, Mass._ 705. The opening of an umbrella in the house is a sign of bad luck. _General in the United States._ 706. If you drop your umbrella, you will have ill luck if you pick it up yourself; but the ill luck may be averted by having some one else pick it up. _Prince Edward Island._ 707. To carry a hoe through the house is ill luck. _Alabama._ 708. To light three lights with one match is good luck for a week. _Peabody, Mass._ 709. The falling of a chandelier foretells a disaster in the family. _New York._ 710. Breaking a looking-glass shows that you'll have seven years of ill luck. _General in the United States._ 711. If a chair be turned about on one of its forelegs, there will be bad luck in the house all that year. _Talladega, Ala._ 712. A mare-browed man, that is, one whose eyebrows meet, is unlucky and can cast spells. _Newfoundland._ 713. It is unlucky, when going deer-hunting, to meet a red-haired man. _Newfoundland._ CHAPTER X. MONEY. 714. A group of bubbles on a cup of coffee signifies money. _United States._ 715. A mass of bubbles floating on a cup of coffee signifies that money is coming to one. If he can take up the bubbles on his spoon, it indicates that he will get the money, but if they escape he will not. _Prince Edward Island._ 716. If a group of bubbles are floating on the tea or coffee cup, take them up in a spoon, and swallow them unbroken, saying, "Save my money." _Plymouth and Salem, Mass., and New Brunswick._ 717. If when you stir your coffee at breakfast you will try to catch the bubbles on top, you can have as many dollars as you can catch whole ones. _Alabama._ 718. To find money and keep it insures good luck through the year. _Talladega, Ala._ 719. Put the first piece of money you get in the morning into your stocking, and you will have more to add to it before night. _Alabama._ 720. If you find a piece of money the first day of the year, you will have good luck all the rest of the year. _Alabama._ 721. If paper money is folded lengthwise first, it will insure the possession of money. If folded the short fold first, money will not remain in the pocket. _Alabama._ 722. To make a sale in the first place where an agent calls is good luck. For example, a magnifying-glass worth three dollars was sold for seventy-five cents, in order to stop a run of bad luck by making a sale. _Massachusetts._ 723. If your initials spell a word, it means that you will be rich. _Massachusetts and Ohio._ 724. If the right hand itches, it is a sign you will receive money; if the left, you will spend money, because _R_ stands for receive, and _L_ for let go. _New York._ 725. If the left hand itches and you rub it on wood, you'll receive money before the end of the week. Rub it on wood To make it good. _Very common in New Brunswick and New England._ 726. Itching in the palm of the hand means that it will soon receive money. Clap the closed hand into the pocket. _Mt. Desert, Me._ 727. If you place your money according to value, _i.e._, lay it in order, you will be rich. _Bedford, Mass._ 728. An old superstition pertaining to clothing is, that before putting on new clothes a sum of money must be placed in the right-hand pocket, which will insure its always being full. If by mistake, however, it be put in the left hand pocket, the wearer will never have a penny so long as the clothes last. 729. There's a "bag of money," or a "pot of gold," at the end of the rainbow. _General among children._ 730. If you sew in the twilight, you will never be rich. _Miramichi, N.B._ 731. If you mend or sew on a garment while wearing it, you will always be poor. _Bathurst, N.B._ 732. Always shut the doors, or you will never own a house. _Salem, Mass._ 733. Sparks in the soot on the back wall above a coal fire bring wealth. _Rhode Island._ 734. Say "Money" three times at sight of a meteor, and you'll get it, or wish and you'll get it. 735. When you see a shooting star, say "money." As many times as you are able to repeat the word during the fall of the star, so many dollars you will have in your pocket. _Connecticut._ CHAPTER XI. VISITORS. 736. Having a piece of bread and taking another is a sign some one is coming hungry. _Maine, New York, and Pennsylvania._ 737. If you drop a slice of bread with the buttered side up, it is a sign of a visitor. _Bathurst, N.B._ 738. If a broom falls across the threshold, it means a visitor is coming. _Massachusetts._ 739. Three chairs in a row is a sign of a caller. _Bedford, Mass._ 740. Two chairs chancing to be placed back to back denote that a visitor is coming. _Danvers, Mass._ 741. One chair in front of another means a stranger. _Peabody, Mass._ 742. If you go around the chimney without sitting down, you will bring company to that house. _Guilford, Conn._ 743. Company on Sunday means company all the week. _New England._ 744. If you have company on Monday, you will have company every day in the week. _General in the United States._ 745. If you drop the dish-cloth, it is a sign you will have company. _General in the United States._ 746. If you almost drop a dish-cloth and catch it before it falls, it is a sign of a visitor. _Bathurst, N.B._ 747. If you drop a dish-rag, some one is coming hungry. _Alabama._ 748. If the dish-cloth on falling to the floor spreads out, the visitor will be a lady; if it falls in a heap, it will be a gentleman. _Cape Breton and Central Maine._ 749. If you drop the tea-towel, it is a sign of company. _Pennsylvania._ 750. If you go in at one door and out at another, it is a sign of company. _New York and Ohio._ 751. Going out through one door of the house and in through another means a visit from agreeable company. 752. If you go in at one door and out of another of the house of a friend, a stranger will enter the house soon. _Central New Hampshire._ 753. If you go in at the back (or front) door of a house, and out at the front (or back) without sitting down, you will bring company. _Guilford, Conn._ 754. If you forget anything on your departure from a visit, you will go there again. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 755. If the fork is dropped at the table, a man will call. _Pennsylvania._ 756. If you drop a fork, and it sticks in the floor and remains in a standing position, it is a sign that a gentleman will call; but if a knife, a lady will call. _General in the United States._ 757. Should you drop a knife or scissors so that they stick into the floor and stand up, it is a sign of company. _New York._ 758. The dropping of any sharp-pointed instrument which sticks up in the floor, such as a knife, a pair of scissors, etc., foretells company coming from the direction in which the article leans. _Massachusetts._ 759. If the scissors drops there will be visitors; if the small blade sticks in the floor it will be children; if the large, adults. _Nashua, N.H._ 760. A needle dropping on the floor and sticking up means visitors. _St. John, N.B._ 761. If a knife be dropped at table, a woman will call. _Pennsylvania._ 762. If you drop a knife at table, a lady will come during the evening; if a fork, a gentleman is coming. _Talladega, Ala._ 763. If you drop a knife, your visitor will be a woman; if a fork, it will be a man; if a spoon, it will be a fool. _Pennsylvania._ 764. If you drop a knife, it is a sign a lady is coming to see you. If a fork, the visitor will be a man; if a spoon, your cousin. _New York._ 765. Two knives beside a plate mean a lady stranger; two forks, a man. _Peabody, Mass._ 766. To put two spoons in your teacup is a sign of a stranger. _Maine and Massachusetts._ 767. Two forks or spoons crossed on a plate signify that a stranger is coming. 768. If you wash the sugar-bowl, you will have company. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 769. To have too many plates on the table means guests. 770. If an extra plate be accidentally placed upon the table, some visitor will come hungry. _Northern Ohio._ 771. If you are offered an article of food at the table, which you already have on your plate, but forgetting that you have it, take some more, it is a sign that a stranger is coming to your house before you eat another meal. _Quebec._ 772. If stems of tea-grounds are found in the cup, it denotes that visitors are coming. If you wish them to come, bite the heads off and throw them under the table. _Deerfield, Mass._ 773. If the stems of tea-grounds come on top of the cup, visitors are coming. Bite one, and if it is hard, it will be a man; if soft, a woman. _New Hampshire._ 774. If successful in the attempt to take stems from your tea, a friend is going to visit you. _Alabama._ 775. If a tea-stem is on top of the cup, put it in your shoe, and you will have company. _Massachusetts._ 776. If a tea-stem floats in the tea, it is a sign you will have a visitor. If it is hard, it is a man; if it is soft, it is a woman. If it is long, the visitor will be tall; if short, the visitor will be short. _New York._ 777. To learn about visitors from tea-grounds: Lift the leaf out and press it against the left hand, naming the days of the week. Upon whichever day the leaf chances to cling and rest, company may be expected. To complete the spell, pat the leaf down your neck and wish. _Plymouth, Mass._ 778. If your eye quivers, a stranger is coming. _Labrador._ 779. If a stray hair blows persistently across the eyes, it's the sign that a stranger is coming. _Massachusetts._ 780. The shin-bone itching means guests. 781. The nose itching signifies visitors. _General in the United States._ 782. The nose itching foretells company. If on the right side, it means a man; if on the left, a woman. _Central New York._ 783. If your nose itches, you will see an old friend whom you have not seen for some time. _New York and Pennsylvania._ 784. If your nose itches, it means you'll See a stranger, Kiss a fool, Or be in danger. _Peabody, Mass._ 785. To sneeze at the table indicates a stranger. _Peabody, Mass._ 786. To sneeze before breakfast is a sign you will have a caller before night. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 787. Sneeze before you eat, See a stranger before you sleep. _Cape Breton._ 788. As many times as you sneeze before breakfast, so many calls will you have before tea (or bed-time). 789. If you sneeze on Saturday, you will have company on Sunday. _Massachusetts._ 790. Water spilled on the doorstep means a stranger. _Ohio._ 791. To slop water near a door is a sign of a stranger. _Peabody, Mass._ 792. A sudden shower of sparks from the fire betokens a visitor. _Cape Breton._ 793. When you see the soot burning in the back of the chimney, it is a sign of your being visited by a stranger. _Alabama._ 794. If you crock[TN-6] your knuckles, company will come. _Massachusetts._ CHAPTER XII. CURES. AMULETS. 795. Green glass beads worn about the neck will prevent or cure erysipelas. _Chestertown, Md._ 796. Gold beads were formerly a protection against the "King's Evil" (scrofula), and nearly every maiden and matron wore ample strings of beautiful large beads. _Adams, Mass._ 797. Gold beads worn about the neck will cure sore throat. _Windham, Me._ 798. Gold beads worn about the throat were thought to cure or or prevent goître. _Northern Ohio._ 799. A string of gold beads is still held to be a preventive of quinsy, sore throats, and so on. _New Hampshire._ 800. A string of gold beads worn on the neck will cure or prevent quinsy. _Prince Edward Island._ 801. Red beads about the neck cure nose-bleed. _Cazenovia, N.Y._ 802. For nose-bleed wear a red bean on a white string round the neck. _Bedford, Mass._ 803. A black silk cord about the neck cures croup. _Cazenovia, N.Y._ 804. A key worn hanging about the neck by a string prevents nose-bleed. _Central Maine._ 805. Wearing brown paper on the chest will cure sea-sickness. _Newton, Mass., and Chestertown, Md._ 806. Tie a piece of black ribbon around a child's neck, and it will prevent croup. _Waltham, Mass._ 807. Brass earrings or rings are thought by negroes to keep away rheumatism. _Alabama._ 808. To cure rheumatism, wear a brass ring on the finger. _Boston, Mass._ 809. Wearing brass rings will prevent cramp. _Alabama._ 810. A brass ring worn on the finger will cure rheumatism. _Chestertown, Md. (negro)._ 811. Sailors wear gold earrings for weak eyes or to strengthen the sight. _Brookline, Mass._ 812. A common custom among negroes is to wear a leather strap about the wrist as a cure for rheumatism, sprains, etc., and to give strength. _Chestertown, Md. (negro)._ 813. As a cure for nose-bleed, tie a string about the little finger. _Cape Breton._ 814. A leather string commonly worn around the neck is supposed to prevent whooping-cough. _Chestertown, Md._ 815. A red string tied about the waist cures nausea or sea-sickness. _Massachusetts._ CHARM. 816. To keep fire always burning on the hearth will prevent cholera among chickens. _Alabama._ 817. If a fish-hook pierces the hand, stick it three times into wood, in the name of the Trinity, to prevent festering or other evil consequences. _Newfoundland._ 818. If you scratch yourself with a rusty nail, stick the nail immediately into hard wood, and it will prevent lockjaw. _Salem, Mass._ 819. A man who "stuck a nail in his foot" was told by a neighbor to pull it out, grease it, and hang it up in the "chimbly," otherwise he might have lockjaw. _New Brunswick._ 820. To cure nose-bleeding, write the person's name on the forehead. _Newfoundland._ 821. For rheumatism, carry a horseshoe nail in the pocket. _Central New York._ 822. To get rid of rheumatism: "You go in de lot an' go up to fence. Den put you breas' on it and say, 'I lef you here, I lef you here,' tree times, den you go 'way and don't you never come back dere no more." _French Canadian._ 823. To cure fits, the first time the child or person has one, tear off the shirt of the patient and burn it up, and no more fits will return. _Chestertown, Md. (negro)._ 824. If you don't want the cramp in your foot, turn your shoes bottom up at night. _Nashua, N.H._ 825. To keep off nightmare, put your shoes at night with the toes pointing away from the bed. _Central New York._ 826. To ward off nightmare, sleep with shears under the pillow. _Central New York._ 827. Nightmare is caused by the nightmare man, a kind of evil spirit, struggling with one. It is prevented by placing a sharp knife under the pillow, and stuffing the keyhole with cotton. _Windham, Me._ 828. Sores can be cured by those who possess magical powers going through certain incantations, which are to be followed by applications of oatmeal and vinegar. _Newfoundland._ 829. For a sty on the eye, take a small piece of paper, rub it on the sty, go across the road three times, and say each time,-- Sty, sty, go off my eye, Go on the first one that passes by. This is a sure cure in two or three days. _Talladega, Ala._ 830. To cure a sty repeat at a cross-roads,-- Sty, sty, leave my eye, And take the next one that passes by. _Massachusetts, Indiana, and California._ 831. Toothache may be cured by conjurers, who apply the finger to the aching tooth, while muttering a charm, or tie a number of knots in a fishing line. _Newfoundland._ 832. Toothache may be cured by a written charm, sealed up and worn around the neck of the afflicted person. The following is a copy of the charm:-- I've seen it written a feller was sitten On a marvel stone, and our Lord came by, And He said to him, "What's the matter with thee, my man?" And he said, "Got the toothache, Marster," And he said, "Follow me and thee shall have no more toothache." _Newfoundland._ 833. For toothache take an eyelash, an eyebrow, trimmings of the finger-nails, and toe-nails of the patient, bore a hole in a beech-tree, and put them in. The sufferer must not see the tree, and it must not be cut down or burned. _Cape Breton._ 834. Treat biliousness by boring three holes in a tree and walking three times around it, saying, "Go away, bilious." _Eastern Shore of Maryland._ 835. The most powerful charm is a piece of printed paper called "the letter of Jesus Christ." This, in addition to the well-known letter of Lentulus to the Senate, contains many absurd superstitions, such as the promise of safe delivery in child-bed, and freedom from bodily hurt to those who may possess a copy of it. _Newfoundland._ WATER. 836. Rub the hands with the first snow that falls and you'll not have sore hands all winter. _Winn, Me._ 837. On Ash Wednesday before sunrise dip a pail of water in a running brook (up stream), bottle it, and keep as a cure for anything. _Maine._ 838. Catch the last snow of the season (_e.g._, in April), melt and put into a bottle. It will cure sore eyes. _Chestertown, Md._ 839. Water made from snow that falls in the month of May will cure sore eyes. _Prince Edward Island._ 840. Rain-water caught the first of June will cure freckles. It will not putrefy. _Massachusetts._ 841. An Indian doctor used for inflammation of the eyes rain-water caught on the third, fourth, and fifth of June. It is said that this will not putrefy. _New Hampshire._ 842. The first water that falls in June is supposed to cure all skin diseases; and I am informed "it is dretful good for the insides, too." _Westford, Mass._ 843. Water in which a blacksmith has cooled his iron is a cure for freckles. _Malden, Mass._ MISCELLANEOUS. 844. It is believed that "piercing the ear" will cure weak eyes or strengthen the eyes. It is often done to children for this purpose. _Northern Ohio._ 845. To cure hiccoughs repeat in one breath the words,-- There was an old woman who lived all alone, And she was made of skin and bone. One day to church she went to pray, And on the ground a man there lay, And from his head unto his feet The worms crawled in, the worms crawled out. _Boston, Mass._ 846. A variant,-- There was an old woman who lived all alone, And she was made of skin and bone. One day to church she went to pray, And on the ground there lay a man. And from his head unto his feet The worms crawled in, the worms crawled out. The woman to the parson said: "Shall I be so when I am dead?" The parson he said "yes." _Portland, Me., Brookline and Deerfield, Mass._ 847. For hiccoughs the nurse used to say in a droning, deep, ghostly tone,-- There was an old man an' an old woman, And they lived in a bottle and eat BONES. _Brookline, Mass._ 848. Other somewhat general remedies for hiccoughs are to munch a spoonful of sugar, to scare the one troubled with hiccoughs by some startling announcement or accusation, as, "See, you've torn your dress!" or, "How did you break my vase?" etc. Another custom is to steadily point a finger at the hiccougher, or to make him hold up his arm and shake it. 849. To cure hiccoughs, slowly take nine sips of water. _Prince Edward Island and Northern Ohio._ 850. Another cure for hiccoughs is as follows: Put the thumb up against the lower lip, with the fingers under the chin, and say, "hiccup, hiccup, over my thumb," nine times. _Northern Ohio._ 851. A cure for hiccoughs: Try for a long time to make the edges of the thumb-nails meet at the end. _Chestertown, Md._ 852. Think of the one you love best, to cure hiccoughs. _Prince Edward Island._ 853. For chapped lips kiss the middle rail of a five-railed fence. _Bernardston, Mass._ 854. To relieve coughing or strangling, put a pair of scissors down inside the back of your dress. _Prince Edward Island._ 855. Chew brown paper as a cure for nose-bleed. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 856. For nose-bleed, put a key down the back. 857. For nose-bleed, hold up the right arm. 858. For nose-bleed, place a wad of paper between the upper lip and the gum. 859. You can keep from crying as you peel onions if you keep the mouth closed. _Northern Ohio._ 860. Hold, by the points, two needles between your teeth, as you peel onions, and you will not cry. _Prince Edward Island._ 861. Hold a needle between your teeth with the point out, while peeling onions, and you'll not cry, _i.e._, will not feel the smart. 862. You will not cry in peeling onions if you hold a bit of bread in the mouth. _Prince Edward Island, Cambridge, Mass. (Irish)._ Or, put the bread on the point of the knife. _Maine._ 863. You will not cry in peeling onions if you let the faucet be open so the water will run. _Cambridge, Mass._ 864. To bring up the palate when it drops and tickles the root of the tongue, take a wisp of hair on the crown of the head and tie it up very tight. _Chestertown, Md._ 865. Rubbing a sty with a gold ring will cure it. _Prince Edward Island._ 866. Cure a sty by rubbing it with a wedding ring. _General._ 867. A sty in the eye is cured by rubbing a gold ring on the eye three mornings with a sign of the cross. _Labrador._ 868. A pebble in the mouth will ease thirst. _Brookline, Mass._ 869. A sore throat may be cured by binding about the neck on going to bed one of the stockings which the patient has been wearing (no other one will do). _Somewhat general in the United States._ 870. To cure the sore throat, take three handfuls of ashes with your left hand, put into your left stocking, and bind it around your throat. _Mattawamkeag, Me._ 871. To burn the "little nerve" in the ear will cure the toothache forever. _Northern Ohio._ CHAPTER XIII. WARTS. CAUSES. 872. Blood from the warts on a cow's bag coming in contact with a person's hands will cause warts to appear on them. _New Hampshire._ 873. Blood from a wart, especially if applied to the tongue, will cause warts to appear. _New Jersey._ 874. To count another person's warts will cause them to appear on you. _General in the United States._ 875. If one counts stars while lying on his back, he will have as many warts as he has counted stars. _New York and Trenton, N.J._ 876. To drink the water in which eggs have been boiled will cause internal warts. _Miramichi, N.B._ 877. Washing the hands in water in which eggs have been boiled causes warts to grow. _Cape Breton and Eastern Massachusetts._ 878. Warts are caused by touching the white of an egg. _Salem, Mass._ 879. To touch the jelly-fish will cause warts. _Halifax, N.S., and parts of Eastern New England._ 880. Touching the excrescences that sometimes appear on trees will cause warts on the hand of the person who touches them. _New England._ 881. The handling of large species of toadstool, sometimes popularly called "wart-toadstool," will cause warts to grow on the part of the hand coming in contact with it. _New Hampshire._ 882. The handling of a toad will cause warts to appear. _General in the United States._ CURES. 883. To cure a wart, grease it with stolen bacon, and hide the latter. 884. Split a bean and put one half on the wart, one half in the ground, and at the end of the week dig up the latter; place on the wart with the other half; bury again, and this will cure the wart. _Greenfield, Mass._ 885. Beans rubbed on a wart and thrown in the well will cure a wart. _Maine._ 886. Rub a white bean on the warts, wrap it in paper, and throw it on the road; whoever picks it up will get the warts. _Connecticut._ 887. If you find an old bone in the field, rub the wart with it, then lay it down exactly as you found it. The wart will be cured. _Maine._ 888. If a person has warts, he should rub them with a bone, and after replacing the bone they are said to leave. _Alabama._ 889. Rub a wart with the yellow milky juice of celandine (_Chelidonium majus_). _Massachusetts._ 890. The juice of "wild celandine" (_Impatiens fulva_) is used as a wart cure. _Franconia, N.H._ 891. Dandelion juice will cure warts. _Revere Beach, Mass._ 892. The milky juice of the _Euphorbia hypericifolia_ (and other small prostrate Euphorbias) is thought to be a sure cure for warts. _Northern Ohio._ 893. The milky juice of the common cypress spurge (_Euphorbia Cyparissias_) will cure warts. 894. The juice of the common large milk-weeds (Asclepias) will cure warts. _Massachusetts._ 895. The juice of the "milk-thistles" (Sonchus) will cure warts. _Prince Edward Island._ 896. The milky juice of the Osage orange is used as a wart-cure. _Southern Ohio._ 897. The first time a person has seen your wart, if it is rubbed with fresh cream by that person, the wart will surely go away. _Bruynswick, N.Y._ 898[TN-7] Rub a wart with a stolen dish-cloth, and then hide or bury the latter. As it decays, the wart will disappear. _General in the United States._ 899. Rub the wart with a stolen dish-cloth, and secrete the dish-cloth until it becomes mouldy and decays, then the wart is cured. _Bucks Co., Pa._ 900. To cure a wart: Draw a blade across it, and then draw the knife across a sweet apple-tree. _Lawrence, Mass._ 901. Warts are cured by stealing pork from the family barrel of salted pork, rubbing the warts with it, and throwing it into the road. The person who picks it up gets the warts. _Bruynswick, N.Y._ 902. Sell your warts for money, throw the money away anywhere, but on your own land. Whoever picks up the money gets also the warts. _Springfield, Mass._ 903. To cure warts: Cut your finger-nails and put them in the knothole of a tree; then stop up the hole, wishing the warts on to some one else. _Connecticut._ 904. Make a wart bleed, and put the blood on a penny, throw the latter away, and the finder will get the wart. 905. Cut up an onion, rub the wart with each slice, and bury all the slices. _Bucks Co., Pa._ 906. Split a pea and rub the wart with both pieces, make a wish that some person shall get the wart, throw one piece over one shoulder and the other over the other (into the river), and the wart will go to the person wished. _Miramichi, N.B._ 907. If you rub your warts with a pebble, wrap the pebble in paper, and throw it away; the person who picks it up will have them come to him. Or, should you label the paper with some one's name and throw it away, the warts will go to the person whose name you have written. _New England._ 908. Take a green, mossy pebble, wrap it up, tie it, and throw it away. The finder will catch the wart which you had. _Rhode Island._ 909. Take as many pebbles as there are warts. Rub them on the warts. Roll them in paper and throw them away. The finder takes the warts. _Boxford, Mass._ 910. Go out of doors, count three, stop and pick up the stone nearest to your toe. Wrap it up in a paper, and throw it away. The one that picks it up will get the warts. _Providence, R.I._ 911. Count out secretly as many stones as you have warts, tie in a rag, and throw them where they can't be seen. _Massachusetts._ 912. If you have warts, walk nine steps backward with your eyes shut, having just picked up a pebble with which rub the wart, and throw it away. _Fort Worth, Tex._ 913. To cure warts, wash the hands in warm pig's blood. _Nova Scotia._ 914. Steal as many pins as you have warts, wrap them in paper, and throw them in the road: the warts will attack whoever picks up the paper, and leave you. _Bruynswick, N.Y._ 915. Run a pin through the wart, and put the pin in the road; the finder gets the wart. _Missouri._ 916. Rub warts with the head of a pin; hide the latter and do not look for it, or tie a knot in a string, lay it away, and do not look for it, and the warts will disappear. _Western New York._ 917. Take a potato and rub it over the wart, then wrap the potato in a piece of paper and throw it away. The one who finds it will have the wart. _Maine._ 918. Rub the wart with a cotton rag, spit on the rag and hide it under a water-board (a wooden gutter used as a duct for rain-water off the roof of a house), where the water will drip on it. The whole operation must be kept secret. _Kansas._ 919. Rub the wart with rock-salt till it bleeds, and throw a lump of salt in the fire; if it crackles and snaps out of the fire, the wart will get well; if not, not. _Central Maine._ 920. Binding a slug (_Limax_) on a wart will cure it. _Cazenovia, N.Y._ 921. Rub the warts with the sole of your shoe; as the leather wears away, the warts depart. _Springfield, Mass._ 922. When a person wishes to remove warts from his hand, cut as many notches on a stick as you have warts, and standing on a bridge, throw the stick over your left shoulder, and turn your head; they will go off before you leave the bridge. _Alabama._ 923. Cut notches in a stick to the number of warts you have, and then bury the stick. _Massachusetts._ 924. Some pretend to remove warts by "touching with the sharp point of a stick and rubbing them in the notch of another stick; then if the patient tells of it, they will come back.[TN-8] _Alabama._ 925. Take as many joints of oat or wheat straw as a person has warts, and burn them under a stone. As the joints rot, the warts disappear. This is to be done by another for you. _Cape Breton._ 926. Rub saliva on the wart, tie a string around the hand so that the knot comes on the wart. Take off the string and hide in a hollow stump. _Southern Indiana._ 927. Kill a toad, and put its blood on the wart. The warts will go away in three weeks. _Marquette, Mich._ 928. Warts are cured by tying a knot in a string for every wart, and putting under the eaves of the house. The warts go as the string rots. _Ohio._ 929. Warts may be cured by applying to them water standing in the hollow of an oaken stump. _Boxford, Mass., and Ohio._ CHAPTER XIV. WEATHER COLD. 930. As the days begin to lengthen, So the cold begins to strengthen. _Northeastern United States and Canada._ 931. Fire spitting sparks means cold weather. _Patten, Me._ 932. If the fire burns well, it is coming cold weather. _General in the United States._ 933. Fog in winter is always succeeded by cold and wind. 934. Plenty of hawberries foretell a "hard winter," _i.e._, they are to serve as a store of food for birds. _Canada._ 935. Cold weather comes after the wind has blown over the oat stubble. _Pennsylvania._ DAYS AND TIMES. 936. The first Tuesday after the new moon settles the weather for that quarter. _Newfoundland._ 937. If it is a fair sunset Friday night, it will rain before Monday. _Massachusetts._ 938. If it storms on a Friday, it will storm again before the next Monday. _Massachusetts and New York._ 939. If the sun sets clear Friday night, it will not rain before Monday night; but if it sets in a cloud, it will rain before Monday night. _Boston, Mass._ 940. The weather of the last Friday in the month governs the next month. _Cambridge, Mass._ 941. There will be sun during some part of Saturday the year through. _Brookline, Mass._ 942. If it rains the last Saturday or the first Sunday in a month, it will rain the three following Sundays. _Maine._ 943. The sun shines some part of every Saturday in the year but one. _New England._ 944. Saturday's moon comes seven years too soon, and denotes bad weather. _Newfoundland._ 945. Sunday's sail Will never fail. _Topsail Bay, N.F._ 946. Weather is apt to repeat itself in the following week, _i.e._, there will be a run of wet Sundays or fine Tuesdays, etc. _Brookline, Mass._ 947. The first seven days of January indicate the first seven months of the year. Mild days, mild months, etc. _Nova Scotia._ 948. If March comes in like a lamb, it goes out like a lion, and _vice versa_. _General in the United States._ 949. The corn is planted when the Baltimore orioles appear, or when the first green is noticed on the oak-trees. _Milton, Mass._ 950. A dry May and a wet June Make the farmer whistle a merry tune. _Franklin Centre, R.I._ 951. It rains often on July fourth. That is due to the firing of cannon, etc. _General in the United States._ 952. If there is a wet September, there will be a next summer's drouth; no crops and famine. _California._ 953. If it rains on Easter, it will rain seven Sundays thereafter. _Hennepin, Ill._ 954. A green Christmas makes a full churchyard, or A green Christmas makes a fat graveyard. _General in the United States._ 955. The twelve days at Christmas govern the weather of the months of the coming year. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 956. The twelve days at Christmas time make the almanac for the year. _Massachusetts._ 957. It is a general notion that a cold winter is followed by a hot summer, and _vice versa_. 958. It always rains while the Cadets are in camp. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 959. It always rains during May meetin's. _Boston, Mass._ 960. It always rains during a cattle-show. _Deerfield, Mass._ 961. Women "cruising," _i.e._, visiting about on "pot-days," especially Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, when people have their best dinner (usually pork and cabbage) in the pot, is a sign of bad weather. But it is also said that it is a sign of mild weather. _Newfoundland and Labrador._ FAIR OR FOUL. 962. Of a change:-- Long looked for Long last, Short notice, Soon past. _Brookline, Mass._ 963. From twelve till two Tells what the day will do. _New England._ 964. If it rains before seven It will drip before eleven. _Eastern Maine._ 965. If it rain before seven It will quit before eleven. _Prince Edward Island and, Maine, Massachusetts, and Northern Ohio._ 966. If a storm clears off in the night, pleasant weather will last but a few hours. _Northern Ohio._ 967. In uncertain or threatening weather it is said that if you can see a piece of blue sky big enough to make a pair of breeches, it will clear off. _Maine, Massachusetts, and Northern Ohio._ 968. Variant: If you can see enough blue sky in the west to make an old woman's apron, it will clear off. _Eastern Maine._ 969. Clocks and watches tick louder before mild weather. _Scilly Cove, N.F._ 970. Cobwebs on the grass are a sign of fair weather. _General in the United States._ 971. If every dish is cleaned at a given meal, then look for fair weather the following day. _Pennsylvania Germans._ 972. Fog lying in valleys is a sign of a "civil" day. _Bay Roberts, N.F._ 973. If hoar frost remains after sunrise, the day will be fine; if not, the day will be wet. _Scilly Cove, N.F._ 974. A load of hay passing means fair weather. _Massachusetts._ 975. Rainbow in the morning, Sailors take warning; Rainbow at night, Sailor's delight. _General in Canada and the United States._ 976. A rainbow is a sign of showers. _Prince Edward Island._ 977. Rain falling while the sun is shining indicates more showers. _Prince Edward Island and Northern Ohio._ 978. Rain falling while the sun shines is a sign it will rain next day. _Methuen, Mass._ 979. Rain falling while the sun is shining means that the devil is beating his wife with a codfish. _General in the United States._ 980. Thunder in the morning, All the day storming; Thunder at night Is the sailor's delight. 981. Red at night Sailor's delight; Red in the morning, Sailors take warning. _Maine and Eastern Massachusetts._ 982. Evening red and morning gray Will speed the traveler on his way. Evening gray and morning red Will bring the rain upon his head. _Massachusetts, New York, and Ohio._ 983. Evening red and morning gray, You'll surely have a pleasant day. _New York._ 984. Red sun, hot day to-morrow. 985. High wind at dawn is a sign of a "civil" (calm) day. _Newfoundland._ 986. Sun's "hounds" (a sort of halo) before the sun denote dirty weather; after the sun, denote fine weather. _Scilly Cove, N.F._ In Prince Edward Island and the United States these halos are called "sun-dogs," and are said to be a sign of coming rain. 987. Much snow during the winter denotes good crops next year. _New Harbor, N.F._ 988. If the stars are scarce, big, and dull, it portends mild weather in winter. If large and bright, it portends frost in winter. _Newfoundland._ 989. Stars twinkling are a sign of bad weather. _Labrador and New Harbor, N.F._ MOON. 990. When the moon is on the back, it denotes weather wet or mild; when on the end, it denotes frost. _Newfoundland._ 991. Should the new moon lie on its back, it is a sign it will be dry that month, for the moon would hold water. The Indian says the hunter can hang his powder-horn upon it. But should the new moon stand vertically, it will be a wet month, for the moon will not hold water, and the powder-horn will slip off. Very many, however, reverse these signs. _New England, New York, and Ohio._ 992. The Indians told the first settlers that if the moon lay well on her back, so that a powder-horn could be hung on the end, the weather during that moon will be dry. _Nova Scotia._ 993. The moon changing in the west denotes that fine weather will prevail during that moon. _Bay Roberts, N.F._ 994. If the moon changes near midnight there will be fine weather. The nearer to midnight, the finer the weather. _Conception Bay, N.F._ 995. A disk or ring around the moon indicates bad weather (rain or snow). _Newfoundland._ 996. A circle round the moon means rain. In some localities the number of stars inside the circle denotes the number of days until it will rain. _Prince Edward Island; general in the United States._ 997. Where there is a ring around the moon, whichever way the ring opens; the wind will blow in. If it does not open there will be fine weather. The bigger the ring the nearer the bad weather. _Trinity Bay, N.F._ 998. If the new moon is of light color, there will be a frost; if it is red, it will be mild for a month. _Bay Roberts, N.F._ 999. The weather of the new moon governs the month's weather. _Newfoundland._ 1000. The weather of the new moon governs the first quarter and after that remains the same; therefore it governs the first half. _Conception Bay, N.F._ 1001. The moon being red near midnight, with blunted corners or horns, portends mild weather that month. If the corners are white and sharp, there will be frosty weather. _Conception Bay, N.F._ 1002. If there is a star before the moon, the weather will be calm; if the star is behind the moon, the weather will be stormy. _New Harbor, N.F._ RAIN. 1003. A load of barrels foretells wet weather. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 1004. When the Brothers (Catholic theological students) turn out in a procession it will rain soon. _Baltimore, Md._ 1005. When a great many women are seen on the street, it will rain next day. _Bedford, Mass._ 1006. When you blow out the candle, if the fire on the wick burns bright, it means a fair day on the morrow; if it dies down on being blown out, it indicates a rainy day. _Plymouth, O._ 1007. When long cirrus clouds or "cow's tails" are seen, it means rain. _Lewisburg, Pa._ 1008. Cobwebs on the grass for three mornings running are a sign of wet. 1009. If there is no dew on the grass at night, it will rain the next day. _General in the United States._ 1010. Conjurers can stop rain by throwing up clods of dirt. _Alabama._ 1011. Fog on the hill Brings water to the mill. Fog on the moor Brings the sun to the door. _New York._ 1012. A fog from the hills Brings water to the mills. A fog from the sea Drives all the rain away. _Prince Edward Island._ 1013. Fog on the hill Brings water to the mill. Fog in the vale, Catch all the water in a pail. _Massachusetts._ 1014. Three foggy mornings and then a rain. _Massachusetts._ 1015. It will rain within twenty-four hours of a hoar frost. _Deerfield, Mass._ 1016. When the glass sweats, it is the sign of rainy weather. _Alabama._ 1017. If the ground is black, it means rain. _Peabody, Mass._ 1018. To wear your husband's hat is a sign of rain. _Massachusetts._ 1019. Talking of horses is a sign of rain. _Labrador._ 1020. Mackerel sky Five miles high Lets the earth Go three days dry. _Miller's River, Mass._ 1021. Mackerel sky, Rain by and by. _Massachusetts._ 1022. A mackerel sky is a sign of a storm. _Prince Edward Island._ 1023. Mackerel sky, Rain is nigh. or Mackerel sky, Rain to-morrow. _Brookline, Mass._ 1024. Mackerel sky Three days high Never leaves the earth Three days dry. _Massachusetts._ 1025. Mackerel's back and the mare's tails Make lofty ships carry low sails. _Newburyport, Mass._ 1026. Mackerel sky, horse's tail, Make the sailor draw his sail. _Brookline, Mass._ 1027. Mackerel sky, Wind blow high. _Canada._ 1028. Mackerel sky, Twenty-four hours dry. _Salem, Mass._ 1029. Open and shet, Sign of wet. _Maine and Massachusetts._ 1030. Open and shet, Sign of more wet. _Massachusetts._ 1031. Open and shet, Kind o' wet. _Massachusetts._ 1032. If raindrops linger on the pane, There will be further rain. 1033. Raindrops falling on a river, etc., and raising large bubbles, mean a heavy fall of rain and a flood. 1034. If you can see the reflection of the building, etc., in puddles in the street, it will rain inside of twelve hours. _Salem, Mass._ 1035. When the rain dries up quickly from puddles, it will rain again soon. _Mattawamkeag, Me._ 1036. The rope becoming slack denotes that rain is coming. _Placentia Bay, N.F._ 1037. Sparks on the bottom of the tea-kettle mean rain. _Patten, Me._ 1038. The sun drawing water means rain. _General in the United States._ 1039. When the sun sets in a bank of clouds, there will soon be rain. _Alabama._ 1040. It is believed that a rain may be stopped by putting one umbrella or more out in the rain. The longer left the better. _New Orleans, La. (negro)._ 1041. Water boiling over out of a kettle is a sign of rain. _Labrador._ 1042. Water boiling away quickly from the kettle is a sign of rain. _Newfoundland; general in the United States._ 1043. The same, however, is also said to be a sign of mild weather. _Bay Roberts, N.F._ 1044. To eat or sing in the water-closet betokens rain the next day. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 1045. Water low in wells is a sign of rain. _Placentia Bay, N.F._ 1046. Whistle to bring rain. _Newfoundland._ 1047. When you hear a distant locomotive whistle, it is a sign of rain. _Alabama._ 1048. Comes the rain before the wind, Then your topsail you must mind. Comes the wind before the rain, Haul your topsails up again. _Cape Cod, Mass._ 1049. In northerly squalls:-- If the rain comes before the wind, 'T is time your topsail to take in; If the wind before the rain, You may hoist your topsail up again. _Labrador._ WIND AND STORM. 1050. A broom falling across the doorway, or chairs set crosswise, is the sign of a storm. _Stratham, N.H._ 1051. If a cloud and wind are coming, the wind will last. _Trinity Bay, N.F._ 1052. If a cloud looks as if it had been picked by a hen, Get ready to reef your topsails then. _Mansfield, O._ 1053. Clothes hanging about the rigging will bring wind. _Newfoundland._ 1054. Blue blazes in a coal fire mean a storm. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 1055. When wood on the fire makes a peculiar hissing noise, it is said "to tread snow," and there will soon be a storm. _Salem, Mass._ 1056. If the stove-lids get red-hot when the fire is first made, it is a sure sign of a storm of some kind. _Cambridge, Mass._ 1057. If the vessel is becalmed, throw a halfpenny overboard to buy wind. _Harbor Grace, N.F._ 1058. If the halyard lies against the mast, the wind will increase. _Newfoundland_ 1059. Sticking a knife in the mainmast produces wind. _Conception Bay, N.F._ 1060. Table-knives turning blue denote that a northeast wind is coming. _Placentia Bay, N.F._ 1061. Strange lights at sea are seen before a northeast gale. _Newfoundland_ 1062. To see Northern Lights denotes that south wind and a storm will come inside of forty-eight hours. _Massachusetts._ 1063. If the fall "line storm" clears off warm, it signifies that storms through that fall and winter will clear away with mild weather, _i.e._, the way in which the storm closes at the autumnal equinox will rule the weather following storms until the vernal equinox storm. Then the same saying applies to the "line-storm" of March, and the spring and summer _after_ storms is foretold. The contrary would happen if cool weather followed the line storm. _Weathersfield, Vt._ 1064. In the fall, if the sky is red in the west at sunset, a gale is coming from the northeast. _Newfoundland._ 1065. If a sky turn gray, the wind will be north. _Newfoundland._ 1066. First rise after low Foretells stronger blow. 1067. Sailors putting the end of the sheet overboard will bring wind. Hitting it three times across the thwart stops the wind. _Topsail Bay, N.F._ 1068. The day of the month of the first snowstorm indicates the number of storms in the year. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 1069. If the stars are remarkably clear and bright, it is likely there will be a storm the next day. 1070. Stars in a circle around the moon foretell a storm in the same number of days as there are stars. _Maine, Massachusetts, and New York._ 1071. Stars shooting about portend wind. _Heart's Delight, N.F._ 1072. A shooting star shows that wind is coming from the direction toward which it goes. _Conception Bay, New Harbor, N.F._ 1073. If stars are in thick patches before twelve at night, it is a sign that wind will come next day from that quarter. _Hearts Delight, Trinity Bay, N.F._ 1074. For the sun to rise and go into a cloud means a storm. _Massachusetts._ 1075. If the sun sets in a bank, the wind will be in the "western bank." _Bay Roberts, N.F._ 1076. If the bottom of the tea-kettle is white when taken from the stove, it indicates a snowstorm. _Peabody, Mass._ 1077. The sun "getting up water" denotes wind and dirty weather. _Scilly Cove, N.F._ 1078. Whistle for a breeze. _Universal among sailors._ 1079. Whistling of wind in blocks aloft is a sign of a heavy storm. _Conception Bay, N.F._ CHAPTER XV. MOON. DIVINATION. 1080. Repeat, looking at the new moon the first time you see it,-- New moon, true moon, tell unto, me Who my true love is to be; The color of his hair, the clothes he is to wear, And when he'll be married to me. _Mansfield, O._ 1081. On first seeing the new moon, hold any small object in the hand while you repeat,-- New moon, true moon, reveal to me Who my true love shall be; The color of his hair, the clothes he shall wear, And the day that we shall wedded be. Put the object--handkerchief, pebble, or what not--under your pillow at night, and you will dream of your future husband. _Prince Edward Island._ 1082. New moon, moon, Hail unto thee! In my sleep upon my bed, May the one I am to wed In my dreams smile on me. _Middleboro', Mass._ 1083. If you see the new moon over the right shoulder, take three steps backward and repeat,-- New moon, true moon, true and bright, If I have a lover let me dream of him to-night. If I'm to marry far, let me hear a bird cry; If I'm to marry near, let me hear a cow low; If I'm never to marry, let me hear a hammer knock. One of these sounds is always heard. _Tennessee._ 1084. Say to the new moon over your right shoulder,-- New moon, new moon.[TN-9] come play your part, And tell me who's my own sweetheart; The color of his hair, the clothes he shall wear, And on what day he shall appear. Then dream. _Massachusetts._ 1085. The first time you see the moon in the New Year, look at it and say,-- Whose table shall I spread? For whom make the bed? Whose name shall I carry? And whom shall I marry? Then think of one you would like to marry, and go your way. Ask some question of the first person you meet, and if the answer is affirmative, it indicates that you will marry your choice; if negative, it means you will not. _Told by a Norwegian girl in Eastern Massachusetts._ 1086. Rest a mirror on the head and look at the new moon in it; as many moons as you see mean the number of months before marriage. 1087. When it is new moon, take out a stocking, and as you knit repeat,-- This knot I knit To know the thing I know not yet, This night that I may see Who my husband is to be, How he goes and what he wears, And what he does all days and years. _Nashua, N.H._ 1088. Look over the right shoulder at the new moon, and count nine stars, pick up whatever is under your right foot, such as a stick, pebble, or what not; put it under your pillow, and you will dream of whoever is to be your husband. _Deer Isle, Me._ 1089. When you see the moon, say,-- I see the moon and the moon sees me, And the moon sees somebody that I want to see. _Massachusetts._ 1090. New moon, true moon, true and trusty, Tell me who my true love must be. _Pennsylvania._ 1091. Wish the first time you see the moon, and your wish will come true. _General in the United States and Canada._ 1092. Bow to the new moon seven times the first time you see it, and you'll get a present, or wish and you will get your wish. _New England._ 1093. If you shake your dress at the new moon, you will get a new one. _Alabama._ FORTUNE. 1094. The moon seen over the right shoulder brings good luck; over the left shoulder, ill luck. _General in the United States._ 1095. If you should see the moon over your left shoulder, and should without speaking turn round and look at it over your right shoulder, your ill luck will disappear, and you will be as well off as if you had seen it over your right shoulder first. _Maine and Massachusetts._ 1096. It is bad luck to look at the moon over your right shoulder. If through mistake you should look at it over your right, face around, take three steps backward with your hands clasped behind, and then look at it over the left shoulder. _Alabama._ 1097. If you see the moon square in the face, you'll have a fall. _Nashua, N.H._ 1098. See the moon over the left shoulder, You will have a fall (tumble). _Bedford, Mass._ 1199.[TN-10] If you have money in the pocket when you first see the new moon, turn it over, and you'll have plenty all the rest of the month. _Stratham, N.H._ 1100. If you have money in your pocket the first time you see the new moon, and it is seen over your right shoulder, you will have money all the year. _Nashua, N.H., and Massachusetts._ 1101. Take out money and shake it in the hand on first seeing the new moon; it will increase your wealth. _Miramichi, N.B._ 1102. Look at the new moon through a ring, wish something while doing so, and your wish will come true. _Alabama._ 1103. If you first see the new moon with full hands, that is, with busy hands, you will be busy, full of work, all the month; if idle, the reverse. 1104. See the new moon through a glass, See sorrow while it lasts. _Deer Isle, Me., and Salem, Mass._ 1105. If you see the new moon through trees or brush, you will have trouble that month. _General in the United States._ 1106. If you see the new moon full in front, you will meet your lover within the week. 1107. If you see the new moon face on, you will go headlong through the month. _Salem, Mass._ 1108. Moon full face, Open disgrace. _Portland, Me._ 1109. One who chances to have a cup in his hand when he first sees the new moon is destined to wait on the sick until another new moon appears. _Alabama._ MOONLIGHT. 1110. Some say you can see the man's axe and dog in the moon. _New Brunswick._ 1111. If the moon shines in your face as you lie in the bed at night, you'll die inside of a year. _Central Maine._ 1112. It is a general belief that it is dangerous to sleep with the moon shining on the face. If the moon shines on fish, they will spoil. 1113. Horses will be cured of any one of several diseases if you will insert a bit of silver--a dime is the favorite coin--in the part affected; but it is imperative that you do this by the "light of the moon." _Clover Bend, Ark._ WAX AND WANE. 1114. Set out cabbages in the new of the moon to make them head up well, and gather apples in the new of the moon to make them keep well. Plant potatoes in the old of the moon. _Mitchell Co., N.C._ 1115. Plant flowers in the increase of the moon. _Pennsylvania._ 1116. Be careful as to the phase of the moon when felling timber. _General in the United States._ 1117. If brush and thistles are cut down in the full moon in August when the sign is in the heart, they will never grow again. _Copied from an agricultural paper._ 1118. Grass cut when the moon is waning will not "spend well." _New England._ 1119. If cut when it is waxing, the hay weighs and spends well. _New England._ 1120. Plant peas and potatoes in the increase of the moon. _Miramichi, N.B._ 1121. Seeds should be sown when the moon is new. This custom is still more or less observed. Corn should be planted at this time. _Boston, Mass._ 1122. Plant seed the first three days after the moon changes. _Alabama._ 1123. Plant potatoes "in the dark of the moon," so the potatoes will root and yield well. _Mansfield, O._ 1124. The full moon is the time to cut alders, spruce, or other undergrowth, because the roots then die quickly without sprouting. _Nova Scotia._ 1125. Shingle the roof in the decrease of the moon, so the shingles will lie flat ("go down"). Else they may warp and rise up. _Mansfield, O._ 1126. If a farmer lays a rail fence by the light of the moon, it will be stronger and last longer than if it was laid in the daytime. _Western New York and parts of Massachusetts._ 1127. Kill any animal for meat on the increase of the moon, and it will increase in the pot. Kill it on the wane of the moon, and it will shrink in the pot. _General in the United States._ 1128. If hogs are butchered on a rising tide, the pork will not shrink in the pan. _Massachusetts._ 1129. You must never kill cattle or pigs, or even wild game, by the "dark of the moon;" it is most unlucky, and the meat will come to no good. _Clover Bend, Ark._ 1130. If you wean a calf at the time of the full moon, it will make less fuss. You mustn't wean it when the sign is in the belly, or it will never grow fat. Pursue the same course with a pig, or it will squeal. _Western Massachusetts._ 1131. To make hair grow, cut it in the new of the moon. _N.F., N.B., N.S., Me., Mass., and Talladega, Ala._ 1132. Cut hair the first Friday in the new moon, if you wish it to grow. _General in the United States._ 1133. It is the custom for girls to cut their bangs on the forehead when the moon is new. It is supposed to make them grow. This custom is observed by many intelligent young people. _Boston, Mass._ 1134. Cut hair in the new moon, bury it in earth near a running brook, and it will make the new hair grow long and abundant. _Maine._ 1135. Clean the spring or well during the increase of the moon, so the water will _run in_ and fill the spring after it is emptied. _Mansfield, O._ 1136. Make soap in the new of the moon. _Talladega, Ala._ 1137. Make soap in the full of the moon. _Prince Edward Island._ 1138. Do not marry or move during the wane (decrease) of the moon. _Mansfield, O._ 1139. To take away warts, steal a dish-rag out of the house, without anybody's knowledge, and go out of doors in the first of the moon, rub the dish-rag on the wart, and say: "Here, new moon! take away my new wart." Then throw the dish-rag away where no one can find it, and tell nobody. _Talladega, Ala._ 1140. To cure warts, go out of doors when the moon is new, take up a handful of mud, looking at the moon all the time, and rub on the wart. _Holderness, N.H._ CHAPTER XVI. SUN. DOMESTIC AND MECHANICAL OPERATIONS. 1141. To make good bread, stir it with the sun. To make good yeast, make it as near sunrise as possible. _Northern Ohio._ 1142. If you wish to secure lightness, you must always stir cake and eggs a certain way, that is, the way the sun goes. _Kittery, Me., Nashua, N.H., Eastern Massachusetts, and Southern Michigan._ 1143. Eggs and cake are commonly beaten and butter made by stirring sunwise. _Newfoundland._ 1144. To make cake light, it must always be stirred the same way. _Dalton, Mass., and Alabama._ 1145. In cooking soft custard, the stirring must be continued throughout in the direction in which it was begun; otherwise the custard will turn to whey. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 1146. If, after turning the crank of a churn for a while with the sun, you change and turn the other way, it will undo all the churning you have done. _Ferrisburgh, Vt._ 1147. Ice cream will not freeze rightly unless the crank is turned the right way. _Concord, Mass._ 1148. In making lye soap, if you stir it backward it will turn back to lye. _Warren Co., N.Y., and Alabama._ 1149. In melting sugar for taffy, stir always one way, or it will grain. _Allston, Mass._ 1150. In greasing the wheels of a carriage, always begin at a certain wheel and go round in a set way. _Peabody, Mass._ CURES. 1151. In rubbing for rheumatism, etc., rub from left to right (sunwise). _Concord, Mass._ 1152. Ringworm may be killed by moistening the finger in the mouth and rubbing sunwise around the diseased spot. _Central Maine._ 1153. To rub for "sweeney." Rub the diseased part of the horse's shoulder with a corn-cob with the sun every third morning. _Northern Ohio._ 1154. Rub a corn, a wen, etc., with the sun if by day, with the moon if by night. The sun or moon will draw all the pain away. Related by a Pennsylvania German. _Northern Ohio._ 1155. To cure a curb in a horse, rub it with a bone, at the going down of the sun. _Plymouth, O._ 1156. A "conjurer" can rub away a "rising" (boil) by coming to your bedside about daybreak, before you speak to any one, and rubbing the "rising" for nine successive days. _Talladega, Ala._ 1157. To cure a burn, moisten it with saliva, repeating:-- As far as the east is from the west, Come out fire and go in frost. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Come out fire and go in frost. Blow three times, and rub sunwise three times. To be taught to not more than three persons of the opposite sex. _Eastern Tennessee._ CHAPTER XVII. DEATH OMENS. 1158. To raise an umbrella in a house is a sign of an approaching death. _Pennsylvania; somewhat general in the United States._ 1159. To open an umbrella in the house is a sign of ill luck. An action of this sort seriously disturbed a friend of the informant, an American girl of good family. "I would never dare to do that," she said. _Niagara Falls, Ont._ 1160. If a hoe be carried through a house, some one will die before the year is out. _Mansfield, O._ 1161. Carrying through the house a hoe, spade, or axe indicates a death in the family. _Virginia._ 1162. Carry an axe or any iron implement through the house, and some one will soon die. _Southwestern Michigan._ 1163. Death is foretold by the ringing of a bell that cannot otherwise be accounted for. _Southern Ohio._ 1164. When bread, in baking, cracks across the top, it means death. _New Jersey and Ohio._ 1165. Cracks on the top of a loaf of bread indicate the death of a friend. _Several localities._ 1166. When bright red specks resembling spattered blood appear on linen, it is held to be a token of misfortune, probably of death. _Northern Ohio._ 1167. If the candle burns blue, it is token of a death. 1168. To see a coffin in the candle is a token of death. _Boston, Mass._ 1169. To see a "winding-sheet" in the candle has the same significance. _Virginia._ 1170. Three lamps or candles burned close together mean death. _Virginia._ 1171. If a sudden and unaccountable light is seen in a carpenter's shop, it indicates that the carpenter will soon have to make a coffin. _Cape Breton._ 1172. If a coffin creaks in a carpenter's shop, another order soon follows. _Newark, N.J., and Virginia._ 1173. If the coffin does not settle down smoothly into place in the grave, but has to be raised and lowered again, another in the family will die inside a year. _Stevens Point, Wis._ 1174. Change a sick person from one room to another, and he will die. _New Jersey._ 1175. If a clock, long motionless, suddenly begins to tick or strike, it is a sign of approaching death or misfortune. _Newark, N.J., Virginia, and North Carolina._ 1176. If a corpse remains soft and supple after death, another death in the family will follow. _Trinity Bay, N.F., and Prince Edward Island._ 1177. A cow mooing after midnight means death. 1178. To dance on the ground indicates disaster, or death within a year. _Boxford, Mass._ 1179. The hearing, in the wall, of the "death-watch," or "death-tick," betokens a death in the house. _General in the United States._ 1180. A dish-cloth hung on a door-knob is a sign of death in a family. _Deerfield, Mass._ 1181. To knock on a door and receive no answer is a sign of death. _Virginia and Englewood, Ill._ 1182. The last name a dying person calls is that of the next to follow. _New Hampshire._ 1183. Sometimes the dying call for an absent one, as if in trouble. This is a sign that that person will have some great trouble in after life. _New York._ 1184. Death takes place at ebb tide. _New England Coast._ 1185. The person on whom the eyes of a dying person last rest will be the first to die. _Boston, Mass._ 1186. It is a sign of death to see a flower blossoming out of season, as, for example, a rose in the fall. This has proved a true omen in several cases, according to the experience of a lady who believes in these signs. In consequence of this belief, when she has such a a flower, she will pick it off the stem and throw it away, without mentioning the incident to any one. _Niagara Falls, Ont._ 1187. It is a sign of death to see a tree blossoming in the fall. _Orange Co., Va._ 1188. If a garment is cut out on Friday, the person for whom it is made will not live unless it is finished on the same day. _Southern Indiana._ 1189. If you begin a quilt on Friday, you will never live to finish it. _Maine._ An act of this sort gave great distress to a domestic servant, who, until after the completion of the quilt, daily expected disaster. This woman came from French Canada. 1190. If a doctor is called on Friday, the patient will surely die. _Cambridge, Mass._ 1191. If a hearse is drawn by two white horses, death in the neighborhood will occur within a month. _Central Maine._ 1192. If anyone comes to a funeral after the procession starts, another death will occur in the same house. _Ohio._ 1193. At a funeral the first person who turns away from the grave will have the next death in his family. _Trinity Bay, N.F._ 1194. If one goes to a funeral with the intention of following to the grave but does not do so, a death soon follows in his family. _Virginia._ 1195. If it rains during a burial, another member of the family will soon follow. _Poland, Me., Baldwinsville, N.Y., Ohio, and Alabama._ 1196. If rain falls into an open grave, another burial in the same cemetery will occur within three days. _Western New York._ 1197. If you meet a funeral train, it is a sign of death. _Prince Edward Island._ 1198. Do not let any one wear your hat to a funeral when you've not worn it before yourself. _Massachusetts._ 1199. Whoever counts the carriages at a passing funeral will die within the year. _Peabody, Mass., and Hennepin, Ill._ Or, some one will die. 1200. If shot remain in the gun after firing, some one of your family will die. _Labrador._ 1201. If you build on to your house, you will die within the year. _Labrador._ 1202. Lie down on a table and you will die before the year is out. _Mattawamkeag, Me._ 1203. To hold a lamp over a sleeping person causes death. _Massachusetts._ 1204. To break a looking-glass is a sign of death in the family before the year closes. _General in the United States._ 1205. To break a looking-glass is a sign of death, or of bad luck or[TN-11] seven years. This is quite a general belief. Domestic servants, and particularly superstitious persons, are often thrown into a panic by accidents of this sort. _General in the United States and Canada._ 1206. If three persons look into a mirror at the same time, one will die within the year. _Peabody, Mass., and New Hampshire._ 1207. If one try on mourning when not wearing it, he will have occasion to wear it soon. _Pennsylvania._ 1208. To put on a bonnet or hat of one in mourning is a sign that you will wear one before the year is out. _Peabody and Boston, Mass., and Niagara Falls, Ont._ 1209. To drive a nail on Sunday is a sign that some one in the family will die within the year. _Pigeon Cove, Mass._ 1210. Hearing an imaginary rap and opening an outside door lets death in. _Ferrisburgh, Vt._ 1211. The hearing of three raps is a sign that some member of the family is dead. _Boston, Mass., and Orange Co., Va._ 1212. If members of a family, after long separation, meet for reunion, some one of the members will die within the year. _Cambridge, Mass._ 1213. Ringing in the ears is a sign of death. _General._ 1214. Ringing in the ears means death before the week ends. Of this ringing the term "death-bell" is used. It may be said by a country woman: "Oh! I have heard a death-bell!" or, "What a death-bell in my ear! You will hear of a death before the week is out." In case of a sudden death, such a person might say: "I am not surprised; I heard a death-bell on such a day." _Northern Ohio._ 1215. The term "death-bell" is also a popular one in _Prince Edward Island._ 1216. In some localities the direction of the apparent ringing indicates the direction from which the news of death will come. 1217. If an empty rocking-chair is seen to sway back and forth when apparently unoccupied, it is supposed that the chair is held by the spirit of some deceased member of the family, who has come back to choose the next to go, and call that person quickly. _Michigan._ 1218. A spot resembling iron-rust on the finger means death. _Maine._ 1219. Beginning on Saturday a garment that cannot be finished means death. _Ohio._ 1220. Deaths do not come singly; but if one of a family dies, a second death in the same family will occur within a year. _Cambridge, Mass._ 1221. Whoever works on a sick person's dress, he or she will die within the year. _Massachusetts._ 1222. If some one is sick and a storm comes, it is a sign he will die during its continuance. _Virginia._ 1223. When a woman who has been sewing puts her thimble on the table as she sits down to eat, it is a sign that she will be left a widow if she marries. _Central Maine._ 1224. If one sings at a table while the family are eating, it means the death of a friend. _Webster City, Iowa._ Or bad luck (_Virginia_); disappointment (_New Jersey_). 1225. If three drops of blood fall from your nose, one of your family is dead. _Labrador._ 1226. If you sneeze on Sunday morning before breakfast, you will hear of the death of some person you know before the next Saturday night. _Northern Vermont._ 1227. If you sneeze at table with the mouth full, an acquaintance will die soon. _Virginia and Alabama._ 1228. When sowing grain, if a strip of land is missed there will be a death inside of a year. _Ohio and Maryland._ 1229. When you shiver, it means that some one is walking over the place where your grave is to be. _General in the United States._ 1230. If sparks are left (unintentionally) in the ashes over night, it is a sign of death. _Cumberland, Md._ 1231. If sparks of fire fly out of an opened stove door, it is a sign of death. _Trinity Bay, N.F._ 1232. If any one in the town lies dead over Sunday, there will be another death before the end of the week. _Bedford, Mass._ 1233. Three horses of the same color indicate death, but this sign is not very noticeable in a thickly settled community. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1234. Three chairs placed accidentally in a row mean death. _Ohio._ 1235. If there is a death there will be three deaths in the family within a short time. _New York._ 1236. To break the spell of thirteen at table, all should rise together, otherwise the first up (or, as some say, the last down) dies inside a twelvemonth. _New England._ 1237. If thirteen sit at table, the one who rises first will not live through the year. _Somerville, Mass., Newark, N.Y., and Mifflintown, Pa._ 1238. If thirteen sit at table, the last one who sits down will not die that year. _Brookline, Mass._ 1239. If window-shades fall down without being molested, it is a sign of death. _Cape Breton._ CHAPTER XVIII. MORTUARY CUSTOMS. 1240. If "salt water pigeons'" feathers are in a bed, the sick person on it will not die easily. _Newfoundland._ 1241. In old colonial burying-grounds--in Plymouth, Concord, Cambridge, and Rutland, Mass.--the graves are so placed that the headstones face west, that is, the body lies with the feet toward the east. _Perhaps general in New England._ 1242. Among Irish Catholics it is usual to place the body with the feet toward the door. The body of a young girl is usually draped in the robes of the society to which in her church she belonged. Over the corpse is constructed a white canopy, from one end of which images of white doves are often hung. At the feet is a stand or table, on which flowers are laid, and where, at night, candles are kept burning. _Boston, Mass._ 1243. Country people turn the mirror to face the wall while one lies dead in the house. _Northern Ohio._ 1244. While the corpse is in the house, the looking-glass must be turned toward the wall; otherwise, whoever looks into the mirror will die within the year. This custom is said to be most common among Irish Catholics, but it is not confined to them. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1245. Bad luck (instead of death) is also said to follow violation of this rule. _Washington, D.C._ 1246. If, when any one dies, you put the coffin in any other room than the one the corpse is in, some other member of the family will die within a year. _Western Massachusetts._ 1247. "I have noticed at funerals of the aged, that when elderly people passed by the casket they would touch the forehead of the dead person. I was confident that there was some superstition connected with the act, because the same look was apparent on every face; but on being asked why this was done, they pretended it was bidding an old comrade good-bye. At last one told me that it was that they might not dream of the dead or see them." _Westport, Mass._ 1248. It is usual, after the conclusion of the funeral service, for the persons present at the ceremony to pass in front of the dead, and look on the face. Not to perform this token of respect is felt as a lack of propriety. It is not uncommon for the undertaker, or some person in charge of the proceedings, to say in a loud voice: "An opportunity is now offered to those who desire to look on the face of the corpse," or words to that effect. _General in the United States._ 1249. Only male relatives take part in the funeral procession. _Philadelphia, Pa._ 1250. In regard to the ceremonies at the grave, usage differs widely. In New England it is usual for near relatives to attend; and, in the case of important persons, for a procession to march to the cemetery. Among Catholics a great number of friends attend the hearse of persons in humble life. 1251. It is an old Connecticut custom that the yard gate should never be shut after being opened to let through a body being carried from its former home to the graveyard. 1252. The funeral procession must not cross a river. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1253. "I was first led to notice the superstition about crossing a river, from having to attend funerals on the south side, when they would otherwise have been held on the north side. This is losing ground, owing to the frequency of crossing to reach the cemetery, but I had an instance only last spring." _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1254. The corpse must not pass twice over any part of the same road. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1255. It is unlucky in a funeral, for those present to repass the house where death has occurred. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1256. At a funeral, entering church before the mourners means death to some of the entering party. _Boston, Mass._ 1257. It is a bad sign to drive past a funeral procession. _Maine._ 1258. It is unlucky to pass through a funeral procession, either between the carriages or the files of mourners on foot. This is a general superstition. The custom, which has become instinctive with many persons, is usually set down to the score of decency and propriety. _General in the United States._ 1259. To meet a funeral is bad luck. To avert it, turn round and take three steps backward before going on. _St. John, N.B._ 1260. It is bad luck to meet a corpse. One may follow it, but never meet it. A colored person will turn square about on seeing a funeral procession approaching. _Talladega, Ala., and Virginia._ 1261. To keep the corpse in the house over Sunday will bring death in the family before the year is out. _South Framingham, Mass._ 1262. If the grave is left open over Sunday, another death will occur before the Sunday following. _Boxford, Mass._ 1263. If a grave is covered on Friday, another in the same family will follow inside of a year. _Chatham, N.B._ 1264. If a grave is left open over night without the corpse, another death in the family will soon follow. _Virginia._ 1265. It is bad to disturb an old grave, as by putting up a tombstone; you will thus herald a death. _Chestertown, Md._ 1266. Many will not go through a graveyard on the way to call on friends, for fear of bringing death into the house. _Massachusetts._ 1267. The clothes of the dead wear out quickly. _Westport, Mass._ 1268. "The clothes of the dead never wear long" when used by the living. _New York._ 1269. If you put clothes of a live person on a corpse, when the clothes decay the owner will die. _St. Joseph, Mo._ 1270. It is quite customary, both in the United States and in Canada, to give the whole house a thorough cleaning after a death has occurred, even when the deceased has undergone no prolonged illness and has died of no contagious disease. A day or two after the funeral one sometimes sees, particularly in country homes, feather beds, mattresses, etc., etc., put out to air. Sometimes even rooms are whitewashed in the purification process. CHAPTER XIX. MISCELLANEOUS. ACTIONS. 1271. If a child in eating an apple merely girdles it and leaves the apple good at stem and below, it indicates that he will be a poor man; the saying is, "a poor man's core." 1272. It is unlucky to turn back after starting to go anywhere. To avert misfortune after turning back, make the sign of the cross in the dust with the heel, and spit in the cross. _Arkansas (negro), and Kentucky._ 1273. It is unlucky to turn back after having once started out. _Quebec._ 1274. To get out of bed on the wrong side puts one out all day. "He got out of bed with the wrong foot foremost" is said of a person who has a fit of crossness. _Northern Ohio._ 1275. To drop your books on the way to school signifies that you will make mistakes in your lessons. _Chestertown, Md._ 1276. Drop a book and you will miss your lesson, unless it is immediately picked up and kissed. _Alabama._ 1277. Whoever eats the last piece of bread will be an old maid. _Pennsylvania._ 1278. If you break something, you will break two other things. _Maine, Massachusetts, and Northern Ohio._ 1279. To twirl a chair on one leg means that you are going to fight with somebody. _Peabody, Mass._ 1280. Whirling an empty chair indicates that a whipping is in store for the transgressor. 1281. If you twirl a chair around on one leg, it is a sign that you are about to break dishes. _Chestertown, Md._ 1282. You mustn't pay the doctor entirely, or there will be sickness in the family. _Lonsdale, R.I._ 1283. You must leave by the door through which you enter, or there will be trouble with the family, or ill luck to yourself. _Pennsylvania._ 1284. If you leave by any other door than the one through which you have entered, it is said that you will not come again. _Cumberland, Me._ 1285. In bathing, the eyes should always be rubbed towards the nose, as that makes them large, and rubbing out the opposite way makes them small. _Cambridge, Mass._ 1286. In climbing a fence,-- Get over, meet with clover, Get through, meet with a shoe; Get under, meet with a blunder. _Sunderland, Mass._ 1287. If you step on a grave, you will never grow any more. _Chestertown, Md. (negro)._ 1288. Step over a living thing, and that thing, whether a human being or not, will not grow any more. _Province of Quebec, Can._ 1289. To step over one leg of a child will cause it to grow longer than the other. _Baltimore, Md._ 1290. To comb the hair after dark is a sign of sickness. Comb your hair after dark, Comb sorrow to your heart. _Connecticut._ 1291. If you comb your hair after dark, it will make you forgetful. _Northern Ohio._ 1292. If the right hand itches, you are going to get money; if the left, you will shake hands with a friend. If the nose itches, a friend is coming. _Talladega, Ala._ 1293. Two persons wiping hands on the same towel and twisting it occasions a quarrel. _Pennsylvania._ 1294. Wash and wipe together, Live in peace together. _Northern Ohio._ 1295. If two persons wash their hands at the same time, it is a sign that they will be friends forever. _Alabama._ 1296. If two persons wipe their hands at the same time, they will be foes forever. _Alabama._ 1297. When two persons put one hand of each flat together, palm to palm, they will quarrel. _Province of Quebec, Can._ 1298. If two persons clasp hands so as to lock the fingers, bringing the palm of one person against the palm of the other person's hand, it will break friendship. _Newton, Mass._ 1299. If you hug your knee (hold your knee in clasped hands), you will hug up trouble. _Salem and Medford, Mass._ 1300. When your joints crack, it is a sign that you have not outlived your best days. _New York, N.Y._ 1301. If you kiss through a veil, there'll be a coolness. _Portland, Me._ 1302. Crossed knives are a sign of a quarrel. _Cumberland, Mass._ 1303. Stir with a knife, Stir up strife. 1304. Never look after a friend who is leaving you till he is quite out of sight, or you will never see him or her again; but turn your eyes away while he is still visible, that he or she may return. _General in the United States._ 1305. Never say "good-by" more than once. _Alabama._ 1306. One who habitually bites the nails is ill-natured. _Ohio._ 1307. If you bite your finger-nails you will always be poor. _Massachusetts._ 1308. If you sleep with your head towards the north, it will prevent sickness. _General in the United States._ 1309. If you can cut a pie fair and true, you'll have a likely husband. If you make the slices uneven, he'll be crooked. 1310. If you make a bed handsomely, you'll have a handsome husband. 1311. If you cut pie straight, you will go to housekeeping. If you cut pie crooked, you will have no house to keep. _New Hampshire._ 1312. If you make a rhyme involuntarily, you will have a present. _New Brunswick._ 1313. The free use of salt is a sign of having a temper. _Lynn, Mass._ 1314. To say anything backward is a sign you will get a present. _Peabody, Mass._ 1315. If you sing before you eat, You'll cry before you sleep. _Ohio and Iowa._ 1316. If you sing before breakfast, you will cry before supper. _Cambridge, Mass._ 1317. If you laugh before breakfast, you will cry before supper. _Prince Edward Island and Somerville, Mass._ 1318. Little birds that sing in the morning The old cat will catch before night. Accustomed to be said to children when they were especially hilarious in the early morning. _Northern Ohio._ 1319. If a child sing before breakfast, it will get a whipping before night. _New Hampshire._ 1320. To sing after you go to bed is a sign that tears will come before breakfast. _Maine._ 1321. If the sole of either foot itches, you will walk on strange ground. _Boston, Mass._ 1322. When about to begin a new enterprise, one must not step over straws in starting out. 1323. If you stumble with the right foot, it means a glad surprise. _Pennsylvania (negro)._ 1324. In going anywhere, if you strike the right foot you will be welcome wherever you may be going, and if the same happens to the left foot, you will be on strange ground. _Bellville, O._ 1325. To sit on a table is a sign of coming disappointment. _Maine and Massachusetts._ 1326. In drinking tea, if you take a stem in the mouth it means an enemy; you must bite it and throw it over the right shoulder. _Central Maine._ 1327. If you stub your toe going into a house, you are not wanted there. _Guilford, Conn._ 1328. If, in going visiting, you stub the right toe, you are welcome; if the left, you are unwelcome. _Massachusetts and Ohio._ 1329. If you stub your toe going anywhere, it means a disappointment. _Bathurst, N.B._ 1330. Stub your toe, Lose your beau. _Salem, Mass._ 1331. To bite the tongue while talking means that you have told a lie. 1332. If you bite your tongue suddenly while eating, it is a sign some one is coming hungry. _Cambridge, Mass._ 1333. In going along the street or path, where there is a tree, go inside rather than outside the tree, for you will be disappointed if you take the latter course. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 1334. In drinking water, if you glance over the glass, you are a flirt. _Pennsylvania._ 1335. Whistling girls and crowing hens Always come to some bad ends. _General in the United States._ 1336. Whistling girls and sheep Are the very worst cattle a farmer can keep. 1337. A whistling girl and a laughing sheep, Are the very best property a man can keep. _Northern Ohio._ 1338. Girls that whistle and hens that crow Make their way wherever they go. 1339. Whistle before you eat, Cry before you sleep. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ BODILY AFFECTIONS. 1340. If the right cheek burns, some one is speaking well of you; if the left, they are speaking ill of you; if both, they speak well and ill at once. Moisten the finger in the mouth and touch it to the cheek, naming those whom you suspect; the one at whose name it grows cool was speaking of you. _New Brunswick._ 1341. If your right ear burns, some one is talking well of you; if your left, he is talking ill. _General in the United States._ 1342. If you bite the corner of your apron, you will make back-biters bite their tongues. _Pennsylvania._ 1343. Pinch your ear, and the person talking of you will bite his own tongue. 1344. If the right ear burns, it is a sign that some one is thinking well of you; if the left ear burns, it is a sign that some one is thinking unkindly of you; but if both ears burn, friend and foe are fighting about you. _Pennsylvania._ 1345. If your ears burn, people are talking well of you; if your ears are cold, the contrary. _New Hampshire._ 1346. If your right ear burns, a lady is speaking of you; if the left, a man. _Maine and Pennsylvania._ 1347. If your left ear itches, some one is saying unpleasant things about you; but if your right ear, pleasant things. Some say,-- Both left and right Are good at night. _Cambridge, Mass._ 1348. If the right eye itches, it is a sign you will cry; if the left, you will laugh, because R stands for "roar" and L for "laugh." _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1349. If the right eye itches, you'll laugh; if the left eye, you'll cry. _Boston, Mass._ 1350. If your eye itches, some one wants to see you and can't. _Peabody, Mass._ 1351. If you look at one who has inflamed eyes, you'll catch the disease. _Maine and Ohio._ 1352. If your elbow itches, you will sleep with a stranger. _Boston, Mass._ 1353. If the right foot itches, it is a sign you will go where you will be welcome; if the left foot itches, it is a sign you will go where you are unwelcome. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1354. If while going to see any one your left foot itches, you are not welcome. _Alabama._ 1355. The nose itching is a sign you are going to "get mad." _Peabody, Mass._ 1356. If your nose itches, it is a sign of a present. 1357. If your nose itches, some one will be provoked with you. 1358. If your nose itches, it is a sign that You'll be mad, See a stranger, Kiss a fool, Or be in danger. _Prince Edward Island._ 1359. If your nose itches, you will See a stranger, Kiss a fool, Or be in danger. _Peabody, Mass._ 1360. If your nose itches, it is a sign you will be kissed, cussed, or vexed. _Somerville, Mass._ 1361. If the nose itches, some say you will receive a letter; others declare it is a sign your lover is thinking of you. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1362. If the palm of the hand itches, it is a good sign that you will kill something. _Labrador._ 1363. Itching in the palm is a sign of a fight, or of seeing a stranger. 1364. An unexpected scratch denotes surprise. 1365. A long scratch across the palm denotes a sleigh-ride. _Pennsylvania (negro)._ 1366. A scratch on the hand denotes a ride; the length of the scratch indicates the length of the ride. _New England._ 1367. A scratch on the right hand is a sign of a ride to come; on the left, a disappointment. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1368. If your knee itches, you are jealous. _Boston, Mass._ 1369. Being lousy is an indication that the lousy person is in good health. _Newfoundland._ 1370. Some hold that the white spots that one has on the finger-nails represent the lies you have told. _Maine and Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1371. If you shudder without apparent cause, some one has stepped over or upon your grave. _Gilsum, N.H._ 1372. If you shudder, it is a sign that a rabbit is running across, or a goose is eating grass from your grave. _Chestertown, Md._ 1373. There is an old superstition that every sigh causes a drop of blood to flaw from the heart. _Exeter, N.H._ 1374. "Smooches" made on the face by soiled fingers (called beauty spots in Ohio) mean a present. _New Brunswick._ 1375. A lump on the tongue means that you have told a lie. _Prince Edward Island, New York, and Northern Ohio._ APPAREL. 1376. If you mend your apron or dress while on you, some one will lie about you. _Maine and Alabama._ 1377. As many stitches as you take (in mending a garment while wearing it), so many lies will be told about you. _New Hampshire._ 1378. If a garment is mended while being worn, it is a sign the wearer will do something he is ashamed of before the week is out. _Newton, Mass._ 1379. If one mends his clothes upon his back, It is a sign his trouble will never come back. _Connecticut._ 1380. Basting threads left in a garment signify that it is not yet paid for. _Massachusetts and Ohio._ 1381. Put your clothes on the wrong side out and you'll have a present before the week is out. _Peabody, Mass._ 1382. If, when dressing, one puts on any of his clothing wrong side out, it is a sign that he will soon receive a present. _Alabama._ 1383. If you happen to put your skirt on wrong side out, you are likely to get a new one. _Alabama._ 1384. You mustn't talk when some article of dress you are wearing is being mended, or some one will talk or tell lies about you. 1385. In dressing for a journey, if you wish to have good luck, dress the right foot first. _Belleville, Ohio._ 1386. If the hem of a lady's dress turns up, she is sure to have a new one. _Alabama._ 1387. While sewing on a garment, should you sew it to your dress by mistake, as many stitches as you take, so many lies will be told about you. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1388. If you break your needle in making a dress, you will live to wear it out. If you tear a hole in a new dress, the first time wearing it, you will have a new one before that is worn out. _Deer Isle, Me._ 1389. If you break a needle in sewing a new gown, it is a sure sign you will live to wear out the garment. _Holyoke, Mass._ 1390. If you break your needle in making a garment, or have to rip out some of it, you will live to wear it out. _Boston, Mass._ 1391. If a white petticoat falls below your dress, it is a sign that your father loves you better than your mother. _New England._ 1392. Crooked pins are a sign that the owner is an old maid. _Province of Quebec, Can._ 1393. Should a friend withdraw a ring from the finger of another, it is a sign it will break friendship. The owner should take off the ring and hand it to the friend. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1394. A hole in the toe of your shoe or stocking, so as to show the toe, means a letter. _Cape Breton._ 1395. Old shoes, particularly the soles, were often buried by negro servants on Monday morning to keep the devil down through the week. _Chestertown, Md._ 1396. Save the old shoes to throw after the carriage, when any of the family start on a journey; it will insure a safe return. _Massachusetts._ 1397. Wear the boot (or shoe) on the side, a rich man's bride; On the toe, spend as you go; On the heel, love to do weel; On the ball, live to spend all. _Boston._ 1398. Hole in the toe, spend as you go: Hole at the side, be a rich bride; Hole at the heel, spend as you feel; Hole on the ball, live to spend all. _New York._ 1399. Wear at the toe, live to see woe; Wear at the side, live to be a bride; Wear at the ball, live to spend all; Wear at the heel, live to save a deal. _New York._ 1400. Wear on the toe, Spend as you go; Wear on the ball, Love to spend all. Wear on the side, You'll be a rich bride. 1401. Of stockings:-- Wear at the toe, Spend as you go: Wear at the heel, Spend a good deal; Wear at the ball, You'll live to spend all. _South Carolina._ CUSTOMS. 1402. Halloween cabbages are pulled and thrown against the owner's door as a reminder of his laziness. _Southern Pennsylvania and Ohio._ 1403. Shelled corn is thrown at every one--the significance not known. _Southern Pennsylvania._ 1404. If a man is insulted and means to be revenged, he will bare his arm and cut a cross in it with his knife, called a "vengeance mark." _Mountains of North Carolina._ 1405. If you wash your face in dew before sunrise on May Day, you will become very beautiful. _Alabama._ 1406. Dry spots, where there is no dew, are called "fairy rings." _Salem, Mass._ 1407. Run round a fairy ring twice on Easter Sunday morning, and fairies will arise and follow you. _Salem, Mass._ 1408. The looking-glass is often turned with the face to the wall, or taken out of the room during a thunder-storm, because "quick-silver is so bad to draw the lightning." _Bathurst, N.B._ 1409. You are said to "take the manners" if you take the last of any kind of food from a plate. _New England._ 1410. "Manners dish" is the dish put on for show, and not expected to be eaten. _Northern Ohio._ 1411. Homoeopathic pills must be taken in odd numbers. _New England._ 1412. When a meteor is seen, Catholics often say, "A soul is ascending into heaven." 1413. A present of a knife or any pointed instrument cuts friendship; always sell it for a penny. 1414. A present of pins breaks friendship. _General in the United States._ 1415. There was a superstition among old people who had never been much abroad, in the town where I was born (Stratham, N.H.), that if they were photographed they were likely to die soon after, and many rather objected on that account. _Stratham, N.H._ 1416. After sneezing, it is customary to say, "God bless you." _General in the United States._ 1417. A bit of steel, such as a needle, protects one from witches. _Brookline, Mass._ 1418. A thief may be detected by a key turning in the Bible to Psalm i. 18-21, when the name of the guilty person is mentioned. _Labrador._ DAYS. 1419. What you do on your birthday, you will do all the year. _Salem, Mass._ 1420. On cutting the finger-nails:-- Cut them on Monday, cut them for news, Cut them on Tuesday, a pair of new shoes, Cut them on Wednesday, cut them for health, Cut them on Thursday, cut them for wealth, Cut them on Friday, cut them for sorrow, Cut them on Saturday, see your sweetheart to-morrow, Cut them on Sunday, cut them for evil, All the whole week you'll be ruled by the devil. _Baldwinsville, N.Y._ 1421. If you wear a garment for the first time on Saturday, you will have another one before it is worn out. _Bedford, Mass._ 1422. Study on Sunday, forget it through the week. _Nashua, N.H._ 1423. If, of your own accord, you leave home for Sunday visiting, you will be forced to leave for two Sundays following. _Labrador._ 1424. Get a letter on Monday, and you'll get six during that week. _New York, N.Y._ 1425. If you break anything on Monday, you will break something every day in the week. _Somerville, Mass._ 1426. If you break anything Sunday, you will continue to do so every day of the week, or as you commence Sunday, so you will go through the week. _Eastern Massachusetts._ 1427. If you begin anything Saturday, it must be finished that day or it will not get finished. _Boston, Mass._ 1428. Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for a letter, Sneeze on Tuesday, sneeze for something better, Sneeze on Wednesday, sneeze for news, Sneeze on Thursday, sneeze for a new pair of shoes, Sneeze on Friday, sneeze for sorrow, Sneeze on Saturday, see him to-morrow. _Niagara Falls, Ont._ 1429. Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for danger, Sneeze on Tuesday, kiss a stranger, Sneeze on Wednesday, receive a letter, Sneeze on Thursday, something better, Sneeze on Friday, sneeze for sorrow, Sneeze on Saturday, see your true love to-morrow. Sneeze on Sunday, your safety seek, Or the devil will have you the rest of the week. _Crown Point, N.Y._ 1430. Sneeze before twelve and one, and you will hear news. _Brighton, Mass._ 1431. Sneeze at the table, there will be one more or one less at the next meal. _Alabama._ 1432. Sneeze before your breakfast, See your beau before the day is past. _Brighton, Mass._ 1433. If you sneeze once, a girl is thinking of you; twice, she is wishing for you; thrice, it is a sign of a cold. _Alabama._ 1434. Sneeze before seven, Sneeze before eleven. _Boston, Mass._ 1435. What you sew on Sunday, you'll take out on Monday. What you sew on Sunday, you'll rip out in heaven. _Massachusetts._ 1436. Never cut your toe-nails Sunday, or you will do something to be ashamed of before the week is out. _Granville, Mass._ 1437. Cut your nails Monday morning, without speaking (?), and you will get a present before the week is out; some have it, "without thinking of a red fox's tail," instead of "without speaking." _Westport, Mass._ DOMESTIC LIFE. 1438. It is supposed that a broom placed behind the door will keep off witches. _Bruynswick, N.Y._ 1439. To burn the stub of a broom or break a sugar-bowl, means a quarrel. _Westport, Mass._ 1440. A spark seen on a candle or lamp when the light is extinguished means the receipt of a letter. _St. John, N.B., and Salem, Mass._ 1441. Wet the finger and touch the "letter" on the candle. If it come off on the finger, it means a letter for you. _Maine._ 1442. The letter in the candle will face the one for whom the letter is to be. If the little snuff bud is bright, it means a letter. _Northern Ohio._ 1443. If the candle is sooty, or shows a spark in the wick on blowing out, it is a sign that a letter is on its way. 1444. If chairs become entangled (legs interlaced, etc.), it means a quarrel. _Bathurst, N.B._ 1445. If you choke (food gets in the windpipe), it means some one has told lies about you. _Cape Breton._ 1446. It is a sign of good old-fashioned economy to use up a dish-cloth until it can be put into your mouth. _Massachusetts._ 1447. If a door opens of itself, it is supposed to indicate the presence of a spirit, usually one of the family. _Massachusetts._ 1448. It is unlucky to name a child after a dead child of the family. _Newfoundland._ 1449. If you begin keeping house with many in the family, it is a sign that you will always have a large family or houseful. _Ohio._ 1450. If a wood fire snaps and sparkles, each time it does indicates the receipt of a letter. _Peabody, Mass._ 1451. One of the negro superstitions was that when the fire burned with a blue flame, it was the devil seeking to speak to them. A handful of salt would make him go away. _Alabama._ 1452. Sweep the floor after dark, you'll see sickness before morning. 1453. If while eating you drop food on the floor, it is a sign that some one is telling lies about you. _Cape Breton._ 1454. Food dropped on the floor by one signifies that some one grudges you it. _Common in the United States._ 1455. Do not change your place at table; it is very unlucky. _New York, N.Y._ 1456. If you keep changing your furniture to different places, you'll be poor. _Massachusetts._ 1457. Not drinking the whole contents of a glass or cup means disappointment. _Westport, Mass._ 1458. If sooty bubbles form and blacken on the wick in a lamp burning whale oil, each bubble indicates the receipt of a letter. _Peabody, Mass._ 1459. When sparks are seen on the bottom of the tea-kettle, it is a sign that folks are going home from meeting. _New Hampshire and Boxford, Mass._ 1460. Sparks flying from a fire mean letters; the number of the sparks is the number of the letters. _Boston, Mass._ 1461. If a spark or sparks jump out of the fire and hit you or come towards you, it is a sign some one has a spite or grudge against you. _Bathurst, N.B._ 1462. Two spoons given to one person denotes that that person will have two homes before the year is out. _Chestertown, Md._ 1463. The tea-kettle suddenly singing means news. _Patten, Me._ VARIOUS. 1464. A stratum of warm air indicates the presence of the devil. _Boston, Mass. (Irish)._ 1465. If, when a newly-married couple go to housekeeping, she slyly takes her mother's dish-cloth or dish-wiper, she will never be homesick. Old Mrs. ---- told me that she believed that was the reason she was not homesick when they moved from Pennsylvania to Ohio. _Ohio._ 1466. To have a sharp knife is a sign of a lazy man. _Central Maine._ 1467. Passing anything through a ladder is a sign of a long passage. _Conception Bay, N.F._ 1468. If a ship has a starboard list, it is a sign of a quick passage; if a port list, it is a sign of a long passage. _Conception Bay and New Harbor, N.F._ 1469. Write the date of the first snowstorm, and you'll gain a bet before the winter is through. _Massachusetts._ 1470. To ascertain a girl's age, pull a hair from her head, hang a finger-ring from this inside a tumbler or goblet, and it will strike the number of years. _Boston, Mass._ 1471. Throw a strand of your hair in the fire; if it blazes you will live long and happily; if not, you will die soon. _Alabama._ 1472. If a tree falls to the right while you are looking at it, you are going on a long trip before the end of the year, and will have some unexpected piece of good luck. _Alabama._ 1473. A person born on Halloween is said to be possessed of evil spirits. _Alabama._ 1474. Place a broom across the door, and if any of your departed friends wish to speak to you they are free to come and go at will while the broom remains there. _Alabama._ 1475. If a person who raises fowls is bothered with hawks, he may prevent the trouble by throwing a handful of "rocks" into the fire while it is burning brightly. _Alabama._ NOTES. NOTES. Introduction, page 8.--S.G. Drake, _Annals of Witchcraft in New England_, Boston, 1869, p. 189, remarks that the principal accusers and witnesses in the witchcraft prosecutions of 1692, in Salem, Mass., were eight girls from eleven to twenty years of age, and adds with reference to their conduct previous to the accusations: "These Females instituted frequent Meetings, or got up, as it would now be styled, a Club, which was called a Circle. How frequent they had these Meetings is not stated, but it was soon ascertained that they met to 'try projects,' or to do or produce superhuman Acts. They doubtless had among them some book or books on Magic, and Stories of Witchcraft, which one or more of their Circle professed to understand, and pretended to teach the Rest." An examination of the evidence in the trials, however, shows not only no authority for these assertions, but that no such meetings took place previous to the trials, nor did any such "circle" exist. Drake derived his information from a paper by S.P. Fowler, who, in an address before the Essex Institute, in the year 1856, had remarked: "These girls, together with Abigail Williams, a niece of Mr. Parris, aged eleven years, were in the habit of meeting in a circle in the village, to practise palmistry, fortune-telling, &c." For such representation Mr. Fowler had no warrant; it would seem that he had obtained the notion by transferring to the time of the trials his experience in connection with spiritualistic "circles" of his own day. It is curious to observe how readily this suggestion was adopted, and with what uniformity recent popular narratives of the delusion reiterate, with increasing positiveness of phrase, the unfounded assumption. The expression, to "try projects," is therefore taken by Mr. Drake from modern folk-lore. Fowler's address, entitled "An Account of the Life and Character of the Rev. Samuel Parris, of Salem Village, and of his Connection with the Witchcraft Delusion of 1692," was printed in the _Proceedings_ of the Essex Institute, Salem, Mass, 1862, vol. ii. pp. 49-68 and also separately (Salem, 1857). For assistance in determining the origin of Drake's statement I am indebted to Mr. Abner C. Goodell, Jr., of Salem, Mass.--_W.W.N._ Nos. 15-16.--The reader who is interested to know how much importance has been attributed to the caul will do well to consult Levinus Lemnius, _De Miraculis Occultis Naturæ_. Chapter viii. of Book II. is headed: De infantium recens natorum galeis, seu tenui mollique membrana, qua facies tanquam larva, aut personata tegmine obducta, ad primum lucis intuitum se spectandam exhibet. The belief in the efficacy of the caul goes back at least to the time of St. Chrysostom, who, in the latter part of the fourth century, preached against this with kindred superstitions. Advertisements of cauls for sale, at prices ranging from twenty guineas down, have from time to time appeared in the London papers as recently as the middle of the present century, if not even later. No. 60.--See "Current Superstitions," _Journal of American Folk-Lore_, vol. ii. No. V. Nos. 116-118.--The custom of consulting in augury the occasional white spots on the finger-nails still survives, despite the protestation of old Sir Thomas Browne. He says:-- "That temperamental dignotions, and conjecture of prevalent humours, may be collected from spots in our Nails, we are not averse to concede. But yet not ready to admit sundry divinations vulgarly raised upon them. Nor do we observe it verified in others, what _Cardan_ discovered as a property in himself: to have found therein signs of most events that ever happened unto him. Or that there is much considerable in that doctrine of Cheiromancy, that spots in the top of the Nails do signifie things past; in the middle, things present; and at the bottom, events to come. That White specks presage our felicity; Blue ones our misfortunes. That those in the Nail of the Thumb have significations of honour, those in the fore-Finger, of riches, and so respectively in other Fingers (according to Planetical relations, from whence they receive their names), as _Tricassus_ hath taken up, and _Picciolus_ well rejecteth." No. 148.--A very complete account of the signification of moles is quoted from "The Greenwich Fortune Teller," in Brand's _Popular Antiquities_ (Bonn's ed.), iii. 254. CHAPTERS IV. AND V.--Two of the most interesting and most accessible lists of projects and Halloween observances are Gay's well-known _Shepherds Week_ and Burns's _Halloween_. No. 170.--It is an interesting psychological fact that projects are in the great majority of cases tried by girls and young women rather than by boys and young men. No. 174.--Here, as in many other cases, it is assumed that young men and women are accustomed to indulge in promiscuous kissing. The use of the word gentleman sufficiently indicates the level of society from which this project was obtained. Gentleman in this sense signifies any male human being over sixteen. It is often used more specifically to mean sweetheart, as "Mary and her gentleman were at the policemen's ball." No. 184.--On Biblical divination see Brand's _Popular Antiquities_ (Bonn's ed.), iii. 337, 338. No. 186.--This custom of divining the color of the hair of one's future wife or husband, which is probably very old, yet survives in many places, but with interesting modifications as to the bird which gives the signal to try the divination. In Westphalia it is at sight of the first swallow that the peasant looks to see if there be a hair under his foot. According to Gay, in England it is the cuckoo. "When first the year I heard the cuckoo sing, And call with welcome note the budding spring, I straightway set a running with such haste Deborah that won the smock scarce ran so fast; Till spent for lack of breath, quite weary grown, Upon a rising bank I sat adown, There doffed my shoe; and by my troth I swear, Therein I spied this yellow frizzled hair, As like to Lubberkin's in curl and hue As if upon his comely pate it grew." Nos. 187-193.--These practices, and others like No. 453 and the asseverations, Nos. 60-67, shade off insensibly into children's games, customs, and sayings. Games pure and simple have been omitted from the present monograph, since they are evidently out of place among superstitions. They have been admirably treated in Mr. Newell's _Games and Songs of American Children_. The customs and sayings for the most part belong in collections like Halliwell's _Nursery Rhymes_ rather than in the present collection. No. 211.--Projects in which flowers and leaves are employed certainly much antedate the Christian era. Theocritus (Idyll III.) describes one in which a poppy petal is used, and he also refers to another form of love-divination by aid of the leaf of the plant Telephilon. No. 245.--It is probable that the direction in which one is to walk during the performance of this and similar acts of divination is not a matter of indifference, even when no direction is prescribed. One would expect to find it done sunwise. See note on Chapter xvi. Nos. 254-256.--The _Sedum_ has long enjoyed a reputation for aphrodisiac qualities, as is set forth in Gerarde's _Herbal_ and other authorities. Perhaps the choice of the plant for use in this form of project is due to some lingering tradition of its potency, or it may be simply because of its great vitality and power of growing under adverse conditions. No. 334.--I happen to know that in 1895 one bride, in a Boston suburb, wore seven yellow garters, at the request of seven girl friends. Probably the fashion of wearing yellow garters owes its present currency to the repute in which they are held as love-amulets. CHAPTER VIII.--Some notion of the prevalence of a popular belief in the omens to be derived from dreams may be obtained from the fact that dream books are still enough in demand to warrant their publication. I have seen but one such volume. That was more than thirty years ago. A dream book is now published by a New York firm, and I find, from inquiries in Boston, that it sells at a moderate rate. No. 626.--See Shoe Omens in Brand's _Popular Antiquities_ (Bohn's ed.), iii. 166. Nos. 785-789.--The curious reader will find an excellent summary of the beliefs in regard to sneezing in Brand's _Popular Antiquities_, vol. iii. Nos. 796-800.--In New Hampshire it was formerly usual for young people to purchase gold beads, one at a time, with their earnings. When a sufficient number of beads was obtained the necklace was made, and after it had once been put on was never taken off by night or day. It is difficult to induce the elderly people who still retain these necklaces to part with them, there being a superstitious feeling in regard to the consequences. Nos. 831, 832.--These cures and a few other superstitions have been taken from a very interesting paper, "Notes on the Folk-Lore of Newfoundland," in the _Journal of American Folk-Lore_, vol. viii. No. XXXI. Almost all of the other folk-lore from Newfoundland and Labrador has been given me by Rev. A.C. Waghorne. It is interesting to notice how among these seafaring people weather-lore predominates over all other kinds. Nos. 845-848.--These devices for suppressing hiccoughs are scarcely superstitions in reality, as they doubtless often do relieve the nervous, spasmodic action of the respiratory muscles, by fixing the attention upon the cure. But in the popular mind some charm, I take it, is attributed to the counting, repeating, or what not. CHAPTER XIII.--Several remedies for warts are here introduced which belong with the collection of animal and plant lore for which the writer has much material accumulated. In general such topics, including a very large number of saliva charms and cures, have been omitted from the present list. Nos. 872, 880-882.--It is interesting to notice this illustration of the doctrine of signatures. Excrescences of such varied character, whether animal or vegetable, are supposed by contact to cause warts, doubtless simply because of the accidental resemblance. Nos. 889-896.--It seems that any juices of peculiar or marked color are popularly credited with curative power. The plants whose juices are thought to cure warts are, it will be noticed, of wide botanical range. In all probability there is no similarity in the effects to be obtained from the application of their sap. No. 979.--The somewhat unusual phenomenon of rain falling while the sun is shining seems to have so attracted the attention of the human mind as to have given rise to various sayings. A native of Western Africa told me that among his tribe, the Vey people, it was always said when the sun shone as rain fell that it was a sign that a leopardess had just given birth to young. In Japan the occurrence is said to indicate that a wedding procession of foxes is passing near by, and the children have a pretty habit of running to the supporting pillars of the house, to place the ear against the timbers and listen for the footfalls of the foxes. The little people also interlace their fingers in a certain way, then peeping through the chinks between the fingers they declare they can see the wedding-train. Nos. 1020-1028.--The mackerel sky is a name given to an assemblage of cirrus clouds which are thought to imitate the barred markings on the side of a mackerel. Mares' tails are wisp-like, curved cirri. CHAPTER XV.--To illustrate the remarkable prevalence of a regard for the phases of the moon in the management of every-day affairs among the Pennsylvania Germans, the following list of their beliefs is appended. All are from Buffalo Valley, Central Pennsylvania.[157-1] THE MOON. All cereals, when planted in the waxing of the moon, will germinate more rapidly than if planted in the waning of the moon. The same is true of the ripening of grain. Beans planted when the horns of the moon are up will readily pole, but if planted when the horns are down will not. Plant early potatoes when the horns of the moon are up, else they will go too deep into the ground. Plant late potatoes in the dark of the moon. For abundance in anything, you must plant it when the moon is in the sign of the Twins. Plant onions when the horns of the moon are down. Pick apples in the dark of the moon, to keep them from rotting. Make wine in the dark of the moon. Make vinegar in the light of the moon. Marry in the light of the moon. Move in the light of the moon. Butcher in the increase of the moon. Boil soap in the increase of the moon. Cut corn in the decrease of the moon, else it will spoil. Spread manure when the horns of the moon are down. Lay the first or lower rail of a fence when the horns of the moon are up. Put in the stakes and finish the fence when the horns are down. Roof buildings when the horns of the moon are down, else the shingles will curl up at the edges and the nails will draw out. Lay a board on the grass; if the horns of the moon are up, the grass will not be killed; if they are down, it will. Cut your hair on the first Friday after the new moon. Never cut your hair in the decrease of the moon. Cut your corns in the decrease of the moon. Nos. 1114-1123.--These superstitions regarding planting crops according to the moon are by no means idle sayings that have no influence over farmers. I know positively that in many parts of the United States and in Prince Edward Island gardens and fields are often planted after direct reference to the almanac in regard to the moon's changes. Metropolitan dwellers have small knowledge of what an important book the almanac is to many country people. In many a quiet farm home the appearance of the new almanac is looked forward to with great interest. Its arrival is welcomed, and it is hung up near the kitchen clock for constant reference. It is studied with care, especially on Sundays. The farmer or farm-wife, who would scorn to do an hour's work in the hay-field to save a crop from a Sunday shower, earnestly peruses the almanac to get rules to guide the week-day sowing and planting. There are old auguries, too, of whose import I am not definitely informed, to be derived from consulting the signs of the zodiac; auguries, I think, concerning human destiny as well as the planting of crops. Speaking of the place held by the almanac recalls one of those neighborhood anecdotes that by oft telling become classic. A young woman long ill, with consumption I believe, died very suddenly. Her brother, in speaking of the event, said: "Why, no, we never thought of Mary dying so soon. Why, she sat up in the big rocking-chair most all Sunday afternoon, reading the almanac, and then she died on Monday." Poor Mary, the thin volume was her sole library! CHAPTER XVI.--It would involve a much more extended discussion than the space-limits of these notes will allow, to undertake to show the origin and meaning of the superstitions in regard to the sun and sunwise movement. While the origin and meaning of sun-worship has been very fully treated by Sir G.W. Cox, Professor Max Müller, Professor De Gubernatis, and others, the existence in modern times and among civilized communities of usages which seem to be derived from sun-worship has apparently almost escaped notice. I quote in this connection a few paragraphs from my brief article on this subject in the _Popular Science Monthly_ for June, 1895:-- "In dealing with the origination of actions or customs in which is involved what Dr. Fewkes calls the ceremonial circuit,[158-1] it is difficult to determine the value of the factor, whether it be large or small, that is due to the greater convenience of moving in a right-handed direction. Occasionally the dextral circuit is followed in cases in which it is evidently less convenient than the sinistral would be, as in dealing cards in all ordinary games. Also, who can tell just how large or small an element may depend upon the tradition that the left hand in itself is uncanny without reference to the sun's apparent motion? There certainly is a general feeling of wide distribution that to be left-handed is unfortunate. Dr. Fewkes's careful and valuable researches among the Moki Indians of Arizona, however, show without doubt that they in their religious rites make the circuits sinistrally, _i.e._, contrary to the apparent course of the sun, or, as physicists say, contra-clockwise. The Mokis also are careful to stir medicines according to the sinistral circuit. But doubtless instances go to show that among Asiatic and European peoples the general belief or feeling is that the dextral circuit--_i.e._, clockwise, or with the apparent motion of the sun--is the correct and auspicious direction." "As contra-sunwise notions were thought to be of ill omen or to be able to work in supernatural ways, so it came to be believed that to reverse other acts--as, for instance, reading the Bible or repeating the Lord's Prayer backward--might produce powerful counter-charms. The negroes in the Southern States often resort to both of these latter practices to lay disturbing ghosts. In the ring games of our school children they always move sunwise, though whether because of convenience or from some forgotten reason who can say?" "In New Harbor, Newfoundland, it is customary, in getting off small boats, especially when gunning or sealing, to take pains to start from east to west, and, when the wind will permit, the same custom is observed in getting large schooners under way. So, too, in the Western Isles, off the coast of Scotland, boats at starting are, or at any rate used to be, rowed in a sunwise course to insure a lucky voyage." "It will be noticed that in several of these cures, as well as in some of the charms already cited, no rule is given as to the direction to be followed in movement; but it is quite possible that the original description was more explicit, and it is almost certain that in every instance a sunwise course would now be followed." No. 1166.--This appearance is due to the presence of a minute unicellular plant of a red color, which grows and multiplies with great rapidity on the surface of bread, starch-paste, and similar substances. So general was once the belief in its portentous nature that Ehrenberg described it under the name _Monas Prodigiosa_. No. 1176.--The non-appearance of _rigor mortis_ as omen of another death is alluded to in a skeptical way by Sir Thomas Browne in his _Vulgar Errors_, Book V. chapter xxiii. No. 1280.[TN-12]--Doubtless this apparently most trivial and meaningless sign is but one of hundreds of examples of pure symbolism. The custom of draping the bell or front door-knob with crape when death has come to a house is suggested by seeing anything hung on the door-knob. It might be convenient to hang the dish-cloth to dry on the kitchen door-knob, as the door stands open. The idea of death is suggested, then comes the thought, "this is like death, hence it may bode death," and so the omen arises. No. 1204.--See article on "Current Superstitions," _Journal of American Folk-Lore_, vol. ii No. IV. No. 1207.--Not infrequently people of education and culture feel that mourning is significant of further deaths. In popular arguments about the advisability of wearing mourning it is said that if one begins to wear it, he will have occasion to continue to do so. It is also claimed that mourning is directly unhealthful on account of injurious components of the black dyes used. This delusion no doubt proceeds from observed cases of ill-health due to the depressing effects of mourning upon the spirits (and therefore the physical condition) of the wearer. No. 1237.--See "Current Superstitions," _Journal of American Folk-Lore_, vol. ii. No. IV. I chanced to know a few years ago of a family party of educated, unusually intelligent people, when it happened that the number to dine was thirteen. One laughingly proposed to sit at a side table and did so. The dinner table would otherwise have been a bit crowded, the hostess said as excuse for heeding the evil omen of thirteen at table. I doubt if one of those present had any real faith in the superstition, and yet I fancy there was a certain feeling of relief in avoiding the augury predicted by the old saying. No. 1241.--See article, "Survivals of Sun Worship," by the author, in _Popular Science Monthly_, June 9, 1895. No. 1247.--To what extent an old custom of touching the dead survives I cannot say, but I well remember a painful experience of my own early childhood. I had been taken to the funeral of a little child, and at the proper time passed with the little procession to take leave of the dead baby. A lady who had charge of me turned down the wrist of my glove and bade me touch the corpse, which I did. At the time I felt it was to show me how cold were the dead, but I now think it must have been in conformity with some tradition, for the person who directed me was one who had great regard for what were deemed the proprieties in funeral rites. Nos. 1335-1338.--It is quite a general custom among country people on the Eastern Shore of Maryland to decapitate a crowing hen. The same custom is reported from New Hampshire and from Prince Edward Island. Does not this proverb then refer to the common superstition that it presages death or disaster for a hen to crow, in consequence of which such hens are summarily killed? No. 1415.--There is a somewhat widespread prejudice in the minds of old people against having their pictures taken, particularly if they have never done so. I do not think the objection is a natural conservatism, or dislike of doing something to which one is unaccustomed. The ill omen does not appear to have been feared for the young as well as for the old, even in provincial localities, when for the first time portraiture by daguerreotypy or more recently by photography was introduced. It has long been known that among primitive peoples there is a decided prejudice against portraiture. The notion seems to be that the individual may lose his vigor, if not his life, by allowing a copy of himself to be made in any way. Catlin in his intercourse with the North American Indians found great difficulty in gaining the consent of individuals to his painting them. He says in his work on _The Manners, Customs, and Condition of the North American Indians_, "The Squaws generally agreed that they had discovered life enough in them [Catlin's portraits] to render my medicine too great for the Mandans; saying that such an operation could not be performed without taking away from the original something of his existence which I put in the picture, and they could see it move, could see it stir." Herbert Spencer, in his _Principles of Sociology_, vol. i. p. 242, refers to a similar belief among the Chinooks and the Mapuchés. It would seem as if there is in the popular mind an instinctive recognition that the tenure of life is less strong in the aged than in the young. So while the general notion that it is dangerous to have one's person represented has disappeared from the mind of civilized man, a similar psychological condition survives here and there among people leading peculiarly simple lives. Another evidence of a popular belief in some vital relationship between a portrait and its original is suggested by the quite general superstition that photographs (or other pictures) fade after and in consequence of the decease of the original. I have found this to be a common belief in Ireland, Prince Edward Island, and in various parts of the United States. I remember as a child to have heard persons remark while turning over a family album of photographs, "That looks as if the person were dead." In fact, I think that I thus received the impression that the picture of one dead underwent some change that many persons could perceive and thus become aware of the death of the original. This notion is akin to a superstition of the Irish peasantry that the clothes left by the dead decay with unusual rapidity. In parts of New Hampshire it is counted unlucky to have a photograph copied while the original lives. Is this because death is thereby suggested, since it is so customary to have enlarged copies of a photograph made after the decease of the original? FOOTNOTES: [157-1] _Journal of American Folk-Lore_, vol. iv. No. XIII., "Folk-Lore from Buffalo Valley," J.H. Owens. [158-1] _Journal of American Folk-Lore,_ vol. v. No. XVI. p. 33. OFFICERS OF THE AMERICAN FOLK-LORE SOCIETY, 1896. =President.= JOHN G. BOURKE, FORT ETHAN ALLEN, VT. =First Vice-President.= STEWART CULIN, PHILADELPHIA, PA. =Second Vice-President.= HENRY WOOD, BALTIMORE, MD. =Councillors.= W.M. BEAUCHAMP, BALDWINSVILLE, N.Y. FRANZ BOAS, NEW YORK, N.Y. DANIEL G. BRINTON, PHILADELPHIA, PA. HELI CHATELAIN, NEW YORK, N.Y. JOHN H. McCORMICK, WASHINGTON, D.C. OTIS T. MASON, WASHINGTON, D.C. JAMES W. ELLSWORTH, CHICAGO, ILL. ALICE C. FLETCHER, WASHINGTON, D.C. *ALCÉE FORTIER, NEW ORLEANS, LA. *ALFRED C. GARRETT, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. *E. FRANCIS HYDE, NEW YORK, N.Y. *FREDERICK W. PUTNAM, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. GARDNER P. STICKNEY, MILWAUKEE, WIS. =Permanent Secretary.= W.W. NEWELL, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. =Treasurer.= JOHN H. HINTON, M.D., No. 41 West 32d Street, NEW YORK, N.Y. * As Presidents of Local Branches. SUBSCRIBERS TO THE PUBLICATION FUND OF THE AMERICAN FOLK-LORE SOCIETY, 1895. * * * * * John Abercromby, Edinburgh, Scotland. Isaac Adler, New York, N.Y. Samuel P. Avery, Jr., New York, N.Y. Miss Alice Mabel Bacon, Hampton, Va. Mrs. Frances Newbury Bagley, Detroit, Mich. Mrs. Mary M. Barclay, Washington, D.C. Eugene F. Bliss, Cincinnati, O. Boston Athenæum, Boston, Mass. Charles P. Bowditch, Boston, Mass. Daniel G. Brinton, Philadelphia, Pa. Philip Greely Brown, Portland, Me. John Caldwell, Edgewood Park, Pa. Miss Mary Chapman, Cambridge, Mass. Francis James Child, Cambridge, Mass. Clarence H. Clark, Philadelphia, Pa. Mattoon Munroe Curtis, Cleveland, O. Charles P. Daly, New York, N.Y. Charles F. Daymond, New York, N.Y. Hiram Edmund Deats, Flemington, N.J. Charles L. Edwards, Cincinnati, O. James L. Ellsworth, Chicago, Ill. Stuyvesant Fish, New York, N.Y. John Fiske, Cambridge, Mass. Alcée Fortier, New Orleans, La. Alfred C. Garrett, Cambridge, Mass. Charles C. Harrison, Philadelphia, Pa. E. Sidney Hartland, Gloucester, Eng. Mrs. Esther Herrmann, New York, N.Y. Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Cambridge, Mass. John H. Hinton, New York, N.Y. Historical Society of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, Pa. Richard Hodgson, Boston, Mass. Robert Hoe, New York, N.Y. John E. Hudson, Boston, Mass. Theodore D. Hurlbut, Brooklyn, N.Y. Clarence M. Hyde, New York, N.Y. E. Francis Hyde, New York, N.Y. Frederick E. Hyde, New York, N.Y. Edward C. James, New York, N.Y. Miss Louise Kennedy, Concord, Mass. Mrs. H.H. Kohlsaart, Chicago, Ill. Walter Learned, New London, Conn. Charles McKay Leoser, Larchmont Manor, N.Y. Albert Matthews, Boston, Mass. Washington Matthews, Washington, D.C. J. Meyer, New York, N.Y. Thomas Ewing Moore, Weimar, Germany. Miss Agnes Morgan, Osaka, Japan. William Wells Newell, Cambridge, Mass. Miss Laura Norcross, Boston, Mass. Miss Mary A. Owen, St. Joseph, Mo. Mrs. Gilman H. Perkins, Rochester, N.Y. George M. Richardson, Berkeley, Cal. William L. Richardson, Boston, Mass. Charles Schäffer, Philadelphia, Pa. Otto B. Schlutter, Hartford, Conn. C. Bernard Shea, Pittsburgh, Pa. Gardner P. Stickney, Milwaukee, Wis. Brandreth Symonds, New York, N.Y. John S. Tilney, Orange, N.J. Henry H. Vail, New York, N.Y. Alfred M. Williams, Providence, R.I. Henry J. Willing, Chicago, Ill. Mrs. Henry J. Willing, Chicago, Ill. Worcester City Library, Worcester, Mass. PUBLICATIONS OF THE AMERICAN FOLK-LORE SOCIETY. JOURNAL OF AMERICAN FOLK-LORE. VOLS. I.--VIII. 1888--1895. MEMOIRS OF THE AMERICAN FOLK-LORE SOCIETY. VOL. I. FOLK-TALES OF ANGOLA. Fifty Tales with Ki-mbundu text, literal English Translation, Introduction, and Notes. Collected and edited by HELI CHATELAIN, late U.S. Commercial Agent at Loanda. Pp. xii., 315. (With two Maps.) VOL. II. LOUISIANA FOLK-TALES. In French Dialect and English Translation. Collected and edited by ALCÉE FORTIER, D. Lit., Professor of Romance Languages in Tulane University of Louisiana. Pp. xi., 122. VOL. III. BAHAMA SONGS AND STORIES. A Contribution to Folk-Lore, by CHARLES L. EDWARDS, Professor of Biology in the University of Cincinnati. With Music, Introduction, Appendix, and Notes. Six Illustrations. Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Company. 1895. Pp. xiii., 111. VOL. IV. CURRENT SUPERSTITIONS. Collected from the Oral Tradition of English-speaking Folk. Edited by FANNY D. BERGEN. With Notes, and an Introduction by WILLIAM WELLS NEWELL. 1896. Pp. vi., 161. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, BOSTON AND NEW YORK. THE AMERICAN FOLK-LORE SOCIETY was organized January 4, 1888, for the collection and publication of the folk-lore and mythology of the American continent. The Society holds annual meetings, at which reports are received and papers read. The membership fee is three dollars, payable on the 1st of January in each year. Members are entitled to receive the Journal of American Folk-Lore, a periodical appearing quarterly, and of which eight volumes have already been issued, each volume containing about three hundred and fifty octavo pages. The Journal is published for the Society by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston and New York. The work of the Society includes publication and research in regard to the religious ceremonies, ethical conditions, mythology, and oral literature of Indian tribes; collection of the traditions of stocks existing in a relatively primitive state, and the collation of these with correct accounts of survivals among civilized tribes; gathering of the almost wholly unrecorded usages and beliefs of Central and South American races; the comparison of aboriginal American material with European and Asiatic conceptions, myths, and customs; a study of survivals among American negroes, including their traditional inheritance from Africa, and its modification in this Continent; preservation of the abundant folk-lore of the French and Spanish regions of North America; record of the oral traditions of the English-speaking population, and description of communities now or lately existing under isolated conditions. The publication of the Memoirs cannot be met from the regular fees of the Society, but is rendered possible by annual contributions to the Publication Fund, of ten dollars, for such time as individual subscribers may be pleased to continue such subscription. Subscribers are enrolled as members of the Society, and receive all its publications, issued after the date of subscription, including the Journal and Memoirs. A list of Annual Subscribers is printed in the Journal, and in each volume of the Memoirs, so long as subscription continues. Persons willing to assist in this work of publication, by the annual payment, during such time as they may please, of ten dollars (which sum, it will be understood, includes the annual membership fee of the Society), are requested to remit their subscriptions to the Treasurer, John H. Hinton, M.D., No. 41 West 32d St., New York, N.Y. Transcriber's Note The following errors and inconsistencies have been maintained. Misspelled words and typographical errors: TN-1 11 "over the the right shoulder" the word "the" is repeated TN-2 15 "are his own, property," extra , after "own" TN-3 70 463 Missing . at end of sentence TN-4 80 510 , instead of . at end of sentence TN-5 84 683 "Masssachusetts" should read "Massachusetts" TN-6 93 794 "crock" for "crack" TN-7 103 898 Missing . after the number TN-8 105 924 Missing close quotes TN-9 118 1084 "new moon. come" . instead of , TN-10 119 1199 Number should read 1099 TN-11 128 1205 "bad luck or seven" "or" should read "for" TN-12 159 Note 1280 should read 1180 The following words were inconsistently hyphenated: close-fistedness / closefistedness sun-wise / sunwise 
24569	----	None 
12545	----	Traditions of the Tinguian A Study in Philippine Folk-Lore By Fay-Cooper Cole Assistant Curator of Malayan Ethnology 1915 Contents Preface 3 Introduction 5 Tales of the Mythical Period 33 Ritualistic and Explanatory Tales 171 Fables 195 Abstracts 202 Preface The following myths were collected by the writer in 1907-8 during a stay of sixteen months with the Tinguian, a pagan tribe of northwestern Luzon in the Philippines. The material, for the most part gathered in texts, was partially translated in the Islands, while the balance was worked over during a brief visit to America in 1909. In this task I was assisted by Dumagat, a full blood Tinguian, who accompanied me. While not, in all cases, giving a literal rendering, I have endeavored to follow closely the language of the story-tellers rather than to offer a polished translation. In some cases, where it was impossible to record the tales when heard, only the substance was noted, a fact which will account for the meagerness of detail evident in a few of the stories. The Tinguian tribe numbers about twenty thousand individuals, most of whom are found in the sub-province of Abra, and in the mountains of Ilocos Sur and Norte. Their material culture, beliefs, and ceremonials are quite uniform and exceedingly complex. It is my intention to publish a study of this people in the near future, but realizing that it will be quite impossible for readers unacquainted with Tinguian life to understand many references in the tales, I have added such foot notes as will enable them to grasp the meaning of certain obscure passages. In the introduction, an attempt has been made to bring together the culture of the people as it appears in the myths, and to contrast it with present day conditions and beliefs. In this way we may hope to gain a clearer insight into their mental life, and to secure a better idea of the values they attach to certain of their activities than is afforded us by actual observation or by direct inquiry. It is also possible that the tales may give us a glimpse of the early conditions under which this people developed, of their life and culture before the advent of the European. It should be noted at the outset that no attempt is here made to reconstruct an actual historical period. As will appear later, a part of the material is evidently very old; later introductions--to which approximate dates may be assigned--have assumed places of great importance; while the stories doubtless owe much to the creative imaginations of successive story-tellers. A comparison of these tales with the folk-lore of neighboring tribes would be of greatest value, but unfortunately very little material for such a study is available. Under the circumstances it has seemed best to defer the attempt and to call attention in the footnotes to striking similarities with other fields. In the main these tales are so closely associated with the religious beliefs of the present day that it is unlikely they will be found, in anything approaching their present form, outside the districts dominated by this tribe. Nevertheless, isolated incidents corresponding to those of neighboring peoples or even of distant lands occur several times. Observation has led me to the belief that the religious organization and ceremonies of the Tinguian have reached a higher development than is found among the neighboring tribes, and that this complexity decreases as we penetrate toward the interior or to the south. If this be true, it seems evident that the tales based on or associated with them must likewise grow weaker as we go from Abra. I wish here to acknowledge my indebtedness to Dr. Franz Boas and Dr. Berthold Laufer, whose interest and suggestions have been of greatest value in the preparation of the material for publication; also to express my gratitude to the late Robert F. Cummings, under whose liberal endowment the field work was carried on. His constant interest made possible the gathering of the extensive Philippine collections now in the Museum, and it is a matter of deep regret that he did not live to see all the results of his generosity made available to the reading public. Fay-Cooper Cole, Assistant Curator of Malayan Ethnology. Chicago, January, 1915. Traditions of the Tinguian: A Study in Philippine Folk-Lore Introduction For the purposes of our study, the tales have been roughly divided into three parts. The first, which deals with the mythical period, contains thirty-one tales of similar type in which the characters are for the most part the same, although the last five tales do not properly fit into the cycle, and the concluding story of Indayo is evidently a recent account told in the form of the older relations. In the second division are the ritualistic and explanatory myths, the object of which seems to be to account for the origin of or way of conducting various ceremonies; for the belief in certain spirits and sacred objects; for the existence of the sun, moon, and other natural phenomena; for the attainment of fire, food plants, birds and domestic animals, as well as of magical jars and beads. Here it should be noted that some of the most common and important beliefs and ceremonies are, so far as is known, unaccompanied by any tales, yet are known to all the population, and are preserved almost without change from generation to generation. Division three contains the ordinary stories with which parents amuse their children or with which men and women while away the midday hours as they lounge in the field houses, or when they stop on the trail to rest and smoke. None of the folk-tales are considered as the property of the tellers, but only those of the third division are well known to the people in general. Those of the first section are seldom heard except during the dry season when the people gather around bonfires in various parts of the village. To these go the men and women, the latter to spin cotton, the former to make fish nets or to repair their tools and weapons. In such a gathering there are generally one or more persons who entertain their fellows with these tales. Such a person is not paid for his services, but the fact that he knows "the stories of the first times" makes him a welcome addition to the company and gives him an enviable position in the estimation of his fellows. The purely ritualistic tales, called _diams_, are learned word by word by the mediums, [1] as a part of their training for their positions, and are only recited while an animal is being stroked with oil preparatory to its being sacrificed, or when some other gift is about to be presented to the superior beings. The writer has recorded these _diams_ from various mediums in widely separated towns and has found them quite uniform in text and content. The explanatory tales were likewise secured from the mediums, or from old men and women who "know the customs." The stories of the last division are the most frequently heard and, as already indicated, are told by all. It is evident even to the casual reader that these show much more evidence of outside influence than do the others; some, indeed, appear to have been recently borrowed from the neighboring christianized Ilocano. [2] Tales of the Mythical Period _Reconstruction of the Culture_.--In the first division certain actors occur with great frequency, while others always take the leading parts. These latter appear under a variety of names, two or more titles often being used for the same individual in a single tale. To avoid confusion a list of the fourteen principal actors and their relationships are given in the accompanying table. It will appear that there are some conflicts in the use of names, but when it is realized that the first twenty-six myths which make up the cycle proper were secured from six story tellers coming from four different towns, the agreement rather than the disagreement is surprising. As a matter of fact there is quite as much variation between the accounts of the same narrator as between those gathered from different towns. _Table of Leading Characters_ [3] I. Aponitolau. Son of Pagatipánan [male] [4] and Langa-an [female] of Kadalayapan; is the husband of Aponibolinayen. Appears under the following names: (a) Ligi, (b) Albaga of Dalaga, (c) Dagdagalisit, (d) Ingiwan or Kagkagákag, (e) Ini-init, (f) Ling-giwan, (g) Kadayadawan, (h) Wadagan, (i) Awig (?) II. Aponigawani. Sister of Aponitolau and wife of Aponibalagen. III. Aponibolinayen. Daughter of Pagbokásan [5] [male] and Ebang [female] of Kaodanan. Wife of Aponitolau. Appears as (a) Ayo, (b) Dolimáman(?). IV. Aponibalagen. Brother of Aponibolinayen, and husband of Aponigawani; also appears as Awig. V. Kanag. Son of Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen. Appears as (a) Kanag kabagbagowan, (b) Balokanag, (c) Dumanau, (d) Ilwisan, (e) also at times is identified with Dumalawi, his brother. VI. Dapilísan, wife of Kanag. VII. Dagoláyan. Son of Aponibalagen and Aponigawani. Also appears as Dondonyán of Bagonan--the blood clot child. VIII. Alokotán. An old woman who acts as a medium. Her home is at Nagbotobotán, where the rivers empty their waters into the hole at the edge of the world. IX. Gawigawen [male]. A giant who owns the orange trees of Adasin. X. Giambolan [male]. A ten-headed giant. XI. Gaygayóma. A star maiden who marries Aponitolau. The daughter of Bagbagak [male], a big star,--and Sinag [female], the moon--. XII. Tabyayen. Son of Aponitolau and Gaygayóma. Half brother of Kanag. XIII. Kabkabaga-an. A powerful female spirit who falls in love with Aponitolau. XIV. Asibowan. The maiden of Gegenáwan, who is related to the spirit Kaboniyan. The mistress of Aponitolau. In consequence of modern rationalism there is a tendency on the part of a considerable number of the Tinguian to consider these tales purely as stories and the characters as fictitious, but the mass of the people hold them to be true and speak of the actors as "the people who lived in the first times." For the present we shall take their point of view and shall try to reconstruct the life in "the first times" as it appears in the tales. The principal actors live in Kadalayapan and Kaodanan, [6] towns which our chief story teller--when trying to explain the desire of Kanag to go down and get fruit--assures us were somewhere in the air, above the earth (p. 141). [7] At other times these places are referred to as Sudipan--the term by which spirits are supposed to call the present earth--while the actors are referred to as Ipogau--the spirit name for Tinguian. Whatever its location it was a place much like the present home of this people. The sky, the chief abode of spirits and celestial bodies, was above the land, and the heroes of the tales are pictured as ascending to visit the upper realms. The trees, plants, and animals were for the most part those known to-day. The ocean appears to have been well known, while mention is made of some places in Luzon, such as Dagopan and San Fernando in Pangasinan with which the people of to-day are not at all familiar (p. 89, 168). We learn that each village is situated near to a river or waterway by the banks of which shallow wells are dug, and there we find the women gathering under the shade of the trees, dipping up water to be carried to their homes, washing and combing their hair, and taking their baths (p. 48). They seldom go singly, for enemies are apt to be near, and unless several are in the company it will be impossible to spread the alarm and secure help in case of attack (p. 43). Leading up from the spring to the village are bamboo poles on which the heads of enemies are displayed (p. 43). In cases where the warriors have been especially successful these trophies may surround the whole settlement (p. 76). About the town is a defensive wall, generally of bamboo, but in some cases made up entirely of gigantic snakes (p. 43). Within this inclosure are many houses. The bamboo floors are raised high above the ground, while the thatching is of grass. Ladders lead up to little porches, from which doors open into the dwellings. At least part of the houses have a cooking room in addition to that used by the family, while structures containing a ninth room are several times mentioned (pp. 43, 52, 85). In one corner of the living room is a box containing blankets, above which are pillows and mats used by members of the household and guests; an iron caldron lies on the floor, while numerous Chinese jars stand about. A hearth, made up of a bed of ashes in which stones are sunk, is used for cooking. Above it is a bamboo food hanger, while near by stand jars of water and various cooking pots. Food baskets, coconut shell cups, and dishes, and a quantity of Chinese plates appear when the meal is served, while the use of glass is not unknown. Cups of gold, wonderful jars, and plates appear at times, but seem to be so rare as to excite comment (pp. 33, 98, 102, 105). Scattered through the village are numerous small buildings known as _balaua_ (p. 43), which are erected for the spirits during the greatest of the ceremonies, and still inside the enclosure are the rice drying plots and granaries, the latter raised high above the ground so as to protect their contents from moisture (p. 150). About the town pigs and chickens roam at will, while half-starved hunting dogs prowl about below the kitchens and fight for morsels which drop from above (p. 99). Carabao are kept and used as food (p. 101), but in the cycle proper no mention is made of using them as work animals. [8] Game, especially deer and wild chickens, and fish are added to the domestic supply of food (p. 80), but the staple appears to be mountain rice. Beans, coconuts, oranges, sugar cane, betel-nuts, and tobacco are also cultivated (pp. 33, 107, 121, 138). Clothing is scanty but nevertheless receives much attention. The poorest of the men wear clouts of banana leaf, and the women, when in danger of capture, don skirts of bark; but on most occasions we find the man wearing a colored cotton clout, above which is a bright belt of the same material, while for ceremonies he may add a short coat or jacket. A headband, sometimes of gold, keeps his long hair in place, and for very special events he may adorn each hair with a golden bead (pp. 74, 76, 81). The cotton skirts of the women reach from the waist to the knees; the arms are covered with strands above strands of beads, while strings of agate beads surround the neck or help to hold the hair in place. To the real hair is often added a switch which appears to be valued highly (p. 89). Ornaments of gold adorn the ears, and finger rings of the same metal are several times mentioned (pp. 39, 43, 124). The tales afford us a glimpse of the daily life. In the early morning the chilly mountain air drives the people from their mats to the yard, where they squat about the fires (p. 132). As it becomes light, part of the women begin pounding out the rice from its straw and husks (p. 144), while others depart for the springs to secure water (p. 101). In planting time husband and wife trudge together to the fields, where the man plants the seeds or cuttings, and his wife assists by pouring on water (p. 107). In midday, unless it is the busy season, the village activities are practically suspended, and we see the _balaua_ filled with men, asleep or lounging, while children may be playing about with tops or disk-like _lipi_ seeds (p. 139). As it becomes cooler, the town again takes on life; in the houses the women weave blankets or prepare food, the older women feed the chickens and pigs (p. 93), while the workers from the fields, or hunters with their dogs and game, add to the general din and excitement (p. 80). When night comes on, if it be in the dry season, bonfires spring up in different parts of the village, and about them the girls and women gather to spin. Here also come the men and boys, to lounge and talk (p. 117). A considerable portion of the man's time is taken up in preparation for or actual participation in warfare (p. 74). We have already seen that the constant danger of enemies makes it advisable for the women to go in parties, even to the village spring. One tale informs us of a girl who is left alone to guard the rice field and is promptly killed by the _alzado;_ [9] another states that "all the tattooed Igorot are enemies" (pp. 43, 155, 161). Revenge for the loss of relations or townspeople is a potent cause of hostile raids; old feuds may be revived by taunts; but the chief incentive appears to be the desire for renown, to be known as "a man who goes to fight in the enemies' towns" (pp. 90, 59). Warriors sometimes go in parties, sometimes alone, but generally in couples (p. 67). At times they lie in ambush and kill young girls who go for water, or old men and women who pass their hiding place (p. 97). Again they go out boldly, armed with shield, spear, and headaxe; they strike their shields as they go and announce their presence to the enemy (p. 103). In five of the tales the heroes challenge their opponents and then refuse to be the first to use their weapons. It is only when their foes have tried in vain to injure them that they enter the conflict. In such cases whole towns are wiped out of existence and a great number of heads and a quantity of jars and other booty is sent back to the towns of the victors (p. 104). Peace is restored in one instance by the payment of a number of valuable jars (p. 91). Upon the return of a successful war party, the relatives meet them at the gate of the town and compel them to climb the _sangap;_ [10] then invitations are sent out to friends and relatives in neighboring towns to come and aid in the celebration of the victory (p. 140). When they arrive at the entrance of the village they are met by the townspeople, who offer them liquor and then conduct them to the houses where they feast and dance to the music of _gansas_ (p. 126). [11] Finally the captured heads are stuck on the _sagang_ [12] and are placed by the gate, the spring, and, if sufficient in number, surround the town (p. 140). Taking the heads of one's neighbors does not appear to be common, yet cases are mentioned where visitors are treacherously killed at a dance (pp. 78, 83). The use of poison [13] is twice mentioned. In one case the victims are killed by drinking liquor furnished by the father of the girl about whose head they are dancing (pp. 148, 156). Bamboo spears appear to be used, but we are explicitly told that they fought with steel weapons, and there are frequent references to headaxes, spears, and knives (pp. 65, 76, 120). Marriage appears generally to be negotiated by the mother of the youth at his suggestion (p. 128). At times both his parents go to the girl's home, and after many preliminaries broach the subject of their mission (p. 128). The girl's people discuss the proposition, and if they are favorable they set a day for the _pakálon_--a celebration at which the price to be paid for the bride is decided upon (p. 49). The parents of the groom then return home after having left some small present, such as a jar or an agate bead, as a sign of engagement (p. 128) [14]. The _pakálon_ is held a few days later at the girl's home, and for this event her people prepare a quantity of food (p. 72). On the agreed day the close friends and relatives of both families will assemble. Those who accompany the groom carry jars and pigs, either in part payment for the bride, or to serve as food for the company (pp. 72, 128). The first hours are spent in bargaining over the price the girl should bring, but when this is settled a feast is prepared, and then all indulge in dancing the _tadek_ (p. 59) [15]. When the payment is made a portion is distributed among the girl's relatives (pp. 72, 74), but her parents retain the greater part for themselves [16]. The groom cannot yet claim his bride, although in one case he is allowed to take her immediately after the _pakálon_ by making a special payment for the privilege (p. 74). A few nights later the groom goes to the girl's home carrying with him an empty jar with which he makes the final payment (p. 73). The customary rice ceremony [17] follows and he is then entitled to his bride (p. 73). Should the house or anything in it break at this time, it foretells misfortune for the couple, hence precautions are taken lest such a sign should, by accident, be given (p. 60). In all but two cases mentioned the girl and her husband go to live with his people. In the first instance their failure to do so raises a protest; in the second, the girl's parents are of much more importance than those of the groom, and this may explain their ability to retain their daughter (pp. 138, 159). When the bride reaches her future home, she sits on the bamboo floor with her legs stretched out in front of her. The slats which she covers are counted and a string of agate beads, equal in length to the combined width of the slats, is given to her. She now becomes a full member of the family and seems to be under the orders of her mother-in-law (p. 60). The tales give constant sanction for the marriage of near relatives. Dumanau, we are told, marries his cousin [18], while we frequently meet with such statements as, "We are relatives and it is good for us to be married", or "They saw that they were related and that both possessed magical power, so they were married (p. 35)". It appears that a man may live with his sweetheart and have children by her, yet leave her, and, without reproach, marry another better fitted to be his wife (p. 54). He may also accept payment for a wife who has deserted him, apparently without loss of prestige (p. 64). No objection seems to be raised to a man having two wives so long as one of these is an inhabitant of the upper world (p. 111), but we find Kanag telling his former sweetheart that he cannot marry her since he is now married to another (p. 138). Again, when two women lay claim to Aponitolau, as their husband, they undergo a test and the loser returns to her former home (p. 94). However, this rule does not prevent a man from having several concubines (p. 120). Gawigawen, we are told, is accompanied to a _pakálon_ by eighteen young girls who are his concubines (p. 59). Divorce is twice mentioned, but it seems to call out protest only from the cast off wife (pp. 63, 149). Closely associated with the celebration of a marriage seems to be a ceremony known as _Sayang_, during the progress of which a number of small structures--the largest known as _balaua_--are built. Judging by their names and descriptions, we are justified in considering them "spirit houses" as they are to-day. The details of the extended _Sayang_ ceremony are nowhere given, but so much is made plain:--At its beginning many people pound rice, for use in the offerings and for food, and _da-eng_ [19] is danced (p. 40). After the _Libon_ [20] invitations are sent out, by means of betel-nuts covered with gold, to those whose presence is especially desired (p. 62). When the guests arrive at the village spring or gate they are offered food or drink, and then while they dance they are sprinkled with water or rice, after which all go up to the town (p. 41 note 2). A medium who knows the customs and desires of the spirits constructs a bamboo mat, which is known as _talapitap_, and on it offers food. To call their attention she frequently strikes the ground with the _dakidak_--split sticks of bamboo and _lono_ [21] (p. 40). The guests are not neglected, so far as regards food, for feasting and dancing occupy a considerable portion of their time. The ceremonial dance _da-eng_ is mentioned, but the _tadek_ [22] seems to be the one in special favor (pp. 41, 59). One tale tells us that the _Sayang_ was held immediately following a head hunt; and another, that Aponitolau went out to get the head of an old man before he started this ceremony (pp. 69, 76); however, the evidence is by no means conclusive that it is related to warfare. On page 105 we are told that Kanag's half sister is a medium, and the description of her method of summoning the spirits tallies with that of to-day. At the _Sayang_ ceremony she is called to perform the _Dawak_ [23], with the assistance of the old woman Alokotán (p. 106). The _Dawak_ is also held in order to stop the flow of blood from Aponitolau's finger (p. 113). The only other ceremony mentioned is that made in order to find a lost switch (p. 91). Certain well-known customs are strongly brought out in our material. The first, and apparently most important, is the necessity of offering liquor and food, both to strangers and to guests (p. 58). Refusal is so keenly resented that in one instance a couple decline to allow their daughter to marry a man whose emissaries reject this gift (p. 73). Old quarrels are closed by the tender of food or drink, and friendships are cemented by the drinking of _basi_ [24] (p. 134). People meeting for the first time, and even friends who have been separated for a while, chew betel-nut together and tell their names and places of residence. We are repeatedly told that it is necessary to chew the nut and make known their names, for "we cannot tell our names unless we chew," and "it is bad for us if we do not know each other's names when we talk." A certain etiquette is followed at this time: old men precede the younger; people of the home town, the visitors; and men always are before the women (pp. 45, 133). The conduct of Awig when he serves liquor to the _alzados_ [25] is that of to-day, i.e., the person who serves always drinks before passing it to others (p. 156). Certain other rules of etiquette or restrictions on conduct come out in the tales. We learn that it is not considered proper for a man to eat with the wife of another during his absence, nor should they start the meal before he comes in (p. 52). The master of a dance is deeply chagrined and chides his wife severely, because she insists on dancing before he has invited all the others to take their turns (p. 70). Greediness is reproved in children and Aponitolau causes the death of his concubines whose false tales had led him to maltreat his wife (p. 116). Unfaithfulness seems to be sufficient justification for a man to abandon his wife and kill her admirer (p. 78); but Kanag appears as a hero when he refuses to attack his father who has sought his life (p. 121). Of the ceremonies connected with death we learn very little except that the women discard their arm beads, the mourners don old clothing, and all wail for the dead (pp. 44, 90). Three times we are told that the deceased is placed on a _tabalang_, or raft, on which a live rooster is fastened before it is set adrift on the river. In the tales the raft and fowl are of gold, but this is surprising even to the old woman Alokotán, past whose home in Nagbotobotán all these rafts must go (p. 131). Up to this time in our reconstruction of the life of "the first times" we have mentioned nothing impossible or improbable to the present day Tinguian, although, as we shall see later, there are some striking differences in customs and ideas. We have purposely left the description of the people and their practice of magic to the last, although their magical practices invade every activity of their lives, for it is here that the greatest variations from present conditions apparently occur. These people had intimate relations with some of the lesser spirits, especially with the _liblibayan_ [26], who appear to be little more than their servants, with the evil spirits known as _banbanáyo_, and with the _alan_ (p. 123). The _alan_, just mentioned, are to-day considered as deformed spirits who live in the forests: "They are as large as people but have wings and can fly; their toes are at the back of their feet and their fingers point backwards from their wrists." The several references to them in the tales such as "you _alan_ girls whose toes on your feet turn out" indicate they were so considered in the first times (p. 161). Some of them are addressed as "you _alan_ of the springs," and in one instance a man dives down into the water where the _alan_ live (p. 148), but in general their homes seem to be similar to but much finer than those of the people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan. These spirits appear time after time as the foster mothers of the leading characters: Generally they secure a drop of menstrual blood, a miscarriage, or the afterbirth, and all unknown to the real parents, change them into children and raise them (p. 83). These foster children are pictured as living in houses of gold situated near springs, the pebbles of which are of gold or beads; [27] the places where the women set the pots while dipping water are big plates or dishes, while similar dishes form the stepping stones leading up to the house. Articles of gold are found in the dwellings and valuable jars are numerous. When the true relationships of these children are established they always go to their blood parents, carrying with them these riches, which are a source of wonder and comment (pp. 43, 64). The people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan have many dealings with the celestial bodies. The big star Bagbagak appears as the husband of Sinag--the moon--and father of the star maiden Gaygayóma, who, Aponitolau assures his wife, is a spirit. When this girl comes down to steal sugar-cane she takes off her star dress and appears as a beautiful maiden; [28] she becomes enamored with Aponitolau and takes him to the sky, where he lives with her. They have a child, who later marries in Kadalayapan and thereafter stays below. Upon the occasion when Aponitolau visits his first wife and fails to return to the sky at the appointed time, a great company of stars are sent to fetch him, with orders to devour him if he refuses to obey (p. 109, ff.). In the first tale Aponitolau himself appears as "the sun," "the man who makes the sun," as "a round stone which rolls," but when it is established that he is the son of a couple in Kadalayapan he apparently relinquishes his duties in the sky and goes to live in the village of his people. With him goes his wife Aponibolinayen, who had been carried above by a vine. While at his post in the heavens, Aponitolau is closely associated with the big star, whose duty it is to follow him in the sky. Again we are told that Aponitolau is taken up by the spirit Kabkabaga-an, whom he marries and by whom he has a son (p. 114). In some instances this hero and his son Kanag converse with thunder and lightning, which appear at times not unlike human beings (p. 100); but in the eighth relation the two kinds of lightning are pictured as dogs who guard the town of Dona. These people enjoy unusual relations with inanimate things, and we find them conversing with spears and with jars. [29] In one case the latter appear to be pastured like animals, and surround Aponitolau when he goes to feed them with _lawed_ [30] leaves and salt (p. 51). Weapons weep blood and oil when taken down for the purpose of injuring certain persons (p. 43). A nose flute, when played by a youth, tells him of his mother's plight (p. 152), while a bamboo Jew's harp summons the brothers of its owner (p. 162). Animals and birds are frequently in communication with them: The hawk flies away and spreads the news of the fight at Adasin [31] (p. 90); at the bidding of Dalonágan a spider spins a web about the town (p. 124); and Aponitolau is enabled to fulfill the labors assigned him by the ten-headed giant only through the aid of spiders, ants, and flies (p. 101). [32] During certain dances the water from the river flows over the town and fish come up and bite the feet of the dancers (p. 59). Crocodiles are left to guard the sister of Aponibalagen, and when they fail to explain their negligence they are whipped and sent away by their master (p. 87). A great bird is pleased with Aponitolau and carries him away [33] to its home, where it forces him to marry a woman it had previously captured (p. 92). In one instance an animal gives birth to a human child; a frog laps up the spittle of Aponitolau, and as a result becomes pregnant [34] and gives birth to a maiden who is taken away by the spirits (p. 105). Another account states that the three sons of Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen are born as pigs, but later assume human form (p. 116). Kanag becomes a snake when he tries to secure the perfume of Baliwán, but is restored to human form when he bathes in a magic well (p. 137). These and other mysterious happenings, many of which are not explained as being due to their own volition, befall them; thus Ingiwan, while walking, is confronted by an impassable hill and is compelled to cross the ocean, where he finds his future wife, but upon his return the hill has vanished (p. 86). In other instances the finger rings of people meeting for the first time exchange themselves (p. 92). The headband of Ligi flies away without his knowledge and alights on the skirt of a girl who is bathing in the river. As a result she becomes pregnant, and when the facts become known Ligi is recognized as the child's father (p. 144). It seems probable that the superior powers are responsible for these occurrences, for in at least one instance the great spirit Kaboniyan steals a maiden and turns her into a flock of birds, who talk with and assist the owner of a rice field (p. 151). While they thus appear to be to a certain extent under the control of the spirits and to be surrounded by animals and inanimate things with human intelligence and speech, the people of these "first times" possess great power over nature: Time and space are annihilated, for at their will daylight comes at once (p. 150), or they are transported to a place in an instant (p. 92). At their command people appear: Kanag creates betel-nut trees, then cuts the fruit into bits, which he sows on the ground. From these come many people who are his neighbors, and one of whom he marries (p. 121). The course of nature is changed: A field is planted in an instant; the crops mature in a few days, and the grain and fruits take themselves to the store-house (p. 150). A strike-a-light turns into a hill which impedes pursuers [35] (p. 75), while a belt or headaxe serves as a ferry across a body of water (p. 84). A storm is called upon to carry a person or a building to a distance (p. 121), and a spring is created by killing an old man (p. 60). [36] Prepared food appears at a word; a stick when cooked becomes a fish, and though it is repeatedly broken and served it always appears ready for service at meal time (p. 33); a small jar containing a single grain of rice supplies an abundance of food; another jar no larger than a fist furnishes drink for a company and still remains a third full; while a single earring fills a pot with gold [37] (pp. 47, 119, 123). Quite as easy as the creation of beings is the causing of sleep or death. All the people of a village are put to sleep at the will of a single person (p. 145) and Albaga--while still at a distance--causes the death of Aponibolinayen (p. 44). At a word of command the spears and headaxes of the people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan go out and kill great numbers of the enemy, and the heads and booty take themselves in orderly fashion to towns of their new owners (pp. 66, 75). Many methods of restoring the dead to life are employed; spittle is applied to the wounds, or the victim is placed in a magic well, but the common method is for the hero "to whip his perfume," [38] whereupon the dead follow his commands (pp. 152, 157). The birth of a child, to a woman of these times, is generally preceded by an intense itching between the third and last fingers, and when this spot is pricked the child pops out "like popped rice." [39] Its growth is always magical, for at each bath its stature increases by a span (p. 102). Within a few days the baby is a large child and then begins deeds of valor worthy of the most renowned warriors (pp. 95, 96). The power of assuming animal forms appears to be a common possession, and we find the different characters changing themselves into fire-flies, ants, centipedes, omen birds, and in one case into oil [40] (pp. 85, 99). One of the most peculiar yet constantly used powers of these people is their ability to send betel-nuts on various missions. Whenever an invitation to a ceremony or celebration is to be extended, nuts covered with gold are oiled and sent out. They go to the intended guest, state their errand, and, if refused, forthwith proceed to grow on his knee, forehead, or pet pig, until pain or pity compels him to accept (p. 146). In some cases it appears that the nuts themselves possess the magic properties, for we find Aponitolau demanding that his conquered foes give him their betel-nuts with magic power (p. 91). Relationships can be readily ascertained by the chewing of these nuts, for when the quids are laid down they are transformed into agate and golden beads and lie in such a manner that the associations are fully established (pp. 35, 36, 41). Enough has been mentioned to show how important a part magic and magical practices play in the life of this people, but one further reference should be made, since it is found in nearly every tale. When the marriage price is settled upon, the mother of the groom exercises her power and at once fills the spirit house with valuable jars and the like; this is repeated until enough are gathered to meet the demands of the girl's people (p. 133). Even when the agreed sum has been delivered we often find the girl's mother herself practicing magic, to secure additional payment, and by raising her elbows or eyebrows causing a part of the jars to vanish (pp. 133, 143). Despite their great gifts we find that these people are not all-powerful and that they deem it wise to consult the omens before starting on a task or a journey. The gall sack and liver of a pig are eagerly examined, [41] while the calls of birds, actions of animals, or signs received from the thunder and lightning regulate their conduct. In cases where these warnings are disregarded misfortune or death always overtakes the individual (pp. 48, 49, 100 ff). Death comes to them, but apparently is only a temporary state. The deceased are often revived by some magical process (p. 152), but if not the corpse is placed on a raft and is set adrift on the river. [42] The streams and rivers, we are told, all flow past Nagbotobotán before they empty into the hole where all streams go. In this place lives the old woman Alokotán, who is related to the people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan. Her duty it is to watch for dead relatives, to secure them, and make them alive again (p. 132). She is the owner of a magic pool, the waters of which revive the dead and renew youth. _Comparison of the Reconstructed Culture with Present Day Conditions_.--Before passing to a consideration of the tales in the last two divisions of our material, it may be well to compare the life and beliefs of these "people of the first times" with those of the living Tinguian. Kadalayapan and Kaodanan appear, in a vague way, to have been located in Abra, for we learn that the Ilocano, Don Carlos, went up the river from Baygan (Vigan) [43] to Kadalayapan; that the _alzados_ [44] lived near by; while the tattooed Igorot occupied the land to the south (pp. 77, 155). The villages were surrounded by defensive walls such as were to be found about all Tinguian villages until recent times, and which are still to be seen about Abang and other settlements. Within the walls were many houses, the descriptions of most of which would fit the dwellings of to day. The one thing which seems foreign to present conditions is the so-called "ninth room" which receives rather frequent mention. There is nothing in the tales referring to buildings or house construction which lends support to the contention of those who seek to class the Tinguian as a modified sub-group of Igorot. [45] The Bontoc type of dwelling with its ground floor sleeping box and its elevated one room kitchen and storage room is nowhere mentioned, neither is there any indication that in past or present times the Tinguian had separate sleeping houses for the unmarried men and boys, and for the girls, as do their neighbors to the south. The other structures, such as the spirit houses, rice drying frames, and granaries were similar to those seen to-day in all the villages. Likewise the house furnishings, the musical instruments, and even the games of the children were such as are to be found at present, while our picture of the village life given on page 9 still fits nearly any Tinguian settlement in Abra. The animals mentioned are all familiar to the present people, but it is worthy of note that in the first twenty-six tales, which make up the cycle proper, the horse is not mentioned, nor does the carabao appear to be used as a work animal. Still more important is the fact that the terraced fields and the rice culture accompanying them, which to-day occupy a predominant place in the economic life of the people, are nowhere mentioned. On the other hand, the _langpádan_, or mountain rice, assumes a place of great importance. References to the cultivation of the land all seem to indicate that the "hoe culture," which is still practiced to a limited extent, took the place of agriculture. The clothing, hair dressing, and ornaments, worn by these people, agree closely with those of to-day. Beads seems to have been of prime importance, but could scarcely have been more prized or more used than at present. Unless she be in mourning, the hair and neck of each woman are now ornamented with strings of beads, many of them of evident antiquity, while strands above strands cover the arms from the wrist to the elbow or even reach to the shoulder. [46] The wealth of a person seems to have been, to a large extent, determined by the number of old jars in his possession. As at the present time, they formed the basis of settlement for feuds, as payment for a bride, and even figured in the marriage ceremony itself. The jars, as judged from their names, were evidently of ancient Chinese manufacture, and possessed power of speech and motion similar to that of human beings; but in a lesser measure the same type of jars have similar powers to-day. [47] The use of gold and jewels seems to have been common in the old times; the latter are seldom seen in the district to-day, but the use of bits of gold in the various ceremonies is still common, while earrings of gold or copper are among the most prized possessions of the women. [48] Placer mining is well known to the Igorot of the south, who melt and cast the metal into various ornaments. So far as I am aware, this is not practiced by the present Tinguian, but may point back to a time when the industry was known in this region, or when trade relations with the south were much freer than in recent years. The weapons of the warriors, which we are specifically told were of metal, are identical with those seen at the present time, while the methods of warfare agree with the accounts still told by the old men of their youthful exploits. A survey of the tales brings out boldly the fact that a headhunt was one of the most important events in Tinguian life. To-day stress of circumstances has caused the custom to suffer a rapid decline, but even now heads are occasionally taken, while most of the old men have vivid recollections of the days when they fought "in the towns of their enemies." A spirited account of a head celebration seen in the village of Lagangilang--from which ten of these tales were collected--will be found in the writings of La Gironiere, already referred to. [49] It is important to note that this account, as well as those secured from many warriors of the present generation, offers some striking differences to the procedure in the olden days, particularly as regards the disposal of the skulls. The tales tell of the heads being placed on the _sagang_ [50] at the spring, at the gate, or about the town, after the celebration. Certain of the present villages make use of the _sagang_, but the more common type of head holder is the _saloko_, [51] which still figures in many ceremonies. However, the heads only remain in these receptacles until the day set for the festival. They are then carried to the centre of the village and there, amid great rejoicing, are cut open; the brains are removed and to them are added the lobes of the ears and joints of the little fingers, and the whole is then placed in the liquor, which is served to the dancers. Before the guests depart the skulls are broken into small pieces and a fragment is presented to each male guest, who carries it home and is thus often reminded of the valor of the takers. [52] A study of Tinguian beliefs furnishes an additional religious motive for the taking of heads, but with the people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan revenge and the desire for renown were the prime incentives. Every tale emphasizes the importance of the _Sayang_ ceremony and the spirit structure known as _balaua_. [53] The ceremony is nowhere described in full, but the many details which are supplied show that it was almost identical with that of to-day. The same is true of the _Dawak_, [54] which we find mentioned on three different occasions, and of the ceremony made to aid in locating lost or stolen articles. The most noticeable fact, to the person familiar with Tinguian life, is that these are the only ceremonies mentioned among the many known and practiced at present. More than a score of different rites are now well known to this people, and occupy a very considerable portion of their time and attention during the first four months of the year. The failure to make mention of these very important events is explained, it seems to me, not by their absence, but by the fact that these rites vary in importance and that the privilege of celebrating them is hereditary in a family. Should one not entitled to hold such a ceremony desire to do so, he must first give, in order, all the lesser events, a costly procedure extending over a period of several years. The people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan always appear as being closely related to the spirit Kaboniyan, [55] and exceedingly powerful. It seems probable that the story teller takes it for granted that all of them are entitled to hold the most important ceremony known to the Tinguian. A prominent figure in these rites is the medium, through whom the ancient people generally conversed with the spirits, but in exceptional cases we found the heroes talking direct with the superior beings; however, this gift is not confined to the men of old, for in such tales as 55 and 59 people who are believed to have lived recently have conversed with the spirits and have even been joined to them in marriage. The procedure in choosing a bride, the engagement, the _pakálon_, [56] and the marriage proper are all those of the present day, but the rules governing the marriage of relatives differ radically. As already noted, one of the chief qualifications for marriage, among the people of the tales, was relationship, and even cousins became husband and wife. Such a thing is unthinkable among the Tinguian of to-day; first cousins are absolutely barred from marrying, while even the union of second cousins would cause a scandal, and it is very doubtful if such a wife would be allowed to share in her deceased husband's property. [57] It appears that only one real [58] wife is recognized as legitimate, but that from "the first times" to the present a man might have as many concubines as he could secure. So far as mythology and present day conditions can inform us the bride has always gone to the home of her husband and, for a time at least, has been subject to the dictations of her mother-in-law, although the couple are generally soon established in a home of their own, in the town of the groom. There is nothing in Tinguian life or tradition to indicate that they have ever had a clan system or a matriarchal form of government. The few references to the procedure immediately after a death indicate that, in part, the people of to-day follow the old custom; but here again an important departure occurs. We are thrice told that the corpse was placed on a little raft called _tabalang_ and set adrift on the river; and in one case the afterbirth was treated in the same manner. Nothing of the sort is done to-day, nor does it seem at all likely that such has been the case in recent generations. The body is now buried beneath the house, and certain set rules govern the movements of all persons related to the deceased, as well as the disposal of the corpse. This procedure is so complex and so uniform throughout the whole Tinguian belt that it seems improbable that it has grown up, except through a long period of time. At this point it is interesting to note that at many ceremonies it is necessary to construct a small raft called _tal-talababong,_ or _talabong_, to place offerings in it, and set it adrift on the stream, in order that any spirits who have been prevented from attending the ceremony may still secure their share. [59] The festivals, the dances, the observances of the proprieties required by good breeding or custom of to-day, follow closely those given in the tales. The greatest divergence is in the offering of betel-nuts and the telling of names, which occupies such an important place in the narratives. The use of betel-nut for chewing is less common among the Tinguian people than with most other Philippine tribes, a fact which may be accounted for by their constant use of tobacco. However, betel-nuts still occupy a most important place in the various ceremonies, and many offerings intended for the spirits must be accompanied with the prepared nut. In nearly every instance when invitations were sent out, for a ceremony, the people of the tales intrusted an oiled betel-nut covered with gold with this duty. This has its counterpart to-day in the small gifts of gold which are often carried to some friend, in another town, whose presence is particularly desired. It seems not improbable that the golden colored husks of the ripe betel-nuts may have suggested the substitution. Magic was practiced extensively in "the first time," but it is by no means unknown to the people of the present day. They cannot now bring a dead person to life, or create human beings out of bits of betel-nut; but they can and do cause sickness and death to their foes by performing certain rites or directing actions against garments or other objects recently in their possession. Even the name of an enemy can be applied to an animal or inanimate object and action against it be transferred to the owner. Like the Tinguian, the people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan are warned or encouraged by omens received through the medium of birds, thunder, lightning, or the condition of the gall and liver of a slaughtered pig; [60] and like them they suffer for failure to heed these warnings, or for the infraction of a taboo. The myths of the first division make it plain that, to the people of those times, the sun, moon, and stars were animate--either spirits or human beings. In some cases a similar conception was held for thunder and lightning, while in others they appear as animals. It will appear that such ideas are not foreign to the second division of the tales, which represent present day beliefs. Thus, in the mountain village of Baay the sky is considered as a male spirit--the husband of the earth, and father of sun and moon. Again, in Lagangilang and Abang, the thunderbolt is identified as Kadaklan--the most powerful of all spirits--who "often eats the ground and releases his wife Agemem." This brings us to a most interesting question, namely: Are the chief actors in our tales to be considered as celestial beings and spirits, or as human heroes? We have already made note of the fact that in the first tale Aponitolau is identified with Ini-init whom, we are told, was "the sun," "the man who makes the sun," "a round stone which rolls." In this tale he marries Aponibolinayen, a maiden whose name may possibly be construed to mean "the woman in the moon." [61] However, we find Aponitolau abandoning his place in the sky and going to reside in Kadalayapan. This tale comes from the town of Langangilang where, as we have already seen, the celestial beings are regarded as spirits. Tale fifteen, coming from the same town, shows us this same Aponitolau going up to the sky, where he marries the spirit Kabkabaga-an, but as before he returns to his home below. A further indication of his celestial character is perhaps afforded us in tale fourteen, which was recorded in Patok, a valley town in which the sun, moon, and stars are now regarded as "lights" belonging to the spirit Kadaklan. Here we find that Aponitolau marries the star maid Gaygayóma, who is the daughter of the big star Bagbagak, and Sinag--the moon. In this same tale Aponibolinayen appears as the first wife of Aponitolau, and it is clear that in the mind of the story teller she is not identified with Sinag. Aponitolau appears in the other tales without any hint of celestial qualities. Aside from her name and the fact that she is once pictured as visiting the sky, there is nothing to indicate that his wife Aponibolinayen is to be considered as the moon. A careful study of the other characters who reside in Kadalayapan and Kaodanan fails to yield any evidence that they are considered as celestial beings. During the _Sayang_ ceremony held in San Juan, a certain man and woman, who are then called Iwaginán and Gimbagon [62], represent the good spirits and are defended by the people when evil spirits try to dispossess them of their property. This is the only instance I have observed in which the names of any of these characters of the tales appear in the ceremonies, while a list of more than one hundred and fifty spirits known to the Tinguian fails to reveal more. While in the practice of magic, and in their communication with nature, celestial bodies, and spirits, these "people of the first times" far excelled the present Tinguian, they had a material culture and ceremonial life much like that still found in Abra. It seems then that these people, about whom the stories cluster, are not to be identified as celestial beings or spirits [63]. They appear rather as generalized heroes whose life and deeds represent that of an earlier period, magnified and extolled by succeeding generations. Ritualistic and Explanatory Myths The second division of the tales now assumes a position of importance to us, for in it we find present day ideas and beliefs of the people strongly brought out, and are thus in a position to contrast them with the tenets of the people in "the first times". The influence of custom is exceedingly strong among the Tinguian of to-day. The fact that the ancestors did so and so is sufficient justification for performing any act for which they have no definite explanation. Nowhere is this influence greater than in the ceremonies. These, which accompany all the important happenings in their daily life, are conducted by mediums who are fitted for office by long training, and each one of whom is a check on the others if they wilfully or through carelessness deviate from the old forms. The ritual of these ceremonies is very complex and the reason for doing many acts now seems to be entirely lost, yet the one explanation _"kadaúyan"_--custom--is sufficient to satisfy any Tinguian. Other acts, as well as the possession of certain things, are explained by myths, such as we are considering. It seems certain that we are here dealing not with present day beliefs alone, but with at least relatively old customs and tales, which while enabling us to understand present day conceptions also give us a glimpse into the past. The myths 32-40, which are known to the people as _diams_, are now inseparable parts of the various ceremonies. Thus, when a pig is to be offered in the _Sayang_ ceremony, the medium sits down beside it and strokes it with oiled fingers while she "talks to the spirits". The translation of her "talk" shows that this is in no sense a prayer but is rather an account of how the greatest of the spirits taught the Tinguian people to perform this ceremony correctly. Likewise, when she offers food in the _Dawak_ [64] ceremony, she relates how the spirit Kaboniyan taught the Tinguian to do this in the same manner that he performs it. In the _Pala-an [65] diam_ she relates, in story form, the cause of the sickness, but in this case ends with a direct invocation to the spirits in Dadáya to "make them well again if you please". The balance of the _diams_, 35-40, are in story form, and seem intended more as an explanation to the people as to the causes of their troubles than to be directed toward the spirits. However, the medium seldom has an audience, and rarely ever a single listener, as she recites the _diams_ she has learned verbatim from her instructors when preparing for the duties of her office. Myths 41-54 are of quite a different type. They are generally told by the mediums or wise old people, during the ceremonies, but always to a crowd of eager listeners. They are not learned word for word, as are the _diams_, but their content is constant and they are thoroughly believed. That they exert a great influence on the beliefs and conduct of both old and young is undoubted. The evil which befalls a person who molests the guardian stones is thus made known even to the children who generally keep at a distance from the grove in which they stand. Again, these tales give sharp warning as to what befalls a person who even ignorantly breaks the taboos following a death; but at the same time advance means of thwarting the wrath of the enraged or evil spirits. Myths 55 to 62 at first glance to not appear to be explanatory at all, but seem rather to be a series of stories dealing with the relations between certain persons and the natural spirits or those of the dead. However, it is the intent and use rather than the form of these stories which has caused them to be included in this division, for they give the people authority for certain beliefs and conceptions which they hold. Tale 56 gives us a glimpse of the prevalent idea of the abode of the dead, where the spirits lead much the same sort of life as they did while alive, but we secure quite a different picture of this realm from the Baluga [66] tale, in which the home of the deceased is said to be in the ground while the "life" of the dead woman is kept in a bamboo cup. This last account was heard in Manabo, a town near to the Igorot settlements of the Upit river, and may be influenced by the beliefs held in that section. [67] Certain individuals appear to have intimate dealings with the natural spirits, in some instances even being joined to them in marriage. The afterbirth child, Sayen, is believed to have lived "not very long ago", yet we find his life and actions quite similar to those of the heroes in "the first times", while his foster mother--the _alan_ [68]--takes the same part as did the _alan_ of old. Relations 63 to 74 appear as pure explanatory tales, accounting for the existence and appearance of celestial bodies and animals in their present state; they also account for the possession of fire and of many prized objects, such as jars and agate beads. Incidentally many essential traits and old customs come out, such, for instance, as those of war and mourning, which appear in connection with the origin of the _kalau_ [69]. With few exceptions the myths of this division correspond to present beliefs; the spirits are those known to-day; the towns mentioned are now existing or their former locations are well known. They have thus the appearance of being of more recent origin than those of the first division, yet it is worthy of note that there is little in them which seems foreign to or out of keeping with the older tales. Fables The last division may be said to be made up of fables, for the story tellers without hesitation label them as fictions. The last of these appears to be only a worked over incident of myth 56, in which the big bird Banog carries the hero to its nest, from which he escapes by holding to the wings of the young birds. It is possible that more of these fables are likewise incidents in tales prevalent among the Tinguian, but not heard by the writer. Whether or no this be true, it is certain that most of these stories are well known to the Ilocano of the coast and the other Christianized natives throughout the archipelago. Comparison with the folk-lore from other regions shows that these stories are by no means confined to the Philippines. The chief incidents in the narrative of the turtle and the monkey have been recorded from the Kenyah of Borneo [70] and from the northern peninsula of Celebes [71]; the race between the shell and the carabao is told in British North Borneo [72] in regard to the plandok and crab, while it is known to European children as the race between the turtle and the hare. The threat of the mosquito in 84 is almost identical with that recorded by Evans in Borneo [73]; while many incidents in the fable of Dogidog [74] are found in the Iban story of Simpang Impang [75]. When comparing the Tinguian versions of these fables with those of the Ilocano, one is impressed with the fact that while the incidents upon which they are founded are often identical, the stories themselves have frequently been moulded and changed by the tellers, who have introduced bits of old customs and beliefs until they reflect, in a way, the prevalent ideas of the people. Thus in the story of the magic _poncho_ [76], which is evidently of Spanish introduction, the owner is identified as the _banbantay_--a well-known minor spirit. Again, the first part of tale 85 is identical with that of the Ilocano, but ends with the parents of the groom preparing the things used in the _pakálon_--a very necessary part of the Tinguian marriage ceremony. The footnotes have called attention to the many incidents which have their parallels in other districts. Reference to these shows that a large percentage are found in the islands toward the south. While recognizing that similarity of incidents does not necessarily mean identity of origin, we must still give full credit to the effects of borrowing, even over great distances. The easy communication along the coast during the past four hundred years and the contact with Spanish and Christianized officials and traders will readily explain the likeness of the tales in Division III to those held in distant islands, or even in Europe, but, as just noted, these are now undergoing change. Doubtless a similar inflow had been taking place, although at a slower rate, long before the Spaniards reached the Islands, and Tinguian mythology has grown up as the result of blending of native tales with those of other areas, the whole being worked over and reshaped until it fitted the social setting. Previous writers--among them Ratzel and Graebner [77]--have sought to account for certain resemblances in culture, between Malaysia, Polynesia, and America, by historical connection. A part of our material--such as that of the blood-clot child (p. 125), [78] the rape of the maiden by the vine which carries her to the sky (p. 33), the magic flight (p. 75), and magic growth (p. 38) [79]--may seem to lend support to such a theory. These similarities are assuredly suggestive and interesting, but it appears to the writer that the material is too scanty and the folklore of intervening lands too little known to justify us in considering them as convincing proof of borrowing over such immense distances. [80] General Results Our study has brought out certain general results. We have seen that Tinguian folklore has much in common with that of other tribes and lands. While a part of this similarity is doubtless due to borrowing--a process which can still be seen at work--a considerable portion of the tales is probably of local and fairly recent origin, while the balance appears to be very old. These older tales are so intimately interwoven with the ceremonies, beliefs, and culture of this people that they may safely be considered as having been developed by them. They are doubtless much influenced by present day conditions, for each story teller must, even unconsciously, read into them some of his own experiences and the current beliefs of the tribe. At the same time these traditional accounts doubtless exercise a potent influence on the thoughts, beliefs, and actions of the people. In Tinguian society, where custom still holds undisputed sway, these well-known tales of past times must tend to cast into the same mould any new facts or experiences which come to them. We believe that we are justified when we take the viewpoint of the Tinguian and consider "the stories of the first times" as essentially very old. How old it is impossible to state definitely, but a careful analysis of our material justifies us in believing that they reflect a time before the people possessed terraced rice fields, when domestic work animals were still unknown, and the horse had not yet been introduced into their land. That these are not recent events is attested by the great part they all now play in the ceremonial and economic life. It is evident that outside influences of great importance were introduced at a period later than the time when the Chinese first began to trade along the coasts of the Philippines for the prized jars, which play such an important rôle in the mythology, are not to be identified as those of native make but are ancient Chinese vessels dating back at least to the fourteenth and perhaps even to the tenth century [81]. It is probable that the glass, porcelain, and agate beads, which are second only to the jars in importance, are exceedingly old. Many ancient specimens are still in use and are held for as fabulous prices as are those found among the interior tribes of Borneo. Nieuwenhuis has shown that the manufacture of beads had become a great industry in the middle ages, and had extended even to China and Japan, whence the products may have spread contemporaneously with the pottery [82]. We have seen that, for the most part, the life, customs, and beliefs which appear in our reconstruction of "the first times" agrees closely with present conditions; certain things which seem formerly to have been of prime importance--such as the sending of a betel-nut covered with gold to invite guests to a festival or ceremony--appear to have their echo in present conditions. The betel-nut which played such a momentous part in the old times still holds its place in the rituals of the many ceremonies, although it is not now much used in daily life. The magic of to-day is less powerful than formerly, but is still a tremendous force. The communication of the ancient people with other members of the animate world, as well as with the inanimate and spiritual, and their metamorphosis into animals and the like, offers nothing strange or inconsistent to the people of to-day. They even now talk to jars, they converse with spirits who come to them through the bodies of their mediums, and people only recently deceased are known to have had the power of changing themselves, at will, into other forms. In short, there is no sharp break between the mode of thought of to-day and that exhibited in the folklore. It is true that the tales give sanction to some things not in agreement with Tinguian usage--such, for instance, as the marriage of relatives, or the method of disposing of the dead--and it may be that we have here a remembrance of customs which long ago fell into disuse. In a previous paper [83] the writer showed that there have been many migrations into Abra from the north, south, and west. A part of the emigrants have become thoroughly amalgamated with the Tinguian people and have doubtless introduced some part of their material culture and beliefs. This helps us to understand such conflicts as we have already noted in regard to the place held by thunder and lightning in the spirit world, as to the future abode of the spirits of the departed, as well as other discrepancies which the limits of this paper have prevented us from discussing. It is not impossible that those customs of "the first times," which are at variance with those of to-day, may represent older ideas which have been swamped, or, on the other hand, the memory of the strange customs once practiced by the emigrants may have caused them to be attributed to the people of the tales. Finally, we believe that a study of Tinguian mythology has shown us that we can gain a real knowledge of the past of a people through their folklore; that we can secure an insight into their mental life; and can learn something of the valuation they attach to certain of their activities and beliefs, which to us may seem at the surface trite and trivial. Tales of the Mythical Period 1 "We go to take greens, sister-in-law Dinay, perhaps the _siksiklat_ [84] will taste good. I have heard that the _siksiklat_ is good," said Aponibolinayen. They went to get her _siksiklat_. When they arrived at the place of small trees, which they thought was the place of the _siksiklat_, they looked. Aponibolinayen was the first who looked. As soon as she began to break off the _siksiklat_ which she saw she did not break any more, but the _siksiklat_ encircled and carried her up. When they reached the sky (literally "the up"), the _siksiklat_ placed her below the _alosip_ [85] tree. She sat for a long time. Soon she heard the crowing of the rooster. She stood up and went to see the rooster which crowed. She saw a spring. She saw it was pretty because its sands were _oday_ [86] and its gravel _pagapat_ [87] and the top of the betel-nut tree was gold, and the place where the people step was a large Chinese plate which was gold. She was surprised, for she saw that the house was small. She was afraid and soon began to climb the betel-nut tree, and she hid herself. The man who owned the house, which she saw near the well, [88] was Ini-init--the sun. But he was not in the place of his house, because he went out and went above to make the sun, because that was his work in the daytime. And the next day Aponibolinayen saw him, who went out of his house, because he went again to make the sun. And Aponibolinayen went after him to his house, because she saw the man, who owned the house, who left. When she arrived in the house, she quickly cooked, because she was very hungry. When she finished cooking, she took the stick used in roasting fish and cooked it, and the fish-stick which she cooked became cut-up fish, because she used her magic power. [89] When she finished to cook the fish, she took out rice from the pot, and when she had finished to take out the rice from the pot, she took off the meat from the fish. When she finished taking the fish from the pot, she ate. When she finished eating, she washed. When she finished washing, she kept those things which she used to eat, the coconut shell cup and plate, and she laid down to sleep. When afternoon came, Ini-init went home to his house after he finished fishing. He saw his house, which appeared as if it was burning, not slowly. He went home because it appeared as if his house was burning. When he arrived at his house, it was not burning, and he was surprised because it appeared as if there was a flame at the place of his bed. When he was in his house, he saw that which was like the flame of the fire, at the place of his bed, was a very pretty lady. Soon he cooked, and when he had finished to cook he scaled the fish, and when he had finished scaling he cut it into many pieces, and he made a noise on the bamboo floor when he cut the fish. The woman awoke, who was asleep on his bed. She saw that the man who cut the fish was a handsome man, and that he dragged his hair. [90] The pot she had used to cook in looked like the egg of a rooster [91] and he was surprised because it looked like the egg of a rooster; and the rice which she cooked was one grain of broken rice. [92] Because of all this Ini-init was surprised, for the pot was very small with which she cooked. After Ini-init cooked, the woman vanished and she went to the leaves of the betel-nut, where she went to hide. After Ini-init finished cooking the fish, he saw the bed, the place where the woman was sleeping, was empty. He was looking continually, but he did not find her. When he could not find her, he ate alone, and when he finished eating he washed, and when he finished washing the dishes he put away, and when he had finished putting away he went to the yard to get a fresh breath. Not long afterwards he went to take a walk in the place of his betel-nuts. When he had finished to take a walk in the place of his betel-nuts, he went to sleep. When it began to be early morning, he left his house, he who went up, because it was his business to make the sun. And Aponibolinayen went again into the house. When it became afternoon, Ini-init went to his home, and Aponibolinayen had cooked, after which she went out to the betel-nut trees. When Ini-init arrived, he was surprised because his food was cooked, for there was no person in his house. As soon as he saw the cooked rice and cooked fish in the dish, he took the fish and the rice and began to eat. When he had finished eating, he went to his yard to take a fresh breath and he was troubled in his mind when he thought of what had happened. He said, "Perhaps the woman, which I saw, came to cook and has left the house. Sometime I shall try to hide and watch, so that I may catch her." He went to sleep, and when it became early morning he went to cook his food. When he had finished eating, he went again to make the sun, and Aponibolinayen went again to his house. When the sun had nearly sunk, he sent the big star who was next to follow him in the sky, and he went home to spy on the woman. When he had nearly reached his home, he saw the house appeared as if it was burning. [93] He walked softly when he went up the ladder. He slammed shut the door. He reached truly the woman who was cooking in the house. He went quickly and the woman said to him, "You cut me only once, so that I only cure one time, if you are the old enemy." "If I were the old enemy, I should have cut before," said Ini-init, and he sat near her who cooked. He took out the betel-nut, and he arranged it so that they began to chew the betel-nut, and he said, "Ala! young lady, we are going to chew, because it is bad for us to talk who do not know each other's names." Aponibolinayen answered, "No, for if the rich man who practices magic is able to give to the rich woman who has magical power, soon there will be a sign." Ini-init said, "No, hurry up even though we are related, for you come here if we are not related." [94] He begged her and he cut the betel-nut, which was to be chewed, which was covered with gold, and he gave it to the woman who had magical power, and they chewed. When she laid down the quid, it looked like the agate bead, which has no hole for the thread. And the quid of Ini-init looked like a square bead. "My name is Ini-init, who often goes to travel over the world. I always stop in the afternoon. What can I do, it is my business," he said. Aponibolinayen was next to tell her name. "My name is Aponibolinayen, who lives in Kaodanan, who am the sister of Awig," she said, and when they had finished telling their names, both their quids looked like the agate bead which is _pinoglan_, which has no hole. Ini-init said, "We are relatives, and it is good for us to be married. Do not be afraid even though you did not come here of your own accord. I go to Kaodanan," he said. Then they married, and the sun went to shine on the world, because it was his business, and the big star also had business when it became night. Aponibolinayen staid alone in the house, and in the afternoon the sun again went home, but first he went to fish in the river. He went home when he had caught the big fish for them to eat--both those married. And when he arrived in their house he found Aponibolinayen, who was cooking, and he saw that she still broke up the fish-stick, which she cooked. Ini-init asked her, "What are you doing with that stick which you are breaking, which you put in the jar?" and Aponibolinayen replied, "I cook for us both to eat," and the sun laughed, because she cooked the stick. "You throw away that stick which you are cooking; this fish which I caught with the net is what you are to cook. It is not eatable that fish-stick which you cook," he said. Aponibolinayen said, "You shall see by and by, when we eat, what it will become. You hang up the fish which you caught, which we shall eat to-morrow." "Hurry up! You throw away that stick which you cook, it has no use. Even though you cook for one month, it will not become soft, and I do not think it will become good," said Ini-init. Aponibolinayen said, "No, you hurry and hang that fish which you caught with the net, because it is nearly cooked--the rice and the fish." Not long after she took out the rice from the jar, and she uncovered her cooked fish, which was a stick. When the sun saw that the fish came from the stick which she cooked, he was surprised and he asked her how she made the stick, which she cooked, turn to fish. Aponibolinayen said, "You hurry come and eat, for I have finished taking out the rice and fish." [95] Not long after that the sun went truly in front of her to the place of the rice and cooked fish, and they ate. Not long after they finished and Aponibolinayen washed, and when she had finished washing she put away those things which they ate and Ini-init made trouble because of the stick which became a fish. He again asked Aponibolinayen how she made the stick into fish, and Aponibolinayen said, "Do not trouble yourself, perhaps you know about the rich woman who practices magic in Kaodanan," and Ini-init said, "Yes, I know the rich woman who practices magic in Kaodanan, who sometimes has much power, who changes, who has no equal." Aponibolinayen said, "Why do you still ask if you know?" "I ask because I want to be sure, even though I know you have much power," said Ini-init. "If that is true, do not ask again," she said. Not long after while they were talking, they went to sleep, and when it began to be early morning Ini-init went to make the sun on all the world; when they had finished to eat he went to shine. Aponibolinayen staid in the house. When it came afternoon, the sun went down and he went directly to fish in the river, for the fish which they ate--the two who were married. Not long after he caught again a big fish, and he went home. When he arrived, Aponibolinayen had finished cooking, and he asked where she got the fish which she had cooked, and she said, "Why do you ask again? You know it is the stick which I cook, which is fish, which we ate, before you arrived again with fish. Throw away the fish which you caught, for this stick is many fish which I cook." After that Ini-init said, "Why do you order to throw away, that which serves the purpose to which we put it, even though you cook many sticks?" "If you value it, hang it on the hanger, and you come and eat." Not long after they ate, and when they had finished eating, they washed, and when they had finished washing those things which they used to eat on, they talked and they went to sleep. When it became the middle of the night, Aponibolinayen woke up. "I go up with you when you go up in the early morning," she said. Ini-init said to her, "Do not come, for it is very hot up above. You cannot endure the heat, and you will repent when we are there." "No, if it is too hot, we shall take many blankets and pillows, which I shall go under," she said again and again until it became early morning, then Ini-init agreed. They ate first and then they arranged those pillows and blankets which they took with them. Not long after they went east, and when they arrived there the sun shone, and Aponibolinayen became oil because it was so hot, and Ini-init put her in a bottle, and he corked it and covered it with blankets and pillows, which sheltered her, and he dropped it down. She fell by the well in Kaodanan, and Indiápan, who was still dipping water, turned her face at the sound of the falling at her side. She saw many good blankets and pillows, and she unwrapped that which was wrapped, and when she had finished to unwrap she saw it was a pretty lady--none equal to her--and she was frightened. She went quickly to go up to the town, where they lived, and when she arrived there she said to the people, "We have been searching a long time for Aponibolinayen, and you killed and used many cows as food for the searchers, and you spent much for her. She is at the spring. I was frightened when she fell by me, who was dipping water from the well. I saw many pretty blankets and pillows, and I unwrapped that which was wrapped, and it was Aponibolinayen whom we are seeking," said Indiápan. They went quickly--her father and mother--and the other men went to see her, and when they arrived at the place of the well they saw Aponibolinayen whom they sought. "Where did you come from, Aponibolinayen, for whom we have been seeking? We have invited many and have fed many to search for you. Among the towns there is not one we did not search for you, and now you are here," said her father and mother. She said, "I came from Pindayan. I nearly did not come, because the _alzados_ [96] closed the way, and I escaped while they slept." Not long after they went up to the town, and not long after they went to wash their hair and bathe in the river, and when they had finished washing their hair they went home. Ebang said, "Ala! husband Pagatipánan, let us make _balaua_ [97] and invite our relatives who are sorrowing for Aponibolinayen," and Pagatipánan said, "We shall make _balaua_ when next month comes, but now Aponibolinayen feels ill, perhaps she is tired." Not long after that Aponibolinayen commanded them to prick her little finger which itched; and when her mother pricked it out popped a pretty baby. [98] Her mother asked, "Where did you get this baby, Aponibolinayen?" But Aponibolinayen did not tell. "I do not know where I got it, and I did not feel," she said. When they could not compel her to tell where she secured the baby, "Ala, we make _balaua_ to-morrow," said the father and mother. They made _balaua_, and not long after Ebang used magic, so that many people went to pound rice for them, and when they had finished to pound rice they built _balaua_, and they went to get the betel-nut which is covered with gold for chewing. When these arrived, Ebang oiled them when it began to get dark. "You betel-nuts go to all the people in the whole world and invite them. If any of them do not come, you grow on their knees," said Ebang. And those betel-nuts went to invite all the people in the whole world. Every time they bathed the child they used magic, so that it grew as often as they washed it, until it walked. The betel-nuts arrived in the towns where they went to invite. The one that went to Nagbotobotán--the place where lived the old woman Alokotán--said, "Good morning, I do not tarry, the reason of my coming is that Ebang and Pagatipánan commanded me, because Aponibolinayen is there." "Yes, you go first, I will come, I will follow you. I go first to wash my hair and bathe," she said. The betel-nut which is covered with gold said, "I wait for you, for if you do not come, I shall grow on your knee." The old woman Alokotán started when she finished washing her hair and bathing. The betel-nut, which was covered with gold, took her, and not long after they arrived, and they met those whom the other betel-nuts went to summon in the other towns. No one wanted the baby to go to them, [99] and when none wished it to approach, the old woman Alokotán summoned the spirits. ("What town did they not yet invite?" This question was added by the story-teller. Not part of tale.) The old woman Alokotán said, "You invited all the people except Ini-init, who is above. You did not send the prepared betel-nut covered with gold to summon him. Perhaps he made Aponibolinayen pregnant, because the _siksiklat_ took her up when they went to gather greens--she and her sister-in-law, who is Dinay." They commanded the betel-nuts, and they oiled them, and sent them. Not long after the betel-nut, whom they sent, arrived above, who went to call Ini-init. And the betel-nut said, when he arrived, "Good morning, Sun, I do not tarry. The reason of my visit is that Ebang and Pagatipánan, who make _balaua_, send me. If you do not wish to come, I will grow on your head." The sun said, "Grow on my head, I do not wish to go." The betel-nut jumped up and went on his head, and it grew. Not long after the betel-nut became tall and the sun was not able to carry it, because it became big, and he was in pain. "You go to my pig, that is what you grow on," he said. Not long after the betel-nut jumped on the head of his pig, and the pig began to squeal because it could not carry the betel-nut which began to grow on its head. And Ini-init said, "Ala! get off my big pig and I come." The betel-nut got off the pig. Not long after they went and Pagatipánan carried the baby near to the gate. When Ini-init and the betel-nut approached, the baby was happy and he went to be carried by Ini-init. When they arrived at the festival place, the people saw that he who carried the baby rolled because he was round, and they saw he was not a man but a stone, and Ebang and Pagatipánan said, "Ala! Aponibolinayen, you start and take off your arm beads and you dress in rags, you wrap your wrists with strings, in place of the arm beads, so that you can go with the stone when he takes you to his home, when our _balaua_ is finished." Not long after Aponibolinayen started. She took off her beads and her dresses and exchanged them for rags and strings. When she changed her dresses, she went down the ladder, and she saw that he who carried the baby was a stone, which was round. After that Pagatipánan said, "Ala! now our _balaua_ is finished, you go home to the town of the stone." Aponibolinayen said, "Yes, if that is what you say." Those people who were invited bade them good-by, and when they went away, they went home also--those whom they invited. Not long after they arrived at their home and the sun became a man, he who had been a stone before. "When next month comes we shall build _balaua_, Aponibolinayen, so that we can invite our relatives, and I will pay the marriage price, because I marry you," [100] said Ini-init to her. Soon the month arrived in which they said they would build _balaua_, and they summoned the old woman Alokotán, to start the _balaua_. Not long after they sent to get _bolo_ and _lono_ [101] with which to make the _dakidak_ and _talapitap_. [102] When it became afternoon the old woman Alokotán began to sing _da-eng_ [103] and the next night they sang _da-eng_ again. Not long after they commanded to pound rice, and Aponibolinayen used magic so that many women went to pound with them. [104] And Ini-init practiced magic so that they had many neighbors, and many who went to pound rice with them. Soon they commanded to get the timbers for the _balaua_, and they prepared everything which they needed. When it became morning they built _balaua_, and not long after they went to get the prepared betel-nut, which is covered with gold, which they sent to invite their relatives. [105] When they arrived--those prepared betel-nuts which were covered with gold--they oiled them at the beginning of the night, and sent them to invite. Aponibolinayen said, "I will use magic, so that you, betel-nut, may reach the town of our relatives so that you invite all of them. When there is one who will not come, you grow on their knees, as long as they do not come." Not long after they made _Libon_ [106] in the beginning of the night. Those betel-nuts, whom they sent to invite, arrived, those which they sent to invite their relatives. They did not wish to go to make _balaua_. The betel-nuts who went to invite them said, "If you do not wish to come, I will grow on your knee." Pagatipánan said, "You grow," and the betel-nut grew on his knee, and it became high and he was in pain. "Ala! you get off my knee, and you go on my pig," he said, and the betel-nut went truly on his pig and it squealed. "You get off my pig, and we will come," he said, and the betel-nut truly got off the pig. "Ala! you who live in the same town, you go and wash your hair and bathe, and wash your clothes so that we can go to make _Sayang_ [107] with the stone and Aponibolinayen. Here is a betel-nut covered with gold which they send," said Pagatipánan. And the people who lived in the same town washed their hair and bathed, and they went to wash their clothes. Not long after it became afternoon and Pagatipánan used magic so that cake and singed pig appeared which they were to take to those who make _Sayang_, which they exchanged with those who make _Sayang_. [108] Not long after they arrived at the place of the gathering, and Aponibolinayen and Ini-init went to make _alawig_, [109] and when they had finished, they brought them up to the town. Pagatipánan said, "I did not think that the stone which rolled could change when he came to make _balaua_ with us." "_Ala_! now all you who have arrived, rich men, you divide the prepared betel-nut which is covered with gold," said Ini-init. Not long after Pagatipánan cut the betel-nut and chewed, and the quid of Ini-init went to the quid of Pagbokásan, and the quid of Aponibolinayen went to the quid of Pagatipánan. [110] "Ala! now that we have finished chewing, I will give the payment for Aponibolinayen, and now that you have found out that I am your son--father and mother--let us give the payment," [111] said Ini-init. His father and mother said, "If that is what you say, my child, we will give," and they gave him the name of Aponitolau. [112] And Aponitolau said, "Ala! you play the _gansa_ [113] so that we can dance." When they played the _gansa_, Iwaginan took the _alap_ and _kinamayan_ [114] and he gave them to Aponibolinayen and Agyokan. When Aponibolinayen and Agyokan had finished dancing, they made Aponitolau and Asindamáyan dance. When Aponitolau and Asindamáyan finished dancing he made to dance Dinay of Kabisilan, who was the daughter of Dalonágan, and also they made to dance Kanag, [115] who was the son of Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau. When they finished to dance, Datalan and Dalonágan of Kabisilan danced, and when they finished to dance, Iwaginan made Dagapan and Indiápan dance. When they had finished dancing Ginteban and Agyokan were next. And the beads of Ginteban were jars, which struck together while they danced. Next were Iwaginan and Kindi-iñan who was the wife of Ilwisan of Dagapan. And when they had all danced they stopped playing the _gansa_. Aponitolau gave the payment for Aponibolinayen and it was the _balaua_ nine times filled with jars--_malayo, tadogan_, and _ginlasan_. [116] And when he had given all the payment they played again on the _gansas_ for one month and they danced. When one month passed, they went home--their relatives whom they had invited. They said, "Ala! now Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen, since the day has arrived on which we go home, do not detain us for we have been here for a month, we go home to our town." Not long after they all went home. And the father and mother of Aponitolau took them home with them to Kadalayapan, and they took all their possessions from up above. When they arrived in Kadalayapan those who lived in the same town were surprised, for Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen were there. They went to see them and Balokánag (i.e., Kanag--their son) was large. It is said. (Told by Magwati, a man of Lagangilang Abra.) 2 "I am anxious to eat the mango fruit which belongs to Algaba of Dagála," said Aponibolinayen. When she said this she was almost dying and she repeated it. "Ala cousin Dalonágan, you go and take cousin Dina-ogan, and go and secure the mango fruit of Algaba of Dagála," said Aponibalagen. "Why does Aponibolinayen want the mango fruit of Algaba of Dagála; does she not know that anyone who goes there cannot return?" asked Dalonágan. "Ala, you go and be careful and he will not hurt you," said Aponibalagen. And Dalonágan went truly, and started, and Aponibalagen gave Dalonágan a belt and earrings, which he was to trade for the mango fruit; and Dalonágan went to get Dina-ogan, and he took an egg. Not long after they went and they held the egg all the time as they walked. When they were in the middle of the way the egg hatched. When they had almost arrived in Dagála the chicken had become a rooster which could crow. Not long after they arrived at the spring of Algaba of Dagála, and the people who dipped water from the spring were there. "You people who are dipping water from the spring, where is a shallow place where we can cross?" "Where is the shallow place where we can cross you say, rich men, perhaps you are enemies," said the women who were dipping water. "If we are enemies we would kill you," said Dalonágan. "You see the shallow place where the people cross," said the people who were dipping water from the well. Not long after they spread their belt on the water and they rode across. When they arrived on the other side of the river they took a bath. As soon as they finished bathing they went on top of a high stone and dried their bodies. The water which dropped from their bodies became agates which have no holes through them, and the women who were dipping water saw the agates which dropped from their bodies and they touched each other and said, "Look at that." When they put their clouts on they asked the women, "Where is the road to the house of Algaba of Dagála?" "You follow the _sagang_; [117] they lead to his house and his _balaua_," said the women who were dipping water from the well. "Will one of you guide us to the house of our cousin Algaba?" they said. "No, because no one comes to get water unless all are together," said the women. Not long after Dalonágan and his companion went up to the town and the defensive fence, which was made of boa constrictors, did not notice them for the snakes slept. Not long after they arrived at the _balaua_. "_Wes_," they said, and the old woman _alan_ [118] came to look at them through the window. "How are you?" she said. "Do not go to the _balaua_, because Algaba can see you," said the _alan_. Algaba was playing with his sweetheart in the other house, when his sweetheart arrived from the well. "Your big snakes, which make the fence, did not see the enemies who came inside of the town." Then Algaba ran to his house and he was very angry when he saw the two men. He went to get his headaxe and spear and when he took them down the weapons shed tears which were of oil. "What is the matter with my weapons that they weep oil? Perhaps these men are my relatives," said the angry man. He dropped them and when he took another set they shed bloody tears. The two men went up into the kitchen of the house, and Algaba went there. "How do you do now?" he said, still angry. "What do you want here?" "What are you here for, you ask, and we came to buy the mango fruit for Aponibolinayen who is nearly dead." "It is good that you came here," said Algaba, but he was angry and the two men were frightened, and they did not eat much. As soon as they finished eating, "What do you want to pay?" said Algaba. They let him see the one earring of Aponibolinayen. "I don't like that; look at the yard of my house. All the stones are gold," said Algaba. When he did not want the earring, they let him see the belt, and Algaba smiled. "How pretty it is! I think the lady who owns this is much prettier," he said to them. "Ala, you go and get two of the fruit." So they went truly, and Dalonágan went to climb and when he secured two mangoes he went down. "We go now." "I will go with you for I wish to see Aponibolinayen," said Algaba. He said to his mother _alan_ "You, mother, do not feel anxious concerning me while I am gone, for I want to go and see the sick lady who so desires the mango fruit. Watch for enemies who come inside the town." "Yes, do not stay long," said his mother _alan_. Not long after they went and when they were in the middle of the way Algaba said, "Is it far yet?" "It is near now," they answered. "I use my power so that the sick woman, for whom they came to get fruit, will feel very ill and nearly die," said Algaba to himself. Not long after, truly they almost arrived. When they reached the well, he asked again, "Is it still far?" but he knew that the well belonged to Aponibolinayen. "It is near now; she owns this well," they said. Not long after they entered the gate of the town. "I use my power so that Aponibolinayen will die," he said, and she truly died. "Why is Aponibolinayen dead? The mango fruit which we went to get is worthless now," they said. "Perhaps she is the one they are wailing for," said Algaba of Dagála. When they reached the ladder, "The mango fruit which you went to get is no good at all," said Aponibalagen to them. "Yes, it is. I came because I wish to see her," said Algaba of Dagála. "If it is possible for you to bring her to life, please do so," said Aponibalagen to him, and took him inside of the house. Algaba looked at her, and she was a lady without an equal for beauty. Not long after he took the body in his arms. "I use my power so that when I whip my perfume [119] _kaladakad_ she will move directly," he said, and the body moved. "I use my power so that when I whip my perfume _banawes_ she will say '_Wes_'" and she at once said "_Wes_." "I use my power so that when I whip my perfume she will wake up," and she woke up. "_Wes_, how long my sleep was!" said Aponibolinayen, for she was alive again. "How long I sleep! you say. You have been dead," said Algaba, and Aponibolinayen looked at him and she it saw was not Aponibalagen who held her in his arms. "Why, Aponibalagen, do you detest me? Another man is holding me," she said, and she arose from his arms, because she was ashamed. "Do not leave me, lady; you would have been dead a long time if I had not come," said Algaba, and their rings exchanged of themselves while he was holding her and when Aponibolinayen had regained her breath, Algaba divided the mango fruit into two parts and he gave to Aponibolinayen, but she did not want to take it for she was ashamed. "If you do not wish to eat this fruit which I give you, you cannot go to anyone but me," said Algaba, and Aponibalagen left them alone. Not long after Aponibolinayen could sit up straight, and she wanted to leave Algaba, but he took her. When Aponibolinayen looked at her ring she saw it was not her own. "Why have I another ring?" she asked, and she caught the hand of Algaba for he wanted to take her. "Give me my ring. It is not good for you, for it looks like copper. Take your ring, for it is really gold," said Aponibolinayen. "No, this is good, for I did not take it from your finger. The spirits wanted it to come to my finger. Our rings are both gold, but they are different colors," he said. "Let us chew betel-nut for it is bad for us to talk when we do not know each other's names." "It is not my custom to chew betel-nut," said Aponibolinayen. "Then you learn," said Algaba. Not long after he made her chew and he gave to her. "Now, lady, whom I visit you tell your name first," he said. "No, because I am ashamed, as a woman to tell my name first." Not long after he said, "My name is Algaba of Dagála. I have looked in all parts of the world for a wife, but I did not find anyone like you, and now I have found you, and I want you to be married to me." "My name is Aponibolinayen of Kaodanan, sister of Aponibalagen who are son and daughter of Ebang and Pagbokásan," said Aponibolinayen. Not long after they laid down their quids and they were rows of agate beads which have no holes. Algaba said, "It is good for us to be married." So they were married and they went to Dagála. As soon as they arrived in Dagála, "Mother," he said to his mother _alan_, "now we are going to take you to Kadalayapan, because I have found a wife." "No," said the _alan_, "we must first build _balaua_ here." "That is good if it is what you desire," said Algaba. Not long after Aponibolinayen commanded people to pound rice, and others to get betel-nuts which were covered with gold. So they truly made _Sayang._ [120] Not long after when it became evening they made _Libon._ "The best for us to do is to invite Aponibalagen, and all the people of Kadalayapan and some other places," said Algaba. Not long after they sent the betel-nuts which were covered with gold to invite their relatives. Some of the betel-nuts they sent to Kaodanan. "Sir, come to Dagála, because Aponibolinayen and Algaba build _balaua_," said the betel-nut to Aponibalagen. When the other betel-nuts arrived at Kadalayapan to invite the people they said to Langa-an, "Come to Dagála because Aponibolinayen and Algaba make _balaua_." Not long after Aponibalagen and Aponigawani and the other people went. When they reached the middle of the way they met the people of Kadalayapan, so they were a large party who went. When they arrived at Dagála, at the place where the spring is, they saw that all the stones by the river were gold and they were surprised, and the people who were dipping water from the spring were there. "You people who are dipping water, where is the shallow place for us to cross?" they said. "You look for the place where the people go across?" said the people who were dipping water. Not long after they went across the river. As soon as they reached the other side of the river, they took a bath. The women who were dipping water saw that the water which ran from their bodies were agates which had no holes. "How wonderful are the people who live in Kadalayapan and Kaodanan, for they are relatives of Kaboniyan [121] and they have power," said the women who were dipping water from the well. "You people who are dipping water, where is the trail which leads to the house of Algaba of Dagála?" they said. "Follow the head poles; they are along the road to his house," said the women who were dipping water. So they went up truly to the town, and the boa constrictors which made the fence around the town did not move when they passed, for they were afraid, and when they arrived at the house of Algaba the _alan_ danced. When they sat down Pagatipánan was in a hurry. "Ala! Langa-an, let us go and give the betel-nut which is covered with gold to Algaba," he said and they went truly. They told Algaba that they were going to chew betel-nut, because they wished to learn if they were relatives; and Algaba said "That is good," and they called Aponigawani to the house, and they cut the betel-nut in pieces. As soon as they cut it in pieces, "The best way to do is for you to tell your name first, because we came to visit you," said Pagatipánan to Algaba. "No, old man, you tell your name first," said Algaba. Not long after, "My name is Pagatipánan who am the _Lakay_ [122] of Kadalayapan." Not long after, "My name is Pagbokásan who is the father of Aponibalagen of Kaodanan." Not long after, "My name is Algaba who is the son of an _alan_ who has deformed feet, [123] who has no sister; we are not like you people who have power," said Algaba. Not long after, "My name is Aponibalagen of Kaodanan who is the son of Ebang and Pagbokásan." Not long after, "My name is Aponigawani of Kadalayapan who has no brother, so that when some enemies come into our town I dress in the bark of trees." Not long after, "My name is Aponibolinayen who is the sister of Aponibalagen." As soon as they told their names, they laid down their betel-nut quids. The quids of Algaba and Aponigawani both went to the quid of Pagatipánan, also the quids of Aponibalagen and Aponibolinayen went to the quid of Pagbokásan. Then Aponigawani stood up. "You are so strange, Algaba, you are my brother. I am so glad that I have a brother now. You are bad for you let the enemies come into Kadalayapan," she said. "Excuse me for I was far from Kadalayapan and did not see; it is our custom for some of us to go to fight," said Algaba. "The best way to do, Aponitolau, [124] is for you to go back with us to Kadalayapan," said Aponigawani. "If that is what you wish it is all right," he said. Not long after the _balaua_ was finished and they took them to Kadalayapan. The valuable things which the _alan_ owned she gave to them, and she flew away. When they arrived in Kadalayapan, Aponibalagen wanted to marry Aponigawani. He sent his mother to go and give the message. As soon as she arrived in Kadalayapan, "Good morning, nephew Aponitolau," said Ebang. "Good morning, what are you here for?" said Aponitolau. "What are you coming for, you say. Aponibalagen sent me to talk to you, for he wishes to marry Aponigawani," she said. "If you think it is good it will be all right," said Aponitolau, so she took out the engagement gift and she put one earring inside of a little jar and it was filled with gold. Aponitolau lifted his eyebrows and half of the gold disappeared, so Ebang put another earring in the pot and it was full again. "Ala! when it becomes evening you come and bring Aponibalagen," he said to Ebang. "Yes," she said. So she went home. As soon as she arrived in their house in Kaodanan, Aponibalagen asked the result of her trip. "They agreed all right; we will go when it becomes evening," said Ebang. When it became night they went to Kadalayapan and he lived with Aponigawani. When it became morning he took Aponigawani to Kaodanan and the father and mother of Aponigawani and the other people followed them. They went to get the marriage payment. It was the _balaua_ filled nine times with jars. As soon as they gave all the payment, Aponitolau was the next to make his payment. It was also the _balaua_ filled nine times. As soon as they made all the payment they went home. (Told by Mano, a woman of Patok.) 3 "I am going to wash my hair. Give me the rice straw, which has been inherited nine times," said Aponitolau to his mother Langa-an. So Langa-an gave him some and he went to the river to wash. As soon as he arrived at the well he saw the pretty girl who was washing her hair. He went and sat down on her skirt and the pretty girl told him not to cut her in many places so she would not need to doctor the wounds. "If I were an old enemy I would have killed you at the first. It is bad for us to talk when we do not know each other's names. Let us chew betel-nut," said Aponitolau. "No, for it is not my custom," said the girl. But Aponitolau compelled her to chew betel-nut with him. "You tell your name first," he said to her. "No, it is not good for me to tell my name first, for I am a woman. You are a man. You tell your name first." So Aponitolau said, "My name is Aponitolau of Kadalayapan who am the son of Langa-an and Pagatipánan, who came here to wash my hair. It is good fortune for me that I met you here washing your hair." "My name is Gimbangonan of Natpangan, who am the daughter of It-tonagan, who is the sister of Aldasan." As soon as she told her name she disappeared and went to hide among the betel nuts on the branch of a tree. So Aponitolau was very sorry and he went back home without washing his hair. As soon as he arrived where Langa-an was sitting he said to her "Mother, when I arrived at the well by the river I met a pretty girl whose name was Gimbangonan, the daughter of It-tonagan of Natpangan. We chewed betel-nuts and told our names, but as soon as she told her name she disappeared and I could not see her. She said that she lived in Natpangan. I want to marry her. Will you go and arrange the _pakálon?"_ [125] So Langa-an went at once and got her hat which was as large as the _salakasak_ [126] for she saw that Aponitolau was sorrowful. When she took her hat it clucked. [127] "Why does my hat cluck when I take it down? I think they do not like you, Aponitolau," said Langa-an. "No, you go and try." So Langa-an went again to get her hat and again it clucked, but nevertheless she took it and went. When she was in the middle of the way the head of the hat which was like a bird swung and made Langa-an turn her head and it clucked again. Langa-an sat down by the trail and wondered what would happen. Not long after she went on again and she met Asindamáyan near the ford. She asked where the ford was and when Asindamáyan told her, she spread her belt on the water and it ferried her across. Not long after she reached the other side of the river, and she inquired for the house of Gimbangonan. Asindamáyan answered, "You look for the house where many people are putting props under the house. That is the house of Gimbangonan. Her porch has many holes in it." When Langa-an arrived at the house she said, "Good afternoon." And It-tonagan and Gimbangonan answered, "Good afternoon." They invited her to go up into the house and she went. "Why do you come here, Aunt?" said Gimbangonan. "I came to arrange for you to marry Aponitolau, for he wants to marry you and has sent me to talk about the _pakálon_." Gimbangonan was very happy and said to her mother, "You tell him yes, for I wish to marry Aponitolau." So It-tonagan agreed to the marriage and Langa-an asked how much the marriage price would be. "The regular custom of the people with magical power which is the _balaua_ nine times full," said Aldasan, because It-tonagan was always restless and was walking outside the house. So Langa-an left a little jar and agate bead, as a sign of the engagement, for Gimbangonan. Not long after she went back home to Kadalayapan. When she arrived where Aponitolau was lying down she said, "_Wes_" for she was tired and Aponitolau heard her and he went and inquired what was the matter. His mother answered that they had agreed on the marriage and the next day he could go and marry Gimbangonan. As soon as the next day came they prepared jars of _basi_, [128] and pigs to be carried to Natpangan, and Aponitolau carried one large empty jar. [129] So they went. As soon as they arrived Aponitolau asked where Gimbangonan was, and the people said, "Look at the big woman." He looked and saw that she was a very big woman and Aponitolau cried, for she was not the girl he had seen before, and he bent his head. While the old men were talking to each other Gimbangonan said to Aponitolau, "Come here, Aponitolau. Be very happy. Why do you bend your head?" Aponitolau did not listen, and he did not go. Not long after Langa-an and the others went back home and left Aponitolau to be joined to Gimbangonan. Aponitolau was afraid to go to Gimbangonan, for she was a very big woman. She called to him all the time, but he did not go to her. It-tonagan was restless and did not stay in the house even in the night, and they could not sleep. After ten days Aponitolau said, "I am going to Kadalayapan for a little while. I will return soon." "If you go to Kadalayapan I will go with you," she said. "Do not go this time and I will take you next time," he said, and he went. When he was near the gate of the town of Kadalayapan he hung his head until he reached his house. His mother asked why he hung his head. "I do not wish to marry Gimbangonan for she is not the woman I met by the river." "Do not be angry with me for I did what you wished. I would not have engaged you to Gimbangonan if you had not sent me." They sent their _liblibayan_ [130] to go and get betel-nuts which were covered with gold, for they intended to make _Sayang_, so that they could find out who the woman was who had been by the river. Soon the _liblibayan_ returned and they said, "We did not get the betel-nuts which you desired for we found a pretty toy among the branches of the tree." Aponitolau took the branch of the tree which shone as if covered with fire and he put a blanket on it and many pillows around it. As soon as they had again commanded the _liblibayan_ to get the betel-nuts they went and soon they arrived with the fruit. They oiled the betel-nuts and sent them to every place in the world and if anyone refused to come they were to grow on their knees. Not long after the betel-nuts went to the different towns and invited all the people. When they arrived they danced and Aponitolau looked at them to see if the woman he met at the river was there, but she was not among them, and he wondered what had become of the woman, for the betel-nuts had gone to all parts of the world. Aponitolau went into the house for he was sorrowful, and he laid down near the blankets and he noticed that the blankets appeared as if on fire and he was frightened. [131] He got up and unwrapped the blankets and he saw a pretty girl. "I did not think you were here. I have been engaged. You said your name was Gimbangonan, and I sent my mother to engage me to you, but when I saw Gimbangonan she was a big woman so I left her and came here to make _balaua_ so I might find you. You cannot escape from me now for I shall hold your hand. Let us chew betel-nut." So they chewed and Aponitolau said, "My name is Aponitolau of Kadalayapan who is the son of Langa-an and Pagbokásan to whom you told a lie for you said you were Gimbangonan, and now I want to know your real name." "My name is Aponibolinayen of Natpangan who is the daughter of Ebang and Pagatipánan." When they had told their names they saw that they were related and that they both possessed magical power, so they were married. After three days, Aponitolau said to Aponibolinayen, "Wait for me in the house. Do not be lonesome, for our mother is here. I am going to see my pasture." "Do not stay long," said Aponibolinayen. "If anyone comes you hide in the house," said Aponitolau. Not long after he went and when he arrived in the pasture all the jars went around him and all the jars stuck out their tongues for they were very hungry for they had not been fed for a long time. The jars were _somadag, ginlasan, malayo_, and _tadogan_, and other kinds also. [132] When Aponitolau thought that all the jars had arrived where he was he fed them with betel-nut, first covered with _lawed_ [133] leaves. As soon as he had fed them he gave them some salt. Not long after he went back home and he rode on a carabao. When he arrived at their house he called to Aponibolinayen, but no one answered him and he was surprised. So he hurried to the house and he saw that Aponibolinayen was dead and he was grieved. He took her in his lap and while her body was in his lap it began to sweat. He used his power so that when he whipped [134] his perfume _banawes_ she said, "_Wes_." When he whipped his perfume _dagimonau_ she awoke. When he whipped his perfume _alikadakad_ she stood up and said, "I told you not to go, Aponitolau, but you went anyway. A big woman came here and stole all my things and killed me. I don't know who she was." Aponitolau called his mother and asked who it was and his mother replied that it was Gimbangonan. So Aponitolau went to Natpangan. "Why did you go to kill Aponibolinayen?" "I went to kill her for you do not care for me any more." "I do not like you, for you are a very big woman. Every time you step the floor is broken. If you come again to Kadalayapan I will cut your head off. Do not come again to harm Aponibolinayen." He went home to Kadalayapan and he divorced Gimbangonan. Not long after they went to the pasture and they rode on the back of a carabao. As soon as they arrived, all the jars rolled around them and stuck out their tongues and Aponibolinayen was afraid, for she feared the jars would eat them. The wide field was full of jars. Aponitolau gave them betel-nut and _lawed_ vine and salt. As soon as they fed them they went back home. Not long after Aponibolinayen said to Aponitolau, "We are going to Natpangan to visit my father and mother," so they went. As soon as they arrived there Aponibolinayen told her father and mother that Aponitolau had a pasture filled with many different kinds of jars, in the place of Kabinalan. When they had been in Natpangan ten days they returned home and Aponibolinayen's father and mother went with them and saw the jars. When they reached the field where the jars were they were afraid that the jars would eat them, but Aponitolau fed them. The father and mother of Aponibolinayen were surprised for there were many valuable jars which filled the wide field of Kabinalan. Not long after they went back home to Natpangan. (Told by Angtan, a woman of Lagangilang.) 4 "Sinogyaman, come and oil my hair so that I can go to war," said Aponitolau. "And you, Sinagayan, put some rice in the pot and cook it, and also some fish for us to eat." Not long after she cooked, and Sinogyaman oiled his hair. When Sinagayan finished cooking they ate and started to go to Gegenawan where Asibowan lived. Sinogyaman and Sinagayan did not want him to go, but Aponitolau went anyway. When he arrived at the edge of the town he stood still a long time, for he did not know the way to Gegenawan. A bird went to him and said, "Why do you stand here for a long time, Aponitolau?" "Why do you stand a long time, you say, and I am going to the town of Asibowan, whom every one says is a pretty girl," said Aponitolau to the bird. "Ala, Aponitolau, it is best for you to follow me and I will show you the way to the place where Asibowan lives." Not long after they went and they soon arrived at the town of Gegenawan. "Ala, Aponitolau, I leave you now for I have showed you the way," said the bird. So Aponitolau went alone to the house of Asibowan. When he reached the ladder of her house Asibowan was looking out of the window and she said, "Oh, there is a rich gentleman. How are you? Where are you going?" Aponitolau said, "I am going to Nagsingkawan, but I have lost my way and I thought that this was Nagsingkawan. I saw this house so I came to get a drink." "This is not Nagsingkawan. Come up and I will cook and we will eat." Aponitolau went up into the house and the girl gave him water to drink. She cooked and then she called him. "I do not want to eat yet. I will rest for awhile and eat when your husband comes," said Aponitolau. Not long after, while they were talking he saw Asibowan break the fish stick and put it in the pot and he watched to see what would become of the stick. He saw that it became a fish. [135] She called often for Aponitolau to come and eat and he went and he said, "I want to wait until your husband comes, for it is not good for us to eat first, and it is not good for us to be eating when he arrives." "Come, it will be all right. We will eat now, and he can eat when he comes" said Asibowan. So he went to eat with her, for he was very hungry. He saw that she took all the rice and fish out of the pots, and there were only dishes for them. "What is the matter with this woman that she does not leave any fish for her husband?" he said to himself. While they were eating Asibowan told him that she did not have a husband and Aponitolau smiled. When they finished eating, they cut betel-nut for them to chew. "Now be patient for we must chew betel-nut, for it is not good for us to talk until we know each other's names." Asibowan said, "How can we chew betel-nut, for I do not chew for I am related to Kaboniyan?" [136] "You must chew anyway for we cannot tell our names unless we chew," said Aponitolau. When Aponitolau urged her a long time she took the betel-nut and they chewed. "Since you are the lady who lives here, it is best that you tell your name first," said Aponitolau. "No it is not good for a woman to tell her name first, so you must tell your name," said Asibowan. Not long after, "My name is Aponitolau of Kadalayapan who is the son of Langa-an and Pagatipánan, who goes to find a pretty girl who has power like me," said Aponitolau. "My name is Asibowan of Gegenawan, who lives alone in the field, who has no neighbors for this is my fortune," said Asibowan. So Aponitolau staid with her nine months and his father and mother were searching for him. They had many people searching for him and they killed many animals to feed the people until all their animals were gone. The bones which they threw away made a pile nine times as large as the _balaua_. Asibowan became pregnant and not long after she gave birth. "What shall we call our girl?" said Aponitolau. "We will call her Binaklingan." When Asibowan bathed the baby it grew one span for she used magical power. So the baby grew one span every time. [137] Not long after she could walk, Aponitolau saw the pile of bones which the searchers had thrown away when they ate, and it was nine times larger than the _balaua_. "The best thing for us to do, Asibowan, is for us to go to Kadalayapan, for my father and mother are still searching for me and the people who are searching are eating all their animals." "The best thing for you to do is to go home and find a woman whom you should marry and then when you are married you make _Sayang_ [138] and I will come to Kadalayapan," said Asibowan, for it was not good for them to be married because she had less magical power than Aponitolau. "If you do not wish to go, I will take our daughter Binaklingan." "Wait awhile until we have commanded that a house be built for her to live in." Not long after they commanded that a house be made for Binaklingan, and it was all of gold. It was finished in the middle of the night and she used magic so that the golden house went to Kadalayapan. When Aponitolau woke up early in the early morning he heard many roosters crowing and many people talking. "My daughter Binaklingan, how bad your mother is, for she sent us here to Kadalayapan without telling us," said Aponitolau. His daughter was very sorry but she played on the pan pipe. When it was morning Langa-an saw the golden house by their house. "Why there is a different house here. I think Aponitolau has arrived and maybe he is in that house," said Langa-an to Pagbokásan, [139] and Pagbokásan went outdoors. "Are you here Aponitolau? We had sought you for a long time, but did not find you. None of our animals are left alive," said Pagbokásan. "Why did you search for me? I told Sinogyaman and Sinagayan that I was going to fight. Did they not tell you?" said Aponitolau. "We thought that you encountered our old, dangerous enemies, for you have been away many months. Why do you have a daughter who is a young girl?" "Yes, Binaklingan who is here is my daughter, and her mother Asibowan with whom I lived for a long time did not want to come here to Kadalyapan, for she said I must find a girl suitable for me to marry and then we must make _balaua_ so that she will come to our town." When they had been in Kadalayapan five days, they went to take a walk in the evening of the sixth day, and they went to the spring of Lisnáyan. As soon as he arrived at the spring he used magic so that all the pretty girls who never go outdoors felt hot and went to the spring to bathe. [140] Not long after Aponibolinayen felt very hot and she went to take a bath at the spring. Aponitolau saw her taking a bath and she looked like the half of a rainbow, and Aponitolau went to her, and Aponibolinayen saw him while she was bathing. "Do not wound me in more than one place so I will not have so much to cure." "If I was an enemy I would have killed you at once," said Aponitolau. Soon he cut a betel-nut into two pieces. "It is best for us to chew betel-nut for it is bad for us to talk when we do not know each other's names." Aponibolinayen did not wish to chew, but when Aponitolau urged her she chewed and they told their names. "My name is Aponitolau of Kadalayapan who is the son of Pagbokásan and Langa-an." "My name is Aponibolinayen of Kaodanan who is the sister of Aponibalagen who put me at the place close to the spring of Lisnáyan, for he does not wish anyone to see me, but you have found me." Not long after, while they were talking, Aponibolinayen used magic so that she vanished and she went among the betel-nuts on the branch of the tree. "Where did the girl go? I did not see her when she vanished," said Aponitolau to himself. Not long after he went home with his head bent for he was very sorrowful. When he arrived at their house, "Why are you bending your head Aponitolau?" said his mother. "What are you bending your head for? you say, and I went to the well of Lisnáyan and talked with Aponibolinayen, but after a while she vanished and I could not see her anymore." "Did you not give her any betel-nut?" asked his mother. "Yes, I did." "What are you so sorry for if you gave her betel-nut? you will find her bye and bye," said his mother. On the second night he went again to Lisnáyan and he used his power so that all the young girls, were hot again so that they went to the spring. When he looked up where there were many betel-nuts he saw Aponibolinayen taking a bath. "I did not see you when you left me Aponibolinayen," said Aponitolau. "Now I am going to take you home." "No, do not take me for my brother will hate me. I do not want to go to your house." He took her to his town of Kadalayapan and he sent his mother to Natpangan to tell Aponibalagen that Aponibolinayen was in Kadalayapan. Not long after his mother Langa-an took her skirt and her hat which was like a bird and when she arrived at the gate of Kaodanan Sinogyaman was dipping water from the spring. "Niece Sinogyaman, where is the ford?" "Look there at the shallow place, for it is the ford." She took off her belt and she spread it on the water, and she rode on it to the other side, and then she took a bath. When she finished bathing she stood on a high stone and the drops of water from her body were agate beads with no holes. "How strange, the people of Kadalayapan are. They are very different from us," said the women who were dipping water from the spring. Not long after Langa-an put on her skirt, and when she finished she said, "Are you not finished dipping water, Sinogyaman? I want you to guide me to the house of my nephew Aponibalagen, for I have forgotten the way, for I have not been here for a long time." "No, I am not through, but I will show you the way, Aunt," said Sinogyaman, and she guided her. When they reached the yard of Aponibalagen, "Good morning, Nephew." "Good morning, Aunt," he said to her. "Come up." Not long after she went up the stairs. "What are you coming here for, Aunt?" "What are you coming here for? you say. I come because I wish to see you." Not long after he went to get _basi_, and he had made her drink. When they had drunk, she said, "The other reason I came here, Nephew Aponibalagen, is that Aponitolau sent me, for he wishes to marry your sister." "I have no sister. I do not know what my mother did with her," he replied. "We have no daughter. Aponibalagen is our only child," said Ebang. While they were still talking they kept on drinking the _basi_. When the old woman Langa-an became drunk she told them that Aponibolinayen was in Kadalayapan, and Aponibalagen was surprised and his heart jumped. "I went to hide Aponibolinayen in Lisnáyan so that no one would see her, but now someone has found her." So Langa-an gave them the engagement present [141] and she asked how much they must pay as the marriage price. "You must fill the _balaua_ nine times," they answered. So Langa-an filled the _balaua_ nine times with different kinds of valuable things. As soon as she had paid the marriage price she went back home. When she arrived in Kadalayapan and reached the top of the ladder of the house she laid down and slept, for she was drunk. "How strange you act, mother. Why don't you tell us the news before you sleep?" said Aponitolau, and she said, "The engagement and marriage gifts were accepted." In the afternoon they began to make _Sayang_. [142] Not long after the old woman Alokotán, who conducted the _Sayang_ and made them dance _Da-eng_, [143] arrived and she began to perform the ceremony. When it became morning, "You people who live with us, come and pound rice," said Aponibolinayen. So the people gathered and pounded rice for them. As soon as they finished pounding rice she commanded her _liblibayan_ [144] to go and get betel-nuts. When they arrived with the betel-nuts, "You betel-nuts come and oil yourselves and go to invite all our relatives, for we are making _Sayang_. Invite all the people except the old enemies," she said and when it became evening they made _Libon_ [145] Asibowan was anxious to chew betel-nut and she went to search for one in the corner of her house and she found an oiled nut which was covered with gold. When she tried to cut it in two it said to her. "Do not cut me, for I came to invite people to attend the _Sayang_ of Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen." And Asibowan said, "I cannot go." "If you do not come I will grow on your knee," said the betel-nut. "No, go on my big pig." So the betel-nut jumped on the head of her pig and it grew very high, and the pig squealed. "Get off from my pig and I will come," said Asibowan. Late in the afternoon they saw her below the _talagan_. [146] "Asibowan is here now, Aponibolinayen, come and see her," said Aponitolau. So Aponibolinayen came and she took her to their house, and Iwaginan took two skirts and he made them dance. He danced first with Asibowan before he made the others dance and his wife Gimbagonan was jealous. When they finished dancing he gave the skirts to Aponibalagen and Sinagayan. As soon as Aponibalagen had finished Iwaginan made Aponitolau dance with Gimbagonan. While they were dancing Gimbagonan danced to the sound of the jars which she had about her neck and in her hair, i.e., she had necklaces of big jars and they stuck together so she could not hear the _gansas_. Not long after Asibowan wished to go back home. "Now I am going home, Aponibolinayen, for no one is watching my house," "No, do not go yet, for someone wants to marry your daughter Binaklingan." "I must go now, you take care of her." So she went back home and they did not see her. As soon as the _Sayang_ was over Dina-ogan was engaged to Binaklingan. Soon he paid the marriage price, and it was the _balaua_ filled nine times with valuable things. Not long after all the people went back to their homes, and Aponibalagen was left alone and he acted as if he was drunk, but he was not drunk. He laid down in the _balaua_, and Aponibolinayen covered him with blankets. Not long after Aponigawani went outdoors for she felt hot, and Aponibalagen peeped at her. Not long after she went inside of the house and went into the ninth room, and Aponibalagen watched her. When it became night Aponibalagen went to the place where she was and Aponitolau did not see him. So he looked for her in the ninth room, and she was playing the pan pipe. While she was playing she saw a firefly, and she tried to hit it with her pan pipe, and Aponibalagen said "Do not strike me or you will hit my headaxe," and he became a man again. "How did you get in here?" said Aponigawani. "I came, because I saw you when I was lying in the _balaua_." He sat down beside her and tried to cut a betel-nut for her to chew. "We will chew betel-nut so we can tell our names," said Aponibalagen. She took the betel-nut and they chewed. "You tell your name first, for you live here." "No it is not good for me to tell my name first, for I am a woman. You are the first." "My name is Aponibalagen who is the brother of Aponibolinayen who is the son of Pagbokásan of Kaodanan." "My name is Aponigawani who is the sister of Aponitolau who is the daughter of Pagatipánan and Langa-an." When they had been in the room nine nights Aponitolau went to see Aponigawani, and when he got to the room Aponibalagen was there. "Why are you here, brother-in-law?" said Aponitolau. "I am here, because I wish to marry your sister," said Aponibalagen. "If you want to marry her you must engage her and you come another day to make _pakálon_." [147] Not long after Aponibalagen went home and told his father and mother that they would go next day to make the _pakálon_ so he could marry Aponigawani. Aponitolau and his father and mother went to Kaodanan and took the marriage price before Aponibalagen and his people made the _pakálon_. Aponibalagen paid the same as Aponitolau did for Aponibolinayen. Not long after they returned to Kadalayapan and the next day Aponibalagen went and got Aponigawani. They danced for one month and then they took Aponigawani to Kaodanan, and all the people went home. This is all. (Told by Lagmani, a woman of Patok.) 5 "Mother Dinawágan go and engage me to someone, for I want to be married. I like the sister of Aponibalagen of Natpangan" said Gawigawen of Adasin. "Yes," said his mother. So she took her hat which looked like the moonbeam and she started to go and when she arrived in Natpangan she said, "Good morning, nephew Aponibalagen." "What do you want here, Aunt?" he replied. "What do you want, you say, and I want to talk with you." "Come up, Aunt, and we will hear what you have to say." So he asked his mother Ebang to prepare food. As soon as Ebang had prepared the food and called them to eat, Aponibalagen went to get the _basi_ and they drank before they ate. And Ebang broke up the fish stick and put it in the pot and it became fish. [148] Not long after they ate, and when they had finished Aponibalagen said to Dinawágan, "Come and see this." "No, I better stay here." When Aponibalagen urged her she came in and he opened the _basi_ jar which was nine times inherited and as soon as they had drank Dinawágan said that she could not tarry for it was afternoon, "I have something to tell you, Aponibalagen." "What is it?" said Aponibalagen. "My son Gawigawen of Adasin wants to marry your sister." Aponibalagen agreed, so she gave a golden cup which looked like the moon as an engagement present, and they agreed on a day for _pakálon_. [149] Aponibalagen said, "Tomorrow will be the day for _pakálon_." Dinawágan went home. "Did they accept our golden cup which looks like the moon, mother?" asked Gawigawen. "Yes. Tomorrow will be the _pakálon_," said the mother. Not long after she said, "All you people who live in the same town with us, prepare to go to the _pakálon_ of Gawigawen in Natpangan tomorrow afternoon." The people agreed and in the morning they truly started and they went. "You, my jar _bilibili_ which always salutes the visitors, go first; and you my jar _ginlasan_ follow, and you _malayo_ and _tadogan_ and you _gumtan_." [150] So they went first to Natpangan, and Gawigawen and the people followed them, and also eighteen young girls who were Gawigawen's concubines went also. Not long after they arrived in Natpangan and Iwaginan and the other people went to attend the _pakálon_, and also many people from the other towns. When all whom they had invited arrived they agreed how much Gawigawen should pay for his wife. Aponibalagen told them to fill the _balaua_ [151] eighteen times with valuable things. So the _balaua_ was filled. Not long after they ate and when they had finished they went to the yard and they played on _gansas_ and danced. Iwaginan took the skirts and gave one to Nagten-ngaeyan of Kapanikiyan and they danced. [152] When she danced she looked like the spindle. She did not go around, but always moving and the water from the river went up into the town and the striped fishes bit her heels. Not long after they stopped dancing and Gimbagonan was jealous and she said "Ala, give me the skirt and I will dance next." "Do not say that Gimbagonan, for it is shameful for us," he answered her. Not long after he gave the cloth to Dakandokan of Pakapsowan. She danced with Algaba of Dagala. Not long after they finished dancing and Iwaginan made Aponibolinayen and Balogaygayan dance. He often went to fight in the enemies towns. Not long after Aponibolinayen went down from the house and the sunshine vanished when she appeared. She danced with Balogaygayan and when she moved her feet the water from the river went up again into the town and the fish bit at her heels as they did before. After they stopped Iwaginan made his wife Gimbagonan dance and she was happy when she danced with Aponibalagen. When they danced the big jars around Gimbagonan's neck made more noise than the _gansas_ and the jars said "Kitol, kitol, kanitol, inka, inka, inkantol." As soon as they finished dancing the people said, "The best thing to do is to go home, for we have been here three months now." "We will take Aponibolinayen" said Dinawágan to the people who lived in the same town with her and she spoke to Aponibalagen. So they prepared rice and coconut soaked together and wrapped in leaves, and a cake made of rice flour and coconut shaped like a tongue, a rice cake, which was fried for Aponibolinayen's provision on the road. "You who live in the other towns who were invited, do not go home yet for we are going to take Aponibolinayen to Adasin," said Aponibalagen. Soon it became morning and they all went to Adasin and Gimbagonan carried two big baskets of cakes, and while they were walking she ate all the time and she ate half of them. When they arrived at the spring of Gawigawen of Adasin, they were surprised, for it was very beautiful and its sands were of beads, and the grass they used to clean pots with was also beads and the place where the jars sat was a big dish. [153] "Go and tell Gawigawen that he must come here and bring an old man, for I am going to take his head and make a spring for Aponibolinayen," said Aponibalagen. So someone went and told Gawigawen to bring the old man Taodan with him to the spring. So Aponibalagen cut off his head and he made a spring and the water from it bubbled up and the body became a big tree called Alangigan [154] which used to shade Aponibolinayen when she went to the spring to dip water, and the blood of the old man was changed to valuable beads. Not long after they went up to the town and the place where they walked--from the spring to the ladder of the house--was all big plates. Gimbagonan sat below the house ladder, because they were afraid the house could not hold her, for she was a big woman, and she hated them and she said to Iwaginan, "Why do you put me here?" "We put you there because we are afraid that you will break the house and give a bad sign to the boy and girl who are to be married." [155] Aponibolinayen covered her face all of the time and she sat down in the middle of the house, for Indiápan said that she must not uncover her face for her husband Gawigawen had three noses, and she was afraid to look at him. [156] But Gawigawen was a handsome man. Aponibolinayen believed what Indiápan had told her. Not long after Dinawágan spread the string of agate beads along the floor where Aponibolinayen sat. [157] After a month they were still there and the people from the other towns wished to go home, and Aponibalagen said to Aponibolinayen, "Ala, be good to your husband and uncover your face. We are going back home now." But Aponibolinayen would not uncover her face. Not long after all the people went back to their towns and Aponibolinayen's mother-in-law commanded her to go and cook. She did not uncover her face, but always felt when she went about, and when she had cooked, she refused to eat, but Gawigawen and his father and mother ate. When Gawigawen went to Aponibolinayen at night she changed to oil, and she did that every night, and they put the carabao hides under her mat so the oil would not drop to the ground. On the fifth night she used magic so that they could not see her go out and she dropped her beads under the house and then she became oil and dropped her body. So she went away and always walked and Gawigawen looked for her, for a long time. He went to Natpangan for he could not find her in any of the towns. When Aponibolinayen was in the middle of the jungle she met a wild rooster which was crowing. "Where are you going Aponibolinayen?" it said to her. "Why are you walking in the middle of the jungle?" and Aponibolinayen said, "I came here for I am running away from my husband for I do not want to be married to him for he has three noses." "No, Gawigawen is a handsome man. I often see him, for this is where he comes often to snare chickens. Do not believe what Indiápan said to you, for she is crazy," said the rooster. Not long after she walked on and she reached the place of many big trees and the big monkey met her and said, "Where are you going, Aponibolinayen?" And she answered, "Where are you going, you say. I am running away because I do not want to marry Gawigawen." "Why don't you wish to marry Gawigawen?" "Because Indiápan told me he has three noses." The monkey laughed and said, "Do not believe that. Indiápan wants to marry Gawigawen herself. He is a handsome man." Aponibolinayen walked on and soon she reached a wide field and she did not know where she was. She stopped in the middle of the field and she thought she would go on to the other side. Not long after she reached the ocean and she sat down on a log and a carabao came along. It passed often where she sat. Aponibolinayen thought she would ride on the carabao, and she got on its back and it took her to the other side of the ocean. When they reached the other side Aponibolinayen saw a big orange tree with much fruit on it. The carabao said, "Wait here while I eat grass and I will return soon." Aponibolinayen said, "Yes," but the carabao went to the place of the man who owned him and said, "Come over here, for there is a good toy for you." And Kadayadawan of Pintagayan said, "What is it?" "Come, hurry," said the carabao. So he combed his hair and oiled it and put on his striped coat and his clout and belt, and he took his spear and he rode on the carabao's back. Not long after Kadayadawan saw the pretty girl in the orange tree and he said, "How pretty she is!" And the carabao said, "That is the toy I told you about." When they reached the orange tree Aponibolinayen heard him when he stuck his spear in the ground and she looked down and saw a handsome man. "Good morning, lady," he said. "Good morning," answered Aponibolinayen. Not long after they chewed betel-nut and they told their names. "My name is Kadayadawan of Pintagayan who is the son of an _alan_." [158] "My name is Aponibolinayen of Natpangan, who is the daughter of Pagbokásan and Ebang, who is the sister of Aponibalagen." Their betel-nut quids became agate beads and Kadayadawan said to her, "Ala, it is good for us to marry. I am going to take you home." So he took her to his home and he was good to his carabao, because it had found him a pretty woman. When they reached the house he put her in a room, and the _Ati_ [159] commanded the soldiers to call Kadayadawan. When they reached the yard of Kadayadawan's house they called "Good morning." And he looked out of the window and said, "What do you want?" "We came, because the king wants you and we came to get you." So they started and went. When they arrived where the king was, "Why Kadayadawan have you a pretty girl in your house? Every night I notice that your house appears as if it were burning." "No, I have not," answered Kadayadawan. "I think you have, for I notice the flames every night." "No, I have not. Where would I find a pretty woman?" [160] Not long after he went back home. When he reached home Aponibolinayen said to him, "It is best for us to make _Sayang_." [161] And Kadayadawan asked, "How do we make _Sayang_ by ourselves? Our neighbors are all soldiers." "Do not worry about that, I will see," said Aponibolinayen. Not long after Kadayadawan took the betel-nuts and they oiled them and they sent them to the towns of their relatives to invite them to their _balaua_. The betel-nuts went. Aponibolinayen told Kadayadawan to go and get _molave_ sticks. When he arrived with them Aponibolinayen used magic and she said, "I use magic so that when I thrust the _molave_ stick in the ground it will become a _balaua_." Not long after the stick became a _balaua_. The betel-nuts arrived in Natpangan and said to Aponibalagen, "We came to call you, for Kadayadawan of Pintagayan is making _balaua_." Aponibalagen said, "How can we attend the _balaua_ when we are searching for my sister?" "If you do not wish to come I will grow on your knee." "Go on my pig." So the betel-nut grew on the pig, and it was so high the pig could not carry it and it squealed very much. "Ala, get off from the pig and we will come." So the betel-nut got off and they started. "All you people who live in the same town come with me to attend the _balaua_ of Kadayadawan of Pintagayan." So they went. They arrived at the same time as Gawigawen of Adasin and they met near to the river. Not long after Kadayadawan saw them by the river and he sent the betel-nuts to carry the people across the river. When they were in the middle of the river Kadayadawan used his power so that their old clothes, which they wore in mourning for Aponibolinayen were taken off from them, and they were surprised, for they did not know when their old clothes had been taken off. When they reached the other side Aponibalagen said to the people who lived with Kadayadawan. "We are ashamed to come up into the town, for we have no clothes." Then the betel-nuts told Kadayadawan and he said, "Ala, go and tell them that I will come and bring some clothes for them." Not long after he arrived where they were and he gave them some clothes to use. "Ala, take these clothes and use them, and come up to the town." But Aponibalagen and his companions were ashamed. Kadayadawan urged them until they accepted the clothes. Soon they reached the town and they danced and Iwaginan and Nagten-ngeyan danced again and the water from the river went up into the town and the fish bit her feet. Not long after that they stopped dancing and Iwaginan made Gawigawen and Aponibolinayen dance. While they were dancing Gawigawen watched Aponibolinayen, and when they had danced around nine times Gawigawen seized her and put her in his belt. [162] "Why do you do that Gawigawen?" said Kadayadawan to him, and he threw his spear and Gawigawen fell down and Aponibolinayen escaped and Kadayadawan put her in a room. As soon as he put her in the room he went to bring Gawigawen back to life. Not long after he revived him, "Why did you do that, Gawigawen? I did not steal Aponibolinayen from you." And Gawigawen said, "Even if you did steal Aponibolinayen from me, she was my wife and I could not find her until now. That is why I put her in my belt, and Aponibalagen knows that she is my wife." And Kadayadawan said, "She is my wife now." Not long after the _alan_ who took care of Kadayadawan told Langa-an "Kadayadawan is your son. I picked him up when he was only blood which fell from you." [163] "Why do you say that you are not my mother?" said Kadayadawan to the _alan_. Langa-an said to the _alan_, "It is good if he is my son." They were very happy and they said to Aponibalagen, "Now we will pay the marriage price and also the price which Gawigawen paid before, we will repay to him." Aponibalagen agreed, "You fill my _balaua_ nine times with valuable things." Not long after they filled the _balaua_ nine times with valuable things and they repaid Gawigawen what he had paid when he married Aponibolinayen. When they had paid they danced again. "Ala, now we must go home, for we have staid here a month," said the people from the other towns. So they went home and they took Aponibolinayen's marriage price. "Ala, now my cousin _alan_, we are going to take Aponitolau [164] home for you have said he is our son," and the _alan_ said, "Yes, take all of my things. I took him for I had no children to inherit my possessions." So they took them to Kadalayapan. The _alan_ went to the other part of the world, and Langa-an used magic so that the golden house which the _alan_ gave to Aponitolau went to their town of Kadalayapan. Not long after the golden house arrived and the people were surprised when they woke up in the morning and saw the big golden house. Not long after Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen and their father arrived there. (Told by Magwati of Lagangilang.) 6 There was a woman whose name was Ginambo of Gonigonan, who went to fight Aponibolinayen of Kaodanan. When she reached the place where the spring was she said, "You people who are dipping water from the spring, whose place is this where the spring is?" "It belongs to Aponibolinayen of Kaodanan," they said and when they went up to the town they raised a clamor. "What are you so noisy about, you women who are like me?" said Aponibolinayen. "You ask why we are noisy? Because there are many women, who have come to fight against you, at the place where the spring is," they said, and Aponibolinayen hurried to take her spear. "What are you so noisy for, women like Aponibolinayen?" asked her father Pagatipánan. "What are we noisy about, you ask? Because there are many of my enemies at the spring." "Do not go Aponibolinayen, for I will go." "No for you are weak. What can you do now? Once you did kill people in the place where the spring is, and now perhaps it is my fortune," she said, and she went to the spring. She looked down and truly the enemies looked like many locusts about the spring. "Ala," said Ginambo of Gonigonan, "You people who live with me, you are anxious to carry away this woman whom we do not like." "Yes," they answered, "but only our names will go back to the towns we came from," i.e. they expected to be killed. Ginambo answered, "No, we are anxious to capture her without fail." Aponibolinayen said, "You old enemy take this betel-nut," and she cut it in two and gave it to them. "How are we sure Ginambo of Gonigonan that only our names will not go back, we are afraid." Ginambo said, "Do not be afraid, but hurry to be brave." "Ala, now do what you can," shouted Aponibolinayen who stood on a high rock. When they started toward Aponibolinayen their spears looked like rain they were so many. She glanced off the spears with both elbows. "Now I am the next to throw my spears," said Aponibolinayen. "Yes, because all our weapons are gone," they said. Aponibolinayen was next, she said, "I will use my magic, and you, my spear, shall kill six and seven at one time, and you, my headaxe, cut off their heads from the left side and from the right side, and in back and in front." "Ala, you spare me so that I may tell the people in Gonigonan where I live," said Ginambo. "Yes, but next month I will come to your town Gonigonan to fight," said Aponibolinayen. Ginambo went home alone to her town. "Why are you alone?" asked the people who lived in the same town when she arrived. "What can we do, all my companions who went to fight are lost, because they did not throw their spears at Aponibolinayen." "That is what we told you Ginambo of Gonigonan when you started, but you did not heed, you know that the people of Kaodanan are powerful like Kaboniyan." [165] Soon after that Gináwan of Nagtinawan said, "You people who live in the same town in which I live, let us go to fight Aponigawani of Kadalayapan." "No, we do not wish to go, because the people who live in Kadalayapan are powerful like Kaboniyan. We do not know whether she has a brother or not though someone has said that Aponigawani has no brother." "No we go," said Gináwan. "If that is what you say, we will go," said the people. So they went and they walked and walked until they reached the spring at Kadalayapan. Gináwan said, "You women who are dipping water from the spring, to whom does it belong?" "To Aponigawani," they said. Ginawan said, "Ala, you go and tell your bravest that we fight with steel weapons." The women who dipped water from the well said, "We do not know who is the bravest, whom we should tell, for Aponigawani has no brother." They went up to the town, and said, "Uncle Pagbokásan the place about the spring is filled with enemies." Then Aponigawani was in a hurry to go. "Do not go you will kill somebody," said her father. "No, father, the spring will be lost and then what can we do? Father, I am a woman and since I have no brother, perhaps it is my fortune to fight, for you are weak." She took her skirt, headaxe, and spear and she went to the edge of the hill above the spring. She looked and looked at the place where the spring was for truly the enemies were thick like locusts about the well. "What did you come for?" she asked. "We come to fight the people who live in Kadalayapan, because we have heard that the woman who is always in the house [166] has no brother, so we have come to carry her away," they said. "Ala, if you wish to prove her bravery you take this betel-nut." She cut it in two pieces and gave it to them. "We asked you to excuse us from going Gináwan," they said. "Ala, you begin and see what you can do," said Aponigawani who stood on a high stone and she stood with her hands on her hips while they threw their weapons. "Now, I am next," she said. "You, my spear, when I throw you, kill at once seven and six; and you, my headaxe, cut off their heads from the left and right sides, from in back and in front." When Aponigawani had killed all of them except Gináwan and she had all their weapons, Gináwan said, "Please, my friend, let me live so that someone may go back to the town we came from." "Ala, yes, if that is what you ask, my friend, but I will come next to your town," she said, and Gináwan went home alone. Not long after that the month which they had agreed on came. "Now, mother, go and make cakes and after that I will go to fight," said Aponibolinayen. "Do not go," said her mother Ebang of Kaodanan, but she could not detain her, so she made the cake, and when she finished, Aponibolinayen went. "Mother, make preparations for me to go to war, for this is the month we agreed upon with Gináwan of Nagtinawan," said Aponigawani to her mother Langa-an of Kadalayapan. Bye and bye Aponibolinayen who was walking in the middle of the road, stopped because she was tired. Aponigawani was also walking and when she looked up she saw a woman to whom none compared, and she was startled, and she said, "Here is a woman who looks like me. I do not like to approach her who looks like me, yet I am ashamed not to do so, for she has seen me," she said. "Good morning," said Aponigawani to Aponibolinayen who sat on a high stone by the road. They leaned their spears together between them and then they talked. "Now, my friend, where are you going," said Aponibolinayen. "I am going to war," said Aponigawani. "And where are you going?" said Aponigawani to Aponibolinayen. "I am going to Gonigonan, because the month which I agreed upon with Ginambo of Gonigonan has come," said Aponibolinayen. "Ala, let us chew betel-nut." "Yes, if that is what you say, we will chew betel-nut," said Aponigawani. After that they exchanged quids. And the quid which had been chewed by Aponigawani was covered with agate beads which are called _pinogalan_, and the quid of Aponibolinayen was covered with gold. Aponigawani said, "You are more beautiful and have more power than I, because your betel-nut is covered with gold." After that they spat in front of them. The place looked like the place where a child had been born. "Now, my friend, we are going to tell our names." "Yes," said each one, and they told their names. "I am Aponibolinayen of Kaodanan who has no brother, and Ginambo of Gonigonan came to fight against me and the month in which we agreed to fight has come, so I go meet her." "I go also to the town of Gináwan of Nagtinawan, because the month which we agreed on has arrived, my name is Aponigawani of Kadalayapan who also has no brother." "If that is what you are going to do, we will go first to Gonigonan, then we will go to the town of Nagtinawan," said Aponibolinayen to her. "If that is what you say we will both go." So they went. Not long after they arrived at Gonigonan. "Now, Ginambo of Gonigonan I am here because the month which we agreed has come." "You people who live in the same town with me prepare, because the woman who always stays in the house in Kaodanan has come to fight against us," said Ginambo. "Yes, Ginambo, we will fight against her. We told you not to go against her before, because the people of her town are related to Kaboniyan. We do not know what magic they may use," they said. "Now, what can we do, we are lost." After that they began to fight. "Ala, you my spears and headaxes kill the people from the left and the right sides, from in back and in front," said Aponibolinayen and Aponigawani. As soon as they commanded their spears and headaxes their invisible helpers flew and they went to Dangdangáyan of Naglitnan. "Oh, sir, you are so happy, who are in bed in the house. The people who live in Gonigonan have nearly killed your sister, because she went to fight against them," said the helpers. After that he went to bathe and wash his hair. "Ala, you three girls take the rice straw and wash my hair," he said, and the three girls washed his hair. After that he finished to wash and he went up to the town. As soon as they arrived in the town the three girls combed his hair. When they finished to comb his hair, "Now, you put little golden beads on each of my hairs," he said. As soon as they put all the gold in his hair he took his spear and headaxe and he went. Lingiwan of Nagtangpan was in bed in his house. "Sir, you are so happy in your bed in your house, your sister went to fight and the enemies have nearly killed her," said the invisible spirit helpers. "Mother _alan_ I ask you if I have a sister? I never have seen her." "What can you do? I picked you up where you had fallen when your father was jealous of your mother," [167] she said. After that he hurried to start and he went. When Dangdangáyan of Naglitnan was in the road, he sat down on a high stone where the two women had set before. How terrible it is that those women who never go out of the house have gone to war, for here is where they exchanged their weapons. While he was sitting, "Good morning, my friend," said Lingiwan of Nagtangpan. "Where are you going?" said the man who sat on the high stone. "I am going anywhere," he answered, and they talked. "We are going to tell our names, because it is bad for us when we do not know each others names." They cut and chewed the betel-nut. As soon as they chewed they found that they were relatives. "My name is Lingiwan of Nagtangpan." "My name is Dangdangáyan of Naglitnan. Let us go together when we go to fight." After that they went. When they truly arrived they looked into the town, they saw the two women who looked like flames of fire, because of their beauty. "How terrible that those ladies who always stay in the house have gone to war," they said. After that they went to them, and the people whom they killed were so many that the pig troughs floated in their blood. So they went to them. When the women saw them they said, "How terrible are those two rich men who have power." After that, "Oh, ladies how were you born," they said. "Why are you here you ask? Ginambo came to fight against us, that is why we are here in the town of Gonigonan." So Dangdangáyan went in front of them, and he scooped them up with his headaxe and put them inside of his belt. [168] After that the two men fought against the enemies. "Please leave someone to bear children," said Ginambo of Gonigonan. "If that is what you ask we will kill you last," they said and she begged mercy. "Now we will go to Nagtinawan which is the town of Gináwan, with whom Aponigawani agreed to fight this month." After that, "You plunder and heads go before us to Kadalayapan, when you arrive at the gate you divide equally and part of you go to Kaodanan." So they went to Nagtinawan. When they arrived in Nagtinawan, "You Gináwan of this town now the agreed month is here." "How are you Gináwan? We told you not to go before and you went; now we will all be killed," said the people who lived in the same town. "Now we seek vengeance." They looked as if they cut down banana trees when they cut down their enemies. "Please spare me, and if you wish marry me," said Gináwan. "If that is what you say we will kill you last," but they did not kill her. After that they went home and sent all the heads before them and also the plunder. After that they arrived in Kaodanan. "Good afternoon, Uncle," said Dangdangáyan to old man Pagbokásan. "Come up the ladder," he said. "You go and cook so that these boys may eat," he said. After that, "You go and get one jar of _basi_ which you used to like when you were young," said his wife Ebang. As soon as she said this they went and they drank, and Pagbokásan said to them. "This is reserved for Aponibolinayen to drink when she returns from fighting." When the old woman had finished cooking, she took the rice from the jar and put it on the woven basket, and she took the meat from the jar and put it in the coconut shells, and so they ate. As soon as they finished to eat, "Now we are not going to stay long, because we must go home," they said. So Dangdangáyan dropped down the women who never go out of the house. "Why Aponibolinayen is here and Lingiwan also," they said. Dingowan of Nagtangpan took Aponibolinayen and put her inside of a big jar; then they went to Kadalayapan, because they went to take Aponigawani. When they arrived they said, "Good afternoon Uncle," to the old man Pagatipánan. "Good morning," he answered, and he was glad. "Come up," he said. When they went up the stairs they were given _basi_. While they were drinking they let Aponigawani fall in front of them, and they were all glad, because Aponigawani was there. "How fine that Aponigawani is here; we feared that she was lost," said the old man and woman. "Ala, boys if you go home now, return soon for we are going to chew betel nut." As soon as they went _Lakay_ [169] Pagatipánan and his wife built _balaua_, and they called one woman medium [170] to begin their _balaua_. As soon as they built their _balaua_ they sent someone to go and secure betel-nuts which were covered with gold. Not long after the betel-nuts which were covered with gold arrived and the old woman Langa-an oiled them, and she used magic so that the betel-nuts went to invite all their relatives, who lived in other towns, to attend _balaua_ with them. She told the betel-nuts that if any did not wish to attend _balaua_ with them, to grow on their knees. As soon as she commanded them they went, and the betel-nut which went to Kaodanan arrived, "Good morning," it said to the old man, Pagbokásan who was lying in the _balaua_. He looked up and said, "Who was that," and he saw it was a betel-nut, covered with gold and oiled, and the betel-nut said, "I come to bid you attend the _balaua_ of Pagatipánan of Kadalayapan, because Aponigawani has returned from fighting. So they celebrate." Pagbokásan sat up. After that he went down out of the _balaua_ and the told people to wash their hair and clothes and to bathe so as to attend the _balaua_ of Pagatipánan of Kadalayapan. So the people who lived with them all went to the river and washed their clothes and hair, and took a bath. As soon as they finished they went home, and they started to go to Kadalayapan. Old man Pagbokásan took Aponibolinayen from the jar, and put her inside of his belt, so they went. As soon as they arrived there the families who made the _balaua_ went to meet them at the gate of the town and made _alawig_ [171] for them. After that they stopped dancing, and they talked to each other, and the two young men who met Aponibolinayen and Aponigawani were with them, because they arrived at the same time. So the old man Pagatipánan said, "Ala, cousin Pagbokásan now we are going to chew betel-nut to see if those two young men who took home Aponigawani are our relatives," and old man Pagbokásan agreed. So they cut the betel-nut which was covered with gold for them to chew and as soon as they cut the nut they all chewed, and they all spat. The spittle of Lingiwan went to the spittle of Pagatipánan, and the spittle of Aponigawani, went there also. The spittle of Dangdangáyan went to the spittle of Pagbokásan and that of Aponibolinayen also, and thus they found out that they were relatives. Pagbokásan was surprised, for he did not know that he had a son, and Ebang took her son, and she carried him as if he was a baby. And Lingiwan was glad, because he had met his sister during the fight and Langa-an carried him as if a baby. When they had learned that the boys who had carried the girls home were their sons they all went back to town, and their people who had been invited were there. As soon as they sat down Iwaginan commanded someone to play the _gansas_ and he took the two skirts and made everyone dance. His wife Gintoban who was a big woman, who used the big jars like agate beads on her head and about her neck, said to Iwaginan, "Why don't you, my husband, bid me dance? I have been waiting for a very long time." Iwaginan said, "Gintoban do not say that or I shall be ashamed before the people. Wait until I am ready for you." As soon as Aponibolinayen and Lingiwan finished dancing Iwaginan took the skirts from them and he gave one to Gintoban and the other to Ilwisan, and so they danced. And the big jars which she had hung around her neck made a noise and the earth shook when she moved her body. As soon as they finished dancing the people who went to attend _Balaua_ with them said, "Now we going to put the heads around the town and then go for it is nearly one month now and our families are lonesome for us." So they went to put the heads on the sticks around the town. At that time the two _alan_ who had picked up Lingiwan and Dangdangáyan arrived. They did not wish to attend _Balaua_, but the betel-nut had grown on their heads and they had arrived very late. As soon as Lingiwan and Dangdangáyan saw them they took them back to the town. As soon as Pagatipánan knew that they were the _alan_ who took care of the boys he summoned the people around the town. They danced for one month. After that Langa-an and Ebang went to talk with the two _alan_, and said to them, "We are surprised for we did not feel our sons come out." The _alan_ said, "Lingiwan I picked up by the side of the road while you were walking, that is why you did not feel him; he was a little bloody when I picked him up, and I made him a man because I have no child to inherit all my things. Now that you found out that he is your son you come and take all my things in Kabinbinlan, as soon as the _Balaua_ is finished. As soon as you will get all of them I will fly somewhere." So when the people went home, after the _Balaua_ was finished, Lingiwan and Dangdangáyan went to follow their _alan_ mothers. As soon as they arrived in the different places where the _alan_ lived they gave them all the things which they had and they used their power so that all the things went to their town. When all the things arrived in Kadalayapan the people in the town were frightened, for there was a golden house. When the things arrived in Kaodanan the people were frightened for there were the valuable things which Dangdangáyan took with him. After one month passed Lingiwan said to his father Pagatipánan, "You go and make _pakálon_ for Aponibolinayen for I want to marry her." So his father sent his wife Langa-an to Kaodanan to tell to the father and mother of Aponibolinayen that Lingiwan wished to marry her. So Langa-an took her hat which looked like the Salaksák [172] and her new skirt. As soon as she dressed she started and went. When she arrived in Kaodanan Pagbokásan was lying down in his _balaua_. "Good morning," she said to him. Pagbokásan was a in hurry to sit up and he said to her, "I am glad to see you, what are you coming here for in the middle of the day." "What am I coming for you say? I am coming to see if you want Lingiwan for a son for he wishes to marry Aponibolinayen." Pagbokásan took her to his house and said to his wife, "Here is cousin Langa-an who came to see us." So Ebang told him that he should get some old _basi_ for them to drink. As soon as they drank Ebang went to cook. As soon as she finished cooking they ate. After they finished eating they took the big coconut shell and filled it with _basi_ and each of them drank, and they were all drunk, and Langa-an said, "I like to hear from you if you wish Lingiwan to be a son." Soon Pagbokásan and Ebang agreed. They decided on the day for _pakálon_. So Langa-an went home and when she arrived she laid down on the porch of the house for she was drunk, and Lingiwan saw her and waked her. "What is the matter with you?" he said. "I am drunk for Pagbokásan and Ebang urged me to drink much _basi_, so I was scarcely able to get home, that is why I slept on the porch." "Mother, you go into the house, do not sleep on the porch." So she went in and Lingiwan asked her the result of her visit to Kaodanan. "They accepted you and we agreed to make _pakálon_ the day after tomorrow." So Lingiwan was glad, and went to tell the people about his marriage, and all the people prepared so that they might go. As soon as the agreed day came they went to Kaodanan and they took many pigs and _basi_ jars. When they arrived there Pagbokásan, who was the father of Aponibolinayen, and the other people were already there and had cooked many caldrons of rice and meat. Pagbokásan took the _gansa_ [173] and he commanded someone to play and they danced. After that they ate. As soon as they finished to eat they played the _gansa_ again and they danced. Iwaginan of Pindayan said, "Stop playing the _gansas_ we are going to settle on how much they must pay for Aponibolinayen. As soon as we agree we will dance." And the people were quiet and they agreed how much Lingiwan was to pay. The father and mother of Lingiwan offered the _balaua_ three times full of jars which are _malayo_ and _tadogan_ and _ginlasan._ [174] The people did not agree and they said, "Five times full, if you do not have that many Lingiwan may not marry Aponibolinayen." He was so anxious to marry her that he told his parents to agree to what the people said. As soon as they agreed Langa-an used magic so that all the jars which the people wanted were already in the _balaua_--five times full. As soon as they gave all the jars which they paid, Iwaginan ordered them to play the gansas and they danced. After they danced, all their relatives who went to attend _pakálon_ were anxious to go home for they had been there one month. "Do not detain us, for we are one month here." So Pagbokásan let them go. Everyone carried home some jars and they all went home. [175] So Pagatipánan said to Pagbokásan, "Now that the _pakálon_ is over we will take Aponibolinayen, because Lingiwan wants her now." Pagbokásan said, "Do not take her now. You come and bring Lingiwan day after tomorrow." "If that is what you say we will bring him, if you will not let us take Aponibolinayen now." When they started to go home Pagbokásan said to them, "Dangdangáyan wants to marry Aponigawani who is your daughter." "You will wait until next month," said Langa-an. "After Aponibolinayen and Lingiwan are married, we will think first." Not long after the day on which they agreed to take Lingiwan to Aponibolinayen came, and he carried one jar. [176] As soon as they arrived there they made the rice ceremony. [177] When the ceremony was over Pagatipánan and Langa-an and the others went home and left Lingiwan. As soon as they arrived in Kadalayapan Langa-an asked Aponigawani if she wanted Dangdangáyan to be her husband. Aponigawani said, "If you think it is good for me to be married now, and you think he is a good man for my husband it is all right, for he has magical power like us." As soon as the agreed month passed the parents of Dangdangáyan came to ask if they wished the marriage. They prepared a number of _basi_ jars for them to drink from when they should arrive. When they arrived there Pagatipánan was prepared and he met them with the _basi_ and they all drank. After that they told all the people who lived in their town that they were going to celebrate the arrival of Pagbokásan and his companions. "Ala, we do not stay long now, _Abaláyan_, [178] we want to know if you wish Dangdangáyan to be married to Aponigawani. We will have a good time during _pakálon_," they said. After that Langa-an and Pagatipánan said, "Now the meal is ready. We are going to eat first and after that you will hear what we say." And Pagbokásan and Ebang did not wish to eat for they were in a hurry and only went to hear if they wished Dangdangáyan to be the husband of Aponigawani. "If you do not wish to come and eat with us, we do not want Dangdangáyan to be married to Aponigawani," they said. Then they all went to eat. After they ate, "Ala now that we have finished eating you excuse us, for we want to know if you wish Dangdangáyan to be married to Aponigawani." Langa-an and Pagatipánan said, "You will come next month, we will make _pakálon_." So they went home and Dangdangáyan went to meet them at the gate of the town, and he asked at once, "Father and mother did they accept me?" He said, "Yes, if we can agree on what they want us to pay, and we have to go there next month." So Dangdangáyan was glad and told the people about it, and he invited them to go the next month to make _pakálon_. As soon as the agreed month to go to Kadalayanpan came, they went. As soon as they arrived there they danced for one month. Lingiwan and Aponibolinayen had their golden house, which the _alan_ had given them. The people agreed on how much they should pay for the _pakálon_, and Pagatipánan and Langa-an said, "Pay just the same as we paid for Aponibolinayen when Lingiwan married her." "If that is what you say, it is all right," they said. And Ebang used magic so that the _balaua_ was five times full of jars which are _malayo, tadogan_, and _ginlasan._ So the _balaua_ was filled five times, and each of the relatives who went to attend the _pakálon_ took some jars. As soon as the _pakálon_ was finished the people all went home, and Pagbokásan and Ebang said, "Ala, now that the _pakálon_ is over let us take Aponigawani," Langa-an answered, "If you make extra payment you can take Aponigawani now," and Dangdangáyan said to his mother, "If they want the extra payment, ask them how much." Langa-an replied, "Another five times the _balaua_ full," and Ebang said to her son, "We have to pay again the _balaua_ five times full." "That is all right mother I have many jars which my _alan_ mother gave me," so they gave the extra jars which they asked. As soon as they gave all the jars they took Aponigawani of Kaodanan with them. As soon as they arrived they made a big party, and they invited the _alan_. As soon as the _alan_ arrived at the party they danced and gave more presents to them. After that the _alan_ and the other people went home and Aponigawani and Dangdangáyan had their own house which the _alan_ gave them. This is all. (Told by Lagmani of Patok.) 7 Aponitolau told Aponibolinayen that they would go to the river to wash their hair. Not long after Aponibolinayen went with him. When they arrived at the spring they washed their hair. As soon as they washed their hair they went to get the _lawed_ [179] vine and they went back home. As soon as they reached home Aponitolau said to Aponibolinayen, "Will you comb my hair? I am anxious to go to fight." So Aponibolinayen combed his hair. As soon as she combed it he said, "Ala, you go and get my clout, my belt which is sewed with gold, and my striped coat, and also get my _ambosau_." [180] Aponibolinayen got them and Aponitolau dressed up. As soon as he was dressed he took his shield, his headaxe, and spear, and went. He struck the side of his shield, and it sounded like one hundred people. While he was walking and striking his shield in the middle of the way, Gimbagonan, the wife of Iwaginan, heard him, when he was near to Pindayan. When he passed by the town he continued toward the town of Giambólan. In a short time he arrived at the well of Giambólan. He met the young girls who were dipping water from the well. He killed all of them with his headaxe and spear. Not long after he cut off their heads and he went up to the town and directly to the house of Giambólan. When he arrived at the house, he said, "Good morning, Giambólan. Go and get your shield, headaxe and spear, and boar's tusk armlet for we are going to fight here in your yard." Giambólan got his headaxe and spears for he wanted to fight. As soon as he arrived where Aponitolau was he threw his spears at him and Aponitolau soon got all the spears which he threw. Then he tried to cut off Aponitolau's head, but Aponitolau got his headaxe and said to him, "Now I am next, for you did not injure me at all," and Giambólan said, "Yes." Aponitolau commanded his headaxe and spear to go to Giambólan's side as soon as he threw them; so Giambólan laid down and the headaxe went and cut off Giambólan's ten heads. As soon as Aponitolau had killed Giambólan he again commanded his spear and headaxe to cut off the heads of all the people in the houses and the headaxe and spear went and Aponitolau sat by the town waiting for them. As soon as the spear and headaxe had killed all the people who lived in the town they went back to him and Aponitolau said, "You heads of the people gather in one place, but you heads of Giambólan and you heads of the women be separate from the others. You gather by the house of Giambólan." Not long after all the heads gathered and he said again, "You heads of Giambólango first, and you heads of the men precede the women. As soon as you arrive in Kadalayapan stop by the gate of the town. You house of Giambólango go directly to my house in Kadalayapan. Go with the big storm." So the house went. "You oranges of Giambólan come and follow us." So the oranges followed them. He told them to go in front of his house. They went and Aponitolau followed them, and the oranges followed him. Not long after Aponitolau looked back and he saw the _alzados_ following him, for they wished to kill him. As soon as he saw them he commanded his strike-a-light to become a high bank so the _alzados_ could not follow him. [181] So the strike-a-light became a high bank, and the _alzados_ were on the other side and could not follow him. Not long after he was near to Kadalayapan. As soon as he arrived there he found all the heads near the gate of the town and he said to them, "You heads of Giambólan stay by the well, and you heads of the people who lived with him gather here by the gate." He went to the town and told the people to gather by the gate and play the _gansas_ and dance, and he commanded someone to invite their friends in other towns. Not long after the people from the other towns arrived in Kadalayapan, and the people who lived there were still dancing. Aponitolau danced with Danay of Kabisilan. The next was his son Kanag Kabagbagowan who danced with five young girls who never go outdoors. As soon as they had all danced they went to their towns. Then they put the heads around the town of Kadalayapan. (Told by Magwati of Lagangilang.) 8 Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau were anxious to make _Sayang_, [182] so Aponitolau asked Aponibolinayen about his clout and his striped belt. "Well, you go and get them, for I am going to get the head of the old man To-odan of Kalaskigan before we make _Sayang_." So Aponibolinayen went to get his clout and belt. After that he oiled his hair and Aponibolinayen put a golden bead on each hair. Not long after he went to get his headaxe and spear. As soon as Aponibolinayen gave him his provisions for the journey, he started. When he was in the middle of the way he became very tired, for it was far. So he used magic and he said, "I use my power so that I will arrive at once at the town of To-odan of Kalaskigan." Soon after he arrived in Kalaskigan. When he arrived at the yard beside the _balaua_ the old man was lying down. The old man saw him and said, "Eb, I have a man to eat." And Aponitolau said, "You will never eat me. Go and get your headaxe and spear, for you must fight with me. I will take your head before I make _Sayang_." The old man was angry and he stood up and went to get his headaxe and spear. "You are the only person who ever came in my town. Go on, and throw your spear, if you are brave," said To-odan. "If I am the first to throw my spear you will never have a chance to throw yours, for I will kill you at once. You better throw yours first," said Aponitolau. The old man was angry, and he threw his spear. But his spear glanced off from the body of Aponitolau, for he used his power so that everything glanced away from his body. The old man To-odan ran toward him and tried to cut off his head, but the headaxe could not cut Aponitolau, and the old man To-odan said to him, "You, truly, are a brave man, that was why you came to my town. Try and throw your spear at me, for if you can hit me it is all right, for I have killed many people." Aponitolau threw his spear at his side, and it went clear through his body and To-odan laid down. Aponitolau cut off his head. Not long after Aponitolau went back home and Don Carlos of Kabaiganan (Vigan) [183] was anxious to go and see Aponibolinayen. So he commanded his spirit companions to be ready to go with him to Kadalayapan. As soon as they were ready he said to them, "You go first, my companions, we are going to the town of Aponibolinayen, for I have heard that she is a pretty woman, and I wish to see her." Not long after they arrived at the river, and they got on to the raft. Soon they arrived at the well of Kadalayapan and Indiápan was dipping water from the well, and Don Carlos spoke to her. "Is this the well of Aponibolinayen?" Indiápan said, "Yes." "Will you go and tell her to come here and see what I have to sell?" Indiápan went up to the town and said "Aponibolinayen, Don Carlos wants you to see what he has to sell." "I don't wish to go and see what he has to sell." So Indiápan went back to the well and said to Don Carlos "Aponibolinayen does not wish to come, and she does not wish to buy what you have to sell." So he pondered what he should do. "The best thing for me to do is to go to their house to get a drink." So he went up to the town and said, "Good morning, Aponibolinayen, will you give me some water to drink? For a long time I have wished to drink your water." Aponibolinayen answered, "Why did you come from the well? Why did you not drink while you were there?" "I did not drink there, for I wished to drink of your water." Aponibolinayen did not give him any for she was afraid; then Don Carlos used magic so that she dropped her needle. The needle dropped and she said to him, "Will you hand the needle which I dropped to me, Don Carlos." So Don Carlos picked up the needle and he put a love charm on it, and he gave it to her. [184] Not long after Don Carlos wanted to go back home, but Aponibolinayen would not let him go, and she said, "Come up in the house." So he went up into the house. Not long after Aponitolau shouted near to the town and he did not hear Aponibolinayen answer. As soon as he reached the gate of the town he shouted again, and she did not answer, for Don Carlos was with her. Not long after Don Carlos went home and Aponibolinayen saw his belt which he had left, for he was in a hurry. So she ran and got the ladder to the rice granary, and she hid the belt. Aponitolau met Don Carlos at the gate of the town and he asked him why he had gone into the town, and he answered, "I want to sell something." Not long after Aponitolau went to their house and asked Aponibolinayen why she did not reply to him when he shouted two times. "I did not answer, for I have a headache." "Why is the fastening on the door different from before?" "I don't know. No one came in." Not long after Aponitolau went up into the house. "Now, Aponibolinayen, I have taken the head of the old man To-odan of Kalaskigan. You command the people to begin to pound rice, for we will make _Sayang_" Not long after Aponitolau saw a flame of fire in the rice granary and he said, "Why is there a fire in the rice granary?" So he ran to see. Not long after he went inside of the granary and he saw what it was. As soon as he saw that it was a golden belt he said, "I think this is the belt of the man who came here while I was gone." So he took it and hid it and did not let Aponibolinayen see it. Not long after they commanded the people to go and get betel-nuts. When they arrived with the fruit they oiled them and Aponitolau said, "Tell me whom we shall invite beside our relatives in the other towns." And Aponibolinayen told him to invite Don Carlos of Kabaiganan, for she wished always to see him. So they sent a betel-nut to go and get Don Carlos, and they sent one to the old woman Alokotán of Nagbotobotán and Awig of Natpangan and other towns. Not long after the betel-nut reached the place where Don Carlos lived and it met his spirit helpers. As soon as the betel-nut reached Don Carlos, "Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen are making _Sayang_, and I came to invite you." "All right, you go first. I will dress and go after you," he said. Not long after he dressed up and went to follow the betel-nuts. Not long after all the other people from the other towns arrived where they were making _Sayang_ and Aponitolau tried to put the belt on each person to see if it fitted and no one was the right size. As soon as Don Carlos arrived Aponitolau tried the belt on him and it was all right. So Aponitolau gave him the belt and he got a golden chair and he put it in the middle of the party and made Don Carlos sit on it. All of the people were dancing and Aponitolau went and sharpened his headaxe. Not long after, "Ala, you Aponibolinayen take Kanag and Alama-an with you and dance with Don Carlos." Not long after they danced. While they were dancing Aponitolau cut off the head of Don Carlos. The head sprang up and went to the breast of Aponibolinayen, and Aponibolinayen and Kanag and Alama-an ran away, and their clothes were torn, for they ran through many thorns. Not long after the people who went to attend the _Sayang_ went home, and Aponibolinayen and Kanag and Alama-an arrived in a level plain. They went to the shade of an _alosip_ [185] tree and they sat there many days, for they were very tired. "I am anxious to drink water," said Aponibolinayen, and not long after they heard a rooster crowing. "I think we are near a town, for I hear a rooster crowing." So they went where they had heard the rooster. "We go and drink," said Aponibolinayen. Not long after they reached the place where _Silit_ (one kind of lightning) and the dog _Kimat_ [186] guarded. _Silit_ and the dog were sleeping and did not see them go inside of the town. Soon they arrived in the yard of the golden house of Balbalaoga of Dona and they were ashamed to ask for water to drink, for they were naked. So they went to the _balaua_ and slept, for they were tired. While they were sleeping, Balbalaoga saw them in his _balaua_, and he was surprised, because no one was permitted to enter the town, for _Silit_ and the dog prevented. He said, "What is the matter of the guards that they did not see those people enter the town? Perhaps they are my relatives." So he took some clothes to the _balaua_ for them. He covered them with blankets while they slept. As soon as he covered them he sat down in the _balaua_ and waited until they got up. As soon as Aponibolinayen awoke she saw him and said, "Do not wound us in many places, so we will not need to cure so much." Balbalaoga said, "If I were an enemy I would have killed you while you slept. We are going to chew betel-nut and see who you are." So he cut a betel-nut and gave to them, and their spittle was like agate beads. So he took them up into his golden house and told his mother _alan_ to give them some clothes. Not long after they drank _basi_, after they had finished eating. All the _alan_ were drunk and the mother of Balbalaoga of Dona said to them, "Aponibolinayen, Balbalaoga is your brother, for he was the after-birth of Awig, which they put in the _tabalang_ which they sent down the stream. [187] So I picked him up, for I had no child to inherit all my things." Not long after they knew that they were brother and sister Balbalaoga asked his sister why they came to Dona without clothes. She said, "Aponitolau is jealous of Don Carlos and he cut off his head, and the head jumped to my breasts, so we were frightened and ran away. That is why we came here. I did not know I had a brother who lived here." The head still hung to the breasts of Aponibolinayen, but they had not seen it before, for she had covered it. As soon as she showed it to Balbalaoga he took the head from her breasts and they sent some betel-nuts to go and summon their mother. As soon as the betel-nut arrived in Kaodanan it said to Pagbokásan and Ebang, "Good morning. I came here for Balbalaoga, and his sister sent me to come and get you." So Ebang and Pagbokásan were surprised, because Aponibolinayen had another brother. So they called Awig and said to him, "Here is a betel-nut from Dona which Aponibolinayen and Balbalaoga sent, for they want to see us." Awig said to them, "I don't believe that Aponibolinayen is still alive, for we have searched for her a very long time, and I never heard of a place called Dona, and I have been all over the world." They started and the betel-nut led them. "Where is Dona?" they said to the betel-nut. "Dona is somewhere. Follow me. You must step on the big dishes where I step." Not long after they arrived in the place where Balbalaoga lived and were surprised at the big golden house, and Balbalaoga and Aponibolinayen were watching them from the window, and they went to the yard of the house. Ebang and Pagbokásan did not believe that Balbalaoga was their son, so they chewed betel-nut. As soon as they chewed they found out that he was the after-birth of Awig. So Balbalaoga took them into his house. Not long after Balbalaoga said to them, "Wait for me for awhile, for I am going to hunt deer." So he called his dogs who talked with the thunder, they were so big and also powerful. Not long after he went to the wood and the dogs caught three deer. He cut up the deer and took them back home. Not long after Aponitolau heard that Aponibolinayen was with her brother in Dona. He went to follow her, for he intended to live with her again. Ebang and Pagbokásan took Balbalaoga and Aponibolinayen to Kaodanan, and they used their power so that all the things which the _alan_ had given to Balbalaoga went to Kaodanan. Not long after the house and the other things which the _alan_ had given went to Kaodanan, all the _alan_ flew away. Not long after they made _balaua_ in Kaodanan, and they called all their relatives in the other towns and all of the _alan_ who cared for Balbalaoga of Dona. After that all the people went to attend their _balaua_. In that time Balbalaoga was married and Aponitolau was very sorry, because he could not remarry Aponibolinayen, and he went to the _balaua_ even though he was not invited. As soon as the _balaua_ was over, all the people went back home, but Balbalaoga did not go back to Dona. The _alan_ flew away after he was married. (Told by Magwati of Lagangilang). 9 Ayo went to the spring. When she went she met Dagdagalisit, who was fishing in the river. When she reached him she became pregnant. Not long after she went home. When she arrived in her house the space between the little finger and the next itched. "Bolinayen, you stick the needle in my finger where it itches. I do not know what makes it itch so," she said. As soon as Bolinayen stuck the needle the little baby popped out. [188] "What shall we name the baby?" "Dagoláyan will be his name." The baby shook his head, so they gave him the name Kanag. Awig went to wash his hair in the spring. When he finished washing his hair he went home. When he reached his house he made Ayo louse him. While Ayo was lousing him the milk from her breasts dropped on Awig's legs. "Why, Ayo, does the milk from your breasts drop on my legs?" he asked. He sat up and asked them many times until they brought the baby. When they brought the baby, "We are going home to Natpangan now, because it does not do me any good to try and hide you." He took them home and soon he made a bamboo bench by the gate of the town where the people passed when they went to the well, and he placed the baby on it. Then they built _balaua_, for he wanted to see the father of the baby. Not long after he commanded some one to go and get betel-nuts and he oiled them. He sent them to go and invite all the people in the world. When they arrived none of them wanted the baby to recognize them. When the baby did not go to any of them, he sent someone to get a betel-nut to send to Dagdagalisit whom they had not invited. As soon as the betel-nut arrived at the place where Dagdagalisit lived "Dagdagalisit came to Natpangan for Awig makes _balaua_," it said. "I cannot go, for I am ashamed, because I have no good clothes," he said, for his clout was the dried bark of a banana tree. "If you do not come I will grow on your big pig," it said, and the betel-nut jumped on the back of the big pig, and it began to squeal. When his big pig began squealing loudly, because the tree grew on his back, Dagdagalisit said, "I come now." Not long after he went. When he came walking up the trail from the spring the baby saw him, and went to him, and Awig saw him carrying the baby. "I did not think it would happen this way to Aponibolinayen," he said. Then he sent Aponibolinayen away, and he made her carry the poor house box that they used to put the fish in which Dagdagalisit caught in the river. "You carry the female pig so that you have something to eat by the river," said Awig to Dagdagalisit. So they went; Aponibolinayen carried the poor box and Awig took her beads and clothes off from her, and he gave her old clothes to use, and so they went. When they were near the spring they threw away the things they carried, the female pig and poor box. While they were walking near the town of Dagdagalisit, which was Kabenbenlan, Ayo saw the golden house. "We must not walk by the side of the golden house, for I am ashamed before the man who owns it," said Ayo to Dagdagalisit. They were still walking and Ayo followed him. As soon as they arrived at the ladder Dagdagalisit went upstairs and Ayo did not because she thought that Dagdagalisit did not own that house, and Dagdagalisit made her go up, and she did. As soon as she arrived above Dagdagalisit went to get rice to give Ayo to cook. "Cook this, Ayo, while I go to catch fish for us to eat," he said, and he went. As soon as he caught two fish he went home, and he left the dry bark of the banana, which he used as a clout, by the river, and he became Ligi, [189] so he went home. As soon as he arrived he made Ayo wake up, when he finished cooking the fish, and the baby went to him to be carried. He called Ayo and she did not go. "I wait for my husband, we will both eat at one time, bye and bye," she said, and she took the baby which he carried, for she was ashamed. "No, I was Dagdagalisit, but used the bark of the banana tree for a clout, because I changed my form. Let us eat." So they ate. As soon as they finished eating, "We shall make _balaua_ so that we invite all our relatives in the different towns, and we also shall invite Awig and Aponigonay," he said. Not long after he went and took the betel-nuts which he cut. When he had cut them all he oiled them and sent them to the different towns. When the people from the different towns arrived by the spring in Kabenbenlan they were surprised because all the stones of the spring were of gold. Not long after they went up to the town. Next day Awig and Aponigonay started to go. "Ala, Aponigonay, take rice so that we may cook it in Kabenbenlan, because Aponibolinayen and Dagdagalisit have no rice to cook. What will Dagdagalisit use for his _balaua?_ He ties a banana bark clout on his body. I do not think he has rice, so we will take some for us to eat. You people who live in the same town we go to attend _balaua_. You take food with you for Aponibolinayen and Dagdagalisit make _balaua_." Not long after they went, and when they arrived in the place where the spring is in Kabenbenlan they saw the beautiful spring whose stones were all gold. The gravel which they used to wash the pottery with was all agates which have no holes through them. "I do not think that Dagdagalisit has a spring like this, for his clout is only the dry bark of the banana, but it is best for us to go and see in the town." They went, and when they had almost reached the town the golden house twinkled. "We must not walk by the golden house," said Awig. "We must not walk by that golden house, you say, but that is where the people are dancing," said Aponibolnay. As they walked they saw that the men and women who were making _alawig_ [190] were the companions of Aponibolinayen. Awig said, "That is the man who used to put the clout of banana leaves on him." As soon as Aponitolau [191] and Aponibolinayen finished dancing they went to take the hands of Awig and Aponibolay, and Aponitolau commanded the people who lived with them to bring golden seats. After that Aponitolau went to make Awig sit down. "You sit down, brother-in-law, and we will forget the things which have passed." Then he made him sit down and soon Awig and Asigtánan danced. While they were dancing Aponitolau went to cut off Awig's head. Not long after the women who never go outdoors [192] went to bring Awig to life. As soon as they made him alive again, Aponitolau gave the marriage price. It was nine times full, the _balaua_, and when Aponibolnay raised up her elbow half of it vanished, which was in the _balaua_. And Aponibolinayen used her power and the _balaua_ was full again. Not long after they chewed betel-nut and the quid of Langa-an and Pagatipánan and the quids of Dagdagalisit went together, and the quid of Pagbokásan and Ebang went to the quid of Aponibolinayen and Awig, and Langa-an and Pagatipánan changed the name of Dagdagalisit to Ligi. "Ala, now mother old _alan_ do not feel sorry, for we take Aponitolau to Kadalayapan," said Langa-an. "Ala, yes, you take them, take all my valuable things. If it were not for me, Aponitolau would not be alive, for you Langa-an had a miscarriage and lost him, when you went to wash your hair, so I picked him up, because I had no one to inherit my possessions. Take all my things, so that Aponitolau and his wife may own them." Not long after they went home and Awig took all the payment for Aponibolinayen and all the _alan_ flew away. So Awig and Aponitolau went to their towns. 10 Aponibalagen went to put Aponibolinayen in Kabwa-an, where no one could see her. As soon as they arrived at the ocean they rode on the crocodiles to Kabwa-an. When they arrived there Aponibalagen used magic so that a big golden house stood in the middle of a wide plain. In the yard were many betel-nut trees and a spring below the trees. The gravel where the stream flowed was beads called _pagatpat_ and _kodla_, and the leaves and grass used to rub the inside of the jars was a necklace of golden wire. When the golden house, and betel-nuts, and spring had appeared, Aponibalagen left an old woman with Aponibolinayen and Alama-an, and Sinogyaman and Indiápan, and he went back home, and he said to them, "Do not be afraid to stay, for no one can see you here, where I have put you, and if anyone tries to come here the crocodiles will eat them. You have everything you need." So he went home. Ingiwan who lived in Kabilabilan went to take a walk. As soon as he arrived at the ocean he wondered how he could get across. Not long after he put his headaxe on the water and he rode on it, for he used magic, and his headaxe floated and went to the other side of the ocean. As soon as he reached the other side he took a walk and he saw the big golden house in the middle of the wide plain. He was surprised, and he went to see it, and the crocodiles all slept while he crossed the ocean. When he reached the spring he said, "How pretty the well is. I think the girl who owns this well has magical power, and that she is pretty also." So he went to the house and said, "Good afternoon." Alama-an was cooking, and she said, "Good afternoon." She looked at him from the window, and she saw that he was a fine looking man. She did not tell Aponibolinayen, but she had him go up the ladder. The old woman who took care of them asked why she did not tell her and Aponibolinayen. Alama-an said she did not know what she was doing when she had him go up. So the old woman went to ask him what he came for. He said, "I just took a walk and I did not know how to get home, for there was a very high bank in the way, so I came across the ocean to learn the other way back home. While I was still on the ocean I saw this big golden house. I came here, for I was very tired, for it is more than one month since I left Kabilabilan." "Ala, you Alama-an go and cook some food for this young man," said the old woman, and Alama-an went truly, and when she finished cooking, the old woman called him to eat. The young man said he did not wish to eat unless one of the ladies who never went outdoors [193] ate with him. "Alama-an is the girl who never goes outdoors," said the old woman, but he did not believe her, and so he did not go. When he would not eat she called Sinogyaman to go and eat, but the young man said, "I do not wish to eat with anyone except the pretty girl who never goes outdoors." So the old woman called Indiápan. As soon as she went outdoors to the place where the young man was, "No, that is not the girl I want. There is one prettier still. I will not go to eat." The old woman became angry and said, "If you are not hungry and do not wish to eat that is all right. I have offered three young girls to eat with you, but if you do not wish to eat with them I do not care." When the old woman and the three girls had eaten they gave him a place to sleep, and they slept also. While the others were talking to the young man, Aponibolinayen was looking through a crack of the house, and she liked him very much. She wished to go outdoors and talk to him, but she was afraid because the old woman had said there were only the three young girls whom she called. As soon as they had finished talking, they went to bed. In the middle of the night Ingiwan said to himself, "I believe there are other young girls here prettier than the last one she showed me. I will use my power and will become a firefly, and I will fly to all parts of the house, and see if there is a prettier one there." So he used his power and he became a firefly and he flew. [194] When he was in the room where the old woman was, he left, and went where Alama-an was, and he went on to Sinogyaman. When he did not like her he went to Indiápan. "This is the last girl she showed me and I like her, but I believe that there is another prettier." So he went to the next room, but no one slept there, and so he went on to the ninth room. He heard the sound of the pan pipe in the ninth room, and he was very glad. He flew over the head of the woman who was playing, and she stopped playing and struck at him. "How did the firefly get in here? I do not think there are any cracks in here." The firefly said, "Do not strike at me, for I fear you will hit my headaxe and be cut." So he became a man and sat down beside her, and Aponibolinayen saw that it was the man who had talked with the old woman and the girls, and she loved him, but she said, "Go outdoors, do not come here. I am afraid that the old woman who cares for us will see us. If you want something wait until morning and we will talk with her." Ingiwan did not get up and he would not go outdoors, and he said, "The best thing for us to do is to chew betel-nut, so we will know each other. Do not be afraid for I would not have come here if it was not my fortune to marry you, for I was taking a walk and intended to go back home, but I met a high bank in the way, and there was no place to go except the ocean, so I came across the ocean. As soon as I reached the field I saw your house and I was surprised to see the golden house in the middle of the field. I spoke to the young girl who was cooking and she asked me to come up, and the old woman hated her. They asked me to eat, but I would not unless a pretty girl ate with me. So the old woman called two other pretty girls, but I did not want them, for they are not so pretty as you. I thought there were others prettier than the last one she showed me, so I became a firefly. It is my fortune to marry you." So he cut the betel-nut, but Aponibolinayen did not want to chew. When he talked to her so she could not sleep she took the betel-nut, and when they chewed they saw that they both had magical power and that it was good for them to marry. Ingiwan said, "You are the woman who lives here and you must tell your name first." "No, it is not good for a woman to tell her name first. You tell your name." Not long after, "My name is Ingiwan, the son of _alan_, of Kabilabilan, who did not find a way to go home, but who found you." "My name is Aponibolinayen, who is the sister of Aponibalagen of Natpangan, who put me here so no one might see me. It is bad that you have come." When the daylight came Alama-an went to cook and when she finished the old woman said to her, "Go and call the man and see if he wishes to eat with the girls. You call them, but do not call Aponibolinayen, for that is why we are here, so no one can see her. I do not know why the alligators did not see him." Aponibolinayen and Ingiwan heard what she said and they laughed. So Alama-an went to call him, but he was not in the room. She went to tell the old woman that he was not there, and they were surprised, for they thought he had gone home, for all the other rooms were locked. "If he is not there you go and call Aponibolinayen and we will eat." The three girls went to the room of Aponibolinayen, but Ingiwan disappeared and they only saw Aponibolinayen. So they all went to eat and Ingiwan was not hungry, for Aponibolinayen used magic, so that rice and meat went to where he was hiding. When they had lived together a long time Aponibolinayen said to him, "You better go home now, for it is time for my brother to visit us. If you wish to marry me you must arrange with him and my father." So Ingiwan went back home and the crocodiles only watched him, but did not try to eat him. He rode on his headaxe, and when he reached the other side of the ocean he saw that the high bank had disappeared and he found the way home. Not long after Aponibalagen went to wash his hair, and he went to the place where Aponibolinayen and the other girls were living. The three girls and the old woman agreed not to tell that a man had been there. As soon as Aponibalagen arrived in Kabwa-an he asked the old woman if anyone had been there, and she replied, "No." He called Alama-an and the other girls to the place where Aponibolinayen was, so all of them might louse him. While Aponibolinayen was lousing her brother the milk from her breasts dropped on his legs, and Aponibalagen was surprised, and he said, "What have you done, Aponibolinayen." She tried to rub it off from his leg. "No, do not rub it off; what is that?" "I do not know, brother. I guess I am sweating, for I am hot." "No, I do not believe you, I think someone has been here." He called the old woman and asked her. "You, grandmother, did you see a man who came here? Do not tell a lie." "Why?" asked the old woman. But she knew that Aponibolinayen had a little baby, for she had pricked her little finger and the baby had come out. [195] "When the girls were lousing me the milk from Aponibolinayen's breast dropped on my legs. I think you know the man who has been here." "I do not believe anyone came here, for we are on this side of the ocean, and the crocodiles protect us." Aponibalagen called all the crocodiles to the side of the house, and he whipped all the crocodiles, and he asked them why they did not eat the man who went to Kabwa-an. As soon as he whipped them one of them said, "We did not see any man come here, but we were all very sleepy one day a long time ago. We would have eaten the man if we had seen him." Aponibalagen whipped all of them again. "I put you here to prevent anyone from coming here, and you did not watch. Go away." The crocodiles were afraid and they said, "If that is what you say we will go." So they went. Aponibalagen went back to the house and whipped the girls. "We will go back now to Kaodanan. I thought it was good for you to be here, but you have done wrong." So he took them back to Kaodanan and they made _balaua_ in order to find out who was the father of the boy. The boy grew one span every time they bathed him, [196] for they used their power. In a few days they built their _balaua_ and the _liblibayan_ [197] got betel-nuts which were covered with gold, and they oiled them and sent them to invite the people in all parts of the world. So the betel-nuts went. As soon as the betel-nuts arrived in Kabilabilan, they said, "Good morning, Kagkagákag," [198] to the man who was lying in his _balaua_ covered with mud. "We came to invite you to the _balaua_ of Aponibalagen." "I do not wish to go, for I have no clothes and am ashamed. I do not know the man who is going to make _balaua_." "If you do not go I will grow on your knee," said one of the betel-nuts. "Do as you wish." So the betel-nut grew on his knee. When it grew big he became tired and he said, "Get off from me now and I will go." So they went. All the people from the other towns had arrived and Aponibalagen carried the baby, to see whom the baby would want to go to, but the baby did not want any of them. When the betel-nut and Kagkagákag appeared the baby was happy and wanted to go to him. So Aponibalagen gave the boy to him and all the people were surprised that Aponibolinayen had wanted him. Not long after they danced, and when they had finished Aponibalagen said to Aponibolinayen, "Take off all your things and go to Kagkagákag." Aponibolinayen did not wish to go, for he was not the same man she was with before, but her brother made her go, and he said, "Kagkagákag, take her to your town." So he took her to his town, and when they reached the gate Aponibolinayen was crying, but he said to her, "Do not feel bad, I am the man who came to Kabwa-an. That is why the boy wants me, for I am his father." Aponibolinayen did not believe him, but when they arrived at the spring of Kabilabilan she was surprised to see that the stones were of gold, and the fruits of the trees were of gold and were beads, and she said to Kagkagákag, "Why do we come here? It is shameful for us to be seen by the man who owns this." Kagkagákag laughed at her. "If you do not believe that I am your husband, you watch." And he went to take a bath, and the mud all washed off, and she saw that he was the man who was with her before in Kabwa-an. So they went up to the town, and the _alan_ who cared for Ingiwan was glad to see them. Not long after they made _balaua_, for they wished to call Aponibalagen so that he would not always feel badly about them. Not long after they sent the betel-nuts to summon their relatives. As soon as the betel-nut arrived in Kaodanan, "Good afternoon, Aponibolinayen and Kagkagákag want you to attend their _Sayang_." Aponibalagen laughed and said, "Yes," and he called all the people and told them to prepare to go to the _balaua_. When they arrived at the spring everyone was astonished, for all the fruit of the trees was of gold, and all the places they walked were covered with plates. And Aponibalagen said, "I do not think this is the spring of Kagkagákag. I think someone else owns it. We will go up to the house where he lives." When they reached the gate of the town they asked the young girl who was going to the spring where Aponibolinayen and Kagkagákag slept, and the woman said, "You follow these plates, for they go to the ladder of Kagkagákag's house." So they went and they always walked on the plates. When they arrived they saw many people dancing in the yard and Aponibalagen shook their hands. "Kagkagákag, if you had come as you are now to my _balaua_ I would not have been bad to my sister." Kagkagákag laughed at them and they all chewed betel-nut. While they were chewing Langa-an and Pagatipánan went to them and they said, "We came to chew betel-nut also to see if we are related to you." Kagkagákag gave them betel-nut, and when they chewed they found out that they were relatives and they called Kagkagákag, Aponitolau, and he paid the marriage price for Aponibolinayen. Aponigawani said to him, "I thought I had no brother. I do not know what my father and mother did with you." The _alan_ who cared for Aponitolau said, "He was by the road where Langa-an had dropped him on her way to Nagbotobotán, so I picked him up, for I have no children." As soon as Aponitolau paid the marriage price they danced again, and the _alan_ gave all her things to Aponitolau, for Langa-an and Pagatipánan took them home. Not long after Aponibalagen married Aponigawani, and he paid the same as Aponitolau had paid for Aponibolinayen. (Told by Madomar, a woman of Riang barrio Patok.) 11 "I go to visit my cousin Gawigawen of Adasin," said Aponitolau. He pushed his raft until he reached Pangasinan. At the spring he asked the women if his cousin Aponibolinayen was there. "She is not, because she went to celebrate _Sayang._ [199] Did you not get the invitation of Gawigawen of Adasin?" "No," said Aponitolau. Aponibolinayen went to have Lisnaya fix her upper arm beads and they sat in the shade of the _pamlo-ongen_ tree, and Aponibolinayen dropped her switch. "I wish to visit my relatives, but am ashamed because the invitation did not reach me," said Aponitolau. So he went to rest in the shade of the _pamlo-ongen_ tree, and he saw there the switch which was spread out, and there was none like it. The women who had been at the spring said, "Why did you not invite Aponitolau? Whenever we have trouble, it is he and his cousin that we call." "Ala, we go down to the river to see." They went to get Aponitolau and when they arrived at the spring he was there in the shade of the tree. "Ala, forgive us because the invitation did not reach you and come up to the _Sayang_" "Yes, but if the old enemy is there, when I go, the dance circle will be disturbed, if we fight." They still requested him, and he went up to the place where they danced during the two months. Dalinmanok of Dalinapoyan said, "Long ago, when my grandfather was young, the town of Kadalayapan became wooded." (He meant that his grandfather had destroyed the town in which Aponitolau's ancestors lived.) "My grandfather Dagoláyen long ago said, 'Dalinapóyan, Dagala, and also Dagopan became wooded.'" Then Dalinmanok became angry; he looked like a courting cock and seized Aponitolau by the hair. "It is as I predicted, Cousin Gawigawen; the circle is now broken." They parted the fighters, but the hawk hastened to the town of Kadalayapan to tell Aponigawani. "Cousin Dumalágan, Cousin Agyokan; the enemy--the old one--has killed my brother Aponitolau at the _Sayang_ of Gawigawen of Adasin, so says the hawk." After that they started and soon arrived in Adasin. They began at the south end of the town and killed so many it looked as though they were cutting down banana trees. "Look down, Aponitolau, and see if you know the men who are destroying the town." Aponitolau truly looked. "Why, Cousin Dumalágan and Cousin Agyokan, do you destroy the town?" "Because the hawk reported to Aponigawani that you had been killed by the old enemy in the town of Adasin, and she has thrown away her upper arm beads [200] by the gate of Kadalayapan." "Ala! you stop. Ala! You who live, join their heads and their bodies; you join all," he said. "I will spit once and they will appear as if they were not cut at all. I will whip my perfume which is _banowes_, they quickly breathe. I whip my perfume which is _alikadakad_ (clatter), and they quickly stand up. I whip my perfume which is _dagimonau (monau_--just awakened) and they quickly recover." [201] "Oh, how long we have slept," they said. "How long we have slept, you say, and you have been dead." "Oh, how powerful are the people of Kadalayapan! Even if we die, we may hope to live again at once," they said, and all went up to the house of Gawigawen. "Now Dalinmanok of Dalinapoyan, Dumpoga of Dagala, Ligi of Madagitan and Ligi of Dagopan, expect me in two months' time, for I shall come to fight you." After that they agreed and everybody went home. When they arrived at Kadalayapan there were no upper arm beads on Aponigawani, for she believed the hawk when it told her Aponitolau was dead. "No, I am not dead, but when two months have passed I shall go to fight Dalinmanok and his companions." "When you went to sail, did you not find the switch which belongs to Aponibolinayen? They are now making a ceremony to find it." "It is here, that which I picked up in the shade of the _pamlo-ongen_ tree, and I will take it back when I go to fight." Not long after that, according to the custom of the story, the second month came. "Old men who know the signs and very old women, come and see the liver and gall sack, because I go to fight." After that they all gathered, they caught the pig and cut it in large pieces. "Ala, old men who know the signs and very old women, come and see the gall, for I go to fight." [202] "This is better than your grandfather had when he consulted the gall. How fearful you will be to the town which you go to fight!" "Cousin Agyokan, go and tell all our cousins that we start when morning comes." When early morning came--as goes in a story--they arrived. Aponitolau played his Jew's harp at the spring of the town, and it sounded like the song of a bird and the people smelt the odor of _alangigan (Ilangilang)_ which is only possessed by the people of Kadalayapan. "Ala, it is Aponitolau," said Dalinmanok. "Go and tell our companions that we go to fight him at the river, for we do not wish them to come on shore in our town." When it was day, they met at the river and they fought until afternoon; and when Aponitolau was thirsty his headaxe turned slantwise and water blue as indigo flowed off it freely. "Dumpoga of Dagala, Ligi of Madagitan, Ligi of Dagopan, Masilnag of Kaskasilnagan, I come to teach you because you do not know how to kill. When one tries to kill your left side, receive the blow with your right, and when they try to kill the right side, receive it with the left. Ala! you that are left alive, it is better that I spare you and that you marry the wives of your companions. I will spare you if you will all agree to give me one hundred jars which are _ginlasan, summadag_, and _tadogan_." They agreed. They rolled the jars which they took down to the river and there were among them _doldoli_ and _ginaang_, [203] and the jars were glad, for they had formerly belonged to Dagoláyen, the grandfather of Aponitolau, but had been stolen. After that Aponitolau said, "Give me your betel-nut with magic power. You jars and all you heads of dead persons which are cut off, go first to Kadalayapan." After that they went and Aponitolau followed. After they arrived they danced with the heads and in a short time put them on the _sagang._ [204] "Now, Aponigawani, bring me the switch of Aponibolinayen, for I go to take it to her." He took the switch and used the power of the betel-nut, so that he went as quickly as a person can point to the place of many betel-nuts. In a short time, as the story goes, they arrived. "Good evening," said Aponitolau, but Aponibolinayen thought him to be an enemy. "Does the old enemy bring greetings?" asked Aponitolau. Then they went up into the house and he leaned against the corner pole. Aponibolinayen looked at Aponitolau and his good looks seemed to climb the corner pole. "It is better for us to tell our names," said Aponitolau, "for it is difficult to talk when we do not know each other's names." After that he took out, from his little sack, nuts whose husks were of gold. He cut a nut and when he gave the half to Aponibolinayen their golden finger rings exchanged themselves. "Give back my ring," she said. "Our relationship is the reason they change," said Aponitolau. Then they chewed and laid the quids on the headaxe and they became agate beads which looked like honey, and laid in parallel lines. "We are relatives," they said, and in a short time they told their names. When it became time to eat, Aponibolinayen said, "What do we eat?" He took the boiling stick and broke it into pieces, and it became a fish which they ate, [205] and Aponitolau took the bone out of the fish which Aponibolinayen ate. When they finished eating she spread the mat and the blanket which they kept in the box. "I do not like a blanket which is kept in a box, for it smells like _kimi_," [206] said Aponitolau. "Why do you not like it? It is what we keep for company and is easy to use," said Aponibolinayen. "The end of my clout is enough for my blanket," said Aponitolau. Then Aponibolinayen used the power of the betel-nut and vanished. "Why is there no one here?" said Aponitolau. "I use your power betel-nut, so that I may become the insect which belongs to Kaodanan (i.e., the firefly)." After that he flew and arrived in the ninth room and sailed back and forth near Aponibolinayen who was playing a pan-pipe. He touched her body and she struck him away. "You must not strike me away, for you hit my headaxe." After that Aponitolau sat down. "How did you pass in here?" she asked. "I passed through the crack in the wall," said Aponitolau; and after that they laid together. When it was early morning Aponibolinayen sent him away, for she feared her brother might come. As Aponitolau went quickly to his raft, he was seen by Balau of Baboyan, a great bird. "How fine is Aponitolau, Ala! I shall take him to marry Ginteban." [207] Then he was seized by Balau and was carried to Baboyan. "Now Aponitolau, you must marry Ginteban who lived in Baygan, for this place is surrounded with water blue as indigo and many crocodiles lie in that water." In a little while, as the story goes, Aponibolinayen gave birth to a child. "Ala! grandmother, prick my little finger, for it itches." She truly opened it and the baby popped out like popped rice. [208] After that they bathed it and called him Balokanag, for that is a name of the people of Kadalayapan. Soon the child was large and asked for a clout, then he asked the name of his father, but they told him falsely that it was Dumanagan. "Ala! get me a top so that I can play with the others," he said. Then his mother gave him the top which was his father's when he was a little boy. After that he went to play with it. When it was late afternoon, the old woman Alokotán went to feed the pigs, but Kanag threw his top and it broke her jar. "Pa-ya," said the old woman, "the son is brave; when you go to rescue your father who Balau captured, it will not be my pot toward which you act brave." Kanag cried, "You said, mother, that Dumanagan is my father, but there is another who is my father--Aponitolau whom Balau stole." Then Aponibolinayen cried, "How bad you are, old woman! We should have exchanged for your jar if you had not told him of his father." "You must make me sweets, for I go to get my father," he said. "If he was seized, you who are little will be also," said his mother, but he insisted. Then she used magic and secured for him the headaxe used by his father when he was a little boy, and she made him sweets. He started and went, and his mother planted a _lawed_ vine by their hearth. [209] "Your power betel-nut, so that I go as quickly as pointing to Baboyan," said Kanag. Soon he arrived there, and he saw the crocodiles lying in the water. "You power betel-nut that I may walk on the crocodiles. Make them all sleep so that they do not feel me." He reached the home of Balau, where he saw great snakes hanging in the trees. He climbed the trees, he cut them so that they fell down, he cast them down--those big snakes--then he cut off the head of Balau, and the earth trembled. After that he went to find his father who was in the place of many betel-nuts. "I am Balokanag whom Aponibolinayen desired, whom you left," he said. "Now I take you home to Kadalayapan." After that he truly took home Aponitolau, and Ginteban, who lived in Baygan. In a short time they arrived in Kadalayapan and Kanag's mother was there, because Aponigawani had taken her home. "Now we are married forever, Aponitolau," said Ginteban who lived in Baygan. "No, for Aponibolinayen is his wife," replied Aponigawani. "Ala! you chance it and the one who loses is not the one who is married. Put clay dishes in line, which you are to step on. The one who breaks them loses." Aponibolinayen stepped first and there was nothing broken. Ginteban followed and all those clay dishes which she stepped on were broken. Then she went home to Baygan and after that Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen were married. 12 "I am anxious to eat the fruit of the _bolnay_ tree [210] of Matawitáwen," said Aponibolinayen. "What is that?" said Ligi. "I am anxious to eat fish roe, I said." "Bring me a fish net and I will go and get some," said Ligi. So she went to get the fish net and gave it to him. Not long after he went to the river and he used magic so that all the fish in the river were caught, so truly all the fish were in the net. He caught one of them and cut it open and took out the roe. As soon as he secured the roe he let the fish all go out of the net and he went back home. Not long after he reached the yard of their house. "Aponibolinayen, come and get the fish roe which you desire," he said. She went to get it from him. She did not cook it, but put it on the bamboo hanger above the fire. Ligi went to the _balaua_ and when Aponibolinayen thought he was in the _balaua_ she threw away the roe and the dogs went to eat it, and they snarled and barked beneath the kitchen. "What are the dogs fighting about, Aponibolinayen? I think you threw away the fish roe," he said to her. "I dropped one of them." Aponibolinayen went again to the room and she said again that she wished to eat the fruit of Matawitáwen, and Ligi asked what she said. "I am anxious for the liver of a deer, I said." So Ligi went to the woods to hunt deer. As soon as he reached the woods he sent his dogs and he said to them, "You, my black dog, do not catch deer except in the low grass, and you, my striped dog, do not touch any deer unless they have large horns." Not long after his dogs caught some deer, and he took their livers and he let them go again. Not long after he arrived at his house and he called Aponibolinayen, "Come and get the liver, which you wish to eat." Aponibolinayen said to him, "Put it in the rattan hanger." Ligi went back to the _balaua_, and Aponibolinayen used magic so that Ligi slept. While he was asleep she went to the kitchen to throw away the livers of the deer, and the dogs went to eat and made such a great disturbance that Ligi awoke and asked Aponibolinayen what was the matter. "One small piece of liver which I did not eat." She went again to the room and laid down, and Ligi used magic and became an ant, and he went to the crack of the floor, for he wanted to know what Aponibolinayen was saying, for he suspected that she was not telling him the truth. As soon as he arrived in the crack Aponibolinayen repeated her wish to eat the _bolnay_ fruit of Matawitáwen, and Ligi became a man again and appeared to her. "Why did you not tell the truth, Aponibolinayen?" he said and she answered, "I did not, because Matawitáwen is very far and I am afraid that you will be lost." "No, give me a sack," he said to her. So he went and he used magic so that he arrived at the tree at once. Not long after he arrived truly at the place and he secured the fruit and put it in the sack. As soon as the sack was filled he took some of the fruit to hold in his other hand and he went. Not long after he reached the spring in Kadalayapan and his sweethearts were at the spring. "Ligi, how many and how pretty the _bolnay_ fruit are. Your sack is filled and you have some in your hands. Will you give us some of it to eat?" So Ligi gave them all the fruit in the sack and all he held in his hand. "Do not give everything to Aponibolinayen, but give to us also." So he gave them all he had. "The baby inside of Aponibolinayen, which desires the _bolnay_, is not your child, but is the child of Maobágan," said his sweethearts, and when they had eaten all of the fruit Ligi went home with nothing but the sack. He gave the sack to Aponibolinayen. As soon as she received it she looked to see what was inside and she found one little piece of the fruit which the women had overlooked, and she ate it. As soon as she ate it: "I am anxious to eat more if there are more. My headache is gone." "What is that?" said Ligi, angrily. "You get ready for I will put you in the place where the tree is if you want more." Aponibolinayen said to him, "Because I said that I wanted more you want to put me by the tree." Ligi was angry and he seized her by the arm and dragged her to the tree. As soon as they arrived at the _bolnay_ tree, he dug a hole about neck deep and he put her in it. As soon as he put her in the hole he went back home. Soon Aponibolinayen was ready to give birth. "What can I do?" she said to the spirit Ayo. Ayo said, "The best thing for us to do is to prick your little finger." Not long after the little baby popped out of her finger. [211] "What shall we call him?" they said. "We will call him Kanag, for it is the name of the people who live in Kadalayapan." Every time they gave him a bath the baby always grew, for they used magic. [212] Not long after the baby became a boy, and he wanted them to get out of the hole. "No, we do not get out, for I am afraid your father is watching us." The little boy got out even though his mother was afraid. As soon as the boy got out of the hole he listened to hear where many children were playing. So he walked to where the sounds came from. As soon as he arrived at the place where the boys were swimming Dagoláyan saw him. "Who is that boy?" he said to his companions, and the little boy went near to them. "Why, this boy looks like my uncle in Kadalayapan," said Dagoláyan to his companions, and he asked him who his father was, and the boy said he was the son of an _alan_ of Matawitáwen. Not long after they agreed that they would go to fight. So Kanag agreed with them and they decided on a day and Dagoláyan told him that he would go to his home. "If that is what you say, it is all right," said Kanag, and they all went home. As soon as he arrived at the hole by the _bolnay_ tree: "Why, we are cousins," said the other boy to me. And Aponibolinayen said, "Perhaps it is the boy from Kaodanan." "We agreed to go to fight, day after tomorrow. Make cakes for me to take with me." "No, do not go, for I fear that your father will meet you." "No, I am going. I will plant the _lawed_ vine by the stove, and if it wilts I am dead," [213] he said. Not long after Aponibolinayen went to make cakes for his provisions, and Dagoláyan started early in the morning to go to see Kanag, and it seemed as if a thousand men struck their shields. Kanag heard the sound of the shield. "Who are the boys with Dagoláyan who go with us to fight?" As soon as Kanag met Dagoláyan they went, and they both struck their shields, and Ligi heard them and he was surprised for it sounded like two thousand people. So Ligi thought that Dagoláyan had many companions. As soon as they arrived where Ligi was waiting for them, "Where did you get the other boy who is with you?" he said to Dagoláyan. He answered that he met him where they were swimming, and that they agreed to go to fight together. Ligi wanted to kill him, and he said, "I want to kill." "No, do not kill him," said Dagoláyan. Not long after they went. As soon as they arrived where there were no houses, Kanag used his power so that it rained very hard and they had nothing to cook. Not long after it rained and Ligi and Dagoláyan did not cook anything, for everything was damp. The spirit helpers of Aponibolinayen always fed Kanag, and Ligi and Dagoláyan ate with him. "What is the matter of this boy who is the son of _alan_? He has something to eat. I do not believe that his mother _alan_ knows how to prepare good food," said Ligi, angrily. After they had finished eating they went, and after a while they wished to fight. "The best for us to do is to stand in different places and ambush the people," said Ligi. "The best for you, son of _alan_, is to stay at the place where the carabao pass by." And Ligi went to hide where the people passed by on the way to the spring, and Dagoláyan staid on the other side. A young pretty girl passed by the place where Kanag was hiding, so he cut off her head and he shouted, for he was very happy. "Why did the son of _alan_ kill someone before us?" said Ligi. Not long after an old woman and an old man passed by where Ligi and Dagoláyan were hiding, and they killed them. Not long after they saw the head which Kanag had taken, and Kanag saw the heads which Ligi and Dagoláyan had taken were those of an old man and old woman. Dagoláyan said to him, "What did you say when you killed that pretty girl? I think I heard you say, 'Your father does not like you.' I did not hear very well so I ask for sure." "'The son of _alan_ of Matawitáwen kills the pretty girl is what I said.'" "No, that is not what you said. You said you were the son of a man who lives in Kadalayapan." Not long after, when Dagoláyan could not make Kanag repeat what he had said, they all went back to Kadalayapan where Ligi lived. When they arrived in Kadalayapan they played the _gansa_ and danced, and Aponibolinayen heard the sound of the _gansa_, and she was anxious to go, but her spirit companion would not let her go. They saw that the _lawed_ vine was green. Not long after they made Kanag dance, and when his body trembled, while he danced, the whole town of Kadalayapan trembled also; and when he moved his feet the fish were around his feet and they went to lap his feet, because the water came up into the town. When he stamped his feet the coconuts fell from the trees, and Ligi was very angry, and he went to sharpen his headaxe. As soon as he had sharpened his headaxe he went to where Kanag was dancing and he cut off his head. When Aponibolinayen looked at the _lawed_ vine each leaf was wilted. "Grandmother, the _lawed_ vine which Kanag planted is wilted," said Aponibolinayen. "I am going to get him." So she went and as she approached the place where Ligi used to live he saw her. "How angry you were, Ligi; you killed your son," said Aponibolinayen, and Ligi bent his head, for he did not know it was his son. "I will use magic so that when I whip my perfume _alikadakad_ he will stand up." [214] So the little boy stood up at once. Not long after she used her power again, and whipped her perfume _dagimonau_ so that her son awoke. He woke up and said, "How long my sleep is!" "No, do not say that; your father killed you." She wanted to take him back to Matawitáwen, but Ligi prevented them and he begged them to forgive him, and Aponibolinayen said, "No, we will go back, for you did not want us and you put us there." So they went to Matawitáwen and Ligi followed them. As soon as they arrived at the spring of Matawitáwen Aponibolinayen used her power. "I use my power so that Ligi cannot see us, and the trail will become filled with thorns." [215] Not long after Ligi could not walk in the trail and he could not see them, and he was very sorry. He laid down, because he could not follow them and his hair grew like vines along the ground; and he did not eat, for he was always sorry about the things he had done to his wife and son. Not long after they forgave him and went to get him, and they all went back to Kadalayapan. Ligi commanded his spirit attendants to take his sweethearts and kill them, for they told falsehoods about Aponibolinayen, so that he did not want her any more. This is all. (Told by Magwati of Lagangilang.) 13 There was a husband and wife who were Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen. Aponitolau laid down in their _balaua_ and Aponibolinayen was in the house and she had a headache. "I am anxious to eat the fruit of the orange tree which belongs to Gawigawen of Adasen," said Aponibolinayen. Aponitolau heard her. "What is that?" he said to her. "I am anxious to eat the _biw_ [216] of Matawitáwen." "Give me a sack and I will go to get it," said Aponitolau, and he went. As soon as Aponitolau filled the sack with _biw_ he went back home. As soon as he arrived in their house, "Here is the fruit you wished, Aponibolinayen. Come and get." "Put it on the bamboo hanger above the fire, and I will go and get some to eat when my head does not feel so badly, for I cannot get up yet." So Aponitolau went to put the fruit on the hanger above the fire and he laid down again in the _balaua_. As soon as Aponitolau laid down in the _balaua_, Aponibolinayen went to the kitchen and peeled one of the _biw_ fruit and she ate it truly. As soon as she ate she vomited and so she threw them away. "What is the matter, Aponibolinayen; I think you threw away the fruit." "One of them I dropped." She went into the room and she said again, "I am anxious to eat the oranges of Gawigawen of Adasen." "What is that?" said Aponitolau. "I am anxious to eat fish roe," said Aponibolinayen. So Aponitolau went to get his fish net and he fished in the river. As soon as he arrived at the river he threw his net and secured a fish with fish roe. He cut open the fish and took out the roe. When he had taken out the roe he spat on the place where he had cut the fish and it became alive again and swam in the river. After that he went back home. As soon as he arrived at their house he gave the fish to Aponibolinayen, and he laid down in the _balaua_ again, and Aponibolinayen went to the kitchen and she toasted the roe. When she finished she tasted it, and she vomited, so she threw it away also. "What is the matter, Aponibolinayen? Why are the dogs barking?" "I dropped some of the roe." She went again to the room of the house. "I am anxious to eat the oranges which belong to Gawigawen of Adasen." "What is that, Aponibolinayen," said Aponitolau. "I am anxious to eat a deer's liver, I said." So Aponitolau called his dogs and he went to hunt deer. As soon as he arrived on the mountain, "Ala, my black dog, do not catch a deer unless it is in the low grass. Ala, my dog Boko, do not catch deer unless it is in a level field." Not long after his dogs caught deer, and he took out their livers. As soon as he took out the liver he spat on the places he had cut, and the deer ran away again. Not long after he went back home. As soon as he arrived, "Here is the liver which you wanted. Come and take it." "Put it in the kitchen. I will go and fix it when my head does not hurt." Aponitolau put it in the kitchen and he went to the _balaua_ again. When Aponitolau was in the _balaua_, Aponibolinayen went to the kitchen and cooked the liver and she tried to eat, but she vomited again, so she threw it away, and the dogs all barked. "What is the matter? Why do the dogs bark? I think you threw away the livers." Aponibolinayen said, "I threw away what I did not eat, for I did not eat all of it." "Do not throw them away, for bye and bye I will eat, for it is hard to go and get them." Not long after she went again to the room, and Aponitolau thought that Aponibolinayen did not tell the truth, so he used his power. "I use my power so that I will become a centipede." So he became a centipede and he went in the crack of the floor where Aponibolinayen was lying. Not long after Aponibolinayen said again, "I am anxious to eat the oranges which belong to Gawigawen of Adasen." "I know now what you want; why did you not tell the truth at first? That is why you threw away all the things I went to get for you," said Aponitolau, and he became a man and appeared to her. "I did not tell the truth for I feared you would not return, for no one who has gone there has returned, so I am patient about my headache." "Ala, go and get rice straw, and I will wash my hair." Not long after he went to wash his hair. When he finished washing his hair he went to get one _lawed_ vine, and he went back home. He planted the vine by the hearth. "Make some cakes for my provision on the journey." "No, do not go, Aponitolau," said Aponibolinayen. "Make some, for if you do not I will go without provisions." Not long after Aponibolinayen went to cook cakes. As soon as she finished, "Ala, you come and oil my hair." As soon as she oiled his hair, "Go and get my dark clout and my belt and my headband." So Aponibolinayen went to get them. As soon as he dressed he took his spear and headaxe and he told Aponibolinayen that if the _lawed_ leaves wilted he was dead. [217] So he went. As soon as he arrived at the well of Gimbangonan all the betel-nut trees bowed, and Gimbangonan shouted and all the world trembled. "How strange that all the world trembles when that lady shouts." So Aponitolau took a walk. Not long after the old woman Alokotán saw him and she sent her little dog to bite his leg, and it took out part of his leg. "Do not proceed, for you have a bad sign. If you go, you cannot return to your town," said the old woman Alokotán. "No, I can go back." So he went. As soon as he arrived at the home of the lightning, "Where are you going?" said the lightning. "I am going to get the oranges from Gawigawen of Adasen. Go and stand on the high stone and I will see what your sign is." So he went and stood on the high stone and the lightning made a light and Aponitolau dodged. "Do not go, for you have a bad sign, and Gawigawen will secure you." "No, I am going." So he went. As soon as he arrived at the place of _Silit_ [218] it said to him, "Where are you going, Aponitolau?" "I am going to get the oranges of Gawigawen of Adasen." "Stand on top of that high stone so I can see if you have a good sign." So he went and _Silit_ made a great noise. As soon as he made the great noise he jumped. "Go back, Aponitolau, and start another time, for you have a bad sign." [219] "No, I go." He arrived at the ocean and he used magic. "I use my power so that you, my headaxe, sail as fast as you can when I stand on you." As soon as he stood on it it sailed very fast. Not long after he was across the ocean and he was at the other edge of the ocean and he walked again. Not long after he arrived at the spring where the women went to get water. "Good morning, you women who are dipping water from the spring." "Good morning. If you are an enemy cut us in only one place so we will not need to cure so much." "If I was an enemy I would have killed all of you when I arrived here." After that he asked them, "Is this the spring of Gawigawen of Adasen?" "Yes, it is," said the women. So he sent the women to the town to tell Gawigawen, and the women did not tell him for he was asleep. So he went up to the town, but did not go inside, because the bank reached almost up to the sky, and he could not get in. He was sorrowful and bent his head. Soon the chief of the spiders went to him: "What are you feeling sorry about, Aponitolau?" "I feel sorry because I cannot climb up the bank and go into the town." "Do not feel sorry. You wait for me while I go up and put some thread which you can hold," said the chief of the spiders. [220] So Aponitolau waited for him. Not long after the spider said, "Now you can climb;" so Aponitolau climbed on the thread. After he got inside of the town of Gawigawen he went directly to the house of Gawigawen. When he arrived there Gawigawen was still asleep in his _balaua_. As soon as he woke up and saw Aponitolau sitting by his _balaua_ he stood and ran to his house and got his headaxe and spear. Aponitolau said to him, "Good morning, Cousin Gawigawen. Do not be angry with me. I came here to buy your oranges for my wife. Aponibolinayen wishes to eat one, for she always has a headache, because she has nothing she can eat." Gawigawen took him to his house, and he fed him one carabao. "If you cannot eat all of the carabao which I give you, you cannot have the oranges which your wife wishes to eat." Aponitolau was sorrowful, for he thought he could not eat all of the carabao and he bent his head. Not long after the chiefs of the ants and flies went to him. "What makes you feel so badly, Aponitolau?" they said to him. "I am sorrowful, for I cannot get the oranges which Aponibolinayen wishes to eat until I eat this carabao which Gawigawen feeds to me." "Do not be sorrowful," said the chiefs of the ants and flies. So they called all the ants and flies to go and eat all the meat and rice. Not long after the flies and ants finished eating the meat and rice, and Aponitolau was very glad and he went to Gawigawen and said to him, "I have finished eating the food which you gave me." Gawigawen was surprised. "What did you do?" "I ate all of it." Gawigawen took him where the oranges were and Aponitolau saw that the branches of the tree were sharp knives. Gawigawen said to him, "Go and climb the tree and get all you want." He went to climb. When he got two of the oranges he stepped on one of the knives and he was cut. So he fastened the fruit to his spear and it flew back to Kadalayapan. Not long after the fruit dropped on the floor in the kitchen and Aponibolinayen heard it, and she went into the kitchen. As soon as she got there she saw the fruit and she ate it at once, and the spear said to her, "Aponitolau is in Adasen. He sent me first to bring you the oranges which you wished." As soon as she ate the oranges she went to look at the _lawed_ vine by the stove and it was wilted, and she knew that Aponitolau was dead. Not long after Aponibolinayen gave birth and every time they bathed the baby it grew one span and soon it was large. [221] He often went to play with the other children and his mother gave him a golden top which had belonged to his father when he was a little boy. When he struck the tops of the other children they were broken at once. Not long after he struck the garbage pot of the old woman, and she was angry and said, "If you are a brave boy, you go and get your father whom Gawigawen of Adasen has inherited." And Kanag went back to their house crying. "I did not have a father, you said, mother, but the old woman said he was inherited by Gawigawen, when he went to get the orange fruit. Now prepare provisions for me to take, for I am going to get my father." Aponibolinayen said to him, "Do not go or Gawigawen will get you as he did your father." But Kanag said, "If you do not let me go and do not give me food, I will go without anything." Not long after Aponibolinayen cooked food for him and Kanag was ready to go, and he took his headaxe which was one span long and his spear. Not long after he went. As soon as he got to the gate of the town he struck his shield and it sounded like one thousand people, and everyone was surprised. "How brave that boy is! We think he is braver than his father. He can strike his shield and it sounds like one thousand." When he arrived at the spring of Gimbangonan he was still striking his shield, and when Gimbangonan heard she said, "Someone is going to fight." He shouted, for he was very happy and the world trembled and Kanag looked like a flitting bird, for he was always moving. As soon as he arrived at the place where Alokotán lived she sent her dog against him, and the dog ran at him, and Kanag cut off its head. "How brave you are, little boy! Where are you going?" "Where are you going, you say, I am going to Adasen to follow my father." "Your father is dead. I hope you secure him, for you have a good sign," said Alokotán. So Kanag went on in a hurry. Not long after he arrived at the place where the thunder was and it said, "Where are you going, little boy?" "I am going to follow my father in Adasen." "Go and stand on the high stone and see what your sign is." So he went. As soon as he stood on the high stone the thunder rolled, but Kanag did not move and the thunder was surprised. "Go at once; I think you can get your father whom Gawigawen inherits." So Kanag went. Not long after he arrived at the place of the lightning, and he made him stand on the high stone. As soon as he stood on it the lightning made a big noise and flash, but he did not move. So the boy went at once, for he had a good sign. Kanag struck his shield until it sounded like a thousand people, and all the women who were dipping water at the spring of Gawigawen were surprised, for they saw only a little boy, who struck his shield, approaching them, and it sounded like a thousand. As soon as he arrived at the spring, "Good morning, women who are dipping water. Go and tell Gawigawen of Adasen that he must prepare for I am going to fight with him." So all the women ran to the town and told Gawigawen that a strange boy was at the spring. Gawigawen said to the women, "Go and tell him that if it is true that he is brave he will come into the town if he can." So one of the women went to tell him and he went. When he arrived at the bank which reached to the sky Kanag used his power and he jumped like the flitting bird, and he entered the town and went directly to the _balaua_ and house of Gawigawen of Adasen. Not long after he had arrived he saw that the roof of his house and _balaua_ was of hair and around his town were heads, and Kanag said, "This is why my father did not return. It is true that Gawigawen is a brave man, but I think I can kill him." As soon as Gawigawen saw Kanag in the yard of his house he said, "How brave you are, little boy! Why did you come here?" "I came to get my father, for you secured him when he came to get the oranges which my mother wanted. If you do not wish to give my father to me I will kill you." And Gawigawen laughed at him and said, "One of my fingers will fight you. You will not go back to your town. You will be like your father." Kanag said, "We shall see. Go and get your arms and we will fight here in the yard of your house." Gawigawen became angry and he went to get his headaxe, which was as big as half of the sky, and his spear. As soon as he returned to the place where Kanag was waiting he said, "Can you see my headaxe, little boy? If I put this on you you cannot get it off. So you throw first so you can show how brave you are." Kanag said to him, "No, you must be first, so you will know that I am a brave boy." Gawigawen tried to put his headaxe on him and the boy used his power and he became a small ant and Gawigawen laughed at him and said, "Now, the little boy is gone." Not long after the little boy stood on his headaxe and he was surprised. "Little boy, you are the first who has done this. Your father did not do this. It is true that you are brave; if you can dodge my spear I am sure you will get your father." So he threw his spear at him and Kanag used his power and he disappeared and Gawigawen was surprised. "You are the next." Then Kanag used magic so that when he threw his spear against him it would go directly to the body of Gawigawen. As soon as he threw Gawigawen laid down. Kanag ran to him and cut off his five heads and there was one left, and Gawigawen said to him, "Do not cut off my last head and I will go and show you where your father is." So Kanag did not cut off the last head, and they went to see his father. The skin of his father had been used to cover a drum, and his hair was used to decorate the house, and his head was placed by the gate of the town, and the body was put below the house. As soon as Kanag had gathered together the body of his father he used his power and he said, "I whip my perfume _banawes_ and directly he will say _Wes_." [222] His father said, "_Wes_." Not long after he said, "I whip my perfume _alakadakad_ and directly he will stand up." So his father stood beside him. After that he whipped his perfume _dagimonau_ and his father woke up and he was surprised to see the little boy by him and he said, "Who are you? How long I slept." "I am your son. 'How long I slept,' you said. You were dead and Gawigawen inherited you. Take my headaxe and cut off the remaining head of Gawigawen." So he took the headaxe of Kanag and went to the place where Gawigawen stood. When he struck the headaxe against Gawigawen it did not hurt him and Aponitolau slipped, and his son laughed at him. "What is the matter with you, father? Gawigawen looks as if he were dead, for he has only one head left." He took the headaxe from his father and he went to Gawigawen and he cut off the remaining head. Not long after they used magic so that the headaxes and spears went to kill all the people in the town. So the spears and headaxes went among the people and killed all of them, and Aponitolau swam in the blood and his son stood on the blood. "What is the matter with you, father, that you swim in the blood? Can't you use your power so you don't have to swim?" Then he took hold of him and lifted him up. As soon as all the people were killed they used their power so that all the heads and valuable things went to Kadalayapan. Aponibolinayen went to look at the _lawed_ vine behind the stove and it looked like a jungle it was so green, so she believed that her son was alive. Not long after all the heads arrived in Kadalayapan and Aponibolinayen was surprised. Not long after she saw her husband and her son and she shouted and the world smiled. Not long after they went up into their house and summoned all the people and told them to invite all the people in other towns for Kanag had returned from fighting, and had his father. So the people went to invite their relatives. Not long after the people from other towns arrived and they danced. They were all glad that Aponitolau was alive again, and they went to see the heads of Gawigawen who killed Aponitolau. As soon as the people returned to their towns, when the party was over, Aponitolau went to take a walk. When he reached the brook he sat down on a stone and the big frog went to lap up his spittle. Not long after the big frog had a little baby. [223] Not long after she gave birth, and the _anitos_ [224] went to get the little baby and flew away with it. They used their power so that the baby grew fast and it was a girl, and they taught her how to make _dawak_. [225] Not long after the girl knew how to make _dawak_, and every time she rang the dish to summon the spirits. Kanag went to follow his father, but he did not find him where he had been sitting by the brook, and Kanag heard the sound of the ringing which sounded like the _bananâyo_. [226] As soon as he heard it he stood still and listened. Not long after he used his power so that he became a bird and he flew. As soon as he arrived at the place where the girl was making _dawak_ she said to him, "You are the only person who has come here. If you are an enemy cut me in only one place so I will not have so much to heal." "I am not an enemy; I came here for I heard what you were doing; so I became a bird and flew." Kanag gave betel-nut to her and they chewed. Their quids looked like the beads _pinogalan,_ so they knew that they were brother and sister. The girl said to him, "Go inside of the big iron caldron so that the _anitos_ who care for me will not eat you." So Kanag went inside of the big iron caldron. When the _anitos_ did not arrive at the accustomed time Kanag went out of the caldron and said to his sister, "Now, my sister, I will take you to Kadalayapan. Our father and mother do not know that I have a sister. Do not stay always with the _anitos_" His sister replied, "I cannot go to Sudipan [227] when no one is making _balaua_, for I always make _dawak_ as the _anitos_ taught me. If I come in Sudipan when no one is making _balaua_ it would make all of the people very ill." So Kanag went home. As soon as he arrived he told his father and mother to make _balaua_ for he wanted his sister to see them. "We just made _balaua_. How can we make _balaua_ again?" said his father and mother. "I want you to see my sister whom I found up in the air, where the _anitos_ took her." "You are crazy, Kanag; you have no sisters or brothers; you are the only child we have." Kanag said to them, "It is sure that I have a sister. I don't know why you did not know about her. The _anitos_ took her when she was a little baby and they taught her how to make _dawak_, and she always makes _dawak_. I wanted to bring her when I came back, but she said she could not come to Sudipan when no one makes _balaua_, for she is always making _dawak_. She said if she came to Sudipan and did not make _dawak_ everyone would be ill, so I did not bring her. If you wish to see your daughter, father, make _balaua_ at once." So they made _balaua_, for they wished to see their daughter. They sent messengers to go and get betel-nuts which were covered with gold, and when they had secured the betel-nuts they oiled them and sent them to the different towns where their relatives lived, and they sent one into the air to go and get their daughter Agten-ngaeyan. So all the betel-nuts went and invited the people to the _balaua_. As soon as the betel-nut went up into the air it arrived where Agten-ngaeyan was making _dawak_. When she saw the betel-nut beside her she was startled, for it was covered with gold. She tried to cut it up, for she wished to chew it, and the betel-nut said, "Do not cut me, for your brother and father in Kadalayapan sent me to summon you to their _balaua_, for they are anxious to see you." So Agten-ngaeyan told the _anitos_ that a betel-nut which was covered with gold had come to take her to Aponitolau who was making _Sayang_, and they wished to see her. The _anitos_ let her go, but they advised her to return. So she went. When they arrived in Kadalayapan the people from the other towns were dancing and she went below the _talagan_, [228] and Kanag went to see what it was that looked like a flame beneath the _talagan_. When he reached her he saw it was his sister and he tried to take her away from the _talagan_, and she said to him, "I cannot get off from here, for the _anitos_ who care for me told me to stay here until someone comes to make _dawak_ with me." So they sent the old woman Alokotán to make _dawak_ with her. All the people were surprised, for she made a pleasanter sound when she rang and they thought she was a _bananáyo_ [229]. The young men who went to attend the _balaua_ loved her, for she was pretty and knew very well how to sing the _dawak_. As soon as they finished the _dawak_ she was free to leave the _talagan_, so her brother Kanag took her and put her in his belt [230] and he put her in the high house [231] so the young men could not reach her. As soon as the _balaua_ was over the people went home, but the young men still remained below the house watching her, and the ground below became muddy, for they always remained there. When Kanag saw the young men below the house fighting about her, he took her again into the air so that the young men could not see her. As soon as they arrived in the air they met the _anitos_, and Kanag said to them, "I intended to keep my sister in Sudipan, for I had made a little golden house for her to live in, but I have brought her back, for all the young men are fighting about her." The _anitos_ were glad that she was back with them and they gave Kanag more power, so that when he should go to war he would always destroy his opponents. Agten-ngaeyan used to go and teach the women how to make _dawak_ when anyone made _balaua_, so that she taught them very well how to make _dawak_. This is all. (Told by a medium named Magwati of Lagangilang.) 14 "Ala, Aponibolinayen prepare our things, for we are going to plant sugar cane," said Aponitolau. Not long after they went to see the cuttings and they were big. They took them and planted them when they arrived at the place where they wished to plant them. Aponitolau planted them and Aponibolinayen watered them. Not long after Aponibolinayen used magic and she said, "I use my power so that all the cuttings will be planted." Soon they truly were all planted, so they went back home. After seven days Aponitolau went to look at them and their leaves were long and pointed so he used magic and said, "I used my power so that after five days all the sugar cane which we planted will be ready to chew." Then he went back home. In five days he went again to see them and as soon as he arrived at the planting he saw they were all tall and about ready to chew. Not long after Gaygayóma looked down on the sugar cane and she was anxious to chew it. "Ala, my father Bagbagak, [232] send the stars to go and get some of the sugar cane which I saw, for I am anxious to chew it," she said, for she was pregnant and desired to chew the sugar cane. Not long after, "Ala, you Salibobo [233] and Bitbitówen [234] let us go and get the sugar cane, for Gaygayóma is anxious to chew it," said Bagbagak. Not long after they went. As soon as they arrived where the sugar cane was, they went inside of the bamboo fence and some of them secured the beans which Aponibolinayen had planted. The stems of the bean pods were gold, and they got five of them. Most of them got one stalk of sugar cane. As soon as they secured them they went back up. When they arrived Gaygayóma chewed one of the sugar cane stalks and she felt happy and well, and she saw the beans with the golden stems and she cooked and ate them. When she had chewed all the sugar cane which the stars had secured, she said, "Ala, my father Bagbagak, come and follow me to the place where the sugar cane grows, for I am anxious to see it." Not long after, "Ala, Salibobo and Bitbitówen we are going to follow Gaygayóma, for she wishes to go and see the place of the sugar cane. Some of you stay outside of the fence to watch and see if anyone comes, and some of you get sugar cane," said Bagbagak to them, and the moon shone on them. Soon they all arrived at the place of the sugar cane and they made a noise while they were getting the sugar cane, which they used to chew. Gaygayóma went to the middle of the field and chewed sugar cane. As soon as they had chewed all they wished they flew up again. The next day Aponitolau said to Aponibolinayen, "I am going to see our sugar cane, to see if any carabao have gone there to spoil it, for it is the best to chew." So he went. As soon as he arrived he saw that the sugar cane was spoiled, and he looked. He saw that there were many places near the fence where someone had chewed, for each one of the stars had gone by the fence to chew the cane which they wished. When he reached the middle of the field he saw the cane there which had been chewed, and there was some gold on the refuse and he was surprised and he said, "How strange this is! I think some beautiful girl must have chewed this cane. I will try to watch and see who it is. Perhaps they will return tonight." Then he went back home. As soon as he reached home he said, "Ala, Aponibolinayen cook our food early, for I want to go and watch our sugar cane; someone has gone and spoiled it. They have also spoiled our beans which we planted." So Aponibolinayen cooked even though it was not time. As soon as she finished cooking she called Aponitolau and they ate. When they had eaten he went and he hid a little distance from the sugar cane. In the middle of the night there were many stars falling down into the sugar cane field and Aponitolau heard the cane being broken. Soon he saw the biggest of them which looked like a big flame of fire fall into the field. Not long after he saw one of the other stars at the edge of the fence take off her dress, which was like a star, and he saw that she looked like the half of the rainbow, and the stars which followed her got the sugar cane which they wished. They chewed it by the fence and they watched to see if anyone was coming. Aponitolau said, "What shall I do, because of those companions of the beautiful woman? If I do not frighten them they will eat me. The best thing for me to do is to frighten them. I will go and sit on the star's dress." [235] He frightened them. The stars flew up and Aponitolau went and sat on the star dress. Not long after the pretty girl came from the middle of the field to get her star dress; she saw Aponitolau sitting on it. "You, Ipogau, [236] you must pardon us, for we came to steal your sugar cane, for we were anxious to chew it." "If you came to get some of my sugar cane it is all right. The best thing for you to do is to sit down, for I wish to know your name, for we Ipogau have the custom to tell our names. It is bad for us if we do not know each others' names when we talk." Not long after he gave her betel-nut and the woman chewed it. As soon as they chewed, "Now that we have chewed according to our custom we will tell our names." "Yes, if that is what you say, but you must tell your name first," said the woman. "My name is Aponitolau who am the husband of Aponibolinayen of Kadalayapan." "My name is Gaygayóma who am the daughter of Bagbagak and Sinag, [237] up in the air," said the woman. "Ala, now you, Aponitolau, even though you have a wife I am going to take you up, for I wish to marry you. If you do not wish to come I will call my companion stars, and give you to them to eat." Aponitolau was frightened, for he knew that the woman who was talking was a spirit. "If that is what you say, and you do not wish me to go and see Aponibolinayen and you wish to be married to me, it is all right," said Aponitolau to her. Not long after the stars dropped the _galong-galong_ [238] of gold which Gaygayóma had ordered to be made. As soon as they dropped it Aponitolau and Gaygayóma got in it, and were drawn up, and soon they were there. As soon as they arrived he saw one of the stars come to the place where they were, and it was a very big star, for it was Bagbagak. "Someone is coming where we are," said Aponitolau to Gaygayóma. "Do not be afraid; he is my father," said Gaygayóma. "Those stars eat people if you do anything wrong to them." Not long after Bagbagak reached the place where they were. "It is good for you Aponitolau that you wished to follow my daughter here. If you had not we would have eaten you," he said. Aponitolau was frightened. "Yes, I followed her here, but I am ashamed before you who live here, for you are powerful," he said. While they were talking Bagbagak went back home. After he had lived with Gaygayóma five months she had him prick between her last fingers and a little baby popped out, and it was a beautiful baby boy. "What shall we call our son?" said Aponitolau. "We are going to call him Tabyayen, because it is the name of the people who used to live above," said Gaygayóma. So they called him Tabyayen, and they used their power so that the baby grew all the time. Soon he was big. After three months, "Now Gaygayóma, let me go back down and see Aponibolinayen of Kadalayapan. I think she is searching for me. I will return soon, for you two are my wives," said Aponitolau, but Gaygayóma would not let him go. "Ala, let me go and I will return soon," he said again. "Ala, you go, but you come back here soon. I will send the stars to eat you if you do not wish to return," said Gaygayóma to him. "Yes," he said. Not long after he rode again in the _galong-galong_, and the stars followed, and they went down. Aponitolau wanted all of them to go to Kadalayapan, but he went alone and the stars and Gaygayóma and the boy went up. Not long after Aponitolau said, "_Wes_" at the entrance to the yard of their house in Kadalayapan. Aponibolinayen got up from her mat and she had not eaten for a long time. When she looked at him she was very happy. Aponitolau saw that she was thin. "Why are you so thin, Aponibolinayen?" said Aponitolau. "I have not eaten since you went away. Where have you been so long? I thought that you were dead." "No, I did not die, but Gaygayóma took me up into the sky because they were the ones who spoilt our sugar cane. She would not let me come back any more, and she took me up. I did not want to go with her, but she threatened to feed me to the stars who were her companions. So I was afraid, and I went with her, for she is a spirit." When the day came on which Aponitolau and Gaygayóma had agreed for his return up, Aponitolau failed to go, because Aponibolinayen would not let him go. In the evening many stars came to the yard of their house and some of them went to the windows and some of them went beside the wall of the house, and they were very bright and the house looked as though it was burning. The stars said, "We smell the odor of the Ipogau and we are anxious to eat." Aponitolau said, "Hide me, Aponibolinayen, for those stars have come to eat me, because you would not let me go back to Gaygayóma. I told you that if I did not go back to her she would send the stars to eat me, and now truly they have come. I told you I would come back, but you would not let me go." Not long after the stars went inside of the house where they were, and they said to Aponitolau, "Do not hide from us, Aponitolau. We know where you are. You are in the corner of the house." "Come out of there or we will eat you," said Bagbagak. Soon he appeared to them and they said to him, "Do you not wish to come back up with us?" "I will go with you," he answered, for he was afraid. So they did not eat him, for Gaygayóma had told them not to eat him if he was willing to follow them. Not long after they flew away with him and Aponibolinayen cried. When they arrived up Gaygayóma said, "Why, Aponitolau, did you lie to me and not return? You were fortunate when you followed the stars, for if you had not they would have eaten you." "I did not return because Aponibolinayen would not let me. You and she are my wives. Do not blame me," said Aponitolau. After he had lived with her eight months he said, "Now, I am going to leave you, for our son Tabyayen is large. If you will not let me take our son Tabyayen down, he can stay up here with you." "You may go now, but you cannot take our son. You will return here," said Gaygayóma. "Yes," said Aponitolau. So they went down again in the _galong-galong._ Aponitolau wanted to take them to Kadalayapan, but they would not go with him. "No, do not take us, for it is not our custom to stay down here; we are always above," they said. So they went up and Aponitolau went to Kadalayapan. Not long after he said, "_Wes_" at the yard of the house, and Aponibolinayen went to see who it was. She saw that it was Aponitolau, and she was very glad. After one year with Aponibolinayen he said, "Command someone to pound rice, for we are going to make _balaua_, and I am going to call our son Tabyayen from above." Aponibolinayen had also given birth five days after Gaygayóma had given birth, and they called the boy Kanag. Not long after Aponitolau went to take Tabyayen from above and Gaygayóma was very glad to see him. When they were talking he said, "Now I am going to take Tabyayen down, for I want him to attend our _Sayang_." "Yes, you may take him, but you must bring him back when the _Sayang_ is finished." So Aponitolau took the boy to attend the _balaua_ in Kadalayapan. As soon as they arrived there he began to play with Kanag and they were the same size and looked alike, because they were half brothers. While they were playing, during the _Sayang,_ Kanag said, "Mother, it is showering," and Aponitolau heard what the boy said to Aponibolinayen. He said, "It is the tears of Tabyayen's mother, for I think she is thinking of him. I told them not to go over there, but they went anyway. I think Gaygayóma saw them playing and she cried." Then Aponibolinayen went to take them away from the yard where they were playing. She took them upstairs. It was at the time when they were building the _balaua_. Not long after that they made _Libon_, [239] and they invited Gaygayóma and all their relatives from the other towns and they danced for one month. Then the people from the other towns went home. As soon as all the people had gone home Aponitolau went to take back the boy to his mother Gaygayóma. When they arrived where Gaygayóma lived he gave the boy to her and he staid there three days. After three days he went back home, and he said, "I am going now, but I will come back in a few days, for I cannot live here all the time, for we, Ipogau, are accustomed to live below, and I also have another wife there. I cannot leave Aponibolinayen alone most of the time." So Gaygayoma let him go down and she said, "Yes, you may go, but you come back sometimes." "It is good that Tabyayen came down and made _Sayang_ with us." Then he went down again. When he arrived down Aponibolinayen was glad to see him, for she feared he would not return to Kadalayapan. Not long after they arranged for Kanag to be married, and as soon as Kanag was married they arranged for Tabyayen also and he lived down below and Gaygayóma always staid above. (Told by Lagmani, a man of Domayko.) 15 "I am going to wash my hair," said Aponitolau. Not long after he went to the river and washed his hair. As soon as he finished he took a bath and went back home. When he arrived in his house he said, "Aponibolinayen, please comb my hair." "Take the comb and go to Indiápan, for I have no time," answered Aponibolinayen. "If you have no time, give it to me then," said Aponitolau. Aponibolinayen was angry and went to get it for him. "What is the matter that you cannot go and get it yourself?" As soon as he got it Aponitolau went to Indiápan. Kabkabaga-an, who lived up in the air, was looking down, and said, "Indiápan, you have good fortune, for Aponitolau will come and ask you to comb his hair." Not long after Aponitolau arrived. "Will you comb my hair, Indiápan, because Aponibolinayen is impatient and does not want to comb my hair?" "I am sleepy," said Indiápan. She sat down. "Ala, you come and comb my hair," said Aponitolau. Not long after Indiápan went to comb his hair and Aponitolau sat by the door. Kabkabaga-an looked down on them and said, "Indiápan has a good fortune, for she is combing the hair of Aponitolau." When she had combed his hair she went to lie down again and Aponitolau said to her, "Will you please cut this betel-nut into pieces, Indiápan." "You cut it. I am sleepy," answered Indiápan. "Hand me the headaxe then." So Indiápan handed the headaxe to him. As soon as she gave the headaxe to him she went to lie down again. When Aponitolau had cut the betel-nut he cut his first finger of his left hand. The blood went up in the air. "Ala, Indiápan, take your belt, for I cannot stop my finger from bleeding. Come and wrap it," said Aponitolau to her. So Indiápan got up and she went to get her belt and she wrapped his finger, but the blood did not stop, so she called Aponibolinayen, for she was frightened when she saw the blood go up. Aponibolinayen said, "What is the matter with you?" She took her hat which looked like a woodpecker and she went, and the sunshine stopped when she went down out of her house, and Kabkabaga-an saw Aponibolinayen going to Aponitolau. "What good fortune Aponibolinayen has, for she is going to see Aponitolau." As soon as she arrived where Indiápan lived she wrapped her belt around the finger of Aponitolau, but the blood did not stop and they were frightened. Aponibolinayen commanded their spirit helpers to get Ginalingan of Pindayan, who was a sister of Iwaginan, to make _dawak_ [240] and stop the blood of Aponitolau. Not long after Indiápan and the spirit helpers arrived where Ginalingan lived they said, "Good afternoon, you must excuse us, for we cannot stay here long, for Aponibolinayen is in a hurry to have you come to Kaldalayapan to see Aponitolau. He cut his finger and his blood will not stop running, and we do not know what to do. You come and make _dawak_" Ginalingan said, "Even though I should go to make _dawak_ we could do nothing, for Kabkabaga-an, who lives in the air, loves him." "We must try and see if Kabkabaga-an will stop," said Indiápan, and Ginalingan went with them. As soon as they arrived in Kadalayapan Aponibolinayen said to Ginalingan, "What is best for us to do for Aponitolau's finger?" Ginalingan said, "We cannot do anything. I told Indiápan that Kabkabaga-an loves Aponitolau and even if I make _dawak_ we can do nothing, for Kabkabaga-an is one of the greatest spirits." Not long after Aponitolau had become a very little man and Ginalingan stopped making _dawak_, and she went home to Pindayan. Aponitolau became like a hair. Not long after he disappeared. "You are good, Indiápan, for Aponitolau disappeared in your house." So they cried together. Not long after Aponibolinayen went back home and Aponitolau was up in the air. He sat below a tree in a wide field, and he looked around the field. Not long after he saw some smoke, so he went. As soon as he came near to the smoke he saw that there was a house there. "I am going to get a drink," he said. As soon as he arrived in the yard he said, "_Wes_," for he was tired, and Kabkabaga-an saw, from the window of her house, that it was Aponitolau. "Come up," she said. "No, I am ashamed to go up. Will you give me water to drink, for I am thirsty." Kabkabaga-an gave him a drink of water. As soon as he had drunk he sat down in the yard, for Kabkabaga-an could not make him go up. Not long after she went to cook. As soon as she cooked she called Aponitolau and he said to her, "You eat first. I will eat with your husband when he arrives." "No, come up. I think he will arrive very late." Not long after he went up, for he was hungry, and they ate. While they were eating Kabkabaga-an said to him, "I have no husband and I live alone; that is why I brought you up here, for I love you." Not long after she became pregnant and she gave birth. "What shall we call the baby?" said Ligi [241] "Tabyayen." Not long after the baby began to grow, for Kabkabaga-an used magic, so that he grew all the time, and every time she bathed him he grew. When the baby had become a young boy Kabkabaga-an said, "You can go home now, Aponitolau, for our son Tabyayen is a companion for me." "If you say that I must go home, I will take Tabyayen with me," said Aponitolau. She said, "We will tell my brother Daldalipáto, [242] who lives above, if you wish to take him." So they went truly. As soon as they arrived where Daldalipáto lived, he said, "How are you, Kabkabaga-an? What do you want?" "What do you want, you say. We came to tell you that Aponitolau wants to take Tabyayen." "Do you want to give him up to Aponitolau? If you let him go, it is all right," said Daldalipáto, and Kabkabaga-an said, "All right." So they went home. As soon as they arrived where Kabkabaga-an lived she commanded some one to make something of gold to hold milk for the boy to drink and she filled it with the milk from her breasts. In the early morning she lowered her golden house by cords to the earth. When it became morning Aponitolau awoke and he was surprised to see that they were in Kadalayapan. "Why, here is Kadalayapan." He went outdoors and Aponibolinayen also went outdoors. "Why, there is Aponitolau. I think he has returned from the home of Kabkabaga-an." Aponibolinayen went to him and was glad to see him, and she took her son Kanag who looked the same as Tabyayen, and they went to play in the yard. Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau did not know that they had gone to play. Not long after Tabyayen cried, for the tears of Kabkabaga-an fell on him and hurt him, so Aponibolinayen went down to the yard and took them up into the house. Not long after Aponitolau said to Aponibolinayen, "We will make _balaua_ and we will invite Kabkabaga-an. I think that is why the boy cried." Aponibolinayen said, "Yes," and they truly made _Sayang_. Not long after they made _Libon_ [243] in the evening, and they commanded the spirit helpers to go and get betel-nuts. As soon as they arrived with the betel-nuts Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen commanded, "You betel-nuts go and invite all our relatives and Kabkabaga-an." So one of the betel-nuts went to the place where Kabkabaga-an lived. As soon as it arrived up above it said, "Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen of Kadalayapan want you to attend their _balaua_. That is why I came here." Kabkabaga-an said, "Yes, I will follow you. You go first." When it became afternoon all the people from the other towns had arrived in Kadalayapan. When they looked under the _talagan_ [244] they saw Kabkabaga-an, and Aponibolinayen went to take her hand, and they made her dance. As soon as she finished dancing she told Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau that she would go back home. "No, do not go yet, for we will make _pakálon_ for Tabyayen first," said Aponibolinayen. "No, you care for him. I must go home now, for no one watches my house." Not long after she went, for they could not detain her, and they did not see her when she went. As soon as the _Sayang_ was over they made _pakálon_ for Kanag and Tabyayen, and Kanag married Dapilisan, and Tabyayen married Binaklingan, and the marriage price was the _balaua_ about nine times full for each of them. As soon as they both were married Tabyayen staid in his house which had been up in the air before. Kanag staid in another house which Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen had. (Told by Angtan of Lagangilang.) 16 "Look out for our children, Ligi, while I wash my hair," said Ayo. "Yes," said Ligi. As soon as Ayo reached the spring Ligi went to make a basket, in which he put the three little pigs which had little beads around their necks. As soon as he made the basket he put the three little pigs in it, and he climbed a tree and he hung the basket in it. Not long after he went down and Ayo went back home from the well. "Where are our children--the little pigs--?" [245] said Ayo to him. As soon as Ligi said he did not know, Ayo began to search for them, but she did not find them. The little pigs which Ligi hung in the tree grunted, "Gek, gek, gek," and the old woman, Alokotán of Nagbotobotán, went to take a walk. While she was walking she stopped under the tree where the pigs hung. She heard them grunting and she looked up at them and saw that the basket contained three pigs. "What man hung those little pigs in the basket in the tree? Perhaps he does not like them. I am going to get them and take them home, so that I will have something to feed." So she got them. She took them home, and she named the older one Kanag, the second one Dumalawi, the third was Ogogibeng. Not long after the three little pigs, which had the beads about their necks, became boys, and Ogogibeng was naughty. When the old woman Alokotán gave them blankets, he was the first to choose the one he wished. "Shame, Ogogibeng, why are you always the naughtiest and are always selfish." "Yes, I always want the best, so that the girls will want me," said Ogogibeng. When Alokotán gave the belts, and clouts, and coats, he always took the best, and Kanag and Dumalawi were jealous of him, and they said bad things. Ogogibeng said to them, "I am not ashamed, for she is my mother, so I will take the best." Not long after they were young men. "Mother Alokotán, will you let us go to walk? Do not worry while we are gone, for we will return soon," said the three young men. The old woman said "yes" and they went. They agreed on the place they should go, and Ogogibeng said to them, "We will go where the young girls spin." Kanag and Dumalawi agreed, so they went. Not long after they arrived where the young girls were spinning. "Good evening, girls," they said. "Good evening," they replied. "This is the first time you have been here, rich young men. Why do you come here?" "We came to join you and get acquainted," they said, and they talked. They waited for the girls to go home, but they did not go. Not long after it became morning, and they did not wait any longer for the girls to go home, so they went away. As soon as the three boys went home the young girls went to their homes also. Not long after they arrived where Alokotán was and they ate breakfast. As soon as they finished eating they went to take a walk again. Not long after they arrived in Kaodanan, in the middle of the day. "Good morning, Aunt," they said to Aponigawani. "Good morning, my sons," she replied. "What do you come here for, boys?" "What do you come here for, you say, Aunt; we come to take a walk, for we are anxious to see you," they said. "That is good. Where did you come from?" said Aponigawani. "We came from Nagbotobotán where our mother Alokotán lives." Not long after Aponigawani went to cook for them to eat. As soon as she cooked she fed them. So they ate. Not long after they finished eating and they talked. After that it became night. When they had finished eating in the night they said, "We are going back home, Aunt, but first we are going to the place where those young girls spin." "No, I will not let you go back to Nagbotobotán now, for it is dark. If you are going to the place where the girls are spinning it is all right, but if you are going home I will not let you go down from the house, for I fear you will be lost." So the three young boys said to her, "If you will not let us go back home tonight we will go tomorrow, but we will go where the young girls spin." So Aponigawani and Aponibalagen let them go to where the girls were spinning. Not long after they arrived at the place where the young girls were and they said, "Good evening, young girls." "Good evening," answered the girls who were spinning. "Why do you come here, rich young men?" "'Why do you come here,' you say, we come to see you spin and to talk with you." Not long after they talked together, and the young men did not wait until the girls went home, for it became morning, so they went back home. As soon as they went away, the young girls went home. When the boys reached the house of Aponigawani and Aponibalagen they told them they were going home to Nagbotobotán. Aponigawani and Aponibalagen did not want to let them go until they had eaten breakfast. The three boys went even though they did not want them to go. As soon as they reached Nagbotobotán the old woman Alokotán asked them where they had been, and she was very angry with them. "Do not be angry with us, mother, for we want to take a walk; we were not lost." "Where did you go, then?" "We went to Kaodanan to see the pretty girls who never go out doors, but we did not find any. We found some young girls spinning at night, but they were not as pretty as we wished, and we talked with them until morning, for we wanted to see where they lived, but we could not wait for them to go back home." Not long after the old woman Alokotán went to cook. As soon as she finished cooking they ate. Not long after they finished eating and they agreed to go at once to Kadalayapan. The old woman Alokotán would not let them go, so when they finished eating at night they went to Kadalayapan without her consent. As soon as they arrived at the place where the young girls were spinning they said, "Good evening, young girls." "Good evening," the girls answered. "How are you? What do you want here?" "'What do you want here,' you say, and we came to watch you spin and we want to talk with you." So they talked until morning, but the young boys could not wait until the girls went to their homes. Ayo was still searching for the pigs who had become boys. She heard somebody say that three young boys were talking with the girls last night and they said to her that they were pretty young boys. Ayo said, "Those were my sons. I think they have become men." So she went around the town looking for them. Not long after she met them and she saw that they were no longer little pigs. "Where did you come from, my dear sons?" "We came from Nagbotobotán, Aunt," they answered. "Do not call me aunt, call me mother," said Apon=lbolinayen. The young boys would not call her mother. So Aponibolinayen pressed her breasts and the milk from her breasts went into Kanag's mouth, and when she pressed again the milk went into the mouth of Dumalawi, and when she pressed her breasts the third time the milk went to the mouth of Ogogibeng. So Aponibolinayen was sure that they were her sons. The little boys asked her why it was that the milk from her breasts went into their mouths. "I pressed my breasts to make sure that you are my sons. I am surprised that you have become men, for you were little pigs. That is why you must call me mother, not aunt. For a long time I have searched for you, and when I heard that you were talking with the young girls last night, I came to look for you." So the boys believed that she was their mother. "Why did we grow up in Nagbotobotán with our mother Alokotán, if you are truly our mother?" "I think she found you and took you away, for she is a good woman. She thought you were lost and took you to Nagbotobotán." So Aponibolinayen took them home. As soon as they arrived home Aponibolinayen said to Aponitolau, "Here are our sons whom I found. They said that they came from Nagbotobotán and that Alokotán was their mother. I told them that I was their mother, but they did not believe me." "I do not believe that they are our sons, for our children were three little pigs." "I also had doubts when I met them, but I pressed my breasts and the milk went to their mouths, so I am sure that they are our sons." Aponitolau was glad that they were men, for he did not want them when they were pigs. Not long after Aponitolau said to Aponibolinayen, "We are going to make _balaua_, so that we can invite all our relations in the other towns, especially Alokotán." Aponibolinayen used magic, so that when she put a grain of rice in each of twelve big jars they were filled. [246] Not long after Aponitolau commanded his spirit helpers to go and get betel-nuts, to send to the relatives who lived in other places, to invite them. As soon as one of the betel-nuts arrived in Nagbotobotán it said, "Good afternoon, old woman Alokotán. I cannot stay long. Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau sent me to invite you to attend their _Sayang_". "I cannot go, for I am searching for my three sons." "If you do not come I will grow on your knee." "You go first and I will follow, but I cannot stay there long." Not long after all the people from the other towns arrived and they danced until the old woman Alokotán arrived. The three young boys went to hide when Alokotán arrived. Not long after when the _batana_ was nearly finished, "I cannot wait until your _balaua_ is finished, for I am searching for my three boys." "Do not go home yet, for we will see if they will come here to see the young girls. Perhaps they are near here," said Aponitolau. Not long after the three boys appeared to her and Alokotán was glad to see them. "Where have you been, my sons?" "We came to this town and we intended to go back to Nagbotobotán, but our mother Aponibolinayen saw us and she detained us, for she was sure that we are her sons. She pressed her breasts and the milk came into our mouths." The old woman Alokotán was surprised and she went to Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau and talked with them. "Are you sure those boys are your sons? They are my sons. They grew up with me." "Yes, we are sure that they are my sons, for the milk from my breasts went to their mouths. I am surprised that they have become men, for they were three pigs. I searched for them a long time. That is why I was surprised when I saw them, so I pressed my breasts." "Why were you searching for them? Did someone else hang them in the tree?" said Alokotán. Aponibolinayen was surprised and she asked Aponitolau if he saw someone hang the little pigs in the tree while she was washing her hair. Aponitolau laughed, "I did not see anyone get them." One of the women had seen Aponitolau hang them in the tree and she told Alokotán that Aponitolau had hung them up. Alokotán hated Aponitolau and she asked why he had hung them in the tree. "I went to hang them up for I was ashamed, because they were not men but pigs." "That is why you hung them up. You have power. If you did not want them to be pigs you could change them to men. If I had not found them, perhaps they would have died." Not long after the _balaua_ was finished, and the people went home, and the old woman Alokotán went home after the others. She gave all her things to the three boys. This is all. (Told by Angtan of Langangilang). 17 Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau had a son and they called him Kanag Kabagbagowan, who was Dumalawi every afternoon. Soon he became a young man and he went to make love to Aponitolau's concubines. When Aponitolau went where his concubines were he said, "Open the door." The women did not open the door, but answered, "We do not want to open the door unless you are Dumalawi." "Please open the door," said Ligi [247] to them. The women did not open the door, so he went back home and he was very angry. In the second night Aponitolau went again. "Good evening, women," he said. "Good evening," said the women, and Aponitolau asked them to open the door. "You put your hands into the door and let us see if the marks on the wrist are the marks on Kanag Kabagbagowan." Aponitolau showed them his hands and they said, "You are not Kanag, but you are Ligi, and we do not wish you." Ligi was very angry and he went back home. Five days later he said, "Sharpen your knife, Kanag, and we will go to cut bamboo." So Kanag sharpened his knife. Not long after they went where many bamboo grew. As soon as they reached the place Ligi said, "You go up and cut the bamboo and sharpen the ends." Ligi cut the bamboo below him. As soon as Ligi had cut many bamboo he asked Kanag if he had cut many, and Kanag said, "Yes." "Did you sharpen the ends? If you pointed them, put them in one place." Kanag soon put them in one place. After that Aponitolau said to him, "Ala, my son, throw them at me so that we can see which is the braver of us." "Ala, you are the first if you want to kill me," Not long after Aponitolau threw all the bamboo at Kanag, but did not hit him. "Ala, you are the next, my son," said Aponitolau. Kanag said, "No, I do not want to throw any at you, for you are my father and I am ashamed." Aponitolau said, "If you do not wish to throw at me we will go back home." As soon as they arrived in Kadalayapan Kanag laid down in their _balaua_. When they called him at meal time he did not wish to go. When Aponitolau and Apo=nibolinayen finished eating they said, "If you do not wish to eat we will go to see our little house in the fields." "We will go and fix it so we will have some protection during the rainy season," said Aponitolau. So they went truly. As soon as they arrived at the little house in their farm, "Dig up the jar of _basi_ [248] which I buried when I was a boy." So Kanag dug up the _basi_ which Aponitolau had made when he was a little boy. As soon as he had dug it up they drank it, and they put the _basi_ in a big coconut shell. Aponitolau made his son drink a shell full of _basi_, so Kanag truly drank all of it. "Ala, dip again and I will drink next," said Ligi to him, and Ligi drank a shell cup of _basi_. "Ala, dip again, we will drink three shell cups of this _basi_," said Ligi. When Kanag had drunk the three shells of wine he was drunk and he slept. As soon as he was asleep, "What shall I do now," said Ligi to himself. "The best thing for me to do is to send him away with the storm." So he used his magical power and soon the big storm came and took Kanag to Kalaskigan while he was sleeping. Not long after Aponitolau went back home to Kadalayapan. Aponibolinayen asked him where Kanag was. "I thought he came ahead of me," Ligi said. "I think you have killed him," said Aponibolinayen, "for you think he loves your concubines." Aponitolau went to lie down in their _balaua_ and Aponibolinayen laid down in the house and their hair grew long along the floor, they laid so long. Not long after Kanag awoke and he saw that he was in the middle of a field so wide that he could not see the edges of it. "How bad my father is to me, for he sent me here," he said. "The best thing for me to do is to create people so that I will have neighbors. I will use magic so that many betel-nut trees will grow in the middle of the field." Not long after the betel-nut trees bore fruit which was covered with gold. He took the betel-nuts and cut them in many pieces. In the middle of the night he used his power and he said, "I will use magic and when I scatter all the betel-nuts which I have cut, they will become women and men, who will be my neighbors tomorrow." Not long after it became morning and he saw that he had many neighbors and he heard many people talking near to his house and many roosters crowing. So Kanag was glad, for he had many companions. He went down the ladder, and he went where the people were burning fires in the yards of their houses, and he went to see all of them. While he was visiting them he saw Dapilísan in the yard of her house and Kanag said to Bangan and Dalonágan, "My Aunt Bangan and my Uncle Dalonágan, do not be surprised, for I want to marry your daughter Dapilísan." "If you marry our daughter, your father and mother will be greatly ashamed," said Dalonágan. Kanag said to them, "My father and mother did not want me and they will not interfere." So they were married. "The best way for us to do, Dapilísan, is for us to make _Sayang_" said Kanag. So Dapilísan commanded someone to go and get the betel-nut fruit which was covered with gold. Not long after, "Ala, you betel-nuts which are covered with gold come here and oil yourselves, and go and invite all the people to come and attend our _Sayang_." So the betel-nuts oiled themselves and they went to invite the people in the different towns. Not long after they went. One of the betel-nuts went to Kadalayapan, and one went where Kanag's sweetheart lived. Some of them went to Pindayan and Donglayan, which is the home of Iwaginan and Gimbangonan. Not long after Aponibolinayen was anxious to chew betel-nut. "I am going to chew. What ails me, for I am so anxious to chew? I had not intended to eat anything while Kanag is away." She looked up at her basket, and she saw that an oiled betel-nut, which was covered with gold, was in it. She picked it up and tried to cut it. "Do not cut me, for I came to invite you, for Kanag and his wife Dapilísan sent me to summon you to their _Sayang_ in Kalaskigan," said the betel-nut. Aponibolinayen was glad when she heard that Kanag was alive. So she got up and told all the people of Kadalayapan to wash their hair so that they might attend the _Sayang_ in Kalaskigan. The people asked who was making _Sayang_ in Kalaskigan, and she replied that it was Kanag and his wife Dapilísan. Not long after they washed their clothes and hair, and took a bath. When it became afternoon they went and Aponitolau followed them, and he looked as if he was crazy. As soon as they arrived at the river near the town of Kalaskigan, Kanag saw them and there were many of them by the river. He sent crocodiles and they went to take the people across the river. Aponitolau was the first who rode on one of the crocodiles and the crocodile dived, so Aponitolau went back again to the bank of the river. Not long after Aponitolau's companions were all on the other side of the river, and he was alone, for the crocodiles would not carry him across. He shouted as if crazy, and Kanag sent one of the crocodiles to get him. Not long after one crocodile went where Aponitolau was, and he stood on its back and it took him to the other side of the river. When they all sat down beside the river, Dalonágan said, "What shall we use for the _alawig_, [249] for your father and mother?" "The singed pig, for it is the custom of the people in Kadalayapan," said Kanag to his mother-in-law. "Go and get some of the pigs and singe them," said Dalonágan to him. Not long after he singed the pigs and he carried them to the people, and his wife Dapilísan carried one little jar which looked like a fist, filled with _basi_. As soon as the woman who was making _Sayang_ had finished the _diam_ [250] near by the well, Dapilísan made the people drink the _basi_ which she carried. Each person drank from a golden cup filled with _basi_ from out of the little jar which looked like a fist, and one third of the _basi_ in the jar was still left. [251] As soon as the people drank they took them up to the town. When they arrived in the town Aponibolinayen was anxious for them to chew betel-nut. So she gave some to Kanag and his wife Dapilísan and to some others. So they chewed and Kanag said to them, "You are first to tell your names." "My name is Aponitolau of Kadalayapan," said the man who looked like he was crazy. "My name is Aponibolinayen." As soon as they had told their names Kanag was the next and he said, "My name is Kanag Kabagbagowan who was carried by the big storm." "My name is Dapilísan, who is the daughter of Bangan and Dalonágan, who is the wife of your son Kanag, for whom you did not make _pakálon_. It is bad if you do not like the marriage." "Our daughter, Dapilísan, we like you, for Kanag wanted to marry you," said Aponibolinayen. Not long after the _balaua_ was nearly finished, but the people were still dancing. "Now my _abalayan_ [252] Dalonágan, we are going to pay the marriage price according to the custom," said Aponibolinayen. "Our custom is to fill the _balaua_ nine times with the different kind of jars." So Aponibolinayen said, "Ala, you _alan_ [253] who live in the different springs and _bananáyo_ of Kaodanan and you _liblibayan_, go and get the jars, _malayo_ and _tadogan, sumadag_ and _ginlasan_ and _addeban_ and _gumtan_, which Kanag must pay as the marriage price for Dapilísan." As soon as she had commanded they went, and they filled the _balaua_ nine times, and Aponibolinayen said to Dalonágan, "I think now that we have paid the marriage price," and Dolonágan said, "No, there is more still to pay." "All right, if we still owe, tell us and we will pay." So Dalonágan called her big pet spider and said, "You, my pet spider, go around the town of Kalaskigan and spin a thread as you go, on which Aponibolinayen must string golden beads." When the spider had put a thread around the town Dalonágan said to Aponibolinayen, "Now, you put golden beads on the spider's thread which surrounds the town." Aponibolinayen again commanded the _liblibayan, alan_, and the other spirits to go and get the golden beads. As soon as they secured the beads they put them on the thread which surrounded the town. Not long after they arrived and they strung the beads on the thread. As soon as they finished, Dalonágan hung on the thread to see if it would break. Dapilisan said, "Ala, you thread of the spider be strong and do not break, or I shall be ashamed." Truly, the thread did not break when Dalonágan hung on it. "Ala, my _abalayan_, is there any other debt?" asked Aponibolinayen, and Dalonágan said, "No more." When the _balaua_ was over the people who went to attend the _Sayang_ went home, and Aponibolinayen said to Kanag, "Now, we will take you back to Kadalayapan," and he replied, "No, for I wish to live here." When they could not take him to Kadalayapan, Aponibolinayen said to Aponitolau, "I am going to stay here with him," but Aponitolau would not let her stay, but took her back. (Told by Angtan of Lagangilang). 18 Aponibolinayen went to the spring. As soon as she arrived there she washed her hair. When she washed her hair she dived into the water, and she did not know that blood from her body was being washed away by the water. "I am going to the spring," said the _alan_, who was Inil-lagen. As soon as she arrived at the river she took her headaxe and scooped up the blood which was carried by the stream and she went back to Dagápan. As soon as she reached her house she put the blood on a big plate which was inherited through nine generations, and she covered it. "I am going to the well," said Aponigawani of Natpangan. As soon as she arrived she burned rice straw, which had been inherited nine times, and she put it in the pot with water. After that she took the water from the jar and put it in the coconut shell and she washed her hair. As soon as she washed her hair she dived in the river, and she washed her arm beads which twinkled in the evening, and she did not know that her blood was flowing and was being carried away by the stream. "I am going to the well," said the _alan_ Apinganan who lived in Bagonan, and she saw the blood of Aponigawani, and she secured it on her headaxe, and she put it inside of her belt. After that she went home. As soon as she arrived in her house she put the blood in the big dish, which had been nine times inherited, and she covered it. "I am going to uncover my toy," said the _alan_ Inil-lagen. "No do not uncover me, grandmother; I have no clout and belt," said the little boy. So she gave him a clout and belt and after that she uncovered it. "Ala, we will give him the name of Ilwisan of Dagápan," said all the _alan_. "I am going to uncover my toy," said the _alan_ Apinganan. "No, do not uncover me, because I have no clout and belt," said the little boy. So Apinganan gave him a clout and belt and uncovered him. "Ala, there is no other good name, but Dondonyán of Bagonan. "I am going to fight," said Dondonyán of Bagonan. He took his headaxe, which was one span long, and he went to get Ilwisan of Dagápan, and so Ilwisan took his headaxe, which was one span long, and they went. As soon as they got out of the town they began to strike their shields with a stick. The sound of the beating was as great as that made by one hundred. As soon as Aponibolinayen heard the noise of the shields she shouted and Danay of Kabisilan shouted also, and those who shouted were the ladies who always staid in the house. [254] When they passed by the spring of Natpangan Aponigawani shouted. When they passed by Pindayán, Gimbagonan shouted and the world trembled while she shouted. While they were walking they arrived at the spring of Giambolan of Kaboyboyan, who was an _alzado_. [255] Not long after they reached the _alzado_ woman at the spring, for she was still making _Sayang_. Not long after Ilwisan of Dagápan killed the tattooed _alzados_, who were more than one hundred, who were dipping water from the spring. "We go to the town," said Ilwisan of Dagápan to Dondonyán. "Yes," he said, and they went. As soon as they arrived in the town, Giambolan saw them and he was surprised, for they were two boys who entered the town. "You little boys who come in my town, you are the first who ever came here," said Giambolan, who had ten heads. He went up into the house and the little boys said, "Take your headaxe and spear Giambolan; although we are little boys we are not afraid of you, for we came here to fight with you. It is the last of your life now." "Giambolan, you first fight against us," said Ilwisan. He used his power. "You headaxe and spear of Giambolan, if he throws you against us, do not strike us." When all the spears and headaxes of Giambolan were lost, the boys truly were not hurt. "Now we are next to throw our spears. You, our headaxes, when we strike and throw the spear you pierce the side of Giambolan," they said. Not long after Giambolan laid down. "You, my headaxe, cut off the heads of Giambolan at one blow," they said. So the ten heads were cut off. "You, my spear and headaxe, go and kill all the people in the houses of the town, who live with Giambolan," they said. The spears and headaxes went and killed all the people in the town, and the pig troughs were floating in blood toward the river. "You, heads, gather together in the yard of Giambolan. You, heads of the women, separate, and you, heads of Giambolan, go first, and you, storm, carry the house of Giambolan. You go near to our house in Dagápan." "I will tramp on the town of Giambolan so it will be like the ocean," they said. Not long after the town was like the ocean. They went home and they followed after the heads, which they sent first to their town. Not long after, "I use my power so that we arrive at once in Dagápan," said Ilwisan. So they arrived truly. "All the heads of Giambolan stay by the gate of the town; all the heads of the people who live with him stay around the town." "You _alan_ who look like me, we will go and see Ilwisan and make him go into the house, for he has returned from fighting." Not long after they made him climb the _sangap_ [256] so he could talk with the star, it was so high. Ilwisan did not climb, but he jumped over the ladder and he did not touch it. "You, _alan_, take down the _gansas_ for we are going to have a big party, for we have come back from fighting." So the _alan_ took down the _gansas_ and they danced. "You send your people to go and invite our relatives," said Ilwisan, "so that they will come to attend my big party, for I have returned from the fight." So they sent the messengers to the towns where the relatives lived. When the spirit messengers arrived by the _balaua_ where Aponitolau of Kadalayapan was lying down, "Good morning," they said. "How are you," said Aponitolau. "I came here because Ilwisan of Dagápan sent me to get you, for they make a big party, for they have returned from fighting." "This is the first time I have heard of a town called Dagápan," said Aponitolau. "You people who live with me, come with me and we all will go to Dagápan, because Ilwisan will make a big party, for he has returned from fighting; all you ladies who stay in the house come also." Not long after they went and Aponitolau guided them, and they met the people who live in Natpangan and Pindayan in the way. Gimbagonan, who was the wife of Iwaginan, and Danay of Kabisilan went to Dagápan. When they arrived at the spring of Ilwisan of Dagápan they all stopped. "We will all stop here and wait until someone comes to meet us," said Aponitolau. Not long after Ilwisan and Dondonyan saw all the visitors who were at the spring, so they went to meet them. Each of them took a glass of _basi_ and gave the drink to them. When they had all drank they took them up to the town. Not long after, when they arrived in the town, they sat down, and Aponitolau and the other people took the _gansa_, and Iwaginan took the _alap_ [257] and they danced first with Aponibolinayen. As soon as they finished dancing they took out of their belts the girls who never go out doors, and they joined the people. The girl whom Aponibolinayen took out of her belt was Daliknáyan, and the girls whom Aponigawani took out of her belt were Indiápan, and Alama-an, and the girl whom Danay of Kabisilan took out of her belt was Asigtanán, and the girl whom Gimbagonan took out of her belt was Dalonagan. [258] As soon as they had taken the girls out they made them sit in one row and the circle of people was very bright, because of the girls, for they were all pretty. After that Iwaginan made Daliknáyan and Dalonagan and Alama-an and Asigtanán dance with Ilwisan of Dagápan. When they had danced across the circle five times they stopped. As soon as they finished dancing Iwaginan made Aponitolau dance with Danay of Kabisilan. When Aponitolau stamped his feet as he was dancing all the fruit of the coconut trees fell down. After they finished Balogagayan and Gimbagonan danced. After they danced Kabin-na-ogan of Kabitaulan danced with Aponigawani. After they danced they went to eat. The food was of thirty different kinds, and they were abashed in the golden house of Ilwisan, which had many valuable jars in it, for the _alan_ had given them to him. As soon as they finished eating they gathered again, and the _alan_ Kilagen told them that Ilwisan was the son of Aponibolinayen, and Dondonyán was the son of Aponigawani. She said, "The reason that we made your son come to life was that we might have someone to give our things to, for we have no children to inherit them." "If that is so we are going to change their names. Ilwisan will be Kanag Kabagbagowan," said Aponitolau. "Dondonyán will be Dagoláyen, who is a rich man." "Now it is two months since we came here and we go home," they all said. As soon as they agreed, the _alan_ gave them valuable things. Aponitolau used his power and the golden house of Kanag which the _alan_ gave him was pulled up and went to Kadalayapan and the gold house of Dondonyán went to Natpangan. Aponigawani used her power, and when it became morning Kanag cried because his golden house of Dagápan, which was the _alan's_ town, went to Kadalayapan. "Do not cry, Kanag; this is your town; we are your father and mother." So Kanag stopped crying. The next month Kanag said to his father and mother, "The best thing for you to do is to engage me to Daliknáyan, who never goes out doors, and there is no one to compare with her, who looks like the firefly in the evening, and her footprints are loved by all the men, for they look like the rainbow." Not long after Aponibolinayen took the golden beads, which look like the moon, to use as an engagement present. Not long after Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau arrived at Kabisilan. "Good morning, Aunt Danay," they said. "How are you?" said Danay. "Come up and we will eat." They went up the stairs, and Danay took the rice out of the jar and took out the meat, and they ate. As soon as they finished eating, "We cannot stop here long, for we are in a hurry," and they showed her the gold which was like the moon, for they wished to make the engagement. Danay of Kabisilan agreed, and they set a day for _pakálon,_ and it was three days later. Not long after they went back home. As soon as they arrived they told their son Kanag and he was very happy. When the day for _pakálon_ came they summoned all the people, and so they went, and some of them went first. "You, my jar, _bilibili,_ and my jar _ginlasan_, and you my jar _malayo_, go first." So all the jars preceded them, and they followed. Not long after they arrived. When all the people whom they invited arrived, they fed them all. When they had all finished eating, "Now that we have finished eating we are going to settle on the price. My _balaua_ must be filled eighteen times with different jars before Kanag and Daliknáyan can be married." So they filled the _balaua_ eighteen times. "Now that the _pakálon_ is finished and we have paid the price, we will take her home, and you prepare the food for her to take." So they started to fix a box for her with pillows, and they gave her a golden hat which looked like a bird, and she put her skirt on her head and it twinkled. Not long after they went. As soon as they arrived in Kadalayapan, they went upstairs, and they made her sit on the bamboo floor, and they counted the bamboo strips on which she sat, and it was an arm span long of agate beads. [259] Not long after they had a son and they named him Dumalawig. This is all. (Told by Magwati of Lagangilang). 19 "I am going to hunt deer with the dogs, mother," said Kanag. "No, do not go, you will be lost," said Aponibolinayen. "No, I will not be lost. Give me provisions to take," he said, and he fretted so his mother let him go, and she gave provisions, for she could not prevent him from going. So he went. "Ey-Ey-kota, my puppy, Ey-Ey, my fat dog, do not catch anything until we reach the middle of the wood, which is the place where the _anteng_ tree grows." Not long after while he was walking the puppy went into the jungle and it barked in the wood. He went to reach it. When he arrived he saw that what the puppy barked at was a very small house by the resin tree. He went up to the house. Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen went to hide under the hearth and Kanag did not go out of the house until the girl appeared. One night had passed, then the girl who owned the house appeared. He saw that she was a beautiful girl and they talked. "It is not good for us to talk until we know our names," said Dumanau, [260] and he gave her betel-nut, and she did not receive it, so he made it very good so that she wanted it after two days. After that she received the betel-nut which was covered with gold. As soon as they chewed, "You first tell your name, for you live here; it is not good for me to tell first, for I come from another place," said Dumanau. "No, it is not good for a girl to tell her name first. You are a boy and even though you came from another place you tell your name first," said Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen. "My name is Dumanau, who is the son of Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau of Kadalayapan." "My name is Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen, who is the daughter of an _alan_ in Matawatawen." When they put down their quids, they laid in good order as agates with no holes in them. "We are close relatives, and it is good for us to be married." So they married. Three years passed. "The best thing is for us to take our house to Kadalayapan, and go there; perhaps my father and mother are searching for me." "No, we must not go, because I am ashamed, for they did not engage me to you," said Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen. "No, we go; we must not stay always in the jungle," he said. So in the middle of the night Dumanau used his power. "I use my magic so that this house we are in goes to Kadalayapan. You stand there by our house," he said; so the little house went there while they were asleep. The next morning Wanwanyen was surprised because many chickens were crowing and many people were talking, and when she went to look out of the window there were many houses. "Why, Dumanau, it is not the jungle where we are now; where are we?" she said. "It is the town of Kadalayapan." Not long after their three children went to look out of the window and they saw the sugar cane, and they were anxious to chew it. "Father, go and get the sugar cane for us to chew," they said. Dumanau went, and he advised Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen to fasten the door while he was gone. "If anyone comes do not open the door." He went, and Dumanau's father and mother were frightened, because the little house was by their dwelling, for there was no little house there before. As soon as Dumanau arrived in the house of his father and mother they were surprised, for they had searched for him three years. They asked where he had been, and he said he had found a wife in the wood when he had staid for three years. He told his mother that she must not go to his house and say bad words to his wife. So Dumanau went to the place of the sugar cane, and his mother went to the house and said bad words to his wife. "Open the door, you bad woman, who has no shame. You are the cause of my son being lost, and we spent much time to find him. What did you come here for, worthless woman?" said Aponibolinayen. Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen did not answer her. Not long after Dumanau arrived at their house and Wanwanyen said to him, "It is true what I told you. I told you not to go and you did truly, and your mother came and said many bad words. I said it was best for us to stay always in Matawatawen, but you paid no heed. Now my stomach is sick, for your mother came here to say many bad things to us." Not long after she died. Dumanau sharpened his headaxe and spear, for he wanted to kill his mother, because she said bad things to his wife Wanwanyen, but he did not kill her, because she fastened the door. As soon as Dumanau arrived in their house he made a _tabalang_ [261] of gold, and put the body of Wanwanyen inside of it, and he put a golden rooster on top of it. As soon as he finished he put the body of Wanwanyen inside of it. As soon as he had done this he said, "If you pass many different towns where the people get water, you rooster crow." The rooster said, "Tatalao, I am _tabalang_ of Kadalayapan; on top of me is a golden rooster." He pushed the _tabalang_ into the river and so it floated away. When it passed by the springs in the other towns, the rooster said, "Tatalao, I am _tabalang_ of Kadalayapan, and on top of me is a golden rooster." That is what the rooster always said when they passed the springs in the other towns. Dumanau wandered about as if crazy, and his oldest son walked in front of him. He carried the next child on his back and carried the third on his hip. When the _tabalang_ arrived in Nagbotobotán, "Tatalao, I am _tabalang_ of Kadalayapan, and on me is a golden rooster," said the rooster on the _tabalang_ which was made of gold. The old woman Alokotán was taking a bath by the river and she was in a hurry to put on her skirt and she followed the _tabalang_. "You _tabalang_, where did you come from? Are you the _tabalang_ of Kapaolan? If you are not from Kapaolan, are you from Kanyogan?" The _tabalang_ did not stop and it nearly went down into the hole where the stream goes. [262] So Alokotán ran very fast. "Are you _tabalang_ from Kaodanan?" The _tabalang_ hesitated a little. "Are you _tabalang_ of Kadalayapan?" "Yes," said the _tabalang_ and stopped; so she went inside of the _tabalang_ and she took the body to her house. She was afraid of the _tabalang,_ because it was made of gold and she was surprised because the woman who was inside was beautiful and there was no one to compare with her. As soon as they arrived to her house, "I whip perfume _alikadakad_ and make her wake up directly." "I whip my perfume _banaues_ and directly she will say, '_Wes_,'" "I whip my perfume _dagimonau_ and directly she will wake up entirely." [263] "How long I slept, grandmother," said Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen. The old woman Alokotán took her inside of the house. "'How long my sleep,' you say, and you were dead. There is the _tabalang_ they put you in and I was surprised, for it was made of gold and has a golden rooster on top of it. They used it to send you down the river." Not long after the old woman Alokotán hid her, and Dumanau, who was always wandering about with his children, approached the place where the women were dipping water from the spring. All the women who were dipping water from the well said, "Here is a lone man who is carrying the babies. We agree that we all salute him at one time." As soon as they agreed Dumanau arrived to the place where they were dipping water and he said, "Good day, women." "Good day also," answered all the women in unison. "Where are you going, lone man who is carrying the babies?" "'Where are you going,' you say, women. I am following Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen whom I put inside the _tabalang_ for she was dead. Did you see the _tabalang_ pass here?" said Dumanau. "It passed by here long ago. Perhaps it is in Nagbotobotán now." "Ala, I leave you now, women, and I go and follow." "Yes," answered the women. While they were walking they arrived in Nagbotobotán and Dumanau saw the _tabalang_ in the yard by the house of Alokotán and they exchanged greetings. "Good afternoon," they said, and Alokotán took them upstairs; so they went up. Not long after while they were talking, "This was my _tabalang_, my grandmother old woman Alokotán; bring out of hiding Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen, so that I may take her home," said Dumanau, and the old woman Alokotán did not bring her out because she did not believe that he was the husband of Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen; so she used magic, and when she found that he was the husband of Wanwanyen she said, "She is over there. I hid her." So she went to get her and Dumanau, was joyful, for he saw Wanwanyen alive again. "Ala, now grandmother old woman Alokotán, how much must I pay, because you saved my wife Wanwanyen?" "That is all right, no pay at all. That is why I stay in this place so as to watch and see if any of my dead relatives pass by my house and I make them alive again. If you were not my relative I would have let her go." So Dumanau thanked her many times and they went back home. Not long after they arrived in Kadalayapan. "The best for us to do, Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen, is for us to build _balaua_ and invite all of our relatives; perhaps you are not the daughter of an _alan,_" said Dumanau. "Why not? I am the daughter of the _alan,_" said Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen. "Ala, let us build _balaua_ anyway." Not long after they commanded people to pound rice, and as soon as Wanwanyen was ready she commanded someone to go and secure the betel-nuts which were covered with gold. As soon as they arrived they oiled them. When it became evening they made _Libon._ [264] The next morning they sent the betel-nuts to invite their relatives. So they went. Not long after, "I am anxious to chew betel-nut. What is the matter with me?" said Aponigawani, who was lying down on her bed. As soon as she got up she found an oiled betel-nut which was covered with gold beside her. "Do not cut me; I came to invite you to the _balaua_ which Wanwanyen and Dumanau make," said the betel-nut, when she took it intending to cut it. So Aponigawani told the people of Kaodanan to start to attend _balaua_ with Dumanau and Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen. She was surprised because Dumanau had arrived, for they had heard that he was lost when he went to hunt deer. She said, "Perhaps he met a lady who never goes outdoors, who has power, when he went to hunt deer." Not long after, "Ala, you people who live in the same town, let us go now to Kadalayapan for Dumanau's and Wanwanyen's _balaua_." As soon as they arrived in the place where the people dipped water from the spring they asked where the ford was. "You look for the shallow place," said the people who were dipping the water. Not long after they went across the river and some of the people who were dipping water went to notify the people making _balaua_ that the visitors were there, so Dumanau and Wanwanyen went to the gate of the town and met them there and made _alawig_. [265] Aponigawani and Aponibolinayen looked at the woman who was the wife of Dumanau and she was almost the same as Aponigawani. As soon as they finished _alawig_ they took them up to the town. While they were sitting, Aponigawani was anxious to know who Dumanau's wife really was, so she went to Dumanau and said that they were going to chew betel-nut. "That is the best way to do so that we may know if we are related," said Dumanau. So they took the betel-nuts and divided them in pieces. "You tell your name first, because you are the people who live here." "No, my uncle, you old men are the first to tell your names." "My name is Aponibalagen, who is the son of Pagatipánan and Ebang of Natpangan, who is the brother of Aponibolinayen." "My name is Aponitolau, who is the son of Pagbokásan and Langa-an, who is the brother of Aponigawani, whose son is Dumnau." "My name is Dumanau, who is the son of Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen of Kadalayapan." "My name is Aponigawani of Kaodanan, who is the wife of Aponibalagen, who has no sister." "My name is Aponibolinayen of Kadalayapan, who is the wife of Aponitolau, whose son is Dumanau." "My name is Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen, who is the daughter of an _alan_ of Matawatawen." When they had told their names the quid of Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen went to the quid of Aponibalagen and Aponigawani and Dumanau laid down his quid. The quid of Dumanau went to those of Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau. "Now, Aponitolau, we know Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen is our daughter; it is best for you now to pay the marriage price, nine times full the _balaua_," said Aponigawani and Aponibalagen. Aponibolinayen, the mother of Dumanau, begged the pardon of Dumanau and his wife, for she did not know that his wife was the daughter of Aponigawani and Aponibalagen, who was her brother. Not long after they gave the marriage price. "I use my power so that the _balaua_ of Wanwanyen and Dumanau is nine times filled," said Aponibolinayen, and it was nine times filled with different kinds of jars. Then Aponigawani raised her eyebrows and half disappeared, and Aponibolinayen used magic again and the _balaua_ was full again. When they gave all the marriage price they danced. As soon as the dance was over they went to eat, all the people whom they invited. When they finished eating Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen talked. "You, father and mother, you were not careful of your daughter. I would not have heard any bad words if you had been careful." "Ala, Wanwanyen-Aponibolinayen, that is our custom, because we are related to the Kaboniyan and the _alan_ always picks up some of us," said her father and mother. "It is good that Dumanau found you, who is your husband. Aponibolinayen, who talked bad before, is our relative. She is my sister," said Aponibalagen. "It is true that I said bad words to her, because I did not know that we were related, though I am your relative; forgive me, daughter, your father is my brother," said Aponibolinayen to Wanwanyen. Not long after they drank _basi_, for they knew each other and made friends. As soon as they drank they danced during one month. When the _balaua_ was finished all of the people went home and took some of the jars. As soon as they went home the father and mother-in-law of Dumanau took all the other jars to Kaodanan. It is said. (Told by Madomar of Riang barrio Patok.) 20 "We are going away, Cousin Dagoláyan," said Kanag. "If that is what you say we must go." Not long after they went. As soon as they reached the middle of the way they agreed upon their destination. "Where are we going?" they asked. "We are going to the place Ginayod of Binglayan," said Kanag. "Why are we going there?" said his cousin Dagoláyan. "We are going because Ginayod of Binglayan has a pretty girl who never goes outdoors, and we are going to see her," said Kanag. Not long after they arrived where the young girls spun at night. "Stay here, Cousin Dagoláyan, and I will meet you here. I am going to see the daughter of Ginayod, who is Asimbáyan of Ilang." "If that is what you say it is all right," said Dagoláyan. Not long after Kanag reached the place where the girl was, and he talked with her. The girl who never goes outdoors said to him, "If you will get the perfume of Baliwán I will believe all you say." "If you will agree to my mission I will go and get whatever you want," said Kanag. "Ala, if you do not believe me, you take my arm beads from my left arm, for you are kind to go for me." So she gave him her arm beads, and Kanag started to go at once. As soon as he arrived at the place where the young girls spun and had joined his companion, his cousin asked, "What did she say?" "She told me that if I will secure the perfume of Baliwán she will do everything I ask of her. Let us both go." "No, I do not wish to go with you, for you will not go with me where I wish to go." "Please come with me and another time I will go with you," said Kanag. Not long after they went and they met the _doldoli_ [266] in the way. "Where are you going, rich young men?" it said to them. "Where are you going,' you say, and we are going to get the perfume of Baliwán, for though we are far from it still we can smell it now." "Ala, young men, you cannot go there, for when anyone goes there, only his name goes back to his town." But the boys replied, "We are going anyway. That is the reason we are already far from home, and it is the thing the pretty girl wants." "If you say that you are going anyway, you will repent when you reach there." "It is the thing which will make the girls love us." So they left the jar and walked on. When they reached the middle of the jungle they met a big frog, and it said, "Where are you going, young men?" "'Where are we going,' you say, and we are going to get the perfume of Baliwán, for that is what Asimbáyan of Ilang desires." "No, do not go there, for everyone who has gone there has died." "We will go on anyway, for we are already far from our town and we cannot return without the perfume." So they left the frog and walked on. Not long after they approached the place where the perfume was, and while they were still a long way off they could smell its odor. "What a fine odor it has. That is why the young girl who never goes outdoors desires it so much." They walked on and in a short time they reached the place below the perfume. When they were there Dagoláyan said to Kanag, "Take some from the lower branches." "No, it is better for me to climb and get some from the top, for I think they are better above than below." So Kanag climbed and as soon as he broke off the stem which held the perfume his legs became like part of a snake. Dagoláyan looked up and he saw that the legs of his companion had changed to part of a snake. He said, "Now, my Cousin Kanag, I am going to leave you, for you are no longer a man, but you are a serpent." "Do not leave me even if I do become a serpent. I will not injure you. Do not be afraid." In a short time all his body had become a real serpent, and Dagoláyan ran and went home, and the big serpent followed him. Not long after Dagoláyan arrived in Kadalayapan, and Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen asked where Kanag was. "Kanag has become a big serpent. As soon as he broke off the perfume of Baliwán which the young girl desired he became a serpent." Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen went around the town and told the people that they must accompany them, for they were going to see if Kanag had really become a serpent. When Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen had killed many animals and given much food to the searchers and they did not find him, they stopped searching. Not long after Kanag thought he would go to the river where the people took their baths. So he went. Not long after Langa-ayan was anxious to wash her hair, so she went to the river and washed it, and Do-ansowan washed his hair first and Langa-ayan helped him, for he was her husband. As soon as she had washed his hair, he said to her, "I am going to the town." So he went and left Langa-ayan alone by the river washing her hair. When she had washed her hair she washed her arm beads. While she was washing her upper arm beads she heard a great commotion in the river, and soon after a big serpent appeared on the other bank. Langa-ayan saw that it was a big serpent and she was so frightened that she started to run, but the serpent said to her, "Do not run, my aunt, I am not a real serpent, for I was a young boy before." So Langa-ayan stopped and asked him why he had become a great serpent. "Because I went to Ilang to see the pretty girl, and she told me that if I could get the perfume of Baliwán she would do whatever I asked, so I went. I did not want to go, for I was not sure that she told the truth, but she gave me her left bracelet, so I went. When I was still far away from Baliwán I could smell the perfume, and when I reached the tree I climbed it and I tried to break the stem which held the perfume, and my companion saw that I was changing to a serpent and he ran away. I truly became a serpent and now I have come here and have met you. If you do not believe that I was truly a boy, I will show you the arm beads." So he lifted his head and Langa-ayan truly saw the arm beads around his neck. "My aunt, will you find out how I may become a man again?" She said, "If what you have said is true you follow me." So they went up to the town. Do-ansowan said to his wife, "How long you have staid at the river, my wife." "I was there a long time, for I met a big serpent. If you wish to see it, it is in the yard. He says he was a young boy and he showed me the arm beads of a young girl, which he has about his neck. I believe that he is a young boy who has become a serpent. When he broke the stem of the perfume which the girl wanted he became a serpent. He wants to know how he can again become a boy." "Ala, if that is what he wants, you go and take him to my Uncle Ma-obagan." So they went and when they arrived where Ma-obagan lived she said, "Good morning, uncle." "Good morning," he answered. "The reason I came is because a young boy who became a big snake is here. Will you please put him in your magic well which changes everything which goes in it and make him a young boy again?" "If he will go into the water, even if it feels bad, you call him and let him go in." So they went and when they arrived at the well the serpent went into the water, and the serpent's skin began to crack and fall off and he became a boy again. Not long after they went back to the house of Langa-ayan. As soon as they arrived there the boy went to the _balaua_ and did not follow Langa-ayan to the house. Do-ansowan saw that he was a handsome young boy. As soon as Langa-ayan had finished cooking they called him to come and eat and he said to them, "I do not wish to eat if there are no girls to eat with me." "We are afraid if you do not eat, for you did not eat for a long time, while you were a serpent." The boy said, "Even though I did not eat while I was a serpent I will follow my custom, for I do not eat unless a pretty young girl who never goes outdoors eats with me." When they could not persuade him Do-ansowan said to his wife, "Go and call our daughter Amau." Not long after she went to call her. When she arrived where they had put her she said, "Come and eat with the rich young man." "How can I go? I do not know how to walk." "Take the big gold basket and hold on to it while you walk." Not long after she arrived where the food was, and Langa-ayan and Do-ansowan said to the boy who was still in the _balaua_, "Come and eat now, nephew, with our daughter who never goes outdoors." So the boy went quickly, and when he reached the place where the girl was, they ate. When they had finished eating he said that he was sick, but he was not. So they went to fix a place for him to lie and he said, "Perhaps I am sick because of the spirit of the young girl." So they went to call their daughter, for Kanag wanted her to touch him, and he wanted to see her. The girl went to touch his body and he was all right, for he wished her to touch him, and he said, "Now, my uncle and aunt, if you wish me for a son-in-law I wish to marry Amau. I will not go any further to find a wife." The father and mother of the girl agreed to what Kanag said, for the girl wanted to marry him, so they were married. "Now, Kanag, we are going to make _Sayang_ and invite your mother and father so that they can see that you are a young man again," said his father-in-law and mother-in-law. They made _Sayang_ and they sent someone to invite their relatives, and someone went to Asimbáyan of Ilang and told her that Kanag Kabagbagowan, who lived in Kalaskigan, and his wife Amau were making _Sayang_. Some of the betel-nuts which they sent arrived in Kadalayapan where Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen lived and they said, "Good morning," to Aponitolau who was lying down in the _balaua_. He felt badly because Kanag was a serpent and he said to the betel-nut, "Good morning. Come to Kalaskigan, for Kanag and Amau are making _Sayang_ and they want you to come." So Aponitolau got up quickly and told Aponibolinayen who was lying down in the house that Kanag and his wife were making _Sayang_, and they were happy because Kanag was a boy again. They told all the people to prepare to go to the _Sayang_ of Kanag and his wife. So they went, and when they arrived they saw that Kanag was handsomer than before, and Asimbáyan went also, for they had invited her. Asimbáyan saw that Kanag was the boy who had taken her bracelet and had gone to get the perfume for her, and while she was watching him Kanag went to talk with her. He told her what had happened when he went to get the perfume for her, and he told her how he had become a snake and his mother-in-law had met him by the river and had taken him to the old man who changed him again to a boy, and he had married the daughter of Do-ansowan and Langa-ayan. Kanag said, "Now, I cannot marry you, so I will give back your bracelet." So he gave it back. Not long after Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen asked how much they must pay for the wife of Kanag, and Langa-ayan and Do-ansowan said, "Fill our _balaua_ nine times with valuable things." When they had paid all, they said, "Now we are going to take them to Kadalayapan, for we have paid all you asked." "No, do not take them. They are going to stay here," said Do-ansowan and Langa-ayan. "They will come there bye and bye." "Ala, if that is what you say they must come and visit us, even if they stay here." Not long after Kanag and his wife went to Kadalayapan to visit his father and they staid there three months. Then Do-ansowan and his wife were anxious for them to return. When Kanag and his wife returned to Kalaskigan they said, "Why did you stay so long? We thought you were going to live in Kadalayapan and we intended to follow you." "We staid a long time, for my father and mother would not let us return when we wished," said Kanag. (Told by Angtan of Lagangilang.) 21 "Goto watch our _langpadan_, [267] Kanag, because the wild pigs spoil it." Kanag went. When he arrived at the field he went around it and it was not injured, so he went to the little watch house and he was sorrowful, and he always hung his head. Not long after Aponitolau said to Aponibolinayen, "Cook some rice and meat for I am going to our field and carry the food to Kanag." So Aponibolinayen went to cook. As soon as she finished cooking they ate first. As soon as they finished eating Aponitolau took the rice and meat and started for the field where their son was. When Aponitolau appeared Kanag took his _lipi_ nuts and he played, and the mountain rice which he went to watch was not injured. As soon as Aponitolau arrived to the place where he was playing, "Come to eat, Kanag," and Kanag said, "I am not hungry yet. Put the food in the house. I will play awhile first." When Aponitolau could not make him eat he put the provisions in the house, and he went home and left the boy. Kanag did not go and eat. The next morning Aponitolau went to take him food again and as soon as Kanag saw him he took his game and went to play. When Aponitolau arrived he called him to go and eat, but he did not go for he wished to play, and he asked his father to put the rice and meat in the house. Aponitolau was surprised, because he did not eat, and the provisions for the first day were still untouched. He asked, "Why do you not like to eat?" and he said, "I am not hungry yet." When Aponitolau could not make him eat he went home again, and Kanag used magic and he became a _labeg_. [268] Aponitolau said to Aponibolinayen, "I wonder why Kanag does not like to eat." "I think he is sorrowful, because he was sent to watch the mountain rice." "What is the reason that you sent him to the field when the fences are strong and no wild pigs can get in," said Aponibolinayen. "You must cook and we will eat, and then I will go and get him." Aponibolinayen went to cook. As soon as she finished cooking they ate and after that Aponitolau took some rice and meat for Kanag to eat. Aponibolinayen said to him, "As soon as he finishes eating bring him home. Do not let him stay there alone. That is why he does not wish to eat." Aponitolau said, "Yes," and so he went. When he arrived at the field he could not see Kanag any more. He called to him, and the little boy answered him from the top of the bamboo tree. His father felt very sorry that he had become a little bird. "Why did you become a little bird, Kanag? Come and eat. I will not send you here any more." Kanag said, "I do not wish to eat and I would rather be a bird and carry the signs to everyone." So his father went back home and he was sorrowful. As soon as Aponitolau arrived in Kadalayapan he said to Aponibolinayen, "Kanag has become a bird. Perhaps he felt sorry because we sent him to watch the rice. He said that when I am going to war he will fly over me, and he will give me the good and bad signs." [269] Not long after Aponitolau started out to fight. He took his spear, headaxe and shield, and he went. When he was near the gate of the town, Kanag gave the bad sign. "Go back, father, for you have a bad sign," said the little bird. So his father went back at once. The next morning he started again and he went. When he reached the gate of the town the little bird gave him a good sign, so he went. The little bird flew near to him and he always gave the good sign. Aponitolau was happy for he knew that nothing would injure him. Not long after they arrived at the _alzado_ [270] town, and the _alzados_ were glad when they saw Aponitolau and they said to him, "You are the only man who ever came to our town. Now you cannot return home. We inherit you," said the bravest of them. "Ala, if you say that I cannot go back home, you summon all the people in your town, for we are going to fight," said Aponitolau, and the _alzado_ said to him, "You are very brave if you wish to fight with all of us." So the bravest summoned all the people to prepare, for Aponitolau wished to fight all of them. The people were surprised that one man wished to fight with them, and they said to Aponitolau, "One of my fingers will fight with you. Don't say that you will fight with all of us." Aponitolau replied, "Do whatever you wish. I still want to fight you." The _alzados_ were angry. The bravest of them ran toward Aponitolau, and he threw his spear and headaxe and Aponitolau jumped. The _alzados_ were surprised, for he jumped very high, and they all began to throw their spears at him, and they ran and tried to cut his head off. Aponitolau jumped and he secured all their spears and headaxes, and he said to them, "Am I the next now?" "Yes, because we are now unarmed." Aponitolau used magic so that when he threw his spear it would fly among them until they were all dead. When he threw his spear it flew to all the _alzados_ and killed all of them; so Aponitolau again used magic, and his headaxe cut off the heads of the _alzados_, and Aponitolau sat by the gate of the town. The little bird flew by him and said, "The good sign which I gave to you, father, was all right and you have killed all the enemies." Aponitolau said, "Yes." As soon as the headaxe had cut off all the heads from the dead _alzados_, he used his power again so that all of the heads went to Kadalayapan. The heads went first and he followed them, and the little bird always followed him. As soon as they arrived at the gate of the town the little bird flew away and Aponitolau used magic so that the heads were stuck around the town. As soon as the heads were placed around the town, Aponitolau commanded all the people in his town to go and invite the people who lived in different places to come and attend his big party. He told them to invite all the pretty girls who never go outdoors. So the people went all over the world to invite the people to attend the party. As soon as the people arrived in Kadalayapan they played the _gansas_ and danced and Aponitolau said to Kanag, "Come down, Kanag. Do not stay always in the tops of trees. Come and see the pretty girls and see if you want to marry one of them. Come and get the golden cup and put _basi_ in it, and make them drink." The little bird said, "I prefer to stay in the trees and make the signs when anyone goes to fight." When Aponitolau could not make him become a boy and come down he felt very sorry. When the party was over all the people whom they invited went home and Kanag said to his father, "Now that your party is over and the people have gone, I will go down and get the fruit of the trees to eat." [271] Aponibolinayen said to him, "My dear little son, do not go down and eat the fruit of the trees; we have all we need here. Forgive your father and me, we will not send you again to the field." Kanag did not pay attention and he started to go down. So Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau commanded the spirit helpers. "Go and follow Kanag wherever he goes, so that he has companions; do not leave him. Find a pretty girl for him so that he will not go down." Not long after they overtook Kanag in the forest and they all sat down and they said to him, "Wait here for us a minute, Kanag, while we find a toy for you." "No, I do not wish a toy; I am going down and eat the fruit of the trees." "No, please wait for us. It is very near; we will be back soon. If you do not care for any, you will see. Wherever you go we shall accompany you." Kanag answered to them, "Yes," and they went. As soon as they arrived at the well they used their power so that all the pretty girls who never go outdoors felt very hot, so that they all came to the well to bathe. Not long after the pretty girls went to the well in the early morning, and their parents did not know about it. As soon as the pretty girl arrived at the well the helpers saw the girl who appeared like the flame of fire about the betel-nut blossoms. As soon as they saw her washing her hair, they went back in a hurry where Kanag was waiting. "Kanag, come and hurry and see the pretty girl." Kanag said, "I do not wish to see her. I am going down to eat the fruit of the trees," and they said again, "Please come; it is very near. If you do not like her we will go wherever you wish." So Kanag went with them, and when they arrived he flew to the top of the betel-nut tree, and he saw the pretty girl, and he flew to another betel-nut tree above her. "What can I do, if I become a man now? I have no clothes and headband." The helpers said, "Do not worry about that. Your father and mother told us to give you whatever you wish, and we have everything here." So Kanag went down and took the clothes and headband and he became a man. He went and sat on the girl's skirt and she said, "Do not harm me. If you are going to cut me, do it only in one place so there will not be so much to heal." "If I was an enemy I would have killed you at once." Kanag went to her and handed the skirt to her. Not long after he gave her betel-nut and they chewed. As soon as they chewed they saw that it was good for them to marry, for they both had magical power and Kanag told his name first and said, "My name is Kanag Kabagbagowan, who is the son of Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen of Kadalayapan, who did not like him, and they sent him to watch their mountain rice, and he became a bird which is a _labeg_." "My name is Dapilísan, who is the daughter of Bangan and Dalonágan of Kabno-angan." After that the girl was in a hurry to go home, for she was afraid her father and mother would see her, for they did not know that she had gone to the well. She did not want Kanag to go with her to the town, but he did not want to leave her, and the sun shone in the east. The girl went home and Kanag followed her. Not long after they approached the town and Bangan was in the yard of their house, and Dalonágan was looking out of the door. Not long after she saw them. "What is the matter with Dapilísan? A boy is with her as she returns from the well," said Dalonágan. Bangan was surprised and he did not believe it, for their daughter never went outdoors. "If you do not believe it, look at them; they are coming here," she said. So Bangan turned and saw them. As soon as they arrived where Bangan sat, "Good morning, uncle," said Kanag. "Do not be surprised because I am with your daughter, for I am to be married to her. My father and mother sent me to our rice field and left me there alone, and I was sorry that they did not like me, so I became a bird which gives the sign to those who go to war. When my father went to fight I went with him, and he killed all the _alzados_ in one town and he invited all the people in the world to his party to see if any of the young girls pleased me, but I do not think they came here. I did not like to go to the pretty girls who attended the party, so I started to go down to eat the fruit of the trees, but they sent their spirit helpers to follow and take care of me. When I was in the wood the helpers met me and said 'Wait for us here while we go to find you a toy,' and I scarcely waited, but finally waited, and they made all the pretty girls go to the well, for they felt hot, so your daughter Dapilísan went to take a bath. When the helpers saw her they came to tell me and I did not wish to go, but they compelled me. As soon as I saw her I thought it was good for me to marry her, so I became a man and came home with her. If you wish me for a son-in-law I will be very happy." Bangan and Dalonágan said to him, "I wondered why my daughter went to the well. I did not believe that Dapilísan was there, and I am afraid that your father and mother will not like our daughter Dapilísan, for they did not send an engagement present to us." Kanag said to him, "This is why I came here, and they sent their spirit helpers with me to find a pretty girl to marry, so I will not go down. They will be glad when they know that I am here and want to marry your daughter." So Bangan and his wife sent someone to call Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen, and to tell them that Kanag was in Kabno-angan. Before the messenger arrived in Kadalayapan Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen knew that Kanag was in Kabno-angan, for the spirit helpers went to them when Kanag went with the girl to the town. Aponibolinayen and Aponitolau were ready to go to Kabno-angan before the messenger arrived in Kadalayapan. They went there directly, and they took many things to be used in the wedding. As soon as they arrived in Kabno-angan they were glad to see that Kanag was a man again. Bangan and his wife asked if they liked Dapílísan as a daughter-in-law, and they replied, "It is all right for Kanag to marry Dapílísan. We are glad he found her and did not go down, and remain always a bird." So they agreed on the marriage price, and Bangan and his wife said, "The _balaua_ nine times full of different kinds of jars." As soon as the _balaua_ was filled nine times Dalonágan raised her eyebrows and half of the jars vanished, and Aponibolinayen used her power and the _balaua_ was filled again, so it was full truly and Dalonágan said to Aponibolinayen, "The web of the spider will be put around the town and you put golden beads on it, and if it does not break Kanag can marry Dapilísan." When Aponibolinayen had put the golden beads on the web, Dalonágan said again, "I am going to hang on the thread and if I do not break it the sign is good and Kanag and his wife will not separate." When she hung on the thread and it did not break they allowed Kanag to marry Dapílísan. After that they played on the _gansas_ and they danced. When they had danced all the guests took some jars before they went home. As soon as the people went home, Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen took Kanag and his wife to Kadalayapan. This is all. (Told by Magwati of Lagangilang.) 22 "I am going to take a bath," said Ligi, so he went. "I am going to take a bath," said Gamayawán also. As soon as she arrived in the river she went to bathe and Ligi took a bath further down the stream, and he put his _balangat_ [272] on the bank, and it flew and alighted on the skirt of Gamayawán. Not long after Gamayawán went in a hurry to seize it. "Here is my toy," she said, and she put on her skirt, and Ligi was sorrowful, and he went home. As soon as Ligi arrived by his house he went at once to the _balaua_ and laid down in it and his mother saw him from the window. "What are you so downcast for? Why do you lie on your stomach?" said his mother. "Why are you downcast for, you say, my mother; my _balangat_ is lost," he said. "Do not grieve; it will appear bye and bye," said his mother. When Gamayawán arrived in her town of Magsiliwan: "You _alan_ who live with me, look at my toy which I found by the river," she said, and was very happy, and the _alan_ truly looked at it and it was the _balangat_ of Ligi, and they all laughed. "What are you laughing for?" said Gamayawán to them? "We laugh because we are happy, because it is beautiful," said the _alan_. Not long after Gamayawán had a baby. Not long after she gave birth. "What are we going to do? I am about to give birth to a child," she said. "The best thing for us to do is for us to get a thorn and stick your little finger." So they truly stuck her finger, and the little baby popped out like popped corn. [273] "What are we going to name it?" they said. "The best name is Galinginayen, for it is the name of the ancestor of the people who live in Kadalayapan," said the _alan_. Gamayawán gave him a bath and he grew about one span, for she used her magic. Not long after the baby was large, for she always used her magic when she bathed him. [274] Not long after the baby could fly. "What can I do for this baby? I cannot work so well," said Gamayawán. "The best thing for you to do, so you can do much work, is for you to carry him to Kadalayapan and give him to his father," said the _alan_. "That is good, I think; we will go and take him to Kadalayapan tomorrow." When it became early morning she truly prepared cakes to use as food for the boy on the way. When it became day they started. As soon as they arrived at the spring of Kadalayapan she used her power so that all the people in the town and all who were dipping water at the well went to sleep; so all the people who were pounding rice and working slept truly. Not long after they went up to the town. When they were approaching the _balaua_ of Ligi they saw him there asleep. As soon as they reached the _balaua_ they put the boy beside the man who was sleeping. "Stay here and wait, do not fall down," they said to him. "Yes, mother," said the boy. They advised him not to tell who was his mother or where he came from, and they went home. As soon as they reached the edge of the town, she used her power again and all the people who were asleep woke up. Ligi was surprised when he saw the boy beside him when he woke up. "Why here is a boy by me, with my _balangat_ which I lost when I went to take a bath," said Ligi, and he asked where the boy came from and the name of his mother and how he came. "Who are you talking to," said his mother Langa-an. "'Who are you talking to,' you say mother, here is a boy with my _balangat_," said Ligi. Langa-an was in a hurry and she went down from the house and she went down two rounds of the ladder at one step. As soon as she got down she took the boy to their house, where she was cooking and they asked him many questions. "My mother is an _alan_" said Galinginayen. "What is your name then?" "My name is Galinginayen who is the son of an _alan_ of Kabinbinlan," [275] said the boy. "No you are not the son of an _alan_," they said. When Langa-an finished cooking they tried to feed him, but he would not eat. "If you eat my cake I will eat with you," said the boy. So they ate truly of the boy's provisions and he ate also with them. When it became afternoon Gamayawán went to get the boy. As soon as she arrived at the edge of the town of Kadalayapan she used her power again and all the people who were working and dipping water slept. She went to the town and Ligi slept again, and she took the boy. As soon as she reached the edge of the town she used her power again and all the people who slept woke up. As soon as Ligi woke up he saw that the boy was not by him. "What has happened to the boy? Perhaps his mother came to steal him while I was sleeping," said Ligi. Langa-an was surprised and sorry because the boy was gone. As soon as the boy and his mother arrived in their house, he asked his mother how many blankets she had woven while he was in Kadalayapan. "Ala, tomorrow you send me again to Kadalayapan." "Yes," said Gamayawán. When it became early morning she made cakes for his provisions. When it became day they took the boy to Kadalayapan. When they approached the town Gamayawán used her power again so that all the people, even though they were working, slept again, and so they slept truly; then they went to the town and they left the boy beside Ligi who was sleeping in the _balaua_. As soon as they were far away from the town Gamayawán used her magic, and all the people who slept awoke. As soon as Ligi woke up he saw the boy by him again, and they at once hid him. When it became afternoon Gamayawán and her companions went to Kadalayapan to get the boy and as soon as they arrived she used magic again so that all the people slept, then they went up to the town. They looked for the boy, but they could not find him, and they were troubled. They went back home crying. As soon as Ligi woke up he went outdoors. Five days later Ligi told his mother he thought they should build _balaua_. "We are going to make _Sayang_, mother, for we want to find the mother of this boy." Langa-an said, "Yes." Not long after they made _balaua_ and when it became afternoon they made _Libon_ [276] and they commanded someone to go and get the betel-nuts which were covered with gold, so that they might send them to invite all the people in the world. As soon as the people whom they sent arrived they oiled the betel-nuts, and sent them to all parts of the world to invite all the people. Not long after the betel-nut which went to the town of Gamayawán arrived, "Good afternoon, lady. I cannot tarry, I came to invite you, for Ligi and his mother and father of Kadalayapan make _Sayang_," said the betel-nut. "I cannot come for there is no one to watch the house," said Gamayawán. "If you do not wish to come I will grow on your knee," said the betel-nut. "Grow on my big pig, for I cannot go," she said, so it went on to her big pig and the pig squealed very much. "You get off and come on my knee," said Gamayawán to the betel-nut, for she was sorry for her pig. So the betel-nut went on her knee, and it grew high so that it hurt her. "Ala, you betel-nut, I am going now to take a bath, and then I will come." So the betel-nut got off and she went to take a bath. When she arrived at the river she was in no hurry, for she did not wish to go, and the people from Pindayan, who were Iwaginan and his wife Gimbagonan, and the other people passed by the place where she was bathing, when they were going to attend the _Sayang_ in Kadalayapan. They saw the pretty lady taking her bath by the river. "Ala, you Gimbagonan, give me some betel-nut so that I can give that lady a chew," said Iwaginan. "No, do not lose any time, we are in a hurry," said Gimbagonan. He compelled her to give it to him, so he went to give the lady the betel-nut and Gimbagonan was angry. As soon as Iwaginan reached the lady and offered her the betel-nut to chew she refused it, but he compelled her to chew it with him. As soon as he gave the betel-nut to her he urged her to go with them to attend the _Sayang_. The lady did not want to go, but he urged her very long, until she went with them. She said, "Wait for me here while I go to change my clothes, if you want me to accompany you, but it is shameful for me to go, for they did not invite me." She went slowly to their house and when Iwaginan and the others waited a long time for her Gimbagonan was angry with Iwaginan and said bad words to him. Not long after an Agta [277] woman passed by them at the river. "Ay, Agta, did you not see the lady for whom we are waiting?" said Iwaginan. "No, I did not see her," said the Agta. "If you did not see her you come with us and we will go to attend _Sayang_" said Iwaginan to her. "I am ashamed to go, for I have no clothes," said the Agta. "No, if I wish it, do not be ashamed," said Iwaginan. Not long after they went. As soon as they arrived in Kadalayapan the Agta went to sit down behind a rice winnower, and Galinginayen was carried by his father and he took him past all the people and he noticed none of them, and when they were in front of the Agta he wanted to go to her, but the Agta winked at him and he did not go to her though he recognized her as his mother. Not long after the Agta became drunk, for they gave her much _basi_ to drink. While she was drunk Iwaginan called Ligi. "Now, cousin Ligi, my companion the Agta is drunk and she has laid down on the ground. I want you to take her into the house and give her a mat." Ligi took her into the house and he held her by the little finger for he did not want to touch her. As soon as they were in the house he put her by the door and he put some old clothes over her, and the boy said, when he saw his mother, "How bad my father is, for he gave my mother the old blankets which the dogs lie on." As soon as his father was among the people the boy changed the blankets on his mother, and he sucked milk from her breasts. As soon as he had sucked the milk from her breasts he went to play by the window, and the guests went below him, for they feared that he would fall. When they were there all the time Ligi went to the house. Not long after he arrived in the house he saw the breasts of the Agta twinkle like stars, and Ligi took the sharp knife and cut the skin off from the Agta. As soon as he had cut off all of the black skin, he threw it out of the window. He lifted her up and put her on a good mat, and all the people who went to attend _balaua_ went to where the skin had fallen, for they thought it was the child who had fallen, and they saw it was the skin of the Agta. They were surprised. Not long after Iwaginan was anxious to go home. "Ala, now, cousin Ligi, I want to go home, for we have been here so long a time, do not detain us. Go and get my Agta companion so that we can go home." "I don't know where your Agta companion is now, for I did not see where she went." Iwaginan was sorry and he went to look for her. Not long after he saw her on the mat. "She is on the mat, my cousin Iwaginan, but I do not like to let her go with you, for she is the cause of my making _Sayang_, for I wanted to find out who was the mother of the boy. Now she is his mother. The best thing for you to do is to marry Aponibolinayen and I am going to marry this woman," said Ligi. Not long after Iwaginan went back home. As soon as they arrived in Pindayan he divorced Gimbagonan, and he went to marry Aponibolinayen. So truly he married Gamayawán. As soon as the _pakálon_ was over, he paid the marriage price. Next evening Iwaginan and Aponibolinayen lived together. Next morning they went to wash their hair. "Wait for me here for I am going to dive in the river," said Iwaginan. So he dived, and he went to the place where the _alan_ lived under the water and the _alan_ said, "Eb we have something to eat for breakfast, it is a man." "No, do not eat me, I came to change my clothes," said Iwaginan. "Is Aponibolinayen here?" they said. "No," he said, and the _alan_ covered each hair of his head with golden beads, and they gave clothes to him. After that when he went back home, they went to guide him. As soon as they arrived by the river they saw Aponibolinayen. "How cunning you are, Iwaginan! You told us she was not here, and she is here," said the _alan_. "If we had known that Aponibolinayen was by the river we would have eaten you, for we wanted to take her," they said. "No," said Iwaginan, and they went home. A day later he took Aponibolinayen to Pindayan and Gimbagonan prepared the _baladon_ poison, because she wanted to kill Iwaginan. As soon as he and Aponibolinayen arrived in Pindayan, Gimbagonan went to their house, and she took betel-nuts. As soon as she reached the house she gave the nut to Aponibolinayen, and it had _baladon_ poison on it. She gave also to Iwaginan, but it had no poison on it. As soon as they chewed the betel-nut Aponibolinayen died. Not long after Iwaginan sharpened his headaxe and spear, for he intended to cut off Gimbagonan's head. They went to get a medium [278] to make the ceremony for Aponibolinayen, and when the medium was making the ceremony she said, "Aponibolinayen cannot be cured unless Gimbagonan comes to cure her, for she used the poison which is _baladon_." Not long after they went to get Gimbagonan and Iwaginan was anxious to get her head, but she asked his pardon and she went to cure Aponibolinayen. As soon as she made Aponibolinayen drink of her medicine, she was at once alive again. Not long after Gimbagonan went back to her house, and when she went back Iwaginan said to her, "Do not do that." "You are not good, Iwaginan. I do not know why you divorced me," she said. 23 "Tikgi, tikgi, Ligi, if you want us to cut rice for you, we will come to work with you," said the _tikgi_ birds, "Because we like to cut your rice _amasi_, which is mixed with _alomáski_ in the place of Domayási." Ligi said to them, "What are you going to do? I do not think you can cut rice, for you are birds and only know how to fly, you _tikgi_." But they still asked until he let them cut his rice. "Ala, Ligi, even if we are _tikgi_ we know how to cut rice." "If you want to come and cut, you must come again, because the rice is not yet ripe. When you think it is ripe, you come," he said. "If that is what you say Ligi that we shall come when the rice is ripe, we will go home and come again," said the _tikgi_. Not long after they went home. As soon as the birds went Ligi fell sick; he wanted always to see them, and he had a headache, so he went home to Kadalayapan. The _tikgi_ used magic so that Ligi's rice was ripe in a few days. Five days later, Ligi went back to his rice field and the _tikgi_ went also, and they arrived at the same time. "Tikgi, tikgi, Ligi, Ala, now we have come to cut your rice _amasi_ which is mixed with _alomáski_ in the place of Domayási," said the _tikgi_. "Come, _tikgi_, if you know how to cut rice," said Ligi. Not long after the _tikgi_ went. "We use magic so that you cut the rice. You rice cutters, you cut alone the rice. And you tying bands, you tie alone the rice which the rice cutters cut," said the _tikgi_. So the rice cutters and bands worked alone and Ligi went home when he had shown them where to cut rice. He advised the _tikgi_ to cut rice until afternoon, and they said, "Yes, Ligi, when it is afternoon you truly come back." "Yes," said Ligi. When it became afternoon Ligi went. As soon as he arrived at the field the rice which they had cut was gathered--five hundred bundles. "Now, Ligi, come and see the rice which we have cut, for we want to go back home," said the _tikgi_. Ligi was surprised. "What did you do, you _tikgi_? You have nearly finished cutting my rice _alomáski_ in the place of Domayási," he said. "'What did you do', you say, and we cut it with our rice cutters." "Now you _tikgi_, I am ashamed to separate the payment for each of you. You take all you want," said Ligi, so the _tikgi_ took truly one head of rice for each one. "Now, Ligi, we have taken all we can carry," said the _tikgi_. "All right if that is all you want, help yourself," said Ligi, "and you come again." After that the _tikgi_ flew and took with them one head of rice each. After the _tikgi_ left Ligi had the headache again, so he did not put the rice in the carabao sled, but went home in a hurry. As soon as he arrived in his house Ligi used his power so that it again became morning. As soon as it became day the _tikgi_ went and Ligi went also and they arrived at the same time. "Tikgi, tikgi, Ligi, can we cut your rice which is _amasi_ mixed with _alomáski_ in the place of Domayási?" "Are you here now, _tikgi_?" said Ligi. "Go and cut the rice and see if you can cut it very soon, and after that I will make _Sayang_, and you must come _tikgi_," said Ligi. "Yes, we are going to cut and you do not need to stay here. You can go home if you wish," said the _tikgi_. So Ligi went home. As soon as he arrived in his house he went to make a rice granary. When it became afternoon they had finished cutting the rice and Ligi went to the fields to see them. As soon as he arrived there, "We have finished all the rice, Ligi," they said. "Come and give us the payment and then you can go home and see the rice granary where you put the rice, and all the rice bundles will arrive there directly, for you cannot carry them home." "I cannot take them home, for I always have a headache when you go. Since you came I began to have headaches," said Ligi. "Why do you blame us, Ligi?" "Because since you came I have had headaches." After that Ligi went home to see the rice granary. As soon as Ligi left them they used magic so that all the rice went to the granary of Ligi in his town. As soon as Ligi arrived at the drying enclosure he saw the rice which the _tikgi_ had sent and he was surprised. "I wonder how those _tikgi_ sent all the rice? I think they are not real _tikgi_" said Ligi. As soon as the _tikgi_ sent all the rice to the town they went home, and Ligi went to his house. Not long after he built _balaua_ and made _Sayang_, and he invited all the _tikgi_. As soon as the people whom Ligi invited arrived the _tikgi_ came also and they flew over the people and they made them drink _basi_. Not long after they became drunk. "Now Ligi we must go home, because it is not good for us to stay for we cannot sit among the people whom you have invited, for we are _tikgi_ and always fly." Not long after they went home and Ligi followed them. He left the people in the party and he watched where they went, and they went to the _bana-ási_ tree and Ligi went to them and he saw them take off their feathers and put them in the rice granary and Ligi said to them, "Is that what you become, a girl; sometimes you are _tikgi_ who come to cut rice for me. Now that you are not _tikgi_ I would like to marry you." "It is true that I am the _tikgi_ who came to cut rice, because you would not have found me if I had not done it." He married the woman who had power so that she became several birds, [279] and he took her home. When they arrived in Kadalayapan the people whom Ligi had invited were still there and were dancing. The father and mother of Ligi were surprised and so they chewed betel-nut so as to find out who the lady was. The quid of Ebang and Pagatipánan and the quid of Aponibolinayen (the _tikgi_) went together. The quid of Langa-an and Pagbokásan went to the quid of Ligi and thus they knew who Aponibolinayen was. Ebang and Pagatipánan were surprised that she was their daughter, and they called her Aponibolinayen, and they called Ligi Aponitolau. As soon as they found out who she was, Ligi gave the payment to the relatives of Aponibolinayen. As soon as he made the payment, they played the _gansas_ and danced for three months. As soon as the _balaua_ was over all the people went home and Aponibolinayen's father asked her where she had been. She said she had been in the _bana-ási_ tree where Kaboniyan [280] had put her, and they were surprised for they did not know when Kaboniyan had taken her from them. After that they used magic and the house where Aponibolinayen had lived went to Kadalayapan. This is all. (Told by Madomar of Riang barrio of Patok.) 24 There was a man named Wadagan, and his wife was Dolimáman. They were sitting together in the middle of the day, and Dolimáman commanded Wadagan to stick with a thorn the place between her fourth and little finger. So Wadagan stuck her finger with the thorn and as soon as he did so a little baby popped out. "What name shall we give to this boy?" said Wadagan. "You ask what name we shall give him, we are going to call him Kanag Kabagbagowan," she replied. "Give him a bath every day." "I use my power so that every time I give him a bath he will grow." [281] She always said this when she bathed him and every time the baby grew. Not long after she said, "I use my power so that when I bathe him again he will be so big he will ask for his clout, belt, and top." As soon as she said this and bathed him the boy became big and asked for his clout, belt and top. Not long after he dressed up and took his top and went to play with the other boys. Not long after Dolimáman said to Wadagan, "Take care of the boy while I go to the well," and Wadagan said, "Yes." As soon as Dolimáman arrived at the well Wadagan made a little raft and Kanag went to the place where he was working and asked, "What is that for father?" "'What is that for,' you say. I am going to make it for your toy." Not long after he said, "My son go and change your clothes and as soon as you change your clothes I will see you." When Kanag went to change his clothes his father was watching for him. He said, "My dear son, now we will follow your mother to the well." So they went, but they did not go to the place where Dolimáman was. They went to the east of Dolimáman, and Wadagan said, "Ala, Kanag, go on the raft which I have just made, and I will drag it up stream with a rope." Kanag did not want to, but his father lifted him and put him on the new raft. As soon as he put him on the raft he pushed it out into the current and then he went back home. When he reached the yard Wadagan went into the _balaua_ and laid down, and when Dolimáman returned she inquired for Kanag and she said, "Where is Kanag? Why can I not see him here?" Wadagan said, "I do not know. I think he is playing with the other boys in the east." Not long after Dolimáman went to ask Agtanang and Gamayawan, and she said to them, "Did you see our son Kanag?" "No, we did not see him," they replied. Not long after, while she was inquiring, they told her the truth, and they said, "He went to the well with his father and they carried a little raft which had just been made." Not long after Dolimáman went to the west of the well and she saw the marks of the raft in the sand by the river and she sat there for along time and Agtanang and Gamayawan shaded her while she sat there by the river. Not long after the old woman Alokotán went to the well for she felt hot. As she was taking a bath she saw the little raft which was just made and said, "You new little raft, if the son of Wadagan and Dolimáman is inside of you, come here." So the little raft went to her where she was making a pool in which the dead or sick were put to restore them. As soon as she finished the pool she took him to her house and Kanag asked for something to eat. The old woman Alokotán said, "Go and eat, it is already prepared." So Kanag went and ate and he said, "Mother, give me that nose flute so I can play." So she gave it to him and he played. "Agdaliyan, you are feeling so happy while your mother is feeling unhappy, and is going to die by the river side," said the flute as he played. So he stopped playing and he said, "What is the matter with this flute? It sounds bad. I am going to break you into pieces." Not long after he asked the old woman Alokotán for the _bunkaka_ [282] and she gave it to him. When he received it he played, and the _bunkaka_ said the same as the flute. "What is the matter with this _bunkaka_ that it talks bad? I am going to break you." He put it down again and said to Alokotán, "Mother, I am going to play with the other boys." "No, do not go," said the old woman, but he went nevertheless to play with the boys. Not long after he reached the _balaua_, and he met a little boy playing with _lipi_ nuts, and they played together. "Will you come with me to the place where my mother is while I ask for my tobacco?" said Dagoláyan. "If that is what you say we will go," said Kanag. So they went to the place where Dolimáman was and the milk from her breasts went to Kanag's mouth. "Here is my son now," said Dolimáman who was lying down and she sat up. "What is the matter of this woman, she called me her son and she is not my mother," said Kanag. "Where is your mother then?" said Dolimáman. "My mother is in Nagbotobotán and her name is Alokotán," said the boy. "Ala, let us go. Where is Nagbotobotán? Guide me," said Dolimáman. As soon as they arrived, she said, "Good morning, my Aunt." "Good morning also," said Alokotán. "My son is with you," said Dolimáman. "Yes, your son is with me, because I met him by the river near the well." "How much must I pay you, my Aunt, because you found him and he has staid with you," said Dolimáman to the old woman. "I do not wish anything, for my reason for taking him was so that I might have someone to inherit my possessions, because I have no child." "That is not my mother," said Kanag to Alokotán, and she replied, "Yes, that is your mother, but your father put you on the river when you were a little boy, and I found you there and I took you, so I might have someone to inherit my things." Not long after, "Ala, my Aunt, now we are not going home we will stay here, because my husband Wadagan does not like us." So they used magic so that their house in Kadalayapan went to Nagbotobotán, and the people were surprised at the noise made by the house when it went to Nagbotobotán. They saw that it was a big house all made of gold, and they placed it near to the house of Alokotán. Not long after Wadagan made _balaua_, because he could not find his family in their golden house. Wadagan got out of the _balaua_ and said, "I am going to take a walk and see if I can meet Dolimáman and our house which is made of gold." Not long after he went to walk, and he did not meet any of them. "I am going to go to Nagbotobotán and see if the new raft went there." So Wadagan went and not long after, while he was walking, he reached the edge of the town of Nagbotobotán, and he saw the golden house, and he went to it directly, and he said, "Perhaps that was our house, for there was no other to compare with it." When he arrived in the yard he said, "Good morning." "Good morning also," said the old woman Alokotán. "How are you, my Aunt?" She said, "We are well." And he asked her if she had seen the little raft pass by and she said, "Yes, it passed by here and I took it." So they made him go upstairs and when he got up there he saw Dolimáman and Kanag, and Kanag did not know his father. "You call me father, for you are my son," said Wadagan to him. "No, you are not my father," said Kanag, "If you do not wish to call me so, then I will go home, and we will leave you here. Let us go Dolimáman. If Kanag does not like me it is all right," said Wadagan. "I don't like you, for you sent me away," said Kanag. "Go back home, we are going to stay here," said Dolimáman. So Wadagan went back home and he went everywhere and Dolimáman, Kanag and Dagoláyan staid in Nagbotobotán. (Told by Madomar of Riang.) 25 There was a man Awig and Aponibolinayen, and there was a girl named Linongan. "Ala, you make Linongan start for she goes to watch the mountain rice. You cook for her so that she goes to watch and I go to guide her," said Awig. "Why do you dislike our daughter Linongan? Do not make her go to watch for she is a girl. If she were a boy it would be all right. You know that a girl is in danger. That is why you must not put her to watch the field." "No you give her cooked rice and cooked meat and make her start, for I am ready to go now," said Awig. Not long after they went to the place where the mountain rice grew, and he went to station her in the high watch house. He commanded her to climb, and when she was in the middle of the ladder she was afraid, for she nearly fell down, it was so high. Not long after she reached the watch house. When she looked down it seemed as if her eyes fell down it was so high. "Ala, you my daughter Linongan live here and watch our rice, I will come to see you. Do not show yourself if anyone comes," said Awig to her and he went home to Natpangan. "Ala, you are so happy now, Awig, for you cannot see our daughter Linongan," said his wife Aponibolinayen, and Awig laid down in the _balaua_ and Aponibolinayen laid down in the room. As soon as Awig left Linongan in the field, the tattooed _alzados_ went to the watch house, and Linongan laid down for she was afraid of them. When the tattooed _alzados_ looked up toward the watch house it seemed as if the moon shone, "Ala, we will go up and see what that is." They went up, and when they arrived in the place where the girl was they were surprised at her beauty. "We will not kill her," said the young men to the bravest of them. "Yes," said the bravest, "get away so I can see her, if she is very beautiful." When the young men got away he cut her in two at her waist. They took her body and her head and went home. "Why did you kill her," said the young men. "So that you do not get a bad omen, young men," said the bravest of them. Not long after they had killed Linongan, "Why does my breast flutter so, Awig?" said Aponibolinayen. "I feel sad also," said Awig. "Ala, Aponibolinayen you cook food for me to take when I go and see our daughter," said Awig. Aponibolinayen truly went to cook for him. When Aponibolinayen finished cooking, "Ala, give me my dark colored clout and my belt which has pretty colors, so that I go at once to the place where the tattooed _alzados_ are. Perhaps they found our daughter. Look often at the _lawed_ which I shall plant by the stove. If it wilts so that its leaves are drooped, you can say Awig is dead." [283] When Aponibolinayen thought he had arrived at the field she looked at the _lawed_ and it was green and flourishing. Not long after Awig saw the blood below the watch house. "Perhaps this is the blood of my daughter. I am going to see if they have killed her." He climbed up, and when he got up, the body and head were not there, so he went down. As soon as he got down he sat and he bent his head, "What can I do? Where am I going to go to find my daughter?" he said. Not long after he took a walk. When he reached the jungle he looked at the big high tree. ["We can see all over the world from the high trees." This was a side remark by the story-teller.] "The best thing is for me to climb so that I watch and see where the _alzados_ live, where my daughter is," he said, and so he climbed. As soon as he climbed up he saw all over the world. He looked to the west, there were no people there who celebrated. "There is no one there," he said. He looked toward the north. There were none there who celebrated. "There is no one there," he said. He turned his face to the east, there was no one there. When he looked in the south he saw the _alzados_ who were making a celebration; and they danced with the head of his daughter. "Perhaps that is my daughter," he said. "How terrible if it is my daughter," and his tears dropped. Not long after he went down. As soon as he got down, "If I follow the path I will spend much time. The best way is for me to go through the woods, to make the way short. I will go where they are," he said, and he went. When he had almost reached the place where the _alzados_ were dancing he said, "What can I do to get the head of my daughter?" and he bent his head. Not long after he remembered to go and get the juice of the poison tree. As soon as he secured it he split some bamboo for his torch, as he went to the celebration of the _alzados_. As soon as he arrived there he said, "Good evening." "Good evening," they answered. He laid down the torch by the fire of the _alzados_, who thought him a companion. "Where did you come from? It has taken you so long to arrive we thought that you were dead. We did not meet you, but we found one lady who never goes out of the house, who is very beautiful, that is why we celebrate." "I took long because I was in the middle of the wood, for I wanted to get a head. I was ashamed to go back home without a head, but I did not meet anyone, so I did not secure one, for I had a bad sign. That is why I did not reach the town where I wanted to go and fight," he said. "Ala, make him sit down," said the bravest. "Yes," said _alzados_ and they made him sit, and they danced again. "Ala, you give him a coconut shell filled with _basi_, then he must dance, when he finishes to drink," said the bravest again. Awig stood up. "Ala, I ask that if it is possible I take the coconut shell, for I am the one who must give the people to drink, and when I have made all drink, then I will dance. I will make _kanyau_ [284] so that next time I may be successful," he said. "Ala, you give the golden cup to him, and let him serve us drink. As soon as he will make us drink we will make him dance." "Yes," they said. Not long after he took the cup and he used his power so that though he drank the _basi_ the poison which he put in the big jar would not kill him, and he drank first. As soon as he drank he made the bravest drink. Not long after he made all of them drink, and the _alzados_ all died, for he used magic so that when they had all drunk then they all died. He put a basket on his back, and he went to put the head of his daughter in the basket. He took the head into the middle of the circle, and he took all the valuable things which the _alzados_ had put on her. As soon as he got all the things he went home. When he was in the middle of the field he turned back his face and saw four young _alzados_ who followed him through the cogon grass, and he used magic so that the flame of the fire was so hot that the _alzados_ who followed could not reach him. [285] When the flame of the fire was over he turned his face again when he reached the middle of the next field. He used his magic again so that the flame was so high there that the _alzados_, who always followed, could not reach him. As soon as the flame was gone they followed again, and Awig shouted. The _alzados_ were frightened and were afraid to follow him for they were then near to Kaodanan. "Ala, we will go back or the people of Kaodanan will inherit our heads," and they went back home. Those were all who were left for Awig did not give them poison. Not long after Awig arrived in Natpangan. He went back to get the rest of his daughter's body from the place where the mountain rice grew. When he arrived in their house he joined the body and the head. They looked at her and she was sweating. "Ala, Awig you go and command someone to get the old woman Alokotán. When she speaks to the cut on our daughter's body the body and head will join better," said Aponibolinayen to Awig. Not long after, "Ala, you spirit helpers go to get old woman Alokotán of Nagbotobotán, so she will speak to the cut on Linongan," said Awig. "Yes," said the spirits and they went. Not long after they arrived at Nagbotobotán, "Good morning," they said, "What are you coming for you spirits," said old woman Alokotán. "'What are you coming for you say?' Awig sent us to call you and take you to Natpangan, for you to speak to the cut on their daughter, for the _alzados_ killed her when they sent her to watch the mountain rice." "That is why those people are bad, for when they have only one daughter they do not know how to take care of her." "Ala, what can you do, that is their custom. Please come," said the spirits. "Ala, you go first, and I follow. I ought not come for I want them to feel sorrowful for their only daughter, which they sent to the field, but I will come for I want Linongan to live. You go and I will follow," she said. "Yes," they said. When the spirits arrived in Kaodanan the old woman Alokotán arrived also. As soon as she arrived she went at once where Linongan was lying. "Ala, you Aponibolinayen and Awig this is your pay, for although you have only one daughter you sent her to the mountain field," said the old woman Alokotán to them. Awig and Aponibolinayen did not answer for they were ashamed. When the old woman had finished to talk to them she put saliva around the cut on Linongan and caused it to join. When she finished joining it, "I use my power so that when I snap my perfume [286] which is called _dagimonau_ ('to wake up') she will wake up at once." When she snapped her perfume Linongan woke up at once. "I use my power so that when I use my perfume _alikadakad_ (sound of walking or moving) she will at once make a movement." When she snapped her perfume Linongan moved at once. "I use my power so when I snap my perfume _banawes_ she will blow out her breath!" When she snapped her perfume, she at once breathed a long breath. "_Wes_ how terrible my sleep was," said Linongan. "'How terrible my sleep' you say. The tattooed _alzados_ nearly inherited you. I went to follow you because they took you to their town and they danced with your head," said Awig. Not long after Awig went to take four small branches of the tree and he used magic, "I use my power so that when the four sticks will stand they will become a _balaua_." He used his power and truly the four sticks became a _balaua_ and Aponibolinayen commanded someone to pound rice. Ten days later they made _Libon_, on the tenth night. When it became morning Awig commanded someone to go and get the betel-nut which is covered with gold. As soon as they arrived they oiled the betel-nuts. "Ala, all you betel-nuts, you go to invite the people from the other towns who are relatives so that they will come to make _balaua_ with us. You go to all the towns where our relatives live and invite them, and if they do not wish to come you grow on their knees." So the betel-nuts went. Not long after the people whom they invited came to the place where they made _balaua_ and they all danced. The companion of Ilwisan of Dagápan in dancing was Alama-an. When Ilwisan stamped his feet the earth rumbled. When he looked up at Alama-an he said, "How terrible is the love of the ladies toward me; she thinks that I love her," but he wished to dance with Linongan. When they finished dancing, Asigtanan and Dondonyán of Bagtalan danced next. When Dondonyán shook his foot the world smiled and it rained softly. When they finished dancing, Iwaginan and Linongan, who never goes outdoors, danced. When Iwaginan stamped his feet, all the coconuts in the trees fell, and when Linongan moved her toes in dancing all the tattooed fish came to breathe at her feet for the water covered the town when they danced. When they were still dancing the water flowed, only a little while, and it was only knee deep, "Ala, you Iwaginan and Linongan, stop dancing because we are deluged," said Awig and the old woman Alokotán. They stopped dancing and the water went down again from the town. "How terrible are the people who are like Kaboniyan for they are so different from us," said the other people who went to attend _balaua_ with them. Not long after, when all the people had finished dancing and the _balaua_ was over, the people went home and Iwaginan was engaged to Linongan. Aponibolinayen said, "We do not wish that our daughter be married yet," but Awig agreed. "Why do you agree, Awig, do you not like our only daughter?" said Aponibolinayen. "I like her, but it is better for her to be married. He seems to have power. Don't you know that a girl has many dangers? It is better for her to be married, because she is the only daughter we have," said Awig. Not long after they made _pakálon_. "Ala, now, sister-in-law, how much will we pay?" said Dinowágan to Aponibolinayen. "The _balaua_ three times full of jewels," said Aponibolinayen. "Ala, yes, sister-in-law," she replied. So she used her magic and the _balaua_ was three times full of jewels, and Aponibolinayen raised her eyebrows and half of the things in the _balaua_ disappeared, and Dinowágan used her power again and filled the _balaua_. "Ala, stop that is enough to pay for our daughter," said Aponibolinayen. "I pay now." "Yes," they said. "Now that we have made the payment we will go home," said Dinowágan. "If you do not let us take Linongan to Pindayan, Iwaginan will live here and I will come to visit them," said Dinowágan to Awig and Aponibolinayen. As soon as Dinowágan and her companions went home. "Ala, my wife we go to Pindayan to see our mother Dinowágan," said Iwaginan. "Yes, if that is what you say we will go," said Linongan. Not long after they asked Awig and Aponibolinayen, "You go, but do not stay long," they said. "Yes," they answered. When they arrived in Pindayan, Iwaginan and Linongan went to bathe in the river, and Iwaginan saw the place where the _alzados_ had cut Linongan in her side, and he went to make a magical well in which a person can bathe and lose all scars and wounds; and it looked as if she had no cut and she was prettier, and they went home. When they arrived in the house Dinowágan was surprised, for she was more beautiful than before. "I made the magic pool and cured the cut in her side which I saw," he said. Not long after when they had been two days in Pindayan, they went to Natpangan. 26 Dumanágan sent his mother Langa-an to Kaodanan. When she arrived there she said, "Good morning Ebang," and Ebang replied, "Good morning, cousin Langa-an. Why are you coming here?" "I came to visit you." So they made her go upstairs and they talked. Not long after they all became drunk and the old woman asked if Aponibalagen had a sister, and they told her that he had one. Soon they agreed on the day for the _pakálon_. When the day agreed on came, Aponibalagen put Aponibolinayen inside of his belt [287] so they went to Kadalayapan. As soon as they arrived at the gate of the town of Kadalayapan, Sinogyaman carried cake and rice to the gate of the town, to take away a bad sign if one had been seen while on the way. They did not like her so she went back to the town and they sent Kindi-ingan, and they did not like her either. As soon as Kindi-ingan returned they sent Aponigawani. When she arrived at the gate of the town they were very glad and Dumanágan thought that Aponibalagen had used his power so that the sweets, made of rice, were not in the basket until Aponigawani went to meet them at the gate of the town. Not long after they went up to the gate of the town and they agreed on the marriage price when Dumanágan should marry Aponibolinayen. They said the price was the _balaua_ filled nine times. Not long after when they had paid they all danced. Then the people went back home and Aponibalagen and his people went back home also. Not long after Aponibolinayen was very anxious to eat _biw_ fruit of Tagapolo. So Dumanágan went to get it for her. He arrived where the _biw_ was and he got some, and in a short time he returned to Kadalayapan and he gave the fruit to his wife to eat. As soon as she ate it she became well again. After seven months she gave birth and they called the boy Asbinan. As soon as the boy became large he went to play with the girls. As soon as Asigowan of Nagwatowátan noticed the braveness of Asbinan she made _balaua_, and she commanded the people to pound rice. Not long after she commanded the betel-nuts to go and invite their relatives. The betel-nuts went to all the towns in the world and invited all the people. The next day they oiled the _gansas_ and the people played them and all the people who heard them danced for they liked the sound of them very much. So Asbinan went to attend the _balaua_. All the people arrived at the place by the spring and a big storm came and wet all of them. Not long after the people who lived in the same town as Asigowan, which was the town of Nagwatowátan, went to meet them at the spring, to give them dry clothes. They changed their clothes and went up to the town. As soon as they all danced Asbinan saw Asigowan and he wanted to marry her. So he gave her betel-nut to chew and they told their names, and when they had told their names their quids showed that it was good for them to marry. The father and mother of Asigowan were Gagelagatan and Dinowágan, but she lived with the _alan_. Her father and mother did not know her until she made _balaua_ and Asbinan did not know her until the _balaua_, then he married her at once. As soon as he married her all his concubines used their magic power so that while he was living with Asigowan she would cut her finger. Not long after she truly cut her finger and died. They put her in the _tabalang_ [288] which had a rooster on top of it. Then all the concubines of Asbinan were glad. Not long after they sent the _tabalang_ along the stream and the rooster on top of it crowed, and the old woman Alokotán went to see it. She stopped the _tabalang_ and took out the body of the dead person. Not long after she made her alive again. As soon as she made her alive again she put her in a well and she became a beautiful girl. Not long after she became a bird and she flew back to the place where Asbinan lived. The bird flew above him, and he tried to catch it. When he could not catch her, she went to the top of a tree, and Asbinan went into his house and he was sorrowful, because his wife was dead. Soon he fell asleep and the bird went near to him and Asbinan awoke and caught it. The bird became a girl again, the same as before, and Asbinan saw that it was his wife, so he was very happy and they made a big party. They invited all their relatives. Not long after all the people arrived and they all danced. The old woman Alokotán was there and Asigowan told Asbinan that she was the woman who gave her life again, so they treated her very good and the old woman Alokotán gave them all her property, and all the people who went to attend the party were very glad. (Told by Masnal of Abang.) 27 [289] "When I was a young fellow I went to all parts of the world, to every town where the tattooed Igorot live, who were all enemies. "Mother Dinowágan put the rice in the pot which looks like the rooster's egg, [290] so that I eat rice, for I go to fight the tattooed Igorots," said Ibago wa Agimlang who was four months old. "Do not go my son Agimlang your feet are too young and your hands look like needles they are so small. You just came from my womb." "Oh, mother, Dinowágan, do not detain me for it will make me heavy for fighting," said Agimlang. As soon as he finished eating, "Mother Dinowágan and father Dagilagatan let me start, and give me the little headaxe and spear and also a shield, for I am going to walk on the mountain Daoláwan." Not long after he started. As soon as he arrived on top of the mountain Daoláwan he sat on a stone which looked like a bamboo bench under the Alangigan tree, and there were _alan_ [291] there who were young girls. "Oh, why are you here Ibago wa Agimlang who just came from your mother's womb?" said the _alan_. "'What, are you here?' you say young _alan_, whose toes on your feet are spread out. I am going to fight with the tattooed Igorot," said Ibago wa Agimlang to them, and they talked for nine months, in the place where the stone bench was. The _alan_ girls wanted to see him all the time. After that, "You young _alan_ girls, I am going to leave you." "Do not go," said the _alan_, "because you are a little baby, you just came from the place where your mother gave birth to you." "Do not detain me, young girls, for it is bad for me if you detain me, for I will be too heavy for fighting," said Ibago wa Agimlang. "If I return from war, I will invite you to attend my big party," he said to them, and so he went. Not long after he arrived at the town where the tattooed Igorot lived, and they were so many they looked like locusts. He used his power, "You, my headaxe and my spear, go and fight with the tattooed Igorot, and kill all of them." As soon as the tattooed Igorot heard what he said, they said, "Why, do you brave baby come to fight with us for, you are very young? Now you cannot return to your town, for we inherit you," said the bravest of the _alzados_. [292] "If you had said that you intended to kill me I would have killed all of you, even though I am a baby just from my mother's womb," said Agimlang. So the bravest of the _alzados_ told his people that they should prepare to fight with the baby, and they began to throw their spears at him, but they could not hit him. As soon as all the spears and headaxes were gone, the baby fought with them, and his spear and headaxes killed all the people who lived in that town. As soon as he killed all of them he used magic so that the heads of the tattooed _alzados_ went to Pindayan. Not long after truly all the heads went to Pindayan and he followed them. When he arrived at the spring of Lisnayan in the town of Ibowan he rested and he sat on the high stone and began to play the bamboo Jew's harp and Igowan saw him. "Adolan come and see this young fellow and hear him play the Jew's harp." The harp said, "Iwaginan Adolan, Inalangan come and see your brother, if he is your true brother." So Adolan went truly to see him and he found that it was a newborn baby who was just beginning to walk. "Where did you come from little baby?" said Adolan. "'Where did you come from?' you say. I come from fighting the tattooed Igorot." "How does it happen that you went to war, for you are only just from your mother's womb?" "'How does it happen?' you say. I heard my father saying that when he was young he went to all parts of the world in all the towns," said Ibago wa Agimlang to Adolan. Not long after he gave him betel-nut and they chewed. As soon as they finished chewing they told their names, and Adolan told his name first and Ibago wa Agimlang was next to tell his. After that they laid down their quids and they saw that they were brothers. "Now, my brother, Adolan we will go to Pindayan, for I am going to make a big party, for I just return from fighting," said Ibago wa Agimlang. "Ala, you go first and I will go to see our brother," said Adolan. Not long after Ibago wa Agimlang started to go and he lost his way, and he went through the mountain rice clearing of Kabangoweyan, who was the _Lakay_ [293] and he walked through many _lawed_ vines which were wide spreading and when anyone cut off a leaf they smiled. As soon as he arrived at the little house of the old man, "Oh, grandfather, tell me the way back home and I will not take your head," said Ibago wa Agimlang to the old man. "Where are you going?" he said. "I am going home to the town of Pindayan, for I am returning from fighting." "Stop while I cook, and you can eat first, and then you can go," said the old man. "No, I do not wish to eat. Tell me the way back home," said Ibago wa Agimlang. So he showed him the way to Pindayan, but missed the way and they went through the middle of the reeds, and the place where the _lawed_ vines grew, and he met the pretty girl who was his sister, who had been hiding between two leaves. "Now, pretty girl, I have found you among the _lawed_ vines, and I am going to take you," said Ibago wa Agimlang. So he took her and he put her inside of his belt. Not long after he arrived in Pindayan and he made a big party. Adolan and Iwaginan and Igowan went to attend the party. Not long after he took Inalingan out of his belt, she was a pretty girl who looked like the newly opened flower of the betel-nut tree. "Where did you get her?" "'Where did you get her?' you say. I met her in the place where there are many _lawed_ vines, and when you cut their leaves they smile," said Ibago wa Agimlang. "Now, brother, we are going to chew betel-nut, and see if we are truly relations," said Daliwagenan (Ibago wa Agimlang), and he called Adolan, Igowan, and all his brothers and sisters, and his father and mother. He gave them betel-nut to chew, and Dagilagatan and Dinowágan told their names first and Iwaginan was the next, and then Adolan and then Igowan, but he said that he was the son of the _alan_, and next was Agimlang and then the pretty girl. She said, "My name is Inaling who is the little girl who never goes out of the _lawed_ vines, which when somebody cuts they smile." After they finished chewing the betel-nut and telling their names, they laid down their quids, and the quids Igowan and Ginalingan (Inaling) went to the quids of Iwaginan and Adolan. "Oh, my son, Igowan and my daughter Ginalingan, I thought that I did not have any more my daughter and son and that the _alan_ had taken. We did not feed you rice," said the old woman Dinowágan. "Ala, my son, Agimlang, do not feel sorry, because you heard what your father Dagilagatan said to you, because you met your brothers and sister who are Igowan and Ginalingan," said the old woman Dinowágan. After that they danced for about nine months. After that Igowan and Adolan and Iwaginan went home and they did not let Ginalingan go back home. As soon as Igowan arrived in his town he built _balaua_ and he invited all his relatives who lived in different towns and all the _alan_ in the world. Not long after the people whom he invited arrived in the town of Igowan, and all the _alan_ went to his _Sayang_, and the _alan_ were surprised that Dagilagatan and Dinowágan knew that Igowan and Ginalingan were their son and daughter, so they asked them. They said that Ibago wa Agimlang met them when he came from war and he took them to his party so they knew that they were their son and daughter for they chewed betel-nut. As soon as Igowan's _Sayang_ was over the _alan_ gave all their valuable things to him, and also those who had taken Ginalingan. As soon as they had given them all their things the _alan_ flew away and Dinowágan and her husband took their sons and daughters to Pindayan. 28 [294] There was a man named Asbinan who was the son of Ayo, but the old woman Alokotán took care of him. "Ala, my grandmother Alokotán, go and engage me to Dawinisan who looks like the sunshine, for I want to marry her," said the young boy Asbinan. The old woman replied, "I do not think they will like you, for she is a young girl who never goes outdoors." [295] "Ala, grandmother, you go anyway, and if they do not like me I will see what I shall do," said Asbinan who was a handsome young man. Not long after the old woman went. As soon as she arrived at the stairs of the house of the mother and father of Dawinisan, they said, "Good morning," and the mother of Dawinisan said, "Good morning, what did you come here for, Ayo and Alokotán of Kadalayapan?" "'What did you come here for?' you say. Our son Asbinan wants to marry Dawinisan," said Ayo. She called them up into the house and they talked. "We will ask our daughter and hear what she says." When they asked Dawinisan if she wished to marry Asbinan, she said, "Oh, my mother, I am ashamed to marry yet, I do not know how to do anything; so I do not wish to be married now. Do not dislike me, but be patient with me." So her mother said, "Pretty Ayo, I think you heard what she said. Be patient." Not long after Ayo and Alokotán went back to Kadalayapan. When they arrived there, Asbinan asked them the result of their mission. "Did they wish me to marry their daughter Dawinisan?" His mother replied, "They said that Dawin-isan does not wish to be married yet; so we came back home." When he knew that they did not wish him for a son-in-law, for they did not give any reason, he thought and he said, "My mother, hand me my golden cup, for I am going away." So his mother gave it to him. As soon as he arrived in the yard of Dawinisan, he said, "Good morning, Dawinisan, will you look out of the window at me?" Dawinisan said to the _alan_, who had spreading toes and who bent double when they walked, [296] "Look out of the window and see who it is." The _alan_ said to her, "He wants you to look at him." Dawinisan said, "I cannot go to the window to look at him, for the sunshine is hot. I do not wish the sun to shine in my face." When Asbinan could not get her to go to the window, he used magic and went inside of the golden cup, and he pretended that he was ill in his stomach. He said, "Ana, mother, I am going to die, for my stomach suffers greatly," and he said to the _alan_, "Ala, you _alan_, tell her that she must look out of the window to see me." The _alan_ said to Dawinisan, "Come and look at him; he wants you to see him. He says that his stomach is ill." But Dawinisan said to the _alan_, "Tell him that I cannot go and look at him, I am ashamed. You look at him and then you rub his stomach." The _alan_ told Asbinan that Dawinisan would not look at him, and he would not let the _alan_ rub his stomach. He said, "If Dawinisan does not want to look at me from the window, and if I die it is her fault, for I came here because of her." The _alan_ who saw that Asbinan was a beautiful young boy, said, "If you will not go to look at him, we are going to leave you, for we fear that he is going to die because of you." Dawinisan did not wish the _alan_ to leave her, and she said, "Ala, bring him up on the porch and I will see him." The _alan_ took him up on the porch, and she went to look at him. When she saw that he was a handsome boy, she said, "I am ashamed, for I did not think he was a rich and handsome boy." When she saw that the boy appeared to be suffering greatly she went into the house; she changed her dress and went out on the porch, and she looked like the sunshine. When she reached the porch, she rubbed the boy's stomach, and directly Asbinan sat up. Dawinisan said to him, "Come into the house and we will tell our names and see if we are relatives." So they went into the house and she told him to set down on a golden seat which looked like a fawn. As soon as he sat down he said, "Pretty, young girl, when I see you I am blinded by your beauty. I came here because I wish to marry you." "Oh, Asbinan! I am ashamed, but I do not want to be married yet," said Dawinisan. "Dawinisan, even if you tell me to leave you, I will not do it until you promise to marry me. I will stay with you now," he said. Dawinisan replied, "Even though you should stay here one month, I do not care," Asbinan said. "Let us chew betel-nut and see if the quids turn to beads with no hole, and lie side by side; or if they lie parallel, then it is not good for us to marry; so we shall see." Not long after they chewed betel-nut, and when they laid down their quids they were agate beads, and they laid side by side; so they saw it was good for them to marry. "Ala, now it is good for us to marry and we are related." Dawinisan replied, "Ala, go and tell your mother that if they have everything we want and will pay what we want, you can marry me." Asbinan said, "Yes," and he went to his grandmother Alokotán. "Ala, my grandmother Alokotán, what shall we do? Dawinisan said that if we have everything they want and will pay it for her, she will marry me." The old woman said, "Ala, do not worry about that, I will see." Not long after they started and took Asbinan, and when they arrived at the house of Dawinisan they agreed on the marriage price. Her mother said, "If you can fill our _balaua_ nine times with gold shaped like deer, and jars which are _addeban_ and _ginlasan_, Asbinan can marry our daughter." Alokotán and the others replied, "Ala, if that is what you say it is all right, and we can pay more." So Alokotán used magic and the _balaua_ was filled nine times with the things they wished, and there were more golden deer than jars. The father and mother and relatives of the girl said, "Asbinan and our daughter Dawinisan can be married now." When the _pakálon_ was over, Alokotán used magic and she said, "I use my power so that they will not know that they are transferred to Kadalayapan," and all the houses went to Kadalayapan. Not long after the people who went to attend the _pakálon_ found that they were in Kadalayapan and they were surprised, and the people from the other towns went home when the _pakálon_ was finished. 29 "I am going to lie down on the stone which is like a seat below the _dumalotau_ tree," said Ayo, for she felt hot in the middle of the day. "What shall we call our son?" "We shall call him Asbinan, who looks like the spreading branch of the betel-nut tree which looks pretty in the afternoon," said Ligi, her husband. "Ala! Agben, my loving son, go to eat," said Ayo. "Mother--pretty Ayo--I do not wish to eat when we have no fish roe." After that Ligi went to his friends who use the big fish net in the ocean. "Ala, my friends, search fish roe, for my son Asbinan wishes to eat." They went to examine the bellies of nine baskets of fish, but there was no roe. He went to his friends who fish in the river. "Ala, friends secure fish roe which my son wishes to eat." Soon after, "How much do I pay?" "You do not pay, for this is the first time you have come to buy," said those friends who fish in the river. "Agben, my child, come and eat." "Mother, pretty Ayo, I do not wish to eat the fish roe when there is no _dolang_, [297] and I do not like to drink out of the scraped cocoanut shell when there is no glass which comes from the place of the Chinese, and I do not like to eat from the bamboo dish when there is no dish from Baygan (Vigan)." After that Ligi went and got the cup and the dish from the Chinese store. "Agben, my loving son, come and eat, for everything is here which you wish," said pretty Ayo. When they had finished eating, "Father Ligi give me your love charm [298] which you used when you were young, for I wish to go to the place where the maidens spin at night." "Good evening, young girls," said Asbinan. "I do not like to light my tobacco unless the fire is taken from the light of your pipes." They were anxious to offer their pipes, but when Tiningbengan stubbed her toe she stopped and Sinobyaman, who was the prettiest, was the one on whom he blew his smoke (a part of the love charm). She vomited and her eyes were filled with tears, and after that they went home, all those who spun together. "Ala! go and fetch Asbinan, for she (Sinobyaman) turns over and over and sways to and fro since he blew on her last night." They went to get Asbinan who was sleeping, and he stepped on their heels as they walked. "Ala, aunt, I cannot cure her unless we are married." Then they decided on the day for _pakálon_, and the price was the lower part of the house filled nine times with jars, which are _malayo_ and _tadogan_. Then she made the cakes for the parents-in-law, and they carried the pig, and they received the marriage price which was the lower part of the house nine times filled. 30 "Ala! my wife Iwánen who loves me every afternoon, make cakes of rice which shall be my provisions when I go to the southern place San Fernando and Baknotan, which is a part of Pangasinan. [299] I am going to investigate the report concerning the beautiful women, who are like the rift in the clouds--the escaping place of the moon--; who are like the bright stems of good betel-nuts." "Ala! my soldiers who are many, catch my horse which is a pinto, which paces, which walks fast, which goes, which gallops, which has sore sides." "It is here already, the horse which is a pinto, the saddle is already placed." "Ala! now my wife Iwánen, I am going to leave you here. Keep your honor as a person of wealth. Perhaps some one will entice you and we two will be ashamed before the people of our town." After that he went and started--Tolagan who went toward the south. He whipped the pinto, he ran, he walked. When he was in the town of Kaodanan his body was thirsty. "I go to the place of betel-nuts, where I shall drink the water which is white like coconut oil." He arrived at the place of the betel-nuts. He met a maiden who was like the place of a large fire. There was no other such maiden. "Good morning, maiden who takes water in the shady place of the leaves which grow, which are stripped off in the middle of the place of betel-nuts, which bear fruit which anyone gathers. I come to drink with you the water which looks like oil," said Tolagan. "If you are the old raider cut me only once so that I have less to heal," (she said). "No, I am not the old raider, for I live in Baliwanan and I go to the south to Pangasinan." "Do not continue the journey, for you have a bad sign. The birds skimmed past in front of you, also in the rear and the sides. [300] Go back to Baliwanan." "If that is what you say pretty one, I shall turn back because of this sign." He arrived at Baliwanan, but his wife was not there, for she had run away with Kaboniyan [301] to the town of the sky. There was not a place he did not search for her. He went to the head man. "Ala, _presidente_ of our town, I come to ask for companions while I search for my wife, who vanished last night." He gave (the searchers), but when they did not find her, he went to another town. He went to the place of Baingan in the town of the north. "Good morning, I came to ask companions to search for her who was absent last night." "If that is still your trouble" said Baingan, "you go and see my sister, who is Imbangonan, whom you shall take for wife, who cannot belt herself unless there are nine belts. She is in the middle of the place of the betel-nuts." "Good morning, Imbangonan," said Tolagan. "I came to see you, for your brother told me we are to marry if you like me." "If you like me, we will chew green betel-nut and see what is your fortune." When they finished chewing, the two quids went into a line. "Ala! we will marry if you agree to pay 100 _gumtang_ and 50 _ginalman_". [302] 31 There were two girls who went to take a walk and a rich man met them, and he asked, "Where are you going, you two girls?" "We are going to walk around the town." The rich man said, "Come and walk with me." When they reached their house he gave them some work to do and he treated them just the same as his daughters. The rich man was a king, and he put the girls in a room and the princesses Mary and Bintolada were in the other room. The king and the queen gave dresses to the girls but they did not give them any bracelets and rings. Not long after the two girls went to the house of the jeweler and they ordered him to make rings and bracelets for them like those the princesses had. As soon as they went in the house of Indayo and Iwaginan in the town of Pindayan, they asked for water to drink. After that Iwaginan and Indayo gave them water to drink, and they thought that the two girls, who were dressed like men, were ladies, so they followed them when they left and they took _basi_ for them to drink. As soon as the princesses arrived in the jeweler's house they commanded him to make rings and bracelets for them. As soon as the jeweler began to make the rings and bracelets for them Iwaginan and Indayo arrived with the _basi_. Soon it became night and they ate and drank in the night and they became drunk, and they all slept in one room. The people saw the beads on their arms and the jeweler awakened them and put them in another room so they did not sleep in the same room with the others and he said, "I thought you were princes, for you dress like princes, but when I saw your beads I woke up, for I think those two men are planning bad for you. Go and sleep in the other room." So they went into the other room to sleep. Not long after it became daylight and they returned home, and Iwaginan and Indayo did not see them, and they were very sorry for they thought the princes were truly girls. So they went back home, and as soon as they arrived there they said, "We are going to make _balaua_, to find out if those princes were truly girls." So they began to build _balaua_. They sent messengers to go and invite people in every town. Not long after the people whom they invited arrived, and they saw that the princes were not there. So they commanded their spirit aids to go to all the world and find those princes. So the spirits became hawks and they flew about the world. As soon as they came near to the palace of the king they alighted on a tree and they watched the princesses in the windows and hawks said, "_Tingi_." The princesses heard the word "_Tingi_," and they were Ganinawan and Asigtanan. They saw the birds from the window, and the hawks flew by them and the princesses stroked their feathers, because they were pretty. Soon the hawks seized them in their talons and flew away with them and carried them to Pindayan. Not long after they reached there and Iwaginan and Indayo were very glad, and they made a big party and they invited the king. The king had been searching for them for a long time. Some of the spirit helpers who had gone to the palace said, "Good morning. We came here to invite you, for Iwaginan and Indayo sent us. They are making a big party for those princesses for whom you are searching, for we took them to Pindayan, and Iwaginan and Indayo married them." When the king heard the news he was glad, and he went to the party. Indayo and Iwaginan made him dance when he arrived, and Kanag and Dagoláyen went to that party. Not long after they put those girls, whom Iwaginan and Indayo had stolen, in their belts and they did not know what had become of their wives and they were sorry. Kanag and Dagoláyen took them home. When they arrived home they told their names and they chewed betel-nut and they found that it was good for them to be married, instead of Iwaginan and Indayo. Kanag married Asigtanan and Dagoláyen married Ganinawan. The mother of Ganinawan was Aponibolinayen and the mother of Asigtanan was Aponigawani. As soon as they were married and they had learned who their mothers were they built _balaua_, and they sent some betel-nuts to invite all of their relatives in other towns. Iwaginan and Indayo went to attend the _balaua_, and they danced. They saw that those girls were their wives and they tried to take them back home, but Kanag and Dagoláyen would not let them. They said it was not good for them to be married even though they wished to be married to them, because the girls would become oil when they went close to them. So Indayo and Iwaginan were very sorry. Ganinawan was the sister of Kanag and Asigtanan was the sister of Dagoláyen. They did not find out that they were related until Indayo and Iwaginan took them, for their mothers had lost them in miscarriages, and the girls became women by themselves, and the king found them. (Told by Talanak of Manabo.) Ritualistic and Explanatory Myths 32 [303] The Ipogau [304] are making _Sayang_. [305] "Why do not those Ipogau who are making _Sayang_ start the _balaua_ [306] correctly?" said the spirits above. Those _anitos_ [307] who are married, who are Kadaklan and Agemem, [308] say, "It is better that you carry the pig." Then truly they carried the pig up the river, those two Ipogau who are married. "Ala! you walk and walk until you arrive at Sayau, for a person who lives there is making _Sayang_," said the spirits. After that they arrived, those who are married who carried the pig, at the place of the man who made _Sayang_. "Where are you going?" asked the man of Sayau of those who carried the pig. "We came to see how you make _Sayang_, for we have not yet learned how to make _Sayang_ correctly," said those who are married. "Ala! watch what I am doing and imitate." They watched what he did when he made _Sayang_, and he did everything. He made _balag, sagoyab, aligang,_ they made also _tangpap_, they made _adagang, balabago_, and what is needed for _al-lot_. [309] After that, "You go home, and when you make _Sayang_ you do as I did," said the man from Sayau. They went home truly, those Ipogau, and they imitated the man who made _Sayang_ in Sayau; then those who are married--Kadaklan and Agemem--caused the spirits to come whom they called, those who made _diam_ when they built _balaua_. (Here the medium names the spirits which cause sickness.) Now you get better, you who build _balaua_. 33 [310] "Those who knew to make _dawak_, went to make _dawak_, but they did not prepare the pig correctly. Not long after Kaboniyan, [311] above, was looking down on those who make _dawak_. Kaboniyan went down to them, he went to tell those preparing the pig, because they did not prepare it correctly--those two who make _dawak_. After that they prepared the pig correctly and the sick person got well of the sickness. "Ala, when there is again the repetition of the sickness to the person for whom you go to make _dawak_, do not neglect to prepare the pig correctly, so that the sick person may get better, whom you try to make well. I also, Kaboniyan, prepare correctly when there is a person for whom I make _dawak_, and you, Ipogau, do not prepare correctly when you make _dawak_." After that when there is the person they go to cure who is sick, they always prepare correctly because it was Kaboniyan who told them to do always like that. When some one is ill whom they go to cure, they prepare correctly. 34 [312] The spirit who lives in Dadaya [313] lies in bed; he looks at his _igam_ [314] and they are dull. He looks again, "Why are my _igam_ dull? Ala, let us go to Sudipán where the Tinguian live and let us take our _igam_, so that some one may make them bright again." After that they laid them (the _igam_) on the house of the Ipogau [315] and they are all sick who live in that house. Kaboniyan [316] looked down on them. "Ala, I shall go down to the Ipogau." He truly went down to them, "What is the matter with you?" "We are all sick who live in the same place," said those sick ones. "That is true, and the cause of your sickness is that they (the spirits) laid down their _igam_ on you. It is best that you make _Pala-an_, since you have received their _igam_, for that is the cause of your illness." After that they made _Pala-an_ and they recovered from their sickness, those who lived in the same place. (Here the medium calls the spirits of Dadaya by name and then continues.) "Now those who live in the same place make bright again those _igam_ which you left in their house. Make them well again, if you please." 35 [317] Those who live in the same town go to raid--to take heads. After they arrive, those who live in the same town, "We go and dance with the heads," said the people who live in the same town, "because they make a celebration, those who went to kill." "When the sun goes down, you come to join us," said the mother and baby (to her husband who goes to the celebration). After that the sun truly went down; she went truly to join her husband; after that they were not (there), the mother and the baby (i.e., when the father arrived where they had agreed to meet, the mother and child were not there). He saw their hats lying on the ground. He looked down; the mother and the baby were in (the ground), which ground swallowed them. "Why (are) the mother and the baby in the ground? How can I get them?" When he raises the mother and the baby, they go (back) into the ground. After that Kaboniyan above, looking down (said), "What can you do? The spirits of Ibal in Daem are the cause of their trouble. It is better that you go to the home of your parents-in-law, and you go and prepare the things needed in _Ibal_ [318]," said Kaboniyan. They went truly and prepared; after that they brought (the things) to the gate. After that the mother and child came out of the ground. "After this when there is a happening like this, of which you Ipogau are in danger, you do like this (i.e., make the _Ibal_ ceremony) and I alone, Kaboniyan, am the one you summon," said Kaboniyan. After that they got well because they came up--the mother and the baby. 36 [319] There is a very old woman in the sea who says to her spirits--Dapeg (a spirit which kills people) and Balingenngen (a spirit which causes bad dreams) and Benisalsal (a spirit which throws things and is unpleasant), "Go beyond the sea and spread your sicknesses." The spirits are going. They arrive and begin their work, and if the people do not make _Sangásang_ many will die. Now it is morning and the spirits are going to the river to see what the people have offered to the old woman, who is Ináwen (mother). If they do not find anything, they will say, "All the people in this town shall die," and then they will go on to another place. Ináwen, who is waiting, sends Kideng (a servant) to search for the spirits who are killing people, to tell them to return. Dapeg leaves the first town. He goes to another and the dogs bark so that the people cannot sleep. A man opens the door, to learn the cause of the barking, and he sees a man, fat and tall, with nine heads and he carries many kinds of cakes. The man says, "Now take these cakes, and if you do not make Sangásang for my mistress, at the river, you shall die. You must find a rooster with long tail and spurs; you must mix its blood with rice and put it in the river at dawn when no one can see you." The man makes _Sangásang_ the next night, and puts the blood mixed with rice in a well dug by the river, so that the spirits may take it to their mistress. Kideng also arrives and says, "You must come with me now, for she awaits you who are bearing this offering." They go and arrive. Their mistress eats and says, "I did not think that the blood of people tasted so badly, now I shall not send you again, for you have already killed many people." 37 [320] "You whom I send, go to the place where our relatives live in Sudipán," [321] said Maganáwan of Nagbotobotán, "because I desire very much the blood of the rooster mixed with rice." He gave his cane and sack, "When you arrive at the place (of those who live) in Sudipán you wave my cane and the husks of betel-nut which are here in my sack." They truly waved when they arrived: many snakes (were creeping) and many birds (flying) when they waved there by the gate. "How many snakes and birds now," said the Ipogau. [322] "Go! command to make _Sangásang_" said the married ones. "We shall wait the blood of the rooster mixed with rice, because they remember to command to make _Sangásang_" said those who Maganáwan of Nagbotobotán commanded. They took the blood of the rooster mixed with rice, which was put in the _saloko_ [323] in the yard; they arrived to their master. "How slow you are," said Maganáwan. "We are only slow, because there was no one who listened to us where we arrived first," said those whom he commanded; "we went up (the river) until there was one who remembered to command to make _Sangásang_, which is what we now bring to you--the blood of the rooster mixed with rice." They gave; he put in his mouth--the one who commanded them--he spit out. "Like this which is spit out (shall be) the sickness of the Ipogau who remember me," said Maganáwan of Nagbotobotán. After that it is as if nothing had happened to the family. 38 [324] The Ipogau are digging where they make stand the poles of their houses. "You go to give the sign," said the master of the sign to the _siket_. [325] _Siket_ went. "Why do we have a bad sign? We remove the poles," said the Ipogau, and they removed that there might be no bad sign. The deer went to call when they were digging where they removed those poles which they made stand. "We remove again the poles," said the Ipogau, and they removed again. When they were digging, where they made to stand those poles which they removed, the wild pig went to grunt. They removed again the poles which make the house. As before, the snake went to climb the pole with which they made the house, and they removed again. When they were digging again where they made the poles stand with which they made the house, the _labeg_ [326] skimmed over, and as they had a bad sign the Ipogau moved again the poles with which they made the house. "Koling," and "Koling" and again "Koling" (the bird cried); they removed again the log which they made stand, with which they made the house. The _salaksák_ clucked, who flew where they dug, where they made those poles stand, with which they made the house. Since they have the bad sign again, they say to the others--those who make the poles stand--"We are very tired always to dig and dig, and to make stand and make stand those poles, we go ahead to make the house," and they placed their lumber and they went--one family of the Ipogau. Then they finished what they built, their house. There was nothing good for them, and there was nothing which was not their sickness (i.e., they had all manner of sickness). "My wife," said Kaboniyan, "give me the coconut oil, that I oil my spear, for I go to see those Ipogau who are sick." When those Ipogau who were sick were in their house, his spear fell in their house. "What is the matter with you, Ipogau?" said Kaboniyan. "What is the matter with you, you say, and there is nothing which we do not do for our sickness, and we are never cured," said those Ipogau. And Kaboniyan answered, "How can you become cured of your sickness when you have a bad sign for that which you made--your house? The reason of your sickness is because you do not make _Sangásang_. The good way (is) you find a rooster, and that you command the one who knows how to make _diam_ of the _Sangásang_ to make _Sangásang_. I (am) always the one for whom you make _diam_," said Kaboniyan. And truly, before they had finished making _Sangásang_, it was as if there had been nothing wrong, that family was cured of their sickness. 39 [327] The poles of the Ipogau's house were quarreling. Said the floor supports to the poles who were quarreling, "What can you do if I am not?" "What can you do if I am not?" said the foot-boards to those floor supports who are quarreling. "What can you do if I am not?" said the cross supports to those floor supports who are quarreling. "What can you do if I am not?" said the cross supports to those foot-boards who are quarreling. "What can you do if I am not?" said the floor to those cross supports who are quarreling. "What can you do if I am not?" said the wall to the floor boards who are quarreling. "What can you do if I am not?" said the beams to the wall boards who are quarreling. "What can you do if I am not?" said the _pongo_ [328] to the beams who are quarreling. "What can you do if I am not?" said the _daplat_ [329] to the _pongo_ who are quarreling. "What can you do if I am not?" said the end pole to those _daplat_ who are quarreling. "What can you do if I am not?" said the _salabáwan_ to those end poles who are quarreling. "What can you do if I am not--who am _legpet_?" said those _legpet_ to those _salabáwan_, "Though you are _legpet_, you can do nothing if I am not," said the _gakot_, "because you fall," said the _gakot_ to the _legpet_ who are quarreling. "And what can you all do if I am not, who am grass? you all decay if I am not," said the grass (roof) to those who are quarreling. "Therefore we are all the same use to the house of the Ipogau; we will unite our thoughts and breath, so that in the same manner the thoughts of the Ipogau are united, who live in us," said those who are quarreling. And they united their thoughts and breath. After that the Ipogau who were sick were cured, those who lived in the house. It was as if there was nothing bad for that family. 40 [330] The great spirit lives in the sky, and he is carrying the goods of the people. He says to himself, "To whom shall I give these goods which I am carrying? I shall take them to the earth." He looked down on Bisau, for the people there promised to make _Ubaya_. Soon the people saw a man entering the town and they sent a man to prevent him [331]. He said, "Let me come in, for I bring goods for you. Your food and animals and other things which you need shall be increased." After that he said, "Let all the people in the world know of this so that they will make _Ubaya_ for me, and I will aid them also." 41 Dayapán was a woman who lived in Ka-alang. For seven years she was sick. She went to the spring to bathe and while she was in the water a spirit sent by Kadaklan [332] entered her body. The spirit held sugar-cane and rice. He said to her, "Take this sugar-cane and rice and plant them in the ground. After you reap the sugar-cane and rice, you will build a bin to hold the rice, and a sugar mill for the cane; after that you will make _Sayang_ and that will make you well." Dayapán took those things and went back home. She planted the sugar-cane and rice. When she was planting, the spirit entered her body again and taught her how to plant. When she reaped the sugar-cane and rice, she began to make _Sayang_. The spirit Kaboniyan went again into her to teach her how to make _Sayang_. The spirit said, "Send a man to get _bolo_ (bamboo) and weave it into _talapitap_. [333] Take _lono_ and _bolo_ as big as a finger and make _dakidak_, and put a jar with water upstairs in the house. Dance _daeng_ [334] for ten nights. You will pass seven evenings, then you will build _balaua_. [335] Send some persons to get wood and bamboo and rattan and cogon, and take ten baskets with cooked rice to follow the number of nights (i.e., on the first night one basket of cooked rice on the _talapitap_; the second night, two; and so on). When you finish the time you will know how to make _dawak_ and to call all the spirits, and you will teach the people how to do _dawak_." When she finished the _dawak_, the spirit sent her to wash in the river as a sign that she had finished _Sayang_. He told her to get a dog and a cock. She went to the river and she tied the cock and the dog by the water, and while she was gone, the dog killed the cock. Dayapán wept, but for a long time the spirit did not come. When Kaboniyan came again, he said, "If the dog had not killed the cock, no person would die, but this is a sign and now somebody will die and some will be well." Dayapán went home and when she arrived there she began to learn to make _dawak_, and she called all people to hear her and she told all she had seen and heard. Then the people believed her very much. When somebody was sick, they called Dayapán to see them and to show them how to make them well. So Dayapán taught them all kinds of _dawak_ which the spirit had told her because before when Dayapán was sick, no one knew the _dawak_. [336] 42 Many years ago there was a woman whose name was Bagutayka. She had had only one daughter whose name was Bagan. A boy who lived in Lantágan wished to marry Bagan, but she did not wish to marry him because she had no vagina, and she was ashamed. Her mother said, "Take this little pot with pictures on the outside, and this sucker of banana and go to the roadside where people are passing. When people are passing, you will make them sick in their knees or feet." Then poor Bagan went by the roadside. In a short time a man passed by her; after that he was sick in his knees and did not walk, he only lived in his house, and could not move his hands or feet. His parents were troubled to find medicine for him, for none they found did him good. They used all the medicine that they knew. Then Bagan went to see him in his house and told him to make _bawi_. [337] The sick man said to her, "How do we make _bawi_, for we have never heard about that?" Bagan said, "Bring me a white cloth, a basket of rice, some thread, a betel-nut, coconut, a rooster, and _toknang_." [338] They brought all of these, and Bagan took them. Then they built a _bawi_ in the garden and planted the sucker by it. They broke the coconut shell, killed the rooster, and took his feathers to put in the coconut husk, and they broke the coconut meat. They made _sablau_ near the _bawi_ and put the coconut meat in it. When they had done this, the man who was sick was as good as if he had not been sick, he could walk just as before. This is the way the Tinguian people learned to make _bawi_. 43 [339] In the first times Kaboniyan told a sick man to go to the mango tree at the edge of the village. "Take a feather for your hair, a clay dish with oil, a headaxe, a spear, and a small jar of _basi_, when you go to the tree." He did as he was bidden, and when he reached the tree the _pináing_ [340] were there. "Ala! now kill a small pig and offer its blood mixed with rice. Oil the heads of the stones well, and decorate them with yellow head bands. When you do this Apadel will always guard the town." The man and his companion always did as Kaboniyan said, and when they made _balaua_, or were sick, or went to fight, they did this. They ate of the pig, they played the _gansas_ and danced. All who obeyed were always well, but one man who urinated on the stones became crazy. One day when the people were preparing to go and fight against Manabo, [341] they went to the _pináing_, and while they danced a red rooster with long tail feathers came out of the stones and walked around them. When they stopped dancing, he went again into the stones. Since that time a white cock has sometimes appeared and once a white dog came out while the people danced. 44 [342] One night a man saw a woman, who wore a black cloth, walking near the _pináing_. When she would not speak to him, he cut her in the thigh with his _bolo_. [343] She ran to the stones and vanished. Next morning the man went to the guardian stones and found one of them cut in the middle, as it is now. The man soon died of smallpox. 45 [344] In the first times, the old men saw the stones traveling together down the river. Above them flew many blackbirds. Then the people went down to the river and watched the stones on their journey. After that they caught them and put them near to the gate of the town, where they still remain. 46 The evil spirit Ibwa once had a body like a man and used to visit the people. In those days they kept the body of the dead person seven days, and when the fat ran from the body they caught it and placed it in the grave. [345] One day when he visited a funeral, a man gave Ibwa some of this fat to drink. Since that time he has always been bad and always tries to eat the body of the dead and steals his clothes. He comes to the funeral with another evil spirit Akóp, who has a large head, long slim arms and legs, but no body. Kaboniyan has told us how to keep the evil spirits away, but if we fail to do as he said, they always make trouble. 47 A man died. He had a wife and married son. They buried him under the house and made _bagongon_. [346] After that his wife was in the field and was watching their corn. His daughter-in-law was in the house watching her baby. While she was swinging the baby, the dead man said, "Take this _saloyot_ [347] to Gadgadawan." The girl took it. The spirit said to her, "Let me swing the baby and you cook the _saloyot_ in Gadgadawan." When she cooked it, the spirit ate it, and he asked, "Where is your mother-in-law?" She said, "She is in the field watching the corn." The spirit went there. When he reached there, his wife was afraid of him, but she did not run. He slept there that night with his wife, and he did what he wished with her that night. In the daytime he went away. His wife got big stomach, but had no baby, and died. The spirit did that because the fire for the dead man was not out yet and she had gone from the town before the _kanyau_ [348] was past. 48 One man in Solay [349] said to another, "Tomorrow we meet on the mountain to get wild carabao." The other man agreed, and early the next morning the first man set out on horseback. The second man died that night, but the first man did not know this. When he got to the place agreed, he said "Sh-sh" through his teeth, and the spirit of the dead answered a little way off. The man went towards the answer and signalled again. The spirit again answered, and then the man saw the spirit of the dead, which was very big, was running to catch him. He ran his horse at full speed, but the spirit was gaining when the _lasta_ [350] on the saddle caught on a dead limb and was jerked away. "Very good that you leave that or I would take your life," said the spirit. Then the man ran his horse until he got to Solay. When he got there, he could not get off his horse, for his legs were stuck very tight to each side of the horse, so a man had to pull each leg loose and lift him from the saddle. That is why we know that the spirits of the dead men sometimes do harm and go places. 49 A man and his wife were living in the field where they planted corn and rice. When they were there, the man died. The woman did not want to go to the town, because there was no one to watch the dead man. She could not bury him. The Ibwa [351] noticed that there was a dead man in the house. He sent one of his sons to get the dead man. When the Ibwa came in the house, the woman took the headaxes and cut him in the doorway. The Ibwa went under the house. His father could not wait for him; he sent his second son and his third son. The boys could not take the body, because they were afraid of the headaxes, for the woman had one in each hand. The Ibwa went there. He said to his sons, "Why do you not take the dead man?" His sons said, "We could not take him, because if we go up in the house the woman takes the two headaxes and tries to kill us." Ibwa went up into the house; he broke the door of the house. He said to the woman, "Now I am your husband." The Ibwa took the two ears of the dead man; he ate one and gave the other to the woman to chew, like betel-nut, to see the sign. The sign of the saliva was good. He made the woman's two breasts into one in the center of her chest. He took her to his house. 50 The stems of the _alangtin_ are good charms against the spirits of the dead, and are often worn concealed in the hair or hat. There were two brothers, and one died. The other went to hunt and killed a deer. While he had it over the fire to singe, his dead brother's spirit came to him. [352] Then the man began to cut the meat into small pieces, and as fast as he cut it up, the spirit ate it; and as fast as he ate it, the meat came out of his anus. When the meat was almost all gone, the man became very much afraid and started to run, and the spirit chased him. When he ran where some _alangtin_ grew, the spirit stopped and said, "If you had not gone to the _alangtin_, I would have eaten you also." 51 One person was dead in a town. They buried him under the house. They did not put _banal_ [353] and a plow iron over the grave. The Ibwa went there and saw there was no _banal_ on the grave, so he was not afraid. He went there and took the dead man. He put one foot of the dead man over each shoulder and let him hang down over his back. A man saw him while he was walking in the street. The man told the people in the town what he had seen. The people did not believe it and went to see the grave. No dead man there, only the clothes and mat. 52 It is good to put some branches of trees in the ground near your head when you sleep out doors, so the spirits can not spit on you, for if they do, you will die. One man who had lost his carabao went to the mountains to find; and at night he did not find, so he lay down near the path to sleep. He did not put any branches near his head, and in the night an evil spirit came and wanted to eat him; but when the spirit saw that he had the skin disease, he did not care to eat, so he spit on him. The man got up and went home, but soon he got sick and died. 53 When Itneg [354] go to hunt or have to sleep anywhere that spirits can get them it is good to use _sobosob_ [355] or _banal_ under them for a mat. Two men were in the mountains and had no mats to sleep on, so they pulled much _sobosob_ and put it under them. That night the evil spirits came to get them but did not come very near. The men heard them say that they wanted to get them, but that it was bad for them if they got near the _sobosob_, so they left them alone. (_Sobosob_ and _banal_ are sometimes put with the plow iron over a new grave as an added protection.) 54 In the first time, three Tinguian went to hunt. At night they lay down to sleep and one of them, who had a _kambaya_, [356] had not gone to sleep when two spirits came near and saw him under the blanket. One turned to the other and said, "Here we have something to eat, for here is a little pig." Then that man took the blanket from the other man and put his blanket in its place, and the spirits came and ate that man. So we know it is bad to use that kind of blanket when you go where the spirits can get. 55 A man and woman had a beautiful daughter whom they always kept in the house. [357] One day while they were away in the fields, the girl went outside to pound rice. While she pounded, the spirit Bayon who lives in the sky came to see her. He was like a fresh breeze. Then the girl was like a person asleep, for she could not see nor hear. When she awoke in the sky, she dropped her rice pounder so that it fell near her home and then the people knew she was above. Bayon changed her two breasts into one large one, which he placed in the middle of her chest. When her parents made _Sayang_, the mediums called Bayon and his wife to come. They still come when some one calls them in the _Sayang_. The woman's name is Lokadya. 56 In the first times men went to the mountains to hunt deer and hogs. One man kept his dog in the open land outside of the forest, to wait for the game. While he waited there with his dog, the big bird Banog came to take him away; and it flew with him over the mountains near to Licuan. [358] The bird took him to her nest in the tree. There were two young birds in the nest. When the bird laid him in the nest he was on a branch of the tree. Three young pigs were in the nest. The bird went away to get animals. After it went away, the man cut the meat in small pieces for the young birds, and the man ate also because the tree was big and he could not go away. The bird brought deer and pigs all the time, and the man always cut the meat in small pieces. After a while the two young birds could fly near to the nest. When they were standing outside of the nest he held on to their wings and the birds flew down under the tree. Then the man took his bolo and cut off their heads and took them to his town and made _layog_ [359] for the heads. After the man's _layog_, he wanted to go to _alzados_ [360] town to fight them. He had been near to the _alzados_ town about one month. While he was away, his wife died. He came back to the town and in the way he met his wife (her spirit) with a cow and two pigs. The man asked his wife where she was going. She said to him, "I am not a person any more, I am dead." Her husband wanted to touch her hand and his wife gave only her shortest finger. Her husband said, "Wait a while for me, I will go with you." His wife said, "If you go to our house, take the white chicken and you will see the footmarks of the cow and pigs." He followed the footmarks, and while he was walking he saw his wife washing in the river, under the tree. She said, "You come and I go with you to own town (i.e., spirit town), and I will put you in the rice bin, because the people in the town will want to eat you in the nighttime; but if they come in the nighttime, you must take some of the feathers of the chicken and throw at them, and I will bring you something to eat." They went to the spirit town, and she put him in the rice bin, and gave him something to eat. In the evening, the spirits came to eat the man. The man took some of the feathers and threw at them. The spirits were afraid of the feathers. They did this every night, and his wife brought him something to eat every day. The spirits said to the man's wife, "We smell Ipogau." [361] His wife said, "No Ipogau in here." In about two weeks the feathers were nearly gone. Then his wife told him, "It is better for you to go home, because there are no more feathers. I will give you some rice for you to eat in the way. I will show you the road." The man agreed, and they went in the way. She showed him the road. While the man was walking in the way he saw his town and he asked for his wife. They said his wife was dead and they had buried her under his house; then he made _layog_ for his wife. 57 The father of Siagon [362] was head man of Patok. He walked one night on the road which goes to Domayko. In the road he saw a big man whom he thought was Padawil. Then he smelt a bad odor and knew it was a _ladag_ [363] He struck it with his whip and it said, "Hah." It was night and he ran very fast to the council house, and on the way he threw away his clothes. When they came to the place where the spirit had stood, they found a deep hole there like a carabao wallow. 58 [364] Dalioya died; they put her in the ground under the house. After a while Baluga's rice was ripe and was ready to cut. Baluga went to cut it. He went home before dark from his field. Dalioya came out from the ground. She went to cut the rice for him. The next morning he went to cut the rice again. He saw the rice had been cut, but he did not know who cut it. He went home again before dark and went to cut the rice again the next morning. He saw again the rice cut by Dalioya, but he did not yet know who cut it. He said to himself, "I must wait for the person who comes to cut my rice." After dark his wife came, and Baluga lay down very still; when Dalioya walked near him, he waked up and caught her. Dalioya said, "Let me go." Baluga said, "No, I will not let you go." She said, "If you come with me to get my life, I will be very glad." "Yes," said he. Then they went down in the ground where is the spirit's home. When they got there the spirits were sleeping. Dalioya said, "Take that green bamboo cup, because they put my life in it." Baluga took it and they went up on the ground. One spirit waked up and said, "There are Baluga and his wife walking in our vine way." All the spirits ran to catch them. When the spirits were going up in the vine, Baluga cut the vine with his bolo. The spirits fell down. Baluga and his wife went home. As soon as they reached their home, they made a party. There were many people there on that big day. They were drinking _basi_, eating rice and meat, and singing and dancing because they were having a good time. That party lasted two days. After that the people went home. Baluga and Dalioya went to cut their rice. 59 The _alan_ [365] once found the afterbirth outside the town and made it a real baby whose name was Sayen. Sayen lived in Benben. He was very brave and often went to fight without companions. He wanted to marry Danipán who lives in Kadalayapan, but she did not wish. She hid; so Sayen married her servant, thinking she was Danipán. The name of the servant was Laey. Sayen took her home. They had one baby. One day Sayen was making a plow under the house. Laey was in the house with her baby. She was singing in the house to her baby. "Sayen thinks I am Danipán, but I am Laey, Laey no aglage-le-gey-ley." Sayen heard the song and said to himself that his wife was not Danipán. He went up into the house and said, "Take off your upper arm beads, and in the morning you will go to the fields with your baby, because I will go there to plow." She said, "Yes." In the morning he went there. He went to cut down the bamboo bridge. At noon his wife carried food to him. She took her baby with her. When she reached the bamboo bridge it fell with her and they fell into the water. Sayen went back to his house. When he got there, he took his headaxe, spear, and shield, and he went to Kadalayapan. When he got there, he began to kill the people of the town. When he had killed many people the _lakay_ [366] called Danipán, "Come out, Sayen is killing many people of the town, because you did something bad to him." She came out to Sayen and said to him, "Do not kill all the people, leave some of them so I can go to borrow fire from them." Sayen answered her, "Take the betel-nut in my bag and cut it in two pieces for me to eat, for I am very tired." She took the betel-nut from his bag and cut it in two pieces, and Sayen chewed the betel-nut. Sayen spat on some of the dead people and made them alive again and he married Danipán and took her to Benben. When the people in Magisang [367] went to hunt deer and when they went to divide it, the _komau_, a big spirit who looks like a man, and who kills people, [368] went to them to ask them, "How many did you catch?" If they had caught two they told him "Two," and the _komau_ said, "I caught two also." When they went to their town, there were two dead people there in their town. Anytime they went to hunt the _komau_ asked them how many they had caught, and when they said how many, the _komau_ always said he had that many, and when they reached the town that many were dead. The _komau_ did that often and many people were dead. The people in Magisang heard that Sayen was a very brave man and they went to him to tell him about the _komau_. Sayen said to them, "I come, but I must hide by the trees. When the _komau_ comes and asks you how many deer you have caught he will ask you where I am. You will say to him that you do not know where I am, because you did not hear of me yet. I am sure the _komau_ will ask you where I am, because he will smell me." The people said, "Yes." They went to hunt. When they reached the forest, they caught two deer and they went to the place where they singed and divided those deer which they had caught. While they were sitting there, the _komau_ came to them and said, "How many have you?" They answered, "Two." The _komau_ said, "I have two also. Sayen is here." The people said, "We do not know about Sayen, where he is." Then Sayen came out and killed the _komau_. Kaboniyan [369] went to Sayen in Benben and said, "Are you a brave man, Sayen? You are brave, because you killed the _komau_." Sayen said, "Yes, I am a brave man." Kaboniyan said, "If you are a brave man, I will meet you in that place at a distance." Sayen said, "Yes." Kaboniyan told him the day when he would meet him, and Sayen was to stay in the lower place and Kaboniyan in the higher place. Sayen went there on that day. When he reached there and was waiting he heard a sound like a storm and said to himself, "Here is Kaboniyan." Kaboniyan called to him, "Are you there, Sayen?" "I am here," said Sayen. "Are you a brave man?" said Kaboniyan to Sayen. Sayen said, "Yes." Kaboniyan said to him, "Catch this," and he threw his spear. Sayen caught the spear. It was as big as a large tree. Kaboniyan asked, "Did you catch it?" "Yes," said Sayen. "Here is again," said Kaboniyan, and threw his headaxe. Sayen caught it. "Did you catch it, Sayen?" said Kaboniyan. Sayen said, "Yes." The axe was as large as the end roof of a house. Kaboniyan said, "Here is again," and threw his shield. Sayen caught it again. "Did you catch it, Sayen?" Sayen said, "Yes." Kaboniyan said, "Here is again," and threw a very big stone. Sayen caught it. "Did you catch it, Sayen?" said Kaboniyan. Sayen said, "Yes," and Kaboniyan said to him, "Wait for me, I come down to you." When Kaboniyan got there, he and Sayen fought face to face and they got tired, because Kaboniyan could not beat Sayen, and Sayen could not beat Kaboniyan. Sayen said, "I take my headaxe, because I am very tired." Kaboniyan said, "Do not take your headaxe; you are a brave man; I will be your friend and we will go to fight anywhere." Sayen said, "Yes." Then they were friends and went to fight in many towns. If the people in the town caught them in the way when they went home from fighting, or when they were in the river, Sayen could be a fish and hide. They fought in one town. Sayen became a chicken after fighting. He went under the house where the chickens roost. He did that many times and the people in the town noticed that Sayen could be a chicken or a fish. When he came with Kaboniyan to the town to fight the people, he went under the house to the chickens' place. The people said to themselves, "We will put a fish trap there, because Sayen after fighting goes in the chicken coop." They put a trap under the house by the coop. Sayen came in the town again to fight. After fighting he went under the house and he went into the trap, and the people caught and killed him. This all happened not very long ago. 60 In the old times Malilipeng was walking along the trail in the woods when he heard the _alan_ [370] in the trees. He laid down on his face as if dead and the _alan_ who saw him began to wail, for they thought he was dead. When they brought gold and beads to place on him, he sprang up and drove them away. "Give us the one bead which is _nagaba_, or we will burn your house," said the _alan_. The man refused. When he reached home his house was burned, but he still had the bead. 61 Two men went to hunt wild pig. They killed one, but had no fire to singe it, so one man climbed a tree to see if he could see where was a fire. He saw a little fire at a distance and went to get it. When he got where the fire was, he saw it was in the house of an _alan_. He was very much afraid, but he went up and saw the _alan_, who had a baby, was asleep. He walked very quietly, but the _alan_ woke up and said, "What do you want?" "I want fire, for we have killed a little wild pig." "Do not say little pig, but larger," said the _alan_. "Larger," said the man, for he was afraid. "Do not say larger, but big," said _alan._ "Big." "Do not say big, but very big," said the _alan_. "Very big," said the man. Then the _alan_ gave him the fire, and she took her big basket and went with him to where the pig was. They singed the pig, and the _alan_ cut it up with her nails. Then she gave the liver to the man, and told him to take it to her house and feed the baby. The man went, but on the way he ate the liver. When he got to the house, he saw a big caldron with hot water on the fire. He took the _alan's_ baby and put it in the hot water and then went back. "Did the baby eat well?" asked the _alan_. "Very well," he answered. Then the _alan_ put most of the meat in her basket and started home. The man told his companion what he had done and they were both very much afraid; so they ran to hide. When the _alan_ got home, she saw the baby dead in the water. Then she went to find the men. They had climbed a high tree which stood near the water, and when the _alan_ looked in the water, she saw them in it. She put her hand in the water and tried to get them, but could not; then she looked up and saw them again. "How did you get up there?" she asked. "We climbed up feet first." Then the _alan_ seized a vine and started up the tree feet first. When she had almost reached them, they cut the vine and the _alan_ fell to the ground and was dead. The men came down from the tree and went to the house of the _alan_. When they got there, they saw three jars: the first was full of dung; the second, of beads; the third, of gold. They took the jars with the beads and gold and went home. 62 The earth, which is very flat, was made by the great spirit Kadaklan. He also made the sun and moon, which chase each other over and under the earth. Sometimes the moon almost catches the sun, but it always gets tired and gives up before it succeeds. The sun and moon are the lights of Kadaklan and so are the stones which are stars. The dog of Kadaklan is the lightning. 63 Kaboniyan once sent a flood which covered all the land. There was no place for the fire to go, so it went into the bamboo, the stones, and the iron. Now that is why you can get fire out of the bamboo and stones. 64 A man planted rice in the high land. When it was grown, he saw that something was eating it, though he had a fence around it. One night he went to watch his field. About midnight he heard many wings and saw some big animals with wings alight in his rice. He ran and caught one, and cut off its wings. The animal was pregnant and soon had a young one. Since then there have been horses on the earth, but people have never seen any more fly. You can see the place on the horse's legs where the wings used to be. 65 A lazy man was planting corn in the high land. He would plant a few seeds and then put his planting stick in the ground and lean back on it. After a while the stick grew there and was a tail, and the man became a monkey. [371] 66 A very lazy boy got a piece of sugar-cane and went home with it. When he got home, he told his mother to take off the outside of the stalk so he might eat it. His mother was angry to see him so lazy and told him that if he could not take it off himself, to stick it up his anus. He did so and became a monkey. 67 A very lazy girl would not learn to spin, and always pretended that she did not know how. One day she took the cotton and asked the women what to do with it. "Beat it out," they said. Then she asked, "What shall I do with it then?" "Put it in a betel leaf on a stick and spin it." Again she asked, "How shall I spin it?" "If you do not know how to spin, put the stick up your anus." She did so, and became a monkey. After that there were many monkeys. 68 [372] In an early time, the Tinguian were like the _alzado_, [373] and hunted heads. The men from one town started to another on the other side of the Abra river to get heads. While they were on the way, it rained very hard; and when they reached the river, they could not get across, so they prayed to the Spirit that he would give them wings to cross. They at once became birds; but when they reached the other side of the river, they could not resume the forms of men. Some of the men's wives had just died, and they had bark bands on their heads, as is the Tinguian custom. When these became birds, their heads were white; but those of the others were black, and so they are to this day. 69 A mother had a very lazy boy who could do nothing. One day she went away to get something, and she put a big basket over the boy. When she came home, she took the basket up, but instead of the boy there was a bird which flew away, crying "sigakok, sigakok, sigakok,"--"lazy, lazy, lazy." And so that bird is called _sigakok_. 70 A long time ago there was a young man who cut all the trees in a little wood. When he had cut up them, he burned them, and he planted rice in the field. In a few days the rice was ready to cut and the young man went to find a girl for him to marry. He found a girl in the other town. He married her and he took her with him to his home. When they got home the man said to his wife, "Let us go to see our rice." They went to see the rice. At midday they went home. The next day the man sent his wife to go to cut the rice. When she got to the rice, she thought to herself that she could not cut it in a month. Said she to herself, "I want to be a bird." She lay down on the floor in a little house that the man had made. She put her hat over her to be her blanket. Then she became a bird which we call _kakok_ now. Her cloth became her feathers. In the morning the man went with some rice for his wife to eat. When he got there, he could not see his wife. He walked and walked, but he did not find her, then he came to the little house. He saw his wife's hat, and he picked it up. The bird flew away, crying "_kakok, kakok_." 71 In the first time Ganoway was the man who possessed a dog which caught many deer; and Kaboniyan allowed. The dog pursued the deer which went in a cave in the rock. The dog went in also, and Ganoway followed into the hole in the rock. He walked, always following the dog which was barking, and he felt the shrubs which he touched. The shrubs all had fruit which tinkled when he touched them. Then he broke off those branches which tinkled as he touched them, and Kaboniyan allowed. He came to the end of the cave in the rock which was at the river Makatbay, and his dog was there, for he had already caught the deer, which was a buck. It was light in the place where he was, at the river Makatbay, and he looked at the shrub which he had broken off in the dark place in the cave. He saw that the shrub was _denglay_ which bore fruit--the choice agate bead, which is good for the Tinguian dress. He was glad. He cut up the deer into pieces and placed it on a bamboo pole which he carried. He thought always of the beads and wished to return to that shrub which he touched. He returned and searched, but was not able to find it, and because he failed he returned to his home in An-nay. There was not one who did not envy him those beads which he brought home, and they asked him to show them the way to the cave. He showed them the hole in the rock where he and his dog had gone in. They took torches and walked, always walked, but at last they were not able to go further, for the rest of the cave was closed. That place is now called Ganoway, for he was the one who secured the beads which grew in the cave of Kaboniyan, which cave the spirit always keeps clean. [374] 72 Magsawi, my jar, when it was not yet broken talked softly, but now its lines are broken, and the low tones are insufficient for us to understand. The jar was not made where the Chinese are, but belongs to the spirits or Kaboniyan, because my father and grandfather, from whom I inherited it, said that in the first times they (the Tinguian) hunted Magsawi on the mountains and in the wooded hills. My ancestors thought that their dog had brought a deer to bay, which he was catching, and they hurried to assist it. They saw the jar and tried to catch it but were unable; sometimes it disappeared, sometimes it appeared again, and because they could not catch it they went again to the wooded hill on their way to their town. Then they heard a voice speaking words which they understood, but they could see no man. The words it spoke were: "You secure a pig, a sow without young, and take its blood, so that you may catch the jar which your dog pursued." They obeyed and went to secure the blood. The dog again brought to bay the jar which belonged to Kaboniyan. They plainly saw the jar go through a hole in the rock which is a cave, and there it was cornered so that they captured the pretty jar which is Magsawi, which I inherited. (Told by Cabildo, of Patok, the owner of the famous talking jar, Magsawi.) 73 Once then sun and moon fought. The sun said, "You are moon, not so good; if I give you no light, you are no good." The moon answered, "You are sun and very hot. I am moon and am better. The women like me very much, and when I shine they go out doors to spin." Then the sun was very angry and took some sand and threw it on the moon, and that is why there are dark places on the moon now. 74 In the old time, a man went with others to get heads. They were gone very, very long, and the man's daughter, who was little when he went away, was grown up and beautiful when he returned. When he got to the gate of the town, his daughter went to hold the ladder for him to come in. [375] The man did not recognize his daughter, and when he saw her holding the ladder for him, he threw his arms around the ladder and seized and kissed her. The girl was very sorrowful because her father had not recognized her and had misunderstood her intentions; so she went home and said to her mother, "It is better now that I become a coconut tree, to stand close by our house." In the morning the man and his wife missed the girl, and when they looked out doors, there stood a fine coconut tree close to the house; so they knew that she had changed to the tree. 75 In the old times there were two flying snakes in the gap of the Abra river. [376] Many men had been killed by them. So the head man of Abra invited Malona and Biwag, two very brave men from Cagayan, to come and help him kill the snakes. They came at once with big bolos, shields, and the trunk of the banana tree, which they used to fight with. When they arrived, they were taken to the gap, and the snakes attacked them. The men fought with the trunk of the banana tree, and the wings of the snakes stuck to the trunk; so they killed them easily. When they had killed them, they came back to the leader and showed him, and he asked what should be their pay. They did not ask any reward, but the leader gave them gold in the form of deer and horses. Then they went home, and after that the people of Abra could pass through the gap. 76 Hundreds of years ago there were two people who were husband and wife. Their names were Tagápen and Giáben, and they had only one son whose name was Soliben. Those people came from Ilocos Norte; they came down to Vigan to pass a while, then came into the Abra river. When they were in Banoáng, they sailed on a raft in the Abra river to come up to Langiden. When they reached that town, they stopped there to stay a short time, because Tagápen went to the town to give thoughts to the people there and to give a nice face to the girls. When Tagápen was in the town, in Langiden, his son Soliben was weeping on the raft by his mother. "Sleep, sleep, sleep, my dear son, because your father is not here yet; it-to-tes, it-to-tes, so sleep my son, do not weep," said his mother, whose name is Giáben. When Tagápen came back from the town of Langiden, they began to sail again until they came to Pidigan. When they reached the town of Pidigan, they stopped there because Tagápen went to the town to give a nice face to the ladies and girls. Then his son wept again, "Oh, dear son, sleep, sleep, sleep; oh, dear son, sleep, sleep, sleep, for your father is not here yet. When he comes back, he will get bananas for you to eat. It-to-tes, it-to-tes, it-to-tes, sleep, Soliben, sleep, my son; do not weep; your father will give you to eat," said the mother. In a short time Tagápen came back from the town and they sailed to come up. When they reached the mouth of the Sinalang river, they came up in the river; they sailed up here; this is the river of Sinalang town (Patok). "We go there to give the people some nice face and good thoughts, so they will be very wise." When they arrived in Sinalang town, they left their raft in the river and went up in the town. When they reached the town, every person went to them to give their regards. Tagápen and his wife with her son stayed in a little house we call _balaua_; they lived there teaching many _dalengs_ [377] and _bagayos_ of the Tinguian people. Fables 77 The Turtle and the Monkey There was once a turtle and a monkey who went to make a clearing. The monkey did not work, but the turtle was the one which cleared the land. When one day passed, "Let us go to plant," said the turtle. They went, and banana was what they went to plant. The turtle planted his in the clearing, but the monkey hung his in a tree when he went to climb. Five days passed. "Let us go to see our planting," said the turtle. When they arrived where they had planted, the monkey saw that his banana was dry, but that which the turtle had planted bore ripe fruit. When the monkey reached the place where the turtle sat, "I am waiting for you, monkey, for I cannot climb my banana tree." "Give me fruit, and I will go to climb. My banana which I hung in the tree did not bear fruit," said the monkey. The turtle laughed and agreed, but when the monkey climbed in the tree he only ate and did not throw down any fruit. "Give me, monkey," said the turtle. "The thumb still eats," replied the monkey. Then he pushed a banana up his anus and after that threw it down. The turtle ate it and again asked for fruit. "The little finger still eats," said the monkey. Then he finished eating the fruit and he slept on the banana tree. The turtle went to search for long sharp shells, and when he had secured them he planted them upright around the tree, and cried, "Bad in the east. Bad in the west." Then the monkey jumped, and the shells pierced his side so that he died. The turtle dried his meat and sold it to the other monkeys, and when he had finished selling he went under the house and hid beneath a coconut shell. When all the monkeys had eaten the turtle cried, "They eat their relative." Then the monkeys heard, but could not see. The turtle called many times until at last they found him beneath the coconut shell. They agreed to kill him with the axe, but the turtle laughed and pointed to the marks on his back. [378] The monkeys believed him when he said he had often been cut by his father and grandfather; so they did not cut, but went to get fire. "You cannot kill me with that. Do you not see that my back is almost black from burning." "Ay-ay," said the monkeys, "let us tie a stone to his waist and drown him in the lake." The turtle cried and begged them to spare him, but the monkeys did not know that the water was the cause of his living, for it was his home. They threw him in the lake and when they had watched a long time, they saw him float on the water and he was holding a large fish. Then all the monkeys tied stones to their waists and dived in the lake to catch fish. They did not float in the lake, but they died. Only a pregnant monkey was left, but the turtle came and drowned her also. [379] 78 A turtle and a big lizard went to the field of Gotgotapa to steal ginger. When they got there the turtle told the lizard he must be very still; but when the lizard tasted the ginger, he exclaimed, "The ginger of Gotgotapa is very good." "Be still," said the turtle; but again the lizard shouted louder than before. Then the man heard and came out of his house to catch the robbers. The turtle could not run fast, so he lay very still, and the man did not see him; but the lizard ran and the man chased him. When they were very far, the turtle went into the house. Now, the man had a coconut shell which he used to sit on, and the turtle hid under it. The man could not catch the lizard, so in a while he came back to his house and sat on the shell. Bye and bye, the turtle called "Kook." Then the man jumped up and looked all around to find where the noise came from, but he could not find. The turtle called "Kook" again and the man tried very hard to find what made the noise. The turtle called a third time more loudly and then the man thought it was his testicles which made the noise, so he took a stone and hit them; then he died and the turtle ran away. When the turtle got a long way, he met the lizard again and they saw some honey on the branch of a tree. "I run first to get," said the turtle; but the big lizard ran fast and seized the honey; then the bees stung him and he ran back to the turtle. On their road they saw a bird snare. The turtle said, "That is the _paliget_ [380] of my grandfather." Then the lizard ran very fast to get it, but it caught his neck and held him until the man who owned it came and killed him. Then the turtle went away. 79 The _polo_ [381] said to a boy named Ilonen, "Tik-tik-loden, come and catch me," many times. Then the boy answered, "I am making a snare for you." The bird called again, "Tik-tik-loden." "I am almost finished," said Ilonen. Then the bird called again and the boy came and put the snare over the bird and caught it. He took it home and put it in a jar and then went with the other boys to swim. While he was gone, his grandmother ate the bird. Ilonen came back and went to the jar to see the bird, but no bird. "Where is my bird?" he said. "I do not know," said his grandmother. "Let me see your anus," said the boy. Then he saw his grandmother's anus and he saw feathers there and was very angry. "It is better I get lost," he said and went away. He came to a big stone called _balintogan_ and said, "Stone, open your mouth and eat me." Then the stone opened his mouth and swallowed the boy. His grandmother went to find him and looked very much. When she came to the stone, it said, "Here is." She called the horses to come to the stone. They kicked it, but could not break. She called the carabao and they hooked it, but only broke their horns; then she called the chickens and they pecked it, but could not open. Then she called thunder, but it could not help. Then her friends came to open the stone, but could not, so she went home without the boy. 80 A frog was fastened to a fish hook in the water. A fish came and said, "What are you doing?" "I am swinging," said the frog, "come and try if you wish." But the fish was angry with the frog. "You can not catch me," said the frog. Then the fish jumped up to catch him, but the frog pushed his anus upon the stick and left the hook so the fish was caught. 81 The five fingers were brothers. The other four sent the little thumb to get _posel_. [382] He went to get, but when he got there, the _posel_ said, "Kiss me, for I have a good odor to you." So the thumb kissed him, and his nose stuck to the bamboo. The others could not wait so long, so they sent the first finger to get. When he got there, he saw the thumb, and said, "What are you doing?" "I am smelling this _posel_, for it has a good smell." Then the first finger smelled and his nose was caught. The others could not wait, so they sent the second finger and it happened the same. Also the third, and he also became fast. Then little finger went and when he saw the others, he said, "You are very crazy," and he cut them loose. 82 [383] Carabao met _loson_ [384] in the river. "You are very slow," said the carabao. "No, I can beat you in a race," said _loson_. "Let us try," said the carabao. So they started to run. When the carabao reached a long distance, he called, "Shell," and another shell lying by the river answered, "Yes." He ran again and again, and every time he stopped to call, another shell answered. At least the carabao ran until he died. 83 A crab and _kool_ [385] went to the forest to get wood for fuel. The crab cut his wood and the shell went to cut his. "Tie very good your wood which you get," said _kool_ to the crab. The crab pulled the ropes so tightly that he broke his big legs and died. When the shell went to see where the crab was, he found him dead, and he begun to cry until he belched; then his meat came out of his shell and he was dead also. 84 [386] A mosquito came to bite a man. The man said, "You are very little and can do nothing to me." The mosquito answered, "If you had no ears, I would eat you." 85 A boy's parents sent a man to carry gifts to the girl's house, and see if they would agree to a marriage. When he got to the door of the house, the people were all eating _kool_, and when they sucked the meat out of the shell, they nodded their heads. The man saw them nod, so did not state his errand, but returned and said that the people in the house all desired the union. Then the boy's people got ready the things for _pakálon_ [387] and went to the girl's house. The girl's parents were very much surprised. 86 A man went to the other town. When he got there, the people were eating _labon_. [388] He asked them what they ate, and they said _pangaldanen_ (the bamboo ladder is called "_aldan_".) He went home and had nothing to eat but rice, so he cut his ladder into small pieces and cooked all day, but the bamboo was still very hard. He could not wait longer, so called his friends and asked why he could not make it like the people had in the other town. Then his friends laughed and told him his mistake. 87 A man went to get coconuts and loaded his horse heavily. He met a boy and asked how long to his house. "If you go slowly, very soon; if you go fast, all day," said the boy. The man did not believe, so hurried his horse and the coconuts fell off, so he had to stop and pick them up. He did this many times and it was night before he got home. 88 Two women went to get _atimon_ [389] which belonged to the crocodile. "You must not throw the rind with your teeth marks where the crocodile can see it," said the first woman. Then they ate; but the other woman threw a rind with her teeth marks in the river, and the crocodile saw it and knew who the woman was. He was very angry and went to her house and called the people to send out the woman so he could eat her, for she had eaten his _atimon_. "Yes," they said, "but sit down and wait a while." Then they put the iron soil turner in the fire until it was red hot. "Eat this first," they said to the crocodile, and when he opened his mouth, they threw it very far into his body and he died. 89 [390] There was a man named Dogidog who was very lazy and very poor. His house was small and had no floor, only the boards to put the floor on. He went to the forest to cut bamboo with which to make a floor, and he carried cooked rice with him. When he got there he hung the rice in a tree and went to cut the bamboo. While he was gone, a cat came and ate the rice, so when the man got hungry and came to eat, he had no rice, so he went home. The next day he went to cut again, and when he had hung the rice in the tree, the cat came to eat it. The third day he went again and hung the rice in the tree, but fixed it in a trap; then he hid in some brush and did not cut bamboo. The cat came to eat the rice and was caught. Then the man said, "I will kill you." "No," said the cat, "do not kill me." "Alright, then I take you home to watch my house," said the man. Then he took the cat home, and tied it near the door of his house and went away. When he came back, the cat had become a cock. "Now I go to the cock fight at Magsingal," [391] said Dogidog, and he put his rooster under his arm and started for the place. He was crossing a river when he met a crocodile. "Where are you going, Dogidog?" said the crocodile. "To the cock fight at Magsingal," said the man. "Wait, I go with you," said the crocodile. Then they went. Soon they met a deer. "Where are you going, Dogidog?" said the deer. "To the cock fight at Magsingal," said the man. "Wait, I go with you," said the deer. Then they went again. In the way they met Bunton. [392] "Where are you going?" said it. "To Magsingal to the cock fight," said the man. "Wait, I go with you," said the mound. Then they went again and soon they met a monkey. "Where are you going, Dogidog?" said the monkey. "To the cock fight at Magsingal," said the man. "Wait, I go with you," said the monkey. Then they went until they reached the place where was the fight in Magsingal. The crocodile said to Dogidog, "If any man wants to sink in the water, I can beat him." The deer said, "If any man wants to run, I am very fast." Then the earth said, "If any man wants to wrestle, I know very well how to do." The monkey said, "If any man wants to climb, I can go higher." Then they took the rooster to the place of the fighting, and Dogidog had him fight the other rooster. But the rooster had been a cat before, and he seized the other rooster in his claws, as a cat does, and killed it. Then the people brought many roosters and bet much money and the rooster of Dogidog, which was a cat before, killed them all, so there were no more roosters in Magsingal, and Dogidog won much money. The people wanted some other sport, so they brought a man who could stay very long under water, and Dogidog had him try with the crocodile. After more than two hours, the man had to come up first. Then the people brought a man who runs very fast, and the deer raced with him, and the man could not beat the deer for he was very fast. Then they brought a very big man, but he could not throw the earth. Last, the people brought a man who climbs very well and the monkey climbed with him, and went much higher than the man. Dogidog had very much money and he bought two horses to carry the sacks of silver to his house. When he got near to the town, he tied his horses and went to tell his mother to go and ask to buy the good house from the rich man. "How can you buy?" said the rich man, "when you have no money?" Then his mother went home and the man went to get two sacks of money to send to the rich man. When the rich man saw so much money, he said, "Yes," for the money was in sacks and was not counted. Then Dogidog went to live in the good house and the rich man still had no house, so he had no where to go when the rain came. 90 A wood-chopper went to the woods. When he passed where the brook ran, "Go away, go away," he said to Banbantay, the spirit of the brook. He heard a voice in the thicket. The voice said, "I should think he would see me." The man answered, "Yes, I see you." The spirit said, "Where am I now?" The man answered, "You are in the thicket." The spirit came down and said, "Put my _poncho_ on you." When he has it on, no one can see him. [393] "See if I really can see you in my _poncho_." The man took the _poncho_ and put it on, then the spirit could not see him any more, because the cloth made him invisible. Then the man went home. When he reached there, he said to his wife, "Wife, where am I now?" She cried because she thought him dead. He said, "Do not cry, for I am not dead, but I have received a _poncho_ which makes me invisible." The man took off his _poncho_ and embraced his wife, which made his wife laugh at him, for she knew then that her husband was powerful. 91 A fisherman went to catch fish with his throw net. While he was fishing, a big bird, Banog, saw him. It seized the man, put him on its back and flew away. It lighted on a very big tree in the forest. In the thicket there was a nest with two small Banog in it. After the bird had put the man near the nest, it flew away again, and the nestlings wished to eat the man, but he defended himself so they could not eat him. He took one in each hand and jumped from the tree, and the young birds broke his fall so that he was not hurt. The man was much frightened by the things which had happened to him, and he ran to his home. When he arrived home, he told with tears what had happened to him. His family were very happy over his return, and made him promise not to go alone again to fish. Abstracts I 1 Two women are gathering greens when a vine wraps around one and carries her to the sky. She is placed near to spring, the sands of which are rare beads. Small house near by proves to be home of the sun. Woman hides until owner goes into sky to shine, then goes to house and prepares food. Breaks up fish stick and cooks it. It becomes fish. Single grain of rice cooked in pot the size of a "rooster's egg" becomes sufficient for her meal. Goes to sleep in house. Sun returns and sees house which appears to be burning. Investigates and finds appearance of flames comes from beautiful woman. Starts to prepare food, but awakens visitor. She vanishes. Each day sun finds food cooked for him. Gets big star to take his place in sky; returns home unexpectedly and surprises woman. They chew betel-nut together and tell their names. The quids turn to agate beads, showing them to be related, and thus suitable for marriage. Each night sun catches fish, but woman refuses it, and furnishes meat by cooking fish stick. Woman decides to go with husband on daily journey through sky. When in middle of heavens she turns to oil. Husband puts her in a bottle and drops it to earth. Bottle falls in woman's own town, where she resumes old form and tells false tale of her absence. She becomes ill, asks mother to prick her little finger. Mother does so and child pops out. Child grows each time it is bathed. Girl refuses to divulge name of child's father. Parents decide to celebrate _balaua_ and invite all people. Send out oiled betel-nuts covered with gold to invite guests. When one refuses, nut begins to grow on his knee or prized animal until invitation is accepted. Child is placed by gate of town in hopes it will recognize its father. Gives no sign until sun appears, then goes to it. Sun appears as round stone. Girl's parents are angry because of her choice of a husband and send her away without good clothes or ornaments. Sun, wife and child return home. Sun assumes form of man. They celebrate _balaua_ and invite all their relatives. Guests chew betel-nuts and the quid of the sun goes to that of Pagbokásan, so it is known that the latter is his father. Parents of sun pay marriage price to girl's people. 2 Aponibolinayen who is very ill expresses a desire for mangoes which belong to Algaba of Dalaga. Her brother dispatches two men with presents to secure them. One carries an earring, the other an egg. On way egg hatches and soon becomes a rooster which crows. They spread a belt on the water and ride across the river. When they bathe, the drops of water from their bodies turn to agate beads. Find way to Algaba's house by following the row of headbaskets, which reaches from the river to his dwelling. Defensive fence around the town is made up of boa constrictors, which sleep as they pass. Algaba seizes his spear and headaxe intending to kill the visitors, but weapons shed tears of oil. He takes other weapons, but they weep tears of blood. He then makes friends of the intruders. Learning their mission he refuses their gifts, but gets fruit and returns with them to their town. On way he uses magic and causes the death of Aponibolinayen. He takes her in his arms and restores her to life. While she rests in his arms, their rings exchange themselves. They chew betel-nuts and tell their names. The quids turn to agate beads and lie in rows. This is good sign. They marry and go to Algaba's town. They celebrate _Sayang_ and send betel-nuts to invite their relatives. When the guests cross the river, the drops of water which run from their bodies are agate beads and stones of the river are of gold. Guests all chew betel-nut and lay down their quids. By arrangement of quids they learn the true parents of Algaba. His brother-in-law wishes to marry his new found sister and offers an engagement present. An earring is put in a jar and it is at once filled with gold, but Algaba lifts his eyebrows and half of the gold vanishes. Another earring is put in jar, and it is again full. Marriage price is paid later. 3 Aponitolau falls in love with girl he meets at the spring. They chew betel-nuts and tell their names. Girl gives false name and vanishes. Aponitolau sends his mother to arrange for his marriage with the girl. She wears a hat which is like a bird, and it gives her a bad sign, but she goes on. She crosses river by using her belt as a raft. The girl's parents agree to the match and price to be paid. Girl accepts a little jar and agate beads as engagement present. When Aponitolau goes to claim bride, he finds he is betrothed to wrong girl. His parents celebrate _Sayang_ and invite many people, hoping to learn identity of girl at spring. She does not attend, but Aponitolau finds her among betel-nuts brought him by the spirit helpers. They chew betel-nuts and learn they are related and that both possess magical power. After their marriage Aponitolau goes to his field. There he keeps many kinds of jars which act like cattle. He feeds them with _lawed_ leaves and salt. While he is gone, the woman to whom he was first betrothed kills his new wife. He restores her to life. Takes her and her parents to the field to see him feed his jars. 4 A bird directs Aponitolau in his search for the maiden Asibowan. Girl furnishes him with food by cooking a fish stick. They have a daughter who grows one span each time she is bathed. Aponitolau discovers that his parents are searching for him, and determines to go home. Asibowan refuses to accompany him, but uses magic and transfers him and child to his town. Aponitolau falls in love with girl he sees bathing, and his mother goes to consult her parents. She crosses river by using her belt as a raft; when she bathes, the drops of water from her body become agate beads. The girl's people agree to the marriage and accept payment for her. Aponitolau and his bride celebrate _Sayang_ and send out betel-nuts to invite the guests. Asibowan refuses to attend, but a betel-nut grows on her pig until, out of pity, she consents. After the ceremony the brother of the bride turns himself into a firefly and follows her new sister-in-law. Later he again assumes human form and secures her as his wife. 5 The mother of Gawigawen is well received when she goes to seek a wife for her son. The girl's mother furnishes fish by breaking and cooking the fish stick. A day is set for payment of the marriage price. Guests assemble and dance. When bride dances she is so beautiful that sunshine vanishes, water from the river comes up into the town and fish bite her heels. When she arrives at her husband's home, she finds sands and grass of spring are made up of beads, and the walk and place to set jars are large plates. Her husband cuts off head of an old man and a new spring appears; his blood becomes beads and his body a great shade tree. Bride who has not yet seen the face of her husband is misled by evil tales of jealous women, and believes him to be a monster. During night she turns to oil, slips through floor and escapes. In jungle she meets rooster and monkey, who tell her she is mistaken and advise her to return home. She continues her way and finally reaches ocean. Is carried across by a carabao which at once informs its master of the girl's presence. The master comes and meets girl. They chew betel-nut, and the quids turn to agate beads, so they marry. They make _Sayang_ and send betel-nuts to summon relatives. Nuts grow on pet pigs of those who refuse to go. Guests are carried across river by betel-nuts. During dance Gawigawen recognizes his lost wife and seizes her. Is speared to death by the new husband, but is later brought back to life. In meantime the _alan_ (spirits) inform the parents of the new groom that he is their child (from menstrual blood). Parents repay Gawigawen for his lost bride, and also make payment to the girl's family. 6 The enemies of Aponibolinayen, thinking her without the protection of a brother, go to fight her. She glances off their spears with her elbows. Her weapons kill all but Ginambo, who agrees to continue fight in one month. Aponigawani has a similar experience with her enemies. A month later the two women meet as they go to continue the fight against their foes. They chew betel-nut, and quid of Aponibolinayen is covered with gold and that of her companion becomes an agate bead. They agree to aid each other. Go to fight and are hard pressed by foes. Spirit helpers go to summon aid of two men who turn out to be their brothers--were miscarriage children who had been raised by the _alan_. They go to aid sisters and kill so many people that pig troughs are floating in blood. One puts girls inside belt. They kill all the enemies and send their heads and plunder to the girls' homes. Brothers take girls to their parents. Father and mother of Aponigawani celebrate _balaua_ and summon guests by means of oiled betel-nuts covered with gold. Guests chew betel-nut and spittle of children goes to that of parents, so relationship is established. _Alan_ explain how they raised the miscarriage children. Heads of enemies are placed around the town and people dance for one month. Aponibolinayen marries brother of Aponigawani, who in turn marries the brother of her friend. Usual celebration and payments made. Relatives receive part of price paid for brides. 7 Aponitolau dons his best garments, takes his headaxe and spear, and goes to fight. When he reaches the spring which belongs to the ten-headed giant Giambólan, he kills all the girls, who are there getting water, and takes their heads. The giant in vain tries to injure him. Spear and headaxe of Aponitolau kill the giant and all the people of his town and cut off their heads. Heads are sent in order to hero's town--giants' heads first, then men's, and finally women's. On return journey Aponitolau is followed by enemies. He commands his flint and steel to become a high bank which prevents his foes from following. Upon his arrival home a great celebration is held; people dance, and skulls are placed around the town. 8 Aponitolau and his wife decide to celebrate _Sayang_, but he goes first to take the head of old man Ta-odan. He uses magic and arrives at once where foe lives. They fight and Ta-odan is beheaded. While Aponitolau is gone, an Ilocano comes to town and tries to visit his wife. She at first refuses to see him, but when he returns a needle she has dropped he puts a love charm on it. She then receives him into house. He remains until Aponitolau returns, then leaves so hastily he forgets his belt of gold. Woman hides belt in rice granary, but it reveals self by shining like fire. Aponitolau is suspicious and determines to find owner. As guests arrive for the celebration, he tries belt on each until he finds right one. He cuts off his head and it flies at once to his wife's breasts and hangs there. She flees with her children. They reach town, which is guarded by two kinds of lightning, but they are asleep and let them pass. They sleep in the _balaua_ and are discovered by the owner of the place, who turns out to be an afterbirth brother of the woman. He removes the head of the dead Ilocano from her breasts. Betel-nuts are sent to summon their father and mother, who are surprised to learn of their afterbirth son. He returns home with them. Aponitolau fails to be reconciled to his faithless wife. 9 Ayo is hidden by her brother, but meets Dagdagalisit, who is fishing, and becomes pregnant. Child pops out between third and fourth fingers when Ayo has her hand pricked. Baby objects to first name; so is called Kanag. Milk from Ayo's breasts falls on her brother's legs while she is lousing him, and he thus learns of the child. He determines to build a _balaua_ and invite all people, so he may learn who the father is. Sends out oiled betel-nuts to invite the guests and when one refuses to attend they grow on him or his pet pig. Dagdagalisit attends wearing only a clout of dried banana leaves. Brother of Ayo is enraged at her match and sends her and the baby away with her poor husband. When they arrive at her new home, Ayo finds her husband a handsome man who lives in a golden house, and whose spring has gravel of gold and agates. They summon their relatives to celebrate _balaua_ with them. While Ayo's brother is dancing, her husband cuts off his head, but he is brought back to life. Ayo's husband pays her parents for her, but half the payment vanishes when her mother raises eyebrows. Husband again completes payment. They chew betel-nut and the quids of the children go to those of their parents. Dagdagalisit's parents learn he is a miscarriage child who was cared for by the _alan_ (spirits). 10 Aponibalagen uses magic to create a residence in the ocean for his sister. Takes her and companions there on backs of crocodiles. Returns home. Ingiwan who is walking is confronted by high bank and is forced to cross the ocean. Rides on his headaxe past the sleeping crocodiles which guard the maiden. Turns self into firefly and reaches girl. Assumes own form and chews betel-nut with her. Omens are good. He returns home and soon maiden is troubled with intense itching between her last fingers. She has place pricked, and baby boy pops out. Child grows one span at each bath. Aponibalagen learns of child when milk from sister's breasts falls on him. He takes her home and prepares to celebrate _balaua_. Oiled betel-nuts are sent to summon guests. They grow on knees of those who refuse to attend. Ingiwan, poorly clad, appears at the ceremony and is recognized by the child but not by its mother. Girl's brother, in rage, sends her away with the stranger. He assumes own form and proves to be handsome and wealthy. When they celebrate _balaua_, they chew betel-nut and thus learn who are his true parents. 11 When Aponitolau goes to visit his cousin, he finds him celebrating _Sayang_. He is incensed because no invitation has reached him, so sits in shade of tree near the spring instead of going up to the village. He finds the switch lost by Aponibolinayen. He is induced to attend the ceremony, where he meets with an old enemy, and they fight. The hawk sees the struggle and reports the death of Aponitolau to his sister. She sends her companions to avenge the death and they kill many people before they learn that the hawk was mistaken. Aponitolau restores the slain to life. He agrees to fight his enemies in two months. Before he goes to battle he summons the old men and women, and has them examine a pig's liver and gall. The omens are favorable. During the fight he becomes thirsty and his headaxe supplies him with water. He stops the slaughter of his enemies when they agree to pay him one hundred valuable jars. The jars and heads of the slain take themselves to his home. A celebration is held over the heads, and skulls are exhibited around the town. Aponitolau goes to return the switch of Aponibolinayen. They chew betel-nuts and tell their names. Their finger rings exchange themselves, while their betel quids turn to agate beads and arrange themselves in lines--a sign of relationship. He cooks a stick and it becomes a fish. The girl vanishes, but Aponitolau turns himself into a firefly and finds her. They remain together one night, then he departs. On his way home he is seized by an immense bird which carries him to an island guarded by crocodiles. He is forced to marry a woman also captured by the bird. Aponibolinayen gives birth to a child called Kanag. Child is delivered when an itching spot on mother's little finger is pricked. Kanag is kept in ignorance of father's fate until informed by an old woman whom he has angered. He goes in search of his father. By using power of the betel-nut he is enabled to cross the water on the backs of sleeping crocodiles. He kills gigantic snakes and finally the bird which had carried away his father. He takes father and the captive woman back home. Both women claim Aponitolau as husband. A test is held and Aponibolinayen wins. 12 Pregnant woman expresses desire for fruit of _bolnay_ tree. Her husband asks what it is she wishes, and she falsely tells him fish roe. He uses magic to catch all fish in the river, and selects one with roe, releases others. She throws it to the dogs, and tells husband it is the liver of a deer she needs. He secures it, but when it likewise is fed to the dogs, he changes self into an ant and hides near wife until he learns her real wish. He secures the _bolnay_ fruit, but upon his return allows his sweethearts to get all but a small piece of it. His wife eats the bit left and desires more. She quarrels with husband, who in rage drags her to the _bolnay_ tree and places her in a hole. Her child Kanag is born when an itching spot between her third and fourth fingers is pricked. Child grows with each bath. He agrees to go with other boys to fight. Plants a _lawed_ vine which is to keep his mother informed as to his condition. Child's father is with war party, but does not recognize son. It rains continually so party cannot cook; but the spirit helpers of child's mother feed him, and he shares food with companions. They plan ambush near enemies' town. Kanag cuts off head of a pretty girl; his companions kill an old man and woman. They return home and hold dance around the heads. When Kanag dances, earth trembles, coconuts fall, water from river enters the town, and the fish lap his feet. His father is jealous and cuts off his head. His mother sees _lawed_ vine wilt and knows of son's death. Informs her husband he has killed son. She restores Kanag to life and they leave. Husband tries to follow, but magic growth of thorns in trail prevents. He is finally reconciled to his family and has former sweethearts killed. 13 A pregnant woman desires the fruit of an orange tree which belongs to the six-headed giant Gawigawen. Her husband asks her what it is she desires and she replies falsely; first, that she wishes a certain fruit, then fish roe, and finally deer liver. He secures each, taking the roe and liver out of the fish and deer without causing their death. Each of the articles makes the woman vomit, so her husband knows that she is not satisfied. Transforming self into a centipede he hides until he learns her real wish. Arms self and starts on perilous mission, but first plants _lawed_ vine in house. By condition of vine wife is to know of his safety or death. On way small dog bites him; he is tested by lightning and by thunder, and in each case gets a bad sign, but continues journey. Sails over ocean on his headaxe. Reaches cliff on which the town of the giant is placed, but is unable to scale it. Chief of spiders spins a web on which he climbs. Giant promises him the fruit provided he eats whole carabao. Chiefs of ants and flies calls their followers and eat animal for him. Is allowed to pick fruit, but branches of tree are sharp knives on which he is cut. He puts two of oranges on his spear and it flies away to his home. He dies and _lawed_ vine at his house withers. Giant uses his skin to cover end of drum, puts his hair on roof of house and places his head at gate of town. Wife gives birth to child, which grows one span each time it is bathed. While still very small child angers old woman who tells him of his father's fate. Child determines to go in search of father despite mother's protests. On journey he meets all the tests put to his father, but always receives good signs. Jumps over cliff father had climbed on the spider web. He challenges giant to fight and shows valor by refusing to be the first to use his weapons. Giant unable to injure him, for he first becomes an ant, then vanishes. He throws his spear and it goes through giant, while his headaxe cuts off five of adversary's heads. Spares last head so it can tell him where to find his father. Collects father's body together and restores it to life. _Lawed_ vine at their home revives. Father tries to cut off last head of giant, but fails; son succeeds easily. They send the headaxes to kill all people in town. Slaughter is so great the father swims in blood, but son stands on it. Both return home and hold a great celebration over the heads. The father's spittle is lapped up by a frog which becomes pregnant. Frog gives birth to baby girl which is carried away by _anitos_. Girl is taught to make _dawak_ (the duties of a medium). Her half brother hears her, changes self into a bird and visits her in the sky. Is hidden in a caldron to keep _anitos_ from eating him. Tries to persuade sister to return with him. She promises to go when their father celebrates _balaua_. The ceremony is held and girl attends. Is so beautiful all young men try to obtain her. They are so persistent that brother returns her to sky where she still lives and aids women who make _dawak_. 14 Aponitolau and his wife plant sugar cane, and by use of magic cause it to grow rapidly. The daughter of the big star sees the cane and desires to chew it. She goes with her companions and steals some of the cane, which they chew in the field. Aponitolau hides near by and sees stars fall into the cane patch. He observes one take off her dress and become a beautiful woman. He sits on her garment and refuses to give it up until they chew betel-nut together. The star girl falls in love with him and compels him to return with her to the sky. Five months later she has a child which comes out from space between her last two fingers. Aponitolau persuades her to allow him to visit the earth. He fails to return at agreed time, and stars are sent to fetch him. He returns to the sky, but visits the earth again, eight months later. Earth wife bears him a child and they celebrate _Sayang_. Sky child attends and later marries an earth maiden. 15 The wife of Aponitolau refuses to comb his hair; so he has another woman do it. She, in turn, refuses to cut betel-nut for him to chew. While doing it for himself he is cut on his headaxe. The blood flows up into the air, and does not cease until he vanishes. Ceremonies made for him are without avail. Aponitolau finds himself up in the air country. He meets maiden who is real cause of his plight. They live together and have a child which grows every time it is bathed. Aponitolau takes boy down to earth to visit his half brother. While there the tears of the mother above fall on her son and hurt him. They celebrate _Sayang_ and the sky mother attends. After it is over the half brothers marry earth girls. 16 Ayo gives birth to three little pigs. Husband is ashamed, and while wife is at the spring he places the animals in a basket and hangs it in a tree. Basket is found by old woman, Alokotán, who takes it home. Pigs soon turn into boys. When grown they go to court the girls while they spin. Ayo hears of their visits and goes where they are. Milk from her breasts goes to their mouths and thus proves her to be their mother. They celebrate _balaua_. Ayo puts one grain of rice in each of twelve jars and they are at once filled with rice. Betel-nuts summon the people to attend the ceremony. The old woman Alokotán attends and the whole story of the children's birth and change to human form comes out. 17 Dumalawi makes love to his father's concubines who openly show their preference for the son. The father plans to do away with the youth. Gets him drunk and has storm carry him away. Dumalawi awakens in center of a large field. He causes betel trees to grow, then cuts the nuts into bits and scatters them on the ground. The pieces of nut become people who are his neighbors. He falls in love with daughter of one of these people and marries her. They celebrate _Sayang_ and send out oiled betel-nuts to invite the guests. All guests, except Dumalawi's father, are carried across river on the back of a crocodile. Animal at first dives and refuses to carry him, but finally does so. All drink from a small jar which still remains a third full. Parents of Dumalawi pay the usual marriage price for girl, but her mother insists on more. Has spider spin web around the town, and groom's mother has to cover it with golden beads. 18 While two women are bathing, blood from their bodies is carried down stream. Two _alan_ secure the drops of blood and place them in dishes. Each drop turns into a baby boy. Boys go to fight and kill many people at the spring. They challenge a ten-headed giant. He is unable to injure them, but their weapons kill him and his neighbors. Heads of the victors take themselves to homes of the boys. A storm transports the giant's house. Boys trample on town of the enemy and it becomes like the ocean. They use magic and reach home in an instant. Hold celebration over the heads. Some guests bring beautiful girls hidden in their belts. _Alan_ tell history of lads and restore them to their people. One of boys falls in love and his parents negotiate match for him. The payment for the girl is valuable things sufficient to fill _balaua_ eighteen times, and other gifts in her new home. 19 Kanag is lead by his hunting dog to a small house in the jungle. Girl who lives there hides, but appears on second day. They chew betel-nuts and tell their names. The quids turn to agate beads and lie in order, showing them to be related and hence suitable for marriage. They remain in forest two years and have children. Kanag uses magical power and transfers their house to his home town during night. Children see sugar cane which they wish to chew. Kanag goes to secure it, and while away his mother visits his wife and abuses her. She becomes ill and dies. Kanag tries to kill his mother, but fails. Puts body of wife on a golden raft, places golden rooster on it and sets afloat on the river. Rooster crows and proclaims ownership whenever raft passes a village. Old woman Alokotán secures raft before it vanishes into the hole where river ends. Revives the girl. Kanag and children reach home of Alokotán, and girl is restored to them. They celebrate _balaua_ and send betel-nuts covered with gold to invite relatives. When guests arrive, they chew betel-nut and learn that Kanag and his wife are cousins. Kanag's parents pay marriage price, which is the _balaua_ filled nine times with jars. Girl's mother raises eyebrows and half of jars vanish. _Balaua_ is again filled. Guests dance and feast. Part of marriage price given to guests. 20 Kanag's sweetheart desires the perfume of Baliwán and promises to fulfill his desires if he secures it for her. Gives him arm beads from left arm in token of her sincerity. Kanag and a companion set out on mission but are warned, first by a jar and later by a frog, not to continue. They disregard the advice and go on. They reach the tree on which perfume grows, and Kanag climbs up and breaks off a branch. He turns into a great snake, and his companion flees. Snake appears to Langa-ayan and proves its identity by the arm beads around its neck. She takes it to a magic well, the waters of which cause the snake skin to peel off, and the boy is restored to his own form. Kanag marries Amau, and when they celebrate _balaua_ he returns the bracelet to his former sweetheart. His parents fill the _balaua_ nine times with valuable articles, in payment for his bride. 21 Kanag is sent to watch the mountain rice, although it is well protected from wild pigs. Thinks parents do not care for him, is despondent. Changes self into an omen bird and accompanies his father when he goes to fight. Father obeys signs and secures many heads from his enemies. He holds a great celebration over the heads, but Kanag refuses to attend. Decides to go down to earth to eat certain fruits. Parents order their spirit helpers to accompany him and dissuade him if possible. They show him a beautiful girl with whom he falls in love. He assumes human form and meets her. They chew betel-nut and tell their names. Signs are favorable for their marriage. His parents agree to fill the _balaua_ nine times with various kinds of jars. They do so, but mother of girl raises eyebrows and half of jars vanish and have to be replaced. Girl's mother demands that golden beads be strung on a spider web which surrounds the town. This is done, but web does not break. Girl's mother hangs on thread which still holds. She then agrees to the marriage. Guests dance and then return home, each carrying some of the jars. 22 While Ligi is bathing in river his headband flies away and alights on the skirt of a maiden who is bathing further down stream. The girl carries the headband home and soon finds herself pregnant. The child is born when she has the space between her third and fourth fingers pricked. With each bath the child grows a span and soon becomes so active that he hinders mother at her work. She decides to put him with his father during daytime. Uses magic and causes people of the town to sleep while she places child beside father. Ligi awakes and finds child and his headband beside him. Child refuses to answer questions. Mother secures child at nightfall and repeats acts next day. Child is hidden, so she fails to get him. Ligi determines to learn who mother of child is; sends out oiled betel-nuts covered with gold to invite all people to a _Sayang_. When summoned, the mother refuses to go until a betel-nut grows on her knee and compels her. She goes disguised as a Negrito, but is recognized by the child who nurses from her while she is drunk. Ligi suspects her, and with a knife cuts off her black skin. Learns she is child's mother and marries her. He divorces his wife Aponibolinayen, who marries husband of Gimbagonan. The latter poisons her rival, but later restores her, when threatened by her husband. 23 A flock of birds offer to cut rice for Ligi. He agrees, and goes home with a headache. Birds use magic so that the rice cutters work alone, and the tying bands tie themselves around the bundles. The birds each take one grain of rice in payment. They use magic again so that bundles of rice take themselves to the town. Ligi invites them to a ceremony, and then follows them home. He sees them remove their feathers and become one girl. They go back to the celebration, where all chew betel-nut. Girl's quid goes to those of her parents, from whom she had been stolen by the spirit Kaboniyan. The parents of Ligi pay the usual marriage price for the girl. 24 When the husband of Dolimáman pricks an itching spot between her third and fourth fingers, a baby boy pops out. Child who is called Kanag grows each time he is bathed. While his wife is away the father puts child on a raft and sets it afloat on the river. Child is rescued by old woman Alokotán, who is making a pool in which sick and dead are restored to health. Boy plays on nose flute which tells him about his mother, but he does not understand. Plays on _bunkaka_ with same result. Mother who is searching her child passes by while he is playing. Milk from her breasts goes to his mouth, and she recognizes him. They stay with old woman despite pleading of husband. 25 Awig sends his daughter to watch the mountain rice. She stays in a high watch house, but is found by tattooed Igorot, who cut her body in two and take her head. Father goes to seek her murderers, but first plants a _lawed_ vine in the house; by its condition his wife is to know of his safety or death. He climbs high tree and looks in all directions. Sees Igorot, who are dancing around the head of his daughter. He takes juice from the poison tree and goes to the dance, where he is mistaken for a companion. He serves liquor to others and poisons them. Takes daughter's head and starts home. Is followed by four enemies. Uses magic and causes _cogon_ field to burn, so foes are delayed. Repeats this several times and finally escapes. He joins head and body of his daughter, and old woman Alokotán puts saliva on cuts and revives her. Old woman places four sticks in the ground and they become a _balaua_. Betel-nuts are sent out to invite guests and many come. When the girl dances with her lover, the water comes up knee deep into the town and they have to stop. She is engaged and her lover's parents fill the _balaua_ three times with valuable gifts, in payment for her. Half of gifts vanish, when her mother raises her eyebrows, and are replaced. Her husband discovers the scar on her body where Igorot had cut her. Takes her to magic well where she bathes. Scars vanish. 26 The mother of Dumanágan negotiates marriage for her son with Aponibolinayen. Brother of girl puts her in his belt and carries her to place where agreement is made. When they reach gate of town, young girls offer them cakes, in order to take away bad signs seen on road. Boy's parents pay for girl and they marry. She gives birth to son named Asbinan. He marries Asigowan, but his jealous concubines cause her to cut her finger and she dies. Her body is placed in a _tabalang_ on which a rooster sits, and is set afloat on the river. Crowing of the cock causes old woman Alokotán to rescue the corpse. She places it in her magic well and the girl is again alive and beautiful. She returns to her husband as a bird; is caught by him and then resumes own form. 27 Baby of four months hears his father tell of his youthful exploits. Decides to go on head hunt despite protests of parents. Is detained on his trip by young _alan_ girls. Finally reaches Igorot town and by means of magic kills all the people and takes their heads. Heads take themselves to his home. On way back he plays bamboo jew's harp and it summons his brothers to come and see him. They chew betel-nut and make sure of relationship. Continuing his journey, he is twice lost. Finds an unknown sister hiding among _lawed_ vines. Puts her in his belt and carries her home. Upon his arrival a celebration is held and the new found brothers and sister, who had been stolen by _alan_, are restored to parents. 28 The mother and caretaker of Asbinan try to arrange for him to marry Dawinisan, but are refused. Asbinan goes to the girl's home and feigns sickness. Is cared for by the girl, who becomes infatuated with him and accepts his suit. His parents pay jars and gold--in the shape of deer--for her. 29 Asbinan refuses to eat until his father secures fish roe. He then demands Chinese dishes from the coast town of Vigan. When these are supplied, he eats, and then demands the love charm which his father used when a young man. He goes to the place where the maidens are spinning, and when one offers to give him a light for his pipe, he blows smoke in her face. The charm acts and she becomes ill. He convinces her people that the only way she can be cured is by marrying him. Her parents accept payment for the girl. 30 Tolagan decides to visit certain places in Pangasinan. He rides on a pinto pony and carries rice cakes as provisions. At the spring in Kaodanan he meets a beautiful maiden who warns him to return home, because the birds have given him a bad sign. He returns only to find that his wife has been stolen by the spirit Kaboniyan. He fails to find her, but is comforted by winning a new bride (probably the girl of Kaodanan). 31 Two girls are adopted by a rich man, who treats them as his daughters, except that he does not offer them bracelets or rings. They dress as men and go to see a jeweler. Two young men suspect and follow them, but they succeed in escaping and return home. The spirit helpers of the youths take the forms of hawks and finally locate the maidens, whom they carry away. The youths plan to marry the girls and invite many friends to the celebration. Kanag and his companion attend, become enamored with the brides and steal them. Upon chewing betel-nuts they learn that they are related, so they are married. II 32 The Ipogau who are trying to celebrate _Sayang_ make errors. The spirit Kadaklan and his wife instruct them to go and watch the _Sayang_ at Sayau. They do as bidden and after learning all the details return home and perform the ceremony. The chief spirits are pleased and cause the lesser spirits to attend the ceremony when summoned by the medium. The sick improve. 33 The people who are conducting the _Dawak_ ceremony fail to do it properly. Kaboniyan (a spirit) goes down and instructs them. After that they are able to cure the sick. 34 The spirits of Dadaya notice that their feather headdresses have lost their lustre. They place them on the house of some mortals, who at once become ill. The spirit Kaboniyan instructs them to make the _Pala-an_ ceremony. They obey, the feathers regain their brightness and the people recover. 35 The father who is starting for a head-dance agrees to meet his wife and baby at sun down. When he reaches the agreed spot, he finds only their hats; he looks down and sees them in the ground. He tries in vain to get them out. The spirit Kaboniyan instructs him to perform the _Ibal_ ceremony. He does so and receives his wife and child. 36 The spirit Ináwen, who lives in the sea, sends her servants to spread sickness. They kill many people who fail to make the _Sangásang_ ceremony. A man is disturbed at night by barking of dogs, goes to door and meets a big spirit which has nine heads. Spirit tells him how to make the offering in _Sangásang_. He follows directions and spirits carry gift to their mistress. She mistakes the blood of a rooster for that of human beings. Is displeased with the taste and orders spirits to stop killing. 37 The spirit Maganáwan sends his servants to secure the blood of a rooster mixed with rice. People see many snakes and birds near gate of town. They make the ceremony _Sangásang_ and offer blood and rice. The servants of Maganáwan carry the offering to him. He takes it in his mouth and spits it out, and in the same way the sickness is removed from the mortals. 38 The people who are digging holes for house poles get a bad sign from the omen bird. They abandon the place and dig again. The deer gives a bad sign, then the snake, then different birds. They change locations many times, but at last ignore the signs and complete the house. The family are continually in trouble and are ill. The spirit Kaboniyan goes to see the sick persons; he lets his spear drop through the house, and then tells them the cause of the trouble is that they have failed to make _Sangásang_. He instructs them what to do, and when they obey all become well. 39 The different parts of the house quarrel and each insists on its importance. At last they recognize how necessary each one is for the other and cease their wrangling; then the people who live in the house are again in good health. 40 The great spirit sees the people of Bisau celebrating the _Ubaya_ ceremony, and determines to reward them by increasing their worldly goods. He appears as a man and rewards them. 41 Dayapán, who has been ill for seven years, goes to bathe. The spirit Kaboniyan enters her body and instructs her how to perform healing ceremonies. He also teaches her how to plant and reap, and she in turn teaches the Tinguian. While she is bathing she ties a cock and dog by the water side. The dog eats the cock, and thus death comes into the world. 42 Girl who lacks certain organs is ashamed to marry. She is sent by her mother to cause lameness to people who pass. A man who falls victim to her magic is only cured when the girl instructs him how to make the _Bawi_ ceremony. 43 The spirit Kaboniyan instructs a sick man to make offerings at the guardian stones. He does as bidden and becomes well. They perform ceremonies near the stones when they go to fight or celebrate _balaua_, and sometimes the spirit of the stones appears as a wild rooster, a white cock, or a white dog. A man who defiles the stones becomes crazy. 44 Man sees a woman walking at night near the guardian stones. She refuses to talk and he cuts her in the thigh. She vanishes into the stones. Next day it is seen that one of the stones is cut. Man dies. 45 The old men of Lagayan see peculiarly shaped stones traveling down the river, accompanied by a band of blackbirds. They catch the stones and carry them to the gate of the village, where they have since remained as guardians. 46 The spirit Ibwa visits a funeral and is given some of the juices, coming from the dead body, to drink. Since then he always tries to eat the body of the dead unless prevented. He is accompanied by another evil spirit whose embrace causes the living to die. 47 A widow leaves the town before the period of mourning for her husband is past. The spirit appears first to the daughter-in-law and is fed by her, then asks for his wife. He goes to the place where she is watching the corn and sleeps with her. She apparently becomes pregnant, but fails to be delivered, and dies. 48 Two men agree to hunt carabao the following morning. In the night one dies, but the other not knowing this leaves the town and goes to the appointed place. He meets the spirit of the dead man, and only saves his life by running his horse all the way home. 49 A man and his wife are living near to their field when the husband dies. An evil spirit comes to the door, but is driven away by the wife with a headaxe. Several evil spirits attempt to gain entrance; then the chief comes. He breaks down the door; he cuts off the dead man's ears and makes the woman chew them with him--like betel-nut. The signs are propitious. He changes the woman's two breasts into one, in the center of her chest, and takes her home. 50 A man, whose brother has just died, goes to hunt. He begins to cut up the game when his brother's spirit appears. He feeds it, but food comes out of its anus as fast as it eats. He flees and is pursued by the spirit until, by chance, he runs among _alangtin_ bushes. The spirit dislikes the bush and leaves. 51 The people fail to put the _banal_ vine and iron on the grave. An evil spirit notices the omission and steals the body. 52 A man goes to hunt his carabao in the mountains. He fails to plant branches at his head before he sleeps. A spirit expectorates on him, and he soon dies. 53 Two men who have to sleep in the mountains make beds of _sobosob_ leaves. In the night they hear the evil spirits come and express a desire to get them. Spirits dislike the leaves, so do not molest the men. 54 Three hunters spend the night in the open. One covers himself with a red and yellow striped blanket. In the night two spirits come and think he is a little wild pig, and decide to eat him. The hunter hears them and exchanges blankets with one of his companions. The companion is eaten, and hence the _kambaya_, or striped blanket, is no longer used on the trail. 55 The spirit Bayon steals a beautiful girl and carries her to the sky, where he changes her breasts into one and marries her. She drops her rice pounder to the earth, and thus her people learn of her fate. Both she and her husband still attend certain ceremonies. 56 A hunter is carried away by a great bird. He is placed in the nest with its young and aids in feeding them. When they are large, he holds on to them, and jumps safely to the ground. He goes to fight against his enemies. While he is gone his wife dies. Upon his return he sees her spirit driving a cow and two pigs. He follows her to the spirit's town and is hidden in a rice bin. When spirits try to get him during the night, he repels them by throwing feathers. Feathers become exhausted, and he is forced to return home. 57 A man encounters a large being, which, from its odor, he recognizes as the spirit of a dead man. He runs to get his friends, and they find the spot trampled like a carabao wallow. 58 The dead wife of Baluga harvests his rice during the nighttime. He hides and captures her. They go together to the spirit town, in the ground, and secure her spirit which is kept in a green bamboo cup. As they are returning to the ground they are pursued, but Baluga cuts the vine on which their pursuers are climbing. When they reach home, they hold a great celebration. 59 An _alan_ takes the afterbirth and causes it to become a real child named Sayen. Afterbirth child marries a servant, thinking he has married her mistress. Learns he is deceived, and causes death of his wife; then kills many people in the town of the girl who has deceived him. She gets him to desist, and after he revives some of the slain marries him. People of neighboring town are troubled by the _komau_, an evil spirit, who always causes the death of as many people as the hunters have secured deer. Sayen kills the _komau_. He fights with the great spirit Kaboniyan. Neither is able to overcome the other, so they become friends. They fight together against their enemies. Sayen often changes himself into a fish or chicken, and hides after a fight. This is observed by people who set a trap and capture him. He is killed. 60 A man while in the woods hears the _alan_ near him. He feigns death and the spirits weep for him. They put gold and beads on the body. He springs up and seizes the offerings. They demand the return of one bead; he refuses, and the spirits burn his house. 61 Two men who have killed a wild pig desire fire. One goes to house of an _alan_ and tries to secure it while the spirit sleeps. She awakes and goes with the man to the pig. Man carries liver of the animal back to the baby _alan_. He eats the liver and then throws the child into a caldron of hot water. He tells his companion what he has done, and they climb a tree near the water. The _alan_ discovers their hiding place by seeing their reflection in the water. She climbs up, feet first, but they cut the vine on which she is ascending, and she is killed. They go to her house and secure a jar of beads and a jar of gold. 62 The flat earth is made by the spirit Kadaklan. He also makes the moon and sun, which chase each other through the sky. The moon sometimes nearly catches the sun, but becomes weary too soon. The stars are stones, the lightning a dog. 63 A flood covers the land. Fire has no place to go, so enters bamboo, stones and iron. It still lives there and can be driven out by those who know how. 64 A man finds his rice field disturbed even though well fenced in. He hides and in middle of night sees some big animals fly into it. He seizes one and cuts off its wings. The animal turns out to be a mare which is pregnant and soon has male offspring. The place where the wings once grew are still to be seen on the legs of all horses. 65 A lazy man, who is planting corn, constantly leans on his planting stick. It becomes a tail and he turns into a monkey. 66 A boy is too lazy to strip sugar cane for himself. His mother in anger tells him to stick it up his anus. He does so and becomes a monkey. 67 A lazy girl pretends she does not know how to spin. Her companions, in disgust, tell her to stick the spinning stick up her anus. She does so and at once changes into a monkey. 68 A war party are unable to cross a swollen river. They wish to become birds. Their wish is granted and they are changed to _kalau_, but they are not able to resume the human forms. Those who wore the white mourning bands, now have white heads. 69 A mother puts a basket over her lazy son. When she raises it a bird flies away crying "sigakók" (lazy). 70 A young man who owns a rice field gets a new wife. He leaves her to harvest the crop. She is discouraged over the prospect and wishes to become a bird. Her wish is fulfilled, and she becomes a _kakok_. 71 The dog of Ganoway chases a deer into a cave. The hunter follows and in the darkness brushes against shrubs which tinkle. He breaks off some branches. Cave opens again on the river bank, and he finds his dog and the dead deer at the entrance. He sees that fruits on the branches he carries are agate beads. Returns, but fails to find more. His townspeople go with him to seek the wonderful tree, but part of the cave is closed by the spirit Kaboniyan who owns it. 72 The jar Magsawi formerly talked softly, but now is cracked and cannot be understood. In the first times the dogs of some hunters chased the jar and the men followed, thinking it to be a deer. The jar eluded them until a voice from the sky informed the pursuers how it might be caught. The blood of a pig was offered, as the voice directed, and the jar was captured. 73 The sun and moon fight. Sun throws sand in moon's face and makes the dark spots which are still visible. 74 A man who went with a war party is away so long that he does not recognize his daughter when he returns. He embraces her when she meets him at the town gate. In shame she changes herself into a coconut tree. 75 Two flying snakes once guarded the gap in the mountains by which the Abra river reaches the sea. Two brave men attack them with banana trunks. Their wings stick in the banana trees and they are easily killed. The men are rewarded with gold made in the shape of deer and horses. 76 A man named Tagápen, of Ilocos Norte, with his wife and child goes up the Abra river on a raft. They stop at various towns and Tagápen goes up to each while his wife comforts the child. They finally reached Patok where they go to live in the _balaua_. They remain there teaching the people many songs. III 77 A turtle and a monkey go to plant bananas. The turtle places his in the ground, but the monkey hangs his in a tree. Soon the tree of the turtle has ripe fruit, but the monkey has none. Turtle asks monkey to climb and secure the fruit. Monkey eats all but one banana, then sleeps in the tree. Turtle plants sharp shells around the tree and then frightens monkey which falls and is killed. Turtle sells his flesh to other monkey and then chides them because they eat their kind. Monkeys catch turtle and threaten first to cut and then to burn him. He deceives them by showing them marks on his body. They tie weight to him and throw him into the water. He reappears with a fish. Monkeys try to imitate him and are drowned. 78 A turtle and lizard go to steal ginger. The lizard talks so loudly he attracts the attention of the owner. The turtle hides, but the lizard runs and is pursued by the man. The turtle enters the house and hides under a coconut shell. When the man sits on the shell the turtle calls. He cannot discover source of noise and thinks it comes from his testicles. He strikes these with a stone and dies. The turtle and the lizard see a bees' nest. The lizard hastens to get it and is stung. They see a bird snare and turtle claims it as the necklace of his father. Lizard runs to get it but is caught and killed. 79 A little bird calls many times for a boy to catch it. He snares it and places it in a jar. Lad's grandmother eats the bird. He discovers the theft, leaves home and gets a big stone to swallow him. The grandmother gets horses to kick the stone, carabao to hook it, and chickens to peck it, but without result. When thunder and her friends also fail, she goes home without her grandson. 80 A frog, which is attached to a hook, lures a fish so that it is caught. 81 The five fingers are brothers. The thumb goes to get bamboo. He tries to kiss the bamboo and his nose sticks. One by one the others go in search of the missing but are captured in the same manner. The little finger, which alone remains free, releases the others. 82 A carabao and a shell agree to race along the river. The carabao runs swiftly, then pauses to call "shell." Another shell replies and the carabao continues running. This is repeated many times until at last the carabao falls dead. 83 A crab and a shell go to get wood. The crab pulls the rope on his load so tightly that he breaks his big legs and dies. The shell finds his friend dead and cries until he belches his own body out of the shell and he dies. 84 A mosquito tells a man he would eat him were it not for his ears. 85 A messenger goes to negotiate a marriage. When he arrives he sees the people nodding their heads as they suck meat out of shells. He returns home without stating his mission, but reports an acceptance. Girl's people are surprised when people come for _pakálon_. 86 A man sees people eating bamboo shoots, and is told they are eating _pagaldanen_. He understands them to say _aldan_--"ladder," so he goes home and cooks his bamboo ladder. Is ridiculed by his friends. 87 A man with heavily laden horse asks the length of a certain trip. Boy replies, "If you go slowly, very soon; if you go fast, all day." The man hurries so that coconuts keep falling off the load and have to be replaced. It is dark when he arrives. 88 A woman eats the fruit belonging to crocodile and throws away the rind. Crocodile sees her tooth marks and recognizes the offender. He demands that she be given him to eat. Her people agree, but first feed him a hot iron. He swallows it and dies. 89 A lazy man goes to cut bamboo, and a cat steals his cooked rice. He catches the cat in a trap and takes it home. It becomes a fighting cock. The man starts for a cock fight, and on the way is joined by a crocodile, a deer, a mound of earth and a monkey. The rooster kills all the other birds at the fight, then the crocodile wins a diving contest, the deer a race, the mound of earth a wrestling match, and the monkey excels all in climbing. The man wins much money in wagers and buys a good house. 90 A spirit lets a man take his _poncho_ which makes him invisible. He goes to his wife who recognizes his voice and thinks him dead. He takes off _poncho_ and appears before her. 91 A fisherman is seized by a big bird which carries him to its nest. The small birds try to eat him, but he seizes one in each hand and jumps from the tree. He reaches the ground unhurt and returns home. NOTES [1] Men or women through whom the superior beings talk to mortals. During ceremonies the spirits possess their bodies and govern their language and actions. When not engaged in their calling, the mediums take part in the daily activities of the village. [2] See page 29. [3] The initial portion of some of these names is derived from the respectful term _apo_--"sir," and the attributive copulate _ni_; thus the original form of Aponitolau probably was Apo ni Tolau, literally "Sir, who is Tolau." However, the story-tellers do not now appear to divide the names into their component parts, and they frequently corrected the writer when he did so; for this reason such names appear in the text as single words. Following this explanation it is possible that the name Aponibolinayen may be derived from Apo ni bolan yan, literally "Sir (mistress) who is place where the moon"; but _bolan_ generally refers to the space of time between the phases of the moon rather than to the moon itself. The proper term for moon is _sinag_, which we have seen is the mother of Gaygayóma--a star,--and is clearly differentiated from Aponibolinayen. [4] [male]--male. [female]--female. [5] Occasionally the storytellers become confused and give Pagbokásan as the father of Aponitolau. [6] The town of Natpangán is several times mentioned as though it was the same as Kaodanan. [7] Only the most important references found in the texts are given here. For a fuller list see the index. [8] The only possible exception to this statement is the mention of a carabao sled on p. 150, and of Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen riding on a carabao p. 51. [9] A term applied to any of the wilder head-hunting tribes. [10] Ladders are placed on each side of the town gate and are inclined toward one another until they meet at the top. Returning warriors enter the village by climbing up the one and descending the other, never through the gate. [11] Copper gongs. [12] Sharpened bamboo poles which pass through the foramen magnum. [13] This poison is placed in the food or drink. The use of poisoned darts or arrows seems never to have been known to this people. [14] A similar custom is found among the Kayan of Borneo. See _Hose_ and _McDougall_, Pagan Tribes of Borneo, Vol. II, p. 171 (London, 1912). [15] In this dance a man and a woman enter the circle, each holding a cloth. Keeping time to the music, they approach each other with almost imperceptible movements of feet and toes, and a bending at the knees, meanwhile changing the position of the cloths. This is varied from time to time by a few quick, high steps. For fuller description see article by author in _Philippine Journal of Science_, Vol. III, No. 4, 1908, p. 208. [16] The custom was formerly practised by the Ilocano. See _Reyes_, Folklore Filipino, p. 126 (Manila, 1899). [17] See _Philippine Journal of Science_, Vol. III, No. 4, 1908, pp. 206, ff. [18] The Tinguian do not have a classificatory system of relationship terms. The term _kasinsin_ is applied alike to the children of mother's and father's brothers and sisters. [19] A sacred dance in which a number of men and women take part. It takes place only at night and is accompanied by the singing of the participants. [20] The night preceding the greatest day of the _Sayang_ ceremony. [21] Runo, a reed. [22] See p. 11, note 3. [23] A short ceremony held for the cure of fever and minor ills. It also forms a part of the more extensive rites. [24] A sugar-cane rum. [25] See p. 10, note 1. [26] Lesser spirits. [27] Like ideas occur in the folktales of British North Borneo. See _Evans_, _Journal Royal Anthro. Inst_., Vol. XLIII, 1913, p. 444. [28] In various guises the same conception is found in Europe, Asia, Africa, and Malaysia. See Cox, An Introduction to Folklore, p. 121 (London, 1904).--In an Igorot tale the owner captures and marries the star maiden, who is stealing his rice. _Seidenadel_, The Language of the Bontoc Igorot, p. 491 ff. (Chicago, 1909). [29] The Dusun of Borneo have tales of talking jars. _Evans_, _Journal Royal Anthro. Inst_., Vol. XLIII, 1913, pp. 426-427. See also _Cole_ and _Laufer_, Chinese Pottery in the Philippines (_Pub. Field Museum of Nat. Hist_., Vol. XII, No. 1, p. 11 ff., 1912). [30] _Piper sp_. [31] Bagobo tales relate that in the beginning plants, animals, and rocks could talk with mortals. See _Benedict_, _Journal American Folklore_, Vol. XXVI, 1913, p. 21. [32] Tales of animals who assist mortals are found in all lands; perhaps the best known to European readers is that of the ants which sorted the grain for Cinderella. See also _Evans_, _Jour. Royal Anthro. Inst.,_ Vol. XLIII, 1913, p. 467, for Borneo; _Tawney's_ Kathá Sarit Ságara, pp. 361 ff., Calcutta, 1880, for India. [33] Fabulous birds of gigantic size, often known under the Indian term _garuda_, play an important part in the beliefs of the Peninsular Malays. [34] A similiar incident is cited by _Bezemer_ (Volksdichtung aus Indonesien). See also the Bagobo tale of the Kingfisher (_Benedict_, _Jour. American Folklore_, Vol. XXVI, 1913, p. 53). [35] The magic flight has been encountered in the most widely separated parts of the globe, as, for instance, India and America. See _Tawney_, Kathá Sarit Ságara, pp. 361, 367 ff. and notes, (Calcutta, 1880); _Waterman_, _Jour. American Folklore,_ Vol. XXVII, 1914, p. 46; _Reinhold Köhler_, Kleinere Schriften, Vol. I, pp. 171, 388. [36] In the Dayak legend of Limbang, a tree springs from the head of a dead giant; its flowers turn to beads; its leaves to cloth; the ripe fruit to jars. See _H. Ling Roth_, The Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo, Vol. I, p. 372. [37] Similar incidents are to be found among the Ilocano and Igorot; in Borneo; in Java and India. See _Reyes_, Folklore Filipino, p. 34, (Manila, 1889); _Jenks_, The Bontoc Igorot, p. 202, (Manila, 1905); _Seidenadel_, The Language of the Bontoc Igorot, p. 491, 541, ff, (Chicago, 1909); _Evans_, _Journal Royal Anthro. Inst_., Vol. XLIII, 1913, p. 462; _Ling Roth_, Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo, Vol. I, p. 319; _Tawney_, Kathá Sarit Ságara, Vol. II, p. 3, (Calcutta, 1880); _Bezemer_, Volksdichtung aus Indonesien, p. 49, (Haag, 1904). [38] This peculiar expression while frequently used is not fully understood by the story tellers who in place of the word "whip" occasionally use "make." In one text which describes the _Sayang_ ceremony, I find the following sentence, which may help us to understand the foregoing: "We go to make perfume at the edge of the town, and the things which we take, which are our perfume, are the leaves of trees and some others; it is the perfume for the people, which we give to them, which we go to break off the trees at the edge of the town." Again in tale 20, Kanag breaks the perfume of Baliwán off a tree.--The use of sweetly scented oil, in raising the dead, is found in Dayak legends. See _Ling Roth_, The Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo, Vol. I, p. 314. [39] According to a Jakun legend, the first children were produced out of the calves of their mothers' legs. _Skeat_ and _Blagden_, Pagan Races of the Malay Peninsula, Vol. II, p. 185.--A creation tale from Mangaia relates that the boy Rongo came from a boil on his mother's arm when it was pressed. _Gill_, Myths and Songs of the South Pacific, p. 10 (London, 1876). [40] This power of transforming themselves into animals and the like is a common possession among the heroes of Dayak and Malay tales. See _Ling Roth_, The Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo, Vol. I, p. 312; _Perham_, _Journal Straits Branch R., Asiatic Society_, No. 16, 1886; _Wilkinson_, Malay Beliefs, pp. 32, 59 (London, 1906). [41] The present day Tinguian attach much importance to these omens. The gall and liver of the slaughtered animal are carefully examined. If the fluid in the gall sack is exceedingly bitter, the inquirer is certain to be successful; if it is mild he had best defer his project. Certain lines and spots found on the liver foretell disaster, while a normal organ assures success. See also _Hose_ and _McDougall_, Pagan Tribes of Borneo, Vol. II, p. 60 ff. [42] See p. 24, note 1. [43] The present capital of Ilocos Sur. [44] See p. 10, note 1. [45] _Barrows_, Census of the Philippine Islands, Vol. I, pp. 456 ff., 1903. [46] Paul P. de La Gironiere, who visited the Tinguian in the early part of the nineteenth century, describes these ornaments as follows: "Their heads were ornamented with pearls, coral beads, and pieces of gold twisted among their hair; the upper parts of the hands were painted blue; wrists adorned with interwoven bracelets, spangled with glass beads; these bracelets reached the elbow and formed a kind of half-plaited sleeve." _La Gironiere_, Twenty Years in the Philippines, pp. 108 ff. [47] See _Cole_ and _Laufer_, Chinese Pottery in the Philippines (_Pub. Field Museum of Natural History_, Vol. XII, No. 1). [48] This is entirely in agreement with Chinese records. The Islands always appeared to the Chinese as an Eldorado desirable for its gold and pearls. [49] See p. 21, note 1. [50] See p. 10, note 1. [51] A bamboo pole, about ten feet long, one end of which is slit into several strips; these are forced apart and are interwoven with other strips, thus forming a sort of basket. [52] See _Cole_, Distribution of the Non-Christian Tribes of Northwestern Luzon (_American Anthropologist_, Vol. II, No. 3, 1909, pp. 340, 341). [53] See p. 12. [54] See p. 13, note 5. [55] Among the Ifugao, the lowest of the four layers or strata which overhang the earth is known as Kabuniyan. See _Beyer_, _Philippine Journal of Science_, Vol. VIII, 1913, No. 2, p. 98. [56] See p. 11. [57] An Ifugao myth gives sanction to the marriage of brother and sister under certain circumstances, although it is prohibited in every day life. _Beyer_, _Philippine Journal of Science_, Vol. VIII, 1913, No. 2, pp. 100 ff. [58] As opposed to the spirit mate of Aponitolau. [59] According to _Ling Roth_, the Malanaus of Borneo bury small boats near the graves of the deceased, for the use of the departed spirits. It was formerly the custom to put jars, weapons, clothes, food, and in some cases a female slave aboard a raft, and send it out to sea on the ebb tide "in order that the deceased might meet with these necessaries in his upward flight." Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo, Vol. I, p. 145, (London, 1896). For notes on the funeral boat of the Kayan, see _Hose_ and _McDougall_, Pagan Tribes of Borneo, Vol. II, p. 35.--Among the Kulaman of southern Mindanao an important man is sometimes placed in a coffin resembling a small boat, which is then fastened on high poles near to the beach. _Cole_, Wild Tribes of Davao District, Mindanao (_Pub. Field Museum of Natural History_, Vol. XII, No. 2, 1913).--The supreme being, Lumawig, of the Bontoc Igorot is said to have placed his living wife and children in a log coffin; at one end he tied a dog, at the other a cock, and set them adrift on the river. See _Jenks_, The Bontoc Igorot, p. 203, (Manila, 1905); _Seidenadel_, The Language of the Bontoc Igorot, p. 502 ff., (Chicago, 1909). [60] For similar omens observed by the Ifugao of Northern Luzon, see _Beyer_, Origin Myths of the Mountain peoples of the Philippines (_Philippine Journal of Science_, Vol. VIII, 1913, No. 2, p. 103). [61] Page 6, note 3. [62] See tale 22. [63] For a discussion of this class of myths, see _Waterman_, _Jour. Am. Folklore_, Vol. XXVII, 1914, p. 13 ff.; _Lowie_, _ibid._, Vol. XXI, p. 101 ff., 1908; P.W. _Schmidt_, Grundlinien einer Vergleichung der Religionen und Mythologien der austronesischen Völker, (Wien, 1910). [64] See p. 13, note 5. [65] The _Pala-an_ is third in importance among Tinguian ceremonies. [66] Tale 58. [67] This is offered only as a possible explanation, for little is known of the beliefs of this group of Igorot. [68] See p. 14, note 2. [69] Tale 68. [70] _Hose_ and _McDougall_, The Pagan Tribes of Borneo, Vol. II, p. 148, (London, 1912). [71] _Bezemer_, Volksdichtung aus Indonesien, p. 304, Haag, 1904. For the Tagalog version of this tale see _Bayliss_, (_Jour. Am. Folk-lore_, Vol. XXI, 1908, p. 46). [72] _Evans_, Folk Stories of British North Borneo. (_Journal Royal Anthropological Institute_, Vol. XLIII, 1913, p. 475). [73] Folk Stories of British North Borneo (_Journal Royal Anthropological Institute_, Vol. XLIII, p. 447, 1913). [74] Tale No. 89. [75] _Hose_ and _McDougall_, The Pagan Tribes of Borneo, Vol. II, pp. 144-146. [76] Tale 91. The cloak which causes invisibility is found in Grimm's tale of the raven. See _Grimm's_ Fairy Tales, Columbus Series, p. 30. In a Pampanga tale the possessor of a magic stone becomes invisible when squeezes it. See _Bayliss_, (_Jour. Am. Folk-Lore_, Vol. XXI, 1908, p. 48). [77] _Ratzel_, History of Mankind, Vol. I, Book II. _Graebner_, Methode der Ethnologie, Heidelberg, 1911; Die melanesische Bogenkultur und ihre Verwandten (_Anthropos_, Vol. IV, pp. 726, 998, 1909). [78] See _Waterman_, _Journal American Folklore_, Vol. XXVII, 1914, pp. 45-46. [79] Stories of magic growth are frequently found in North America. See _Kroeber_, Gross Ventre Myths and Tales (_Anthropological Papers of the Am. Mus. of Nat. Hist._, Vol. I, p. 82); also _Lowie_, The Assiniboin (_ibid._, Vol. IV, Pt. 1, p. 136). [80] Other examples of equally widespread tales are noted by _Boas_, Indianische Sagen, p. 852, (Berlin, 1895); L. _Roth_, Custom and Myth, pp. 87 ff., (New York, 1885); and others. A discussion of the spread of similar material will be found in _Graebner_, Methode der Ethnologie, p. 115; _Ehrenreich_, Mythen und Legenden der südamerikanischen Urvölker, pp. 77 ff.; _Ehrenreich_, Die allgemeine Mythologie und ihre ethnologischen Grundlagen, p. 270. [81] _Cole_ and _Laufer_, Chinese Pottery in the Philippines (_Publication Field Museum of Natural History, Anthropological Series_, Vol. XII, No. 1, Chicago, 1913). [82] _Nieuwenhuis_, Kunstperlen und ihre kulturelle Bedeutung (_Int. Arch, für Ethnographie_, Vol. XVI, 1903, pp. 136-154). [83] _Philippine Journal of Science_, Vol. III, No. 4, 1908, pp. 197-211. [84] A vine the new leaves of which are used for greens. [85] _Antidesma ghesaembilla_ Gaertn. [86] Rare beads. [87] Larger beads than _oday_. [88] Shallow wells are dug in the sands, near to the river. [89] See p. 17, note 3. [90] It was so long that it dragged. [91] i.e., it was so small. The idea that roosters produce unusually small eggs is still held. The same conception is found in Javanese folk-lore. Here the "rooster's egg" or its substitute--the _Kemiri_ nut--is placed in the granary to cause an increase in the supply of rice. _Bezemer_, Volksdichtung aus Indonesien, p. 29, (Haag, 1904). [92] See p. 17, note 3, for similar incidents in other Philippine tales, also from Borneo and India. [93] The illuminating power of beauty receives frequent mention. Similiar references are met with in Malay legends and Indian tales. See _Tawney_, Kathá Sarit Ságara, p. 121 ff. (Calcutta, 1880.) [94] The meaning of this passage is not clear. [95] See p. 17, note 3. [96] See p. 10, note 1. [97] See p. 9. [98] See p. 18, note 2, for similar incidents. [99] This would have been a sign that the child wished to go to its father. [100] See. p. 11 ff. [101] Certain varieties of bamboo and reeds. [102] See p. 13. [103] See p. 13, note 1. [104] The rice used in this ceremony is pounded in a certain manner, by many women who sing as they work. [105] See p. 18. [106] See p. 13, note 2. [107] See p. 12. [108] Like presents, or others of equal value, are generally given in return. [109] A dance held at the gate of the town, on the great day of this ceremony. During the dance rice and water are thrown on the visitors. [110] This was a sign that they were related. In this case the quids of the young people went to those of their fathers. [111] They had not yet paid the customary marriage price for the girl. [112] See p. 6. [113] Copper gong. [114] A white and a black strip of cloth which the dancers carry in their hands. When the cloth is given to a person he is thus invited to dance. [115] Kanag was the baby born from Aponibolinayen's finger. Mentioned earlier in story. [116] Names of different kinds of jars. [117] Poles on which the heads of enemies are displayed. [118] The _alan_ are lesser spirits. See p. 14. [119] See p. 18, note 1. [120] See pp. 12-13. [121] A powerful spirit. [122] The head man of a Tinguian village. [123] See p. 14. [124] Algaba is renamed Aponitolau. [125] See p. 11. [126] A big bird. [127] A bad sign. See p. 19, note 1 for omens. [128] Sugar cane rum. [129] The groom's gift. [130] Lesser spirits. [131] See p. 35, note 1. [132] See p. 42, note 1. [133] _Piper sp_. [134] See p. 18, note 1. [135] See p. 17, note 3. [136] A powerful spirit. [137] See p. 30, note 3. [138] See p. 12. [139] See p. 7, note 1. [140] The story tellers explain the very frequent mention of "girls who always stay in the house" or "who never go out of doors" by saying that in former times the prettiest girls were always protected from the sunlight in order that their skin might be of light color. These girls were called _lala-am_--those within. It is not thought they remained constantly within doors. [141] See p. 11. [142] See p. 12. [143] See p. 13, note 1. [144] See p. 14, note 2. [145] See p. 13, note 2. [146] Small covered benches built during the _Sayang_ ceremony for the use of spirits and mortals. [147] See p. 11. [148] See p. 17. [149] See p. 11. [150] Each type of jar has its special name. [151] See p. 12. [152] This was the _tadek_. See p. 11, note 3. [153] Similiar ideas appear in tales from Borneo. See p. 15, note 1. [154] _Ilangilang_. [155] It is still considered a bad sign if anything falls or breaks at a wedding. [156] Apparently Gawigawen had not been present at the _pakálon_. Such a condition frequently exists nowadays. [157] See pp. 12, 128. [158] A minor spirit. [159] King or ruler. [160] This seems to be a late unconnected, intrusion into the tale. The _ati_ and soldiers are entirely foreign to the Tinguian. [161] See p. 12. [162] This incident is frequently found in these tales. It also occurs in Javanese literature. See _Bezemer_, Volksdichtung aus Indonesien, p. 47. (Haag, 1904). [163] See p. 15. [164] Kadayadawan is re-named Aponitolau by his new-found parents. [165] A powerful spirit. [166] See p. 54, note 2. [167] The story teller paused here to explain that his mother did not know that she was pregnant, and that a miscarriage had occurred. [168] See p. 63, note 1. [169] Head man. [170] The term used is _alopogán_, which means "she who covers her face." For lack of a better designation we shall call her a medium. See p. 23. [171] See p. 41, note 2. [172] A bird. [173] Copper gong. [174] See p. 59, note 1. [175] It is the custom to distribute a part of the marriage price among the relatives of the bride. [176] The groom's gift. [177] See p. 11, note 5. [178] The term which expresses the relationship established between the parents of the bride and groom. [179] _Piper sp_. [180] A headband of beads or gold. [181] See p. 17, note 1. [182] See p. 12. [183] Don Carlos was evidently an Ilocano, for his language is Ilocano and his residence Vigan. Other points indicate that the story has many recent additions. [184] The use of love charms is not confined to the Tinguian and their Ilocano neighbors, but is known also by the tribes of the Malay Peninsula. See _Reyes_, Folklore, Filipino, p. 50, (Manila, 1889); _Skeat_ and _Blagden_, Pagan Races of the Malay Peninsula, Vol. II, pp. 232, 262. (London, 1906.) [185] _Antidesma ghesaembilla_ Gaertn. [186] Ordinary lightning. [187] See p. 24, note 1. [188] See p. 18. [189] Another name for Aponitolau. [190] See p. 41, note 2. [191] Ligi (Dagdagalisit) is now known by his true name. [192] See p. 54, note 2. [193] See p. 54. [194] See p. 18, note 3. [195] See p. 18, note 2. [196] See p. 30, note 3. [197] See p. 14, note 2. [198] Another name for Ingiwan, who is really Aponitolau. [199] See p. 12. [200] As a sign of mourning. [201] See p. 18, note 1. [202] See p. 19, note 1. [203] See p. 42. [204] See p. 10, note 4. [205] See p. 17. [206] An insect. [207] Ginteban was a woman from Baygan (Vigan) who had been captured by the bird. [208] See p. 18. [209] See p. 96, note 3. [210] A fruit tree. [211] See p. 18. [212] See p. 30, note 3. [213] The idea of a plant serving as a life or fidelity token was found in ancient Egypt, in India, and Europe. See Cox, an Introduction to Folk-Lore (London, 1904); _Tawney_, Kathá Sarit Ságara (Calcutta, 1880, Vol. I, p. 86); _Parker_, Village Folk-Tales of Ceylon. [214] See p. 18, note 1. [215] See p. 17, note 1. [216] A fruit. [217] See p. 96, note 3. [218] Lightning which is accompanied by a loud crash of thunder. [219] See p. 19, note 1. [220] See p. 16. [221] See p. 30, note 3. [222] See p. 18, note 1. [223] See p. 16, note 6. [224] Spirits. [225] See p. 13, note 5. [226] An evil spirit which lives in the air and makes a sound like the medium when she is summoning the spirits. [227] The spirit's word for world. [228] A small bench made for the use of spirits and visiting mortals. [229] See p. 105. [230] See p. 63, note 1. [231] The term used is _al-ligan_--the high watch house in the fields. [232] One of the big stars. [233] A different kind of star. [234] Reduplicated form of _bitówen_--many stars. [235] See p. 15, note 2. [236] The spirits' name for mortals. [237] The moon. [238] A sort of enclosed seat in which babies are suspended from the house rafters. [239] See p. 13, note 2. [240] See p. 13. [241] Aponitolau. [242] The name means "sparks of fire." [243] See p. 13, note 2. [244] See p. 56, note 6. [245] Similiar incidents, in which women give birth to snakes or animals, occur in Borneo. See _Evans_, _Journal Royal Anthro. Inst._, Vol. XLIII, 1913, pp. 432 ff. [246] See p.17, note 3. [247] Aponitolau. [248] Sugar cane rum. [249] See p. 41, note 2. [250] See p. 27. [251] See p. 17, note 3. [252] See p. 73, note 3. [253] Lesser spirits. [254] See p. 54, note 2. [255] See p. 10, note 1. [256] See p. 10, note 2. [257] The cloth used in dancing. See p. 11. [258] See p. 63, note 1. [259] See p. 12. [260] Another name for Kanag. [261] A raft. See p. 24, note 1. [262] The Tinguian believe that the rivers and waters finally empty over the edge of the world at a place known as Nagbotobotán. [263] See p. 18, note 1. [264] See p. 13, note 2. [265] See p. 41, note 2. [266] A jar. [267] Mountain rice. [268] The omen bird. [269] See p. 19, note 1. [270] See p. 10, note 1. [271] The storyteller here paused to explain that Kadalayapan was somewhere in the air, and that Kanag was going down to the earth for fruit. See p. 7. [272] A band of leaves worn about the head. [273] See p. 18, note 2. [274] See p. 30, note 3. [275] A place of great trees, many herbs, and continued dampness. [276] See p. 13. [277] Negrito. It was Gamayawán disguised. [278] See p. 23. [279] See p. 17. [280] A powerful spirit. [281] See p. 30, note 3. [282] A sort of tuning fork made of bamboo. [283] See p. 96, note 3. [284] The word is probably used in the Igorot sense as "celebration." In the Tinguian dialects _kanyau_ means "taboo." [285] See p. 17, note 1. [286] See p. 18, note 1. [287] See p. 63. [288] See p. 24, note 1. [289] This story does not belong to the cycle proper. [290] See p. 34, note 2. [291] See p. 14. [292] The Tinguian always refer to the Igorot as _alzado_. [293] Head man. [294] This story does not belong to the cycle. [295] See p. 54, note 2. [296] See p. 14. [297] A low box-like table used by the Ilocano. [298] Certain charms are still used by lovers to aid them in their suits. [299] Pangasinan is a province midway between Abra and Manila. [300] See p. 19, note 1. [301] A spirit. [302] Jars. [303] This _diam_ is recited by the medium when the spirit house known as _balaua_ is built. See also page 12. [304] Spirit name for Tinguian. [305] The greatest of Tinguian ceremonies. [306] A large house built for the spirits during the _Sayang_ ceremony. [307] Spirits. [308] Kadaklan is the most powerful of the spirits. Agemem is his wife. [309] The names of small buildings or shrines elected for various spirits. [310] Chanted by the medium while making offerings in the _Dawak_ ceremony which is made for the cure of minor illnesses, such as fever, etc. [311] A powerful spirit. [312] The _diam_ recited during the _Pala-an_ ceremony. [313] The east. [314] Feathers attached to a stick, which serve as hair ornaments in the _Sayang_ ceremony. [315] Spirit name for Tinguian. [316] See p. 171, note 2. [317] Chanted by the medium, over the offerings given to aid in the cure of a sick child, or to stop a child from incessant crying. [318] The ceremony. [319] _Diam_ recited during the _Sangásang_ ceremony in the town of Lumaba. [320] Chanted when the _Sangásang_ ceremony is made for sickness, or to take away a bad omen. [321] Spirit name for the earth. [322] See p. 172, note 4. [323] See p. 22, note 3. [324] Chanted when the ceremony is made to remove a bad sign. [325] An omen bird. [326] The true omen bird. [327] _Diam_ recited during the _Sangásang_ ceremony held to remove continued misfortunes. [328] Several native names which have no exact English equivalents are used here. [329] Woven bamboo used on ceilings. [330] This _diam_ was chanted during the _Ubaya_ ceremony in Villaviciosa, an Igorot town much influenced by Tinguian. The _Ubaya_ is also held in Lumaba, a Tinguian settlement. [331] No one is allowed to enter the town after the ceremony begins. [332] The most powerful of all spirits. [333] See p. 13. [334] See p. 13, note 1. [335] See p. 12. [336] A somewhat similar tale, current among the Dayak, will be found in _Roth_, The Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo, Vol. I, p. 309 ff. [337] A small spirit house built during the _bawi_ ceremony. [338] A kind of grass. [339] Account concerning the guardian stones at Patok. [340] Peculiarly shaped stones in which Apdel, the guardian spirit of the village is supposed to reside. [341] A Tinguian town several miles south of Patok. [342] Told by the people of Lumaba, to account for a peculiar knifelike cut in one of the guardian stones outside the village. [343] Large knife. [344] Account of the securing of the guardian stones at Lagayan, Abra. [345] Compare with account of _La Gironière_, Twenty Years in the Philippines, pp. 120 ff; also with _Cole_, _Philippine Journal of Science_, Vol. III, No. 4, 1908, pp. 210-11. [346] A ceremony held while the body is still in the house. [347] A grass which is eaten. [348] Taboo. A fire is kept burning at the grave and at the foot of the house ladder for ten nights following the burial. During this time the members of the family and near relatives must remain close to home. [349] A barrio of Patok. [350] A rope lasso. [351] An evil spirit. [352] People in the house with the dead and the relatives must observe the _kanyau_ (taboo) for ten days or they will meet the spirit of the dead person and it will harm them. [353] _Smilax vicaria_ Kunth. [354] The name by which the Tinguian designate themselves. [355] _Blumea balsamifera_ D.C. [356] A blanket with red or yellow stripes which resemble the markings on a young wild pig. [357] See p. 54, note 2. [358] A mountain town in eastern Abra. [359] A ceremony held about a year after a funeral. [360] See p. 10, note 1. [361] Spirit name for Tinguian. [362] The three persons mentioned were still living when this story was recorded. [363] The name of the spirit of a dead man which still remains near its old haunts. [364] See p. 28, note 2. [365] See p. 14. [366] Head man. [367] Near Namarabar in Ilocos Sur. [368] The Ilocano consider the _komau_ a fabulous, invisible bird which steals people and their possessions. See _Reyes_, El Folklore Filipino, p. 40. Manila, 1899. [369] A powerful spirit. [370] See p. 14. [371] In the Bagobo version of this tale, a ladle becomes the monkey's tail. See _Benedict_, _Journal American Folklore_, Vol. XXVI, 1913, p. 21. [372] A story accounting for the origin of the _kálau_, a bird. [373] See page 10, note 1. [374] The cave is situated in the mountains, midway between Patok and Santa Rosa. [375] The old custom was that when a party returned from a head hunt the women went to the gate and held ladders in a [Lambda] so the men did not pass through the gate; or they laid them on the ground and the men jumped over them. [376] The river emerges from Abra through a narrow pass in the mountains. [377] Songs. [378] A similiar incident is found in the Northern Celebes and among the Kenyah of Borneo. See _Bezemer_, Volksdichtung aus Indonesien, p. 304. (Haag, 1904.) _Hose_ and _McDougall_, Pagan Tribes of Borneo. Vol. II, p, 148, London, 1912. [379] A variant of this tale is told by the Bagobo of southern Mindanao. See _Benedict_, _Journal of American Folklore_, Vol. XXVI, 1913, p. 59. [380] The gold or silver wire worn by women or men about their necks. [381] A little bird. [382] A kind of bamboo. [383] For other versions of this tale see p. 29, note 3. [384] A shell. [385] A shell. [386] See p. 29, note 4, for Borneo parallel. [387] See p. 11. [388] Bamboo sprouts. [389] The fruit of a wild vine. [390] The chief incidents in this tale resemble those in the Sea Dayak story of Simpang Impang. See _Hose_ and _McDougall_, Pagan Tribes of Borneo, Vol. II, p. 144 ff. (London, 1912.) [391] A town in Ilocos Sur. [392] A mound of earth raised by the ants. [393] Same idea is held by the Ilocano. See _Reyes_, El Folklore Filipino, p. 34, Manila, 1889. See also p. 29, note 7. 
14501	----	THE FOREST OF VAZON _A GUERNSEY LEGEND OF THE EIGHTH CENTURY_. London: HARRISON & SONS, 59, PALL MALL Booksellers to the Queen and H.R.H the Prince of Wales 1889. PREFACE. Nothing authentic is known of the history of Guernsey previously to its annexation to the Duchy of Normandy in the tenth century. The only sources of information as to events which may have occurred before that date are references in monkish chronicles of the usual semi-mythical type, and indications conveyed by cromlechs and menhirs, fragments of Celtic instruments and pottery, and a few Roman relics. It is unfortunate that we are thus precluded from acquiring any knowledge of the development of a people as to whom the soundest among conflicting conjectures seems to be that, coming originally from Brittany, they preserved the purity of the Celtic race through periods when in other offshoots of the same stock its characteristics were being obliterated by the processes of crossing and absorption. If early local records had existed they would hardly have failed to have given minute details of the convulsion of nature which resulted in the destruction by the sea of the forest lands on the northern and western sides of the island, and in the separation of tracts of considerable magnitude from the mainland. Geologists are agreed in assigning to this event the date of March, 709, when great inundations occurred in the Bay of Avranches on the French coast; they are not equally unanimous as to the cause, but science now rejects the theory of a raising of the sea-level and that of a general subsidence of the island. The most reasonable explanation appears to be that the overpowering force of a tidal wave suddenly swept away barriers whose resistance had been for ages surely though imperceptibly diminishing, and that the districts thus left unprotected proved to be below the sea-level--owing, as regards the forests, to gradual subsidence easily explicable in the case of undrained, swampy soil; and, as regards the rocks, to the fact that the newly exposed surface consisted of accumulations of already disintegrated deposits. It is unquestionable that before the inroad of the sea the inlet in the south-west of the island known as Rocquaine Bay was enclosed by two arms, the northern of which terminated in the point of Lihou; on which still stand the ruins of an old priory, while the southern ended in the Hanois rocks, on which a lighthouse has been erected. Lihou is at present an island, accessible only at low water by a narrow causeway; the Hanois is entirely cut off from the shore, but it is a noteworthy fact that the signs of old cart-ruts are visible at spring tides, and that an iron hook was recently discovered attached to a submerged rock which had apparently served as a gatepost; besides these proofs of the existence of roads now lying under the waves, it is said that an old order for the repair of Hanois roads is still extant. That Vazon and the Braye du Valle were the sites of forests is indisputable, though the former is now a sandy bay into which the Atlantic flows without hindrance, and the latter, reclaimed within the present century by an enterprising governor, formed for centuries a channel of the sea by which the Clos du Valle, on which the Vale Church stands, was separated from the mainland. A stratum of peat extends over the whole arm of the Braye, while as regards Vazon there is the remarkable evidence of an occurrence which took place in December, 1847. A strong westerly gale, blowing into the bay concurrently with a low spring tide, broke up the bed of peat and wood underlying the sand and gravel, and lifted it up like an ice-floe; it was then carried landwards by the force of the waves. The inhabitants flocked to the spot, and the phenomenon was carefully inspected by scientific observers. Trunks of full-sized trees were seen, accompanied by meadow plants and roots of rushes and weeds, surrounded by those of grasses and mosses; the perfect state of the trees showed that they had been long buried under the sand. Some of the trees and boughs were at first mistaken for wreckage, but the fishermen soon discovered their error and loaded their carts with the treasure locally known as "gorban." Subsequent researches have shown that acorns and hazel-nuts, teeth of horses and hogs, also pottery and instruments of the same character as those found in the cromlechs, exist among the Vazon peat deposits. There is therefore abundant evidence that the legends relating to the former inhabitants of the forest are based on traditions resting on an historical foundation. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I.--TRADITION CHAPTER II.--SUPERSTITION CHAPTER III.--DEVOTION CHAPTER IV.--REVELATION CHAPTER V.--AFFLICTION CHAPTER VI.--CONSOLATION CHAPTER VII.--ANNIHILATION CHAPTER I. TRADITION. "What can he tell that treads thy shore? No legend of thine olden time, No theme on which the mind might soar High as thine own in days of yore." _The Giaour_.--BYRON In the beginning of the eighth century Guernsey was a favoured spot. Around, over the Continent and the British Isles, had swept successive conquests with their grim train of sufferings for the conquered; but these storm-clouds had not burst over the island. The shocks which preceded the fall of the Roman Empire had not been felt, nor had the throes which inaugurated the birth of Frankish rule in Gaul and Saxon supremacy in Britain, disturbed the prevailing tranquillity. Occasional descents of pirates, Northmen from Scandinavian homes or Southmen from the Iberian peninsula, had hitherto had a beneficial effect by keeping alive the martial spirit and the vigilance necessary for self-defence. In the third century three Roman ships had been driven on shore and lost; the legionaries who escaped had established themselves in the island, having indeed for the moment no alternative. When their commander succeeded in communicating with Gaul he suggested a permanent occupation, being secretly influenced by tales of mineral wealth to which he had lent an ear. Disillusioned and recalled, he was followed by a sybarite, whose palate was tickled by banquets of fish of which he wrote in raptures to his friends at Capri and Brindisi. This excellent man, dying of apoplexy in his bath, was replaced by a rough soldier, who lost no time in procuring the evacuation of a post where he saw with a glance that troops were uselessly locked up. From this time nothing had been heard of the Romans; their occupation had lasted forty years, and in another forty the only physical traces of it remaining were a camp at Jerbourg, the nearly obliterated tessellated pavement and fragments of wall belonging to the sybarite's villa, which occupied the site in the King's Mills Valley where the Moulin de Haut now stands, the pond in the Grand Mare in which the voluptuary had reared the carp over which, dressed with sauces the secret of which died with him, he dwelt lovingly when stretched on his triclinium, and the basins at Port Grat in which he stored his treasured mullet and succulent oysters. The islanders were of one mind in speeding the parting guests, but the generation which saw them go were better men than their fathers who had trembled at the landing of the iron-thewed demi-gods. Compelled to work as slaves, they had learnt much from their masters; a knowledge of agriculture and of the cultivation of the grape, the substitution of good weapons and implements of husbandry for those of their Celtic ancestors, improved dwellings, and some insight into military discipline,--these were substantial benefits which raised them in some respects above their Continental and British neighbours, among whom patriotism had, on the disappearance of the civilization of the Romans, revived the more congenial barbarism. Arrivals among them of Christian monks, scanty at first, more frequent since the landing of S. Augustine in Britain, had also had a certain effect. The progress of conversion was, however, slow; the people were bigoted, and the good fathers were compelled, as in Brittany, to content themselves with a few genuine converts, wisely endeavouring rather to leaven the mass by grafting Christian truths on the old superstitions than to court certain defeat, possible expulsion or massacre, by striving to overthrow at once all the symbols of heathenism. The island was larger in extent than it is at present, as, in addition to the Vale district, the islet of Lihou, Vazon Bay, and the rock group known as the Hanois formed part of it. It is with the events that altered this configuration that the following legend deals. CHAPTER II. SUPERSTITION. "Awestruck, the much-admiring crowd Before the virgin vision bowed, Gaz'd with an ever-new delight, And caught fresh virtues at the sight." EDWARD MOORÉ'S _Fables_. On the 24th of June, in the year 708, merry crowds were thronging to Vazon Forest. It was a lovely spot. The other portions of the island were bare and somewhat rugged; here the humidity of the soil favoured the growth of fine, vigorous timber. On the low ground flourished oak and sycamore, torn and bent near the shore where the trees met the force of the Atlantic gales, growing freely and with rich verdure where better protected. On the higher slopes were massed beech, birch, and the sweet chestnut which was even then domesticated in the island. Glades, bursting with a wealth of flowers nurtured by the mildness of the climate, penetrated the wood in every direction; streams bubbling up from springs, and forming little cascades where their course was checked by granite boulders, lent an additional charm. Towards the centre of the forest these streams united to form a lake, or rather a natural moat, surrounding an island in the midst of which stood a gigantic oak. This was the only tree on the island; round it, at even distances, were placed twelve stones, beyond which a meadow glittering with varied hues extended to the surrounding water. It was to this island that the holiday-makers were wending their way: young men and maidens, and such elders as had vigour enough to traverse the rough tracks leading from the interior. They were a small race, lithe and active, with strong black hair and dark eyes now twinkling with merriment They poured over the wooden bridges into the precincts of the towering oak, under which the elders seated themselves with the musicians, the younger people streaming off to the clear ground between the stones and the water. When all were assembled the music struck up at a signal from an elder. The instruments were akin to the goat-skin pipes of Lower Brittany; the music wild, weird, appealing to the passion if not melodious to the ear. At any rate the effect was inspiriting. First, the men danced, the maidens seating themselves round the dancers and chanting the following words, to the rhythm of which they swayed their bodies gracefully:-- "Mille Sarrazins, mille Sarmates, Un jour nous avons tués. Mille, mille, mille, mille, mille Perses, Nous cherchons à present." The dance, footed to this truculent chant, had no warlike features; beginning with a march, or rather a tripping walk, it ended with feats in which each dancer defied his neighbour to out-spring him; nor did the vocalists appear to expect representations of strife and doughty deeds. The words, Roman by origin, as is clear from the allusion to the Persians, had been adapted to a native air by the conquerors, and had been left by them as a legacy to the islanders. Next, the maidens trod a measure, the men standing round and applauding; the dance was quiet and soft, consisting principally of graceful movements of the body as if the dancers were getting themselves into training for greater efforts; in this case the dancers themselves chanted words suitable to the music. This ended, there was a pause before the principal business of the day began, the dance in which both sexes joined, to be followed by the bestowal of a wreath on the loveliest of the maidens. During the pause it was evident that an unusual incident had occurred. The best-looking of the girls were pouting, the attention of the youths was distracted. During the latter part of the dance the applause had been intermittent; towards the close it had almost ceased. The elders, looking about under their shaggy eyebrows, had not been long in discovering the cause, and when they had found it allowed their attention to wander also. The disturbing element was, indeed, not far to seek. Close to one of the bridges was seated a maiden, unknown to all of them, but lovely enough to hold the glance of old and young. Unlike the natives she was tall and fair; masses of golden hair encircled her oval face and clustered over her blue eyes. Who was she? Whence came she? None could answer. By degrees some of the boldest of the youths approached, but their bluff manners seemed to displease her; though unaccustomed to rebuffs they retired. One, however, among them fared differently. Jean Letocq, a member of the family to which the hero belonged who near this very spot discovered the sleeping troops of the Grand Sarrazin, was admired and beloved both by youths and maidens. First in every sport, having shown courage and resource in times of peril both by sea and land, tender of glance and gentle of tongue, he held a pre-eminence which none disputed, and which was above the reach of envy. The fair stranger, from his first glance at her, had fascinated, enthralled him: his eyes fastened greedily on her every movement; he noted well her reception of those who had addressed her, and when he approached he came, bare-headed, with a low obeisance and a deferential air. He seated himself by her in silence, after murmuring a few words of welcome to the feast, to which she made no answer. Presently he spoke again, softly and courteously; she replied without constraint, speaking his own language fluently, though with a foreign accent. The ice once broken their talk rippled on, as is the wont of light words, brightly uttered. Jean drank in each gentle phrase, watched every graceful gesture; his heart bounded when she carelessly smiled. But he lost not his daring: when the musicians again struck up he boldly asked her to join in the dance. She was not offended, her look showed no displeasure, but she refused; he renewed his request; suddenly a change came over her face, she looked rapidly round as though searching for some one who was not present, a flash came into her eyes, she sprang to her feet. "Why should I not dance!" she said; "they are merry, why should I alone be sad!" She let him lead her into the ring. If she had been enchanting when seated, what was her power when she moved! She was a model of grace and loveliness; the contrast of her colouring to that of her neighbours inspired the superstitious with some terror, but made the braver spirits gaze more curiously, indifferent to the half-concealed anger and affected disdain of their partners. Every moment she gained more hearts, though she let her eyes rest only on those of Jean. After the dance was over she seated herself in her former position; the women then, according to custom, retired outside the stone circle, while the men clustered round the oak to award the prize. The ceremony had up to this day been looked on as a pure formality: for the last two summers the wreath had been by common consent placed on the brows of Suzanne Falla, and none who woke that morning had doubted that it would rest there again before night. But now the men's heads were turned; there was commotion both outside and inside the circle; then a hush, as the old men rose in their places and the young men formed a lane to the tree. Jean stepped out, and taking the stranger by the hand, led her to where a white-haired veteran stood with the wreath in his hand. The next moment it was placed on her brows, and then all voices burst into a song of triumph, which rang to the remotest glades of the forest. Suzanne did not join in the song; her little heart was breaking; all the passion of her hot nature was roused; she felt herself unfairly, unjustly, treated; insulted on the very day that was to have crowned her pride. She could not control herself, nor could she accept her defeat: she stamped her foot on the ground, and poured out a torrent of objurgation, accusing Jean of treachery, demanding to know whence he had produced her rival, appealing to the elders to revise the judgment. Then, suddenly ceasing, as she saw by the looks of those around her that while in some her fate created pity, in others it gave rise to amusement, in many to the pleasure which poor human nature felt then as now in a friend's misfortune, her mood altered: she turned and, rapidly leaving the crowd, crossed one of the bridges. Hastening her steps, but not watching them, she tripped over the straggling root of a yew, and fell, her temple striking a sharp boulder, one of many cropping up in the forest. Poor girl! in one moment passion and pride had flown; she lay senseless, blood streaming from the wound. A quick revulsion of feeling swept through the impressionable people. Her departure had been watched, the fall observed, and the serious nature of the accident was soon known; all hurried to the spot where she lay, full of sympathy and distress. Jean, perhaps not altogether unremorseful, was among the first to proffer aid; the stranger, left alone, took off the wreath and placed it on one of the stones of the circle, by which she stood contemplating the scene. The blow, struck deep into the temple, was beyond any ordinary means of cure; life indeed seemed to be ebbing away. "Send for Marie!" the cry sprang from many mouths: "send for Marie the wise woman! she alone can save her!" Three or four youths ran hastily off. "Wish ye for Marie Torode's body or her spirit?" said a harsh female voice; "her body ye can have! but what avail closed eyes and rigid limbs? Her spirit, tossed by the whirling death-blast, is beyond your reach!" The speaker, on whom all eyes turned, was an aged woman of unusual height; her snow-white hair was confined by a metal circlet, her eyes were keen and searching, her gestures imperious; her dress was simple and would have been rude but for the quaintly ornamented silver girdle that bound her waist, and the massive bracelets on her arms. Like the girl she was seen for the first time; her almost supernatural appearance inspired wonder and awe. She bent over the prostrate form: "Marie said with her last breath," she muttered to herself, "that ere the oaks were green again the sweetest maidens in the island would be in her embrace, but she cannot summon this one now! her vext spirit has not yet the power!" She examined the wound, and raising herself said, "No human hand can save her. The Spirits alone have power: those Spirits who prolong human life regardless of human ills; but they must be besought, and who will care to beseech them?" "Prayers may save her," answered a stern voice, "but not prayers to devils! The Holy Virgin should we beseech, by whom all pure maidens are beloved. She will save her if it be God's will, or receive her into her bosom if it be decreed that she should die." The words were those of Father Austin, one of the monks of Lihou, distinguished by his sanctity and the austerity of his habits. He was spare, as one who lived hardly; his grey eyes had a dreamy look betokening much inward contemplation, though they could be keen enough when, as now, the man was roused; there was a gentleness about his mouth which showed a nature filled with love and sympathy. The woman drew herself to her full stature, and turned on him a defiant look. "Gods or devils!" she said in a ringing tone--"which you will! What can an immured anchorite know of the vast mysteries of the wind-borne spirits? Is this child to live or die? My gods can save her; if yours can, let them take her! She is nought to me." "When Elijah wrestled with the prophets of Baal, where did victory rest?" said the priest, and he too stooped down and inspected the wound. "She is past cure," he said, rising sadly; "it remains but to pray for her soul." At this critical moment an agonizing shriek rang through the forest. The same runners who had sped to Marie Torode's cottage and had learnt there that the wise woman had in truth passed away, had brought back with them Suzanne's mother, who threw herself on her child's body endeavouring to staunch the blood, and to restore animation. Finding her efforts vain, she had listened anxiously to the words that had passed, and on hearing the priest's sentence of doom she burst into frantic grief and supplication. Turning to each disputant she cried--"Save her! save her young life! I suckled her, I reared her, I love her!--oh, how I love her!--do not let her die!" "She can be saved!" curtly responded the stranger. The priest was silent. A murmur arose. Austin, who had trained himself to study those among whom he laboured, saw that the feeling was rising strongly against him. His antagonist saw it also, and pressed her victory. "Yes!" she said scornfully, "it is a small matter for my Gods to save her, but they will not be besought while this bald-pate obtrudes his presence. Let him leave us!" The priest was much perplexed. He knew the skill of these lonely women; secretly he had faith in their power of witchcraft, though attributing it to the direct agency of Satan. He thought it not impossible that there was truth in the boast; and his heart was wrung with the mother's grief. On the other hand, the public defeat was a sore trial; but it was clear to him that for the present at least the analogy of Elijah's struggle was imperfect: he must wait, and meanwhile bear his discomfiture with meekness. He prepared to retire. The victor was not, however, even now satisfied. "Take with you," she said, "yon idol that defaces the sacred oak!" The good fathers, following their usual practice of associating emblems of heathen with those of Christian worship, in the hope of gradually diverting the reverence to the latter without giving to the former a ruder shock than could be endured, had suspended a small cross on the oak, hoping eventually to carve the tree itself into a sacred emblem; it was to this that the woman was pointing with a sneer. But this time she had made a blunder. Father Austin turned to the crucifix and his strength and fire returned. Taking it from the tree, reverently kissing it and holding it aloft, he said solemnly--"Let my brothers and sisters come with me! We will pray apart, where no profane words can reach us. Perchance our prayers may be granted!" Not a few of the hearers followed him; sufficient indeed to make an imposing procession: the triumph of the Evil One was at least dimmed. But his adversary did not appear to notice their departure. She gave a sharp glance in the direction of the oak, and the now discrowned girl was quickly at her side. Receiving some rapid instructions, the latter disappeared into the wood, and shortly returned with some herbs, which she passed to her companion; she then resumed her position by the stone. The old woman placed some leaves, which she selected, on the wound: the bleeding at once ceased; squeezing juice from the herbs, she applied an ointment made from it; then, opening a phial attached to her waist-belt, she poured some drops of liquid into the girl's mouth, gently parting her lips. This done, she stood erect and began an incantation, or rather a supplication, in an unknown tongue. As she proceeded her form became rigid, her eye gleamed, her arms, the hands clenched, were raised above her head. The sun flashed on the circlet, glittered on the embossed girdle: on the right arm was a heavy bracelet, composed of a golden serpent winding in weird folds round a human bone; the head was towards the wearer's wrist, and the jewelled eyes which, being of large size, must have been formed of rare stones, glowed and shot fire as the red beams struck on them through the branches. It seemed that a forked tongue darted in and out, but this may have been imagined by the heated fancies of the bystanders. The prayer ended; the stillness of death rested a moment on man and nature; then a wild gust of wind, striking the oak without any preliminary warning, bent and snapped the upper branches, and crashed inland through the swaying forest. The watchers saw the colour return to the cheeks of the wounded girl, who opened her eyes and sate up. "Take her home," said the sorceress, now quite composed, to the mother; "she is yours again!--till Marie calls her!" she added in a low voice to herself. The happy mother, shedding tears of joy, but in vain attempting to get her thanks accepted, obeyed the injunction. As she and her friends disappeared, the old woman, turning to the awed people who seemed more than ever disposed to look on her as a supernatural being, said sternly--"Why linger you here? Are you unmindful of your duties? See you not how the shadows lengthen?" These words produced a magical effect: the deep emotions by which the mass had been recently swayed were swiftly replaced by equally profound feelings of a different nature, as cloud succeeds cloud in a storm-swept sky. And now a singular scene was enacted. A procession was formed, headed by the old men, bare-headed; the musicians followed, behind whom walked with solemn step the younger members of the community. This procession, emerging from the western border of the forest, slowly climbed the slopes of the Rocque du Guet, and arriving at the summit bent its way seaward, halting at the edge of the precipitous cliff. The sun was nearing the horizon. The scene was one of unsurpassed loveliness. Behind lay the central and southern portions of the island, hushed as if their primaeval rocks were still tenantless. The outlines of the isles of Herm and Jethou were visible, but already sinking into the shades of evening. On the left the bold bluffs of L'Erée and Lihou, on the right the rugged masses of the Grandes and the Grosses Rocques, the Gros Commet, the Grande and Petite Fourque, lay in sharpened outline, the lapping waves already assuming a grey tint. These masses formed the framework of a picture which embraced a boundless wealth of colour, an infinite depth of softness. Straight from the sun shot out across Cobo Bay a joyous river of gold, so bright that eye could ill bear to face its glow; here and there in its course stood out quaintly-shaped rocks, some drenched with the fulness of the glorious bath, others catching now and again a sprinkling shower. On each side of the river the sea, clear to its depths where alternate sand and rock made a tangle of capriciously mingled light and shade; its surface, here blue as the still waters of the Grotta Azzurra, there green as the olive, here again red-brown as Carthaginian marble, lay waveless, as with a sense that the beauty was too perfect to be disturbed. Suddenly the scene was changed; the lustrous outflow was swiftly drawn in and absorbed; a grey hue swept over the darkening surface; in the distance the round, blood-coloured, orb hung above the expectant ocean. Then all assembled fell on their knees. The music gave out sharp plaintive notes which were answered by the voices of men and women in short, wailing, as it were inquiring, rhythm; this continued till the sun was on the point of disappearance, when music and voices together burst into a sad chant, seemingly of farewell; the kneeling people extending their hands seaward with an appealing gesture. One figure only was erect; on the projecting boulder, which is still so conspicuous a feature of the Rocque du Guet, stood the sorceress, her arms also outstretched, her figure, firm, erect, sharply outlined, such as Turner's mind conceived when he sketched the Last Man. Father Austin contemplated the scene from a distance. By his side was his favourite convert, Jean Letocq. "Strange!" he said, placing his hand on his companion's shoulder. "Your race are not sun-worshippers. Never, except on this day of the year, do they show this feeling; but who that saw them to-day would doubt that they are so! Is it that from old times their intense love of nature has led them to show in this way their sadness at its decay? or do they by mourning over the close of the sun's longest day symbolize their recognition of the inevitable end of the longest life of man? I cannot tell. But, blind as this worship is, it is better than that of the work of man's hands. By God's will your countrymen may be led from kneeling to the created to mount the ladder till they bend the knee only to the Creator. It may be well, too, that their chosen object of veneration is the only object in nature which dies but to rise again. Thus may they be led to the comprehension of the great truth of the resurrection. But Satan," he added with warmth, "must be wrestled with and cast down, specially when he takes the forms of temptation which he has assumed to-day: those of power and beauty. Prayer and fasting are sorely needed." For once his pupil was not altogether docile. "Thou hast taught me, father," he replied, "the lesson of charity. This old woman is sinful, her error is deep, but may she not be converted and saved?" "The devils can never regain Paradise," replied the priest sternly. "Arm thyself, Jean, against their wiles, in which I fear thou art already entangled. The two forms we have to-day seen are but human in seeming: demons surely lurked beneath." Jean was now in open rebellion. "Nay, good father," he said decisively, "the maiden was no fiend; if her companion be an imp of darkness, as well she may, be it my task to rescue her from the evil snare into which she has fallen!" He had indeed a vivid recollection of the soft, human hand to which he had ventured to give a gentle pressure when he had assisted in placing the wreath on the fair, marble, brow, and had no doubt of the girl's womanhood. As he spoke he vanished from the side of the priest, who, seeing the two objects of his pious aversion entering the darkening glades of the wood, was at no loss to divine the cause of his disappearance. The holy father shook his head, and sighed deeply. He was accustomed to disappointments, but this day his path had to an unusual extent been beset with thorns. His faith was unshaken, and he humbly laid the fault on his own shoulders, promising further privations to his already sorely afflicted body. Meanwhile he descended the hill, directing his course to Lihou. Pausing on his way through the forest to replace the cross on the oak, he saw Jean, walking slowly homewards, his listless step showing that his quest had failed. The Evil One had, he thought, for the time at least, forborne to press his advantage. Further off he heard the scattered voices of the dispersing throng. CHAPTER III. DEVOTION. "There glides a step through the foliage thick, And her cheek grows pale and her heart beats quick, There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves; A moment more--and they shall meet. 'Tis past--her lover's at her feet." _Parasina_.--BYRON. After visiting all the accessible parts of the island Jean satisfied himself that it was useless to search further in them for traces of the strangers. Persons so remarkable could not, it was clear, conceal themselves from the knowledge of the inhabitants. He must therefore either admit that the monk's surmise was correct, or must search in quarters hitherto unexplored. Though his rejection of the former alternative was a foregone conclusion, his adoption of the latter was a remarkable proof of the strength of his passion. There was only one district unexplored, and that was practically unapproachable. Early in the sixth century some piratical vessels had entered Rocquaine Bay in a shattered condition; the crews succeeded in landing, but the ships, for seagoing purposes, were beyond repair. The pirates penetrated inland, driving out the inhabitants from Torteval and some of the adjoining valleys. Here they settled; and being skilled in hunting and fishing, having a fair knowledge of husbandry, and finding the position peculiarly adapted for their marauding pursuits, throve and prospered: so much so that when, some years afterwards, they had an opportunity of leaving, the majority elected to remain. Their descendants had continued to occupy the same district. Who they were, whether pure Northmen or of some mixed race, it would be idle to conjecture: they were originally put down by the islanders as Sarrazins, that being the name under which the simple people classed all pirates; the strangers, however, resented this description, and had consequently come to be spoken of as Les Voizins, a definition to which no exception could be taken. Hardy and warlike, quick of temper and rough of speech, they had an undisputed ascendancy over the natives, to whom, though dangerous if provoked, they had often given powerful aid in times of peril. On the whole they made not bad neighbours, but a condition was imposed by them the violation of which was never forgiven: no native was permitted, under any pretext, to enter their territory; death was the sure fate of an intruder found in Rocquaine Bay or setting foot in the Voizin hills or valleys. Whatever may have been the cause of this regulation the result had been to keep the race as pure as it was on the day of the first landing. Now it was in the Terre des Voizins that Jean had resolved to seek his beloved, and his resolution was unalterable. He knew the danger; he wished to avoid death if possible; he meant to employ to the full the resources at his command; foolhardy as his enterprise seemed it was long and carefully planned. He knew that in the summer evenings it was the custom of the Voizin women to visit the sunny shores of the bay: this he had seen from Lihou; could he then succeed in landing unperceived, and in concealing himself in one of the many clefts of the rocks, he felt sure that if the well-known form were there he would descry it; what would follow afterwards was a question which had taken many fantastic shapes in his imagination, none of which had assumed a definite form. Towards the close of July the conditions were favourable for his attempt. In the night a strong tide would be running into the bay; the wind was south-westerly, the moon set early. He prepared to start. He had selected a small and light boat, which would travel fast under his powerful strokes, and might be so handled as not to attract attention; in it he had stored provisions which would last for a few days and a small cask of fresh water. Towards evening he shaped his course for Lihou. He had seen but little of the monk since the day of the feast, but he was yearning to see him now. His love for the man, his reverence for the truths he taught, his thought of his own future if he lost his life in his rash expedition, all urged him to seek a parting interview. The brothers received him affectionately and bade him join their frugal meal. The monks were five in number: they had been six, but one had recently been drowned while returning from a pious mission to Herm. Jean knew them all; they were honest, God-fearing men, trustful and truthful. If their reasoning powers were not great, their faith was unswerving. Their life was a prolonged asceticism, and they had fair reason to expect that martyrdom would be their earthly crown. The only exceptional feature of the repast was the appearance of one who had never yet been seated there in Jean's presence; this guest was the hermit who dwelt on the extreme point, against which the Atlantic waves dashed in their fiercest fury. The recluse did not seem to cultivate the duty of abstemiousness, but he maintained silence. Jean could not forbear furtively scanning his appearance, which was indeed remarkable. He would have been of large stature in any country; compared with the natives his proportions were gigantic. His broad shoulders and muscular arms betokened enormous strength; his hair and beard were fair; his blue eyes had a clear, frank, expression; there was firmness of purpose in his massive jaw; he seemed between forty and fifty, and would have been strikingly handsome but for three deep scars which totally marred the expression of his features. As Jean eyed him he returned the compliment, but the meal was soon over and the youth accompanied Father Austin to his cell. There a long and sleepless night was passed by both. The monk in vain endeavoured to combat Jean's resolution; he argued, prayed, indeed threatened, but without effect. Finding his efforts hopeless he abandoned them, and endeavoured to fortify his charge against the influence of the spell under which he believed him to have fallen. Then the young man was again the pupil; he listened humbly and reverently to the repetition of the great truths which the father strove to rivet on his mind, and joined earnestly in the prayers for truth and constancy. As daylight broke, and he at length laid himself down to rest, his latest vision was that of the good man kneeling by him with that rapt look of contemplation which seemed to foreshadow his immortality. Jean slept profoundly for some hours. When night began to fall he received Austin's blessing, no further reference being made to his expedition, and when the moon was on the eve of disappearance he launched his boat. As he rounded Lihou point another boat shot out, the occupant of which hailed him. Recognizing the hermit, Jean paused. "You steer wrong," said the giant, speaking with an accent which at once reminded his hearer of that of the maiden; "your course is to the rising sun." "I go where I will," replied Jean, nettled at this unlooked-for interruption. "Youth," answered the other, "I have watched thee and wish thee well! rush not heedlessly to certain death!" "Stay me not!" resolutely answered Jean, wondering at the interest taken in him by this strange being. "Thou knowest not!" said the hermit sternly; "it is not only from death I wish to save thee, but from worse than death; I tell thee I--" He checked himself, as if fearful of saying too much, and bent his eyes searchingly into those of Jean, who murmured simply, "I am resolved." "Then God help thee and speed thee!" said the giant. Glancing into the boat he saw one of the curved and pierced shells then, as now, used by Guernsey seamen as signal-horns: pointing to it he said, "If in peril, where a blast may be heard on Lihou, sound the horn twice: it is a poor hope but may serve thee!" He was gone. Jean paddled into the dreaded bay; the moon had now sunk and he was further favoured by a slight mist. Knowing the tides from infancy, he worked his way noiselessly till he approached where the Voizin fleet lay, then laid himself down and let the current take him. He passed several boats in safety; as far as he could judge, from the observations he had taken from Lihou, he was nearly past the anchorage when a crash, succeeded by a grating sound, warned him of danger. A curse, followed by an ejaculation of surprise and pleasure, enlightened him as to the nature of the collision: he was in contact with one of the anchored vessels. "Odin is good!" cried a voice; "ha! a skiff drifted from a wrecked vessel! and all eyes but mine sleeping!" The speaker threw over a small anchor and grappled the boat. Jean was prepared; without a moment's hesitation he cut the anchor-rope: his craft drifted onwards, leaving the fisherman grumbling at the rottenness of his tackle. He offered a short prayer of gratitude, and in a few minutes ventured cautiously to resume his oars. He heard the breaking of the waves, but seamanship on the unknown and indistinct coast was useless. Two sharp blows, striking the boat in rapid succession, told him that he had touched a submerged rock; the strong tide carried him off it, but the water poured in through a gaping rent. He was now, however, on a sandy bottom: he sprang out, pulled the boat up as far as possible, and sat down to wait for light. The first break of dawn showed him his position: he was facing northward; he was therefore on the Hanois arm of the bay. Fortune had indeed been kind to him, for he had drifted into a small cleft sheltered by precipitous rocks, a place where concealment was fairly possible, as it was accessible only by land at the lowest tides. He examined his store of provisions, which was uninjured; storing it among the rocks he rested till the sun sank. He then cautiously climbed the cliff, and looked on the scene revealed by the moonlight. Seawards stood a rough round tower; no other building was visible on the point, which seemed deserted. The loneliness gave him courage; when the moon set, the night being clear, he explored further and satisfied himself that there were no human beings, except the occupants of the tower, living on these rocks. He retired to his hiding-place to rest; before dawn he again ascended and concealed himself among the bracken and brambles which formed the only available shelter. During the whole day he saw but one person, an elderly woman, whose dark features and bright kerchief showed her to be of southern or gipsy origin, and who passed backwards and forwards carrying water to the tower. His examination increased his confidence; he calculated, by measuring the time occupied by the old woman in passing with an empty and returning with a full pitcher, that the spring frequented by her could not be far distant; at night he found it just beyond the junction of the rocks with the mainland. The water was cool and fresh, and considerably revived him; he noticed too that the luxuriant brushwood, nourished by the moisture, offered a good place for concealment; he returned, removed thither what remained of his provisions, and ensconced himself in his new retreat. In the morning he saw two figures approaching from the tower; one was the same servant he had seen before, but the other!--his heart throbbed and leaped, his brain reeled, his eyes gazed hungrily; he could not be, he was not, mistaken!--the second figure was the heroine of his dreams! She walked silently. Jean saw that memory had not played him false: her beauty, her grace, were no freak of his imagination; would the holy father now say that she was a devil, while thus she moved in her loveliness, a woman to be loved and worshipped!--a very woman, too! not above the cares of life! Seating herself by the spring she despatched her companion on an errand to supply domestic wants, promising to await her return. Jean's principal characteristic was rapid resolution: he reasoned that a small alarm might make the girl fly; that his chance of retaining her was an overpowering shock. He stepped boldly out and stood before her. The maiden sprang quickly to her feet; there was no terror in her face; she was of true blood; if she was afraid she did not show it; it was clear she recognized the apparition, but intense surprise, overpowering other emotions, kept her dumb. Jean had thus the chance of speaking first, and deftly he used his opportunity. In a few rapid sentences he told the tale of his search, of his adventures, of his selection of his hiding-place; then he paused. The maiden was not long in finding words. There was a flush on her cheek and a tear hanging on her eyelash which made Jean very happy. "You must go," she said, "but where? Your life is forfeit! forfeit to the Gods!" She shuddered as she said this. "In yonder tower lives my mother, on the shore are my people; there is no escape on either hand! A chance has saved you hitherto; none dare approach our home without my mother's permission, which is rarely given; but on this spot they may find you, may seize you, may--!" She stopped, with an expression of horror, and covered her face with her hands. But Jean was not anxious; he was radiant with happiness. He seated himself and spoke of love, deep passionate love; so gentle was he, so soft, so courteous, and yet so ardent, that the maiden trembled; when he dared to take her hand she did not withdraw it. The moment of bliss was brief; a step was heard. "Hide yourself quickly," she whispered, "Tita is returning." Jean promptly obeyed the injunction. The old woman arrived with a well-filled wallet, and looked fondly at her young mistress. The signs of recent agitation struck her. "What has befallen thee, Hilda?" she cried anxiously. The girl took her arm and led her seawards. Jean, watching, could see the start and angry expression of the older, the coaxing, pleading attitude of the younger woman; he could satisfy himself that the resistance of the former was gradually being overcome, and as they returned he saw that the maiden's victory was indisputable. She summoned Jean, who was inspected by Tita at first with distrust, then with modified approval. "You must stay here," said the maiden earnestly, "closely hidden till nightfall; my absence has been already sufficiently long, and nothing can be done while daylight lasts." Bidding him farewell she sped with her guardian towards the tower, while Jean retired to his bushes a prey to fond thoughts and feverish hopes. Before sundown he saw the tall figure of the sorceress wending landwards. She did not approach the spring. Hilda quickly followed with her former companion. "We have a long journey," she said, "and short time: we must start at once." Removing all traces of his lair he obeyed without hesitation. They ascended the steep cliff. The night was clear, the moon at this hour was bright and lustrous. "We have three hours," said the maiden, "ere we leave our guest!"--she looked archly at Jean as she thus described him--"it should suffice!" They were now on the heights of Pleinmont; no one was moving, though voices of men and beasts could be plainly heard in the distance. "They feast to-night to the Gods," said Hilda; "we need fear only some belated laggard!" The heather was not yet springing, but Jean could see that gorse was on the bloom, which he considered a favourable omen: they stepped out bravely on the short springy turf. Tita's steps were slower than those of the young pair, who were deaf to her calls for delay. Never to his dying day did Jean forget that happy night-walk. His soul was poured out in love, and he knew that his love was returned. He was steeped to the full in joy; no thought of future cares or perils crossed his mind. They had passed three or four headlands before the girl halted and waited for her attendant, who came up muttering to herself and grumbling; compliments from Jean and caresses from Hilda restored her good humour, and the work of the evening commenced. "Follow me closely," said the girl; "let your eye be keen and your step firm: the descent is no child's sport." Jean looked at the cliff, fitted for the flight of gull or cormorant rather than the foot of man, still less of gentle maiden: Hilda was already over the brink: Jean, following, saw that she was on a path no broader than a goat's track; the difficulties of the descent need not be described; it was possible for a clear head and practised foot, to the nervous or the unsteady the attempt must have been fatal. Arrived at the bottom the climbers found themselves in a small cleft strewn with huge boulders; the rocks towered high above them. Hilda glanced at the moon. "We must be quick," said she, showing him some deep caverns in the rock; "there," she said, "is your home. Here you are safe; my mother alone knows the secret of these caves. I must mount again; you must climb with me to mark the path more closely." She sprang to the rock and commenced to ascend as nimbly as she had come down. Jean saw the necessity of taking every precaution; he noted carefully each feature of the track. Arrived at the summit she bade him farewell. She pointed out a place where Tita would from time to time leave him provisions, and said that he would find water in the caves; she then tripped quickly off. Jean did not linger, seeing that if he did so light would fail him for his return. He crossed the track for the third time, reached the caves, and slept soundly till dawn. When he awoke he inspected his strange retreat. He was in a large hall, two hundred feet long, and some fifty feet high and broad; this chamber was entered by a small orifice of no great length, through which he had passed on the preceding night; it was warm, and dry except where the stream of which Hilda had spoken trickled through to the sea. It was the fissure now known as the Creux Mahie, and to which an easy access has been arranged for the benefit of the curious. Here Jean passed three months. Hilda frequently visited him, and always kept him supplied with food; she warned him also when he might safely roam on the cliffs above. There was no obstacle to her visits, even when they extended to a considerable length, as the mother seemed always to be satisfied as to her absences when Tita accompanied her; and the latter, whose infirmities prevented her from descending, had no means of shortening the interviews. Thus the lovers had opportunity to study each other's characters. The maiden's pure heart knew no distrust, and Jean was faithful and chivalrous as Sir Galahad. They spoke not always of love: words were unnecessary to explain what every look betokened. Jean found her skilled in strange, mystical, lore, but ignorant of all that sways and rules mankind. The history of the selfish struggles of human interests and passions was to her a sealed book. She had been carefully shrouded from the knowledge of evil; but, in order to protect her in the rough turbulent little world in which she lived, it had been necessary to keep her from association with her countrymen, and so she had never mingled with them except under the charge of her mother, in whose presence the fiercest were submissive. Jean, therefore, in speaking to her of family intercourse, of the intermingling of members of the household, of bright chat with friends, opened up to her views of life of which she had formed no conception. Then he told her of his own people; described the three generations living under one roof; depicted the daily round, the care of the old and the young, the work, the return of the workers to their wives, sisters, and children, the love of the mothers for their infants, the reverence for age, the strong mutual affection of husband and wife, brother and sister. To these descriptions she listened with a happy smile, the mission of woman dawning on her; and many were the questions she asked, till she seemed to have mastered the pictures painted for her. Above all, Jean strained to bring her to the knowledge of the God of the Christian, for he himself was an earnest, intelligent disciple. He found her mind clearer than he had expected. Judith (this he now knew was the mother's name) was a remarkable woman; her mind was lofty, if darkened. While others were satisfied with the grossness of a material creed her spirit soared aloft. Her Gods commanded her implicit faith, her unswerving allegiance. Seated on the storm-clouds, sweeping through space, they represented to her infinite force. She attributed to them no love for mankind, which was in her creed rather their plaything, but she credited them with the will and the power to scatter good and ill before they claimed the soul of the hero to their fellowship, or cast into a lower abyss that of the coward or the traitor. She believed that she saw their giant forms half bending from their vapoury thrones, and she thought that she read their decrees. Sorceress she may have been; in those days sorcery was attributed to many who had obtained a knowledge of laws of nature, then considered occult, now recognized among the guiding principles from which scientific deductions are drawn. She believed in the power of magic, which she was universally understood to possess; but she was no vulgar witch: rather was she a worthy priestess of her not ignoble deities. The effect upon Hilda's mind of the teachings of such a woman is easy to conceive. She had been allowed to know little of the wild orgies of the barbaric feasts offered to the Gods by her countrymen, of their brutal excesses, of their human sacrifices: from this knowledge she had been as far as possible shielded: she knew only of the dim mystic beings, half men, half Gods, from whose wrath she shrank with terror. To a mind so constituted and trained the revelation of the story of the infant Christ was a passionate pleasure. She never tired of listening to the tale of the birth in the stable of Bethlehem; but she loved not to dwell on the history of the passion and death, which was at that time beyond her understanding. She drank in with parted lips all that concerned the Holy Mother, of whom she was never weary of hearing. Jean had a rude drawing of the Madonna and Child, given him by Father Austin: the figures had the angularity and rigidity of Byzantine art, but the artist had represented his subject with reverence, and no lack of skill, and she loved to dwell on the pure mother's face, and on the longing look in the eyes of the Child. She accepted wholly the idea of a God who loved mankind, of infinite goodness and mercy: if she could not as yet enter into the subtlety of doctrine she could give that childlike faith which is the envy of doctrinarians. CHAPTER IV. REVELATION. "I curse the hand that did the deid, The heart that thocht the ill, The feet that bore him wi' sik speid, The comely youth to kill." _Gil Morrice_.--OLD BALLAD. Jean had often expressed his curiosity to see the interior of the tower, and Hilda had promised to gratify it. On the 25th of October an opportunity occurred. She informed her lover that on that day a feast of unusual importance would be held from which none would be absent, and that her mother would be engaged at it from noon to midnight. On that day, therefore, he walked freely along the cliffs, and was admitted to the dwelling. He had unconsciously based his idea of its contents upon his recollections of the squalid abode of Marie Torode, where human skulls, skeletons, bones of birds and beasts, dried skins, and other ghastly objects had been so grouped as to add to the superstitious feeling inspired by the repulsive appearance of the crone herself. His astonishment was therefore proportionate when he saw what to his eyes appeared exceptional luxury. A wooden partition divided the room on the lower story into two chambers of unequal size: the larger, in which he stood, was the common dwelling apartment, the other was given over to Hilda. The upper story, approached by a ladder and also by an external staircase, was sacred to Judith; Tita occupied some outbuildings. The sitting-room was hung with rich stuffs of warm and glowing colours; here and there fitful rays of the sun flickered upon gold brocade and Oriental embroidery; rugs and mats, which must have been offered for sale in the bazaars of Egypt and Morocco, were littered about in strange contrast with the bracken-strewed floor. On the walls were inlaid breastplates and helmets, pieces of chain armour, swords and daggers of exquisite workmanship. On shelves stood drinking vessels of rougher make, but the best that northern craftsmen could produce. The seats were rude and massive: one of them, placed by a window fronting the setting sun, was evidently the favourite resting-place of Judith. Above this seat was a shelf on which lay some of the mysterious scrolls of which Jean had seen specimens in the possession of the fathers. Instruments of witchcraft, if such existed, must have been in the upper story: none were visible. All this splendour was manifestly inconsistent with the homely taste and abstracted mode of thought of the sorceress. In point of fact she was hardly aware of its existence. The decorator was Tita, in whom was the instinct of the connoisseur, supported by no inconsiderable knowledge to which she had attained in those early years of which she never could be induced to speak. When a rich prize was brought into the bay, freighted with a cargo from Asia, Africa, or the European shores of the Mediterranean, she never failed to attend the unloading, during which, by the help of cajolery, judicious depreciation, and other ingenious devices still dear to the virtuoso, she succeeded in obtaining possession of articles which would have enraptured a modern collector. Judith was apparently indifferent to a habit which she looked upon as a caprice of her faithful servant, and the only evidence of her noticing it was her concentration in her own apartments of all that related to her personal studies and pursuits. It was now Jean's turn to listen and learn, and Hilda's to explain and instruct. Towards nine o'clock he was preparing to return. He was indifferent to the darkness, as by this time he knew the track so well that he crossed it fearlessly at all hours. His hand was on the bolt when Tita announced in alarm that Judith was returning and was on the point of entering. Hardly was there time to conceal him behind the hangings before she appeared. Her countenance was pale and worn, her tone, as Hilda took off her outer garments was weary and sad. "The portents were hostile and dangerous," she said; "they foretold woe, disaster, ruin. Will the mighty ones reveal to me the future? I cannot tell! But my spirit must commune with them till dawn breaks. Dost hear them? They call me now!" She held up her finger as a sudden blast rocked the tower to its foundations. "Aye," she continued more firmly after a pause, "they will not forget those who are true to them. But this people! this people!" She hid her face with her hands as if to cover a painful vision. After a time she rose to her feet and took the girl by the hand. Leading her to the seat by the window on which she placed herself, and making her kneel by her side, she said-- "Hilda! the chill mist closes round! my life draws to its end! Nay, weep not, child! were it not for thee I would long ere this have prayed the gods my masters to remove me from my sojourn among the degenerate sons of our noble fathers; but I trembled for thy fate, sweet one!" These last words were almost inexpressibly tender. "I dared not trust thy slight frame to battle unsheltered with the storm. Now the blast summoning me is sounded. I cannot much longer disobey, though I may crave for brief respite. But I have found thee refuge! thou wilt be in a safe haven. Stay! I must speak while the spirit is on me!" "Mother!" sobbed the girl, clasping the old woman's knees. "Hilda!" said Judith slowly, "call me no longer by that name! I am not thy mother; before men only do I call thee daughter. Silence!" she exclaimed imperatively, as Hilda looked quickly up, doubting whether she heard aright. "Silence! and listen!" "I have loved thee truly, child, and have nurtured thee as a mother would! and thou art no stranger! the same blood runs in our veins! Yes! thou art mine! for thy father was my brother. Does not that give thee to me? Hush! thou shalt hear the tale." Hilda's were not the only ears that drank in every word of the following story. "Twenty years ago what a demi-god was Haco! He was a giant, but even men who feared him loved him. Though brave and strong as Odin himself, his mind was gentle and kind as a maiden's; first in council, in war, in manly sports, he ever had an open ear and a helping hand for the troubled and distressed. He was adored, nay, worshipped, by all. What wonder then that when he and the proud chief Algar courted the same maiden, he was preferred! Thou knowest not, Hilda, the mysteries of a tender heart; may it be long indeed before thy heart is seared by human passion!" It was fortunate that darkness hid the burning blush which suffused Hilda's face and neck at this pious wish. Judith proceeded:--"Thy father wedded and thou wast born. He poured on thy infant form all the wealth of his great generous heart. Algar nursed his revenge: he dared not act openly, for our house was as noble as his own--nay, nobler!" she added haughtily, "but he bided his time. Haco's tower was near the shore, a pleasant, lovely, spot. One night the news was borne to me that enemies had landed, and that his dwelling was in flames; I hurried towards it; I was stopped by armed warriors; Algar's men, they said, had hastened to the rescue; the chief had ordered that no women should leave their homes. It was in vain that I urged and protested. When at last I reached the spot the struggle was said to be over, and the assailants, beaten off, were declared to have sailed away. Algar himself came to me with well-assumed grief. He had arrived, he swore, too late to save. The tower had been fired whilst the inmates slept, the wife and child had perished; Haco, after performing incredible feats of valour, had fallen before the strokes of numerous foes; when he himself had come with a chosen band, while sending the rest of his forces to other posts which the unforeseen danger might threaten, nothing remained but to avenge the murder. Why recount the caitiffs lies? Where were the signs of landing, of hasty re-embarkation? Where were the dead of the strangers? Thrown into the sea! he said; it was foul falsehood, and fouler treachery. I found your father's body; he was smitten and gashed, but nobler than the living. I touched him and was silent. I knew what none others guessed. I arose. The spirits of the Gods came over me, and I cursed his slayer. Never had I spoken so fiercely; men stood and wondered. I prayed the Gods to make the wretch who had caused my darling's death miserable by land and by sea, by day and by night, in the field and at the board, loathed by his friends, and scorned by his foes. The Gods heard my imprecations; as I turned my eyes skywards they looked from their clouds, wrath kindling on their brows, and Algar's face was white with fear, his hand trembled and his knee shook. "'We must bury him,' he faltered. "'Yea,' said I, 'but in a hero's grave, and after the custom of our fathers.' "There was a murmur of applause. Algar could not refuse. "They brought the choicest of the boats, they made the sails bright and gay, they put in it the dead man's arms, and food to accompany him to the land of spirits. Then they bound him before the mast, his face turned seaward. At sundown they towed the boat to deep water, so pierced her that she might sink slowly under the waves, and then they left the hero to his rest. I had gone out with them: alone I said to him my last farewell. But they did not know my secret. They did not guess that I had ascertained by my art that life was yet in him, that I had poured between his lips subtle drops which would maintain animation for many days and nights, during which consciousness might be restored; nor did they imagine that when I kneeled before him I had stopped the leak by which the water was to flow into the doomed boat. Algar was now the deceived; it was a living man, not a corpse, who started on that voyage. Haco lives still, though where my art cannot tell. I thought that Marie Torode knew, and sought her on her death-bed to question her, but either she could not or she would not tell." Hilda's mind was in such confusion that she could not speak. The old woman continued. "Algar lived on--yes, lived that he might suffer all the evils with which my curse loaded him, and died that he might be hurled into the abyss where traitors and cravens writhe and groan. Enough of him! "When I returned to my tower, a figure was crouching before the hearth: it was Tita, and you were in her arms. The faithful creature, whom your father had chosen from a band of captives to be your nurse, had, unperceived, saved your life from the flames. Thenceforward you were my care. I took your mother's place as best I could. Others knew not your parentage, nor did they dare to question me. None suspected the truth." When she reached this point she bent over the kneeling girl and gave her a kiss, tender as a mother's if not a mother's kiss; her fingers caressed the head bowed upon her knees; for a time the silence was only broken by Hilda's sobs. She then spoke again, this time quickly, sternly, as if to prevent interruption. "I cannot leave thee alone, and I will not! Listen, child, and be silent! What I now tell thee is beyond thy young understanding: thou hast but to shape thy will to my bidding: it is for me to launch thy vessel on its voyage, the Gods will help thy riper judgment to steer its course! The time has come when thou must wed! I have chosen for thee a suitor, the chief to whom all thy countrymen bend the knee. Garthmund claims thee as his bride; ere eight days expire the marriage feast will be held. He is of noble birth, there is none nobler; he is young and strong, and should be favoured by the Gods if he prove worthy of them. He is a fitting bridegroom for Haco's daughter." The girl was dazed and trembling. She knew this chief: he answered Judith's description, but was rough and coarse. Had she not met Jean she might not have dared to refuse, but now she felt that death would be more welcome than this marriage. "Spare me, mother!" she said, as if she had not heard the disclaimer of maternity. "I am too young, too weak." The old woman pressed her hand on the girl's lips. "We will not speak further to-night," she said; "thou canst not see Garthmund for three days, for so long the feast will last. May the Gods protect thee!" She rose: the fitful moonlight streamed on her gaunt form; she turned and slowly ascended to her chamber. The terrified girl quickly released Jean, who led her from the tower. If she was broken and trembling he was erect and resolute; no longer the soft lover, but the prompt man of action. She felt the bracing influence. "We have three days," he said. "Within that time we must flee. I will not return to the cave; my task must be to repair the boat." He mentioned certain articles which he begged her to provide, pressed her to his breast, and disappeared in the darkness. At daylight he examined the little vessel. She was no worse than she had been, as each incoming tide, reaching the place where she was secured, had floated her, but the rock had opened a large jagged fissure. Hilda brought him such materials as she could procure, a log of wood, bark which she stitched with her own hands, a hatchet and nails. Jean utilized also the vraick with which the sand was strewn. He worked without fear of detection, knowing that the whole population was inland; but the lovers had to rely on themselves alone, for, when there was a question of flight, Tita was no longer to be trusted. On the third day Jean found the boat fairly seaworthy. Hilda felt a severe pang at leaving Judith, who had not reverted to the subject of her marriage. Whether her parent or not, she loved her dearly; she felt also the pain of parting with Tita, but her resolution never swerved. She had given her heart to Jean; she felt also a presentiment that she would discover her father; while it was her belief that the parting from her old associates was but temporary. When the sun went down Jean set his sail, meaning to make a rapid dash across the bay, and seeing no cause for concealing his movements. There was more swell than he liked for so frail a craft, but wind and tide were favourable to the enterprise, and the night was exceptionally bright, the moon being full; this brightness would have been fatal had the inhabitants been on the alert, but under present circumstances the pale beams were welcome. Hilda took the helm; she knew every passage in the labyrinth of submerged rocks, and they were soon in comparatively open water. Jean then assumed control, wrapping the maiden in his cloak, for the waves were tossing their spray over the boat as she heeled over to the breeze. They had traversed in safety three-fourths of their course when Jean, looking seaward, saw a dark sail bearing down on them. One of the pirate ships, delayed by contrary winds, was hurrying homeward, the crew of five men hoping to arrive ere the feast was over. Jean's hope that the boat might not be discovered was soon dispelled: the vessel altered her course slightly and hailed. Jean made no answer. The pirate was evidently in no mood to parley; the crew were in a fierce temper, angry and discontented at the postponement of their arrival. She made a deliberate attempt to run the boat down. Jean divined her object and, putting up his helm sharply at the right moment, let her shoot by him astern; he then resumed his course. A second attempt was clumsier, and was easily evaded; the assailants were hurried and impatient; nor did they know the seamanlike qualities of the man with whom they were dealing. But Jean saw that ultimate escape was hopeless, and this was equally apparent to Hilda who, however, though pale as death, gave a firm pressure of the hand in response to his grasp. At this moment an object glimmered under the youth's feet: stooping down he touched the shell. The hermit's parting words flashed on his mind: he seized on the hope of rescue, and sounded two loud and clear blasts. The pirates now altered their tactics. Handling their vessel with more care they succeeded, after two or three unsuccessful attempts, in ranging alongside and grappling the boat. A man sprung on board and seized Hilda. "A rare booty!" he cried,--"the Gods repent of their waywardness." Jean was engaged with those of the crew who had seized the boat; the man laughingly gave the girl a rough embrace: it was the last act he had to record before entering the spirit world. Hilda drew from her bosom one of the daggers which Jean had noticed on the tower walls, whose blade, still sharp and keen, might have been forged by a Damascus smith; it struck deep to the heart of the ruffian, who fell lifeless into the waves. Jean had now freed the craft, but the respite was short: before she had made much progress she was again captured. The pirates, furious at the death of their comrade, made a determined onslaught. Jean, fighting desperately, received from behind a terrific blow which laid him senseless. But a superstitious feeling made them hesitate before committing further outrage; they had recognized Hilda, and feared the consequence of Judith's vengeance if she were injured. There was no time, however, for delay; the, rude repairs, torn by the trampling feet, had given way, and the leak had re-opened: the boat was fast sinking. The pirates cared not for Jean's lifeless body; that might sink or swim; but they felt they must save the girl whatever might be her future doom. Even their hearts softened somewhat as they watched her erect in the sinking boat, her face pallid, her fair hair shining in the moonlight, but her lips set, her lovely eyes bent tearless on her prostrate lover, her right hand, holding the blood-stained dagger, hanging listlessly by her side. Watching an opportunity, a stalwart youth seized her from behind and pinned her arms. The next moment he himself was seized as if he were a dog, and hurled into the water. The new combatant, whose arrival had so effectually changed the aspect of affairs, was the hermit, who followed up his first stroke by another still more decisive. Springing into the pirate craft, wrenching a weapon from the grasp of the chief of the assailants, he drove before him the three remaining men, terror-struck at his sudden and inexplicable appearance, his superhuman size and strength. One by one he swept them overboard; then grasping a huge stone, which formed part of the ballast, he dashed it with the full force of his gigantic strength through the planks of the boat, which at once began to fill. All this was the work of a few moments. He then leaped into the skiff, which sank as he swiftly transferred to his own vessel its two occupants. Before another hour was over, Jean, stretched on a pallet, was receiving the attention of loving hands in a cell of the Lihou monastery. CHAPTER V. AFFLICTION. "The race of Thor and Odin Held their battles by my side, And the blood of man was mingling Warmly with my chilly tide." _Danube and the Euxine_.--AYTOUN. Father Austin received his pupil's companion with the courtesy due to her distress, but with much misgiving. After tending his patient, whose situation was critical, he paced thoughtfully towards the cell in which he had placed her, revolving in his mind the difficulties of the case. His amazement was intense when he slowly opened the door. The maiden was kneeling, her back towards him; before her was the little picture of the Madonna; she was praying aloud; her words were simple but passionately pathetic; she threw herself and her lover upon the mercy of the Holy Mother with a trust so absolute, a confidence so infinite, that the monk could hardly refrain from tears. How had he been blinded! as he looked and listened the scales fell from his eyes: he humbly owned his error. The noise of his step startled her; she rose and looked at him inquiringly. "Maiden," he said, answering her appealing look, "his fate is in the hands of God, whose ears are ever open to the prayers of those that fear Him." Often and often had Jean spoken to her of Father Austin; she loved him already, but she had yet to fathom the nobleness of his soul. His single-heartedness and abnegation of self, his tenderness and quick sympathy (virtues tempering his fierce abhorrence of Paganism), his stern reprobation of the evil, and his yearning for the good, in the untutored barbarians among whom he laboured, were gradually revealed in the discourses which they held daily while Jean lay between life and death. Reaping and garnering what Jean had sown, he scattered fresh seed, opening out to her the great history of God in man. Qualities hitherto unsuspected in her developed; if an apt pupil, she was an instructive teacher of the wealth of charity and purity that dwells in an untainted woman's heart. And she had another friend: the hermit watched over her with touching care and assiduity. He appeared strangely attracted to her; the holy fathers marvelled to see this rough being, who had seemed to them an animal to be feared while pitied, caring for the maiden's comfort with a woman's gentleness: he seemed never weary of contemplating her, sometimes murmuring to himself as he did so. Any little delicacy that the island could afford, game, fish, shellfish, was provided for her by him. Once, thinking her couch hard, he disappeared and returned bearing, whence none knew, soft stuffs better fitted for her tender form; on this occasion the whole man seemed transformed, when he stepped in with a smile in his big frank eyes, and a ruddy glow on his bronzed scarred cheeks, placed his offering at her feet, and strode away. Strange, too, to say, Hilda seemed to return the feeling: happy in the presence of Austin, she was yet with him as the pupil with the master; but with the recluse she was gentle, affectionate, and even playful. The monks attempted not to solve the puzzle of the bond that knitted together the two strange beings; analysis of character troubled little their saintly minds. At length consciousness returned; Jean opened his eyes and recognised Austin. This was a joyful moment. Quiet was all that was now necessary to complete the restoration of his health, which could not, however, be anticipated for a considerable time. The first inquiry of the patient was for Hilda, and he was allowed to see her; on the next day they were permitted to interchange a few words, after which Austin explained what he had already decided. Hilda, he pointed out, could not fitly remain in Lihou, where she had been allowed to reside only until her lover was out of danger; the laws of the establishment, which forbade the presence of women, must now be put in force, but a fitting home had been provided for her; she would be placed with the Sisters at the Vale; the hermit would conduct her thither on the following day. The girl bowed to this decision, sorely as she grieved to leave him she loved; the next morning they parted, and she embarked with her guardian who, shielding her lovingly from all harm, placed her, ere nightfall, in her new abode. Judith had not discovered the girl's departure till the sun was well up, when she heard of her absence from the frantic Tita. The old woman's force of character was colossal; pettinesses, small passions, were unknown to her. Had her sphere been larger her promptitude of resource, keenness of perception, resolute look onwards and upwards, solidity of purpose, and incisive action might have graven her name on the tables of history. Stagnating in the shallow pools of the unstoried rocks in which she passed her life, these grand qualities were wasted and perverted. She lost no time now in recrimination; a few sharp questions enabled her to judge how far the weakness of affection had played the traitor with the old woman, whom she left to settle matters with her own conscience. She saw Garthmund, and told him that, in consequence of the unsatisfactory augury of the last sacrifice, she had decided to postpone the marriage. Nor did she appear to notice the indifference with which the chief, who could not pretend that he ardently loved a bride who was practically a stranger to him, received the decision. It took her some time to discover where Hilda had taken refuge; it speaks ill for female reticence that she discovered it shortly after the girl's removal to the sisterhood. She satisfied herself that her own people had no suspicion of the flight, as none of the crew of the belated boat had reached the shore; and she gathered, from the transfer of the maiden to the convent, that Father Austin was, on his side, resolved not to make known the elopement of Garthmund's intended wife. Her paramount wish was to recover her niece, but she perceived that she must act warily, and must be ready to deal with the many contingencies which would inevitably arise during the development of her schemes. Hilda's position under the immediate protection of the religious communities was a serious obstacle. Judith believed that against them her magic arts would be of no avail; she was therefore driven to confine herself to earthly combinations; but she was in no wise daunted by this difficulty, which in point of fact cleared her judgment, and assisted her by inducing her to make the best of the materials at her disposal. The obvious plan for the recovery of the girl was to induce Garthmund to attack the nunnery, and drag his bride from it; but to this there were many objections. Acknowledgment of Hilda's flight would be in itself a confession of failure. She had promised to produce the girl when she was required; to seek the chief's assistance to enable her to fulfil the promise would be a diminution of her prestige, and consequently of her power. Again, it was by no means certain that the chief who, it has been said, was no love-sick bridegroom, would consent to undertake the enterprise; nor, if he did undertake it, was his prospect of success unquestionable, for the islanders, though not ready listeners to the Christian teaching, would have united to repel a heathen attack on their teachers whom they honoured and respected. Judith therefore rejected this expedient, arranging her plan of operations with remarkable ingenuity. Her first aim was to promote ill-feeling between the Voizins and their neighbours; this part of the campaign was prosecuted with vigour. Cattle were lost on either side of the boundary; houses were burnt; old wells ran dry; rumours, mysteriously circulated, spoke of these as no accidental mishaps; suspicions were whispered; instances of retaliation followed. At the time when a dangerous feeling was thus growing up a famine broke out in the Voizin country while the islanders were well supplied. The hungry Voizin men heard voices in the darkness scoffing at them, laughter and sneers. When their carts were sent to fetch the necessaries of life, lynch-pins were loosened; in more than one case the draught oxen were houghed; the provisions, when received, were mouldy and unwholesome. At last sickness broke out, with stories of poison; then the tension became insupportable. The Voizin chief, too proud to go to his neighbours, summoned them to him; the messenger was murdered. This assassination, of which the natives denied all knowledge, was met by prompt reprisals; three Perelle fishermen were hung on the spot where the body was found. From this date the outbreak of hostilities was but a question of time. A sternness of purpose ruled in the councils of the Voizins which frustrated all attempts at conciliation. A little before Christmas a trivial incident kindled the smouldering flames, and the hordes, pouring from the Torteval valleys, swept over the districts now known as the parishes of St. Saviour's and the Câtel; the resistance was tame and ineffectual, sufficient only to give occasion for considerable slaughter and plunder. The invaders, seeing no reason for returning to their famine-stricken fastnesses, settled themselves in the enjoyment of the abundance of the vanquished, who, in their turn, with their accustomed versatility, submitted patiently, and even cheerfully, to a yoke which, after the first onslaught was over, pressed lightly; the Voizins, to whom fighting was a pastime, bearing no malice, and passing imperceptibly into a genial mood. Judith now prepared to develop the next move, the object of which was to undermine the authority of the monks, and make them vulnerable by isolation. Derisive hints were dropped respecting the failure of the new religion to help its votaries in the hour of peril; the victory of the Voizins was attributed to the superiority of their Gods rather than to deficiency in courage on the part of their foes: this theory, which was not unpalatable to those who had been half-hearted in defence of their homes, was also utilized by the more sober spirits as an argument wherewith to restrain the more ardent from attempting to renew the struggle under similar conditions. The observances of the religion of Thor and Odin, or rather of that debased form of it which prevailed among this singular people, were celebrated under their more alluring aspects: frequent feasts and dances captivated the laughter-loving islanders, who had been tried somewhat severely by the severity of the _régime_ which Austin had endeavoured to impose since he had seen danger in his damaging encounter with Judith. After a time it was proclaimed that none would be permitted to join in the revelries who were enemies to the Gods who presided at them. This stroke was successful: the majority openly embraced the creed of their conquerors, and showed the usual spirit of perverts in exceeding the latter in their zeal to sweep away all traces of the religion which they had abandoned. The minority who held true to their faith drew together, a grim and resolute band, prepared for a bold defence and, if Christ so willed it, for martyrdom. It was not Judith's purpose, now that the disruption of the islanders was effected, to leave time for the Christians to mature plans for resistance. Garthmund, at her instigation, delivered simultaneous attacks on Lihou and the Vale; he himself superintending the latter operation in order that he might see that the sorceress's instructions, that all in the nunnery were to be made prisoners uninjured, and brought to her closely veiled, were implicitly obeyed. To the surprise of the islanders, however, both assaults, though made with spirit and absolute confidence of success, were completely repulsed; the same result attended a renewed attack, made two days subsequently with fresh and increased forces supported by native levies. Garthmund found that in both places he had before him not only resolute troops, but skilled and enterprising commanders. CHAPTER VI. CONSOLATION. "Mother! list a suppliant child! Ave Maria! Ave Maria! Stainless styled. Foul demons of the earth and air, From this their wonted haunt exiled, Shall flee before thy presence fair." _Lady of the Lake_.--WALTER SCOTT. Jean's recovery after Hilda's departure had been slow and lingering; but for the unwearied care of the good fathers and of the recluse, aided by a constitution of no ordinary strength, he must have succumbed to the terrible injuries which he had received. As, however, the days began to lengthen, and signs of spring to appear even on the wild rock where he had taken refuge, his vigour gradually returned. It had been necessary that he should be protected from excitement; consequently, while receiving from the hermit regular reports from the Vale, and many a sweet message from his love which made his heart leap with happiness, he knew nothing till the beginning of February of the incursion of the Voizins, and the accompanying events. Since he had been alone, however, he had dwelt for hours together on the strange story which he had overheard in the tower, the principal figure of which, while his brain had been still confused, had been always mingled in his delirium with the massive form of the hermit. Father Austin, watching him with anxiety, at length suggested that he should relieve his mind by repeating the tale to the recluse himself. He readily adopted the suggestion. His listener, who had been too delicate to question Hilda as to her antecedents, but who had been burning to learn the explanation of the striking resemblance of her features to a face which, whether he waked or slept, ever haunted him, though more often contorted in agony than wreathed in smiles, heard with impatience the history of Algar's treachery; but when Jean detailed the escape of Tita and her charge, and identified the latter with the maiden whom he had rescued, he sprang to his feet at the risk of plunging his patient into a fresh crisis of fever, and exclaimed, "May the choicest gifts of heaven be showered on thee, brave youth! the blessed angels and saints will love thee for this deed!" He reflected a moment, then turned his eyes full on Jean's face, "Why should I leave it to Austin to tell thee what he has long known under the solemn secrecy which binds priest and sinner? Thou shalt know it from my own lips: I am Haco! Drifted hitherward on that lonely voyage, I was released by holy men, now saints above, who healed my wounds and taught me to bury my pride, and to kneel humbly before the Cross. I never doubted that I was childless as well as wifeless; had I done so, I should have returned at all risks to claim my own. But she! Hilda! 'twas her mother's name! this maiden, towards whom my soul went out in yearning, is my own! yes! my child! If a wild feeling rose when I watched her I crushed it out, for I thought that I had stifled all human passions; but now--" He fell on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, his giant frame convulsed with sobs; but it was evident that he was controlling himself, and when he rose his rugged face was full of humanity: youth seemed to have returned to it; under the disfiguring scars Jean could trace without difficulty the fearless, generous features of which Judith had spoken with such enthusiasm. Haco warmly grasped the sick man's hand, and left the cell. Father Austin had, it appeared, learnt Judith's story from Hilda, but this confidence also had been made under the seal of confession. He had been confirmed in his impression of its accuracy by the tale he had already heard from Haco, whose strange arrival was still a favourite topic among the monks, though none of those now in the monastery had witnessed it. The three men were now able openly to discuss the subject in its various bearings, but they agreed that the mystery should not be revealed till peace was restored. Haco had from the first foreseen the danger to be apprehended from the Voizin incursion. The monks were still further surprised to see the being, whose gentleness had amazed them on Hilda's arrival, now a leader of men, active, vigorous, inspiring others with the love of life with which he himself seemed to be animated. Before the attack came Jean was sufficiently recovered to be able to render efficient assistance; he had ably seconded Haco in the two encounters, after which he was specially entrusted with the defence of the Vale. Judith was in no degree daunted by temporary failure: her nature revelled in overcoming opposition; her spirit rose to the occasion. Garthmund was inclined to be sulky after his second defeat, and might have abandoned the enterprise had he dared to do so; but fear of the sorceress kept him firm. For a month the system of blockade was tried, varied by occasional assaults which, being made with less spirit than the earlier ones, were easily repulsed. The blockade was not more successful. Haco had provided ample stores for the small garrison which he had considered sufficient to protect the promontory of Lihou, naturally almost impregnable; and the force defending the Vale, camped chiefly on Lancresse Common, was only nominally blockaded. The sallies, made from time to time, were ordered more with a view of keeping up the martial spirit of the men than with that of providing for wants, for the friendly inhabitants of the eastern side of the island, emboldened by recent proofs that the dreaded Voizins were not invincible, ran their boats almost with impunity into the little creeks into which the heavier craft of the enemy could not follow them. Judith hardly noticed these details. Her attention was fixed upon the key of the position. She knew that a resistance of this description was altogether contrary to the unwarlike character of the natives; she was convinced that they were actuated by some abnormal spirit, and that if the motive power were removed the machine would collapse. She made it her business to ascertain what the spring was that guided them. All her art failed in detecting the presence of Haco, perhaps because her engines were powerless when directed against one of her own blood; but she easily ascertained that the warriors in the opposing camp looked to Jean as their leader, that his spirit pervaded all, and that his ardour to protect his sacred charge filled him with a wondrous power which astonished even those who from childhood had bent to his unchallenged primacy. Having satisfied herself as to the character of the opposing force, her next step was to secure Jean's person. This presented no difficulty to her. A scroll was delivered to the young leader by an unknown messenger, who at once disappeared. Jean, seeing that the characters were those which, as he believed, Austin alone was able to trace, took the scroll to the sister who alone was able to interpret them. What Sister Theresa read was alarming:--"Hasten! I am grievously sick; my strength fails! I must see thee without delay." Jean was distressed beyond measure, but Hilda, whom he hurried to consult, agreed with him that no time must be lost in obeying the summons; the fact that Haco was at Lihou convinced them that the father would not have sent for Jean if his case had not been one of extreme danger. After a hasty farewell and a promise of speedy return, for his presence with the forces was imperative and he grudged every hour of absence from his beloved, he set out alone in his boat. Before an hour had passed he was captured by a flotilla which had been lying in ambuscade behind the Grandes Rocques, and was a prisoner in the enemy's camp. If Judith had been an ordinary woman she would have been content with this result, would have executed the prisoner, and have awaited the submission of his disheartened followers; and she would have failed, defeated by the indomitable courage and resource of Haco. But it was not in this clumsy fashion that her genius moulded the materials at her command. She now controlled, as she believed, the mainspring of the resistance, which would probably cease with the death of Jean. But her aim went far beyond the mere submission of her antagonists; she wished that the blow should be struck in such a manner as to stamp out the false creed which had held the islanders in thrall, to prove to all sceptics the powers of her own Gods and the impotence of those of her opponents, and to commit the recently reconverted islanders so irretrievably that they could not afterwards backslide. She wished also, by making an example that would inspire terror, to establish the undisputed supremacy of her people in the whole island. But, side by side with these political considerations, were the religious influences honestly and steadfastly working in her powerful intellect. When she communed with her Gods she thought of no earthly good or ill: she loved these strange conceptions, and fixed her whole soul on conciliating them. It was now her conviction that they were displeased: their displeasure, awful as she believed it to be, did not terrify her, but it vexed her to the inmost heart: she feared that they had not been rightly propitiated, and resolved that the shortcoming must be remedied. All her reflections pointed with unerring force to the same conclusion. She held in her hands the strong frame, the stout heart, the ruling mind. All were concentrated in Jean Letocq. He, then, must be offered up as a fitting sacrifice. By such an offering the deities could not fail to be appeased, and by the death of this man in this fashion all the natural exigencies of the situation would be satisfied. She never allowed herself to dwell for one moment on the fact that the victim was beloved by Hilda. On this point she had armed herself with bars of brass and triple steel. He might have fooled the girl, but at the thought of love her heart was ice. The sorceress communicated her resolution to Garthmund. The chieftain exhibited no surprise: he expressed a grim approval of the proposal, which seemed likely to give an excuse for revelry and to bring the campaign to a prompt conclusion, and proceeded to make the requisite arrangements. The 30th of March was the day chosen. The forces investing the two beleaguered positions were ordered to assemble, that on the western side on the low ground between L'Erée and Lihou, that on the northern under shelter of the woods of the Braye du Valle, facing the fortifications thrown up by the defenders. At a given signal, the kindling of a beacon on the Rocque du Guet, the two hosts were to make simultaneously a determined assault. The islanders not engaged in these operations, with the exception of those openly or secretly sympathizing with the Christians, poured into Vazon Forest, none remaining behind but those absolutely incapable of conveying themselves or of being conveyed. By this time the consternation in the enemy's camp was all that the sorceress could desire. Jean's capture had been ascertained, and all the particulars respecting his coming fate were known by means of spies. Haco shook his head at the proposals of rescue made by spirited youths. "Success would be hopeless," he said; "failure would be fatal to those whose lives are precious to us. If he dies we will brace every nerve to avenge him, but we must be patient, and await their onslaught. Then will come our turn! then will we spring at their dastard throats! then shall they drink freely of their own gore!" If the man of the sword thought the case hopeless, what could the men of the cloister do? They did all in their power--prayed ceaselessly, fasted, did penance under the guidance of Father Austin; but nevertheless the fatal morning arrived. Hilda knew her lover's danger. When he failed to return, and when Haco, arriving from Lihou, admitted that he had not been seen at the monastery, her heart sank; she, better than any of those around her, knew the stern, implacable patriotism and fanaticism of Judith's nature; she fully realized the savage dispositions of her countrymen, their contempt of human life, and their brutal treatment of captives. She had some conception of their fearful orgies, and she shuddered when her mind touched, not daring to dwell, on Jean's possible fate. She had sufficient presence of mind to bear up bravely before Haco, who had no suspicion that she had a perception of the terrible truth from which even his rent and seared feelings shrank; nor did she reveal to Father Austin, during a short visit which he paid her at great risk this inner serpent which was devouring her young heart. Sister Theresa and her fellows marvelled at her as on the morning of the fatal day she passed between them, her eyes rapt in contemplation, her look serene and calm, though beneath the surface lay a depth of unutterable woe, sinking, receding, chill as the dark, haunted, bosom of an unfathomable mountain lake. She sought her own cell and begged to be left alone. Then the full heart burst the bounds imposed by the strong will. She placed before her the little Madonna, from which she never parted, and fell on her knees. She prayed till noon, and her prayer continued still; it was not simply a woman's supplication: her whole essence was poured out before the Holy Mother, who was the object of her special adoration. This girl had never known evil: for nineteen years her mind had rippled on, sparkling with good deeds, little bright thoughts, gentle inspirations sweetly obeyed; then first streamed in the warm current of human love, followed by the rapid thrilling rush of the flow of Divine awakening. The little stream had become a torrent; but one in which every element was pure, for its component parts were faith in God, trust in man, the will to act, the power to bear, contentment in joy and resignation in sorrow. Above all, she had ever before her the words which Austin had told her comprised the sermon of the universe--"Thy will be done!" Was it possible that, in the days when miracles were yet wrought, such a prayer at such a time from such a saint should not be heard? Some three hours had passed after noon when she felt a sweet languor overspread her. A mist crept before her eyes, which quickly passed away and was replaced by a radiance brighter than the sun's rays; her eyes had power however to look aloft, and she gazed with clasped hands and with loving reverence: the Holy Virgin herself stood before her, holding in her arms the Blessed Infant; the Mother looking down with a smile inexpressibly tender and compassionate, the Child stretching forth its dimpled hand and giving its blessing. She sank in rapture, the glory too great for her. As the vision faded she arose, a marvellous strength possessing her. She stepped forth, and found herself in the midst of a crowd gazing, horror-stricken, seawards. "Fear nothing," she said with a calm expression that seemed to permeate the whole assembly like an inner voice; "he is saved, and you are saved!" The words came opportunely. CHAPTER VII. ANNIHILATION. "Prophet-like that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm pass'd by." _The Last Man_.--CAMPBELL. "So perish the old Gods! But out of the sea of time Rises a new land of song, Fairer than the old." _The Seaside and the Fireside_.--LONGFELLOW. Full of evil augury was the morning of this eventful day in Vazon Forest. There were the same trees, the same glades and streams, as on the well-remembered Midsummer day of the preceding year; but nature and man alike were in a different mood. The trees were leafless and churlish, the glades ragged and colourless; the turbid, dusky streams bore but small resemblance to the limpid rivulets of June; the native youths were absent, engaged in military service; the maidens, headed by Suzanne Falla, had indeed an appearance of mirth, but there was a hollow ring in the boisterous recklessness of their merriment; the old men tramped feebly and aimlessly, for the reverence for age had been transferred to the veterans of the conquerors. The latter also supplied the musicians; and the clanging of drums and cymbals, with the blast of horns, replaced the sylvan melody of the aborigines. Still there was every sign of festivity. The proceedings began with dances in which the men, who posed as athletes and warriors, gave representations of deeds of martial prowess. Then the girls were allowed to foot their native dances in their own fashion. Dances for both sexes followed, in which the native maidens found it difficult to conceal their terror of the rough partners ever ready to become rougher wooers. These preliminaries concluded, the business of the day began. Though this wild race sacrificed human beings, they did not treat their victims with the coldblooded cruelty of the Druids, who slaughtered them as if they were oxen or sheep; their custom was to burn their captives; and it is not for critics, whose pious forefathers kindled the fires of Smithfield, to assert that their practice was wholly barbarous. In the present case a pyre, some twelve feet high, was built at the foot of a huge granite boulder, near the sea-coast: it was constructed of dry wood, and was drenched with combustible materials. Jean was bound firmly to a strong hurdle, made of birch stems and withies securely lashed together. Judith, Garthmund, and the principal elders, placed themselves under the venerable oak; the people stood at a respectful distance. Twelve stalwart warriors bore the litter on which the prisoner was stretched, and placed it on stone trestles planted for the purpose in the intervening space. Then the priests arrived; twelve old men whose white locks and beards, and snowy dresses, gave them a venerable appearance which was soon belied by their performances. Halting when they reached the victim, the priests faced the oak, and chanted a solemn, wailing dirge; this, which might have been a farewell to the spirit whose departure they were preparing to accelerate, was not unimpressive. Then one stepped forward whose voice was yet clear and loud; he passed a warm eulogy on the qualities of the captive, whom he described in exaggerated phrases as a sage in council, and a hero in battle, endowing him also with every domestic virtue which seemed in his eyes worthy of enumeration. This discourse was followed by a warlike song in honour of Thor and Odin, and it was during the course of this hymn that it became clear from their rolling eyes and unsteady gait that the old men were in a state of no ordinary excitement. All night they had been feasting their deities, and the solemnity had involved deep potations; now, as the rapid movements of a dance which accompanied the inspiriting words sent the fumes into their heads, they appeared to be beside themselves. The bystanders, however, attributing their frenzy to religious fervour, and not unaccustomed to such manifestations, looked on unmoved. The music ceased; and the song of triumph gave way to a hideous scene over which it were painful to dwell. The drunken old men, with incredible agility, whirled round the prostrate form of Jean. There was no question now of eulogizing his virtues: he was accused, in language which seemed devil-born, of every crime, every infamy, of which the human race is capable; held up to scorn and ignominy, he was cursed and execrated with a shower of blasphemy and obscenity; a by-stander, contemplating his calm, clear face, the lips parted in prayer, gleaming amidst the contorted features of the screaming miscreants, might have believed him to be already passing, unscathed, through the terrors of purgatory. It is impossible at this day to fathom the mystery of this terrible relic of some remote superstition. It may have been that the abhorrence and extinction of evil was roughly typified, or that it was understood that the death of the victim would, as if he were a scapegoat, cleanse the worshippers of the sins with which he was thus loaded. It is idle to grope where all is, and must be, dark; all that can be asserted with any certainty is that the preliminary eulogy, a more modern practice, was intended to enhance the value of the offering which they were about to make to the Gods. The warriors now resumed their burden, and a procession was formed towards the pyre, on which the litter-bearers, mounting by an inclined plane, placed the doomed youth. Judith ascended the huge boulder, which was some eight feet higher than the pyre at its foot. The chief and people grouped themselves round its base. The priests stood ready to apply the torch when the sorceress gave the signal, and the distant watchman on the Guct waited in his turn for the first flash of flame to kindle the beacon which was to set the assailing forces in motion. Judith turned to the expectant crowd: her glance was searching, in her eye was an ineffable look of scorn. "Down on your knees!" she said, "craven sons, whose sires would blush to own you! You who have steeped your hearts in pride and boastfulness! Were your fathers slow to draw the sword and quick to sheathe it? Did they cower by their hearths when warm blood was being spilt? did they feast when others fought? would they not have leaped, as the tempest rushes from its caves, to scatter like the sand those who should have dared to bend the knee to false Gods, objects of their loathing and derision? Runs this noble blood in your stagnant veins? From giants ye have become pigmies!" The majestic contempt with which these words had been delivered had a crushing effect. She continued her harangue for some time in the same strain. Every Voizin's head was bowed, every form bent and trembling. The sorceress then, slowly turning, faced seaward. Her arms assumed the well-known beseeching attitude, the serpent bracelet glittering fiercely in the sun. Her voice changed, became softer. "Yet they are my people!" she continued, "and the last of our race. Ennoble them, great Gods! quicken their hearts and spare them!" Looking outward with the rapt look of a prophetess in whom, though torn with tempests of fanaticism and of passion, human and superhuman, no thought was mean, no sentiment ignoble, she poured out this her prayer; not for mercy!--her Gods knew not this attribute; nor could she understand it; if the craven continued to be a craven she felt he were better dead;--not for peace and contentment!--to these blessings neither she nor they attached value;--but for fearlessness and steadfastness of purpose, and also for courage to die for the truth! there were petitions poured out by this woman that would have honoured the lips of the champion of any creed. The supplication ended, she seemed about to raise her hand to give the anticipated signal when a look of amazement passed over her features; she brushed her hand over her eyes and looked again, then folded her arms and gazed steadily seawards. What she saw might have shattered even her nerves of iron. At the close of her prayer, which had exactly coincided with the moment when Hilda stepped from her cell, the bosom of the sea heaved and rose: a wave, ten feet high, glided, stole as it were, so gently did it move, into the forest; but so rapidly, that in one minute every human being except herself and Jean was engulphed. They were gone, the high-couraged and the craven, the frenzied priest and the laughing child, with their passions, their hopes, and their fears, without the faintest note of warning of coming danger! Judith glanced at Jean, almost contemptuously; he, not having seen what had happened, was still momentarily expecting the application of the torch. A second wave crept in, smaller than the former, but overwhelming the pyre. The dazed warrior on the Guet reported that after this second wave had passed he saw the tall form still towering on the peak, but that when he looked again the rock, though still above water, was tenantless; a little later the granite mass, together with the tops of the tallest trees, lay under an unruffled surface. When the pyre was submerged the litter, to which Jean was attached, floated off and formed a tolerably secure raft. His life was safe for a time; but he would have been exposed to a still more ghastly fate from the swooping sea-birds had he not been able by a supreme effort to wrest one of his arms from its bands. In speechless wonderment he was carried seaward by the slowly receding tide. Suddenly his raft was hailed by a well-known voice. Friendly hands cut the ropes that bound him, and he was lifted into a boat. The occupant was Haco who, attracted to the spot when hurrying to the Vale, by the cries of the clustering gulls, had thus again saved his life. The giant pulled vigorously to the point which, now known as the Hommet, terminates the northern arm of Vazon Bay; there he landed the youth, to enable him to stretch his cramped limbs, and to clothe him in such articles as he could spare from his own equipment. A rapid explanation passed between them. Haco told him how the force investing Lihou had, when apparently waiting for a signal to move, been overwhelmed by a wave which cut off the promontory from L'Erée, and had perished to a man. Jean could tell of nothing but the sudden cessation of the tumult and the floating of his litter. The minds of both were wandering, burningly anxious as they were to know what had passed at the Vale. Scaling the Hommet, they obtained a sufficient view to satisfy them that Lancresse Common no longer formed a portion of the mainland; an hour afterwards, entering the Grand Havre, they saw an unbroken channel between that inlet and St. Sampson's: every trace of the invading host had disappeared. Jean was soon in Hilda's arms; and the two lovers, with Haco, spent the remainder of the day in pious thanksgiving to the Holy Mother by whose special interposition, testified so miraculously to the maiden, the cause of Christ had triumphed and the parted had been reunited, when the last gleam of safety seemed to have been extinguished. The next morning Father Austin arrived. Hilda was then made acquainted with her relationship to Haco, whose tender attentions during her late troubles had already won her unreserved affection. The news was an inexpressible joy to her, and it was touching to see how she nestled in the deep embrace of her father, whose feelings, so long pent up, now at last found vent. Jean absented himself during the day, but on the following morning insisted that his nuptials should no longer be deferred. The same evening, in the little chapel of the nunnery, Austin bestowed his blessing on a union which had been sanctified by such special manifestations of Divine approval. The readjustment of the shattered organization of the island was imperative. The inhabitants of the eastern side, and those of the Vale, had for the most part preserved their lives by their absence from the forest; the Christian converts who had aided in the struggle were also safe; with these exceptions the island was practically depopulated. Jean was elected chief by acclamation. After giving such pressing directions as immediate exigencies required, he acceded to his wife's ardent wish to obtain intelligence respecting Judith, and also to ascertain the fate of Tita. The Lihou monks had already reported that all communication was broken between the Hanois and the shore, but that the tower appeared to be intact. On an April morning Haco and the young couple sailed across Rocquaine Bay, and landed close to the tower, which now stood on a rugged and inhospitable island. The door was opened by Tita, who smiled, and prattled, and caressed her young mistress like a lap-dog. She recognised Jean with indifference, but a start, followed by a shudder, seized her when she observed Haco; her terror, however, seemed to pass away when he spoke a few soothing words to her. It was evident that a shock, or a succession of shocks, had unsettled the poor woman's brain. On the name of Judith being mentioned, she pointed fearfully to the upper story. Uncertain as to her meaning, Jean cautiously ascended the ladder, and ascertained that the sorceress was in truth there. After a consultation it was decided that Haco and Hilda should seek her presence. As father and daughter entered the apartment, they saw the old woman half-seated, half-lying, on a couch placed close to the window; her face, which was turned seaward, was haggard, the leanness bringing into strong relief the handsome chiselling of her profile; the sternness of her mouth was somewhat relaxed; there was an indication almost of softness in its corners. Her high spirit had accepted, not resented, defeat. As her eye fell on her two visitors there was no gleam of defiance, no mark of anger, or even surprise; but, when Haco stood fully revealed before her, a flash of triumph and pleasure shot into it, kindling every feature with its glow. "You here, Haco!" she cried, "and with her! The Gods have relented. You will hold her fast in their worship, and lead her steps to the land of her sires! I die contented." She fell back exhausted. "Sister," said the giant, laying his hand softly on her shoulder, "it is too late; when Algar slew my loved one the Pagan died in me; I am a servant of the God of the Christians." Hilda awaited fearfully the result of this announcement, but she knew not the greatness of the old woman's soul. It was long ere her voice was heard again. Presently, raising herself, she said, "I would it had been otherwise; but I have erred, I have misjudged. I thought that your Gods were false; puny creations of a nerveless brain; but they are strong, I own their power! It may be that the great ones of old have wearied of our spiritless race, and abandoned us. So perchance you may be wise to turn to the new-comers!" Her voice failed her, but as they knelt by her side her hands wandered over their heads and lingered with a caressing movement among Hilda's locks. She seemed to have forgotten Jean, whom she doubtless believed to have been lost in the general calamity. Suddenly she started up and pointed to a storm-cloud rising rapidly from the western horizon, assuming a succession of fantastic shapes as it passed upwards. "Do you not see them?" she cried--"the great, the glorious ones! they bend from their seats; they smile! see their power! Their majesty! their locks stream, their swords are half drawn! they sheathe them, they lean forward, they extend their arms! they beckon!--I come, I come!" She stretched out her arms with the old familiar gesture and sank back, having breathed her spirit to the tempest which she loved so well. They buried her on the cliffs of Pleinmont, where a cairn long marked her resting-place. Tita was taken to the Vale; all attempts to restore her from the shock which her nerves had received failed till on one sunny morning Hilda's infant was placed on her knees: when the child crowed, and smiled at her, the cloud imperceptibly passed away, never to return. From that time she assumed her regular place in the household. Haco abandoned his Lihou cell; his rough readiness of resource, unfailing good-humour, and skill in managing men, proved invaluable during the task of the restoration of the broken links of government and society. The labours of Father Austin and his coadjutors did not relax, but their course lay in smoother waters: if their prospects of martyrdom were diminished they were more than consoled by the knowledge that they possessed among them a veritable saint, to whom the Holy Virgin had vouchsafed the honour of a personal appearance, and that they had been witnesses of a miraculous interposition, the evidence of which would be indelible as long as the sea should wash the storm-beaten cliffs of their beloved island. 
15551	----	_The_ KINGS TREASURIES OF LITERATURE GENERAL EDITOR SIR A.T. QUILLER COUCH [Illustration: THE LADY OF THE LAKE TELLETH ARTHUR OF THE SWORD EXCALIBUR] NEW YORK--E.P. DUTTON & COMPANY [Illustration: FIRST AND CHIEF OF ALL THE THREE BEST MOST CHRISTIAN AND WORTHY, KING ARTHUR] STORIES FROM LE MORTE D'ARTHUR AND THE MABINOGION RETOLD BY BEATRICE CLAY LONDON & TORONTO--J.M. DENT & SONS Ltd. SOLE AGENT FOR SCOTLAND THE GRANT EDUCATIONAL CO. LTD. GLASGOW FIRST EDITION, 1920 REPRINTED, 1922, 1924 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN CONTENTS INTRODUCTION BOOK I.--THE COMING OF ARTHUR I. OF ARTHUR'S BIRTH; AND HOW HE BECAME KING II. THE ROUND TABLE III. OF THE FINDING OF EXCALIBUR IV. OF THE TREACHERY OF QUEEN MORGAN LE FAY V. HOW THE SCABBARD OF EXCALIBUR WAS LOST VI. MERLIN VII. BALIN AND BALAN BOOK II.--SIR LAUNCELOT VIII. SIR LAUNCELOT DU LAC IX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHAPEL PERILOUS X. SIR LAUNCELOT AND THE FALCON BOOK III.--SIR TRISTRAM XI. OF THE BIRTH OF ST. TRISTRAM XII. HOW TRISTRAM FOUGHT WITH SIR MARHAUS OF IRELAND XIII. THE FAIR ISOLT XIV. HOW KING MARK SENT SIR TRISTRAM TO FETCH HIM A WIFE XV. HOW SIR TRISTRAM AND THE FAIR ISOLT DRANK OF THE MAGIC POTION XVI. OF THE END OF SIR TRISTRAM BOOK IV.--KING ARTHUR'S NEPHEWS XVII. SIR GAWAIN AND THE LADY XVIII. THE ADVENTURES OF SIR GARETH BOOK V.--SIR GERAINT XIX. THE ADVENTURES OF GERAINT XX. GERAINT AND ENID BOOK VI.--THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN XXI. THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN BOOK VII.--SIR PEREDUR XXII. THE ADVENTURES OF SIR PEREDUR BOOK VIII.--THE HOLY GRAIL XXIII. THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD XXIV. HOW SIR GALAHAD WON THE RED-CROSS SHIELD XXV. THE ADVENTURES OF SIR PERCIVALE XXVI. THE ADVENTURES OF SIR BORS XXVII. THE ADVENTURES OF SIR LAUNCELOT XXVIII. HOW SIR LAUNCELOT SAW THE HOLY GRAIL XXIX. THE END OF THE QUEST BOOK IX.--THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT XXX. THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT BOOK X.--QUEEN GUENEVERE XXXI. HOW MORDRED PLOTTED AGAINST SIR LAUNCELOT XXXII. THE TRIAL OF THE QUEEN XXXIII. HOW SIR GAWAIN DEFIED SIR LAUNCELOT XXXIV. HOW KING ARTHUR AND SIR GAWAIN WENT TO FRANCE BOOK XI.--THE MORTE D'ARTHUR XXXV. MORDRED THE TRAITOR XXXVI. THE BATTLE IN THE WEST XXXVII. THE PASSING OF ARTHUR XXXVIII. THE DEATH OF SIR LAUNCELOT AND OF THE QUEEN INTRODUCTION Among the stories of world-wide renown, not the least stirring are those that have gathered about the names of national heroes. The _Æneid_, the _Nibelungenlied_, the _Chanson de Roland_, the _Morte D'Arthur_,--they are not history, but they have been as National Anthems to the races, and their magic is not yet dead. In olden times our forefathers used to say that the world had seen nine great heroes, three heathen, three Jewish, and three Christian; among the Christian heroes was British Arthur, and of none is the fame greater. Even to the present day, his name lingers in many widely distant places. In the peninsula of Gower, a huge slab of rock, propped up on eleven short pillars, is still called Arthur's Stone; the lofty ridge which looks down upon Edinburgh bears the name of Arthur's Seat; and--strangest, perhaps, of all--in the Franciscan Church of far-away Innsbrück, the finest of the ten statues of ancestors guarding the tomb of the Emperor Maximilian I. is that of King Arthur. There is hardly a country in Europe without its tales of the Warrior-King; and yet of any real Arthur history tells us little, and that little describes, not the knightly conqueror, but the king of a broken people, struggling for very life. More than fifteen centuries ago, this country, now called England, was inhabited by a Celtic race known as the Britons, a warlike people, divided into numerous tribes constantly at war with each other. But in the first century of the Christian era they were conquered by the Romans, who added Britain to their vast empire and held it against attacks from without and rebellions from within by stationing legions, or troops of soldiers, in strongly fortified places all over the country. Now, from their conquerors, the Britons learnt many useful arts, to read and to write, to build houses and to make roads; but at the same time, they unlearnt some of their own virtues and, among others, how to think and act for themselves. For the Romans never allowed a Briton any real part in the government of his own country, and if he wished to become a soldier, he was sent away from Britain to serve with a legion stationed in some far-distant part of the empire. Thus it came about that when, in the fifth century, the Romans withdrew from Britain to defend Rome itself from invading hordes of savages, the unhappy Britons had forgotten how to govern and how to defend themselves, and fell an easy prey to the many enemies waiting to pounce on their defenceless country. Picts from Scotland invaded the north, and Scots from Ireland plundered the west; worst of all, the heathen Angles and Saxons, pouring across the seas from their homes in the Elbe country, wasted the land with fire and sword. Many of the Britons were slain; those who escaped sought refuge in the mountainous parts of the west from Cornwall to the Firth of Clyde. There, forgetting, to some extent, their quarrels, they took the name of the Cymry, which means the "Brethren," though the English, unable to understand their language, spoke of them contemptuously as the "Welsh," or the "Strangers." For a long time the struggle went on between the two races, and nowhere mere fiercely than in the south-west, where the invaders set up the Kingdom of Wessex; but at last there arose among the Britons a great chieftain called Arthur. The old histories speak of him as "Emperor," and he seems to have been obeyed by all the Britons; perhaps, therefore, he had succeeded to the position of the Roman official known as the Comes Britanniæ, whose duty it was to hasten to the aid of the local governors in defending any part of Britain where danger threatened. At all events, under his leadership, the oppressed people defeated the Saxons in a desperate fight at Mons Badonicus, perhaps the little place in Dorsetshire known as Badbury, or, it may be, Bath itself, which is still called Badon by the Welsh. After that victory, history has little to say about Arthur. The stories tell that he was killed in a great battle in the west; but, nowadays, the wisest historians think it more probable that he met his death in a conflict near the River Forth. And so, in history, Arthur, the hero of such a mass of romantic story, is little more than a name, and it is hardly possible to explain how he attained to such renown as the hero of marvellous and, sometimes, magical feats, unless on the supposition that he became confused with some legendary hero, half god, half man, whose fame he added to his own. Perhaps not the least marvel about him is that he who was the hero of the Britons, should have become the national hero of the English race that he spent his life in fighting. Yet that is what did happen, though not till long afterwards, when the victorious English, in their turn, bent before their conquering kinsmen, the Normans. Now in the reign of the third Norman king, Henry I., there lived a certain Welsh priest known as Geoffrey of Monmouth. Geoffrey seems to have been much about the Court, and perhaps it was the Norman love of stories that first made him think of writing his _History of the British Kings_. A wonderful tale he told of all the British kings from the time that Brut the Trojan settled in the country and called it, after himself, Britain! For Geoffrey's book was history only in name. What he tells us is that he was given an ancient chronicle found in Brittany, and was asked to translate it from Welsh into the better known language, Latin. It is hardly likely, however, that Geoffrey himself expected his statement to be taken quite seriously. Even in his own day, not every one believed in him, for a certain Yorkshire monk declared that the historian had "lied saucily and shamelessly"; and some years later, Gerald the Welshman tells of a man who had intercourse with devils, from whose sway, however, he could be freed if a Bible were placed upon his breast, whereas he was completely under their control if Geoffrey's _History_ were laid upon him, just because the book was so full of lies. It is quite certain that Geoffrey did not write history, but he did make a capital story, partly by collecting legends about British heroes, partly by inventing stories of his own; so that though he is not entitled to fame as an historian, he may claim to rank high as a romantic story-teller who set a fashion destined to last for some three centuries. So popular was his book that, not only in England, but, in an even greater degree, on the Continent, writers were soon at work, collecting and making more stories about the greatest of his kings, Arthur. By some it is thought that the Normans took such delight in the knightly deeds of Geoffrey's heroes that they spread the story in France when they visited their homes in Normandy. Moreover, they were in a good position to learn other tales of their favourite knights, for Normandy bordered on Brittany, the home of the Bretons, who, being of the same race as the Welsh, honoured the same heroes in their legends. So in return for Geoffrey's tales, Breton stories, perhaps, found their way into England; at all events, marvellous romances of King Arthur and his Round Table were soon being told in England, in France, in Germany and in Italy. Now, to some it may seem strange that story-tellers should care to weave their stories so constantly about the same personages; strange, too, that they should invent stories about men and women who were believed actually to have existed. But it must be remembered that, in those early days, very few could read and write, and that, before printing was invented, books were so scarce that four or five constituted quite a library. Those who knew how to read, and were so fortunate as to have books, read them again and again. For the rest, though kings and great nobles might have poets attached to their courts, the majority depended for their amusement on the professional story-teller. In the long winter evening, no one was more welcome than the wandering minstrel. He might be the knightly troubadour who, accompanied by a jongleur to play his accompaniments, wandered from place to place out of sheer love of his art and of adventure; more often, however, the minstrel made story-telling his trade, and gained his living from the bounty of his audience--be it in castle, market-place, or inn. Most commonly, the narratives took the form of long rhyming poems; not because the people in those days were so poetical--indeed, some of these poems would be thought, in present times, very dreary doggerel--but because rhyme is easier to remember than prose. Story-tellers had generally much the same stock-in-trade--stories of Arthur, Charlemagne, Sir Guy of Warwick, Sir Bevis of Southampton, and so on. If a minstrel had skill of his own, he would invent some new episode, and so, perhaps, turn a compliment to his patron by introducing the exploit of an ancestor, at the same time that he made his story last longer. People did not weary of hearing the same tales over and over again, any more than little children get tired of nursery rhymes, or their elders turn away from "Punch and Judy," though the same little play has been performed for centuries. As for inventing stories about real people, that may well have seemed permissible in an age when historians recorded mere hearsay as actual fact. Richard III., perhaps, had one shoulder higher than the other, but within a few years of his death grave historians had represented him as a hunchbacked deformity. The romances connected with King Arthur and his knights went on steadily growing in number until the fifteenth century; of them, some have survived to the present day, but undoubtedly many have been lost. Then, in the latter half of the fifteenth century, the most famous of all the Arthurian stories was given to the world in Sir Thomas Malory's _Morte D'Arthur_. By good luck, the great printer who made it one of his first works, has left an account of the circumstances that led to its production. In the reign of Edward IV., William Caxton set up his printing-press (the first in England) in the precincts of Westminster Abbey. There he was visited, as he himself relates, by "many noble and divers gentlemen" demanding why he had not printed the "noble history of the Saint Grail and of the most-renowned Christian King ... Arthur." To please them, and because he himself loved chivalry, Caxton printed Sir Thomas Malory's story, in which all that is best in the many Arthurian romances is woven into one grand narrative. Since then, in our own days, the story of Arthur and his knights has been told in beautiful verse by Lord Tennyson; but for the originals of some of his poems it would be useless to look in Malory. The story of Geraint and Enid, Tennyson derived from a very interesting collection of translations of ancient Welsh stories made by Lady Charlotte Guest, and by her called _Mabinogion_,[1] although not all Welsh scholars would consider the name quite accurate. [Footnote 1: Meaning the apprentices of the bards.] And now it is time to say something about the stories themselves. The Arthur of history was engaged in a life-long struggle with an enemy that threatened to rob his people of home, of country, and of freedom; in the stories, the king and his knights, like Richard Coeur-de-Lion, sought adventure for adventure's sake, or, as in the case of Sir Peredur, took fantastic vows for the love of a lady. The Knights of the Round Table are sheathed from head to foot in plate armour, although the real Arthur's warriors probably had only shirts of mail and shields with which to ward off the blows of the enemy. They live in moated castles instead of in halls of wood, and they are more often engaged in tournaments than in struggles with the heathen. In fact, those who wrote the stories represented their heroes as living such lives as they themselves led. Just in the same way, Dutch painters used to represent the shepherds in the Bible story as Dutch peasants; just so David Garrick, the great actor of the eighteenth century, used to act the part of a Roman in his own full-bottomed wig and wide-skirted coat. It must not be forgotten that, in those far-away days when there were few who could even read or write, there was little that, in their ignorance, people were not prepared to believe. Stories of marvels and magic that would deceive no one now, were then eagerly accepted as truth. Those were the days when philosophers expected to discover the Elixir of Life; when doctors consulted the stars in treating their patients; when a noble of the royal blood, such as Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, could fall into disgrace because his wife was accused of trying to compass the king's death by melting a wax image of him before a slow fire. Of all the stories, perhaps the most mystical is that of the Quest of the Holy Grail, and it has features peculiar to itself. Nuns take the place of fair ladies; there are hermitages instead of castles; and the knights themselves, if they do not die, become monks or hermits. The reason for this change in scene and character is, that this is a romance in which the Church was trying to teach men, by means of a tale such as they loved, the lesson of devotion and purity of heart. The story sprang from certain legends which had grown up about the name of Joseph of Arimathea. It was related that, when our Lord was crucified, Joseph caught in a dish, or vessel, the blood which flowed from His wounded side. In later years, the pious Jew left his home and, taking with him the precious vessel, sailed away on unknown seas until he came to the land of Britain. In that country he landed, and at Glastonbury he built himself a hermitage, where he treasured the sacred dish which came to be known as the Saint Grail. After Joseph's death, the world grew more wicked, and so the Holy Grail disappeared from the sight of sinful men, although, from time to time, the vision of it was granted, as in the story, to the pure in heart. In later days, legend said that where Joseph's hermitage had stood, there grew up the famous monastery of Glastonbury, and it came to have a special importance of its own in the Arthurian romance. In the reign of Henry II., by the king's orders, the monks of Glastonbury made search for the grave of King Arthur, and, in due time, they announced that they had found it, nine feet below the soil, the coffin covered with a stone in which was inlaid a leaden cross bearing this inscription: "Hic iacet sepultus inclitus rex Arthurius in insula Avalonia." Some, however, suggested that the monks, less honest than anxious to please the masterful king, had first placed the stone in position and then found it! One more feature of the tales remains to be mentioned: their geography. There is no atlas that will make it plain in all cases; and this is hardly wonderful, for so little was known of this subject that, even in the reign of Henry VIII., the learned Lord Berners was quite satisfied that his hero should journey to Babylon by way of the Nile! Some of the places mentioned in the stories are, of course, familiar, and others, less well known, can, with a little care, be traced; but to identify all is not possible. Caerleon, where King Arthur so often held his Court, still bears the same name, though its glory has sorely shrank since the days when it had a bishop of its own. Camelot, where stood the marvellous palace built for the king by Merlin, is perhaps the village of Queen's Camel in Somersetshire. If it is borne in mind that the French call Wales _Pays de Galles_, it is not difficult to see that North Galis may well be North Wales. Gore is the peninsula of Gower; Liones probably the land south-west of Cornwall, now sunk beneath the sea; and Avalonia was the name given to one of the many small islands of the once marshy, low-lying shore of Somersetshire, which became afterwards better known as Glastonbury. Happily, it is neither on their history nor on their geography that the tales depend for their interest. As long as a story of adventure thrills; as long as gentleness, courtesy and consideration for the weak excite respect, so long will be read the tales of the brave times "When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight." STORIES FROM LE MORTE D'ARTHUR AND THE MABINOGION BOOK I THE COMING OF ARTHUR CHAPTER I OF ARTHUR'S BIRTH; AND HOW HE BECAME KING Long years ago, there ruled over Britain a king called Uther Pendragon. A mighty prince was he, and feared by all men; yet, when he sought the love of the fair Igraine of Cornwall, she would have naught to do with him, so that, from grief and disappointment, Uther fell sick, and at last seemed like to die. Now in those days, there lived a famous magician named Merlin, so powerful that he could change his form at will, or even make himself invisible; nor was there any place so remote but that he could reach it at once, merely by wishing himself there. One day, suddenly he stood at Uther's bedside, and said: "Sir King, I know thy grief, and am ready to help thee. Only promise to give me, at his birth, the son that shall be born to thee, and thou shalt have thy heart's desire." To this the king agreed joyfully, and Merlin kept his word: for he gave Uther the form of one whom Igraine had loved dearly, and so she took him willingly for her husband. When the time had come that a child should be born to the King and Queen, Merlin appeared before Uther to remind him of his promise; and Uther swore it should be as he had said. Three days later, a prince was born, and, with pomp and ceremony, was christened by the name of Arthur; but immediately thereafter, the King commanded that the child should be carried to the postern-gate, there to be given to the old man who would be found waiting without. Not long after, Uther fell sick, and he knew that his end was come; so, by Merlin's advice, he called together his knights and barons, and said to them: "My death draws near. I charge you, therefore, that ye obey my son even as ye have obeyed me; and my curse upon him if he claim not the crown when he is a man grown." Then the King turned his face to the wall and died. Scarcely was Uther laid in his grave before disputes arose. Few of the nobles had seen Arthur or even heard of him, and not one of them would have been willing to be ruled by a child; rather, each thought himself fitted to be king, and, strengthening his own castle, made war on his neighbours until confusion alone was supreme, and the poor groaned because there was none to help them. Now when Merlin carried away Arthur--for Merlin was the old man who had stood at the postern-gate--he had known all that would happen, and had taken the child to keep him safe from the fierce barons until he should be of age to rule wisely and well, and perform all the wonders prophesied of him. He gave the child to the care of the good knight Sir Ector to bring up with his son Kay, but revealed not to him that it was the son of Uther Pendragon that was given into his charge. At last, when years had passed and Arthur was grown a tall youth well skilled in knightly exercises, Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury and advised him that he should call together at Christmas-time all the chief men of the realm to the great cathedral in London; "For," said Merlin, "there shall be seen a great marvel by which it shall be made clear to all men who is the lawful King of this land." The Archbishop did as Merlin counselled. Under pain of a fearful curse, he bade barons and knights come to London to keep the feast, and to pray heaven to send peace to the realm. The people hastened to obey the Archbishop's commands, and, from all sides, barons and knights came riding in to keep the birth-feast of our Lord. And when they had prayed, and were coming forth from the cathedral, they saw a strange sight. There, in the open space before the church, stood, on a great stone, an anvil thrust through with a sword; and on the stone were written these words: "Whoso can draw forth this sword, is rightful King of Britain born." At once there were fierce quarrels, each man clamouring to be the first to try his fortune, none doubting his own success. Then the Archbishop decreed that each should make the venture in turn, from the greatest baron to the least knight; and each in turn, having put forth his utmost strength, failed to move the sword one inch, and drew back ashamed. So the Archbishop dismissed the company, and having appointed guards to watch over the stone, sent messengers through all the land to give word of great jousts to be held in London at Easter, when each knight could give proof of his skill and courage, and try whether the adventure of the sword was for him. Among those who rode to London at Easter was the good Sir Ector, and with him his son, Sir Kay, newly made a knight, and the young Arthur. When the morning came that the jousts should begin, Sir Kay and Arthur mounted their horses and set out for the lists; but before they reached the field, Kay looked and saw that he had left his sword behind. Immediately Arthur turned back to fetch it for him, only to find the house fast shut, for all were gone to view the tournament. Sore vexed was Arthur, fearing lest his brother Kay should lose his chance of gaining glory, till, of a sudden, he bethought him of the sword in the great anvil before the cathedral. Thither he rode with all speed, and the guards having deserted their post to view the tournament, there was none to forbid him the adventure. He leaped from his horse, seized the hilt, and instantly drew forth the sword as easily as from a scabbard; then, mounting his horse and thinking no marvel of what he had done, he rode after his brother and handed him the weapon. When Kay looked at it, he saw at once that it was the wondrous sword from the stone. In great joy he sought his father, and showing it to him, said: "Then must I be King of Britain." But Sir Ector bade him say how he came by the sword, and when Sir Kay told how Arthur had brought it to him, Sir Ector bent his knee to the boy, and said: "Sir, I perceive that ye are my King, and here I tender you my homage"; and Kay did as his father. Then the three sought the Archbishop, to whom they related all that had happened; and he, much marvelling, called the people together to the great stone, and bade Arthur thrust back the sword and draw it forth again in the presence of all, which he did with ease. But an angry murmur arose from the barons, who cried that what a boy could do, a man could do; so, at the Archbishop's word, the sword was put back, and each man, whether baron or knight, tried in his turn to draw it forth, and failed. Then, for the third time, Arthur drew forth the sword. Immediately there arose from the people a great shout: "Arthur is King! Arthur is King! We will have no King but Arthur"; and, though the great barons scowled and threatened, they fell on their knees before him while the Archbishop placed the crown upon his head, and swore to obey him faithfully as their lord and sovereign. Thus Arthur was made King; and to all he did justice, righting wrongs and giving to all their dues. Nor was he forgetful of those that had been his friends; for Kay, whom he loved as a brother, he made Seneschal and chief of his household, and to Sir Ector, his foster-father, he gave broad lands. CHAPTER II THE ROUND TABLE Thus Arthur was made King, but he had to fight for his own; for eleven great kings drew together and refused to acknowledge him as their lord, and chief amongst the rebels was King Lot of Orkney who had married Arthur's sister, Bellicent. By Merlin's advice, Arthur sent for help overseas, to Ban and Bors, the two great Kings who ruled in Gaul. With their aid, he overthrew his foes in a great battle near the river Trent; and then he passed with them into their own lands and helped them drive out their enemies. So there was ever great friendship between Arthur and the Kings Ban and Bors, and all their kindred; and afterwards some of the most famous Knights of the Round Table were of that kin. Then King Arthur set himself to restore order throughout his kingdom. To all who would submit and amend their evil ways, he showed kindness; but those who persisted in oppression and wrong he removed, putting in their places others who would deal justly with the people. And because the land had become overrun with forest during the days of misrule, he cut roads through the thickets, that no longer wild beasts and men, fiercer than the beasts, should lurk in their gloom, to the harm of the weak and defenceless. Thus it came to pass that soon the peasant ploughed his fields in safety, and where had been wastes, men dwelt again in peace and prosperity. Amongst the lesser kings whom Arthur helped to rebuild their towns and restore order, was King Leodegrance of Cameliard. Now Leodegrance had one fair child, his daughter Guenevere; and from the time that first he saw her, Arthur gave her all his love. So he sought counsel of Merlin, his chief adviser. Merlin heard the King sorrowfully, and he said: "Sir King, when a man's heart is set, he may not change. Yet had it been well if ye had loved another." So the King sent his knights to Leodegrance, to ask of him his daughter; and Leodegrance consented, rejoicing to wed her to so good and knightly a King. With great pomp, the princess was conducted to Canterbury, and there the King met her, and they two were wed by the Archbishop in the great Cathedral, amid the rejoicings of the people. On that same day did Arthur found his Order of the Round Table, the fame of which was to spread throughout Christendom and endure through all time. Now the Round Table had been made for King Uther Pendragon by Merlin, who had meant thereby to set forth plainly to all men the roundness of the earth. After Uther died, King Leodegrance had possessed it; but when Arthur was wed, he sent it to him as a gift, and great was the King's joy at receiving it. One hundred and fifty knights might take their places about it, and for them Merlin made sieges or seats. One hundred and twenty-eight did Arthur knight at that great feast; thereafter, if any sieges were empty, at the high festival of Pentecost new knights were ordained to fill them, and by magic was the name of each knight found inscribed, in letters of gold, in his proper siege. One seat only long remained unoccupied, and that was the Siege Perilous. No knight might occupy it until the coming of Sir Galahad; for, without danger to his life, none might sit there who was not free from all stain of sin. With pomp and ceremony did each knight take upon him the vows of true knighthood: to obey the King; to show mercy to all who asked it; to defend the weak; and for no worldly gain to fight in a wrongful cause: and all the knights rejoiced together, doing honour to Arthur and to his Queen. Then they rode forth to right the wrong and help the oppressed, and by their aid, the King held his realm in peace, doing justice to all. CHAPTER III OF THE FINDING OF EXCALIBUR Now when Arthur was first made King, as young knights will, he courted peril for its own sake, and often would he ride unattended by lonely forest ways, seeking the adventure that chance might send him. All unmindful was he of the ruin to his realm if mischief befell him; and even his trusty counsellors, though they grieved that he should thus imperil him, yet could not but love him the more for his hardihood. So, on a day, he rode through the Forest Perilous where dwelt the Lady Annoure, a sorceress of great might, who used her magic powers but for the furtherance of her own desires. And as she looked from a turret window, she descried King Arthur come riding down a forest glade, and the sunbeams falling upon him made one glory of his armour and of his yellow hair. Then, as Annoure gazed upon the King, her heart grew hot within her, and she resolved that, come what might, she would have him for her own, to dwell with her always and fulfil all her behests. And so she bade lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis, and sallying forth accompanied by her maidens, she gave King Arthur courteous salutation, and prayed him that he would rest within her castle that day, for that she had a petition to make to him; and Arthur, doubting nothing of her good faith, suffered himself to be led within. Then was a great feast spread, and Annoure caused the King to be seated in a chair of state at her right hand, while squires and pages served him on bended knee. So when they had feasted, the King turned to the Lady Annoure and said courteously: "Lady, somewhat ye said of a request that ye would make. If there be aught in which I may pleasure you, I pray you let me know it, and I will serve you as knightly as I may." "In truth," said the lady, "there is that which I would fain entreat of you, most noble knight; yet suffer, I beseech you, that first I may show you somewhat of my castle and my estate, and then will I crave a boon of your chivalry." Then the sorceress led King Arthur from room to room of her castle, and ever each displayed greater store of beauty than the last. In some the walls were hung with rich tapestries, in others they gleamed with precious stones; and the King marvelled what might be the petition of one that was mistress of such wealth. Lastly, Annoure brought the King out upon the battlements, and as he gazed around him, he saw that, since he had entered the castle, there had sprung up about it triple walls of defence that shut out wholly the forest from view. Then turned he to Annoure, and gravely he said: "Lady, greatly I marvel in what a simple knight may pleasure one that is mistress of so wondrous a castle as ye have shown me here; yet if there be aught in which I may render you knightly service, right gladly would I hear it now, for I must forth upon my way to render service to those whose knight I am sworn." "Nay, now, King Arthur," answered the sorceress mockingly, "ye may not think to deceive me; for well I know you, and that all Britain bows to your behest." "The more reason then that I should ride forth to right wrong and succour them that, of their loyalty, render true obedience to their lord." "Ye speak as a fool," said the sorceress; "why should one that may command be at the beck and call of every hind and slave within his realm? Nay, rest thee here with me, and I will make thee ruler of a richer land than Britain, and give thee to satisfy thy every desire." "Lady," said the King sternly, "I will hear and judge of your petition at this time, and then will I forth upon my way." "Nay," said Annoure, "there needs not this harshness. I did but speak for thine advantage. Only vow thee to my service, and there is naught that thou canst desire that thou shalt not possess. Thou shalt be lord of this fair castle and of the mighty powers that obey me. Why waste thy youth in hardship and in the service of such as shall render thee little enough again?" Thereupon, without ever a word, the King turned him about and made for the turret stair by which he had ascended, but nowhere could he find it. Then said the sorceress, mocking him: "Fair sir, how think ye to escape without my good-will? See ye not the walls that guard my stronghold? And think ye that I have not servants enow to do my bidding?" She clapped her hands and forthwith there appeared a company of squires who, at her command, seized the King and bore him away to a strong chamber where they locked him in. And so the King abode that night, the prisoner of that evil sorceress, with little hope that day, when it dawned, should bring him better cheer. Yet lost he not courage, but kept watch and vigil the night through lest the powers of evil should assail him unawares. And with the early morning light, Annoure came to visit him. More stately she seemed than the night before, more tall and more terrible; and her dress was one blaze of flashing gems, so that scarce could the eye look upon her. As a queen might address a vassal, so greeted she the King, and as condescending to one of low estate, asked how he had fared that night. And the King made answer: "I have kept vigil as behoves a knight who, knowing him to be in the midst of danger, would bear himself meetly in any peril that should offer." And the Lady Annoure, admiring his knightly courage, desired more earnestly even than before to win him to her will, and she said: "Sir Arthur, I know well your courage and knightly fame, and greatly do I desire to keep you with me. Stay with me and I promise you that ye shall bear sway over a wider realm than any that ever ye heard of, and I, even I, its mistress, will be at your command. And what lose ye if ye accept my offer? Little enough, I ween, for never think that ye shall win the world from evil and men to loyalty and truth." Then answered the King in anger: "Full well I see that thou art in league with evil and that thou but seekest to turn me from my purpose. I defy thee, foul sorceress. Do thy worst; though thou slay me, thou shalt never sway me to thy will"; and therewith the King raised his cross-hilted sword before her. Then the lady quailed at that sight. Her heart was filled with hate, but she said: "Go your way, proud King of a petty realm. Rule well your race of miserable mortals, since more it pleasures you than to bear sway over the powers of the air. I keep you not against your will." With these words, she passed from the chamber, and the King heard her give command to her squires to set him without her gates, give him his horse, and suffer him to go on his way. And so it came to pass that the King found himself once more at large, and marvelled to have won so lightly to liberty. Yet knew he not the depths of treachery in the heart of Annoure; for when she found she might not prevail with the King, she bethought her how, by mortal means, she might bring the King to dishonour and death. And so, by her magic art, she caused the King to follow a path that brought him to a fountain, whereby a knight had his tent, and, for love of adventure, held the way against all comers. Now this knight was Sir Pellinore, and at that time he had not his equal for strength and knightly skill, nor had any been found that might stand against him. So, as the King drew nigh, Pellinore cried: "Stay, knight, for none passes this way except he joust with me." "That is no good custom," said the King; "it were well that ye followed it no more." "It is my custom, and I will follow it still," answered Pellinore; "if ye like it not, amend it if ye may." "I will do my endeavour," said Arthur, "but, as ye see, I have no spear." "Nay, I seek not to have you at advantage," replied Pellinore, and bade his squire give Arthur a spear. Then they dressed their shields, laid their lances in rest, and rushed upon each other. Now the King was wearied by his night's vigil, and the strength of Pellinore was as the strength of three men; so, at the first encounter, Arthur was unhorsed. Then said he: "I have lost the honour on horseback, but now will I encounter thee with my sword and on foot." "I, too, will alight," said Pellinore; "small honour to me were it if I slew thee on foot, I being horsed the while." So they encountered each other on foot, and so fiercely they fought that they hewed off great pieces of each other's armour and the ground was dyed with their blood. But at the last, Arthur's sword broke off short at the hilt, and so he stood all defenceless before his foe. "I have thee now," cried Pellinore; "yield thee as recreant or I will slay thee." "That will I never," said the King, "slay me if thou canst." Then he sprang on Pellinore, caught him by the middle, and flung him to the ground, himself falling with him. And Sir Pellinore marvelled, for never before had he encountered so bold and resolute a foe; but exerting his great strength, he rolled himself over, and so brought Arthur beneath him. Then had Arthur perished, but at that moment Merlin stood beside him, and when Sir Pellinore would have struck off the King's head, stayed his blow, crying: "Pellinore, if thou slayest this knight, thou puttest the whole realm in peril; for this is none other than King Arthur himself." Then was Pellinore filled with dread, and cried: "Better make an end of him at once; for if I suffer him to live, what hope have I of his grace, that have dealt with him so sorely?" But before Pellinore could strike, Merlin caused a deep sleep to come upon him; and raising King Arthur from the ground, he staunched his wounds and recovered him of his swoon. But when the King came to himself, he saw his foe lie, still as in death, on the ground beside him; and he was grieved, and said: "Merlin, what have ye done to this brave knight? Nay, if ye have slain him, I shall grieve my life long; for a good knight he is, bold and a fair fighter, though something wanting in knightly courtesy." "He is in better case than ye are, Sir King, who so lightly imperil your person, and thereby your kingdom's welfare; and, as ye say, Pellinore is a stout knight, and hereafter shall he serve you well. Have no fear. He shall wake again in three hours and have suffered naught by the encounter. But for you, it were well that ye came where ye might be tended for your wounds." "Nay," replied the King, smiling, "I may not return to my court thus weaponless; first will I find means to purvey me of a sword." "That is easily done," answered Merlin; "follow me, and I will bring you where ye shall get you a sword, the wonder of the world." So, though his wounds pained him sore, the King followed Merlin by many a forest path and glade, until they came upon a mere, bosomed deep in the forest; and as he looked thereon, the King beheld an arm, clothed in white samite, shoot above the surface of the lake, and in the hand was a fair sword that gleamed in the level rays of the setting sun. "This is a great marvel," said the King, "what may it mean?" And Merlin made answer: "Deep is this mere, so deep indeed that no man may fathom it; but in its depths, and built upon the roots of the mountains, is the palace of the Lady of the Lake. Powerful is she with a power that works ever for good, and she shall help thee in thine hour of need. For thee has she wrought yonder sword. Go now, and take it." Then was Arthur aware of a little skiff, half hidden among the bulrushes that fringed the lake; and leaping into the boat, without aid of oar, he was wafted out into the middle of the lake, to the place where, out of the water, rose the arm and sword. And leaning from the skiff, he took the sword from the hand, which forthwith vanished, and immediately thereafter the skiff bore him back to land. Arthur drew from its scabbard the mighty sword, wondering the while at the marvel of its workmanship, for the hilt shone with the light of many twinkling gems--diamond and topaz and emerald, and many another whose names none know. And as he looked on the blade, Arthur was aware of mystic writings on the one side and the other, and calling to Merlin, he bade him interpret them. "Sir," said Merlin, "on the one side is written 'Keep me,' and on the other 'Throw me away.'" "Then," said the King, "which does it behove me to do?" "Keep it," answered Merlin; "the time to cast it away is not yet come. This is the good brand Excalibur, or Cut Steel, and well shall it serve you. But what think ye of the scabbard?" "A fair cover for so good a sword," answered Arthur. "Nay, it is more than that," said Merlin, "for, so long as ye keep it, though ye be wounded never so sore, yet ye shall not bleed to death." And when he heard that, the King marvelled the more. Then they journeyed back to Caerleon, where the knights made great joy of the return of their lord. And presently, thither came Sir Pellinore, craving pardon of the King, who made but jest of his own misadventure. And afterwards Sir Pellinore became of the Table Round, a knight vowed, not only to deeds of hardihood, but also to gentleness and courtesy; and faithfully he served the King, fighting ever to maintain justice and put down wrong, and to defend the weak from the oppressor. CHAPTER IV OF THE TREACHERY OF QUEEN MORGAN LE FAY There was a certain Queen whose name was Morgan le Fay, and she was a powerful sorceress. Little do men know of her save that, in her youth, she was eager for knowledge and, having learnt all human lore, turned her to magic, becoming so skilled therein that she was feared of all. There was a time when great was her enmity towards King Arthur, so that she plotted his ruin not once only nor twice; and that is a strange thing, for it is said that she herself was the kinswoman of the King. And truly, in the end, she repented her of her malice, for she was, of those that came to bear Arthur to the Delightful Islands from the field of his last bitter conflict; but that was long after. Now when this enchantress learned how the Lady of the Lake had given the King a sword and scabbard of strange might, she was filled with ill-will; and all her thought was only how she might wrest the weapon from him and have it for her own, to bestow as she would. Even while she pondered thereon, the King himself sent her the scabbard to keep for him; for Merlin never ceased to warn the King to have in safe keeping the scabbard that had power to keep him from mortal hurt; and it seemed to Arthur that none might better guard it for him, till the hour of need, than Morgan le Fay, the wise Queen that was of his own kindred. Yet was not the Queen shamed of her treacherous intent by the trust that Arthur had in her; but all her mind was set on how she might win to the possession of the sword itself as well as of the scabbard. At the last--so had her desire for the sword wrought upon her--she resolved to compass the destruction of the King that, if she gained the sword, never might she have need to fear his justice for the wrong she had done. And her chance came soon. For, on a day, King Arthur resolved to chase the hart in the forests near Camelot, wherefore he left behind him his sword Excalibur, and took but a hunting spear with him. All day long, he chased a white hart and, when evening fell, he had far outstripped his attendants, save only two, Sir Accolon of Gaul and Sir Uriens, King of Gore, the husband of Queen Morgan le Fay herself. So when the King saw that darkness had come upon them in the forest, he turned to his companions, saying: "Sirs, we be far from Camelot and must lodge as we may this night. Let us go forward until we shall find where we may shelter us a little." So they rode forward, and presently Arthur espied a little lake glinting in the beams of the rising moon, and, as they drew nearer, they descried, full in the moonlight, a little ship, all hung with silks even to the water's edge. Then said the King to his knights: "Yonder is promise of shelter or, it may be, of adventure. Let us tether our horses in the thicket and enter into this little ship." And when they had so done, presently they found themselves in a fair cabin all hung with silks and tapestries, and, in its midst, a table spread with the choicest fare. And being weary and hungered with the chase, they ate of the feast prepared and, lying down to rest, were soon sunk in deep slumber. While they slept, the little ship floated away from the land, and it came to pass that a great wonder befell; for when they woke in the morning, King Uriens found himself at home in his own land, and Sir Accolon was in his own chamber at Camelot; but the King lay a prisoner, bound and fettered and weaponless, in a noisome dungeon that echoed to the groans of hapless captives. When he was come to himself, King Arthur looked about him and saw that his companions were knights in the same hard case as himself; and he inquired of them how they came to be in that plight. "Sir," said one of them, "we are in duresse in the castle of a certain recreant knight, Sir Damas by name, a coward false to chivalry. None love him, and so no champion can he find to maintain his cause in a certain quarrel that he has in hand. For this reason, he lies in wait with a great company of soldiers for any knights that may pass this way, and taking them prisoners, holds them in captivity unless they will undertake to fight to the death in his cause. And this I would not, nor any of my companions here; but unless we be speedily rescued, we are all like to die of hunger in this loathsome dungeon." "What is his quarrel?" asked the King. "That we none of us know," answered the knight. While they yet talked, there entered the prison a damsel. She went up to the King at once, and said: "Knight, will ye undertake to fight in the cause of the lord of this castle?" "That I may not say," replied the King, "unless first I may hear what is his quarrel." "That ye shall not know," replied the damsel, "but this I tell you: if ye refuse, ye shall never leave this dungeon alive, but shall perish here miserably." "This is a hard case," said the King, "that I must either die or fight for one I know not, and in a cause that I may not hear. Yet on one condition will I undertake your lord's quarrel, and that is that he shall give me all the prisoners bound here in this dungeon." "It shall be as ye say," answered the damsel, "and ye shall also be furnished with horse and armour and sword than which ye never saw better." Therewith the damsel bade him follow her, and brought him to a great hall where presently there came to him squires to arm him for the combat; and when their service was rendered, the damsel said to him: "Sir Knight, even now there has come one who greets you in the name of Queen Morgan le Fay, and bids me tell you that the Queen, knowing your need, has sent you your good sword." Then the King rejoiced greatly, for it seemed to him that the sword that the damsel gave him was none other than the good sword Excalibur. When all was prepared, the damsel led King Arthur into a fair field, and there he beheld awaiting him a knight, all sheathed in armour, his vizor down, and bearing a shield on which was no blazonry. So the two knights saluted each other, and, wheeling their horses, rode away from each other some little space. Then turning again, they laid lance in rest, and rushing upon each other, encountered with the noise of thunder, and so great was the shock that each knight was borne from the saddle. Swiftly they gained their feet, and, drawing their swords, dealt each other great blows; and thus they contended fiercely for some while. But as he fought, a great wonder came upon Arthur, for it seemed to him that his sword, that never before had failed him, bit not upon the armour of the other, while every stroke of his enemy drew blood, till the ground on which he fought was slippery beneath his feet; and at the last almost his heart failed within him, knowing that he was betrayed, and that the brand with which he fought was not Excalibur. Yet would he not show aught of what he suffered, but struggled on, faint as he was and spent; so that they that watched the fight and saw how he was sore wounded, marvelled at his great courage and endurance. But presently, the stranger knight dealt the King a blow which fell upon Arthur's sword, and so fierce was the stroke that the blade broke off at the pommel. "Knight," said the other, "thou must yield thee recreant to my mercy." "That may I not do with mine honour," answered the King, "for I am sworn to fight in this quarrel to the death." "But weaponless thou must needs be slain." "Slay me an ye will, but think not to win glory by slaying a weaponless man." Then was the other wroth to find himself still withstood and, in his anger, he dealt Arthur a great blow; but this the King shunned, and rushing upon his foe, smote him so fiercely on the head with the pommel of his broken sword that the knight swayed and let slip his own weapon. With a bound, Arthur was upon the sword, and no sooner had he it within his grasp than he knew it, of a truth, to be his own sword Excalibur. Then he scanned more closely his enemy, and saw the scabbard that he wore was none other than the magic scabbard of Excalibur; and forthwith, leaping upon the knight, he tore it from him and flung it far afield. "Knight," cried King Arthur, "ye have made me suffer sore, but now is the case changed and ye stand within my power, helpless and unarmed. And much I misdoubt me but that treacherously ye have dealt with me. Nevertheless, yield you recreant and I will spare your life." "That I may not do, for it is against my vow; so slay me if ye will. Of a truth, ye are the best knight that ever I encountered." Then it seemed to the King that the knight's voice was not unknown to him, and he said: "Tell me your name and what country ye are of, for something bids me think that ye are not all unknown to me." "I am Accolon of Gaul, knight of King Arthur's Round Table." "Ah! Accolon, Accolon," cried the King, "is it even thou that hast fought against me? Almost hast thou undone me. What treason tempted thee to come against me, and with mine own weapon too?" When Sir Accolon knew that it was against King Arthur that he had fought, he gave a loud cry and swooned away utterly. Then Arthur called to two stout yeomen amongst those that had looked on at the fight, and bade them bear Sir Accolon to a little hermitage hard by, and thither he himself followed with pain, being weak from loss of blood; but into the castle he would not enter, for he trusted not those that held it. The hermit dressed their wounds, and presently, when Sir Accolon had come to himself again, the King spoke gently to him, bidding him say how he had come to bear arms against him. "Sir and my lord," answered Sir Accolon, "it comes of naught but the treachery of your kinswoman, Queen Morgan le Fay. For on the morrow after we had entered upon the little ship, I awoke in my chamber at Camelot, and greatly I marvelled how I had come there. And as I yet wondered, there came to me a messenger from Queen Morgan le Fay, desiring me to go to her without delay. And when I entered her presence, she was as one sore troubled, and she said to me: 'Sir Accolon, of my secret power, I know that now is our King, Arthur, in great danger; for he lies imprisoned in a great and horrible dungeon whence he may not be delivered unless one be found to do battle for him with the lord of the castle. Wherefore have I sent for you that ye may take the battle upon you for our lord the King. And for greater surety, I give you here Excalibur, Arthur's own sword, for, of a truth, we should use all means for the rescuing of our lord.' And I, believing this evil woman, came hither and challenged the lord of this castle to mortal combat; and, indeed, I deemed it was with Sir Damas that I fought even now. Yet all was treachery, and I misdoubt me that Sir Damas and his people are in league with Queen Morgan le Fay to compass your destruction. But, my lord Arthur, pardon me, I beseech you, the injuries that, all unwitting, I have done you." King Arthur was filled with wrath against the Queen, more for the wrong done to Sir Accolon than for the treason to himself. In all ways that he might, he sought to comfort and relieve Sir Accolon, but in vain, for daily the knight grew weaker, and, after many days, he died. Then the King, being recovered of his wounds, returned to Camelot, and calling together a band of knights, led them against the castle of Sir Damas. But Damas had no heart to attempt to hold out, and surrendered himself and all that he had to the King's mercy. And first King Arthur set free those that Sir Damas had kept in miserable bondage, and sent them away with rich gifts. When he had righted the wrongs of others, then he summoned Sir Damas before him, and said: "I command thee that thou tell me why thou didst seek my destruction." And cringing low at the King's footstool, Damas answered: "I beseech you, deal mercifully with me, for all that I have done, I have done at the bidding of Queen Morgan le Fay." "A coward's plea," said the King; "how camest thou first to have traffic with her?" "Sir," replied Damas, "much have I suffered, first by the greed of my younger brother and now by the deceit of this evil woman, as ye shall hear. When my father died, I claimed the inheritance as of right, seeing that I was his elder son; but my young brother, Sir Ontzlake, withstood me, and demanded some part of my father's lands. Long since, he sent me a challenge to decide our quarrel in single combat, but it liked me ill, seeing that I am of no great strength. Much, therefore, did I desire to find a champion but, by ill fortune, none could I find until Queen Morgan le Fay sent word that, of her good will to me, she had sent me one that would defend my cause; and that same evening, the little ship brought you, my lord, to my castle. And when I saw you, I rejoiced, thinking to have found a champion that would silence my brother for ever; nor knew I you for the King's self. Wherefore, I entreat you, spare me, and avenge me on my brother." Therewith, Sir Damas fawned upon the King, but Arthur sternly bade him rise and send messengers to bring Sir Ontzlake before him. Presently, there stood before the King a youth, fair and of good stature, who saluted his lord and then remained silent before him. "Sir Ontzlake," said the King, "I have sent for you to know of your dealings with Sir Accolon and of your quarrel with your brother." "My lord Arthur," answered the youth, "that I was the cause of hurt to yourself, I pray you to pardon me, for all unwitting was I of evil. For ye shall know that I had challenged my brother to single combat; but when word came to me that he was provided of a champion, I might not so much as brook my armour for a sore wound that I had got of an arrow shot at me as I rode through the forest near his castle. And as I grieved for my hard case, there came a messenger from Queen Morgan le Fay bidding me be of good courage, for she had sent unto me one, Sir Accolon, who would undertake my quarrel. This only she commanded me, that I should ask no question of Sir Accolon. So Sir Accolon abode with me that night and, as I supposed, fought in my cause the next day. Sure am I that there is some mystery, yet may I not misdoubt my lady Queen Morgan le Fay without cause; wherefore, if blame there be, let me bear the punishment." Then was the King well pleased with the young man for his courage and loyalty to others. "Fair youth," said he, "ye shall go with me to Camelot, and if ye prove you brave and just in all your doings, ye shall be of my Round Table." But to Sir Damas he said sternly: "Ye are a mean-spirited varlet, unworthy of the degree of knighthood. Here I ordain that ye shall yield unto your brother the moiety of the lands that ye had of your father and, in payment for it, yearly ye shall receive of Sir Ontzlake a palfrey; for that will befit you better to ride than the knightly war-horse. And look ye well to it, on pain of death, that ye lie no more in wait for errant knights, but amend your life and live peaceably with your brother." Thereafter, the fear of the King kept Sir Damas from deeds of violence; yet, to the end, he remained cowardly and churlish, unworthy of the golden spurs of knighthood. But Sir Ontzlake proved him a valiant knight, fearing God and the King and naught else. CHAPTER V HOW THE SCABBARD OF EXCALIBUR WAS LOST Now when Queen Morgan le Fay knew that her plot had miscarried and that her treachery was discovered, she feared to abide the return of the King to Camelot; and so she went to Queen Guenevere, and said: "Madam, of your courtesy, grant me leave, I pray you, to depart." "Nay," said the Queen, "that were pity, for I have news of my lord the King, that soon he will return to Camelot. Will ye not then await his return, that ye may see your kinsman before ye depart?" "Alas! madam," said Morgan le Fay, "that may not be, for I have ill news that requires that immediately I get to my own country." "Then shall ye depart when ye will," said the Queen. So before the next day had dawned, Morgan le Fay arose and, taking her horse, departed unattended from Camelot. All that day and most of the night she rode fast, and ere noon the next day, she was come to a nunnery where, as she knew, King Arthur lay. Entering into the house, she made herself known to the nuns, who received her courteously and gave her of their best to eat and to drink. When she was refreshed, she asked if any other had sought shelter with them that day; and they told her that King Arthur lay in an inner chamber and slept, for he had rested little for three nights. "Ah! my dear lord!" exclaimed the false sorceress; "gladly would I speak with him, but I will not that ye awaken him, and long I may not tarry here; wherefore suffer me at least to look upon him as he sleeps, and then will I continue my journey." And the nuns, suspecting no treachery, showed Queen Morgan le Fay the room where King Arthur slept, and let her enter it alone. So Morgan le Fay had her will and stood beside the sleeping King; but again it seemed as if she must fail of her purpose, and her heart was filled with rage and despair. For she saw that the King grasped in his hand the hilt of the naked brand, that none might take it without awakening him. While she mused, suddenly she espied the scabbard where it hung at the foot of the bed, and her heart rejoiced to know that something she might gain by her bold venture. She snatched up the empty sheath, and wrapping it in a fold of her garment, left the chamber. Brief were her farewells to the holy nuns, and in haste she got to horse and rode away. Scarcely had she set forth, when the King awoke, and rising from his couch, saw at once that the scabbard of his sword was gone. Then summoned he the whole household to his presence and inquired who had entered his chamber. "Sir," said the Abbess, "there has none been here save only your kinswoman, the Queen Morgan le Fay. She, indeed, desired to look upon you since she might not abide your awakening." Then the King groaned aloud, saying, "It is my own kinswoman, the wife of my true knight, Sir Uriens, that would betray me." He bade Sir Ontzlake make ready to accompany him, and after courteous salutation to the Abbess and her nuns, together they rode forth by the path that Morgan le Fay had taken. Fast they rode in pursuit, and presently they came to a cross where was a poor cowherd keeping watch over his few beasts, and of him they asked whether any had passed that way. "Sirs," said the peasant, "even now there rode past the cross a lady most lovely to look upon, and with her forty knights." Greatly the King marvelled how Queen Morgan le Fay had come by such a cavalcade, but nothing he doubted that it was she the cowherd had seen. So thanking the poor man, the King, with Sir Ontzlake, rode on by the path that had been shown them, and presently, emerging from the forest, they were aware of a glittering company of horsemen winding through a wide plain that lay stretched before them. On the instant, they put spurs to their horses and galloped as fast as they might in pursuit. But, as it chanced, Queen Morgan le Fay looked back even as Arthur and Sir Ontzlake came forth from the forest, and seeing them, she knew at once that her theft had been discovered, and that she was pursued. Straightway she bade her knights ride on till they should come to a narrow valley where lay many great stones; but as soon as they had left her, she herself rode, with all speed, to a mere hard by. Sullen and still it lay, without even a ripple on its surface. No animal ever drank of its waters nor bird sang by it, and it was so deep that none might ever plumb it. And when the Queen had come to the brink, she dismounted. From the folds of her dress she drew the scabbard, and waving it above her head, she cried, "Whatsoever becometh of me, King Arthur shall not have this scabbard." Then, whirling it with all her might, she flung it far into the mere. The jewels glinted as the scabbard flashed through the air, then it clove the oily waters of the lake and sank, never again to be seen. When it had vanished, Morgan le Fay mounted her horse again, and rode fast after her knights, for the King and Ontzlake were in hot pursuit, and sore she feared lest they should come up with her before she might reach the shelter of the Valley of Stones. But she had rejoined her company of knights before the King had reached the narrow mouth of the valley. Quickly she bade her men scatter among the boulders, and then, by her magic art, she turned them all, men and horses and herself too, into stones, that none might tell the one from the other. When King Arthur and Sir Ontzlake reached the valley, they looked about for some sign of the presence of the Queen or her knights, but naught might they see though they rode through the valley and beyond, and returning, searched with all diligence among the rocks and boulders. Never again was Queen Morgan le Fay seen at Camelot, nor did she attempt aught afterwards against the welfare of the King. When she had restored her knights to their proper form, she hastened with them back to her own land, and there she abode for the rest of her days until she came with the other queens to carry Arthur from the field of the Battle in the West. Nor would the King seek to take vengeance on a woman, though sorely she had wronged him. His life long, he guarded well the sword Excalibur, but the sheath no man ever saw again. CHAPTER VI MERLIN Of Merlin and how he served King Arthur, something has been already shown. Loyal he was ever to Uther Pendragon and to his son, King Arthur, and for the latter especially he wrought great marvels. He brought the King to his rights; he made him his ships; and some say that Camelot, with its splendid halls, where Arthur would gather his knights around him at the great festivals of the year, at Christmas, at Easter, and at Pentecost, was raised by his magic, without human toil. Bleise, the aged magician who dwelt in Northumberland and recorded the great deeds of Arthur and his knights, had been Merlin's master in magic; but it came to pass in time that Merlin far excelled him in skill, so that his enemies declared no mortal was his father, and called him devil's son. Then, on a certain time, Merlin said to Arthur: "The time draws near when ye shall miss me, for I shall go down alive into the earth; and it shall be that gladly would ye give your lands to have me again." Then Arthur was grieved, and said: "Since ye know your danger, use your craft to avoid it." But Merlin answered: "That may not be." Now there had come to Arthur's court, a damsel of the Lady of the Lake--her whose skill in magic, some say, was greater than Merlin's own; and the damsel's name was Vivien. She set herself to learn the secrets of Merlin's art, and was ever with him, tending upon the old man and, with gentleness and tender service, winning her way to his heart; but all was a pretence, for she was weary of him and sought only his ruin, thinking it should be fame for her, by any means whatsoever, to enslave the greatest wizard of his age. And so she persuaded him to pass with her overseas into King Ban's land of Benwick, and there, one day, he showed her a wondrous rock, formed by magic art. Then she begged him to enter into it, the better to declare to her its wonders; but when once he was within, by a charm that she had learnt from Merlin's self, she caused the rock to shut down that never again might he come forth. Thus was Merlin's prophecy fulfilled, that he should go down into the earth alive. Much they marvelled in Arthur's court what had become of the great magician, till on a time, there rode past the stone a certain Knight of the Round Table and heard Merlin lamenting his sad fate. The knight would have striven to raise the mighty stone, but Merlin bade him not waste his labour, since none might release him save her who had imprisoned him there. Thus Merlin passed from the world through the treachery of a damsel, and thus Arthur was without aid in the days when his doom came upon him. CHAPTER VII BALIN AND BALAN Among the princes that thought scorn of Arthur in the days when first he became king, none was more insolent than Ryons of North Wales. So, on a time when King Arthur held high festival at Camelot, Ryons sent a herald who, in the presence of the whole court, before brave knights and fair dames, thus addressed the King: "Sir Arthur, my master bids me say that he has overcome eleven kings with all their hosts, and, in token of their submission, they have given him their beards to fringe him a mantle. There remains yet space for the twelfth; wherefore, with all speed, send him your beard, else will he lay waste your land with fire and sword." "Viler message," said King Arthur, "was never sent from man to man. Get thee gone, lest we forget thine office protects thee." So spoke the King, for he had seen his knights clap hand to sword, and would not that a messenger should suffer hurt in his court. Now among the knights present the while was one whom men called Balin le Savage, who had but late been freed from prison for slaying a knight of Arthur's court. None was more wroth than he at the villainy of Ryons, and immediately after the departure of the herald, he left the hall and armed him; for he was minded to try if, with good fortune, he might win to Arthur's grace by avenging him on the King of North Wales. While he was without, there entered the hall a Witch Lady who, on a certain occasion, had done the King a service, and for this she now desired of him a boon. So Arthur bade her name her request, and thus she said: "O King, I require of you the head of the knight Balin le Savage." "That may I not grant you with my honour," replied the King; "ask what it may become me to give." But the Witch Lady would have naught else, and departed from the hall, murmuring against the King. Then, as it chanced, Balin met her at the door, and immediately when he saw her, he rode upon her, sword in hand, and, with one blow, smote off her head. Thus he took vengeance for his mother's death, of which she had been the cause, and, well content, rode away. But when it was told King Arthur of the deed that Balin had done, he was full wroth, nor was his anger lessened though Merlin declared the wrong the Witch Lady had done to Balin. "Whatsoever cause he had against her, yet should he have done her no violence in my court," said the King, and bade Sir Lanceour of Ireland ride after Balin and bring him back again. Thus it came to pass that, as Sir Balin rode on his way, he heard the hoof-beats of a horse fast galloping, and a voice cried loudly to him: "Stay, Knight; for thou shalt stay, whether thou wilt or not." "Fair Knight," answered Balin fiercely, "dost thou desire to fight with me?" "Yea, truly," answered Lanceour; "for that cause have I followed thee from Camelot." "Alas!" cried Balin, "then I know thy quarrel. And yet, I dealt but justly by that vile woman, and it grieves me to offend my lord King Arthur again." "Have done, and make ready to fight," said Lanceour insolently; for he was proud and arrogant, though a brave knight. So they rushed together, and, at the first encounter, Sir Lanceour's spear was shivered against the shield of the other, but Balin's spear pierced shield and hauberk and Lanceour fell dead to the earth. Then Sir Balin, sore grieved that he had caused the death of a knight of Arthur's court, buried Lanceour as well as he might, and continued sorrowfully on his journey in search of King Ryons. Presently, as he rode through a great forest, he espied a knight whom, by his arms, he knew at once for his brother, Sir Balan. Great joy had they in their meeting, for Balan had believed Balin still to be in prison. So Balin told Balan all that had befallen him, and how he sought Ryons to avenge Arthur upon him for his insolent message, and hoped thereby to win his lord's favour again. "I will ride with thee, brother," said Balan, "and help thee all I may." So the two went on their way till, presently, they met with an old man--Merlin's self, though they knew him not, for he was disguised. "Ah, Knight," said Merlin to Balin, "swift to strike and swift to repent, beware, or thou shalt strike the most dolorous blow dealt by man; for thou shalt slay thine own brother." "If I believed thy words true," cried Balin hotly, "I would slay myself to make thee a liar." "I know the past and I know the future," said Merlin; "I know, too, the errand on which thou ridest, and I will help thee if thou wilt." "Ah!" said Balin, "that pleases me well." "Hide you both in this covert," said Merlin; "for presently there shall come riding down this path King Ryons with sixty of his knights." With these words he vanished. So Balin and Balan did as he had bidden them, and when King Ryons and his men entered the little path, they fell upon them with such fury that they slew more than forty knights, while the rest fled, and King Ryons himself yielded him to them. So Sir Balan rode with King Ryons to Camelot that he might deliver him to King Arthur; but Balin went not with them, for he would see more adventures before he sought King Arthur's presence again. After many days' travel and many encounters, it befell that, one evening, Balin drew near to a castle; and when he would have sought admittance, there stood by him an old man, and said: "Balin, turn thee back, and it shall be better for thee," and so vanished. At that moment there was blown a blast on a horn, such as is sounded when the stag receives its death; and hearing it, Balin's heart misgave him, and he cried: "That blast is blown for me, and I am the prize. But not yet am I dead!" At that instant the castle gate was raised and there appeared many knights and ladies welcoming Balin into the castle. So he entered, and presently they were all seated at supper. Then the lady of the castle said to Balin: "Sir Knight, to-morrow thou must have ado with a knight that keeps an island near-by; else mayest thou not pass that way." "That is an evil custom," answered Balin; "but if I must, I must." So that night he rested, but with the dawn he arose, and was arming himself for battle when there came to him a knight and said: "Sir, your shield is not good; I pray you, take mine which is larger and stouter." In an evil hour, Balin suffered himself to be persuaded, and taking the stranger's shield, left; behind his own on which his arms were blazoned. Then, entering a boat, he was conveyed to the island where the unknown knight held the ford. No sooner was he landed, than there came riding to him a knight armed all in red armour, his horse, too, trapped all in red; and without word spoken, they charged upon each other, and each bore the other from the saddle. Thus for a while they lay, stunned by the fall. The Red Knight was the first to rise, for Balin, all wearied by his travels and many encounters, was sore shaken by the fall. Then they fought together right fiercely, hacking away great pieces of armour, and dealing each other dreadful wounds. But when they paused to take breath, Balin, looking up, saw the battlements of the castle filled with knights and ladies watching the struggle, and immediately, shamed that the conflict should have so long endured, he rushed again upon the Red Knight, aiming at him blows that might have felled a giant. So they fought together a long while; but at the last, the Red Knight drew back a little. Then cried Balin: "Who art thou? for till now, never have I met my match." Then said the Red Knight: "I am Balan, brother to the noble knight, Sir Balin"; and with the word, he fell to the ground as one dead. "Alas!" cried Balin, "that I should have lived to see this day!" Then, as well as he might, for his strength was almost spent, he crept on hands and knees to his brother's side and opened the vizor of his helmet, and when he saw his brother's face all ghastly, as it was, he cried: "O Balan, I have slain thee, as thou hast also slain me! Oh! woeful deed I never to be forgotten of men!" Then Balan, being somewhat recovered, told Balin how he had been compelled by those at the castle to keep the ford against all comers, and might never depart; and Balin told of the grievous chance by which he had taken another's shield. So these two died, slain by each other's hands. In one tomb they were buried; and Merlin, passing that way, inscribed thereon the full story of their deaths. BOOK II SIR LAUNCELOT CHAPTER VIII SIR LAUNCELOT DU LAC Now, as time passed, King Arthur gathered into his Order of the Round Table knights whose peers shall never be found in any age; and foremost amongst them all was Sir Launcelot du Lac. Such was his strength that none against whom he laid lance in rest could keep the saddle, and no shield was proof against his sword dint; but for his courtesy even more than for his courage and strength, Sir Launcelot was famed far and near. Gentle he was and ever the first to rejoice in the renown of another; and in the jousts, he would avoid encounter with the young and untried knight, letting him pass to gain glory if he might. It would take a great book to record all the famous deeds of Sir Launcelot, and all his adventures. He was of Gaul, for his father, King Ban, ruled over Benwick; and some say that his first name was Galahad, and that he was named Launcelot du Lac by the Lady of the Lake who reared him when his mother died. Early he won renown by delivering his father's people from the grim King Claudas who, for more than twenty years, had laid waste the fair land of Benwick; then, when there was peace in his own land, he passed into Britain, to Arthur's court, where the King received him gladly, and made him Knight of the Round Table and took him for his trustiest friend. And so it was that, when Guenevere was to be brought to Canterbury, to be married to the King, Launcelot was chief of the knights sent to wait upon her, and of this came the sorrow of later days. For, from the moment he saw her, Sir Launcelot loved Guenevere, for her sake remaining wifeless all his days, and in all things being her faithful knight. But busy-bodies and mischief-makers spoke evil of Sir Launcelot and the Queen, and from their talk came the undoing of the King and the downfall of his great work. But that was after long years, and after many true knights had lived their lives, honouring the King and Queen, and doing great deeds whereby the fame of Arthur and his Order passed through all the world. CHAPTER IX THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHAPEL PERILOUS Now on a day, as he rode through the forest, Sir Launcelot met a damsel weeping bitterly, and seeing him, she cried, "Stay, Sir Knight! By your knighthood I require you to aid me in my distress." Immediately Sir Launcelot checked his horse and asked in what she needed his service. "Sir," said the maiden, "my brother lies at the point of death, for this day he fought with the stout knight, Sir Gilbert, and sorely they wounded each other; and a wise woman, a sorceress, has said that nothing may staunch my brother's wounds unless they be searched with the sword and bound up with a piece of the cloth from the body of the wounded knight who lies in the ruined chapel hard by. And well I know you, my lord Sir Launcelot, and that, if ye will not help me, none may." "Tell me your brother's name," said Sir Launcelot. "Sir Meliot de Logris," answered the damsel. "A Knight of our Round Table," said Sir Launcelot; "the more am I bound to your service. Only tell me, gentle damsel, where I may find this Chapel Perilous." So she directed him, and, riding through forest byeways, Sir Launcelot came presently upon a little ruined chapel, standing in the midst of a churchyard, where the tombs showed broken and neglected under the dark yews. In front of the porch, Sir Launcelot paused and looked, for thereon hung, upside down, dishonoured, the shield of many a good knight whom Sir Launcelot had known. As he stood wondering, suddenly there pressed upon him from all sides thirty stout knights, all giants and fully armed, their drawn swords in their hands and their shields advanced. With threatening looks, they spoke to him saying: "Sir Launcelot, it were well ye turned back before evil befell you." But Sir Launcelot, though he feared to have to do with thirty such warriors, answered boldly: "I turn not back for high words. Make them good by your deeds." Then he rode upon them fiercely, whereupon instantly they scattered and disappeared, and, sword in hand, Sir Launcelot entered the little chapel. All was dark within, save that a little lamp hung from the roof, and by its dim light he could just espy how on a bier before the altar there lay, stark and cold, a knight sheathed in armour. And drawing nearer, Sir Launcelot saw that the dead man lay on a blood-stained mantle, his naked sword by his side, but that his left hand had been lopped off at the wrist by a mighty sword-cut. Then Sir Launcelot boldly seized the sword and with it cut off a piece of the bloody mantle. Immediately the earth shook and the walls of the chapel rocked, and in fear Sir Launcelot turned to go. But, as he would have left the chapel, there stood before him in the doorway a lady, fair to look upon and beautifully arrayed, who gazed earnestly upon him, and said: "Sir Knight, put away from you that sword lest it be your death." But Sir Launcelot answered her: "Lady, what I have said, I do; and what I have won, I keep." "It is well," said the lady. "Had ye cast away the sword your life days were done. And now I make but one request. Kiss me once." "That may I not do," said Sir Launcelot. Then said the lady: "Go your way, Launcelot; ye have won, and I have lost. Know that, had ye kissed me, your dead body had lain even now on the altar bier. For much have I desired to win you; and to entrap you, I ordained this chapel. Many a knight have I taken, and once Sir Gawain himself hardly escaped, but he fought with Sir Gilbert and lopped off his hand, and so got away. Fare ye well; it is plain to see that none but our lady, Queen Guenevere, may have your services." With that, she vanished from his sight. So Sir Launcelot mounted his horse and rode away from that evil place till he met Sir Meliot's sister, who led him to her brother where he lay, pale as the earth, and bleeding fast. And when he saw Sir Launcelot, he would have risen to greet him; but his strength failed him, and he fell back on his couch. Sir Launcelot searched his wounds with the sword, and bound them up with the blood-stained cloth, and immediately Sir Meliot was sound and well, and greatly he rejoiced. Then Sir Meliot and his sister begged Sir Launcelot to stay and rest, but he departed on his adventures, bidding them farewell until he should meet them again at Arthur's court. As for the sorceress of the Chapel Perilous, it is said she died of grief that all her charms had failed to win for her the good knight Sir Launcelot. CHAPTER X SIR LAUNCELOT AND THE FALCON Sir Launcelot rode on his way, by marsh and valley and hill, till he chanced upon a fair castle, and saw fly from it, over his head, a beautiful falcon, with the lines still hanging from her feet. And as he looked, the falcon flew into a tree where she was held fast by the lines becoming entangled about the boughs. Immediately, from the castle there came running a fair lady, who cried: "O Launcelot, Launcelot! As ye are the noblest of all knights, I pray you help me to recover my falcon. For if my husband discover its loss, he will slay me in his anger." "Who is your husband, fair lady?" asked Sir Launcelot. "Sir Phelot, a knight of Northgalis, and he is of a hasty temper; wherefore, I beseech you, help me." "Well, lady," said Sir Launcelot, "I will serve you if I may; but the tree is hard to climb, for the boughs are few, and, in truth, I am no climber. But I will do my best." So the lady helped Sir Launcelot to unarm, and he led his horse to the foot of the tree, and springing from its back, he caught at the nearest bough, and drew himself up into the branches. Then he climbed till he reached the falcon and, tying her lines to a rotten bough, broke it off, and threw down bird and bough to the lady below. Forthwith, Sir Phelot came from amongst the trees and said: "Ah! Sir Launcelot! Now at length I have you as I would; for I have long sought your life." And Sir Launcelot made answer: "Surely ye would not slay me, an unarmed man; for that were dishonour to you. Keep my armour if ye will; but hang my sword on a bough where I may reach it, and then do with me as ye can." But Sir Phelot laughed mockingly and said: "Not so, Sir Launcelot. I know you too well to throw away my advantage; wherefore, shift as ye may." "Alas!" said Sir Launcelot, "that ever knight should be so unknightly. And you, madam, how could ye so betray me?" "She did but as I commanded her," said Sir Phelot. Then Launcelot looked about him to see how he might help himself in these straits, and espying above his head a great bare branch, he tote it down. Then, ever watching his advantage, he sprang to the ground on the far side of his horse, so that the horse was between him and Sir Phelot. Sir Phelot rushed upon him with his sword, but Sir Launcelot parried it with the bough, with which he dealt his enemy such a blow on the head that Sir Phelot sank to the ground in a swoon. Then Sir Launcelot seized his sword where it lay beside his armour, and stooping over the fallen knight, unloosed his helm. When the lady saw him do that, she shrieked and cried: "Spare his life! spare his life, noble knight, I beseech you!" But Sir Launcelot answered sternly: "A felon's death for him who does felon's deeds. He has lived too long already," and with one blow, he smote off his head. Then he armed himself, and mounting upon his steed, rode away, leaving the lady to weep beside her lord. BOOK III SIR TRISTRAM CHAPTER XI OF THE BIRTH OF SIR TRISTRAM In the days of Arthur, there ruled over the kingdom of Liones the good knight Sir Meliodas; and his Queen was the fair Elizabeth, sister of King Mark of Cornwall. Now there was a lady, an enchantress, who had no good-will towards King Meliodas and his Queen; so one day, when the King was hunting, she brought it to pass by her charms that Meliodas chased a hart till he found himself, far from all his men, alone by an old castle, and there he was taken prisoner by the lady's knights. When King Meliodas did not return home, the Queen was nigh crazed with grief. Attended only by one of the ladies of her court, she ran out into the forest to seek her lord. Long and far she wandered, until she could go no further, but sank down at the foot of a great tree, and there, in the midst of the forest, was her little son born. When the Queen knew that she must die, she kissed the babe and said: "Ah! little son, sad has been thy birth, wherefore thy name shall be Tristram; but thou shalt grow to be a brave knight and a strong." Then she charged her gentlewoman to take care of the child and to commend her to King Meliodas; and after that she died. All too late came many of the barons seeking their Queen, and sorrowfully they bore her back to the castle where presently the King arrived, released by the skill of Merlin from the evil spells of the enchantress. Great indeed was his grief for the death of his Queen. He caused her to be buried with all the pomp and reverence due to so good and fair a lady, and long and bitterly he mourned her loss and all the people with him. But at the end of seven years, King Meliodas took another wife. Then, when the Queen had sons of her own, it angered her to think that in the days to come, her stepson Tristram, and none other, should rule the fair land of Liones. The more she thought of it, the more she hated him till, at the last, she was resolved to do away with him. So she filled a silver goblet with a pleasant drink in which she had mixed poison, and she set it in the room where Tristram played with the young princes, his half-brothers. Now the day was hot, and presently, being heated with his play, the young prince, the Queen's eldest son, drank of the poisoned goblet; and immediately he died. Much the Queen grieved, but more than ever she hated her stepson Tristram, as if, through him, her son had died. Presently, again she mixed poison and set it in a goblet; and that time, King Meliodas, returning thirsty from the chase, took the cup and would have drunk of it, only the Queen cried to him to forbear. Then the King recalled to mind how his young son had drunk of a seeming pleasant drink and died on the instant; and seizing the Queen by the hand, he cried: "False traitress! tell me at once what is in that cup, or I will slay thee!" Then the Queen cried him mercy and told him all her sin. But in his wrath the King would have no mercy, but sentenced her to be burnt at the stake, which, in those days, was the doom of traitors. The day having come when the Queen should suffer for her fault, she was led out and bound to a stake in the presence of all the court, and the faggots were heaped about her. Then the young prince Tristram kneeled before the King and asked of him a favour: and the King, loving him much, granted him his request. "Then," said Tristram, "I require you to release the Queen, my stepmother, and to take her again to your favour." Greatly the King marvelled, and said: "Ye should of right hate her, seeing that she sought your life." But Tristram answered: "I forgive her freely." "I give you then her life," said the King; "do ye release her from the stake." So Tristram unloosed the chains which bound the Queen and led her back to the castle, and from that day the Queen loved him well; but as for King Meliodas, though he forgave her and suffered her to remain at court, yet never again would he have aught to do with her. CHAPTER XII HOW TRISTRAM FOUGHT WITH SIR MARHAUS OF IRELAND Now King Meliodas, though he had pardoned the Queen, would keep his son Tristram no longer at the court, but sent him into France. There Tristram learnt all knightly exercises, so that there was none could equal him as harper or hunter; and after seven years, being by then a youth of nineteen, he returned to his own land of Liones. It chanced, in those days, that King Anguish of Ireland sent to Cornwall, demanding the tribute paid him in former times by that land. Then Mark, the Cornish King, called together his barons and knights to take counsel; and by their advice, he made answer that he would pay no tribute, and bade King Anguish send a stout knight to fight for his right if he still dared claim aught of the land of Cornwall. Forthwith there came from Ireland Sir Marhaus, brother of the Queen of Ireland. Now Sir Marhaus was Knight of the Round Table and in his time there were few of greater renown. He anchored his ships under the Castle of Tintagil, and sent messengers daily to King Mark, bidding him pay the tribute or find one to fight in his cause. Then was King Mark sore perplexed, for not one of his knights dared encounter Sir Marhaus. Criers were sent through all the land, proclaiming that, to any knight that would take the combat upon him, King Mark would give such gifts as should enrich him for life. In time, word of all that had happened came to Liones, and immediately Tristram sought his father, desiring his permission to go to the court of his uncle, King Mark, to take the battle upon him. Thus it came to pass that, with his father's good leave, Tristram presented himself before King Mark, asking to be made knight that he might do battle for the liberties of Cornwall. Then when Mark knew that it was his sister's son, he rejoiced greatly, and having made Tristram knight, he sent word to Sir Marhaus that there was found to meet him a champion of better birth than Sir Marhaus' self. So it was arranged that the combat should take place on a little island hard by, where Sir Marhaus had anchored his ships. Sir Tristram, with his horse and arms, was placed on board a ship, and when the island was gained, he leaped on shore, bidding his squire put off again and only return when he was slain or victorious. Now, when Sir Marhaus saw that Tristram was but a youth, he cried aloud to him: "Be advised, young Sir, and go back to your ship. What can ye hope to do against me, a proven knight of Arthur's Table?" Then Tristram made answer: "Sir and most famous champion, I have been made knight to do battle with you, and I promise myself to win honour thereby, I who have never before encountered a proven knight." "If ye can endure three strokes of my sword, it shall be honour enough," said Sir Marhaus. Then they rushed upon each other, and at the first encounter each unhorsed the other, and Sir Marhaus' spear pierced Sir Tristram's side and made a grievous wound. Drawing their swords, they lashed at each other, and the blows fell thick as hail till the whole island re-echoed with the din of onslaught. So they fought half a day, and ever it seemed that Sir Tristram grew fresher and nimbler while Sir Marhaus became sore wearied. And at the last, Sir Tristram aimed a great blow at the head of his enemy, and the sword crashed through the helmet and bit into the skull so that a great piece was broken away from the edge of Tristram's sword. Then Sir Marhaus flung away sword and shield, and when he might regain his feet, fled shrieking to his ships. "Do ye flee?" cried Tristram. "I am but newly made knight; but rather than flee, I would be hewn piecemeal." Then came Gouvernail, Sir Tristram's squire, and bore his master back to land, where Mark and all the Cornish lords came to meet him and convey him to the castle of Tintagil. Far and wide they sent for surgeons to dress Sir Tristram's wound, but none might help him, and ever he grew weaker. At the last, a wise woman told King Mark that in that land alone whence came the poisoned spear could Sir Tristram find cure. Then the King gave orders and a ship was made ready with great stores of rich furnishings, to convey Sir Tristram to Ireland, there to heal him of his wound. CHAPTER XIII THE FAIR ISOLT Thus Tristram sailed to Ireland, and when he drew nigh the coast, he called for his harp, and sitting up on his couch on the deck, played the merriest tune that was ever heard in that land. And the warders on the castle wall, hearing him, sent and told King Anguish how a ship drew near with one who harped as none other might. Then King Anguish sent knights to convey the stranger into the castle. So when he was brought into the King's presence, Tristram declared that he was Sir Tramtrist of Liones, lately made knight, and wounded in his first battle; for which cause he was come to Ireland, to seek healing. Forthwith the King made him welcome, and placed him in the charge of his daughter, Isolt. Now Isolt was famed for her skill in surgery, and, moreover, she was the fairest lady of that time, save only Queen Guenevere. So she searched and bandaged Sir Tristram's wound, and presently it was healed. But still Sir Tristram abode at King Anguish's court, teaching the Fair Isolt to harp, and taking great pleasure in her company. And ever the princess doubted whether Sir Tristram were not a renowned knight and ever she liked him better. So the time passed merrily with feastings and in the jousts, and in the lists Sir Tristram won great honour when he was recovered of his wound. At last it befell upon a day that Sir Tristram had gone to the bath and left his sword lying on the couch. And the Queen, entering, espied it, and taking it up, drew the sword from the sheath and fell to admiring the mighty blade. Presently she saw that the edge was notched, and while she pondered how great a blow must have broken the good steel, suddenly she bethought her of the piece which had been found in the head of her brother, Sir Marhaus. Hastening to her chamber, she sought in a casket for the fragment, and returning, placed it by the sword edge, where it fitted as well as on the day it was first broken. Then she cried to her daughter: "This, then, is the traitor knight who slew my brother, Sir Marhaus"; and snatching up the sword, she rushed upon Sir Tristram where he sat in his bath, and would have killed him, but that his squire restrained her. Having failed of her purpose, she sought her husband, King Anguish, and told him all her story: how the knight they had harboured was he who had slain Sir Marhaus. Then the King, sore perplexed, went to Sir Tristram's chamber, where he found him fully armed, ready to get to horse. And Tristram told him all the truth, how in fair fight he had slain Sir Marhaus. "Ye did as a knight should," said King Anguish; "and much it grieves me that I may not keep you at my court; but I cannot so displease my Queen or barons." "Sir," said Tristram, "I thank you for your courtesy, and will requite it as occasion may offer. Moreover, here I pledge my word, as I am good knight and true, to be your daughter's servant, and in all places and at all times to uphold her quarrel. Wherefore I pray you that I may take my leave of the princess." Then, with the King's permission, Sir Tristram went to the Fair Isolt and told her all his story; "And here," said he, "I make my vow ever to be your true knight, and at all times and in all places to uphold your quarrel." "And on my part" answered the Fair Isolt, "I make promise that never these seven years will I marry any man, save with your leave and as ye shall desire." Therewith they exchanged rings, the Fair Isolt grieving sore the while. Then Sir Tristram strode into the court and cried aloud, before all the barons: "Ye knights of Ireland, the time is come when I must depart. Therefore, if any man have aught against me, let him stand forth now, and I will satisfy him as I may." Now there were many present of the kin of Sir Marhaus, but none dared have ado with Sir Tristram; so, slowly he rode away, and with his squire took ship again for Cornwall. CHAPTER XIV HOW KING MARK SENT SIR TRISTRAM TO FETCH HIM A WIFE When Sir Tristram had come back to Cornwall, he abode some time at the court of King Mark. Now in those days the Cornish knights were little esteemed, and none less than Mark himself, who was a coward, and never adventured himself in fair and open combat, seeking rather to attack by stealth and have his enemy at an advantage. But the fame of Sir Tristram increased daily, and all men spoke well of him. So it came to pass that King Mark, knowing himself despised, grew fearful and jealous of the love that all men bore his nephew; for he seemed in their praise of him to hear his own reproach. He sought, therefore, how he might rid himself of Tristram even while he spoke him fair and made as if he loved him much, and at the last he bethought him how he might gain his end and no man be the wiser. So one day, he said to Tristram: "Fair nephew, I am resolved to marry, and fain would I have your aid." "In all things, I am yours to command," answered Sir Tristram. "I pray you, then," said King Mark, "bring me to wife the Fair Isolt of Ireland. For since I have heard your praises of her beauty, I may not rest unless I have her for my Queen." And this he said thinking that, if ever Sir Tristram set foot in Ireland, he would be slain. But Tristram, nothing mistrusting, got together a company of gallant knights, all fairly arrayed as became men sent by their King on such an errand; and with them he embarked on a goodly ship. Now it chanced that when he had reached the open sea, a great storm arose and drove him back on to the coast of England, and landing with great difficulty he set up his pavilion hard by the city of Camelot. Presently, word was brought him by his squire that King Anguish with his company lay hard by, and that the King was in sore straits; for he was charged with the murder of a knight of Arthur's court, and must meet in combat Sir Blamor, one of the stoutest knights of the Round Table. Then Sir Tristram rejoiced, for he saw in this opportunity of serving King Anguish the means of earning his good will. So he betook himself to the King's tent, and proffered to take upon him the encounter, for the kindness shown him by King Anguish in former days. And the King gratefully accepting of his championship, the next day Sir Tristram encountered with Sir Blamor, overthrew him, and so acquitted the Irish King of the charge brought against him. Then in his joy, King Anguish begged Sir Tristram to voyage with him to his own land, bidding Tristram ask what boon he would and he should have it. So rejoicing in his great fortune, Sir Tristram sailed once again for the Irish land. CHAPTER XV HOW SIR TRISTRAM AND THE FAIR ISOLT DRANK OF THE MAGIC POTION Then King Anguish made haste to return to Ireland, taking Sir Tristram with him. And when he was come there and had told all his adventures, there was great rejoicing over Sir Tristram, but of none more than of the Fair Isolt. So when Sir Tristram had stayed there some while, King Anguish reminded him of the boon he should ask and of his own willingness to grant it. "Sir King," replied Sir Tristram, "now will I ask it. Grant me your daughter, the Fair Isolt, that I may take her to Cornwall, there to become the wife of my uncle, King Mark." Then King Anguish grieved when he heard Sir Tristram's request, and said: "Far more gladly would I give her to you to wife." "That may not be," replied Sir Tristram; "my honour forbids." "Take her then," said King Anguish, "she is yours to wed or to give to your uncle, King Mark, as seems good to you." So a ship was made ready and there entered it the Fair Isolt and Sir Tristram, and Gouvernail, his squire, and Dame Bragwaine, who was maid to the princess. But before they sailed, the Queen gave in charge to Gouvernail and Dame Bragwaine a phial of wine which King Mark and Isolt should drink together on their wedding-day; "For," said the Queen, "such is the magic virtue of this wine, that, having drunk of it, they may never cease from loving one another." Now it chanced, one day, that Sir Tristram sat and harped to the Fair Isolt; and the weather being hot, he became thirsty. Then looking round the cabin he beheld a golden flask, curiously shaped and wrought; and laughing, he said to the Fair Isolt: "See, madam, how my man and your maid care for themselves; for here is the best wine that ever I tasted. I pray you, now, drink to me." So with mirth and laughter, they pledged each other, and thought that never before had they tasted aught so good. But when they had made an end of drinking, there came upon them the might of the magic charm; and never from that day, for good or for ill, might they cease from their love. And so much woe was wrought; for, mindful of his pledge to his uncle, Sir Tristram brought Isolt in all honour into the land of Cornwall where she was wedded with pomp and ceremony to King Mark, the craven King, who hated his nephew even more than before, because he had returned in safety and made good his promise as became an honourable knight. And from that day he never ceased seeking the death of Sir Tristram. CHAPTER XVI OF THE END OF SIR TRISTRAM Then again Sir Tristram abode at King Mark's court, ever rendering the Fair Isolt loyal and knightly service; for King Mark would imperil his life for none, no matter what the need. Now among the Cornish knights, there was much jealousy of Sir Tristram de Liones, and chief of his enemies was his own cousin, Sir Andred. With lying words, Sir Andred sought to stir up King Mark against his nephew, speaking evil of the Queen and of Sir Tristram. Now Mark was afraid openly to accuse Sir Tristram, so he set Sir Andred to spy upon him. At last, it befell one day that Sir Andred saw Sir Tristram coming, alone and unarmed, from the Queen's presence, and with twelve other knights, he fell upon him and bound him. Then these felon knights bore Sir Tristram to a little chapel standing upon a great rock which jutted out into the sea. There they would have slain him, unarmed and bound. But Sir Tristram, perceiving their intent, put forth suddenly all his strength, burst his bonds, and wresting a sword from Sir Andred, cut him down; and so he did with six other knights. Then while the rest, being but cowards, gave back a little, he shut to and bolted the doors against them, and sprang from the window on to the sea-washed rocks below. There he lay as one dead, until his squire, Gouvernail, coming in a little boat, took up his master, dressed his wounds, and carried him to the coast of England. So Sir Tristram was minded to remain in that country for a time. Then, one day, as he rode through the forest near Camelot, there came running to him a fair lady who cried: "Sir Tristram, I claim your aid for the truest knight in all the world, and that is none other than King Arthur." "With a good heart," said Sir Tristram; "but where may I find him?" "Follow me," said the lady, who was none other than the Lady of the Lake herself, and ever mindful of the welfare of King Arthur. So he rode after her till he came to a castle, and in front of it he saw two knights who beset at once another knight, and when Sir Tristram came to the spot, the two had borne King Arthur to the ground and were about to cut off his head. Then Sir Tristram called to them to leave their traitor's work and look to themselves; with the word, one he pierced through with his spear and the other he cut down, and setting King Arthur again upon his horse, he rode with him until they met with certain of Arthur's knights. But when King Arthur would know his name, Tristram would give none, but said only that he was a poor errant knight; and so they parted. But Arthur, when he was come back to Camelot, sent for Sir Launcelot and other of his knights, bidding them seek for such an one as was Sir Tristram and bring him to the court. So they departed, each his own way, and searched for many days, but in vain. Then it chanced, at last, as Sir Launcelot rode on his way, he espied Sir Tristram resting beside a tomb; and, as was the custom of knights errant, he called upon him to joust. So the two ran together and each broke his spear. Then they sprang to the ground and fought with their swords, and each thought that never had he encountered so stout or so skilled a knight. So fiercely they fought that, perforce, at last they must rest. Then said Sir Launcelot: "Fair Knight, I pray you tell me your name, for never have I met so good a knight." "In truth," said Sir Tristram, "I am loth to tell my name." "I marvel at that," said Sir Launcelot; "for mine I will tell you freely. I am Launcelot du Lac." Then was Sir Tristram filled at once with joy and with sorrow; with joy that at last he had encountered the noblest knight of the Round Table, with sorrow that he had done him such hurt, and without more ado he revealed his name. Now Sir Launcelot, who ever delighted in the fame of another, had long desired to meet Sir Tristram de Liones, and rejoicing to have found him, he knelt right courteously and proffered him his sword, as if he would yield to him. But Tristram would not have it so, declaring that, rather, he should yield to Sir Launcelot. So they embraced right heartily, and when Sir Launcelot questioned him, Sir Tristram acknowledged that it was he who had come to King Arthur's aid. Together, then, they rode to Camelot, and there Sir Tristram was received with great honour by King Arthur, who made him Knight of the Round Table. Presently, to Tristram at Camelot, there came word that King Mark had driven the Fair Isolt from court, and compelled her to have her dwelling in a hut set apart for lepers. Then Sir Tristram was wroth indeed, and mounting his horse, rode forth that same hour, and rested not till he had found the lepers' hut, whence he bore the Queen to the castle known as the Joyous Garde; and there he held her, in safety and honour, in spite of all that King Mark could do. And all men honoured Sir Tristram, and felt sorrow for the Fair Isolt; while as for King Mark, they scorned him even more than before. But to Sir Tristram, it was grief to be at enmity with his uncle who had made him knight, and at last he craved King Arthur's aid to reconcile him to Mark. So then the King, who loved Sir Tristram, sent messengers to Cornwall to Mark, bidding him come forthwith to Camelot; and when the Cornish King was arrived, Arthur required him to set aside his enmity to Tristram, who had in all things been his loyal nephew and knight. And King Mark, his head full of hate, but fearful of offending his lord, King Arthur, made fair proffers of friendship, begging Sir Tristram to return to Cornwall with him, and promising to hold him in love and honour. So they were reconciled, and when King Mark returned to Cornwall, thither Sir Tristram escorted the Fair Isolt, and himself abode there, believing his uncle to mean truly and honourably by him. But under a seeming fair exterior, King Mark hated Sir Tristram more than ever, and waited only to have him at an advantage. At length he contrived the opportunity he sought. For he hid him in the Queen's chamber at a time when he knew Sir Tristram would come there unarmed, to harp to the Fair Isolt the music that she loved. So as Sir Tristram, all unsuspecting, bent over his harp, Mark leaped from his lurking place and dealt him such a blow from behind that, on the instant, he fell dead at the feet of the Fair Isolt. So perished the good knight, Sir Tristram de Liones Nor did the Fair Isolt long survive him, for refusing all comfort, she pined away, and died within a few days, and was laid in a tomb beside that of her true knight. But the felon King paid the price of his treachery with his life; for Sir Launcelot himself avenged the death of his friend and the wrongs of the Fair Isolt. BOOK IV KING ARTHUR'S NEPHEWS CHAPTER XVII SIR GAWAIN AND THE LADY Among the knights at King Arthur's court were his nephews, the sons of his sister, Queen Bellicent, and of that King Lot of Orkney, who had joined the league against Arthur in the first years of his reign. Of each, many tales are told; of Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth to their great renown, but of Sir Mordred to his shame. For Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth were knights of great prowess; but Sir Mordred was a coward and a traitor, envious of other men's fame, and a tale-bearer. Now Sir Gawain was known as the Ladies' Knight, and this is how he came by the name. It was at Arthur's marriage-feast, when Gawain had just been made knight, that a strange thing befell. There entered the hall a white hart, chased by a hound, and when it had run round the hall, it fled through the doorway again, still followed by the hound. Then, by Merlin's advice, the quest of the hart was given to Gawain as a new-made knight, to follow it and see what adventures it would bring him. So Sir Gawain rode away, taking with him three couples of greyhounds for the pursuit. At the last, the hounds caught the hart, and killed it just as it reached the court-yard of a castle. Then there came forth from the castle a knight, and he was grieved and wroth to see the hart slain, for it was given him by his lady; so, in his anger, he killed two of the hounds. At that moment Sir Gawain entered the court-yard, and an angry man was he when he saw his greyhounds slain. "Sir Knight," said he, "ye would have done better to have taken your vengeance on me rather than on dumb animals which but acted after their kind." "I will be avenged on you also," cried the knight; and the two rushed together, cutting and thrusting that it was wonderful they might so long endure. But at the last the knight grew faint, and crying for mercy, offered to yield to Sir Gawain. "Ye had no mercy on my hounds," said Sir Gawain. "I will make you all the amends in my power," answered the knight. But Sir Gawain would not be turned from his purpose, and unlacing the vanquished knight's helmet, was about to cut off his head, when a lady rushed out from the castle and flung herself on the body of the fallen knight. So it chanced that Sir Gawain's sword descending smote off the lady's head. Then was Sir Gawain grieved and sore ashamed for what he had done, and said to the knight: "I repent for what I have done; and here I give you your life. Go only to Camelot, to King Arthur's court, and tell him ye are sent by the knight who follows the quest of the white hart." "Ye have slain my lady," said the other, "and now I care not what befalls me." So he arose and went to King Arthur's court. Then Sir Gawain prepared to rest him there for the night; but scarcely had he lain down when there fell upon him four knights, crying: "New-made knight, ye have shamed your knighthood, for a knight without mercy is without honour." Then was Sir Gawain borne to the earth, and would have been slain, but that there came forth from the castle four ladies who besought the knights to spare his life; so they consented and bound him prisoner. The next morning Sir Gawain was brought again before the knights and their dames; and because he was King Arthur's nephew, the ladies desired that he should be set free, only they required that he should ride again to Camelot, the murdered lady's head hanging from his neck, and her dead body across his saddle-bow; and that when he arrived at the court he should confess his misdeeds. So Sir Gawain rode sadly back to Camelot, and when he had told his tale, King Arthur was sore displeased. And Queen Guenevere held a court of her ladies to pass sentence on Sir Gawain for his ungentleness. These then decreed that, his life long, he must never refuse to fight for any lady who desired his services, and that ever he should be gentle and courteous and show mercy to all. From that time forth, Sir Gawain never failed in aught that dame or damsel asked of him, and so he won and kept the title of the Ladies' Knight. CHAPTER XVIII THE ADVENTURES OF SIR GARETH Gareth was the youngest of the sons of Lot and Bellicent, and had grown up long after Gawain and Mordred left their home for King Arthur's court; so that when he came before the King, all humbly attired, he was known not even by his own brothers. King Arthur was keeping Pentecost at Kink Kenadon on the Welsh border and, as his custom was, waited to begin the feast until some adventure should befall. Presently there was seen approaching a youth, who, to the wonderment of all that saw, leaned upon the shoulders of two men, his companions; and yet as he passed up the hall, he seemed a goodly youth, tall and broad-shouldered. When he stood before the King, suddenly he drew himself up, and after due greeting, said: "Sir King, I would ask of you three boons; one to be granted now and two hereafter when I shall require them." And Arthur, looking upon him, was pleased, for his countenance was open and honest. So he made answer; "Fair son, ask of me aught that is honourable and I will grant it." Then the youth said: "For this present, I ask only that ye will give me meat and drink for a year and a day." "Ye might have asked and had a better gift," replied the King; "tell me now your name." "At this time, I may not tell it," said the youth. Now King Arthur trusted every man until he proved himself unworthy, and in this youth he thought he saw one who should do nobly and win renown; so laughing, he bade him keep his own counsel since so he would, and gave him in charge to Sir Kay, the Seneschal. Now Sir Kay was but harsh to those whom he liked not, and from the first he scorned the young man; "For none," said he, "but a low-born lout would crave meat and drink when he might have asked for a horse and arms." But Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawain took the youth's part. Neither knew him for Gareth of the Orkneys, but both believed him to be a youth of good promise who, for his own reasons, would pass in disguise for a season. So Gareth lived the year among the kitchen-boys, all the time mocked and scorned by Sir Kay, who called him Fairhands because his hands were white and shapely. But Launcelot and Gawain showed him all courtesy, and failed not to observe how, in all trials of strength, he excelled his comrades, and that he was ever present to witness the feats of the knights in the tournaments. So the year passed, and again King Arthur was keeping the feast of Pentecost with his knights, when a damsel entered the hall and asked his aid: "For," said she, "my sister is closely besieged in her castle by a strong knight who lays waste all her lands. And since I know that the knights of your court be the most renowned in the world, I have come to crave help of your mightiest." "What is your sister's name, and who is he that oppresses her?" asked the King. "The Red Knight, he is called," replied the damsel. "As for my sister I will not say her name, only that she is a high-born lady and owns broad lands." Then the King frowned and said: "Ye would have aid but will say no name. I may not ask knight of mine to go on such an errand." Then forth stepped Gareth from among the serving men at the hall end and said: "Sir King, I have eaten of your meat in your kitchen this twelvemonth since, and now I crave my other two boons." "Ask and have," replied the King. "Grant me then the adventure of this damsel, and bid Sir Launcelot ride after me to knight me at my desire, for of him alone would I be made knight." "It shall be so," answered the King. "What!" cried the damsel, "I ask for a knight and ye give me a kitchen-boy. Shame on you, Sir King." And in great wrath she fled from the hall, mounted her palfrey and rode away. Gareth but waited to array himself in the armour which he had kept ever in readiness for the time when he should need it, and mounting his horse, rode after the damsel. But when Sir Kay knew what had happened, he was wroth, and got to horse to ride after Gareth and bring him back. Even as Gareth overtook the damsel, so did Kay come up with him and cried: "Turn back, Fairhands! What, sir, do ye not know me?" "Yes," answered Gareth, "I know you for the most discourteous knight in Arthur's court." Then Sir Kay rode upon him with his lance, but Gareth turned it aside with his sword and pierced Sir Kay through the side so that he fell to the ground and lay there without motion. So Gareth took Sir Kay's shield and spear and was about to ride away, when seeing Sir Launcelot draw near, he called upon him to joust. At the first encounter, Sir Launcelot unhorsed Gareth, but quickly helped him to his feet. Then, at Gareth's desire, they fought together with swords, and Gareth did knightly till, at length, Sir Launcelot said, laughing: "Why should we fight any longer? Of a truth ye are a stout knight." "If that is indeed your thought, I pray you make me knight," cried Gareth. So Sir Launcelot knighted Gareth, who, bidding him farewell, hastened after the damsel, for she had ridden on again while the two knights talked. When she saw him coming, she cried: "Keep off! ye smell of the kitchen!" "Damsel," said Sir Gareth, "I must follow until I have fulfilled the adventure." "Till ye accomplish the adventure, Turn-spit? Your part in it shall soon be ended." "I can only do my best," answered Sir Gareth. Now as they rode through the forest, they met with a knight sore beset by six thieves, and him Sir Gareth rescued. The knight then bade Gareth and the damsel rest at his castle, and entertained them right gladly until the morn, when the two rode forth again. Presently, they drew near to a deep river where two knights kept the ford. "How now, kitchen-knave? Will ye fight or escape while ye may?" cried the damsel. "I would fight though there were six instead of two," replied Sir Gareth. Therewith he encountered the one knight in mid-stream and struck him such a blow on the head that he fell, stunned, into the water and was drowned. Then, gaining the land, Gareth cleft in two both helmet and head of the other knight, and turned to the damsel, saying: "Lead on; I follow." But the damsel mocked him, saying: "What a mischance is this that a kitchen-boy should slay two noble knights! Be not over-proud, Turn-spit. It was but luck, if indeed ye did not attack one knight from behind." "Say what you will, I follow," said Sir Gareth. So they rode on again, the damsel in front and Sir Gareth behind, till they reached a wide meadow where stood many fair pavilions; and one, the largest, was all of blue, and the men who stood about it were clothed in blue, and bore shields and spears of that colour; and of blue, too, were the trappings of the horses. Then said the damsel: "Yonder is the Blue Knight, the goodliest that ever ye have looked upon, and five hundred knights own him lord." "I will encounter him," said Sir Gareth; "for if he be good knight and true as ye say, he will scarce set on me with all his following; and man to man, I fear him not." "Fie!" said the damsel, "for a dirty knave, ye brag loud. And even if ye overcome him, his might is as nothing to that of the Red Knight who besieges my lady sister. So get ye gone while ye may." "Damsel," said Sir Gareth, "ye are but ungentle so to rebuke me; for, knight or knave, I have done you good service, nor will I leave this quest while life is mine." Then the damsel was ashamed, and, looking curiously at Gareth, she said: "I would gladly know what manner of man ye are. For I heard you call yourself kitchen-knave before Arthur's self, but ye have ever answered patiently though I have chidden you shamefully; and courtesy comes only of gentle blood." Thereat Sir Gareth but laughed, and said: "He is no knight whom a maiden can anger by harsh words." So talking, they entered the field, and there came to Sir Gareth a messenger from the Blue Knight to ask him if he came in peace or in war. "As your lord pleases," said Sir Gareth. So when the messenger had brought back this word, the Blue Knight mounted his horse, took his spear in his hand, and rode upon Sir Gareth. At their first encounter their lances shivered to pieces, and such was the shock that their horses fell dead. So they rushed on each other with sword and shield, cutting and slashing till the armour was hacked from their bodies; but at last, Sir Gareth smote the Blue Knight to the earth. Then the Blue Knight yielded, and at the damsel's entreaty, Sir Gareth spared his life. So they were reconciled, and at the request of the Blue Knight, Sir Gareth and the damsel abode that night in his tents. As they sat at table, the Blue Knight said: "Fair damsel, are ye not called Linet?" "Yes," answered she, "and I am taking this noble knight to the relief of my sister, the Lady Liones." "God speed you, Sir," said the Blue Knight, "for he is a stout knight whom ye must meet. Long ago might he have taken the lady, but that he hoped that Sir Launcelot or some other of Arthur's most famous knights, coming to her rescue, might fall beneath his lance. If ye overthrow him, then are ye the peer of Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram." "Sir Knight," answered Gareth, "I can but strive to bear me worthily as one whom the great Sir Launcelot made knight." So in the morning they bade farewell to the Blue Knight, who vowed to carry to King Arthur word of all that Gareth had achieved; and they rode on, till, in the evening, they came to a little ruined hermitage where there awaited them a dwarf, sent by the Lady Liones, with all manner of meats and other store. In the morning, the dwarf set out again to bear word to his lady that her rescuer was come. As he drew near the castle, the Red Knight stopped him, demanding whence he came. "Sir," said the dwarf, "I have been with my lady's sister, who brings with her a knight to the rescue of my lady." "It is lost labour," said the Red Knight; "even though she brought Launcelot or Tristram, I hold myself a match for them." "He is none of these," said the dwarf, "but he has overthrown the knights who kept the ford, and the Blue Knight yielded to him." "Let him come," said the Red Knight; "I shall soon make an end of him, and a shameful death shall he have at my hands, as many a better knight has had." So saying, he let the dwarf go. Presently, there came riding towards the castle Sir Gareth and the damsel Linet, and Gareth marvelled to see hang from the trees some forty knights in goodly armour, their shields reversed beside them. And when he inquired of the damsel, she told him how these were the bodies of brave knights who, coming to the rescue of the Lady Liones, had been overthrown and shamefully done to death by the Red Knight. Then was Gareth shamed and angry, and he vowed to make an end of these evil practices. So at last they drew near to the castle walls, and saw how the plain around was covered with the Red Knight's tents, and the noise was that of a great army. Hard by was a tall sycamore tree, and from it hung a mighty horn, made of an elephant's tusk. Spurring his horse, Gareth rode to it, and blew such a blast that those on the castle walls heard it; the knights came forth from their tents to see who blew so bold a blast, and from a window of the castle the Lady Liones looked forth and waved her hand to her champion. Then, as Sir Gareth made his reverence to the lady, the Red Knight called roughly to him to leave his courtesy and look to himself; "For," said he, "she is mine, and to have her, I have fought many a battle." "It is but vain labour," said Sir Gareth, "since she loves you not. Know, too, Sir Knight, that I have vowed to rescue her from you." "So did many another who now hangs on a tree," replied the Red Knight, "and soon ye shall hang beside them." Then both laid their spears in rest, and spurred their horses. At the first encounter, each smote the other full in the shield, and the girths of the saddles bursting, they were borne to the earth, where they lay for awhile as if dead. But presently they rose, and setting their shields before them, rushed upon each other with their swords, cutting and hacking till the armour lay on the ground in fragments. So they fought till noon and then rested; but soon they renewed the battle, and so furiously they fought, that often they fell to the ground together. Then, when the bells sounded for evensong, the knights rested again a while, unlacing their helms to breathe the evening air. But looking up to the castle windows, Gareth saw the Lady Liones gazing earnestly upon him; then he caught up his helmet, and calling to the Red Knight, bade him make ready for the battle; "And this time," said he, "we will make an end of it." "So be it," said the Red Knight. Then the Red Knight smote Gareth on the hand that his sword flew from his grasp, and with another blow he brought him grovelling to the earth. At the sight of this, Linet cried aloud, and hearing her, Gareth, with a mighty effort, threw off the Red Knight, leaped to his sword and got it again within his hand. Then he pressed the Red Knight harder than ever, and at the last bore him to the earth, and unlacing his helm, made ready to slay him; but the Red Knight cried aloud: "Mercy; I yield." At first, remembering the evil deaths of the forty good knights, Gareth was unwilling to spare him; but the Red Knight besought him to have mercy, telling him how, against his will, he had been bound by a vow to make war on Arthur's knights. So Sir Gareth relented, and bade him set forth at once for Kink Kenadon and entreat the King's pardon for his evil past. And this the Red Knight promised to do. Then amidst much rejoicing, Sir Gareth was borne into the castle. There his wounds were dressed by the Lady Liones, and there he rested until he recovered his strength. And having won her love, when Gareth returned to Arthur's court, the Lady Liones rode with him, and they two were wed with great pomp in the presence of the whole Fellowship of the Round Table; the King rejoicing much that his nephew had done so valiantly. So Sir Gareth lived happily with Dame Liones, winning fame and the love of all true knights. As for Linet, she came again to Arthur's court and wedded Sir Gareth's younger brother, Sir Gaheris. BOOK V SIR GERAINT CHAPTER XIX THE ADVENTURES OF GERAINT It befell, one Whitsunday, that Arthur was holding his court at Caerleon, when word was brought to him of a splendid white stag that ranged the Forest of Dean, and forthwith the King proclaimed a hunt for the morrow. So, with the dawn, there was much trampling of hoofs and baying of hounds as all the knights got to horse; but Queen Guenevere herself, though she had said she would ride with the hunt, slept late, and when she called her maidens to her, it was broad day. Then, with much haste, she arrayed herself, and taking one of her ladies with her, rode to a little rising ground in the forest, near which, as she well knew, the hunt must pass. Presently, as she waited, there came riding by the gallant knight, Geraint of Devon. He was arrayed neither for the chase nor for the fight, but wore a surcoat of white satin and about him a loose scarf of purple, with a golden apple at each corner. And when the Queen had answered his salutation, she said: "How is it, Prince, that ye be not ridden with the hunters?" "Madam," answered he, "with shame I say it; I slept too late." Smiling, the Queen said: "Then are we both in the same case, for I also arose too late. But tarry with me, and soon ye will hear the baying of the hounds; for often I have known them break covert here." Then as they waited on the little woodland knoll, there came riding past a knight full armed, a lady with him, and behind them a dwarf, misshapen and evil-looking, and they passed without word or salutation to the Queen. Then said Guenevere to Geraint: "Prince, know ye yonder knight?" "Nay, madam," said he; "his arms I know not, and his face I might not see." Thereupon the Queen turned to her attendant and said: "Ride after them quickly and ask the dwarf his master's name." So the maiden did as she was bidden; but when she inquired of the dwarf, he answered her roughly: "I will not tell thee my master's name." "Since thou art so churlish," said she, "I will even ask him himself." "That thou shalt not," he cried, and struck her across the face with his whip. So the maiden, alarmed and angered, rode back to the Queen and told her all that had happened. "Madam," cried Geraint, "the churl has wronged your maiden and insulted your person. I pray you, suffer me to do your errand myself." With the word, he put spurs to his horse and rode after the three. And when he had come up with the dwarf, he asked the knight's name as the maiden had done, and the dwarf answered him as he had answered the Queen's lady. "I will speak with thy master himself," said Geraint. "Thou shalt not, by my faith!" said the dwarf. "Thou art not honourable enough to speak with my lord." "I have spoken with men of as good rank as he," answered Geraint, and would have turned his horse's head that he might ride after the knight; but the dwarf struck him across the face such a blow that the blood spurted forth over his purple scarf. Then, in his wrath, Geraint clapped hand to sword, and would have slain the churl, but that he bethought him how powerless was such a misshapen thing. So refraining himself, he rode back to the Queen and said: "Madam, for the time the knight has escaped me. But, with your leave, I will ride after him, and require of him satisfaction for the wrong done to yourself and to your maiden. It must be that I shall come presently to a town where I may obtain armour. Farewell; if I live, ye shall have tidings of me by next even." "Farewell," said the Queen; "I shall ever hold your good service in remembrance." So Geraint rode forth on his quest, and followed the road to the ford of the Usk, where he crossed, and then went on his way until he came to a town, at the further end of which rose a mighty castle. And as he entered the town, he saw the knight and the lady, and how, as they rode through the streets, from every window the folk craned their necks to see them pass, until they entered the castle and the gate fell behind them. Then was Geraint satisfied that they would not pass thence that night, and turned him about to see where he could obtain the use of arms that, the next day, he might call the knight to account. Now it seemed that the whole town was in a ferment. In every house, men were busy polishing shields, sharpening swords, and washing armour, and scarce could they find time to answer questions put to them; so at the last, finding nowhere in the town to rest, Geraint rode in the direction of a ruined palace, which stood a little apart from the town, and was reached by a marble bridge spanning a deep ravine. Seated on the bridge was an old man, hoary-headed, and clothed in the tattered remains of what had once been splendid attire, who gave Geraint courteous greeting. "Sir," said Geraint, "I pray you, know ye where I may find shelter for this night?" "Come with me," said the old man, "and ye shall have the best my old halls afford." So saying, he led Geraint into a great stone-paved court-yard, surrounded by buildings, once strong fortifications, but then half burned and ruinous. There he bade Geraint dismount, and led the way into an upper chamber, where sat an aged dame, and with her a maiden the fairest that ever Geraint had looked upon, for all that her attire was but a faded robe and veil. Then the old man spoke to the maiden, saying: "Enid, take the good knight's charger to a stall and give him corn. Then go to the town and buy us provision for a feast to-night." Now it pleased not Geraint that the maiden should thus do him service; but when he made to accompany her, the old man, her father, stayed him and kept him in converse until presently she was returned from the town and had made all ready for the evening meal. Then they sat them down to supper, the old man and his wife with Geraint between them; and the fair maid, Enid, waited upon them, though it irked the Prince to see her do such menial service. So as they ate, they talked, and presently Geraint asked of the cause why the palace was all in ruins. "Sir knight," said the old man, "I am Yniol, and once I was lord of a broad earldom. But my nephew, whose guardian I had been, made war upon me, affirming that I had withheld from him his dues; and being the stronger, he prevailed, and seized my lands and burnt my halls, even as ye see. For the townsfolk hold with him, because that, with his tournaments and feastings, he brings many strangers their way." "What then is all the stir in the town even now?" asked Geraint. "To-morrow," said the Earl, "they hold the tournament of the Sparrow-Hawk. In the midst of the meadow are set up two forks, and on the forks a silver rod, and on the rod the form of a Sparrow-Hawk. Two years has it been won by the stout knight Edeyrn, and if he win it the morrow, it shall be his for aye, and he himself known as the Sparrow-Hawk." "Tell me," cried Geraint, "is that the knight that rode this day with a lady and a dwarf to the castle hard by?" "The same," said Yniol; "and a bold knight he is." Then Geraint told them of the insult offered that morning to Queen Guenevere and her maiden, and how he had ridden forth to obtain satisfaction. "And now, I pray you," said Geraint, "help me to come by some arms, and in to-morrow's lists will I call this Sparrow-Hawk to account." "Arms have I," answered the Earl, "old and rusty indeed, yet at your service. But, Sir Knight, ye may not appear in to-morrow's tournament, for none may contend unless he bring with him a lady in whose honour he jousts." Then cried Geraint: "Lord Earl, suffer me to lay lance in rest in honour of the fair maiden, your daughter. And if I fall to-morrow, no harm shall have been done her, and if I win, I will love her my life long, and make her my true wife." Now Enid, her service ended, had left them to their talk; but the Earl, rejoicing that so noble a knight should seek his daughter's love, promised that, with the maiden's consent, all should be as the Prince desired. So they retired to rest that night, and the next day at dawn, Geraint arose, and, donning the rusty old armour lent him by Earl Yniol, rode to the lists; and there amongst the humbler sort of onlookers, he found the old Earl and his wife and with them their fair daughter. Then the heralds blew their trumpets, and Edeyrn bade his lady-love take the Sparrow-Hawk, her due as fairest of the fair. "Forbear," cried Geraint; "here is one fairer and nobler for whom I claim the prize of the tournament." "Do battle for it, then!" cried Edeyrn. So the two took their lances and rushed upon one another with a crash like thunder, and each broke his spear. Thus they encountered once and again; but at the last Geraint bore down upon Edeyrn with such force that he carried him from his horse, saddle and all. Then he dismounted, and the two rushed upon each other with their swords. Long they fought, the sparks flying and their breath coming hard, till, exerting all his strength, Geraint dealt the other such a blow as cleft his helmet and bit to the bone. Then Edeyrn flung away his sword and yielded him. "Thou shalt have thy life," said Geraint, "upon condition that, forthwith, thou goest to Arthur's court, there to deliver thyself to our Queen, and make such atonement as shall be adjudged thee, for the insult offered her yester morn." "I will do so," answered Edeyrn; and when his wounds had been dressed he got heavily to horse and rode forth to Caerleon. Then the young Earl, Yniol's nephew, adjudged the Sparrow-Hawk to Geraint, as victor in the tourney, and prayed him to come to his castle to rest and feast. But Geraint, declining courteously, said that it behoved him to go there where he had rested the night before. "Where may that have been?" asked the Earl; "for though ye come not to my castle, yet would I see that ye fare as befits your valour." "I rested even with Yniol, your uncle," answered Geraint. The young Earl mused awhile, and then he said: "I will seek you, then, in my uncle's halls, and bring with me the means to furnish forth a feast." And so it was. Scarcely had Prince Geraint returned to the ruined hall and bathed and rested him after his labours, when the young Earl arrived, and with him forty of his followers bearing all manner of stores and plenishings. And that same hour, the young Earl was accorded with Yniol, his uncle, restoring to him the lands of which he had deprived him, and pledging his word to build up again the ruined palace. When they had gone to the banquet, then came to them Enid, attired in beautiful raiment befitting her rank; and the old Earl led her to Geraint, saying: "Prince, here is the maiden for whom ye fought, and freely I bestow her upon you." So Geraint took her hand before them all and said: "She shall ride with me to Caerleon, and there will I wed her before Arthur's court." Then to Enid he said: "Gentle maiden, bear with me when I pray you to don the faded robe and veil in which first I saw you." And Enid, who was ever gentle and meek, did as he desired, and that evening they rode to Caerleon. So when they drew near the King's palace, word was brought to Guenevere of their approach. Then the Queen went forth to greet the good knight, and when she had heard all his story, she kissed the maiden, and leading her into her own chamber, arrayed her right royally for her marriage with the Prince. And that evening they were wed amidst great rejoicing, in the presence of all the knights and ladies of the court, the King himself giving Enid to her husband. Many happy days they spent at Caerleon, rejoicing in the love and good-will of Arthur and his Queen. CHAPTER XX GERAINT AND ENID Geraint and the fair Enid abode more than a year at Arthur's court; Enid winning daily more and more the love of all by her gentleness and goodness, and Geraint being ever amongst the foremost in the tournament. But presently there came word of robber raids upon the borders of Devon; wherefore the Prince craved leave of Arthur to return to his own land, there to put down wrong and oppression, and maintain order and justice. And the King bade him go and secure to every man his due. So Geraint passed to his own land, Enid going with him; and soon he had driven the oppressors from their strongholds and established peace and order, so that the poor man dwelt in his little cot secure in his possessions. But when all was done, and there was none dared defy him, Geraint abode at home, neglectful of the tournament and the chase, and all those manly exercises in which he had once excelled, content if he had but the companionship of his wife; so that his nobles murmured because he withdrew himself from their society, and the common people jeered at him for a laggard. Now these evil rumours came to Enid's ears, and it grieved her that she should be the cause, however unwillingly, of her husband's dishonour; and since she could not bring herself to speak to her lord of what was in her heart, daily she grew more sorrowful, till the Prince, aware of her altered demeanour, became uneasy, not knowing its source. So time went by till it chanced, one summer morning, that with the first rays of the sun, Enid awoke from her slumbers, and, rising, gazed upon her husband as he lay, and marvelled at his strength. "Alas!" said she, "to be the cause that my lord suffers shame! Surely I should find courage to tell him all, were I indeed true wife to him!" Then, by ill chance, her tears falling upon him awoke him, so that he heard her words, but brokenly, and seeing her weep and hearing her accuse herself, it came into his thought that, for all his love and care for her, she was weary of him, nay, even that perhaps she loved him not at all. In anger and grief he called to his squire and bade him saddle his charger and a palfrey for Enid; and to her he said: "Put on thy meanest attire, and thou shalt ride with me into the wilderness. It seems that I have yet to win me fame; but before thou seest home again, thou shalt learn if indeed I am fallen so low as thou deemest." And Enid, wondering and troubled, answered, "I know naught of thy meaning, my lord." "Ask me nothing," said Geraint. So sorrowfully and in silence Enid arrayed herself, choosing for her apparel the faded robe and veil in which first her lord had seen her. Then the squire brought them their horses; but when he would have mounted and ridden after, Geraint forbade him. And to Enid the Prince said: "Ride before me and turn not back, no matter what thou seest or hearest. And unless I speak to thee, say not a word to me." So they rode forward along the least frequented road till they came to a vast forest, which they entered. There Enid, as she rode in front, saw four armed men lurking by the road, and one said to the other: "See, now is our opportunity to win much spoil at little cost; for we may easily overcome this doleful knight, and take from him his arms and lady." And Enid hearing them, was filled with fear and doubt; for she longed to warn her lord of his danger, yet feared to arouse his wrath, seeing he had bidden her keep silence. Then said she to herself: "Better to anger him, even to the slaying of me, than have the misery of seeing him perish." So she waited till Geraint drew near, and said: "Lord, there lie in wait for thee four men fully armed, to slay and rob thee." Then he answered her in anger: "Did I desire thy silence or thy warning? Look, then, and whether thou desirest my life or my death, thou shalt see that I dread not these robbers." Then, as the foremost of the four rode upon him, Geraint drove upon him with his spear with such force that the weapon stood out a cubit behind him; and so he did with the second, and the third, and the fourth. Then, dismounting from his horse, he stripped the dead felons of their armour, bound it upon their horses, and tying the bridle reins together, bade Enid drive the beasts before her. "And," said he, "I charge thee, at thy peril, speak no word to me." So they went forward; and presently Enid saw how three horsemen, well armed and well mounted, rode towards them. And one said to the other: "Good fortune, indeed! Here are four horses and four suits of armour for us, and but one knight to deal with; a craven too, by the way he hangs his head." Then Enid thought within herself how her lord was wearied with his former combat, and resolved to warn him even at her own peril. So she waited till he was come up with her, and said: "Lord, there be three men riding towards us, and they promise themselves rich booty at small cost." Wrathfully spoke Geraint: "Their words anger me less than thy disobedience"; and immediately rushing upon the mid-most of the three knights, he bore him from his horse; then he turned upon the other two who rode against him at the same moment, and slew them both. As with the former caitiffs, so now Geraint stripped the three of their armour, bound it upon the horses, and bade Enid drive these forward with the other four. Again they rode on their way, and, for all his anger, it smote Geraint to the heart to see the gentle lady labouring to drive forward the seven horses. So he bade her stay, for they would go no farther then, but rest that night as best they might in the forest; and scarcely had they dismounted and tethered the horses before Geraint, wearied with his encounters, fell asleep; but Enid remained watching, lest harm should come to her lord while he slept. With the first ray of light, Geraint awoke, and his anger against Enid was not passed; so, without more ado, he set her on her palfrey and bade her drive the horses on in front as before, charging her that, whatever befell, that day at least, she should keep silence. Soon they passed from the forest into open land, and came upon a river flowing through broad meadows where the mowers toiled. Then, as they waited to let the horses drink their fill, there drew near a youth, bearing a basket of bread and meat and a blue pitcher covered over with a bowl. So when the youth saluted them, Geraint stayed him, asking whence he came. "My lord," said the lad, "I am come from the town hard by, to bring the mowers their breakfast." "I pray thee, then," said the Prince, "give of the food to this lady, for she is faint." "That will I gladly," answered the youth, "and do ye also partake, noble sir"; and he spread the meal for them on the grass while they dismounted. So when they had eaten and were refreshed, the youth gathered up the basket and pitcher, saying he would return to the town for food for the mowers. "Do so," said the Prince, "and when thou art come there, take for me the best lodging that thou mayst. And for thy fair service, take a horse and armour, whichsoever thou wilt." "My lord, ye reward me far beyond my deserts," cried the youth. "Right gladly will I make all ready against your arrival, and acquaint my master, the Earl, of your coming." So Geraint and Enid followed after the youth to the town, and there they found everything prepared for their comfort, even as he had promised; for they were lodged in a goodly chamber well furnished with all that they might require. Then said Geraint to Enid: "Abide at one end of the room and I will remain at the other. And call the woman of the house if thou desirest her aid and comfort in aught." "I thank thee, lord," answered Enid patiently; but she called for no service, remaining silent and forlorn in the farthest corner of the great chamber. Presently there came to the house the Earl, the youth's master, and with him twelve goodly knights to wait upon him. And Geraint welcomed them right heartily, bidding the host bring forth his best to furnish a feast. So they sat them down at the table, each in his degree according to his rank, and feasted long and merrily; but Enid remained the while shrinking into her corner if perchance she might escape all notice. As they sat at the banquet, the Earl asked Prince Geraint what quest he followed. "None but mine own inclination and the adventure it may please heaven to send," said Geraint. Then the Earl, whose eye had oft sought Enid as she sat apart, said: "Have I your good leave to cross the room and speak to your fair damsel? For she joins us not in the feast." "Ye have it freely," answered the Prince. So the Earl arose, and approaching Enid, bowed before her, and spoke to her in low tones, saying: "Damsel, sad life is yours, I fear, to journey with yonder man." "To travel the road he takes is pleasant enough to me," answered Enid. "But see what slights he puts upon you! To suffer you to journey thus, unattended by page or maiden, argues but little love or reverence for you." "It is as nothing, so that I am with him," said Enid. "Nay, but," said the Earl, "see how much happier a life might be yours. Leave this churl, who values you not, and all that I have, land and riches, and my love and service for ever shall be yours." "Ye cannot tempt me, with aught that ye can offer, to be false to him to whom I vowed my faith," said she. "Ye are a fool!" said the Earl in a fierce whisper. "One word to these my knights, and yonder is a dead man. Then who shall hinder me that I take you by force? Nay, now, be better advised, and I vow you my whole devotion for all time." Then was Enid filled with dread of the man and his might, and seeking but to gain time, she said: "Suffer me to be for this present, my lord, and to-morrow ye shall come and take me as by force. Then shall my name not suffer loss." "So be it," said he; "I will not fail you." With that he left her, and taking his leave of Geraint, departed with his followers. Never a word of what the Earl had said did Enid tell her husband that night; and on the departure of his guests, the Prince, unheedful of her, flung him on the couch, and soon slept, despite his grief and wrath. But Enid watched again that night, and, before cock-crow, arose, set all his armour ready in one place, and then, though fearful of his wrath, stepped to his side and touching him gently, said: "Awake, my lord, and arm you, and save me and yourself." Then she told him of all the Earl had said and of the device she had used to save them both. Then wrathfully he rose and armed himself, bidding her rouse the host to saddle and bring forth the horses. When all was ready, Prince Geraint asked the man his reckoning. "Ye owe but little," said the host. "Take then the seven horses and the suits of armour," said Geraint. "Why, noble sir," cried the host, "I scarce have spent the value of one." "The richer thou," answered Geraint. "Now show me the road from the town." So the man guided them from the town, and scarce was he returned when Earl Durm--for so was the Earl named--hammered at the door, with forty followers at his back. "Where is the knight who was here erewhile?" "He is gone hence, my lord," answered the host. "Fool and villain!" cried the Earl, "why didst thou suffer him to escape? Which way went he?" And the man, fearful and trembling, directed the Earl the road Geraint had gone. So it came to pass, as they rode on their way, Enid in front, the Prince behind, that it seemed to Enid she heard the beat of many horse-hoofs. And, as before, she broke Geraint's command, caring little for aught that might befall her in comparison of loss to him. "My lord," said she, "seest thou yonder knight pursuing thee and many another with him?" "Yea, in good truth, I see him," said Geraint, "and I see, too, that never wilt thou obey me." Then he turned him about and, laying lance in rest, bore straight down upon Earl Durm, who foremost rushed upon him; and such was the shock of their encounter, that Earl Durm was borne from his saddle and lay without motion as one dead. And Geraint charged fiercely upon the Earl's men, unhorsing some and wounding others; and the rest, having little heart for the fight after their master's overthrow, turned and fled. Then Geraint signed to Enid to ride on as before, and so they journeyed the space of another hour while the summer sun beat upon them with ever increasing force. Now the Prince had received a grievous hurt in the encounter with Earl Durm and his men; but such was his spirit that he heeded it not, though the wound bled sore under his armour. Presently, as they rode, there came to them the sound of wailing, and by the wayside they saw a lady weeping bitterly over a knight who lay dead on the ground. "Lady," said Geraint, "what has befallen you?" "Noble knight," she replied, "as we rode through the forest, my husband and I, three villains set upon him at once, and slew him." "Which way went they?" asked Geraint. "Straight on by this high-road that ye follow even now," answered she. Then Geraint bade Enid remain with the lady while he rode on to take vengeance on the miscreants. And Enid waited fearfully the long while he was gone, and her heart rejoiced when she saw him returning. But soon her joy was turned to sorrow, for his armour was all dented and covered with blood and his face ghastly; and even as he reached her side, he fell from his horse, prone on the ground. Then Enid strove to loosen his armour, and having found the wound, she staunched it as best she might and bound it with her veil. And taking his head on her lap, she chafed his hands and tried with her own body to shield him from the sun, her tears falling fast the while. So she waited till, perchance, help might come that way; and presently, indeed, she heard the tramp of horses, and a troop came riding by with the Earl Limours at their head. And when the Earl saw the two fallen knights and the weeping women beside them, he stayed his horse, and said: "Ladies, what has chanced to you?" Then she whose husband had been slain said: "Sir, three caitiffs set on my husband at once and slew him. Then came this good knight and went in pursuit of them, and as I think, slew them; but when he came back, he fell from his horse, sore wounded as ye see, and, I fear me, by now he is dead." "Nay, gentle sir," cried Enid; "it cannot be that he is dead. Only, I beseech you, suffer two of your men to carry him hence to some place of shelter where he may have help and tendance." "I misdoubt me, it is but labour wasted," said the Earl; "nevertheless, for the sake of your fair face, it shall be as ye desire." Then he ordered two of his men to carry Geraint to his halls and two more to stay behind and bury the dead knight, while he caused the two women to be placed on led horses; and so they rode to his castle. When they were arrived there, the two spearmen who had carried Geraint, placed him on a settle in the hall, and Enid crouched by his side, striving if by any means she might bring him back to life. And gradually Geraint recovered, though still he lay as in a swoon, hearing indeed what passed around him, but dimly, as from a distance. Soon there came into the hall many servitors, who brought forth the tables and set thereon all manner of meats, haunches of venison and boars' heads and great pasties, together with huge flagons of wine. Then when all was set, there came trooping to the board the whole company of Earl Limours' retainers; last of all came the Earl himself and took his place on the raised dais. Suddenly, as he feasted and made merry, he espied Enid, who, mistrusting him utterly, would fain have escaped his eye. And when he saw her, he cried: "Lady, cease wasting sorrow on a dead man and come hither. Thou shalt have a seat by my side; ay, and myself, too, and my Earldom to boot." "I thank you, lord," she answered meekly, "but, I pray you, suffer me to be as I am." "Thou art a fool," said Limours; "little enough he prized thee, I warrant, else had he not put thy beauty to such scorn, dressing it in faded rags! Nay, be wise; eat and drink, and thou wilt think the better of me and my fair proffer." "I will not," cried Enid; "I will neither eat nor drink, till my lord arise and eat with me." "Thou vowest more than thou canst perform. He is dead already. Nay, thou shalt drink." With the word, he strode to her and thrust into her hand a goblet brimming with wine, crying, "Drink." "Nay, lord," she said, "I beseech you, spare me and be pitiful." "Gentleness avails nothing with thee," cried the Earl in wrath; "thou hast scorned my fair courtesy. Thou shalt taste the contrary." So saying, he smote her across the face. Then Enid, knowing all her helplessness, uttered an exceeding bitter cry, and the sound roused Geraint. Grasping his sword, with one bound he was upon the Earl and, with one blow, shore his neck in two. Then those who sat at meat fled shrieking, for they believed that the dead had come to life. But Geraint gazed upon Enid and his heart smote him, thinking of the sorrow he had brought upon her. "Lady and sweet wife," he cried, "for the wrong I have done thee, pardon me. For, hearing thy words not three days since at morn, I doubted thy love and thy loyalty. But now I know thee and trust thee beyond the power of words to shake my faith." "Ah! my lord," cried Enid, "fly, lest they return and slay thee." "Knowest thou where is my charger?" "I will bring thee to it." So they found the war-horse and Geraint mounted it, setting Enid behind him; thus they went forth in the direction of the nearest town, that they might find rest and succour. Then, as they rode, there came forth from a glade of the forest a knight, who, seeing Geraint, at once laid lance in rest as if he would ride upon him. And Enid, fearing for her husband, shrieked aloud, crying: "Noble knight, whosoever ye be, encounter not with a man nigh wounded to the death." Immediately the knight raised his lance and looking more attentively upon, them, he exclaimed: "What! is it Prince Geraint? Pardon me, noble knight, that I knew you not at once. I am that Edeyrn whom once ye overthrew and spared. At Arthur's court, whither ye sent me, I was shown kindness and courtesy little deserved, and now am I knight of Arthur's Round Table. But how came ye in such a case?" Then Geraint told him of his encounter with the three caitiffs, and how he had afterwards been borne to the castle of Earl Limours. "To do justice on that same felon is Arthur himself here even now," cried Edeyrn. "His camp is hard by." Then Geraint told Edeyrn how Limours lay dead in his own halls, justly punished for the many wrongs he had done, and how his people were scattered. "Come then yourself to greet the King and tell him what has chanced." So he led the way to Arthur's camp, where it lay in the forest hard by. Then were they welcomed by the King himself and a tent assigned to them, where Geraint rested until his wounds were healed. Never again, from that time forth, had Geraint a doubt of the love and truth of Enid; and never from that time had she to mourn that he seemed to set small store by his knightly fame. For after he was cured, they returned to their own land, and there Geraint upheld the King's justice, righting wrong and putting down robbery and oppression, so that the people blessed him and his gentle wife. Year by year, his fame grew, till his name was known through all lands; and at last, when his time was come, he died a knightly death, as he had lived a knightly life, in the service of his lord, King Arthur. BOOK VI THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN CHAPTER XXI THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN King Arthur was holding his court at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and it was the time of the evening banquet, when there entered the hall the good knight, Sir Kynon. A brave warrior was he, and of good counsel, but he seemed in weary plight as, after due salutation to all, he took his place at the Round Table. So it was that all were eager to hear of his adventure, yet none would question him until he had eaten and drunk. But when he was refreshed, the King said to him: "Whence come ye, Sir Kynon? For it would seem that ye have met with hard adventure." "Sir King," answered Kynon, "it has been with me as never before; for I have encountered with, and been overthrown by, a single knight." All were filled with wonder at his words, for never before had Sir Kynon been worsted in any meeting, man to man. Then said the King: "The stoutest of us must some time meet his match; yet did ye bear you valiantly, I doubt not. Tell us now, I pray you, of your adventures." "Noble lord," said Kynon, "I had determined to journey into other lands; for I would seek new and untried adventures. So I passed into a far land, and it chanced, one day, that I found myself in the fairest valley I had ever seen. Through it there flowed a mighty river, which I followed, until I came, as evening fell, to a castle, the largest and strongest I have ever seen. At the castle gate I espied a man of right noble mien, who greeted me courteously, and bade me enter. So as we sat at supper, he inquired of my journey and the quest I followed, and I told him how I sought but adventure, and whether, perchance, I might encounter one stronger than myself. Then the lord of the castle smiled and said: 'I can bring you to such an one, if ye would rather that I showed you your disadvantage than your advantage.' And when I questioned him further, he replied: 'Sleep here this night, and to-morrow I will show you such an one as ye seek.' So I rested that night, and with the dawn I rose and took my leave of the lord of the castle, who said to me: 'If ye will persevere in your quest, follow the path to the head of the glade, and ascend the wooded steep until ye come to an open space in the forest, with but one great tree in its midst. Under the tree is a fountain, and beside it a marble slab to which is chained a silver bowl. Take a bowlful of water and dash it upon the slab, and presently there will appear a knight spurring to encounter with you. If ye flee, he will pursue, but if ye overcome him, there exists none in this world whom ye need fear to have ado with.' "Forthwith I departed, and following these directions, I came at last to such a space as he described, with the tree and fountain in its midst. So I took the bowl and dashed water from the fountain upon the marble slab, and, on the instant, came a clap of thunder so loud as near deafened me, and a storm of hailstones the biggest that ever man saw. Scarce was I recovered from my confusion, when I saw a knight galloping towards me. All in black was he, and he rode a black horse. Not a word we spoke, but we dashed against each other, and at the first encounter I was unhorsed. Still not a word spoke the Black Knight, but passing the butt-end of his lance through my horse's reins, rode away, leaving me shamed and on foot. So I made my way back to the castle, and there I was entertained again that night right hospitably, none questioning me as to my adventure. The next morning, when I rose, there awaited me a noble steed, ready saddled and bridled, and I rode away and am returned hither. And now ye know my story and my shame." Then were all grieved for the discomfiture of Sir Kynon, who had ever borne himself boldly and courteously to all; and they strove to console him as best they might. Presently there rose from his siege the good knight Sir Owain of Rheged, and said: "My lord, I pray you, give me leave to take upon me this adventure. For I would gladly seek this wondrous fountain and encounter with this same Black Knight." So the King consented, and on the morrow Sir Owain armed him, mounted his horse, and rode forth the way Sir Kynon had directed him. So he journeyed many a day until at last he reached the valley of which Sir Kynon had told, and presently he came to the strong castle and, at the gate, met the lord thereof, even as Sir Kynon had done. And the lord of the castle gave him a hearty welcome and made him good cheer, asking nothing of his errand till they were seated about the board. Then, when questioned, Sir Owain declared his quest, that he sought the knight who guarded the fountain. So the lord of the castle, failing to dissuade Sir Owain from the adventure, directed him how he might find the forest glade wherein was the wondrous fountain. With the dawn, Sir Owain rose, mounted his horse, and rode forward until he had found the fountain. Then he dashed water on the marble slab and instantly there burst over him the fearful hailstorm, and through it there came pricking towards him the Black Knight on the black steed. In the first onset, they broke their lances and then, drawing sword, they fought blade to blade. Sore was the contest, but at the last Owain dealt the Black Knight so fierce a blow that the sword cut through helmet and bone to the very brain. Then the Black Knight knew that he had got his death-wound, and turning his horse's head, fled as fast as he might, Sir Owain following close behind. So they came, fast galloping, to the gate of a mighty castle, and instantly the portcullis was raised and the Black Knight dashed through the gateway. But Sir Owain, following close behind, found himself a prisoner, fast caught between two gates; for as the Black Knight passed through the inner of the two gates, it was closed before Sir Owain could follow. For the moment none noticed Sir Owain, for all were busied about the Black Knight, who drew not rein till he was come to the castle hall; then as he strove to dismount, he fell from his saddle, dead. All this Sir Owain saw through the bars of the gate that held him prisoner; and he judged that his time was come, for he doubted not but that the people of the castle would hold his life forfeit for the death of their lord. So as he waited, suddenly there stood at his side a fair damsel, who, laying finger on lip, motioned to him to follow her. Much wondering, he obeyed, and climbed after her up a dark winding staircase, that led from the gateway into a tiny chamber high in the tower. There she set food and wine before him, bidding him eat; then when he was refreshed, she asked him his name and whence he came. "Truly," answered he, "I am Owain of Rheged, knight of King Arthur's Round Table, who, in fair fight, have wounded, I doubt not to the death, the Black Knight that guards the fountain and, as I suppose, the lord of this castle. Wherefore, maiden, if ye intend me evil, lead me where I may answer for my deed, boldly, man to man." "Nay," answered the damsel eagerly, "in a good hour ye are come. Well I know your name, for even here have we heard of your mighty deeds; and by good fortune it may be that ye shall release my lady." "Who is your lady?" asked Sir Owain. "None other than the rightful Chatelaine of this castle and Countess of broad lands besides; but this year and more has the Black Knight held her prisoner in her own halls because she would not listen to his suit." "Then lead me to your lady forthwith," cried Sir Owain; "right gladly will I take her quarrel upon me if there be any that will oppose me." So she led him to the Countess' bower, and there he made him known to the fair lady and proffered her his services. And she that had long deemed there was no deliverance for her, accepted them right gladly. So taking her by the hand, he led her down to the hall, and there, standing at the door, he proclaimed her the lawful lady of that castle and all its lands, and himself ready to do battle in her cause. But none answered his challenge, for those that had held with the Black Knight, deprived of their leader, had lost heart, whereas they that for their loyalty to their lady had been held in subjection, gathered fast about Sir Owain, ready to do battle. So in short space, Sir Owain drove forth the lawless invaders of the Countess' lands, and called together her vassals that they might do homage to her anew. Thus he abode in the castle many days, seeking in all that he might to do her service, until through all her lands order was restored, and her right acknowledged. But when all was done, Sir Owain yet tarried in the lady's castle; for he loved her much, but doubted ever of her favour. So one day, Luned, the damsel who had come to his aid on the day that he slew the Black Knight, said to him: "Alas! Sir Knight, the time must come when ye will leave us. And who will then defend my lady's fountain, which is the key to all her lands? For who holds the fountain, holds the land also." "I will never fail your lady while there is breath in my body," cried Sir Owain. "Then were it well that ye stayed here ever," answered Luned. "Gladly would I," answered Sir Owain, "if that I might." "Ye might find a way if your wits were as sharp as your sword," she answered, and laughing, left him, but herself sought her lady. Long he pondered her words, and he was still deep in thought, when there came to him the Countess, and said: "Sir Knight, I hear that ye must leave us." "Nay, my lady," answered Sir Owain, "I will stay as long as ye require my services." "There must ever be one to guard the fountain, and he who guards the fountain, is lord of these lands," answered the lady softly. Then Sir Owain found words at last, and bending the knee, he said: "Lady, if ye love me, I will stay and guard you and your lands; and if ye love me not, I will go into my own country, and yet will I come again whensoever ye have need of me. For never loved I any but you." Then the Countess bade him stay, and calling her vassals together, she commanded all to do homage to him, and took him for her husband in presence of them all. Thus Sir Owain won the Lady of the Fountain. BOOK VII SIR PEREDUR CHAPTER XXII THE ADVENTURES OF SIR PEREDUR At one time there was in the North of Britain a great Earl named Evrawc. A stout knight he was, and few were the tournaments at which he was not to be found in company with six of his sons; the seventh only, who was too young to bear arms, remaining at home with his mother. But at the last, after he had won the prize at many a tourney, Earl Evrawc was slain, and his six sons with him; and then the Countess fled with Peredur, her youngest, to a lonely spot in the midst of a forest, far from the dwellings of men; for she was minded to bring him up where he might never hear of jousts and feats of arms, that so at least one son might be left to her. So Peredur was reared amongst women and decrepit old men, and even these were strictly commanded never to tell the boy aught of the great world beyond the forest, or what men did therein. None the less, he grew up active and fearless, as nimble and sure-footed as the goats, and patient of much toil. Then, one day, when Peredur was grown a tall, strong youth, there chanced what had never chanced before; for there came riding through the forest, hard by where Peredur dwelt with his mother, a knight in full armour, none other, indeed, than the good knight, Sir Owain himself. And seeing him, Peredur cried out: "Mother, what is that, yonder?" "An angel, my son," said his mother. "Then will I go and become an angel with him," said Peredur; and before any one could stay him, he was gone. When Sir Owain saw him approaching, he reined in his horse, and after courteous salutation, said: "I pray thee, fair youth, tell me, hast thou seen a knight pass this way?" "I know not what a knight may be," answered Peredur. "Why, even such an one as I," answered Sir Owain. "If ye will tell me what I ask you, I will tell you what ye ask me," said Peredur; and when Owain, laughing, consented, Peredur touched the saddle, demanding, "What is this?" "Surely, a saddle," replied Sir Owain; and, in like manner, Peredur asked him of all the parts of his armour, and Owain answered him patiently and courteously. Then when he had ended his questions, Peredur said: "Ride forward; for yesterday I saw from a distance such an one as ye are, ride through the forest." Sir Peredur returned to his mother, and exclaimed: "Mother, that was no angel, but a noble knight"; and hearing his words, his mother fell into a swoon. But Peredur hastened to the spot where were tethered the horses that brought them firewood and food from afar, and from them he chose a bony piebald, which seemed the strongest and in the best condition. Then he found a pack and fastened it on the horse's back, in some way to resemble a saddle, and strove with twigs to imitate the trappings he had seen upon Sir Owain's horse. When his preparations were complete, he returned to the Countess, who, by then, was recovered from her swoon; and she saw that all her trouble had been in vain, and that the time was come when she must part with her son. "Thou wilt ride forth, my son?" she asked. "Yea, with your leave," he answered. "Hear, then, my counsel," said she; "go thy way to Arthur's court, for there are the noblest and truest knights. And wheresoever thou seest a church, fail not to say thy prayers, and whatsoever woman demands thy aid, refuse her not." So, bidding his mother farewell, Peredur mounted his horse, and took in his hand a long, sharp-pointed stake. He journeyed many days till, at last, he had come to Caerleon, where Arthur held his court, and dismounting at the door, he entered the hall. Even as he did so, a stranger knight, who had passed in before him, seized a goblet and, dashing the wine in the face of Queen Guenevere, held the goblet aloft and cried: "If any dare dispute this goblet with me or venture to avenge the insult done to Arthur's Queen, let him follow me to the meadow without, where I will await him." And for sheer amazement at this insolence, none moved save Peredur, who cried aloud: "I will seek out this man and do vengeance upon him." Then a voice exclaimed: "Welcome, goodly Peredur, thou flower of knighthood"; and all turned in surprise to look upon a little misshapen dwarf, who, a year before, had craved and obtained shelter in Arthur's court, and since then had spoken no word. But Kay the Seneschal, in anger that a mere boy, and one so strangely equipped as Peredur, should have taken up the Queen's quarrel when proven knights had remained mute, struck the dwarf, crying: "Thou art ill-bred to remain mute a year in Arthur's court, and then to break silence in praise of such a fellow." Then Peredur, who saw the blow, cried, as he left the hall: "Knight, hereafter ye shall answer to me for that blow." Therewith, he mounted his piebald and rode in haste to the meadow. And when the knight espied him, he cried to him: "Tell me, youth, saw'st thou any coming after me from the court?" "I am come myself," said Peredur. "Hold thy peace," answered the knight angrily, "and go back to the court and say that, unless one comes in haste, I will not tarry, but will ride away, holding them all shamed." "By my faith," said Peredur, "willingly or unwillingly, thou shalt answer to me for thine insolence; and I will have the goblet of thee, ay, and thy horse and armour to boot." With that, in a rage, the knight struck Peredur a violent blow between the neck and the shoulder with the butt-end of his lance. "So!" cried Peredur, "not thus did my mother's servants play with me; and thus will I play with thee"; and drove at him with his pointed stake that it entered the eye of the knight, who forthwith fell dead from his horse. Then Peredur dismounted and began wrenching at the fastenings of the dead man's armour, for he saw in the adventure the means of equipping himself as a knight should ride; but knowing not the trick of the fastenings, his efforts were in vain. While he yet struggled, there rode up Sir Owain who had followed in hot haste from the court; and when he saw the fallen knight, he was amazed that a mere lad, unarmed and unskilled in knightly exercises, should thus have prevailed. "Fair youth," said he, "what would ye?" "I would have this knight's iron coat, but I cannot stir it for all my efforts." "Nay, young Sir," said Sir Owain, "leave the dead his arms, and take mine and my horse, which I give you right gladly; and come with me to the King to receive the order of knighthood, for, by my faith, ye have shown yourself worthy of it." "I thank you, noble Sir," answered Peredur, "and gladly I accept your gift; but I will not go with you now. Rather will I seek other adventures and prove me further first; nor will I seek the King's presence until I have encountered with the tall knight that so misused the dwarf, and have called him to account. Only, I pray you, take this goblet to Queen Guenevere, and say to my lord, King Arthur, that, in all places and at all times, I am his true vassal, and will render him such service as I may." Then, with Sir Owain's help, Peredur put on the armour, and mounting his horse, after due salutation, rode on his way. So, for many days, Peredur followed his adventures, and many a knight he met and overthrew. To all he yielded grace, requiring only that they should ride to Caerleon, there to give themselves up to the King's pleasure, and say that Peredur had sent them. At last he came to a fair castle that rose from the shores of a lake, and there he was welcomed by a venerable old man who pressed him to make some stay. So, as they sat at supper, the old man asked Peredur many questions of himself and his adventure, gazing earnestly on him the while; and, at last, he said: "I know thee who thou art. Thou art my sister's son. Stay now with me, and I will teach thee the arts and courtesy and noble bearing of a gentle knight, and give thee the degree when thou art accomplished in all that becomes an honourable knight." Thereto Peredur assented gladly, and remained with his uncle until he had come to a perfect knowledge of chivalry; after that, he received the order of knighthood at the old man's hands, and rode forth again to seek adventures. Presently he came to the city of Caerleon, but though Arthur was there with all his court, Sir Peredur chose to make himself known to none; for he had not yet avenged the dwarf on Sir Kay. Now it chanced, as he walked through the city, he saw at her casement a beautiful maiden whose name was Angharad; and at once he knew that he had seen the damsel whom he must love his life long. So he sought to be acquainted with her, but she scorned him, thinking him but some unproved knight, since he consorted not with those of Arthur's court; and, at last, finding he might in no wise win her favour at that time, he made a vow that never would he speak to Christian man or woman until he had gained her love, and forthwith rode away again. After long journeyings, he came one night to a castle, and, knocking, gained admittance and courteous reception from the lady who owned it. But it seemed to Sir Peredur that there hung over all a gloom, none caring to talk or make merry, though there was no lack of the consideration due to a guest. Then when the evening hour was come, they took their places at the board, Peredur being set at the Countess' right hand; and two nuns entered and placed before the lady a flagon of wine and six white loaves, and that was all the fare. Then the Countess gave largely of the food to Sir Peredur, keeping little for herself and her attendants; but this pleased not the knight, who, heedless of his oath, said: "Lady, permit me to fare as do the others," and he took but a small portion of that which she had given him. Then the Countess, blushing as with shame, said to him: "Sir Knight, if we make you poor cheer, far otherwise is our desire, but we are in sore straits." "Madam," answered Peredur courteously, "for your welcome I thank you heartily; and, I pray you, if there is aught in which a knight may serve you, tell me your trouble." Then the Countess told him how she had been her father's one child, and heir to his broad lands; and how a neighbouring baron had sought her hand; but she, misliking him, had refused his suit, so that his wrath was great. Then, when her father died, he had made war upon her, overrunning all her lands till nothing was left to her but the one castle. Long since, all the provision stored therein was consumed, and she must have yielded her to the oppressor but for the charity of the nuns of a neighbouring monastery, who had secretly supplied her with food when, for fear, her vassals had forsaken her. But that day the nuns had told her that no longer could they aid her, and there was naught left save to submit to the invader. This was the story that, with many tears, the Countess related to Peredur. "Lady," said he, "with your permission, I will take upon me your quarrel, and to-morrow I will seek to encounter this felon." The Countess thanked him heartily and they retired to rest for that night. In the morning betimes, Sir Peredur arose, donned his armour and, seeking the Countess, desired that the portcullis might be raised, for he would sally forth to seek her oppressor. So he rode out from the castle and saw in the morning light a plain covered with the tents of a great host. With him he took a herald to proclaim that he was ready to meet any in fair fight, in the Countess' quarrel. Forthwith, in answer to his challenge, there rode forward the baron himself, a proud and stately knight mounted on a great black horse. The two rushed together, and, at the first encounter, Sir Peredur unhorsed his opponent, bearing him over the crupper with such force that he lay stunned, as one dead. Then, Peredur, drawing his sword, dismounted and stood over the fallen knight, who, when he was recovered a little, asked his mercy. "Gladly will I grant it," answered Peredur, "but on these conditions. Ye shall disband this host, restore to the Countess threefold all of which ye have deprived her, and, finally, ye shall submit yourself unto her as her vassal." All this the baron promised to do, and Peredur remained with the Countess in her castle until she was firmly established in that which was rightfully hers. Then he bade her farewell, promising his aid if ever she should need his services, and so rode forth again. And as he rode, at times he was troubled, thinking on the scorn with which the fair Angharad had treated him, and reproaching himself bitterly for having broken his vow of silence. So he journeyed many days, and at length, one morn, dismounting by a little woodland stream, he stood lost in thought, heedless of his surroundings. Now, as it chanced, Arthur and a company of his knights were encamped hard by; for, returning from an expedition, the King had been told of Peredur and how he had taken upon him the Queen's quarrel, and forthwith had ridden out in search of him. When the King espied Sir Peredur standing near the brook, he said to the knights about him: "Know ye yonder knight?" "I know him not," said Sir Kay, "but I will soon learn his name." So he rode up to Sir Peredur and spoke to him, demanding his name. When Peredur answered not, though questioned more than once, Sir Kay in anger, struck him with the butt-end of his spear. On the instant, Sir Peredur caught him with his lance under the jaw, and, though himself unmounted, hurled Kay from the saddle. Then when Kay returned not, Sir Owain mounted his horse and rode forth to learn what had happened, and by the brook he found Sir Kay sore hurt, and Peredur ready mounted to encounter any who sought a quarrel. But at once Sir Owain recognised Sir Peredur and rejoiced to see him; and when he found Sir Peredur would speak no word, being himself an honourable knight, he thought no evil, but urged him to ride back with him to Arthur's camp. And Sir Peredur, still speaking never a word, went with Sir Owain, and all respected his silence save Kay, who was long healing of the injuries he had received, and whose angry words none heeded. So they returned to Caerleon and soon, through the city, were noised the noble deeds of Sir Peredur, each new-comer bringing some fresh story of his prowess. Then when Angharad learnt how true and famous was the knight whom she had lightly esteemed, she was sore ashamed; and seeing him ever foremost in the tournament and courteous to all in deed, though speaking not a word; she thought that never had there been so noble a knight, or one so worthy of a lady's love. Thus in the winning of her favour, Sir Peredur was released from his vow, and his marriage was celebrated with much pomp before the King and Queen. Long and happily he lived, famed through all Britain as one of the most valiant and faithful knights of King Arthur's Round Table. BOOK VIII THE HOLY GRAIL CHAPTER XXIII THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD Many times had the Feast of Pentecost come round, and many were the knights that Arthur had made since first he founded the Order of the Round Table; yet no knight had appeared who dared claim the seat named by Merlin the Siege Perilous. At last, one vigil of the great feast, a lady came to Arthur's court at Camelot and asked Sir Launcelot to ride with her into the forest hard by, for a purpose not then to be revealed. Launcelot consenting, they rode together until they came to a nunnery hidden deep in the forest; and there the lady bade Launcelot dismount, and led him into a great and stately room. Presently there entered twelve nuns and with them a youth, the fairest that Launcelot had ever seen. "Sir," said the nuns, "we have brought up this child in our midst, and now that he is grown to manhood, we pray you make him knight, for of none worthier could he receive the honour." "Is this thy own desire?" asked Launcelot of the young squire; and when he said that so it was, Launcelot promised to make him knight after the great festival had been celebrated in the church next day. So on the morrow, after they had worshipped, Launcelot knighted Galahad--for that was the youth's name--and asked him if he would ride at once with him to the King's court; but the young knight excusing himself, Sir Launcelot rode back alone to Camelot, where all rejoiced that he was returned in time to keep the feast with the whole Order of the Round Table. Now, according to his custom, King Arthur was waiting for some marvel to befall before he and his knights sat down to the banquet. Presently a squire entered the hall and said: "Sir King, a great wonder has appeared. There floats on the river a mighty stone, as it were a block of red marble, and it is thrust through by a sword, the hilt of which is set thick with precious stones." On hearing this, the King and all his knights went forth to view the stone and found it as the squire had said; moreover, looking closer, they read these words: "None shall draw me hence, but only he by whose side I must hang; and he shall be the best knight in all the world." Immediately, all bade Launcelot draw forth the sword, but he refused, saying that the sword was not for him. Then, at the King's command, Sir Gawain made the attempt and failed, as did Sir Percivale after him. So the knights knew the adventure was not for them, and returning to the hall, took their places about the Round Table. No sooner were they seated than an aged man, clothed all in white, entered the hall, followed by a young knight in red armour, by whose side hung an empty scabbard. The old man approached King Arthur and bowing low before him, said: "Sir, I bring you a young knight of the house and lineage of Joseph of Arimathea, and through him shall great glory be won for all the land of Britain." Greatly did King Arthur rejoice to hear this, and welcomed the two right royally. Then when the young knight had saluted the King, the old man led him to the Siege Perilous and drew off its silken cover; and all the knights were amazed, for they saw that where had been engraved the words, "The Siege Perilous," was written now in shining gold: "This is the Siege of the noble prince, Sir Galahad." Straightway the young man seated himself there where none other had ever sat without danger to his life; and all who saw it said, one to another: "Surely this is he that shall achieve the Holy Grail." Now the Holy Grail was the blessed dish from which Our Lord had eaten the Last Supper, and it had been brought to the land of Britain by Joseph of Arimathea; but because of men's sinfulness, it had been withdrawn from human sight, only that, from time to time, it appeared to the pure in heart. When all had partaken of the royal banquet, King Arthur bade Sir Galahad come with him to the river's brink; and showing him the floating stone with the sword thrust through it, told him how his knights had failed to draw forth the sword. "Sir," said Galahad, "it is no marvel that they failed, for the adventure was meant for me, as my empty scabbard shows." So saying, lightly he drew the sword from the heart of the stone, and lightly he slid it into the scabbard at his side. While all yet wondered at this adventure of the sword, there came riding to them a lady on a white palfrey who, saluting King Arthur, said: "Sir King, Nacien the hermit sends thee word that this day shall great honour be shown to thee and all thine house; for the Holy Grail shall appear in thy hall, and thou and all thy fellowship shall be fed therefrom." And to Launcelot she said: "Sir Knight, thou hast ever been the best knight of all the world; but another has come to whom thou must yield precedence." Then Launcelot answered humbly: "I know well I was never the best." "Ay, of a truth thou wast and art still, of sinful men," said she, and rode away before any could question her further. So, that evening, when all were gathered about the Round Table, each knight in his own siege, suddenly there was heard a crash of thunder, so mighty that the hall trembled, and there flashed into the hall a sun-beam, brighter far than any that had ever before been seen; and then, draped all in white samite, there glided through the air what none might see, yet what all knew to be the Holy Grail. And all the air was filled with sweet odours, and on every one was shed a light in which he looked fairer and nobler than ever before. So they sat in an amazed silence, till presently King Arthur rose and gave thanks to God for the grace given to him and to his court. Then up sprang Sir Gawain and made his avow to follow for a year and a day the Quest of the Holy Grail, if perchance he might be granted the vision of it. Immediately other of the knights followed his example, binding themselves to the Quest of the Holy Grail until, in all, one hundred and fifty had vowed themselves to the adventure. Then was King Arthur grieved, for he foresaw the ruin of his noble Order. And turning to Sir Gawain, he said: "Nephew ye have done ill, for through you I am bereft of the noblest company of knights that ever brought honour to any realm in Christendom. Well I know that never again shall all of you gather in this hall, and it grieves me to lose men I have loved as my life and through whom I have won peace and righteousness for all my realm." So the King mourned and his knights with him, but their oaths they could not recall. CHAPTER XXIV HOW SIR GALAHAD WON THE RED-CROSS SHIELD Great woe was there in Camelot next day when, after worship in the Cathedral, the knights who had vowed themselves to the Quest of the Holy Grail got to horse and rode away. A goodly company it was that passed through the streets, the townfolk weeping to see them go; Sir Launcelot du Lac and his kin, Sir Galahad of whom all expected great deeds, Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, and many another scarcely less famed than they. So they rode together that day to the Castle of Vagon, where they were entertained right hospitably, and the next day they separated, each to ride his own way and see what adventures should befall him. So it came to pass that, after four days' ride, Sir Galahad reached an abbey. Now Sir Galahad was still clothed in red armour as when he came to the King's court, and by his side hung the wondrous sword; but he was without a shield. They of the abbey received him right heartily, as also did the brave King Bagdemagus, Knight of the Round Table, who was resting there. When they had greeted each other, Sir Galahad asked King Bagdemagus what adventure had brought him there. "Sir," said Bagdemagus, "I was told that in this abbey was preserved a wondrous shield which none but the best knight in the world might bear without grievous harm to himself. And though I know well that there are better knights than I, to-morrow I purpose to make the attempt. But, I pray you, bide at this monastery awhile until you hear from me; and if I fail, do ye take the adventure upon you." "So be it," said Sir Galahad. The next day, at their request, Sir Galahad and King Bagdemagus were led into the church by a monk and shown where, behind the altar, hung the wondrous shield, whiter than snow save for the blood-red cross in its midst. Then the monk warned them of the danger to any who, being unworthy, should dare to bear the shield. But King Bagdemagus made answer: "I know well that I am not the best knight in the world, yet will I try if I may bear it." So he hung it about his neck, and, bidding farewell, rode away with his squire. The two had not journeyed far before they saw a knight approach, armed all in white mail and mounted upon a white horse. Immediately he laid his spear in rest and, charging King Bagdemagus, pierced him through the shoulder and bore him from his horse; and standing over the wounded knight, he said: "Knight, thou hast shown great folly, for none shall bear this shield save the peerless knight, Sir Galahad." Then, taking the shield, he gave it to the squire and said: "Bear this shield to the good Knight Galahad and greet him well from me." "What is your name?" asked the squire, "That is not for thee or any other to know." "One thing, I pray you," said the squire; "why may this shield be borne by none but Sir Galahad without danger?" "Because it belongs to him only," answered the stranger knight, and vanished. Then the squire took the shield and, setting King Bagdemagus on his horse, bore him back to the abbey where he lay long, sick unto death. To Galahad the squire gave the shield and told him all that had befallen. So Galahad hung the shield about his neck and rode the way that Bagdemagus had gone the day before; and presently he met the White Knight, whom he greeted courteously, begging that he would make known to him the marvels of the red-cross shield. "That will I gladly," answered the White Knight. "Ye must know, Sir Knight, that this shield was made and given by Joseph of Arimathea to the good King Evelake of Sarras, that, in the might of the holy symbol, he should overthrow the heathen who threatened his kingdom. But afterwards, King Evelake followed Joseph to this land of Britain where they taught the true faith unto the people who before were heathen. Then when Joseph lay dying, he bade King Evelake set the shield in the monastery where ye lay last night, and foretold that none should wear it without loss until that day when it should be taken by the knight, ninth and last in descent from him, who should come to that place the fifteenth day after receiving the degree of knighthood. Even so has it been with you, Sir Knight." So saying, the unknown knight disappeared and Sir Galahad rode on his way. CHAPTER XXV THE ADVENTURES OF SIR PERCIVALE After he had left his fellows, Sir Percivale rode long through the forest until, one evening, he reached a monastery where he sought shelter for the night. The next morning, he went into the chapel to hear mass and there he espied the body of an old, old man, laid on a richly adorned couch. At first it seemed as if the aged man were dead, but presently, raising himself in his bed, he took off his crown, and, delivering it to the priest, bade him place it on the altar. So when the service was concluded, Sir Percivale asked who the aged king might be. Then he was told that it was none other than King Evelake who accompanied Joseph of Arimathea to Britain. And on a certain occasion, the King had approached the Holy Grail nigher than was reverent and, for his impiety, God had punished him with blindness. Thereupon he repented and, entreating God earnestly, had obtained his petition that he should not die until he had seen the spotless knight who should be descended from him in the ninth degree. (This his desire was fulfilled later when Sir Galahad came thither; after which, he died and was buried by the good knight.) The next day, Sir Percivale continued his journey and presently met with twenty knights who bore on a bier the body of a dead knight. When they espied Sir Percivale, they demanded of him who he was and whence he came. So he told them, whereupon they all shouted, "Slay him! slay him!" and setting upon him all at once, they killed his horse and would have slain him but that the good knight, Sir Galahad, passing that way by chance, came to his rescue and put his assailants to flight. Then Galahad rode away as fast as he might, for he would not be thanked, and Sir Percivale was left, horseless and alone, in the forest. So Sir Percivale continued his journey on foot as well as he might; and ever the way became lonelier, until at last he came to the shores of a vast sea. There Sir Percivale abode many days, without food and desolate, doubting whether he should ever escape thence. At last it chanced that, looking out to sea, Sir Percivale descried a ship and, as it drew nearer, he saw how it was all hung with satin and velvet. Presently, it reached the land and out of it there stepped a lady of marvellous beauty, who asked him how he came there; "For know," said she, "ye are like to die here by hunger or mischance." "He whom I serve will protect me," said Sir Percivale. "I know well whom ye desire most to see," said the lady. "Ye would meet with the Red Knight who bears the red-cross shield." "Ah! lady, I pray you tell me where I may find him," cried Sir Percivale. "With a good will," said the damsel; "if ye will but promise me your service when I shall ask for it, I will lead you to the knight, for I met him of late in the forest." So Sir Percivale promised gladly to serve her when she should need him. Then the lady asked him how long he had fasted. "For three days," answered Sir Percivale. Immediately she gave orders to her attendants forthwith to pitch a tent and set out a table with all manner of delicacies, and of these she invited Sir Percivale to partake. "I pray you, fair lady," said Sir Percivale, "who are ye that show me such kindness?" "Truly," said the lady, "I am but a hapless damsel, driven forth from my inheritance by a great lord whom I have chanced to displease. I implore you, Sir Knight, by your vows of knighthood, to give me your aid." Sir Percivale promised her all the aid he could give, and then she bade him lie down and sleep, and herself took off his helmet, and unclasped his sword-belt. So Sir Percivale slept, and when he waked, there was another feast prepared, and he was given the rarest and the strongest wines that ever he had tasted. Thus they made merry and, when the lady begged Percivale to rest him there awhile, promising him all that ever he could desire if he would vow himself to her service, almost he forgot the quest to which he was vowed, and would have consented, but that his eye fell upon his sword where it lay. Now in the sword-hilt there was set a red cross and, seeing it, Percivale called to mind his vow, and, thinking on it, he signed him with the cross on his forehead. Instantly, the tent was overthrown and vanished in thick smoke; and she who had appeared a lovely woman disappeared from his sight in semblance of a fiend. Then was Sir Percivale sore ashamed that almost he had yielded to the temptings of the Evil One, and earnestly, he prayed that his sin might be forgiven him. Thus he remained in prayer far into the night, bewailing his weakness; and when the dawn appeared, a ship drew nigh the land. Sir Percivale entered into it, but could find no one there; so commending himself to God, he determined to remain thereon, and was borne over the seas for many days, he knew not whither. CHAPTER XXVI THE ADVENTURES OF SIR BORS Among the knights vowed to the Quest of the Holy Grail was Sir Bors, one of the kin of Sir Launcelot, a brave knight and pious. He rode through the forest many a day, making his lodging most often under a leafy tree, though once on his journey he stayed at a castle, that he might do battle for its lady against a felon knight who would have robbed and oppressed her. So, on a day, as he rode through the forest, Sir Bors came to the parting of two ways. While he was considering which he should follow, he espied two knights driving before them a horse on which was stretched, bound and naked, none other than Sir Bors' own brother, Sir Lionel; and, from time to time, the two false knights beat him with thorns so that his body was all smeared with blood, but, so great was his heart, Sir Lionel uttered never a word. Then, in great wrath, Sir Bors laid his lance in rest and would have fought the felon knights to rescue his brother, but that, even as he spurred his horse, there came a bitter cry from the other path and, looking round, he saw a lady being dragged by a knight into the darkest part of the forest where none might find and rescue her. When she saw Sir Bors, she cried to him: "Help me! Sir Knight, help me! I beseech you by your knighthood." Then Sir Bors was much troubled, for he would not desert his brother; but bethinking him that ever a woman must be more helpless than a man, he wheeled his horse, rode upon her captor and beat him to the earth. The damsel thanked him earnestly and told him how the knight was her own cousin, who had that day carried her off by craft from her father's castle. As they talked, there came up twelve knights who had been seeking the lady everywhere; so to their care Sir Bors delivered her, and rode with haste in the direction whither his brother had been borne. On the way, he met with an old man, dressed as a priest, who asked him what he sought. When Sir Bors had told him, "Ah! Bors," said he, "I can give you tidings indeed. Your brother is dead"; and parting the bushes, he showed him the body of a dead man, to all seeming Sir Lionel's self. Then Sir Bors grieved sorely, misdoubting almost whether he should not have rescued his own brother rather than the lady; and at the last, he dug a grave and buried the dead man; after which he rode sorrowfully on his way. When he had ridden many days, he met with a yeoman whom he asked if there were any adventures in those parts. "Sir," said the man, "at the castle; hard by, they hold a great tournament." Sir Bors thanked him and rode along the way pointed out to him; and presently, as he passed a hermitage, whom should he see sitting at its door but his brother, Sir Lionel, whom he had believed dead. Then in great joy, he leaped from his horse, and running to Lionel, cried: "Fair brother, how came ye hither?" "Through no aid of yours," said Sir Lionel angrily; "for ye left me bound and beaten, to ride to the rescue of a maiden. Never was brother so dealt with by brother before. Keep you from me as ye may!" When Sir Bors understood that his brother would slay him, he knelt before him entreating his pardon. Sir Lionel took no heed, but mounting his horse and taking his lance, cried: "Keep you from me, traitor! Fight, or die!" And Sir Bors moved not; for to him it seemed a sin most horrible that brother should fight with brother. Then Sir Lionel, in his rage, rode his horse at him, bore him to the ground and trampled him under the horse's hoofs, till Bors lay beaten to the earth in a swoon. Even so, Sir Lionel's anger was not stayed; for, alighting, he drew his sword and would have smitten off his brother's head, but that the holy hermit, hearing the noise of conflict, ran out of the hermitage and threw himself upon Sir Bors. "Gentle knight," he cried, "have mercy upon him and on thyself; for of the sin of slaying thy brother, thou couldst never be quit." "Sir Priest," said Lionel, "if ye leave him not, I shall slay you too." "It were a lesser sin than to slay thy brother," answered the hermit. "So be it," cried Lionel, and with one blow, struck off the hermit's head. Then he would have worked his evil will upon his brother too, but that, even as he was unlacing Sir Bors' helm to cut off his head, there rode up the good knight Sir Colgrevance, a fellow of the Round Table. When he saw the dead hermit and was aware how Lionel sought the life of Bors, he was amazed, and springing from his horse, ran to Lionel and dragged him back from his brother. "Do ye think to hinder me?" said Sir Lionel. "Let come who will, I will have his life." "Ye shall have to do with me first," cried Colgrevance. Therewith, they took their swords, and, setting their shields before them, rushed upon each other. Now Sir Colgrevance was a good knight, but Sir Lionel was strong and his anger added to his strength. So long they fought that Sir Bors had time to recover from his swoon, and raising himself with pain on his elbow, saw how the two fought for his life; and as it seemed, Sir Lionel would prevail, for Sir Colgrevance grew weak and weary. Sir Bors tried to get to his feet, but, so weak he was, he could not stand; and Sir Colgrevance, seeing him stir, called on him to come to his aid, for he was in mortal peril for his sake. But even as he called, Sir Lionel cut him to the ground and, as one possessed, rushed upon his brother to slay him. Sir Bors entreated him for mercy, and when he would not, sorrowfully he took his sword, saying: "Now, God forgive me, though I defend my life against my brother." Immediately there was heard a voice saying, "Flee, Bors, and touch not thy brother"; and at the same time, a fiery cloud burned between them, so that their shields glowed with the flame, and both knights fell to the earth. But the voice came again, saying, "Bors, leave thy brother and take thy way to the sea. There thou shalt meet Sir Percivale." Then Sir Bors made ready to obey, and, turning to Lionel, said: "Dear brother, I pray you forgive me for aught in which I have wronged you." "I forgive you," said Lionel, for he was too amazed and terrified to keep his anger. So Sir Bors continued his journey, and at the last, coming to the sea shore, he espied a ship, draped all with white samite, and entering thereon, he saw Sir Percivale, and much they rejoiced them in each other's company. CHAPTER XXVII THE ADVENTURES OF SIR LAUNCELOT After Sir Launcelot had parted from his fellows at the Castle of Vagon, he rode many days through the forest without adventure, till he chanced upon a knight close by a little hermitage in the wood. Immediately, as was the wont of errant knights, they prepared to joust, and Launcelot, whom none before had overthrown, was borne down, man and horse, by the stranger knight. Thereupon a nun, who dwelt in the hermitage, cried: "God be with thee, best knight in all this world," for she knew the victor for Sir Galahad. But Galahad, not wishing to be known, rode swiftly away; and presently Sir Launcelot got to horse again and rode slowly on his way, shamed and doubting sorely in his heart whether this quest were meant for him. When night fell, he came to a great stone cross which stood at the parting of the way and close by a little ruined chapel. So Sir Launcelot, being minded to pass the night there, alighted, fastened his horse to a tree and hung his shield on a bough. Then he drew near to the little chapel, and wondered to see how, all ruinous though it was, yet within was an altar hung with silk and a great silver candlestick on it; but when he sought entrance, he could find none and, much troubled in his mind, he returned to his horse where he had left it, and unlacing his helm and ungirding his sword, laid him down to rest. Then it seemed to Sir Launcelot that, as he lay between sleeping and waking, there passed him two white palfreys bearing a litter wherein was a sick knight, who cried: "Sweet Lord, when shall I be pardoned all my transgressions, and when shall the holy vessel come to me, to cure me of my sickness?" And instantly it seemed that the great candlestick came forth of itself from the chapel, floating through the air before a table of silver on which was the Holy Grail. Thereupon the sick knight raised himself, and on his bended knees he approached so nigh that he kissed the holy vessel; and immediately he cried: "I thank Thee, sweet Lord, that I am healed of my sickness." And all the while Sir Launcelot, who saw this wonder, felt himself held that he could not move. Then a squire brought the stranger knight his weapons, in much joy that his lord was cured. "Who think ye that this knight may be who remains sleeping when the holy vessel is so near?" said the knight. "In truth," said the squire, "he must be one that is held by the bond of some great sin. I will take his helm and his sword, for here have I brought you all your armour save only these two." So the knight armed him from head to foot, and taking Sir Launcelot's horse, rode away with his squire. On the instant, Sir Launcelot awoke amazed, not knowing whether he had dreamed or not; but while he wondered, there came a terrible voice, saying: "Launcelot, arise and leave this holy place." In shame, Sir Launcelot turned to obey, only to find horse and sword and shield alike vanished. Then, indeed, he knew himself dishonoured. Weeping bitterly, he made the best of his way on foot, until he came to a cell where a hermit was saying prayer. Sir Launcelot knelt too, and, when all was ended, called to the hermit, entreating him for counsel. "With good will," said the hermit. So Sir Launcelot made himself known and told the hermit all, lamenting how his good fortune was turned to wretchedness and his glory to shame; and truly, the hermit was amazed that Sir Launcelot should be in such case. "Sir," said he, "God has given you manhood and strength beyond all other knights; the more are ye bounden to his service." "I have sinned," said Sir Launcelot; "for in all these years of my knighthood, I have done everything for the honour and glory of my lady and naught for my Maker; and little thank have I given to God for all his benefits to me." Then the holy man gave Sir Launcelot good counsel and made him rest there that night; and the next day he gave him a horse, a sword and a helmet, and bade him go forth and bear himself knightly as the servant of God. CHAPTER XXVIII HOW SIR LAUNCELOT SAW THE HOLY GRAIL For many days after he had left the hermitage, Sir Launcelot rode through the forest, but there came to him no such adventures as had befallen him on other quests to the increase of his fame. At last, one night-tide, he came to the shores of a great water and there he lay down to sleep; but as he slept, a voice called on him: "Launcelot, arise, put on thine armour and go on thy way until thou comest to a ship. Into that thou shalt enter." Immediately, Sir Launcelot started from his sleep to obey and, riding along the shore, came presently to a ship beached on the strand; no sooner had he entered it, than the ship was launched--how, he might not know. So the ship sailed before the wind for many a day. No mortal was on it, save only Sir Launcelot, yet were all his needs supplied. Then, at last, the ship ran ashore at the foot of a great castle; and it was midnight. Sir Launcelot waited not for the dawn, but, his sword gripped in his hand, sprang ashore, and then, right before him, he saw a postern where the gate stood open indeed, but two grisly lions kept the way. And when Sir Launcelot would have rushed upon the great beasts with his sword, it was struck from his hand, and a voice said: "Ah! Launcelot, ever is thy trust in thy might rather than thy Maker!" Sore ashamed, Sir Launcelot took his sword and thrust it back into the sheath, and going forward, he passed unhurt through the gateway, the lions that kept it falling back from his path. So without more adventure, Launcelot entered into the castle; and there he saw how every door stood open, save only one, and that was fast barred, nor, with all his force, might he open it. Presently from the chamber within came the sound of a sweet voice in a holy chant, and then in his heart Launcelot knew that he was come to the Holy Grail. So, kneeling humbly, he prayed that to him might be shown some vision of that he sought. Forthwith the door flew open and from the chamber blazed a light such as he had never known before; but when he made to enter, a voice cried: "Launcelot, forbear," and sorrowfully he withdrew. Then where he knelt, far even from the threshold of the wondrous room, he saw a silver table and, on it, covered with red samite, the Holy Grail. At sight of that which he had sought so long, his joy became so great that, unmindful of the warning, he advanced into the room and drew nigh even to the Table itself. Then on the instant there burst between him and it a blaze of light, and he fell to the ground. There he lay, nor might he move nor utter any sound; only he was aware of hands busy about him which bore him away from the chamber. For four-and-twenty days, Sir Launcelot lay as in a trance. At the end of that time, he came to himself, and found those about him that had tended him in his swoon. These, when they had given him fresh raiment, brought him to the aged King--Pelles was his name--that owned that castle. The King entertained him right royally, for he knew of the fame of Sir Launcelot; and long he talked with him of his quest and of the other knights who followed it, for he was of a great age and knew much of men. At the end of four days, he spoke to Sir Launcelot, bidding him return to Arthur's court; "For," said he, "your quest is ended here, and all that ye shall see of the Holy Grail, ye have seen." So Launcelot rode on his way, grieving for the sin that hindered him from the perfect vision of the Holy Grail, but thanking God for that which he had seen. So in time he came to Camelot, and told to Arthur all that had befallen him. CHAPTER XXIX THE END OF THE QUEST After he had rescued Sir Percivale from the twenty knights who beset him, Sir Galahad rode on his way till night-fall, when he sought shelter at a little hermitage. Thither there came in the night a damsel who desired to speak with Sir Galahad; so he arose and went to her, "Galahad," said she, "arm you and mount your horse and follow me, for I am come to guide you in your quest." So they rode together until they had come to the sea-shore, and there the damsel showed Galahad a great ship into which he must enter. Then she bade him farewell, and he, going on to the ship, found there already the good knights Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, who made much joy of the meeting. They abode in that ship until they had come to the castle of King Pelles, who welcomed them right gladly. Then, as they all sat at supper that night, suddenly the hall was filled with a great light, and the holy vessel appeared in their midst, covered all in white samite. While they all rejoiced, there came a voice saying: "My Knights whom I have chosen, ye have seen the holy vessel dimly. Continue your journey to the city of Sarras and there the perfect Vision shall be yours." Now in the city of Sarras had dwelt long time Joseph of Arimathea, teaching its people the true faith, before ever he came into the land of Britain; but when Sir Galahad and his fellows came there after long voyage, they found it ruled by a heathen king named Estorause, who cast them into a deep dungeon. There they were kept a year, but at the end of that time, the tyrant died. Then the great men of the land gathered together to consider who should be their king; and, while they were in council, came a voice bidding them take as their king the youngest of the three knights whom Estorause had thrown into prison. So in fear and wonder they hastened to the prison, and releasing the three knights, made Galahad king as the voice had bidden them. Thus Sir Galahad became King of the famous city of Sarras, in far Babylon. He had reigned a year when, one morning early, he and the other two knights, his fellows, went into the chapel, and there they saw, kneeling in prayer, an aged man, robed as a bishop, and round him hovered many angels. The knights fell on their knees in awe and reverence, whereupon he that seemed a bishop turned to them and said: "I am Joseph of Arimathea, and I am come to show you the perfect Vision of the Holy Grail." On the instant there appeared before them, without veil or cover, the holy vessel, in a radiance of light such as almost blinded them. Sir Bors and Sir Percivale, when at length they were recovered from the brightness of that glory, looked up to find that the holy Joseph and the wondrous vessel had passed from their sight. Then they went to Sir Galahad where he still knelt as in prayer, and behold, he was dead; for it had been with him even as he had prayed; in the moment when he had seen the vision, his soul had gone back to God. So the two knights buried him in that far city, themselves mourning and all the people with them. And immediately after, Sir Percivale put off his arms and took the habit of a monk, living a devout and holy life until, a year and two months later, he also died and was buried near Sir Galahad. Then Sir Bors armed him, and bidding farewell to the city, sailed away until, after many weeks, he came again to the land of Britain. There he took horse, and stayed not till he had come to Camelot. Great was the rejoicing of Arthur and all his knights when Sir Bors was once more among them. When he had told all the adventures which had befallen him and the good knights, his companions, all who heard were filled with amaze. But the King, he caused the wisest clerks in the land to write in great hooks this Quest of the Holy Grail, that the fame of it should endure unto all time. BOOK IX THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT CHAPTER XXX THE FAIR MAID OF ASTOLAT At last, the Quest of the Holy Grail was ended, and by ones and twos the knights came back to Camelot, though many who had set out so boldly were never seen again about the Round Table. Great was the joy of King Arthur when Sir Launcelot and Sir Bors returned, for, so long had they been away, that almost he had feared that they had perished. In their honour there was high festival for many days in London, where Arthur then had his court; and the King made proclamation of a great tournament that he would hold at Camelot, when he and the King of Northgalis would keep the lists against all comers. So, one fair morning of spring, King Arthur made ready to ride to Camelot and all his knights with him, save Launcelot, who excused himself, saying that an old wound hindered him from riding. But when the King, sore vexed, had departed, the Queen rebuked Sir Launcelot, and bade him go and prove his great prowess as of old. "Madam," said Sir Launcelot, "in this, as in all else, I obey you; at your bidding I go, but know that in this tournament I shall adventure me in other wise than ever before." The next day, at dawn, Sir Launcelot mounted his horse, and, riding forth unattended, journeyed all that day till, as evening fell, he reached the little town of Astolat, and there, at the castle, sought lodgement for that night. The old Lord of Astolat was glad at his coming, judging him at once to be a noble knight, though he knew him not, for it was Sir Launcelot's will to remain unknown. So they went to supper, Sir Launcelot and the old lord, his son, Sir Lavaine, and his daughter Elaine, whom they of the place called the Fair Maid of Astolat. As they sat at meat, the Baron asked Sir Launcelot if he rode to the tournament. "Yea," answered Launcelot; "and right glad should I be if, of your courtesy, ye would lend me a shield without device." "Right willingly," said his host; "ye shall have my son, Sir Tirre's shield. He was but lately made knight and was hurt in his first encounter, so his shield is bare enough. If ye will take with you my young son, Sir Lavaine, he will be glad to ride in the company of so noble a knight and will do you such service as he may." "I shall be glad indeed of his fellowship," answered Sir Launcelot courteously. Now it seemed to the fair Elaine that never had she beheld so noble a knight as this stranger; and seeing that he was as gentle and courteous as he was strong, she said to him: "Fair Knight, will ye wear my favour at this tournament? For never have I found knight yet to wear my crimson sleeve, and sure am I that none other could ever win it such honour." "Maiden," said Sir Launcelot, "right gladly would I serve you in aught; but it has never been my custom to wear lady's favour." "Then shall it serve the better for disguise," answered Elaine. Sir Launcelot pondered her words, and at last he said: "Fair maiden, I will do for you what I have done for none, and will wear your favour." So with great glee, she brought it him, a crimson velvet sleeve embroidered with great pearls, and fastened it in his helmet. Then Sir Launcelot begged her to keep for him his own shield until after the tournament, when he would come for it again and tell them his name. The next morn, Sir Launcelot took his departure with Sir Lavaine and, by evening, they were come to Camelot. Forthwith Sir Lavaine led Sir Launcelot to the house of a worthy burgher, where he might stay in privacy, undiscovered by those of his acquaintance. Then, when at dawn the trumpets blew, they mounted their horses and rode to a little wood hard by the lists, and there they abode some while; for Sir Launcelot would take no part until he had seen which side was the stronger. So they saw how King Arthur sat high on a throne to overlook the combat, while the King of Northgalis and all the fellowship of the Round Table held the lists against their opponents led by King Anguish of Ireland and the King of Scots. Then it soon appeared that the two Kings with all their company could do but little against the Knights of the Round Table, and were sore pressed to maintain their ground. Seeing this, Sir Launcelot said to Sir Lavaine: "Sir Knight, will ye give me your aid if I go to the rescue of the weaker side? For it seems to me they may not much longer hold their own unaided." "Sir," answered Lavaine, "I will gladly follow you and do what I may." So the two laid their lances in rest and charged into the thickest of the fight and, with one spear, Sir Launcelot bore four knights from the saddle. Lavaine, too, did nobly, for he unhorsed the bold Sir Bedivere and Sir Lucan the Butler. Then with their swords they smote lustily on the left hand and on the right, and those whom they had come to aid rallying to them, they drove the Knights of the Round Table back a space. So the fight raged furiously, Launcelot ever being in the thickest of the press and performing such deeds of valour that all marvelled to see him, and would fain know who was the Knight of the Crimson Sleeve. But the knights of Arthur's court felt shame of their discomfiture, and, in especial, those of Launcelot's kin were wroth that one should appear who seemed mightier even than Launcelot's self. So they called to each other and, making a rally, directed all their force against the stranger knight who had so turned the fortunes of the day. With lances in rest, Sir Lionel, Sir Bors, and Sir Ector, bore down together upon Sir Launcelot, and Sir Bors' spear pierced Sir Launcelot and brought him to the earth, leaving the spear head broken off in his side. This Sir Lavaine saw, and immediately, with all his might, he rode upon the King of Scots, unhorsed him and took his horse to Sir Launcelot. Now Sir Launcelot felt as if he had got his death-wound, but such was his spirit that he was resolved to do some great deed while yet his strength remained. So, with Lavaine's aid, he got upon the horse, took a spear and, laying it in rest, bore down, one after the other, Sir Bors, Sir Lionel, and Sir Ector. Next he flung him into the thickest of the fight, and before the trumpets sounded the signal to cease, he had unhorsed thirty good knights. Then the Kings of Scotland and Ireland came to Sir Launcelot and said: "Sir Knight, we thank you for the service done us this day. And now, we pray you, come with us to receive the prize which is rightly yours; for never have we seen such deeds as ye have done this day." "My fair lords," answered Sir Launcelot, "for aught that I have accomplished, I am like to pay dearly; I beseech you, suffer me to depart." With these words, he rode away full gallop, followed by Sir Lavaine; and when he had come to a little wood, he called Lavaine to him, saying: "Gentle Knight, I entreat you, draw forth this spear head, for it nigh slayeth me." "Oh! my dear lord," said Lavaine, "I fear sore to draw it forth lest ye die." "If ye love me, draw it out," answered Launcelot. So Lavaine did as he was bidden, and, with a deathly groan, Sir Launcelot fell in a swoon to the ground. When he was a little recovered, he begged Lavaine to help him to his horse and lead him to a hermitage hard by where dwelt a hermit who, in bygone days, had been known to Launcelot for a good knight and true. So with pain and difficulty they journeyed to the hermitage, Lavaine oft fearing that Sir Launcelot would die. And when the hermit saw Sir Launcelot, all pale and besmeared with blood, he scarce knew him for the bold Sir Launcelot du Lac; but he bore him within and dressed his wound and bade him be of good cheer, for he should recover. So there Sir Launcelot abode many weeks and Sir Lavaine with him; for Lavaine would not leave him, such love had he for the good knight he had taken for his lord. Now when it was known that the victorious knight had departed from the field sore wounded, Sir Gawain vowed to go in search of him. So it chanced that, in his wanderings, he came to Astolat, and there he had a hearty welcome of the Lord of Astolat, who asked him for news of the tournament. Then Sir Gawain related how two stranger knights, bearing white shields, had won great glory, and in especial one, who wore in his helm a crimson sleeve, had surpassed all others in knightly prowess. At these words, the fair Elaine cried aloud with delight. "Maiden," said Gawain, "know ye this knight?" "Not his name," she replied; "but full sure was I that he was a noble knight when I prayed him to wear my favour." Then she showed Gawain the shield which she had kept wrapped in rich broideries, and immediately Sir Gawain knew it for Launcelot's. "Alas!" cried he, "without doubt it was Launcelot himself that we wounded to the death. Sir Bors will never recover the woe of it." Then, on the morrow, Sir Gawain rode to London to tell the court how the stranger knight and Launcelot were one; but the Fair Maid of Astolat rose betimes, and having obtained leave of her father, set out to search for Sir Launcelot and her brother Lavaine. After many journeyings, she came, one day, upon Lavaine exercising his horse in a field, and by him she was taken to Sir Launcelot. Then, indeed, her heart was filled with grief when she saw the good knight to whom she had given her crimson sleeve thus laid low; so she abode in the hermitage, waiting upon Sir Launcelot and doing all within her power to lessen his pain. After many weeks, by the good care of the hermit and the fair Elaine, Sir Launcelot was so far recovered that he might bear the weight of his armour and mount his horse again. Then, one morn, they left the hermitage and rode all three, the Fair Maid, Sir Launcelot, and Sir Lavaine, to the castle of Astolat, where there was much joy of their coming. After brief sojourn, Sir Launcelot desired to ride to court, for he knew there would be much sorrow among his kinsmen for his long absence. But when he would take his departure, Elaine cried aloud: "Ah! my lord, suffer me to go with you, for I may not bear to lose you." "Fair child," answered Sir Launcelot gently, "that may not be. But in the days to come, when ye shall love and wed some good knight, for your sake I will bestow upon him broad lands and great riches; and at all times will I hold me ready to serve you as a true knight may." Thus spoke Sir Launcelot, but the fair Elaine answered never a word. So Sir Launcelot rode to London where the whole court was glad of his coming; but from the day of his departure, the Fair Maid drooped and pined until, when ten days were passed, she felt that her end was at hand. So she sent for her father and two brothers, to whom she said gently: "Dear father and brethren, I must now leave you." Bitterly they wept, but she comforted them all she might, and presently desired of her father a boon. "Ye shall have what ye will," said the old lord; for he hoped that she might yet recover. Then first she required her brother, Sir Tirre, to write a letter, word for word as she said it; and when it was written, she turned to her father and said: "Kind father, I desire that, when I am dead, I may be arrayed in my fairest raiment, and placed on a bier; and let the bier be set within a barge, with one to steer it until I be come to London. Then, perchance, Sir Launcelot will come and look upon me with kindness." So she died, and all was done as she desired; for they set her, looking as fair as a lily, in a barge all hung with black, and an old dumb man went with her as helmsman. Slowly the barge floated down the river until it had come to Westminster; and as it passed under the palace walls, it chanced that King Arthur and Queen Guenevere looked forth from a window. Marvelling much at the strange sight, together they went forth to the quay, followed by many of the knights. Then the King espied the letter clasped in the dead maiden's hand, and drew it forth gently and broke the seal. And thus the letter ran: "Most noble Knight, Sir Launcelot, I, that men called the Fair Maid of Astolat, am come hither to crave burial at thy hands for the sake of the unrequited love I gave thee. As thou art peerless knight, pray for my soul." Then the King bade fetch Sir Launcelot, and when he was come, he showed him the letter. And Sir Launcelot, gazing on the dead maiden, was filled with sorrow. "My lord Arthur," he said, "for the death of this dear child I shall grieve my life long. Gentle she was and loving, and much was I beholden to her; but what she desired I could not give." "Yet her request now thou wilt grant, I know," said the King; "for ever thou art kind and courteous to all." "It is my desire," answered Sir Launcelot. So the Maid of Astolat was buried in the presence of the King and Queen and of the fellowship of the Round Table, and of many a gentle lady who wept, that time, the fair child's fate. Over her grave was raised a tomb of white marble, and on it was sculptured the shield of Sir Launcelot; for, when he had heard her whole story, it was the King's will that she that in life had guarded the shield of his noblest knight, should keep it also in death. BOOK X QUEEN GUENEVERE CHAPTER XXXI HOW MORDRED PLOTTED AGAINST SIR LAUNCELOT Before Merlin passed from the world of men, imprisoned in the great stone by the evil arts of Vivien, he had uttered many marvellous prophecies, and one that boded ill to King Arthur; for he foretold that, in the days to come, a son of Arthur's sister should stir up bitter war against the King, and at last a great battle should be fought in the West, when many a brave knight should find his doom. Now, among the nephews of Arthur, was one most dishonourable; his name was Mordred. No knightly deed had he ever done, and he hated to hear the good report of others because he himself was a coward and envious. But of all the Round Table there was none that Mordred hated more than Sir Launcelot du Lac, whom all true knights held in most honour; and not the less did Mordred hate Launcelot that he was the knight whom Queen Guenevere had in most esteem. So, at last, his jealous rage passing all bounds, he spoke evil of the Queen and of Launcelot, saying that they were traitors to the King. Now Sir Gawain and Sir Gareth, Mordred's brothers, refused to give ear to these slanders, holding that Sir Launcelot, in his knightly service of the Queen, did honour to King Arthur also; but by ill-fortune another brother, Sir Agravaine, had ill-will to the Queen, and professed to believe Mordred's evil tales. So the two went to King Arthur with their ill stories. Now when Arthur had heard them, he was wroth; for never would he lightly believe evil of any, and Sir Launcelot was the knight whom he loved above all others. Sternly then he bade them begone and come no more to him with unproven tales against any, and, least of all, against Sir Launcelot and their lady, the Queen. The two departed, but in their hearts was hatred against Launcelot and the Queen, more bitter than ever for the rebuke they had called down upon themselves; and they resolved, from that time forth, diligently to watch if, perchance, they might find aught to turn to evil account against Sir Launcelot. Not long after, it seemed to them that the occasion had come. For King Arthur having ridden forth to hunt far from Carlisle, where he then held court, the Queen sent for Sir Launcelot to speak with him in her bower. Then Agravaine and Mordred got together twelve knights, friends of Sir Gawain, their brother, and persuaded them to come with them for they should do the King a service. So with the twelve knights they watched and waited in a little room until they saw Sir Launcelot, all unarmed, pass into the Queen's chamber; and when the door was closed upon him, they came forth, and Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred thundered on the door, crying so that all the court might hear: "Thou traitor, Sir Launcelot, come forth from the Queen's chamber. Come forth, for thy treason against the King is known to all!" Then Sir Launcelot and the Queen were amazed and filled with shame that such a clamour should be raised where the Queen was. While they waited and listened in dismay, Sir Mordred and Sir Agravaine took up the cry again, the twelve knights echoing it: "Traitor Launcelot, come forth and meet thy doom; for thy last hour is come." Then Sir Launcelot, wroth more for the Queen than for himself, exclaimed: "This shameful cry will kill me; better death than such dishonour. Lady, as I have ever been your true knight, since the day when my lord, King Arthur, knighted me, pray for me if now I meet my death." Then he went to the door and cried to those without: "Fair lords, cease this outcry. I will open the door, and then ye shall do with me as ye will." With the word, he set open the door, but only by so much that one knight could enter at a time. So a certain Sir Colgrevance of Gore, a knight of great stature, pushed into the room and thrust at Sir Launcelot with all his might; but Sir Launcelot, with the arm round which he had wrapped his cloak, turned aside the sword and, with his bare hand, dealt Colgrevance such a blow on the helmet that he fell grovelling to the earth. Then Sir Launcelot thrust to and barred the door, and stripping the fallen knight of his armour, armed himself in haste with the aid of the Queen and her ladies. All this while, Sir Agravaine and Sir Mordred continued their outcry; so when he was armed, Sir Launcelot called to them to cease their vile cries and the next day he would meet any or all of them in arms and knightly disprove their vile slander. Now there was not one among those knights who dared meet Sir Launcelot in the open field, so they were resolved to slay him while they had the advantage over him. When Sir Launcelot understood their evil purpose, he set wide the door and rushed upon them. At the first blow he slew Sir Agravaine, and soon eleven other knights lay cold on the earth beside him. Only Mordred escaped, for he fled with all his might; but, even so, he was sore wounded. Then Sir Launcelot spoke to the Queen. "Madam," said he, "here may I no longer stay, for many a foe have I made me this night. And when I am gone, I know not what evil may be spoken of you for this night's work. I pray you, then, suffer me to lead you to a place of safety." "Ye shall run no more risk for my sake," said the Queen; "only go hence in haste before more harm befall you. But as for me, here I abide. I will flee for no traitor's outcry." So Sir Launcelot, seeing that at that time there was naught he might do for Queen Guenevere, withdrew with all his kin to a little distance from Carlisle, and awaited what should befall. CHAPTER XXXII THE TRIAL OF THE QUEEN When Mordred escaped Sir Launcelot, he got to horse, all wounded as he was, and never drew rein till he had found King Arthur, to whom he told all that had happened. Then great was the King's grief. Despite all that Mordred could say, he was slow to doubt Sir Launcelot, whom he loved, but his mind was filled with forebodings; for many a knight had been slain, and well he knew that their kin would seek vengeance on Sir Launcelot, and the noble fellowship of the Round Table be utterly destroyed by their feuds. All too soon, it proved even as the King had feared. Many were found to hold with Sir Mordred; some because they were kin to the knights that had been slain, some from envy of the honour and worship of the noble Sir Launcelot; and among them even were those who dared to raise their voice against the Queen herself, calling for judgment upon her as leagued with a traitor against the King, and as having caused the death of so many good knights. Now in those days the law was that if any one were accused of treason by witnesses, or taken in the act, that one should die the death by burning, be it man or woman, knight or churl. So then the murmurs grew to a loud clamour that the law should have its course, and that King Arthur should pass sentence on the Queen. Then was the King's woe doubled; "For," said he, "I sit as King to be a rightful judge and keep all the law; wherefore I may not do battle for my own Queen, and now there is none other to help her." So a decree was issued that Queen Guenevere should be burnt at the stake outside the walls of Carlisle. Forthwith, King Arthur sent for his nephew, Sir Gawain, and said to him: "Fair nephew, I give it in charge to you to see that all is done as has been decreed." But Sir Gawain answered boldly: "Sir King, never will I be present to see my lady the Queen die. It is of ill counsel that ye have consented to her death." Then the King bade Gawain send his two young brothers, Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris, to receive his commands, and these he desired to attend the Queen to the place of execution. So Gareth made answer for both: "My Lord the King, we owe you obedience in all things, but know that it is sore against our wills that we obey you in this; nor will we appear in arms in the place where that noble lady shall die"; then sorrowfully they mounted their horses, and rode to Carlisle. When the day appointed had come, the Queen was led forth to a place without the walls of Carlisle, and there she was bound to the stake to be burnt to death. Loud were her ladies' lamentations, and many a lord was found to weep at that grievous sight of a Queen brought so low; yet was there none who dared come forward as her champion, lest he should be suspected of treason. As for Gareth and Gaheris, they could not bear the sight and stood with their faces covered in their mantles. Then, just as the torch was to be applied to the faggots, there was a sound as of many horses galloping, and the next instant a band of knights rushed upon the astonished throng, their leader cutting down all who crossed his path until he had reached the Queen, whom he lifted to his saddle and bore from the press. Then all men knew that it was Sir Launcelot, come knightly to rescue the Queen, and in their hearts they rejoiced. So with little hindrance they rode away, Sir Launcelot and all his kin with the Queen in their midst, till they came to the castle of the Joyous Garde where they held the Queen in safety and all reverence. But of that day came a kingdom's ruin, for among the slain were Gawain's brothers, Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris. Now Sir Launcelot loved Sir Gareth as if he had been his own younger brother, and himself had knighted him; but, in the press, he struck at him and killed him, not seeing that he was unarmed and weaponless; and in like wise, Sir Gaheris met his death. So when word was brought to King Arthur of what had passed, Sir Gawain asked straightway how his brothers had fared. "Both are slain," said the messenger. "Alas! my dear brothers!" cried Sir Gawain; "how came they by their death?" "They were both slain by Sir Launcelot." "That will I never believe," cried Sir Gawain; "for my brother, Sir Gareth, had such love for Sir Launcelot that there was naught Sir Launcelot could ask him that he would not do." But the man said again: "He is slain, and by Sir Launcelot." Then, from sheer grief, Sir Gawain fell swooning to the ground. When he was recovered, he said: "My Lord and uncle, is it even as this man says, that Sir Launcelot has slain my brother Sir Gareth?" "Alas!" said the King, "Launcelot rode upon him in the press and slew him, not seeing who he was or that he was unarmed." "Then," cried Gawain fiercely, "here I make my avow. Never, while my life lasts, will I leave Sir Launcelot in peace until he has rendered me account for the slaying of my brother." From that day forth, Sir Gawain would not suffer the King to rest until he had gathered all his host and marched against the Joyous Garde. Thus began the war which broke up the fellowship of the Round Table. CHAPTER XXXIII HOW SIR GAWAIN DEFIED SIR LAUNCELOT Now it came to the ears of the Pope in Rome that King Arthur was besieging Sir Launcelot in his castle of the Joyous Garde, and it grieved him that there should be strife between two such goodly knights, the like of whom was not to be found in Christendom. So he called to him the Bishop of Rochester, and bade him carry word to Britain, both to Arthur and to Sir Launcelot, that they should be reconciled, the one to the other, and that King Arthur should receive again Queen Guenevere. Forthwith Sir Launcelot desired of King Arthur assurance of liberty and reverence for the Queen, as also safe conduct for himself and his knights, that he might bring Dame Guenevere, with due honour, to the King at Carlisle; and thereto the King pledged his word. So Launcelot set forth with the Queen, and behind them rode a hundred knights arrayed in green velvet, the housings of the horses of the same all studded with precious stones; thus they passed through the city of Carlisle, openly, in the sight of all, and there were many who rejoiced that the Queen was come again and Sir Launcelot with her, though they of Gawain's party scowled upon him. When they were come into the great hall where Arthur sat, with Sir Gawain and other great lords about him, Sir Launcelot led Guenevere to the throne and both knelt before the King; then, rising, Sir Launcelot lifted the Queen to her feet, and thus he spoke to King Arthur, boldly and well before the whole court: "My lord, Sir Arthur, I bring you here your Queen, than whom no truer nor nobler lady ever lived; and here stand I, Sir Launcelot du Lac, ready to do battle with any that dare gainsay it"; and with these words Sir Launcelot turned and looked upon the lords and knights present in their places, but none would challenge him in that cause, not even Sir Gawain, for he had ever affirmed that Dame Guenevere was a true and honourable lady. Then Sir Launcelot spoke again: "Now, my Lord Arthur, in my own defence it behoves me to say that never in aught have I been false to you. That I slew certain knights is true; but I hold me guiltless, seeing that they brought death upon themselves. For no sooner had I gone to the Queen's bower, as she had commanded me, than they beset the door, with shameful outcry, that all the court might hear, calling me traitor and felon knight." "And rightly they called you," cried Sir Gawain fiercely. "My lord, Sir Gawain," answered Sir Launcelot, "in their quarrel they proved not themselves right, else had not I, alone, encountered fourteen knights and come forth unscathed." Then said King Arthur: "Sir Launcelot, I have ever loved you above all other knights, and trusted you to the uttermost; but ill have ye done by me and mine." "My lord," said Launcelot, "that I slew Sir Gareth I shall mourn as long as life lasts. As soon would I have slain my own nephew, Sir Bors, as have harmed Sir Gareth wittingly; for I myself made him knight, and loved him as my brother." "Liar and traitor," cried Sir Gawain, "ye slew him, defenceless and unarmed." "It is full plain, Sir Gawain," said Launcelot, "that never again shall I have your love; and yet there has been old kindness between us, and once ye thanked me that I saved your life." "It shall not avail you now," said Sir Gawain; "traitor ye are, both to the King and to me. Know that, while life lasts, never will I rest until I have avenged my brother Sir Gareth's death upon you." "Fair nephew," said the King, "cease your brawling. Sir Launcelot has come under surety of my word that none shall do him harm. Elsewhere, and at another time, fasten a quarrel upon him, if quarrel ye must." "I care not," cried Sir Gawain fiercely. "The proud traitor trusts so in his own strength that he thinks none dare meet him. But here I defy him and swear that, be it in open combat or by stealth, I shall have his life. And know, mine uncle and King, if I shall not have your aid, I and mine will leave you for ever, and, if need be, fight even against you." "Peace," said the King; and to Sir Launcelot: "We give you fifteen days in which to leave this kingdom." Then Sir Launcelot sighed heavily and said: "Full well I see that no sorrow of mine for what is past availeth me." Then he went to the Queen where she sat, and said: "Madam, the time is come when I must leave this fair realm that I have loved. Think well of me, I pray you, and send for me if ever there be aught in which a true knight may serve lady." Therewith he turned him about and, without greeting to any, passed through the hall, and with his faithful knights rode to the Joyous Garde, though ever thereafter, in memory of that sad day, he called it the Dolorous Garde. There he called about him his friends and kinsmen, saying: "Fair Knights, I must now pass into my own lands." Then they all, with one voice, cried that they would go with him. So he thanked them, promising them all fair estates and great honour when they were come to his kingdom; for all France belonged to Sir Launcelot. Yet was he loth to leave the land where he had followed so many glorious adventures, and sore he mourned to part in anger from King Arthur. "My mind misgives me," said Sir Launcelot, "but that trouble shall come of Sir Mordred, for he is envious and a mischief-maker, and it grieves me that never more I may serve Sir Arthur and his realm." So Sir Launcelot sorrowed; but his kinsmen were wroth for the dishonour done him, and making haste to depart, by the fifteenth day they were all embarked to sail overseas to France. CHAPTER XXXIV HOW KING ARTHUR AND SIR GAWAIN WENT TO FRANCE From the day when Sir Launcelot brought the Queen to Carlisle, never would Gawain suffer the King to be at rest; but always he desired him to call his army together that they might go to attack Sir Launcelot in his own land. Now King Arthur was loth to war against Sir Launcelot; and seeing this, Sir Gawain upbraided him bitterly. "I see well it is naught to you that my brother, Sir Gareth, died fulfilling your behest. Little ye care if all your knights be slain, if only the traitor Launcelot escape. Since, then, ye will not do me justice nor avenge your own nephew, I and my fellows will take the traitor when and how we may. He trusts in his own might that none can encounter with him; let see if we may not entrap him." Thus urged, King Arthur called his army together and bade collect a great fleet; for rather would he fight openly with Sir Launcelot than that Sir Gawain should bring such dishonour upon himself as to slay a noble knight treacherously. So with a great host, the King passed overseas to France, leaving Sir Mordred to rule Britain in his stead. When Launcelot heard that King Arthur and Sir Gawain were coming against him, he withdrew into the strong castle of Benwick; for unwilling indeed was he to fight with the King, or to do an injury to Sir Gareth's brother. The army passed through the land, laying it waste, and presently encamped about the castle, laying close siege to it; but so thick were the walls, and so watchful the garrison, that in no way could they prevail against it. One day, there came to Sir Launcelot seven brethren, brave knights of Wales, who had joined their fortunes to his, and said: "Sir Launcelot, bid us sally forth against this host which has invaded and laid waste your lands, and we will scatter it; for we are not wont to cower behind walls." "Fair lords," answered Launcelot, "it is grief to me to war on good Christian knights, and especially on my lord, King Arthur. Have but patience and I will send to him and see if, even now, there may not be a treaty of peace between us; for better far is peace than war." So Sir Launcelot sought out a damsel and, mounting her upon a palfrey, bade her ride to King Arthur's camp and require of the King to cease warring on his lands, proffering fair terms of peace. When the damsel came to the camp, there met her Sir Lucan the Butler, "Fair damsel," said Sir Lucan, "do ye come from Sir Launcelot?" "Yea, in good truth," said the damsel; "and, I pray you, lead me to King Arthur." "Now, may ye prosper in your errand," said Sir Lucan. "Our King loves Sir Launcelot dearly and wishes him well; but Sir Gawain will not suffer him to be reconciled to him." So when the damsel had come before the King, she told him all her tale, and much she said of Sir Launcelot's love and good-will to his lord the King, so that the tears stood in Arthur's eyes. But Sir Gawain broke in roughly: "My Lord and uncle, shall it be said of us that we came hither with such a host to hie us home again, nothing done, to be the scoff of all men?" "Nephew," said the King, "methinks Sir Launcelot offers fair and generously. It were well if ye would accept his proffer. Nevertheless, as the quarrel is yours, so shall the answer be." "Then, damsel," said Sir Gawain, "say unto Sir Launcelot that the time for peace is past. And tell him that I, Sir Gawain, swear by the faith I owe to knighthood that never will I forego my revenge." So the damsel returned to Sir Launcelot and told him all. Sir Launcelot's heart was filled with grief nigh unto breaking; but his knights were enraged and clamoured that he had endured too much of insult and wrong, and that he should lead them forth to battle. Sir Launcelot armed him sorrowfully, and presently the gates were set open and he rode forth, he and all his company. But to all his knights he had given commandment that none should seek King Arthur; "For never," said he, "will I see the noble King, who made me knight, either killed or shamed." Fierce was the battle between those two hosts. On Launcelot's side, Sir Bors and Sir Lavaine and many another did right well; while on the other side, King Arthur bore him as the noble knight he was, and Sir Gawain raged through the battle, seeking to come at Sir Launcelot. Presently, Sir Bors encountered with King Arthur, and unhorsed him. This Sir Launcelot saw and, coming to the King's side, he alighted and, raising him from the ground, mounted him upon his own horse. Then King Arthur, looking upon Launcelot, cried: "Ah! Launcelot, Launcelot! That ever there should be war between us two!" and tears stood in the King's eyes. "Ah! my Lord Arthur," cried Sir Launcelot, "I pray you stay this war." As they spoke thus, Sir Gawain came upon them, and, miscalling Sir Launcelot traitor and coward, had almost ridden upon him before Launcelot could provide him of another horse. Then the two hosts drew back, each on its own side, to see the battle between Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawain; for they wheeled their horses, and departing far asunder, rushed again upon each other with the noise of thunder, and each bore the other from his horse. Then they put their shields before them and set on each other with their swords; but while ever Sir Gawain smote fiercely, Sir Launcelot was content only to ward off blows, because he would not, for Sir Gareth's sake, do any harm to Sir Gawain. But the more Sir Launcelot forbore him, the more furiously Sir Gawain struck, so that Sir Launcelot had much ado to defend himself, and at the last smote Gawain on the helm so mightily that he bore him to the ground. Then Sir Launcelot stood back from Sir Gawain. But Gawain cried: "Why do ye draw back, traitor knight? Slay me while ye may, for never will I cease to be your enemy while my life lasts." "Sir," said Launcelot, "I shall withstand you as I may; but never will I smite a fallen knight." Then he spoke to King Arthur: "My Lord, I pray you, if but for this day, draw off your men. And think upon our former love if ye may; but, be ye friend or foe, God keep you." Thereupon Sir Launcelot drew off with his men into his castle, and King Arthur and his company to their tents. As for Sir Gawain, his squires bore him to his tent where his wounds were dressed. BOOK XI THE MORTE D'ARTHUR CHAPTER XXXV MORDRED THE TRAITOR So Sir Gawain lay healing of the grim wound which Sir Launcelot had given him, and there was peace between the two armies, when there came messengers from Britain bearing letters for King Arthur; and more evil news than they brought might not well be, for they told how Sir Mordred had usurped his uncle's realm. First, he had caused it to be noised abroad that King Arthur was slain in battle with Sir Launcelot, and, since there be many ever ready to believe any idle rumour and eager for any change, it had been no hard task for Sir Mordred to call the lords to a Parliament and persuade them to make him king. But the Queen could not be brought to believe that her lord was dead, so she took refuge in the Tower of London from Sir Mordred's violence, nor was she to be induced to leave her strong refuge for aught that Mordred could promise or threaten. This was the news that came to Arthur as he lay encamped about Sir Launcelot's castle of Benwick. Forthwith he bade his host make ready to move, and when they had reached the coast, they embarked and made sail to reach Britain with all possible speed. Sir Mordred, on his part, had heard of their sailing, and hasted to get together a great army. It was grievous to see how many a stout knight held by Mordred, ay, even many whom Arthur himself had raised to honour and fortune; for it is the nature of men to be fickle. Thus it was that, when Arthur drew near to Dover, he found Mordred with a mighty host, waiting to oppose his landing. Then there was a great sea-fight, those of Mordred's party going out in boats, great and small, to board King Arthur's ships and slay him and his men or ever they should come to land. Right valiantly did King Arthur bear him, as was his wont, and boldly his followers fought in his cause, so that at last they drove off their enemies and landed at Dover in spite of Mordred and his array. For that time Mordred fled, and King Arthur bade those of his party bury the slain and tend the wounded. So as they passed from ship to ship, salving and binding the hurts of the men, they came at last upon Sir Gawain, where he lay at the bottom of a boat, wounded to the death, for he had received a great blow on the wound that Sir Launcelot had given him. They bore him to his tent, and his uncle, the King, came to him, sorrowing beyond measure. "Methinks," said the King, "my joy on earth is done; for never have I loved any men as I have loved you, my nephew, and Sir Launcelot. Sir Launcelot I have lost, and now I see you on your death-bed." "My King," said Sir Gawain, "my hour is come, and I have got my death at Sir Launcelot's hand; for I am smitten on the wound he gave me. And rightly am I served, for of my willfulness and stubbornness comes this unhappy war. I pray you, my uncle, raise me in your arms and let me write to Sir Launcelot before I die." Thus, then, Sir Gawain wrote: "To Sir Launcelot, the noblest of all knights, I, Gawain, send greeting before I die. For I am smitten on the wound ye gave me before your castle of Benwick in France, and I bid all men bear witness that I sought my own death and that ye are innocent of it. I pray you, by our friendship of old, come again into Britain, and when ye look upon my tomb, pray for Gawain of Orkney. Farewell." So Sir Gawain died and was buried in the Chapel at Dover. CHAPTER XXXVI THE BATTLE IN THE WEST The day after the battle at Dover, King Arthur and his host pursued Sir Mordred to Barham Down where again there was a great battle fought, with much slaughter on both sides; but, in the end, Arthur was victorious, and Mordred fled to Canterbury. Now, by this time, many that Mordred had cheated by his lying reports, had drawn unto King Arthur, to whom at heart they had ever been loyal, knowing him for a true and noble king and hating themselves for having been deceived by such a false usurper as Sir Mordred. Then when he found that he was being deserted, Sir Mordred withdrew to the far West, for there men knew less of what had happened, and so he might still find some to believe in him and support him; and being without conscience, he even called to his aid the heathen hosts that his uncle, King Arthur, had driven from the land, in the good years when Launcelot was of the Round Table. King Arthur followed ever after; for in his heart was bitter anger against the false nephew who had wrought woe upon him and all his realm. At the last, when Mordred could flee no further, the two hosts were drawn up near the shore of the great western sea; and it was the Feast of the Holy Trinity. That night, as King Arthur slept, he thought that Sir Gawain stood before him, looking just as he did in life, and said to him: "My uncle and my King, God in his great love has suffered me to come unto you, to warn you that in no wise ye fight on the morrow; for if ye do, ye shall be slain, and with you the most part of the people on both sides. Make ye, therefore, treaty for a month, and within that time, Sir Launcelot shall come to you with all his knights, and ye shall overthrow the traitor and all that hold with him." Therewith, Sir Gawain vanished. Immediately, the King awoke and called to him the best and wisest of his knights, the two brethren, Sir Lucan the Butler and Sir Bedivere, and others, to whom he told his dream. Then all were agreed that, on any terms whatsoever, a treaty should be made with Sir Mordred, even as Sir Gawain had said; and, with the dawn, messengers went to the camp of the enemy, to call Sir Mordred to a conference. So it was determined that the meeting should take place in the sight of both armies, in an open space between the two camps, and that King Arthur and Mordred should each be accompanied by fourteen knights. Little enough faith had either in the other, so when they set forth to the meeting, they bade their hosts join battle if ever they saw a sword drawn. Thus they went to the conference. Now as they talked, it befell that an adder, coming out of a bush hard by, stung a knight in the foot; and he, seeing the snake, drew his sword to kill it and thought no harm thereby. But on the instant that the sword flashed, the trumpets blared on both sides and the two hosts rushed to battle. Never was there fought a fight of such bitter enmity; for brother fought with brother, and comrade with comrade, and fiercely they cut and thrust, with many a bitter word between; while King Arthur himself, his heart hot within him, rode through and through the battle, seeking the traitor Mordred. So they fought all day, till at last the evening fell. Then Arthur, looking around him, saw of his valiant knights but two left, Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere, and these sore wounded; and there, over against him, by a great heap of the dead, stood Sir Mordred, the cause of all this ruin. Thereupon the King, his heart nigh broken with grief for the loss of his true knights, cried with a loud voice: "Traitor! now is thy doom upon thee!" and with his spear gripped in both hands, he rushed upon Sir Mordred and smote him that the weapon stood out a fathom behind. And Sir Mordred knew that he had his death-wound. With all the might that he had, he thrust him up the spear to the haft and, with his sword, struck King Arthur upon the head, that the steel pierced the helmet and bit into the head; then he fell back, stark and dead. Sir Lucan and Sir Bedivere went to the King where he lay, swooning from the blow, and bore him to a little chapel on the sea-shore. As they laid him on the ground, Sir Lucan fell dead beside the King, and Arthur, coming to himself, found but Sir Bedivere alive beside him. CHAPTER XXXVII THE PASSING OF ARTHUR So King Arthur lay wounded to the death, grieving, not that his end was come, but for the desolation of his kingdom and the loss of his good knights. And looking upon the body of Sir Lucan, he sighed and said: "Alas! true knight, dead for my sake! If I lived, I should ever grieve for thy death, but now mine own end draws nigh." Then, turning to Sir Bedivere, who stood sorrowing beside him, he said: "Leave weeping now, for the time is short and much to do. Hereafter shalt thou weep if thou wilt. But take now my sword Excalibur, hasten to the water side, and fling it into the deep. Then, watch what happens and bring me word thereof." "My Lord," said Sir Bedivere, "your command shall be obeyed"; and taking the sword, he departed. But as he went on his way, he looked on the sword, how wondrously it was formed and the hilt all studded with precious stones; and, as he looked, he called to mind the marvel by which it had come into the King's keeping. For on a certain day, as Arthur walked on the shore of a great lake, there had appeared above the surface of the water a hand brandishing a sword. On the instant, the King had leaped into a boat, and, rowing into the lake, had got the sword and brought it back to land. Then he had seen how, on one side the blade, was written, "Keep me," but on the other, "Throw me away," and, sore perplexed, he had shown it to Merlin, the great wizard, who said: "Keep it now. The time for casting away has not yet come." Thinking on this, it seemed to Bedivere that no good, but harm, must come of obeying the King's word; so hiding the sword under a tree, he hastened back to the little chapel. Then said the King: "What saw'st thou?" "Sir," answered Bedivere, "I saw naught but the waves, heard naught but the wind." "That is untrue," said King Arthur; "I charge thee, as thou art true knight, go again and spare not to throw away the sword." Sir Bedivere departed a second time, and his mind was to obey his lord; but when he took the sword in his hand, he thought: "Sin it is and shameful, to throw away so glorious a sword." Then, hiding it again, he hastened back to the King, "What saw'st thou?" said Sir Arthur. "Sir, I saw the water lap on the crags." Then spoke the King in great wrath: "Traitor and unkind! Twice hast thou betrayed me! Art dazzled by the splendour of the jewels, thou that, till now, hast ever been dear and true to me? Go yet again, but if thou fail me this time, I will arise and, with mine own hands, slay thee." Then Sir Bedivere left the King and, that time, he took the sword quickly from the place where he had hidden it and, forbearing even to look upon it, he twisted the belt about it and flung it with all his force into the water. A wondrous sight he saw, for, as the sword touched the water, a hand rose from out the deep, caught it, brandished it thrice, and drew it beneath the surface. Sir Bedivere hastened back to the King and told him what he had seen. "It is well," said Arthur; "now, bear me to the water's edge; and hasten, I pray thee, for I have tarried over-long and my wound has taken cold." So Sir Bedivere raised the King on his back and bore him tenderly to the lonely shore, where the lapping waves floated many an empty helmet and the fitful moonlight fell on the upturned faces of the dead. Scarce had they reached the shore when there hove in sight a barge, and on its deck stood three tall women, robed all in black and wearing crowns on their heads. "Place me in the barge," said the King, and softly Sir Bedivere lifted the King into it. And these three Queens wept sore over Arthur, and one took his head in her lap and chafed his hands, crying: "Alas! my brother, thou hast been over-long in coming and, I fear me, thy wound has taken cold." Then the barge began to move slowly from the land. When Sir Bedivere saw this, he lifted up his voice and cried with a bitter cry: "Ah! my Lord Arthur, thou art taken from me! And I, whither shall I go?" "Comfort thyself," said the King, "for in me is no comfort more. I pass to the Valley of Avilion, to heal me of my grievous wound. If thou seest me never again, pray for me." So the barge floated away out of sight, and Sir Bedivere stood straining his eyes after it till it had vanished utterly. Then he turned him about and journeyed through the forest until, at daybreak, he reached a hermitage. Entering it, he prayed the holy hermit that he might abide with him, and there he spent the rest of his life in prayer and holy exercise. But of King Arthur is no more known. Some men, indeed, say that he is not dead, but abides in the happy Valley of Avilion until such time as his country's need is sorest, when he shall come again and deliver it. Others say that, of a truth, he is dead, and that, in the far West, his tomb may be seen, and written on it these words: "Here lies Arthur, once King and King to be." CHAPTER XXXVIII THE DEATH OF SIR LAUNCELOT AND OF THE QUEEN When news reached Sir Launcelot in his own land of the treason of Mordred, he gathered his lords and knights together, and rested not till he had come to Britain to aid King Arthur. He landed at Dover, and there the evil tidings were told him, how the King had met his death at the hands of his traitor nephew. Then was Sir Launcelot's heart nigh broken for grief. "Alas!" he cried, "that I should live to know my King overthrown by such a felon! What have I done that I should have caused the deaths of the good knights, Sir Gareth, Sir Gaheris, and Sir Gawain, and yet that such a villain should escape my sword!" Then he desired to be led to Sir Gawain's tomb where he remained long in prayer and in great lamentation; after which he called to him his kinsmen and friends, and said to them: "My fair lords, I thank you all most heartily that, of your courtesy, ye came with me to this land. That we be come too late is a misfortune that might not be avoided, though I shall mourn it my life long. And now I will ride forth alone to find my lady the Queen in the West, whither men say she has fled. Wait for me, I pray you, for fifteen days, and then, if ye hear naught of me, return to your own lands." So Sir Launcelot rode forth alone, nor would he suffer any to follow him, despite their prayers and entreaties. Thus he rode some seven or eight days until, at the last, he came to a nunnery where he saw in the cloister many nuns waiting on a fair lady; none other, indeed, than Queen Guenevere herself. And she, looking up, saw Sir Launcelot, and at the sight, grew so pale that her ladies feared for her; but she recovered, and bade them go and bring Sir Launcelot to her presence. When he was come, she said to him: "Sir Launcelot, glad am I to see thee once again that I may bid thee farewell; for in this world shall we never meet again." "Sweet Madam," answered Sir Launcelot, "I was minded, with your leave, to bear you to my own country, where I doubt not but I should guard you well and safely from your enemies." "Nay, Launcelot," said the Queen, "that may not be; I am resolved never to look upon the world again, but here to pass my life in prayer and in such good works as I may. But thou, do thou get back to thine own land and take a fair wife; and ye both shall ever have my prayers." "Madam," replied Sir Launcelot, "ye know well that shall never be. And since ye are resolved to lead a life of prayer, I, too, will forsake the world if I can find hermit to share his cell with me; for ever your will has been mine." Long and earnestly he looked upon her as he might never gaze enough; then, getting to horse, he rode slowly away. Nor did they ever meet again in life. For Queen Guenevere abode in the great nunnery of Almesbury where Sir Launcelot had found her, and presently, for the holiness of her life, was made Abbess. But Sir Launcelot, after he had left her, rode on his way till he came to the cell where Sir Bedivere dwelt with the holy hermit; and when Sir Bedivere had told him all that had befallen, of the great battle in the West, and of the passing away of Arthur, Sir Launcelot flung down his arms and implored the holy hermit to let him remain there as the servant of God. So Sir Launcelot donned the serge gown and abode in the hermitage as the priest of God. Presently there came riding that way the good Sir Bors, Launcelot's nephew; for, when Sir Launcelot returned not to Dover, Sir Bors and many another knight went forth in search of him. There, then, Sir Bors remained and, within a half-year, there joined themselves to these three many who in former days had been fellows of the Round Table; and the fame of their piety spread far and wide. So six years passed and then, one night, Launcelot had a vision. It seemed to him that one said to him: "Launcelot, arise and go in haste to Almesbury. There shalt thou find Queen Guenevere dead, and it shall be for thee to bury her." Sir Launcelot arose at once and, calling his fellows to him, told them his dream. Immediately, with all haste, they set forth towards Almesbury and, arriving there the second day, found the Queen dead, as had been foretold in the vision. So with the state and ceremony befitting a great Queen, they buried her in the Abbey of Glastonbury, in that same church where, some say, King Arthur's tomb is to be found. Launcelot it was who performed the funeral rites and chanted the requiem; but when all was done, he pined away, growing weaker daily. So at the end of six weeks, he called to him his fellows, and bidding them all farewell, desired that his dead body should be conveyed to the Joyous Garde, there to be buried; for that in the church at Glastonbury he was not worthy to lie. And that same night he died, and was buried, as he had desired, in his own castle. So passed from the world the bold Sir Launcelot du Lac, bravest, most courteous, and most gentle of knights, whose peer the world has never seen ever shall. After Sir Launcelot's death, Sir Bors and the pious knights, his companions, took their way to the Holy Land, and there they died in battle against the Turk. So ends the story of King Arthur and his noble fellowship of the Round Table. 
17071	----	Transcribed from the 1889 W. W. Gibbings edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS SCOTLAND W. W. GIBBINGS 18 BURY ST., LONDON, W.C. 1889 Contents: Prefatory Note Canobie Dick and Thomas of Ercildoun. Coinnach Oer. Elphin Irving. The Ghosts of Craig-Aulnaic. The Doomed Rider. Whippety Stourie. The Weird of the Three Arrows. The Laird of Balmachie's Wife. Michael Scott. The Minister and the Fairy. The Fisherman and the Merman. The Laird O' Co'. Ewen of the Little Head. Jock and his Mother. Saint Columba. The Mermaid Wife. The Fiddler and the Bogle of Bogandoran. Thomas the Rhymer. Fairy Friends. The Seal-Catcher's Adventure. The Fairies of Merlin's Craig. Rory Macgillivray. The Haunted Ships. The Brownie. Mauns' Stane. "Horse and Hattock." Secret Commonwealth. The Fairy Boy of Leith. The Dracae. Lord Tarbat's Relations. The Bogle. Daoine Shie, or the Men of Peace. The Death "Bree." PREFATORY NOTE The distinctive features of Scotch Folk-lore are such as might have been expected from a consideration of the characteristics of Scotch scenery. The rugged grandeur of the mountain, the solemn influence of the widespreading moor, the dark face of the deep mountain loch, the babbling of the little stream, seem all to be reflected in the popular tales and superstitions. The acquaintance with nature in a severe, grand, and somewhat terrible form must necessarily have its effect on the human mind, and the Scotch mind and character bear the impress of their natural surroundings. The fairies, the brownies, the bogles of Scotland are the same beings as those with whom the Irish have peopled the hills, the nooks, and the streams of their land, yet how different, how distinguished from their counterparts, how clothed, as it were, in the national dress! CANOBIE DICK AND THOMAS OF ERCILDOUN. Now it chanced many years since that there lived on the Borders a jolly rattling horse-cowper, who was remarkable for a reckless and fearless temper, which made him much admired and a little dreaded amongst his neighbours. One moonlight night, as he rode over Bowden Moor, on the west side of the Eildon Hills, the scene of Thomas the Rhymer's prophecies, and often mentioned in his history, having a brace of horses along with him, which he had not been able to dispose of, he met a man of venerable appearance and singularly antique dress, who, to his great surprise, asked the price of his horses, and began to chaffer with him on the subject. To Canobie Dick, for so shall we call our Border dealer, a chap was a chap, and he would have sold a horse to the devil himself, without minding his cloven hoof, and would have probably cheated Old Nick into the bargain. The stranger paid the price they agreed on, and all that puzzled Dick in the transaction was, that the gold which he received was in unicorns, bonnet-pieces, and other ancient coins, which would have been invaluable to collectors, but were rather troublesome in modern currency. It was gold, however, and therefore Dick contrived to get better value for the coin than he perhaps gave to his customer. By the command of so good a merchant, he brought horses to the same spot more than once; the purchaser only stipulating that he should always come by night and alone. I do not know whether it was from mere curiosity, or whether some hope of gain mixed with it, but after Dick had sold several horses in this way, he began to complain that dry bargains were unlucky, and to hint, that since his chap must live in the neighbourhood, he ought, in the courtesy of dealing, to treat him to half a mutchkin. "You may see my dwelling if you will," said the stranger; "but if you lose courage at what you see there, you will rue it all your life." Dickon, however, laughed the warning to scorn, and having alighted to secure his horse, he followed the stranger up a narrow footpath, which led them up the hills to the singular eminence stuck betwixt the most southern and the centre peaks, and called, from its resemblance to such an animal in its form, the Lucken Hare. At the foot of this eminence, which is almost as famous for witch-meetings as the neighbouring windmill of Kippilaw, Dick was somewhat startled to observe that his conductor entered the hillside by a passage or cavern, of which he himself, though well acquainted with the spot, had never seen nor heard. "You may still return," said his guide, looking ominously back upon him; but Dick scorned to show the white feather, and on they went. They entered a very long range of stables; in every stall stood a coal-black horse; by every horse lay a knight in coal-black armour, with a drawn sword in his hand; but all were as silent, hoof and limb, as if they had been cut out of marble. A great number of torches lent a gloomy lustre to the hall, which, like those of the Caliph Vathek, was of large dimensions. At the upper end, however, they at length arrived, where a sword and horn lay on an antique table. "He that shall sound that horn and draw that sword," said the stranger, who now intimated that he was the famous Thomas of Ercildoun, "shall, if his heart fail him not, be king over all broad Britain. So speaks the tongue that cannot lie. But all depends on courage, and much on your taking the sword or horn first." Dick was much disposed to take the sword, but his bold spirit was quailed by the supernatural terrors of the hall, and he thought to unsheathe the sword first might be construed into defiance, and give offence to the powers of the mountain. He took the bugle with a trembling hand, and blew a feeble note, but loud enough to produce a terrible answer. Thunder rolled in stunning peals through the immense hall; horses and men started to life; the steeds snorted, stamped, ground their bits, and tossed their heads; the warriors sprang to their feet, clashed their armour, and brandished their swords. Dick's terror was extreme at seeing the whole army, which had been so lately silent as the grave, in uproar, and about to rush on him. He dropped the horn, and made a feeble attempt to seize the enchanted sword; but at the same moment a voice pronounced aloud the mysterious words-- "Woe to the coward, that ever he was born, Who did not draw the sword before he blew the horn!" At the same time a whirlwind of irresistible fury howled through the long hall, bore the unfortunate horse-jockey clear out of the mouth of the cavern, and precipitated him over a steep bank of loose stones, where the shepherds found him the next morning, with just breath sufficient to tell his fearful tale, after concluding which he expired. COINNACH OER. Coinnach Oer, which means Dun Kenneth, was a celebrated man in his generation. He has been called the Isaiah of the North. The prophecies of this man are very frequently alluded to and quoted in various parts of the Highlands; although little is known of the man himself, except in Ross-shire. He was a small farmer in Strathpeffer, near Dingwall, and for many years of his life neither exhibited any talents, nor claimed any intelligence above his fellows. The manner in which he obtained the prophetic gift was told by himself in the following manner:-- As he was one day at work in the hill casting (digging) peats, he heard a voice which seemed to call to him out of the air. It commanded him to dig under a little green knoll which was near, and to gather up the small white stones which he would discover beneath the turf. The voice informed him, at the same time, that while he kept these stones in his possession, he should be endued with the power of supernatural foreknowledge. Kenneth, though greatly alarmed at this aerial conversation, followed the directions of his invisible instructor, and turning up the turf on the hillock, in a little time discovered the talismans. From that day forward, the mind of Kenneth was illuminated by gleams of unearthly light; and he made many predictions, of which the credulity of the people, and the coincidence of accident, often supplied confirmation; and he certainly became the most notable of the Highland prophets. The most remarkable and well known of his vaticinations is the following:--"Whenever a M'Lean with long hands, a Fraser with a black spot on his face, a M'Gregor with a black knee, and a club-footed M'Leod of Raga, shall have existed; whenever there shall have been successively three M'Donalds of the name of John, and three M'Kinnons of the same Christian name,--oppressors will appear in the country, and the people will change their own land for a strange one." All these personages have appeared since; and it is the common opinion of the peasantry, that the consummation of the prophecy was fulfilled, when the exaction of the exorbitant rents reduced the Highlanders to poverty, and the introduction of the sheep banished the people to America. Whatever might have been the gift of Kenneth Oer, he does not appear to have used it with an extraordinary degree of discretion; and the last time he exercised it, he was very near paying dear for his divination. On this occasion he happened to be at some high festival of the M'Kenzies at Castle Braan. One of the guests was so exhilarated by the scene of gaiety, that he could not forbear an eulogium on the gallantry of the feast, and the nobleness of the guests. Kenneth, it appears, had no regard for the M'Kenzies, and was so provoked by this sally in their praise, that he not only broke out into a severe satire against their whole race, but gave vent to the prophetic denunciation of wrath and confusion upon their posterity. The guests being informed (or having overheard a part) of this rhapsody, instantly rose up with one accord to punish the contumely of the prophet. Kenneth, though he foretold the fate of others, did not in any manner look into that of himself; for this reason, being doubtful of debating the propriety of his prediction upon such unequal terms, he fled with the greatest precipitation. The M'Kenzies followed with infinite zeal; and more than one ball had whistled over the head of the seer before he reached Loch Ousie. The consequences of this prediction so disgusted Kenneth with any further exercise of his prophetic calling, that, in the anguish of his flight, he solemnly renounced all communication with its power; and, as he ran along the margin of Loch Ousie, he took out the wonderful pebbles, and cast them in a fury into the water. Whether his evil genius had now forsaken him, or his condition was better than that of his pursuers, is unknown, but certain it is, Kenneth, after the sacrifice of the pebbles, outstripped his enraged enemies, and never, so far as I have heard, made any attempt at prophecy from the hour of his escape. Kenneth Oer had a son, who was called Ian Dubh Mac Coinnach (Black John, the son of Kenneth), and lived in the village of Miltoun, near Dingwall. His chief occupation was brewing whisky; and he was killed in a fray at Miltoun, early in the present century. His exit would not have formed the catastrophe of an epic poem, and appears to have been one of those events of which his father had no intelligence, for it happened in the following manner:-- Having fallen into a dispute with a man with whom he had previously been on friendly terms, they proceeded to blows; in the scuffle, the boy, the son of Ian's adversary, observing the two combatants locked in a close and firm gripe of eager contention, and being doubtful of the event, ran into the house and brought out the iron pot-crook, with which he saluted the head of the unfortunate Ian so severely, that he not only relinquished his combat, but departed this life on the ensuing morning. ELPHIN IRVING. THE FAIRIES' CUPBEARER. "The lady kilted her kirtle green A little aboon her knee, The lady snooded her yellow hair A little aboon her bree, And she's gane to the good greenwood As fast as she could hie. And first she let the black steed pass, And syne she let the brown, And then she flew to the milk-white steed, And pulled the rider down: Syne out then sang the queen o' the fairies, Frae midst a bank of broom, She that has won him, young Tamlane, Has gotten a gallant groom." _Old Ballad_. "The romantic vale of Corriewater, in Annandale, is regarded by the inhabitants, a pastoral and unmingled people, as the last border refuge of those beautiful and capricious beings, the fairies. Many old people yet living imagine they have had intercourse of good words and good deeds with the 'good folk'; and continue to tell that in the ancient days the fairies danced on the hill, and revelled in the glen, and showed themselves, like the mysterious children of the deity of old, among the sons and daughters of men. Their visits to the earth were periods of joy and mirth to mankind, rather than of sorrow and apprehension. They played on musical instruments of wonderful sweetness and variety of note, spread unexpected feasts, the supernatural flavour of which overpowered on many occasions the religious scruples of the Presbyterian shepherds, performed wonderful deeds of horsemanship, and marched in midnight processions, when the sound of their elfin minstrelsy charmed youths and maidens into love for their persons and pursuits; and more than one family of Corriewater have the fame of augmenting the numbers of the elfin chivalry. Faces of friends and relatives, long since doomed to the battle-trench or the deep sea, have been recognised by those who dared to gaze on the fairy march. The maid has seen her lost lover, and the mother her stolen child; and the courage to plan and achieve their deliverance has been possessed by, at least, one border maiden. In the legends of the people of Corrievale, there is a singular mixture of elfin and human adventure, and the traditional story of the Cupbearer to the Queen of the Fairies appeals alike to our domestic feelings and imagination. "In one of the little green loops or bends on the banks of Corriewater, mouldered walls, and a few stunted wild plum-trees and vagrant roses, still point out the site of a cottage and garden. A well of pure spring- water leaps out from an old tree-root before the door; and here the shepherds, shading themselves in summer from the influence of the sun, tell to their children the wild tale of Elphin Irving and his sister Phemie; and, singular as the story seems, it has gained full credence among the people where the scene is laid." "I ken the tale and the place weel," interrupted an old Scottish woman, who, from the predominance of scarlet in her apparel, seemed to have been a follower of the camp,--"I ken them weel, and the tale's as true as a bullet to its aim and a spark to powder. O bonnie Corriewater, a thousand times have I pulled gowans on its banks wi' ane that lies stiff and stark on a foreign shore in a bloody grave;" and, sobbing audibly, she drew the remains of a military cloak over her face, and allowed the story to proceed. "When Elphin Irving and his sister Phemie were in their sixteenth year, for tradition says they were twins, their father was drowned in Corriewater, attempting to save his sheep from a sudden swell, to which all mountain streams are liable; and their mother, on the day of her husband's burial, laid down her head on the pillow, from which, on the seventh day, it was lifted to be dressed for the same grave. The inheritance left to the orphans may be briefly described: seventeen acres of plough and pasture land, seven milk cows, and seven pet sheep (many old people take delight in odd numbers); and to this may be added seven bonnet-pieces of Scottish gold, and a broadsword and spear, which their ancestor had wielded with such strength and courage in the battle of Dryfe Sands, that the minstrel who sang of that deed of arms ranked him only second to the Scotts and Johnstones. "The youth and his sister grew in stature and in beauty. The brent bright brow, the clear blue eye, and frank and blithe deportment of the former gave him some influence among the young women of the valley; while the latter was no less the admiration of the young men, and at fair and dance, and at bridal, happy was he who touched but her hand, or received the benediction of her eye. Like all other Scottish beauties, she was the theme of many a song; and while tradition is yet busy with the singular history of her brother, song has taken all the care that rustic minstrelsy can of the gentleness of her spirit and the charms of her person." "Now I vow," exclaimed a wandering piper, "by mine own honoured instrument, and by all other instruments that ever yielded music for the joy and delight of mankind, that there are more bonnie songs made about fair Phemie Irving than about all other dames of Annandale, and many of them are both high and bonnie. A proud lass maun she be if her spirit hears; and men say the dust lies not insensible of beautiful verse; for her charms are breathed through a thousand sweet lips, and no further gone than yestermorn I heard a lass singing on a green hillside what I shall not readily forget. If ye like to listen, ye shall judge; and it will not stay the story long, nor mar it much, for it is short, and about Phemie Irving." And, accordingly, he chanted the following rude verses, not unaccompanied by his honoured instrument, as he called his pipe, which chimed in with great effect, and gave richness to a voice which felt better than it could express:-- FAIR PHEMIE IRVING. Gay is thy glen, Corrie, With all thy groves flowering; Green is thy glen, Corrie, When July is showering; And sweet is yon wood where The small birds are bowering, And there dwells the sweet one Whom I am adoring. Her round neck is whiter Than winter when snowing; Her meek voice is milder Than Ae in its flowing; The glad ground yields music Where she goes by the river; One kind glance would charm me For ever and ever. The proud and the wealthy To Phemie are bowing; No looks of love win they With sighing or suing; Far away maun I stand With my rude wooing, She's a flow'ret too lovely Too bloom for my pu'ing. Oh were I yon violet On which she is walking; Oh were I yon small bird To which she is talking; Or yon rose in her hand, With its ripe ruddy blossom; Or some pure gentle thought To be blest with her bosom. This minstrel interruption, while it established Phemie Irving's claim to grace and to beauty, gave me additional confidence to pursue the story. "But minstrel skill and true love-tale seemed to want their usual influence when they sought to win her attention; she was only observed to pay most respect to those youths who were most beloved by her brother; and the same hour that brought these twins to the world seemed to have breathed through them a sweetness and an affection of heart and mind which nothing could divide. If, like the virgin queen of the immortal poet, she walked 'in maiden meditation fancy free,' her brother Elphin seemed alike untouched with the charms of the fairest virgins in Corrie. He ploughed his field, he reaped his grain, he leaped, he ran, and wrestled, and danced, and sang, with more skill and life and grace than all other youths of the district; but he had no twilight and stolen interviews; when all other young men had their loves by their side, he was single, though not unsought, and his joy seemed never perfect save when his sister was near him. If he loved to share his time with her, she loved to share her time with him alone, or with the beasts of the field, or the birds of the air. She watched her little flock late, and she tended it early; not for the sordid love of the fleece, unless it was to make mantles for her brother, but with the look of one who had joy in its company. The very wild creatures, the deer and the hares, seldom sought to shun her approach, and the bird forsook not its nest, nor stinted its song, when she drew nigh; such is the confidence which maiden innocence and beauty inspire. "It happened one summer, about three years after they became orphans, that rain had been for a while withheld from the earth, the hillsides began to parch, the grass in the vales to wither, and the stream of Corrie was diminished between its banks to the size of an ordinary rill. The shepherds drove their flocks to moorlands, and marsh and tarn had their reeds invaded by the scythe to supply the cattle with food. The sheep of his sister were Elphin's constant care; he drove them to the moistest pastures during the day, and he often watched them at midnight, when flocks, tempted by the sweet dewy grass, are known to browse eagerly, that he might guard them from the fox, and lead them to the choicest herbage. In these nocturnal watchings he sometimes drove his little flock over the water of Corrie, for the fords were hardly ankle- deep; or permitted his sheep to cool themselves in the stream, and taste the grass which grew along the brink. All this time not a drop of rain fell, nor did a cloud appear in the sky. "One evening, during her brother's absence with the flock, Phemie sat at her cottage-door, listening to the bleatings of the distant folds and the lessened murmur of the water of Corrie, now scarcely audible beyond its banks. Her eyes, weary with watching along the accustomed line of road for the return of Elphin, were turned on the pool beside her, in which the stars were glimmering fitful and faint. As she looked she imagined the water grew brighter and brighter; a wild illumination presently shone upon the pool, and leaped from bank to bank, and suddenly changing into a human form, ascended the margin, and, passing her, glided swiftly into the cottage. The visionary form was so like her brother in shape and air, that, starting up, she flew into the house, with the hope of finding him in his customary seat. She found him not, and, impressed with the terror which a wraith or apparition seldom fails to inspire, she uttered a shriek so loud and so piercing as to be heard at Johnstone Bank, on the other side of the vale of Corrie." An old woman now rose suddenly from her seat in the window-sill, the living dread of shepherds, for she travelled the country with a brilliant reputation for witchcraft, and thus she broke in upon the narrative: "I vow, young man, ye tell us the truth upset and down-thrust. I heard my douce grandmother say that on the night when Elphin Irving disappeared--disappeared I shall call it, for the bairn can but be gone for a season, to return to us in his own appointed time--she was seated at the fireside at Johnstone Bank; the laird had laid aside his bonnet to take the Book, when a shriek mair loud, believe me, than a mere woman's shriek--and they can shriek loud enough, else they're sair wranged--came over the water of Corrie, so sharp and shrilling, that the pewter plates dinneled on the wall; such a shriek, my douce grandmother said, as rang in her ear till the hour of her death, and she lived till she was aughty- and-aught, forty full ripe years after the event. But there is another matter, which, doubtless, I cannot compel ye to believe: it was the common rumour that Elphin Irving came not into the world like the other sinful creatures of the earth, but was one of the kane-bairns of the fairies, whilk they had to pay to the enemy of man's salvation every seventh year. The poor lady-fairy--a mother's aye a mother, be she elves' flesh or Eve's flesh--hid her elf son beside the christened flesh in Marion Irving's cradle, and the auld enemy lost his prey for a time. Now, hasten on with your story, which is not a bodle the waur for me. The maiden saw the shape of her brother, fell into a faint, or a trance, and the neighbours came flocking in--gang on with your tale, young man, and dinna be affronted because an auld woman helped ye wi 't." "It is hardly known," I resumed, "how long Phemie Irving continued in a state of insensibility. The morning was far advanced, when a neighbouring maiden found her seated in an old chair, as white as monumental marble; her hair, about which she had always been solicitous, loosened from its curls, and hanging disordered over her neck and bosom, her hands and forehead. The maiden touched the one, and kissed the other; they were as cold as snow; and her eyes, wide open, were fixed on her brother's empty chair, with the intensity of gaze of one who had witnessed the appearance of a spirit. She seemed insensible of any one's presence, and sat fixed and still and motionless. The maiden, alarmed at her looks, thus addressed her:--'Phemie, lass, Phemie Irving! Dear me, but this be awful! I have come to tell ye that seven of your pet sheep have escaped drowning in the water; for Corrie, sae quiet and sae gentle yestreen, is rolling and dashing frae bank to bank this morning. Dear me, woman, dinna let the loss of the world's gear bereave ye of your senses. I would rather make ye a present of a dozen mug-ewes of the Tinwald brood myself; and now I think on 't, if ye'll send over Elphin, I will help him hame with them in the gloaming myself. So, Phemie, woman, be comforted.' "At the mention of her brother's name she cried out, 'Where is he? Oh, where is he?' gazed wildly round, and, shuddering from head to foot, fell senseless on the floor. Other inhabitants of the valley, alarmed by the sudden swell of the river, which had augmented to a torrent, deep and impassable, now came in to inquire if any loss had been sustained, for numbers of sheep and teds of hay had been observed floating down about the dawn of the morning. They assisted in reclaiming the unhappy maiden from her swoon; but insensibility was joy compared to the sorrow to which she awakened. 'They have ta'en him away, they have ta'en him away,' she chanted, in a tone of delirious pathos; 'him that was whiter and fairer than the lily on Lyddal Lee. They have long sought, and they have long sued, and they had the power to prevail against my prayers at last. They have ta'en him away; the flower is plucked from among the weeds, and the dove is slain amid a flock of ravens. They came with shout, and they came with song, and they spread the charm, and they placed the spell, and the baptised brow has been bowed down to the unbaptised hand. They have ta'en him away, they have ta'en him away; he was too lovely, and too good, and too noble, to bless us with his continuance on earth; for what are the sons of men compared to him?--the light of the moonbeam to the morning sun, the glowworm to the eastern star. They have ta'en him away, the invisible dwellers of the earth. I saw them come on him with shouting and with singing, and they charmed him where he sat, and away they bore him; and the horse he rode was never shod with iron, nor owned before the mastery of human hand. They have ta'en him away over the water, and over the wood, and over the hill. I got but ae look of his bonnie blue ee, but ae; ae look. But as I have endured what never maiden endured, so will I undertake what never maiden undertook, I will win him from them all. I know the invisible ones of the earth; I have heard their wild and wondrous music in the wild woods, and there shall a christened maiden seek him, and achieve his deliverance.' She paused, and glancing around a circle of condoling faces, down which the tears were dropping like rain, said, in a calm and altered but still delirious tone: 'Why do you weep, Mary Halliday? and why do you weep, John Graeme? Ye think that Elphin Irving--oh, it's a bonnie, bonnie name, and dear to many a maiden's heart, as well as mine--ye think he is drowned in Corrie; and ye will seek in the deep, deep pools for the bonnie, bonnie corse, that ye may weep over it, as it lies in its last linen, and lay it, amid weeping and wailing in the dowie kirkyard. Ye may seek, but ye shall never find; so leave me to trim up my hair, and prepare my dwelling, and make myself ready to watch for the hour of his return to upper earth.' And she resumed her household labours with an alacrity which lessened not the sorrow of her friends. "Meanwhile the rumour flew over the vale that Elphin Irving was drowned in Corriewater. Matron and maid, old man and young, collected suddenly along the banks of the river, which now began to subside to its natural summer limits, and commenced their search; interrupted every now and then by calling from side to side, and from pool to pool, and by exclamations of sorrow for this misfortune. The search was fruitless: five sheep, pertaining to the flock which he conducted to pasture, were found drowned in one of the deep eddies; but the river was still too brown, from the soil of its moorland sources, to enable them to see what its deep shelves, its pools, and its overhanging and hazelly banks concealed. They remitted further search till the stream should become pure; and old man taking old man aside, began to whisper about the mystery of the youth's disappearance; old women laid their lips to the ears of their coevals, and talked of Elphin Irving's fairy parentage, and his having been dropped by an unearthly hand into a Christian cradle. The young men and maids conversed on other themes; they grieved for the loss of the friend and the lover, and while the former thought that a heart so kind and true was not left in the vale, the latter thought, as maidens will, on his handsome person, gentle manners, and merry blue eye, and speculated with a sigh on the time when they might have hoped a return for their love. They were soon joined by others who had heard the wild and delirious language of his sister: the old belief was added to the new assurance, and both again commented upon by minds full of superstitious feeling, and hearts full of supernatural fears, till the youths and maidens of Corrievale held no more love trysts for seven days and nights, lest, like Elphin Irving, they should be carried away to augment the ranks of the unchristened chivalry. "It was curious to listen to the speculations of the peasantry. 'For my part,' said a youth, 'if I were sure that poor Elphin escaped from that perilous water, I would not give the fairies a pound of hiplock wool for their chance of him. There has not been a fairy seen in the land since Donald Cargil, the Cameronian, conjured them into the Solway for playing on their pipes during one of his nocturnal preachings on the hip of the Burnswark hill.' "'Preserve me, bairn,' said an old woman, justly exasperated at the incredulity of her nephew, 'if ye winna believe what I both heard and saw at the moonlight end of Craigyburnwood on a summer night, rank after rank of the fairy folk, ye'll at least believe a douce man and a ghostly professor, even the late minister of Tinwaldkirk. His only son--I mind the lad weel, with his long yellow locks and his bonnie blue eyes--when I was but a gilpie of a lassie, _he_ was stolen away from off the horse at his father's elbow, as they crossed that false and fearsome water, even Locherbriggflow, on the night of the Midsummer fair of Dumfries. Ay, ay, who can doubt the truth of that? Have not the godly inhabitants of Almsfieldtown and Tinwaldkirk seen the sweet youth riding at midnight, in the midst of the unhallowed troop, to the sound of flute and of dulcimer, and though meikle they prayed, naebody tried to achieve his deliverance?' "'I have heard it said by douce folk and sponsible,' interrupted another, 'that every seven years the elves and fairies pay kane, or make an offering of one of their children, to the grand enemy of salvation, and that they are permitted to purloin one of the children of men to present to the fiend--a more acceptable offering, I'll warrant, than one of their own infernal brood that are Satan's sib allies, and drink a drop of the deil's blood every May morning. And touching this lost lad, ye all ken his mother was a hawk of an uncanny nest, a second cousin of Kate Kimmer, of Barfloshan, as rank a witch as ever rode on ragwort. Ay, sirs, what's bred in the bone is ill to come out of the flesh.' "On these and similar topics, which a peasantry full of ancient tradition and enthusiasm and superstition readily associate with the commonest occurrences of life, the people of Corrievale continued to converse till the fall of evening, when each, seeking their home, renewed again the wondrous subject, and illustrated it with all that popular belief and poetic imagination could so abundantly supply. "The night which followed this melancholy day was wild with wind and rain; the river came down broader and deeper than before, and the lightning, flashing by fits over the green woods of Corrie, showed the ungovernable and perilous flood sweeping above its banks. It happened that a farmer, returning from one of the border fairs, encountered the full swing of the storm; but mounted on an excellent horse, and mantled from chin to heel in a good grey plaid, beneath which he had the further security of a thick greatcoat, he sat dry in his saddle, and proceeded in the anticipated joy of a subsided tempest and a glowing morning sun. As he entered the long grove, or rather remains of the old Galwegian forest, which lines for some space the banks of the Corriewater, the storm began to abate, the wind sighed milder and milder among the trees, and here and there a star, twinkling momentarily through the sudden rack of the clouds, showed the river raging from bank to brae. As he shook the moisture from his clothes, he was not without a wish that the day would dawn, and that he might be preserved on a road which his imagination beset with greater perils than the raging river; for his superstitious feeling let loose upon his path elf and goblin, and the current traditions of the district supplied very largely to his apprehension the ready materials of fear. "Just as he emerged from the wood, where a fine sloping bank, covered with short greensward, skirts the limit of the forest, his horse made a full pause, snorted, trembled, and started from side to side, stooped his head, erected his ears, and seemed to scrutinise every tree and bush. The rider, too, it may be imagined, gazed round and round, and peered warily into every suspicious-looking place. His dread of a supernatural visitation was not much allayed when he observed a female shape seated on the ground at the root of a huge old oak-tree, which stood in the centre of one of those patches of verdant sward, known by the name of 'fairy rings,' and avoided by all peasants who wish to prosper. A long thin gleam of eastern daylight enabled him to examine accurately the being who, in this wild place and unusual hour, gave additional terror to this haunted spot. She was dressed in white from the neck to the knees; her arms, long and round and white, were perfectly bare; her head, uncovered, allowed her long hair to descend in ringlet succeeding ringlet, till the half of her person was nearly concealed in the fleece. Amidst the whole, her hands were constantly busy in shedding aside the tresses which interposed between her steady and uninterrupted gaze down a line of old road which wound among the hills to an ancient burial-ground. "As the traveller continued to gaze, the figure suddenly rose, and, wringing the rain from her long locks, paced round and round the tree, chanting in a wild and melancholy manner an equally wild and delirious song. THE FAIRY OAK OF CORRIEWATER. The small bird's head is under its wing, The deer sleeps on the grass; The moon comes out, and the stars shine down, The dew gleams like the glass: There is no sound in the world so wide, Save the sound of the smitten brass, With the merry cittern and the pipe Of the fairies as they pass. But oh! the fire maun burn and burn, And the hour is gone, and will never return. The green hill cleaves, and forth, with a bound, Comes elf and elfin steed; The moon dives down in a golden cloud, The stars grow dim with dread; But a light is running along the earth, So of heaven's they have no need: O'er moor and moss with a shout they pass, And the word is spur and speed-- But the fire maun burn, and I maun quake, And the hour is gone that will never come back. And when they came to Craigyburnwood, The Queen of the Fairies spoke: "Come, bind your steeds to the rushes so green, And dance by the haunted oak: I found the acorn on Heshbon Hill, In the nook of a palmer's poke, A thousand years since; here it grows!" And they danced till the greenwood shook: But oh! the fire, the burning fire, The longer it burns, it but blazes the higher. "I have won me a youth," the Elf Queen said, "The fairest that earth may see; This night I have won young Elph Irving My cupbearer to be. His service lasts but seven sweet years, And his wage is a kiss of me." And merrily, merrily, laughed the wild elves Round Corris's greenwood tree. But oh! the fire it glows in my brain, And the hour is gone, and comes not again. The Queen she has whispered a secret word, "Come hither my Elphin sweet, And bring that cup of the charmed wine, Thy lips and mine to weet." But a brown elf shouted a loud, loud shout, "Come, leap on your coursers fleet, For here comes the smell of some baptised flesh, And the sounding of baptised feet." But oh! the fire that burns, and maun burn; For the time that is gone will never return. On a steed as white as the new-milked milk, The Elf Queen leaped with a bound, And young Elphin a steed like December snow 'Neath him at the word he found. But a maiden came, and her christened arms She linked her brother around, And called on God, and the steed with a snort Sank into the gaping ground. But the fire maun burn, and I maun quake, And the time that is gone will no more come back. And she held her brother, and lo! he grew A wild bull waked in ire; And she held her brother, and lo! he changed To a river roaring higher; And she held her brother, and he became A flood of the raging fire; She shrieked and sank, and the wild elves laughed Till the mountain rang and mire. But oh! the fire yet burns in my brain, And the hour is gone, and comes not again. "O maiden, why waxed thy faith so faint, Thy spirit so slack and slaw? Thy courage kept good till the flame waxed wud, Then thy might begun to thaw; Had ye kissed him with thy christened lip, Ye had wan him frae 'mang us a'. Now bless the fire, the elfin fire, That made thee faint and fa'; Now bless the fire, the elfin fire, The longer it burns it blazes the higher." "At the close of this unusual strain, the figure sat down on the grass, and proceeded to bind up her long and disordered tresses, gazing along the old and unfrequented road. 'Now God be my helper,' said the traveller, who happened to be the laird of Johnstone Bank, 'can this be a trick of the fiend, or can it be bonnie Phemie Irving who chants this dolorous sang? Something sad has befallen that makes her seek her seat in this eerie nook amid the darkness and tempest; through might from aboon I will go on and see.' And the horse, feeling something of the owner's reviving spirit in the application of spur-steel, bore him at once to the foot of the tree. The poor delirious maiden uttered a yell of piercing joy as she beheld him, and, with the swiftness of a creature winged, linked her arms round the rider's waist, and shrieked till the woods rang. 'Oh, I have ye now, Elphin, I have ye now,' and she strained him to her bosom with a convulsive grasp. 'What ails ye, my bonnie lass?' said the laird of Johnstone Bank, his fears of the supernatural vanishing when he beheld her sad and bewildered look. She raised her eyes at the sound, and seeing a strange face, her arms slipped their hold, and she dropped with a groan on the ground. "The morning had now fairly broke; the flocks shook the rain from their sides, the shepherds hastened to inspect their charges, and a thin blue smoke began to stream from the cottages of the valley into the brightening air. The laird carried Phemie Irving in his arms, till he observed two shepherds ascending from one of the loops of Corriewater, bearing the lifeless body of her brother. They had found him whirling round and round in one of the numerous eddies, and his hands, clutched and filled with wool, showed that he had lost his life in attempting to save the flock of his sister. A plaid was laid over the body, which, along with the unhappy maiden in a half-lifeless state, was carried into a cottage, and laid in that apartment distinguished among the peasantry by the name of the chamber. While the peasant's wife was left to take care of Phemie, old man and matron and maid had collected around the drowned youth, and each began to relate the circumstances of his death, when the door suddenly opened, and his sister, advancing to the corpse, with a look of delirious serenity, broke out into a wild laugh and said: 'Oh, it is wonderful, it's truly wonderful! That bare and death-cold body, dragged from the darkest pool of Corrie, with its hands filled with fine wool, wears the perfect similitude of my own Elphin! I'll tell ye--the spiritual dwellers of the earth, the fairyfolk of our evening tale, have stolen the living body, and fashioned this cold and inanimate clod to mislead your pursuit. In common eyes this seems all that Elphin Irving would be, had he sunk in Corriewater; but so it seems not to me. Ye have sought the living soul, and ye have found only its garment. But oh, if ye had beheld him, as I beheld him to-night, riding among the elfin troop, the fairest of them all; had you clasped him in your arms, and wrestled for him with spirits and terrible shapes from the other world, till your heart quailed and your flesh was subdued, then would ye yield no credit to the semblance which this cold and apparent flesh bears to my brother. But hearken! On Hallowmass Eve, when the spiritual people are let loose on earth for a season, I will take my stand in the burial-ground of Corrie; and when my Elphin and his unchristened troop come past, with the sound of all their minstrelsy, I will leap on him and win him, or perish for ever.' "All gazed aghast on the delirious maiden, and many of her auditors gave more credence to her distempered speech than to the visible evidence before them. As she turned to depart, she looked round, and suddenly sank upon the body, with tears streaming from her eyes, and sobbed out, 'My brother! Oh, my brother!' She was carried out insensible, and again recovered; but relapsed into her ordinary delirium, in which she continued till the Hallow Eve after her brother's burial. She was found seated in the ancient burial-ground, her back against a broken gravestone, her locks white with frost-rime, watching with intensity of look the road to the kirkyard; but the spirit which gave life to the fairest form of all the maids of Annandale was fled for ever." Such is the singular story which the peasants know by the name of "Elphin Irving, the Fairies' Cupbearer"; and the title, in its fullest and most supernatural sense, still obtains credence among the industrious and virtuous dames of the romantic vale of Corrie. THE GHOSTS OF CRAIG-AULNAIC. Two celebrated ghosts existed, once on a time, in the wilds of Craig-Aulnaic, a romantic place in the district of Strathdown, Banffshire. The one was a male and the other a female. The male was called Fhuna Mhoir Ben Baynac, after one of the mountains of Glenavon, where at one time he resided; and the female was called Clashnichd Aulnaic, from her having had her abode in Craig-Aulnaic. But although the great ghost of Ben Baynac was bound by the common ties of nature and of honour to protect and cherish his weaker companion, Clashnichd Aulnaic, yet he often treated her in the most cruel and unfeeling manner. In the dead of night, when the surrounding hamlets were buried in deep repose, and when nothing else disturbed the solemn stillness of the midnight scene, oft would the shrill shrieks of poor Clashnichd burst upon the slumberer's ears, and awake him to anything but pleasant reflections. But of all those who were incommoded by the noisy and unseemly quarrels of these two ghosts, James Owre or Gray, the tenant of the farm of Balbig of Delnabo, was the greatest sufferer. From the proximity of his abode to their haunts, it was the misfortune of himself and family to be the nightly audience of Clashnichd's cries and lamentations, which they considered anything but agreeable entertainment. One day as James Gray was on his rounds looking after his sheep, he happened to fall in with Clashnichd, the ghost of Aulnaic, with whom he entered into a long conversation. In the course of it he took occasion to remonstrate with her on the very disagreeable disturbance she caused himself and family by her wild and unearthly cries--cries which, he said, few mortals could relish in the dreary hours of midnight. Poor Clashnichd, by way of apology for her conduct, gave James Gray a sad account of her usage, detailing at full length the series of cruelties committed upon her by Ben Baynac. From this account, it appeared that her living with the latter was by no means a matter of choice with Clashnichd; on the contrary, it seemed that she had, for a long time, lived apart with much comfort, residing in a snug dwelling, as already mentioned, in the wilds of Craig-Aulnaic; but Ben Baynac having unfortunately taken into his head to pay her a visit, took a fancy, not to herself, but her dwelling, of which, in his own name and authority, he took immediate possession, and soon after he expelled poor Clashnichd, with many stripes, from her natural inheritance. Not satisfied with invading and depriving her of her just rights, he was in the habit of following her into her private haunts, not with the view of offering her any endearments, but for the purpose of inflicting on her person every torment which his brain could invent. Such a moving relation could not fail to affect the generous heart of James Gray, who determined from that moment to risk life and limb in order to vindicate the rights and avenge the wrongs of poor Clashnichd, the ghost of Craig-Aulnaic. He, therefore, took good care to interrogate his new _protegee_ touching the nature of her oppressor's constitution, whether he was of that _killable_ species of ghost that could be shot with a silver sixpence, or if there was any other weapon that could possibly accomplish his annihilation. Clashnichd informed him that she had occasion to know that Ben Baynac was wholly invulnerable to all the weapons of man, with the exception of a large mole on his left breast, which was no doubt penetrable by silver or steel; but that, from the specimens she had of his personal prowess and strength, it were vain for mere man to attempt to combat him. Confiding, however, in his expertness as an archer--for he was allowed to be the best marksman of the age--James Gray told Clashnichd he did not fear him with all his might,--that _he_ was a man; and desired her, moreover, next time the ghost chose to repeat his incivilities to her, to apply to him, James Gray, for redress. It was not long ere he had an opportunity of fulfilling his promises. Ben Baynac having one night, in the want of better amusement, entertained himself by inflicting an inhuman castigation on Clashnichd, she lost no time in waiting on James Gray, with a full and particular account of it. She found him smoking his _cutty_, for it was night when she came to him; but, notwithstanding the inconvenience of the hour, James needed no great persuasion to induce him to proceed directly along with Clashnichd to hold a communing with their friend, Ben Baynac, the great ghost. Clashnichd was stout and sturdy, and understood the knack of travelling much better than our women do. She expressed a wish that, for the sake of expedition, James Gray would suffer her to bear him along, a motion to which the latter agreed; and a few minutes brought them close to the scene of Ben Baynac's residence. As they approached his haunt, he came forth to meet them, with looks and gestures which did not at all indicate a cordial welcome. It was a fine moonlight night, and they could easily observe his actions. Poor Clashnichd was now sorely afraid of the great ghost. Apprehending instant destruction from his fury, she exclaimed to James Gray that they would be both dead people, and that immediately, unless James Gray hit with an arrow the mole which covered Ben Baynac's heart. This was not so difficult a task as James had hitherto apprehended it. The mole was as large as a common bonnet, and yet nowise disproportioned to the natural size of the ghost's body, for he certainly was a great and a mighty ghost. Ben Baynac cried out to James Gray that he would soon make eagle's meat of him; and certain it is, such was his intention, had not the shepherd so effectually stopped him from the execution of it. Raising his bow to his eye when within a few yards of Ben Baynac, he took deliberate aim; the arrow flew--it hit--a yell from Ben Baynac announced the result. A hideous howl re-echoed from the surrounding mountains, responsive to the groans of a thousand ghosts; and Ben Baynac, like the smoke of a shot, vanished into air. Clashnichd, the ghost of Aulnaic, now found herself emancipated from the most abject state of slavery, and restored to freedom and liberty, through the invincible courage of James Gray. Overpowered with gratitude, she fell at his feet, and vowed to devote the whole of her time and talents towards his service and prosperity. Meanwhile, being anxious to have her remaining goods and furniture removed to her former dwelling, whence she had been so iniquitously expelled by Ben Baynac, the great ghost, she requested of her new master the use of his horses to remove them. James observing on the adjacent hill a flock of deer, and wishing to have a trial of his new servant's sagacity or expertness, told her those were his horses--she was welcome to the use of them; desiring that when she had done with them, she would inclose them in his stable. Clashnichd then proceeded to make use of the horses, and James Gray returned home to enjoy his night's rest. Scarce had he reached his arm-chair, and reclined his cheek on his hand, to ruminate over the bold adventure of the night, when Clashnichd entered, with her "breath in her throat," and venting the bitterest complaints at the unruliness of his horses, which had broken one-half of her furniture, and caused her more trouble in the stabling of them than their services were worth. "Oh! they are stabled, then?" inquired James Gray. Clashnichd replied in the affirmative. "Very well," rejoined James, "they shall be tame enough to-morrow." From this specimen of Clashnichd, the ghost of Craig-Aulnaic's expertness, it will be seen what a valuable acquisition her service proved to James Gray and his young family. They were, however, speedily deprived of her assistance by a most unfortunate accident. From the sequel of the story, from which the foregoing is an extract, it appears that poor Clashnichd was deeply addicted to propensities which at that time rendered her kin so obnoxious to their human neighbours. She was constantly in the habit of visiting her friends much oftener than she was invited, and, in the course of such visits, was never very scrupulous in making free with any eatables which fell within the circle of her observation. One day, while engaged on a foraging expedition of this description, she happened to enter the Mill of Delnabo, which was inhabited in those days by the miller's family. She found his wife engaged in roasting a large gridiron of fine savoury fish, the agreeable smell proceeding from which perhaps occasioned her visit. With the usual inquiries after the health of the miller and his family, Clashnichd proceeded with the greatest familiarity and good-humour to make herself comfortable at their expense. But the miller's wife, enraged at the loss of her fish, and not relishing such unwelcome familiarity, punished the unfortunate Clashnichd rather too severely for her freedom. It happened that there was at the time a large caldron of boiling water suspended over the fire, and this caldron the enraged wife overturned in Clashnichd's bosom! Scalded beyond recovery, she fled up the wilds of Craig-Aulnaic, uttering the most melancholy lamentations, nor has she been ever heard of since. THE DOOMED RIDER. "The Conan is as bonny a river as we hae in a' the north country. There's mony a sweet sunny spot on its banks, an' mony a time an' aft hae I waded through its shallows, whan a boy, to set my little scautling-line for the trouts an' the eels, or to gather the big pearl-mussels that lie sae thick in the fords. But its bonny wooded banks are places for enjoying the day in--no for passing the nicht. I kenna how it is; it's nane o' your wild streams that wander desolate through a desert country, like the Aven, or that come rushing down in foam and thunder, ower broken rocks, like the Foyers, or that wallow in darkness, deep, deep in the bowels o' the earth, like the fearfu' Auldgraunt; an' yet no ane o' these rivers has mair or frightfuller stories connected wi' it than the Conan. Ane can hardly saunter ower half-a-mile in its course, frae where it leaves Coutin till where it enters the sea, without passing ower the scene o' some frightful auld legend o' the kelpie or the waterwraith. And ane o' the most frightful looking o' these places is to be found among the woods of Conan House. Ye enter a swampy meadow that waves wi' flags an' rushes like a corn-field in harvest, an' see a hillock covered wi' willows rising like an island in the midst. There are thick mirk-woods on ilka side; the river, dark an' awesome, an' whirling round an' round in mossy eddies, sweeps away behind it; an' there is an auld burying-ground, wi' the broken ruins o' an auld Papist kirk, on the tap. Ane can see amang the rougher stanes the rose-wrought mullions of an arched window, an' the trough that ance held the holy water. About twa hunder years ago--a wee mair maybe, or a wee less, for ane canna be very sure o' the date o' thae old stories--the building was entire; an' a spot near it, whar the wood now grows thickest, was laid out in a corn-field. The marks o' the furrows may still be seen amang the trees. "A party o' Highlanders were busily engaged, ae day in harvest, in cutting down the corn o' that field; an' just aboot noon, when the sun shone brightest an' they were busiest in the work, they heard a voice frae the river exclaim:--'The hour but not the man has come.' Sure enough, on looking round, there was the kelpie stan'in' in what they ca' a fause ford, just fornent the auld kirk. There is a deep black pool baith aboon an' below, but i' the ford there's a bonny ripple, that shows, as ane might think, but little depth o' water; an' just i' the middle o' that, in a place where a horse might swim, stood the kelpie. An' it again repeated its words:--'The hour but not the man has come,' an' then flashing through the water like a drake, it disappeared in the lower pool. When the folk stood wondering what the creature might mean, they saw a man on horseback come spurring down the hill in hot haste, making straight for the fause ford. They could then understand her words at ance; an' four o' the stoutest o' them sprang oot frae amang the corn to warn him o' his danger, an' keep him back. An' sae they tauld him what they had seen an' heard, an' urged him either to turn back an' tak' anither road, or stay for an hour or sae where he was. But he just wadna hear them, for he was baith unbelieving an' in haste, an' wauld hae taen the ford for a' they could say, hadna the Highlanders, determined on saving him whether he would or no, gathered round him an' pulled him frae his horse, an' then, to mak' sure o' him, locked him up in the auld kirk. Weel, when the hour had gone by--the fatal hour o' the kelpie--they flung open the door, an' cried to him that he might noo gang on his journey. Ah! but there was nae answer, though; an' sae they cried a second time, an' there was nae answer still; an' then they went in, an' found him lying stiff an' cauld on the floor, wi' his face buried in the water o' the very stone trough that we may still see amang the ruins. His hour had come, an' he had fallen in a fit, as 'twould seem, head-foremost amang the water o' the trough, where he had been smothered,--an' sae ye see, the prophecy o' the kelpie availed naething." WHIPPETY STOURIE. There was once a gentleman that lived in a very grand house, and he married a young lady that had been delicately brought up. In her husband's house she found everything that was fine--fine tables and chairs, fine looking-glasses, and fine curtains; but then her husband expected her to be able to spin twelve hanks o' thread every day, besides attending to her house; and, to tell the even-down truth, the lady could not spin a bit. This made her husband glunchy with her, and, before a month had passed, she found hersel' very unhappy. One day the husband gaed away upon a journey, after telling her that he expected her, before his return, to have not only learned to spin, but to have spun a hundred hanks o' thread. Quite downcast, she took a walk along the hillside, till she cam' to a big flat stane, and there she sat down and grat. By and by she heard a strain o' fine sma' music, coming as it were frae aneath the stane, and, on turning it up, she saw a cave below, where there were sitting six wee ladies in green gowns, ilk ane o' them spinning on a little wheel, and singing, "Little kens my dame at hame That Whippety Stourie is my name." The lady walked into the cave, and was kindly asked by the wee bodies to take a chair and sit down, while they still continued their spinning. She observed that ilk ane's mouth was thrawn away to ae side, but she didna venture to speer the reason. They asked why she looked so unhappy, and she telt them that it was she was expected by her husband to be a good spinner, when the plain truth was that she could not spin at all, and found herself quite unable for it, having been so delicately brought up; neither was there any need for it, as her husband was a rich man. "Oh, is that a'?" said the little wifies, speaking out of their cheeks alike. "Yes, and is it not a very good a' too?" said the lady, her heart like to burst wi' distress. "We could easily quit ye o' that trouble," said the wee women. "Just ask us a' to dinner for the day when your husband is to come back. We'll then let you see how we'll manage him." So the lady asked them all to dine with herself and her husband, on the day when he was to come back. When the gudeman came hame, he found the house so occupied with preparations for dinner, that he had nae time to ask his wife about her thread; and, before ever he had ance spoken to her on the subject, the company was announced at the hall door. The six ladies all came in a coach-and-six, and were as fine as princesses, but still wore their gowns of green. The gentleman was very polite, and showed them up the stair with a pair of wax candles in his hand. And so they all sat down to dinner, and conversation went on very pleasantly, till at length the husband, becoming familiar with them, said-- "Ladies, if it be not an uncivil question, I should like to know how it happens that all your mouths are turned away to one side?" "Oh," said ilk ane at ance, "it's with our constant _spin-spin-spinning_." "Is that the case?" cried the gentleman; "then, John, Tam, and Dick, fie, go haste and burn every rock, and reel, and spinning-wheel in the house, for I'll not have my wife to spoil her bonnie face with _spin-spin-spinning_." And so the lady lived happily with her gudeman all the rest of her days. THE WEIRD OF THE THREE ARROWS. Sir James Douglas, the companion of Bruce, and well known by his appellation of the "Black Douglas," was once, during the hottest period of the exterminating war carried on by him and his colleague Randolph, against the English, stationed at Linthaughlee, near Jedburgh. He was resting, himself and his men after the toils of many days' fighting-marches through Teviotdale; and, according to his custom, had walked round the tents, previous to retiring to the unquiet rest of a soldier's bed. He stood for a few minutes at the entrance to his tent contemplating the scene before him, rendered more interesting by a clear moon, whose silver beams fell, in the silence of a night without a breath of wind, calmly on the slumbers of mortals destined to mix in the melee of dreadful war, perhaps on the morrow. As he stood gazing, irresolute whether to retire to rest or indulge longer in a train of thought not very suitable to a warrior who delighted in the spirit-stirring scenes of his profession, his eye was attracted by the figure of an old woman, who approached him with a trembling step, leaning on a staff, and holding in her left hand three English cloth-shaft arrows. "You are he who is ca'ed the guid Sir James?" said the old woman. "I am, good woman," replied Sir James. "Why hast thou wandered from the sutler's camp?" "I dinna belang to the camp o' the hoblers," answered the woman. "I hae been a residenter in Linthaughlee since the day when King Alexander passed the door o' my cottage wi' his bonny French bride, wha was terrified awa' frae Jedburgh by the death's-head whilk appeared to her on the day o' her marriage. What I hae suffered sin' that day" (looking at the arrows in her hand) "lies between me an' heaven." "Some of your sons have been killed in the wars, I presume?" said Sir James. "Ye hae guessed a pairt o' my waes," replied the woman. "That arrow" (holding out one of the three) "carries on its point the bluid o' my first born; that is stained wi' the stream that poured frae the heart o' my second; and that is red wi' the gore in which my youngest weltered, as he gae up the life that made me childless. They were a' shot by English hands, in different armies, in different battles. I am an honest woman, and wish to return to the English what belongs to the English; but that in the same fashion in which they were sent. The Black Douglas has the strongest arm an' the surest ee in auld Scotland; an' wha can execute my commission better than he?" "I do not use the bow, good woman," replied Sir James. "I love the grasp of the dagger or the battle-axe. You must apply to some other individual to return your arrows." "I canna tak' them hame again," said the woman, laying them down at the feet of Sir James. "Ye'll see me again on St. James' E'en." The old woman departed as she said these words. Sir James took up the arrows, and placed them in an empty quiver that lay amongst his baggage. He retired to rest, but not to sleep. The figure of the old woman and her strange request occupied his thoughts, and produced trains of meditation which ended in nothing but restlessness and disquietude. Getting up at daybreak, he met a messenger at the entrance of his tent, who informed him that Sir Thomas de Richmont, with a force of ten thousand men, had crossed the Borders, and would pass through a narrow defile, which he mentioned, where he could be attacked with great advantage. Sir James gave instant orders to march to the spot; and, with that genius for scheming, for which he was so remarkable, commanded his men to twist together the young birch-trees on either side of the passage to prevent the escape of the enemy. This finished, he concealed his archers in a hollow way, near the gorge of the pass. The enemy came on; and when their ranks were embarrassed by the narrowness of the road, and it was impossible for the cavalry to act with effect, Sir James rushed upon them at the head of his horsemen; and the archers, suddenly discovering themselves, poured in a flight of arrows on the confused soldiers, and put the whole army to flight. In the heat of the onset, Douglas killed Sir Thomas de Richmont with his dagger. Not long after this, Edmund de Cailon, a knight of Gascony, and Governor of Berwick, who had been heard to vaunt that he had sought the famous Black Knight, but could not find him, was returning to England, loaded with plunder, the fruit of an inroad on Teviotdale. Sir James thought it a pity that a Gascon's vaunt should be heard unpunished in Scotland, and made long forced marches to satisfy the desire of the foreign knight, by giving him a sight of the dark countenance he had made a subject of reproach. He soon succeeded in gratifying both himself and the Gascon. Coming up in his terrible manner, he called to Cailon to stop, and, before he proceeded into England, receive the respects of the Black Knight he had come to find, but hitherto had not met. The Gascon's vaunt was now changed; but shame supplied the place of courage, and he ordered his men to receive Douglas's attack. Sir James assiduously sought his enemy. He at last succeeded; and a single combat ensued, of a most desperate character. But who ever escaped the arm of Douglas when fairly opposed to him in single conflict? Cailon was killed; he had met the Black Knight at last. "So much," cried Sir James, "for the vaunt of a Gascon!" Similar in every respect to the fate of Cailon, was that of Sir Ralph Neville. He, too, on hearing the great fame of Douglas's prowess, from some of Gallon's fugitive soldiers, openly boasted that he would fight with the Scottish Knight, if he would come and show his banner before Berwick. Sir James heard the boast and rejoiced in it. He marched to that town, and caused his men to ravage the country in front of the battlements, and burn the villages. Neville left Berwick with a strong body of men; and, stationing himself on a high ground, waited till the rest of the Scots should disperse to plunder; but Douglas called in his detachment and attacked the knight. After a desperate conflict, in which many were slain, Douglas, as was his custom, succeeded in bringing the leader to a personal encounter, and the skill of the Scottish knight was again successful. Neville was slain, and his men utterly discomfited. Having retired one night to his tent to take some rest after so much pain and toil, Sir James Douglas was surprised by the reappearance of the old woman whom he had seen at Linthaughlee. "This is the feast o' St. James," said she, as she approached him. "I said I would see ye again this nicht, an' I'm as guid's my word. Hae ye returned the arrows I left wi' ye to the English wha sent them to the hearts o' my sons?" "No," replied Sir James. "I told ye I did not fight with the bow. Wherefore do ye importune me thus?" "Give me back the arrows then," said the woman. Sir James went to bring the quiver in which he had placed them. On taking them out, he was surprised to find that they were all broken through the middle. "How has this happened?" said he. "I put these arrows in this quiver entire, and now they are broken." "The weird is fulfilled!" cried the old woman, laughing eldrichly, and clapping her hands. "That broken shaft cam' frae a soldier o' Richmont's; that frae ane o' Cailon's, and that frae ane o' Neville's. They are a' dead, an' I am revenged!" The old woman then departed, scattering, as she went, the broken fragments of the arrows on the floor of the tent. THE LAIRD OF BALMACHIE'S WIFE. In the olden times, when it was the fashion for gentlemen to wear swords, the Laird of Balmachie went one day to Dundee, leaving his wife at home ill in bed. Riding home in the twilight, he had occasion to leave the high road, and when crossing between some little romantic knolls, called the Cur-hills, in the neighbourhood of Carlungy, he encountered a troop of fairies supporting a kind of litter, upon which some person seemed to be borne. Being a man of dauntless courage, and, as he said, impelled by some internal impulse, he pushed his horse close to the litter, drew his sword, laid it across the vehicle, and in a firm tone exclaimed-- "In the name of God, release your captive." The tiny troop immediately disappeared, dropping the litter on the ground. The laird dismounted, and found that it contained his own wife, dressed in her bedclothes. Wrapping his coat around her, he placed her on the horse before him, and, having only a short distance to ride, arrived safely at home. Placing her in another room, under the care of an attentive friend, he immediately went to the chamber where he had left his wife in the morning, and there to all appearance she still lay, very sick of a fever. She was fretful, discontented, and complained much of having been neglected in his absence, at all of which the laird affected great concern, and pretending much sympathy, insisted upon her rising to have her bed made. She said that she was unable to rise, but her husband was peremptory, and having ordered a large wood fire to warm the room, he lifted the impostor from the bed, and bearing her across the floor as if to a chair, which had been previously prepared, he threw her on the fire, from which she bounced like a sky-rocket, and went through the ceiling, and out at the roof of the house, leaving a hole among the slates. He then brought in his own wife, a little recovered from her alarm, who said, that sometime after sunset, the nurse having left her for the purpose of preparing a little candle, a multitude of elves came in at the window, thronging like bees from a hive. They filled the room, and having lifted her from the bed carried her through the window, after which she recollected nothing further, till she saw her husband standing over her on the Cur-hills, at the back of Carlungy. The hole in the roof, by which the female fairy made her escape, was mended, but could never be kept in repair, as a tempest of wind happened always once a year, which uncovered that particular spot, without injuring any other part of the roof. MICHAEL SCOTT. In the early part of Michael Scott's life he was in the habit of emigrating annually to the Scottish metropolis, for the purpose of being employed in his capacity of mason. One time as he and two companions were journeying to the place of their destination for a similar object, they had occasion to pass over a high hill, the name of which is not mentioned, but which is supposed to have been one of the Grampians, and being fatigued with climbing, they sat down to rest themselves. They had no sooner done so than they were warned to take to their heels by the hissing of a large serpent, which they observed revolving itself towards them with great velocity. Terrified at the sight, Michael's two companions fled, while he, on the contrary, resolved to encounter the reptile. The appalling monster approached Michael Scott with distended mouth and forked tongue; and, throwing itself into a coil at his feet, was raising its head to inflict a mortal sting, when Michael, with one stroke of his stick, severed its body into three pieces. Having rejoined his affrighted comrades, they resumed their journey; and, on arriving at the next public-house, it being late, and the travellers being weary, they took up their quarters at it for the night. In the course of the night's conversation, reference was naturally made to Michael's recent exploit with the serpent, when the landlady of the house, who was remarkable for her "arts," happened to be present. Her curiosity appeared much excited by the conversation; and, after making some inquiries regarding the colour of the serpent, which she was told was white, she offered any of them that would procure her the middle piece such a tempting reward, as induced one of the party instantly to go for it. The distance was not very great; and on reaching the spot, he found the middle and tail piece in the place where Michael left them, but the head piece was gone. The landlady on receiving the piece, which still vibrated with life, seemed highly gratified at her acquisition; and, over and above the promised reward, regaled her lodgers very plentifully with the choicest dainties in her house. Fired with curiosity to know the purpose for which the serpent was intended, the wily Michael Scott was immediately seized with a severe fit of indisposition, which caused him to prefer the request that he might be allowed to sleep beside the fire, the warmth of which, he affirmed, was in the highest degree beneficial to him. Never suspecting Michael Scott's hypocrisy, and naturally supposing that a person so severely indisposed would feel very little curiosity about the contents of any cooking utensils which might lie around the fire, the landlady allowed his request. As soon as the other inmates of the house were retired to bed, the landlady resorted to her darling occupation; and, in his feigned state of indisposition, Michael had a favourable opportunity of watching most scrupulously all her actions through the keyhole of a door leading to the next apartment where she was. He could see the rites and ceremonies with which the serpent was put into the oven, along with many mysterious ingredients. After which the unsuspicious landlady placed the dish by the fireside, where lay the distressed traveller, to stove till the morning. Once or twice in the course of the night the "wife of the change-house," under the pretence of inquiring for her sick lodger, and administering to him some renovating cordials, the beneficial effects of which he gratefully acknowledged, took occasion to dip her finger in her saucepan, upon which the cock, perched on his roost, crowed aloud. All Michael's sickness could not prevent him considering very inquisitively the landlady's cantrips, and particularly the influence of the sauce upon the crowing of the cock. Nor could he dissipate some inward desires he felt to follow her example. At the same time, he suspected that Satan had a hand in the pie, yet he thought he would like very much to be at the bottom of the concern; and thus his reason and his curiosity clashed against each other for the space of several hours. At length passion, as is too often the case, became the conqueror. Michael, too, dipped his finger in the sauce, and applied it to the tip of his tongue, and immediately the cock perched on the _spardan_ announced the circumstance in a mournful clarion. Instantly his mind received a new light to which he was formerly a stranger, and the astonished dupe of a landlady now found it her interest to admit her sagacious lodger into a knowledge of the remainder of her secrets. Endowed with the knowledge of "good and evil," and all the "second sights" that can be acquired, Michael left his lodgings in the morning, with the philosopher's stone in his pocket. By daily perfecting his supernatural attainments, by new series of discoveries, he became more than a match for Satan himself. Having seduced some thousands of Satan's best workmen into his employment, he trained them up so successfully to the architective business, and inspired them with such industrious habits, that he was more than sufficient for all the architectural work of the empire. To establish this assertion, we need only refer to some remains of his workmanship still existing north of the Grampians, some of them, stupendous bridges built by him in one short night, with no other visible agents than two or three workmen. On one occasion work was getting scarce, as might have been naturally expected, and his workmen, as they were wont, flocked to his doors, perpetually exclaiming, "Work! work! work!" Continually annoyed by their incessant entreaties, he called out to them in derision to go and make a dry road from Fortrose to Arderseir, over the Moray Firth. Immediately their cry ceased, and as Scott supposed it wholly impossible for them to execute his order, he retired to rest, laughing most heartily at the chimerical sort of employment he had given to his industrious workmen. Early in the morning, however, he got up and took a walk at the break of day down to the shore to divert himself at the fruitless labours of his zealous workmen. But on reaching the spot, what was his astonishment to find the formidable piece of work allotted to them only a few hours before already nearly finished. Seeing the great damage the commercial class of the community would sustain from the operation, he ordered the workmen to demolish the most part of their work; leaving, however, the point of Fortrose to show the traveller to this day the wonderful exploit of Michael Scott's fairies. On being thus again thrown out of employment, their former clamour was resumed, nor could Michael Scott, with all his sagacity, devise a plan to keep them in innocent employment. He at length discovered one. "Go," says he, "and manufacture me ropes that will carry me to the back of the moon, of these materials--_miller's-sudds_ and sea-sand." Michael Scott here obtained rest from his active operators; for, when other work failed them, he always despatched them to their rope manufactory. But though these agents could never make proper ropes of those materials, their efforts to that effect are far from being contemptible, for some of their ropes are seen by the sea-side to this day. We shall close our notice of Michael Scott by reciting one anecdote of him in the latter part of his life. In consequence of a violent quarrel which Michael Scott once had with a person whom he conceived to have caused him some injury, he resolved, as the highest punishment he could inflict upon him, to send his adversary to that evil place designed only for Satan and his black companions. He accordingly, by means of his supernatural machinations, sent the poor unfortunate man thither; and had he been sent by any other means than those of Michael Scott, he would no doubt have met with a warm reception. Out of pure spite to Michael, however, when Satan learned who was his billet-master, he would no more receive him than he would receive the Wife of Beth; and instead of treating the unfortunate man with the harshness characteristic of him, he showed him considerable civilities. Introducing him to his "Ben Taigh," he directed her to show the stranger any curiosities he might wish to see, hinting very significantly that he had provided some accommodation for their mutual friend, Michael Scott, the sight of which might afford him some gratification. The polite housekeeper accordingly conducted the stranger through the principal apartments in the house, where he saw fearful sights. But the bed of Michael Scott!--his greatest enemy could not but feel satiated with revenge at the sight of it. It was a place too horrid to be described, filled promiscuously with all the awful brutes imaginable. Toads and lions, lizards and leeches, and, amongst the rest, not the least conspicuous, a large serpent gaping for Michael Scott, with its mouth wide open. This last sight having satisfied the stranger's curiosity, he was led to the outer gate, and came away. He reached his friends, and, among other pieces of news touching his travels, he was not backward in relating the entertainment that awaited his friend Michael Scott, as soon as he would "stretch his foot" for the other world. But Michael did not at all appear disconcerted at his friend's intelligence. He affirmed that he would disappoint all his enemies in their expectations--in proof of which he gave the following signs: "When I am just dead," says he, "open my breast and extract my heart. Carry it to some place where the public may see the result. You will then transfix it upon a long pole, and if Satan will have my soul, he will come in the likeness of a black raven and carry it off; and if my soul will be saved it will be carried off by a white dove." His friends faithfully obeyed his instructions. Having exhibited his heart in the manner directed, a large black raven was observed to come from the east with great fleetness, while a white dove came from the west with equal velocity. The raven made a furious dash at the heart, missing which, it was unable to curb its force, till it was considerably past it; and the dove, reaching the spot at the same time, carried off the heart amidst the rejoicing and ejaculations of the spectators. THE MINISTER AND THE FAIRY. Not long since, a pious clergyman was returning home, after administering spiritual consolation to a dying member of his flock. It was late of the night, and he had to pass through a good deal of _uncanny_ land. He was, however, a good and a conscientious minister of the Gospel, and feared not all the spirits in the country. On his reaching the end of a lake which stretched along the roadside for some distance, he was a good deal surprised at hearing the most melodious strains of music. Overcome by pleasure and curiosity, the minister coolly sat down to listen to the harmonious sounds, and try what new discoveries he could make with regard to their nature and source. He had not sat many minutes before he could distinguish the approach of the music, and also observe a light in the direction from whence it proceeded gliding across the lake towards him. Instead of taking to his heels, as any faithless wight would have done, the pastor fearlessly determined to await the issue of the phenomenon. As the light and music drew near, the clergyman could at length distinguish an object resembling a human being walking on the surface of the water, attended by a group of diminutive musicians, some of them bearing lights, and others instruments of music, from which they continued to evoke those melodious strains which first attracted his attention. The leader of the band dismissed his attendants, landed on the beach, and afforded the minister the amplest opportunities of examining his appearance. He was a little primitive-looking grey-headed man, clad in the most grotesque habit the clergyman had ever seen, and such as led him at once to suspect his real character. He walked up to the minister, whom he saluted with great grace, offering an apology for his intrusion. The pastor returned his compliments, and, without further explanation, invited the mysterious stranger to sit down by his side. The invitation was complied with, upon which the minister proposed the following question:--"Who art thou, stranger, and from whence?" To this question the fairy, with downcast eye, replied that he was one of those sometimes called _Doane Shee_, or men of peace, or good men, though the reverse of this title was a more fit appellation for them. Originally angelic in his nature and attributes, and once a sharer of the indescribable joys of the regions of light, he was seduced by Satan to join him in his mad conspiracies; and, as a punishment for his transgression, he was cast down from those regions of bliss, and was now doomed, along with millions of fellow-sufferers, to wander through seas and mountains, until the coming of the Great Day. What their fate would be then they could not divine, but they apprehended the worst. "And," continued he, turning to the minister, with great anxiety, "the object of my present intrusion on you is to learn your opinion, as an eminent divine, as to our final condition on that dreadful day." Here the venerable pastor entered upon a long conversation with the fairy, touching the principles of faith and repentance. Receiving rather unsatisfactory answers to his questions, the minister desired the "sheech" to repeat after him the Paternoster, in attempting to do which, it was not a little remarkable that he could not repeat the word "art," but said "_wert_," in heaven. Inferring from every circumstance that their fate was extremely precarious, the minister resolved not to puff the fairies up with presumptuous, and, perhaps, groundless expectations. Accordingly, addressing himself to the unhappy fairy, who was all anxiety to know the nature of his sentiments, the reverend gentleman told him that he could not take it upon him to give them any hopes of pardon, as their crime was of so deep a hue as scarcely to admit of it. On this the unhappy fairy uttered a shriek of despair, plunged headlong into the loch, and the minister resumed his course to his home. THE FISHERMAN AND THE MERMAN. Of mermen and merwomen many strange stories are told in the Shetland Isles. Beneath the depths of the ocean, according to these stories, an atmosphere exists adapted to the respiratory organs of certain beings, resembling, in form, the human race, possessed of surpassing beauty, of limited supernatural powers, and liable to the incident of death. They dwell in a wide territory of the globe, far below the region of fishes, over which the sea, like the cloudy canopy of our sky, loftily rolls, and they possess habitations constructed of the pearl and coral productions of the ocean. Having lungs not adapted to a watery medium, but to the nature of atmospheric air, it would be impossible for them to pass through the volume of waters that intervenes between the submarine and supramarine world, if it were not for the extraordinary power they inherit of entering the skin of some animal capable of existing in the sea, which they are enabled to occupy by a sort of demoniacal possession. One shape they put on, is that of an animal human above the waist, yet terminating below in the tail and fins of a fish, but the most favourite form is that of the larger seal or Haaf-fish; for, in possessing an amphibious nature, they are enabled not only to exist in the ocean, but to land on some rock, where they frequently lighten themselves of their sea-dress, resume their proper shape, and with much curiosity examine the nature of the upper world belonging to the human race. Unfortunately, however, each merman or merwoman possesses but one skin, enabling the individual to ascend the seas, and if, on visiting the abode of man, the garb be lost, the hapless being must unavoidably become an inhabitant of the earth. A story is told of a boat's crew who landed for the purpose of attacking the seals lying in the hollows of the crags at one of the stacks. The men stunned a number of the animals, and while they were in this state stripped them of their skins, with the fat attached to them. Leaving the carcasses on the rock, the crew were about to set off for the shore of Papa Stour, when such a tremendous swell arose that every one flew quickly to the boat. All succeeded in entering it except one man, who had imprudently lingered behind. The crew were unwilling to leave a companion to perish on the skerries, but the surge increased so fast, that after many unsuccessful attempts to bring the boat close in to the stack the unfortunate wight was left to his fate. A stormy night came on, and the deserted Shetlander saw no prospect before him but that of perishing from cold and hunger, or of being washed into the sea by the breakers which threatened to dash over the rocks. At length, he perceived many of the seals, who, in their flight had escaped the attack of the boatmen, approach the skerry, disrobe themselves of their amphibious hides, and resume the shape of the sons and daughters of the ocean. Their first object was to assist in the recovery of their friends, who having been stunned by clubs, had, while in that state, been deprived of their skins. When the flayed animals had regained their sensibility, they assumed their proper form of mermen or merwomen, and began to lament in a mournful lay, wildly accompanied by the storm that was raging around, the loss of their sea-dress, which would prevent them from again enjoying their native azure atmosphere, and coral mansions that lay below the deep waters of the Atlantic. But their chief lamentation was for Ollavitinus, the son of Gioga, who, having been stripped of his seal's skin, would be for ever parted from his mates, and condemned to become an outcast inhabitant of the upper world. Their song was at length broken off, by observing one of their enemies viewing, with shivering limbs and looks of comfortless despair, the wild waves that dashed over the stack. Gioga immediately conceived the idea of rendering subservient to the advantage of the son the perilous situation of the man. She addressed him with mildness, proposing to carry him safe on her back across the sea to Papa Stour, on condition of receiving the seal- skin of Ollavitinus. A bargain was struck, and Gioga clad herself in her amphibious garb; but the Shetlander, alarmed at the sight of the stormy main that he was to ride through, prudently begged leave of the matron, for his better preservation, that he might be allowed to cut a few holes in her shoulders and flanks, in order to procure, between the skin and the flesh, a better fastening for his hands and feet. The request being complied with, the man grasped the neck of the seal, and committing himself to her care, she landed him safely at Acres Gio in Papa Stour; from which place he immediately repaired to a skeo at Hamna Voe, where the skin was deposited, and honourably fulfilled his part of the contract, by affording Gioga the means whereby her son could again revisit the ethereal space over which the sea spread its green mantle. THE LAIRD O' CO'. In the days of yore, the proprietors of Colzean, in Ayrshire (ancestors of the Marquis of Ailsa), were known in that country by the title of Lairds o' Co', a name bestowed on Colzean from some co's (or coves) in the rock beneath the castle. One morning, a very little boy, carrying a small wooden can, addressed the Laird near the castle gate, begging for a little ale for his mother, who was sick. The Laird directed him to go to the butler and get his can filled; so away he went as ordered. The butler had a barrel of ale on tap, but about half full, out of which he proceeded to fill the boy's can; but to his extreme surprise he emptied the cask, and still the little can was not nearly full. The butler was unwilling to broach another barrel, but the little fellow insisted on the fulfilment of the Laird's order, and a reference was made to the Laird by the butler, who stated the miraculous capacity of the tiny can, and received instant orders to fill it if all the ale in the cellar would suffice. Obedient to this command, he broached another cask, but had scarcely drawn a drop when the can was full, and the dwarf departed with expressions of gratitude. Some years afterwards the Laird being at the wars in Flanders was taken prisoner, and for some reason or other (probably as a spy) condemned to die a felon's death. The night prior to the day for his execution, being confined in a dungeon strongly barricaded, the doors suddenly flew open, and the dwarf reappeared, saying-- "Laird o' Co', Rise an' go." a summons too welcome to require repetition. On emerging from prison, the boy caused him to mount on his shoulders, and in a short time set him down at his own gate, on the very spot where they had formerly met, saying-- "Ae gude turn deserves anither-- Tak' ye that for being sae kin' to my auld mither," and vanished. EWEN OF THE LITTLE HEAD. About three hundred years ago, Ewen Maclaine of Lochbuy, in the island of Mull, having been engaged in a quarrel with a neighbouring chief, a day was fixed for determining the affair by the sword. Lochbuy, before the day arrived, consulted a celebrated witch as to the result of the feud. The witch declared that if Lochbuy's wife should on the morning of that day give him and his men food unasked, he would be victorious, but if not, the result would be the reverse. This was a disheartening response for the unhappy votary, his wife being a noted shrew. The fatal morning arrived, and the hour for meeting the enemy approached, but there appeared no symptoms of refreshment for Lochbuy and his men. At length the unfortunate man was compelled to ask his wife to supply them with food. She set down before them curds, but without spoons. When the husband inquired how they were to eat them, she replied they should assume the bills of hens. The men ate the curds, as well as they could, with their hands; but Lochbuy himself ate none. After behaving with the greatest bravery in the bloody conflict which ensued, he fell covered with wounds, leaving his wife to the execration of the people. She is still known in that district under the appellation of Corr-dhu, or the Black Crane. But the miseries brought on the luckless Lochbuy by his wife did not end with his life, for he died fasting, and his ghost is frequently seen to this day riding the very horse on which he was mounted when he was killed. It was a small, but very neat and active pony, dun or mouse-coloured, to which the Laird was much attached, and on which he had ridden for many years before his death. Its appearance is as accurately described in the island of Mull as any steed is at Newmarket. The prints of its shoes are discerned by connoisseurs, and the rattling of its curb is recognised in the darkest night. It is not particular with regard to roads, for it goes up hill and down dale with equal velocity. Its hard- fated rider still wears the same green cloak which covered him in his last battle; and he is particularly distinguished by the small size of his head, a peculiarity which, we suspect, the learned disciples of Spurzheim have never yet had the sagacity to discover as indicative of an extraordinary talent and incomparable perseverance in horsemanship. It is now above three hundred years since Ewen-a-chin-vig (_Anglice_, Hugh of the Little Head) fell in the field of honour; but neither the vigour of the horse nor of the rider is yet diminished. His mournful duty has always been to attend the dying moments of every member of his own tribe, and to escort the departed spirit on its long and arduous journey. He has been seen in the remotest of the Hebrides; and he has found his way to Ireland on these occasions long before steam navigation was invented. About a century ago he took a fancy for a young man of his own race, and frequently did him the honour of placing him behind himself on horseback. He entered into conversation with him, and foretold many circumstances connected with the fate of his successors, which have undoubtedly since come to pass. Many a long winter night have I listened to the feats of Ewen-a-chin-vig, the faithful and indefatigable guardian of his ancient family, in the hour of their last and greatest trial, affording an example worthy the imitation of every chief,--perhaps not beneath the notice of Glengarry himself. About a dozen years since some symptoms of Ewen's decay gave very general alarm to his friends. He accosted one of his own people (indeed he never has been known to notice any other), and, shaking him cordially by the hand, he attempted to place him on the saddle behind him, but the uncourteous dog declined the honour. Ewen struggled hard, but the clown was a great, strong, clumsy fellow, and stuck to the earth with all his might. He candidly acknowledged, however, that his chief would have prevailed, had it not been for a birch-tree which stood by, and which he got within the fold of his left arm. The contest became very warm indeed, and the tree was certainly twisted like an osier, as thousands can testify who saw it as well as myself. At length, however, Ewen lost his seat for the first time, and the instant the pony found he was his own master, he set off with the fleetness of lightning. Ewen immediately pursued his steed, and the wearied rustic sped his way homeward. It was the general opinion that Ewen found considerable difficulty in catching the horse; but I am happy to learn that he has been lately seen riding the old mouse-coloured pony without the least change in either the horse or the rider. Long may he continue to do so! Those who from motives of piety or curiosity have visited the sacred island of Iona, must remember to have seen the guide point out the tomb of Ewen, with his figure on horseback, very elegantly sculptured in alto- relievo, and many of the above facts are on such occasions related. JOCK AND HIS MOTHER. Ye see, there was a wife had a son, and they called him Jock; and she said to him, "You are a lazy fellow; ye maun gang awa' and do something for to help me." "Weel," says Jock, "I'll do that." So awa' he gangs, and fa's in wi' a packman. Says the packman, "If you carry my pack a' day, I'll gie you a needle at night." So he carried the pack, and got the needle; and as he was gaun awa' hame to his mither, he cuts a burden o' brackens, and put the needle into the heart o' them. Awa' he gaes hame. Says his mither, "What hae ye made o' yoursel' the day?" Says Jock, "I fell in wi' a packman, and carried his pack a' day, and he gae me a needle for't, and ye may look for it amang the brackens." "Hout," quo' she, "ye daft gowk, you should hae stuck it into your bonnet, man." "I'll mind that again," quo' Jock. Next day he fell in wi' a man carrying plough socks. "If ye help me to carry my socks a' day, I'll gie ye ane to yersel' at night." "I'll do that," quo' Jock. Jock carried them a' day, and got a sock, which he stuck in his bonnet. On the way hame, Jock was dry, and gaed away to take a drink out o' the burn; and wi' the weight o' the sock, his bonnet fell into the river, and gaed out o' sight. He gaed hame, and his mither says, "Weel, Jock, what hae you been doing a' day?" And then he tells her. "Hout," quo' she, "you should hae tied the string to it, and trailed it behind you." "Weel," quo' Jock, "I'll mind that again." Awa' he sets, and he fa's in wi' a flesher. "Weel," says the flesher, "if ye'll be my servant a' day, I'll gie ye a leg o' mutton at night." "I'll be that," quo' Jock. He got a leg o' mutton at night. He ties a string to it, and trails it behind him the hale road hame. "What hae ye been doing?" said his mither. He tells her. "Hout, you fool, ye should hae carried it on your shouther." "I'll mind that again," quo' Jock. Awa' he gaes next day, and meets a horse-dealer. He says, "If you will help me wi' my horses a' day, I'll give you ane to yoursel' at night." "I'll do that," quo' Jock. So he served him, and got his horse, and he ties its feet; but as he was not able to carry it on his back, he left it lying on the roadside. Hame he comes, and tells his mither. "Hout, ye daft gowk, ye'll ne'er turn wise! Could ye no hae loupen on it, and ridden it?" "I'll mind that again," quo' Jock. Aweel, there was a grand gentleman, wha had a daughter wha was very subject to melancholy; and her father gae out that whaever should mak' her laugh would get her in marriage. So it happened that she was sitting at the window ae day, musing in her melancholy state, when Jock, according to the advice o' his mither, cam' flying up on a cow's back, wi' the tail over his shouther. And she burst out into a fit o' laughter. When they made inquiry wha made her laugh, it was found to be Jock riding on the cow. Accordingly, Jock was sent for to get his bride. Weel, Jock was married to her, and there was a great supper prepared. Amongst the rest o' the things, there was some honey, which Jock was very fond o'. After supper, they all retired, and the auld priest that married them sat up a' night by the kitchen fireside. So Jock waukens in the night-time, and says, "Oh, wad ye gie me some o' yon nice sweet honey that we got to our supper last night?" "Oh ay," says his wife, "rise and gang into the press, and ye'll get a pig fou o 't." Jock rose, and thrust his hand into the honey-pig for a nievefu' o 't, and he could not get it out. So he cam' awa' wi' the pig in his hand, like a mason's mell, and says, "Oh, I canna get my hand out." "Hoot," quo' she, "gang awa' and break it on the cheek-stane." By this time, the fire was dark, and the auld priest was lying snoring wi' his head against the chimney- piece, wi' a huge white wig on. Jock gaes awa', and gae him a whack wi' the honey-pig on the head, thinking it was the cheek-stane, and knocks it a' in bits. The auld priest roars out, "Murder!" Jock tak's doun the stair as hard as he could bicker, and hides himsel' amang the bees' skeps. That night, as luck wad have it, some thieves cam' to steal the bees' skeps, and in the hurry o' tumbling them into a large grey plaid, they tumbled Jock in alang wi' them. So aff they set, wi' Jock and the skeps on their backs. On the way, they had to cross the burn where Jock lost his bonnet. Ane o' the thieves cries, "Oh, I hae fand a bonnet!" and Jock, on hearing that, cries out, "Oh, that's mine!" They thocht they had got the deil on their backs. So they let a' fa' in the burn; and Jock, being tied in the plaid, couldna get out; so he and the bees were a' drowned thegither. If a' tales be true, that's nae lee. SAINT COLUMBA. Soon after Saint Columba established his residence in Iona, tradition says that he paid a visit to a great seminary of Druids, then in the vicinity, at a place called Camusnan Ceul, or Bay of Cells, in the district of Ardnamurchan. Several remains of Druidical circles are still to be seen there, and on that bay and the neighbourhood many places are still named after their rites and ceremonies; such as _Ardintibert_, the Mount of Sacrifice, and others. The fame of the Saint had been for some time well known to the people, and his intention of instructing them in the doctrines of Christianity was announced to them. The ancient priesthood made every exertion to dissuade the inhabitants from hearing the powerful eloquence of Columba, and in this they were seconded by the principal man then in that country, whose name was Donald, a son of Connal. The Saint had no sooner made his appearance, however, than he was surrounded by a vast multitude, anxious to hear so celebrated a preacher; and after the sermon was ended, many persons expressed a desire to be baptized, in spite of the remonstrances of the Druids. Columba had made choice of an eminence centrally situated for performing worship; but there was no water near the spot, and the son of Connal threatened with punishment any who should dare to procure it for his purpose. The Saint stood with his back leaning on a rock; after a short prayer, he struck the rock with his foot, and a stream of water issued forth in great abundance. The miracle had a powerful effect on the minds of his hearers, and many became converts to the new religion. This fountain is still distinguished by the name of Columba, and is considered of superior efficacy in the cure of diseases. When the Catholic form of worship prevailed in that country it was greatly resorted to, and old persons yet remember to have seen offerings left at the fountain in gratitude for benefits received from the benignant influence of the Saint's blessing on the water. At length it is said that a daughter of Donald, the son of Connal, expressed a wish to be baptized, and the father restrained her by violence. He also, with the aid of the Druids, forced Columba to take refuge in his boat, and the holy man departed for Iona, after warning the inhospitable Caledonian to prepare for another world, as his life would soon terminate. The Saint was at sea during the whole night, which was stormy; and when approaching the shores of his own sacred island the following morning, a vast number of ravens were observed flying over the boat, chasing another of extraordinary large size. The croaking of the ravens awoke the Saint, who had been sleeping; and he instantly exclaimed that the son of Connal had just expired, which was afterwards ascertained to be true. A very large Christian establishment appears to have been afterwards formed in the Bay of Cells; and the remains of a chapel, dedicated to Saint Kiaran, are still to be seen there. It is the favourite place of interment among the Catholics of this day. Indeed, Columba and many of his successors seem to have adopted the policy of engrafting their institutions on those which had formerly existed in the country. Of this there are innumerable instances, at least we observe the ruins of both still visible in many places; even in Iona we find the burying-ground of the Druids known at the present day. This practice may have had advantages at the time, but it must have been ultimately productive of many corruptions; and, in a great measure, accounts for many superstitious and absurd customs which prevailed among that people to a very recent period, and which are not yet entirely extinct. In a very ancient family in that country two round balls of coarse glass have been carefully preserved from time immemorial, and to these have been ascribed many virtues--amongst others, the cure of any extraordinary disease among cattle. The balls were immersed in cold water for three days and nights, and the water was afterwards sprinkled over all the cattle; this was expected to cure those affected, and to prevent the disease in the rest. From the names and appearance of these balls, there is no doubt that they had been symbols used by the Archdruids. Within a short distance of the Bay of Cells there is a cave very remarkable in its appearance, and still more so from the purposes to which it has been appropriated. Saint Columba, on one of his many voyages among the Hebrides, was benighted on this rocky coast, and the mariners were alarmed for their own safety. The Saint assured them that neither he nor his crew would ever be drowned. They unexpectedly discovered a light at no great distance, and to that they directed their course. Columba's boat consisted of a frame of osiers, which was covered with hides of leather, and it was received into a very narrow creek close to this cave. After returning thanks for their escape, the Saint and his people had great difficulty in climbing up to the cave, which is elevated considerably above sea. They at length got sight of the fire which had first attracted their attention. Several persons sat around it, and their appearance was not much calculated to please the holy man. Their aspects were fierce, and they had on the fire some flesh roasting over the coals. The Saint gave them his benediction; and he was invited to sit down among them and to share their hurried repast, with which he gladly complied. They were freebooters, who lived by plunder and robbery, and this Columba soon discovered. He advised them to forsake that course, and to be converted to his doctrines, to which they all assented, and in the morning they accompanied the Saint on his voyage homeward. This circumstance created a high veneration for the cave among the disciples and successors of Columba, and that veneration still continues, in some degree. In one side of it there was a cleft of the rock, where lay the water with which the freebooters had been baptized; and this was afterwards formed by art into a basin, which is supplied with water by drops from the roof of the cave. It is alleged never to be empty or to overflow, and the most salubrious qualities are ascribed to it. To obtain the benefit of it, however, the votaries must undergo a very severe ordeal. They must be in the cave before daylight; they stand on the spot where the Saint first landed his boat, and nine waves must dash over their heads; they must afterwards pass through nine openings in the walls of the cave; and, lastly, they must swallow nine mouthfuls out of the holy basin. After invoking the aid of the Saint, the votaries within three weeks are either relieved by death or by recovery. Offerings are left in a certain place appropriated for that purpose; and these are sometimes of considerable value, nor are they ever abstracted. Strangers are always informed that a young man, who had wantonly taken away some of these not many years since, broke his leg before he got home, and this affords the property of the Saint ample protection. THE MERMAID WIFE. A story is told of an inhabitant of Unst, who, in walking on the sandy margin of a voe, saw a number of mermen and mermaids dancing by moonlight, and several seal-skins strewed beside them on the ground. At his approach they immediately fled to secure their garbs, and, taking upon themselves the form of seals, plunged immediately into the sea. But as the Shetlander perceived that one skin lay close to his feet, he snatched it up, bore it swiftly away, and placed it in concealment. On returning to the shore he met the fairest damsel that was ever gazed upon by mortal eyes, lamenting the robbery, by which she had become an exile from her submarine friends, and a tenant of the upper world. Vainly she implored the restitution of her property; the man had drunk deeply of love, and was inexorable; but he offered her protection beneath his roof as his betrothed spouse. The merlady, perceiving that she must become an inhabitant of the earth, found that she could not do better than accept of the offer. This strange attachment subsisted for many years, and the couple had several children. The Shetlander's love for his merwife was unbounded, but his affection was coldly returned. The lady would often steal alone to the desert strand, and, on a signal being given, a large seal would make his appearance, with whom she would hold, in an unknown tongue, an anxious conference. Years had thus glided away, when it happened that one of the children, in the course of his play, found concealed beneath a stack of corn a seal's skin; and, delighted with the prize, he ran with it to his mother. Her eyes glistened with rapture--she gazed upon it as her own--as the means by which she could pass through the ocean that led to her native home. She burst forth into an ecstasy of joy, which was only moderated when she beheld her children, whom she was now about to leave; and, after hastily embracing them, she fled with all speed towards the sea-side. The husband immediately returned, learned the discovery that had taken place, ran to overtake his wife, but only arrived in time to see her transformation of shape completed--to see her, in the form of a seal, bound from the ledge of a rock into the sea. The large animal of the same kind with whom she had held a secret converse soon appeared, and evidently congratulated her, in the most tender manner, on her escape. But before she dived to unknown depths, she cast a parting glance at the wretched Shetlander, whose despairing looks excited in her breast a few transient feelings of commiseration. "Farewell!" said she to him, "and may all good attend you. I loved you very well when I resided upon earth, but I always loved my first husband much better." THE FIDDLER AND THE BOGLE OF BOGANDORAN. "Late one night, as my grand-uncle, Lachlan Dhu Macpherson, who was well known as the best fiddler of his day, was returning home from a ball, at which he had acted as a musician, he had occasion to pass through the once-haunted Bog of Torrans. Now, it happened at that time that the bog was frequented by a huge bogle or ghost, who was of a most mischievous disposition, and took particular pleasure in abusing every traveller who had occasion to pass through the place betwixt the twilight at night and cock-crowing in the morning. Suspecting much that he would also come in for a share of his abuse, my grand-uncle made up his mind, in the course of his progress, to return the ghost any _civilities_ which he might think meet to offer him. On arriving on the spot, he found his suspicions were too well grounded; for whom did he see but the ghost of Bogandoran apparently ready waiting him, and seeming by his ghastly grin not a little overjoyed at the meeting. Marching up to my grand-uncle, the bogle clapped a huge club into his hand, and furnishing himself with one of the same dimensions, he put a spittle in his hand, and deliberately commenced the combat. My grand-uncle returned the salute with equal spirit, and so ably did both parties ply their batons that for a while the issue of the combat was extremely doubtful. At length, however, the fiddler could easily discover that his opponent's vigour was much in the fagging order. Picking up renewed courage in consequence, he plied the ghost with renewed force, and after a stout resistance, in the course of which both parties were seriously handled, the ghost of Bogandoran thought it prudent to give up the night. "At the same time, filled no doubt with great indignation at this signal defeat, it seems the ghost resolved to re-engage my grand-uncle on some other occasion, under more favourable circumstances. Not long after, as my grand-uncle was returning home quite unattended from another ball in the Braes of the country, he had just entered the hollow of Auldichoish, well known for its 'eerie' properties, when, lo! who presented himself to his view on the adjacent eminence but his old friend of Bogandoran, advancing as large as the gable of a house, and putting himself in the most threatening and fighting attitudes. "Looking at the very dangerous nature of the ground where they had met, and feeling no anxiety for a second encounter with a combatant of his weight, in a situation so little desirable, the fiddler would have willingly deferred the settlement of their differences till a more convenient season. He, accordingly, assuming the most submissive aspect in the world, endeavoured to pass by his champion in peace, but in vain. Longing, no doubt, to retrieve the disgrace of his late discomfiture, the bogle instantly seized the fiddler, and attempted with all his might to pull the latter down the precipice, with the diabolical intention, it is supposed, of drowning him in the river Avon below. In this pious design the bogle was happily frustrated by the intervention of some trees which grew on the precipice, and to which my unhappy grand-uncle clung with the zeal of a drowning man. The enraged ghost, finding it impossible to extricate him from those friendly trees, and resolving, at all events, to be revenged upon him, fell upon maltreating the fiddler with his hands and feet in the most inhuman manner. "Such gross indignities my worthy grand-uncle was not accustomed to, and being incensed beyond all measure at the liberties taken by Bogandoran, he resolved again to try his mettle, whether life or death should be the consequence. Having no other weapon wherewith to defend himself but his _biodag_, which, considering the nature of his opponent's constitution, he suspected much would be of little avail to him--I say, in the absence of any other weapon, he sheathed the _biodag_ three times in the ghost of Bogandoran's body. And what was the consequence? Why, to the great astonishment of my courageous forefather, the ghost fell down cold dead at his feet, and was never more seen or heard of." THOMAS THE RHYMER. Thomas, of Ercildoun, in Lauderdale, called the Rhymer, on account of his producing a poetical romance on the subject of Tristrem and Yseult, which is curious as the earliest specimen of English verse known to exist, flourished in the reign of Alexander III. of Scotland. Like other men of talent of the period, Thomas was suspected of magic. He was also said to have the gift of prophecy, which was accounted for in the following peculiar manner, referring entirely to the Elfin superstition. As Thomas lay on Huntly Bank (a place on the descent of the Eildon Hills, which raise their triple crest above the celebrated monastery of Melrose), he saw a lady so extremely beautiful that he imagined she must be the Virgin Mary herself. Her appointments, however, were those rather of an amazon, or goddess of the woods. Her steed was of the highest beauty, and at its mane hung thirty silver bells and nine, which were music to the wind as she paced along. Her saddle was of "royal bone" (ivory), laid over with "orfeverie" (goldsmith's work). Her stirrups, her dress, all corresponded with her extreme beauty and the magnificence of her array. The fair huntress had her bow in hand, and her arrows at her belt. She led three greyhounds in a leash, and three raches, or hounds of scent, followed her closely. She rejected and disclaimed the homage which Thomas desired to pay her; so that, passing from one extremity to the other, Thomas became as bold as he had at first been humble. The lady warned him he must become her slave if he wished to prosecute his suit. Before their interview terminated, the appearance of the beautiful lady was changed into that of the most hideous hag in existence. A witch from the spital or almshouse would have been a goddess in comparison to the late beautiful huntress. Hideous as she was, Thomas felt that he had placed himself in the power of this hag, and when she bade him take leave of the sun, and of the leaf that grew on the tree, he felt himself under the necessity of obeying her. A cavern received them, in which, following his frightful guide, he for three days travelled in darkness, sometimes hearing the booming of a distant ocean, sometimes walking through rivers of blood, which crossed their subterranean path. At length they emerged into daylight, in a most beautiful orchard. Thomas, almost fainting for want of food, stretched out his hand towards the goodly fruit which hung around him, but was forbidden by his conductress, who informed him that these were the fatal apples which were the cause of the fall of man. He perceived also that his guide had no sooner entered this mysterious ground and breathed its magic air than she was revived in beauty, equipage, and splendour, as fair or fairer than he had first seen her on the mountain. She then proceeded to explain to him the character of the country. "Yonder right-hand path," she says, "conveys the spirits of the blest to paradise. Yon downward and well-worn way leads sinful souls to the place of everlasting punishment. The third road, by yonder dark brake, conducts to the milder place of pain, from which prayer and mass may release offenders. But see you yet a fourth road, sweeping along the plain to yonder splendid castle? Yonder is the road to Elfland, to which we are now bound. The lord of the castle is king of the country, and I am his queen; and when we enter yonder castle, you must observe strict silence, and answer no question that is asked you, and I will account for your silence by saying I took your speech when I brought you from middle earth." Having thus instructed him, they journeyed on to the castle, and, entering by the kitchen, found themselves in the midst of such a festive scene as might become the mansion of a great feudal lord or prince. Thirty carcasses of deer were lying on the massive kitchen board, under the hands of numerous cooks, who toiled to cut them up and dress them, while the gigantic greyhounds which had taken the spoil lay lapping the blood, and enjoying the sight of the slain game. They came next to the royal hall, where the king received his loving consort; knights and ladies, dancing by threes, occupied the floor of the hall; and Thomas, the fatigue of his journey from the Eildon Hills forgotten, went forward and joined in the revelry. After a period, however, which seemed to him a very short one, the queen spoke with him apart, and bade him prepare to return to his own country. "Now," said the queen, "how long think you that you have been here?" "Certes, fair lady," answered Thomas, "not above these seven days." "You are deceived," answered the queen; "you have been seven years in this castle, and it is full time you were gone. Know, Thomas, that the archfiend will come to this castle to-morrow to demand his tribute, and so handsome a man as you will attract his eye. For all the world would I not suffer you to be betrayed to such a fate; therefore up, and let us be going." This terrible news reconciled Thomas to his departure from Elfinland; and the queen was not long in placing him upon Huntly Bank, where the birds were singing. She took leave of him, and to ensure his reputation bestowed on him the tongue which _could not lie_. Thomas in vain objected to this inconvenient and involuntary adhesion to veracity, which would make him, as he thought, unfit for church or for market, for king's court or for lady's bower. But all his remonstrances were disregarded by the lady; and Thomas the Rhymer, whenever the discourse turned on the future, gained the credit of a prophet whether he would or not, for he could say nothing but what was sure to come to pass. Thomas remained several years in his own tower near Ercildoun, and enjoyed the fame of his predictions, several of which are current among the country people to this day. At length, as the prophet was entertaining the Earl of March in his dwelling, a cry of astonishment arose in the village, on the appearance of a hart and hind, which left the forest, and, contrary to their shy nature, came quietly onward, traversing the village towards the dwelling of Thomas. The prophet instantly rose from the board, and acknowledging the prodigy as the summons of his fate, he accompanied the hart and hind into the forest, and though occasionally seen by individuals to whom he has chosen to show himself, he has never again mixed familiarly with mankind. FAIRY FRIENDS. It is a good thing to befriend the fairies, as the following stories show:-- There have been from time immemorial at Hawick, during the two or three last weeks of the year, markets once a week, for the disposal of sheep for slaughter, at which the greater number of people, both in the middle and poorer classes of life, have been accustomed to provide themselves with their _marts_. A poor man from Jedburgh who was on his way to Hawick for the purpose of attending one of these markets, as he was passing over that side of Rubislaw which is nearest the Teviot, was suddenly alarmed by a frightful and unaccountable noise. The sound, as he supposed, proceeded from an immense number of female voices, but no objects whence it could come were visible. Amidst howling and wailing were mixed shouts of mirth and jollity, but he could gather nothing articulate except the following words-- "O there's a bairn born, but there's naething to pit on 't." The occasion of this elfish concert, it seemed, was the birth of a fairy child, at which the fairies, with the exception of two or three who were discomposed at having nothing to cover the little innocent with, were enjoying themselves with that joviality usually characteristic of such an event. The astonished rustic finding himself amongst a host of invisible beings, in a wild moorland place, and far from any human assistance, should assistance be required, full of the greatest consternation, immediately on hearing this expression again and again vociferated, stripped off his plaid, and threw it on the ground. It was instantly snatched up by an invisible hand, and the wailings immediately ceased, but the shouts of mirth were continued with increased vigour. Being of opinion that what he had done had satisfied his invisible friends, he lost no time in making off, and proceeded on his road to Hawick, musing on his singular adventure. He purchased a sheep, which turned out a remarkably good bargain, and returned to Jedburgh. He had no cause to regret his generosity in bestowing his plaid on the fairies, for every day afterwards his wealth multiplied, and he continued till the day of his death a rich and prosperous man. * * * * * About the beginning of harvest, there having been a want of meal for _shearers_' bread in the farmhouse of Bedrule, a small quantity of barley (being all that was yet ripe) was cut down, and converted into meal. Mrs. Buckham, the farmer's wife, rose early in the morning to bake the bread, and, while she was engaged in baking, a little woman in green costume came in, and, with much politeness, asked for a loan of a capful of meal. Mrs. Buckham thought it prudent to comply with her request. In a short time afterwards the woman in green returned with an equal quantity of meal, which Mrs. Buckham put into the _meal-ark_. This meal had such a lasting quality, that from it alone the gudewife of Bedrule baked as much bread as served her own family and the reapers throughout the harvest, and when harvest was over it was not exhausted. THE SEAL-CATCHER'S ADVENTURE. There was once upon a time a man who lived upon the northern coasts, not far from "Taigh Jan Crot Callow" (John-o'-Groat's House), and he gained his livelihood by catching and killing fish, of all sizes and denominations. He had a particular liking for the killing of those wonderful beasts, half dog half fish, called "Roane," or seals, no doubt because he got a long price for their skins, which are not less curious than they are valuable. The truth is, that the most of these animals are neither dogs nor cods, but downright fairies, as this narration will show; and, indeed, it is easy for any man to convince himself of the fact by a simple examination of his _tobacco-spluichdan_, for the dead skins of those beings are never the same for four-and-twenty hours together. Sometimes the _spluichdan_ will erect its bristles almost perpendicularly, while, at other times, it reclines them even down; one time it resembles a bristly sow, at another time a _sleekit cat_; and what dead skin, except itself, could perform such cantrips? Now, it happened one day, as this notable fisher had returned from the prosecution of his calling, that he was called upon by a man who seemed a great stranger, and who said he had been despatched for him by a person who wished to contract for a quantity of seal-skins, and that the fisher must accompany him (the stranger) immediately to see the person who wished to contract for the skins, as it was necessary that he should be served that evening. Happy in the prospect of making a good bargain, and never suspecting any duplicity, he instantly complied. They both mounted a steed belonging to the stranger, and took the road with such velocity that, although the direction of the wind was towards their backs, yet the fleetness of their movement made it appear as if it had been in their faces. On reaching a stupendous precipice which overhung the sea, his guide told him they had now reached their destination. "Where is the person you spoke of!" inquired the astonished seal-killer. "You shall see that presently," replied the guide. With that they immediately alighted, and, without allowing the seal-killer much time to indulge the frightful suspicions that began to pervade his mind, the stranger seized him with irresistible force, and plunged headlong with him into the sea. After sinking down, down, nobody knows how far, they at length reached a door, which, being open, led them into a range of apartments, filled with inhabitants--not people, but seals, who could nevertheless speak and feel like human folk; and how much was the seal- killer surprised to find that he himself had been unconsciously transformed into the like image. If it were not so, he would probably have died from the want of breath. The nature of the poor fisher's thoughts may be more easily conceived than described. Looking at the nature of the quarters into which he had landed, all hopes of escape from them appeared wholly chimerical, whilst the degree of comfort, and length of life which the barren scene promised him were far from being flattering. The "Roane," who all seemed in very low spirits, appeared to feel for him, and endeavoured to soothe the distress which he evinced by the amplest assurances of personal safety. Involved in sad meditation on his evil fate, he was quickly roused from his stupor by his guide's producing a huge gully or joctaleg, the object of which he supposed was to put an end to all his earthly cares. Forlorn as was his situation, however, he did not wish to be killed; and, apprehending instant destruction, he fell down, and earnestly implored for mercy. The poor generous animals did not mean him any harm, however much his former conduct deserved it, and he was accordingly desired to pacify himself, and cease his cries. "Did you ever see that knife before?" said the stranger to the fisher. The latter instantly recognised his own knife, which he had that day stuck into a seal, and with which it had escaped, and acknowledged it was formerly his own, for what would be the use of denying it? "Well," rejoined the guide, "the apparent seal which made away with it is my father, who has lain dangerously ill ever since, and no means can stay his fleeting breath without your aid. I have been obliged to resort to the artifice I have practised to bring you hither, and I trust that my filial duty to my father will readily excuse me." Having said this, he led into another apartment the trembling seal-killer, who expected every minute to be punished for his own ill- treatment of the father. There he found the identical seal with which he had had the encounter in the morning, suffering most grievously from a tremendous cut in its hind-quarter. The seal-killer was then desired, with his hand, to cicatrise the wound, upon doing which it immediately healed, and the seal arose from its bed in perfect health. Upon this the scene changed from mourning to rejoicing--all was mirth and glee. Very different, however, were the feelings of the unfortunate seal-catcher, who expected no doubt to be metamorphosed into a seal for the remainder of his life. However, his late guide accosting him, said-- "Now, sir, you are at liberty to return to your wife and family, to whom I am about to conduct you; but it is on this express condition, to which you must bind yourself by a solemn oath, viz. that you will never maim or kill a seal in all your lifetime hereafter." To this condition, hard as it was, he joyfully acceded; and the oath being administered in all due form, he bade his new acquaintance most heartily and sincerely a long farewell. Taking hold of his guide, they issued from the place and swam up, till they regained the surface of the sea, and, landing at the said stupendous pinnacle, they found their former steed ready for a second canter. The guide breathed upon the fisher, and they became like men. They mounted their horse, and fleet as had been their course towards the precipice, their return from it was doubly swift; and the honest seal-killer was laid down at his own door- cheek, where his guide made him such a present as would have almost reconciled him to another similar expedition, such as rendered his loss of profession, in so far as regarded the seals, a far less intolerable hardship than he had at first considered it. THE FAIRIES OF MERLIN'S CRAIG. Early in the seventeenth century, John Smith, a barn-man at a farm, was sent by his master to cast divots (turf) on the green immediately behind Merlin's Craig. After having laboured for a considerable time, there came round from the front of the rock a little woman, about eighteen inches in height, clad in a green gown and red stockings, with long yellow hair hanging down to her waist, who asked the astonished operator how he would feel were she to send her husband to _tir_ (uncover) his house, at the same time commanding him to place every _divot_ he had cast _in statu quo_. John obeyed with fear and trembling, and, returning to his master, told what had happened. The farmer laughed at his credulity, and, anxious to cure him of such idle superstition, ordered him to take a cart and fetch home the _divots_ immediately. John obeyed, although with much reluctance. Nothing happened to him in consequence till that day twelve months, when he left his master's work at the usual hour in the evening, with a small _stoup_ of milk in his hand, but he did not reach home, nor was he ever heard of for years (I have forgotten how many), when, upon the anniversary of that unfortunate day, John walked into his house at the usual hour, with the milk-stoup in his hand. The account that he gave of his captivity was that, on the evening of that eventful day, returning home from his labour, when passing Merlin's Craig, he felt himself suddenly taken ill, and sat down to rest a little. Soon after he fell asleep, and awoke, as he supposed, about midnight, when there was a troop of male and female fairies dancing round him. They insisted upon his joining in the sport, and gave him the finest girl in the company as a partner. She took him by the hand; they danced three times round in a fairy ring, after which he became so happy that he felt no inclination to leave his new associates. Their amusements were protracted till he heard his master's cock crow, when the whole troop immediately rushed forward to the front of the craig, hurrying him along with them. A door opened to receive them, and he continued a prisoner until the evening on which he returned, when the same woman who had first appeared to him when casting _divots_ came and told him that the grass was again green on the roof of her house, which he had _tirred_, and if he would swear an oath, which she dictated, never to discover what he had seen in fairyland, he should be at liberty to return to his family. John took the oath, and observed it most religiously, although sadly teased and questioned by his helpmate, particularly about the "bonnie lassie" with whom he danced on the night of his departure. He was also observed to walk a mile out of his way rather than pass Merlin's Craig when the sun was below the horizon. On a subsequent occasion the tiny inhabitants of Merlin's Craig surprised a shepherd when watching his fold at night; he was asleep, and his bonnet had fallen off and rolled to some little distance. He was awakened by the fairies dancing round him in a circle, and was induced to join them; but recollecting the fate of John Smith, he would not allow his female companion to take hold of his hands. In the midst of their gambols they came close to the hillock where the shepherd's bonnet lay,--he affected to stumble, fell upon his bonnet, which he immediately seized, clapping it on his head, when the whole troop instantly vanished. This exorcism was produced by the talismanic power of a Catechism containing the Lord's Prayer and the Apostles' Creed, which the shepherd most fortunately recollected was deposited in the crown of his bonnet. RORY MACGILLIVRAY. Once upon a time a tenant in the neighbourhood of Cairngorm, in Strathspey, emigrated with his family and cattle to the forest of Glenavon, which is well known to be inhabited by many fairies as well as ghosts. Two of his sons being out late one night in search of some of their sheep which had strayed, had occasion to pass a fairy turret, or dwelling, of very large dimensions; and what was their astonishment on observing streams of the most refulgent light shining forth through innumerable crevices in the rock--crevices which the sharpest eye in the country had never seen before. Curiosity led them towards the turret, when they were charmed by the most exquisite sounds ever emitted by a fiddle-string, which, joined to the sportive mirth and glee accompanying it, reconciled them in a great measure to the scene, although they knew well enough the inhabitants of the nook were fairies. Nay, overpowered by the enchanting jigs played by the fiddler, one of the brothers had even the hardihood to propose that they should pay the occupants of the turret a short visit. To this motion the other brother, fond as he was of dancing, and animated as he was by the music, would by no means consent, and he earnestly desired his brother to restrain his curiosity. But every new jig that was played, and every new reel that was danced, inspired the adventurous brother with additional ardour, and at length, completely fascinated by the enchanting revelry, leaving all prudence behind, at one leap he entered the "Shian." The poor forlorn brother was now left in a most uncomfortable situation. His grief for the loss of a brother whom he dearly loved suggested to him more than once the desperate idea of sharing his fate by following his example. But, on the other hand, when he coolly considered the possibility of sharing very different entertainment from that which rang upon his ears, and remembered, too, the comforts and convenience of his father's fireside, the idea immediately appeared to him anything but prudent. After a long and disagreeable altercation between his affection for his brother and his regard for himself, he came to the resolution to take a middle course, that is, to shout in at the window a few remonstrances to his brother, which, if he did not attend to, let the consequences be upon his own head. Accordingly, taking his station at one of the crevices, and calling upon his brother three several times by name, as use is, he uttered the most moving pieces of elocution he could think of, imploring him, as he valued his poor parents' life and blessing, to come forth and go home with him, Donald Macgillivray, his thrice affectionate and unhappy brother. But whether it was the dancer could not hear this eloquent harangue, or, what is more probable, that he did not choose to attend to it, certain it is that it proved totally ineffectual to accomplish its object, and the consequence was that Donald Macgillivray found it equally his duty and his interest to return home to his family with the melancholy tale of poor Rory's fate. All the prescribed ceremonies calculated to rescue him from the fairy dominion were resorted to by his mourning relatives without effect, and Rory was supposed lost for ever, when a "wise man" of the day having learned the circumstance, discovered to his friends a plan by which they might deliver him at the end of twelve months from his entry. "Return," says the _Duin Glichd_ to Donald, "to the place where you lost your brother a year and a day from the time. You will insert in your garment a _Rowan Cross_, which will protect you from the fairies' interposition. Enter the turret boldly and resolutely in the name of the Highest, claim your brother, and, if he does not accompany you voluntarily, seize him and carry him off by force--none dare interfere with you." The experiment appeared to the cautious contemplative brother as one that was fraught with no ordinary danger, and he would have most willingly declined the prominent character allotted to him in the performance but for the importunate entreaty of his friends, who implored him, as he valued their blessing, not to slight such excellent advice. Their entreaties, together with his confidence in the virtues of the _Rowan Cross_, overcame his scruples, and he at length agreed to put the experiment in practice, whatever the result might be. Well, then, the important day arrived, when the father of the two sons was destined either to recover his lost son, or to lose the only son he had, and, anxious as the father felt, Donald Macgillivray, the intended adventurer, felt no less so on the occasion. The hour of midnight approached when the drama was to be acted, and Donald Macgillivray, loaded with all the charms and benedictions in his country, took mournful leave of his friends, and proceeded to the scene of his intended enterprise. On approaching the well-known turret, a repetition of that mirth and those ravishing sounds, that had been the source of so much sorrow to himself and family, once more attracted his attention, without at all creating in his mind any extraordinary feelings of satisfaction. On the contrary, he abhorred the sounds most heartily, and felt much greater inclination to recede than to advance. But what was to be done? Courage, character, and everything dear to him were at stake, so that to advance was his only alternative. In short, he reached the "Shian," and, after twenty fruitless attempts, he at length entered the place with trembling footsteps, and amidst the brilliant and jovial scene the not least gratifying spectacle which presented itself to Donald was his brother Rory earnestly engaged at the Highland fling on the floor, at which, as might have been expected, he had greatly improved. Without losing much time in satisfying his curiosity by examining the quality of the company, Donald ran to his brother, repeating, most vehemently, the words prescribed to him by the "wise man," seized him by the collar, and insisted on his immediately accompanying him home to his poor afflicted parents. Rory assented, provided he would allow him to finish his single reel, assuring Donald, very earnestly, that he had not been half an hour in the house. In vain did the latter assure him that, instead of half an hour, he had actually remained twelve months. Nor would he have believed his overjoyed friends when his brother at length got him home, did not the calves, now grown into stots, and the new-born babes, now travelling the house, at length convince him that in his single reel he had danced for a twelvemonth and a day. THE HAUNTED SHIPS. "Though my mind's not Hoodwinked with rustic marvels, I do think There are more things in the grove, the air, the flood, Yea, and the charnelled earth, than what wise man, Who walks so proud as if his form alone Filled the wide temple of the universe, Will let a frail mind say. I'd write i' the creed O' the sagest head alive, that fearful forms, Holy or reprobate, do page men's heels; That shapes, too horrid for our gaze, stand o'er The murderer's dust, and for revenge glare up, Even till the stars weep fire for very pity." Along the sea of Solway, romantic on the Scottish side, with its woodland, its bays, its cliffs, and headlands; and interesting on the English side, with its many beautiful towns with their shadows on the water, rich pastures, safe harbours, and numerous ships, there still linger many traditional stories of a maritime nature, most of them connected with superstitions singularly wild and unusual. To the curious these tales afford a rich fund of entertainment, from the many diversities of the same story; some dry and barren, and stripped of all the embellishments of poetry; others dressed out in all the riches of a superstitious belief and haunted imagination. In this they resemble the inland traditions of the peasants; but many of the oral treasures of the Galwegian or the Cumbrian coast have the stamp of the Dane and the Norseman upon them, and claim but a remote or faint affinity with the legitimate legends of Caledonia. Something like a rude prosaic outline of several of the most noted of the northern ballads, the adventures and depredations of the old ocean kings, still lends life to the evening tale; and, among others, the story of the Haunted Ships is still popular among the maritime peasantry. One fine harvest evening I went on board the shallop of Richard Faulder, of Allanbay, and, committing ourselves to the waters, we allowed a gentle wind from the east to waft us at its pleasure towards the Scottish coast. We passed the sharp promontory of Siddick, and, skirting the land within a stonecast, glided along the shore till we came within sight of the ruined Abbey of Sweetheart. The green mountain of Criffel ascended beside us; and the bleat of the flocks from its summit, together with the winding of the evening horn of the reapers, came softened into something like music over land and sea. We pushed our shallop into a deep and wooded bay, and sat silently looking on the serene beauty of the place. The moon glimmered in her rising through the tall shafts of the pines of Caerlaverock; and the sky, with scarce a cloud, showered down on wood and headland and bay the twinkling beams of a thousand stars, rendering every object visible. The tide, too, was coming with that swift and silent swell observable when the wind is gentle; the woody curves along the land were filling with the flood, till it touched the green branches of the drooping trees; while in the centre current the roll and the plunge of a thousand pellocks told to the experienced fisherman that salmon were abundant. As we looked, we saw an old man emerging from a path that wound to the shore through a grove of doddered hazel; he carried a halve-net on his back, while behind him came a girl, bearing a small harpoon, with which the fishers are remarkably dexterous in striking their prey. The senior seated himself on a large grey stone, which overlooked the bay, laid aside his bonnet, and submitted his bosom and neck to the refreshing sea breeze, and, taking his harpoon from his attendant, sat with the gravity and composure of a spirit of the flood, with his ministering nymph behind him. We pushed our shallop to the shore, and soon stood at their side. "This is old Mark Macmoran the mariner, with his granddaughter Barbara," said Richard Faulder, in a whisper that had something of fear in it; "he knows every creek and cavern and quicksand in Solway; has seen the Spectre Hound that haunts the Isle of Man; has heard him bark, and at every bark has seen a ship sink; and he has seen, too, the Haunted Ships in full sail; and, if all tales be true, he has sailed in them himself;--he's an awful person." Though I perceived in the communication of my friend something of the superstition of the sailor, I could not help thinking that common rumour had made a happy choice in singling out old Mark to maintain her intercourse with the invisible world. His hair, which seemed to have refused all intercourse with the comb, hung matted upon his shoulders; a kind of mantle, or rather blanket, pinned with a wooden skewer round his neck, fell mid-leg down, concealing all his nether garments as far as a pair of hose, darned with yarn of all conceivable colours, and a pair of shoes, patched and repaired till nothing of the original structure remained, and clasped on his feet with two massy silver buckles. If the dress of the old man was rude and sordid, that of his granddaughter was gay, and even rich. She wore a bodice of fine wool, wrought round the bosom with alternate leaf and lily, and a kirtle of the same fabric, which, almost touching her white and delicate ankle, showed her snowy feet, so fairy-light and round that they scarcely seemed to touch the grass where she stood. Her hair, a natural ornament which woman seeks much to improve, was of bright glossy brown, and encumbered rather than adorned with a snood, set thick with marine productions, among which the small clear pearl found in the Solway was conspicuous. Nature had not trusted to a handsome shape and a sylph-like air for young Barbara's influence over the heart of man, but had bestowed a pair of large bright blue eyes, swimming in liquid light, so full of love and gentleness and joy, that all the sailors from Annanwater to far Saint Bees acknowledged their power, and sang songs about the bonnie lass of Mark Macmoran. She stood holding a small gaff-hook of polished steel in her hand, and seemed not dissatisfied with the glances I bestowed on her from time to time, and which I held more than requited by a single glance of those eyes which retained so many capricious hearts in subjection. The tide, though rapidly augmenting, had not yet filled the bay at our feet. The moon now streamed fairly over the tops of Caerlaverock pines, and showed the expanse of ocean dimpling and swelling, on which sloops and shallops came dancing, and displaying at every turn their extent of white sail against the beam of the moon. I looked on old Mark the mariner, who, seated motionless on his grey stone, kept his eye fixed on the increasing waters with a look of seriousness and sorrow, in which I saw little of the calculating spirit of a mere fisherman. Though he looked on the coming tide, his eyes seemed to dwell particularly on the black and decayed hulls of two vessels, which, half immersed in the quicksand, still addressed to every heart a tale of shipwreck and desolation. The tide wheeled and foamed around them, and, creeping inch by inch up the side, at last fairly threw its waters over the top, and a long and hollow eddy showed the resistance which the liquid element received. The moment they were fairly buried in the water, the old man clasped his hands together, and said: "Blessed be the tide that will break over and bury ye for ever! Sad to mariners, and sorrowful to maids and mothers, has the time been you have choked up this deep and bonnie bay. For evil were you sent, and for evil have you continued. Every season finds from you its song of sorrow and wail, its funeral processions, and its shrouded corses. Woe to the land where the wood grew that made ye! Cursed be the axe that hewed ye on the mountains, the hands that joined ye together, the bay that ye first swam in, and the wind that wafted ye here! Seven times have ye put my life in peril, three fair sons have ye swept from my side, and two bonnie grand-bairns; and now, even now, your waters foam and flash for my destruction, did I venture my infirm limbs in quest of food in your deadly bay. I see by that ripple and that foam, and hear by the sound and singing of your surge, that ye yearn for another victim; but it shall not be me nor mine." Even as the old mariner addressed himself to the wrecked ships, a young man appeared at the southern extremity of the bay, holding his halve-net in his hand, and hastening into the current. Mark rose and shouted, and waved him back from a place which, to a person unacquainted with the dangers of the bay, real and superstitious, seemed sufficiently perilous; his granddaughter, too, added her voice to his, and waved her white hands; but the more they strove, the faster advanced the peasant, till he stood to his middle in the water, while the tide increased every moment in depth and strength. "Andrew, Andrew," cried the young woman, in a voice quavering with emotion, "turn, turn, I tell you! O the Ships, the Haunted Ships!" But the appearance of a fine run of fish had more influence with the peasant than the voice of bonnie Barbara, and forward he dashed, net in hand. In a moment he was borne off his feet, and mingled like foam with the water, and hurried towards the fatal eddies which whirled and roared round the sunken ships. But he was a powerful young man, and an expert swimmer; he seized on one of the projecting ribs of the nearest hulk, and clinging to it with the grasp of despair, uttered yell after yell, sustaining himself against the prodigious rush of the current. From a shealing of turf and straw, within the pitch of a bar from the spot where we stood, came out an old woman bent with age, and leaning on a crutch. "I heard the voice of that lad Andrew Lammie; can the chield be drowning that he skirls sae uncannily?" said the old woman, seating herself on the ground, and looking earnestly at the water. "Ou, ay," she continued, "he's doomed, he's doomed; heart and hand can never save him; boats, ropes, and man's strength and wit, all vain! vain!--he's doomed, he's doomed!" By this time I had thrown myself into the shallop, followed reluctantly by Richard Faulder, over whose courage and kindness of heart superstition had great power, and with one push from the shore, and some exertion in sculling, we came within a quoitcast of the unfortunate fisherman. He stayed not to profit by our aid; for, when he perceived us near, he uttered a piercing shriek of joy, and bounded towards us through the agitated element the full length of an oar. I saw him for a second on the surface of the water, but the eddying current sucked him down; and all I ever beheld of him again was his hand held above the flood, and clutching in agony at some imaginary aid. I sat gazing in horror on the vacant sea before us; but a breathing-time before, a human being, full of youth and strength and hope, was there; his cries were still ringing in my ears, and echoing in the woods; and now nothing was seen or heard save the turbulent expanse of water, and the sound of its chafing on the shores. We pushed back our shallop, and resumed our station on the cliff beside the old mariner and his descendant. "Wherefore sought ye to peril your own lives fruitlessly," said Mark, "in attempting to save the doomed? Whoso touches those infernal ships never survives to tell the tale. Woe to the man who is found nigh them at midnight when the tide has subsided, and they arise in their former beauty, with forecastle, and deck, and sail, and pennon, and shroud! Then is seen the streaming of lights along the water from their cabin windows, and then is heard the sound of mirth and the clamour of tongues, and the infernal whoop and halloo and song, ringing far and wide. Woe to the man who comes nigh them!" To all this my Allanbay companion listened with a breathless attention. I felt something touched with a superstition to which I partly believed I had seen one victim offered up; and I inquired of the old mariner, "How and when came these Haunted Ships there? To me they seem but the melancholy relics of some unhappy voyagers, and much more likely to warn people to shun destruction than entice and delude them to it." "And so," said the old man with a smile, which had more of sorrow in it than of mirth; "and so, young man, these black and shattered hulks seem to the eye of the multitude. But things are not what they seem: that water, a kind and convenient servant to the wants of man, which seems so smooth and so dimpling and so gentle, has swallowed up a human soul even now; and the place which it covers, so fair and so level, is a faithless quicksand, out of which none escape. Things are otherwise than they seem. Had you lived as long as I have had the sorrow to live; had you seen the storms, and braved the perils, and endured the distresses which have befallen me; had you sat gazing out on the dreary ocean at midnight on a haunted coast; had you seen comrade after comrade, brother after brother, and son after son, swept away by the merciless ocean from your very side; had you seen the shapes of friends, doomed to the wave and the quicksand, appearing to you in the dreams and visions of the night, then would your mind have been prepared for crediting the maritime legends of mariners; and the two haunted Danish ships would have had their terrors for you, as they have for all who sojourn on this coast. "Of the time and the cause of their destruction," continued the old man, "I know nothing certain; they have stood as you have seen them for uncounted time; and while all other ships wrecked on this unhappy coast have gone to pieces, and rotted and sunk away in a few years, these two haunted hulks have neither sunk in the quicksand, nor has a single spar or board been displaced. Maritime legend says that two ships of Denmark having had permission, for a time, to work deeds of darkness and dolor on the deep, were at last condemned to the whirlpool and the sunken rock, and were wrecked in this bonnie bay, as a sign to seamen to be gentle and devout. The night when they were lost was a harvest evening of uncommon mildness and beauty: the sun had newly set; the moon came brighter and brighter out; and the reapers, laying their sickles at the root of the standing corn, stood on rock and bank, looking at the increasing magnitude of the waters, for sea and land were visible from Saint Bees to Barnhourie. The sails of two vessels were soon seen bent for the Scottish coast; and, with a speed outrunning the swiftest ship, they approached the dangerous quicksands and headland of Borranpoint. On the deck of the foremost ship not a living soul was seen, or shape, unless something in darkness and form, resembling a human shadow could be called a shape, which flitted from extremity to extremity of the ship, with the appearance of trimming the sails, and directing the vessel's course. But the decks of its companion were crowded with human shapes; the captain and mate, and sailor and cabin-boy, all seemed there; and from them the sound of mirth and minstrelsy echoed over land and water. The coast which they skirted along was one of extreme danger, and the reapers shouted to warn them to beware of sandbank and rock; but of this friendly counsel no notice was taken, except that a large and famished dog, which sat on the prow, answered every shout with a long, loud, and melancholy howl. The deep sandbank of Carsethorn was expected to arrest the career of these desperate navigators; but they passed, with the celerity of water-fowl, over an obstruction which had wrecked many pretty ships. "Old men shook their heads and departed, saying, 'We have seen the fiend sailing in a bottomless ship; let us go home and pray;' but one young and wilful man said, 'Fiend! I'll warrant it's nae fiend, but douce Janet Withershins the witch, holding a carouse with some of her Cumberland cummers, and mickle red wine will be spilt atween them. Dod I would gladly have a toothfu'! I'll warrant it's nane o' your cauld sour slae- water like a bottle of Bailie Skrinkie's port, but right drap-o'-my-heart's-blood stuff, that would waken a body out of their last linen. I wonder where the cummers will anchor their craft?' 'And I'll vow,' said another rustic, 'the wine they quaff is none of your visionary drink, such as a drouthie body has dished out to his lips in a dream; nor is it shadowy and unsubstantial, like the vessels they sail in, which are made out of a cockel-shell or a cast-off slipper, or the paring of a seaman's right thumb-nail. I once got a hansel out of a witch's quaigh myself--auld Marion Mathers, of Dustiefoot, whom they tried to bury in the old kirkyard of Dunscore; but the cummer raise as fast as they laid her down, and naewhere else would she lie but in the bonnie green kirkyard of Kier, among douce and sponsible fowk. So I'll vow that the wine of a witch's cup is as fell liquor as ever did a kindly turn to a poor man's heart; and be they fiends, or be they witches, if they have red wine asteer, I'll risk a drouket sark for ae glorious tout on't." "'Silence, ye sinners,' said the minister's son of a neighbouring parish, who united in his own person his father's lack of devotion with his mother's love of liquor. 'Whist!--speak as if ye had the fear of something holy before ye. Let the vessels run their own way to destruction: who can stay the eastern wind, and the current of the Solway sea? I can find ye Scripture warrant for that; so let them try their strength on Blawhooly rocks, and their might on the broad quicksand. There's a surf running there would knock the ribs together of a galley built by the imps of the pit, and commanded by the Prince of Darkness. Bonnily and bravely they sail away there, but before the blast blows by they'll be wrecked; and red wine and strong brandy will be as rife as dyke-water, and we'll drink the health of bonnie Bell Blackness out of her left-foot slipper.' "The speech of the young profligate was applauded by several of his companions, and away they flew to the bay of Blawhooly, from whence they never returned. The two vessels were observed all at once to stop in the bosom of the bay, on the spot where their hulls now appear; the mirth and the minstrelsy waxed louder than ever, and the forms of maidens, with instruments of music and wine-cups in their hands, thronged the decks. A boat was lowered; and the same shadowy pilot who conducted the ships made it start towards the shore with the rapidity of lightning, and its head knocked against the bank where the four young men stood who longed for the unblest drink. They leaped in with a laugh, and with a laugh were they welcomed on deck; wine-cups were given to each, and as they raised them to their lips the vessels melted away beneath their feet, and one loud shriek, mingled with laughter still louder, was heard over land and water for many miles. Nothing more was heard or seen till the morning, when the crowd who came to the beach saw with fear and wonder the two Haunted Ships, such as they now seem, masts and tackle gone; nor mark, nor sign, by which their name, country, or destination could be known, was left remaining. Such is the tradition of the mariners; and its truth has been attested by many families whose sons and whose fathers have been drowned in the haunted bay of Blawhooly." "And trow ye," said the old woman, who, attracted from her hut by the drowning cries of the young fisherman, had remained an auditor of the mariner's legend,--"And trow ye, Mark Macmoran, that the tale of the Haunted Ships is done? I can say no to that. Mickle have mine ears heard; but more mine eyes have witnessed since I came to dwell in this humble home by the side of the deep sea. I mind the night weel; it was on Hallowmas Eve; the nuts were cracked, and the apples were eaten, and spell and charm were tried at my fireside; till, wearied with diving into the dark waves of futurity, the lads and lasses fairly took to the more visible blessings of kind words, tender clasps, and gentle courtship. Soft words in a maiden's ear, and a kindly kiss o' her lip were old-world matters to me, Mark Macmoran; though I mean not to say that I have been free of the folly of daunering and daffin with a youth in my day, and keeping tryst with him in dark and lonely places. However, as I say, these times of enjoyment were passed and gone with me--the mair's the pity that pleasure should fly sae fast away--and as I couldna make sport I thought I should not mar any; so out I sauntered into the fresh cold air, and sat down behind that old oak, and looked abroad on the wide sea. I had my ain sad thoughts, ye may think, at the time: it was in that very bay my blythe good-man perished, with seven more in his company; and on that very bank where ye see the waves leaping and foaming, I saw seven stately corses streeked, but the dearest was the eighth. It was a woful sight to me, a widow, with four bonnie boys, with nought to support them but these twa hands, and God's blessing, and a cow's grass. I have never liked to live out of sight of this bay since that time; and mony's the moonlight night I sit looking on these watery mountains and these waste shores; it does my heart good, whatever it may do to my head. So ye see it was Hallowmas Night, and looking on sea and land sat I; and my heart wandering to other thoughts soon made me forget my youthful company at hame. It might be near the howe hour of the night. The tide was making, and its singing brought strange old-world stories with it, and I thought on the dangers that sailors endure, the fates they meet with, and the fearful forms they see. My own blythe goodman had seen sights that made him grave enough at times, though he aye tried to laugh them away. "Aweel, atween that very rock aneath us and the coming tide, I saw, or thought I saw--for the tale is so dreamlike that the whole might pass for a vision of the night,--I saw the form of a man; his plaid was grey, his face was grey; and his hair, which hung low down till it nearly came to the middle of his back, was as white as the white sea-foam. He began to howk and dig under the bank; an' God be near me, thought I, this maun be the unblessed spirit of auld Adam Gowdgowpin the miser, who is doomed to dig for shipwrecked treasure, and count how many millions are hidden for ever from man's enjoyment. The form found something which in shape and hue seemed a left-foot slipper of brass; so down to the tide he marched, and, placing it on the water, whirled it thrice round, and the infernal slipper dilated at every turn, till it became a bonnie barge with its sails bent, and on board leaped the form, and scudded swiftly away. He came to one of the Haunted Ships, and striking it with his oar, a fair ship, with mast and canvas and mariners, started up; he touched the other Haunted Ship, and produced the like transformation; and away the three spectre ships bounded, leaving a track of fire behind them on the billows which was long unextinguished. Now wasna that a bonnie and fearful sight to see beneath the light of the Hallowmas moon? But the tale is far frae finished, for mariners say that once a year, on a certain night, if ye stand on the Borran Point, ye will see the infernal shallops coming snoring through the Solway; ye will hear the same laugh and song and mirth and minstrelsy which our ancestors heard; see them bound over the sandbanks and sunken rocks like sea-gulls, cast their anchor in Blawhooly Bay, while the shadowy figure lowers down the boat, and augments their numbers with the four unhappy mortals to whose memory a stone stands in the kirkyard, with a sinking ship and a shoreless sea cut upon it. Then the spectre ships vanish, and the drowning shriek of mortals and the rejoicing laugh of fiends are heard, and the old hulls are left as a memorial that the old spiritual kingdom has not departed from the earth. But I maun away, and trim my little cottage fire, and make it burn and blaze up bonnie, to warm the crickets and my cold and crazy bones that maun soon be laid aneath the green sod in the eerie kirkyard." And away the old dame tottered to her cottage, secured the door on the inside, and soon the hearth-flame was seen to glimmer and gleam through the keyhole and window. "I'll tell ye what," said the old mariner, in a subdued tone, and with a shrewd and suspicious glance of his eye after the old sibyl, "it's a word that may not very well be uttered, but there are many mistakes made in evening stories if old Moll Moray there, where she lives, knows not mickle more than she is willing to tell of the Haunted Ships and their unhallowed mariners. She lives cannily and quietly; no one knows how she is fed or supported; but her dress is aye whole, her cottage ever smokes, and her table lacks neither of wine, white and red, nor of fowl and fish, and white bread and brown. It was a dear scoff to Jock Matheson, when he called old Moll the uncanny carline of Blawhooly: his boat ran round and round in the centre of the Solway--everybody said it was enchanted--and down it went head foremost; and hadna Jock been a swimmer equal to a sheldrake, he would have fed the fish. But I'll warrant it sobered the lad's speech; and he never reckoned himself safe till he made old Moll the present of a new kirtle and a stone of cheese." "O father!" said his granddaughter Barbara, "ye surely wrong poor old Mary Moray; what use could it be to an old woman like her, who has no wrongs to redress, no malice to work out against mankind, and nothing to seek of enjoyment save a canny hour and a quiet grave--what use could the fellowship of fiends and the communion of evil spirits be to her? I know Jenny Primrose puts rowan-tree above the door-head when she sees old Mary coming; I know the good-wife of Kittlenaket wears rowan-berry leaves in the headband of her blue kirtle, and all for the sake of averting the unsonsie glance of Mary's right ee; and I know that the auld Laird of Burntroutwater drives his seven cows to their pasture with a wand of witch-tree, to keep Mary from milking them. But what has all that to do with haunted shallops, visionary mariners, and bottomless boats? I have heard myself as pleasant a tale about the Haunted Ships and their unworldly crews as any one would wish to hear in a winter evening. It was told me by young Benjie Macharg, one summer night, sitting on Arbigland-bank: the lad intended a sort of love meeting; but all that he could talk of was about smearing sheep and shearing sheep, and of the wife which the Norway elves of the Haunted Ships made for his uncle Sandie Macharg. And I shall tell ye the tale as the honest lad told it to me. "Alexander Macharg, besides being the laird of three acres of peatmoss, two kale gardens, and the owner of seven good milch cows, a pair of horses, and six pet sheep, was the husband of one of the handsomest women in seven parishes. Many a lad sighed the day he was brided; and a Nithsdale laird and two Annandale moorland farmers drank themselves to their last linen, as well as their last shilling, through sorrow for her loss. But married was the dame; and home she was carried, to bear rule over her home and her husband, as an honest woman should. Now ye maun ken that though the flesh-and-blood lovers of Alexander's bonnie wife all ceased to love and to sue her after she became another's, there were certain admirers who did not consider their claim at all abated, or their hopes lessened by the kirk's famous obstacle of matrimony. Ye have heard how the devout minister of Tinwald had a fair son carried away, and wedded against his liking to an unchristened bride, whom the elves and the fairies provided; ye have heard how the bonnie bride of the drunken Laird of Soukitup was stolen by the fairies out at the back-window of the bridal chamber, the time the bridegroom was groping his way to the chamber door; and ye have heard--but why need I multiply cases? Such things in the ancient days were as common as candle-light. So ye'll no hinder certain water elves and sea fairies, who sometimes keep festival and summer mirth in these old haunted hulks, from falling in love with the weel-faured wife of Laird Macharg; and to their plots and contrivances they went how they might accomplish to sunder man and wife; and sundering such a man and such a wife was like sundering the green leaf from the summer, or the fragrance from the flower. "So it fell on a time that Laird Macharg took his halve-net on his back, and his steel spear in his hand, and down to Blawhooly Bay gaed he, and into the water he went right between the two haunted hulks, and placing his net awaited the coming of the tide. The night, ye maun ken, was mirk, and the wind lowne, and the singing of the increasing waters among the shells and the peebles was heard for sundry miles. All at once light began to glance and twinkle on board the two Haunted Ships from every hole and seam, and presently the sound as of a hatchet employed in squaring timber echoed far and wide. But if the toil of these unearthly workmen amazed the laird, how much more was his amazement increased when a sharp shrill voice called out, 'Ho, brother! what are you doing now?' A voice still shriller responded from the other haunted ship, 'I'm making a wife to Sandie Macharg!' And a loud quavering laugh running from ship to ship, and from bank to bank, told the joy they expected from their labour. "Now the laird, besides being a devout and a God-fearing man, was shrewd and bold; and in plot and contrivance, and skill in conducting his designs, was fairly an overmatch for any dozen land elves; but the water elves are far more subtle; besides their haunts and their dwellings being in the great deep, pursuit and detection is hopeless if they succeed in carrying their prey to the waves. But ye shall hear. Home flew the laird, collected his family around the hearth, spoke of the signs and the sins of the times, and talked of mortification and prayer for averting calamity; and, finally, taking his father's Bible, brass clasps, black print, and covered with calf-skin, from the shelf, he proceeded without let or stint to perform domestic worship. I should have told ye that he bolted and locked the door, shut up all inlet to the house, threw salt into the fire, and proceeded in every way like a man skilful in guarding against the plots of fairies and fiends. His wife looked on all this with wonder; but she saw something in her husband's looks that hindered her from intruding either question or advice, and a wise woman was she. "Near the mid-hour of the night the rush of a horse's feet was heard, and the sound of a rider leaping from its back, and a heavy knock came to the door, accompanied by a voice, saying, 'The cummer drink's hot, and the knave bairn is expected at Laird Laurie's to-night; sae mount, good-wife, and come.' "'Preserve me!' said the wife of Sandie Macharg, 'that's news indeed; who could have thought it? The laird has been heirless for seventeen years! Now, Sandie, my man, fetch me my skirt and hood.' "But he laid his arm round his wife's neck, and said, 'If all the lairds in Galloway go heirless, over this door threshold shall you not stir to- night; and I have said, and I have sworn it; seek not to know why or wherefore--but, Lord, send us thy blessed mornlight.' The wife looked for a moment in her husband's eyes, and desisted from further entreaty. "'But let us send a civil message to the gossips, Sandy; and hadna ye better say I am sair laid with a sudden sickness? though it's sinful-like to send the poor messenger a mile agate with a lie in his mouth without a glass of brandy.' "'To such a messenger, and to those who sent him, no apology is needed,' said the austere laird; 'so let him depart.' And the clatter of a horse's hoofs was heard, and the muttered imprecations of its rider on the churlish treatment he had experienced. "'Now, Sandie, my lad,' said his wife, laying an arm particularly white and round about his neck as she spoke, 'are you not a queer man and a stern? I have been your wedded wife now these three years; and, beside my dower, have brought you three as bonnie bairns as ever smiled aneath a summer sun. O man, you a douce man, and fitter to be an elder than even Willie Greer himself, I have the minister's ain word for 't, to put on these hard-hearted looks, and gang waving your arms that way, as if ye said, "I winna take the counsel of sic a hempie as you;" I'm your ain leal wife, and will and maun have an explanation.' "To all this Sandie Macharg replied, 'It is written, "Wives, obey your husbands"; but we have been stayed in our devotion, so let us pray;' and down he knelt: his wife knelt also, for she was as devout as bonnie; and beside them knelt their household, and all lights were extinguished. "'Now this beats a',' muttered his wife to herself; 'however, I shall be obedient for a time; but if I dinna ken what all this is for before the morn by sunket-time, my tongue is nae langer a tongue, nor my hands worth wearing.' "The voice of her husband in prayer interrupted this mental soliloquy; and ardently did he beseech to be preserved from the wiles of the fiends and the snares of Satan; from witches, ghosts, goblins, elves, fairies, spunkies, and water-kelpies; from the spectre shallop of Solway; from spirits visible and invisible; from the Haunted Ships and their unearthly tenants; from maritime spirits that plotted against godly men, and fell in love with their wives--' "'Nay, but His presence be near us!' said his wife, in a low tone of dismay. 'God guide my gudeman's wits: I never heard such a prayer from human lips before. But, Sandie, my man, Lord's sake, rise. What fearful light is this? Barn and byre and stable maun be in a blaze; and Hawkie, and Hurley, Doddie, and Cherrie, and Damsonplum will be smoored with reek, and scorched with flame.' "And a flood of light, but not so gross as a common fire, which ascended to heaven and filled all the court before the house, amply justified the good-wife's suspicions. But to the terrors of fire Sandie was as immovable as he was to the imaginary groans of the barren wife of Laird Laurie; and he held his wife, and threatened the weight of his right hand--and it was a heavy one--to all who ventured abroad, or even unbolted the door. The neighing and prancing of horses, and the bellowing of cows, augmented the horrors of the night; and to any one who only heard the din, it seemed that the whole onstead was in a blaze, and horses and cattle perishing in the flame. All wiles, common or extraordinary, were put in practice to entice or force the honest farmer and his wife to open the door; and when the like success attended every new stratagem, silence for a little while ensued, and a long, loud, and shrilling laugh wound up the dramatic efforts of the night. In the morning, when Laird Macharg went to the door, he found standing against one of the pilasters a piece of black ship oak, rudely fashioned into something like human form, and which skilful people declared would have been clothed with seeming flesh and blood, and palmed upon him by elfin adroitness for his wife, had he admitted his visitants. A synod of wise men and women sat upon the woman of timber, and she was finally ordered to be devoured by fire, and that in the open air. A fire was soon made, and into it the elfin sculpture was tossed from the prongs of two pairs of pitchforks. The blaze that arose was awful to behold; and hissings and burstings and loud cracklings and strange noises were heard in the midst of the flame; and when the whole sank into ashes, a drinking-cup of some precious metal was found; and this cup, fashioned no doubt by elfin skill, but rendered harmless by the purification with fire, the sons and daughters of Sandie Macharg and his wife drink out of to this very day. Bless all bold men, say I, and obedient wives!" THE BROWNIE. The Scottish Brownie formed a class of being distinct in habit and disposition from the freakish and mischievous elves. He was meagre, shaggy, and wild in his appearance. Thus Cleland, in his satire against the Highlanders, compares them to "Faunes, or Brownies, if ye will, Or Satyres come from Atlas Hill." In the day-time he lurked in remote recesses of the old houses which he delighted to haunt, and in the night sedulously employed himself in discharging any laborious task which he thought might be acceptable to the family to whose service he had devoted himself. But the Brownie does not drudge from the hope of recompense. On the contrary, so delicate is his attachment that the offer of reward, but particularly of food, infallibly occasions his disappearance for ever. It is told of a Brownie, who haunted a border family now extinct, that the lady having fallen unexpectedly ill, and the servant, who was ordered to ride to Jedburgh for the _sage-femme_, showing no great alertness in setting out, the familiar spirit slipped on the greatcoat of the lingering domestic, rode to the town on the laird's best horse, and returned with the midwife _en croupe_. During the short space of his absence, the Tweed, which they must necessarily ford, rose to a dangerous height. Brownie, who transported his charge with all the rapidity of the ghostly lover of Lenore, was not to be stopped by the obstacle. He plunged in with the terrified old lady, and landed her in safety where her services were wanted. Having put the horse into the stable (where it was afterwards found in a woful plight), he proceeded to the room of the servant, whose duty he had discharged, and finding him just in the act of drawing on his boots, he administered to him a most merciless drubbing with his own horsewhip. Such an important service excited the gratitude of the laird, who, understanding that Brownie had been heard to express a wish to have a green coat, ordered a vestment of the colour to be made, and left in his haunts. Brownie took away the green coat, but was never seen more. We may suppose that, tired of his domestic drudgery, he went in his new livery to join the fairies. The last Brownie known in Ettrick Forest resided in Bodsbeck, a wild and solitary spot, near the head of Moffat Water, where he exercised his functions undisturbed, till the scrupulous devotion of an old lady induced her to "hire him away," as it was termed, by placing in his haunt a porringer of milk and a piece of money. After receiving this hint to depart, he was heard the whole night to howl and cry, "Farewell to bonnie Bodsbeck!" which he was compelled to abandon for ever. MAUNS' STANE. In the latter end of the autumn of 18--, I set out by myself on an excursion over the northern part of Scotland, and during that time my chief amusement was to observe the little changes of manners, language, etc., in the different districts. After having viewed on my return the principal curiosities in Buchan, I made a little ale-house, or "public," my head-quarters for the night. Having discussed my supper in solitude, I called up mine host to enable me to discuss my bottle, and to give me a statistical account of the country around me. Seated in the "blue" end, and well supplied with the homely but satisfying luxuries which the place afforded, I was in an excellent mood for enjoying the communicativeness of my landlord; and, after speaking about the cave of Slaines, the state of the crops, and the neighbouring franklins, edged him, by degrees, to speak about the Abbey of Deer, an interesting ruin which I had examined in the course of the day, formerly the stronghold of the once powerful family of Cummin. "It's dootless a bonnie place about the abbey," said he, "but naething like what it was when the great Sir James the Rose came to hide i' the Buchan woods wi' a' the Grahames rampagin' at his tail, whilk you that's a beuk-learned man 'ill hae read o', an' may be ye'll hae heard o' the saughen bush where he forgathered wi' his jo; or aiblins ye may have seen 't, for it's standing yet just at the corner o' gaukit Jamie Jamieson's peat-stack. Ay, ay, the abbey was a brave place once; but a' thing, ye ken, comes till an end." So saying, he nodded to me, and brought his glass to an end. "This place, then, must have been famed in days of yore, my friend?" "Ye may tak my word for that," said he, "'Od, it _was_ a place! Sic a sight o' fechtin' as they had about it! But gin ye'll gan up the trap- stair to the laft, an' open Jenny's kist, ye'll see sic a story about it, printed by ane o' your learned Aberdeen's fouk, Maister Keith, I think; she coft it in Aberdeen for twal' pennies, lang ago, an' battered it to the lid o' her kist. But gang up the stair canny, for fear that you should wauken her, puir thing; or, bide, I'll just wauken Jamie Fleep, an' gar him help me down wi't, for our stair's no just that canny for them 't's no acquaint wi't, let alane a frail man wi' your infirmity." I assured him that I would neither disturb the young lady's slumber nor Jamie Fleep's, and begged him to give me as much information as he could about this castle. "Weel, wishin' your guid health again.--Our minister ance said that Solomon's Temple was a' in ruins, wi' whin bushes, an' broom and thistles growin' ower the bonnie carved wark an' the cedar wa's, just like our ain abbey. Noo, I judge that the Abbey o' Deer was just the marrow o 't, or the minister wadna hae said that. But when it was biggit, Lord kens, for I dinna. It was just as you see it, lang afore your honour was born, an' aiblins, as the by-word says, may be sae after ye're hanged. But that's neither here nor there. The Cummins o' Buchan were a dour and surly race; and, for a fearfu' time, nane near han' nor far awa could ding them, an' yet mony a ane tried it. The fouk on their ain lan' likit them weel enough; but the Crawfords, an' the Grahames, an' the Mars, an' the Lovats, were aye trying to comb them against the hair, an' mony a weary kempin' had they wi' them. But some way or ither they could never ding them; an' fouk said that they gaed and learned the black art frae the Pope o' Room, wha, I myself heard the minister say, had aye a colleague wi' the Auld Chiel. I dinna ken fou it was, in the tail o' the day, the hale country raise up against them, an' besieged them in the Abbey o' Deer. Ye'll see, my frien'" (by this time mine host considered me as one of his cronies), "tho' we ca' it the abbey, it had naething to do wi' papistry; na, na, no sae bad as a' that either, but just a noble's castle, where they keepit sodgers gaun about in airn an' scarlet, wi' their swords an' guns, an' begnets, an' sentry-boxes, like the local militia in the barracks o' Aberdeen. "Weel, ye see, they surrounded the castle, an' lang did they besiege it; but there was a vast o' meat in the castle, an' the Buchan fouk fought like the vera deil. They took their horse through a miscellaneous passage, half a mile long, aneath the hill o' Saplinbrae, an' watered them in the burn o' Pulmer. But a' wadna do; they took the castle at last, and a terrible slaughter they made amo' them; but they were sair disappointed in ae partic'ler, for Cummin's fouk sank a' their goud an' siller in a draw-wall, an' syne filled it up wi' stanes. They got naething in the way of spulzie to speak o'; sae out o' spite they dang doon the castle, an' it's never been biggit to this day. But the Cummins were no sae bad as the Lairds o' Federat, after a'." "And who were these Federats?" I inquired. "The Lairds o' Federat?" said he, moistening his mouth again as a preamble to his oration. "Troth, frae their deeds ane would maist think that they had a drap o' the deil's blude, like the pyets. Gin a' tales be true, they hae the warmest place at his bink this vera minute. I dinna ken vera muckle about them though, but the auldest fouk said they were just byous wi' cruelty. Mony a good man did they hing up i' their ha', just for their ain sport; ye'll see the ring to the fore yet in the roof o 't. Did ye never hear o' Mauns' Stane, neebour?" "Mauns' what?" said I. "Ou, Mauns' Stane. But it's no likely. Ye see it was just a queer clump o' a roun'-about heathen, waghlin' may be twa tons or thereby. It wasna like ony o' the stanes in our countra, an' it was as roun' as a fit-ba'; I'm sure it wad ding Professor Couplan himsel' to tell what way it cam' there. Noo, fouk aye thought there was something uncanny about it, an' some gaed the length o' saying that the deil used to bake ginshbread upon't; and, as sure as ye're sitting there, frien', there was knuckle- marks upon 't, for my ain father has seen them as aften as I have taes an' fingers. Aweel, ye see, Mauns Crawford, the last o' the Lairds o' Federat, an' the deil had coost out (may be because the laird was just as wicked an' as clever as he was himsel'), an' ye perceive the evil ane wantit to play him a trick. Noo, Mauns Crawford was ae day lookin' ower his castle wa', and he saw a stalwart carle, in black claes, ridin' up the loanin'. He stopped at this chuckie o' a stane, an' loutin' himsel', he took it up in his arms, and lifted it three times to his saddle-bow, an' syne he rade awa out o' sight, never comin' near the castle, as Mauns thought he would hae done. 'Noo,' says the baron till himsel', says he, 'I didna think that there was ony ane in a' the land that could hae played sic a ploy; but deil fetch me if I dinna lift it as weel as he did!' Sae aff he gaed, for there wasna sic a man for birr in a' the countra, an' he kent it as weel, for he never met wi' his match. Weel, he tried, and tugged, and better than tugged at the stane, but he coudna mudge it ava; an' when he looked about, he saw a man at his ilbuck, a' smeared wi' smiddy-coom, snightern an' laughin' at him. The laird d---d him, an' bade him lift it, whilk he did as gin 't had been a little pinnin. The laird was like to burst wi' rage at being fickled by sic a hag-ma-hush carle, and he took to the stane in a fury, and lifted it till his knee; but the weight o 't amaist ground his banes to smash. He held the stane till his een-strings crackit, when he was as blin' as a moudiwort. He was blin' till the day o' his death,--that's to say, if ever he died, for there were queer sayings about it--vera queer! vera queer! The stane was ca'd Mauns' Stane ever after; an' it was no thought that canny to be near it after gloaming; for what says the Psalm--hem!--I mean the sang-- 'Tween Ennetbutts an' Mauns' Stane Ilka night there walks ane! "There never was a chief of the family after; the men were scattered, an' the castle demolished. The doo and the hoodie-craw nestle i' their towers, and the hare mak's her form on their grassy hearth-stane." "Is this stone still to be seen?" "Ou, na. Ye see, it was just upon Johnie Forbes's craft, an' fouk cam' far an' near to leuk at it, an' trampit down a' the puir cottar-body's corn; sae he houkit a hole just aside it, and tumbled it intil 't; by that means naebody sees't noo, but its weel kent that it's there, for they're livin' yet wha've seen it." "But the well at the Abbey--did no one feel a desire to enrich himself with the gold and silver buried there?" "Hoot, ay; mony a ane tried to find out whaur it was, and, for that matter, I've may be done as foolish a thing myself; but nane ever made it out. There was a scholar, like yoursel', that gaed ae night down to the Abbey, an', ye see, he summoned up the deil." "The deuce he did!" said I. "Weel, weel, the deuce, gin ye like it better," said he. "An' he was gaun to question him where the treasure was, but he had eneuch to do to get him laid without deaving him wi' questions, for a' the deils cam' about him, like bees biggin' out o' a byke. He never coured the fright he gat, but cried out, 'Help! help!' till his very enemy wad hae been wae to see him; and sae he cried till he died, which was no that lang after. Fouk sudna meddle wi' sic ploys!" "Most wonderful! And do you believe that Beelzebub actually appeared to him?" "Believe it! What for no?" said he, consequentially tapping the lid of his snuff-horn. "Didna my ain father see the evil ane i' the schule o' Auld Deer?" "Indeed!" "Weel, I wot he did that. A wheen idle callants, when the dominie was out at his twal'-hours, read the Lord's Prayer backlans, an' raised him, but couldna lay him again, for he threepit ower them that he wadna gang awa unless he gat ane o' them wi' him. Ye may be sure this put them in an awfu' swither. They were a' squallin' an' crawlin' and sprawlin' amo' the couples to get out o' his grips. Ane o' them gat out an' tauld the maister about it, an' when he cam' down, the melted lead was runnin' aff the roof o' the house wi' the heat, sae, flingin' to the black thief a young bit kittlen o' the schule-mistress's, he sank through the floor wi' an awsome roar. I mysel' have heard the mistress misca'in her man about offering up the puir thing, baith saul and body, to Baal. But troth, I'm no clear to speak o' the like o' this at sic a time o' night; sae if your honour bena for another jug, I'll e'en wus you a gude-night, for it's wearin' late, an I maun awa' to Skippyfair i' the mornin'." I assented to this, and quickly lost in sleep the remembrance of all these tales of the olden times. "HORSE AND HATTOCK." The power of the fairies was not confined to unchristened children alone; it was supposed frequently to be extended to full-grown people, especially such as in an unlucky hour were devoted to the devil by the execrations of parents and of masters; or those who were found asleep under a rock, or on a green hill, belonging to the fairies, after sunset, or, finally, to those who unwarily joined their orgies. A tradition existed, during the seventeenth century, concerning an ancestor of the noble family of Duffers, who, "walking abroad in the fields near to his own house, was suddenly carried away, and found the next day at Paris, in the French king's cellar, with a silver cup in his hand. Being brought into the king's presence, and questioned by him who he was, and how he came thither, he told his name, his country, and the place of his residence, and that on such a day of the month, which proved to be the day immediately preceding, being in the fields, he heard a noise of a whirlwind, and of voices crying 'Horse and hattock!' (this is the word which the fairies are said to use when they remove from any place), whereupon he cried 'Horse and hattock!' also, and was immediately caught up and transported through the air by the fairies to that place, where, after he had drunk heartily, he fell asleep, and before he woke the rest of the company were gone, and had left him in the posture wherein he was found. It is said the king gave him a cup which was found in his hand, and dismissed him." The narrator affirms "that the cup was still preserved, and known by the name of the fairy cup." He adds that Mr. Steward, tutor to the then Lord Duffers, had informed him that, "when a boy at the school of Forres, he and his school-fellows were once upon a time whipping their tops in the churchyard, before the door of the church, when, though the day was calm, they heard a noise of a wind, and at some distance saw the small dust begin to rise and turn round, which motion continued advancing till it came to the place where they were, whereupon they began to bless themselves; but one of their number being, it seems, a little more bold and confident than his companion, said, 'Horse and hattock with my top!' and immediately they all saw the top lifted up from the ground, but could not see which way it was carried, by reason of a cloud of dust which was raised at the same time. They sought for the top all about the place where it was taken up, but in vain; and it was found afterwards in the churchyard, on the other side of the church." This legend is contained in a letter from a learned gentleman in Scotland to Mr. Aubrey, dated 15th March 1695, published in _Aubrey's Miscellanies_. SECRET COMMONWEALTH. _By_ MR. ROBERT KIRK, _Minister of Aberfoyle_, 1691. The Siths, or Fairies, they call _Sluagh Maith_, or the Goodpeople, it would seem, to prevent the dint of their ill attempts (for the Irish used to bless all they fear harm of), and are said to be of a middle nature betwixt man and angel, as were demons thought to be of old, of intelligent studious spirits, and light changeable bodies (like those called astral), somewhat of the nature of a condensed cloud, and best seen in twilight. These bodies be so pliable through the subtlety of the spirits that agitate them, that they can make them appear or disappear at pleasure. Some have bodies or vehicles so spongeous, thin, and defecat [pure] that they are fed by only sucking into some fine spirituous liquors, that pierce like pure air and oil; others feed more gross on the foyson [abundance] or substance of corn and liquors, or corn itself that grows on the surface of the earth, which these fairies steal away, partly invisible, partly preying on the grain, as do crows and mice; wherefore in this same age they are sometimes heard to break bread, strike hammers, and to do such like services within the little hillocks they most do haunt; some whereof of old, before the Gospel dispelled Paganism, and in some barbarous places as yet, enter houses after all are at rest, and set the kitchens in order, cleansing all the vessels. Such drags go under the name of Brownies. When we have plenty, they have scarcity at their homes; and, on the contrary (for they are not empowered to catch as much prey everywhere as they please), their robberies, notwithstanding, ofttimes occasion great ricks of corn not to bleed so well (as they call it), or prove so copious by very far as was expected by the owner. Their bodies of congealed air are sometimes carried aloft, other whiles grovel in different shapes, and enter into any cranny or clift of the earth where air enters, to their ordinary dwellings; the earth being full of cavities and cells, and there being no place, no creature, but is supposed to have other animals (greater or lesser) living in or upon it as inhabitants; and no such thing as a pure wilderness in the whole universe. We then (the more terrestrial kind have now so numerously planted all countries) do labour for that abstruse people, as well as for ourselves. Albeit, when several countries were uninhabited by us, these had their easy tillage above ground, as we now. The print of those furrows do yet remain to be seen on the shoulders of very high hills, which was done when the campaign ground was wood and forest. They remove to other lodgings at the beginning of each quarter of the year, so traversing till doomsday, being impotent of staying in one place, and finding some ease by so purning [journeying] and changing habitations. Their chameleon-like bodies swim in the air near the earth with bag and baggage; and at such revolution of time, seers, or men of the second sight (females being seldom so qualified) have very terrifying encounters with them, even on highways; who, therefore, awfully shun to travel abroad at these four seasons of the year, and thereby have made it a custom to this day among the Scottish-Irish to keep church duly every first Sunday of the quarter to _seun_ or hallow themselves, their corn and cattle, from the shots and stealth of these wandering tribes; and many of these superstitious people will not be seen in church again till the next quarter begins, as if no duty were to be learnt or done by them, but all the use of worship and sermons were to save them from these arrows that fly in the dark. They are distributed in tribes and orders, and have children, nurses, marriages, deaths, and burials in appearance, even as we (unless they so do for a mock-show, or to prognosticate some such things among us). They are clearly seen by these men of the second sight to eat at funerals [and] banquets. Hence many of the Scottish-Irish will not taste meat at these meetings, lest they have communion with, or be poisoned by, them. So are they seen to carry the bier or coffin with the corpse among the middle-earth men to the grave. Some men of that exalted sight (whether by art or nature) have told me they have seen at these meetings a double man, or the shape of some man in two places; that is a super-terranean and a subterranean inhabitant, perfectly resembling one another in all points, whom he, notwithstanding, could easily distinguish one from another by some secret tokens and operations, and so go and speak to the man, his neighbour and familiar, passing by the apparition or resemblance of him. They avouch that every element and different state of being has animals resembling those of another element; as there be fishes sometimes at sea resembling monks of late order in all their hoods and dresses; so as the Roman invention of good and bad demons, and guardian angels particularly assigned, is called by them an ignorant mistake, sprung only from this original. They call this reflex man a co-walker, every way like the man, as a twin brother and companion, haunting him as his shadow, as is oft seen and known among men (resembling the original), both before and after the original is dead; and was often seen of old to enter a house, by which the people knew that the person of that likeness was to visit them within a few days. This copy, echo, or living picture, goes at last to his own herd. It accompanied that person so long and frequently for ends best known to itself, whether to guard him from the secret assaults of some of its own folk, or only as a sportful ape to counterfeit all his actions. However, the stories of old witches prove beyond contradiction that all sorts of people, spirits which assume light airy bodies, or crazed bodies coacted by foreign spirits, seem to have some pleasure (at least to assuage some pain or melancholy) by frisking and capering like satyrs, or whistling and screeching (like unlucky birds) in their unhallowed synagogues and Sabbaths. If invited and earnestly required, these companions make themselves known and familiar to men; otherwise, being in a different state and element, they neither can nor will easily converse with them. They avouch that a _heluo_ or great eater has a voracious elve to be his attender, called a joint-eater or just-halver, feeding on the pith and quintessence of what the man eats; and that, therefore, he continues lean like a hawk or heron, notwithstanding his devouring appetite; yet it would seem they convey that substance elsewhere, for these subterraneans eat but little in their dwellings, their food being exactly clean, and served up by pleasant children, like enchanted puppets. Their houses are called large and fair, and (unless at some odd occasions) unperceivable by vulgar eyes, like Rachland and other enchanted islands, having fir lights, continual lamps, and fires, often seen without fuel to sustain them. Women are yet alive who tell they were taken away when in childbed to nurse fairy children, a lingering voracious image of them being left in their place (like their reflection in a mirror), which (as if it were some insatiable spirit in an assumed body) made first semblance to devour the meats that it cunningly carried by, and then left the carcass as if it expired and departed thence by a natural and common death. The child and fire, with food and all other necessaries, are set before the nurse how soon she enters, but she neither perceives any passage out, nor sees what those people do in other rooms of the lodging. When the child is weaned, the nurse dies, or is conveyed back, or gets it to her choice to stay there. But if any superterraneans be so subtle as to practise sleights for procuring the privacy to any of their mysteries (such as making use of their ointments, which, as Gyges' ring, make them invisible or nimble, or cast them in a trance, or alter their shape, or make things appear at a vast distance, etc.), they smite them without pain, as with a puff of wind, and bereave them of both the natural and acquired sights in the twinkling of an eye (both these sights, when once they come, being in the same organ and inseparable), or they strike them dumb. The tramontanes to this day place bread, the Bible, or a piece of iron, to save their women at such times from being thus stolen, and they commonly report that all uncouth, unknown wights are terrified by nothing earthly so much as cold iron. They deliver the reason to be that hell lying betwixt the chill tempests and the firebrands of scalding metals, and iron of the north (hence the loadstone causes a tendency to that point), by an antipathy thereto, these odious, far-scenting creatures shrug and fright at all that comes thence relating to so abhorred a place, whence their torment is either begun, or feared to come hereafter. Their apparel and speech is like that of the people and country under which they live; so are they seen to wear plaids and variegated garments in the Highlands of Scotland, and suanachs [plaids] therefore in Ireland. They speak but little, and that by way of whistling, clear, not rough. The very devils conjured in any country do answer in the language of the place; yet sometimes the subterraneans speak more distinctly than at other times. Their women are said to spin very fine, to dye, to tossue, and embroider; but whether it be as manual operation of substantial refined stuffs, with apt and solid instruments, or only curious cobwebs, unpalpable rainbows, and a phantastic imitation of the actions of more terrestrial mortals, since it transcended all the senses of the seer to discern whether, I leave to conjecture as I found it. Their men travel much abroad, either presaging or aping the dismal and tragical actions of some amongst us; and have also many disastrous doings of their own, as convocations, fighting, gashes, wounds, and burials, both in the earth and air. They live much longer than we; yet die at last, or [at] least vanish from that state. 'Tis one of their tenets that nothing perisheth, but (as the sun and year) everything goes in a circle, lesser or greater, and is renewed and refreshed in its revolutions; as 'tis another, that every body in the creation moves (which is a sort of life); and that nothing moves but has another animal moving on it; and so on, to the utmost minutest corpuscle that's capable of being a receptacle of life. They are said to have aristocratical rulers and laws, but no discernible religion, love, or devotion towards God, the blessed Maker of all: they disappear whenever they hear His name invoked, or the name of Jesus (at which all do bow willingly, or by constraint, that dwell above or beneath, within the earth), (Philip, ii. 10); nor can they act ought at that time after hearing of that sacred name. The Taiblsdear or seer, that corresponds with this kind of familiars, can bring them with a spell to appear to himself or others when he pleases, as readily as Endor Witch did those of her own kind. He tells they are ever readiest to go on hurtful errands, but seldom will be the messengers of great good to men. He is not terrified with their sight when he calls them, but seeing them in a surprise (as often as he does) frights him extremely, and glad would he be quit of such, for the hideous spectacles seen among them; as the torturing of some wight, earnest, ghostly, staring looks, skirmishes, and the like. They do not all the harm which appearingly they have power to do; nor are they perceived to be in great pain, save that they are usually silent and sullen. They are said to have many pleasant toyish books; but the operation of these pieces only appears in some paroxysms of antic, corybantic jollity, as if ravished and prompted by a new spirit entering into them at that instant, lighter and merrier than their own. Other books they have of involved, abstruse sense, much like the Rosurcian [Rosicrucian] style. They have nothing of the Bible, save collected parcels for charms and counter-charms; not to defend themselves withal, but to operate on other animals, for they are a people invulnerable by our weapons, and albeit werewolves' and witches' true bodies are (by the union of the spirit of nature that runs through all echoing and doubling the blow towards another) wounded at home, when the astral assumed bodies are stricken elsewhere--as the strings of a second harp, tuned to a unison, sound, though only one be struck,--yet these people have not a second, or so gross a body at all, to be so pierced; but as air which when divided unites again; or if they feel pain by a blow, they are better physicians than we, and quickly cure. They are not subject to sore sicknesses, but dwindle and decay at a certain period, all about an age. Some say their continual sadness is because of their pendulous state (like those men, Luke xiii. 2-6), as uncertain what at the last revolution will become of them, when they are locked up into an unchangeable condition; and if they have any frolic fits of mirth, 'tis as the constrained grinning of a mort-head [death's-head], or rather as acted on a stage, and moved by another, ther [than?] cordially coming of themselves. But other men of the second sight, being illiterate, and unwary in their observations, learn from [differ from] those; one averring those subterranean people to be departed souls, attending a while in this inferior state, and clothed with bodies procured through their alms-deeds in this life; fluid, active, ethereal vehicles to hold them that they may not scatter nor wander, and be lost in the totum, or their first nothing; but if any were so impious as to have given no alms, they say, when the souls of such do depart, they sleep in an inactive state till they resume the terrestrial bodies again; others, that what the low-country Scotch call a wraith, and the Irish _taibhse_, or death's messenger (appearing sometimes as a little rough dog, and if crossed and conjured in time, will be pacified by the death of any other creature instead of the sick man), is only exuvious fumes of the man approaching death, exhaled and congealed into a various likeness (as ships and armies are sometimes shaped in the air), and called astral bodies, agitated as wild-fire with wind, and are neither souls nor counterfeiting spirits; yet not a few avouch (as is said) that surely these are a numerous people by themselves, having their own politics, which diversities of judgment may occasion several inconsonancies in this rehearsal, after the narrowest scrutiny made about it. Their weapons are most-what solid earthly bodies, nothing of iron, but much of stone, like to yellow soft flint spa, shaped like a barbed arrowhead, but flung like a dart, with great force. These arms (cut by art and tools, it seems, beyond human) have somewhat of the nature of thunderbolt subtlety, and mortally wounding the vital parts without breaking the skin; of which wounds I have observed in beasts, and felt them with my hands. They are not as infallible Benjamites, hitting at a hair's-breadth; nor are they wholly unvanquishable, at least in appearance. The men of the second sight do not discover strange things when asked, but at fits and raptures, as if inspired with some genius at that instant, which before did work in or about them. Thus I have frequently spoken to one of them, who in his transport told me he cut the body of one of those people in two with his iron weapon, and so escaped this onset, yet he saw nothing left behind of that appearing divided; at other times he outwrested [wrestled?] some of them. His neighbours often perceived this man to disappear at a certain place, and about an hour after to become visible, and discover himself near a bow-shot from the first place. It was in that place where he became invisible, said he, that the subterraneans did encounter and combat with him. Those who are _unseund_, or unsanctified (called fey), are said to be pierced or wounded with those people's weapons, which makes them do somewhat very unlike their former practice, causing a sudden alteration, yet the cause thereof unperceivable at present; nor have they power (either they cannot make use of their natural powers, or asked not the heavenly aid) to escape the blow impendent. A man of the second sight perceived a person standing by him (sound to other's view) wholly gored in blood, and he (amazed like) bid him instantly flee. The whole man laughed at his _airt_ [notice] and warning, since there was no appearance of danger. He had scarce contracted his lips from laughter when unexpectedly his enemies leaped in at his side and stabbed him with their weapons. They also pierce cows or other animals, usually said to be Elf-shot, whose purest substance (if they die) these subterraneans take to live on, viz. the aerial and ethereal parts, the most spirituous matter for prolonging of life, such as aquavitae (moderately taken) is amongst liquors, leaving the terrestrial behind. The cure of such hurts is only for a man to find out the hole with his finger, as if the spirits flowing from a man's warm hand were antidote sufficient against their poisoned darts. As birds, as beasts, whose bodies are much used to the change of the free and open air, foresee storms, so those invisible people are more sagacious to understand by the books of nature things to come, than we, who are pestered with the grossest dregs of all elementary mixtures, and have our purer spirits choked by them. The deer scents out a man and powder (though a late invention) at a great distance; a hungry hunter, bread; and the raven, a carrion; their brains, being long clarified by the high and subtle air, will observe a very small change in a trice. Thus a man of the second sight, perceiving the operations of these forecasting invisible people among us (indulged through a stupendous providence to give warnings of some remarkable events, either in the air, earth, or waters), told he saw a winding shroud creeping on a walking healthful person's leg till it came to the knee, and afterwards it came up to the middle, then to the shoulders, and at last over the head, which was visible to no other person. And by observing the spaces of time betwixt the several stages, he easily guessed how long the man was to live who wore the shroud; for when it approached the head, he told that such a person was ripe for the grave. There be many places called fairy-hills, which the mountain people think impious and dangerous to peel or discover, by taking earth or wood from them, superstitiously believing the souls of their predecessors to dwell there. And for that end (say they) a mole or mound was dedicate beside every churchyard to receive the souls till their adjacent bodies arise, and so became as a fairy-hill; they using bodies of air when called abroad. They also affirm those creatures that move invisibly in a house, and cast huge great stones, but do no much hurt, because counter-wrought by some more courteous and charitable spirits that are everywhere ready to defend men (Dan. x. 13), to be souls that have not attained their rest, through a vehement desire of revealing a murder or notable injury done or received, or a treasure that was forgot in their lifetime on earth, which, when disclosed to a conjuror alone, the ghost quite removes. In the next country to that of my former residence, about the year 1676, when there was some scarcity of grain, a marvellous illapse and vision strongly struck the imagination of two women in one night, living at a good distance from one another, about a treasure hid in a hill called _Sith-bruthach_, or fairy-hill. The appearance of a treasure was first represented to the fancy, and then an audible voice named the place where it was to their awaking senses. Whereupon both rose, and meeting accidentally at the place, discovered their design; and jointly digging, found a vessel as large as a Scottish peck full of small pieces of good money, of ancient coin; and halving betwixt them, they sold in dishfuls for dishfuls of meal to the country people. Very many of undoubted credit saw and had of the coin to this day. But whether it was a good or bad angel, one of the subterranean people, or the restless soul of him who hid it, that discovered it, and to what end it was done, I leave to the examination of others. These subterraneans have controversies, doubts, disputes, feuds, and siding of parties; there being some ignorance in all creatures, and the vastest created intelligences not compassing all things. As to vice and sin, whatever their own laws be, sure according to ours, and equity, natural, civil, and revealed, they transgress and commit acts of injustice and sin by what is above said, as to their stealing of nurses to their children, and that other sort of plaginism in catching our children away (may seem to heir some estate in those invisible dominions) which never return. For swearing and intemperance, they are not observed so subject to those irregularities, as to envy, spite, hypocrisy, lying, and dissimulation. As our religion obliges us not to make a peremptory and curious search into these abstrusenesses, so the histories of all ages give as many plain examples of extraordinary occurrences as make a modest inquiry not contemptible. How much is written of pigmies, fairies, nymphs, syrens, apparitions, which though not the tenth part true, yet could not spring of nothing; even English authors relate [of] Barry Island, in Glamorganshire, that laying your ear into a cleft of the rocks, blowing of bellows, striking of hammers, clashing of armour, filing of iron, will be heard distinctly ever since Merlin enchanted those subterranean wights to a solid manual forging of arms to Aurelius Ambrosius and his Britons, till he returned; which Merlin being killed in a battle, and not coming to loose the knot, these active vulcans are there tied to a perpetual labour. THE FAIRY BOY OF LEITH. "About fifteen years since, having business that detained me for some time at Leith, which is near Edinburgh, in the kingdom of Scotland, I often met some of my acquaintance at a certain house there, where we used to drink a glass of wine for our refection. The woman which kept the house was of honest reputation among the neighbours, which made me give the more attention to what she told me one day about a fairy boy (as they called him) who lived about that town. She had given me so strange an account of him, that I desired her I might see him the first opportunity, which she promised; and not long after, passing that way, she told me there was the fairy boy, but a little before I came by; and, casting her eye into the street, said, 'Look you, sir, yonder he is, at play with those other boys'; and pointing him out to me, I went, and by smooth words, and a piece of money, got him to come into the house with me; where, in the presence of divers people, I demanded of him several astrological questions, which he answered with great subtlety; and, through all his discourse, carried it with a cunning much above his years, which seemed not to exceed ten or eleven. "He seemed to make a motion like drumming upon the table with his fingers, upon which I asked him whether he could beat a drum? To which he replied, 'Yes, sir, as well as any man in Scotland; for every Thursday night I beat all points to a sort of people that used to meet under yonder hill' (pointing to the great hill between Edinburgh and Leith). 'How, boy?' quoth I, 'what company have you there?' 'There are, sir,' said he, 'a great company both of men and women, and they are entertained with many sorts of music besides my drum; they have, besides, plenty of variety of meats and wine, and many times we are carried into France or Holland in the night, and return again, and whilst we are there, we enjoy all the pleasures the country doth afford.' I demanded of him how they got under that hill? To which he replied that there was a great pair of gates that opened to them, though they were invisible to others, and that within there were brave large rooms, as well accommodated as most in Scotland. I then asked him how I should know what he said to be true? Upon which he told me he would read my fortune, saying, I should have two wives, and that he saw the forms of them over my shoulders; and both would be very handsome women. "The woman of the house told me that all the people in Scotland could not keep him from the rendezvous on Thursday night; upon which, by promising him some more money, I got a promise of him to meet me at the same place in the afternoon, the Thursday following, and so dismissed him at that time. The boy came again at the place and time appointed, and I had prevailed with some friends to continue with me (if possible) to prevent his moving that night. He was placed between us, and answered many questions, until, about eleven of the clock, he was got away unperceived by the company; but I, suddenly missing him, hastened to the door, and took hold of him, and so returned him into the same room. We all watched him, and, of a sudden, he was again got out of doors; I followed him close, and he made a noise in the street, as if he had been set upon, and from that time I could never see him." THE DRACAE. These are a sort of water-spirits who inveigle women and children into the recesses which they inhabit, beneath lakes and rivers, by floating past them, on the surface of the water, in the shape of gold rings or cups. The women thus seized are employed as nurses, and after seven years are permitted to revisit earth. Gervase mentions one woman in particular who had been allured by observing a wooden dish, or cup, float by her, while she was washing clothes in the river. Being seized as soon as she reached the depths, she was conducted into one of the subterranean recesses, which she described as very magnificent, and employed as nurse to one of the brood of the hag who had allured her. During her residence in this capacity, having accidentally touched one of her eyes with an ointment of serpent's grease, she perceived, at her return to the world, that she had acquired the faculty of seeing the _Dracae_, when they intermingle themselves with men. Of this power she was, however, deprived by the touch of her ghostly mistress, whom she had one day incautiously addressed. It is a curious fact that this story, in almost all its parts, is current in both the Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland, with no other variation than the substitution of Fairies for Dracae, and the cavern of a hill for that of a river. Indeed many of the vulgar account it extremely dangerous to touch anything which they may happen to find without saining (blessing) it, the snares of the enemy being notorious and well-attested. A pool-woman of Teviotdale having been fortunate enough, as she thought herself, to find a wooden beetle, at the very time when she needed such an implement, seized it without pronouncing a proper blessing, and, carrying it home, laid it above her bed to be ready for employment in the morning. At midnight the window of her cottage opened, and a loud voice was heard calling up some one within by a strange and uncouth name. The terrified cottager ejaculated a prayer, which, we may suppose, ensured her personal safety; while the enchanted implement of housewifery, tumbling from the bedstead, departed by the window with no small noise and precipitation. In a humorous fugitive tract, Dr. Johnson has been introduced as disputing the authenticity of an apparition, merely because the spirit assumed the shape of a teapot and a shoulder of mutton. No doubt, a case so much in point as that we have now quoted would have removed his incredulity. A SUCCINCT ACCOUNT OF MY LORD TARBAT'S RELATIONS, IN A LETTER TO THE HONORABLE ROBERT BOYLE, ESQUIRE, OF THE PREDICTIONS MADE BY SEERS, WHEREOF HIMSELF WAS EAR-AND EYE-WITNESS. Sir,--I heard very much, but believed very little of the second sight; yet its being assumed by several of great veracity, I was induced to make inquiry after it in the year 1652, being then confined in the north of Scotland by the English usurpers. The more general accounts of it were that many Highlanders, yet far more Islanders, were qualified with this second sight; and men, women, and children, indistinctly, were subject to it, and children where parents were not. Sometimes people came to age who had it not when young, nor could any tell by what means produced. It is a trouble to most of them who are subject to it, and they would be rid of it at any rate if they could. The sight is of no long duration, only continuing so long as they can keep their eyes steady without twinkling. The hardy, therefore, fix their look that they may see the longer; but the timorous see only glances--their eyes always twinkle at the first sight of the object. That which generally is seen by them are the species of living creatures, and of inanimate things, which be in motion, such as ships, and habits upon persons. They never see the species of any person who is already dead. What they foresee fails not to exist in the mode, and in that place where it appears to them. They cannot well know what space of time shall intervene between the apparition and the real existence. But some of the hardiest and longest experience have some rules for conjectures; as, if they see a man with a shrouding sheet in the apparition, they will conjecture at the nearness or remoteness of his death by the more or less of his body that is covered by it. They will ordinarily see their absent friends, though at a great distance, sometimes no less than from America to Scotland, sitting, standing, or walking in some certain place; and then they conclude with an assurance that they will see them so, and there. If a man be in love with a woman, they will ordinarily see the species of that man standing by her, and so likewise if a woman be in love. If they see the species of any person who is sick to die, they see them covered over with the shrouding sheet. These generals I had verified to me by such of them as did see, and were esteemed honest and sober by all the neighbourhood; for I inquired after such for my information. And because there were more of these seers in the isles of Lewis, Harris, and Uist than in any other place, I did entreat Sir James M'Donald (who is now dead), Sir Normand M'Loud, and Mr. Daniel Morison, a very honest person (who are still alive), to make inquiry in this uncouth sight, and to acquaint me therewith; which they did, and all found an agreement in these generals, and informed me of many instances confirming what they said. But though men of discretion and honour, being but at second-hand, I will choose rather to put myself than my friends on the hazard of being laughed at for incredible relations. I was once travelling in the Highlands, and a good number of servants with me, as is usual there; and one of them, going a little before me, entering into a house where I was to stay all night, and going hastily to the door, he suddenly slipped back with a screech, and did fall by a stone, which hit his foot. I asked what the matter was, for he seemed to be very much frighted. He told me very seriously that I should not lodge in that house, because shortly a dead coffin would be carried out of it, for many were carrying of it when he was heard cry. I, neglecting his words, and staying there, he said to other of his servants he was sorry for it, and that surely what he saw would shortly come to pass. Though no sick person was then there, yet the landlord, a healthy Highlander, died of an apoplectic fit before I left the house. In the year 1653 Alexander Monro (afterwards Lieutenant-Colonel to the Earl of Dumbarton's regiment) and I were walking in a place called Ullapool, in Loch Broom, on a little plain at the foot of a rugged hill. There was a servant walking with a spade in the walk before us; his back was to us, and his face to the hill. Before we came to him he let the spade fall, and looked toward the hill. He took notice of us as we passed near by him, which made me look at him, and perceiving him to stare a little strangely I conjectured him to be a seer. I called at him, at which he started and smiled. "What are you doing?" said I. He answered, "I have seen a very strange thing: an army of Englishmen, leading of horses, coming down that hill; and a number of them are coming down to the plain, and eating the barley which is growing in the field near to the hill." This was on the 4th May (for I noted the day), and it was four or five days before the barley was sown in the field he spoke of. Alexander Monro asked him how he knew they were Englishmen. He said because they were leading of horses, and had on hats and boots, which he knew no Scotchman would have there. We took little notice of the whole story as other than a foolish vision, but wished that an English party were there, we being then at war with them, and the place almost inaccessible for horsemen. But in the beginning of August thereafter, the Earl of Middleton (then Lieutenant for the King in the Highlands), having occasion to march a party of his towards the South Highlands, he sent his Foot through a place called Inverlawell; and the fore-party, which was first down the hill, did fall off eating the barley which was on the little plain under it. And Monro calling to mind what the seer told us in May preceding, he wrote of it, and sent an express to me to Lochslin, in Ross (where I then was), with it. I had occasion once to be in company where a young lady was (excuse my not naming of persons), and I was told there was a notable seer in the company. I called him to speak with me, as I did ordinarily when I found any of them; and after he had answered me several questions, I asked if he knew any person to be in love with that lady. He said he did, but he knew not the person; for, during the two days he had been in her company, he perceived one standing near her, and his head leaning on her shoulder, which he said did foretell that the man should marry her, and die before her, according to his observation. This was in the year 1655. I desired him to describe the person, which he did, so that I could conjecture, by the description, of such a one, who was of that lady's acquaintance, though there were no thoughts of their marriage till two years thereafter. And having occasion in the year 1657 to find this seer, who was an islander, in company with the other person whom I conjectured to have been described by him, I called him aside, and asked if that was the person he saw beside the lady near two years then past. He said it was he indeed, for he had seen that lady just then standing by him hand in hand. This was some few months before their marriage, and that man is now dead, and the lady alive. I shall trouble you but with one more, which I thought most remarkable of any that occurred to me. In January 1652, the above-mentioned Lieutenant, Colonel Alex. Monro, and I, happened to be in the house of one William M'Clend, of Ferrinlea, in the county of Ross. He, the landlord, and I, were sitting in three chairs near the fire, and in the corner of the great chimney there were two islanders, who were that very night come to the house, and were related to the landlord. While the one of them was talking with Monro, I perceived the other to look oddly toward me. From this look, and his being an islander, I conjectured him a seer, and asked him at what he stared. He answered by desiring me to rise from that chair, for it was an unlucky one. I asked him why? He answered, because there was a dead man in the chair next to me. "Well," said I, "if it be in the next chair, I may keep my own. But what is the likeness of the man?" He said he was a tall man, with a long grey coat, booted, and one of his legs hanging over the arm of the chair, and his head hanging dead to the other side, and his arm backward, as if it was broken. There were some English troops then quartered near that place, and there being at that time a great frost after a thaw, the country was covered all over with ice. Four or five of the English riding by this house some two hours after the vision, while we were sitting by the fire, we heard a great noise, which proved to be those troopers, with the help of other servants, carrying in one of their number, who had got a very mischievous fall, and had his arm broke; and falling frequently in swooning fits, they brought him into the hall, and set him in the very chair, and in the very posture that the seer had prophesied. But the man did not die, though he recovered with great difficulty. Among the accounts given me by Sir Normand M'Loud, there was one worthy of special notice, which was thus:--There was a gentleman in the Isle of Harris, who was always seen by the seers with an arrow in his thigh. Such in the Isle who thought those prognostications infallible, did not doubt but he would be shot in the thigh before he died. Sir Normand told me that he heard it the subject of their discourse for many years. At last he died without any such accident. Sir Normand was at his burial at St. Clement's Church in the Harris. At the same time the corpse of another gentleman was brought to be buried in the same very church. The friends on either side came to debate who should first enter the church, and, in a trice, from words they came to blows. One of the number (who was armed with bow and arrows) let one fly among them. (Now every family in that Isle have their burial-place in the Church in stone chests, and the bodies are carried in open biers to the burial-place.) Sir Normand having appeased the tumult, one of the arrows was found shot in the dead man's thigh. To this Sir Normand was a witness. In the account which Mr. Daniel Morison, parson in the Lewis, gave me, there was one, though it be heterogeneous from the subject, yet it may be worth your notice. It was of a young woman in this parish, who was mightily frightened by seeing her own image still before her, always when she came to the open air; the back of the image being always to her, so that it was not a reflection as in a mirror, but the species of such a body as her own, and in a very like habit which appeared to herself continually before her. The parson kept her a long while with him, but had no remedy of her evil, which troubled her exceedingly. I was told afterwards that when she was four or five years older she saw it not. These are matters of fact, which I assure you they are truly related. But these and all others that occurred to me, by information or otherwise, could never lead me into a remote conjecture of the cause of so extraordinary a phenomenon. Whether it be a quality in the eyes of some people in these parts, concurring with a quality in the air also; whether such species be everywhere, though not seen by the want of eyes so qualified, or from whatever other cause, I must leave to the inquiry of clearer judgments than mine. But a hint may be taken from this image which appeared still to this woman above mentioned, and from another mentioned by Aristotle, in the fourth of his Metaphysics (if I remember right, for it is long since I read it), as also from the common opinion that young infants (unsullied with many objects) do see apparitions which were not seen by those of elder years; as likewise from this, that several did see the second sight when in the Highlands or Isles, yet when transported to live in other countries, especially in America, they quite lose this quality, as was told me by a gentleman who knew some of them in Barbadoes, who did see no vision there, although he knew them to be seers when they lived in the Isles of Scotland. _Thus far my Lord Tarbat_. THE BOGLE. This is a freakish spirit who delights rather to perplex and frighten mankind than either to serve or seriously hurt them. The _Esprit Follet_ of the French, Shakespeare's Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, and Shellycoat, a spirit who resides in the waters, and has given his name to many a rock and stone on the Scottish coast, belong to the class of bogles. One of Shellycoat's pranks is thus narrated:--Two men in a very dark night, approaching the banks of the Ettrick, heard a doleful voice from its waves repeatedly exclaim, "Lost! lost!" They followed the sound, which seemed to be the voice of a drowning person, and, to their astonishment, found that it ascended the river; still they continued to follow the cry of the malicious sprite, and, arriving before dawn at the very sources of the river, the voice was now heard descending the opposite side of the mountain in which they arise. The fatigued and deluded travellers now relinquished the pursuit, and had no sooner done so, than they heard Shellycoat applauding, in loud bursts of laughter, his successful roguery. DAOINE SHIE, OR THE MEN OF PEACE. They are, though not absolutely malevolent, believed to be a peevish, repining, and envious race, who enjoy, in the subterranean recesses, a kind of shadowy splendour. The Highlanders are at all times unwilling to speak of them, but especially on Friday, when their influence is supposed to be particularly extensive. As they are supposed to be invisibly present, they are at all times to be spoken of with respect. The fairies of Scotland are represented as a diminutive race of beings, of a mixed or rather dubious nature, capricious in their dispositions, and mischievous in their resentment. They inhabit the interior of green hills, chiefly those of a conical form, in Gaelic termed _Sighan_, on which they lead their dances by moonlight, impressing upon the surface the marks of circles, which sometimes appear yellow and blasted, sometimes of a deep green hue, and within which it is dangerous to sleep, or to be found after sunset. The removal of those large portions of turf, which thunderbolts sometimes scoop out of the ground with singular regularity, is also ascribed to their agency. Cattle which are suddenly seized with the cramp, or some similar disorder, are said to be elf-shot, and the approved cure is to chafe the parts affected with a blue bonnet, which, it may be readily believed, often restores the circulation. The triangular flints frequently found in Scotland, with which the ancient inhabitants probably barbed their shafts, are supposed to be the weapons of fairy resentment, and are termed elf arrowheads. The rude brazen battle-axes of the ancients, commonly called "celts," are also ascribed to their manufacture. But, like the Gothic duergar, their skill is not confined to the fabrication of arms; for they are heard sedulously hammering in linns, precipices, and rocky or cavernous situations, where, like the dwarfs of the mines mentioned by George Agricola, they busy themselves in imitating the actions and the various employments of men. The Brook of Beaumont, for example, which passes in its course by numerous linns and caverns, is notorious for being haunted by the fairies; and the perforated and rounded stones which are formed by trituration in its channels are termed by the vulgar fairy cups and dishes. A beautiful reason is assigned by Fletcher for the fays frequenting streams and fountains. He tells us of "A virtuous well, about whose flowery banks The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes Their stolen children, so to make them free From dying flesh and dull mortality." It is sometimes accounted unlucky to pass such places without performing some ceremony to avert the displeasure of the elves. There is upon the top of Minchmuir, a mountain in Peeblesshire, a spring called the Cheese Well, because, anciently, those who passed that way were wont to throw into it a piece of cheese as an offering to the fairies, to whom it was consecrated. Like the _feld elfen_ of the Saxons, the usual dress of the fairies is green; though, on the moors, they have been sometimes observed in heath- brown, or in weeds dyed with the stone-raw or lichen. They often ride in invisible procession, when their presence is discovered by the shrill ringing of their bridles. On these occasions they sometimes borrow mortal steeds, and when such are found at morning, panting and fatigued in their stalls, with their manes and tails dishevelled and entangled, the grooms, I presume, often find this a convenient excuse for their situation, as the common belief of the elves quaffing the choicest liquors in the cellars of the rich might occasionally cloak the delinquencies of an unfaithful butler. The fairies, besides their equestrian processions, are addicted, it would seem, to the pleasures of the chase. A young sailor, travelling by night from Douglas, in the Isle of Man, to visit his sister residing in Kirk Merlugh, heard a noise of horses, the holloa of a huntsman, and the sound of a horn. Immediately afterwards, thirteen horsemen, dressed in green, and gallantly mounted, swept past him. Jack was so much delighted with the sport that he followed them, and enjoyed the sound of the horn for some miles, and it was not till he arrived at his sister's house that he learned the danger which he had incurred. I must not omit to mention that these little personages are expert jockeys, and scorn to ride the little Manx ponies, though apparently well suited to their size. The exercise, therefore, falls heavily upon the English and Irish horses brought into the Isle of Man. Mr. Waldron was assured by a gentleman of Ballafletcher that he had lost three or four capital hunters by these nocturnal excursions. From the same author we learn that the fairies sometimes take more legitimate modes of procuring horses. A person of the utmost integrity informed him that, having occasion to sell a horse, he was accosted among the mountains by a little gentleman plainly dressed, who priced his horse, cheapened him, and, after some chaffering, finally purchased him. No sooner had the buyer mounted and paid the price than he sank through the earth, horse and man, to the astonishment and terror of the seller, who, experienced, however, no inconvenience from dealing with so extraordinary a purchaser. THE DEATH "BREE." There was once a woman, who lived in the Camp-del-more of Strathavon, whose cattle were seized with a murrain, or some such fell disease, which ravaged the neighbourhood at the time, carrying off great numbers of them daily. All the forlorn fires and hallowed waters failed of their customary effects; and she was at length told by the wise people, whom she consulted on the occasion, that it was evidently the effect of some infernal agency, the power of which could not be destroyed by any other means than the never-failing specific--the juice of a dead head from the churchyard,--a nostrum certainly very difficult to be procured, considering that the head must needs be abstracted from the grave at the hour of midnight. Being, however, a woman of a stout heart and strong faith, native feelings of delicacy towards the sanctuary of the dead had more weight than had fear in restraining her for some time from resorting to this desperate remedy. At length, seeing that her stock would soon be annihilated by the destructive career of the disease, the wife of Camp- del-more resolved to put the experiment in practice, whatever the result might be. Accordingly, having with considerable difficulty engaged a neighbouring woman as her companion in this hazardous expedition, they set out a little before midnight for the parish churchyard, distant about a mile and a half from her residence, to execute her determination. On arriving at the churchyard her companion, whose courage was not so notable, appalled by the gloomy prospect before her, refused to enter among the habitations of the dead. She, however, agreed to remain at the gate till her friend's business was accomplished. This circumstance, however, did not stagger the wife's resolution. She, with the greatest coolness and intrepidity, proceeded towards what she supposed an old grave, took down her spade, and commenced her operations. After a good deal of toil she arrived at the object of her labour. Raising the first head, or rather skull, that came in her way, she was about to make it her own property, when a hollow, wild, sepulchral voice exclaimed, "That is my head; let it alone!" Not wishing to dispute the claimant's title to this head, and supposing she could be otherwise provided, she very good- naturedly returned it and took up another. "That is my father's head," bellowed the same voice. Wishing, if possible, to avoid disputes, the wife of Camp-del-more took up another head, when the same voice instantly started a claim to it as his grandfather's head. "Well," replied the wife, nettled at her disappointments, "although it were your grandmother's head, you shan't get it till I am done with it." "What do you say, you limmer?" says the ghost, starting up in his awry habiliments. "What do you say, you limmer?" repeated he in a great rage. "By the great oath, you had better leave my grandfather's head." Upon matters coming this length, the wily wife of Camp-del-more thought it proper to assume a more conciliatory aspect. Telling the claimant the whole particulars of the predicament in which she was placed, she promised faithfully that if his honour would only allow her to carry off his grandfather's skull or head in a peaceable manner, she would restore it again when done with. Here, after some communing, they came to an understanding; and she was allowed to take the head along with her, on condition that she should restore it before cock-crowing, under the heaviest penalties. On coming out of the churchyard and looking for her companion, she had the mortification to find her "without a mouthful of breath in her body"; for, on hearing the dispute between her friend and the guardian of the grave, and suspecting much that she was likely to share the unpleasant punishments with which he threatened her friend, at the bare recital of them she fell down in a faint, from which it was no easy matter to recover her. This proved no small inconvenience to Camp-del-more's wife, as there were not above two hours to elapse ere she had to return the head according to the terms of her agreement. Taking her friend upon her back, she carried her up a steep acclivity to the nearest adjoining house, where she left her for the night; then repaired home with the utmost speed, made _dead bree_ of the head ere the appointed time had expired, restored the skull to its guardian, and placed the grave in its former condition. It is needless to add that, as a reward for her exemplary courage, the "_bree_" had its desired effect. The cattle speedily recovered, and, so long as she retained any of it, all sorts of diseases were of short duration. 
18674	----	[Illustration: (Front cover image)] [Illustration: "SNAKE'S BLOOD MIXED WITH POWDERED DEER-HORN."] A CHINESE WONDER BOOK BY NORMAN HINSDALE PITMAN ILLUSTRATED BY LI CHU-T'ANG [Illustration: Colophon] NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & CO. 681 FIFTH AVENUE COPYRIGHT, 1919 By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY _All rights reserved_ * * * * * Printed in the United States of America TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE The Golden Beetle or Why the Dog Hates the Cat 1 The Great Bell 21 The Strange Tale of Doctor Dog 39 How Footbinding Started 52 The Talking Fish 68 Bamboo and the Turtle 88 The Mad Goose and the Tiger Forest 104 The Nodding Tiger 120 The Princess Kwan-Yin 134 The Two Jugglers 147 The Phantom Vessel 160 The Wooden Tablet 172 The Golden Nugget 187 The Man Who Would Not Scold 193 Lu-San, Daughter of Heaven 206 ILLUSTRATIONS Facing Page "Snake's blood mixed with powdered deer-horn" _Frontispiece_ "Here son!" she cried, "look at my treasure!" 8 Clinging to the animal's shaggy hair was Honeysuckle 50 Throwing herself at his feet she thanked him for his mercy 56 "Ah," sighed the turtle, "if only the good god, P'anku, were here" 102 Putting his bill close to her ear, he told Hu-Lin of his recent discovery 108 The tiger gravely nodded his head 130 All day she was busy carrying water 138 Higher and higher he climbed 154 They saw shining in the pathway directly in front of them a lump of gold 188 As she dressed herself she saw with surprise that her fingers were shapely 214 THE GOLDEN BEETLE OR WHY THE DOG HATES THE CAT [Illustration] "What we shall eat to-morrow, I haven't the slightest idea!" said Widow Wang to her eldest son, as he started out one morning in search of work. "Oh, the gods will provide. I'll find a few coppers somewhere," replied the boy, trying to speak cheerfully, although in his heart he also had not the slightest idea in which direction to turn. The winter had been a hard one: extreme cold, deep snow, and violent winds. The Wang house had suffered greatly. The roof had fallen in, weighed down by heavy snow. Then a hurricane had blown a wall over, and Ming-li, the son, up all night and exposed to a bitter cold wind, had caught pneumonia. Long days of illness followed, with the spending of extra money for medicine. All their scant savings had soon melted away, and at the shop where Ming-li had been employed his place was filled by another. When at last he arose from his sick-bed he was too weak for hard labour and there seemed to be no work in the neighbouring villages for him to do. Night after night he came home, trying not to be discouraged, but in his heart feeling the deep pangs of sorrow that come to the good son who sees his mother suffering for want of food and clothing. "Bless his good heart!" said the poor widow after he had gone. "No mother ever had a better boy. I hope he is right in saying the gods will provide. It has been getting so much worse these past few weeks that it seems now as if my stomach were as empty as a rich man's brain. Why, even the rats have deserted our cottage, and there's nothing left for poor Tabby, while old Blackfoot is nearly dead from starvation." When the old woman referred to the sorrows of her pets, her remarks were answered by a pitiful mewing and woebegone barking from the corner where the two unfed creatures were curled up together trying to keep warm. Just then there was a loud knocking at the gate. When the widow Wang called out, "Come in!" she was surprised to see an old bald-headed priest standing in the doorway. "Sorry, but we have nothing," she went on, feeling sure the visitor had come in search of food. "We have fed on scraps these two weeks--on scraps and scrapings--and now we are living on the memories of what we used to have when my son's father was living. Our cat was so fat she couldn't climb to the roof. Now look at her. You can hardly see her, she's so thin. No, I'm sorry we can't help you, friend priest, but you see how it is." "I didn't come for alms," cried the clean-shaven one, looking at her kindly, "but only to see what I could do to help you. The gods have listened long to the prayers of your devoted son. They honour him because he has not waited till you die to do sacrifice for you. They have seen how faithfully he has served you ever since his illness, and now, when he is worn out and unable to work, they are resolved to reward him for his virtue. You likewise have been a good mother and shall receive the gift I am now bringing." "What do you mean?" faltered Mrs. Wang, hardly believing her ears at hearing a priest speak of bestowing mercies. "Have you come here to laugh at our misfortunes?" "By no means. Here in my hand I hold a tiny golden beetle which you will find has a magic power greater than any you ever dreamed of. I will leave this precious thing with you, a present from the god of filial conduct." "Yes, it will sell for a good sum," murmured the other, looking closely at the trinket, "and will give us millet for several days. Thanks, good priest, for your kindness." "But you must by no means sell this golden beetle, for it has the power to fill your stomachs as long as you live." The widow stared in open-mouthed wonder at the priest's surprising words. "Yes, you must not doubt me, but listen carefully to what I tell you. Whenever you wish food, you have only to place this ornament in a kettle of boiling water, saying over and over again the names of what you want to eat. In three minutes take off the lid, and there will be your dinner, smoking hot, and cooked more perfectly than any food you have ever eaten." "May I try it now?" she asked eagerly. "As soon as I am gone." When the door was shut, the old woman hurriedly kindled a fire, boiled some water, and then dropped in the golden beetle, repeating these words again and again: "Dumplings, dumplings, come to me, I am thin as thin can be. Dumplings, dumplings, smoking hot, Dumplings, dumplings, fill the pot." Would those three minutes never pass? Could the priest have told the truth? Her old head was nearly wild with excitement as clouds of steam rose from the kettle. Off came the lid! She could wait no longer. Wonder of wonders! There before her unbelieving eyes was a pot, full to the brim of pork dumplings, dancing up and down in the bubbling water, the best, the most delicious dumplings she had ever tasted. She ate and ate till there was no room left in her greedy stomach, and then she feasted the cat and the dog until they were ready to burst. "Good fortune has come at last," whispered Blackfoot, the dog, to Whitehead, the cat, as they lay down to sun themselves outside. "I fear I couldn't have held out another week without running away to look for food. I don't know just what's happened, but there's no use questioning the gods." Mrs. Wang fairly danced for joy at the thought of her son's return and of how she would feast him. "Poor boy, how surprised he will be at our fortune--and it's all on account of his goodness to his old mother." When Ming-li came, with a dark cloud overhanging his brow, the widow saw plainly that disappointment was written there. "Come, come, lad!" she cried cheerily, "clear up your face and smile, for the gods have been good to us and I shall soon show you how richly your devotion has been rewarded." So saying, she dropped the golden beetle into the boiling water and stirred up the fire. Thinking his mother had gone stark mad for want of food, Ming-li stared solemnly at her. Anything was preferable to this misery. Should he sell his last outer garment for a few pennies and buy millet for her? Blackfoot licked his hand comfortingly, as if to say, "Cheer up, master, fortune has turned in our favour." Whitehead leaped upon a bench, purring like a sawmill. Ming-li did not have long to wait. Almost in the twinkling of an eye he heard his mother crying out, "Sit down at the table, son, and eat these dumplings while they are smoking hot." Could he have heard correctly? Did his ears deceive him? No, there on the table was a huge platter full of the delicious pork dumplings he liked better than anything else in all the world, except, of course, his mother. "Eat and ask no questions," counselled the Widow Wang. "When you are satisfied I will tell you everything." Wise advice! Very soon the young man's chopsticks were twinkling like a little star in the verses. He ate long and happily, while his good mother watched him, her heart overflowing with joy at seeing him at last able to satisfy his hunger. But still the old woman could hardly wait for him to finish, she was so anxious to tell him her wonderful secret. "Here, son!" she cried at last, as he began to pause between mouthfuls, "look at my treasure!" And she held out to him the golden beetle. "First tell me what good fairy of a rich man has been filling our hands with silver?" "That's just what I am trying to tell you," she laughed, "for there was a fairy here this afternoon sure enough, only he was dressed like a bald priest. That golden beetle is all he gave me, but with it comes a secret worth thousands of cash to us." The youth fingered the trinket idly, still doubting his senses, and waiting impatiently for the secret of his delicious dinner. "But, mother, what has this brass bauble to do with the dumplings, these wonderful pork dumplings, the finest I ever ate?" "Baubles indeed! Brass! Fie, fie, my boy! You little know what you are saying. Only listen and you shall hear a tale that will open your eyes." She then told him what had happened, and ended by setting all of the left-over dumplings upon the floor for Blackfoot and Whitehead, a thing her son had never seen her do before, for they had been miserably poor and had had to save every scrap for the next meal. Now began a long period of perfect happiness. Mother, son, dog and cat--all enjoyed themselves to their hearts' content. All manner of new foods such as they had never tasted were called forth from the pot by the wonderful little beetle. Bird-nest soup, shark's fins, and a hundred other delicacies were theirs for the asking, and soon Ming-li regained all his strength, but, I fear, at the same time grew somewhat lazy, for it was no longer necessary for him to work. As for the two animals, they became fat and sleek and their hair grew long and glossy. [Illustration: "HERE SON!" SHE CRIED, "HAVE A LOOK AT MY TREASURE!"] But alas! according to a Chinese proverb, pride invites sorrow. The little family became so proud of their good fortune that they began to ask friends and relatives to dinner that they might show off their good meals. One day a Mr. and Mrs. Chu came from a distant village. They were much astonished at seeing the high style in which the Wangs lived. They had expected a beggar's meal, but went away with full stomachs. "It's the best stuff I ever ate," said Mr. Chu, as they entered their own tumble-down house. "Yes, and I know where it came from," exclaimed his wife. "I saw Widow Wang take a little gold ornament out of the pot and hide it in a cupboard. It must be some sort of charm, for I heard her mumbling to herself about pork and dumplings just as she was stirring up the fire." "A charm, eh? Why is it that other people have all the luck? It looks as if we were doomed forever to be poor." "Why not borrow Mrs. Wang's charm for a few days until we can pick up a little flesh to keep our bones from clattering? Turn about's fair play. Of course, we'll return it sooner or later." "Doubtless they keep very close watch over it. When would you find them away from home, now that they don't have to work any more? As their house only contains one room, and that no bigger than ours, it would be difficult to borrow this golden trinket. It is harder, for more reasons than one, to steal from a beggar than from a king." "Luck is surely with us," cried Mrs. Chu, clapping her hands. "They are going this very day to the Temple fair. I overheard Mrs. Wang tell her son that he must not forget he was to take her about the middle of the afternoon. I will slip back then and borrow the little charm from the box in which she hid it." "Aren't you afraid of Blackfoot?" "Pooh! he's so fat he can do nothing but roll. If the widow comes back suddenly, I'll tell her I came to look for my big hair-pin, that I lost it while I was at dinner." "All right, go ahead, only of course we must remember we're borrowing the thing, not stealing it, for the Wangs have always been good friends to us, and then, too, we have just dined with them." So skilfully did this crafty woman carry out her plans that within an hour she was back in her own house, gleefully showing the priest's charm to her husband. Not a soul had seen her enter the Wang house. The dog had made no noise, and the cat had only blinked her surprise at seeing a stranger and had gone to sleep again on the floor. Great was the clamour and weeping when, on returning from the fair in expectation of a hot supper, the widow found her treasure missing. It was long before she could grasp the truth. She went back to the little box in the cupboard ten times before she could believe it was empty, and the room looked as if a cyclone had struck it, so long and carefully did the two unfortunates hunt for the lost beetle. Then came days of hunger which were all the harder to bear since the recent period of good food and plenty. Oh, if they had only not got used to such dainties! How hard it was to go back to scraps and scrapings! But if the widow and her son were sad over the loss of the good meals, the two pets were even more so. They were reduced to beggary and had to go forth daily upon the streets in search of stray bones and refuse that decent dogs and cats turned up their noses at. One day, after this period of starvation had been going on for some time, Whitehead began suddenly to frisk about in great excitement. "Whatever is the matter with you?" growled Blackfoot. "Are you mad from hunger, or have you caught another flea?" "I was just thinking over our affairs, and now I know the cause of all our trouble." "Do you indeed?" sneered Blackfoot. "Yes, I do indeed, and you'd better think twice before you mock me, for I hold your future in my paw, as you will very soon see." "Well, you needn't get angry about nothing. What wonderful discovery have you made--that every rat has one tail?" "First of all, are you willing to help me bring good fortune back to our family?" "Of course I am. Don't be silly," barked the dog, wagging his tail joyfully at the thought of another good dinner. "Surely! surely! I will do anything you like if it will bring Dame Fortune back again." "All right. Here is the plan. There has been a thief in the house who has stolen our mistress's golden beetle. You remember all our big dinners that came from the pot? Well, every day I saw our mistress take a little golden beetle out of the black box and put it into the pot. One day she held it up before me, saying, 'Look, puss, there is the cause of all our happiness. Don't you wish it was yours?' Then she laughed and put it back into the box that stays in the cupboard." "Is that true?" questioned Blackfoot. "Why didn't you say something about it before?" "You remember the day Mr. and Mrs. Chu were here, and how Mrs. Chu returned in the afternoon after master and mistress had gone to the fair? I saw her, out of the tail of my eye, go to that very black box and take out the golden beetle. I thought it curious, but never dreamed she was a thief. Alas! I was wrong! She took the beetle, and if I am not mistaken, she and her husband are now enjoying the feasts that belong to us." "Let's claw them," growled Blackfoot, gnashing his teeth. "That would do no good," counselled the other, "for they would be sure to come out best in the end. We want the beetle back--that's the main thing. We'll leave revenge to human beings; it is none of our business." "What do you suggest?" said Blackfoot. "I am with you through thick and thin." "Let's go to the Chu house and make off with the beetle." "Alas, that I am not a cat!" moaned Blackfoot. "If we go there I couldn't get inside, for robbers always keep their gates well locked. If I were like you I could scale the wall. It is the first time in all my life I ever envied a cat." "We will go together," continued Whitehead. "I will ride on your back when we are fording the river, and you can protect me from strange animals. When we get to the Chu house, I will climb over the wall and manage the rest of the business myself. Only you must wait outside to help me to get home with the prize." No sooner arranged than done. The companions set out that very night on their adventure. They crossed the river as the cat had suggested, and Blackfoot really enjoyed the swim, for, as he said, it took him back to his puppyhood, while the cat did not get a single drop of water on her face. It was midnight when they reached the Chu house. "Just wait till I return," purred Whitehead in Blackfoot's ear. With a mighty spring she reached the top of the mud wall, and then jumped down to the inside court. While she was resting in the shadow, trying to decide just how to go about her work, a slight rustling attracted her attention, and pop! one giant spring, one stretch-out of the claws, and she had caught a rat that had just come out of his hole for a drink and a midnight walk. Now, Whitehead was so hungry that she would have made short work of this tempting prey if the rat had not opened its mouth and, to her amazement, begun to talk in good cat dialect. "Pray, good puss, not so fast with your sharp teeth! Kindly be careful with your claws! Don't you know it is the custom now to put prisoners on their honour? I will promise not to run away." "Pooh! what honour has a rat?" "Most of us haven't much, I grant you, but my family was brought up under the roof of Confucius, and there we picked up so many crumbs of wisdom that we are exceptions to the rule. If you will spare me, I will obey you for life, in fact, will be your humble slave." Then, with a quick jerk, freeing itself, "See, I am loose now, but honour holds me as if I were tied, and so I make no further attempt to get away." "Much good it would do you," purred Whitehead, her fur crackling noisily, and her mouth watering for a taste of rat steak. "However, I am quite willing to put you to the test. First, answer a few polite questions and I will see if you're a truthful fellow. What kind of food is your master eating now, that you should be so round and plump when I am thin and scrawny?" "Oh, we have been in luck lately, I can tell you. Master and mistress feed on the fat of the land, and of course we hangers-on get the crumbs." "But this is a poor tumble-down house. How can they afford such eating?" "That is a great secret, but as I am in honour bound to tell you, here goes. My mistress has just obtained in some manner or other, a fairy's charm----" "She stole it from our place," hissed the cat, "I will claw her eyes out if I get the chance. Why, we've been fairly starving for want of that beetle. She stole it from us just after she had been an invited guest! What do you think of that for honour, Sir Rat? Were your mistress's ancestors followers of the sage?" "Oh, oh, oh! Why, that explains everything!" wailed the rat. "I have often wondered how they got the golden beetle, and yet of course I dared not ask any questions." "No, certainly not! But hark you, friend rat--you get that golden trinket back for me, and I will set you free at once of all obligations. Do you know where she hides it?" "Yes, in a crevice where the wall is broken. I will bring it to you in a jiffy, but how shall we exist when our charm is gone? There will be a season of scanty food, I fear; beggars' fare for all of us." "Live on the memory of your good deed," purred the cat. "It is splendid, you know, to be an honest beggar. Now scoot! I trust you completely, since your people lived in the home of Confucius. I will wait here for your return. Ah!" laughed Whitehead to herself, "luck seems to be coming our way again!" Five minutes later the rat appeared, bearing the trinket in its mouth. It passed the beetle over to the cat, and then with a whisk was off for ever. Its honour was safe, but it was afraid of Whitehead. It had seen the gleam of desire in her green eyes, and the cat might have broken her word if she had not been so anxious to get back home where her mistress could command the wonderful kettle once more to bring forth food. The two adventurers reached the river just as the sun was rising above the eastern hills. "Be careful," cautioned Blackfoot, as the cat leaped upon his back for her ride across the stream, "be careful not to forget the treasure. In short, remember that even though you are a female, it is necessary to keep your mouth closed till we reach the other side." "Thanks, but I don't think I need your advice," replied Whitehead, picking up the beetle and leaping on to the dog's back. But alas! just as they were nearing the farther shore, the excited cat forgot her wisdom for a moment. A fish suddenly leaped out of the water directly under her nose. It was too great a temptation. Snap! went her jaws in a vain effort to land the scaly treasure, and the golden beetle sank to the bottom of the river. "There!" said the dog angrily, "what did I tell you? Now all our trouble has been in vain--all on account of your stupidity." For a time there was a bitter dispute, and the companions called each other some very bad names--such as turtle and rabbit. Just as they were starting away from the river, disappointed and discouraged, a friendly frog who had by chance heard their conversation offered to fetch the treasure from the bottom of the stream. No sooner said than done, and after thanking this accommodating animal profusely, they turned homeward once more. When they reached the cottage the door was shut, and, bark as he would, Blackfoot could not persuade his master to open it. There was the sound of loud wailing inside. "Mistress is broken-hearted," whispered the cat, "I will go to her and make her happy." So saying, she sprang lightly through a hole in the paper window, which, alas! was too small and too far from the ground for the faithful dog to enter. A sad sight greeted the gaze of Whitehead. The son was lying on the bed unconscious, almost dead for want of food, while his mother, in despair, was rocking backwards and forwards wringing her wrinkled hands and crying at the top of her voice for some one to come and save them. "Here I am, mistress," cried Whitehead, "and here is the treasure you are weeping for. I have rescued it and brought it back to you." The widow, wild with joy at sight of the beetle, seized the cat in her scrawny arms and hugged the pet tightly to her bosom. "Breakfast, son, breakfast! Wake up from your swoon! Fortune has come again. We are saved from starvation!" Soon a steaming hot meal was ready, and you may well imagine how the old woman and her son, heaping praises upon Whitehead, filled the beast's platter with good things, but never a word did they say of the faithful dog, who remained outside sniffing the fragrant odours and waiting in sad wonder, for all this time the artful cat had said nothing of Blackfoot's part in the rescue of the golden beetle. At last, when breakfast was over, slipping away from the others, Whitehead jumped out through the hole in the window. "Oh, my dear Blackfoot," she began laughingly, "you should have been inside to see what a feast they gave me! Mistress was so delighted at my bringing back her treasure that she could not give me enough to eat, nor say enough kind things about me. Too bad, old fellow, that you are hungry. You'd better run out into the street and hunt up a bone." Maddened by the shameful treachery of his companion, the enraged dog sprang upon the cat and in a few seconds had shaken her to death. "So dies the one who forgets a friend and who loses honour," he cried sadly, as he stood over the body of his companion. Rushing out into the street, he proclaimed the treachery of Whitehead to the members of his tribe, at the same time advising that all self-respecting dogs should from that time onwards make war upon the feline race. And that is why the descendants of old Blackfoot, whether in China or in the great countries of the West, have waged continual war upon the children and grandchildren of Whitehead, for a thousand generations of dogs have fought them and hated them with a great and lasting hatred. THE GREAT BELL [Illustration] The mighty Yung-lo sat on the great throne surrounded by a hundred attendants. He was sad, for he could think of no wonderful thing to do for his country. He flirted his silken fan nervously and snapped his long finger-nails in the impatience of despair. "Woe is me!" he cried at last, his sorrow getting the better of his usual calmness. "I have picked up the great capital and moved it from the South to Peking and have built here a mighty city. I have surrounded my city with a wall, even thicker and greater than the famous wall of China. I have constructed in this city scores of temples and palaces. I have had the wise men and scholars compile a great book of wisdom, made up of 23,000 volumes, the largest and most wonderful collection of learning ever gathered together by the hands of men. I have built watch-towers, bridges, and giant monuments, and now, alas! as I approach the end of my days as ruler of the Middle Kingdom there is nothing more to be done for my people. Better far that I should even now close my tired eyes for ever and mount up on high to be the guest of the dragon, than live on in idleness, giving to my children an example of uselessness and sloth." "But, your Majesty," began one of Yung-lo's most faithful courtiers, named Ming-lin, falling upon his knees and knocking his head three times on the ground, "if you would only deign to listen to your humble slave, I would dare to suggest a great gift for which the many people of Peking, your children, would rise up and bless you both now and in future generations." "Only tell me of such a gift and I will not only grant it to the imperial city, but as a sign of thanksgiving to you for your sage counsel I will bestow upon you the royal peacock feather." "It is not for one of my small virtues," replied the delighted official, "to wear the feather when others so much wiser are denied it, but if it please your Majesty, remember that in the northern district of the city there has been erected a bell-tower which as yet remains empty. The people of the city need a giant bell to sound out the fleeting hours of the day, that they may be urged on to perform their labours and not be idle. The water-clock already marks the hours, but there is no bell to proclaim them to the populace." "A good suggestion in sooth," answered the Emperor, smiling, "and yet who is there among us that has skill enough in bell-craft to do the task you propose? I am told that to cast a bell worthy of our imperial city requires the genius of a poet and the skill of an astronomer." "True, most mighty one, and yet permit me to say that Kwan-yu, who so skilfully moulded the imperial cannon, can also cast a giant bell. He alone of all your subjects is worthy of the task, for he alone can do it justice." Now, the official who proposed the name of Kwan-yu to the Emperor had two objects in so doing. He wished to quiet the grief of Yung-lo, who was mourning because he had nothing left to do for his people, and, at the same time, to raise Kwan-yu to high rank, for Kwan-yu's only daughter had for several years been betrothed to Ming-lin's only son, and it would be a great stroke of luck for Ming-lin if his daughter-in-law's father should come under direct favour of the Emperor. "Depend upon it, Kwan-yu can do the work better than any other man within the length and breadth of your empire," continued Ming-lin, again bowing low three times. "Then summon Kwan-yu at once to my presence, that I may confer with him about this important business." In great glee Ming-lin arose and backed himself away from the golden throne, for it would have been very improper for him to turn his coat-tails on the Son of Heaven. But it was with no little fear that Kwan-yu undertook the casting of the great bell. "Can a carpenter make shoes?" he had protested, when Ming-lin had broken the Emperor's message to him. "Yes," replied the other quickly, "if they be like those worn by the little island dwarfs, and, therefore, made of wood. Bells and cannon are cast from similar material. You ought easily to adapt yourself to this new work." Now when Kwan-yu's daughter found out what he was about to undertake, she was filled with a great fear. "Oh, honoured father," she cried, "think well before you give this promise. As a cannon-maker you are successful, but who can say about the other task? And if you fail, the Great One's wrath will fall heavily upon you." "Just hear the girl," interrupted the ambitious mother. "What do you know about success and failure? You'd better stick to the subject of cooking and baby-clothes, for you will soon be married. As for your father, pray let him attend to his own business. It is unseemly for a girl to meddle in her father's affairs." And so poor Ko-ai--for that was the maiden's name--was silenced, and went back to her fancy-work with a big tear stealing down her fair cheek, for she loved her father dearly and there had come into her heart a strange terror at thought of his possible danger. Meanwhile, Kwan-yu was summoned to the Forbidden City, which is in the centre of Peking, and in which stands the Imperial palace. There he received his instructions from the Son of Heaven. "And remember," said Yung-lo in conclusion, "this bell must be so great that the sound of it will ring out to a distance of thirty-three miles on every hand. To this end, you should add in proper proportions gold and brass, for they give depth and strength to everything with which they mingle. Furthermore, in order that this giant may not be lacking in the quality of sweetness, you must add silver in due proportion, while the sayings of the sages must be graven on its sides." Now when Kwan-yu had really received his commission from the Emperor he searched the bookstalls of the city to find if possible some ancient descriptions of the best methods used in bell-casting. Also he offered generous wages to all who had ever had experience in the great work for which he was preparing. Soon his great foundry was alive with labourers; huge fires were burning; great piles of gold, silver and other metals were lying here and there, ready to be weighed. Whenever Kwan-yu went out to a public tea-house all of his friends plied him with questions about the great bell. "Will it be the largest in the world?" "Oh, no," he would reply, "that is not necessary, but it must be the sweetest-toned, for we Chinese strive not for size, but for purity; not for greatness, but for virtue." "When will it be finished?" "Only the gods can tell, for I have had little experience, and perhaps I shall fail to mix the metals properly." Every few days the Son of Heaven himself would send an imperial messenger to ask similar questions, for a king is likely to be just as curious as his subjects, but Kwan-yu would always modestly reply that he could not be certain; it was very doubtful when the bell would be ready. At last, however, after consulting an astrologer, Kwan-yu appointed a day for the casting, and then there came another courtier robed in splendid garments, saying that at the proper hour the Great One himself would for the first time cross Kwan-yu's threshold--would come to see the casting of the bell he had ordered for his people. On hearing this, Kwan-yu was sore afraid, for he felt that somehow, in spite of all his reading, in spite of all the advice he had received from well-wishers, there was something lacking in the mixture of the boiling metals that would soon be poured into the giant mould. In short, Kwan-yu was about to discover an important truth that this great world has been thousands of years in learning--namely, that mere reading and advice cannot produce skill, that true skill can come only from years of experience and practice. On the brink of despair, he sent a servant with money to the temple, to pray to the gods for success in his venture. Truly, despair and prayer rhyme in every language. Ko-ai, his daughter, was also afraid when she saw the cloud on her father's brow, for she it was, you remember, who had tried to prevent him from undertaking the Emperor's commission. She also went to the temple, in company with a faithful old servant, and prayed to heaven. The great day dawned. The Emperor and his courtiers were assembled, the former sitting on a platform built for the occasion. Three attendants waved beautiful hand-painted fans about his imperial brow, for the room was very warm, and a huge block of ice lay melting in a bowl of carved brass, cooling the hot air before it should blow upon the head of the Son of Heaven. Kwan-yu's wife and daughter stood in a corner at the back of the room, peering anxiously towards the cauldron of molten liquid, for well they knew that Kwan-yu's future rank and power depended on the success of this enterprise. Around the walls stood Kwan-yu's friends, and at the windows groups of excited servants strained their necks, trying to catch a glimpse of royalty, and for once afraid to chatter. Kwan-yu himself was hurrying hither and thither, now giving a final order, now gazing anxiously at the empty mould, and again glancing towards the throne to see if his imperial master was showing signs of impatience. At last all was ready; everyone was waiting breathlessly for the sign from Yung-lo which should start the flowing of the metal. A slight bow of the head, a lifting of the finger! The glowing liquid, hissing with delight at being freed even for a moment from its prison, ran forward faster and faster along the channel that led into the great earthen bed. The bell-maker covered his eyes with his fan, afraid to look at the swiftly-flowing stream. Were all his hopes to be suddenly dashed by the failure of the metals to mix and harden properly? A heavy sigh escaped him as at last he looked up at the thing he had created. Something had indeed gone wrong; he knew in the flash of an eye that misfortune had overtaken him. Yes! sure enough, when at last the earthen casting had been broken, even the smallest child could see that the giant bell, instead of being a thing of beauty was a sorry mass of metals that would not blend. "Alas!" said Yung-lo, "here is indeed a mighty failure, but even in this disappointment I see an object lesson well worthy of consideration, for behold! in yonder elements are all the materials of which this country is made up. There are gold and silver and the baser metals. United in the proper manner they would make a bell so wonderfully beautiful and so pure of tone that the very spirits of the Western heavens would pause to look and listen. But divided they form a thing that is hideous to eye and ear. Oh, my China! how many wars are there from time to time among the different sections, weakening the country and making it poor! If only all these peoples, great and small, the gold and silver and the baser elements, would unite, then would this land be really worthy of the name of the Middle Kingdom!" The courtiers all applauded this speech of the great Yung-lo, but Kwan-yu remained on the ground where he had thrown himself at the feet of his sovereign. Still bowing his head and moaning, he cried out: "Ah! your Majesty! I urged you not to appoint me, and now indeed you see my unfitness. Take my life, I beg you, as a punishment for my failure." "Rise, Kwan-yu," said the great Prince. "I would be a mean master indeed if I did not grant you another trial. Rise up and see that your next casting profits by the lesson of this failure." So Kwan-yu arose, for when the King speaks, all men must listen. The next day he began his task once more, but still his heart was heavy, for he knew not the reason of his failure and was therefore unable to correct his error. For many months he laboured night and day. Hardly a word would he speak to his wife, and when his daughter tried to tempt him with a dish of sunflower seed that she had parched herself, he would reward her with a sad smile, but would by no means laugh with her and joke as had formerly been his custom. On the first and fifteenth day of every moon he went himself to the temple and implored the gods to grant him their friendly assistance, while Ko-ai added her prayers to his, burning incense and weeping before the grinning idols. Again the great Yung-lo was seated on the platform in Kwan-yu's foundry, and again his courtiers hovered round him, but this time, as it was winter, they did not flirt the silken fans. The Great One was certain that this casting would be successful. He had been lenient with Kwan-yu on the first occasion, and now at last he and the great city were to profit by that mercy. Again he gave the signal; once more every neck was craned to see the flowing of the metal. But, alas! when the casing was removed it was seen that the new bell was no better than the first. It was, in fact, a dreadful failure, cracked and ugly, for the gold and silver and the baser elements had again refused to blend into a united whole. With a bitter cry which touched the hearts of all those present, the unhappy Kwan-yu fell upon the floor. This time he did not bow before his master, for at the sight of the miserable conglomeration of useless metals his courage failed him, and he fainted. When at last he came to, the first sight that met his eyes was the scowling face of Yung-lo. Then he heard, as in a dream, the stern voice of the Son of Heaven: "Unhappy Kwan-yu, can it be that you, upon whom I have ever heaped my favours, have twice betrayed the trust? The first time, I was sorry for you and willing to forget, but now that sorrow has turned into anger--yea, the anger of heaven itself is upon you. Now, I bid you mark well my words. A third chance you shall have to cast the bell, but if on that third attempt you fail--then by order of the Vermilion Pencil both you and Ming-lin, who recommended you, shall pay the penalty." For a long time after the Emperor had departed, Kwan-yu lay on the floor surrounded by his attendants, but chief of all those who tried to restore him was his faithful daughter. For a whole week he wavered between life and death, and then at last there came a turn in his favour. Once more he regained his health, once more he began his preparations. Yet all the time he was about his work his heart was heavy, for he felt that he would soon journey into the dark forest, the region of the great yellow spring, the place from which no pilgrim ever returns. Ko-ai, too, felt more than ever that her father was in the presence of a great danger. "Surely," she said one day to her mother, "a raven must have flown over his head. He is like the proverb of the blind man on the blind horse coming at midnight to a deep ditch. Oh, how can he cross over?" Willingly would this dutiful daughter have done anything to save her loved one. Night and day she racked her brains for some plan, but all to no avail. On the day before the third casting, as Ko-ai was sitting in front of her brass mirror braiding her long black hair, suddenly a little bird flew in at the window and perched upon her head. Immediately the startled maiden seemed to hear a voice as if some good fairy were whispering in her ear: "Do not hesitate. You must go and consult the famous juggler who even now is visiting the city. Sell your jade-stones and other jewels, for this man of wisdom will not listen unless his attention is attracted by huge sums of money." The feathered messenger flew out of her room, but Ko-ai had heard enough to make her happy. She despatched a trusted servant to sell her jade and her jewels, charging him on no account to tell her mother. Then, with a great sum of money in her possession she sought out the magician who was said to be wiser than the sages in knowledge of life and death. "Tell me," she implored, as the greybeard summoned her to his presence, "tell me how I can save my father, for the Emperor has ordered his death if he fails a third time in the casting of the bell." The astrologer, after plying her with questions, put on his tortoise-shell glasses and searched long in his book of knowledge. He also examined closely the signs of the heavens, consulting the mystic tables over and over again. Finally, he turned toward Ko-ai, who all the time had been awaiting his answer with impatience. "Nothing could be plainer than the reason of your father's failure, for when a man seeks to do the impossible, he can expect Fate to give him no other answer. Gold cannot unite with silver, nor brass with iron, unless the blood of a maiden is mingled with the molten metals, but the girl who gives up her life to bring about the fusion must be pure and good." With a sigh of despair Ko-ai heard the astrologer's answer. She loved the world and all its beauties; she loved her birds, her companions, her father; she had expected to marry soon, and then there would have been children to love and cherish. But now all these dreams of happiness must be forgotten. There was no other maiden to give up her life for Kwan-yu. She, Ko-ai, loved her father and must make the sacrifice for his sake. And so the day arrived for the third trial, and a third time Yung-lo took his place in Kwan-yu's factory, surrounded by his courtiers. There was a look of stern expectancy on his face. Twice he had excused his underling for failure. Now there could be no thought of mercy. If the bell did not come from its cast perfect in tone and fair to look upon, Kwan-yu must be punished with the severest punishment that could be meted out to man--even death itself. That was why there was a look of stern expectancy on Yung-lo's face, for he really loved Kwan-yu and did not wish to send him to his death. As for Kwan-yu himself, he had long ago given up all thought of success, for nothing had happened since his second failure to make him any surer this time of success. He had settled up his business affairs, arranging for a goodly sum to go to his beloved daughter; he had bought the coffin in which his own body would be laid away and had stored it in one of the principal rooms of his dwelling; he had even engaged the priests and musicians who should chant his funeral dirge, and, last but not least, he had arranged with the man who would have charge of chopping off his head, that one fold of skin should be left uncut, as this would bring him better luck on his entry into the spiritual world than if the head were severed entirely from the body. And so we may say that Kwan-yu was prepared to die. In fact, on the night before the final casting he had a dream in which he saw himself kneeling before the headsman and cautioning him not to forget the binding agreement the latter had entered into. Of all those present in the great foundry, perhaps the devoted Ko-ai was the least excited. Unnoticed, she had slipped along the wall from the spot where she had been standing with her mother and had planted herself directly opposite the huge tank in which the molten, seething liquid bubbled, awaiting the signal when it should be set free. Ko-ai gazed at the Emperor, watching intently for the well-known signal. When at last she saw his head move forward she sprang with a wild leap into the boiling liquid, at the same time crying in her clear, sweet voice: "For thee, dear father! It is the only way!" The molten white metal received the lovely girl into its ardent embrace, received her, and swallowed her up completely, as in a tomb of liquid fire. And Kwan-yu--what of Kwan-yu, the frantic father? Mad with grief at the sight of his loved one giving up her life, a sacrifice to save him, he had sprung forward to hold her back from her terrible death, but had succeeded only in catching one of her tiny jewelled slippers as she sank out of sight for ever--a dainty, silken slipper, to remind him always of her wonderful sacrifice. In his wild grief as he clasped this pitiful little memento to his heart he would himself have leaped in and followed her to her death, if his servants had not restrained him until the Emperor had repeated his signal and the liquid had been poured into the cast. As the sad eyes of all those present peered into the molten river of metals rushing to its earthen bed, they saw not a single sign remaining of the departed Ko-ai. This, then, my children, is the time-worn legend of the great bell of Peking, a tale that has been repeated a million times by poets, story-tellers and devoted mothers, for you must know that on this third casting, when the earthen mould was removed, there stood revealed the most beautiful bell that eye had ever looked upon, and when it was swung up into the bell-tower there was immense rejoicing among the people. The silver and the gold and the iron and the brass, held together by the blood of the virgin, had blended perfectly, and the clear voice of the monster bell rang out over the great city, sounding a deeper, richer melody than that of any other bell within the limits of the Middle Kingdom, or, for that matter, of all the world. And, strange to say, even yet the deep-voiced colossus seems to cry out the name of the maiden who gave herself a living sacrifice, "Ko-ai! Ko-ai! Ko-ai!" so that all the people may remember her deed of virtue ten thousand years ago. And between the mellow peals of music there often seems to come a plaintive whisper that may be heard only by those standing near, "Hsieh! hsieh"--the Chinese word for slipper. "Alas!" say all who hear it, "Ko-ai is crying for her slipper. Poor little Ko-ai!" And now, my dear children, this tale is almost finished, but there is still one thing you must by no means fail to remember. By order of the Emperor, the face of the great bell was graven with precious sayings from the classics, that even in its moments of silence the bell might teach lessons of virtue to the people. "Behold," said Yung-lo, as he stood beside the grief-stricken father, "amongst all yonder texts of wisdom, the priceless sayings of our honoured sages, there is none that can teach to my children so sweet a lesson of filial love and devotion as that one last act of your devoted daughter. For though she died to save you, her deed will still be sung and extolled by my people when you are passed away, yea, even when the bell itself has crumbled into ruins." THE STRANGE TALE OF DOCTOR DOG [Illustration] Far up in the mountains of the Province of Hunan in the central part of China, there once lived in a small village a rich gentleman who had only one child. This girl, like the daughter of Kwan-yu in the story of the Great Bell, was the very joy of her father's life. Now Mr. Min, for that was this gentleman's name, was famous throughout the whole district for his learning, and, as he was also the owner of much property, he spared no effort to teach Honeysuckle the wisdom of the sages, and to give her everything she craved. Of course this was enough to spoil most children, but Honeysuckle was not at all like other children. As sweet as the flower from which she took her name, she listened to her father's slightest command, and obeyed without ever waiting to be told a second time. Her father often bought kites for her, of every kind and shape. There were fish, birds, butterflies, lizards and huge dragons, one of which had a tail more than thirty feet long. Mr. Min was very skilful in flying these kites for little Honeysuckle, and so naturally did his birds and butterflies circle round and hover about in the air that almost any little western boy would have been deceived and said, "Why, there is a real bird, and not a kite at all!" Then again, he would fasten a queer little instrument to the string, which made a kind of humming noise, as he waved his hand from side to side. "It is the wind singing, Daddy," cried Honeysuckle, clapping her hands with joy; "singing a kite-song to both of us." Sometimes, to teach his little darling a lesson if she had been the least naughty, Mr. Min would fasten queerly twisted scraps of paper, on which were written many Chinese words, to the string of her favourite kite. "What are you doing, Daddy?" Honeysuckle would ask. "What can those queer-looking papers be?" "On every piece is written a sin that we have done." "What is a sin, Daddy?" "Oh, when Honeysuckle has been naughty; that is a sin!" he answered gently. "Your old nurse is afraid to scold you, and if you are to grow up to be a good woman, Daddy must teach you what is right." Then Mr. Min would send the kite up high--high over the house-tops, even higher than the tall Pagoda on the hillside. When all his cord was let out, he would pick up two sharp stones, and, handing them to Honeysuckle, would say, "Now, daughter, cut the string, and the wind will carry away the sins that are written down on the scraps of paper." "But, Daddy, the kite is so pretty. Mayn't we keep our sins a little longer?" she would innocently ask. "No, child; it is dangerous to hold on to one's sins. Virtue is the foundation of happiness," he would reply sternly, choking back his laughter at her question. "Make haste and cut the cord." So Honeysuckle, always obedient--at least with her father--would saw the string in two between the sharp stones, and with a childish cry of despair would watch her favourite kite, blown by the wind, sail farther and farther away, until at last, straining her eyes, she could see it sink slowly to the earth in some far-distant meadow. "Now laugh and be happy," Mr. Min would say, "for your sins are all gone. See that you don't get a new supply of them." Honeysuckle was also fond of seeing the Punch and Judy show, for, you must know, this old-fashioned amusement for children was enjoyed by little folks in China, perhaps three thousand years before your great-grandfather was born. It is even said that the great Emperor, Mu, when he saw these little dancing images for the first time, was greatly enraged at seeing one of them making eyes at his favourite wife. He ordered the showman to be put to death, and it was with difficulty the poor fellow persuaded his Majesty that the dancing puppets were not really alive at all, but only images of cloth and clay. No wonder then Honeysuckle liked to see Punch and Judy if the Son of Heaven himself had been deceived by their queer antics into thinking them real people of flesh and blood. But we must hurry on with our story, or some of our readers will be asking, "But where is Dr. Dog? Are you never coming to the hero of this tale?" One day when Honeysuckle was sitting inside a shady pavilion that overlooked a tiny fish-pond, she was suddenly seized with a violent attack of colic. Frantic with pain, she told a servant to summon her father, and then without further ado, she fell over in a faint upon the ground. When Mr. Min reached his daughter's side, she was still unconscious. After sending for the family physician to come post haste, he got his daughter to bed, but although she recovered from her fainting fit, the extreme pain continued until the poor girl was almost dead from exhaustion. Now, when the learned doctor arrived and peered at her from under his gigantic spectacles, he could not discover the cause of her trouble. However, like some of our western medical men, he did not confess his ignorance, but proceeded to prescribe a huge dose of boiling water, to be followed a little later by a compound of pulverized deer's horn and dried toadskin. Poor Honeysuckle lay in agony for three days, all the time growing weaker and weaker from loss of sleep. Every great doctor in the district had been summoned for consultation; two had come from Changsha, the chief city of the province, but all to no avail. It was one of those cases that seem to be beyond the power of even the most learned physicians. In the hope of receiving the great reward offered by the desperate father, these wise men searched from cover to cover in the great Chinese Cyclopedia of Medicine, trying in vain to find a method of treating the unhappy maiden. There was even thought of calling in a certain foreign physician from England, who was in a distant city, and was supposed, on account of some marvellous cures he had brought to pass, to be in direct league with the devil. However, the city magistrate would not allow Mr. Min to call in this outsider, for fear trouble might be stirred up among the people. Mr. Min sent out a proclamation in every direction, describing his daughter's illness, and offering to bestow on her a handsome dowry and give her in marriage to whoever should be the means of bringing her back to health and happiness. He then sat at her bedside and waited, feeling that he had done all that was in his power. There were many answers to his invitation. Physicians, old and young, came from every part of the Empire to try their skill, and when they had seen poor Honeysuckle and also the huge pile of silver shoes her father offered as a wedding gift, they all fought with might and main for her life; some having been attracted by her great beauty and excellent reputation, others by the tremendous reward. But, alas for poor Honeysuckle! Not one of all those wise men could cure her! One day, when she was feeling a slight change for the better, she called her father, and, clasping his hand with her tiny one said, "Were it not for your love I would give up this hard fight and pass over into the dark wood; or, as my old grandmother says, fly up into the Western Heavens. For your sake, because I am your only child, and especially because you have no son, I have struggled hard to live, but now I feel that the next attack of that dreadful pain will carry me away. And oh, I do not want to die!" Here Honeysuckle wept as if her heart would break, and her old father wept too, for the more she suffered the more he loved her. Just then her face began to turn pale. "It is coming! The pain is coming, father! Very soon I shall be no more. Good-bye, father! Good-bye; good----." Here her voice broke and a great sob almost broke her father's heart. He turned away from her bedside; he could not bear to see her suffer. He walked outside and sat down on a rustic bench; his head fell upon his bosom, and the great salt tears trickled down his long grey beard. As Mr. Min sat thus overcome with grief, he was startled at hearing a low whine. Looking up he saw, to his astonishment, a shaggy mountain dog about the size of a Newfoundland. The huge beast looked into the old man's eyes with so intelligent and human an expression, with such a sad and wistful gaze, that the greybeard addressed him, saying, "Why have you come? To cure my daughter?" The dog replied with three short barks, wagging his tail vigorously and turning toward the half-opened door that led into the room where the girl lay. By this time, willing to try any chance whatever of reviving his daughter, Mr. Min bade the animal follow him into Honeysuckle's apartment. Placing his forepaws upon the side of her bed, the dog looked long and steadily at the wasted form before him and held his ear intently for a moment over the maiden's heart. Then, with a slight cough he deposited from his mouth into her outstretched hand, a tiny stone. Touching her wrist with his right paw, he motioned to her to swallow the stone. "Yes, my dear, obey him," counselled her father, as she turned to him inquiringly, "for good Dr. Dog has been sent to your bedside by the mountain fairies, who have heard of your illness and who wish to invite you back to life again." Without further delay the sick girl, who was by this time almost burned away by the fever, raised her hand to her lips and swallowed the tiny charm. Wonder of wonders! No sooner had it passed her lips than a miracle occurred. The red flush passed away from her face, the pulse resumed its normal beat, the pains departed from her body, and she arose from the bed well and smiling. Flinging her arms about her father's neck, she cried out in joy, "Oh, I am well again; well and happy; thanks to the medicine of the good physician." The noble dog barked three times, wild with delight at hearing these tearful words of gratitude, bowed low, and put his nose in Honeysuckle's outstretched hand. Mr. Min, greatly moved by his daughter's magical recovery, turned to the strange physician, saying, "Noble Sir, were it not for the form you have taken, for some unknown reason, I would willingly give four times the sum in silver that I promised for the cure of the girl, into your possession. As it is, I suppose you have no use for silver, but remember that so long as we live, whatever we have is yours for the asking, and I beg of you to prolong your visit, to make this the home of your old age--in short, remain here for ever as my guest--nay, as a member of my family." The dog barked thrice, as if in assent. From that day he was treated as an equal by father and daughter. The many servants were commanded to obey his slightest whim, to serve him with the most expensive food on the market, to spare no expense in making him the happiest and best-fed dog in all the world. Day after day he ran at Honeysuckle's side as she gathered flowers in her garden, lay down before her door when she was resting, guarded her Sedan chair when she was carried by servants into the city. In short, they were constant companions; a stranger would have thought they had been friends from childhood. One day, however, just as they were returning from a journey outside her father's compound, at the very instant when Honeysuckle was alighting from her chair, without a moment's warning, the huge animal dashed past the attendants, seized his beautiful mistress in his mouth, and before anyone could stop him, bore her off to the mountains. By the time the alarm was sounded, darkness had fallen over the valley and as the night was cloudy no trace could be found of the dog and his fair burden. Once more the frantic father left no stone unturned to save his daughter. Huge rewards were offered, bands of woodmen scoured the mountains high and low, but, alas, no sign of the girl could be found! The unfortunate father gave up the search and began to prepare himself for the grave. There was nothing now left in life that he cared for--nothing but thoughts of his departed daughter. Honeysuckle was gone for ever. "Alas!" said he, quoting the lines of a famous poet who had fallen into despair: "My whiting hair would make an endless rope, Yet would not measure all my depth of woe." Several long years passed by; years of sorrow for the ageing man, pining for his departed daughter. One beautiful October day he was sitting in the very same pavilion where he had so often sat with his darling. His head was bowed forward on his breast, his forehead was lined with grief. A rustling of leaves attracted his attention. He looked up. Standing directly in front of him was Dr. Dog, and lo, riding on his back, clinging to the animal's shaggy hair, was Honeysuckle, his long-lost daughter; while standing near by were three of the handsomest boys he had ever set eyes upon! "Ah, my daughter! My darling daughter, where have you been all these years?" cried the delighted father, pressing the girl to his aching breast. "Have you suffered many a cruel pain since you were snatched away so suddenly? Has your life been filled with sorrow?" "Only at the thought of your grief," she replied, tenderly, stroking his forehead with her slender fingers; "only at the thought of your suffering; only at the thought of how I should like to see you every day and tell you that my husband was kind and good to me. For you must know, dear father, this is no mere animal that stands beside you. This Dr. Dog, who cured me and claimed me as his bride because of your promise, is a great magician. He can change himself at will into a thousand shapes. He chooses to come here in the form of a mountain beast so that no one may penetrate the secret of his distant palace." "Then he is your husband?" faltered the old man, gazing at the animal with a new expression on his wrinkled face. "Yes; my kind and noble husband, the father of my three sons, your grandchildren, whom we have brought to pay you a visit." "And where do you live?" "In a wonderful cave in the heart of the great mountains; a beautiful cave whose walls and floors are covered with crystals, and encrusted with sparkling gems. The chairs and tables are set with jewels; the rooms are lighted by a thousand glittering diamonds. Oh, it is lovelier than the palace of the Son of Heaven himself! We feed of the flesh of wild deer and mountain goats, and fish from the clearest mountain stream. We drink cold water out of golden goblets, without first boiling it, for it is purity itself. We breathe fragrant air that blows through forests of pine and hemlock. We live only to love each other and our children, and oh, we are so happy! And you, father, you must come back with us to the great mountains and live there with us the rest of your days, which, the gods grant, may be very many." [Illustration: "CLINGING TO THE ANIMAL'S SHAGGY HAIR WAS HONEYSUCKLE"] The old man pressed his daughter once more to his breast and fondled the children, who clambered over him rejoicing at the discovery of a grandfather they had never seen before. From Dr. Dog and his fair Honeysuckle are sprung, it is said, the well-known race of people called the Yus, who even now inhabit the mountainous regions of the Canton and Hunan provinces. It is not for this reason, however, that we have told the story here, but because we felt sure every reader would like to learn the secret of the dog that cured a sick girl and won her for his bride. HOW FOOTBINDING STARTED [Illustration] In the very beginning of all things, when the gods were creating the world, at last the time came to separate the earth from the heavens. This was hard work, and if it had not been for the coolness and skill of a young goddess all would have failed. This goddess was named Lu-o. She had been idly watching the growth of the planet, when, to her horror, she saw the newly made ball slipping slowly from its place. In another second it would have shot down into the bottomless pit. Quick as a flash Lu-o stopped it with her magic wand and held it firmly until the chief god came dashing up to the rescue. But this was not all. When men and women were put on the earth Lu-o helped them greatly by setting an example of purity and kindness. Every one loved her and pointed her out as the one who was always willing to do a good deed. After she had left the world and gone into the land of the gods, beautiful statues of her were set up in many temples to keep her image always before the eyes of sinful people. The greatest of these was in the capital city. Thus, when sorrowful women wished to offer up their prayers to some virtuous goddess they would go to a temple of Lu-o and pour out their hearts before her shrine. At one time the wicked Chow-sin, last ruler of the Yins, went to pray in the city Temple. There his royal eyes were captivated by the sight of a wonderful face, the beauty of which was so great that he fell in love with it at once, telling his ministers that he wished he might take this goddess, who was no other than Lu-o, for one of his wives. Now Lu-o was terribly angry that an earthly prince should dare to make such a remark about her. Then and there she determined to punish the Emperor. Calling her assistant spirits, she told them of Chow-sin's insult. Of all her servants the most cunning was one whom we shall call Fox Sprite, because he really belonged to the fox family. Lu-o ordered Fox Sprite to spare himself no trouble in making the wicked ruler suffer for his impudence. For many days, try as he would, Chow-sin, the great Son of Heaven, could not forget the face he had seen in the temple. "He is stark mad," laughed his courtiers behind his back, "to fall in love with a statue." "I must find a woman just like her," said the Emperor, "and take her to wife." "Why not, most Mighty One," suggested a favourite adviser, "send forth a command throughout the length and breadth of your Empire, that no maiden shall be taken in marriage until you have chosen yourself a wife whose beauty shall equal that of Lu-o?" Chow-sin was pleased with this suggestion and doubtless would have followed it had not his Prime Minister begged him to postpone issuing the order. "Your Imperial Highness," began the official, "since you have been pleased once or twice to follow my counsel, I beg of you to give ear now to what I say." "Speak, and your words shall have my best attention," replied Chow-sin, with a gracious wave of the hand. "Know then, Great One, that in the southern part of your realm there dwells a viceroy whose bravery has made him famous in battle." "Are you speaking of Su-nan?" questioned Chow-sin, frowning, for this Su-nan had once been a rebel. "None other, mighty Son of Heaven. Famous is he as a soldier, but his name is now even greater in that he is the father of the most beautiful girl in all China. This lovely flower that has bloomed of late within his household is still unmarried. Why not order her father to bring her to the palace that you may wed her and place her in your royal dwelling?" "And are you sure of this wondrous beauty you describe so prettily?" asked the ruler, a smile of pleasure lighting up his face. "So sure that I will stake my head on your being satisfied." "Enough! I command you at once to summon the viceroy and his daughter. Add the imperial seal to the message." The Prime Minister smilingly departed to give the order. In his heart he was more than delighted that the Emperor had accepted his suggestion, for Su-nan, the viceroy, had long been his chief enemy, and he planned in this way to overthrow him. The viceroy, as he knew, was a man of iron. He would certainly not feel honoured at the thought of having his daughter enter the Imperial Palace as a secondary wife. Doubtless he would refuse to obey the order and would thus bring about his own immediate downfall. Nor was the Prime Minister mistaken. When Su-nan received the imperial message his heart was hot with anger against his sovereign. To be robbed of his lovely Ta-ki, even by the throne, was, in his eyes, a terrible disgrace. Could he have been sure that she would be made Empress it might have been different, but with so many others sharing Chow-sin's favour, her promotion to first place in the Great One's household was by no means certain. Besides, she was Su-nan's favourite child, and the old man could not bear the thought of separation from her. Rather would he give up his life than let her go to this cruel ruler. "No, you shall not do it," said he to Ta-ki, "not though I must die to save you." The beautiful girl listened to her father's words, in tears. Throwing herself at his feet she thanked him for his mercy and promised to love him more fondly than ever. She told him that her vanity had not been flattered by what most girls might have thought an honour, that she would rather have the love of one good man like her father, than share with others the affections of a king. After listening to his daughter, the viceroy sent a respectful answer to the palace, thanking the Emperor for his favour, but saying he could not give up Ta-ki. "She is unworthy of the honour you purpose doing her," he said, in conclusion, "for, having been the apple of her father's eye, she would not be happy to share even your most august favour with the many others you have chosen." [Illustration: "THROWING HERSELF AT HIS FEET SHE THANKED HIM FOR HIS MERCY."] When the Emperor learned of Su-nan's reply he could hardly believe his ears. To have his command thus disobeyed was an unheard-of crime. Never before had a subject of the Middle Kingdom offered such an insult to a ruler. Boiling with rage, he ordered his prime minister to send forth an army that would bring the viceroy to his senses. "Tell him if he disobeys that he and his family, together with all they possess, shall be destroyed." Delighted at the success of his plot against Su-nan, the Prime Minister sent a regiment of soldiers to bring the rebel to terms. In the meantime the friends of the daring viceroy had not been idle. Hearing of the danger threatening their ruler, who had become a general favourite, hundreds of men offered him their aid against the army of Chow-sin. Thus when the Emperor's banners were seen approaching and the war drums were heard rolling in the distance, the rebels, with a great shout, dashed forth to do battle for their leader. In the fight that took place the Imperial soldiers were forced to run. When the Emperor heard of this defeat he was hot with anger. He called together his advisers and commanded that an army, double the size of the first one, should be sent to Su-nan's country to destroy the fields and villages of the people who had risen up against him. "Spare not one of them," he shouted, "for they are traitors to the Dragon Throne." Once more the viceroy's friends resolved to support him, even to the death. Ta-ki, his daughter, went apart from the other members of the family, weeping most bitterly that she had brought such sorrow upon them. "Rather would I go into the palace and be the lowest among Chow-sin's women than to be the cause of all this grief," she cried, in desperation. But her father soothed her, saying, "Be of good cheer, Ta-ki. The Emperor's army, though it be twice as large as mine, shall not overcome us. Right is on our side. The gods of battle will help those who fight for justice." One week later a second battle was fought, and the struggle was so close that none could foresee the result. The Imperial army was commanded by the oldest nobles in the kingdom, those most skilled in warfare, while the viceroy's men were young and poorly drilled. Moreover, the members of the Dragon Army had been promised double pay if they should accomplish the wishes of their sovereign, while Su-nan's soldiers knew only too well that they would be put to the sword if they should be defeated. Just as the clash of arms was at its highest, the sound of gongs was heard upon a distant hill. The government troops were amazed at seeing fresh companies marching to the rescue of their foe. With a wild cry of disappointment they turned and fled from the field. These unexpected reinforcements turned out to be women whom Ta-ki had persuaded to dress up as soldiers and go with her for the purpose of frightening the enemy. Thus for a second time was Su-nan victorious. During the following year several battles occurred that counted for little, except that in each of them many of Su-nan's followers were killed. At last one of the viceroy's best friends came to him, saying, "Noble lord, it is useless to continue the struggle. I fear you must give up the fight. You have lost more than half your supporters; the remaining bowmen are either sick or wounded and can be of little use. The Emperor, moreover, is even now raising a new army from the distant provinces, and will soon send against us a force ten times as great as any we have yet seen. There being no hope of victory, further fighting would be folly. Lead, therefore, your daughter to the palace. Throw yourself upon the mercy of the throne. You must accept cheerfully the fate the gods have suffered you to bear." Ta-ki, chancing to overhear this conversation, rushed in and begged her father to hold out no longer, but to deliver her up to the greed of the wicked Chow-sin. With a sigh, the viceroy yielded to their wishes. The next day he despatched a messenger to the Emperor, promising to bring Ta-ki at once to the capital. Now we must not forget Fox Sprite, the demon, who had been commanded by the good goddess Lu-o to bring a dreadful punishment upon the Emperor. Through all the years of strife between Chow-sin and the rebels, Fox Sprite had been waiting patiently for his chance. He knew well that some day, sooner or later, there would come an hour when Chow-sin would be at his mercy. When the time came, therefore, for Ta-ki to go to the palace, Fox Sprite felt that at last his chance had come. The beautiful maiden for whom Chow-sin had given up so many hundreds of his soldiers, would clearly have great power over the Emperor. She must be made to help in the punishment of her wicked husband. So Fox Sprite made himself invisible and travelled with the viceroy's party as it went from central China to the capital. On the last night of their journey Su-nan and his daughter stopped for rest and food at a large inn. No sooner had the girl gone to her room for the night than Fox Sprite followed her. Then he made himself visible. At first she was frightened to see so strange a being in her room, but when Fox Sprite told her he was a servant of the great goddess, Lu-o, she was comforted, for she knew that Lu-o was the friend of women and children. "But how can _I_ help to punish the Emperor?" she faltered, when the sprite told her he wanted her assistance. "I am but a helpless girl," and here she began to cry. "Dry your tears," he said soothingly. "It will be very easy. Only let me take your form for a little. When I am the Emperor's wife," laughing, "I shall find a way to punish him, for no one can give a man more pain that his wife can, if she desires to do so. You know, I am a servant of Lu-o and can do anything I wish." "But the Emperor won't have a fox for a wife," she sobbed. "Though I am still a fox I shall look like the beautiful Ta-ki. Make your heart easy. He will never know." "Oh, I see," she smiled, "you will put your spirit into my body and you will look just like me, though you really won't be me. But what will become of the real me? Shall I have to be a fox and look like you?" "No, not unless you want to. I will make you invisible, and you can be ready to go back into your own body when I have got rid of the Emperor." "Very well," replied the girl, somewhat relieved by his explanation, "but try not to be too long about it, because I don't like the idea of somebody else walking about in my body." So Fox Sprite caused his own spirit to enter the girl's body, and no one could have told by her outward appearance that any change had taken place. The beautiful girl was now in reality the sly Fox Sprite, but in one way only did she look like a fox. When the fox-spirit entered her body, her feet suddenly shrivelled up and became very similar in shape and size to the feet of the animal who had her in his power. When the fox noticed this, at first he was somewhat annoyed, but, feeling that no one else would know, he did not take the trouble to change the fox feet back to human form. On the following morning, when the viceroy called his daughter for the last stage of their journey, he greeted Fox Sprite without suspecting that anything unusual had happened since he had last seen Ta-ki. So well did this crafty spirit perform his part that the father was completely deceived, by look, by voice, and by gesture. The next day the travellers arrived at the capital and Su-nan presented himself before Chow-sin, the Emperor, leading Fox Sprite with him. Of course the crafty fox with all his magic powers was soon able to gain the mastery over the wicked ruler. The Great One pardoned Su-nan, although he had fully intended to put him to death as a rebel. Now the chance for which Fox Sprite had been waiting had come. He began at once, causing the Emperor to do many deeds of violence. The people had already begun to dislike Chow-sin, and soon he became hateful in their sight. Many of the leading members of the court were put to death unjustly. Horrible tortures were devised for punishing those who did not find favour with the crown. At last there was open talk of a rebellion. Of course, all these things delighted the wily fox, for he saw that, sooner or later, the Son of Heaven would be turned out of the palace, and he knew that then his work for the goddess Lu-o would be finished. Besides worming his way into the heart of the Emperor, the fox became a general favourite with the ladies of the palace. These women saw in Chow-sin's latest wife the most beautiful woman who had ever lived in the royal harem. One would think that this beauty might have caused them to hate Fox Sprite, but such was not the case. They admired the plumpness of Fox Sprite's body, the fairness of Fox Sprite's complexion, the fire in Fox Sprite's eyes, but most of all they wondered at the smallness of Fox Sprite's feet, for, you remember, the supposed Ta-ki now had fox's feet instead of those of human shape. Thus small feet became the fashion among women. All the court ladies, old and young, beautiful and ugly, began thinking of plans for making their own feet as tiny as those of Fox Sprite. In this way they thought to increase their chances of finding favour with the Emperor. Gradually people outside the palace began to hear of this absurd fashion. Mothers bound the feet of their little girls, in such a manner as to stop their growth. The bones of the toes were bent backwards and broken, so eager were the elders to have their daughters grow up into tiny-footed maidens. Thus, for several years of their girlhood the little ones were compelled to endure the most severe tortures. It was not long before the new fashion took firm root in China. It became almost impossible for parents to get husbands for their daughters unless the girls had suffered the severe pains of foot-binding. And even to this day we find that many of the people are still under the influence of Fox Sprite's magic, and believe that a tiny, misshapen foot is more beautiful than a natural one. But let us return to the story of Fox Sprite and the wicked Emperor. For a number of years matters grew continually worse in the country. At last the people rose in a body against the ruler. A great battle was fought. The wicked Chow-sin was overthrown and put to death by means of those very instruments of torture he had used so often against his subjects. By this time it had become known to all the lords and noblemen that the Emperor's favourite had been the main cause of their ruler's wickedness; hence they demanded the death of Fox Sprite. But no one wished to kill so lovely a creature. Every one appointed refused to do the deed. Finally, a grey-headed member of the court allowed himself to be blindfolded. With a sharp sword he pierced the body of Fox Sprite to the heart. Those standing near covered their eyes with their hands, for they could not bear to see so wonderful a woman die. Suddenly, as they looked up, they saw a sight so strange that all were filled with amazement. Instead of falling to the ground, the graceful form swayed backward and forward for a moment, when all at once there seemed to spring from her side a huge mountain fox. The animal glanced around him, then, with a cry of fear, dashing past officials, courtiers and soldiers, he rushed through the gate of the enclosure. "A fox!" cried the people, full of wonder. At that moment Ta-ki fell in a swoon upon the floor. When they picked her up, thinking, of course, that she had died from the sword thrust, they could find no blood on her body, and, on looking more closely, they saw that there was not even the slightest wound. "Marvel of marvels!" they all shouted. "The gods have shielded her!" Just then Ta-ki opened her eyes and looked about her. "Where am I?" she asked, in faint voice. "Pray tell me what has happened." Then they told her what they had seen, and at last it was plain to the beautiful woman that, after all these years, Fox Sprite had left her body. She was herself once more. For a long time she could not make the people believe her story; they all said that she must have lost her mind; that the gods had saved her life, but had punished her for her wickedness by taking away her reason. But that night, when her maids were undressing her in the palace, they saw her feet, which had once more become their natural size, and then they knew she had been telling the truth. How Ta-ki became the wife of a good nobleman who had long admired her great beauty is much too long a story to be told here. Of one thing, however, we are certain, that she lived long and was happy ever afterwards. THE TALKING FISH [Illustration] Long, long before your great-grandfather was born there lived in the village of Everlasting Happiness two men called Li and Sing. Now, these two men were close friends, living together in the same house. Before settling down in the village of Everlasting Happiness they had ruled as high officials for more than twenty years. They had often treated the people very harshly, so that everybody, old and young, disliked and hated them. And yet, by robbing the wealthy merchants and by cheating the poor, these two evil companions had become rich, and it was in order to spend their ill-gotten gains in idle amusements that they sought out the village of Everlasting Happiness. "For here," said they, "we can surely find that joy which has been denied us in every other place. Here we shall no longer be scorned by men and reviled by women." Consequently these two men bought for themselves the finest house in the village, furnished it in the most elegant manner, and decorated the walls with scrolls filled with wise sayings and pictures by famous artists. Outside there were lovely gardens filled with flowers and birds, and oh, ever so many trees with queer twisted branches growing in the shape of tigers and other wild animals. Whenever they felt lonely Li and Sing invited rich people of the neighbourhood to come and dine with them, and after they had eaten, sometimes they would go out upon the little lake in the centre of their estate, rowing in an awkward flat-bottomed boat that had been built by the village carpenter. One day, on such an occasion, when the sun had been beating down fiercely upon the clean-shaven heads of all those on the little barge, for you must know this was long before the day when hats were worn--at least, in the village of Everlasting Happiness--Mr. Li was suddenly seized with a giddy feeling, which rapidly grew worse and worse until he was in a burning fever. "Snake's blood mixed with powdered deer-horn is the thing for him," said the wise-looking doctor who was called in, peering at Li carefully through his huge glasses, "Be sure," he continued, addressing Li's personal attendant, and, at the same time, snapping his long finger-nails nervously, "be sure, above all, not to leave him alone, for he is in danger of going raving mad at any moment, and I cannot say what he may do if he is not looked after carefully. A man in his condition has no more sense than a baby." Now, although these words of the doctor's really made Mr. Li angry, he was too ill to reply, for all this time his head had been growing hotter and hotter, until at last a feverish sleep overtook him. No sooner had he closed his eyes than his faithful servant, half-famished, rushed out of the room to join his fellows at their mid-day meal. Li awoke with a start. He had slept only ten minutes. "Water, water," he moaned, "bathe my head with cold water. I am half dead with pain!" But there was no reply, for the attendant was dining happily with his fellows. "Air, air," groaned Mr. Li, tugging at the collar of his silk shirt. "I'm dying for water. I'm starving for air. This blazing heat will kill me. It is hotter than the Fire god himself ever dreamed of making it. Wang, Wang!" clapping his hands feebly and calling to his servant, "air and water, air and water!" But still no Wang. At last, with the strength that is said to come from despair, Mr. Li arose from his couch and staggered toward the doorway. Out he went into the paved courtyard, and then, after only a moment's hesitation, made his way across it into a narrow passage that led into the lake garden. "What do they care for a man when he is sick?" he muttered. "My good friend Sing is doubtless even now enjoying his afternoon nap, with a servant standing by to fan him, and a block of ice near his head to cool the air. What does he care if I die of a raging fever? Doubtless he expects to inherit all my money. And my servants! That rascal Wang has been with me these ten years, living on me and growing lazier every season! What does he care if I pass away? Doubtless he is certain that Sing's servants will think of something for him to do, and he will have even less work than he has now. Water, water! I shall die if I don't soon find a place to soak myself!" So saying, he arrived at the bank of a little brook that flowed in through a water gate at one side of the garden and emptied itself into the big fish-pond. Flinging himself down by a little stream Li bathed his hands and wrists in the cool water. How delightful! If only it were deep enough to cover his whole body, how gladly would he cast himself in and enjoy the bliss of its refreshing embrace! For a long time he lay on the ground, rejoicing at his escape from the doctor's clutches. Then, as the fever began to rise again, he sprang up with a determined cry, "What am I waiting for? I will do it. There's no one to prevent me, and it will do me a world of good. I will cast myself head first into the fish-pond. It is not deep enough near the shore to drown me if I should be too weak to swim, and I am sure it will restore me to strength and health." He hastened along the little stream, almost running in his eagerness to reach the deeper water of the pond. He was like some small Tom Brown who had escaped from the watchful eye of the master and run out to play in a forbidden spot. Hark! Was that a servant calling? Had Wang discovered the absence of his employer? Would he sound the alarm, and would the whole place soon be alive with men searching for the fever-stricken patient? With one last sigh of satisfaction Li flung himself, clothes and all, into the quiet waters of the fish-pond. Now Li had been brought up in Fukien province on the seashore, and was a skilful swimmer. He dived and splashed to his heart's content, then floated on the surface. "It takes me back to my boyhood," he cried, "why, oh why, is it not the fashion to swim? I'd love to live in the water all the time and yet some of my countrymen are even more afraid than a cat of getting their feet wet. As for me, I'd give anything to stay here for ever." "You would, eh?" chuckled a hoarse voice just under him, and then there was a sort of wheezing sound, followed by a loud burst of laughter. Mr. Li jumped as if an arrow had struck him, but when he noticed the fat, ugly monster below, his fear turned into anger. "Look here, what do you mean by giving a fellow such a start! Don't you know what the Classics say about such rudeness?" The giant fish laughed all the louder. "What time do you suppose I have for Classics? You make me laugh till I cry!" "But you must answer my question," cried Mr. Li, more and more persistently, forgetting for the moment that he was not trying some poor culprit for a petty crime. "Why did you laugh? Speak out at once, fellow!" "Well, since you are such a saucy piece," roared the other, "I will tell you. It was because you awkward creatures, who call yourselves men, the most highly civilized beings in the world, always think you understand a thing fully when you have only just found out how to do it." "You are talking about the island dwarfs, the Japanese," interrupted Mr. Li, "We Chinese seldom undertake to do anything new." "Just hear the man!" chuckled the fish. "Now, fancy your wishing to stay in the water for ever! What do you know about water? Why you're not even provided with the proper equipment for swimming. What would you do if you really lived here always?" "What am I doing now?" spluttered Mr. Li, so angry that he sucked in a mouthful of water before he knew it. "Floundering," retorted the other. "Don't you see me swimming? Are those big eyes of yours made of glass?" "Yes, I see you all right," guffawed the fish, "that's just it! I see you too well. Why you tumble about as awkwardly as a water buffalo wallowing in a mud puddle!" Now, as Mr. Li had always considered himself an expert in water sports, he was, by this time, speechless with rage, and all he could do was to paddle feebly round and round with strokes just strong enough to keep himself from sinking. "Then, too," continued the fish, more and more calm as the other lost his temper, "you have a very poor arrangement for breathing. If I am not mistaken, at the bottom of this pond you would find yourself worse off than I should be at the top of a palm tree. What would you do to keep yourself from starving? Do you think it would be convenient if you had to flop yourself out on to the land every time you wanted a bite to eat? And yet, being a man, I doubt seriously if you would be content to take the proper food for fishes. You have hardly a single feature that would make you contented if you were to join an under-water school. Look at your clothes, too, water-soaked and heavy. Do you think them suitable to protect you from cold and sickness? Nature forgot to give you any scales. Now I'm going to tell you a joke, so you must be sure to laugh. Fishes are like grocery shops--always judged by their scales. As you haven't a sign of a scale, how will people judge you? See the point, eh? Nature gave you a skin, but forgot the outer covering, except, perhaps at the ends of your fingers and your toes You surely see by this time why I consider your idea ridiculous?" Sure enough, in spite of his recent severe attack of fever, Mr. Li had really cooled completely off. He had never understood before what great disadvantages there were connected with being a man. Why not make use of this chance acquaintance, find out from him how to get rid of that miserable possession he had called his manhood, and gain the delights that only a fish can have? "Then, are you indeed contented with your lot?" he asked finally. "Are there not moments when you would prefer to be a man?" "I, a man!" thundered the other, lashing the water with his tail. "How dare you suggest such a disgraceful change! Can it be that you do not know my rank? Why, my fellow, you behold in me a favourite nephew of the king!" "Then, may it please your lordship," said Mr. Li, softly, "I should be exceedingly grateful if you would speak a kind word for me to your master. Do you think it possible that he could change me in some manner into a fish and accept me as a subject?" "Of course!" replied the other, "all things are possible to the king. Know you not that my sovereign is a loyal descendant of the great water dragon, and, as such, can never die, but lives on and on and on, for ever and ever and ever, like the ruling house of Japan?" "Oh, oh!" gasped Mr. Li, "even the Son of Heaven, our most worshipful emperor, cannot boast of such long years. Yes, I would give my fortune to be a follower of your imperial master." "Then follow me," laughed the other, starting off at a rate that made the water hiss and boil for ten feet around him. Mr. Li struggled vainly to keep up. If he had thought himself a good swimmer, he now saw his mistake and every bit of remaining pride was torn to tatters. "Please wait a moment," he cried out politely, "I beg of you to remember that I am only a man!" "Pardon me," replied the other, "it was stupid of me to forget, especially as I had just been talking about it." Soon they reached a sheltered inlet at the farther side of the pond. There Mr. Li saw a gigantic carp idly floating about in a shallow pool, and then lazily flirting his huge tail or fluttering his fins proudly from side to side. Attendant courtiers darted hither and thither, ready to do the master's slightest bidding. One of them, splendidly attired in royal scarlet, announced, with a downward flip of the head, the approach of the King's nephew who was leading Mr. Li to an audience with his Majesty. "Whom have you here, my lad?" began the ruler, as his nephew, hesitating for words to explain his strange request, moved his fins nervously backwards and forwards. "Strange company, it seems to me, you are keeping these days." "Only a poor man, most royal sir," replied the other, "who beseeches your Highness to grant him your gracious favour." "When man asks favour of a fish, 'Tis hard to penetrate his wish-- He often seeks a lordly dish To serve upon his table," repeated the king, smiling. "And yet, nephew, you think this fellow is really peaceably inclined and is not coming among us as a spy?" Before his friend could answer, Mr. Li had cast himself upon his knees in the shallow water, before the noble carp, and bowed thrice, until his face was daubed with mud from the bottom of the pool. "Indeed, your Majesty, I am only a poor mortal who seeks your kindly grace. If you would but consent to receive me into your school of fishes. I would for ever be your ardent admirer and your lowly slave." "In sooth, the fellow talks as if in earnest," remarked the king, after a moment's reflection, "and though the request is, perhaps, the strangest to which I have ever listened, I really see no reason why I should not turn a fishly ear. But, have the goodness first to cease your bowing. You are stirring up enough mud to plaster the royal palace of a shark." Poor Li, blushing at the monarch's reproof, waited patiently for the answer to his request. "Very well, so be it," cried the king impulsively, "your wish is granted. Sir Trout," turning to one of his courtiers, "bring hither a fish-skin of proper size for this ambitious fellow." No sooner said than done. The fish-skin was slipped over Mr. Li's head, and his whole body was soon tucked snugly away in the scaly coat. Only his arms remained uncovered. In the twinkling of an eye Li felt sharp pains shoot through every part of his body. His arms began to shrivel up and his hands changed little by little until they made an excellent pair of fins, just as good as those of the king himself. As for his legs and feet, they suddenly began to stick together until, wriggle as he would, Li could not separate them. "Ah, ha!" thought he, "my kicking days are over, for my toes are now turned into a first-class tail." "Not so fast," laughed the king, as Li, after thanking the royal personage profusely, started out to try his new fins; "not so fast, my friend. Before you depart, perhaps I'd better give you a little friendly advice, else your new powers are likely to land you on the hook of some lucky fisherman, and you will find yourself served up as a prize of the pond." "I will gladly listen to your lordly counsel, for the words of the Most High to his lowly slave are like pearls before sea slugs. However, as I was once a man myself I think I understand the simple tricks they use to catch us fish, and I am therefore in position to avoid trouble." "Don't be so sure about it. 'A hungry carp often falls into danger,' as one of our sages so wisely remarked. There are two cautions I would impress upon you. One is, never, never, eat a dangling worm; no matter how tempting it looks there are sure to be horrible hooks inside. Secondly, always swim like lightning if you see a net, but in the opposite direction. Now, I will have you served your first meal out of the royal pantry, but after that, you must hunt for yourself, like every other self-respecting citizen of the watery world." After Li had been fed with several slugs, followed by a juicy worm for dessert, and after again thanking the king and the king's nephew for their kindness, he started forth to test his tail and fins. It was no easy matter, at first, to move them properly. A single flirt of the tail, no more vigorous than those he had been used to giving with his legs, would send him whirling round and round in the water, for all the world like a living top; and when he wriggled his fins, ever so slightly, as he thought, he found himself sprawling on his back in a most ridiculous fashion for a dignified member of fishkind. It took several hours of constant practice to get the proper stroke, and then he found he could move about without being conscious of any effort. It was the easiest thing he had ever done in his life; and oh! the water was so cool and delightful! "Would that I might enjoy that endless life the poets write of!" he murmured blissfully. Many hours passed by until at last Li was compelled to admit that, although he was not tired, he was certainly hungry. How to get something to eat? Oh! why had he not asked the friendly nephew a few simple questions? How easily his lordship might have told him the way to get a good breakfast! But alas! without such advice, it would be a whale's task to accomplish it. Hither and thither he swam, into the deep still water, and along the muddy shore; down, down to the pebbly bottom--always looking, looking for a tempting worm. He dived into the weeds and rushes, poked his nose among the lily pads. All for nothing! No fly or worm of any kind to gladden his eager eyes! Another hour passed slowly away, and all the time his hunger was growing greater and greater. Would the fish god, the mighty dragon, not grant him even one little morsel to satisfy his aching stomach, especially since, now that he was a fish, he had no way of tightening up his belt, as hungry soldiers do when they are on a forced march? Just as Li was beginning to think he could not wriggle his tail an instant longer, and that soon, very soon, he would feel himself slipping, slipping, slipping down to the bottom of the pond to die--at that very moment, chancing to look up, he saw, oh joy! a delicious red worm dangling a few inches above his nose. The sight gave new strength to his weary fins and tail. Another minute, and he would have had the delicate morsel in his mouth, when alas! he chanced to recall the advice given him the day before by great King Carp. "No matter how tempting it looks, there are sure to be horrible hooks inside." For an instant Li hesitated. The worm floated a trifle nearer to his half-open mouth. How tempting! After all, what was a hook to a fish when he was dying? Why be a coward? Perhaps this worm was an exception to the rule, or perhaps, perhaps any thing--really a fish in such a plight as Mr. Li could not be expected to follow advice--even the advice of a real KING. Pop! He had it in his mouth. Oh, soft morsel, worthy of a king's desire! Now he could laugh at words of wisdom, and eat whatever came before his eye. But ugh! What was that strange feeling that--Ouch! it was the fatal hook! With one frantic jerk, and a hundred twists and turns, poor Li sought to pull away from the cruel barb that stuck so fast in the roof of his mouth. It was now too late to wish he had kept away from temptation. Better far to have starved at the bottom of the cool pond than to be jerked out by some miserable fisherman to the light and sunshine of the busy world. Nearer and nearer he approached the surface. The more he struggled the sharper grew the cruel barb. Then, with one final splash, he found himself dangling in mid-air, swinging helplessly at the end of a long line. With a chunk he fell into a flat-bottomed boat, directly on top of several smaller fish. "Ah, a carp!" shouted a well-known voice gleefully; "the biggest fish I've caught these three moons. What good luck!" It was the voice of old Chang, the fisherman, who had been supplying Mr. Li's table ever since that official's arrival in the village of Everlasting Happiness. Only a word of explanation, and he, Li, would be free once more to swim about where he willed. And then there should be no more barbs for him. An escaped fish fears the hook. "I say, Chang," he began, gasping for breath, "really now, you must chuck me overboard at once, for, don't you see, I am Mr. Li, your old master. Come, hurry up about it. I'll excuse you this time for your mistake, for, of course, you had no way of knowing. Quick!" But Chang, with a savage jerk, pulled the hook from Li's mouth, and looked idly towards the pile of glistening fish, gloating over his catch, and wondering how much money he could demand for it. He had heard nothing of Mr. Li's remarks, for Chang had been deaf since childhood. "Quick, quick, I am dying for air," moaned poor Li, and then, with a groan, he remembered the fisherman's affliction. By this time they had arrived at the shore, and Li, in company with his fellow victims, found himself suddenly thrown into a wicker basket. Oh, the horrors of that journey on land! Only a tiny bit of water remained in the closely-woven thing. It was all he could do to breathe. Joy of joys! At the door of his own house he saw his good friend Sing just coming out. "Hey, Sing," he shouted, at the top of his voice, "help, help! This son of a turtle wants to murder me. He has me in here with these fish, and doesn't seem to know that I am Li, his master. Kindly order him to take me to the lake and throw me in, for it's cool there and I like the water life much better than that on land." Li paused to hear Sing's reply, but there came not a single word. "I beg your honour to have a look at my catch," said old Chang to Sing. "Here is the finest fish of the season. I have brought him here so that you and my honoured master, Mr. Li, may have a treat. Carp is his favourite delicacy." "Very kind of you, my good Chang, I'm sure, but I fear poor Mr. Li will not eat fish for some time. He has a bad attack of fever." "There's where you're wrong," shouted Li, from his basket, flopping about with all his might, to attract attention, "I'm going to die of a chill. Can't you recognise your old friend? Help me out of this trouble and you may have all my money for your pains." "Hey, what's that!" questioned Sing, attracted, as usual, by the word money. "Shades of Confucius! It sounds as if the carp were talking." "What, a talking fish," laughed Chang. "Why, master, I've lived nigh on to sixty year, and such a fish has never come under my sight. There are talking birds and talking beasts for that matter; but talking fish, who ever heard of such a wonder? No, I think your ears must have deceived you, but this carp will surely cause talk when I get him into the kitchen. I'm sure the cook has never seen his like. Oh, master! I hope you will be hungry when you sit down to this fish. What a pity Mr. Li couldn't help you to devour it!" "Help to devour myself, eh?" grumbled poor Li, now almost dead for lack of water. "You must take me for a cannibal, or some other sort of savage." Old Chang had now gone round the house to the servants' quarters, and, after calling out the cook, held up poor Li by the tail for the chef to inspect. With a mighty jerk Li tore himself away and fell at the feet of his faithful cook. "Save me, save me!" he cried out in despair; "this miserable Chang is deaf and doesn't know that I am Mr. Li, his master. My fish voice is not strong enough for his hearing. Only take me back to the pond and set me free. You shall have a pension for life, wear good clothes and eat good food, all the rest of your days. Only hear me and obey! Listen, my dear cook, listen!" "The thing seems to be talking," muttered the cook, "but such wonders cannot be. Only ignorant old women or foreigners would believe that a fish could talk." And seizing his former master by the tail, he swung him on to a table, picked up a knife, and began to whet it on a stone. "Oh, oh!" screamed Li, "you will stick a knife into me! You will scrape off my beautiful shiny scales! You will whack off my lovely new fins! You will murder your old master!" "Well, you won't talk much longer," growled the cook, "I'll show you a trick or two with the blade." So saying, with a gigantic thrust, he plunged the knife deep into the body of the trembling victim. With a shrill cry of horror and despair, Mr. Li awoke from the deep sleep into which he had fallen. His fever was gone, but he found himself trembling with fear at thought of the terrible death that had come to him in dreamland. "Thanks be to Buddha, I am not a fish!" he cried out joyfully; "and now I shall be well enough to enjoy the feast to which Mr. Sing has bidden guests for to-morrow. But alas, now that I can eat the old fisherman's prize carp, it has changed back into myself. "If only the good of our dreams came true, I shouldn't mind dreaming the whole day through." BAMBOO AND THE TURTLE [Illustration] A party of visitors had been seeing the sights at Hsi Ling. They had just passed down the Holy Way between the huge stone animals when Bamboo, a little boy of twelve, son of a keeper, rushed out from his father's house to see the mandarins go by. Such a parade of great men he had never seen before, even on the feast days. There were ten sedan chairs, with bearers dressed in flaming colours, ten long-handled, red umbrellas, each carried far in front of its proud owner, and a long line of horsemen. When this gay procession had filed past, Bamboo was almost ready to cry because he could not run after the sightseers as they went from temple to temple and from tomb to tomb. But, alas! his father had ordered him never to follow tourists. "If you do, they will take you for a beggar, Bamboo," he had said shrewdly, "and if you're a beggar, then your daddy's one too. Now they don't want any beggars around the royal tombs." So Bamboo had never known the pleasure of pursuing the rich. Many times he had turned back to the little mud house, almost broken-hearted at seeing his playmates running, full of glee, after the great men's chairs. On the day when this story opens, just as the last horseman had passed out of sight among the cedars, Bamboo chanced to look up toward one of the smaller temple buildings of which his father was the keeper. It was the house through which the visitors had just been shown. Could his eyes be deceiving him? No, the great iron doors had been forgotten in the hurry of the moment, and there they stood wide open, as if inviting him to enter. In great excitement he scurried toward the temple. How often he had pressed his head against the bars and looked into the dark room, wishing and hoping that some day he might go in. And yet, not once had he been granted this favour. Almost every day since babyhood he had gazed at the high stone shaft, or tablet, covered with Chinese writing, that stood in the centre of the lofty room, reaching almost to the roof. But with still greater surprise his eyes had feasted on the giant turtle underneath, on whose back the column rested. There are many such tablets to be seen in China, many such turtles patiently bearing their loads of stone, but this was the only sight of the kind that Bamboo had seen. He had never been outside the Hsi Ling forest, and, of course, knew very little of the great world beyond. It is no wonder then that the turtle and the tablet had always astonished him. He had asked his father to explain the mystery. "Why do they have a turtle? Why not a lion or an elephant?" For he had seen stone figures of these animals in the park and had thought them much better able than his friend, the turtle, to carry loads on their backs. "Why it's just the custom," his father had replied--the answer always given when Bamboo asked a question, "just the custom." The boy had tried to imagine it all for himself, but had never been quite sure that he was right, and now, joy of all joys, he was about to enter the very turtle-room itself. Surely, once inside, he could find some answer to this puzzle of his childhood. Breathless, he dashed through the doorway, fearing every minute that some one would notice the open gates and close them before he could enter. Just in front of the giant turtle he fell in a little heap on the floor, which was covered inch-deep with dust. His face was streaked, his clothes were a sight to behold; but Bamboo cared nothing for such trifles. He lay there for a few moments, not daring to move. Then, hearing a noise outside, he crawled under the ugly stone beast and crouched in his narrow hiding-place, as still as a mouse. "There, there!" said a deep voice. "See what you are doing, stirring up such a dust! Why, you will strangle me if you are not careful." It was the turtle speaking, and yet Bamboo's father had often told him that it was not alive. The boy lay trembling for a minute, too much frightened to get up and run. "No use in shaking so, my lad," the voice continued, a little more kindly. "I suppose all boys are alike--good for nothing but kicking up a dust." He finished this sentence with a hoarse chuckle, and the boy, seeing that he was laughing, looked up with wonder at the strange creature. "I meant no harm in coming," said the child finally. "I only wanted to look at you more closely." "Oh, that was it, hey? Well, that is strange. All the others come and stare at the tablet on my back. Sometimes they read aloud the nonsense written there about dead emperors and their titles, but they never so much as look at me, at _me_ whose father was one of the great four who made the world." Bamboo's eyes shone with wonder. "What! _your_ father helped make the world?" he gasped. "Well, not my father exactly, but one of my grandfathers, and it amounts to the same thing, doesn't it. But, hark! I hear a voice. The keeper is coming back. Run up and close those doors, so he won't notice that they have not been locked. Then you may hide in the corner there until he has passed. I have something more to tell you." Bamboo did as he was told. It took all his strength to swing the heavy doors into place. He felt very important to think that he was doing something for the grandson of a maker of the world, and it would have broken his heart if this visit had been ended just as it was beginning. Sure enough, his father and the other keepers passed on, never dreaming that the heavy locks were not fastened as usual. They were talking about the great men who had just gone. They seemed very happy and were jingling some coins in their hands. "Now, my boy," said the stone turtle when the sound of voices had died away and Bamboo had come out from his corner, "maybe you think I'm proud of my job. Here I've been holding up this chunk for a hundred years, I who am fond of travel. During all this time night and day, I have been trying to think of some way to give up my position. Perhaps it's honourable, but, you may well imagine, it's not very pleasant." "I should think you would have the backache," ventured Bamboo timidly. "Backache! well, I think so; back, neck, legs, eyes, everything I have is aching, aching for freedom. But, you see, even if I had kicked up my heels and overthrown this monument, I had no way of getting through those iron bars," and he nodded toward the gate. "Yes, I understand," agreed Bamboo, beginning to feel sorry for his old friend. "But, now that you are here, I have a plan, and a good one it is, too, I think. The watchmen have forgotten to lock the gate. What is to prevent my getting my freedom this very night? You open the gate, I walk out, and no one the wiser." "But my father will lose his head if they find that he has failed to do his duty and you have escaped." "Oh, no; not at all. You can slip his keys to-night, lock the gates after I am gone, and no one will know just what has happened. Why it will make this building famous. It won't hurt your father, but will do him good. So many travellers will be anxious to see the spot from which I vanished. I am too heavy for a thief to carry off, and they will be sure that it is another miracle of the gods. Oh, I shall have a good time out in the big world." Just here Bamboo began to cry. "Now what is the silly boy blubbering about?" sneered the turtle. "Is he nothing but a cry-baby?" "No, but I don't want you to go." "Don't want me to go, eh? Just like all the others. You're a fine fellow! What reason have you for wanting to see me weighed down here all the rest of my life with a mountain on my back? Why, I thought you were sorry for me, and it turns out that you are as mean as anybody else." "It is so lonely here, and I have no playmates. You are the only friend I have." The tortoise laughed loudly. "Ho, ho! so it's because I make you a good playmate, eh? Now, if that's your reason, that's another story altogether. What do you say to going with me then? I, too, need a friend, and if you help me to escape, why, you are the very friend for me." "But how shall you get the tablet off your back?" questioned Bamboo doubtfully. "It's very heavy." "That's easy, just walk out of the door. The tablet is too tall to go through. It will slide off and sit on the floor instead of on my shell." Bamboo, wild with delight at the thought of going on a journey with the turtle, promised to obey the other's commands. After supper, when all were asleep in the little house of the keeper, he slipped from his bed, took down the heavy key from its peg, and ran pell-mell to the temple. "Well, you didn't forget me, did you?" asked the turtle when Bamboo swung the iron gates open. "Oh, no, I would not break a promise. Are you ready?" "Yes, quite ready." So saying, the turtle took a step. The tablet swayed backward and forward, but did not fall. On walked the turtle until finally he stuck his ugly head through the doorway. "Oh, how good it looks outside," he said. "How pleasant the fresh air feels! Is that the moon rising over yonder? It's the first time I've seen it for an age. My word! just look at the trees! How they have grown since they set that tombstone on my back! There's a regular forest outside now." Bamboo was delighted when he saw the turtle's glee at escaping. "Be careful," he cried, "not to let the tablet fall hard enough to break it." Even as he spoke, the awkward beast waddled through the door. The upper end of the monument struck against the wall, toppled off, and fell with a great crash to the floor. Bamboo shivered with fear. Would his father come and find out what had happened? "Don't be afraid, my boy. No one will come at this hour of the night to spy on us." Bamboo quickly locked the gates, ran back to the house, and hung the key on its peg. He took a long look at his sleeping parents, and then returned to his friend. After all, he would not be gone long and his father would surely forgive him. Soon the comrades were walking down the broad road, very slowly, for the tortoise is not swift of foot and Bamboo's legs were none too long. "Where are you going?" said the boy at last, after he had begun to feel more at home with the turtle. "Going? Where should you think I would want to go after my century in prison? Why, back to the first home of my father, back to the very spot where the great god, P'anku, and his three helpers hewed out the world." "And is it far?" faltered the boy, beginning to feel just the least bit tired. "At this rate, yes, but, bless my life, you didn't think we could travel all the way at this snail's pace, I hope. Jump on my back, and I'll show you how to go. Before morning we shall be at the end of the world, or rather, the beginning." "Where is the beginning of the world?" asked Bamboo. "I have never studied geography." "We must cross China, then Thibet, and at last in the mountains just beyond we shall reach the spot which P'anku made the centre of his labour." At that moment Bamboo felt himself being lifted from the ground. At first he thought he would slip off the turtle's rounded shell, and he cried out in fright. "Never fear," said his friend. "Only sit quietly, and there will be no danger." They had now risen far into the air, and Bamboo could look down over the great forest of Hsi Ling all bathed in moonlight. There were the broad white roads leading up to the royal tombs, the beautiful temples, the buildings where oxen and sheep were prepared for sacrifice, the lofty towers, and the high tree-covered hills under which the emperors were buried. Until that night Bamboo had not known the size of this royal graveyard. Could it be that the turtle would carry him beyond the forest? Even as he asked himself this question he saw that they had reached a mountain, and the turtle was ascending higher, still higher, to cross the mighty wall of stone. Bamboo grew dizzy as the turtle rose farther into the sky. He felt as he sometimes did when he played whirling games with his little friends, and got so dizzy that he tumbled over upon the ground. However, this time he knew that he must keep his head and not fall, for it must have been almost a mile to the ground below him. At last they had passed over the mountain and were flying above a great plain. Far below Bamboo could see sleeping villages and little streams of water that looked like silver in the moonlight. Now, directly beneath them was a city. A few feeble lights could be seen in the dark narrow streets, and Bamboo thought he could hear the faint cries of peddlers crying their midnight wares. "That's the capital of Shan-shi just below us," said the turtle, breaking his long silence. "It is almost two hundred miles from here to your father's house, and we have taken less than half an hour. Beyond that is the Province of the Western Valleys. In one hour we shall be above Thibet." On they whizzed at lightning speed. If it had not been hot summer time Bamboo would have been almost frozen. As it was, his hands and feet were cold and stiff. The turtle, as if knowing how chilly he was, flew nearer to the ground where it was warmer. How pleasant for Bamboo! He was so tired that he could keep his eyes open no longer and he was soon soaring in the land of dreams. When he waked up it was morning. He was lying on the ground in a wild, rocky region. Not far away burned a great wood fire, and the turtle was watching some food that was cooking in a pot. "Ho, ho, my lad! so you have at last waked up after your long ride. You see we are a little early. No matter if the dragon does think he can fly faster, I beat him, didn't I? Why, even the phoenix laughs at me and says I am slow, but the phoenix has not come yet either. Yes, I have clearly broken the record for speed, and I had a load to carry too, which neither of the others had, I am sure." "Where are we?" questioned Bamboo. "In the land of the beginning," said the other wisely. "We flew over Thibet, and then went northwest for two hours. If you haven't studied geography you won't know the name of the country. But, here we are, and that is enough, isn't it, enough for any one? And to-day is the yearly feast-day in honour of the making of the world. It was very fortunate for me that the gates were left open yesterday. I am afraid my old friends, the dragon and the phoenix, have almost forgotten what I look like. It is so long since they saw me. Lucky beasts they are, not to be loaded down under an emperor's tablet. Hello! I hear the dragon coming now, if I am not mistaken. Yes, here he is. How glad I am to see him!" Bamboo heard a great noise like the whirr of enormous wings, and then, looking up, saw a huge dragon just in front of him. He knew it was a dragon from the pictures he had seen and the carvings in the temples. The dragon and the turtle had no sooner greeted each other, both very happy at the meeting, than they were joined by a queer-looking bird, unlike any that Bamboo had ever seen, but which he knew was the phoenix. This phoenix looked somewhat like a wild swan, but it had the bill of a cock, the neck of a snake, the tail of a fish and the stripes of a dragon. Its feathers were of five colours. When the three friends had chatted merrily for a few minutes, the turtle told them how Bamboo had helped him to escape from the temple. "A clever boy," said the dragon, patting Bamboo gently on the back. "Yes, yes, a clever boy indeed," echoed the phoenix. "Ah," sighed the turtle, "if only the good god, P'anku, were here, shouldn't we be happy! But, I fear he will never come to this meeting-place. No doubt he is off in some distant spot, cutting out another world. If I could only see him once more, I feel that I should die in peace." "Just listen!" laughed the dragon. "As if one of us could die! Why, you talk like a mere mortal." All day long the three friends chatted, feasted, and had a good time looking round at the places where they had lived so happily when P'anku had been cutting out the world. They were good to Bamboo also and showed him many wonderful things of which he had never dreamed. "You are not half so mean-looking and so fierce as they paint you on the flags," said Bamboo in a friendly voice to the dragon just as they were about to separate. The three friends laughed heartily. "Oh, no, he's a very decent sort of fellow, even if he is covered with fish-scales," joked the phoenix. Just before they bade each other good-bye, the phoenix gave Bamboo a long scarlet tail-feather for a keepsake, and the dragon gave him a large scale which turned to gold as soon as the boy took it into his hand. "Come, come, we must hurry," said the turtle. "I am afraid your father will think you are lost." So Bamboo, after having spent the happiest day of his life, mounted the turtle's back, and they rose once more above the clouds. Back they flew even faster than they had come. Bamboo had so many things to talk about that he did not once think of going to sleep, for he had really seen the dragon and the phoenix, and if he never were to see anything else in his life, he would always be happy. Suddenly the turtle stopped short in his swift flight, and Bamboo felt himself slipping. Too late he screamed for help, too late he tried to save himself. Down, down from that dizzy height he tumbled, turning, twisting, thinking of the awful death that was surely coming. Swish! he shot through the tree tops trying vainly to clutch the friendly branches. Then with a loud scream he struck the ground, and his long journey was ended. [Illustration: "AH," SIGHED THE TURTLE, "IF ONLY THE GOOD GOD, P'ANKU, WERE HERE."] "Come out from under that turtle, boy! What are you doing inside the temple in the dirt? Don't you know this is not the proper place for you?" Bamboo rubbed his eyes. Though only half awake, he knew it was his father's voice. "But didn't it kill me?" he said as his father pulled him out by the heel from under the great stone turtle. "What killed you, foolish boy? What can you be talking about? But I'll half-kill you if you don't hurry out of this and come to your supper. Really I believe you are getting too lazy to eat. The idea of sleeping the whole afternoon under that turtle's belly!" Bamboo, not yet fully awake, stumbled out of the tablet room, and his father locked the iron doors. THE MAD GOOSE AND THE TIGER FOREST [Illustration] Hu-lin was a little slave girl. She had been sold by her father when she was scarcely more than a baby, and had lived for five years with a number of other children in a wretched houseboat. Her cruel master treated her very badly. He made her go out upon the street, with the other girls he had bought, to beg for a living. This kind of life was especially hard for Hu-lin. She longed to play in the fields, above which the huge kites were sailing in the air like giant birds. She liked to see the crows and magpies flying hither and thither. It was great fun to watch them build their stick nests in the tall poplars. But if her master ever caught her idling her time away in this manner he beat her most cruelly and gave her nothing to eat for a whole day. In fact he was so wicked and cruel that all the children called him Black Heart. Early one morning when Hu-lin was feeling very sad about the way she was treated, she resolved to run away, but, alas! she had not gone more than a hundred yards from the houseboat when she saw Black Heart following her. He caught her, scolded her most dreadfully, and gave her such a beating that she felt too faint to stir. For several hours she lay on the ground without moving a muscle, moaning as if her heart would break. "Ah! if only someone would save me!" she thought, "how good I would be all the rest of my days!" Now, not far from the river there lived an old man in a tumble-down shanty. The only companion he had was a goose that watched the gate for him at night and screamed out loudly if any stranger dared to prowl about the place. Hu-lin and this goose were close friends, and the slave girl often stopped to chat with the wise fowl as she was passing the old man's cottage. In this way she had learned that the bird's owner was a miser who kept a great deal of money hidden in his yard. Ch'ang, the goose, had an unusually long neck, and was thus able to pry into most of his master's affairs. As the fowl had no member of his own family to talk with, he told all he knew to Hu-lin. On the very morning when Black Heart gave Hu-lin a beating for trying to run away, Ch'ang made a startling discovery. His lord and master was not really an old miser, but a young man in disguise. Ch'ang, feeling hungry, had slipped into the house at daybreak to see if any scraps had been left from the last evening's meal. The bedroom door had blown open in the night, and there lay a young man sound asleep, instead of the greybeard whom the gander called his master. Then, before his very eyes, the youth changed suddenly into his former shape and was an old man again. In his excitement, forgetting all about his empty stomach, the terror-stricken goose rushed out into the yard to think over the mystery, but the longer he puzzled, the more strange it all seemed. Then he thought of Hu-lin, and wished that she would come by, that he might ask her opinion. He had a high regard for the slave girl's knowledge and believed that she would understand fully what had taken place. Ch'ang went to the gate. As usual, it was locked, and there was nothing for him to do but wait for his master to rise. Two hours later the miser walked out into the yard. He seemed in good spirits, and he gave Ch'ang more to eat than usual. After taking his morning smoke on the street in front of the house, he strolled around it leaving the front gate ajar. This was precisely what the gander had been expecting. Slipping quietly into the road, he turned towards the river where he could see the houseboats lined up at the wharf. On the sand near by lay a well-known form. "Hu-lin," he called as he drew near, "wake up, for I have something to tell you." "I am not asleep," she answered, turning her tear-stained face towards her friend. "Why, what's the matter? You've been crying again. Has old Black Heart been beating you?" "Hush! he's taking a nap in the boat. Don't let him hear you." "It's not likely he would understand goose-talk if he did," replied Ch'ang, smiling. "However, I suppose it's always best to be on the safe side, so I'll whisper what I have to say." Putting his bill close to her ear, he told Hu-lin of his recent discovery, and ended by asking her to tell him what it all meant. The child forgot her own misery at hearing his wonderful story. "Are you quite sure there was not some friend of the miser's spending the night with him?" she asked gravely. "Yes, yes, perfectly sure, for he has no friends," replied the gander. "Besides, I was in the house just before he locked up for the night, and I saw neither hair nor hide of any other person." "Then he must be a fairy in disguise!" announced Hu-lin wisely. "A fairy! what's that?" questioned Ch'ang, more and more excited. "Why, you old goose, don't you know what a fairy is?" And Hu-lin laughed outright. By this time she had forgotten her own troubles and was becoming more and more amused at what she had heard. "Hark!" she said in a low tone, and speaking very slowly, "a fairy is----" Here she lowered her voice to a whisper. The gander nodded violently as she went on with her explanation, and when she had finished, was speechless with amazement, for a few moments. "Well," he said finally, "if my master is that kind of man, suppose you slip away quietly and come with me, for, if a fairy is what you say he is, he can save you from all your troubles and make me happy for the rest of my days." [Illustration: "PUTTING HIS BILL TO HER EAR, HE TOLD HU-LIN OF HIS RECENT DISCOVERY."] "I wonder if I dare?" she answered, looking round fearfully towards the houseboat, from the open scuttle of which came the sound of deep snoring. "Yes, yes, of course!" coaxed Ch'ang. "He gave you such a beating that he won't be afraid of your taking to your heels again very soon." Hurriedly they went to the miser's compound. Hu-lin's heart was beating fast as she tried to decide what to say when she should actually stand before the fairy. The gate was still partly open and the two friends entered boldly. "Come this way," said Ch'ang. "He must be in the back-yard digging in his garden." But when they reached the vegetable patch there was no one to be seen. "This is very strange," whispered the gander. "I don't understand it, for I have never known him to grow tired of work so early. Surely he cannot have gone in to rest." Led by her friend, Hu-lin entered the house on tiptoe. The door of the miser's bedroom stood wide open, and they saw that there was no one either in that room or any other room of the miserable cottage. "Come! let's see what kind of bed he sleeps on," said Hu-lin, filled with curiosity. "I have never been in a fairy's room. It must be different from other people's rooms." "No, no! just a plain brick bed, like all the rest," answered Ch'ang, as they crossed the threshold. "Does he have a fire in cold weather?" asked Hu-lin, stooping to examine the small fire hole in the bricks. "Oh, yes, a hot fire every night, and even in spring when other people have stopped having fires, the brick bed is hot every night." "Well, that's rather strange for a miser, don't you think?" said the girl. "It costs more to keep a fire going than it does to feed a man." "Yes, that's true," agreed Ch'ang, pruning his feathers. "I hadn't thought of that. It is strange, very. Hu-lin, you're a wise child. Where did you learn so much?" At that moment the gander turned pale at hearing the gate slam loudly and the bar thrown into place. "Good gracious! what ever shall we do?" asked Hu-lin. "What will he say if he finds us here?" "No telling," said the other, trembling, "but, my dear little friend, we are certainly caught, for we can't get away without his seeing us." "Yes, and I've already had one beating to-day! And such a hard one that I don't believe I could live through another," sighed the child, as the tears began to flow. "There, there, little girl, don't worry! Let's hide in this dark corner behind the baskets," suggested the gander, just as the master's step was heard at the front door. Soon the frightened companions were crouching on the ground, trying to hide. Much to their relief, however, the miser did not go into his bedroom, and they soon heard him hard at work in the garden. All that day the two remained in their hiding place, afraid to show themselves outside the door. "I can't imagine what he would say if he found out that his watch-goose had brought a stranger into the house," said Ch'ang. "Perhaps he would think we were trying to steal some of the money he has hidden away," she answered, laughing, for as Hu-lin became used to her cramped quarters she grew less frightened. At any rate she was not nearly so much afraid of the miser as she had thought she was. "Besides," she reflected, "he can't be so bad as old Black Heart." Thus the day wore on and darkness fell over the land. By this time girl and goose were fast asleep in one corner of the miser's room and knew nothing more of what was happening. When the first light of a new day filtered through the paper-covered window above the miser's bed, Hu-lin awoke with a start, and at first she could not think where she was. Ch'ang was staring at her with wide-open frightened eyes that seemed to be asking, "What can it all mean? It is more than my goose brain can think out." For on the bed, instead of the miser, there lay a young man whose hair was a black as a raven's wing. A faint smile lightened up his handsome face, as if he was enjoying some delightful dream. A cry of wonder escaped Hu-lin's lips before she could hold it back. The sleeper's eyes opened instantly and were fixed upon her. The girl was so frightened that she could not move, and the gander trembled violently as he saw the change that had come over his master. The young man was even more surprised than his guests, and for two minutes he was speechless. "What does this mean?" he asked, finally, looking at Ch'ang. "What are you doing in my bedroom and who is this child who seems so frightened?" "Forgive me, kind sir, but what have you done to my master?" asked the gander, giving question for question. "Am I not your master, you mad creature?" said the man, laughing. "You are more stupid than ever this morning." "My master was old and ugly, but you are still young and handsome," replied Ch'ang in a tone of flattery. "What," shouted the other, "you say I am still young?" "Why, yes. Ask Hu-lin, if you don't believe me." The man turned towards the little girl. "Yes, indeed you are, sir," she replied in answer to his look. "Never have I seen a man so beautiful." "At last! at last!" he cried, laughing joyfully, "I am free, free, free from all my troubles, but how it has come about is more than I can say!" For a few minutes he stood in a deep study, snapping his long fingers as if trying to solve some hard problem. At last a smile lighted up his face. "Ch'ang," he asked, "what was it you called your guest when you spoke of her a minute ago?" "I am Hu-lin," said the child simply, "Hu-lin, the slave girl." He clapped his hands. "That's right! That's right!" he cried. "I see it all now; it is as plain as day." Then, noticing the look of wonder on her face, "It is to you that I owe my freedom from a wicked fairy, and if you like, I'll tell you the story of my misfortune." "Pray do, kind sir," she replied eagerly. "I told Ch'ang that you were a fairy, and I should like to know if I was right." "Well, you see," he began, "my father is a rich man who lives in a distant county. When I was a boy he gave me everything I wished. I was so humoured and petted from earliest childhood that at last I began to think there was nothing at all in the world I could not have for the asking, and nothing that I must not do if I wished to. "My teacher often scolded me for having such notions. He told me there was a proverb: 'Men die for gain, birds perish to get food.' He thought such men were very foolish. He told me that money would go a long way towards making a man happy, but he always ended by saying that the gods were more powerful than men. He said I must always be careful not to make the evil spirits angry. Sometimes I laughed in his face, telling him that I was rich and could buy the favour of gods and fairies. The good man would shake his head, saying, 'Take care, my boy, or you will be sorry for these rash speeches.'" "One day, after he had been giving me a long lecture of this sort, we were walking in the garden of my father's compound. I was even more daring than usual and told him that I cared nothing for the rules other people followed. 'You say,' said I, 'that this well here in my father's yard is ruled by a spirit, and that if I were to anger him by jumping over it, he would be vexed and give me trouble.' 'Yes,' said he, 'that is exactly what I said, and I repeat it. Beware, young man, beware of idle boasting and of breaking the law.' 'What do I care for a spirit that lives on my father's land?' I answered with a sneer. 'I don't believe there is a spirit in this well. If there is, it is only another of my father's slaves.' "So saying, and before my tutor could stop me, I leaped across the mouth of the well. No sooner had I touched the ground than I felt a strange shrinking of my body. My strength left me in the twinkling of an eye, my bones shortened, my skin grew yellow and wrinkled. I looked at my pigtail and found that the hair had suddenly grown thin and white. In every way I had been changed completely into an old man. "My teacher stared at me in amazement, and when I asked him what it all meant my voice was as shrill as that of early childhood. 'Alas! my dear pupil,' he replied, 'now you will believe what I told you. The spirit of the well is angry at your wicked conduct and has punished you. You have been told a hundred times that it is wrong to leap over a well; yet you did this very thing,' 'But is there nothing that can be done,' I cried; 'is there no way of restoring my lost youth?' He looked at me sadly and shook his head. "When my father learned of my sad condition he was terribly upset. He did everything that could be done to find some way for me to regain my youth. He had incense burned at a dozen temples and he himself offered up prayers to various gods. I was his only son, and he could not be happy without me. At last, when everything else had been done, my worthy teacher thought of asking a fortune-teller who had become famous in the city. After inquiring about everything that had led up to my sad plight, the wise man said that the spirit of the well, as a punishment, had changed me into a miser. He said that only when I was sleeping would I be in my natural state, and even then if any one chanced to enter my room or catch a glimpse of my face, I would be at once changed back into a greybeard." "I saw you yesterday morning," shouted the gander. "You were young and handsome, and then before my very eyes you were changed back into an old man!" "To continue my story," said the young man, "the fortune-teller at last announced that there was only one chance for my recovery and that a very small one. If at any time, while I was in my rightful shape, that is, as you see me now, a mad goose should come in, leading a tiger-forest out of slavery, the charm would be broken, and the evil spirit would no longer have control over me. When the fortune-teller's answer was brought to my father, he gave up hope, and so did I, for no one understood the meaning of such a senseless riddle. "That night I left my native city, resolved not to disgrace my people any longer by living with them. I came to this place, bought this house with some money my father had given me, and at once began living the life of a miser. Nothing satisfied my greed for money. Everything must be turned into cash. For five years I have been storing away money, and, at the same time, starving myself, body and soul. "Soon after my arrival here, remembering the fortune-teller's riddle, I decided that I would keep a goose to serve as night watch-man instead of a dog. In this way I made a start at working out the riddle." "But I am not a mad goose," hissed the gander angrily. "If it had not been for me you would still be a wrinkled miser." "Quite right, dear Ch'ang, quite right," said the young man soothingly; "you were not mad; so I gave you the name _Ch'ang_, which means mad, and thus made a mad goose of you." "Oh, I see," said Hu-lin and Ch'ang together. "How clever!" "So, you see, I had part of my cure here in my back-yard all the time; but though I thought as hard as I could, I could think of no way of securing that Ch'ang should lead a tiger-forest into my room while I was sleeping. The thing seemed absurd, and I soon gave up trying to study it out. To-day by accident it has really come to pass." "So I am the tiger-forest, am I?" laughed Hu-lin. "Yes, indeed, you are, my dear child, a pretty little tiger-forest, for _Hu_ means _tiger_, and _lin_ is surely good Chinese for a _grove of trees_. Then, too, you told me you were a slave girl. Hence, Ch'ang led you out of slavery." "Oh, I am so glad!" said Hu-lin, forgetting her own poverty, "so glad that you don't have to be a horrible old miser any longer." Just at that moment there was a loud banging on the front gate. "Who can be knocking in that fashion?" asked the young man in astonishment. "Alas! it must be Black Heart, my master," said Hu-lin, beginning to cry. "Don't be frightened," said the youth, soothingly stroking the child's head. "You have saved me, and I shall certainly do as much for you. If this Mr. Black Heart doesn't agree to a fair proposal he shall have a black eye to remember his visit by." It did not take long for the grateful young man to buy Hu-lin's liberty, especially as he offered as much for her freedom as her master had expected to get when she was fourteen or fifteen years of age. When Hu-lin was told of the bargain she was wild with delight. She bowed low before her new master and then, kneeling, touched her head nine times on the floor. Rising, she cried out, "Oh, how happy I am, for now I shall be yours for ever and ever and ever, and good old Ch'ang shall be my playmate." "Yes, indeed," he assured her, "and when you are a little older I shall make you my wife. At present you will go with me to my father's house and become my little betrothed." "And I shall never again have to beg for crusts on the street?" she asked him, her eyes full of wonder. "No! never!" he answered, laughing, "and you need never fear another beating." THE NODDING TIGER [Illustration] Just outside the walls of a Chinese city there lived a young woodcutter named T'ang and his old mother, a woman of seventy. They were very poor and had a tiny one-room shanty, built of mud and grass, which they rented from a neighbour. Every day young T'ang rose bright and early and went up on the mountain near their house. There he spent the day cutting firewood to sell in the city near by. In the evening he would return home, take the wood to market, sell it, and bring back food for his mother and himself. Now, though these two people were poor, they were very happy, for the young man loved his mother dearly, and the old woman thought there was no one like her son in all the world. Their friends, however, felt sorry for them and said, "What a pity we have no grasshoppers here, so that the T'angs could have some food from heaven!" One day young T'ang got up before daylight and started for the hills, carrying his axe on his shoulder. He bade his mother good-bye, telling her that he would be back early with a heavier load of wood than usual, for the morrow would be a holiday and they must eat good food. All day long Widow T'ang waited patiently, saying to herself over and over as she went about her simple work, "The good boy, the good boy, how he loves his old mother!" In the afternoon she began watching for his return--but in vain. The sun was sinking lower and lower in the west, but still he did not come. At last the old woman was frightened. "My poor son!" she muttered. "Something has happened to him." Straining her feeble eyes, she looked along the mountain path. Nothing was to be seen there but a flock of sheep following the shepherd. "Woe is me!" moaned the woman. "My boy! my boy!" She took her crutch from its corner and limped off to a neighbour's house to tell him of her trouble and beg him to go and look for the missing boy. Now this neighbour was kind-hearted, and willing to help old Mother T'ang, for he felt very sorry for her. "There are many wild beasts in the mountains," he said, shaking his head as he walked away with her, thinking to prepare the frightened woman for the worst, "and I fear that your son has been carried off by one of them." Widow T'ang gave a scream of horror and sank upon the ground. Her friend walked slowly up the mountain path, looking carefully for signs of a struggle. At last when he had gone half way up the slope he came to a little pile of torn clothing spattered with blood. The woodman's axe was lying by the side of the path, also his carrying pole and some rope. There could be no mistake: after making a brave fight, the poor youth had been carried off by a tiger. Gathering up the torn garments, the man went sadly down the hill. He dreaded seeing the poor mother and telling her that her only boy was indeed gone for ever. At the foot of the mountain he found her still lying on the ground. When she looked up and saw what he was carrying, with a cry of despair she fainted away. She did not need to be told what had happened. Friends bore her into the little house and gave her food, but they could not comfort her. "Alas!" she cried, "of what use is it to live? He was my only boy. Who will take care of me in my old age? Why have the gods treated me in this cruel way?" She wept, tore her hair, and beat her chest, until people said she had gone mad. The longer she mourned, the more violent she became. The next day, however, much to the surprise of her neighbours, she set out for the city, making her way along slowly by means of her crutch. It was a pitiful sight to see her, so old, so feeble, and so lonely. Every one was sorry for her and pointed her out, saying, "See! the poor old soul has no one to help her!" In the city she asked her way to the public hall. When she found the place she knelt at the front gate, calling out loudly and telling of her ill-fortune. Just at this moment the mandarin, or city judge, walked into the court room to try any cases which might be brought before him. He heard the old woman weeping and wailing outside, and bade one of the servants let her enter and tell him of her wrongs. Now this was just what the Widow T'ang had come for. Calming herself, she hobbled into the great hall of trial. "What is the matter, old woman? Why do you raise such an uproar in front of my yamen? Speak up quickly and tell me of your trouble." "I am old and feeble," she began; "lame and almost blind. I have no money and no way of earning money. I have not one relative now in all the empire. I depended on my only son for a living. Every day he climbed the mountain, for he was a woodcutter, and every evening he came back home, bringing enough money for our food. But yesterday he went and did not return. A mountain tiger carried him off and ate him, and now, alas! there seems to be no help for it--I must die of hunger. My bleeding heart cries out for justice. I have come into this hall to-day, to beg your worship to see that the slayer of my son is punished. Surely the law says that none may shed blood without giving his own blood in payment." "But, woman, are you mad?" cried the mandarin, laughing loudly. "Did you not say it was a tiger that killed your son? How can a tiger be brought to justice? Of a truth, you must have lost your senses." The judge's questions were of no avail. The Widow T'ang kept up her clamour. She would not be turned away until she had gained her purpose. The hall echoed with the noise of her howling. The mandarin could stand it no longer. "Hold! woman," he cried, "stop your shrieking. I will do what you ask. Only go home and wait until I summon you to court. The slayer of your son shall be caught and punished." The judge was, of course, only trying to get rid of the demented mother, thinking that if she were only once out of his sight, he could give orders not to let her into the hall again. The old woman, however, was too sharp for him. She saw through his plan and became more stubborn than ever. "No, I cannot go," she answered, "until I have seen you sign the order for that tiger to be caught and brought into this judgment hall." Now, as the judge was not really a bad man, he decided to humour the old woman in her strange plea. Turning to the assistants in the court room he asked which of them would be willing to go in search of the tiger. One of these men, named Li-neng, had been leaning against the wall, half asleep. He had been drinking heavily and so had not heard what had been going on in the room. One of his friends gave him a poke in the ribs just as the judge asked for volunteers. Thinking the judge had called him by name, he stepped forward, knelt on the floor, saying, "I, Li-neng, can go and do the will of your worship." "Very well, you will do," answered the judge. "Here is your order. Go forth and do your duty." So saying, he handed the warrant to Li-neng. "Now, old woman, are you satisfied?" he continued. "Quite satisfied, your worship," she replied. "Then go home and wait there until I send for you." Mumbling a few words of thanks, the unhappy mother left the building. When Li-neng went outside the court room, his friends crowded round him. "Drunken sot!" they laughed; "do you know what you have done?" Li-neng shook his head. "Just a little business for the mandarin, isn't it? Quite easy." "Call it easy, if you like. What! man, arrest a tiger, a man-eating tiger and bring him to the city! Better go and say good-bye to your father and mother. They will never see you again." Li-neng slept off his drunkenness, and then saw that his friends were right. He had been very foolish. But surely the judge had meant the whole thing only as a joke! No such order had ever been written before! It was plain that the judge had hit on this plan simply to get rid of the wailing old woman. Li-neng took the warrant back to the judgment hall and told the mandarin that the tiger could not be found. But the judge was in no mood for joking. "Can't be found? And why not? You agreed to arrest this tiger. Why is it that to-day you try to get out of your promise? I can by no means permit this, for I have given my word to satisfy the old woman in her cry for justice." Li-neng knelt and knocked his head on the floor. "I was drunk," he cried, "when I gave my promise. I knew not what you were asking. I can catch a man, but not a tiger. I know nothing of such matters. Still, if you wish it, I can go into the hills and hire hunters to help me." "Very well, it makes no difference how you catch him, as long as you bring him into court. If you fail in your duty, there is nothing left but to beat you until you succeed. I give you five days." During the next few days Li-neng left no stone unturned in trying to find the guilty tiger. The best hunters in the country were employed. Night and day they searched the hills, hiding in mountain caves, watching and waiting, but finding nothing. It was all very trying for Li-neng, since he now feared the heavy hands of the judge more than the claws of the tiger. On the fifth day he had to report his failure. He received a thorough beating, fifty blows on the back. But that was not the worst of it. During the next six weeks, try as he would, he could find no traces of the missing animal. At the end of each five days, he got another beating for his pains. The poor fellow was in despair. Another month of such treatment would lay him on his deathbed. This he knew very well, and yet he had little hope. His friends shook their heads when they saw him. "He is drawing near the wood," they said to each other, meaning that he would soon be in his coffin. "Why don't you flee the country?" they asked him. "Follow the tiger's example. You see he has escaped completely. The judge would make no effort to catch you if you should go across the border into the next province." Li-neng shook his head on hearing this advice. He had no desire to leave his family for ever, and he felt sure of being caught and put to death if he should try to run away. One day after all the hunters had given up the search in disgust and gone back to their homes in the valley, Li-neng entered a mountain temple to pray. The tears rained down his cheeks as he knelt before the great fierce-looking idol. "Alas! I am a dead man!" he moaned between his prayers; "a dead man, for now there is no hope. Would that I had never touched a drop of wine!" Just then he heard a slight rustling near by. Looking up, he saw a huge tiger standing at the temple gate. But Li-neng was no longer afraid of tigers. He knew there was only one way to save himself. "Ah," he said, looking the great cat straight in the eye, "you have come to eat me, have you? Well, I fear you would find my flesh a trifle tough, since I have been beaten with four hundred blows during these six weeks. You are the same fellow that carried off the woodman last month, aren't you? This woodman was an only son, the sole support of an old mother. Now this poor woman has reported you to the mandarin, who, in turn, has had a warrant drawn up for your arrest. I have been sent out to find you and lead you to trial. For some reason or other you have acted the coward, and remained in hiding. This has been the cause of my beating. Now I don't want to suffer any longer as a result of your murder. You must come with me to the city and answer the charge of killing the woodman." All the time Li-neng was speaking, the tiger listened closely. When the man was silent, the animal made no effort to escape, but, on the contrary, seemed willing and ready to be captured. He bent his head forward and let Li-neng slip a strong chain over it. Then he followed the man quietly down the mountain, through the crowded streets of the city, into the court room. All along the way there was great excitement. "The man-slaying tiger has been caught," shouted the people. "He is being led to trial." The crowd followed Li-neng into the hall of justice. When the judge walked in, every one became as quiet as the grave. All were filled with wonder at the strange sight of a tiger being called before a judge. The great animal did not seem to be afraid of those who were watching so curiously. He sat down in front of the mandarin, for all the world like a huge cat. The judge rapped on the table as a signal that all was ready for the trial. "Tiger," said he, turning toward the prisoner, "did you eat the woodman whom you are charged with killing?" The tiger gravely nodded his head. "Yes, he killed my boy!" screamed the aged mother. "Kill him! Give him the death that he deserves!" "A life for a life is the law of the land," continued the judge, paying no attention to the forlorn mother, but looking the accused directly in the eye. "Did you not know it? You have robbed a helpless old woman of her only son. There are no relatives to support her. She is crying for vengeance. You must be punished for your crime. The law must be enforced. However, I am not a cruel judge. If you can promise to take the place of this widow's son and support the woman in her old age, I am quite willing to spare you from a disgraceful death. What say you, will you accept my offer?" [Illustration: "THE TIGER GRAVELY NODDED HIS HEAD."] The gaping people craned their necks to see what would happen, and once more they were surprised to see the savage beast nod his head in silent agreement. "Very well, then, you are free to return to your mountain home; only, of course, you must remember your promise." The chains were taken from the tiger's neck, and the great animal walked silently out of the yamen, down the street, and through the gate opening towards his beloved mountain cave. Once more the old woman was very angry. As she hobbled from the room, she cast sour glances at the judge, muttering over and over again, "Who ever heard of a tiger taking the place of a son? A pretty game this is, to catch the brute, and then to set him free." There was nothing for her to do, however, but to return home, for the judge had given strict orders that on no account was she to appear before him again. Almost broken-hearted she entered her desolate hovel at the foot of the mountain. Her neighbours shook their heads as they saw her. "She cannot live long," they said. "She has the look of death on her wrinkled face. Poor soul! she has nothing to live for, nothing to keep her from starving." But they were mistaken. Next morning when the old woman went outside to get a breath of fresh air she found a newly killed deer in front of her door. Her tiger-son had begun to keep his promise, for she could see the marks of his claws on the dead animal's body. She took the carcass into the house and dressed it for the market. On the city streets next day she had no trouble in selling the flesh and skin for a handsome sum of money. All had heard of the tiger's first gift, and no one was anxious to drive a close bargain. Laden with food, the happy woman went home rejoicing, with money enough to keep her for many a day. A week later the tiger came to her door with a roll of cloth and some money in his mouth. He dropped these new gifts at her feet and ran away without even waiting for her thank-you. The Widow T'ang now saw that the judge had acted wisely. She stopped grieving for her dead son and began to love in his stead the handsome animal that had come to take his place so willingly. The tiger grew much attached to his foster-mother and often purred contentedly outside her door, waiting for her to come and stroke his soft fur. He no longer had the old desire to kill. The sight of blood was not nearly so tempting as it had been in his younger days. Year after year he brought the weekly offerings to his mistress until she was as well provided for as any other widow in the country. At last in the course of nature the good old soul died. Kind friends laid her away in her last resting place at the foot of the great mountain. There was money enough left out of what she had saved to put up a handsome tombstone, on which this story was written just as you have read it here. The faithful tiger mourned long for his dear mistress. He lay on her grave, wailing like a child that had lost its mother. Long he listened for the voice he had loved so well, long he searched the mountain-slopes, returning each night to the empty cottage, but all in vain. She whom he loved was gone for ever. One night he vanished from the mountain, and from that day to this no one in that province has ever seen him. Some who know this story say that he died of grief in a secret cave which he had long used as a hiding-place. Others add, with a wise shrug of the shoulders, that, like Shanwang, he was taken to the Western Heaven, there to be rewarded for his deeds of virtue and to live as a fairy for ever afterwards. THE PRINCESS KWAN-YIN [Illustration] Once upon a time in China there lived a certain king who had three daughters. The fairest and best of these was Kwan-yin, the youngest. The old king was justly proud of this daughter, for of all the women who had ever lived in the palace she was by far the most attractive. It did not take him long, therefore, to decide that she should be the heir to his throne, and her husband ruler of his kingdom. But, strange to say, Kwan-yin was not pleased at this good fortune. She cared little for the pomp and splendour of court life. She foresaw no pleasure for herself in ruling as a queen, but even feared that in so high a station she might feel out of place and unhappy. Every day she went to her room to read and study. As a result of this daily labour she soon went far beyond her sisters along the paths of knowledge, and her name was known in the farthest corner of the kingdom as "Kwan-yin, the wise princess." Besides being very fond of books, Kwan-yin was thoughtful of her friends. She was careful about her behaviour both in public and in private. Her warm heart was open at all times to the cries of those in trouble. She was kind to the poor and suffering. She won the love of the lower classes, and was to them a sort of goddess to whom they could appeal whenever they were hungry and in need. Some people even believed that she was a fairy who had come to earth from her home within the Western Heaven, while others said that once, long years before, she had lived in the world as a prince instead of a princess. However this may be, one thing is certain--Kwan-yin was pure and good, and well deserved the praises that were showered upon her. One day the king called this favourite daughter to the royal bedside, for he felt that the hour of death was drawing near. Kwan-yin kowtowed before her royal father, kneeling and touching her forehead on the floor in sign of deepest reverence. The old man bade her rise and come closer. Taking her hand tenderly in his own, he said, "Daughter, you know well how I love you. Your modesty and virtue, your talent and your love of knowledge, have made you first in my heart. As you know already, I chose you as heir to my kingdom long ago. I promised that your husband should be made ruler in my stead. The time is almost ripe for me to ascend upon the dragon and become a guest on high. It is necessary that you be given at once in marriage." "But, most exalted father," faltered the princess, "I am not ready to be married." "Not ready, child! Why, are you not eighteen? Are not the daughters of our nation often wedded long before they reach that age? Because of your desire for learning I have spared you thus far from any thought of a husband, but now we can wait no longer." "Royal father, hear your child, and do not compel her to give up her dearest pleasures. Let her go into a quiet convent where she may lead a life of study!" The king sighed deeply at hearing these words. He loved his daughter and did not wish to wound her. "Kwan-yin," he continued, "do you wish to pass by the green spring of youth, to give up this mighty kingdom? Do you wish to enter the doors of a convent where women say farewell to life and all its pleasures? No! your father will not permit this. It grieves me sorely to disappoint you, but one month from this very day you shall be married. I have chosen for your royal partner a man of many noble parts. You know him by name already, although you have not seen him. Remember that, of the hundred virtues filial conduct is the chief, and that you owe more to me than to all else on earth." Kwan-yin turned pale. Trembling, she would have sunk to the floor, but her mother and sisters supported her, and by their tender care brought her back to consciousness. Every day of the month that followed, Kwan-yin's relatives begged her to give up what they called her foolish notion. Her sisters had long since given up hope of becoming queen. They were amazed at her stupidity. The very thought of any one's choosing a convent instead of a throne was to them a sure sign of madness. Over and over again they asked her reason for making so strange a choice. To every question, she shook her head, replying, "A voice from the heavens speaks to me, and I must obey it." On the eve of the wedding day Kwan-yin slipped out of the palace, and, after a weary journey, arrived at a convent called, "The Cloister of the White Sparrow." She was dressed as a poor maiden. She said she wished to become a nun. The abbess, not knowing who she was, did not receive her kindly. Indeed, she told Kwan-yin that they could not receive her into the sisterhood, that the building was full. Finally, after Kwan-yin had shed many tears, the abbess let her enter, but only as a sort of servant, who might be cast out for the slightest fault. Now that Kwan-yin found herself in the life which she had long dreamt of leading, she tried to be satisfied. But the nuns seemed to wish to make her stay among them most miserable. They gave her the hardest tasks to do, and it was seldom that she had a minute to rest. All day long she was busy, carrying water from a well at the foot of the convent hill or gathering wood from a neighbouring forest. At night when her back was almost breaking, she was given many extra tasks, enough to have crushed the spirit of any other woman than this brave daughter of a king. Forgetting her grief, and trying to hide the lines of pain that sometimes wrinkled her fair forehead, she tried to make these hard-hearted women love her. In return for their rough words, she spoke to them kindly, and never did she give way to anger. One day while poor Kwan-yin was picking up brushwood in the forest she heard a tiger making his way through the bushes. Having no means of defending herself, she breathed a silent prayer to the gods for help, and calmly awaited the coming of the great beast. To her surprise, when the bloodthirsty animal appeared, instead of bounding up to tear her in pieces, he began to make a soft purring noise. He did not try to hurt Kwan-yin, but rubbed against her in a friendly manner, and let her pat him on the head. [Illustration: "ALL DAY SHE WAS BUSY CARRYING WATER."] The next day the princess went back to the same spot. There she found no fewer than a dozen savage beasts working under the command of the friendly tiger, gathering wood for her. In a short time enough brush and firewood had been piled up to last the convent for six months. Thus, even the wild animals of the forest were better able to judge of her goodness than the women of the sisterhood. At another time when Kwan-yin was toiling up the hill for the twentieth time, carrying two great pails of water on a pole, an enormous dragon faced her in the road. Now, in China, the dragon is sacred, and Kwan-yin was not at all frightened, for she knew that she had done no wrong. The animal looked at her for a moment, switched its horrid tail, and shot out fire from its nostrils. Then, dashing the burden from the startled maiden's shoulder, it vanished. Full of fear, Kwan-yin hurried up the hill to the nunnery. As she drew near the inner court, she was amazed to see in the centre of the open space a new building of solid stone. It had sprung up by magic since her last journey down the hill. On going forward, she saw that there were four arched doorways to the fairy house. Above the door facing west was a tablet with these words written on it: "In honour of Kwan-yin, the faithful princess." Inside was a well of the purest water, while, for drawing this water, there a strange machine, the like of which neither Kwan-yin nor the nuns had ever seen. The sisters knew that this magic well was a monument to Kwan-yin's goodness. For a few days they treated her much better. "Since the gods have dug a well at our very gate," they said, "this girl will no longer need to bear water from the foot of the hill. For what strange reason, however, did the gods write this beggar's name on the stone?" Kwan-yin heard their unkind remarks in silence. She could have explained the meaning of the dragon's gift, but she chose to let her companions remain in ignorance. At last the selfish nuns began to grow careless again, and treated her even worse than before. They could not bear to see the poor girl enjoy a moment's idleness. "This is a place for work," they told her. "All of us have laboured hard to win our present station. You must do likewise." So they robbed her of every chance for study and prayer, and gave her no credit for the magic well. One night the sisters were awakened from their sleep by strange noises, and soon they heard outside the walls of the compound the blare of a trumpet. A great army had been sent by Kwan-yin's father to attack the convent, for his spies had at last been able to trace the runaway princess to this holy retreat. "Oh, who has brought this woe upon us?" exclaimed all the women, looking at each other in great fear. "Who has done this great evil? There is one among us who has sinned most terribly, and now the gods are about to destroy us." They gazed at one another, but no one thought of Kwan-yin, for they did not believe her of enough importance to attract the anger of heaven, even though she might have done the most shocking of deeds. Then, too, she had been so meek and lowly while in their holy order that they did not once dream of charging her with any crime. The threatening sounds outside grew louder and louder. All at once a fearful cry arose among the women: "They are about to burn our sacred dwelling." Smoke was rising just beyond the enclosure where the soldiers were kindling a great fire, the heat of which would soon be great enough to make the convent walls crumble into dust. Suddenly a voice was heard above the tumult of the weeping sisters: "Alas! I am the cause of all this trouble." The nuns, turning in amazement, saw that it was Kwan-yin who was speaking. "You?" they exclaimed, astounded. "Yes, I, for I am indeed the daughter of a king. My father did not wish me to take the vows of this holy order. I fled from the palace. He has sent his army here to burn these buildings and to drag me back a prisoner." "Then, see what you have brought upon us, miserable girl!" exclaimed the abbess. "See how you have repaid our kindness! Our buildings will be burned above our heads! How wretched you have made us! May heaven's curses rest upon you!" "No, no!" exclaimed Kwan-yin, springing up, and trying to keep the abbess from speaking these frightful words. "You have no right to say that, for I am innocent of evil. But, wait! You shall soon see whose prayers the gods will answer, yours or mine!" So saying, she pressed her forehead to the floor, praying the almighty powers to save the convent and the sisters. Outside the crackling of the greedy flames could already be heard. The fire king would soon destroy every building on that hill-top. Mad with terror, the sisters prepared to leave the compound and give up all their belongings to the cruel flames and still more cruel soldiers. Kwan-yin alone remained in the room, praying earnestly for help. Suddenly a soft breeze sprang up from the neighbouring forest, dark clouds gathered overhead, and, although it was the dry season a drenching shower descended on the flames. Within five minutes the fire was put out and the convent was saved. Just as the shivering nuns were thanking Kwan-yin for the divine help she had brought them, two soldiers who had scaled the outer wall of the compound came in and roughly asked for the princess. The trembling girl, knowing that these men were obeying her father's orders, poured out a prayer to the gods, and straightway made herself known. They dragged her from the presence of the nuns who had just begun to love her. Thus disgraced before her father's army, she was taken to the capital. On the morrow, she was led before the old king. The father gazed sadly at his daughter, and then the stern look of a judge hardened his face as he beckoned the guards to bring her forward. From a neighbouring room came the sounds of sweet music. A feast was being served there amid great splendour. The loud laughter of the guests reached the ears of the young girl as she bowed in disgrace before her father's throne. She knew that this feast had been prepared for her, and that her father was willing to give her one more chance. "Girl," said the king, at last regaining his voice, "in leaving the royal palace on the eve of your wedding day, not only did you insult your father, but your king. For this act you deserve to die. However, because of the excellent record you had made for yourself before you ran away, I have decided to give you one more chance to redeem yourself. Refuse me, and the penalty is death: obey me, and all may yet be well--the kingdom that you spurned is still yours for the asking. All that I require is your marriage to the man whom I have chosen." "And when, most august King, would you have me decide?" asked Kwan-yin earnestly. "This very day, this very hour, this very moment," he answered sternly. "What! would you hesitate between love upon a throne and death? Speak, my daughter, tell me that you love me and will do my bidding!" It was now all that Kwan-yin could do to keep from throwing herself at her father's feet and yielding to his wishes, not because he offered her a kingdom, but because she loved him and would gladly have made him happy. But her strong will kept her from relenting. No power on earth could have stayed her from doing what she thought her duty. "Beloved father," she answered sadly, and her voice was full of tenderness, "it is not a question of my love for you--of that there is no question, for all my life I have shown it in every action. Believe me, if I were free to do your bidding, gladly would I make you happy, but a voice from the gods has spoken, has commanded that I remain a virgin, that I devote my life to deeds of mercy. When heaven itself has commanded, what can even a princess do but listen to that power which rules the earth?" The old king was far from satisfied with Kwan-yin's answer. He grew furious, his thin wrinkled skin turned purple as the hot blood rose to his head. "Then you refuse to do my bidding! Take her, men! Give to her the death that is due to a traitor to the king!" As they bore Kwan-yin away from his presence the white-haired monarch fell, swooning, from his chair. That night, when Kwan-yin was put to death, she descended into the lower world of torture. No sooner had she set foot in that dark country of the dead than the vast region of endless punishment suddenly blossomed forth and became like the gardens of Paradise. Pure white lilies sprang up on every side, and the odour of a million flowers filled all the rooms and corridors. King Yama, ruler of the dominion, rushed forth to learn the cause of this wonderful change. No sooner did his eyes rest upon the fair young face of Kwan-yin than he saw in her the emblem of a purity which deserved no home but heaven. "Beautiful virgin, doer of many mercies," he began, after addressing her by her title, "I beg you in the name of justice to depart from this bloody kingdom. It is not right that the fairest flower of heaven should enter and shed her fragrance in these halls. Guilt must suffer here, and sin find no reward. Depart thou, then, from my dominion. The peach of immortal life shall be bestowed upon you, and heaven alone shall be your dwelling place." Thus Kwan-yin became the Goddess of Mercy; thus she entered into that glad abode, surpassing all earthly kings and queens. And ever since that time, on account of her exceeding goodness, thousands of poor people breathe out to her each year their prayers for mercy. There is no fear in their gaze as they look at her beautiful image, for their eyes are filled with tears of love. THE TWO JUGGLERS [Illustration] One beautiful spring day two men strolled into the public square of a well-known Chinese city. They were plainly dressed and looked like ordinary countrymen who had come in to see the sights. Judging by their faces, they were father and son. The elder, a wrinkled man of perhaps fifty, wore a scant grey beard. The younger had a small box on his shoulder. At the hour when these strangers entered the public square, a large crowd had gathered, for it was a feast day, and every one was bent on having a good time. All the people seemed very happy. Some, seated in little open-air booths, were eating, drinking, and smoking. Others were buying odds and ends from the street-vendors, tossing coins, and playing various games of chance. The two men walked about aimlessly. They seemed to have no friends among the pleasure-seekers. At last, however, as they stood reading a public notice posted at the entrance of the town-hall or yamen, a bystander asked them who they were. "Oh, we are jugglers from a distant province," said the elder, smiling and pointing towards the box. "We can do many tricks for the amusement of the people." Soon it was spread about among the crowd that two famous jugglers had just arrived from the capital, and that they were able to perform many wonderful deeds. Now it happened that the mandarin or mayor of the city, at that very moment was entertaining a number of guests in the yamen. They had just finished eating, and the host was wondering what he should do to amuse his friends, when a servant told him of the jugglers. "Ask them what they can do," said the mandarin eagerly. "I will pay them well if they can really amuse us, but I want something more than the old tricks of knife-throwing and balancing. They must show us something new." The servant went outside and spoke to the jugglers: "The great man bids you tell him what you can do. If you can amuse his visitors he will bring them out to the private grand stand, and let you perform before them and the people who are gathered together." "Tell your honourable master," said the elder, whom we shall call Chang, "that, try us as he will, he will not be disappointed. Tell him that we come from the unknown land of dreams and visions, that we can turn rocks into mountains, rivers into oceans, mice into elephants, in short, that there is nothing in magic too difficult for us to do." The official was delighted when he heard the report of his servant. "Now we may have a little fun," he said to his guests, "for there are jugglers outside who will perform their wonderful tricks before us." The guests filed out on to the grand stand at one side of the public square. The mandarin commanded that a rope should be stretched across so as to leave an open space in full view of the crowd, where the two Changs might give their exhibition. For a time the two strangers entertained the people with some of the simpler tricks, such as spinning plates in the air, tossing bowls up and catching them on chopsticks, making flowers grow from empty pots, and transforming one object into another. At last, however, the mandarin cried out: "These tricks are very good of their kind, but how about those idle boasts of changing rivers into oceans and mice into elephants? Did you not say that you came from the land of dreams? These tricks you have done are stale and shopworn. Have you nothing new with which to regale my guests on this holiday?" "Most certainly, your excellency. But surely you would not have a labourer do more than his employer requires? Would that not be quite contrary to the teachings of our fathers? Be assured, sir, anything that you demand I can do for you. Only say the word." The mandarin laughed outright at this boasting language. "Take care, my man! Do not go too far with your promises. There are too many impostors around for me to believe every stranger. Hark you! no lying, for if you lie in the presence of my guests, I shall take great pleasure in having you beaten." "My words are quite true, your excellency," repeated Chang earnestly. "What have we to gain by deceit, we who have performed our miracles before the countless hosts of yonder Western Heaven?" "Ha, ha! hear the braggarts!" shouted the guests. "What shall we command them to do?" For a moment they consulted together, whispering and laughing. "I have it," cried the host finally. "Our feast was short of fruit, since this is the off season. Suppose we let this fellow supply us. Here, fellow, produce us a peach, and be quick about it. We have no time for fooling." "What, masters, a peach?" exclaimed the elder Chang in mock dismay. "Surely at this season you do not expect a peach." "Caught at his own game," laughed the guests, and the people began to hoot derisively. "But, father, you promised to do anything he required," urged the son. "If he asks even a peach, how can you refuse and at the same time save your face?" "Hear the boy talk," mumbled the father, "and yet, perhaps he's right. Very well, masters," turning to the crowd, "if it's a peach you want, why, a peach you shall have, even though I must send into the garden of the Western Heaven for the fruit." The people became silent and the mandarin's guests forgot to laugh. The old man, still muttering, opened the box from which he had been taking the magic bowls, plates, and other articles. "To think of people wanting peaches at this season! What is the world coming to?" After fumbling in the box for some moments he drew out a skein of golden thread, fine spun and as light as gossamer. No sooner had he unwound a portion of this thread than a sudden gust of wind carried it up into the air above the heads of the onlookers. Faster and faster the old man paid out the magic coil, higher and higher the free end rose into the heavens, until, strain his eyes as he would, no one present could see into what far-region it had vanished. "Wonderful, wonderful!" shouted the people with one voice, "the old man is a fairy." For a moment they forgot all about the mandarin, the jugglers, and the peach, so amazed were they at beholding the flight of the magic thread. At last the old man seemed satisfied with the distance to which his cord had sailed, and, with a bow to the spectators, he tied the end to a large wooden pillar which helped to support the roof of the grand stand. For a moment the structure trembled and swayed as if it too would be carried off into the blue ether, the guests turned pale and clutched their chairs for support, but not even the mandarin dared to speak, so sure were they now that they were in the presence of fairies. "Everything is ready for the journey," said old Chang calmly. "What! shall you leave us?" asked the mayor, finding his voice again. "I? Oh, no, my old bones are not spry enough for quick climbing. My son here will bring us the magic peach. He is handsome and active enough to enter that heavenly garden. Graceful, oh graceful is that peach tree--of course, you remember the line from the poem--and a graceful man must pluck the fruit." The mandarin was still more surprised at the juggler's knowledge of a famous poem from the classics. It made him and his friends all the more certain that the newcomers were indeed fairies. The young man at a sign from his father tightened his belt and the bands about his ankles, and then, with a graceful gesture to the astonished people, sprang upon the magic string, balanced himself for a moment on the steep incline, and then ran as nimbly up as a sailor would have mounted a rope ladder. Higher and higher he climbed till he seemed no bigger than a lark ascending into the blue sky, and then, like some tiny speck, far, far away, on the western horizon. The people gazed in open-mouthed wonder. They were struck dumb and filled with some nameless fear; they hardly dared to look at the enchanter who stood calmly in their midst, smoking his long-stemmed pipe. The mandarin, ashamed of having laughed at and threatened this man who was clearly a fairy, did not know what to say. He snapped his long finger nails and looked at his guests in mute astonishment. The visitors silently drank their tea, and the crowd of sightseers craned their necks in a vain effort to catch sight of the vanished fairy. Only one in all that assembly, a bright-eyed little boy of eight, dared to break the silence, and he caused a hearty burst of merriment by crying out, "Oh, daddy, will the bad young man fly off into the sky and leave his poor father all alone?" The greybeard laughed loudly with the others, and tossed the lad a copper. "Ah, the good boy," he said smiling, "he has been well trained to love his father; no fear of foreign ways spoiling his filial piety." After a few moments of waiting, old Chang laid aside his pipe and fixed his eyes once more on the western sky. "It is coming," he said quietly. "The peach will soon be here." [Illustration: "HIGHER AND HIGHER HE CLIMBED."] Suddenly he held out his hand as if to catch some falling object, but, look as they would, the people could see nothing. Swish! thud! it came like a streak of light, and, lo, there in the magician's fingers was a peach, the most beautiful specimen the people had ever seen, large and rosy. "Straight from the garden of the gods," said Chang, handing the fruit to the mandarin, "a peach in the Second Moon, and the snow hardly off the ground." Trembling with excitement, the official took the peach and cut it open. It was large enough for all his guests to have a taste, and such a taste it was! They smacked their lips and wished for more, secretly thinking that never again would ordinary fruit be worth the eating. But all this time the old juggler, magician, fairy or whatever you choose to call him, was looking anxiously into the sky. The result of this trick was more than he had bargained for. True, he had been able to produce the magic peach which the mandarin had called for, but his son, where was his son? He shaded his eyes and looked far up into the blue heavens, and so did the people, but no one could catch a glimpse of the departed youth. "Oh, my son, my son," cried the old man in despair, "how cruel is the fate that has robbed me of you, the only prop of my declining years! Oh, my boy, my boy, would that I had not sent you on so perilous a journey! Who now will look after my grave when I am gone?" Suddenly the silken cord on which the young man had sped so daringly into the sky, gave a quick jerk which almost toppled over the post to which it was tied, and there, before the very eyes of the people, it fell from the lofty height, a silken pile on the ground in front of them. The greybeard uttered a loud cry and covered his face with his hands. "Alas! the whole story is plain enough," he sobbed. "My boy was caught in the act of plucking the magic peach from the garden of the gods, and they have thrown him into prison. Woe is me! Ah! woe is me!" The mandarin and his friends were deeply touched by the old man's grief, and tried in vain to comfort him. "Perhaps he will return," they said. "Have courage!" "Yes, but in what a shape?" replied the magician. "See! even now they are restoring him to his father." The people looked, and they saw twirling and twisting through the air the young man's arm. It fell upon the ground in front of them at the fairy's feet. Next came the head, a leg, the body. One by one before the gasping, shuddering people, the parts of the unfortunate young man were restored to his father. After the first outburst of wild, frantic grief the old man by a great effort gained control of his feelings, and began to gather up these parts, putting them tenderly into the wooden box. By this time many of the spectators were weeping at the sight of the father's affliction. "Come," said the mandarin at last, deeply moved, "let us present the old man with sufficient money to give his boy a decent burial." All present agreed willingly, for there is no sight in China that causes greater pity than that of an aged parent robbed by death of an only son. The copper cash fell in a shower at the juggler's feet, and soon tears of gratitude were mingled with those of sorrow. He gathered up the money and tied it in a large black cloth. Then a wonderful change came over his face. He seemed all of a sudden to forget his grief. Turning to the box, he raised the lid. The people heard him say: "Come, my son; the crowd is waiting for you to thank them. Hurry up! They have been very kind to us." In an instant the box was thrown open with a bang, and before the mandarin and his friends, before the eyes of all the sightseers the young man, strong and whole once more, stepped forth and bowed, clasping his hands and giving the national salute. For a moment all were silent. Then, as the wonder of the whole thing dawned upon them, the people broke forth into a tumult of shouts, laughter, and compliments. "The fairies have surely come to visit us!" they shouted. "The city will be blessed with good fortune! Perhaps it is Fairy Old Boy himself who is among us!" The mandarin rose and addressed the jugglers, thanking them in the name of the city for their visit and for the taste they had given to him and his guests of the peach from the heavenly orchard. Even as he spoke, the magic box opened again; the two fairies disappeared inside, the lid closed, and the chest rose from the ground above the heads of the people. For a moment it floated round in a circle like some homing pigeon trying to find its bearings before starting on a return journey. Then, with a sudden burst of speed, it shot off into the heavens and vanished from the sight of those below, and not a thing remained as proof of the strange visitors except the magic peach seed that lay beside the teacups on the mandarin's table. According to the most ancient writings there is now nothing left to tell of this story. It has been declared, however, by later scholars that the official and his friends who had eaten the magic peach, at once began to feel a change in their lives. While, before the coming of the fairies, they had lived unfairly, accepting bribes and taking part in many shameful practices, now, after tasting of the heavenly fruit, they began to grow better. The people soon began to honour and love them, saying, "Surely these great men are not like others of their kind, for these men are just and honest in their dealings with us. They seem not to be ruling for their own reward!" However this may be, we do know that before many years their city became the centre of the greatest peach-growing section of China, and even yet when strangers walk in the orchards and look up admiringly at the beautiful sweet-smelling fruit, the natives sometimes ask proudly, "And have you never heard about the wonderful peach which was the beginning of all our orchards, the magic peach the fairies brought us from the Western Heaven?" THE PHANTOM VESSEL [Illustration] Once a ship loaded with pleasure-seekers was sailing from North China to Shanghai. High winds and stormy weather had delayed her, and she was still one week from port when a great plague broke out on board. This plague was of the worst kind. It attacked passengers and sailors alike until there were so few left to sail the vessel that it seemed as if she would soon be left to the mercy of winds and waves. On all sides lay the dead, and the groans of the dying were most terrible to hear. Of that great company of travellers only one, a little boy named Ying-lo, had escaped. At last the few sailors, who had been trying hard to save their ship, were obliged to lie down upon the deck, a prey to the dreadful sickness, and soon they too were dead. Ying-lo now found himself alone on the sea. For some reason--he did not know why--the gods or the sea fairies had spared him, but as he looked about in terror at the friends and loved ones who had died, he almost wished that he might join them. The sails flapped about like great broken wings, while the giant waves dashed higher above the deck, washing many of the bodies overboard and wetting the little boy to the skin. Shivering with cold, he gave himself up for lost and prayed to the gods, whom his mother had often told him about, to take him from this dreadful ship and let him escape the fatal illness. As he lay there praying he heard a slight noise in the rigging just above his head. Looking up, he saw a ball of fire running along a yardarm near the top of the mast. The sight was so strange that he forgot his prayer and stared with open-mouthed wonder. To his astonishment, the ball grew brighter and brighter, and then suddenly began slipping down the mast, all the time increasing in size. The poor boy did not know what to do or to think. Were the gods, in answer to his prayer, sending fire to burn the vessel? If so, he would soon escape. Anything would be better than to be alone upon the sea. Nearer and nearer came the fireball. At last, when it reached the deck, to Ying-lo's surprise, something very, very strange happened. Before he had time to feel alarmed, the light vanished, and a funny little man stood in front of him peering anxiously into the child's frightened face. "Yes, you are the lad I'm looking for," he said at last, speaking in a piping voice that almost made Ying-lo smile. "You are Ying-lo, and you are the only one left of this wretched company." This he said, pointing towards the bodies lying here and there about the deck. Although he saw that the old man meant him no harm, the child could say nothing, but waited in silence, wondering what would happen next. By this time the vessel was tossing and pitching so violently that it seemed every minute as if it would upset and go down beneath the foaming waves, never to rise again. Not many miles distant on the right, some jagged rocks stuck out of the water, lifting their cruel heads as if waiting for the helpless ship. The newcomer walked slowly towards the mast and tapped on it three times with an iron staff he had been using as a cane. Immediately the sails spread, the vessel righted itself and began to glide over the sea so fast that the gulls were soon left far behind, while the threatening rocks upon which the ship had been so nearly dashed seemed like specks in the distance. "Do you remember me?" said the stranger, suddenly turning and coming up to Ying-lo, but his voice was lost in the whistling of the wind, and the boy knew only by the moving of his lips that the old man was talking. The greybeard bent over until his mouth was at Ying-lo's ear: "Did you ever see me before?" With a puzzled look, at first the child shook his head. Then as he gazed more closely there seemed to be something that he recognized about the wrinkled face. "Yes, I think so, but I don't know when." With a tap of his staff the fairy stopped the blowing of the wind, and then spoke once more to his small companion: "One year ago I passed through your village. I was dressed in rags, and was begging my way along the street, trying to find some one who would feel sorry for me. Alas! no one answered my cry for mercy. Not a crust was thrown into my bowl. All the people were deaf, and fierce dogs drove me from door to door. Finally when I was almost dying of hunger, I began to feel that here was a village without one good person in it. Just then you saw my suffering, ran into the house, and brought me out food. Your heartless mother saw you doing this and beat you cruelly. Do you remember now, my child?" "Yes, I remember," he answered sadly, "and that mother is now lying dead. Alas! all, all are dead, my father and my brothers also. Not one is left of my family." "Little did you know, my boy, to whom you were giving food that day. You took me for a lowly beggar, but, behold, it was not a poor man that you fed, for I am Iron Staff. You must have heard of me when they were telling of the fairies in the Western Heaven, and of their adventures here on earth." "Yes, yes," answered Ying-lo, trembling half with fear and half with joy, "indeed I have heard of you many, many times, and all the people love you for your kind deeds of mercy." "Alas! they did not show their love, my little one. Surely you know that if any one wishes to reward the fairies for their mercies, he must begin to do deeds of the same kind himself. No one but you in all your village had pity on me in my rags. If they had known that I was Iron Staff, everything would have been different; they would have given me a feast and begged for my protection. "The only love that loves aright Is that which loves in every plight. The beggar in his sad array Is moulded of the selfsame clay. "Who knows a man by what he wears, By what he says or by his prayers? Hidden beneath that wrinkled skin A fairy may reside within. "Then treat with kindness and with love The lowly man, the god above; A friendly nod, a welcome smile-- For love is ever worth the while." Ying-lo listened in wonder to Iron Staff's little poem, and when he had finished, the boy's face was glowing with the love of which the fairy had spoken. "My poor, poor father and mother!" he cried; "they knew nothing of these beautiful things you are telling me. They were brought up in poverty. As they were knocked about in childhood by those around them, so they learned to beat others who begged them for help. Is it strange that they did not have hearts full of pity for you when you looked like a beggar?" "But what about you, my boy? You were not deaf when I asked you. Have you not been whipped and punished all your life? How then did you learn to look with love at those in tears?" The child could not answer these questions, but only looked sorrowfully at Iron Staff. "Oh, can you not, good fairy, will you not restore my parents and brothers, and give them another chance to be good and useful people?" "Listen, Ying-lo; it is impossible--unless you do two things first," he answered, stroking his beard gravely and leaning heavily upon his staff. "What are they? What must I do to save my family? Anything you ask of me will not be too much to pay for your kindness." "First you must tell me of some good deed done by these people for whose lives you are asking. Name only one, for that will be enough; but it is against our rules to help those who have done nothing." Ying-lo was silent, and for a moment his face was clouded. "Yes, I know," he said finally, brightening. "They burned incense once at the temple. That was certainly a deed of virtue." "But when was it, little one, that they did this?" "When my big brother was sick, and they were praying for him to get well. The doctors could not save him with boiled turnip juice or with any other of the medicines they used, so my parents begged the gods." "Selfish, selfish!" muttered Iron Staff. "If their eldest son had not been dying they would have spent no money at the temple. They tried in this way to buy back his health, for they were expecting him to support them in their old age." Ying-lo's face fell. "You are right," he answered. "Can you think of nothing else?" "Yes, oh, yes, last year when the foreigner rode through our village and fell sick in front of our house, they took him in and cared for him." "How long?" asked the other sharply. "Until he died the next week." "And what did they do with the mule he was riding, his bed, and the money in his bag? Did they try to restore them to his people?" "No, they said they'd keep them to pay for the trouble." Ying-lo's face turned scarlet. "But try again, dear boy! Is there not one little deed of goodness that was not selfish? Think once more." For a long time Ying-lo did not reply. At length he spoke in a low voice; "I think of one, but I fear it amounts to nothing." "No good, my child, is too small to be counted when the gods are weighing a man's heart." "Last spring the birds were eating in my father's garden. My mother wanted to buy poison from the shop to destroy them, but my father said no, that the little things must live, and he for one was not in favour of killing them." "At last, Ying-lo, you have named a real deed of mercy, and as he spared the tiny birds from poison, so shall his life and the lives of your mother and brothers be restored from the deadly plague. "But remember there is one other thing that depends on you." Ying-lo's eyes glistened gratefully. "Then if it rests with me, and I can do it, you have my promise. No sacrifice should be too great for a son to make for his loved ones even though his life itself is asked in payment." "Very well, Ying-lo. What I require is that you carry out to the letter my instructions. Now it is time for me to keep my promise to you." So saying, Iron Staff called on Ying-lo to point out the members of his family, and, approaching them one by one, with the end of his iron stick he touched their foreheads. In an instant each, without a word, arose. Looking round and recognising Ying-lo, they stood back, frightened at seeing him with the fairy. When the last had risen to his feet, Iron Staff beckoned all of them to listen. This they did willingly, too much terrified to speak, for they saw on all sides signs of the plague that had swept over the vessel, and they remembered the frightful agony they had suffered in dying. Each knew that he had been lifted by some magic power from darkness into light. "My friends," began the fairy, "little did you think when less than a year ago you drove me from your door that soon you yourselves would be in need of mercy. To-day you have had a peep into the awful land of Yama. You have seen the horror of his tortures, have heard the screams of his slaves, and by another night you would have been carried before him to be judged. What power is it that has saved you from his clutches? As you look back through your wicked lives can you think of any reason why you deserved this rescue? No, there is no memory of goodness in your black hearts. Well, I shall tell you: it is this little boy, this Ying-lo, who many times has felt the weight of your wicked hands and has hidden in terror at your coming. To him alone you owe my help." Father, mother, and brothers all gazed in turn, first at the fairy and then at the timid child whose eyes fell before their looks of gratitude. "By reason of his goodness this child whom you have scorned is worthy of a place within the Western Heaven. In truth, I came this very day to lead him to that fairyland. For you, however, he wishes to make a sacrifice. With sorrow I am yielding to his wishes. His sacrifice will be that of giving up a place among the fairies and of continuing to live here on this earth with you. He will try to make a change within your household. If at any time you treat him badly and do not heed his wishes--mark you well my words--by the power of this magic staff which I shall place in his hands, he may enter at once into the land of the fairies, leaving you to die in your wickedness. This I command him to do, and he has promised to obey my slightest wish. "This plague took you off suddenly and ended your wicked lives. Ying-lo has raised you from its grasp and his power can lift you from the bed of sin. No other hand than his can bear the rod which I am leaving. If one of you but touch it, instantly he will fall dead upon the ground. "And now, my child, the time has come for me to leave you. First, however, I must show you what you are now able to do. Around you lie the corpses of sailors and passengers. Tap three times upon the mast and wish that they shall come to life," So saying he handed Ying-lo the iron staff. Although the magic rod was heavy, the child lifted it as if it were a fairy's wand. Then, stepping forward to the mast, he rapped three times as he had been commanded. Immediately on all sides arose the bodies, once more full of life and strength. "Now command the ship to take you back to your home port, for such sinful creatures as these are in no way fit to make a journey among strangers. They must first return and free their homes of sin." Again rapping on the mast, the child willed the great vessel to take its homeward course. No sooner had he moved the staff than, like a bird wheeling in the heavens, the bark swung round and started on the return journey. Swifter than a flash of lightning flew the boat, for it was now become a fairy vessel. Before the sailors and the travellers could recover from their surprise, land was sighted and they saw that they were indeed entering the harbour. Just as the ship was darting toward the shore the fairy suddenly, with a parting word to Ying-lo, changed into a flaming ball of fire which rolled along the deck and ascended the spars. Then, as it reached the top of the rigging, it floated off into the blue sky, and all on board, speechless with surprise, watched it until it vanished. With a cry of thanksgiving, Ying-lo flung his arms about his parents and descended with them to the shore. THE WOODEN TABLET [Illustration] "Yes, my boy, whatever happens, be sure to save that tablet. It is the only thing we have left worth keeping." K'ang-p'u's father was just setting out for the city, to be gone all day. He had been telling K'ang-p'u about some work in the little garden, for the boy was a strong and willing helper. "All right, father, I'll do what you tell me; but suppose the foreign soldiers should come while you are gone? I heard that they were over at T'ang Shu yesterday and burned the village. If they should come here, what must I do?" Mr. Lin laughed heartily. "Why, there's nothing here for them to burn, if it comes to that!--a mud house, a grass roof, and a pile of ragged bedding. Surely they won't bother my little hut. It's loot they're after--money--or something they can sell." "But, father," persisted the boy, "haven't you forgotten? Surely you wouldn't wish them to burn your father's tablet?" "Quite right; for the moment I did forget. Yes, yes, my boy, whatever happens be sure to save the tablet. It is the only thing we have worth keeping." With that, Mr. Lin went out at the gate, leaving K'ang-p'u standing all alone. The little fellow was scarcely twelve years old. He had a bright, sunny face and a happy heart. Being left by himself did not mean tears and idleness for him. He went into the poor little house and stood for a moment looking earnestly at the wooden tablet. It was on a shelf in the one-roomed shanty, an oblong piece of wood about twelve inches high, enclosed in a wooden case. Through the carved screen work in the front, K'ang-p'u could see his grandfather's name written in Chinese characters on the tablet. Ever since babyhood K'ang-p'u had been taught to look at this piece of wood with a feeling of reverence. "Your grandfather's spirit is inside," his father had said one day. "You must worship his spirit, for he was a good man, far better than your dad. If I had obeyed him in all things, I, his only son, should not now be living in this miserable hut." "But didn't he live here, too?" asked K'ang-p'u in surprise. "Oh, no, we lived in a big house over yonder in another village; in a big house with a high stone wall." The little fellow had gasped with surprise at hearing this, for there was not such a thing as a stone wall in his village, and he felt that his grandfather must have been a rich man. He had not asked any more questions, but from that day on he had been rather afraid of the carved wooden box in which his grandfather's spirit was supposed to live. So, on this day when his father left him alone, the boy stood looking at the tablet, wondering how a big man's spirit could squeeze into such a small space. He put out his finger cautiously and touched the bottom of the box, then drew back, half-frightened at his own daring. No bad results followed. It seemed just like any other piece of wood. Somewhat puzzled, he walked out of the house into the little garden. His father had told him to re-set some young cabbages. This was work which K'ang-p'u had done many times before. First, he gathered a basket of chicken feathers, for his father had told him that a few feathers placed at the roots of the young plant would do more to make it strong and healthy than anything else that could be used. All day K'ang-p'u worked steadily in the garden. He was just beginning to feel tired, when he heard a woman screaming in the distance. He dropped his basket and rushed to the gate. Down the road at the far side of the village he saw a crowd of women and children running hither and thither, and--yes! there were the soldiers--the dreaded foreign soldiers! They were burning the houses; they were stealing whatever they could find. Now, most boys would have been frightened--would have taken to their heels without thought of consequences. K'ang-p'u, however, though like other lads afraid of soldiers, was too brave to run without first doing his duty. He decided to stand his ground until he was sure the foreigners were coming his way. Perhaps they would grow tired of their cruel sport and leave the little house unharmed. He watched with wide-open eyes the work of pillage. Alas! these men did not seem to tire of their amusement. One after another the houses were entered and robbed. Women were screaming and children crying. Nearly all the village men were away in a distant market town, for none of them had expected an attack. Nearer and nearer came the robbers. At last they were next door to K'ang-p'u's hut, and he knew the time had come for him to do his duty. Seizing the basket of chicken feathers, he rushed into the house, snatched the precious tablet from the shelf, and hid it in the bottom of the basket. Then, without stopping to say good-bye to the spot which he had known all his life, he rushed out of the gate and down the narrow street. "Kill the kid!" shouted a soldier, whom K'ang-p'u nearly ran against in his hurry. "Put down the basket, boy! No stealing here." "Yes, kill him!" shouted another with a loud laugh; "he'd make a good bit of bacon." But no one touched him, and K'ang-p'u, still holding tightly to his burden, was soon far out on the winding road among the cornfields. If they should follow, he thought of hiding among the giant cornstalks. His legs were tired now, and he sat down under a stone memorial arch near some crossroads to rest. Where was he going, and what should he do? These were the questions that filled the boy's whirling little brain. First, he must find out if the soldiers were really destroying all the houses in his village. Perhaps some of them would not be burned and he could return at night to join his father. After several failures he managed to climb one of the stone pillars and from the arch above he could get a good view of the surrounding country. Over to the west was his village. His heart beat fast when he saw that a great cloud of smoke was rising from the houses. Clearly, the thieves were making quick work of the place, and soon there would be nothing left but piles of mud, brick, ashes and other rubbish. Night came on. K'ang-p'u clambered down from his stone perch. He was beginning to feel hungry, and yet he dared not turn back towards home. And besides, would not all the other villagers be hungry, too? He lay down at the foot of the stone monument, placing the basket within reach at one side. Soon he fell fast asleep. How long he had been sleeping he never knew; but it was not yet day when he awoke with a start and looked round him in the moonlight. Some one had called him distinctly by name. At first, he thought it must have been his father's voice; and then as he grew wider and wider awake he knew this could not be, for the voice sounded like that of an old man. K'ang-p'u looked round in amazement, first at the stone columns, then at the arch above. No one was to be seen. Had he been dreaming? Just as he lay back to sleep once more, the voice sounded again very faintly, "K'ang-p'u! K'ang-p'u! why don't you let me out? I can't breathe under all these feathers." Quick as a flash he knew what was the matter. Burying his hand in the basket, he seized the wooden tablet, drew it from its hiding-place, and stood it up on the stone base. Wonder of wonders! There before his very eyes he saw a tiny fellow, not six inches high, sitting on top of the wooden upright and dangling his legs over the front of the tablet. The dwarf had a long grey beard, and K'ang-p'u, without looking twice, knew that this was the spirit of his dead grandfather come to life and clothed with flesh and blood. "Ho, ho!" said the small man, laughing, "so you thought you'd bury your old grandfather in feathers, did you? A soft enough grave, but rather smelly." "But, sir," cried K'ang-p'u, "I had to do it, to save you from the soldiers! They were just about to burn our house and you in it." "There, there, my boy! don't be uneasy. I am not scolding you. You did the best you could for your old gran'ther. If you had been like most lads, you would have taken to your heels and left me to those sea-devils who were sacking the village. There is no doubt about it: you saved me from a second death much more terrible than the first one." K'ang-p'u shuddered, for he knew that his grandfather had been killed in battle. He had heard his father tell the story many times. "Now, what do you propose doing about it?" asked the old man finally, looking straight into the boy's face. "Doing about it, sir? Why, really, I don't know. I thought that perhaps in the morning the soldiers would be gone and I could carry you back. Surely my father will be looking for me." "What! looking for you in the ashes? And what could he do if he did find you? Your house is burned, your chickens carried away and your cabbages trampled underfoot. A sorry home he will return to. You would be just one more mouth to feed. No! that plan will never do. If your father thinks you are dead, he will go off to another province to get work. That would save him from starvation." "But what am I to do?" wailed poor K'ang-p'u. "I don't want him to leave me all alone!" "All alone! What! don't you count your old grand-daddy? Surely you are not a very polite youngster, even if you did save me from burning to death." "Count you?" repeated the boy, surprised. "Why, surely you can't help me to earn a living?" "Why not, boy? Is this an age when old men are good for nothing?" "But, sir, you are only the _spirit_ of my grandfather, and spirits cannot work!" "Ha, ha! just hear the child. Why, look you, I will show you what spirits can do, provided you will do exactly what I tell you." Of course, K'ang-p'u promised, for he was always obedient; and was not this little man who spoke so strangely, the spirit of his grandfather? And is not every lad in China taught to honour his ancestors? "Now, listen, my boy. First, let me say that if you had not been kind, brave and filial, I should not take the trouble to help you out of your misfortune. As it is, there is nothing else for me to do. I cast your father off because he was disobedient. He has lived in a dirty hovel ever since. Doubtless, he has been sorry for his misdeeds, for I see that although he was disgraced by being sent away from the family home, he has taught you to honour and love me. Most boys would have snatched up a blanket or a piece of bread before running from the enemy, but you thought only of my tablet. You saved me and went to bed hungry. For this bravery, I shall give back to you the home of your ancestors." "But I can't live in it," said K'ang-p'u, full of wonder, "if you will not let my father come back to it. If he goes away he will have a very hard time: he will be lonely without me, and may die; and then I would not be able to take care of his grave, or to burn incense there at the proper season!" "Quite right, K'ang-p'u. I see you love your father as well as your grandfather's tablet. Very well; you shall have your way. I daresay your father is sorry by this time that he treated me so badly." "Indeed, he must be," said the boy earnestly, "for I have seen him kneel before your tablet many times and burn incense there on the proper days. I know he is very sorry." "Very well; go to sleep again. Let us wait until morning and then I shall see what I can do for you. This moonlight is not bright enough for my old eyes. I shall have to wait for morning." As he spoke these last words, the little man began to grow smaller and smaller before the eyes of his grandson, until at last he had altogether disappeared. At first, K'ang-p'u was too much excited to close his eyes. He remained for a time looking up into the starry sky and wondering if what he had heard would really come true, or whether he could have dreamt the whole story of his grandfather's coming to life again. Could it really be that the old family property would be given back to his father? He remembered now that he had once heard his father speak of having lived in a large house on a beautiful compound. It was just before K'ang-p'u's mother had been carried away by the fever. As she had lain tossing upon the rude stone bed, with none of those comforts which are so necessary for the sick, K'ang-p'u remembered that his father had said to her: "What a shame that we are not living in my father's house! There you might have had every luxury. It is all my fault; I disobeyed my father." Soon after that his mother had died, but K'ang-p'u had remembered those words ever since, and had often wished that he could hear more about this house where his father had spent his boyhood. Could it be possible that they would soon be living in it? No, surely there must be some mistake: the night fairies of his dreams had been deceiving him. With a sigh he closed his eyes and once more fell asleep. * * * * * When K'ang-p'u next awoke, the sun was shining full in his face. He looked around him, sleepily rubbing his eyes and trying to remember all that had happened. Suddenly he thought of the tablet and of his grandfather's appearance at midnight. But, strange to say, the basket had disappeared with all its contents. The tablet was nowhere to be seen, and even the stone arch under which he had gone to sleep had completely vanished. Alas! his grandfather's tablet--how poorly he had guarded it! What terrible thing would happen now that it was gone! K'ang-p'u stood up and looked round him in trembling surprise. What could have taken place while he was sleeping? At first, he did not know what to do. Fortunately, the path through the corn was still there, and he decided to return to the village and see if he could find any trace of his father. His talk with the old man must have been only an idle dream, and some thief must have carried off the basket. If only the stone arch had not vanished K'ang-p'u would not have been so perplexed. He hurried along the narrow road, trying to forget the empty stomach which was beginning to cry for food. If the soldiers were still in the village, surely they would not hurt an empty-handed little boy. More than likely they had gone the day before. If he could only find his father! Now he crossed the little brook where the women came to rub their clothes upon the rocks. There was the big mulberry tree where the boys used to gather leaves for their silkworms. Another turn of the road and he would see the village. When K'ang-p'u passed round the corner and looked for the ruins of the village hovels, an amazing sight met his gaze. There, rising directly before him, was a great stone wall, like those he had seen round the rich people's houses when his father had taken him to the city. The great gate stood wide open, and the keeper, rushing out, exclaimed: "Ah! the little master has come!" Completely bewildered, the boy followed the servant through the gateway, passed through several wide courts, and then into a garden where flowers and strangely-twisted trees were growing. This, then, was the house which his grandfather had promised him--the home of his ancestors. Ah! how beautiful! how beautiful! Many men and women servants bowed low as he passed, saluting with great respect and crying out: "Yes, it is really the little master! He has come back to his own!" K'ang-p'u, seeing how well dressed the servants were, felt much ashamed of his own ragged garments, and put up his hands to hide a torn place. What was his amazement to find that he was no longer clad in soiled, ragged clothes, that he was dressed in the handsomest embroidered silk. From head to foot he was fitted out like the young Prince his father had pointed out to him one day in the city. Then they entered a magnificent reception-hall on the other side of the garden. K'ang-p'u could not keep back his tears, for there stood his father waiting to meet him. "My boy! my boy!" cried the father, "you have come back to me. I feared you had been stolen away for ever." "Oh, no!" said K'ang-p'u, "you have not lost me, but I have lost the tablet. A thief came and took it last night while I was sleeping." "Lost the tablet! A thief! Why, no, my son, you are mistaken! There it is, just before you." K'ang-p'u looked, and saw standing on a handsome carved table the very thing he had mourned as lost. As he stared in surprise he almost expected to see the tiny figure swinging its legs over the top, and to hear the high-pitched voice of his grandfather. "Yes, it is really the lost tablet!" he cried joyfully. "How glad I am it is back in its rightful place once more." Then father and son fell upon their knees before the wooden emblem, and bowed reverently nine times to the floor, thanking the spirit for all it had done for them. When they arose their hearts were full of a new happiness. THE GOLDEN NUGGET [Illustration] Once upon a time many, many years ago, there lived in China two friends named Ki-wu and Pao-shu. These two young men, like Damon and Pythias, loved each other and were always together. No cross words passed between them; no unkind thoughts marred their friendship. Many an interesting tale might be told of their unselfishness, and of how the good fairies gave them the true reward of virtue. One story alone, however, will be enough to show how strong was their affection and their goodness. It was a bright beautiful day in early spring when Ki-wu and Pao-shu set out for a stroll together, for they were tired of the city and its noises. "Let us go into the heart of the pine forest," said Ki-wu lightly. "There we can forget the cares that worry us; there we can breathe the sweetness of the flowers and lie on the moss-covered ground." "Good!" said Pao-shu, "I, too, am tired. The forest is the place for rest." Happy as two lovers on a holiday, they passed along the winding road, their eyes turned in longing toward the distant tree-tops. Their hearts beat fast in youthful pleasure as they drew nearer and nearer to the woods. "For thirty days I have worked over my books," sighed Ki-wu. "For thirty days I have not had a rest. My head is stuffed so full of wisdom, that I am afraid it will burst. Oh, for a breath of the pure air blowing through the greenwood." "And I," added Pao-shu sadly, "have worked like a slave at my counter and found it just as dull as you have found your books. My master treats me badly. It seems good, indeed, to get beyond his reach." Now they came to the border of the grove, crossed a little stream, and plunged headlong among the trees and shrubs. For many an hour they rambled on, talking and laughing merrily; when suddenly on passing round a clump of flower-covered bushes, they saw shining in the pathway directly in front of them a lump of gold. "See!" said both, speaking at the same time, and pointing toward the treasure. [Illustration: "THEY SAW SHINING IN THE PATHWAY, DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF THEM, A LUMP OF GOLD."] Ki-wu, stooping, picked up the nugget. It was nearly as large as a lemon, and was very pretty. "It is yours, my dear friend," said he, at the same time handing it to Pao-shu; "yours because you saw it first." "No, no," answered Pao-shu, "you are wrong, my brother, for you were first to speak. Now, you can never say hereafter that the good fairies have not rewarded you for all your faithful hours of study." "Repaid me for my study! Why, that is impossible. Are not the wise men always saying that study brings its own reward? No, the gold is yours: I insist upon it. Think of your weeks of hard labour--of the masters that have ground you to the bone! Here is something far better. Take it," laughing. "May it be the nest egg by means of which you may hatch out a great fortune." Thus they joked for some minutes, each refusing to take the treasure for himself; each insisting that it belonged to the other. At last, the chunk of gold was dropped in the very spot where they had first spied it, and the two comrades went away, each happy because he loved his friend better than anything else in the world. Thus they turned their backs on any chance of quarrelling. "It was not for gold that we left the city," exclaimed Ki-wu warmly. "No," replied his friend, "One day in this forest is worth a thousand nuggets." "Let us go to the spring and sit down on the rocks," suggested Ki-wu. "It is the coolest spot in the whole grove." When they reached the spring they were sorry to find the place already occupied. A countryman was stretched at full length on the ground. "Wake up, fellow!" cried Pao-shu, "there is money for you near by. Up yonder path a golden apple is waiting for some man to go and pick it up." Then they described to the unwelcome stranger the exact spot where the treasure was, and were delighted to see him set out in eager search. For an hour they enjoyed each other's company, talking of all the hopes and ambitions of their future, and listening to the music of the birds that hopped about on the branches overhead. At last they were startled by the angry voice of the man who had gone after the nugget. "What trick is this you have played on me, masters? Why do you make a poor man like me run his legs off for nothing on a hot day?" "What do you mean, fellow?" asked Ki-wu, astonished. "Did you not find the fruit we told you about?" "No," he answered, in a tone of half-hidden rage, "but in its place a monster snake, which I cut in two with my blade. Now, the gods will bring me bad luck for killing something in the woods. If you thought you could drive me from this place by such a trick, you'll soon find you were mistaken, for I was first upon this spot and you have no right to give me orders." "Stop your chatter, bumpkin, and take this copper for your trouble. We thought we were doing you a favour. If you are blind, there's no one but yourself to blame. Come, Pao-shu, let us go back and have a look at this wonderful snake that has been hiding in a chunk of gold." Laughing merrily, the two companions left the countryman and turned back in search of the nugget. "If I am not mistaken," said the student, "the gold lies beyond that fallen tree." "Quite true; we shall soon see the dead snake." Quickly they crossed the remaining stretch of pathway, with their eyes fixed intently on the ground. Arriving at the spot where they had left the shining treasure, what was their surprise to see, not the lump of gold, not the dead snake described by the idler, but, instead, two beautiful golden nuggets, each larger than the one they had seen at first. Each friend picked up one of these treasures and handed it joyfully to his companion. "At last the fairies have rewarded you for your unselfishness!" said Ki-wu. "Yes," answered Pao-shu, "by granting me a chance to give you your deserts." THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT SCOLD [Illustration] Old Wang lived in a village near Nanking. He cared for nothing in the world but to eat good food and plenty of it. Now, though this Wang was by no means a poor man, it made him very sad to spend money, and so people called him in sport, the Miser King, for Wang is the Chinese word for king. His greatest pleasure was to eat at some one else's table when he knew that the food would cost him nothing, and you may be sure that at such times he always licked his chopsticks clean. But when he was spending his own money, he tightened his belt and drank a great deal of water, eating very little but scraps such as his friends would have thrown to the dogs. Thus people laughed at him and said: "When Wang an invitation gets, He chews and chews until he sweats, But, when his own food he must eat. The tears flow down and wet his feet." One day while Wang was lying half asleep on the bank of a stream that flowed near his house he began to feel hungry. He had been in that spot all day without tasting anything. At last he saw a flock of ducks swimming in the river. He knew that they belonged to a rich man named Lin who lived in the village. They were fat ducks, so plump and tempting that it made him hungry to look at them. "Oh, for a boiled duck!" he said to himself with a sigh. "Why is it that the gods have not given me a taste of duck during the past year? What have I done to be thus denied?" Then the thought flashed into his mind: "Here am I asking why the gods have not given me ducks to eat. Who knows but that they have sent this flock thinking I would have sense enough to grab one? Friend Lin, many thanks for your kindness. I think I shall accept your offer and take one of these fowls for my dinner." Of course Mr. Lin was nowhere near to hear old Wang thanking him. By this time the flock had come to shore. The miser picked himself up lazily from the ground, and, after tiring himself out, he at last managed to pick one of the ducks up, too. He took it home joyfully, hiding it under his ragged garment. Once in his own yard, he lost no time in killing and preparing it for dinner. He ate it, laughing to himself all the time at his own slyness, and wondering what his friend Lin would think if he chanced to count his ducks that night. "No doubt he will believe it was a giant hawk that carried off that bird," he said, chuckling. "My word! but didn't I do a great trick? I think I will repeat the dose to-morrow. The first duck is well lodged in my stomach, and I am ready to take an oath that all the others will find a bed in the same boarding-house before many weeks are past. It would be a pity to leave the first one to pine away in lonely grief. I could never be so cruel." So old Wang went to bed happy. For several hours he snored away noisily, dreaming that a certain rich man had promised him good food all the rest of his life, and that he would never be forced to do another stroke of work. At midnight, however, he was wakened from his sleep by an unpleasant itching. His whole body seemed to be on fire, and the pain was more than he could bear. He got up and paced the floor. There was no oil in the house for his lamp, and he had to wait until morning to see what was the matter. At early dawn he stepped outside his shanty. Lo, and behold! he found little red spots all over his body. Before his very eyes he saw tiny duck feathers sprouting from these spots. As the morning went by, the feathers grew larger and larger, until his whole body was covered with them from head to foot. Only his face and hands were free of the strange growth. With a cry of horror, Wang began to pull the feathers out by handfuls, flinging them in the dirt and stamping on them. "The gods have fooled me!" he yelled. "They made me take the duck and eat it, and now they are punishing me for stealing." But the faster he jerked the feathers out, the faster they grew in again, longer and more glossy than before. Then, too, the pain was so great that he could scarcely keep from rolling on the ground. At last completely worn out by his useless labour, and moaning with despair, he took to his bed. "Am I to be changed into a bird?" he groaned. "May the gods have mercy on me!" He tossed about on his bed: he could not sleep; his heart was sick with fear. Finally he fell into a troubled sleep, and, sleeping, had a dream. A fairy came to his bedside; it was Fairy Old Boy, the friend of the people. "Ah, my poor Wang," said the fairy, "all this trouble you have brought upon yourself by your shiftless, lazy habits. When others work, why do you lie down and sleep your time away? Why don't you get up and shake your lazy legs? There is no place in the world for such a man as you except the pig-sty." "I know you are telling the truth," wailed Wang, "but how, oh, how can I ever work with all these feathers sticking out of me? They will kill me! They will kill me!" "Hear the man!" laughed Old Boy. "Now, if you were a hopeful, happy fellow, you would say, 'What a stroke of luck! No need to buy garments. The gods have given me a suit of clothes that will never wear out.' You are a pretty fellow to be complaining, aren't you?" After joking in this way for a little while, the good fairy changed his tone of voice and said, "Now, Wang, are you really sorry for the way you have lived, sorry for your years of idleness, sorry because you disgraced your old Father and Mother? I hear your parents died of hunger because you would not help them." Wang, seeing that Old Boy knew all about his past life, and, feeling his pain growing worse and worse every minute, cried out at last: "Yes! Yes! I will do anything you say. Only, I pray you, free me of these feathers!" "I wouldn't have your feathers," said Old Boy, "and I cannot free you of them. You will have to do the whole thing yourself. What you need is to hear a good scolding. Go and get Mr. Lin, the owner of the stolen duck, to scold freely. The harder he scolds, the sooner will your feathers drop out." Now, of course, some readers will laugh and say, "But this was only a silly dream, and meant nothing." Mr. Wang, however, did not think in this way. He woke up very happy. He would go to Mr. Lin, confess everything and take the scolding. Then he would be free of his feathers and would go to work. Truly he had led a lazy life. What the good Fairy Old Boy had said about his father and mother had hurt him very badly, for he knew that every word was true. From this day on, he would not be lazy; he would take a wife and become the father of a family. Miser Wang meant all right when he started out from his shanty. From his little hoard of money he took enough cash to pay Mr. Lin for the stolen duck. He would do everything the fairy had told him and even more. But this doing more was just where he got into trouble. As he walked along the road jingling the string of cash, and thinking that he must soon give it up to his neighbour, he grew very sad. He loved every copper of his money and he disliked to part with it. After all, Old Boy had not told him he must confess to the owner of the duck; he had said he must go to Lin and get Lin to give a good scolding. "Old Boy did not say that Lin must scold _me_," thought the miser. "All that I need do is to get him to _scold_, and then my feathers will drop off and I shall be happy. Why not tell him that old Sen stole his duck, and get him to give Sen a scolding? That will surely do just as well, and I shall save my money as well as my face. Besides, if I tell Lin that I am a thief, perhaps he will send for a policeman and they will haul me off to prison. Surely going to jail would be as bad as wearing feathers. Ha, ha! This will be a good joke on Sen, Lin, and the whole lot of them. I shall fool Fairy Old Boy too. Really he had no right to speak of my father and mother in the way he did. After all, they died of fever, and I was no doctor to cure them. How could he say it was my fault?" The longer Wang talked to himself, the surer he became that it was useless to tell Lin that he had stolen the duck. By the time he had reached the duck man's house he had fully made up his mind to deceive him. Mr. Lin invited him to come in and sit down. He was a plain-spoken, honest kind of man, this Lin. Everybody liked him, for he never spoke ill of any man and he always had something good to say of his neighbours. "Well, what's your business, friend Wang? You have come out bright and early, and it's a long walk from your place to mine." "Oh, I had something important I wanted to talk to you about," began Wang slyly. "That's a fine flock of ducks you have over in the meadow." "Yes," said Mr. Lin smiling, "a fine flock indeed." But he said nothing of the stolen fowl. "How many have you?" questioned Wang more boldly. "I counted them yesterday morning and there were fifteen." "But did you count them again last night?" "Yes, I did," answered Lin slowly. "And there were only fourteen then?" "Quite right, friend Wang, one of them was missing; but one duck is of little importance. Why do you speak of it?" "What, no importance! losing a duck? How can you say so? A duck's a duck, isn't it, and surely you would like to know how you lost it?" "A hawk most likely." "No, it wasn't a hawk, but if you would go and look in old Sen's duck yard, you would likely find feathers." "Nothing more natural, I am sure, in a duck yard." "Yes, but your duck's feathers," persisted Wang. "What! you think old Sen is a thief, do you, and that he has been stealing from me?" "Exactly! you have it now." "Well, well, that is too bad! I am sorry the old fellow is having such a hard time. He is a good worker and deserves better luck. I should willingly have given him the duck if he had only asked for it. Too bad that he had to steal it." Wang waited to see how Mr. Lin planned to punish the thief, feeling sure that the least he could do, would be to go and give him a good scolding. But nothing of the kind happened. Instead of growing angry, Mr. Lin seemed to be sorry for Sen, sorry that he was poor, sorry that he was willing to steal. "Aren't you even going to give him a scolding?" asked Wang in disgust. "Better go to his house with me and give him a good raking over the coals." "What use, what use? Hurt a neighbour's feelings just for a duck? That would be foolish indeed." By this time the Miser King had begun to feel an itching all over his body. The feathers had begun hurting again, and he was frightened once more. He became excited and threw himself on the floor in front of Mr. Lin. "Hey! what's the matter, man?" cried Lin, thinking Wang was in a fit. "What's the matter? Are you ill?" "Yes, very ill," wailed Wang. "Mr. Lin, I'm a bad man, and I may as well own it at once and be done with it. There is no use trying to dodge the truth or hide a fault. I stole your duck last night, and to-day I came sneaking over here and tried to put the thing off on old Sen." "Yes, I knew it," answered Lin. "I saw you carrying the duck off under your garment. Why did you come to see me at all if you thought I did not know you were guilty?" "Only wait, and I'll tell you everything," said Wang, bowing still lower. "After I had boiled your duck and eaten it, I went to bed. Pretty soon I felt an itching all over my body. I could not sleep and in the morning I found that I had a thick growth of duck's feathers from head to foot. The more I pulled them out, the thicker they grew in. I could hardly keep from screaming. I took to my bed, and after I had tossed about for hours a fairy came and told me that I could never get rid of my trouble unless I got you to give me a thorough scolding. Here is the money for your duck. Now for the love of mercy, scold, and do it quickly, for I can't stand the pain much longer." Wang was grovelling in the dirt at Lin's feet, but Lin answered him only with a loud laugh which finally burst into a roar. "Duck feathers! ha! ha! ha! and all over your body? Why, that's too good a story to believe! You'll be wanting to live in the water next. Ha! Ha! Ha!" "Scold me! scold me!" begged Wang, "for the love of the gods scold me!" But Lin only laughed the louder. "Pray let me see this wonderful growth of feathers first, and then we'll talk about the scolding." Wang willingly opened his garment and showed the doubting Lin that he had been really speaking the truth. "They must be warm," said Lin, laughing. "Winter is soon coming and you are not over fond of work. Won't they save you the trouble of wearing clothing?" "But they make me itch so I can scarcely stand it! I feel like screaming out, the pain is so great," and again Wang got down and began to kowtow to the other; that is, he knelt and bumped his forehead against the ground. "Be calm, my friend, and give me time to think of some good scold-words," said Lin at last. "I am not in the habit of using strong language, and very seldom lose my temper. Really you must give me time to think of what to say." By this time Wang was in such pain that he lost all power over himself. He seized Mr. Lin by the legs crying out, "Scold me! scold me!" Mr. Lin was now out of patience with his visitor. Besides Wang was holding him so tightly that it really felt as if Lin were being pinched by some gigantic crawfish. Suddenly Lin could hold his tongue no longer: "You lazy hound! you whelp! you turtle! you lazy, good-for-nothing creature! I wish you would hurry up and roll out of this!" Now, in China, this is very strong language, and, with a cry of joy, Wang leaped from the ground, for he knew that Lin had scolded him. No sooner had the first hasty words been spoken than the feathers began falling from the lazy man's body, and, at last, the dreadful itching had entirely stopped. On the floor in front of Lin lay a great pile of feathers, and Wang freed from his trouble, pointed to them and said, "Thank you kindly, my dear friend, for the pretty names you have called me. You have saved my life, and, although I have paid for the duck, I wish to add to the bargain by making you a present of these handsome feathers. They will, in a measure, repay you for your splendid set of scold-words. I have learned my lesson well, I hope, and I shall go out from here a better man. Fairy Old Boy told me that I was lazy. You agree with the fairy. From this day, however, you shall see that I can bend my back like a good fellow. Good-bye, and, many thanks for your kindness." So saying, with many low bows and polite words, Wang left the duck owner's house, a happier and a wiser man. LU-SAN, DAUGHTER OF HEAVEN [Illustration] Lu-san went to bed without any supper, but her little heart was hungry for something more than food. She nestled up close beside her sleeping brothers, but even in their slumber they seemed to deny her that love which she craved. The gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the houseboat, music which had so often lulled her into dreamland, could not quiet her now. Scorned and treated badly by the entire family, her short life had been full of grief and shame. Lu-san's father was a fisherman. His life had been one long fight against poverty. He was ignorant and wicked. He had no more feeling of love for his wife and five children than for the street dogs of his native city. Over and over he had threatened to drown them one and all, and had been prevented from doing so only by fear of the new mandarin. His wife did not try to stop her husband when he sometimes beat the children until they fell half dead upon the deck. In fact, she herself was cruel to them, and often gave the last blow to Lu-san, her only daughter. Not on one day in the little girl's memory had she escaped this daily whipping, not once had her parents pitied her. On the night with which this story opens, not knowing that Lu-san was listening, her father and mother were planning how to get rid of her. "The mandarin cares only about boys," said he roughly. "A man might kill a dozen girls and he wouldn't say a word." "Lu-san's no good anyway," added the mother. "Our boat is small, and she's always in the wrong place." "Yes, and it takes as much to feed her as if she were a boy. If you say so, I'll do it this very night." "All right," she answered, "but you'd better wait till the moon has set." "Very well, wife, we'll let the moon go down first, and then the girl." No wonder Lu-san's little heart beat fast with terror, for there could be no doubt as to the meaning of her parents' words. At last when she heard them snoring and knew they were both sound asleep, she got up silently, dressed herself, and climbed the ladder leading to the deck. Only one thought was in her heart, to save herself by instant flight. There were no extra clothes, not a bite of food to take with her. Besides the rags on her back there was only one thing she could call her own, a tiny soapstone image of the goddess Kwan-yin, which she had found one day while walking in the sand. This was the only treasure and plaything of her childhood, and if she had not watched carefully, her mother would have taken even this away from her. Oh, how she had nursed this idol, and how closely she had listened to the stories an old priest had told about Kwan-yin the Goddess of Mercy, the best friend of women and children, to whom they might always pray in time of trouble. It was very dark when Lu-san raised the trapdoor leading to the outer air, and looked out into the night. The moon had just gone down, and frogs were croaking along the shore. Slowly and carefully she pushed against the door, for she was afraid that the wind coming in suddenly might awaken the sleepers or, worse still, cause her to let the trap fall with a bang. At last, however, she stood on the deck, alone and ready to go out into the big world. As she stepped to the side of the boat the black water did not make her feel afraid, and she went ashore without the slightest tremble. Now she ran quickly along the bank, shrinking back into the shadows whenever she heard the noise of footsteps, and thus hiding from the passers-by. Only once did her heart quake, full of fear. A huge boat dog ran out at her barking furiously. The snarling beast, however, was not dangerous, and when he saw this trembling little girl of ten he sniffed in disgust at having noticed any one so small, and returned to watch his gate. Lu-san had made no plans. She thought that if she could escape the death her parents had talked about, they would be delighted at her leaving them and would not look for her. It was not, then, her own people that she feared as she passed the rows of dark houses lining the shore. She had often heard her father tell of the dreadful deeds done in many of these houseboats. The darkest memory of her childhood was of the night when he had almost decided to sell her as a slave to the owner of a boat like these she was now passing. Her mother had suggested that they should wait until Lu-san was a little older, for she would then be worth more money. So her father had not sold her. Lately, perhaps, he had tried and failed. That was why she hated the river dwellers and was eager to get past their houses. On and on she sped as fast as her little legs could carry her. She would flee far away from the dark water, for she loved the bright sunshine and the land. As Lu-san ran past the last houseboat she breathed a sigh of relief and a minute later fell in a little heap upon the sand. Not until now had she noticed how lonely it was. Over there was the great city with its thousands of sleepers. Not one of them was her friend. She knew nothing of friendship, for she had had no playmates. Beyond lay the open fields, the sleeping villages, the unknown world. Ah, how tired she was! How far she had run! Soon, holding the precious image tightly in her little hand and whispering a childish prayer to Kwan-yin, she fell asleep. When Lu-san awoke, a cold chill ran through her body, for bending over her stood a strange person. Soon she saw to her wonder that it was a woman dressed in beautiful clothes like those worn by a princess. The child had never seen such perfect features or so fair a face. At first, conscious of her own filthy rags, she shrank back fearfully, wondering what would happen if this beautiful being should chance to touch her and thus soil those slender white fingers. As the child lay there trembling on the ground, she felt as if she would like to spring into the fairy creature's arms and beg for mercy. Only the fear that the lovely one would vanish kept her from so doing. Finally, unable to hold back any longer, the little girl, bending forward, stretched out her hand to the woman, saying, "Oh, you are so beautiful! Take this, for it must be you who lost it in the sand." The princess took the soapstone figure, eyed it curiously, and then with a start of surprise said, "And do you know, my little creature, to whom you are thus giving your treasure?" "No," answered the child simply, "but it is the only thing I have in all the world, and you are so lovely that I know it belongs to you. I found it on the river bank." Then a strange thing happened. The graceful, queenly woman bent over, and held out her arms to the ragged, dirty child. With a cry of joy the little one sprang forward; she had found the love for which she had been looking so long. "My precious child, this little stone which you have kept so lovingly, and which without a thought of self you have given to me--do you know of whom it is the image?" "Yes," answered Lu-san, the colour coming to her cheeks again as she snuggled up contentedly in her new friend's warm embrace, "it is the dear goddess Kwan-yin, she who makes the children happy." "And has this gracious goddess brought sunshine into your life, my pretty one?" said the other, a slight flush covering her fair cheeks at the poor child's innocent words. "Oh, yes indeed; if it had not been for her I should not have escaped to-night. My father would have killed me, but the good lady of heaven listened to my prayer and bade me stay awake. She told me to wait until he was sleeping, then to arise and leave the houseboat." "And where are you going, Lu-san, now that you have left your father? Are you not afraid to be alone here at night on the bank of this great river?" "No, oh no! for the blessed mother will shield me. She has heard my prayers, and I know she will show me where to go." The lady clasped Lu-san still more tightly, and something glistened in her radiant eye. A tear-drop rolled down her cheek and fell upon the child's head, but Lu-san did not see it, for she had fallen fast asleep in her protector's arms. When Lu-san awoke, she was lying all alone on her bed in the houseboat, but, strange to say, she was not frightened at finding herself once more near her parents. A ray of sunlight came in, lighting up the child's face and telling her that a new day had dawned. At last she heard the sound of low voices, but she did not know who were the speakers. Then as the tones grew louder she knew that her parents were talking. Their speech, however, seemed to be less harsh than usual, as if they were near the bed of some sleeper whom they did not wish to wake. "Why," said her father, "when I bent over to lift her from the bed, there was a strange light about her face. I touched her on the arm, and at once my hand hung limp as if it had been shot. Then I heard a voice whispering in my ears, 'What! would you lay your wicked hands on one who made the tears of Kwan-yin flow? Do you not know that when she cries the gods themselves are weeping?'" "I too heard that voice," said the mother, her voice trembling; "I heard it, and it seemed as if a hundred wicked imps pricked me with spears, at every prick repeating these terrible words, 'And would you kill a daughter of the gods?'" "It is strange," he added, "to think how we had begun to hate this child, when all the time she belonged to another world than ours. How wicked we must be since we could not see her goodness." "Yes, and no doubt for every time we have struck her, a thousand blows will be given us by Yama, for our insults to the gods." Lu-san waited no longer, but rose to dress herself. Her heart was burning with love for everything around her. She would tell her parents that she forgave them, tell them how she loved them still in spite of all their wickedness. To her surprise the ragged clothes were nowhere to be seen. In place of them she found on one side of the bed the most beautiful garments. The softest of silks, bright with flowers--so lovely that she fancied they must have been taken from the garden of the gods--were ready to slip on her little body. As she dressed herself she saw with surprise that her fingers were shapely, that her skin was soft and smooth. Only the day before, her hands had been rough and cracked by hard work and the cold of winter. More and more amazed, she stooped to put on her shoes. Instead of the worn-out soiled shoes of yesterday, the prettiest little satin slippers were there all ready for her tiny feet. [Illustration: AS SHE DRESSED HERSELF SHE SAW WITH SURPRISE THAT HER FINGERS WERE SHAPELY.] Finally she climbed the rude ladder, and lo, everything she touched seemed to be changed as if by magic, like her gown. The narrow rounds of the ladder had become broad steps of polished wood, and it seemed as if she was mounting the polished stairway of some fairy-built pagoda. When she reached the deck everything was changed. The ragged patchwork which had served so long as a sail had become a beautiful sheet of canvas that rolled and floated proudly in the river breeze. Below were the dirty fishing smacks which Lu-san was used to, but here was a stately ship, larger and fairer than any she had ever dreamed of, a ship which had sprung into being as if at the touch of her feet. After searching several minutes for her parents she found them trembling in a corner, with a look of great fear on their faces. They were clad in rags, as usual, and in no way changed except that their savage faces seemed to have become a trifle softened. Lu-san drew near the wretched group and bowed low before them. Her mother tried to speak; her lips moved, but made no sound: she had been struck dumb with fear. "A goddess, a goddess!" murmured the father, bending forward three times and knocking his head on the deck. As for the brothers, they hid their faces in their hands as if dazzled by a sudden burst of sunlight. For a moment Lu-san paused. Then, stretching out her hand, she touched her father on the shoulder. "Do you not know me, father? It is Lu-san, your little daughter." The man looked at her in wonder. His whole body shook, his lips trembled, his hard brutish face had on it a strange light. Suddenly he bent far over and touched his forehead to her feet. Mother and sons followed his example. Then all gazed at her as if waiting for her command. "Speak, father," said Lu-san. "Tell me that you love me, say that you will not kill your child." "Daughter of the gods, and not of mine," he mumbled, and then paused as if afraid to continue. "What is it, father? Have no fear." "First, tell me that you forgive me." The child put her left hand upon her father's forehead and held the right above the heads of the others, "As the Goddess of Mercy has given me her favour, so I in her name bestow on you the love of heaven. Live in peace, my parents. Brothers, speak no angry words. Oh, my dear ones, let joy be yours for ever. When only love shall rule your lives, this ship is yours and all that is in it." Thus did Lu-san change her loved ones. The miserable family which had lived in poverty now found itself enjoying peace and happiness. At first they did not know how to live as Lu-san had directed. The father sometimes lost his temper and the mother spoke spiteful words; but as they grew in wisdom and courage they soon began to see that only love must rule. All this time the great boat was moving up and down the river. Its company of sailors obeyed Lu-san's slightest wish. When their nets were cast overboard they were always drawn back full of the largest, choicest fish. These fish were sold at the city markets, and soon people began to say that Lu-san was the richest person in the whole country. One beautiful day during the Second Moon, the family had just returned from the temple. It was Kwan-yin's birthday, and, led by Lu-san, they had gone gladly to do the goddess honour. They had just mounted to the vessel's deck when Lu-san's father, who had been looking off towards the west, suddenly called the family to his side. "See!" he exclaimed. "What kind of bird is that yonder in the sky?" As they looked, they saw that the strange object was coming nearer and nearer, and directly towards the ship. Every one was excited except Lu-san. She was calm, as if waiting for something she had long expected. "It is a flight of doves," cried the father in astonishment, "and they seem to be drawing something through the air." At last, as the birds flew right over the vessel, the surprised onlookers saw that floating beneath their wings was a wonderful chair, all white and gold, more dazzling even than the one they had dreamed the Emperor himself sat in on the Dragon Throne. Around each snow-white neck was fastened a long streamer of pure gold, and these silken ribbons were tied to the chair in such a manner as to hold it floating wherever its light-winged coursers chose to fly. Down, down, over the magic vessel came the empty chair, and as it descended, a shower of pure white lilies fell about the feet of Lu-san, until she, the queen of all the flowers, was almost buried. The doves hovered above her head for an instant, and then gently lowered their burden until it was just in front of her. With a farewell wave to her father and mother, Lu-san stepped into the fairy car. As the birds began to rise, a voice from the clouds spoke in tones of softest music: "Thus Kwan-yin, Mother of Mercies, rewards Lu-san, daughter of the earth. Out of the dust spring the flowers; out of the soil comes goodness. Lu-san! that tear which you drew from Kwan-yin's eye fell upon the dry ground and softened it; it touched the hearts of those who loved you not. Daughter of earth no longer, rise into the Western Heaven, there to take your place among the fairies, there to be a star within the azure realms above." As Lu-san's doves disappeared in the distant skies, a rosy light surrounded her flying car. It seemed to those who gazed in wonder that heaven's gates were opening to receive her. At last when she was gone beyond their sight, suddenly it grew dark upon the earth, and the eyes of all that looked were wet with tears. * * * * * [Transcriber's Notes: In the list of illustrations, the following typos were corrected: climed for climbed, lamp for lump. Note also that a few of the captions do not match the text on the images, this idiosyncracy is in the original and has not been corrected. On page 6 the missing word 'the' was added: "for joy at thought" became "for joy at the thought". The Front Matter in the original is unnumbered, and has been assigned i-vi for disambiguation in the HTML.] 
16539	----	HERO TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE RHINE By Lewis Spence (1874-1955) Originally published: Hero tales & legends of the Rhine. London; New York: George C. Harrap, 1915. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I�TOPOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL CHAPTER II�THE RHINE IN FOLKLORE AND LITERATURE CHAPTER III�CLEVES TO THE LÖWENBURG LEGENDS OF AIX-LA-CHAPELLE CHAPTER IV�DRACHENFELS TO RHEINSTEIN CHAPTER V�FALKENBURG TO AUERBACH CHAPTER VI�WORMS AND THE NIBELUNGENLIED CHAPTER VII�HEIDELBERG TO SÄCKINGEN Conclusion INTRODUCTION An abundance of literature exists on the subject of the Rhine and its legends, but with few exceptions the works on it which are accessible to English-speaking peoples are antiquated in spirit and verbiage, and their authors have been content to accept the first version of such legends and traditions as came their way without submitting them to any critical examination. It is claimed for this book that much of its matter was collected on the spot, or that at least most of the tales here presented were perused in other works at the scene of the occurrences related. This volume is thus something more than a mere compilation, and when it is further stated that only the most characteristic and original versions and variants of the many tales here given have gained admittance to the collection, its value will become apparent. It is, of course, no easy task to infuse a spirit of originality into matter which has already achieved such a measure of celebrity as have these wild and wondrous tales of Rhineland. But it is hoped that the treatment to which these stories have been subjected is not without a novelty of its own. One circumstance may be alluded to as characteristic of the manner of their treatment in this work. In most English books on Rhine legend the tales themselves are presented in a form so brief, succinct, and uninspiring as to rob them entirely of that mysterious glamour lacking which they become mere material by which to add to and illustrate the guide-book. The absence of the romantic spirit in most English and American compilations dealing with the Rhine legends is noteworthy, and in writing this book the author�s intention has been to supply this striking defect by retaining as much of the atmosphere of mystery so dear to the German heart as will convey to the English-speaking reader a true conception of the spirit of German legend. But it is not contended that because greater space and freedom of narrative scope than is usual has been taken by the author the volume would not prove itself an acceptable companion upon a voyage on Rhine waters undertaken in holiday times of peace. Indeed, every attempt has been made so to arrange the legends that they will illustrate a Rhine journey from sea to source�the manner in which the majority of visitors to Germany will make the voyage�and to this end the tales have been marshalled in such form that a reader sitting on the deck of a Rhine steamer may be able to peruse the legends relating to the various localities in their proper order as he passes them. There are included, however, several tales relating to places which cannot be viewed from the deck of a steamer, but which may be visited at the cost of a short inland excursion. These are such as from their celebrity could not be omitted from any work on the legends of Rhineland, but they are few in number. The historical development, folklore, poetry, and art of the Rhine-country have been dealt with in a special introductory chapter. The history of the Rhine basin is a complicated and uneven one, chiefly consisting in the rapid and perplexing rise and fall of dynasties and the alternate confiscation of one or both banks of the devoted stream to the empires of France or Germany. But the evolution of a reasoned narrative has been attempted from this chaotic material, and, so far as the author is aware, it is the only one existing in English. The folklore and romance elements in Rhine legend have been carefully examined, and the best poetic material upon the storied river has been critically collected and reviewed. To those who may one day visit the Rhine it is hoped that the volume may afford a suitable introduction to a fascinating field of travel, while to such as have already viewed its glories it may serve to renew old associations and awaken cherished memories of a river without peer or parallel in its wealth of story, its boundless mystery, and the hold which it has exercised upon all who have lingered by the hero-trodden paths that wind among its mysterious promontories and song-haunted strands. �L.S. CHAPTER I�TOPOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL There are many rivers whose celebrity is of much greater antiquity than that of the Rhine. The Nile and the Ganges are intimately associated with the early history of civilization and the mysterious beginnings of wisdom; the Tiber is eloquent of that vanished Empire which was the first to carry the torch of advancement into the dark places of barbarian Europe; the name of the Jordan is sacred to thousands as that first heard in infancy and linked with lives and memories divine. But, universal as is the fame of these rivers, none of them has awakened in the breasts of the dwellers on their banks such a fervent devotion, such intense enthusiasm, or such a powerful patriotic appeal as has the Rhine, at once the river, the frontier, and the palladium of the German folk. The Magic of the Rhine But the appeal is wider, for the Rhine is peculiarly the home of a legendary mysticism almost unique. Those whose lives are spent in their creation and interpretation know that song and legend have a particular affinity for water. Hogg, the friend of Shelley, was wont to tell how the bright eyes of his comrade would dilate at the sight of even a puddle by the roadside. Has water a hypnotic attraction for certain minds? Be that as it may, there has crystallized round the great waterways of the world a traditionary lore which preserves the thought and feeling of the past, and retains many a circumstance of wonder and marvel from olden epochs which the modern world could ill have spared. Varied and valuable as are the traditional tales of other streams, none possess that colour of intensity and mystery, that spell of ancient profundity which belong to the legends of the Rhine. In perusing these we feel our very souls plunged in darkness as that of the carven gloom of some Gothic cathedral or the Cimmerian depths of some ancient forest unpierced by sun-shafts. It is the Teutonic mystery which has us in its grip, a thing as readily recognizable as the Celtic glamour or the Egyptian gloom�a thing of the shadows of eld, stern, ancient, of a ponderous fantasy, instinct with the spirit of nature, of dwarfs, elves, kobolds, erlkings, the wraiths and shades of forest and flood, of mountain and mere, of castled height and swift whirlpool, the denizens of the deep valleys and mines, the bergs and heaths of this great province of romance, this rich satrapy of Faëry. A Land of Legend Nowhere is legend so thickly strewn as on the banks of the Rhine. Each step is eloquent of tradition, each town, village, and valley. No hill, no castle but has its story, true or legendary. The Teuton is easily the world�s master in the art of conserving local lore. As one speeds down the broad breast of this wondrous river, gay with summer and flushed with the laughter of early vineyards, so close is the network of legend that the swiftly read or spoken tale of one locality is scarce over ere the traveller is confronted by another. It is a surfeit of romance, an inexhaustible hoard of the matter of marvel. This noble stream with its wealth of tradition has made such a powerful impression upon the national imagination that it has become intimate in the soul of the people and commands a reverence and affection which is not given by any other modern nation to its greatest and most characteristic river. The Englishman has only a mitigated pride in the Thames, as a great commercial asset or, its metropolitan borders once passed, a river of peculiarly restful character; the Frenchman evinces no very great enthusiasm toward the Seine; and if there are many Spanish songs about the �chainless Guadalquivir,� the dons have been content to retain its Arabic name. But what German heart does not thrill at the name of the Rhine? What German cheek does not flush at the sound of that mighty thunder-hymn which tells of his determination to preserve the river of his fathers at the cost of his best blood? Nay, what man of patriotic temperament but feels a responsive chord awake within him at the thought of that majestic song, so stern, so strong, �clad in armour,� vibrant with the clang of swords, instinct with the universal accord of a united people? To those who have heard it sung by multitudinous voices to the accompaniment of golden harps and silver trumpets it is a thing which can never be forgotten, this world-song that is at once a hymn of union, a song of the deepest love of country, a defiance and an intimation of resistance to the death. The Song of the �Iron Chancellor� How potent Die Wacht am Rhein is to stir the hearts of the children of the Fatherland is proven abundantly by an apposite story regarding the great Bismarck, the �man of blood and iron.� The scene is the German Reichstag, and the time is that curious juncture in history when the Germans, having realized that union is strength, were beginning to weld together the petty kingdoms and duchies of which their mighty empire was once composed. Gradually this task was becoming accomplished, and meanwhile Germany grew eager to assert her power in Europe, wherefore her rulers commenced to create a vast army. But Bismarck was not satisfied, and in his eyes Germany�s safety was still unassured; so he appealed to the Reichstag to augment largely their armaments. The deputies looked at him askance, for a vast army meant ruinous taxation; even von Moltke and von Roon shook their heads, well aware though they were that a great European conflict might break out at any time; and, in short, Bismarck�s proposal was met by a determined negative from the whole House. �Ach, mein Gott!� he cried, holding out his hands in a superb gesture of despair. �Ach, mein Gott! but these soldiers we must have.� His hearers still demurred, reminding him that the people far and near were groaning under the weight of taxation, and assuring him that this could not possibly be increased, when he suddenly changed his despairing gesture for a martial attitude, and with sublime eloquence recited the lines: �Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall, Wie Schwertgeklirr und Wogenprall; Zum Rhein, zum Rhein, zum deutschen Rhein, Wer will die Strömes Hüter sein? Lieb Vaterland, magst ruhig sein, Fest steht und treu die Wacht am Rhein.� The effect was magical; the entire House resounded with cheers, and the most unbounded enthusiasm prevailed. And ere the members dispersed they had told Bismarck he might have, not ten thousand, but a hundred thousand soldiers, such was the power of association awakened by this famous hymn, such the spell it is capable of exercising on German hearers. Topography of the Rhine Ere we set sail upon the dark sea of legend before us it is necessary that, like prudent mariners, we should know whence and whither we are faring. To this end it will be well that we should glance briefly at the topography of the great river we are about to explore, and that we should sketch rapidly the most salient occurrences in the strange and varied pageant of its history, in order that we may the better appreciate the wondrous tales of worldwide renown which have found birth on its banks. Although the most German of rivers, the Rhine does not run its entire course through German territory, but takes its rise in Switzerland and finds the sea in Holland. For no less than 233 miles it flows through Swiss country, rising in the mountains of the canton of Grisons, and irrigates every canton of the Alpine republic save that of Geneva. Indeed, it waters over 14,000 square miles of Swiss territory in the flow of its two main branches, the Nearer Rhine and the Farther Rhine, which unite at Reichenau, near Coire. The Nearer Rhine issues at the height of over 7000 feet from the glaciers of the Rheinwaldhorn group, and flows for some thirty-five miles, first in a north-easterly direction through the Rheinwald Valley, then northward through the Schams Valley, by way of the Via Mala gorge, and Tomleschg Valley, and so to Reichenau, where it is joined by its sister stream, the Farther Rhine. The latter, rising in the little Alpine lake of Toma near the Pass of St. Gotthard, flows in a north-easterly direction to Reichenau. The Nearer Rhine is generally considered to be the more important branch, though the Farther Rhine is the longer by some seven miles. From Reichenau the Rhine flows north-eastward to Coire, and thence northward to the Lake of Constance, receiving on its way two tributaries, the Landquart and the Ill, both on the right bank. Indeed, from source to sea the Rhine receives a vast number of tributaries, amounting, with their branches, to over 12,000. Leaving the Lake of Constance at the town of that name, the river flows westward to Basel, having as the principal towns on its banks Constance, Schaffhausen, Waldshut, Laufenburg, Säckingen, Rheinfelden, and Basel. Not far from the town of Schaffhausen the river precipitates itself from a height of 60 feet, in three leaps, forming the famous Falls of the Rhine. At Coblentz a strange thing happens, for at this place the river receives the waters of the Aar, swollen by the Reuss and the Limmat, and of greater volume than the stream in which it loses itself. It is at Basel that the Rhine, taking a northward trend, enters Germany. By this time it has made a descent of nearly 7000 feet, and has traversed about a third of its course. Between Basel and Mainz it flows between the mountains of the Black Forest and the Vosges, the distance between which forms a shallow valley of some width. Here and there it is islanded, and its expanse averages about 1200 feet. The Taunus Mountains divert it at Mainz, where it widens, and it flows westward for about twenty miles, but at Bingen it once more takes its course northward, and enters a narrow valley where the enclosing hills look down sheer upon the water. It is in this valley, probably one of the most romantic in the world, that we find the legendary lore of the river packed in such richness that every foot of its banks has its place in tradition. But that is not to say that this portion of the Rhine is wanting in natural beauty. Here are situated some of its sunniest vineyards, its most wildly romantic heights, and its most picturesque ruins. This part of its course may be said to end at the Siebengebirge, or �Seven Mountains,� where the river again widens and the banks become more bare and uninteresting. Passing Bonn and Cologne, the bareness of the landscape is remarkable after the variety of that from which we have just emerged, and henceforward the river takes on what may be called a �Dutch� appearance. After entering Holland it divides into two branches, the Waal flowing to the west and uniting with the Maas. The smaller branch to the right is still called the Rhine, and throws off another branch, the Yssel, which flows into the Zuider Zee. Once more the river bifurcates into insignificant streams, one of which is called the Kromme Rijn, and beyond Utrecht, and under the name of the Oude Rijn, or Old Rhine, it becomes so stagnant that it requires the aid of a canal to drain it into the sea. Anciently the Rhine at this part of its course was an abounding stream, but by the ninth century the sands at Katwijk had silted it up, and it was only in the beginning of last century that its way to the sea was made clear. The Sunken City More than six centuries ago Stavoren was one of the chief commercial towns of Holland. Its merchants traded with all parts of the world, and brought back their ships laden with rich cargoes, and the city became ever more prosperous. The majority of the people of Stavoren were well-to-do, and as their wealth increased they became luxurious and dissipated, each striving to outdo the others in the magnificence of their homes and the extravagance of their hospitality. Many of their houses, we are told, were like the palaces of princes, built of white marble, furnished with the greatest sumptuousness, and decorated with the costliest hangings and the rarest statuary. But, says the legend, of all the Stavoren folk there was none wealthier than young Richberta. This maiden owned a fleet of the finest merchant-vessels of the city, and loved to ornament her palace with the rich merchandise which these brought from foreign ports. With all her jewels and gold and silver treasures, however, Richberta was not happy. She gave gorgeous banquets to the other merchant-princes of the place, each more magnificent than the last, not because she received any pleasure from thus dispensing hospitality, but because she desired to create envy and astonishment in the breasts of her guests. On one occasion while such a feast was in progress Richberta was informed that a stranger was waiting without who was desirous of speaking with her. When she was told that the man had come all the way from a distant land simply to admire her wonderful treasures, of which he had heard so much, the maiden was highly flattered and gave orders that he should be admitted without delay. An aged and decrepit man, clad in a picturesque Eastern costume, was led into the room, and Richberta bade him be seated at her side. He expected to receive from the young lady the symbol of welcome�bread and salt. But no such common fare was to be found on her table�all was rich and luxurious food. The stranger seated himself in silence. At length he began to talk. He had travelled in many lands, and now he told of his changing fortunes in these far-off countries, always drawing a moral from his adventures�that all things earthly were evanescent as the dews of morning. The company listened attentively to the discourse of the sage; all, that is, but their hostess, who was angry and disappointed that he had said no word of the wealth and magnificence displayed in her palace, the rich fare on her table, and all the signs of luxury with which he was surrounded. At length she could conceal her chagrin no longer, and asked the stranger directly whether he had ever seen such splendour in his wanderings as that he now beheld. �Tell me,� she said, �is there to be found in the courts of your Eastern kings such rare treasures as these of mine?� �Nay,� replied the sage, �they have no pearls and rich embroideries to match thine. Nevertheless, there is one thing missing from your board, and that the best and most valuable of all earthly gifts.� In vain Richberta begged that he would tell her what that most precious of treasures might be. He answered all her inquiries in an evasive manner, and at last, when her question could no longer be evaded, he rose abruptly and left the room. And, seek as she might, Richberta could find no trace of her mysterious visitor. Richberta strove to discover the meaning of the old man�s words. She was rich�she possessed greater treasures than any in Stavoren, at a time when that city was among the wealthiest in Europe�and yet she lacked the most precious of earth�s treasures. The memory of the words galled her pride and excited her curiosity to an extraordinary pitch. In vain she asked the wise men of her time�the priests and philosophers�to read her the riddle of the mysterious traveller. None could name a treasure that was not already hers. In her anxiety to obtain the precious thing, whatever it might be, Richberta sent all her ships to sea, telling the captain of each not to return until he had found some treasure that she did not already possess. The vessels were victualled for seven years, so that the mariners might have ample time in which to pursue their quest. So their commander sent one division of the fleet to the east, another to the west, while he left his own vessel to the hazard of the winds, letting it drift wheresoever the fates decreed. His ship as well as the others was laden heavily with provisions, and during the first storm they encountered it was necessary to cast a considerable portion of the food overboard, so that the ship might right itself. As it was, the remaining provisions were so damaged by the sea-water that they rotted in a few days and became unfit for food. A pestilence would surely follow the use of such unwholesome stuff, and consequently the entire cargo of bread had to be cast into the sea. The commander saw his crew ravaged by the dreaded scurvy, suffering from the lack of bread. Then only did he begin to perceive the real meaning of the sage�s words. The most valuable of all earthly treasures was not the pearls from the depths of the sea, gold or silver from the heart of the mountains, nor the rich spices of the Indies. The most common of all earth�s, products, that which was to be found in every country, which flourished in every clime, on which the lives of millions depended�this was the greatest treasure, and its name was�bread. Having reached this conclusion, the commander of Richberta�s fleet set sail for a Baltic port, where he took on board a cargo of corn, and returned immediately to Stavoren. Richberta was astonished and delighted to see that he had achieved his purpose so soon, and bade him tell her of what the treasure consisted which he had brought with him. The commander thereupon recounted his adventures�the storm, the throwing overboard of their store of bread, and the consequent sufferings of the crew�and told how he at length discovered what was the greatest treasure on earth, the priceless possession which the stranger had looked for in vain at her rich board. It was bread, he said simply, and the cargo he had brought home was corn. Richberta was beside herself with passion. When she had recovered herself sufficiently to speak she asked him: �At which side of the ship did you take in the cargo?� �At the right side,� he replied. �Then,� she exclaimed angrily, �I order you to cast it into the sea from the left side.� It was a cruel decision. Stavoren, like every other city, had its quota of poor families, and these were in much distress at the time, many of them dying from sheer starvation. The cargo of corn would have provided bread for them throughout the whole winter, and the commander urged Richberta to reconsider her decision. As a last resort he sent the barefooted children of the city to her, thinking that their mute misery would move her to alleviate their distress and give them the shipload of corn. But all was in vain. Richberta remained adamantine, and in full view of the starving multitude she had the precious cargo cast into the sea. But the curses of the despairing people had their effect. Far down in the bed of the sea the grains of corn germinated, and a harvest of bare stalks grew until it reached the surface of the water. The shifting quicksands at the bottom of the sea were bound together by the overspreading stalks into a mighty sand-bank which rose above the surface in front of the town of Stavoren. No longer were the merchant-vessels able to enter the harbour, for it was blocked by the impassable bank. Nay, instead of finding refuge there, many a ship was dashed to pieces by the fury of the breakers, and Stavoren became a place of ill-fame to the mariner. All the wealth and commerce of this proud city were at an end. Richberta herself, whose wanton act had raised the sand-bank, had her ships wrecked there one by one, and was reduced to begging for bread in the city whose wealthiest inhabitant she had once been. Then, perhaps, she could appreciate the words of the old traveller, that bread was the greatest of earthly treasures. At last the ocean, dashing against the huge mound with ever-increasing fury, burst through the dyke which Richberta had raised, overwhelmed the town, and buried it for ever under the waves. And now the mariner, sailing on the Zuider Zee, passes above the engulfed city and sees with wonderment the towers and spires of the �Sunken Land.� Historical Sketch Like other world-rivers, the Rhine has attracted to its banks a succession of races of widely divergent origin. Celt, Teuton, Slav, and Roman have contested for the territories which it waters, and if the most enduring of these races has finally achieved dominion over the fairest river-province in Europe, who shall say that it has emerged from the struggle as a homogeneous people, having absorbed none of the blood of those with whom it strove for the lordship of this vine-clad valley? He would indeed be a courageous ethnologist who would suggest a purely Germanic origin for the Rhine race. As the historical period dawns upon Middle Europe we find the Rhine basin in the possession of a people of Celtic blood. As in Britain and France, this folk has left its indelible mark upon the countryside in a wealth of place-names embodying its characteristic titles for flood, village, and hill. In such prefixes and terminations as magh, brig, dun, and etc we espy the influence of Celtic occupants, and Maguntiacum, or Mainz, and Borbetomagus, or Worms, are examples of that �Gallic� idiom which has indelibly starred the map of Western Europe. Prehistoric Miners The remains of this people which are unearthed from beneath the superincumbent strata of their Teutonic successors in the country show them to have been typical of their race. Like their kindred in Britain, they had successfully exploited the mineral treasures of the country, and their skill as miners is eloquently upheld by the mute witness of age-old cinder-heaps by which are found the once busy bronze hammer and the apparatus of the smelting-furnace, speaking of the slow but steady smith-toil upon which the foundation of civilization arose. There was scarcely a mineral beneath the loamy soil which masked the metalliferous rock which they did not work. From Schönebeck to Dürkheim lies an immense bed of salt, and this the Celtic population of the district dug and condensed by aid of fires fed by huge logs cut from the giant trees of the vast and mysterious forests which have from time immemorial shadowed the whole existence of the German race. The salt, moulded or cut into blocks, was transported to Gaul as an article of commerce. But the Celts of the Rhine achieved distinction in other arts of life, for their pottery, weapons, and jewellery will bear comparison with those of prehistoric peoples in any part of Europe. As has been remarked, at the dawn of history we find the Rhine Celts everywhere in full retreat before the rude and more virile Teutons. They lingered latterly about the Moselle and in the district of Eifel, offering a desperate resistance to the onrushing hordes of Germanic warriors. In all likelihood they were outnumbered, if not outmatched in skill and valour, and they melted away before the savage ferocity of their foes, probably seeking asylum with their kindred in Gaul. Probably the Teutonic tribes had already commenced to apply pressure to the Celtic inhabitants of Rhine-land in the fourth century before the Christian era. As was their wont, they displaced the original possessors of the soil as much by a process of infiltration as by direct conquest. The waves of emigration seem to have come from Rhaetia and Pannonia, broad-headed folk, who were in a somewhat lower condition of barbarism than the race whose territory they usurped, restless, assertive, and irritable. Says Beddoe:1 [Note 1: The Anthropological History of Europe, p. 100.] �The mass of tall, blond, vigorous barbarians multiplied, seethed, and fretted behind the barrier thus imposed. Tacitus and several other classic authors speak of the remarkable uniformity in their appearance; how they were all tall and handsome, with fierce blue eyes and yellow hair. Humboldt remarks the tendency we all have to see only the single type in a strange foreign people, and to shut our eyes to the differences among them. Thus some of us think sheep all alike, but the shepherd knows better; and many think all Chinamen are alike, whereas they differ, in reality, quite as much as we do, or rather more. But with respect to the ancient Germans, there certainly was among them one very prevalent form of head, and even the varieties of feature which occur among the Marcomans�for example, on Marcus Aurelius� column�all seem to oscillate round one central type. The �Graverow� Type �This is the Graverow type of Ecker, the Hohberg type of His and Rutimeyer, the Swiss anatomists. In it the head is long, narrow (say from 70 to 76 in. breadth-index), as high or higher than it is broad, with the upper part of the occiput very prominent, the forehead rather high than broad, often dome-shaped, often receding, with prominent brows, the nose long, narrow, and prominent, the cheek-bones narrow and not prominent, the chin well marked, the mouth apt to be prominent in women. In Germany persons with these characters have almost always light eyes and hair.... This Graverow type is almost exclusively what is found in the burying-places of the fifth, sixth, and seventh centuries, whether of the Alemanni, the Bavarians, the Franks, the Saxons, or the Burgundians. Schetelig dug out a graveyard in Southern Spain which is attributed to the Visigoths. Still the same harmonious elliptic form, the same indices, breadth 73, height 74.� Early German Society Tacitus in his Germania gives a vivid if condensed picture of Teutonic life in the latter part of the first century: �The face of the country, though in some parts varied, presents a cheerless scene, covered with the gloom of forests, or deformed with wide-extended marshes; toward the boundaries of Gaul, moist and swampy; on the side of Noricum and Pannonia, more exposed to the fury of the winds. Vegetation thrives with sufficient vigour. The soil produces grain, but is unkind to fruit-trees; well stocked with cattle, but of an under-size, and deprived by nature of the usual growth and ornament of the head. The pride of a German consists in the number of his flocks and herds; they are his only riches, and in these he places his chief delight. Gold and silver are withheld from them: is it by the favour or the wrath of Heaven? I do not, however, mean to assert that in Germany there are no veins of precious ore; for who has been a miner in these regions? Certain it is they do not enjoy the possession and use of those metals with our sensibility. There are, indeed, silver vessels to be seen among them, but they were presents to their chiefs or ambassadors; the Germans regard them in no better light than common earthenware. It is, however, observable that near the borders of the empire the inhabitants set a value upon gold and silver, finding them subservient to the purposes of commerce. The Roman coin is known in those parts, and some of our specie is not only current, but in request. In places more remote the simplicity of ancient manners still prevails: commutation of property is their only traffic. Where money passes in the way of barter our old coin is the most acceptable, particularly that which is indented at the edge, or stamped with the impression of a chariot and two horses, called the Serrati and Bigati. Silver is preferred to gold, not from caprice or fancy, but because the inferior metal is of more expeditious use in the purchase of low-priced commodities. Ancient German Weapons �Iron does not abound in Germany, if we may judge from the weapons in general use. Swords and large lances are seldom seen. The soldier grasps his javelin, or, as it is called in their language, his fram�an instrument tipped with a short and narrow piece of iron, sharply pointed, and so commodious that, as occasion requires, he can manage it in close engagement or in distant combat. With this and a shield the cavalry are completely armed. The infantry have an addition of missive weapons. Each man carries a considerable number, and being naked, or, at least, not encumbered by his light mantle, he throws his weapon to a distance almost incredible. A German pays no attention to the ornament of his person; his shield is the object of his care, and this he decorates with the liveliest colours. Breastplates are uncommon. In a whole army you will not see more than one or two helmets. Their horses have neither swiftness nor elegance, nor are they trained to the various evolutions of the Roman cavalry. To advance in a direct line, or wheel suddenly to the right, is the whole of their skill, and this they perform in so compact a body that not one is thrown out of his rank. According to the best estimate, the infantry comprise the national strength, and, for that reason, always fight intermixed with the cavalry. The flower of their youth, able by their vigour and activity to keep pace with the movements of the horse, are selected for this purpose, and placed in the front of the lines. The number of these is fixed and certain: each canton sends a hundred, from that circumstance called Hundreders by the army. The name was at first numerical only: it is now a title of honour. Their order of battle presents the form of a wedge. To give ground in the heat of action, provided you return to the charge, is military skill, not fear or cowardice. In the most fierce and obstinate engagement, even when the fortune of the day is doubtful, they make it a point to carry off their slain. To abandon their shield is a flagitious crime. The person guilty of it is interdicted from religious rites and excluded from the assembly of the state. Many who survived their honour on the day of battle have closed a life of ignominy by a halter.� Teutonic Customs The kings of this rude but warlike folk were elected by the suffrages of the nobility, and their leaders in battle, as was inevitable with such a people, were chosen by reason of their personal prowess. The legal functions were exercised by the priesthood, and punishments were thus held to be sanctioned by the gods. Among this barbaric people the female sex was held as absolutely sacred, the functions of wife and mother being accounted among the highest possible to humanity, and we observe in ancient accounts of the race that typically Teutonic conception of the woman as seer or prophetess which so strongly colours early Germanic literature. Women, indeed, in later times, when Christianity had nominally conquered Paganism, remained as the sole conservators of the ancient Teutonic magico-religious lore, and in the curtained recesses of dark-timbered halls whiled away the white hours of winter by the painful spelling out of runic characters and the practice of arts which they were destined to convey from the priests of Odin and Thor to the witches of medieval days. Costume of the Early Teuton The personal appearance of these barbarians was as rude and simple as were their manners. Says Tacitus: �The clothing in use is a loose mantle, made fast with a clasp, or, when that cannot be had, with a thorn. Naked in other respects, they loiter away whole days by the fireside. The rich wear a garment, not, indeed, displayed and flowing, like the Parthians or the people of Sarmatia, but drawn so tight that the form of the limbs is palpably expressed. The skins of wild animals are also much in use. Near the frontier, on the borders of the Rhine, the inhabitants wear them, but with an air of neglect that shows them altogether indifferent about the choice, The people who live more remote, near the northern seas, and have not acquired by commerce a taste for new-fashioned apparel, are more curious in the selection. They choose particular beasts and, having stripped off the furs, clothe themselves with the spoil, decorated with parti-coloured spots, or fragments taken from the skins of fish that swim the ocean as yet unexplored by the Romans. In point of dress there is no distinction between the sexes, except that the garment of the women is frequently made of linen, adorned with purple stains, but without sleeves, leaving the arms and part of the bosom uncovered.� The Germanic Tribes It is also from Tacitus that we glean what were the names and descriptions of those tribes who occupied the territory adjacent to the Rhine. The basin of the river between Strassburg and Mainz was inhabited by the Tribacci, Nemetes, and Vangiones, further south by the Matiacci near Wiesbaden, and the Ubii in the district of Cologne. Further north lay the Sugambri, and the delta of the river in the Low Countries was the seat of the brave Batavii, from whom came the bulk of the legions by means of which Agricola obtained a footing in far Caledonia. Before the Roman invasion of their territories these tribes were constantly engaged in internecine warfare, a condition of affairs not to be marvelled at when we learn that at their tribal councils the warrior regarded as an inspired speaker was he who was most powerfully affected by the potations in which all habitually indulged to an extent which seemed to the cultured Roman as bestial in the last degree. The constant bearing of arms, added to their frequent addiction to powerful liquors, also seemed to render the Germanic warriors quarrelsome to excess, and to provoke intertribal strife. The Romans in the Rhine Country Caesar is the first Roman writer to give us any historical data concerning the peoples who inhabited the basin of the Rhine. He conquered the tribes on the left bank, and was followed a generation or so later by Augustus, who established numerous fortified posts on the river. But the Romans never succeeded in obtaining a firm occupancy of the right bank. Their chief object in colonizing the Rhine territory was to form an effective barrier between themselves and the restless barbarian tribes of the Teutonic North, the constant menace of whose invasion lay as a canker at the heart of rich and fruitful Italy. With the terror of a barbarian inroad ever before their eyes, the cohorts of the Imperial City constructed a formidable vallum, or earthen wall, from the vicinity of Linz to Regensburg, on the Danube, a distance of three hundred and fifty miles, for the purpose of raising a barrier against the advance of the warlike men of the North. They further planted a colony of veterans in the Black Forest neighbourhood in order that invasion might be resisted from that side. But as the Empire began to exhibit signs of decadence the barbarians were quick to recognize the symptoms of weakness in those who barred their advance to the wealthy South, the objective of their dreams, hurled themselves against the boundary, now rendered feeble by reason of the withdrawal of its most experienced defenders, and, despite a stern resistance, flooded the rich valleys of the Rhine, swamped the colonies on the left bank which had imbibed Roman civilization, and made all wholly Teutonic. The Rebellion of the Barbarians This was, however, a process of years, and by no means a speedy conquest. The closing years of Augustus� reign were clouded by a general rising of the Rhine peoples. Quintilius Varus, an officer who had been entrusted with the government of the provinces beyond the Rhine, proved totally unequal to curbing the bolder spirits among the Germans, who under their chief, Arminius, boldly challenged the forces of this short-sighted officer. Arminius belonged to the Cherusci. He had served with the German horsemen in the Rhenish armies, and was conversant with the Latin language. Observing that half, at least, of the Roman forces were on leave, he incited the tribes of Lower Saxony to revolt. The weak Varus, who had underestimated the influence of Arminius, attempted to quell the rising, but without success, and the bank of the river was the scene of a wholesale slaughter. Varus, completely losing his nerve, attempted to separate the cavalry from the infantry and endeavoured to escape with three squadrons of the former; but the Germans surrounded them, and after a hand-to-hand struggle of three days the Roman army was annihilated. The news of this disaster prompted the aged Emperor to dispatch his son Tiberius to suppress what appeared to be a general rising of the North. The Rhenish tribes, however, were too wary to meet the powerful force now sent against them in the open field, and during the remainder of the year Tiberius, left in peace, occupied himself in strengthening the Rhine fortifications. He was soon after recalled to Rome to assume the purple on the death of Augustus. Germanicus, who had taken command of the legions on the Rhine, became conscious of discontent among the soldiers, who threatened to carry him into Rome and thrust him into the seat of empire. But he soothed the passions of his soldiers by gifts and promises. A road was opened from the Rhine into the German hinterland, and Germanicus led his army into the heart of a country of which he knew but little to avenge the disasters of the Varian legions. The forest folk eluded the invading host, which now sought to return to headquarters; but ere they had completed the journey they were assailed and suffered a severe reverse. Numerous revolts occurred among the Gaulish legions in the service of the Roman Empire in Germany. But the stubborn and trained resistance of the Romans no less than the inexperience of the Gauls led to a cessation of hostilities. The secret of Roman power in Rhenish territory lay in the circumstance that the two great elements of German nationality, the nobility and the priesthood, were becoming Romanized. But a rude culture was beginning to blossom, and a desire arose among the barbarians for unity. They wished to band themselves into a nation. The Franks and Goths The most dangerous enemies of Rome during the reigns of Valerian and Gallienus were the Franks, the Alemanni, and the Goths, whose action finally decided the conquest of the Rhenish provinces of Rome. The name Frank, or Freedman, was given to a confederacy formed in A.D. 240 by the old inhabitants of the Lower Rhine and the Weser. It consisted of the Chauci, the Cherusci, and the Chatti, and of several other tribes of greater or less renown. The Romans foresaw the power of this formidable union and, by the presence of the Emperor himself and his son, endeavoured to stem the invasion, which threatened their suzerainty. The Franks, fond of liberty and imbued with a passion for conquest, crossed the Rhine, in spite of its strong fortifications, and carried their devastations to the foot of the Pyrenees. For twelve years Gallienus attempted to stem the torrent thus freed. The Alemanni, who belonged to the Upper Rhine, between the Main and the Danube, were composed of many tribes, the most important of which was the celebrated Suevi. This people, who had now become a permanent nation, threatened the Empire with an invasion which was checked with difficulty after they had fought their way to the gates of Rome itself. In A.D. 271 Aurelian completely subdued the Rhenish peoples, numbers of whom were dragged in his triumph through the streets of Rome; but after his brief reign the old condition of things reasserted itself, until Probus, who assumed the purple in 276, restored peace and order by the construction of a massive wall between the Rhine and the Danube over two hundred miles in length. The barbarians were driven beyond the river, which had hitherto served as a boundary-line, even past the Elbe and the Neckar. Finally, however, the internecine strife in the Imperial City forced the Romans to return thence, and Rhineland was abandoned to the will of its semi-barbarian inhabitants. The early Christian centuries are full of the sound of conflict. In the fourth century the principal tribes in Western Germany were the Franks and the Alemanni, the former of whom maintained a constant strife with the Saxons, who pressed heavily upon their rear. The Franks occupied the lower portion of the river, near to its mouth, whilst the Alemanni dwelt on the portion to the bounds of Helvetia and Switzerland. At this period great racial upheavals appear to have been taking place further east. By the beginning of the sixth century the Saxons seem to have penetrated almost to the north-western Rhine, where the Franks were now supreme. The Merovingians In the middle of the fifth century arose the powerful dynasty of the Merovingians, one of the most picturesque royal houses in the roll of history. In their records we see the clash of barbarism with advancement, the bizarre tints of a semi-civilization unequalled in rude magnificence. Giant shadows of forgotten kings stalk across the canvas, their royal purple intermingling with the shaggy fell of the bear and wolf. One, Chilperic, a subtle grammarian and the inventor of new alphabetic symbols, is yet the most implacable of his race, the murderer of his wife, the heartless slayer of hundreds, to whom human life is as that of cattle skilled in the administration of poison, a picturesque cut-throat. Others are weaklings, fainéants; but one, the most dread woman in Frankish history, Fredegonda, the queen of Chilperic, towers above all in this masque of slaughter and treachery. Tradition makes claim that Andernach was the cradle of the Merovingian dynasty. In proof of this are shown the extensive ruins of the palace of these ancient Frankish kings. Merovig, from whom the race derived its name, was said to be the son of Clodio, but legend relates far otherwise. In name and origin he was literally a child of the Rhine, his father being a water-monster who seized the wife of Clodio while bathing in that river. In time she gave birth to a child, more monster than man, the spine being covered with bristles, fingers and toes webbed, eyes covered with a film, and thighs and legs horny with large shining scales. Clodio, though aware of the real paternity of this creature, adopted it as his own son, as did King Minos in the case of the Minotaur, giving him the name Merovig from his piscatory origin. On Clodio�s death the demi-monster succeeded to the throne, and from him sprang a long line of sovereigns, worthless and imbecile for the most part. Childeric, the son and successor of Merovig, enraged his people to such a degree by his excesses that they drove him from throne and country. One friend alone remained to him, Winomadus, who, having no female relations to suffer by the king�s attentions, did not find the friendship so irksome as others; indeed, had been a partner in his licentious pleasures. He undertook to watch over the interests of Childeric during his enforced absence in Thuringia at the court of Basium, king of that country. The Franks had elected Aegidius, a Roman general, to the sovereignty over them, but as he proved himself no better than Childeric, whom they had deposed, they once more essayed to choose another ruler. This was made known to Childeric through his friend Winomadus. He rapidly returned to the shores of the Rhine and, reinforcing his following as he proceeded on his march, appeared before Andernach at the head of a formidable force, composed of many of his former subjects, together with Thuringian auxiliaries. The people of Andernach, unable to resist this overwhelming argument, again accepted Childeric as their king. Basina the Sorceress While in Thuringia Childeric had seduced the affections of Basina, the queen of his protector. When he regained his throne he induced her to leave her husband, and made her his queen. Basina was a sorceress, one who could divine the future and also bestow the gift upon others. Through this she gained great influence over Childeric, who desired to see and know what fate had in store for himself and his race. Basina agreed to satisfy his curiosity, and one night, at the midnight hour, they climbed together to the summit of the hill behind Andernach. There she bade him stand and look out over the plain while she performed her magical operations. After some lengthy incantations she bade him look well and tell her what he saw. In a trance-like voice the king replied: �I see a great light upon the plain, although all around is blackest night.� He paused; then, at her bidding, proceeded again: �I see an immense concourse of wild animals�the lion, the tiger, the spotted pard, the elephant, the unicorn�ah! they are coming this way�they will devour us!� and he turned to flee in great terror. Basina bade him stay in peremptory tones and again to look out over the plain. In a voice of alarm he cried out: �I see bears and wolves, jackals and hyenas. Heaven help us, the others are all gone!� Heedless of his terror, the queen bade him look again and, for the last time, tell her what he saw. �I see now dogs and cats and little creatures of all kinds. But there is one small animal�smaller than a mouse�who commands them all. Ah! he is eating them up�swallowing them all�one after another.� As he looked the light, the plain, the animals all vanished, and darkness fell. Basina then read to him the meaning of his vision. �The first vision you saw indicated the character of our immediate successors. They will be as bold as lions, terrible as tigers, strong as elephants, uncommon as unicorns, beautiful as the pard. These are the men of an age; for a century shall they rule over the land.� At this Childeric was delighted and ejaculated a fervent �Praise be to the gods!� �The second,� pursued Basina, �are the men of the following century�our more remote descendants�rude as the bear, fell as the wolf, fawning as the jackal, cruel as the hyena�the curse of their people and�themselves. The last one�the following century�they will be weak, timid, irresolute�the prey of every base and low thing, the victims of violence, deceit, and cunning; vanquished and destroyed at last by the smallest of their own subjects.� Such was Childeric�s vision and his queen�s interpretation. As she had predicted, the Merovingian dynasty lasted three hundred years, when it was overturned by one Pepin of Heristal, the smallest man of his day�at least, so tradition tells. At the death of Clovis his sons split up the kingdom, and from that epoch a deadly war was waged between the rival kingdoms of Neustria and Austrasia, the west and the east. The wars of Neustria and Austrasia (Ost Reich, the Eastern Kingdom, which has, of course, no connexion with the modern Austria) are related by Gregory of Tours in his Ecclesiastical History of the Franks, one of the most brilliant pieces of historical and biographical writing to be discovered among the literature of Europe in the Dark Ages. Metz was the capital of this kingdom-province. Fredegonda, the queen of Chilperic of Neustria, had a deadly blood-feud with her sister-in-law of Austrasia, and in the event put her rival to death by having her torn asunder by wild horses (A.D. 613). Later Austrasia became incorporated with Franconia, which in 843 was included in the kingdom of Louis the German. The Great Race of Charlemagne The race of the Carolingians, whose greatest monarch was the famous Charlemagne, or Karl der Grosse, sprang from a family of usurpers known as the �Mayors of the Palace,� who had snatched the crown from the rois fainéants, the last weakly shoots of the mighty line of Merovig. He was the elder son of Pepin the Short, and succeeded, on the death of his father in A.D. 768, to a kingdom which extended from the Low Countries to the borders of Spain. His whole life was one prolonged war undertaken against the forces of paganism, the Moors of Spain who harassed his borders to the south, and the restless Saxon tribes dwelling between the Rhine, Weser, and Elbe. Innumerable are the legends and romances concerning this great, wise, and politic monarch and statesman, who, surrounding himself with warriors of prowess whom he called his paladins, unquestionably kept the light of Christianity and civilization burning in Western Europe. He was, however, quite as great a legislator as a warrior, and founded schools and hospitals in every part of his kingdom. He died at Aix-la-Chapelle in 814, and was buried there.1 [Note 1: For numerous critical articles upon Charlemagne and the epics or chansons des gestes connected with him see the author�s Dictionary of Medieval Romance.] The �Song of the Saxons� One of the most stirring of the romances which tell of the wars of Charlemagne in the Rhine country is the Song of the Saxons, fifth in number of the Romans des Douze Pairs de France, and composed by Jean Bodel, a poet of Artois, who flourished toward the middle of the thirteenth century. Charles, sitting at table in Laon one Whitsuntide with fourteen kings, receives news of an invasion of the Saxons, who have taken Cologne, killed many Frankish nobles, and laid waste the country. A racy epitome of the events which follow has been given by Ludlow in his Popular Epics of the Middle Ages (1865) as follows: �Charles invades Saxony, and reaches the banks of �Rune the Deep,� beyond which lies Guiteclin�s palace of �Tremoigne� (supposed to be Dortmund, in Westphalia). The river is too deep to be crossed by the army, although the two young knights, Baldwin and Berard, succeed in doing so in quest of adventure. The Saxons will not attack, trusting that the French will be destroyed by delay and the seasons. And, indeed, after two years and four months, the barons represent to the Emperor the sad plight of the host, and urge him to call upon the men of Herupe (North-west France) for performance of their warlike service. This is done accordingly, and the Herupe barons make all haste to their sovereign�s aid, and come up just after the Saxons have made an unsuccessful attack. They send to ask where they are to lodge their troops. The Emperor points them laughingly to the other side of the Rune, where float the silken banners of the Saxons, but says that any of his men shall give up their camping-place to them. The Herupe men, however, determine to take him at his word and, whilst the Archbishop of Sens blesses the water, boldly fling themselves in and cross it, and end, after a tremendous struggle, in taking up the quarters assigned to them; but when he sees their prowess the Emperor recalls them to his own side of the river. �A bridge is built, the army passes over it, the Saxons are discomfited in a great battle, and Guiteclin is killed in single combat by Charlemagne himself. �By this time the slender vein of historic truth which runs through the poem may be considered as quite exhausted. Yet the real epic interest of the work centres in its wholly apocryphal conclusion, connected essentially with its purely romantic side. �Sebile, the wife of Guiteclin, is a peerless beauty, wise withal and courteous; �hair had she long and fair, more than the shining gold, a brow polished and clear, eyes blue and laughing, a very well-made nose, teeth small and white, a savourous mouth, more crimson than blood; and in body and limbs so winning was she that God never made the man, howsoever old and tottering, if he durst look at her, but was moved with desire.�� Fair Helissend, the daughter of the murdered Milo of Cologne, is her captive at once and her favourite, and when the French host takes up its position before the Rune, names and points out young Baldwin to her. With her husband�s sanction, Sebile has her tent pitched on the bank, and establishes herself there with her ladies to act as decoys to the Franks; for �fair lady�s look makes men undertake folly.� She is taken, however, in her own toils; falls in love with Baldwin one summer�s day on seeing him ride forth with hawk on wrist, and makes Helissend invite him over the river, under a very frank pledge that �she will be his, for loss or gain.� Their first meeting apparently takes place in the presence of Sebile�s ladies, and so little mystery is attached to their love that, on Baldwin�s return to the Frank host after killing and despoiling of his armour a Saxon chief, he not only tells his adventure publicly to the Emperor, but the latter promises in a twelvemonth to have him crowned king of the country and to give him Sebile for wife, forbidding him, however, to cross the river any more�a command which Baldwin hears without meaning to obey. Nay, when Baldwin has once broken this injunction and escaped with great difficulty from the Saxons, the Emperor imposes on him the brutal penance of entering Sebile�s tent to kiss her in the sight of the Saxons, and bringing back her ring�which Baldwin contrives to fulfil by putting on the armour of a Saxon knight whom he kills. As in The Taking of Orange, it never seems to occur to the poet that there can be any moral wrong in making love to a �Saracen�s� wife, or in promising her hand in her husband�s lifetime; and, strange to say, so benignant are these much-wronged paynim that Guiteclin is not represented as offering or threatening the slightest ill-treatment to his faithless queen, however wroth he may be against her lover; nor, indeed, as having even the sense to make her pitch her tent further from the bank. The drollest bit of sentimentality occurs, however, after the victory of the Franks and Guiteclin�s death, when Sebile is taken prisoner. After having been bestowed in marriage on Baldwin by the Emperor, she asks one boon of both, which is that Guiteclin�s body be sought for, lest the beasts should eat it�a request the exceeding nobleness of which strikes the Emperor and the Frank knights with astonishment. When the body is found and brought to Sebile, �the water of her eyes falls down her chin. �Ha, Guiteclin,� said she, �so gentle a man were you, liberal and free-spending, and of noble witness! If in heaven and on earth Mahomet has no power, even to pray Him who made Lazarus, I pray and request Him to have mercy on thee.�� The dead man is then placed in a great marble tomb; Sebile is christened, marries her lover, and is crowned with him as Queen of Saxony, Helissend being in like manner given to Berard. �It is now that the truly tragical part of the poem commences. Charles and his host depart, the Emperor warning his nephew to be courteous, loyal, and generous, to keep true faith to his wife, yet not to spend too much time in her arms, but to beware of the Saxons. The caution is needed, for already the two sons of Guiteclin, with one hundred thousand Russians and Bulgarians, and the giant Ferabras of Russia, a personage twelve feet high, with light hair plaited together, reddish beard, and flattened face, are within a day and a half�s journey of �Tremoigne,� burning to avenge Guiteclin. One Thursday morning their invasion is announced to the young king, who has but fifteen thousand men to oppose to them. Sebile embraces her husband�s knees, and entreats him to send at once for help to his uncle; the barons whom he has called to counsel favour her advice. �Barons,� said Baldwin, �I should fear the dishonour of it. It is too soon to seek and pray for succour. We have not yet unhorsed knights, cut arms from bodies, made bowels trail; we are fifteen thousand young men untried, who should buy our praise and our honour, and seize and acquire strange lands, and kill and shame and grieve our enemies, cleave the bright helmets, pierce the shields, break and tear the hauberks of mail, shed blood and make brains to fly. To me a pleasure it seems to put on hauberk, watch long nights, fast long days. Let us go strike upon them without more delay, that we may be able to govern this kingdom.� The barons listen with an ill-will to this speech; Baldwin himself, on viewing the paynim host, is staggered at their numbers, and lets Sebile persuade him to send a messenger to his uncle. However, with five thousand men he makes a vigorous attack on the vanguard of the Saxons, consisting of twenty thousand, and ends by putting them to flight. On the news of this repulse the two sons of Guiteclin come out, apparently with the bulk of the army. The French urge the young king to re-enter the city, but he refuses�Sebile would hold him for a sleepy coward. He kills Ferabras, unhorses one of Guiteclin�s sons. But the disparity of numbers is too great; the French are obliged to retreat, and shut themselves up in the city. �Meanwhile the messenger had reached Charlemagne at Cologne with the news of the renewal of the war. Whilst all his barons are summoned, the Emperor starts in haste himself for Saxony with ten thousand men. Baldwin was seated in his tower, looking out upon a league of hostile tents, complaining to Sebile, who �comforts him as a worthy lady,� bidding him trust in his uncle�s succour. She is the first to descry the French host and to point it out to her husband. �Ah, God!� said Charles�s nephew, �fair Father Creator, yet will I avenge me of the pagan people.� He goes down from his palace, and cries to his men, �Arm ye, knights! Charles is returned.� �The besieged prepare at once for a sally. Sebile places the helmet on her husband�s head and kisses him, never to see him more alive. The enemy are disarmed; three thousand of them are killed by the time Baldwin cuts his way to his uncle, to whom, as his liege lord, he makes complaint against the Saxons. The Emperor�s answer contains little but philosophic comfort: �Fair nephew, so goes war; when your day comes, know that you will die; your father died, you will not escape. Yonder are your enemies, of whom you complain; I give you leave, go and strike them.� Uncle and nephew both perform wonders. But Berard is killed by Feramor, one of Guiteclin�s sons, and the standard which he bore disappears under him. Baldwin engages Feramor; each severely wounds the other; the fight is so well contested that Baldwin offers to divide the land with him if he will make peace. The Saxon spurns the offer, and is killed. �But �Baldwin is wounded in the breast grievously; from thence to the spur his body is bloody.� Saxons, Lusatians, Hungarians perceive that his blows lessen and fall slow. �Montjoie!� he cries many a time, but the French hear him not. �When Baldwin sees that he will have no succour, as a boar he defends himself with his sword.... Who should have seen the proud countenance of the king, how he bears and defends himself against the paynim, great pity should surely take his heart.� Struck with fifteen wounds, his horse killed under him, he offers battle on foot. They dare not approach, but they fling their swords at him, and then go and hide beneath a rock. Baldwin, feeling death approaching, �from the fair eyes of his head begins to weep� for sorrow and rage. He now addresses an elaborate last prayer to God; but whilst he is on his knees, looking toward the East, a Saxon comes to cut off his head. Baldwin, furious, seizes his sword, which had fallen from his hand on the green grass, and with a last blow cleaves the Saxon to the shoulders, then dies. �The news is carried to the Emperor, who laments his ill fate. Rest he has never had; the paynim folk have killed him the flower of his friends, Roland at Roncevaux and now Baldwin. �Ha, God! send me death, without making long delay!� He draws his sword, and is about to kill himself when Naymes of Bavaria restrains him and bids him avenge his nephew�s death. The old man, however, exposes his life with such recklessness, the struggle is so unequal, that Naymes himself has to persuade him to leave the battle and enter the city until the Herupe nobles come to his aid. �Dead is Count Roland and Count Oliver, and all the twelve peers, who used to help in daunting that pride which makes us bend so; no longer at your right hand is Baldwin the warrior; the paynim have killed him and Berard the light; God has their souls.... If you are killed ... in your death alone a hundred thousand will die.� �They lead him away, unwilling, from the field. Baldwin�s corpse is carried by him on his shield. Sebile comes to meet the Emperor and asks of her husband. Charles bids her look at him. She faints to the ground. There is true pathos (though somewhat wire-drawn) in her lament, when she comes to herself: ��Sir King Baldwin, for God�s sake, speak! I am your love, mistake me not. If I have offended you in aught, it shall be made amends for wholly to your pleasure; but speak to me. For you was my body baptized and lifted; my heart leans on you, and all my affections, and if you fail me, it will be ill done. Too soon it seems to me, if already you repent. Baldwin, is it a trick? Are you deceiving me? Speak to me, friend, if you can.... I see your garments dyed and bloody, but I do not believe that you are killed; there is no man so bold or so outrageous who ever could kill you; he durst not do so. But I think by such a will you wish to try me, how I should behave if you were departed. Speak to me, for God�s sake who was born of virgin, and for that lady who kept chastity, and for the holy cross whereon Jesus suffered! Try me no more, friend, it is enough; I shall die now if you tarry longer,� �Naymes,� says the king, �take this lady away; if I see her grief any more, I shall go mad.� �That night he ate no bread nor drank wine, but had the city watched, and rode the rounds himself, with helmet closed, his great buckler hanging to his neck, his sword in his fist. All the night it rained and blew; the water ran through the joints of his hauberk, and wetted his ermine pelisse beneath. His beard swayed, whiter than flax, his long moustache quivered; until dawn he lamented his nephew, and the twelve peers, and all his next-of-kin who were dead. From the gate at morn a Saxon, King Dyalas, defies the old man, swearing that he will wear his crown in Paris. The Emperor has the gate opened, and sallies forth to meet him. They engage in single combat; the old Emperor kills the Saxon�s horse, disarms him, and only spares his life on condition of his embracing Christianity and yielding himself prisoner. �The rest of the poem has comparatively little interest. Old Naymes in turn kills his man�a brother of Guiteclin�in single combat, Dyalas, the Emperor�s new vassal, �armed in French fashion,� performs wonders in honour of his new allegiance. Finally the Herupese come up, and of course overthrow the Saxons. An abbey is founded on the field of battle, which Sebile enters; Dyalas, baptized as �Guiteclin the convert,� receives charge of the kingdom, and the Emperor returns, bearing with him the bodies of Baldwin and Berard; after which �well was France in peace many a year and many a day; the Emperor found not any who should make him wroth.�� Fastrada: a Legend of Aix-la-Chapelle Fastrada, we are told, was the fourth wife of the Emperor Charlemagne and the best beloved. Historians have judged that the lady was by no means worthy of the extraordinary affection bestowed upon her by her husband, some maintaining that she practised the arts of sorcery, others crediting her with political intrigues, and still others roundly asserting that she was not so virtuous as she should have been. History failing to account for Charlemagne�s devotion to his fourth wife, the task has devolved upon tradition. Once upon a time (so runs the tale), when Charlemagne dwelt at Zurich, he had a pillar erected before his house, and on the top of the pillar a bell was placed, so that any one desiring justice had but to ring it to be immediately conducted before the Emperor, there to have his case considered. One day, just as Charlemagne was about to dine, the bell was rung loudly. He at once dispatched his attendants to bring the importunate claimant into his presence. A moment later they re-entered with the assurance that no one waited outside. Even as they spoke the bell rang again, and again the attendants withdrew at the bidding of their royal master. Once more they returned with the information that none was to be seen. When the bell rang for the third time the Emperor himself rose from the table and went outside to satisfy himself as to the ringer�s identity. This time the mystery was solved; for twining round the pillar was a great snake, which, before the astonished eyes of the Emperor and his suite, was lustily pulling the bell-rope. �Bring the snake before me,� said Charlemagne. �Whether to man or beast, I may not refuse justice.� Accordingly the snake was conducted with much ceremony into the Emperor�s presence, where it was distinctly observed to make a low obeisance. The Kaiser addressed the animal courteously, as though it were a human being, and inquired what it wanted. Whereupon the snake made a sign which the company took to indicate that it desired the Emperor to follow it. Charlemagne did not hesitate, but followed the creature to the shores of the lake, attended by all his courtiers. Straight to its nest went the snake, and there, among the eggs, was an enormous toad, puffing out its bloated body and staring with glassy eyes at the company. The reason for the snake�s appeal was at once apparent. �Take away that toad,� said the Emperor, as gravely as though he were pronouncing judgment in an important human case; �take away that toad and burn it. It has taken unlawful possession of the snake�s nest.� The court listened to the Emperor�s decree in respectful silence, and immediately carried out the sentence. The company thereupon re-entered the royal abode, and thought no more of the incident. On the following day, however, at about the same hour, the serpent entered the chamber in which Charlemagne sat, and glided swiftly toward the table. The attendants were somewhat astonished at the unexpected appearance, but the Kaiser motioned to them to stand aside, for he was very curious to see what the reptile would do. Raising itself till its head was on a level with the table, it dropped into his plate a magnificent diamond of the first water, gleaming with the purest light. This done, the serpent bowed low, as on the previous occasion, and quitted the room as silently as it had entered. The diamond, set in a gold ring of exquisite workmanship, Charlemagne presented to his wife, the beautiful Fastrada. But besides being a thing of beauty and of great value, the diamond was also a charm, for whoever received it from another received with it a wealth of personal affection. So was it with Charlemagne and Fastrada. On presenting the ring to his wife the Emperor straightway conceived for her a passion far more intense than he had hitherto experienced. From that time to the day of her death he was her devoted slave, blind and deaf to all her faults. Nay, even when she died, he refused to quit the room in which she lay, or permit the interment of her body; refused to see the approach of corruption, which spares not youth or loveliness; seemed, in short, to have lost all count of the passage of time in his grief for the beloved Fastrada. At length he was approached by Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims, who had learnt, by occult means, the reason for the Emperor�s strange infatuation. Going up to the dead Empress, he withdrew from her mouth a large diamond. At the same moment Charlemagne regained his senses, made arrangements for the burial of his wife, and left for the Castle of Frankenstein. The possessor of the ring was now the worthy archbishop, and to him the magically inspired affections of Charlemagne were transferred, much to the good man�s annoyance. To rid himself of the unwelcome attentions and fulsome flatteries of his sovereign, he cast the ring into the lake which surrounded the castle. Once more the Emperor�s affections changed their object, and this time it was the town of Aix-la-Chapelle with which he fell in love, and for which he retained a firm attachment all through his life, finally directing that he should be buried there. And so he was laid to rest in that wondrous old town in the church of St. Mary. In the year 1000 his tomb was opened by the Emperor Otto III, but the account that Otto found the body seated upon a throne with crown on head and sceptre in hand is generally regarded as legendary. The sarcophagus was once more opened by Frederick I in 1165, when the remains were transferred from the princely marble where they had hitherto rested and placed in a wooden coffin. Fifty years later, however, Frederick II had them placed in a splendid shrine. The original sarcophagus may still be seen at Aix, and the royal relics are exhibited every six years. Louis, Charlemagne�s son, lived to see the division of his Empire, brought about through his own weakness. His fair provinces were ravaged by the Danes and the Normans. Teuton and Frank were now for ever separated. Twice during Louis� reign his own sons dethroned him, but on his death in 840 the Empire became more firmly established. Lothair I (840-855) succeeded to the imperial title, while Germany fell to the lot of his brother Louis. Charles the Bald ruled over France. Lothair�s portion was limited to Lorraine, Burgundy, Switzerland, and Italy. Civil strife broke out, but Louis retained the whole of Germany with the provinces on the left bank of the Rhine. Louis II (856-875) ascended the throne as Roman Emperor, but died without any male issue, while Charles the Fat, who succeeded him, was removed from the throne by order of the Church on account of his insanity. With Charles ended the Carolingian dynasty. From the death of the illustrious Charlemagne the race had gradually but surely declined. After the removal of Charles the Fat there came a lapse of seventy-four years. Conrad I (911-919) founded the Gascon dynasty of Germany, and was succeeded by Henry the Fowler (919-936). His son, Otto I, called the Great (936-973), was crowned Roman Emperor in 962. In 936 his elevation to the Germanic kingdom was a popular one. A portion of Gaul to the west of the Rhine along the banks of the Meuse and the Moselle was ceded to the Germans. Otto�s supremacy between the Rhine, the Rhone, and the Alps was acquired and held for his successors. With the sword he propagated Christianity, subdued Italy, and delivered the Pope from his enemies, who, to show his appreciation, invested him with the imperial title, which ever after belonged to the Germanic nation. The German Emperors, however, still continued to exercise the right of electing the Pope, thereby reducing the Roman Church to a level of servitude. Toward the close of the Carolingian dynasty France and Germany had become irrevocably detached; both nations suffered from internecine wars. The Slavonians penetrated into the Empire, even to the banks of the Rhine. Feudal princes began to make war upon each other, and, within their respective districts, were virtual sovereigns. At the partition of the domains of Charlemagne in A.D. 843 the Rhine formed the boundary between Germany and the middle kingdom of Lotharingia, but by 870 the latter had been absorbed by the larger country. For a period verging upon eight hundred years it remained the frontier of the German Empire. In the early Middle Ages the heritage of the ancient Roman civilization rendered it the most cultured portion of Germany. By the time of Otto I (died 973) both banks of the Rhine had become German, and the Rhenish territory was divided between the duchies of Upper and Lower Lorraine, the one on the Moselle and the other on the Meuse. But, like other German states, on the weakening of the central power they split up into numerous petty independent principalities, each with its special history. The Palatinate Chief among these was the state known as the Palatinate, from the German word Pfalz, a name given generally to any district ruled by a count palatine. It was bounded by Prussia on the north, on the east by Baden, and on the south by Alsace-Lorraine. We first hear of a royal official known as the Count Palatine of the Rhine in the tenth century. Although the office was not originally an hereditary one, it seems to have been held by the descendants of the first count, until the continuity of the race of Hermann was broken by the election of Conrad, stepbrother of the German king Frederick I, as Count Palatine. From that time till much later in German history the Palatinate of the Rhine appears to have been gifted during their lifetime to the nephews or sons-in-law of the reigning Emperor, and by virtue of his occupancy of the office the holder became an Elector, or voter in the election of an Emperor. The office was held by a large number of able and statesmanlike princes, as Frederick I, Frederick III, the champion of Protestantism, and Frederick V. In the seventeenth century the Palatinate was first devastated and then claimed by France, and later was disturbed by still more harassing religious strife. In 1777 it was united with Bavaria upon the reigning Elector falling heir to the Electorate of that state. A Tale of the Palatine House Throughout the Middle Ages the nobles of Rhineland were mostly notorious for their wild savagery and predatory habits, and thus the modern traveller on the famous river, admiring the many picturesque castles built on summits overlooking its banks, is prone to think of these places as having been the homes of men who were little better than freebooters. And in general this idea is just; yet Walter Pater�s story, Duke Karl of Rosenwald�which tells how a medieval German baron discovered in himself a keen love of art, and sought to gather artists round him from France and Italy�may well have been culled from a veracious historical source. For at least a few of the German petty princes of the Middle Ages shared the aestheticism characterizing so many of their contemporaries among the noblemen of the Latin races, and it is interesting to find that among the old German courts where art was loved in this isolated fashion was that of the Palatine house, which ultimately became related by marriage to the Royal Stuarts, a dynasty as eminently artistic as the Medicis themselves. This Palatine house was regnant for many generations at Heidelberg Castle, and there, at a remote medieval date, reigned a prince named Louis III, who esteemed literature and painting. A fond parent he was besides, devoted to his two sons, the elder called Louis and the younger Frederick; and from the outset he attended carefully to the education of the pair, choosing as their tutor a noted scholar, one Kenmat, while he allowed this tutor�s daughter Eugenia to be taught along with the princely pupils, and he also admitted to the group an Italian boy, Rafaello. These four children grew up together, and the Palatine prince was pleased to mark that Frederick, though full of martial ardour, showed intellectual tastes as well; yet the father did not live long to watch the growth of the boy�s predilection therein, and there came a day when the crown of Louis III was acquired by his heir, Louis IV. Still quite young, the latter was already affianced to Margaret of Savoy; and this engagement had incensed various nobles of the Rhine, especially the Count of Luzenstein. He was eager that his own house should become affiliated with the Palatinate, and while he knew that there was little hope of frustrating Louis� prospective wedding, this did not nullify his ambitions. For was it not possible that the marriage might prove without issue? And, as that would ultimately set Frederick on the Palatine throne, Luzenstein determined that his daughter Leonora should wed the younger of the two princes. She herself was equally eager for the union, and though the affair was not definitely arranged in the meantime, it was widely understood that at no very distant date Leonora�s betrothal would be announced. At length there came a day when the noblesse of the Rhine assembled at Heidelberg to celebrate the nuptials of Louis and Margaret. For a space the rejoicings went forward merrily, but, as Louis scanned the faces of his guests, he was surprised to find that Frederick was absent. Why was this? he mused; and going in search he soon found his brother in one of the smaller rooms of the castle, attended by Rafaello. Now the latter, who was developing a rare gift for sculpture, had lately made a statue to decorate this room; and on Louis entering Frederick was gazing with passionate fondness at this new work of art. Louis was straightway called upon to observe its loveliness, and even as Frederick was descanting thus, a number of the guests who had remarked their host�s temporary absence trooped into the room, among them being Leonora of Luzenstein. She was in ill-temper, for Frederick had not so much as troubled to salute her on her arrival; and now, finding him deep in admiration of a statue, its subject a beautiful girl, her rancour deepened apace. But who was the girl? she wondered; and as divers other guests were also inquisitive on this head, it soon transpired that Rafaello�s model had been Eugenia. Leonora knew that this girl had been Frederick�s playmate in youth, so her wrath turned to fierce malice, for she suspected that in Eugenia she had a rival who might wreck all hopes of the Luzensteins becoming united to the Palatine house. But Frederick regarded Eugenia only as a sister. He knew that she and the sculptor who had hewn her likeness loved one another, and he longed to see their union brought about, his genuine affection for the young Italian being the greater on account of Rafaello�s blossoming talents as an artist. Leonora, however, knew nothing of the real situation; she fancied she had been insulted, and demanding of her father that he should cease all negotiations regarding Frederick�s suggested engagement to her, she proceeded to take stronger measures. Readers of Sir Walter Scott�s Anne of Geierstein will recall the Vehmgericht, that �Secret Tribunal� whose deeds were notorious in medieval Germany, and it chanced that the Luzensteins were in touch with this body. Its minions were called upon to wreak vengeance on the younger Palatine prince. On several occasions his life was attempted, and once he would certainly have been killed had not Rafaello succoured him in the hour of need. Meanwhile a son was born to Louis, and in celebration of the event a tourney was held at Heidelberg, competitors coming from far and near, all of them eager to win the golden sword which was promised to the man who should prove champion. One after another they rode into the lists, Frederick being among the number; and as each presented himself his name was called aloud by the herald. At length there came one of whom this functionary cried, �This is a nameless knight who bears a plain shield�; and at these words a murmur of disapproval rose from the crowd, while everyone looked up to where Louis sat, awaiting his verdict on the matter. But he signified that the mysterious aspirant should be allowed to show his prowess, and a minute later, all who were to take part being now assembled, Frederick and another competitor were stationed at opposite ends of the lists, and the signal given them to charge. Forward thundered their steeds, a fierce combat ensued; but Frederick proved victor, and so another warrior came forward to meet him. He, too, was worsted, and soon it appeared as though the young Palatine prince would surely win the coveted golden sword; for foeman after foeman he vanquished, and eventually only two remained to confront him�the nameless knight and another who had entered the lists under a strange, though less suspicious, pseudonym. The latter expressed his desire to fight last of all, and so the nameless one galloped toward Frederick, and their lances clashed together. The Palatine prince bore his adversary to the ground, apparently conquering him with complete ease; and fearing he had wounded him mortally, Frederick dismounted with intent to succour him. But the speedy fall had been a feint, and as the victor bent down the mysterious knight suddenly drew a dagger, with intent to plunge it into the prince�s heart. So stealthy a deed was unknown in the history of the tourney. The crowd gazed as though petrified, and Frederick�s life would doubtless have been lost�for he was weak after his many joustings�had not he who had asked to fight last of all galloped forward instantly on marking the drawn weapon and driven his lance into the body of the would-be murderer! It was Rafaello who had rescued the Palatine prince once again, and it was a member of the Luzenstein house who had sought to kill him thus. A crafty device in truth, and thenceforth the name of Luzenstein became abhorred throughout all Rhineland, while the brave Italian was honoured by knighthood, and arrangements were made for his speedy union with Eugenia. But, alas! the fates were untoward; for the �Secret Tribunal,� having been baulked again and again, began to direct their schemes against the sculptor instead of his patron; and one evening, as Rafaello was walking with his beloved one, a band of villains attacked and murdered the pair. They were buried together at a place known for many centuries after as �The Lovers� Grave,� and here Frederick used to loiter often, musing fondly on the dear sister who had been snatched from him in this ruthless fashion, and dreaming of the lofty artistic career which he had planned in vain for his beloved Rafaello. Bishops, Barons, and Bourgeois To trace the fortunes, divisions, and junctions of the lesser Rhine principalities would be a work requiring a world of patience on the part of the reader as well as an amount of space which would speedily surpass the limits even of such an ample volume as the present. The constant changes of boundary of these tiny lordships, the hazy character of the powers possessed by their rulers, the multiplicity of free townships yielding obedience to none but their own civic rulers, the brief but none the less tyrannous rule of scores of robber barons who exercised a régime of blood and iron within a radius of five miles of their castellated eyries, render the tracing of the history of the Rhine during the Middle Ages a task of almost unequalled complexity, robbed of all the romance of history by reason of the necessity for constant attention to the details of dynastic and territorial changes and the petty squabblings and dreary scufflings of savage barons with their neighbours or with the scarcely less brutal ecclesiastical dignitaries, who, joining with gusto in the general mêlée of land-snatching, served to swell the tumult with their loud-voiced claims for land and lordship. Three of the Electors of Franconia, within the boundaries of which the Palatinate was included, were archbishops, and these were foremost in all dynastic and territorial bickerings. The growth of German municipalities since the days of their founder, Henry the Fowler, was not without effect upon the Empire. Distinctions of class were modified. The freeman became empowered to reserve to himself the right of going to war along with his lord. Imperial cities began to spring up; these were governed by a lieutenant of the Emperor, or by their own chief magistrate. They achieved confederation, thus guarding themselves against imperial and feudal encroachments. The �League of the Rhine� and that of the Hanse Towns emerged as the fruit of this policy. The latter federation consisted of about four-score cities of Germany which under their charter enjoyed a commercial monopoly. This example succeeded so well that its promoter, Lübeck, had the satisfaction of seeing all cities between the Rhine and the Vistula thus connected. The clergy, jealous of this municipal power, besought the Emperor to repress the magistrates who had been called into being by the people, and who were closely allied to this commercial confederation. But the monarch advised the prelates to return to their churches lest their opulent friends became their enemies. The Rhine Hanse Towns The influence of the Hanseatic League of the Rhine district in the fourteenth century extended over the whole commercial radius of Germany, Prussia, Russia, the Netherlands, and Britain. It opened up new fields of commerce, manufacture, and industry. It paved the way for culture, it subdued the piracy which had existed in the Baltic, and it promoted a universal peace. On the other hand, it created jealousy; it boycotted the honest manufacturer and merchant who did not belong to the League, and fostered luxury in the Rhenish cities, which did much to sap the sturdy character of the people. The celebrity which many of these municipalities attained through their magnificence can be gathered from the historic buildings of Worms, Spires, Frankfort, Cologne, Augsburg, and Nuremberg. The splendour of these edifices and the munificence of their wealthy inhabitants could only be equalled in the maritime regions of Italy. But in the fifteenth century the power of the League began to decline. The Russian towns, under the leadership of Novgorod the Great, commenced a crusade against the Hanse Towns� monopoly in that country. The general rising in England, which was one of the great warehouses, under Henry VI and Edward IV reflected upon them. The Netherlands followed England�s example. In the seventeenth century their existence was confined to three German towns�Lübeck, Hamburg, and Bremen. These no longer had the power to exercise their influence over the nation, and soon the League dropped out of existence. The Thirty Years� War The protracted struggle known as the Thirty Years� War was most prejudicial to the interests of the Rhine valley, which was overrun by the troops of the several nationalities engaged. One phase of this most disastrous struggle�the War of the Palatinate�carried the rapine and slaughter to the banks of the Rhine, where, as has been said, they were long remembered. During the reign of Ferdinand III (1637-1659) a vigorous and protracted war broke out between France and Germany, the former assisted by her ally Sweden. Germany, seeing that unless peace were restored her ruin as a great power would be inevitable, entered into negotiations with France, and in 1648 the claims of France and Sweden were settled by the Peace of Westphalia. This treaty is particularly notable in the present instance because it gave to the former country the footing on the Rhine already mentioned as the beginning of French encroachments. Germany was forced to give up Alsace, on the left bank of the river. France, by the seizure of Strassburg, confirmed by the Treaty of Ryswick in 1695, extended her boundaries to the Rhine. At the beginning of the French Revolution Leopold II of Germany and other German monarchs agreed to support the cause of French royalty, a resolution which was disastrous to the Empire. In 1795 Prussia, for political reasons, withdrew from the struggle, ceding to France, in the terms of the Treaty of Basel, all her possessions on the left bank of the Rhine. In 1799 war again broke out; but in 1801 the Treaty of Lunéville gave to France the whole of the left bank of the river. Thus the historic stream became the boundary between France and Germany. In 1806 the humiliation of the latter country was complete, for in that year a number of German princes joined the Confederation of the Rhine, thus allying themselves with France and repudiating their allegiance to the Empire. In 1815, at the Congress of Vienna, the whole of the Lower Rhenish district was restored to Prussia, while Bavaria, a separate state, was put in possession of the greater part of the Palatinate on the left bank of the Rhine. From that time onward the German national spirit flourished, but the future of the Empire was uncertain till its fate was decided by the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-71. In the great hall of the Palace of Versailles in 1871 William I, King of Prussia, proclaimed, in the hour of victory, the restoration of the confederated German Empire. The French forfeited their Rhenish provinces, and once more the Rhine was restored to Germany. That the Thirty Years� War did not fail to linger in the folk-memory is evidenced by the following gruesome legend of Oppenheim: The Battle of Skeletons The smoke and terror of the great struggle had surged over Oppenheim. A battle had been fought there, and the Swedes and Spaniards who had contested the field and had been slain lay buried in the old churchyard hard by the confines of the town. At least many had been granted the right of sepulture there, but in a number of cases the hasty manner in which their corpses had received burial was all too noticeable, and a stranger visiting the churchyard confines years after the combat could not fail to be struck by the many uncoffined human relics which met his gaze. But an artist who had journeyed from far to see the summer�s sun upon the Rhine water, and who came to Oppenheim in the golden dusk, was too intent on the search for beauty to remember the grisly reputation of the town. Moreover, on entering the place the first person by whom he had been greeted was a beautiful young maiden, daughter of the innkeeper, who modestly shrank back on hearing his confident tones and, curtsying prettily, replied to his questions in something like a whisper. �Can you recommend me to a comfortable hostelry, my pretty maid, where the wine is good and the company jovial?� �If the Herr can put up with a village inn, that of my father is as good as any in the place,� replied the maid. �Good, my pretty,� cried the bold painter, sending the ready blood to her face with a glance from his bright black eyes. �Lead the way, and I will follow. Or, better still, walk with me.� By the time they had reached the inn they felt like old friends. The girl had skilfully but simply discovered the reason for the young artist�s sojourn in Oppenheim, and with glowing face and eyes that had grown brighter with excitement, she clasped her hands together and cried: �Oh, the Herr must paint my beloved Oppenheim. There is no such place by moonlight, believe me, and you will be amply repaid by a visit to the ruins of the old church to-night. See, a pale and splendid moon has already risen, and will light your work as the sun never could.� �As you ask me so prettily, Fräulein, I shall paint your beloved abbey,� he replied. �But why not in sunlight, with your own sweet face in the foreground?� �No, no,� cried the girl hastily. �That would rob the scene of all its romance.� �As you will,� said the artist. �But this, I take it, is your father�s inn, and I am ready for supper. Afterward�well, we shall see!� Supper over, the painter sat for some time over his pipe and his wine, and then, gathering together his sketching impedimenta, quitted the inn and took his way toward the ruins of Oppenheim�s ancient abbey. It was a calm, windless night, and the silver moon sailed high in the heavens. Not a sound broke the silence as the young man entered the churchyard. Seating himself upon a flat tombstone, he proceeded to arrange his canvas and sketching materials; but as he was busied thus his foot struck something hard. Bending down to remove the obstacle, which he took for a large stone, he found, to his horror, that it was a human skull. With an ejaculation he cast the horrid relic away from him, and to divert his mind from the grisly incident commenced to work feverishly. Speedily his buoyant mind cast off the gloomy train of thought awakened by the dreadful find, and for nearly a couple of hours he sat sketching steadily, until he was suddenly startled to hear the clock in the tower above him strike the hour of midnight. He was gathering his things preparatory to departure, when a strange rustling sound attracted his attention. Raising his eyes from his task, he beheld a sight which made his flesh creep. The exposed and half-buried bones of the dead warriors which littered the surface of the churchyard drew together and formed skeletons. These reared themselves from the graves and stood upright, and as they did so formed grisly and dreadful battalions�Swedes formed with Swedes and Spaniards with Spaniards. On a sudden hoarse words of command rang out on the midnight air, and the two companies attacked one another. The luckless beholder of the dreadful scene felt the warm blood grow chill within his veins. Hotter and hotter became the fray, and many skeletons sank to the ground as though slain in battle. One of them, he whose skull the artist had kicked, sank down at the young man�s feet. In a hollow voice he commanded the youth to tell to the world how they were forced to combat each other because they had been enemies in life, and that they could obtain no rest until they had been buried. Directly the clock struck one the battle ceased, and the bones once more lay about in disorder. The artist (who, it need hardly be said, gave no more thought to his picture) hastened back to the inn and in faltering accents related his experiences. When the Seven Years� War broke out, not long afterward, the people of Oppenheim declared that the apparition of the skeletons had foretold the event. The Robbers of the Rhine For many hundreds of years the valley of the Rhine itself, and the various valleys adjacent, were the haunt of numerous bodies of rapacious and desperate banditti. The rugged, mountainous nature of the country naturally made lawlessness the more easy there, and till so late as the beginning of the nineteenth century these gangs of robbers were a constant menace to the traveller in Rhineland. At the time of the French Revolution, indeed, and for some decades thereafter, the district was literally infested with thieves; for the unsettled state of Europe at this date perforce tended to bring desperadoes from far and near, and for a while the inhabitants of the different villages on the banks of the Rhine endured a veritable reign of terror. But almost from the outset the brigands realized that they would soon be undone if they grew too numerous. They knew that, in that event, strong military measures would probably be taken against them; so they made every effort to practise that union which is proverbially strength, and to prevent the enlisting in their ranks of anyone likely to prove cowardly or perfidious. In some cases, too, they actually had a well and capably organized system whereby one of their number could escape quickly, if need be, from the scene of his crime; for, like the French prisoners described in Stevenson�s St. Ives, they had a line of sanctuaries extending perhaps into Austria or Italy, the retreat in most instances being an inn whose keeper was sworn to hide and protect his robber guest at all costs. In short, there was honour among these thieves, and even a certain spirit of freemasonry; while, more important still, the captain of a band was very often in league with the few police officials of the neighbourhood. The great highwaymen of Stuart and Georgian England�for example, that gallant Beau Brocade of whom Mr. Austin Dobson writes�were mostly content with waylaying a chance passer-by; while their contemporaries in France usually worked on this principle also, as witness the deeds of the band who figure in Théophile Gautier�s story Le Capitaine Fracasse. But the robbers of the Rhine were of different mettle from these, and often it was almost a predatory warfare rather than mere brigandage which they carried on. Frequently they had an agent in each of the villages on the river, this agent being usually a member of the scattered remnant of Israel; and the business of this person was to discover a house containing especial wealth, and then to inform the robbers accordingly. Having gleaned the requisite information in this wise, the gang would sally down from the mountains at dead of night; and it was customary, as they drew near to their prey, for the captain to call his henchmen to attention and see that each was ready for the imminent fray. Then, having gagged the village watchman and muffled his bell, they would proceed to surround the house they intended to rifle, and, should resistance be offered, to batter in the door with a log or other instrument. Sometimes it would transpire that the Jewish agent had misinformed them, telling them of booty where booty there was little, and woe betide him should this prove the state of affairs. Moreover, unlike the brigands in Gil Blas, these scoundrels of the Rhine would not be encumbered by prisoners, and they were wont to slay outright all who were minded to show fight. Yet to their own brotherhood the robbers were invariably loyal, seldom failing to carry away with them such of their confrères as were wounded in the assault; for each was sworn to support his fellows under all circumstances, and awful was the fate of the marauder who violated this compact. It is told of a band commanded by one Picard, a cruel but brave leader, that one of its members chanced to be captured, and with a view to purchasing his freedom he gave information about the whereabouts of his chief. The next night, as the captive lay in his dungeon, a masked face suddenly appeared at the barred window, and in awestruck tones the prisoner asked the new-comer to declare his identity. �I am Picard, your captain,� came the answer. �As in duty bound, I have risked my life to set you free,� and having spoken thus, he proceeded to file through one of the bars, which being accomplished, the reprobate was drawn out of his cell by the aid of a rope. He breathed freely now, finding himself once more among some of his old comrades, but a moment later Picard addressed him again. �Traitor,� he snarled, �do not think that your perfidy has failed to reach our ears; you must pay the full penalty.� �Mercy,� cried the unfortunate one; �at least let me die in action. Lead on against some foe, and let me fall at their hands.� �Cowards,� retorted Picard, �deserve no such gallant fate,� and with these words he drove his sword deep into the heart of the traitor. In general it was a point of honour among these bandits that none should reveal to a woman anything about the doings of his band, and one story relates how a young brigand, on the eve of setting out on his first predatory expedition, was rash enough to inform his sweetheart whither he and his mates were bound. Their commander was a Captain Jikjak, reputed something of a wit; and betimes, after the brigands had marched forward silently for a while, this worthy called upon them to halt. They imagined it was but the usual inspection of arms which was about to take place, but Jikjak, speaking in stentorian tones, told them that a traitor was in their midst, and pointing to the culprit, he bade him step forth. The young man pled his youth as an excuse for his fault, and he told the captain that, could he but get a chance to show his prowess once, they would soon see that he was as gallant a robber as any of them. But Jikjak laughed scornfully, saying he was anxious to find out which was stronger, the young man�s legs or a pair of trees. The culprit quailed on hearing the verdict, and implored a less ghastly fate; but Jikjak was obdurate, and smiling blandly, he bade his followers bend a couple of stout branches to the ground and tie their tops to the ankles of the offender.... Such, then, were the robbers of the Rhine, and such the code of honour which existed among them. A romantic institution they no doubt were, yet it was a form of picturesqueness whose disappearance can scarcely be regretted. CHAPTER II�THE RHINE IN FOLKLORE AND LITERATURE Affinities of the Rhine Legends A close perusal of the body of tradition known as the legends of the Rhine displays one circumstance which is calculated to surprise the collector of these narratives not a little. It is generally represented�probably through ignorance of the real circumstances�that these tales abound in the matter of folklore. This is, however, by no means the case, and even a superficial examination of them will prove most of them to be allied to the matter of romance in a much more intimate way than they approach that of folklore. But this is not so as regards all of them, and it will be interesting to look into the character of those which present folklore affinities, whilst leaving the consideration of their romantic aspect for a later portion of this chapter. By right of precedence, among the legends of the Rhine which possess folklore characteristics is the wonderful legend of the Lorelei, a word derived from the old High German lur, to lurk, and lai, a rock. The height from which the bewitching water-spirit sent her song floating over the waves of the Rhine is situated near St. Goar, and possesses a remarkable echo which may partly account for the legend. The Lorelei Many are the legends which cluster round the name of the Lorelei. In some of the earlier traditions she is represented as an undine, combing her hair on the Lorelei-berg and singing bewitching strains wherewith to lure mariners to their death, and one such legend relates how an old soldier named Diether undertook to capture her. Graf Ludwig, son of the Prince Palatine, had been caught in her toils, his frail barque wrecked, and he himself caught in the whirlpool and drowned. The prince, grievously stricken at the melancholy occurrence, longed to avenge his son�s death on the evil enchantress who had wrought such havoc. Among his retainers there was but one who would undertake the venture�a captain of the guard named Diether�and the sole reward he craved was permission to cast the Lorelei into the depths she haunted should he succeed in capturing her. Diether and his little band of warriors ascended the Lorelei�s rock in such a way as to cut off all retreat on the landward side. Just as they reached the summit the moon sailed out from behind a cloud, and behold, the spirit of the whirlpool was seen sitting on the very verge of the precipice, binding her wet hair with a band of gleaming jewels. �What wouldst thou with me?� she cried, starting to her feet. �To cast thee into the Rhine, sorceress,� said Diether roughly, �where thou hast drowned our prince.� �Nay,� returned the maid, �I drowned him not. �Twas his own folly which cost him his life.� As she stood on the brink of the precipice, her lips smiling, her eyes gleaming softly, her wet dark hair streaming over her shoulders, some strange, unearthly quality in her beauty, a potent spell fell upon the little company, so that even Diether himself could neither move nor speak. �And wouldst thou cast me in the Rhine, Diether?� she pursued, smiling at the helpless warrior. ��Tis not I who go to the Rhine, but the Rhine that will come to me.� Then loosening the jewelled band from her hair, she flung it on the water and cried aloud: �Father, send me thy white steeds, that I may cross the river in safety.� Instantly, as at her bidding, a wild storm arose, and the river, overflowing its banks, foamed right up to the summit of the Lorelei Rock. Three white-crested waves, resembling three white horses, mounted the steep, and into the hollowed trough behind them the Lorelei stepped as into a chariot, to be whirled out into the stream. Meanwhile Diether and his companions were almost overwhelmed by the floods, yet they were unable to stir hand or foot. In mid-stream the undine sank beneath the waves: the spell was broken, the waters subsided, and the captain and his men were free to return home. Nevermore, they vowed, would they seek to capture the Lorelei. The Forsaken Bride There is a later and more popular legend of the Lorelei than the foregoing. According to this tale Lorelei was a maiden of surpassing beauty who dwelt in the town of Bacharach in medieval times. So potent were her attractions that every gallant on whom her eye rested fell hopelessly in love with her, while her ever-widening fame drew suitors in plenty from all parts of the country. The dismissed lovers wandered disconsolately in the neighbouring forests, vowing to take their lives rather than suffer the pangs of unrequited passion; while occasionally the threat was fulfilled, and a brave knight would cast himself into the Rhine and perish for love of the cold and cruel maid. Thus her fatal beauty played havoc among the flower of German chivalry. But she, dowered with virtue and goodness, as well as with more transient charms, trembled when she saw the effect of her attractions on her many lovers, and secluded herself as closely as possible. The truth was, she had given her heart into the keeping of a young knight who, after plighting his troth with her, had ridden away to the wars, his military ardour and desire for glory triumphing over his love. Years had gone by, yet he did not return, and Lorelei thought that he had perished on the field of battle, or had taken another bride and forgotten her. But she remained true to him in spite of his long silence, and spent her days in tears and prayers for his safety. Meanwhile she was besieged by an ever-increasing band of suitors, to whom her retiring disposition and sorrowful mien but made her the more desirable. Then it began to be rumoured abroad that she was a sorceress, who won the hearts of men by magic art and with the aid of the Evil One. The rumour was spread broadcast by jealous and disappointed women who saw their menfolk succumb to the fatal charms of the Maid of Bacharach. Mothers noticed their sons grow pale and woe-begone because of her; maids their erstwhile lovers sighing out a hopeless passion for the beautiful Lorelei; so they brought against her accusations of sorcery, which in those days generally led to the death of the victim by burning. So grievously did these malign whispers add to the already heavy burden of the maid that she surrendered herself to be tried, hardly caring whether or not she were found guilty. She was summoned before the criminal court held at Rhens by the Archbishop of Cologne, and charged with practising the black art in order to ensnare men�s affections. However, when she appeared before the court her beauty so impressed the assembly, and even the old Archbishop himself, that none could believe her guilty. Her lovely face bore the imprint of innocence, her grief touched every heart, and on all sides she was treated with the greatest respect and kindness. The old prelate assured her that she would not be judged harshly, but begged to hear from her own lips that she was innocent of the foul charge brought against her. This assurance she gave with artless simplicity, and a murmur of approval went up from the crowd. The sympathy of those present�for even her accusers were melted�and the kindness of the aged Churchman who was her judge moved her to confess her unhappy love-story. �I pray thee,� she concluded wearily, �I pray thee, my lord, let me die. I know, alas! that many true knights have died for love of me, and now I fain would die for the sake of one who hath forsaken me.� The prelate, moved almost to tears by the pathetic story, laid his hand on the head of the weeping maid. �Thou shalt not die, fair maiden,� he said. �I will send thee to a convent, where thou mayst live in peace.� And calling to his side three trusty old knights, he bade them conduct Lorelei to the convent across the river, and charge the abbess to treat her with the greatest kindness. Having blessed the maid once more, he bade them go. On their way to the convent they must needs pass the rock since known as the Lorelei-berg, and the girl, who had maintained a pensive silence all the way, now observed that she would fain ascend the rock and look for the last time at the castle of her betrothed knight. Her escort would have courteously assisted her, but she, with the agility of youth, easily outstripped them, and stood alone on the summit, surveying the fair scene before her. A light barque was sailing up the river, and as she gazed on it Lorelei uttered a loud cry, for there in the bow stood her truant lover! The knight and his train heard the shriek and beheld with horror the maiden standing with outstretched arms on the very edge of the precipice. The steering of the boat was forgotten for the moment, and the frail craft ran on the rocks. Lorelei saw her lover�s peril and, calling his name, leapt into the tide. Nothing more was seen of the lovers; together they sleep the sleep of death beneath the waters of the Rhine. A Blending of Legends In these legends we observe how the tradition of a mere water-nymph has developed into a story concerning a hapless damsel. The first applies to the Lorelei as a water-spirit pure and simple, but legends which refer to beings originally water-spirits have a knack of becoming associated in later times with stories of distressed ladies. Indeed, one such came to the writer�s knowledge only a few months ago. The mansion of Caroline Park, near Edinburgh, dating from the end of the seventeenth century, has in its vicinity a well which is reputed to be inhabited by a �Green Lady,� who emerges from her watery dwelling at twilight and rings the great bell of the old manor-house. On visiting the vicinity for the purpose of verifying the legend information was gleaned respecting another story of a captured lady who had been incarcerated in a room in the mansion and had written some verses to her lover with her diamond ring on a window-pane. The strange thing is that these stories, though obviously of different origin, appear now to have become fused in the popular imagination: the �Green Lady� and the verse-writing damsel become one and the same, thus affording a case in point of the fusion of a mythological tale with a later and probably verifiable incident. The Lorelei is of course a water-spirit of the siren type, one who lures heedless mariners to their destruction. In Scotland and the north of England we find her congener in the water-kelpie, who lurks in pools lying in wait for victims. But the kelpie is usually represented in the form of a horse and not in that of a beauteous maiden. The Nixie Another water-spirit not unlike the Lorelei is the nixie, which is both male and female, the male appearing like any human being, but, as in the case of the water-spirits of the Slavonic peoples and England, Scotland, and Central America, being possessed of green teeth. The male is called nix, the female nixie, the generic term for both being nicker, from a root which perhaps means �to wash.� There is perhaps some truth in the statement which would derive the Satanic patronymic of �Old Nick� from these beings, as spirits extremely familiar to the Teutonic mind. On fine sunny days the nixies may be seen sitting on the banks of rivers, or on the branches of trees, combing their long golden locks. Previous to a drowning accident the nixies can be seen dancing on the surface of the water. Like all sea and river spirits, their subaqueous abode is of a magnificence unparalleled upon earth, and to this they often convey mortals, who, however, complain that the splendours of the nixies� palaces are altogether spoiled for them by the circumstance that their banquets are served without salt. Where on the marshes boometh the bittern, Nicker the Soulless sits with his ghittern; Sits inconsolable, friendless and foeless, Bewailing his destiny, Nicker the Soulless. The Nixie of the Mummel-lake The legend of the nixie of Seebach is one of gloom and tragedy, albeit as charming as most of the Rhine tales. It was the custom among the young people of Seebach to assemble of an evening in the spinning-room, which on the occasion about to be dealt with was in the house of the richest and most distinguished family in the country. The girls spun and laughed and chatted, while the youths hung about their chairs and cracked jokes with them. One evening while they were thus employed there came among them a stranger, a young lady beautifully clad and carrying an ivory spinning-wheel. With becoming modesty she asked to be allowed to join the company, which permission the simple youths and maidens readily accorded. None was more eager to do honour to the new-comer than the son of their host. While the others were still gaping in awestruck fashion, he quietly fetched her a chair and performed various little services for her. She received his attentions so graciously that a warmer feeling than courtesy sprang up in his heart for the fair spinner. He was in truth a handsome lad, whose attentions any maid might have been proud to receive. Well-built and slender, he bore himself with a proud carriage, and the expression on his delicate features was grave and thoughtful beyond his years. When at length the fair visitor departed, he loitered disconsolate and restless, listening to the idle surmises of the peasant youths concerning the identity of the lady, but offering no opinion himself. On the following day at the same hour she again appeared and, seeing her cavalier of the previous day, smiled and bowed to him. The young man glowed with pleasure, and diffidently renewed his attentions. Day after day the lady of the spinning-wheel joined the company, and it was noted that the girls were brighter and more diligent, and the young men more gentle and courteous, for her coming. It was whispered among them that she was a nixie from the Mummel-lake far under the mountains, for never mortal was so richly endowed with beauty and grace. As time went on the son of the house grew more and more melancholy as his love for the fair unknown became deeper. Only during the brief hour of her visit would he show any cheerfulness. All the rest of the day he would mope in silent wretchedness. His friends saw with distress the change which had come over him, but they were powerless to alter matters. The lady could not be persuaded to remain beyond her usual hour, nor to give any hint of her identity. One day, thinking to prolong her visit, the young man put back the hands of the clock. When the hour drew near for her to depart, he slipped out of the house so that he might follow her and find out where she lived. When the hour struck, the lady, who seemed to have feared that she was late, walked hastily from the house in the direction of the lake. So quickly did she walk that the youth following in her path could scarcely keep pace with her. She did not pause when she reached the shore, but plunged directly into the water. A low, moaning sound rose from the waves, which boiled and bubbled furiously, and the young man, fearing that some evil had befallen the maid, sprang in after her, but the cruel currents dragged him down, and he sank out of sight. Next day his body was found floating on the lake by some woodcutters, and the nixie of the Mummel-lake was seen no more. The Wild Huntsman One of the most interesting Rhine myths is that concerning the Wild Huntsman, which is known all over Rhineland, and which is connected with many of its localities. The tale goes that on windy nights the Wild Huntsman, with his yelling pack of hounds, sweeps through the air, his prey departing souls. The huntsman is, of course, Odin, who in some of his aspects was a hunter-god. The English legend of Herne the Hunter, who haunts Windsor Park, is allied to this, and there can be little doubt that Herne is Odin. Indeed, it is here suggested that the name Herne may in some way be connected with one of Odin�s titles, Hâri, the High One. It was the legend of the Wild Huntsman that inspired Sir Walter Scott to write one of his finest ballads of the mysterious. An Edinburgh friend had perused a ballad by Burger, entitled Lenore, but all he could remember of it were the following four lines: Tramp, tramp, across the land they ride; Splash, splash, across the sea. Hurrah! the dead can ride apace, Dost fear to ride with me? This verse fired Scott�s imagination. He liked this sort of thing, and could do it very well himself. So on reaching home he sat down to the composition of the following ballad, of which we give the most outstanding verses: THE WILD HUNTSMAN The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn: To horse, to horse, haloo, haloo! His fiery courser sniffs the morn, And thronging serfs their lord pursue. The eager pack, from couples freed, Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake. The beams of God�s own hallowed day Had painted yonder spire with gold, And, calling sinful men to pray, Loud, long, and deep the bell hath tolled. But still the Wildgrave onward rides; Haloo, haloo, and hark again! When, spurring from opposing sides, Two stranger horsemen join the train. Who was each stranger, left and right? Well may I guess, but dare not tell. The right-hand steed was silver-white; The left, the swarthy hue of hell. The right-hand horseman, young and fair, His smile was like the morn of May; The left, from eye of tawny glare, Shot midnight lightning�s lurid ray. He waved his huntsman�s cap on high, Cried, �Welcome, welcome, noble lord! What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, To match the princely chase, afford?� �Cease thy loud bugle�s clanging knell,� Cried the fair youth with silver voice; �And for devotion�s choral swell, Exchange the rude, unhallowed noise. �To-day th� ill-omened chase forbear; Yon bell yet summons to the fane: To-day the warning spirit hear, To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.� The Wildgrave spurred his ardent steed And, launching forward with a bound, �Who for thy drowsy priestlike rede Would leave the jovial horn and hound? �Hence, if our manly sport offend: With pious fools go chant and pray. Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brown friend, Haloo, haloo, and hark away!� The Wildgrave spurred his courser light, O�er moss and moor, o�er holt and hill, And on the left and on the right Each stranger horseman followed still. Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn, A stag more white than mountain snow; And louder rung the Wildgrave�s horn� �Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!� A heedless wretch has crossed the way� He grasps the thundering hoofs below; But, live who can, or die who may, Still forward, forward! on they go. See where yon simple fences meet, A field with autumn�s blessings crowned; See, prostrate at the Wildgrave�s feet, A husbandman with toil embrowned. �Oh, mercy! mercy! noble lord; Spare the poor�s pittance,� was his cry; �Earned by the sweat these brows have poured In scorching hours of fierce July.� �Away, thou hound, so basely born, Or dread the scourge�s echoing blow!� Then loudly rung his bugle horn, �Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!� So said, so done�a single bound Clears the poor labourer�s humble pale: Wild follows man, and horse, and hound, Like dark December�s stormy gale. And man, and horse, and hound, and horn Destructive sweep the field along, While joying o�er the wasted corn Fell famine marks the madd�ning throng. Full lowly did the herdsman fall: �Oh, spare, thou noble baron, spare; These herds, a widow�s little all; These flocks, an orphan�s fleecy care.� �Unmannered dog! To stop my sport Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, Though human spirits of thy sort Were tenants of these carrion kine!� Again he winds his bugle horn, �Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!� And through the herd in ruthless scorn He cheers his furious hounds to go. In heaps the throttled victims fall; Down sinks their mangled herdsman near; The murd�rous cries the stag appal, Again he starts, new-nerved by fear. With blood besmeared, and white with foam, While big the tears of anguish pour, He seeks, amid the forest�s gloom, The humble hermit�s hallowed bow�r. All mild, amid the route profane, The holy hermit poured his prayer: �Forbear with blood God�s house to stain: Revere His altar, and forbear! �The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which, wronged by cruelty or pride, Draw vengeance on the ruthless head; Be warned at length, and turn aside.� Still the fair horseman anxious pleads; The black, wild whooping, points the prey. Alas! the Earl no warning heeds, But frantic keeps the forward way. �Holy or not, or right or wrong, Thy altar and its rights I spurn; Not sainted martyrs� sacred song, Not God Himself shall make me turn.� He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, �Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!� But off, on whirlwind�s pinions borne, The stag, the hut, the hermit, go. And horse and man, and horn and hound, The clamour of the chase was gone; For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound, A deadly silence reigned alone. Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around; He strove in vain to wake his horn, In vain to call; for not a sound Could from his anxious lips be borne. High o�er the sinner�s humbled head At length the solemn silence broke; And from a cloud of swarthy red The awful voice of thunder spoke: �Oppressor of creation fair! Apostate spirits� hardened tool! Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor! The measure of thy cup is full. �Be chased for ever through the wood, For ever roam the affrighted wild; And let thy fate instruct the proud, God�s meanest creature is His child.� �Twas hushed: one flash of sombre glare With yellow tinged the forest�s brown; Up rose the Wildgrave�s bristling hair, And horror chilled each nerve and bone. Earth heard the call�her entrails rend; From yawning rifts, with many a yell, Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend The misbegotten dogs of hell. What ghastly huntsman next arose, Well may I guess, but dare not tell: His eye like midnight lightning glows, His steed the swarthy hue of hell. The Wildgrave flies o�er bush and thorn, With many a shriek of hapless woe; Behind him hound, and horse, and horn, And hark away, and holla, ho! With wild despair�s reverted eye, Close, close behind, he marks the throng; With bloody fangs, and eager cry, In frantic fear he scours along. Still, still shall last the dreadful chase, Till time itself shall have an end; By day, they scour earth�s caverned space; At midnight�s witching hour, ascend. This is the horn, and hound, and horse, That oft the �lated peasant hears; Appalled, he signs the frequent cross, When the wild din invades his ears. Dwarfs and Gnomes Beings of the dwarf race swarmed on the banks of Rhine. First and foremost among these are the gnomes, who guard the subterranean treasures, but who on occasion reveal them to mortals. We meet with these very frequently under different guises, as, for instance, in the case of the �Cooper of Auerbach,� and the Yellow Dwarf who appears in the legend of Elfeld. The Heldenbuch, the ancient book in which are collected the deeds of the German heroes of old, says that �God gave the dwarfs being because the land on the mountains was altogether waste and uncultivated, and there was much store of silver and gold and precious stones and pearls still in the mountains. Wherefore God made the dwarfs very artful and wise, that they might know good and evil right well, and for what everything was good. Some stones give great strength, some make those who carry them about them invisible. That is called a mist-cap, and therefore did God give the dwarfs skill and wisdom. Therefore they built handsome hollow-hills, and God gave them riches.� Keightley, in his celebrated Fairy Mythology, tells of a class of dwarfs called Heinzelmännchen, who used to live and perform their exploits in Cologne. These were obviously of the same class as the brownies of Scotland, Teutonic house-spirits who attached themselves to the owners of certain dwellings, and Keightley culled the following anecdote regarding them from a Cologne publication issued in 1826: �In the time that the Heinzelmännchen were still there, there was in Cologne many a baker who kept no man, for the little people used always to make, overnight, as much black and white bread as the baker wanted for his shop. In many houses they used to wash and do all their work for the maids. �Now, about this time, there was an expert tailor to whom they appeared to have taken a great fancy, for when he married he found in his house, on the wedding-day, the finest victuals and the most beautiful utensils, which the little folk had stolen elsewhere and brought to their favourite. When, with time, his family increased, the little ones used to give the tailor�s wife considerable aid in her household affairs; they washed for her, and on holidays and festival times they scoured the copper and tin, and the house from the garret to the cellar. If at any time the tailor had a press of work, he was sure to find it all ready done for him in the morning by the Heinzelmännchen. �But curiosity began now to torment the tailor�s wife, and she was dying to get one sight of the Heinzelmännchen, but do what she would she could never compass it. She one time strewed peas all down the stairs that they might fall and hurt themselves, and that so she might see them next morning. But this project missed, and since that time the Heinzelmännchen have totally disappeared, as has been everywhere the case, owing to the curiosity of people, which has at all times been the destruction of so much of what was beautiful in the world. �The Heinzelmännchen, in consequence of this, went off all in a body out of the town, with music playing, but people could only hear the music, for no one could see the mannikins themselves, who forthwith got into a ship and went away, whither no one knows. The good times, however, are said to have disappeared from Cologne along with the Heinzelmännchen.� St. Ursula One of the most interesting figures in connexion with Rhenish mythology is that of St. Ursula, whose legend is as follows: Just two centuries after the birth of Christ, Vionest was king of Britain. Happy in his realm, his subjects were prosperous and contented, but care was in the heart of the monarch, for he was childless. At length his consort, Daria, bore him a daughter, who as she grew up in years increased in holiness, until all men regarded her as a saint, and she, devoting herself to a religious life, refused all offers of marriage, to the great grief of her parents, who were again troubled by the thought that their dynasty would fail for want of an heir. Charmed with the rumour of her virtues, a German prince, Agrippus, asked her as a wife for his son, but the suit was declined by the maiden until an angel appeared to her in a dream and said that the nuptials ought to take place. In obedience to this heavenly mentor, St. Ursula no longer urged her former scruples, and her father hastened to make preparations of suitable magnificence for her departure to the Rhine, on whose banks her future home was to be. Eleven thousand virgins were selected from the noblest families of Britain to accompany their princess, who, marshalling them on the seashore, bade them sing a hymn to the Most High and dismiss all fears of the ocean, for she had been gifted with a divine knowledge of navigation and would guide them safely on their way. Accordingly St. Ursula dismissed all the seamen, and standing on the deck of the principal vessel, she gave orders to her eleven thousand maiden followers, who, under the influence of inspiration, flitted over the ships dressed in virgin white, now tending the sails, now fixing the ropes, now guiding the helm, until they reached the mouth of the Rhine, up which they sailed in saintly procession to Cologne. Here they were received with great honours by the Roman governor of the place; but soon they left the city to ascend the stream to Basel on their way to Rome, to which holy city St. Ursula had determined upon making a pilgrimage. Wherever upon their journey they met the officers of state they were received as befitted their heavenly mission, and from Basel were accompanied by Pantulus, who was afterward canonized, and whose portrait is to be seen in the church of St. Ursula. Once at Rome Pope Cyriacus himself was so affected by their devoted piety that, after praying with them at the tombs of the apostles, he determined on abdicating the pontifical office to accompany them on their return down the Rhine to Cologne. At Mayence they were joined by Prince Coman, the son of Agrippus, who for love of his betrothed at once forsook the errors of his pagan faith and was baptized. The eleven thousand virgins, with their sainted leader, her husband, and Pope Cyriacus, passed rapidly to Cologne, where, however, they were not long destined to live in peace. A horde of barbarians from the North invaded the place, and having gained possession of the city, they slew the virgin retinue of St. Ursula, the venerable Pope, the saint herself, and her spouse Coman, after inflicting the most horrible tortures upon them. Some were nailed living to the cross; some were burned; others stoned; but the most refined cruelties were reserved for the most distinguished victims. Look on the walls of the church of St. Ursula and you will see depicted the sufferings of the young martyr and of her youthful husband. Her chapel yet contains her effigy with a dove at her feet�fit emblem of her purity and faith and loving-kindness; while the devout may, in the same church, behold the religiously preserved bones of the eleven thousand virgins. Saint or Goddess? The sainthood of St. Ursula is distinctly doubtful, and the number of her retinue, eleven thousand, has been proved to be an error in monkish calligraphy. St. Ursula is, indeed, the Teutonic goddess Ursa, or Hörsel. In many parts of Germany a custom existed during the Middle Ages of rolling about a ship on wheels, much to the scandal of the clergy, and this undoubtedly points to moon-worship, the worship of Holda, or Ursula, whom German poets of old regarded as sailing over the deep blue of the heavens in her silver boat. A great company of maidens, the stars, follow in her train. She is supposed, her nightly pilgrimage over, to enter certain hills. Thus in the later guise of Venus she entered the Hörselberg in Thuringia, in which she imprisoned the enchanted Tannhäuser, and there is good reason to believe that she also presided over the Ercildoune, or Hill of Ursula, in the south of Scotland, the modern Earlston, after which Thomas the Rhymer took his territorial designation, and whose story later became fused with her myth in the old Scottish ballad of Thomas the Rhymer. Thus we observe how it is possible for a pagan myth to become an incident in Christian hagiology. Satan in Rhine Story In the legends of the Rhine the picturesque figure of his Satanic majesty is frequently presented, as in the legends of �The Sword-slipper of Solingen,� �The Architect of Cologne Cathedral,� and several other tales. The circumstances of his appearance are distinctly Teutonic in character, and are such as to make one doubt that the Devil of the German peoples has evolved from the classical satyr. May it not be that the Teutonic folk possessed some nature-spirit from which they evolved a Satanic figure of their own? Against this, of course, could be quoted the fact that the medieval conception of the Devil was sophisticated by the Church, which in turn was strongly influenced by classical types. Affinity of the Rhine Legends with Romance But on the whole the legends of the Rhine exhibit much more affinity with medieval romance than with myth or folklore.1 A large number of them are based upon plots which can be shown to be almost universal, and which occur again and again in French and British story. One of the commonest of these concerns the crusader who, rejected by his lady-love, spends hopeless years in the East, or, having married before setting out for the Orient, returns to find his bride the wife of another. The crusader exercised a strong influence upon the literature of medieval Europe, and that influence we find in a very marked degree in the legends of the Rhine. Again, a number of these tales undoubtedly consist of older materials not necessarily mythical in origin, over which a later medieval colour has been cast. Unhappily many of these beautiful old legends have been greatly marred by the absurd sentimentality of the German writers of the early nineteenth century, and their dramatis personae, instead of exhibiting the characteristics of sturdy medieval German folk, possess the mincing and lackadaisical manners which mark the Franco-German novel of a century ago. This contrasts most ludicrously in many cases with the simple, almost childlike, honesty which is typical of all early Teutonic literature. Had a Charles Lamb, a Leigh Hunt, or an Edgar Allan Poe recast these tales, how different would have been their treatment! Before the time of Schiller and Goethe French models prevailed in German literature. These wizards of the pen recovered the German spirit of mystery, and brought back to their haunts gnomes, kobolds, and water-sprites. But the mischief had been done ere they dawned upon the horizon, and there were other parts of Germany which appeared to them more suitable for literary presentment than the Rhine, save perhaps in drama. Moreover, the inherent sentimentality of the German character, however fitted to bring out the mysterious atmosphere which clings to these legends, has weakened them considerably. [Note 1: See author�s Dictionary of Medieval Romance (London, 1913), preface, and article �Romance, Rise and Origin of.�] The Poetry of the Rhine Robert Louis Stevenson, exiled in the South Pacific islands, used to speak with passionate fondness of the rivers of his native Scotland, the country he loved so dearly, but which the jealous fates forbade him to visit during fully half his life. Garry and Tummel, Tweed and Tay�he used to think of these as of something almost sacred; while even the name of that insignificant stream, the Water of Leith, sounded on his ear like sweet music, evoking a strangely tender and pathetic emotion. And this emotion, crystallized so beautifully by Stevenson in one of his essays in Memories and Portraits, must have been felt, too, by many other exiles wandering in foreign parts; for surely an analogous feeling has been experienced sometimes by every traveller of sensitive and imaginative temperament, particularly the traveller exiled irrevocably from his home and longing passionately to see it. Horatius, about to plunge into the Tiber, addressed it as his father and god, charging it to care well for his life and fortunes�fortunes in which those of all Rome were involved for the time being. Ecce Tiber! was the glad cry of the Romans on beholding the Tay�a cry which shows once again with what ardent devotion they thought of the river which passed by their native city; while Naaman the Syrian, told that his sickness would be cured would he but lave his leprous limbs in the Jordan, exclaimed aghast against a prescription which appeared to him nothing short of sacrilegious and insulting, and declared that there were better and nobler streams in his own land. Even the deadly complaint with which he was smitten could not shake his fidelity to these, could not alter his conviction that they were superior to alien streams; and the truth is that nearly every great river�perhaps because its perpetual motion makes it seem verily a living thing�has a way of establishing itself in the hearts of those who dwell by its banks. The Rhine is no exception to this rule; on the contrary, it is a notable illustration thereof. From time immemorial the name of the mighty stream has been sacred to the Germans, while gradually a halo of romantic glamour has wound itself about the river, a halo which appeals potently even to many who have never seen the Vaterland. Am Rhein!�is there not magic in the words? And how they call up dreams of robber barons, each with his strange castle built on the edge of a precipice overlooking the rushing stream; fiends of glade and dell, sprites of the river and whirlpool, weird huntsmen, and all the dramatis personae of legend and tradition. The Rhine has ever held a wide fame in the domain of literature. For there is scarcely a place on the river�s banks but has its legend which has been enshrined in song, and some of these songs are so old that the names of their makers have long since been forgotten. Yes, we have to go very far back indeed would we study the poetry of the Rhine adequately; we have to penetrate deeply into the Middle Ages, dim and mysterious. And looking back thus, and pondering on these legendary and anonymous writings, a poem which soon drifts into recollection is one whose scene is laid near the little town of Lorch, or Lordch. Hard by this town is a mountain, known to geographers as Kedrich, but hailed popularly as �the Devil�s Ladder.� Nor is the name altogether misplaced or undeserved, the mountain being exceeding precipitous, and its beetling, rocky sides seeming well-nigh inaccessible. This steepness, however, did not daunt the hero of the poem in question, a certain Sir Hilchen von Lorch. A saddle, said to have belonged to him, is still preserved in the town; but on what manner of steed he was wont to ride is not told explicitly, and truly it must have been a veritable Bucephalus. For the nameless poet relates that Sir Hilchen, being enamoured of a lady whom angry gnomes had carried to the top of Kedrich and imprisoned there, rode at full gallop right up the side of the mountain, and rescued the fair one! �Though my lady-love to a tower be ta�en, Whose top the eagle might fail to gain, Nor portal of iron nor battlement�s height Shall bar me out from her presence bright: Why has Love wings but that he may fly Over the walls, be they never so high?� So the tale begins, while at the end the knight is represented exulting in his doughty action: �Hurrah, hurrah! �Tis gallantly done! The spell is broken, the bride is won! From the magic hold of the mountain-sprite Down she comes with her dauntless knight! Holy St. Bernard, shield us all From the wrath of the elves of the Whisper-Thal.� Andernach There are several different versions of this legend, each of them just as extraordinary as the foregoing. It is evident, moreover, that matter of this sort appealed very keenly to the medieval dwellers by the Rhine, much of the further legendary lore encircling the river being concerned with deeds no less amazing than this of Sir Hilchen�s; and among things which recount such events a notable instance is a poem consecrated to the castle of Andernach. Here, once upon a time, dwelt a count bearing the now famous name of Siegfried, and being of a religious disposition, he threw in his lot with a band of crusaders. For a long while, in consequence, he was absent from his ancestral domain; and at length, returning thither, he was told by various lying tongues that his beautiful wife, Genofeva, had been unfaithful to him in his absence, the chief bearer of the fell news being one Golo. This slanderer induced Siegfried to banish Genofeva straightway, and so the lady fled from the castle to the neighbouring forest of Laach, where a little later she gave birth to a boy. Thenceforth mother and son lived together in the wilds, and though these were infested by wild robbers, and full of wolves and other ravening beasts, the pair of exiles contrived to go unscathed year after year, while, more wonderful still, they managed to find daily sustenance. And now romance reached a happy moment; for behold, Count Siegfried went hunting one day in the remoter parts of the forest, and fortuitously he passed by the very place where the two wanderers were living�his wife and the child whom he had never seen. �Tis in the woody vales of Laach the hunter�s horn is wound, And fairly flies the falcon, and deeply bays the hound; But little recks Count Siegfried for hawk or quarry now: A weight is on his noble heart, a gloom is on his brow. Oh! he hath driven from his home�he cannot from his mind� A lady, ah! the loveliest of all her lovely kind; His wife, his Genofeva!�and at the word of one, The blackest traitor ever looked upon the blessed sun. He hath let the hunters hurry by, and turned his steed aside, And ridden where the blue lake spreads its waters calm and wide, And lo! beneath a linden-tree, there sits a lady fair, But like some savage maiden clad in sylvan pageant rare. Her kirtle�s of the dappled skin of the rapid mountain roe; A quiver at her back she bears, beside her lies a bow; Her feet are bare, her golden hair adown her shoulders streams, And in her lap a rosy child is smiling in its dreams. The count had never thought to see his wife again. He imagined that she had long since starved to death or been devoured; and now, finding her alive, his pulses quicken. He knows well that only a miracle could have preserved her during all this period of estrangement, and reflects that on behalf of the virtuous alone are miracles worked. Seeing herein ample proof of Genofeva�s innocence, he welcomes her back to his arms and with beating heart bears her to the castle: Oh! there was joy in Andernach upon that happy night: The palace rang with revelry, the city blazed with light: And when the moon her paler beams upon the turrets shed, Above the Roman gate was seen the traitor Golo�s head. The Brothers Doubtless it was the thaumaturgic element in this pretty romance which chiefly made it popular among its pristine audiences, yet it was probably the pathos with which it is coloured that granted it longevity, causing it to be handed down from generation to generation long before the advent of the printing-press. Pathos, of course, figures largely in all folk-literature, and the story of Count Siegfried is by no means the only tale of a touching nature embodied in the early poetry of the Rhine, another similar work which belongs to this category being a poem associated with Liebenstein and Sterrenberg, two castles not far from each other. These places, so goes the tale, once belonged to a nobleman who chanced to have as his ward a young lady of singular loveliness. He had also two sons, of whom the elder was heir to Liebenstein, while the younger was destined to inherit Sterrenberg. These brothers were fast friends, and this partitioning of the paternal estates never begot so much as an angry word between them; but, alas! in an evil day they both fell in love with the same woman�their father�s ward. Such events have happened often, and usually they have ended in bitter strife; but the elder of the young men was of magnanimous temperament, and, convinced that the lady favoured the other�s advances more than his, he left him to woo and win her, and so in due course it was announced that the younger brother and she were affianced. Anon the date fixed for their nuptials drew near, but it happened that, in the interim, the young knight of Sterrenberg had become infected with a desire to join a crusade; and now, despite the entreaties of his fiancée and his father, he mustered a troop of men-at-arms, led them to join the Emperor Conrad at Frankfort, and set off for the Holy Land. Year after year went by; still the warrior was absent, and betimes his friends and relations began to lose all hope of ever seeing him again, imagining that he must have fallen at the hands of the infidel. Yet this suspicion was never actually confirmed, and the elder brother, far from taking the advantage which the strange situation offered, continued to eschew paying any addresses to his brother�s intended bride, and invariably treated her simply as a beloved sister. Sometimes, no doubt, it occurred to him that he might win her yet; but of a sudden his horizon was changed totally, and changed in a most unexpected fashion. The rover came back! And lo! it was not merely a tale of war that he brought with him, for it transpired that while abroad he had proved false to his vows and taken to himself a wife, a damsel of Grecian birth who was even now in his train. The knight of Liebenstein was bitterly incensed on hearing the news, and sent his brother a fierce challenge to meet him in single combat; but scarcely had they met and drawn swords ere the injured lady intervened. She reminded the young men of their sacred bond of fraternity; she implored them to desist from the crime of bloodshed. Then, having averted this, she experienced a great longing to renounce all earthly things, and took the veil in a neighbouring convent, thus shattering for ever the rekindled hopes of her elder suitor. But he, the hero of the drama, was not the only sufferer, for his brother was not to go unpunished for his perfidy. A strange tale went forth, a scandalous tale to the effect that the Grecian damsel was unfaithful to her spouse. Sterrenberg began to rue his ill-timed marriage, and ultimately was forced to banish his wife altogether. And so, each in his wind-swept castle�for their father was now dead�the two knights lived on, brooding often on the curious events of which their lives had been composed. The elder never married, and the younger had no inclination to take that step a second time. They never entered court or town, Nor looked on woman�s face; But childless to the grave went down, The last of all their race. And still upon the mountain fair Are seen two castles grey, That, like their lords, together there Sink slowly to decay. The gust that shakes the tottering stone On one burg�s battlement, Upon the other�s rampart lone Hath equal fury spent. And when through Sternberg�s shattered wall The misty moonbeams shine, Upon the crumbling walls they fall Of dreary Liebenstein. This legend is recounted here to illustrate the poetry of the Rhine. A variant of it is given on p. 171. Argenfels But the warriors who flit across the lore of Rhineland were not all so unfortunate, and one who fared better was Sir Dietrich of Schwarzenbeck. Marching by the Rhine on his way to join a band of crusaders, this Dietrich chanced to pass a few days at the castle of Argenfels, whose owner was the father of two daughters. The younger of the pair, Bertha by name, soon fell in love with the guest, while he, too, was deeply impressed by her charm; but silken dalliance was not for him at present�for was he not under a vow to try to redeem the Holy Sepulchre?�and so he resumed his journey to Palestine. Here an arduous campaign awaited him. In the course of a fierce battle he was wounded sorely, and while trying to escape from the field he was taken prisoner. This was a terrible fate, a far worse fate than death, for the Saracens usually sold their captives as slaves; and Sir Dietrich as he languished in captivity, wondering whether he was destined to spend the rest of his days serving the infidel in some menial capacity, vowed that if he should ever regain his native Germany he would build there a chapel to St. Peter. Nor did his piety go unrewarded, for shortly afterward a body of his compatriots came to his aid, worsted his foes, and set him free. A joyful day was this for the crusader, but it was not his pious vow that he thought of first; he made for Argenfels, eager to see again the bright eyes of the lady who had enchanted him. Day and night he rode, and as he drew nearer to the castle his passion grew stronger within him; but, alas! on reaching his destination his hopes were suddenly dashed to the ground. War had meantime been waged in the neighbourhood of Bertha�s home; her father had been involved, his castle burnt to the ground, and the two daughters had disappeared. Peradventure they had perished, surmised the knight; but he swore he would leave nothing undone which might lead to the restoration of his beloved. Making inquiries far and near throughout the country, he heard at last from an old shepherd that two ladies of gentle birth were sequestering themselves in a disused hermitage near the summit of a mountain called Stromberg. �Is it indeed they?� thought Sir Dietrich. He clambered up the rocky steep leading to the hermitage and a wistful sound greeted his ears, the sound of maidens� voices offering up vespers. �Ave Maria, stella maris,� they sang, and in the coolness of the evening the notes vibrated with a new, strange loveliness, for the lover knew that he had not climbed the Stromberg in vain. He returned, bringing Bertha with him, and in due course she became his bride. Yet the fairest rose has its thorns, and the happiness of the pair was not to be wholly undimmed by clouds. For Bertha�s sister, showing a curious perversity, expressed a desire to remain in the abode which had sheltered her of late, and nothing could induce her to alter this decision. Sir Dietrich pleaded with her again and again, and of a sudden, while thus engaged, he thought of the vow he had made while a captive�the vow he had not kept. Here, possibly�here in this shadow darkening the joy of his bridal�was a message from on high! So straightway he built his chapel, choosing as situation therefor a spot hard by the windswept hermitage, and in this shrine to St. Peter dwelt Bertha�s sister to the end of her days. Was it, mayhap, jealousy and a dart from Cupid�s bow which kept her there; and was she, too, enamoured of Sir Dietrich? Well, the poet who tells the story certainly thought so! Drinking Songs of the Rhine It were a lengthy matter to recount the many other poems of Rhineland akin to those mustered above, and enough has been said to indicate their general characteristics; while an ancient Rhine classic of yet a different kind, The Mouse Tower, given elsewhere, is so familiar owing to Southey�s English version that it were superfluous to offer any synopsis or criticism of it here. Then a class of poems of which the great river�s early literature is naturally replete are those concerned with the growing of the vine and the making of Rhenish, prominent among these being one consecrated to Bacharach, a town which was a famous centre of the wine industry in the Middle Ages. Near Bacharach there is a huge stone in the Rhine which, known as �the Altar of Bacchus,� is visible only on rare occasions, when the river chances to be particularly low; and in olden times, whenever this stone was seen, the event was hailed by the townsfolk as an omen that their next grape harvest would be an exceptionally successful one. It is with this �Altar of Bacchus� that the poem in question deals. But coming to modern times, many of the Rhine drinking songs are also concerned to some extent with patriotism�an element which seems to go hand in hand with the bacchanal the world over!�and a typical item in this category is the Rheinweinlied of Georg Hervegh, a poet of the first half of the nineteenth century. A better patriotic song of Rhine-land, however, is one by a slightly earlier poet, Wolfgang Müller, a native of Königswinter, near Bonn, who sings with passionate devotion of the great river, dwelling lovingly on its natural beauties, and exalting it above all other streams. His song appears to have been composed when the writer was undergoing a temporary period of exile from the Vaterland, for a somewhat pathetic and plaintive air pervades each verse, and the poet refers to the Rhine as a memory rather than as something actually before his eyes. But very different is another fine patriotic song of which it behoves to speak, the work of August Kopisch, a contemporary of Müller. This latter song treats of an incident in the Napoleonic wars, and Blücher and his forces are represented as encamped on the Rhine and as debating whether to march forward against their French foes. Nor is it necessary to add, perhaps, that they decide to do so, for otherwise no German singer would have handled the theme! But what, asks someone, is really the brightest gem of Rhineland poetry? while someone else adds that the majority of the writers cited above are but little known, and inquires whether none of the great German authors were ever inspired to song by their beloved river. The name of Heinrich Heine naturally comes to mind in this relation�comes to mind instantly on account of what is surely his masterpiece, Die Lorelei�a poem already dealt with. But Heine�s version far transcends all others, and pondering on its beauty, we think first of its gentle, andante music, a music which steals through the senses like a subtle perfume: Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten, Dass ich so traurig bin; Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten, Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn. There, surely, is a sound as lovely as the fateful maiden herself ever sang; and here, again, is a verse which is a tour de force in the craft of landscape-painting; for not only are the externals of the scene summoned vividly before the reader�s eyes, but some of the mystery and strangely wistful appeal of nature are likewise found in the lines: Die Luft ist kühl und es dunkelt Und ruhig fliesst der Rhein; Der Gipfel des Berges funkelt Im Abendsonneaschein. CHAPTER III�CLEVES TO THE LÖWENBURG Lohengrin The tale or myth of the Knight of the Swan who came to the succour of the youthful Duchess of Brabant is based upon motives more or less common in folklore�the enchantment of human beings into swans, and the taboo whereby, as in the case of Cupid and Psyche, the husband forbids the wife to question him as to his identity or to look upon him. The myth has been treated by both French and German romancers, but the latter attached it loosely to the Grail legend, thus turning it to mystical use. As a purely German story it is found at the conclusion of Wolfram von Eschenbach�s Parzival,1 from which the following version is drawn. The name of the hero as written by Wolfram (Loherangrîn) may possibly be traced to Garin le Loherin or Garin of Lorraine. Wagner�s version is taken from the same source, but the mighty master of melody altered many of the details for dramatic and other reasons. [Note 1: See my Dictionary of Medieval Romance, articles �Grail,� �Parzival,� �Perceval,� and �Garin.�] The principal French versions of the romance are Le Chevalier au Cygne and Helyas, and there are medieval English forms of these.2 [Note 2: Op. cit.] The Knight of the Swan In a dungeon in the castle of Cleves lay Elsa of Brabant, languishing in captivity. Her father, the Duke of Brabant, had ere he died appointed his most powerful vassal, one Frederick of Telramund, to be her guardian; but he, seeking only the advancement of his own ends, shamefully abused the confidence of his lord. Using his authority as Elsa�s guardian, he sought to compel her to become his wife, and threw her into prison to await the wedding-day, knowing well that none would dare to dispute his action. An appeal was made on Elsa�s behalf to the Emperor, Henry I, who decreed that she should choose a champion, so that the matter might be settled by combat. But, alas! there was not a knight who would venture to match his skill against that of Frederick, who was a giant in stature and an expert in sword-play. In accordance with the Emperor�s decree Telramund sent out a herald at stated times to proclaim his readiness to do battle with any who would champion the cause of Elsa. Time passed, yet the challenge was not accepted, and at length the day was fixed for the bridal. Behind her prison bars the lady wept ceaselessly, and called upon the Virgin to save her from the threatened fate. In her despair she beat her breast with her chaplet, whereon was hung a tiny silver bell. Now this little bell was possessed of magic properties, for when it was rung the sound, small at first as the tinkling of a fairy lure, grew in volume the further it travelled till it resembled the swelling of a mighty chorus. Rarely was its tone heard, and never save when its owner was in dire straits, as on the present occasion. When Elsa beat her breast with it, therefore, its magical qualities responded to her distress, and its faint, sweet tinkle fell on her ear. Far away over hill and dale went the sound of the bell, growing ever richer and louder, till at length it reached the temple where Parsifal and his knights guarded the Holy Grail. To them it seemed that the swelling notes contained an appeal for help directed to the Holy Vessel over which they kept vigil. While they debated thereon a loud and mysterious voice was heard bidding Parsifal send his son Lohengrin to the rescue of Elsa of Brabant, whom he must take for his wife, yet without revealing to her his identity. The awed knights recognized the voice as that of the Holy Grail, and Lohengrin at once set out, bound he knew not whither. When he reached the shores of the Rhine he found awaiting him a boat drawn by a stately swan. Taking it as a sign from Heaven, he stepped into the little boat and was carried up the Rhine, to the sound of the most exquisite music. It was the day on which Elsa was to be wedded to her tyrant. She had spent the night in tears and bitter lamentations, and now, weary and distraught, too hopeless even for tears, she looked out from the bars of her prison with dull, despairing eyes. Suddenly she heard the melodious strains and a moment later saw the approach of a swan-drawn boat, wherein lay a sleeping knight. Hope leapt within her, for she remembered the prophecy of an old nun, long since dead, that a sleeping knight would rescue her from grave peril. Directly he stepped ashore the youth made his way to the place of her confinement and, espying her face at the heavily barred window, knelt before her and begged that she would take him for her champion. At that moment the blast of a trumpet was heard, followed by the voice of the herald as, for the last time, he challenged any knight to take up arms on behalf of Elsa of Brabant. Lohengrin boldly accepted the challenge, and Telramund, when the news reached him of the unexpected opposition, on the very day he had appointed for his wedding, was surprised and enraged beyond measure, yet he dared not refuse to do battle with the stranger knight, because of the Emperor�s decree. So it was arranged that the combat should take place immediately. News of it reached the people of Cleves, and a great concourse gathered to witness the spectacle, all of them secretly in sympathy with the persecuted maiden, though these feelings were carefully concealed from the ruthless Telramund. Fierce indeed was the combat, for Lohengrin, though less powerfully built than his gigantic opponent, was nevertheless tall and strong, and well versed in the arts of war. At length he laid his enemy in the dust with a well-aimed sword-stroke, and the crowd broke into cheers. The combat was over, and Elsa was free! Heeding not the acclamations of the people, Lohengrin strode toward Elsa and again knelt at her feet. The blushing maiden bade him name his reward, whereupon the knight begged her hand in marriage, confessing, however, that he might only remain with her so long as she did not question him with regard to his identity. It seemed a small condition to Elsa, who willingly promised to restrain any curiosity she might feel concerning his name and place of abode. The cheers of the populace were redoubled when they learned that Elsa was to bestow her hand on the Swan Knight. In a few weeks the couple were married, and henceforth for a good many years they lived together very happily. Three sons were born to them, who grew in time to be handsome and chivalrous lads, of noble bearing and knightly disposition. Then it was that Elsa, who had hitherto faithfully kept her promise to her husband, began to fancy that she and her sons had a grievance in that the latter were not permitted to bear their father�s name. For a time she brooded in silence over her grievance, but at length it was fanned into open rebellion by a breath of outside suspicion. Some of the people looked askance at the knight whose name no one knew. So Elsa openly reproached her husband with his secrecy, and begged that for the benefit of their sons he would reveal his name and station. Even the children of humble parents, the children of the peasants, of their own retainers, had a right to their father�s name, and why not her sons also? Lohengrin paled at her foolish words, for to him they were the sign that he must leave his wife and family and betake himself once more to the temple of the Holy Grail. �Oh, Elsa,� he said sorrowfully, �thou knowest not what thou hast done. Thy promise is broken, and to-day I must leave thee for ever.� And with that he blew a blast on his silver horn. Elsa had already repented her rash words, and right earnestly she besought him to remain by her side. But, alas! her tears and pleadings were in vain, for, even as her entreaties were uttered, she heard the exquisite strains of music which had first heralded her lover�s approach, while from the window of the castle she espied the swan-boat rapidly drawing toward the shore. With grave tenderness Lohengrin bade farewell to his wife and family, first, however, revealing to them his identity, and commending them to the care of some of his trusty followers. Tradition tells that Elsa did not long survive the loss of her beloved husband, but her sons became brave knights, well worthy of the proud name they bore. A Legend of Liége A legend of Liége! and is not Liége itself now almost legendary? Its venerable church, its world-famous library replete with the priceless treasures of the past, �with records stored of deeds long since forgot,� where are they?�but crumbling clusters of ruins fired by the barbarian torch whose glow, we were told, was to enlighten an ignorant and uncultured Europe! But one gem remains: the wonderful Hôtel de Ville, type of the Renaissance spirit in Flanders. Liége may be laid in ruins, but the memory of what it was can never die: Athens in death is nobler far Than breathing cities of the West; and the same may be said of those splendours in stone, those wonders of medieval architecture, even the blackened walls of which possess a dignity and beauty which will ever assist the imagination to re-create the picture of what has been. Liége is a city of the Middle Ages. Time was when the place boasted but a single forge; and though bucklers were heaped beside the anvil, and swords and spears lay waiting for repair, the blacksmith leant against his door-post, gazing idly up the hill-side. Gradually he was aware of a figure, which seemed to have grown into shape from a furze-bush, or to have risen from behind a stone; and as it descended the slope he eyed curiously the grimy face, long beard, and squat form of what he was half unwilling to recognize as a human being. Hobbling awkwardly, and shrugging his shoulders as though cold, the man came in time to the smithy door. �What! Jacques Perron�idle when work is to be done? Idle smith! idle smith! The horse lacks the bit, and the rider the spur. �Ill fares the hide when the buckler wants mending; Ill fares the plough when the coulter wants tending.� Idle smith! idle smith!� �Idle enough,� quoth Jacques. �I�m as idle as you are ugly; but I can�t get charcoal any more than you can get beauty, so I must stand still, and you be content with your face, though I�d fain earn a loaf and a cup full enough for both of us this winter morning.� Though the strange man must have known he was horribly ugly�that is, if he ever bent to drink of the clear bright waters of the lovely Meuse, which reflected in those days every lily-bell and every grass-blade which grew upon its banks, and gave a faithful portraiture in its cool waters of every creature that leant over them�though he was certainly the most frightful creature that had ever met the blacksmith�s sight, it was evident enough that he did not like being called Ugly-face. But when the honest, good-natured smith spoke of earning a draught for his new acquaintance as well as himself, he smacked his ugly lips and twisted out a sort of smile which made him still more hideous. �Ah, ah!� said he, �wine�s good in winter weather, wine�s good in winter weather. Listen, listen! Jacques Perron! listen, listen! Go you up the hill-side�yonder, yonder!� and he pointed with a yellow finger, which seemed to stretch out longer and longer as the smith strained his eyes up the slope, until the digit looked quite as long as the tallest chimney that smoked over Liége. �Listen, listen!� and he sang in a voice like the breath of a huge bellows: ��Wine�s good in winter weather; Up the hill-side near the heather Go and gather the black earth, It shall give your fire birth. Ill fares the hide when the buckler wants mending; Ill fares the plough when the coulter wants tending: Go! Go!� �Mind my cup of wine�mind my cup of wine!� As he ended this rude chant Jacques saw the long finger run back into the shrivelled hand, as a telescope slips back into its case, and then the hand was wrapped up in the dingy garment, and with a dreadful shiver, and a chattering of teeth as loud as the noise of the anvils now heard on the same spot, the ugly man was wafted away round the corner of the building like a thick gust of smoke from a newly fed furnace. �Mind my cup of wine�mind my cup of wine!� rang again in the ears of the startled Jacques, and after running several times round his house in vain pursuit of the voice, he sat down on the cold anvil to scratch his head and think. It was quite certain he had work to do, and it was as certain as half a score searches could make it that he had not a single coin in his pouch to buy charcoal to do it with. He was reflecting that the old man was a very strange creature�he was more than half afraid to think who he might be�when in the midst of his cogitation he heard his three children calling out for their morning meal. Not a loaf had Jacques in store, and twisting his hide apron round his loins, he muttered, �Demon or no demon, I�ll go,� and strode out of the smithy and up the hill-side as fast as though he feared that if he went slowly his courage would not carry him as far up as the heather-bush which the long yellow finger had pointed out. When the young wife of Jacques came to look for her husband, she saw him returning with his apron full of black morsels of shining stone. She smiled at him; but when he threw them on the furnace and went to get a brand to set them alight, she looked solemn enough, for she thought he had left his wits on the hill-top. Great was her surprise when she saw the stones burn! But her joy was greater than her surprise when she heard her husband�s hammer ring merrily, and found the wage of the smith all spared for home use, instead of being set aside for the charcoal-burner. That night Jacques had two full wine-cups and, setting them on the anvil, had scarcely said to himself, �I wonder whether He�ll come!� when in walked the Old Man and, nodding familiarly, seated himself on the head of the big hammer. Jacques was a bold and grateful as well as a good-natured fellow, and in a few minutes he and his visitor were on excellent terms. No more shivering or chattering of teeth was seen or heard in the smithy that night. The black stones burned away merrily on the hearth, and the bright flames shone on the honest face of the smith as he hobnobbed with his companion, and looked as though he really thought the stranger as handsome as he certainly had been useful. He sang his best songs and told his best stories, and when the wine had melted his soul he told his new friend how dearly he loved his wife and what charming, dear creatures his children were. �Demon or no demon,� he swore the stranger was a good fellow, and though the visitor spoke but little, he seemed to enjoy his company very much. He laughed at the jokes, smiled at the songs, and once rather startled Jacques by letting out again his long telescope arm to pat him on his shoulder when, with a mouth full of praises of his wife, a tear sparkled in his eye as he told over again how dearly he loved his little ones. Day broke before the wine was exhausted or their hearts flagged, and when the voice of the early cock woke the swan that tended her callow brood amongst the sedges of the Meuse the Old Man departed. Jacques never saw him again, although he often looked in all directions when he went to the hill for a supply of fuel; but from that day Liége grew up in industry, riches, and power. Jacques had found coal, and thus became the benefactor of his native country, and the hero of this favourite Legend of the Liégeois. The Sword-slipper of Solingen In Solingen, where the forges rang to the making of sword-blades, many smiths had essayed to imitate the falchions of Damascus, their trenchant keenness and their wondrous golden inlaying. But numerous as were the attempts made to recapture the ancient secret of the East, they all signally failed, and brought about the ruin of many masters of the sword-slipper�s art. Among these was old Ruthard, a smith grown grey in the practice of his trade. He had laid aside sufficient savings to permit himself a year�s experiment in the manufacture of Damascus blades, but to no purpose. As the months wore on he saw his hard-earned gold melting steadily away. The wrinkles deepened on his brow, and his only daughter, Martha, watched the change coming over him in sorrowful silence. One evening�the evening of all evenings, the holy Christmas eve�Martha entered the forge and saw the old man still hard at work. She gently remonstrated with him, asking him why he toiled on such an occasion. �You work, my father, as if you feared that to-morrow we might not have bread,� she said. �Why toil on this holy evening? Have you not sufficient for the future? You must have laid by enough for your old age. Then why fatigue yourself when others are spending the time by their own hearths in cheerful converse?� The old smith�s only reply was to shake his head in a melancholy manner, take some pieces of broken food in his hands, and leave the house. At that moment Wilhelm, the smith�s head apprentice, entered the room. He seemed pale and disturbed, and related to Martha, to whom he was betrothed, that he had asked Ruthard for her hand. The old man had firmly told him that he could not consent to their union until he had discovered the secret of making Damascus blades. This he felt was hopeless to expect, and he had come to say �good-bye� ere he set out on a quest from which he might never return. At the news Martha was greatly perturbed. She rose and clung to the young man, her wild grief venting itself in heartrending sobs. She begged him not to depart. But his mind was fully made up, and, notwithstanding her tears and caresses, he tore himself away and quitted the house and the town. For nearly a fortnight the youth tramped over hill and valley with little in his pouch and without much hope that the slender means of which he was possessed would bring him to the land of the Saracens, where alone he could hope to learn the great art of tempering the blades of Damascus. One evening he entered the solitary mountain country of Spessart and, unacquainted with the labyrinths of the road, lost himself in an adjoining forest. By this time night had fallen, and he cast about for a place in which to lay his head. But the inhospitable forest showed no sign of human habitation. After wandering on, however, stumbling and falling in the darkness, he at length saw a light burning brightly at a distance. Quickly he made for it and found that it came from the window of a cottage, at the door of which he knocked loudly. He had not long to wait for an answer, for an old woman speedily opened and inquired what he wanted at so late an hour. He told her that he desired food and lodging, for which he could pay, and he was at once admitted. She told him, however, that she expected another visitor. Whilst she cooked his supper Wilhelm detailed to her the circumstances of his journey. After he had eaten he retired to rest, but, tired as he was, he could not sleep. Later a dreadful storm arose, through the din of which he heard a loud noise, as if someone had entered the house by way of the chimney. Peering through the keyhole into the next room, he perceived a man seated at the table opposite his hostess whose appearance filled him with misgiving. He had not much leisure for a detailed examination of this person, however, for the witch�for such she was�came to the door of his room, entered, and bade him come and be introduced to a stranger from the East who could tell him the secret of forging Damascus blades. Wilhelm followed the old woman into the other room and beheld there a swarthy man seated, wrapped in a flame-coloured mantle. For a long time the stranger regarded him steadily, then demanded what he wanted from him. Wilhelm told him the circumstances of his quest, and when he had finished the story the man laughed and, drawing from his pocket a document, requested the youth to sign it. Wilhelm perceived that it was of the nature of a pact with Satan, by which he was to surrender his soul in return for the coveted secret. Nevertheless, he set his signature to the manuscript and returned to his couch�but not to sleep. The consequences of his terrible act haunted him, and when morning came he set off on his homeward journey with a fearful heart, carefully guarding a well-sealed letter which the mysterious stranger had put into his hand. Without further adventure he reached Solingen, and having acquainted Ruthard with what had transpired, he handed him the letter. But the good old man refused to unseal it. �You must keep this until your own son and my grandson can open it,� he said to Wilhelm, �for over his infant soul the enemy can have no power.� And so it happened. Wilhelm married Martha, and in the course of a few years a little son was born to them, who in due time found the letter, opened it, and mastered the Satanic secret, and from that time the blades of Solingen have had a world-wide renown. The Architect of Cologne Cathedral Travellers on the Rhine usually make a halt at Cologne to see the cathedral, and many inquire the name of its creator. Was the plan the work of a single architect? they ask; or did the cathedral, like many another in Europe, acquire its present form by slow degrees, being augmented and duly embellished in divers successive ages? These questions are perfectly reasonable and natural, yet, strange to relate, are invariably answered in evasive fashion, the truth being that the name of the artist in stone who planned Cologne Cathedral is unknown. The legend concerning him, however, is of world-wide celebrity, for the tale associated with the founding of the famous edifice is replete with that grisly element which has always delighted the Germans, and figures largely in their medieval literature, and more especially in the works of their early painters�for example, Dürer, Lucas Cranach, and Albrecht Altdörfer. It was about the time of the last-named master that a Bishop of Cologne, Conrad von Hochsteden, formed the resolve of increasing the pecuniary value of his diocese. He was already rich, but other neighbouring bishops were richer, each of them being blest with just what Conrad lacked�a shrine sufficiently famous to attract large numbers of wealthy pilgrims able to make generous offerings. The result of his jealous musing was that the crafty bishop vowed he would build a cathedral whose like had not been seen in all Germany. By this means, he thought, he would surely contrive to bring rich men to his diocese. His first thought was to summon an architect from Italy, in those days the country where beautiful building was chiefly carried on; but he found that this would cost a far larger sum than he was capable of raising; so, hearing that a gifted young German architect had lately taken up his abode at Cologne itself, Conrad sent for him and offered him a rich reward should he accomplish the work satisfactorily. The young man was overjoyed, for as yet he had received no commissions of great importance, and he set to work at once. He made drawing after drawing, but, being in a state of feverish excitement, found that his hand had lost its cunning. None of his designs pleased him in the least; the bishop, he felt, would be equally disappointed; and thinking that a walk in the fresh air might clear his brain, he threw his drawing-board aside and repaired to the banks of the Rhine. Yet even here peace did not come to him; he was tormented by endless visions of groined arches, pediments, pilasters, and the like, and having a stick in his hand, he made an effort to trace some on the sand. But this new effort pleased him no better than any of its predecessors. Fame and fortune were within his reach, yet he was incapable of grasping them; and he groaned aloud, cursing the day he was born. As the young man uttered his fierce malediction he was surprised to hear a loud �Amen� pronounced; he looked round, wondering from whom this insolence came, and beheld an individual whose approach he had not noticed. He, too, was engaged in drawing on the sand, and deeming that the person, whoever he was, intended to mock his attempts at a plan for the projected cathedral, the architect strode up to him with an angry expression on his face. He stopped short, however, on nearing the rival draughtsman; for he was repelled by his sinister aspect, while at the same time he was thunderstruck by the excellence of his drawing. It was indeed a thaumaturgic design, just such a one as the architect himself had dreamt of, but had been unable to execute; and while he gazed at it eagerly the stranger hailed him in an ugly, rasping voice. �A cunning device, this of mine,� he said sharply; and the architect was bound to agree, despite the jealousy he felt. Surely, he thought, only the Evil One could draw in this wise. Scarcely had the thought crossed his mind ere his suspicion was confirmed, for now he marked the stranger�s tail, artfully concealed hitherto. Yet he was incapable of withholding his gaze from the plan drawn so wondrously on the sand, and the foul fiend, seeing that the moment for his triumph was come, declared his identity without shame, and added that, would the architect but agree to renounce all hopes of salvation in the next world, the peerless design would be his to do with as he pleased. The young man shuddered on receiving the momentous offer, but continued to gaze fixedly at the cunning workmanship, and again the Evil One addressed him, bidding him repair that very night to a certain place on a blasted heath, where, if he would sign a document consigning his soul to everlasting damnation, he would be presented with the plan duly drawn on parchment. The architect still wavered, now eager to accept the offer, and now vowing that the stipulated price was too frightful. In the end he was given time wherein to come to a decision, and he hurried from the place at hot speed as the tempter vanished from his sight. On reaching his dwelling the architect flung himself upon his bed and burst into a paroxysm of weeping. The good woman who tended him observed this with great surprise, for he was not given to showing his emotions thus; and wondering what terrible sorrow had come to him, she proceeded to make kindly inquiries. At first these were met with silence, but, feeling a need for sympathy, the architect eventually confessed the truth; and the good dame, horrified at what she heard, hurried off to impart the story to her father-confessor. He, too, was shocked, but he was as anxious as Bishop Conrad that the proposed cathedral should be duly built, and he came quickly to the architect�s presence. �Here,� he told him, �is a piece of our Lord�s cross. This will preserve you. Go, therefore, as the fiend directed you, take the drawing from him, and brandish the sacred relic in his accursed face the moment you have received it.� When evening drew near the architect hurried to the rendezvous, where he found the Devil waiting impatiently. But a leer soon spread over his visage, and he was evidently overjoyed at the prospect of wrecking a soul. He quickly produced a weird document, commanding his victim to affix his signature at a certain place. �But the beautiful plan,� whispered the young man; �I must see it first; I must be assured that the drawing on the sand has been faithfully copied.� �Fear nothing.� The Devil handed over the precious piece of vellum; and glancing at it swiftly, and finding it in order, the architect whipped it under his doublet. �Aha! you cannot outwit me,� shrieked the fiend; but as he was laying hands upon the architect the young man brought forth the talisman he carried. �A priest has told you of this, for no one else would have thought of it,� cried the Devil, breathing flame from his nostrils. But his wrath availed him naught; he was forced to retreat before the sacred relic, yet as he stepped backward he uttered a deadly curse. �You have deceived me,� he hissed; �but know that fame will never come to you; your name will be forgotten for evermore.� And behold, the fiend�s prophecy was fulfilled. The cathedral was scarcely completed ere the young architect�s name became irrevocably forgotten, and now this grisly tale is all that is known concerning his identity. Cologne Cathedral: Its Erection There are several other tales to account for the belief prevalent at one time that Cologne Cathedral would never be completed. The following legend attributes the unfinished state of the edifice to the curse of a jealous architect. At the time the building was commenced a rival architect was engaged in planning an aqueduct to convey to the city a supply of water purer than that of the Rhine. He was in this difficulty, however: he had been unable to discover the exact position of the spring from which the water was to be drawn. Tidings of the proposed structure reached the ears of the builder of the cathedral, a man of strong passions and jealous disposition, and in time the other architect asked his opinion of the plans for the aqueduct. Now it so happened that the architect of the cathedral alone had known the situation of the spring, and he had communicated it to his wife, but to no other living creature; so he replied boastfully: �Speak not to me of your aqueduct. My cathedral, mighty as it will be, shall be completed before your little aqueduct.� And he clinched his vainglorious assertion with an oath. Indeed, it seemed as though his boast would be justified, for the building of the sacred edifice proceeded apace, while the aqueduct was not even begun, because of the difficulty of finding the spring. The second architect was in despair, for of a certainty his professional reputation was destroyed, his hopes of fame for ever dashed, were he unable to finish the task he had undertaken. His faithful wife strove to lighten his despondency, and at last, setting her woman�s wit to work, hit on a plan whereby the threatened calamity might be averted. She set out to visit the wife of the rival architect, with whom she was intimate. The hostess greeted her effusively, and the ladies had a long chat over bygone times. More and more confidential did they become under the influence of old memories and cherry wine. Skilfully the guest led the conversation round to the subject of the hidden spring, and her friend, after exacting a promise of the strictest secrecy, told her its exact situation. It lay under the great tower of the cathedral, covered by the massive stone known as the �Devil�s Stone.� �Let me have your assurance again,� said the anxious lady, �that you will never tell anyone, not even your husband. For I do not know what would become of me if my husband learnt that I had told it to you.� The other renewed her promises of secrecy and took her leave. On her return home she promptly told her husband all that had passed, and he as promptly set to work, sunk a well at the spot indicated, and found the spring. The foundations of the aqueduct were laid and the structure itself soon sprang up. The architect of the cathedral saw with dismay that his secret was discovered. As the building of the aqueduct progressed he lost all interest in his own work; envy and anger filled his thoughts and at last overcame him. It is said that he died of a broken heart, cursing with his latest breath the cathedral which he had planned. The Wager An alternative story is that of the Devil�s wager with the architect of the cathedral. The Evil One was much irritated at the good progress made in the erection of the building and resolved, by means of a cunning artifice, to stop that progress. To this end he paid a visit to the architect, travelling incognito to avoid unpleasant attentions. The architect was a man of wit and good sense, as courteous as he was clever; but he had one outstanding failing�a love of wagering. Satan, who ever loves to find the joints in an opponent�s armour, chose this one weak spot as a point of attack. His host offered him meat and drink, which the Devil declined as not being sufficiently high-seasoned for his taste. �I have come on a matter of business,� said he briskly. �I have heard of you as a sporting fellow, a man who loves his wager. Is that correct?� The architect indicated that it was, and was all eagerness and attention in a moment. �Well,� said the other, �I have come, in a word, to make a bet with you concerning the cathedral.� �And what is your wager?� �Why, I�ll wager that I bring a stream from Treves to Cologne before you finish the cathedral, and I�ll work single-handed, too.� �Done!� said the delighted architect. �But what�s the wager?� �If I win, your soul passes into my possession; if you win, you may have anything you choose.� And with that he was gone. Next day the architect procured the services of all the builders that were to be had on such short notice, and set them to work in real earnest. Very soon the whole town was in a state of excitement because of the unusual bustle. The architect took to dreaming of the wealth, or the fame, or the honour he should ask as his due when the stakes were won. Employing his imagination thus, he one day climbed to the top of the highest tower, which by this time was completed, and as he feasted his eyes on the beautiful landscape spread before him he happened to turn toward the town of Treves, and lo! a shining stream was threading its way to Cologne. In a very short time it would reach the latter city. The Devil had won! With a laugh of defiance the architect cast himself from the high tower and was instantly killed. Satan, in the form of a black hound, sprang upon him, but was too late to find him alive. But his death stopped for many years the progress of the cathedral; it long stood at the same stage of completion as when the brook first flowed from Treves to Cologne. The Fire-bell of Cologne In one of the grand towers of Cologne Cathedral hangs a massive bell, some 25,000 lb. in weight. No mellow call to prayer issues from its brazen throat, no joyous chimes peal forth on gala-days; only in times of disaster, of storm and stress and fire, it flings out a warning in tones so loud and clamorous, so full of dire threatenings, that the stoutest hearts quail beneath the sound. Because its awful note is only to be heard in time of terror it is known as the Fire-bell, and a weird tradition relates the story of its founding and the reason for its unearthly sound. Long ago, when bell-founding was looked upon as an art of the highest importance, and especially so among the Germans, the civic authorities of Cologne made it known that the cathedral was in need of a new bell. There was no lack of aspirants for the honour of casting the bell, and more than one exponent of the art imagined his handiwork swinging in the grand tower of the cathedral, a lasting and melodious monument to its creator�s skill. Among those whose ambitious souls were stirred by the statement of the city fathers was one, a bell-founder named Wolf, a man of evil passions and overbearing disposition, whose heart was firmly set on achieving success. In those days, let it be said, the casting of a bell was a solemn, and even a religious, performance, attended by elaborate ceremonies and benedictions. On the day which Wolf had appointed for the operation it seemed as though the entire populace had turned out to witness the spectacle. Wolf, having prepared the mould, made ready to pour into it the molten metal. The silence was almost oppressive, and on it fell distinctly the solemn words of the bell-founder, as in God�s name he released the metal. The bright stream gushed into the mould, and a cheer broke from the waiting crowd, who, indeed, could scarce be restrained till the bell had cooled, such was their curiosity to see the result. At last the earthy mould was removed, they surged round eagerly, and lo! from crown to rim of the mighty bell stretched a gaping crack! Expressions of disappointment burst from the lips of the people, and to Wolf himself the failure was indeed galling. But his ambitious spirit was not yet completely crushed. �I am not beaten yet,� he said boastfully. �I shall make another, and success shall yet be mine.� Another mould was made, once more the people came forth to see the casting of the bell, once more the solemn invocation of God�s name fell on awed ears. The glowing metal filled the mould, cooled, and was withdrawn from its earthy prison. Once more cries of disappointment were heard from the crowd; again the massive bell was completely riven! Wolf was beside himself. His eyes glowed with fury, and he thrust aside the consolations of his friends. �If God will not aid me,� he said fiercely, �then the Devil will!� The crowd shrank back from the impious words; nevertheless on the third occasion they attended in even greater numbers than before. Again was all made ready for the casting of the huge bell. The mould was fashioned as carefully as on the previous occasions, the metal was heated in the great furnace, and Wolf, pale and sullen, stood ready to release it. But when he spoke a murmur of astonishment, of horror, ran through the crowd. For the familiar words �In the name of God!� he had substituted �In the name of the Devil!� With fascinated eyes the people watched the bright, rushing metal, and, later, the removal of the mould. And behold! the bell was flawless, perfect in shape and form, and beautiful to look upon! Wolf, having achieved the summit of his ambition, cared little for the means by which he had ascended. From among a host of competitors he was chosen as the most successful. His bell was to hang in the belfry of Cologne Cathedral, for the envy of other bell-founders and the admiration of future generations. The bell was borne in triumph through the streets and fixed high in the tower. Wolf requested that he might be the first to try its tone, and his request was granted. He ascended into the tower and took the rope in his hands; the mighty bell swung forth, but ah! what a sound was that! The people pressed their hands over their ears and shuddered; those in the streets hurried to their homes; all were filled with deadly fear as the diabolical bell flung its awful tones over the startled city. This, then, was the result of Wolf�s invocation of the Devil. Wolf himself, high in the cathedral tower, was overcome with the brazen horror of the sound, and, driven mad with remorse and terror, flung himself from the tower and fell, a crushed and shapeless mass, on the ground below. Henceforth the bell was used only to convey warning in times of danger, to carry a message of terror far and wide across the city, and to remind the wicked at all times of the danger of trafficking with the Evil One. The Archbishop�s Lion In 957 Cologne was constituted an imperial free city, having as its nominal prince the archbishop of the see, but possessing the right to govern its own affairs. The good bishop of that time acquiesced in the arrangement, but his successors were not content to be princes in name only, and strove hard to obtain a real influence over the citizens. Being for the most part men of unscrupulous disposition, they did not hesitate to rouse commonalty and aristocracy against each other, hoping to step in and reap the benefits of such internecine warfare as might ensue. And, indeed, the continual strife was not conducive to the prosperity of the burghers, but rather tended to sap their independence, and one by one their civil liberties were surrendered. Thus the scheming archbishops increased their power and influence in the city of Cologne. There came a time, however, in the civic history when the limit was overstepped. In the thirteenth century Archbishop Engelbert, more daring and ambitious than any of his predecessors, demanded that the municipal treasure should be given up to him. Not content with taking away the privileges of the burghers, he wished to lay his hands on the public purse as well. This was indeed the last straw, and the sluggish blood of the burghers was at length roused to revolt. At this time the Burgomaster of Cologne, Hermann Grein by name, was an honest, far-seeing, and diplomatic citizen, who had seen with dismay the ancient liberties of his beloved city destroyed by the cunning of the Archbishop. The latter�s bold attempt at further encroachments gave him the opportunity he sought, and with the skill of a born leader Hermann Grein united nobles and commons in the determination to resist their mutual enemy. Feuds were for the time being forgotten, and with a gallant effort the galling yoke of the Archbishop-prince was thrown off, and the people of Cologne were once more free. Grein performed his civic duties so firmly, albeit so smoothly and gently, that he won the love and respect of all sections of the populace. Old and young hailed him in their hearts as the deliverer of their city from ecclesiastical tyranny. Only Engelbert hated him with a deadly hatred, and swore to be revenged; nor was his resolve weakened when a later attempt to subdue the city was frustrated by the foresight of Grein. It became obvious to the Archbishop that force was unavailing, for the majority of all classes were on the side of liberty, and were likely to remain so while Hermann Grein was at their head. So he made up his mind to accomplish by means of strategy the death of the good old man. Now there were in the monastery close by Cologne two canons who shared Engelbert�s hatred of Grein, and who were only too willing to share in his revenge. And the plan was indeed a cunning one. Belonging to a small collection of animals attached to the monastery was a fierce lion, which had more than once proved a convenient mode of removing the Church�s enemies. So it was arranged that the Burgomaster should be asked to meet the Archbishop there. The latter sent a suave message to his enemy saying that he desired to treat with him on matters connected with the civic privileges, which he was disposed to restore to the city, with a few small exceptions. This being the case, would the Burgomaster consent to dine with him at the monastery on a certain date? The Burgomaster consented heartily, for he was a man to whom treachery was entirely foreign, and therefore not prone to suspect that vice in others; nevertheless he took the simple precautions of arming himself and making his destination known to his friends before he set out. When he arrived at the monastery resplendent in the rich garments countenanced by the fashion of the time, he was told that the Archbishop was in the garden. �Will you walk in our humble garden with his Highness?� the canons asked the Burgomaster, and he, a lover of nature, bade them lead the way. The garden was truly a lovely spot, gay with all manner of flowers and fruit; but Grein looked in vain for his host. �His Highness,� said the wily canons, �is in the private garden, where only the heads of the Church and their most honoured guests are admitted. Ah, here we are! Enter, noble Burgomaster; we may go no farther.� With that they stopped before a strong iron-bound door, opened it, and thrust the old man inside. In a moment the heavy door had swung to with a crash, and Grein found himself in a narrow, paved court, with high, unscalable walls on every side. And from a dark corner there bounded forth to meet him a huge lion! With a pious prayer for help the Burgomaster drew his sword, wrapped his rich Spanish mantle round his left arm, and prepared to defend himself against his adversary. With a roar the lion was upon him, but with wonderful agility the old man leapt to one side. Again the great beast sprang, endeavouring to get the man�s head between its jaws. Again and again Grein thrust valiantly, and in one of these efforts his weapon reached the lion�s heart and it rolled over, dead. Weak and exhausted from loss of blood, the Burgomaster lost consciousness. Ere long he was roused from his swoon by the awe-inspiring tones of the alarm-bell and the sound of a multitude of voices. A moment later he recalled his terrible struggle with the lion, and uttered a devout thanksgiving for his escape from death. Meanwhile the people, growing anxious at his prolonged absence, and fearing that some ill had befallen him, had hastened to the monastery. The two canons, seeing the approaching crowd, ran out to meet them, wringing their hands and exclaiming that the Burgomaster had strayed into the lion�s den and there met his death. The angry crowd, in nowise deceived by their pretences, demanded to be shown the lion�s den. Arrived there, they broke down the door and, to their great joy, found Grein alive, though wounded and much shaken. They bore him triumphantly through the town, first crowning his hastily improvised litter with flowers and laurels. As for the monks, their priestly garb could not protect their persons from the wrath of the mob, and they were hanged at the gate of the monastery, which thereafter became known as the �Priests� Gate.� The White Horses The year 1440 was a memorable one throughout Germany, for the great plague raged with fearful violence, leaving blanks in many families hitherto unvisited by death. Among the victims was Richmodis, the beloved wife of Sir Aducht of Cologne, who deeply mourned her loss. The lady was buried with a valuable ring�her husband�s gift�upon her finger; this excited the cupidity of the sextons, who, resolved to obtain possession of it, opened the tomb in the night and wrenched off the coffin-lid. Their difficulties, however, were not at an end, for when they tried to possess themselves of the ring it resolutely adhered to the finger of the corpse. Suddenly, to their horror, the dead body gently raised itself, with a deep sigh, as though the soul of Richmodis regarded this symbol of wifely duty as sacred, and would resist the efforts of the thieves to take it from her. The dark and hollow eyes opened and met those of the desecrators, and a threatening light seemed to come from them. At this ghastly sight the terrified sextons fled in abject panic. Richmodis recovered by degrees, and gradually realizing where she was, she concluded that she must have been buried while alive. In her terror she cried aloud for help. But nobody could hear her; it was the lone hour of midnight, when all nature reposes. Summoning strength, she resolved to make an effort to go to the husband who had placed the ring upon her finger, and getting out of the coffin, she made her way shivering toward their home. The wind moaned dismally through the trees, and their foliage cast dark, spectral shadows that swayed fitfully to and fro in the weird light of the waning moon as Richmodis staggered along feebly, absorbed in the melancholy thoughts which her terrible experience suggested. Not a sound, save the soughing of the wind, was heard within God�s peaceful acre, for over the wrecks of Time Silence lay motionless in the arms of Death. The moon�s pale rays illumined the buildings when Richmodis arrived at her house in the New Market. She knocked repeatedly, but at first received no response to her summons. After a time Sir Aducht opened the window and looked out, annoyed at the disturbance at such an hour. He was about to speak angrily when the apparition looked up at him with a tender regard of love and asked him to descend quickly and open the door to receive his wife, nearly exhausted by cold and terror. The bereaved husband refused to believe that the wife whom he had just buried had come back to him, and he declared that he would as soon expect his horses to climb upstairs as believe that his dead wife could return to him alive. He had hardly uttered the words when the trampling of his two horses on the staircase was distinctly heard. A moment or two later he looked from the casement and saw the steeds at an upper window, and he could doubt no longer. Rushing to the door, he received his shivering wife into his arms. The ring she still wore would have removed all doubts had there been room for such. Husband and wife spent many years together in domestic happiness, and in memory of that remarkable night Sir Aducht fixed wooden effigies of two horses� heads to the outside of the window, where they still remain for all to see. The Magic Banquet Another interesting tale of Cologne deals with the famous magician and alchemist, Albertus Magnus, who at one time dwelt in the convent of the Dominicans, not far from that city. It is recorded that on one occasion, in the depth of winter, Albertus invited William of Holland to a feast which was to be held in the convent garden. The recipients of the curious invitation, William and his courtiers, were naturally much amazed at the terms thereof, but decided not to lose the opportunity of attending such a novel banquet. In due course they arrived at the monastery, where all was in readiness for the feast, the tables being laid amid the snow. The guests had fortified themselves against the severe weather by wearing their warmest clothing and furs. No sooner had they taken their seats, however, than Albertus, exercising the magic powers he possessed, turned the wintry garden into a scene of summer bloom and loveliness. The heavy furs were laid aside, and the guests were glad to seek the shade of the spreading foliage. Iced drinks were brought to allay their thirst, and a sumptuous banquet was provided by their hosts; thus the hours passed unheeded, till the Ave Maria was rung by the convent-bell. Immediately the spell was broken, and once more snow and ice dominated the scene. The courtiers, who had rid themselves of as much of their clothing as court etiquette would permit, shivered in the bitter blast, and looked the very picture of blank amazement�so much so that William forgot his own suffering and laughed heartily at the discomfiture of his train. This story has a quaint sequel. To show his approval of the magic feat William granted to the convent a piece of land of considerable extent in the neighbourhood of Cologne, and sent some of his courtiers to present the deed of gift. The hospitable prior, anxious that the members of the deputation should be suitably entertained, drew from the well-furnished cellars of the monastery some choice Rhenish, which so pleased the palates of the courtiers that they drank and drank and did not seem to know when to stop. At length the prior, beholding with dismay the disappearance of his finest vintage, privately begged the magician to put a stop to this drain on the resources of his cellar. Albertus consented, and once more the wine-cups were replenished. Imagine the horror of the courtiers when each beheld ghastly flames issuing from his cup! In their dismay they seized hold of one another and would not let go. Only when the phenomenon had disappeared did they discover that each held his neighbour by the nose! and such was their chagrin at being seen in this unconventional pose that they quitted the monastery without a word, and never entered it again. Truenfels At a place called Truenfels, near the Oelberg, and not very far from Cologne, there lived at one time in the Middle Ages a knight named Sir Balther. His schloss was known as The Mount, and there dwelt with him here his only daughter, Liba, whose great beauty had won for her a vast entourage of suitors. Each was equally importunate, but only one was in any way favoured, Sir Sibert Ulenthal, and at the time the story opens this Sir Sibert had lately become affianced to Sir Balther�s daughter. Now Sir Balther felt an ardent aversion to one of his neighbours, the Bishop of Cologne, and his hatred of this prelate was shared abundantly by various other knights and nobles of the district. One evening it chanced a body of these were gathered together at The Mount; and after Rhenish had circulated freely among them and loosened their tongues, one and all began to vent wrath on the ill-starred Churchman, talking volubly of his avarice and misdeeds in general. But why, cried one of them, should they be content with so tame a thing as scurrilous speech? Were not men of the sword more doughty than men of the robe? he added; and thereupon a wild shout was raised by the revellers, and they swore that they would sally forth instantly and slay him whom they all loathed so passionately. It happened that, even as they set out, the bishop was returning from a visit to a remote part of his diocese; and being wholly unprepared to cope with a gang of desperadoes like these, he fell an easy prey to their attack. But the Church in medieval days did not take acts of this sort passively, and the matter being investigated, and it transpiring that The Mount had been the rallying ground of the murderers, a band of troops was sent to raze Sir Balther�s castle and slay its inmates. The news, meanwhile, reached the fair Liba�s fiancé, Sir Sibert, and knowing well that, in the event of The Mount being stormed by the avenging party, death or an equally terrible fate might befall his betrothed, the lover felt sad indeed. He hastened to the King and implored his intervention; on this being refused, he proposed that he himself should join the besiegers, at the same time carrying with him a royal pardon for Liba, for what concern had she with her father�s crimes? His Majesty was persuaded to give the requisite document to Sir Sibert, who then hied him at full speed to The Mount, there to find the siege going forward. The walls of the castle were strong, and as yet the inmates were showing a good fight; but as day after day went past their strength and resources began to wane, and anon it seemed as though they could not possibly hold out longer. Accordingly the soldiers redoubled their efforts to effect a breach, which being compassed ultimately, they rushed upon the little garrison; and now picture the consternation of Liba when she found that her own lover was among the assailants of her home! Amid the din of battle he called to her loudly, once and again, telling her that he carried a royal pardon for her, and that all she had to do was to forsake her father and follow her betrothed instead. But in the din of battle she did not hear, or mistook the tenor of his words; and ere he could make himself understood the garrison of the castle began to yield, and a moment later the building was in flames. Many of the besieged were burnt to death, but Liba and her father hastened to a little chamber at the base of the schloss, and thence they won to a subterranean passage which was known only to themselves, and which led to a distant place in the surrounding wilds. Gazing at the blackened ruins, Sir Sibert felt as though henceforth the world held for him no joy whatsoever. He refused to be comforted, so convinced was he that Liba had perished in the terrible fray; but one stormy evening, wandering in the neighbourhood of the castle, he perceived two figures who seemed to him familiar. True, both were haggard and tattered, but as he drew near to them the knight�s pulses quickened of a sudden, for he knew that his beloved stood before him. Would she listen to him now? he wondered; or would she still imagine him perfidious, and scorn the aid which he offered? While he was debating with himself the storm increased, and the great peals of thunder sounding overhead made the lover�s heart beat faster. He drew the all-important document from within his doublet and approached the pair. �Heart of my heart� ... the words faltered to Sir Sibert�s lips, but he got no further; a great flash of lightning descended from on high, and lo! Sir Balther and Liba lay stricken in death. The broken-hearted lover built a chapel on the spot where his betrothed had fallen, and here he dwelt till the end of his days. It would seem, nevertheless, that those pious exercises wherewith hermits chiefly occupy themselves were not his only occupation; for long after the chapel itself had become a ruin its sight was marked by a great stone which bore an inscription in rude characters�the single word �Liba.� Doubtless Sir Sibert had hewn this epitaph with his own hands. Rolandseck and Nonnenwerth The castle of Rolandseck stands opposite Drachenfels. Below them, on an island in the Rhine, is the convent of Nonnenwerth. Roland, Charlemagne�s nephew, whose fame had spread throughout the world, while riding one day on the banks of the Rhine, sought the hospitality of the Lord of Drachenfels. Honoured at receiving such a distinguished guest, the lord of the castle hastened to welcome him. The ladies gave the brave knight as cordial a reception as their lord, whose charming daughter seemed deeply impressed by the visitor�s knightly deportment. Roland�s admiring glances lingered lovingly on the fair maid, who blushed in sweet confusion, and whose tender looks alone betrayed the presence of Cupid, who but waited for an opportunity to manifest his power. At his host�s bidding Roland put off his armour, but even in his own room a vision of maidenly beauty haunted him, thereby showing how subtly the young girl�s charms had wound themselves around the knight�s heart. Roland remained for some time with the Lord of Drachenfels, fascinated more and more by the grace and beauty of his winsome daughter. Besides being beautiful, she was a clever needlewoman, and he admired the dexterity with which she embroidered ornamental designs on damask. Only when asked by her to relate some deeds of daring, or describe the wondrous countries through which he had travelled, would Roland become eloquent. Then he grew enthusiastic, his cheeks glowed, his eyes sparkled, and the enamoured maid would regard her hero with admiration. She evinced a lively interest in his exploits, their eyes would meet, then with a throbbing breast she would resume her work by his side. From this blissful dream Roland was summoned to the wars again. The brave soldier prepared to depart, but he realized the joys he must renounce. Once more he visited the favourite haunts where they had spent such happy moments. The sound of someone weeping aroused him from his reverie, and he beheld his lady-love seated in an arbour, sobbing bitterly. Each knew the grief which separation must bring. Roland consoled the maiden by promising to return soon, nevermore to part. Only her tears betrayed how deeply the arrow of the winged god had sunk into her heart. A few days later they were betrothed, after which Roland departed in quest of glory. Many victories were gained by him, and soon the enemy was vanquished. Rejoicings were held to celebrate the event. But at Drachenfels Castle sad faces and tearful eyes told a tale of sorrow, for it had been announced that Roland was dead. The maid�s rosy cheeks grew pale with grief; nothing could console her; for was not her hero departed from her for ever? In the intensity of her anguish she sought relief in prayer and found a refuge in religion. She entered the convent at Nonnenwerth, resolved to dedicate her life to Heaven, since the joys of earth had fled. Her afflicted parents reluctantly acquiesced in this proposal. Daily they beheld their daughter waving her hand to them as she entered the chapel. Suddenly there appeared before the gates of Drachenfels a troop of cavaliers, whose armour shone brilliantly in the sun. Roland had returned home from the wars, crowned with glory, to claim his bride. But when he heard that she had taken the veil his buoyant spirits sank. The Lord of Drachenfels told him that they had believed the report of his death to be true. A cry of despair broke from the hero of a hundred fights. He crossed the Rhine to the castle of Rolandseck, where he remained for many weeks, abandoned to grief. Frequently he looked toward the convent which held his beloved. One evening he heard the bells tolling and saw a funeral procession of nuns carrying a coffin to the chapel. His page told him that his love was dead, but Roland had already divined that she who had mourned his supposed death had died through grief for him who was still alive to mourn her death. Time rolled on and Roland went again to the wars and achieved greater conquests, but at length he fell fighting against the Moors at Roncevaux, dying on the battlefield as he had wished. His valorous deeds and his glorious death were sung by minstrels throughout all Christendom, and his fame will never die. LEGENDS OF AIX-LA-CHAPELLE Aix-la-Chapelle was the ancient seat of the Empire of Charlemagne, and many legends cluster around it, several of which have already been noticed in connexion with its great founder. The following legends, however, deal with the town itself, and not with any circumstance connected with the mighty Karl. The Hunchbacked Musician In Aix-la-Chapelle dwelt two hunchbacked musicians. Friedel was a lively fellow with a pleasant face and an engaging manner. Heinz had red hair, green eyes, and a malevolent expression. Friedel was a better player than Heinz; that, combined with his agreeable looks, made him a general favourite. Friedel loved Agathe, the daughter of a rich wine-merchant. The lovers� prospects were not encouraging, for Agathe�s father sought a son-in-law from higher circles. The poor musician�s plight was rendered desperate by the wine-merchant compelling his daughter to accept a rich but dissipated young man. When the hunchback approached the merchant to declare his feelings toward the maiden, he was met with derision and insult. Full of bitterness, he wandered about, till midnight found him in the fish-market, where the Witches� Sabbath was about to take place. A weird light was cast over everything, and a crowd of female figures quickly gathered. A lady who seemed to be at the head of the party offered the hunchback refreshment, and others handed him a violin, desiring him to play for them. Friedel played, and the witches danced; faster and faster, for the violin was bewitched. At last the violinist fell exhausted, and the dancing ceased. The lady now commanded him to kneel and receive the thanks of the company for his beautiful playing. Then she muttered strange words over the kneeling hunchback. When Friedel arose his hump was gone. Just then the clock struck one, everything vanished, and the musician found himself alone in the market-place. Next morning his looking-glass showed him that he had not been dreaming, and in his pocket he found a large sum of money, which made him the equal of the richest in the town. Overjoyed at the transformation, he lost no time in seeking Agathe�s house. The sight of his gold turned the scale in his favour, and the wine-merchant consented to his suit. Now Heinz was inflamed with jealousy, and tried to calumniate his companion by spreading evil stories. Friedel�s strange adventure leaked abroad, and Heinz determined to try his fortune likewise. So at the next witch-meeting he hastened to the fish-market, where at the outset everything happened in exactly the same manner. Heinz was requested to play, but his avaricious gaze was fixed on the golden vessels on the table, and his thoughts were with the large reward he would ask. Consequently his playing became so discordant that the indignant dancers made him cease. Kneeling down to receive his reward, he demanded the valuable drinking-cups, whereupon with scornful and mocking words the lady who was the leader of the band fixed on his breast the hump she had taken from Friedel. Immediately the clock struck one, and all disappeared. The poor man�s rage was boundless, for he found himself now saddled with two humps. He became an object of ridicule to the townsfolk, but Friedel pitied him, and maintained him ever after. The Legend of the Cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle In former times the zealous and devout inhabitants of Aix-la-Chapelle determined to build a cathedral. For six months the clang of the hammer and axe resounded with wonderful activity, but, alas! the money which had been supplied by pious Christians for this holy work became exhausted, the wages of the masons were perforce suspended, and with them their desire to hew and hammer, for, after all, men must have money wherewith to feed their families. Thus the cathedral stood, half finished, resembling a falling ruin. Moss, grass, and wild parsley flourished in the cracks of the walls, screech-owls already discovered convenient places for their nests, and amorous sparrows hopped lovingly about where holy priests should have been teaching lessons of chastity. The builders were confounded. They endeavoured to borrow here and there, but no rich man could be induced to advance the large sum required. The collections from house to house produced little, so that instead of the much-wished-for golden coins nothing was found in the boxes but copper. When the magistracy received this report they were out of humour, and looked with desponding countenances toward the cathedral walls, as fathers look upon the remains of favourite children. At this moment a stranger of commanding figure and something of pride in his voice and bearing entered the council chamber and exclaimed: �Bon Dieu! it is said that you are out of spirits. Hem! if nothing but money is wanting, you may console yourselves, gentlemen. I possess mines of gold and silver, and both can and will most willingly supply you with a ton of them.� The astounded magistrates sat like a row of pillars, measuring the stranger from head to foot. The Burgomaster first found his tongue. �Who are you, noble lord,� said he, �that thus, entirely unknown, speak of tons of gold as though they were sacks of beans? Tell us your name, your rank in this world, and whether you are sent from the regions above to assist us.� �I have not the honour to reside there,� replied the stranger, �and, between ourselves, I beg most particularly to be no longer troubled with questions concerning who and what I am. Suffice it to say I have gold plentiful as summer hay!� Then, drawing forth a leathern pouch, he proceeded: �This little purse contains the tenth of what I�ll give. The rest shall soon be forthcoming. Now listen, my masters,� continued he, clinking the coin; �all this trumpery is and shall remain yours if you promise to give me the first little soul that enters the door of the new temple when it is consecrated.� The astonished magistrates sprang from their seats as if they had been shot up by an earthquake and rushed pell-mell into the farthest corner of the room, where they rolled and clung to each other like lambs frightened at flashes of lightning. Only one of the party had not entirely lost his wits, and he collected his remaining senses and, drawing his head out of the heap, uttered boldly: �Avaunt, thou wicked spirit!� But the stranger, who was no less a person than Master Urian, laughed at them. �What�s all this outcry about?� said he at length. �Is my offence so heinous that you are all become like children? It is I that may suffer from this business, not you. With my hundreds and thousands I have not far to run to buy a score of souls. Of you I ask but one in exchange for all my money. What are you picking at straws for? One may plainly see you are a mere set of humbugs! For the good of the commonwealth (which high-sounding name is often borrowed for all sorts of purposes) many a prince would instantly conduct a whole army to be butchered, and you refuse one single man for that purpose! Fie! I am ashamed, O overwise counsellors, to hear you reason thus absurdly and citizen-like. What, do you think to deprive yourselves of the kernel of your people by granting my wish? Oh, no; there your wisdom is quite at fault, for, depend on it, hypocrites are always the earliest church birds.� By degrees, as the cunning fiend thus spoke, the magistrates took courage and whispered in each other�s ears: �What is the use of our resisting? The grim lion will only show his teeth once. If we don�t assent, we shall infallibly be packed off ourselves. It is better, therefore, to quiet him directly.� Scarcely had they given effect to this new disposition and concluded the bargain when a swarm of purses flew into the room through doors and windows. Urian now took leave, but he stopped at the door and called out with a grim leer: �Count it over again for fear I may have cheated you.� The hellish gold was piously expended in finishing the cathedral, but nevertheless, when the building was completed, splendid though it was, the whole town was filled with fear and alarm at the sight of it. The fact was that, although the magistrates had promised by bond and oath not to trust the secret to anybody, one had prated to his wife, and she had made it a market-place tale, so that one and all declared they would never set foot within the walls. The terrified council now consulted the clergy, but the good priests hung their heads. At last a monk cried out: �A thought strikes me. The wolf which has so long ravaged the neighbourhood of our town was this morning caught alive. This will be a well-merited punishment for the destroyer of our flocks; let him be cast to the devil in the fiery gulf. �Tis possible the arch hell-hound may not relish this breakfast, yet, nolens volens, he must swallow it. You promised him certainly a soul, but whose was not decidedly specified.� The monk�s plan was plausible, and the magistrates determined to put the cunning trick into execution. The day of consecration arrived. Orders were given to bring the wolf to the principal entrance of the cathedral, and just as the bells began to ring, the trap-door of the cage was opened and the savage beast darted out into the nave of the empty church. Master Urian from his lurking-place beheld this consecration-offering with the utmost fury; burning with choler at being thus deceived, he raged like a tempest, and finally rushed forth, slamming the brass gate so violently after him that the ring cracked in twain. This fissure commemorates the priest�s victory over the devices of the Devil, and is still exhibited to travellers who visit the cathedral. A Legend of Bonn The city of Bonn is one of the most beautiful of all those situated on the banks of the Rhine, and being the birthplace of no less celebrated a composer than Beethoven, it naturally attracts a goodly number of pilgrims every year, these coming from many distant lands to do homage at the shrine of genius. But Bonn and its neighbourhood have older associations than this�associations which carry the mind of the traveller far into the Middle Ages�for hard by the town is Rolandseck; while a feature of the district is the Siebengebirge (Seven Mountains), a fine serried range of peaks which present a very imposing appearance when viewed from any of the heights overlooking Bonn itself, and which recall a justly famous legend. This story tells that in the thirteenth century there lived at a castle in the heart of these mountains a nobleman called Wolfram Herzog von Bergendorf; and being no freebooter like most of the other German barons of the time, but a man of very pious disposition, he was moved during the prime of his life to forsake his home and join a body of crusaders. Reaching Palestine after a protracted journey, these remained there for a long time, Wolfram fighting gallantly in every fray and making his name a terror to the Saracens. But the brave crusader was wounded eventually, and now he set out for Germany, thirsting all the way for a sight of his beloved Siebengebirge, and dreaming of the wind-swept schloss which was his home. As he drew nearer to it he pictured the welcome which his fond Herzogin would give him, but scarcely had the drawbridge been lowered to admit him to his castle ere a fell piece of news was imparted to him. In short, it transpired that his wife Elise had been unfaithful to him during his absence and, on hearing that he was returning, had fled precipitately with her infant son. It was rumoured that she had found refuge in a convent, but Wolfram was quite unable to ascertain his wife�s whereabouts, the doors of all nunneries being impassable to men; while even the joy of revenge was denied him, for, try as he might, he could not find out the name of the person who had wronged him. So the Herzog was broken-hearted, and he vowed that henceforth he would live a solitary life within his castle, spending his time in prayer and seeing only his own retainers. For many years this vow was piously observed, and Wolfram never stirred abroad. In course of time, however, he began to chafe at the restraint, feeling it the more acutely because he was an old soldier and had known the excitement of warfare; and so it came about that he revoked his decision and began to travel about the country as of old. It seemed also, to some of his henchmen, that he was gradually becoming more like his former self, and they sometimes said among themselves that he would marry again and had quite forgotten his wrongs. But the very reverse was the truth, and if Wolfram was growing more cheerful, it was because new hopes of retribution were springing up in his heart. The chance would come, he often told himself; surely the fates would one day confront him with his wife�s lover! And one day, as he rode through the village of Gudesburg, these revengeful thoughts were uppermost in his mind. They engrossed him wholly, and he took little heed of the passers-by; but an unexpected stumble on the part of his horse caused him to look up, and of a sudden his eyes blazed like live coals. Here, walking only a few yards away from him, was a youth who bore an unmistakable resemblance to the unfaithful Elise; and dismounting instantly, the Herzog strode up to the stranger, hailed him loudly, and proceeded to question him concerning his identity. The youth was surprised at the anger expressed on the elder man�s countenance; and being overawed, he answered all questions without hesitation, unfolding the little he knew about his parentage. Nor had Wolfram�s instincts deceived him; the tale he heard confirmed his suspicions, and drawing his sword, he slew the youth in cold blood, denying him even a moment in which to repeat a paternoster. A rude iron cross, still standing by the road at Gudesburg, is said to mark the place where the ill-starred and unoffending young man met his doom. Possibly this cross was erected by Wolfram himself because he experienced remorse, and felt that he had been unduly hasty in taking life; but be that as it may, the story concludes by asserting that the Herzog once more vowed that he would spend the rest of his days in solitude and prayer, and that henceforth to the end his vow remained unbroken. The Treasure-seeker This is a picturesque tale of the consequences of wealth attained by the aid of the supernatural which hangs about the ancient village of Endenich, near Bonn, where at the end of the seventeenth century there dwelt a certain sheriff and his son, Konrad, who was a locksmith by trade. They were poor and had lost everything in the recent wars, which had also ruined Heribert, another sheriff, who with his daughter, the beautiful Gretchen, eked out a frugal but peaceful existence in the same neighbourhood. The two young people fell in love with each other, but Gretchen�s father, becoming suddenly and mysteriously very rich and arrogant withal, desired a wealthy or highly placed official as his son-in-law and not a poor lad with no expectations such as Konrad, the locksmith. The lovers were therefore compelled to meet in secret, and it was on one of these occasions that Heribert, surprising them together, attacked Konrad and felled him to the ground in his rage that he should dare to approach his daughter. Spurred by his love and knowing that he could never hope to win Gretchen without wealth, the unhappy youth decided to barter for gold the only possession left to him�his soul. Now there lived in the churchyard a Lapp wizard who made such bargains; so in the dead of night Konrad took his way to this dreadful and unfrequented spot and exhorted the sorcerer to come forth. At the third cry a terrible apparition appeared and demanded to know his wishes, to which the terrified Konrad could only reply: �Gold.� Thereupon the sorcerer led the way deep into a forest and, pointing mysteriously to a certain spot, disappeared. At this spot Konrad found a chest full of gold and silver coins, and returning to Bonn, he bought a house the splendour of which surpassed that of Heribert, who could no longer refuse his daughter to so wealthy a suitor. The young wife tried all her arts to solve the mystery of her husband�s wealth, and he was at length about to reveal it to her when he was suddenly arrested and thrown into prison. Here he was put to torture by the authorities, who suspected him of robbery, and at length he confessed that he had found a treasure, while to his wife he confided the gruesome details, all of which were overheard by his jailers. He was released, but almost immediately re-arrested on the suspicion that he had killed a Jew named Abraham, who had amassed great sums during the wars as a spy. Tortured again, in his extremity he confessed to the murder and named Heribert as his accomplice, whereupon both men were sentenced to be hanged. Just as this doom was about to be carried out a Jew who had arrived from a far country hurriedly forced his way through the crowd. It was Abraham, who had returned in time to save the innocent. But his sin did not pass unpunished, for Konrad died childless; he bequeathed his wealth to the Church and charities, in expiation of his sin of having attained wealth by the aid of an evil spirit. The Miller�s Maid of Udorf Udorf is a little village on the left bank of the Rhine, not far from the town of Bonn, and at no great distance from it stands a lonely mill, to which attaches the following story of a woman�s courage and resourcefulness. Hännchen was the miller�s servant-maid, a buxom young woman who had been in his service for a number of years, and of whose faithfulness both he and his wife were assured. One Sunday morning the miller and his wife had gone with their elder children to attend mass at the neighbouring village of Hersel, leaving Hännchen at the mill in charge of the youngest child, a boy of about five years of age. On the departure of the family for church Hännchen busied herself in preparing dinner, but had scarcely commenced her task ere a visitor entered the kitchen. This was no other than her sweetheart, Heinrich, whom she had not seen for some time. Indeed, he had earned so bad a reputation as a loafer and an idle good-for-nothing that the miller, as much on Hännchen�s account as on his own, had forbidden him the house. Hännchen, however, received her lover with undisguised pleasure, straightway set food before him, and sat down beside him for a chat, judging that the miller�s dinner was of small consequence compared with her ill-used Heinrich! The latter ate heartily, and toward the end of the meal dropped his knife, as though by accident. �Pick that up, my girl,� said he. Hännchen protested good-humouredly, but obeyed none the less. As she stooped to the floor Heinrich seized her by the neck and held another knife to her throat. �Now, girl, show me where your master keeps his money,� he growled hoarsely. �If you value your life, make haste.� �Let me go and I�ll tell you,� gasped Hännchen; and when he had loosened his grip on her throat she looked at him calmly. �Don�t make such a fuss about it, Heinrich,� she said pleasantly. �If you take my master�s money, you must take me too, for this will be no place for me. Will you take me with you, Heinrich?� The hulking fellow was taken completely off his guard by her apparent acquiescence, and touched by her desire to accompany him, which he attributed, with the conceit of his kind, to his own personal attractions. �If I find the money, you shall come with me, Hännchen,� he conceded graciously. �But if you play me false�� The sentence ended with an expressive motion of his knife. �Very well, then,� said the maid. �The money is in master�s room. Come and I will show you where it is concealed.� She led him to the miller�s room, showed him the massive coffer in which lay her master�s wealth, and gave him a piece of iron wherewith to prise it open. �I will go to my own room,� she said, �and get my little savings, and then we shall be ready to go.� So she slipped away, and her erstwhile sweetheart set to work on the miller�s coffer. �The villain!� said Hännchen to herself when she was outside the room. �Now I know that master was right when he said that Heinrich was no fit suitor to come courting me.� With that she slammed the door to and turned the key, shutting the thief in a room as secure as any prison-cell. He threatened and implored her, but Hännchen was deaf to oaths and entreaties alike. Outside she found the miller�s son playing happily, and called him to her. �Go to father as quickly as you can,� she said, putting him on the road to Hersel. �You will meet him down there. Tell him there is a thief in the mill.� The child ran as fast as his little legs would carry him, but ere he had gone many yards a shrill whistle sounded from the barred window behind which Heinrich was imprisoned. �Diether,� shouted the robber to an accomplice in hiding, �catch the child and come and stop this wench�s mouth.� Hännchen looked around for the person thus addressed, but no one was in sight. A moment later, however, Diether sprang up from a ditch, seized the frightened boy, and ran back toward the mill. The girl had but little time in which to decide on a course of action. If she barricaded herself in the mill, might not the ruffian slay the child? On the other hand, if she waited to meet him, she had no assurance that he would not kill them both. So she retired to the mill, locked the door, and awaited what fate had in store for her. In vain the robber threatened to kill the child and burn the mill over her head if she would not open to him at once. Seeing that his threats had no effect, he cast about for some means of entering the mill. His quick eye noted one unprotected point, an opening in the wall connected with the big mill-wheel, a by no means easy mode of ingress. But, finding no other way, he threw the frightened child on the grass and slipped through the aperture. Meanwhile Hännchen, who from the position of her upper window could not see what was going on, was pondering how she could attract the attention of the miller or any of their neighbours. At last she hit upon a plan. It was Sunday and the mill was at rest. If she were to set the machinery in motion, the unusual sight of a mill at work on the day of rest would surely point to some untoward happening. Hardly had the idea entered her head ere the huge sails were revolving. At that very moment Diether had reached the interior of the great drum-wheel, and his surprise and horror were unbounded when it commenced to rotate. It was useless to attempt to stop the machinery; useless, also, to appeal to Hännchen. Round and round he went, till at last he fell unconscious on the bottom of the engine, and still he went on rotating. As Hännchen had anticipated, the miller and his family were vastly astonished to see the mill in motion, and hastened home from church to learn the reason for this departure from custom. Some of their neighbours accompanied them. In a few words Hännchen told them all that had occurred; then her courage forsook her and she fainted in the arms of the miller�s eldest son, who had long been in love with her, and whom she afterward married. The robbers were taken in chains to Bonn, where for their many crimes they suffered the extreme penalty of the law. Rosebach and its Legend The quiet and peaceful valley of Hammerstein is one of the most beautiful in all Rhineland, yet, like many another lovely stretch of country, this valley harbours some gruesome tales, and among such there is one, its scene the village of Rosebach, which is of particular interest, as it is typical of the Middle Ages, and casts a light on the manner of life and thought common in those days. For many centuries there stood at this village of Rosebach a monastery, which no longer exists, and it was probably one of its early abbots who first wrote down the legend, for it is concerned primarily with the strange events which led to the founding and endowment of this religious house, and its whole tenor suggests the pen of a medieval cleric. In a remote and shadowy time there lived at Schloss Rosebach a certain Otto, Count of Reuss-Marlinberg of Hammerstein; and this Count�s evil deeds had made him notorious far and near, while equally ill-famed was his favourite henchman, Riguenbach by name, a man who had borne arms in the Crusades and had long since renounced all belief in religion. This ruffian was constantly in attendance on his master, Otto; and one day, when the pair were riding along the high-road together, they chanced to espy a bewitching maiden who was making her way from a neighbouring village to the convent of Walsdorf, being minded to enter the novitiate there and eventually take the veil. The Count doffed his hat to the prospective nun, less because he wished to be courteous than because it was his habit to salute every wayfarer he encountered on his domain; and Riguenbach, much amused by Otto�s civility to one of low degree, burst into a loud laugh of derision and called after the maiden, telling her to come back. She obeyed his behest, and thereupon the two horsemen drew rein and asked the damsel whither she was bound. �To Walsdorf,� she replied; and though Otto himself would have let her go forward as she pleased, the crafty Riguenbach was not so minded. �There are many dangers in the way,� he said to the girl; �if you push on now that evening is drawing near you may fall a prey to robbers or wolves, so you had better come to the castle with us, spend the night there, and continue your journey on the morrow.� Pleased by the apparently friendly offer, and never dreaming of the fate in store for her, the girl willingly accepted the invitation. That night the people around Schloss Rosebach heard piercing screams and wondered what new villainy was on foot. But the massive stone walls kept their secret, and the luckless maiden never again emerged from the castle. For a time the Count�s crime went unpunished, and about a year later he commenced paying his addresses to Eldegarda, a lady of noble birth. In due course the nuptials of the pair were celebrated. The bride had little idea what manner of man she had espoused, but she was destined to learn this shortly; for on the very night of their marriage an apparition rose between the two. �Otto,� cried the ghost in weird, sepulchral tones, �I alone am thy lawful spouse; through thee I lost all hopes of Heaven, and now I am come to reward thee for thy evil deeds.� The Count turned livid with fear, and the blush on Eldegarda�s cheek faded to an ashen hue; but the spectre remained with them throughout the night. And night after night she came to them thus, till at last Otto grew desperate and summoned to his aid a Churchman who happened to be in the neighbourhood, the Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux. Now this Bernard enjoyed no small fame as a worker of miracles, but when Otto unfolded his case to him the Abbot declared straightway that no miracle would be justifiable in the present instance, and that only by repentance and by complete renunciation of the world might the Count be released from his nightly menace. Otto hung his head on hearing this verdict, and as he stood hesitating, pondering whether it were possible for him to forgo all earthly joys, his old henchman, Riguenbach, chanced to enter, and learning his master�s quandary, he laughed loudly and advised the Count to eject Bernard forcibly. The Abbot met the retainer�s mirth with a look of great severity, and on Riguenbach showing that he was still bent on insolence, the Churchman cried to him: �Get thee behind me, Satan�; whereupon a flame of lightning darted suddenly across the chamber, and the man who had long aided and abetted the Count�s wickedness was consumed to ashes. For a moment Otto stood aghast at the awful fate of his retainer; and now, beholding how terrible a thing is divine vengeance, he began at last to feel truly repentant. He consented to have his marriage annulled without delay, and even declared that he himself would become a monk. At the same time he counselled his wife to take the veil, and they parted, thinking never to see each other again. But one night, ere either of them had taken the irrevocable vows, the Virgin Mary appeared to Abbot Bernard and told him he had acted unwisely in parting the bride and bridegroom in this wise, for was not Eldegarda wholly innocent? The Churchman instantly returned to Otto�s presence, and on the following day the Count and his wife were duly remarried. The newly found piety of the penitent found expression in the building and endowment of a religious edifice upon his domains. So it was, then, that the Abbey of Rosebach was founded, and though the ruthless hand of time has levelled its walls, the strange events to which they owed their being long ago are still remembered and recited in the lovely vale of Hammerstein; for, though all human things must needs perish, a good story long outlives them all. The Dancers of Ramersdorf At Ramersdorf every Sunday afternoon the lads and lasses of the hamlet gathered on the village green and danced gaily through the sunny hours. But wild prophecies of the coming end of the world, when the year 1000 should break, were spreading throughout the countryside, and the spirit of fear haunted the people, so that music died away from their hearts and there was no more dancing on the village green. Instead they spent the hours praying in the church for divine mercy, and the Abbot of Löwenburg was well pleased. The dreaded year came and went, yet the world had not ceased; the sun still rose and set, life went on just the same. So fear passed from the hearts of the people, and because they were happy again the young folk once more assembled to dance the Sundays away on the village green. But the abbot was wroth at this. When the music began he appeared among the villagers, commanding them to cease from their revels and bethink themselves of the House of God. But the lads and lasses laughed, and the music went on as they footed it gaily. Then the abbot was angered; he raised his hands to heaven and cursed the thoughtless crowd, condemning the villagers to dance there unceasingly for a year and a day. As they heard the dreadful words the young folk tried to stop, but their feet must needs go on to the endless music. Faster and faster in giddy round they went, day and night, rain and shine, throughout the changing seasons, until the last hours of the extra day, when they fell in a senseless heap in the hollow worn by their unresting feet. When they awoke to consciousness all reason had passed from them. To the day of their death they remained helpless idiots. Henceforth the village green was deserted; no more were seen the lads and lasses dancing there on the Sabbath day. The Löwenburg Tradition asserts that on the summit of this mountain once stood a castle, of which, however, not the slightest trace can be found at the present day. There is also a story of the lord who dwelt there, Hermann von Heinsberg, with whom, for his sins, the direct line of the family became extinct. Graf Hermann was possessed by one overmastering passion, that of the chase. The greater part of his life was spent in the dense forests which clothed the valleys and mountains about his castle. Every other interest must, perforce, stand aside. The cornfields, vineyards, and gardens of his vassals were oftentimes devastated in his sport, to the utter ruin of many. If any dared complain he laughed at or reviled them; but if he were in angry mood he set his hounds on them and hunted his vassals as quarry, either killing them outright or leaving them terribly injured. Needless to say, he was well hated by these people, also by his own class, for his character was too fierce and overbearing even for their tolerance. To crown his unpopularity, he was under the ban of the all-powerful Church, for saints� days and Lord�s Day alike he hunted to his heart�s content, and once, on receiving a remonstrance, had threatened to hunt the Abbot of Heisterbach himself. So he lived, isolated, except for his troop of jägers, from the rest of mankind. The forest was his world, his only friends the hounds. Once, on the eve of a holy festival, Hermann set out to hunt in the ancient forest about the base of the Löwenburg. In the excitement of the chase he outstripped his followers, his quarry disappeared, and, overtaken by night, his surroundings, in the dim light, took on such an unfamiliar aspect that he completely lost all sense of direction. Up and down he paced in unrestrained yet impotent anger, feeling that he was under some evil spell. Maddened by this idea, he endeavoured to hack his way through the thick undergrowth, but the matted boughs and dense foliage were as effectual as prison bars. He was trapped, he told himself, in some enchanted forest, for the place seemed more and more unfamiliar. He strove to bring back some recollection of the spot, which surely he must have passed a thousand times. But no�he could not distinguish any feature that seemed familiar. His spirits sank lower and lower, his strength seemed on the point of failing, his brain seemed to be on fire. Round and round he went like some trapped animal; then he threw himself madly upon a mass of tangled underwood and succeeded in breaking through to a more open space. This also seemed unfamiliar, and in the dim light of the stars the tall trees shut him in as if with towers of impenetrable shadow; silence seemed to lay everything under a spell of terror, ominous of coming evil. Wearied in body and mind, Hermann flung himself down on the sward and quickly fell asleep. But suddenly a plunging in the brushwood aroused him, and with the instinct of the huntsman he sprang up instantly, seizing his spear and whistling to his dogs, which, however, crouched nearer to the earth, their hair bristling and eyes red with fear. Again their master called, but they refused to stir, whining, with eyes strained and fixed on the undergrowth. Then Graf Hermann went forward alone to the spot whence proceeded the ominous sound, his spear poised, ready to strike. He was about to penetrate into the brushwood when suddenly there emerged from it a majestic-looking man, who seemed as if hotly pursued. He was dressed in ancient garb, carrying a large crossbow in his right hand. A curved hunting-horn hung at his side, and an old-fashioned hunting-knife was stuck in his girdle. With a stately motion of the hand he waved Hermann aside, then he raised the horn to his lips and blew upon it a terrible blast so unearthly in sound that the forest and mountains sent back echoes like the cry of the lost, to which the hounds gave tongue with a howl of fear. As if in answer to the echoes, there suddenly appeared hundreds of skeleton stags, of enormous size, each bestridden by a skeleton hunter. With one accord the ghostly riders spurred on their steeds, which with lowered antlers advanced upon the stranger, who, with a scream for mercy, sought frenziedly for some means of evading his grisly pursuers. For the space of an hour the dreadful chase went on, Graf Hermann rooted to the spot with horror, overcome by a sense of helplessness. There in the centre he stood, the pivot round which circled the infernal hunt, unable to stay the relentless riders as with bony hands rattling against their skeleton steeds they encouraged them to charge, gore, and trample the hapless stranger, whose cries of agony were drowned by shrieks of fiendish glee and the incessant cracking of whips. Overcome at last by terror, the count fell senseless, his eyes dazed by the still whirling spectres and their flying quarry. When at last he slowly awaked from his swoon he looked around, fearing to see again the hideous spectacle. All but the stranger, however, had vanished. Graf Hermann shuddered as he looked upon him, and only with difficulty could he summon sufficient courage to address him. Indeed, it was only after the unwonted action of crossing himself that he could speak. �Who and what are you?� he asked in a hushed tone. But the stranger made no reply, except to sigh mournfully. Again the count asked the question, and again received but a sigh for answer. �Then in the name of the Most High God I conjure you, speak!� he said the third time. The stranger turned to him, as if suddenly released from bonds. �By the power of God�s holy name the spell is broken at last. Listen now to me!� He beckoned Hermann to his side and in strange, stern tones he related the following: �I am your ancestor. Like you, I loved the chase beyond everything in life�beyond our holy faith or the welfare of any human being, man, woman, or child. To all that stood in my path I showed no mercy. There came a time when famine visited the land. The harvest was destroyed by blight and the people starved. In their extremity they broke into my forests; famished with hunger, they destroyed and carried off the game. Beside myself with rage, I swore that they should suffer for it�that for every head of game destroyed I would exact a human life. I kept my oath. Arming my retainers, servants, and huntsmen, I seized my presumptuous vassals in the dead of night, and dragging them to the castle, I flung them into the deepest dungeons. There for three days I let them starve�for three days also I kept my hounds without food. Meantime my huntsmen had caught a great number of the largest and strongest deer in the forests. At the end of three days the unfortunate wretches were brought out, diminished now by a full hundred. My ready retainers bound them naked to the stags. My best steeds were saddled. Then the kennels were thrown open and the famished hounds rushed forth like a host of demons. Off went the deer like the wind, each with his human burden, the dogs following, and then the horsemen, shouting with glee at the new sport. By nightfall not a stag or his rider was left alive. The hounds in their fury worried and tore at both man and beast, and the last unfortunate wretch met a hideous death on this spot where we now stand.� He paused as if overcome by the memory of his crime. �God avenged that dreadful deed. That night I died, and I am now suffering the tortures of the damned. Every night I am hunted by my victims, as you have seen. I am now the quarry, hunted from the castle court, on through the forest, to this hidden and haunted spot. Thousands and thousands of times I have suffered this: I endure all the agonies I made them suffer. I am doomed to undergo this to the last day, when I shall be hunted over the wastes of hell by legions of demons.� Again he paused, his eyes terrible with the anguish of a lost soul. He resumed in a sterner tone: �Take warning by my fate. Providence, kinder to you than to me, has guided you hither to-night that you might learn of my punishment. While you still have time repent of your crimes and endeavour to make amends for the suffering you have inflicted. Remember�the wages of sin is death. Remember me�and my fate!� The next moment the phantom had faded from view. Only the hounds were crouching near the count, panting fearfully. All else was silent gloom and night. After a terrible vigil the morning came, and Graf Hermann, now a changed man, returned to his castle in silence, and henceforth endeavoured to profit by the warning and follow the advice of his unhappy ancestor. CHAPTER IV�DRACHENFELS TO RHEINSTEIN The Dragon�s Rock Among the many legends invented by the early Christian monks to advance their faith, there are few more beautiful than that attached to the Drachenfels, the Dragon�s Rock, a rugged and picturesque mass of volcanic porphyry rising above the Rhine on its right bank. Half-way up one of its pointed crags is a dark cavern known as the �Dragon�s Cave,� which was at one time, in that misty past to which all legends belong, the habitation of a hideous monster, half-beast and half-reptile. The peasants of the surrounding district held the creature in superstitious awe, worshipped him, and offered up sacrifices of human beings at the instigation of their pagan priests. Foremost among the worshippers of the dragon were two warrior princes, Rinbod and Horsrik, who frequently made an onslaught on the Christian people dwelling on the opposite bank of the Rhine, carrying off many captives to be offered as sacrifices to the dragon. On one such occasion, while, according to their custom, they were dividing their prisoners, the pagan princes quarrelled over one of their captives, a Christian maiden, whose beauty and helpless innocence won the hearts of her fierce captors, so that each desired to possess her, and neither was inclined to renounce his claim. The quarrel became so bitter at length that the princes seized their weapons and were about to fight for the fair spoil. But at this juncture their priests intervened. �It is not meet,� said they, �that two noble princes should come to blows over a mere Christian maid. Tomorrow she shall be offered to the dragon, in thanksgiving for your victory.� And they felt that they had done well, for had they not averted the impending quarrel, and at the same time gained a victim for their cruel rites? But the heart of Rinbod was heavy indeed, for he truly loved the young Christian maid, and would have given his life to save her from the horrible fate that awaited her. However, the decree of the priests was irrevocable, and no pleadings of his could avail. The girl was informed of the cruel destiny that was to befall her on the morrow, and with a calm mind she sought consolation from Heaven to enable her to meet her fate with courage befitting a Christian. Early on the following morning she was led with much ceremony to a spot before the Dragon�s Cave and there bound to an oak, to await the approach of the monster, whose custom it was to sally forth at sunrise in search of prey. The procession of priests, warriors, and peasants who had followed the victim to the place of sacrifice now climbed to the summit of the crag and watched eagerly for the coming of the dragon. Rinbod watched also, but it was with eyes full of anguish and apprehension. The Christian maid seemed to him more like a spirit than a human being, so calmly, so steadfastly did she bear herself. Suddenly a stifled cry broke from the lips of the watchers�the hideous monster was seen dragging its heavy coils from the cavern, fire issuing from its mouth and nostrils. At its mighty roar even the bravest trembled. But the Christian maid alone showed no sign of fear; she awaited the oncoming of the dreadful creature with a hymn of praise on her lips. Nearer and nearer came the dragon, and at length, with a horrible roar, it sprang at its prey. But even as it did so the maiden held out her crucifix before her, and the dragon was checked in its onrush. A moment later it turned aside and plunged into the Rhine. The people on the crag were filled with awe at the miraculous power of the strange symbol which had overcome their idol and, descending, hastened to free the young girl from her bonds. When they learned the significance of the cross they begged that she would send them teachers that they might learn about the new religion. In vain their priests endeavoured to dissuade them. They had seen the power of the crucifix, and their renunciation of their pagan creed was complete. Among the first to adopt the Christian religion was Rinbod; he married the beautiful captive and built a castle for her on the Drachenfels, whose ruins remain to this day. It seems a pity that such a beautiful legend should have doubts cast upon its authenticity, but it has been conjectured that the word Drachenfels has a geological rather than a romantic significance�being, in fact, derived from Trachyt-fels, meaning �Trachyte-rock.� This view is supported by the fact that there is another Drachenfels near Mannheim of a similar geological construction, but without the legend. However, it is unlikely that the people of antiquity would bestow a geological name upon any locality. Okkenfels: A Rash Oath On a rugged crag overlooking the Rhine above the town of Linz stands the ruined stronghold of Okkenfels. History tells us little or nothing concerning this ancient fortress, but legend covers the deficiency with the tale of the Baron�s Rash Oath. Rheinhard von Renneberg, according to the story, flourished about the beginning of the eleventh century, when the Schloss Okkenfels was a favourite rendezvous with the rude nobility of the surrounding district. Though they were none of them distinguished for their manners, by far the most rugged and uncouth was the Baron von Renneberg himself. Rough in appearance, abrupt in conversation, and inclined to harshness in all his dealings, he inspired in the breast of his only daughter a feeling more akin to awe than affection. The gentle Etelina grew up to be a maiden of singular beauty, of delicate form and feature, and under the careful tutelage of the castle chaplain she became as good as she was beautiful. Lovers she had in plenty, for the charms of Etelina and the wealth of her noble father, whose sole heiress she was, formed a combination quite irresistible in the eyes of the young gallants who frequented the castle. But none loved her more sincerely than one of the baron�s retainers, a young knight of Linz, Rudolph by name. On one occasion Rheinhard was obliged to set out with his troop to join the wars in Italy, and ere he departed he confided his daughter to the care of the venerable chaplain, while his castle and lands he left in charge of Sir Rudolph. As may be supposed, the knight and the maiden frequently met, and ere long it became evident that Rudolph�s passion was returned. The worthy chaplain, who loved the youth as a son, did not seek to interfere with the course of his wooing, and so in due time the lovers were betrothed. At the end of a year the alarming news reached them that the baron was returning from the wars, bringing in his train a noble bridegroom for Etelina. In despair the lovers sought the old chaplain and begged his advice. They knew only too well that the baron would not brook resistance to his will; for he had ever dealt ruthlessly with opposition. Yet both were determined that nothing should part them. �I would rather die with Rudolph than marry another,� cried the grief-stricken maiden. And indeed it seemed that one or other of these alternatives would soon fall to her lot. But the wise old priest was planning a way of escape. �Ye were meant for one another, my children,� he said philosophically; �therefore it is not for man to separate you. I will marry you at once, and I know a place where you may safely hide for a season.� It was nearing midnight on the eve of the day fixed for Rheinhard�s return, so there was no time to be lost. The three repaired to the chapel, where the marriage was at once solemnized. Taking a basket of bread, meat, and wine, a lamp, and some other necessaries, the old man conducted the newly married pair through a subterranean passage to a cavern in the rock whereon the castle stood, a place known only to himself. Then, having blessed them, he withdrew. Early on the following morning came the baron and his train, with the noble knight chosen as a husband for Etelina. Rheinhard looked in vain for his daughter among the crowd of retainers who waited to welcome him. �Where is my little maid?� he asked. The chaplain answered evasively. The damsel was ill abed, he replied. When the noble lord had refreshed himself he should see her. Directly the repast was over he hastened to his daughter�s apartment, only to find her flown! Dismayed and angry, he rushed to the chaplain and demanded an explanation. The good old man, after a vain attempt to soothe his irate patron, revealed all�all, that is, save the place where the fugitives were concealed, and that he firmly refused to divulge. The priest was committed to the lowest dungeon, a vile den to which access could only be got by means of a trap-door and a rope. With his own hands the baron swung to the massive trap, swearing a deep oath. �If I forgive my daughter, or any of her accomplices, may I die suddenly where I now stand, and may my soul perish for ever!� The disappointed bridegroom soon returned to his own land, and the baron, whose increasing moroseness made him cordially hated by his attendants, was left to the bitterness of his thoughts. Meanwhile Rudolph and his bride had escaped unseen from the castle rock and now dwelt in the forests skirting the Seven Mountains. While the summer lasted all went well with them; they, and the little son who was born to them, were content with the sustenance the forest afforded. But in the winter all was changed. Starvation stared them in the face. More and more pitiful became their condition, till at length Rudolph resolved to seek the baron, and give his life, if need be, to save his wife and child. That very day Rheinhard was out hunting in the forest. Imagine his surprise when a gaunt figure, clad in a bearskin, stepped from the undergrowth and bade him follow, if he wished to see his daughter alive. The startled old man obeyed the summons, and arrived at length before a spacious cavern, which his guide motioned him to enter. Within, on a pile of damp leaves, lay Etelina and her child, both half-dead with starvation. Rheinhard�s anger speedily melted at the pathetic sight, and he freely forgave his daughter and Rudolph, his hitherto unrecognized guide, and bade them return with him to Okkenfels. Etelina�s first request was for a pardon for the old chaplain, and Rheinhard himself went to raise the heavy trap-door. While peering into the gloom, however, he stumbled and fell headlong into the dungeon below. �A judgment!� he shrieked as he fell, then all was silence. The bruised remains of the proud baron were interred in the parish church of Linz, and henceforth Etelina and her husband lived happily at Okkenfels. But both they and the old chaplain offered many a pious prayer for the soul of the unhappy Baron Rheinhard. Oberwörth In the middle of the Rhine, a little above Coblentz, lies the island of Oberwörth, where at one time stood a famous nunnery. Included in the traditional lore of the neighbourhood is a tragic tale of the beautiful Ida, daughter of the Freiherr von Metternich, who died within its walls in the fourteenth century. Von Metternich, who dwelt at Coblentz, was a wealthy and powerful noble, exceedingly proud of his fair daughter, and firmly convinced that none but the highest in the land was fit mate for her. But Ida had other views, and had already bestowed her heart on a young squire in her father�s train. It is true that Gerbert was a high-born youth, of stainless life, pleasing appearance, and gentle manners, and, moreover, one who was likely at no distant date to win his spurs. Nevertheless the lovers instinctively concealed their mutual affection from von Metternich, and plighted their troth in secret. But so ardent an affection could not long remain hidden. The time came when the nobleman discovered how matters stood between his daughter and Gerbert, and with angry frowns and muttered oaths he resolved to exercise his paternal authority. �My daughter shall go to a nunnery,� he said to himself. �And as for that jackanapes, he must be got rid of at once.� He pondered how he might conveniently rid himself of the audacious squire. That night he dispatched Gerbert on a mission to the grand prior of the Knights-Templars, who had his abode at the neighbouring castle of Lahneck. The unsuspecting squire took the sealed missive and set out, thinking as he rode along how rich he was in possessing so sweet a love as Ida, and dreaming of the time when his valour and prowess should have made their marriage possible. But his dreams would have been rudely disturbed had he seen what was passing at Coblentz. For his betrothed, in spite of her tears and pleadings, was being secretly conveyed to the nunnery of Oberwörth, there to remain until she should have forgotten her lover�as though the stone walls of a convent could shut out the imaginings of a maid! However, Gerbert knew nothing of this, and he rode along in leisurely fashion, until at length he came to the Schloss Lahneck, where he was at once conducted into the presence of the grand prior of the Knights-Templars. The grand prior was a man of middle age, with an expression of settled melancholy on his swarthy features. Gerbert approached him with becoming reverence, bent his knee, and presented the missive. The prior turned his gaze so earnestly on the young man�s face that Gerbert dropped his eyes in confusion. A moment later the prior broke the seal and hastily scanned the letter. �Who mayest thou be, youth?� he asked abruptly. �Gerbert von Isenburg, sir.� �And thy mother?� �Guba von Isenburg,� was the astonished Gerbert�s reply. The prior seemed to be struggling with deep emotion. �Knowest thou the purport of this missive?� he said at last. �It concerns me not,� answered Gerbert simply. �Nay, my son,� said the prior, �it doth concern thee, and deeply, too. Know that it is thy death-warrant, boy! The Freiherr has requested me to send thee to the wars in Palestine, and so to place thee that death will be a certainty. This he asks in the name of our ancient friendship and for the sake of our order, to which he has ever shown himself well disposed.� Seeing the dismay and incredulity which were depicted in his listener�s face, the prior hastened to read aloud a passage describing von Metternich�s discovery of his daughter�s love for the humble squire, and Gerbert could no longer doubt that his fate was sealed. The prior looked at him kindly. �Gerbert,� he said, �I am not going to put the cruel order into execution. Though I lose friendship, the honour of our order, life itself, the son of Guba von Isenburg shall not suffer at my hands. I sympathize with thy passion for the fair Ida. I myself loved thy mother.� The impetuous Gerbert started to his feet, hand on sword, at the mention of his mother, whose good name he set before all else; but with a dignified gesture the prior motioned him to his seat. Then in terse, passionate phrases the elder man told how he had loved the gentle Guba for years, always hesitating to declare his passion lest the lady should scorn him. At length he could bear it no longer, and made up his mind to reveal his love to her. With this intent he rode toward her home, only to learn from a passing page that Guba, his mistress, was to be married that very day to von Isenburg. He gave to the page a ring, bidding him carry it to his mistress with the message that it was from one who loved her greatly, and who for her sake renounced the world. �The ring,� he concluded, �is on thy finger, and in thy face and voice are thy mother�s likeness. Canst thou wonder that I would spare thy life?� Gerbert listened in respectful silence. His love for Ida enabled him to sympathize with the pathetic tale unfolded by the prior. Tears fell unchecked from the eyes of both. �And now,� said the prior at last, �we must look to thy safety.� �I would not bring misfortune on thee,� said Gerbert. �May I not go to Palestine and win my way through with my sword?� �It is impossible,� said the elder man. �Von Metternich would see to it that thou wert slain. Thou must go to Swabia, where a prior of our order will look after thy safety in the meantime.� The same day Gerbert was conveyed to Swabia, where, for a time at least, he was safe from persecution. The Dance of Death In the nunnery of Oberwörth, on a pallet in a humble cell, Ida lay dying. A year had gone past since she had been separated from her lover, and every day had seen her grow weaker and more despondent. Forget Gerbert? That would she never while life remained to her. Wearily she tossed on her pallet, her only companion a sister of the convent. Willingly now would the Freiherr give his dearest possessions to save his daughter, but already she was beyond assistance, her only hope the peace of the grave. �I am dying, sister,� she said to her attendant. �Nevermore shall I see my dear Gerbert�ah! nevermore.� �Hush,� murmured the nun gently, �stranger things have happened. All may yet be well.� And to divert the dying maid�s attention from her grief she recited tales of lovers who had been reunited after many difficulties. But Ida refused to be pacified. �Alas!� she said, �I am betrothed, yet I must die unwed.� �Heaven forbid!� cried the pious nun in alarm. �For then must thou join in the dance of death.� It was a popular belief in that district that a betrothed maiden who died before her wedding was celebrated must, after her death, dance on a spot in the centre of the island whereon no grass or herb ever grew�that is, unless in the interval she took the veil. Every night at twelve o�clock a band of such hapless maidens may be seen dancing in the moonlight, doomed to continue their nocturnal revels till they meet with a lover. And woe betide the knight who ventures within their reach! They dance round and round him and with him till he falls dead, whereupon the youngest maid claims him for her lover. Henceforth she rests quietly in her grave and joins no more in the ghostly frolic. This weird tradition Ida now heard from the lips of the nun, who herself claimed to have witnessed the scenes she described. �I beseech thee,� said the sister, �do but join our convent, and all will yet be well.� �I die,� murmured Ida, heeding not the words of her companion. �Gerbert�we shall meet again!� Gerbert, her lover, heard the sad news in his dwelling-place on the shores of Lake Constance, and returned to Oberwörth with all speed. A week had elapsed ere he arrived, and Ida�s body was already interred in the vaults of the convent. It was a night of storm and darkness. No boatman would venture on the Rhine, but Gerbert, anxious to pay the last respects to the body of his beloved, was not to be deterred. With his own hands he unmoored a vessel and sailed across to Oberwörth. Having landed at that part of the island furthest from the convent, he was obliged to pass the haunted spot on his way thither. The circular patch of barren earth was said to be a spot accursed, by reason of sacrilege and suicide committed there. But such things were far from the thoughts of the distraught knight. Suddenly he heard a strange sound, like the whisper of a familiar voice�a sound which, despite its quietness, seemed to make itself heard above the fury of the storm. Looking up, he beheld a band of white-robed maidens dancing in the charmed circle. One of them, a little apart from the others, seemed to him to be his lost Ida. The familiar figure, the grace of mien, the very gesture with which she beckoned him, were hers, and he rushed forward to clasp her to his heart. Adroitly she eluded his grasp and mingled with the throng. Gerbert followed with bursting heart, seized her in his arms, and found that the other phantoms had surrounded them. Something in the unearthly music fascinated him; he felt impelled to dance round and round, till his head reeled. And still he danced with his phantom bride, and still the maidens whirled about them. On the stroke of one the dancers vanished and the knight sank to the ground, all but dead with fatigue. In the morning he was found by the kindly nuns, who tended him carefully. But all their skill and attention were in vain; for Gerbert lived only long enough to tell of his adventure to the sisterhood. This done, he expired with the name of his beloved spirit-bride upon his lips. Stolzenfels: The Alchemist Alchemy was a common pursuit in the Middle Ages. The poor followed it eagerly in the vain desire for gold; the rich spent their wealth in useless experiments, or showered it on worthless charlatans. Thus it came about that Archbishop Werner of Falkenstein, owner of the grim fortress of Stolzenfels and a wealthy and powerful Churchman, was an amateur of the hermetic art, while his Treasurer, who was by no means rich, was also by way of being an alchemist. To indulge his passion for the bizarre science the latter had extracted many a golden piece from the coffers of his reverend master, always meaning, of course, to pay them back when the weary experiments should have crystallized into the coveted philosopher�s stone. He had in his daughter Elizabeth a treasure which might well have outweighed the whole of the Archbishop�s coffers, but the lust for gold had blinded the covetous Treasurer to all else. One night�a wild, stormy night, when the wind tore shrieking round the battlements of Stolzenfels�there came to the gate a pilgrim, sombre of feature as of garb, with wicked, glinting eyes. The Archbishop was not at that time resident in the castle, but his Treasurer, hearing that the new-comer was learned in alchemical mysteries, bade him enter without delay. A room was made ready in one of the highest towers, and there the Treasurer and his pilgrim friend spent many days and nights. Elizabeth saw with dismay that a change was coming over her father. He was no longer gentle and kind, but morose and reserved, and he passed less time in her company than he was wont. At length a courier arrived with tidings of the approach of the Archbishop, who was bringing some noble guests to the castle. To the dismay of his daughter, the Treasurer suddenly turned pale and, brushing aside her solicitous inquiries, fled to the mysterious chamber. Elizabeth followed, convinced that something had occurred to upset her father seriously. She was too late�the door was locked ere she reached it; but she could hear angry voices within, the voices of her father and the pilgrim. The Treasurer seemed to be uttering bitter reproaches, while ever and anon the deep, level voice of his companion could be heard. �Bring hither a virgin,� he said. �The heart�s blood of a virgin is necessary to our schemes, as I have told thee many times. How can I give thee gold, and thou wilt not obey my instructions?� �Villain!� cried the Treasurer, beside himself. �Thou hast taken my gold, thou hast made me take the gold of my master also for thy schemes. Wouldst thou have me shed innocent blood?� �I tell thee again, without it our experiments are vain.� At that moment the door was flung open and the Treasurer emerged, too immersed in his anxious thoughts to perceive the shrinking form of Elizabeth. She, when he had gone from sight, entered the chamber where stood the pilgrim. �I have heard thy conversation,� she said, �and I am ready to give my life for my father�s welfare. Tell me what I must do and I will slay me with mine own hand.� With covetous glance the pilgrim advanced and strove to take her hand, but she shrank back in loathing. �Touch me not,� she said, shuddering. A look of malice overspread the pilgrim�s averted face. �Come hither at midnight, and at sunrise thy father will be rich and honoured,� he said. �Wilt thou swear it on the cross?� �I swear it,� he returned, drawing a little crucifix from his bosom, and speaking in solemn tones. �Very well, I promise.� And with that she withdrew. When she had gone the alchemist pressed a spring in the crucifix, when a dagger fell out. �Thou hast served me well,� he said, chuckling. Then, replacing the crucifix in his breast, he entered the adjoining room, prised up a stone from the floor, and drew forth a leathern bag full of gold. This, then, was the crucible into which the Archbishop�s pieces had gone. �I have found the secret of making gold,� pursued the pilgrim. �To-morrow my wealth and I will be far away in safety. The fools, to seek gold in a crucible!� Meanwhile preparations were afoot for the reception of the Archbishop. Elizabeth, full of grief and determination, supervised the work of the serving-maids, while her father anxiously wondered how he should account to his master for the stolen pieces of gold. The Archbishop was loudly hailed on his arrival. He greeted his Treasurer kindly and asked after the pretty Elizabeth. When her father presented her he in turn introduced her to his guests, and many a glance of admiration was directed at the gentle maid. One young knight, in particular, was so smitten with her charms that he was dumb the whole evening. When Elizabeth retired to her chamber her father bade her good-night. Hope had again arisen in his breast. �To-morrow,� he said, �my troubles will be over.� Elizabeth sighed. At length the hour of midnight arrived. Taking a lamp, the girl crossed the courtyard to where the alchemist awaited her coming. She was not unseen, however; the young knight had been watching her window, and he observed her pass through the courtyard with surprise. Fearing he knew not what harm to the maid he loved, he followed her to the pilgrim�s apartment, and there watched her through a crack in the door. The alchemist was bending over a crucible when Elizabeth entered. �Ah, thou hast come,� he said. �I hope thou art prepared to do as I bid thee? If that is so, I will restore the gold to thy father�his own gold and his master�s. If thou art willing to sacrifice thine honour, thy father�s honour shall be restored; if thy life, he shall have the money he needs.� �Away, wretch!� cried Elizabeth indignantly. �I will give my life for my father, but I will not suffer insult.� With a shrug of his shoulders the alchemist turned to his crucible. �As thou wilt,� he said. �Prepare for the sacrifice.� Suddenly the kneeling maid caught up the alchemist�s dagger and would have plunged it into her heart; but ere she could carry out her purpose the knight burst open the door, rushed into the room, and seized the weapon. Elizabeth, overcome with the relief which his opportune arrival afforded her, fainted in his arms. While the young man frantically sought means to restore her the pilgrim seized the opportunity to escape, and when the maid came to herself it was to find the wretch gone and herself supported by a handsome young knight, who was pouring impassioned speeches into her ear. His love and tenderness awakened an answering emotion in her heart, and that very night they were betrothed. When the maiden�s father was apprised of her recent peril he, too, was grateful to her deliverer, and yet more grateful when his future son-in-law pressed him to make use of his ample fortune. The pilgrim was found drowned in the Rhine, and the bag of gold, which he had carried away in his belt, was handed over to the Archbishop, to whom the Treasurer confessed all. And the good Archbishop, by way of confirming his forgiveness, gave a handsome present to Elizabeth on her marriage with the knight. The Legend of Boppard Maidens had curious ways of revenging themselves on unfaithful lovers in medieval times, as the following legend of Boppard would show. Toward the end of the twelfth century there dwelt in Boppard a knight named Sir Conrad Bayer, brave, generous, and a good comrade, but not without his faults, as will be seen hereafter. At that time many brave knights and nobles were fighting in the Third Crusade under Frederick the First and Richard Coeur-de-Lion; but Sir Conrad still remained at Boppard. He gave out that the reason for his remaining at home was to protect his stronghold against a horde of robbers who infested the neighbourhood. But there were those who ascribed his reluctance to depart to another cause. In a neighbouring fortress there lived a beautiful maiden, Maria by name, who received a great deal of attention from Sir Conrad. So frequent were his visits to her home that rumour had it that the fair lady had won his heart. This indeed was the case, and she in return had given her love unreservedly into his keeping. But as her passion grew stronger his seemed to cool, and at length he began to make preparations to join the wars in Palestine, leaving the lady to lament his changed demeanour. In vain she pleaded, in vain she sent letters to him. At last he intimated plainly that he loved her no longer. He did not intend to marry, he said, adding cruelly that if he did she should not be the bride of his choice. The lady was completely crushed by the blow. Her affection for Sir Conrad perished, and in its place arose a desire to be revenged on the unfaithful knight. The fickle lover had completed his arrangements for his journey to the Holy Land, and all was ready for his departure. As he rode gaily down from his castle to where his men-at-arms waited on the shores of the Rhine, he was suddenly confronted by an armed knight, who reined in his steed and bade Sir Conrad halt. �Hold, Sir Conrad Bayer,� he cried. �Thou goest not hence till thou hast answered for thy misdeeds�thou false knight�thou traitor!� Sir Conrad listened in astonishment. A moment later his attendants had surrounded the bold youth, and would have slain him had not Sir Conrad interfered. �Back!� he said. �Let me face this braggart myself. Who art thou?� he added, addressing the young knight who had thus boldly challenged him. �One who would have thy life!� was the fierce reply. �Why should I slay thee, bold youth?� said Conrad, amused. �I am the brother of Maria, whom thou hast betrayed,� was the response. �I have come hither from Palestine to seek thy life. Have at thee, traitor!� Conrad, somewhat sobered, and unwilling to do battle with such a boy, asked for further proof of his identity. The young knight thereupon displayed, blazoned on his shield, the arms of his house�a golden lion on an azure field. Sir Conrad had no longer excuse for refusing to do battle with the youth, so with a muttered �Thy blood be upon thy head!� he laid his lance in rest and drew back a few paces. The stranger did likewise; then they rushed toward each other, and such was the force of their impact that both were unhorsed. Drawing their swords�for neither was injured�the knights resumed the conflict on foot. Conrad felt disgraced at having been unhorsed by a mere youth, and he was now further incensed by receiving a deep wound in his arm. Henceforth he fought in good earnest, showering blows on his antagonist, who fell at last, mortally wounded. In obedience to the rules of chivalry, Sir Conrad hastened to assist his vanquished foe. What was his surprise, his horror, when, on raising the head and unlacing the helm of the knight, he found that his adversary was none other than Maria! �Conrad,� she said in failing tones, �I also am to blame. Without thy love life was nothing to me, and I resolved to die by thy hand. Forget my folly, remember only that I loved thee. Farewell!� And with these words she expired. Conrad flung himself down by her side, convulsed with grief and remorse. From that hour a change came over him. Ere he set out to the Holy Land he caused the body of Maria to be interred on the summit of the Kreuzberg, and bestowed the greater part of his estates on a pious brotherhood, enjoining them to raise a nunnery over the tomb. Thus was the convent of Marienberg founded, and in time it came to be one of the richest and most celebrated on the Rhine. Arrived in Palestine, Conrad became a Knight-Templar, fighting bravely and utterly oblivious to all danger. It was not until Acre had been won, however, that death met him. An arrow dispatched by an unknown hand found its quarry as he was walking the ramparts at night meditating on the lady he had slain and whose death had restored her to a place in his affections. Liebenstein and Sterrenberg Near the famous monastery of Bornhofen, and not far from the town of Camp, supposed to be an ancient Roman site, are the celebrated castles of Liebenstein and Sterrenberg, called �the Brothers,� perhaps because of their contiguity to each other rather than through the legend connected with the name. History is practically silent concerning these towers, which occupy two steep crags united by a small isthmus which has partially been cut through. Sterrenberg lies nearest the north, Liebenstein to the south. A wooden bridge leads from one to the other, but a high wall called the Schildmauer was in the old days reared between them, obviously with the intention of cutting off communication. The legend has undoubtedly become sophisticated by literary influences, and was so altered by one Joseph Kugelgen as to change its purport entirely. It is the modern version of the legend we give here, in contradistinction to that given in the chapter on the Folklore and Literature of the Rhine (see pp. 84 et seq.). The Brothers Heinrich and Conrad were the sons of Kurt, a brave knight who had retired from the wars, and now dwelt in his ancestral castle Liebenstein. The brothers were alike in all matters pertaining to arms and chivalry. But otherwise they differed, for Heinrich, the elder, was quiet and more given to the arts of peace; whereas Conrad was gay, and inclined to like fighting for fighting�s sake. Brought up along with them was Hildegarde, a relative and an orphan, whom the brothers believed to be their sister. On reaching manhood, however, their father told them the truth concerning her, expressing the wish that one of them should marry the maiden. Nothing loath, both brothers wooed Hildegarde, but Conrad�s ardent, impulsive nature triumphed over Heinrich�s reserved and more steadfast affection. In due course preparations were made for the marriage festival, and a new castle, Sterrenberg, was raised for the young couple adjacent to Liebenstein. Heinrich found it hard to be a constant witness of his brother�s happiness, so he set out for the Holy Land. Soon after his departure the old knight became ill, and died on the day that the new castle was completed. This delayed the marriage for a year, and as the months passed Conrad became associated with loose companions, and his love for Hildegarde weakened. Meantime news came that Heinrich had performed marvellous deeds in the Holy Land, and the tidings inflamed Conrad�s zeal. He, too, determined to join the Crusades, and was soon on the way to Palestine. However, he did not, like his brother, gain renown�for he had not the same incentive to reckless bravery�and he soon returned. He was again to prove himself more successful in love than in war, for at Constantinople, having fallen passionately in love with a beautiful Greek lady, he married her. One day Hildegarde was sitting sorrowful in her chamber, when she beheld travellers with baggage moving into the empty Sterrenberg. Greatly astonished, she sent her waiting-maid to make inquiries, and learned to her sorrow that it was the returning Conrad, who came bringing with him a Greek wife. Conrad avoided Liebenstein, and Sterrenberg became gay with feasting and music. Late one evening a knight demanded lodging at Liebenstein and was admitted. The stranger was Heinrich, who, hearing about his brother�s shameful marriage, had returned to the grief-stricken Hildegarde. After he had rested Heinrich sent a message to his brother reproaching him with unknightly behaviour, and challenging him to mortal combat. The challenge was accepted and the combatants met on the passage separating the two castles. But as they faced each other, sword in hand, a veiled female figure stepped between them and bade them desist. It was Hildegarde, who had recognized Heinrich and learned his intention. In impassioned tones she urged the young men not to be guilty of the folly of shedding each other�s blood in such a cause, and declared that it was her firm intention to spend her remaining days in a convent. The brothers submitted themselves to her persuasion and became reconciled. Some time afterward Conrad�s wife proved her unworthiness by eloping with a young knight, thus killing her husband�s love for her, and at the same time opening his eyes to his own base conduct. Bitterly now did he reproach himself for his unfaithfulness to Hildegarde, who, alas! was now lost to him for ever. Hildegarde remained faithful to her vows, and Heinrich and Conrad lived together till at last death separated them. St. Goar Near the town of St. Goar, at the foot of the Rheinfels, there stands a little cell, once the habitation of a pious hermit known as St. Goar, and many are the local traditions which tell of the miracles wrought by this good man, and the marvellous virtues retained by his shrine after his death. He settled on Rhenish shores, we are told, about the middle of the sixth century, and thenceforward devoted his life to the service of the rude people among whom his lot was cast. His first care was to instruct them in the Christian faith, but he was also mindful of their welfare in temporal matters, and gave his services freely to the sick and sorrowful, so that ere long he came to be regarded as a saint. When he was not employed in prayer and ministrations he watched the currents of the Rhine, and was ever willing to lend his aid to distressed mariners who had been caught by the Sand Gewirr, a dangerous eddy which was too often the death of unwary boatmen in these parts. Thus he spent an active and cheerful life, far from the envy and strife of the world, for which he had no taste whatever. Nevertheless the fame of his good deeds had reached the high places of the earth. Sigebert, who at that time held his court at Andernach, heard of the piety and noble life of the hermit, and invited him to his palace. St. Goar accepted the invitation�or, rather, obeyed the command�and made his way to Andernach. He was well received by the monarch, whom his genuine holiness and single-mindedness greatly impressed. But pure as he was, the worthy Goar was not destined to escape calumny. There were at the court of Sigebert other ecclesiastics of a less exalted type, and these were filled with envy and indignation when they beheld the favours bestowed upon the erstwhile recluse. Foremost among his persecutors was the Archbishop of Treves, and with him Sigebert dealt in summary fashion, depriving him of his archbishopric and offering the see to St. Goar. The latter, however, was sick of the perpetual intrigues and squabblings of the court, and longed to return to the shelter of his mossy cell and the sincere friendship of the poor fishermen among whom his mission lay. So he refused the proffered dignity and informed the monarch of his desire to return home. As he stood in the hall of the palace preparing to take his leave, he threw his cloak over a sunbeam, and, strange to say, the garment was suspended as though the shaft of light were solid. This, we are told, was not a mere piece of bravado, but was done to show that the saint�s action in refusing the see was prompted by divine inspiration. When St. Goar died Sigebert caused a chapel to be erected over his grave, choosing from among his disciples two worthy monks to officiate. Other hermits took up their abode near the spot, and all were subsequently gathered together in a monastery. The grave of the solitary became a favourite shrine, to which pilgrims travelled from all quarters, and St. Goar became the patron saint of hospitality, not so much personally as through the monastery of which he was the patron, and one of whose rules was that no stranger should be denied hospitality for a certain period. A goodly number of stories are told of his somewhat drastic treatment of those who passed by his shrine without bringing an offering�stories which may be traced to the monks who dwelt there, and who reaped the benefit of these offerings. Charlemagne at the Shrine of St. Goar Here is one of those tales concerning the great Karl. On one occasion while he was travelling from Ingelheim to Aix-la-Chapelle, by way of Coblentz, he passed the shrine of St. Goar without so much as a single thought. Nor did those who accompanied him give the saint more attention. It was the height of summer, everything was bright and beautiful, and as the Emperor�s flotilla drifted lazily down the Rhine the sound of laughter and light jesting could be heard. No sooner had the Emperor and his courtiers passed St. Goar, however, than the smiling sky became overcast, heavy clouds gathered, and the distant sound of thunder was heard. A moment more and they were in the midst of a raging storm; water surged and boiled all around, and darkness fell so thickly that scarce could one see another�s face. Panic reigned supreme where all had been gaiety and merriment. In vain the sailors strove to reach the shore; in vain the ladies shrieked and the Emperor and his nobles lent their aid to the seamen. All the exertions of the sailors would not suffice to move the vessels one foot nearer the shore. At length an old boatman who had spent the greater part of a lifetime on the Rhine approached the Emperor and addressed him thus: �Sire, our labours are useless. We have offended God and St. Goar.� The words were repeated by the Emperor�s panic-stricken train, who now saw that the storm was of miraculous origin. �Let us go ashore,� said Charlemagne in an awed voice. �In the name of God and St. Goar, let us go ashore. We will pray at the shrine of the saint that he may help us make peace with Heaven.� Scarcely had he uttered the words ere the sky began to clear, the boiling water subsided to its former glassy smoothness, and the storm was over. The illustrious company landed and sought the shrine of the holy man, where they spent the rest of the day in prayer. Ere they departed on the following morning Charlemagne and his court presented rich offerings at the shrine, and the Emperor afterward endowed the monastery with lands of great extent, by which means it is to be hoped that he succeeded in propitiating the jealous saint. The Reconciliation One more tale of St. Goar may be added, dealing this time with Charlemagne�s sons, Pepin and Karloman. These two, brave knights both, had had a serious quarrel over the sovereignty of their father�s vast Empire. Gradually the breach widened to a deadly feud, and the brothers, once the best of friends, became the bitterest enemies. In 806 Charlemagne held an Imperial Diet at Thionville, and thither he summoned his three sons, Karloman, Pepin, and Ludwig, intending to divide the Empire, by testament, among them. Karloman was at that time in Germany, and Pepin in Italy, where, with the aid of his sword, he had won for himself broad lands. In order to reach Thionville both were obliged to take the same path�that is, the Rhine, the broad waterway of their father�s dominions. Pepin was the first to come, and as he sailed up the river with his train he caught sight of the shrine of St. Goar, and bethought him that there he and his brother had last met as friends. As he pondered on the strange fate that had made enemies of them, once so full of kindness toward each other, he felt curiously moved, and decided to put ashore and kneel by the shrine of the saint. Ere long Karloman and his train moved up the Rhine, and this prince also, when he beheld the shrine of St. Goar, was touched with a feeling of tenderness for his absent brother. Recollections of the time when Pepin and he had been inseparable surged over him, and he too stepped ashore and made his way through the wood to the sacred spot. Meanwhile Pepin still knelt before the shrine, and great indeed was Karloman�s astonishment when he beheld his brother. But when he heard Pepin pray aloud that they might be reconciled his joy and surprise knew no bounds. All armed as he was, he strode up to his kneeling brother and embraced him with tears, entreating his forgiveness for past harshnesses. When Pepin raised the prince�s visor and beheld the beloved features of Karloman, his happiness was complete. Together the brothers made for their ships; not, however, till they had left valuable gifts at the shrine of the saint whose good offices had brought about their reconciliation. Together they proceeded to the court of Charlemagne, who partitioned his Empire between his three sons, making each a regent of his portion during his father�s lifetime. From that time onward the brothers were fast friends. Karloman and Pepin, however, had not long to live, for the former died in 810 and the latter in the following year. Gutenfels, a Romance A very charming story, and one entirely lacking in the element of gloom and tragedy which is so marked a feature of most Rhenish tales, is that which tradition assigns to the castle of Gutenfels. Its ancient name of Caub, or Chaube, still clings to the town above which it towers majestically. In the thirteenth century Caub was the habitation of Sir Philip of Falkenstein and his sister Guta, the latter justly acclaimed as the most beautiful woman in Germany. She was reputed as proud as she was beautiful, and of the many suitors who flocked to Caub to seek her hand in marriage none could win from her a word of encouragement or even a tender glance. On one occasion she and her brother were present at a great tourney held at Cologne, where the flower of knightly chivalry and maidenly beauty were gathered in a brilliant assembly. Many an ardent glance was directed to the fair maid of Caub, but she, accustomed to such homage, was not moved thereby from her wonted composure. At length a commotion passed through the assembly. A knight had entered the lists whose name was not announced by the herald. It was whispered that his identity was known only to the Archbishop, whose guest he was. Of fine stature and handsome features, clad in splendid armour and mounted on a richly caparisoned steed, he attracted not a little attention, especially from the feminine portion of the assemblage. But for none of the high-born ladies had he eyes, save for Guta, to whom his glance was ever and anon directed, as though he looked to her to bring him victory. The blushing looks of Guta showed that she was not indifferent to the gallantry of the noble stranger, and, truly, in her heart she wished him well. With clasped hands she watched the combatants couch their lances and charge. Ah! victory had fallen to the unknown knight. Soon it became evident that the mysterious stranger was to carry off the prize of the tourney, for there was none to match him in skill and prowess. As he rode past the place where Guta sat he lowered his lance, and she, in her pleasure and confusion at this mark of especial courtesy, dropped her glove, which the knight instantly picked up, desiring to be allowed to keep it as a guerdon. At the grand ball which followed the tourney the victor remained all the evening at Guta�s side, and would dance with no other maiden. Young Falkenstein, pleased with the homage paid to his sister by the distinguished stranger, invited him to visit them at Caub, an invitation which the gentle Guta seconded, and which the mysterious knight accepted with alacrity. True to his promise, ere a week had elapsed he arrived at Caub, accompanied by two attendants. His visit covered three days, during which time his host and hostess did all in their power to make his stay a pleasant one. Ere he took his departure he sought out Guta and made known his love. The lady acknowledged that his affection was returned. �Dearest Guta,� said the knight, �I may not yet reveal to thee my name, but if thou wilt await my coming, in three months I shall return to claim my bride, and thou shalt know all.� �I will be true to thee,� exclaimed Guta passionately. �Though a king should woo me, I will be true to thee.� And with that assurance from his betrothed the knight rode away. Three months came and went, and still Guta heard nothing of her absent lover. She grew paler and sadder as time advanced, not because she doubted the honour of her knight, but because she feared he had been slain in battle. It was indeed a time of wars and dissensions. On the death of Conrad IV several claimants to the imperial throne of Germany made their appearance, of whom the principal were Adolph, Duke of Holland, Richard, Earl of Cornwall, brother to the English king Henry III, and Alfonso X, King of Castile. Of these three the most popular was Richard of Cornwall, who was finally chosen by the Electors, more on account of his knightly qualities than because of his fabulous wealth. Among his most ardent followers was Philip of Falkenstein, who was naturally much elated at his master�s success. Now, however, the conflict was over, and Philip had returned to Caub. One morning, about six months after the departure of Guta�s lover, a gay cavalcade appeared at the gates of Caub, and a herald demanded admission for Richard, Emperor of Germany. Philip himself, scarcely concealing his joy and pride at the honour done him by his sovereign, ran out to greet him, and the castle was full of stir and bustle. The Emperor praised Philip heartily for his part in the recent wars, yet he seemed absent and uneasy. �Sir Philip,� he said at length, �I have come hither to beg the hand of thy fair sister; why is she not with us?� Falkenstein was filled with amazement. �Sire,� he stammered, �I fear me thou wilt find my sister an unwilling bride. She has refused many nobles of high estate, and I doubt whether even a crown will tempt her. However, I will plead with her for thy sake.� He left the room to seek Guta�s bower, but soon returned with dejected mien. �It is as I thought, sire,� he said. �She will not be moved. Methinks some heedless knight hath stolen her heart, for she hath grown pale and drooping as a gathered blossom.� Richard raised his visor. �Knowest thou me, sir knight?� he said. �Thou art�the knight of the tourney,� cried Philip in amaze. �The same,� answered Richard, smiling. �And I am the knight who has won thy fair sister�s heart. We plighted our troth after the tourney of Cologne. State affairs of the gravest import have kept me from her side, where I would fain have been these six months past. Take this token��drawing from his breast the glove Guta had given him��and tell her that a poor knight in Richard�s train sends her this.� In a little while Philip returned with his sister. The maiden looked pale and agitated, but when she beheld Richard she rushed to him and was clasped in his arms. �My own Guta,� he whispered fondly. �And wouldst thou refuse an emperor to marry me?� �Yea, truly,� answered the maid, �a hundred emperors. I feared thou hadst forsaken me altogether,� she added naively. Richard laughed. �Would I be a worthy Emperor an I did not keep my troth with such as thou?� he asked. �The Emperor�thou?� cried Guta, starting back. �Yea, the Emperor, and none other,� said her brother reverently. And once more Guta hid her face on Richard�s breast. Within a week they were married, and Guta accompanied her husband to the court as Empress of Germany. To the castle where his bride had passed her maidenhood Richard gave the name of Gutenfels��Rock of Guta��which name it has retained to this day. The Story of Schönburg The castle of Schönburg, not far from the town of Bacharach, is now in ruins, but was once a place of extraordinary fame, for here dwelt at one time seven sisters of transcendent beauty, who were courted the more assiduously because their father, the Graf von Schönburg, was reputed a man of great wealth. This wealth was no myth, but an actuality, and in truth it had been mainly acquired in predatory forays; but the nobles of Rhineland recked little of this, and scores of them flitted around and pressed their suit on the young ladies. None of these, however, felt inclined toward marriage just yet, each vowing its yoke too galling; and so the gallants came in vain to the castle, their respective addresses being invariably dallied with and then dismissed. Suitor after suitor retired in despair, pondering on the strange ways of womankind; but one evening a large party of noblemen chanced to be assembled at the schloss, and putting their heads together, they decided to press matters to a conclusion. They agreed that all of them, in gorgeous raiment, should gather in the banqueting-hall of the castle; the seven sisters should be summoned and called upon in peremptory fashion to have done with silken dalliance and to end matters by selecting seven husbands from among them. The young ladies received the summons with some amusement, all of them being blessed with the saving grace of humour, and they bade the knight who had brought the message return to his fellows and tell them that the suggested interview would be held. �Only give us time,� said the sisters, �for the donning of our most becoming dresses.� So now the band of suitors mustered, and a brave display they made, each of them thinking himself more handsome and gorgeous than his neighbours and boasting that he would be among the chosen seven. But as time sped on and the ladies still tarried, the young men began to grow anxious; many of them spoke aloud of female vanity, and made derisive comments on the coiffing and the like, which they imagined was the cause of the delay; eventually one of their number, tired of strutting before a mirror, happened to go to look out of the window toward the Rhine. Suddenly he uttered a loud imprecation, and his companions, thronging to the window, were all fiercely incensed at the sight which greeted their eyes. For the famous seven sisters were perpetrating something of a practical joke; they were leaving the castle in a boat, and on perceiving the men�s faces at the windows they gave vent to a loud laugh of disdain. Hardly had the angry suitors realized that they were the butt of the ladies� ridicule when they were seized with consternation. For one of the sisters, in the attempt to shake her fist at the men she affected to despise, tried to stand up on one of the thwarts of the boat, which, being a light craft, was upset at once. The girls� taunts were now changed to loud cries for help, none being able to swim; but ere another boat could be launched the Rhine had claimed its prey, and the perfidious damsels were drowned in the swift tide. But their memory was not destined to be erased from the traditions of the locality. Near the place where the tragedy occurred there are seven rocks, visible only on rare occasions when the river is very low, and till lately it was a popular superstition that these rocks were placed there by Providence, anxious to impart a moral to young women addicted to coquetry and practical jests. To this day many boatmen on the Rhine regard these rocks with awe, and it is told that now and then seven wraiths are to be seen there; it is even asserted that sometimes these apparitions sing in strains as delectable as those of the Lorelei herself. The Legend of Pfalz Musing on the legendary lore of the Rhine, we cannot but be struck by the sadness pervading these stories, and we are inclined to believe that every one of them culminates in tragedy. But there are a few exceptions to this rule, and among them is a tale associated with the island of Pfalz, near Bacharach, which concludes in fairly happy fashion, if in the main concerned with suffering. This island of Pfalz still contains the ruins of a castle, known as Pfalzgrafenstein. It belonged in medieval days to the Palatine Princes, and at the time our story opens one of these, named Hermann, having suspected his wife, the Princess Guba, of infidelity, had lately caused her to be incarcerated within it. Its governor, Count von Roth, was charged to watch the prisoner�s movements carefully; but, being sure she was innocent, his measures with her were generally lenient, while his countess soon formed a deep friendship for the Princess. Thus it seemed to Guba that her captivity was not destined to be so terrible as she had anticipated, but she was soon disillusioned, as will appear presently. It should be explained that as yet the Princess had borne no children to her husband, whose heir-apparent was consequently his brother Ludwig; and this person naturally tried to prevent a reconciliation between the Palatine Prince and his wife, for should they be united again, Ludwig�s hope to succeed his brother might be frustrated. So he was a frequent visitor to the Pfalzgrafenstein, constantly telling von Roth that he allowed the Princess too much liberty. Worse still, Ludwig sometimes remained at the island castle for a long time, and at these periods the prisoner underwent constant ill-treatment, which the Governor was powerless to alleviate. The people of the neighbourhood felt kindly toward Guba, but their sympathy was of little avail; and at length during one of Ludwig�s visits to Pfalzgrafenstein it seemed as though he was about to triumph and effect a final separation between the Princess and Hermann. For it transpired one evening that Guba was not within the castle. A hue and cry was instantly raised, and the island was searched by Ludwig and von Roth. �I wager,� said Ludwig, �that at this very moment Guba is with her paramour. Let my brother the Prince hear of this, and your life will answer for it. Often have I urged you to be stricter; you see now the result of your leniency.� Von Roth protested that the Princess was taking the air alone; but while they argued the pair espied Guba, and it was as Ludwig had said�she was attended by a man. �The bird is snared,� shouted Ludwig; and as he and von Roth ran toward the offending couple they separated instantly, the man making for a boat moored hard by. But ere he could reach it he was caught by his pursuers, and recognized for a certain young gallant of the district. He was dragged to the castle, where after a brief trial he was condemned to be hanged. He blanched on hearing the sentence, but faced his fate manfully, and when the rope was about his neck he declared loudly that Guba had always discouraged his addresses and was innocent of the sin wherewith she was charged. Guba�s movements thenceforth were watched more strictly for a while, yet she seemed to grow more cheerful, while one day she even asserted that she would soon be reconciled to her husband, from whom she had now been estranged for six months. In short, she announced that she was soon to be a mother; while she was confident that the child would resemble the Palatine Prince, and that the latter�s delight on finding himself a father would result in the ending of all her troubles. The Governor and his lady were both doubtful as to the parentage of the child, remembering the recent circumstances which had seemed to cast some shadow upon the Princess herself; yet they held their peace, awaiting until in due course the Princess was delivered of a boy. But, alack! the child bore no resemblance to Hermann; and so von Roth and his wife, meaning to be kind, enjoined silence and sent the child away�all of which was the more easily accomplished as the spiteful Ludwig chanced to be far distant at the time. At first the mother was broken-hearted, but the Governor and his wife comforted her by saying that the child was no farther off than a castle on the opposite banks of the Rhine. Here, they assured her, he would be well nurtured; moreover, they had arranged that, so long as her son was alive and thriving, the fact was to be signified to her by the display of a small white flag on the battlements of his lodging. And so, day after day, the anxious mother paced her island prison, looking constantly toward the signal which meant so much to her. Many years went by in this fashion, and in course of time Hermann was gathered to his fathers, and Ludwig ascended the Palatine throne. But scarcely was his rule begun ere it was noised abroad that he was a usurper, for a young man appeared who claimed to be the son of Hermann, and therefore the rightful heir. Now, most of the people detested Ludwig, and when they marked the claimant�s resemblance to the deceased Prince a number of them banded themselves together to set him upon the throne. A fierce civil war ensued, many of the nobles forsaking Ludwig for his rival, who, like the late Prince, bore the name of Hermann; and though at first it seemed doubtful which party was to triumph, eventually Ludwig was worsted, and was hanged for his perfidy. The tidings spread throughout the Rhineland, and one day a body of men-at-arms came to Pfalzgrafenstein and informed von Roth that his prisoner was to be freed at once and was to repair to the Palatine court, there to take up her rightful position as Queen-Dowager. Guba was amazed on hearing this news, for she had long since ceased to hope that her present mode of life would be altered, and asking to be presented to the chief messenger that she might question him, she suddenly experienced a yet greater surprise.... Yes! her son had come in person to liberate her; and von Roth and his wife, as they witnessed the glad union, were convinced at last of Guba�s innocence, for the young man who clasped her to his bosom had changed wondrously since his childhood, and was now indeed the living image of his father. For some minutes the mother wept with joy, but when her son bade her make ready for instant departure she replied that she had lost all desire for the stately life of a court. Pfalzgrafenstein, she declared, had become truly a part of her life, so here she would end her days. She had not long to live, she added, and what greater pleasure could she have than the knowledge that her son was alive and well, and was ruling his people wisely? And so Guba remained at the island, a prison no longer; and daily she paced by the swirling stream, often gazing toward the castle where her son had been nurtured, and meditating on the time when she was wont to look there for the white flag which meant so much to her anxious heart. A Legend of Fürstenberg High above the Rhine tower the ruins of Fürstenberg, and more than one legend clings to the ancient pile, linking it with stirring medieval times. Perhaps the most popular of these traditions is that which tells of the Phantom Mother of Fürstenberg, a tale full of pathos and tragedy. In the thirteenth century there dwelt in the castle a nobleman, Franz von Fürst by name, who, after a wild and licentious youth, settled down to a more sober and serious manhood. His friends, surprised at the change which had taken place in him, and anxious that this new mode of life should be maintained, urged him to take a virtuous maiden to wife. Such a bride as they desired for him was found in Kunigunda von Flörsheim, a maiden who was as beautiful as she was high-born. For a time after their marriage all went well, and Franz and his young wife seemed quite happy. Moreover, in time a son was born to them, of whom his father seemed to be very proud. The Baron�s reformation, said his friends, was complete. One evening there came to Kunigunda a young lady friend. The girl, whose name was Amina, was the daughter of a robber-baron who dwelt in a neighbouring castle. But his predatory acts had at last forced him to flee for his life, and no one knew whither he had gone. His household was broken up, and Amina, finding herself without a home, had now repaired to Fürstenberg to seek refuge. Kunigunda, ever willing to aid those in distress, extended a hearty welcome to the damsel, and Amina was henceforth an inmate of the schloss. Now, though Amina was fully as lovely in face and form as her young hostess, she yet lacked the moral beauty of Kunigunda. Of a subtle and crafty disposition, she showed the gratitude of the serpent by stinging the hand extended to help her; in a word, she set herself to win the unlawful affections of the Lord of Fürstenberg. He, weak creature as he was, allowed the latent baseness of his nature to be stirred by her youth and beauty. He listened when she whispered that Kunigunda had grown cold toward him; at her suggestion he interpreted his wife�s modest demeanour as indifference, and already he began to feel the yoke of matrimony heavy upon him. Poor Kunigunda was in despair when she realized that her husband had transferred his affections; but what was worse, she learned that the pair were plotting against her life. At length their cruel scheming succeeded, and one morning Kunigunda was found dead in her bed. Franz made it known that she had been stifled by a fit of coughing, and her remains were hastily conveyed to the family vault. Within a week the false Amina was the bride of the Baron von Fürstenberg. Little Hugo, the son of Kunigunda, was to suffer much at the hands of his stepmother and her dependents. The new mistress of the Schloss Fürstenberg hated the child as she had hated his mother, and Hugo was given into the charge of an ill-natured old nurse, who frequently beat him in the night because he awakened her with his cries. One night the old hag was roused from her sleep by a strange sound, the sound of a cradle being rocked. She imagined herself dreaming. Who would come to this distant tower to rock the little Hugo? Not Amina, of that she was sure! Again the sound was heard, unmistakably the creaking of the cradle. Drawing aside her bed-curtains, the crone beheld a strange sight. Over the cradle a woman was bending, clad in long, white garments, and singing a low lullaby, and as she raised her pale face, behold! it was that of the dead Kunigunda. The nurse could neither shriek nor faint; as though fascinated, she watched the wraith nursing her child, until at cockcrow Kunigunda vanished. In trembling tones the nurse related what she had seen to Franz and Amina. The Baron was scornful, and ridiculed the whole affair as a dream. But the cunning Amina, though she did not believe that a ghost had visited the child, thought that perhaps her rival was not really dead, and her old hatred and jealousy were reawakened. So she told her husband that she intended to see for herself whether there was any truth in the fantastic story, and would sleep that night in the nurse�s bed. She did not mention her suspicions, nor the fact that she carried a sharp dagger. She was roused in the night, as the old woman had been, by the sound of a cradle being rocked. Stealthily drawing the curtains, she saw the white-robed form of the dead, the black mould clinging to her hair, the hue of death in her face. With a wild cry Amina flung herself upon Kunigunda, only to find that she was stabbing at a thing of air, an impalpable apparition which vanished at a touch. Overcome with rage and fear, she sank to the ground. The wraith moved to the door, turning with a warning gesture ere she vanished from sight, and Amina lost consciousness. In the morning the Baron sought his wife in vain. He found instead a missive telling of her ghastly experience, intimating her intention of retiring to a nunnery, and closing with an earnest appeal to her husband to repent of his crimes. The Baron, moved with remorse and terror, followed Amina�s example; he sought in the mountain solitudes a hermitage where he might end his days in peace, and having found such a cell, he confided his little son to the care of the pastor of Wedenschied, and retired from the world in which he had played so sorry a part. The Blind Archer Another legend connected with the ruined stronghold of Fürstenberg is the following. Long ago, in the days when bitter feuds and rivalries existed between the owners of neighbouring fortresses, there dwelt in Fürstenberg a good old knight, Sir Oswald by name, well versed in the arts of war, and particularly proficient in archery. He had one son, Edwin, a handsome young man who bade fair to equal his father in skill and renown. Sir Oswald had a sworn foe in a neighbouring baron, Wilm von Sooneck, a rich, unscrupulous nobleman who sought by every possible means to get the knight into his power. At length his cunning schemes met with success; an ambush was laid for the unsuspecting Oswald as he rode past Sooneck Castle, attended only by a groom, and both he and his servant were flung into a tower, there to await the pleasure of their captor. And what that nobleman�s pleasure was soon became evident. Ere many days had elapsed Oswald was informed that his eyes were to be put out, and soon the cruel decree was carried into execution. Meanwhile Edwin awaited the coming of his father; and when he came not it was at first concluded that he had been captured or slain by robbers. But there were no evidences forthcoming to show that Sir Oswald had met with such a fate, and his son began to suspect that his father had fallen into the hands of Baron Wilm, for he knew of the bitter hatred which he bore toward the knight of Fürstenberg and of his cunning and malice. He therefore cast about for a means of verifying his suspicions, and eventually disguised himself as a wandering minstrel, took his harp�for he had great skill as a musician�and set off in the direction of Sooneck. There he seated himself under a tree and played and sang sweetly, directing his gaze the while toward a strong tower which seemed to him a likely place for the incarceration of prisoners. The plaintive charm of the melody attracted the attention of a passing peasant, who drew near to listen; when the last note of the song had died away, he seated himself beside the minstrel and entered into conversation with him. �Methinks thou hast an interest in yonder tower,� he said. �In truth it interests me,� responded Edwin, nevertheless veiling his concern as much as possible by a seeming indifference. �Is it a prison, think you?� �Ay, that it is,� replied the peasant with a laugh. ��Tis the cage where my lord of Sooneck keeps the birds whose feathers he has plucked.� Edwin, still with a show of indifference, questioned him further, and elicited the fact that the peasant had witnessed the capture and incarceration in the tower of a knight and his servant on the very day when Sir Oswald and his groom had disappeared. Nothing more could Edwin glean, save that a few days hence Baron Wilm was to give a grand banquet, when many nobles and knights were to be present. The young man, his suspicions thus fully confirmed, felt that his next move must be to gain entrance to the castle, and he decided to take advantage of the excitement and bustle attendant on the banquet to achieve this end. Accordingly, on the day fixed for the feast he again donned his minstrel�s garb, and repaired to the Schloss Sooneck. Here, as he had anticipated, all was excitement and gaiety. Wine flowed freely, tongues were loosened, and the minstrel was welcomed uproariously and bidden to sing his best songs in return for a beaker of Rhenish. Soon the greater part of the company were tipsy, and Edwin moved among them, noting their conversation, coming at length to the seat of the host. �It is said,� remarked a knight, �that you have captured Sir Oswald of Fürstenberg.� Wilm, to whom the remark was addressed, smiled knowingly and did not deny the charge. �I have even heard,� pursued his companion, �that you have had his eyes put out.� The Baron laughed outright, as at an excellent jest. �Then you have heard truly,� he said. At this point another knight broke into the conversation. �It is a pity,� said he. �There are but few archers to match Oswald of Fürstenberg.� �I wager he can still hit a mark if it be set up,� said he who had first spoken. �Done!� cried Sooneck, and when the terms of the wager had been fixed the Baron directed that Oswald should be brought from the tower. Edwin had overheard the conversation with a breaking heart, and grief and shame almost overwhelmed him when he saw his father, pitifully quiet and dignified, led into the banquet-hall to provide sport for a company of drunken revellers. Oswald was informed of the wager, and bow and arrows were placed in his hands. �Baron von Sooneck,� he cried, �where is the mark?� �This cup I place upon the table,� came the reply. The arrow was fitted to the bow, released, and lo! it was not the cup which was hit, but the Lord of Sooneck, who fell forward heavily, struck to the heart and mortally wounded. In a moment a loud outcry was raised, but ere action could be taken the minstrel had sprung in front of Oswald, and boldly faced the assembly. �This knight,� he cried, �shamefully maltreated by yonder villain, is my father. Whoso thinks he has acted wrongly in forfeiting the life of his torturer shall answer to me. With my sword I shall teach him better judgment.� The astonished knights, completely sobered by the tragic occurrence, could not but admire the courage of the lad who thus boldly championed his father, and with one voice they declared that Sir Oswald was a true knight and had done justly. So the blind knight, once more free, returned to his castle of Fürstenberg, compensated in part for the loss of his sight by the loving devotion of his son. Rheinstein and Reichenstein Centuries ago the castles of Rheinstein and Reichenstein frowned at each other from neighbouring eminences. But far from being hostile, they were the residences of two lovers. Kuno of Reichenstein loved the fair Gerda of Rheinstein with a consuming passion, and, as is so common with lovers in all ages, doubted whether his love were returned. In his devotion for the maiden he showered on her many gifts, and although his purse was light and he was master of only a single tower, he did not spare his gold if only he could make her happy and gain from her one look of approval. On one occasion he presented to her a beauteous horse of the Limousin strain, bred under the shadow of his own castle. Deep-chested, with arched neck and eye of fire, the noble steed aroused the liveliest interest in the breast of Gerda, and she was eloquent in her thanks to the giver until, observing his ardent glances, her cheeks suffused with blushes. Taking her soft hand between his sunburnt palms, Kuno poured into her ear the story of his love. �Gerda,� he whispered, �I am a poor man. I have nothing but my sword, my ruined tower yonder, and honour. But they are yours. Will you take them with my heart?� She lifted her blue eyes to his, full of truth and trust. �I will be yours,� she murmured; �yours and none other�s till death.� Young Kuno left Rheinstein that afternoon, his heart beating high with hope and happiness. The blood coursing through his veins at a gallop made him spur his charger to a like pace. But though he rode fast his brain was as busy as his hand and his heart. He must, in conformity with Rhenish custom, send as an embassy to Gerda�s father one of his most distinguished relations. To whom was he to turn? There was no one but old Kurt, his wealthy uncle, whom he could send as an emissary, and although the old man had an unsavoury reputation, he decided to confide the mission to him. Kurt undertook the task in no kindly spirit, for he disliked Kuno because of his virtuous life and the circumstance that he was his heir, whom he felt was waiting to step into his shoes. However, he waited next day upon Gerda�s father, the Lord of Rheinstein, and was received with all the dignity suitable to his rank and age. But when his glance rested upon the fair and innocent Gerda, such a fierce desire to make her his arose in his withered breast that when she had withdrawn he demanded her hand for himself. To her father he drew an alluring picture of his rank, his possessions, his castles, his gold, until the old man, with whom avarice was a passion, gave a hearty consent to his suit, and dismissed him with the assurance that Gerda would be his within the week. The clatter of hoofs had hardly died away when the Lord of Rheinstein sought his daughter�s bower, where she sat dreaming of Kuno. In honeyed words the old man described the enviable position she would occupy as the spouse of a wealthy man, and then conveyed to her the information that Kurt had asked him for her hand. Gerda, insulted at the mere thought of becoming the bride of such a man, refused to listen to the proposal, even from the lips of her father, and she acquainted him with her love for Kuno, whom, she declared, she had fully resolved to marry. At this avowal her father worked himself into a furious passion, and assured her that she should never be the bride of such a penniless adventurer. After further insulting the absent Kuno, and alluding in a most offensive manner to his daughter�s lack of discernment and good taste, he quitted her bower, assuring her as he went that she should become the bride of Kurt on the morrow. Gerda spent a miserable night sitting by the dying fire in her chamber, planning how she might escape from the detested Kurt, until at last her wearied brain refused to work and she fell into a troubled slumber. In the morning she was awakened by her handmaiden, who, greatly concerned for her mistress, had spent the night in prayer. But Gerda�s tears had fled with the morning, and she resolved, come what might, to refuse to the last to wed with the hateful Kurt. She learned that Kuno had attempted to assault the castle during the night with the object of carrying her off, but that he had been repulsed with some loss to his small force. This made her only the more determined to persist in her resistance to his uncle. Meantime the vassals and retainers of the house of Rheinstein had been summoned to the castle to attend the approaching ceremony, and their gay apparel now shone and glittered in the sunshine. The sound of pipe, tabour, and psaltery in melodious combination arose from the valley, and all hearts, save one, were happy. The gates were thrown open, and the bridal procession formed up to proceed to the ancient church where the unhappy Gerda was to be sacrificed to Kurt. First came a crowd of serfs, men, women, and children, all shouting in joyful anticipation of the wedding feast. Then followed the vassals and retainers of the Lord of Rheinstein, according to their several degrees, and, last, the principal actors in the shameful ceremony, Kurt, surrounded by his retainers, and the Lord of Rheinstein with the luckless Gerda. The mellow tones of the bell of St. Clement mingled sweetly with the sound of the flute and the pipe and the merry voices of the wedding throng. Gerda, mounted upon her spirited Limousin steed, the gift of Kuno, shuddered as she felt Kurt�s eyes resting upon her, and she cast a despairing glance at the tower of Kuno�s castle, where, disconsolate and heavy of heart, he watched the bridal procession from the highest turret. The procession halted at the portal of the church, and all dismounted save Gerda. She was approached by the bridegroom, who with an air of leering gallantry offered her his assistance in alighting. At this moment swarms of gadflies rested on the flanks of the Limousin steed, and the spirited beast, stung to madness by the flies, reared, plunged, and broke away in a gallop, scattering the spectators to right and left, and flying like the wind along the river-bank. �To horse, to horse!� cried Kurt and the Lord of Rheinstein, and speedily as many mounted, the bridegroom, for all his age, was first in the saddle. With the clattering of a hundred hoofs the wedding party galloped madly along Rhineside, Kurt leading on a fleet and powerful charger. �Halt!� he cried. �Draw rein�draw rein!� But notwithstanding their shouts, cries, and entreaties, Gerda spurred on the already maddened Limousin, which thundered along the familiar road to Kuno�s castle of Reichenstein. The noble steed�s direction was quickly espied by Kuno, who hastened to the principal entrance of his stronghold. �Throw open the gates,� he shouted. �Down with the drawbridge. Bravo, gallant steed!� But Kurt was close behind. Gerda could feel the breath of his charger on the hands which held her rein. Close he rode by her, but might never snatch her from the saddle. Like the wind they sped. Now she was a pace in front, now they careered onward neck and neck. Suddenly he leaned over to seize her rein, but at that instant his horse stumbled, fell, and threw the ancient gallant heavily. Down he came on a great boulder and lay motionless. Another moment, and the hoof-beat of the breathless steed sounded on the drawbridge of Reichenstein. The vassals of Kuno hastened to the gate to resist the expected attack, but there was none. For the wretched Kurt lay dead, killed by the fall, and his vassals were now eager to acclaim Kuno as their lord, while the Lord of Rheinstein, shrewdly observing the direction of affairs, took advantage of the tumultuous moment to make his peace with Kuno. The lovers were wedded next day amid the acclamations of their friends and retainers, and Kuno and Gerda dwelt in Rheinstein for many a year, loving and beloved. CHAPTER V�FALKENBURG TO AUERBACH The Legend of Falkenburg In the imperial fortress of Falkenburg dwelt the beautiful Liba, the most charming and accomplished of maidens, with her widowed mother. Many were the suitors who climbed the hill to Falkenburg to seek the hand of Liba, for besides being beautiful she was gentle and virtuous, and withal possessed of a modest fortune left her by her father. But to all their pleadings she turned a deaf ear, for she was already betrothed to a young knight named Guntram whom she had known since childhood, and they only waited until Guntram should have received his fief from the Palsgrave to marry and settle down. One May morning, while Liba was seated at a window of the castle watching the ships pass to and fro on the glassy bosom of the Rhine, she beheld Guntram riding up the approach to Falkenburg, and hastened to meet him. The gallant knight informed his betrothed that he was on his way to the Palsgrave to receive his fief, and had but turned aside in his journey in order to greet his beloved. She led him into the castle, where her mother received him graciously enough, well pleased at her daughter�s choice. �And now, farewell,� said Guntram. �I must hasten. When I return we two shall wed; see to it that all is in readiness.� With that he mounted his horse and rode out of the courtyard, turning to wave a gay farewell to Liba. The maiden watched him disappear round a turn in the winding path, then slowly re-entered the castle. Meanwhile Guntram went on his way, and was at length invested with his fief. The Palsgrave, pleased with the manners and appearance of the young knight, appointed him to be his ambassador in Burgundy, which honour Guntram, though with much reluctance, felt it necessary to accept. He dispatched a messenger to his faithful Liba, informing her of his appointment, which admitted of no delay, and regretting the consequent postponement of their marriage. She, indeed, was ill-pleased with the tidings and felt instinctively that some calamity was about to befall. After a time her foreboding affected her health and spirits, her former pursuits and pleasures were neglected, and day after day she sat listlessly at her casement, awaiting the return of her lover. Guntram, having successfully achieved his mission, set out on the homeward journey. On the way he had to pass through a forest, and, having taken a wrong path, lost his way. He wandered on without meeting a living creature, and came at last to an old dilapidated castle, into the courtyard of which he entered, thankful to have reached a human habitation. He gave his horse to a staring boy, who looked at him as though he were a ghost. �Where is your master?� queried Guntram. The boy indicated an ivy-grown tower, to which the knight made his way. The whole place struck him as strangely sombre and weird, a castle of shadows and vague horror. He was shown into a gloomy chamber by an aged attendant, and there awaited the coming of the lord. Opposite him was hung a veiled picture, and half hoping that he might solve the mystery which pervaded the place, he drew aside the curtain. From the canvas there looked out at him a lady of surpassing beauty, and the young knight started back in awe and admiration. In a short time the attendant returned with a thin, tall old man, the lord of the castle, who welcomed the guest with grave courtesy, and offered the hospitality of his castle. Guntram gratefully accepted his host�s invitation, and when he had supped he conversed with the old man, whom he found well-informed and cultured. �You appear to be fond of music,� said the knight, indicating a harp which lay in a corner of the room. He had observed, however, that the strings of the harp were broken, and that the instrument seemed to have been long out of use, and thought that it possibly had some connexion with the original of the veiled portrait. Whatever recollections his remark aroused must have been painful indeed, for the host sighed heavily. �It has long been silent,� he said. �My happiness has fled with its music. Good night, and sleep well.� And ere the astonished guest could utter a word the old man abruptly withdrew from the room. Shortly afterward the old attendant entered, bearing profuse apologies from his master, and begging that the knight would continue to accept his hospitality. Guntram followed the old man to his chamber. As they passed through the adjoining apartment he stopped before the veiled portrait. �Tell me,� he said, �why is so lovely a picture hidden?� �Then you have seen it?� asked the old keeper. �That is my master�s daughter. When she was alive she was even more beautiful than her portrait, but she was a very capricious maid, and demanded that her lovers should perform well-nigh impossible feats. At last only one of these lovers remained, and of him she asked that he should descend into the family vault and bring her a golden crown from the head of one of her ancestors. He did as he was bidden, but his profanation was punished with death. A stone fell from the roof and killed him. The young man�s mother died soon after, cursing the foolish maid, who herself died in the following year. But ere she was buried she disappeared from her coffin and was seen no more.� When the story was ended they had arrived at the door of the knight�s chamber, and in bidding him good night the attendant counselled him to say his paternoster should anything untoward happen. Guntram wondered at his words, but at length fell asleep. Some hours later he was awakened suddenly by the rustling of a woman�s gown and the soft strains of a harp, which seemed to come from the adjoining room. The knight rose quietly and looked through a chink in the door, when he beheld a lady dressed in white and bending over a harp of gold. He recognized in her the original of the veiled portrait, and saw that even the lovely picture had done her less than justice. For a moment he stood with hands clasped in silent admiration. Then with a low sound, half cry, half sob, she cast the harp from her and sank down in an attitude of utter despondency. The knight could bear it no longer and (quite forgetting his paternoster) he flung open the door and knelt at her feet, raising her hand to his lips. Gradually she became composed. �Do you love me, knight?� she said. Guntram swore that he did, with many passionate avowals, and the lady slipped a ring on his finger. Even as he embraced her the cry of a screech-owl rang through the night air, and the maiden became a corpse in his arms. Overcome with terror, he staggered through the darkness to his room, where he sank down unconscious. On coming to himself again, he thought for a moment that the experience must have been a dream, but the ring on his hand assured him that the vision was a ghastly reality. He attempted to remove the gruesome token, but he found to his horror that it seemed to have grown to his finger. In the morning he related his experience to the attendant. �Alas, alas!� said the old man, �in three times nine days you must die.� Guntram was quite overcome by the horror of his situation, and seemed for a time bereft of his senses. Then he had his horse saddled, and galloped as hard as he was able to Falkenburg. Liba greeted him solicitously. She could see that he was sorely troubled, but forbore to question him, preferring to wait until he should confide in her of his own accord. He was anxious that their wedding should be hastened, for he thought that his union with the virtuous Liba might break the dreadful spell. When at length the wedding day arrived everything seemed propitious, and there was nothing to indicate the misfortune which threatened the bridegroom. The couple approached the altar and the priest joined their hands. Suddenly Guntram fell to the ground, foaming and gasping, and was carried thence to his home. The faithful Liba stayed by his side, and when he had partially recovered the knight told her the story of the spectre, and added that when the priest had joined their hands he had imagined that the ghost had put her cold hand in his. Liba attempted to soothe her repentant lover, and sent for a priest to finish the interrupted wedding ceremony. This concluded, Guntram embraced his wife, received absolution, and expired. Liba entered a convent, and a few years later she herself passed away, and was buried by the side of her husband. The Mouse Tower Bishop Hatto is a figure equally well known to history and tradition, though, curiously enough, receiving a much rougher handling from the latter than the former. History relates that Hatto was Archbishop of Mainz in the tenth century, being the second of his name to occupy that see. As a ruler he was firm, zealous, and upright, if somewhat ambitious and high-handed, and his term of office was marked by a civic peace not always experienced in those times. So much for history. According to tradition, Hatto was a stony-hearted oppressor of the poor, permitting nothing to stand in the way of the attainment of his own selfish ends, and several wild legends exhibit him in a peculiarly unfavourable light. By far the most popular of these traditions is that which deals with the Mäuseturm, or �Mouse Tower,� situated on a small island in the Rhine near Bingen. It has never been quite decided whether the name was bestowed because of the legend, or whether the legend arose on account of the name, and it seems at least probable that the tale is of considerably later date than the tenth century. Some authorities regard the word Mäuseturm as a corruption of Mauth-turm, a �toll-tower,� a probable but prosaic interpretation. Much more interesting is the name �Mouse Tower,� which gives point to the tragic tale of Bishop Hatto�s fate. The story cannot be better told than in the words of Southey, who has immortalized it in the following ballad: THE TRADITION OF BISHOP HATTO The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet; �Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rotting on the ground. Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto�s door, For he had a plentiful last-year�s store, And all the neighbourhood could tell His granaries were furnished well. At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay; He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there. Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flocked from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old. Then when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; And while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the barn and burnt them all. �I� faith, �tis an excellent bonfire!� quoth he, �And the country is greatly obliged to me For ridding it in these times forlorn Of rats that only consume the corn.� So then to his palace returnèd he, And he sat down to supper merrily; And he slept that night like an innocent man, But Bishop Hatto never slept again. In the morning as he enter�d the hall Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. As he looked there came a man from his farm, He had a countenance white with alarm; �My lord, I opened your granaries this morn, And the rats had eaten all your corn.� Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be; �Fly, my Lord Bishop, fly!� quoth he, �Ten thousand rats are coming this way� The Lord forgive you for yesterday!� �I�ll go to my tower on the Rhine,� replied he, ��Tis the safest place in Germany; The walls are high and the shores are steep, And the stream is strong and the water deep.� Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, And he crossed the Rhine without delay, And reached his tower, and barred with care All windows, doors, and loop-holes there. He laid him down and closed his eyes;� But soon a scream made him arise, He started and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow from whence the screaming came. He listened and looked�it was only the cat; But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sat screaming, mad with fear, At the army of rats that were drawing near. For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climbed the shores so steep, And up the tower their way is bent, To do the work for which they were sent. They are not to be told by the dozen or score, By thousands they come, and by myriads and more, Such numbers had never been heard of before, Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore. Down on his knees the Bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder, drawing near, The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. And in at the windows and in at the door, And through the walls helter-skelter they pour, And down through the ceiling, and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below, And all at once to the Bishop they go. They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the Bishop�s bones; They gnawed the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him. A Legend of Ehrenfels Many other tales are told to illustrate Hatto�s cruelty and treachery. Facing the Mouse Tower, on the opposite bank of the Rhine, stands the castle of Ehrenfels, the scene of another of his ignoble deeds. Conrad, brother of the Emperor Ludwig, had, it is said, been seized and imprisoned in Ehrenfels by the Franconian lord of that tower, Adalbert by name. It was the fortune of war, and Ludwig in turn gathered a small force and hastened to his brother�s assistance. His attempts to storm the castle, however, were vain; the stronghold and its garrison stood firm. Ludwig was minded to give up the struggle for the time being, and would have done so, indeed, but for the intervention of his friend and adviser, Bishop Hatto. �Leave him to me,� said the crafty Churchman. �I know how to deal with him.� Ludwig was curious to know how his adviser proposed to get the better of Adalbert, whom he knew of old to be a man of courage and resource, but ill-disposed toward the reigning monarch. So the Bishop unfolded his scheme, to which Ludwig, with whom honour was not an outstanding feature, gave his entire approval. In pursuance of his design Hatto sallied forth unattended, and made his way to the beleaguered fortress. Adalbert, himself a stranger to cunning and trickery, hastened to admit the messenger, whose garb showed him to be a priest, thinking him bound on an errand of peace. Hatto professed the deepest sorrow at the quarrel between Ludwig and Adalbert. �My son,� said he solemnly, �it is not meet that you and the Emperor, who once were friends, should treat each other as enemies. Our sire is ready to forgive you for the sake of old friendship; will you not give him the opportunity and come with me?� Adalbert was entirely deceived by the seeming sincerity of the Bishop, and so touched by the clemency of the sovereign that he promised to go in person and make submission if Hatto would but guarantee his safety. The conversation was held in the Count�s oratory, and the Churchman knelt before the crucifix and swore in the most solemn manner that he would bring Adalbert safely back to his castle. In a very short time they were riding together on the road to Mainz, where Ludwig held court. When they were a mile or two from Ehrenfels Hatto burst into a loud laugh, and in answer to the Count�s questioning glance he said merrily: �What a perfect host you are! You let your guest depart without even asking him whether he has breakfasted. And I am famishing, I assure you!� The courteous Adalbert was stricken with remorse, and murmured profuse apologies to his guest. �You must think but poorly of my hospitality,� said he; �in my loyalty I forgot my duty as a host.� �It is no matter,� said Hatto, still laughing. �But since we have come but a little way, would it not be better to return to Ehrenfels and breakfast? You are young and strong, but I�� �With pleasure,� replied the Count, and soon they were again within the castle enjoying a hearty meal. With her own hands the young Countess presented a beaker of wine to the guest, and he, ere quaffing it, cried gaily to Adalbert: �Your health! May you have the reward I wish for you!� Once again they set out on their journey, and reached Mainz about nightfall. That very night Adalbert was seized ignominiously and dragged before the Emperor. By Ludwig�s side stood the false Bishop. �What means this outrage?� cried the Count, looking from one to the other. �Thou art a traitor,� said Ludwig, �and must suffer the death of a traitor.� Adalbert addressed himself to the Bishop. �And thou,� he said, �thou gavest me thine oath that thou wouldst bring me in safety to Ehrenfels.� �And did I not do so, fool?� replied Hatto contemptuously. �Was it my fault if thou didst not exact a pledge ere we set out for the second time?� Adalbert saw now the trap into which he had fallen, and his fettered limbs trembled with anger against the crafty priest. But he was impotent. �Away with him to the block!� said the Emperor. �Amen,� sneered Hatto, still chuckling over the success of his strategy. And so Adalbert went forth to his doom, the victim of the cruel Churchman�s treachery. Rheingrafenstein Rheingrafenstein, perched upon its sable foundations of porphyry, is the scene of a legend which tells of a terrible bargain with Satan�that theme so frequent in German folk-tale. A certain nobleman, regarding the site as impregnable and therefore highly desirable, resolved to raise a castle upon the lofty eminence, But the more he considered the plan the more numerous appeared the difficulties in the way of its consummation. Every pro and con was carefully argued, but to no avail. At last in desperation the nobleman implored assistance from the Enemy of Mankind, who, hearing his name invoked, and scenting the possibility of gaining a recruit to the hosts of Tartarus, speedily manifested his presence, promising to build the castle in one night if the nobleman would grant him the first living creature who should look from its windows. To this the nobleman agreed, and upon the following day found the castle awaiting his possession. He did not dare to enter it, however. But he had communicated his secret to his wife, who decided to circumvent the Evil One by the exercise of her woman�s wit. Mounting her donkey, she rode into the castle, bidding all her men follow her. Satan waited on the alert. But the Countess amid great laughter pinned a kerchief upon the ass�s head, covered it with a cap, and, leading it to the window, made it thrust its head outside. Satan immediately pounced upon what he believed to be his lawful prey, and with joy in his heart seized upon and carried off the struggling beast of burden. But the donkey emitted such a bray that, recognizing the nature of his prize, the Fiend in sheer disgust dropped it and vanished in a sulphurous cloud, to the accompaniment of inextinguishable laughter from Rheingrafenstein. Rüdesheim and its Legends The town of Rüdesheim is a place famous in song and story, and some of the legends connected with it date from almost prehistoric times. Passing by in the steamer, the traveller who cares for architecture will doubtless be surprised to mark an old church which would seem to be at least partly of Norman origin; but this is not the only French association which Rüdesheim boasts, for Charlemagne, it is said, loved the place and frequently resided there, while tradition even asserts that he it was who instituted the vine-growing industry on the adjacent hills. He perceived that whenever snow fell there it melted with amazing rapidity; and, judging from this that the soil was eminently suitable for bringing forth a specially fine quality of grape, he sent to France for a few young vine plants. Soon these were thriving in a manner which fully justified expectations. The wines of Rüdesheim became exceptionally famous; and, till comparatively recent times, one of the finest blends was always known as Wein von Orleans, for it was thence that the pristine cuttings had been imported. But it need scarcely be said, perhaps, that most of the legends current at Rüdesheim are not concerned with so essentially pacific an affair as the production of Rhenish. Another story of the place relates how one of its medieval noblemen, Hans, Graf von Brauser, having gone to Palestine with a band of Crusaders, was taken prisoner by the Saracens; and during the period of his captivity he vowed that, should he ever regain his liberty, he would signify his pious gratitude by causing his only daughter, Minna, to take the veil. Rather a selfish kind of piety this appears! Yet mayhap Hans was really devoted to his daughter, and his resolution to part with her possibly entailed a heart-rending sacrifice; while, be that as it may, he had the reward he sought, for now his prison was stormed and he himself released, whereupon he hastened back to his home at Rüdesheim with intent to fulfil his promise to God. On reaching his schloss, however, Graf Hans was confronted by a state of affairs which had not entered into his calculations, the fact being that in the interim his daughter had conceived an affection for a young nobleman called Walther, and had promised to marry him at an early date. Here, then, was a complication indeed, and Hans was sorely puzzled to know how to act, while the unfortunate Minna was equally perplexed, and for many weeks she endured literal torment, her heart being racked by a constant storm of emotions. She was deeply attached to Walther, and she felt that she would never be able to forgive herself if she broke her promise to him and failed to bring him the happiness which both were confident their marriage would produce; but, on the other hand, being of a religious disposition, she perforce respected the vow her father had made, and thought that if it were broken he and all his household would be doomed to eternal damnation, while even Walther might be involved in their ruin. �Shall I make him happy in this world only that he may lose his soul in the next?� she argued; while again and again her father reminded her that a promise to God was of more moment than a promise to man, and he implored her to hasten to the nearest convent and retire behind its walls. Still she wavered, however, and still her father pleaded with her, sometimes actually threatening to exert his parental authority. One evening, driven to despair, Minna sought to cool her throbbing pulses by a walk on the wind-swept heights overlooking the Rhine at Rüdesheim. Possibly she would be able to come to a decision there, she thought; but no! she could not bring herself to renounce her lover, and with a cry of despair she flung herself over the steep rocks into the swirling stream. A hideous death it was. The maiden was immolated on the altar of superstition, and the people of Rüdesheim were awestruck as they thought of the pathetic form drifting down the river. Nor did posterity fail to remember the story, and down to recent times the boatmen of the neighbourhood, when seeing the Rhine wax stormy at the place where Minna was drowned, were wont to whisper that her soul was walking abroad, and that the maiden was once again wrestling with the conflicting emotions which had broken her heart long ago. Gisela Knight Brömser of Rüdesheim was one of those who renounced comfort and home ties to throw in his lot with the Crusaders. He was a widower, and possessed a beautiful daughter, Gisela. In the holy wars in Palestine Brömser soon became distinguished for his bravery, and enterprises requiring wit and prowess often were entrusted to him. Now it befell that the Christian camp was thrown into consternation by the appearance of a huge dragon which took up its abode in the mountainous country, the only locality whence water could be procured, and the increasing scarcity of the supply necessitated the extirpation of the monster. The Crusaders were powerless through fear; many of them regarded the dragon as a punishment sent from Heaven because of the discord and rivalry which divided them. At last the brave Brömser offered to attempt the dragon�s destruction, and after a valiant struggle he succeeded in slaying it. On his way back to the camp he was surprised by a party of Saracens, and after various hardships was cast into a dungeon. Here he remained in misery for a long while, and during his solitary confinement he made a vow that if he ever returned to his native land he would found a convent and dedicate his daughter as its first nun. Some time later the Saracens� stronghold was attacked by Christians and the knight set free. In due course he returned to Rüdesheim, where he was welcomed by Gisela, and the day after his arrival a young knight named Kurt of Falkenstein begged him for her hand. Gisela avowed her love for Kurt, and Brömser sadly replied that he would willingly accede to the young people�s wishes, for Falkenstein�s father was his companion-in-arms, were he not bound by a solemn vow to dedicate his daughter to the Church. When Falkenstein at last understood that the knight�s decision was irrevocable he galloped off as if crazed. The knight�s vow, however, was not to be fulfilled; Gisela�s reason became unhinged, she wandered aimlessly through the corridors of the castle, and one dark and stormy night cast herself into the Rhine and was drowned. Brömser built the convent, but in vain did he strive to free his conscience from remorse. Many were his benefactions, and he built a church on the spot where one of his servants found a wooden figure of the Crucified, which was credited with miraculous powers of healing. But all to no purpose. Haunted by the accusing spirit of his unfortunate daughter, he gradually languished and at last died in the same year that the church was completed. Further up the river is Oestrich, adjacent to which stood the famous convent of Gottesthal, not a vestige of which remains to mark its former site. Its memory is preserved, however, in the following appalling legend, the noble referred to being the head of one of the ancient families of the neighbourhood. The Nun of Oestrich Among the inmates of Gottesthal was a nun of surpassing loveliness, whose beauty had aroused the wild passion of a certain noble. Undeterred by the fact of the lady being a cloistered nun, he found a way of communicating his passion to her, and at last met her face to face, despite bars and bolts. Eloquently he pleaded his love, swearing to free her from her bonds, to devote his life to her if only she would listen to his entreaties. He ended his asseverations by kneeling before the statue of the Virgin, vowing in her name and that of the Holy Babe to be true, and renouncing his hopes of Heaven if he should fail in the least of his promises. The nun listened and in the end, overcome by his fervour, consented to his wishes. So one night, under cover of the darkness, she stole from the sheltering convent, forgetting her vows in the arms of her lover. Then for a while she knew a guilty happiness, but even this was of short duration, for the knight soon tired and grew cold toward her. At length she was left alone, scorned and sorrowful, a prey to misery, while her betrayer rode off in search of other loves and gaieties, spreading abroad as he went the story of his conquest and his desertion. When the injured woman learned the true character of her lover her love changed to a frenzied hate. Her whole being became absorbed in a desire for revenge, her thoughts by day being occupied by schemes for compassing his death, her dreams by night being reddened by his blood. At last she plotted with a band of ruffians, promising them great rewards if they would assassinate her enemy. They agreed and, waylaying the noble, stabbed him fatally in the name of the woman he had wronged and slighted, then, carrying the hacked body into the village church, they flung it at the foot of the altar. That night the nun, in a passion of insensate fury, stole into the holy place. Down the length of the church she dragged her lover�s corpse, and out into the graveyard, tearing open his body and plucking his heart therefrom with a fell purpose that never wavered. With a shriek she flung it on the ground and trampled upon it in a ruthlessness of hate terrible to contemplate. And the legend goes on to tell that after her death she still pursued her lover with unquenchable hatred. It is said that when the midnight bell is tolling she may yet be seen seeking his tomb, from which she lifts a bloody heart. She gazes on it with eyes aflame, then, laughing with hellish glee, flings it three times toward the skies, only to let it fall to earth, where she treads it beneath her feet, while from her thick white veil runnels of blood pour down and all around dreary death-lights burn and shed a ghastly glow upon the awful spectre. Ingelheim: Charlemagne the Robber Among the multitude of legends which surround the name of Charlemagne there can hardly be found a quainter or more interesting one than that which has for a background the old town of Ingelheim (Angel�s Home), where at one time the Emperor held his court. It is said that one night when Charlemagne had retired to rest he was disturbed by a curious dream. In his vision he saw an angel descend on broad white pinions to his bedside, and the heavenly visitant bade him in the name of the Lord go forth and steal some of his neighbour�s goods. The angel warned him ere he departed that the speedy forfeiture of throne and life would be the penalty for disregarding the divine injunction. The astonished Emperor pondered the strange message, but finally decided that it was but a dream, and he turned on his side to finish his interrupted slumbers. Scarcely had he closed his eyelids, however, ere the divine messenger was again at his side, exhorting him in still stronger terms to go forth and steal ere the night passed, and threatening him this time with the loss of his soul if he failed to obey. When the angel again disappeared the trembling monarch raised himself in bed, sorely troubled at the difficulty of his situation. That he, so rich, so powerful that he wanted for nothing, should be asked to go out in the dead of night and steal his neighbour�s goods, like any of the common robbers whom he was wont to punish so severely! No! the thing was preposterous. Some fiend had appeared in angelic form to tempt him. And again his weary head sank in his pillow. Rest, however, was denied him. For a third time the majestic being appeared, and in tones still more stern demanded his obedience. �If thou be not a thief,� said he, �ere yonder moon sinks in the west, then art thou lost, body and soul, for ever.� The Emperor could no longer disbelieve the divine nature of the message, and he arose sadly, dressed himself in full armour, and took up his sword and shield, his spear and hunting-knife. Stealthily he quitted his chamber, fearing every moment to be discovered. He imagined himself being detected by his own court in the act of privily leaving his own palace, as though he were a robber, and the thought was intolerable. But his fears were unfounded; all�warders, porters, pages, grooms, yea, the very dogs and horses�were wrapped in a profound slumber. Confirmed in his determination by this miracle�for it could be nothing less�the Emperor saddled his favourite horse, which alone remained awake, and set out on his quest. It was a beautiful night in late autumn. The moon hung like a silver shield in the deep blue arch of the sky, casting weird shadows on the slopes and lighting the gloom of the ancient forests. But Charlemagne had no eye for scenery at the moment. He was filled with grief and shame when he thought of his mission, yet he dared not turn aside from it. To add to his misery, he was unacquainted with the technicalities of the profession thus thrust upon him, and did not quite know how to set about it. For the first time in his life, too, he began to sympathize with the robbers he had outlawed and persecuted, and to understand the risks and perils of their life. Nevermore, he vowed, would he hang a man for a trifling inroad upon his neighbour�s property. As he thus pursued his reflections a knight, clad from head to foot in coal-black armour and mounted on a black steed, issued silently from a clump of trees and rode unseen beside him. Charlemagne continued to meditate upon the dangers and misfortunes of a robber�s life. �There is Elbegast,� said he to himself; �for a small offence I have deprived him of land and fee, and have hunted him like an animal. He and his knights risk their lives for every meal. He respects not the cloth of the Church, it is true, yet methinks he is a noble fellow, for he robs not the poor or the pilgrim, but rather enriches them with part of his plunder. Would he were with me now!� His reflections were suddenly stopped, for he now observed the black knight riding by his side. �It may be the Fiend,� said Charlemagne to himself, spurring his steed. But though he rode faster and faster, his strange companion kept pace with him. At length the Emperor reined in his steed, and demanded to know who the stranger might be. The black knight refused to answer his questions, and the two thereupon engaged in furious combat. Again and again the onslaught was renewed, till at last Charlemagne succeeded in cleaving his opponent�s blade. �My life is yours,� said the black knight. �Nay,� replied the monarch, �what would I with your life? Tell me who you are, for you have fought gallantly this night.� The stranger drew himself up and replied with simple dignity, �I am Elbegast.� Charlemagne was delighted at thus having his wish fulfilled. He refused to divulge his name, but intimated that he, too, was a robber, and proposed that they should join forces for the night. �I have it,� said he. �We will rob the Emperor�s treasury. I think I could show you the way.� The black knight paused. �Never yet,� he said, �have I wronged the Emperor, and I shall not do so now. But at no great distance stands the castle of Eggerich von Eggermond, brother-in-law to the Emperor. He has persecuted the poor and betrayed the innocent to death. If he could, he would take the life of the Emperor himself, to whom he owes all. Let us repair thither.� Near their destination they tied their horses to a tree and strode across the fields. On the way Charlemagne wrenched off the iron share from a plough, remarking that it would be an excellent tool wherewith to bore a hole in the castle wall�a remark which his comrade received in silence, though not without surprise. When they arrived at the castle Elbegast seemed anxious to see the ploughshare at work, for he begged Charlemagne to begin operations. �I know not how to find entrance,� said the latter. �Let us make a hole in the wall,� the robber-knight suggested, producing a boring instrument of great strength. The Emperor gallantly set to work with his ploughshare, though, as the wall was ten feet thick, it is hardly surprising that he was not successful. The robber, laughing at his comrade�s inexperience, showed him a wide chasm which his boring instrument had made, and bade him remain there while he fetched the spoil. In a very short time he returned with as much plunder as he could carry. �Let us get away,� said the Emperor. �We can carry no more.� �Nay,� said Elbegast, �but I would return, with your permission. In the chamber occupied by Eggerich and his wife there is a wonderful caparison, made of gold and covered with little bells. I want to prove my skill by carrying it off.� �As you will,� was Charlemagne�s laughing response. Without a sound Elbegast reached the bedchamber of his victim, and was about to raise the caparison when he suddenly stumbled and all the bells rang out clearly. �My sword, my sword!� cried Eggerich, springing up, while Elbegast sank back into the shadows. �Nay,� said the lady, trying to calm her husband. �You did but hear the wind, or perhaps it was an evil dream. Thou hast had many evil dreams of late, Eggerich; methinks there is something lies heavily on thy mind. Wilt thou not tell thy wife?� Elbegast listened intently while with soft words and caresses the lady strove to win her husband�s secret. �Well,� said Eggerich at last in sullen tones, �we have laid a plot, my comrades and I. To-morrow we go to Ingelheim, and ere noon Charlemagne shall be slain and his lands divided among us.� �What!� shrieked the lady. �Murder my brother! That will you never while I have strength to warn him.� But the villain, with a brutal oath, struck her so fiercely in the face that the blood gushed out, and she sank back unconscious. The robber was not in a position to avenge the cruel act, but he crawled nearer the couch and caught some of the blood in his gauntlet, for a sign to the Emperor. When he was once more outside the castle he told his companion all that had passed and made as though to return. �I will strike off his head,� said he. �The Emperor is no friend of mine, but I love him still.� �What is the Emperor to us?� cried Charlemagne. �Are you mad that you risk our lives for the Emperor?� The black knight looked at him solemnly. �An we had not sworn friendship,� said he, �your life should pay for these words. Long live the Emperor!� Charlemagne, secretly delighted with the loyalty of the outlawed knight, recommended him to seek the Emperor on the morrow and warn him of his danger. But Elbegast, fearing the gallows, would not consent to this; so his companion promised to do it in his stead and meet him afterward in the forest. With that they parted, the Emperor returning to his palace, where he found all as he had left it. In the morning he hastily summoned his council, told them of his dream and subsequent adventures, and of the plot against his life. The paladins were filled with horror and indignation, and Charlemagne�s secretary suggested that it was time preparations were being made for the reception of the assassins. Each band of traitors as they arrived was seized and cast into a dungeon. Though apparently clad as peaceful citizens, they were all found to be armed. The last band to arrive was led by Eggerich himself. Great was his dismay when he saw his followers led off in chains, and angrily he demanded to know the reason for such treatment. Charlemagne thereupon charged him with treason, and Eggerich flung down the gauntlet in defiance. It was finally arranged that the Emperor should provide a champion to do battle with the traitor, the combat to take place at sunrise on the following morning. A messenger rode to summon Elbegast, but he had much difficulty in convincing the black knight that it was not a plot to secure his undoing. �And what would the Emperor with me?� he demanded of the messenger, as at length they rode toward Ingelheim. �To do battle to the death with a deadly foe of our lord the Emperor�Eggerich von Eggermond.� �God bless the Emperor!� exclaimed Elbegast fervently, raising his helmet. �My life is at his service.� Charlemagne greeted the knight affectionately and asked what he had to tell concerning the conspiracy, whereupon Sir Elbegast fearlessly denounced the villainous Eggerich, and said he, �I am ready to prove my assertions upon his body.� The challenge was accepted, and at daybreak the following morning a fierce combat took place. The issue, however, was never in doubt: Sir Elbegast was victorious, the false Eggerich was slain, and his body hanged on a gibbet fifty feet high. The emperor now revealed himself to the black knight both as his companion-robber and as the messenger who had brought him the summons to attend his Emperor. Charlemagne�s sister, the widow of Eggerich, he gave to Sir Elbegast in marriage, and with her the broad lands which had belonged to the vanquished traitor. Thenceforward the erstwhile robber and his sovereign were fast friends. The place where these strange happenings befell was called Ingelheim, in memory of the celestial visitor, and Ingelheim it remains to this day. The Knight and the Yellow Dwarf Elfeld is the principal town of the Rheingau, and in ancient times was a Roman station called Alta Villa. In the fourteenth century it was raised to the rank of a town by Ludwig of Bavaria, and placed under the stewardship of the Counts of Elz. These Counts of Elz dwelt in the castle by the river�s edge, and of one of them, Ferdinand, the following tale is told. This knight loved pleasure and wild living, and would indulge his whims and passions without regard to cost. Before long he found that as a result of his extravagance his possessions had dwindled away almost to nothing. He knew himself a poor man, yet his desire for pleasure was still unsatisfied. Mortified and angry, he hid himself in the castle of Elz and spent his time lamenting his poverty and cursing his fate. While in this frame of mind the news reached him of a tournament that the Emperor purposed holding in celebration of his wedding. To this were summoned the chivalry and beauty of Germany from far and near, and soon knights and ladies were journeying to take their part in the tourney, the feasting and dancing. Ferdinand realized that he was precluded from joining his brother nobles and was inconsolable. He became the prey of rage and shame, and at last resolved to end a life condemned to ignominy. So one day he sought a height from which to hurl himself, but ere he could carry out his purpose there appeared before him a dwarf, clad in yellow from top to toe. With a leer and a laugh he looked up at the frantic knight, and asked why the richest noble in the land should be seeking death. Something in the dwarf�s tone caused Ferdinand to listen and suddenly to hope for he knew not what miracle. His eyes gleamed as the dwarf went on to speak of sacks of gold, and when the little creature asked for but a single hair in return he laughed aloud and offered him a hundred. But the dwarf smiled and shook his head. The noble bowed with a polite gesture, and as he bent his head the little man reached up and plucked out but one hair, and, lo! a sack of gold straightway appeared. At this Ferdinand thought that he must be dreaming, but the sack and gold pieces were real enough to the touch, albeit the dwarf had vanished. Then, in great haste, Ferdinand bought rich and costly clothing and armour, also a snow-white steed caparisoned with steel and purple trappings, spending on these more than twenty sacks of gold, for the dwarf returned to the noble many times and on each occasion gave a sack of gold in exchange for one hair. At last Ferdinand set out for the tournament, where, besides carrying off the richest prizes and winning the heart of many a fair lady, he attracted the notice of the Emperor, who invited him to stay at his court. And there the knight resumed his former passions and pleasures, living the wildest of lives and thinking no price too high for careless enjoyment. And each night, ere the hour of twelve finished striking, the yellow dwarf appeared with a sack of gold, taking his usual payment of only one hair. This wild life now began to tell upon Ferdinand. He fell an easy prey to disease, which the doctors could not cure, and to the pricks of a late-roused conscience, which no priests could soothe. All his wasted past rose before him. Day and night his manifold sins appeared before him like avenging furies, until at last, frenzied by this double torture of mind and body, he called upon the Devil to aid him in putting an end to his miserable existence, for so helpless was he, he could neither reach nor use a weapon. Then at his side appeared once more the dwarf, smiling and obliging as usual. He proffered, not a sack of gold this time, but a rope of woven hair, the hair which he had taken from Ferdinand in exchange for his gold. In the morning the miserable noble was found hanging by that rope. Mainz Mainz, the old Maguntiacum, was the principal fortress on the Upper Rhine in Roman times. It was here that Crescentius, one of the first preachers of the Christian faith on the Rhine, regarded by local tradition as the pupil of St. Peter and first Archbishop of Mainz, suffered martyrdom in the reign of Trajan in A.D. 103. He was a centurion in the Twenty-second Legion, which had been engaged under Titus in the destruction of Jerusalem, and it is supposed that he preached the Gospel in Mainz for thirty-three years before his execution. Here also it was that the famous vision of Constantine, the cross in the sky, was vouchsafed to the Christian conqueror as he went forth to meet the forces of Maxentius. The field of the Holy Cross in the vicinity of Mainz is still pointed out as the spot where this miracle took place. The city flourished under the Carlovingians, and was in a high state of prosperity at the time of Bishop Hatto, whose name, as we have seen, has been held up to obloquy in many legends. During the fourteenth century Mainz shared the power and glory of the other cities of the Rhenish Confederation, then in the full flush of its heyday. Its cathedral witnesses to its aforetime civic splendour. This magnificent building took upward of four hundred years to complete, and its wondrous brazen doors and sumptuous chapels are among the finest ecclesiastical treasures of Germany. The Fiddler In the cathedral of Mainz was an image of the Virgin, on whose feet were golden slippers, the gift of some wealthy votary. Of this image the following legend is told: A poor ragged fiddler had spent the whole of one bitter winter morning playing through the dreary streets without any taking pity upon his plight. As he came to the cathedral he felt an overmastering desire to enter and pour out his distress in the presence of his Maker. So he crept in, a tattered and forlorn figure. He prayed aloud, chanting his woes in the same tones which he used in the street to touch the hearts of the passers-by. As he prayed a sense of solitude came upon him, and he realized that the shadowy aisles were empty. A sudden whim seized him. He would play to the golden-shod Virgin and sing her one of his sweetest songs. And drawing nearer he lifted his old fiddle to his shoulder, and into his playing he put all his longing and pain; his quavering voice grew stronger beneath the stress of his fervour. It was as if the springtime had come about him; life was before him, gay and joyful, sorrow and pain were unknown. He sank to his knees before the image, and as he knelt, suddenly the Virgin lifted her foot and, loosening her golden slipper, cast it into the old man�s ragged bosom, as if giving alms for his music. The poor old man, astounded at the miracle, told himself that the Blessed Virgin knew how to pay a poor devil who amused her. Overcome by gratitude, he thanked the giver with all his heart. He would fain have kept the treasure, but he was starving, and it seemed to have been given him to relieve his distress. He hurried out to the market and went into a goldsmith�s shop to offer his prize. But the man recognized it at once. Then was the poor old fiddler worse off than before, for now he was charged with the dreadful crime of sacrilege. The old man told the story of the miracle over and over again, but he was laughed at for an impudent liar. He must not hope, they told him, for anything but death, and in the short space of one hour he was tried and condemned and on his way to execution. The place of death was just opposite the great bronze doors of the cathedral which sheltered the Virgin. �If I must die,� said the fiddler, �I would sing one song to my old fiddle at the feet of the Virgin and pray one prayer before her. I ask this in her blessed name, and you cannot refuse me.� They could not deny the prisoner a dying prayer, and, closely guarded, the tattered figure once more entered the cathedral which had been so disastrous to him. He approached the altar of the Virgin, his eyes filling with tears as again he held his old fiddle in his hands. Then he played and sang as before, and again a breath as of springtime stole into the shadowy cathedral and life seemed glad and beautiful. When the music ceased, again the Virgin lifted a foot and softly she flung her other slipper into the fiddler�s bosom, before the astonished gaze of the guards. Everyone there saw the miracle and could not but testify to the truth of the old man�s former statement; he was at once freed from his bonds and carried before the city fathers, who ordered his release. And it is said that, in memory of the miracle of the Virgin, the priests provided for the old fiddler for the rest of his days. In return for this the old man surrendered the golden slippers, which, it is also said, the reverend fathers carefully locked away in the treasure-chest, lest the Virgin should again be tempted to such extravagant almsgiving. The Maiden�s Leap Once in the Hardt mountains there dwelt a giant whose fortress commanded a wide view of the surrounding country. Near by, a lovely lady, as daring in the hunt as she was skilful at spinning, inhabited an abandoned castle. One day the twain chanced to meet, and the giant thereupon resolved to possess the beauteous damsel. So he sent his servant to win her with jewels, but the deceitful fellow intended to hide the treasures in a forest. There he met a young man musing in a disconsolate attitude, who confided that poverty alone kept him from avowing how passionately he adored his sweetheart. The shrewd messenger realized that this rustic�s charmer was the same fair lady who had beguiled his master�s soul. He solicited the youth�s aid in burying the treasures promising him a share in the spoil sufficient to enable him to wed his beloved. In a solitary spot they dug a deep hole, when suddenly the robber assailed his companion, who thrust him aside with great violence. In his rage the youth was about to stab the wretch, when he craved pardon, promising to reveal a secret of more value than the jewels he had intended to conceal. The youth stayed his hand, and the servant related how his master, for love of the pretty mistress of the castle, had sent him to gain her favour. Conscious of his worth, the ardent youth scornfully declared that he feared no rival, then, seizing half of the treasure, he left the wretch to his own devices. Meanwhile the giant impatiently awaited his servant�s return. At length, tired of waiting, he decided to visit the lady and declare in person his passion for her. Upon his arrival at the castle the maid announced him, and it was with a secret feeling of dread that the lady went to meet her unwelcome visitor. More than ever captivated by her charms, the giant asked the fair maid to become his wife. On being refused, he threatened to kill her and demolish the castle. The poor lady was terrified and she tearfully implored the giant�s mercy, promising to bestow all her treasure upon him. Her maids, too, begged him to spare their mistress�s life, but he only laughed as they knelt before him. Ultimately the hapless maiden consented to marry her inexorable wooer, but she attached a novel condition: she would ride a race with her relentless suitor, and should he overtake her she would accompany him to his castle. But the resolute maiden had secretly vowed to die rather than submit to such degradation. Choosing her fleetest steed, she vaulted nimbly into the saddle and galloped away. Her persecutor pursued close behind, straining every nerve to come up with her. Shuddering at the very thought of becoming his bride, she chose death as the only alternative. So she spurred her horse onward to the edge of a deep chasm. The noble animal neighed loudly as though conscious of impending danger. The pursuer laughed grimly as he thought to seize his prize, but his laughter was turned to rage when the horse with its fair burden bounded lightly across the chasm, landing safely on the other side. The enraged tyrant now beheld his intended victim kneeling in prayer and her steed calmly grazing among the green verdure by her side. He strode furiously hither and thither, searching for a crossing, and suddenly a shout of joy told the affrighted maid that he had discovered some passage. His satisfaction, however, was short-lived, for just then a strange knight with drawn sword rushed upon the giant. The maid watched the contest with breathless fear, and many times she thought that the tyrant would slay her protector. At last in one such moment the giant stooped to clutch a huge boulder with which he meant to overwhelm his adversary, when, overreaching himself, he slipped and fell headlong down the steep rocks. Then the maid hastened to thank her rescuer, and great was her surprise to discover in the gallant knight the youth whose former poverty had kept him from wooing her. They returned to the castle together, and it was not long ere they celebrated their wedding. Both lived long and happily, and their union was blessed with many children. The rock is still known as �The Maiden�s Leap.� The Wonderful Road Near Homburg, on the pinnacle of a lofty mountain, are the ruins of Falkenstein Castle, access to which is gained by a steep, winding path. Within the castle walls there once dwelt a maiden of surpassing beauty. Many suitors climbed the stern acclivity to woo this charming damsel, but her stern father repelled one and all. Only Kuno of Sayn was firm enough to persevere in his suit against the rebuffs of the stubborn Lord of Falkenstein, and in the end he was rewarded with the smiles and kind looks of the fair maid. One evening, as they watched the sun set, Kuno pointed out to the maiden where his own castle was situated. The beauty of the landscape beneath them made its appeal to their souls, their hands touched and clasped, and their hearts throbbed with the passion felt by both. A few days later Kuno climbed the steep path, resolved to declare his love to the damsel�s father. Fatigued with the ascent, he rested for a brief space at the entrance to the castle ere mounting to the tower. The Lord of Falkenstein and his daughter had beheld Kuno�s journey up the rugged path from the windows of the tower, and the father demanded for what purpose he had come thither. With a passionate glance at the blushing maid, the knight of Sayn declared that he had come to ask the noble lord for his daughter�s hand in marriage. After meditating on the knight�s proposal for some time, the Lord of Falkenstein pretended to be willing to give his consent�but he attached a condition. �I desire a carriage-drive to be made from the lowland beneath to the gate of my castle, and if you can accomplish this my daughter�s hand is yours�but the feat must be achieved by to-morrow morning!� The knight protested that such a task was utterly impossible for anyone to perform, even in a month, but all to no purpose. He then resolved to seek some way whereby he could outwit the stubborn lord, for he would not willingly resign his lady-love. He left the tower, vowing to do his utmost to perform the seemingly impossible task, and as he descended the rocky declivity his beloved waved her handkerchief to encourage him. Now Kuno of Sayn possessed both copper and silver mines, and arriving at his castle he summoned his overseer. The knight explained the nature of the task which he desired to be undertaken, but the overseer declared that all his miners, working day and night, could not make the roadway within many months. Dismayed, Kuno left his castle and wandered into a dense forest, driven thither by his perturbed condition. Night cast dusky shadows over the foliage, and the perplexed lover cursed the obstinate Lord of Falkenstein as he forced his way through the undergrowth. Suddenly an old man of strange and wild appearance stood in his path. Kuno at once knew him for an earth-spirit, one of those mysterious guardians of the treasures of the soil who are jealous of the incursion of mankind into their domain. �Kuno of Sayn,� he said, �do you desire to outwit the Lord of Falkenstein and win his beauteous daughter?� Although startled and taken aback by the strange apparition, Kuno hearkened eagerly to its words as showing an avenue of escape from the dilemma in which he found himself. �Assuredly I do,� he replied, �but how do you propose I should accomplish it?� �Cease to persecute me and my brethren, Kuno, and we shall help you to realize your wishes,� was the reply. �Persecute you!� exclaimed Kuno. �In what manner do I trouble you at all, strange being?� �You have opened up a silver mine in our domain,� said the earth-spirit, �and as you work it both morning and afternoon we have but little opportunity for repose. How, I ask you, can we slumber when your men keep knocking on the partitions of our house with their picks?� �What, then, would you have, my worthy friend?� asked Kuno, scarcely able to suppress a smile at the wistful way in which the gnome made his complaint. �Tell me, I pray you, how I can oblige you.� �By instructing your miners to work in the mine during the hours of morning only,� replied the gnome. �By so doing I and my brothers will obtain the rest we so much require.� �It shall be as you say,� said Kuno; �you have my word for it, good friend.� �In that case,� said the earth-spirit, �we shall assist you in turn. Go to the castle of Falkenstein after dawn to-morrow morning, and you shall witness the result of our friendship and gratitude.� Next morning the sun had scarcely risen when Kuno saddled his steed and hied him to the heights of Falkenstein. The gnome had kept his word. There, above and in front of him, he beheld a wide and lofty roadway leading to the castle-gate from the thoroughfare below. With joy in his heart he set spurs to his horse and dashed up the steep but smooth acclivity. At the gate he encountered the old Lord of Falkenstein and his daughter, who had been apprised of the miracle that had happened and had come out to view the new roadway. The knight of Sayn related his adventure with the earth-spirit, upon which the Lord of Falkenstein told him how a terrible thunderstorm mingled with unearthly noises had raged throughout the night. Terrified, he and his daughter had spent the hours of darkness in prayer, until with the approach of dawn some of the servitors had plucked up courage and ventured forth, when the wonderful avenue up the side of the mountain met their startled gaze. Kuno and his lady-love were duly united. Indeed, so terrified was the old lord by the supernatural manifestations of the dreadful night he had just passed through that he was incapable of further resistance to the wishes of the young people. The wonderful road is still to be seen, and is marvelled at by all who pass that way. Osric the Lion Other tales besides the foregoing have their scene laid in the castle of Falkenstein, notable among them being the legend of Osric the Lion, embodied in the following weird ballad from the pen of Monk Lewis: Swift roll the Rhine�s billows, and water the plains, Where Falkenstein Castle�s majestic remains Their moss-covered turrets still rear: Oft loves the gaunt wolf �midst the ruins to prowl, What time from the battlements pours the lone owl Her plaints in the passenger�s ear. No longer resound through the vaults of yon hall The song of the minstrel, and mirth of the ball; Those pleasures for ever are fled: There now dwells the bat with her light-shunning brood, There ravens and vultures now clamour for food, And all is dark, silent, and dread! Ha! dost thou not see, by the moon�s trembling light Directing his steps, where advances a knight, His eye big with vengeance and fate? �Tis Osric the Lion his nephew who leads, And swift up the crackling old staircase proceeds, Gains the hall, and quick closes the gate. Now round him young Carloman, casting his eyes, Surveys the sad scene with dismay and surprise, And fear steals the rose from his cheeks. His spirits forsake him, his courage is flown; The hand of Sir Osric he clasps in his own, And while his voice falters he speaks. �Dear uncle,� he murmurs, �why linger we here? �Tis late, and these chambers are damp and are drear, Keen blows through the ruins the blast! Oh! let us away and our journey pursue: Fair Blumenberg�s Castle will rise on our view, Soon as Falkenstein forest be passed. �Why roll thus your eyeballs? why glare they so wild? Oh! chide not my weakness, nor frown, that a child Should view these apartments with dread; For know that full oft have I heard from my nurse, There still on this castle has rested a curse, Since innocent blood here was shed. �She said, too, bad spirits, and ghosts all in white, Here used to resort at the dead time of night, Nor vanish till breaking of day; And still at their coming is heard the deep tone Of a bell loud and awful�hark! hark! �twas a groan! Good uncle, oh! let us away!� �Peace, serpent!� thus Osric the Lion replies, While rage and malignity gleam in his eyes; �Thy journey and life here must close: Thy castle�s proud turrets no more shalt thou see; No more betwixt Blumenberg�s lordship and me Shalt thou stand, and my greatness oppose. �My brother lies breathless on Palestine�s plains, And thou once removed, to his noble domains My right can no rival deny: Then, stripling, prepare on my dagger to bleed; No succour is near, and thy fate is decreed, Commend thee to Jesus and die!� Thus saying, he seizes the boy by the arm, Whose grief rends the vaulted hall�s roof, while alarm His heart of all fortitude robs; His limbs sink beneath him; distracted with fears, He falls at his uncle�s feet, bathes them with tears, And �Spare me! oh, spare me!� he sobs. But vainly the miscreant he tries to appease; And vainly he clings in despair round his knees, And sues in soft accents for life; Unmoved by his sorrow, unmoved by his prayer, Fierce Osric has twisted his hand in his hair, And aims at his bosom a knife. But ere the steel blushes with blood, strange to tell! Self-struck, does the tongue of the hollow-toned bell The presence of midnight declare: And while with amazement his hair bristles high, Hears Osric a voice, loud and terrible, cry, In sounds heart-appalling, �Forbear!� Straight curses and shrieks through the chamber resound, Shrieks mingled with laughter; the walls shake around; The groaning roof threatens to fall; Loud bellows the thunder, blue lightnings still flash; The casements they clatter; chains rattle; doors clash, And flames spread their waves through the hall. The clamour increases, the portals expand! O�er the pavement�s black marble now rushes a band Of demons, all dropping with gore, In visage so grim, and so monstrous in height, That Carloman screams, as they burst on his sight, And sinks without sense on the floor. Not so his fell uncle:�he sees that the throng Impels, wildly shrieking, a female along, And well the sad spectre he knows! The demons with curses her steps onwards urge; Her shoulders, with whips formed of serpents, they scourge, And fast from her wounds the blood flows. �Oh! welcome!� she cried, and her voice spoke despair; �Oh! welcome, Sir Osric, the torments to share, Of which thou hast made me the prey. Twelve years have I languished thy coming to see; Ulrilda, who perished dishonoured by thee Now calls thee to anguish away! �Thy passion once sated, thy love became hate; Thy hand gave the draught which consigned me to fate, Nor thought I death lurked in the bowl: Unfit for the grave, stained with lust, swelled with pride, Unblessed, unabsolved, unrepenting, I died, And demons straight seized on my soul. �Thou com�st, and with transport I feel my breast swell: Full long have I suffered the torments of hell, And now shall its pleasures be mine! See, see, how the fiends are athirst for thy blood! Twelve years has my panting heart furnished their food. Come, wretch, let them feast upon thine!� She said, and the demons their prey flocked around; They dashed him, with horrible yell, on the ground, And blood down his limbs trickled fast; His eyes from their sockets with fury they tore; They fed on his entrails, all reeking with gore, And his heart was Ulrilda�s repast. But now the grey cock told the coming of day! The fiends with their victim straight vanished away, And Carloman�s heart throbbed again; With terror recalling the deeds of the night, He rose, and from Falkenstein speeding his flight, Soon reached his paternal domain. Since then, all with horror the ruins behold; No shepherd, though strayed be a lamb from his fold, No mother, though lost be her child, The fugitive dares in these chambers to seek, Where fiends nightly revel, and guilty ghosts shriek In accents most fearful and wild! Oh! shun them, ye pilgrims! though late be the hour, Though loud howl the tempest, and fast fall the shower; From Falkenstein Castle begone! There still their sad banquet hell�s denizens share; There Osric the Lion still raves in despair: Breathe a prayer for his soul, and pass on! The Conference of the Dead A legend of later date than most of the Rhineland tales, but still of sufficient interest to merit inclusion among these, is that which attaches to the palace of Biberich. Biberich lies on the right bank of the river, not very far from Mainz, and its palace was built at the beginning of the eighteenth century by George Augustus, Duke of Nassau. The legend states that not long after the erection of the palace a Duchess of Nassau died there, and lay in state as befitted her rank in a room hung with black velvet and lighted with the glimmer of many tapers. Outside in the great hall a captain and forty-nine men of the Duke�s bodyguard kept watch over the chamber of death. It was midnight. The captain of the guard, weary with his vigil, had gone to the door of the palace for a breath of air. Just as the last stroke of the hour died away he beheld the approach of a chariot, drawn by six magnificent coal-black horses, which, to his amazement, drew up before the palace. A lady, veiled and clad in white, alighted and made as though she would enter the building. But the captain barred the way and challenged the bold intruder. �Who are you,� he said sternly, �who seek to enter the palace at this hour? My orders are to let none pass.� �I was first lady of the bedchamber to our late Duchess,� replied the lady in cold, imperious tones; �therefore I demand the right of entrance.� As she spoke she flung aside her veil, and the captain, instantly recognizing her, permitted her to enter the palace without further hindrance. �What can she want here at this time of night?� he said to his lieutenant, when the lady had passed into the death-chamber. �Who can say?� replied the lieutenant. �Unless, perchance,� he mused, �we were to look.� The captain took the hint, crept softly to the keyhole, and applied his eye thereto. �Ha!� he said, shrinking back in amazement and terror, and beckoning to his lieutenant. �In Satan�s name what have we here?� The lieutenant hastened to the chamber door, full of alarm and curiosity. Putting his eye to the keyhole, he also ejaculated, turned pale, and trembled. One by one the soldiers of the guard followed their officers� example, like them to retreat with exclamations of horror. And little wonder; for they perceived the dead Duchess sitting up in bed, moving her pale lips as though in conversation, while by her side stood the lady of the bedchamber, pale as she, and clad in grave-clothes. For a time the ghastly conversation continued, no words being audible to the terror-stricken guard; but from time to time a hollow sound reached them, like the murmur of distant thunder. At length the visitor emerged from the chamber, and returned to her waiting coach. Duty, rather than inclination, obliged the gallant captain to hand her into her carriage, and this task he performed with praiseworthy politeness, though his heart sank within him at the touch of her icy fingers, and his tongue refused to return the adieu her pale lips uttered. With a flourish of whips the chariot set off. Sparks flew from the hoofs of the horses, smoke and flame burst from their nostrils, and such was their speed that in a moment they were lost to sight. The captain, sorely puzzled by the events of the night, returned to his men, who were huddled together at the end of the hall furthest from the death-chamber. On the morrow, ere the guard had had time to inform the Duke of these strange happenings, news reached the palace that the first lady of the bedchamber had died on the previous night at twelve o�clock. It was supposed that sorrow for her mistress had caused her death. Eppstein Of the castle of Eppstein, whose ruins still remain in a valley of the Taunus Mountains, north of Biberich, the following curious story is told. Sir Eppo, a brave and chivalrous knight�and a wealthy one to boot, as were his successors of Eppstein for many generations�was one day hunting in the forest, when he became separated from his attendants and lost his way. In the heat of the chase his sense of direction had failed him, and though he sounded his bugle loud and long there was no reply. Tired out at length with wandering hither and thither, he rested himself in a pleasant glade, and was surprised and charmed to hear a woman�s voice singing a mournful melody in soft, clear tones. It was a sheer delight to Sir Eppo to listen to a voice of such exquisite purity, yet admiration was not the only feeling it roused in his breast. There was a note of sadness and appeal in the song, and what were knighthood worth if it heeded not the voice of fair lady in distress? Sir Eppo sprang to his feet, forgetting his own plight in the ardour of chivalry, and set off in the direction from which the voice seemed to come. The way was difficult, and he had to cut a passage with his sword through the dense thicket that separated him from the singer. At length, guided by the melancholy notes, he arrived before a grotto, in which he beheld a maiden of surpassing beauty, but of sorrowful mien. When she saw the handsome knight gazing at her with mingled surprise and admiration she ceased her song and implored his aid. A cruel giant, she said, had seized her and brought her thither. At the moment he was asleep, but he had tied her to a rock so that she might not escape. Her beauty and grace, her childlike innocence, her piteous plight, moved Sir Eppo strangely. First pity, then a stronger emotion dawned in his breast. He severed her bonds with a stroke of his keen falchion. �What can I do to aid thee, gentle maiden?� he said. �You have but to command me; henceforth I am thy knight, to do battle for thee.� The damsel blushed at the courteous words, but she lifted her eyes bravely to the champion who had so unexpectedly appeared to protect her. �Return to my castle,� she said, �and there thou wilt find a consecrated net. Bring it hither. If I lay it upon the giant he will become as weak as a babe and will be easily overcome.� Eagerly the young knight obeyed the command, and having found the net according to the damsel�s directions, he made all haste to return. At the grotto he paused and hid himself, for the strident voice of the giant could be heard within. Presently the monster emerged, and departed in search of reeds wherewith to make a pipe. No sooner had he disappeared than the maiden issued from the grotto, and Sir Eppo came out of his concealment and gave her the consecrated net. She spoke a few words of heartfelt gratitude, and then hurried with her treasure to the top of the mountain, where she knew the giant had intended to go. Arrived at her destination, she laid down the net and covered it with moss, leaves, and sweet-smelling herbs. While engaged in her task the giant came up, and the damsel smilingly told him that she was preparing a couch whereon he might take some rest. Gratified at her solicitude, he stretched himself unsuspectingly on the fragrant pile. In a moment the damsel, uttering the name of the Trinity, threw a portion of the net over him, so that he was completely enveloped. Immediately there arose such loud oaths and lamentations that the damsel ran in terror to the knight, who had now come upon the scene. �Let us fly,� she said, �lest he should escape and pursue us.� But Sir Eppo strode to the place where the howling monster lay entangled in the net, and with a mighty effort rolled him over a steep precipice, where he was instantly killed. The story ends happily, for Sir Eppo and the maiden he had rescued were married soon after; and on the spot where they had first met was raised the castle of Eppstein. It is said that the bones of the giant may still be seen there. Flörsheim: The Shepherd Knight In the now ruined castle of Wilenstein, overlooking the wooded heights of the Westrich, dwelt Sir Bodo of Flörsheim and his fair daughter Adeline. The maiden�s beauty, no less than her father�s wealth, attracted suitors in plenty from the neighbouring strongholds, but the spirit of love had not yet awakened in her bosom and each and all were repulsed with disconcerting coldness and indifference, and they left the schloss vowing that the lovely Adeline was utterly heartless. One day there came to Sir Bodo a youth of pleasing manners and appearance, picturesquely clad in rustic garb, who begged that he might enter the knight�s service in the capacity of shepherd. Though he hinted that he was of noble birth, prevented by circumstances from revealing his identity, yet he based his request solely on his merits as a tender of flocks and herds, and as Sir Bodo found that he knew his work well and that his intelligence was beyond question, he gave him the desired post. As time went on Sir Bodo saw no reason to regret his action, for his flocks and herds prospered as they had never done before, and none but good reports reached him concerning his servant. Meantime Adeline heard constant references to Otto (as the shepherd was called) both from her father and her waiting-women. The former praised his industry and abilities, while the latter spoke of his handsome looks and melancholy air, his distinction and good breeding, and the mystery which surrounded his identity. All this excited the maiden�s curiosity, and her pity was aroused as well, for it seemed that the stranger had a secret grief, which sometimes found vent in tears when he thought himself unobserved. Adeline saw him for the first time one afternoon while she was walking in the castle grounds. At sight of her he paused as though spell-bound, and the maiden blushed under his earnest scrutiny. A moment later, however, he recovered himself, and courteously asked her pardon for his seeming rudeness. �Forgive me, fair lady,� said he; �it seemed that I saw a ghost in your sweet face.� Adeline, who had recognized him from the descriptions she had received, now made herself known to him, and graciously granted him permission to walk with her to the castle. His offence was readily pardoned when he declared that the cause of it was a fancied resemblance between Adeline and a dear sister whom death had lately robbed him of. Ere they parted the young people were already deeply in love with one another, and had promised to meet again on the following day. The spot where they had first encountered each other became a trysting-place which was daily hallowed by fresh vows and declarations. On one such occasion Otto told his beloved the story of his early life and revealed to her his identity. It was indeed a harrowing tale, and one which drew a full meed of sympathy from the maiden. Otto and his sister�she whose likeness in Adeline�s face had first arrested his attention�had been brought up by a cruel stepfather, who had treated them so brutally that Otto was at length forced to flee to the castle of an uncle, who received him kindly and gave him an education befitting his knightly station. A few years later he had returned home, to find his sister dead�slain by the ill-treatment of her stepfather, who, it was even said, had hastened her death with poison. Otto, overcome with grief, confronted her murderer, heaped abuse on his head, and demanded his share of the property. The only answer was a sneer, and the youth, maddened with grief and indignation, drew his sword and plunged it in his tormentor�s heart. A moment later he saw the probable consequences of his hasty action, concealed himself in the woods, and thenceforth became a fugitive, renounced even by his own uncle, and obliged to remain in hiding in order to escape certain death at the hands of the murdered man�s kindred. In a fortunate moment he had chanced to reach Flörsheim, where, in his shepherd�s guise, he judged himself secure. Adeline, deeply moved by the tale, sought to put her sympathy in the practical form of advice. �Dear Otto,� she said, �let us go to my father and tell him all. We must dispatch an embassy to your uncle in Thuringen, to see whether he may not consent to a division of the property. Take courage, and your rightful position may yet be assured.� So it was arranged that on the following day the lovers should seek Sir Bodo and ask his advice in the matter. But alas! ere their plans could be carried out Bodo himself sent for his daughter and informed her that he had chosen a husband for her, Sir Siegebert, a wealthy and noble knight, just returned from Palestine. In vain Adeline wept and implored. Her father remained adamant, and at last lost his temper and confined her within strict bounds till she should consent to the marriage. Sir Siegebert was but ill pleased with her pale cheeks and haggard eyes and her obvious distaste for his society; and seeing this, Bodo was more than ever wroth, and swore to send her to a nunnery if she did not greet her lover with a better face. Day after day Otto waited at the trysting-place, yet his mistress did not appear, nor did she send him any message. He was filled with anguish at the thought that her ardent vows were forgotten, and wandered through the woods like one distraught, seeking solace and finding none. At length news reached him that on the morrow his beloved was to wed with the knight Siegebert, and his last shred of hope vanished. He made his way to a bridge where he had often watched for Adeline�s coming, and with a prayer flung himself into the turbid stream beneath. Meanwhile the unceasing cruelty to which Adeline had been subjected had reduced her to a state of terrified submission, so that, scarce knowing what she did, she consented to wed Siegebert. At length all was in readiness for the ceremony; the bells were ringing gaily, the feast was spread, and the bride arrayed in her wedding dress. Unseen she slipped out by a little postern gate and made her way quickly to the hut of her shepherd. Alas! it stood empty. In despair she ran hither and thither, calling his name in anguished accents. Suddenly she espied some shepherds endeavouring to draw something out of the water. A strange instinct told her the truth, and she crept closer to the little group. One glance sufficed to show her that it was her lover�s corpse which was being taken ashore. No need to ask how he had perished, or why! With a wild cry she flung herself into the stream where Otto had met his death, and was speedily overwhelmed. The bridal party sought high and low for the bride, but she was nowhere to be seen. Bodo loudly vented his indignation at his daughter�s rebelliousness, but his anger was changed to mourning when the body of the drowned maiden was washed ashore a few days later. Too late he repented him of his rash folly. All his lamentations could not restore poor Adeline to life. He caused the lovers to be buried together, and spent the remainder of his days in prayer and penitence. Frankfort Frankfort, the castle of the Franks, was, it is said, founded by Charlemagne at the time of the overthrow of the pagan Saxons, which has already been recorded in the Song of the Saxons. Here Charlemagne was led across the Rhine by deer, escaping with his army from certain slaughter at the hands of the savage horde who sought to ambush him. Other picturesque stories cluster round the city, the best of which are the following. The Poacher of Frankfort In the city of Frankfort-on-the-Main stands a five-pointed tower, and in the midst of one of these points is a vane containing nine round holes, forming the figure 9. The origin of this figure is as follows: A notorious poacher lay in the tower condemned to death for numerous offences against the stringent game-laws of the country. He awaited his end in silence, and sat moodily unobservant of the bright rays of the sun which poured into his cell through the grated window. Others, he pondered, were basking in the joyous light outside yonder in the verdant summer fields, whilst he, who even now felt the noose tighten round his neck, was plunged in semi-darkness. Well, as darkness was to be his element, he might as well make present use of it for its special purpose�to aid sleep; especially as sleep would remove him for the time being from gloomy contemplation upon his approaching end. As he slept a pleasant smile took the place of the sombre expression natural to his waking moments. But on a sudden he started in his slumber, grating his teeth, his face transformed with violent rage. �Ha, villain, that was a trap,� he muttered, but almost immediately his countenance resumed the sad expression which had lately become habitual to it. In the course of a few moments, however, this gave way to a look of resolution and conscious strength, and even in sleep he appeared to have made up his mind unalterably upon some matter of importance. At this juncture the turnkey entered the cell, accompanied by two officials, one of whom read to him a missive from those in authority which stated that a petition for mercy which he had made could not be entertained, and that he must suffer the extreme penalty of the law. �I protest against such a sentence,� cried the poacher, �for, after all, I have only killed those animals which were given us by God for our common use. Would you forfeit the life of a man because he has slain the beasts of chase?� �That is not the only charge against you,� retorted one of the officials harshly. �Your comrades, as well as the honourable Company of Foresters, accuse you of being in league with the enemy of mankind, and of procuring from him charmed bullets.� The poacher laughed. �It is false,� he cried, �They are jealous because I am such a good shot. Provide me with a gun and with powder and shot blessed by a priest, and I will undertake to place through the vane of this tower nine shots which shall form the figure 9.� �Such an opportunity shall be afforded you,� said one of the officials, who had not as yet spoken. �It would be an injustice not to give you such a chance, especially as, if you are successful, you will remove the most odious portion of the charge against you.� The news of the poacher�s challenge spread quickly through Frankfort, and even the foresters who had given evidence against him were so impressed that they forced their way into the council and insisted that, should he be successful, a free pardon should be granted to him. To this the council agreed, and an intimation of the decision was conveyed to the poacher. But he was assured that if one bullet missed its mark he would certainly die. To this he agreed, and the succeeding day was fixed for the trial of skill. At an early hour the square in which the tower was situated was thronged by an immense crowd. The walls of the city, of which the tower was a part, were thronged by members of the Foresters� Guild. Soon the prisoner was led forth, and was publicly admonished by a monk not to tempt God if his skill had its origin in diabolic agencies. But to all such exhortations the poacher replied: �Fear not, I will write my answer upon yonder tower.� The master of the Foresters� Guild loaded the gun and handed it to him. Amidst a deep silence he aimed at the vane and fired. The shot found its mark. Once more he fired. Again the vane swung round, and another hole appeared therein. The crowd vented its feelings by loud huzzahs. Nine times did he fire, and nine times did the bullet hit its mark. And as the last bullet sang through the weather-cock the figure 9 showed clearly therein, and the poacher, sinking to his knees, bared his head and gave thanks for his life to God. All there, also, bared their heads and accompanied him in his thanksgiving. That night, loaded with gifts, he quitted Frankfort, nevermore to return. But the vane on the tower remains there to this day as a witness of his prowess with the long rifle. The Knave of Bergen The city of Frankfort was once the scene of a great coronation festival, during the course of which a bal masqué was given by the King and Queen to a brilliant assembly of high-born ladies and nobles. The knights and princes in their fancy costumes were hardly less resplendent than the ladies in their jewels and brocaded silks, and the masks they all wore added to the excitement and gaiety of the scene. In all the gathering there was but one sombre note�a knight in coal-black armour, visored, of great stature and stately in motion. His graceful mien won the admiration of the ladies and the envy of the gallants, and the question of his identity excited much speculation. With courtly air the Black Knight approached the Queen, knelt before her, and begged that she would deign to be his partner in the dance. The charm of his voice and the modest yet dignified manner in which he proffered his request so touched the Queen that she stepped down from the dais and joined in the waltz. Never had she known a dancer with a lighter step or a more delightful gift of conversation. When that dance was over she granted him another and yet another, till the company became very curious to know who the gallant knight might be on whom the Queen bestowed her favours with such a lavish hand. At last the time came for the guests to unmask, and the dancers made themselves known to each other�with one exception, that is, for the Black Knight refused to lift his visor. The King and Queen, however, shared to the full the curiosity of their guests as to the identity of their strange guest, and they commanded him to uncover his face, whereupon the knight raised his visor, though with some reluctance. Neither the royal hosts nor any of the noble guests recognized him, but a moment later two officials of the Court advanced and to the astonishment and indignation of the company declared that the stranger was no other than the executioner of Bergen! The King�s wrath knew no bounds. He commanded that the knave should be seized and put to death immediately. To think that he had allowed the Queen to dance with a common executioner! The bare idea was intolerable! The knave fell humbly on his knees before his irate sovereign. �I acknowledge my crime, sire,� he said, �but your Majesty must be aware that even my death would not be sufficient to wipe out my disgrace, and the disgrace of her Majesty, who has danced with an executioner. There is one other way to efface my guilt and to wipe out the humiliation of your Majesty�s gracious consort. You must make a knight of me, sire, and I will challenge to mortal combat any who dares to speak ill of my King!� The King was astounded by this bold proposition, but the very audacity of it caught his fancy. He struck the executioner gently with his sword. �Rise, Sir Knight,� he said, adding, as the Black Knight rose to his feet: �You have acted like a knave this night. Henceforth you shall be called the Knave of Bergen.� Darmstadt: The Proxy In the days of chivalry there dwelt in Birbach a knight named Walther, no less renowned for his piety than for his skill in arms, and the Virgin, according to the following legend, was not unmindful of her humble worshipper. A great tournament�so runs the tale�was to take place in Darmstadt, and Sir Walther, who was about to enter the lists for the first time, was not feeling confident as to the issue. He knew that there were to be present many knights whose strength and skill far exceeded his own, and, brave though he was, he could not but recognize that his chances of victory were small. Yet he felt that he dared not suffer defeat; he must not be disgraced before the spectators. In particular, there was a certain fair lady whose colours he wore; he must not be shamed before her. His mind, as he rode on his way to Darmstadt, was filled with conflicting emotions, love, hope, fear, shame, in turn dominating his thoughts. Suddenly he came to a wayside altar, upon which was set an image of the Virgin, and he decided to carry his troubles to her as he was wont to do. So he descended from his horse, which he secured to a tree, and made his way to the altar. So deep were his emotions and so ardent his prayer that he passed into a sort of trance and fell at the foot of the altar like one dead. While he lay thus unconscious the Virgin descended from the altar, unlaced his armour, and donned it herself. Then taking sword and shield and lance, she mounted his steed and rode into Darmstadt. She was absent for some time, but when she returned the knight still lay in the death-like state in which she had left him. She tied his horse once more to the tree, replaced his armour, and then took her accustomed place on the altar. Shortly after Walther recovered consciousness and rose hastily, then, after another prayer to the Virgin, he rode as quickly as he might into the town. Here, to his intense surprise, he was greeted with joyful shouts and congratulations. His friends hailed him as a mighty champion, and she who had won his affections bestowed upon him the reward of knightly valour�her promise of marriage. The bewildered Walther scarce knew whether he was awake or asleep, but at length it was borne in upon him that someone had won great triumphs in his name. Who could have so successfully personated him as to deceive even his dearest friends? Who, indeed, save she to whom he had turned in his distress, the Holy Virgin herself? Soon he was wedded to the lady of his choice; and to show his gratitude for the intervention of Mary he built her a magnificent chapel on the spot where the miracle had taken place. Nor did he grow any less diligent in her service, but continued to live a noble and pious life, in which he was ever encouraged and assisted by his wife. The Cooper of Auerbach It is said that from the ruined castle of Auerbach a fragrant perfume of wine sometimes steals upon the air, and then the country folk whisper, �The cooper is tasting his wine.� And if asked for the reason of this saying they tell the following story. Once when the sun shone golden on the vine-clad hills, deepening the heavy clusters of grapes to a darker purple, a peasant, passing by the ruins, thought longingly upon the wine that, in the past, had been stored in those dark, cool cellars, wondering if perhaps some might not yet be found there, or if all had been wasted and lost. And while he yet pondered a rubicund little man, with leathern apron dark with wine-stains girded about his portly waist, stood at his side looking up at him with twinkling eyes. �So, my friend, you think upon the wine, eh? Come and spend an hour with me and you shall taste it.� As he spoke a warm, sweet wine-scent rose like incense about him, making the peasant�s brain reel with delight. He could not but follow the little man, tripping under the vines, thrusting his way through thorn-hedges and over crumbling walls, till he came to a flight of ancient steps, streaked grey and green with moss, leading down to a weather-stained cellar-door. The door opened into dusky vaults and from a niche in the wall the little cooper took a candle and a huge bowl. Then on he went over the moist floor until there rose before them in the candlelight, darker than the gloom about it, a gigantic tun. In a crooning murmur the cooper began to tell of his possessions. He called the vaults his realm, the tuns his dearly loved subjects�for, as the peasant gazed, he saw a long procession of tuns stretching away into the darkness. He shouted with mad delight at the sight, he clapped his hands and smacked his lips in anticipation, he declared the tuns glittered like pure gold. At this the cooper laughed and pointed out that the wine had fashioned its own casks, gleaming crusts, from which the ancient wood had fallen away long ago. And next he filled the huge bowl with deep glowing wine and drank to the peasant, whose hands ached to hold the bowl and lift it to his lips. At last, with a courtly bow, the cooper put it into his hands, and then the rustic emptied the bowl in one draught and drew a deep sigh of satisfaction. In rapture he sang the praises of the wine, but the cooper assured him that there was better to come. Again he tasted, and again the little man led on from cask to cask. Then, mad with delight, the peasant sang aloud, but the song broke into wild howling; he danced about the tuns, then fell to embracing them, stroking and kissing them, babbling love-words to the dusky fragrant wine. And still the cooper led on to the next cask, still he filled the bowl, and still the peasant drank, till at last in very joy tears ran down his face, and before his eyes the tuns danced round him in a giddy whirl; then slumber fell upon him and he sank down to sleep in the gloom. When he awoke next morning his body lay stretched in a muddy ditch, his lips pressed to clammy moss. Stumbling to his feet, he looked around for the door of the wine vault, for the flight of steps leading down to that realm of delight, but though he searched long and carefully, yet never again could he find it, nor did his eyes see the little cooper with his wine-stained leathern apron and his rubicund face. CHAPTER VI�WORMS AND THE NIBELUNGENLIED Worms is celebrated as the locality of the Nibelungenlied and the epic of Walthar of Aquitaine. But it has other claims to fame. Before entering on the consideration of Germany�s greatest epic we will recount several of the lesser legends of the locality. The Rose Garden: A Tale of Dietrich of Bern Dietrich of Bern is the King Arthur of German story. Like his prototype of Britain, he has become the central figure of innumerable medieval tales and epics, a model of chivalry and martial prowess, distinguished everywhere by high deeds and mighty feats of arms, and in not a few cases displacing the rightful hero of still older myths, which thus became grafted on to the Dietrich legends. Originally he was a bona-fide historical personage, Theodoric the Ostrogoth, and as such gained a widespread popularity among his people. His historical character, however, was soon lost in the maze of legendary lore which surrounded his name, and which, as time went on, ascribed to him feats ever more wildly heroic. Among the various traditions there is one relating to the Rhenish town of Worms which calls for inclusion here as much on account of its intrinsic merit as because of its undoubted popularity. The legend of the Rose Garden of Worms is a quaint and fanciful tale, and even the circumstance that it ends with the death of several good knights and true does not rob it of a certain humorous quality it possesses. By the time Dietrich had reached the prime of his adventurous life�so runs the story�he had gathered a considerable company of doughty paladins at his court�he formed, in fact, a kind of Round Table�and the knights who composed it were as eager as their lord to seek fresh fields wherein to display their prowess, and were second only to him in skill and valour. Among them were numbered such illustrious warriors as Herbrand, his son Hildebrand, Eckehart, Wolfhart, and Amelung. On one occasion, as Dietrich was seated at table with his followers, he vowed that no court in Christendom could boast of such warriors as he could muster. The assembled knights greeted the assertion with hearty acclamations�all, that is, save the old warrior Herbrand, and he was silent. Dietrich looked at him in surprise. �Hast thou nothing to say, Herbrand?� he asked. �Thinkest thou to find better knights than these?��indicating his followers with a wave of his hand. Herbrand seemed somewhat reluctant to uphold his tacit objection to Dietrich�s claim. �Ay,� he said at length, �there are such warriors to be found.� �And where may we seek such paragons?� inquired the king, none too well pleased. �In the town of Worms,� replied the old knight, �there lies a wondrous rose garden, of great extent, where the queen and her ladies take their pleasure. None save these may enter its precincts unless the queen give him leave, and that the sacred boundaries may not be overstepped twelve warriors are set to guard the garth. Such is their strength and courage that none has ever succeeded in passing them, whatever his skill and renown.� �But wherefore should one seek to pass the guard?� asked a young knight. �Is there a prize to be won, then?� �Truly,� sighed old Herbrand, �I would not give a hair of my head for the prize. �Tis but a crown of roses and a kiss from one of the queen�s ladies; though it is said, indeed, that they are as lovely as women may be.� �Are there no fair maids in Bern?� cried the warriors indignantly. �Must we go to the Rhine for them?� �For myself,� said Dietrich, �I care little for the reward; yet methinks that for the honour and glory I would e�en meet these doughty warriors, and peradventure overcome them. Who will follow me to Burgundy?� As with one voice his knights responded to his appeal, and he chose eight from among them to accompany him on his quest. As there were still but nine, including Dietrich himself, to meet the twelve guardians of the Rose Garden, the king decided to send for three knights who were absent from the court. At the suggestion of Hildebrand he selected Rüdiger of Bechlarn, Dietleib of Styria, and Ilsan, who was brother to Hildebrand and at that time a monk in the monastery of Munchenzell. Rüdiger was margrave to King Etzel, and had to obtain his lord�s permission to venture forth on the romantic undertaking; Dietleib�s father strongly recommended that the quest be abandoned, though the youth himself was as eager as any to accompany Dietrich; while as for Ilsan, he found it especially difficult to obtain leave of absence, for, naturally, his abbot deemed the enterprise a strange one for a monk who had fled all earthly delights. However, all difficulties were eventually overcome, and when the party was ready for departure Rüdiger was sent on an embassy to King Gibich at Worms, to prepare him for their coming. Gibich gave his ready consent to the proposed trial of strength, whereupon the warriors set out for the Rhine to see whether they might not win a kiss and a garland from some fair lady. An imposing array did the knights of the Rose Garden make as they awaited the approach of the strangers, but no less imposing were Dietrich and his warriors. Each chose an opponent and immediately engaged in a fierce hand-to-hand struggle, which was to end disastrously for more than one brave knight. The first to dispatch his antagonist was Wolfhart, who submitted to being crowned with a rose-wreath, but disdained to accept the rest of the reward. The monk, who was the next victor, took the roses and kissed the maiden heartily. But alas! a bristly beard covered his chin, and the maid was left ruefully rubbing her pouting lips. One by one Dietrich�s knights overcame their adversaries, some of whom were slain and some wounded. Toward nightfall a truce was called, and Dietrich and his company set out to return to Bern, well satisfied with having disproved the assertion of Herbrand that there were better warriors in the world than Dietrich and his noble company. The Devil�s Vineyard There is a curious legend told to account for the excellent quality of the wine of Worms. An old nobleman who at one time lived in that neighbourhood was in the habit of drinking more of the Rhenish wine than was good for him. In every other respect he was a most worthy man, kind, generous, and pious. His piety, in an age when such qualities were rare, roused the ire of the Devil, who determined to bring about his fall, and as the old man�s love of wine was his only serious weakness, it was through this that the Fiend set himself to compass the nobleman�s destruction. The Devil therefore disguised himself as a strolling musician and made the acquaintance of the old man. The latter set before him some of the wine of the country, extolling meanwhile its rare qualities. The guest seemed not at all impressed by the recital, but spoke of a wine which he had tasted in the South and which far surpassed any other vintage. The nobleman was all curiosity. The stranger talked of the wonderful wine with feigned reluctance, and at length his host promised to give him anything he should ask if only he would fetch him some of the wine. Satan promised to plant a vineyard in Worms, asking in exchange the soul of his host, to be forfeited at the end of a fixed period. To this the old man consented, and the strolling musician planted a vineyard which sprang up as though by magic. When the first vintage was produced it was found to be delicious beyond the dreams of the old nobleman, who was indeed a connoisseur in wines. In his delight he christened the wine Liebfrauenmilch, signifying �Milk of our Blessed Lady.� The Devil was furious at this reference to the Holy Virgin, but he consoled himself with the thought that in due course the man�s soul would be his. But the Virgin herself was pleased with the christening of the vineyard, and rather sorry for the foolish old nobleman who had bartered his soul for the Devil�s wine. When, therefore, the time arrived for the Evil One to claim his fee, she sent her angels to drive him away, and thus he was robbed of his prey. The old man, having learned the danger of treating with the Devil, now built a chapel to the Virgin in his vineyard. He lived for a long time to enjoy the luscious wine, under the protection of the saints, and never again did he make a compact with Satan. Now, if anyone requires a proof of this marvellous story, is there not the Liebfrauenmilch, most delicious of wines to convince him of its truth? The Maiden�s Caprice In the town of Worms there stands an old manor, built in the style of the Renaissance and known as the Wampolder Hof. At one time it belonged to the lord of Wampold, a wealthy noble of Mainz, who had appointed as castellan a kinsman of his, himself a nobleman, though landless and poor and no longer able to uphold his former dignities. In his youth the keeper had lived a gay and careless life, but now he was old and infirm and cared no longer for worldly vanities. His sole pride was his young daughter, a bewitching maiden who had more lovers than one could readily count, and who smiled upon them all impartially. With so many lovelorn youths at her beck and call it is hardly surprising that she should grow exacting and capricious, but this, as usually happens, only made them love her the more. There was one among her suitors, however, for whom she cherished a real affection. Handsome, cultured, and, like herself, of noble birth, he was, notwithstanding his poverty, by far the most eligible of the youths who sought her in marriage, and the castellan readily granted his consent to their betrothal. So for a time everything seemed to indicate happiness in store for the young couple. Yet the maiden remained as capricious as ever. On Walpurgis-night, when a party of lads and lasses were gathered in the Wampolder Hof, and tales of witches and witchcraft were being told in hushed tones, she conceived a wild scheme to test her lover�s affection: she bade him go to the cross-roads at midnight, watch the procession of witches, and return to tell her what he saw. The awed company protested vigorously against the proposed test, but the girl persisted, and at last her lover, seeing that she was already piqued at his refusal, laughingly set out for the bewitched spot, convinced that no harm would befall him. Meantime the company in the manor anxiously awaited his return. One o�clock came, then two�three; still there was no sign of him. Glances of horror and pity were cast at the castellan�s daughter, who now wrung her hands in futile grief. At length a few braver spirits volunteered to go in search of their comrade, but no trace of him could they find. His widowed mother, of whom he had been the only son, cursed the maid who was the cause of his ghastly fate, and not long afterward the castellan�s daughter lost her reason and died. On Walpurgis-nights she may still be heard in Worms calling for her lost lover, whom she is destined never to find. The fate of the youth remains uncertain. The most popular account is that he was torn limb from limb by the infuriated witches and his remains scattered to the winds. But some, less superstitious than their neighbours, declared that he had been murdered by his rivals, the disappointed suitors, and that his body had been cast into the Rhine�for not long afterward a corpse, which might have been that of the missing youth, was drawn from the river by fishermen. The Nibelungenlied The greatest Rhine story of all is that wondrous German Iliad, the Nibelungenlied, for it is on the banks of the Rhine in the ancient city of Worms that its action for the most part takes place. The earliest actual form of the epic is referred to the first part of the thirteenth century, but it is probable that a Latin original founded on ballads or folk-songs was in use about the middle or latter end of the tenth century. The work, despite many medieval interpolations and the manifest liberties of generations of bards and minnesingers, bears the unmistakable stamp of a great antiquity. A whole literature has grown up around this mighty epic of old Germanic life, and men of vast scholarship and literary acumen have made it a veritable battle-ground of conflicting theories, one contending for its mythical genesis, another proving to his satisfaction that it is founded upon historic fact, whilst others dispute hotly as to its Germanic or Scandinavian origin. So numerous are the conflicting opinions concerning the origin of the Nibelungenlied that it is extremely difficult to present to the reader a reasoned examination of the whole without entering rather deeply into philological and mythical considerations of considerable complexity. We shall therefore confine ourselves to the main points of these controversies and refrain from entering upon the more puzzling bypaths which are only to be trodden by the �Senior Wranglers� of the study, as they have been called. Its Original Form In the beginning of the nineteenth century Karl Lachmann, a philologist of some repute, put forward the theory that the poem was made up of a number of distinct ballads or lays, and he eliminated from it all parts which appeared to him to be interpolations. This reduced the whole to twenty lays, which he considered the work of twenty separate minstrels; but if certain ballads relating to episodes in the Nibelungenlied once existed in Germany it is the spirit of these more than the matter which is incorporated into the great epic. In medieval times, when the Nibelungenlied story was popular, minnesingers and harpers, in an attempt to please their audiences, would cast about for fresh incidents to introduce into the story. Popular as was the tale, even a medieval audience could tire of the oft-repeated exploits of its dramatis personae, and the minstrel, dependent upon their goodwill for bed and board, would be quick to note when the tale fell flat. Accordingly he would attempt to infuse into it some new incident or series of incidents, culled from other stories more often than not self-created. Such an interpolation is probably to be noted in the presence of Dietrich of Bern, otherwise Theodoric the Ostrogoth, at the court of Etzel or Attila. To say nothing of the probability of anachronism, geographical conditions are not a little outraged in the adoption of this incident, but the question arose who was to worst the mighty Hagen, whose sombre figure dominates in its gloomy grandeur the latter part of the saga. It would not do for any Hunnish champion to vie successfully with the Burgundian hero, but it would be no disgrace for him to be beaten by Dietrich, the greatest champion of antiquity, who, in fact, is more than once dragged into the pages of romance for the purpose of administering an honourable defeat to a hitherto unconquered champion. We can thus see how novel and subsidiary passages might attach themselves to the epic. But a day came when the minnesingers of Germany felt that it behoved them to fix once and for all time the shape of the Lay of the Nibelungs. Indeed, not one, but several poets laboured at this task. That they worked with materials immediately to their hand is seen from the circumstance that we have proof of a Low German account, and a Rhenish version which was evidently moulded into its present shape by an Austrian or Tyrolese craftsman�a singer well versed in court poetry and courtly etiquette. The date when the Nibelungenlied received its latest form was probably about the end of the twelfth century, and this last version was the immediate source of our present manuscripts. The date of the earliest known manuscript of the Nibelungenlied is comparatively late. We possess in all twenty-eight more or less complete manuscripts preserved in thirty-one fragments, fifteen of which date from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Its Fragmentary Nature Even a surface examination is sufficient to testify to the fragmentary nature of the Nibelungenlied. We can discern through the apparent unity of texture of the work as we now possess it the patchwork where scribe or minstrel has interpolated this incident or joined together these passages to secure the necessary unity of narrative. Moreover, in none of the several versions of the Siegfried epic do we get the �whole story.� One supplements another. And while we shall follow the Nibelungenlied itself as closely as possible we shall in part supplement it from other kindred sources, taking care to indicate these where we find it necessary to introduce them. Kriemhild�s Dream In the stately town of Worms, in Burgundy, dwelt the noble and beauteous maiden Kriemhild, under the care of her mother Ute, and her brothers Gunther, Gernot, and Giselher. Great was the splendour and state which they maintained, and many and brave were the warriors who drank wine at their board. Given to martial exercises were those men of might, and day by day the courts of the palace rang to the clangor of sword-play and manly sport. The wealth of the chiefs was boundless, and no such magnificence as theirs was known in any German land, or in any land beyond the German frontiers. But with all this stateliness and splendour Kriemhild, the beautiful, was unhappy. One night she had had an ominous dream. She dreamed that she had tamed a falcon strong and fierce, a beauteous bird of great might, but that while she gazed on it with pride and affection two great eagles swooped from the sky and tore it to pieces before her very eyes. Affected by this to an extent that seemed inexplicable, she related her dream to her mother, Ute, a dame of great wisdom, who interpreted it as foretelling for her a noble husband, �whom God protect, lest thou lose him too early.� Kriemhild, in dread of the omen, desired to avert it by remaining unwed, a course from which her mother attempted to dissuade her, telling her that if ever she were destined to know heartfelt joy it would be from a husband�s love. Siegfried Siegfried, of the Netherlands, son of Siegmund and Sieglind, a warrior bold as he was young and comely, having heard of the great beauty of Kriemhild, desired to visit Worms that he might see the far-famed princess for himself. Until this time he had been wandering through the world doing great deeds: he had won the sword and treasure of the Nibelungs, had overcome their monarchs, had conquered a dwarf Alberich, gaining possession of his cloak of darkness. Hagen, a mighty Burgundian paladin (in a passage which is obviously adapted from another version for the purpose of recounting Siegfried�s previous adventures), tells how �he had slain a dragon and made himself invulnerable by bathing in its blood. We must receive him graciously, and avoid making him our enemy.� Siegfried sojourned at Worms for over a year, distinguishing himself in all the martial exercises of the Burgundians and rendering them splendid service in their wars against the Saxons and Danes. A year passed without his having been allowed to meet Kriemhild, who in secret cherished the utmost admiration for him. Chagrined at the treatment meted out to him, he finally made up his mind to depart. But his hosts did not desire to lose such a valuable ally, and brought about a meeting between him and the lady of his dreams. The passage describing their first sight of one another is full of the essence of romance. We are told that Kriemhild appeared before his eyes as does the rosy flush of dawn breaking from sombre clouds. As he beheld her his heart was soothed and all his trouble vanished, for there stood she who had cost him many a love-pang, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, brighter than the rich jewels which covered her raiment, her cheeks suffused with the blushes of maidenhood. No one had, he thought, ever seen so much beauty before. As the silver moon obscures the light of the stars by its superior splendour, so did Kriemhild obscure the beauty of the ladies who surrounded her. When he beheld her each hero drew himself up more proudly than ever and appeared as if ready to do battle for such a paragon of beauty. She was preceded by chamberlains in rich attire, but no ushers might keep back the knights from sight of her, and they crowded about her to catch a glimpse of her face. Pleased and sad was Siegfried, for, thought he, �How may I ever hope to win so peerless a creature? The hope is a rash one. Better were I to forget her�but then, alas, my heart would have ceased to beat, and I should be dead!� Pale and red he grew. He recked not of his own great worth. For all there agreed that so handsome a warrior had never come to the Rhineland, so fair of body, so debonair was he. The Wooing of Brunhild Siegfried now resolved to win Kriemhild, and on Gunther�s asking him to accompany him on an adventure the purpose of which is to gain the hand of Queen Brunhild of Isenstein, he accepted on condition that on their return he should be rewarded by the hand of his sister. To this Gunther gave assent, and they set out, accompanied by Hagen and his brother Dankwart. But the Nibelungenlied proper is silent regarding Siegfried�s previous relations with Brunhild. In Scandinavian versions�such as the Volsunga Saga, where this legend, originally a German one, is preserved in its pagan form�Brunhild was a Valkyr, or war-maiden of Odin, who sent her to sleep with a prick of a magic thorn and imprisoned her within a circle of flame, through which Siegfried (in this version almost certainly the god of nature, springtide, and the sun) broke, delivered the captive, and took her as his bride, soon, however, departing from her. In the Nibelungenlied this ancient myth is either presupposed or intentionally omitted as unfitting for consumption by a Christianized folk, but it is hinted that Brunhild had a previous claim upon Siegfried�s affections. Brunhild had made it a condition that the hero whom she would wed must be able to overcome her in three trials of prowess, losing his head as a penalty of failure. Siegfried, donning the magic cloak of invisibility he had won from Alberich, king of the dwarfs, took Gunther�s place and won the three trials for him, Gunther going through a pantomime of the appropriate actions while Siegfried performed the feats. The passage which tells of the encounter is curious. A great spear, heavy and keen, was brought forth for Brunhild�s use. It was more a weapon for a hero of might than for a maiden, but, unwieldy as it was, she was able to brandish it as easily as if it had been a willow wand. Three and a half weights of iron went to the making of this mighty spear, which scarce three of her men could carry. Sore afraid was Gunther. Well did he wish him safe in the Burgundian land. �Once back in Rhineland,� thought he, �and I would not stir a foot�s distance to win any such war-maid.� But up spake Dankwart, Hagen�s valiant brother: �Now is the day come on which we must bid farewell to our lives. An ill journey has this been, I trow, for in this land we shall perish at the hands of women. Oh, that my brother Hagen and I had but our good swords here! Then would these carles of Brunhild�s check their laughter. Without arms a man can do nothing, but had I a blade in hand even Brunhild herself should die ere harm came to our dear lord.� This speech heard the warrior-maid. �Now put these heroes� swords into their hands,� she commanded, �and accoutre them in their mail.� Right glad was Dankwart to feel iron in his hand once more and know its weight upon his limbs. �Now I am ready for such play as they list,� he cried. �Since we have arms, our lord is not yet conquered.� Into the ring of contest mighty men bore a great stone. Twelve of them it took to carry it, so ponderous it was. Woe were they of Burgundy for their lord at sight of the same. Brunhild advanced on Gunther, brandishing her spear. Siegfried was by his side and touched him lightly to give him confidence, but Gunther knew not it was he and marvelled, for no one saw him there. �Who hath touched me?� said he. ��Tis I, Siegfried,� replied his friend. �Be of good cheer and fear not the maiden. Give me thy shield and mark well what I say. Make thou motions as if to guard and strike, and I will do the deeds. Above all hearken to my whispered advice.� Great was Gunther�s joy when he knew that Siegfried was by him. But he had not long to marvel, for Brunhild was on him, her great spear in hand, the light from its broad blade flashing in his eyes. She hurled the spear at his shield. It passed through the iron as if it had been silk and struck on the rings of Gunther�s armour. Both Gunther and Siegfried staggered at the blow. But the latter, although bleeding from the mouth with the shock of the thrown weapon, seized it, reversing the point, and cast it at Brunhild with such dreadful might that when it rang on her armour she was overthrown. Right angry was Brunhild. But she weened that the blow was Gunther�s, and respected him for his strength. Her anger, however, overcame her esteem, and seizing the great stone which had been placed in the ring of combat, she cast it from her twelve fathoms. Leaping after it, she sprang farther than she had thrown it. Then went Gunther to the stone and poised it while Siegfried threw it. He cast the stone farther than Brunhild had done, and so great was his strength that he raised King Gunther from the earth and leapt with him a greater distance than Brunhild had leapt herself. Men saw Gunther throw and leap alone. Red with anger grew Brunhild when she saw herself defeated. Loudly she addressed her men. �Ho, ye liegemen of mine,� she cried, �now are ye subject to Gunther the King, for, behold, he has beaten me in the sports.� The knights then acclaimed Gunther as the victor. By his own strength of arm had he won the games, said they, and he in turn greeted them lovingly. Brunhild came forward, took him by the hand, and granted to him full power throughout her dominions. They proceeded to her palace and Gunther�s warriors were now regaled with better cheer than before. But Siegfried carefully concealed his magic cloak. Coming to where Gunther and Brunhild sat, he said: �My lord, why do you tarry? Why are the games of which Queen Brunhild doth speak not yet begun? I long to see how they may be played.� He acted his part so well that Brunhild really believed that he was not aware the games were over and that she was the loser. �Now, Sir Siegfried,� said she, �how comes it that you were not present when the games, which Gunther has won, were being played?� Hagen, fearing that Siegfried might blunder in his reply, took the answer out of his mouth and said: �O Queen, the good knight Siegfried was hard by the ship when Gunther won the games from you. Naught indeed knew he of them.� Siegfried now expressed great surprise that any man living had been able to master the mighty war-maid. �Is it possible,� he exclaimed, �is it possible, O Queen, that you have been vanquished at the sports in which you excel so greatly? But I for one am glad, since now you needs must follow us home to the Rhineland.� �You are speedy of speech, Sir Siegfried,� replied Brunhild. �But there is much to do ere yet I quit my lands. First must I inform my kindred and vassals of this thing. Messengers must be sent to many of my kinsmen ere I depart from Isenstein.� With that she bade couriers ride to all quarters, bidding her kinsmen, her friends, and her warriors come without delay to Isenstein. For several days they arrived in troops: early and late they came, singly and in companies. Then with a large escort Brunhild sailed across the sea and up the Rhine to Worms. Siegfried and Brunhild It now became increasingly clear that Siegfried and Brunhild had had affectionate relations in the past. [Indeed, in the Volsunga Saga, which is an early version of the Nibelungenlied, we find Grimhild, the mother of Gudrun (Kriemhild), administering to Sigurd (Siegfried) a magic potion in order that he should forget about Brunhild.] On seeing Siegfried and Kriemhild greet each other with a kiss, sadness and jealousy wrung the heart of the war-maiden, and she evinced anything but a wifely spirit toward her husband Gunther, whom, on the first night of their wedded life, she wrestled with, defeated, and bound with her girdle, afterward hanging him up by it on a peg in the wall! Next day he appealed to Siegfried for assistance, and that night the hero donned his magic cloak of invisibility, contended with Brunhild in the darkness, and overcame her, she believing him to be Gunther, who was present during the strife. But Siegfried was foolish enough to carry away her ring and girdle, �for very haughtiness.� These he gave to Kriemhild, and sore both of them rued it in after-time. Brunhild�s strength vanished with her maidenhood and thenceforth she was as any other woman. Siegfried and Kriemhild now departed to the capital of Santen, on the Lower Rhine, and peace prevailed for ten years, until Brunhild persuaded Gunther to invite them to a festival at Worms. She could not understand how, if Siegfried was Gunther�s vassal, as Gunther had informed her, he neither paid tribute nor rendered homage. The invitation was accepted cordially enough. But Kriemhild and Brunhild quarrelled bitterly regarding a matter of precedence as to who should first enter church, and at the door of the minster of Worms there was an unseemly squabble. Then Kriemhild taunted Brunhild with the fact that Siegfried had won and deserted her, and displayed the girdle and ring as proof of what she asserted. Siegfried, confronted with Brunhild, denied that he had ever approached her in any unseemly way, and he and Gunther attempted to make peace between their wives. But all to no avail. A deadly feud had sprung up between them, which was to end in woe for all. Hagen swore a great oath that Siegfried should pay for the insult his wife had put upon Brunhild. The Plot against Siegfried Now, but four days after, news came to Gunther�s court that war was declared against him. But this was merely a plot to draw Siegfried from the court and compass his death. The heroes armed for war, among them Siegfried. When Hagen bade farewell to Kriemhild she recommended Siegfried to his care. Now, when Siegfried slew the dragon which guarded the treasure of the Nibelungs, he bathed in its blood and became, like Achilles, invulnerable, save at a spot where a linden leaf had fallen between his shoulders as he bathed, and so prevented contact with the potent stream. Hagen inquired of Kriemhild the whereabouts of this vulnerable spot, pretending that he would guard Siegfried against treachery in battle; and she, fully believing in his good faith, sewed a silken cross upon Siegfried�s mantle to mark the place. On the following morning Siegfried, with a thousand knights, took horse and rode away, thinking to avenge his comrades. Hagen rode beside him and carefully scanned his vesture. He did not fail to observe the mark, and having done so, he dispatched two of his men with another message. It was to the effect that the King might know that now his land would remain at peace. This Siegfried was loath to hear, for he would have done battle for his friends, and it was with difficulty that Gunther�s vassals could hold him back. Then he rode to Gunther, who thanked him warmly for having so quickly granted his prayer. Gunther assured him that if need be he would at any time come to his aid, and that he held him the most trusty of all his friends. He pretended to be so glad that the threat of war was past that he suggested that they should ride hunting to the Odenwald after the bear and the boar, as they had so often done before. This was the counsel of the false Hagen. It was arranged that they should start early for the greenwood, and Gunther promised to lend Siegfried several dogs that knew the forest ways well. Siegfried then hurried home to his wife, and when he had departed Hagen and the King took counsel together. After they had agreed upon the manner in which they would compass the destruction of Siegfried, they communicated their plans to their comrades. Giselher and Gernot would not take part in the hunt, but nevertheless they abstained from warning Siegfried of his danger. For this, however, they paid dearly in the end. The morning dawned bright and clear, and away the warriors cantered with a clatter of hoofs and a boasting of bugles. Siegfried�s Farewell to Kriemhild Before departing Siegfried had said farewell to Kriemhild, who, she knew not why, was filled with dark forebodings. �God grant I may see thee safe and well again,� said Siegfried. �Keep thou a merry heart among thy kin until I return.� Then Kriemhild thought on the secret she had betrayed to Hagen, but she could not tell Siegfried of it. Sorely she wept, wishing that she had never been born, and keen and deep was her grief. �Husband,� she said, �go not to the hunt. A baleful dream I had last night. You stood upon the heath and two wild boars approached. You fled, but they pursued you and wounded you, and the blossoms under your feet were red with blood. You behold my tears. Siegfried, I dread treachery. Wot you not of some who cherish for us a deadly hate? I counsel you, I beg you, dear lord, go not to the greenwood.� Siegfried tried to laugh her fears away, �It is but for a few days that I leave thee, beloved,� he said. �Who can bear me hate if I cherish none against them? Thy brothers wish me well, nor have I offended them in any wise.� But Kriemhild would not be comforted. �Greatly do I dread this parting,� she wailed, �for I dreamed another dream. You passed by two mountains, and they rocked on their bases, fell, and buried you, so that I saw you no more. Go not, for bitterly will I grieve if you depart.� But with a laugh and a kiss Siegfried was gone. Leaping on his steed, he rode off at a gallop. Nevermore was she to see him in life. Into the gloomy forest, the abode of the bear, the wolf, and the wild boar, plunged the knights in their lust of royal sport. Brilliant, brave, and goodly of cheer was the company, and rich was their entertainment. Many pack-horses laden with meats and wines accompanied them, and the panniers on the backs of these bulged with flesh, fish, and game, fitting for the table of a great king. On a broad meadow fringing the greenwood they camped, near to the place where they were to begin the hunt, and watchers were sent round the camp, so that no one with a message of warning on his lips might win to the ears of Siegfried. Siegfried waxed restless, for he had come not to feast but to hunt, and he desired to be home again with Kriemhild. �Ha, comrades,� he cried; �who will into the forest with me and rouse the game?� �Then,� said the crafty Hagen, �let us find who is the best sportsman. Let us divide the huntsmen and the hounds so that each may ride alone where he chooses; and great praise shall be to him who hunts the best and bears off the palm.� To this Siegfried agreed, and asked only for one hound that had been well broken to the chase to accompany him. This was granted. Then there came an old huntsman with a limehound and led the sportsmen to where there was an abundance of game. Many beasts were started and hunted to the death, as is ever the way with good huntsmen. Nothing that the limehound started could escape Siegfried. Swift was his steed as the tempest, and whether it was bear or boar he soon came up with it and slew it. Once he encountered a stark and mighty lion. Aiming an arrow at the monster, he shot it through the heart. The forest rang with acclaim at the deed. Then there fell by his hand a buffalo, an elk, four grim aurochs, and a bear, nor could deer or hind escape him, so swift and wight was he. Anon he brought a wild boar to bay. The grisly beast charged him, but, drawing his sword, Siegfried transfixed it with the shining blade. �I pray thee, lord,� said the huntsman, �leave to us something living, for in truth thy strong arm doth empty both mountain and forest.� Merrily rang the noise of the chase in the greenwood that day. The hills and the leafy aisles of the forest resounded with the shouts of the hunters and the baying of dogs. In that hunting many a beast met its death-day and great was the rivalry. But when the hunting was over and the heroes met at the tryst-fire, they saw that Siegfried had proved himself the greatest huntsmen of them all. One by one they returned from the forest to the trysting-place, carrying with them the shaggy fell of the bear, the bristly boar-skin, and the grey pelt of the wolf. Meat abounded in that place, and the blast of a horn announced to the hungry knights that the King was about to feast. Said Siegfried�s huntsman to him: �I hear the blast of a horn bidding us return to the trysting-place,� and raising his bugle to his lips, he answered it. Siegfried was about to leave the forest, ambling quietly on horseback through the green ways, when he roused a mighty bear. The limehound was slipped and the bear lumbered off, pursued by Siegfried and his men. They dashed into a ravine, and here Siegfried thought to run the beast down, but the sides were too steep and the knight could not approach it on horseback. Lightly he sprang from his steed, and the bear, seeing his approach, once more took flight. So swift, however, was Siegfried�s pursuit that ere the heavy beast could elude him he had caught it by its shaggy coat and had bound it in such a manner that it was harmless; then, tying it across his horse�s back, he brought it to the tryst-fire for pastime. Proudly emerged Siegfried from the forest, and Gunther�s men, seeing him coming, ran to hold his horse. When he had dismounted he dragged the bear from his horse�s back and set it loose. Immediately the dogs pursued it, and in its efforts to escape into the forest it dashed madly through a band of scullions who were cooking by the great fire. There was a clatter of iron pots, and burning brands were strewed about. Many goodly dishes were spoiled. The King gave order to slip the hounds that were on leash. Taking their bows and spears, the warriors set off in chase of the bear�but they feared to shoot at it through fear of wounding any among the great pack of dogs that hung upon its flanks. The one man who could keep pace with the bear was Siegfried, who, coming up with it, pierced it with his sword and laid it dead on the ground. Then, lifting the carcass on his shoulders, he carried it back to the fire, to the marvel of all present. Then began the feasting. Rich meats were handed around, and all was festive and gay. No suspicion had Siegfried that he was doomed, for his heart was pure of all deceit. But the wine had not yet been brought from the kitchen, whereat Sir Siegfried wondered. Addressing Gunther, he said: �Why do not your men bring us wine? If this is the manner in which you treat good hunters, certes, I will hunt no more. Surely I have deserved better at your hands.� And the false Gunther answered: �Blame me not, Siegfried, for the fault is Hagen�s. Truly he would have us perish of thirst.� �Dear master,� said Hagen of Trony, �the fault is mine�if fault it be�for methought we were to hunt to-day at Spessart and thither did I send the wine. If we go thirsty to-day, credit me I will have better care another time.� But Siegfried was athirst and said: �If wine lacks, then must we have water. We should have camped nearer to the Rhine.� The Slaying of Siegfried And Hagen, perceiving his chance, replied: �I know of a cool spring close at hand. If you will follow me I will lead you thither.� Sore athirst was Siegfried, and starting up from his seat, he followed Hagen. But the crafty schemer, desiring to draw him away from the company so that none else would follow them, said to him as they were setting out for the spring: �Men say, Siegfried, that none can keep pace with you when you run. Let us see now.� �That may easily be proved,� said Siegfried. �Let us run to the brook for a wager, and see who wins there first. If I lose I will lay me before you in the grass. Nay, I will more, for I will carry with me spear, shield, and hunting gear.� Then did he gird on his weapons, even to his quiver, while the others stripped, and off they set. But Siegfried easily passed them and arrived at the lime-tree where was the well. But he would not drink first for courtesy, even although he was sore athirst. Gunther came up, bent down to the water, and drank of the pure, cool well. Siegfried then bent him to drink also. But the false Hagen, carrying his bow and sword out of reach, sprang back and gripped the hero�s mighty spear. Then looked he for the secret mark on his vesture that Kriemhild had worked. As Siegfried drank from the stream Hagen poised the great spear and plunged it between the hero�s shoulders. Deeply did the blade pierce through the spot where lay the secret mark, so that the blood spurted out on the traitor�s garments. Hagen left the spear deep in Siegfried�s heart and flew in grim haste from the place. Though wounded to the death, Siegfried rose from the stream like a maddened lion and cast about him for a weapon. But nothing came to his hand but his shield. This he picked up from the water�s edge and ran at Hagen, who might not escape him, for, sore wounded as he was, so mightily did he smite that the shield well-nigh burst and the jewels which adorned it flew in flinders. The blow rang across the meadow as Hagen fell beneath the stroke. It was Siegfried�s last blow. His countenance was already that of a dead man. He could not stand upright. Down he crashed among the flowers; fast flowed his blood; in his agony he began to upbraid those who had contrived his death. �Cowards and caitiffs,� he cried, �is this the price you pay me for my fealty to you? Ill have you done by your friends, for sons of yours as yet unborn will feel the weight of this deed. You have vented your spite on my body; but for this dastard crime all good knights shall shun you.� Now all surrounded him, and those that were true among them mourned for him. Gunther also wept. But the dying man, turning to him, said: �Does he weep for the evil from whom the evil cometh? Better for him that it had remained undone, for mighty is his blame.� Then said false Hagen: �What rue ye? Surely our care is past. Who will now withstand us? Right glad am I that Siegfried is no more.� Loud was Siegfried�s dole for Kriemhild. �Never was so foul a murder done as thou hast done on me, O king,� he said to Gunther. �I saved thy life and honour. But if thou canst show truth to any on earth, show it to my dear wife, I beg of thee, for never had woman such woe for one she loved.� Painfully he writhed as they watched him, and as he became weaker he spake prophetically. �Greatly shall ye rue this deed in the days to come,� he groaned, �for know, all of ye, that in slaying me ye have slain yourselves.� Wet were the flowers with his blood. He struggled grimly with death, but too deep had been the blow, and at last he spake no more. They laid his body on a shield of ruddy gold and took counsel with one another how they should hide that the deed had been done by Hagen. �Sure have we fallen on evil days,� said many; �but let us all hide this thing, and hold to one tale: that is, that as Siegfried rode alone in the forest he was slain by robbers.� �But,� said Hagen of Trony, �I will myself bear him back to Burgundy. It is little concern of mine if Kriemhild weep.� Kriemhild�s Grief Great was the grief of Kriemhild when she learned of the murder of her husband, whose body had been placed at her very door by the remorseless Hagen. He and the rest of the Burgundians pretended that Siegfried had been slain by bandits, but on their approach the wounds of Siegfried commenced to bleed afresh in mute witness of treachery. Kriemhild secretly vowed a terrible revenge and would not quit the land where her beloved spouse was buried. For four years she spake never a word to Gunther or Hagen, but sat silent and sad in a chamber near the minster where Siegfried was buried. Gunther sent for the Nibelungen treasure for the purpose of propitiating her, but she distributed it so freely among Gunther�s dependents that Hagen conceived the suspicion that her intention was to suborn them to her cause and foment rebellion within the Burgundian dominions; therefore he seized it and sank it in the Rhine, forcing Kriemhild�s brethren never to divulge its whereabouts. It is a circumstance of some importance that when this treasure enters the land of the Burgundians they take the name of Nibelungs, as Siegfried was called Lord of the Nibelungs on first possessing the hoard, and for this reason that part of the poem which commences with the Burgundian acquirement of the treasure was formerly known as the Nibelungen Not. The confiscation of the treasure was another sharp wound to Kriemhild, who appears to have bitterly cherished every hostile act committed against her by her uncle Hagen and her brothers, and to have secretly nursed her grievances throughout the remainder of her saddened existence. Kriemhild Marries Attila Thirteen years after the death of Siegfried, Helche, wife of Attila, or Etzel, King of the Huns, having died, that monarch was desirous of marrying again, and dispatched his faithful councillor, Rüdiger, Margrave of Bechlarn, to the Burgundian court to ask for the hand of Kriemhild. Her brethren, only too anxious to be rid of her accusing presence, gladly consented to the match, but Hagen had forebodings that if she gained power she would wreak a dreadful vengeance on them all. But he was overruled, and Rüdiger was permitted to interview Kriemhild. At first she would not hear of the marriage, but when Rüdiger expressed his surprise at the manner in which she was treated in her own country, and hinted that if she were to wed with Etzel she would be guarded against such insulting conduct, she consented. But first she made Rüdiger swear to avenge her wrongs, and this he did lightly, thinking it merely a woman�s whim which would pass away after marriage. She accompanied Rüdiger to the court of Etzel, stopping at his castle of Bechlarn, where dwelt his wife Gotelind and his daughter Dietlinde. The journey to Vienna is described in detail. At length they met Etzel at Tulna with twenty-four kings and princes in his train and a mighty retinue, the greatest guest present being Dietrich of Bern, King of the Goths, who with his band of Wolfings was sojourning at the court of Etzel. The nuptials took place at Vienna amid great magnificence, but through all Kriemhild sorrowed only for Siegfried and brooded long and darkly on her schemes of vengeance. Seven years passed, during which Kriemhild won the love of all Etzel�s court. She bore the King a son, Ortlieb, and gained the confidence and respect of his advisers. Another six years passed, and Kriemhild believed that the time for vengeance had now arrived. To this end she induced Etzel to invite her brethren and Hagen to his court at Vienna. At first the Burgundians liked the hospitable message well, but suspicion of it was sown in their minds by Hagen, who guessed that treachery lurked beneath its honeyed words. In the end they accepted the invitation and journeyed to the land of the Huns, a thousand and sixty knights and nine thousand soldiers. On the way they encountered many ill omens. The Journey Through Eastern Frankland rode Gunther�s men toward the river Main, led by Hagen, for well he knew the way. All men wondered when they saw the host, for never had any seen such lordly knights or such a rich and noble retinue. Well might one see that these were princes. On the twelfth day they came to the banks of the Danube, Hagen riding in the van. He dismounted on the river�s sandy shore and tied his steed to a tree. The river was swollen with rains and no boats were in sight. Now the Nibelungs could not perceive how they were to win over the stream, for it was broad and strong. And Hagen rebuked the King, saying: �Ill be with you, lord. See ye not that the river is swollen and its flood is mighty? Many a bold knight shall we lose here to-day.� �Not greatly do thy words help, Hagen,� spake the King. �Meeter were it for thee to search for a ford, instead of wasting thy breath.� But Hagen sneered back: �I am not yet weary of life, O king, and I wish not to drown in these broad waves. Better that men should die by my sword in Etzel�s land. Stay thou then by the water�s edge, whilst I seek a ferryman along the stream.� To and fro he sought a ferryman. Soon he heard a splash of water and hearkened. In a spring not far off some women were bathing. Hagen spied them and crept stealthily toward them. But they saw his approach and went swiftly away. Hagen, approaching, seized their clothes. Now these women were swan-maidens, or mermaids, and one of them, Hadburg, spake to him. �Sir Hagen,� she said, �well wot I that ye wish to find a ferry. Now give to us our garments and we will show you where one is.� They breasted the waves like swans. Once more spake Hadburg: �Safely will ye go to Etzel�s land and great honours will ye gain there; aye, greater than hero ever rode to find.� Right joyous was Hagen at this speech. Back he handed to the maidens their weeds. Then spake another mermaid, Sieglind: �Take warning from me, Hagen. Believe not the word of mine aunt, for she has sore deceived thee. Go not to Etzel�s land, for there you shall die. So turn again. Whoso rideth onward hath taken death by the hand.� �I heed not thy words,� said Hagen, �for how should it be that all of us die there through the hate of anyone?� �So must it be,� said Sieglind, �for none of you shall live, save the King�s chaplain, who alone will come again safe and sound to Gunther�s land.� �Ye are wise wives,� laughed Hagen bitterly. �Well would Gunther and his lords believe me should I tell him this rede. I pray thee, show us over the stream.� �So be it,� replied Sieglind; �since ye will not turn you from your journey. See you yonder inn by the water�s side? There is the only ferry over the river.� At once Hagen made off. But Sieglind called after him: �Stay, Sir Knight; credit me, you are too much in haste. For the lord of these lands, who is called Else, and his brother, Knight Gelfrat, will make it go hard with you an ye cross their dominions. Guard you carefully and deal wisely with the ferryman, for he is liegeman unto Gelfrat, and if he will not cross the river to you, call for him, and say thou art named Amelrich, a hero of this land who left it some time agone.� No more spake Hagen to the swan-maidens, but searching up the river banks, he found an inn upon the farther shore. Loudly he called across the flood. �Come for me, ferryman,� he said, �and I will bestow upon thee an armlet of ruddy gold.� Now the ferryman was a noble and did not care for service, and those who helped him were as proud as he. They heard Hagen calling, but recked not of it. Loudly did he call across the water, which resounded to his cries. Then, his patience exhausted, he shouted: �Come hither, for I am Amelrich, liegeman to Else, who left these lands because of a great feud.� As he spake he raised his spear, on which was an armlet of bright gold, cunningly fashioned. The haughty ferryman took an oar and rowed across, but when he arrived at the farther bank he spied not him who had cried for passage. At last he saw Hagen, and in great anger said: �You may be called Amelrich, but you are not like him whom I thought to be here, for he was my brother. You have lied to me and there you may stay.� Hagen attempted to impress the ferryman by kindness, but he refused to listen to his words, telling the warrior that his lords had enemies, wherefore he never conveyed strangers across the river. Hagen then offered him gold, and so angry did the ferryman become that he struck at the Nibelung with his rudder oar, which broke over Hagen�s head. But the warrior smote him so fiercely with his sword that he struck his head off and cast it on the ground. The skiff began to drift down the stream, and Hagen, wading into the water, had much ado to secure it and bring it back. With might and main he pulled, and in turning it the oar snapped in his hand. He then floated down stream, where he found his lords standing by the shore. They came down to meet him with many questionings, but Gunther, espying the blood in the skiff, knew well what fate the ferryman had met with. Hagen then called to the footmen to lead the horses into the river that they might swim across. All the trappings and baggage were placed in the skiff, and Hagen, playing the steersman, ferried full many mighty warriors into the unknown land. First went the knights, then the men-at-arms, then followed nine thousand footmen. By no means was Hagen idle on that day. On a sudden he espied the king�s chaplain close by the chapel baggage, leaning with his hands upon the relics, and recalling that the wise women had told him that only this priest would return and none other of the Nibelungs, he seized him by the middle and cast him from the skiff into the Danube. �Hold, Sir Hagen, hold!� cried his comrades. Giselher grew wroth; but Hagen only smiled. Then said Sir Gernot of Burgundy: �Hagen, what availeth you the chaplain�s death? Wherefore have ye slain the priest?� But the clerk struck out boldly, for he wished to save his life. But this Hagen would not have and thrust him to the bottom. Once more he came to the surface, and this time he was carried by the force of the waves to the sandy shore. Then Hagen knew well that naught might avail against the tidings which the mermaids had told him, that not a Nibelung should return to Burgundy. When the skiff had been unloaded of baggage and all the company had been ferried across, Hagen broke it in pieces and cast it into the flood. When asked wherefore he had done so, and how they were to return from the land of the Huns back to the Rhine, Hagen said: �Should we have a coward on this journey who would turn his back on the Huns, when he cometh to this stream he will die a shameful death.� In passing through Bavaria the Burgundians came into collision with Gelfrat and his brother Else, and Gelfrat was slain. They were received at Bechlarn by Rüdiger, who treated them most hospitably and showered many gifts upon them, bestowing upon Gernot his favourite sword, on Gunther a noble suit of armour, and on Hagen a famous shield. He accompanied the strangers to the court of Etzel, where they were met first of all by Dietrich of Bern, who warned them that Kriemhild prayed daily for vengeance upon them for the murder of Siegfried. When Kriemhild beheld Hagen, her archenemy, she wept. Hagen saw, and �bound his helmet tighter.� �We have not made a good journey to this feast,� he muttered. Kriemhild�s Welcome �Ye are welcome, nobles and knights,� said Kriemhild. �I greet you not for your kinship. What bring ye me from Worms beyond the Rhine that ye should be so welcome to me here? Where have ye put the Nibelung treasure? It is mine as ye know full well, and ye should have brought it me to Etzel�s court.� Hagen replied that he had been ordered by his liege lords to sink it in the Rhine, and there must it lie till doomsday. At this Kriemhild grew wroth. Hagen went on to say that he had enough to do to carry his shield and breastplate. The Queen, alarmed, desired that all weapons should be placed in her charge, but to this Hagen demurred, and said that it was too much honour for such a bounteous princess to bear his shield and other arms to his lodging. Kriemhild lamented, saying that they appeared to think that she planned treachery against them; but to this Dietrich answered in great anger that he had forewarned Gunther and his brothers of her treacherous intentions. Kriemhild was greatly abashed at this, and without speaking a word she left the company; but ere she went she darted furious glances upon them, from which they well saw with what a dangerous foe they had to deal. King Etzel then asked who Hagen might be, and was told his name and lineage and that he was a fierce and grim warrior. Etzel then recognized him as a warrior who had been a hostage with him along with Walthar of Spain and who had done him yeoman service. Events March This last passage connects the Nibelungenlied with the Latin poem of Walthar of Aquitaine. Indeed, the great German epic contains repeated allusions to this work of the ninth or tenth century, which is dealt with later in this book. Events now march quickly. Kriemhild offered gold untold to him who would slay Hagen, but although her enemy was within her grasp, so doughty was the warrior and so terrible his appearance that none dared do battle with him. A Hun was killed by accident in a tournament, but Etzel protected his Burgundian guests. At length Blodelin was bribed by Kriemhild to attack Dankwart with a thousand followers. Dankwart�s men were all slain, but he himself made good his escape by fighting his way through the closely packed Hunnish ranks. Dankwart rushed to the hall where the Burgundians were feasting with the Huns, and in great wrath acquainted Hagen with the treacherous attempt which had been made upon his life. �Haste ye, brother Hagen,� he cried, �for as ye sit there our knights and squires lie slain in their chambers.� �Who hath done this deed?� asked Hagen. �Sir Blodelin with his carles. But he breathes no longer, for myself I parted his head from his body.� �If he died as a warrior, then it is well for him,� replied the grim Hagen; �but, brother Dankwart, ye are red with blood.� ��Tis but my weeds which ye see thus wet,� said Dankwart carelessly. �The blood is that of other men, so many in sooth that I could not give ye tale of the number.� �Guard the door, brother,� said Hagen fiercely; �guard it yet so that not a single Hun may escape. I will hold parley with these brave warriors who have so foully slain defenceless men.� �Well will I guard the doorway,� laughed Dankwart; �I shall play ye the part of chamberlain, brother, in this great business.� The Beginning of the Slaughter Hagen, mortally incensed at the slaughter of the Burgundians by the Huns, and wrongly suspecting Etzel of conspiracy in the affair, drew his sword, and with one blow of the weapon smote off the head of young Ortlieb, the son of Etzel and Kriemhild. Then began a slaughter grim and great. The Huns fought at first in self-defence, but as they saw their friends fall they laid on in good earnest and the combat became general. At length Dietrich of Bern, as a neutral, intervened, and succeeded in bringing about a half-truce, whereby Etzel, Kriemhild, and Rüdiger were permitted to leave the hall, the remainder of Etzel�s attendants being slaughtered like sheep. In great wrath Etzel and Kriemhild offered heavy bribes to any who would slay Hagen. Several attempts were made, but without avail; and the terrible conflict continued till nightfall, when a truce was called. From his place of vantage in the hall Giselher reproached his sister with her treachery, and Kriemhild offered to spare her brothers if they would consent to give up Hagen. But this offer they contemptuously refused, holding death preferable to such dishonour. Kriemhild, in her bitter hate, set the hall on fire, and most of the Burgundians perished in the conflagration. Kriemhild and the Huns were astounded, however, when in the morning they discovered six hundred of the Burgundians were still alive. The queen appealed to Rüdiger to complete the slaughter, but he, aghast at the idea of attacking friends whom he had sworn to protect, was about to refuse, when Kriemhild reminded him of his oath to her. With sorrow he proceeded to fulfil his promise, and Giselher, seeing his approach, imagined he came as an ally. But Rüdiger promptly disillusioned him. The Burgundians were as loath to attack Rüdiger as he them, and Hagen and he exchanged shields. The combat recommenced, and great was the slaughter of the Burgundians, until Gernot and Rüdiger came together and slew one another. At this, Wolfhart, Dietrich of Bern�s lieutenant, led his men against the Burgundians to avenge Rüdiger�s death, and Giselher and Wolfhart slew one another. Volker and Dankwart were also slain. At length all were dead save Gunther and Hagen, whom Dietrich accosted and whom he offered to save. But this offer Hagen refused. Then the Lord of Bern grew wroth. Dietrich Intervenes Dietrich then donned his armour and was assisted to accoutre himself by Hildebrand. He felt a heroic mood inspire him, a good sword was in his hand, and a stout shield was on his arm, and with the faithful Hildebrand he went boldly thence. Hagen espied him coming and said: �Yonder I see Sir Dietrich. He desires to join battle with us after his great sorrow. To-day shall we see to whom must go the palm. I fear him not. Let him come on.� This speech was not unheard of Dietrich and Hildebrand, for Hagen came to where he found the hero leaning against the wall of the house. Dietrich set his shield on the ground and in woeful tones said: �O king, wherefore have ye treated me so? All my men are gone, I am bereft of all good, Knight Rüdiger the brave and true is slain. Why have ye done these things? Never should I have worked you such sorrow. Think on yourselves and on your wrongs. Do ye not grieve for the death of your good kinsmen? Ah, how I mourn the fall of Rüdiger! Whatsoever joy I have known in life that have ye slain. It is not for me to sorrow if my kin be slain.� �How so, Dietrich?� asked Hagen. �Did not your men come to this hall armed from head to heel with intent to slay us?� Then spake Dietrich of Bern. �This is fate�s work and not the doing of man,� said the hero. �Gunther, thou hast fought well. Yield thee now as hostage, no shame shall it be to thee. Thou shalt find me true and faithful with thee.� �Nay, God forbid,� cried Hagen; �I am still unfettered and we are only two. Would ye have me yield me after such a strife?� �Yet would I save thy life, brave and noble Hagen,� said Dietrich earnestly. �Yield thee, I beg, and I will convoy thee safe home to Rhineland.� �Nay, cease to crave this thing,� replied Hagen angrily. �Such a tale shall never be told of me. I see but two of ye, ye and Hildebrand.� Hildebrand, addressing Hagen, then said that the hour would come when he would gladly accept the truce his lord offered, but Hagen in reply twitted Hildebrand with the manner in which he had fled from the hall. Dietrich interrupted them, saying that it ill beseemed heroes to scold like ancient beldams, and forbade Hildebrand to say more. Then, seeing that Hagen was grim of mood, Dietrich snatched up his shield. A moment later Hagen�s sword rang on his helm, but the Lord of Bern guarded him well against the dreadful blows. Warily did he guard him against Hagen�s mighty falchion Balmung. At last he dealt Hagen a wound deep and wide. But he did not wish to slay him, desiring rather to have such a hero as hostage. Casting away his shield, in his arms he gripped Hagen of Trony, who, faint from loss of blood, was overthrown. At that Gunther began to wail greatly. Dietrich then bound Hagen and led him to where stood Kriemhild and gave him into her hand. Right merry was she at the sight and blessed Dietrich, bowing low before him, telling him that he had requited her of all her woes, and that she would serve him until death. But Dietrich begged Hagen�s life of the Queen, telling her that he would requite her of all that he had done against her. �Let him not suffer,� said he, �because you see him stand there bound.� But she ordered that Hagen be led away to durance. Dietrich then went to where Gunther stood in the hall and engaged him in strife. Loudly rang the swords as the two heroes circled in fight, dealing mighty blows on each other�s helm, and men there had great wonder how Sir Dietrich did not fall, so sorely angry was Gunther for the loss of Hagen. But the King�s blood was seen to ooze through his armourings, and as he grew fainter Dietrich overcame him as he had done Hagen and bound him. Then was he too taken before Kriemhild, and once again the noble Dietrich begged a life from the Queen. This she gladly promised, but treachery was in her heart. Then went she to Hagen and said to him that if he would return the Nibelungs� treasure to her he might still go home safe and sound to Burgundy. The grim champion answered that she wasted her words, and that he had sworn an oath not to show the hoard while any of his lords still lived. At that answer a terrible thought entered the mind of Kriemhild, and without the least compunction she ordered that her brother Gunther�s life be taken. They struck off his head like that of a common malefactor, and by the hair she carried it to the Knight of Trony. Full sorrowfully he gazed upon it, then turning his eyes away from the haggard and distorted features, he said to Kriemhild: �Dead is the noble King of Burgundy, and Giselher, and Gernot also. Now none knoweth of the treasure save me, and it shall ever be hid from thee, thou fiend.� The Death of Hagen and Kriemhild Greatly wroth was Kriemhild when she heard that her stratagem had come to naught. �Full ill have ye requited me, Sir Hagen,� she cried fiercely, and drawing the sword of Siegfried from its sheath, she raised it with both hands and struck off the Burgundian�s head. Amazed and sorrowful was King Etzel when he saw this. �Alas,� cried he, �that such a hero should die bound and by the hands of a woman. Here lieth the best of knights that ever came to battle or bore a shield. Sorely doth this deed grieve me, however much I was his foe.� Then spake old Hildebrand, full of horror that such a thing had come to pass, �Little shall it profit her that she hath slain him so foully,� he cried; �whatever hap to me, yet will I avenge bold Hagen.� With these words he rushed at Kriemhild. Loudly did she cry out, but little did that avail her, for with one great stroke Hildebrand clove her in twain. The victims of fate lay still. Sorely wept Dietrich and Etzel. So ended the high feast in death and woe. More is not to be said. Let the dead rest. Thus fell the Nibelungs, thus was accomplished the fate of their house! The place of origin of the Nibelungenlied is much disputed, a number of scholars arguing for its Scandinavian genesis, but it may be said that the consensus of opinion among modern students of the epic is that it took its rise in Germany, along the banks of the Rhine, among the Frankish division of the Teutonic folk. Place-names lend colour to this assumption. Thus in the Odenwald we have a Siegfried Spring; a Brunhild Bed is situated near Frankfort; there is a Hagen Well at Lorch, and the Drachenfels, or Dragon�s Rock, is on the banks of the Rhine. Singularly enough, however, if we desire a full survey of the Nibelungenlied story, we have to supplement it from earlier versions in use among the peoples of Scandinavia and Iceland. These are distinctly of a more simple and early form than the German versions, and it is to be assumed that they represent the original Nibelungenlied story, which was preserved faithfully in the North, whereas the familiarity of its theme among the Southern Teutons caused it to be altered again and again for the sake of variety, until to some extent it lost its original outline. Moreover, such poems as the Norse Volsunga Saga and Thidreks Saga, not to speak of other and lesser epics, afford many details relating to the Nibelungenlied which it does not contain in its present form. It may be interesting to give a summary of the Volsunga Saga, which is a prose paraphrase of the Edda Songs. The Volsunga Saga The epic deals with the history of the treasure of the Nibelungs, and tells how a certain Hreithmar had it given him by the god Loki as a weregild for the slaying of the former�s son, Otur or Otter, who occasionally took the shape of that animal. Loki in his turn obtained the ransom from the dwarf Andwari, who had stolen it from the river-gods of the Rhine. The dwarf, incensed at losing the treasure, pronounced a most dreadful curse upon it and its possessors, saying that it would be the death of those who should get hold of it. Thus Hreithmar, its first owner, was slain in his sleep by his son Fafnir, who carried the treasure away to the Gnita Heath, where, having taken the form of a dragon, he guarded it. The treasure�and the curse�next passed into the keeping of Sigurd (the Norse form of Siegfried), a descendant of the race of the Volsungs, a house tracing its genealogy back to the god Woden. The full story of Sigurd�s ancestry it is unnecessary to deal with here, as it has little influence on the connexion of the story of the Volsungs with the Nibelungenlied. Sigurd came under the tutelage of Regin, the son of Hreithmar and brother of Fafnir, received the magic steed Grani from the king, and then was requested by Regin to assist him in obtaining the treasure guarded by Fafnir. After forging a sword for himself out of the fragments of a blade left by his father Siegmund, he avenged his father�s death and then set out to attack Fafnir. Meeting Woden, he was advised by the god to dig a ditch in the dragon�s path. Encountering Fafnir, he slew him and the dragon�s blood ran into the ditch, without which he would have been drowned by the flood of gore from the monster. As the dragon died he warned Sigurd against the treasure and its curse and against Regin, who, he said, was planning Sigurd�s death. When Regin saw that the dragon was quite dead, he crept from his hiding-place and quaffed its blood. Then, cutting out the heart, he begged Sigurd to roast it for him. In this operation Sigurd burnt his fingers and instinctively thrust them in his mouth, thus tasting of the dragon�s blood, whereupon he was surprised to find that he comprehended the language of the birds. Hearkening intently to the strange, new sounds, he learned that if he himself should eat the heart, then he would be wiser than anyone in the world. The birds further betrayed Regin�s evil intentions, and advised Sigurd to kill him. Seeing his danger, Sigurd went to where Regin was and cut off his head and ate Fafnir�s heart. Following once again the advice of the birds, he brought the treasure from the cave and then journeyed to the mountain Hindarfjall, where he rescued the sleeping Valkyr, Brynhild or Brunhild, who had been pierced by the sleep-thorn of Woden and lay in slumber clad in full armour within a castle, surrounded by a hedge of flame. Mounting his horse Grani, Sigurd rode through the fiery obstacle to the gate of the castle. He entered it, and, finding the maiden asleep, cut the armour from her with his sword�for during her long slumber it had become very tight upon her. Brunhild hailed him with joy, for she had vowed never to marry a man who knew fear. She taught Sigurd much wisdom, and finally they pledged their troth. He then departed, after promising to remain faithful to her. On his travels he arrived at the court of Giuki or Gibicho, a king whose domains were situated on the Lower Rhine. Three sons had he, Gunnar, Hogni, and Gutthorm, and a daughter Gudrun, a maiden of exquisite beauty. His queen bore the name of Grimhild, and was deeply versed in magical science, but was evil of nature. They received Sigurd with much honour. Grimhild knew of his relations with Brunhild, and gave him a potion which produced forgetfulness of the war-maiden, so that he accepted the hand of Gudrun which Giuki offered him. The marriage was celebrated with great splendour, and Sigurd remained at Giuki�s court, much acclaimed for his deeds of skill and valour. Grimhild meanwhile urged upon her son Gunnar to sue for the hand of Brunhild. He resolved to accept her advice and set out to visit her, taking with him Sigurd and a few other friends. He first visited Brunhild�s father Budli, and afterward her brother-in-law Heimir, from whom he heard that Brunhild was free to choose the man she desired, but that she would espouse no one who had not ridden through the hedge of flame. They proceeded to Brunhild�s castle. Gunnar attempted to pierce the flames, but was unable to do so even when seated on Sigurd�s horse, for Grani would not stir, knowing well that it was not his master who urged him on. At last they made use of a potion that had been given them by Grimhild, and Sigurd, in the shape of Gunnar, rode through the wall of fire. He explained to the war-maiden that he was the son of Giuki and had come to claim her hand. The destiny laid upon her by Woden compelled her to consent, but she did so with much reluctance. Sigurd then passed three nights at her side, placing his sword Gram between them as a bar of separation; but at parting he drew from her finger the ring with which he had originally plighted his troth to her, and replaced it with another taken from Fafnir�s hoard. Shortly afterward the wedding of Gunnar and Brunhild was celebrated with lavish splendour, and they all returned to Giuki�s court. Matters progressed happily for some time, until one day Brunhild and Gudrun went to bathe in the river. Brunhild refused to bathe farther down the stream than Gudrun�that is, in the water which flowed from Gudrun to her�asserting that her husband was the son of a king, while Sigurd had become a menial. Gudrun retorted to her sister-in-law that not Gunnar, but Sigurd had penetrated the hedge of fire and had taken from her the ring, which she then showed to Brunhild in proof of her words. A second and even more disturbing conversation followed, which served only to increase the hatred between the women, and Brunhild planned a dreadful vengeance. She feigned illness, retired to her bed, and when Gunnar inquired what ailed her, asked him if he recalled the circumstances of their wooing, and how Sigurd, and not he, rode through the flames to win her. So furious was she at the dreadful insult which had been placed upon her by Gudrun that she attempted to take Gunnar�s life. She still loved Sigurd, and could never forgive Gunnar and his sister for robbing her of him. So terrible was her grief that she sank into a deep slumber in which she remained for seven days, no one daring to waken her. Finally Sigurd succeeded in doing so, and she lamented to him how cruelly she had been deceived; she declared that he and she had been destined for one another, and that now she had received for a husband a man who could not match with him. Sigurd begged her not to harbour a grudge against Gunnar, and told her of his mighty deeds�how that he had slain the king of the Danes, and also the brother of Budli, a great warrior�but Brunhild did not cease to lament, and planned Sigurd�s death, threatening Gunnar with the loss of his dominions and his life if he would not kill Sigurd. Gunnar hesitated for a long time, but at length consented, and calling Hogni, ordered him to slay Sigurd that they might thus obtain the treasure of the Rhinegold. Hogni was aghast at this, and reminded him that they had pledged their oaths to Sigurd. Then Gunnar remembered that his brother Gutthorm had sworn no oath of loyalty to Sigurd, and so might perform the deed. They plied him with wolf and snake meat to eat, so that he might become savage by nature, and they tried to excite his greed with tales of the Rhinegold treasure. Twice did Gutthorm make the attempt as Sigurd lay in bed, but twice he was deterred from slaying him by the hero�s penetrating glance. The third time, however, he found him asleep and pierced him with his sword. Sigurd awoke and hurled his own sword after Gutthorm, cutting him in two. He then died, stating that he knew Brunhild to be the instigator of the murder. Gudrun�s grief was frantic, and at this Brunhild laughed aloud as if with joy; but later she became more grief-stricken than Sigurd�s wife herself, and determined to be done with life. Donning her richest array, she pierced herself with a sword. As she expired she requested to be burned on Sigurd�s funeral pyre, and also prophesied that Gudrun would marry Atli, and that the death of many heroes would be caused thereby. Gudrun�s Adventure Gudrun in her great sorrow fled to the court of King Half of Denmark, at which she tarried for seven years. Her mother Grimhild learned of her place of concealment and attempted to bring about a reconciliation between her and Gunnar. She was offered much treasure if she would marry Atli, King of the Huns, and finally she consented. Atli became covetous of Gunnar�s wealth�for the latter had taken possession of the Rhinegold�and invited him to his court. But Gudrun sent a message of warning to her brother. The runes which composed this, however, were so manipulated by Vingi, one of the messengers, that they read as a harmless invitation instead of a warning, and this Gunnar and Hogni determined to accept. They reached Atli�s court in due season, and as they arrived Vingi disclosed his true character, stating that he had lured them into a snare. Hogni slew him, and as they rode to Atli�s dwelling the Hunnish king and his sons armed themselves for battle and demanded Sigurd�s treasure, which they declared belonged by right to Gudrun. Gunnar refused to part with it, and a great combat began. Gudrun armed herself and fought on the side of her brothers. A fierce battle raged with great loss on both sides, until nearly all the Nibelungs were slain, and Gunnar and Hogni, forced to yield to the power of numbers, were captured and bound. Gunnar was now asked if he would purchase his life with the treasure, and he replied eventually that he would do so if he were given Hogni�s heart. To humour his request the Huns cut out the heart of a slave and brought it to him; but Gunnar saw through the stratagem and recognized the heart as that of a coward. They then cut out Hogni�s heart, and Gunnar, seeing that this was indeed the heart of a prince, was glad, for now he alone knew where the treasure of the Rhinegold was hid, and he vowed that Atli should never know of its whereabouts. In great wrath the Hunnish monarch ordered Gunnar to be thrown into a pit of snakes. His hands were bound, yet the hero from the Rhine played so exquisitely with his toes on a harp which Gudrun had sent to him that he lulled to sleep all the reptiles�with the exception of an adder, which stung him to the heart so that he died. Atli, spurning the bodies of the fallen, turned to Gudrun, saying that she alone was to blame for what had happened. That evening she killed her two sons, Erp and Eitil, and served their flesh at the banquet which the King was giving for his warriors. When Atli asked for the boys to be brought to him, he was told that he had drunk their blood in his wine and had eaten their hearts. That night, while he slept, Gudrun took Hogni�s son Hnifling, who desired to avenge his slaughtered father, and entering Atli�s chamber, the young man thrust a sword through the breast of the Hunnish king. He awoke through the pain of his wound, and was informed by Gudrun that she was his murderess. He bitterly reproached her, only to be told that she cared for no one but Sigurd. Atli�s last request was that his obsequies should be such as were fitting for a king, and to ensure that he had proper funeral rites Gudrun set fire to his castle and burnt his body together with those of his dead retainers. The further adventures of Gudrun are related in certain songs in the Edda, but the Volsunga Saga proper ends with the death of Atli. Comparisons between the Epics We see from this account that the Volsunga Saga presents in many respects an older form of the Nibelungenlied story. Sigurd is the same as Siegfried; Gunnar, Hogni, and Gudrun are parallels with Gunther, Hagen, and Kriemhild�although, strangely enough, that name is also borne by Gudrun�s mother in the Volsunga Saga. We will recall that the events detailed in the first part of the lay of the Volsungs are vaguely alluded to in the Nibelungenlied, which assures us that the connexion we have thus drawn is a correct one. Myth or History? We come now to the vexed question as to whether the Nibelungenlied is mythical or historical in origin. This question has been approached by certain scholars who, because of their lack of mythological knowledge, have rendered themselves ridiculous in attempting elucidations on a purely historical basis. An entirely mythological origin is not here pleaded for the Nibelungenlied, but it should surely be recognized, even by the historian who is without mythological training, that no story of any antiquity exists which does not contain a substantial substratum of mythical circumstance. So speedy is the crystallization of myth around the nucleus of historical fact, and so tenacious is its hold, that to disentangle it from the factors of reality is a task of the most extreme difficulty, requiring careful handling by scholars who possess a wide and accurate knowledge of mythological processes. Even to-day, when students of history have recovered from the first shock of the intrusion into their domain of the mythologist and the folklorist, so much remains to be effected in the disentanglement of what is believed to be absolute historical fact from the mythical growths which surround it that, were they conscious of the labour which yet remains in this respect, even the most advanced of our present-day historians would stand aghast at the task which awaits their successors. In the Nibelungenlied we have a case in point. What the exact mythological elements contained in it represent it would indeed be difficult to say. Students of the Müllerian school have seen in Siegfried a sun-god, who awakens Brunhild, a nature goddess. This aspect is not without its likelihood, for in one passage Brunhild tells how Odin thrust into her side a thorn�evidently the sharp sting of icy winter�and how the spell rendered her unconscious until awakened by Siegfried. There are many other mythological factors in the story, and either a diurnal or seasonal myth may be indicated by it. But it would require a separate volume to set forth the arguments in favour of a partial mythological origin of the Nibelungenlied. One point is to be especially observed�a point which we have not so far seen noted in a controversy where it would have seemed that every special circumstance had been laboured to the full�and that is that, besides mythological matter entering into the original scheme of the Nibelungenlied, a very considerable mass of mythical matter has crystallized around it since it was cast into its first form. This will be obvious to any folklorist of experience who will take the trouble to compare the Scandinavian and German versions. The Historical Theory Abeling and Boer, the most recent protagonists of the historical theory, profess to see in the Nibelungenlied the misty and confused traditions of real events and people. Abeling admits that it contains mythical elements, but identifies Siegfried with Segeric, son of the Burgundian king Sigismund, Brunhild with the historical Brunichildis, and Hagan with a certain Hagnerius. The basis of the story, according to him, is thus a medley of Burgundian historical traditions round which certain mythological details have crystallized. The historical nucleus is the overthrow of the Burgundian kingdom of Gundahar by the Huns in A.D. 436. Other events, historical in themselves, were torn from their proper epochs and grouped around this nucleus. Thus the murder of Segeric, which happened eighty-nine years later, and the murder of Attila by his Burgundian wife Ildico, are torn from their proper historical surroundings and fitted into the story. Boer, on the other hand, will not have it that there is any mythology at all in the Nibelungenlied, and, according to him, the nucleus of the legend is an old story of the murder of relatives. This became grafted on the Siegfried legend according to some authorities, but Boer will not admit this, and presents a number of arguments to disprove the mythical character of the Siegfried story. The reasoning is ingenious, but by no means valuable. We know that the mythologies of the ancient Germans and the Scandinavians were in many respects, though not in all, one and the same system, and we find many of the characters of the Nibelungenlied among the divine beings alluded to in the Edda. It is unlikely that the dramatis personae of a German murder story would find its way into even the most decadent form of Scandinavian belief. There is every reason to conclude that a great many historical elements are to be discovered in the Nibelungenlied, but to discount entirely those which are mythical is absurd and even more futile than it would be to deny that many of the incidents related in the great epic reflect in some measure historical events. The Klage The Klage, a sequel to the Nibelungenlied, recounts somewhat tamely the events which follow upon the dire catastrophe pictured in the great German epic. It is on the whole more modern than the Lied, and most critics ascribe it to a period so late as the fourteenth century. It is highly artificial and inartistic, and Grimm points out that it is obvious that in penning it the author did not have the Nibelungenlied, as we know it, before him. As it is practically unknown to English-speaking readers, a résumé of it may not be out of place here. It describes the search among the dead bodies in the house of slaughter, the burying of them, the journey of Etzel�s �fiddler,� Swemmelin, to the Rhine by way of Bechlarn and Passau to give the tidings of the massacre to Queen Brunhild, his return, and the final parting from Etzel of Dietrich and his wife Herrat, who also take Bechlarn on their way. Level and poor as the narrative is, it reaches pathos in the description of the arrival of the messengers at Bechlarn. To spare his niece (Gotelint) Dietrich tells them not to mention the terrible events which have happened, but to say that he and Rüdiger will soon come to see her, or at all events himself. They are received with great rejoicing�Gotelint and her daughter think �both to receive love without sorrow, as often before, from beloved glances.� The young margravine has a foreboding of evil at seeing the messengers so few�only seven. Then her mother tells her of an evil dream which she has had, and she in turn has to tell of another which has come to herself. Meanwhile the messengers are at hand, and are observed to be sad. They give to Rüdiger�s wife the false tidings of peace which they have been instructed to relate, and the younger lady wonders that her father should have sent no message to herself specially. The ladies continue to question the messengers about Kriemhild: how has she received her brother? what did she say to Hagen? what to Gunther? How is it, asks the younger one, that Giselher has sent her never a message? Each lying answer costs the speaker more and more sorrow, and at last his tears begin to flow. The young margravine exclaims that there must be ill news, that evil has befallen them, and that the guests and her father must be dead. As she speaks one of the messengers can contain himself no longer, and a cry breaks with blood from his mouth. All his companions burst into tears at the same time. The margravine conjures them by their troth to tell how they parted from her husband, saying that the lie must have an end. �Then spake the fiddler, Swemmelin the messenger: �Lady, we wished to deny to you that which we yet must say, since no man could conceal it; after this hour, ye see Margrave Rüdiger no more alive.�� The margravine, we are afterward told, dies of grief at the news, as does old Queen Ute at her abbey of Lors. Brunhild survives, and is prevailed upon by her vassals to have her son crowned. Etzel, after parting with Dietrich, loses his mind; according to another version, his fate remains altogether uncertain. Dietelint, the young margravine, is taken under Dietrich�s protection, who promises to find her a husband. Bishop Pilgrin has the story written out in Latin letters, �that men should deem it true.� A writer, Master Konrad, then began to set it down in writing; since then it has been often set to verse in Teuton tongues; old and young know well the tale. �Of their joy and of their sorrow I now say to you no more; this lay is called Ein Klage.� Walthar of Aquitaine One of the grandest and most heroic epics of the great age of romance is that of Walthar of Aquitaine. It is indissolubly connected with the Rhine and with the city of Worms because in the vicinity the hero whose feats of arms it celebrates fought his greatest battle. It was written in monkish Latin at any time between the eighth and ninth centuries, and is connected with later versions of the Nibelungenlied, which contains numerous allusions to it. Founded upon traditional materials collected and edited by some gifted occupant of the cloister, it opens in the grand manner by telling how the empire of the Huns had already lasted for more than a thousand years, when Attila invaded the territory of the Franks, ruled over by Gibicho. Gibicho, trembling for his throne, by the advice of his counsellors determined to pay tribute and give hostages to the terrible Hun; but as his son Gunther was too young to be sent as a hostage, he put in his place a noble youth named Hagen, and paying the invaders a great indemnity in treasure, thus secured the safety of his kingdom. The Huns then turned their attention to the Burgundians, whose king Herric had an only daughter, the beautiful Hildegund. Herric shut himself up in the town of Châlons, and calling together his ministers imparted to them his deliberations. �Since the Franks, who are so much stronger than we, have yielded,� he said, �how can we of Burgundy hope to triumph against such a host? I will give my daughter Hildegund as a hostage to the Huns. Better that one should suffer than that the realm should be laid waste.� The Huns accepted Hildegund as a hostage, and with much treasure turned their faces westward to the kingdom of Aquitaine, whose king, Alphere, had an only son, Walthar, who was already affianced to Hildegund. He, too, had to give up his son as hostage and pay tribute. Although ruthless as an invader and cruel as a conqueror, Attila displayed the utmost kindness to the children. He treated them in every way as befitted their rank, and handing the girl over to the queen, had the boys trained in martial exercises and intellectual arts, till in a few years� time they easily surpassed all of the Huns in every accomplishment that becomes a knight. So greatly did Attila�s queen trust the maiden, Hildegund, that she placed in her charge all the treasures Attila had won in war. Life was pleasant for the youthful hostages, but one day news came to the ear of Attila that Gibicho was dead and that Gunther was his successor. Learning this, Hagen succeeded in making his escape by night, and fearing that Walthar would follow his example, Attila�s queen suggested to her husband that he should marry the youthful warrior, who had greatly distinguished himself at the head of the Huns, to a Hunnish maiden. But Walthar had no mind for such a match and declared himself unworthy of marriage, urging that if wedded he might neglect his military duties, and declaring that nothing was so sweet to him as for ever to be busy in the faithful service of his lord. Attila, never doubting him, and lulled from all suspicion by further victories won by him over a rebellious people, dismissed the matter from his mind; but on returning from his successful campaign Walthar had speech with Hildegund on the subject of their betrothal, hitherto untouched between them. At first she thought that he merely mocked her, but he protested that he was weary of exile, was anxious to escape, and would have fled ere this but that it grieved him to leave her alone at the Hunnish court. Her reply is one characteristic of women in medieval days. �Let my lord command,� she said; �I am ready for his love to bear evil hap or good.� She then provided him, out of the treasure-chests of Attila, with helm, hauberk, and breast-plate. They filled two chests with Hunnish money in the shape of golden rings, placed four pairs of sandals on the top and several fish-hooks, and Walthar told Hildegund that all must be ready in a week�s time. The Escape On the seventh day after this Walthar gave a great feast to Attila, his nobles, and his household. He pressed food and wine on the Huns, and when their platters were clear and the tables removed, he handed to the king a splendid carven goblet, full to the brim of the richest and oldest wine. This Attila emptied at a draught, and ordered all his men to follow his example. Soon the wine overcame the Huns, who, pressed by Walthar, caroused so deeply that all were at last rendered unconscious. Walthar gave the sign to Hildegund, and they slipped from the hall and from the stable took his noble war-horse Lion, so named for his courage. They hung the treasure-chests like panniers on each flank of the charger, and taking with them some food for the journey, set off. Hildegund took the reins, Walthar in full armour sitting behind her. All night they did not draw rein, and during the day they hid in the gloomy woods. At every breath, at the snapping of a twig, or the chirping of a bird, Hildegund trembled. They avoided the habitations of men and skirted the mountains, where but few faces were to be seen, and so they made good their flight. But the Huns, roused from their drunken sleep, gazed around stupidly and cried loudly for Walthar, their boon companion as they thought, but nowhere was he to be found. The queen, too, missed Hildegund and, realizing that the pair had escaped, made loud wail through the palace. Angry and bewildered, Attila could touch neither food nor drink. Enraged at the manner in which he had been deceived, he offered great gifts to him who would bring back Walthar in chains; but none of the Hunnish champions considered themselves fit for such a task, and at length the hue and cry ceased, and Walthar and Hildegund were left to make their way back to Aquitaine as best they could. Full of the thought that they were being pursued, Walthar and the maiden fled onward. He killed the birds of the wood and caught fish to supply them with food. His attitude to Hildegund was one of the deepest chivalry, and he was ever mindful for her comfort. Fourteen days had passed when at last, issuing from the darkness of the forest, they beheld the silver Rhine gleaming in the sunlight and spied the towers of Worms. At length he found a ferry, but, fearing to make gossip in the vicinity, he paid the ferryman with fishes, which he had previously caught. The ferryman, as it chanced, sold the fish to the king�s cook, who dressed them and placed them before his royal master. The monarch declared that there were no such fishes in France, and asked who had brought them to Worms. The ferryman was summoned, and related how he had ferried over an armed warrior, a fair maiden, and a great war-horse with two chests. Hagen, who sat at the king�s table, exclaimed full joyfully: �Now will I avow that this is none other than my comrade Walthar returning from the Hunnish land.� �Say ye so?� retorted King Gunther. �It is clear that by him the Almighty sends me back the treasure of my father Gibicho.� So ordered he a horse to be brought, and taking with him twelve of his bravest chiefs besides Hagen, who sought in vain to dissuade him, he went in search of Walthar. The Cave Journeying from the banks of the Rhine, Walthar and the maiden had by this time reached the forest of the Vosges. They halted at a spot where between two hills standing close together is situated a pleasant and shady cave, not hollowed out in the earth, but formed by the beetling of the rocks, a fit haunt for bandits, carpeted with green moss. But little sleep had Walthar known since his escape from the Hunland, so, spying this cool retreat, he crept inside it to rest. Putting off his heavy armour, he placed his head on Hildegund�s lap, bidding her keep watch and wake him by a touch if she saw aught of danger. But the covetous Gunther had seen his tracks in the dust, and ever urging on his companions soon came near the cave where Walthar reposed. Hagen warned him of Walthar�s powers as a champion, and told him that he was too great a warrior to permit himself to be despoiled easily. Hildegund, noticing their approach, gently aroused Walthar, who put on his armour. At first she thought the approaching band were Huns pursuing them, and implored him to slay her; but Walthar smilingly bade her be of good cheer, as he had recognized Hagen�s helm. He was evidently aware, however, of the purpose for which he had been followed, and going to the mouth of the cave, he addressed the assembled warriors, telling them that no Frank should ever return to say that he had taken aught of his treasure unpunished. Hagen advised a parley in case Walthar should be ready to give up the treasure without bloodshed, and Camillo, the prefect of Metz, was sent to him for this purpose. Camillo told him that if he would give up his charger, the two chests, and the maiden, Gunther would grant him life; but Walthar laughed in his face. �Go tell King Gunther,� he said, �that if he will not oppose my passage I will present him with one hundred armlets of red metal.� Hagen strongly advised the king to accept the offer, for on the night before he had had an evil dream of a bear which tore off one of the king�s legs in conflict, and put out one of his own eyes when he came to Gunther�s aid. Gunther replied with a sneer, and Hagen, greatly humiliated, declared that he would share neither the fight nor the spoil. �There is your foe,� he said. �I will stay here and see how you fare at his hands.� Now only one warrior could attack Walthar at a time. It is needless to go into details of his several conflicts, which are varied with very considerable skill and fancy, but all of which end in his triumph. The sixth champion he had to meet was Patavrid, sister�s son to Hagen, who vainly endeavoured to restrain him, but who also was worsted, and after the fall of the next warrior the Franks themselves urged Gunther to end the combat; but he, furious at his want of success, only drove them to it the more vehemently. At last four of them made a combined attack on Walthar, but because of the narrowness of the path they could not come at him with any better success than could one single warrior, and they too were put out of the fight. Then Gunther was left alone and, fleeing to Hagen, besought him to come to his aid. Long did Hagen resist his entreaties, but at last he was moved by Gunther�s description of the manner in which his kinsfolk had been slain by Walthar. Hagen�s advice was to lure Walthar into the open, when both should attack him, so Hagen and the king departed and selected a spot for an ambush, letting their horses go loose. Uncertain of what had passed between Hagen and the king, Walthar decided upon remaining in the cave till the morning, so after placing bushes around the mouth of the cave to guard against a surprise, he gave thanks to heaven for his victory. Rising from his knees, he bound together the six horses which remained, then, loosing his armour, comforted Hildegund as best he might and refreshed himself with food, after which he lay down upon his shield and requested the maiden to watch during his sleep. Although she was tired herself, Hildegund kept awake by singing in a low tone. After his first sleep Walthar rose refreshed, and bidding Hildegund rest herself, he stood leaning upon his spear, keeping guard at the cave-mouth. When morning had come he loaded four of the horses with spoils taken from the dead warriors, and placing Hildegund on the fifth, mounted the sixth himself. Then with great caution he sent forward first of all the four laden horses, then the maiden, and closed the rear with the horse bearing the two treasure-chests. For about a mile they proceeded thus, when, looking backward, Hildegund espied two men riding down the hill toward them and called to Walthar to flee. But that he would not do, saying: �If honour falls, shame shall attend my last hour.� He bade her take the reins of Lion, his good charger, which carried the gold, and seek refuge in the neighbouring wood, while he ascended the hill to await his enemies. Gunther advanced, hurling insulting epithets at the champion, who ignored him, but turned to Hagen, appealing to their old friendship and to the recollections of the many hours of childhood they had spent together. He had thought that Hagen would have been the first to welcome him, would have compelled him to accept his hospitality, and would have escorted him peacefully to his father�s kingdom. If he would break his fealty to Gunther, said Walthar, he should depart rich, his shield full of red gold. Irritated at such an offer, Hagen replied that he would not be deluded, and that for Walthar�s slaying of his kinsmen he must have vengeance. So saying, he hurled his spear at Walthar, which the latter avoided. Gunther then cast a shaft which was equally harmless. Then, drawing their swords and covering themselves with their shields, the Franks sought to close with the Aquitainian, who kept them at bay with his spear. As their shorter swords could not reach past Walthar�s mighty shaft, Gunther attempted to recover the spear which he had cast and which lay before the hero�s feet, and told Hagen to go in front; but as he was about to pick it up from the ground Walthar perceived his device and, placing his foot upon it, flung Gunther on his knees, and would have slain him had not Hagen, rushing to his aid, managed to cover him with his shield. The struggle continued. The hot sunshine came down, and the champions were bathed in sweat. Walthar, tired of the strife, took the offensive, and springing at Hagen, with a great stroke of his spear carried away a part of his armour. Then with a marvellous blow of his sword he smote off the king�s leg as far as the thigh. He would have dispatched him with a second blow, but Hagen threw himself over Gunther�s body and received the sword-stroke on his own head. So well tempered was his helm that the blade flew in flinders, shivered to the handle. Instantly Walthar looked about him for another weapon, but quick as thought Hagen seized the opportunity and cut off his right hand, �fearful to peoples and princes.� But, undismayed, the hero inserted the wounded stump into the shield, and drawing with his left hand a Hunnish half-sword girt to his right side, he struck at Hagen so fiercely that he bereft him of his right eye, cutting deep into the temple and lips and striking out six of his teeth. But neither might fight more: Gunther�s leg, Walthar�s hand, and Hagen�s eye lay on the ground. They sat down on the heath and stanched with flowers the flowing stream of their blood. They called to them Hildegund, who bound up their wounds and brought them wine. Wounded as they were, they cracked many a joke over their cups, as heroes should. �Friend,� said Hagen, �when thou huntest the stag, of whose leather mayest thou have gloves without end, I warn thee to fill thy right-hand glove with soft wool, that thou mayest deceive the game with the semblance of a hand. But what sayest thou to break the custom of thy people in carrying thy sword at thy right side and embracing thy wife with thy left arm?� �Ha,� retorted Walthar, laughing grimly, �thou wilt have to greet the troops of heroes with a side glance. When thou gettest thee home, make thee a larded broth of milk and flour, which will both nourish and cure thee.� Then they placed on horseback the king, who was in sore pain. Hagen bore him back to Worms, whilst Walthar and Hildegund pursued their way to Aquitaine, and, on arrival, magnificently celebrated their wedding. For thirty years did Walthar rule his people after his father�s death. �What wars after this, what triumphs he ever had, behold, my blunted pen refuses to mark. Thou whosoever readest this, forgive a chirping cricket. Weigh not a yet rough voice but the age, since as yet she hath not left the nest for the air. This is the poem of Walthar. Save us, Jesus Christ.� CHAPTER VII�HEIDELBERG TO SÄCKINGEN Heidelberg is known all over the world as one of Germany�s great university towns, as the site of an unrivalled if ruined schloss, and of a view at the junction of the Rhine with the Neckar which is one of the most famous in the world. It lies between lofty hills covered with vineyards and forests, flanked by handsome villas and gardens, and is crowned by its castle, which has suffered equally from siege and the elements, being partially blown up by the French in 1609, and struck by lightning in 1704. The Wolf�s Spring The name of Jette, a beautiful prophetess of the ancient goddess Herthe, is linked with the neighbourhood of Heidelberg by the following tragic tale. When the old heathen gods and goddesses were still worshipped in the Rhine country, a certain priestess of Herthe took up her abode in an ancient grove, where she practised her occult arts so successfully that the fame of her divinations spread far and wide, and men came from all parts of Europe to learn from her what the future had in store for them. Frequently a warrior left her abode with a consuming fire kindled in his breast which would rob him of sleep for many a long night, yet none dared to declare his love to her, for, lovely though she was, there was an air of austerity, an atmosphere of mysticism about her which commanded awe and reverence, and forbade even the smallest familiarity. One evening there came to the grove of Herthe a youth from a far distant land, seeking to know his destiny. All day he had journeyed thitherward, and the dusk had already fallen ere he reached the sacred spot. Jette sat on the glimmering altar-steps, clad in a flowing white robe, while on the altar itself burned a faint and fitful flame. The tall, slender trees, showing fantastic and ghostly in the fading light, made a fitting background for the gleaming shrine; and the elusive, unearthly beauty of the priestess was quite in keeping with the magic scene. Her mantle of austerity had fallen from her; she had forgotten that she was a prophetess; for the moment she was but a woman, full of grace and charm. The youth paused as though held by a spell. �Fair prophetess,� he said in a low voice, fearing to break in rudely upon her meditations, �wilt thou read me my fate?� Jette, roused from her reverie, fixed her startled gaze on the handsome stranger, whose dark, burning eyes met hers in deepest admiration. Something stirred in her heart at the ardent glance, the thrilling tones, and her wonted composure deserted her. �Youth,� she faltered at length, �thou comest at a time when my prophetic skill hath failed me. Ere I tell thee thy fate I must offer sacrifice to Herthe. If thou wilt come to-morrow at this hour I will tell thee what the stars say concerning thy destiny.� It was true that her skill had deserted her under the admiring scrutiny of the young warrior, yet she delayed also because she wished to hear his voice again, to meet the ardent yet courteous glance of his dark eyes. �I will return, O prophetess,� said he, and with that he was gone. Jette�s peace of mind had gone too, it seemed, for she could think of naught but the handsome stranger. On the following evening he returned, and again she delayed to give him the information he sought. He was no less rejoiced than was Jette at the prospect of another meeting. On the third day the priestess greeted him with downcast eyes. �I cannot read thy destiny, youth,� she said; �the stars do not speak plainly. Yet methinks thy star and mine are very close together.� She faltered and paused. �Dost thou love me, Jette?� cried the young man joyfully. �Wilt thou be my bride?� The maiden�s blushing cheeks and downcast glance were sufficient answer. �And wilt thou come with me to my tower?� pursued the youth eagerly. Jette started back in affright. �Nay, that I cannot,� she cried. �A priestess of Herthe is doomed an she marry. If I wed thee we must meet in secret and at night.� �But I will take thee to Walhalla, and Freya shall appease Herthe with her offerings.� Jette shook her head. �Nay,� said she; �it is impossible. The vengeance of Herthe is swift�and awful. I will show thee a spring where we may meet.� She led him to a place where the stream branched off in five separate rivulets, and bade him meet her there on the following night at a certain hour. The lovers then parted, each full of impatience for the return of the hour of meeting. Next evening, when the dusk had fallen on the sacred grove of Herthe, Jette made her way to the rendezvous. The appointed time had not yet arrived, but scarcely had she reached the spot ere she fancied she heard a step among the undergrowth, and turned with a glad smile, prepared to greet her lover. Imagine her dismay when instead of the youth a grisly wolf confronted her! Her shriek of terror was uttered in vain. A moment later the monster had sprung at her throat. Her lover, hastening with eager steps toward the place of meeting, heard the agonized shriek and, recognizing the voice of Jette, broke into a run. He was too late! The monster wolf stood over the lifeless body of his beloved, and though in his despairing fury the youth slew the huge brute, the retribution of Herthe was complete. Henceforth the scene of the tragedy was called the �Wolf�s Spring,� and the legend is enshrined there to this day. The Jester of Heidelberg Considering the wide fame of Rhenish vintages, it is perhaps not surprising that wine should enter as largely into the Rhine legends as the �barley bree� is supposed to enter into Scottish anecdote. In truth there runs through these traditions a stream of Rhenish which plays almost as important a part in them as the Rhine itself. We are told that the Emperor Wenzel sold his crown for a quantity of wine; in the tale connected with Thann, in Alsace, mortar is mixed with wine instead of water, because of the scarcity of the latter commodity during the building of a steeple; while in the legends of �The Devil�s Vineyard,� and �The Cooper of Auerbach� the vintage of Rhineland provides the main interest of the plot. The following quaint little story, attaching to the castle of Heidelberg, is a �Rhenish� tale in every sense of the word. In the days when the Schloss Heidelberg was in its most flourishing state the lord of the castle numbered among his retainers a jester, small of stature and ugly of feature, whose quips and drolleries provided endless amusement for himself and his guests. Prominent among the jester�s characteristics was a weakness for getting tipsy. He was possessed of an unquenchable thirst, which he never lost an opportunity of satisfying. Knowing his peculiarity, some youthful pages in the train of the nobleman were minded to have some amusement at his expense, and they therefore led him to a cellar in which stood a large vat filled with fragrant wine. And there for a time they left him. The jester was delighted at the propinquity of his favourite beverage and decided that he would always remain in the cellar, regaling himself with the vintage. His thirst increased at the prospect, so he produced a gimlet, bored a hole in the vat, and drank and drank till at length he could drink no more; then the fumes of the wine overcame him and he sank down in a drunken stupor. Meanwhile the merry little stream flowed from the vat, covered the floor of the cellar, and rose ever higher. The pages waited at the top of the stairs, listening for the bursts of merriment which were the usual accompaniments of the jester�s drinking bouts; but all was silent as the grave. At last they grew uneasy and crept below in a huddled group. The fool lay quite still, submerged beneath the flood. He had been drowned in the wine. The joke now seemed a sorry one, but the pages consoled themselves with the thought that, after all, death had come to the jester in a welcome guise. The Passing Bells There is a legend connected with the town of Speyer in which poetic justice is meted out to the principal characters, although not until after they have died. The tale concerns itself with the fate of the unfortunate monarch Henry IV. History relates that Henry was entirely unfit to wear the ermine, but weak as he was, and ignominious as was his reign, it was a bitter blow that his own son was foremost among his enemies. At first the younger Henry conspired against his father in secret; outwardly he was a model of filial affection, so that he readily prevailed upon the weak monarch to appoint him as his successor. After that, however, he openly joined himself to his father�s foes; and when the Pope excommunicated the monarch, gradually the Emperor�s following went over to the side of his son, who then caused himself to be invested with imperial honours. The deposed sovereign, deprived of power and supporters, was compelled to go into exile; even his personal freedom was secured only as the price of his renunciation of the crown. Broken and humiliated, feeling intensely the disgrace of his position, he determined to undertake a pilgrimage to Liége, accompanied only by his servant Kurt, who alone of all his train had remained faithful to him. The pilgrimage was successfully accomplished, but ere he could enter upon the return journey the wretched Emperor died, in want and misery, utterly neglected by his kindred. Even after death the Pope�s ban was effective, so that his corpse was not allowed interment for several years. During that period the faithful Kurt kept guard unceasingly over his master�s coffin and would not suffer himself to be drawn therefrom. At length, however, Henry V, under pressure from his princes and nobles, gave orders that his father�s remains be conveyed to Speyer and there interred in the royal vault with such honours as befitted the obsequies of a monarch. The messengers found old Kurt still holding his vigil beside the Emperor�s body, and in recognition of his faithfulness he was permitted to follow the funeral cortege to Speyer. There were in the town certain good and pious folk who were touched by the servant�s devotion, and by these he was kindly treated. But all their kindness and attention could not repair the havoc which his weary vigil and long privations had wrought on his health, and a few months later he followed his master to the grave. Strange to relate, as he expired all the bells of Speyer tolled out a funeral peal such as was accorded to an emperor, and that without being touched by human hands. Meanwhile Henry V also lay dying. All the luxury of his palace could not soothe his last moments; though he was surrounded by courtiers who assumed sorrow and walked softly, and though all his kindred were around him, he saw ever before him the image of his dead father, pointing at him with a grim, accusing finger. Stricken with terror and remorse, and tortured by disease, he longed for death to end his torments, and at last it came. Again the passing bell was tolled by invisible hands, but not this time the peal which announced the passing of an emperor. The citizens heard the awful sound which told that a criminal had paid the law�s last penalty, and asked one another what poor wretch had been executed. Awe and astonishment seized upon everyone when it was known that the Emperor had died, for they knew then that it was no earthly hand that had rung his death-knell. Legends of Windeck Concerning the neighbourhood of Windeck, some eight miles from Baden, several interesting tales are current. The castle itself has long enjoyed the reputation of being haunted by the ghost of a beautiful girl, though when or wherefore this originated tradition does not relate. We are told that a young huntsman, whom the chase had driven thitherward, saw the spectre and was so stricken with her charms that day after day he visited the castle, hoping to see her once more. But being disappointed, he at length took up his solitary abode in the deserted fortress, renouncing his former pursuits and ceasing from all communication with his friends. One day he was found dead in his bed with so peaceful an expression of countenance that those who saw him could not doubt that his end had been a pleasant one. On his finger was a ring of quaint design which he had not been known to wear, and it was whispered among the peasantry that the ghost-maid of Windeck had claimed her lover. The Hennegraben Hard by the Schloss Windeck lay a deep trench, known as the Hennegraben, of which traces may still be found. It is rendered immortal by reason of the following romantic legend, which tells of its magical origin. A certain young knight, lord of the castle of Windeck, for some unknown reason had seized and imprisoned the worthy Dean of Strassburg. It is true that the Churchman was treated with every consideration, more like a guest than a captive, but he nevertheless resented strongly the loss of his liberty, as did also the good folk of Strassburg when they learned what had happened. Two of the Dean�s young kinsfolk resolved to journey to Windeck and beg that their uncle might be set free. On their way thither they had to pass through a forest, where they met an old woman. �Whither away, my pretty boys?� said she. �Will you not tell an old gossip your destination?� The elder of the two replied courteously that they were on their way to Windeck, where their uncle was imprisoned. �Perchance,� he added timidly, �the lord may accept us as hostages till the ransom be paid.� �Perchance,� mimicked the old woman, �aye, perchance! Think you the knight of Windeck will take such lads as you are for hostages?� And in truth they were not an imposing couple�the elder a slim, fragile youth, whose eyes were already tearful at the prospect of confronting his uncle�s captor; while the younger was a mere boy, sanguine and adventuresome as children often are. �I will challenge this knight,� said the boy seriously. �I will draw sword for my uncle, for I also am a knight.� �Hush, Cuno,� said his brother, smiling in spite of himself at the boy�s ardour. �We must not talk of fighting. We must entreat the knight to let our uncle go free.� �What would you have, Imma? Entreat? Nay, that we shall not.� He stopped awkwardly, and his sister�s rising colour showed plainly her embarrassment at having her sex thus suddenly revealed. The old woman looked at her kindly. �I knew from the first that thou wert a maid disguised,� she said. �Go, and God speed you! Tell the knight of Windeck that the people of Strassburg mean to attack his castle on the morrow, and that his only means of resisting them is to dig a deep trench across the one possible approach. But stay�there is no time for that; I will give you something wherewith to dig the trench.� She whistled shrilly and in answer to her call a grey hen fluttered toward her; this she gave to the young people. �When the moon rises,� she said, �take the hen and place it where you wish the trench to be.� Then with a few words to the hen in a strange tongue, she bade the brother and sister farewell and went on her way. The two continued their journey and upon arriving at Windeck they were agreeably surprised in the lord of the castle, for he was young and handsome and very courteous, not at all the ogre they had imagined. In faltering tones Imma told him their mission, conveyed to him the old witch�s warning, and presented the grey hen. When he heard that they proposed to gain their uncle�s freedom by themselves taking his place, the knight regarded his visitors with mingled feelings of pity and astonishment. The gentle, appealing glance of the elder, no less than the naive candour of the younger, appealed to his sympathies. In a very short time Cuno, who had quite forgotten to challenge his host, was on the best of terms with him. Meanwhile the Dean, very impatient and incensed, paced his small chamber like a caged lion, or bemoaned his lost liberty and meditated on the chances of escape. He was roused from a reverie by the sound of familiar voices outside his cell, and a moment later the door was flung open and Cuno entered unceremoniously. �You are free, uncle, you are free! Imma and I have come to save you!� Once more Imma flushed crimson at the revelation of her sex. The astonished knight glanced with a new interest at her beautiful face, with its rosy colour and downcast eyes. Turning to the Dean, he greeted him cordially. �You are free,� he said. �Your nephews have promised to remain with me as hostages till you have provided a ransom,� Then, turning humorously to Imma, he added: �Wilt thou be a soldier in my employ, youth? Or wouldst have a place in my household?� Imma vouchsafed no other reply than a deepening of her colour. She must, however, have found words to utter when, later, the gallant knight begged her seriously to remain at Windeck as his wife�for ere nightfall the old Dean, grumbling and somewhat reluctant, was called upon to consent to his niece�s betrothal. This he did at length, when Imma had joined her entreaties to those of her lover. That night the grey hen was placed as the witch had advised, and it was as she had said. With the dawn the Strassburgers arrived before the castle, to find a newly made trench filled with the castle troopers. When they learned that the Dean was free they called for a truce, and it was not blood, but wine, which flowed that day, for all were invited to share the wedding-feast of Imma and the knight of Windeck. The Klingelkapelle On the road between Gernsbach and Eberstein there once stood an ancient, moss-grown cell. It had been occupied by a beautiful pagan priestess, a devotee of Herthe, but when the preaching of the white monks had begun to spread Christianity among the people she left the neighbourhood. In passing by that way a Christian monk noticed the deserted retreat and took possession of it, issuing at intervals to preach to the inhabitants of the surrounding country. One stormy night as he sat within his cell he fancied he heard a pleading voice mingling with the roar of wind and waters. Going to the door, he beheld a young girl who seemed to be half dead with cold and fatigue. The good monk, who was never indifferent to human suffering, drew her quickly inside, bade her seat herself by the fire, and set food and wine before her. When she had recovered a little from the effects of the storm the hermit questioned her with regard to her presence in such a lonely spot and at such an unseasonable hour. The maid replied that she had once dwelt in just such a pleasant and peaceful cell as that in which she now reposed, but that cruel persecution had driven her from her retreat. �Then you, too, are a hermit?� said the young monk inquiringly, looking down at his fair guest. The wine had brought some colour to her pale cheeks and he could see that she was beautiful, with a beauty beyond that of any maiden he had ever seen. �Yes,� she replied, �I am a priestess of Herthe. This cell in which I beg for shelter was once my own. It was those of your religion who drove me from it.� �You are not a Christian?� asked the monk, startled in spite of himself by the passionate tones in which she spoke. The maiden laughed. �Am I not as beautiful as your Christian maids?� said she. �Am I not human even as they are?� She moved about the cell as she spoke, and picked up a piece of embroidery. �See, this is my handiwork; is it less beautiful because it is not the work of a Christian? Why should we suffer persecution at your hands?� The young monk endeavoured to show that she was unjust in her estimate of his religion. Gravely he told her the story of Christianity, but his thoughts were of her weird beauty and he spake less earnestly than was usual. And the maid, with an appearance of child-like innocence, waited until he had finished his recital. She saw that she had him completely in her power and pressed her advantage to the uttermost. She drew closer to him, raised his hand, and pressed it to her lips. The monk surrendered himself to her caresses, and when at length she begged him to break the symbol of his religion he was too much fascinated to refuse. He raised the cross and would have dashed it to the ground, but at that very moment he heard high above the storm the sound of a bell. Contrite and ashamed, he fell on his knees and prayed for pardon. When he looked up again the girl had disappeared. The hermit found the warning bell suspended on a bough outside his cell; how it came there he never knew, but he was sure that it had been sent to rescue him from the wiles of Satan and he treasured it as a sacred relic. Many came from far and near to see the wonder, and on the site of the cell the monk founded a chapel which became known as the Klingelkapelle, or �Tinkling-chapel.� The Wafer-Nymph of Staufenberg A charming story is linked with the castle of Staufenberg. One day while its owner was out hunting he lost his way in the forest. The day was hot, and the hunter was well-nigh overcome with thirst and fatigue when he entered a pleasant glade in which a spring of limpid water bubbled and sparkled. Having quenched his thirst, he seated himself on a mossy bank to rest before proceeding homeward. Suddenly he saw at a little distance a damsel of unique and marvellous beauty, braiding her wet hair by the side of the spring. He watched her for a time in silence, then, conscious that the damsel had observed his scrutiny, he hastened to her side and courteously begged her permission to remain a little longer in the glade. �You are the lord of these domains,� she replied graciously. �It is I who am grateful to you for suffering me to dwell here.� The young knight protested eagerly that she honoured the forest with her presence, and, indeed, he had already begun to wish that she might dwell not only in the forest but in the schloss itself as his wife and its mistress�for he had fallen in love with her at first sight. Indeed, so ardent was his passion that he could not conceal his infatuation; he told her of his love and begged that she would give him a little hope. The maid�s hesitation only drove him to urge his suit with increasing ardour. �I will say neither �yes� nor �no,�� she replied, smiling. �Meet me to-morrow at this hour and you shall have your answer.� The knight parted reluctantly from the fair lady and promised to return on the following day. When the appointed time arrived he was already at the tryst, eagerly awaiting the approach of his beloved. When at length she came he renewed his pleadings with even greater ardour, and to his unbounded delight the answer was favourable. �I am a water-nymph,� said the lady, �the spirit of the stream from which you drank yesterday. You saw me then for the first time, but I have often seen you in the forest�and I have long loved you.� The knight was more than ever enchanted by this naive confession, and begged that their wedding should not be long delayed. �There is one condition,� said the nymph. �If you marry me you must remain for ever faithful. Otherwise you must suffer death, and I eternal unhappiness.� The knight laughed at the bare idea of his proving unfaithful to his beloved, and his vows were sincere. Shortly afterward they were married, and none supposed the beautiful being to be aught but a very attractive woman; in time there was born to them a little son. The knight adored both wife and child, and for some years lived a life of ideal domestic happiness. But there came a time when another interest entered into his life. Rumours of fighting reached him from France; he saw the knights of neighbouring fortresses leading their troops to the war, and a martial spirit stirred within him. His wife was not slow to observe that his world was no longer bounded by the castle-walls of Staufenberg, and she wisely resolved not to stand in the way of her lord�s ambitions, but rather, if possible, to help them to an honourable realization. So with much labour and skill she made him a strangely wrought belt, which she gave him at once as a love-token and a charm to secure success in battle. She concealed her grief at his departure and bade him farewell bravely. At the head of his troop the knight rode boldly into France and offered his services to a distinguished French leader, to whom he soon became indispensable�so much so, in fact, that the nobleman cast about for a means of retaining permanently in his train a knight of such skill and courage. But he could think of nothing with which to tempt the young man, who was already possessed of gold and lands, till the artless glances of his youngest daughter gave him his cue. For he saw that she had lately begun to look with some favour on the simple knight of Staufenberg, and it occurred to him that the hand of a lady of rank and beauty would be a very desirable bait. Nor was he mistaken, for the gaieties of the Frankish court had dazzled the knight, and the offer of the lady�s hand completely turned his head; not that he felt a great affection for her, but because of the honour done to him. So he accepted the offer and drowned, as best as he could, the remembrance of his wife and child at Staufenberg. Nevertheless he sometimes felt that he was not acting honourably, and at length the struggle between his love for his wife and his pride and ambition became so severe that he determined to consult a priest. The good man crossed himself when he heard the story. �She whom you married is an evil spirit,� said he. �Beneficent spirits do not wed human beings. It is your duty to renounce her at once and do penance for your sin.� Though he hardly found it possible to believe the priest�s assertion, the knight strove to persuade himself that it was true, and that he was really acting virtuously in renouncing the water-nymph and marrying again. So he performed the penances prescribed by the priest, and allowed the wedding preparations to proceed. When the day of his wedding arrived, however, he was strangely perturbed and pale. The rejoicings of the people, the gay processions, even the beautiful bride, seemed to have no interest for him. When the hand of the lady was placed in his he could not repress an exclamation; it was cold to the touch like the hand of a corpse. On returning the wedding procession was obliged to cross a bridge, and as they approached it a great storm arose so that the waters of the stream washed over the feet of the bridegroom�s horse, making it prance and rear. The knight was stricken with deadly terror, for he knew that the doom of which the water-nymph had spoken was about to overtake him. Without a word he plunged into the torrent and was nevermore seen. At the very hour of this tragedy a great storm raged round the castle of Staufenberg, and when it abated the mother and child had disappeared for ever. Yet even now on a stormy night she can still be heard among the tree-tops weeping passionately, and the sound is accompanied by the whimpering of a child. Trifels and Richard Coeur-de-Lion As a troop of horsemen rode through Annweiler toward the castle of Trifels, in which Richard Coeur-de-Lion was imprisoned by the Archduke of Austria, his deadly enemy, the plaintive notes of a familiar lay fell on their ears. The singer was a young shepherd, and one of the knights, a troubadour, asked him to repeat his ditty. The youth complied, and the knight accompanied him as he sang, their voices blending tunefully together. Giving him generous largess, the knight asked the minstrel who had taught him that song. The shepherd replied that he had heard it sung in the castle of Trifels. At this intelligence the stranger appeared highly gratified, and, turning to his companions, ejaculated: �The King is found!� It was evident to the shepherd that the new-comers were friends of Richard, and he warned them earnestly that danger lay before them. Only by guile could they hope to succour their King. The warning was heeded, and the tuneful knight rode forward alone, disguised in a minstrel�s tunic, in which he was welcomed at the castle. His courtly bearing soon won him the favour of the castellan�s pretty niece, who persuaded her uncle to listen to his songs. During one of their stolen interviews the girl betrayed the place where the King of England was imprisoned, and that night, from beneath a window, the minstrel heard his King�s well-remembered voice breathing a prayer for freedom. His hopes being thus confirmed, he took his harp and played the melody which he himself had composed for Richard. The King immediately joined in the familiar lay. When its strains had ended, �Blondel!� cried the captive excitedly. The minstrel cautiously replied by singing another song, telling how he was pledged to liberate his master. But suspicion was aroused, and Blondel was requested to depart on the following day. Deeming it prudent to make no demur, he mounted his horse, after having arranged with the castellan�s niece to return secretly at nightfall. He rode no further than an inn near Annweiler, which commanded a view of the castle. There his host informed him that the Emperor was presently to be crowned at Frankfort, and that on the evening of that day the garrison would celebrate the event by drinking his health. The minstrel said that he would certainly join the company, ordered wine for the occasion, and promised to pay the reckoning. He then withdrew to seek his comrades. At dusk he returned stealthily to the castle, and at his signal the maid appeared at a little postern and admitted him. On the day of the Emperor�s coronation stealthy forms crept among the trees near by the castle, and concealed themselves in the thick foliage of the underbrush. The garrison, gaily dressed, quitted the keep, the drawbridge was lowered, and the men were soon quaffing the choice wine which the stranger had ordered. Meanwhile Blondel had appeared before the postern and had given his accustomed signal; for a time there was no response, and the minstrel was becoming impatient, when the gate was suddenly opened and the maiden appeared. The minstrel now told the girl his reason for coming hither: how he hoped to liberate the captive monarch. As a reward for her connivance he promised to take her with him to England. Then he beckoned to his friends, there was a sudden rush, and armed forms thronged the postern. The frightened maid, dreading lest violence should overtake her uncle, shrieked loudly; but her cries were unheeded, and the English knights pressed into the courtyard. The assailants met with little resistance, seized the keys, threw open the prison door, and liberated their King. The castellan protested loudly, and threatened Richard with mighty words, but all to no purpose. When the garrison returned they were powerless to render aid, for the castellan was threatened with death should his followers attack the castle. In the end a truce was made, and the English were allowed to retire unmolested with their King. Although urged by him, the maid refused to accompany Blondel, so, giving her a gold ring as a memento, he parted from her. Returning again many years afterward, the minstrel once more heard the same song which the King had sung to his harp in the castle of Trifels. Entering the inn, he recognized in the landlord the one-time shepherd-boy. From him he learnt that the castellan had perished by an unknown hand, and that his pretty niece, having, as she thought, plumbed the depths of masculine deceit, had entered the nunnery of Eberstein at Baden. Thann in Alsace Thann is known to legend by two things: a steeple and a field. The steeple was built in a season of great drought. Water had failed everywhere; there was only the thinnest trickle from the springs and fountains with which the people might allay their thirst. Yet, strangely, the vineyards had yielded a wonderful harvest of luscious grapes, and the wine was so abundant that the supply of casks and vessels was insufficient for the demand. Therefore did it happen that the mortar used for building the steeple was mixed with wine, wherefore the lime was changed to must. And it is said that even to this day, when the vines are in blossom, a delicate fragrance steals from the old steeple and on the stones a purple dew is seen, while some declare that there is a deeper tone in the harmony of the bells. The Lying-field The field is a terrible place, barren and desolate, for it is avoided as a spot accursed. No living thing moves upon it; the earth is streaked with patches of dark moss and drifts of ghastly skulls, like a scattered harvest of death. Once, says the legend, a wayfarer, surprised by the swift-fallen night, lost himself on the plain. As he stumbled in the darkness he heard the clocks of the town near by strike the hour of midnight. At this the stillness about the wanderer was broken. Under his feet the earth seemed to tremble, there was a rattling of weapons, and there sounded the tramp of armed men and the tumult of battle. Suddenly the shape of a man in armour appeared before him, terrific and menacing. �What do you seek here, in a field that has been accursed through many centuries?� he asked. �Do you not know that this is a place of terror and death? Are you a stranger that you stand on the place where a king, Louis the Pious, betrayed by his own sons, was handed over to his enemies, his crown torn from his head by his own troops? And he who would have died gladly in battle suffered the shame and dishonour that were worse than death. He lifted up his hands to heaven and cried with bitterness: �There is no such thing on earth as faith and loyalty. Accursed be sons and warriors, accursed be this field whereon such deeds have been done, accursed be they for ever!�� The spectre paused and his words echoed across the field like the cry of a lost soul. Again he spoke to the trembling wanderer: �And that curse has endured through the centuries. Under this plain in mile-wide graves we faithless warriors lie, our bones knowing no repose; and never will that curse of our betrayed king be lifted from us or this place!� The spectral warrior sank into the gloomy earth, the tumult of fighting died away. The wayfarer, seized with terror, stumbled blindly on in the night. Strassburg Strassburg, the capital of Alsace-Lorraine, is only two miles west of the Rhine. The city is of considerable antiquity, and boasts a cathedral of great beauty, in which the work of four centuries is displayed to wonderful advantage. By the light of the stained-glass windows the famous astronomical clock in the south transept can be descried, still containing some fragments of the horologe constructed by the mathematician Conrad Dasypodius in 1574. This, however, does not tally with the well-known legend of the clock, which now follows. The Clockmaker of Strassburg There dwelt in the town of Strassburg an old clockmaker. So wrapped up was he in his art that he seemed to live in a world of his own, quite indifferent to the customs and practices of ordinary life; he forgot his meals, forgot his sleep, cared nothing for his clothes, and would have been in evil case indeed had not his daughter Guta tended him with filial affection. In his absent-minded fashion he was really very fond of Guta, fonder even than he was of his clocks, and that is saying not a little. The neighbours, busy, energetic folk who performed their daily tasks and drank wine with their friends, scoffed at the dreamy, unpractical old fellow and derided his occupation as the idle pastime of a mind not too well balanced. But the clockmaker, finding in his workroom all that he needed of excitement, of joy and sorrow, of elation and despondency, did not miss the pleasures of social life, nor did he heed the idle gossip of which he was the subject. It need hardly be said that such a man had but few acquaintances; yet a few he had, and among them one who is worthy of especial note�a wealthy citizen who aspired to a position of civic honour in Strassburg. In appearance he was lean, old, and ugly, with hatchet-shaped face and cunning, malevolent eyes; and when he pressed his hateful attentions on the fair Guta she turned from him in disgust. One day this creature called on the clockmaker, announced that he had been made a magistrate, and demanded the hand of Guta, hinting that it would go ill with the master should he refuse. The clockmaker was taken completely by surprise, but he offered his congratulations and called the girl to speak for herself as to her hand. When Guta heard the proposal she cast indignant glances at the ancient magistrate, whereupon he, without giving her an opportunity to speak, said quickly: �Do not answer me now, sweet maid; do not decide hastily, I beg of you, for such a course might bring lasting trouble on you and your father. I will return to-morrow for your answer.� When he was gone Guta flung herself into her father�s arms and declared that she could never marry the aged swain. �My dear,� said the clockmaker soothingly, �you shall do as you please. Heed not his threats, for when I have finished my great work we shall be as rich and powerful as he.� On the following day the magistrate called again, looking very important and self-satisfied, and never doubting but that the answer would be favourable. But when Guta told him plainly that she would not marry him his rage was unbounded, and he left the house vowing vengeance on father and daughter. Scarcely was he gone ere a handsome youth entered the room and looked with some surprise at the disturbed appearance of Guta and her father. When he heard the story he was most indignant; later, when the clockmaker had left the young people alone, Guta confessed that the attentions of the magistrate were loathsome to her, and burst into tears. The young man had long loved the maiden in secret, and he could conceal his passion no longer. He begged that she would become his bride, and Guta willingly consented, but suggested that they should not mention the matter to her father till the latter had completed his great clock, which he fondly believed was soon to bring him fame and fortune. She also proposed that her lover should offer to become her father�s partner�for he, too, was a clockmaker�so that in the event of the master�s great work proving a failure his business should still be secure. The young man at once acted upon the suggestion, and the father gratefully received the proffered assistance. At last the day came when the clockmaker joyfully announced that his masterpiece was finished, and he called upon Guta and his young partner to witness his handiwork. They beheld a wonderful clock, of exquisite workmanship, and so constructed that the striking of the hour automatically set in motion several small figures. The young people were not slow to express their admiration and their confidence that fame was assured. When the clock was publicly exhibited the scepticism of the citizens was changed to respect; praise and flattery flowed from the lips that had formerly reviled its inventor. Nevertheless the civic authorities, urged thereto by Guta�s discarded lover, refused to countenance any attempt to procure the wonderful clock for the town. But soon its fame spread abroad to other cities. Members of the clockmakers� guild of Basel travelled to see it, and raised their hands in surprise and admiration. Finally the municipal authorities of Basel made arrangements to purchase it. But at this point the citizens of Strassburg stepped in and insisted on preserving the clock in their own city, and it was therefore purchased for a round sum and erected in a chapel of the Strassburg Cathedral. The corporation of Basel, having set their hearts on the wonderful timepiece, commissioned the clockmaker to make another like it, and offered substantial remuneration. The old man gladly agreed, but his arch-enemy, hearing of the arrangement and scenting a fine opportunity for revenge, contrived to raise an outcry against the proposal. �Where was the advantage,� asked the magistrates, �in possessing a wonderful clock if every city in Germany was to have one?� So to preserve the uniqueness of their treasure they haled the old clockmaker before a tribunal and ordered him to cease practising his art. This he indignantly refused to do, and the council, still instigated by his enemy, finally decided that his eyes be put out, so that his skill in clockmaking should come to a decided end. Not a few objections were raised to so cruel a decision, but these were at length overruled. The victim heard the dreadful sentence without a tremor, and when asked if he had any boon to crave ere it were carried out, he answered quietly that he would like to make a few final improvements in his clock, and wished to suffer his punishment in its presence. Accordingly when the day came the old man was conducted to the place where his masterpiece stood. There, under pretence of making the promised improvements, he damaged the works, after which he submitted himself to his torturers. Hardly had they carried out their cruel task when, to the consternation of the onlookers, the clock began to emit discordant sounds and to whirr loudly. When it had continued thus for a while the gong struck thirteen and the mechanism came to a standstill. �Behold my handiwork!� cried the blind clockmaker. �Behold my revenge!� His assistant approached and led him gently away. Henceforward he lived happily with Guta and her husband, whose affectionate care compensated in part for the loss of his eyesight and his enforced inability to practise his beloved art. When the story became known the base magistrate was deprived of his wealth and his office and forced to quit the town. And as for the clock, it remained in its disordered state till 1843, when it was once more restored to its original condition. The Trumpeter of Säckingen A beautiful and romantic tale which has inspired more than one work of art is the legend of the Trumpeter of Säckingen; it shares with �The Lorelei� and a few other legends the distinction of being the most widely popular in Rhenish folklore. One evening in early spring, so the legend runs, a gallant young soldier emerged from the Black Forest opposite Säckingen and reined in his steed on the banks of the Rhine. Night was at hand, and the snow lay thickly on the ground. For a few moments the wayfarer pondered whither he should turn for food and shelter, for his steed and the trumpet he carried under his cavalry cloak were all he possessed in the world; then with a reckless gesture he seized the trumpet and sounded some lively notes which echoed merrily over the snow. The parish priest, toiling painfully up the hill, heard the martial sound, and soon encountered the soldier, who saluted him gravely. The priest paused to return the greeting, and entering into conversation with the horseman, he learned that he was a soldier of fortune, whereupon he invited him with simple cordiality to become his guest. The proffer of hospitality was gratefully accepted, and the kindly old man led the stranger to his home. The old priest, though not a little curious with regard to his guest�s previous history, forbore out of courtesy to question him, but the warmth and cheer soon loosened the trumpeter�s tongue, and he volunteered to tell the old man his story. Shorn of detail, it ran as follows: The soldier�s youth had been passed at the University of Heidelberg, where he had lived a gay and careless life, paying so little attention to his studies that at the end of his course his only asset was a knowledge of music, picked up from a drunken trumpeter in exchange for the wherewithal to satisfy his thirst. The legal profession, which his guardian had designed for him, was clearly impossible with such meagre acquirements, so he had joined a cavalry regiment and fought in the Thirty Years� War. At the end of the war his horse and his trumpet were his sole possessions, and from that time he had wandered through the world, gaining a scanty livelihood with the aid of his music. Such was his history. That night Werner�for so the young man was called�slept soundly in the house of the old priest, and next morning he rose early to attend the festival of St. Fridolin, in celebration of which a procession was organized every year at Säckingen. There, at the head of a band of girls, he beheld a maid who outshone them all in beauty and grace, and to her he immediately lost his heart. From that moment the gaieties of the festival had no attraction for him, and he wandered disconsolately among the merry-makers, thinking only of the lovely face that had caught his fancy. Toward nightfall he embarked in a little boat and floated idly down the Rhine. Suddenly, to his amazement, there arose from the water the handsome, youthful figure of the Rhine-god, who had recognized in his pale cheek and haggard eye the infallible signs of a lover. Indicating a castle at the edge of the river, the apparition informed Werner that his lady-love dwelt therein, and he bade him take heart and seek some mode of communicating with her. At this Werner plucked up courage to row ashore to his lady�s abode. There in the garden, beneath a lighted window, he played an exquisite serenade, every perfect note of which told of his love and grief and the wild hopes he would never dare to express in words. Now, the lord of the castle was at that very moment telling to his beautiful daughter the story of his own long-past wooing; he paused in his tale and bade his daughter listen to the melting strains. When the notes had died away an attendant was dispatched to learn who the musician might be, but ere he reached the garden Werner had re-embarked and was lost to sight on the river. However, on the following day the nobleman pursued his inquiries in the village and the musician was discovered in an inn. In obedience to a summons the trumpeter hastened to the castle, where the old lord greeted him very kindly, giving him a place with his musicians, and appointing him music-master to the fair Margaretha. Henceforward his path lay in pleasant places, for the young people were thrown a great deal into each other�s society, and in time it became evident that the lady returned the young soldier�s tender passion. Yet Werner did not dare to declare his love, for Margaretha was a maiden of high degree, and he but a poor musician who not so very long ago had been a homeless wanderer. One day Werner heard strange, discordant sounds issuing from the music-room, and thinking that some mischievous page was taking liberties with his trumpet, he quietly made his way to the spot, to find that the inharmonious sounds resulted from the vain attempt of his fair pupil to play the instrument. When the girl observed that her endeavours had been overheard, she joined her merriment with that of her teacher, and Werner then and there taught her a bugle-call. A few weeks later the nobleman, hearing of a rising of the peasants, hastened to Säckingen to restore order, leaving his daughter and Werner to guard the castle. That night an attempt was made upon the stronghold. Werner courageously kept the foe at bay, but was wounded in the mêlée, and Margaretha, seeing her lover fall and being unable to reach him, took the trumpet and sounded the bugle-call he had taught her, hoping that her father would hear it and hasten his return. And, sure enough, that was what happened; the nobleman returned with all speed to the assistance of the little garrison, and the remnant of the assailants were routed. Werner, who was happily not wounded seriously, now received every attention. Her lover�s peril had taught Margaretha beyond a doubt where her affections lay, and she showed such unfeigned delight at his recovery that he forgot the difference in their rank and told her of his love. There on the terrace they plighted their troth, and vowed to remain true to each other, whatever might befall. Werner now ventured to seek the nobleman that he might acquaint him of the circumstances and beg for his daughter�s hand, but ere he could prefer his request the old man proceeded to tell him that he had but just received a letter from an old friend desiring that his son should marry Margaretha. As the young man was of noble birth, he added, and eligible in every respect he was disposed to agree to the arrangement, and he desired Werner to write to him and invite him to Säckingen. The unfortunate soldier now made his belated announcement; but the old man shook his head and declared that only a nobleman should wed with his daughter. It is true he was greatly attached to the young musician, but his ideas were those of his times, and so Werner was obliged to quit his service and fare once more into the wide world. Years passed by, and Margaretha, who had resolutely discouraged the advances of her high-born lover, grew so pale and woebegone that her father in despair sent her to Italy. When in Rome she went one Sunday with her maid to St. Peter�s Church, and there, leading the Papal choir, was her lover! Margaretha promptly fainted, and Werner, who had recognized his beloved, was only able with difficulty to perform the remainder of his choral duties. Meanwhile the Pope had observed that the young man was deeply affected, and believing this to be caused by the lady�s indisposition, he desired that the couple should be brought before him at the conclusion of the service. With kindly questioning he elicited the whole story, and was so touched by the romance that he immediately created Werner Marquis of Santo Campo and arranged that the marriage of the young people should take place at once. Immediately after the ceremony, having received the Papal blessing, they returned to Säckingen, where the father of the bride greeted them cordially, for Margaretha was restored to health and happiness, and his own condition was satisfied, for had she not brought home a noble husband? The Charcoal-Burner In the woods of Zähringen there dwelt a young charcoal-burner. His parents before him had followed the same humble calling, and one might have supposed that the youth would be well satisfied to emulate their simple industry and contentment. But in truth it was not so. On one occasion, while on an errand to the town, he had witnessed a tournament, and the brilliant spectacle of beauty and chivalry had lingered in his memory and fired his boyish enthusiasm, so that thenceforth he was possessed by �divine discontent.� The romance of the ancient forests wherein he dwelt fostered his strange longings, and in fancy he already saw himself a knight, fighting in the wars, jousting in the lists, receiving, perchance, the prize of the tourney from the fair hands of its queen. And, indeed, in all save birth and station he was well fitted for the profession of arms�handsome, brave, spirited, and withal gentle and courteous. Time passed, and his ambitions seemed as far as ever from realization. Yet the ambitious mind lacks not fuel for its fires; the youth�s imagination peopled the woody solitudes with braver company than courts could boast�vivid, unreal dream-people, whose shadowy presence increased his longing for the actuality. The very winds whispered mysteriously of coming triumphs, and as he listened his unrest grew greater. At length there came a time when dreams no longer satisfied him, and he pondered how he might attain his desires. �I will go out into the world,� he said to himself, �and take service under some great knight. Then, peradventure�� At this point his musings were interrupted by the approach of an old man, clad in the garb of a hermit. �My son,� he said, �what aileth thee? Nay��as the youth looked up in astonishment��nay, answer me not, for I know what thou wouldst have. Yet must thou not forsake thy lowly occupation; that which thou dost seek will only come to thee whilst thou art engaged thereon. Follow me, and I will show thee the spot where thy destiny will meet thee.� The young man, not yet recovered from his surprise, followed his aged guide to a distant part of the forest. Then the hermit bade him farewell and left him to ponder on the cryptic saying: �Here thy destiny will meet thee.� �Time will show the old man�s meaning, I suppose,� he said to himself; �in any case, I may as well burn charcoal here as elsewhere.� He set to work, hewed down some great trees, and built a kiln, which, before lighting, he covered with stony earth. What was his amazement when, on removing the cover of the kiln in due course, he discovered within some pieces of pure gold! A moment�s reflection convinced him that the precious metal must have been melted out of the stones, so he again built a kiln, and experienced the same gratifying result. Delighted with his good fortune, he concealed his treasure in an appropriate hiding-place and proceeded to repeat the process till he had obtained and hidden a large fortune, of whose existence none but himself was aware. One night, as he lay awake listening to the wind in the trees�for his great wealth had this drawback, that it robbed him of his sleep�he fancied he heard a knock at the door. At first he thought he must have been mistaken, but as he hesitated whether to rise or not the knock was repeated. Boldly he undid the door�a feat requiring no small courage in that remote part of the forest, where robbers and freebooters abounded�and there, without, stood a poor wayfarer, who humbly begged admittance. He was being pursued, he declared; would the charcoal-burner shelter him for a few days? Touched by the suppliant�s plight, and moved by feelings worthy of his chivalrous ideals, the youth readily extended the hospitality of his poor home, and for some time the stranger sojourned there in peace. He did not offer to reveal his identity, nor was he questioned on that point. But one morning he declared his intention of taking his departure. �My friend,� he said warmly, �I know not how I may thank you for your brave loyalty. The time has come when you must know whom you have served so faithfully. Behold your unfortunate Emperor, overcome in battle, deprived of friends and followers and fortune!� At these astounding words the young charcoal-burner sank on his knees before the Emperor. �Sire,� he said, �you have yet one humble subject who will never forsake you while life remains to him.� �I know,� replied the Emperor gently, raising him to his feet, �and therefore I ask of you one last service. It is that you may lead me by some secret path to the place where the remnant of my followers await me. Alas, that I, once so powerful, should be unable to offer you any token of a sovereign�s gratitude!� �Sire,� ventured the youth, �methinks I may be privileged to render yet one more service to your Majesty.� Straightway he told the story of his hidden treasure and with simple dignity placed it at the disposal of his sovereign, asking for nothing in return but the right to spend his strength in the Emperor�s service�a right which was readily accorded him. The gold, now withdrawn from its place of concealment, proved to be a goodly store, and with it the Emperor had no difficulty in raising another army. Such was the courage and confidence of his new troops that the first battle they fought resulted in victory. But the most valiant stand was made by the erstwhile charcoal-burner, who found on that field the opportunity of which he had long dreamt. The Emperor showed his recognition of the gallant services by knighting the young man on the field of battle. On the eminence whither the old hermit had led him the knight built a castle which was occupied by himself and his successors for many generations. And thus did the charcoal-burner become the knight of Zähringen, the friend of his Emperor, the first of a long line of illustrious knights, honoured and exalted beyond his wildest dreams. Conclusion With this legend we close on a brighter and more hopeful note than is usually associated with legends of the Rhine. The reader may have observed in perusing these romances how closely they mirror their several environments. For the most part those which are gay and buoyant in spirit have for the places of their birth slopes where is prisoned the sunshine which later sparkles in the wine-cup and inspires song and cheerfulness. Those, again, which are sombre and tragic have as background the gloomy forest, the dark and windy promontory which overhangs the darker river, or the secluded nunnery. In such surroundings is fostered the germ of tragedy, that feeling of the inevitable which is inherent in all great literature. It is to a tragic imagination of a lofty type that we are indebted for the greatest of these legends, and he who cannot appreciate their background of gloomy grandeur will never come at the true spirit of that mighty literature of Germany, at once the joy and the despair of all who know it. Countless songs, warlike and tender, sad and passionate, have been penned on the river whose deathless tales we have been privileged to display to the reader. But no such strains of regret upon abandoning its shores have been sung as those which passed the lips of the English poet, Byron, and it is fitting that this book should end with lines so appropriate: Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted The stranger fain would linger on his way! Thine is a scene alike where souls united Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu! There can be no farewell to scene like thine; The mind is colour�d by thy every hue; And if reluctantly the eyes resign Their cherish�d gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine! �Tis with the thankful heart of parting praise; More mighty spots may rise, more glaring shine, But none unite in one attaching maze The brilliant, fair, and soft,�the glories of old days. The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom Of coming ripeness, the white city�s sheen, The rolling stream, the precipice�s gloom, The forest�s growth, and Gothic walls between, The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been, In mockery of man�s art: and there withal A race of faces happy as the scene, Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, Still springing o�er thy banks, though Empires near them fall. 
20249	----	[Illustration: G.W.R: The Line to Legend Land. THE ABBOT'S WAY Page 24 TAVISTOCK Page 20 BRENT TOR Page 4 BUCKLAND ABBEY Page 16 DEAN COMBE Page 12 THE PARSON AND THE CLERK Page 8 Vol. Two Front End] * * * * * LEGEND LAND Being a collection of some of the _OLD TALES_ told in those Western Parts of Britain served by the _GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY_, now retold by _LYONESSE_ [Illustration] VOLUME TWO _Published in 1922 by_ THE GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY [FELIX J. C. POLE, GENERAL MANAGER] PADDINGTON STATION, LONDON CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS The Church the Devil Stole _Page_ 4 The Parson and the Clerk 8 The Weaver of Dean Combe 12 The Demon Who Helped Drake 16 The Samson of Tavistock 20 The Midnight Hunter of the Moor 24 The Lost Land of Lyonesse 28 The Piskie's Funeral 32 The Spectre Coach 36 St. Neot, the Pigmy Saint 40 The Old Man of Cury 44 The Hooting Carn 48 The Padstow May Day Songs (_Supplement_) 52 * * * * * This is a reprint in book form of the second series of _The Line to Legend Land_ leaflets, together with a Supplement, "The Padstow May Day Songs." The Map at the beginning provides a guide to the localities of the six Devon legends; that at the back to those of Cornwall. * * * * * _Printed by_ SPOTTISWOODE, BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LIMITED, _One New Street Square, London, E.C.4_ FOREWORD The western parts of our country are richer in legend than any other part. Perhaps this is because of the Celtic love of poetry and symbolism inherent in the blood of the people of the West; perhaps because of inspiration drawn from the wild hills and bleak moors of the lands in which they live; perhaps because life is, and always was, quieter there, and people have more time to remember the tales of other days than in busier, more prosaic, districts. Most of the Devon legends cluster around the grim wastes of Dartmoor, and, like that wonderful stretch of country, are wild and awe-inspiring. The devil and his wicked works enter largely into them, and there is reason to believe them to be among the oldest tales known to us. Possibly they were not new when the hut circles of the Moor were inhabited and Grimspound was a busy village. Some of the Cornish stories told in this series, like the story of Lyonesse and of Parson Dodge and the Spectre Coach, have their beginning in historical fact; yet into the latter story has been woven a tale that is centuries older, in origin, than the days of the eccentric priest of Talland. But old tales, like old wine, need nothing but themselves to advertise them. In their time they have entertained--who can say how many hearers through the ages? And they are still good--read or told--to amuse as many more. LYONESSE [Illustration] THE CHURCH THE DEVIL STOLE Most travellers to the West know queer little Brent Tor, that isolated church-crowned peak that stands up defiantly a mile or two from Lydford, seeming, as it were, a sentry watching the West for grim Dartmoor that rises twice its height behind it. Burnt Tor, they say, was the old name of this peak, because, seen from a distance, the brave little mountain resembles a flame bursting upwards from the earth. Others--with less imagination and perhaps more knowledge--would have us believe that Brent Tor was once a volcano, and that it really did burn in ages long since. But the old folk of the neighbourhood care less for the name of their Tor than for the strange story of the church that crowns its summit. Ever so long ago, they will tell you, the good folk of the lower lands around the foot of the hill decided to build themselves a church. They had long needed one; so long that the Devil, who roamed about Dartmoor, had begun to consider that such an irreligious community was surely marked down for his own. That is why, when he came upon the people one day setting to work to build a church, he was overcome with fury. But he seems to have thought it all out carefully, and to have decided to let them go on for a while, and so, week after week, at the foot of Brent Tor, the little church grew. At last it was finished, and the good folk were preparing great festivities for its dedication when, during one dark autumn night, the church disappeared. In the greatest distress they bemoaned their sad plight, but they were quick to attribute the evil action to the Prince of Darkness, and to show him that they were not to be intimidated they decided to begin at once to build another church. Throughout the day they made their plans, and retired to rest that night determined to start on their pious work next morning. But when they woke in the morning they saw with amazement their own church perched high on the hill above them. The Devil had stolen it, and to mock the villagers had replaced it on the hilltop, where, he thought, having dominion over the powers of the air, he would be able to defeat their designs. The people, however, thought otherwise. They sent in haste for the nearest bishop, and with him proceeded to the top of Brent Tor. And, since St. Michael looks after hilltops, to him they dedicated their church. Hardly had the service finished when the Devil, passing by, looked in to jeer, as he thought, at the foolish folk he had deceived. But on the summit of the Tor he met St. Michael. The Archangel fell upon the Evil One and tumbled him straightway down the hill; then, to make sure of his discomfiture, hurled a huge rock after him. And there at the base of Brent Tor you may see the very rock to this day. If you climb to the top of the hill you will get, on a fine day, one of the most beautiful views in the West. On one side is Dartmoor in all its rugged glory; on the other, distant, blue and mysterious, the uplands of the Bodmin moors. Lydford, from which you can best reach Brent Tor, is famous for its wild gorge. It stands on the edge of Dartmoor itself, and from it country of wonderful beauty may easily be reached. All around are hills and heather-carpeted moorland; yet a short railway journey will take you from this far-away village to busy Plymouth, Okehampton, or Launceston, the border town of Cornwall. Here, where winds sweep from any direction across great wastes of moor, or from the sea, health and quiet are to be found more easily than in any popular holiday resort or fashionable spa. [Illustration: _Brent Tor Church_] [Illustration] THE PARSON AND THE CLERK All real old stories of long ago should begin with "Once upon a time," and so, once upon a time there was a Bishop of Exeter who lay very ill at Dawlish, on the South Devon coast, and among those who visited him frequently was the parson of an inland parish who was ambitious enough to hope that, should the good bishop die, he would be chosen to fill his place. This parson was a man of violent temper, and his continued visits to the sick man did not improve this, for his journey was a long and dreary one, and the bishop, he thought, took an unconscionable time in dying. But he had to maintain his reputation for piety, and so it happened that on a winter night he was riding towards Dawlish through the rain, guided, as was his custom, by his parish clerk. That particular night the clerk had lost his way, and, long after he and his master should have been in comfortable quarters at Dawlish, they were wandering about on the high rough ground of Haldon, some distance from the village. At last, in anger, the parson turned upon his clerk and rebuked him violently. "You are useless," he said; "I would rather have the devil for a guide than you." The clerk mumbled some excuse, and presently the two came upon a peasant, mounted upon a moor pony, to whom they explained their plight. The stranger at once offered to guide them, and very soon all three had reached the outskirts of the little coast town. Both parson and clerk were wet through, and when their guide, stopping by an old, tumble-down house, invited them to enter and take some refreshment, both eagerly agreed. They entered the house and found there a large company of wild-looking men engaged in drinking from heavy black-jacks, and singing loud choruses. The parson and his servant made their way to a quiet corner and enjoyed a good meal, then, feeling better, agreed to stay for a while and join their boisterous companions. But they stayed for a very long while. The drink flowed freely and both grew uproarious, the parson singing songs with the best of the company and shouting the choruses louder than any. In this manner they spent the whole night, and it was not until dawn broke that the priest suggested moving onward. So none too soberly he called for the horses. At this moment the news arrived that the bishop was dead. This excited the parson, who wished at once to get to work to further his ambitious designs, so he pushed the clerk into the saddle and hastily mounted himself. But the horses would not move. The parson, in a passion, cried, "I believe the devil is in the horses!" "I believe he is," said the clerk thickly, and with that a roar of unearthly laughter broke out all around them. Then the now terrified men observed that their boisterous friends were dancing about in glee and each had turned into a leering demon. The house in which they had passed the night had completely disappeared, and the road in which they stood was transformed into the sea-shore, upon which huge waves were breaking, some already submerging the clerk. With a wild cry of terror the parson lashed once more at his horse, but without avail. He felt himself growing stiff and dizzy--and then consciousness passed from him. Neither he nor his clerk ever returned to their parish, but that morning the people of Dawlish saw two strange red rocks standing off the cliffs, and later, learning this story, they realised that the demons had changed the evil priest and his man into these forms. Time and weather have wrought many changes in the Parson and Clerk Rocks, not the least curious being to carve upon the Parson Rock the semblance of the two revellers. From certain positions you may see to-day the profiles of both men, the parson as it were in his pulpit, and the clerk at his desk beneath him. The red cliffs around Dawlish make the place peculiarly attractive at first sight, and the attraction is not lessened by familiarity with the town. It enjoys the best of the famous South Devon climate; warm in winter and ever cooled by the sea breeze in summer, it is an excellent holiday centre. Historic Exeter is close at hand and Dartmoor within afternoon excursion distance. [Illustration: "_The Parson and the Clerk_"] [Illustration] THE WEAVER OF DEAN COMBE About a mile outside Buckfastleigh, on the edge of Dartmoor, a little stream, the Dean Burn, comes tumbling down from the hills through a narrow valley of peculiar beauty. A short distance up this valley a waterfall drops into a deep hollow known as the "Hound's Pool." How this name arose is an old story. According to the legend, hundreds of years ago, there was living in the neighbouring hamlet of Dean Combe a wealthy weaver named Knowles. He was famous throughout those parts of Devon for his skill and industry. But in due course he died and was buried. On the day after the funeral, hearing a strange noise, Knowles' son ran to his father's work-room, where, to his alarm, he saw the dead man seated at his loom working away just as he had done day after day, year after year, in life. In terror the young man fled from the house, and sought the parson of Dean Prior. The good priest was at first sceptical, but he returned with the frightened man to the house. As soon as the two had entered the door the parson's doubts vanished, for sure enough, from an upper chamber, came the familiar, unmistakable sound of the loom at work. So the parson went to the foot of the staircase and shouted to the ghostly weaver: "Knowles, come down! This is no place for thee." "In a minute, parson," came the reply; "just wait till I've worked out this shuttle." "No," said the parson, "come thee at once; thou hast worked long enough on this earth." So the spirit came down, and the parson led it outside the house. Then taking a handful of earth, which he had previously secured from the churchyard, he flung it into the ghost's face, and instantly the weaver turned into a black hound. "Now, follow me," the parson commanded; the grim dog obediently came to heel. The pair then proceeded into the woods, which, so they say, as soon as the two entered, were shaken by a violent whirlwind. But at last the priest led his charge to the edge of the pool below the waterfall, then producing a walnut-shell with a hole in it, handed it to the hound and addressed it. "Knowles," he began, "this shows me plainly that in life thou tookest more heed of worldly gain than of immortality, and thou didst bargain with the powers of evil. There is but one hope of rest for thee. When thou shalt have dipped out this pool with the shell I have given thee, thou shalt find peace, but not before. Go, work out thy salvation." With a mournful howl that was heard as far as Widdicombe in the Moor, the hound leapt into the pool to begin its hopeless labour, and there, exactly at midnight or midday, they say, you may still see it at its task. Buckfastleigh is on a branch line that runs up from Totnes, skirting Dartmoor, to Ashburton. All around is some of the most glorious scenery in Devon. Buckfast Abbey, founded in 1148 and for centuries a ruin, was purchased by French Benedictines in 1882, and is now a live and busy monastery once again. Just beyond Dean Combe is Dean Prior, a place of the greatest literary interest, for it was the home of the poet Herrick for many years. The country all about abounds in objects of beauty and interest, yet is all too often neglected by the holiday-maker at the neighbouring seaside towns a few miles away, or the scurrying motorist speeding down along the Plymouth road. [Illustration: _Buckfast Abbey_] [Illustration] THE DEMON WHO HELPED DRAKE All the demons of whom the old folks tell in the West Country were not evil spirits. Some, like that one who helped Sir Francis Drake, worked good magic for the benefit of those to whom they attached themselves. To Drake's demon a number of good deeds are attributed. One story they tell of him is of those days when the news of the fitting out of the mighty Spanish Armada had caused a thrill of apprehension to sweep through the country. The danger that threatened was very great, and Drake, like all of those who were charged with the safeguarding of our shores, was vastly worried, although he kept his worries to himself. And one day, as the story goes, the great admiral was sitting, weighed down with anxiety, making and remaking his plans, on Devil's Point, a promontory that runs out into Plymouth Sound. As he was thinking, almost unconsciously he began whittling a stick. How, he wondered, could he find enough ships to combat the enormous force the King of Spain was sending against him? Looking up from his reverie, at length, across the Sound, he started in happy surprise, for floating quite close to the shore he saw a number of well-armed gunboats; each chip that he had cut from the stick having been so transformed by the magic of his friendly demon. Later, when Drake had achieved his great victory over the Spaniards, Queen Elizabeth gave him Buckland Abbey. When he took possession, the legend goes, there was great need for stables and outhouses, and building work was set in train at once. After his first night there, one of Drake's servants was amazed to find how much building had been done, and, feeling that something unusual must be going on during the hours of darkness, he secreted himself in a tree at dusk the next evening to see what happened. There he fell asleep, but towards midnight he was awakened by the tramp of animals and the creaking of wheels. Looking down, he saw several ox teams approaching, each dragging a wagon filled with building materials and led by a weird spectre form. As the first team passed by, the spectre, urging the weary beasts on, plucked from the earth the tree in which the servant was hiding, in order to beat them. The unfortunate servant was cast to the ground, and, picking himself up, ran in terror to the house. His violent fall injured him seriously, and they say that the fright made him half-witted for the rest of his life. Still, he recovered sufficiently to tell others of what he had seen, and to explain the mystery of the miraculous speed with which Buckland Abbey's outbuildings were constructed. Buckland Abbey lies between Plymouth and Tavistock, close to the banks of the pretty River Tavy. Drake built his house there on the site of a thirteenth-century abbey, some remains of which are still to be found. Preserved in Buckland Abbey is Drake's Drum, the beating of which in time of national danger would, so they say, bring the great Elizabethan sailor back from his ocean grave by the Spanish Main to fight once more for his country. Plymouth, the port with which Drake is so closely associated, is a town brimful of interest, magnificently situated on high ground overlooking the sea. From famous Plymouth Hoe, the scene of the historic game of bowls, a view of unequalled charm may be obtained. Out at sea, the Eddystone Lighthouse is seen, and east and west the rugged shores of the Sound, always alive with shipping, meet the eye. And although Plymouth is over 226 miles from London, it is the first stopping-place of the famous Cornish Riviera Express, which leaves Paddington each week-morning at 10.30 and arrives at Plymouth only four hours and seven minutes later. [Illustration: _Buckland Abbey_] [Illustration] THE SAMSON OF TAVISTOCK In the beautifully situated old town of Tavistock there lived, just over a thousand years ago, a man of huge stature and great strength named Ordulph, of whom some strange stories are told. Ordulph was the son of Orgar, the then Earl of Devon, who was the founder of Tavistock's wonderful old abbey. Some of Ordulph's huge bones may be seen to-day in a chest in Tavistock church, to which place they were taken when his gigantic coffin was discovered beneath the abbey ruins many years ago. As the old stories go, Ordulph used at times to amuse himself by standing with one foot on either side of the River Tavy, having previously ordered his men to organise a great drive of wild beasts from the Dartmoor forests above the town. The animals he caused to be driven between his legs, while he, stooping down, would slay them with a small knife, striking their heads off into the running stream. On one occasion, they say, he rode to Exeter with King Edward of the Saxons. When the two with their retinue arrived before the city and demanded admission, there was some delay in throwing open the gates. This Ordulph took as an affront to the King, and, leaping from his enormous black charger, he approached the portcullis and with his hand tore the ponderous thing from its sockets and broke it into small pieces. Then, striding up to the strong iron-bound gates, with a kick he burst open bolts and bars, and proceeded to lift the gates from their hinges. After that, with his shoulder he pushed down a considerable portion of the city walls, then strode across the ruins he had made into the now terrified city, and bade the alarmed townsfolk to be more careful next time to receive their King properly, lest worse things should happen to them. King Edward, they say, was as much concerned as the citizens of Exeter about this stupendous exhibition of strength displayed by his companion. He was fearful at first that so violent a man must be in league with the devil; but apparently he was satisfied that this was not the case, for Ordulph lived a very pious life in his latter years, and contributed large sums to the endowment of the abbey his father had founded. Tavistock still retains many remains of its once mighty abbey. The town, situated as it is in a picturesque valley through which the beautiful Tavy rushes, crystal clear, from the moors, is one of the most attractive in all Devon. It is the finest centre for exploring the western part of Dartmoor, for the moorland creeps down to within a short walking distance of the town itself. Fine fishing may be had in the neighbouring streams, there is a good golf course, and the country all around abounds in objects of great natural beauty and historic interest. Exeter, the cathedral city which was the scene of Ordulph's Samson-like feat, is thirty-three miles away by a road that crosses the very heart of Dartmoor, a wild, beautiful highway that rises in places to well over 1,200 feet; and sixteen-and-a-half miles to the south is Plymouth, from which Tavistock is easily reached by train. There are few places in the West Country more attractive than this old town in the moors, so richly endowed by time and by nature. [Illustration: _Tavistock Abbey_] [Illustration] THE MIDNIGHT HUNTER OF THE MOOR Running across the southern part of the heart of wild Dartmoor is a very ancient road. "The Abbot's Way" they call it, and antiquaries hold varied opinions as to when it was made, and even as to where it led to and from. To-day, much of this old trackway has gone back to nature and cannot be distinguished from the rugged moorland across which it passes, but some stretches of it survive in a strange green path marked here and there by a boundary stone or a much-weathered Celtic cross. But the old stories--tales perhaps even older than the road--tell that the Abbot's Way is the favourite hunting ground of the Wish Hounds or Yell Hounds, an eerie spectre-pack that hunts across the wildest parts of the moor on moonless nights. Strange, gruesome tales are told by those who, benighted or lost in the fog, have stumbled home through the dark of a winter night across the grim moorland. They tell--half dazed with fear--as they reach at last some house and welcome human companionship, of the wild baying of the hounds that drifted through the murk night to their ears, or of the sudden vision of the pack passing at whirlwind speed across bog and marsh urged onward by a grim black figure astride a giant dark horse from whose smoking nostrils came flame and fire. The description of this figure, "The Midnight Hunter of the Moor," seldom varies, although stories of the Wish Hounds differ from time to time. Some say that they are headless, and that their blood-curdling cries seem to emerge from a phosphorescent glow of evil smoke that hovers about the place where the head should be. Others describe them as gaunt, dark beasts with huge white fangs and lolling red tongues. Up on the grim wild moors it is not hard at midnight, through the roaring of the wind, or in the stillness of a calm night broken only by the weird cry of some nocturnal bird or the distant sound of a rushing stream, to imagine, far away, the baying of this spectre-pack. The old country folk hold that the man or beast who hears the devilish music of the Wish Hounds will surely die within the year, and that any unhappy mortal that stands in the way of the hunt will be pursued until dawn, and if caught will inevitably lose his soul; for the dark huntsman, they say, is the devil, whose power is great over that rugged country between sunset and sunrise. Even to-day some of the older people will tell you stories of escapes they have had from the Midnight Hunter, or of the fate that befell some friend or neighbour very many years ago who never returned from a night journey across the moor. But grim as it may be after nightfall, the country which the Abbot's Way traverses is one of amazing beauty. You may pick up this old track on the moors a mile or two from Princetown, or strike north to join it from South Brent or Ivybridge station. To the west there is a stretch of it clearly marked near Sheepstor where it crosses the head-waters of the Plym. Some think the old Way got its name because it was the means of communication between the Abbeys of Buckfast on one side of the moor and Tavistock on the other. Others say it was an old wool-trading track to the west. Dartmoor all around this district is at its best. It is a riot of rugged boulder, fern, and heather, through which rushing streams, full of trout, flow swiftly southward to the Channel. The Tors here are not the highest of the moor, yet many of them rise well above the 1,500 feet level. It is a country easy of access, for the Great Western main line skirts the southern edge of Dartmoor between Totnes and Plymouth, and railway and coaching services enable the tourist to visit some of the most remote parts of the moor in a day trip from Torquay, Dartmouth, Teignmouth, or in fact any of the South Devon seaside resorts between Dawlish and Plymouth. But the visitor who wishes to explore Southern Dartmoor at leisure will find Newton Abbot the most convenient centre. [Illustration: _The Abbot's Way_] [Illustration] THE LOST LAND OF LYONESSE There is a lot of truth mingled with the old legends that tell of the lost land of Lyonesse, a fertile and prosperous country that once extended west from Cornwall as far as the Scillies. According to those old traditions a vast number of villages and 140 churches were overwhelmed on that day, over eight hundred years ago, when the angry sea broke in and drowned fertile Lyonesse, and now, as an old rhyme has it: "_Beneath Land's End and Scilly rocks_ _Sunk lies a town that Ocean mocks._" On that fatal day, November 11, 1099, a mighty storm raged all about our coasts, but the gale was of unparalleled severity in the West. Those who have seen a winter gale blowing across the sea that now flows above the Lost Land will know that it is very easy to believe that those giant angry waves could break down any poor construction of man's hand intended to keep the wild waters in check. For Lyonesse, they say, was stolen by the sea gradually. Here a bit and there a bit would be submerged after some winter storm, until came this grim November night, when the sea made a clean sweep of the country and rushed, with stupendous speed, across the flat wooded lands until it was brought to a halt by the massive cliffs of what is now the Land's End peninsula. There was a Trevilian, an ancestor of the old Cornish family of that name, who only just escaped with his life from this deluge. He had foreseen what was coming and had removed his farm stock and his family from his Lyonesse estate, and was making one further journey to his threatened home when the sea broke in upon it. Trevilian, mounted on his fleetest horse, just beat the waves, and there is a cave near Perranuthnoe which, they say, was the place of refuge to which the sturdy horse managed to drag his master through the angry waters. There used to be another memorial of this great inundation at Sennen Cove, near the Land's End, where for centuries stood an ancient chapel which it was said a Lord of Goonhilly erected as a thanksgiving for his escape from the flood that drowned Lyonesse. To-day all that is left of the lost land are the beautiful Scilly Islands and the cluster of rocks between the Scillies and Land's End, known as the Seven Stones. These rocks are probably the last genuine bit of old Lyonesse, for their Cornish name is Lethowsow, which was what the old Cornish called Lyonesse. Even now the local fishermen refer to the Seven Stones as "The City," for tradition tells that there was situated the principal town of the drowned land, and stories are told of how on calm days ruined buildings may be discerned beneath the waters near Lethowsow, and that in times past fishing-nets have brought up old weathered domestic utensils from the sea bottom near at hand. A lightship now marks the Seven Stones, and at low water on a rough day the sight of the huge breakers dashing themselves into foam upon the rocks is an awe-inspiring one. The Scillies lie twenty-seven miles west of Land's End and are reached by a regular service of steamers from Penzance. The journey across is fascinating, and magnificent views of the rugged coast are to be obtained. And the Islands themselves provide a perfect place for a lazy holiday. A winter climate they seldom know; flowers bloom right through the year, and sea fishing and boating there are ideal. The Scillies consist of a group of about forty granite islands, only a few of which are inhabited. Many of the islets are joined together by bars of sand at low tide. Though in the Scillies you may feel very far away from the great world, quaint, fascinating Penzance, from which you start, is very near--in time--from London. It is only six and a-half hours from Paddington, although over 300 miles have to be traversed in the rail journey. [Illustration: _The Seven Stones_] [Illustration] THE PISKIE'S FUNERAL The sand-hills that abound near the church of Lelant, by St. Ives, are now famous the world over for providing one of the most excellent golf courses in this country. But in the far-away simpler days, before golf had come south, and when Cornwall was a distant land seldom visited by strangers, the Lelant sand-hills had a different fame. In those days they used to say that they were the favourite meeting-place of the piskies, or, as folks from other parts of England would call them, fairies. Strange stories were told by the people of Lelant of the moonlight revels indulged in by the small folk in sheltered corners of that great stretch of sand-dunes that borders the Hayle river. One of the strangest stories is that of a piskie funeral, seen with his own eyes by a respectable villager ever so many years ago. Old Richard, who witnessed this amazing sight, was returning late one night from St. Ives, whither he had been in search of fish. As he ascended the hill towards his home, he thought he heard the bell of Lelant church tolling. This struck him as being curious, for it was just midnight, so he went out of his way to have a look at the church, in case anything was wrong. Arriving in sight of the building, he saw faint lights within; and still the bell continued to toll, though, as he noticed then, in a strange way, with a queer muffled sound that aroused no echo. Richard then crept forward to see what was happening. Peering cautiously through one of the windows, he was at first unable to distinguish anything, although a strange light illuminated the whole church. But after a few moments he was able to discern a funeral procession moving slowly up the centre aisle. It consisted of the little people, crowds of whom filled the church. Each piskie looked very sad, although, instead of being dressed in mourning, each carried a gay wreath or garland of roses or myrtle. Presently the watcher beheld a bier borne by six piskies, and on it was the body--no bigger than a small doll, he said--of a beautiful lady. The mournful procession moved forward to the sanctuary, where Richard observed two tiny figures digging a wee grave quite close to the altar table. When they had completed their task, the whole company crowded around while the pale, lovely corpse was gently lowered into the earth. At this moment all the piskies burst into the saddest notes of lamentation, tearing their wreaths and garlands asunder and casting the flowers into the grave. Then one of the midget grave-diggers threw in a shovelful of earth and the most piteous cry of sorrow went up from the small folk, who wailed, "Our Queen is dead! Our Queen is dead!" Old Richard was so much affected by this that he joined in the cry of lamentation. But no sooner was his voice heard than all the lights were extinguished and the piskies fled in consternation in every direction. Richard himself was so much alarmed that he ran for his home, firmly convinced that he was fortunate to have escaped with his life. Lelant Church and the sand-hills remain to-day much as they were on that long-ago midnight when Richard attended the piskie's funeral, but nowadays the country round about has become one of the most favoured, by visitors, in all Cornwall. Lelant with its golf course, pretty Carbis Bay with its wonderful bathing beach, and St. Ives, beloved of artists and those in search of rest and health, a few miles further on, are all places that exercise the strongest fascination for those who have once visited them. The district is singularly attractive to the tourist; wild, rugged coast or grim moorland scenery is to be found within easy walking distance, while nestling in between the forbidding cliffs are pleasant sheltered sandy coves where one may bathe in safety or laze away the sunny hours, protected from the harsher winds that sweep the uplands. Large modern hotels are to be found at St. Ives and Carbis Bay, and the sailing and sea-fishing of the Hayle Estuary are as good as any in all that favoured land of Cornwall. [Illustration: _Lelant Church_] [Illustration] THE SPECTRE COACH In the days of Good Queen Anne, the parson of Talland, a quaint little sea-girt village near Looe, was a singular man named Dodge. Parson Dodge's reputation in that neighbourhood was that of being able to lay ghosts and command evil spirits, and although the country folk were rather terrified of their vicar, they had the utmost faith in his marvellous powers. And it happened that the good folk of Lanreath, a few miles away, were suffering severely from a wild spirit that frequented the high moor in their parish. The ghost was that, they said, of an avaricious landowner who had wasted his fortune in lawsuits, attempting unjustly to seize from the villagers a wide stretch of common-land. Disappointment had killed him, but in the spirit world he could find no rest, for he used to return of nights to the land he had coveted, and drive wildly about in a black coach drawn by six sable, headless horses, much to the terror of the country folk. So the rector of Lanreath decided at last to appeal to Parson Dodge to come over and exorcise the wandering spirit. Parson Dodge agreed, and upon the appointed night he and the rector rode out on to the haunted moor to see what could be done about the bad business. It was a grim, barren spot that they reached at last and the rector did not at all like his task. But Parson Dodge bade him cheer up, saying that he never yet met the ghost that he couldn't best. So the two parsons dismounted and tramped up and down for an hour, expecting every moment the arrival of the spectre coach. When at last midnight had passed and nothing had happened, they decided to abandon their vigil and return some other night. So, taking leave of one another, they separated, the rector to take a short ride to his home, Parson Dodge going a mile across the moor to the road that led him back to Talland vicarage. Dodge had been riding about five minutes when, without any apparent reason, his mare shied, then stood stock-still. The parson tried to urge her on, but she refused; then he dismounted and tried to lead her, but that failed too. So he concluded that he must be intended to return, and, remounting, he set the mare off back to the haunted moor. She went cross-country through the murky night like the wind, and in a very few minutes Dodge was again on the spot where he had left his brother priest. There the mare shied once more and showed every sign of fear, and the parson, looking about him, espied a short distance off the gruesome spectre he had originally come to meet. There was the sooty-black coach, the dark, headless steeds, and, what thoroughly alarmed him, a grim cloaked figure urging his team at a gallop along a path in which lay the prostrate form of his friend the rector of Lanreath. Parson Dodge set his mare, despite her fears, straight for the approaching coach, uttering his prayers of exorcism the while. With the first words the dusky team swerved and a sepulchral voice came from the driver, saying: "Dodge is come! I must be gone." With that the spirit whipped up his horses and disappeared at a tremendous pace across the moor, and was never seen again. The parson then dismounted and was able to revive the unconscious rector and carry him safely home, for his own horse, startled at the appearance of the spectre, had thrown its rider and bolted. Talland, the home of the old parson, is a fascinating little village on the coast, between the two Looes--East and West--and picturesque Polperro, where rugged cliffs on either side descend to form a sheltered little bay. Looe is a quaint fishing town straggling on each side of the estuary of the river of the same name. You reach it by a branch railway from Liskeard, on the Great Western main line. It is an ideal place in which to spend a quiet holiday. The coast east and west is typically Cornish, rugged and wild, yet pierced every few miles by some sheltered cove or inlet. Looe itself, protected from the cold winds, enjoys a beautiful climate, particularly mild in winter. Coast and moorland walks abound; there is a golf course close at hand, and the sea fishing is excellent. [Illustration: _Talland Church_] [Illustration] ST. NEOT, THE PIGMY SAINT Of all the vast company of saints peculiar to Cornwall, St. Neot is surely the strangest, for he was, so the old traditions have it, a pigmy, perfectly formed, yet only fifteen inches in height. There are very many stories told of this tiny holy man, and most of them seem to show that he wielded a great power over all animals. One of the prettiest stories is of the time when St. Neot presided over his abbey and there came one night thieves to the monastic farm and stole all the monks' plough oxen. The poor brothers had not the money to purchase other beasts, and seed-time was upon them with their fields yet unploughed. Ruin seemed certain until the good little abbot appealed to the wild beasts to come to their aid. And then, to the amazement of the monks, there came from the surrounding forests wild stags, who docilely offered their necks to the yoke and drew the heavy ploughs. Each night the stags were released, and they went off to the woods; but each succeeding morning they returned to continue their task. The news of this miraculous happening spread rapidly abroad and came at last to the ears of the thieves. They were so deeply impressed by the story that they returned the stolen oxen at once and promised never again to pursue their evil ways. So the stags were released from their self-appointed labour, but ever after, they say, each bore a white ring like a yoke about its neck, and each enjoyed a charmed life, for no arrow or spear of a hunter could hurt it. Another story that is told is that of St. Neot and the hunted doe. While the good saint was seated in contemplation by his well, there burst from the woods a doe pursued by hounds and huntsmen. The poor beast was exhausted and sank down by the saint as if imploring his protection. The tiny saint rose and faced the oncoming pack, which instantly turned and dashed back into the forest. Presently the huntsmen approached with drawn bows, prepared to dispatch the frightened quarry. But they too, at the sight of the saint, desisted, and the chief of them, falling upon his knees, cast away his quiver and besought the Holy Neot to receive him into the Church. This man, they say, became a monk at the monastery of St. Petroc at Bodmin, and the hunting-horn which he carried on the day of his conversion was hung for many years in St. Neot's church. Many of the stories of this saint are depicted in the mediæval stained-glass windows of the parish church of St. Neot, a pretty village nestling under the southern slopes of the Bodmin Moor. This church has one of the finest sets of fifteenth and sixteenth century painted windows in the country, which rival the famous Fairford glass in Gloucestershire. St. Neot is easily reached by road from Bodmin or Liskeard, or from Doublebois station, on the main line, from which it is distant about three miles. The village lies in a sheltered valley surrounded by charming wooded country, and from it you may reach, only a short distance away, the edge of wild Bodmin Moor itself. Bodmin, an attractive yet--by the tourist--much neglected town, is some seven miles away. Bodmin, the capital of Cornwall, is a quiet, sleepy old town ideally situated as a centre from which to reach many parts of the Duchy. Midway between the two coasts, with a good rail service to either, and close to the wild moorland that bears its name, this town is rich in history. The moor with its two Cornish mountains, Brown Willy and Rough Tor (which you must pronounce to rhyme with "plough"), is easily reached, and the rail will take you to Wadebridge or Padstow on the rugged north coast; or south to sheltered Fowey--the Troy Town of "Q"--for an afternoon's excursion. [Illustration: _St. Neot, from a window in the Church_] [Illustration] THE OLD MAN OF CURY They tell a story down in Meneage, as the southernmost corner of England--the Lizard peninsula--is called, of an old man from the little village of Cury, near Mullion, who once rescued a mermaid who was stranded by the receding tide, and could not get back to her husband and family, who were awaiting her in a cave by Kynance Cove. The old man was walking along the shore one summer evening, thinking of nothing in particular, when he saw, in a deep pool left by the falling tide, a beautiful lady with long golden hair who appeared to be in the greatest distress. When he drew nearer to her and discovered that she was a mermaid he was filled with alarm, for he had heard many tales of these sea sirens from the fishermen of Gunwalloe. He was for running off home as hard as he could, but the piteous cries of the lovely creature were too much for his kind heart, and he went forward to enquire what her trouble might be. At first, she was too terrified to reply, but the old man managed to pacify her and she sobbed out her story. While her husband and children were asleep in the cave, she said, she had been attracted by the scent of the glorious flowers, which grow all about the Lizard, and to get as close to them as possible she had drifted in on the waves, and, revelling in the sweet perfume, had not noticed the falling tide until she discovered herself cut off in the rock pool. Now, she explained, if her husband awoke and found her missing he would grow terribly angry, for she was supposed to be hunting food for his dinner, and if none arrived he would as likely as not eat the children. The old man, horrified at this terrible possibility, asked what he could do to help. The mermaid replied that if he would only carry her back to the sea, she would give him any three things he cared to ask. He at once offered to undertake the task, and asked, not for wealth, but that he might be able to charm away sickness, to break the spells of witchcraft, and to discover thieves and restore stolen property. The mermaid readily agreed to give him these powers, but she said he must come to a certain rock on another day in order to be instructed as to how to obtain them. So the old man bent down and, the mermaid clasping him round the neck with her beautiful arms, he managed to carry her on his back to the open sea. A few days later he went to the rock agreed upon and was met by the mermaid, who thanked him heartily for his aid, and fulfilled her promise by telling him how he could secure the powers he desired. Then, taking her comb from her golden hair, she gave it to him, saying that so long as he preserved it she would come to him whenever he wanted her; and with that, and a languishing smile, she slid off the rock and disappeared. They say that the old man and she met several times afterwards, and that once she persuaded him to carry her to a quiet place where she could watch human beings walking about with their "split tails," as she described legs. And if you doubt this story, the old people along the coast will still point out to you the "Mermaid's Rock" to prove you wrong. All around the Lizard the wild coast is indented with beautiful little coves whose pure sandy beaches are washed twice each day by the incoming tide. In the deep sheltered valleys of Meneage flowers grow in profusion, while on the bold high moorland of the interior that rare British plant the Cornish heath flourishes in great bush-like clumps. You reach this wonderful country by the Great Western road-coach service from Helston. Mullion, Kynance, Cadgwith, St. Keverne, all in this district, are places of amazing beauty and charm. There are big modern hotels to be found at Mullion, and there are golf and sea fishing, bathing, and entrancing walks by sea or moor to amuse the visitor in this warm, sea-girt land of heath and flowers. [Illustration: _The Lizard_] [Illustration] THE HOOTING CARN One of the grimmest yet most fascinating tracts of moorland in the West is that wild, boulder-strewn district behind St. Just in Penwith, near the Land's End. Here, amid a scene of savage beauty, wind-swept by the great gales from the Atlantic, is a stretch of treeless moor the richest in all Cornwall in remains of prehistoric man. There is something eerie about this furthest west corner of England and around it cluster legends galore. One of the queerest is that of the Hooting Carn, a bleak hill between St. Just and Morvah. Cam Kenidzhek is its real name, but they are taking now to spelling it as it is pronounced--Carn Kenidjack. From it weird moaning sounds arise at night, and the strangely named Gump, a level track just below the summit, was, they say, the scene of a grim midnight struggle in the very old days. It happened that one moonless night two miners, walking back to their homes from Morvah, passed by the base of the Hooting Carn. They knew its ill repute and hurried along in silence, their fears not allayed by the fact that on this night the moaning of the Carn was more persistent than usual, and that an unearthly light seemed to illuminate the rocks on its summit. Presently, to their great alarm, there sounded behind them the thunder of galloping hoofs. Turning in fear, they saw a dark-robed figure, with a hood covering his face, approaching. As he dashed past, he signed to them to follow, and, as they explained later, some irresistible force made them obey. Without knowing how they did so, they were able to keep pace with the galloping steed and arrived swiftly near the top of the hill. There the dark horseman dismounted, and the miners, terrified, found that they had been brought into the midst of a wild company of men of huge size, with long, unkempt hair and beards, their faces daubed with bright colours, and all engaged at the moment in singing a reckless chorus which concluded in an uncanny hooting sound. But the arrival of the dark rider brought the demoniac singing to an end. A circle was quickly formed, and two men, more huge and more terrible than any present, were brought forward to contest in a wrestling match. The horseman, squatting on the ground, gave the signal to begin, but after a few preliminary moves the wrestlers complained that the light was insufficient. Then the squatting demon--for such he proved to be--flashed from his eyes two great beams of fire that lit the whole ring. The struggle then proceeded, amid the wild yells of the onlookers. At last one of the wrestlers lifted his opponent clear off his feet, and hurled him to the ground with stupendous force. There was a sound like thunder as he fell, and he lay as one dead. At once the whole ring broke into confusion and crowded round the victor. This seemed to the miners grossly unfair play, and they went over to the fallen man to give him what aid they could. They found him in a terrible state, and, since no aid was available, one of them started to offer up a prayer for the dying man's soul. With his first words the utmost consternation fell upon the company. A great clap of thunder shook the rocks, a pitchy darkness covered the scene, and a fierce wind swept the hill. Then, looking upward, the miners saw the whole company--the dying man with them--disappearing northward in a dense black cloud, the two blazing eyes of the demon who had led them to the Carn being clearly distinguishable for some time. Paralysed with fear, the miners remained where they were, until returning daylight broke the evil spell and permitted them to proceed to their homes and explain to their neighbours the secret of the Hooting Carn. Carn Kenidjack you may reach by a glorious tramp across the moors from St. Just, to which a Great Western motor-coach goes many times daily from Penzance. From the higher ground you will get magnificent coast views, embracing, on a clear day, the distant land of the Scillies. All about the moor you will find the strange relics of a former race: stone circles, barrows, cromlechs, and prehistoric dwellings mingling with the fern and heather and stunted grass of the hillside, and you breathe in tonic air that has come to you across two thousand miles of ocean. [Illustration: _The Hooting Carn_] [Illustration] PADSTOW AND ITS MAY DAY SONGS May Day in Padstow, on the north Cornish coast, is celebrated by an ancient custom of peculiar interest. The whole town is _en fete_, the ships in the harbour decked with flags, the people adorned with flowers. The feature of the day's celebrations is the Hobby Horse Dance, or procession, to two very old tunes. Until comparatively recent times the Maypole was still erected each year in the town. Padstow's two old May songs date from the Middle Ages, but they have suffered much corruption in the course of time. Words and music have been altered, but the version given here is from an old source, and, owing to the irregularity of the metre of the lines, as in all traditional songs, a considerable amount of ingenuity is called for on the part of the singer to fit the words of the second and subsequent verses--particularly of the Day Song--to the tune. But it can be done. The May Morning Song has eighteen or more verses--each followed by the chorus--all of which obviously cannot be printed here. There are a dozen that begin "Rise up...," the name of the person before whose house it is being sung being inserted. The reference to "Un Ursula Bird" in the second verse of the Day Song has a traditional reference to an old dame who, it is said, led a party of Cornish women in red cloaks, headed by the Hobby Horse, in procession round the cliffs in days gone by and so frightened away a hostile French ship, whose captain mistook the women for soldiers. A similar story is told of Fishguard in South Wales in Legend Land Leaflet No. 11. [Illustration: THE MAY MORNING SONG (Sheet Music Page 1)] THE MAY MORNING SONG Unite! All unite! It's now all unite, For Summer is a-come in today; And whither we are going it's all now unite, In the merry morning of May! With the merry singing and the joyful spring, For summer is a-come in to-day, How happy are those little birds that merrily doth sing In the merry morning of May! _Chorus: Unite! all unite! &c, after each verse._ Young men and maidens, I warn you every one, For summer is a-come in to-day, To go unto the green woods and bring the may home In the merry morning of May! Rise up, Mr ----, with your sword by your side, For summer is a-come in to-day, Your steed is in the stable and waiting for to ride In the merry morning of May! Rise up, Mr ----, and gold be your ring, For summer is a-come in to-day, And send us out a cup of ale, and better we shall sing, In the merry morning of May! Rise up, Mrs ----, all in your gown of green, For summer is a-come in to-day; You are so fair a lady as waits upon the queen, In the merry morning of May! Rise up, Mr ----, I know you well a fine, For summer is a-come in to-day; You have a shilling in your purse, but I wish it was in mine, In the merry morning of May! Rise up, Miss ----, and strew all your flowers, For summer is a-come in to-day; It is but a while ago since we have strewed ours, In the merry morning of May! Rise up, Miss ----, and reach to me your hand For summer is a-come in to-day; You are so fair a damsel as any in the land, In the merry morning of May! Rise up Master ----, and reach to me your hand, For summer is a-come in to day; And you shall have a lively lass, and a thousand pounds in hand, In the merry morning of May! Where are the maidens that here now should sing? For summer is a-come in to day, Oh, they are in the meadows the flowers gathering, In the merry morning of May! The young maids of Padstow, they might if they would-- For summer is a-come in to day-- They might have a garland, and decked it all in gold, In the merry morning of May! Where are the young men that here now should dance? For summer is a-come in to day; Oh some they are in England, and some they are in France, In the merry morning of May! The young men of Padstow, they might if they would-- For summer is a-come in to-day-- They might have built a ship, and gilt her all in gold, In the merry morning of May! Now fare ye well, we bid you all good cheer, For summer is a-come in to-day, We'll call once more unto your house before another year, In the merry morning of May! [Illustration: THE DAY SONG (Sheet Music Page 1)] THE DAY SONG All now for to fetch home, The Summer and the May, O! For Summer is a-come, O! And Winter is a-go, O! Up flies the kite, And down falls the lark, O! Un Ursula Bird she had an old ewe, O! And she died in Old Park O! Oh, where is St. George? Oh where is he, O? He's down in his long boat, All on the salt sea, O! Oh, where are those French dogs? Oh, where are they, O? They're down in their long boats, All on the salt sea, O! Oh, where are those French dogs? Oh where are they, O! They shall eat the grey goose feathers, And we will eat the roast, O! The last verse of the Morning Song is sung to its own tune to conclude the Day Song. Padstow itself is a queer old fishing town, fifteen miles from Bodmin, from which place it is easily reached by train. It is situated at the mouth of the Camel, the finest salmon river in Cornwall, and has at St. Enodoc, on the other side of the estuary, one of the best golf courses in England. [Illustration: _The Old Hobby Horse_] * * * * * [Illustration: G.W.R: The Line to Legend Land. ST. NEOT Page 40 THE HOOTING CARN Page 44 LELANT CHURCH Page 32 THE SEVEN STONES Page 28 CURY Page 48 TALLAND Page 36 PADSTOW Page 52 Vol. Two Back End] 
22248	----	THE INDIAN FAIRY BOOK. FROM THE ORIGINAL LEGENDS. BY CORNELIUS MATHEWS. With Illustrations by John McLenan. ENGRAVED BY A. V. S. ANTHONY. NEW-YORK: PUBLISHED BY ALLEN BROTHERS. 1869. Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1868, BY CORNELIUS MATHEWS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New-York. * * * * * [Illustration: THE CELESTIAL SISTERS. Page 11.] PREFACE. The following stories have been, time out of mind, in their original form, recited around the lodge-fires and under the trees, by the Indian story-tellers, for the entertainment of the red children of the West. They were originally interpreted from the old tales and legends by the late Henry R. Schoolcraft, and are now re-interpreted and developed by the Editor, so as to enable them, as far as worthy, to take a place with the popular versions of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, and other world-renowned tales of Europe and the East, to which, in their original conception, they bear a resemblance in romantic interest and quaint extravagance of fancy. The Editor hopes that these beautiful and sprightly legends of the West, if not marred in the handling, will repay, in part at least, the glorious debt which we have incurred to the Eastern World for her magical gifts of the same kind. October, 1868. CONTENTS. PAGE I.--THE CELESTIAL SISTERS 7 II.--THE BOY WHO SET A SNARE FOR THE SUN 16 III.--STRONG DESIRE AND THE RED SORCERER 22 IV.--THE WONDERFUL EXPLOITS OF GRASSHOPPER 34 V.--THE TWO JEEBI 68 VI.--OSSEO, THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR 74 VII.--GRAY EAGLE AND HIS FIVE BROTHERS 83 VIII.--THE TOAD-WOMAN 90 IX.--THE ORIGIN OF THE ROBIN 98 X.--WHITE FEATHER AND THE SIX GIANTS 102 XI.--SHEEM, THE FORSAKEN BOY 115 XII.--THE MAGIC BUNDLE 135 XIII.--THE RED SWAN 138 XIV.--THE MAN WITH HIS LEG TIED UP 170 XV.--THE LITTLE SPIRIT OR BOY-MAN 179 XVI.--THE ENCHANTED MOCCASINS 190 XVII.--HE OF THE LITTLE SHELL 207 XVIII.--MANABOZHO, THE MISCHIEF-MAKER 215 XIX.--LEELINAU, THE LOST DAUGHTER 252 XX.--THE WINTER SPIRIT AND HIS VISITOR 261 XXI.--THE FIRE-PLUME 264 XXII.--WEENDIGOES AND THE BONE-DWARF 288 XXIII.--THE BIRD LOVER 299 XXIV.--BOKWEWA THE HUMPBACK 315 XXV.--THE CRANE THAT CROSSED THE RIVER 324 XXVI.--WUNZH, THE FATHER OF INDIAN CORN 330 ILLUSTRATIONS. FRONTISPIECE.--THE CELESTIAL SISTERS 11 THE BEAR SERVANTS 59 THE MAN WITH HIS LEG TIED UP 176 THE MORNING STAR AND HER BROTHER 212 I. THE CELESTIAL SISTERS. Waupee, or the White Hawk, lived in a remote part of the forest, where animals abounded. Every day he returned from the chase with a large spoil, for he was one of the most skillful and lucky hunters of his tribe. His form was like the cedar; the fire of youth beamed from his eye; there was no forest too gloomy for him to penetrate, and no track made by bird or beast of any kind which he could not readily follow. One day he had gone beyond any point which he had ever before visited. He traveled through an open wood, which enabled him to see a great distance. At length he beheld a light breaking through the foliage of the distant trees, which made him sure that he was on the borders of a prairie. It was a wide plain, covered with long blue grass, and enameled with flowers of a thousand lovely tints. After walking for some time without a path, musing upon the open country, and enjoying the fragrant breeze, he suddenly came to a ring worn among the grass and the flowers, as if it had been made by footsteps moving lightly round and round. But it was strange--so strange as to cause the White Hawk to pause and gaze long and fixedly upon the ground--there was no path which led to this flowery circle. There was not even a crushed leaf nor a broken twig, nor the least trace of a footstep, approaching or retiring, to be found. He thought he would hide himself and lie in wait to discover, if he could, what this strange circle meant. Presently he heard the faint sounds of music in the air. He looked up in the direction they came from, and as the magic notes died away he saw a small object, like a little summer cloud that approaches the earth, floating down from above. At first it was very small, and seemed as if it could have been blown away by the first breeze that came along; but it rapidly grew as he gazed upon it, and the music every moment came clearer and more sweetly to his ear. As it neared the earth it appeared as a basket, and it was filled with twelve sisters, of the most lovely forms and enchanting beauty. As soon as the basket touched the ground they leaped out, and began straightway to dance, in the most joyous manner, around the magic ring, striking, as they did so, a shining ball, which uttered the most ravishing melodies, and kept time as they danced. The White Hawk, from his concealment, entranced, gazed upon their graceful forms and movements. He admired them all, but he was most pleased with the youngest. He longed to be at her side, to embrace her, to call her his own; and unable to remain longer a silent admirer, he rushed out and endeavored to seize this twelfth beauty who so enchanted him. But the sisters, with the quickness of birds, the moment they descried the form of a man, leaped back into the basket, and were drawn up into the sky. Lamenting his ill-luck, Waupee gazed longingly upon the fairy basket as it ascended and bore the lovely sisters from his view. "They are gone," he said, "and I shall see them no more." He returned to his solitary lodge, but he found no relief to his mind. He walked abroad, but to look at the sky, which had withdrawn from his sight the only being he had ever loved, was painful to him now. The next day, selecting the same hour, the White Hawk went back to the prairie, and took his station near the ring; in order to deceive the sisters, he assumed the form of an opossum, and sat among the grass as if he were there engaged in chewing the cud. He had not waited long when he saw the cloudy basket descend, and heard the same sweet music falling as before. He crept slowly toward the ring; but the instant the sisters caught sight of him they were startled, and sprang into their car. It rose a short distance when one of the elder sisters spoke: "Perhaps," she said, "it is come to show us how the game is played by mortals." "Oh no," the youngest replied; "quick, let us ascend." And all joining in a chant, they rose out of sight. Waupee, casting off his disguise, walked sorrowfully back to his lodge--but ah, the night seemed very long to lonely White Hawk! His whole soul was filled with the thought of the beautiful sister. Betimes, the next day, he returned to the haunted spot, hoping and fearing, and sighing as though his very soul would leave his body in its anguish. He reflected upon the plan he should follow to secure success. He had already failed twice; to fail a third time would be fatal. Near by he found an old stump, much covered with moss, and just then in use as the residence of a number of mice, who had stopped there on a pilgrimage to some relatives on the other side of the prairie. The White Hawk was so pleased with their tidy little forms that he thought he, too, would be a mouse, especially as they were by no means formidable to look at, and would not be at all likely to create alarm. He accordingly, having first brought the stump and set it near the ring, without further notice became a mouse, and peeped and sported about, and kept his sharp little eyes busy with the others; but he did not forget to keep one eye up toward the sky, and one ear wide open in the same direction. It was not long before the sisters, at their customary hour, came down and resumed their sport. "But see," cried the younger sister, "that stump was not there before." She ran off, frightened, toward the basket. Her sisters only smiled, and gathering round the old tree-stump, they struck it, in jest, when out ran the mice, and among them Waupee. They killed them all but one, which was pursued by the younger sister. Just as she had raised a silver stick which she held in her hand to put an end to it, too, the form of the White Hawk arose, and he clasped his prize in his arms. The other eleven sprang to their basket, and were drawn up to the skies. Waupee exerted all his skill to please his bride and win her affections. He wiped the tears from her eyes; he related his adventures in the chase; he dwelt upon the charms of life on the earth. He was constant in his attentions, keeping fondly by her side, and picking out the way for her to walk as he led her gently toward his lodge. He felt his heart glow with joy as he entered it, and from that moment he was one of the happiest of men. Winter and summer passed rapidly away, and as the spring drew near with its balmy gales and its many-colored flowers, their happiness was increased by the presence of a beautiful boy in their lodge. What more of earthly blessing was there for them to enjoy? Waupee's wife was a daughter of one of the stars; and as the scenes of earth began to pall upon her sight, she sighed to revisit her father. But she was obliged to hide these feelings from her husband. She remembered the charm that would carry her up, and while White Hawk was engaged in the chase, she took occasion to construct a wicker basket, which she kept concealed. In the mean time, she collected such rarities from the earth as she thought would please her father, as well as the most dainty kinds of food. One day when Waupee was absent, and all was in readiness, she went out to the charmed ring, taking with her her little son. As they entered the car she commenced her magical song, and the basket rose. The song was sad, and of a lowly and mournful cadence, and as it was wafted far away by the wind, it caught her husband's ear. It was a voice which he well knew, and he instantly ran to the prairie Though he made breathless speed, he could not reach the ring before his wife and child had ascended beyond his reach. He lifted up his voice in loud appeals, but they were unavailing. The basket still went up. He watched it till it became a small speck, and finally it vanished in the sky. He then bent his head down to the ground, and was miserable. Through a long winter and a long summer Waupee bewailed his loss, but he found no relief. The beautiful spirit had come and gone, and he should see it no more! He mourned his wife's loss sorely, but his son's still more; for the boy had both the mother's beauty and the father's strength. In the mean time his wife had reached her home in the stars, and in the blissful employments of her father's house she had almost forgotten that she had left a husband upon the earth. But her son, as he grew up, resembled more and more his father, and every day he was restless and anxious to visit the scene of his birth. His grandfather said to his daughter, one day: "Go, my child, and take your son down to his father, and ask him to come up and live with us. But tell him to bring along a specimen of each kind of bird and animal he kills in the chase." She accordingly took the boy and descended. The White Hawk, who was ever near the enchanted spot, heard her voice as she came down the sky. His heart beat with impatience as he saw her form and that of his son, and they were soon clasped in his arms. He heard the message of the Star, and he began to hunt with the greatest activity, that he might collect the present with all dispatch. He spent whole nights, as well as days, in searching for every curious and beautiful animal and bird. He only preserved a foot, a wing, or a tail of each. When all was ready, Waupee visited once more each favorite spot--the hill-top whence he had been used to see the rising sun; the stream where he had sported as a boy; the old lodge, now looking sad and solemn, which he was to sit in no more; and last of all, coming to the magic circle, he gazed widely around him with tearful eyes, and, taking his wife and child by the hand, they entered the car and were drawn up--into a country far beyond the flight of birds, or the power of mortal eye to pierce. Great joy was manifested upon their arrival at the starry plains. The Star Chief invited all his people to a feast; and when they had assembled, he proclaimed aloud that each one might continue as he was, an inhabitant of his own dominions, or select of the earthly gifts such as he liked best. A very strange confusion immediately arose; not one but sprang forward. Some chose a foot, some a wing, some a tail, and some a claw. Those who selected tails or claws were changed into animals, and ran off; the others assumed the form of birds, and flew away. Waupee chose a white hawk's feather. His wife and son followed his example, and each one became a white hawk. He spread his wings, and, followed by his wife and son, descended with the other birds to the earth, where he is still to be found, with the brightness of the starry plains in his eye, and the freedom of the heavenly breezes in his wings. II. THE BOY WHO SET A SNARE FOR THE SUN. At the time when the animals reigned in the earth, they had killed all the people but a girl and her little brother, and these two were living in fear, in an out-of-the-way place. The boy was a perfect little pigmy, and never grew beyond the size of a mere infant; but the girl increased with her years, so that the task of providing food and shelter fell wholly upon her. She went out daily to get wood for the lodge-fire, and she took her little brother with her that no mishap might befall him; for he was too little to leave alone. A big bird, of a mischievous disposition, might have flown away with him. She made him a bow and arrows, and said to him one day, "My little brother, I will leave you behind where I have been gathering the wood; you must hide yourself, and you will soon see the snow-birds come and pick the worms out of the logs which I have piled up. Shoot one of them and bring it home." He obeyed her, and tried his best to kill one, but he came home unsuccessful. His sister told him that he must not despair, but try again the next day. She accordingly left him at the gathering-place of the wood, and returned to the lodge. Toward night-fall she heard his little footsteps crackling through the snow, and he hurried in and threw down, with an air of triumph, one of the birds which he had killed. "My sister," said he, "I wish you to skin it, and stretch the skin, and when I have killed more, I will have a coat made out of them." "But what shall we do with the body?" said she; for they had always up to that time lived upon greens and berries. "Cut it in two," he answered, "and season our pottage with one half of it at a time." It was their first dish of game, and they relished it greatly. The boy kept on in his efforts, and in the course of time he killed ten birds--out of the skins of which his sister made him a little coat: being very small, he had a very pretty coat, and a bird skin to spare. "Sister," said he, one day, as he paraded up and down before the lodge, enjoying his new coat, and fancifying himself the greatest little fellow in the world--as he was, for there was no other beside him--"My sister, are we really alone in the world, or are we playing at it? Is there nobody else living? And, tell me, was all this great broad earth and this huge big sky made for a little boy and girl like you and me?" She told him, by no means; there were many folks very unlike a harmless girl and boy, such as they were, who lived in a certain other quarter of the earth, who had killed off all of their kinsfolk; and that if he would live blameless and not endanger his life, he must never go where they were. This only served to inflame the boy's curiosity; and he soon after took his bow and arrows and went in that direction. After walking a long time and meeting no one, he became tired, and stretched himself upon a high green knoll where the day's warmth had melted off the snow. It was a charming place to lie upon, and he fell asleep; and, while sleeping, the sun beat so hot upon him that it not only singed his bird-skin coat, but it so shrivelled and shrunk and tightened it upon the little boy's body, as to wake him up. When he felt how the sun had seared and the mischief its fiery beams had played with the coat he was so proud of, he flew into a great passion, and berated the sun in a terrible way for a little boy no higher than a man's knee, and he vowed fearful things against it. "Do not think you are too high," said he; "I shall revenge myself. Oh, sun! I will have you for a plaything yet." On coming home he gave an account of his misfortune to his sister, and bitterly bewailed the spoiling of his new coat. He would not eat--not so much as a single berry. He lay down as one that fasts; nor did he move nor change his manner of lying for ten full days, though his sister strove to prevail on him to rise. At the end of ten days he turned over, and then he lay full ten days on the other side. When he got up he was very pale, but very resolute too. He bade his sister make a snare, for, he informed her, that he meant to catch the sun. She said she had nothing; but after awhile she brought forward a deer's sinew which the father had left, and which she soon made into a string suitable for a noose. The moment she showed it to him he was quite wroth, and told her that would not do, and directed her to find something else. She said she had nothing--nothing at all. At last she thought of the bird-skin that was left over when the coat was made; and this she wrought into a string. With this the little boy was more vexed than before. "The sun has had enough of my bird-skins," he said; "find something else." She went out of the lodge saying to herself, "Was there ever so obstinate a boy?" She did not dare to answer this time that she had nothing. Luckily she thought of her own beautiful hair, and pulling some of it from among her locks, she quickly braided it into a cord, and, returning, she handed it to her brother. The moment his eye fell upon this jet black braid he was delighted. "This will do," he said; and he immediately began to run it back and forth through his hands as swiftly as he could; and as he drew it forth, he tried its strength. He said again, "this will do;" and winding it in a glossy coil about his shoulders, he set out a little after midnight. His object was to catch the sun before he rose. He fixed his snare firmly on a spot just where the sun must strike the land as it rose above the earth; and sure enough, he caught the sun, so that it was held fast in the cord and did not rise. The animals who ruled the earth were immediately put into great commotion. They had no light; and they ran to and fro, calling out to each other, and inquiring what had happened. They summoned a council to debate upon the matter, and an old dormouse, suspecting where the trouble lay, proposed that some one should be appointed to go and cut the cord. This was a bold thing to undertake, as the rays of the sun could not fail to burn whoever should venture so near to them. At last the venerable dormouse himself undertook it, for the very good reason that no one else would. At this time the dormouse was the largest animal in the world. When he stood up he looked like a mountain. It made haste to the place where the sun lay ensnared, and as it came nearer and nearer, its back began to smoke and burn with the heat, and the whole top of his huge bulk was turned in a very short time to enormous heaps of ashes. It succeeded, however, in cutting the cord with its teeth and freeing the sun, which rolled up again, as round and beautiful as ever, into the wide blue sky. But the dormouse--or blind woman as it is called--was shrunk away to a very small size; and that is the reason why it is now one of the tiniest creatures upon the earth. The little boy returned home when he discovered that the sun had escaped his snare, and devoted himself entirely to hunting. "If the beautiful hair of my sister would not hold the sun fast, nothing in the world could," he said. "He was not born, a little fellow like himself, to look after the sun. It required one greater and wiser than he was to regulate that." And he went out and shot ten more snow-birds; for in this business he was very expert; and he had a new bird-skin coat made, which was prettier than the one he had worn before. III. STRONG DESIRE, AND THE RED SORCERER. There was a man called Odshedoph, or the Child of Strong Desires, who had a wife and one son. He had withdrawn his family from the village, where they had spent the winter, to the neighborhood of a distant forest, where game abounded. This wood was a day's travel from his winter home, and under its ample shadow the wife fixed the lodge, while the husband went out to hunt. Early in the evening he returned with a deer, and, being weary and athirst, he asked his son, whom he called Strong Desire, to go to the river for some water. The son replied that it was dark, and he was afraid. His father still urged him, saying that his mother, as well as himself, was tired, and the distance to the water very short. But no persuasion could overcome the young man's reluctance. He refused to go. "Ah, my son," said the father, at last, "if you are afraid to go to the river, you will never kill the Red Head." The stripling was deeply vexed by this observation; it seemed to touch him to the very quick. He mused in silence. He refused to eat, and made no reply when spoken to. He sat by the lodge door all the night through, looking up at the stars, and sighing like one sorely distressed. The next day he asked his mother to dress the skin of the deer, and to make it into moccasins for him, while he busied himself in preparing a bow and arrows. As soon as these were in readiness, he left the lodge one morning, at sunrise, without saying a word to his father or mother. As he passed along, he fired one of his arrows into the air, which fell westward. He took that course, and coming to the spot where the arrow had fallen, he was rejoiced to find it piercing the heart of a deer. He refreshed himself with a meal of the venison, and the next morning he fired another arrow. Following its course, after traveling all day he found that he had transfixed another deer. In this manner he fired four arrows, and every evening he discovered that he had killed a deer. By a strange oversight, he left the arrows sticking in the carcasses, and passed on without withdrawing them. Having in this way no arrow for the fifth day, he was in great distress at night for the want of food. At last he threw himself upon the earth in despair, concluding that he might as well perish there as go further. But he had not lain long before he heard a hollow rumbling noise, in the ground beneath him, like that of an earthquake moving slowly along. He sprang up, and discovered at a distance the figure of a human being, walking with a stick. He looked attentively, and saw that the figure was walking in a wide beaten path in a prairie, leading from a dusky lodge to a lake, whose waters were black and turbid. To his surprise, this lodge, which had not been in view when he cast himself upon the ground, was now near at hand. He approached a little nearer, and concealed himself; and in a moment he discovered that the figure was no other than that of the terrible witch, the little old woman who makes war. Her path to the lake was perfectly smooth and solid, and the noise Strong Desire had heard was caused by the striking of her walking staff upon the ground. The top of this staff was decorated with a string of the toes and bills of birds of every kind, who, at every stroke of the stick, fluttered and sung their various notes in concert. She entered her lodge and laid off her mantle, which was entirely composed of the scalps of women. Before folding it, she shook it several times, and at every shake the scalps uttered loud shouts of laughter, in which the old hag joined. The boy, who lingered at the door, was greatly alarmed, but he uttered no cry. After laying by the cloak, she came directly to him. Looking at him steadily, she informed him that she had known him from the time he had left his father's lodge, and had watched his movements. She told him not to fear or despair, for she would be his protector and friend. She invited him into her lodge, and gave him a supper. During the repast, she questioned him as to his motives for visiting her. He related his history, stated the manner in which he had been disgraced, and the difficulties he labored under. "Now tell me truly," said the little old woman who makes war, "you were afraid to go to the water in the dark." "I was," Strong Desire answered, promptly. As he replied, the hag waved her staff. The birds set up a clamorous cry, and the mantle shook violently as all the scalps burst into a hideous shout of laughter. "And are you afraid now," she asked again. "I am," again answered Strong Desire, without hesitation. "But you are not afraid to speak the truth," rejoined the little old woman. "You will be a brave man yet." She cheered him with the assurance of her friendship, and began at once to exercise her power upon him. His hair being very short, she took a great leaden comb, and after drawing it through his locks several times, they became of a handsome length like those of a beautiful young woman. She then proceeded to dress him as a female, furnishing him with the necessary garments, and tinting his face with colors of the most charming dye. She gave him, too, a bowl of shining metal. She directed him to put in his girdle a blade of scented sword-grass, and to proceed the next morning to the banks of the lake, which was no other than that over which the Red Head reigned. Now Hah-Undo-Tah, or the Red Head, was a most powerful sorcerer, living upon an island in the centre of his realm of water, and he was the terror of all the country. She informed him that there would be many Indians upon the island, who, as soon as they saw him use the shining bowl to drink with, would come and solicit him to be their wife, and to take him over to the island. These offers he was to refuse, and to say that he had come a great distance to be the wife of the Red Head, and that if the chief could not seek her for himself, she would return to her village. She said, that as soon as the Red Head heard of this he would come for her in his own canoe, in which she must embark. "On reaching the shore," added the little old woman, "you must consent to be his wife; and in the evening you are to induce him to take a walk out of the village, and when you have reached a lonesome spot, use the first opportunity to cut off his head with the blade of grass." She also gave Strong Desire general advice how he was to conduct himself to sustain his assumed character of a woman. His fear would scarcely permit him to consent to engage in an adventure attended with so much danger; but the recollection of his father's looks and reproaches of the want of courage, decided him. Early in the morning he left the lodge of the little old woman who makes war, which was clouded in a heavy brackish fog, so thick and heavy to breathe, that he with difficulty made his way forth. When he turned to look back for it, it was gone. He took the hard beaten path to the banks of the lake, and made for the water at a point directly opposite the Red Head's lodge. Where he now stood it was beautiful day. The heavens were clear, and the sun shone out as brightly to Strong Desire as on the first morning when he had put forth his little head from the door of his father's lodge. He had not been long there, sauntering along the beach, when he displayed the glittering bowl by dipping water from the lake. Very soon a number of canoes came off from the island. The men admired his dress, and were charmed with his beauty, and almost with one voice they all made proposals of marriage. These, Strong Desire promptly declined. When this was reported to Red Head, he ordered his royal bark to be launched by his chosen men of the oar, and crossed over to see this wonderful girl. As they approached the shore, Strong Desire saw that the ribs of the sorcerer's canoe were formed of living rattlesnakes, whose heads pointed outward to guard him from his enemies. Being invited, he had no sooner stepped into the canoe, than they began to hiss and rattle furiously, which put him in a great fright; but the magician spoke to them, when they became pacified and quiet. Shortly after they were at the landing upon the island. The marriage took place immediately; and the bride made presents of various valuables which had been furnished her by the old witch who inhabited the cloudy lodge. As they were sitting in the lodge, surrounded by the friends and relatives, the mother of the Red Head regarded the face of her new daughter-in-law for a long time with fixed attention. From this scrutiny she was convinced that this singular and hasty marriage boded no good to her son. She drew him aside, and disclosed to him her suspicions. This can be no female, said she; she has the figure and manners, the countenance, and more especially the eyes, are beyond a doubt those of a man. Her husband rejected her suspicions, and rebuked her severely for entertaining such notions of her own daughter-in-law. She still urged her doubts, which so vexed the husband that he broke his pipe-stem in her face, and called her an owl. This act astonished the company, who sought an explanation; and it was no sooner given, than the mock bride, rising with an air of offended dignity, informed the Red Head that after receiving so gross an affront from his relatives she could not think of remaining with him as his wife, but should forthwith return to her own friends. With a toss of the head, like that of an angry female, Strong Desire left the lodge, followed by Red Head, and walked away until he came to the beach of the island, near the spot where they had first landed. Red Head entreated him to remain, urging every motive, and making all sorts of magnificent promises--none of which seemed to make the least impression. Strong Desire, Red Head thought, was very hard-hearted. During these appeals they had seated themselves upon the ground, and Red Head, in great affliction, reclined his head upon his fancied wife's lap. Strong Desire now changed his manner, was very kind and soothing, and suggested in the most winning accent that if Red Head would sleep soundly for awhile he might possibly dream himself out of all his troubles. Red Head, delighted at so happy a prospect, said that he would fall asleep immediately. "You have killed a good many men in your time, Red Head," said Strong Desire, by way of suggesting an agreeable train of ideas to the sorcerer. "Hundreds," answered Red Head; "and what is better, now that I am fairly settled in life by this happy marriage, I shall be able to give my whole attention to massacre." "And you will kill hundreds more," interposed Strong Desire, in the most insinuating manner imaginable. "Just so, my dear," Red Head replied, with a great leer; "thousands. There will be no end to my delicious murders. I love dearly to kill people. I would like to kill you if you were not my wife." "There, there," said Strong Desire, with the coaxing air of a little coquette, "go to sleep; that's a good Red Head." No other subject of conversation occurring to the chief, now that he had exhausted the delightful topic of wholesale murder, he straightway fell into a deep sleep. The chance so anxiously sought for had come; and Strong Desire, with a smiling eye, drawing his blade of grass with lightning swiftness once across the neck of the Red Head, severed the huge and wicked head from the body. In a moment, stripping off his woman's dress, underneath which he had all along worn his male attire, Strong Desire seized the bleeding trophy, plunged into the lake, and swam safely over to the main shore. He had scarcely reached it, when, looking back, he saw amid the darkness the torches of persons come out in search of the new married couple. He listened until they had found the headless body, and he heard their piercing shrieks of rage and sorrow as he took his way to the lodge of his kind adviser. The little old woman who makes war was in an excellent humor, and she received Strong Desire with rejoicing. She admired his prudence, and assured him his bravery should never be questioned again. Lifting up the head, which she gazed upon with vast delight, she said he need only have brought the scalp. Cutting off a lock of the hair for herself, she told him he might now return with the head, which would be evidence of an achievement that would cause his own people to respect him. "In your way home," added the little old woman, "you will meet with but one difficulty. Maunkahkeesh, the Spirit of the Earth, requires an offering or sacrifice from all of her sons who perform extraordinary deeds. As you walk along in a prairie there will be an earthquake; the earth will open and divide the prairie in the middle. Take this partridge and throw it into the opening, and instantly spring over it." With many thanks to the little old witch, who had so faithfully befriended him, Strong Desire took leave of her, and having, by the course pointed out, safely passed the earthquake, he arrived near his own village. He secretly hid his precious trophy. On entering the village, he found that his parents had returned from the place of their spring encampment by the wood-side, and that they were in heavy sorrowing for their son, whom they supposed to be lost. One and another of the young men had presented themselves to the disconsolate parents, and said, "Look up, I am your son;" but when they looked up, they beheld not the familiar face of Strong Desire. Having been often deceived in this manner, when their own son in truth presented himself they sat with their heads down, and with their eyes nearly blinded with weeping. It was some time before they could be prevailed upon to bestow a glance upon him. It was still longer before they could recognize him as their son who had refused to draw water from the river, at night, for fear, for his countenance was no longer that of a timid stripling; it was that of a man who has seen and done great things, and who has the heart to do greater still. When he recounted his adventures they believed him mad. The young men laughed at him--him, Strong Desire--who feared to walk to the river at night-time. He left the lodge, and ere their laughter had ceased, returned with his trophy. He held aloft the head of the Red Sorcerer, with the great ghastly leer which lighted it up before his last sleep, at prospect of a thousand future murders, fresh upon it. It was easily recognized, and the young men who had scoffed at Strong Desire shrunk into the corners out of sight. Strong Desire had conquered the terrible Red Head! All doubts of the truth of his adventures were dispelled. He was greeted with joy, and placed among the first warriors of the nation. He finally became a chief, and his family were ever after respected and esteemed. IV. THE WONDERFUL EXPLOITS OF GRASSHOPPER. A man, of small stature, found himself standing alone on a prairie. He thought to himself, "How came I here? Are there no beings on this earth but myself? I must travel and see. I must walk till I find the abodes of men." So soon as his mind was made up, he set out, he knew not whither, in search of habitations. He was a resolute little fellow, and no difficulties could turn him from his purpose: neither prairies, rivers, woods nor storms, had the effect to daunt his courage or turn him back. After traveling a long time, he came to a wood, in which he saw decayed stumps of trees, as if they had been cut in ancient times, but no other trace of men. Pursuing his journey, he found more recent marks of the same kind; after this, he came upon fresh traces of human beings; first their footsteps, and then the wood they had felled, lying in heaps. Pushing on, he emerged toward dusk from the forest, and beheld at a distance a large village of high lodges standing on rising ground. "I am tired of this dog-trot," he said to himself. "I will arrive there on a run." He started off with all his speed. On coming to the first lodge, without any especial exertion, he jumped over it, and found himself standing by the door on the other side. Those within saw something pass over the opening in the roof; they thought from the shadow it cast that it must have been some huge bird--and then they heard a thump upon the ground. "What is that?" they all said and several ran out to see. They invited him in, and he found himself in company with an old chief and several men who were seated in the lodge. Meat was set before him; after which the old chief asked him whither he was going, and what was his name. He answered that he was in search of adventures, and that his name was "Grasshopper." They all opened their eyes upon the stranger with a broad stare. "Grasshopper!" whispered one to another; and a general titter went round. They invited him to stay with them, which he was inclined to do; for it was a pleasant village, but so small as to constantly embarrass Grasshopper. He was in perpetual trouble; whenever he shook hands with a stranger, to whom he might be introduced, such was the abundance of his strength, without meaning it, he wrung his arm off at the shoulder. Once or twice, in mere sport, he cuffed the boys, about the lodge, by the side of the head, and they flew out of sight as though they had been shot from a bow; nor could they ever be found again, though they were searched for in all the country round, far and wide. If Grasshopper proposed to himself a short stroll in the morning, he was at once miles out of town. When he entered a lodge, if he happened for a moment to forget himself, he walked straight through the leathern, or wooden, or earthen walls, as if he had been merely passing through a bush. At his meals he broke in pieces all the dishes, set them down as lightly as he would; and putting a leg out of bed when he rose, it was a common thing for him to push off the top of the lodge. He wanted more elbow-room; and after a short stay, in which, by the accidentally letting go of his strength, he had nearly laid waste the whole place, and filled it with demolished lodges and broken pottery, and one-armed men, he made up his mind to go further, taking with him a young man who had formed a strong attachment for him, and who might serve him as his pipe-bearer; for Grasshopper was a huge smoker, and vast clouds followed him wherever he went; so that people could say, "Grasshopper is coming!" by the mighty smoke he raised. They set out together, and when his companion was fatigued with walking, Grasshopper would put him forward on his journey a mile or two by giving him a cast in the air, and lighting him in a soft place among the trees, or in a cool spot in a water-pond, among the sedges and water-lilies. At other times he would lighten the way by showing off a few tricks, such as leaping over trees, and turning round on one leg till he made the dust fly; at which the pipe-bearer was mightily pleased, although it sometimes happened that the character of these gambols frightened him. For Grasshopper would, without the least hint of such an intention, jump into the air far ahead, and it would cost the little pipe-bearer half a day's hard travel to come up with him; and then the dust Grasshopper raised was often so thick and heavy as to completely bury the poor little pipe-bearer, and compel Grasshopper to dig diligently and with might and main to get him out alive. One day they came to a very large village, where they were well received. After staying in it some time (in the course of which Grasshopper, in a fit of abstraction, walked straight through the sides of three lodges without stopping to look for the door), they were informed of a number of wicked spirits, who lived at a distance, and who made it a practice to kill all who came to their lodge. Attempts had been made to destroy them, but they had always proved more than a match for such as had come out against them. Grasshopper determined to pay them a visit, although he was strongly advised not to do so. The chief of the village warned him of the great danger he would incur, but finding Grasshopper resolved, he said: "Well, if you will go, being my guest, I will send twenty warriors to serve you." Grasshopper thanked him for the offer, although he suggested that he thought he could get along without them, at which the little pipe-bearer grinned, for his master had never shown in that village what he could do, and the chief thought that Grasshopper, being little himself, would be likely to need twenty warriors, at the least, to encounter the wicked spirits with any chance of success. Twenty young men made their appearance. They set forward, and after about a day's journey they descried the lodge of the Manitoes. Grasshopper placed his friend, the pipe-bearer, and the warriors, near enough to see all that passed, while he went alone to the lodge. As he entered, Grasshopper saw five horrid-looking Manitoes in the act of eating. It was the father and his four sons. They were really hideous to look upon. Their eyes were swimming low in their heads, and they glared about as if they were half starved. They offered Grasshopper something to eat, which he politely refused, for he had a strong suspicion that it was the thigh-bone of a man. "What have you come for?" said the old one. "Nothing," answered Grasshopper; "where is your uncle?" They all stared at him, and answered: "We ate him, yesterday. What do you want?" "Nothing," said Grasshopper; "where is your grandfather?" They all answered, with another broad stare: "We ate him a week ago. Do you not wish to wrestle?" "Yes," replied Grasshopper, "I don't mind if I do take a turn; but you must be easy with me, for you see I am very little." Pipe-bearer, who stood near enough to overhear the conversation, grinned from ear to ear when he caught this remark. The Manitoes answered: "Oh yes, we will be easy with you." And as they said this they looked at each other, and rolled their eyes about in a dreadful manner. A hideous smile came over their faces as they whispered among themselves: "It's a pity he's so thin. You go," they said to the eldest brother. The two got ready--the Manito and Grasshopper--and they were soon clinched in each other's arms for a deadly throw. Grasshopper knew their object--his death; they wanted a taste of his delicate little body, and he was determined they should have it, perhaps in a different sense from that they intended. "Haw! haw!" they cried, and soon the dust and dry leaves flew about as if driven by a strong wind. The Manito was strong, but Grasshopper thought he could master him; and all at once giving him a sly trip, as the wicked spirit was trying to finish his breakfast with a piece out of his shoulder, he sent the Manito head-foremost against a stone; and, calling aloud to the three others, he bade them come and take the body away. The brothers now stepped forth in quick succession, but Grasshopper having got his blood up, and limbered himself by exercise, soon dispatched the three--sending one this way, another that, and the third straight up into the air, so high that he never came down again. It was time for the old Manito to be frightened, and dreadfully frightened he got, and ran for his life, which was the very worst thing he could have done; for Grasshopper, of all his gifts of strength, was most noted for his speed of foot. The old Manito set off, and for mere sport's sake, Grasshopper pursued him. Sometimes he was before the wicked old spirit, sometimes he was flying over his head, and then he would keep along at a steady trot just at his heels, till he had blown all the breath out of the old knave's body. Meantime his friend, the pipe-bearer, and the twenty young warriors, cried out: "Ha, ha, ah! ha, ha, ah! Grasshopper is driving him before him!" The Manito only turned his head now and then to look back. At length, when he was tired of the sport, to be rid of him, Grasshopper, with a gentle application of his foot, sent the wicked old Manito whirling away through the air, in which he made a great number of the most curious turn-overs in the world, till he came to alight, when it so happened that he fell astride of an old bull-buffalo, grazing in a distant pasture, who straightway set off with him at a long gallop, and the old Manito has not been heard of to this day. The warriors and the pipe-bearer and Grasshopper set to work and burned down the lodge of the wicked spirits, and then when they came to look about, they saw that the ground was strewn on all sides with human bones bleaching in the sun; these were the unhappy victims of the Manitoes. Grasshopper then took three arrows from his girdle, and after having performed a ceremony to the Great Spirit, he shot one into the air, crying, "You are lying down; rise up, or you will be hit!" The bones all moved to one place. He shot the second arrow, repeating the same words, when each bone drew toward its fellow-bone; the third arrow brought forth to life the whole multitude of people who had been killed by the Manitoes. Grasshopper conducted the crowd to the chief of the village, who had proved his friend, and gave them into his hands. The chief was there with his counselors, to whom he spoke apart. "Who is more worthy," said the chief to Grasshopper, "to rule than you. _You_ alone can defend them." Grasshopper thanked him, and told him that he was in search of more adventures. "I have done some things," said little Grasshopper, rather boastfully, "and I think I can do some more." The chief still urged him, but he was eager to go, and naming pipe-bearer to tarry and take his place, he set out again on his travels, promising that he would some time or other come back and see them. "Ho! ho! ho!" they all cried. "Come back again and see us!" He renewed his promise that he would; and then set out alone. After traveling some time he came to a great lake, and on looking about he discovered a very large otter on an island. He thought to himself, "His skin will make me a fine pouch." And he immediately drew up at long shots, and drove an arrow into his side. He waded into the lake, and with some difficulty dragged him ashore, and up a hill overlooking the lake. As soon as Grasshopper got the otter into the sunshine where it was warm, he skinned him, and threw the carcass some distance off, thinking the war-eagle would come, and that he should have a chance to secure his feathers as ornaments for the head; for Grasshopper began to be proud, and was disposed to display himself. He soon heard a rushing noise as of a loud wind, but could see nothing. Presently a large eagle dropped, as if from the air, upon the otter's carcass. Grasshopper drew his bow, and the arrow passed through under both of his wings. The bird made a convulsive flight upward, with such force that the cumbrous body was borne up several feet from the ground; but with its claws deeply fixed, the heavy otter brought the eagle back to the earth. Grasshopper possessed himself of a handful of the prime feathers, crowned his head with the trophy, and set off in high spirits on the look out for something new. After walking awhile, he came to a body of water which flooded the trees on its banks--it was a lake made by beavers. Taking his station on the raised dam where the stream escaped, he watched to see whether any of the beavers would show themselves. A head presently peeped out of the water to see who it was that disturbed them. "My friend," said Grasshopper, in his most persuasive manner, "could you not oblige me by turning me into a beaver like yourself. Nothing would please me so much as to make your acquaintance, I can assure you;" for Grasshopper was curious to know how these watery creatures lived, and what kind of notions they had. "I do not know," replied the beaver, who was rather short-nosed and surly. "I will go and ask the others. Meanwhile stay where you are, if you please." "To be sure," answered Grasshopper, stealing down the bank several paces as soon as the beaver's back was turned. Presently there was a great splashing of the water, and all the beavers showed their heads, and looked warily to where he stood, to see if he was armed; but he had knowingly left his bow and arrows in a hollow tree at a short distance. After a long conversation, which they conducted in a whisper so that Grasshopper could not catch a word, strain his ears as he would, they all advanced in a body toward the spot where he stood; the chief approaching the nearest, and lifting his head highest out of the water. "Can you not," said Grasshopper, noticing that they waited for him to speak first, "turn me into a beaver? I wish to live among you." "Yes," answered their chief; "lie down." And Grasshopper in a moment found himself a beaver, and was gliding into the water, when a thought seemed to strike him, and he paused at the edge of the lake. "I am very small," he said, to the beaver, in a sorrowful tone. "You must make me large," he said; for Grasshopper was terribly ambitious, and wanted always to be the first person in every company. "Larger than any of you; in my present size it's hardly worth my while to go into the water." "Yes, yes!" said they. "By and by, when we get into the lodge it shall be done." They all dived into the lake, and in passing great heaps of limbs and logs at the bottom, he asked the use of them; they answered, "It is for our winter's provisions." When they all got into the lodge their number was about one hundred. The lodge was large and warm. "Now we will make you large," said they. "Will _that_ do?" "Yes," he answered; for he found that he was ten times the size of the largest. "You need not go out," said the others; "we will bring you food into the lodge, and you will be our chief." "Very well," Grasshopper answered. He thought, "I will stay here and grow fat at their expense." But, soon after, one ran into the lodge, out of breath, crying out, "We are visited by the Indians!" All huddled together in great fear. The water began to lower, for the hunters had broken down the dam, and they soon heard them on the roof of the lodge, breaking it up. Out jumped all the beavers into the water, and so escaped. Grasshopper tried to follow them; but, unfortunately, to gratify his ambition, they had made him so large that he could not creep out at the hole. He tried to call them back, but either they did not hear or would not attend to him; he worried himself so much in searching for a door to let him out, that he looked like a great bladder, swollen and blistering in the sun, and the sweat stood out upon his forehead in knobs and huge bubbles. Although he heard and understood every word that the hunters spoke--and some of their expressions suggested terrible ideas--he could not turn himself back into a man. He had chosen to be a beaver, and a beaver he must be. One of the hunters, a prying little man, with a single lock dangling over one eye--this inquisitive little fellow put his head in at the top of the lodge. "_Ty-au!_" cried he. "_Tut ty-au!_ Me-shau-mik--king of beavers is in." Whereupon the whole crowd of hunters began upon him with their clubs, and knocked his scull about until it was no harder than a morass in the middle of summer. Grasshopper thought as well as ever he did, although he was a beaver; and he felt that he was in a rather foolish scrape, inhabiting the carcass of a beaver. Presently seven or eight of the hunters hoisted his body upon long poles, and marched away home with him. As they went, he reflected in this manner: "What will become of me? My ghost or shadow will not die after they get me to their lodges." Invitations were immediately sent out for a grand feast; but as soon as his body got cold, his soul being uncomfortable in a house without heat, flew off. Having reassumed his mortal shape, Grasshopper found himself standing near a prairie. After walking a distance, he saw a herd of elk feeding. He admired their apparent ease and enjoyment of life, and thought there could be nothing more pleasant than the liberty of running about and feeding on the prairies. He had been a water animal and now he wished to become a land animal, to learn what passed in an elk's head as he roved about. He asked them if they could not turn him into one of themselves. "Yes," they answered, after a pause. "Get down on your hands and feet." He obeyed their directions, and forthwith found himself to be an elk. "I want big horns, big feet," said he; "I wish to be very large;" for all the conceit and vain-glory had not been knocked out of Grasshopper, even by the sturdy thwacks of the hunters' clubs. "Yes, yes," they answered. "There," exerting their power, "are you big enough?" "That will do," he replied; for, looking into a lake hard by, Grasshopper saw that he was very large. They spent their time in grazing and running to and fro; but what astonished Grasshopper, although he often lifted up his head and directed his eyes that way, he could never see the stars, which he had so admired as a human being. Being rather cold, one day, Grasshopper went into a thick wood for shelter, whither he was followed by most of the herd. They had not been long there when some elks from behind passed the others like a strong wind, calling out: "The hunters are after us!" All took the alarm, and off they ran, Grasshopper with the rest. "Keep out on the plains," they said. But it was too late to profit by this advice, for they had already got entangled in the thick woods. Grasshopper soon scented the hunters, who were closely following his trail for they had left all the others and were making after him in full cry. He jumped furiously, dashed through the underwood, and broke down whole groves of saplings in his flight. But this only made it the harder for him to get on, such a huge and lusty elk was he by his own request. Presently, as he dashed past an open space, he felt an arrow in his side. They could not well miss it, he presented so wide a mark to the shot. He bounded over trees under the smart, but the shafts clattered thicker and thicker at his ribs, and at last one entered his heart. He fell to the ground, and heard the whoop of triumph sounded by the hunters. On coming up, they looked on the carcass with astonishment, and with their hands up to their mouths, exclaimed: "_Ty-au! ty-au!_" There were about sixty in the party, who had come out on a special hunt, as one of their number had, the day before, observed his large tracks on the plains. When they had skinned him his flesh grew cold, and his spirit took its flight from the dead body, and Grasshopper found himself in human shape, with a bow and arrows. But his passion for adventure was not yet cooled; for on coming to a large lake with a sandy beach, he saw a large flock of brant, and speaking to them in the brant language, he requested them to make a brant of him. "Yes," they replied, at once; for the brant is a bird of a very obliging disposition. "But I want to be very large," he said. There was no end to the ambition of little Grasshopper. "Very well," they answered; and he soon found himself a large brant, all the others standing gazing in astonishment at his great size. "You must fly as leader," they said. "No," answered Grasshopper; "I will fly behind." "Very well," rejoined the brant; "one thing more we have to say to you, brother Grasshopper" (for he had told them his name). "You must be careful, in flying, not to look down, for something may happen to you." "Well, it is so," said he; and soon the flock rose up into the air, for they were bound north. They flew very fast--he behind. One day, while going with a strong wind, and as swift as their wings could flap, as they passed over a large village the Indians raised a great shout on seeing them, particularly on Grasshopper's account, for his wings were broader than two large mats. The village people made such a frightful noise that he forgot what had been told him about looking down. They were now scudding along as swift as arrows; and as soon as he brought his neck in and stretched it down to look at the shouters, his huge tail was caught by the wind, and over and over he was blown. He tried to right himself, but without success, for he had no sooner got out of one heavy air-current than he fell into another, which treated him even more rudely than that he had escaped from. Down, down he went, making more turns than he wished for, from a height of several miles. The first moment he had to look about him, Grasshopper, in the shape of a big brant, was aware that he was jammed into a large hollow tree. To get backward or forward was out of the question, and there, in spite of himself, was Grasshopper forced to tarry till his brant life was ended by starvation, when, his spirit being at liberty, he was once more a human being. As he journeyed on in search of further adventures, Grasshopper came to a lodge in which were two old men, with heads white from extreme age. They were very fine old men to look at. There was such sweetness and innocence in their features that Grasshopper would have enjoyed himself very much at their lodge, if he had had no other entertainment than such as the gazing upon the serene and happy faces of the two innocent old men with heads white from extreme age afforded. They treated him well, and he made known to them that he was going back to his village, his friends and people, whereupon the two white-headed old men very heartily wished him a good journey and abundance of comfort in seeing his friends once more. They even arose, old and infirm as they were, and tottering with exceeding difficulty to the door, were at great pains to point out to him the exact course he should take; and they called his attention to the circumstance that it was much shorter and more direct than he would have taken himself. Ah! what merry deceivers were these two old men with very white heads. Grasshopper, with blessings showered on him until he was fairly out of sight, set forth with good heart. He thought he heard loud laughter resounding after him in the direction of the lodge of the two old men; but it could not have been the two old men, for they were, certainly, too old to laugh. He walked briskly all day, and at night he had the satisfaction of reaching a lodge in all respects like that which he had left in the morning. There were two fine old men, and his treatment was in every particular the same, even down to the parting blessing and the laughter that followed him as he went his way. After walking the third day, and coming to a lodge the same as before, he was satisfied from the bearings of the course he had taken that he had been journeying in a circle, and by a notch which he had cut in the door-post that these were the same two old men, all along; and that, despite their innocent faces and their very white heads, they had been playing him a sorry trick. "Who are you," said Grasshopper, "to treat me so? Come forth, I say." They were compelled to obey his summons, lest, in his anger, he should take their lives; and they appeared on the outside of the lodge. "We must have a little trial of speed, now," said Grasshopper. "A race?" they asked. "We are very old; we can not run." "We will see," said Grasshopper; whereupon he set them out upon the road, and then he gave them a gentle push, which put them in motion. Then he pushed them again--harder--harder--until they got under fine headway, when he gave each of them an astounding shock with his foot, and off they flew at a great rate, round and round the course; and such was the magic virtue of the foot of Grasshopper, that no object once set agoing by it could by any possibility stop; so that, for aught we know to the contrary, the two innocent, white-headed, merry old men, are trotting with all their might and main around the circle in which they beguiled Grasshopper, to this day. Continuing his journey, Grasshopper, although his head was warm and buzzing with all sorts of schemes, did not know exactly what to do until he came to a big lake. He mounted a high hill to try and see to the other side, but he could not. He then made a canoe, and sailed forth. The water was very clear--a transparent blue--and he saw that it abounded with fish of a rare and delicate complexion. This circumstance inspired him with a wish to return to his village, and to bring his people to live near this beautiful lake. Toward evening, coming to a woody island, he encamped and ate the fish he had speared, and they proved to be as comforting to the stomach as they were pleasing to the eye. The next day Grasshopper returned to the main land, and as he wandered along the shore he espied at a distance the celebrated giant, Manabozho, who is a bitter enemy of Grasshopper, and loses no opportunity to stop him on his journeyings and to thwart his plans. At first it occurred to Grasshopper to have a trial of wits with the giant, but, on second thoughts, he said to himself, "I am in a hurry now; I will see him another time." With no further mischief than raising a great whirlwind of dust, which caused Manabozho to rub his eyes severely, Grasshopper quietly slipped out of the way; and he made good speed withal, for in much less time than you could count half the stars in the sky of a winter night, he had reached home. His return was welcomed with a great hubbub of feasting and songs; and he had scarcely set foot in the village before he had invitations to take pot-luck at different lodges, which would have lasted him the rest of his natural life. Pipe-bearer, who had some time before given up the cares of a ruler, and fallen back upon his native place, fairly danced with joy at the sight of Grasshopper, who, not to be outdone, dandled him affectionately in his arms, by casting him up and down in the air half a mile or so, till little Pipe-bearer had no breath left in his body to say that he was happy to see Grasshopper home again. Grasshopper gave the village folks a lively account of his adventures, and when he came to the blue lake and the abundant fish, he dwelt upon their charms with such effect that they agreed, with one voice, that it must be a glorious place to live in, and if he would show them the way they would shift camp and settle there at once. He not only showed them the way, but bringing his wonderful strength and speed of foot to bear, in less than half a day he had transported the whole village, with its children, women, tents, and implements of war, to the new water-side. Here, for a time, Grasshopper appeared to be content, until one day a message came for him in the shape of a bear, who said that their king wished to see him immediately at his village. Grasshopper was ready in an instant; and mounting upon the messenger's back, off he ran. Toward evening they climbed a high mountain, and came to a cave where the bear-king lived. He was a very large person; and puffing with fat and a sense of his own importance, he made Grasshopper welcome by inviting him in to his lodge. As soon as it was proper, he spoke, and said that he had sent for him on hearing that he was the chief who was moving a large party toward his hunting-grounds. "You must know," said the bear-king with a terrible growl, "that you have no right there, and I wish you would leave the country with your party, or else the strongest force will take possession. Take notice." "Very well," replied Grasshopper, going toward the door, for he suspected that the king of the bears was preparing to give him a hug. "So be it." He wished to gain time, and to consult his people; for he had seen as he came along that the bears were gathering in great force on the side of the mountain. He also made known to the bear-king that he would go back that night that his people might be put in immediate possession of his royal behest. The bear-king replied that Grasshopper might do as he pleased, but that one of his young men was at his command; and, jumping nimbly on his back, Grasshopper rode home. He assembled the people, and ordered the bear's head off, to be hung outside of the village, that the bear-spies, who were lurking in the neighborhood, might see it and carry the news to their chief. The next morning, by break of day, Grasshopper had all of his young warriors under arms and ready for a fight. About the middle of the afternoon the bear war-party came in sight, led on by the pursy king, and making a tremendous noise. They advanced on their hind-legs, and made a very imposing display of their teeth and eyeballs. The bear-chief himself came forward, and with a majestic wave of his right hand, said that he did not wish to shed the blood of the young warriors; but that if Grasshopper, who appeared to be the head of the war-party, consented, they two would have a race, and the winner should kill the losing chief, and all his young men should be servants to the other. Grasshopper agreed, of course--how little Pipe-bearer, who stood by, grinned as they came to terms!--and they started to run before the whole company of warriors who stood in a circle looking on. At first there was a prospect that Grasshopper would be badly beaten; for although he kept crowding the great fat bear-king till the sweat trickled from his shaggy ears, he never seemed to be able to push past him. By and by, Grasshopper, going through a number of the most extraordinary maneuvers in the world, raised about the great fat bear-king such eddies and whirlwinds with the sand, and so danced about, before and after him, that he at last got fairly bewildered, and cried out for them to come and take him off. Out of sight before him in reaching the goal, Grasshopper only waited for the bear-king to come up, when he drove an arrow straight through him, and ordered them to take the body away and make it ready for supper; as he was getting hungry. He then directed all of the other bears to fall to and help prepare the feast; for in fulfillment of the agreement they had become servants. With many wry faces the bears, although bound to act becomingly in their new character, according to the forfeit, served up the body of their late royal master; and in doing this they fell, either by accident or design, into many curious mistakes. [Illustration: THE BEAR SERVANTS. Page 59.] When the feast came to be served up, and they were summoned to be in attendance, one of them, a sprightly young fellow of an inquisitive turn of mind, was found upon the roof of the lodge, with his head half way down the smoke-hole, with a view to learn what they were to have for dinner. Another, a middle-aged bear with very long arms, who was put in charge of the children in the character of nurse, squeezed three or four of the most promising young papooses to death, while the mothers were outside to look after the preparations; and another, when he should have been waiting at the back of his master, had climbed a shady tree and was indulging in his afternoon nap. And when, at last, the dinner was ready to be served, they came tumbling in with the dishes, heels over head, one after the other, so that one half of the feast was spread upon the ground, and the other half deposited out of doors, on the other side of the lodge. After a while, however, by strict discipline, and threatening to cut off their provisions, the bear-servants were brought into tolerable control. Yet Grasshopper, with his ever restless disposition, was uneasy; and, having done so many wonderful things, he resolved upon a strict and thorough reform in all the affairs of the village. To prevent future difficulty, he determined to adopt new regulations between the bears and their masters. With this view, he issued an edict that henceforward the bears should eat at the first table, and that the Indians were to wait upon them; that in all public processions of an honorable character the bears should go first; and that when any fighting was to be done, the Indians should have the privilege reserved of receiving the first shots. A special exemption was made in behalf of Grasshopper's favorite and confidential adviser, the Pipe-bearer (who had been very busy in private, recommending the new order of things), who was to be allowed to sit at the head of the feast, and to stay at home with the old women in the event of battle. Having seen his orders strictly enforced, and the rights of the bears over the Indians fairly established, Grasshopper fixed his mind upon further adventures. He determined to go abroad for a time, and having an old score to settle with Manabozho, he set out with a hope of soon falling in with that famous giant. Grasshopper was a blood relation of Dais Imid, or He of the Little Shell, and had heard of what had passed between that giant and his kinsman. After wandering a long time he came to the lodge of Manabozho, who was absent. He thought he must play him a trick; and so he turned every thing in the lodge upside down, and killed his birds, of which there was an extraordinary attendance, for Manabozho is master of the fowls of the air, and this was the appointed morning for them to call and pay their court to him. Among the number was a raven, accounted the meanest of birds, which Grasshopper killed and hung up by the neck, to insult him. He then went on till he came to a very high point of rocks running out into the lake, from the top of which he could see the country, back as far as the eye could reach. While sitting there, Manabozho's mountain chickens flew around and past him in great numbers. Out of mere spite to their master, Grasshopper shot them by the score, for his arrows were very sure and the birds very plenty, and he amused himself by throwing the birds down the rocks. At length a wary bird cried out: "Grasshopper is killing us; go and tell our father." Away sped a delegation of the birds which were the quickest of wing, and Manabozho soon made his appearance on the plain below. Grasshopper, who, when he is in the wrong, is no match for Manabozho, made his escape on the other side. Manabozho, who had in two or three strides reached the top of the mountain, cried out: "You are a rogue. The earth is not so large but I can get up to you." Off ran Grasshopper and Manabozho after him. The race was sharp; and such leaps and strides as they made! Over hills and prairies, with all his speed, went Grasshopper, and Manabozho hard upon him. Grasshopper had some mischievous notions still left in his head which he thought might befriend him. He knew that Manabozho was under a spell to restore whatever he, Grasshopper, destroyed. Forthwith he stopped and climbed a large pine-tree, stripped off its beautiful green foliage, threw it to the winds, and then went on. When Manabozho reached the spot, the tree addressed him: "Great chief," said the tree, "will you give my life again? Grasshopper has killed me." "Yes," replied Manabozho, who, as quickly as he could, gathered the scattered leaves and branches, renewed its beauty with his breath, and set off. Although Grasshopper in the same way compelled Manabozho to lose time in repairing the hemlock, the sycamore, cedar, and many other trees, the giant did not falter, but pushing briskly forward, was fast overtaking him, when Grasshopper happened to see an elk. And asking him, for old acquaintance' sake, to take him on his back, the elk did so, and for some time he made good headway, but still Manabozho was in sight. He was fast gaining upon him, when Grasshopper threw himself off the elk's back; and striking a great sandstone rock near the path, he broke it into pieces, and scattered the grains in a thousand directions; for this was nearly his last hope of escape. Manabozho was so close upon him at this place that he had almost caught him; but the foundation of the rock cried out, "Haye! Ne-me-sho, Grasshopper has spoiled me. Will you not restore me to life?" "Yes," replied Manabozho. He re-established the rock in all its strength. He then pushed on in pursuit, and had got so near to Grasshopper as to put out his arm to seize him; but Grasshopper dodged him, and, as his last chance, he immediately raised such a dust and commotion by whirlwinds, as made the trees break and the sand and leaves dance in the air. Again and again Manabozho stretched his arm, but he escaped him at every turn, and kept up such a tumult of dust that he dashed into a hollow tree which had been blown down, changed himself into a snake, and crept out at the roots just in time to save his life; for at that moment Manabozho, who had the power of lightning, struck it, and it was strewn about in little pieces. Again Grasshopper was in human shape, and Manabozho was pressing him hard. At a distance he saw a very high bluff of rocks jutting out into a lake, and he ran for the foot of the precipice which was abrupt and elevated. As he came near, to his surprise and great relief, the Manito of the rock opened his door and told Grasshopper to come in. The door was no sooner closed than Manabozho knocked. "Open it!" he cried, with a loud voice. The Manito was afraid of him; but he said to Grasshopper, "Since I have taken you as my guest, I would sooner die with you than open the door." "Open it!" Manabozho again cried, in a louder voice than before. The Manito kept silent. Manabozho, however, made no attempt to open it by force. He waited a few moments. "Very well," he said; "I give you till morning to live." Grasshopper trembled, for he thought his last hour had come; but the Manito bade him to be of good cheer. When the night came on the clouds were thick and black, and as they were torn open by the lightning, such discharges of thunder were never heard as bellowed forth. The clouds advanced slowly and wrapped the earth about with their vast shadows as in a huge cloak. All night long the clouds gathered, and the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared, and above all could be heard Manabozho muttering vengeance upon poor little Grasshopper. "You have led a very foolish kind of life, Grasshopper," said his friend the Manito. "I know it--I know it!" Grasshopper answered. "You had great gifts of strength awarded to you," said the Manito. "I am aware of it," replied Grasshopper. "Instead of employing it for useful purposes, and for the good of your fellow-creatures, you have done nothing since you became a man but raise whirlwinds on the highways, leap over trees, break whatever you met in pieces, and perform a thousand idle pranks." Grasshopper, with great penitence, confessed that his friend the Manito spoke but too truly; and at last his entertainer, with a still more serious manner, said: "Grasshopper, you still have your gift of strength. Dedicate it to the good of mankind. Lay all of these wanton and vain-glorious notions out of your head. In a word, be as good as you are strong." "I will," answered Grasshopper. "My heart is changed; I see the error of my ways." Black and stormy as it had been all night, when morning came the sun was shining, the air was soft and sweet as the summer down and the blown rose; and afar off upon the side of a mountain sat Manabozho, his head upon his knees, languid and cast down in spirit. His power was gone, for now Grasshopper was in the right, and he could touch him no more. With many thanks, Grasshopper left the good Manito, taking the nearest way home to his own people. As he passed on, he fell in with an old man who was wandering about the country in search of some place which he could not find. As soon as he learned his difficulty, Grasshopper, placing the old man upon his back, hurried away, and in a short hour's dispatch of foot set him down among his own kindred, of whom he had been in quest. Loosing no time, Grasshopper next came to an open plain, where a small number of men stood at bay, and on the very point of being borne down by great odds, in a force of armed warriors, fierce of aspect and of prodigious strength. When Grasshopper saw this unequal struggle, rushing forward he seized a long bare pole, and, wielding it with his whole force, he drove the fierce warriors back; and, laying about him on every hand, he soon sent them a thousand ways in great haste, and in a very sore plight. Without tarrying to receive the thanks of those to whom he had brought this timely relief, he made his utmost speed, and by the close of the afternoon he had come in sight of his own village. What were his surprise and horror, as he approached nearer, to discover the bears in excellent case and flesh, seated at lazy leisure in the trees, looking idly on while his brother Indians, for their pastime, were dancing a fantastic and wearisome dance, in the course of which they were frequently compelled to go upon all fours and bow their heads in profound obeisance to their bear-masters in the trees. As he drew nearer, his heart sunk within him to see how starved, and hollow-eyed, and woe-begone they were; and his horror was at its height when, as he entered his own lodge, he beheld his favorite and friend, the Pipe-bearer, also on all fours, smoothing the floor with the palms of his hands to make it a comfortable sitting-place for the bears on their return from the dance. It did not take Grasshopper a long time to resolve what he should do. He immediately resumed power in the village, bestowed a sound cudgeling upon the bears, and sent them off to live in the mountains, among their own people, as bears should; restored to the people all their rights; gave them plenty to eat and drink; exerting his great strength in hunting, in rebuilding their lodges, keeping in check their enemies, and doing all the good he could to every body. Peace and plenty soon shone and showered upon the spot; and, never once thinking of all his wild and wanton frolics, the people blessed Grasshopper for all his kindness, and sincerely prayed that his name might be held in honor for a thousand years to come, as no doubt it will. Little Pipe-bearer stood by Grasshopper in all his course, and admired his ways as much now that he had taken to being orderly and useful, as in the old times, when he was walking a mile a minute, and in mere wantonness bringing home whole forests in his arms for fire-wood, in midsummer. It was a great old age to which Grasshopper lived, and when at last he came to die, there was not a dry eye in all that part of the world where he spent his latter days. V. THE TWO JEEBI. There lived a hunter in the North, who had a wife and one child. His lodge stood far off in the forest, several days' journey from any other. He spent his days in hunting, and his evenings in relating to his wife the incidents that had befallen him. As game was very abundant, he found no difficulty in killing as much as they wanted. Just in all his acts, he lived a peaceful and happy life. One evening during the winter season, it chanced that he remained out longer than usual, and his wife began to fear that some accident had befallen him. It was already dark. She listened attentively, and at last heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Not doubting that it was her husband, she went to the door and beheld two strange females. She bade them enter, and invited them to remain. She observed that they were total strangers in the country. There was something so peculiar in their looks, air and manner, that she was disturbed by their presence. They would not come near to the fire. They sat in a remote part of the lodge, shy and taciturn, and drew their garments about them in such a manner as nearly to hide their faces. So far as she could judge, they were pale, hollow-eyed, and long-visaged, very thin and emaciated. There was but little light in the lodge, as the fire was low, and its fitful flashes, by disclosing their white faces and then dropping them in sudden darkness, served rather to increase than to dispel her fears. "Merciful Spirit!" cried a voice from the opposite part of the lodge; "there are two corpses clothed with garments!" The hunter's wife turned around, but seeing nobody save her little child, staring across from under his blanket, she said to herself, "The boy can not speak; the sounds were but the gusts of wind." She trembled, and was ready to sink to the earth. Her husband at this moment entered, and in some measure relieved her alarm. He threw down the carcass of a large fat deer. "Behold what a fine and fat animal!" cried the mysterious females; and they immediately ran and pulled off pieces of the whitest fat, which they greedily devoured. The hunter and his wife looked on with astonishment, but remained silent. They supposed that their guests might have been stricken with famine. The next day, however, the same unusual conduct was repeated. The strange females again tore off the fat and devoured it with eagerness. The third day, the hunter thought that he would anticipate their wants by tying up a share of the hunt, and placing it apart for their express use. They accepted it, but still appeared dissatisfied, and went to the wife's portion and tore off more. The hunter and his wife were surprised at such rude and unaccountable conduct, but they remained silent, for they respected their guests, and had observed that they had been attended with marked good luck during the sojourn of these mysterious visitors in their lodge. In other respects, the deportment of the females was strictly unexceptionable. They were modest, distant, and silent. They never uttered a word during the day. At night they would occupy themselves in procuring wood, which they carried to the lodge, and then, restoring the implements exactly where they had found them, resume their places without speaking. They were never known to stay out until daylight. They never laughed or jested. The winter was nearly passed away, when, one evening, the hunter was abroad later than usual. The moment he came in and laid down his day's hunt, as was his custom, before his wife, the two females seized upon the deer and began to tear off the fat in so unceremonious a way that her anger was excited. She constrained herself, however, in a good degree, but she could not conceal her feelings, though she said but little. The strange guests observed the state of her mind, and they became uneasy, and withdrew further still into the remote gloom of the lodge. The good hunter saw the eclipse that was darkening the quiet of his lodge, and carefully inquired of its cause; but his wife denied having used any words of complaining or reproach. They retired to their couches, and the hunter tried to compose himself to sleep, but could not, for the sighs and sobs of the two females were incessant. He arose on his couch and addressed them as follows: "Tell me," said he, "what is it that gives you pain of mind and causes you to bemoan your presence here. Has my wife given you offense, or trespassed upon the rights of hospitality?" They replied in the negative. "We have been treated by you with kindness and affection. It is not for any slight we have received that we weep. Our mission is not to you only. We come from the other land to test mankind, and to try the sincerity of the living. Often we have heard the bereaved by death say that if the lost could be restored, they would devote their lives to make them happy. We have been moved by the bitter lamentations which have reached the place of the departed, and have come to make proof of the sincerity of those who have lost friends. We are your two dead sisters. Three moons were allotted us by the Master of Life to make the trial. More than half the time had been successfully passed, when the angry feelings of your wife indicated the irksomeness you felt at our presence, and has made us resolve on our departure." They continued to talk to the hunter and his wife, gave them instructions as to a future life, and pronounced a blessing upon them. "There is one point," they added, "of which we wish to speak. You have thought our conduct very strange and rude in possessing ourselves of the choicest parts of your hunt. _That_ was the point of trial selected to put you to. It is the wife's peculiar privilege. You love your wife. For another to usurp what belongs to her, we know to be the severest test of her goodness of heart, and consequently of your temper and feelings. We knew your manners and customs, but we came to prove you, not by complying with but by violating them. Pardon us. We are the agents of him who sent us. Peace to your dwelling. Farewell!" When they ceased, total darkness filled the lodge. No object could be seen. The inmates heard the lodge-door open and shut, but they never saw more of the Two Spirits. The hunter found the success which they had promised. He became celebrated in the chase, and never wanted for any thing. He had many children, all of whom grew up to manhood; and he who had lain in the lodge, a little child, while the Jeebi dwelt there, led them in all good deeds, and health, peace, and long life were the rewards of the hunter's hospitality. VI. OSSEO, THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR. There once lived an Indian in the north who had ten daughters, all of whom grew up to womanhood. They were noted for their beauty, especially Oweenee, the youngest, who was very independent in her way of thinking. She was a great admirer of romantic places, and spent much of her time with the flowers and winds and clouds in the open air. Though the flower were homely, if it was fragrant--though the wind were rough, if it was healthful--and though the cloud were dark, if it embosomed the fruitful rain, she knew how, in spite of appearances, to acknowledge the good qualities concealed from the eye. She paid very little attention to the many handsome young men who came to her father's lodge for the purpose of seeing her. Her elder sisters were all sought in marriage, and one after the other they went off to dwell in the lodges of their husbands; but Oweenee was deaf to all proposals of the kind. At last she married an old man called Osseo, who was scarcely able to walk, and who was too poor to have things like others. The only property he owned in the world was the walking-staff which he carried in his hand. Though thus poor and homely, Osseo was a devout and good man; faithful in all his duties, and obedient in all things to the Good Spirit. Of course they jeered and laughed at Oweenee on all sides, but she seemed to be quite happy, and said to them, "It is my choice and you will see in the end who has acted the wisest." They made a special mock of the walking-staff, and scarcely an hour in the day passed that they had not some disparaging reference to it. Among themselves they spoke of Osseo of the walking-staff, in derision, as the owner of the big woods, or the great timber-man. "True," said Oweenee, "it is but a simple stick; but as it supports the steps of my husband, it is more precious to me than all the forests of the north." A time came when the sisters, and their husbands, and their parents were all invited to a feast. As the distance was considerable, they doubted whether Osseo, so aged and feeble, would be able to undertake the journey; but in spite of their friendly doubts, he joined them, and set out with a good heart. As they walked along the path they could not help pitying their young and handsome sister who had such an unsuitable mate. She, however, smiled upon Osseo, and kept with him by the way the same as if he had been the comeliest bridegroom in all the company. Osseo often stopped and gazed upward; but they could perceive nothing in the direction in which he looked, unless it was the faint glimmering of the evening star. They heard him muttering to himself as they went along, and one of the elder sisters caught the words, "Pity me, my father!" "Poor old man," said she; "he is talking to his father. What a pity it is that he would not fall and break his neck, that our sister might have a young husband." Presently as they came to a great rock where Osseo had been used to breathe his morning and his evening prayer, the star emitted a brighter ray, which shone directly in his face. Osseo, with a sharp cry, fell trembling to the earth, where the others would have left him, but his good wife raised him up, and he sprang forward on the path, and with steps light as the reindeer he led the party, no longer decrepid and infirm, but a beautiful young man. On turning around to look for his wife, behold she had become changed, at the same moment, into an aged and feeble woman, bent almost double, and walking with the staff which he had cast aside. Osseo immediately joined her, and with looks of fondness and the tenderest regard, bestowed on her every endearing attention, and constantly addressed her by the term of ne-ne-moosh-a, or my sweetheart. As they walked along, whenever they were not gazing fondly in each other's face, they bent their looks on heaven, and a light, as if of far-off stars, was in their eyes. On arriving at the lodge of the hunter with whom they were to feast, they found the banquet ready, and as soon as their entertainer had finished his harangue--in which he told them his feasting was in honor of the Evening or Woman's Star--they began to partake of the portion dealt out, according to age and character, to each one of the guests. The food was very delicious, and they were all happy but Osseo, who looked at his wife, and then gazed upward, as if he was looking into the substance of the sky. Sounds were soon heard, as if from far-off voices in the air, and they became plainer and plainer, till he could clearly distinguish some of the words. "My son, my son," said the voice; "I have seen your afflictions, and pity your wants. I come to call you away from a scene that is stained with blood and tears. The earth is full of sorrows. Wicked spirits, the enemies of mankind, walk abroad, and lie in wait to ensnare the children of the sky. Every night they are lifting their voices to the Power of Evil, and every day they make themselves busy in casting mischief in the hunter's path. You have long been their victim, but you shall be their victim no more. The spell you were under is broken. Your evil genius is overcome. I have cast him down by my superior strength, and it is this strength I now exert for your happiness. Ascend, my son; ascend into the skies, and partake of the feast I have prepared for you in the stars, and bring with you those you love. "The food set before you is enchanted and blessed. Fear not to partake of it. It is endowed with magic power to give immortality to mortals, and to change men to spirits. Your bowls and kettles shall no longer be wood and earth. The one shall become silver, and the other pure gold. They shall shine like fire, and glisten like the most beautiful scarlet. Every female shall also change her state and looks, and no longer be doomed to laborious tasks. She shall put on the beauty of the star-light, and become a shining bird of the air. She shall dance, and not work. She shall sing, and not cry. "My beams," continued the voice, "shine faintly on your lodge, but they have power to transform it into the lightness of the skies, and decorate it with the colors of the clouds. Come, Osseo, my son, and dwell no longer on earth. Think strongly on my words, and look steadfastly at my beams. My power is now at its height. Doubt not, delay not. It is the voice of the Spirit of the Stars that calls you away to happiness and celestial rest." The words were intelligible to Osseo, but his companions thought them some far-off sounds of music, or birds singing in the woods. Very soon the lodge began to shake and tremble, and they felt it rising into the air. It was too late to run out, for they were already as high as the tops of the trees. Osseo looked around him as the lodge passed through the topmost boughs, and behold! their wooden dishes were changed into shells of a scarlet color, the poles of the lodge to glittering rods of silver, and the bark that covered them into the gorgeous wings of insects. A moment more and his brothers and sisters, and their parents and friends, were transformed into birds of various plumage. Some were jays, some partridges and pigeons, and others gay singing birds, who hopped about, displaying their many-colored feathers, and singing songs of cheerful note. But his wife, Oweenee, still kept her earthly garb, and exhibited all the indications of extreme old age. He again cast his eyes in the direction of the clouds, and uttered the peculiar cry which had given him the victory at the rock. In a moment the youth and beauty of his wife returned; her dingy garments assumed the shining appearance of green silk, and her staff was changed into a silver feather. The lodge again shook and trembled, for they were now passing through the uppermost clouds, and they immediately after found themselves in the Evening Star, the residence of Osseo's father. "My son," said the old man, "hang that cage of birds which you have brought along in your hand at the door, and I will inform you why you and your wife have been sent for." Osseo obeyed, and then took his seat in the lodge. "Pity was shown to you," resumed the King of the Star, "on account of the contempt of your wife's sister, who laughed at her ill fortune, and ridiculed you while you were under the power of that wicked spirit whom you overcame at the rock. That spirit lives in the next lodge, being the small star you see on the left of mine, and he has always felt envious of my family because we had greater power, and especially that we had committed to us the care of the female world. He failed in many attempts to destroy your brothers and sisters-in-law, but succeeded at last in transforming yourself and your wife into decrepid old persons. You must be careful and not let the light of his beams fall on you, while you are here, for therein lies the power of his enchantment. A ray of light is the bow and arrow he uses." Osseo lived happy and contented in the parental lodge, and in due time his wife presented him with a son, who grew up rapidly, and in the very likeness of Osseo himself. He was very quick and ready in learning every thing that was done in his grandfather's dominions, but he wished also to learn the art of hunting, for he had heard that this was a favorite pursuit below. To gratify him, his father made him a bow and arrows, and he then let the birds out of the cage that he might practice in shooting. In this pastime he soon became expert, and the very first day he brought down a bird; but when he went to pick it up, to his amazement it was a beautiful young woman, with the arrow sticking in her breast. It was one of his younger aunts. The moment her blood fell upon the surface of that pure and spotless planet, the charm was dissolved. The boy immediately found himself sinking, although he was partly upheld by something like wings until he passed through the lower clouds, and he then suddenly dropped upon a high, breezy island in a large lake. He was pleased, on looking up, to see all his aunts and uncles following him in the form of birds, and he soon discovered the silver lodge, with his father and mother, descending, with its waving tassels fluttering like so many insects' gilded wings. It rested on the loftiest cliffs of the island, and there they fixed their residence. They all resumed their natural shapes, but they were diminished to the size of fairies; and as a mark of homage to the King of the Evening Star, they never failed on every pleasant evening during the summer season to join hands and dance upon the top of the rocks. These rocks were quickly observed by the Indians to be covered, in moonlight evenings, with a larger sort of Ininees, or little men, and were called Mish-in-e-mok-in-ok-ong, or Little Spirits, and the island is named from them to this day. Their shining lodge can be seen in the summer evenings, when the moon beams strongly on the pinnacles of the rocks; and the fishermen who go near those high cliffs at night, have even heard the voices of the happy little dancers. And Osseo and his wife, as fondly attached to each other as ever, always lead the dance. VII. GRAY EAGLE AND HIS FIVE BROTHERS. There were six falcons living in a nest, five of whom were still too young to fly, when it so happened that both the parent birds were shot in one day. The young brood waited anxiously for their return; but night came, and they were left without parents and without food. Gray Eagle, the eldest, and the only one whose feathers had become stout enough to enable him to leave the nest, took his place at the head of the family, and assumed the duty of stifling their cries and providing the little household with food, in which he was very successful. But, after a short time had passed, by an unlucky mischance, while out on a foraging excursion, he got one of his wings broken. This was the more to be regretted, as the season had arrived when they were soon to go to a southern country to pass the winter, and the children were only waiting to become a little stronger and more expert on the wing to set out on the journey. Finding that their elder brother did not return, they resolved to go in search of him. After beating up and down the country for the better part of a whole day, they at last found him, sorely wounded and unable to fly, lodged in the upper branches of a sycamore-tree. "Brothers," said Gray Eagle, as soon as they were gathered around, and questioned him as to the extent of his injuries, "an accident has befallen me, but let not this prevent your going to a warmer climate. Winter is rapidly approaching, and you can not remain here. It is better that I alone should die, than for you all to suffer on my account." "No, no," they replied, with one voice. "We will not forsake you. We will share your sufferings; we will abandon our journey, and take care of you as you did of us before we were able to take care of ourselves. If the chill climate kills you, it shall kill us. Do you think we can so soon forget your brotherly care, which has equaled a father's, and even a mother's kindness? Whether you live or die, we will live or die with you." They sought out a hollow tree to winter in, and contrived to carry their wounded nest-mate thither; and before the rigor of the season had set in, they had, by diligence and economy, stored up food enough to carry them through the winter months. To make the provisions they had laid in last the better, it was agreed among them that two of their number should go south; leaving the other three to watch over, feed, and protect their wounded brother. The travelers set forth, sorry to leave home, but resolved that the first promise of spring should bring them back again. At the close of day, the three brothers who remained, mounting to the very peak of the tree, and bearing Gray Eagle in their arms, watched them, as they vanished away southward, till their forms blended with the air and were wholly lost to sight. Their next business was to set the household in order, and this, with the judicious direction of Gray Eagle, who was propped up in a snug fork, with soft cushions of dry moss, they speedily accomplished. One of the sisters, for there were two of these, took upon herself the charge of nursing Gray Eagle, preparing his food, bringing him water, and changing his pillows when he grew tired of one position. She also looked to it that the house itself was kept in a tidy condition, and that the pantry was supplied with food. The second brother was assigned the duty of physician, and he was to prescribe such herbs and other medicines as the state of the health of Gray Eagle seemed to require. As the second brother had no other invalid on his visiting-list, he devoted the time not given to the cure of his patient, to the killing of game wherewith to stock the house-keeper's larder; so that, whatever he did, he was always busy in the line of professional duty--killing or curing. On his hunting excursions, Doctor Falcon carried with him his youngest brother, who, being a foolish young fellow, and inexperienced in the ways of the world, it was not thought safe to trust alone. In due time, what with good nursing, and good feeding, and good air, Gray Eagle recovered from his wound, and he repaid the kindness of his brothers by giving them such advice and instruction in the art of hunting as his age and experience qualified him to impart. As spring advanced, they began to look about for the means of replenishing their store-house, whose supplies were running low; and they were all quite successful in their quest except the youngest, whose name was Peepi, or the Pigeon-Hawk, and who had of late begun to set up for himself. Being small and foolish, and feather-headed, flying hither and yonder without any set purpose, it so happened that Peepi always came home, so to phrase it, with an empty game-bag, and his pinions terribly rumpled. At last Gray Eagle spoke to him, and demanded the cause of his ill-luck. "It is not my smallness nor weakness of body," Peepi answered, "that prevents my bringing home provender as well as my brothers. I am all the time on the wing, hither and thither. I kill ducks and other birds every time I go out; but just as I get to the woods, on my way home, I am met by a large ko-ko-ho, who robs me of my prey; and," added Peepi, with great energy, "it's my settled opinion that the villain lies in wait for the very purpose of doing so." "I have no doubt you are right, Brother Peepi," rejoined Gray Eagle. "I know this pirate--his name is White Owl; and now that I feel my strength fully recovered, I will go out with you to-morrow and help you look after this greedy bush-ranger." The next day they went forth in company, and arrived at a fine fresh-water lake. Gray Eagle seated himself hard by, while Peepi started out, and soon pounced upon a duck. "Well done!" thought his brother, who saw his success; but just as little Peepi was getting to land with his prize, up sailed a large white owl from a tree where he, too, had been watching, and laid claim to it. He was on the point of wresting it from Peepi, when Gray Eagle, calling out to the intruder to desist, rushed up, and, fixing his talons in both sides of the owl, without further introduction or ceremony, flew away with him. The little Pigeon-Hawk followed closely, with the duck under his wing, rejoiced and happy to think that he had something to carry home at last. He was naturally much vexed with the owl, and had no sooner delivered over the duck to his sister, the housekeeper, than he flew in the owl's face, and, venting an abundance of reproachful terms, would, in his passion, have torn the very eyes out of the White Owl's head. "Softly, Peepi," said the Gray Eagle, stepping in between them. "Don't be in such a huff, my little brother, nor exhibit so revengeful a temper. Do you not know that we are to forgive our enemies? White Owl, you may go; but let this be a lesson to you, not to play the tyrant over those who may chance to be weaker than yourself." So, after adding to this much more good advice, and telling him what kind of herbs would cure his wounds, Gray Eagle dismissed White Owl, and the four brothers and sisters sat down to supper. The next day, betimes, in the morning, before the household had fairly rubbed the cobwebs out of the corners of their eyes, there came a knock at the front door--which was a dry branch that lay down before the hollow of the tree in which they lodged--and being called to come in, who should make their appearance but the two nest-mates, who had just returned from the South, where they had been wintering. There was great rejoicing over their return, and now that they were all happily re-united, each one soon chose a mate and began to keep house in the woods for himself. Spring had now revisited the North. The cold winds had all blown themselves away, the ice had melted, the streams were open, and smiled as they looked at the blue sky once more; and the forests, far and wide, in their green mantle, echoed every cheerful sound. But it is in vain that spring returns, and that the heart of Nature is opened in bounty, if we are not thankful to the Master of Life, who has preserved us through the winter. Nor does that man answer the end for which he was made who does not show a kind and charitable feeling to all who are in want or sickness, especially to his blood relations. The love and harmony of Gray Eagle and his brothers continued. They never forgot each other. Every week, on the fourth afternoon of the week (for that was the time when they had found their wounded elder brother), they had a meeting in the hollow of the old sycamore-tree, when they talked over family matters, and advised with each other, as brothers should, about their affairs. VIII. THE TOAD-WOMAN. Great good luck once happened to a young woman who was living all alone in the woods with nobody near her but her little dog; for, to her surprise, she found fresh meat every morning at her door. She was very curious to know who it was that supplied her, and watching one morning, just as the sun had risen, she saw a handsome young man gliding away into the forest. Having seen her, he became her husband, and she had a son by him. One day, not long after this, he did not return at evening, as usual, from hunting. She waited till late at night, but he came no more. The next day, she swung her child to sleep in its cradle, and then said to her dog, "Take care of your brother while I am gone, and when he cries, halloo for me." The cradle was made of the finest wampum, and all its bandages and ornaments were of the same precious stuff. After a short time, the woman heard the cry of the dog, and running home as fast as she could, she found her child gone, and the dog too. On looking around, she saw scattered upon the ground pieces of the wampum of her child's cradle, and she knew that the dog had been faithful, and had striven his best to save her child from being carried off, as he had been, by an old woman, from a distant country, called Mukakee Mindemoea, or the Toad-Woman. The mother hurried off at full speed in pursuit, and as she flew along, she came, from time to time, to lodges inhabited by old women, who told her at what time the child-thief had passed; they also gave her shoes that she might follow on. There was a number of these old women who seemed as if they were prophetesses, and knew what was to come long beforehand. Each of them would say to her that when she had arrived at the next lodge, she must set the toes of the moccasins they had given her pointing homeward, and that they would return of themselves. The young woman was very careful to send back in this manner all the shoes she borrowed. She thus followed in the pursuit, from valley to valley, and stream to stream, for many months and years; when she came at length to the lodge of the last of the friendly old grandmothers, as they were called, who gave her the last instructions how to proceed. She told her that she was near the place where her son was to be found; and she directed her to build a lodge of cedar-boughs, hard by the old Toad-Woman's lodge, and to make a little bark dish, and to fill it with the juice of the wild grape. "Then," she said, "your first child (meaning the dog) will come and find you out." These directions the young woman followed just as they had been given to her, and in a short time she heard her son, now grown up, going out to hunt, with his dog, calling out to him, "Peewaubik--Spirit-Iron--Twee! Twee!" The dog soon came into the lodge, and she set before him the dish of grape-juice. "See, my child," she said, addressing him, "the pretty drink your mother gives you." Spirit-Iron took a long draught, and immediately left the lodge with his eyes wide open; for it was the drink which teaches one to see the truth of things as they are. He rose up when he got into the open air, stood upon his hind legs, and looked about. "I see how it is," he said; and marching off, erect like a man, he sought out his young master. Approaching him in great confidence, he bent down and whispered in his ear (having first looked cautiously around to see that no one was listening), "This old woman here in the lodge is no mother of yours. I have found your real mother, and she is worth looking at. When we come back from our day's sport, I'll prove it to you." They went out into the woods, and at the close of the afternoon they brought back a great spoil of meat of all kinds. The young man, as soon as he had laid aside his weapons, said to the old Toad-Woman, "Send some of the best of this meat to the stranger who has arrived lately." The Toad-Woman answered, "No! Why should I send to her, the poor widow!" The young man would not be refused; and at last the old Toad-Woman consented to take something and throw it down at the door. She called out, "My son gives you this." But, being bewitched by Mukakee Mindemoea, it was so bitter and distasteful, that the young woman immediately cast it out of the lodge after her. In the evening the young man paid the stranger a visit at her lodge of cedar-boughs. She then told him that she was his real mother, and that he had been stolen away from her by the old Toad-Woman, who was a child-thief and a witch. As the young man appeared to doubt, she added, "Feign yourself sick when you go home to her lodge; and when the Toad-Woman asks what ails you, say that you wish to see your cradle; for your cradle was of wampum, and your faithful brother the dog, in striving to save you, tore off these pieces which I show you." They were real wampum, white and blue, shining and beautiful; and the young man, placing them in his bosom, set off; but as he did not seem quite steady in his belief of the strange woman's story, the dog Spirit-Iron, taking his arm, kept close by his side, and gave him many words of encouragement as they went along. They entered the lodge together; and the old Toad-Woman saw, from something in the dog's eye, that trouble was coming. "Mother," said the young man, placing his hand to his head, and leaning heavily upon Spirit-Iron, as if a sudden faintness had come upon him, "why am I so different in looks from the rest of your children?" "Oh," she answered, "it was a very bright, clear blue sky when you were born; that is the reason." He seemed to be so very ill that the Toad-Woman at length asked what she could do for him. He said nothing could do him good but the sight of his cradle. She ran immediately and brought a cedar cradle; but he said: "That is not my cradle." She went and got another of her own children's cradles, of which there were four; but he turned his head, and said: "That is not mine; I am as sick as ever." When she had shown the four, and they had been all rejected, she at last produced the real cradle. The young man saw that it was of the same stuff as the wampum which he had in his bosom. He could even see the marks of the teeth of Spirit-Iron left upon the edges, where he had taken hold, striving to hold it back. He had no doubt, now, which was his mother. To get free of the old Toad-Woman, it was necessary that the young man should kill a fat bear; and, being directed by Spirit-Iron, who was very wise in such a matter, he secured the fattest in all that country; and having stripped a tall pine of all its bark and branches, he perched the carcass in the top, with its head to the east and its tail due west. Returning to the lodge, he informed the old Toad-Woman that the fat bear was ready for her, but that she would have to go very far, even to the end of the earth, to get it. She answered: "It is not so far but that I can get it;" for of all things in the world, a fat bear was the delight of the old Toad-Woman. She at once set forth; and she was no sooner out of sight than the young man and his dog, Spirit-Iron, blowing a strong breath in the face of the Toad-Woman's four children (who were all bad spirits, or bear-fiends), they put out their life. They then set them up by the side of the door, having first thrust a piece of the white fat in each of their mouths. The Toad-Woman spent a long time in finding the bear which she had been sent after, and she made at least five and twenty attempts before she was able to climb to the carcass. She slipped down three times where she went up once. When she returned with the great bear on her back, as she drew near her lodge she was astonished to see the four children standing up by the door-posts with the fat in their mouths. She was angry with them, and called out: "Why do you thus insult the pomatum of your brother?" She was still more angry when they made no answer to her complaint; but when she found that they were stark dead, and placed in this way to mock her, her fury was very great indeed. She ran after the tracks of the young man and his mother as fast as she could; so fast, indeed, that she was on the very point of overtaking them, when the dog, Spirit-Iron, coming close up to his master, whispered to him--"Snakeberry!" "Let the snakeberry spring up to detain her!" cried out the young man; and immediately the berries spread like scarlet all over the path, for a long distance; and the old Toad-Woman, who was almost as fond of these berries as she was of fat bears, could not avoid stooping down to pick and eat. The old Toad-Woman was very anxious to get forward, but the snakeberry-vines kept spreading out on every side; and they still grow and grow, and spread and spread; and to this day the wicked old Toad-Woman is busy picking the berries, and she will never be able to get beyond to the other side, to disturb the happiness of the young hunter and his mother, who still live, with their faithful dog, in the shadow of the beautiful wood-side where they were born. IX. THE ORIGIN OF THE ROBIN. An old man had an only son, named Iadilla, who had come to that age which is thought to be most proper to make the long and final fast which is to secure through life a guardian genius or spirit. The father was ambitious that his son should surpass all others in whatever was deemed wisest and greatest among his people. To accomplish his wish, he thought it necessary that the young Iadilla should fast a much longer time than any of those renowned for their power or wisdom, whose fame he coveted. He therefore directed his son to prepare with great ceremony for the important event. After he had been several times in the sweating-lodge and bath, which were to prepare and purify him for communion with his good spirit, he ordered him to lie down upon a clean mat in a little lodge expressly provided for him. He enjoined upon him at the same time to endure his fast like a man, and promised that at the expiration of twelve days he should receive food and the blessing of his father. The lad carefully observed the command, and lay with his face covered, calmly awaiting the approach of the spirit which was to decide his good or evil fortune for all the days of his life. Every morning his father came to the door of the little lodge and encouraged him to persevere, dwelling at length on the vast honor and renown that must ever attend him, should he accomplish the full term of trial allotted to him. To these glowing words of promise and glory the boy never replied, but he lay without the least sign of discontent or murmuring until the ninth day, when he addressed his father as follows: "My father, my dreams forbode evil. May I break my fast now, and at a more favorable time make a new fast?" The father answered: "My son, you know not what you ask. If you get up now, all your glory will depart. Wait patiently a little longer. You have but three days more, and your term will be completed. You know it is for your own good, and I encourage you to persevere. Shall not your aged father live to see you a star among the chieftains and the beloved of battle?" The son assented; and covering himself more closely, that he might shut out the light which prompted him to complain, he lay till the eleventh day, when he repeated his request. The father addressed Iadilla as he had the day before, and promised that he would himself prepare his first meal, and bring it to him by the dawn of the morning. The son moaned, and the father added: "Will you bring shame upon your father when his sun is falling in the west?" "I will not shame you, my father," replied Iadilla; and he lay so still and motionless that you could only know that he was living by the gentle heaving of his breast. At the spring of day, the next morning, the father, delighted at having gained his end, prepared a repast for his son, and hastened to set it before him. On coming to the door of the little lodge, he was surprised to hear his son talking to himself. He stooped his ear to listen, and, looking through a small opening, he was yet more astonished when he beheld his son painted with vermilion over all his breast, and in the act of finishing his work by laying on the paint as far back on his shoulders as he could reach with his hands, saying at the same time, to himself: "My father has destroyed my fortune as a man. He would not listen to my requests. He has urged me beyond my tender strength. He will be the loser. I shall be forever happy in my new state, for I have been obedient to my parent. He alone will be the sufferer, for my guardian spirit is a just one. Though not propitious to me in the manner I desired, he has shown me pity in another way--he has given me another shape; and now I must go." At this moment the old man broke in, exclaiming: "My son! my son! I pray you leave me not!" But the young man, with the quickness of a bird, had flown to the top of the lodge and perched himself on the highest pole, having been changed into a beautiful robin red-breast. He looked down upon his father with pity beaming in his eyes, and addressed him as follows: "Regret not, my father, the change you behold. I shall be happier in my present state than I could have been as a man. I shall always be the friend of men, and keep near their dwellings. I shall ever be happy and contented; and although I could not gratify your wishes as a warrior, it will be my daily aim to make you amends for it as a harbinger of peace and joy. I will cheer you by my songs, and strive to inspire in others the joy and lightsomeness of heart I feel in my present state. This will be some compensation to you for the loss of glory you expected. I am now free from the cares and pains of human life. My food is spontaneously furnished by the mountains and fields, and my pathway of life is in the bright air." Then stretching himself on his toes, as if delighted with the gift of wings, Iadilla caroled one of his sweetest songs, and flew away into a neighboring wood. X. WHITE FEATHER AND THE SIX GIANTS. There was an old man living in the depth of a forest, with his grandson, whom he had taken in charge when quite an infant. The child had no parents, brothers, or sisters; they had all been destroyed by six large giants, and he had been informed that he had no other relative living beside his grandfather. The band to whom he had belonged had put up their children on a wager in a race against those of the giants, and had thus lost them. There was an old tradition in the tribe, that, one day, it would produce a great man, who would wear a white feather, and who would astonish every one by his feats of skill and bravery. The grandfather, as soon as the child could play about, gave him a bow and arrows to amuse himself with. He went into the edge of the woods one day, and saw a rabbit; but not knowing what it was, he ran home and described it to his grandfather. He told him what it was, that its flesh was good to eat, and that if he would shoot one of his arrows into its body he would kill it. The boy went out again and brought home the little animal, which he asked his grandfather to boil, that they might feast on it. He humored the boy in this, and he encouraged him to go on in acquiring the knowledge of hunting, until he could kill deer and the larger kinds of game; and he became, as he grew up, an expert hunter. As they lived alone, and away from other Indians, the curiosity of the stripling was excited to know what was passing in the world. One day he came to the edge of a prairie, where he saw ashes like those at his grandfather's lodge, and lodge-poles left standing. He returned, and inquired whether his grandfather had put up the poles and made the fire. He was answered, No. Nor did he believe that he had seen any thing of the kind. He must have lost his senses to be talking of such things. Another day the young man went out to see what there was, within a day's hunt, that was curious; and on entering the woods he heard a voice calling out to him, "Come here, you destined wearer of the White Feather. You do not wear it, yet, but you are worthy of it. Return home and take a short nap. You will dream of hearing a voice, which will tell you to rise and smoke. You will see in your dream a pipe, a smoking-sack, and a large white feather. When you awake you will find these articles. Put the feather on your head, and you will become a great hunter, a great warrior, and a great man, able to do any thing. As a proof that these things shall come to pass, when you smoke, the smoke will turn into pigeons." The voice then informed the young man who he was, and made known the character of his grandfather, who was imposing upon him to serve his own ends. The voice-spirit then caused a vine to be laid at his side, and told him that he was now of an age to avenge the wrongs of his kindred. "When you meet your enemy," the spirit added, "you will run a race with him. He will not see the vine, because it is enchanted. While you are running, you will throw it over his head and entangle him, so that you will win the race." Long before this speech was ended the young man had turned to the quarter from which the voice proceeded, and he was astonished to behold a man; for as yet he had never seen any human being beside his grandfather. As he looked more keenly, he saw that this man, who had the looks of great age, was wood from the breast downward, and that he appeared to be fixed in the earth. As his eye dwelt upon this strange being, the countenance by degrees faded away, and when he advanced to the spot whence it had addressed him, it was gone. He returned home; slept; in the midst of his slumbers, as from the hollow of the air, heard the voice; wakened and found the promised gifts. His grandfather, when his attention was called to his awakening, was greatly surprised to find the youth with a white feather on his forehead, and to see flocks of pigeons flying out of his lodge. He then remembered the old tradition, and knowing that now the day when he should lose control of his charge had begun, he bitterly bewailed the hour. Possessed of his three magic gifts, the young man departed the next morning, to seek his enemies, and to demand revenge. The six giants lived in a very high lodge in the middle of a wood. He traveled on, in good heart, till he reached this lodge, where he found that his coming had been made known by the little spirits who carry the news. The giants hastened out, and gave a cry of joy as they saw him drawing near. When he approached within hail, they began to make sport of him, saying, "Here comes the little man with the white feather, who is to achieve such wonderful wonders." When, however, he had arrived among them, they spoke him fair, saying he was a brave man and would do brave things. Their object was to encourage him, so that he would be bold to engage in some fool-hardy trial of strength. Without paying much heed to their fine speeches, White Feather went fearlessly into their lodge; and without waiting for invitation, he challenged them to a foot-match. They agreed; and, as they said, by way of being easy with him, they told him to begin the race with the smallest of their number. The point to which they were to run was a peeled tree toward the rising sun, and then back to the starting-place, which was a war-club of iron. Whoever won this stake, was empowered to use it in dispatching the defeated champion. If White Feather should overcome the first giant, he was to try the second, and so on, until they had all measured speed with him. By a dexterous use of the vine, he gained the first race, struck down his competitor, and cut off his head. The next morning he ran with the second giant, whom he also outran, killed and beheaded. He went on in this way for the five mornings, always conquering by the aid of his vine, and lopping off the heads of the vanquished giants. The last of the giants who was yet to run with him acknowledged his power, but prepared secretly to deceive him. By way of parley, he proposed that White Feather should leave the heads with him, and that he would give him a handsome start for odds. This White Feather declined, as he preferred to keep the heads as trophies of his victory. Before going to the giant's lodge, on the sixth morning, he met his old counselor in the woods, standing rooted in the earth, as before. He told White Feather that he was about to be deceived; that he had never known any other sex but his own, but that as he went on his way to the lodge he would meet the most beautiful woman in the world. He must pay no attention to her, but as soon as he caught her eye he must wish himself changed into an elk. The change would take place immediately, and he must go to feeding and not look at her again. White Feather thanked his kind adviser, and when he turned to take his leave he was gone as before. He proceeded toward the lodge, met the female as had been foretold to him, and became an elk. She reproached him that he had cast aside the form of a man that he might avoid her. "I have traveled a great distance," she added, "to see you and to become your wife; for I have heard of your great achievements, and admire you very much." Now this woman was the sixth giant, who had assumed this disguise to entrap White Feather. Without a suspicion of her real character, her reproaches and her beauty affected him so deeply that he wished himself a man again, and he at once resumed his natural shape. They sat down together, and he began to caress and to make love to her. Soothed by her smiles and her gracious manners, he ventured to lay his head on her lap, and in a little while he fell into a deep slumber. Even then, such was her fear of White Feather, she doubted whether his sleep might not be feigned. To assure herself she pushed his head aside, and seeing that he remained unconscious, she quickly assumed her own form as the sixth giant, took the plume from the brow of White Feather and placed it upon his own head, and with a sudden blow of his war-club changed him into a dog, in which degraded form he followed his enemy to the lodge. While these things were passing, there were living in an Indian village at some distance, two sisters, the daughters of a chief, who were rivals, and they were at that very time fasting to acquire power, for the purpose of enticing the wearer of the white feather to visit their lodge. They each secretly hoped to engage his affections, and each had built a lodge in the border of the village encampment. The giant knowing this, and having become possessed of the magic plume, went immediately to visit them. As he approached, the sisters, who were on the look-out at their lodge-doors, espied and recognized the feather. The eldest sister had prepared her lodge with great show, and all the finery she could command, so as to attract the eye. The youngest touched nothing in her lodge, but left it in its ordinary state. The eldest went out to meet the giant, and invited him in. He accepted her invitation, and made her his wife. The youngest sister invited the enchanted dog into her lodge, prepared him a good supper and a neat bed, and treated him with much attention. The giant, supposing that whoever possessed the white feather possessed also all its virtues, went out upon the prairie to hunt, hallooing aloud to the game to come and be killed; but the great hubbub he kept up scared them away, and he returned at night with nothing but himself; for he had shouted so lustily all day long that he had been even obliged to leave the mighty halloo, with which he had set out, behind. The dog went out the same day hunting upon the banks of a river. He stole quietly along to the spot, and stepping into the water he drew out a stone, which instantly became a beaver. The next day the giant followed the dog, and hiding behind a tree, he watched the manner in which the dog hunted in the river when he drew out a stone, which at once turned into a beaver. "Ah, ha!" said the giant to himself, "I will catch some beaver for myself." And as soon as the dog had left the place, the giant went to the river, and, imitating the dog, he drew out a stone, and was delighted to see it, as soon as it touched the land, change into a fine fat beaver. Tying it to his belt he hastened home, shouting a good deal, and brandishing the white feather about, as if he were prepared now to show them what he could do when he once tried. When he reached home he threw it down, as is the custom, at the door of the lodge before he entered. After being seated a short time, he gave a dry cough, and bade his wife bring in his hunting girdle. She made dispatch to obey him, and presently returned with the girdle, with nothing tied to it but a stone. The next day, the dog finding that his method of catching beavers had been discovered, went to a wood at some distance, and broke off a charred limb from a burned tree, which instantly became a bear. The giant, who appeared to have lost faith in his hulla-balooing, had again watched him, did exactly as the dog had done, and carried a bear home; but his wife, when she came to go out for it, found nothing but a black stick tied to his belt. And so it happened with every thing. Whatever the dog undertook, prospered; whatever the giant attempted, failed. Every day the youngest sister had reason to be more proud of the poor dog she had asked into her lodge, and every day the eldest sister was made more aware, that though she had married the white feather, the virtues of the magic plume were not the personal property of the noisy giant. At last the giant's wife determined that she would go to her father and make known to him what a valuable husband she had, and how he furnished her lodge with a great abundance of sticks and stones, which he would pass upon her for bear and beaver. So, when her husband, whose brave halloo had now died away to a feeble chirp, had started for the hunt, she set out. As soon as these two had gone away from the neighborhood, the dog made signs to his mistress to sweat him after the manner of the Indians. He had always been a good dog, and she was willing to oblige him. She accordingly made a lodge just large enough for him to creep in. She then put in heated stones, and poured water upon them, which raised a vapor that filled the lodge and searched with its warmth to the very heart's core of the enchanted dog. When this had been kept up for the customary time, the enchanted dog was completely sweated away, and in his stead, as might have been expected, out came a very handsome young man, but, unhappily, without the power of speech. In taking away the dog, it appears that the sweating-lodge had also carried off the voice with it. Meantime the elder sister had reached her father's, and, with much circumstance and a very long face, had told him how that her sister was supporting an idle dog, and entertaining him as her husband. In her anxiety to make known her sister's affairs and the great scandal she was bringing upon the family, the eldest forgot to say any thing of the sticks and stones which her own husband brought home for bears and beavers. The old man suspecting that there was magic about her house, sent a deputation of young men and women to ask his youngest daughter to come to him, and to bring her dog along with her. When the deputation reached the lodge, they were surprised to find, in the place of the dog, a fine young man; and on announcing their message, they all returned to the old chief, who was no less surprised at the change. He immediately assembled all the old and wise heads of the nation to come and be witnesses to the exploits which it was reported that the young man could perform. The sixth giant, although neither very old nor very wise, thrust himself in among the relations of the old chief. When they were all assembled and seated in a circle, the old chief took his pipe and filled it, and passed it to the Indians around, to see if any thing would happen when they smoked. They passed it on until it came around to the Dog, who made a sign that it should be handed first to the giant, which was done. And the giant puffed with all his might, and shook the white feather upon his head, and swelled his chest; but nothing came of it, except a great deal of smoke. The Dog then took it himself. He made a sign to them to put the white feather upon his head. This was no sooner done, than he recovered his speech, and, beginning to draw upon the pipe at the same moment, behold, immense flocks of white and blue pigeons rushed from the smoke. From that moment the sixth giant was looked upon as an impostor, and as soon as White Feather had, at the request of the company, faithfully recounted his history, the old chief, who was one of the best-hearted magicians that ever lived, ordered that the giant should be transformed into a dog, and turned into the middle of the village, where the boys should pelt him to death with clubs; which being done, the whole six giants were at an end, and never troubled that neighborhood again, forever after. The chief then gave out a command, at the request of White Feather, that all the young men should employ themselves four days in making arrows. White Feather also asked for a buffalo robe. This he cut into thin shreds, and in the night, when no one knew of it, he went and sowed them about the prairie in every direction. At the end of the four days, he invited them to gather together all of their arrows, and to accompany him to a buffalo hunt. When they got out upon the prairie, they found it covered with a great herd of buffaloes. Of these they killed as many as they pleased, and, afterward, they had a grand festival in honor of White Feather's triumph over the giants. All this being pleasantly over, White Feather got his wife to ask her father's permission to go with him on a visit to his grandfather. The old chief replied to this application, that a woman must follow her husband into whatever quarter of the world he may choose to go. Bidding farewell to all his friends, White Feather placed the plume in his frontlet, and taking his war-club in his hand, he led the way into the forest, followed by his faithful wife. XI. SHEEM, THE FORSAKEN BOY. On a certain afternoon the sun was falling in the West, and in the midst of the ruddy silence a solitary lodge stood on the banks of a remote lake. One sound only broke, in the least degree, the forest stillness--the low breathing of the dying inmate, who was the head of a poor family. His wife and children surrounded the buffalo robe on which he lay. Of the children, two were almost grown up--a daughter and a son; the other was a boy, and a mere child in years. All the skill of the household in their simple medicines was exhausted, and they stood looking on or moved about the lodge with whispered steps, awaiting the departure of the spirit. As one of the last acts of kindness, the skin door of the lodge had been thrown back to admit the fresh air of the evening. The poor man felt a momentary return of strength, and raising himself a little, he addressed his family. "I leave you," he said, "in a world of care, in which it has required all my strength and skill to supply you food, and to protect you from the storms and cold of a harsh climate." He cast his eyes upon his wife, and continued: "For you, my partner in life, I have less sorrow, because I am persuaded you will not remain long behind me; but you, my children! my poor and forsaken children, who have just begun the career of life, who will shelter you from calamity? Listen to my words. Unkindness, ingratitude, and every wickedness, are in the scene before you. It was for this that years ago I withdrew from my kindred and my tribe to spend my days in this lonely spot. I have contented myself with the company of your mother and yourselves, during seasons of very frequent scarcity and want, while your kindred, feasting in plenty, have caused the forests to echo with the shouts of successful war. I gave up these things for the enjoyment of peace. I wished to hide you away from the bad examples which would have spoiled your innocence. I have seen you, thus far, grow up in purity of heart. If we have sometimes suffered bodily want, we have escaped pain of mind. We have not been compelled to look on or to take a part with the red hand in scenes of rioting and bloodshed. My path now stops. I have arrived at the brink of the world. I will shut my eyes in peace if you, my children, will promise me to cherish each other. Let not your mother suffer during the few days that are left to her; and I charge you, on no account, to forsake your younger brother. Of him I give you both my dying command to have a tender care." He spoke no more, and as the sun fell out of view the light had gone from his face. The family stood still, as if they expected to hear something further; but when they came to his side and called him by name, his spirit did not answer. It was in another world. The mother and daughter lamented aloud, but the elder son clothed himself in silence, as though it had been a mantle, and took his course as though nothing had occurred. He exerted himself to supply, with his bow and net, the wants of the little household, but he never made mention of his father. Five moons had filled and waned, and the sixth was near its full, when the mother also died. In her last moments she pressed the fulfillment of their father's wish. The winter passed, and the spring, sparkling in the clear northern air, cheered the spirits of the lonely little people in the lodge. The girl, being the eldest, directed her brothers, and she seemed to feel a tender and sisterly affection for the youngest, who was slight in frame and of a delicate temper. The other boy soon began to break forth with restless speeches, which showed that his spirit was not at ease. One day he addressed his sister as follows: "My sister, are we always to live as if there were no other human beings in the world? Must I deprive myself of the pleasure of mingling with my own kind? I have determined this question for myself. I shall seek the villages of men, and you can not prevent me." The sister replied: "I do not say no, my brother, to what you desire; we are not forbidden the society of our fellow-mortals, but we are told to cherish each other, and to do nothing that shall not be agreeable to all our little household. Neither pleasure nor pain ought, therefore, to separate us, especially from our younger brother, who, being but a child, and weakly withal, is entitled to a double share of our affection. If we follow our separate fancies, it will surely make us neglect him, whom we are bound by vows, both to our father and mother, to support." The young man received this address in silence, and still took his course as though nothing out of the ordinary way had occurred. After awhile he seemed to recover his spirits; and as they lived in a large country, where there were open fields, the two brothers, at his invitation, often amused themselves in playing ball. One afternoon he chose the ground near to a beautiful lake, and they played and laughed with great spirit, and the ball was seldom allowed to touch the ground. Now in this lake there happened to harbor a wicked old Manito, Mishosha by name, who looked at the brothers as they played, and he was vastly pleased with their nimbleness and beauty. He thought to himself, what shall I do to get these lads to accompany me? One of them shall hit the ball sideways, and it shall fall into my canoe. It so happened, and it somehow seemed as if Owasso, the elder brother, had purposely given it that direction. When Owasso saw the old man, he professed to be greatly surprised, as was the other, Sheem by name, in truth, for he had not noticed the old Manito before. "Bring the ball to us," they both cried out. "Come to the shore." "No," answered the old magician. He, however, came near enough for either of them to wade out to him. "Come, come," he said. "Come and get your ball." They insisted that he should come ashore, but he sturdily declined to oblige them. "Very well," said Owasso, "I will go and get it." And he ran into the water. "Hand it to me," he said, when he had approached near enough to receive it. "Ha!" answered the Manito, "reach over and get it yourself." Owasso was about to grasp the ball, when the old magician suddenly seized him and pushed him into the boat. "My grandfather," said Owasso, "pray take my little brother also. Alone I can not go with you; he will starve if I leave him." Mishosha only laughed at him; then uttering the charmed words, "Chemaun Poll!" and giving his canoe a slap, it glided through the water, without further help, with the swiftness of an arrow. In a short time they reached the magician's lodge, which stood upon the further shore, a little distance back from the lake. The two daughters of Mishosha were seated within. "My daughter," he said to his eldest, as they entered the lodge, "I have brought you a husband." The young woman smiled; for Owasso was a comely youth to look upon. The magician told him to take his seat near her, and by this act the marriage ceremony was completed, and Owasso and the magician's daughter were man and wife, and in the course of time they had born to them a son. But no sooner was Owasso in the family than the old Manito wished him out of the way, and he went about in his own wicked fashion to compass it. One day he asked his son-in-law to go out a-fishing with him. They started without delay; for the magician had only to speak, and off went the canoe. They reached a solitary bay in an island, a very dark, lonely, and out-of-the-way place. The Manito advised Owasso to spear a large sturgeon which came alongside, and with its great glassy eye turned up, seemed to recognize the magician. Owasso rose in the boat to dart his spear, and by speaking that moment to his canoe, Mishosha shot forward and hurled his son-in-law headlong into the water; where, leaving him to struggle for himself, he was soon out of sight. Owasso, being himself gifted with limited magical powers, spoke to the fish, and bade him swim toward the lodge, while he carried him along, which he did at great speed. Once he directed the sturgeon to rise near the surface of the water, so that he might, if possible, get a view of the magician. The fish obeyed, and Owasso saw the wicked old Manito busy in another direction, fishing, as unconcerned as though he had not just lost a member of his family. On went the fish, and on went Owasso, till they reached the shore, near the magician's lodge, in advance of him. He then spoke kindly to the sturgeon, and told him he should not be angry with him for having speared him, as he was created to be meat for man. The sturgeon made no reply, or if he did, it has not been reported; and Owasso, drawing him on shore, went up and told his wife to dress and cook it immediately. By the time it was prepared the magician had come in sight. "Your grandfather has arrived," said the woman to her son; "go and see what he brings, and eat this as you go"--handing a piece of the fish. The boy went, and the magician no sooner saw him with the fish in his hand, than he asked him, "What are you eating? and who brought it?" He replied, "My father brought it." The magician began to feel uneasy, for he found that he had been outwitted; he, however, put on a grave face, and entering the lodge, acted as if nothing unusual had happened. Some days after this, Mishosha again requested his son-in-law to accompany him; and Owasso, without hesitation, said "Yes!" They went out, and, in a rapid passage, they arrived at a solitary island, which was no more than a heap of high and craggy rocks. The magician said to Owasso, "Go on shore, my son, and pick up all the gulls' eggs you can find." The rocks were strewn with eggs, and the air resounded with the cry of the birds as they saw them gathered up by Owasso. The old magician took the opportunity to speak to the gulls. "I have long wished," he said, "to offer you something. I now give you this young man for food." He then uttered the charm to his canoe, and it shot out of sight, leaving Owasso to make his peace the best way he could. The gulls flew in immense numbers around him, and were ready to devour him. Owasso did not lose his presence of mind, but he addressed them and said: "Gulls, you know you were not formed to eat human flesh, nor was man made to be the prey of birds. Obey my words. Fly close together, a sufficient number of you, and carry me on your backs to the magician's lodge." They listened attentively to what he said, and seeing nothing unreasonable in his request, they obeyed him, and Owasso soon found himself sailing through the air swiftly homeward. Meanwhile, it appears that the old magician had fallen asleep and allowed his canoe to come to a stand-still; for Owasso, in his flight over the lake, saw him lying on his back in the boat, taking a nap, which was quite natural, as the day was very soft and balmy. As Owasso, with his convoy of birds, passed over, he let fall, directly in the face of the old magician, a capful of gulls' eggs, which broke and so besmeared his eyes that he could barely see. He jumped up and exclaimed: "It is always so with these thoughtless birds. They never consider where they drop their eggs." Owasso had flown on and reached the lodge in safety, and, excusing himself for the liberty, he killed two or three of the gulls for the sake of their feathers to ornament his son's head. When the magician arrived, soon after, his grandson came out to meet him, tossing his head about as the feathers danced and struggled with the wind. "Where did you get these?" asked the Manito, "and who brought them?" "My father brought them," the boy replied. The old magician was quite distressed in his mind that he had not destroyed his son-in-law. He entered his lodge in silence, and set his wits busily at work again to contrive some plan for easing his feelings in that respect. He could not help saying to himself: "What manner of boy is this who is ever escaping from my power? But his guardian spirit shall not save him. I will entrap him to-morrow. Ha, ha, ha!" He was painfully aware that he had tried two of his charms without effect, and that he had but two more left. He now professed to be more friendly with his son-in-law than ever, and the very next day he said to Owasso: "Come, my son, you must go with me to procure some young eagles. We will tame them, and have them for pets about the lodge. I have discovered an island where they are in great abundance." They started on the trip, and when, after traversing an immense waste of water, they had reached the island, Mishosha led him inland until they came to the foot of a tall pine-tree, upon which the nests were to be found. "Now, my son," said Mishosha, "climb up this tree and bring down the birds. I think you will get some fine ones up there." Owasso obeyed. When he had with great difficulty got near the nest, Mishosha cried out, addressing himself to the tree, and without much regard to the wishes of Owasso: "Now stretch yourself up and be very tall." The tree, at this bidding, rose up so far that Owasso would have imperiled his neck by any attempt to get to the ground. "Listen, ye eagles!" continued Mishosha. "You have long expected a gift from me. I now present you this boy, who has had the presumption to climb up where you are to molest your young. Stretch forth your claws and seize him." So saying, the old magician, according to his custom in such cases, turned his back upon Owasso, and going off in his canoe at a word, he left his son-in-law to shift for himself. But the birds did not seem to be so badly-minded as the old magician had supposed; for a very old bald eagle, quite corpulent and large of limb, alighting on a branch just opposite, opened conversation with him by asking what had brought him there. Owasso replied that he had not mounted the tree of himself, or out of any disposition to harm his people; that his father-in-law, the old magician who had just left them, had sent him up; that he was constantly sending him on mischievous errands. In a word, the young man was enlarging at great length upon the character of the wicked Manito, when he was interrupted by being darted upon by a hungry-eyed bird, with long claws. Owasso, not in the least disconcerted, boldly seized this fierce eagle by the neck and dashed it against the rocks, crying out: "Thus will I deal with all who come near me." The old eagle, who appeared to be the head of the tribe, was so pleased with this show of spirit that he immediately appointed two tall birds, uncommonly strong in the wings, to transport Owasso to his lodge. They were to take turns in conducting him through the air. Owasso expressed many obligations to the old eagle for his kindness, and they forthwith set out. It was a high point from which they started, for the pine-tree had shot far, far up toward the clouds, and they could even descry the enchanted island where the old magician lived; though it was miles and miles away. For this point they steered their flight; and in a short time they landed Owasso at the door of the lodge. With many compliments for their dispatch, Owasso dismissed the birds, and stood ready to greet his wicked father-in-law who now arrived; and when he espied his son-in-law still unharmed, Mishosha grew very black in the face. He had but a single charm left. He thought he would ponder deeply how he could employ that to the best advantage; and it happened that while he was doing so, one evening, as Owasso and his wife were sitting on the banks of the lake, and the soft breeze swept over it, they heard a song, as if sung by some one at a great distance. The sound continued for some time, and then died away in perfect stillness. "Oh, it is the voice of Sheem," cried Owasso. "It is the voice of my brother! If I could but only see him!" And he hung down his head in deep anguish. His wife witnessed his distress, and to comfort him she proposed that they should attempt to make their escape, and carry him succor on the morrow. When the morning came, and the sun shone warmly into the lodge, the wife of Owasso offered to comb her father's hair, with the hope that it would soothe him to sleep. It had that effect; and they no sooner saw him in deep slumber than they seized the magic canoe, Owasso uttered the charmed words, "Chemaun Poll!" and they glided away upon the water without need of oar or sail. They had nearly reached the land on the opposite side of the lake, and could distinctly hear the voice of the younger brother singing his lament as before, when the old magician wakened. Missing his daughter and her husband, he suspected deception of some kind; he looked for his magic boat and found it gone. He spoke the magic words, which were more powerful from him than from any other person in the world, and the canoe immediately returned; to the sore disappointment of Owasso and his wife. When they came back to the shore, Mishosha stood upon the beach and drew up his canoe. He did not utter a word. The son-in-law and daughter entered the lodge in silence. The time, walking along in its broad open path, brought the autumn months to a close, and the winter had set in. Soon after the first fall of snow, Owasso said: "Father, I wish to try my skill in hunting. It is said there is plenty of game not far off, and it can now be easily tracked. Let us go." The magician consented; they set out, and arriving at a good ground for their sport, they spent the day in hunting. Night coming on, they built themselves a lodge of pine-branches to sleep in. Although it was bitterly cold, the young man took off his leggings and moccasins, and hung them up to dry. The old magician did the same, carefully hanging his own in a separate place, and they lay down to sleep. Owasso, from a glance he had given, suspected that the magician had a mind to play him a trick, and to be beforehand with him, he watched an opportunity to get up and change the moccasins and leggings, putting his own in the place of Mishosha's, and depending on the darkness of the lodge to help him through. Near daylight, the old magician bestirred himself, as if to rekindle the fire; but he slyly reached down a pair of moccasins and leggings with a stick, and thinking they were no other than those of Owasso's, he dropped them into the flames; while he cast himself down, and affected to be lost in a heavy sleep. The leather leggings and moccasins soon drew up and were burned. Instantly jumping up and rubbing his eyes, Mishosha cried out: "Son-in-law, your moccasins are burning; I know it by the smell." Owasso rose up, deliberately and unconcerned. "No, my friend," said he, "here are mine," at the same time taking them down and drawing them on. "It is your moccasins that are burning." Mishosha dropped his head upon his breast. All his tricks were played out--there was not so much as half a one left to help him out of the sorry plight he was in. "I believe, my grandfather," added Owasso, "that this is the moon in which fire attracts, and I fear you must have set your foot and leg garments too near the fire, and they have been drawn in. Now let us go forth to the hunt." The old magician was compelled to follow him, and they pushed out into a great storm of snow, and hail, and wind, which had come on over night; and neither the wind, the hail, nor the snow, had the slightest respect for the bare limbs of the old magician, for there was not the least virtue of magic in those parts of old Mishosha's body. After a while they quite stiffened under him, his body became hard, and the hair bristled in the cold wind, so that he looked to Owasso--who turned away from him, leaving the wicked old magician alone to ponder upon his past life--to Owasso he looked like a tough old sycamore-tree more than a highly-gifted old magician. Owasso himself reached home in safety, proof against all kinds of weather, and the magic canoe became the exclusive property of the young man and his wife. During all this part of Owasso's stay at the lodge of Mishosha, his sister, whom he had left on the main land with Sheem, their younger brother, had labored with good-will to supply the lodge. She knew enough of the arts of the forest to provide their daily food, and she watched her little brother, and tended his wants, with all of a good sister's care. By times she began to be weary of solitude and of her charge. No one came to be a witness of her constancy, or to let fall a single word in her mother-tongue. She could not converse with the birds and beasts about her, and she felt, to the bottom of her heart, that she was alone. In these thoughts she forgot her younger brother; she almost wished him dead; for it was he alone that kept her from seeking the companionship of others. One day, after collecting all the provisions she had been able to reserve from their daily use, and bringing a supply of wood to the door, she said to her little brother: "My brother, you must not stray from the lodge. I am going to seek our elder brother. I shall be back soon." She then set the lodge in perfect order, and, taking her bundle, she set off in search of habitations. These she soon found, and in the enjoyment of the pleasures and pastimes of her new acquaintance, she began to think less and less of her little brother, Sheem. She accepted proposals of marriage, and from that time she utterly forgot the abandoned boy. As for poor little Sheem, he was soon brought to the pinching turn of his fate. As soon as he had eaten all of the food left in the lodge, he was obliged to pick berries, and live off of such roots as he could dig with his slender hands. As he wandered about in search of wherewithal to stay his hunger, he often looked up to heaven, and saw the gray clouds going up and down. And then he looked about upon the wide earth, but he never saw sister nor brother returning from their long delay. At last, even the roots and berries gave out. They were blighted by the frost or hidden out of reach by the snow, for the mid-winter had come on, and poor little Sheem was obliged to leave the lodge and wander away in search of food. Sometimes he was enforced to pass the night in the clefts of old trees or caverns, and to break his fast with the refuse meals of the savage wolves. These at last became his only resource, and he grew to be so little fearful of these animals that he would sit by them while they devoured their meat, and patiently await his share. After a while, the wolves took to little Sheem very kindly, and seeming to understand his outcast condition, they would always leave something for him to eat. By and by they began to talk with him, and to inquire into his history. When he told them that he had been forsaken by his brother and his sister, the wolves turned about to each other, lifted up their eyes to heaven, and wondered among themselves, with raised paws, that such a thing should have been. In this way, Sheem lived on till the spring, and as soon as the lake was free from ice, he followed his new friends to the shore. It happened on the same day, that his elder brother, Owasso, was fishing in his magic canoe, a considerable distance out upon the lake; when he thought he heard the cries of a child upon the shore. He wondered how any human creature could exist on so bleak and barren a coast. He listened again with all attention, and he heard the cry distinctly repeated; and this time it was the well-known cry of his younger brother that reached his ear. He knew too well the secret of his song, as he heard him chaunting mournfully: "My brother! My brother! Since you left me going in the canoe, a-hee-ee, I am half changed into a wolf, E-wee. I am half changed into a wolf, E-wee." Owasso made for the shore, and as he approached the lament was repeated. The sounds were very distinct, and the voice of wailing was very sorrowful for Owasso to listen to, and it touched him the more that it died away at the close, into a long-drawn howl, like that of the wolf. In the sand, as he drew closer to the land, he saw the tracks as of that animal fleeing away; and besides these the prints of human hands. But what were the pity and astonishment that smote Owasso to the heart when he espied his poor little brother--poor little forsaken Sheem--half boy and half wolf, flying along the shore. Owasso immediately leaped upon the ground and strove to catch him in his arms, saying soothingly, "My brother! my brother! Come to me." But the poor wolf-boy avoided his grasp, crying, as he fled, "Neesia, neesia. Since you left me going in the canoe, a-he-ee, I am half changed into a wolf, E-wee. I am half changed into a wolf, E-wee!" and howling between these words of lament. The elder brother, sore at heart, and feeling all of his brotherly affection strongly returning, with renewed anguish, cried out, "My brother! my brother! my brother!" But the nearer he approached to poor Sheem, the faster he fled, and the more rapidly the change went on; the boy-wolf by turns singing and howling, and calling out the name, first of his brother and then of his sister, till the change was complete. He leaped upon a bank, and looking back, and casting upon Owasso a glance of deep reproach and grief, he exclaimed, "I am a wolf!" and disappeared in the woods. XII. THE MAGIC BUNDLE. A poor man, called Iena, or the Wanderer, was in the habit of roaming about from place to place, forlorn, without relations, and almost helpless. He had often wished for a companion to share his solitude; but who would think of joining their fortunes with those of a poor wanderer, who had no shelter but such as his leather hunting-shirt provided, and no other household in the world than the bundle which he carried in his hand, and in which his hunting-shirt was laid away? One day as he went on a hunting excursion, to relieve himself of the burden of carrying it, Iena hung up his bundle on the branch of a tree, and then set out in quest of game. On returning to the spot in the evening, he was surprised to find a small but neat lodge built in the place where he had left his bundle; and on looking in he beheld a beautiful female, sitting on the further side of the lodge, with his bundle lying beside her. During the day Iena had so far prospered in his sport as to kill a deer, which he now cast down at the lodge door. Without pausing to take the least notice, or to give a word of welcome to the hunter, the woman ran out and began to see whether it was a large deer that he had brought. In her haste she stumbled and fell at the threshold. Iena looked at her with astonishment, and thought to himself, "I supposed I was blessed, but I find my mistake. Night-Hawk," said he, speaking aloud, "I will leave my game with you that you may feast on it." He then took up his bundle and departed. After walking some time he came to another tree, on which he suspended his bundle as before, and went in search of game. Success again attended him, and he returned, bringing with him a deer, and he found that a lodge had sprung up as before, where he had hung his bundle. He looked in and saw a beautiful female sitting alone, with his bundle by her side. She arose and came out toward the deer which he had deposited at the door, and he immediately went into the lodge and sat by the fire, as he was weary with the day's hunt, which had carried him far away. The woman did not return, and wondering at her delay, Iena at last arose, and peeping through the door of the lodge, beheld her greedily eating all the fat of the deer. He exclaimed, "I thought I was blessed, but I find I was mistaken." Then addressing the woman: "Poor Marten," said he, "feast on the game I have brought." He again took up his bundle and departed; and, as usual, hung it upon the branch of a tree, and wandered off in quest of game. In the evening he returned, with his customary good luck, bringing in a fine deer. He again found that a lodge had taken the place of his bundle. He gazed through an opening in the side of the lodge, and there was another beautiful woman sitting alone, with a bundle by her side. As soon as he entered the lodge, she rose cheerfully, welcomed him home, and without delay or complaining, she brought in the deer, cut it up as it should be, and hung up the meat to dry. She then prepared a portion of it for the supper of the weary hunter. The man thought to himself, "Now I am certainly blessed." He continued his practice of hunting every day, and the woman, on his return, always welcomed him, readily took charge of the meat, and promptly prepared his evening meal; and he ever after lived a contented and happy man. XIII. THE RED SWAN. Three brothers were left destitute, by the death of their parents, at an early age. The eldest was not yet able to provide fully for their support, but he did all that he could in hunting; and with this aid, and the stock of provisions already laid by in the lodge, they managed to keep along. They had no neighbors to lend them a helping hand, for the father had withdrawn many years before from the body of the tribe, and had lived ever since in a solitary place. The lads had no idea that there was a human being near them. They did not even know who their parents had been; for, at the time of their death, the eldest was too young to remember it. Forlorn as they were, they however kept a good heart, and making use of every chance, in course of time they all acquired a knowledge of hunting and the pursuit of game. The eldest became expert in the craft of the forest, and he was very successful in procuring food. He was noted for his skill in killing buffalo, elk, and moose; and he instructed his brothers, so that each should become a master over a particular animal which was assigned to him. After they had become able to hunt and to take care of themselves, the elder proposed to leave them and to go in search of the world, promising to return as soon as he could procure them wives. In this intention he was overruled by his brothers, who said that they could not part with him. Jeekewis, the second, was loud in disapproval of the scheme, saying: "What will you do with those you propose to get? We have lived so long by ourselves, we can still do without them." This counsel prevailed, and for a time the three brothers continued together. One day they agreed to kill each a male of that kind of animal, which each was most expert in hunting, for the purpose of making quivers from their skins. When these quivers were prepared, they were straightway filled, with arrows; for they all had a presentiment that something was about to happen which called upon them to be ready. Soon after they hunted on a wager to see who should come in first with game, and have the privilege of acting as entertainer to the others. They were to shoot no other beast or bird than such as each was in the habit of killing. They set out on different paths. Maidwa, the youngest, had not gone far before he saw a bear, an animal he was not to kill, by the agreement. He, however, followed him closely, and driving an arrow through and through him, he brought him to the ground. Although contrary to the engagement with his brothers, Maidwa commenced skinning him, when suddenly something red tinged the air all around him. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was perhaps deceived; but rub as hard as he would, the red hue still crimsoned the air, and tinged every object that he looked on--the tree-tops, the river that flowed, and the deer that glided away along the edge of the forest--with its delicate splendor. As he stood musing on this fairy spectacle, a strange noise came to his ear from a distance. At first it seemed like a human voice. After following the sound he reached the shore of a lake. Floating at a distance upon its waters sat a most beautiful Red Swan, whose plumage glittered in the sun, and when it lifted up its neck, it uttered the peculiar tone he had heard. He was within long bow-shot, and, drawing the arrow to his ear, he took a careful aim and discharged the shaft. It took no effect. The beautiful bird sat proudly on the water, still pouring forth its peculiar chant, and still spreading the radiance of its plumage far and wide, and lighting up the whole world, beneath the eye of Maidwa, with its ruby splendors. He shot again and again, till his quiver was empty, for he longed to possess so glorious a creature. Still the swan did not spread its wings to fly, but, circling round and round, stretched its long neck and dipped its bill into the water, as if indifferent to mortal shafts. Maidwa ran home, and bringing all the arrows in the lodge, shot them away. He then stood with his bow dropped at his side, lost in wonder, gazing at the beautiful bird. While standing thus, with a heart beating more and more eagerly every moment for the possession of this fair swan, Maidwa remembered the saying of his elder brother, that in their deceased father's medicine-sack were three magic arrows; but his brother had not told Maidwa that their father, on his death-bed, which he alone had attended, had especially bequeathed the arrows to his youngest son, Maidwa, from whom they had been wrongfully kept. The thought of the magic arrows put heart in Maidwa, and he hastened with all speed to secure them. At any other time he would have shrunk from opening his father's medicine-sack, but something prompted him to believe that there was no wrong now, and snatching them forth he ran back, not staying to restore the other contents to the sack, but leaving them scattered, here and there, about the lodge. He feared, as he returned, that the swan must by this time have taken wing; but, as he emerged from the wood, to his great delight the air was as rosy as ever, and there, in her own serene and beautiful way, still sat the glorious Red Swan. With trembling hand he shot the first of his magic shafts: it grazed a wing. The second came closer, and cut away a few of the bright red feathers, which fluttered and fell like flakes of fire in the water. The third, which he carefully aimed and drew home upon the string with all his force, made the lucky hit, and passed through the neck of the bird a little above the breast. "The bird is mine," said Maidwa, to himself; but to his great surprise, instead of seeing it droop its neck and drift to the shore, the Red Swan flapped its wings, rose slowly, and flew off with a majestic motion toward the falling sun. Maidwa, that he might meet his brothers, rescued two of the magic arrows from the water; and although the third was borne off, he had a hope yet to recover that too, and to be master of the swan. He was noted for his speed; for he would shoot an arrow and then run so fast that the arrow always fell behind him; and he now set off at his best speed of foot. "I can run fast," he thought, "and I can get up with the swan some time or other." He sped on, over hills and prairies, toward the west, and was only going to take one more run, and then seek a place to sleep for the night, when, suddenly, he heard noises at a distance, like the murmur of waters against the shore; as he went on, he heard voices, and presently he saw people, some of whom were busy felling trees, and the strokes of their labor echoed through the woods. He passed on, and when he emerged from the forest, the sun was just falling below the edge of the sky. He was bent on success in pursuit of the swan, whose red track he marked well far westward till she was lost to sight. Meanwhile he would tarry for the night and procure something to eat, as he had fasted since he had left home. At a distance, on a rising ground, he could see the lodges of a large village. He went toward it, and soon heard the watchman, who was set on a height to overlook the place, and give notice of the approach of friends or foes, crying out, "We are visited;" and a loud halloo indicated that they had all heard it. When Maidwa advanced, the watchman pointed to the lodge of the chief. "It is there you must go in," he said, and left him. "Come in, come in," said the chief; "take a seat there;" pointing to the side of the lodge where his daughter sat. "It is there you must sit." They gave him something to eat, and, being a stranger, very few questions were put to him; it was only when he spoke that the others answered him. "Daughter," said the chief, as soon as the night had set in, "take our son-in-law's moccasins and see if they be torn; if so, mend them for him, and bring in his bundle." Maidwa thought it strange that he should be so warmly received, and married instantly against his own wishes, although he could not help noticing that the chief's daughter was pretty. It was some time before she would take the moccasins which he had laid off. It displeased him to see her loth to do so; and when at last she did reach them, he snatched them from her hand and hung them up himself. He lay down and thought of the swan, and made up his mind to be off with the dawn. He wakened early, and finding the chief's daughter looking forth at the door, he spoke to her, but she gave no answer. He touched her lightly. "What do you want?" she said, and turned her face away from him. "Tell me," said Maidwa, "what time the swan passed. I am following it; come out, and point the way." "Do you think you can overtake it?" she said. "Yes," he answered. "Naubesah--fool!" retorted the chief's pretty daughter. She, however, went out, and pointed in the direction he should go. The young man paced slowly along till the sun arose, when he commenced traveling at his accustomed speed. He passed the day in running, and although he could not see anywhere on the horizon the Red Swan, he thought that he discerned a faint red light far over in the west. When night came, he was pleased to find himself near another village; and when at a distance he heard the watchman crying out, "We are visited;" and soon the men of the village stood out to see the stranger. He was again told to enter the lodge of the chief, and his reception was in every respect the same as on the previous night; except that the young woman was more beautiful, and that she entertained him very kindly. Although urged to stay with them, the mind of Maidwa was fixed on the object of his journey. Before daybreak he asked the young woman at what time the Red Swan passed, and to point out the way. She marked against the sky with her finger the course it had taken, and told him that it had passed yesterday when the sun was between mid-day and its falling-place. Maidwa again set out rather slowly, but when the sun had risen, he tried his speed by shooting an arrow ahead, and running after it; but it fell behind him, and he knew that he had lost nothing of his quickness of foot. Nothing remarkable happened through the day, and he went on leisurely. Some time after dark, as he was peering around the country for a shelter, he saw a light emitted from a small low lodge. He went up to it very slyly, and, peeping through the door, he discovered an old man alone, with his head down upon his breast, warming his back before the fire. Maidwa thought that the old man did not know that he was standing near the door; but in this he was mistaken; for, without turning his eyes to look at him, the old man said, "Walk in, my grandchild; take a seat opposite to me, and take off your things and dry them, for you must be fatigued; and I will prepare you something to eat; you shall have something very delicate." Maidwa accepted this kind invitation, and entered the lodge. The old man then remarked, as if in mere course of conversation: "My kettle with water stands near the fire;" and immediately a small earthen pot with legs appeared by the fire. He then took one grain of corn, also one of whortleberry, and put them in the pot. Maidwa was very hungry, and seeing the limited scale of the old man's housekeeping, he thought his chance for a supper was very slight. The old man had promised him something very delicate, and he seemed likely to keep his word. Maidwa looked on silently, and did not change his face any more than if the greatest banquet that was ever spread had been going forward. The pot soon boiled, when the old man said in a very quiet way: "The pot will stand at a distance from the fire." It removed itself, and the old man added to Maidwa: "My grandchild, feed yourself;" handing him at the same time a dish and ladle of the same ware as the pot itself. The young man, whose hunger was very great, helped himself to all that was in the pot. He felt ashamed to think that he had done so, but before he could speak the old man said: "Eat, nay grandchild; eat, eat!" and soon after he again said--"Help yourself from the pot." Maidwa was surprised, on dipping in his ladle, to see that it was full; and although he emptied it a second time, it was still again filled and refilled till his hunger was entirely satisfied. The old man then observed, without raising his voice: "The pot will return to its corner;" and the pot took itself off to its accustomed place in an out-of-the-way corner of the lodge. Maidwa observed that the old man was about to address him, and took an attitude which showed that he was prepared to listen. "Keep on, my grandchild," said the old man; "you will surely gain that you seek. To tell you more I am not permitted; but go on as you have begun and you will not be disappointed. To-morrow you will again reach one of my fellow old men, but the one you will see after him will tell you all, and the manner in which you must proceed to accomplish your journey. Often has this Red Swan passed, and those who have followed it have never returned; but you must be firm in your resolution, and be prepared for all that may happen." "So will it be," answered Maidwa; and they both laid down to sleep. Early in the morning the old man ordered his magic kettle to prepare breakfast, so that his guest might eat before leaving. As Maidwa passed out, the old man gave him a blessing with his parting advice. Maidwa set forth in better spirits than at any time since he had started. Night again found him in company with an old man who entertained him kindly, with a frisky little kettle which hurried up to the fire before it was spoken to, bustled about and set his supper briskly before Maidwa, and frisked away again, without waiting for orders. The old man also carefully directed him on his way in the morning. He traveled with a light heart, as he now expected to meet the one who was to give him directions how to proceed to get the Red Swan. Toward night-fall Maidwa reached the lodge of the third old man. Before coming to the door he heard him saying: "Grandchild, come in;" and going in promptly he felt quite at home. The old man prepared him something to eat, acting as the other magicians had done, and his kettle was of the same size, and looked as if it were an own brother of the two others which had feasted him, except that this kettle, in coming and going about its household duties, would make a passing remark, or sing a little tune for itself. The old man waited until Maidwa had fully satisfied his hunger, when he addressed him: "Young man, the errand you are bound on is beset with trials and difficulties. Numbers have passed with the same purpose as that which now prompts you, but they never returned. Be careful, and if your guardian spirits are powerful you may succeed. This Red Swan you are following is the daughter of a magician who has abundance of every thing, but only this one child, whom he values more than the sacred arrows. In former times he wore a cap of wampum, which was attached to his scalp; but powerful Indians, warriors of a distant chief, came and told him that their chief's daughter was on the brink of the grave, and that she herself requested his wampum-cap, which she was confident would save her life. 'If I can only see it,' she said, 'I will recover.' It was for this cap they had come, and after long solicitation the magician at length consented to part with it, in the hope that it would restore to health the dying maiden, although when he took it off to hand it to the messengers it left the crown of his head bare and bloody. Years have passed since, and it has not healed. The coming of the warriors to procure it for the sick maiden was a cheat, and they are now constantly making sport of the unhappy scalp--dancing it about from village to village--and on every insult it receives the poor old chief to whom it belongs groans with pain. Those who hold it are too powerful for the magician, and many have sacrificed themselves to recover it for him, but without success. The Red Swan has enticed many a young man, as she has you, to enlist them to procure the scalp, and whoever is so fortunate as to succeed, it is understood, will receive the Red Swan as his reward. In the morning you will proceed on your way, and toward evening you will come to this magician's lodge. You will know it by the groans which you will hear far over the prairie as you approach. He will ask you in. You will see no one but himself. He will question you much as to your dreams and the strength of your guardian spirits. If he is satisfied with your answers, he will urge you to attempt the recovery of his scalp. He will show you the course to take, and if you feel inclined, as I see that you do, go forward, my son, with a strong heart; persevere, and I have a presentiment that you will succeed." Maidwa answered, "I will try." Betimes in the morning, after having eaten from the magic kettle, which sung a sort of farewell chant on its way from the fire-place to its station in the corner, he set off on his journey. Toward evening, Maidwa, as he crossed a prairie, heard, as had been predicted, groans from a distant lodge, which were only interrupted by a voice from a person whom he could not see, calling to him aloud: "Come in! come in!" On entering the lodge, the magician heaved a great groan from the very bottom of his chest, and Maidwa saw that the crown of his head was all bare and bloody. "Sit down, sit down," he said, "while I prepare you something to eat. You see how poor I am. I have to attend to all my own wants, with no other servant than that poor little kettle in the corner. Kettle, we will have something to eat, if you please." "In a moment," the kettle spoke up from the corner. "You will oblige me by making all the dispatch you can," said the magician, in a very humble tone, still addressing the kettle. "Have patience," replied the kettle, "and I will be with you presently." After a considerable delay, there came forward out of the corner from which it had spoken, a great heavy-browed and pot-bodied kettle, which advanced with much stateliness and solemnity of manner till it had come directly in front of the magician, whom it addressed with the question: "What shall we have, sir?" "Corn, if you please," the magician answered. "No, we will have whortleberries," rejoined the kettle, in a firm voice. "Very well; just as you choose." When he supposed it was time, the magician invited Maidwa to help himself. "Hold a minute," interposed the kettle, as Maidwa was about to dip in his ladle. He paused, and after a delay, the kettle, shaking itself up and simmering very loudly, said, "Now we are ready." Maidwa fell to and satisfied his hunger. "Will the kettle now withdraw?" asked the magician, with am air of much deference. "No," said the kettle, "we will stay and hear what the young man has to say for himself." "Very well," said the magician. "You see," he added to Maidwa, "how poor I am. I have to take counsel with the kettle, or I should be all alone, without a day's food, and with no one to advise me." All this time the Red Swan was carefully concealed in the lodge, behind a curtain, from which Maidwa heard now and then a rustling noise, that fluttered his spirits and set his heart to beating at a wonderful rate. As soon as Maidwa had partaken of food and laid aside his leggings and moccasins, the old magician commenced telling him how he had lost his scalp, the insults it was receiving, the pain he suffered thereby, his wishes to regain it, the many unsuccessful attempts that had already been made, and the numbers and power of those who retained it. He would interrupt his discourse, at times, with sudden groans, and say: "Oh, how shamefully they are treating it." Maidwa listened to all the old magician had to say with solemn attention. The magician renewed his discourse, and inquired of Maidwa as to his dreams, or what he saw in his sleep, at such times as he had fasted and darkened his face to procure guardian spirits. Maidwa then told him one dream. The magician groaned. "No, that is not it," he said. Maidwa told him of two or three others. The magician groaned again and again, and said, rather peevishly, "No, these are not the dreams." "Keep cool," said the kettle, which had left the fire, and was standing in the middle of the floor, where a pleasant breeze was blowing through the lodge, and added, "Have you no more dreams of another kind?" "Yes," said Maidwa; and he told him one. "That will do," said the kettle. "We are much pleased with that." "Yes, that is it--that is it!" the magician added. "You will cause me to live. That was what I was wishing you to say. Will you then go and see if you can not recover my poor scalp?" "Yes," said Maidwa, "I will go; and the day after to-morrow, when you hear the ka-kak cries of the hawk, you will know that I am successful. You must prepare your head, and lean it out through the door, so that the moment I arrive I may place your scalp on." "Yes, yes," said the magician. "As you say it will be done." Early the next morning Maidwa set out to fulfill his promise; and in the afternoon, when the sun hangs toward home, he heard the shouts of a great many people. He was in a wood at the time, and saw, as he thought, only a few men, but as he went on they increased in numbers. On emerging upon the plain, their heads appeared like the hanging leaves, they were so many. In the middle of the plain he perceived a post, and something waving at its top. It was the wampum scalp; and every now and then the air was rent with the war-song, for they were dancing the war-dance in high spirit around it. Before he could be observed, Maidwa changed himself into a humming-bird, and flew toward the scalp. As he passed some of those who were standing by, he came close to their ears, and as they heard the rapid whirr or murmur which this bird makes when it flies, they jumped aside, and asked each other what it could be. Maidwa had nearly reached the scalp, but fearing that he should be perceived while untying it, he again changed himself into the down that floats lightly on the air, and sailed slowly on to the scalp. He loosened it, and moved off heavily, as the weight was almost too great for him to bear up. The Indians around would have snatched it away had not a lucky current of air just then buoyed him up. As they saw that it was moving away they cried out, "It is taken from us! it is taken from us!" Maidwa was borne gently along but a little way above their heads; and as they followed him, the rush and hum of the people was like the dead beating of the surges upon a lake shore after a storm. But the good wind gaining strength, soon carried him beyond their pursuit. A little further on he changed himself into a hawk, and flew swiftly off with his trophy, crying, "Ka-kak! ka-kak!" till it resounded with its shrill tone through the whole country, far and wide. Meanwhile the magician had remembered the instructions of Maidwa, placing his head outside of the lodge as soon as he heard the ka-kak cry of the hawk. In a moment Maidwa came past with rustling wings, and as he flew by, giving the magician a severe blow on the head with the wampum scalp, his limbs extended and quivered in an agony, the scalp adhered, and Maidwa, in his own person, walked into the lodge and sat down, feeling perfectly at home. The magician was so long in recovering from the stunning blow which had been dealt him, that Maidwa feared that in restoring the crown of his head he had destroyed his life. Presently, however, he was pleased to see him show, by the motion of his hands and limbs, that his strength was returning; and in a little while he rose and stood upon his feet. What was the delight of Maidwa to behold, instead of a withered old man, far advanced in years and stricken in sorrow, a bright and cheerful youth, who glittered with life as he stood up before him. "Thank you, my friend," he said. "Your kindness and bravery of heart have restored me to my former shape. It was so ordained, and you have now accomplished the victory." They embraced; and the young magician urged the stay of his deliverer for a few days, and they formed a strong attachment to each other. The magician, to the deep regret of Maidwa, never once alluded to the Red Swan in all their conferences. At last the day arrived when Maidwa prepared to return to his home. The young magician bestowed on him ample presents of wampum, fur, robes, and other costly things. Although Maidwa's heart was burning within him to see the Red Swan, to hear her spoken of, and to learn what his fortune was to be in regard to that fond object of his pursuit, he constrained his feelings, and so checked his countenance as to never look where he supposed she might be. His friend the young magician observed the same silence and caution. Maidwa's pack for traveling was now ready, and he was taking his farewell smoke, when the young magician thus addressed him: "My friend Maidwa, you know for what cause you came thus far, and why you have risked so much and waited so long. You have proved my friend indeed. You have accomplished your object, and your noble perseverance shall not go unrewarded. If you undertake other things with the same spirit, you will always succeed. My destiny compels me to remain where I am, although I should feel happy to be allowed to go with you. I have given you, of ordinary gifts, all you will need as long as you live; but I see you are backward to speak of the Red Swan. I vowed that whoever procured me my lost wampum-scalp should be rewarded by possessing the Red Swan." He then spoke in a language which Maidwa did not understand, the curtain of the lodge parted, and the Red Swan met his gaze. It was a beautiful female that he beheld, so majestical and airy in her look, that he seemed to see a creature whose home should rather be in the free heaven, and among the rosy clouds, than in this dusky lodge. "Take her," the young magician said; "she is my sister; treat her well. She is worthy of you, and what you have done for me merits more. She is ready to go with you to your kindred and friends, and has been so ever since your arrival; and my good wishes shall go with you both." The Red Swan smiled kindly on Maidwa, who advanced and greeted her. Hand in hand they took their way forth from the lodge, and, watched by the young magician, advanced across the prairie on their homeward course. They traveled slowly, and looked with double joy on the beautiful country over which they had both so lately passed with hearts ill at ease. After two or three days they reached the lodge of the third old man who had entertained him with the singing kettle; but the kettle was not there. The old man, nevertheless, received them very kindly, and said to Maidwa, "You see what your perseverance has secured you; do so always, and you will succeed in whatever you undertake." On the following morning, when they were about to start, he pulled from the side of the lodge a bag, which he presented to Maidwa, saying, "Grandchild, I give you this; it contains a present for you; and I hope you will live happily till old age." Bidding him farewell, they again set forward; and they soon came to the second old man's lodge; he also gave them a present and bestowed his blessing. Nor did Maidwa see any thing here of the frisky little kettle which had been so lively on his former visit. As they went on and came to the lodge of the first old man, their reception and farewell were the same; and when Maidwa glanced to the corner, the silent kettle, which had been the first acquaintance he had made in that family on his travels, was not there. The old man smiled when he discovered the direction of Maidwa's glance, but he said nothing. When, on continuing their journey, they at last approached the first town which Maidwa had passed in his pursuit, the watchman gave notice as before, and he was shown into the chief's lodge. "Sit down there, son-in-law," said the chief, pointing to a place near his daughter. "And you also," he said to the Red Swan. The chief's daughter was engaged in coloring a girdle, and, as if indifferent to these visitors, she did not even raise her head. Presently the chief said, "Let some one bring in the bundle of our son-in-law." When the bundle was laid before him, Maidwa opened one of the bags which had been given to him. It was filled with various costly articles--wampum, robes, and trinkets, of much richness and value; these, in token of his kindness, he presented to the chief. The chief's daughter stole a glance at the costly gifts, then at Maidwa and his beautiful wife. She stopped working, and was silent and thoughtful all the evening. The chief himself talked with Maidwa of his adventures, congratulated him on his good fortune, and concluded by telling him that he should take his daughter along with him in the morning. Maidwa said "Yes." The chief then spoke up, saying, "Daughter, be ready to go with him in the morning." Now it happened when the chief was thus speaking that there was a foolish fellow in the lodge, who had thought to have got this chief's daughter for a wife; and he jumped up, saying: "Who is he," looking grimly at Maidwa, "that he should take her for a few presents? I will kill him." And he raised a knife which he had in his hand, and gave it a mighty flourish in the air. He kept up this terrible flourish till some one came and pulled him back to his seat, which he had been waiting for, and then he sat quiet enough. Amid the greetings of their new friends, Maidwa and the Red Swan, with the chief's daughter, took their leave by peep of day, and toward evening they reached the other town. The watchman gave the signal, and numbers of men, women and children stood out to see them. They were again shown into the chief's lodge, who welcomed him, saying: "Son-in-law, you are welcome." And he requested Maidwa to take a seat by his daughter, and the two women did the same. After suitable refreshment for all, and while Maidwa smoked a pipe, the chief asked him to relate his adventures in the hearing of all the inmates of the lodge, and of the strangers who had gathered in at report of his singular fortunes. Maidwa gave them his whole story. When he came to those parts which related to the Red Swan, they turned and looked upon her in wonder and admiration, for she was very beautiful. The chief then informed Maidwa that his brothers had been to their town in search of him, but that they had gone back some time before, having given up all hopes of ever seeing him again. He added, that since he had shown himself a man of spirit, whom fortune was pleased to befriend, he should take his daughter with him. "For although your brothers," he said, "were here, they were too bashful to enter any of our lodges. They merely inquired for you and returned. You will take my daughter, treat her well, and that will bind us more closely together." It is always the case in an assembly or gathering that some one of the number is foolish, and disposed to play the clown. It happened to be so here. One of this very sort was in the lodge, and, after Maidwa had given the old chief presents, as he had to the other, this pretender jumped up in a passion, and cried out: "Who is this stranger, that he should have her? I want her myself." The chief bade him be quiet, and not to disturb or quarrel with one who was enjoying their hospitality. "No, no," he exclaimed, rushing forward as in act to strike. Maidwa sat unmoved, and paid no heed to his threats. He cried the louder--"I will have her, I will have her!" whereupon the old chief, being now vexed past patience, took his great war-club and tapped this clownish fellow upon the head, which so far subdued him that he sat for some time quite still; when, after a while, he came to himself, the chief upbraided him for his folly, and told him to go out and tell stories to the old women. When at last Maidwa was about to leave, he invited a number of the families of the chief to go with him and visit their hunting-grounds, where he promised them that they would find game in abundance. They consented, and in the morning a large company assembled and joined Maidwa; and the chief, with a party of warriors, escorted them a long distance. When ready to return, the chief made a speech and besought the blessing of the Good Spirit on Maidwa and his friends. They parted, each on its course, making music with their war-drums, which could be heard from afar as they glittered with waving feathers in the morning sun, in their march over the prairie, which was lost in the distant sky. After several days' travel, Maidwa and his friends came in sight of his home. The others rested within the woods while he went alone in advance to see his brothers. He entered the lodge. It was all in confusion and covered with ashes. On one side, sitting among the cinders, with his face blackened, and crying aloud, was his elder brother. On the other side sat the younger, Jeekewis, also with blackened face, his head covered with stray feathers and tufts of swan-down. This one presented so curious a figure that Maidwa could not keep from laughing. He seemed to be so lost and far-gone in grief that he could not notice his brother's arrival. The eldest, however, after a while, lifting up his head, recognized Maidwa, jumped up and shook hands, and kissed him, and expressed much joy at his return. Maidwa, as soon as he had seen the lodge set in order, made known that he had brought each of them a wife. As soon as Jeekewis heard a wife spoken of, he roused from his torpor, sprang to his feet, and said: "Why is it just now that you have come?" and at once made for the door and peeped out to see the strangers. He then commenced jumping and laughing, and crying out, "Women! women!" and that was all the reception he gave his brother. Maidwa told them to wash themselves and prepare, for he would go and fetch the females in. Jeekewis scampered about, and began to wash himself; but he would every now and then, with one side of his head all feathers, and the other clear and shining, peep forth to look at the women again. When they came near, he said, "I will have this and that one;" he did not exactly know which; he would sit down for an instant, and then rise, and peep about and laugh; in fact he acted like one beside himself. As soon as order was restored, and all the company who had been brought in were seated, Maidwa presented one of the chief's daughters to his eldest brother, saying: "These women were given to me, to dispose of in marriage. I now give one to each. I intended so from the first." Jeekewis spoke up and said, "I think three wives would have been enough for you." Maidwa led the other daughter to Jeekewis, and said, "My brother, here is one for you, and live happily." Jeekewis hung down his head as if he was ashamed, but he would every now and then steal a look at his wife and also at the other women. By and by he turned toward his wife and acted as if he had been married for years. Maidwa seeing that no preparation had been made to entertain the company, said, "Are we to have no supper?" He had no sooner spoken, than forth from a corner stepped the silent kettle, which placed itself by the fire, and began bubbling and boiling quite briskly. Presently that was joined by the big talking kettle, which said, addressing itself to Maidwa, "Master, we shall be ready presently;" and then, dancing along, came, from still another, the frisky little kettle, which hopped to their side, and took an active part in the preparations for the evening meal. When all was nearly ready, a delicate voice was heard singing in the last corner of the lodge, and keeping up its dainty carol all the way to the fire-place, the fourth kettle joined the three cooks, and they all fell to with all their might, and in the best possible humor, to dispatch their work. It was not long before the big kettle advanced toward Maidwa, and said, in his own confident way, "Supper is ready!" The feast was a jovial one; and although they were all hungry, and plied their ladles with right good will, yet, dip in as often as they would, the four magic kettles held out, and had plenty to the end of the revel. To draw to a close, Maidwa and his friends lived in peace for a time; their town prospered; there was no lack of children; and every thing else was in abundance. One day the two brothers began to look dark upon Maidwa, and to reproach him for having taken from the medicine-sack their deceased father's magic arrows; they upbraided him especially that one was lost. After listening to them in silence, he said that he would go in search of it, and that it should be restored; and the very next day, true to his word, he left them. After traveling a long way, and looking in every direction, almost hopeless of discovering the lost treasure, he came to an opening in the earth, and descending, it led him to the abode of departed spirits. The country appeared beautiful, the pastures were greener than his own, and the sky bluer than that which hung over the lodge, and the extent of it was utterly lost in a dim distance; and he saw animals of every kind wandering about in great numbers. The first he came to were buffalos; his surprise was great when they addressed him as human beings. They asked him what he came for, how he had descended, and why he was so bold as to visit the abode of the dead. He answered that he was in quest of a magic arrow, to appease the anger of his brothers. "Very well," said the leader of the buffalos, whose form was nothing but bone. "Yes, we know it," and he and his followers moved off a little space from Maidwa, as if they were afraid of him. "You have come," resumed the buffalo-spirit, "to a place where a living man has never before been. You will return immediately to your tribe, for, under pretense of recovering one of the magic arrows which belong to you by your father's dying wish, they have sent you off that they might become possessed of your beautiful wife, the Red Swan. Speed home! You will find the magic arrow at the lodge-door. You will live to a very old age, and die happily. You can go no further in these abodes of ours." Maidwa looked, as he thought, to the west, and saw a bright light as if the sun was shining in its splendor, but he saw no sun. "What light is that yonder?" he asked. The all-boned buffalo answered--"It is the place where those who were good dwell." "And that dark cloud?" Maidwa again asked. "It is the place of the wicked," answered the buffalo. Maidwa turned away, for it was very dark, and it pained his eyes to look upon it; and, moving away by the aid of his guardian spirits, he again stood upon the earth, and beheld the sun giving light as usual. All else that he learned in the abodes of the dead, and his travels and acts previous to his return homeward, are unknown, for he never spoke of them to any human being. After wandering a long time to gather knowledge to make his people happy and to add to their comfort, he one evening drew near to his own village. Passing all the other lodges he came to his own door, where he found the magic arrow, as he had been promised. He heard his brothers from within at high words with each other. They were quarreling for the possession of his wife, who, through all his absence, had remained constant, and sadly awaited his return. Maidwa listened in shame and sorrow. He entered the lodge, holding his head aloft as one conscious of good principle and shining with anger. He spoke not a word, but, placing the magic arrow to his bow, he would have laid his brothers dead at his feet; but just then the talking kettle stepped forward and spoke such words of wisdom, and the singing kettle trolled forth such a soothing little song, and the guilty brothers were so contrite and keenly repentant of their intended wrong, and the Red Swan was so radiant and forgiving, the silent kettle straightway served them up so hearty and wholesome a meal, and the frisky little kettle was so joyful and danced about so merrily, that when the magic arrows were laid away in the medicine-sack by Maidwa, there was that night in all the Indian country no happier family than the three brothers, who ever after dwelt together in all kindness, as all good brothers should. XIV. THE MAN WITH HIS LEG TIED UP. As a punishment for having once upon a time used that foot against a venerable medicine man, Aggo Dah Gauda had one leg looped up to his thigh, so that he was obliged to get along by hopping. By dint of practice he had become very skillful in this exercise, and he could make leaps which seemed almost incredible. Aggo had a beautiful daughter, and his chief care was to secure her from being carried off by the king of the buffalos, who was the ruler of all the herds of that kind, and had them entirely at his command to make them do as he willed. Dah Gauda, too, was quite an important person in his own way, for he lived in great state, having a log house of his own, and a court-yard which extended from the sill of his front-door as many hundred miles westward as he chose to measure it. Although he might claim this extensive privilege of ground, he advised his daughter to keep within doors, and by no means to go far in the neighborhood, as she would otherwise be sure to be stolen away, as he was satisfied that the buffalo-king spent night and day lurking about and lying in wait to seize her. One sunshiny morning, when there were just two or three promising clouds rolling moistly about the sky, Aggo prepared to go out a-fishing; but before he left the lodge he reminded her of her strange and industrious lover, whom she had never seen. "My daughter," said he, "I am going out to fish, and as the day will be a pleasant one, you must recollect that we have an enemy near, who is constantly going about with two eyes that never close, and do not expose yourself out of the lodge." With this excellent advice, Aggo hopped off in high spirits; but he had scarcely reached the fishing-ground when he heard a voice singing, at a distance: Man with the leg tied up, Man with the leg tied up, Broken hip--hip-- Hipped. Man with the leg tied up, Man with the leg tied up, Broken leg--leg-- Legged. There was no one in sight, but Aggo heard the words quite plainly, and as he suspected the ditty to be the work of his enemies, the buffalos, he hopped home as fast as his one leg could carry him. Meantime, the daughter had no sooner been left alone in the lodge than she thought with herself: "It is hard to be thus forever kept in doors. But my father says it would be dangerous to venture abroad. I know what I will do. I will get on the top of the house, and there I can comb and dress my hair, and no one can harm me." She accordingly ascended the roof and busied herself in untying and combing her beautiful hair; for it was truly beautiful, not only of a fine, glossy quality, but it was so very long that it hung over the eaves of the house and reached down on the ground, as she sat dressing it. She was wholly occupied in this employment, without a thought of danger, when, all of a sudden, the king of the buffalos came dashing on with his herd of followers, and making sure of her by means of her drooping tresses, he placed her upon the back of one of his favorite buffalos, and away he cantered over the plains. Plunging into a river that bounded his land, he bore her safely to his lodge on the other side. And now the buffalo-king having secured the beautiful person of Aggo Dah Gauda's daughter, he set to work to make her heart his own--a little ceremony which it would have been, perhaps, wiser for his majesty, the king of the buffalos, to have attended to before, for he now worked to little purpose. Although he labored with great zeal to gain her affections, she sat pensive and disconsolate in the lodge, among the other females, and scarcely ever spoke, nor did she take the least interest in the affairs of the king's household. To the king himself she paid no heed, and although he breathed forth to her every soft and gentle word he could think of, she sat still and motionless for all the world like one of the lowly bushes by the door of her father's lodge, when the summer wind has died away. The king enjoined it upon the others in the lodge as a special edict, on pain of instant death, to give to Aggo's daughter every thing that she wanted, and to be careful not to displease her. They set before her the choicest food. They gave her the seat of honor in the lodge. The king himself went out hunting to obtain the most dainty meats, both of animals and wild fowl, to pleasure her palate; and he treated her every morning to a ride upon one of the royal buffalos, who was so gentle in his motions as not even to disturb a single one of the tresses of the beautiful hair of Aggo's daughter as she paced along. And not content with these proofs of his attachment, the king would sometimes fast from all food, and having thus purified his spirit and cleared his voice, he would take his Indian flute, and, sitting before the lodge, give vent to his feelings in pensive echoes, something after this fashion: My sweetheart, My sweetheart, Ah me! When I think of you, When I think of you, Ah me! What can I do, do, do? How I love you, How I love you, Ah me! Do not hate me, Do not hate me, Ah me! Speak--e'en berate me. When I think of you, Ah me! What can I do, do, do? In the mean time, Aggo Dah Gauda had reached home, and finding that his daughter had been stolen, his indignation was so thoroughly awakened that he would have forthwith torn every hair from his head, but, being entirely bald, this was out of the question, so, as an easy and natural vent to his feelings, Aggo hopped off half a mile in every direction. First he hopped east, then he hopped west, next he hopped north, and again he hopped south, all in search of his daughter; till the one leg was fairly tired out. Then he sat down in his lodge, and resting himself a little, he reflected, and then he vowed that his single leg should never know rest again until he had found his beautiful daughter and brought her home. For this purpose he immediately set out. Now that he proceeded more coolly, he could easily track the buffalo-king until he came to the banks of the river, where he saw that he had plunged in and swam over. There having been a frosty night or two since, the water was so covered with thin ice that Aggo could not venture upon it, even with one leg. He encamped hard by till it became more solid, and then crossed over and pursued the trail. As he went along he saw branches broken off and strewed behind, which guided him in his course; for these had been purposely cast along by the daughter. And the manner in which she had accomplished it was this. Her hair was all untied when she was caught up, and being very long it took hold of the branches as they darted along, and it was these twigs that she broke off as signs to her father. When Aggo came to the king's lodge it was evening. Carefully approaching, he peeped through the sides, and saw his daughter sitting disconsolate. She immediately caught his eye, and knowing that it was her father come for her, she all at once appeared to relent in her heart, and, asking for the royal dipper, said to the king, "I will go and get you a drink of water." This token of submission delighted his majesty, and, high in hope, he waited with impatience for her return. At last he went out, but nothing could be seen or heard of the captive daughter. Calling together his followers, they sallied forth upon the plains, and had not gone far when they espied by the light of the moon, which was shining roundly just over the edge of the prairie, Aggo Dah Gauda, his daughter in his arms, making all speed with his one leg toward the west. The buffalos being set on by their king, raised a great shout, and scampered off in pursuit. They thought to overtake Aggo in less than no time; but although he had a single leg only, it was in such fine condition to go, that to every pace of theirs, he hopped the length of a cedar-tree. But the buffalo-king was well assured that he would be able to overtake Aggo, hop as briskly as he might. It would be a mortal shame, thought the king, to be outstripped by a man with one leg tied up; so, shouting and cheering, and issuing orders on all sides, he set the swiftest of his herd upon the track, with strict commands to take Aggo dead or alive. And a curious sight it was to see. [Illustration: THE MAN WITH HIS LEG TIED UP. Page 176.] At one time a buffalo would gain handsomely upon Aggo, and be just at the point of laying hold of him, when off Aggo would hop, a good furlong, in an oblique line, wide out of his reach; which bringing him nearly in contact with another of the herd, away he would go again, just as far off in another direction. And in this way Aggo kept the whole company of the buffalos zig-zagging across the plain, with the poor king at their head, running to and fro, shouting among them and hurrying them about in the wildest way. It was an extraordinary road that Aggo was taking toward home; and after a time it so puzzled and bewildered the buffalos that they were driven half out of their wits, and they roared, and brandished their tails, and foamed, as if they would put out of countenance and frighten out of sight the old man in the moon, who was looking on all the time, just above the edge of the prairie. As for the king himself, losing at last all patience at the absurd idea of chasing a man with one leg all night long, he called his herd together, and fled, in disgust, toward the west, and never more appeared in all that part of the country. Aggo, relieved of his pursuers, hopped off a hundred steps in one, till he reached the stream, crossed it in a twinkling of the eye, and bore his daughter in triumph to his lodge. In the course of time Aggo's beautiful daughter married a very worthy young warrior, who was neither a buffalo-king nor so much as the owner of any more of the buffalos than a splendid skin robe which he wore, with great effect, thrown over his shoulders, on his wedding-day. On which occasion, Aggo Dah Gauda hopped about on his one leg livelier than ever. XV. THE LITTLE SPIRIT, OR BOY-MAN. In a little lodge at a beautiful spot on a lake shore, alone with his sister, lived a boy remarkable for the smallness of his stature. Many large rocks were scattered around their habitation, and it had a very wild and out-of-the-way look. The boy grew no larger as he advanced in years, and yet, small as he was, he had a big spirit of his own, and loved dearly to play the master in the lodge. One day in winter he told his sister to make him a ball to play with, as he meant to have some sport along the shore on the clear ice. When she handed him the ball, his sister cautioned him not to go too far. He laughed at her, and posted off in high glee, throwing his ball before him and running after it at full speed, and he went as fast as his ball. At last his ball flew to a great distance; he followed as fast as he could. After he had run forward for some time, he saw what seemed four dark spots upon the ice, straight before him. When he came up to the shore he was surprised to see four large, tall men, lying on the ice, spearing fish. They were four brothers, who looked exactly alike. As the little boy-man approached them, the nearest looked up, and in his turn he was surprised to see such a tiny being, and turning to his brothers, he said: "Tia! look! see what a little fellow is here." The three others thereupon looked up too, and seeing these four faces, as if they had been one, the little spirit or boy-man said to himself: "Four in one! What a time they must have in choosing their hunting-shirts!" After they had all stared for a moment at the boy, they covered their heads, intent in searching for fish. The boy thought to himself: "These four-faces fancy that I am to be put off without notice because I am so little, and they are so broad and long. They shall find out. I may find a way to teach them that I am not to be treated so lightly." After they were covered up, the boy-man, looking sharply about, saw that among them they had caught one large trout, which was lying just by their side. Stealing along, he slyly seized it, and placing his fingers in the gills, and tossing his ball before him, he ran off at full speed. They heard the pattering of his little steps upon the ice, and when the four looked up all together, they saw their fine trout sliding away, as if of itself, at a great rate, the boy being so small that he could not be distinguished from the fish. "See!" they cried out, "our fish is running away on the dry land!" When they stood up they could just see, over the fish's head, that it was the boy-man who was carrying it off. The little spirit reached the lodge, and having left the trout at the door, he told his sister to go out and bring in the fish he had brought home. She exclaimed, "Where could you have got it? I hope you have not stolen it." "Oh," he replied, "I found it on the ice. It was caught in our lake. Have we no right to a little lake of our own? I shall claim all the fish that come out of its waters." "How," the sister asked again, "could you have got it there?" "No matter," said the boy; "go and cook it." It was as much as the girl could do to drag the great trout within doors. She cooked it, and its flavor was so delicious that she asked no more questions as to how he had come by it. The next morning the little spirit or boy-man set off as he had the day before. He made all sorts of sport with his ball as he frolicked along--high over his head he would toss it, straight up into the air; then far before him, and again, in mere merriment of spirit, he would send it bounding back, as if he had plenty of speed and enough to spare in running back after it. And the ball leaped and bounded about, and glided through the air as if it were a live thing, and enjoyed the sport as much as the boy-man himself. When he came within hail of the four large men, who were fishing there every day, he cast his ball with such force that it rolled into the ice-hole about which they were busy. The boy, standing on the shore of the lake, called out: "Four-in-one, pray hand me my ball." "No, indeed," they answered, setting up a grim laugh which curdled their four dark faces all at once, "we shall not;" and with their fishing-spears they thrust the ball under the ice. "Good!" said the boy-man, "we shall see." Saying which he rushed upon the four brothers and thrust them at one push into the water. His ball bounded back to the surface, and, picking it up, he ran off, tossing it before him in his own sportive way. Outstripping it in speed he soon reached home, and remained within till the next morning. The four brothers, rising up from the water at the same time, dripping and wroth, roared out in one voice a terrible threat of vengeance, which they promised to execute the next day. They knew the boy's speed, and that they could by no means overtake him. By times in the morning, the four brothers were stirring in their lodge, and getting ready to look after their revenge. Their old mother, who lived with them, begged them not to go. "Better," said she, "now that your clothes are dry, to think no more of the ducking than to go and all four of you get your heads broken, as you surely will, for that boy is a monedo or he could not perform such feats as he does." But her sons paid no heed to this wise advice, and, raising a great war-cry, which frightened the birds overhead nearly out of their feathers, they started for the boy's lodge among the rocks. The little spirit or boy-man heard them roaring forth their threats as they approached, but he did not appear to be disquieted in the least. His sister as yet had heard nothing; after a while she thought she could distinguish the noise of snow-shoes on the snow, at a distance, but rapidly advancing. She looked out, and seeing the four large men coming straight to their lodge she was in great fear, and running in, exclaimed: "He is coming, four times as strong as ever!" for she supposed that the one man whom her brother had offended had become so angry as to make four of himself in order to wreak his vengeance. The boy-man said, "Why do you mind them? Give me something to eat." "How can you think of eating at such a time?" she replied. "Do as I request you, and be quick." She then gave little spirit his dish, and he commenced eating. Just then the brothers came to the door. "See!" cried the sister, "the man with four heads!" The brothers were about to lift the curtain at the door, when the boy-man turned his dish upside down, and immediately the door was closed with a stone; upon which the four brothers set to work and hammered with their clubs with great fury, until at length they succeeded in making a slight opening. One of the brothers presented his face at this little window, and rolled his eye about at the boy-man in a very threatening way. The little spirit, who, when he had closed the door, had returned to his meal, which he was quietly eating, took up his bow and arrow which lay by his side, and let fly the shaft, which, striking the man in the head, he fell back. The boy-man merely called out "Number one" as he fell, and went on with his meal. In a moment a second face, just like the first, presented itself; and as he raised his bow, his sister said to him: "What is the use? You have killed that man already." Little spirit fired his arrow--the man fell--he called out "Number two," and continued his meal. The two others of the four brothers were dispatched in the same quiet way, and counted off as "Number three" and "Number four." After they were all well disposed of in this way, the boy-man directed his sister to go out and see them. She presently ran back, saying: "There are four of them." "Of course," the boy-man answered, "and there always shall be four of them." Going out himself, the boy-man raised the brothers to their feet, and giving each a push, one with his face to the East, another to the West, a third to the South, and the last to the North, he sent them off to wander about the earth; and whenever you see four men just alike, they are the four brothers whom the little spirit or boy-man dispatched upon their travels. But this was not the last display of the boy-man's power. When spring came on, and the lake began to sparkle in the morning sun, the boy-man said to his sister: "Make me a new set of arrows, and a bow." Although he provided for their support, the little spirit never performed household or hard work of any kind, and his sister obeyed. When she had made the weapons, which, though they were very small, were beautifully wrought and of the best stuff the field and wood could furnish, she again cautioned him not to shoot into the lake. "She thinks," said the boy-man to himself, "I can see no further into the water than she. My sister shall learn better." Regardless of her warnings, he on purpose discharged a shaft into the lake, waded out into the water till he got into its depth, and paddled about for his arrow, so as to call the attention of his sister, and as if to show that he hardily braved her advice. She hurried to the shore, calling on him to return; but instead of heeding her, he cried out: "You of the red fins, come and swallow me!" Although his sister did not clearly understand whom her brother was addressing, she too called out: "Don't mind the foolish boy!" The boy-man's order seemed to be best attended to, for immediately a monstrous fish came and swallowed him. Before disappearing entirely, catching a glimpse of his sister standing in despair upon the shore, the boy-man hallooed out to her: "Me-zush-ke-zin-ance!" She wondered what he meant. At last it occurred to her that it must be an old moccasin. She accordingly ran to the lodge, and bringing one, she tied it to a string attached to a tree, and cast it into the water. The great fish said to the boy-man under water. "What is that floating?" To which the boy-man replied: "Go, take hold of it, swallow it as fast as you can; it is a great delicacy." The fish darted toward the old shoe and swallowed it, making of it a mere mouthful. The boy-man laughed in himself, but said nothing, till the fish was fairly caught, when he took hold of the line and began to pull himself in his fish-carriage ashore. The sister, who was watching all this time, opened wide her eyes as the huge fish came up and up upon the shore; and she opened them still more when the fish seemed to speak, and she heard from within a voice, saying, "Make haste and release me from this nasty place." It was her brother's voice, which she was accustomed to obey; and she made haste with her knife to open a door in the side of the fish, from which the boy-man presently leaped forth. He lost no time in ordering her to cut it up and dry it; telling her that their spring supply of meat was now provided. The sister now began to believe that her brother was an extraordinary boy; yet she was not altogether satisfied in her mind that he was greater than the rest of the world. They sat, one evening, in the lodge, musing with each other in the dark, by the light of each other's eyes--for they had no other of any kind--when the sister said, "My brother, it is strange that you, who can do so much, are no wiser than the Ko-ko, who gets all his light from the moon; which shines or not, as it pleases." "And is not that light enough?" asked the little spirit. "Quite enough," the sister replied. "If it would but come within the lodge and not sojourn out in the tree-tops and among the clouds." "We will have a light of our own, sister," said the boy-man; and, casting himself upon a mat by the door, he commenced singing: Fire-fly, fire-fly, bright little thing, Light me to bed and my song I will sing; Give me your light, as you fly o'er my head, That I may merrily go to my bed. Give me your light o'er the grass as you creep, That I may joyfully go to my sleep; Come, little fire-fly, come little beast, Come! and I'll make you to-morrow a feast. Come, little candle, that flies as I sing, Bright little fairy-bug, night's little king; Come and I'll dream as you guide me along; Come and I'll pay you, my bug, with a song. As the boy-man chanted this call, they came in at first one by one, then in couples, till at last, swarming in little armies, the fire-flies lit up the little lodge with a thousand sparkling lamps, just as the stars were lighting the mighty hollow of the sky without. The faces of the sister and brother shone upon each other, from their opposite sides of the lodge, with a kindly gleam of mutual trustfulness; and never more from that hour did a doubt of each other darken their little household. XVI. THE ENCHANTED MOCCASINS. A long, long time ago, a little boy was living with his sister entirely alone in an uninhabited country, far out in the north-west. He was called the Boy that carries the Ball on his Back, from an idea that he possessed supernatural powers. This boy was in the habit of meditating alone, and asking within himself, whether there were other beings similar to themselves on the earth. When he grew up to manhood, he inquired of his sister whether she knew of any human beings beside themselves. She replied that she did; and that there was, at a great distance, a large village. As soon as he heard this, he said to his sister, "I am now a young man and very much in want of a companion;" and he asked his sister to make him several pairs of moccasins. She complied with his request; and as soon as he received the moccasins, he took up his war-club and set out in quest of the distant village. He traveled on till he came to a small wigwam, and on looking into it he discovered a very old woman sitting alone by the fire. As soon as she saw the stranger, she invited him in, and thus addressed him: "My poor grandchild, I suppose you are one of those who seek for the distant village, from which no person has ever yet returned. Unless your guardian is more powerful than the guardians of those who have gone before you, you will share a similar fate to theirs. Be careful to provide yourself with the invisible bones they use in the medicine-dance, for without these you can not succeed." After she had thus spoken, she gave him the following directions for his journey: "When you come near to the village which you seek, you will see in the center a large lodge, in which the chief of the village, who has two daughters, resides. Before the door there is a great tree, which is smooth and without bark. On this tree, about the height of a man from the ground, is hung a small lodge, in which these two false daughters dwell. It is here that so many have been destroyed, and among them your two elder brothers. Be wise, my grandchild, and abide strictly by my directions." The old woman then gave to the young man the bones which were to secure his success; and she informed him with great care how he was to proceed. Placing them in his bosom, Onwee Bahmondang, or the Wearer of the Ball, continued his journey, and kept eagerly on until he arrived at the village of which he was in search; and as he was gazing around him, he saw both the tree and the lodge which the old woman had mentioned. He at once bent his steps for the tree, and approaching, he endeavored to reach the suspended lodge. But all his efforts were in vain; for as often as he attempted to reach it, the tree began to tremble, and it soon shot up so that the lodge could hardly be perceived. He bethought him of his guardian, and invoking his aid, and changing himself into a squirrel, he mounted nimbly up again, in the hope that the lodge would not now escape him. Away shot the lodge, climb as briskly as he might. Panting, and out of breath, he remembered the instructions of the old woman, and drawing from his bosom one of the bones, he thrust it into the trunk of the tree, and rested himself to be ready to start again. As often as he wearied of climbing, for even a squirrel can not climb forever, he repeated the little ceremony of the bones; but whenever he came near the lodge and put forth his hand to touch it, the tree would shoot up as before, and carry the lodge up far beyond his reach. At length the bones being all gone, and the lodge well-nigh out of sight, he began to despair, for the earth, too, had long since vanished entirely from his view. Summoning his whole heart, he resolved to try once more. On and up he went, and, as soon as he put forth his hand to touch it, the tree again shook, and away went the lodge. One more endeavor, brave Onwee, and in he goes; for having now reached the arch of heaven, the fly-away lodge could go no higher. Onwee entered the lodge with a fearless step, and he beheld the two wicked sisters sitting opposite each other. He asked their names. The one on his left hand called herself Azhabee, and the one on the right, Negahnabee. After talking with them a little while, he discovered that whenever he addressed the one on his left hand, the tree would tremble as before and settle down to its former place; but when he addressed the one on his right hand, it would again shoot upward. When he thus perceived that by addressing the one on his left hand that the tree would descend, he continued to do so until it had again settled down to its place near the earth. Then seizing his war-club, he said to the sisters: "You who have caused the death of so many of my brethren I will now put an end to, and thus have revenge for those you have destroyed." As he spoke this he raised the club, and with one blow laid the two wicked women dead at his feet. Onwee then descended, and learning that these sisters had a brother living with their father, who had shared all together in the spoils of all such as the wicked sisters had betrayed, and who would now pursue him for having put an end to their wicked profits, Onwee set off at random, not knowing whither he went. The father coming in the evening to visit the lodge of his daughters, discovered what had happened. He immediately sent word to his son that his sisters had been slain, and that there were no more spoils to be had, which greatly inflamed the young man's temper, especially the woeful announcement at the close. "The person who has done this," said the brother, as soon as he had reached the spot, chafing and half beside himself at the gloomy prospect of having no more travelers to strip, "must be that boy who carries the ball on his back. I know his mode of going about his business, and since he would not allow himself to be killed by my sisters, he shall have the honor of dying by my hand. I will pursue him and have revenge." "It is well, my son," replied the father; "the spirit of your life grant you success. I counsel you to be wary in the pursuit. Bahmondang is a cunning youth. It is a strong spirit who has put him on to do this injury to us, and he will try to deceive you in every way. Above all, avoid tasting food till you succeed; for if you break your fast before you see his blood, your power will be destroyed." The son took this fatherly advice all in good part, except that portion which enjoined upon him to abstain from staying his stomach; but over that he made a number of wry faces, for the brother of the two wicked sisters had, among numerous noble gifts, a very noble appetite. Nevertheless, he took up his weapons and departed in pursuit of Onwee Bahmondang, at the top of his speed. Onwee finding that he was closely followed, climbed up into one of the tallest trees, and shot forth the magic arrows with which he had provided himself. Seeing that his pursuer was not turned back by his arrows, Onwee renewed his flight; and when he found himself hard pressed, and his enemy close behind him, he transformed himself into the skeleton of a moose that had been killed, whose flesh had come off from his bones. He then remembered the moccasins which his sister had given him, and which were enchanted. Taking a pair of them, he placed them near the skeleton. "Go," said he to them, "to the end of the earth." The moccasins then left him, and their tracks remained. The angry brother at length came to the skeleton of the moose, when he perceived that the track he had been long pursuing did not stop there, so he continued to follow it up till he arrived at the end of the earth, where, for all his trouble, he found only a pair of moccasins. Vexed that he had been outwitted by following a pair of moccasins instead of their owner, who was the object of his pursuit, he bitterly complained, resolving not to give up his revenge, and to be more wary in scrutinizing signs. He then called to mind the skeleton he had met with on his way, and concluded that it must be the object of his search. He retraced his steps toward the skeleton, but to his surprise it had disappeared, and the tracks of the wearer of the ball were in another direction. He now became faint with hunger, and lost heart; but when he remembered the blood of his sisters, and that he should not be allowed to enjoy a meal, nor so much as a mouthful, until he had put an end to Onwee Bahmondang, he plucked up his spirits and determined again to pursue. Onwee, finding that he was closely followed, and that the hungry brother was approaching very fast, changed himself into a very old man, with two daughters, and living in a large lodge in the center of a beautiful garden, which was filled with every thing that could delight the eye, or was pleasant to the taste. He made himself appear so very old as to be unable to leave his lodge, and to require his daughters to bring him food and wait on him, as though he had been a mere child. The garden also had the appearance of old age, with its ancient bushes and hanging branches and decrepit vines loitering lazily about in the sun. The brother kept on until he was nearly starved and ready to sink to the earth. He exclaimed, with a long-drawn and most mournful sigh, "Oh! I will forget the blood of my sisters, for I am starving. Oh! oh!" But again he thought of the blood of his sisters, and what a fine appetite he would have if he should ever be allowed to eat any thing again, and once more he resolved to pursue, and to be content with nothing short of the amplest revenge. He pushed on till he came to the beautiful garden. He advanced toward the lodge. As soon as the fairy daughters perceived him they ran and told their father that a stranger approached. Their father replied, "Invite him in, my children, invite him in." They did so promptly, and, by the command of their father, they boiled some corn, and prepared several other palatable dishes. The savor was most delicious to the nostrils of the hungry brother, who had not the least suspicion of the sport that was going on at his expense. He was faint and weary with travel, and he felt that he could endure fasting no longer; for his appetite was terribly inflamed by the sight of the choice food that was steaming before him. He fell to and partook heartily of the meal; and, by so doing, he was overcome, and lost his right of revenge. All at once he forgot the blood of his sisters, and even the village of his nativity, and his father's lodge, and his whole past life. He ate so keenly, and came and went to the choice dishes so often, that drowsiness at length overpowered him, and he soon fell into a profound sleep. Onwee Bahmondang watched his opportunity, and as soon as he saw that the false brother's sleep was sound, he resumed his youthful form, and sent off the two fairy daughters and the old garden; and drawing the magic-ball from his back, which turned out to be a great war-club, he fetched the slumbering brother a mighty blow, which sent him away too; and thus did Onwee Bahmondang vindicate his title as the Wearer of the Ball. When Onwee swung around, with the great force and weight of the club with which he had dispatched the brother of the two wicked women, he found himself in a large village, surrounded by a great crowd of people. At the door of a beautiful lodge stood his sister, smiling, and ready to invite him in. Onwee entered, and hanging up his war-club and the enchanted moccasins, which he had recovered, he rested from his labors, and smoked his evening pipe, with the admiration and approval of the whole world. With one exception only, Onwee Bahmondang had the hearty praises of all the people. Now it happened that there lived in this same village an envious and boastful fellow, who had been once a chief, but coming home always badly whipped, he was put out of office, and now spent his time about the place mainly, in proclaiming certain great things which he had in his eye, and which he meant to do--one of these days. This man's name was Ko-ko, the Owl; and hearing much of the wonderful achievements of the Wearer of the Ball, Ko-ko put on a big look, and announced that he was going to do something extraordinary himself. Onwee Bahmondang, he said, had not half done his work, and he, Ko-ko, meant to go on the ground and finish it up as it should be. He began by procuring an oak ball, which he thrust down his back, and, confident in its magical powers, he, too, called himself the Wearer of the Ball. In fact it was the self-same ball that Onwee had employed, except that the magic had entirely gone out of it. Coming by night in the shadow of the lodge, he thrust his arm in at the door, and stealthily possessed himself of the enchanted moccasins. He would have taken away Onwee's war-club too, if he could have carried it; but although he was twice the size and girth of Onwee, he had not the strength to lift it; so he borrowed a club from an old chief, who was purblind, and mistook Ko-ko for his brother who was a brave man; and raising a terrible tumult with his voice, and a great dust with his heels, Ko-ko set out. He had traveled all day, when he came to a small wigwam, and on looking into it, he discovered a very old woman sitting alone by the fire; just as Onwee had before. This is the wigwam, said Ko-ko, and this is the old woman. "What are you looking for?" asked the old woman. "I want to find the lodge with the wicked young women in it, who slay travellers and steal their trappings," answered Ko-ko. "You mean the two young women who lived in the flying lodge?" said the old woman. "The same," answered Ko-ko. "I am going to kill them." With this he gave a great flourish with his borrowed club, and looked desperate and murderous as he could. "They were slain yesterday by the Wearer of the Ball," said the old woman. Ko-ko looked around for the door in a very owlish way, and heaving a short hem from his chest, he acknowledged that he had heard something to that effect down in one of the villages. "But there's the brother. I'll have a chance at him," said Ko-ko. "He is dead too," said the old woman. "Is there nobody then left for me to kill?" cried Ko-ko. "Must I then go back without any blood upon my hands?" He made as if he could shed tears over his sad mishap. "The father is still living; and you will find him in the lodge, if you have a mind to call on him. He would like to see the Owl," the old woman added. "He shall," replied Ko-ko. "Have you any bones about the house; for I suppose I shall have to climb that tree." "Oh, yes; plenty," answered the old woman. "You can have as many as you want." And she gave him a handful of fish-bones, which Ko-ko, taking them to be the Invisible Tallies which had helped Onwee Bahmondang in climbing the magical tree, thrust into his bosom. "Thank you," said Ko-ko; taking up his club and striding toward the door. "Will you not have a little advice," said the old woman. "This is a dangerous business you are going on." Ko-ko turned about and laughed to scorn the proposal, and putting forth his right foot from the lodge first, an observance in which he had great hopes, he started for the lodge of the wicked father. Ko-ko ran very fast, as if he feared he should lose the chance of massacring any member of the wicked family, until he came in sight of the lodge hanging upon the tree. He then slackened his pace, and crept forward with a wary eye lest somebody might chance to be looking out at the door. All was, however, still up there; and Ko-ko clasped the tree and began to climb. Away went the lodge, and up went Ko-ko, puffing and panting, after it. And it was not a great while before the Owl had puffed and panted away all the wind he had to spare; and yet the lodge kept flying aloft, higher, higher. What was to be done! Ko-ko of course bethought him of the bones, for that was just what, as he knew, had occurred to Onwee Bahmondang under the like circumstances. He had the bones in his bosom; and now it was necessary for him to be a squirrel. He immediately called on several guardian spirits whom he knew of by name, and requested them to convert him into a squirrel. But not one of all them seemed to pay the slightest attention to his request; for there he hung, the same heavy-limbed, big-headed, be-clubbed, and be-blanketed Ko-ko as ever. He then desired that they would turn him into an opossum; an application which met with the same luck as the previous one. After this he petitioned to be a wolf, a gophir, a dog, or a bear--if they would be so obliging. The guardian spirits were either all deaf, or indifferent to his wishes, or absent on some other business. Ko-ko, in spite of all his begging and supplication and beseeching, was obliged to be still Ko-ko. "The bones, however," he said, to himself, "are good. I shall get a nice rest, at any rate, if I am forced to climb as I am." With this he drew out one of the bones from his bosom, and shouting aloud, "Ho! ho! who is there?" he thrust it into the trunk of the tree, and would have indulged himself in a rest; but being no more than a common fish-bone, without the slightest savor of magic in it, it snapped with Ko-ko, who came tumbling down, with the door of the lodge which he had shaken loose, rattling after him. "Ho! ho! who is there?" cried the wicked father, making his appearance at the opening and looking down. "It is I, Onwee Bahmondang!" cried Ko-koor, thinking to frighten the wicked father. "Ah! it is you, is it? I will be there presently," called the old man. "Do not be in haste to go away!" Ko-ko, observing that the old man was in earnest, scrambled up from the ground, and set off promptly at his highest rate of speed. When he looked back and saw that the wicked father was gaining upon him, Ko-koor mounted a tree, as had Onwee Bahmondang before, and fired off a number of arrows, but as they were no more than common arrows, he got nothing by it, but was obliged to descend, and run again for life. As he hurried on he encountered the skeleton of a moose, into which he would have transformed himself, but not having the slightest confidence in any one of all the guardians who should have helped him, he passed on. The wicked father was hot in pursuit, and Ko-koor was suffering terribly for lack of wind, when luckily he remembered the enchanted moccasins. He could not send them to the end of the earth, as had Onwee Bahmondang. "I will improve on that dull fellow," said Ko-ko. "I will put them on myself." Accordingly, Ko-ko had just time to draw on the moccasins when the wicked father came in sight. "Go now!" cried Ko-ko, giving orders to the enchanted moccasins; and go they did; but to the astonishment of the Owl, they turned immediately about in the way in which the wicked father, now, very furious, was approaching. "The other way! the other way!" cried Ko-ko. Cry as loud as he would, the enchanted moccasins would keep on in their own course; and before he could shake himself out of them, they had run him directly into the face of the wicked father. "What do you mean, you Owl?" cried the wicked father, falling upon Ko-ko with a huge club, and counting his ribs at every stroke. "I can not help it, good man," answered Ko-ko. "I tried my best--" Ko-ko would have gone the other way, but the enchanted moccasins kept hurrying him forward. "Stand off, will you?" cried the old man. By this time, allowing the wicked father chance to bestow no more than five-and-twenty more blows upon Ko-ko, the moccasins were taking him past. "Stop!" cried the old man again. "You are running away. Ho! ho! you are a coward!" "I am not, good man," answered Ko-ko, carried away by the magical shoes, "I assure you." But ere he could finish his avowal, the moccasins had hurried him out of sight. "At any rate, I shall soon be home at this speed," said Ko-koor to himself. The moccasins seemed to know his thoughts; for just then they gave a sudden leap, slipped away from his feet, and left the Owl flat upon his back! while they glided home by themselves, to the lodge of Onwee Bahmondang, where they belonged. A party of hunters passing that way after several days, found Ko-ko sitting among the bushes, looking greatly bewildered; and when they inquired of him how he had succeeded with the wicked father at the lodge, he answered that he had demolished the whole establishment, but that his name was not Ko-ko, but Onwee Bahmondang; saying which, he ran away into the woods, and was never seen more. XVII. HE OF THE LITTLE SHELL. Once upon a time, all the people of a certain country had died, excepting two helpless children, a baby boy and a little girl. When their parents died, these children were asleep. The little girl, who was the elder, was the first to awake. She looked around her, but seeing nobody beside her little brother, who lay smiling in his dreams, she quietly resumed her bed. At the end of ten days her brother moved, without opening his eyes. At the end of ten days more he changed his position, lying on the other side, and in this way he kept on sleeping for a long time; and pleasant, too, must have been his dreams, for his little sister never looked at him that he was not quite a little heaven of smiles and flashing lights, which beamed about his head and filled the lodge with a strange splendor. The girl soon grew to be a woman, but the boy increased in stature very slowly. It was a long time before he could even creep, and he was well advanced in years before he could stand alone. When he was able to walk, his sister made him a little bow and arrows, and hung around his neck a small shell, saying: "You shall be called Dais Imid, or He of the Little Shell." Every day he would go out with his little bow, shooting at the small birds. The first bird he killed was a tom-tit. His sister was highly pleased when he took it to her. She carefully prepared and stuffed it, and put it away for him. The next day he killed a red squirrel. His sister preserved this, too. The third day he killed a partridge, and this they had for their evening meal. After this he acquired more courage, and would venture some distance from home. His skill and success as a hunter daily increased, and he killed the deer, bear, moose, and other large animals inhabiting the forest. At last, although so very small of stature, he became a great hunter, and all that he shot he brought home and shared with his sister; and whenever he entered the lodge, a light beamed about his head and filled the place with a strange splendor. He had now arrived at the years of manhood, but he still remained a perfect infant in size. One day, walking about in quest of game, he came to a small lake. It was in the winter season; and upon the ice of the lake he saw a man of giant height, employed killing beavers. Comparing himself with this great man, he felt that he was no bigger than an insect. He seated himself on the shore and watched his movements. When the large man had killed many beavers, he put them on a hand-sled which he had, and pursued his way home. When he saw him retire, the dwarf hunter followed, and, wielding his magic shell, he cut off the tail of one of the beavers, and ran home with the prize. The giant, on reaching his lodge with his sled-load of beavers, was surprised to find one of them shorn of its tail. The next day the little hero of the shell went to the same lake. The giant, who had been busy there for some time, had already loaded his sled and commenced his return; but running nimbly forward and overtaking him, he succeeded in securing another of the beaver-tails. "I wonder," said the giant, on reaching his lodge and overlooking his beavers, "what dog it is that has thus cheated me. Could I meet him, I would make his flesh quiver at the point of my javelin." The giant forgot that he had taken these very beavers out of a beaver-dam which belonged to the little shell-man and his sister, without permission. The next day he pursued his hunting at the beaver-dam near the lake, and he was again followed by the little man with the shell. This time the giant was so nimble in his movements that he had nearly reached home before the Shell, make the best speed he could, could overtake him; but he was just in time to clip another beaver's tail before the sled slipped into the lodge. The giant would have been a patient giant, indeed, if his anger had not been violent at these constant tricks played upon him. What vexed him most, was, that he could not get a sight of his enemy. Sharp eyes he would have needed to do so, inasmuch as he of the little shell had the gift of making himself invisible whenever he chose. The giant, giving vent to his feelings with many loud rumbling words, looked sharply around to see whether he could discover any tracks. He could find none. The unknown had stepped too lightly to leave the slightest mark behind. The next day the giant resolved to disappoint his mysterious follower by going to the beaver-dam very early; and accordingly, when the little shell man came to the place he found the fresh traces of his work, but the giant had already gone away. He followed hard upon his tracks, but he failed to overtake him. When he of the little shell came in sight of the lodge, the stranger was in front of it, employed in skinning his beavers. As Dais-Imid stood looking at him--for he had been all this time invisible--he thought: "I will let him have a view of me." Presently the man, who proved to be no less a personage than the celebrated giant, Manabozho, looked up and saw him. After regarding him with attention, "Who are you, little man?" said Manabozho. "I have a mind to kill you." The little hero of the shell replied: "If you were to try to kill me you could not do it." With this speech of the little man, Manabozho grabbed at him; but when he thought to have had him in his hand, he was gone. "Where are you now, little man?" cried Manabozho. "Here, under your girdle," answered the shell-dwarf; at which giant Manabozho, thinking to crush him, slapped down his great hand with all his might; but on unloosing his girdle he was disappointed at finding no dwarf there. "Where are you now, little man?" he cried again, in a greater rage than ever. "In your right nostril!" the dwarf replied; whereupon the giant Manabozho seized himself by the finger and thumb at the place, and gave it a violent tweak; but as he immediately heard the voice of the dwarf at a distance upon the ground, he was satisfied that he had only pulled his own nose to no purpose. "Good-by, Manabozho," said the voice of the invisible dwarf. "Count your beaver-tails, and you will find that I have taken another for my sister;" for he of the little shell never, in his wanderings or pastimes, forgot his sister and her wishes. "Good-by, beaver-man!" And as he went away he made himself visible once more, and a light beamed about his head and lit the air around him with a strange splendor; a circumstance which Manabozho, who was at times quite thick-headed and dull of apprehension, could no way understand. When Dais-Imid returned home, he told his sister that the time drew nigh when they must separate. "I must go away," said Dais-Imid, "it is my fate. You, too," he added, "must go away soon. Tell me where you would wish to dwell." She said, "I would like to go to the place of the breaking of daylight. I have always loved the East. The earliest glimpses of light are from that quarter, and it is to my mind the most beautiful part of the heavens. After I get there, my brother, whenever you see the clouds, in that direction, of various colors, you may think that your sister is painting her face." [Illustration: THE MORNING STAR AND HER BROTHER. Page 212.] "And I," said he, "I, my sister, shall live on the mountains and rocks. There I can see you at the earliest hour; there are the streams of water clear; the air is pure, and the golden lights will shine ever around my head, and I shall ever be called 'Puck-Ininee, or the Little Wild Man of the Mountains.' But," he resumed, "before we part forever, I must go and try to find what manitoes rule the earth, and see which of them will be friendly to us." He left his sister and traveled over the surface of the globe, and then went far down into the earth. He had been treated well wherever he went. At last he came to a giant manito, who had a large kettle which was forever boiling. The giant, who was a first cousin to Manabozho, and had already heard of the tricks which Dais-Imid had played upon his kinsman, regarded him with a stern look, and, catching him up in his hand, he threw him unceremoniously into the kettle. It was evidently the giant's intention to drown Dais-Imid; in which he was mistaken, for by means of his magic shell, little Dais, in less than a second's time, bailed the water to the bottom, leaped from the kettle, and ran away unharmed. He returned to his sister and related his rovings and adventures. He finished his story by addressing her thus: "My sister there is a manito at each of the four corners of the earth. There is also one above them, far in the sky, a Great Being who assigns to you, and to me, and to all of us, where we must go. And last," he continued, "there is another and wicked one who lives deep down in the earth. It will be our lot to escape out of his reach. We must now separate. When the winds blow from the four corners of the earth, you must then go. They will carry you to the place you wish. I go to the rocks and mountains, where my kindred will ever delight to dwell." Dais-Imid then took his ball-stick and commenced running up a high mountain, and a bright light shone about his head all the way, and he kept singing as he went: Blow, winds, blow! my sister lingers For her dwelling in the sky, Where the morn, with rosy fingers, Shall her cheeks with vermil dye. There my earliest views directed, Shall from her their color take, And her smiles, through clouds reflected, Guide me on by wood or lake. While I range the highest mountains, Sport in valleys green and low, Or, beside our Indian fountains, Raise my tiny hip-hallo. Presently the winds blew, and, as Dais-Imid had predicted, his sister was borne by them to the eastern sky, where she has ever since lived, and her name is now the Morning Star. XVIII. MANABOZHO, THE MISCHIEF-MAKER. There was never in the whole world a more mischievous busy-body than that notorious giant Manabozho. He was every where, in season and out of season, running about, and putting his hand in whatever was going forward. To carry on his game, he could take almost any shape he pleased; he could be very foolish or very wise; very weak or very strong; very poor or very rich--just as happened to suit his humor best. Whatever any one else could do, he would attempt without a moment's reflection. He was a match for any man he met, and there were few manitoes that could get the better of him. By turns he would be very kind, or very cruel; an animal or a bird; a man or a spirit; and yet, in spite of all these gifts, Manabozho was always getting himself involved in all sorts of troubles; and more than once, in the course of his busy adventures, was this great maker of mischief driven to his wits' ends to come off with his life. To begin at the beginning, Manabozho, while yet a youngster, was living with his grandmother, near the edge of a wide prairie. It was on this prairie that he first saw animals and birds of every kind; he also there made first acquaintance with thunder and lightning; he would sit by the hour watching the clouds as they rolled, and musing on the shades of light and darkness as the day rose and fell. For a stripling, Manabozho was uncommonly wide-awake. Every new sight he beheld in the heavens was a subject of remark; every new animal or bird, an object of deep interest; and every sound that came from the bosom of nature, was like a new lesson which he was expected to learn. He often trembled at what he heard and saw. To the scene of the wide open prairie his grandmother sent him at an early age to watch. The first sound he heard was that of the owl, at which he was greatly terrified, and, quickly descending the tree he had climbed, he ran with alarm to the lodge. "Noko! noko! grandmother!" he cried. "I have heard a monedo." She laughed at his fears, and asked him what kind of noise his reverence made. He answered, "It makes a noise like this: ko-ko-ko-ho." His grandmother told him he was young and foolish; that what he heard was only a bird which derived its name from the peculiar noise it made. He returned to the prairie and continued his watch. As he stood there looking at the clouds, he thought to himself, "It is singular that I am so simple and my grandmother so wise; and that I have neither father nor mother. I have never heard a word about them. I must ask and find out." He went home and sat down, silent and dejected. Finding that this did not attract the notice of his grandmother, he began a loud lamentation, which he kept increasing, louder and louder, till it shook the lodge, and nearly deafened the old grandmother. She at length said, "Manabozho, what is the matter with you? You are making a great deal of noise." Manabozho started off again with his doleful hubbub; but succeeded in jerking out between his big sobs, "I have n't got any father nor mother; I have n't;" and he set out again lamenting more boisterously than ever. Knowing that he was of a wicked and revengeful temper, his grandmother dreaded to tell him the story of his parentage; as she knew he would make trouble of it. Manabozho renewed his cries, and managed to throw out, for a third or fourth time, his sorrowful lament that he was a poor unfortunate, who had no parents and no relations. She at last said to him, "Yes, you have a father and three brothers living. Your mother is dead. She was taken for a wife by your father, the West, without the consent of her parents. Your brothers are the North, East, and South; and being older than yourself, your father has given them great power with the winds, according to their names. You are the youngest of his children. I have nursed you from your infancy; for your mother, owing to the ill-treatment of your father, died in giving you birth. I have no relations beside you this side of the planet in which I was born, and from which I was precipitated by female jealousy. Your mother was my only child, and you are my only hope." "I am glad my father is living," said Manabozho. "I shall set out in the morning to visit him." His grandmother would have discouraged him; saying it was a long distance to the place where his father, Ningabiun, or the West, lived. This information seemed rather to please than to disconcert Manabozho; for by this time he had grown to such a size and strength that he had been compelled to leave the narrow shelter of his grandmother's lodge and to live out of doors. He was so tall that, if he had been so disposed, he could have snapped off the heads of the birds roosting in the topmost branches of the highest trees, as he stood up, without being at the trouble to climb. And if he had at any time taken a fancy to one of the same trees for a walking-stick, he would have had no more to do than to pluck it up with his thumb and finger, and strip down the leaves and twigs with the palm of his hand. Bidding good-by to his venerable old grandmother, who pulled a very long face over his departure, Manabozho set out at great headway, for he was able to stride from one side of a prairie to the other at a single step. He found his father on a high mountain-ground, far in the west. His father espied his approach at a great distance, and bounded down the mountain-side several miles to give him welcome, and, side-by-side, apparently delighted with each other, they reached in two or three of their giant paces the lodge of the West, which stood high up near the clouds. They spent some days in talking with each other--for these two great persons did nothing on a small scale, and a whole day to deliver a single sentence, such was the immensity of their discourse, was quite an ordinary affair. One evening, Manabozho asked his father what he was most afraid of on earth. He replied--"Nothing." "But is there nothing you dread, here--nothing that would hurt you if you took too much of it? Come, tell me." Manabozho was very urgent; at last his father said: "Yes, there is a black stone to be found a couple of hundred miles from here, over that way," pointing as he spoke. "It is the only thing earthly that I am afraid of, for if it should happen to hit me on any part of my body it would hurt me very much." The West made this important circumstance known to Manabozho in the strictest confidence. "Now you will not tell any one, Manabozho, that the black stone is bad medicine for your father, will you?" he added. "You are a good son, and I know will keep it to yourself. Now tell me, my darling boy, is there not something that you don't like?" Manabozho answered promptly--"Nothing." His father, who was of a very steady and persevering temper, put the same question to him seventeen times, and each time Manabozho made the same answer--"Nothing." But the West insisted--"There must be something you are afraid of." "Well, I will tell you," says Manabozho, "what it is." He made an effort to speak, but it seemed to be too much for him. "Out with it," said Ningabiun, or the West, fetching Manabozho such a blow on the back as shook the mountain with its echo. "Je-ee, je-ee--it is," said Manabozho, apparently in great pain. "Yeo, yeo! I can not name it, I tremble so." The West told him to banish his fears, and to speak up; no one would hurt him. Manabozho began again, and he would have gone over the same make-believe of anguish, had not his father, whose strength he knew was more than a match for his own, threatened to pitch him into a river about five miles off. At last he cried out: "Father, since you will know, it is the root of the bulrush." He who could with perfect ease spin a sentence a whole day long, seemed to be exhausted by the effort of pronouncing that one word, "bulrush." Some time after, Manabozho observed: "I will get some of the black rock, merely to see how it looks." "Well," said the father, "I will also get a little of the bulrush-root, to learn how it tastes." They were both double-dealing with each other, and in their hearts getting ready for some desperate work. They had no sooner separated for the evening than Manabozho was striding off the couple of hundred miles necessary to bring him to the place where black rock was to be procured, while down the other side of the mountain hurried Ningabiun. At the break of day they each appeared at the great level on the mountain-top, Manabozho with twenty loads, at least, of the black stone, on one side, and on the other the West, with a whole meadow of bulrush in his arms. Manabozho was the first to strike--hurling a great piece of the black rock, which struck the West directly between the eyes, who returned the favor with a blow of bulrush, that rung over the shoulders of Manabozho, far and wide, like the whip-thong of the lightning among the clouds. And now either rallied, and Manabozho poured in a tempest of black rock, while Ningabiun discharged a shower of bulrush. Blow upon blow, thwack upon thwack--they fought hand to hand until black rock and bulrush were all gone. Then they betook themselves to hurling crags at each other, cudgeling with huge oak-trees, and defying each other from one mountain-top to another; while at times they shot enormous boulders of granite across at each other's heads, as though they had been mere jack-stones. The battle, which had commenced on the mountains, had extended far west. The West was forced to give ground. Manabozho pressing on, drove him across rivers and mountains, ridges and lakes, till at last he got him to the very brink of the world. "Hold!" cried the West. "My son, you know my power, and although I allow that I am now fairly out of breath, it is impossible to kill me. Stop where you are, and I will also portion you out with as much power as your brothers. The four quarters of the globe are already occupied, but you can go and do a great deal of good to the people of the earth, which is beset with serpents, beasts and monsters, who make great havoc of human life. Go and do good, and if you put forth half the strength you have to-day, you will acquire a name that will last forever. When you have finished your work I will have a place provided for you. You will then go and sit with your brother, Kabinocca, in the North." Manabozho gave his father his hand upon this agreement. And parting from him, he returned to his own grounds, where he lay for some time sore of his wounds. These being, however, greatly allayed, and soon after cured by his grandmother's skill in medicines, Manabozho, as big and sturdy as ever, was ripe for new adventures. He set his thoughts immediately upon a war excursion against the Pearl Feather, a wicked old manito, living on the other side of the great lake, who had killed his grandfather. He begun his preparations by making huge bows and arrows without number; but he had no heads for his shafts. At last Noko told him that an old man, who lived at some distance, could furnish him with such as he needed. He sent her to get some. She soon returned with her wrapper full. Manabozho told her that he had not enough, and sent her again. She came back with as many more. He thought to himself, "I must find out the way of making these heads." Instead of directly asking how it was done, he preferred--just like Manabozho--to deceive his grandmother to come at the knowledge he desired, by a trick. "Noko," said he, "while I take my drum and rattle, and sing my war-songs, do you go and try to get me some larger heads, for these you have brought me are all of the same size. Go and see whether the old man is not willing to make some a little larger." He followed her at a distance as she went, having left his drum at the lodge, with a great bird tied at the top, whose fluttering should keep up the drumbeat, the same as if he were tarrying at home. He saw the old workman busy, and learned how he prepared the heads; he also beheld the old man's daughter, who was very beautiful; and Manabozho now discovered for the first time that he had a heart of his own, and the sigh he heaved passed through the arrow-maker's lodge like a gale of wind. "How it blows!" said the old man. "It must be from the south," said the daughter; "for it is very fragrant." Manabozho slipped away, and in two strides he was at home, shouting forth his songs as though he had never left the lodge. He had just time to free the bird which had been beating the drum, when his grandmother came in and delivered to him the big arrow-heads. In the evening the grandmother said, "My son, you ought to fast before you go to war, as your brothers do, to find out whether you will be successful or not." He said he had no objection; and having privately stored away, in a shady place in the forest, two or three dozen juicy bears, a moose, and twenty strings of the tenderest birds, he would retire from the lodge so far as to be entirely out of view of his grandmother, fall to and enjoy himself heartily, and at night-fall, having just dispatched a dozen birds and half a bear or so, he would return, tottering and wo-begone, as if quite famished, so as to move deeply the sympathies of his wise old grand-dame. The place of his fast had been chosen by the Noko, and she had told him it must be so far as to be beyond the sound of her voice or it would be unlucky. After a time Manabozho, who was always spying out mischief, said to himself, "I must find out why my grandmother is so anxious to have me fast at this spot." The next day he went but a short distance. She cried out, "A little further off;" but he came nearer to the lodge, the rogue that he was, and cried out in a low, counterfeited voice, to make it appear that he was going away instead of approaching. He had now got so near that he could see all that passed in the lodge. He had not been long in ambush when an old magician crept into the lodge. This old magician had very long hair, which hung across his shoulders and down his back, like a bush or foot-mat. They commenced talking about him, and in doing so, they put their two old heads so very close together that Manabozho was satisfied they were kissing each other. He was indignant that any one should take such a liberty with his venerable grandmother, and to mark his sense of the outrage, he touched the bushy hair of the old magician with a live coal which he had blown upon. The old magician had not time to kiss the old grandmother more than once again before he felt the flame; and jumping out into the air, it burned only the fiercer, and he ran, blazing like a fire-ball, across the prairie. Manabozho who had, meanwhile, stolen off to his fasting-place, cried out, in a heart-broken tone, and as if on the very point of starvation, "Noko! Noko! is it time for me to come home?" "Yes," she cried. And when he came in she asked him, "Did you see any thing?" "Nothing," he answered, with an air of childish candor; looking as much like a big simpleton as he could. The grandmother looked at him very closely and said no more. Manabozho finished his term of fasting; in the course of which he slyly dispatched twenty fat bears, six dozen birds, and two fine moose; sung his war-song, and embarked in his canoe, fully prepared for war. Beside weapons of battle, he had stowed in a large supply of oil. He traveled rapidly night and day, for he had only to will or speak, and the canoe went. At length he arrived in sight of the fiery serpents. He paused to view them; he observed that they were some distance apart, and that the flames which they constantly belched forth reached across the pass. He gave them a good morning, and began talking with them in a very friendly way; but they answered, "We know you, Manabozho; you can not pass." He was not, however, to be put off so easily. Turning his canoe as if about to go back, he suddenly cried out with a loud and terrified voice: "What is that behind you?" The serpents, thrown off their guard, instantly turned their heads, and he in a moment glided past them. "Well," said he, quietly, after he had got by, "how do you like my movement?" He then took up his bow and arrows, and with deliberate aim shot every one of them, easily, for the serpents were fixed to one spot, and could not even turn around. They were of an enormous length, and of a bright color. Having thus escaped the sentinel serpents, Manabozho pushed on in his canoe until he came to a part of the lake called Pitch-water, as whatever touched it was sure to stick fast. But Manabozho was prepared with his oil, and rubbing his canoe freely from end to end, he slipped through with ease, and he was the first person who had ever succeeded in passing through the Pitch-water. "There is nothing like a little oil to help one through pitch-water," said Manabozho to himself. Now in view of land, he could see the lodge of the Shining Manito, high upon a distant hill. Putting his clubs and arrows in order, just at the dawn of day Manabozho began his attack, yelling and shouting, and beating his drum, and calling out in triple voices: "Surround him! surround him! run up! run up!" making it appear that he had many followers. He advanced, shouting aloud: "It was you that killed my grandfather," and shot off a whole forest of arrows. The Pearl Feather appeared on the height, blazing like the sun, and paid back the discharges of Manabozho with a tempest of bolts, which rattled like the hail. All day long the fight was kept up, and Manabozho had fired all of his arrows but three, without effect; for the Shining Manito was clothed in pure wampum. It was only by immense leaps to right and left that Manabozho could save his head from the sturdy blows which fell about him on every side, like pine-trees, from the hands of the Manito. He was badly bruised, and at his very wit's end, when a large woodpecker flew past and lit on a tree. It was a bird he had known on the prairie, near his grandmother's lodge. "Manabozho," called out the woodpecker, "your enemy has a weak point; shoot at the lock of hair on the crown of his head." He shot his first arrow and only drew blood in a few drops. The Manito made one or two unsteady steps, but recovered himself. He began to parley, but Manabozho, now that he had discovered a way to reach him, was in no humor to trifle, and he let slip another arrow, which brought the Shining Manito to his knees. And now, having the crown of his head within good range, Manabozho sent in his third arrow, which laid the Manito out upon the ground, stark dead. Manabozho lifted up a huge war-cry, beat his drum, took the scalp of the Manito as his trophy, and calling the woodpecker to come and receive a reward for the timely hint he had given him, he rubbed the blood of the Shining Manito on the woodpecker's head, the feathers of which are red to this day. Full of his victory, Manabozho returned home, beating his war-drum furiously, and shouting aloud his songs of triumph. His grandmother was on the shore ready to welcome him with the war-dance, which she performed with wonderful skill for one so far advanced in years. The heart of Manabozho swelled within him. He was fairly on fire, and an unconquerable desire for further adventures seized upon him. He had destroyed the powerful Pearl Feather, killed his serpents, and escaped all his wiles and charms. He had prevailed in a great land fight, his next trophy should be from the water. He tried his prowess as a fisherman, and with such success that he captured a fish so monstrous in size and so rich in fat that with the oil Manabozho was able to form a small lake. To this, being generously disposed, and having a cunning purpose of his own to answer, he invited all the birds and beasts of his acquaintance; and he made the order in which they partook of the banquet the measure of their fatness for all time to come. As fast as they arrived he told them to plunge in and help themselves. The first to make his appearance was the bear, who took a long and steady draught; then came the deer, the opossum, and such others of the family as are noted for their comfortable case. The moose and bison were slack in their cups, and the partridge, always lean in flesh, looked on till the supply was nearly gone. There was not a drop left by the time the hare and the martin appeared on the shore of the lake, and they are, in consequence, the slenderest of all creatures. When this ceremony was over, Manabozho suggested to his friends, the assembled birds and animals, that the occasion was proper for a little merrymaking; and taking up his drum, he cried out: "New songs from the South, come, brothers, dance!" He directed them, to make the sport more mirthful, that they should shut their eyes and pass around him in a circle. Again he beat his drum and cried out: "New songs from the South, come, brothers, dance!" They all fell in and commenced their rounds. Whenever Manabozho, as he stood in the circle, saw a fat fowl which he fancied, pass by him, he adroitly wrung its neck and slipped it in his girdle, at the same time beating his drum and singing at the top of his lungs, to drown the noise of the fluttering, and crying out in a tone of admiration: "That's the way, my brothers; that's the way!" At last a small duck, of the diver family, thinking there was something wrong, opened one eye and saw what Manabozho was doing. Giving a spring, and crying: "Ha-ha-a! Manabozho is killing us!" he made for the water. Manabozho, quite vexed that the creature should have played the spy upon his housekeeping, followed him, and just as the diver-duck was getting into the water, gave him a kick, which is the reason that the diver's tail-feathers are few, his back flattened, and his legs straightened out, so that when he gets on land he makes a poor figure in walking. Meantime, the other birds, having no ambition to be thrust in Manabozho's girdle, flew off, and the animals scampered into the woods. Manabozho stretching himself at ease in the shade along the side of the prairie, thought what he should do next. He concluded that he would travel and see new countries; and having once made up his mind, in less than three days, such was his length of limb and the immensity of his stride, he had walked over the entire continent, looked into every lodge by the way, and with such nicety of observation, that he was able to inform his good old grandmother what each family had for a dinner at a given hour. By way of relief to these grand doings, Manabozho was disposed to vary his experiences by bestowing a little time upon the sports of the woods. He had heard reported great feats in hunting, and he had a desire to try his power in that way. Besides that, it was a slight consideration that he had devoured all the game within reach of the lodge; and so, one evening, as he was walking along the shore of the great lake, weary and hungry, he encountered a great magician in the form of an old wolf, with six young ones, coming toward him. The wolf no sooner caught sight of him than he told his whelps, who were close about his side, to keep out of the way of Manabozho; "For I know," he said, "that it is that mischievous fellow whom we see yonder." The young wolves were in the act of running off, when Manabozho cried out, "My grandchildren, where are you going? Stop and I will go with you. I wish to have a little chat with your excellent father." Saying which he advanced and greeted the old wolf, expressing himself as delighted at seeing him looking so well. "Whither do you journey?" he asked. "We are looking for a good hunting-ground to pass the winter," the old wolf answered. "What brings you here?" "I was looking for you," said Manabozho. "For I have a passion for the chase, brother. I always admired your family; are you willing to change me into a wolf?" The wolf gave him a favorable answer, and he was forthwith changed into a wolf. "Well, that will do," said Manabozho; then looking at his tail, he added, "Oh! could you oblige me by making my tail a little longer and more bushy." "Certainly," said the old wolf; and he gave Manabozho such a length and spread of tail, that it was constantly getting between his legs, and it was so heavy that it was as much as he could do to find strength to carry it. But having asked for it, he was ashamed to say a word; and they all started off in company, dashing up a ravine. After getting into the woods for some distance, they fell in with the tracks of moose. The young ones scampered off in pursuit, the old wolf and Manabozho following at their leisure. "Well," said the old wolf, by way of opening discourse, "who do you think is the fastest of the boys? Can you tell by the jumps they take?" "Why," he replied, "that one that takes such long jumps, he is the fastest to be sure." "Ha! ha! you are mistaken," said the old wolf. "He makes a good start, but he will be the first to tire out; this one, who appears to be behind, will be the one to kill the game." By this time they had come to the spot where the boys had started in chase. One had dropped what seemed to be a small medicine-sack, which he carried for the use of the hunting-party. "Take that, Manabozho," said the old wolf. "Esa," he replied, "what will I do with a dirty dog-skin?" The old wolf took it up; it was a beautiful robe. "Oh, I will carry it now," cried Manabozho. "Oh, no," said the old wolf, who had exerted his magical powers, "it is a robe of pearls. Come along!" And away sped the old wolf at a great rate of speed. "Not so fast," called Manabozho after him; and then he added to himself as he panted after, "Oh, this tail!" Coming to a place where the moose had lain down, they saw that the young wolves had made a fresh start after their prey. "Why," said the old wolf, "this moose is poor. I know by the traces; for I can always tell whether they are fat or not." A little further on, one of the young wolves, in dashing at the moose, had broken a tooth on a tree. "Manabozho," said the old wolf, "one of your grandchildren has shot at the game. Take his arrow; there it is." "No," replied Manabozho; "what will I do with a dirty dog's tooth?" The old wolf took it up, and behold it was a beautiful silver arrow. When they at last overtook them, they found that the youngsters had killed a very fat moose. Manabozho was very hungry; but the old wolf just then again exerted his magical powers, and Manabozho saw nothing but the bones picked quite clean. He thought to himself, "Just as I expected; dirty, greedy fellows. If it had not been for this log at my back, I should have been in time to have got a mouthful:" and he cursed the bushy tail which he carried, to the bottom of his heart. He, however, sat down without saying a word. At length the old wolf spoke to one of the young ones, saying: "Give some meat to your grandfather." One of them obeyed, and coming near to Manabozho, he presented him the other end of his own bushy tail, which was nicely seasoned with burs, gathered in the course of the hunt. Manabozho jumped up and called out: "You dog, now that your stomach is full, do you think I am going to eat you to get at my dinner? Get you gone into some other place." Saying which Manabozho, in his anger, walked off by himself. "Come back, brother," cried the wolf. "You are losing your eyes." Manabozho turned back. "You do the child injustice. Look there!" and behold, a heap of fresh, ruddy meat, was lying on the spot, already prepared. Manabozho, at the view of so much good provision, put on a smiling face. "Amazement!" he said; "how fine the meat is!" "Yes," replied the old wolf, "it is always so with us; we know our work, and always get the best. It is not a long tail that makes the hunter." Manabozho bit his lip. They now fixed their winter quarters. The youngsters went out in search of game, and they soon brought in a large supply. One day, during the absence of the young hunters, the old wolf amused himself in cracking the large bones of a moose. "Manabozho," said he, "cover your head with the robe, and do not look at me while I am busy with these bones, for a piece may fly in your eye." He did as he was bid; but looking through a rent that was in the robe, he saw what the other was about. Just at that moment a piece flew off and hit him on the eye. He cried out: "Tyau, why do you strike me, you old dog?" The wolf answered--"You must have been looking at me." "No, no," retorted Manabozho, "why should I want to look at you?" "Manabozho," said the old wolf, "you must have been looking or you would not have got hurt." "No, no," he replied again, "I was not. I will repay the saucy wolf this mischief," he thought to himself. So the next day, taking up a bone to obtain the marrow, he said to the wolf: "Brother, cover your head and do not look at me, for I very much fear a piece may fly in your eye." The wolf did so; and Manabozho, taking the large leg-bone of the moose, first looking to see if the wolf was well covered, hit him a blow with all his might. The wolf jumped up, cried out, and fell prostrate from the effects of the blow. "Why," said he, when he came to a little and was able to sit up, "why do you strike me so?" "Strike you?" said Manabozho, with well-feigned surprise, "no; you must have been looking at me." "No," answered the wolf, "I say I have not." But Manabozho insisted, and as the old wolf was no great master of tricky argument, he was obliged to give it up. Shortly after this the old wolf suggested to Manabozho that he should go out and try his luck in hunting by himself. When he chose to put his mind upon it he was quite expert, and this time he succeeded in killing a fine fat moose, which he thought he would take aside slyly, and devour alone, having prepared to tell the old wolf a pretty story on his return, to account for his failure to bring any thing with him. He was very hungry, and he sat down to eat; but as he never could go to work in a straight-forward way, he immediately fell into great doubts as to the proper point at which to begin. "Well," said he, "I do not know where to commence. At the head? No. People will laugh, and say--'He ate him backward.'" He went to the side. "No," said he, "they will say I ate him sideways." He then went to the hind-quarter. "No, that will not do, either; they will say I ate him forward. I will begin here, say what they will." He took a delicate piece from the small of the back, and was just on the point of putting it to his mouth, when a tree close by made a creaking noise. He seemed vexed at the sound. He raised the morsel to his mouth the second time, when the tree creaked again. "Why," he exclaimed, "I can not eat when I hear such a noise. Stop, stop!" he said to the tree. He put it down, exclaiming--"I can not eat with such a noise;" and starting away he climbed the tree, and was pulling at the limb which had offended him, when his fore-paw was caught between the branches so that he could not free himself. While thus held fast, he saw a pack of wolves advancing through the wood in the direction of his meat. He suspected them to be the old wolf and his cubs, but night was coming on and he could not make them out. "Go the other way, go the other way!" he cried out; "what would you come to get here?" The wolves stopped for a while and talked among themselves, and said: "Manabozho must have something there, or he would not tell us to go another way." "I begin to know him," said an old wolf, "and all his tricks. Let us go forward and see." They came on; and finding the moose, they soon made away with it. Manabozho looked wistfully on to see them eat till they were fully satisfied, when they scampered off in high spirits. A heavy blast of wind opened the branches and released Manabozho, who found that the wolves had left nothing but the bare bones. He made for home, where, when he related his mishap, the old wolf, taking him by the fore-paw, condoled with him deeply on his ill-luck. A tear even started to his eye as he added: "My brother, this should teach us not to meddle with points of ceremony when we have good meat to eat." The winter having by this time drawn fairly to a close, on a bright morning in the early spring, the old wolf addressed Manabozho: "My brother, I am obliged to leave you; and although I have sometimes been merry at your expense, I will show that I care for your comfort. I shall leave one of the boys behind me to be your hunter, and to keep you company through the long summer afternoons." The old wolf galloped off with his five young ones; and as they disappeared from view, Manabozho was disenchanted in a moment, and returned to his mortal shape. Although he had been sometimes vexed and imposed upon, he had, altogether, passed a pleasant winter with the cunning old wolf, and now that he was gone, Manabozho was downcast and low in spirit. But as the days grew brighter he recovered by degrees his air of cheerful confidence, and was ready to try his hand upon any new adventure that might occur to him. The old spirit of mischief was still alive within him. The young wolf who had been left with him was a good hunter, and never failed to keep the lodge well supplied with meat. One day Manabozho addressed him as follows: "My grandson, I had a dream last night, and it does not portend good. It is of the large lake which lies in that direction. You must be careful to always go across it, whether the ice seem strong or not. Never go around it, for there are enemies on the further shore who lie in wait for you. The ice is always safe." Now Manabozho knew well that the ice was thinning every day under the warm sun, but he could not stay himself from playing a trick upon the young wolf. In the evening when he came to the lake, after a long day's travel in quest of game, the young wolf, confiding in his grandfather, said, "Hwooh! the ice does look thin, but Nesho says it is sound;" and he trotted upon the glassy plain. He had not got half way across when the ice snapped, and with a mournful cry, the young wolf fell in and was immediately seized by the water-serpents, who knew that it was Manabozho's grandson, and were thirsting for revenge upon him for the death of their relations in the war upon Pearl Feather. Manabozho heard the young wolf's cry as he sat in his lodge; he knew what had happened; and, from that moment, he was deprived of the greater part of his magical power. He returned, scarcely more than an ordinary mortal, to his former place of dwelling, whence his grandmother had departed no one knew whither. He married the arrow-maker's daughter, and became the father of several children, and very poor. He was scarcely able to procure the means of living. His lodge was pitched in a remote part of the country, where he could get no game. It was winter, and he had not the common comforts of life. He said to his wife one day, "I will go out a walking and see if I can not find some lodges." After walking some time he saw a lodge at a distance. The children were playing at the door. When they saw him approaching they ran in and told their parents that Manabozho was coming. It was the residence of the large red-headed woodpecker. He came to the door and asked Manabozho to enter. This invitation was promptly accepted. After some time, the woodpecker, who was a magician, said to his wife: "Have you nothing to give Manabozho? he must be hungry." She answered, "No." "He ought not to go without his supper," said the woodpecker. "I will see what I can do." In the center of the lodge stood a large tamarack-tree. Upon this the woodpecker flew, and commenced going up, turning his head on each side of the tree, and every now and then driving in his bill. At last he pulled something out of the tree and threw it down; when, behold, a fine fat raccoon lay on the ground. He drew out six or seven more. He then descended, and told his wife to prepare them. "Manabozho," he said, "this is the only thing we eat; what else can we give you?" "It is very good," replied Manabozho. They smoked their pipes and conversed with each other. After eating, Manabozho got ready to go home; when the woodpecker said to his wife, "Give him the other raccoons to take home for his children." In the act of leaving the lodge, Manabozho, on purpose, dropped one of his mittens, which was soon after observed upon the ground. "Run," said the woodpecker to his eldest son, "and give it to him; but mind that you do not give it into his hand; throw it at him, for there is no knowing him, he acts so curiously." The boy did as he was directed. "Grandfather," said he to Manabozho, as he came up to him, "you have left one of your mittens; here it is." "Yes," he said, affecting to be ignorant of the circumstance, "it is so; but don't throw it, you will soil it on the snow." The lad, however, threw it, and was about to return, when Manabozho cried out, "Bakah! Bakah! stop--stop; is that all you eat? Do you eat nothing else with your raccoon? tell me!" "Yes, that is all," answered the young Woodpecker; "we have nothing else." "Tell your father," continued Manabozho, "to come and visit me, and let him bring a sack. I will give him what he shall eat with his raccoon-meat." When the young one returned and reported this message to his father, the old woodpecker turned up his nose at the invitation. "I wonder," he said, "what he thinks he has got, poor fellow!" He was bound, however, to answer the proffer of hospitality, and he went accordingly, taking along a cedar-sack, to pay a visit to Manabozho. Manabozho received the old red-headed woodpecker with great ceremony. He had stood at the door awaiting his arrival, and as soon as he came in sight Manabozho commenced, while he was yet far off, bowing and opening wide his arms, in token of welcome; all of which the woodpecker returned in due form, by ducking his bill, and hopping to right and left, upon the ground, extending his wings to their full length and fluttering them back to his breast. When the woodpecker at last reached the lodge, Manabozho made various remarks upon the weather, the appearance of the country, and especially on the scarcity of game. "But we," he added, "we always have enough. Come in, and you shall not go away hungry, my noble bird!" Manabozho had always prided himself on being able to give as good as he had received; and to be up with the woodpecker, he had shifted his lodge so as to inclose a large dry tamarack-tree. "What can I give you," said he to the woodpecker; "but as we eat so shall you eat." With this he hopped forward, and, jumping on the tamarack-tree, he attempted to climb it just as he had seen the woodpecker do in his own lodge. He turned his head first on one side, then on the other, in the manner of the bird, meanwhile striving to go up, and as often slipping down. Ever and anon he would strike the tree with his nose, as if it had been a bill, and draw back, but he pulled out no raccoons; and he dashed his nose so often against the trunk that at last the blood began to flow, and he tumbled down senseless upon the ground. The woodpecker started up with his drum and rattle to restore him, and by beating them violently he succeeded in bringing him to. As soon as he came to his senses, Manabozho began to lay the blame of his failure upon his wife, saying to his guest: "Nemesho, it is this woman-relation of yours--she is the cause of my not succeeding. She has made me a worthless fellow. Before I took her I also could get raccoons." The woodpecker said nothing, but flying on the tree he drew out several fine raccoons. "Here," said he, "this is the way we do!" and left him in disdain, carrying his bill high in the air, and stepping over the door-sill as if it were not worthy to be touched by his toes. After this visit, Manabozho was sitting in the lodge one day with his head down. He heard the wind whistling around it, and thought that by attentively listening he could hear the voice of some one speaking to him. It seemed to say to him: "Great chief, why are you sorrowful? Am not I your friend--your guardian spirit?" Manabozho immediately took up his rattle, and without rising from the ground where he was sitting, began to sing the chant which has at every close the refrain of, "Wha lay le aw." When he had dwelt for a long time on this peculiar chant, which he had been used to sing in all his times of trouble, he laid his rattle aside and determined to fast. For this purpose he went to a cave which faced the setting sun, and built a very small fire, near which he lay down, first telling his wife that neither she nor the children must come near him till he had finished his fast. At the end of seven days he came back to the lodge, pale and thin, looking like a spirit himself, and as if he had seen spirits. His wife had in the meantime dug through the snow and got a few of the root called truffles. These she boiled and set before him, and this was all the food they had or seemed likely to obtain. When he had finished his light repast, Manabozho took up his station in the door to see what would happen. As he stood thus, holding in his hand his large bow, with a quiver well filled with arrows, a deer glided past along the far edge of the prairie, but it was miles away, and no shaft that Manabozho could shoot would be able to touch it. Presently a cry came down the air, and looking up he beheld a great flight of birds, but they were so far up in the sky that he would have lost his arrows in a vain attempt among the clouds. Still he stood watchful, and confident that some turn of luck was about to occur, when there came near to the lodge two hunters, who bore between them on poles upon their shoulders, a bear, and it was so fine and fat a bear that it was as much as the two hunters could do with all their strength to carry it. As they came to the lodge-door, one of the hunters asked if Manabozho lived thereabout. "He is here," answered Manabozho. "I have often heard of you," said the first hunter, "and I was curious to see you. But you have lost your magical power. Do you know whether any of it is left?" Manabozho answered that he was himself in the dark on the subject. "Suppose you make a trial," said the hunter. "What shall I do?" asked Manabozho. "There is my friend," said the hunter, pointing to his companion, "who with me owns this bear which we are carrying home. Suppose you see if you can change him into a piece of rock." "Very well," said Manabozho; and he had scarcely spoken before the other hunter became a rock. "Now change him back again," said the first hunter. "That I can't do," Manabozho answered; "there my power ends." The hunter looked at the rock with a bewildered face. "What shall I do?" he asked. "This bear I can never carry alone, and it was agreed between my friend there and myself, that we should not divide it till we reached home. Can't you change my friend back, Manabozho?" "I would like to oblige you," answered Manabozho, "but it is utterly out of my power." With this, looking again at the rock with a sad and bewildered face, and then casting a sorrowful glance at the bear, which lay by the door of the lodge, the hunter took his leave, bewailing bitterly at heart the loss of his friend and his bear. He was scarcely out of sight when Manabozho sent the children to get red willow sticks. Of these he cut off as many pieces, of equal length, as would serve to invite his friends among the beasts and birds to a feast. A red stick was sent to each one, not forgetting the woodpecker and his family. When they arrived they were astonished to see such an abundance of meat prepared for them at such a time of scarcity. Manabozho understood their glance, and was proud of a chance to make such a display. "Akewazi," he said to the oldest of the party, "the weather is very cold, and the snow lasts a long time; we can kill nothing now but small squirrels, and they are all black; and I have sent for you to help me eat some of them." The woodpecker was the first to try a mouthful of the bear's meat, but he had no sooner began to taste it than it changed into a dry powder, and set him coughing. It appeared as bitter as ashes. The moose was affected in the same way, and it brought on such a dry cough as to shake every bone in his body. One by one, each in turn joined the company of coughers, except Manabozho and his family, to whom the bear's meat proved very savory. But the visitors had too high a sense of what was due to decorum and good manners to say any thing. The meat looked very fine, and being keenly set and strongly tempted by its promising look, they thought they would try more of it. The more they ate the faster they coughed, and the louder became the uproar, until Manabozho, exerting the magical gift which he found he retained, changed them all into squirrels; and to this day the squirrel suffers from the same dry cough which was brought on by attempting to sup off of Manabozho's ashen bear's meat. And ever after this transformation, when Manabozho lacked provisions for his family he would hunt the squirrel, a supply of which never failed him, so that he was always sure to have a number of his friends present, in this shape, at the banquet. The rock into which he changed the hunter, and so became possessed of the bear, and thus laid the foundations of his good fortune, ever after remained by his lodge-door, and it was called the Game-Bag of Manabozho, the Mischief-Maker. XIX. LEELINAU, THE LOST DAUGHTER. Leelinau was the favorite daughter of a hunter, who lived on the lake shore near the base of the lofty highlands, called Kaug Wudjoo. From her earliest youth she was observed to be thoughtful and retiring. She passed much of her time in solitude, and seemed ever to prefer the companionship of her own shadow to the society of the lodge-circle. Whenever she could leave her father's lodge she would fly to remote haunts and recesses in the woods, or sit in lonely reverie upon some high promontory of rock overlooking the lake. In such places she would often, with her face turned upward, linger long in contemplation of the air, as if she were invoking her guardian spirit, and beseeching him to lighten her sadness. But amid all the leafy haunts, none drew her steps toward it so often as a forest of pines, on the open shore, called Manitowok, or the Sacred Wood. It was one of those hallowed places which is the resort of the little wild men of the woods, and of the turtle spirits or fairies which delight in romantic scenes. Owing to this circumstance, its green retirement was seldom visited by Indians, who feared to fall under the influence of its mischievous inhabitants. And whenever they were compelled by stress of weather to make a landing on this part of the coast, they never failed to leave an offering of tobacco, or some other token, to show that they desired to stand well with the proprietors of the fairy ground. To this sacred spot Leelinau had made her way at an early age, gathering strange flowers and plants, which she would bring home to her parents, and relate to them all the haps and mishaps that had occurred in her rambles. Although they discountenanced her frequent visits to the place, they were not able to restrain them, for she was of so gentle and delicate a temper that they feared to thwart her. Her attachment to the fairy wood, therefore, grew with her years. If she wished to solicit her spirits to procure pleasant dreams, or any other maiden favor, Leelinau repaired to the Manitowok. If her father remained abroad in the hunt later than usual, and it was feared that he had been overwhelmed by the tempest, or had met with some other mischance, Leelinau offered up her prayers for safety at the Manitowok. It was there that she fasted, mused, and strolled. She at length became so engrossed by the fairy pines that her parents began to suspect that some evil spirit had enticed her to its haunts, and had cast upon her a charm which she had not the power to resist. This belief was confirmed when, one day, her mother, who had secretly followed her, overheard her murmuring to some unknown and invisible companion, appeals like these: "Spirit of the dancing leaves!" whispered Leelinau, "hear a throbbing heart in its sadness. Spirit of the foaming stream! visit thou my nightly pillow, shedding over it silver dreams of mountain brook and pebbly rivulet. Spirit of the starry night! lead my foot-prints to the blushing mis-kodeed, or where the burning passion-flower shines with carmine hue. Spirit of the greenwood plume!" she concluded, turning with passionate gaze to the beautiful young pines which stood waving their green beauty over her head, "shed on me, on Leelinau the sad, thy leafy fragrance, such as spring unfolds from sweetest flowers, or hearts that to each other show their inmost grief. Spirits! hear, O hear a maiden's prayer!" Day by day, these strange communings with unseen beings drew away the heart of Leelinau more and more from the simple duties of the lodge, and she walked among her people, melancholy and silent, like a spirit who had visited them from another land. The pastimes which engaged the frolic moments of her young companions, passed by her as little trivial pageants in which she had no concern. When the girls of the neighboring lodges assembled to play at the favorite female game of pappus-e-ko-waun, or the block and string, before the lodge-door, Leelinau would sit vacantly by, or enter so feebly into the spirit of the play as to show that it was irksome to her. Again, in the evening, when the young people formed a ring around the lodge, and the piepeend-jigun, or leather and bone, passed rapidly from one to the other, she either handed it along without attempting to play, or if she took a part, it was with no effort to succeed. The time of the corn-gathering had come, and the young people of the tribe were assembled in the field, busy in plucking the ripened maize. One of the girls, noted for her beauty, had found a red ear, and every one congratulated her that a brave admirer was on his way to her father's lodge. She blushed, and hiding the trophy in her bosom, she thanked the Good Spirit that it was a red ear, and not a crooked, that she had found. Presently it chanced that one who was there among the young men, espied in the hands of Leelinau, who had plucked it indifferently, one of the crooked kind, and at once the word "Wa-ge-min!" was shouted aloud through the field, and the whole circle was set in a roar. "The thief is in the corn-field!" exclaimed the young man, Iagoo by name, and famous in the tribe for his mirthful powers of story-telling; "see you not the old man stooping as he enters the field? See you not signs that he crouched as he crept in the dark? Is it not plain by this mark on the stalk that he was heavily bent in his back? Old man! be nimble, or some one will take thee while thou art taking the ear." These questions Iagoo accompanied with the action of one bowed with age stealthily entering the corn-field. He went on: "See how he stoops as he breaks off the ear. Nushka! He seems for a moment to tremble. Walker, be nimble! Hooh! It is plain the old man is the thief." He turned suddenly where she sat in the circle, pensively regarding the crooked ear which she held in her hand, and exclaimed: "Leelinau, the old man is thine!" Laughter rung merrily through the corn-field, but Leelinau, casting down upon the ground the crooked ear of maize, walked pensively away. The next morning the eldest son of a neighboring chief called at her father's lodge. He was quite advanced in years; but he enjoyed such renown in battle, and his name was so famous in the hunt, that the parents accepted him as a suitor for their daughter. They hoped that his shining qualities would draw back the thoughts of Leelinau from that spirit-land whither she seemed to have wholly directed her affections. It was this chief's son whom Iagoo had pictured as the corn-taker, but, without objecting to his age, or giving any other reason, Leelinau firmly declined his proposals. The parents ascribed the young daughter's hesitancy to maiden fear, and paying no further heed to her refusal, a day was fixed for the marriage-visit to the lodge. The young warrior came to the lodge-door, and Leelinau refused to see him; informing her parents, at the same time, that she would never consent to the match. It had been her custom to pass many of her hours in her favorite place of retirement, under a broad-topped young pine, whose leaves whispered in every wind that blew; but most of all in that gentle murmur of the air at the evening hour, dear to lovers, when the twilight steals on. Thither she now repaired, and, while reclining pensively against the young pine-tree, she fancied that she heard a voice addressing her. At first it was scarcely more than a sigh; presently it grew more clear, and she heard it distinctly whisper-- "Maiden! think me not a tree; but thine own dear lover; fond to be with thee in my tall and blooming strength, with the bright green nodding plume that waves above thee. Thou art leaning on my breast, Leelinau; lean forever there and be at peace. Fly from men who are false and cruel, and quit the tumult of their dusty strife, for this quiet, lonely shade. Over thee I my arms will fling, fairer than the lodge's roof. I will breathe a perfume like that of flowers over thy happy evening rest. In my bark canoe I'll waft thee o'er the waters of the sky-blue lake. I will deck the folds of thy mantle with the sun's last rays. Come, and on the mountain free rove a fairy bright with me!" Leelinau drunk in with eager ear these magical words. Her heart was fixed. No warrior's son should clasp her hand. She listened in the hope to hear the airy voice speak more; but it only repeated, "Again! again!" and entirely ceased. On the eve of the day fixed for her marriage, Leelinau decked herself in her best garments. She arranged her hair according to the fashion of her tribe, and put on all of her maiden ornaments in beautiful array. With a smile, she presented herself before her parents. "I am going," she said, "to meet my little lover, the chieftain of the Green Plume, who is waiting for me at the Spirit Grove." Her face was radiant with joy, and the parents, taking what she had said as her own fanciful way of expressing acquiescence in their plans, wished her good fortune in the happy meeting. "I am going," she continued, addressing her mother as they left the lodge, "I am going from one who has watched my infancy and guarded my youth; who has given me medicine when I was sick, and prepared my food when I was well. I am going from a father who has ranged the forest to procure the choicest skins for my dress, and kept his lodge supplied with the best spoil of the chase. I am going from a lodge which has been my shelter from the storms of winter, and my shield from the heats of summer. Farewell, my parents, farewell!" So saying, she sped faster than any could follow her to the margin of the fairy wood, and in a moment was lost to sight. As she had often thus withdrawn herself from the lodge, the parents were not in fear, but confidently awaited her return. Hour chased hour, as the clouds of evening rolled up in the west; darkness came on, but no daughter returned. With torches they hastened to the wood, and although they lit up every dark recess and leafy gloom, their search was in vain. Leelinau was nowhere to be seen. They called aloud, in lament, upon her name, but she answered not. Suns rose and set, but nevermore in their light did the bereaved parents eyes behold the lost form of their beloved child. Their daughter was lost indeed. Whither she had vanished no mortal tongue could tell; although it chanced that a company of fishermen, who were spearing fish near the Spirit Grove, descried something that seemed to resemble a female figure standing on the shore. As the evening was mild and the waters calm, they cautiously pulled their canoe toward land, but the slight ripple of their oars excited alarm. The figure fled in haste, but they could recognize in the shape and dress as she ascended the bank, the lost daughter, and they saw the green plumes of her fairy-lover waving over his forehead as he glided lightly through the forest of young pines. XX. THE WINTER-SPIRIT AND HIS VISITOR. An old man was sitting alone in his lodge by the side of a frozen stream. It was the close of winter, and his fire was almost out. He appeared very old and very desolate. His locks were white with age, and he trembled in every joint. Day after day passed in solitude, and he heard nothing but the sounds of the tempest, sweeping before it the new-fallen snow. One day as his fire was just dying, a handsome young man approached and entered his dwelling. His cheeks were red with the blood of youth; his eyes sparkled with life, and a smile played upon his lips. He walked with a light and quick step. His forehead was bound with a wreath of sweet grass, in place of the warrior's frontlet, and he carried a bunch of flowers in his hand. "Ah! my son," said the old man, "I am happy to see you. Come in. Come, tell me of your adventures, and what strange lands you have been to see. Let us pass the night together. I will tell you of my prowess and exploits, and what I can perform. You shall do the same, and we will amuse ourselves." He then drew from his sack a curiously-wrought antique pipe, and having filled it with tobacco, rendered mild by an admixture of certain dried leaves, he handed it to his guest. When this ceremony was attended to, they began to speak. "I blow my breath," said the old man, "and the streams stand still. The water becomes stiff and hard as clear stone." "I breathe," said the young man, "and flowers spring up all over the plains." "I shake my locks," retorted the old man, "and snow covers the land. The leaves fall from the trees at my command, and my breath blows them away. The birds rise from the water and fly to a distant land. The animals hide themselves from the glance of my eye, and the very ground where I walk becomes as hard as flint." "I shake my ringlets," rejoined the young man, "and warm showers of soft rain fall upon the earth. The plants lift up their heads out of the ground like the eyes of children glistening with delight. My voice recalls the birds. The warmth of my breath unlocks the streams. Music fills the groves wherever I walk, and all nature welcomes my approach." At length the sun begun to rise. A gentle warmth came over the place. The tongue of the old man became silent. The robin and the blue-bird began to sing on the top of the lodge. The stream began to murmur by the door, and the fragrance of growing herbs and flowers came softly on the vernal breeze. Daylight fully revealed to the young man the character of his entertainer. When he looked upon him he had the visage of Peboan, the icy old Winter-Spirit. Streams began to flow from his eyes. As the sun increased he grew less and less in stature, and presently he had melted completely away. Nothing remained on the place of his lodge-fire but the mis-kodeed, a small white flower with a pink border, which the young visitor, Seegwun, the Spirit of Spring, placed in the wreath upon his brow, as his first trophy in the North. XXI. THE FIRE-PLUME. Wassamo was living with his parents on the shore of a large bay, far out in the north-east. One day, when the season had commenced for fish to be plenty, the mother of Wassamo said to him, "My son, I wish you would go to yonder point and see if you can not procure me some fish; and ask your cousin to accompany you." He did so. They set out, and in the course of the afternoon they arrived at the fishing-ground. The cousin, being the elder, attended to the nets, and they encamped near by, using the bark of the birch for a lodge to shelter them through the night. They lit a fire, and while they sat conversing with each other, the moon arose. Not a breath of wind disturbed the smooth surface of the lake. Not a cloud was seen. Wassamo looked out on the water toward their nets, and he saw that the little black spots, which were no other than the floats, dotting the lake, had disappeared. "Cousin," he said, "let us visit our nets; perhaps we are fortunate." When they drew up the nets they were rejoiced to see the meshes shining white, all over, with the glittering prey. They landed in fine spirits, and put away their canoe in safety from the winds. "Wassamo," said the cousin, "you cook that we may eat." Wassamo set about the work at once, and soon had his great kettle swung upon its branch, while the cousin lay at his ease upon the other side of the fire. "Cousin," said Wassamo, "tell me stories or sing me some love-songs." The cousin obeyed, and sung his plaintive songs; or he would frequently break off in the midst of a mournful chant, and begin to recite a mirthful story, and then in the midst of Wassamo's laughter he would return to the plaintive ditty--just as it suited his fancy; for the cousin was gay of spirit, and shifted his humor faster than the fleecy clouds that appeared and disappeared in the night-sky over their heads. In this changeful pastime the cousin ran his length, and then he fell away, murmuring parts of his song or story, into a silvery sleep; with the moon gliding through the branches and gilding his face. Wassamo in the mean while had lost the sound of his cousin's voice in the rich simmer of the kettle; and when its music pleased his ear the most, as announcing that the fish were handsomely cooked, he lifted the kettle from the fire. He spoke to his cousin, but he received no answer. He went on with his housekeeping alone, and took the wooden ladle and skimmed the kettle neatly, for the fish were very plump and fat. Wassamo had a torch of twisted bark in one hand to give light, and when he came to take out the fish, there was no one to have charge of the torch. The cousin was so happy in his sleep, with the silver moon kissing his cheeks, as though she were enamored of his fair looks, that Wassamo had not the heart to call him up. Binding his girdle upon his brow, in this he thrust the torch, and went forward, with the light dancing through the green leaves at every turn of his head, to prepare the evening meal. He again spoke to his cousin, but gently, to learn whether he was in truth asleep. The cousin murmured, but made no reply; and Wassamo stepped softly about with the dancing fire-plume lighting up the gloom of the forest at every turn he made. Suddenly he heard a laugh It was double, or the one must be the perfect echo of the other. To Wassamo there appeared to be two persons at no great distance. "Cousin," said Wassamo, "some person is near us. I hear a laugh; awake and let us look out!" The cousin made no answer. Again Wassamo heard the laughter in mirthful repetition, like the ripple of the water-brook upon the shining pebbles of the stream. Peering out as far as the line of the torchlight pierced into the darkness, he beheld two beautiful young females smiling on him. Their countenances appeared to be perfectly white, like the fresh snow. He crouched down and pushed his cousin, saying, in a low voice, "Awake! awake! here are two young women." But he received no answer. His cousin seemed lost to all earthly sense and sound; for he lay unmoved, smiling, in the calm light of the moon. Wassamo started up alone, and glided toward the strange females. As he approached them he was more and more enraptured with their beauty; but just as he was about to speak to them, he suddenly fell to the earth, and they all three vanished together. The moon shone where they had just stood, but she saw them not. A gentle sound of music and soft voices accompanied their vanishing, and this wakened the cousin. As he opened his eyes, in a dreamy way, he saw the kettle near him. Some of the fish he observed were in the bowl. The fire flickered, and made light and shadow; but nowhere was Wassamo to be seen. He waited, and waited again, in the expectation that Wassamo would appear. "Perhaps," thought the cousin, "he is gone out again to visit the nets." He looked off that way, but the canoe still lay close by the rock at the shore. He searched and found his footsteps in the ashes, and out upon the green ground a little distance, and then they were utterly lost. He was now greatly troubled in spirit, and he called aloud, "Netawis! cousin! cousin!" but there was no answer to his call. He called again in his sorrow, louder and louder, "Netawis! Netawis! cousin! cousin! whither are you gone?" But no answer came to his voice of wailing. He started for the edge of the woods, crying as he ran, "My cousin!" and "Oh, my cousin!" Hither and thither through the forest he sped with all his fleetness of foot and quickness of spirit; and when at last he found that no voice would answer him, he burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. He returned to the fire, and sat down. He mused upon the absence of Wassamo with a sorely-troubled heart. "He may have been playing me a trick," he thought; but it was full time that the trick should be at an end, and Wassamo returned not. The cousin cherished other hopes, but they all died away in the morning light, when he found himself alone by the hunting-fire. "How shall I answer to his friends for Wassamo?" thought the cousin. "Although," he said to himself, "his parents are my kindred, and they are well assured that their son is my bosom-friend, will they receive that belief in the place of him who is lost. No, no; they will say that I have slain him, and they will require blood for blood. Oh! my cousin, whither are you gone?" He would have rested to restore his mind to its peace, but he could not sleep; and, without further regard to net or canoe, he set off for the village, running all the way. As they saw him approaching at such speed and alone, they said, "Some accident has happened." When he had come into the village, he told them how Wassamo had disappeared. He stated all the circumstances. He kept nothing to himself. He declared all that he knew. Some said, "He has killed him in the dark." Others said, "It is impossible; they were like brothers; they would have fallen for each other. It can not be." At the cousin's request, many of the men visited the fish-fire. There were no marks of blood. No hasty steps were there to show that any conflict or struggle had occurred. Every leaf on every tree was in its place; and they saw, as the cousin had before, that the foot-prints of Wassamo stopped in the wood, as if he had gone no further upon the earth, but had ascended into the air. They returned to the village, and no man was the wiser as to the strange and sudden vanishing of Wassamo. None ever looked to see him more; only the parents, who still hoped and awaited his return. The spring, with all its blossoms and its delicate newness of life, came among them; the Indians assembled to celebrate their vernal feast from all the country round. Among them came the sad cousin of Wassamo. He was pale and thin as the shadow of the shaft that flies. The pain of his mind had changed his features, and wherever he turned his eyes, they were dazzled with the sight of the red blood of his friend. The parents of Wassamo, far gone in despair, and weary with watching for his return, now demanded the life of Netawis. The village was stirred to its very heart by their loud lamentings; and, after a struggle of pity, they decided to give the young man's life to the parents. They said that they had waited long enough. A day was appointed on which the cousin was to yield his life for his friend's. He was a brave youth, and they bound him only by his word to be ready at the appointed hour. He said that he was not afraid to die; for he was innocent of the great wrong they laid to his charge. A day or two before the time set to take his life, he wandered sadly along the shore of the lake. He looked at the glassy water, and more than once the thought to end his griefs by casting himself in its depths, came upon him with such sudden force that it was only by severe self-control that he was able to turn his steps in another direction. He reflected--"They will say that I was guilty if I take my own life. No. I will give them my blood for that of my cousin." He walked on, with slow steps, but he found no comfort, turn where he would; the sweet songs of the grove jarred upon his ear; the beauty of the blue sky pained his sight; and the soft green earth, as he trode upon it, seemed harsh to his foot, and sent a pang through every nerve. "Oh, where is my cousin?" he kept saying to himself. Meanwhile, when Wassamo fell senseless before the two young women in the wood, he lost all knowledge of himself until he wakened in a distant scene. He heard persons conversing. One spoke in a tone of command, saying, "You foolish girls, is this the way that you rove about at nights without our knowledge? Put that person you have brought on that couch of yours, and do not let him lie upon the ground." Wassamo felt himself moved, he knew not how, and placed upon a couch. Some time after, the spell seemed to be a little lightened, and on opening his eyes, he was surprised to find that he was lying in a spacious and shining lodge, extending as far as the eye could reach. One spoke to him and said: "Stranger, awake, and take something wherewith to refresh yourself." He obeyed the command and sat up. On either side of the lodge he beheld rows of people seated in orderly array. At a distance he could see two stately persons, who looked rather more in years than the others, and who appeared to exact obedience from all around them. One of them, whom he heard addressed as the Old Spirit-man, spoke to Wassamo. "My son," said he, "know it was those foolish girls who brought you hither. They saw you at the fishing-ground. When you attempted to approach them you fell senseless, and at the same moment they transported you to this place. We are under the earth. But be at ease. We will make your stay with us pleasant. I am the guardian Spirit of the Sand Mountains. They are my charge. I pile them up, and blow them about, and do whatever I will with them. It keeps me very busy, but I am hale for my age, and I love to be employed. I have often wished to get one of your race to marry among us. If you can make up your mind to remain, I will give you one of my daughters--the one who smiled on you first, the night you were brought away from your parents and friends." Wassamo dropped his head and made no answer. The thought that he should behold his kindred no more, made him sad. He was silent, and the Old Spirit continued: "Your wants will all be supplied; but you must be careful not to stray far from the lodge. I am afraid of that Spirit who rules all islands lying in the lakes. He is my bitter enemy, for I have refused him my daughter in marriage; and when he learns that you are a member of my family, he will seek to harm you. There is my daughter," added the Old Spirit, pointing toward her. "Take her. She shall be your wife." Forthwith Wassamo and the Old Spirit's daughter sat near each other in the lodge, and they were man and wife. One evening the Old Spirit came in after a busy day's work out among the sand-hills, in the course of which he had blown them all out of shape with great gusts of wind, and strewn them about in a thousand directions, and brought them back and piled them up in all sorts of misshapen heaps. At the close of this busy day, when the Old Spirit came in very much out of breath, he said to Wassamo, "Son-in-law, I am in want of tobacco. None grows about this dry place of mine. You shall return to your people and procure me a supply. It is seldom that the few who pass these sand-hills offer me a piece of tobacco,--it is a rare plant in these parts,--but when they do, it immediately comes to me. Just so," he added, putting his hand out of the side of the lodge and drawing in several pieces of tobacco which some one passing at that moment offered as a fee to the Old Spirit, to keep the sand-hills from blowing about till they had got by. Other gifts beside tobacco came in the same way to the side of the lodge--sometimes a whole bear, then a wampum-robe, then a string of birds--and the Sand-Spirits altogether led an easy life; for they were not at the trouble to hunt or clothe themselves; and whenever the housekeeping began to fall short, nothing would happen but a wonderful storm of dust, all the sand-hills being straightway put in an uproar, and the contributions would at once begin to pour in at the side windows of the lodge, till all their wants were supplied. After Wassamo had been among these curious people several months, the old Sand-Spirit said to him, "Son-in-law, you must not be surprised at what you will see next; for since you have been with us you have never known us to go to sleep. It has been summer when the sun never sets here where we live. But now, what you call winter, is coming on. You will soon see us lie down, and we shall not rise again till the spring. Take my advice. Do not leave the lodge. I have sure knowledge that that knavish Island Spirit is on the prowl, and as he has command of a particular kind of storm, which comes from the south-west, he only waits his opportunity to catch you abroad and do you a mischief. Try and amuse yourself. That cupboard," pointing to a corner of the lodge, "is never empty; for it is there that all the offerings are handed in while we are asleep. It is never empty, and--" But ere the old Sand-Spirit could utter another word, a loud rattling of thunder was heard, and instantly, not only the Old Spirit but every one of his family, vanished out of sight. When the storm had passed by, they all reappeared in the lodge. This sudden vanishing and reappearance occurred at every tempest. "You are surprised," said the Old Spirit, "to see us disappear when it thunders. The reason is this: that noise which you fancy is thunder, is our enemy the Island Spirit hallooing on his way home from the hunt. We get out of sight that we may escape the necessity of asking him to come in and share our evening meal. We are not afraid of him, not in the least." Just then it chanced to thunder again, and Wassamo observed that his father-in-law made extraordinary dispatch to conceal himself, although no stranger, at all resembling in any way the Island Spirit, was in view. Shortly after this the season of sleep began, and one by one they laid themselves down to the long slumber. The Old Spirit was the last to drop away; and, before he yielded, he went forth and had his last sport with the sand-hills, and he so tossed and vexed the poor hills, and scattered them to and fro, and whirled them up in the air, and far over the land, that it was days and days before they got back to any thing like their natural shape. While his relations were enjoying this long sleep, Wassamo amused himself as best he could. The cupboard never failed him once: for visit it when he would, he always found a fresh supply of game, and every other dainty which his heart desired. But his chief pastime was to listen to the voices of the travelers who passed by the window at the side of the lodge where they made their requests for comfortable weather and an easy journey. These were often mingled with loud complainings, such as "Ho! how the sand jumps about!" "Take away that hill!" "I am lost!" "Old Sand-Spirit, where are you? help this way!" and the like, which indicated that such as were journeying through the hills had their own troubles to encounter. As the spring-light of the first day of spring shone into the lodge, the whole family arose and went about the affairs of the day as though they had been slumbering only for a single night. The rest of the Old Spirit seemed to have done him much good, for he was very cheerful; and, first putting his head forth from the window for a puff at a sand-hill, which was his prime luxury in a morning, he said to Wassamo, "Son-in-law, you have been very patient with our long absence from your company, and you shall be rewarded. In a few days you may start with your wife to visit your relations. You can be absent one year, but at the end of that time you must return. When you get to your home-village, you must first go in alone. Leave your wife at a short distance from the lodge, and when you are welcome, then send for her. When there, do not be surprised that she disappears whenever you hear it thunder." He added, with a sly look, "That old Island Spirit has a brother down in that part of the country. You will prosper in all things, for my daughter is very diligent. All the time that you pass in sleep, she will be at work. The distance is short to your village. A path leads directly to it, and when you get there, do not forget my wants as I stated to you before." Wassamo promised obedience to these directions, and, at the appointed time, set out in company with his wife. They traveled on a pleasant course, his wife leading the way, until they reached a rising ground. At the highest point of this ground, she said, "We will soon get to your country." It suddenly became broad day, as they came upon a high bank; they passed, unwet, for a short distance under the lake, and presently emerged from the water at the sand-banks, just off the shore where Wassamo had set his nets on the night when he had been borne away by the two strange females. He now left his wife sheltered in a neighboring wood, while he advanced toward the village alone. Musing sadly, and from time to time breaking forth in mournful cries, as he walked the shore, it was his cousin that Wassamo beheld as he turned the first point of land by the lake. With the speed of lightning the cousin rushed forward. "Netawis! Netawis!" he cried, "is it indeed you? Whence have you come, oh, my cousin?" They fell upon each other's necks, and wept aloud. And then, without further delay or question, the cousin ran off with breathless dispatch to the village. He seemed like a shadow upon the open ground, he sped so fast. He entered the lodge where sat the mother of Wassamo in mourning for her son. "Hear me," said the cousin. "I have seen him whom you accuse me of having killed. He will be here even while we speak." He had scarcely uttered these words when the whole village was astir in an instant. All ran out and strained their eyes to catch the first view of him whom they had thought dead. And when Wassamo came forward, they at first fell from him as though he had been in truth one returned from the Spirit-land. He entered the lodge of his parents. They saw that it was Wassamo, living, breathing and as they had ever known him. And joy lit up the lodge-circle as though a new fire had been kindled in the eyes of his friends and kinsfolk. He related all that had happened to him from the moment of his leaving the temporary night-lodge with the flame on his head. He told them of the strange land in which he had sojourned during his absence. He added to his mother, apart from the company, that he was married, and that he had left his wife at a short distance from the village. She went out immediately in search of her; they soon found her in the wood, and all the women in the village conducted her in honor to the lodge of her new relations. The Indian people were astonished at her beauty, at the whiteness of her skin, and still more, that she was able to talk with them in their own language. The village was happy, and the feast went on as long as the supply held out. All were delighted to make the acquaintance of the old Sand-Spirit's daughter; and as they had heard that he was a magician and guardian of great power, the tobacco which he had sent for by his son-in-law, came in, in great abundance, with every visitor. The summer and fall which Wassamo thus passed with his parents and the people of his tribe were prosperous with all the country. The cousin of Wassamo recovered heart, and sang once more his sad or mirthful chants, just as the humor was upon him; but he kept close by Wassamo, and watched him in all his movements. He made it a point to ask many questions of the country he came from; some of which his cousin replied to, but others were left entirely in the dark. At every thunder-storm, as the old Sand-Spirit had foreboded, the wife of Wassamo disappeared, much to the astonishment of her Indian company, and, to their greater wonder, she was never idle, night nor day. When the winter came on, Wassamo prepared for her a comfortable lodge, to which she withdrew for her long sleep; and he gave notice to his friends that they must not disturb her, as she would not be with them again until the spring returned. Before lying down, she said to her husband, "No one but yourself must pass on this side of the lodge." The winter passed away with snows, and sports and stones in the lodge; and when the sap of the maple began to flow, the wife of Wassamo wakened, and she immediately set about work as before. She helped at the maple-trees with the others; and, as if luck were in her presence, the sugar-harvest was greater than had been ever known in all that region. The gifts of tobacco, after this, came in even more freely than they had at first; and as each brought his bundle to the lodge of Wassamo, he asked for the usual length of life, for success as a hunter, and for a plentiful supply of food. They particularly desired that the sand-hills might be kept quiet, so that their lands might be moist, and their eyes clear of dust to sight the game. Wassamo replied that he would mention each of their requests to his father-in-law. The tobacco was stored in sacks, and on the outside of the skins, that there might be no mistake as to their wants, each one who had given tobacco had painted and marked in distinct characters the totem or family emblem of his family and tribe. These the old Sand-Spirit could read at his leisure, and do what he thought best for each of his various petitioners. When the time for his return arrived, Wassamo warned his people that they should not follow him nor attempt to take note how he disappeared. He then took the moose-skin sacks filled with tobacco, and bade farewell to all but Netawis. He insisted on the privilege of attending Wassamo and his wife for a distance, and when they reached the sand-banks he expressed the strongest wish to proceed with them on their journey. Wassamo told him that it could not be; that only spirits could exert the necessary power, and that there were no such spirits at hand. They then took an affectionate leave of each other, Wassamo enjoining it upon his cousin, at risk of his life, to not look back when he had once started to return. The cousin, sore at heart, but constrained to obey, parted from them, and as he walked sadly away, he heard a gliding noise as of the sound of waters that were cleaved. He returned home, and told his friends that Wassamo and his wife had disappeared, but that he knew not how. No one doubted his word in any thing now. Wassamo with his wife soon reached their home at the hills. The old Sand-Spirit was in excellent health, and delighted to see them. He hailed their return with open arms; and he opened his arms so very wide, that when he closed them he not only embraced Wassamo and his wife, but all of the tobacco-sacks which they had brought with them. The requests of the Indian people were made known to him; he replied that he would attend to all, but that he must first invite his friends to smoke with him. Accordingly he at once dispatched his pipe-bearer and confidential aid to summon various Spirits of his acquaintance, and set the time for them to come. Meanwhile he had a word of advice for his son-in-law Wassamo. "My son," said he, "some of these Manitoes that I have asked to come here are of a very wicked temper, and I warn you especially of that Island Spirit who wished to marry my daughter. He is a very bad-hearted Monedo, and would like to do you harm. Some of the company you will, however, find to be very friendly. A caution for you. When they come in, do you sit close by your wife; if you do not, you will be lost. She only can save you; for those who are expected to come are so powerful that they will otherwise draw you from your seat, and toss you out of the lodge as though you were a feather. You have only to observe my words and all will be well." Wassamo took heed to what the Old Spirit said, and answered that he would obey. About mid-day the company began to assemble; and such a company Wassamo had never looked on before. There were Spirits from all parts of the country; such strange-looking persons, and in dresses so wild and outlandish! One entered who smiled on him. This, Wassamo was informed, was a Spirit who had charge of the affairs of a tribe in the North, and he was as pleasant and cheery a Spirit as one would wish to see. Soon after, Wassamo heard a great rumbling and roaring, as of waters tumbling over rocks; and presently, with a vast bluster, and fairly shaking the lodge with his deep-throated hail of welcome to the old Sand-Spirit, in rolled another, who was the Guardian Spirit and special director of a great cataract or water-fall not far off. Then came with crashing steps the owner of several whirlwinds, which were in the habit of raging about in the neighboring country. And following this one, glided in a sweet-spoken, gentle-faced little Spirit, who was understood to represent a summer-gale that was accustomed to blow, toward evening, in at the lodge-doors, and to be particularly well disposed toward young lovers. The last to appear was a great rocky-headed fellow; and he was twice as stony in his manners; and swaggered and strided in, and raised such a commotion with his great green blanket when he shook it, that Wassamo was nearly taken off his feet; and it was only by main force that he was able to cling by his wife. This, which was the last to enter, was that wicked Island Spirit, who looked grim enough at Wassamo's wife, who had rejected him, as he passed in. Soon after, the old Sand-Spirit, who was a great speech-maker, arose and addressed the assembly. "Brothers," he said, "I have invited you to partake with me of the offerings made by the mortals on earth, which have been brought by our relation," pointing to Wassamo. "Brothers, you see their wishes and desires plainly set forth here," laying his hand upon the figured moose-skins. "The offering is worthy of our consideration. Brothers, I see nothing on my part to hinder our granting their requests; they do not appear to be unreasonable. Brothers, the offer is gratifying. It is tobacco--an article which we have lacked until we scarcely knew how to use our pipes. Shall we grant their requests? One thing more I would say. Brothers, it is this: There is my son-in law; he is mortal. I wish to detain him with me, and it is with us jointly to make him one of us." "Hoke! hoke!" ran through the whole company of Spirits, and "Hoke! hoke!" they cried again. And it was understood that the petitioners were to have all they asked, and that Wassamo was thenceforward fairly accepted as a member of the great family of Spirits. As a wedding-gift, the Old Spirit asked his son-in-law to make one request, which should be promptly granted. "Let there be no sand-squalls among my father's people for three months to come," said Wassamo. "So shall it be," answered the old Sand-Spirit. The tobacco was now divided in equal shares among the company. They filled their pipes--and huge pipes they were--and such clouds they blew, that they rushed forth out of the lodge and brought on night, in all the country round about, several hours before its time. After a while passed in silence, the Spirits rose up, and bearing off their tobacco-sacks, they went smoking through the country, and losing themselves in their own fog, till a late hour in the morning, when all of their pipes being burned out, each departed on his own business. The very next day the old Sand-Spirit, who was very much pleased with the turn affairs had taken at his entertainment, addressed Wassamo: "Son-in-law, I have made up my mind to allow you another holiday as an acknowledgment of the handsome manner in which you acquitted yourself of your embassy. You may visit your parents and relatives once more, to tell them that their wishes are granted, and to take your leave of them forever. You can never, after, visit them again." Wassamo at once set out, reached his people, and was heartily welcomed. They asked for his wife, and Wassamo informed them that she had tarried at home to look after a son, a fine little Sand-Spirit, who had been born to them since his return. Having delivered all of his messages and passed a happy time, Wassamo said, "I must now bid you all farewell forever." His parents and friends raised their voices in loud lamentation; they clung to him, and as a special favor, which he could now grant, being himself a spirit, he allowed them to accompany him to the sand-banks. They all seated themselves to watch his last farewell. The day was mild; the sky clear, not a cloud appearing to dim the heavens, nor a breath of wind to ruffle the tranquil waters. A perfect silence fell upon the company. They gazed with eager eyes fastened on Wassamo, as he waded out into the water, waving his hands. They saw him descend, more and more, into the depths. They beheld the waves close over his head, and a loud and piercing wail went up which rent the sky. They looked again; a red flame, as if the sun had glanced on a billow, lighted the spot for an instant; but the Feather of Flames, Wassamo of the Fire-Plume, had disappeared from home and kindred, and the familiar paths of his youth, forever. XXII. WEENDIGOES AND THE BONE-DWARF. In a lonely forest, there once lived a man and his wife, who had a son. The father went forth every day, according to the custom of the Indians, to hunt for food to supply his family. One day, while he was absent, his wife, on going out of the lodge, looked toward the lake that was near, and she saw a very large man walking on the water, and coming fast toward the lodge. He was already so near that she could not, if she had wished to, escape by flight. She thought to herself, "What shall I say to the monster?" As he advanced rapidly, she ran in, and taking the hand of her son, a boy of three or four years old, she led him out. Speaking very loud, "See, my son," she said, "your grandfather;" and then added, in a tone of appeal and supplication, "he will have pity on us." The giant approached and said, with a loud ha! ha! "Yes, my son;" and added, addressing the woman, "Have you any thing to eat?" By good luck the lodge was well supplied with meats of various kinds; the woman thought to please him by handing him these, which were savory and carefully prepared. But he pushed them away in disgust, saying, "I smell fire;" and, not waiting to be invited, he seized upon the carcass of a deer which lay by the door, and dispatched it almost without stopping to take breath. When the hunter came home he was surprised to see the monster, he was so very frightful. He had again brought a deer, which he had no sooner put down than the cannibal seized it, tore it in pieces, and devoured it as though he had been fasting for a week. The hunter looked on in fear and astonishment, and in a whisper he told his wife that he was afraid for their lives, as this monster was one whom Indians call Weendigoes. He did not even dare to speak to him, nor did the cannibal say a word, but as soon as he had finished his meal, he stretched himself down and fell asleep. In the evening the Weendigo told the people that he should go out a hunting; and he strided away toward the North. Toward morning he returned, all besmeared with blood, but he did not make known where he had been nor of what kind of game he had been in quest; although the hunter and his wife had dreadful suspicions of the sport in which he had been engaged. Withal his hunger did not seem to be staid, for he took up the deer which the hunter had brought in, and devoured it eagerly, leaving the family to make their meal of the dried meats which had been reserved in the lodge. In this manner the Weendigo and the hunter's family lived for some time, and it surprised them that the monster never attempted their lives; although he never slept at night, but always went out and returned, by the break of day, stained with blood, and looking very wild and famished. When there was no deer to be had wherewith to finish his repast, he said nothing. In truth he was always still and gloomy, and he seldom spoke to any of them; when he did, his discourse was chiefly addressed to the boy. One evening, after he had thus sojourned with them for many weeks, he informed the hunter that the time had now arrived for him to take his leave, but that before doing so, he would give him a charm that would bring good luck to his lodge. He presented to him two arrows, and thanking the hunter and his wife for their kindness, the Weendigo departed, saying, as he left them, that he had all the world to travel over. The hunter and his wife were happy when he was gone, for they had looked every moment to have been devoured by him. He tried the arrows, and they never failed to bring down whatever they were aimed at. They had lived on, prosperous and contented, for a year, when, one day, the hunter being absent, his wife on going out of the lodge, saw something like a black cloud approaching. She looked until it came near, when she perceived that it was another Weendigo or Giant Cannibal. Remembering the good conduct of the other, she had no fear of this one, and asked him to look into the lodge. He did so; and finding after he had glared around, that there was no food at hand, he grew very wroth, and, being sorely disappointed, he took the lodge and threw it to the winds. He seemed hardly at first to notice the woman in his anger; but presently he cast a fierce glance upon her, and seizing her by the waist, in spite of her cries and entreaties, he bore her off. To the little son, who ran to and fro lamenting, he paid no heed. At night-fall, when the hunter returned from the forest, he was amazed. His lodge was gone, and he saw his son sitting near the spot where it had stood, shedding tears. The son pointed in the direction the Weendigo had taken, and as the father hurried along he found the remains of his wife strewn upon the ground. The hunter blackened his face, and vowed in his heart that he would have revenge. He built another lodge, and gathering together the bones of his wife, he placed them in the hollow part of a dry tree. He left his boy to take care of the lodge while he was absent, hunting and roaming about from place to place, striving to forget his misfortune, and searching for the wicked Weendigo. He had been gone but a little while one morning, when his son shot his arrows out through the top of the lodge, and running out to look for them, he could find them nowhere. The boy had been trying his luck, and he was puzzled that he had shot his shafts entirely out of sight. His father made him more arrows, and when he was again left alone, he shot one of them out; but although he looked as sharply as he could toward the spot where it fell, and ran thither at once, he could not find it. He shot another, which was lost in the same way; and returning to the lodge to replenish his quiver, he happened to espy one of the lucky arrows, which the first Weendigo had given to his father, hanging upon the side of the lodge. He reached up, and having secured it, he shot it out at the opening, and immediately running out to find where it fell, he was surprised to see a beautiful boy just in the act of taking it up, and hurrying away with it to a large tree, where he disappeared. The hunter's son followed, and having come to the tree, he beheld the face of the boy looking out through an opening in the hollow part. "Ha! ha!" he said, "my friend, come out and play with me;" and he urged the boy till he consented. They played and shot their arrows by turns. Suddenly the young boy said, "Your father is coming. We must stop. Promise me that you will not tell him." The hunter's son promised, and the other disappeared in the tree. When the hunter returned from the chase, his son sat demurely by the fire. In the course of the evening he asked his father to make him a new bow; and when he was questioned as to the use he could find for two bows, he answered that one might break or get lost. The father pleased at his son's diligence in the practice of the bow, made him the two weapons; and the next day, as soon as his father had gone away, the boy ran to the hollow tree, and invited his little friend to come out and play; at the same time presenting to him the new bow. They went and played in the lodge together, and in their sport they raised the ashes all over it. Suddenly again the youngest said, "Your father is coming, I must leave." He again exacted a promise of secresy, and went back to his tree. The eldest took his seat near the fire. When the hunter came in he was surprised to see the ashes scattered about. "Why, my son," he said, "you must have played very hard to day to raise such a dust all alone." "Yes," the boy answered, "I was very lonesome, and I ran round and round--that is the cause of it." The next day the hunter made ready for the chase as usual. The boy said, "Father, try and hunt all day, and see what you can kill." He had no sooner set out than the boy called his friend, and they played and chased each other round the lodge. They had great delight in each other's company, and made merry by the hour. The hunter was again returning, and came to a rising ground, which caught the winds as they passed, and he heard his son laughing and making a noise, but the sounds as they reached him on the hill-top, seemed as if they arose from two persons playing. At the same time the younger boy stopped, and after saying "Your father is coming," he stole away, under cover of the high grass, to his hollow tree, which was not far off. The hunter, on entering, found his son sitting by the fire, very quiet and unconcerned, although he saw that all the articles of the lodge were lying thrown about in all directions. "Why, my son," he said "you must play very hard every day; and what is it that you do, all alone, to throw the lodge in such confusion?" The boy again had his excuse. "Father," he answered, "I play in this manner: I chase and drag my blanket around the lodge, and that is the reason you see the ashes spread about." The hunter was not satisfied until his son had shown him how he played with the blanket, which he did so adroitly as to set his father laughing, and at last drive him out of the lodge with the great clouds of ashes that he raised. The next morning the boy renewed his request that his father should be absent all day, and see if he could not kill two deer. The hunter thought this a strange desire on the part of his son, but as he had always humored the boy, he went into the forest as usual, bent on accomplishing his wish, if he could. As soon as he was out of sight, his son hastened to his young companion at the tree, and they continued their sports. The father on nearing his home in the evening, as he reached the rising ground, again heard the sounds of play and laughter; and as the wind brought them straight to his ear, he was now certain that there were two voices. The boy from the tree had no more than time to escape, when the hunter entered, and found his son, sitting as usual, near the fire. When he cast his eyes around, he saw that the lodge was in greater confusion than before. "My son," he said, "you must be very foolish when alone to play so. But, tell me, my son; I heard two voices, I am sure;" and he looked closely on the prints of the footsteps in the ashes. "True," he continued, "here is the print of a foot which is smaller than my son's;" and he was now satisfied that his suspicions were well founded, and that some very young person had been the companion of his son. The boy could not now refuse to tell his father what had happened. "Father," he said, "I found a boy in the hollow of that tree, near the lodge, where you placed my mother's bones." Strange thoughts came over the mind of the hunter; did his wife live again in this beautiful child? Fearful of disturbing the dead, he did not dare to visit the place where he had deposited her remains. He, however, engaged his son to entice the boy to a dead tree, by the edge of a wood, where they could kill many flying-squirrels by setting it on fire. He said that he would conceal himself near by, and take the boy. The next day the hunter accordingly went into the woods, and his son, calling the boy from the tree, urged him to go with him to kill the squirrels. The boy objected that his father was near, but he was at length prevailed on to go, and after they had fired the tree, and while they were busy killing or taking the squirrels, the hunter suddenly made his appearance, and clasped the strange boy in his arms. He cried out, "Kago, kago, don't, don't. You will tear my clothes!" for he was clad in a fine apparel, which shone as if it had been made of a beautiful transparent skin. The father reassured him by every means in his power. By constant kindness and gentle words the boy was reconciled to remain with them; but chiefly by the presence of his young friend, the hunter's son, to whom he was fondly attached. The children were never parted from each other; and when the hunter looked upon the strange boy, he seemed to see living in him the better spirit of his lost wife. He was thankful to the Great Spirit for this act of goodness, and in his heart he felt assured that in time the boy would show great virtue, and in some way avenge him on the wicked Weendigo who had destroyed the companion of his lodge. The hunter grew at ease in his spirit, and gave all of the time he could spare from the chase to the society of the two children; but, what affected him the most, both of his sons, although they were well-formed and beautiful, grew no more in stature, but remained children still. Every day they resembled each other more and more, and they never ceased to sport and divert themselves in the innocent ways of childhood. One day the hunter had gone abroad with his bow and arrows, leaving, at the request of the strange boy, one of the two shafts which the friendly Weendigo had given to him, behind in the lodge. When he returned, what were his surprise and joy to see stretched dead by his lodge-door, the black giant who had slain his wife. He had been stricken down by the magic shaft in the hands of the little stranger from the tree; and ever after the boy, or the Bone-Dwarf as he was called, was the guardian and good genius of the lodge, and no evil spirit, giant, or Weendigo, dared approach it to mar their peace. XXIII. THE BIRD LOVER. In a region of country where the forest and the prairie strived which should be the most beautiful--the open plain, with its free sunshine and winds and flowers, or the close wood, with its delicious twilight-walks and enamored haunts--there lived a wicked manito in the disguise of an old Indian. Although the country furnished an abundance of game, and whatever else a good heart could wish for, it was the study of this wicked genius to destroy such as fell into his hands. He made use of all his arts to decoy men into his power, for the purpose of killing them. The country had been once thickly peopled, but this Mudjee Monedo had so thinned it by his cruel practices, that he now lived almost solitary in the wilderness. The secret of his success lay in his great speed. He had the power to assume the shape of any four-footed creature, and it was his custom to challenge such as he sought to destroy, to run with him. He had a beaten path on which he ran, leading around a large lake, and he always ran around this circle so that the starting and the winning-post was the same. Whoever failed as every one had, yielded up his life at this post; and although he ran every day, no man was ever known to beat this evil genius; for whenever he was pressed hard, he changed himself into a fox, wolf, deer, or other swift-footed animal, and was thus able to leave his competitor behind. The whole country was in dread of this same Mudjee Monedo, and yet the young men were constantly running with him; for if they refused, he called them cowards, which was a reproach they could not bear. They would rather die than be called cowards. To keep up his sport, the manito made light of these deadly foot-matches, and instead of assuming a braggart air, and going about in a boastful way, with the blood of such as he had overcome, upon his hands, he adopted very pleasing manners, and visited the lodges around the country as any other sweet-tempered and harmless old Indian might. His secret object in these friendly visits was to learn whether the young boys were getting old enough to run with him; he kept a very sharp eye upon their growth, and the day he thought them ready, he did not fail to challenge them to a trial on his racing-ground. There was not a family in all that beautiful region which had not in this way been visited and thinned out; and the manito had quite naturally come to be held in abhorrence by all the Indian mothers in the country. It happened that there lived near him a poor widow woman, whose husband and seven sons he had made way with; and she was now living with an only daughter, and a son of ten or twelve years old. This widow was very poor and feeble, and she suffered so much for lack of food and other comforts of the lodge, that she would have been glad to die, but for her daughter and her little son. The Mudjee Monedo had already visited her lodge to observe whether the boy was sufficiently grown to be challenged to the race; and so crafty in his approaches and so soft in his manners was the monedo, that the mother feared that he would yet decoy the son and make way with him as he had done with his father and his seven brothers, in spite of all her struggles to save him. And yet she strove with all her might to strengthen her son in every good course. She taught him, as best she could, what was becoming for the wise hunter and the brave warrior. She remembered and set before him all that she could recall of the skill and the craft of his father and his brothers who were lost. The widow woman also instructed her daughter in whatever could make her useful as a wife; and in the leisure-time of the lodge, she gave her lessons in the art of working with the quills of porcupine, and bestowed on her such other accomplishments as should make her an ornament and a blessing to her husband's household. The daughter, Minda by name, was kind and obedient to her mother, and never failed in her duty. Their lodge stood high up on the banks of a lake, which gave them a wide prospect of country, embellished with groves and open fields, which waved with the blue light of their long grass, and made, at all hours of sun and moon, a cheerful scene to look upon. Across this beautiful prairie, Minda had one morning made her way to gather dry limbs for their fire; for she disdained no labor of the lodge. And while enjoying the sweetness of the air and the green beauty of the woods, she strolled far away. She had come to a bank, painted with flowers of every hue, and was reclining on its fragrant couch, when a bird, of red and deep-blue plumage softly blended, alighted on a branch near by, and began to pour forth its carol. It was a bird of strange character, such as she had never before seen. Its first note was so delicious to the ear of Minda, and it so pierced to her young heart, that she listened as she had never before to any mortal or heavenly sound. It seemed like the human voice, forbidden to speak, and uttering its language through this wild wood-chant with a mournful melody, as if it bewailed the lack of the power or the right to make itself more plainly intelligible. The voice of the bird rose and fell, and circled round and round, but whithersoever floated or spread out its notes, they seemed ever to have their center where Minda sat; and she looked with sad eyes into the sad eyes of the mournful bird, that sat in his red and deep-blue plumage just opposite to the flowery bank. The poor bird strove more and more with his voice, and seemed ever more and more anxiously to address his notes of lament to Minda's ear, till at last she could not refrain from saying, "What aileth thee, sad bird?" As if he had but waited to be spoken to, the bird left his branch, and alighting upon the bank, smiled on Minda, and, shaking his shining plumage, answered: "I am bound in this condition until a maiden shall accept me in marriage. I have wandered these groves and sung to many and many of the Indian girls, but none ever heeded my voice till you. Will you be mine?" he added, and poured forth a flood of melody which sparkled and spread itself with its sweet murmurs over all the scene, and fairly entranced the young Minda, who sat silent, as if she feared to break the charm by speech. The bird, approaching nearer, asked her, if she loved him, to get her mother's consent to their marriage. "I shall be free then," said the bird, "and you shall know me as I am." Minda lingered, and listened to the sweet voice of the bird in its own forest notes, or filling each pause with gentle human discourse; questioning her as to her home, her family, and the little incidents of her daily life. She returned to the lodge later than usual, but she was too timid to speak to her mother of that which the bird had charged her. She returned again and again to the fragrant haunt in the wood; and everyday she listened to the song and the discourse of her bird admirer with more pleasure, and he every day besought her to speak to her mother of the marriage. This she could not, however, muster heart and courage to do. At last the widow began herself to have a suspicion that her daughter's heart was in the wood, from her long delays in returning, and the little success she had in gathering the fire-branches for which she went in search. In answer to her mother's questions, Minda revealed the truth, and made known her lover's request. The mother, considering the lonely and destitute condition of her little household, gave her consent. The daughter, with light steps, hastened with the news to the wood. The bird lover of course heard it with delight, and fluttered through the air in happy circles, and poured forth a song of joy which thrilled Minda to the heart. He said that he would come to the lodge at sunset, and immediately took wing, while Minda hung fondly upon his flight, till he was lost far away in the blue sky. With the twilight the bird lover, whose name was Monedowa, appeared at the door of the lodge, as a hunter, with a red plume and a mantle of blue upon his shoulders. He addressed the widow as his friend, and she directed him to sit down beside her daughter, and they were regarded as man and wife. Early on the following morning, he asked for the bow and arrows of those who had been slain by the wicked manito, and went out a-hunting. As soon as he had got out of sight of the lodge, he changed himself into the wood-bird, as he had been before his marriage, and took his flight through the air. Although game was scarce in the neighborhood of the widow's lodge, Monedowa returned at evening, in his character of a hunter, with two deer. This was his daily practice, and the widow's family never more lacked for food. It was noticed, however, that Monedowa himself ate but little, and that of a peculiar kind of meat, flavored with berries, which, with other circumstances, convinced them that he was not as the Indian people around him. In a few days his mother-in-law told him that the manito would come to pay them a visit, to see how the young man, her son, prospered. Monedowa answered that he should on that day be absent. When the time arrived, he flew upon a tall tree, overlooking the lodge, and took his station there as the wicked manito passed in. The mudjee monedo cast sharp glances at the scaffolds so well laden with meat, and as soon as he had entered, he said, "Why, who is it that is furnishing you with meat so plentifully?" "No one," she answered, "but my son; he is just beginning to kill deer." "No, no," he retorted; "some one is living with you." "Kaween, no indeed," replied the widow; "you are only making sport of my hapless condition. Who do you think would come and trouble themselves about me?" "Very well," answered the manito, "I will go; but on such a day I will again visit you, and see who it is that furnishes the meat, and whether it is your son or not." He had no sooner left the lodge and got out of sight, than the son-in-law made his appearance with two more deer. On being made acquainted with the conduct of the manito, "Very well," he said, "I will be at home the next time, to see him." Both the mother and the wife urged Monedowa to be aware of the manito. They made known to him all of his cruel courses, and assured him that no man could escape from his power. "No matter," said Monedowa; "if he invites me to the race-ground, I will not be backward. What follows, may teach him, my mother, to show pity on the vanquished, and not to trample on the widow and those who are without fathers." When the day of the visit of the manito arrived, Monedowa told his wife to prepare certain pieces of meat, which he pointed out to her, together with two or three buds of the birch-tree, which he requested her to put in the pot. He directed also that the manito should be hospitably received, as if he had been just the kind-hearted old Indian he professed to be. Monedowa then dressed himself as a warrior, embellishing his visage with tints of red, to show that he was prepared for either war or peace. As soon as the mudjee monedo arrived, he eyed this strange warrior whom he had never seen before; but he dissembled, as usual, and, with a gentle laugh, said to the widow, "Did I not tell you that some one was staying with you, for I knew your son was too young to hunt." The widow excused herself by saying that she did not think it necessary to tell him, inasmuch as he was a manito, and must have known before he asked. The manito was very pleasant with Monedowa, and after much other discourse, in a gentle-spoken voice, he invited him to the racing-ground, saying it was a manly amusement, that he would have an excellent chance to meet there with other warriors, and that he should himself be pleased to run with him. Monedowa would have excused himself, saying that he knew nothing of running. "Why," replied the mudjee monedo, trembling in every limb as he spoke, "don't you see how old I look, while you are young and full of life. We must at least run a little to amuse others." "Be it so, then," replied Monedowa. "I will oblige you. I will go in the morning." Pleased with his crafty success, the manito would have now taken his leave, but he was pressed to remain and partake of their hospitality. The meal was immediately prepared. But one dish was used. Monedowa partook of it first, to show his guest that he need not fear, saying at the same time, "It is a feast, and as we seldom meet, we must eat all that is placed on the dish, as a mark of gratitude to the Great Spirit for permitting me to kill animals, and for the pleasure of seeing you, and partaking of it with you." They ate and talked, on this and that, until they had nearly dispatched the meal, when the manito took up the dish and drank off the broth at a breath. On setting it down he immediately turned his head and commenced coughing with great violence. The old body in which he had disguised himself was well-nigh shaken in pieces, for he had, as Monedowa expected, swallowed a grain of the birch-bud, and this, which relished to himself as being of the bird nature, greatly distressed the old manito, who partook of the character of an animal, or four-footed thing. He was at last put to such confusion of face by his constant coughing, that he was enforced to leave, saying, or rather hiccoughing as he left the lodge, that he should look for the young man at the racing-ground in the morning. When the morning came, Monedowa was early astir, oiling his limbs and enameling his breast and arms with red and blue, resembling the plumage in which he had first appeared to Minda. Upon his brow he placed a tuft of feathers of the same shining tints. By his invitation his wife, Minda, the mother and her young son, attended Monedowa to the manito's racing-ground. The lodge of the manito stood upon a high ground, and near it stretched out a long row of other lodges, said to be possessed by wicked kindred of his, who shared in the spoils of his cruelty. As soon as the young hunter and his party approached, the inmates appeared at their lodge-doors and cried out: "We are visited." At this cry, the mudjee monedo came forth and descended with his companions to the starting-post on the plain. From this the course could be seen, winding in a long girdle about the lake; and as they were now all assembled, the old manito began to speak of the race, belted himself up and pointed to the post, which was an upright pillar of stone. "But before we start," said the manito, "I wish it to be understood that when men run with me I make a wager, and I expect them to abide by it--life against life." "Very well--be it so," answered Monedowa. "We shall see whose head is to be dashed against the stone." "We shall," rejoined the mudjee monedo. "I am very old, but I shall try and make a run." "Very well," again rejoined Monedowa; "I hope we shall both stand to our bargain." "Good!" said the old manito; and he at the same time cast a sly glance at the young hunter, and rolled his eyes toward where stood the pillar of stone. "I am ready," said Monedowa. The starting shout was given, and they set off at high speed, the manito leading, and Monedowa pressing closely after. As he closed upon him, the old manito began to show his power, and changing himself into a fox he passed the young hunter with ease, and went leisurely along. Monedowa now, with a glance upward, took the shape of the strange bird of red and deep-blue plumage, and with one flight, lighting at some distance ahead of the manito, resumed his mortal shape. When the mudjee monedo espied his competitor before him, "Whoa! whoa!" he exclaimed; "this is strange;" and he immediately changed himself into a wolf, and sped past Monedowa. As he galloped by, Monedowa heard a noise from his throat, and he knew that he was still in distress from the birch-bud which he had swallowed at his mother-in-law's lodge. Monedowa again took wing, and, shooting into the air, he descended suddenly with great swiftness, and took the path far ahead of the old manito. As he passed the wolf he whispered in his ear: "My friend, is this the extent of your speed?" The manito began to be troubled with bad forebodings, for, on looking ahead, he saw the young hunter in his own manly form, running along at leisure. The mudjee monedo, seeing the necessity of more speed, now passed Monedowa in the shape of a deer. They were now far around the circle of the lake, and fast closing in upon the starting-post, when Monedowa, putting on his red and blue plumage, glided along the air and alighted upon the track far in advance. To overtake him, the old manito assumed the shape of the buffalo; and he pushed on with such long gallops that he was again the foremost on the course. The buffalo was the last change he could make, and it was in this form that he had most frequently conquered. The young hunter, once more a bird, in the act of passing the manito, saw his tongue lolling from his mouth with fatigue. "My friend," said Monedowa, "is this all your speed?" The manito made no answer. Monedowa had resumed his character of a hunter, and was within a run of the winning-post, when the wicked manito had nearly overtaken him. "Bakah! bakah! nejee!" he called out to Monedowa; "stop, my friend, I wish to talk to you." Monedowa laughed aloud as he replied: "I will speak to you at the starting-post. When men run with me I make a wager, and I expect them to abide by it--life against life." One more flight as the blue bird with red wings, and Monedowa was so near to the goal that he could easily reach it in his mortal shape. Shining in beauty, his face lighted up like the sky, with tinted arms and bosom gleaming in the sun, and the parti-colored plume on his brow waving in the wind. Monedowa, cheered by a joyful shout from his own people, leaped to the post. The manito came on with fear in his face. "My friend," he said, "spare my life;" and then added, in a low voice, as if he would not that the others should hear it, "Give me to live." And he began to move off as if the request had been granted. "As you have done to others," replied Monedowa, "so shall it be done to you." And seizing the wicked manito, he dashed him against the pillar of stone. His kindred, who were looking on in horror, raised a cry of fear and fled away in a body to some distant land, whence they have never returned. The widow's family left the scene, and when they had all come out into the open fields, they walked on together until they had reached the fragrant bank and the evergreen wood, where the daughter had first encountered her bird lover. Monedowa turning to her, said: "My mother, here we must part. Your daughter and myself must now leave you. The Good Spirit, moved with pity, has allowed me to be your friend. I have done that for which I was sent. I am permitted to take with me the one whom I love. I have found your daughter ever kind, gentle and just. She shall be my companion. The blessing of the Good Spirit be ever with you. Farewell, my mother--my brother, farewell." While the widow woman was still lost in wonder at these words, Monedowa, and Minda his wife, changed at the same moment, rose into the air, as beautiful birds, clothed in shining colors of red and blue. They caroled together as they flew, and their songs were happy, and falling, falling, like clear drops, as they rose, and rose, and winged their way far upward, a delicious peace came into the mind of the poor widow woman, and she returned to her lodge deeply thankful at heart for all the goodness that had been shown to her by the Master of Life. From that day forth she never knew want, and her young son proved a comfort to her lodge, and the tuneful carol of Monedowa and Minda, as it fell from heaven, was a music always, go whither she would, sounding peace and joy in her ear. XXIV. BOKWEWA, THE HUMPBACK. Bokwewa and his brother lived in a far-off part of the country. By such as had knowledge of them, Bokwewa, the elder, although deformed and feeble of person, was considered a manito, who had assumed the mortal shape; while his younger brother, Kwasynd, manly in appearance, active, and strong, partook of the nature of the present race of beings. They lived off the path, in a wild, lonesome place, far retired from neighbors, and, undisturbed by cares, they passed their time, content and happy. The days glided by serenely as the river that flowed by their lodge. Owing to his lack of strength, Bokwewa never engaged in the chase, but gave his attention entirely to the affairs of the lodge. In the long winter evenings he passed the time in telling his brother stories of the giants, spirits, weendigoes, and fairies of the elder age, when they had the exclusive charge of the world. He also at times taught his brother the manner in which game should be pursued, pointed out to him the ways of the different beasts and birds of the chase, and assigned the seasons at which they could be hunted with most success. For a while the brother was eager to learn, and keenly attended to his duties as the provider of the lodge; but at length he grew weary of their tranquil life, and began to have a desire to show himself among men. He became restive in their retirement, and was seized with a longing to visit remote places. One day, Kwasynd told his brother that he should leave him; that he wished to visit the habitations of men, and to procure a wife. Bokwewa objected; but his brother overruled all that he said, and in spite of every remonstrance, he departed on his travels. He traveled for a long time. At length he fell in with the footsteps of men. They were moving by encampments, for he saw, at several spots, the poles where they had passed. It was winter; and coming to a place where one of their company had died, he found upon a scaffold, lying at length in the cold blue air, the body of a beautiful young woman. "She shall be my wife!" exclaimed Kwasynd. He lifted her up, and bearing her in his arms, he returned to his brother. "Brother," he said, "can not you restore her to life? Oh, do me that favor!" He looked upon the beautiful female with a longing gaze; but she lay as cold and silent as when he had found her upon the scaffold. "I will try," said Bokwewa. These words had been scarcely breathed, when the young woman rose up, opened her eyes, and looked upon Bokwewa with a smile, as if she had known him before. To Kwasynd she paid no heed whatever; but presently Bokwewa, seeing how she lingered in her gaze upon himself, said to her, "Sister, that is your husband," pointing to Kwasynd. She listened to his voice, and crossing the lodge, she sat by Kwasynd, and they were man and wife. For a long time they all lived contentedly together. Bokwewa was very kind to his brother, and sought to render his days happy. He was ever within the lodge, seeking to have it in readiness against the return of Kwasynd from the hunt. And by following his directions, which were those of one deeply skilled in the chase, Kwasynd always succeeded in returning with a good store of meat. But the charge of the two brothers was greatly lightened by the presence of the spirit-wife; for without labor of the hand, she ordered the lodge, and as she willed, every thing took its place, and was at once in proper array. The wish of her heart seemed to control whatever she looked upon, and it obeyed her desire. But it was still more to the surprise of her husband Kwasynd that she never partook of food, nor shared in any way the longings and appetites of a mortal creature. She had never been seen arranging her hair, like other females, or at work upon her garments, and yet they were ever seemly, and without blemish or disorder. Behold her at any hour, she was ever beautiful, and she seemed to need no ornament, nor nourishment, nor other aid, to give grace or strength to her looks. Kwasynd, when the first wonder of her ways had passed, payed little heed to her discourse; he was engrossed with the hunt, and chose rather to be abroad, pursuing the wild game, or in the lodge, enjoying its savory spoil, than the society of his spirit-wife. But Bokwewa watched closely every word that fell from her lips, and often forgot, like her, all mortal appetite and care of the body, in conferring with her, and noting what she had to say of spirits and fairies, of stars, and streams that never ceased to flow, and the delight of the happy hunting-grounds, and the groves of the blessed. One day Kwasynd had gone out as usual, and Bokwewa was sitting in the lodge, on the opposite side to his brother's wife, when she suddenly exclaimed: "I must leave you," as a tall young man, whose face was like the sun in its brightness, entered, and taking her by the hand he led her to the door. She made no resistance, but turning as she left the lodge, she cast upon Bokwewa a smile of kind regard, and was at once, with her companion, gone from his view. He ran to the door and glanced about. He saw nothing; but looking far off in the sky, he thought that he could discover, at a great distance, a shining track, and the dim figures of two who were vanishing in heaven. When his brother returned, Bokwewa related all to him exactly as it had happened. The face of Kwasynd changed, and was dark as the night. For several days he would not taste food. Sometimes he would fall to weeping for a long time, and now only it seemed that he remembered how gentle and beautiful had been the ways of her who was lost. At last he said that he would go in search of her. Bokwewa tried to dissuade him from it; but he would not be turned aside from his purpose. "Since you are resolved," said Bokwewa, "listen to my advice. You will have to go South. It is a long distance to the present abiding-place of your wife, and there are so many charms and temptations by the way that I fear you will be led astray and forget your errand. For the people whom you will see in the country through which you have to pass, do nothing but amuse themselves. They are very idle, gay and effeminate, and I fear that they will lead you astray. Your path is beset with dangers. I will mention one or two things which you must be on your guard against. "In the course of your journey you will come to a large grape-vine lying across your path. You must not even taste its fruit, for it is poisonous. Step over it. It is a snake. You will next come to something that looks like bear's fat, of which you are so fond. Touch it not, or you will be overcome by the soft habits of the idle people. It is frog's eggs. These are snares laid by the way for you." Kwasynd promised that he would observe the advice and bidding his brother farewell, he set out. After traveling a long time he came to the enchanted grape-vine. It looked so tempting, with its swelling purple clusters, that he forgot his brother's warning, and tasted the fruit. He went on till he came to the frog's eggs. They so much resembled delicious bear's fat that Kwasynd tasted them. He still went on. At length he came to a wide plain. As he emerged from the forest the sun was falling in the west, and it cast its scarlet and golden shades far over the country. The air was perfectly calm, and the whole prospect had the air of an enchanted land. Fruits and flowers, and delicate blossoms, lured the eye and delighted the senses. At a distance he beheld a large village, swarming with people, and as he drew near he discovered women beating corn in silver mortars. When they saw Kwasynd approaching, they cried out: "Bokwewa's brother has come to see us." Throngs of men and women, in bright apparel, hurried out to meet him. He was soon, having already yielded to temptation by the way, overcome by their fair looks and soft speeches, and he was not long afterward seen beating corn with the women, having entirely abandoned all further quest for his lost wife. Meantime, Bokwewa, alone in the lodge, often musing upon the discourse of the spirit-wife, who was gone, waited patiently his brother's return. After the lapse of several years, when no tidings could be had, he set out in search of him, and he arrived in safety among the soft and idle people of the South. He met the same allurements by the way, and they gathered around him on his coming as they had around his brother Kwasynd; but Bokwewa was proof against their flattery. He only grieved in his heart that any should yield. He shed tears of pity to see that his brother had laid aside the arms of a hunter, and that he was beating corn with the women, indifferent to the fate and the fortune of his lost wife. Bokwewa ascertained that his brother's wife had passed on to a country beyond. After deliberating for a time, and spending several days in a severe fast, he set out in the direction where he saw that a light shone from the sky. It was far off, but Bokwewa had a stout heart; and strong in the faith that he was now on the broad path toward the happy land, he pressed forward. For many days he traveled without encountering any thing unusual. And now plains of vast extent, and rich in waving grass, began to pass before his eyes. He saw many beautiful groves, and heard the songs of countless birds. At length he began to fail in strength for lack of food; when he suddenly reached a high ground. From this he caught the first glimpse of the other land. But it appeared to be still far off, and all the country between, partly vailed in silvery mists, glittered with lakes and streams of water. As he pressed on, Bokwewa came in sight of innumerable herds of stately deer, moose, and other animals which walked near his path, and they appeared to have no fear of man. And now again as he wound about in his course, and faced the north once more, he beheld, coming toward him, an immense number of men, women, and children, pressing forward in the direction of the shining land. In this vast throng Bokwewa beheld persons of every age, from the little infant, the sweet and lovely penaisee, or younger son, to the feeble, gray old man, stooping under the burden of his years. All whom Bokwewa met, of every name and degree, were heavily laden with pipes, weapons, bows, arrows, kettles and other wares and implements. One man stopped him, and complained of the weary load he was carrying. Another offered him a kettle; another his bow and arrows; but he declined all, and, free of foot, hastened on. And now he met women who were carrying their basket-work, and painted paddles, and little boys, with their embellished war-clubs and bows and arrows, the gift of their friends. With this mighty throng, Bokwewa was borne along for two days and nights, when he arrived at a country so still and shining, and so beautiful in its woods and groves and plains, that he knew it was here that he should find the lost spirit-wife. He had scarcely entered this fair country, with a sense of home and the return to things familiar strong upon him, when there appeared before him the lost spirit-wife herself, who, taking him by the hand, gave him welcome, saying, "My brother, I am glad to see you. Welcome! welcome! You are now in your native land!" XXV. THE CRANE THAT CROSSED THE RIVER. A famous hunter who lived in a remote part of the North had a fair wife and two sons, who were left in the lodge every day while he went out in quest of the animals whose flesh was their principal support. Game was very abundant in those days, and his labors in the chase were well rewarded. They lived a long distance from any other lodge, and it was seldom that they saw any other faces than those of their own household. The two sons were still too young to follow their father in the hunt, and they were in the habit of diverting themselves within reach of the lodge. While thus engaged, they began to take note that a young man visited the lodge during their father's absence, and that these visits were constantly renewed. At length the elder of the two said to his mother: "My mother, who is this tall young man that comes here so often during our father's absence? Does he wish to see him? Shall I tell him when he comes back this evening?" "Naubesah, you little fool," said the mother, "mind your bow and arrows, and do not be afraid to enter the forest in search of birds and squirrels, with your little brother. It is not manly to be ever about the lodge. Nor will you become a warrior if you tell all the little things that you see and hear to your father. Say not a word to him." The boys obeyed, but as they grew older and still noticed the visits of the stranger, they resolved to speak again to their mother. They now told her that they meant to make known to their father all that they had witnessed, for they frequently saw this young man passing through the woods, and he did not walk in the path, nor did he carry any thing to eat. If he had any message to deliver at their lodge, why did he not give it to their father? for they had observed that messages were always addressed to men, and not to women. When her sons spoke thus to her, the mother was greatly vexed. "I will kill you," she said, "if you speak of it." In fear they for a time held their peace, but still taking note that the stranger came so often and by stealth to the lodge, they resolved at last to speak with their father. Accordingly one day, when they were out in the woods, learning to follow the chase, they told him all that they had seen. The face of the father grew dark. He was still for a while, and when at length he looked up-- "It is done!" he said. "Do you, my children, tarry here until the hour of the falling of the sun, then come to the lodge and you will find me." The father left them at a slow pace, and they remained sporting away their time till the hour for their return had come. When they reached the lodge the mother was not there. They dared not to ask their father whither she had gone, and from that day forth her name was never spoken again in the lodge. In course of time the two boys had grown to be men, and although the mother was never more seen in the lodge, in charge of her household tasks, nor on the path in the forest, nor by the river side, she still lingered, ever and ever, near the lodge. Changed, but the same, with ghastly looks and arms that were withered, she appeared to her sons as they returned from the hunt, in the twilight, in the close of the day. At night she darkly unlatched the lodge-door and glided in, and bent over them as they sought to sleep. Oftenest it was her bare brow, white, and bony, and bodyless, that they saw floating in the air, and making a mock of them in the wild paths of the forest, or in the midnight darkness of the lodge. She was a terror to all their lives, and she made every spot where they had seen her, hideous to the living eye; so that after being long buffeted and beset, they at last resolved, together with their father, now stricken in years, to leave the country. They began a journey toward the South. After traveling many days along the shore of a great lake, they passed around a craggy bluff, and came upon a scene where there was a rough fall of waters, and a river issuing forth from the lake. They had no sooner come in sight of this fall of water, than they heard a rolling sound behind them, and looking back, they beheld the skull of a woman rolling along the beach. It seemed to be pursuing them, and it came on with great speed; when, behold, from out of the woods hard by, appeared a headless body, which made for the beach with the utmost dispatch. The skull too advanced toward it, and when they looked again, lo! they had united, and were making all haste to come up with the hunter and his two sons. They now might well be in extreme fear, for they knew not how to escape her. At this moment, one of them looked out and saw a stately crane sitting on a rock in the middle of the rapids. They called out to the bird, "See, grandfather, we are persecuted. Come and take us across the falls that we may escape her." The crane so addressed was of extraordinary size, and had arrived at a great old age, and, as might be expected, he sat, when first descried by the two sons, in a state of profound thought, revolving his long experience of life there in the midst of the most violent eddies. When he heard himself appealed to, the crane stretched forth his neck with great deliberation, and lifting himself slowly by his wings, he flew across to their assistance. "Be careful," said the old crane, "that you do not touch the crown of my head. I am bald from age and long service, and very tender at that spot. Should you be so unlucky as to lay a hand upon it, I shall not be able to avoid throwing you both in the rapids." They paid strict heed to his directions, and were soon safely landed on the other shore of the river. He returned and carried the father in the same way; and then took his place once more where he had been first seen in the very midst of the eddies of the stream. But the woman, who had by this time reached the shore, cried out, "Come, my grandfather, and carry me over, for I have lost my children, and I am sorely distressed." The aged bird obeyed her summons, and flew to her side. He carefully repeated the warning that she was not to touch the crown of his head; and he was so anxious that she should take it to heart, that he went over it a second and a third time, word by word. He begged her to bear in mind that she should respect his old age, if there was any sense of virtue left in her. She promised to obey; but they were no sooner fairly embarked in the stream, than she stealthily sought to disregard the warning she had received. Instantly the crane cast her into the rapids, and shook his wings as if to free himself of all acquaintance with her. "There," said he, as she sunk in the stream, "you would ever do what was forbidden. In life, as you sought those you should have avoided, so now you shall be avoided by those who should seek you. Go, and be henceforth Addum Kum Maig!" The woman disappeared, was straightway carried by the rapid currents far out into the waters, and in the wide wilderness of shoreless depths, without companion or solace, was lost forever. The family of the hunter, grateful for his generous help, adopted the bird as their family emblem or mark, and under the guardianship of the Crane that Crossed the River, they prospered, with days of plenty and nights of peace. XXVI. WUNZH. THE FATHER OF INDIAN CORN. In time past--we can not tell exactly how many, many years ago--a poor Indian was living, with his wife and children, in a beautiful part of the country. He was not only poor, but he had the misfortune to be inexpert in procuring food for his family, and his children were all too young to give him assistance. Although of a lowly condition and straitened in his circumstances, he was a man of kind and contented disposition. He was always thankful to the Great Spirit for every thing he received. He even stood in the door of his lodge to bless the birds that flew past in the summer evenings; although, if he had been of a complaining temper, he might have repined that they were not rather spread upon the table for his evening meal. The same gracious and sweet disposition was inherited by his eldest son, who had now arrived at the proper age to undertake the ceremony of the fast, to learn what kind of a spirit would be his guide and guardian through life. Wunzh, for this was his name, had been an obedient boy from his infancy--pensive, thoughtful, and gentle--so that he was beloved by the whole family. As soon as the first buds of spring appeared, and the delicious fragrance of the young year began to sweeten the air, his father, with the help of his younger brothers, built for Wunzh the customary little lodge, at a retired spot at some distance from their own, where he would not be disturbed during the solemn rite. To prepare himself, Wunzh sought to clear his heart of every evil thought, and to think of nothing that was not good, and beautiful, and kindly. That he might store his mind with pleasant ideas for his dreams, for the first few days he amused himself by walking in the woods and over the mountains, examining the early plants and flowers. As he rambled far and wide, through the wild country, he felt a strong desire to know how the plants and herbs and berries grew, without any aid from man, and why it was that some kinds were good to eat, and that others were possessed of medicinal or poisonous power. After he had become too languid to walk about, and confined himself strictly to the lodge, he recalled these thoughts, and turning them in his mind, he wished he could dream of something that would prove a benefit to his father and family, and to all others of his fellow-creatures. "True," thought Wunzh, "the Great Spirit made all things, and it is to him that we owe our lives. Could he not make it easier for us to get our food, than by hunting animals and taking fish? I must try to find this out in my visions." On the third day Wunzh became weak and faint, and kept his bed. Suddenly he fancied, as he lay thus, that a bright light came in at the lodge door, and ere he was aware, he saw a handsome young man, with a complexion of the softest and purest white, coming down from the sky, and advancing toward him. The beautiful stranger was richly and gayly dressed, having on a great many garments of green and yellow colors, but differing in their deeper or lighter shades. He had a plume of waving feathers on his head, and all his motions were graceful, and reminded Wunzh of the deep green of the summer grass, and the clear amber of the summer sky, and the gentle blowing of the summer wind. Beautiful as the stranger was, he paused on a little mound of earth, just before the door of the lodge. "I am sent to you, my friend," said this celestial visitor, in a voice most soft and musical to listen to, "I am sent to you by that Great Spirit who made all things in the sky, and on the earth. He has seen and knows your motives in fasting. He sees that it is from a kind and benevolent wish to do good to your people, and to procure a benefit for them; that you do not seek for strength in war, or the praise of the men of the bloody hand. I am sent to instruct you and to show you how you can do your kindred good." He then told the young man to arise, and to prepare to wrestle with him, as it was only by this means that he could hope to succeed in his wishes. Wunzh knew how weak he was from fasting, but the voice of the stranger was cheery, and put such a courage in his heart, that he promptly sprang up, determined to die rather than fail. Brave Wunzh! if you ever accomplish any thing, it will be through the power of the resolve that spake within you at that moment. He began the trial, and after a long-sustained struggle he was almost overpowered, when the beautiful stranger said: "My friend, it is enough for once, I will come again to try you;" and smiling on him, he returned through the air in the same direction in which he had come. The next day, although he saw how sweetly the wild-flowers bloomed upon the slopes, and the birds warbled from the woodland, he longed to see the celestial visitor, and to hear his voice. To his great joy he reappeared at the same hour, toward the going down of the sun, and re-challenged Wunzh to a trial of strength. The brave Wunzh felt that his strength of body was even less than on the day before, but the courage of his mind seemed to grow. Observing this, and how Wunzh put his whole heart in the struggle, the stranger again spoke to him in the words he used before, adding: "To-morrow will be your last trial. Be strong, my friend, for this is the only way in which you can overcome me and obtain the boon you seek." The light which shone after him as he left Wunzh was brighter than before. On the third day he came again and renewed the struggle. Very faint in body was poor Wunzh, but he was stronger at heart than ever, and determined to prevail now or perish. He put forth his utmost powers, and after a contest more severe than either of the others, the stranger ceased his efforts, and declared himself conquered. For the first time he entered Wunzh's little fasting-lodge, and sitting down beside the youth, he began to deliver his instructions to him and to inform him in what manner he should proceed to take advantage of his victory. "You have won your desire of the Great Spirit," said the beautiful stranger. "You have wrestled manfully. To-morrow will be the seventh day of your fasting. Your father will give you food to strengthen you, and as it is the last day of trial you will prevail. I know this, and now tell you what you must do to benefit your family and your people. To-morrow," he repeated, "I shall meet you and wrestle with you for the last time. As soon as you have prevailed against me, you will strip off my garments and throw me down, clean the earth of roots and weeds, make it soft, and bury me in the spot. When you have done this, leave my body in the earth, and do not disturb it, but come at times to visit the place, to see whether I have come to life, and above all be careful to never let the grass or weeds grow upon my grave. Once a month cover me with fresh earth. If you follow these my instructions you will accomplish your object of doing good to your fellow-creatures by teaching them the knowledge I now teach you." He then shook Wunzh by the hand and disappeared, but he was gone so soon that Wunzh could not tell what direction he took. In the morning, Wunzh's father came to his lodge with some slight refreshments, saying: "My son, you have fasted long enough. If the Great Spirit will favor you, he will do it now. It is seven days since you have tasted food, and you must not sacrifice your life. The Master of Life does not require that." "My father," replied Wunzh, "wait till the sun goes down. I have a particular reason for extending my fast to that hour." "Very well," said the old man, "I shall wait till the hour arrives, and you shall be inclined to eat." At his usual hour of appearing, the beautiful sky-visitor returned, and the trial of strength was renewed. Although he had not availed himself of his father's offer of food, Wunzh felt that new strength had been given him. His heart was mighty within him to achieve some great purpose. Courage was like the eagle that spreads his wings within the tree-top for a great flight, within the bosom of the brave Wunzh. He grasped his angel challenger with supernatural strength, threw him down, and, mindful of his own instructions, tore from him his beautiful garments and plume, and finding him dead, he immediately buried him on the spot, using all the precautions he had been told of, and very confident was Wunzh, all the time, that his friend would again come to life. Wunzh now returned to his father's lodge, where he was warmly welcomed, for as it had been appointed to him during the days of his fasting to walk apart with Heaven, he was not permitted to see any human face save that of his father, the representative to the little household upon earth of the Good Father who is in Heaven. Wunzh partook sparingly of the meal that had been prepared for him, and once more mingled in the cares and sports of the family. But he never for a moment forgot the grave of his friend. He carefully visited it throughout the spring, and weeded out the grass, and kept the ground in a soft and pliant state; and sometimes, when the brave Wunzh thought of his friend that was gone from his sight, he dropped a tear upon the earth where he lay. Watching and tending, and moistening the earth with his tears, it was not long before Wunzh saw the tops of green plumes coming through the ground; and the more faithful he was in obeying his instructions in keeping the ground in order, and in cherishing the memory of his departed friend, the faster they grew. He was, however, careful to conceal the charge of the earth which he had from his father. Days and weeks had passed in this way; the summer was drawing toward a close, when one day, after a long absence in hunting, Wunzh invited his father to follow him to the quiet and lonesome spot of his former fast. The little fasting-lodge had been removed, and the weeds kept from growing on the circle where it had stood; but in its place rose a tall and graceful plant, surmounted with nodding plumes and stately leaves, and golden clusters. There was in its aspect and bearing the deep green of the summer grass, the clear amber of the summer sky, and the gentle blowing of the summer wind. "It is my friend!" shouted Wunzh, "it is the friend of all mankind. It is Mondawmin: it is our Indian Corn! We need no longer rely on hunting alone, for as long as this gift is cherished and taken care of, the ground itself will give us a living." He then pulled an ear. "See, my father," said he, "this is what I fasted for. The Great Spirit has listened to my voice, and sent us something new, and henceforth our people will not alone depend upon the chase or upon the waters." Wunzh then communicated to his father the instructions given to him by the stranger. He told him that the broad husks must be torn away, as he had pulled off the garments in his wrestling, and having done this, he directed him how the ear must be held before the fire till the outer skin became brown--as he complexion of his angel friend had been tinted by the sun--while all the milk was retained in the grain. The whole family, in high spirits, and deeply grateful to the Merciful Master who gave it, assisted in a feast on the newly-grown ears of corn. So came that mighty blessing into the world, and we owe all of those beautiful fields of healthful grain to the dream of the brave boy Wunzh. THE END. 
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25913	----	[Illustration: He took out his pipe and blew a tune.] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- TALES OF FOLK AND FAIRIES WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY KATHARINE PYLE BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1929 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- _Copyright, 1919_, BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ---------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE THE MEESTER STOORWORM _A Story from Scotland_ 1 JEAN MALIN AND THE BULL-MAN _A Louisiana Tale_ 22 THE WIDOW'S SON _A Scandinavian Tale_ 35 THE WISE GIRL _A Serbian Story_ 61 THE HISTORY OF ALI COGIA _From the Arabian Nights_ 72 OH! _A Cossack Story_ 101 THE TALKING EGGS _A Story from Louisiana_ 123 THE FROG PRINCESS _A Russian Story_ 137 THE MAGIC TURBAN, THE MAGIC SWORD AND THE MAGIC CARPET _A Persian Story_ 159 THE THREE SILVER CITRONS _A Persian Story_ 180 THE MAGIC PIPE _A Norse Tale_ 201 THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH _A Hindu Story_ 221 LIFE'S SECRET _A Story of Bengal_ 251 DAME PRIDGETT AND THE FAIRIES 278 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE He took out his pipe and blew a tune. Frontispiece Seeing no one, the creature dropped on its knees and bellowed, "Beau Madjam!" 29 She sat down beside the hearth and took off her head. 127 Then the demon flew out through the window and away through the night. 169 The Princess took the cup and drank. 191 The Rajah brought the girl down, while the crows circled about his head. 241 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- TALES OF FOLK AND FAIRIES THE MEESTER STOORWORM A STORY FROM SCOTLAND There was once a lad, and what his real name was nobody remembered, unless it was the mother who bore him; but what every one called him was Ashipattle. They called him that because he sat among the ashes to warm his toes. He had six older brothers, and they did not think much of him. All the tasks they scorned to do themselves they put upon Ashipattle. He gathered the sticks for the fire, he swept the floor, he cleaned the byre, he ran the errands, and all he got for his pains were kicks and cuffs and mocking words. Still he was a merry fellow, and as far as words went he gave his brothers as good as they sent. Ashipattle had one sister, and she was very good and kind to him. In return for her kindness he told her long stories of trolls and giants and heroes and brave deeds, and as long as he would tell she would sit and listen. But his brothers could not stand his stories, and used to throw clods at him to make him be quiet. They were angry because Ashipattle was always the hero of his own stories, and in his tales there was nothing he dared not do. Now while Ashipattle was still a lad, but a tall, stout one, a great misfortune fell upon the kingdom, for a Stoorworm rose up out of the sea; and of all Stoorworms it was the greatest and the worst. For this reason it was called the Meester Stoorworm. Its length stretched half around the world, its one eye was as red as fire, and its breath was so poisonous that whatever it breathed upon was withered. There was great fear and lamentation throughout the land because of the worm, for every day it drew nearer to the shore, and every day the danger from it grew greater. When it was first discovered it was so far away that its back was no more than a low, long, black line upon the horizon, but soon it was near enough for them to see the horns upon its back, and its scales, and its one fierce eye, and its nostrils that breathed out and in. In their fear the people cried upon the King to save them from the monster, but the King had no power to save them more than any other man. His sword, Snickersnapper, was the brightest and sharpest and most wonderful sword in all the world, but it would need a longer sword than Snickersnapper to pierce through that great body to the monster's heart. The King summoned his councillors,--all the wisest men in the kingdom,--and they consulted and talked together, but none of them could think of any plan to beat or drive the Stoorworm off, so powerful it was. Now there was in that country a sorcerer, and the King had no love for him. Still, when all the wisemen and councillors could think of no plan for destroying the Stoorworm, the King said, "Let us send for this sorcerer, and have him brought before us, and hear what he has to say; for 'twould seem there is no help in any of us for this evil that has come upon us." So the sorcerer was brought, and he stood up in the council and looked from one to another. Last of all he looked at the King, and there his eyes rested. "There is one way, and only one," said he, "by which the land can be saved from destruction. Let the King's only daughter, the Princess Gemlovely, be given to the Stoorworm as a sacrifice, and he will be satisfied and quit us." No sooner had the sorcerer said this than a great tumult arose in the council. The councillors were filled with horror, and cried aloud that the sorcerer should be torn to pieces for speaking such words. But the King arose and bade them be silent,--and he was as white as death. "Is this the only way to save my people?" he asked. "It is the only way I know of," answered the sorcerer. The King stood still and white for a time. "Then," said he, "if it is the only way, so let it be. But first let it be proclaimed, far and wide throughout my kingdom, that there is an heroic deed to be done. Whosoever will do battle with the Stoorworm and slay it, or drive it off, shall have the Princess Gemlovely for a bride, and the half of my kingdom, and my sword Snickersnapper for his own; and after my death he shall rule as king over all the realm." Then the King dismissed the Council, and they went away in silence, with dark and heavy looks. A proclamation was sent out as the King commanded, saying that whoever could kill the Stoorworm or drive it away should have the Princess, and the half of the kingdom as a reward, and the King's sword, and after the King's death should reign over the whole realm. When this news went out many a man wished he might win these three prizes for himself, for what better was there to be desired than a beauteous wife, a kingdom to reign over, and the most famous sword in all the world. But fine as were the prizes, only six-and-thirty bold hearts came to offer themselves for the task, so great was the fear of the Stoorworm. Of this number the first twelve who looked at the Stoorworm fell ill at sight of him and had to be carried home. The next twelve did not stay to be carried, but ran home on their own legs and shut themselves up in strong fortresses; and the last twelve stayed at the King's palace with their hearts in their stomachs, and their wrists too weak with fear to strike a blow, even to win a kingdom. So there was nothing left but for the Princess to be offered up to the Stoorworm, for it was better that one should be lost, even though that one were the Princess, than that the whole country should be destroyed. Then there was great grief and lamenting throughout the land, for the Princess Gemlovely was so kind and gentle that she was beloved by all, both high and low. Only Ashipattle heard it all unmoved. He said nothing, but sat by the fire and thought and thought, and what his thoughts were he told to nobody. The day was set when the Princess was to be offered up to the Stoorworm, and the night before there was a great feast at the palace, but a sad feast it was. Little was eaten and less was said. The King sat with his back to the light and bit his fingers, and no one dared to speak to him. In the poorer houses there was a great stir and bustle and laying out of coats and dresses, for many were planning to go to the seashore to see the Princess offered up to the Stoorworm,--though a gruesome sight 'twould be to see. Ashipattle's father and brothers were planning to go with the rest, but his mother and sister wept, and said they would not see it for anything in the world. Now Ashipattle's father had a horse named Feetgong, and he was not much to look at. Nevertheless the farmer treasured him, and it was not often he would let any one use him but himself. When the farmer rode Feetgong he could make him go like the wind,--none faster,--and that without beating him, either. Then when the farmer wished him to stop Feetgong would stand as still as though he were frozen to the ground; no one could make him budge. But if any one other than the farmer rode him, then it was quite different. Feetgong would jog along, and not even a beating would drive him faster, and then if one wanted him to stop that was as hard to do as it was to start him. Ashipattle was sure there was some secret about this; that his father had a way to make him go that no one knew about; but what that way was he could not find out. The day before the beauteous Gemlovely was to be sacrificed Ashipattle said to his mother, "Tell me something; how is it that Feetgong will not go for you or my brothers or any one, but when my father mounts him he goes like the wind,--none faster?" Then his mother answered, "Indeed, I do not know." "It seems a strange thing that my father would not tell you that," said Ashipattle, "and you his own true wife." To this his mother answered nothing. "A strange thing," said Ashipattle; "and in all the years you've lived together not a thing have you kept back from him, whether he wished it or no. But even a good husband always holds back some secret from his wife." Still his mother spoke never a word, but Ashipattle could see that she was thinking. That night Ashipattle lay awake long after the others were asleep. He heard his father snoring and his brothers, too, but it seemed his mother could not sleep. She turned and twisted and sighed aloud, until at last she awakened her husband. "What ails you," he asked, "that you turn and twist in bed and sigh so loud that a body scarce can sleep." "It's no wonder I sigh and cannot sleep," answered his wife. "I have been thinking and turning things over in my mind, and I can see very plainly that you do not love me as a good husband should love his wife." "How can you say that?" asked her husband. "Have I not treated you well in all these years? Have I not shown my love in every way?" "Yes, but you do not trust me," said his wife. "You do not tell me what is in your heart." "What have I not told you?" "You have never told me about Feetgong; you have never told me why it is that he goes like the wind whenever you mount him, and when any one else rides him he is so slow there is no getting anywhere with him." Then she began to sob as if her heart would break. "You do not trust me," said she. "Wait, wait!" cried the Goodman. "That is a secret I had never thought to tell any one, but since you have set your heart on knowing--listen! Only you must promise not to tell a living soul what I tell you now." His wife promised. "Then this is it," said her husband. "When I want Feetgong to go moderately fast I slap him on the right shoulder; when I want him to stop I slap him on the left shoulder, and when I want him to go like the wind I blow upon the dried windpipe of a goose that I always carry in the right-hand pocket of my coat." "Now indeed I know that you love me when you tell me this," said his wife. And then she went to sleep, for she was satisfied. Ashipattle waited until near morning, and then he arose and dressed himself. He put on the coat of one brother, and the breeches of another, and the shoes of a third, and so on, for his own clothes were nothing but rags. He felt in the right-hand pocket of his father's coat, and there, sure enough, he found the dried windpipe of a goose. He took that and he took a pot of burning peat, and covered it over so it would keep hot; and he took also a big kitchen knife. Then he went out and led Feetgong from the stable. He sprang upon his back and slapped him on the right shoulder, and away they went. The noise awoke the goodman and he jumped from bed and ran to the window. There was some one riding away on his dear Feetgong. Then he called out at the top of his voice: "Hie! Hie! Ho! Feetgong, whoa!" When Feetgong heard his master calling he stopped and stood stockstill. But Ashipattle whipped out the dried windpipe of the goose and blew upon it, and away went Feetgong like the wind; none could go faster. No one could overtake them. After a while, and not so long either, they came to the seashore, and there, a little way out from the shore, lay the King's own boat with the boatman in it. He was keeping the boat there until day dawned. Then the King and his court would come, bringing the beauteous Gemlovely to offer up to the Stoorworm. They would put her in the boat and set the sails to carry her toward him. Ashipattle looked out across the water, and he could see the black back of the beast rising out of the sea like a long low mountain. He lighted down from Feetgong and called across the water to the boatman, "Hello, friend! How fares it with you out there?" "Bitterly, bitterly!" answered the boatman. "Here I sit and freeze all night, for it is cold on the water, and not a soul except myself but what is safe asleep in a good warm bed." "I have a fire here in the pot," called Ashipattle. "Draw your boat in to shore and come and warm yourself, for I can see even from here that you are almost perished." "That I may not do," answered the man. "The King and his court may come at any time now, and they must find me ready and waiting for them as the commands were." Then Ashipattle put his pot down on the shore and stood and thought a bit. Suddenly he dropped on his knees and began to dig in the sand as though he had gone mad. "Gold! Gold!" he shouted. "What is the matter?" called the boatman. "What have you found?" "Gold! Gold!" shouted Ashipattle, digging faster than ever. The boatman thought Ashipattle must certainly have found a treasure in the sand. He made haste to bring the boat to land. He sprang out upon the shore, and pushing Ashipattle aside, he dropped on his knees and began to scoop out the sand. But Ashipattle did not wait to see whether he found anything. He caught up the pot and leaped into the boat, and before the boatman could stop him he pushed off from the shore. Too late the boatman saw what he was doing. He ran down to the edge of the water and shouted and stormed and cried to Ashipattle to come back, but Ashipattle paid no heed to him. He never even turned his head. He set the sail and steered over toward where the great monster lay, with the waves washing up and breaking into foam against him. And now the dawn was breaking. It was time for the monster to awake, and down the road from the castle came riding the King and all his court, and the Princess Gemlovely rode among them on a milk-white horse. All the color was gone from her face, and she looked as white as snow. When the King and all the others reached the shore there stood the boatman, wringing his hands and lamenting, and the boat was gone. "What is this?" asked the King. "What have you done with my boat, and why are you standing here?" "Look! Look!" cried the boatman and he pointed out to sea. The King looked, and then first he saw Ashipattle in the boat, sailing away toward the monster,--for before his eyes had been dim with sorrow, and he had seen naught but what was close before him. The King looked, and all the court looked with him, and a great cry arose, for they guessed that Ashipattle was sailing out to do battle with the Stoorworm. As they stood staring the sun shone red and the monster awoke. Slowly, slowly his great jaws opened in a yawn, and as he yawned the water rushed into his mouth like a great flood and on down his throat. Ashipattle's boat was caught in the swirl and swept forward faster than any sail could carry it. Then slowly the monster closed his mouth and all was still save for the foaming and surging of the waters. Ashipattle steered his boat close in against the monster's jaws, and it lay there, rocking in the tide, while he waited for the Stoorworm to yawn again. Presently slowly, slowly, the great jaws gaped, and the flood rushed in, foaming. Ashipattle's boat was swept in with the water, and it almost crushed against one of the monster's teeth, but Ashipattle fended it off, and it was carried on the flood down into the Stoorworm's throat. Down and down went the boat with Ashipattle in it and the sound of surging waters filled his ears. It was light there in the monster's throat, for the roof and the sides of it shone with phosphorescence so that he could see everything. As he swept on, the roof above him grew lower and lower, and the water grew shallower and shallower; for it drained off into passages that opened off from the throat into the rest of the body. At last the roof grew so low that the mast of the boat wedged against it. Then Ashipattle stepped over the side of the boat into the water, and it had grown so shallow it was scarce as high as his knees. He took the pot of peat, that was still hot, and the knife, and went a little further until he came to where the beast's heart was. He could see it beat, beat, beating. Ashipattle took his knife and dug a hole in the heart, and emptied the hot peat into it. Then he blew and blew on the peat. He blew until his cheeks almost cracked with blowing, and it seemed as though the peat would never burn. But at last it flared up; the oil of the heart trickled down upon it, and the flame burst into a blaze. Higher and higher waxed the fire. All the heart shone red with the light of it. Then the lad ran back and jumped into the boat and pushed it clear of the roof. And none too soon, for as the fire burned deeper into the heart, the monster felt the burn of it and began to writhe and twist. Then he gave a great cough that sent the waters surging back out of his body and into the sea again in a mighty flood. Ashipattle's boat was caught in the rush and swept like a straw up out of the Stoorworm's throat and into the light of day. The monster spewed him and his boat all the way across the sea and up on the shore, almost at the King's feet. The King himself sprang from his steed and ran and helped Ashipattle to his feet. Then every one fled back to a high hill, for the sea was rising in a mighty flood with the beating and tossing of the Stoorworm. Then began such a sight as never was seen before and perchance will never be seen again. For first the monster flung his tail so high that it seemed as though it would strike the sun from the sky. And next it fell into the sea with such a slap as sent the waves high up the rocks; and now it was his head that flung aloft, and the tongue caught on the point of the crescent moon and hung there, and for a while it looked as though the moon would be pulled from the sky, but it stood firm, and the monster's tongue tore, so that the head dropped back into the sea with such force that the teeth flew out of its mouth, and these teeth became the Orkney Islands. Again its head reared high and fell back, and more teeth flew out, and these became the Shetland Islands. The third time his head rose and fell, and teeth flew out; they became the Faroe Islands. So the monster beat and threshed and struggled, while the King and the Princess and Ashipattle and all the people looked on with fear and wonder at the dreadful sight. But at last the struggle became weaker, for the heart was almost burned out. Then the Stoorworm curled up and lay still, for it was dead, and its great coils became the place called Iceland. So was the monster killed, and that was the manner of his death! But the King turned to Ashipattle and called him son, and took the hand of the Princess Gemlovely and laid it in the lad's hand, for now she was to be his bride as the King had promised. Then they all rode back to the palace together, and the King took the sword Snickersnapper and gave it to Ashipattle for him to keep as his own. A great feast was spread in honor of the slaying of the Stoorworm. All who chose to come were welcome, and all was mirth and rejoicing. The honest farmer, Ashipattle's father, and his mother and his sister and his brothers heard of the feast and put on their best clothes and came, but the farmer had no Feetgong to ride. When they entered the great hall and saw Ashipattle sitting there at the King's right hand in the place of honor, with the Princess Gemlovely beside him, they could hardly believe their eyes, for they had not known he was the hero every one was talking about. But Ashipattle looked at them and nodded, and all was well. Not long after that Ashipattle and the Princess were married, and a grand wedding it was, I can tell you; and after the old King died Ashipattle became ruler of the whole realm, and he and the Princess lived in mutual love and happiness together the rest of their long lives. JEAN MALIN AND THE BULL-MAN A LOUISIANA TALE There was once a little boy who was all alone in the world; he had no father or mother, and no home; and no one to care for him. That made him very sad. One day he sat by the roadside, and he was so sad that he began to weep. Presently a fine coach came rolling along, and in it sat a beautiful, grand lady. She leaned back against the cushions and looked about, first on this side and then on that, and enjoyed herself. When she saw the little boy she made the coachman stop. "Come here, little boy," she called in a gentle voice. The child lifted his head, and then he rose and came over to her. "What is your name?" asked the lady. "Jean Malin," the child answered. "Why are you weeping, Jean? Has some one been unkind to you?" "No; I am weeping because I have no one to be either unkind or kind to me. I am all alone in the world, and I have no home." When the lady heard that she felt very sorry for him. "Come; sit here in the coach beside me," she said, "and I will take you home with me. My home shall be your home, and I will keep you with me always if you are a good boy and do as I tell you." Jean Malin climbed into the coach, and the lady took him home with her. She talked to him and questioned him on the way, and she soon found that he was a clever boy and very polite in his manners. When they arrived at the lady's house she gave him a pretty little suit of clothes and bade him wash and dress himself, and then he came in and waited on her at supper. After that he lived there, and the lady became very fond of him. As for Jean Malin, he soon loved his mistress so dearly that if she had been his own mother he could not have loved her better. Everything she said and did seemed to him exactly right. The lady had a lover who was a great, handsome man with a fine deep voice. This gentleman often came to the house to take meals with the lady, and he always spoke to Jean Malin very pleasantly; but Jean could not abide him. He used to run and hide whenever this man came to the house. The lady scolded him for it, but he could not help it. The gentleman's name was Mr. Bulbul. "I do not know what is the matter with you," said the lady to Jean Malin. "Why is it you do not like Mr. Bulbul? He is very kind to you." "I do not know, but I wish I might never see him again," answered Jean. "That is very wrong of you. Perhaps sometime I may marry Mr. Bulbul. Then he will be your master. What will you do then?" "Perhaps I will run away." That angered the lady. "And perhaps I will send you away if you do not behave better and learn to like him." Now not far from the lady's house there was a pasture, and in this pasture there was a bull,--a fine, handsome animal. Jean Malin often saw it there. After a while Jean began to notice a curious thing. Whenever Mr. Bulbul came to the house, which was almost every day, the bull disappeared from the pasture, and whenever the bull was in the pasture there was nothing to be seen of the gentleman. "That is a curious thing," said Jean to himself. "I will watch and find out what this means. I am sure something is wrong." So one day Jean went out and hid himself behind some rocks at the edge of the pasture. The bull was grazing with his head down and did not see him. After a while the bull raised his head and looked all about him to see if there were any one around. He did not see Jean, because the little boy was behind the rocks, so the animal thought itself alone. Then it dropped on its knees and cried, "Beau Madjam, fat Madjam, djam, djam, djara, djara!" At once the bull became a man, and the man was the very Mr. Bulbul who came to visit Jean's mistress. The boy was so frightened he shivered all over as though he were cold. Mr. Bulbul walked away in the direction of the lady's house, and after he had gone Jean Malin ran home by another way. He crept into the house and heard the lady calling to him, but he would not go to her or show himself. She did not know what had become of him. The next day Mr. Bulbul came again to the lady's house. He came very early for he was to have breakfast with her. The lady called Jean Malin to come and wait on them. He did not want to come, but he was obliged to. He was so frightened that he darted about the room, first on one side and then on the other, and did not understand what was said to him. When the lady asked for water he gave her the toast rack, and when she asked for toast he brought her a towel. It really was very provoking. After Mr. Bulbul had gone the lady called Jean Malin to her. "I am very angry," said she. "You have acted very stupidly this morning. If you cannot do better and behave in a sensible manner, I will have to send you away." When she said this Jean Malin felt very much hurt. He could hardly refrain from weeping. "Mistress, I will tell you why I acted so. I was afraid, and if you knew what I know, you would be afraid, too, and you would never let that big man come into your house again." "What is it that you know and I do not know?" asked the lady. But Jean Malin would not tell her. "Very well," said his mistress; "if you will not tell me willingly I will have you beaten. I will have you beaten until you do tell, so you had better speak now before they begin." Jean Malin began to cry. "I did not want to tell you," said he, "but if I must I must. Dear Mistress, Mr. Bulbul is not a man at all, but that bull that you sometimes see over in the pasture. He uses magic to make himself look like a man so as to come to see you, and then he goes right out and becomes a bull again and eats grass." The lady began to laugh. "You are either crazy or dreaming," said she. "Or, more likely still, you are telling me an untruth so as to excuse yourself and make trouble between him and me." But Jean Malin insisted that what he told her was true. "I have seen it, and I know it," said he. "Moreover I will prove it to you. I do not know how, but I am sure I can prove it." "Very well," said the lady, "if you prove it I will forgive you and treat you as my own son, but if you do not I will have you beaten and sent out of the house as a mischief maker." After that Jean went away by himself and thought and thought. He tried to remember the exact words the bull had said when he turned himself into a man, but he could not be sure about them. So the next day he went out and hid himself behind the rocks again, taking care, as before, that the bull should not see him. The bull's head was down, and it was eating grass. [Illustration: Seeing no one, the creature dropped on its knees and bellowed, "Beau Madjam!"] Soon, however, it raised its head and looked all about it. Seeing no one, the creature dropped on its knees and bellowed, "Beau Madjam, fat Madjam, djam, djam, djara, djara!" At once the bull became a man and walked away in the direction of the lady's house. Jean Malin followed, being careful to keep out of sight, and as he went he kept saying over and over to himself, "Beau Madjam, fat Madjam, djam, djam, djara, djara, Beau Madjam, fat Madjam, djam, djam, djara, djara!" He said it over and over, so that he should not forget any least word of it. When Jean Malin reached home Mr. Bulbul was in the salon with his mistress; Jean could hear them talking together there; his mistress's voice very fine and clear and then Mr. Bulbul's big, deep voice. Jean Malin took a tray of cakes and wine and carried it into the salon just as though his mistress had ordered him to do so. The lady was surprised to see him coming with the tray, but she said, "That is right, Jean. Offer the cake and wine to Mr. Bulbul." Jean Malin went over to Mr. Bulbul, close in front of him, and then he said in a low voice, as though to himself, "Beau Madjam, fat Madjam, djam, djam, djara, djara!" Such a noise you never heard. The fine Mr. Bulbul bellowed aloud and jumped up, smashing his chair and knocking the tray with all the plates and glasses and everything out of Jean Malin's hands. The lady shrieked and almost fainted. Then, right there before her, Mr. Bulbul's head grew long and hairy, horns sprouted from his forehead, his arms turned into legs, and his hands and feet into hoofs, and he became a bull and all his clothes fell off him,--his trousers and coat and vest and eyeglasses and collar and everything. He galloped across the salon in a fright, his hoofs clattering on the floor, and burst out through the glass door so fast that he carried it away on his horns and back into the pasture with him. Then the lady knew that everything Jean Malin had told her was true, and she could not thank him enough. "Now you shall indeed be to me as a son," said she, "and you shall live here always and never leave me." Jean Malin was very happy when the lady said that to him. Nevertheless, when he thought of Mr. Bulbul, he could not feel easy in his mind. He was sure the bull would try to revenge itself on him in some way or other. He kept away from the pasture, and wherever he went he was always looking around to see whether the bull were anywhere in sight. At last he grew so afraid that he determined to go and talk to a black man he knew who dealt in magic. He found the man sitting at the door of his hut, making magic with a horsehair and a snakeskin, and some ground-up glass. Jean Malin, told him everything that had happened, about the bull, and how it had changed itself into a man and had come to visit the lady, and about the magic words, and how he had forced the man to turn back into a bull again. "And now," said he, "I am afraid, for I think he means harm to me." "You do well to be afraid," said the black man. "Bulbul will certainly try to do you harm. He knows much magic, but my magic is stronger than his magic, and I will help you. Get me three owl's eggs and a cup of black goat's milk and bring them here." Jean Malin went away and got the three owl's eggs and the cup of black goat's milk, though they were things not easy to find, and then he brought them to the black man. The black man took them from him and rolled the owl's eggs in the milk and made magic over them. Then he gave them back to the boy. "Keep these by you all the time," said he. "Then if the bull comes after you do thus and so, and this and the other, and you will have no more trouble with him." Jean Malin thanked the black man and gave him a piece of silver, and went away with the eggs tied up in his handkerchief. It was a good thing he had them. He had not gone more than halfway home, and was just coming out from a wood, when he heard a big noise, and the bull burst out of a thicket and came charging down on him. But quick as a flash Jean Malin put the eggs in his mouth and climbed up a tree, and the eggs were not broken. The bull galloped up and struck the tree with its horns. "You think you are safe, but I will soon have you down," it cried. It dropped down on its knees and muttered magic, but Jean could not hear what it said. Then the bull changed into a man with an ax in his hands and began to chop down the tree. Gip, gop! Gip, gop! The chips flew and the branches trembled. Jean tried to remember the words that would turn the man back into a bull again, but he was so frightened he could not think of them. What he did remember, though, were the eggs the black man had given him. He took one out of his mouth and dropped it down on the bull-man's right shoulder, and at once his right arm fell off, and the ax dropped to the ground. This did not trouble the bull-man, however. He caught up the ax in his left hand and chopped away, Gip, gop! Gip, gop! The chips flew faster than ever. Then Jean Malin dropped the second egg down on the man's left shoulder, and his left arm fell off. Now he had no arms, but he caught up the ax in his mouth and went on chopping, Gip, gop! Gip, gop! The whole tree shook and trembled. Then Jean Malin dropped the third and last egg down on the man's head, and at once his head fell off. That ended the man's magic; he could do nothing more, and had to turn into a bull again. He bellowed like anything, but he could not help it, for the black man's magic was stronger than his magic. Away he galloped, with his tail in the air, and that was the last Jean Malin ever saw of him. What became of him nobody ever knew, but he must have gone far, far away. But Jean Malin climbed down from the tree and went on home, and after that he lived very happily in the lady's house and was like a son to her, just as she had promised him. THE WIDOW'S SON A SCANDINAVIAN TALE Once upon a time there was a poor widow who had only one son, and he was so dear to her that no one could have been dearer. All the same she was obliged to send him out into the world to seek his fortune, for they were so very poor that as long as he stayed at home they were like to starve. The lad kissed her good-by, and she gave him her blessing, and then off he set, always putting one foot before the other. He journeyed on a short way and a long way, and then he came to a dark and gloomy wood. He had not gone far into it when he met a tall man as dark and gloomy as the wood itself. The man stopped the lad and said to him, "Are you seeking work or shunning work?" "I am seeking work," answered the widow's son. "Then come with me, and I will give you enough to do but not too much," said the man, "and the wages will be according." That suited the lad. He was quite willing to work for the tall stranger. They set out and traveled along, and after a while they came to a great dark house set all alone in the midst of the wood. The man showed him in and told him what to do. The lad set to work, and everything the man told him to do he did so well and willingly that his master was much pleased with him. After he had done all the tasks set, his master gave him a good bite of supper and a comfortable bed to sleep in. The next day it was the same thing over. The master told the lad what to do, and the lad did it willingly and well. So it went on for three days. At the end of that time the man said, "Now I am obliged to go away on a journey. Until I return you may do as you please and be your own master. But there is one part of the house you have never seen, and those are the four cellars down below. Into these you must not go under any consideration. If you so much as open one of the doors, you will suffer for it." "Why should I want to go into the cellars?" asked the lad. "The house and the yard are good enough for me." "That is well," answered the master, and then he mounted a great black steed and rode away. The lad stayed at home and cleaned and polished and ate and drank. "I wonder what can be in those cellars that my master does not want me to see!" thought the lad. "Not that I mean to look, but it does no harm to wonder about it." Every hour the lad stayed there in the house alone he grew more curious about the cellars. At last he could bear it no longer. "I'll just take a wee peep into one of them," he said. "That can surely do no harm to any one." So he opened the cellar door and went down a flight of stone steps into the first cellar. He looked all about him, and there was nothing at all there but a switch made of brier lying on a shelf behind the door. "That is not much for the Master to have made such a fuss about," said the lad. "I could see as much as that any day without coming into a cellar for it;" and he went upstairs again and shut the door behind him. The next day the master came home, and the first thing he asked was, "Have you looked into any of the cellars?" "Why should I do that?" asked the lad. "I have plenty to do upstairs without poking my nose in where it is not wanted." "I will just see for myself whether or not you have looked," said the master. He opened one of the doors and went down into the first cellar. When he came back his face was as black as thunder. "You have disobeyed me and have gone into one of the cellars," said he. "Now you shall suffer for it!" He took up a cudgel and beat the lad until he was black and blue. "It's lucky for you you went only into the first cellar," said he. "Otherwise you would not have come off so lightly." Then he sat down to supper. As for the lad he sat and nursed his bruises and wished he had never heard tell of such a thing as a cellar. Not long after the master said he was going on another journey. "I will be gone two weeks," said he, "and whatever you do, do not dare to look into any of the other cellars, or you will suffer for it." "I have learned my lesson," said the lad. "You'll not find me doing such a thing again." After that the master mounted his horse and rode away. After he had gone the lad cleaned and polished and ate and drank, and then he began to wonder what was in the second cellar. "There must be something more than a stick to see," said he, "or my master would not be so particular about it." In the end he determined to look at what was in the second cellar, whatever it cost him. He opened the door and went down the stone steps that led to it and looked about, but all he saw was a shelf behind the door, and on it a stone and a water bottle. "They are not much to see, and I wish I had not come," said the lad to himself. "I hope my master will not know about it;" and then he went upstairs and shut the door behind him. Not long afterward his master came home. The first thing he asked was, "Have you been down in any of the cellars again?" "How can you think such a thing!" cried the lad. "I have no wish for another beating." "All the same, I will see for myself," said the master, and he went down into the second cellar. Then the lad was frightened, you may well believe. When the Master came back his face was as red as fire. "You have disobeyed me again," cried he. Then he seized a cudgel and beat the lad till he could hardly stand. "This should teach you to obey," said he, "but I fear as long as you live you will not learn." Not long after the Master was going away on a third journey, and this time he was to be away for three weeks. "And if you look in the third cellar," said he, "your life shall pay the forfeit." After that he rode away into the forest and out of sight. Well, for two weeks the lad would not look into the third cellar, but at last his curiosity got the better of him. He opened the third door and went down into the third cellar. There in the middle of it was a brazen caldron set deep in the floor and full of something that seethed and bubbled. "I wonder what that is in the caldron," said the lad to himself, and he stuck his finger in. When he drew it out it was covered all over with gold. The lad scrubbed and scrubbed, but he could not get the gold off. Then he was terribly frightened. He took a rag and wound it about his finger and hoped his master would not notice it. He shut the door into the cellar and tried to forget about it. The first thing the Master asked when he came home was, "Have you been down in the third cellar?" "How can you think it?" asked the lad. "Two drubbings are enough for any one." "What is the matter with your finger?" asked the Master. "Oh, I cut it with the bread-knife." The Master snatched the rag off, and there the lad's finger shone as though it were all of solid gold. "You have been down in the third cellar," cried the Master, "and now you must die,"--and his face was as pale as death. He took down a sword from the wall, but the lad fell on his knees and begged and pleaded so piteously for his life that at last the man had to spare him. All the same he gave him such a beating that the lad could not rise from the floor. There he lay and groaned. Then the Master took a flask of ointment from the wall and bathed him all over, and after that the lad was just as well as ever. Now the Master stayed at home for a long while, but at last he had to go away on still another journey, and now he was to be gone a whole month. "And if you dare to look in the fourth cellar while I am away, then you shall surely die," said he. "Do not hope that I will spare you again, for I will not." After he had gone the lad resisted his curiosity for three whole weeks. He was dying to look in the fourth cellar and see what was there, but he dared not, for dear life's sake. But at the end of the third week he was so curious that he could resist no longer. He opened the fourth door and went down the steps into the cellar, and there was a magnificent coal-black horse chained to a manger, and the manger was filled with red-hot coals. At the horse's tail was a basket of hay. "That is a cruel thing to do to an animal," cried the lad, and he loosed the horse from the manger and turned him so he could eat. Then the black steed spoke to him in a human tone. "You have done a Christian act," said the horse, "and you shall not suffer for it. If the Troll Master finds you here when he returns he will surely take your life, and that must not be. Look over in yonder corner, and you will find a suit of armor and a sword. Put on the armor and take up the sword in your hand." The lad went over to the corner, and there lay the armor and the sword, but when he would have taken them up they were too heavy for him. He could scarce stir them. "Well, there is no help for it," said the horse. "You will have to bathe in the caldron that is in the third cellar. Only so can you take up the armor and wear it." This the lad did not want to do, for he was afraid. "If you do not," said the horse, "we will both of us lose our lives." Then the lad went back to the third cellar and shut his eyes and stepped down into the caldron, and though the waters in it bubbled and seethed they were as cold as ice and as bitter as death. He thought he would have died of cold, but presently he grew quite warm again. He stepped out from the caldron, and he had become the handsomest lad in the world; his skin was red and white, and his eyes shone like stars. He went back to where the horse was, and now he lifted the armor with ease, he had become so strong. He put it on and buckled the sword about him. "Now we must be off," cried the horse. "Take the briar whip and the stone and the jug of water and the flask of ointment. Then mount my back and ride. If the Troll Master finds us here when he returns, it will be short shrift for both of us." The lad did as the horse bade him; he took the briar whip and the stone, the jug of water and the flask of ointment, and mounted the black steed's back; and the steed carried him up the steps and out of the house and fast, fast away through the forest and over the plains beyond. After a while the black horse said, "I hear a noise behind us. Look and see whether any one is coming." The lad turned and looked. "Yes, yes; it is the Master," said he, "and with him is a whole crowd of people." "They are his friends he has brought out against us," said the steed. "If they catch us it will go ill with us. Throw the thorn whip behind us, but be sure you throw it clear and do not let it touch even the tip of my tail." The lad threw the whip behind him, and at once a great forest of thorns grew up where it fell. No one could have forced a way through it. The Master and his friends were obliged to go home and get hatchets and axes and cut a path through. Meanwhile the black horse had gone a long way. Then he said, "Look behind you, for I hear a noise; is any one coming?" The youth looked over his shoulder. "Yes, it is the Master," said he, "and with him are a multitude of people--like a church congregation." "Still more of his friends have come to help him catch us," said the horse. "Throw the stone behind us, but be very sure it does not touch me." The lad threw the stone behind him, and at once a great stone mountain rose up where it fell. The Master and his friends could by no means cross over it. They were obliged to go home and get something to bore a way through, and this they did. But by this time the horse had gone a long, long way. Then he said to the lad, "Look back and see whether you see any one, for I hear a noise behind us." The lad looked back. "I see the Master coming," said he, "and a great multitude with him, so that they are like an army for numbers." "Yes, yes," said the horse. "He has all of his friends with him now. Woe betide us if they catch us. Pour the water from the jug behind us, but be careful that none of it touches me." The lad stretched back his arm and poured the water out from the jug, but his haste was such that three drops fell upon the horse's flanks. Immediately a great lake rose about them, and because of the three drops that had fallen on the horse, the lake was not only behind them but about them, too; the steed had to swim for it. The Trolls came to the edge of the lake, and as there was no way to cross over they threw themselves down on their stomachs and began to drink it up. They drank and they drank and they drank, until at last they all burst. But the steed came out from the water and up on dry land. Then he went on until he came to a wood, and here he stopped. "Light down now," said he to the lad, "and take off your armor and my saddle and bridle and hide them in yon hollow oak tree. Over there, a little beyond, is a castle, and you must go and take service there. But first make yourself a wig of hanging gray mosses and put it on." The lad did as the horse told him. He took off the saddle and bridle and the armor and hid them in the tree, and made for himself a moss wig; when he put it upon his head all the beauty went out of his face, and he looked so pale and miserable that no one would have wanted him around. "If you ever need me," said the horse, "come here to the wood and take out the bridle and shake it, and at once I will be with you." Then he galloped away into the wood. The lad in his moss wig went on until he came to the castle. He went to the kitchen door and knocked, and asked if he might take service there. The kitchen wench looked at him and made a face as though she had a sour taste in her mouth. "Take off that wig and let me see how you look," said she. "With that on your head you are so ugly that no one would want you around." "I cannot take off my wig," said the lad, "for that I have been told not to do." "Then you may seek service elsewhere, for I cannot bear the look of you," said the kitchen wench, and she shut the door in his face. Next the lad went to the gardener and asked if he could help him in the gardens, digging and planting. The gardener looked and stared. "You are not a beauty," said he, "but out here in the garden no one will be apt to see you, and I need a helper, so you may stay." So the lad became the gardener's helper and dug and hoed in the garden all day. Now the King and Queen of that country had one fair daughter, and she was as pretty and as fresh as a rose. One day the gardener set the lad to spading under the Princess's window. She looked out, and there she saw him. "Br-r-r! But he is an ugly one," said she. Nevertheless she couldn't keep her eyes off him. After a while the lad grew hot with his work. He looked about him, and he saw nobody, so he whipped off his wig to wipe his forehead, and then he was as handsome a lad as ever was seen, so that the Princess's heart turned right over at the sight of him. Then he put on his wig and became ugly again, and went on spading, but now the Princess knew what he was really like. The next day there was the lad at work under her window again, but as he had his wig on he was just as ugly as before. Then the Princess said to her maid, "Go down there where the gardener's lad is working and creep up behind him and twitch his wig off." The maid went down to the garden and crept up back of the lad and gave the wig a twitch, but he was too clever for her. He heard her coming, and he held the wig tight down over his ears. All the same the Princess had once seen what he was like without it, and she made up her mind that if she could not have the gardener's lad for a husband she would never marry any one. Now after this there was a great war and disturbance in the land. The King's enemies had risen up against him and had come to take away his land from him. But the King with his courtiers and his armed men rode out to meet them and turn them back. The lad would have liked to ride with them and strike a blow for the King, but the gardener would not hear of it. Nevertheless the day the King and his army were ready to set out the lad stole away to the stables and begged the stablemen to give him a mount. It seemed to the men that that would be a merry thing to do. He was such a scarecrow they gave him a scarecrow horse. It was old and blind of one eye and limped on three legs, dragging the fourth behind it. The lad mounted and rode forth with all the rest, and when the courtiers saw him they laughed and laughed until their sides ached. They had not gone far before they had to cross a swamp, and midway through it the nag stuck fast. There sat the lad, beating it and shouting, "Hie! Hie! Now will you go? Hie! Hie! Now will you go?" Every one went riding by, and as they passed him they pointed and laughed and jeered. After they had all gone the lad slipped from the nag's back and ran off to the wood. He snatched off his wig and took his armor from the hollow tree and shook the bridle. At once the black steed came galloping up. The lad mounted him and rode off after the others. His armor shone in the sun, and so handsome was he, and so noble his air that any one would have taken him for a prince at least. When he reached the battle ground he found the King sore pressed, but he rode so fiercely against the enemy that they were obliged to fall back, and the King's own forces won the day. Then the lad rode away so quickly that no one knew what had become of him. The King was sorry, for he wished to thank the brave hero who had fought for him. But the lad rode back to the wood and hid his armor in a tree and turned the black steed loose. Then he put on his wig and ran back and mounted the sorry nag that was still stuck in the swamp where he had left it. When the King and his courtiers came riding back there sat the lad in rags and a gray moss wig, and he was beating his horse and shouting, "Hie! Hie! Now will you go?" Then the courtiers laughed more than ever, and one of them threw a clod at him. The next day the King again rode forth to war with all his train. There was the lad still seated on the nag in the swamp. "What a fool he is," they cried. "He must have been sitting there all night." Then they rode on and left him. But the lad ran with haste to the wood and took his armor from the tree and put it on. He shook the bridle, and the black steed came galloping up to him. The lad mounted and rode away to the battle field. The King's forces were falling back, but the lad attacked the enemy so fiercely that they were put to rout. Every one wondered who the hero could be, but as soon as the battle was won he rode away so swiftly that no one had a chance to question him and no one knew what had become of him. "If I could but find him," said the King, "I would honor him as I have never honored any one, for such a hero never was seen before." But the lad hastened back to the wood; he laid aside his armor and turned the black steed loose. Then he put on his wig again and ran back to the swamp and mounted the sorry nag. When the King's forces came riding home, there sat the gardener's ugly lad, whipping his sorry nag and crying "Hie! Hie! Now will you go?" The courtiers looked upon him with scorn. "Why does he not go home and get to work?" they cried. "Such a scarecrow is an insult to all who see him." One of the courtiers, more ill-natured than the rest, shot an arrow at him, and it pierced his leg so the blood flowed. The lad cried out so that it was pitiful to hear him. The King felt sorry for him, ugly though he was, and drew out his own royal handkerchief and threw it to him. "There, Sirrah! Take that and bind up thy wound!" he cried. The lad took the handkerchief and bound it about his leg, and so the bleeding was stopped. The next day, when the courtiers rode by, there sat the lad still upon his broken-down nag, shouting to it as if to urge it forward, and his leg was tied up with the bloody kerchief, and the King's own initials were on the kerchief in letters of gold. The courtiers did not dare to jeer at him this time, because the King had been kind to him, but they turned their faces aside so as not to see him. As soon as they had gone the lad sprang down and ran to the wood and put on his armor and shook the bridle for the black steed, but he was in such haste, that he forgot the kerchief that he had used to bind up his wound, and so, when he rode out upon the battle field, he had it still tied about his leg. That day the lad fought more fiercely than ever before, and it was well he did, for otherwise the King's forces would certainly have been defeated. Already they were in retreat when the lad rode forth upon the field. But at sight of him they took heart again, and he led them on and did not stop or stay till he came to where the enemy's leader was, and with one blow of his sword cut off his head. Then all the enemy's forces fled back, and the King's men pursued after them and cut many of them to pieces, and the rest were glad to get safely back into their own country. After that the lad would have ridden away as before, but this the King would not allow. He called to him and rode up to where he was, and when he saw the bloody kerchief tied about the stranger's leg he knew he must be the very one he had left sitting on the old nag in the swamp awhile back. This the lad could not deny, and when the King questioned him he told him everything. Then the King said, "Though you are only a gardener's lad still you are a mighty hero, and the hand of the Princess shall be yours. You shall marry her, and after I die you shall rule over the kingdom in my stead." You may guess the lad did not say no to that, for he had seen the Princess sitting at her window, and just from looking at her there he loved her with all his heart. So the King and the courtiers rode home with the lad in their midst, and when the Princess heard she was to marry him she was filled with joy, for she recognized him at once as the gardener's boy who had worked beneath her window. Then all was joy and happiness. A great feast was prepared, and the lad and the Princess were married with the greatest magnificence. But first the lad rubbed his leg with the ointment and then it became quite well again; for it would never have done for him to go limping to his own wedding. Now as soon as he was married he went out to the stable to tell it to the black steed. He found the horse sad and sorrowful. It stood drooping and would not raise its head or speak when he entered the stall. The lad was troubled at this. "What ails you, my steed, that you stand there so sorrowful when all around rejoice?" asked he. "I am sick at heart," answered the steed, "and you alone can cure me of my sickness." "How is that?" asked the lad. "Promise to do whatsoever I ask of you, and I will tell you." "I promise," replied the lad, "for there is nothing I would not do for you." "Then take your sword and cut off my head," said the steed. When the lad heard this he was horrified. "What is this you ask of me?" he cried. "All that I have I owe to you, and shall I in return do you such an injury?" But the black horse reminded him that he had promised. "If you do not do as I ask you," said he, "then I shall know that you are a coward who dares not keep his word." The youth could not refuse after that. He was obliged to do as the horse bade him, but the tears dimmed his eyes so that he could scarcely see. He drew his sword and cut off the horse's head. At once, instead of a coal-black steed, a handsome young Prince stood before him. The lad could scarce believe his eyes. He stared about him, wondering what had become of the horse. "There is no need to look for the black steed," said the princely stranger, "for I am he." He then told the lad that he was the son of the King of a neighboring country. An enemy had risen up and slain the King and had given the Prince to the black master who had turned him into a horse and taken him away to his castle. "You have rescued me from the enchantment, and now I am free to claim my land again," said the Prince. He then told the lad that the enemy King whom he had lately slain in battle was the very one who had taken his kingdom from him. Then the Prince went back with the lad to the palace, and was introduced to the King and the Princess and all the court. After that the lad and his bride and the Prince rode forth with a great retinue into the Prince's own country, and his people received him with joy, and he and the lad lived in the greatest love and friendship forever after. THE WISE GIRL A SERBIAN STORY There was once a girl who was wiser than the King and all his councilors; there never was anything like it. Her father was so proud of her that he boasted about her cleverness at home and abroad. He could not keep his tongue still about it. One day he was boasting to one of his neighbors, and he said, "The girl is so clever that not even the King himself could ask her a question she couldn't answer, or read her a riddle she couldn't unravel." Now it so chanced the King was sitting at a window near by, and he overheard what the girl's father was saying. The next day he sent for the man to come before him. "I hear you have a daughter who is so clever that no one in the kingdom can equal her; and is that so?" asked the King. Yes, it was no more than the truth. Too much could not be said of her wit and cleverness. That was well, and the King was glad to hear it. He had thirty eggs; they were fresh and good, but it would take a clever person to hatch chickens out of them. He then bade his chancellor get the eggs and give them to the man. "Take these home to your daughter," said the King, "and bid her hatch them out for me. If she succeeds she shall have a bag of money for her pains, but if she fails you shall be beaten as a vain boaster." The man was troubled when he heard this. Still his daughter was so clever he was almost sure she could hatch out the eggs. He carried them home to her and told her exactly what the King had said, and it did not take the girl long to find out that the eggs had been boiled. When she told her father that, he made a great to-do. That was a pretty trick for the King to have played upon him. Now he would have to take a beating and all the neighbors would hear about it. Would to Heaven he had never had a daughter at all if that was what came of it. The girl, however, bade him be of good cheer. "Go to bed and sleep quietly," said she. "I will think of some way out of the trouble. No harm shall come to you, even though I have to go to the palace myself and take the beating in your place." The next day the girl gave her father a bag of boiled beans and bade him take them out to a certain place where the King rode by every day. "Wait until you see him coming," said she, "and then begin to sow the beans." At the same time he was to call out this, that, and the other so loudly that the King could not help but hear him. The man took the bag of beans and went out to the field his daughter had spoken of. He waited until he saw the King coming, and then he began to sow the beans, and at the same time to cry aloud, "Come sun, come rain! Heaven grant that these boiled beans may yield me a good crop." The King was surprised that any one should be so stupid as to think boiled beans would grow and yield a crop. He did not recognize the man, for he had only seen him once, and he stopped his horse to speak to him. "My poor man," said he, "how can you expect boiled beans to grow? Do you not know that that is impossible?" "Whatever the King commands should be possible," answered the man, "and if chickens can hatch from boiled eggs why should not boiled beans yield a crop?" When the King heard this he looked at the man more closely, and then he recognized him as the father of the clever daughter. "You have indeed a clever daughter," said he. "Take your beans home and bring me back the eggs I gave you." The man was very glad when he heard that, and made haste to obey. He carried the beans home and then took the eggs and brought them back to the palace of the King. After the King had received the eggs he gave the man a handful of flax. "Take this to your clever daughter," he said, "and bid her make for me within the week a full set of sails for a large ship. If she does this she shall receive the half of my kingdom as a reward, but if she fails you shall have a drubbing that you will not soon forget." The man returned to his home, loudly lamenting his hard lot. "What is the matter?" asked his daughter. "Has the King set another task that I must do?" Yes, that he had; and her father showed her the flax the King had sent her and gave her the message. "Do not be troubled," said the girl. "No harm shall come to you. Go to bed and sleep quietly, and to-morrow I will send the King an answer that will satisfy him." The man believed what his daughter said. He went to bed and slept quietly. The next day the girl gave her father a small piece of wood. "Carry this to the King," said she. "Tell him I am ready to make the sails, but first let him make me of this wood a large ship that I may fit the sails to it." The father did as the girl bade him, and the King was surprised at the cleverness of the girl in returning him such an answer. "That is all very well," said he, "and I will excuse her from this task. But here! Here is a glass mug. Take it home to your clever daughter. Tell her it is my command that she dip out the waters from the ocean bed so that I can ride over the bottom dry shod. If she does this, I will take her for my wife, but if she fails you shall be beaten within an inch of your life." The man took the mug and hastened home, weeping aloud and bemoaning his fate. "Well, and what is it?" asked his daughter. "What does the King demand of me now?" The man gave her the glass mug and told her what the King had said. "Do not be troubled," said the girl. "Go to bed and sleep in peace. You shall not be beaten, and soon I shall be reigning as Queen over all this land." The man had trust in her. He went to bed and slept and dreamed he saw her sitting by the King with a crown on her head. The next day the girl gave her father a bunch of tow. "Take this to the King," she said. "Tell him you have given me the mug, and I am willing to dip the sea dry, but first let him take this tow and stop up all the rivers that flow into the ocean." The man did as his daughter bade him. He took the tow to the King and told him exactly what the girl had said. Then the King saw that the girl was indeed a clever one, and he sent for her to come before him. She came just as she was, in her homespun dress and her rough shoes and with a cap on her head, but for all her mean clothing she was as pretty and fine as a flower, and the King was not slow to see it. Still he wanted to make sure for himself that she was as clever as her messages had been. "Tell me," said he, "what sound can be heard the farthest throughout the world?" "The thunder that echoes through heaven and earth," answered the girl, "and your own royal commands that go from lip to lip." This reply pleased the King greatly. "And now tell me," said he, "exactly what is my royal sceptre worth?" "It is worth exactly as much as the power for which it stands," the girl replied. The King was so well satisfied with the way the girl answered that he no longer hesitated; he determined that she should be his Queen, and that they should be married at once. The girl had something to say to this, however. "I am but a poor girl," said she, "and my ways are not your ways. It may well be that you will tire of me, or that you may be angry with me sometime, and send me back to my father's house to live. Promise that if this should happen you will allow me to carry back with me from the castle the thing that has grown most precious to me." The King was willing to agree to this, but the girl was not satisfied until he had written down his promise and signed it with his own royal hand. Then she and the King were married with the greatest magnificence, and she came to live in the palace and reign over the land. Now while the girl was still only a peasant she had been well content to dress in homespun and live as a peasant should, but after she became Queen she would wear nothing but the most magnificent robes and jewels and ornaments, for that seemed to her only right and proper for a Queen. But the King, who was of a very jealous nature, thought his wife did not care at all for him, but only for the fine things he could give her. One time the King and Queen were to ride abroad together, and the Queen spent so much time in dressing herself that the King was kept waiting, and he became very angry. When she appeared before him, he would not even look at her. "You care nothing for me, but only for the jewels and fine clothes you wear," he cried. "Take with you those that are the most precious to you, as I promised you, and return to your father's house. I will no longer have a wife who cares only for my possessions and not at all for me." Very well; the girl was willing to go. "And I will be happier in my father's house than I was when I first met you," said she. Nevertheless she begged that she might spend one more night in the palace, and that she and the King might sup together once again before she returned home. To this the King agreed, for he still loved her, even though he was so angry with her. So he and his wife supped together that evening, and just at the last the Queen took a golden cup and filled it with wine. Then, when the King was not looking, she put a sleeping potion in the wine and gave it to him to drink. He took it and drank to the very last drop, suspecting nothing, but soon after he sank down among the cushions in a deep sleep. Then the Queen caused him to be carried to her father's house and laid in the bed there. When the King awoke the next morning he was very much surprised to find himself in the peasant's cottage. He raised himself upon his elbow to look about him, and at once the girl came to the bedside, and she was again dressed in the coarse and common clothes she had worn before she was married. "What means this?" asked the King, "and how came I here?" "My dear husband," said the girl, "your promise was that if you ever sent me back to my father's house I might carry with me the thing that had become most precious to me in the castle. You are that most precious thing, and I care for nothing else except as it makes me pleasing in your sight." Then the King could no longer feel jealous or angry with her. He clasped her in his arms, and they kissed each other tenderly. That same day they returned to the palace, and from that time on the King and his peasant Queen lived together in the greatest love and happiness. THE HISTORY OF ALI COGIA FROM THE ARABIAN NIGHTS In the city of Bagdad there once lived a merchant named Ali Cogia. This merchant was faithful and honest in all his dealings, but he had never made the holy pilgrimage to Mecca. He often felt troubled over this, for he knew he was neglecting a religious duty, but he was so occupied with his business affairs that it was difficult for him to leave home. Year after year he planned to make the pilgrimage, but always he postponed it, hoping for some more convenient time. One night the merchant had a dream so vivid that it was more like a vision than a dream. In this dream or vision an old man appeared before him and, regarding him with a severe and reproachful look, said, "Why have you not made the pilgrimage to Mecca?" When Ali Cogia awoke he felt greatly troubled. He feared this dream had been sent him as a reproach and a warning from heaven. He was still more troubled when the next night he dreamed the same dream; and when upon the third night the old man again appeared before him and asked the same question, he determined to delay no longer, but to set out upon the pilgrimage as soon as possible. To this end he sold off all his goods except some that he decided to carry with him to Mecca and to dispose of there. He settled all his debts and rented his shop and his house to a friend, and as he had neither wife nor family, he was now free to set out at any time. The sale of his goods had brought in quite a large sum of money, so that after he had set aside as much as was needed for the journey he found he had still a thousand gold pieces left over. These he determined to leave in some safe place until his return. He put the money in an olive jar and covered it over with olives and sealed it carefully. He then carried the jar to a friend named Abul Hassan, who was the owner of a large warehouse. "Abul Hassan," said he, "I am about to make the journey to Mecca, as you perhaps know. I have here a jar of olives that I would like to leave in your warehouse until my return, if you will allow me to do so." Abul Hassan was quite willing that his friend should do this and gave him the keys of the warehouse, bidding him place the jar wherever he wished. "I will gladly keep it until you return," said he, "and you may rest assured the jar will not be disturbed until such time as you shall come and claim it." Ali Cogia thanked his friend and carried the jar into the warehouse, placing it in the farthest and darkest corner where it would not be in the way. Soon after he set out upon his journey to Mecca. When Ali Cogia left Bagdad he had no thought but that he would return in a year's time at latest. He made the journey safely, in company with a number of other pilgrims. Arrived in Mecca, he visited the celebrated temples and other objects of interest that were there. He performed all his religious duties faithfully, and after that he went to the bazaar and secured a place where he could display the goods he had brought with him. One day a stranger came through the bazaar and stopped to admire the beauty of the things Ali had for sale. "It is a pity," said the stranger, "that you should not go to Cairo. You could go there at no great expense, and I feel assured that you would receive a far better price for your goods there than here. I know, for I have lived in that city all my life, and I am familiar with the prices that are paid for such fine merchandise as yours." The stranger talked with Ali for some time and then passed on his way. After he had gone the merchant meditated upon what had been said, and he finally determined to follow the stranger's advice and to take such goods as he had left to Cairo, and place them on sale there. This he did and found that, as the stranger had promised, the prices he could get there were much higher than those paid in Mecca. While Ali Cogia was in Cairo he made the acquaintance of some people who were about to journey down into Egypt by caravan. They urged Ali to join them, and after some persuasion he consented to do so, as he had always wished to see that country. From Egypt Ali Cogia journeyed to Constantinople, and then on to other cities and countries. Time flew by so rapidly that when, finally, Ali stopped to reckon up how long it was since he had left Bagdad, he found that seven years had elapsed. He now determined to return without delay to his own city. He found a camel that suited him, and having bought it he packed upon it such goods as he had left, and set out for Bagdad. Now all the while that Ali Cogia had been travelling from place to place the jar containing the gold pieces had rested undisturbed and forgotten in Abul Hassan's warehouse. Abul and his wife sometimes talked of Ali and wondered when he would return and how he had fared upon his journey. They were surprised at his long absence and feared some misfortune might have come upon him. At one time there was a rumor that he was dead, but this rumor was afterward denied. Now the very day that Ali Cogia set out upon his return journey Abul Hassan and his wife were seated at the table at their evening meal, and their talk turned upon the subject of olives. "It is a long time since we have had any in the house," said the wife. "Indeed, I do not remember when I last tasted one, and yet it is my favorite fruit. I wish we had some now." "Yes, we must get some," said Abul Hassan. "And by the way, that reminds me of the jar that Ali Cogia left with us. I wonder whether the olives in it are still good. They have been there for some years now." "Yes, for seven years," replied his wife. "No doubt they are all spoiled by this time." "That I will see," said Abul Hassan, rising and taking up a light. "If they are still good we might as well have some, for I do not believe Ali Cogia will ever return to claim the jar." His wife was horrified. "What are you thinking of?" cried she. "Ali Cogia entrusted this jar to you, and you gave your word that it would not be disturbed until he came again to claim it. We heard, indeed, that he was dead, but this rumor was afterward denied. What opinion would he have of you if he returned and found you had helped yourself to his olives?" Abul Hassan, still holding the light in his hand, waited impatiently until his wife had finished speaking. Then he replied, "Ali Cogia will not return; of that I feel assured. And at any rate, if he should, I can easily replace the olives." "You can replace the olives, no doubt," answered his wife, "but they would not be Ali Cogia's olives. This jar is a sacred trust and should not be disturbed by you under any consideration." But though she spoke thus strongly she could see by her husband's face that he had not changed his determination. He now took up the dish and said, "If the olives are good I will bring a dish full from the jar, but if they are spoiled, as I suppose they are, I will replace the cover and no one will be any the wiser." His wife would have tried again to dissuade him, but without listening further he went at once to the warehouse. It did not take him long to find the jar. He took off the cover and found that, as he had suspected, the olives were spoiled. Wishing to see whether those beneath were in the same condition he tilted the jar and emptied some of them out into the dish. What was his surprise to see some gold pieces fall out with the olives. Abul Hassan could hardly believe his eyes. Hastily he plunged his hands down into the jar and soon found that except for the top layer of fruit the whole jar was full of gold pieces. Abul Hassan's eyes sparkled with desire. He was naturally a very avaricious man, and the sight of the gold awakened all his greed. It had been there in his warehouse, all unknown to him, for seven years. He felt as though he had been tricked, for, thought he, "All this time I might have been using this money to advantage by trading with it and with no harm to any one, for I could have replaced it at any time I heard Ali Cogia was about to return." For a while he stood there lost in thought. Then he returned the gold to the jar, covered it over with olives as before, and replaced the cover, and taking up the empty dish and the light he returned to his wife. "You were quite right," said he carelessly. "The olives were spoiled, so I did not bring any." "You should not even have opened the jar," said his wife. "Heaven grant that no evil may come upon us for this." To this remark Abul Hassan made no reply, and soon after he and his wife retired to rest. But the merchant could not sleep. All night he tossed and twisted, thinking of the gold and planning how he could make it his own, and it was not until morning that he fell into a troubled sleep. The next day he arose early and as soon as the bazaar opened he went out and bought a quantity of olives. He brought them home and carried them into the warehouse secretly, and without his wife's knowing anything about it. Then he again opened Ali Cogia's jar, and having emptied it of its contents, he filled it with fresh olives and replaced the cover in such a way that no one, looking at it, would have known it had been disturbed. He then threw the spoiled olives away and hid the gold in a secret place known only to himself. About a month after this Ali Cogia returned to Bagdad. As his own house was still rented he took a room in a khan and at once hastened to Abul Hassan's house to get his jar. Abul Hassan was confounded when he saw Ali Cogia enter his house, for he had managed to convince himself that Ali must be dead. This he had done to try to excuse himself in his own eyes for taking the gold. However he hid his confusion as best he could, and made the returned traveller welcome, and asked him how he had fared in his journeyings. Ali Cogia answered his inquiries politely, but he was uneasy and restless, and as soon as he could make the opportunity he inquired about the olive jar he had left in the warehouse. "The jar is there where you put it, I am sure," answered Abul Hassan, "though I myself have not seen it. I do not even know in what part of the warehouse you left it. But here are the keys, and as I am busy I will ask you to get it for yourself." Ali Cogia made haste to seek out the jar and was much relieved to find it exactly where he had left it and apparently untouched. He had trust in Abul Hassan's honor, but a thousand pieces of gold was such a large sum that he could not but feel some concern until he had it in his own hands again. After thanking his fellow merchant for keeping the jar, more earnestly than seemed necessary, he carried it back to his room in the khan, and having locked the door he opened it. He removed the two top layers of olives and was somewhat surprised not to see the gold. However, he thought he must have covered the money more carefully than he had supposed. He took out more olives, and then still more, but still there were no signs of the gold. Filled with misgivings, Ali Cogia tilted the jar and emptied out the rest of the olives so hastily that they rolled all over the floor, but not a single piece of gold was there. The merchant was dismayed. He could scarcely believe that Abul Hassan would rob him of his money, and yet there seemed no other explanation. He knew that the merchant kept his warehouse locked except when he was there himself, and that no one was allowed to visit it but those with whom he was well acquainted, and then only upon special business. Deeply troubled he returned to the merchant's house, determined to demand an explanation and, if necessary, to force him by law to return the gold. Abul Hassan seemed surprised to see Ali return so soon. "Did you forget something?" he asked. "Or do you wish to speak to me upon some business?" "Do you not guess what I have come to speak to you about?" asked Ali. "How should I guess? Unless it is to thank me again for keeping your jar for you." "Abul Hassan, when I went away I left a thousand pieces of gold in the jar I placed in your warehouse. The gold is now gone. I suppose you saw some way in which you could use it both for your advantage and my own. If such is the case, please to give me some receipt for the money, and I am willing to wait until you can return it to me, but I think you should have spoken of the matter when I was here before." Abul Hassan showed the greatest surprise at this address. "I do not know what you are talking about," said he. "I know nothing about any gold. If there was any in the jar, which I very much doubt, it must be there still, for the jar has never been disturbed since you yourself placed it in my warehouse." "The gold certainly was in the jar when I placed it there, and you must know it, for no one else could have taken it. No one goes into the warehouse without your permission, as you have often told me and then only for some express purpose." Ali Cogia would have said more, but his fellow merchant interrupted him. "I repeat I know nothing of any gold," he cried angrily. "Go away and do not trouble me any further, or you will find yourself in difficulties. Do you not see how your loud talking has gathered a crowd about my house?" And indeed a number of people had gathered in front of Abul's house, drawn thither by the sound of the dispute. They listened with curiosity to what the merchants were saying and presently became so interested that they began to discuss the matter among themselves, and to argue and dispute as to which of the merchants was in the right. At last Ali Cogia, finding that Abul would confess nothing, said, "Very well. I see you are determined to keep the money if possible. But you shall find it is not as easy to rob me as you seem to think." Then, laying his hand upon Abul's shoulder, he added, "I summon you to appear with me before the Cadi, that he may decide the matter between us." Now this is a summons no true Mussulman can disobey. Abul was compelled to go before the Cadi with Ali, and a great crowd of people followed them, eager to know what decision would be given in the matter by the judge. The Cadi listened attentively to all the two merchants had to say and after reflecting upon the matter he asked, "Abul Hassan, are you ready to swear that you know nothing of the gold Ali Cogia says he left with you, and that you did not disturb the jar?" "I am," answered the merchant. "And indeed I wish to swear to it," and this he did. "And you, Ali Cogia; have you any witnesses to prove there was gold in the jar when you left it in Abul Hassan's warehouse?" "Alas! no; no one knew of it but myself." "Then it is your word against his. Abul Hassan has sworn that he did not touch the jar, and unless you can bring witnesses to your truth, I cannot compel him to pay you a thousand pieces of gold that you may never have lost." The case was dismissed. Abul Hassan returned to his home, satisfied and triumphant, but Ali Cogia with hanging head and bitterness of heart. But though the Cadi had decided against him, Ali was not willing to let the matter rest there. He was determined to have justice done him, even though he were obliged to appeal to the Caliph himself. At that time Haroun-al-Raschid was Commander of the Faithful. Every morning Haroun-al-Raschid went to the mosque to offer up prayers, accompanied by his Grand Vizier and Mesrour the Chief Eunuch. As he returned to the palace all who had complaints to make or petitions to offer stationed themselves along the way and gave their complaints and petitions in written form to Mesrour. Afterward these papers were presented to the Caliph that he might read them and decide upon their merits. The day after the Cadi had dismissed the case of the two merchants, Ali Cogia set out early in the morning and placed himself beside the way where he knew the Caliph would pass. In his hand he carried his complaint against Abul Hassan, written out in due form. He waited until Haroun-al-Raschid was returning from the mosque and then put the paper in the hand of Mesrour. Later, when the Caliph was reading the papers, he was particularly interested in the one presented by Ali Cogia: "This is a curious case," said he to his Vizier, "and one which it will be difficult to decide. Order the two merchants to appear before me to-morrow, and I will hear what they have to say." That evening the Caliph and his Vizier disguised themselves, and, attended only by Mesrour, they went out to wander about the streets of the city. It was the custom of the Caliph to do this, as in this way he learned much about his people, their needs and wants and ways of life, which would otherwise have been hidden from him. For some time after they set out they heard and saw nothing of importance, but as they came near to a court that opened off one of the streets they heard the voices of a number of boys who were at play there in the moonlight. The Caliph motioned to his Vizier to be silent, and together they stole to the opening of the court and looked in. The moon was so bright that they could see clearly the faces of the boys at play there. They had gathered about the tallest and most intelligent-looking lad, who appeared to be their leader. "Let us act out some play," the leader was saying. "I will be the Cadi, and you shall bring some case before me to be tried." "Very well," cried another. "But what case shall we take?" "Let us take the case of Ali Cogia and Abul Hassan. We all know about that, and if it had come before me I should have decided it differently from the way the Cadi did." All the boys agreed to this by clapping their hands. The leader then appointed one boy to take the part of Ali Cogia and another to be Abul Hassan. Still others were chosen to be guards and merchants and so on. The Caliph and his Vizier were much amused by this play of the boys, and they sat down upon a bench so conveniently placed that they could see all that went on without themselves being observed. The pretended Cadi took his seat and commanded that Abul Hassan and Ali Cogia should be brought before him. "And let Ali Cogia bring with him the jar of olives in which he said he hid the gold," said he. The lads who were taking the parts of Ali Cogia and Abul Hassan were now led forward by some of the other boys and were told by the pretended Cadi to state their cases. This they did clearly, for the case had been much talked about by their elders, and they were well acquainted with all the circumstances and had discussed them among themselves. The pretended Cadi listened attentively to what they said, and then addressing the lad who took the part of Abul he asked, "Abul Hassan, are you willing to swear that you have not touched the jar nor opened it?" The pretended merchant said he was. The lad then asked, "Has Ali Cogia brought the jar of olives into court with him?" "It is here," said the boys who were taking the parts of officers of the court. The feigned Cadi ordered them to place the jar before him, which they pretended to do. He then went through the motions of lifting the lid and examining the olives and even of tasting one. "These are very fine olives," said he. "Ali Cogia, when did you say you placed this jar in the warehouse?" "It was when I left Bagdad, seven years ago," answered the pretended merchant. "Abul Hassan, is that so?" The boy who acted the part of Abul said that it was. "Let the olive merchants be brought into court," commanded the pretended Cadi. The boys who were taking the parts of olive merchants now came forward. "Tell me," said the feigned Cadi, "how long is it possible to keep olives?" "However great the care that is taken," they answered, "it is impossible to preserve them for more than three years. After that time they lose both color and flavor and are fit for nothing but to be thrown out." The boys spoke with assurance, for their fathers were among the most expert olive dealers in the city, and they knew what they were talking about. The pretended Cadi then bade them examine the olives in the jar and tell him how old they were. "As you see," said he, "they are of a fine color, large, and of a delicious fresh taste." The feigned merchants pretended to examine them carefully and then announced the olives were of that year's growth. "But Ali Cogia says he left them with Abul Hassan seven years ago, and to this statement Abul Hassan agrees." "It is impossible they should have been kept that long," answered the feigned merchants. "As we tell you, after three years olives are worth nothing, and at the end of seven years they would be utterly spoiled. These are fresh olives and of this year's growth." The boy who took the part of Abul Hassan would have tried to explain and make excuses, but the pretended Cadi bade him be silent. "You have sworn falsely," said he, "and also proved yourself a thief." Then to the pretended guards he cried, "Take him away and let him be hung according to the law." The feigned guards dragged away the boy who was acting Abul Hassan and then, the play being finished, all the boys clapped their hands and shouted their approval of the way the feigned Cadi had conducted the case. Seeing that all was over the Caliph withdrew, beckoning to the Vizier and Mesrour to follow him. After they had gone a short distance, Haroun-al-Raschid turned to the Vizier and asked him what he thought of the play they had just witnessed. "I think," said the Vizier, "that the pretended Cadi showed a wisdom and a judgment that the real Cadi would do well to imitate. I also think the boy is a lad of remarkable intelligence." "It is my own thought," replied the Caliph. "Moreover I have a further thought. You know this very case between Ali Cogia and Abul Hassan is to appear before me to-morrow, I have it in mind to send you to bring this boy to the palace, and I will then let him conduct this case in reality as he has to-day in play." The Vizier applauded this plan, and he and his master returned to the palace, still talking of the boy. The next day the Vizier went back to the court they had visited the evening before, and after looking about he found the lad who had taken the part of the Cadi sitting in a doorway. The Vizier approached him and spoke to him in a kind and friendly manner. "My boy," said he, "I have come here by order of the Commander of the Faithful. Last evening, when you were acting your play, he overheard all that was said, and he wishes to see you at the palace to-day." The boy was alarmed when he heard this, grew pale, and showed great uneasiness. "Have I done something wrong?" he asked. "If I have I did it unknowingly, and I hope I am not to be punished for something I did without intention." "You have done no wrong," answered the Vizier, "and it is not to punish you that the Caliph has sent for you. Indeed he is very much pleased with your conduct, and his sending for you in this manner is a great honor." He then told the lad what it was the Caliph wished him to do. Instead of being put at ease by this the lad showed even greater discomfort. "This seems a strange thing for me to do," said he:--"to decide a case between two grown men--I who am only a child. I am afraid I will not be able to please the Caliph, and that he will be angry with me." "Conduct the case as wisely as you did last night when you were playing," answered the Vizier, "and the Caliph will not be displeased with you." The boy then asked permission to go and tell his mother where he was going and for what purpose, and to this the Vizier consented. When the lad's mother heard that he was to go to the palace to act as judge in a case of such importance she could hardly believe her ears. She was frightened lest the lad should in some way offend the Caliph by saying or doing something ill-judged. The lad tried to reassure her, though he himself was far from being at ease. "If the Caliph was pleased with the way I conducted the case last night I do not think he can be so very much displeased with me to-day," said he; "for I feel sure that only in this way can we discover the truth between the two merchants." When the lad returned to the Vizier he looked very grave, and as they went along together on their way to the palace the Vizier tried in every way to put him more at ease and give him confidence. Immediately upon their arrival at the palace they were shown into the room where the Caliph was sitting. Haroun-al-Raschid greeted the boy with no less kindness than the Vizier had shown and asked him if he understood the purpose for which he had been brought thither. The lad said he did. "Then let the two merchants come in," said the Caliph. Ali Cogia and Abul Hassan were at once brought in by the officers of the court. Ali Cogia brought with him the jar of olives, for so he had been commanded to do. The Cadi who had judged between the two merchants had also been ordered to attend, and he entered and took the place assigned to him. The Caliph then turned to the lad and bade him open the case by bidding the merchants tell their stories, and this, after a moment's pause, the lad did. Ali Cogia told his story just as he had before, stating that he had left with Abul Hassan seven years before a thousand pieces of gold packed in a jar and covered over with olives. "Is this the jar you left with Abul Hassan?" asked the boy, pointing to the jar Ali had brought into court. Ali stated that it was. "Abul Hassan, do you also say this is the jar Ali Cogia left with you?" asked the lad. Abul answered that it was. He also asked to be allowed to take his oath that the jar had not been disturbed after it was left in his warehouse until Ali Cogia had returned and removed it. "That is not necessary at present," answered the boy. "First let some expert olive merchants be brought in." Several olive dealers, the most expert in the city, had been sent for, and they now came forward. The lad asked these real merchants the same questions he had asked of the feigned merchants the night before. "How long," said he, "is it possible to keep olives good?" And the merchants answered, as had the boys, "Not more than three years, for no matter how carefully they have been packed, after that time they lose both color and flavor." "Look in that jar," said the lad, "and tell us how long you think those olives have been kept there." The merchants examined the olives with the greatest care, and then they all agreed that the olives were of that year's growth and quite fresh. "And do you not think it possible they may have been kept a year or so?" "No, it is not possible," answered the merchants. "We know, of a surety, as we have already said, that these olives are of this year's growth, and have only recently been packed in the jar." When Ali Cogia heard this he gave a cry of surprise, but Abul Hassan was silent; his face grew as pale as ashes, and his legs failed under him, for he knew that the merchants, in saying this, had pronounced sentence against him. But the lad turned to the Caliph and begged that he might now be allowed to hand over the case to him. "When I pronounced sentence last night, it was but in play," said he. "But this is not play. A man's life is at stake, and I dare not pronounce sentence upon him." To this request the Caliph agreed. "Abul Hassan, you have condemned yourself," he said. He then bade the guards take Abul Hassan away and execute him according to the law. Before the wretched man was hanged, however, he confessed his guilt and told where he had hidden the thousand pieces of gold that belonged to Ali Cogia. After Abul had been led away the Caliph caressed and praised the lad for conducting the case so wisely and with so much judgment. "As for you," said he to the Cadi, "you have not shown the wisdom I demand from my judges. Learn from this child that such cases are not to be dismissed lightly, but to be inquired into with judgment and care. Otherwise it may go ill with you." The Cadi retired, full of shame, but the Caliph ordered that a hundred pieces of gold should be given to the boy and that he should be sent home to his mother with honor. OH! A COSSACK STORY There was once a man who had one son, and he was so lazy that he would not work at all. The father apprenticed him to a tailor, but the lad went to sleep between the stitches. He apprenticed him to a cobbler and the lad only sat and yawned instead of driving pegs. What to do with him the man did not know. "Come," said the father one day, "we will go out into the wide world. It may be that somewhere or other we will find a master who can make you work." The lad was very good-natured. "Very well," said he, "I am willing"; and he arose and stretched himself and yawned, and then he was ready to set out. The father put on his cap and took a staff in his hand, and then he was ready, too. The two of them journeyed along together, in step and out of step, and after a while they came to a deep wood. When they were well into it, the father grew so weary that he had to sit down and rest. "Oh! what have I done that I should have such a lazy son!" he cried. At once a little old, wrinkled, weazened man, all dressed in green, with a green face, green hair, and a green beard stood before them. "Why did you call me," said he, "and what do you want?" "I did not call you," answered the man. "But you did call me, for I heard you. Did not you call 'Oh'? And that is my name." "I said, 'Oh, what have I done to have such a lazy son,'" replied the man, "but I did not call you, for I did not know that was your name." The Green one looked closely at the lad. "Is he so lazy?" he asked. "He looks a stout, healthy fellow." "That is the worst of it," answered the father. "He is so stout and healthy that he eats me out of house and home, and not one stroke will he do to pay for it. I have tried to apprentice him to different masters, but they soon weary of him and drive him out." "Very well; I will take him as an apprentice myself," answered the little man. "Leave him here with me for a year. Come back at the end of that time, and if you know him again and are able to choose him out from among my other apprentices, then you shall take him home with you, but if not, then he shall serve with me a year longer." Very well, the father was willing to agree to that. It would only be for a year, for of course he would recognize his own son anywhere. So he left the lad with Oh and went on home again. Oh took the lad down into the country that lies beneath this earth, and the way was not long. There everything was green. Oh's house was made of green rushes. His wife was green and his daughters were green and his dog was green, and when they gave the lad food to eat, it was green also. The oldest daughter would have been a beauty if she had not been green all over--eyes, hair, and all. As soon as she saw the lad she loved him and would have been glad to have him for a husband, but he had no fancy for her. "When I marry," said he, "it shall be some girl who is good red and white flesh and blood like myself." "Never mind," said Oh. "After you have lived here for a while you will be glad enough to have her for a wife." The lad lived down in the under country for a year, and Oh taught him much magic, and he was very useful to the old Green One. But at the end of the year the father came back in search of his son. He stopped at the very same spot in the forest where he had stopped before and cried out in a loud voice, "Oh! Oh! I would like to see my son." At once Oh appeared before him. "Come with me," he said, "but remember our bargain. If you know your son when you see him he is yours again, but if you do not know him, then he must stay with me and serve me still another year." The man was very willing to agree, for it would be a strange thing if he did not know his own son when he saw him. Oh led him down the short way to the land that is under this, and when he got there the man stared about him in wonder. Never had he seen so many green things in all his life before. Oh took a handful of corn and scattered it about, calling as he did so. Then a great number of cocks that were pecking about the place came running and began to pick up the corn. "Tell me now, which of these is your son?" asked Oh, "for one of them is he." The man stared and scratched his head and stared again, but he could not tell, for one cock was just like another. He had to own that he could not tell which was his son. "Very well," said Oh. "Then you will have to go home without him. Come back at the end of another year, and then if you know him from his mates you shall take him home with you, but if not then he shall stay with me a twelvemonth longer." That did not suit the man at all, but he could not say no, for that was what the bargain had been. At the end of the year the man came back to the forest again and called upon Oh, and Oh was quickly before him. "Come along," said Oh. "You surely ought to know your son when you see him. If you do he shall go home with you, and I shall not say no to it, but if not then he shall stay with me a year longer." When the man heard this he was troubled, for he feared the Green One meant to play some trick on him as he had before, and he wanted his son home again, lazy or not. Moreover the lad's mother was grieving for him. Oh led the man down to the underworld and over to a field where a flock of rams was grazing. "All these are my servants," said Oh, "and one of them is your son. Look well and tell me which is he, for unless you can choose him out he must stay here with me." The man looked and looked, but he could not tell which of the rams was his son, for they all looked alike to him, so he had to go home without him. When the lad's mother heard of this second trick the Green One had played on her husband she wept bitterly. "If we cannot find some way to get round him, we will never have the lad back again," she said. "That is true," said the man; "but if our son looks like a cock, how can I tell him from other cocks; and if he looks like a ram, how can I tell him from other rams?" Well, time slipped by, and the man and his wife grew poorer and poorer, for they were growing old, and they needed a young body in the house to work for them. When it was about time for the man to set out for Oh's house his wife said to him, "See now! we have nothing left in the house but a small loaf and a bit of honeycomb. But we can do better than fill our stomach with them. Do you take them to the old Wise Woman who lives over beyond the hill. Tell her they are a gift, and then ask her what we can do to meet the tricks of the little old Green One." The man did as his wife bade him, though he was hungry and would have been glad of a bit of the bread himself. The Wise Woman was pleased with the gift, and thanked the man kindly. Then the man told her all his troubles and asked her how he was to get his son back again from Oh. "Listen!" said the old woman. "Oh would gladly keep your son with him as a husband for his daughter, and if you do not bring the lad away with you this time, you will never have him back. This time Oh will show you a flock of doves, and one of them will be your son. Look closely at them, and the one that has tears in its eyes is he, for only a human soul can weep." The father thanked the old woman and hurried back home again, and very soon after it was time to set out for Oh's house. The man travelled along till he came to the wood and the place where he had come twice already, and he stood there and cried, "Oh! Oh!" Then Oh appeared before him. "Here I am," said Oh, "ready and waiting for you. This time, as before, I tell you that if you know your son when you see him you shall take him away with you, but if, this time, you do not know him, then he is mine forever." "Very well," said the man, "that is a bargain." Then Oh took him down to the underworld. He called to a flock of doves that was perched on the roof and scattered a handful of peas on the ground for them. The doves flew down all about them and began to peck up the peas; but one dove would not eat but sat mournfully on a low bough and looked at them, and its eyes were full of tears. "This one is my son," cried the man, pointing to the dove that wept. As soon as he said this the dove changed its shape and became a young man, and this was the son, though he had become so fine and tall and handsome in these three years that his father could scarcely recognize him. Then Oh was in a fine rage. He danced with fury and tore his beard. "Very well," he cried, "he is yours now, but you shall not keep him long, and when I once get him back again he is mine forever." But the lad paid no heed to his threats. He and his father were soon on the upper earth again, and they set out for home, one foot before the other. On the way the father told the lad how badly it had gone with him and the mother in the past years; of how poor they were, and of how their hut was tumbling to pieces, and how their cow had died. "Never mind," said the lad. "I learned quite a bit of magic from the Green One, and that should help us out now. Do you hear the huntsmen winding their horns farther on in the open?" Yes, the father heard them. "I will turn myself into a greyhound," said the lad. "The hunt is coming this way, and when the huntsmen see me they will want to buy me. Ask them three hundred dollars for me; no more, no less, but when they take me do not leave the leash on me, whatever you do. Take it off and put it in your pocket, and then all will be well with me. Fail to do this, and misfortune will surely overtake me." The father promised to do as the son said, and then the lad turned himself into a greyhound, and he was so sleek and handsome that the man could not admire him enough; but about his neck was an old, worn leash that did not look as though it were worth a penny. It seemed a pity to leave it on the neck of such a handsome dog. The man went on a little further and then he came to where a grand nobleman and his friends were hunting a hare. They had a pack of dogs with them but the hare had outrun them. When the nobleman saw the man and the greyhound he stopped his horse. "That is a fine greyhound you have there." "Yes, it is," answered the man. "Do you think it could course down the hare we are chasing?" Yes, the man was sure it could. "Then let me have it and I will pay you a good price for it." Very well, he could have it for three hundred dollars, but that was without the leash; the leash was not for sale. The nobleman laughed aloud, "when the dog is mine," he said, "he shall have a golden leash, for that one you have is fit for nothing but the ash heap." The nobleman then paid the man three hundred dollars and unfastened the leash from the dog's neck. Away he flew like the wind and soon caught the hare. But when the hunters reached the spot where the hare lay they could see nothing of the dog. Only a tall and handsome youth stood there, and he was flushed and hot as though he had been running. "Have you seen my greyhound, a sleek and handsome dog?" asked the nobleman. No, the youth had not seen any dog. The nobleman called and whistled, and he and his huntsman hunted far and near, but they never found the greyhound. As for the lad he set out on the road his father had taken and soon caught up with him. "That was a very pretty trick," said the father; "but after all three hundred dollars is not much. It will barely buy us a cow and clothes and put a new roof on the hut." "Yes, but that is not the only trick I know," answered the son. "Look at the hill over yonder and tell me what you see." The father looked. "I see a company of fine ladies and gentlemen," answered the father, "and they are flying their falcons." "I will change myself into a falcon, and when you have come to where they are you shall loose me, and I will strike down a quail. Then they will want to buy me. Sell me for three hundred dollars, no more, no less. But whatever you do take off my hood and keep it, or misfortune will surely overtake us." The father promised he would do this, and then the lad turned himself into a falcon and perched upon his father's hand. Presently the father came up to where the ladies and gentlemen were at their sport. They loosed their falcons, and the falcons flew after the quail, but always they failed to strike, and the quail escaped. "That is poor sport," said the man. "I can show you better." He took off the hood and cast his falcon at the quail, and it quickly struck down its prey. The gentlemen and ladies were astonished at the quickness of the falcon and at the beauty of its feathers. "Sell us the bird," they said. Yes, the man was willing to do that, but his price was three hundred dollars without the hood; the hood was not for sale for love nor money. All the fine folk began to laugh. "What do we want with that old hood?" they cried. "We will give the bird a hood that is worthy of a king." So the man took the three hundred dollars and the hood and went on his way. The one who had bought the falcon cast it at a quail, and it struck down its prey as before, but when the hunters reached the place where the birds had fallen they saw no falcon, but only a handsome young man who stood there looking down at the dead quail. "What became of the falcon that was here?" they asked. But the youth had seen no falcon. He set out and soon overtook his father, who had not gone far. "And now art thou content?" he asked. "Six hundred dollars is not a fortune," answered the man. "Since you have done so well you might have done better." "Very well," answered the son. "We are now coming to a town where they are holding a fair. I will change myself into a horse, and you shall take me there and sell me for a thousand dollars,--no more, no less. But heed what I say. Do not sell the halter whatever you do, or evil will surely come of it." "Very well," said the father. "I will remember." The son then changed himself into a coal-black horse. His skin was like satin, his eyes like jewels, and when he moved, his hoofs scarcely seemed to touch the ground. But around his neck was an old leather halter that was scarcely fit for an old farm nag. The father led the horse on to where the fair was being held, and at once a crowd gathered around him, all bidding for the horse. Some offered him more and some less. "The price is a thousand dollars," said the father, "no more, no less. But that is without the halter." Then the people all laughed. "Who wants the halter?" they cried. "What we offer is for the horse alone. The halter we would not take as a gift." Then a rough looking, black-haired gypsy elbowed his way through the crowd. He was really the Green One who had taken on this form, though this the man did not know. "I will give you two thousand," he cried. "One thousand for the horse and one thousand for the halter, but I will not have one without the other." When the crowd heard this they laughed louder than ever. They thought the gypsy was crazy to offer such a price. As for the father he stood there gaping and he did not know what to do. "The price of the horse is a thousand dollars," he said. "And a thousand for the halter," said the gypsy. Well, two thousand dollars seemed a fortune to the man. Moreover he did not see what harm it could do to sell the halter too. So he let the gypsy have the horse and the halter as well, and the gypsy paid him two thousand dollars and led the horse away. And now the lad could not change himself back into his human shape, because the halter held him, and this Oh knew very well. He led the horse back to the forest and down to the world that is under this. "Now I have you again," he said, "and this time you shall not escape me." Then he called to his youngest daughter and bade her take the horse down to the river to drink. When she had brought the horse to the river bank it said to her. "Loosen, I pray of thee, the halter, that I may drink more easily." Then the girl, who was a stupid wench, loosened the halter. At once the lad slipped out of it and changed himself into a perch and fled away down the river. But the Green One knew what had happened. He rushed down to the river and changed himself into a pike and pursued after the perch. On and on they went, but the pike swam faster than the perch and was just about to catch it when the perch sprang clear out of the water. The daughter of the Tsar was walking by the river, and she was such a beauty that it made the heart ache to look at her. On her arm she carried a basket. As the perch leaped he changed himself into a ruby ring and fell into the basket. The damsel was very much astonished to see the ring in her basket. She did not know where it had come from. She looked up, and she looked down, but she could see no one who could have thrown the ring. Then she took it up and slid it upon her finger, and at once she loved it as she had never loved anything in all her life before. She carried it to her father and said to him, "Look what a pretty ring I have found!" "Yes," answered her father, "but where did you find it?" "I found it in my basket, but how it came there I do not know." The Tsaritsa's mother also admired the ring very much. Never had they seen such a brilliant and flashing ruby before. Now at first, after the perch leaped out of the river and into the Tsaritsa's basket, Oh did not know what had become of him. He was obliged to go home and get out his magic books, and then he soon learned where the lad was. He then changed himself into a venerable merchant, clothed in velvet robes and with a long white beard. He broke a stick from an ash tree and changed it into a horse, and mounted on it and rode away to the Tsar's palace. Then he asked to speak with the Tsar, and so old and venerable did he look that they would not refuse him, but brought him before the Tsar. "What dost thou want, old man?" asked the Tsar. "Your majesty," answered the Green One, "I have had a great loss. I was crossing the river in a boat, and I had with me a very handsome ruby ring that I was carrying with me to my master, who is also a Tsar. Unfortunately I lost the ring overboard, and I thought it might perchance have washed up on the shore and have been picked up by one of thy servants." "What was thy ring like?" asked the Tsar. Then the pretended merchant described the Tsaritsa's ring exactly. The Tsar sent for his daughter, and she came with the ring on her finger, for she would not take it off, either night or day. "Let me see thy ring," said the Tsar. He took her hand in his and examined the ring carefully, and it was in every respect exactly as the Green One had described it. "Is this thy ring?" the Tsar asked of the merchant. "Yes, your majesty, it is." "Then," said the Tsar to his daughter, "it is right that thou shouldst return it to him." The Tsaritsa wept and implored. She offered the merchant her pearls and every other gem she had if he would but let her keep the ring, but he refused. "Very well, then, it shall be neither thine nor mine," cried the Tsaritsa, and she drew the ring from her finger and dashed it against the wall. At once the ring changed into a hundred millet seeds and was scattered all over the floor. But the Green One as quickly changed himself into a cock and ran about this way and that, pecking up the millet seeds and swallowing them. Ninety-nine millet seeds he found and ate, but the hundredth he did not find, because it had fallen beside the Tsaritsa's foot, and the hem of her robe covered it. As soon as the cock had swallowed the ninety-ninth seed he sprang upon the window sill, and stretched his neck and crowed with triumph. But the hundredth seed was really the lad, and in that moment he changed himself back into his human form, and before the cock knew what had happened, he caught hold of it and wrung its neck and that was the end of Oh and his magic. As for the Tsaritsa, no sooner had she seen the lad than her heart went out to him, and she loved him even better than she had her ring, and she declared that he and he only should be her husband. The Tsar did not know what to say to that, for it did not seem fitting that his daughter should marry a common man. But the Tsaritsa begged and plead with him till he could no longer withstand her. So she and the lad were married with great pomp and magnificence. His old father and mother were bidden to the wedding, and they could hardly believe their eyes when they saw their son stand there in those costly robes with a crown upon his head and the Tsaritsa beside him as his bride. The old people were given a house to live in and plenty of money to spend, and they all lived in peace and happiness forever after. THE TALKING EGGS A STORY FROM LOUISIANA There was once a widow who had two daughters, one named Rose and the other Blanche. Blanche was good and beautiful and gentle, but the mother cared nothing for her and gave her only hard words and harder blows; but she loved Rose as she loved the apple of her eye, because Rose was exactly like herself, coarse-looking, and with a bad temper and a sharp tongue. Blanche was obliged to work all day, but Rose sat in a chair with folded hands as though she were a fine lady, with nothing in the world to do. One day the mother sent Blanche to the well for a bucket of water. When she came to the well she saw an old woman sitting there. The woman was so very old that her nose and her chin met, and her cheeks were as wrinkled as a walnut. "Good day to you, child," said the old woman. "Good day, auntie," answered Blanche. "Will you give me a drink of water?" asked the old woman. "Gladly," said Blanche. She drew the bucket full of water, and tilted it so the old woman could drink, but the crone lifted the bucket in her two hands as though it were a feather and drank and drank till the water was all gone. Blanche had never seen any one drink so much; not a drop was left in the bucket. "May heaven bless you!" said the old woman, and then she went on her way. And now Blanche had to fill the bucket again, and it seemed as though her arms would break, she was so tired. When she went home her mother struck her because she had tarried so long at the well. Her blows made Blanche weep. Rose laughed when she saw her crying. The very next day the mother became angry over nothing and gave Blanche such a beating that the girl ran away into the woods; she would not stay in the house any longer. She ran on and on, deeper and deeper into the forest, and there, in the deepest part, she met the old woman she had seen beside the well. "Where are you going, my child? And why are you weeping so bitterly?" asked the crone. "I am weeping because my mother beat me," answered Blanche; "and now I have run away from her, and I do not know where to go." "Then come with me," said the old woman. "I will give you a shelter and a bite to eat, and in return there is many a task you can do for me. Only, whatever you may see as we journey along together you must not laugh nor say anything about it." Blanche promised she would not, and then she trudged away at the old woman's side. After a while they came to a hedge so thick and wide and so set with thorns that Blanche did not see how they could pass it without being torn to pieces, but the old hag waved her staff, and the branches parted before them and left the path clear. Then, as they passed, the hedge closed together behind them. Blanche wondered but said nothing. A little further on they saw two axes fighting together with no hand to hold them. That seemed a curious thing, but still Blanche said nothing. Further on were two arms that strove against each other without a sound. Still Blanche was silent. Further on again two heads fought, butting each other like goats. Blanche looked and stared but said no word. Then the heads called to her. "You are a good girl, Blanche. Heaven will reward you." After that she and her companion came to the hut where the old woman lived. They went in, and the hag bade Blanche gather some sticks of wood and build a fire. Meanwhile she sat down beside the hearth and took off her head. She put it in her lap and began to comb her hair and twist it up. Blanche was frightened, but she held her peace and built the fire as the old woman had directed. When it was burning the old woman put back her head in place, and told Blanche to look on the shelf behind the door. "There you will find a bone; put it on to boil for our dinners," said she. [Illustration: She sat down beside the hearth and took off her head.] Blanche found the bone and put it on to boil, though it seemed a poor dinner. The old woman gave her a grain of rice and bade her grind it in the mortar. Blanche put the rice in the mortar and ground it with the pestle, and before she had been grinding two minutes the mortar was full of rice, enough for both of them and to spare. When it was time for dinner she looked in the pot and it was full of good, fresh meat. She and the old woman had all they could eat. After dinner was over the old woman lay down on the bed. "Oh, my back! Oh, my poor back! How it does ache," groaned she. "Come hither and rub it." Blanche came over and uncovered the old crone's back, and she was surprised when she saw it; it was as hard and ridgy as a turtle's. Still she said nothing but began to rub it. She rubbed and rubbed till the skin was all worn off her hand. "That is good," said the old woman. "Now I feel better." She sat up and drew her clothes about her. Then she blew upon Blanche's hand, and at once it was as well as ever. Blanche stayed with the old woman for three days and served her well; she neither asked questions nor spoke of what she saw. At the end of that time her mistress said to her, "My child, you have now been with me for three days, and I can keep you here no longer. You have served me well, and you shall not lack your reward. Go to the chicken-house and look in the nests. You will find there a number of eggs. Take all that say to you, 'Take me,' but those that say, 'Do not take me,' you must not touch." Blanche went out to the chicken-house and looked in the nests. There were ever so many eggs; some of them were large and beautiful and white and shining and so pretty that she longed to take them, but each time she stretched out her hand toward one it cried, "Do not take me." Then she did not touch it. There were also some small, brown, muddy-looking eggs, and these called to her, "Take me!" So those were the ones she took. When she came back to the house the old woman looked to see which ones she had taken. "You have done what was right," said she, "and you will not regret it." She then showed Blanche a path by which she could return to her own home without having to pass through the thorn hedge. "As you go throw the eggs behind you," she said, "and you will see what you shall see. One thing I can tell you, your mother will be glad enough to have you home again after that." Blanche thanked her for the eggs, though she did not think much of them, and started out. After she had gone a little way she threw one of the eggs over her shoulder. It broke on the path, and a whole bucket full of gold poured out from it. Blanche had never seen so much gold in all her life before. She gathered it up in her apron and went a little farther, and then she threw another egg over her shoulder. When it broke a whole bucket full of diamonds poured out over the path. They fairly dazzled the eyes, they were so bright and sparkling. Blanche gathered them up, and went on farther, and threw another egg over her shoulder. Out from it came all sorts of fine clothes, embroidered and set all over with gems. Blanche put them on, and then she looked like the most beautiful princess that ever was seen. She threw the last egg over her shoulder, and there stood a magnificent golden coach drawn by four white horses, and with coachman and footman all complete. Blanche stepped into the coach, and away they rolled to the door of her mother's house without her ever having to give an order or speak a word. When her mother and sister heard the coach draw up at the door they ran out to see who was coming. There sat Blanche in the coach, all dressed in fine clothes, and with her lap full of gold and diamonds. Her mother welcomed her in and then began to question her as to how she had become so rich and fine. It did not take her long to learn the whole story. Nothing would satisfy her but that Rose should go out into the forest, and find the old woman, and get her to take her home with her as a servant. Rose grumbled and muttered, for she was a lazy girl and had no wish to work for any one, whatever the reward, and she would rather have sat at home and dozed; but her mother pushed her out of the door, and so she had to go. She slouched along through the forest, and presently she met the old woman. "Will you take me home with you for a servant?" asked Rose. "Come with me if you will," said the old woman, "but whatever you may see do not laugh nor say anything about it." "I am a great laugher," said Rose, and then she walked along with the old woman through the forest. Presently they came to the thorn hedge, and it opened before them just as it had when Blanche had journeyed there. "That is a good thing," said Rose. "If it had not done that, not a step farther would I have gone." Soon they came to the place where the axes were fighting. Rose looked and stared, and then she began to laugh. A little later they came to where the arms were striving together, and at that Rose laughed harder still. But when she came to where the heads were butting each other, she laughed hardest of all. Then the heads opened their mouths and spoke to her. "Evil you are, and evil you will be, and no luck will come through your laughter." Soon after they arrived at the old woman's house. She pushed open the door, and they went in. The crone bade Rose gather sticks and build a fire; she herself sat down by the hearth, and took off her head, and began to comb and plait her hair. Rose stood and looked and laughed. "What a stupid old woman you are," she said, "to take off your head to comb your hair!" and she laughed and laughed. The old woman was very angry. Still she did not say anything. She put on her head and made up the fire herself. Rose would not do anything. She would not even put the pot on the fire. She was as lazy at the old woman's house as she was at home, and the old crone was obliged to do the work herself. At the end of three days she said to Rose. "Now you must go home, for you are of no use to anybody, and I will keep you here no longer." "Very well," said Rose. "I am willing enough to go, but first pay me my wages." "Very well," said the old woman. "I will pay you. Go out to the chicken-house and look for eggs. All the eggs that say, 'Take me', you may have, but if they say, 'Do not take me', then you must not touch them." Rose went out to the chicken-house and hunted about and soon found the eggs. Some were large and beautiful and white, and of these she gathered up an apronful, though they cried to her ever so loudly, "Do not take me." Some of the eggs were small and ugly and brown. "Take me! Take me!" they cried. "A pretty thing if I were to take you," she cried. "You are fit for nothing but to be thrown out on the hillside." She did not return to the hut to thank the old woman or bid her good-by but set off for home the way she had come. When she reached the thorn thicket it had closed together again. She had to force her way through, and the thorns scratched her face and hands and almost tore the clothes off her back. Still she comforted herself with the thought of all the riches she would get out of the eggs. She went a little farther, and then she took the eggs out of her apron. "Now I will have a fine coach to travel in the rest of the way," said she, "and gay clothes and diamonds and money," and she threw the eggs down in the path, and they all broke at once. But no clothes, nor jewels, nor fine coach, nor horses came out of them. Instead snakes and toads sprang forth, and all sorts of filth that covered her up to her knees and bespattered her clothing. Rose shrieked and ran, and the snakes and toads pursued her, spitting venom, and the filth rolled after her like a tide. She reached her mother's house, and burst open the door, and ran in, closing it behind her. "Look what Blanche has brought on me," she sobbed. "This is all her fault." The mother looked at her and saw the filth, and she was so angry she would not listen to a word Blanche said. She picked up a stick to beat her, but Blanche ran away out of the house and into the forest. She did not stop for her clothes or her jewels or anything. She had not gone very far before she heard a noise behind her. She looked over her shoulder, and there was her golden coach rolling after her. Blanche waited until it caught up to her, and then she opened the door and stepped inside, and there were all her diamonds and gold lying in a heap. Her mother and Rose had not been able to keep any of them. Blanche rode along for a long while, and then she came to a grand castle, and the King and Queen of the country lived there. The coach drew up at the door, and every one came running out to greet her. They thought she must be some great Princess come to visit them, but Blanche told them she was not a Princess, but only the daughter of a poor widow, and that all the fine things she had, had come out of some eggs an old woman had given her. When the people heard this they were very much surprised. They took her in to see the King and Queen, and the King and Queen made her welcome. She told them her story, and they were so sorry for her they declared she should live there with them always and be as a daughter to them. So Blanche became a grand lady, and after a while she was married to the Prince, the son of the old King and Queen, and she was beloved by all because she was so good and gentle. But when Blanche's mother and sister heard of the good fortune that had come to her, and how she had become the bride of the Prince, they were ready to burst with rage and spite. Moreover they turned quite green with envy, and green they may have remained to the end of their lives, for all that I know to the contrary. THE FROG PRINCESS A RUSSIAN STORY There was once a Tsar[1] who had three sons, and they were all dear to him, but the youngest, Ivan, was the dearest of them all. When the Princes grew to manhood the Tsar began to talk and talk to them about getting married, but it so happened not one of the Princes had ever seen the girl he wished to have for a wife. There were many in the kingdom whom they might well have loved, but not one of them meant more to any of the Princes than another. "Very well, then," said the Tsar at last, "we will leave it to chance. Take your bows and arrows and come with me into the courtyard. You shall each shoot an arrow, and in whatever places your arrows fall, there shall you take your brides." The Princes were not greatly pleased with this plan, but still they dared not say no to their father. They took their bows and went with him into the courtyard. First the eldest son shot his arrow, and he aimed it toward the east, where the sun rises. The arrow fell upon the balcony of a great nobleman's house. Well and good! The nobleman had a daughter, and she was so stately and handsome that the Prince was very glad to take her for a wife. Then the second Prince shot an arrow and aimed it toward the west, where the sun is in its glory. He was no less lucky than his brother, for his arrow fell into the court of a rich merchant, and he also had a daughter who was a beauty. So the second son took her for a bride, and he was well content. Last of all Prince Ivan shot his arrow, and he aimed neither toward the east nor the west, but straight up into the sky above him. Then a sudden gust of wind arose and caught the arrow and blew it away so that it fell in a great swamp. In this swamp were no rich nor beautiful ladies, but only a poor, green, croaking frog. When the young Prince Ivan saw where his arrow had fallen he was in despair. "How can I marry a frog," said he, "and have her rule with me as my Princess?" "It is a great pity," said the Tsar; "nevertheless what I have said I have said, and where your arrow fell there must you take your bride." So Prince Ivan was married to the frog, and the Tsar built a castle on the edge of the swamp for them to live in. Now the Tsar was growing old, and he began to consider in his mind to which of his sons he would leave his kingdom. Gladly would he have left it to his youngest son, who was his favorite, but it did not seem right that a frog should ever rule over the kingdom as Queen. At last he called the three Princes before him and said, "My sons, to-morrow let your wives bake me some soft white bread. I will eat of it, and in this way I will know which of you has the cleverest wife, and he who has the cleverest wife shall inherit my kingdom." After they had heard him the three Princes went away to their own homes, and Prince Ivan was very sad. "What ails you, my dear husband," said the frog, "that you hang your head and are so downcast?" "It is no wonder I am downcast," answered Prince Ivan. "My father has commanded that you shall make him a loaf of soft white bread to-morrow, and well I know that your webby fingers can never make bread that he would taste or even so much as look at." "Do not be too sure of that," answered the frog. "Sleep in peace, and I promise that to-morrow I will provide a loaf that even the Tsar will be glad to eat of." The Prince did not believe this, but grief is heavy, so no sooner was he in bed than he fell into a deep sleep. Then the frog arose from beside him and went into a far-off room and took off her frog-skin; for she was really a Princess who had been enchanted. She combed her hair and washed herself and then she went out on the balcony of the castle and cried, "Nurses dear, nurses dear, bring me a loaf of bread such as I used to have in the palace of my own dear father, the King." After she had called this three times three crows appeared, carrying among them a fine napkin embroidered with gold, and in this napkin was a loaf of bread. They laid the napkin before the Princess and bowed three times, croaking solemnly, and then they flew away again into the night. The Princess took up the bread and went back into the room and put on her frog-skin again; after that she returned to her chamber and lay down beside her husband. The next day when the Prince was ready to set out for the Tsar's palace, the frog brought him the loaf of bread still wrapped in the napkin. "Take this, dear husband," said she, "and carry it to your father, the Tsar, but do not open it on the way lest the dust should spoil the fineness of the bread." The Prince took the loaf and rode away with it, but he could not forbear from peeping into the napkin to see what was there, and what he saw filled him with admiration and wonder. Quickly he rode on his way, and soon reached the Tsar's palace. The two older brothers were there, and each brought a loaf of fine white bread that his wife had made. When Prince Ivan entered his brothers could not forbear from smiling. "Come!" said they, "show us quickly what kind of bread the Frog Princess has made. Does it smell of reeds and rushes?" The young Prince made no answer but gave what he carried to his father. When the Tsar saw the fineness of the napkin and the beautiful embroidery upon it he was very much surprised. But he was still more surprised when he opened the napkin and saw what it contained. Never before had he seen such bread. Not only was it soft and light and fine, but it was molded along the sides in cunning scenes, castles and cities, moats and bridges, and upon the top was the imprint of the royal eagle, perfect even to the claws and feathers. The Tsar could not admire it enough. Still he was not willing to leave the kingdom to Prince Ivan and so make a queen of a frog. "This is very beautiful, but a loaf of bread is soon eaten and forgotten," said he. "I now wish each one of you to bring me a carpet to lay before my throne, and he who brings me the finest carpet, him will I make my heir." The Princes returned to their own homes, and the youngest one was very sad and sorrowful. "What ails you, my dear husband?" asked the frog. "Why are you so downcast, and why do you hang your head. Was not the Tsar pleased with the bread you carried to him?" "He was well pleased," answered the Prince; "but now he has commanded each one of us to bring him a carpet, and to him who brings the finest carpet he will leave his kingdom. No wonder I am sad, for where, in this swamp, can I find a carpet such as I require?" "Do not trouble yourself about that," answered the frog. "Do you go and lie down and go quietly to sleep. I will supply you such a carpet as you need." The Prince did not believe her, but because grief is heavy he lay down and soon fell into a deep sleep. Again as before the frog stole away to a distant chamber and laid aside her frog-skin. Then she went out on the balcony and cried aloud three times; "Nurses dear, nurses true, bring me a carpet such as lay before my bed in my own home." At once the three crows appeared, carrying among them a carpet rolled up and covered with a piece of embroidered velvet. They laid the roll before the Princess, bowed three times, and then flew away again. The Princess carried the carpet back into the chamber and put on her frog-skin again, and then she went back and lay down quietly beside the Prince. The next morning when the Prince was ready to set out, the frog brought the roll of carpet to him. "Here," said she; "carry this to your father, but do not open it upon the way lest the dust spoil its beauty." The Prince took the carpet and rode away. When he reached the Tsar's palace his two brothers were already there, and each had brought with him a piece of carpet so fine and rich that it was difficult to say which of the two was the more beautiful. When the older brothers saw Ivan they began to laugh. "Come!" said they. "Let us see what kind of a carpet he has brought from his swamp home. No doubt it is very wonderful." The Prince laid the roll of carpet upon the floor and opened it out and when they saw it every one was struck with wonder. The elder Princes had not a word to say. Never before had they seen such a carpet. Not only was it as thick and soft as eiderdown, but it shone with wondrous colors that changed as one looked at them, and it was embroidered with gold in strange designs. The Tsar was filled with admiration. All the same he still was unwilling to have a frog reign in his kingdom. "This is all very well," said he, "and never before have I seen such a beautiful carpet. But now I wish you all to appear before me to-morrow with your wives. Let the Princesses wear their most beautiful dresses and their finest jewels, and whichever of you has the wife best fitted to be Queen, to him will I leave the kingdom." When the Prince Ivan heard this he was in despair. How could he ever bring the frog to court and present her to the Tsar as though she were a beautiful Princess? When he went home the frog at once asked him why he was so sad and woebegone. "Is not the kingdom to be yours?" she asked. "No," answered the Prince, "for now my father, the Tsar, has demanded something else of us." He then told her how the Tsar had bidden him and his brothers bring their wives to court, and had said that whichever of the Princesses was the finest and most beautiful should reign as Queen, and her husband should be the Tsar. "Do not trouble over that," said the frog. "Only go to bed and sleep quietly. The kingdom shall still be yours." Then the Prince went to bed, but he only closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep, for he had grown very curious as to how the frog had been able to provide him with the wonderful loaf and the carpet. The frog kept very still until she thought the Prince was asleep. Then she arose quietly from his side and slipped away, but the Prince also arose and followed her without her being aware of it. She went to the far-off chamber, and there she laid aside her frog-skin; and when the prince saw her in her human form he was amazed at her beauty, and his heart melted within him for love of her, for her hair was like spun gold, her eyes as blue as the sky, and her skin as white as milk. Never had he seen such a beauty. The Princess went out on a balcony as she had before, and cried aloud three times, "Nurses dear, nurses true, bring me fine clothes and jewels to wear, richer than ever were seen before." At once the three crows appeared, carrying with them jewels and fine robes all encrusted with gems and embroidery. These they laid at the Princess's feet and bowed three times, croaking hoarsely, and then they flew away. The Princess took the robes and jewels back into the chamber to hide them, and while she was doing this Prince Ivan returned to his bed and lay down and closed his eyes as though he were asleep. When the frog came back she looked at him carefully, but he kept so still she never guessed that he had stirred from where he lay. The next morning the frog bade Ivan ride away alone to the palace of the Tsar. "I will follow you," she said, "and when you hear a great noise, say, 'That is my little Froggie, driving up in her basket made of rushes.'" The Prince promised to do this and then he rode away to the palace of the Tsar. His brothers were already there, and their two wives were with them, both so handsome and so magnificently dressed that each looked finer than the other. When Ivan came in they all began to laugh. "Where is thy dear frog?" they asked. "Is she still asleep among her reeds and rushes, or is she too hoarse to come?" Even as they spoke there was a great noise outside,--a roaring and rumbling like thunder. The palace shook until it seemed as though it would fall about their ears. Every one was terrified. Only Prince Ivan was calm. "There is my little Froggie now," he said; "she is driving up in her little basket of rushes." At once the noise ceased, the doors were flung open, and a magnificent Princess swept into the room. Never was such a beauty seen before. Her golden hair fell almost to the floor and was bound about with jewels. Her robes were stiff with embroidery and gems. The other Princesses paled before her as stars pale before the rising moon. Prince Ivan took her by the hand and led her to the Tsar. "This is my dear Princess," said he, "and surely it is she and she only who should reign over this land." Well, there were no two ways to that. The Tsar could hardly contain himself for joy over the beauty of Prince Ivan's bride. A great feast was spread, and the Tsar himself led the Princess to the table. She sat at his right hand and drank from his jewelled cup, and all was joy and merriment. Only the older brothers and their wives were sad, for they knew they had missed all chance of gaining the kingdom. Now while they were still at the table, all eating and drinking, Prince Ivan arose and made some excuse for leaving the room. He went quietly and mounted his horse and rode back to his own castle. There he made haste to the room where his wife had left her frog-skin. He hunted about until he found it, and then he threw it into the fire, for he did not intend that she should ever hide herself away in it again. At once a clap of thunder sounded, and the Princess stood before him. Her eyes were streaming with tears, and she wrung her hands in grief. "Alas and woe is me!" she cried. "Why did you burn my frog-skin? A little longer, and I would have been free. Now I must go away and leave you forever." "But where are you going?" cried the Prince in despair. "Wherever it is I will follow and find you." "Seek me beyond the seven mountains, beyond the seven seas, in the kingdom of Koshchei the Deathless, for it is in his house I will be," answered the Princess. Then she turned into a great white swan and flew out through the window and far, far away; so far the Prince could no longer see her. Then Prince Ivan was filled with grief; and he neither stayed nor tarried but set out at once in search of his Princess. He journeyed on and journeyed on a short way and a long way, and then he met an old man with a grey beard that hung down far below his belt. "Good day, good youth," said the old man. "Good day, grandfather," answered Ivan. "Whither do you journey with so sad a face?" asked the stranger. "I journey over land and over sea in search of the kingdom of Koshchei the Deathless," answered Ivan. "Then you have a long journey before you," said the old man. "But why do you seek the kingdom of Koshchei the Deathless, that terrible man?" "I seek it that I may find what is lost." Then Ivan told the old man his story, all about his frog bride and how she had turned into a Princess,--how he had burned the frog-skin and how she had flown away as a swan, and that now life would be nothing but a burden to him until he could find her again. The old man shook his head. "Alas! alas! You should never have burned the frog-skin!" he said. He then told Ivan that the name of the Princess was Vasilisa the Fair. "Her mother was the sister of Koshchei the Deathless," said the stranger, "and when she was born it was foretold that before she was eighteen Koshchei should lose his life because of her. It was for this reason that he changed her into a frog and set her in the midst of the lonely swamp. In a month and a day from now the Princess would have been eighteen, and the danger to Koshchei would have been over. Then he would have allowed her to lay aside her frog-skin and take back her human shape. But now he is angry and has carried her away to his castle, and only by the grace of Heaven will you be able to find her and set her free." The old man then gave Prince Ivan a little ball. "Take this," he said, "and roll it before you as you go. It will show you which way to travel, and with its help you may reach the kingdom of Koshchei." Ivan took the ball and thanked the old man and journeyed on. He rolled the ball before him, and in whichever direction it rolled he followed. He went along and went along, until after a while he came to a forest, and there he saw a bear. Prince Ivan would have shot it, but the bear cried to him, "Do not shoot me, Prince. Take me with you as a servant, and the time may come when I can help you." "Very well," said the Prince. "Come with me"; so he journeyed on with the bear at his heels. Presently he saw a wild duck and would have shot it, but the duck called to him, "Do not shoot me, dear Prince. Take me with you, and I will be a faithful servant. The time may come when you will need me." "Very well," answered the Prince. "You also may come with us as a companion." So the Prince journeyed along with the bear at his heels and the duck flying overhead. After a while they came to the edge of a river, and there lay a great fish, gasping out its life in the sunlight. "Now at last I shall have a good meal," said the Prince. But the fish cried to him in a human voice, "Throw me back into the river, Prince, that I may live. The time may come when I can do you a good turn also." So the Prince had mercy on the fish and threw it back into the water. After that he and his companions traveled on a long way. They journeyed over seven mountains and crossed seven seas, and so they came at last to the kingdom of Koshchei the Deathless. There the Prince saw a little hut. It stood on hen's legs and turned this way and that, whichever way the wind blew. There was no getting at the door. Then the Prince cried, "Little hut, stand the way my mother built you with your back away from me and your door before me." At once the hut whirled round and stood with the open door in front of him. Prince Ivan entered in, and saw a bony-legged Baba Yaga lying on the stove with her grey hair over her face. "Who are you? And what seek you here in the kingdom of Koshchei the Deathless?" she cried. "Do not ask questions but rise up and give me food and drink," said the Prince; "for I am both hungry and thirsty." The Baba Yaga arose and served him food and drink. He ate and gave part to the bear and the duck. Then he told the Baba Yaga why he had come there--that he was wandering in search of his dear wife, Vasilisa the Fair. The old witch shook her head. "It will be a hard thing to rescue her," she said. "Koshchei is very powerful. Only in one way can you overcome him. Not far from here stands a tree. It is as hard as rock, so that no ax can dent it, and so smooth that none can climb it. On the top of it is a nest. In the nest is an egg. A duck sits over the egg to guard it. In that egg is a needle, and only with that needle can you kill Koshchei the Deathless." The Baba Yaga then led Prince Ivan to the door and pointed out to him where the tree grew, and Prince Ivan hurried on toward it, with his two faithful servants, the bear and the duck. But when he reached the tree he looked at it with despair. It was indeed very smooth and high,--as smooth as glass, and when he tried his hunting knife upon it the knife bent and crumpled in his hand. "Master, now is the time that I can help you," said the bear. He went to the tree and clasped it and shook it, so that its roots cracked, and it fell with a mighty noise. At once the duck that was guarding the egg caught it up in its claws and flew away with it. But Ivan's duck pursued so fiercely that the other was forced to drop the egg in order to defend itself. Unfortunately they had both flown over a river, and into this river the egg dropped and was lost to sight. Ivan sat down upon the bank of the river and wept. "Alas, alas!" he cried. "Now truly is my dear wife lost to me, for never can I recover the egg from the river." Hardly had he spoken when the fish he had thrown back into the river appeared, bearing the egg in its mouth. Now Ivan's grief was turned to rejoicing. He broke the egg and took out the needle. Then, with the little ball to lead him, he soon made his way to Koshchei's palace. The Deathless One rushed out to meet him, but Ivan attacked him with the point of the needle. It was in vain Koshchei tried to protect himself. Ivan drove the needle into him deeper and deeper, and presently Koshchei sank down dead before him, no better than a lump of clay. Prince Ivan strode across him and on into the castle. From room to room he went, and in the deepest dungeon he found the Princess Vasilisa, his own dear wife. She threw herself into his arms, weeping with joy. Then they went to Koshchei's treasure room and took from it all the most precious jewels,--all that the faithful bear could carry they loaded upon his back and carried away with them. After that they journeyed back to their own kingdom, and if any one was glad to see them it was the Tsar himself. He built for them a castle close to his own, where they could not even see the swamp. There Ivan and his frog princess lived in the greatest love and happiness, and after the old Tsar's death they themselves ruled over the kingdom as the Tsar and Tsaritsa. ----- [1] King. THE MAGIC TURBAN, THE MAGIC SWORD AND THE MAGIC CARPET A PERSIAN STORY There were once two brothers, the sons of a rich merchant, and when he died he left all his estate to be divided between them equally. This was done, and the elder at once set about trading and improving his condition, so that very soon he became twice as rich as he had been. But the younger son had no luck. Everything he undertook failed. Moreover, he never had the heart to say no to a friend in need. So before long he was left with not a penny in his purse or a roof over his head. In his distress he went to his elder brother and asked help of him. "How is this?" said the elder. "Our father left the same to both of us, and I have prospered in the world and have now become a rich man, but you have not even a roof to shelter your head or a bite to eat." "Well, that's a long tale," said the younger, "and what is done is done. But give me another chance, and it may be that this time I will succeed in the world." After they had talked a long time the elder brother consented to give him fifty dollars, but if he wasted that the way he had the rest of his property, he was not to come back again. The younger brother took the money and went off with it, but it was not long before it had slipped through his fingers just the way his other money had. Before long he was back at his brother's door, asking for help again. The older brother scolded and reproached him. He was a spendthrift and a waster. But in the end he gave him another fifty dollars, and bade him be off, and not dare to return again. The younger brother went off with the fifty dollars and this time he was sure he would succeed with it. But his luck was still no better than it had been before. Soon it was all gone, and back he came to his brother's house. So it went on. The older brother could not rid himself of him. At last the elder brother, seeing there would be no peace for him as long as he remained where he was, made up his mind to sell all his possessions and take the money and journey to a far land without telling his younger brother anything about it. This he did, but somehow or other the younger one got wind of it. He found what ship his brother was to sail on, and then he crawled aboard at night, when nobody was watching, and hid himself among the cargo. The next day the ship set sail. Soon they were out at sea. Then the elder brother came out on deck and strutted up and down, and he rejoiced at heart that he had shaken off the younger lad and with good luck might never see him again. But just as he thought this, whom should he see but the lad coming across the deck to meet him and give him greeting. The elder was a sick and sorry man. It seemed there was no ridding himself of his brother. At the first port they touched he left the ship, and his brother got off with him, for he had no idea of being left behind. The elder brother stood there on the shore and looked about him. Then he said, "Listen, now! It is a long way to the town. Do you stay here while I go on farther, beyond yon spit of land, and see whether I can find a dwelling where I can buy us a couple of horses; for I have no wish to journey on foot." The younger brother was for going along too, but to this the elder would not consent. No, no; the lad was to stay there and watch a box that the elder brother had brought along. (The box had nothing in it, but this the younger brother did not know.) So the elder brother set out and soon was out of sight, and the younger one sat on the box and kicked his heels and waited, and waited and waited and waited; but his brother never did come back. Then the lad knew the older one had made a fool of him. He looked in the box and found it empty. So off he set to see whether he could make his own way in the world and no thanks to any one. He journeyed on a short way and a long way, and so he came to a place where three men were quarreling together fiercely, and the things they were quarreling over were an old turban, a piece of carpet, and a sword. As soon as they saw the lad they stopped quarreling and ran and caught hold of him. "You shall decide! You shall decide!" they shouted all together. "What is it you wish me to decide?" asked the lad. Then the men told him they were three brothers, and that when their father died he had left them these three things,--the turban, the carpet, and the sword. Whoever placed the turban on his head would at once become invisible. Whoever sat on the carpet had only to wish himself wherever he would be, and the carpet would carry him there in a twinkling, and the sword would cut through anything, and no magic could stand against it. "These things should belong to me, because I am the eldest," cried one of the men. "No, I should have them because I am the strongest and stoutest," said the second. "But I am the youngest and weakest and need them most," cried the third. They then began to quarrel again and even came to blows. "Stop, stop," cried the lad. "You said that I should decide this matter for you, so why quarrel about it? But before I decide I must try the things and see whether what you have told me is really so." To this the brothers agreed. First they gave him the sword, and the lad took it in his hand and aimed a blow at a rock near by, and the sword cut through the rock as smoothly and easily as though it had been a piece of cheese. "Now give me the turban," said the lad. The brothers gave him the turban, and he placed it upon his head and at once became invisible! "Now the carpet." The brothers spread out the carpet on the ground, and the lad seated himself upon it with the turban still upon his head and the sword in his hand! Then he wished himself far away in some place where the brothers would never find him. Immediately he found himself in the outskirts of a large city. He stepped from the carpet and rolled it up and took the turban from his head and looked about him. He had no idea of going back to return the things to the brothers, and if they waited for him they waited a long time. "It will teach them not to quarrel but to live at peace with each other," said the lad to himself. Then he made his way to the nearest house, for he was hungry and meant to ask for a bite to eat. He knocked, and an old woman opened the door, and she was so old that her chin and her nose met. "Good day, mother," said the lad. "Good day to you," answered the crone. "Will you give me a bite to eat, for the love of charity?" Yes, the crone would do that. She gave him a bite and a sup and a bit over, and while he was eating and drinking she sat and talked with him. "What is the news here in the city?" asked the lad. "Oh the same news as ever." "And what is that? For I am a stranger here and know no more of yesterday or the week before than of to-day." "Then I will tell you. Over yonder lies the castle, and the King lives there. He has only one daughter, and she is a beauty, you may believe. Every night the Princess disappears from the castle, and where she goes no one can tell but herself, and she will not. So the King has offered a reward to any one who will find out. The half of his kingdom he offers and the hand of the Princess as well, if only any one can tell him where she goes." "That is a good hearing," said the lad. "I have a mind to try for that prize myself." "No, but wait a bit," said the old woman. "There is another side to the story, for if you try and fail your head will be lifted from your shoulders with a sharp sword, and you are too fine a young man to lose your life in that way." But the lad was determined to try. In vain the old woman warned and entreated him. He thanked her for the meal he had eaten, and then off he set for the palace. There he told the errand that had brought him and after that it did not take long for him to get to see the King. "So you think you can find out where the Princess goes at night," said the King. Yes, the lad thought he could. Very well, then, he might have a try at it, but he must remember that if he tried and failed his head would be cut from his shoulders with a sharp sword. Yes, the lad understood that, and he was ready to take the risk. So that night he was taken to the door of a room in a high tower, and the room was of iron and had only one door and one window. Into this room the Princess was put every night, and it would be the duty of the lad to watch at the door and see either that she did not leave it, or where she went. Presently the Princess came upstairs and passed by the lad without so much as a glance, but his heart leaped within him, she was so beautiful. She opened the door to go in, and the lad put on his turban of darkness and slipped in after her, but the Princess did not know that because he was invisible. She closed the door tight and sighed three times, and then a great black demon stood before her, and he was terrible to look upon, he was so huge and ugly. "Oh, my dear Lala," said the Princess, "let us be off at once. I do not know why, but I feel so frightened, just as though some misfortune were about to come upon me." "That is nonsense," said the demon. "But do you seat yourself upon my head, and we will be off at once." The demon wore a buckler upon his head, and now he stooped, and she seated herself upon it, but the lad was quick and sprang up and took his place beside her. "Ai! Ai!" cried the demon, "but you are heavy to-day, Princess." [Illustration: Then the demon flew out through the window and away through the night.] "I do not know what you mean," answered the Princess. "I am no heavier and no lighter than I was last night." Then the demon flew out through the window and away through the night so fast that the lad had much ado to keep from falling off. After a while they came to a garden the like of which the lad had never seen before and never expected to see again, for the leaves of the trees were of silver, and the branches were of gold, and the fruits were emeralds and rubies. As they passed through it the lad stretched out his hand and broke off a twig and put it in his bosom. Then all the trees in the garden began to sigh and moan. "Child of man! Child of man! why do you break and torture us?" The Princess shuddered. "Some one besides ourselves is here in the garden," she cried. "That cannot be, or we would see him," answered the demon, but he was frightened and flew on faster than before. Presently they came to another garden and it was even more wonderful than the first, for here the trees were of diamonds, and the fruits of every kind of precious stones you can think of. As they passed through it the lad stretched out his hand and broke off a twig. Then all the trees began to sigh and moan. "Child of man! Child of man! Why do you break and torture us?" they cried. "Oh, my dear Lala, what did I tell you?" asked the Princess. "I am afraid"; and she trembled all over her body. The demon answered nothing, but he flew on even faster than ever. Soon after they came to a magnificent palace, and the demon flew in through a window and alighted. Then the Princess and the lad leaped down from the buckler, and the demon was glad to have the weight off him. After that he vanished. The Princess opened a door and went into another room, with the lad close behind her, and there was the King of all the demons, and he was so huge and black that the demon Lala was nothing to him. "My dearest dear one, why are you so late to-night?" asked he of the Princess. "I do not know what was the matter," answered the fair one, "but something is terribly wrong"; and she told him all that had happened. The Demon laughed at her. "You are nervous," said he. "But come! You have not kissed me yet." He came close to the Princess to kiss her, but the lad stepped between them and gave the Demon such a push that he almost fell over; at the same time he himself gave the Princess a kiss upon the cheek. "Why do you push me away?" cried the Demon, and he was very angry. The Princess began to tremble again. "I did not push you," said she. "Moreover, some one kissed me on the cheek. I am sure somebody is in the room with us." The King Demon looked all around, but he could see nobody. Then he called a slave to bring the Princess the jeweled slippers she always wore when she came to his palace. The slave brought the slippers on a golden cushion, and they were crusted over with pearls and precious stones. He knelt before the Princess, and she took one and put it on, but at the same time the lad took the other and slipped it in his bosom. The Princess and the Demon did not know what had become of it. They hunted everywhere, but they could not find it. "There, now! See how careless you are," said the Demon; and he bade the slave bring another pair of slippers. This the slave did, but it was the same with this pair as with the others. While the Princess was putting on one slipper the lad took the other and hid it in his bosom. The Princess and the Demon and the slave all looked for it, but they could not find it. At that the Princess flew into a passion and threw both the slippers away from her. "I do not care," said she; "and now I will not wear any slippers at all." "Never mind!" answered the Demon. "We will have a sherbet together, and after that we will eat." He clapped his hands, and another slave appeared, bearing two crystal goblets full of sherbet. The Princess took one goblet and the Demon the other. Just as they were about to drink the lad smote the crystal goblet from the Princess's hand so that it fell upon the marble floor and was shattered, and all the sherbet was spilled. The lad picked up a splinter of the crystal and hid it in his bosom with the golden twig, the diamond twig, and the two slippers. But the Princess shook and trembled until she could hardly stand, and even the Demon was troubled. "Why did you cast the goblet on the floor?" he asked. "I did not," answered the Princess, "but some one struck it from my hand"; and she began to weep. The Demon comforted her and bade other slaves bring in the feast that had been prepared for him and the Princess. Quickly the slaves brought it and placed it before them. The lad had never seen such a feast. All the dishes were of gold and were carved to represent scenes in demon life, and the handles were set thick with precious stones and enamelled in strange colors. There were all sorts of delicious things to eat, so that the lad's mouth watered at the smell of them. The Demon and the Princess sat down to eat, but it was small good the Princess got of the feast, for every time the Demon put anything on her plate the lad snatched it away and ate it, and the Princess was left hungry. The lad also took one of the golden forks and one of the golden spoons and hid them in his bosom. "What did I tell you," cried the Princess. "Something is wrong! Something is _terribly_ wrong." "Yes, I can see that myself," said the King Demon. "You had better go on home again, for we will get no pleasure out of this night, and that I can easily see." Lala was called, the Princess mounted the buckler in haste, and away the Demon flew with her. But this time the lad did not fly with them. He waited until they were gone, and then he drew the Sword of Sharpness and smote the King Demon's head from his shoulders. At once a clap of thunder sounded; the castle rocked, and the walls crumbled about him. The trees in the gardens were withered, and a thick darkness fell, while all about him sounded cries and groans. But the lad seated himself upon the carpet and wished himself back at the door of the room in the tower, and there he was in a twinkling, long before Lala had flown in through the window with the Princess, even though he flew as swiftly as the wind. The lad took off the Turban of Darkness, and rolled up the carpet, and lay down and closed his eyes as though he were asleep. Presently the Princess opened the door and peered out. There lay the lad, snoring and with his eyes closed. The Princess drew a sharp needle and ran it into the lad's heel, but he never flinched, so she felt sure he was asleep. "Thou fool!" said she scornfully. "Sleep on, and to-morrow thou shalt pay the penalty." Then she went back into the room and closed the door. The next day the Princess called the guards and bade them carry the lad away and cut the head from his shoulders. "Wait a bit," said the lad. "Do not be in such a hurry. First we must appear before thy father the King; he must decide in this case, and it may be I have something to tell him that will be worth the hearing." The Princess could not refuse this, so she and the lad were brought before the King, and the lad began to tell his story. When he came to the part where the great black Demon had come and flown away with the Princess she turned first as red as blood and then as pale as death. "It is not true!" she cried, but the King bade her be silent. Then the lad told how they had flown through the gardens. "It is all a wicked lie," moaned the Princess, but the lad drew forth the twigs he had broken from the trees and showed them to the King as proof of his truth. After that the lad told of how they had entered the castle, and how the King Demon had tried to kiss the Princess, and of the shattered goblet and the uneaten feast, and he had the splinter of crystal and the spoon and fork to show, so the King knew it was all true, and the Princess looked as though she wished she were dead. Last of all he told how the Princess had returned on the Demon's buckler, and how he had remained behind and cut off the King Demon's head, and how the castle had fallen and the gardens had withered, and all had become darkness and confusion. When the Princess heard this she gave a shriek of joy. "Then you have saved me!" she cried. "Never again need I fly forth at night at the will of the Demon nor be his slave!" Then it was her turn to tell her story. She told how one time the King Demon had seen her walking in the palace gardens and had fallen in love with her, and how he had used his magic to gain power over her. She told how she hated him and feared him, but how against her will he had forced her to come to visit him every night in his castle and had sent the demon Lala to fetch her. But now that the King Demon was dead, she was free, and it was the lad who had saved her. When the King, her father, heard this, he marveled greatly. Glad was he that such a brave lad was to be his son-in-law, for that was his promise. The lad and the Princess were betrothed then and there, and the King gave orders that a grand wedding feast should be prepared, for they were to be married as soon as possible. All the good folks far and near were invited to come to the feast. The lad's elder brother was invited with the rest, but he never dreamed that the brave lad who was to marry the Princess was his own younger brother. He came to the palace on the feast day and took his place at the table with the other guests, and then he looked up at the three thrones where the King and the Princess and the lad were sitting, and there it was his own younger brother who sat there. When the man saw that he was afraid, for he remembered how he had deserted the lad on the seashore to live or die as fate willed, and he feared he might be punished for it. But the younger brother bore him no grudge, but was grateful to him for what he had done. As soon as he saw the elder one there among the guests, he sent a servant for him and placed him in the seat of honor and called him brother. So all was happiness and rejoicing. Everybody was happy, but the lad and the Princess were happiest of all, because they loved each other and had just been married. THE THREE SILVER CITRONS A PERSIAN STORY There was once a King who had three sons, and he loved them all equally, one no more than the other. When he had grown old and felt his strength leaving him, he called the three Princes before him. "My sons," said he, "I am no longer young, and soon the time will come when I must leave you. I have it in mind to give the kingdom to one or the other of you now and not to leave it for you to quarrel over after I have gone. You have reached a time of life when you should marry. Go forth into the world and seek, each one of you, a bride for himself. He who brings home the most beautiful Princess shall have the kingdom." The three Princes were well content with what their father said. At once the two elder ones made ready to set out; but the youngest one said he would wait a bit. "It is not right," said he, "that our father should be left alone in his old age. I will wait until my brothers return, and then I too will start out to try my fortune in the world." That was good hearing for the older Princes, for they had always been a bit jealous of their younger brother and were just as well pleased not to have him with them. Before they set out they packed a bag full of food to carry with them, for they had no wish to starve by the wayside. They took baked meats and boiled meats, and little cakes and big cakes, and fine white bread, and wine to drink. Well, off they set, and on they went, a short way and a long way, until they came to the edge of a forest, and there they sat down in the shade to eat; and when they spread the food out before them it made a fine feast I can tell you. Just as they were about to begin an old woman came hobbling out of the forest. She was so old that her nose and her chin met and she was so bent that she could barely get along even with the help of the crutch she had. "Good masters, give me a bite and a sup, I beg of you," she said. "It is a hundred years since I have tasted anything but black bread." "If you have lived on black bread that long you can live on it a little longer," said one of the Princes, and then they both laughed. However, they bade the old crone come back there after they had gone, and it might be she would find some broken bits lying round, and those she might have if she cared to gather them up. Then the Princes went on eating and drinking, and after they had finished they journeyed on again. Presently they came to a cross roads, and there they separated; one went east and one went west. The eldest Prince took the east road, and soon it brought him to a castle, and in this castle lived a Princess who was as pretty as a picture. It was not long before the Prince won her to be his wife, for he was a stout and comely lad, and as soon as they were married he set out for home, taking his bride with him. As it happened with the eldest Prince, so it did with the second brother. He also found a castle and a Princess, and won her to be his bride, and brought her home with him to his father's house; and when the two Princesses met it was hard to choose between them, they were both so pretty. It seemed as though the kingdom would have to be divided between the elder brothers and their pretty brides. But first it was only right that the youngest Prince should have a chance, so now that his brothers had returned he was ready to set out into the wide world and see what sort of a beauty he could pick up. His brothers laughed at him, for they had never had much of an opinion of his wit, even though they were jealous of him. "Only see that she has two eyes and a stout pair of hands," said they. "Our Princesses will find something for her to do about the palace, no doubt, and as for you, you shall always have a warm place in the chimney corner where you can sit." The youngest Prince answered never a word, but he put some food in a scrip and off he set. He journeyed on and on, a short way and a long way, and then he too came to the forest and sat down in the shade to eat, as his brothers had done before him. Presently the old crone came hobbling out from the forest, and she was more bent and hideous than ever. "Good youth, give me a bite and sup, I beg of you," she said. "It is a hundred years since I have tasted anything but black bread." "Then it is high time you had something else to eat," said the Prince, and he gave her the best of all he had, both food and wine. The old woman ate and drank, and by the time she finished there was little enough left for the Prince. Then she drew out from her sleeve a pretty little pipe and gave it to him. "Take this," she said, "and if there is anything you wish for play a tune upon the pipe, and it may help you to find it." After that she disappeared into the forest again. The Prince hung his scrip over his shoulder, and then he was ready to set out, but first he thought he might as well see what the pipe was good for. He set it to his lips and blew a tune. Immediately a score of little black Trolls with long noses appeared before him. "Master, here we are!" they cried. "What would you have of us?" "I did not know I was your master," thought the Prince, but what he said was, "What I want is the prettiest Princess in twelve kingdoms for a bride, and if you can get me such a one I'll thank you kindly." "We know where to find such a Princess, and we can show you the way," said the oldest and blackest of the Trolls, "but we ourselves cannot touch her. You will have to win her for yourself." Well, that suited the Prince, and if they would only show him the Princess he would do his best to get her. So off they set, and presently they came to a high mountain, and it belonged to the King of the Trolls. The Prince blew upon the pipe again, and the mountain opened before him. He went in, and there he was in a great chamber, where the Troll kept the three daughters of three Kings whom he had taken captive and brought there, and they were so beautiful that their beauty lighted the whole place so there was no need of lamps. When the girls saw the Prince they were terrified and began to run about this way and that, looking for a place to hide; but they could find no place, for the chamber was quite smooth and bare. Then they changed themselves into three silver citrons and rolled about this way and that, all over the room. The Prince was terribly distressed that the girls had changed into citrons, for they were so lovely that he would have been glad to have any one of them for a wife. However, he took up the citrons and hid them in his bosom, and then, as there seemed nothing better to do, he set out for home again, for after having seen three such beauties as that he would never be satisfied with any one else. After a while as he journeyed he came to the wood where he had seen the old crone before, and there she was, waiting for him. "Well, and did you get what you set out to search for?" she asked. "I did and I didn't," answered the Prince;--and then he told her the whole story and showed her the three citrons that he still carried in his bosom. "They are three beauties, I can tell you," said he, "but of what use are they as long as they remain as citrons?" "I may be able to help you again," said the old hag. She then gave him a silver knife and a little golden cup. "Keep the citrons until you come to a running stream. Then take one,--whichever one you please,--and cut it open with this knife. At once one of the Princesses will appear. She will ask you for a drink of water. Give it to her immediately in this golden cup, and after that she will remain with you and you can have her for your wife." The Prince was delighted. He took the knife and cup and thanked the old woman gratefully, and then she again disappeared in the shadow of the forest. The Prince journeyed on until he came to a running stream, and it was not so very far from his father's palace. Then he got out the knife and the cup and one of the citrons. He cut the citron, and at once one of the Princesses appeared before him. If she had looked a beauty when he saw her in the mountain she was ten times lovelier, now that he saw her in the light of day. The Prince could only gape and gape at her. "Give me a cup of water to drink," demanded the Princess; but the Prince was so busy staring at her that he did not move, and in a moment the Princess vanished from before him, and where she went he could not tell. He was filled with grief over the loss of her, but she was gone, and that was all of it. Then the Prince took out the second citron. "This time I will be ready for her," he thought. He took his knife and cut the second citron. At once the second Princess appeared before him. "Give me a cup of water to drink," she demanded. But again the Prince was so overcome by her beauty that he could no more move than if he had been rooted to the ground, and the next moment she too disappeared from before his eyes. The Prince was in despair. He ran this way and that way, calling aloud and trying to find her, but she had vanished like the fading of a breath. And now there was only one other citron left, and the Prince trembled at the thought of opening it, for he was afraid he would lose this third Princess as he had the others. At last he drew it from his bosom and prepared to cut it, but first he filled the golden cup and set it ready to his hand. Then he seized the knife and with one stroke divided the citron in two. At once the third Princess stood before him, and though the others had been beautiful she exceeded them in beauty as the full moon exceeds the stars in splendor. "Give me a cup of water," said she; and this time the Prince was ready. Almost before she could speak he had caught up the golden cup and presented it to her. The Princess took the cup and drank, and then she smiled upon him so brightly that he was dazzled. "Now I am yours, and you are mine," said she, "and where you go I will follow, for I have no one in all the wide world but you." The Prince was almost wild with happiness. He kissed her hands and looked with joy upon her face. But she was dressed only in a linen shift. The Prince took off his cloak and wrapped it about her. "Climb up into a tree," said he, "and hide yourself among the branches, and I will go to the castle and bring you from thence robes and jewels and all things fitting for such a beautiful Princess to wear." To this the Princess agreed. The Prince helped her to climb up among the branches of a tree that overhung the water, and then he hastened away to the castle. The beauty sat there among the leaves waiting for his return, and the time of waiting was long, for when the Prince reached the castle he was obliged to stay and tell the whole story to his father before the King would permit him to return with the robes and jewels he had promised to bring to his bride. [Illustration: The Princess took the cup and drank.] Meanwhile an ugly kitchen wench who worked in the castle came to fetch water from the spring, for every day the Princesses required it for their baths. The girl had brought with her an earthen jar to hold the water. As she leaned over the stream to fill the jar she looked down into the water and saw the face of the Princess reflected there, as she peered out from the leaves above. The servant wench, whose name was Lucy, thought it was the reflection of her own face that she saw. She gazed upon it with wonder and joy. "Ah! Ah!" she cried. "What a beauty I am; why did no one ever tell me so? Not even the two Princesses are as beautiful as I." She knelt there, staring and staring at the reflection. Then in a rage she sprang to her feet. "And they send me to draw water for them! Me, who ought to sit on a throne above them all. But I'll no longer be their slave. I'll break their water jar to pieces, and if they send me with others I'll break them too!" With that she threw down the jar with such violence that it was broken into bits, and then she stamped about with rage. The sight amused the Princess so that she laughed aloud. The servant wench looked up and saw the lovely face peering out at her from among the green leaves; it was the same beautiful face she had seen reflected in the water. "Who are you? What are you doing up there among the leaves?" she asked in a thick voice. "I am the promised bride of the Prince who has just gone up to the castle," answered the beauty. "He has gone to fetch fine robes and jewels that I may dress myself properly before I appear before his father." When she said this an evil thought came into the servant wench's head. "Come down," said she, "and I will dress your hair for you; I have often done this for the other Princesses, and I can arrange it so that you will look even more beautiful when the Prince returns." The Princess was nothing loath. She had no thought of evil. She climbed down from the tree and sat herself upon a rock, while Lucy looped and pinned her hair in place and wove a crown of flowers to place upon it. "Come now, and see how beautiful you are," said the servant. She led the Princess to the place where the stream was deepest, and then, when the beauty stooped to look at herself in the water, Lucy pushed her in. After that she stripped herself to her shift, and hid her clothes under a rock, and climbed up into the tree. There she sat among the leaves, peering out just as the Princess had done. Presently the Prince returned, bringing with him all sorts of beautiful clothes and gifts for his Princess bride. What was his amazement to see, instead of the beauty he left in the tree, the ugly face of the servant wench smiling down at him from among the leaves. "What are you doing there?" he cried. "And what have you done with the Princess?" "Alas," said the servant maid, pretending to weep, "I am the Princess. After you left me a wicked enchantress came by this way and changed me into this shape." The Prince was filled with grief and horror at these words. However, he believed her and could not find it in his heart to punish her for a misfortune she could not help. He showed her the robes and jewels he had brought, and the servant wench made haste to come down and dress herself in them. When she had done this she looked more hideous than ever. The Prince could hardly bear to look at her, his grief and shame were so great. Nevertheless he took her by the hand and led her back to the castle. There the King was waiting full of impatience to see the bride of his youngest son, this most beautiful Princess in all of twelve kingdoms. But when the Prince brought the ugly servant wench before him he could hardly believe his eyes. "This a beauty!" he cried. "Are you a fool or do you take me for one? It is an insult to bring me such a creature for a daughter-in-law." The older Princes and their brides did not try to hide their scorn or laughter, but the servant sank on her knees, weeping, and repeated to the king the same story she had told the Prince. She assured him that she had been as beautiful as the day when she had climbed up into the tree and would be so still if the wicked enchantress had not passed by and bewitched her. The King frowned and stroked his beard. "Yours is a sad case," said he, "and since the Prince has given his word to marry you, marry you he must. Perchance sometime your beauty may return." He then gave orders that Lucy should be shown to the apartments prepared for the Princess and that she should be waited on and served just as though she were the beauty his son had promised him. But the heart of the Prince was like a stone in his bosom, and he could not bear to look upon the ugly one who was to be his bride. Now when the Princess had been pushed into the water she had not been drowned, as Lucy thought. Instead she changed into a beautiful silver fish that swam about in the stream or hid under a grassy bank. Now there was another servant who came down to the stream for water instead of Lucy, and one day when this servant dipped the jar into the water the fish swam into it, and she carried it back to the castle with her. It was so pretty that she showed it to the Prince, hoping it might cheer him for a moment. No sooner had the Prince looked upon the fish than he grew quite light and happy. He would not let the servant take the fish away but kept it with him in a crystal bowl and now he no longer grieved so bitterly about his bride. Lucy did not know why the Prince had grown happier. She thought perhaps he had begun to love her. But when she found that he scarcely ever came to see her, but spent all his time watching the fish, she became very angry. She bribed a servant to steal the fish from the Prince's room and bring it to her. Then she had a fire built and threw the fish into it to burn. No sooner did the flames touch the fish, however, than it changed into a beautiful silver bird and flew out of the window. The false Princess was frightened. "There is some magic here," thought she, "and magic that will prove my ruin." And now the silver bird sat on a branch outside the Princess's window and sang and sang. The Prince heard it, and his heart was filled with joy, he knew not why, and he forgot the fish that had disappeared from the bowl. Lucy also heard it and was more frightened than ever. She sent for the servant who had stolen the fish and bribed him to set a net to catch the bird. This he did one day when the Prince was away, and then he brought the bird to the false Princess. But she shuddered at sight of it as though she were cold, and bade him take it outside and wring its neck. This the servant was loath to do, but he dared not disobey her. He carried the bird outside and did as she commanded, and three drops of blood fell on the ground just below the Prince's window. The next morning when the Prince awoke he saw with amazement that a beautiful citron tree was growing outside of his window. Its trunk was silver, and its leaves were silver, and on the branch nearest his window hung three silver citrons, and they were exactly like the silver citrons he had brought from the Troll's home under the mountain. The Prince saw them hanging there, and his heart was filled with joy and hope as he looked at them. He reached out and plucked them and hid them in his bosom. Then he took the silver knife and the golden cup and hastened down to the stream where he had opened the citrons before. He cut the first citron, and at once the first Princess appeared and asked him for a drink of water, but he scarcely looked at her, and she fled away. He cut the second citron, and the second Princess appeared and demanded water, but he never stirred, and she too vanished. Then he filled the golden cup with water and with a trembling hand cut the third citron. Immediately the third Princess appeared. "Give me of the water to drink," said she. At once the Prince handed her the golden cup. She drank deeply, and then she smiled upon him, and it was his own dear love who stood before him more beautiful than ever. The Prince could hardly believe in his good fortune. But the Princess told him all that had happened to her--how Lucy had pushed her into the water, and how she had been changed first into a fish, and then into a bird, and then into a citron as she had been before. The Prince could not wonder and marvel enough. He took her by the hand and led her up to the castle, and her golden hair fell all about her so that she seemed to be clothed in a shimmering golden mantle. When she appeared before the King he was amazed at the beauty of her, and when the Prince told him that this was his true bride and not the other, his happiness knew no bounds. The whole palace resounded with rejoicings. Only Lucy was so terrified that she ran and jumped out of a window and broke her neck. But the kingdom was given to the youngest Prince, and he and the Princess reigned there in peace and happiness as long as they lived. THE MAGIC PIPE A NORSE TALE There was once three brothers, all the sons of the same father and mother. The two elder were hard-working, thrifty lads, who had no care except as to how they might better themselves in the world. But the youngest, whose name was Boots, was not thrifty at all. He was a do-nothing and was quite content to sit in the chimney corner and warm his shins and think about things. One day the eldest son came to his father and said, "I have it in mind to go over yonder to the King's castle and take service there, for I hear the King has need of a herdsman to take care of his hares for him. The wages are six dollars a week, and if any one can keep the herd together and bring them safe home every night without losing one of them the King will give him the Princess for a wife." The father was pleased when he heard this. Six dollars a week was fair pay, and it would be a fine thing if the lad could win the Princess for his wife. At any rate it was worth trying for. So the eldest son cocked his hat over one ear, and off he set for the palace. He had not gone so very far when he came to the edge of a forest, and there was an old crone with a green nose a yard long, and it was caught in a crack of a log. She was dancing and hopping about, but for all her dancing and hopping she got no farther than that one spot, for her nose held her there. The lad stopped and stared at her, and she looked so funny to his mind that he laughed and laughed till his sides ached. "You gawk!" screamed the old hag. "Come and drive a wedge in the crack so I can get my nose out. Here I have stood for twice a hundred years, and no Christian soul has come to set me free." "If you have stood there twice a hundred years you might as well stay a while longer. As for me, I'm expected at the King's palace, and I have no time to waste driving wedges," said the lad, and away he went, one foot before the other, leaving the old crone with her nose still in the crack. When the lad came to the palace, he knocked at the door and told the man who opened it that he had come to see about the place of herdsman. When the man heard this he brought the lad straight to the King, and told him what the lad had come for. The King listened and nodded his head. Yes, he was in need of a herdsman and would be glad to take the lad into his service, and the wages were just as the youth thought, with a chance of winning the Princess to boot. But there was one part of the bargain that had been left out. If the lad failed to keep the herd together and lost so much as even one small leveret, he was to receive such a beating as would turn him black and blue. That part of the bargain was not such pleasant hearing as the rest of it. Still the lad had a mind to try for the Princess. So he was taken out to the paddock where the hares were, and a pretty sight it was to see them hopping and frisking about, hundreds and hundreds of them, big and little. All morning the hares were kept there in the paddock with the new herdsman watching them, and as long as that was the case everything went well. But later on the hares had to be driven out on the hills for a run and a bite of fresh grass, and then the trouble began. The lad could no more keep them together than if they had been sparks from a fire. Away they sped, some one way and some another, into the woods and over the hills,--there was no keeping track of them. The lad shouted and ran and ran and shouted till the sweat poured down his face, but he could not herd them back. By the time evening came he had scarce a score of them to drive home to the palace. And there on the steps stood the King with a stout rod in his hands, all ready to give the lad a beating. And a good beating it was, I can tell you. When the King had finished with him he could hardly stand. Home he went with only his sore bones for wages. Then it was the second brother's turn. He also had a mind to try his hand at keeping the King's hares, with the chance of winning the Princess for a wife. Off he set along the same road his brother had taken, and after a while he came to the place where the old crone was dancing about with her long, green nose still caught in the crack of a log. He was just as fond of a good laugh as his brother was, and he stood for a while to watch her, for he thought it a merry sight. He laughed and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and the old hag was screaming with rage. "You gawk! Come and drive a wedge into the crack so that I can get my nose out," she bawled. "Here I have been for twice a hundred years and no Christian soul has come to set me free." "If you have been there that long it will not hurt to stay a bit longer," said the youth. "I'm no woodsman, and besides that I'm on my way to the King's palace to win a Princess for a wife." And away he went, leaving the old woman screaming after him. After a while the second brother came to the palace, and when the servants heard why he had come they were not slow in bringing him before the King. Yes, the King was as much in need of a herdsman for his hares as ever, but was the lad willing to run the risk of having only a beating for his pains? Yes, the lad was willing to run that risk, for he was almost sure he could keep the herd together, and it was not every day one had a chance of winning a Princess for a wife. So they took him out to the paddock where the hares were. All morning he herded them there as his brother had done before him, and that was an easy task. But it was in the afternoon that the trouble began. For no sooner did the fresh wind of the hillside ruffle up their fur than away they fled, this way and that, kicking up their heels behind them. It was in vain the lad chased after them and shouted and sweated; he could not keep them together. In the end he had scarcely threescore of them to drive back to the palace in the evening. And the King was waiting for him with a cudgel in his hands, and if the lad did not get a good drubbing that day, then nobody ever did. When the King finished with him he was black and blue from his head to his heels, and that is all he got for trying to win a Princess for a wife. Now after the second son had come home again with his doleful tale, Boots sat and thought and thought about what had happened. After a while, however, he rose up and shook the ashes from his clothes and said that now it was his turn to have a try at winning the Princess for his wife. When the elder brothers heard that they scoffed and hooted. Boots was no better than a numskull anyway, and how could he hope to succeed where they had failed. Well, all that might be true or it might not, but at any rate he was for having a try at this business, so off he set, just as the other two had before him. After a while he came to the log where his brothers had seen the hag with her nose caught in the crack, and there she was still, for no one had come by in the meantime to set her free. He stood and stared and stared, for it was a curious sight. "Oh, you gawk! Why do you stand there staring?" cried the old hag. "Here I have been for twice a hundred years, and no Christian soul will take the trouble to set me free. Drive a wedge into the crack so that I may get my nose out." "That I will and gladly, good mother," said the youth. "Two hundred years is a long time for one to have one's nose pinched in a crack." Quickly he found a wedge and drove it into the crack with a stone, and then the old hag pulled her nose out. "Now you have done me a good turn, and I have it in mind to do the same for you," she said. With that she took a pretty little pipe out of the pocket of her skirt. "Do you take this," she said, "and it will come in handy if you're on your way to the King's palace. If you blow on the right end of the whistle the things around you will be blown every which way as if a strong wind had struck them, and if you blow on the wrong end of it they will be gathered together again. And those are not the only tricks the pipe has, for if any one takes it from you, you have only to wish for it, and you can wish it back into your fingers again." Boots took the pipe and thanked the old hag kindly, and then he bade her good-by and went on his way to the King's palace. When the King heard what Boots had come for, he was no less ready to take him for a herdsman than he had been to take his brothers. "But, mind you, you shall have a drubbing that will make your bones ache if you come back in the evening with even the smallest leveret missing from the herd," said the King. Yes, that was all right. The lad was ready to take the risk, so all morning Boots herded the hares in the paddock, and in the afternoon he took them out to the hills, as the bargain was. There the hares could no longer be kept in a herd. They kicked up their heels and away they went, every which way. So that was the game, was it? Boots was very willing to play it, too. He took out his pipe and blew a tune on the right end of it, and away the hares flew faster than they had intended, as though a strong wind had blown them. Presently there was not one left on the hill. Then the lad lay down in the sun and fell asleep. When he awoke it was toward evening and time to be bringing the hares back to the castle, but not one of them was in sight. Then Boots sat up, and shook the hair out of his eyes and blew on the wrong end of the pipe. Immediately there was the whole herd before him, drawn up in ranks just like soldiers. Not even one of the smallest leverets was missing. "That is well," said Boots. "And now we'll be going home again." Off he set for the palace, driving the hares before him, and as soon as he came near enough he could see the King standing on the steps waiting for him with a stout cudgel in his hand,--for he had no thought but that Boots would fail in his task. When he saw the whole herd come hopping home, as tame as sheep, and turning into the paddock, he could hardly believe his eyes. He hurried after and began to count them. He counted them over and over again, and not one was missing. Well, Boots had brought them all back safely that time, but the question was whether he could do it again. Boots thought he could. Indeed, he was sure he could. So the next afternoon he set out for the hills, whistling merrily as he tramped along with the hares hopping before him. That day things happened just as they had before. As soon as the hares began to stray Boots took his pipe and blew them away as though they were so much chaff. He lay down and slept until it was time to take them home again, and then he blew them together with the wrong end of the pipe. When the King found the lad had brought the whole herd home again for the second time he was greatly troubled, for he had no mind to give the Princess to Boots for a bride. So the third day he bade the Princess go out to the hills and hide herself among the bushes and watch and see how it was that Boots managed to keep the hares together. This the Princess did. She hid back of the bushes; she saw Boots come tramping up the hill with the hares frisking before him; she saw him blow them away with his pipe as though they had been so many dry leaves in the wind, and then, after he had had a nap, she saw him blow them together again. Then the Princess must and would have that pipe. She came out from the bushes and offered to buy it. She offered ten dollars for it. "No." "Fifty!" "No!" "A hundred!" "No." Boots had no wish to sell, but as it was the Princess, and as she seemed so set and determined on having it, he would tell her what he would do; he would sell the pipe for a hundred dollars if she would give him a kiss for every dollar she paid. The Princess did not know what to say to that. It was not becoming that a Princess should kiss a herdsman; still she wanted the pipe and as that was the only way to get it she at last agreed. She paid the lad a hundred bright silver dollars, and she also gave him a hundred kisses out there on the hillside, with no one to look on but the hares. Then she took the pipe and hastened home with it. But small good the pipe did her. Just as she reached the palace steps the pipe slipped out of her fingers as though it had been buttered, and look as she might she could not find it again. That was because the lad had wished it back to himself. At that very moment he was on his way home with the pipe in his pocket and the hares hopping before him in lines like soldiers. When the King heard the story he thought and pondered. The Princess had told him nothing of the kisses. He thought she had bought the pipe for a hundred dollars, so the next day he sent the Queen out to the hillside with two hundred dollars in her pocket. "The Princess is young and foolish," said he. "She must have lost the pipe on the hillside, and no doubt the lad has it back by this time. Do you go out and see if you can buy it from him and if you once have your fingers on it you'll not lose it, I'll wager." So the Queen went out to the hillside and hid herself in the bushes, and she saw Boots blow the hares away and lie down to sleep and afterward blow them together again in a twinkling. Then she came out from the bushes and offered to buy the pipe. At first the lad said no, and again no, and then no for the third time, but in the end he sold the pipe to the Queen for two hundred dollars and fifty kisses to go with them, and the Queen hoped the King would never hear of it. She took the pipe and hastened home with it, but she fared no better than the Princess, for just before she reached the palace the pipe disappeared from her fingers, and what had become of it she did not know. When the King heard that he was a wroth and angry man. Now he himself would go out to the hill and buy the pipe, for there was no trusting the womenfolk. If he once had the pipe in his hands there would be no losing it again, and of that he felt very sure. So he mounted his old mare Whitey and rode over to the hillside. There he hid himself among the bushes, and he hid old Whitey there with him, and he watched until he had seen all that the others had told him about. Then he came out and tried to strike a bargain with the lad. But this time it seemed as though Boots would not sell the pipe,--neither for love nor money. The King offered him three hundred dollars, and four hundred dollars, and five hundred dollars for it, and still Boots said no. "Listen!" said Boots suddenly. "If you'll go over there in the bushes and kiss old Whitey on the mouth five-and-twenty times, I'll sell you the pipe for five hundred dollars, but not otherwise." That was a thing the King was loath to do, for it ill befitted a king to kiss an old horse, but have the pipe he must and would; and besides there was nobody there to see him do it but Boots, and he did not count. "May I spread a handkerchief between old Whitey's mouth and mine before I do it?" asked the King. Yes, he might do that. So the King went back into the bushes and spread his handkerchief over old Whitey's mouth and kissed her through it five-and-twenty times. Then he came back and the lad gave him the pipe, and the King mounted and rode away with it, and he was well pleased with himself for his cleverness, and he held the pipe tight in one hand and the bridle in the other. "No danger of my losing it as the Queen and the Princess did," thought he. But scarcely had the King reached the palace steps when the pipe slipped through his fingers like water, and what became of it he did not know. But when Boots drove the hares home that evening he had the pipe safely hidden away up his sleeve, though nobody knew it. And now how about the Princess? Would the King keep his promise and give her to the herdsman for a wife? But that was a thing the King and Queen could not bear to think of. They put their heads together and talked and talked, and the more they talked the more unwilling they were to have a herdsman in the family. So in the end this is what they said. The Princess was a very clever girl, and she must have a clever lad for a husband. If Boots could tell bigger stories than the Princess then he should have her for a wife, but if she could tell bigger stories than he, then he should have three red strips cut from his back and be beaten all the way home. To this Boots agreed. Then the Princess began. "I looked out of my window," said she, "and there was a tree that grew straight up to the sky, and the fruit of it was diamonds and pearls and rubies. I reached out and picked them and made myself such a necklace as never was, and I might have it yet only I leaned over the well to look at myself in the waters, and the necklace fell off, and there it lies still at the bottom of the well for any one who cares to dive for it." "That is a pretty story!" said Boots; "but I can tell a better. When I was herding hares the Princess came up on the hill and gave me a hundred bright silver dollars and a hundred kisses as well, one for every dollar." Then the King scowled till his brows met, and the Princess grew as red as fire. "Oh, what a story!" cried she. Then it was her turn again. "I went to see my god-mother, and she took me for a ride in a golden coach drawn by six fleas, and the fleas were as big as horses, and they went so fast we were back again a day before we started." "That's a good story," said Boots, "but here's a better. The Queen came out on the hillside and made me a present of two hundred dollars, and she kissed me over and over again; fifty kisses she gave me." "Is that true?" said the King to the Queen; and his face was as black as thunder. "It's a great wicked story," cried the Queen, "and you must know it is." Then the Princess tried again. "I had six suitors, and I cared for one no more than another, but the seventh one was a demon, and he would have had me whether or no. He would have flown away with me before this, but I caught his tail in the crack of the door, and he howled most horribly. There he is still, if you care to look, unless he has vanished in a puff of smoke." "Now it is my turn," said Boots, "and you may believe this or not, but it's mostly true. The King came up on the hillside and kissed the old white mare twenty-five times. I was there and I saw. He kissed her twenty-five times, and he gave me five hundred dollars not to tell." When Boots told this right out before every one, the King was so ashamed he did not know which way to look. "There's not a word of it true. It's the biggest story I ever heard," said he. "Very well, then I have won the Princess," said Boots. "And when shall we be married?" And married they were that day week, for the King and Queen could no longer refuse to give Boots the Princess for a wife. The Princess was willing, too, for Boots was a handsome, fine-looking lad. They had a great feast at the wedding, with plenty of cake and ale flowing like water. I was there, and I ate and drank with the best of them. Pfst! There goes a mouse. Catch it and you may make a fine big cloak of its skin,--and that's a story, too. THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH A HINDU STORY There was once a Rajah who was both young and handsome, and yet he had never married. One time this Rajah, whose name was Chundun, found himself obliged to make a long journey. He took with him attendants and horsemen, and also his Wuzeer. This Wuzeer was a very wise man,--so wise that nothing was hid from him. In a certain far-off part of the kingdom the Rajah saw a fine garden, and so beautiful was it that he stopped to admire it. He was surprised to see growing in the midst of it a small bingal tree that bore a number of fine bingals, but not a single leaf. "This is a very curious thing, and I do not understand it," said Chundun Rajah to his Wuzeer. "Why does this tree bear such fine and perfect fruit, and yet it has not a single leaf?" "I could tell you the meaning," said the Wuzeer, "but I fear that if I did you would not believe me and would have me punished for telling a lie." "That could never be," answered the Rajah; "I know you to be a very truthful man and wise above all others. Whatever you tell me I shall believe." "Then this is the meaning of it," said the Wuzeer. "The gardener who has charge of this garden has one daughter; her name is Guzra Bai, and she is very beautiful. If you will count the bingals you will find there are twenty-and-one. Whosoever marries the gardener's daughter will have twenty and one children,--twenty boys and one girl." Chundun Rajah was very much surprised at what his Wuzeer said. "I should like to see this Guzra Bai," said he. "You can very easily see her," answered the Wuzeer. "Early every morning she comes into the garden to play among the flowers. If you come here early and hide you can see her without frightening her, as you would do if you went to her home." The Rajah was pleased with this suggestion, and early the next morning he came to the garden and hid himself behind a flowering bush. It was not long before he saw the girl playing about among the flowers, and she was so very beautiful the Rajah at once fell in love with her. He determined to make her his Ranee, but he did not speak to her or show himself to her then for fear of frightening her. He determined to go to the gardener's house that evening and tell him he wished his daughter for a wife. As he had determined, so he did. That very evening, accompanied only by his Wuzeer, he went to the gardener's house and knocked upon the door. "Who is there?" asked the gardener from within. "It is I, the Rajah," answered Chundun. "Open the door, for I wish to speak with you." The gardener laughed. "That is a likely story," said he. "Why should the Rajah come to my poor hut? No, no; you are some one who wishes to play a trick on me, but you shall not succeed. I will not let you in." "But it is indeed Chundun Rajah," called the Wuzeer. "Open the door that he may speak with you." When the gardener heard the Wuzeer's voice he came and opened the door a crack, but still he only half believed what was told him. What was his amazement to see that it was indeed the Rajah who stood there in all his magnificence with his Wuzeer beside him. The poor man was terrified, fearing Chundun would be angry, but the Rajah spoke to him graciously. "Do not be afraid," said he. "Call thy daughter that I may speak with her, for it is she whom I wish to see." The girl was hiding (for she was afraid) and would not come until her father took her hand and drew her forward. When the Rajah saw her now, this second time, she seemed to him even more beautiful than at first. He was filled with joy and wonder. "Now I will tell you why I have come here," he said. "I wish to take Guzra Bai for my wife." At first the gardener would not believe him, but when he found the Rajah did indeed mean what he said he turned to his daughter. "If the girl is willing you shall have her," said he, "but I will not force her to marry even a Rajah." The girl was still afraid, yet she could not but love the Rajah, so handsome was he, and so kind and gracious was his manner. She gave her consent, and the gardener was overjoyed at the honor that had come to him and his daughter. Chundun and the beautiful Guzra Bai were married soon after in the gardener's house, and then the Rajah and his new Ranee rode away together. Now Chundun Rajah's mother, the old Ranee, was of a very proud and jealous nature. When she found her son had married a common girl, the daughter of a gardener, and that Chundun thought of nothing but his bride and her beauty, she was very angry. She determined to rid herself of Guzra Bai in some way or other. But Chundun watched over his young Ranee so carefully that for a long time the old Queen could find no chance to harm her. But after a while the Rajah found it was again necessary for him to go on a long journey. Just before he set out he gave Guzra Bai a little golden bell. "If any danger should threaten or harm befall you, ring this bell," said he. "Wherever I am I shall hear it and be with you at once, even though I return from the farthest part of my kingdom." No sooner had he gone than Guzra Bai began to wonder whether indeed it were possible that he could hear the bell at any distance and return to her. She wondered and wondered until at last her curiosity grew so great that she could not forbear from ringing it. No sooner had it sounded than the Rajah stood before her. "What has happened?" he asked. "Why did you call me?" "Nothing has happened," answered Guzra Bai, "but it did not seem to me possible that you could really hear the bell so far away, and I could not forbear from trying it." "Very well," said the Rajah. "Now you know that it is true, so do not call me again unless you have need of me." Again he went away, and Guzra Bai sat and thought and thought about the golden bell. At last she rang it again. At once the Rajah stood before her. "Oh, my dear husband, please to forgive me," cried Guzra Bai. "It seemed so wonderful I thought I must have dreamed that the bell could bring you back." "Guzra Bai, do not be so foolish," said her husband. "I will forgive you this time, but do not call me again unless you have need of me." And he went away. Again and for the third time Guzra Bai rang the bell, and the Rajah appeared. "Why do you call me again?" he asked. "Is it again for nothing, or has something happened to you?" "Nothing has happened," answered Guzra Bai, "only somehow I felt so frightened that I wanted you near me." "Guzra Bai, I am away on affairs of state," said the Rajah. "If you call me in this way when you have no need of me, I shall soon refuse to answer the bell. Remember this and do not call me again without reason." And for the third time the Rajah went away and left her. Soon after this the young Ranee had twenty and one beautiful children, twenty sons and one daughter. When the old Queen heard of this she was more jealous than ever. "When the Rajah returns and sees all these children," she thought to herself, "he will be so delighted that he will love Guzra Bai more dearly than ever, and nothing I can do will ever separate them." She then began to plan within herself as to how she could get rid of the children before the Rajah's return. She sent for the nurse who had charge of the babies, and who was as wicked as herself. "If you can rid me of these children, I will give you a lac of gold pieces," she said. "Only it must be done in such a way that the Rajah will lay all the blame on Guzra Bai." "That can be done," answered the nurse. "I will throw the children out on the ash heaps, where they will soon perish, and I will put stones in their places. Then when the Rajah returns we will tell him Guzra Bai is a wicked sorceress, who has changed her children into stones." The old Ranee was pleased with this plan and said that she herself would go with the nurse and see that it was carried out. Guzra Bai looked from her window and saw the old Queen coming with the nurse, and at once she was afraid. She was sure they intended some harm to her or the children. She seized the golden bell and rang and rang it, but Chundun did not come. She had called him back so often for no reason at all that this time he did not believe she really needed him. The nurse and the old Ranee carried away the children, as they had planned, and threw them on the ash heaps and brought twenty-one large stones that they put in their places. When Chundun Rajah returned from his journey the old Ranee met him, weeping and tearing her hair. "Alas! alas!" she cried. "Why did you marry a sorceress and bring such terrible misfortune upon us all!" "What misfortune?" asked the Rajah. "What do you mean?" His mother then told him that while he was away Guzra Bai had had twenty-one beautiful children, but she had turned them all into stones. Chundun Rajah was thunderstruck. He called the wicked nurse and questioned her. She repeated what the old Ranee had already told him and also showed him the stones. Then the Rajah believed them. He still loved Guzra Bai too much to put her to death, but he had her imprisoned in a high tower, and would not see her nor speak with her. But meanwhile the little children who had been thrown out on the ash heap were being well taken care of. A large rat, of the kind called Bandicote, had heard them crying and had taken pity on them. She drew them down into her hole, which was close by and where they would be safe. She then called twenty of her friends together. She told them who the children were and where she had found them, and the twenty agreed to help her take care of the little ones. Each rat was to have the care of one of the little boys and to bring him suitable food, and the old Bandicote who had found them would care for the little girl. This was done, and so well were the children fed that they grew rapidly. Before long they were large enough to leave the rat hole and go out to play among the ash heaps, but at night they always returned to the hole. The old Bandicote warned them that if they saw anyone coming they must at once hide in the hole, and under no circumstances must any one see them. The little boys were always careful to do this, but the little girl was very curious. Now it so happened that one day the wicked nurse came past the ash heaps. The little boys saw her coming and ran back into the hole to hide. But the little girl lingered until the nurse was quite close to her before she ran away. The nurse went to the old Ranee, and said, "Do you know, I believe those children are still alive? I believe they are living in a rat hole near the ash heap, for I saw a pretty little girl playing there among the ashes, and when I came close to her she ran down into the largest rat hole and hid." The Ranee was very much troubled when she heard this, for if it were true, as she thought it might be, she feared the Rajah would hear about it and inquire into the matter. "What shall I do?" she asked the nurse. "Send out and have the ground dug over and filled in," the nurse replied. "In this way, if any of the children are hidden there, they will be covered over and smothered, and you will also kill the rats that have been harboring them." The Ranee at once sent for workmen and bade them go out to the rat holes and dig and fill them in, and the children and the rats would certainly have been smothered just as the nurse had planned, only luckily the old mother rat was hiding near by and overheard what was said. She at once hastened home and told her friends what was going to happen, and they all made their escape before the workmen arrived. She also took the children out of the hole and hid them under the steps that led down into an old unused well. There were twenty-one steps, and she hid one child under each step. She told them not to utter a sound whatever happened, and then she and her friends ran away and left them. Presently the workmen came with their tools and began to fill in the rat holes. The little daughter of the head workman had come with him, and while he and his fellows were at work the little girl amused herself by running up and down the steps into the well. Every time she trod upon a step it pinched the child who lay under it. The little boys made no sound when they were pinched, but lay as still as stones, but every time the child trod on the step under which the Princess lay she sighed, and the third time she felt the pinch she cried out, "Have pity on me and tread more lightly. I too am a little girl like you!" The workman's daughter was very much frightened when she heard the voice. She ran to her father and told him the steps had spoken to her. The workman thought this a strange thing. He at once went to the old Ranee and told her he dared no longer work near the well, for he believed a witch or a demon lived there under the steps; and he repeated what his little daughter had told him. The wicked nurse was with the Ranee when the workman came to her. As soon as he had gone, the nurse said: "I am sure some of those children must still be alive. They must have escaped from the rat holes and be hiding under the steps. If we send out there we will probably find them." The Ranee was frightened at the thought they might still be alive. She ordered some servants to come with her, and she and the nurse went out to look for the children. But when the little girl had cried out the little boys were afraid some harm might follow, and prayed that they might be changed into trees, so that if any one came to search for them they might not find them. Their prayers were answered. The twenty little boys were changed into twenty little banyan trees that stood in a circle, and the little girl was changed into a rose-bush that stood in the midst of the circle and was full of red and white roses. The old Ranee and the nurse and the servants came to the well and searched under every step, but no one was there, so went away again. All might now have been well, but the workman's mischievous little daughter chanced to come by that way again. At once she espied the banyan trees and the rose-bush. "It is a curious thing that I never saw these trees before," she thought. "I will gather a bunch of roses." She ran past the banyan trees without giving them a thought and began to break the flowers from the rose-tree. At once a shiver ran through the tree, and it cried to her in a pitiful voice: "Oh! oh! you are hurting me. Do not break my branches, I pray of you. I am a little girl, too, and can suffer just as you might." The child ran back to her father and caught him by the hand. "Oh, I am frightened!" she cried. "I went to gather some roses from the rose-tree, and it spoke to me;" and she told him what the rose-tree had said. At once the workman went off and repeated to the Ranee what his little daughter had told him, and the Queen gave him a piece of gold and sent him away, bidding him keep what he had heard a secret. Then she called the wicked nurse to her and repeated the workman's story. "What had we better do now?" she asked. "My advice is that you give orders to have all the trees cut down and burned," said the nurse. "In this way you will rid yourself of the children altogether." This advice seemed good to the Ranee. She sent men and had the trees cut down and thrown in a heap to burn. But heaven had pity on the children, and just as the men were about to set fire to the heap a heavy rain storm arose and put out the fire. Then the river rose over its banks, and swept the little trees down on its flood, far, far away to a jungle where no one lived. Here they were washed ashore and at once took on their real shapes again. The children lived there in the jungle safely for twelve years, and the brothers grew up tall and straight and handsome, and the sister was like the new moon in her beauty, so slim and white and shining was she. The brothers wove a hut of branches to shelter their sister, and every day ten of them went out hunting in the forest, and ten of them stayed at home to care for her. But one day it chanced they all wished to go hunting together, so they put their sister up in a high tree where she would be safe from the beasts of the forest, and then they went away and left her there alone. The twenty brothers went on and on through the jungle, farther than they had ever gone before, and so came at last to an open space among the trees, and there was a hut. "Who can be living here?" said one of the brothers. "Let us knock and see," cried another. The Princes knocked at the door and immediately it was opened to them by a great, wicked-looking Rakshas. She had only one red eye in the middle of her forehead; her gray hair hung in a tangled mat over her shoulders, and she was dressed in dirty rags. When the Rakshas saw the brothers she was filled with fury. She considered all the jungle belonged to her, and she was not willing that any one else should come there. Her one eye flashed fire, and she seized a stick and began beating the Princes, and each one, as she struck him, was turned into a crow. She then drove them away and went back into her hut and closed the door. The twenty crows flew back through the forest, cawing mournfully. When they came to the tree where their sister sat they gathered about her, trying to make her understand that they were her brothers. At first the Princess was frightened by the crows, but when she saw there were tears in their eyes, and when she counted them and found there were exactly twenty, she guessed what had happened, and that some wicked enchantment had changed her brothers into this shape. Then she wept over them and smoothed their feathers tenderly. After this the sister lived up in the tree, and the crows brought her food every day and rested around her in the branches at night, so that no harm should come to her. Some time after this a young Rajah came into that very jungle to hunt. In some way he became separated from his attendants and wandered deeper and deeper into the forest, until at length he came to the tree where the Princess sat. He threw himself down beneath the tree to rest. Hearing a sound of wings above him the Rajah looked up and was amazed to see a beautiful girl sitting there among the branches with a flock of crows about her. The Rajah climbed the tree and brought the girl down, while the crows circled about his head, cawing hoarsely. "Tell me, beautiful one, who are you? And how come you here in the depths of the jungle?" asked the Rajah. Weeping, the Princess told him all her story except that the crows were her brothers; she let him believe that her brothers had gone off hunting and had never returned. "Do not weep any more," said the Rajah. "You shall come home with me and be my Ranee, and I will have no other but you alone." When the Princess heard this she smiled, for the Rajah was very handsome, and already she loved him. She was very glad to go with him and be his wife. "But my crows must go with me," she said, "for they have fed me for many long days and have been my only companions." To this the Rajah willingly consented, and he took her home with him to the palace; and the crows circled about above them, following closely all the way. [Illustration: The Rajah brought the girl down, while the crows circled about his head.] When the old Rajah and Ranee (the young Rajah's father and mother) saw what a very beautiful girl he had brought back with him from the jungle they gladly welcomed her as a daughter-in-law. The young Ranee would have been very happy now in her new life, for she loved her husband dearly, but always the thought of her brothers was like a weight upon her heart. She had a number of trees planted outside her windows so that her brothers might rest there close to her. She cooked rice for them herself and fed them with her own hands, and often she sat under the trees and stroked them and talked to them while her tears fell upon their glossy feathers. After a while the young Ranee had a son, and he was called Ramchundra. He grew up straight and tall, and he was the joy of his mother's eyes. One day, when he was fourteen years old, and big and strong for his age, he sat in the garden with his mother. The crows flew down about them, and she began to caress and talk to them as usual. "Ah, my dear ones!" she cried, "how sad is your fate! If I could but release you, how happy I should be." "Mother," said the boy, "I can plainly see that these crows are not ordinary birds. Tell me whence come they, and why you weep over them and talk to them as you do?" At first his mother would not tell him, but in the end she related to him the whole story of who she was, and how she and her brothers had come to the jungle and had lived there happily enough until they were changed into crows; and then of how the Rajah had found her and brought her home with him to the palace. "I can easily see," said Ramchundra, when she had ended the tale, "that my uncles must have met a Rakshas somewhere in the forest and have been enchanted. Tell me exactly where the tree was--the tree where you lived--and what kind it was?" The Ranee told him. "And in which direction did your brothers go when they left you?" This also his mother told him. "Why do you ask me these questions, my son?" she asked. "I wish to know," said Ramchundra, "for sometime I intend to set out and find that Rakshas and force her to free my uncles from her enchantment and change them back to their natural shapes again." His mother was terrified when she heard this, but she said very little to him, hoping he would soon forget about it and not enter into such a dangerous adventure. Not long afterward Ramchundra went to his father and said, "Father, I am no longer a child; give me your permission to ride out into the world and see it for myself." The Rajah was willing for him to do this and asked what attendants his son would take with him. "I wish for no attendants," answered Ramchundra. "Give me only a horse, and a groom to take care of it." The Rajah gave his son the handsomest horse in his stables and also a well-mounted groom to ride with him. Ramchundra, however, only allowed the groom to go with him as far as the edge of the jungle, and then he sent him back home again with both the horses. The Prince went on and on through the forest for a long distance until at last he came to a tree that he felt sure was the one his mother had told him of. From there he set forth in the same direction she told him his uncles had taken. He went on and on, ever deeper and deeper into the forest, until at last he came to a miserable looking hut. The door was open, and he looked in. There lay an ugly old hag fast asleep. She had only one eye in the middle of her forehead, and her gray hair was tangled and matted and fell over her face. The Prince entered in very softly, and sitting down beside her, he began to rub her head. He suspected that this was the Rakshas who had bewitched his uncles, and it was indeed she. Presently the old woman awoke. "My pretty lad," said she, "you have a kind heart. Stay with me here and help me, for I am very old and feeble, as you see, and I cannot very well look out for myself." This she said not because she really was old or feeble, but because she was lazy and wanted a servant to wait on her. "Gladly will I stay," answered the lad, "and what I can do to serve you, that I will do." So the Prince stayed there as the Rakshas' servant. He served her hand and foot, and every day she made him sit down and rub her head. One day, while he was rubbing her head and she was in a good humor he said to her, "Mother, why do you keep all those little jars of water standing along the wall? Let me throw out the water so that we may make some use of the jars." "Do not touch them," cried the Rakshas. "That water is very powerful. One drop of it can break the strongest enchantment, and if any one has been bewitched, that water has power to bring him back to his own shape again." "And why do you keep that crooked stick behind the door? To-morrow I shall break it up to build a fire." "Do not touch it," cried the hag. "I have but to wave that stick, and I can conjure up a mountain, a forest, or a river just as I wish, and all in the twinkling of an eye." The Prince said nothing to that, but went on rubbing her head. Presently he began to talk again. "Your hair is in a dreadful tangle, mother," he said. "Let me get a comb and comb it out." "Do not dare!" screamed the Rakshas. "One hair of my head has the power to set the whole jungle in flames." Ramchundra again was silent and went on rubbing her head, and after a while the old Rakshas fell asleep and snored till the hut shook with her snoring. Then, very quietly, the Prince arose. He plucked a hair from the old hag's head without awakening her, he took a flask of the magic water and the staff from behind the door, and set out as fast as he could go in the direction of the palace. It was not long before he heard the Rakshas coming through the jungle after him, for she had awakened and found him gone. Nearer and nearer she came, and then the Prince turned and waved the crooked stick. At once a river rolled between him and the Rakshas. Without pause the Rakshas plunged into the river and struck out boldly, and soon she reached the other side. On she came again close after Ramchundra. Again he turned and waved the staff. At once a thick screen of trees sprang up between him and the hag. The Rakshas brushed them aside this way and that as though they had been nothing but twigs. On she came, and again the Prince waved the staff. A high mountain arose, but the Rakshas climbed it, and it did not take her long to do this. Now she was so close that Ramchundra could hear her panting, but the edge of the jungle had been reached. He turned and cast the Rakshas' hair behind him. Immediately the whole jungle burst into fire, and the Rakshas was burned up in the flames. Soon after the Prince reached the palace and hastened out into the garden. There sat his mother weeping, with the crows gathered about her. When she saw Ramchundra she sprang to her feet with a scream of joy and ran to him and took him in her arms. "My son! my son! I thought you had perished!" she cried. "Did you meet the Rakshas?" "Not only did I meet her, but I have slain her and brought back with me that which will restore my uncles to their proper shapes," answered the Prince. He then dipped his fingers into the jar he carried and sprinkled the magic water over the crows. At once the enchantment was broken, and the twenty Princes stood there, tall and handsome, in their own proper shapes. The Ranee made haste to lead them to her husband and told him the whole story. The Rajah could not wonder enough when he understood that the Princes were his wife's brothers, and were the crows she had brought home with her. He at once ordered a magnificent feast to be prepared and a day of rejoicing to be held throughout all the kingdom. Many Rajahs from far and near were invited to the feast, and among those who came was the father of the Ranee and her brothers, but he never suspected, as he looked upon them, that they were his children. Before they sat down to the feast the young Ranee said to him, "Where is your wife Guzra Bai? Why has she not come with you? We had expected to see her here?" The Rajah was surprised that the young Ranee should know his wife's name, but he made some excuse as to why Guzra Bai was not there. Then the young Rajah said, "Send for her, I beg of you, for the feast cannot begin till she is here." The older Rajah was still more surprised at this. He could not think any one was really concerned about Guzra Bai, and he feared the young Rajah wished, for some reason, to quarrel with him. But he agreed to send for his wife, and messengers were at once dispatched to bring Guzra Bai to the palace. No sooner had she come than the young Ranee began to weep, and she and the Princes gathered about their mother. Then they told the Rajah the whole story of how his mother and the nurse had sought to destroy Guzra Bai and her children, and how they had been saved, and had now come to safety and great honor. The Rajah was overcome with joy when he found that Guzra Bai was innocent. He prayed her to forgive him, and this she did, and all was joy and happiness. As for the old Ranee, she was shut up in the tower where Guzra Bai had lived for so many years, but the old nurse was killed as befitted such a wicked woman. LIFE'S SECRET A STORY OF BENGAL In a far-off country there once lived a great Rajah who had two wives, one named Duo and the other Suo. Both these Ranees were beautiful, but Duo was of a harsh and cruel nature, while Suo was gentle and kind to all. Though the Rajah had been married to his Ranees for some time they neither of them had any children, and this was a great grief to every one. Daily prayers were offered up in the temples for the birth of a son to the Rajah, but the prayers remained unanswered. One day a beggar, a holy man who had vowed to live in poverty, came to the palace asking for alms. Duo would have had him driven away, but Suo felt compassion for him. She gave him the alms he asked and bade him sit in the cool of the courtyard to rest. The beggar thanked her and ate the food she gave him. Just before he left, he asked to speak to her in private. This favor Suo granted him. She stepped aside with him, and as it so happened this brought them directly under the windows of Duo's apartments. "Great Ranee, you have been very kind to me," said the beggar, "and I wish to reward you. I know that for years you have desired to have a son, but that this wish has not been granted. Now listen! In the midst of the jungle over beyond the city there grows the most wonderful tree in all the world. Its trunk is silver, and its leaves are of gold. Once in every hundred years this tree bears a single crimson fruit. She who eats this fruit, whosoever she may be, shall, within a year, bear a son. This is that hundredth year,--the year in which the tree bears fruit, and I have gathered that fruit and have it here." So saying, the beggar drew from among his rags a piece of silk embroidered with strange figures. This he unfolded, and showed to the Ranee, lying within it, a strange fruit such as she had never seen before. It was pear shaped, and of such a vivid red that it seemed to pulse and glow with light. Suo looked at it with wonder and awe. "If you wish to have it, it is yours," the beggar continued. "But I must tell you one other thing. Whoever eats this fruit shall indeed bear a son, but he will not be as other children. His life will not be altogether within himself as with other people; it will be bound up with an object quite outside of himself. If this object should fall into the hands of an enemy that enemy could, by willing it, bring upon him misfortune or even death, and this no matter how closely the child was watched and guarded. And now, knowing this, do you still wish to eat the fruit?" "Yes, yes!" cried Suo. "Then I will tell you what this object is and where it is to be found," said the beggar. He drew still closer to the Ranee and whispered in her ear, but though what he told her was so important Suo paid but little attention to it; she thought only of the fruit, and the happiness that might come to her if she ate it. Now all the while the beggar had been talking to Suo, Duo had been seated at her window just above them, and she overheard all that was said. Only when the beggar came closer to Suo and whispered in her ear Duo could not hear what he said, though she leaned out as far as she could and strained her ears to listen. So, though she had learned that if Suo had a child its life would depend on some object outside of itself, she did not learn what that object was. The beggar now gave the fruit to Suo, and she took it and ate all of it. Not one seed or bit of rind did she miss. After that she went back to her own apartments to dream upon the joy that might be coming to her. Within the year, even as the beggar had promised, Suo bore a child, and this child was so large and strong and handsome that he was the wonder of all who saw him. The Rajah was wild with joy. He could scarcely think or talk of anything but his son, and he showered gifts and caresses upon the happy mother. Duo was quite forgotten. He never even went near her apartments, and her heart was filled with jealousy and hatred toward Suo and the little prince Dalim Kumar,--for so the child was named. Nothing would have given her more joy than to be able to injure them and bring sorrow and misfortune upon them. Now as Dalim Kumar grew older he became very fond of a flock of pigeons that his father had given him, and he spent a great deal of time playing with them in the courtyard. They were so tame they would come at his call and light upon his head and shoulders. Sometimes they flew in through the windows of Duo's apartments which overlooked the courtyard. Duo scattered peas and grain on the floor for them, and they came and ate them. Then one day she caught two or three of them. Soon after Dalim Kumar missed his pigeons and began calling them. Duo leaned from her window. "Your pigeons are up here," she cried. "If you want them you must come up and get them." Suo had forbidden her son to go to Duo's apartments, but he quite forgot this in his eagerness to regain his pets, and he at once ran up to the Ranee's apartments. Duo took him by the wrist and drew him into her room. "You shall have your pigeons again," said she, "but first there is something you must tell me." "What is it?" asked Dalim Kumar. "I wish to know where your life lies and in what object it is bound up." Dalim Kumar was very much surprised. "I do not know what you mean," said he. "My life lies within me, in my head and my body and my limbs, as it is with every one." "No, that is not so," said Duo. "Has your mother never told you that your life is bound up in something outside of yourself?" "No, she has never told me that, and moreover I do not believe it." "Nevertheless it is so," said Duo. "If you will find out what this thing is and come and tell me you shall have your pigeons again, and if you do not do this I will wring their necks." Dalim Kumar was greatly troubled at the thought of harm coming to his pigeons. "No, no! You must not do that," he cried. "I will go to my mother and find out what she knows, and if there is indeed truth in what you say I will come back at once and tell you the secret. But you must do nothing to my pigeons while I am gone." To this Duo agreed. "There is another thing you must promise," said she. "You must not let your mother know I have asked you anything about your life. If you do I will wring your pigeons' necks even though you tell me the secret." "I will not let her know," promised the boy, and then he hastened away to his mother's apartments. When he came to the door he began to walk slowly and with dragging steps. He entered in and threw himself down among some cushions and closed his eyes. "What ails you, my son?" asked his mother. "Why do you sit there so quietly instead of playing about?" "Nothing ails me now," answered the boy, "but there is something that I wish to know, and unless you tell me I am sure I shall be quite ill." "What is it that you wish to know, my darling?" "I wish to know where my life lies, and in what it is bound up," answered the boy. When Suo heard this she was very much frightened. "What do you mean?" she cried. "Who has been talking to you of your life?" Then Dalim said what was not true, for he feared that harm might come to his pigeons. "No one has been talking to me," said he, "but I am sure that my life lies somewhere outside of me, and if you will not tell me about it I will neither eat nor drink, and then perhaps I may die." At last Suo could withstand him no longer. "My son," she said, "it is as you have guessed. You are not as other children. Your life is bound up in some object outside of yourself, and if this object should fall into the hands of an enemy the greatest misfortunes might come upon you, and perhaps even death." "And what is this object?" asked the boy. Again Suo hesitated. Then she said: "The beggar told me that under the roots of that same tree that bore the fruit lies buried a golden necklace, and it is with that necklace that part of your life is bound up." Now that Dalim Kumar knew the secret he was content, and smiled upon his mother and caressed her, and ate some of the sweetmeats she had prepared for him. Then he ran away to get his pigeons. Duo was waiting for him impatiently. "Have you found out the secret of your life?" she demanded. "Yes," answered the Prince. "It is bound up in a golden necklace that lies buried under the roots of a tree over in the jungle,--a tree with a silver trunk and golden leaves. And now give me my pigeons." Duo was very willing to do this; she had no longer any use for them. She placed the cage in which she had put them in his hands and pushed him impatiently from the room. As soon as the boy had gone the Ranee sent for a man upon whom she could depend and told him what she wished him to do. She wished him to go into the jungle and search until he found a tree with a silver trunk and golden leaves. He was then to dig down about its roots until he found a golden necklace that lay buried there. This necklace he was to bring to her, and in return for his services she would give him a lac of gold mohurs. The man willingly agreed to do as she wished and at once set out into the jungle. After searching for some time he at last found the tree and began to dig about its roots. Now at the very time this happened Dalim Kumar was with his mother playing about in her apartment. But no sooner did the man in the jungle begin to dig about the tree than the boy gave a cry and laid his hand upon his heart. At the same time he became very pale. "What is the matter, my son?" cried his mother anxiously. "Are you ill?" "I do not know what is the matter," answered the Prince, "but something threatens me." His mother put her arm about him, and at the very moment she did so the man who had been digging found the necklace and picked it up, and at that the young Prince sank back senseless in his mother's arms. The Ranee was terrified. She sent at once for the Rajah, and physicians were called in, but none of them could arouse the child nor could they tell what ailed him. He lay there among the cushions where they had placed him still breathing, but unconscious of all around him. And so the boy lay all the while that the man with the necklace hidden in his bosom was on his way back from the jungle. But when he reached the apartments of Duo and gave the necklace into the hands of the evil Ranee, the breath went out from the Prince's body, and he became as one dead. The Rajah was in despair. His grief was now as great as his joy had been when the child was born. He had a magnificent temple built in the most beautiful of all his gardens, and in this temple the body of Dalim Kumar was laid. After this was done the Rajah commanded that the gates of the garden should be locked, and that no one but the gardeners should ever enter there on pain of death. This command was carried out. The garden gates were kept locked, and no one entered but the men who went there in the daytime to prune the trees and water the flowers and keep the place in order. Not even Suo might go into the garden to mourn beside the body of her son. But though every one believed Dalim Kumar to be dead, such was not really the case. All day, while Duo wore the necklace, he lay without breath or sign of life, but in the evening, when the Ranee took the necklace off, he revived and returned to life. And this happened every night, for every night the Rajah came to visit Duo, and just before he came she always took the necklace off and hid it. She feared if he saw it he might wonder and question her about it. The wicked Ranee was now satisfied and happy. She believed she had destroyed the young Prince, and with him the Rajah's love for Suo. For the Rajah now never went to Suo's apartments. He neither saw her nor spoke of her, for she only reminded him of his grief for his son. Now the first time that Dalim Kumar awoke in the temple he was very much surprised to find himself alone in a strange place, and with no attendants around him. He arose and went out into the garden, and then at once he knew where he was, though the temple was new to him. He went to one gate after another of the garden, intending to go and return to the palace, but he found them all locked. The gardeners had gone away for the night, and before going they had securely fastened the gates, according to the Rajah's orders. The young prince called and called, but no one heard or answered. Feeling hungry, he plucked some fruit and ate it, and after that he amused himself as best he could, playing about among the trees and flowers. Toward morning he felt sleepy and returned to the temple. He lay down upon the couch, and later on, when Duo again put on the necklace, his breath left him, and he became as one dead. As it had been that night, so it was also in the many nights that followed. In the evening the Prince revived and came out to play among the flowers, but with the coming of day he returned to the temple and lay down on the couch, and all appearance of life left him. After a time he became used to the strange life he led, and no longer wondered why he was left there alone and why no one came to seek him. So year after year slipped by, and from a child the Prince became a youth, and in all that time he had seen no one, for the gardeners had always gone away before he returned to life. Now there lived at this time, in a country far away, a woman who had one only child, a daughter named Surai Bai. This girl was so beautiful that she was the wonder of all who saw her. Her hair was as black as night, her eyes like stars, her teeth like pearls, and her lips as red as ripe pomegranates. When this child was born it was foretold to her mother that she would sometime marry a Prince who was both alive and dead. This prophecy frightened the mother so much that as soon as her daughter was of a marriageable age she left her own country and journeyed away into a far land, taking the girl with her. She hoped that if she went far enough she might escape the fate that had been foretold for the child. Journeying on from one place to another, she came at last to the city where Dalim Kumar's father reigned, and where the garden was, and the temple where the young prince lay. It was toward evening when the mother and daughter reached the city, and it was necessary for them to find some shelter for the night. Surai Bai was weary, and her mother bade her sit down and rest by the gate of one of the palace gardens while she went farther to seek a lodging. As soon as she had found a place where they could stay she would return for the girl. So Surai Bai seated herself beside the gate, and there her mother left her. But the mother had not been gone long when some noise farther up the street frightened the girl. She looked about for a place to hide, and it occurred to her that she might go into the garden and wait there. She tried the gate and found it unfastened, for by some chance one of the gardeners had forgotten to lock it that evening when he went away. Surai Bai pushed the gate open and stepped inside, closing it behind her. When she looked about her, she was amazed at the beauty of the garden. The fruit trees were laden with fruits of every kind. There were winding paths and flowers and fountains, and in the midst of the garden was a temple shining with gold and wondrous colors. Though daylight had faded the moon had arisen, and the garden was full of light. Surai Bai went over close to the temple, wishing to examine it, but just as she reached the foot of the steps that led up to it a young man appeared above her at the door of the temple. It was Dalim Kumar, who had aroused again to life and was coming forth to breathe the air of the garden. When he saw Surai Bai he stood amazed, not only at her beauty, which was so great, but because hers was the first face he had ever seen in the years he had spent in the garden. As for Surai Bai, never before had she beheld a youth so handsome, or with such a noble air, and as the two stood looking at each other they became filled with love for one another. Presently Dalim Kumar came down the steps of the temple and took Surai Bai's hand. "Who are you, beautiful one?" he asked. "Whence come you, and what is your name?" "My name is Surai Bai," answered the girl, "and I come from another country far away. My mother left me sitting by the gate while she went to find a lodging for us, but some noise frightened me, and I ran in here to hide." "That is a strange thing," said the Prince. "In all the years I have been living here, the gates have never been unlocked before." "But do you live here alone?" asked the girl. "Yes, all alone. Yours is the first face I have seen for years, and yet I am a Prince, and the son of a great Rajah." "Then why are you here?" "I am here because my life was bound up in a golden necklace that lay buried under the roots of a tree in the jungle. I told the secret to a Ranee who was my enemy, though I did not know it at the time. She must in some way have gained possession of the necklace, and now she is using it for my harm. All day I lie there in the temple as though dead; no sound reaches me, nothing arouses me; only at night can I arise and come forth. I, a great prince, am as one both dead and alive." When Dalim Kumar pronounced these words Surai Bai could not refrain from giving a loud cry. She was overcome with amazement and confusion. The Prince at once wished to know what had moved her so. "Why do you cry out and change color?" he asked. "And why do you tremble and look at me so strangely?" At first Surai Bai would not tell him, but he was so urgent in his questioning that finally she was obliged to recount to him the prophecy made at the time of her birth;--that it had been foretold of her that she was to marry a Prince who was both alive and dead. Dalim Kumar listened to her attentively. "That is a strange thing," said he. "I do not suppose in all the world there is another prince beside myself who is both alive and dead. If this saying is true, it must be that I am the one you are to marry. If so, I am very happy, for already I love you, and if you will stay here with me we will be married by the ceremony of Grandharva, and I will be a true and loving husband to you." To this Surai Bai willingly consented, for already she loved the prince so dearly that she felt she could not live without him. That very night she and the Prince presented each other with garlands of flowers, for that is the ceremony of Grandharva, and so they became man and wife. After that they lived together in great happiness, and nothing could exceed their love for each other. By day, while Dalim Kumar lay lifeless in the temple, his bride slept also, and at evening they awoke and talked together and walked through the garden. But after a while a son was born to the young couple, and after that Surai Bai was no longer gay and happy. Her look was sad, and often she stole away from Dalim Kumar to weep in secret. The Prince was greatly troubled by this. At first he forbore to question her, but one day he followed her and finding her in tears, he said, "Tell me, why are you sad and downcast? Have you wearied of this garden, and are you lonely here; or is it that you no longer love me?" "Dalim Kumar," answered the girl, "I love you as dearly as ever, and I am never lonely with you. As long as we had no child I was content to stay here in the garden and see no one. But now that we have a son I wish him to be seen by your people, and I wish them to know that he is the heir to the kingdom." At this Dalim Kumar became very thoughtful. "My dear wife," said he, "you are right. Our son should be known as my heir; but every one believes I died long ago when I was a child. If you went out among them with the boy and told them he was my son, they would laugh at you, and either think you were an impostor or that you were crazy. If we could but gain possession of the necklace, then I could go out from the garden with you, and if I showed myself to my people they would be obliged to believe." "That is what I have thought also," said Surai Bai, "and it has been in my mind to ask you to give me permission to leave the garden for a while. If you will do this I will try to gain entrance to the palace and the apartments of Duo. Then possibly I can find where she keeps the necklace at night, and I may be able to get possession of it." Dalim Kumar eagerly agreed to this plan, and the very next day, while he lay unconscious in the temple, Surai Bai took the child and managed to steal out through one of the gates without being seen by any of the gardeners. She at once sought out a shop in the city and bought for herself the dress of a hairdresser; then, leading the child by the hand she made her way to the palace. She told the attendants there that she was very skillful in dressing the hair, and if they would take her to the Ranees she was sure she could please them. After some hesitation the attendants agreed to do this, and led the way first to the apartments of Suo. When Surai Bai entered the room and saw her husband's mother sitting there thin and pale and grief-stricken, her heart yearned over her. But Suo would not so much as look at the pretended hairdresser. "Why do you bring her here?" she asked. "I have no wish to look beautiful. My son is dead and my husband no longer loves me nor comes to me. Take her away and leave me alone with my sorrow." The attendants motioned to Surai Bai to come away, and they led her across the palace to the apartments of Duo. Here all was bright and joyous. The beautiful Duo lay among the cushions, smiling to herself and playing with the necklace that hung about her neck. When she heard that the young woman they had brought to her was a skilled hairdresser, she sat up and beckoned Surai Bai to approach. "Come!" said she. "Let us see how well you can dress my hair. The Rajah will be here before long, and I must be beautiful for him." Surai Bai at once came behind Duo and began to arrange her hair. The child meanwhile kept close by her side. When Surai Bai had almost finished she managed to loosen the clasp of the necklace so that it slipped from Duo's neck and fell upon the floor. This was as the pretended hairdresser had planned, and she had explained to her son beforehand that when the necklace fell he must pick it up and hold it tight, and yield it to no one. So now, no sooner did the necklace slip to the floor, than the child picked it up and twisted it tight around his fingers. Duo was frightened. "Give me my necklace," cried she, and reaching over she tried to take it from the boy, but at this he began to scream so loudly that it seemed as though the whole palace must be aroused by his cries. Duo drew back alarmed and bade the child be quiet. Then she turned to the pretended hairdresser. "Make him give me the necklace again," she demanded. Surai Bai pretended to hesitate. "If I try to take it from him now," she said, "he might break it. Have patience, and let him keep it for a while; he will soon tire of it. Then I can take it from him and bring it to you." To this Duo was obliged to agree. It was growing late and she feared at any moment now the Rajah might come in and that he might notice the necklace in the child's hands and ask questions about it. "Very well," she said. "Let him keep it for the present, but bring it back to me the first thing in the morning. If you neglect to do this you shall be severely punished,--you and the child also." The pretended hairdresser made a deep obeisance, and then departed, carrying the child who still held the necklace tightly clutched in his hands. As soon as Surai Bai was outside of the palace she hastened away to the garden and found Dalim Kumar awaiting her at the gate. "I know you have the necklace," he cried to her, "for I aroused while it was still day, and with such a feeling of life and joy as I have never felt before." "Yes, it is here," said Surai Bai, and she took the necklace from the child and held it out to him. Dalim Kumar gave a cry of joy. His hands trembled with eagerness as he grasped the necklace. "Oh, my dear wife," he cried, "you have saved me. I have now again become as other men and can claim what is my own. Come! Let us return to the palace and to my father and mother." So, with the child on his arm, and leading Surai Bai by the hand, the Prince hastened back to the palace. But when he entered the gates no one knew him, for when they had last seen him he had been only a boy. They wondered to see a stranger enter in like a master, but his air was so noble, and his appearance so handsome that no one dared to stop him. Dalim Kumar went at once to his mother's apartments, and though no one else had known him, she recognized him at once, even though he had become a man. She knew not what miracle had brought him back, but she fell upon his neck and kissed him, and wept aloud, so that all in the palace heard the sound of her weeping. The Rajah was sent for in haste, and when he came Dalim Kumar quickly made himself known to his father. The Rajah's joy was no less than the Ranee's over the return of his son. Soon the news spread through all the palace, and there was great rejoicing. But Duo was filled with fear. She knew not what punishment would fall upon her for her evil doings, but she guessed the wrath of the Rajah would be great. So she fled away secretly and in haste, and for a long time she wandered about from place to place, miserable and afraid, and at last died in poverty as she deserved. But Dalim Kumar and his young wife lived in happiness forever after, and when the old Rajah died Dalim Kumar became Rajah in his stead, and his own son ruled after him as Surai Bai and he had desired. DAME PRIDGETT AND THE FAIRIES Dame Pridgett was a fat, comfortable, good-natured old body, and her business in life was to go about nursing sick folk and making them well again. One day she was sitting by the window, rocking herself and resting after a hard week of nursing. She looked from the window, and there she saw a queer-looking little man come riding along the road on a great fiery, prancing black horse. He rode up to her door and knocked without getting off his horse, and when Dame Pridgett opened the door he looked down at her with such queer pale eyes he almost frightened her. "Are you Dame Pridgett?" he asked. "I am," answered the dame. "And do you go about nursing sick people?" "Yes, that is my business." "Then you are the one I want. My wife is ill, and I am seeking some one to nurse her." "Where do you live?" asked the dame, for the man was a stranger to her, and she knew he was not from thereabouts. "Oh, I come from over beyond the hills, but I have no time to talk. Give me your hand and mount up behind me." Dame Pridgett gave him her hand, not because she wanted to, but because, somehow, when he bade her do so she could not refuse. He gave her hand a little pull, and she flew up through the air as light as a bird, and there she was sitting on the horse behind him. The stranger whistled, and away went the great black horse, fast, fast as the wind;--so fast that the old Dame had much ado not to be blown off, but she shut her eyes and held tight to the stranger. They rode along for what seemed a long distance, and then they stopped before a poor, mean-looking house. Dame Pridgett stared about her, and she did not know where they were. She knew she had never seen the place before. In front of the house were some rocks with weeds growing among them, and a pool of muddy water, and a few half-dead trees. It was a dreary place. Two ragged children were playing beside the door with a handful of pebbles. The little man lighted down and helped the old dame slip from the horse; then he led the way into the house. They passed through a mean hallway and into a room hung round with cobwebs. The room was poorly furnished with a wooden bed, a table and a few chairs. In the bed lay a little, round-faced woman with a snub nose and a coarse, freckled skin, and in the crook of her arm was a baby so small and weak-looking the nurse knew it could not be more than a few hours old. "This is my wife," said the stranger. "It will be your duty to wait on her and to wash and dress the child." The baby was so queer looking that Dame Pridgett did not much care to handle it, but still she had come there as a nurse, and she would do what was required of her. The little man showed her where the kitchen was, and she heated some water and then went back to the bedroom and took up the baby to wash it. But so strange it all seemed, and she felt so shaken up by her ride that she was awkward in handling the child, and as she bent her head over it, it lifted its hand and gave her such a box on the ear that her head rang with it. The old dame cried out and almost let the babe fall, she was so thunderstruck. "What is the matter?" asked the woman from the bed. Then she slipped her hand under her pillow and drew out a box of salve. "Here! Rub the child's eyes with a bit of this," she said, "but be sure you do not get any of it on your own eyes, or it will be a bad thing for you,--scarce could be a worse." The nurse took a bit of the salve on her forefinger and rubbed the baby's eyes with it, and then the mother bade her go and wash off any particle of salve that might be left on her finger. All day Dame Pridgett waited on the mother and child, and when night came she was shown into a room next to theirs where she was to sleep. The following day the dame was again kept busy with the mother and child. She washed the baby and rubbed the salve on its eyelids as before, and again the mother warned her not to let the least particle of salve touch her own eyes, or it would be the worse for her. Food was set out for the nurse in a small room beyond her own. She did not know whence it came, nor who prepared it, but she was hungry and ate heartily of it, though it had a strange taste she did not like. The two ragged children came in and ate with her. They did not speak, but stared at her from under their matted hair. The little man she did not see again for some time. So day followed day, and it was always the same thing over and over for Dame Pridgett, and every day after she had washed the child she rubbed salve on its eyelids. Soon its eyes, that had at first been dull, grew so bright and strong they sparkled like jewels. Dame Pridgett thought it must be a very fine salve. She would have liked to try some of it on her own eyes, for her sight was somewhat dim, but the mother watched her so closely that she never had a chance to use it. Now, every day, after Dame Pridgett had washed the baby, she left the basin on a chair beside her while she rubbed the salve on the child's eyes. One day she managed to upset the basin with her elbow as though by accident, though really by design. She gave a cry and bent over to pick up the basin, and as she did so, unseen by her mistress, she rubbed her right eye with the finger that still had some salve left on it. When Dame Pridgett straightened up and looked about her she could hardly keep from crying out again at what she saw. The room and everything in it looked different. Instead of being poor and mean, it was like a chamber in a castle. Where there had been cobwebs were now shimmering silken hangings. The bed and all the furniture was of gold, magnificently carved. The sheets and pillow cases were of silk, and instead of a coarse, snub-nosed little woman, there among the pillows lay the most exquisite little lady the old dame had ever set eyes on; her skin was as fine as a rose leaf, her hair like spun gold, her lips like coral, and her eyes as bright as stars. The babe, also, from being a very ordinary looking child, had become the most exquisite little elfin creature that ever was seen. Dame Pridgett managed somehow to keep quiet and hide her amazement, but now she knew very well that it was to fairyland she had come, and that these were fairy folk. She made some excuse to go to the window and look out. The change outside was no less wonderful than that within. The muddy pool she now saw was a shining lake; the rocks were grottoes; the trees were covered with leaves and shining fruit, and the weeds were beds of flowers of wondrous colors, such as she had never seen before. As for the ragged children, she saw them now as fairy children clothed in the finest of laces and playing, not with pebbles, but with precious jewels so brilliant that they fairly dazzled the eyes. Dame Pridgett managed to keep her mouth shut and acted in such a way that the fairies never suspected she had used the magic ointment, and could now see them as they were. But it was only with the right eye, the one she had touched with the salve, that she could see thus. When she closed that eye and looked with the other, everything was just as it had been before, and seemed so mean and squalid it was difficult to believe it could appear otherwise. So time went on until the fairy lady was well again and had no need of a nurse to care for her. Then one day the little man came again on his black steed and called the old dame out to him. "You have served us well," said he, "and here is your reward," and he placed a purse of gold pieces in her hand. Then he caught hold of her and lifted her up behind him on to the horse, and away they went, swifter than the wind. Dame Pridgett had to shut her eyes to keep from growing dizzy and falling off. So it was that when she reached home she knew no more of the way she had come than she knew of the way she had gone. But this was not the last Dame Pridgett saw of the fairy folk. The little man on the black steed came to her house no more, but there were other little people about in the world who were now visible to her salve-touched eye. Sometimes as she came through the wood she would see them busy among the roots of the trees, setting their houses in order, or bartering and trading in their fairy markets; or on moonlight nights she would look out and see them at play among the flowers in her garden; or she would pass them dancing in fairy rings in the pastures or meadow lands, but she never told a soul of what she saw, nor tried to speak to the wee folk, and they were so busy about their own affairs that they paid no attention to her and never guessed she could see them. And then at last came a day (and a sad day it was for Dame Pridgett) when she again met the little man who had come for her on the great black horse. She had gone to market to buy the stuff for a new apron and was walking along, thinking of nothing but her purchase, when suddenly she saw the little man slipping about among the market people, never touching them and unseen by any. He was peeping into the butter firkins, smelling and tasting, and wherever he found some very good butter he helped himself to a bit of it and put it in a basket he carried on his arm. Dame Pridgett pressed up close to him and looked into his basket, and there in it was a dish almost full of butter. When the good dame saw that, she was so indignant that she quite lost all prudence. "Shame on you," she cried to the little man. "Are you not ashamed to be stealing butter from good folk who are less able to buy than yourself." The little man stopped and looked at her. "So you can see me, can you?" he said. "Yes, to be sure I can," said the old dame boldly. "And how does that happen?" asked the little man smoothly, and without any show of anger. "Oh, when I was nursing your good lady, I managed to rub a bit of her salve on one of my eyes, and that is how I can see you." "And which eye did you rub with the salve?" "My right eye." "And it is only with your right eye you see me?" "Only with my right eye." When the little man heard that, quick as a flash he pursed up his lips and blew into her right eye, and he blew so hard he blew the sight right out of it. The old dame blinked and winked and rubbed her eye with her fingers. The little man had vanished from before her. She could see everything else, but what she saw was with her left eye only, and she could see no fairies with it for it had not been touched with salve. So that was the end of it for Dame Pridgett, as far as the wee folk were concerned, for she never got back the sight of her right eye; only she still had the purse of gold pieces left, and that was enough to comfort the old dame for a great deal. +---------------------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's Note: | | | |The page numbers numbers in the list of Illustrations have been| |changed to match their position in this ebook. | +---------------------------------------------------------------+ 
26070	----	CHINESE FOLK-LORE TALES BY REV. J. MACGOWAN, D.D. [Transcriber's note: the original book from which this etext was prepared was missing pages 3 and 4, and 13 and 14.] MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 1910 GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. CONTENTS I. THE WIDOW HO II. KWANG-JUI AND THE GOD OF THE RIVER III. THE BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER OF LIU-KUNG IV. THE FAIRY BONZE V. THE MYSTERIOUS BUDDHIST ROBE VI. THE VENGEANCE OF THE GODDESS VII. "THE WONDERFUL MAN" VIII. THE GOD OF THE CITY IX. THE TRAGEDY OF THE YIN FAMILY X. SAM-CHUNG AND THE WATER DEMON XI. THE REWARD OF A BENEVOLENT LIFE I THE WIDOW HO One day in the early dawn, a distinguished mandarin was leaving the temple of the City God. It was his duty to visit this temple on the first and fifteenth of the moon, whilst the city was still asleep, to offer incense and adoration to the stern-looking figure enshrined within. This mandarin was Shih-Kung, and a juster or more upright official did not exist in all the fair provinces of the Empire. Wherever his name was mentioned it was received with the profoundest reverence and respect; for the Chinese people have never lost their ideal of Tien-Li, or Divine Righteousness. This ideal is still deeply embedded in the hearts of high and low, rich and poor; and the homage of all classes, even of the most depraved is gladly offered to any man who conspicuously displays this heavenly virtue. As Shih-Kung was being carried along in his sedan chair, with his numerous retinue following closely behind him, he happened to notice a young woman walking in the road in front of him, and began to wonder what it was that had brought her out at such an unusually early hour. She was dressed in the very deepest mourning, and so after a little more thought he concluded that she was a widow who was on her way to the grave of her late husband to make the usual offerings to his spirit. All at once a sudden, furious whirlwind screamed about the woman and seemed determined to spend its force upon her; but beyond her nothing was touched by it. Not a leaf on the trees near by was moved, and not a particle of dust on the road, except just where she stood, was in the least agitated by the fierce tempest that for the moment raged around her. As Shih-Kung gazed at this strange occurrence, the woman's outer skirt was blown up in the air, and he saw that underneath was another garment of a rich crimson hue. He then knew at once that there was something radically wrong, for no woman of ordinary virtuous character would ever dare to wear such a glaring colour, while she pretended to be in deep mourning. There was something suspicious, too, in the sudden tornado that blew with such terrific violence round the woman only. It was not an accident that brought it there. It was clearly the angry protest of some spirit who had been foully misused, and who was determined that the wrong-doer should not escape the penalty for the evil she had committed. Calling two of his runners to him, Shih-Kung ordered them to follow the woman and to see where she was going and what she did there, and then to report to him immediately. [Transcriber's note: pages 3 and 4 missing from source book] the coffin of the dead, and was to be solved there and there only. His course now seemed easy, and it was with a mind full of relief that he entered his home. He at once issued a warrant for the arrest of the widow, and at the same time sent officers to bring the coffin that contained the body of her husband from its burying-place. When the widow appeared before the mandarin, she denied that she knew anything of the cause of her husband's death. He had come home drunk one night, she declared, and had fallen senseless on the ground. After a great deal of difficulty, she had managed to lift him up on to the bed, where he lay in a drunken slumber, just as men under the influence of liquor often do, so that she was not in the least anxious or disturbed about him. During the night she fell asleep as she watched by his side, and when she woke up she found to her horror that he was dead. "That is all that can be said about the case," she concluded, "and if you now order an examination of the body, it simply means that you have suspicions about me, for no other person was with him but myself when he died. I protest therefore against the body being examined. If, however, you are determined to do so, I warn you that if you find no signs of violence on it, you expose yourself according to the laws of China to the punishment of death." "I am quite prepared to take the responsibility," replied the mandarin, "and I have already ordered the Coroner to open the coffin and to make a careful examination of the body." This was accordingly done, but no trace of injury, not even the slightest bruise, could be discovered on any part of the dead man's body. The county magistrate was greatly distressed at this result of the enquiry, and hastened to Shih-Kung in order to obtain his advice as to what steps he should now take to escape the punishment of death which he had incurred by his action. The Viceroy agreed that the matter had indeed assumed a most serious aspect. "But you need not be anxious," he added, "about what you have done. You have only acted by my orders, and therefore I assume all responsibility for the proceedings which you have adopted to discover the murderer." Late in the afternoon, as the sun began to disappear behind the mountains of the west, Shih-Kung slipped out by a side door of his yamen, dressed as a peddler of cloth, and with pieces of various kinds of material resting on his shoulders. His disguise was so perfect that no one, as he passed down the street, dreamed of suspecting that instead of being a wandering draper, he was in reality the Governor-General of the Province, who was trying to obtain evidence of a murder that had recently been committed in his own capital. Travelling on down one street after another, Shih-Kung came at last to the outskirts of the town, where the dwellings were more scattered and the population was less dense. By this time it was growing dark, so when he came to a house that stood quite apart by itself, he knocked at the door. An elderly woman with a pleasant face and a motherly look about her asked him in a kind and gentle voice what he wanted. "I have taken the liberty," he replied, "of coming to your house to see whether you would not kindly allow me to lodge with you for the night. I am a stranger in this region," he continued, "and have travelled far from my home to sell my cloth. The night is fast falling, and I know not where to spend it, and so I beg of you to take me in. I do not want charity, for I am quite able to pay you liberally for any trouble I may cause you; and to-morrow morning, as early as you may desire, I shall proceed on my wanderings, and you will be relieved of me." "My good man," she replied, "I am perfectly willing that you should lodge here for the night, only I am afraid you may have to endure some annoyance from the conduct of my son when he returns home later in the evening." "My business leads me into all kinds of company," he assured her, "and I meet people with a great variety of dispositions, but I generally manage to get on with them all. It may be so with your son." With a good-natured smile, the old lady then showed him into a little room just off the one which was used as a sitting room. Shih-Kung was very tired, so he threw himself down, just as he was, on a trestle bed that stood in the corner, and began to think over his plans for solving the mystery of the murder. By-and-by he fell fast asleep. About midnight he woke up at the sound of voices in the next room, and heard the mother saying:--"I want you to be very careful how you treat the peddler, and not to use any of your coarse language to him. Although he looks only a common man, I am sure he is a gentleman, for he has a refined way with him that shows he must have come from no mean family. I did not really want to take him in, as I knew you might object; but the poor man was very tired, and it was getting dark, and he declared he had no place to go to, so that at last I consented to let him stay. It is only for the night, and to-morrow at break of day he says he must be on his travels again." "I do most strongly dislike having a strange man in the house," replied a voice which Shih-Kung concluded was the son's; "and I shall go and have a look at him in order to satisfy myself about him." Taking a lantern in his hand, he came close up to where Shih-Kung was lying, and flashing the light upon his face, looked down anxiously at him for a few moments. Apparently he was satisfied, for he cried out in a voice that could easily be heard in the other room: "All right, mother, I am content. The man has a good face, and I do not think I have anything to fear from him. Let him remain." Shih-Kung now considered that it was time for him to act. He stretched himself and yawned as though he were just waking out of sleep, and then, sitting up on the edge of the bed, he looked into the young man's face and asked him who he was. "Oh!" he replied in a friendly way, "I am the son of the old lady who gave you permission to stay here for the night. For certain reasons, I am not at all anxious to have strangers about the house, and at first I very much objected to have you here. But now that I have had a good look at you, my objections have all vanished. I pride myself upon being a good judge of character, and I may tell you that I have taken a fancy to you. But come away with me into the next room, for I am going to have a little supper, and as my mother tells me that you fell asleep without having had anything to eat, I have no doubt you will be glad to join me." As they sat talking over the meal, they became very friendly and confidential with each other, and the sam-shu that the son kept drinking from a tiny cup, into which it was poured from a steaming kettle, had the effect of loosening his tongue and causing him to speak more freely than he would otherwise have done. From his long experience of the shady classes of society, Shih-Kung very soon discovered what kind of a man his companion was, and felt that here was a mine from which he might draw valuable information to help him in reaching the facts he wished to discover. Looking across the table at the son, whose face was by this time flushed with the spirit he had been drinking, and with a hasty glance around the room, as though he were afraid that some one might overhear him, he said in a low voice, "I want to tell you a great secret. You have opened your heart a good deal to me, and now I am going to do the same with you. I am not really a peddler of cloth, as I have pretended to be. I have been simply using that business to disguise my real occupation, which I do not want anyone to know." "And what, may I ask, may be the trade in which you are engaged, and of which you seem to be so ashamed that you dare not openly confess it?" asked the son. "Well, I am what I call a benevolent thief," replied Shih-Kung. "A benevolent thief!" exclaimed the other in astonishment. "I have never heard of such a thing before, and I should very much like to know what is meant by it." "I must tell you," explained the guest, "that I am not a common thief who takes the property of others for his own benefit. I never steal for myself. My practice is to find out where men have made money unjustly, and then by certain means at my command I deprive them of some of their unlawful gains and distribute them amongst the people they have wronged. In this way I have been the means of bringing suitable punishment on the heads of the guilty, and at the same time of relieving the necessities of those who have suffered at their hands." "I am astonished at what you tell me," replied the son, "though I do not believe all you say about not taking a share in the plunder you get. But now that you have opened your heart to me, I shall repay your confidence by telling you what I am. I am a real thief, and I support my mother, who does not suspect the truth, and keep the home together, simply by what I steal from others." He then proceeded to give an account of some of the adventures he had met with in the course of his expeditions by night to rooms and houses which, as he always found out beforehand by careful spying, contained valuables that could be easily carried away. While he was relating these stories, Shih-Kung's eyes gleamed with delight, for he saw that the man had fallen into the trap which had been laid for him, and felt confident that before the night was over he would be in possession of some clue to the mystery he was endeavouring to solve. He was disgusted with the sordid details of the criminal life of which the man before him seemed to be proud; yet with wonderful patience this mandarin, with his large powers of mind, and with a genius for statesmanship which had made him famous throughout the Empire, sat for hours enduring the wretched talk of this common thief. But his reward came in due time. "By the way," exclaimed this man whose business it was to break into homes when the small hours of the morning found their inmates wrapped in slumber, "some time ago I had a most remarkable experience, and as you have shown yourself such a good fellow, I will tell you about it, if you do not think it too late to do so." "I shall be most delighted to hear you relate it," said his guest. "I have been greatly entertained by your vivid way of describing the adventures through which you have passed. You deserve to be classed amongst the great heroes of old, who have made their names famous by their deeds of daring. Go on, I pray you, and tell me the particulars of this unusual experience." "Well," proceeded the man, "I had very carefully planned to pay a visit to a certain house just outside the walls of the city. It was an easy one to get in to without any danger of being observed, for it was in a quiet street, where passers-by are very few after dark. It was a gloomy place after sunset, for the high walls that looked down upon it threw deep and heavy shadows, which faint-hearted people declare are really unhappy and restless ghosts prowling about to harass and distress the unwary. "It was a little after midnight, when with stealthy footsteps I crept along the narrow streets, keeping as much as I could under cover of the houses, where the darkness lay deepest. Every home was hushed in slumber. The only things that really troubled me were the dogs, which, with an intelligence far greater than that of their masters, suspected me of some evil purpose, and barked at me and made wild snaps at my legs. I managed, however, to evade them and finally to arrive at the house I intended to rob. "When I got close up to it, I was surprised to find a light burning inside. There was another thing, too, that I could not understand, and this was that a little side door by which I had planned to enter had not been bolted, but had been left ajar so that any prowling robber could easily gain admittance through it. Taking off my shoes, I walked on tiptoe along the stone-paved courtyard in the direction of the room where the light was burning, and [Transcriber's note: pages 13 and 14 missing from source book] have had his heart lightened of the load that was weighing it down if I could only have had the opportunity of whispering a single sentence into his ear." "It is your duty," interposed his guest, "to proceed to-morrow morning to the mandarin's yamen, and tell your story to the county magistrate, so that a great wrong may not go unpunished." "That I can never do," promptly replied the man. "What do you think would happen were I to do what you suggest? I am a thief. I get my living by thieving. I was in the house on the night of the murder for the purpose of robbery. That would all come out when I give my evidence. After I had proved the murder, what would become of me? I should be cast into prison, and I might have to lie there for years, for who would ever bail out a thief? And then my poor mother would starve, for she has to depend on me entirely for her living, and she would be compelled to go on the streets and beg for charity from door to door. No, it is impossible for me ever to interfere in this case." Shih-Kung recognized the difficulty in which the man was placed, and yet without his evidence it would be impossible to convict the woman of the crime she had committed. He accordingly thought out a plan which he felt would remove the obstacles that stood in the way of securing him as a witness. Turning to the man, he said, "I have had a very pleasant evening with you, and I thank you for your courtesy and hospitality. I feel my heart moved with a desire for a deeper friendship than mere words can ever express, and so I propose that you and I become sworn brothers, so that whatever may befall us in the future we shall stand by each other to the very death." The young man looked up with astonishment at this unexpected proposal, but the sudden flash in his eyes and the smile that overspread his countenance showed that it was very pleasing to him. "I shall be delighted to agree," he quickly replied, "but when shall we have an opportunity of appearing in the temple, and of registering our vow in the presence of the god?" "There is no need to go to any temple," Shih-Kung replied. "Your family idol, which sits over there enshrined before us, will be quite sufficient for our purpose. Give me a pen and paper, and I will write out the articles of our brotherhood and present them to the god." In a few minutes the document was written out according to the minute rules laid down by the law which binds two men in a sworn brotherhood. By the most solemn oaths Shih-Kung and this thief agreed to assist each other in any extremity in which either might be placed in the future. Any call from one to the other must be instantly responded to. No danger and no peril to life or limb must be allowed to deter either of them when the cry for help or deliverance was heard. Each was to regard the interests of the other as identical with his own, and as long as life lasted, the obligation to succour in every time of need could never be relaxed or annulled. To prove that this solemn engagement was no mere passing whim of the moment, it had to be read in the hearing of the household god, who happened to be the Goddess of Mercy. She would then be an everlasting witness of the transaction, and with the invisible forces at her command would visit pains and penalties on the one who broke his oath. Standing in front of her shrine, Shih-Kung read out the articles of agreement, word by word, in a slow and measured tone suited to the solemnity of the occasion. He then lighted the paper at the lamp, and both men gazed at it until nothing was left but ashes, when each of them knew that the Goddess had received the document and had placed it in her archives in the far-off Western Heaven as a record of the vows made in her presence in those early hours of the morning. When they sat down again, Shih-Kung looked with a strong and masterful gaze at his newly-created brother and said to him:--"You and I are now sworn brothers, and of course we must be frank with each other. I do not wish to deceive you any longer, so I must tell you that I am neither a peddler of cloth, nor a benevolent thief in the sense in which you understood the term. I am in fact Shih-Kung, the Viceroy of this Province." No sooner did the man hear the name of this great mandarin, who was a profound source of terror to the criminals and evil-doers within his jurisdiction, than he fell on his knees before him in the most abject fright, and repeatedly knocking his head on the ground, besought him to have mercy on him. Raising him up gently with his hand, Shih-Kung told him to lay aside all his fears. "You are my brother now," he said, "and we have just sworn in the presence of the Goddess to defend each other with our lives. I shall certainly perform my part of the oath. From this moment your fortune is made; and as for your mother, who received me with such gracious courtesy, it shall be my privilege to provide for her as long as she lives." Emboldened by these words of the great statesman, the young man appeared at the second inquest, which Shih-Kung ordered to be held, and gave such testimony that the guilt of the wretched wife was clearly established, and due punishment meted out to her. II KWANG-JUI AND THE GOD OF THE RIVER China is a land where the great masses of the people have to toil and struggle incessantly in order to obtain even the bare necessities of daily existence. Unnumbered multitudes never enjoy a sufficiency of food, but have to be contented with whatever Heaven may send them; and profoundly thankful they are when they can be sure of two meals a day to stave off the pangs of hunger from themselves and their children. How many there are who cannot by the severest toil obtain even these two meals is evident from the organized beggar communities, which are to be found in connection with every great city in the Empire, and from the vast numbers of tramps, who wander over the country on the highways and byways with pale and sodden faces and with garments nearly falling to pieces, picking up a scanty livelihood from the benevolent as they pass from village to village. Whatever may be their inmost thoughts, the Chinese bear their terrible hardships and privations with a splendid heroism, with little complaining, with no widespread outbreaks of robbery, and with no pillaging of rice-shops and public granaries by organized mobs driven mad by hunger. There is one beautiful feature about the Chinese that has been an important factor in steadying the nation. They are imbued with at least one great ideal, which touches their common life in every direction. Every man in the Empire, rich or poor, learned or unlearned, has a profound respect for what he calls Tien-Li, or Divine Righteousness. By this the Chinese judge all actions. It is the standard by which Kings and Princes and common people direct their conduct, whether in the highest affairs of state, or in the ordinary engagements of common every-day life. In addition to this, the minds of the Chinese are filled with romance and poetry, so that to them the invisible world is peopled with fairies and all kinds of spirits, both good and bad, the former relieving in mysterious ways the dull greyness that sorrow and disaster often shed upon the lives of men. The story of Kwang-Jui is a remarkable evidence of the unbounded faith which the Chinese have in the intervention of these mysterious beings to deliver men from calamities which would otherwise prove fatal to them. When we first meet with Kwang-Jui, he is living with his widowed mother in a retired part of the country. His father had been dead for some time, and Kwang-Jui was now the only one upon whom the fortunes of the home could be built. He was a very studious lad, and was possessed of remarkable abilities, the result being that he successfully passed the various Imperial Examinations, even the final one in the capital, where the Sovereign himself presided as examiner. After this last examination, as the men were waiting outside the Hall for the names of those who had satisfied the Emperor to be read out a considerable crowd had collected. Most of these people had come from mere curiosity to see the Imperial Edict, and to discover who the scholar was that stood first on the list. The excitement was intense, and speculation ran rife as to which of the candidates, who had come from almost every province in the Empire, was going to obtain the place of honour which was the dream and the ambition of every scholar in the land. At last every breath was hushed, and every voice stilled in silence, as one of the high officials of the Palace, attended by an imposing retinue, came out of the great central doors, which had been flung wide open at his approach. In a clear voice he began to read the list. It was headed by the name of Kwang-Jui. At this precise moment occurred an incident which was destined to change the whole current of Kwang-Jui's career. As he was standing overcome with emotion in consequence of the supreme honour which had been conferred upon him by the Emperor's Edict, a small round ball, beautifully embroidered, was thrown from an upper window of a house across the way, and struck him on the shoulder. It may here be explained that it was a custom in the early days of the history of China to allow any young maiden who was reluctant to have her husband chosen for her by her parents, to make use of what was called "The throwing of the embroidered ball" in order to discover the man whom the gods intended her to marry. This ball was made of some soft material, wrapped round with a piece of red silk which was covered with variegated figures, worked by the damsel's own hands and emblematic of the love by which the hearts of husband and wife are bound indissolubly to each other. It was firmly believed by every maiden of this romantic type that the man who was struck by the ball from her fair hands was the one whom Heaven had selected as her husband; and no parent would ever dream of refusing to accept a choice made in this way. Whilst Kwang-Jui was gazing in amused wonder at the symbol which he understood so well, a messenger from the house from which it had been thrown requested him in respectful tones to accompany him to his master, who desired to discuss with him a most important subject. As Kwang-Jui entered the house, he discovered to his astonishment that it belonged to the Prime Minister, who received him with the utmost cordiality, and after a long conversation declared that he was prepared to submit to the will of the gods, and to accept him as his son-in-law. Kwang-Jui was of course in raptures at the brilliant prospects which were suddenly opening up before him. The day, indeed, was a red-letter one--an omen, he hoped, that fate was preparing to pour down upon him good fortune in the future. In one brief day he had been hailed as the most distinguished scholar in the Empire, and he had also been acknowledged as the son-in-law of the Empire's greatest official, who had the power of placing him in high positions where he could secure not only honours but also wealth sufficient to drive poverty away for ever from his home. As there was no reason for delay, the hand of the beautiful daughter who had thrown the embroidered ball, and who was delighted that Heaven had chosen for her such a brilliant husband, was bestowed upon him by her parents. Times of great rejoicing succeeded, and when Kwang-Jui thought of the quiet and uninteresting days when he was still unknown to fame, and contrasted them with his present life, it seemed to him as though he were living in fairy-land. His wildest dreams in the past had never conjured up anything so grand as the life he was now leading. In one bound he had leaped from comparative poverty to fame and riches. After a time, through the influence of his father-in-law, and with the hearty consent of the Emperor, who remembered what a brilliant student he had been, Kwang-Jui was appointed to be Prefect of an important district in the centre of China. Taking his bride with him, he first of all proceeded to his old home, where his mother was waiting with great anxiety to welcome her now famous son. The old lady felt rather nervous at meeting her new daughter-in-law, seeing that the latter came from a family which was far higher in rank and far more distinguished than any in her own clan. As it was very necessary that Kwang-Jui should take up his office as Prefect without any undue delay, he and his mother and his bride set out in the course of a few days on the long journey to the distant Prefecture, where their lives were destined to be marred by sorrow and disaster. They had travelled the greater part of the way, and had reached a country market-town that lay on their route, when Kwang-Jui's mother, worn out with the toilsome journey, fell suddenly ill. The doctor who was called in shook his head and pronounced that she was suffering from a very serious complaint, which, whilst not necessarily fatal, would necessitate a complete rest for at least two or three months. Any further travelling must therefore be abandoned for the present, as it might be attended with the most serious consequences to the old lady. Both husband and wife were greatly distressed at the unlucky accident which placed them in such an awkward position at this wayside inn. They were truly grieved at the serious sickness of their mother, but they were still more puzzled as to what course they should pursue in these most trying circumstances. The Imperial Rescript appointing Kwang-Jui to his office as Prefect commanded him to take up his post on a certain definite date. To delay until his mother would again be able to endure the fatigues of travel was out of the question, as disobedience to the Emperor's orders would be attended by his grave displeasure. Eventually his mother suggested that he and his wife should go on ahead, and that after taking up the duties of his office he should then delegate them for a time to his subordinates and return to take her home. This advice Kwang-Jui decided to carry out; though with great reluctance, as he was most unwilling to abandon his mother to the care of strangers. He accordingly made all the arrangements he possibly could for her comfort whilst they were parted from each other; he had servants engaged to attend upon her, and he left sufficient money with her to meet all her expenses during his absence. With a mind full of consideration for his mother, and wishing to show how anxious he was to give her pleasure, he went out into the market of the town to see if he could buy a certain kind of fish of which she was passionately fond. He had hardly got outside the courtyard of the inn, when he met a fisherman with a very fine specimen of the very fish that he wished to purchase. As he was discussing the price with the man, a certain something about the fish arrested his attention. There was a peculiar look in its eyes that seemed full of pathos and entreaty. Its gaze was concentrated upon him, so human-like and with such intensity, that he instinctively felt it was pleading with him to do something to deliver it from a great disaster. This made him look at it more carefully, and to his astonishment the liquid eyes of the fish were still fixed upon him with a passionate regard that made him quiver with excitement. "Fisherman," he said, "I want to buy this fish, and here is the price that you ask for it. I have but one stipulation to make, and that is that you take it to the river from which you caught it, and set it free to swim away wherever it pleases. Remember that if you fail to carry out this part of the bargain, great sorrow will come upon you and your home." Little did either of them dream that the fish was the presiding God of the River, who for purposes of his own had transformed himself into this form, and who, while swimming up and down the stream had been caught in the net of the fisherman. After travelling for some hours Kwang-Jui and his wife came to the bank of a considerable river, where they hired a large boat to convey them to their destination. The boatman they engaged was a man of very low character. He had originally been a scholar and of good family, but, utterly depraved and immoral, he had gradually sunk lower and lower in society, until at last he had been compelled to fly from his home to a distant province, and there to engage in his present occupation in order to earn his living. The large amount of property which Kwang-Jui had with him seemed to arouse the worst passions in this man, and while the boat was being carried along by a fair wind and a flowing tide, he planned in his mind how he was to become the possessor of it. By the time that they reached the place where they were to anchor for the night, he had already decided what measures he should adopt. A little after midnight, accordingly, he crept stealthily towards the place where Kwang-Jui was sleeping, stabbed him to the heart and threw his body into the fast-flowing river. He next threatened the wife that if she dared to utter a sound, he would murder her also and send her to join her husband in the Land of Shadows. Paralyzed with terror, she remained speechless, only a stifled sob and groan now and again breaking from her agonized heart. Her first serious idea was to commit suicide, and she was preparing to fling herself into the water that gurgled along the sides of the boat, when she was restrained by the thought that if she destroyed herself, she would never be able to avenge her husband's death or bring punishment upon the villain who had just murdered him. It was not mere robbery, however, that was in the mind of the man who had committed this great crime. He had bigger ideas than that. He had noticed that in personal appearance he very much resembled his victim, so he determined to carry out the daring project of passing himself off as Kwang-Jui, the mandarin whom the Emperor had despatched to take up the appointment of Prefect. Having threatened the widow that instant death would be her portion if she breathed a word to anyone about the true state of the case, and having arrayed himself in the official robes of the man whom he had stabbed to death, the boatman appeared at the yamen, where he presented the Imperial credentials and was duly installed in his office. It never entered his mind that it was not cowardice which kept the widow silent, but the stern resolve of a brave and high-minded woman that she would do her part to see that vengeance should in time fall upon the man who had robbed her of a husband whom she looked upon as the direct gift of Heaven. Now, immediately after the body of Kwang-Jui had been cast into the water, the customary patrol sent by the God of the River to see that order was kept within his dominions, came upon it, and conveyed it with all speed into the presence of the god himself. The latter looked at it intently for a moment, and then exclaimed in great excitement, "Why, this is the very person who only yesterday saved my life, when I was in danger of being delivered over to a cruel death! I shall now be able to show my gratitude by using all the power I possess to serve his interests. Bring him to the Crystal Grotto," he continued, "where only those who have distinguished themselves in the service of the State have ever been allowed to lie. This man has a claim upon me such as no one before him ever possessed. He is the saviour of my life, and I will tenderly care for him until the web of fate has been spun, and, the vengeance of Heaven having been wreaked upon his murderer, he shall once more rejoin the wife from whom he has been so ruthlessly torn." With the passing of the months, the widow of Kwang-Jui gave birth to a son, the very image of his father. It was night-time when he was born, and not long after his birth, a mysterious voice, which could not be traced, was heard distinctly saying, "Let the child be removed without delay from the yamen, before the return of the Prefect, as otherwise its life will not be safe." Accordingly, on the morrow, the babe, about whose destiny even Heaven itself seemed concerned, was carefully wrapped round with many coverings to protect it against the weather. Inside the inmost dress, there was enclosed a small document, telling the child's tragic story and describing the danger from a powerful foe which threatened its life. In order to be able to identify her son, it might be after the lapse of many years, the mother cut off the last joint of the little finger of his left hand; and then, with tears and sighs, and with her heart full of unspoken agony, she took a last, lingering look upon the face of the little one. A confidential slave woman carried him out of her room, and by devious ways and secret paths finally laid him on the river's bank. Casting a final glance at the precious bundle to see that no danger threatened it, she hurried back in the direction of the city, with the faint cries of the abandoned infant still sounding in her ears. And now the child was in the hands of Heaven. That this was so was evident from the fact that in a few minutes the abbot of the monastery, which could be seen crowning the top of a neighbouring hill, passed along the narrow pathway by the side of the river. Hearing a baby's cry, he hastened towards the place from which the sounds came, and picking up the little bundle, and realizing that the infant had been deserted, he carried it up to the monastery and made every arrangement for its care and comfort. Fortunately he was a man of a deeply benevolent nature, and no more suitable person could have been found to take charge of the child. We must now allow eighteen years to pass by. The child that had been left on the margin of the river had grown up to be a fine, handsome lad. The abbot had been his friend ever since the day when his heart had been touched by his cries, and his love for the little foundling had grown with the years. The boy had become a kind of son to him, and in order not to be parted from him he had taught him the temple duties, so that he was now a qualified priest in the service of the gods. One morning the young man, whose name was Sam-Choang, came to the abbot with a restless, dissatisfied look on his face, and begged to be told who his father was, and who his mother. The old priest, who had long been aware of the tragic story of Kwang-Jui's murder, felt that the time had come when the lad ought to know what he had hitherto concealed from him. Taking out the document which he had found upon him as a baby, he read it to him, and then the great secret was out. After this a long and serious discussion took place between the two as to the wisest methods to be adopted for bringing the Prefect to justice and delivering the lad's mother from the humiliating position which she had so heroically borne for all these eighteen years. The next day a young priest, with shaven head and dressed in the usual slate-coloured gown, appeared at the yamen of the Prefect to solicit subscriptions for the neighbouring monastery. As the Prefect was absent on some public business, he was ushered into the reception-room, where he was received by his mother, who had always been a generous supporter of the Goddess of Mercy. At the first sight of this striking-looking young bonze, she found her heart agitated in a strange and powerful way, such as she had not experienced for many a long year; and when she noticed that the little finger on his left hand was without the last joint, she trembled with the utmost excitement. After a few words about the object for which he had come, the young priest slipped into her hand the very paper which she had written eighteen years ago; and as she looked at her own handwriting and then gazed into his face and saw the striking likeness to the man at whom she had thrown the embroidered ball, the mother-instinct within her flashed suddenly out, and she recognized that this handsome lad was her own son. The joy of the mother as she looked upon the face of Sam-Choang was reflected in the sparkling eyes and glowing look of pleasure that lit up his whole countenance. Retiring for a short time his mother returned with a letter which she handed to him. In a low voice she told him that it was to her father, who still lived in the capital, and to whom he was to take it without any delay. In order to prevent suspicion on the part of the Prefect, he was to travel as a priest, who was endeavouring to obtain subscriptions for his monastery. He was to be sure, also, to visit the place where his grandmother had been left, and to try and find out what had become of her. In order to defray his expenses she gave him a few bars of gold, which he could exchange for the current money at the banks on the way. When Sam-Choang arrived at the inn where his father had parted with his grandmother, he could find no trace of her. A new landlord was in possession, who had never even heard her name; but on enquiring amongst the shopkeepers in the neighbourhood, he found to his horror that she was now a member of the beggars' camp, and that her name was enrolled amongst that degraded fraternity. On reaching the wretched hovel where she was living, he discovered that when her money was exhausted and no remittance came to her from her son, she had been driven out on to the street by the innkeeper, and from that time had tramped the country, living on the scraps and bits which were bestowed upon her by the benevolent. Great was her joy when her grandson led her away to the best inn in the place, and on his departure gave her an ample supply of money for all her needs until they should meet again. When Sam-Choang reached the capital and handed his mother's letter to his grandfather, the most profound excitement ensued. As soon as the Emperor was officially informed of the case, he determined that the severest punishment should be inflicted upon the man who had not only committed a cruel murder, but through it had dared to usurp a position which could only be held at the Sovereign's command. An Imperial Edict was accordingly issued ordering the Prime Minister to take a considerable body of troops and proceed with all possible speed to the district where such an unheard-of crime had been committed, and there to hand over the offender to immediate execution. By forced marches, so as to outstrip any private intelligence that might have been sent from the capital, the avenging force reached the city a little before the break of day. Here they waited in silence outside the city gates, anxiously listening for the boom of the early gun which announces the dawn, and at the same time causes the gates to be flung wide open for the traffic of the day to commence. As soon as the warders had admitted the waiting crowd outside, the soldiers, advancing at a run, quickly reached the yamen, and arrested the Prefect. Without form of trial but simply with a curt announcement from the Prime Minister that he was acting upon instructions from the Emperor, the mandarin was dragged unceremoniously through the gaping crowds that rushed from their doors to see the amazing spectacle. The feet of Fate had marched slowly but with unerring certainty, and had at last reached the wretched criminal. But where was he being taken? This road did not lead to the execution ground, where malefactors were doomed to end their careers in shame. Street after street was passed, and still the stern-faced soldiers forced the mandarin down the main thoroughfares, whose sides had often been lined with respectful crowds as he swept by with his haughty retinue. At last they reached the city gate, through which they marched, and then on towards the river, which could be seen gleaming like a silver thread in the distance. Arrived at its bank, the troops formed into a square with the prisoner in the centre. Addressing him, the Prime Minister said, "I have selected this spot rather than the public execution ground where criminals are put to death. Your crime has been no common one; and so to-day, in the face of high Heaven whose righteousness you have dared to violate, and within sound of the flowing waters of the stream that witnessed the murder, you shall die." Half a dozen soldiers then threw him violently to the ground, and in a few minutes the executioner had torn his bleeding heart from his bosom. Then, standing with it still in his hand, he waited by the side of the Prime Minister, who read out to the great multitude the indictment which had been drawn up against the Prefect. In this he described his crimes, and at the same time appealed to Heaven and to the God of the River to take measures to satisfy and appease the spirit of him who had been cut off in the prime of life by the man who had just been executed. As soon as the reading of the document had been concluded, it was set fire to and allowed to burn until only the blackened ashes remained. These, together with the criminal's heart, were then cast into the river. They were thus formally handed over to the god, who would see that in the Land of Shadows there should come a further retribution on the murderer for the crimes he had committed on earth. The water patrol happened to pass by soon after the ashes and heart had been flung into the river, and picking them up most carefully, they carried them to the official residence of the god. The indictment was at once formally entered amongst the archives of the office, to be used as evidence when the case was in due time brought before the notice of Yam-lo: and after looking at the heart with the intensest scrutiny for some little time, the god exclaimed, "And so the murderer has at last received some part of the punishment he so richly deserved. It is now time for me to awake the sleeping husband, so that he may be restored to the wife from whom he has been separated for eighteen years." Passing into the Crystal Grotto, where the unconscious form of Kwang-Jui had reposed for so many years, the god touched the body gently with his hand, and said:--"Friend, arise! Your wife awaits you, and loving ones who have long mourned you. Many years of happiness are still before you, and the honours that your Sovereign will bestow upon you shall place you amongst the famous men of the State. Arise, and take your place once more amongst the living!" The Prime Minister was sitting with his daughter, listening to the sad story of the years of suffering through which she had passed, when the door was silently opened, and the figure of her long-lost husband glided in. Both started up in fear and amazement, for they believed that what they saw was only a restless spirit which had wandered from the Land of Shadows and would speedily vanish again from their sight. In this, however, they were delightfully disappointed. Kwang-Jui and his wife were once more reunited, and for many a long year their hearts were so full of gladness and contentment, that the sorrows which they had endured gradually became effaced from their memories. They always thought with the deepest gratitude of the God of the River, who for eighteen years had kept the unconscious husband alive and had finally restored him to his heart-broken wife. III THE BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER OF LIU-KUNG In one of the central provinces of this long-lived Empire of China, there lived in very early times a man of the name of Chan. He was a person of a bright, active nature which made him enjoy life, and caused him to be popular amongst his companions and a favourite with every one who knew him. But he was also a scholar, well-versed in the literature of his country, and he spent every moment that he could spare in the study of the great writings of the famous men of former days. In order that he might be interrupted as little as possible in his pursuit of learning, he engaged a room in a famous monastery some miles away from his own home. The only inhabitants of this monastery were a dozen or so of Buddhist priests, who, except when they were engaged in the daily services of the temple, lived a quiet, humdrum, lazy kind of existence which harmonized well with the solitude and the majestic stillness of the mountain scenery by which they were surrounded. This monastery was indeed one of the most beautiful in China. It was situated on the slope of a hill, looking down upon a lovely valley, where the natural solitude was as complete as the most devoted hermit could desire. The only means of getting to it were the narrow hill footpaths along which the worshippers from the great city and the scattered villages wound in and out on festal days, when they came trooping to the temple to make their offerings to the famous God enshrined within. Chan was a diligent student, and rarely indulged in recreation of any kind. Occasionally, when his mind became oppressed with excessive study he would go for a quiet walk along the hillside; but these occasions were few and far between, for he made up for every hour he spent away from his beloved books by still closer application to them in the hours that followed. One day he was strolling in an aimless kind of way on the hillside, when suddenly a party of hunters from the neighbouring city of Eternal Spring came dashing into view. They were a merry group and full of excitement, for they had just sighted a fox which Chan had seen a moment before flying away at its highest speed in mortal dread of its pursuers. Prominent amongst the hunters was a young girl, who was mounted on a fiery little steed, so full of spirit and so eager to follow in the mad chase after the prey, that its rider seemed to have some difficulty in restraining it. The girl herself was a perfect picture. Her face was the loveliest that Chan had ever looked upon, and her figure, which her trim hunting dress showed off to the utmost advantage, was graceful in the extreme. As she swept by him with her face flushed with excitement and her features all aglow with health, Chan felt at once that he had lost his heart and that he was deeply and profoundly in love with her. On making enquiries, he found that she was named Willow, that she was the daughter of the chief mandarin of the town in which she lived, and that she was intensely fond of the chase and delighted in galloping over the hills and valleys in the pursuit of the wild animals to be found there. So powerfully had Chan's mind been affected by what he had seen of Willow, that he had already begun to entertain serious thoughts of making her his wife; but while his mind was full of this delightful prospect he was plunged into the deepest grief by hearing that she had suddenly died. For some days he was so stricken with sorrow that he lost all interest in life, and could do nothing but dwell on the memory of her whom he had come to love with all the devotion of his heart. A few weeks after the news of her death, the quiet of the retreat was one day broken by a huge procession which wound its way along the mountain path leading to the monastery doors. On looking out, Chan saw that many of the men in this procession were dressed in sackcloth, and that in front of it was a band of musicians producing weird, shrill notes on their various instruments. By these signs Chan knew that what he saw was a funeral, and he expected to see the long line of mourners pass on to some spot on the hillside where the dead would be buried. Instead of that, however, they entered through the great gates of the monastery, and the coffin, the red pall of which told him that it contained the body of a woman, was carried into an inner room of the building and laid on trestles that had been made ready for it. After the mourners had dispersed, Chan asked one of the priests the name of the woman who had died, and how it was that the coffin was laid within the precincts of the temple instead of in the house of the deceased, where it could be looked after by her relatives and where the customary sacrifices to the spirit of the dead could be offered more conveniently than in the monastery. The bonze replied that this was a peculiar case, calling for special treatment. "The father of the poor young girl who died so suddenly," he said, "was the mandarin of the neighbouring city of Eternal Spring. Just after the death of his daughter an order came from the Emperor transferring him to another district, a thousand miles from here. "The command was very urgent that he should proceed without delay to take up his post in the far-off province, and that he was to allow nothing to hinder him from doing so. He could not carry his daughter's body with him on so long a journey, and no time was permitted him to take the coffin to his home, where she might be buried amongst her own kindred. It was equally impossible to deposit the coffin in the yamen he was about to leave, for the new mandarin who was soon to arrive would certainly object to have the body of a stranger in such close proximity to his family. It might bring him bad luck, and his career as an official might end in disaster. "Permission was therefore asked from our abbot to allow the coffin to be placed in one of our vacant rooms, until the father some day in the future can come and bear the body of his beloved daughter to the home of his ancestors, there to be laid at rest amongst his own people. "This request was readily granted, for whilst he was in office the mandarin showed us many favours, and his daughter was a beautiful girl who was beloved by everyone; and so we were only too glad to do anything in our power to help in this unhappy matter." Chan was profoundly moved when he realized that the woman whom he had loved as his own life lay dead within a chamber only a few steps away from his own. His passion, instead of being crushed out of his heart by the thought that she was utterly beyond his reach, and by no possibility could ever be more to him than a memory, seemed to grow in intensity as he became conscious that it was an absolutely hopeless one. On that very same evening, about midnight, when silence rested on the monastery, and the priests were all wrapped in slumber, Chan, with a lighted taper in his hand, stole with noiseless footsteps along the dark passages into the chamber of death where his beloved lay. Kneeling beside the coffin with a heart full of emotion, in trembling accents he called upon Willow to listen to the story of his passion. He spoke to her just as though she were standing face to face with him, and he told her how he had fallen in love with her on the day on which he had caught a glimpse of her as she galloped in pursuit of the fox that had fled through the valley from the hunters. He had planned, he told her, to make her his wife, and he described, in tones through which the tears could be heard to run, how heart-broken he was when he heard of her death. "I want to see you," he continued, "for I feel that I cannot live without you. You are near to me, and yet oh! how far away. Can you not come from the Land of Shadows, where you are now, and comfort me by one vision of your fair face, and one sound of the voice that would fill my soul with the sweetest music?" For many months the comfort of Chan's life was this nightly visit to the chamber where his dead love lay. Not a single night passed without his going to tell her of the unalterable and undying affection that filled his heart; and whilst the temple lay shrouded in darkness, and the only sounds that broke the stillness were those inexplicable ones in which nature seems to indulge when man is removed by sleep from the scene, Chan was uttering those love notes which had lain deeply hidden within his soul, but which now in the utter desolation of his heart burst forth to ease his pain by their mere expression. One night as he was sitting poring over his books, he happened to turn round, and was startled to see the figure of a young girl standing just inside the door of his room. It seemed perfectly human, and yet it was so ethereal that it had the appearance of a spirit of the other world. As he looked at the girl with a wondering gaze, a smile lit up her beautiful features, and he then discovered to his great joy that she was none other than Willow, his lost love whom he had despaired of ever seeing again. With her face wreathed in smiles, she sat down beside him and said in a timid, modest way:--"I am here to-night in response to the great love which has never faltered since the day I died. That is the magnet which has had the power of drawing me from the Land of Shadows. I felt it there, and many speak about it in that sunless country. Even Yam-lo, the lord of the spirits of that dreary world, has been moved by your unchanging devotion; so much so that he has given me permission to come and see you, in order that I might tell you how deeply my heart is moved by the profound affection that you have exhibited for me all these months during which you never had any expectation of its being returned." For many months this sweet intercourse between Chan and his beloved Willow was carried on, and no one in the whole monastery knew anything of it. The interviews always took place about midnight, and Willow, who seemed to pass with freedom through closed doors or the stoutest walls, invariably vanished during the small hours of the morning. One evening whilst they were conversing on topics agreeable to them both, Willow unburdened her heart to Chan, and told him how unhappy she was in the world of spirits. "You know," she said, "that before I died I was not married, and so I am only a wandering spirit with no place where I can rest, and no friends to whom I can betake myself. I travel here and there and everywhere, feeling that no one cares for me, and that there are no ties to bind me to any particular place or thing. For a young girl like me, this is a very sad and sorrowful state of things. "There is another thing that adds to my sorrow in the Land of Shadows," she went on to say, with a mournful look on her lovely countenance. "I was very fond of hunting when I was in my father's home, and many a wild animal was slain in the hunting expeditions in which I took an active part. This has all told against me in the world in which I am now living, and for the share I took in destroying life I have to suffer by many pains and penalties which are hard for me to endure. "My sin has been great," she said, "and so I wish to make special offerings in this temple to the Goddess of Mercy and implore her to send down to the other world a good report of me to Yam-lo, and intercede with him to forgive the sins of which I have been guilty. If you will do this for me, I promise that after I have been born again into the world I will never forget you, and if you like to wait for me I shall willingly become your wife and serve you with the deepest devotion of which my heart is capable, as long as Heaven will permit you and me to live together as husband and wife." From this time, much to the astonishment of the priests in the monastery, Chan began to show unwonted enthusiasm for the service of the Goddess, and would sometimes spend hours before her image and repeat long prayers to her. This was all the more remarkable, as the scholar had rarely if ever shown any desire to have anything to do with the numerous gods which were enshrined in various parts of the temple. After some months of this daily appeal to the Goddess of Mercy, Willow informed him that his prayers had been so far successful that the misery of her lot in the Land of Shadows had been greatly mitigated. The pleadings of the Goddess with Yam-lo had so influenced his heart towards Willow that she believed her great sin in the destruction of animal life had been forgiven, and there were signs that the dread ruler of the Underworld was looking upon her with kindness. Chan was delighted with this news, and his prayers and offerings became still more frequent and more fervent. He little dreamed that his devotion to the Goddess would be the means of his speedy separation from Willow, but so it was. One evening she came as usual to see him, but instead of entering with smiling face and laughter in her eyes, she was weeping bitterly as though she were in the direst sorrow. Chan was in the greatest distress when he saw this and asked her to explain the reason for her grief. "The reason for my tears," she said, "is because after this evening I shall not see you again. Your petitions to the Goddess have had such a powerful effect upon her mind that she has used all her influence with Yam-lo to induce him to set me free from the misery of the Land of Shadows, and so I am to leave that sunless country and to be born again into life in this upper world." As she uttered these words her tears began to flow once more and her whole frame was convulsed with sobbing. "I am glad," she said, "that I am to be born once more and live amongst men, but I cannot bear the thought of having to be separated for so long from you. Let us not grieve too much, however. It is our fate, and we may not rebel against it. Yam-lo has been kinder to me than he has ever been to any one in the past, for he has revealed to me the family into which I am to be born and the place where they live, so if you come to me in eighteen years you will find me waiting for you. Your love has been so great that it has entered into my very soul, and there is nothing that can ever efface it from my heart. A thousand re-births may take place, but never shall I love any one as I love you." Chan professed that he was greatly comforted by this confession of her love, but all the same he felt in despair when he thought of the future. "When next I shall see you," he said with a sigh, "I shall be getting so old that you, a young girl in the first flush of womanhood, will not care to look at me. My hair will have turned grey and my face will be marked with wrinkles, and in the re-birth you will have forgotten all that took place in the Land of Shadows, and the memory of me will have vanished from your heart for ever." Willow looked with loving but sorrowful eyes upon her lover as he was expressing his concern about the future, but quickly assured him that nothing in the world would ever cause her to cease to remember him with the tenderest affection. "In order to comfort you," she said, "let me tell you of two things that the dread Yam-lo, out of consideration for your love for me, has granted me--two things which he has never bestowed upon any other mortal who has come within the region of his rule. The first is, he has allowed me to inspect the book of Life and Death, in which is recorded the history of every human being, with the times of their re-births and the places in which they are to be born. I want you this very minute to write down the secret which has been revealed to me as to my new name and family and the place where I shall reside, so that you will have no difficulty in finding me, when eighteen years hence you shall come to claim me as your wife. "The next is a gift so precious that I have no words in which to express my gratitude for its having been bestowed upon me. It is this. I am given the privilege of not forgetting what has taken place during my stay in the Land of Shadows, and so when I am re-born into another part of China, with a new father and mother, I shall hold within my memory my recollection of you. The years will pass quickly, for I shall be looking for you, and this day eighteen years hence will be the happiest in my life, for it will bring you to me never more to be separated from me. "But I must hasten on," she hurriedly exclaimed, "for the footsteps of fate are moving steadily towards me. In a few minutes the gates of Hades will have closed against me, and Willow will have vanished, and I shall be a babe once more with my new life before me. See, but a minute more is left me, and I seem to have so much to say. Farewell! Never forget me! I shall ever remember you, but my time is come!" As she uttered these words, a smile of ineffable sweetness flashed across, her beautiful face, and she was gone. Chan was inexpressibly sad at the loss he had sustained by the re-birth of Willow, and in order to drive away his sorrow he threw his heart and soul into his studies. His books became his constant companions, and he tried to find in them a solace for the loneliness which had come upon him since the visits of Willow had ceased. He also became a diligent worshipper of the idols, and especially of the Goddess of Mercy, who had played such an important part in the history of his beloved Willow. The years went slowly by, and Chan began to feel that he was growing old. His hair became dashed with silver threads, and wrinkles appeared in his forehead and under his eyes. The strain of waiting for the one woman who had taken complete possession of his heart had been too much for him. As the time drew near, too, when he should go to meet her, a great and nervous dread began to fill him with anxiety. Would she recognize him? And would she, a young girl of eighteen, be content to accept as a husband a man so advanced in years as he now was? These questions were constantly flashing through his brain. At last only a few months remained before he was to set out on his journey to the distant province where Yam-lo had decided that Willow was to begin her new life on earth. He was sitting one evening in his study, brooding over the great problem that would be solved before long, when a man dressed in black silently entered the room. Looking on Chan with a kindly smile which seemed to find its way instantly to his heart, he informed him that he was a fairy from the Western Heaven and that he had been specially deputed by the rulers there to render him all the assistance in his power at this particular crisis, when they knew his heart was so full of anxiety. "We have all heard in that far-off fairyland," he continued, "of the devotion you have shown to Willow, and how during all the years which have intervened since you saw her last you have never faltered in your love for her. Such affection is rare among mortals, and the dwellers in fairyland would like to help in bringing together two such loving hearts; for let me assure you that however strong your feeling for the one whom you are so anxious to see again, she on her part is just as deeply in love with you, and is now counting the days until she will be able to see you and until you need never again be parted from each other. In order to assist in this happy consummation, I want you to take a short trip with me. It will only take a few hours, and you will then find that something has happened to remove all your fears as to how you will be received by Willow." The fairy man then led Chan to the door, and gave a wave of his hand in the direction of the sky. Instantly the sound of the fluttering and swish of wings was heard, and in a moment a splendid eagle landed gracefully at their feet. Taking their seats upon its back, they found themselves flashing at lightning speed away through the darkness of the night. Higher and higher they rose, till they had pierced the heavy masses of clouds which hung hovering in the sky. Swift as an arrow the eagle still cleft its way upward until the clouds had vanished to an infinite distance below them; and still onward they were borne in the mighty stillness of an expanse where no human being had ever travelled before. Chan felt his heart throb with a nervousness which he could not control. What if the bird should tire, he thought, and he should be dropped into the fathomless abyss below? Life's journey would then come to a tragic end. Where, too, was he being carried and how should he be ever able to return to his far-off home on the earth? He was becoming more and more agitated, when the fairy took hold of his hand and in a voice which at once stilled his fears, assured him that there was not the least danger in this journey through the air. "We are as safe here," he assured him, "as though we were standing upon a mountain whose roots lie miles below the surface of the earth. And see," he continued, pointing to something in the distance, "we shall arrive at our destination in the course of a few seconds." True enough, he had hardly finished speaking when a land, fairer than Chan had ever seen on earth or pictured in imagination, loomed up suddenly in front of them; and before he could gather together his astonished thoughts, the eagle had landed them on its shores, and with outspread wings was soaring into the mystery of the unknown beyond. The fairy now led Chan along a road surrounded by the most bewildering beauty. Rare flowers, graceful trees, and birds which made the groves resound with the sweetest music, were objects that kept his mind in one continual state of delight. Before long they arrived in front of a magnificent palace, so grand and vast that Chan felt afraid to enter within its portals, or even tread the avenue leading up to it. Once more his companion relieved Chan's anxiety by assuring him that he was an expected guest, and that the Queen of this fairy country had sent him to earth specially to invite him to come and visit her, in order that she might bestow upon him a blessing which would enrich the whole of his life and would enable him to spend many happy years with her whom he had loved with such devotion. Chan was ushered into a large reception hall, where he was met by a very stately lady, with a face full of benevolence, whom he at once recognized, from the images he had often worshipped, as the Goddess of Mercy. He was startled when he discovered in what august presence he was standing, and began to tremble with excitement as he realized that here in actual life was the famous personage whose image was worshipped by the millions of China, and whose influence spread even into the Land of Shadows. Seeing Chan's humility and evident terror of her, the Goddess spoke to him in a gentle, loving voice, and told him to have no fear, for she had summoned him to her presence not to rebuke but to comfort him. "I know your story," she said, "and I think it is a beautiful one. Before I was raised to the high position I now occupy I was at one time a woman like Willow, and I can sympathize with her in her devotion to you because of the wonderful love you have shown her from the first moment that you saw her. "I know, too, your anxiety about your age, and your fear lest when Willow sees you with the marks of advancing years upon you, her love may die out and you will be left with your heart broken and in despair. I have foreseen this difficulty, and I am going to have it removed. "The fairy who brought you here," she continued, "will now take you round the palace grounds, and if you will carry out my wishes, the fears which have been troubling you for years shall entirely vanish. You will then meet Willow with a heart as light as that of any man in the flush of youth, who awaits the coming of the bridal chair which bears his future wife to his home." Chan at once, without any hesitation, followed his guide through the spacious grounds which surrounded the palace, and was finally led to the edge of a beautiful little lake embowered amongst trees and ferns, and rare and fragrant flowers. It was the most exquisite scene on which his vision had ever rested. With a kindly look at his companion, the fairy said, "This beautiful piece of water goes by the name of the 'Fountain of Eternal Youth,' and it is the Queen's express desire that you should bathe in it." Quickly undressing, Chan plunged into the pool and for a moment sank beneath the surface of the waters. Emerging quickly from them, a delightful feeling of new-born strength seemed to be creeping in at every pore of his body. The sense of advancing age passed away, and the years of youth appeared to come back to him again. He felt as though he were a young man once more; for the weary doubts, which for some years past had made his footsteps lag, had gone with his first plunge into those fragrant waters. By-and-by he came out of this "Fountain of Eternal Youth" with the visions and ambitions of his young manhood rushing through his brain. His powers, which seemed of late to have become dull and sluggish, had recovered the impetus which in earlier years had carried him so successfully through many a severe examination. His thoughts, too, about Willow had so completely changed that instead of dreading the day when he should stand before her, his one passionate desire now was to start upon his journey to keep his appointment with her. Chan and the fairy then proceeded to the edge of the vast and boundless expanse which bordered the palace of the Goddess, and found a magnificent dragon waiting to convey them back to earth. No sooner had they taken their seats on its back than it fled with the swiftness of the wind through the untrodden spaces of the air, until at length the mountains came looming out of the dim and shadowy distance, and with a rush Chan found himself safely landed at the door of the temple from which he had taken his departure for his amazing journey to the Western Heaven. Whilst these wonderful things were taking place, Willow--or rather Precious Pearl, as she had been named by her new parents, who of course had no knowledge of her previous history--had grown up to be a most beautiful and fascinating woman. During all these years she had never ceased to look forward with an anxious heart to the day when she would once more meet the man to whom she had betrothed herself eighteen years ago. Latterly she had begun to count the days that must still elapse before she could see him again. She never forgot the night in the temple when she bade him "Good-bye" just before she was reborn into this world. The day and the hour had been stamped upon her memory, and since then the years had seemed to travel with halting, leaden feet, as though they were loth to move on. But now only a few months remained, and no doubt ever entered her brain that Chan would fail her. Just about this time her mother had an offer of marriage for her from a very wealthy and distinguished family, and contrary to the usual custom of mothers in China she asked her daughter what she thought of the proposal. Pearl was distressed beyond measure, and prayed and entreated her mother on no account to broach the subject to her again, as she could never entertain any proposition of the kind. Amazed at such a statement, her mother begged her to explain her reason for such strange views. "Girls at your age," she said, "are usually betrothed and are thinking of having homes of their own. This is the universal custom throughout the Empire, and therefore there must be some serious reason why you will not allow me to make arrangements for your being allied to some respectable family." Pearl had been feeling that the time was drawing near when she would have to divulge the secret of her love affair, and she considered that now was the best opportunity for doing so. To the astonishment therefore of her mother, who believed that she was romancing, she told her the whole story of the past; how Chan had fallen in love with her, and how after she had died and had come under the control of Yam-lo in the Land of Shadows, that dread lord had permitted her spirit to visit her lover in the temple where her body had been laid until a lucky resting-place could be found for it on the hillside. She also explained how it had been agreed between them that she was to wait for him until after the lapse of eighteen years, when she would be old enough to become his wife. "In a few months the time will be up," she concluded, "and so I beseech you not to speak of my being betrothed to any one else, for I feel that if I am compelled to marry any other than Chan I shall die." The mother was thunderstruck at this wonderful story which her daughter told her. She could only imagine that Pearl had in some way or another been bewitched, and was under a fatal delusion that she was in love with some hero of romance, to whom she believed she was betrothed. Still, her daughter had always been most loving and devoted to her, and had shown more brightness and ability than Chinese girls of her age usually possessed. Her mother did not like, therefore, to reprove her for what she considered her ridiculous ideas, so she determined to try another plan to cure her of her folly. "What age was this man Chan," she asked, "when you entered into this engagement with him?" "He was just thirty," Pearl replied. "He was of very good family and a scholar, and had distinguished himself for his proficiency in the ancient literature of China." "Oh! then he must be nearly fifty now. A fine mate he would make for you, a young girl of only eighteen! But who knows how he may have changed since last you saw him? His hair must be turning grey, and his teeth may have fallen out; and for anything you know he may have been dead and buried so long ago that by this time they have taken up his bones, and nothing is left of him but what the funeral urn may contain of his ashes." "Oh! I do pray that nothing of that kind has happened to him," cried Pearl, in a tone of voice which showed the anguish she was suffering. "Let us leave the question for a few months, and then when he comes for me, as I know he will, you will find by personal knowledge what a splendid man he is, and how entirely worthy he is of being your son-in-law." On the day which had been appointed under such romantic circumstances eighteen years before, Chan arrived in the town, and after taking a room in an inn and making certain enquiries, he made his way to the home where he believed that Willow resided. On his arrival, however, he was roughly told by the servant that no such person as Willow lived there, and that they did not like strangers coming about the house. Indeed he was given plainly to understand that the sooner he left, the better everyone would be pleased. This treatment was of course part of a scheme devised by Pearl's parents to frustrate any plans that Chan might have formed for seeing her. They were determined not to give their daughter to a man so old as he must be, and therefore they decided that an interview between the two must be prevented at all hazards. Chan was greatly distressed at the rebuff which he had received. Had Willow after all made a mistake eighteen years ago when she gave him the name of this town as the place where her new home was to be? He had carefully written it down at her dictation, and it had been burned into his brain all the years since. No, there could be no mistake on that point. If there were any, then it was one that had been made purposely by Yam-lo in order to deceive them both. That idea, however, was unthinkable, and so there must be something else to account for his not finding Willow as he had expected. He at once made enquiries at the inn at which he was staying, and found that there was a daughter at the very house to which he had gone, and that in almost every particular the description he was given of her corresponded with his beloved Willow. In the meantime, poor Pearl was in a state of the greatest anxiety. The eventful day on which she was to meet her lover had opened for her with keen expectation of meeting him after their long and romantic separation. She had never for one moment doubted that he would keep his engagement with her. An instinct which she could not explain made her feel certain that he was still alive, and that nothing in the world would prevent him from meeting her, as had been agreed upon between them at that eventful parting in the temple eighteen years before. As the day wore on, however, and there were no signs of Chan, Pearl's distress became exceedingly pitiful; and when night came and her mother declared that nothing had been seen of him, she was so stricken with despair that she lost all consciousness, and had to be carried to bed, where she lay in a kind of trance from which, for some time, it seemed impossible to arouse her. When at last she did regain consciousness, her mother tried to comfort her by saying that perhaps Chan was dead, or that he had forgotten her in the long course of years, and that therefore she must not grieve too much. "You are a young girl," she said, "and you have a long life before you. Chan is an old man by this time; no doubt he has long ago married, and the home ties which he has formed have caused him to forget you. But you need not be broken-hearted on that account. There are many other men who will be more suitable for you than he could possibly be. By-and-by we shall arrange a marriage for you, and then life will appear to you very different from what it does now." Instead of being comforted, however, Pearl was only the more distressed by her mother's words. Her love, which had begun in the Land of Shadows, and which had been growing in her heart for the last eighteen years, was not one to be easily put aside by such plausible arguments as those she had just listened to. The result was that she had a relapse, and for several days her life was in great danger. The father and mother, fearing now that their daughter would die, determined, as there seemed no other remedy, to bring Chan to their home, and see whether his presence would not deliver Pearl from the danger in which the doctor declared she undoubtedly was. The father accordingly went to the inn where he knew Chan was staying, and to his immense surprise he found him to be a young man of about twenty-five, highly polished in manner, and possessed of unusual intelligence. For some time he utterly refused to believe that this handsome young fellow was really the man with whom Pearl was so deeply in love, and it was not until Chan had told him the romantic story of his life that he could at all believe that he was not being imposed upon. Eventually, however, he was so taken with Chan that he became determined to do all in his power to bring about his marriage with his daughter. "Come with me at once," he said, "and see if your presence will not do more than the cleverest doctors in the town have been able to accomplish. Pearl has been so distressed at not seeing you that she is now seriously ill, and we have been afraid that she would die of a broken heart." When they arrived at the house Chan was taken into the sick-room, and the girl gazed into his face with a look of wonderment. "I do not seem to recognize you," she said in a feeble voice. "You are much younger than Chan, and although there is something about you that reminds me of him, I cannot realize that you are the same person with whom my spirit eighteen years ago held fellowship in the monastery where my body lay unburied." Chan proceeded to explain the mystery. "For years," he said, "my mind was troubled about the difference between our ages. I was afraid that when you saw me with grey hairs and with wrinkles on my face, your love would receive a shock, and you might regret that you had ever pledged yourself to me. Although you had vanished from my sight, my prayers still continued to be offered to the Goddess of Mercy. She had heard them for you, you remember, when you were in the Land of Shadows, and through her intercession Yam-lo had forgiven your sins, and had made life easier for you in that gloomy country. "I still continued to pray to her, hoping in some vague way that she would intervene to bring about the desire of my heart, and that when in due time I should meet you again, every obstacle to our mutual love would be for ever removed. "One day a fairy came into the very room where your spirit had often conversed with me. He carried me away with him to the Western Heaven and brought me into the very presence of the Goddess of Mercy. She gave directions for me to bathe in the 'Fountain of Eternal Youth,' and I became young again. That is why you see me now with a young face and a young nature, but my heart in its love for you has never changed, and never will as long as life lasts." As he was telling this entrancing story, a look of devoted love spread over the beautiful countenance of Pearl. She gradually became instinct with life, and before he had finished speaking, the lassitude and exhaustion which had seemed to threaten her very life entirely disappeared. A rosy look came over her face, and her coal-black eyes flashed with hidden fires. "Now I know," she cried, "that you are Chan. You are so changed that when I first caught sight of you my heart sank within me, for I had pictured an older man, and I could not at once realize that you were the same Chan who showed such unbounded love for me in the years gone by. "It was not that I should have loved you less even though you had really been older. My heart would never have changed. It was only my doubt as to your reality that made me hesitate, but now my happiness is indeed great; for since through the goodness of the Goddess you have recovered your youth, I need not fear that the difference between our years may in the near future bring to us an eternal separation." In a few days Pearl was once more herself again. Her parents, delighted with the romantic turn that things had taken and highly pleased with Chan himself, arranged for the betrothal of their daughter to him; and in the course of a few months, the loving couple were united in marriage. And so, after years of waiting, the happy consummation was accomplished, which Heaven and the Goddess of Mercy and even the dread Ruler of the Land of Shadows had each taken a share in bringing about; and for many and many a long year the story of Chan and his wife was spread abroad throughout the region in which they lived. IV THE FAIRY BONZE In a certain well-known and populous city in one of the north-western provinces of China, there once resided a man of the name of Meng. Everyone knew about him. His fame had spread not only throughout the town, but also far away into the country beyond; for of all the merchants who carried on business in this great commercial centre he was the wealthiest and the most enterprising. He had begun life as a poor lad; but through great strength of purpose and positive genius for business, he had steadily risen step by step, until by the time our story opens, he had become exceedingly wealthy and was the acknowledged leader in all the great undertakings for which the city was famous. Meng had always gained the admiration and affection of every one who became acquainted with him. He was of an artless, open-hearted disposition which won men to him, and his reputation for generosity made his name fragrant throughout the entire region in which he lived. Forty years ago he had come to the city in search of employment. His father was a farmer in one of the outlying country districts; but Meng, discontented with the dulness of the life and with the strain and trouble brought upon his home by bad seasons, started out for the great town to make his fortune. All that he possessed he carried on his person. His stock-in-trade consisted simply of a stout bamboo pole and a good strong rope, the usual signs of a porter; but his willingness to oblige, and the hearty, pleasant way in which he performed his arduous duties, gained him the goodwill of all who employed him. Before many months had passed he was in constant demand, and was slowly saving up money that was to enable him to rise from the position of a coolie and to enter some business which would give him a more honourable place in society. He had a shrewd and common-sense mind which enabled him to take advantage of any trade-opening that presented itself, and as he had a genial and happy disposition, everyone who had had any business relations with him was glad to do all in his power to give him a lift in the upward road along which he had made up his mind to travel. The result was that before many years had passed away he had established himself in a very lucrative line of business which brought a steady flow of wealth into his coffers. In time he opened branches in distant cities, and his fame reached the far-off provinces in the East, where the merchant-princes who had dealings with him counted him as one of the most trustworthy of their clients, to whom they were glad to give as much credit as he might desire. There was one delightful feature about Meng, and that was the intense sympathy he had for his fellow-creatures. He had a heart of gold that no prosperity could spoil; no one who ever applied to him for relief was sent away empty-handed. The struggling shopkeeper made his humble appeal when fate seemed determined to crush him, and the substantial loan that Meng made to him without hesitation kept him from closing his shutters and once more set him on his feet to commence the struggle again. The widow who had been left in absolute poverty had but to state her case, when with a countenance beaming with compassion and with eyes moist at her piteous story, Meng would make such arrangements for her and her children that the terror of starvation was lifted from her heart, and she left his presence with a smiling face and with heart-felt words of praise for the man who by his generosity had given her a new glimpse of life. The character of Meng's mind may well be discovered from the manner in which he distributed a considerable portion of his riches amongst those who had been born under an unlucky star, and upon whom an unhappy fate had pressed heavily in the distribution of this world's goods and favours. The generous men in China are not the rich. It is true that occasionally one does hear of a munificent donation having been made by some millionaire, but the public is never deceived by these unusual outbursts of generosity. There is a selfish motive at the back of nearly every one of them, for the hope of the donors is that by gaining the favour of the mandarins they may obtain some high official position which will enable them to recoup themselves most handsomely for any sums they may have expended in charity. Meng's deeds, however, were always purely unselfish, and no idea of reward ever entered his head. He was moved solely by a sincere desire to alleviate human suffering. The look of gladness that flashed over the faces of those whom he assisted, their gleaming eyes, and the words of gratitude that burst from their lips, were to him the sweetest payment that could possibly be made to him in return for the sums he had given away. That Meng's fame had travelled far was shown by an occurrence which was destined to have a considerable influence on the fortunes of his only son, Chin, in whom his whole soul was bound up. One day he received a letter from the head of a most aristocratic family in a distant city, begging that he would consent to an alliance with him. This man wrote that he had a daughter, who was declared by all who saw her to be possessed of no ordinary beauty, and he wished to have her betrothed to Meng's son. Meng's reputation for goodness and for love to his fellow-men had reached his ears, and he was anxious that their families should be united by the marriage of two young people. The rich merchant, whose heart always retained its child-like spirit, was delighted with this proposal, which had come to him spontaneously, and not through the intrigues of a middle-woman. He was also touched by the apparently generous spirit of the writer, so he at once responded to the appeal. After some little correspondence, the betrothal was drawn up in due form, and the young couple were bound to each other by legal ties which no court in the Empire would ever dream of unloosing. Just at this juncture, when the tide in Meng's affairs seemed at its highest, there appeared at his doors one day a venerable-looking bonze, who asked to be received as a guest for a few days, as he was on a pilgrimage to a famous shrine and was tired out with the long journey that he had already made. Meng, who was a very devout and religious man, gave the old priest a most hearty welcome. He placed one of the best rooms in the house at his disposal, and treated him with all the generous hospitality which he was accustomed to bestow upon men of his profession, who in travelling from one monastery to another had very often stayed with him for a night or two before proceeding further on their way. Now, this priest had such pleasing manners, and was so refined and cultivated, that he completely captured the hearts of all the household, so much so that Meng insisted upon his prolonging his stay. The result was that months went by and the bonze still remained with him as his guest. Everyone in the house seemed to be attracted by this stranger, so winning were his ways, and so full of quiet power were his whole bearing and character. He was affable and pleasant with all, but he seemed to take most pleasure in the company of Chin, over whom he soon came to exercise a very powerful influence. Their habit was to wander about on the hillside, when the priest would entertain his young friend with stories of the wonderful things he had seen and the striking adventures he had met with. His whole aim, however, seemed to be not so much to amuse Chin as to elevate his mind with lofty and noble sentiments, which were instilled into him on every possible occasion. It was also their custom to retire every morning to some outhouses at the extremity of the large garden attached to the dwelling-house, where undisturbed they could converse together upon the many questions upon which the bonze was ready to discourse. One thing, however, struck Chin as very singular, and this was that the bonze made him collect certain curiously-shaped tiles, and bury them in the earthen floors of these little-used buildings. Chin would have rebelled against what he considered a child-like proceeding, but he was restrained by the profound love and veneration he felt for his companion. At length the day came when the bonze announced that he must proceed upon his journey. He had already, he declared, stayed much longer than he had originally intended, and now the imperative call of duty made it necessary that he should not linger in the house where he had been so royally treated. Seeing that he was determined in his purpose, Meng wanted to press upon him a considerable sum of money to provide for any expenses to which he might be put in the future. This, however, the bonze absolutely refused to accept, declaring that his wants were few, and that he would have no difficulty in meeting them by the donations he would receive from the different temples he might pass on his way to his destination. Little did Meng dream that the guest from whom he was parting with so heavy a heart was a fairy in disguise. Yet such was the case. The rulers of the far-off Western Heaven, who had been greatly moved by Meng's noble and generous life in succouring the distressed and the forlorn, had sent the bonze to make arrangements to meet a certain calamitous crisis which was soon to take place in the home of the wealthy merchant. A few months after the good bonze had left them, a series of disasters fell with crushing effect upon the house of Meng. Several firms which owed him very large sums of money suddenly failed, and he found himself in such financial difficulties that it was utterly impossible for him to pay his debts. In consequence, Meng was utterly ruined, and after paying out all that he possessed, even to the uttermost cash, found himself absolutely penniless. This so wrought upon his mind that he became seriously ill, and after a few days of intense agony, his spirit vanished into the Land of Shadows, and his wife and son were left desolate and bereaved. After a time Chin bethought himself of the wealthy and distinguished man who had been so anxious to recognize him as a son-in-law, and after consultation with his mother, who was completely broken-hearted, he set off for the distant city in which his proposed father-in-law lived. Chin hoped that the latter's heart would be moved by the disasters which had befallen his father, and that he would be willing to extend him a helping hand in his hour of dire sorrow, when even Heaven itself seemed to have abandoned him and to have heaped upon his head calamities such as do not often occur to the vilest of men. Weary and worn with the long journey, which he had been compelled to make on foot, he arrived one day about noon at the gates which led into the spacious courtyard of the palatial mansion in which his father-in-law lived. The doors, however, were shut and barred, as though some enemy was expected to storm them and carry off the property within. Chin called loudly to the porter to open them for him, but to his amazement he was told that orders had been received from the master of the house that he was not to be admitted on any terms whatsoever. "But are you aware who I am?" he asked. "Do you not know that the man who owns this building is my father-in-law, and that his daughter is my promised wife? It ill becomes you therefore to keep me standing here, when I should be received with all the honours that a son-in-law can claim." "But I have been specially warned against you," replied the surly gatekeeper. "You talk of being a son-in-law, but you are greatly mistaken if you imagine that any such kinship is going to be recognized in this house. News has reached my master of the utter failure of your father's business, and of his death, and he declares that he does not wish to be mixed up in any way with doubtful characters or with men who have become bankrupt." Chin, who was imbued with the fine and generous spirit of his father, was so horrified at these words that he fled from the gate, determined to suffer any indignity rather than accept a favour from a man of such an ignoble disposition as his father-in-law apparently possessed. He was crossing the road with his heart completely cast down, and in absolute despair as to how he was ever to get back to his home again, when a woman in one of the low cottages by the roadside, beckoned him to come in and sit down. "You seem to be in distress, sir," she said, "and to be worn out with fatigue, as though you had just finished a long journey. My children and I are just about to sit down to our midday meal, and we shall be so pleased if you will come and partake of it with us. I have just been watching you as you stood at the gate of that wealthy man's house, and I saw how roughly you were treated. Never mind," she continued, "Heaven knows how you have been wronged, and in time you will be avenged for all the injury you have suffered." Comforted and gladdened by these kindly words and by the motherly reception given him by this poor woman, Chin started out on his return journey, and after much suffering finally reached his home. Here he found his mother in the direst poverty, and with a heart still full of the deepest woe because of the death of her noble-minded husband. Almost immediately after Chin had been refused admission to the house of his father-in-law, the latter's daughter, Water-Lily, became aware of the insulting way in which he had been treated. She was grieved beyond measure, and with tears in her eyes and her voice full of sorrow, she besought her mother to appeal to her father on her behalf, and to induce him to give up his purpose of arranging a marriage for her with a wealthy man in the neighbourhood. "My father may plan another husband for me," she said, "but I shall never consent to be married to anyone but Chin. All the rites and ceremonies have been gone through which bind me to him as long as I live, and to cast him off now because calamity has fallen upon his home is but to invite the vengeance of the Gods, who will surely visit us with some great sorrow if we endeavour to act in a way contrary to their laws." The piteous appeals of Water-Lily had no effect upon her father, who hurried on the arrangements for his daughter's wedding to the new suitor, anxious to marry her off in order to prevent the unfortunate Chin from appearing again to claim her as his wife. She, however, was just as determined as her father, and when she realized that all her entreaties and prayers had produced not the slightest effect upon him, and that in the course of a few days the crimson bridal chair would appear at the door to carry her away to the home of her new husband, she determined to adopt heroic methods to prevent the accomplishment of such a tragedy. Next morning, as dawn began to break, the side-gate of the rich man's house was stealthily opened, and a degraded-looking beggar-woman stepped out into the dull grey streets, and proceeded rapidly towards the open country beyond. She was as miserable a specimen of the whining, cringing beggar as could have been met with in any of the beggar-camps where these unhappy outcasts of society live. She was dressed in rags which seemed to be held together only by some invisible force. Her hair was tied up in disjointed knots, and looked as if no comb had ever tried to bring it into order. Her face was black with grime, and a large, dirty patch was plastered over one of her ears in such a way that its shape was completely hidden from the gaze of those who took the trouble to cast a passing glance upon her. Altogether she was a most unattractive object; and yet she was the most lovely woman in all that region, for she was none other than Water-Lily, the acknowledged beauty of the town, who had adopted this disguise in order to escape from the fate which her father had planned for her. For several weary months she travelled on, suffering the greatest hardships, and passing through adventures, which, if some gifted writer had collected them into a volume, would have thrilled many a reader with admiration for this brave young maiden. Though reared and nurtured in a home where every luxury was supplied her, yet she endured the degradation and privations of a beggar's life rather than be forced to be untrue to the man whom she believed Heaven had given her as a mate. One evening, as the shadows were falling thickly on the outer courtyard of the desolate house where Chin lived, a pitiful-looking beggar-woman stood timidly at the front door, gazing with wistful looks into the room which faced the street. Not a sound did she utter, not a single word escaped her lips to indicate that she had come there to obtain charity. In a few minutes Chin's mother came out from a room beyond. When she saw this ragged, forlorn creature standing silently as though she were afraid that some word of scorn and reproach would be hurled at her, she was filled with a great and overmastering pity, and stepping up to her she began to comfort her in loving, gentle language. To her astonishment this draggled, uncleanly object became violently affected by the tender, motherly way in which she was addressed. Great tear-drops trickled down her grimy face, leaving a narrow, snow-like line in their wake. Presently she was convulsed with sobs that shook her whole body, whilst she wrung her hands as though some great sorrow was gripping her heart. Mrs. Meng was deeply affected by the sight of this unhappy woman, and whilst she was gazing at her with a look of profound sympathy, the broad patch which had concealed and at the same time disfigured the beggar's countenance, suddenly dropped to the ground. The effect of this was most startling, for a pair of as beautiful black eyes as ever danced in a woman's head were now revealed to Mrs. Meng's astonished gaze. Looking at the stranger more intently, she saw that her features were exquisitely perfect, and had the grace and the poetry which the great painters of China have attributed to the celebrated beauties of the Empire. "Tell me who you are," she cried, as she laid her hand tenderly and affectionately on her shoulder, "for that you are a common beggar-woman I can never believe. You must be the daughter of some great house, and have come here in this disguise in order to escape some great evil. "Confide in me," she continued, "and everything that one woman can do for another, I am willing to do for you. But come in, dear child, and let us talk together and devise some plan by which I can really help you, for I feel my heart drawn towards you in a way I have never felt for any stranger before." Mrs. Meng then led her into her bedroom, where Water-Lily threw off the outer garments in which she had appeared to the public as a beggar, and telling her wonderful story to Chin's mother, she revealed herself as her daughter-in-law. But though her romantic arrival into this gloomy and distressed home brought with it a sudden gleam of happiness, the great question as to how they were to live had still to be solved. They were absolutely without means, and they could only hope to meet their meagre expenses by the sale of the house in which they were living. At last this plan was discussed, and it was decided that the unused buildings, in which Chin and the Buddhist priest had been accustomed to spend a part of every day together, should be first of all disposed of. In order to have some idea as to how much these outhouses were worth, Chin went to see what condition they were in, so that he might fix a price for them. As they had not been used for some time, the grass had grown rank about them, and they had a dilapidated and forlorn air which made Chin fear that their market value would not be very great. Entering in by an open door, which a creeping vine, with the luxuriance of nature, was trying to block up, Chin looked round with a feeling of disappointment sending a chill into his very heart. The air of the place was damp and musty. The white mould could be seen gleaming on the walls, as if it wished to give a little colour to the sombre surroundings. Great cobwebs flung their streaming banners from the beams and rafters overhead, whilst smaller ones, with delicate lace-like tracery, tried to beautify the corners of the windows, through which the light from the outside world struggled to enter the gloomy room. Throwing the windows wide open to let in as much sunshine as was possible, Chin soon became convinced that the market value of this particular part of his property would be very small, and that unless he carried out extensive repairs, it would be impossible to induce any one to entertain the idea of buying it. While he was musing over the problem that lay before him, his eye caught a silvery gleam from a part of the earthen floor, where the surface had evidently been scratched away by some animal that had wandered in. Looking down intently at the white, shining thing which had caught his attention, Chin perceived that it was one of the tiles that the bonze had made him bury in the earth, and when he picked it up, he discovered to his amazement that in some mysterious manner it had been transformed into silver! Digging further into the earth, he found that the same process had taken place with every tile that had been hidden away beneath the floor of this old and apparently useless building. After some days occupied in transporting his treasure to a safe place in his dwelling-house, Chin realized by a rough calculation that he was now the possessor of several millions' worth of dollars, and that from being one of the poorest men in the town he had become a millionaire with enormous wealth at his command. Thus did the Gods show their appreciation of the noble life of Mr. Meng, and of his loving sympathy for the poor and the distressed, by raising his fallen house to a higher pinnacle of prosperity than it had ever attained even during his lifetime. V THE MYSTERIOUS BUDDHIST ROBE The short visit which the Emperor Li Shih-ming paid to the Land of Shadows had produced a profound impression on his mind. The pain and misery that men had to endure there, because of the evils they had committed in this life by their own voluntary action, had been brought before him in a most vivid manner. He had seen with his own eyes what he had always been unwilling to believe--namely, that wrong-doing is in every case followed by penalties, which have to be paid either in this world or the next. He was now convinced that the doctrine of the sages on this point was true, for he had witnessed the horrors that criminals who had practically escaped punishment in this life had to suffer when they came under the jurisdiction of Yam-lo. What distressed him most of all, however, was the grim thought which clung to him and refused to be silenced, that a large number of those in the Land of Shadows who were suffering from hunger and nakedness, were there as the result of his own cruelty and injustice, and that the cries of these men and women would reach to Heaven, and in due time bring down vengeance on himself. With this fear of coming judgment there was at the same time mingled in his mind an element of compassion, for he was really sorry for the poor wretches whom he had seen in the "City of the Wronged Ones," and whose reproaches and threats of divine vengeance had entered into his very soul. He therefore determined to institute a magnificent service for those spirits of the dead, who through the injustice of rulers, or the impotence of law, or private revenge, had lost their lives and were suffering untold hardships in the other world. He would have prayers said for their souls, that would flood their lives with plenty, and in course of time would open up the way for their being reborn into the world of men. In this way he would propitiate those whom he had injured, and at the same time accumulate such an amount of merit for his benevolence, that the gods would make it easy for him when his time of reckoning came, and the accounts of his life were made up and balanced. As this ceremony was to be one such as had never before been held at any period of Chinese history, he was anxious that the man who should be the leader and conductor of it should not be one of the men of indifferent lives who are usually found in the Buddhist temples and monasteries. He must be a man of sterling character, and of a life so pure and holy that no stain could be found upon it to detract from the saintly reputation he had acquired. His Majesty accordingly sent out edicts to all the Viceroys in the Empire, commanding them to issue proclamations throughout the length and breadth of the country, telling the people of the great religious service which he was going to hold in the capital for the unhappy spirits in the Land of Shadows. In these edicts he ordered that search should be made for a priest of unblemished character--one who had proved his love for his fellow-men by great acts of sympathy for them. This man was to be invited to present himself before the Emperor, to take charge of the high and splendid service which had been designed by the Sovereign himself. The tidings of this noble conception of Li Shih-ming spread with wonderful rapidity throughout his dominions, and even reached the far-off Western Heaven, where the mysterious beings who inhabit that happy land are ever on the alert to welcome any movement for the relief of human suffering. The Goddess of Mercy considered the occasion of such importance that she determined to take her share of responsibility for this distinguished service, by providing suitable vestments in which the leader of the great ceremony should be attired. So it came to pass that while men's minds were excited about the proposed celebration for the dead, two priests suddenly appeared in the streets of the capital. No one had ever seen such old-fashioned and weird-looking specimens of manhood before. They were mean and insignificant in appearance, and the distinctive robes in which they were dressed were so travel-stained and unclean that it was evident they had not been washed for many a long day. Men looked at them with astonishment as they passed along the road, for there was something so strange about them that they seemed to have come down from a far-off distant age, and to have suddenly burst into a civilization which had long out-grown the type from which they were descended. But by-and-by their curious old-world appearance was forgotten in amazement at the articles they carried with them. These were carefully wrapped in several folds of cloth to keep them from being soiled, though the two priests were perfectly willing to unfold the wrappers, and exhibit them to anyone who wished to examine them. The precious things which were preserved with such jealous care were a hat and robe such as an abbot might wear on some great occasion when the Buddhist Church was using its most elaborate ceremonial to perform some function of unusual dignity and importance. There was also a crosier, beautifully wrought with precious stones, which was well worthy of being held in the hand of the highest functionary of the Church in any of its most sacred and solemn services. The remarkable thing about the hat and robe was their exquisite beauty. The richness of the embroidered work, the quaint designs, the harmonious blending of colours, and the subtle exhibition of the genius of the mind which had fashioned and perfected them, arrested the attention of even the lowest class in the crowds of people who gathered round the two priests to gaze upon the hat and robe, with awe and admiration in their faces. Some instinct that flashed through the minds of the wondering spectators told them that these rare and fairy-like vestments were no ordinary products manufactured in any of the looms throughout the wide domains of the Empire. No human mind or hand had ever designed or worked out the various hues and shades of such marvellous colours as those which flashed before their eyes, and which possessed a delicacy and beauty such as none of the great artists of the past had ever been able to produce. The priests from the various temples and monasteries of the capital soon heard the reports that spread through the city about the marvellous hat and robe, and flocked in large numbers to see these wonderful things, which the two curious-looking men were displaying to all who cared to gaze upon them. "Do you wish to dispose of these things?" asked one of the city priests. "If any one can pay the price at which alone we are prepared to sell, we shall be willing to part with them to him," was the reply. "And what may the price be?" anxiously enquired the priest. "The hat and robe will cost four thousand taels, and the crosier, which is of the rarest materials and manufacture, will be sold for the same amount." At this a great laugh resounded through the crowd. In those days eight thousand taels was a huge fortune which only one or two of the wealthiest men of the State could have afforded to give. The boisterous mirth, however, which convulsed the crowd when they heard the fabulous sums asked by these strangers for their articles, soon became hushed when the latter proceeded to explain that the sums demanded were purposely prohibitive, in order that the sacred vestments should not fall into the hands of anyone who was unworthy to possess them. "You are all aware," said one of the strangers, "that His Majesty the Emperor, recognizing that the service for the dead which he is about to hold is one of momentous importance, not only to the spirits suffering in the Land of Shadows, but also to the prosperity and welfare of the Chinese Empire, has already issued edicts to secure the presence of some saintly and godly priest, who shall be worthy to superintend the prayers that will be said for the men and women who are leading dreary lives in the land over which Yam-lo rules." The story of these two men spread with great rapidity throughout the homes of all classes in the metropolis, and when it was understood that they had no desire to make money by the rare and beautiful articles which they readily displayed to the crowds that followed them whenever they appeared on the streets, they began to be surrounded with a kind of halo of romance. Men whispered to each other that these were no common denizens of the earth, but fairies in disguise, who had come as messengers from the Goddess of Mercy. The garments which they had with them were such as no mortal eyes had ever beheld, and were clearly intended for use only at some special ceremony of exceptional importance such as that which the Emperor was planning to have carried out. At length rumours reached the palace of the strange scenes which were daily taking place in the streets of the capital, and Li Shih-ming sent officers to command the two strange priests to appear in his presence. When they were brought before him, and he saw the wonderful robe embroidered in delicate hues and colours such as no workman had ever been known to design before, and grasped the crosier which sparkled and flashed with the brilliancy of the precious stones adorning it, the Emperor felt that the invisible gods had approved of his design for the solemn service for the dead and had prepared vestments for the High Priest which would be worthy of the exalted position he would occupy in the great ceremony. "I hear that you want eight thousand taels for these articles," said the Emperor to the two men, who stood respectfully before him. "We are not anxious, your Majesty," replied one of the strangers, "about the price. That is to us of very little importance. We have mentioned this large sum simply to prevent any man of unworthy mind from becoming their possessor. "There is a peculiarity about that robe," he continued. "Any person of pure and upright heart who wears it will be preserved from every kind of disaster that can possibly assail him in this world. No sorrow can touch him, and the schemes of the most malignant of evil spirits will have no influence upon him. On the other hand, any man who is under the dominion of any base passion, if he dares to put on that mystic robe, will find himself involved in all kinds of calamities and sorrows, which will never leave him until he has put it off and laid it aside for ever. "What we are really here for," he concluded, "is to endeavour to assist your Majesty in the discovery of a priest of noble and blameless life who will be worthy of presiding at the service you are about to hold for the unhappy spirits in the Land of Shadows. When we have found him we shall consider that our mission has been fulfilled, and we can then return and report the success we have achieved." At this moment despatches from high officials throughout the country were presented to the Emperor, all recommending Sam-Chaong as the only man in the dominions who was fit to act as High Priest in the proposed great service. As Sam-Chaong happened to be then in the capital, he was sent for and, being approved of by His Majesty, was at once appointed to the sacred office, which he alone of the myriads of priests in China seemed to be worthy of occupying. The two strangers, who had been noting the proceedings with anxious and watchful eyes, expressed their delight at the decision that had been arrived at. Stepping up to Sam-Chaong with the most reverential attitude, they presented him with the costly vestments which had excited the wonder and admiration of everyone who had seen them. Refusing to receive any remuneration for them, they bowed gracefully to the Emperor and retired. As the door of the audience-chamber closed upon them they vanished from human sight, and no trace of them could anywhere be found. On the great day appointed by the Emperor, such a gathering was assembled as China in all the long history of the past had never before witnessed. Abbots from far-off distant monasteries were there, dressed in their finest vestments. Aged priests, with faces wrinkled by the passage of years, and young bonzes in their slate-coloured gowns, had travelled over the hills and mountains of the North to be present, and took up their positions in the great building. Men of note, too, who had made themselves famous by their devoted zeal for the ceremonies of the Buddhist Church and by their munificent gifts to the temples and shrines, had come with great retinues of their clansmen to add to the splendour and dignity of the occasion. But the chief glory and attraction of the day to the assembled crowds was the Emperor, Li Shih-Ming. Never had he been seen in such pomp and circumstance as on this occasion. Close round him stood the princes of the royal family, the great officers of state and the members of the Cabinet in their rich and picturesque dresses. Immediately beyond were earls and dukes, viceroys of provinces and great captains and commanders, whose fame for mighty deeds of valour in the border warfare had spread through every city and town and hamlet in the Empire. There were also present some of the most famous scholars of China, who, though not members of the Buddhist Church, yet felt that they could not refuse the invitation which the Emperor had extended to them. In short, the very flower of the Empire was gathered together to carry out the benevolent purpose of rescuing the spirits of the dead from an intolerable state of misery which only the living had the power of alleviating. The supreme moment, however, was when Sam-Chaong and more than a hundred of the priests most distinguished for learning and piety in the whole of the church, marched in solemn procession, chanting a litany, and took their places on the raised platform from which they were to conduct the service for the dead. During the ceremony, much to his amazement, Li Shih-Ming saw the two men who had bestowed the fairy vestments on Sam-Chaong, standing one on each side of him; but though they joined heartily in the proceedings, he could not help noticing that a look of dissatisfaction and occasionally of something which seemed like contempt, rested like a shadow on their faces. At the close of the service he commanded them to appear before him, and expressed his surprise at their conduct, when they explained that the discontent they had shown was entirely due to a feeling that the ritual which had been used that day was one entirely inadequate to the occasion. It was so wanting in dignity and loftiness of conception, they said, that though some ease might be brought to the spirits suffering in the Land of Shadows from the service which had been performed, it would utterly fail in the most important particular of all--namely, their deliverance from Hades, and their rebirth into the land of the living. That this was also a matter which had given the Goddess of Mercy a vast amount of concern was soon made evident to the Emperor, for in the midst of this conversation there suddenly sounded, throughout the great hall in which the vast congregation still lingered, a voice saying: "Send Sam-Chaong to the Western Heaven to obtain the ritual which shall there be given him and which shall be worthy of being chanted by a nation." This command from the invisible Goddess produced such an impression upon the Emperor that he made immediate preparations for the departure of Sam-Chaong on his momentous journey; and in a few days, supplied with everything necessary for so toilsome an undertaking, the famous priest started on what seemed a wild and visionary enterprise in pursuit of an object which anyone with less faith than himself would have deemed beyond the power of any human being to accomplish. In order to afford him protection by the way and to act as his body-servants, the Emperor appointed two men to accompany Sam-Chaong on the long journey which he had undertaken at the command of the Goddess of Mercy. His Majesty would indeed have given him a whole regiment of soldiers, if he had been willing to accept them; but he absolutely refused to take more than just two men. He relied chiefly on the fairy robe which he had received, for that secured him from all danger from any foes whom he might meet on the road. Moreover, his mission, as he assured the Emperor, was one of peace and good-will, and it would not harmonize either with his own wishes or with those of the Goddess for him to be in a position to avenge his wrongs by the destruction of human life. Before many days had elapsed Sam-Chaong began to realize the perilous nature of the service he had been called upon to perform. One afternoon, the travellers were jogging leisurely along in a wild and unsettled district, when suddenly two fierce-looking hobgoblins swooped down upon them, and almost before a word could be said had swallowed up both his poor followers. They were proceeding to do the same with Sam-Chaong when a fairy appeared upon the scene, and sent them flying with screams of terror to the caverns in the neighbouring hills where their homes seemed to be. For a moment or two, Sam-Chaong was in extreme distress. He had just escaped an imminent peril; he was absolutely alone in an apparently uninhabited region; and the shadows of night were already darkening everything around. He was wondering where he would spend the night, when a man appeared upon the scene and invited him to come home with him to a mountain village on the spur of the hills which rose abruptly some distance away in front of them. Although an entire stranger, who had never even heard Sam-Chaong's name, this man treated his guest right royally and gave him the very best that his house contained. Deeply impressed with the generous treatment he had received, Sam-Chaong determined that he would repay his host's generosity by performing an act which would be highly gratifying both to him and to all the members of his household. Arranging a temporary altar in front of the image of the household god, who happened to be the Goddess of Mercy, he chanted the service for the dead before it with such acceptance that the spirit of the father of his host, who had been confined in the Land of Shadows, was released from that sunless land and was allowed to be reborn and take his place amongst the living. Moreover, that very night, the father appeared before his son in a vision, and told him that in consequence of the intercession of Sam-Chaong, whose reputation for piety was widely known in the dominions of Yam-lo, he had been allowed to leave that dismal country and had just been born into a family in the province of Shensi. The son was rejoiced beyond measure at this wonderful news, and in order to show his gratitude for this generous action, he volunteered to accompany Sam-Chaong right to the very frontiers of China and to share with him any dangers and hardships he might have to endure by the way. After many weary days of travelling this part of the journey was at last accomplished, and they were about to separate at the foot of a considerable hill which lay on the border line between China and the country of the barbarians beyond, when a loud and striking voice was heard exclaiming, "The priest has come! The priest has come!" Sam-Chaong asked his companion the meaning of these words and to what priest they referred. "There is a tradition in this region," replied the man, "that five hundred years ago, a certain fairy, inflamed with pride, dared to raise himself in rebellion against the Goddess of Mercy in the Western Heaven. To punish him she turned him into a monkey, and confined him in a cave near the top of this hill. There she condemned him to remain until Sam-Chaong should pass this way, when he could earn forgiveness by leading the priest into the presence of the Goddess who had commanded him to appear before her." Ascending the hill in the direction of the spot from whence the cry "The priest has come!" kept ringing through the air, they came upon a natural cavern, the mouth of which was covered by a huge boulder, nicely poised in such a position that all exit from it was rendered an impossibility. Peering through the crevices at the side, they could distinctly see the figure of a monkey raising its face with an eager look of expectation in the direction of Sam-Chaong and his companion. "Let me out," it cried, "and I will faithfully lead you to the Western Heaven, and never leave you until you find yourself standing in the presence of the Goddess of Mercy." "But how am I to get you out?" asked Sam-Chaong. "The boulder that shuts you in is too large for human hands to move, and so, though I pity you in your misfortune and greatly desire your help to guide me along the unknown paths that lie before me, I fear that the task of setting you free must fall to other hands than mine." "Deliverance is more easy than you imagine," replied the monkey. "Cast your eye along the edge of this vast rock, which the Goddess with but a simple touch of one of her fingers moved into its place five hundred years ago, as though it had been the airiest down that ever floated in a summer's breeze, and you will see something yellow standing out in marked contrast to the black lichen-covered stone. That is the sign-manual of the Goddess. She printed it on the rock when she condemned me centuries ago to be enclosed within this narrow cell until you should come and release me. Your hand alone can remove that mystic symbol and save me from the penalty of a living death." Following the directions of the monkey, Sam-Chaong carefully scraped away the yellow-coloured tracings which he tried in vain to decipher; and when the last faint scrap had been finally removed, the huge, gigantic boulder silently moved aside with a gentle, easy motion and tilted itself to one side until the prisoner had emerged, when once more it slid gracefully back into its old position. Under the guidance of the monkey, who had assumed the appearance of a strong and vigorous young athlete, Sam-Chaong proceeded on his journey--over mountains so high that they seemed to touch the very heavens, and through valleys which lay at their foot in perpetual shadow, except only at noon-tide when the sun stood directly overhead. Then again they travelled across deserts whose restless, storm-tossed, sandy billows left no traces of human footsteps, and where death seemed, like some cunning foe, to be lying in wait to destroy their lives. It was here that Sam-Chaong realized the protecting care of the Goddess in providing such a valuable companion as the monkey proved himself to be. He might have been born in these sandy wastes, so familiar was he with their moods. There was something in the air, and in the colours of the sky at dawn and at sunset, that told him what was going to happen, and he could say almost to a certainty whether any storm was coming to turn these silent deserts into storm-tossed oceans of sand, which more ruthless even than the sea, would engulf all living things within their pitiless depths. He knew, moreover, where the hidden springs of water lay concealed beneath the glare and glitter that pained the eyes simply to look upon them; and without a solitary landmark in the boundless expanse, by unerring instinct, he would travel straight to the very spot where the spring bubbled up from the great fountains below. Having crossed these howling wildernesses, where Sam-Chaong must have perished had he travelled alone, they came to a region inhabited by a pastoral people, but abounding in bands of robbers. Monkey was a daring fellow and was never afraid to meet any foe in fair fight; yet for the sake of Sam-Chaong, whose loving disposition had been insensibly taming his wild and fiery nature, he tried as far as possible to avoid a collision with any evil characters, whether men or spirits, who might be inclined to have a passage of arms with them. One day they had passed over a great plain, where herds of sheep could be seen in all directions browsing under the watchful care of their shepherds, and they had come to the base of the foot-hills leading to a mountainous country beyond, when the profound meditation in which Sam-Chaong was usually absorbed was suddenly interrupted by a startled cry from Monkey. Drawing close up to him, he said in a low voice, "Do you see those six men who are descending the hill and coming in our direction? They look like simple-minded farmers, and yet they are all devils who have put on the guise of men in order to be able to take us unawares. Their real object is to kill you, and thus frustrate the gracious purpose of the Goddess, who wishes to deliver the souls in the Land of Shadows from the torments they are enduring there. "I know them well," he went on; "they are fierce and malignant spirits and very bold, for rarely have they ever been put to flight in any conflict in which they have been engaged. They little dream, however, who it is you have by your side. If they did they would come on more warily, for though I am single-handed they would be chary of coming to issues with me. "But I am glad," he continued, "that they have not yet discovered who I am, for my soul has long desired just such a day as this, when in a battle that shall be worthy of the gods, my fame shall spread throughout the Western Heaven and even into the wide domains of the Land of Shadows." With a cry of gladness, as though some wondrous good-fortune had befallen him, he bounded along the road to meet the coming foe, and in contemptuous tones challenged them to mortal combat. No sooner did they discover who it was that dared to champion Sam-Chaong with such bold and haughty front, than with hideous yells and screams they rushed tumultuously upon him, hoping by a combined attack to confuse him and to make him fly in terror before them. In this however they had reckoned without their host. With a daring quite as great as theirs, but with a skill far superior to that of the six infuriated demons, Monkey seized a javelin which came gleaming through the air just at the precise moment that he needed it, and hurled it at one of his opponents with such fatal effect that he lay sprawling on the ground, and with a cry that might have come from a lost spirit breathed his last. And now the battle became a mighty one indeed. Arrows shot from invisible bows flew quicker than flashes of light against this single mighty fighter, but they glanced off a magic shield which fairy arts had interposed in front of him. Weapons such as mortal hands had never wielded in any of the great battles of the world were now brought into play; but never for a moment did Monkey lose his head. With marvellous intrepidity he warded them off, and striking back with one tremendous lunge, he laid another of the demons dead at his feet. Dismay began to raise the coward in the minds of those who were left, and losing heart they turned to those subtle and cunning devices that had never before failed in their attacks on mankind. Their great endeavour now was to inveigle Monkey into a position where certain destruction would be sure to follow. Three-pronged spears were hurled against him with deadly precision, and had he not at that precise moment leaped high into the air no power on earth could have saved him. It was at this tremendous crisis in the fight that Monkey won his greatest success. Leaping lightly to the ground whilst the backs of his foes were still turned towards him, he was able with the double-edged sword which he held in each of his hands to despatch three more of his enemies. The last remaining foe was so utterly cowed when he beheld his comrades lying dead upon the road that he took to flight, and soon all that was to be seen of him was a black speck slowly vanishing on the distant horizon. Thus ended the great battle in which Monkey secured such a signal victory over the wild demons of the frozen North, and Sam-Chaong drew near to gaze upon the mangled bodies of the fierce spirits who but a moment ago were fighting so desperately for their very lives. Now, Sam-Chaong was a man who naturally had the tenderest heart for every living thing; and so, as he looked, a cloud of sadness spread over his countenance and he sighed as he thought of the destruction of life which he had just witnessed. It was true that the demons had come with the one settled purpose of killing him, and there was no reason therefore why he should regret their death. But life to him was always precious, no matter in what form it might be enshrined. Life was the special gift of Heaven, and could not be wilfully destroyed without committing a crime against the gods. So absorbed did Sam-Chaong become in this thought, and so sombre were the feelings filling his heart, that he entirely forgot to thank the hero by his side who had risked his life for him, and but for whose prowess he would have fallen a victim to the deadly hatred of these enemies of mankind. Feelings of resentment began to spring up in the mind of Monkey as he saw that Sam-Chaong seemed to feel more pity for the dead demons than gratitude for the heroic efforts which had saved him from a cruel death. "Are you dissatisfied with the services I have rendered to you to-day?" he asked him abruptly. "My heart is deeply moved by what you have done for me," replied Sam-Chaong. "My only regret is that you could not have delivered me without causing the death of these poor wretched demons, and thus depriving them of the gift of life, a thing as dear to them as it is to you or me." Now Monkey, who was of a fierce and hasty temper, could not brook such meagre praise as this, and so in passionate and indignant language he declared that no longer would he be content to serve so craven a master, who, though beloved of the Goddess, was not a man for whom he would care to risk his life again. With these words he vaulted into the air, and soared away into the distance, on and on through countless leagues of never-ending sky, until he came to the verge of a wide-spreading ocean. Plunging into this as though it had been the home in which he had always lived, he made his way by paths with which he seemed familiar, until he reached the palace of the Dragon Prince of the Sea, who received him with the utmost cordiality and gave him an invitation to remain with him as his guest as long as he pleased. For some time he entertained himself with the many marvellous sights which are hidden away beneath the waters of the great ocean and which have a life and imagery of their own, stranger and more mysterious perhaps than those on which men are accustomed to look. But in time he became restless and dissatisfied with himself. The unpleasant thought crept slowly into his heart that in a moment of passion he had basely deserted Sam-Chaong and had left him helpless in a strange and unknown region; and worse still that he had been unfaithful to the trust which the Goddess had committed to him. He became uncomfortably conscious, too, that though he had fled to the depths of the ocean he could never get beyond the reach of her power, and that whenever she wished to imprison him in the mountain cavern where he had eaten out his heart for five hundred years, she could do so with one imperious word of command. In this mood of repentance for his past errors, he happened to cast his eye upon a scroll which hung in one of the rooms of the palace. As he read the story on it his heart smote him, and from that moment he determined to hasten back to the post from which he had fled. The words on the scroll were written in letters of gold and told how on a certain occasion in the history of the past the fairies determined to assist the fortunes of a young man named Chang-lung, who had gained their admiration because of the nobility of character which he had exhibited in his ordinary conduct in life. He belonged to an extremely poor family, and so without some such aid as they could give him, he could never attain to that eminence in the State which would enable him to be of service to his country. But he must first be tested to see whether he had the force of character necessary to bear the strain which greatness would put upon him. Accordingly one of the most experienced amongst their number was despatched to make the trial. Assuming the guise of an old countryman in poor and worn-out clothing, the fairy sat down on a bridge over a stream close to the village where the favourite of the gods lived. By-and-by Chang-lung came walking briskly along. Just as he came up to the disguised fairy, the latter let one of his shoes drop into the water below. With an air of apparent distress, he begged the young man to wade into the stream and pick it up for him. Cheerfully smiling, Chang-lung at once jumped into the water. In a moment he had returned with the shoe and was handing it to the old man, when the latter requested him to put it on his foot for him. This was asking him to do a most menial act, which most men would have scornfully resented; but Chang-lung, pitying the decrepit-looking old stranger, immediately knelt on the ground and carefully fastened the dripping shoe on to his foot. Whilst he was in the act of doing this, the fairy, as if by accident, skilfully managed to let the other shoe slip from his foot over the edge of the bridge into the running stream. Apologizing for his stupidity, and excusing himself on the ground that he was an old man and that his fingers were not as nimble as they used to be, he begged Chang-lung to repeat his kindness and do him the favour of picking up the second shoe and restoring it to him. With the same cheery manner, as though he were not being asked to perform a servile task, Chang-lung once more stepped into the shallow brook and bringing back the shoe, proceeded without any hesitation to repeat the process of putting it on the old man's foot. The fairy was now perfectly satisfied. Thanking Chang-lung for his kindness, he presented him with a book, which he took out of one of the sleeves of his jacket, and urging him to study it with all diligence, vanished out of his sight. The meeting that day on the country bridge had an important influence on the destiny of Chang-lung, who in time rose to great eminence and finally became Prime Minister of China. As Monkey studied the golden words before him, he contrasted his own conduct with that of Chang-lung, and, pricked to the heart by a consciousness of his wrong, he started at once, without even bidding farewell to the Dragon Prince of the Sea, to return to the service of Sam-Chaong. He was just emerging from the ocean, when who should be standing waiting for him on the yellow sands of the shore but the Goddess of Mercy herself, who had come all the way from her distant home to warn him of the consequences that would happen to him were he ever again to fail in the duty she had assigned him of leading Sam-Chaong to the Western Heaven. Terrified beyond measure at the awful doom which threatened him, and at the same time truly repentant for the wrong he had committed, Monkey bounded up far above the highest mountains which rear their peaks to the sky, and fled with incredible speed until he stood once more by the side of Sam-Chaong. No reproof fell from the latter's lips as the truant returned to his post. A tender gracious smile was the only sign of displeasure that he evinced. "I am truly glad to have you come back to me," he said, "for I was lost without your guidance in this unknown world in which I am travelling. I may tell you, however, that since you left me the Goddess appeared to me and comforted me with the assurance that you would ere long resume your duties and be my friend, as you have so nobly been in the past. She was very distressed at my forlorn condition and was so determined that nothing of the kind should happen again in the future, that she graciously presented me with a mystic cap wrought and embroidered by the fairy hands of the maidens in her own palace. "'Guard this well,' she said, 'and treasure it as your very life, for it will secure you the services of one who for five hundred years was kept in confinement in order that he might be ready to escort you on the way to the Western Heaven. He is the one man who has the daring and the courage to meet the foes who will endeavour to destroy you on your journey, but he is as full of passion as the storm when it is blowing in its fury. Should he ever desert you again, you have but to place this cap on your head, and he will be wrung with such awful and intolerable agonies that though he were a thousand miles away he would hurry back with all the speed he could command to have you take it off again, so that he might be relieved from the fearful pains racking his body.'" After numerous adventures too long to relate, Sam-Chaong reached the borders of an immense lake, many miles in extent, spanned by a bridge of only a single foot in width. With fear and trembling, as men tremble on the brink of eternity, and often with terror in his eyes and a quivering in his heart as he looked at the narrow foothold on which he was treading, he finally crossed in safety, when he found to his astonishment that the pulsations of a new life had already begun to beat strongly within him. Beyond a narrow strip of land, which bounded the great expanse of water over which he had just passed, was a wide flowing river, and on its bank was a boat with a ferryman in it ready to row him over. When they had reached the middle of the stream, Sam-Chaong saw a man struggling in the water as if for dear life. Moved with pity he urged upon the boatman to go to his rescue and deliver him from drowning. He was sternly told, however, to keep silence. "The figure you see there," said the boatman, "is yourself--or rather, it is but the shell of your old self, in which you worked out your redemption in the world beyond, and which you could never use in the new life upon which you have entered." On the opposite bank of the river stood the Goddess of Mercy, who with smiling face welcomed him into the ranks of the fairies. Since then, it is believed by those whose vision reaches further than the grey and common scenes of earthly life, Sam-Chaong has frequently appeared on earth, in various disguises, when in some great emergency more than human power was required to deliver men from destruction. There is one thing certain at least,--these gifted people declare--and that is that in the guise of a priest Sam-Chaong did once more revisit this world and delivered to the Buddhist Church the new ritual which the Goddess of Mercy had prepared for it, and which is used to-day in its services throughout the East. VI THE VENGEANCE OF THE GODDESS In a certain temple in the northern part of the Empire, there once lived a famous priest named Hien-Chung, whose reputation had spread far and wide, not merely for the sanctity of his life, but also for the supernatural powers which he was known to possess, and which he had exhibited on several remarkable occasions. Men would have marvelled less about him had they known that the man dressed in the long slate-coloured robe, with shaven head, and saintly-looking face, over which no one had ever seen a smile flicker, was in reality a pilgrim on his way to the Western Heaven, which he hoped to reach in time, and to become a fairy there. One night Hien-Chung lay asleep in a room opening out of the main hall in which the great image of the Goddess of Mercy, with her benevolent, gracious face, sat enshrined amidst the darkness that lay thickly over the temple. All at once, there stood before him a most striking and stately-looking figure. The man had a royal look about him, as though he had been accustomed to rule. On his head there was a crown, and his dress was such as no mere subject would ever be allowed to wear. Hien-Chung gazed at him in wonder, and was at first inclined to believe that he was some evil spirit who had assumed this clever disguise in order to deceive him. As this thought flashed through his mind, the man began to weep. It was pitiable indeed to see this kingly person affected with such oppressive grief that the tears streamed down his cheeks, and with the tenderness that was distinctive of him Hien-Chung expressed his deep sympathy for a sorrow so profound. "Three years ago," said his visitor, "I was the ruler of this 'Kingdom of the Black Flower.' I was indeed the founder of my dynasty, for I carved my own fortune with my sword, and made this little state into a kingdom. For a long time I was very happy, and my people were most devoted in their allegiance to me. I little dreamed of the sorrows that were coming on me, and the disasters which awaited me in the near future. "Five years ago my kingdom was visited with a very severe drought. The rains ceased to fall; the streams which used to fall down the mountain-sides and irrigate the plains dried up; and the wells lost the fountains which used to fill them with water. Everywhere the crops failed, and the green herbage on which the cattle browsed was slowly blasted by the burning rays of the sun. "The common people suffered in their homes from want of food, and many of the very poorest actually died of starvation. This was a source of great sorrow to me, and every day my prayers went up to Heaven, that it would send down rain upon the dried-up land and so deliver my people from death. I knew that this calamity had fallen on my kingdom because of some wrong that I had done, and so my heart was torn with remorse. "One day while my mind was full of anxiety, a man suddenly appeared at my palace and begged my ministers to be allowed to have an audience with me. He said that it was of the utmost importance that he should see me, for he had come to propose a plan for the deliverance of my country. "I gave orders that he should instantly be brought into my presence, when I asked him if he had the power to cause the rain to descend upon the parched land. "'Yes,' he replied, 'I have, and if you will step with me now to the front of your palace I will prove to you that I have the ability to do this, and even more.' "Striding out to a balcony which overlooked the capital, and from which one could catch a view of the hills in the distance, the stranger lifted up his right hand towards the heavens and uttered certain words which I was unable to understand. "Instantly, and as if by magic, a subtle change crept through the atmosphere. The sky became darkened, and dense masses of clouds rolled up and blotted out the sun. The thunder began to mutter, and vivid flashes of lightning darted from one end of the heavens to the other, and before an hour had elapsed the rain was descending in torrents all over the land, and the great drought was at an end. "My gratitude to this mysterious stranger for the great deliverance he had wrought for my kingdom was so great that there was no favour which I was not willing to bestow upon him. I gave him rooms in the palace, and treated him as though he were my equal. I had the truest and the tenderest affection for him, and he seemed to be equally devoted to me. "One morning we were walking hand in hand in the royal gardens. The peach blossoms were just out, and we were enjoying their perfume and wandering up and down amongst the trees which sent forth such exquisite fragrance. "As we sauntered on, we came by-and-by upon a well which was hidden from sight by a cluster of oleander trees. We stayed for a moment to peer down its depths and to catch a sight of the dark waters lying deep within it. Whilst I was gazing down, my friend gave me a sudden push and I was precipitated head first into the water at the bottom. The moment I disappeared, he took a broad slab of stone and completely covered the mouth of the well. Over it he spread a thick layer of earth, and in this he planted a banana root, which, under the influence of the magic powers he possessed, in the course of a few hours had developed into a full-grown tree. I have lain dead in the well now for three years, and during all that time no one has arisen to avenge my wrong or to bring me deliverance." "But have your ministers of State made no efforts during all these three years to discover their lost king?" asked Hien-Chung. "And what about your wife and family? Have they tamely submitted to have you disappear without raising an outcry that would resound throughout the whole kingdom? It seems to me inexplicable that a king should vanish from his palace and that no hue and cry should be raised throughout the length and breadth of the land until the mystery should be solved and his cruel murder fully avenged." "It is here," replied the spirit of the dead king, "that my enemy has shown his greatest cunning. The reason why men never suspect that any treason has been committed is because by his enchantments he has transformed his own appearance so as to become the exact counterpart of myself. The man who called down the rain and saved my country from drought and famine has simply disappeared, so men think, and I the King still rule as of old in my kingdom. Not the slightest suspicion as to the true state of things has ever entered the brain of anyone in the nation, and so the usurper is absolutely safe in the position he occupies to-day." "But have you never appealed to Yam-lo, the ruler of the Land of Shadows?", asked Hien-Chung. "He is the great redresser of the wrongs and crimes of earth, and now that you are a spirit and immediately within his jurisdiction, you should lay your complaint before him and pray him to avenge the sufferings you have been called upon to endure." "You do not understand," the spirit hastily replied. "The one who has wrought such ruin in my life is an evil spirit. He has nothing in common with men, but has been let loose from the region where evil spirits are confined to punish me for some wrong that I have committed in the past. He therefore knows the ways of the infernal regions, and is hand in glove with the rulers there, and even with Yam-lo himself. He is, moreover, on the most friendly terms with the tutelary God of my capital, and so no complaint of mine would ever be listened to for a moment by any of the powers who rule in the land of the dead. "There is another very strong reason, too, why any appeal that I might make for justice would be disregarded. My soul has not yet been loosed from my body, but is still confined within it in the well. The courts of the Underworld would never recognize me, because I still belong to this life, over which they have no control. "Only to-day," he continued, "a friendly spirit whispered in my ear that my confinement in the well was drawing to a close, and that the three years I had been adjudged to stay there would soon be up. He strongly advised me to apply to you, for you are endowed, he said, with powers superior to those possessed by my enemy, and if you are only pleased to exercise them I shall speedily be delivered from his evil influence." Now the Goddess of Mercy had sent Hien-Chung a number of familiar spirits to be a protection to him in time of need. Next morning, accordingly, he summoned the cleverest of these, whose name was Hing, in order to consult with him as to how the king might be delivered from the bondage in which he had been held for the three years. "The first thing we have to do," said Hing, "is to get the heir to the Throne on our side. He has often been suspicious at certain things in the conduct of his supposed father, one of which is that for three years he has never been allowed to see his mother. All that is needed now is to get some tangible evidence to convince him that there is some mystery in the palace, and we shall gain him as our ally. "I have been fortunate," he continued, "in obtaining one thing which we shall find very useful in inducing the Prince to listen to what we have to say to him about his father. You may not know it, but about the time when the King was thrown into the well, the seal of the kingdom mysteriously disappeared and a new one had to be cut. "Knowing that you were going to summon me to discuss this case, I went down into the well at dawn this morning, and found the missing seal on the body of the King. Here it is, and now we must lay our plans to work on the mind of the son for the deliverance of the father. To-morrow I hear that the Prince is going out hunting on the neighbouring hills. In one of the valleys there is a temple to the Goddess of Mercy, and if you will take this seal and await his coming there, I promise you that I will find means to entice him to the shrine." Next morning the heir to the Throne of the "Kingdom of the Black Flower" set out with a noisy retinue to have a day's hunting on the well-wooded hills overlooking the capital. They had scarcely reached the hunting grounds when great excitement was caused by the sudden appearance of a remarkable-looking hare. It was decidedly larger than an ordinary hare, but the curious feature about it was its colour, which was as white as the driven snow. No sooner had the hounds caught sight of it, than with loud barkings and bayings they dashed madly in pursuit. The hare, however, did not seem to show any terror, but with graceful bounds that carried it rapidly over the ground, it easily out-distanced the fleetest of its pursuers. It appeared, indeed, as though it were thoroughly enjoying the facility with which it could outrun the dogs, while the latter grew more and more excited as they always saw the quarry before them and yet could never get near enough to lay hold upon it. Another extraordinary thing was that this hare did not seem anxious to escape. It took no advantage of undergrowth or of clumps of trees to hide the direction in which it was going. It managed also to keep constantly in view of the whole field; and when it had to make sudden turns in the natural windings of the road which led to a valley in the distance, where there stood a famous temple, it hesitated for a moment and allowed the baying hounds to come perilously near, before it darted off with the speed of lightning and left the dogs far behind it. Little did the hunters dream that the beautiful animal which was giving them such an exciting chase was none other than the fairy Hing, who had assumed this disguise in order to bring the Prince to the lonely temple in the secluded valley, where, beyond the possibility of being spied upon by his father's murderer, the story of treachery could be told, and means be devised for his restoration to the throne. Having arrived close to the temple, the mysterious hare vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and not a trace was left to enable the dogs, which careered wildly round and round, to pick up the scent. The Prince, who was a devoted disciple of the Goddess of Mercy, now dismounted and entered the temple, where he proceeded to burn incense before her shrine and in muttered tones to beseech her to send down blessings upon him. After a time, he became considerably surprised to find that the presiding priest of the temple, instead of coming forward to attend upon him and to show him the courtesies due to his high position, remained standing in a corner where the shadows were darkest, his eyes cast upon the ground and with a most serious look overspreading his countenance. Accordingly, when he had finished his devotions to the Goddess, the Prince approached the priest, and asked him in a kindly manner if anything was distressing him. "Yes," replied Hien-Chung, "there is, and it is a subject which materially affects your Royal Highness. If you will step for a moment into my private room, I shall endeavour to explain to you the matter which has filled my mind with the greatest possible anxiety." When they entered the abbot's room, Hien-Chung handed the Prince a small box and asked him to open it and examine the article it contained. Great was the Prince's amazement when he took it out and cast a hurried glance over it. A look of excitement passed over his face and he cried out, "Why, this is the great seal of the kingdom which was lost three years ago, and of which no trace could ever be found! May I ask how it came into your possession and what reason you can give for not having restored it to the King, who has long wished to discover it?" "The answer to that is a long one, your Highness, and to satisfy you, I must go somewhat into detail." Hien-Chung then told the Prince of the midnight visit his father had made him, and the tragic story of his murder by the man who was now posing as the King, and of his appeal to deliver him from the sorrows of the well in which he had been confined for three years. "With regard to the finding of the seal," he continued, "my servant Hing, who is present, will describe how by the supernatural powers with which he is endowed, he descended the well only this very morning and discovered it on the body of your father." "We have this absolute proof," he said, "that the vision I saw only two nights ago was not some imagination of the brain, but that it was really the King who appealed to me to deliver him from the power of an enemy who seems bent upon his destruction. "We must act, and act promptly," he went on, "for the man who is pretending to be the ruler of your kingdom is a person of unlimited ability, and as soon as he gets to know that his secret has been divulged, he will put into operation every art he possesses to frustrate our purpose. "What I propose is that your Highness should send back the greater part of your retinue to the palace, with an intimation to the effect that you are going to spend the night here in a special service to the Goddess, whose birthday it fortunately happens to be to-day. After night has fallen upon the city, Hing shall descend into the well and bring the body of your father here. You will then have all the proof you need of the truth of the matter, and we can devise plans as to our future action." A little after midnight, Hing having faithfully carried out the commission entrusted to him by Hien-Chung, arrived with the body of the King, which was laid with due ceremony and respect in one of the inner rooms of the temple. With his marvellous wonder-working powers and with the aid of invisible forces which he had been able to summon to his assistance, he had succeeded in transporting it from the wretched place where it had lain so long to the friendly temple of the Goddess of Mercy. The Prince was deeply moved by the sight of his father's body. Fortunately it had suffered no change since the day when it was thrown to the bottom of the well. Not a sign of decay could be seen upon the King's noble features. It seemed as though he had but fallen asleep, and presently would wake up and talk to them as he used to do. The fact that in some mysterious way the soul had not been separated from the body accounted for its remarkable preservation. Nevertheless to all appearance the King was dead, and the great question now was how he could be brought back to life, so that he might be restored to his family and his kingdom. "The time has come," said Hien-Chung, "when heroic measures will have to be used if the King is ever to live again. Two nights ago he made a passionate and urgent request to me to save him, for one of the gods informed him that I was the only man who could do so. So far, we have got him out of the grip of the demon that compassed his death, and now it lies with me to provide some antidote which shall bring back the vital forces and make him a living man once more. "I have never had to do with such a serious case as this before, but I have obtained from the Patriarch of the Taoist Church a small vial of the Elixir of Life, which has the marvellous property of prolonging the existence of whoever drinks it. We shall try it on the King and, as there is no sign of vital decay, let us hope that it will be effective in restoring him to life." Turning to a desk that was kept locked, he brought out a small black earthenware bottle, from which he dropped a single drop of liquid on to the lips of the prostrate figure. In a few seconds a kind of rosy flush spread over the King's features. Another drop, and a look of life flashed over the pallid face. Still another, and after a short interval the eyes opened and looked with intelligence upon the group surrounding his couch. Still one more, and the King arose and asked how long he had been asleep, and how it came about that he was in this small room instead of being in his own palace. He was soon restored to his family and to his position in the State, for the usurper after one or two feeble attempts to retain his power ignominiously fled from the country. A short time after, Hien-Chung had a private interview with the King. "I am anxious," he said, "that your Majesty should understand the reason why such a calamity came into your life. "Some years ago without any just reason you put to death a Buddhist priest. You never showed any repentance for the great wrong you had done, and so the Goddess sent a severe drought upon your Kingdom. You still remained unrepentant, and then she sent one of her Ministers to afflict you, depriving you of your home and your royal power. The man who pushed you down the well was but carrying out the instructions he had received from the Goddess. Your stay down the well for three years was part of the punishment she had decreed for your offence, and when the time was up, I was given the authority to release you. "Kings as well as their subjects are under the great law of righteousness, and if they violate it they must suffer like other men. I would warn your Majesty that unless you show some evidence that you have repented for taking away a man's life unjustly, other sorrows will most certainly fall upon you in the future." VII "THE WONDERFUL MAN" There is a certain Prefectural city in the south of China, which has earned a reputation distinguishing it from all such towns throughout the Empire. In outward appearance this city is very much like every other of similar size. The streets are narrow, and the houses are crowded close up to each other. Every foot of land has been utilized, and no room has been left for sanitation, or for parks and open spaces, where the people may breathe the pure air of heaven. These things are modern inventions of the West and have never yet touched the thought or the life of the East, where sullen heat, fetid atmosphere, and stifling surroundings are the natural inheritance of the men and women who throng the cities and crowd and elbow each other in the great battle of life. There was one thing, however, for which this city was deservedly celebrated. It had a great reputation for learning, and was famous as the abode of scholars. In the main thoroughfares, where men with a dexterity begotten of long experience just managed to evade jostling each other, the long-gowned students were conspicuous by their numbers. Their pale intellectual faces, and their gleaming black eyes burning with hidden fires, marked them out distinctly from the farmers and artisans and coolies, with their coarser, heavier features, who moved along side by side with them. And down the narrow alley-ways, where fetid smells and impure airs floated the live-long day, one's ear would catch the shrill tones of more youthful students, who in unhealthy rooms were mastering aloud the famous classics of China, in order that in time they might compete in the triennial examinations for the prizes offered by the Empire to its scholars. The ambition for learning was in the air, and a belated wayfarer, wandering down the labyrinth of streets in the early hours of the morning, would hear the solemn stillness broken into by the voices of the students, as in their highest tones they repeated the writings of the great sages. The town was therefore dear to the God of Literature, who has ever been ready to champion the cause of his scholars, whenever anyone has dared to lay a hand upon their privileges. A legend in which there is widespread belief declares that on one occasion, when the scholars of five counties had assembled at a triennial examination, the Imperial Examiner, who for some reason or other had conceived a spite against the competitors from this particular city, determined that not one of them should pass. As their essays came into his hands, he carefully laid them in a pile close beside him on the table. The God of Literature, who was sitting in his shrine at the far end of the room, became indignant at the insult that was about to be put on his favourites, and breathed some classic phrases under his breath, to the effect that he would never allow such a wrong to be perpetrated as long as he had power to prevent it. The last paper had been examined and laid carefully on the top of the others, when, as if by a flash of lightning, the examiner was seized with a stroke of paralysis, and fell to the ground unconscious. That was the answer of the God to his evil schemes. The greatest dismay was exhibited by the under-officials of the examination. Thousands of students were waiting outside for the list to be issued of those who had passed, but the only man who had the power to prepare this list lay helpless in the grip of paralysis. Yet something must be done, and that speedily. As they looked over the manuscripts lying on the table, a little pile was discovered, evidently placed there by the examiner for some purpose of his own. One of the officials at once suggested that these must belong to the men who had gained their degrees. The idea was enthusiastically accepted as the correct one. There was no need for further delay. The names of the writers were hurriedly copied out and pasted up on the board in front of the Examination Hall. To the amazement of all the assembled scholars, the only men who had got their degrees were those belonging to the city favoured of the God. This was the God's second answer to the examiner, who would unjustly have excluded them from the honours of the day. There was another thing for which the people of this city were noted, and that was the pleasure taken by the leaders of society in recognizing those who displayed conspicuous civic virtues. Outside one of the four gates, and well beyond the streets and houses which had grown up as an overflow from the great city, there was a considerable open space, through the middle of which the main road meandered on its way to the countless towns and villages in the regions beyond, and finally to the far-off capital, Peking, thousands of miles away in the extreme north. It was a busy, much-frequented road, and the tread of human feet and the sound of the voices of passing travellers never ceased from early dawn until darkness had fallen and driven men to the shelter of the city. The striking feature about the long stretch of uninhabited land which bordered one side of this road was a magnificent series of memorial arches built in close succession to each other for a considerable distance. They were composed of granite slabs, some very plain in their design, whilst others were highly artistic, and had evidently been produced by men who were masters of their craft. The general plan and execution were the same in all, but the ornamentation in some was most elaborate, and filled one with pleasure and delight to look at it. Every one of these arches had been erected to commemorate some person who had already passed away, but whose virtues in life had been so conspicuous that the community had determined that they should not be forgotten, but that a record of them should be handed down to posterity, not only to keep their memory fragrant, but also to provide beautiful examples for succeeding generations. Amongst the virtues recorded on these granite slabs, the most common was that of filial piety. A son had distinguished himself by his devotion to his parents, and had sacrificed his very life in faithful service to them. In undying words the story was carved into the stone; and the two mystic characters, "Holy Will," in the centre of the middle arch showed that the Emperor had given his permission for the erection of this memorial to a virtue so admired by the whole Chinese nation. Other arches, almost as numerous as those raised to dutiful sons, were those setting forth the virtues of widows who had refused to marry again after their husbands had died. In one case a widow had been left in great straits, and had been compelled to struggle with poverty and privations of every kind. All these she might have avoided had she been willing to listen to the offers of marriage that were made to her. Nothing, however, could make her forget the allegiance which she believed she still owed to the man who had first won her heart, or induce her to neglect her duty to the children of her marriage. She could never consent to let them become the property of another man, who might despise and ill-treat them, and who at any rate would never have for them the kind of affection which would lead him to make the sacrifices necessary to help them towards gaining a better position in life. Accordingly, she struggled on, enduring the greatest sufferings in order to provide for the needs of her sons as they gradually grew up; and eventually, owing to the hardships which she had borne so heroically, they all passed with honour through their examinations into the service of the Emperor. On her death her story was forwarded to the capital, and his Majesty was so much moved by it that he gave his sanction for an arch to be erected to her memory, in order that for ages to come the crowds passing daily under its shadow might read the record of her self-sacrifice, and might learn how an admiring community had built this imperishable memorial of her wifely and motherly virtues. But of all the numerous arches spanning the road there was one which attracted more attention than any other in the long line. This was not because the virtues of the person, in whose honour it was raised, were so conspicuous, or because they so far outrivalled those recorded on the other arches, that men were constrained to stop and ponder over a life so remarkable for its heroism. On the contrary, no virtues of any kind were mentioned. On the central arch, in large letters cut into the granite stone, were the words: "The Wonderful Man"; and that was all. Not a word of explanation was given as to who this wonderful man was; not a hint as to the special story of his life. Scholars passing along the dusty road would catch a sight of this brief but cryptic inscription, and would at once be set wondering what a phrase so unclassical and so mysterious could possibly mean. They would walk round to the other side of the arch, to see if any explanation were afforded there. But no, the inscription was simply repeated in the same cold and veiled language; and so they would pass on, no wiser than before. Farmers, with produce of their own growing suspended from their shoulders on stout bamboo poles, would come along at their accustomed trot, and would gaze at these words, "The wonderful man," with a curious look on their faces. They were not profound scholars, for on account of their poverty they had been compelled to leave school before they had mastered the ancient characters which make up the Chinese written language; but they knew enough to read such simple words as these. But what did the words really mean? They would laugh and joke with each other about them as they sped on their way, and many a witty suggestion would be merrily thrown out as a solution of the mystery. The story that really lay behind this strange inscription was after all a most romantic and a most pathetic one. Many years before, in a village beyond the hills skirting the plain on which the city was built, there lived a family of three; that is to say, a man and his wife and their little son. It was a supremely happy home. The husband and wife were devotedly attached to each other, and the ambition of every family amongst the four hundred millions of China had been granted them; for they had a son, who in the future would perpetuate the father's name, and present at his grave sacrificial offerings which would reach him in the Land of Shadows and keep him from starvation there. The one great sorrow of the home was its poverty. There was no question but that they were exceedingly poor; and every morning, as the dawn broke upon them, they felt that they stood close up to the line beyond which lay hunger and even starvation. But China is full of homes in such a situation. In this respect, indeed, the country is a land of heroes and heroines, for with vast masses of the people it is a daily struggle for food. Millions scattered throughout the Empire never or very rarely get enough to eat, and yet with splendid and pathetic patience they set themselves to suffer and to die, sternly and uncomplainingly, as becomes an Imperial race such as the Chinese are. All that this particular family had to live upon were a few diminutive fields, which under the most favourable circumstances could produce barely enough sweet potatoes to keep body and soul together, and a scanty supply of vegetables with which to season them. If the rains failed and the potato vines were parched and blasted in their ridges by the great red-hot sun, then the husband had to look out for some other means of earning enough money to provide the bare necessaries of life for his little home. Sometimes he would engage himself as a porter to carry the produce of the larger farmers to the great market-town which lay ten miles distant; but even then he could earn only just enough to provide the most meagre fare for his family for a week or two at the very most. At other times he would secure better-paid employment by carrying a sedan-chair to some distant place, which would take him from home for several days at a time. He would return, it is true, with some goodly strings of cash, which would make his wife's eyes gleam with satisfaction at the possibilities they contained for at least another month of better food for them all; but it was dearly earned money. The man had not been trained as a chairbearer, and so had not learned the knack of manipulating the cross-bars, which rested on his shoulders, in such a way as to make the heavy burden less distressing to him. The result was that every time he returned from one of these expeditions, he was so seriously knocked up that for several days he had to lie in bed and refrain from all work. Time went on, and the severe strain of his labour, and the poor quality of the food upon which he had to live, and the constant wear and tear of a constitution that never had been very strong, told upon the poor, overworked father. Gradually he became a confirmed invalid, so that he could not perform even the lightest work on his little farm. The shadows of coming misfortune grew darker and blacker every day. Hope began to abandon the hearts of husband and wife, and the sound of the footsteps of cruel Fate could almost be heard, as they drew nearer and nearer. Still these two heroic souls uttered no complaints, and there were no signs of heartbreak, except occasionally when the wife's eyes overflowed with tears, which she brushed hastily away lest her husband should see them and be distressed. One night the storm was blowing a north-east gale outside, and the wind howled and moaned in such weird and doleful tones around the cottage, that it seemed as though some troubled spirit had been let loose to wail out a solemn requiem over a departing soul. The Chinese believe that the air is filled with demons who have a mortal hatred of human beings, and who are ever on the watch to compass their destruction. These evil spirits gather round when disaster is about to fall on a home. They stand with invisible forms and peer into the darkened room, where some one lies dying, and they breathe out their delight in unholy sounds that strike terror into the hearts of the watchers. In her anxiety about her husband the wife had not been able to sleep. Her heart throbbed with an infinite pain, and suppressed sobs now and again showed the anguish of her spirit. She began to realize, during this dreadful night, that her husband was exceedingly ill and might very probably die. The storm which raged outside, and the furious blasts and the uncanny sounds in the air, had terrified her and made her nervous. It was true that only that day she had gone to the nearest temple, and had been assured by the god that her husband was going to recover; but he had been growing steadily weaker and weaker, and now the tempest had broken her courage and filled her with an unspeakable dread. What a tumult there was outside! Whose were the hideous voices that shrieked round the building, and whose were the hands that tore at the doors and windows until they shook and rattled under their grasp? At last she could stand it no longer. She felt she must get up and see whether the mad and furious spirits, who had evidently gathered in force around the dwelling, were going to prove to be true prophets of evil. The room was in darkness, so she lit the tiny wick that lay in a saucer of oil, and, peering into her husband's face, she looked with all her heart in her eyes into his sunken features. He seemed to know her, for a wan and wintry smile flickered round his lips and died out in a moment. She gazed at him with an almost breaking heart, for her instinct told her that the greyness of his face and the sudden paling of his lips were the forerunners of death. A long-drawn sigh, and a sob or two, and the one who was the dearest to her in all the world had left her forever. After the funeral, which swallowed up everything she possessed, even to the very fields, which she had been compelled to sell in order to meet the expenses, the widow was left almost destitute. She was a woman, however, with a very strong character, and she realized the absolute necessity of making up her mind at once as to her course of action. That she should marry again seemed to every one the only course open to her; but this she determined she would never do. The memory of her dead husband was too precious to her, and besides it was her duty to rear up her little son to manhood, so that he might take his place amongst the scholars and thinkers of the Empire. Soon a scheme, as original as it was daring, sprang up within her brain. No one must ever learn what it was. It must be the secret of her life, which she should bury within her own bosom, and which not even her own son should ever know, if she could possibly help it. Having sold her cottage, she moved away to a quiet suburb outside the great city which was so renowned for learning. Then she discarded her woman's attire and dressed herself as a man. In no other way could she support herself and her child, for in China a woman is always under great disadvantages in the way of earning her own living. As a man, she knew that she could hold her own in any of the unskilled employments which she was capable of taking up. And so it turned out. She could carry as heavy a load as any of the men with whom she had to compete, and she was so civil and so well-behaved and so free from the use of profane language, that employers unaware of her sex used to pick her out in preference to others who offered themselves. The years went by, and her little son was growing up to be a fine young man. The mother had determined that he should be a scholar. This was the one ambition of her life, and for this she slaved and toiled and denied herself almost the very necessaries of life. Twenty years had passed since that stormy night. In the neighbouring city, the triennial examinations were just finished and the excitement was intense amongst the thousands of students who gathered round the Examination Hall to learn the names of the successful candidates. By-and-by the son came home with a light step and with his eyes flashing with delight. His excitement was so great that he could hardly utter distinctly the words which rushed from his lips. "Father," he cried, "the great desire of your heart and of mine has been granted to us to-day. I have passed, and that too with honours, for my name stands at the very top of the list of those who have been adjudged successful. And now, my beloved father, there will be no more hard work for you. My name will soon be flashed throughout the Province and will be posted in every Confucian guild, and scholars everywhere will speak with admiration of the great success I have won. My fortune has indeed been made, and it is due entirely to your self-denial, and to the sufferings and hardships you have consented to endure, during the long years of the past, that I have at length come into my kingdom, and that I need not be a labouring man, earning but a few cash a day, as you, my dear father, have been willing to do for the love of me." All the time her son was talking, the mother's face shone with delight, for the hopes and wishes of a lifetime had come to her with a rush that almost overpowered her. "Ah! if only my husband could have been with us now," she thought, "to share with us the supreme joy of this moment!" And her memory wandered back to that dreadful night, the blackest she had ever known in her life; and the roar of the storm which had thundered round the poor little shanty of a home and the ominous wailings of the spirits of evil which had struck a chill into her very blood, once more sounded in her ears as though the tragedy had happened only the night before. In the fulness of the new joy which had suddenly transformed his life, the son went on to talk of the plans that he had been mapping out for the future. There would be no lack of money any more, he said, for employment would open up to him in all directions. He would be invited by the wealthy men of the city to teach their sons. He was a notable scholar now, and men of means would compete with each other to secure his services. Before long too, he would be certain to obtain a government appointment which would bring riches into the home; and then his father would be a gentleman, and would live with him in his yamen, and be treated by all with honour and respect. And so with glowing face and glistening eyes, as the visions of the future rose up before him, the boy talked on with the enthusiasm of youth, whilst his mother gazed at him with admiring eyes. At last he suddenly stopped. The laughter died out of his countenance, and with a grave and solemn face he exclaimed, "Father, I want you to tell me where my mother is buried. I must arrange to go to her grave and make the proper offerings to her spirit, and tell her how her son has prospered, and how grateful he is to her. That is my duty as a filial son, and I must not delay in performing it." The young fellow did not notice the deadly pallor that spread over his parent's face as he uttered these words. He did not know that they produced a feeling of despair in the heart of his mother, for she now felt that she had come to the end of her life. She was a true and noble woman, with a high ideal of what a woman's life ought to be, and she dared not face the opinion of the world when it was discovered that she had lived as a man, and for many years had freely mingled with men. She had violated the laws of etiquette which regulate the conduct of women in every grade of society, and now the only thing left for her to do was to die. Next morning, at sunrise, when the son entered his father's room, as was his daily custom, he found him lying upon his bed, dead, but marvellous to say, dressed in a woman's clothes. That the death was not accidental could be seen at a glance. The body lay prepared as if for a funeral. The clothes and the dressing of the hair, and the other minute details necessary in laying out a body for burial, had all been attended to. No outside hands need touch her, and no curious or unsympathetic eyes be gratified by peering too deeply into the mystery of her life. The story spread with wonderful rapidity from the suburbs into the city. There it was discussed in every home, gentle and simple. The universal feeling was one of intense admiration for the devotion and heroism which had caused the mother to sacrifice her life for her son, and the mandarins and scholars petitioned the Emperor to issue an edict permitting an arch to be erected in order that the memory of such a noble woman should be kept alive for ever. This petition was granted; and it was decided that the inscription to be carved upon the arch should consist simply of these words: "THE WONDERFUL MAN." VIII THE GOD OF THE CITY One evening in the distant past a fisherman anchored his boat near the bank of a stream which flowed close by a great city, whose walls could be seen rising grey and rugged in the near distance. The sound of life fell upon his ear and kept him from feeling lonely. Coolies, with bamboo carrying-poles on their shoulders, tired out with the heavy work of the day, hurried by afraid lest the darkness should overtake them before they reached their homes. The bearers of sedan-chairs, which they had carried for many a weary mile, strode by with quickened step and with an imperious shout at the foot passengers to get out of their way and not block up the narrow road by which they would gain the city walls before the great gates were closed for the night. By the time that the afterglow had died out of the sky and the distant hills were blotted out of the horizon, the fisherman had finished the cooking of his evening meal. The rice sent a fragrant odour from the wide-mouthed pan in which it lay white and appetizing. A few of the very small fish he had caught in the river had been fried to a brown and savoury-looking colour, and he was just about to sit down and enjoy his supper when, happening to look round, he saw a stranger sitting in the after part of the boat. He was greatly amazed and was about to express his surprise, when something about the appearance of this unexpected visitor kept him spell-bound. For the stranger had a fine scholarly look about him, and the air of a man belonging to a good family. He had, moreover, a benevolent, kindly face, which could not fail to win the confidence of anyone who gazed upon it. Whilst the fisherman was wondering who his visitor was and how he had managed to come so mysteriously into the boat, the stranger said: "Allow me to explain who I am and to apologise for intruding on you without first having got your permission to do so. I am the spirit of a man who two years ago was drowned not very far from where your boat is now anchored. Many attempts have I made to inveigle others into the river, so that I might be free to leave the spot to which my miserable fate binds me until another unhappy wretch shall take my place." The spirit of a drowned person is condemned to hover round the spot where his life was lost, until, either by accident or by the wiles of the sufferer, someone else perishes in the water and thus takes the place of the spirit, which then travels with lightning speed to the Land of Shadows. "I was so dull this evening," continued the stranger, "that I felt impelled to come and have a chat with you for a short time. So I hope you will take my visit in good part, and allow me to sit in your boat until it is time for you to go to bed." The fisherman, who was greatly taken with his courtly visitor, expressed his great pleasure in receiving him, and invited him to share his evening meal and to make himself quite at home for as long as he liked. After this the solitary spirit of the river used frequently to come and spend an evening with the fisherman, until quite a friendship sprang up between them. One evening this ghostly visitor appeared with a face covered with smiles and with a glad note of joy in his voice. No sooner had he sat down than he said, "This is the last evening I shall be able to spend with you. The long weary time of waiting is now nearly at an end, and to-morrow another victim to the river will give me my release and you will see me no more." Now, the fisherman was a deeply benevolent man, and he was most anxious to see what unhappy person was to be drowned on the morrow. About midday, as he was watching by the river-side, he saw a poor woman, weeping and sobbing, come rushing with hasty steps towards the water. Her hair was dishevelled, and her eyes red with tears, and frequent cries of sorrow burst from her lips. Straight as an arrow she made for the stream, and was just preparing to throw herself into it, when the fisherman in a loud and commanding voice told her to stop. He then asked her what was the matter and what reason there was for her to sacrifice her life in the river. "I am a most unhappy woman," she replied. "On my way home just now I was waylaid by a footpad, who robbed me of some money that I was taking back to my husband. This money was to pay a debt we owed to a man who threatens us with the severest penalties if we do not give it to him to-day. Far rather would I face death than see the sorrow which would overwhelm my husband if I told him my sorrowful story." Having asked her how much money had been taken from her, the fisherman presented the woman with the exact amount, and soon she was proceeding with joyful footsteps in the direction of her home. That same evening the fisherman was again visited by the spirit who had bidden him an eternal farewell the previous evening. "What did you mean," asked the visitor, "by depriving me of the one chance I had of gaining my freedom?" "I could not bear to see the sorrow of the poor woman," replied the fisherman, "nor to think of the tragedy to her home had she perished in the stream, and so I saved her." With eloquent lips he proceeded to describe the beauty of benevolence, and urged upon his guest the nobler course of trying to save life even at the expense of his own happiness. In the end the latter was so deeply moved that he promised never again to make any attempt to gain his liberty through another's death, even though this should mean that he would have to spend long ages of misery in the fatal stream. Years went by, and yet for the imprisoned spirit there came no release. Cases of suicide or accidental drowning in the flowing stream ceased altogether. Many a life that would have perished was saved from destruction by mysterious warnings which came from the sullen water, and which terrified away the would-be suicides as they were about to hurl themselves into it. At length Kwan-yin, the Goddess of Mercy, moved by the sight of such a generous sacrifice of self in order to save the souls of unfortunate people who had become weary of life, released this noble spirit from its watery prison. Moreover, as she felt convinced that such a man could safely be entrusted with the destinies of those who might appear before his tribunal, she made him a god and decreed that temples should be erected to him in every town and city of the Empire, so that all who were suffering wrong or injustice could have their causes righted at the shrine of one who had shown such profound devotion and sympathy for others in distress. Such is the story of the God of the City. Since he is regarded as the representative of the dread ruler of the Land of Shadows, his temple has been erected very much in the same style as the courts of the Mandarins. Its main entrance is large and imposing, and the great gates suggest those of the yamen of some high official. Within these is an immense courtyard, paved with slabs of granite, and on each side of this there are six life-size statues of the "runners," or policemen, of the god, who stand ready to carry out his decisions, and to pursue and capture by invisible and mysterious processes those whom he has condemned as guilty. The faces of these figures are distorted by passion, and their attitudes are such as men might be conceived to assume in apprehending some notorious criminal whom Yam-lo had ordered to be seized. At the end of this spacious courtyard is the shrine of the god, but he is so hidden behind a yellow curtain that it is impossible to catch a glimpse of his image. In front of him are statues of his two secretaries, who, with huge pens in their hands, stand ready day and night to take down the petitions and indictments laid before the god by those who are in sorrow or who are suffering wrong. One afternoon the peace of such a temple was suddenly disturbed by a noisy clamour outside, and the sound of hurried footsteps as of a crowd rushing through the main gates. Two men advanced with rapid, excited strides straight past the demon policeman at the door, who seemed to scowl with added ferocity as they gazed at the actors in a scene with which they would have much to do by-and-by. The two men were quite young, a little over twenty; and behind them followed a string of idlers and loafers and street arabs, who seem to spring up like magic when anything unusual happens. One of the young men was slightly ahead of the crowd. His face was flushed and his black eyes sparkled with excitement, whilst in his left hand he carried a large white cock. He was the complainant, and his purpose in coming to the temple was to appeal to the god to vindicate his honour. He took his stand in front of the idol, and the secretaries, with pens in their hands, seemed to put on a strained look of attention as the young fellow produced a roll of paper and began to read the statement he had drawn up. It was diffuse and wordy, as most of such documents are, but the main facts were quite plain. The two young men were assistants in a shop in the city. Some little time before, the master of the shop, without telling either of them, concealed in a chosen place a sum of one hundred dollars, which he wished to have in readiness in order to pay for certain goods he had purchased. The previous day, when he went to get the money on the presentation of the bill, he found to his horror that it had disappeared. He had told no one of this secret hoard, not even his wife; and therefore he felt convinced that in some way or other one of his two assistants had discovered his hiding-place. For some reason his suspicions became aroused against the man who was now detailing his grievances, and who was appealing to the god to set in motion all the tremendous forces at his command, not only to proclaim his innocence but also to bring condign punishment on the real culprit. The scene was a weird and fascinating one, and became most exciting as the young man neared the end of his appeal. He called upon the god to hurl all the pains and penalties in his unseen armoury against the man who had really stolen the money. "Let his life be one long torture," he cried with uplifted hands. "May every enterprise in which he engages end in disaster; may his father and mother die, and let him be left desolate; may a subtle and incurable disease lay its grip upon him; may misfortune pursue him in every shape and form; may he become a beggar with ulcered legs and sit on the roadside and beseech the passers-by, in sunshine and in storm, for a few cash that will just help to keep him alive; may he never have a son to perpetuate his name or to make offerings to his spirit in the Land of Shadows; may madness seize upon him so that his reason shall fly and he shall be a source of terror to his fellow-men; and finally, may a tragic and horrible death bring his life to a sudden end, even as I bring to an end the life of this white cock that I have brought with me." As he uttered these last words he grasped a chopper, and with one sharp and vicious blow cut off the head of the struggling animal, which wildly fluttered its wings in the agonies of death, whilst its life-blood poured out in a stream on the ground. He then took his petition, and advancing close up to the secretaries, who seemed for the moment to gaze down upon him with a look of sympathy on their faces, he set fire to it and burned it to ashes. In this way it passed into the hands of the god, who would speedily set in motion unseen machinery to bring down upon the head of the guilty one the judgments which had just been invoked. The sympathies of the crowd were with the man who had sworn a solemn oath that he was innocent of the theft. The other young fellow, who had said little or nothing during the proceedings, was believed to be the real culprit, but there was no evidence upon which he could be convicted. The god knew, however, and every one was satisfied that in due time punishment would descend upon the transgressor. In a few minutes the temple resumed its normal aspect, for with the disappearance of the two principal actors in the scene, the idlers from the street slowly dispersed, each one loudly expressing his opinion as to the merits of the question in dispute. With the dissolving of the crowd, it would have seemed to the casual observer that no further proceedings were to be taken in the matter. The god's face wore its usually placid look, unmoved by the shifting panorama of human life which ebbed and flowed in front of him from morning till night. The ghastly-looking policemen, with their grinning visages and ferocious scowls and contorted bodies, remained in the same unchanging postures by the main entrance. A week or two had gone by since the appeal had been made to the god, when those who were following the case and were looking out for some grim evidence that the god was at work in bringing retribution on the man whom everyone suspected of being the thief, were startled by a heartrending catastrophe. This man had a sister, just bursting into womanhood, who was the very light of her home. Her merry laugh could be heard throughout the day, so that sadness could not long abide in the same house. Her face, too, seemed to have been formed to match her sunny smiles, and was a constant inspiration that never failed to give those who looked upon it a brighter view of life. One morning she went down to the river-bank with several of her neighbours to do the household washing. The stream was strong and rapid in the centre, but the place which these women had selected for their work had always been considered perfectly safe, for it was outside the current and no accident had ever happened there. They had finished all that they had purposed to do, and were ascending the bank to return home, when they heard an agonized cry and turning swiftly round they perceived that this young girl had stumbled and fallen into the river. They were so horrified at the accident that they lost all presence of mind and allowed the fast-flowing stream to get a grip of her and drag her into the current. When help at last came, her body could just be seen floating on the troubled waters, and before a boat could be launched it had disappeared in the waves of the sea which tumbled and roared about a quarter of a mile further down. This terrible disaster, which brought unutterable gloom and sorrow upon the home, was unquestionably the work of the god. With bated breath people talked of the tragic end of this beautiful girl, who had won her way into the hearts of all who knew her; but they recognized that her death had been caused by no mere accident, but by the mysterious power of the invisible forces which are always at work to bring punishment upon those who have violated the Righteousness of Heaven. About a month after this calamity, the monsoon rains began to fall. The clouds gathered in dense masses upon the neighbouring hills, and poured down such copious showers that the mountain streams were turned into roaring avalanches, tearing their way down to the sea with an impetuosity that nothing could resist. One of these streams, which used to run by the side of the ancestral property of the family of the man who was believed to have stolen the hundred dollars, overflowed its banks and rushing along with mad and headlong speed it swept away their fields, so that when the rains ceased not a trace of them was to be found, but only sand and gravel, from which no crop could ever be gathered in the future. The consequence was that the family was utterly ruined. This second disaster falling on the homestead was a clear indication to everyone who knew the story of the stolen money that the god was still at work in bringing retribution on the sinner. The fact that other farms had come out of the flood undamaged was proof positive of this. From this time, too, the young man who really was the culprit began to be troubled in his mind because of the calamities that had fallen on his family. The death of his sister by drowning, and the utter destruction of his home by the flood, which had injured no other farmer in the neighbourhood, were plain indications that the curses which his falsely accused fellow-assistant had prayed the god to bring down on the head of the guilty party were indeed coming fast and thick upon him. A dread of coming evil took possession of him, and this so preyed upon his mind that he began to lose his reason. He would go about muttering to himself, and declaring that he saw devils. These fits grew upon him, until at last he became raving mad, and had to be seized and bound with ropes to prevent him doing injury to himself or to others. At times he suffered from violent spasms of mania, while at others, again, though undoubtedly insane, he was quiet and subdued. He would then talk incessantly to himself, and bemoan the sad fact that the dread God of the City was sending evil spirits to torment him because he had purloined the hundred dollars belonging to his master. By-and-by these random confessions attracted the attention of his heart-broken father, who used to sit watching by his side, and they became so frequent and so circumstantial, describing even where the money had been hidden, that at last he determined to examine into the matter. Investigations were made, and the whole sum was found in the very place which the young man had mentioned in his delirium, and was at once returned to the shopkeeper. As the money had been given back, and the father and mother were dependent upon their only son to provide for them in their old age, the man who had entered the accusation before the god was entreated again to appear before him in his temple and withdraw the charges that he had previously made against his fellow-assistant. Only in this formal and legal way could the god have official knowledge of the fact that reparation had been made for the offence which had been committed; and if this were not done he would still continue to send sorrow after sorrow until the whole family were involved in absolute ruin or death. Out of pity for the old couple the other young man consented to take the necessary steps. He accordingly presented a petition to the god, stating that he wished to withdraw the accusation which he had made against a certain man who had been suspected of theft. The stolen money had been returned to its owner, and the god was now besought to stay all further proceedings and forgive the culprit for the wrong he had done. It was evident that this petition was granted, for at once the young man began to recover, and soon all signs of madness left him. He had, however, learned a lesson which he never forgot; and as long as he lived he never committed another offence such as the theft which had brought such serious consequences upon himself and his family. IX THE TRAGEDY OF THE YIN FAMILY In a certain district in one of the central provinces of China, there lived a man of the name of Yin. He was possessed of considerable property, with a great ambition to become distinguished in life. The one desire of his heart, which seemed to master every other, was that his family should become an aristocratic one. So far as he knew, none of his immediate predecessors had ever been a conspicuous scholar, or had gained any honour in the great triennial examinations. The result was that his family was a plebeian one, from which no mandarin had ever sprung. In what way, then, could he secure that the fame and dignities, which had come to some of the clans in the region in which he lived, should descend upon his home and upon his grandsons? He was a rich man, it is true, but he was entirely illiterate, and all his money had been made in trade. As a lad his education had been neglected, for his early life had been spent in the mere struggle for existence. He had been more than successful, but the honours of the student never could be his, and never could he act as one of the officials of the Empire. It occurred to him, however, that though it was impossible that he himself should ever be classed amongst the great scholars of China, his sons and grandsons might be so honoured. In that case the glory of their success would be reflected upon him, and men would talk of him as the head of a family which had become distinguished for scholarship and high dignities in the State. He finally came to the conclusion that the most effectual way of accomplishing this was to secure a lucky burying-ground in which he could lay the bodies of his father and his grandfather, who had departed this life some years before. The universal belief that in some mysterious way the dead have the power of showering down wealth and honours and prosperity upon the surviving members of their families, was held most tenaciously by Mr. Yin. This belief pointed out to him how he could emerge from the common and dreary road along which his ancestors had travelled, into the one where royal favours and official distinction would mark out his posterity in the future. As he had retired from business, he was able to spend nearly the whole of his time in searching the country for the spots where certain unseen forces are supposed to collect with such dominant and overmastering power that the body of any person laid to rest amongst them will be found to dispense untold riches and dignities upon his nearest relatives. Accordingly, attended by a professor of the art, whose study of this intricate science enable him to detect at a glance the places which fulfilled the required conditions, Yin made frequent excursions in the regions around his home. The valleys through which the streams ran, and where the sound of the running waters could be heard day and night as they sang their way to the sea, were all explored. Wherever water and hills were to be found in a happy conjunction, there these two men were to be seen peering over the ground, and with the aid of a compass which the professor carried with him in a cloth bag, marking whether the lines upon which they ran indicated that the mysterious Dragon had his residence beneath. Innumerable places were carefully examined, and whilst some of them would have been admirably suited for a person of ordinary ambition, they did not satisfy the large expectations for the future which were cherished by Mr. Yin. The rising knolls and winding streams and far-off views of hills lying in the mist-like distance, showed perhaps that moderate prosperity would be the lot of those whose kindred might be buried there; but there were no signs of preëminence in scholarship, or of mandarins riding on horseback or in sedan-chairs, with great retinues attending them, as they proceeded in haughty dignity through the streets of the city in which they lived as rulers. Such places were therefore rejected as unsuitable. Days and months went by in this search for a spot with which the fortunes of the Yin family were to be linked for many generations yet to come; but every place failed in some one or two particulars which would have marred the splendid prospect that ambition had pictured before the vision of this wealthy man. At last, as they were sauntering along one day with eyes keen and alert, they stayed for a moment to rest on the top of a low hill which they had just ascended. Hardly had they cast a rapid glance over the beautiful scenery that lay stretched out before them, before the professor, with flashing eyes and unusual enthusiasm, exclaimed with excitement in his voice, "See! this is the very place we have been looking for all these days! "No more suitable spot could have been found in the whole of China than this. We stand, as it were, in the centre of a great amphitheatre in which have been gathered the finest forces of Fung-Shuy. Behind us the hill rises in a graceful semi-circular form to shield the spot, where the dead shall lie buried, from the northern blasts, and from the fierce and malignant spirits that come flying on the wings of the great gales which blow with the touch of the ice and snow in them. "On the plain in front of us, scattered over its surface, are gentle risings showing where the Dragon lies reposing, waiting to dispense its favours to all who come within its magic influence. And then, behold how the river winds in and out, seemingly unwilling to leave a place where unseen influences are at work to enrich the homes and gladden the hearts of the men and women of this region. See how it flows out with a hasty rush towards the sea beyond, and how it threads its way round yonder cape and is lost to view. Then mark again how it would seem as though some force it could not control had swung it round in its course, for it winds back upon the plain with gleaming eyes and joyous looks as if it were glad to return once more towards the distant mountains from whence it took its rise. "The meaning of all this is," he continued, "that the prosperity, which the Dragon will bestow upon the living through the ministry of the dead lying within its domain, shall not soon pass away, but like the river that we see meandering before us, shall stay and comfort for many a long year those to whom it has been granted. "That riches will come is certain, and official rank, and honours as well; for cast your eyes upon yonder ridge gleaming in the morning sun, and note the figure which rises up distinct and well-defined from its summit. It is simply a rock, it is true, but mark well its contour and you will note how the outline grows upon your vision until it assumes the form of a mandarin in full official robes standing with his face towards us. "I would strongly advise you," concluded the professor, "to secure this plot of land on which we stand, whatever it may cost you, for every ambition that has ever filled your soul shall in time be satisfied by the wealth and honours which not only the Dragon but all his attendant spirits shall combine to pour into your home." Yin was entranced with the prospect which was pictured before him in such glowing language by the man at his side, and he heartily agreed with the proposal that he should stay his search and purchase the ground on which they were standing as a cemetery for his family. Just at this moment a man came sauntering along to see what these two strangers were doing in this out-of-the-way place, to which no road ran and from which no by-paths led to the villages beyond. "Can you tell me, my man," asked Yin, "to whom this piece of land belongs?" "Yes, I can easily do that," he replied. "Do you see that dilapidated-looking cottage down by the riverside? Well, it is occupied by a man named Lin, together with his wife and a daughter about nineteen years of age. They are exceedingly poor, as you can see by their house. The only property Lin possesses is this plot of ground, which has come down to him from his forefathers, and which he hopes one day to dispose of to some well-to-do person as a burying-ground that may bring him good luck." "I am very willing to buy the land, if I can only get it at a reasonable price," replied Yin, "and I shall be glad if you will consent to act as middleman and negotiate the matter for me. You might go at once and see Lin, and find out what are the terms upon which he is willing to transfer the property to me." On the morrow the middle-man returned and reported to Yin that Lin would on no consideration consent to let him have the ground. "The fact is," he continued, "that Lin has a settled purpose in his mind with which this particular plot of land has a good deal to do. He and his wife are getting on in years, and when the daughter is married off he is afraid that his branch of the family will become extinct; so he plans to get a husband for her who will come into the home and act the part of a son as well as that of son-in-law." So determined, however, was Yin to gain possession of this particular piece of land that after considerable negotiations during which it seemed as though the old father would never be moved from his settled purpose, it was finally agreed that his daughter should be married to Yin's eldest son, Shung, and that her father and mother should remove to rooms in Yin's family mansion, where they should be maintained by him in ease and comfort as long as they lived. Had Yin been a large-hearted and generous person, this plan would have been an ideal one, but seeing that he was by nature a stingy, money-grubbing individual, it was attended with the most tragic results. No sooner had the deeds of the coveted plot of ground been passed over to him than Yin had the body of his father, who had been buried in a place far removed from the influence of the Dragon, transferred to this new location, where he would be in touch with the higher spirits of the Underworld. Here, also, he could catch the eye of the mandarin, who day and night would have his face turned towards him, and who from the very fact of the sympathy that would grow up between them, must in time give him the mysterious power of turning his grandsons, and their sons after them, into scholars, who would obtain high positions in the service of the State. In the meanwhile preparations were being made for the marriage of the young maiden of low degree to a man in a much higher social position than she could ever have aspired to in the ordinary course of events. Pearl was a sweet, comely-looking damsel, who would have made a model wife to one of her own station in life, but who was utterly unsuited for the new dignity which would be thrust upon her as soon as she crossed the threshold of the wealthy family of Yin. She was simply a peasant girl, without education and without refinement. Her days had been passed amidst scenes of poverty, and though she was a thoroughly good girl, with the high ideals that the commonest people in China everywhere have, her proper position was after all amongst the kind of people with whom she had lived all her life. Her father and mother had indeed all along been doubtful about the propriety of marrying their daughter into a family so much above them as the Yins, and for a long time they had stood out against all the arguments in favour of it. Finally, overborne by the impetuosity of Yin, and dazzled with the prospects which such an alliance offered not only to the girl herself but also to themselves by the agreement to keep them in comfort for the rest of their lives, they had given an unwilling consent. In order that Pearl should suffer as little disgrace as possible when she appeared amongst her new relations, her father sold all his available belongings in order to procure suitable wedding-garments for her. His idea, however, of the fitness of things had been gathered from the humble surroundings in which he had lived all his days, and the silks and satins and expensive jewellery that adorn the brides of the wealthy had never come within the vision of his dreams. Still Pearl was a pretty girl, and with her piercing black eyes which always seemed to be suffused with laughter, and with a smile which looked like a flash from a summer sky, she needed but little adornment, and would have won the heart of any man who had the soul to appreciate a true woman when he saw one. At last the day came, hurried on by the eager desire of Yin to have the whole thing settled, when the humble home was to be given up and its inmates transferred to the rich house that lay just over a neighbouring hill. A magnificent bridal chair, whose brilliant crimson colour made it a conspicuous object on the grey landscape, wound its way towards the cottage where the bride was attired all ready to step into it the moment it appeared at the door. In front of it there marched a band, making the country-side resound with weird notes which seemed to fly on the air with defiance in their tones, and to send their echoes mounting to the tops of the hills and piercing down into the silent valleys. There were also crowds of retainers and dependants of the wealthy man. These were dressed in semi-official robes, and flocked along with smiling faces and joyous shouts. The occasion was a festal one, and visions of rare dishes and of generous feasting, kept up for several days, filled the minds of the happy procession as it went to meet the bride. The return of the party was still more boisterous in its merriment. The members of the band seemed inspired by the occasion and sent forth lusty strains, whilst the instruments, as if aware how much depended upon them, responded to the efforts of the performers and filled the air with joyful notes. A distinguished company had assembled to receive the bride, as she was led by her husband from the crimson chair and advanced with timid steps and faltering heart into the room that had been prepared for her reception. As she entered the house something in the air struck a chill into her heart and caused the hopes of happiness, which she had been cherishing, to die an almost instant death. Shung, her husband, was a man of ignoble mind, and had always objected to marrying a woman so far beneath him. The sight of his bride, with her rustic air, and the ill-made commonplace-looking clothes in which she was dressed, made his face burn with shame, for he knew that a sneer was lurking on the face of everyone who had gathered to have a look at her. A profound feeling of hatred entered his narrow soul, and as the days went by the one purpose of his life was to humiliate this sweet-tempered woman, who had been sacrificed simply to further the ambitious schemes of her designing father-in-law, Mr. Yin. For a few weeks he simply ignored her, but by degrees he treated her so cruelly that many a time she had serious thoughts of putting an end to her life. It soon turned out that a systematic attempt was being made by both father and son to get rid of the whole family. The old father and mother, whom Yin had agreed to provide for during the rest of their lives, found things so intolerable that they voluntarily left the miserable quarters assigned to them and returned to their empty cottage. Every stick of furniture had been sold in order to buy their daughter's wedding garments, so that when they reached their old home they found absolutely nothing in it. With a few bundles of straw they made up a bed on the floor, but there was no food to eat, and not a single thing to comfort them in this their hour of darkest misery. Sorrow for their daughter, and disappointment and anguish of heart at the thought of how they had been tricked and cheated by Mr. Yin in order that he might gain possession of their bit of land, so told upon their spirits that they both fell ill of a low fever, which laid them prostrate on their bed of straw. As they lived remote from other people, for some time no one knew that they were sick. Days went by without anyone visiting them, and when at last one kindly-hearted farmer came to make enquiries, he found to his horror that both husband and wife lay dead, side by side, in their miserable cabin. The news of their death produced the greatest pleasure in the mind of the wretched man who was really the cause of it. He was now freed from the compact compelling him to provide for them during their life, and so there would be an actual saving of the money which he would have had to spend in providing them with food and clothing. A cruel, wintry smile lingered on his hard face for several days after the poor old couple had been lain to rest on the hillside near their cottage, and this was the only look of mourning his features ever assumed. From this time Pearl's life became more and more of a burden to her. Love, the one element which would have filled her heart with happiness, was the one thing that was never offered her. Instead of affection there were cruel, cutting words and scornful looks and heavy blows--all these were plentifully bestowed upon her by the soulless man who was called her husband. At length, to show his utter contempt and abhorrence of her, he arranged with the connivance of his father to bring a concubine into his home. This lady came from a comparatively good family, and was induced to take this secondary position because of the large sum of money that was paid to her father for her. The misery of Pearl was only intensified by her appearance on the scene. Following the lead of her husband, and jealous of the higher position in the family that the law gave her rival, she took every means that a spiteful woman could devise to make her life still more miserable. The death of her parents had filled Pearl's heart with such intense grief and sorrow that life had lost all its charm for her. She saw, moreover, from the sordid rejoicing that was openly made at their tragic end, that the Yins would never be satisfied until she too had followed them into the Land of Shadows. She would therefore anticipate the cruel purposes of her husband and his father, and so deliver herself from a persecution that would only cease with her death. So one midnight, when all the rest of the family were asleep, and nothing was heard outside but the moaning of the wind which seemed as though it was preparing to sing a requiem over her, she put an end to all her earthly troubles by hanging herself in her own room. When the body was found next day, suspended from a hook in one of the beams, a great cry of delight was uttered by Yin and his son. Without any violence on their part they had been set free from their alliance with this low-class family, and at a very small cost they had obtained firm possession of the land which was to enrich and ennoble their descendants. And so whilst the poor girl lay dead, driven to an untimely end by spirits more fierce and malignant than any that were supposed to be flying with hatred in their hearts in the air around, smiles and laughter and noisy congratulations were indulged in by the living ghouls whose persecution had made this sweet-tempered woman's life unbearable. But retribution was at hand. Heaven moves slowly in the punishment of the wicked, but its footsteps are sure and they travel irresistibly along the road that leads to vengeance on the wrongdoer. One dark night, when the sky was overcast and neither moon nor stars were to be seen, and a storm of unusual violence was filling the air with a tumult of fierce and angry meanings, a weird and gruesome scene was enacted at the grave where the father of Yin had been buried. Hideous sounds of wailing and shrieking could be heard, as though all the demons of the infernal regions had assembled there to hold a night of carnival. Louder than the storm, the cries penetrated through the shrillest blasts, and people in their homes far away were wakened out of their sleep by the unearthly yells which froze their blood with terror. At last a thunderbolt rolled from the darkened heavens, louder than ever mortal man had heard. The lightnings flashed, and concentrating all their force upon the grave just where the coffin lay, they tore up a huge chasm in the earth, and gripping the coffin within their fiery fingers, they tossed it with disdain upon a hillside a mile away. After a long search, Yin discovered it next day in the lonely spot where it had been cast, and was returning to make arrangements for its interment, when in a lonely part of the road two unearthly figures suddenly rose up before him. These, to his horror, he recognized as the spirits of Pearl's father and mother who had practically been done to death by him, and whom Yam-lo had allowed to revisit the earth in order to plague the man who was the author of their destruction. So terrified was Yin at their wild and threatening aspect, that he fell to the ground in a swoon, and thus he was found, hours afterwards, by his son, who had come out in search of him. For several days he was tended with the greatest care, and the most famous physicians were called in to prescribe for him. He never rallied, however, and there was always a vague and haunted look in his eyes, as though he saw some terrible vision which frightened away his reasoning powers and prevented him from regaining consciousness. In this condition he died, without a look of recognition for those he loved, and without a word of explanation as to the cause of this tragic conclusion of a life that was still in its prime. The eldest son was now master of his father's wealth; but instead of learning a lesson from the terrible judgment which had fallen on his home because of the injustice and wrong that had been committed on an innocent family, he only became more hard-hearted in his treatment of those who were within his power. He never dreamed of making any reparation for the acts of cruelty by which he had driven his wife to hang herself in order to escape his tyranny. But the steps of Fate were still moving on towards him. Leaden-footed they might be and slow, but with unerring certainty they were travelling steadily on to carry out the vengeance of the gods. By-and-by the room in which Pearl had died became haunted. Her spectral figure could be seen in the gloaming, flitting about and peering out of the door with a look of agony on her face. Sometimes she would be seen in the early dawn, restless and agitated, as though she had been wandering up and down the whole night; and again she would flit about in the moonlight and creep into the shadow of the houses, but always with a ghost of the old look that had made her face so winning and so charming when she was alive. When it was realized that it was her spirit which was haunting the house, the greatest alarm and terror were evinced by every one in it. There is nothing more terrible than the appearance of the spirits of those who have been wronged, for they always come with some vengeful purpose. No matter how loving the persons themselves may have been in life, with death their whole nature changes and they are filled with the most passionate desire to inflict injury and especially death upon the object of their hatred. The course of ill-usage which her husband Shung had cruelly adopted in order to drive Pearl to commit suicide was known to every one, and that she should now appear to wreak vengeance on him was not considered at all wonderful; but still every one was mortally afraid lest they should become involved in the punishment that was sure to be meted out. As the ghost continued to linger about and showed no signs of disappearing, Shung was at last seized with apprehension lest some calamity was about to fall upon his house. In order to protect himself from any unexpected attack from the spirit that wandered and fluttered about in the darkest and most retired rooms in his home, he provided himself with a sword which he had ground down to a very sharp edge and which he carried in his hand ready uplifted to lunge at Pearl should she dare to attack him. One evening, unaware that his concubine was sitting in a certain room on which the shadows had thickly fallen, he was entering it for some purpose, when the spirit of his late wife gripped his hand with an overmastering force which he felt himself unable to resist, and forced him to strike repeated blows against the poor defenceless woman. Not more than a dozen of these had been given before she was lying senseless on the ground, breathing out her life from the gaping wounds through which her life-blood was flowing in streams. When the grip of the ghost had relaxed its hold upon him and he felt himself free to look at what he had done, Shung was horrified beyond measure as he gazed with staring eyes upon the dreadful sight before him, and realized the judgment that had come upon him for the wrongs he had done to Pearl and her family. As soon as the news of the murder of the woman was carried to her father, he entered a complaint before the nearest mandarin, who issued a warrant for Shung's apprehension. At his trial he attempted to defend himself by declaring that it was not he who had killed his concubine, but an evil spirit which had caught hold of his arm and had directed the blows that had caused her death. The magistrate smiled at this extraordinary defence, and said that Shung must consider him a great fool if he thought for a moment that he would be willing to accept such a ridiculous excuse for the dreadful crime he had committed. As Shung was a wealthy man and had the means of bribing the under-officials in the yamen, his case was remanded in order to see how much money could be squeezed out of him before the final sentence was given. The murder--apparently without reason or provocation--of a woman who had been a member of a prominent family in society, produced a widespread feeling of indignation, and public opinion was strong in condemnation of Shung. Every one felt that there ought to be exemplary punishment in his case; otherwise any man who had only money enough might be able to defy all the great principles established by Heaven for the government of society and for the prevention of crime. In order to make it easy for Shung whilst he was in prison, his mother had to spend large sums in bribing every one connected with the yamen. Never before had such an opportunity for reaping a golden harvest been presented to the avaricious minions entrusted by the Emperor with the administration of justice amongst his subjects. In her anxiety for her son the poor woman sold field after field to find funds wherewith to meet the demands of these greedy officials. Dark hints had simply to be thrown out by some of these that Shung was in danger of his life, and fresh sales would be made to bribe the mandarin to be lenient in his judgment of him. At length the property had all been disposed of, and when it was known that no further money could be obtained, sentence was given that Shung should be imprisoned for life. This was a cruel blow to his mother, who had all along hoped that he might be released. Full of sorrow and absolutely penniless in a few weeks she died of a broken heart, whilst the son, seeing nothing but a hopeless imprisonment before him, committed suicide and thus ended his worthless life. This tragic extinction of a family, which only a short year before was in the highest state of prosperity, was accepted by every one who heard the story as a just and righteous punishment from Heaven. For Heaven is so careful of human life that any one who destroys it comes under the inevitable law that he too shall in his turn be crushed under the wheels of avenging justice. X SAM-CHUNG AND THE WATER DEMON Sam-chung was one of the most famous men in the history of the Buddhist Church, and had distinguished himself by the earnestness and self-denial with which he had entered on the pursuit of eternal life. His mind had been greatly exercised and distressed at the pains and sorrows which mankind were apparently doomed to endure. Even those, however, terrible as they were, he could have managed to tolerate had they not ended, in the case of every human being, in the crowning calamity which comes upon all at the close of life. Death was the great mystery which cast its shadow on every human being. It invaded every home. The sage whose virtues and teachings were the means of uplifting countless generations of men came under its great law. Men of infamous and abandoned character seemed often to outlive the more virtuous of their fellow-beings; but they too, when the gods saw fit, were hurried off without any ceremony. Even the little ones, who had never violated any of the laws of Heaven, came under this universal scourge; and many of them, who had only just commenced to live were driven out into the Land of Shadows by this mysterious force which dominates all human life. Accordingly Sam-Chung wanted to be freed from the power of death, so that its shadow should never darken his life in the years to come. After careful enquiry, and through friendly hints from men who, he had reason to believe, were fairies in disguise and had been sent by the Goddess of Mercy to help those who aspired after a higher life, he learned that it was possible by the constant pursuit of virtue to arrive at that stage of existence in which death would lose all its power to injure, and men should become immortal. This boon of eternal life could be won by every man or woman who was willing to pay the price for so precious a gift. It could be gained by great self-denial, by willingness to suffer, and especially by the exhibition of profound love and sympathy for those who were in sorrow of any kind. It appeared, indeed, that the one thing most imperatively demanded by the gods from those who aspired to enter their ranks was that they should be possessed of a divine compassion, and that their supreme object should be the succouring of distressed humanity. Without this compassion any personal sacrifice that might be made in the search for immortality would be absolutely useless. Sam-Chung was already conscious that he was a favourite of the gods, for they had given him two companions, both with supernatural powers, to enable him to contend against the cunning schemes of the evil spirits, who are ever planning how to thwart and destroy those whose hearts are set upon higher things. One day, accompanied by Chiau and Chu, the two attendants commissioned by the Goddess of Mercy to attend upon him, Sam-Chung started on his long journey for the famous Tien-ho river, to cross which is the ambition of every pilgrim on his way to the land of the Immortals. They endured many weeks of painful travelling over high mountains and through deep valleys which lay in constant shadow, and across sandy deserts where men perished of thirst or were struck down by the scorching heat of the sun, before they met any of the infernal foes that they expected to be lying in wait for them. Weary and footsore, they at last arrived one evening on the shores of the mighty Tien-ho, just as the sun was setting. The glory of the clouds in the west streamed on to the waters of the river, and made them sparkle with a beauty which seemed to our wearied travellers to transform them into something more than earthly. The river here was so wide that it looked like an inland sea. There was no sign of land on the distant horizon, nothing but one interminable vista of waters, stretching away as far as the eye could reach. One thing, however, greatly disappointed Sam-Chung and his companions, and that was the absence of boats. They had planned to engage one, and by travelling across the river during the night, they hoped to hurry on their way and at the same time to rest and refresh themselves after the fatigues they had been compelled to endure on their long land journey. It now became a very serious question with them where they were to spend the night. There was no sign of any human habitation round about. There was the sandy beach along which they were walking, and there was the wide expanse of the river, on which the evening mists were slowly gathering; but no appearance of life. Just as they were wondering what course they should pursue, the faint sound of some musical instruments came floating on the air and caught their ear. Hastening forward in the direction from which the music came, they ascended a piece of rising ground, from the top of which they were delighted to see a village nestling on the hillside, and a small temple standing on the very margin of the river. With hearts overjoyed at the prospect of gaining some place where they could lodge for the night, they hurried forward to the hamlet in front of them. As they drew nearer, the sounds of music became louder and more distinct. They concluded that some festival was being observed, or that some happy gathering amongst the people had thrown them all into a holiday mood. Entering the village, they made their way to a house which stood out prominently from the rest, and which was better built than any others they could see. Besides, it was the one from which the music issued, and around its doors was gathered a number of people who had evidently been attending some feast inside. As the three travellers came up to the door, a venerable-looking old man came out to meet them. Seeing that they were strangers, he courteously invited them to enter; and on Sam-Chung asking whether they could be entertained for the night, he assured them that there was ample room for them in the house, and that he gladly welcomed them to be his guests for as long as it was their pleasure to remain. "In the meanwhile you must come in," he said, "and have some food, for you must be tired and hungry after travelling so far, and the tables are still covered with the good things which were prepared for the feast to-day." After they had finished their meal, they began to talk to the old gentleman who was so kindly entertaining them. They were greatly pleased with his courtesy and with the hearty hospitality which he had pressed upon them. They noticed, however, that he was very absent-minded, and looked as if some unpleasant thought lay heavy on his heart. "May I ask," said Sam-Chung, "what was the reason for the great gathering here to-day? There is no festival in the Chinese calendar falling on this date, so I thought I would take the liberty of enquiring what occasion you were really commemorating." "We were not commemorating anything," the old man replied with a grave face. "It was really a funeral service for two of my grand-children, who, though they are not yet dead, will certainly disappear out of this life before many hours have passed." "But how can such a ceremony be performed over persons who are still alive?" asked Sam-Chung with a look of wonder in his face. "When I have explained the circumstances to you, you will then be no longer surprised at this unusual service," replied the old man. "You must know," he continued, "that this region is under the control of a Demon of a most cruel and bloodthirsty disposition. He is not like the ordinary spirits, whose images are enshrined in our temples, and whose main aim is to protect and guard their worshippers. This one has no love for mankind, but on the contrary the bitterest hatred, and his whole life seems to be occupied in scheming how he may inflict sorrow and disaster on them. His greatest cruelty is to insist that every year just about this time two children, one a boy and the other a girl, shall be conveyed to his temple by the river side to be devoured by him. Many attempts have been made to resist this barbarous demand, but they have only resulted in increased suffering to those who have dared to oppose him. The consequence is that the people submit to this cruel murder of their children, though many a heart is broken at the loss of those dearest to them." "But is there any system by which the unfortunate people may get to know when this terrible sacrifice is going to be demanded from them?" asked Sam-Chung. "Oh yes," replied the man. "The families are taken in rotation, and when each one's turn comes round, their children are prepared for the sacrifice. Moreover, that there may be no mistake, the Demon himself appears in the home a few days before, and gives a threatening command to have the victims ready on such a date. Only the day before yesterday, this summons came to us to have our children ready by to-morrow morning at break of day. That is why we had a feast to-day, and performed the funeral rites for the dead, so that their spirits may not be held under the control of this merciless Damon, but may in time be permitted to issue from the Land of Shadows, and be born again under happier circumstances into this world, which they are leaving under such tragic circumstances." "But what is the Demon like?" enquired Sam-Chung. "Oh, no one can ever tell what he is like," said the man. "He has no bodily form that one can look upon. His presence is known by a strong blast of wind which fills the place with a peculiar odour, and with an influence so subtle that you feel yourself within the grip of a powerful force, and instinctively bow your head as though you were in the presence of a being who could destroy you in a moment were he so disposed." "One more question and I have finished," said Sam-Chung. "Where did this Demon come from, and how is it that he has acquired such an overmastering supremacy over the lives of men, that he seems able to defy even Heaven itself, and all the great hosts of kindly gods who are working for the salvation of mankind?" "This Demon," the man replied, "was once an inhabitant of the Western Heaven, and under the direct control of the Goddess of Mercy. He must, however, have been filled with evil devices and fiendish instincts from the very beginning, for he seized the first opportunity to escape to earth, and to take up his residence in the grottoes and caverns that lie deep down beneath the waters of the Tien-ho. Other spirits almost as bad as himself have also taken up their abode there, and they combine their forces to bring calamity and disaster upon the people of this region." Sam-Chung, whose heart was filled with the tenderest feelings of compassion for all living things, so much so that his name was a familiar one even amongst the Immortals in the far-off Western Heaven, felt himself stirred by a mighty indignation when he thought of how innocent childhood had been sacrificed to minister to the unnatural passion of this depraved Demon. Chiau and Chu were as profoundly indignant as he, and a serious consultation ensued as to the best methods to be adopted to save the little ones who were doomed to destruction on the morrow, and at the same time to break the monster's rule so that it should cease for ever. Chiau, who was the more daring of the two whom I the goddess had deputed to protect Sam-Chung, at length cried out with flashing eyes, "I will personate the boy, Chu shall act the girl, and together we will fight the Demon and overthrow and kill him, and so deliver the people from his dreadful tyranny." Turning to the old man, he said, "Bring the children here so that we may see them, and make our plans so perfect that the Demon with all his cunning will not be able to detect or frustrate them." In a few moments the little ones were led in by their grandfather. The boy was seven and the girl was one year older. They were both of them nervous and shy, and clung timidly to the old man as if for protection. They were very interesting-looking children. The boy was a proud, brave-spirited little fellow, as one could see by the poise of his head as he gazed at the strangers. If anything could be predicted from his looks, he would one day turn out to be a man of great power, for he had in his youthful face all the signs which promise a life out of the common. The girl was a shy little thing, with her hair done up in a childlike fashion that well became her. She was a dainty little mortal. Her eyes were almond-shaped, and with the coyness of her sex she kept shooting out glances from the corners of them at the three men who were looking at her. Her cheeks were pale, with just a suspicion of colour painted into them by the deft hand of nature; whilst her lips had been touched with the faintest dash of carmine, evidently just a moment ago, before she left her mother's side. "Now, my boy," said Chiau to the little fellow, "keep your eyes fixed on me, and never take them from me for a moment; and you, little sister," addressing the girl, "do the same to the man next to me, and you will see something that will make you both laugh." The eyes of them both were at once riveted on the two men, and a look of amazement slowly crept into their faces. And no wonder, for as they gazed they saw the two men rapidly changing, and becoming smaller and smaller, until they were the exact size and image of themselves. In their features and dress, and in every minute detail they were the precise pattern of the children, who with staring eyes were held spellbound by the magic change which had taken place in front of them. "Now," said Chiau to the old gentleman, "the transformation is complete. Take the children away and hide them in the remotest and most inaccessible room that you have in your house. Let them be seen by no chattering woman or servant who might divulge our secret, so that in some way or other it might reach the ears of the Demon, and put him on his guard. Remember that from this moment these little ones are not supposed to exist, but that we are your grand-children who are to be taken to the temple to-morrow morning at break of day." Just as the eastern sky showed the first touch of colour, two sedan-chairs were brought up to the door to carry the two victims away to be devoured by the Demon. A few frightened-looking neighbours peered through the gloom to catch a last glimpse of the children, but not one of them had the least suspicion that the boy and girl were really fairies who were about to wage a deadly battle with the Demon in order to deliver them from the curse under which they lived. No sooner had the children been put into the temple, where a dim rush-light did but serve to disclose the gloom, and the doors had been closed with a bang, than the chair-bearers rushed away in fear for their very lives. An instant afterwards a hideous, gigantic form emerged from an inner room and advanced towards the children. The Demon was surprised, however, to find that on this occasion the little victims did not exhibit any signs of alarm, as had always been the case hitherto, but seemed to be calmly awaiting his approach. There was no symptom of fear about them, and not a cry of terror broke from their lips; but with a fearless and composed mien they gazed upon him as he advanced. Hesitating for a moment, as if to measure the foe which he began to fear might lie concealed beneath the figures of the boy and girl before him, the Demon's great fiery eyes began to flash with deadly passion as he saw the two little ones gradually expand in size, until they were transformed into beings as powerful and as mighty as himself. He knew at once that he had been outwitted, and that he must now battle for his very life; so, drawing a sword which had always stood him in good stead, he rushed upon the two who faced him so calmly and with such apparent confidence in themselves. Chiau and Chu were all ready for the fray, and with weapons firmly gripped and with hearts made strong by the consciousness of the justice of their cause, they awaited the onslaught of the Demon. And what a battle it was that then ensued in the dim and shadowy temple! It was a conflict of great and deadly significance, waged on one side for the deliverance of helpless childhood, and on the other for the basest schemes that the spirits of evil could devise. It was a battle royal, in which no quarter was either asked or given. The clash of weapons, and sounds unfamiliar to the human ear, and groans and cries which seemed to come from a lost soul, filled the temple with their hideous uproar. At last the Demon, who seemed to have been grievously wounded, though by his magic art he had caused his wounds to be instantly healed, began to see that the day was going against him. One more mighty lunge with his broadsword, and one more furious onset, and his craven heart failed him. With a cry of despair he fled from the temple, and plunged headlong into the river flowing by its walls. Great were the rejoicings when Chiau and Chu returned to report to Sam-Chung the glorious victory they had gained over the Demon. Laughter and rejoicing were heard in every home, and men and women assembled in front of their doors and at the corners of the narrow alley-ways to congratulate each other on the great deliverance which that day had come to them and to their children. The dread of the Demon had already vanished, and a feeling of freedom so inspired the men of the village that as if by a common impulse, they rushed impetuously down to where the temple stood, and in the course of a few hours every vestige of it had disappeared beneath the waters into which the Demon had plunged. After his great defeat the baffled spirit made his way to the grotto beneath the waters, where he and the other demons had taken up their abode. A general council was called to devise plans to wipe out the disgrace which had been sustained, and to regain the power that had slipped from the Demon's grasp. They wished also to visit Sam-Chung with condign punishment which would render him helpless for the future. "We must capture him," said one wicked-looking imp, who always acted as counsellor to the rest. "I have been told that to devour some of his flesh would ensure the prolongation of life for more than a thousand years." The suggestion to seize Sam-Chung was unanimously accepted as a very inspiration of genius, and the precise measures which were to be adopted in order to capture him were agreed to after a long discussion. On the very next morning, a most violent snowstorm set in, so that the face of the river and the hills all round about, and the very heavens themselves were lost in the blinding snow-drifts that flew before the gale. Gradually the cold became so intense that the Ice King laid his grip upon the waters of the Tien-ho, and turned the flowing stream into a crystal highway, along which men might travel with ease and safety. Such a sight had never been seen before by any of the people who lived upon its banks, and many were the speculations as to what such a phenomenon might mean to the welfare of the people of the region. It never occurred to any one that this great snow-storm which had turned into ice a river that had never been known to freeze before, was all the work of demons determined on the destruction of Sam-Chung. Next day the storm had passed, but the river was one mass of ice which gleamed and glistened in the morning rays. Much to the astonishment of Sam-Chung and his two companions, they caught sight of a number of people, who appeared to be merchants, moving about on the bank of the river, together with several mules laden with merchandise. The whole party seemed intent on their preparations for crossing the river, which they were observed to test in various places to make sure that it was strong enough to bear their weight. This they seemed satisfied about, for in a short time the men and animals set forward on their journey across the ice. Sam-Chung immediately insisted upon following their example, though the plan was vigorously opposed by the villagers, who predicted all kinds of dangers if he entered on such an uncertain and hazardous enterprise. Being exceedingly anxious to proceed on his journey, however, and seeing no prospect of doing so if he did not take advantage of the present remarkable condition of the river, he hastened to follow in the footsteps of the merchants, who by this time had already advanced some distance on the ice. He would have been less anxious to enter on this perilous course, had he known that the innocent-looking traders who preceded him were every one of them demons who had changed themselves into the semblance of men in order to lure him to his destruction. Sam-Chung and his companions had not proceeded more than five or six miles, when ominous symptoms of coming disaster began to manifest themselves. The extreme cold in the air suddenly ceased, and a warm south wind began to blow. The surface of the ice lost its hardness. Streamlets of water trickled here and there, forming great pools which made walking exceedingly difficult. Chiau, whose mind was a very acute and intelligent one, became terrified at these alarming symptoms of danger, especially as the ice began to crack, and loud and prolonged reports reached them from every direction. Another most suspicious thing was the sudden disappearance of the company of merchants, whom they had all along kept well in sight. There was something wrong, he was fully convinced, and so with all his wits about him, he kept himself alert for any contingency. It was well that he did this, for before they had proceeded another mile, the ice began to grow thinner, and before they could retreat there was a sudden crash and all three were precipitated into the water. Hardly had Chiau's feet touched the river, than with a superhuman effort he made a spring into the air, and was soon flying with incredible speed in the direction of the Western Heaven, to invoke the aid of the Goddess of Mercy to deliver Sam-Chung from the hands of an enemy who would show him no quarter. In the meanwhile Sam-Chung and Chu were borne swiftly by the demons, who were eagerly awaiting their immersion in the water, to the great cave that lay deep down at the bottom of the mighty river. Chu, being an immortal and a special messenger of the Goddess, defied all the arts of the evil spirits to injure him, so that all they could do was to imprison him in one of the inner grottoes and station a guard over him to prevent his escape. Sam-Chung, however, was doomed to death, and the Demon, in revenge for the disgrace he had brought upon him, and in the hope of prolonging his own life by a thousand years, decided that on the morrow he would feast upon his flesh. But he made his plans without taking into consideration the fact that Sam-Chung was an especial favourite with the Goddess. During the night a tremendous commotion occurred. The waters of the river fled in every direction as before the blast of a hurricane, and the caverns where the demons were assembled were illuminated with a light so brilliant that their eyes became dazzled, and for a time were blinded by the sudden blaze that flashed from every corner. Screaming with terror, they fled in all directions. Only one remained, and that was the fierce spirit who had wrought such sorrow amongst the people of the land near by. He too would have disappeared with the rest, had not some supernatural power chained him to the spot where he stood. Soon the noble figure of the Goddess of Mercy appeared, accompanied by a splendid train of Fairies who hovered round her to do her bidding. Her first act was to release Sam-Chung, who lay bound ready for his death, which but for her interposition would have taken place within a few hours. He and his two companions were entrusted to the care of a chosen number of her followers, and conveyed with all speed across the river. The Goddess then gave a command to some who stood near her person, and in a moment, as if by a flash of lightning, the cowering, terrified Demon had vanished, carried away to be confined in one of the dungeons where persistent haters of mankind are kept imprisoned, until their hearts are changed by some noble sentiment of compassion and the Goddess sees that they are once more fit for liberty. And then the lights died out, and the sounds of fairy voices ceased. The waters of the river, which had been under a divine spell, returned to their course, and the Goddess with her magnificent train of beneficent spirits departed to her kingdom in the far-off Western Heaven. XI THE REWARD OF A BENEVOLENT LIFE On the banks of a river flowing through the prefecture of Tingchow, there stood a certain city of about ten thousand inhabitants. Among this mass of people there was a very fair sprinkling of well-to-do men, and perhaps half-a-dozen or so who might have been accounted really wealthy. Amongst these latter was one particular individual named Chung, who had acquired the reputation of being exceedingly large-hearted and benevolently inclined to all those in distress. Anyone who was in want had but to appeal to Chung, and his immediate necessities would at once be relieved without any tedious investigation into the merits of his case. As may be inferred from this, Chung was an easy-going, good-natured man, who was more inclined to look kindly upon his fellow-men than to criticise them harshly for their follies or their crimes. Such a man has always been popular in this land of China. Now the whole soul of Chung was centred upon his only son Keng. At the time when our story opens, this young fellow was growing up to manhood, and had proved himself to be possessed of no mean ability, for on the various occasions on which he had sat for examination before the Literary Chancellor, his papers had been of a very high order of merit. The rumours of Chung's generosity had travelled further than he had ever dreamed of. Several reports of the noble deeds that he was constantly performing had reached the Immortals in the Western Heaven, and as these are profoundly concerned in the doings of mankind, steps were taken that Chung should not go unrewarded. One day a fairy in the disguise of a bonze called upon him. He had always had a sincere liking for men of this class. He admired their devotion, and he was moved by their self-sacrifice in giving up home and kindred to spend their lives in the service of the gods and for the good of humanity. No sooner, therefore, had the priest entered within his doors, than he received him with the greatest politeness and cordiality. The same evening he prepared a great dinner, to which a number of distinguished guests were invited, and a time of high festivity and rejoicing was prolonged into the early hours of the morning. Next day Chung said to his guest, "I presume you have come round collecting for your temple. I need not assure you that I shall be most delighted to subscribe to anything that has to do with the uplifting of my fellow-men. My donation is ready whenever you wish to accept it." The bonze, with a smile which lit up the whole of his countenance, replied that he had not come for the purpose of collecting subscriptions. "I have come," he said, "to warn you about a far more important matter which affects you and your family. Before very long a great flood will take place in this district, and will sweep everything before it. It will be so sudden that men will not be able to take measures to preserve either their lives or their property--so instantaneous will be the rush of the mighty streams, like ocean floods, from the mountains you can see in the West. My advice to you is to commence at once the construction of boats to carry you and your most precious effects away. When the news first comes that the waters are rising, have them anchored in the creek that flows close by your doors; and when the crisis arrives, delay not a moment, but hurry on board and fly for your lives." "But when will that be?" asked Chung anxiously. "I may not tell you the precise day or hour," replied the bonze; "but when the eyes of the stone lions in the East Street of the city shed tears of blood, betake yourselves with all haste to the boats, and leave this doomed place behind you." "But may I not tell the people of this approaching calamity?" asked Chung, whose tender heart was deeply wrung with distress at the idea of so many being overwhelmed in the coming flood. "You can please yourself about that," answered the priest, "but no one will believe you. The people of this region are depraved and wicked, and your belief in my words will only cause them to laugh and jeer at you for your credulity." "But shall I and my family escape with our lives?" finally enquired Chung. "Yes, you will all escape," was the reply, "and in due time you will return to your home and your future life will be prosperous. But there is one thing," he continued, "about which I must entreat you to be exceedingly careful. As you are being carried down the stream by the great flood, be sure to rescue every living thing that you meet in distress upon the waters. You will not fail to be rewarded for so doing, as the creatures you save will repay you a thousandfold for any services you may render them. There is one thing more that I would solemnly warn you against. You will come across a man floating helplessly on the swiftly flowing tide. Have nothing to do with him. Leave him to his fate. If you try to save him, you will only bring sorrow upon your home." As the priest was departing, Chung tried to press into his hand a considerable present of money, but he refused to accept it. He did not want money from him, he said. The gods had heard of his great love for men, and they had sent him to warn him so that he might escape the doom which would overtake his fellow-citizens. After his departure Chung at once called the boat-builders who had their yards along the bank of the stream, and ordered ten large boats to be built with all possible speed. The news of this spread through the town, and when the reasons were asked and the reply was given that the boats were in anticipation of a mighty flood that would ere long devastate the entire region, everyone screamed with laughter; but Chung let them laugh. For weeks and months he sent an old man to East Street to see if the eyes of the stone lions there had overflowed with bloody tears. One day two pig-butchers enquired of this man how it was that every day he appeared and looked into the eyes of the lions. He explained that Chung had sent him, for a prophecy had come from the gods that when the eyes of the lions shed blood, the flood which was to destroy the city would be already madly rushing on its way. On hearing this, these two butchers determined to play a practical joke. Next day, in readiness for the coming of the old man, they smeared the stone eyes with pigs' blood. No sooner had Chung's messenger caught sight of this than, with terror in his eyes, he fled along the streets to tell his master the dreadful news. By this time everything had been prepared, and Chung was only waiting for the appointed sign. The most valuable of his goods had already been packed in some of the boats, and now his wife and son and household servants all hurried down to the water's edge and embarked; and remembering the injunction of the priest that there should be no delay, Chung at once ordered the anchors to be raised, and the boatmen, as if for dear life, made for the larger stream outside. Hardly had the vessels begun to move when the sun, which had been blazing in the sky, became clouded over. Soon a terrific storm of wind tore with the force of a hurricane across the land. By-and-by great drops of rain, the harbingers of the deluge which was to inundate the country, fell in heavy splashes. Ere long it seemed as though the great fountains in the heavens had burst out, for the floods came pouring down in one incessant torrent. The sides of the mountains became covered with ten thousand rills, which joined their forces lower down, and developed into veritable cataracts, rushing with fearful and noisy tumult to the plain below. Before many hours had passed, the streams everywhere overflowed their banks, and ran riot amongst the villages, and flowed like a sea against the city. There was no resisting this watery foe, and before night fell vast multitudes had been drowned in the seething floods from which there was no escape. Meanwhile, carried swiftly along by the swollen current, Chung's little fleet sped safely down the stream, drawing further and further away from the doomed city. The river had risen many feet since they had started on their voyage, and as they were passing by a high peak, which had been undermined by the rush of waters hurling themselves against its base, the boats were put into great danger by the whirl and commotion of the foam-flecked river. Just as they escaped from being submerged, the party noticed a small monkey struggling in the water, and at once picked it up and took it on board. Further on they passed a large branch of a tree, on which there was a crow's nest, with one young one in it. This, also, remembering the solemn injunction of the priest, they carefully took up and saved. As they were rushing madly on down the tawny, swollen river, they were all struck with sudden excitement by seeing something struggling in the boiling waters. Looking at this object more attentively as they drew nearer to it, they perceived that it was a man, who seemed to be in great peril of his life. Chung's tender heart was filled with sympathy, and he at once gave orders for the boatmen to go and rescue him. His wife, however, reminded him of the warning of the priest not to save any man on the river, as he would inevitably turn out to be an enemy, who would in time work his rescuer great wrong. Chung replied that at such a time, when a human being was in extreme danger of being drowned, personal interests ought not to be considered at all. He had faithfully obeyed the command of the priest in saving animal life, but how much more valuable was a man than any of the lower orders of creation? "Whatever may happen," he said, "I cannot let this man drown before my eyes," and as the boat just then came alongside the swimmer, he was hauled into it and delivered from his peril. After a few days, when the storm had abated and the river had gone down to its natural flow, Chung returned with his family to his home. To his immense surprise, he found that his house had not been damaged in the least. The gods who had saved his life had used their supernatural powers to preserve even his property from the ruin and devastation that had fallen upon the inhabitants of the city and of the surrounding plain. Shortly after they had settled down again, Chung enquired of Lo-yung, the man whom he had saved from the flood, whether he would not like to return to his family and his home. "I have no family left," he answered with a sad look on his face. "All the members of it were drowned in the great flood from which you delivered me. What little property we had was washed away by the wild rush of the streams that overflowed our farm. Let me stay with you," he begged, "and give me the opportunity, by the devoted service of my life, to repay you in some slight degree for what you have done in saving my life." As he uttered these words his tears began to flow, and his features showed every sign of profound emotion. Always full of tenderness and compassion, Chung was profoundly moved by the tears and sobs of Lo-yung, and hastened to assure him that he need be under no concern with regard to his future. "You have lost all your relatives, it is true, but from to-day I shall recognize you as my son. I adopt you into my family and I give you my name." Six months after this important matter had been settled, the city was placarded with proclamations from its Chief Mandarin. In these he informed the people that he had received a most urgent Edict from the Emperor stating that an official seal, which was in constant use in high transactions of the State, had in a most mysterious manner disappeared and could not be found. He was therefore directed to inform the people that whoever informed His Majesty where the seal was, so that it could be recovered, would receive a considerable reward and would also be made a high mandarin in the palace of the Emperor. That very night, whilst Chung was sleeping, a fairy appeared to him in a dream. "The gods have sent me," he said, "to give you one more proof of the high regard in which they hold you for your devotion to your fellow-men. The Emperor has lost a valuable seal which he is most anxious to recover, and he has promised large and liberal rewards to the man who shows him where it may be found. I want to tell you where the seal is. It lies at the bottom of the crystal well in the grounds behind the palace. It was accidentally dropped in there by the Empress-Dowager, who has forgotten all about the circumstance, but who will recollect it the moment she is reminded of it. I want you to send your own son to the capital to claim the reward by telling where the seal is." When Chung awoke in the morning, he told his wife the wonderful news of what had happened to him during the night, and began to make preparations for his son to start for the capital without delay, in order to secure the honours promised by the Emperor. His wife, however, was by no means reconciled to the idea of parting with her son, and strongly opposed his going. "Why are you so set upon the honours of this life that you are willing to be separated from your only child, whom perhaps you may never be able to see again?" she asked her husband, with tears in her eyes. "You are a rich man, you are beloved of the gods, you have everything that money can buy in this flowery kingdom. Why not then be contented and cease to long after the dignities which the State can confer, but which can never give you any real happiness?" Just at that moment Lo-yung came in, and hearing the wonderful story, and seeing the distress of the mother, he volunteered to take the place of her son and go to the capital in his stead. "I have never yet had the chance," he said, "of showing my gratitude to my benefactor for having saved my life, and for the many favours he has showered upon me. I shall be glad to undertake this journey. I shall have an audience with His Majesty and will reveal to him the place where the seal lies hidden, and I shall then insist that all the honours he may be prepared to bestow on me shall be transferred to your son, to whom of right they naturally belong." It was accordingly arranged that Lo-yung should take the place of Chung's son, and preparations were at once made for his journey to the capital. As he was saying good-bye to his benefactor, the latter whispered in his ear: "If you succeed in your enterprise and the Emperor makes you one of his royal officers, do not let ingratitude ever enter your heart, so that you may be tempted to forget us here, who will be thinking about you all the time you are away." "Nothing of the kind can ever happen," exclaimed Lo-yung impetuously. "My gratitude to you is too firmly embedded within my heart ever to be uprooted from it." On his arrival at the capital, he at once sought an interview with the Prime Minister, who, on hearing that a man wished to see him about a state matter of urgent importance, immediately admitted him to his presence. Lo-yung at once explained that he had come to reveal the place where the lost seal at that moment lay concealed. "I am perfectly ready to tell all I know about it," he said, "but if possible I should prefer to make it known to the Emperor himself in person." "That can quickly be arranged," eagerly replied the Prime Minister, "for His Majesty is so anxious to obtain information about the seal, that he is prepared at any hour of the day or night to give an audience to anyone who can ease his mind on the subject." In a few minutes a eunuch from the palace commanded the Prime Minister to come without delay to the Audience Hall and wait upon the Emperor. He was also to bring with him the person who said that he had an important communication to lay before the Throne. When they arrived they found there not only the King, but also the Empress-Dowager, waiting to receive them. In obedience to a hasty command, Lo-yung told in a few words where the seal was, and how it happened to be there. As he went on with the story the face of the Empress lit up with wonder, whilst a pleasing smile overspread it, as she recognized the truth of what Lo-yung was saying. "But tell me," said the Emperor, "how you get all your information and how it is that you have such an intimate acquaintance with what is going on in my palace?" Lo-yung then described how the Immortals in the Western Heaven, deeply moved by the loving character of Chung, and wishing to reward him and bring honour to his family, had sent a fairy, who appeared to him in a dream and told him the secret of the seal. "Your home," said the Emperor, "must indeed be celebrated for benevolent and loving deeds to men, since even the fairies come down from the far-off Heaven to express their approbation. In accordance with my royal promise, I now appoint you to a high official position that will enrich you for life, for I consider that it will be for the welfare of my kingdom to have a man from a home, which the gods delight to honour, to assist me in the management of my public affairs." From the moment when the royal favour was bestowed on Lo-yung, it seemed as though every particle of gratitude and every kindly remembrance of Chung had vanished completely out of his heart. He cut himself off from the home he had left only a few days ago, as completely as though it had never existed. Weeks and months went by, but no news came from him, and the heart of Chung was wrung with anguish, for he knew that Lo-yung's unnatural conduct would in the end bring retribution upon Lo-yung himself. At last he determined to send his son, Keng, to the capital to find out what had really become of Lo-yung. Attended by one of his household servants, the young man reached his journey's end in a few days. On enquiring at his inn about Lo-yung, he was informed that he was a mandarin of great distinction in the city, and was under the special protection of the Emperor, whose favourite he was. Hearing this joyful news, Keng, followed by his servant, at once hastened to the residence of Lo-yung, and was lucky enough to meet him as he rode out on horseback from his magnificent yamen, attended by a long retinue of officers and attendants. Running up to the side of his horse, Keng cried out joyfully, "Ah! my brother, what a joy to meet you once more! How glad I am to see you!" To his astonishment, Lo-yung, with a frown upon his face, angrily exclaimed; "You common fellow, what do you mean by calling me your brother? I have no brother. You are an impostor, and you must be severely punished for daring to claim kinship with me." Calling some of the lictors in his train, he ordered them to beat Keng, and then cast him into prison, and to give strict injunctions to the jailer to treat him as a dangerous criminal. Wounded and bleeding from the severe scourging he had received, and in a terrible state of exhaustion, poor Keng was dragged to the prison, where he was thrown into the deepest dungeon, and left to recover as best he might from the shock he had sustained. His condition was indeed a pitiable one. Those who could have helped and comforted him were far away. He could expect no alleviation of his sorrows from the jailer, for the heart of the latter had naturally become hardened by having to deal with the criminal classes. Besides he had received precise orders from the great mandarin, that this particular prisoner was to be treated as a danger to society. Even if he had been inclined to deal mercifully with him, he dared not disobey such definite and stringent commands as he had received from his superior. The prison fare was only just enough to keep body and soul together. Keng had no money with which to bribe the jailer to give him a more generous diet, and there was no one to guarantee that any extra expenses which might be incurred would ever be refunded to him. And then a miracle was wrought, and once more the fairies interfered, this time to save the life of the only son of the man whose fame for tenderness and compassion had reached the far-off Western Heaven. One morning, as Keng lay weary and half-starved on the blackened heap of straw that served him as a bed in the corner of the prison, a monkey climbed up and clung to the narrow gratings through which the light penetrated into his room. In one of its hands it held a piece of pork which it kept offering to Keng. Very much surprised, he got up to take it, when to his delight he discovered that the monkey was the identical one which had been picked up by his father on the day of the great flood. The same thing was repeated for several days in succession, and when the jailer asked for some explanation of these extraordinary proceedings, Keng gave him a detailed account of their wonderful deliverance by the fairies, the picking up of the monkey, and the rescue of Lo-yung, now the great mandarin, who was keeping him confined in prison. "Ah!" muttered the jailer under his breath, "the lower animals know how to show gratitude, but men do not." A few days after this another messenger of the gods came to give his aid to Keng. A number of crows gathered on a roof which overlooked the narrow slits through which the prisoner could catch a glimpse of the blue sky. One of them flew on to the ledge outside, and Keng immediately recognized it as the one which had been saved from the floating branch in the turbid river. He was overjoyed to see this bird, and besought the jailer to allow him to write a letter to his father, telling him of his pitiful condition. This request was granted, and the document was tied to the leg of the crow, which flew away on its long flight to Chung with its important news. Chung was greatly distressed when he read the letter that his son had written in prison, and with all the speed he could command, he travelled post haste to the capital. When he arrived there he made various attempts to obtain an interview with Lo-yung, but all in vain. The mandarin had not sense enough to see that the threads of fate were slowly winding themselves around him, and would soon entangle him to his destruction. Very unwillingly, therefore, because he still loved Lo-yung and would have saved him if possible, Chung entered an accusation against him before Fau-Kung, the famous criminal judge. The result of the investigation was the condemnation of Lo-yung, whose execution speedily followed, whilst Keng was promoted to the very position that had been occupied by the man who had tried to work his ruin. 
27499	----	FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS GERMANY W. W. GIBBINGS 18 BURY ST., LONDON, W.C. 1892 UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME. "_These dainty little books._"--STANDARD. FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS. _FIRST SERIES._ 1. GERMAN. 2. ORIENTAL. 3. SCOTLAND. 4. IRELAND. _SECOND SERIES._ 1. ENGLAND. 2. SCANDINAVIAN. 3. RUSSIAN. 4. NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN. "_They transport us into a romantic world._"--TIMES. PREFATORY NOTE It is proposed that this shall be the first of a series of little volumes in which shall be presented in a handy form selections from the Folk-lore and legends of various countries. It has been well said that "the legendary history of a nation is the recital of the elements that formed the character of that nation; it contains the first rude attempts to explain natural phenomena, the traditions of its early history, and the moral principles popularly adopted as the rules for reward and punishment; and generally the legends of a people may be regarded as embodying the popular habits of thought and popular motives of action." The following legends of Germany cannot, we think, fail to interest those who read them. Some of the stories are invested with a charming simplicity of thought which cannot but excite admiration. Others are of a weird, fantastic character fitted to a land of romantic natural features, of broad river, mountain, and deep forest. The humorous, the pathetic, the terrible, all find place in the German folk-tales, and it would be difficult to rise from their perusal without having received both amusement and instruction. The general lesson they convey is the sure punishment of vice and the reward of virtue; some way or another the villain always meets with his desert. In future volumes we shall deal with the legends of other countries, hoping that the public will bear us company in our excursions. CONTENTS PAGE Gaffer Death, 1 The Legend of Paracelsus, 6 Hans in Luck, 9 The Grey Mare in the Garret, 17 The Water Spirit, 21 Peter Klaus, 31 The Legend of Rheineck, 36 The Cellar of the Old Knights in the Kyffhauser, 48 The Fisherman and his Wife, 53 The Mouse Tower, 62 The Dancers, 66 The Little Shroud, 70 The Arch Rogue, 72 Brother Merry, 82 Fastrada, 100 The Jew in the Bush, 104 The Elves, 110 The Conclave of Corpses, 114 Legends of Rubezahl, or Number-Nip, 120 The Hunter Hackelnberg and the Tut-Osel, 131 The Alraun, 136 The Goose-Girl, 140 Hans Jagenteufel, 149 The Waits of Bremen, 152 The Flaming Castle, 158 The Monks at the Ferry, 161 Doctor All-Wise, 168 The White Maiden, 172 The Sturgeon, 176 St. Andrew's Night, 183 INTRODUCTION The value of national stories and legends has in late years become very widely recognised. Folk-lore has recently received a large amount of attention, and the thought and labour bestowed upon the subject have been rewarded by results which prove that its investigators have entered upon no unfruitful, however long neglected, field. This book, and its successors in the series which it is proposed to issue, may come into the hands of some who, having little opportunity afforded them to consider how the legends and tales it contains may be of the value we claim for them, may be glad to have the "case" for legends and national stories presented to them in a few words. The peasant's tale, the story preserved through centuries on the lips of old wives, the narrative which has come down to us having done duty as a source of amusement in the fireside groups of preceding generations, may seem to some to afford slight matter for reflection, and may even appear so grotesque in its incidents as to be fitted only to excite a smile of wonder at the simplicity of those among whom such stories could obtain reception, and surprise at the fantastic imagination in which such tales could find their origin. Modern thought has, however, been busy asking itself what is the meaning of these stories, and it has done much to supply itself with an answer. This, at least, it has done: it has discovered that these legends and tales, which so many have been inclined to cast aside as worthless, are of a singular value, as throwing a light which little else can afford upon the mind of primitive man. At first the collection of national stories was undertaken merely for the purpose of affording amusement. Folk-tales were diverting, so they found their way into print, and were issued as curious literary matter fitted to supply diversion for a vacant hour. Many of the tales are very beautiful, and their mere literary merit sufficed to make them sought for. But legendary lore was soon observed to possess much more value than could attach to its merely amusing features. It was obvious that in these legends were preserved the fragments of the beliefs of the ancient folk. "The mythology of one period," remarked Sir Walter Scott, "would appear to pass into the romance of the next century, and that into the nursery tale of the subsequent ages." "Fiction," said Sir John Malcolm, "resolves itself into its primitive elements, as, by the slow and unceasing action of the wind and rain, the solid granite is crumbled into sand. The creations embodied by the vivid imagination of man in the childhood of his race incorporate themselves in his fond and mistaken faith. Sanctity is given to his daydreams by the altar of the idol. Then, perhaps, they acquire a deceitful truth from the genius of the bard. Blended with the mortal hero, the aspect of the god glances through the visor of the helmet, or adds a holy dignity to the royal crown. Poetry borrows its ornaments from the lessons of the priests. The ancient god of strength of the Teutons, throned in his chariot of the stars, the Northern Wain, invested the Emperor of the Franks and the paladins who surrounded him with superhuman might. And the same constellation, darting down its rays upon the head of the long-lost Arthur, has given to the monarch of the Britons the veneration which once belonged to the son of 'Uthry Bendragon,' 'Thunder, the supreme leader,' and 'Eygyr, the generating power.' Time rolls on; faith lessens; the flocks are led to graze within the rocky circle of the giants, even the bones of the warriors moulder into dust; the lay is no longer heard; and the fable, reduced again to its original simplicity and nudity, becomes the fitting source of pastime to the untutored peasant and the listening child. Hence we may yet trace no small proportion of mystic and romantic lore in the tales which gladden the cottage fireside, or, century after century, soothe the infant to its slumbers." The works of the brothers Grimm, the appearance of the _Kinder- und Haus-Mährchen_, in 1812, and of the _Deutsche Mythologie_, in 1835, threw a new light on the importance of national tales, and awoke the spirit of scientific comparison which has made the study of Folk-lore productive of such valuable results. With regard to the diffusion of national stories, it is remarkable that we find substantially identical narratives flourishing in the most widely separated countries, and this fact has given rise to several explanatory theories, none of which seems perfectly satisfactory. The philological discovery of the original unity of all the Aryan races may account for the possession by the Aryan peoples of similar stories. It may be, as Sir George Cox suggests, a common inheritance of such tales as were current when the Aryans "still lived as a single people." We find, however, that these tales are also current among people whom, accepting this theory, we should least expect to find possessing them, and so the wide diffusion of the stories yet remains unsatisfactorily accounted for. Identity of imagination, inheritance, transmission, may each have played its part. As to the origin of the tales much debate has arisen. It is obvious from the nature of the incidents of many of them that they could only have originated in a most primitive state of man. "Early man," says Sir George Cox, "had life, and therefore all things must have life also. The sun, the moon, the stars, the ground on which he trod, the clouds, storms, lightnings were all living beings; could he help thinking that, like himself, they were all conscious beings also?" Such, according to this authority, was the origin of primary myths, secondary and tertiary myths arising in the course of time from the gradual misunderstanding of phrases applied by primitive man to personified objects. According to Professor Max Müller, animism, or the investing all things with life, springs not in the first place from man's thought, but from the language in which he clothes it. Man, he says, found himself speaking of all things in words having "a termination expressive of gender, and this naturally produced in the mind the corresponding idea of sex." He thus came to invest all objects with "something of an individual, active, sexual, and at last personal character." However hard it may be to discover the reason for the origin of the tendency to animism, the fact is certain that the tendency is to be found generally existing among savage peoples, and it would seem that we must accept the national stories which have come down to us embodying this tendency in grotesque incidents as relics handed down from the savage days of the people with whom the tales originated, as the expression of portions of their thought when they had as yet only attained to such a degree of civilisation as exists among savages of the present day. Strange and grotesque as some of the national stories are, they may be regarded as embodying the fragments of some of man's most primitive beliefs; and recognising this, it will be impossible to dismiss the folk-tale as unworthy of careful consideration, nor may it be regarded as unfitted to afford us, if studied aright, very much more than merely such amusement as may be derived from its quaint incident and grotesque plot. C. J. T. GAFFER DEATH. There was once a poor man who had twelve children, and he was obliged to labour day and night that he might earn food for them. When at length, as it so happened, a thirteenth came into the world, the poor man did not know how to help himself, so he ran out into the highway, determined to ask the first person he met to be godfather to the boy. There came stalking up to him Death, who said-- "Take me for a godfather." "Who are you?" asked the father. "I am Death, who makes all equal," replied the stranger. Then said the man-- "You are one of the right sort: you seize on rich and poor without distinction; you shall be the child's godfather." Death answered-- "I will make the boy rich and renowned throughout the world, for he who has me for a friend can want nothing." Said the man-- "Next Sunday will he be christened, mind and come at the right time." Death accordingly appeared as he had promised, and stood godfather to the child. When the boy grew up his godfather came to him one day, and took him into a wood, and said-- "Now shall you have your godfather's present. I will make a most famous physician of you. Whenever you are called to a sick person, I will take care and show myself to you. If I stand at the foot of the bed, say boldly, 'I will soon restore you to health,' and give the patient a little herb that I will point out to you, and he will soon be well. If, however, I stand at the head of the sick person, he is mine; then say, 'All help is useless; he must soon die.'" Then Death showed him the little herb, and said-- "Take heed that you never use it in opposition to my will." It was not long before the young fellow was the most celebrated physician in the whole world. "The moment he sees a person," said every one, "he knows whether or not he'll recover." Accordingly he was soon in great request. People came from far and near to consult him, and they gave him whatever he required, so that he made an immense fortune. Now, it so happened that the king was taken ill, and the physician was called upon to say whether he must die. As he went up to the bed he saw Death standing at the sick man's head, so that there was no chance of his recovery. The physician thought, however, that if he outwitted Death, he would not, perhaps, be much offended, seeing that he was his godfather, so he caught hold of the king and turned him round, so that by that means Death was standing at his feet. Then he gave him some of the herb, and the king recovered, and was once more well. Death came up to the physician with a very angry and gloomy countenance, and said-- "I will forgive you this time what you have done, because I am your godfather, but if you ever venture to betray me again, you must take the consequences." Soon after this the king's daughter fell sick, and nobody could cure her. The old king wept night and day, until his eyes were blinded, and at last he proclaimed that whosoever rescued her from Death should be rewarded by marrying her and inheriting his throne. The physician came, but Death was standing at the head of the princess. When the physician saw the beauty of the king's daughter, and thought of the promises that the king had made, he forgot all the warnings he had received, and, although Death frowned heavily all the while, he turned the patient so that Death stood at her feet, and gave her some of the herb, so that he once more put life into her veins. When Death saw that he was a second time cheated out of his property, he stepped up to the physician, and said-- "Now, follow me." He laid hold of him with his icy cold hand, and led him into a subterranean cave, in which there were thousands and thousands of burning candles, ranged in innumerable rows. Some were whole, some half burnt out, some nearly consumed. Every instant some went out, and fresh ones were lighted, so that the little flames seemed perpetually hopping about. "Behold," said Death, "the life-candles of mankind. The large ones belong to children, those half consumed to middle-aged people, the little ones to the aged. Yet children and young people have oftentimes but a little candle, and when that is burnt out, their life is at an end, and they are mine." The physician said-- "Show me my candle." Then Death pointed out a very little candle-end, which was glimmering in the socket, and said-- "Behold!" Then the physician said-- "O dearest godfather, light me up a new one, that I may first enjoy my life, be king, and husband of the beautiful princess." "I cannot do so," said Death; "one must burn out before I can light up another." "Place the old one then upon a new one, that that may burn on when this is at an end," said the physician. Death pretended that he would comply with this wish, and reached a large candle, but to revenge himself, purposely failed in putting it up, and the little piece fell and was extinguished. The physician sank with it, so he himself fell into the hands of Death. THE LEGEND OF PARACELSUS. It once happened that Paracelsus was walking through a forest, when he heard a voice calling to him by name. He looked around, and at length discovered that it proceeded from a fir-tree, in the trunk of which there was a spirit enclosed by a small stopper, sealed with three crosses. The spirit begged of Paracelsus to set him free. This he readily promised, on condition that the spirit should bestow upon him a medicine capable of healing all diseases, and a tincture which would turn everything it touched to gold. The spirit acceded to his request, whereupon Paracelsus took his penknife, and succeeded, after some trouble, in getting out the stopper. A loathsome black spider crept forth, which ran down the trunk of the tree. Scarcely had it reached the ground before it was changed, and became, as if rising from the earth, a tall haggard man, with squinting red eyes, wrapped in a scarlet mantle. He led Paracelsus to a high, overhanging, craggy mount, and with a hazel twig, which he had broken off by the way, he smote the rock, which, splitting with a crash at the blow, divided itself in twain, and the spirit disappeared within it. He, however, soon returned with two small phials, which he handed to Paracelsus--a yellow one, containing the tincture which turned all it touched to gold, and a white one, holding the medicine which healed all diseases. He then smote the rock a second time, and thereupon it instantly closed again. Both now set forth on their return, the spirit directing his course towards Innsprück, to seize upon the magician who had banished him from that city. Now Paracelsus trembled for the consequences which his releasing the Evil One would entail upon him who had conjured him into the tree, and bethought how he might rescue him. When they arrived once more at the fir-tree, he asked the spirit if he could possibly transform himself again into a spider, and let him see him creep into the hole. The spirit said that it was not only possible, but that he would be most happy to make such a display of his art for the gratification of his deliverer. Accordingly he once more assumed the form of a spider, and crept again into the well-known crevice. When he had done so, Paracelsus, who had kept the stopper all ready in his hand for the purpose, clapped it as quick as lightning into the hole, hammered it in firmly with a stone, and with his knife made three fresh crosses upon it. The spirit, mad with rage, shook the fir-tree as though with a whirlwind, that he might drive out the stopper which Paracelsus had thrust in, but his fury was of no avail. It held fast, and left him there with little hope of escape, for, on account of the great drifts of snow from the mountains, the forest will never be cut down, and, although he should call night and day, nobody in that neighbourhood ever ventures near the spot. Paracelsus, however, found that the phials were such as he had demanded, and it was by their means that he afterwards became such a celebrated and distinguished man. HANS IN LUCK. Hans had served his master seven years, and at last said to him-- "Master, my time is up; I should like to go home and see my mother, so give me my wages." And the master said-- "You have been a faithful and good servant, so your pay shall be handsome." Then he gave him a piece of silver that was as big as his head. Hans took out his pocket-handkerchief, put the piece of silver into it, threw it over his shoulder, and jogged off homewards. As he went lazily on, dragging one foot after another, a man came in sight, trotting along gaily on a capital horse. "Ah!" said Hans aloud, "what a fine thing it is to ride on horseback! There he sits as if he were at home in his chair. He trips against no stones, spares his shoes, and yet gets on he hardly knows how." The horseman heard this, and said-- "Well, Hans, why do you go on foot, then?" "Ah!" said he, "I have this load to carry; to be sure, it is silver, but it is so heavy that I can't hold up my head, and it hurts my shoulder sadly." "What do you say to changing?" said the horseman. "I will give you my horse, and you shall give me the silver." "With all my heart," said Hans, "but I tell you one thing: you will have a weary task to drag it along." The horseman got off, took the silver, helped Hans up, gave him the bridle into his hand, and said-- "When you want to go very fast, you must smack your lips loud and cry, 'Jip.'" Hans was delighted as he sat on the horse, and rode merrily on. After a time he thought he should like to go a little faster, so he smacked his lips and cried "Jip." Away went the horse full gallop, and before Hans knew what he was about, he was thrown off, and lay in a ditch by the wayside, and his horse would have run off if a shepherd, who was coming by driving a cow, had not stopped it. Hans soon came to himself, and got upon his legs again. He was sadly vexed, and said to the shepherd-- "This riding is no joke when a man gets on a beast like this, that stumbles and flings him off as if he would break his neck. However, I'm off now once for all. I like your cow a great deal better; one can walk along at one's leisure behind her, and have milk, butter, and cheese every day into the bargain. What would I give to have such a cow!" "Well," said the shepherd, "if you are so fond of her I will change my cow for your horse." "Done!" said Hans merrily. The shepherd jumped upon the horse and away he rode. Hans drove off his cow quietly, and thought his bargain a very lucky one. "If I have only a piece of bread (and I certainly shall be able to get that), I can, whenever I like, eat my butter and cheese with it, and when I am thirsty I can milk my cow and drink the milk. What can I wish for more?" said he. When he came to an inn he halted, ate up all his bread, and gave away his last penny for a glass of beer. Then he drove his cow towards his mother's village. The heat grew greater as noon came on, till at last he found himself on a wide heath that it would take him more than an hour to cross, and he began to be so hot and parched that his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. "I can find a cure for this," thought he; "now will I milk my cow and quench my thirst." So he tied her to the stump of a tree, and held his leathern cap to milk into, but not a drop was to be had. While he was trying his luck, and managing the matter very clumsily, the uneasy beast gave him a kick on the head that knocked him down, and there he lay a long while senseless. Luckily a butcher came by driving a pig in a wheelbarrow. "What is the matter with you?" said the butcher, as he helped him up. Hans told him what had happened, and the butcher gave him a flask, saying-- "There, drink and refresh yourself. Your cow will give you no milk; she is an old beast, good for nothing but the slaughter-house." "Alas, alas!" said Hans, "who would have thought it? If I kill her, what will she be good for? I hate cow-beef; it is not tender enough for me. If it were a pig, now, one could do something with it; it would at any rate make some sausages." "Well," said the butcher, "to please you I'll change and give you the pig for the cow." "Heaven reward you for your kindness!" said Hans, as he gave the butcher the cow and took the pig off the wheelbarrow and drove it off, holding it by a string tied to its leg. So on he jogged, and all seemed now to go right with him. He had met with some misfortunes, to be sure, but he was now well repaid for all. The next person he met was a countryman carrying a fine white goose under his arm. The countryman stopped to ask what was the hour, and Hans told him all his luck, and how he had made so many good bargains. The countryman said he was going to take the goose to a christening. "Feel," said he, "how heavy it is, and yet it is only eight weeks old. Whoever roasts and eats it may cut plenty of fat off, it has lived so well." "You're right," said Hans, as he weighed it in his hand; "but my pig is no trifle." Meantime the countryman began to look grave, and shook his head. "Hark ye," said he, "my good friend. Your pig may get you into a scrape. In the village I have just come from the squire has had a pig stolen out of his sty. I was dreadfully afraid when I saw you that you had got the squire's pig. It will be a bad job if they catch you, for the least they'll do will be to throw you into the horse-pond." Poor Hans was sadly frightened. "Good man," cried he, "pray get me out of this scrape. You know this country better than I; take my pig and give me the goose." "I ought to have something into the bargain," said the countryman; "however, I'll not bear hard upon you, as you are in trouble." Then he took the string in his hand and drove off the pig by a side path, while Hans went on his way homeward free from care. "After all," thought he, "I have the best of the bargain. First there will be a capital roast, then the fat will find me in goose-grease for six months, and then there are all the beautiful white feathers. I will put them into my pillow, and then I am sure I shall sleep soundly without rocking. How happy my mother will be!" As he came to the last village he saw a scissors-grinder, with his wheel, working away and singing-- "O'er hill and o'er dale so happy I roam, Work light and live well, all the world is my home; Who so blythe, so merry as I?" Hans stood looking for a while, and at last said-- "You must be well off, master grinder, you seem so happy at your work." "Yes," said the other, "mine is a golden trade. A good grinder never puts his hand in his pocket without finding money in it--but where did you get that beautiful goose?" "I did not buy it, but changed a pig for it." "And where did you get the pig?" "I gave a cow for it." "And the cow?" "I gave a horse for it." "And the horse?" "I gave a piece of silver as big as my head for that." "And the silver?" "Oh! I worked hard for that seven long years." "You have thriven well in the world hitherto," said the grinder, "now if you could find money in your pocket whenever you put your hand into it your fortune would be made." "Very true, but how is that to be managed?" "You must turn grinder like me," said the other. "You only want a grindstone, the rest will come of itself. Here is one that is only a little the worse for wear. I would not ask more than the value of your goose for it. Will you buy it?" "How can you ask such a question?" said Hans. "I should be the happiest man in the world if I could have money whenever I put my hand in my pocket. What could I want more? There's the goose." "Now," said the grinder, as he gave him a common rough stone that lay by his side, "this is a most capital stone. Do but manage it cleverly and you can make an old nail cut with it." Hans took the stone, and went off with a light heart. His eyes sparkled with joy, and he said to himself-- "I must have been born in a lucky hour. Everything I want or wish comes to me of itself." Meantime he began to be tired, for he had been travelling ever since daybreak. He was hungry too, for he had given away his last penny in his joy at getting the cow. At last he could go no further, and the stone tired him terribly, so he dragged himself to the side of the pond that he might drink some water and rest a while. He laid the stone carefully by his side on the bank, but as he stooped down to drink he forgot it, pushed it a little, and down it went, plump into the pond. For a while he watched it sinking in the deep, clear water, then, sprang up for joy, and again fell upon his knees and thanked Heaven with tears in his eyes for its kindness in taking away his only plague, the ugly, heavy stone. "How happy am I!" cried he; "no mortal was ever so lucky as I am." Then he got up with a light and merry heart, and walked on, free from all his troubles, till he reached his mother's house. THE GREY MARE IN THE GARRET. In the portal of the Church of the Apostles, near the new market in Cologne, hung a picture, the portraits of a certain Frau Richmodis von Aducht and her two children, of whom the following singular story is related. The picture was covered with a curtain which she worked with her own hands. Her husband, Richmuth von Aducht, was, in the year of grace 1400, a rich burgomaster of Cologne, and lived at the sign of the Parroquet in the New Marckt. In that year a fearful plague desolated all quarters of the city. She fell sick of the pest, and, to all appearance, died. After the usual period had elapsed she was buried in the vaults of the Apostles' Church. She was buried, as the custom then was, with her jewelled rings on her fingers, and most of her rich ornaments on her person. These tempted the cupidity of the sexton of the church. He argued with himself that they were no use to the corpse, and he determined to possess them. Accordingly he proceeded in the dead of night to the vault where she lay interred, and commenced the work of sacrilegious spoliation. He first unscrewed the coffin lid. He then removed it altogether, and proceeded to tear away the shroud which interposed between him and his prey. But what was his horror to perceive the corpse clasp her hands slowly together, then rise, and finally sit erect in the coffin. He was rooted to the earth. The corpse made as though it would step from its narrow bed, and the sexton fled, shrieking, through the vaults. The corpse followed, its long white shroud floating like a meteor in the dim light of the lamp, which, in his haste, he had forgotten. It was not until he reached his own door that he had sufficient courage to look behind him, and then, when he perceived no trace of his pursuer, the excitement which had sustained him so far subsided, and he sank senseless to the earth. In the meantime Richmuth von Aducht, who had slept scarcely a moment since the death of his dear wife, was surprised by the voice of his old manservant, who rapped loudly at his chamber door, and told him to awake and come forth, for his mistress had arisen from the dead, and was then at the gate of the courtyard. "Bah!" said he, rather pettishly, "go thy ways, Hans; you dream, or are mad, or drunk. What you see is quite impossible. I should as soon believe my old grey mare had got into the garret as that my wife was at the courtyard gate." Trot, trot, trot, trot, suddenly resounded high over his head. "What's that?" asked he of his servant. "I know not," replied the man, "an' it be not your old grey mare in the garret." They descended in haste to the courtyard, and looked up to the window of the attic. Lo and behold! there was indeed the grey mare with her head poked out of the window, gazing down with her great eyes on her master and his man, and seeming to enjoy very much her exalted station, and their surprise at it. Knock, knock, knock went the rapper of the street gate. "It is my wife!" "It is my mistress!" exclaimed master and man in the same breath. The door was quickly unfastened, and there, truly, stood the mistress of the mansion, enveloped in her shroud. "Are you alive or dead?" exclaimed the astonished husband. "Alive, my dear, but very cold," she murmured faintly, her teeth chattering the while, as those of one in a fever chill; "help me to my chamber." He caught her in his arms and covered her with kisses. Then he bore her to her chamber, and called up the whole house to welcome and assist her. She suffered a little from fatigue and fright, but in a few days was very much recovered. The thing became the talk of the town, and hundreds flocked daily to see, not alone the lady that was rescued from the grave in so remarkable a manner, but also the grey mare which had so strangely contrived to get into the garret. The excellent lady lived long and happily with her husband, and at her death was laid once more in her old resting-place. The grey mare, after resting in the garret three days, was got down by means of scaffolding, safe and sound. She survived her mistress for some time, and was a general favourite in the city, and when she died her skin was stuffed, and placed in the arsenal as a curiosity. The sexton went mad with the fright he had sustained, and in a short time entered that bourn whence he had so unintentionally recovered the burgomaster's wife. Not only was this memorable circumstance commemorated in the Church of the Apostles, but it was also celebrated in _bassi relievi_ figures on the walls of the burgomaster's residence--the sign of the Parroquet in the New Marckt. The searcher after antiquities will, however, look in vain for either. They are not now to be found. Modern taste has defaced the porch where stood the one, and erected a shapeless structure on the site of the other. THE WATER SPIRIT. About the middle of the sixteenth century, when Zündorf was no larger than it is at present, there lived at the end of the village, hard by the church, one of that useful class of women termed midwives. She was an honest, industrious creature, and what with ushering the new-born into life, and then assisting in making garments for them, she contrived to creep through the world in comfort, if not in complete happiness. The summer had been one of unusual drought, and the winter, of a necessity, one of uncommon scarcity, so that when the spring arrived the good woman had less to do than at any period in the preceding seven years. In fact she was totally unemployed. As she mused one night, lying abed, on the matter, she was startled by a sharp, quick knock at the door of her cottage. She hesitated for a moment to answer the call, but the knocking was repeated with more violence than before. This caused her to spring out of bed without more delay, and hasten to ascertain the wish of her impatient visitor. She opened the door in the twinkling of an eye, and a man, tall of stature, enveloped in a large dark cloak, stood before her. "My wife is in need of thee," he said to her abruptly; "her time is come. Follow me." "Nay, but the night is dark, sir," replied she. "Whither do you desire me to follow?" "Close at hand," he answered, as abruptly as before. "Be ye quick and follow me." "I will but light my lamp and place it in the lantern," said the woman. "It will not cost me more than a moment's delay." "It needs not, it needs not," repeated the stranger; "the spot is close by. I know every foot of ground. Follow, follow!" There was something so imperative, and at the same time so irresistible, in the manner of the man that she said not another word, but drawing her warm cloak about her head followed him at once. Ere she was aware of the course he had taken, so dark was the night, and so wrapt up was she in the cloak and in her meditations, she found herself on the bank of the Rhine, just opposite to the low fertile islet which bears the same name as the village, and lies at a little distance from the shore. "How is this, good sir?" she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise and alarm. "You have missed the way--you have left your road. Here is no further path." "Silence, and follow," were the only words he spoke in reply; but they were uttered in such a manner as to show her at once that her best course was obedience. They were now at the edge of the mighty stream; the rushing waters washed their feet. The poor woman would fain have drawn back, but she could not, such was the preternatural power exercised over her by her companion. "Fear not; follow!" he spoke again, in a kinder tone, as the current kissed the hem of her garments. He took the lead of her. The waters opened to receive him. A wall of crystal seemed built up on either side of the vista. He plunged into its depths; she followed. The wild wave gurgled over them, and they were walking over the shiny pebbles and glittering sands which strewed the bed of the river. And now a change came over her indeed. She had left all on earth in the thick darkness of a starless spring night, yet all around her was lighted up like a mellow harvest eve, when the sun shines refulgent through masses of golden clouds on the smiling pastures and emerald meadows of the west. She looked up, but she could see no cause for this illumination. She looked down, and her search was equally unsuccessful. She seemed to herself to traverse a great hall of surpassing transparency, lighted up by a light resembling that given out by a huge globe of ground glass. Her conductor still preceded her. They approached a little door. The chamber within it contained the object of their solicitude. On a couch of mother-of-pearl, surrounded by sleeping fishes and drowsy syrens, who could evidently afford her no assistance, lay the sick lady. "Here is my wife," spake the stranger, as they entered this chamber. "Take her in hand at once, and hark ye, mother, heed that she has no injury through thee, or----" With these words he waved his hand, and, preceded by the obedient inhabitants of the river, who had until then occupied the chamber, left the apartment. The midwife approached her patient with fear and trembling; she knew not what to anticipate. What was her surprise to perceive that the stranger was like any other lady. The business in hand was soon finished, and midwife and patient began to talk together, as women will when an opportunity is afforded them. "It surprises me much," quoth the former, "to see such a handsome young lady as you are buried down here in the bottom of the river. Do you never visit the land? What a loss it is to you!" "Hush, hush!" interposed the Triton's lady, placing her forefinger significantly on her lips; "you peril your life by talking thus without guard. Go to the door; look out, that you may see if there be any listeners, then I will tell something to surprise you." The midwife did as she was directed. There was no living being within earshot. "Now, listen," said the lady. The midwife was all ear. "I am a woman; a Christian woman like yourself," she continued, "though I am here now in the home of my husband, who is the spirit of these mighty waters." "God be praised!" ejaculated her auditor. "My father was the lord of the hamlet of Rheidt, a little above Lülsdorf, and I lived there in peace and happiness during my girlish days. I had nothing to desire, as every wish was gratified by him as soon as it was formed. However, as I grew to womanhood I felt that my happiness had departed. I knew not whither it had gone, or why, but gone it was. I felt restless, melancholy, wretched. I wanted, in short, something to love, but that I found out since. Well, one day a merry-making took place in the village, and every one was present at it. We danced on the green sward which stretches to the margin of the river; for that day I forgot my secret grief, and was among the gayest of the gay. They made me the queen of the feast, and I had the homage of all. As the sun was going down in glory in the far west, melting the masses of clouds into liquid gold, a stranger of a noble mien appeared in the midst of our merry circle. He was garbed in green from head to heel, and seemed to have crossed the river, for the hem of his rich riding-cloak was dripping with wet. No one knew him, no one cared to inquire who he was, and his presence rather awed than rejoiced us. He was, however, a stranger, and he was welcome. When I tell you that stranger is my husband, you may imagine the rest. When the dance then on foot was ended, he asked my hand. I could not refuse it if I would, but I would not if I could. He was irresistible. We danced and danced until the earth seemed to reel around us. I could perceive, however, even in the whirl of tumultuous delight which forced me onward, that we neared the water's edge in every successive figure. We stood at length on the verge of the stream. The current caught my dress, the villagers shrieked aloud, and rushed to rescue me from the river. "'Follow!' said my partner, plunging as he spoke into the foaming flood. "I followed. Since then I have lived with him here. It is now a century since, but he has communicated to me a portion of his own immortality, and I know not age, neither do I dread death any longer. He is good and kind to me, though fearful to others. The only cause of complaint I have is his invariable custom of destroying every babe to which I give birth on the third day after my delivery. He says it is for my sake, and for their sakes, that he does so, and he knows best." She sighed heavily as she said this. "And now," resumed the lady, "I must give you one piece of advice, which, if you would keep your life, you must implicitly adopt. My husband will return. Be on your guard, I bid you. He will offer you gold, he will pour out the countless treasures he possesses before you, he will proffer you diamonds and pearls and priceless gems, but--heed well what I say to you--take nothing more from him than you would from any other person. Take the exact sum you are wont to receive on earth, and take not a kreutzer more, or your life is not worth a moment's purchase. It is forfeit." "He must be a cruel being, indeed," ejaculated the midwife. "God deliver me from this dread and great danger." "See you yon sealed vessels?" spake the lady, without seeming to heed her fright, or hear her ejaculations. The midwife looked, and saw ranged on an upper shelf of the apartment about a dozen small pots, like pipkins, all fast sealed, and labelled in unknown characters. "These pots," pursued she, "contain the souls of those who have been, like you, my attendants in childbirth, but who, for slighting the advice I gave them, as I now give you, and permitting a spirit of unjust gain to take possession of their hearts, were deprived of life by my husband. Heed well what I say. He comes. Be silent and discreet." As she spake the water spirit entered. He first asked his wife how she did, and his tones were like the rushing sound of a current heard far off. Learning from her own lips that all was well with her, he turned to the midwife and thanked her most graciously. "Now, come with me," he said, "I must pay thee for thy services." She followed him from the sick-chamber to the treasury of the palace. It was a spacious crystal vault, lighted up, like the rest of the palace, from without, but within it was resplendent with treasures of all kinds. He led her to a huge heap of shining gold which ran the whole length of the chamber. "Here," said he, "take what you will. I put no stint upon you." The trembling woman picked up a single piece of the smallest coin she could find upon the heap. "This is my fee," she spake. "I ask no more than a fair remuneration for my labour." The water spirit's brow blackened like a tempestuous night, and he showed his green teeth for a moment as if in great ire, but the feeling, whatever it was, appeared to pass away as quickly as it came, and he led her to a huge heap of pearls. "Here," he said, "take what you will. Perhaps you like these better? They are all pearls of great price, or may be you would wish for some memento of me. Take what you will." But she still declined to take anything more, although he tempted her with all his treasures. She had not forgotten the advice of her patient. "I desire nothing more from you, great prince as you are, than I receive from one of my own condition." This was her uniform answer to his entreaties-- "I thank you, but I may not take aught beside my due." "If," said he, after a short pause, "you had taken more than your due, you would have perished at my hands. And now," proceeded the spirit, "you shall home, but first take this. Fear not." As he spake he dipped his hand in the heap of gold and poured forth a handful into her lap. "Use that," he continued, "use it without fear. It is my gift. No evil will come of it; I give you my royal word." He beckoned her onward without waiting for her reply, and they were walking once again through the corridors of the palace. "Adieu!" he said, waving his hand to her, "adieu!" Darkness fell around her in a moment. In a moment more she awoke, as from a dream, in her warm bed. PETER KLAUS. Peter Klaus, a goatherd of Sittendorf, who tended herds on the Kyffhauser mountain, used to let them rest of an evening in a spot surrounded by an old wall, where he always counted them to see if they were all right. For some days he noticed that one of his finest goats, as they came to this spot, vanished, and never returned to the herd till late. He watched him more closely, and at length saw him slip through a rent in the wall. He followed him, and caught him in a cave, feeding sumptuously upon the grains of oats which fell one by one from the roof. He looked up, shook his head at the shower of oats, but, with all his care, could discover nothing further. At length he heard overhead the neighing and stamping of some mettlesome horses, and concluded that the oats must have fallen from their mangers. While the goatherd stood there, wondering about these horses in a totally uninhabited mountain, a lad came and made signs to him to follow him silently. Peter ascended some steps, and, crossing a walled court, came to a glade surrounded by rocky cliffs, into which a sort of twilight made its way through the thick-leaved branches. Here he found twelve grave old knights playing at skittles, at a well-levelled and fresh plot of grass. Peter was silently appointed to set up the ninepins for them. At first his knees knocked together as he did this, while he marked, with half-stolen glances, the long beards and goodly paunches of the noble knights. By degrees, however, he grew more confident, and looked at everything about him with a steady gaze--nay, at last, he ventured so far as to take a draught from a pitcher which stood near him, the fragrance of which appeared to him delightful. He felt quite revived by the draught, and as often as he felt at all tired, received new strength from application to the inexhaustible pitcher. But at length sleep overcame him. When he awoke, he found himself once more in the enclosed green space, where he was accustomed to leave his goats. He rubbed his eyes, but could discover neither dog nor goats, and stared with surprise at the height to which the grass had grown, and at the bushes and trees, which he never remembered to have noticed. Shaking his head, he proceeded along the roads and paths which he was accustomed to traverse daily with his herd, but could nowhere see any traces of his goats. Below him he saw Sittendorf; and at last he descended with quickened step, there to make inquiries after his herd. The people whom he met at his entrance to the town were unknown to him, and dressed and spoke differently from those whom he had known there. Moreover, they all stared at him when he inquired about his goats, and began stroking their chins. At last, almost involuntarily, he did the same, and found to his great astonishment that his beard had grown to be a foot long. He began now to think himself and the world altogether bewitched, and yet he felt sure that the mountain from which he had descended was the Kyffhauser; and the houses here, with their fore-courts, were all familiar to him. Moreover, several lads whom he heard telling the name of the place to a traveller called it Sittendorf. Shaking his head, he proceeded into the town straight to his own house. He found it sadly fallen to decay. Before it lay a strange herd-boy in tattered garments, and near him an old worn-out dog, which growled and showed his teeth at Peter when he called him. He entered by the opening, which had formerly been closed by a door, but found all within so desolate and empty that he staggered out again like a drunkard, and called his wife and children. No one heard; no voice answered him. Women and children now began to surround the strange old man, with the long hoary beard, and to contend with one another in inquiring of him what he wanted. He thought it so ridiculous to make inquiries of strangers, before his own house, after his wife and children, and still more so, after himself, that he mentioned the first neighbour whose name occurred to him, Kirt Stiffen. All were silent, and looked at one another, till an old woman said-- "He has left here these twelve years. He lives at Sachsenberg; you'll hardly get there to-day." "Velten Maier?" "God help him!" said an old crone leaning on a crutch. "He has been confined these fifteen years in the house, which he'll never leave again." He recognised, as he thought, his suddenly aged neighbour; but he had lost all desire of asking any more questions. At last a brisk young woman, with a boy of a twelvemonth old in her arms, and with a little girl holding her hand, made her way through the gaping crowd, and they looked for all the world like his wife and children. "What is your name?" said Peter, astonished. "Maria." "And your father?" "God have mercy on him, Peter Klaus. It is twenty years since we sought him day and night on the Kyffhauser, when his goats came home without him. I was only seven years old when it happened." The goatherd could no longer contain himself. "I am Peter Klaus," he cried, "and no other," and he took the babe from his daughter's arms. All stood like statues for a minute, till one and then another began to cry-- "Here's Peter Klaus come back again! Welcome, neighbour, welcome, after twenty years; welcome, Peter Klaus!" THE LEGEND OF RHEINECK. Graf Ulric Von Rheineck was a very wild youth. Recklessly and without consideration did he plunge into every excess. Dissipation grew to be the habit of his life, and no sensual indulgence did he deny himself which could be procured by any means whatever. Amply provided for as he was, the revenues of his wide possessions, which comprehended Thal Rheineck, and the adjacent country, to the shore of the Rhine, and as far as the mouth of the Aar, were soon discovered to be insufficient for all his absorbing necessities. One by one his broad lands were alienated from him, piece after piece of that noble possession fell from his house, until finally he found himself without a single inch of ground which he could call his own, save the small and unproductive spot on which Rheineck stood. This he had no power to transfer, or perhaps it would have gone with the remainder. The castle had fallen sadly into disrepair, through his protracted absence from home, and his continual neglect of it,--indeed there was scarcely a habitable room within its precincts, and he now had no means to make it the fitting abode of any one, still less of a nobleman of his rank and consequence. All without, as well as all within it, was desolate and dreary to the last degree. The splendid garden, previously the pride of his ancestors, was overrun with weeds, and tangled with parasites and creepers. The stately trees, which once afforded shelter and shade, as well as fruits of the finest quality and rarest kinds, were all dying or withered, or had their growth obstructed by destroying plants. The outer walls were in a ruinous condition, the fortifications were everywhere fallen into decay, and the alcoves and summer-houses had dropped down, or were roofless, and exposed to the weather. It was a cheerless prospect to contemplate, but he could not now help himself, even if he had the will to do so. Day after day the same scene of desolation presented itself to his eyes, night after night did the same cheerless chamber present itself to his view. It was his own doing. That he could not deny, and bitterly he rued it. To crown his helplessness and misery, his vassals and domestic servants abandoned him by degrees, one after another, and at last he was left entirely alone in the house of his fathers--a hermit in that most dismal of all solitudes, the desolate scene of one's childish, one's happiest recollections. One evening about twilight, as he sat at the outer gate, looking sadly on the broad, bright river which flowed calmly beneath, he became aware of the presence of a stranger, who seemed to toil wearily up the steep acclivity on the summit of which the castle is situated. The stranger--an unusual sight within those walls then--soon reached the spot where Ulric sat, and, greeting the youth in the fashion of the times, prayed him for shelter during the night, and refreshment after his most painful journey. "I am," quoth the stranger, "a poor pilgrim on my way to Cologne, where, by the merits of the three wise kings--to whose shrine I am bound--I hope to succeed in the object of my journey." Graf Ulric von Rheineck at once accorded him the hospitality he required, for though he had but scant cheer for himself, and nought of comfort to bestow, he had still some of the feeling of a gentleman left in him. "I am alone here now," said he to the pilgrim, with a deep sigh. "I am myself as poor as Job. Would it were not so! My menials have left me to provide for themselves, as I can no longer provide for them. 'Twas ever the way of the world, and I blame them not for it. The last departed yesterday. He was an old favourite of my father's, and he once thought that he would not leave my service but with his life. We must now look to ourselves, however,--at least so he said. But that has nothing to do with the matter, so enter, my friend." They entered. By their joint exertions a simple evening meal was soon made ready, and speedily spread forth on a half-rotten plank, their only table. "I have no better to offer you," observed the young Count, "but I offer you what I have with right goodwill. Eat, if you can, and be merry." They ate in silence, neither speaking during the meal. "Surely," said the pilgrim, when it was over,--"surely it may not be that the extensive cellars of this great castle contain not a single cup of wine for the weary wayfarer." The Count was at once struck by the idea. It seemed to him as if he had never thought of it before, though in reality he had ransacked every corner of the cellars more than once. "Come, let us go together and try," continued the pilgrim; "it will go hard with us if we find nought to wash down our homely fare." Accompanied by his persuasive guest, the Count descended to the vaults, where the wines of Rheineck had been stored for ages. Dark and dreary did they seem to him. A chill fell on his soul as he strode over the mouldy floor. "Here," said the pilgrim, with great glee,--"here, here! Look ye, my master, look ye! See! I have found a cup of the best." The Count passed into a narrow cellar whither the pilgrim had preceded him. There stood his companion beside a full butt of burgundy, holding in his hand a massive silver cup, foaming over with the generous beverage, and with the other he pointed exultingly to his prize. The scene seemed like a dream to Ulric. The place was wholly unknown to him. The circumstances were most extraordinary. He mused a moment, but he knew not what to do in the emergency. "We will enjoy ourselves here," said the pilgrim. "Here, on this very spot, shall we make us merry! Ay, here, beside this noble butt of burgundy. See, 'tis the best vintage! Let us be of good cheer!" The Count and his boon companion sat down on two empty casks, and a third served them for a table. They plied the brimming beakers with right goodwill; they drank with all their might and main. The Count became communicative, and talked about his private affairs, as men in liquor will. The pilgrim, however, preserved a very discreet silence, only interrupting by an occasional interjection of delight, or an opportune word of encouragement to his garrulous friend. "I'll tell you what," began the pilgrim, when the Count had concluded his tale,--"I'll tell you what. Listen: I know a way to get you out of your difficulties, to rid you of all your embarrassments." The Count looked at him incredulously for a moment; his eye could not keep itself steady for a longer space of time. There was something in the pilgrim's glance as it met his that greatly dissipated his unbelief, and he inquired of him how these things could be brought about. "But, mayhap," continued the pilgrim, apparently disregarding the manifest change in his companion's impressions regarding him,--"mayhap you would be too faint-hearted to follow my advice if I gave it you." The Count sprang on his feet in a trice, and half-unsheathed his sword to avenge this taunt on his manhood, but the pilgrim looked so unconcerned, and evinced so little emotion at this burst of anger, that the action and its result were merely momentary. Ulric resumed his seat, and the pilgrim proceeded-- "You tell me that you once heard from your father, who had it from his father, that your great-grandfather, in the time when this castle was beleaguered by the Emperor Conrad, buried a vast treasure in some part of it, but which part his sudden death prevented him from communicating to his successor?" The Count nodded acquiescence. "It is even so," he said. "In Eastern lands have I learned to discover where concealed treasures are hidden," pursued the pilgrim; "and----" The Count grasped him by the hand. "Find them," he cried,--"find them for me, and a full half is thine! Oh, there is gold, and there are diamonds and precious stones of all kinds. They are there in abundance. My father said so! 'Tis true, 'tis true! Find them, find them, and then shall this old hall ring once more with the voice of merriment. Then shall we live! ay, we shall live! that we shall." The pilgrim did not attempt to interrupt his ecstasies, or to interpose between him and the excess of his glee, but let him excite himself to the highest pitch with pictures of the pleasing future, until they had acquired almost the complexion of fact and the truth of reality for his distracted imagination. When he had exhausted himself, the wily tempter resumed-- "Oh yes, I know it all. I know where the treasure is. I can put your finger on it if I like. I was present when the old man buried it in the----" "You present!" exclaimed Ulric, his hair standing on end with horror, for he had no doubts of the truth of the mysterious stranger's statements,--"you present!" "Yes," resumed the pilgrim; "I was present." "But he is full a hundred years dead and buried," continued the Count. "No matter for that, no matter for that," replied the guest abruptly; "many and many a time have we drunk and feasted and revelled together in this vault--ay, in this very vault." The Count knew not what to think, still less what to reply to this information. He could not fail to perceive its improbability, drunk as he was, but still he could not, for the life of him, discredit it. "But," added the pilgrim, "trouble not yourself with that at present which you have not the power to comprehend, and speculate not on my proceedings, but listen to my words, and follow my advice, if you will that I should serve you in the matter." The Count was silent when the stranger proceeded. "This is Walpurgis night," he said. "All the spirits of earth and sea and sky are now abroad on their way to the Brocken. Hell is broke loose, you know, for its annual orgies on that mountain. When the castle clock tolls twelve go you into the chapel, and proceed to the graves of your grandfather, your great-grandfather, and your great-great-grandfather; take from their coffins the bones of their skeletons--take them all, mind ye. One by one you must then remove them into the moonlight, outside the walls of the building, and there lay them softly on the bit of green sward which faces to the south. This done, you must next place them in the order in which they lay in their last resting-place. When you have completed that task, you must return to the chapel, and in their coffins you will find the treasures of your forefathers. No one has power over an atom of them, until the bones of those who in spirit keep watch and ward over them shall have been removed from their guardianship. So long as they rest on them, or oversee them, to the dead they belong. It is a glorious prize. 'Twill be the making of you, man, for ever!" Ulric was shocked at the proposal. To desecrate the graves of his fathers was a deed which made him shudder, and, bad as he was, the thought filled him with the greatest horror, but the temptation was irresistible. At the solemn hour of midnight he proceeded to the chapel, accompanied by the pilgrim. He entered the holy place with trembling, for his heart misgave him. The pilgrim stayed without, apparently anxious and uneasy as to the result of the experiment about to be made. To all the solicitations of the Count for assistance in his task he turned a deaf ear; nothing that he could say could induce him to set foot within the chapel walls. Ulric opened the graves in the order in which they were situated, beginning with the one first from the door of the chapel. He proceeded to remove the rotting remains from their mouldering coffins. One by one did he bear their bleached bones into the open air, as he had been instructed, and placed them as they had lain in their narrow beds, under the pale moonbeams, on the plot of green sward facing the south, outside the chapel walls. The coffins were all cleared of their tenants, except one which stood next to the altar, at the upper end of the aisle. Ulric approached this also to perform the wretched task he had set himself, the thoughts of the treasure he should become possessed of but faintly sustaining his sinking soul in the fearful operation. Removing the lid of this last resting-place of mortality, his heart failed him at the sight he beheld. There lay extended, as if in deep sleep, the corpse of a fair child, fresh and comely, as if it still felt and breathed and had lusty being. The weakness Ulric felt was but momentary. His companion called aloud to him to finish his task quickly, or the hour would have passed when his labour would avail him. As he touched the corpse of the infant the body stirred as if it had sensation. He shrank back in horror as the fair boy rose gently in his coffin, and at length stood upright within it. "Bring back yon bones," said the phantom babe,--"bring back yon bones; let them rest in peace in the last home of their fathers. The curse of the dead will be on you otherwise. Back! back! bring them back ere it be too late." The corpse sank down in the coffin again as it uttered these words, and Ulric saw a skeleton lying in its place. Shuddering, he averted his gaze, and turned it towards the chapel door, where he had left his companion. But, horror upon horror! as he looked he saw the long, loose, dark outer garment fall from the limbs of the pilgrim. He saw his form dilate and expand in height and in breadth, until his head seemed to touch the pale crescent moon, and his bulk shut out from view all beyond itself. He saw his eyes firing and flaming like globes of lurid light, and he saw his hair and beard converted into one mass of living flame. The fiend stood revealed in all his hideous deformity. His hands were stretched forth to fasten on the hapless Count, who, with vacillating step, like the bird under the eye of the basilisk, involuntarily, though with a perfect consciousness of his awful situation, and the fearful fate which awaited him, every moment drew nearer and nearer to him. The victim reached the chapel door--he felt all the power of that diabolical fascination--another step and he would be in the grasp of the fiend who grinned to clutch him. But the fair boy who spoke from the grave suddenly appeared once more, and, flinging himself between the wretched Count and the door, obstructed his further progress. "Avaunt, foul fiend!" spake the child, and his voice was like a trumpet-note; "avaunt to hell! He is no longer thine. Thou hast no power over him. Your hellish plot has failed. He is free, and shall live and repent." As he said this he threw his arms around Ulric, and the Count became, as it were, at once surrounded by a beatific halo, which lighted up the chapel like day. The fiend fled howling like a wild beast disappointed of its prey. The remains of his ancestors were again replaced in their coffins by the Count, long ere the morning broke, and on their desecrated graves he poured forth a flood of repentant tears. With the dawn of day he quitted the castle of Rheineck. It is said that he traversed the land in the garb of a lowly mendicant, subsisting on the alms of the charitable, and it is likewise told that he did penance at every holy shrine from Cologne to Rome, whither he was bound to obtain absolution for his sins. Years afterwards he was found dead at the foot of the ancient altar in the ruined chapel. The castle went to ruin, and for centuries nought ever dwelt within its walls save the night-birds and the beasts of prey. Of the original structure the ruins of one old tower are all that now remain. It is still firmly believed by the peasants of the neighbourhood, that in the first and the last quarter of the moon the spirit of Ulric, the last of the old lords of Rheineck, still sweeps around the ruin at the hour of midnight, and is occasionally visible to belated wanderers. THE CELLAR OF THE OLD KNIGHTS IN THE KYFFHAUSER. There was a poor, but worthy, and withal very merry, fellow at Tilleda, who was once put to the expense of a christening, and, as luck would have it, it was the eighth. According to the custom of the time, he was obliged to give a plain feast to the child's sponsors. The wine of the country which he put before his guests was soon exhausted, and they began to call for more. "Go," said the merry father of the newly baptized child to his eldest daughter, a handsome girl of sixteen,--"go, and get us better wine than this out of the cellar." "Out of what cellar?" "Why, out of the great wine-cellar of the old Knights in the Kyffhauser, to be sure," said her father jokingly. The simple-minded girl did as he told her, and taking a small pitcher in her hand went to the mountain. In the middle of the mountain she found an aged housekeeper, dressed in a very old-fashioned style, with a large bundle of keys at her girdle, sitting at the ruined entrance of an immense cellar. The girl was struck dumb with amazement, but the old woman said very kindly-- "Of a surety you want to draw wine out of the Knights' cellar?" "Yes," said the girl timidly, "but I have no money." "Never mind that," said the old woman; "come with me, and you shall have wine for nothing, and better wine too than your father ever tasted." So the two went together through the half-blocked-up entrance, and as they went along the old woman made the girl tell her how affairs were going on at that time in Tilleda. "For once," said she, "when I was young, and good-looking as you are, the Knights stole me away in the night-time, and brought me through a hole in the ground from the very house in Tilleda which now belongs to your father. Shortly before that they had carried away by force from Kelbra, in broad daylight, the four beautiful damsels who occasionally still ride about here on horses richly caparisoned, and then disappear again. As for me, as soon as I grew old, they made me their butler, and I have been so ever since." They had now reached the cellar door, which the old woman opened. It was a very large roomy cellar, with barrels ranged along both sides. The old woman rapped against the barrels--some were quite full, some were only half full. She took the little pitcher, drew it full of wine, and said-- "There, take that to your father, and as often as you have a feast in your house you may come here again; but, mind, tell nobody but your father where you get the wine from. Mind, too, you must never sell any of it--it costs nothing, and for nothing you must give it away. Let any one but come here for wine to make a profit off it and his last bread is baked." The girl took the wine to her father, whose guests were highly delighted with it, and sadly puzzled to think where it came from, and ever afterwards, when there was a little merry-making in the house, would the girl fetch wine from the Kyffhauser in her little pitcher. But this state of things did not continue long. The neighbours wondered where so poor a man contrived to get such delicious wine that there was none like it in the whole country round. The father said not a word to any one, and neither did his daughter. Opposite to them, however, lived the publican who sold adulterated wine. He had once tasted the Old Knights' wine, and thought to himself that one might mix it with ten times the quantity of water and sell it for a good price after all. Accordingly, when the girl went for the fourth time with her little pitcher to the Kyffhauser, he crept after her, and concealed himself among the bushes, where he watched until he saw her come out of the entrance which led to the cellar, with her pitcher filled with wine. On the following evening he himself went to the mountain, pushing before him in a wheelbarrow the largest empty barrel he could procure. This he thought of filling with the choicest wine in the cellar, and in the night rolling it down the mountain, and in this way he intended to come every day, as long as there was any wine left in the cellar. When, however, he came to the place where he had the day before seen the entrance to the cellar, it grew all of a sudden totally dark. The wind began to howl fearfully, and a monster threw him, his barrow, and empty butt, from one ridge of rocks to another, and he kept falling lower and lower, until at last he fell into a cemetery. There he saw before him a coffin covered with black, and his wife and four of her gossips, whom he knew well by their dress and figures, were following a bier. His fright was so great that he swooned away. After some hours he came to himself again, and saw, to his horror, that he was still in the dimly lighted vaults, and heard just above his head the well-known town clock of Tilleda strike twelve, and thereby he knew that it was midnight, and that he was then under the church, in the burying-place of the town. He was more dead than alive, and scarcely dared to breathe. Presently there came a monk, who led him up a long, long flight of steps, opened a door, placed, without speaking, a piece of gold in his hand, and deposited him at the foot of the mountain. It was a cold frosty night. By degrees the publican recovered himself, and crept, without barrel or wine, back to his own home. The clock struck one as he reached the door. He immediately took to his bed, and in three days was a dead man, and the piece of gold which the wizard monk had given him was expended on his funeral. THE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE. There was once a fisherman who lived with his wife in a ditch close by the seaside. The fisherman used to go out all day long a-fishing, and one day as he sat on the shore with his rod, looking at the shining water and watching his line, all of sudden his float was dragged away deep under the sea. In drawing it up he pulled a great fish out of the water. The fish said to him-- "Pray let me live. I am not a real fish. I am an enchanted prince. Put me in the water again and let me go." "Oh!" said the man, "you need not make so many words about the matter. I wish to have nothing to do with a fish that can talk, so swim away as soon as you please." Then he put him back into the water, and the fish darted straight down to the bottom, and left a long streak of blood behind him. When the fisherman went home to his wife in the ditch, he told her how he had caught a great fish, and how it had told him it was an enchanted prince, and that on hearing it speak he had let it go again. "Did you not ask it for anything?" said the wife. "No," said the man; "what should I ask it for?" "Ah!" said the wife, "we live very wretchedly here in this nasty miserable ditch, do go back and tell the fish we want a little cottage." The fisherman did not much like the business; however, he went to the sea, and when he came there the water looked all yellow and green. He sat at the water's edge and said-- "O man of the sea, Come listen to me, For Alice my wife, The plague of my life, Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!" Then the fish came swimming to him and said-- "Well, what does she want?" "Ah!" answered the fisherman, "my wife says that when I had caught you, I ought to have asked you for something before I let you go again. She does not like living any longer in the ditch, and wants a little cottage." "Go home, then," said the fish; "she is in the cottage already." So the man went home, and saw his wife standing at the door of a cottage. "Come in, come in," said she. "Is not this much better than the ditch?" There was a parlour, a bedchamber, and a kitchen; and behind the cottage there was a little garden with all sorts of flowers and fruits, and a courtyard full of ducks and chickens. "Ah," said the fisherman, "how happily we shall live!" "We will try to do so, at least," said his wife. Everything went right for a week or two, and then Dame Alice said-- "Husband, there is not room enough in this cottage, the courtyard and garden are a great deal too small. I should like to have a large stone castle to live in, so go to the fish again and tell him to give us a castle." "Wife," said the fisherman, "I don't like to go to him again, for perhaps he will be angry. We ought to be content with the cottage." "Nonsense!" said the wife, "he will do it very willingly. Go along and try." The fisherman went, but his heart was very heavy, and when he came to the sea it looked blue and gloomy, though it was quite calm. He went close to it, and said-- "O man of the sea, Come listen to me, For Alice my wife, The plague of my life, Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!" "Well, what does she want now?" said the fish. "Ah!" said the man very sorrowfully, "my wife wants to live in a stone castle." "Go home, then," said the fish; "she is standing at the door of it already." Away went the fisherman, and found his wife standing before a great castle. "See," said she, "is not this grand?" With that they went into the house together, and found a great many servants there, the rooms all richly furnished, and full of golden chairs and tables; and behind the castle was a garden, and a wood half a mile long, full of sheep, goats, hares, and deer; and in the courtyard were stables and cow-houses. "Well," said the man, "now will we live contented and happy for the rest of our lives." "Perhaps we may," said the wife, "but let us consider and sleep upon it before we make up our minds;" so they went to bed. The next morning when Dame Alice awoke it was broad daylight, and she jogged the fisherman with her elbow, and said-- "Get up, husband, and bestir yourself, for we must be king of all the land." "Wife, wife," said the man, "why should we wish to be king? I will not be king." "Then I will," said Alice. "But, wife," answered the fisherman, "how can you be king? The fish cannot make you king." "Husband," said she, "say no more about it, but go and try. I will be king." So the man went away quite sorrowful, to think that his wife should want to be king. The sea looked a dark grey colour, and was covered with foam, as he called the fish to come and help him. "Well, what would she have now?" asked the fish. "Alas!" said the man, "my wife wants to be king." "Go home," said the fish, "she is king already." Then the fisherman went home, and as he came close to the palace he saw a troop of soldiers, and heard the sound of drums and trumpets; and when he entered, he saw his wife sitting on a high throne of gold and diamonds, with a golden crown upon her head, and on each side of her stood six beautiful maidens. "Well, wife," said the fisherman, "are you king?" "Yes," said she, "I am king." When he had looked at her for a long time, he said-- "Ah! wife, what a fine thing it is to be king! now we shall never have anything more to wish for." "I don't know how that may be," said she. "Never is a long time. I am king, 'tis true; but I begin to be tired of it, and I think I should like to be emperor." "Alas! wife, why should you wish to be emperor?" said the fisherman. "Husband," said she, "go to the fish. I say I will be emperor." "Ah! wife," replied the fisherman, "the fish cannot make an emperor; and I should not like to ask for such a thing." "I am king," said Alice; "and you are my slave, so go directly." So the fisherman was obliged to go, and he muttered as he went along-- "This will come to no good. It is too much to ask. The fish will be tired at last, and then we shall repent of what we have done." He soon arrived at the sea, and the water was quite black and muddy, and a mighty whirlwind blew over it; but he went to the shore, and repeated the words he had used before. "What would she have now?" inquired the fish. "She wants to be emperor," replied the fisherman. "Go home," said the fish, "she is emperor already." So he went home again, and as he came near, he saw his wife sitting on a very lofty throne made of solid gold, with a crown on her head, full two yards high; and on each side of her stood her guards and attendants in a row, ranged according to height, from the tallest giant to a little dwarf, no bigger than one's finger. And before her stood princes, and dukes, and earls; and the fisherman went up to her, and said-- "Wife, are you emperor?" "Yes," said she, "I am emperor." "Ah!" said the man, as he gazed on her, "what a fine thing it is to be emperor!" "Husband," said she, "why should we stay at being emperor? We will be pope next." "O wife, wife!" said he. "How can you be pope? There is but one pope at a time in Christendom." "Husband," said she, "I will be pope this very day." "But," replied the husband, "the fish cannot make you pope." "What nonsense!" said she. "If he can make an emperor, he can make a pope; go and try him." So the fisherman went; but when he came to the shore the wind was raging, the sea was tossed up and down like boiling water, and the ships were in the greatest distress and danced upon the waves most fearfully. In the middle of the sky there was a little blue; but towards the south it was all red, as if a dreadful storm was rising. The fisherman repeated the words, and the fish appeared before him. "What does she want now?" asked the fish. "My wife wants to be pope," said the fisherman. "Go home," said the fish; "she is pope already." Then the fisherman went home, and found his wife sitting on a throne, with three crowns on her head, while around stood all the pomp and power of the Church. On each side were two rows of burning lights of all sizes; the greatest as large as a tower, and the smallest no larger than a rushlight. "Well, wife," said the fisherman, as he looked at all this grandeur, "are you pope?" "Yes," said she; "I am pope." "Well," replied he, "it is a grand thing to be pope; and now you must be content, for you can be nothing greater." "I will consider about that," replied the wife. Then they went to bed; but Dame Alice could not sleep all night for thinking what she should be next. At last morning came, and the sun rose. "Ha!" thought she, as she looked at it through the window, "cannot I prevent the sun rising?" At this she was very angry, and wakened her husband, and said-- "Husband, go to the fish, and tell him I want to be lord of the sun and moon." The fisherman was half asleep; but the thought frightened him so much that he started and fell out of bed. "Alas! wife," said he, "cannot you be content to be pope?" "No," said she, "I am very uneasy, and cannot bear to see the sun and moon rise without my leave. Go to the fish directly." Then the man went trembling for fear. As he was going down to the shore a dreadful storm arose, so that the trees and the rocks shook, the heavens became black, the lightning played, the thunder rolled, and the sea was covered with black waves like mountains, with a white crown of foam upon them. The fisherman came to the shore, and said-- "O man of the sea, Come listen to me, For Alice, my wife, The plague of my life, Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!" "What does she want now?" asked the fish. "Ah!" said he, "she wants to be lord of the sun and moon." "Go home," replied the fish, "to your ditch again." And there they live to this very day. THE MOUSE TOWER. To the traveller who has traversed the delightful environs of the Rhine, from the city of Mentz as far as Coblentz, or from the clear waves of this old Germanic stream gazed upon the grand creations of Nature, all upon so magnificent a scale, the appearance of the old decayed tower which forms the subject of the ensuing tradition forms no uninteresting object. It rises before him as he mounts the Rhine from the little island below Bingen, toward the left shore. He listens to the old shipmaster as he relates with earnest tone the wonderful story of the tower, and, shuddering at the description of the frightful punishment of priestly pride and cruelty, exclaims in strong emotion-- "The Lord be with us!" For, as the saying runs, it was about the year of Our Lord 968, when Hatto II., Duke of the Ostro-franks, surnamed Bonosus, Abbot of Fulda, a man of singular skill and great spiritual endowments, was elected Archbishop of Mentz. He was also a harsh man, and being extremely avaricious, heaped up treasure which he guarded with the utmost care. It so happened, under his spiritual sway, that a cruel famine began to prevail in the city of Mentz and its adjacent parts, insomuch that in a short time numbers of the poorer people fell victims to utter want. Crowds of wretches were to be seen assembled before the Archbishop's palace in the act of beseeching with cries and prayers for some mitigation of their heavy lot. But their harsh lord refused to afford relief out of his own substance, reproaching them at the same time as the authors of their own calamity by their indolence and want of economy. But the poor souls were mad for food, and in frightful and threatening accents cried out-- "Bread, bread!" Fearing the result, Bishop Hatto ordered a vast number of hungry souls to range themselves in order in one of his empty barns under the pretence of supplying them with provisions. Then, having closed the doors, he commanded his minions to fire the place, in which all fell victims to the flames. When he heard the death shouts and shrieks of the unhappy poor, turning towards the menial parasites who abetted his crime he said-- "Hark you! how the mice squeak!" But Heaven that witnessed the deed did not permit its vengeance to sleep. A strange and unheard of death was preparing to loose its terrors upon the sacrilegious prelate. For behold, there arose out of the yet warm ashes of the dead an innumerable throng of mice which were seen to approach the Bishop, and to follow him whithersoever he went. At length he flew into one of his steepest and highest towers, but the mice climbed over the walls. He closed every door and window, yet after him they came, piercing their way through the smallest nooks and crannies of the building. They poured in upon him, and covered him from head to foot, in numberless heaps. They bit, they scratched, they tortured his flesh, till they nearly devoured him. So great was the throng that the more his domestics sought to beat them off, the more keen and savagely, with increased numbers, did they return to the charge. Even where his name was found placed upon the walls and tapestries they gnawed it in their rage away. In this frightful predicament the Bishop, finding that he could obtain no help on land, bethought of taking himself to the water. A tower was hastily erected upon the Rhine. He took ship and shut himself up there. Enclosed within double walls, and surrounded by water, he flattered himself that the rushing stream would effectually check the rage of his enemies. Here too, however, the vengeance of offended Heaven gave them entrance. Myriads of mice took to the stream, and swam and swam, and though myriads of them were swept away, an innumerable throng still reached the spot. Again they climbed and clattered up the walls. The Bishop heard their approach. It was his last retreat. They rushed in upon him with more irresistible fury than before, and, amidst stifled cries of protracted suffering, Bishop Hatto at length rendered up his cruel and avaricious soul. THE DANCERS. The Sabbath-day drew to a close in the summer-tide of the year of grace one thousand and one, and the rustics of Ramersdorf amused themselves with a dance, as was their wont to do, in the courtyard of the monastery. It was a privilege that they had enjoyed time immemorial, and it had never been gainsaid by the abbots who were dead and gone, but Anselm von Lowenberg, the then superior of the convent, an austere, ascetic man, who looked with disdain and dislike on all popular recreations, had long set his face against it, and had, moreover, tried every means short of actual prohibition to put an end to the profane amusement. The rustics, however, were not to be debarred by his displeasure from pursuing, perhaps, their only pleasure; and though the pious abbot discountenanced their proceedings, they acquiesced not in his views, and their enjoyment was not one atom the less. The day had been very beautiful, and the evening was, if possible, more so. Gaily garbed maidens of the village and stalwart rustics filled the courtyard of the convent. A blind fiddler, who had fiddled three generations off the stage, sat in front of a group of elders of either sex, who, though too old and too stiff to partake in the active and exciting amusement, were still young enough to enjoy looking on. A few shaven crowns peered from the latticed casements which looked out on to the merry scene. The music struck up, the dance began. Who approaches? Why are so many anxious glances cast in yonder direction? It is the Abbot. "Cease your fooling," he spake to them, in a solemn tone; "profane not the place nor the day with your idle mirth. Go home, and pray in your own homes for the grace of the Lord to govern ye, for ye are wicked and wilful and hard of heart as the stones!" He waved his hand as if to disperse them, but his words and his action were equally unheeded by the dancers and the spectators. "Forth, vile sinners!" he pursued. "Forth from these walls, or I will curse ye with the curse." Still they regarded him not to obey his behest, although they so far noticed his words as to return menacing look for look, and muttered threats for threat with him. The music played on with the same liveliness, the dancers danced as merrily as ever, and the spectators applauded each display of agility. "Well, then," spake the Abbot, bursting with rage, "an ye cease not, be my curse on your head--there may ye dance for a year and a day!" He banned them bitterly; with uplifted hands and eyes he imprecated the vengeance of Heaven on their disobedience. He prayed to the Lord to punish them for the slight of his directions. Then he sought his cell to vent his ire in solitude. From that hour they continued to dance until a year and a day had fully expired. Night fell, and they ceased not; day dawned, and they danced still. In the heat of noon, in the cool of the evening, day after day there was no rest for them, their saltation was without end. The seasons rolled over them. Summer gave place to autumn, winter succeeded summer, and spring decked the fields with early flowers, as winter slowly disappeared, yet still they danced on, through coursing time and changing seasons, with unabated strength and unimpaired energy. Rain nor hail, snow nor storm, sunshine nor shade, seemed to affect them. Round and round and round they danced, in heat and cold, in damp and dry, in light and darkness. What were the seasons--what the times or the hour or the weather to them? In vain did their neighbours and friends try to arrest them in their wild evolutions; in vain were attempts made to stop them in their whirling career; in vain did even the Abbot himself interpose to relieve them from the curse he had laid on them, and to put a period to the punishment of which he had been the cause. The strongest man in the vicinity held out his hand and caught one of them, with the intention of arresting his rotation, and tearing him from the charmed circle, but his arm was torn from him in the attempt, and clung to the dancer with the grip of life till his day was done. The man paid his life as the forfeit of his temerity. No effort was left untried to relieve the dancers, but every one failed. The sufferers themselves, however, appeared quite unconscious of what was passing. They seemed to be in a state of perfect somnambulism, and to be altogether unaware of the presence of any persons, as well as insensible to pain or fatigue. When the expiration of their punishment arrived, they were all found huddled together in the deep cavity which their increasing gyrations had worn in the earth beneath them. It was a considerable time before sense and consciousness returned to them, and indeed they never after could be said to enjoy them completely, for, though they lived long, they were little better than idiots during the remainder of their lives. THE LITTLE SHROUD. There was once a woman who had a little son of about seven years old, who was so lovely and beautiful that no one could look upon him without being kind to him, and he was dearer to her than all the world beside. It happened that he suddenly fell ill and died, and his mother would not be comforted, but wept for him day and night. Shortly after he was buried he showed himself at night in the places where he had been used in his lifetime to sit and play, and if his mother wept, he wept also, and when the morning came he departed. Since his mother never ceased weeping, the child came one night in the little white shroud in which he had been laid in his coffin, and with the chaplet upon his head, and seating himself at her feet, upon the bed, he cried-- "O mother, mother, give over crying, else I cannot stop in my coffin, for my shroud is never dry because of your tears, for they fall upon it." When his mother heard this she was sore afraid, and wept no more. And the babe came upon another night, holding in his hand a little taper, and he said-- "Look, mother, my shroud is now quite dry, and I can rest in my grave." Then she bowed to the will of Providence, and bore her sorrow with silence and patience, and the little child returned not again, but slept in his underground bed. THE ARCH ROGUE. There once lived, years ago, a man known only by the name of the Arch Rogue. By dint of skill in the black art, and all arts of imposition, he drove a more flourishing trade than all the rest of the sorcerers of the age. It was his delight to travel from one country to another merely to play upon mankind, and no living soul was secure, either in house or field, nor could properly call them his own. Now his great reputation for these speedy methods of possessing himself of others' property excited the envy of a certain king of a certain country, who considered them as no less than an invasion of his royal prerogative. He could not sleep a wink for thinking about it, and he despatched troops of soldiers, one after another, with strict orders to arrest him, but all their search was in vain. At length, after long meditation, the king said to himself-- "Only wait a little, thou villain cutpurse, and yet I will have thee." Forthwith he issued a manifesto, stating that the royal mercy would be extended to so light-fingered a genius, upon condition that he consented to appear at court and give specimens of his dexterity for his majesty's amusement. One afternoon, as the king was standing at his palace window enjoying the fine prospect of woods and dales, over which a tempest appeared to be then just gathering, some one suddenly clapped him upon the shoulder, and on looking round he discovered a very tall, stout, dark-whiskered man close behind him, who said-- "Here I am." "Who are you?" inquired the king. "He whom you look for." The king uttered an exclamation of surprise, not unmixed with fear, at such amazing assurance. The stranger continued, "Don't be alarmed. Only keep your word with me, and I will prove myself quite obedient to your orders." This being agreed on, the king acquainted his royal consort and the whole court that the great sleight-of-hand genius had discovered himself, and soon, in a full assembly, his majesty proceeded to question him, and lay on him his commands. "Mark what I say," he said, "nor venture to dispute my orders. To begin, do you see yon rustic, not far from the wood, busy ploughing?" The conjurer nodded assent. "Then go," continued the king,--"go and rob him of his plough and oxen without his knowing anything about it." The king flattered himself that this was impossible, for he did not conceive how the conjurer could perform such a task in the face of open day,--and if he fail, thought he, I have him in my power, and will make him smart. The conjurer proceeded to the spot, and as the storm appeared to increase, the rain beginning to pour down in torrents, the countryman, letting his oxen rest, ran under a tree for shelter, until the rain should have ceased. Just then he heard some one singing in the wood. Such a glorious song he had never heard before in all his life. He felt wonderfully enlivened, and, as the weather continued dull, he said to himself-- "Well, there's no harm in taking a look. Yes; I'll see what sport is stirring," and away he slipped into the wood, still further and further, in search of the songster. In the meanwhile the conjurer was not idle. He changed places with the rustic, taking care of the oxen while their master went searching through the wood. Darting out of the thicket, in a few moments he had slashed off the oxen's horns and tails, and stuck them, half hid, in the ploughman's last furrow. He then drove off the beasts pretty sharply towards the palace. In a short time the rustic found his way back, and looking towards the spot for his oxen could see nothing of them. Searching on all sides, he came at last to examine the furrow, and beheld, to his horror, the horns and tails of his poor beasts sticking out of the ground. Imagining that a thunderbolt must have struck the beasts, and the earth swallowed them up, he poured forth a most dismal lamentation over his lot, roaring aloud until the woods echoed to the sound. When he was tired of this, he bethought him of running home to find a pick and a spade to dig his unlucky oxen out of the earth as soon as possible. As he went he was met by the king and the conjurer, who inquired the occasion of his piteous lamentation. "My oxen! my poor oxen!" cried the boor, and then he related all that had happened to him, entreating them to go with him to the place. The conjurer said-- "Why don't you see if you cannot pull the oxen out again by the horns or by the tail?" With this the rustic, running back, seized one of the tails, and, pulling with all his might, it gave way and he fell backward. "Thou hast pulled thy beast's tail off," said the conjurer. "Try if thou canst succeed better with his horns. If not, thou must even dig them out." Again the rustic tried with the same result, while the king laughed very heartily at the sight. As the worthy man now appeared excessively troubled at his misfortunes, the king promised him another pair of oxen, and the rustic was content. "You have made good your boast," said the king to the conjurer, as they returned to the palace; "but now you will have to deal with a more difficult matter, so muster your wit and courage. To-night you must steal my favourite charger out of his stable, and let nobody know who does it." Now, thought the king, I have trapped him at last, for he will never be able to outwit my master of the horse, and all my grooms to boot. To make the matter sure, he ordered a strong guard under one of his most careful officers to be placed round the stable court. They were armed with stout battle-axes, and were enjoined every half-hour to give the word, and pace alternately through the court. In the royal stables others had the like duty to perform, while the master of the horse himself was to ride the favourite steed the whole time, having been presented by the king with a gold snuff-box, from which he was to take ample pinches in order to keep himself awake, and give signal by a loud sneeze. He was also armed with a heavy sword, with which he was to knock the thief on the head if he approached. The rogue first arrayed himself in the master of the bedchamber's clothes, without his leave. About midnight he proceeded to join the guards, furnished with different kinds of wine, and told them that the king had sent him to thank them for so cheerfully complying with his orders. He also informed them that the impostor had been already caught and secured, and added that the king had given permission for the guards to have a glass or two, and requested that they would not give the word quite so loudly, as her majesty had not been able to close her eyes. He then marched into the stables, where he found the master of the horse astride the royal charger, busily taking snuff and sneezing at intervals. The master of the bedchamber poured him out a sparkling glass to drink to the health of his majesty, who had sent it, and it looked too excellent to resist. Both master and guards then began to jest over the Arch Rogue's fate, taking, like good subjects, repeated draughts--all to his majesty's health. At length they began to experience their effects. They gaped and stretched, sank gradually upon the ground, and fell asleep. The master, by dint of fresh pinches, was the last to yield, but he too blinked, stopped the horse, which he had kept at a walk, and said-- "I am so confoundedly sleepy I can hold it no longer. Take you care of the charger for a moment. Bind him fast to the stall--and just keep watch." Having uttered these words, he fell like a heavy sack upon the floor and snored aloud. The conjurer took his place upon the horse, gave it whip and spur, and galloped away through the sleeping guards, through the court gates, and whistled as he went. Early in the morning the king, eager to learn the result, hastened to his royal mews, and was not a little surprised to find the whole of his guards fast asleep upon the ground, but he saw nothing of his charger. "What is to do here?" he cried in a loud voice. "Get up; rouse, you idle varlets!" At last one of them, opening his eyes, cried out-- "The king! the king!" "Ay, true enough, I am here," replied his majesty, "but my favourite horse is not. Speak, answer on the instant." While the affrighted wretches, calling one to another, rubbed their heavy eyes, the king was examining the stalls once more, and, stumbling over his master of the horse, turned and gave him some hearty cuffs about the ears. But the master only turned upon the other side, and grumbled-- "Let me alone, you rascal, my royal master's horse is not for the like of you." "Rascal!" exclaimed the king, "do you know who it is?" and he was just about to call his attendants, when he heard hasty footsteps, and the conjurer stood before him. "My liege," he said, "I have just returned from an airing on your noble horse. He is, indeed, a fine animal, but once or so I was obliged to give him the switch." The king felt excessively vexed at the rogue's success, but he was the more resolved to hit upon something that should bring his fox skin into jeopardy at last. So he thought, and the next day he addressed the conjurer thus-- "Thy third trial is now about to take place, and if you are clever enough to carry it through, you shall not only have your life and liberty, but a handsome allowance to boot. In the other case you know your fate. Now listen. This very night I command you to rob my queen consort of her bridal ring, to steal it from her finger, and let no one know the thief or the way of thieving." When night approached, his majesty caused all the doors in the palace to be fast closed, and a guard to be set at each. He himself, instead of retiring to rest, took his station, well armed, in an easy chair close to the queen's couch. It was a moonlight night, and about two in the morning the king plainly heard a ladder reared up against the window, and the soft step of a man mounting it. When the king thought the conjurer must have reached the top, he called out from the window-- "Let fall." The next moment the ladder was dashed away, and something fell with a terrible crash to the ground. The king uttered an exclamation of alarm, and ran down into the court, telling the queen, who was half asleep, that he was going to see if the conjurer were dead. But the rogue had borrowed a dead body from the gallows, and having dressed it in his own clothes, had placed it on the ladder. Hardly had the king left the chamber before the conjurer entered it and said to the queen in the king's voice-- "Yes, he is stone dead, so you may now go quietly to sleep, only hand me here your ring. It is too costly and precious to trust it in bed while you sleep." The queen, imagining it was her royal consort, instantly gave him the ring, and in a moment the conjurer was off with it on his finger. Directly afterwards the king came back. "At last," he said, "I have indeed carried the joke too far. I have repaid him. He is lying there as dead as a door nail. He will plague us no more." "I know that already," replied the queen. "You have told me exactly the same thing twice over." "How came you to know anything about it?" inquired his majesty. "How? From yourself to be sure," replied his consort. "You informed me that the conjurer was dead, and then you asked me for my ring." "I ask for the ring!" exclaimed the king. "Then I suppose you must have given it to him," continued his majesty, in a tone of great indignation; "and is it even so at last? By all the saints, this is one of the most confounded, unmanageable knaves in existence. I never knew anything to equal it." Then he informed the queen of the whole affair, though before he arrived at the conclusion of his tale she was fast asleep. Soon after it was light in the morning the wily conjurer made his appearance. He bowed to the earth three times before the queen and presented her with the treasure he had stolen. The king, though excessively chagrined, could not forbear laughing at the sight. "Now hear," said he, "thou king of arch rogues. Had I only caught a sight of you through my fingers as you were coming, you would never have come off so well. As it is, let what is past be forgiven and forgotten. Take up your residence at my court, and take care that you do not carry your jokes too far, for in such a case I may find myself compelled to withdraw my favour from you if nothing worse ensue." BROTHER MERRY. In days of yore there was a war, and when it was at an end a great number of the soldiers that had been engaged in it were disbanded. Among the rest Brother Merry received his discharge, and nothing more for all he had done than a very little loaf of soldier's bread, and four halfpence in money. With these possessions he went his way. Now a saint had seated himself in the road, like a poor beggar man, and when Brother Merry came along, he asked him for charity to give him something. Then the soldier said-- "Dear beggar man, what shall such as I give you? I have been a soldier, and have just got my discharge, and with it only a very little loaf and four halfpence. When that is gone I shall have to beg like yourself." However, he divided the loaf into four parts, and gave the saint one, with a halfpenny. The saint thanked him, and having gone a little further along the road seated himself like another beggar in the way of the soldier. When Brother Merry came up the saint again asked alms of him, and the old soldier again gave him another quarter of the loaf and another halfpenny. The saint thanked him, and seated himself in the way a third time, like another beggar, and again addressed Brother Merry. Brother Merry gave him a third quarter of the loaf, and the third halfpenny. The saint thanked him, and Brother Merry journeyed on with all he had left--one quarter of the loaf and a single halfpenny. When he came to a tavern, being hungry and thirsty, he went in and ate the bread, and spent the halfpenny in beer to drink with it. When he had finished, he continued his journey, and the saint, in the disguise of a disbanded soldier, met him again and saluted him. "Good day, comrade," said he; "can you give me a morsel of bread, and a halfpenny to get a drop of drink?" "Where shall I get it?" answered Brother Merry. "I got my discharge, and nothing with it but a loaf and four halfpence, and three beggars met me on the road and I gave each of them a quarter of the loaf and a halfpenny. The last quarter I have just eaten at the tavern, and I have spent the last halfpenny in drink. I am quite empty now. If you have nothing, let us go begging together." "No, that will not be necessary just now," said the saint. "I understand a little about doctoring, and I will in time obtain as much as I need by that." "Ha!" said Brother Merry, "I know nothing about that, so I must go and beg by myself." "Only come along," replied the saint, "and if I can earn anything, you shall go halves." "That will suit me excellently," replied Brother Merry. So they travelled on together. They had not gone a great distance before they came to a cottage in which they heard a great lamenting and screaming. They went in to see what was the matter, and found a man sick to the death, as if about to expire, and his wife crying and weeping loudly. "Leave off whining and crying," said the saint. "I will make the man well again quickly enough," and he took a salve out of his pocket and cured the man instantly, so that he could stand up and was quite hearty. Then the man and his wife, in great joy, demanded-- "How can we repay you? What shall we give you?" The saint would not, however, take anything, and the more the couple pressed him the more firmly he declined. Brother Merry, who had been looking on, came to his side, and, nudging him, said-- "Take something; take something. We want it badly enough." At length the peasant brought a lamb, which he desired the saint to accept, but he declined it still. Then Brother Merry jogged his side, and said-- "Take it, you foolish fellow; take it. We want it badly enough." At last the saint said-- "Well, I'll take the lamb, but I shall not carry it. You must carry it." "There's no great hardship in that," cried Brother Merry. "I can easily do it;" and he took it on his shoulder. After that they went on till they came to a wood, and Brother Merry, who was very hungry, and found the lamb a heavy load, called out to the saint-- "Hallo! here is a nice place for us to dress and eat the lamb." "With all my heart," replied his companion; "but I don't understand anything of cooking, so do you begin, and I will walk about until it is ready. Don't begin to eat until I return. I will take care to be back in time." "Go your ways," said Brother Merry; "I can cook it well enough. I'll soon have it ready." The saint wandered away, while Brother Merry lighted the fire, killed the lamb, put the pieces into the pot, and boiled them. In a short time the lamb was thoroughly done, but the saint had not returned; so Merry took the meat up, carved it, and found the heart. "That is the best part of it," said he; and he kept tasting it until he had finished it. At length the saint came back, and said-- "I only want the heart. All the rest you may have, only give me that." Then Brother Merry took his knife and fork, and turned the lamb about as if he would have found the heart, but of course he could not discover it. At last he said, in a careless manner-- "It is not here." "Not there? Where should it be, then?" said the saint. "That I don't know," said Merry; "but now I think of it, what a couple of fools we are to look for the heart of a lamb. A lamb, you know, has not got a heart." "What?" said the saint; "that's news, indeed. Why, every beast has a heart, and why should not the lamb have one as well as the rest of them?" "No, certainly, comrade, a lamb has no heart. Only reflect, and it will occur to you that it really has not." "Well," replied his companion, "it is quite sufficient. There is no heart there, so I need none of the lamb. You may eat it all." "Well, what I cannot eat I'll put in my knapsack," said Brother Merry. Then he ate some, and disposed of the rest as he had said. Now, as they continued their journey, the saint contrived that a great stream should flow right across their path, so that they must be obliged to ford it. Then said he-- "Go you first." "No," answered Brother Merry; "go you first," thinking that if the water were too deep he would stay on the bank where he was. However, the saint waded through, and the water only reached to his knees; but when Brother Merry ventured, the stream seemed suddenly to increase in depth, and he was soon up to his neck in the water. "Help me, comrade," he cried. "Will you confess," said the saint, "that you ate the lamb's heart?" The soldier still denied it, and the water got still deeper, until it reached his mouth. Then the saint said again-- "Will you confess, then, that you ate the lamb's heart?" Brother Merry still denied what he had done, and as the saint did not wish to let him drown he helped him out of his danger. They journeyed on until they came to a kingdom where they heard that the king's daughter lay dangerously ill. "Holloa! brother," said the soldier, "here's a catch for us. If we can only cure her we shall be made for ever." The saint, however, was not quick enough for Brother Merry. "Come, Brother Heart," said the soldier, "put your best foot forward, so that we may come in at the right time." But the saint went still slower, though his companion kept pushing and driving him, till at last they heard that the princess was dead. "This comes of your creeping so," said the soldier. "Now be still," said the saint, "for I can do more than make the sick whole; I can bring the dead to life again." "If that's true," said Brother Merry, "you must at least earn half the kingdom for us." At length they arrived at the king's palace, where everybody was in great trouble, but the saint told the king he would restore his daughter to him. They conducted him to where she lay, and he commanded them to let him have a caldron of water, and when it had been brought, he ordered all the people to go away, and let nobody remain with him but Brother Merry. Then he divided the limbs of the dead princess, and throwing them into the water, lighted a fire under the caldron, and boiled them. When all the flesh had fallen from the bones, the saint took them, laid them on a table, and placed them together in their natural order. Having done this, he walked before them, and said-- "Arise, thou dead one!" As he repeated these words the third time the princess arose, alive, well, and beautiful. The king was greatly rejoiced, and said to the saint-- "Require for thy reward what thou wilt. Though it should be half my empire, I will give it you." But the saint replied-- "I desire nothing for what I have done." "O thou Jack Fool!" thought Brother Merry to himself. Then, nudging his comrade's side, he said-- "Don't be so silly. If you won't have anything, yet I need somewhat." The saint, however, would take nothing, but as the king saw that his companion would gladly have a gift, he commanded the keeper of his treasures to fill his knapsack with gold, at which Brother Merry was right pleased. Again they went upon their way till they came to a wood, when the saint said to his fellow-traveller-- "Now we will share the gold." "Yes," replied the soldier, "that we can." Then the saint took the gold and divided it into three portions. "Well," thought Brother Merry, "what whim has he got in his head now, making three parcels, and only two of us?" "Now," said the saint, "I have divided it fairly, one for me, and one for you, and one for him who ate the heart." "Oh, I ate that," said the soldier, quickly taking up the gold. "I did, I assure you." "How can that be true?" replied the saint. "A lamb has no heart." "Ay! what, brother? What are you thinking of? A lamb has no heart? Very good! When every beast has why should that one be without?" "Now that is very good," said the saint. "Take all the gold yourself, for I shall remain no more with you, but will go my own way alone." "As you please, Brother Heart," answered the soldier. "A pleasant journey to you, my hearty." The saint took another road, and as he went off-- "Well," thought the soldier, "it's all right that he has marched off, for he is an odd fellow." Brother Merry had now plenty of money, but he did not know how to use it, so he spent it and gave it away, till in the course of a little time he found himself once more penniless. At last he came into a country where he heard that the king's daughter was dead. "Ah!" thought he, "that may turn out well. I'll bring her to life again." Then he went to the king and offered his services. Now the king had heard that there was an old soldier who went about restoring the dead to life, and he thought that Brother Merry must be just the man. However, he had not much confidence in him, so he first consulted his council, and they agreed that as the princess was certainly dead, the old soldier might be allowed to see what he could do. Brother Merry commanded them to bring him a caldron of water, and when every one had left the room he separated the limbs, threw them into the caldron, and made a fire under it, exactly as he had seen the saint do. When the water boiled and the flesh fell from the bones, he took them and placed them upon the table, but as he did not know how to arrange them he piled them one upon another. Then he stood before them, and said-- "Thou dead, arise!" and he cried so three times, but all to no purpose. "Stand up, you vixen! stand up, or it shall be the worse for you," he cried. Scarcely had he repeated these words ere the saint came in at the window, in the likeness of an old soldier, just as before, and said-- "You impious fellow! How can the dead stand up when you have thrown the bones thus one upon another?" "Ah! Brother Heart," answered Merry, "I have done it as well as I can." "I will help you out of your trouble this time," said the saint; "but I tell you this, if you ever again undertake a job of this kind, you will repent it, and for this you shall neither ask for nor take the least thing from the king." Having placed the bones in their proper order, the saint said three times-- "Thou dead, arise!" and the princess stood up, sound and beautiful as before. Then the saint immediately disappeared again out of the window, and Brother Merry was glad that all had turned out so well. One thing, however, grieved him sorely, and that was that he might take nothing from the king. "I should like to know," thought he, "what Brother Heart had to grumble about. What he gives with one hand he takes with the other. There is no wit in that." The king asked Brother Merry what he would have, but the soldier durst not take anything. However, he managed by hints and cunning that the king should fill his knapsack with money, and with that he journeyed on. When he came out of the palace door, however, he found the saint standing there, who said-- "See what a man you are. Have I not forbidden you to take anything, and yet you have your knapsack filled with gold?" "How can I help it," answered the soldier, "if they would thrust it in?" "I tell you this," said the saint, "mind that you don't undertake such a business a second time. If you do, it will fare badly with you." "Ah! brother," answered the soldier, "never fear. Now I have money, why should I trouble myself with washing bones?" "That will not last a long time," said the saint; "but, in order that you may never tread in a forbidden path, I will bestow upon your knapsack this power, that whatsoever you wish in it shall be there. Farewell! you will never see me again." "Adieu," said Brother Merry, and thought he, "I am glad you are gone. You are a wonderful fellow. I am willing enough not to follow you." He forgot all about the wonderful property bestowed upon his knapsack, and very soon he had spent and squandered his gold as before. When he had but fourpence left, he came to a public-house, and thought that the money must go. So he called for three pennyworth of wine and a pennyworth of bread. As he ate and drank, the flavour of roasting geese tickled his nose, and, peeping and prying about, he saw that the landlord had placed two geese in the oven. Then it occurred to him what his companion had told him about his knapsack, so he determined to put it to the test. Going out, he stood before the door, and said-- "I wish that the two geese which are baking in the oven were in my knapsack." When he had said this, he peeped in, and, sure enough, there they were. "Ah! ah!" said he, "that is all right. I am a made man." He went on a little way, took out the geese, and commenced to eat them. As he was thus enjoying himself, there came by two labouring men, who looked with hungry eyes at the one goose which was yet untouched. Brother Merry noticed it, and thought that one goose would be enough for him. So he called the men, gave them the goose, and bade them drink his health. The men thanked him, and going to the public-house, called for wine and bread, took out their present, and commenced to eat. When the hostess saw what they were dining on, she said to her goodman-- "Those two men are eating a goose. You had better see if it is not one of ours out of the oven." The host opened the door, and lo! the oven was empty. "O you pack of thieves!" he shouted. "This is the way you eat geese, is it? Pay for them directly, or I will wash you both with green hazel juice." The men said-- "We are not thieves. We met an old soldier on the road, and he made us a present of the goose." "You are not going to hoax me in that way," said the host. "The soldier has been here, but went out of the door like an honest fellow. I took care of that. You are the thieves, and you shall pay for the geese." However, as the men had no money to pay him with, he took a stick and beat them out of doors. Meanwhile, as Brother Merry journeyed on, he came to a place where there was a noble castle, and not far from it a little public-house. Into this he went, and asked for a night's lodging, but the landlord said that his house was full of guests, and he could not accommodate him. "I wonder," said Brother Merry, "that the people should all come to you, instead of going to that castle." "They have good reason for what they do," said the landlord, "for whoever has attempted to spend the night at the castle has never come back to show how he was entertained." "If others have attempted it, why shouldn't I?" said Merry. "You had better leave it alone," said the host; "you are only thrusting your head into danger." "No fear of danger," said the soldier, "only give me the key and plenty to eat and drink." The hostess gave him what he asked for, and he went off to the castle, relished his supper, and when he found himself sleepy, laid himself down on the floor, for there was no bed in the place. He soon went to sleep, but in the night he was awoke by a great noise, and when he aroused himself he discovered nine very ugly devils dancing in a circle which they had made around him. "Dance as long as you like," said Brother Merry; "but don't come near me." But the devils came drawing nearer and nearer, and at last they almost trod on his face with their misshapen feet. "Be quiet," said he, but they behaved still worse. At last he got angry, and crying-- "Holla! I'll soon make you quiet," he caught hold of the leg of a stool and struck about him. Nine devils against one soldier were, however, too much, and while he laid about lustily on those before him, those behind pulled his hair and pinched him miserably. "Ay, ay, you pack of devils, now you are too hard for me," said he; "but wait a bit. I wish all the nine devils were in my knapsack," cried he, and it was no sooner said than done. There they were. Then Brother Merry buckled it up close, and threw it into a corner, and as all was now still he lay down and slept till morning, when the landlord of the inn and the nobleman to whom the castle belonged came to see how it had fared with him. When they saw him sound and lively, they were astonished, and said-- "Did the ghosts, then, do nothing to you?" "Why, not exactly," said Merry; "but I have got them all nine in my knapsack. You may dwell quietly enough in your castle now; from henceforth they won't trouble you." The nobleman thanked him and gave him great rewards, begging him to remain in his service, saying that he would take care of him all the days of his life. "No," answered he; "I am used to wander and rove about. I will again set forth." He went on until he came to a smithy, into which he went, and laying his knapsack on the anvil, bade the smith and all his men hammer away upon it as hard as they could. They did as they were directed, with their largest hammers and all their might, and the poor devils set up a piteous howling. When the men opened the knapsack there were eight of them dead, but one who had been snug in a fold was still alive, and he slipped out and ran away to his home in a twinkling. After this Brother Merry wandered about the world for a long time; but at last he grew old, and began to think about his latter end, so he went to a hermit who was held to be a very pious man and said-- "I am tired of roving, and will now endeavour to go to heaven." "There stand two ways," said the hermit; "the one, broad and pleasant, leads to hell; the other is rough and narrow, and that leads to heaven." "I must be a fool indeed," thought Brother Merry, "if I go the rough and narrow road;" so he went the broad and pleasant way till he came at last to a great black door, and that was the door of hell. He knocked, and the door-keeper opened it, and when he saw that it was Merry he was sadly frightened, for who should he be but the ninth devil who had been in the knapsack, and he had thought himself lucky, for he had escaped with nothing worse than a black eye. He bolted the door again directly, and running to the chief of the devils, said-- "There is a fellow outside with a knapsack on his back, but pray don't let him in, for he can get all hell into his knapsack by wishing it. He once got me a terribly ugly hammering in it." So they called out to Brother Merry, and told him that he must go away, for they should not let him in. "Well, if they will not have me here," thought Merry, "I'll e'en try if I can get a lodging in heaven. Somewhere or other I must rest." So he turned about and went on till he came to the door of heaven, and there he knocked. Now the saint who had journeyed with Merry sat at the door, and had charge of the entrance. Brother Merry recognised him, and said-- "Are you here, old acquaintance? Then things will go better with me." The saint replied-- "I suppose you want to get into heaven?" "Ay, ay, brother, let me in; I must put up somewhere." "No," said the saint; "you don't come in here." "Well, if you won't let me in, take your dirty knapsack again. I'll have nothing that can put me in mind of you," said Merry carelessly. "Give it me, then," said the saint. Brother Merry handed it through the grating into heaven, and the saint took it and hung it up behind his chair. "Now," said Brother Merry, "I wish I was in my own knapsack." Instantly he was there; and thus, being once actually in heaven, the saint was obliged to let him stay there. FASTRADA. By the side of the "Beautiful Doorway," leading into the cloisters of the cathedral at Mainz, stands, worked into the wall, a fragment of the tomb of Fastrada, the fourth wife of the mighty monarch Charlemagne according to some authorities, the third according to others. Fastrada figures in the following tradition related by the author of the Rhyming Chronicle. When the Kaiser, Karl, abode at Zurich, he dwelt in a house called "The Hole," in front of which he caused a pillar to be erected with a bell on the top of it, to the end that whoever demanded justice should have the means of announcing himself. One day, as he sat at dinner in his house, he heard the bell ring, and sent out his servants to bring the claimant before him; but they could find no one. A second and a third time the bell rang, but no human being was still to be seen. At length the Kaiser himself went forth, and he found a large serpent, which had twined itself round the shaft of the pillar, and was then in the very act of pulling the bell rope. "This is God's will," said the monarch. "Let the brute be brought before me. I may deny justice to none of God's creatures--man or beast." The serpent was accordingly ushered into the imperial presence; and the Kaiser spoke to it as he would to one of his own kind, gravely asking what it required. The reptile made a most courteous reverence to Charlemagne, and signed in its dumb way for him to follow. He did so accordingly, accompanied by his court; and the creature led them on to the water's edge, to the shores of the lake, where it had its nest. Arrived there, the Kaiser soon saw the cause of the serpent's seeking him, for its nest, which was full of eggs, was occupied by a hideous toad of monstrous proportions. "Let the toad be flung into the fire," said the monarch solemnly, "and let the serpent have possession of its nest restored to it." This sentence was carried at once into execution. The toad was burnt, and the serpent placed in possession. Charlemagne and his court then returned to the palace. Three days afterwards, as the Kaiser again sat at dinner, he was surprised at the appearance of the serpent, which this time glided into the hall unnoticed and unannounced. "What does this mean?" thought the king. The reptile approached the table, and raising itself on its tail, dropped from its mouth, into an empty plate which stood beside the monarch, a precious diamond. Then, again abasing itself before him, the crawling creature glided out of the hall as it had entered, and was speedily lost to view. This diamond the monarch caused to be set in a costly chased ring of the richest gold; and he then presented the trinket to his fair wife, the much-beloved Fastrada. Now this stone had the virtue of attraction, and whoso received it from another, so long as they wore it, received also the intensest love of that individual. It was thus with Fastrada, for no sooner did she place the ring on her finger than the attachment of Charlemagne, great before, no longer knew any bounds. In fact his love was more like madness than any sane passion. But though this talisman had full power over love, it had no power over death; and the mighty monarch was soon to experience that nothing may avert the fiat of destiny. Charlemagne and his beloved bride returned to Germany, and, at Ingelheim palace, Fastrada died. The Kaiser was inconsolable. He would not listen to the voice of friendship, and he sorrowed in silence over the dead body of his once beautiful bride. Even when decay had commenced, when the remains, late so lovely, were now loathsome to look on, he could not be induced to leave the corpse for a moment, or to quit the chamber of death in which it lay. The court were all astounded. They knew not what to make of the matter. At length Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims, approached the corpse, and being made aware of the cause, by some supernatural communication contrived to engage the emperor's attention while he removed the charm. The magic ring was found by him in the mouth of the dead empress, concealed beneath her tongue. Immediately that the talisman was removed the spell was broken, and Charlemagne now looked on the putrid corpse with all the natural horror and loathing of an ordinary man. He gave orders for its immediate interment, which were at once carried into execution, and he then departed from Ingelheim for the forest of the Ardennes. Arrived at Aix-la-Chapelle, he took up his abode in the ancient castle of Frankenstein, close by that famous city. The esteem, however, that he had felt for Fastrada was now transferred to the possessor of the ring, Archbishop Turpin; and the pious ecclesiastic was so persecuted by the emperor's affection that he finally cast the talisman into the lake which surrounds the castle. An immediate transference of the royal liking took place, and the monarch, thenceforth and for ever after during his lifetime, loved Aix-la-Chapelle as a man might love his wife. So much did he become attached to it, that he directed that he should be buried there; and there accordingly his remains rest unto this day. THE JEW IN THE BUSH. A faithful servant had worked hard for his master, a thrifty farmer, for three long years, and had been paid no wages. At last it came into the man's head that he would not go on thus any longer, so he went to his master and said-- "I have worked hard for you a long time, and without pay, too. I will trust you to give me what I ought to have for my trouble, but something I must have, and then I must take a holiday." The farmer was a sad miser, and knew that his man was simple-hearted, so he took out three crowns, and thus gave him a crown for each year's service. The poor fellow thought it was a great deal of money to have, and said to himself-- "Why should I work hard and live here on bad fare any longer? Now that I am rich I can travel into the wide world and make myself merry." With that he put the money into his purse, and set out, roaming over hill and valley. As he jogged along over the fields, singing and dancing, a little dwarf met him, and asked him what made him so merry. "Why, what should make me down-hearted?" replied he. "I am sound in health and rich in purse; what should I care for? I have saved up my three years' earnings, and have it all safe in my pocket." "How much may it come to?" said the mannikin. "Three whole crowns," replied the countryman. "I wish you would give them to me," said the other. "I am very poor." Then the good man pitied him, and gave him all he had; and the dwarf said-- "As you have such a kind heart, I will grant you three wishes--one for each crown,--so choose whatever you like." The countryman rejoiced at his luck, and said-- "I like many things better than money. First, I will have a bow that will bring me down everything I shoot at; secondly, a fiddle that will set every one dancing that hears me play upon it; and, thirdly, I should like to be able to make every one grant me whatever I ask." The dwarf said he should have his three wishes, gave him the bow and the fiddle, and went his way. Our honest friend journeyed on his way too, and if he was merry before, he was now ten times more so. He had not gone far before he met an old Jew. Close by them stood a tree, and on the topmost twig sat a thrush, singing away most joyfully. "Oh what a pretty bird!" said the Jew. "I would give a great deal of my money to have such a one." "If that's all," said the countryman, "I will soon bring it down." He took up his bow, off went his arrow, and down fell the thrush into a bush that grew at the foot of the tree. The Jew, when he saw that he could have the bird, thought he would cheat the man, so he put his money into his pocket again, and crept into the bush to find the prize. As soon as he had got into the middle, his companion took up his fiddle and played away, and the Jew began to dance and spring about, capering higher and higher in the air. The thorns soon began to tear his clothes, till they all hung in rags about him, and he himself was all scratched and wounded, so that the blood ran down. "Oh, for heaven's sake!" cried the Jew. "Mercy, mercy, master! Pray stop the fiddle! What have I done to be treated in this way?" "What hast thou done? Why, thou hast shaved many a poor soul close enough," said the other. "Thou art only meeting thy reward;" and he played up another tune yet merrier than the first. Then the Jew began to beg and pray, and at last he said he would give plenty of his money to be set free. He did not, however, come up to the musician's price for some time, so he danced him along brisker and brisker. The higher the Jew danced, the higher he bid, till at last he offered a round hundred crowns that he had in his purse, and had just gained by cheating some poor fellow. When the countryman saw so much money, he said-- "I agree to the bargain," and, taking the purse and putting up his fiddle, he travelled on well pleased. Meanwhile the Jew crept out of the bush, half naked, and in a piteous plight, and began to ponder how he should take his revenge and serve his late companion some trick. At length he went to a judge, and said that a rascal had robbed him of his money, and beaten him soundly into the bargain, and that this fellow carried a bow at his back, and had a fiddle hanging round his neck. The judge sent out his bailiffs to bring up the man whenever they should find him. The countryman was soon caught, and brought up to be tried. The Jew began his tale, and said he had been robbed of his money. "Robbed, indeed!" said the countryman; "why, you gave it me for playing you a tune, and teaching you to dance." The judge said that was not likely; that the Jew, he was sure, knew better what to do with his money; and he cut the matter short by sending the countryman off to the gallows. Away he was taken, but as he stood at the foot of the ladder, he said-- "My Lord Judge, may it please your worship to grant me but one boon?" "Anything but thy life," replied the other. "No," said he; "I do not ask my life. Only let me play upon my fiddle for the last time." The Jew cried out-- "Oh, no! no! no! for heaven's sake don't listen to him! don't listen to him!" But the judge said-- "It is only for this once, poor fellow! He will soon have done." The fact was he could not say no, because the dwarf's third gift enabled the countryman to make every one grant whatever he asked. Then the Jew said-- "Bind me fast, bind me fast, for pity's sake!" The countryman seized his fiddle and struck up a merry tune, and at the first note judge, clerks, and jailer were set agoing. All began capering, and no one could hold the Jew. At the second note the hangman let his prisoner go and danced also, and by the time the first bar of the tune was played all were dancing together--judge, court, Jew, and all the people who had followed to look on. At first the thing went merrily and joyously enough, but when it had gone on a while, and there seemed to be no end of either playing or dancing, all began to cry out and beg the countryman to leave off. He stopped, however, not a whit the more for their begging, till the judge not only gave him his life, but paid him back the hundred crowns. Then the countryman called the Jew, and said-- "Tell us now, you rogue, where you got that gold, or I shall play on for your amusement only." "I stole it," replied the Jew, before all the people. "I acknowledge that I stole it, and that you earned it fairly." Then the countryman stopped his fiddling, and left the Jew to take his place at the gallows. THE ELVES. The happy day at length arrived on which Count Hermann von Rosenberg was married to his beloved Catherine, a princess of the house of Gonzaca. The event was celebrated by a magnificent banquet and festival, and it was late before the Count and Countess could leave their guests. The young Countess was already asleep, and Hermann was sinking into a slumber, when he was aroused by hearing the sounds of soft and gentle music, and, the door of his apartment flying open, a joyous bridal procession entered the room. The figures engaged in this extraordinary scene were not more than two or three spans high. The bride and bridegroom were in the centre of the procession, and the musicians preceded it. Hermann rose up in bed, and demanded what brought them there, and why they had aroused him, whereupon one of the company stepped up to him, and said-- "We are attendant spirits of that peaceful class who dwell in the earth. We have dwelt for many years beneath this thy birthplace, and have ever watched over thy dwelling to preserve it from misfortune. Already have we taken good care of the ashes of your forefathers that they should not fall into the power of hostile and evil spirits, and as faithful servants we watch over the welfare of your house. Since thou hast this day been married for the continuance of thy name and ancient race, we have represented to you this bridal ceremony, in hopes that you will grant us full permission to keep and celebrate this joyous festival, in return for which we promise to serve you and your house with the greatest readiness." "Very well," said Hermann, laughing; "make yourselves as merry in my castle as you please." They thanked him, and took their departure. Hermann could not, however, banish from his mind this remarkable scene, and it was daybreak before he fell asleep. In the morning his thoughts were still occupied with it, yet he never mentioned one word of the occurrence to his wife. In the course of time the Countess presented him with a daughter. Scarcely had Hermann received intelligence of this event before a very diminutive old crone entered the apartment and informed him that the elfin bride, whom he had seen in the miniature procession on the night of his nuptials, had given birth to a daughter. Hermann was very friendly to the visitor, wished all happiness to the mother and child, and the old woman took her departure. The Count did not, however, mention this visit to his wife. A year afterwards, on the approach of her second confinement, the Countess saw the elves on the occasion of her husband receiving another of their unexpected visits. The little people entered the chamber in a long procession in black dresses, carrying lights in their hands, and the little women were clothed in white. One of these stood before the Count holding up her apron, while an old man thus addressed her-- "No more, dear Hermann, can we find a resting-place in your castle. We must wander abroad. We are come to take our departure from you." "Wherefore will you leave my castle?" inquired Hermann. "Have I offended you?" "No, thou hast not; but we must go, for she whom you saw as a bride on your wedding-night lost, last evening, her life in giving birth to an heir, who likewise perished. As a proof that we are thankful for the kindness you have always shown us, take a trifling proof of our power." When the old man had thus spoken, he placed a little ladder against the bed, which the old woman who had stood by ascended. Then she opened her apron, held it before Hermann, and said-- "Grasp and take." He hesitated. She repeated what she had said. At last he did what she told him, took out of her apron what he supposed to be a handful of sand, and laid it in a basin which stood upon a table by his bedside. The little woman desired him to take another handful, and he did once more as she bade him. Thereupon the woman descended the ladder; and the procession, weeping and lamenting, departed from the chamber. When day broke, Hermann saw that the supposed sand which he had taken from the apron of the little woman was nothing less than pure and beautiful grains of gold. But what happened? On that very day he lost his Countess in childbirth, and his new-born son. Hermann mourned her loss so bitterly that he was very soon laid beside her in the grave. With him perished the house of Rosenberg. THE CONCLAVE OF CORPSES. Some three hundred years since, when the convent of Kreutzberg was in its glory, one of the monks who dwelt therein, wishing to ascertain something of the hereafter of those whose bodies lay all undecayed in the cemetery, visited it alone in the dead of night for the purpose of prosecuting his inquiries on that fearful subject. As he opened the trap-door of the vault a light burst from below; but deeming it to be only the lamp of the sacristan, the monk drew back and awaited his departure concealed behind the high altar. The sacristan emerged not, however, from the opening; and the monk, tired of waiting, approached, and finally descended the rugged steps which led into the dreary depths. No sooner had he set foot on the lowermost stair, than the well-known scene underwent a complete transformation in his eyes. He had long been accustomed to visit the vault, and whenever the sacristan went thither, he was almost sure to be with him. He therefore knew every part of it as well as he did the interior of his own narrow cell, and the arrangement of its contents was perfectly familiar to his eyes. What, then, was his horror to perceive that this arrangement, which even but that morning had come under his observation as usual, was altogether altered, and a new and wonderful one substituted in its stead. A dim lurid light pervaded the desolate abode of darkness, and it just sufficed to give to his view a sight of the most singular description. On each side of him the dead but imperishable bodies of the long-buried brothers of the convent sat erect in their lidless coffins, their cold, starry eyes glaring at him with lifeless rigidity, their withered fingers locked together on their breasts, their stiffened limbs motionless and still. It was a sight to petrify the stoutest heart; and the monk's quailed before it, though he was a philosopher, and a sceptic to boot. At the upper end of the vault, at a rude table formed of a decayed coffin, or something which once served the same purpose, sat three monks. They were the oldest corses in the charnel-house, for the inquisitive brother knew their faces well; and the cadaverous hue of their cheeks seemed still more cadaverous in the dim light shed upon them, while their hollow eyes gave forth what looked to him like flashes of flame. A large book lay open before one of them, and the others bent over the rotten table as if in intense pain, or in deep and fixed attention. No word was said; no sound was heard; the vault was as silent as the grave, its awful tenants still as statues. Fain would the curious monk have receded from this horrible place; fain would he have retraced his steps and sought again his cell; fain would he have shut his eyes to the fearful scene; but he could not stir from the spot, he felt rooted there; and though he once succeeded in turning his eyes to the entrance of the vault, to his infinite surprise and dismay he could not discover where it lay, nor perceive any possible means of exit. He stood thus for some time. At length the aged monk at the table beckoned him to advance. With slow tottering steps he made his way to the group, and at length stood in front of the table, while the other monks raised their heads and glanced at him with a fixed, lifeless look that froze the current of his blood. He knew not what to do; his senses were fast forsaking him; Heaven seemed to have deserted him for his incredulity. In this moment of doubt and fear he bethought him of a prayer, and as he proceeded he felt himself becoming possessed of a confidence he had before unknown. He looked on the book before him. It was a large volume, bound in black, and clasped with bands of gold, with fastenings of the same metal. It was inscribed at the top of each page "_Liber Obedientiæ._" He could read no further. He then looked, first in the eyes of him before whom it lay open, and then in those of his fellows. He finally glanced around the vault on the corpses who filled every visible coffin in its dark and spacious womb. Speech came to him, and resolution to use it. He addressed himself to the awful beings in whose presence he stood, in the words of one having authority with them. "_Pax vobis_," 'twas thus he spake--"Peace be to ye." "_Hic nulla pax_," replied an aged monk, in a hollow, tremulous tone, baring his breast the while--"Here is no peace." He pointed to his bosom as he spoke, and the monk, casting his eye upon it, beheld his heart within surrounded by living fire, which seemed to feed on it but not consume it. He turned away in affright, but ceased not to prosecute his inquiries. "_Pax vobis, in nomine Domini_," he spake again--"Peace be to ye, in the name of the Lord." "_Hic non pax_," the hollow and heartrending tones of the ancient monk who sat at the right of the table were heard to answer. On glancing at the bared bosom of this hapless being also the same sight was exhibited--the heart surrounded by a devouring flame, but still remaining fresh and unconsumed under its operation. Once more the monk turned away and addressed the aged man in the centre. "_Pax vobis, in nomine Domini_," he proceeded. At these words the being to whom they were addressed raised his head, put forward his hand, and closing the book with a loud clap, said-- "Speak on. It is yours to ask, and mine to answer." The monk felt reassured, and his courage rose with the occasion. "Who are ye?" he inquired; "who may ye be?" "We know not!" was the answer, "alas! we know not!" "We know not, we know not!" echoed in melancholy tones the denizens of the vault. "What do ye here?" pursued the querist. "We await the last day, the day of the last judgment! Alas for us! woe! woe!" "Woe! woe!" resounded on all sides. The monk was appalled, but still he proceeded. "What did ye to deserve such doom as this? What may your crime be that deserves such dole and sorrow?" As he asked the question the earth shook under him, and a crowd of skeletons uprose from a range of graves which yawned suddenly at his feet. "These are our victims," answered the old monk. "They suffered at our hands. We suffer now, while they are at peace; and we shall suffer." "For how long?" asked the monk. "For ever and ever!" was the answer. "For ever and ever, for ever and ever!" died along the vault. "May God have mercy on us!" was all the monk could exclaim. The skeletons vanished, the graves closing over them. The aged men disappeared from his view, the bodies fell back in their coffins, the light fled, and the den of death was once more enveloped in its usual darkness. On the monk's revival he found himself lying at the foot of the altar. The grey dawn of a spring morning was visible, and he was fain to retire to his cell as secretly as he could, for fear he should be discovered. From thenceforth he eschewed vain philosophy, says the legend, and, devoting his time to the pursuit of true knowledge, and the extension of the power, greatness, and glory of the Church, died in the odour of sanctity, and was buried in that holy vault, where his body is still visible. _Requiescat in pace!_ LEGENDS OF RUBEZAHL, OR NUMBER-NIP. Once upon a time a glazier who was travelling across the mountains, feeling very tired from the heavy load of glass which he was carrying, began to look about to discover a place where he might rest it. Rubezahl, who had been watching for some time, no sooner saw this than he changed himself into a little mound, which the glazier not long afterwards discovered in his way, and on which, well pleased, he proposed to seat himself. But his joy was not of long continuance, for he had not sat there many minutes before the heap vanished from under him so rapidly, that the poor glazier fell to the ground with his glass, which was by the fall smashed into a thousand pieces. The poor fellow arose from the ground and looked around him, but the mound of earth on which he had before seated himself was no longer visible. Then he began bitterly to lament, and to sigh with heartfelt sorrow over his untoward fate. At length he started once more on his journey. Upon this Rubezahl, assuming the appearance of a traveller, accosted him, and inquired why he so lamented, and what was the great sorrow with which he was afflicted. The glazier related to him the whole affair, how that, being weary, he had seated himself upon a mound by the wayside, how this had suddenly overthrown him, and broken to pieces his whole stock of glass, which was well worth eight dollars, and how, in short, the mound itself had suddenly disappeared. He declared that he knew not in the least how to recover his loss and bring the business to a good ending. The compassionate mountain sprite comforted him, told him who he was, and that he himself had played him the trick, and at the same time bade him be of good cheer, for his losses should be made good to him. Upon this Rubezahl transformed himself into an ass, and directed the glazier to sell him at the mill which lay at the foot of the mountain, and to be sure to make off with the purchase-money as quickly as possible. The glazier accordingly immediately bestrode the transformed mountain sprite, and rode him down the mountain to the mill, where he offered him for sale to the miller at the price of ten dollars. The miller offered nine, and the glazier, without further haggling, took the money and went his way. When he was gone the miller sent his newly purchased beast to the stable, and the boy who had charge of him immediately filled his rack with hay. Upon this Rubezahl exclaimed-- "I don't eat hay. I eat nothing but roasted and boiled, and that of the best." The boy's hair stood on end. He flew to his master, and related to him this wondrous tale, and he no sooner heard it than he hastened to the stable and there found nothing, for his ass and his nine dollars were alike vanished. But the miller was rightly served, for he had cheated in his time many poor people, therefore Rubezahl punished in this manner the injustice of which he had been guilty. * * * * * In the year 1512 a man of noble family, who was a very tyrant and oppressor, had commanded one of his vassals or peasants to carry home with his horses and cart an oak of extraordinary magnitude, and threatened to visit him with the heaviest disgrace and punishment if he neglected to fulfil his desires. The peasant saw that it was impossible for him to execute the command of his lord, and fled to the woods with great sorrow and lamentation. There he was accosted by Rubezahl, who appeared to him like a man, and inquired of him the cause of his so great sorrow and affliction. Upon this the peasant related to him all the circumstances of the case. When Rubezahl heard it he bade him be of good cheer and care not, but go home to his house again, as he himself would soon transport the oak, as his lord required, into his courtyard. Scarcely had the peasant got well home again before Rubezahl took the monstrous oak-tree, with its thick and sturdy boughs, and hurled it into the courtyard of the nobleman, and with its huge stem, and its many thick branches, so choked and blocked up the entrance that no one could get either in or out. And because the oak proved harder than their iron tools, and could in no manner or wise, and with no power which they could apply to it, be hewn or cut in pieces, the nobleman was compelled to break through the walls in another part of the courtyard, and have a new doorway made, which was only done with great labour and expense. * * * * * Once upon a time Rubezahl made, from what materials is not known, a quantity of pigs, which he drove to the neighbouring market and sold to a peasant, with a caution that the purchaser should not drive them through any water. Now, what happened? Why these same swine having chanced to get sadly covered with mire, what must the peasant do, but drive them to the river, which they had no sooner entered than the pigs suddenly became wisps of straw, and were carried away by the stream. The purchaser was, moreover, obliged to put up with the loss, for he could neither find his pigs again, nor could he discover the person from whom he had bought them. * * * * * Rubezahl once betook himself to the Hirschberg, which is in the neighbourhood of his forest haunts, and there offered his services as a woodcutter to one of the townsmen, asking for his remuneration nothing more than a bundle of wood. This the man promised him, accepting his offer, and pointed out some cart-loads, intending to give him some assistance. To this offer of help in his labours Rubezahl replied-- "No. It is quite unnecessary. All that is to be done I can very well accomplish by myself." Upon this his new master made a few further inquiries, asking him what sort of a hatchet he had got, for he had noticed that his supposed servant was without one. "Oh," said Rubezahl, "I'll soon get a hatchet." Accordingly he laid hands upon his left leg, and pulled that and his foot and all off at the thigh, and with it cut, as if he had been raving mad, all the wood into small pieces of proper lengths and sizes in about a quarter of an hour, thus proving that a dismembered foot is a thousand times more effectual for such purposes than the sharpest axe. In the meanwhile the owner (who saw plainly that mischief was intended) kept calling upon the wondrous woodcutter to desist and go about his business. Rubezahl, however, kept incessantly answering-- "No, I won't stir from this spot until I have hewn the wood as small as I agreed to, and have got my wages for so doing." In the midst of such quarrelling Rubezahl finished his job, and screwed his leg on again, for while at work he had been standing on one leg, after the fashion of a stork. Then he gathered together into one bundle all he had cut, placed it on his shoulder, and started off with it towards his favourite retreat, heedless of the tears and lamentations of his master. On this occasion Rubezahl did not appear in the character of a sportive or mischievous spirit, but as an avenger of injustice, for his employer had induced a number of poor men to bring wood to his home upon the promise of paying them wages, which, however, he had never paid them. Rubezahl laid at the door of each of these poor men as much of the wood he carried away as would repay them, and so the business was brought to a proper termination. * * * * * It once happened that a messenger vexed or played some trick upon Rubezahl, who thereupon revenged himself in the following manner, and so wiped out the score. The messenger, in one of his journeys over the mountains, entered an hotel to refresh himself, and placed his spear as usual behind the door. No sooner had he done so than Rubezahl carried off the spear, transformed himself into a similar one, and took its place. When the messenger, after taking his rest, set forth again with the spear, and had got some little way on his journey, it began slipping about every now and then in such a manner that the messenger began pitching forward into the most intolerable mire, and got himself sadly bespattered. It did this so often that at last he could not tell for the soul of him what had come to the spear, or why he kept slipping forward with it instead of seizing fast hold of the ground. He looked at it longways and sideways, from above, from underneath, but in spite of all his attempts, no change could he discover. After this inspection he went forward a little way, when suddenly he was once more plunged into the morass, and commenced crying-- "Woe is me! woe is me!" at his spear, which led him into such scrapes, and did nothing to release him from them. At length he got himself once more to rights, and then he turned the spear the wrong way upwards. No sooner had he done so than he was driven backwards instead of forwards, and so got into a worse plight than ever. After this he laid the spear across his shoulder like a pikeman, since it was no use to trail it upon the earth, and in this fashion he started on. But Rubezahl continued his tricks by pressing on the messenger as though he had got a yoke on his back. He changed the spear from one shoulder to the other, until at last, from very weariness, he threw away the bewitched weapon, imagining that the Evil One must possess it, and went his way without it. He had not proceeded above a quarter of a mile, when, looking carelessly about him, he was astounded to find his spear by his side. He was sadly frightened, and little knew what to make of it. At last he boldly ventured to lay hands upon it. He did so, and lifted it up, but he could not conceive how he should carry it. He had no desire to trail it any more on the ground, and the thought of carrying it on his shoulder made him shudder. He decided, however, to give it another trial, carrying it in his hand. Fresh troubles now arose. The spear weighed so heavy that he could not stir it a foot from the spot, and though he tried first one hand and then another, all his efforts were in vain. At last he bethought him of riding upon the spear, as a child bestrides a stick. A wonderful change now came over the weapon. It ran on as though it had been a fleet horse, and thus mounted the messenger rode on without ceasing until he descended the mountain and came into the city, where he excited the wonder, delight, and laughter of the worthy burghers. Although he had endured some trouble in the early part of his journey, the messenger thought he had been amply compensated at the close, and he comforted himself by making up his mind that in all future journeys he was destined to perform he would bestride his nimble spear. His good intentions were, however, frustrated. Rubezahl had played his game, and had had all the amusement he desired with the poor knave. Accordingly he scampered away, leaving in his place the real spear, which never played any more tricks, but, after the old fashion of other spears, accompanied its master in a becoming and orderly style. * * * * * A poor woman, who got her living by gathering herbs, once went, accompanied by her two children, to the mountains, carrying with her a basket in which to gather the plants, which she was in the habit of disposing of to the apothecaries. Having chanced to discover a large tract of land covered with such plants as were most esteemed, she busied herself so in filling her basket that she lost her way, and was troubled to find out how to get back to the path from which she had wandered. On a sudden a man dressed like a peasant appeared before her, and said-- "Well, good woman, what is it you are looking for so anxiously? and where do you want to go?" "Alas!" replied she, "I am a poor woman who has neither bit nor sup, for which reason I am obliged to wander to gather herbs, so that I may buy bread for myself and my hungry children. I have lost my way, and cannot find it. I pray you, good man, take pity on me, and lead me out of the thicket into the right path, so that I may make the best of my way home." "Well, my good woman," replied Rubezahl, for it was he, "make yourself happy. I will show you the way. But what good are those roots to you? They will be of little benefit. Throw away this rubbish, and gather from this tree as many leaves as will fill your basket; you will find them answer your purpose much better." "Alas!" said the woman, "who would give a penny for them? They are but common leaves, and good for nothing." "Be advised, my good woman," said Rubezahl; "throw away those you have got, and follow me." He repeated his injunction over and over again in vain, until he got tired, for the woman would not be persuaded. At last, he fairly laid hold of the basket, threw the herbs out by main force, and supplied their place with leaves from the surrounding bushes. When he had finished, he told the woman to go home, and led her into the right path. The woman, with her children and her basket, journeyed on some distance; but they had not gone far before she saw some valuable herbs growing by the wayside. No sooner did she perceive them than she longed to gather them, for she hoped that she should obtain something for them, while the leaves with which her basket was crammed were, she thought, good for nothing. She accordingly emptied her basket, throwing away the rubbish, as she esteemed it, and having filled it once more with roots, journeyed on to her dwelling at Kirschdorf. As soon as she arrived at her home she cleansed the roots she had gathered from the earth which clung around them, tied them neatly together, and emptied everything out of the basket. Upon doing this, something glittering caught her eye, and she commenced to make a careful examination of the basket. She was surprised to discover several ducats sticking to the wickerwork, and these were clearly such of the leaves as remained of those which she had so thoughtlessly thrown away on the mountains. She rejoiced at having preserved what she had, but she was again sorely vexed that she had not taken care of all that the mountain spirit had gathered for her. She hastened back to the spot where she had emptied the basket, in hopes of finding some of the leaves there; but her search was in vain--they had all vanished. THE HUNTER HACKELNBERG AND THE TUT-OSEL. The Wild Huntsman, Hackelnberg, traverses the Hartz mountains and the Thuringian forest, but he seems mostly to prefer the Hakel, from which place he derives his name, and especially the neighbourhood of Dummburg. Ofttimes is he heard at night, in rain and storm, when the moonlight is breaking by fits and starts through the troubled sky, following with his hounds the shadows of the wild beasts he slew in days of yore. His retinue generally proceed from the Dummburg, straight over the Hakel to the now desolate village of Ammendorf. He has only been seen by a few children, who, having been born on a Sunday, had the power of seeing spirits. Sometimes he met them as a lonely huntsman, accompanied by one solitary hound. Sometimes he was seen in a carriage drawn by four horses, and followed by six dogs of the chase. But many have heard the low bellowing of his hounds, and the splashing of his horse's feet in the swamps of the moor; many have heard his cry of "Hu! hu!" and seen his associate and forerunner--the Tut-Osel, or Tooting Ursula. Once upon a time three wanderers seated themselves in the neighbourhood of the Dummburg. The night was already far advanced. The moon gleamed faintly through the chasing clouds. All around was still. Suddenly they heard something rush along over their heads. They looked up, and an immense screech-owl flew before them. "Ha!" cried one of them, "there is the Tut-Osel! Hackelnberg, the Wild Huntsman, is not far off." "Let us fly," exclaimed the second, "before the spirits overtake us." "We cannot fly," said the third; "but you have nothing to fear if you do not irritate him. Lay yourselves down upon your faces when he passes over us. But, remember, you must not think of addressing Hackelnberg, lest he treat you as he treated the shepherd." The wanderers laid themselves under the bushes. Presently they heard around them the rushing by, as it were, of a whole pack of hounds, and high in the air above them they heard a hollow sound like that of a hunted beast of the forest, and ever and anon they trembled at hearing the fearful-toned voice of the Wild Huntsman uttering his well-known "Hu! hu!" Two of the wanderers pressed close to the earth, but the third could not resist his inclination to have a peep at what was going on. He looked up slantingly through the branches, and saw the shadow of a huntsman pass directly over him. Suddenly all around was hushed. The wanderers rose slowly and timidly, and looked after Hackelnberg; but he had vanished, and did not return. "But who is the Tut-Osel?" inquired the second wanderer, after a long pause. "In a distant nunnery in Thuringia," replied the first, "there once lived a nun named Ursula, who, even during her lifetime, tormented all the sisterhood by her discordant voice, and oftentimes interrupted the service of the church, for which reason they called her Tut-Osel, or Tooting Ursula. If matters were bad while she lived, they became far worse when she died. At eleven o'clock every night she now thrust her head through a hole in the convent tower and tooted most miserably, and every morning at about four o'clock she joined unasked in the matin song. "For a few days the sisterhood endured this with a beating heart, and on bended knees; but on the fourth morning, when she joined in the service, and one of the nuns whispered tremblingly to her neighbour-- "'Ha! it is surely our Tut-Osel!' the song ceased, the hair of the nuns stood on end, and they all rushed from the church, exclaiming-- "'Ha! Tut-Osel! Tut-Osel!' "Despite the penances and chastisements with which they were threatened, not one of the nuns would enter the church again until the Tut-Osel was banished from the walls of the nunnery. To effect this, one of the most celebrated exorcists of the day, a Capuchin friar, from a cloister on the banks of the Danube, was sent for; and he succeeded, by prayer and fasting, in banishing Ursel in the shape of a screech-owl to the far-distant Dummburg. "Here she met Hackelnberg, the Wild Huntsman, and found in his wood-cry, 'Hu! hu!' as great delight as he did in her 'U! hu!' So they now always hunt together; he glad to have a spirit after his own kind, and she rejoiced in the extreme to be no longer compelled to reside within the walls of a cloister, and there listen to the echo of her own song." "So much for the Tut-Osel. Now tell us how it fared with the shepherd who spoke to Hackelnberg." "Listen to the marvellous adventure," said the third wanderer. "A shepherd once hearing the Wild Huntsman journeying through the forest, encouraged the spirit hounds, and called out-- "'Good sport to you, Hackelnberg.' "Hackelnberg instantly turned round and roared out to him, in a voice like thunder-- "'Since you have helped me to set on the hounds, you shall have part of the spoil.' "The trembling shepherd tried to hide himself, but Hackelnberg hurled the half-consumed haunch of a horse into the shepherd's cart with such violence that it could scarcely be removed." THE ALRAUN. It is a well-known tradition near Magdeburg, that when a man who is a thief by inheritance,--that is to say, whose father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him, three generations of his family, have been thieves; or whose mother has committed a theft, or been possessed with an intense longing to steal something at the time immediately preceding his birth; it is the tradition that if such a man should be hanged, at the foot of the gallows whereon his last breath was exhaled will spring up a plant of hideous form known as the Alraun or Gallows Mannikin. It is an unsightly object to look at, and has broad, dark green leaves, with a single yellow flower. The plant, however, has great power, and whosoever is its possessor never more knows what it is to want money. It is a feat full of the greatest danger to obtain it. If not taken up from the root, clean out of the soil, it is altogether valueless, and he who makes the experiment wantonly risks his life. The moment the earth is struck with the spade, the bitterest cries and shrieks burst forth from it, and while the roots are being laid bare demons are heard to howl in horrid concert. When the preparatory work is done, and when the hand of the daring man is laid on the stem to pluck forth his prize, then is it as if all the fiends of hell were let loose upon him, such shrieking, such howling, such clanging of chains, such crashing of thunder, and such flashing of forked lightning assail him on every side. If his heart fail him but for one moment his life is forfeit. Many a bold heart engaged in this trial has ceased to beat under the fatal tree; many a brave man's body has been found mangled and torn to pieces on that accursed spot. There is, however, happily, only one day in the month, the first Friday, on which this plant appears, and on the night of that day only may it be plucked from its hiding-place. The way it is done is this. Whoso seeks to win it fasts all day. At sundown he sets forth on his fearful adventure, taking with him a coal-black hound, which has not a single fleck of white on its whole body, and which he has compelled likewise to fast for four-and-twenty hours previously. At midnight he takes his stand under the gallows, and there stuffs his ears with wool or wax, so that he may hear nothing. As the dread hour arrives, he stoops down and makes three crosses over the Alraun, and then commences to dig for the roots in a perfect circle around it. When he has laid it entirely bare, so that it only holds to the ground by the points of its roots, he calls the hound to him, and ties the plant to its tail. He then shows the dog some meat, which he flings to a short distance from the spot. Ravenous with hunger, the hound springs after it, dragging the plant up by the root, but before he can reach the tempting morsel he is struck dead as by some invisible hand. The adventurer, who all the while stood by the plant to aid in its uprooting should the strength of the animal prove insufficient, then rushes forward, and, detaching it from the body of the dead hound, grasps it firmly in both hands. He then wraps it up carefully in a silken cloth, first, however, washing it well in red wine, and then bears it homeward. The hound is buried in the spot whence the Alraun has been extracted. On reaching home the man deposits his treasure in a strong chest, with three locks, and only visits it every first Friday in the month, or, rather, after the new moon. On these occasions he again washes it with red wine, and enfolds it afresh in a clean silken cloth of white and red colours. If he has any question to ask, or any request to make, he then puts the one or proffers the other. If he wish to know of things in the future, the Alraun will tell him truly, but he will only get one answer in the moon, and nothing else will be done for him by the plant. If he desire to obtain some substantial favour, he has it performed for him on making his request, but then the Alraun will answer no inquiries as to the future until the next day of visitation shall arrive. Whoso has this wonder of the world in his possession can never take harm from his foes, and never sustain any loss. If he be poor, he at once becomes rich. If his marriage be unblest by offspring, he at once has children. If a piece of gold be laid beside the Alraun at night, it is found to be doubled in the morning, and so on for any sum whatsoever, but never has it been known to be increased more than two pieces for each one. On the demise of the owner only a youngest son can inherit the Alraun. To inherit it effectually he must place a loaf of white bread and a piece of money in the coffin of his father, to be buried along with his corpse. If he fail to do so, then is the possession, like many others of great name in the world, of no value to him. Should, however, the youngest son fail before the father, then the Alraun rightfully belongs to the eldest, but he must also place bread and money in the coffin of his brother, as well as in that of his father, to inherit it to any purpose. THE GOOSE-GIRL. The king of a great land died, and left his queen to take care of their only child. This child was a daughter, who was very beautiful, and her mother loved her dearly and was very kind to her. When she grew up, she was betrothed to a prince who lived a great way off; and as the time drew near for her to be married, she got ready to set off on her journey to his country. The queen, her mother, packed up a great many costly things--jewels, gold and silver trinkets, fine dresses, and, in short, everything that became a royal bride. She gave her a waiting-maid to ride with her and give her into the bridegroom's hands, and each had a horse for the journey. The princess' horse was called Falada, and could speak. When the time came for them to set out, the aged mother went into the princess's bedchamber, took a knife, and having cut her finger till it bled, let three drops of the blood fall upon a handkerchief, and gave it to the princess, saying-- "Take care of it, dear child, for it is a charm that may be of use to you on the road." They all took a sorrowful leave of the princess, and she put the handkerchief into her bosom, got upon her horse, and set off on her journey to her bridegroom's kingdom. One day as they were riding along by a brook, the princess began to feel very thirsty, and said to her maid-- "Pray get down, and fetch me some water in my golden cup out of yonder brook, for I want to drink." "Nay," said the maid, "if you are thirsty, get off yourself and stoop down by the water and drink. I shall not be your waiting-maid any longer." The princess got down, and knelt over the brook and drank, for she was frightened, and dared not bring out her cup; and she wept, and said-- "Alas! what will become of me?" The three drops of blood answered her, and said-- "Alas, alas! if thy mother knew it, Sadly, sadly, would she rue it." The princess was very gentle and meek, so she said nothing to her maid's ill-behaviour, but got upon her horse again. They all rode further on their journey, till the day grew so warm and the sun so scorching that the bride began to feel very thirsty again; and at last, when they came to a river, she forgot her maid's rude speech, and said-- "Pray get down, and fetch me some water to drink in my cup." But the maid answered her, and even spoke more haughtily than before-- "Drink if you will, but I shall not be your waiting-maid." Then the princess got off her horse, and lay down, and held her head over the running stream, and cried and said-- "What will become of me?" And the drops of blood answered her again as before. As the princess leaned down to drink, the handkerchief on which was the blood fell from her bosom and floated away on the water, but the princess was so frightened that she did not notice it. Her maid, however, saw it, and was very glad, for she knew the charm, and she saw that the poor bride would be in her power now that she had lost the drops of blood. So when the bride had done drinking, and would have got upon Falada again, the maid said-- "I will ride upon Falada, and you may have my horse instead;" so the princess was forced to give up her horse, and soon afterwards to take off her royal clothes and put on her maid's shabby ones. At last, as they drew near the end of their journey, this treacherous servant threatened to kill her mistress if she ever told any one what had happened; but Falada saw it all, and marked it well. Then the waiting-maid got upon Falada, while the real bride rode upon the other horse, and they went on in this way until they came at last to the royal court. There was great joy at their coming, and the prince flew to meet them, and lifted the maid from her horse, thinking she was the one who was to be his wife. She was led upstairs to the royal chamber, but the true princess was told to stay in the court below. Now the old king happened just then to have nothing else to do, so he was amusing himself by sitting at his window looking at what was going on, and he saw her in the courtyard. As she looked very pretty, and too delicate for a waiting-maid, he went up into the royal chamber to ask the bride who it was she had brought with her that was thus left standing in the court below. "I brought her with me for the sake of her company on the road," replied she. "Pray give the girl some work to do, that she may not be idle." The king could not for some time think of any work for her to do, but at last he said-- "I have a lad who takes care of my geese, she may go and help him." Now the name of this lad, whom the princess was to help in watching the king's geese, was Conrad. The false bride said to the prince-- "Dear husband, pray do me one piece of kindness." "That I will," said the prince. "Then tell one of your knackers to cut off the head of the horse I rode upon, for it was very unruly, and plagued me sadly on the road." In reality she was very much afraid lest Falada should some day or other speak, and tell all that she had done to the princess. She carried her point, and the faithful Falada was killed. When the true princess heard of it she wept, and begged the man to nail up Falada's head over a large dark gate of the city, through which she had to pass every morning and evening, that there she might see him sometimes. The slaughterer said he would do as she wished, and he cut off the head, and nailed it up under the dark gate. Early the next morning, as the princess and Conrad went through the gate, she said sorrowfully-- "Falada, Falada, there thou hangest!" The head answered-- "Bride, bride, there thou goest! Alas, alas! if thy mother knew it, Sadly, sadly would she rue it." Then they went out of the city, and drove the geese on. When they were come to a meadow she sat down upon a bank there, and let down her waving locks of hair, which were like pure gold; and when Conrad saw it he ran up, and would have pulled some of the locks out, but the princess cried-- "Blow, breezes, blow! Let Conrad's hat go! Blow, breezes, blow! Let him after it go! O'er hills, dales, and rocks, Away be it whirled, Till my golden locks Are all combed and curled." Then there came a wind so strong that it blew off Conrad's hat. Away it flew over the hills, and he was forced to turn and run after it, so that when he came back she had done combing and curling her hair, and had put it up again safely, and he could not get any of it. He was very angry and sulky, and would not speak to her; but they watched the geese until it grew dark, and then drove them homewards. The next morning, as they were going through the dark gate, the poor girl looked up at Falada's head, and cried-- "Falada, Falada, there thou hangest!" It answered-- "Bride, bride, there thou goest! Alas, alas! if thy mother knew it, Sadly, sadly would she rue it." Then she drove on the geese, and sat down again in the meadow, and began to comb out her hair as before, and Conrad ran up to her, and wanted to take hold of it. The princess repeated the words she had used the day before, when the wind came and blew away his hat, and off it flew a great way, over the hills and far away, so that he had to run after it. When he returned, she had bound up her hair again, and all was safe. So they watched the geese until it grew dark. In the evening, after they came home, Conrad went to the old king and said-- "I won't have that strange girl to help me to keep the geese any longer." "Why?" said the king. "Because instead of doing any good she does nothing but tease me all day long." Then the king made him tell what had happened, and Conrad said-- "When we go in the morning through the dark gate with our flock of geese, she cries and talks with the head of a horse that hangs upon the wall, and the head answers her." And Conrad went on telling the king what had happened in the meadow where the geese fed; how his hat was blown away, and how he was forced to run after it and leave his flock of geese to themselves. The old king told the boy to go out again the next day, and when morning came he placed himself behind the dark gate, and heard how the princess spoke to Falada, and how Falada answered. Then he went into the field and hid himself in a bush by the meadow's side, and he soon saw with his own eyes how they drove the flock of geese, and how, after a little time, she let down her hair that glittered in the sun. Then he heard her call the wind, and soon there came a gust that carried away Conrad's hat, and away he went after it, while the girl went on combing and curling her hair. All this the old king saw; so he went home without having been observed, and when the goose-girl came back in the evening, he called her aside and asked her why she did so. She burst into tears, and said-- "That I must not tell you nor any man, or I shall lose my life." The old king begged hard, but she would tell him nothing. Then he said-- "If you will not tell me thy story, tell thy grief to the iron stove there," and then he went away. Then the princess crept into the stove, and, weeping and lamenting, she poured forth her whole heart, saying-- "I am alone in the whole world, though I am a king's daughter. A treacherous waiting-maid has taken my place and compelled me to put off my royal dress, and even taken my place with my bridegroom, while I have to work as a goose-girl. If my mother knew it, it would break her heart." The old king, however, was standing by the stove, listening to what the princess said, and overheard it all. He ordered royal clothes to be put upon her, and gazed at her in wonder, she was so beautiful. Then he called his son, and told him that he had only a false bride, for that she was merely the waiting-maid, while the true bride stood by. The young prince rejoiced when he saw the princess's beauty, and heard how meek and patient she had been, and the king ordered a great feast to be got ready for all his court. The bridegroom sat at the top of the table, with the false princess on one side and the true one on the other; but the waiting-maid did not recognise the princess, for her beauty was quite dazzling. When they had eaten and drunk, and were very merry, the old king said he would tell them a tale. So he began, and told all the story of the princess, as if it were a tale he had heard, and he asked the waiting-woman what she thought ought to be done to any one who behaved so badly as the servant in the story. "Nothing better," said the false bride, "than that she should be thrown into a cask stuck round with sharp nails, and that two white horses should be put to it, and should drag it from street to street till she were dead." "Thou art she," said the old king, "and as thou hast judged thyself, so it shall be done to thee." Then the young prince was married to his true wife, and they reigned over the kingdom in peace and happiness all their lives. HANS JAGENTEUFEL. It is commonly believed that if any person is guilty of a crime for which he deserves to lose his head, he will, if he escape punishment during his lifetime, be condemned after his death to wander about with his head under his arm. In the year 1644 a woman of Dresden went out early one Sunday morning into a neighbouring wood for the purpose of collecting acorns. In an open space, at a spot not very far from the place which is called the Lost Water, she heard somebody blow a very strong blast upon a hunting-horn, and immediately afterwards a heavy fall succeeded, as though a large tree had fallen to the ground. The woman was greatly alarmed, and concealed her little bag of acorns among the grass. Shortly afterwards the horn was blown a second time, and on looking round she saw a man without a head, dressed in a long grey cloak, and riding upon a grey horse. He was booted and spurred, and had a bugle-horn hanging at his back. As he rode past her very quietly she regained her courage, went on gathering the acorns, and when evening came returned home undisturbed. Nine days afterwards, the woman returned to that spot for the purpose of again collecting the acorns, and as she sat down by the Forsterberg, peeling an apple, she heard behind her a voice calling out to her-- "Have you taken a whole sack of acorns and nobody tried to punish you for doing so?" "No," said she. "The foresters are very kind to the poor, and they have done nothing to me--the Lord have mercy on my sins!" With these words she turned about, and there stood he of the grey cloak, but this time he was without his horse, and carried his head, which was covered with curling brown hair, under his arm. The woman shrank from him in alarm, but the spirit said-- "Ye do well to pray to God to forgive you your sins, it was never my good lot to do so." Thereupon he related to her how that he had lived about one hundred and thirty years before, and was called Hans Jagenteufel, as his father had been before him, and how his father had often besought him not to be too hard upon poor people, how he had paid no regard to the advice his father had given him, but had passed his time in drinking and carousing, and in all manner of wickedness, for which he was now condemned to wander about the world as an evil spirit. THE WAITS OF BREMEN. An honest farmer had once an ass that had been a faithful hard-working slave to him for a great many years, but was now growing old, and every day more and more unfit for work. His master therefore was tired of keeping him to live at ease like a gentleman, and so began to think of putting an end to him. The ass, who was a shrewd hand, saw that some mischief was in the wind, so he took himself slily off, and began his journey towards Bremen. "There," thought he to himself, "as I have a good voice, I may chance to be chosen town musician." After he had travelled a little way, he spied a dog lying by the roadside, and panting as if very tired. "What makes you pant so, my friend?" said the ass. "Alas!" said the dog, "my master was going to knock me on the head, because I am old and weak, and can no longer make myself useful to him in hunting, so I ran away. But what can I do to earn my livelihood?" "Hark ye," said the ass, "I am going to Bremen to turn musician. Come with me, and try what you can do in the same way." The dog said he was willing, and on they went. They had not gone far before they saw a cat sitting in the middle of the road, with tears in her eyes, and making a most rueful face. "Pray, my good lady," said the ass, "what's the matter with you? You look quite out of spirits." "Ah, me!" said the cat. "How can a body be in good spirits when one's life is in danger? Because I am beginning to grow old, and had rather lie at my ease before the fire than run about the house after the mice, my mistress laid hold of me, and was going to drown me, and though I have been lucky enough to get away from her, I know not how I am to live." "Oh!" said the ass, "by all means go with us to Bremen. You are a good night-singer, and may make your fortune as one of the waits." The cat was pleased with the thought, and joined the party. Soon afterwards, as they were passing by a farmyard, they saw a cock perched upon a gate, screaming out with all his might and main. "Bravo!" said the ass. "Upon my word, you make a famous noise. Pray, what is all this about?" "Why," said the cock, "I was just now telling all our neighbours that we were to have fine weather for our washing-day; and yet my mistress and the cook don't thank me for my pains, but threaten to cut my head off to-morrow, and make broth of me for the guests that are coming on Sunday." "Heaven forbid!" said the ass. "Come with us. Anything will be better than staying here. Besides, who knows, if we take care to sing in tune, we may get up a concert of our own, so come along with us." "With all my heart," replied the cock; so they all four went on jollily together towards Bremen. They could not, however, reach the town the first day, so when night came on they turned off the high-road into a wood to sleep. The ass and the dog laid themselves down under a great tree, and the cat climbed up into the branches; while the cock, thinking that the higher he sat the safer he should be, flew up to the very top of the tree, and then, according to his custom, before he sounded his trumpet and went to sleep, looked out on all sides to see that everything was well. In doing this he saw afar off something bright, and calling to his companions, said-- "There must be a house no great way off, for I see a light." "If that be the case," replied the ass, "we had better change our quarters, for our lodging here is not the best in the world." "Besides," said the dog, "I should not be the worse for a bone or two." "And may be," remarked the cat, "a stray mouse will be found somewhere about the premises." So they walked off together towards the spot where the cock had seen the light; and as they drew near, it became larger and brighter, till they came at last to a lonely house, in which was a gang of robbers. The ass, being the tallest of the company, marched up to the window and peeped in. "Well," said the cock, "what do you see?" "What do I see?" replied the ass. "Why, I see a table spread with all kinds of good things, and robbers sitting round it making merry." "That would be a noble lodging for us," said the cock. "Yes," rejoined the ass, "if we could only get in." They laid their heads together to see how they could get the robbers out, and at last they hit upon a plan. The ass set himself upright on his hind-legs, with his fore-feet resting on the window; the dog got upon his back; the cat scrambled up to the dog's shoulders, and the cock flew up and sat upon the cat. When all were ready the cock gave the signal, and up struck the whole band of music. The ass brayed, the dog barked, the cat mewed, and the cock crew. Then they all broke through the window at once, and came tumbling into the room amongst the broken glass, with a hideous clatter. The robbers, who had been not a little frightened by the opening concert, had now no doubt that some frightful hobgoblins had broken in upon them, and scampered away as fast as they could. The coast once clear, the travellers soon sat down and despatched what the robbers had left, with as much eagerness as if they had not hoped to eat again for a month. As soon as they had had enough they put out the lights, and each once more sought out a resting-place to his liking. The donkey laid himself down upon a heap of straw in the yard; the dog stretched himself upon a mat behind the door; the cat rolled herself up on the hearth before the warm ashes; the cock perched upon a beam on the top of the house; and as all were rather tired with their journey, they soon fell fast asleep. About midnight, however, when the robbers saw from afar that the lights were out and that all was quiet, they began to think that they had been in too great a hurry to run away; and one of them, who was bolder than the rest, went to see what was going on. Finding everything still, he marched into the kitchen, and groped about till he found a match in order to light a candle. Espying the glittering fiery eyes of the cat, he mistook them for live coals, and held the match to them to light it. The cat, however, not understanding such a joke, sprang at his face, and spat, and scratched him. This frightened him dreadfully, and away he ran to the back door, where the dog jumped up and bit him in the leg. As he was crossing over the yard the ass kicked him; and the cock, who had been awakened by the noise, crew with all his might. At this the robber ran back as fast as he could to his comrades, and told the captain that a horrid witch had got into the house, and had scratched his face with her long bony fingers--that a man with a knife in his hand had hidden himself behind the door, and stabbed him in the leg--that a black monster stood in the yard and struck him with a club--and that the devil sat upon the top of the house, and cried out-- "Throw the rascal up here!" After this the robbers never dared to go back to the house; but the musicians were so pleased with their quarters, that they never found their way to Bremen, but took up their abode in the wood. And there they live, I dare say, to this very day. THE FLAMING CASTLE. Upon a high mountain in the Tyrol there stands an old castle, in which there burns a fire every night, and the flashes of that fire are so large that they rise up over the walls, and may be seen far and wide. It happened once that an old woman in want of firewood was gathering the fallen twigs and branches upon this castle-crowned mountain, and at length arrived at the castle door. To indulge her curiosity she began peering about her, and at last entered, not without difficulty, for it was all in ruins and not easily accessible. When she reached the courtyard, there she beheld a goodly company of nobles and ladies seated and feasting at a huge table. There were, likewise, plenty of servants, who waited upon them, changing their plates, handing round the viands, and pouring out wine for the party. As she thus stood gazing upon them, there came one of the servants, who drew her on one side, and placed a piece of gold in the pocket of her apron, upon which the whole scene vanished in an instant, and the poor frightened old woman was left to find her way back as well as she could. However, she got outside the courtyard, and there stood before her a soldier with a lighted match, whose head was not placed upon his neck, but held by him under his arm. He immediately addressed the old woman, and commanded her not to tell any one what she had seen and heard upon peril of evil befalling her. At length the woman reached home, full of anguish, still keeping possession of the gold, but telling no one whence she had obtained it. When the magistrates, however, got wind of the affair, she was summoned before them, but she would not speak one word upon the subject, excusing herself by saying that if she uttered one word respecting it great evil would ensue to her. When, however, they pressed her more strictly, she discovered to them all that had happened to her in the Fiery Castle, even to the smallest particular. In an instant, almost before her relation was fully ended, she was carried away, and no one could ever learn whither she fled. A year or two afterwards, a young nobleman, a knight, and one well experienced in all things, took up his abode in those parts. In order that he might ascertain the issue of this affair, he set out on foot with his servant in the middle of the night on the road to the mountain. With great difficulty they made the ascent, and were on their way warned six times by an unknown voice to desist from their attempt. They kept on, however, heedless of this caution, and at length reached the door of the castle. There again stood the soldier as a sentinel, and he called out as usual-- "Who goes there?" The nobleman, who was bold of heart, gave for answer-- "It is I." Upon this the spirit inquired further-- "Who art thou?" This time the nobleman made no answer, but desired his servant to hand him his sword. When this was done, a black horseman came riding out of the castle, against whom the nobleman would have waged battle. The horseman, however, dragged him up upon his horse and rode with him into the courtyard, while the soldier chased the servant down the mountain. The nobleman was never more seen. THE MONKS AT THE FERRY. From time immemorial a ferry has existed from Andernach to the opposite side of the Rhine. Formerly it was more in use than at present, there being then a greater intercourse between the two shores of the river, much of which might be traced to the Convent of St. Thomas, once the most important and flourishing nunnery on the river. Close by this ferry, on the margin of the Rhine, but elevated somewhat above the level of the water, stands a long, roofless, ruinous building, the remains of the castle of Friedrichstein, better known, however, to the peasantry, and to all passengers on the river, as the Devil's House. How it came by this suspicious appellative there are many traditions to explain. Some say that the Prince of Neuwied, who erected it, so ground down his subjects for its construction, that they unanimously gave it that name. Others derive its popular _sobriquet_ from the godless revelries of the same prince within its walls, and the wild deeds of his companions in wickedness; while a third class of local historians insist upon it that the ruin takes its name from the congregation of fiendish shapes which resort there on special occasions, and the riot and rout which they create in the roofless chambers, reeking vaults, and crumbling corridors of the desolate edifice. It is to this ruin, and of the adjacent ferry, that the following legend belongs. It was in the time when the celebrated Convent of St. Thomas over Andernach existed in its pristine magnificence, that late on an autumnal night the ferryman from that city to the Devil's House on the other side of the river, who lived on the edge of the bank below the ruins of the ancient palace of the kings of Austrasia, was accosted by a stranger, who desired to be put across just as the man was about to haul up his boat for the day. The stranger seemed to be a monk, for he was closely cowled, and gowned from head to foot in the long, dark, flowing garb of some ascetic order. "Hilloa! ferry," he shouted aloud as he approached the shore of the river, "hilloa!" "Here, ahoy! here, most reverend father!" answered the poor ferryman. "What would ye have with me?" "I would that you ferry me across the Rhine to yonder shore of the river," replied the monk. "I come from the Convent of St. Thomas, and I go afar on a weighty mission. Now, be ye quick, my good friend, and run me over." "Most willingly, reverend father," said the ferryman. "Most willingly. Step into my boat, and I'll put you across the current in a twinkling." The dark-looking monk entered the boat, and the ferryman shoved off from the bank. They soon reached the opposite shore. The ferryman, however, had scarce time to give his fare a good-evening ere he disappeared from his sight, in the direction of the Devil's House. Pondering a little on this strange circumstance, and inwardly thinking that the dark monk might as well have paid him his fare, or, at least, bade him good-night before he took such unceremonious leave, he rowed slowly back across the stream to his abode at Andernach. "Hilloa! ferry," once more resounded from the margin of the river as he approached, "hilloa!" "Here, ahoy!" responded the ferryman, but with some strange sensation of fear. "What would ye?" He rowed to the shore, but he could see no one for a while, for it was now dark. As he neared the landing-place, however, he became aware of the presence of two monks, garbed exactly like his late passenger, standing together, concealed by the shadow of the massive ruins. "Here! here!" they cried. "We would ye would ferry us over to yonder shore of the river," said the foremost of the twain. "We go afar on a weighty errand from the Convent of St. Thomas, and we must onwards this night. So be up quick, friend, and run us over soon." "Step in, then," said the ferryman, not over courteously, for he remembered the trick played on him by their predecessor. They entered the boat, and the ferryman put off. Just as the prow of the boat touched the opposite bank of the river, both sprang ashore, and disappeared at once from his view, like him who had gone before them. "Ah!" said the ferryman, "if they call that doing good, or acting honestly, to cheat a hard-working poor fellow out of the reward of his labour, I do not know what bad means, or what it is to act knavishly." He waited a little while to see if they would return to pay him, but finding that they failed to do so, he put across once more to his home at Andernach. "Hilloa! ferry," again hailed a voice from the shore to which he was making, "hilloa!" The ferryman made no reply to this suspicious hail, but pushed off his boat from the landing-place, fully resolved in his own mind to have nothing to do with any more such black cattle that night. "Hilloa! ferry," was again repeated in a sterner voice. "Art dead or asleep?" "Here, ahoy!" cried the ferryman. "What would ye?" He had thought of passing downwards to the other extremity of the town, and there mooring his barque below the place she usually lay in, lest any other monks might feel disposed to make him their slave without offering any recompense. He had, however, scarcely entertained the idea, when three black-robed men, clothed as the former, in long, flowing garments, but more closely cowled, if possible, than they, stood on the very edge of the stream, and beckoned him to them. It was in vain for him to try to evade them, and as if to render any effort to that effect more nugatory, the moon broke forth from the thick clouds, and lit up the scene all around with a radiance like day. "Step in, holy fathers! step in! quick!" said he, in a gruff voice, after they had told him the same tale in the very same words as the three others had used who had passed previously. They entered the boat, and again the ferryman pushed off. They had reached the centre of the stream, when he bethought him that it was then a good time to talk of his fee, and he resolved to have it, if possible, ere they could escape him. "But what do you mean to give me for my trouble, holy fathers?" he inquired. "Nothing for nothing, ye know." "We shall give you all that we have to bestow," replied one of the monks. "Won't that suffice?" "What is that?" asked the ferryman. "Nothing," said the monk who had answered him first. "But our blessing," interposed the second monk. "Blessing! bah! That won't do. I can't eat blessings!" responded the grumbling ferryman. "Heaven will pay you," said the third monk. "That won't do either," answered the enraged ferryman. "I'll put back again to Andernach!" "Be it so," said the monks. The ferryman put about the head of his boat, and began to row back towards Andernach, as he had threatened. He had, however, scarcely made three strokes of his oars, when a high wind sprang up and the waters began to rise and rage and foam, like the billows of a storm-vexed sea. Soon a hurricane of the most fearful kind followed, and swept over the chafing face of the stream. In his forty years' experience of the river, the ferryman had never before beheld such a tempest--so dreadful and so sudden. He gave himself up for lost, threw down his oars, and flung himself on his knees, praying to Heaven for mercy. At that moment two of the dark-robed monks seized the oars which he had abandoned, while the third wrenched one of the thwarts of the boat from its place in the centre. All three then began to belabour the wretched man with all their might and main, until at length he lay senseless and without motion at the bottom of the boat. The barque, which was now veered about, bore them rapidly towards their original destination. The only words that passed on the occasion were an exclamation of the first monk who struck the ferryman down. "Steer your boat aright, friend," he cried, "if you value your life, and leave off your prating. What have you to do with Heaven, or Heaven with you?" When the poor ferryman recovered his senses, day had long dawned, and he was lying alone at the bottom of his boat. He found that he had drifted below Hammerstein, close to the shore of the right bank of the river. He could discover no trace of his companions. With much difficulty he rowed up the river, and reached the shore. He learned afterwards from a gossiping neighbour, that, as the man returned from Neuwied late that night, or rather early the next morning, he met, just emerging from the Devil's House, a large black chariot running on three huge wheels, drawn by four horses without heads. In that vehicle he saw six monks seated _vis-à-vis_, apparently enjoying their morning ride. The driver, a curious-looking carl, with a singularly long nose, took, he said, the road along the edge of the river, and continued lashing his three coal-black, headless steeds at a tremendous rate, until a sharp turn hid them from the man's view. DOCTOR ALL-WISE. There was a poor peasant, named Crab, who once drove two oxen, with a load of wood, into the city, and there sold it for two dollars to a doctor. The doctor counted out the money to him as he sat at dinner, and the peasant, seeing how well he fared, yearned to live like him, and would needs be a doctor too. He stood a little while in thought, and at last asked if he could not become a doctor. "Oh yes," said the doctor, "that may be easily managed. In the first place you must purchase an A, B, C book, only taking care that it is one that has got in the front of it a picture of a cock crowing. Then sell your cart and oxen, and buy with the money clothes, and all the other things needful. Thirdly, and lastly, have a sign painted with the words, 'I am Doctor All-Wise,' and have it nailed up before the door of your house." The peasant did exactly as he had been told; and after he had doctored a little while, it chanced that a certain nobleman was robbed of a large sum of money. Some one told him that there lived in the village hard by a Doctor All-Wise, who was sure to be able to tell him where his money had gone. The nobleman at once ordered his carriage to be got ready and rode into the city, and having come to the doctor, asked him if he was Dr. All-Wise. "Oh yes," answered he, "I am Doctor All-Wise, sure enough." "Will you go with me, then," said the nobleman, "and get me back my money?" "To be sure I will," said the doctor; "but my wife Grethel must go with me." The nobleman was pleased to hear this, made them both get into the carriage with him, and away they all rode together. When they arrived at the nobleman's house dinner was already prepared, and he desired the doctor to sit down with him. "My wife Grethel, too," said the doctor. As soon as the first servant brought in the first dish, which was some great delicacy, the doctor nudged his wife, and said-- "Grethel, that is the first," meaning the first dish. The servant overheard his remark, and thought he meant to say he was the first thief, which was actually the case, so he was sore troubled, and said to his comrades-- "The doctor knows everything. Things will certainly fall out ill, for he said I was the first thief." The second servant would not believe what he said, but at last he was obliged, for when he carried the second dish into the room, the doctor remarked to his wife-- "Grethel, that is the second." The second servant was now as much frightened as the first, and was pleased to leave the apartment. The third served no better, for the doctor said-- "Grethel, that is the third." Now the fourth carried in a dish which had a cover on it, and the nobleman desired the doctor to show his skill by guessing what was under the cover. Now it was a crab. The doctor looked at the dish, and then at the cover, and could not at all divine what they contained, nor how to get out of the scrape. At length he said, half to himself and half aloud-- "Alas! poor crab!" When the nobleman heard this, he cried out-- "You have guessed it, and now I am sure you will know where my money is." The servant was greatly troubled at this, and he winked to the doctor to follow him out of the room, and no sooner did he do so than the whole four who had stolen the gold stood before him, and said that they would give it up instantly, and give him a good sum to boot, provided he would not betray them, for if he did their necks would pay for it. The doctor promised, and they conducted him to the place where the gold lay concealed. The doctor was well pleased to see it, and went back to the nobleman, and said-- "My lord, I will now search in my book and discover where the money is." Now the fifth servant had crept into an oven to hear what the doctor said. He sat for some time turning over the leaves of his A, B, C book, looking for the picture of the crowing cock, and as he did not find it readily, he exclaimed-- "I know you are in here, and you must come out." Then the man in the oven, thinking the doctor spoke of him, jumped out in a great fright, saying-- "The man knows everything." Then Doctor All-Wise showed the nobleman where the gold was hidden, but he said nothing as to who stole it. So he received a great reward from all parties, and became a very famous man. THE WHITE MAIDEN. It is now centuries since a young noble of the neighbourhood was hunting in the valleys which lie behind the hills that skirt the Rhine opposite the ancient town of St. Goar. In the heat of the pursuit he followed the game to the foot of the acclivity on which are seated the ruins of Thurnberg, and there it disappeared all at once from his view. It was the noon of a midsummer day, and the sun shone down on him with all its strength. Despairing of being able to find the object of his pursuit, he determined to clamber up the steep hillside, and seek shelter and repose in the shadow of the old castle, or, mayhap, in one of its many crumbling chambers. With much labour he succeeded in reaching the summit, and there, fatigued with his toil, and parched with a burning thirst, he flung himself on the ground beneath one of the huge towers, some of whose remains still rear their heads on high, and stretched out his tired limbs in the full enjoyment of rest. "Now," said he, as he wiped the perspiration from his brow,--"now could I be happy indeed, if some kind being would bring me a beaker of the cool wine, which, they say, is ages old, down there in the cellars of this castle." He had scarce spoken the words when a most beautiful maiden stepped forth from a cleft in the ivy-covered ruin, bearing in one hand a huge silver beaker of an antique form, full to the very brim of foaming wine. In her other hand she held a large bunch of keys of all sizes. She was clad in white from head to foot, her hair was flaxen, her skin was like a lily, and she had such loving eyes that they at once won the heart of the young noble. "Here," said she, handing him the beaker, "thy wish is granted. Drink and be satisfied." His heart leaped within him with joy at her condescension, and he emptied the contents of the goblet at a single draught. All the while she looked at him in such a manner as to intoxicate his very soul, so kindly and confidential were her glances. The wine coursed through his veins like liquid fire, his heart soon burned with love for the maiden, and the fever of his blood was by no means appeased by the furtive looks which ever and anon she cast upon him. She apparently read his state of mind, and when his passion was at its highest pitch, and all restraint seemed put an end to by the potent effects of love and wine, she disappeared in a moment by the way she came. The noble rushed after her in the hope of detaining the fugitive, or, at least, of catching a parting glimpse of her retreating form, but the ivy-encircled cleft, through which she seemed to have flitted, looked as though it had not been disturbed for centuries, and as he tried to force his way to the gloomy cavern below, a crowd of bats and owls and other foul birds of evil omen, aroused from their repose, rose upwards, and, amidst dismal hootings and fearful cries, almost flung him backward with the violence of their flight. He spent the remainder of the afternoon in search of the lost one, but without success. At the coming of night he wended his way homeward, weary, heart-sick, and overwhelmed with an indefinable sensation of sadness. From that day forth he was an altered man--altered in appearance as well as in mind and in manners. Pleasure was a stranger to his soul, and he knew no longer what it was to enjoy peace. Wherever he went, whatever pursuit he was engaged in, whether in the chase, in the hall, in lady's bower, or in chapel, his eye only saw one object--the White Maiden. At the board she stood in imagination always before him, offering to his fevered lips the cool, brimming beaker; and in the long-drawn aisles of the chapel she was ever present, beckoning him from his devotions to partake of the generous beverage which she still bore in her right hand. Every matron or maiden he met seemed by some wondrous process to take her shape, and even the very trees of the forest all looked to his thought like her. Thenceforward he commenced to haunt the ruins in which she had appeared to him, still hoping to see, once again, her for whom he felt he was dying, and living alone in that hope. The sun scorched him, but it was nothing to the fever that burned within him. The rain drenched him, but he cared not for it. Time and change and circumstance seemed all forgotten by him, everything passed by him unheeded. His whole existence was completely swallowed up in one thought--the White Maiden of the ruined castle, and that, alas! was only vexation of spirit. A deadly fever seized him. It was a mortal disease. Still he raved, in his delirium, but of her. One morn a woodman, who occasionally provided him with food, found him a corpse at the entrance of the crevice in the wall whence the maiden had seemed to come, and where she had disappeared. It was long rumoured that he had struggled bravely with death--or rather that he could not die, because the curse was upon him--until the maiden, garbed in white as usual, appeared to him once more. That then he stretched forth his hands--she stooped over him. He raised his head--she kissed his lips--and he died. The White Maiden, tradition says, has not since been seen in the ruins of Thurnberg. THE STURGEON. The Convent of Schwartz-Rheindorf was founded in the year of our Lord 1152 by the Bishop of Cologne, Arnold Graf von Wied, for the reception of noble ladies alone, and was placed by him under the strict rule of St. Benedict. The prelate, who died in the year 1159, lies buried beneath the high altar of the church. Among the many other rights and privileges conferred on the convent by the Bishop was the right of fishing in the river, within certain limits above and below the convent's territorial boundaries. This was a most valuable right for a long period. The certainty of a profitable fishing was always heralded by the appearance of two immense sturgeon. They came at the commencement of each year, harbingers of good luck, and they were ever succeeded by shoals of river fish, in such numbers as to be absolutely inexhaustible until the expiration of the season. Of these sturgeon the one, a huge male, always allowed himself to be taken by the fishermen, but the female was never captured. It was understood by those who knew all about these matters that on her freedom depended the fisher's success. This good fortune lasted for centuries. It was, however, remarked that as the discipline of the convent became more and more relaxed, and grace grew to be less and less among its inmates, the fishing became more and more unprofitable. The sturgeon, it is true, still made their appearance, but they were spent and thin, and altogether unlike those which had been wont of yore to visit the fishing-ground of the sisterhood. The abbess and the nuns, however, either could not or they would not perceive the cause of the falling off in the take, or the change in the appearance of the sturgeon, but the common people who dwelt in the vicinity of the convent, and especially those poor persons to whom the river had been heretofore a source of support, were neither slow in seeing the cause nor in publishing the consequences to the world. Thus stood matters: dissoluteness of life on the one hand, distress on the other; profligacy and poverty, extravagance and starvation, linked inseparably together. It was midwinter. On the bank of the river stood the purveyor of the convent, accompanied by the lady abbess herself and a great number of the nuns. They waited to watch the first haul made by the fishermen on the New Year's morning, according to the custom which had prevailed in the convent for centuries. It was not usual for the river to be open at that time, but this year there was not a piece of ice on its surface. The fishermen put out in their boats, and cast their nets into the current; then, making the circuit of the spot, they returned to the bank and commenced to haul them in. Little difficulty was at first experienced by them in this operation. For several years preceding the supply of fish had scarcely sufficed to defray the expense of catching. It would seem, however, as if fortune were inclined to smile on the sisterhood once more. The nets had not been more than half drawn in when the fishermen began to perceive that they contained something heavier than usual. The lady abbess and the nuns were made acquainted with the circumstance, and they watched, in eager expectancy, the landing of the fish. The nets were at length with much trouble hauled on shore. "Hilloa!" said the principal fisherman, an aged man, to the purveyor of the convent, "hast thou ever seen such monsters before? My soul! but this will glad the hearts of the whole convent, and make many poor folk happy, an it be but the harbinger of a return to the old times." While he spoke two immense sturgeon were landed. The abbess and her train approached the landing-place, and admired the strength and superior size of the fish. "It would be but folly to set one of them free," she partially soliloquised and partially spoke to the purveyor. "The convent has not had such a treat for years past, and we absolutely require some change. I'll warrant me they will eat delightfully." The purveyor, a wily Jewish-looking fellow, who passed for an Italian, at once assented to the observations of his mistress, and added a few remarks of his own in support of them. Not so, however, the old fisherman, who overheard the conversation, having approached the abbess with the purveyor to learn her will and pleasure as to the disposal of the fish. "Nay, nay, master," he interposed, in his rough way, "not so fast, not so fast. My father fished on this river for full fifty years, and my father's father did the same; and fifty years have I drawn net here too, all in the service of the noble ladies of Schwartz-Rheindorf. Never, in that time, knew I other than this done with these fish--the one to be let free, the other to be given away among the poor. I'll do nought else with them." The abbess and the purveyor were but ill-pleased to hear what the old man said. "You must do as I bid you, Herman," said the former. "You must obey my lady, your mistress," echoed the latter. "She is too good and gracious to ye." "Not I," said the old man bluntly,--"not I. For all the broad lands on the Rhine I would not have hand, act, nor part in such a matter. Do as ye list, but I'll be none your servant in the matter." The old man walked away as he said these words, and neither the entreaties of the abbess, the threats of the purveyor, nor the interposition of some of the nuns present could bring him back. Others, however, were soon found among his companions who were less scrupulous; and the two fish were accordingly removed to the convent, and consigned to the care of the cook, to be served up for dinner that day. The dinner-hour arrived--the sisterhood were all seated at table--the servitors, marshalled by the supple purveyor, made their appearance, bearing the expected banquet in large covered dishes. A hasty grace was muttered, and then every eye was turned to the covers. The abbess had ordered the sturgeon to be served up first. "And now, sisters," she said, with a complacent look of benignant condescension, "I hope soon to know how you approve of our dinner. It is my constant study to make you happy, and my efforts are unceasing to afford you every gratification in my power. Let us begin." The covers were removed in a twinkling by the servitors, the carvers clattered their knives and forks impatiently; but what was the surprise of all, when every dish as it was uncovered was found to be empty. The wrath of the abbess rose at the sight, and the zeal of the nuns knew no bounds in seconding her indignation. The cook was hurriedly sent for. He stood before the excited sisterhood an abject, trembling wretch, far more like one who expected to be made a victim of himself, than one who would voluntarily make victims of others. "How is this, villain?" exclaimed the abbess, her face reddening with rage. "How's this, villain?" echoed threescore female voices, some of them not musical. "Ay, how is this, hound?" growled the purveyor. "Do you mock us?" continued the abbess, as the cook stood trembling and silent. "Do you mock us?" echoed the purveyor, with as much dignity as he could impart into his thin, meagre figure. "Speak!" said the abbess in a loud voice, while the cook cast his eyes around as if seeking aid against the excited throng the room contained,--"speak!" Thus urged, the cook proceeded to explain--as far, at least, as he was able. He declared that he had cut up and cooked the sturgeon, according to the directions he had received from the purveyor, and that, when dinner was served up, he had sent them up dressed in the manner that official had directed. The abbess and her nuns were much puzzled how to explain this extraordinary occurrence, and each busied herself in conjectures which, as usual in such cases, never approached the fact. At this juncture the aged fisherman entered the room. "My lady," he said to the abbess, when he learnt what had occurred, "it is the judgment of Heaven. Even now I saw the fish in the river. I knew them well, and I'll swear to them if necessary. They floated away, swimming down the stream, and I am a much mistaken man if ever ye see them any more." The pleasurable anticipations of the day that the sisters had entertained were completely annihilated; but it would have been well for them if the consequences of their avarice and gluttony had ended with that hour. Never more did the sturgeon make their appearance, and the part of the stream which pertained to the convent thenceforth ceased to produce fish of any kind whatsoever. People say that the Reformation had the effect of wooing the finny tribe back to their old haunts. At all events, whatever may have been the cause, it is the fact that there is not at present a less plentiful supply in this spot than there is in any other part of that rich river. SAINT ANDREW'S NIGHT. It is commonly believed in Germany that on St. Andrew's night, St. Thomas' night, and Christmas and New Year's nights, a girl has the power of inviting and seeing her future lover. A table is to be laid for two persons, taking care, however, that there are no forks upon it. Whatever the lover leaves behind him must be carefully preserved, for he then returns to her who has it, and loves her passionately. The article must, however, be kept carefully concealed from his sight, for he would otherwise remember the torture of superhuman power exercised over him which he that night endured, become conscious of the charms employed, and this would lead to fatal consequences. A fair maiden in Austria once sought at midnight, after performing the necessary ceremonies, to obtain a sight of her lover, whereupon a shoemaker appeared having a dagger in his hand, which he threw at her and then disappeared. She picked up the dagger which he had thrown at her and concealed it in a trunk. Not long afterwards the shoemaker visited, courted, and married her. Some years after her marriage she chanced to go one Sunday about the hour of vespers to the trunk in search of something that she required for her work the next day. As she opened the trunk her husband came to her, and would insist on looking into it. She kept him off, until at last he pushed her away, and there saw his long-lost dagger. He immediately seized it, and demanded how she obtained it, because he had lost it at a very particular time. In her fear and alarm she had not the power to invent any excuse, so declared the truth, that it was the same dagger he had left behind him the night when she had obliged him to appear to her. Her husband hereupon grew enraged, and said, with a terrible voice-- "'Twas you, then, that caused me that night of dreadful misery?" With that he thrust the dagger into her heart. Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty, _at the Edinburgh University Press_. Transcriber's Note: Hyphenation has been made consistent. Archaic and variable spelling is preserved as printed. The advertising material has been moved to follow the title page. The last two stories were omitted from the Table of Contents in the original. These have been added. 
30233	----	FOLK-LORE IN BORNEO A SKETCH BY WILLIAM HENRY FURNESS 3D, M.D., F.R.G.S. MEMBRE DE LA SOCIÉTÉ DE GÉOGRAPHIE À PARIS MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN ORIENTAL SOCIETY [_PRIVATELY PRINTED_] WALLINGFORD DELAWARE COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA 1899 [Illustration: A KAYAN CHIEF.] A SKETCH OF THE FOLK-LORE OF BORNEO. In this short monograph I do not pretend to give anything more than a Sketch of the Folk-lore to be found among the Borneans. The island is large, and the people, scattered and isolated by constant inter-tribal warfare, differ one tribe from another, in language, customs and appearance almost more than do Germans, French, or English; to say that any tradition or custom is common to all the tribes, or even to all of one tribe, of Borneans, would be far too sweeping. A still greater drawback to any universality, in legend or custom, is that there is no written language, not even so much as picture-drawings on rocks to give us a clue to ancient myths or traditions. The natives of Borneo are in a certain sense savages, but yet they are savages of a high order, possessed of a civilization far above what is usually implied by the term; they live together in what almost might be called coöperative communities, they practise the art of weaving, they forge rough implements of iron, they cultivate rice and esculent plants, and in all their work, such as house-building, boat-building, manufacture of cloth and weapons of warfare, they show an ambitious desire, and a skilful ability, to ornament their work and add, to its usefulness, pleasure to the eye. One of their gravest faults, however, is their embarrassing tenacity to the _fad_ of head-hunting, and a strict adherence to the principle of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. This keeps the different households, even of the same tribe, at constant war and makes inevitable an uncomfortable yet pleasing interchange of heads during the tedious months of the rainy season, when time hangs heavy on the warriors' hands, and disused swords might get rusty. So little is known of the social and anthropological position of these people, to others than those who make Malaysia and the South Sea islands their study, that it may not be out of place to give a short description of the people themselves before entering on the subject of their Folk-lore. The remote origin of the Borneans, as well as of the greater part of all of the inhabitants of the Polynesian islands, is an ethnological problem; they are not Malay, neither are they Mongolian nor Negrito; they bear resemblances here and there to all of these races, but not marked enough to claim any one as the parent stock. Furthermore, there is some evidence in favor of the theory that they are the result of successive migrations of tribes from northern India and from Anam. [Illustration: A KAYAN LONG-HOUSE.] The inland tribes of Borneo, by which I include all the natives except the Malays settled along the coast, are without any definite forms of religious worship; they make idols of wood, but I have never seen any offering made to them, nor do they regard them apparently as anything more than as scarecrows to frighten off evil spirits. They are the children of Dame Nature and as such have inherited their mother's disregard for life, and this feature of their temperament has kept them in a constant turmoil of warfare, which in turn compels them for mutual protection to band together in communities of several families and build for themselves a common house wherein to live, ever ready to turn out in force and resist the attacks of hostile tribes. In not a few instances these houses are as much as a quarter of a mile in length and shelter as many as four hundred people. Every household is presided over by a head-man known as the elder, or _Orang Tuah_, and he in turn is governed in a measure by the chief of the tribe, known as the _Penghulu_. The government of the household seems to be conducted in the quietest manner; I have lived on several occasions in these houses for three or four weeks at a time, and have never seen anything that could be called a violent quarrel between two members of the household, nor have I seen the Orang Tuah or the Penghulu submit any of the members to what might be considered harsh treatment. I have also been with them when they were out on the warpath, to use a North-American Indian term, when every nerve was at high tension on the look-out for enemies and every thought was turned to slaughter, but I have never seen the counsel of the Chief disregarded. Of course, some Chiefs are weak and fail to give commands because they are afraid to act, but a command once given is carried out, or at least not disregarded, and I could never detect any means which were taken to enforce an authority thus implicitly obeyed. As a people, they are not active-minded nor industrious, but yield to the influence of climate, and, following the example offered to them by the vast, dense jungle on every side, accept life as easily as it comes. They are no exception to the rule that all untutored minds, living in constant communion with any awful aspect of Nature, be it gigantic mountains, a waste of waters, or an illimitable jungle, are saturated with superstitions; every pool, every tree, every rock is the home of an evil spirit, and all mysterious noises in the forest are ghostly whisperings. Everywhere are signs and omens to warn man of danger or direct his course; theirs is a life where no schooling is so vital as the ability to read aright the "sermons in stones, books in the running brooks." For them the world is the patch of jungle covering the few square miles that they know, and bounded by the hills in the distance; seldom do they get an extended view of the surrounding country; trees hem them in on all sides and the mountains are so difficult of ascent, and furthermore so infested with demons or "antu," that the summits can be gained only at the risk of body, and, still worse, of soul. Many natives of the interior live and die with never a glimpse of the sea, and the tales which the Malay and Chinese traders tell of lands beyond the horizon where white men live, are as incomprehensible to them as are to us the conjectural accounts which astronomers give of the canals on the planet Mars. Naturally enough, of course, creation began on the island of Borneo, or Kalamantan, as they call it, and the first people were Borneans and spoke the language of the tribe that tells the story. Every tribe has a different account of creation, and claims that its people sprang from the first created mortals. The following account is the story of Genesis according to the Kayans of Northwestern Borneo:-- In the old, old days, when there was nothing but water and sky, there fell from the heavens an enormous rock; that part of it which protruded from the water was hard, slippery, and quite bare, with no soil nor plants upon it of any kind. After a long time, however, the rains produced slime upon the rock, and little worms, called _halang_, were bred in this slime, and they bored into the rock and left fine sand outside of their burrows; this sand eventually became soil and covered the rock. Again years passed and the rock remained barren of all other life until suddenly there dropped from the Sun a huge wooden handle of a _Parang_ (or sword) known as _Haup Malat_. This parang-handle sank deep into the rock and taking root in the soil it sprouted and grew into a great tree, named _Batang Utar Tatei_, whose branches stretched out over the new land in every direction. When this tree was fully grown, there dropped from the Moon a long rope-like vine known as the _Jikwan Tali_. This vine quickly clung to the tree and took root in the rock. Now the vine, Jikwan Tali, from the Moon became the husband of the tree, Batang Utar Tatei, from the Sun, and Batang Utar Tatei gave birth to twins, a male and a female, not of the nature of a tree, but more or less like human beings. The male child was called _Klobeh Angei_, and the female was called _Klubangei_. These two children married and then gave birth to two more children, who were named _Pengok N'gai_, and _Katirah Murai_. Katirah Murai was married to old man _Ajai Avai_, who comes without pedigree into the narration. From Katirah Murai and Ajai Avai are descended many of the chiefs who were founders of the various tribes inhabiting the land of Kalamantan; their names are Sejau Laho, Oding Lahang, from whom the Kayans spring, Tabalan, Pliban, and, finally, Tokong, the father of head-hunting. As time went on, that which formerly had been merely slime on the rock, became moss, and little by little small plants were produced. The twigs and leaf-like appendages of the tree, evidently the female principle in nature, as they fell to the ground, became birds, beasts, and fishes. (Let me mention here that the endowment of leaves with life and locomotion is no more than natural; while in the jungle I have repeatedly seen what, in every respect, appeared to be a leaf fall to the ground and then miraculously put out legs and walk away; it was one of those remarkable insects of the _Mantis_ family, or "walking leaves.") The inhabitants of the rock had no need of fire in those days, for the sun beat down on them strongly, and there was no night; it was not until many, many years had elapsed that an old man named _Laki Oi_ invented a method of obtaining fire by means of friction produced by pulling a strip of rattan rapidly back and forth beneath a piece of dry wood. This process of making fire he called _Musa_, and it is still the only method used in obtaining fire for ceremonials, such as the naming of a child, or when communicating with the omen-birds. Laki Oi also taught them the use of the fire-drill, which he called the _Nalika_. On the main trunk of Batang Utar Tatei was a large excrescence, from which exuded a resinous gum called _Lutong_, which, as it dropped to the ground beneath, was immediately transformed into chickens and swine; and it is because they were thus formed out of the very heart and substance of the tree that they are always used in the reading of auguries. From this same cause, there was innate in them an insight into the innermost workings of Nature and a knowledge of the future. The first beings with any resemblance to man had neither legs, nor breasts, and consisted merely of a head, chest, arms, and a fragment of a body which hung down in shreds and rags, having the appearance of twisted snakes. When they moved they dragged themselves along the ground by their arms. (From this description and from native carvings, I am inclined to believe that a large cuttle-fish or octopus must have suggested this idea to the original narrator of this tradition.) Little by little, the body was brought into more compact form, and, in a later generation, legs appeared, but it was a long time before they became accustomed to legs and able to use them in moving about. A survival of this awkwardness, so say the Kayans, is still noticeable in the way in which children crawl about the floor, and in their clumsy walk when first they learn to stand upright. The heads of these first people were, furthermore, much larger than the heads of the present generation, and, since it was the first part formed, it is the oldest part of the body, and on this account the most important member, and valued accordingly whether dead or alive. This account is, as far as I know, purely Bornean, inasmuch as had there been any admixture from a foreign source (as we shall see further on was probably the case with the Dyaks) there would have been possibly some reference to a Supreme Creator rather than to this union of a vine and a tree as the original source of life. The Kayans from whom I obtained this account have had exceedingly little communication with the outside world, except through occasional Malay or Chinese traders. There is just a possibility that the idea of the wooden sword-handle being the ultimate _fons et origo_ of all life comes from the fact that the word for chief--"penghulu"--is derived from "hulu," meaning a sword-handle, and the prefix "peng" denoting agency, so that the whole word means literally "the master of the sword," and thus the ruler or chief. From association of ideas, the sword-handle, without which the blade is ineffective and useless, may have been suggested to them as the chief of all beings. The sudden appearance of Ajai Avai on the scene as the husband of Katirah Murai, is not at all at variance with the accounts from many other sources of the populating of the world. In Laki Oi, we recognize the Kayan "Prometheus," whose memory is revered by sanctifying the fire procured after his manner of teaching, and from this tradition it is probable that the procuring of fire by means of the "fire-saw" is the aboriginal method. Should all of the fires in a Kayan house become extinguished and no spark be left, new fires may be started by this method, and by this method alone; even the fire-drill, and flint and steel, which are not unknown to them, are tabooed. The Dayaks, who are closely akin in every respect to the Malays, and no doubt adopted the traditions which were rife among the Malays both before and after the latter became converted to Mohammedanism, give an account of the creation of the world differing in every particular from the foregoing Kayan story. One of the Dayak versions of the creation which I heard from the people of that tribe, living in the Baram district of Sarawak, is that in the beginning there were two large birds,--the _Burong Iri_ and the _Burong Ringgong_ (Burong meaning _bird_), who made all the rivers, the great sea, the earth, and the sky. The first things to have life were plants and trees. When trees were first made, the winds blew them down, and again and again the Iri and the Ringgong had to set them up, until in their great wisdom they realized the necessity of props and stays, so they fashioned the strong vines and creepers. Then these two creators saw what pleasant places the boughs and branches of these trees would make for other beings; whereupon they created birds and all flying animals, like bats and flying squirrels. Then for a long while they consulted together, and, finally, decided that they would make a man who should walk about on the earth; at first, they made him of clay, but when he was dried he could neither speak nor move, which provoked them, and they ran at him angrily; so frightened was he that he fell backward and broke all to pieces. The next man that they made was of hard wood, but he, also, was utterly stupid, and absolutely good for nothing. Then the two birds searched carefully for a good material, and eventually selected the wood of a tree known as the _Kumpong_, which has a strong fibre and exudes a quantity of deep red sap, whenever it is cut. Out of this tree they fashioned a man and a woman, and were so well pleased with this achievement that they rested for a long while and admired their handiwork. Then they decided to continue creating more men; they returned to the Kumpong tree, but they had entirely forgotten their original pattern, and how they had executed it, and they were therefore able to make only very inferior creatures, which became the ancestors of the _Maias_ (the Orang Utan) and monkeys. The man and the woman were very helpless and hardly knew how to obtain the simplest necessities of life, so the Iri and the Ringgong devised the _Ubi_--a wild sweetpotato--the wild Tapioca, the Kaladi, or, as we know it, the Kaladium, and other edible roots, whereof the man and woman soon learned to eat; fire, however, was unknown to these first people and they had to eat all of their food raw. Contemporaneously with the Maias and the monkeys many other animals came into being, among them the dog. For a long time all living things were friendly to one another and lived in the land of Kaburau, which lies near a branch of the great Kapuas river, and is, even to this day, considered by the Dayaks as the garden-spot of the world. The dog, however, because he cleaned himself with his tongue, soon came to be despised by all other animals, and although a bully he was yet subservient to man. Then the deer and many of the other animals taunted the dog, saying that he was so mean-spirited and servile that although man thrashed him, nevertheless he fawned upon him and followed after him; which they would never do, so they went off to the jungle to live. But the dog comforted himself by saying that "When the man is about to strike me I crouch down and sometimes this keeps his hand off; furthermore, I cannot live on the poor food that these others must eat." Hence, the dog follows and obeys man. One day when the man and the dog were in the jungle together, and got drenched by rain, the man noticed that the dog warmed himself by rubbing against a huge creeper, called the _Aka Rarah_, whereupon the man took a stick and rubbed it rapidly against the Aka Rarah, and to his surprise obtained fire. This was the origin of the _Sukan_, or fire drill, and ever after the man had fire in his house. Not long after, in accidentally dropping an Ubi near the fire, he found that it became much more pleasant to the taste; by this accident cooking was discovered. [Illustration: MAKING FIRE WITH A FIRE-DRILL.] In the course of time, the dog and other animals began to multiply, and man imitated their example; the woman brought forth a male child, whose name was _Machan Buntu_. After many years, the woman gave birth to a female child who, when she was well grown, married her brother Machan Buntu and gave birth to seventy children at one time. These children left their home and scattered all over the world. Some became wood sprites and mountain gnomes, living in the trees, in the rivers, and under ground. The tradition of the manufacture of man out of wood instead of clay is thoroughly in keeping with an origin purely Dayak. The Dayaks never have been proficient in pottery, and to this day they carve their bowls and dishes out of hard wood, otherwise it seems to me that clay would have suggested itself to them as the most suitable substance whereof to have made man. Another item looks as if part of the story were an interpolation, namely, where it is related that the two birds were so pleased with their work after making man, that they rested; this looks like a suggestion due to the first chapter of Genesis. Again, in that land of Kaburau, where all animals lived in perfect harmony, and which was the garden of the world, we may recognize the garden of Eden. Owing to the lack of writing, as I said before, it is impossible to say how old this tradition is, or to what extent it is known to Dayaks in other parts of the country; I have heard that very much the same story is told by the natives in the Rejang district several hundred miles south of the Baram; where the chiefest difference in the accounts is that earlier and higher than the birds there was a Supreme Being called _Rajah Gantalla_, who after creating the two birds, committed the rest of the work to them. I think in the _-allah_ of this name (I speak under correction) we may discern a strong indication of Mohammedan influence. The first man, instead of being carved entirely of Kumpong wood, was made, in this latter account, of clay and then filled with the sap of the Kumpong tree. A tradition (I do not say "legend," for this implies writing) which all the Kayans seem to know and to take pleasure in relating, is connected with the origin of their rite of head-hunting, for, although every possible means is employed by the European rulers of the island to stop this custom, it is still, nevertheless the one ruling passion of the people. Nay, it is part of their Religion; no house is blest which is not sanctified by a row of human skulls, and no man can hope to attain to the happy region of Apo Leggan unless he, or some near relative of his, has added a head to the household collection. Let me correct, however, with regard to head-hunting, what is probably the prevalent idea that the heads are hung up in the houses bleeding and raw, just as they are severed from the body. This is quite wrong; whether or not they would tolerate in their homes such horrid objects I cannot say, but certain it is that the heads are first subjected to fire and smoke until the flesh has dropped away, and what is then hung up is merely a skull; unpleasant enough, but not so bad as is generally supposed. [Illustration: A KAYAN YOUTH.] The tradition is that the great chief Tokong, when out on a war expedition, was told by Kop, the frog, that he should always take, instead of only the hair, the whole head of his enemies; Tokong was angry, at first, at the frog, but his followers at length persuaded him to let them try the experiment on their next attack. After taking the whole heads, the war party retreated quickly to the river down which they had come, and came to the spot where they had left their boats and were surprised to find that everything was exactly as they had left it. When they embarked, lo, and behold! the current of the stream was, for their sakes, reversed and like a flash they were carried up-stream and reached their home in a miraculously short time. During the fifteen days that they had been absent the crop of rice had not only sprouted, but had grown, had ripened, and was almost ready to be harvested; the members of their family who had been sick when they left, were now all well, the lame could walk and the blind see. The wise men waggled their heads, and one and all declared (and who can blame them?) that ever after they would stick to the custom that Kop had taught them. It is not unfair to infer from this tradition that they have a crude, germinal sense of the barbarity of their actions, in so far as they think it necessary to invent an excuse to palliate that savage love of trophy-hunting which seems inborn in mankind. The rite of head-hunting is by no means confined to Borneo; the Formosans, and also many of our new fellow-citizens, among the tribes of the Philippines, are enthusiastic head-hunters, and our own cherished Indians within our own borders have not yet given up their love for a scalp; it would be perilous to assert that it is not a United States custom. The idea that the taking of a head is necessary in order to obtain entrance to the pleasant regions of the land of departed spirits, is a doctrine taught by the chiefs in order to make men brave in battle, and do all in their power to avoid the punishment which awaits the coward. The Kayan Hades is believed to be under ground, and like the Hades of the ancient Greeks there is a guide to the entrance who corresponds to a certain extent to Charon. But their river Styx is not a stream, but a deep and wide ditch, through which flow ooze and slime swarming with worms and maggots; the souls of the departed must cross over this ditch not by a ferry, but by means of a fallen tree-trunk, guarded by the great demon _Maligang_, who challenges all comers, and if they have no record of bravery, he shakes the tree-trunk until they fall into the ditch below and are eternally tortured by the devouring worm that dieth not. Over the land of spirits presides the great demon _Laki Tenangan_, who assigns the souls to their proper place, and sees that they get their deserts, whether good or bad. In this shadowy world, APO LEGGAN is one of the principal regions, and is the abode of the spirits of those who die from sickness or from old age. The souls in _Apo Leggan_ have much the same lot as they had in this world; the poor remain poor, and the rich maintain their rich estate, and even the soul that has been harassed in life in the upper air must none the less expect to find misfortune and perplexity in the world to come. In the absence of any definite code of morals, this is, perhaps, the most suitable belief that a savage tribe could have; it stimulates them to a constant endeavor to better their condition in this life and make their mark in some way, so that the life to come, in which they have a firm belief, may not be a continuation of the hardships they have endured here. Their methods of gaining wealth may not conform to our ideas of propriety, but then all is fair in love and war, and as they have very little idea of love, their motto has to be "all is fair in war;" life in the jungle is little else than a ceaseless struggle for the survival of the fittest. LONG JULAN, a second division, is where live the souls of those who have died a violent or sudden death, either on the battlefield, or in their own clearings by the accidental fall of a tree; and there also dwell the young mothers who have died in childbirth; they become the wives of young warriors who likewise have been cut off in the bloom of youth and are therefore proper mates for unfortunate little mothers. Such beliefs naturally tend to the taking of life; a young man, for instance, who loses his wife in childbirth wishes to meet her again in the next world, and his ambition to go on the warpath is doubly strong. Is he fortunate enough to take a head, he gains high rank among warriors; should he be killed, he has the comfortable assurance that he will again meet his wife in _Long Julan_. The souls in _Long Julan_ have an easy time and are always fairly well off, whatever their circumstances were in this life. TAN TEKKAN, a third division, is the place to which Laki Tenangan consigns suicides; wretched and woe begone in appearance, their souls wander about in the jungle and in the clearings trying to pick up a living by eating what roots and fruits they can find. This joyless Hereafter is calculated to make those who contemplate suicide, rather perform some self-sacrificing act of bravery whereby they will not only benefit those whom they leave behind, but also gain for themselves a more pleasant position in the world to come; therefore suicide is not at all common. TENYU LALU, a fourth region, is assigned to the spirits of still-born children. These little souls are said to be exceedingly brave and need no other weapon wherewith to defend themselves than a stick of wood; they have never felt pain nor experienced danger in this world, and are therefore totally ignorant of such emotions. Whether or not they increase in size in _Tenyu Lalu_ is not known, but it is generally supposed that they live together in a little world of their own. Finally, LING YANG is the abode of those who have died by drowning; it lies below the beds of rivers, and here the spirits soon become exceedingly rich. All the goods lost in rivers by the capsizing of boats in the rapids, or when they run foul of a snag in deep water, go into the coffers of the dwellers in _Ling Yang_. Such are the main divisions of the _Dali Matei_, or country of the dead; there are, however, many sacred hills, rivers, and lakes wherein dwell certain powerful demons who govern the spirits. In this nether world, some say that there are trees and plants and animals much the same as in this; this point, however, seemed open to considerable doubt in the minds of some whom I questioned, while others had so definite an idea of it that they drew maps to show the positions of the different regions. They seemed to regard it as a large river, along whose tributaries dwelt the various classes of departed spirits. The Dayongs, or medicine men, are the only ones who are supposed really to know; these all maintain that, while acquiring their power over sickness, they had visited the land of spirits. In the mythology of all countries there is sure to be a hero who has made the descent to Hades and returned to tell the tale, and the Kayans are no exceptions; they have their Orpheus, only his name is Gamong. Gamong, during an attack of fever, realized that he was at the point of death, but was loath to resign his spirit, so he called his friends around him and begged them to dress him up, after death, in all his war-clothes, and not to bury him for three days, but to place him in a sitting posture with his sword and spear in his hands. He comforted them by saying that he had an inner assurance that he had a terrible encounter before him, but that he would actually return to this world in about three days. Shortly after this, his breath ceased and his friends performed all the rites of burial, just as he had requested. For three days his body remained rigid; at the end of that time, he came back to life and told his open-eyed friends his adventures as follows: "When my spirit left you, I went directly down the path which leads to the great tree-trunk, _Bintang Sikopa_, where Maligang stands; according to his wont, he hailed me and told me to halt, which I would not do. Then Maligang, whose arm is enormous, many times bigger than his body, began to shake the tree, calling out 'who are you?' I replied 'I am Gamong, a brave warrior, and you must not shake the tree while I cross.' Maligang then said, consulting the pegs with which he records the deeds of men, 'What proof have I that you have been brave?' At this I was furious, I drew my parang, uplifted my spear and ran amok, rushing into Maligang's house, smashing everything and overturning the great jars of rice-toddy, of which there is an abundance, but whereof no one ever drinks. Maligang was frightened and bolted from the house, shouting as he fled, 'I have not got you now, but in seven years' time you must return.' Finding that Maligang had fled, and that there were other obstacles to prevent me from going on, I returned to this world and its trials." The story goes that Gamong lived seven years after this, and then succumbed body and soul to the great Maligang; and as there is no record of his bravery, he was probably shaken off of the tree-trunk and disappeared in the deep pit seething with maggots. All this veracious history I got by word of mouth from a Kayan of the Tinjar valley. Almost every medicine man has been down among the spirits of the dead, and in proof of his assertions, a curiously shaped stone, or a knot of wood, is displayed, which has been given by the spirits and is endowed with all sorts of marvellous properties. I have in my possession a Dayong's whole outfit of charms which I bought from his relatives after his death; they were afraid to touch it, and for another Dayong to use it is taboo of the worst kind. Such charms are usually buried with the practitioner, but this old fellow evidently did not have a very large practice, and, at his death, he was somewhat neglected. One of the charms is a stone in which an active imagination might trace a resemblance to the hand or foot of an animal; the sorrowing relatives told me, with awe and bated breath, that it was given to their uncle by a spirit on the top of a mountain, and that it was the foot of a dragon, one of the most powerful resources of the Dayong pharmacopoeia. [Illustration: KAYAN WOMEN.] Companions to the stories of visits to the regions below the earth are stories of visits to the world above the skies, to which adventurous heroes climb either by vines or ropes, which dangle suddenly in front of them, or by means of lofty trees. "Jack and the Bean Stalk" is a parallel story in our own folklore. Sir Spencer St. John[1] gives a Dayak account of the introduction of rice among the Orang Iban, as they call themselves, which states that "when mankind had nothing to eat but fruit and a species of fungus which grows round the roots of trees, a party of Ibans, among whom was a man named _Si Jura_ (whose descendants live to this day in the village of Simpok) went forth to sea. They sailed on for a long time until they came to a place where they heard the distant roar of a large whirlpool, and, to their amazement, saw before them a huge fruit tree rooted in the sky and thence hanging down, with its branches touching the waves. At the request of his companions, Si Jura climbed among its boughs to collect the fruit, which was in abundance; when he got among the boughs, he was tempted to ascend the trunk and find how the tree grew in that position. On looking down he saw his companions making off with the boat loaded with fruit; there was nothing for him to do but go on climbing. At length he reached the roots of the tree and found himself in the country of the Pleiades [which the Dayaks call 'the seven chained-stars']; when he stood upon the ground he met a man-like being, whose name was Si Kira, and he went with him to his house. For food Si Kira offered to him a mess of soft white grains, and told him to eat. 'What, eat those little maggots?' said Si Jura. 'They are not maggots, that is boiled rice,' replied Si Kira, and he forthwith instructed him in the art of planting, weeding, reaping, husking, and boiling rice. "While Si Kira's wife was out, getting some water, Si Jura peeped into one of the tall jars that were standing near by, and looking straight through the bottom of it, he could see his father's house and all his brothers and sisters sitting around talking. His spirits were much depressed at the remembrance of the home that perhaps he should never see again, and instead of eating he wept. Si Kira at once saw what was the matter, and assured him that he would arrange everything satisfactorily for him; then Si Jura fell to and ate a hearty meal, and afterwards he was given three kinds of rice, and Si Kira further instructed him how to fell the jungle, burn it, then take the omens from the birds before planting, and when he harvested to hold a feast. By means of a long rope Si Jura was lowered down to the earth again, close to his father's house. From his visit to the Pleiades the Dayaks learned all that they know about farming, and, what is more, to this day the Pleiades themselves tell them when to begin farming, for, according to their position in the sky in the morning and evening, they cut down the jungle, burn, plant, and reap." I think there can be no doubt that Si Kira bestowed a great blessing on the Dayaks when he gave them rice; but I am very sure that he saddled them with a dire affliction when he introduced to them the omen-birds; more procrastination, failure of expeditions, and exasperation of soul can be laid to the score of these birds than to anything else on earth. There is hardly an undertaking, however slight, that can be begun without first consulting these wretched birds. Yet it is hardly to be wondered at, that all tribes should hold the birds to be little prophets of the jungle, dashing across man's path, at critical moments, to bless or to ban. In the deep jungle, which at high noon is as silent as "sunless retreats of the ocean," gay-plumaged birds are not sitting on every bough singing plaintive, melodious notes; such lovely pictures exist solely in the mind of the poet or of him who has never visited the tropics. In the thick tangle of leaves and branches overhead, the larger birds are seen with difficulty, even after considerable practice, and the smaller birds appear as but a flash of light, as they dart through the interlacing palms and vines; the apparition, with its sudden gleam and instant disappearance, starts the impulse to make a wish, as when we see a star shoot across the heavens. This same natural and almost irresistible impulse, which we have all experienced, I suggest as one of the explanations of the tendency of the Bornean mind to accept the birds as the intelligent forerunners of good or ill. These unsophisticated natives wander forth with some wish in their hearts, and should a bird of the right species (for not all birds are omen-birds) cross their path, the fulfilment of their wishes is established beyond a doubt by its mere appearance, and it is to be feared (for they are mortal) that if they do not want to see the bird--well, there are none so blind as those who won't see. When it comes to taking omens for such an important event as the planting of rice, or for going on the warpath, then the ceremony extends over ten days or two weeks, and the opinion of the small barking deer also must be consulted; furthermore, the whole household is under the ban of a taboo, or _permantang_, as they call it, and the people must all stay indoors while the three men who are appointed as searchers are abroad on their omen-seeking errand. So firm is their trust in the wisdom of the birds that even if they have worked for months at a clearing they will abandon it and never plant it, if the omens at the time of sowing be unfavorable. Certain birds must be seen on the right hand to be favorable, while others are most propitious when they soar overhead, or give a shrill cry on the left; on more than one occasion, when traveling in native canoes, a bird which ought to have appeared on the right has been seen on the left, and, to my utter bewilderment, without a word the boat has been swung round in the stream so as to bring to the right what was on the left, thus slyly fabricating a bad omen into a good one, and for some distance we have gone in the opposite direction, but now with highly favorable omens. When they conclude that the bird has forgotten his warning or lost sight of us, the boat has been again turned, fate has been deceived, and we journey on as before. Once our whole party of eight or ten boats had to pull up at the bank and walk through the jungle for a quarter of a mile or so to make a bothersome white-headed hawk think that he had mistaken the object of our expedition. When a favorable bird has been seen, a fire of chips is at once built on the bank of the river, thereby letting the bird know that his kind attention has been appreciated, Fire is always the go-between of man and the birds, or any of the spirits; it forms an important part in the ceremonies of consecration and absolution, and by means of fire a man may break through a taboo, or _permantang_. Should a man have a fruit-tree, for instance, which he wishes to protect, he places about it several cleft sticks with stones thrust in the clefts, and the stones are told to guard the tree and afflict with dire diseases any pilferer of the fruit. Now, should a friend of the owner see this sign of _permantang_ and yet wish some of the fruit, let him but build a fire and commission the fire to tell the stones that he is a friend of the owner, and that it is all right if he takes the fruit; then, when the fire is burnt out, the fruit may be taken with impunity. In the ceremony of naming a child, the sacrificial pig is touched with a fire brand before it is harangued by the Dayong, or medicine man; and to determine whether or not the chosen name be propitious, the strip of rattan which has been used on the fire-saw to obtain the sacred fire, is bent into a loop until its ends just meet; it is then set on fire in the middle and allowed to burn through. If the two pieces thus made are of uneven length the name is good; if they are both the same length another name must be selected. The ashes from this burning are made into a paste and smeared on the child's forehead just before it is deluged with a bowl of cold water, and the name is made public for the first time. It is strange what a similarity exists in different races relative to this ceremony of giving a name. Why water should be used to confirm the rite, they cannot themselves explain, except by saying that it is a custom handed down to them from their grandfathers and their great-great-grandfathers. It can hardly have suggested itself to the minds of the Borneans as an element of purification and cleansing; to their mind water does not possess these properties. Water is good to drink when you are thirsty, and refreshing to bathe in when you are hot, that is all; dirt has no horrors to the Bornean mind, and after a plunge in the river has refreshed the body, the Kayan, Dayak, Kenyah, Sibop, or whatever the tribe, will put on the same dirty waist-cloth or cotton jacket that has never known soap, and has seldom if ever been nearer the water than when on the back of its owner. Perhaps it is that water is symbolic of life and motion; the river is always moving, it murmurs and talks to itself, a draft of its coolness and a plunge into its embrace adds new life to man; why should it not be the giver of life? In almost all the native languages of Borneo the word for water and river is the same; even when water is brought up into the house it is still the river, and when they drink, they drink the river; when they boil their rice they boil in the river, and when they name their children they pour the river over them. Many subtribes or households take their name from the river on which they live, as, for instance, the Long Patas who live, or used to live, at the mouth of the Pata river (Long meaning junction of one river with another), the Long Kiputs, the Long Lamas, and many others that might be named, including the whole tribe of the Kayans, who take their name from the great Kayan river which empties into the sea on the East coast. If a river that is new to them be visited, the spirits of that stream must be always propitiated lest they resent the intrusion and drown the visitor. It is the custom among the Bukits, one of the most primitive tribes, for the youths, when they reach the bank of a new river, to divest themselves of every article of clothing, save a chaplet of leaves, which they twist from the vines near at hand; then crouching at the edge of the water, they toss some personal ornament, such as a brass ear-ring or a bright bead, far out into mid-stream, and at the same instant scoop up a handful of the water; gazing earnestly into the few drops which they hold in their palm, they invoke the spirits of the river to protect them, and implore permission to enter the new territory. Not until this rite is completed would they dare to bathe in the stream. [Illustration: A SCENE ON THE DAPOI RIVER.] To revert to the subject of names; from all that I have read, and from personal observation, it seems that all Borneans recognize the sanctity of names; of this we may find traces among all the primitive people of the earth. Before the formal ceremony of naming a child, for instance, has been performed, the child has no recognized place in the community, and a mother in enumerating her children would never think of mentioning one that had died before it was named, even though it had lived a year. Before the ceremony, the intended name is known to no one except the parents, and, for them to mention it, is strictly _permantang_ until the river water has been poured on the child's head. A Kayan will never tell you his name, but when asked he invariably turns to some one sitting near him and asks him to pronounce the name which to the owner is ineffable. For a man to mention the name of his dead father or mother is a reckless flying in the face of providence. After a serious illness the name should be changed and never uttered again, lest the evil spirits revisit their victim; under a new name they will be likely to pass him by. On one occasion, recognizing a man that I had seen on a former visit, but, at the moment forgetting his name, I enquired what it was; the name, however, struck me as entirely unfamiliar. He afterward acknowledged that he had been very sick since I last saw him and now bore a new name; only the assurance that the spirits could not harm him through a white man induced him at last to whisper to me his former name. This change of name to deceive the fates extends even to inanimate objects, and to animals which are to be caught or trapped. When hunting for camphor, the name of the object of their search must be never mentioned; it is always spoken of as "the thing that smells." Even all the instruments, which they use in collecting the valuable drug, have fanciful names, while the searchers talk in a language invented solely for those who collect camphor. Unless they conform to all these requirements, the camphor crystals, which in this particular variety are found only in the crevices of the wood, will elude them and their search be fruitless. When the people go _Tuba fishing_, which consists of poisoning the stream with the juice of the Tuba root, and thus stupefying the fish and making them rise to the surface, where they can be easily caught in nets or speared, they never say that they are going after fish, but after the leaves which float down stream. These and many other customs relative to the naming of things are all founded on the same idea of the potency and mysticism inherent in a name, which may be found in the legends of the old Egyptians, wherein the power of the great king and god _Ra_ depended on the fact that no one knew his real name, until Isis by stratagem got it from him; and forthwith his power left him. It was this same idea that prevented the Hebrew from ever speaking the name of the Most High; it is probably the same thought which prompts the Japanese to change a person's name after death lest by mentioning the one known during life the spirit of the dead should be recalled from the other world. The downfall of the god _Ra_ brings to mind another superstition of which I have noticed a remnant among the Borneans also, the power of working charms with the saliva. When the great god Ra became so old that he no longer had control of his lower jaw, Isis collected some of his saliva which dropped upon the ground below his throne, and mixing it with clay, made a snake of it. (I quote from the "Turin Papyrus," of which Mr. EDWARD CLODD gives a translation in his recent and valuable little book called "Tom Tit Tot.") This snake Isis left in Ra's path; as he passed by, it bit him, and to relieve him of his agony Isis persuaded him that the only thing to be done was to tell her his true name that she might drive out the pain from his bones. This he finally did, and with disastrous results. I instance this to show the antiquity of the superstition that the saliva is potent as an ingredient of charms; the Kayans illustrate this, in the manner whereby they elude an evil spirit which may have been following them on a journey on the river. They build a small archway of boughs on the bank just before they arrive at their destination. Underneath this arch, they build a fire and, in single file, all pass under, stepping over the fire and spitting into it as they pass; by this act they thoroughly exorcise the evil spirits and emerge on the other side free from all baleful influence. Another instance, is where they are throwing aside the signs of mourning for the dead; during the period of mourning they may not cut their hair nor shave their temples, but as soon as the mourning is ended by the ceremony of bringing home a newly-taken head, the barber's knife is kept busy enough. As every man leaves the barber's hands, he gathers up the hair, and, spitting on it, murmurs a prayer to the evil spirits not to harm him. He then blows the hair out of the verandah of the house. All these parallelisms, in the modes of thinking, among men in far removed quarters of the earth, do not, I think, necessarily imply that there has been a transmission of thought from one race to the other, but that there is a certain round of thought through which the brain leads us, and in development we must all have followed along the same path. Some races have made more rapid strides than others, possibly owing to natural surroundings, and in their strides have left the others centuries behind. Almost within the memory of our grandfathers, in this country, witches were burned, and from this there is only a step back to the Dayong of Borneo. Indeed, whosoever sees these people and lives with them their everyday life, must regard them, after a not very long time, merely as backward pupils in the school of life. Let me say in conclusion, that he would have an unresponsive heart that could not feel linked in a bond of fellowship with these people, and that God has made of only one blood all nations of the earth, when he hears a Bornean mother crooning her child to sleep with words identical in sentiment with "Rock-a-bye Baby,"--what though the mother's earlobes are elongated many an inch by heavy copper rings, her arms tattooed to the elbow, and her blackened teeth filed to points. Once upon a time I heard a Kayan mother soothing her little baby to sleep, and the words of the lullaby which I learned are as follows:-- From the River's mouth the birds are straying, And the Baiyo's topmost leaves are swaying; The little chicks cheep, Now my little one sleep, For the black house-lizard, with glittering eye, And the gray-haired Laki Laieng are nigh! Sleep, dear little one, sleep! For those philologically inclined I append the original:-- Lung koh madang Manoh Migieong ujong Baiyo Mensip anak Yap Lamate Telyap, Telyap abing, Lamate Laki Laieng oban! Ara we we ara! FOOTNOTE: [1] "Forests of the Far East," vol. i, p. 213. 
31591	----	by Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the numerous and lovely original illustrations. See 31591-h.htm or 31591-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31591/31591-h/31591-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31591/31591-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://www.archive.org/details/languageofflower00gree LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS ILLUSTRATED BY KATE GREENAWAY LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] _Language of Flowers_ ILLUSTRATED BY KATE GREENAWAY Printed in Colours by Edmund Evans London: George Routledge and Sons [Illustration] Abecedary _Volatility._ Abatina _Fickleness._ Acacia _Friendship._ Acacia, Rose or White _Elegance._ Acacia, Yellow _Secret love._ Acanthus _The fine arts. Artifice._ Acalia _Temperance._ Achillea Millefolia _War._ Aconite (Wolfsbane) _Misanthropy._ Aconite, Crowfoot _Lustre._ Adonis, Flos _Painful recollections._ African Marigold _Vulgar minds._ Agnus Castus _Coldness. Indifference._ Agrimony _Thankfulness. Gratitude._ Almond (Common) _Stupidity. Indiscretion._ Almond (Flowering) _Hope._ Almond, Laurel _Perfidy_ Allspice _Compassion._ Aloe _Grief. Religious superstition._ Althaea Frutex (Syrian Mallow) _Persuasion._ Alyssum (Sweet) _Worth beyond beauty._ Amaranth (Globe) _Immortality. Unfading love._ Amaranth (Cockscomb) _Foppery. Affectation._ Amaryllis _Pride. Timidity. Splendid beauty._ Ambrosia _Love returned._ American Cowslip _Divine beauty._ American Elm _Patriotism._ American Linden _Matrimony._ American Starwort _Welcome to a stranger. Cheerfulness in old age._ Amethyst _Admiration._ Anemone (Zephyr Flower) _Sickness. Expectation._ Anemone (Garden) _Forsaken._ Angelica _Inspiration._ Angrec _Royalty._ Apple _Temptation._ Apple (Blossom) _Preference. Fame speaks him great and good._ Apple, Thorn _Deceitful charms._ Apocynum (Dog's Vane) _Deceit._ Arbor Vitæ _Unchanging Friendship. Live for me._ Arum (Wake Robin) _Ardour._ Ash-leaved Trumpet Flower _Separation._ Ash Tree _Grandeur._ Aspen Tree _Lamentation._ Aster (China) _Variety. Afterthought._ Asphodel _My regrets follow you to the grave._ Auricula _Painting._ Auricula, Scarlet _Avarice._ Austurtium _Splendour._ Azalea _Temperance._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Bachelor's Buttons _Celibacy._ Balm _Sympathy._ Balm, Gentle _Pleasantry._ Balm of Gilead _Cure. Relief._ Balsam, Red _Touch me not. Impatient resolves._ Balsam, Yellow _Impatience._ Barberry _Sourness of temper._ Barberry Tree _Sharpness._ Basil _Hatred._ Bay Leaf _I change but in death._ Bay (Rose) Rhododendron _Danger. Beware._ Bay Tree _Glory._ Bay Wreath _Reward of merit._ Bearded Crepis _Protection._ Beech Tree _Prosperity._ Bee Orchis _Industry._ Bee Ophrys _Error._ Belladonna _Silence_ Bell Flower, Pyramidal _Constancy._ Bell Flower (small white) _Gratitude._ Belvedere _I declare against you._ Betony _Surprise._ Bilberry _Treachery._ Bindweed, Great _Insinuation._ Bindweed, Small _Humility._ Birch _Meekness._ Birdsfoot Trefoil _Revenge._ Bittersweet; Nightshade _Truth._ Black Poplar _Courage._ Blackthorn _Difficulty._ Bladder Nut Tree _Frivolity. Amusement._ Bluebottle (Centaury) _Delicacy._ Bluebell _Constancy._ Blue-flowered Greek Valerian _Rupture._ Borus Henricus _Goodness._ Borage _Bluntness._ Box Tree _Stoicism._ Bramble _Lowliness. Envy. Remorse._ Branch of Currants _You please all._ Branch of Thorns _Severity. Rigour._ Bridal Rose _Happy love._ Broom _Humility. Neatness._ Buckbean _Calm repose._ Bud of White Rose _Heart ignorant of love._ Bugloss _Falsehood._ Bulrush _Indiscretion. Docility._ Bundle of Reeds, with their Panicles _Music._ Burdock _Importunity. Touch me not._ Buttercup (Kingcup) _Ingratitude. Childishness._ Butterfly Orchis _Gaiety._ Butterfly Weed _Let me go._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Cabbage _Profit._ Cacalia _Adulation._ Cactus _Warmth._ Calla Æthiopica _Magnificent Beauty._ Calycanthus _Benevolence._ Camellia Japonica, Red _Unpretending excellence._ Camellia Japonica, White _Perfected loveliness._ Camomile _Energy in adversity._ Canary Grass _Perseverance._ Candytuft _Indifference._ Canterbury Bell _Acknowledgement._ Cape Jasmine _I'm too happy._ Cardamine _Paternal error._ Carnation, Deep Red _Alas! for my poor heart._ Carnation, Striped _Refusal._ Carnation, Yellow _Disdain._ [Illustration] Cardinal Flower _Distinction._ Catchfly _Snare._ Catchfly, Red _Youthful love._ Catchfly, White _Betrayed._ Cedar _Strength._ Cedar of Lebanon _Incorruptible._ Cedar Leaf _I live for thee._ Celandine (Lesser) _Joys to come._ Cereus (Creeping) _Modest genius._ Centaury _Delicacy._ Champignon _Suspicion._ Chequered Fritillary _Persecution._ Cherry Tree _Good education._ Cherry Tree, White _Deception._ Chesnut Tree _Do me justice. Luxury._ Chickweed _Rendezvous._ Chicory _Frugality._ China Aster _Variety._ China Aster, Double _I partake your sentiments._ China Aster, Single _I will think of it._ China or Indian Pink _Aversion._ China Rose _Beauty always new._ Chinese Chrysanthemum _Cheerfulness under adversity._ Christmas Rose _Relieve my anxiety._ Chrysanthemum, Red _I love._ Chrysanthemum, White _Truth._ Chrysanthemum, Yellow _Slighted love._ Cinquefoil _Maternal affection._ Circæa _Spell._ Cistus, or Rock Rose _Popular favour._ Cistus, Gum _I shall die to-morrow._ Citron _Ill-natured beauty._ Clematis _Mental beauty._ Clematis, Evergreen _Poverty._ Clotbur _Rudeness. Pertinacity._ Cloves _Dignity._ Clover, Four-leaved _Be mine._ Clover, Red _Industry._ Clover, White _Think of me._ Cobæa _Gossip._ Cockscomb Amaranth _Foppery. Affectation. Singularity._ Colchicum, or Meadow Saffron _My best days are past._ Coltsfoot _Justice shall be done._ Columbine _Folly._ Columbine, Purple _Resolved to win._ Columbine, Red _Anxious and trembling._ Convolvulus _Bonds._ Convolvulus, Blue (Minor) _Repose. Night._ Convolvulus, Major _Extinguished hopes._ Convolvulus, Pink _Worth sustained by judicious and tender affection._ Corchorus _Impatient of absence._ Coreopsis _Always cheerful._ Coreopsis Arkansa _Love at first sight._ Coriander _Hidden worth._ Corn _Riches._ Corn, Broken _Quarrel._ Corn Straw _Agreement._ Corn Bottle _Delicacy._ Corn Cockle _Gentility._ Cornel Tree _Duration._ Coronella _Success crown your wishes._ Cowslip _Pensiveness. Winning grace._ Cowslip, American _Divine beauty. You are my divinity._ Cranberry _Cure for heartache._ Creeping Cereus _Horror._ Cress _Stability. Power._ Crocus _Abuse not._ Crocus, Spring _Youthful gladness._ Crocus, Saffron _Mirth._ Crown Imperial _Majesty. Power._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Crowsbill _Envy._ Crowfoot _Ingratitude._ Crowfoot (Aconite-leaved) _Lustre._ Cuckoo Plant _Ardour._ Cudweed, American _Unceasing remembrance._ Currant _Thy frown will kill me._ Cuscuta _Meanness._ Cyclamen _Diffidence._ Cypress _Death. Mourning._ [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Daffodil _Regard._ Dahlia _Instability._ Daisy _Innocence._ Daisy, Garden _I share your sentiments_ Daisy, Michaelmas _Farewell._ Daisy, Party-coloured _Beauty._ Daisy, Wild _I will think of it._ Damask Rose _Brilliant complexion._ Dandelion _Rustic oracle._ Daphne Odora _Painting the lily._ Darnel (Ray grass) _Vice_ Dead Leaves _Sadness._ Dew Plant _A Serenade._ Dittany of Crete _Birth._ Dittany of Crete, White _Passion._ Dock _Patience._ Dodder of Thyme _Baseness._ Dogsbane _Deceit. Falsehood._ Dogwood _Durability._ Dragon Plant _Snare._ Dragonwort _Horror._ Dried Flax _Utility._ [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Ebony Tree _Blackness._ Eglantine (Sweetbrier) _Poetry. I wound to heal._ Elder _Zealousness._ Elm _Dignity._ Enchanter's Nightshade _Witchcraft. Sorcery._ Endive _Frugality._ Eupatorium _Delay._ Everflowering Candytuft _Indifference._ Evergreen Clematis _Poverty._ Evergreen Thorn _Solace in adversity._ Everlasting _Never-ceasing remembrance._ Everlasting Pea _Lasting pleasure._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Fennel _Worthy all praise. Strength._ Fern _Fascination._ Ficoides, Ice Plant _Your looks freeze me._ Fig _Argument._ Fig Marigold _Idleness._ Fig Tree _Prolific._ Filbert _Reconciliation._ Fir _Time._ Fir Tree _Elevation._ Flax _Domestic Industry. Fate. I feel your kindness._ Flax-leaved Goldy-locks _Tardiness._ Fleur-de-Lis _Flame. I burn._ Fleur-de-Luce _Fire._ Flowering Fern _Reverie._ Flowering Reed _Confidence in Heaven._ Flower-of-an-Hour _Delicate Beauty._ Fly Orchis _Error._ Flytrap _Deceit._ Fool's Parsley _Silliness._ Forget Me Not _True love. Forget me not._ Foxglove _Insincerity._ Foxtail Grass _Sporting._ French Honeysuckle _Rustic beauty._ French Marigold _Jealousy._ French Willow _Bravery and humanity._ Frog Ophrys _Disgust._ Fuller's Teasel _Misanthropy._ Fumitory _Spleen._ Fuchsia, Scarlet _Taste._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Garden Anemone _Forsaken._ Garden Chervil _Sincerity._ Garden Daisy _I partake your sentiments._ Garden Marigold _Uneasiness._ Garden Ranunculus _You are rich in attractions._ Garden Sage _Esteem._ Garland of Roses _Reward of virtue._ Germander Speedwell _Facility._ Geranium, Dark _Melancholy._ Geranium, Ivy _Bridal favour._ Geranium, Lemon _Unexpected meeting._ Geranium, Nutmeg _Expected meeting._ Geranium, Oak-leaved _True friendship._ Geranium, Pencilled _Ingenuity._ Geranium, Rose-scented _Preference._ Geranium, Scarlet _Contorting. Stupidity._ Geranium, Silver-leaved _Recall._ Geranium, Wild _Steadfast piety._ [Illustration] Gillyflower _Bonds of affection._ Glory Flower _Glorious beauty._ Goat's Rue _Reason._ Golden Rod _Precaution._ Gooseberry _Anticipation._ Gourd _Extent. Bulk._ Grape, Wild _Charity._ Grass _Submission. Utility._ Guelder Rose _Winter. Age._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Hand Flower Tree _Warning._ Harebell _Submission. Grief._ Hawkweed _Quicksightedness._ Hawthorn _Hope._ Hazel _Reconciliation._ Heath _Solitude._ Helenium _Tears._ Heliotrope _Devotion. Faithfulness._ Hellebore _Scandal. Calumny._ Helmet Flower (Monkshood) _Knight-errantry._ Hemlock _You will be my death._ Hemp _fate._ Henbane _Imperfection._ Hepatica _Confidence._ Hibiscus _Delicate beauty._ Holly _Foresight._ Holly Herb _Enchantment._ Hollyhock _Ambition. Fecundity._ Honesty _Honesty. Fascination._ Honey Flower _Love sweet and secret._ Honeysuckle _Generous and devoted affection._ Honeysuckle Coral _The colour of my fate._ Honeysuckle (French) _Rustic beauty._ Hop _Injustice._ Hornbeam _Ornament._ Horse Chesnut _Luxury._ Hortensia _You are cold._ Houseleek _Vivacity. Domestic industry._ Houstonia _Content._ Hoya _Sculpture._ Humble Plant _Despondency._ Hundred-leaved Rose _Dignity of mind._ Hyacinth _Sport. Game. Play._ Hyacinth, White _Unobtrusive loveliness._ Hydrangea _A boaster. Heartlessness._ Hyssop _Cleanliness._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Iceland Moss _Health._ Ice Plant _Your looks freeze me._ Imperial Montague _Power._ Indian Cress _Warlike trophy._ Indian Jasmine (Ipomoea) _Attachment._ Indian Pink (Double) _Always lovely._ Indian Plum _Privation._ Iris _Message._ Iris, German _Flame._ Ivy _Fidelity. Marriage._ Ivy, Sprig of, with tendrils _Assiduous to please._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Jacob's Ladder _Come down._ Japan Rose _Beauty is your only attraction._ Jasmine _Amiability._ Jasmine, Cape _Transport of joy._ Jasmine, Carolina _Separation._ Jasmine, Indian _I attach myself to you._ Jasmine, Spanish _Sensuality._ Jasmine, Yellow _Grace and elegance._ Jonquil _I desire a return of affection._ Judas Tree _Unbelief. Betrayal._ Juniper _Succour. Protection._ Justicia _The perfection of female loveliness._ [Illustration] Kennedia _Mental Beauty._ King-cups _Desire of Riches._ [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Laburnum _Forsaken. Pensive Beauty._ Lady's Slipper _Capricious Beauty. Win me and wear me._ Lagerstræmia, Indian _Eloquence._ Lantana _Rigour._ Larch _Audacity. Boldness._ Larkspur _Lightness. Levity._ Larkspur, Pink _Fickleness._ Larkspur, Purple _Haughtiness._ Laurel _Glory._ Laurel, Common, in flower _Perfidy._ Laurel, Ground _Perseverance._ Laurel, Mountain _Ambition._ Laurel-leaved Magnolia _Dignity._ Laurestina _A token. I die if neglected._ Lavender _Distrust._ Leaves (dead) _Melancholy._ Lemon _Zest._ Lemon Blossoms _Fidelity in lore._ Lettuce _Cold-heartedness._ Lichen _Dejection. Solitude._ [Illustration] Lilac, Field _Humility._ Lilac, Purple _First emotions of love._ Lilac, White _Youthful Innocence._ Lily, Day _Coquetry._ Lily, Imperial _Majesty._ Lily, White _Purity. Sweetness._ Lily, Yellow _Falsehood. Gaiety._ Lily of the Valley _Return of happiness._ Linden or Lime Trees _Conjugal love._ Lint _I feel my obligations._ Live Oak _Liberty._ Liverwort _Confidence._ Licorice, Wild _I declare against you._ Lobelia _Malevolence._ Locust Tree _Elegance._ Locust Tree (green) _Affection beyond the grave._ London Pride _Frivolity._ Lote Tree _Concord._ Lotus _Eloquence._ Lotus Flower _Estranged love._ Lotus Leaf _Recantation._ Love in a Mist _Perplexity._ Love lies Bleeding _Hopeless, not heartless._ Lucern _Life._ Lupine _Voraciousness. Imagination._ [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Madder _Calumny._ Magnolia _Love of Nature._ Magnolia, Swamp _Perseverance._ Mallow _Mildness._ Mallow, Marsh _Beneficence._ Mallow, Syrian _Consumed by love._ Mallow, Venetian _Delicate beauty._ Manchineal Tree _Falsehood._ Mandrake _Horror._ Maple _Reserve._ Marigold _Grief._ Marigold, African _Vulgar minds._ Marigold, French _Jealousy._ Marigold, Prophetic _Prediction._ Marigold and Cypress _Despair._ Marjoram _Blushes._ Marvel of Peru _Timidity._ [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Meadow Lychnis _Wit._ Meadow Saffron _My fast days are fast._ Meadowsweet _Uselessness._ Mercury _Goodness._ Mesembryanthemum _Idleness._ Mezereon _Desire to please._ Michaelmas Daisy _Afterthought._ Mignionette _Your qualities surpass your charms._ Milfoil _War._ Milkvetch _Your presence softens my pains._ Milkwort _Hermitage._ Mimosa (Sensitive Plant) _Sensitiveness._ Mint _Virtue._ Mistletoe _I surmount difficulties._ Mock Orange _Counterfeit._ Monkshood (Helmet Flower) _Chivalry. Knight-errantry._ Moonwort _Forgetfulness._ Morning Glory _Affectation._ Moschatel _Weakness._ Moss _Maternal love._ Mosses _Ennui._ Mossy Saxifrage _Affection._ Motherwort _Concealed love._ Mountain Ash _Prudence._ Mourning Bride _Unfortunate attachment. I have lost all._ Mouse-eared Chickweed _Ingenuous simplicity._ Mouse-eared Scorpion Grass _Forget me not._ Moving Plant _Agitation._ Mudwort _Tranquillity._ Mugwort _Happiness._ Mulberry Tree (Black) _I shall not survive you._ Mulberry Tree (White) _Wisdom._ Mushroom _Suspicion._ Musk Plant _Weakness._ Mustard Seed _Indifference._ Myrobalan _Privation._ Myrrh _Gladness._ Myrtle _Love._ [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Narcissus _Egotism._ Nasturtium _Patriotism._ Nettle, Burning _Slander._ Nettle Tree _Concert._ Night-blooming Cereus _Transient beauty._ Night Convolvulus _Night._ Nightshade _Truth._ [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Oak Leaves _Bravery._ Oak Tree _Hospitality._ Oak (White) _Independence._ Oats _The witching soul of music._ Oleander _Beware._ Olive _Peace._ Orange Blossoms _Your purity equals your loveliness._ Orange Flowers _Chastity. Bridal festivities._ Orange Tree _Generosity._ Orchis _A Belle._ Osier _Frankness._ Osmunda _Dreams._ Ox Eye _Patience._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Palm _Victory._ Pansy _Thoughts._ Parsley _Festivity._ Pasque Flower _You have no claims._ Passion Flower _Religious superstition._ Patience Dock _Patience._ Pea, Everlasting _An appointed meeting. Lasting Pleasure._ Pea, Sweet _Departure._ Peach _Your qualities, like your charms, are unequalled._ Peach Blossom _I am your captive._ Pear _Affection._ Pear Tree _Comfort._ Pennyroyal _Flee away._ Peony _Shame. Bashfulness._ Peppermint _Warmth of feeling._ Periwinkle, Blue _Early friendship._ Periwinkle, White _Pleasures of memory._ Persicaria _Restoration._ [Illustration] Persimon _Bury me amid Nature's beauties._ Peruvian Heliotrope _Devotion._ Pheasant's Eye _Remembrance._ Phlox _Unanimity._ Pigeon Berry _Indifference._ Pimpernel _Change. Assignation._ Pine _Pity._ Pine-apple _You are perfect._ Pine, Pitch _Philosophy._ Pine, Spruce _Hope in adversity._ Pink _Boldness._ Pink, Carnation _Woman's love._ Pink, Indian, Double _Always lovely._ Pink, Indian, Single _Aversion._ Pink, Mountain _Aspiring._ Pink, Red, Double _Pure and ardent love._ Pink, Single _Pure love._ Pink, Variegated _Refusal._ Pink, White _Ingeniousness. Talent._ Plane Tree _Genius._ Plum, Indian _Privation._ Plum Tree _Fidelity._ Plum, Wild _Independence._ Polyanthus _Pride of riches._ Polyanthus, Crimson _The heart's mystery._ Polyanthus, Lilac _Confidence._ Pomegranate _Foolishness._ Pomegranate, Flower _Mature elegance._ Poplar, Black _Courage._ Poplar, White _Time._ Poppy, Red _Consolation._ Poppy, Scarlet _Fantastic extravagance._ Poppy, White _Sleep. My bane. My antidote._ Potato _Benevolence._ Prickly Pear _Satire._ Pride of China _Dissension._ Primrose _Early youth._ Primrose, Evening _Inconstancy._ Primrose, Red _Unpatronized merit._ Privet _Prohibition._ Purple Clover _Provident._ Pyrus Japonica _Fairies' fire._ [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Quaking-Grass _Agitation._ Quamoclit _Busybody._ Queen's Rocket _You are the queen of coquettes. Fashion._ Quince _Temptation._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Ragged Robin _Wit._ Ranunculus _You are radiant with charms._ Ranunculus, Garden _You are rich in attractions._ Ranunculus, Wild _Ingratitude._ Raspberry _Remorse._ Ray Grass _Vice._ Red Catchfly _Youthful lore._ Reed _Complaisance. Music._ Reed, Split _Indiscretion._ Rhododendron (Rosebay) _Danger. Beware._ Rhubarb _Advice._ Rocket _Rivalry._ Rose _Love._ Rose, Austrian _Thou art all that is lovely._ Rose, Bridal _Happy love._ Rose, Burgundy _Unconscious beauty._ Rose, Cabbage _Ambassador of love._ Rose, Campion _Only deserve my love._ Rose, Carolina _Love is dangerous._ Rose, China _Beauty always new._ Rose, Christmas _Tranquillize my anxiety._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Rose, Daily _Thy smile I aspire to._ Rose, Damask _Brilliant complexion._ Rose, Deep Red _Bashful shame._ Rose, Dog _Pleasure and pain._ Rose, Guelder _Winter. Age._ Rose, Hundred-leaved _Pride._ Rose, Japan _Beauty is your only attraction._ Rose, Maiden Blush _If you love me, you will find it out._ Rose, Multiflora _Grace._ Rose, Mundi _Variety._ Rose, Musk _Capricious beauty._ Rose, Musk, Cluster _Charming._ Rose, Single _Simplicity._ Rose, Thornless _Early attachment._ Rose, Unique _Call me not beautiful._ Rose, White _I am worthy of you._ Rose, White (withered) _Transient impressions._ Rose, Yellow _Decrease of love. Jealously._ Rose, York and Lancaster _War._ Rose, Full-blown, placed over two Buds _Secrecy._ Rose, White and Red together _Unity._ Roses, Crown of _Reward of virtue._ Rosebud, Red _Pure and lovely._ Rosebud, White _Girlhood._ Rosebud, Moss _Confession of love._ Rosebay (Rhododendron) _Beware. Danger._ Rosemary _Remembrance._ Rudbeckia _Justice._ Rue _Disdain._ Rush _Docility._ Rye Grass _Changeable disposition_ [Illustration] [Illustration] Saffron _Beware of excess._ Saffron Crocus _Mirth._ Saffron, Meadow _My happiest days are past._ Sage _Domestic virtue._ Sage, Garden _Esteem._ Sainfoin _Agitation._ Saint John's Wort _Animosity. Superstition._ Sardony _Irony._ Saxifrage, Mossy _Affection._ Scabious _Unfortunate love._ Scabious, Sweet _Widowhood._ Scarlet Lychnis _Sunbeaming eyes._ Schinus _Religions enthusiasm._ Scotch Fir _Elevation._ Sensitive Plant _Sensibility. Delicate feelings._ Senvy _Indifference._ Shamrock _Light heartedness._ Snakesfoot _Horror._ [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Snapdragon _Presumption._ Snowball _Bound._ Snowdrop _Hope._ Sorrel _Affection._ Sorrel, Wild _Wit ill-timed._ Sorrel, Wood _Joy._ Southernwood _Jest. Bantering._ Spanish Jasmine _Sensuality._ Spearmint _Warmth of sentiment._ Speedwell _Female fidelity._ Speedwell, Germander _Facility._ Speedwell, Spiked _Semblance._ Spider, Ophrys _Adroitness._ Spiderwort _Esteem not love._ Spiked Willow Herb _Pretension._ Spindle Tree _Your charms are engraven on my heart._ Star of Bethlehem _Purity._ Starwort _Afterthought._ Starwort, American _Cheerfulness in old age._ Stock _Lasting beauty._ Stock, Ten Week _Promptness._ Stonecrop _Tranquillity._ Straw, Broken _Rupture of a contract._ Straw, Whole _Union._ Strawberry Tree _Esteem and love._ Sumach, Venice _Splendour. Intellectual excellence._ Sunflower, Dwarf _Adoration._ Sunflower, Tall _Haughtiness._ Swallow-wort _Cure for heartache._ Sweet Basil _Good wishes._ Sweetbrier, American _Simplicity._ Sweetbrier, European _I wound to heal._ Sweetbrier, Yellow _Decrease of love._ Sweet Pea _Delicate pleasures._ Sweet Sultan _Felicity._ Sweet William _Gallantry._ Sycamore _Curiosity._ Syringa _Memory._ Syringa, Carolina _Disappointment._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Tamarisk _Crime._ Tansy (Wild) _I declare war against you._ Teasel _Misanthropy._ Tendrils of Climbing Plants _Ties._ Thistle, Common _Austerity._ Thistle, Fuller's _Misanthropy_ Thistle, Scotch _Retaliation._ Thorn Apple _Deceitful charms._ Thorn, Branch of _Severity._ Thrift _Sympathy._ Throatwort _Neglected beauty._ Thyme _Activity._ Tiger Flower _For once may pride befriend me._ Traveller's Joy _Safety._ Tree of Life _Old age._ Trefoil _Revenge._ Tremella Nestoc _Resistance._ Trillium Pictum _Modest beauty._ Truffle _Surprise._ Trumpet Flower _Fame._ Tuberose _Dangerous pleasures._ Tulip _Fame._ Tulip, Red _Declaration of love._ Tulip, Variegated _Beautiful eyes._ Tulip, Yellow _Hopeless love._ Turnip _Charity._ Tussilage (Sweet-scented) _Justice shall be done you._ [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Valerian _An accommodating disposition._ Valerian, Greek _Rupture._ Venice Sumach _Intellectual excellence. Splendour._ Venus' Car _Fly with me._ Venus' Looking-glass _Flattery._ Venus' Trap _Deceit._ Vernal Grass _Poor, but happy._ Veronica _Fidelity._ Vervain _Enchantment._ Vine _Intoxication._ Violet, Blue _Faithfulness._ Violet, Dame _Watchfulness._ Violet, Sweet _Modesty._ Violet, Yellow _Rural happiness._ Virginian Spiderwort _Momentary happiness._ Virgin's Bower _Filial love._ Volkamenia _May you be happy._ [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Walnut _Intellect. Stratagem._ Wall-flower _Fidelity in adversity._ Water Lily _Purity of heart._ Water Melon _Bulkiness._ Wax Plant _Susceptibility._ Wheat Stalk _Riches._ Whin _Anger._ White Jasmine _Amiableness._ White Lily _Purity and Modesty._ White Mullein _Good nature._ White Oak _Independence._ White Pink _Talent._ White Poplar _Time._ White Rose (dried) _Death preferable to loss of innocence._ Whortleberry _Treason._ Willow, Creeping _Love forsaken._ Willow, Water _Freedom._ Willow, Weeping _Mourning._ Willow-Herb _Pretension._ Willow, French _Bravery and humanity._ Winter Cherry _Deception._ Witch Hazel _A spell._ Woodbine _Fraternal love._ Wood Sorrel _Joy. Maternal tenderness._ Wormwood _Absence._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Xanthium _Rudeness. Pertinacity._ Xeranthemum _Cheerfulness under adversity._ [Illustration] Yew _Sorrow._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Zephyr Flower _Expectation._ Zinnia _Thoughts of absent friends._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Absence _Wormwood._ Abuse not _Crocus._ Acknowledgment _Canterbury Bell._ Activity _Thyme._ Admiration _Amethyst._ Adoration _Dwarf Sunflower_ Adroitness _Spider Ophrys._ Adulation _Cacalia._ Advice _Rhubarb._ Affection _Mossy Saxifrage._ Affection _Pear._ Affection _Sorrel._ Affection beyond the grave _Green Locust._ Affection, maternal _Cinquefoil._ Affectation _Cockscomb Amaranth._ Affectation _Morning Glory._ Afterthought _Michaelmas Daisy._ Afterthought _Starwort._ Afterthought _China Aster._ Agreement _Straw._ Age _Guelder Rose._ Agitation _Moving Plant._ Agitation _Sainfoin._ Alas! for my poor heart _Deep Red Carnation._ Always cheerful _Coreopsis._ Always lovely _Indian Pink (double)._ Ambassador of love _Cabbage Rose._ Amiability _Jasmine._ Anger _Whin._ Animosity _St. John's Wort._ Anticipation _Gooseberry._ Anxious and trembling _Red Columbine._ Ardour _Cuckoo Plant._ Argument _Fig._ Arts or artifice _Acanthus._ Assiduous to please _Sprig of Ivy with tendrils._ Assignation _Pimpernel._ Attachment _Indian Jasmine._ Audacity _Larch._ Avarice _Scarlet Auricula._ Aversion _China or Indian Pink._ Bantering _Southern-wood._ Baseness _Dodder of Thyme._ Bashfulness _Peony._ Bashful shame _Deep Red Rose._ Beautiful eyes _Variegated Tulip._ Beauty _Party-coloured Daisy._ Beauty always new _China Rose._ Beauty, capricious _Lady's Slipper._ Beauty, capricious _Musk Rose._ Beauty, delicate _Flower of an Hour._ Beauty, delicate _Hibiscus._ Beauty, divine _American Cowslip._ Beauty, glorious _Glory Flower._ Beauty, lasting _Stock._ Beauty, magnificent _Calla Æthiopica._ Beauty, mental _Clematis._ Beauty, modest _Trillium Pictum._ Beauty, neglected _Throatwort._ Beauty, pensive _Laburnum._ Beauty, rustic _French Honeysuckle._ Beauty, unconscious _Burgundy Rose._ Beauty is your only attraction _Japan Rose._ Belle _Orchis._ Be mine _Four-leaved Clover._ Beneficence _Marshmallow._ Benevolence _Potato._ Betrayed _White Catchfly._ Beware _Oleander._ Beware _Rosebay._ Blackness _Ebony Tree._ Bluntness _Borage._ Blushes _Marjoram._ Boaster _Hydrangea._ Boldness _Pink._ Bonds _Convolvulus._ Bonds of Affection _Gillyflower._ Bravery _Oak Leaves._ Bravery and humanity _French Willow._ Bridal favour _Ivy Geranium._ Brilliant complexion _Damask Rose._ Bulk _Water Melon. Gourd._ Busybody _Quamoclit._ Bury me amid Nature's beauties _Persimon._ Call me not beautiful _Rose Unique._ Calm repose _Buckbean._ Calumny _Hellebore._ Calumny _Madder._ Change _Pimpernel._ Changeable disposition _Rye Grass._ Charity _Turnip._ Charming _Cluster of Musk Roses._ Charms, deceitful _Thorn Apple._ Cheerfulness in old age _American Starwort._ Cheerfulness under adversity _Chinese Chrysanthemum._ Chivalry _Monkskood (Helmet Flower)._ Cleanliness _Hyssop._ Coldheartedness _Lettuce._ Coldness _Agnus Castus._ Colour of my life _Coral Honeysuckle._ Come down _Jacob's Ladder._ Comfort _Pear Tree._ Comforting _Scarlet Geranium._ Compassion _Allspice._ Concealed love _Motherwort._ Concert _Nettle Tree._ Concord _Lote Tree._ Confession of love _Moss Rosebud._ Confidence _Hepatica._ Confidence _Lilac Polyanthus._ Confidence _Liverwort._ Confidence in Heaven _Flowering Reed._ Conjugal love _Lime, or Linden Tree._ Consolation _Red Poppy._ Constancy _Bluebell._ Consumed by love _Syrian Mallow._ Counterfeit _Mock Orange._ Courage _Black Poplar._ Crime _Tamarisk._ Cure _Balm of Gilead._ Cure for heartache _Swallow-wort._ Curiosity _Sycamore._ Danger _Rhododendron. Rosebay._ Dangerous Pleasures _Tuberose._ Death _Cypress._ Death preferable to loss of innocence _White Rate (dried)._ Deceit _Apocynum._ Deceit _Flytrap._ Deceit _Dogsbane._ Deceitful charms _Thorn Apple._ Deception _White Cherry Tree._ Declaration of love _Red Tulip._ Decrease of love _Yellow Rose._ Delay _Eupatorium._ Delicacy _Bluebottle. Centaury._ Dejection _Lichen._ Desire to please _Mezereon._ Despair _Cypress._ Despondency _Humble Plant._ Devotion _Peruvian Heliotrope._ Difficulty _Blackthorn._ Dignity _Cloves._ Dignity _Laurel-leaved Magnolia._ Disappointment _Carolina Syringa._ Disdain _Yellow Carnation._ Disdain _Rue._ Disgust _Frog Ophrys._ Dissension _Pride of China._ Distinction _Cardinal Flower._ Distrust _Lavender._ Divine beauty _American Cowslip._ Docility _Rush._ Domestic industry _Flax._ Domestic virtue _Sage._ Durability _Dogwood._ Duration _Cornel Tree._ Early attachment _Thornless Rose_ Early friendship _Blue Periwinkle._ Early youth _Primrose._ Elegance _Locust Tree._ Elegance and grace _Yellow Jasmine._ Elevation _Scotch Fir._ Eloquence _Indian Lagerstræmia._ Enchantment _Holly Herb._ Enchantment _Vervain._ Energy in adversity _Camomile._ Envy _Bramble._ Error _Bee Ophrys._ Error _Fly Orchis._ Esteem _Garden Sage._ Esteem not love _Spiderwort._ Esteem and love _Strawberry Tree._ Estranged love _Lotus Flower._ Excellence _Camellia Japonica._ Expectation _Anemone._ Expectation _Zephyr Flower._ Expected meeting _Nutmeg Geranium._ Extent _Gourd._ Extinguished hopes _Major Convolvulus._ Facility _Germander Speedwell._ Fairies' fire _Pyrus Japonica._ Faithfulness _Blue Violet._ Faithfulness _Heliotrope._ Falsehood _Buglass._ Falsehood _Yellow Lily._ Falsehood _Manchineal Tree._ Fame _Tulip. Trumpet Flower._ Fame speaks him great and good _Apple Blossom._ Fantastic extravagance _Scarlet Poppy._ Farewell _Michaelmas Daisy._ Fascination _Fern._ Fascination _Honesty._ Fashion _Queen's Rocket._ Fecundity _Hollyhock._ Felicity _Sweet Sultan._ Female fidelity _Speedwell._ Festivity _Parsley._ Fickleness _Abatina._ Fickleness _Pink Larkspur._ Filial love _Virgin's bower._ Fidelity _Veronica. Ivy._ Fidelity _Plum Tree._ Fidelity in adversity _Wall-flower._ Fidelity in love _Lemon Blossoms._ Fire _Fleur-de-Luce._ First emotions of love _Purple Lilac._ Flame _Fleur-de-lis. Iris._ Flattery _Venus' Looking-glass._ Flee away _Pennyroyal._ Fly with me _Venus' Car._ Folly _Columbine._ Foppery _Cockscomb Amaranth._ Foolishness _Pomegranate._ Foresight _Holly._ Forgetfulness _Moonwort._ Forget me not _Forget Me Not._ For once may pride befriend me _Tiger Flower._ Forsaken _Garden Anemone._ Forsaken _Laburnum._ Frankness _Osier._ Fraternal love _Woodbine._ Freedom _Water Willow._ Freshness _Damask Rose._ Friendship _Acacia._ Friendship, early _Blue Periwinkle._ Friendship, true _Oak-leaved Geranium._ Friendship, unchanging _Arbor Vitæ._ Frivolity _London Pride._ Frugality _Chicory. Endive._ Gaiety _Butterfly Orchis._ Gaiety _Yellow Lily._ Gallantry _Sweet William._ Generosity _Orange Tree._ Generous and devoted affection _French Honeysuckle._ Genius _Plane Tree._ Gentility _Corn Cockle._ Girlhood _White Rosebud._ Gladness _Myrrh._ Glory _Bay Tree._ Glory _Laurel._ Glorious beauty _Glory Flower._ Goodness _Bonus Henricus._ Goodness _Mercury._ Good education _Cherry Tree._ Good wishes _Sweet Basil._ Goodnature _White Mullein._ Gossip _Cobæa._ Grace _Multiflora Rose._ Grace and elegance _Yellow Jasmine._ Grandeur _Ash Tree_ Gratitude _Small White Bell-flower._ Grief _Harebell._ Grief _Marigold._ Happy love _Bridal Rose._ Hatred _Basil._ Haughtiness _Purple Larkspur._ Haughtiness _Tall Sunflower._ Health _Iceland Moss._ Hermitage _Milkwort._ Hidden worth _Coriander._ Honesty _Honesty._ Hope _Flowering Almond._ Hope _Hawthorn._ Hope _Snowdrop._ Hope in adversity _Spruce Pine._ Hopeless love _Yellow Tulip._ Hopeless, not heartless _Love Lies Bleating._ Horror _Mandrake._ Horror _Dragonswort._ Horror _Snakesfoot._ Hospitality _Oak Tree._ Humility _Broom._ Humility _Small Bindweed._ Humility _Field Lilac._ I am too happy _Cape Jasmine._ I am your captive _Peach Blossom._ I am worthy of you _White Rose._ I change but in death _Bay Leaf._ I declare against you _Belvedere._ I declare against you _Liquorice._ I declare war against you _Wild Tansy._ I die if neglected _Laurestina._ I desire a return of affection _Jonquil._ I feel my obligations _Lint._ I feel your kindness _Flax._ I have lost all _Mourning Bride._ I live for thee _Cedar Leaf._ I love _Red Chrysanthemum._ I partake of your sentiments _Double China Aster._ I partake your sentiments _Garden Daisy._ I shall die to-morrow _Gum Cistus._ I shall not survive you _Black Mulberry._ I surmount difficulties _Mistletoe._ I will think of it _Single China Aster._ I will think of it _Wild Daisy._ I wound to heal _Eglantine (Sweetbrier)._ If you love me, you will find it out _Maiden Blush Rose._ Idleness _Mesembryanthemum._ Ill-natured beauty _Citron._ Imagination _Lupine._ Immortality _Amaranth (Globe)._ Impatience _yellow Balsam._ Impatient of absence _Corchorus._ Impatient resolves _Red Balsam._ Imperfection _Henbane._ Importunity _Burdock._ Inconstancy _Evening Primrose._ Incorruptible _Cedar of Lebanon._ Independence _Wild Plum Tree._ Independence _White Oak._ Indifference _Everflowering Candytuft._ Indifference _Mustard Seed._ Indifference _Pigeon Berry._ Indifference _Senvy._ Indiscretion _Split Reed._ Industry _Red Clover._ Industry, Domestic _Flax._ Ingenuousness _White Pink._ Ingenuity _Pencilled Geranium._ Ingenuous simplicity _Mouse-eared Chickweed._ Ingratitude _Crowfoot._ Innocence _Daisy._ Insincerity _Foxglove._ Insinuation _Great Bindweed._ Inspiration _Angelica._ Instability _Dahlia._ Intellect _Walnut._ Intoxication _Vine._ Irony _Sardony._ Jealousy _French Marigold._ Jealousy _Yellow Rose._ Jest _Southernwood._ Joy _Wood Sorrel._ Joys to come _Lesser Celandine._ Justice _Rudbeckia._ Justice shall be done to you _Coltsfoot._ Justice shall be done to you _Sweet-scented Tussilage._ Knight-errantry _Helmet Flower (Monkshood)._ Lamentation _Aspon Tree._ Lasting beauty _Stock._ Lasting pleasures _Everlasting Pea._ Let me go _Butterfly Weed._ Levity _Larkspur._ Liberty _Live Oak._ Life _Lucern._ Lightheartedness _Shamrock._ Lightness _Larkspur._ Live for me _Arbor Vitæ._ Love _Myrtle._ Love _Rose._ Love, forsaken _Creeping Willow._ Love, returned _Ambrosia._ Love is dangerous _Carolina Rose._ Lustre _Aconite-leaved Crowfoot, or Fair Maid of France._ Luxury _Chesnut Tree._ Magnificent beauty _Calla, Æthiopica._ Majesty _Crown Imperial._ Malevolence _Lobelia._ Marriage _Ivy._ Maternal affection _Cinquefoil._ Maternal love _Moss._ Maternal tenderness _Wood Sorrel._ Matrimony _American Linden._ May you be happy _Volkamenia_ Meanness _Cuscuta._ Meekness _Birch._ Melancholy _Dark Geranium._ Melancholy _Dead Leaves._ Mental beauty _Clematis._ Mental beauty _Kennedia._ Message _Iris._ Mildness _Mallow._ Mirth _Saffron Crocus._ Misanthropy _Aconite (Wolfsbane)._ Misanthropy _Fuller's Teasel._ Modest beauty _Trillium Pictum._ Modest genius _Creeping Cereus._ Modesty _Violet._ Modesty and purity _White Lily._ Momentary happiness _Virginian Spiderwort._ Mourning _Weeping Willow_ Music _Bundles of Reed with their panicles._ My best days are past _Colchicum, or Meadow Saffron._ My regrets follow you to the grave _Asphodel._ Neatness _Broom._ Neglected beauty _Throatwort._ Never-ceasing remembrance _Everlasting._ Old age _Tree of Life._ Only deserve my love _Campion Rose._ Painful recollections _Flos Adonis._ Painting _Auricula._ Painting the lily _Daphne Odora._ Passion _White Dittany._ Paternal error _Cardamine._ Patience _Dock. Ox Eye._ Patriotism _American Elm._ Patriotism _Nasturtium._ Peace _Olive._ Perfected loveliness _Camellia Japonica, White._ Perfidy _Common Laurel, in flower._ Pensive beauty _Laburnum._ Perplexity _Love in a Mist._ Persecution _Chequered Fritillary._ Perseverance _Swamp Magnolia._ Persuasion _Althea Frutex._ Persuasion _Syrian Mallow._ Pertinacity _Clotbur._ Pity _Pine._ Pleasure and pain _Dog Rose._ Pleasure, lasting _Everlasting Pea._ Pleasures of memory _White Periwinkle._ Popular favour _Cistus, or Rock Rose._ Poverty _Evergreen Clematis._ Power _Imperial Montague._ Power _Cress._ Precaution _Golden Rod._ Prediction _Prophetic Marigold._ Pretension _Spited Willow Herb._ Pride _Amaryllis._ Pride _Hundred-leaved Rose._ Privation _Indian Plum._ Privation _Myrobalan._ Profit _Cabbage._ Prohibition _Privet._ Prolific _Fig Tree._ Promptness _Ten-week Stock._ Prosperity _Beech Tree._ Protection _Bearded Crepis._ Prudence _Mountain Ash._ Pure love _Single Red Pink._ Pure and ardent love _Double Red Pink._ Pure and lovely _Red Rosebud._ Purity _Star of Bethlehem._ Quarrel _Broken Corn-straw._ Quicksightedness _Hawk-weed._ Reason _Goat's Rue._ Recantation _Lotus Leaf._ Recall _Silver-leaved Geranium._ Reconciliation _Filbert._ Reconciliation _Hazel._ Refusal _Striped Carnation._ Regard _Daffodil._ Relief _Balm of Gilead._ Relieve my anxiety _Christmas Rose._ Religious superstition _Aloe._ Religious superstition _Passion Flower._ Religious enthusiasm _Schinus._ Remembrance _Rosemary._ Remorse _Bramble._ Remorse _Raspberry._ Rendezvous _Chickweed._ Reserve _Maple._ Resistance _Tremella Nestoc._ Restoration _Persicaria._ Retaliation _Scotch Thistle._ Return of happiness _Lily of the Valley._ Revenge _Birdsfoot Trefoil._ Reverie _Flowering Fern._ Reward of merit _Bay Wreath._ Reward of virtue _Garland of Roses._ Riches _Corn._ Rigour _Lantana._ Rivalry _Rocket._ Rudeness _Clotbur._ Rudeness _Xanthium._ Rural happiness _Yellow Violet._ Rustic beauty _French Honeysuckle._ Rustic oracle _Dandelion._ Sadness _Dead Leaves._ Safety _Traveller's Joy._ Satire _Prickly Pear._ Sculpture _Hoya._ Secret Love _Yellow Acacia._ Semblance _Spiked Speedwell._ Sensitiveness _Mimosa._ Sensuality _Spanish Jasmine._ Separation _Carolina Jasmine._ Severity _Branch of Thorns._ Shame _Peony._ Sharpness _Barberry Tree._ Sickness _Anemone (Zephyr Flower)._ Silliness _Fool's Parsley._ Simplicity _American Sweetbrier._ Sincerity _Garden Chervil._ Slighted love _Yellow Chrysanthemum._ Snare _Catchfly. Dragon Plant._ Solitude _Heath._ Sorrow _Yew._ Sourness of Temper _Barberry._ Spell _Circæa._ Spleen _Fumitory._ Splendid beauty _Amaryllis._ Splendour _Austurtium._ Sporting _Fox-tail Grass._ Stedfast Piety _Wild Geranium._ Stoicism _Box Tree._ Strength _Cedar. Fennel._ Submission _Grass._ Submission _Harebell._ Success crown your wishes _Coronella._ Succour _Juniper._ Sunbeaming eyes _Scarlet Lychnis._ Surprise _Truffle._ Susceptibility _Wax Plant._ Suspicion _Champignon._ Sympathy _Balm._ Sympathy _Thrift._ Talent _White Pink._ Tardiness _Flax-leaved Goldy-locks._ Taste _Scarlet Fuchsia._ Tears _Helenium._ Temperance _Azalea._ Temptation _Apple._ Thankfulness _Agrimony._ The colour of my fate _Coral Honeysuckle._ The heart's mystery _Crimson Polyanthus._ The perfection of female loveliness _Justicia._ The witching soul of music _Oats._ Thoughts _Pansy._ Thoughts of absent friends _Zinnia._ Thy frown wilt kill me _Currant._ Thy smile I aspire to _Daily Rose._ Ties _Tendrils of Climbing Plants._ Timidity _Amaryllis._ Timidity _Marvel of Peru._ Time _White Poplar._ Tranquillity _Mudwort._ Tranquillity _Stonecrop._ Tranquillize my anxiety _Christmas Rose._ Transient beauty _Night-blooming Cereus._ Transient impressions _Withered White Rose._ Transport of joy _Cape Jasmine._ Treachery _Bilberry._ True love _Forget Me Not._ True Friendship _Oak-leaved Geranium._ Truth _Bittersweet Nightshade._ Truth _White Chrysanthemum._ Unanimity _Phlox._ Unbelief _Judas Tree._ Unceasing remembrance _American Cudweed._ Unchanging friendship _Arbor Vitæ._ Unconscious beauty _Burgundy Rose._ Unexpected meeting _Lemon Geranium._ Unfortunate attachment _Mourning Bride._ Unfortunate love _Scabious._ Union _Whole Straw._ Unity _White and Red Rose together._ Unpatronized merit _Red Primrose._ Uselessness _Meadowsweet._ Utility _Grass._ Variety _China Aster._ Variety _Mundi Rose._ Vice _Darnel (Ray Grass)._ Victory _Palm._ Virtue _Mint._ Virtue, Domestic _Sage._ Volubility _Abecedary,_ Voraciousness _Lupine._ Vulgar Minds _African Marigold._ War _York and Lancaster Rose._ War _Achillea Millefolia._ Warlike trophy _Indian Cress._ Warmth of feeling _Peppermint._ Watchfulness _Dame Violet._ Weakness _Moschatel_ Weakness _Musk Plant._ Welcome to a stranger _American Starwort._ Widowhood _Sweet Scabious._ Win me and wear me _Lady's Slipper._ Winning grace _Cowslip._ Winter _Guelder Rose._ Wit _Meadow Lychnis._ Wit ill-timed _Wild Sorrel._ Witchcraft _Enchanter's Nightshade._ Worth beyond beauty _Sweet Alyssum._ Worth sustained by judicious and tender affection _Pink Convolvulus._ Worthy all praise _Fennel._ You are cold _Hortensia._ You are my divinity _American Cowslip._ You are perfect _Pine Apple._ You are radiant with charms _Ranunculus._ You are rich in attractions _Garden Ranunculus._ You are the queen of coquettes _Queen's Rocket._ You have no claims _Pasque Flower._ You please all _Branch of Currants._ You will be my death. _Hemlock._ Your charms are engraven on my heart _Spindle Tree._ Your looks freeze me _Ice Plant._ Your presence softens my pains _Milkvetch._ Your purity equals your loveliness _Orange Blossoms._ Your qualities, like your charms, are unequalled _Peach._ Your qualities surpass your charms _Mignionette._ Youthful innocence _White Lilac._ Youthful love _Red Catchfly._ Zealousness _Elder._ Zest _Lemon._ _DAFFODILS._ I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden Daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle in the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company; I gazed and gazed, but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought! For oft when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the Daffodils. WORDSWORTH. _THE ROSE._ Go, lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time on me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young. And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair, Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise And teach the maid That goodness Time's rude hand defies; That virtue lives when beauty dies. WALLER. _THE SENSITIVE PLANT._ A SENSITIVE Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of Night. * * * But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant. The snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent, From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness. And the naiad-like lily of the vale. Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green; And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense! And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare; And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Mænad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky; And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, The sweetest flower for scent that blows; And all rare blossoms from every clime Grew in that garden in perfect prime. The Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, Received more than all [flowers], it loved more than ever, Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver-- For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; Radiance and odour are not its dower; It loves, even like Love its deep heart is full, It desires what it has not, the beautiful! * * * Each and all like ministering angels were For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear. Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. And when evening descended from heaven above, And the earth was all rest, and the air was all love, And delight, though less bright, was far more deep, And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep, * * * The Sensitive Plant was the earliest Up-gathered into the bosom of rest; A sweet child weary of its delight, The feeblest, and yet the favourite, Cradled within the embrace of night. SHELLEY. _O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN, &c._ TUNE--_"The Posie."_ O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou; The hyacinth's for constancy w' its unchanging blue, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there; The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond-drops o' dew shall be her e'en sae clear: The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll tie the posie round w' the silken band o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve. And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. BURNS. _MY NANNIE'S AWA._ TUNE--_"There'll never be peace" &c._ Now in her green mantle blithe Nature arrays. And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it's delightless--my Nannie's awa. The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie--and Nannie's awa. Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', Give over for pity--my Nannie 's awa. Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, And sooth me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay; The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, Alane can delight me--now Nannie's awa, BURNS. _THEIR GROVES, &c._ TUNE--_"Humours of Glen."_ THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. BURNS. _TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,_ _On turning one down with a plough, in April_ 1786. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my po'w'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie _Lark_, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' spreckled breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Could blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, But thou beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie _stibble-field,_ Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the _share_ uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet _flow'ret_ of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card Of _prudent lore_, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to _suffering worth_ is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n, To mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but _Heav'n_, He, ruin'd, sink! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, _That fate is thine_--no distant date; Stern Ruin's _plough-share_ drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! BURNS. _LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS._ _On the Approach of Spring._ Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the grassy lea; Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring; The mavis mild wi' many a note, Sings drowsy day to rest: In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae; The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang. I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been; Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en; And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign Lands, And never ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae: The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son! my son! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine; And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine! God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee; And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me! Oh! soon, to me, may summer-suns Nae mair light up the morn! Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn! And in the narrow house o' death Let winter round me rave; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave! BURNS. _RED AND WHITE ROSES._ READ in these Roses the sad story Of my hard fate, and your own glory; In the white you may discover The paleness of a fainting lover; In the red the flames still feeding On my heart with fresh wounds bleeding. The white will tell you how I languish, And the red express my anguish, The white my innocence displaying, The red my martyrdom betraying; The frowns that on your brow resided, Have those roses thus divided. Oh! let your smiles but clear the weather, And then they both shall grow together. CAKEW. _SONNET._ SWEET is the rose, but growes upon a brere; Sweet is the Juniper, but sharpe his bough; Sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere; Sweet is the Firbloom, but his branches rough; Sweet is the Cypress, but his rind is tough, Sweet is the Nut, but bitter is his pill; Sweet is the Broome-flowere, but yet sowre enough; And sweet is Moly, but his roote is ill. So every sweet with sowre is tempred still, That maketh it be coveted the more: For easie things that may be got at will, Most sorts of men doe set but little store. Why then should I account of little pain, That endless pleasure shall unto me gaine? SPENSER _TO PRIMROSES_ FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas! ye have not known that shower That mars a flower; Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Or warped as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep. Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no; this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read: That things of greatest, so of meanest worth. Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth. HERRICK. _A RED, RED ROSE._ TUNE--"_Wishaw's favourite."_ O, MY luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June; O, my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in hive am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt w' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel a while; And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. BURNS. VIRGINS promised when I died, That they would each primrose-tide Duly, morn and evening, come, And with flowers dress my tomb. --Having promised, pay your debts, Maids, and here strew violets. ROBERT HERRICK. MUSIC, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours when sweet violets sicken, Love within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. SHELLEY. RADIANT sister of the day Awake! arise! and come away! To the wild woods and the plains, To the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves, Where the pine its garland weaves Of sapless green, and ivy dun, Round stems that never kiss the sun, Where the lawns and pastures be And the sandhills of the sea, Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy star that never sets, And wind-flowers and violets Which yet join not scent to hue Crown the pale year weak and new: When the night is left behind In the deep east, dim and blind, And the blue moon is over us, And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet, Where the earth and ocean meet And all things seem only one In the universal sun. P. B. SHELLEY. _TO DAFFODILS._ FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet, the early-rising sun Has not attained its noon. Stay, stay, Until the hastening day Has run But to the even song; And having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. ROBERT HERRICK. _CONSTANCY._ LAY a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens willow branches bear; Say, _I died true_. My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth! SAMUEL FLETCHER. MOURN, ilka grove the cushat kens! Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens! Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, Wi' toddlin din, Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to lin. Mourn little harebells o'er the lee; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs. At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my wail. Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year; Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear; Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, For him that's dead! Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear! Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost! BURNS. _TO THE SMALL CELANDINE._ Pansies, Lilies, King-cups, Daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are Violets, They will have a place in story; There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine. Ere a leaf is on the bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless prodigal; Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none. Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly unassuming spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, In the lane--there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee. Ill befall the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours! Buttercups that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien, They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine! Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill requited upon earth; Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing; I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise of what I love! WORDSWORTH. _TO BLOSSOMS._ Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What, were you born to be, An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth, Merely to show your worth And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read, how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave. HERRICK. _THE LILY AND THE ROSE._ THE nymph must lose her female friend, If more admired than she-- But where will fierce contention end, If flowers can disagree. Within the garden's peaceful scene Appear'd two lovely foes, Aspiring to the rank of queen, The Lily and the Rose. The Rose soon redden'd into rage, And, swelling with disdain, Appeal'd to many a poet's page To prove her right to reign. The Lily's height bespoke command, A fair imperial flower; She seem'd designed for Flora's hand, The sceptre of her power. This civil bick'ring and debate The goddess chanced to hear, And flew to save, ere yet too late, The pride of the parterre. Yours is, she said, the nobler hue, And yours the statelier mien; And, till a third surpasses you, Let each be deemed a queen. Thus, soothed and reconciled, each seeks The fairest British fair: The seat of empire is her cheeks, They reign united there. COWPER. _THE WALL-FLOWER._ WHY this flower is now called so, List, sweet maids, and you shall know. Understand this firstling was Once a brisk and bonny lass, Kept as close as Danae was, Who a sprightly springald loved; And to have it fully proved, Up she got upon a wall, 'Tempting down to slide withal; But the silken twist untied, So she fell, and, bruised, she died. Jove, in pity of the deed, And her loving, luckless speed, Turn'd her to this plant we call Now "the flower of the wall." HERRICK. _THE PRIMROSE._ ASK me why I send you here, This firstling of the infant year; Ask me why I send to you This Primrose all bepearled with dew; I straight will whisper in your ears, The sweets of love are washed with tears. Ask me why this flower doth show So yellow, green, and sickly too; Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break; I must tell you, these discover What doubts and fears are in a lover. CAREW. _ADONIS SLEEPING,_ IN midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth Of fondest beauty. Sideway his face reposed On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed, By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth To slumbery pout; just as the morning south Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head, Four lily stalks did their white honours wed To make a coronal; and round him grew All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, Together intertwined and trammel'd fresh: The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh, Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine, Of velvet leaves, and bugle blooms divine. Hard by, Stood serene Cupids watching silently. One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings, Muffling to death the pathos with his wings; And, ever and anon, uprose to look At the youth's slumber; while another took A willow bough, distilling odorous dew, And shook it on his hair; another flew In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise, Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes. KEATS. MODONNA, wherefore hast thou sent to me Sweet Basil and Mignonette, Embleming love and health, which never yet In the same wreath might be. Alas, and they are wet! Is it with thy kisses or thy tears? For never rain or dew Such fragrance drew From plant or flower; the very doubt endears My sadness ever new, The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed, for thee. P. B. SHELLEY. THERE grew pied Wind-flowers and Violets, Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flowers that never set; Faint Oxlips; tender Blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets Its mother's face with Heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. And in the warm hedge grew lush Eglantine, Green Cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day; And Wild Roses, and Ivy serpentine With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray, And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry river buds among the sedge, And floating Water-lilies, broad and bright, Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge With moonlight beams of their own watery light; And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. P. B. SHELLEY. FADE, Flow'rs! fade, Nature will have it so; 'Tis but what we must in our autumn do! And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground, The loss alone by those that lov'd them found; So in the grave shall we as quiet lie, Miss'd by some few that lov'd our company; But some so like to thorns and nettles live, That none for them can, when they perish, grieve. WALLER. _ARRANGEMENT OF A BOUQUET._ HERE damask Roses, white and red, Out of my lap first take I, Which still shall run along the thread, My chiefest flower this make I. Amongst these Roses in a row, Next place I Pinks in plenty, These double Pansies then for show; And will not this be dainty? The pretty Pansy then I'll tie, Like stones some chain inchasing; And next to them, their near ally, The purple Violet placing. The curious choice clove July flower, Whose kind hight the Carnation, For sweetnest of most sovereign power, Shall help my wreath to fashion; Whose sundry colours of one kind, First from one root derived, Them in their several suits I'll bind: My garland so contrived. A course of Cowslips then I'll stick, And here and there (though sparely) The pleasant Primrose down I'll prick, Like pearls that will show rarely; Then with these Marigolds I'll make My garland somewhat swelling, These Honeysuckles then I'll take, Whose sweets shall help their smelling. The Lily and the Fleur-de-lis, For colour much contending; For that I them do only prize, They are but poor in scenting. The Daffodil most dainty is, To match with these in meetness; The Columbine compared to this, All much alike for sweetness. These in their natures only are Fit to emboss the border. Therefore I'll take especial care To place them in their order: Sweet-williams, Campions, Sops-in-wine, One by another neatly; Thus have I made this wreath of mine, And finished it featly. NICHOLAS DRAYTON. _THE CHERRY._ THERE is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy Till cherry ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which, when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow; Yet them no peer nor prince may buy Till cherry ripe themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry ripe themselves do cry. RICHARD ALLISON _THE GARLAND._ THE pride of every grove I chose, The violet sweet and lily fair, The dappled pink and blushing rose, To deck my charming Cloe's hair. At morn the nymph vouchaf'd to place Upon her brow the various wreath; The flowers less blooming than her face, The scent less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day; And every nymph and shepherd said, That in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undrest, at ev'ning, when she found Their odours lost, their colours past; She chang'd her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropt sense distinct and clear, As any muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well; My love! my life! said I, explain This change of humour; pray thee tell: That falling tear.--What does it mean? She sigh'd, she smil'd; and to the flowers Pointing, the lovely moralist said: See! friend, in some few fleeting hours, See yonder, what a change is made! Ah me! the blooming pride of May, And that of beauty are but one: At morn both flourish bright and gay, Both fade at ev'ning, pale, and gone! At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung; The am'rous youth around her bow'd; At night her fatal knell was rung! I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud; Such as she is, who dy'd to-day, Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid thy muse display The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow. PRIOR. _TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME._ GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may: Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best, which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst Times will succeed the former. --Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry. ROBERT HERRICK. _SONG OF MAY MORNING._ NOW the bright morning-star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. MILTON. AMONG the myrtles as I walk'd, Love and my Sight thus intertalk'd: Tell me, said I, in deep distress, Where I may find my Shepherdess? --Thou Fool, said Love, know'st thou not this? In everything that's sweet she is. In yon'd Carnation go and seek, There thou shalt find her lips and cheek; In that enamell'd Pansy by, There thou shalt have her curious eye; In bloom of Peach and Rose's bud There waves the streamer of her blood. --'Tis true, said I; and thereupon I went to pluck them one by one, To make of parts an unión; But on a sudden all were gone. At which I stopp'd; said Love, these be The true resemblance of Thee; For as these Flowers, thy joys must die; And in the turning of an eye; And all thy hopes of her must wither, Like those short sweets here knit together. ROBERT HERRICK. _FRAGMENT, IN WITHERSPOON'S_ _COLLECTION OF SCOTCH SONGS._ TUNE--"_Hughie Graham"_ "O GIN my love were yon red rose, "That grows upon the castle wa'; "And I mysel' a drap o' dew, "Into her bonnie breast to fa'! "Oh, there beyond expression blest, "I'd feast on beauty a' the night; "Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, "Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light." O were my love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; And I, a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing; How I wad mourn, when it was torn By autumn wild, and winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing, When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.[*] [*] These stanzas were added by BURNS. _THE DAISY._ OF all the floures in the mede Than love I most these floures white and rede Soch that men callen Daisies in our town, To hem I have so great affection, As I sayd erst, when comen is the Maie. That in my bedde there daweth me no daie, That I n'am up and walking in the mede To see this floure ayenst the Sunne sprede; Whan it up riseth early by the morrow, That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow. CHAUCER. _ILLUSTRATIONS._ _Page_ A ACACIA Friendship. 7 B BLADDER NUT TREE Frivolity. Amusement. 9 C COWSLIP, AMERICAN Divine beauty. You are my divinity. 11 D DEAD LEAVES Sadness. 15 E ENCHANTER'S NIGHTSHADE Witchcraft. Sorcery. 16 F FIG MARIGOLD Idleness. 17 G GRAPE, WILD Charity. 19 H HYACINTH Sport. Game. Play. 21 I INDIAN JASMINE (IPOMOEA) Attachment. 23 J JACOB'S LADDER Come down. 24 K KENNEDIA Mental beauty. 25 L LARKSPUR, PURPLE Naughtiness. 26 M MOSS Maternal love. 28 N NETTLE TREE Concert. 30 O OSMUNDA Dreams. 31 P PERIWINKLE, BLUE Early friendship 32 Q QUEEN'S ROCKET You are the Queen of Coquettes. Fashion. 35 R ROSE Love. 36 S SOUTHERNWOOD Jest. Bantering. 38 T THRIFT Sympathy. 40 V VERONICA Fidelity 42 W WOOD SORREL Joy. Maternal tenderness. 43 X XERANTHEMUM Cheerfulness under adversity 45 Y YEW Sorrow. 46 Z ZEPHYR FLOWER Expectation 47 
32375	----	SHAN FOLK LORE STORIES FROM THE HILL AND WATER COUNTRY BY WILLIAM C. GRIGGS, M. D. TO MY FRIEND J. N. Cushing, D. D., F. R. A. S. _Principal of the American Baptist College, Rangoon, and Senior Shan Missionary, the greatest authority upon Shan literature, and the translator of the Bible into that language, this little book is dedicated by_ THE AUTHOR INTRODUCTION The following stories have been taken from the great mass of unwritten lore that is to the black-eyed, brown-skinned boys and girls of the Shan mountain country of Burma what "Jack the Giant Killer" and "Cinderella" are to our own children. The old saw as to the songs and laws of a country may or may not be true. I feel confident, however, that stories such as these, being as they are purely native, with as little admixture of Western ideas as it was possible to give them in dressing them in their garment of English words, will give a better insight into what the native of Burma really is, his modes of thought and ways of looking at and measuring things, than a treatise thrice as long and representing infinitely more literary merit than will be found in these little tales; and at the same time I hope they will be found to the average reader, at least, more interesting. It may, perhaps, be not out of place to say a little of the "_hpeas_" who appear so frequently in these stories. The _hpea_ is the Burman _nat_, and is "a being superior to men and inferior to Brahmas, and having its dwelling in one of the six celestial regions" (Doctor Cushing's "Shan-English Dictionary"). They are universally worshiped by the inhabitants of Burma. If a man has fever, the best thing to do is to "_ling hpea_," that is, to feed the spirits, and the sufferer therefore offers rice, betel-nut, painted sticks, etc. Some kinds of _hpeas_ live in the sacred banyan trees, and frequently have I seen men, after a long day's march in the jungle, sit shivering on the ground when within an arm's length lay good dry fire-wood. It had fallen, however, from a tree in which lived a _hpea_, and not a man would dare touch it. Big combs of honey may be in the nests of the wild bees, but it is safe from the hungry traveler if it is sheltered by such a tree. Some watch over wells, tanks, and lakes, and it is notorious throughout the Southern Shan States, that a promising young American missionary, who was drowned while shooting, met his death by being dragged to the bottom of the lake by the guardian spirit, who had become incensed at him for killing a water-fowl on his domains. In Shan folk-lore the hero does not "marry and live happy ever after," but he becomes the king of the country. AMERICAN BAPTIST SHAN MISSION HOUSE, BHAMO, BURMA, 1902. CONTENTS A LAUNG KHIT 9 HOW BOH HAN ME GOT HIS TITLE 19 THE TWO CHINAMEN 32 THE STORY OF THE PRINCESS NANG KAM UNG 45 HOW THE HARE DECEIVED THE TIGER 57 THE STORY OF THE TORTOISE 66 THE SPARROW'S WONDERFUL BROOD 78 HOW THE WORLD WAS CREATED 85 HOW THE KING OF PAGAN CAUGHT THE THIEF 92 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "_Each year at the Feast of Lights ... she prayed_" 10 "_The man standing at the top of the tree was the long-lost brother_" 37 "_Again the cunning hare deceived the tiger_" 63 "'_I am nothing but a tortoise swimming in the lake_'" 68 "_On his way he saw what seemed to be a bed of flowers_" 79 FOLK LORE STORIES "A LAUNG KHIT."[1] Once upon a time there was a woman who lived in the State of Lai Hka. She was a very pious woman and always gave the best rice and _puc_ to the priests as they walked, rice _chattie_ in hand, through the city in the early morning. Every year when the girls and boys went to the river and filled their chatties with water to throw over the pagodas and idols to insure a good rainy season and abundant crops, she always had the largest bucket of the clearest water and threw it higher than anybody else. She carried the sweetest flowers to the _zayat_ every evening, and on worship days took rice in the prettiest of cups made of banana leaves and offered to the Gautamas in the idol-house. But she was not happy. When her neighbors went to the pagodas they had their little ones tied upon their backs or running at their sides, but she had no child whom she could take with her, none to whom she could tell stories of the great Lord Sa Kyah who rules over the spirits in the _hpea_ country, and so she was sad. She was getting old too, and often envied the women who lived near who had bright boys to run errands and girls to help in the house. Each year at the Feast of Lights, when she sent her little candle floating down the river, she prayed for a child, but in vain. At last she made a pilgrimage to a pagoda where folks said was a _parah_ who would give anything that was asked of him. Bright and early she set out, and on her head as an offering she carried an image of a tiger and one of a man, and when she arrived at the pagoda she offered the images and prayed for a son. While she was praying at the pagoda, Lord Sa Kyah heard her, took pity on her, and promised her a son. But, alas! when he was born, to his mother's great sorrow, instead of being the beautiful boy she hoped for he was nothing but a frog. Lord Sa Kyah in order to comfort her, however, told her that her son was really a great _hpea_, and that after one year and seven months he would change into the most handsome man in all the hill and water country. All the women scoffed and made fun of the poor mother, and all through the village she was called Myeh Khit, or "Frog's Mother," but she bore their jeers in silence and never reviled in return. Now the king of the country had seven daughters. All were married except one, and one day Myeh Khit went to him to ask for this daughter in marriage for her son. The king was of course very angry that she should ask that his only remaining daughter should marry a frog, but he spoke deceitfully, called his daughter and asked her if she would be willing to accept a frog for a husband. Like a dutiful daughter she told him that she would "follow his words" and do as he wished, as she had no will apart from his. [Illustration: "Each year at the Feast of Lights ... she prayed." Page 10.] The king then called the woman and said: "O woman, I will give my only remaining daughter to your son, but I make one stipulation. You must build a road, paved and properly built, from the market-place to my palace; the sides must be decorated with painted bamboos, and the work must be done within seven days or you shall die. Now go, and prepare for the work, and at the end of the seven days I will make ready the marriage feast for my daughter or order the executioner to take off your head." In great distress Myeh Khit returned to her home and sat down on the floor of her house and wept. All day long she bewailed her hopeless condition. In vain her son asked her the cause of her sorrow. Afraid of grieving him she would not tell him; but at last when six out of the seven days had passed, and knowing the fate that awaited her on the morrow, she told him how she had gone to the king with her request, and the time being almost expired, that she must make ready to die on the morrow. "The executioner's sword has already been sharpened, my son," she said, "and to-day in bazaar they were talking of it, and promising to meet one another at the palace to-morrow when the sun should be overhead." As a last resource she made ready food and sweetmeats. She took paddy and placed it over the fire till the heat broke the husks and the pure white grains appeared. These she mixed with the whitest of sugar, and as she was too poor to own plates, she went into the jungle to where the new bamboo was bursting through its green prison, and taking the broad coverings of the new leaves she fashioned them into dishes and offered them with many prayers for help to Lord Sa Kyah. "Our lord knoweth that my son can do nothing," she cried. "He has not even hands to help, and what can our lord's slave do to avoid the great trouble to which I have arrived?" That night in the lovely _hpea_ country the mighty Lord Sa Kyah reclined on his golden throne of state. By and by the velvet mat became so hot that he could sit upon it no longer, and looking down he saw, squatting before him on the floor, a frog. "O our lord," said the frog, "I come to remind our lord that he is his slave's father. My mother, our lord's slave, has arrived at great sorrow, and unless our lord pities us and takes compassion on our lord's slave, she will arrive at destruction to-morrow. Graciously do this act of kindness, O chief of all the _hpeas_." Lord Sa Kyah took pity on his son and promised to help him. The four strongest spirits in his kingdom were four _hpeas_. They were twins and the name of the first two was Nan Ta Re and that of the second Hte Sa Kyung. These powerful spirits he ordered to complete the road during the night. The next morning when the king arose he looked forth from his palace and a most wonderful sight met his gaze. He rubbed his eyes, for he believed they deceived him. He pinched himself to see whether he was really awake or whether he was dreaming. For a wonderful thing had happened during the night, so wonderful, in fact, that one cannot be surprised that he thought it unreal. From the bazaar to the very gate of the palace was a broad, smooth road. On each side were brick walls covered with the whitest of cement, and decorated with the heads of lions, and two large griffins, built of brick and covered also with cement, guarded the entrance. They were more than twelve cubits high; their mouths were wide open and showed their terrible fangs, and their eyes looked upon the king with a stony glare. The road was paved with blocks of stone cut as smooth and laid as true as the cells of a honeycomb. There was one road for men, one for oxen, and yet another for horses. _Zayats_ had been built here and there so that travelers aweary could rest and be thankful, and over all was a wide canopy of white cloth that extended entirely from end to end and from side to side to protect the king from the sun when he should move along the road to observe its wonders more closely. In utter amazement he beat the gong that hung ready to his side with such vigor that _amats_, soldiers, attendants, and the people from the city, came rushing out of their houses to the palace gates expecting at least that the neighboring prince with whom they had long been at war had taken the city by surprise; but they, like the king, stood transfixed and speechless with wonder when they saw the road with its carvings and _zayats_ and the canopy with the golden border spread above all. The king called Myeh Khit. She came, and hidden in her turban was her son. The king had thought to punish this presumptuous woman by giving her an impossible task to do with a penalty that put her beyond the power of offending again, and was of course angry and disappointed that his scheme had been unsuccessful; but the occurrence had become the common talk of the market-place, and so he was obliged to carry out his part of the bargain, although it had gone contrary to his expectation and desires. So, much against his will, he called his daughter and gave an order that for seven days there was to be a feast in honor of the marriage of the princess. But when the rejoicings of the people were finished, Khit was not given permission to live in his father's palace but was sent with his wife and mother to live in the old house where he had been born. Six days after the marriage there was a feast at the pagoda, and the six daughters of the king went in state. They rode upon royal elephants; dancers danced before them; the golden umbrellas protected them from the sun; and everybody fell upon their knees and clasped their hands as the august personages went along. Their retinue filled the street when they stopped at the little house where their sister lived. "O sister," they called, "are you coming to the feast?" but the poor girl in great shame told them she could not come, and when they had gone, she sat on the floor with her face in her hands and gave way to her grief. While she was sobbing, her husband approached and told her not to be sorrowful. "My father is the great Lord Sa Kyah," said he, "and he will give me anything I ask, so do not say, 'I am ashamed to go, as I have only a frog for a husband.' You shall yet see your proud father and unkind sisters bowing before you and offering you presents as they offer to gods." Seeing how distressed the poor girl really was, the Lord Sa Kyah took pity on them and descended to earth. He brought with him wonderful white clothes such as the _hpeas_ wear. They were brighter than the stars that shoot across the sky at night, or the lightning that flashes over the heavens during the hot season. He also gave them a magic stone, which if placed under their tongues, would enable them to fly wherever they wished. The next morning was the last day of the feast when the boat races would be rowed, when the horses of the king and his chief _amats_ would race for prizes, when the best jugglers would show their most wonderful tricks, and the best dancers would dance under the booths. In the midst of the fun and excitement a great shout rent the air: "The mighty Lord Sa Kyah is descending!" and right in the middle of the feasting there was a flash of brilliant light and two wonderful beings alighted. They were clothed in dazzling white, and flew swifter than when a kingfisher darts from a tree toward its prey in the water. Every one came crowding around as near as they dared, and upon their knees offered presents of food to the wonderful beings. First and foremost came the princesses, who bowed till their foreheads touched the dust; they lifted their clasped hands over their heads and turned away their faces while they offered the sweetest and most savory food to the visitors. But it was noticed that although the spirits ate the food offered by the _amats_ and common people, they would not eat that given by the princesses, but wrapped it up and placed it on one side. The next day the princesses came to their sister's house and derided her. "O wife of an animal," they cried, "you would not come to the feast, and so you lost the chance of seeing the mighty Lord Sa Kyah descend from the _hpea_ country," and then they told of the wonderful sight, and again made fun of their unfortunate sister. Khit's wife smiled at them and then she said: "It is you who are unfortunate, not I. My husband is not the ugly animal you think him to be, but is a great and powerful _hpea_. It was not the Lord Sa Kyah who descended yesterday, but his son, my husband, and myself, and to prove my words, whose are these?" and she produced the very bundles of food that her sisters had offered the day before to the supposed ruler of all spirits. The sisters were surprised to see that she had the food there, but they laughed her to scorn when she told them of her husband. In order that his son should become mighty and famous, the Lord Sa Kyah sent one of his attendants to the king, and caused him to give an order to his children that they should have a boat race. The one who reached the winning post first and carried away the flag on its rattan pole was to be king in his room, and the one who came in last was to be slave to the fortunate one. There were great preparations among the servants of the six princesses, and many wagers were made as to who would be successful, but none wished to wager as to who would come in last, as all knew it would be the youngest sister. "She has no boat," said they, "and has no servants to make one, or money to buy one. Even if she had, what could she do? Her husband has no hands, how could he row against and defeat the swift boatmen who have been called by the princesses?" The king gave seven days in which his daughters were to prepare for the race, and during that time the shouting of the various crews as they practised on the lake was heard from early morning till the sun dropped behind the mountains, but only six boats were seen. The race was to take place on a lake at the outskirts of the city, and on the morning of the seventh day, when the six princesses took their stations they were surprised to see that there was a seventh boat there, but they did not know that it was a magic boat sent by the Lord Sa Kyah from the _hpea_ country, and that the sixteen rowers were not men, but _hpeas_. The course was over a thousand cubits to a post, around it, and return, and so fast did the magic boat glide through the water that it had covered the entire distance and the captain had laid the flag at the king's feet before any of the other boats had reached the first pole that showed half the distance. But something even more wonderful than that had taken place. During the race, the time set apart during which the son of Myeh Khit was to have the form of a frog had expired, and, lo! he was now the most handsome man in all the hill and water country. He had a crown of gold upon his head, and the magic white clothes such as only _hpeas_ wear were on his person. His wife was clothed in as beautiful a manner, and the king, at last seeing the mistake he had made in treating him so badly, knelt on the shore and asked: "Which lord is the son of his slave?" by which he meant, which of the lords was the one to whom he had given his daughter. But the Lord Khit, as he was now called, did not take a mean revenge on his unkind brothers and sisters, and when they came on their knees begging for their lives, and asking the privilege of being his slaves, he took compassion on them, and instead of ordering them to immediate execution, made them his _amats_. This is why the Shans who live in the hill and water country worship Sau Maha Khit. [1] "'A Laung,' one who is progressing toward a divine state; an incipient deity."--_Cushing's "Shan Dictionary," p. 586._ HOW BOH HAN ME GOT HIS TITLE. Boh Han Me was one of the greatest generals who ever lived in the hill and water country. Just what his original name was nobody knows now, but this story tells how he gained his title. One day he went into the jungle with his wife and his two children to gather _nau_, which is a kind of _puc_ made from the young bamboo shoots. They were very successful in getting it, and were just on the point of going home with their loads, when right before them appeared a large black bear. The bear opened wide his mouth and roared, showing his immense white teeth and great throat, and came ambling toward them growling all the while in the fiercest kind of way. Now as soon as the man saw the bear he just threw away all the _nau_ that he had in his hands and ran for his life, calling on his wife to do the same. The two children followed their father and left their mother to get out of her trouble as best she could. She, however, was as brave as her husband was cowardly, and instead of running away, she took a handful of the longest of the shoots and thrust them down the open throat of the bear and killed him. She then took the short sword that they had brought from home to cut the shoots, and with it she skinned the bear, cut him up, and made the skin into a sack in which to carry the meat. Meanwhile her cowardly husband did not stop running till he reached the city in which he lived, and then he told all his neighbors how he had been in the jungle and a great bear had attacked them; how he had fought bravely for a long while, but at last it had killed his wife and eaten her. The neighbors were very sorry for him, but advised him to get home and fasten all the doors and windows before the spirit of his wife would have time to get in, for they said, seeing that she was killed when he was with her, her ghost would without doubt try and gain admittance to the house and haunt it. Once in, it would be very difficult to get her out. The man, more frightened than ever, ran home as fast as he could and called his children to bring all the rice that was already cooked into the house, and then they fastened up the two doors and the one window with bamboos and rattan. There was to be a feast in the city that night, and the two children wanted to go and see the fun, but their father was in such a fright that he would not give them permission to go, or even to look out through the holes in the sides of the house where the bamboo matting had come unfastened and bulged away from the posts. By this time the sun had set and it was just getting dark, and the man, tired with the hunt in the jungle and the excitement after, was just going to sleep when he heard a voice that he recognized as his wife's calling to be let in. "Husband, _oie_!" it called, "open the door and let me in. I am very tired and hungry, and want rice and sleep. Get up quickly. Why have you fastened up the window and doors with bamboos and rattan? There are no bad men around; any one would think you were afraid thieves were coming to-night." The man was frightened almost to death when he heard his wife's voice, for he felt sure it was her ghost coming to haunt him, so he called out: "Ghost of my wife, _oie_! I will not let you in. If I did I would never be able to get you out again. You want to haunt this house. I will not let you in. Go away, go away!" In vain the woman told him that she was indeed his wife, that she was not a ghost at all, but had killed the bear and had his skin on her back with the meat in it, and begged to be let in; the man would not believe her and so she had to wait outside. All night long she called and begged her husband to let her in, but in vain. When the sun had risen, however, he felt a little braver, and so he put his head out through the thatch, and saw that it really was his wife and not her ghost. With great joy he ran down, opened the door, and let her in, but when his wife told him how she had killed the bear, he again became frightened. "We have arrived at great trouble," said he. "When the people hear that you have killed a bear, they will most surely kill you. What shall we do to escape and be freed from the impending punishment?" But his wife was a clever woman, and when the neighbors came in to ask how it was that she had not been killed, she told a wonderful story, how through the bravery of her husband she had been saved; that he had seen the bear, and by his bravery, that was so great it was good to marvel at, it had been driven off. The neighbors were very pleased that so brave a man lived in their quarter, and he became famous, people calling him Gon Han Me, or "the man who saw the bear." Gon Han Me was very proud of his title, as many other vain people have been proud of titles they never earned, but it came near costing him his life, and this was the way it led him into great danger. One day a large cobra fell into the well that was in the yard before the chief door of the king's palace, and everybody was afraid to draw water because of it. When the _amats_ told the king that a cobra was in the well, he gave orders that it was to be taken out, but nobody was brave enough to go down the well and kill the snake. The chief _amat_ was in great distress. He feared the king would deprive him of his office if the snake were not killed immediately. He was not brave enough to descend himself, and money, promises, and threats were of no avail to induce any one else to go. Everybody declined to take the risk, and said: "Of what use is money, or horses, or buffaloes, to a man bitten by a cobra? Will that free him from death? Nay, go yourself." The poor _amat_ was at his wits' end, when at last one of the attendants told the king that in the quarter of the city where his sister lived, was a man so brave that he was called Gon Han Me, and said he: "If a man is brave enough to see a bear in the jungle and not be afraid, surely he will dare go down the well and kill the cobra." The king was much pleased with the attendant for showing a way out of the difficulty. "He surely is the man we want," said he; "go and call him immediately to come and destroy the snake." The attendant of the king came to Gon Han Me and said: "Brother, _oie_! the king has heard that you are a very brave man, so brave, in fact, that your neighbors all talk of you and you have arrived at the rank of being called 'Gon Han Me.' Now in the royal well there is a snake, a cobra, which as you know is called the worst snake that lives. It is a very wicked snake and everybody has arrived at great trouble because of it. Nobody dares draw water there, and the king has given orders that it is to be killed. However, no one at the palace is brave enough to descend the well and kill the snake, but when his majesty heard of your great bravery, he sent me to order you to come immediately, descend the well, and kill the cobra. He will give you great rewards, and besides will make you a _boh_ (officer) in the royal army." When Gon Han Me heard this he was in great distress and called his wife. "Wife, _oie_!" he said; "this unlucky name will certainly be the cause of my death. It will truly kill me. The king has called me to descend the royal well and kill a wicked snake that is frightening everybody in the palace. I am not brave enough to go. If I do not go, the king will have me executed. I shall be killed whichever I do. If I go the snake will kill me, if I do not go the king will kill me. I shall arrive at destruction, and all because of this miserable name." The wife pondered awhile and then advised her husband to get dressed in his best clothes and go to the palace, look down the well to see what it was like, then make some excuse to come back home and she would tell him what next to do. The man was soon dressed in his best clothes, and was already going down the steps of the house when his wife called out that he had left his _hsan_ behind him. Now when the Shans go into the jungle, or on a journey, they carry with them a rice-bag, or _hsan_. This is a long narrow bag, more like a footless hose than anything else, and when filled with rice it is worn around the waist, where it looks like a big snake coiled around. Now Gon Han Me was very proud of his rice-bag, for instead of being made of plain white cloth, as is the custom, it was embroidered all over with different colored wools, and was so long that it went around his waist several times. He was so excited and terrified that when he reached the well he did not notice that one end had been unfastened and was dragging on the ground, and as he went to the well to look over, it caught around his legs, overbalanced him, and he went head first into the well with a tremendous splash. The next instant the snake lifting its head darted at him, and all that the men above, who were waiting with breathless interest to discover how the battle would end, could hear, was an infinite amount of splashing, yells, and hissing. Gon Han Me never knew how it was, but in the fall his _hsan_ became twisted around the neck of the snake, and in a few minutes it was choked to death. The man for a while could hardly believe that the snake was really dead. It seemed too good to be true, but he came to the conclusion that his _kam_[2] was good, and he would yet be a great and famous man. He therefore assumed a heroic air, and at the top of his voice called to the men at the mouth of the well: "Brethren, _oie_! I have killed the snake and thus freed you from the great danger from which you were suffering. I will now throw up the end of this long rice-bag. Do you catch it and pull me and the dead snake up to dry ground." He thereupon threw up the end of the embroidered _hsan_, the men caught it, and the next minute he appeared with the dead snake in his hand. The king was very pleased with Gon Han Me for his brave act. He gave him great rewards as he had promised, and also gave order that in future he should be known by the name of "Boh Han Me," or "the officer who saw the bear." Some time after this there was war between the king and the ruler of the next province. There was a great council called and it was unanimously agreed that as Boh Han Me was the bravest man in the country, he should be appointed as commander-in-chief. When the message came to his house, however, it caused him great distress, for as he told his wife, he did not want to be killed in the least; he did not wish to run the risk of being killed or even hurt. Besides he had never been on horseback in his life. He had a buffalo that ploughed his fields, and it is true that occasionally, tired with the day's work, he had ridden home on its back when the sun sank into the west, but he was sure that if he got on the back of a horse it would immediately divine that he was ignorant of the art of riding, did not _mau_ as he said, and he would be thrown to the ground and hurt, killed maybe. Who could tell? Again his clever wife came to the rescue. "You must go to the fight whether you want to or not," said she. "The king has given orders and he must be obeyed. To disobey the king is more dangerous than seeing a bear or even fighting a snake, so go you must. As to riding, that is easily managed. Bring your pony here and I will show you how to ride without danger." On the never-to-be-forgotten day when the whole family went into the jungle to gather _nau_, they were very poor, but since the fight with the snake in the well, they had become rich, and so now the _boh_ had servants to do his bidding, and he therefore called one of them to saddle his pony and bring it to the door of his house. This was soon done. He took his seat, and then his wife took long pieces of rawhide and fastened his legs, from ankle to knee, on both sides to the stirrups and girths. She knotted them securely so that there would be no chance of his falling off his steed. He was very pleased that he had such a clever wife, who could help him out of every trouble into which he might fall, and rode away well pleased with himself, and soon reached the place where the soldiers were assembled awaiting his appearance before beginning the march. To have seen him nobody would have thought that he was frightened sick. He sat up bravely, and you would have thought that he was the best horseman in all the hill and water country, but all the time he was turning over in his mind the advice given by his wife when they talked it over the night before. This was what she said to him: "Now, when you get to the soldiers, see them start off. Give all the orders in a very loud, pompous tone. Talk high, and they will think you _mau_ very much (are very clever). Then you can easily find some excuse to get to the rear, and you must stay there till the fighting is all finished." There was one party to this arrangement, however, that they had both failed to take into account when making their plans, and that was the pony. They neither remembered that there was a possibility of the pony taking it into his head to carry his master where the latter did not want to go, but that was just what happened, for, when the pony saw all the other horses and the men marching off, he too commenced to move forward. He was a fine big pony and was accustomed to head processions, not to come at the tail end, and so he started off of his own accord. Now we have said that his rider had never been on horseback before, but had often ridden his buffalo from the paddy field when the day's work of ploughing was over. When a man on a buffalo wishes to stop, he jerks the rope that is fastened to the animal's nose, and obedient to the signal, it stops. So, when the _boh_ found his steed forging ahead a little faster than suited him, he jerked the reins, expecting the pony to stop, but to his consternation, he found it go all the faster. He jerked harder, the pony broke into a quick trot. He jerked again, the pony began to gallop. He was now thoroughly frightened and called out at the top of his voice, but this only frightened the pony more and it began to gallop just as fast as ever it could, and worse than all, it headed straight for the enemies' soldiers, whom he could see in the distance getting ready to receive him. He cursed his wife with all his heart. If he could only fall off! She had taken too good precautions against that. He pulled and tugged, but the rawhide was strong; the knots were too tight; and every minute brought him nearer to his enemies. He could hear the shouts of his friends in the distance getting fainter and fainter as the distance increased, calling him to come back. How he wished he could! He swayed from side to side, first on one flank then on the other. The pony now had its head down between its knees, the bit between its teeth, and was tearing along like the wind. It would be hard to say which was the more frightened, the horse or its rider; each frightened the other. But there was a lower depth yet to be reached. In jumping over a hole the saddle slipped to the side, the next instant away it went, turned, and saddle, rider, and all slipped clear around, and Boh Han Me found himself still securely lashed to the saddle, squarely under his horse instead of on it. Meanwhile in the camp of the enemy a council of war was being held. "Can any one tell me," asked the king, "who commands our foes?" "Our lord," said one of the _amats_, "it is a man who has been picked out of the whole army, and is the bravest man who ever drew a sword. He is called Boh Han Me because he conquered a great fierce bear in the jungle. He also went down a well in the royal palace and killed the largest and fiercest snake ever seen in all the hill and water country." The king was much disquieted when he heard of the prowess of this man, and was pondering whether it would not be better to fight with silver than steel, and offer a great reward to any man in the enemies' camp who would bring to him the head of this doughty soldier, when he heard a great shout. He sprang to the tent door and looked anxiously out. All eyes were bent in one direction and a look of intense wonder, not unmixed with fear, sat on each face. The king naturally expected to see the whole army of the enemy approaching in overwhelming numbers, but he shared the wonder of his soldiers when he saw, not an army, but one single man dashing toward him. The next instant the rider disappeared entirely, but the horse came on faster than before. Next instant there was the rider again, arms tossing in the air, hair streaming behind, only to disappear the following moment in the same mysterious way. The face of the king blanched with terror as he asked in a whisper, "Who is this man?" A hundred voices cried: "It is Boh Han Me, the bravest man alive! He has some charm that makes him invisible whenever he wishes, and he cannot be hurt by sword or arrow." Nothing spreads so quickly as a panic, and almost before the king was aware of it, he was carried away in the fierce rush to escape. His men were blind with fear; they threw away their arms; men and officers fled for their lives, their only thought to flee from that horse and its terrible rider who disappeared and reappeared in such an awful fashion, and in a few minutes the field was deserted and the whole army in full retreat. The horse by this time was exhausted. It stumbled, but regained its feet only to fall again immediately. It made another effort to struggle to its feet, but this time unsuccessfully, and then lay still on its side, its flanks heaving and its breath coming and going in quick sobs. Very cautiously Boh Han Me drew a knife and slowly cut one knot. The horse did not stir. Another followed, and soon one leg was freed. This made the task easier, and soon both legs were cut from their bonds and he sprang to his feet, bruised and sore, it is true, but no bones broken, and only too glad to be on solid earth again, and he vowed he would never from that day forth ever get on anything that moved faster than a buffalo. What the king said when he reached the place where the foes had encamped may be imagined. He declared that a man as brave as his general had never lived in any age or country. For one man to charge a whole army, and, what was more, drive it off too, was a thing good to marvel at, and Boh Han Me did the wisest thing he ever did in his life, he just held his peace. When they had gathered together the spoil they returned home with the hero by the side of the king. The latter gave him a grand palace with gold, silver, oxen, buffaloes, elephants, and slaves in abundance, and also the rank of Boh Hoh Sök, which is the highest rank of general in the army, and means, "head of all the troops." The happy man lived many, many years, but he kept his promise, and whenever he wished to travel he rode upon an elephant and never again as long as he lived got upon the back of a horse. [2] _Kam_, luck, or fate. THE TWO CHINAMEN. Ages ago, when this world was new, having been created but a short while, two Chinese boys left their native country and started out on their travels to discover things new and strange. After wandering for many days they came to the hill and water country where the Shans live. Here they found a monastery, where lived very wise and learned priests, who instructed them in many ways. They lived here some time and won the esteem of the head priest to such an extent that he showed them a magic sword and bow that had lain in the monastery many years waiting for somebody to carry away. The law was that the man who could bend the bow or could draw the sword from its sheath should keep it. The elder brother went to the sword and tried to draw it. He pulled, he tugged, he strained, till the sweat ran down his face, but in vain. He could not draw it out one inch. Seeing the ill success of his elder brother, the younger thought it impossible for him to draw the magic sword, but at his brother's command he took the handle in his hand and pulled with all his might. To everybody's surprise out came the magic sword, and the Chinaman walked away in triumph. The elder brother now made up his mind that if he could not get the sword he would try for the bow, and he might have more success with that, so he exerted all his strength, and slowly, slowly bent it, till the cord was taut and the bow all ready to shoot. The people of the city were amazed that the two brothers should have such strength and good luck, and many envious eyes followed them as they again set out on their journey, carrying their trophies with them. They traveled on and on till they gave up counting the distance, it was so great, till one day, as they were resting on the banks of a large river in a far country, they saw a great fish swimming in the water. It was so great that nobody heretofore had been able to catch it, and it was in fact the king of all the fishes. It broke all the nets and smashed all the traps. It snapped all the lines that were set for it, and nobody was strong enough to pull it ashore when it did take the hook. The Chinamen saw it, and the elder brother instantly strung his bow, put on a bolt, and shot the great fish as it was swimming in the shallow water. In a few minutes he had it on his shoulder, and they commenced to cross the bridge to the other side of the river. Now the river was very wide, the current was very swift, and the bridge was not at all strong. It was only made of bamboos and rattan and swung from side to side as the men crossed it. When they got to the middle it began to creak and strain till the two travelers were in great fear it would break. The one who had killed it turned to his brother and said: "O brother, the fish is so heavy I am afraid the bridge will break. Please draw your magic sword and cut it in halves, and then we will be able to get to the other side in safety." The younger brother therefore drew his sword and cut the fish in halves; but he did not yet know how sharp the sword was, for he cut the fish in halves, it is true, but not only that, but the whole bridge as well, so that his brother fell into the water and was immediately swept from his sight. On his part he could not of course cross, now the bridge was down, so he returned to the same side of the river and ran along the bank looking to see whether his brother would be swept ashore in some shallow place; but although he ran till he was exhausted and then traveled for many days by the side of the river through the jungle, he could discover no trace of his lost brother. Swiftly down the stream his brother was carried. He tried to swim first to one bank and then to the other as the current swept him along, but in vain. At last he gave up trying. Nobody knows just how long he was in the water, but for many days he floated, and when he was on the point of dying from exhaustion, cold, and hunger, his feet touched bottom, and, more dead than alive, he crawled up the bank to dry land. He found that he had landed near a garden, and, on climbing over the wall, he discovered that it belonged to the king. He was too tired to climb back again, however, so sank on the ground and the next instant fell asleep from sheer weariness. Now it happened that the king of that country had just died, and his _amats_ had taken out the royal chariot and were drawing it around the city looking for the proper person to become king. As they went along they saw this young man sleeping in the royal garden with his magic bow beside him. He had come from nobody knew where. He was so strong that the river even could not kill him. Above all, he had a wonderful magic bow which none of the _amats_ or nobles could bend, so they came to the conclusion that he indeed was the man who should be king of the country, and he was crowned with great pomp and magnificence. The other brother had been left standing on the bridge when the elder fell into the water, as we have said, and for many days he followed the river bank till he too arrived in a far country. It was a very strange country. There were no men there, only monkeys, but they were the very cleverest monkeys that ever lived, and were ruled over by a _nang me prah_, that is, a queen, just as men are ruled. This queen of the monkeys fell in love with the Chinaman and married him, so that he became king of Monkey Land. They built a palace for him on the top of the highest tree in the jungle. Every seventh day they brought him food. Some brought plantains, some mangoes, some rice, and some fish fresh caught in the river. The elder brother had now been king of the country where he had landed for some years, and one day he remembered his younger brother, whom he had left standing on the broken bridge with the sword in his hand. He therefore called his _amats_ and told them he was going on a long journey, and that they must rule well and justly till he returned. He then called his favorite servants and set out to discover his brother. They had a great store of provisions carried by coolies. He had his royal elephants, on which he could ride when traveling over the steep mountain roads and to carry his chief queens, and ponies for riding over the plains. One night, however, he became separated from his followers and lost his way. He shouted and called, but shouted and called in vain. He could not find a trace of them. Servants, horses, elephants, and goods were all gone, and he was in great fear that he would die in the jungle. When morning broke he was much surprised to see that he had arrived at a city, but that the houses were all built on the tops of the trees, and on looking closer, he discovered that instead of people living in these houses the inhabitants were all large monkeys. Not a man was to be seen, and the monkeys were very fierce and screamed at him in anger from the top of every tree. One especially he noticed as being more fierce than any of the others, and he accordingly leveled his magic bow and shot it dead. As it fell from the tree to the ground he heard all the friends of the dead monkey come rushing out of their houses on the tops of the trees calling to one another that a man had killed one of their brethren, and asking that their friends would come to kill the man who had been guilty of the deed. [Illustration: "The man standing at the top of the tree was the long-lost brother." Page 37.] After a little time the king came to a tree that was taller than any other in the jungle, and upon it was a palace. Stairs led from the door of the palace to the ground, and as he looked more closely he saw a man up there. In great joy he called out to him, asking to be directed. "I am the king of a far country," he said, "and I am on a journey to search for my brother, whom I have not seen for many, many years. Last night I lost my way. Will you take pity on me and show me the way and I will give you a great reward?" "Who was your brother?" asked the man in the tree. "He was a Chinese student," returned the king, "and he had a wonderful magic sword. One day as we were traveling he cut a great fish in two, but such was the virtue residing in the magic sword that he not only cut the fish in halves but the bridge as well, so I left him standing on the end of the bridge." You may imagine how pleased the king was when he discovered that the man standing at the top of the tree was the long-lost brother for whom he was searching, and he made ready to ascend to his house in the treetop. At that moment a little monkey ran down the tree toward him, and he kicked it aside, saying, "Out of my way, little monkey." The small monkey in great anger said: "I am not a monkey, but your nephew." "My nephew!" exclaimed the king in great astonishment. "What do you mean by that?" His brother, the monkey king, then explained to him that he had married the queen of all the monkeys and that this was their child, that he ruled over all the monkeys, who had built this palace for him and every seventh day brought him tribute of food. "I am sorry to say, then," said the elder brother, "that I have killed one of your subjects," and at the same moment the wife and son of the dead monkey approached their king. "Our lord," said they, "the man yonder has been guilty of a great crime. He entered the domains of our lord and although we did nothing to him, yet he raised his bow and killed one of the servants of our lord. Therefore our lord's servants demand that he shall be killed too." "I am very sorry," said the king of the monkeys, "that you have killed that special monkey. He was very clever and brave. He was also one of my chief _amats_, and his friends will assuredly kill you." The monkeys were now assembling by hundreds and calling to each other everywhere. Every treetop appeared alive with angry figures all calling for vengeance on the man who had killed their friend. The king, however, who had taken sides with his brother, was not afraid, and said he could kill all the monkeys in the country; and he drew his sword and cut in halves the monkey nearest to him. To his great surprise, however, the two halves of the monkey he had killed each became a whole monkey and attacked him again, so that he now had two to fight instead of one. If he cut off the hand or leg of a monkey with his long sword, it immediately turned into two, and he soon saw that unless he devised some other way of fighting them they would soon kill them both. He therefore rushed off to the jungle and got a great hollow bamboo. He then went to a bees' nest and swept all the bees into it, and caught a great many scorpions and centipedes, snakes and spiders. When the monkeys came toward him to renew the fight, he opened one end of the bamboo and the insects and reptiles, swarming out, very angry at being kept prisoners in the hollow bamboo, soon drove the monkeys off so that the two brothers were able to escape. Shortly afterward they found the escort of the king and together returned to the city where the good elder brother made the younger his chief _amat_. Now when the younger brother became _amat_, he of course saw what a great king his brother was. He saw his subjects kneel before him; he saw the royal elephants, oxen, horses, and buffaloes; he saw the riches in money, jewels, and goods that belonged to him; that his queens were the most beautiful women in the land; and he became jealous. Then he coveted all these things. The next step was easy; he determined to kill his brother and become king in his stead. Then he began to ponder and plot how best he could destroy the brother who had been so good to him. He did not remember how that same brother had left all these things to come and hunt for him; how he had given him riches and honor and position, so that now he was chief minister and next to him in power. No, he did not think of any of these things, but like the ungrateful man that he was, thought only that his brother had more than he. He soon came to the conclusion that he could not kill his brother in the city, for everybody loved the king, and he feared that his crime would be discovered, so he was obliged to wait until they should be alone in the jungle together. The opportunity soon came. One day the king was out hunting and had gotten separated from all his followers. His brother the _amat_ was a short distance ahead when he saw, just in front of him, a very deep hole, so deep in fact that it was impossible to see the bottom. In great excitement he turned and beckoned to the king as fast as he could, calling out in a loud voice that he had something very wonderful to show him. The king thought that at least he had discovered a mountain of rubies and came running up. He knelt by the side of the hole but could see nothing. "There is nothing down there," said he. "Let our lord lean a little farther over," said the cunning _amat_. "He will then see the most wonderful thing in the world." The king bent farther over and his wicked brother gave him a push that sent him headlong to the bottom. He had now succeeded in all his plans; he had reached the height of his ambitions, but although he became king he was not happy. He had trouble all the time. It is true he had his brother's riches, that he rode the royal elephants, wore the royal robes, and lived in the royal palace, but he had trouble with his _amats_, with his soldiers, and his people, and therefore instead of being happy as he expected he would be, he was unhappy and miserable. If he had only known what was happening in the jungle he would have been more anxious still. His brother was not dead as he thought. The fall to the bottom of the hole did not kill him and he was only a prisoner. His followers had all gone back to the city with his wicked brother. He called, but called in vain. He heard nothing but the echo of his own cries, and he was about to give up in despair, when it happened that the mighty Lord Sa Kyah coming through the jungle heard his cries and inquired the cause. The king did not know that this was the Lord Sa Kyah, but told him all that had happened. Lord Sa Kyah was very angry with the king's heartless brother and created at the bottom of the hole a lily of the kind that has a very long stalk. The king sat upon the blossom of the lily which then began to grow very rapidly, and as it grew carried the king up toward the mouth of the hole. As he gradually rose toward daylight he saw that a tree was growing at the very edge of the pit, and that some of the branches hung over. He saw also that a monkey was busily engaged in feeding on the leaves and fruit. The lily, of course, made no noise as it pursued its upward path; the king also kept quiet so as not to frighten the monkey, and when he was near enough suddenly put forth his hand and caught it by the tail. The monkey screamed and kicked, fought and scratched, but in vain; the king held on, and at last the monkey climbed down the tree taking the king with him, and the latter was speedily standing once more on solid ground and able to offer up his thanks to the mighty Lord Sa Kyah. The king was not long in reaching the city and when he arrived, to his great sorrow he saw, as he expected, his ungrateful brother reigning, while the people all sorrowed for their old king. He determined to wait awhile before he declared himself, feeling that the Lord Sa Kyah who had already once helped him when in trouble and danger would aid him in regaining his lost kingdom; so he went into the poorest part of the city, put on the poorest and most ragged clothes that he could find, and sat near the gate of the city begging, from whence he often saw his brother riding by in state. One day the heralds came riding by and stood in the open space fronting the market where the gambling booths are, and gave notice that the king had commanded that if anybody could bend the magic bow belonging to the late king, his brother, he was to be made the chief _amat_ of the kingdom and receive many and great presents besides. As may be imagined, the next day there was a great crowd gathered together at the great gate of the palace, waiting for the king. At last out he came with all his ministers and followed by attendants bearing golden umbrellas. Behind him came a soldier carrying over his shoulder the magic bow which was placed at the king's feet. The king called upon his soldiers to come and bend the bow, and the strongest of them came forward, but although they pulled and tugged, tugged and strained, they could not bend it. Then the people of the city, or "the king's people," as they loved to call themselves in contradistinction to the people who lived in the jungle villages, tried, but met with no better success than the soldiers. They could not bend the bow. The king then ordered the _amat löng_ to call the men from the jungle. The very strongest coolies, those who carried heavy burdens over the mountains, came in answer to the king's summons, but although some of them could carry fifty _soie_ over the highest mountain they could not draw the cord a hand's-breadth. The king, much disappointed, was about to return to the palace when a beggar man approached and bowing at his feet said he was able to draw the bow and fire an arrow from it. The king was angry at what he thought was the presumption of this beggar. The soldiers derided him, saying that the bravest of them could not draw the bow and how was a beggar to do it? The coolies also asked him whether he could carry fifty _soie_ over Loi Mawk Pah that was called the Cloud Mountain, because its head was often in the clouds. But the beggar asked to be allowed to try and the king gave orders that he should be given the bow, at the same saying that he assuredly should be made _amat löng_ if he was successful, but if he could not bend the bow, he should be put to death immediately. The beggar assented to these terms and seized the bow. He took hold of the string and without any show of strength pulled it a hand's-breadth, and then as the king and his courtiers looked on in amazement he pulled it to its full length, placed the string on the ivory trigger, put an arrow on it, and asked the king where he should shoot. "Straight up into the air," said the king. The beggar raised the bow, twang went the string, and the arrow whizzed out of sight. Everybody stood looking up into the sky when suddenly one of the courtiers gave a warning cry. It came too late. The arrow had gone straight up, turned, and fell almost on the same spot from whence it was shot. Almost, but not quite, for in its fall it struck the upturned face of the king and he fell dead. A great cry was raised as the king fell and the guards rushed forward to seize the beggar and lead him to immediate execution, but he waved them off with a gesture of his hand. The next instant his rags fell from him and he stood before them in the royal robes of a king. Thus we see that the younger brother, although indeed he had not murdered his brother the king, yet did kill him in his thoughts and intentions, and he suffered the punishment that is always meted out to the man who kills his fellow. STORY OF THE PRINCESS NANG KAM UNG There was once a king who reigned over one of the largest States in the hill and water country. For a long time there had been war between him and the _sau hpa_ of the neighboring State, but at last his soldiers had been successful, and his enemy had been driven out of his possessions, which had thereupon been added to his own. A great feast had been given when his soldiers returned to their homes, and he was now sitting with his queens and his seven daughters in the palace watching a performance given in honor of the victory. He praised the actors for their skill, and then asked his daughters whether they had enjoyed the performance. They one and all assured him that they had enjoyed it much, and then turning to them he continued: "That is right, my daughters, enjoy yourselves to-day and to-morrow and all through your lives. You are the daughters of a mighty king, and it is your lot to be happy and enjoy yourselves all your lives, therefore again I say enjoy yourselves and be happy." The eldest of the daughters, who was a perfect courtier said: "O our lord, our luck is fortunate, because it depends on that of the lord our father, and who is so fortunate as he?" The king was very pleased with the flattery of his daughter, and promised to grant any request she would make of him. The youngest daughter, however, was young and foolish, and had not yet learned the truth that in a king's presence it is not well always to say what one thinks, and therefore she said to her sister: "Your luck may depend on the luck of the lord our father, but mine is my own and depends upon myself alone." When the king heard this he was very angry that one of his daughters, and she the youngest too, should have the presumption to say that she depended for anything at all on any other than he, and he determined to punish her. For a long time he pondered on the best way to do this and at last devised a plan which, if severe, was at least novel. He called his _amats_ to go throughout the whole land and search for the poorest man in all his kingdom, and when they had found him they were to bring him to the palace and he would marry his youngest daughter to him, and then, said he, "We will see about luck after that." Day after day the heralds searched the land but they could not find a man poor enough to suit the king. All who were brought before him acknowledged that they had something valuable, either a little money, a precious stone, or a distant relative who was rich and from whom they could borrow a little if necessary. A man of this description would not suit the angry king. He wanted one poorer than that. At last the _amat löng_, or chief minister, brought a man before him and said that he was the poorest in all the land. His name was Ai Du Ka Ta. He was a woodseller in the bazaar, who every day went into the jungle and picked up the dead branches of the trees that had fallen to the ground, and brought them to the market every fifth day to sell. So poor was he that he did not even own the sword that is the almost inseparable companion of the Shan and is used, among other things, to cut down the small trees that are left to dry for firewood, so he had to be content to pick up the small branches that he found under the trees, and got a proportionately small price when he carried his load into the bazaar. When he appeared before the king, his trousers were all fringed at the bottom where they had been torn by the thorns in the jungle. His turban months before had been white, but now it was a deep gray; it was only half its original length and was full of holes. Jacket he had none, and when the king asked him how many blankets he had upon his bed at home to keep him warm at night when the cold wind brought the rain up the valley, he answered sorrowfully, "Not one, our lord." He had no relative except an old mother whom he was obliged to support, and who was known throughout the district in which she lived as the woman with the bitterest tongue in all the land, and when too sick to move from her mat, she would yet fill the air with poisoned words. The king was very pleased with his _amat löng_ for finding Ai Du Ka Ta, and gave him a very fine horse as a reward. Then he called his daughter, took away all her fine clothes and married her to this poorest man in his realm and drove her out of the palace amid the jeers and taunts of the very people who, before her disgrace, had waited upon her every word and had done her bidding while they trembled before her. The king also took away her old name and commanded that in future she was to be known as Nang Kam Ung, which means, "The woman whose luck depends upon herself." The house, or rather hut, to which Ai Du Ka Ta took his bride was in the jungle. It was only four bamboo poles stuck in the ground and covered with dried grass and bushes. Not even a sleeping mat was on the ground--there was no floor--and the chattie in which he cooked his rice had a hole in it, and had to be set upon three stones sideways over the fire with the hole uppermost, to prevent the water leaking and putting out the fire. Fortunately the girl's mother had helped her to smuggle out her "birth-stone," which was a large, valuable ruby, and so she took it off her finger and gave it to her husband, telling him to go and sell it and buy clothes and food for both of them. Ai looked at the stone and said, "Who will give me food and clothes for a little red stone like that? We have no fools or mad men living near here who would do such a foolish thing as that," for you must remember he had lived in the jungle all his life, and had never heard of precious stones, much less seen one till now. His friends were just as ignorant of its value as he was. He went from house to house in the little village near, but all laughed at him till he became disgusted, threw the stone away in the jungle and came home in a very ill humor with his wife for leading him such a wild-goose chase, and making him appear foolish in the eyes of the few people he knew. His wife was in great distress when she found that he had thrown the ruby away, and told her husband that if he had gone to the city and taken it to the jewelers, instead of to the ignorant people in the jungle, they would have given him in return enough money to keep them in food and clothing all the hot season and build a new house into the bargain. Ai looked at her and said: "Indeed, that is a thing good to marvel at. Why, I know where there are coolie-basket loads of such red stones in the dry bed of a river near where I gather sticks for fire-wood in the jungle, waiting for anybody to carry away, and I never thought them worth the labor of taking to the bazaar." The princess was full of joy when she heard this, and the next morning they borrowed two coolie baskets from a man in the village. Bright and early they went to the river bed, and there, even as Ai had said, were basket loads of fine rubies. They gathered them up carefully and buried most of them, covering over the hole with a flat stone, so that no one would discover their hoard, and then the princess, picking out a double handful of the largest and clearest ones, sent them to her father. The king, when he saw the jewels, instead of being pleased, fell into a great passion, called the unfortunate _amat löng_ into his presence, and after rating him soundly, deprived him of all his goods, houses, and lands, deposed him from office, and drove him from his presence as poor as Ai himself had been. "I ordered you to call a poor man," roared the king to the trembling man before him. "I said he was to have no goods or property at all, and here the very next day he sends me a double handful of the very best rubies I ever saw in my life." In vain the culprit assured the king that the day before Ai was certainly the poorest man in the whole kingdom, and complained that the jewels must have been the work of some _hpea_, whom he had unwittingly offended, and who had therefore determined on his ruin in revenge. The king would listen to no excuse, and the unhappy _amat_ was glad to crawl from his presence before resentment had carried him to the length of ordering his execution. The very next night a wonderful golden deer entered the royal garden where the king was accustomed to sit when it became too warm in the palace, and after doing an immense amount of mischief, eating favorite flowers, and otherwise destroying and ruining the garden, it leaped over the fence and disappeared in the early morning fog, just as the guards were arousing themselves from sleep. It was in truth not a golden deer as the guards had told the king, but a _hpea_ that had assumed this form; but the king not knowing this ordered his heralds to go through the city immediately and call upon all the inhabitants to come early next morning to help their lord catch it. Ai was summoned with the rest of the people. He had no horse, but going to the city gate that day he saw that a race between horses belonging to the king was about to be run. Ai was a good horseman, and asked the head horse-feeder of the king to let him ride one of the animals. He rode, and rode so well that he won the race, and that official was so pleased with him that he promised to grant him any request in his power. Ai asked for the privilege of riding the same horse at the hunt next day, and the request was readily granted, and thus it happened that, next morning when he went to the place appointed, he rode a horse that was faster than any other there except the one the king himself rode. The people were divided into four parties; one toward the north, one toward the south, one east, and one west. The king stationed himself with the party at south, and the _amats_ were at the north, and when the deer was at last driven out of the jungle by the beaters it headed toward the king and dashed by him at great speed. The _hpea_ that had taken the form of the deer wished to have some fun at the king's expense, and therefore kept ahead just where the king could see him all the while, sometimes but a cubit or two away from him, and then when the country was open, darting far in advance. So swiftly did they go that in a few minutes the men on foot were left behind, and after a while all except those upon the very fastest horses were distanced, till at last only the king and Ai were left, the latter but a little behind the king. All day long the chase continued till, just as the sun was setting and men and horses were both exhausted, the deer made straight for a precipice that appeared to block the path on each hand as far as the eye could reach. The king was congratulating himself that the deer could not possibly escape now, when he saw right before him an opening in the rock, and the next instant the _hpea_ disappeared in the cave and the king was obliged to give up the chase, for even if his horse could have carried him any farther, which it could not, the cave was so dark that nothing could be seen inside. The king fell from his horse almost dead with fatigue, and managed to crawl under a wide-spreading banyan tree that grew near. The only other person there was Ai, and he, coming to the king, massaged his limbs till the tired monarch fell asleep. After a while he awoke and Ai asked him to eat some rice he had prepared, but the king said he was too tired to eat anything; but at last he managed to eat a little sweet, glutinous rice that the princess had cooked in a hollow piece of bamboo and given to her husband before he set out that morning. The king was very grateful and asked Ai his name; but the latter was afraid to tell what his real name was, so, as his mother years before had been in the habit of selling betel-nut in the bazaar, he told the king that his name was Sau Boo, or betel-nut seller. The king was very pleased with him and promised him great rewards when they got back to the palace; but in a few minutes he had dropped asleep again, and Ai sat alone keeping guard. It was very fortunate that he too did not go to sleep, for as every one knows, the banyan is a sacred tree, and this one was inhabited by a _hpea_ who was noted for being one of the cruelest and most dreaded spirits in all the land. Ai roused the king and told him there was a _hpea_ in the tree and begged him not to sleep there for it would assuredly kill them both before morning. The king said, "Wake me not, trouble me not. From my head to my feet, I am nothing but aches and pains. Were I to move I should die. I may as well die at the hands of the _hpea_." So saying he fell asleep again, and Ai did not dare to disturb him, but watched all night long. During the night Ai heard the _hpea_ grumbling to himself several times and promising himself the pleasure of killing them on the morrow, so he pretended to be asleep so that he could hear what the _hpea_ said and if possible thwart him. "These mortals have presumed to sleep under my tree," he heard him say, "but it shall be the last time they sleep anywhere. Let me see," he continued, "how shall I kill them? Which will be the best way? Ah, I know. Early to-morrow when they get ready to leave, I will break the tree in two, and the top shall fall on them. If, however, they escape, I will saw through the supports of the first bridge, so that it will break when they are in the middle, and they will fall to the bottom of the valley below. Then if that should fail, I will loosen the stones of the arch of the city gate so that it will fall on them as they pass underneath, and if that does not kill them, when the king arrives at his palace and being thirsty with his long ride calls for water, I will change the water in the goblet to sharp needles that will stick in his throat and kill him. If he does not drink the water, however, he will assuredly be very tired and will go to sleep immediately, and I will send an immense rat into his room that will kill him without doubt." Having finished making his plans, the _hpea_ left the tree and started the work of preparing the different traps for the mortals who had enraged his hpeaship by daring to sleep under the tree, and thus profane his home. The king was frightened half to death when he awoke next morning, and found that he had been sleeping all night under the tree of that special _hpea_; but Ai, or Sau Boo as the king called him, told him not to be frightened for he could save his life if the king would only follow his advice and do as he told him. The king promised to follow his words implicitly, and also promised him unheard-of rewards if he only helped him to get to his palace in safety. The first danger was the tree, and so Ai got their horses ready and under the pretense of allowing them to eat grass before setting out on their journey, he gradually worked them nearer and still nearer the edge of the tree, and then, with one bound, they both galloped out from under it. At the same instant there was a great crash and the whole top of the tree fell to the ground. So near did it fall on them that the king's turban was torn from his head by one of the upper branches, but beyond this no harm was done. Next, instead of riding over the bridge, they went along the bank a little distance, and soon found a place where the _hük_ was narrow and leaped their horses to the other side. While they were jumping, Ai threw a heavy stone he had brought with him on to the bridge, and the _hpea_, who fortunately was near-sighted, thinking it was the tread of the horses, broke it down, so that fell into the water fifty feet below, but the king and his follower were safe on the other side. The next danger was the city gate. They walked their ponies slowly as though they were very tired, till they came to within a cubit of the gate, and then galloped through at the top of their speed, and crash went the gateway behind them. They were covered with dust but not hurt. The king was very thankful to have arrived at his palace and being very thirsty with the journey and excitement, as the cunning _hpea_ had expected, called for a drink of water, but ere he could place the cup to his lips his faithful follower turned it upside down, and instead of water, out fell a cupful of sharp needles, and again the king's life was saved. Worn out with his ride he told his servants to prepare his room as he would sleep. Ai called the chief guard and told him to have a lamp burning all night, to take his sharpest sword with him, and guard the king carefully. In the middle of the night when the tired king was sleeping soundly, into the room came creeping slowly, slowly, the biggest rat ever seen. It had long, sharp teeth and wicked glaring eyes, and made toward the king. But the guard, warned by Ai, was on the watch, and just as the rat was about to spring at the king's throat, the soldier with a sweep of his long, sharp sword cut off its head, and thus the king through the cleverness of one man escaped the last danger and could now live without fear. The next morning the king called his heralds and bade them go into the city and summon Sau Boo to come to the palace to be rewarded. They searched and called, but searched and called in vain. No man ever heard of a man by that name, and the king was fast getting angry when the _amats_ told him that they personally had gone to every house except one, and that was the house of Ai. The king in surprise ordered them to call his son-in-law. "He may be able to tell us something about him," he observed. Ai accordingly obeyed his summons, but the king was more surprised yet when Ai told him that Sau Boo and himself were one and the same, and that it was he who had rescued the king from so many dangers. At first his father-in-law became angry and refused to believe him, but Ai gave an account of everything that had happened from the time when the deer broke cover, till the rat was killed by the guard, and thus convinced the king of his truthfulness. The king then made a great feast, called all his ministers and generals together, and made a proclamation that Ai in future should be his _amat löng_ and should be king when he himself died. Thus did the princess prove that her luck really depended upon herself, and not on the king, and to-day we say, "May your luck be as good as the luck of Nang Kam Ung." HOW THE HARE DECEIVED THE TIGER. At the beginning of the world a hare, tiger, ox, buffalo, and horse became friends and lived together. One day the tiger was out hunting when, it being in the middle of the hot season, the jungle caught fire, and a strong wind blowing, it was not long before the whole country was in flames. The tiger fled, but the fire followed. Never mind how fast he ran, the flames followed him, till he was in great fear of being burned alive. As he was rushing along he saw the ox feeding on the other side of the river and called out to him: "O friend ox, you see the fire is following me wherever I go. Where is a place of refuge that I can escape the fire?" Now close to the tiger was a jungle full of dried grass, such as the Shans use for thatching their houses, and the ox replied, "Go to the grass jungle yonder, my brother, and you will be safe." But dried grass is the most inflammable thing in the whole hill and water country, and so here, not only did the flames follow the tiger, but they ran ahead of him and threatened to engulf him on every side. In great anger he roared at the ox, "False deceiver, if ever I escape from this danger, I will return and kill you," but the ox only laughed at him and continued eating. In desperation, the tiger leaped over the flames and found himself near the horse. "O friend horse," he cried, "where can I go? I am in great danger of being burned to death." Now it happened that once the tiger had been very rude to the horse and called him many bad names, so now he thought this was a good opportunity to be revenged; so he said: "Yonder is a big bamboo jungle, run to that and you are safe"; but the tiger found that the horse was also a false friend, for the fire following him speedily ignited the tall bamboos which burned fiercely and falling from above, almost completely covered the poor beast. At the beginning of the world the tiger was a beautiful yellow color, but the bamboos falling all over him, burnt him in stripes, and since that time his descendants have had long black stripes all over their coats. "When I have escaped from this," yelled the angry tiger, "I will come back and kill you." "Very good," sneered the horse, "and I will arch my neck so that you can get a good bite," but this was said to deceive the tiger, as the horse intended to lash out with his hind feet when the tiger came to fight him. Nevertheless, from that day the necks of all horses have been arched, and they cannot fight an enemy in front, but are obliged to arch their necks, lower their heads, and kick from behind. The tiger, by this time tired to death and suffering from the burns of the bamboos, saw the buffalo and accosted him as he had his other friends. "O good friend buffalo," he cried, "I am in great danger of being burned alive. The horse and the ox have not only deceived me, but in following their advice I have arrived at a worse condition than before. What can I do to be freed from this great danger?" The buffalo looked up from the cool river where he was enjoying a bath, and taking compassion on him said: "If you will catch hold of my throat I will duck you in the river and so you shall escape from the danger that is following you." So the tiger seized the good buffalo by the throat and was held under water till the fire had burnt itself out. The tiger was very grateful to the buffalo and made an agreement with him that from that time no tiger should ever kill a buffalo, and it is only the very worst tigers, those that kill men, that ever kill a buffalo, and the tigers that are guilty of killing buffaloes are sure to be killed themselves, sooner or later. The tiger held so fast to the buffalo that when the latter came out of the water, his throat and neck were all white, and buffaloes all have that mark on their necks and throats till this very day. The tiger was so cold after his bath that he shook and shivered as though he had fever, and seeing a little house made of dried grass a short distance off he went to it and found that a hare was living there. "Good friend," said the tiger, "I am so cold I am afraid I shall die. Will you take compassion on me and allow me to rest in your house and get warm before I return home?" "Come in, our lord," said the hare. "If our lord deigns to honor my poor house with his presence, he will confer a favor that his slave will never forget." The tiger was only too glad to go into the hare's house, and the latter immediately made room for him by sitting on the roof. Soon the tiger heard click! click! click! and he called out: "O friend hare, what are you doing up there on the roof of your house?" Now the hare was really at that moment striking fire with her flint and steel, but she deceived the tiger and said, "It is very cold up here, and our lord's slave was shivering," but the next moment the spark struck the dried grass on the roof and the house was soon in flames. The tiger dashed out just in time and turned in a rage on his late host, but the hare was far away, having jumped at the same moment that the spark set fire to the roof of the house. The tiger gave chase, but after a while he saw the hare sitting down and watching something intently, so he asked, "What are you looking at?" "This is a fine seat belonging to the Ruler of the Hares," returned she. "I would like to sit on it," said the tiger. "Well," said the hare, "wait till I can go and ask our lord to give you permission." "All right, I will watch till you come back and will not kill you as I intended doing, if you get me permission to sit on it," said the tiger. Now this was not a chair at all, but some hard sharp stones that the hare had covered with mud and shaped with her paws to deceive the tiger. The hare ran off a long distance and pretended to talk with some one and then called out: "The lord of the chair says, our lord the tiger may sit, if he throws himself down upon it with all his might. This is our custom." The tiger flung himself upon what he thought was the chair with all his might, but the soft mud gave way and he fell upon the stones underneath and hurt his paws badly. He therefore sprang up and vowed vengeance on the hare that he could just see far off in the distance. By and by as the hare was running along she saw a large wasps' nest hanging from the branch of a tree, so she sat down and watched it intently. When the tiger came up he was so curious to know what the hare was looking at so intently that he did not kill her, but instead asked her what she was looking at. The hare showed the tiger the wasps' nest on the tree and said: "That is the finest gong in all the hill and water country." "I would like to beat it," said the tiger. "Just wait a minute," returned the hare, "and I will go to the lord of the gong and ask permission for you to beat it." The hare ran till she was far away in the jungle, and then at the top of her voice called out: "If you wish to beat the gong, the lord of the gong says you must strike it as hard as you can with your head. That is his custom." [Illustration: "Again the cunning hare deceived the tiger." Page 63.] The tiger butted at the nest with all his might and made a big jagged rent in its side, and out flew the angry wasps in swarms, completely covering the poor tiger, who with a dreadful yell of pain tore away from his tormentors. His face was all swollen, and from that day till the present, the faces of tigers have all been wide and flat. Again he chased the hare, and when the smart from the stings of the wasps had subsided a little, he found to his great joy that he was gaining on his enemy fast. The hare on her part saw that the tiger would soon catch her and looked around for some means of escape, and spied just before her a snake half in and half out of its hole. The hare stopped as before and sat gazing at the snake so intently that the tiger instead of killing her as he had intended to do, asked her what it was in the hole. "This," returned the hare, "is a wonderful flute that only kings and nobles are allowed to play. Would our lord like to play?" "Indeed I would," said the tiger; "but where is the lord of this wonderful flute? Whom shall I ask for permission?" "If our lord watches right here," said the cunning hare, "his slave will go to the lord of the flute and ask permission," and the tiger, well content, sat down to wait. Again the cunning hare deceived the tiger by pretending to ask permission, and when a long distance off he called as before: "Our lord has permission to play the flute. Let him put it in his mouth and blow with all his might. This is the custom of the lord of the flute." The foolish tiger immediately took the snake's head into his mouth, but the sound that followed came from the tiger, not from the flute, and a terrible yell he gave as the snake bit his mouth! But the hare was far away and would soon have been safe but for an unlooked for accident that nearly ended her life. The people who lived in that part of the hill and water country were at war with the State that joined them on the north, and thinking that the soldiers of the enemy would soon invade their country they had made a trap in the middle of the path over which the hare was running. First they dug a hole so deep that should anybody fall in, it would be impossible to climb out again. The sides of the pit were dug on the slant so that the opening was smaller than the bottom. Over the top they had placed thin strips of bamboo that would break if any extra weight came upon them and they had covered the whole with grass and leaves so that no traveler would know that a trap was there. Into this hole fell the poor little hare. Presently the tiger came up to see where the hare had gone, and when he saw the hole in the middle of the path, he called out, "Where are you, friend hare?" and the hare from the bottom of the trap called out, "I have fallen into a trap." Then the tiger sat on the ground and just bent double with laughter to think that at last he had the hare in his power, but the little animal down in the hole although she did not say anything, thought harder in a few minutes than the tiger had in all his life. By and by as she looked up through the hole she had made in the roof, she saw that the sky overhead was getting darker and darker as a storm was coming on, so in great glee, although she pretended to be very much frightened, she called out as loudly as ever she could: "Our lord tiger! our lord tiger!" At first the tiger did not answer, so the hare then called, "Does not our lord see the great danger approaching? Let our lord look at the sky." The tiger looked up and saw the dark clouds coming slowly, slowly on, covering the whole sky; his laughter stopped and he soon began to get very frightened. After a while, when it had become still darker, he called to the hare: "O friend, what is the matter with the sky? What is going to happen?" Then the hare replied: "Our lord, the sky has fallen where you see it is dark; that is far away, but in a few minutes it will fall here and everybody will be crushed to death." The foolish tiger was now frightened half to death and called to the hare: "O friend, I have treated you badly in trying to kill you. Do not be angry and take revenge on me, but take compassion on my terrible condition, and graciously tell me how to escape this danger, and I swear that I will never try to harm you more." It was the hare's turn to laugh now, but she only laughed quietly to herself, for she was afraid the tiger would hear her, then she said, "Down here our lord's slave is quite safe. If our lord descends, he too will be safe," and before the hare had hardly finished, the cowardly tiger made a jump for the hole the hare had made and joined her at the bottom of the trap. But the hare was not out yet and she began to plan how she could get out herself and yet keep the tiger in. At last a happy thought struck her. She sidled up to the tiger and began to tickle him in the ribs. The tiger squirmed and twisted first one way and then the other, first to one side and then to the other; at last he could stand it no longer and catching the hare he threw her out of the trap and she landed on solid ground. As soon as the hare found she was safe, she began to call at the top of her voice: "O men, come! come! I, the hare have deceived the tiger and he is at the bottom of the trap. O men, come! I, the hare call you. Bring your spears and guns; bring your swords, and kill the tiger that I have tricked into entering the trap." At first the men did not believe the hare, for they did not think that an animal so small as the hare could deceive the tiger, but then they also knew that the hare was very clever and had much wisdom, so they brought their spears and their guns, their swords and their sticks, and killed the tiger in the trap. Thus did the hare prove that though small she was full of wisdom, and although the tiger was bigger, stronger, and fiercer than she, yet she, through her wisdom, was able to kill him. THE STORY OF THE TORTOISE. There was once a man who had two wives. Now as everybody knows it is always the chief wife that the husband loves best, while the other instead of being _Mae Long_, is only _Mae Noi_, and this often causes jealousy and trouble in the family. It was so in this case, especially as the chief wife did not have a son to add to her dignity. They each had a daughter, the name of the chief wife's child was Nang Hsen Gaw, and that of the other Nang E. One day the husband of these women went to the lake to fish. He caught a large number of shell fish and put them on the shore for his wives to bring home. The younger took her share of the load, but, being very hungry, she ate them all. The mother of Nang Hsen Gaw, however, was not greedy like the other woman, and so she put all the fish that were left into her bag and began to trudge slowly toward the house. Now, the mother of Nang E was a witch, although no one, of course, knew it. Being wicked enough to be a witch, she did not hesitate at committing any other crime, even the most dreadful, and she therefore made up her mind that she would kill the mother of Nang Hsen Gaw so that she could be the chief wife. She got home much sooner than the other woman, as she had no load to carry, and when she saw her husband he naturally asked her where the fish were. "Now," she thought, "here's a good chance to get that woman out of the way," so she told her husband that his other wife was a _pör_, or witch, and she had taken all the fish away from her. Now, witches are of course very much dreaded, so when the poor woman came home with her heavy load of fish, the villagers killed her with their sticks, and she was changed into a tortoise in the lake. And now at last the mother of Nang E was chief wife, but do you think she was satisfied? Not a bit of it. She heard that her rival was now a tortoise in the lake, and she determined to kill her again. Some time after this, as Nang Hsen Gaw was in the jungle watching the cows that belonged to her father, she walked along the edge of the lake and was very much surprised to hear her own name called in familiar tones. She looked around, but could see no one, and she was getting very frightened, thinking that it was perhaps a _hpea_ who wanted to entice her into the thick jungle so that he could devour her, but at last she looked on the ground at her feet and saw it was a tortoise that was speaking to her. "Nang Hsen Gaw," it called. "My daughter, _oie!_ I am your mother who was killed through the wicked acts of my rival, the mother of Nang E. I have arrived at great trouble, and now, instead of being the chief wife of a rich man, I am nothing but a tortoise swimming in the lake. Take pity on me, my daughter, and out of compassion every day bring me cotton thread and raw cotton, so that I can weave and spin." [Illustration: "'I am nothing but a tortoise swimming in the lake.'" Page 68.] Nang Hsen Gaw was a dutiful daughter, and every day when she went to the jungle she took cotton for her mother to spin, and thread for her to weave, and daily talked with her, telling her all the gossip of the village and anything else that she thought her mother would like to hear. But the mother of Nang E was on the watch, and thinking it strange that the girl should take cotton and thread to the jungle every day, and bring none back with her when she drove the cattle back at night, she followed her, heard her talking with her mother, and thus found out in what part of the lake her enemy was, and laid her plan accordingly. That evening, unknown to her family, while her husband was busy working in his garden, she went to the house where lived the doctor of the village, unfolded her plans to him and asked for his help. Being an unscrupulous man he agreed, took the silver the woman had pilfered from her husband, and promised to help her. The next day she was taken very sick and her husband called in the doctor, who told him that the woman must have a tortoise from the lake near-by. If she boiled and ate it according to his directions she would get well, if not, she would die. Having performed his part of the bargain he returned to his home at the other end of the village. Next morning the man went to the lake to get the tortoise. Nang Hsen Gaw was much distressed when she saw her father set out, and her distress became worse when she saw that the wicked stepmother had directed him to the little pond where her own mother was. The man took a large bucket made out of wicker work, and commenced baling out the water, but Nang Hsen Gaw was able to warn her mother just where her father was, so that when he was on one side of the pond her mother went to the other, but at last he sent the girl home, and in a few minutes secured the tortoise and was soon carrying it away for his wife to eat. When he got home he gave her the tortoise, little thinking who it was, and then went out, while the witch called Nang Hsen Gaw to watch the pot which had been put over the fire. Soon the poor girl heard her mother call out. She said that the hot water had reached her knees, and begged her to put out the fire. She commenced to rake out the hot embers from under the pot, when her stepmother saw what she was doing, and taking up a heavy bamboo beat her unmercifully and made her put more sticks on the fire. Soon her mother complained again that the heat had reached her shoulders, and again Nang E's mother beat her, and made her put more sticks on the fire. Soon she heard her mother say: "My daughter, _oie_! The hot water has reached my neck and I shall soon be dead. When it is all over, do not let that wicked woman destroy me altogether, but bury me in the jungle," and in a few minutes she was dead. Nang Hsen Gaw tried her best to get the dead body of her mother, but her stepmother watched her carefully, and all she could not eat herself she gave to the dogs, to prevent her daughter from getting any, but one dog ran off with his portion into the jungle. Nang Hsen Gaw followed in time to rescue the webbing between the fingers.[3] This was all that was left, but she buried that carefully in the jungle far from the house where her stepmother lived. The next day as she was walking through the jungle feeding her cows, she heard sweet music. It sounded like twelve organs all playing at the same time, and yet in harmony, each organ blending with the others. In great surprise she hunted around till she came to the spot where she had buried the part of her mother's hand, and saw that during the night this had changed into a beautiful _mai nyung kham_ tree.[4] And so this good and dutiful daughter went every day to listen to the tree as she had gone daily to the lake when her mother had been a tortoise, and the tree sang sweeter when she was near than at any other time. But such a wonderful thing as this could not be kept a secret. Others heard of it and people came from far and near to hear the sweet music come from the tree. One of the _amats_ of the great king who "ate"[5] the country, heard that a miracle was to be seen in this jungle, and accordingly reported it to his lord, who sent men to cut the tree down and bring it to his palace. All day long the men worked at the tree, from the time the country became light till the moon rose at night, but although they had the sharpest of axes and were the most skillful workmen in all the country, yet with all their labor they could only cut through the bark, and during the night the tree grew so quickly that when the morning dawned, it was twice as large as it was the night before, and the marks made by the axes on the bark were covered with new bark harder than ever. The king was very angry when he heard of the ill success of his woodmen, had them all executed, and sent others, but they had no better success than the first. But this only made the king more stubborn and determined to get the tree at any cost, and he therefore sent the heralds all through the country and made a proclamation that any man who could bring the tree to his palace should be made his _Kem Möng,_ that is, heir apparent; should it be a woman, she should become _Nang Me Prah_, or chief queen. Many men therefore came with sharp _pahs_ and axes but all were equally unsuccessful, and the king despaired of ever getting the tree, when Nang Hsen Gaw heard of the reward offered by the king, and told the heralds she could bring the tree to his palace. The king was full of joy when he heard this, and made great preparations for her. On her part she simply went to the jungle and, taking off her turban, fastened it around the tree and carried it bodily into the palace where it sang as sweetly every day as when it was in the jungle. When the mother of Nang E heard of the good fortune that had befallen Nang Hsen Gaw she was very angry, and calling her own daughter to follow her, she set off for the capital. When she had arrived there she disguised herself and became a servant to the queen, and pondered how she could kill the _Nang Me Prah_ and put her own daughter Nang E in her place. One day this wicked woman told the queen that she had found some fine soap beans and bark, that she was very skillful in shampooing, and as the next day was to be a great feast when the queen would follow the king on her royal elephant, the soap beans would make her black hair blacker, and the gloss glossier than ever, and asked her to allow her to wash the queen's head at a well that was just outside the gate of the palace, near the royal gardens, where the water was very sweet. The queen consented and called her attendants to follow, but the stepmother was much too cunning to allow that, so she told the queen that her method of washing was better than any other woman's but it was a secret, and she would reserve it for her majesty's own private use, but she did not want any of the attendants to see how it was done. If they did, she added, the next day at the feast every lady in the court would have hair as glossy as the queen's, but if they went alone, her hair would be as much more beautiful than any other woman's as the sun is more beautiful than the bamboo torch that lights the way through the jungle at night, when there is no moon. The young queen was not proof against this flattery, and so the two women went alone out of the palace, the very guards who watched at the gates not knowing whither they were going. They soon arrived at the well, and as the queen was bending over, her long hair covering her face so that she could see nothing, her wicked stepmother suddenly drew a knife and stabbed her to the heart, then, calling her daughter to help, she buried the poor young queen under the road leading to the well. She took the royal robes and put them on her own daughter, Nang E, who returned to the royal palace and entered the royal apartments, all the attendants thinking it was the real queen returned from a bath in the river. That same afternoon, as the king walked through the palace, he was surprised to see that the wonderful singing tree was all withered and mute. In great distress he called for the queen and ordered her to make the tree sing as before, but although Nang E tried with all her might, she could make no sound. She tapped it softly as she had seen Nang Hsen Gaw do, but all in vain. It was silent. Now the king was in the habit of wearing Burmese clothing instead of Shan, and one day when he had gone to his room to put on his _ptsoe_, he found that a little sparrow had built, her nest in it. He was a very kind man, and so allowed the little bird to live there, and in gratitude to the king this sparrow was in the habit of telling him all she saw as she flew around the city from morn to night, and whenever the king wished to find out anything that puzzled him, he would often call the sparrow to tell him what to do. He therefore now called the little bird and asked it what ailed the tree, and the sparrow told him that the woman who was then in the royal apartments and wearing the clothes of the _Nang Me Prah_ was not the real queen, but a woman named Nang E, and seeing her approach, the brave little bird began whistling, "This is not the _Nang Me Prah_, this is Nang E, Nang E. Oh! Nang E!" In a great rage the king commanded his servants to call the woman, and when she was come into the royal presence she dared not open her mouth to answer the king, for she was not so clever as her mother, who could disguise her voice as well as her face, and she knew that if she began to speak the king would see that she was not Nang Hsen Gaw, so she remained silent. But this did not save her, for the king looked at her and said: "You wear the robes and jewels of my queen, but you have not the same face, and you are afraid to speak to me," and he immediately called his chief executioner to take her away and cut off her head. But even this did not bring back the music to the tree, and the king was disconsolate. The next morning when the guard of the royal garden went to his post, he saw, near the well, a beautiful _mawk moo_ flower, took it home with him and placed it in the _chattie_ of water that every Shan keeps in his house as an offering to the _hpeas_. The old mother Nai, soon after took her basket and went to the bazaar to buy _puc_ for her son's breakfast, but when she returned she was surprised to see that during her absence some one had swept the house, cooked the food, and that the "morning rice" was all ready to eat. The eating-tray was set out in the middle of the room. The rice and curry was arranged in order on it, and the drinking _chattie_ was full of scented water. She called her son and all the neighbors to ask who had done this, but no one could tell her, and in great amazement they sat down to their meal. That evening the same thing happened again. While she was out, the house was again swept, the food was prepared, and the tray arranged as in the morning. For several days this happened, and then the old woman determined to hide and see who did these kind acts. She did so, and was amazed to see that as soon as she had left the house (she went under the floor and looked up through a hole between the bamboos), that a spirit came out of the _mawk moo_ flower that her son had brought from the road leading to the well, and commenced to sweep the house. In the midst of it the old woman rushed up to the flower and destroyed it, so that the spirit could not go back to its refuge. At the same instant, it changed into the most beautiful woman ever seen. That afternoon, Nang Hsen Gaw, for the spirit was she, told old Nai how her stepmother had killed her at the well, and buried her, and how she had been changed into the spirit of the beautiful _mawk moo_ flower the guard had brought to the house, and that she would soon go back to the king in the palace. They neither of them had seen the little sparrow sitting on the roof, but she had been there all the time, and now flew off to the king and told him all that she had heard. The king gave orders that the wicked mother of Nang E should be executed immediately, and that a band of soldiers should go to the guard's house to escort his bride back in state to the palace, where she reigned many, many years, till she saw her grandchildren and great-grandchildren grow up. As soon as the queen entered the gate, the tree began to play; the withered leaves put on a bright hue, and beautiful flowers burst into bloom; and while Nang Hsen Gaw lived, the tree bloomed and played sweetest music every day. The lessons that this story teaches are: As surely as the wheels of the cart follow the oxen, so surely will wickedness be punished. If you sin you must suffer. The man who kills another will assuredly meet the same fate. [3] The Shans call the two front feet of a quadruped "hands." The digits are called "fingers" not "toes." [4] The sacred peepul tree. [5] The Shans do not usually say that a king "rules" over a country, but the expression generally used is that he "eats" it; a very suggestive and alas! too often only too true expression. THE SPARROW'S WONDERFUL BROOD. Many, many years ago, at the beginning of the world, a little sparrow built her nest on the top of a tall tree that grew near the edge of a lake. In it she laid five little eggs, and never was mother bird prouder than she, and all day long she flew from tree to tree chirping out her joy. So proud in fact was she, and so much noise did she make, that a monkey that lived on the other side of the lake was struck with the remembrance of how he had once dined with great satisfaction on eggs laid by the sparrow's sister, and in a few minutes he was on his way to repeat the performance. In vain the little bird cried and begged him to spare her brood, promising to show him where the sweetest plantains in all the country were growing; the monkey only laughed at her and climbed the tree to get the prize. The next moment the robber would have gotten his spoil, and this wonderful story would never have been told, but just then the great lord Sa Kyah looked earthward and saw the tragedy that was taking place. Like a drop of rain that falls from a tree when the wind blows after a shower, the mighty lord descended, and when the would-be robber reached the nest his hand entered an empty one. [Illustration: "On his way he saw what seemed to be a bed of flowers." Page 79.] The eggs were soon brought back from the _hpea_ country where the lord Sa Kyah had taken them for safety, and in due time were hatched. Out of the first protruded a sharp bill, and a kingfisher, bright of plumage and swift of wing, broke out of its speckled prison. The next egg broke and a buffalo came out, to be followed by a lordly striped tiger from the next. A terrible _hpea-loo_, with head and claws like a bird and body like a man, tore his way out of the next one, already looking around for a man whom he might devour for his first meal. Only one egg remained, and that the smallest of all, but out of it came a man, and the mighty lord Sa Kyah smiled when he saw him, and said that although he was the smallest and the last, yet he must feed his brothers and take care of them. One hot day in summer the buffalo that had come out of one of the eggs, walking through the jungle, much troubled by mosquitoes, thought how nice would be a wallow in a hole well known to him under the shade of the trees by the bank of the lake, where the sun had not dried the mud to the hardness of bricks as it had in every other wallow, and accordingly turned his huge body in its direction, and slowly set off toward it. On his way there he saw on the ground what appeared to him to be a bed of flowers growing on the bank of the lake, and after smelling it carefully over, leisurely ate it all up. The sun was hot, the earth dry, and the flowers had long ago died, and what the buffalo thought were flowers were really ten white jackets and ten red skirts. But when he had finished his meal he continued his journey to the wallow, and then with a grunt expressive of great satisfaction, sinking into the soft mud till only the tips of his horns and the top of his head were visible, he closed his eyes and enjoyed himself. By and by there was a great commotion in the water--shouts, laughter, and jokes, together with a great splashing. The lazy buffalo opened one eye and saw ten young girls who were having great fun in the cool water, throwing it over one another and chasing each other here and there. When they came to the place where they had left their clothes, however, their mirth received a sudden check. They had all disappeared! They stood up to their armpits in the water looking at each other with very long faces till, spying the buffalo in his mud bath, they approached him, and in the most courteous language asked him whether he had seen their dresses. The great beast closed the eye he had opened, and slowly uncovered the other one, but beyond this took no notice of the maids forlorn. Then, calling him "Kind Brother Buffalo," they begged him to answer them, saying that all the people who left the village to go to the bazaar before the sun had risen would soon be passing on their way home. The buffalo blew a big cloud of mud and water from his nostrils, but said never a word. Now it happened that the youngest of the sparrow's brood, the man, was in the jungle all the time. He had seen his brother eat up all the clothes and had heard all the conversation. He had noticed too, that although all the maidens were beautiful, the youngest was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He saw how straight was her form, how black was her hair, and that her eyes were the color of the sky when there are many stars but no moon, and he determined to get her for his wife. He therefore now approached the party and told them that he could help them, and that no one besides could tell them where their clothes were, but that they must promise that the one whom he should pick out should be his wife. To this they agreed, and thus it happened that he became possessed of the most beautiful woman in all the Shan country. So beautiful in fact was she, that it is said the birds stopped in the middle of a song when they saw her. The squirrels stopped half-way up the tree in their search for nuts as she walked under the trees, and her fame spread far and wide. At this time a hunter came wandering through the jungle in search of game, and saw her standing at her door. He, like everybody else, was struck with her wonderful beauty, and he thought to himself, "For a long time I have been most unfortunate. I have caught but few animals, and their furs have been poor and mangy. Now, if I tell the king of my country about this beautiful girl, he will give me a great reward." Thus reasoning he set out home and told the king what he had seen, enlarging upon her great beauty till the king resolved to get her at any cost. He therefore set out, taking with him soldiers and attendants as became such a mighty lord, and when he saw the object of his journey he acknowledged that the hunter had not deceived him, and he determined to take her back with him to the palace; but at the same time he made up his mind to go about it in a cunning way. Now this king had a wonderful fighting cock of which he was very proud, and which had never been beaten. It had a beak of iron and spurs as sharp as the knives that come from Lai Hka, and a voice so loud and piercing that every morning when he crowed every other rooster in the city scurried away in fright at the challenge. The king, therefore, said that he and the woman's husband should have a cock fight. He would wager his country against the other's wife. In great sorrow the man went out into the jungle to think over his misfortune, and while sitting on the ground in a most disconsolate manner he heard a little bird calling his name, and looking up he saw his brother, the kingfisher, perched above him. "O brother, do not fear," said the bright little bird. "I do not forget that you are my brother and have guarded me long, and now I will surely help you in your trouble." When the time came for the fight, therefore, and the king's fighting cock stood proudly up, suddenly down from a tree flew the kingfisher, pecked him with his long, sharp bill, and then flew away before he could so much as turn his head. Time and again this happened till the king's challenger finally stretched himself dead on the ground. The fight ending in this way, however, did not suit the selfish king a bit, and he therefore said it was not a fair fight, and brought out a large, fierce dog. This dog was the terror of the State, but the king said that it should fight any other dog that could be brought against it for the same stakes as before. The tiger brother, however, was on the watch, and before the dog could get near his opponent, a blow from his paw ended his career. Still the king persisted in his unjust course, and now declared that the wager should be finally settled by a fight between two buffaloes. Now the buffalo brother was ashamed of the way in which he had treated the girls in the water, and had long wished for an opportunity to retrieve his honor, so that he now fought with such bravery against the royal buffalo that he speedily conquered it. Then the king, seeing that he was beaten every time, threw off all disguise and said plainly that he had come to get the girl for his wife, had brought soldiers to help him if necessary, and he would take her in spite of losing the different battles, and in spite of her husband or anybody else. He stepped forward to take her, but he did not know that one more brother yet remained to be heard from, for out of the jungle with a dreadful yell came rushing the _hpea-loo_, his beak open, his claws outstretched, and king, soldiers, and courtiers all disappeared down his ravenous maw. The next month the fortunate man with his beautiful wife became king in the place of his enemy, and lived to be the oldest monarch in the whole of the Shan country. HOW THE WORLD WAS CREATED. In the beginning of the world, many, many cycles ago, so long ago, in fact, that no man knows how long it was, there were no trees, no hills, no land, nothing but water. The wind blew the waters hither and thither, sometimes in great waves, sometimes in quiet ripples; the wind blew, the waves rolled, and that was all. Now it happened that Gong Gow, the Great Spirit Spider, felt weary with carrying around her heavy burden of eggs wrapped up so carefully in their white covering fastened to her waist, therefore she said to herself: "I would fain place my eggs in a safe place, but know of none where they can hatch themselves without danger," so she searched through the universe to find a suitable place, and at last she spied the water that is now the world, and in it began to spin her web. Backward and forward, forward and backward, round and round, in and out she wove, till at last all was done, and full of content she left her eggs in their web prison nest and journeyed away. The wind blew and drove the water hither and thither as aforetime, and soon little pieces of solid substance caught in the meshes of the web, and behold! as the time passed the solid substance became more solid till it formed mud and separated itself from the water, and when the mud had dried, lo! it was the earth. So the eggs of the great Spirit Spider were safely locked up within the earth; by and by they hatched, and breaking forth there appeared the first man, Boo Pau, and the first woman, Myeh Pau, from whom all the ancient people who belonged to the first race were descended. Many, many years passed and people lived out their lives, till one day the great earth caught fire. It burned fiercer than anybody's imagination can conceive, and it destroyed everything. All the beautiful forests with their green coverings of moss and leaves, all the cities which the first race had builded were burned down, till by and by there was naught more for the fire to consume, and it was then the end of the hot season; the time of wet came soon after, and the rain fell upon the burning earth in such torrents that the whole sky was covered with the steam. Now it happened that in Möng Hpea, the far-away land where dwell the powerful spirits whom we call "hsangs," the smell of the steam ascended and ascended till all the spirits smelled the sweet scent, and said to themselves: "Behold, there appears a sweet smell arising from below, what can it be?" and there was much marveling at what could cause such sweet-smelling incense as that then ascending. And it also happened that in Möng Hpea were nine spirits, five of them males and four females, and these being of more adventurous spirit than their fellows, determined to find out for themselves where the sweet perfume came from. So they set out on their travels downward. They descended faster and faster, and the faster they descended the sweeter became the smell, till at last they landed upon this world of ours, and bending down to the earth they tore great handfuls of it out and ate it with the greatest relish. It was morning time when they descended, and they fed upon the fragrant earth all day till the sun set and the shades of evening began to surround them, then the eldest of the spirits looked around upon his fellows, and said: "Brethren, oie! it is time that we ascended to our own country," and as the rest assented they stood up to return, but alas! they could not rise, they had eaten so much earth it had made them too heavy to soar, and from that day to the day they died none of them ever found their way back to the beautiful country of the Hsangs, but had to spend all their lives upon this earth of ours. Thus we see that it is earthly desires that keep us from the spirit country. We see, or we hear, we smell or desire some earthly thing. We get our desires, but they keep us pinned down to the earth. We cannot go to the spirit country because of them. When the spirits discovered that they could not return to the Hsang country they agreed that they would marry each other and take up their abode upon this earth of ours. But here arose a difficulty; there were five male hsangs but only four females! There was chance of a great quarrel, but the strongest of them, his name was Hsin Kyan, thought within himself: "I am stronger than any of my brothers and could easily defeat them and marry whom I will, but what merit would there be in that? I will ask them whether they would be willing to make me king and each of them give me of their daughters when they are old enough, then in time I shall have wives and power as well." Thus we see it is the man who is willing to control his desires and wait who becomes great. Hsin Kyan's brethren were very glad to make the agreement and thus it was that he became the ruler of them all. When the daughters of the others were old enough, they brought them to the king, and from that day it has been the custom for men to offer their daughters to the king. Now it happened that the universal lord, Sa Kyah, who rules over all spirits and men looked earthward and saw the new kingdom that was established; he became jealous and determined to kill Hsin Kyan and take his kingdom away from him. But Hsin Kyan was very subtle and cunning, so he tattooed himself with charms of such great strength that even the mighty lord Sa Kyah could not kill him. For many years they fought. Great mountains were thrown by each combatant at the other, but Hsin Kyan could not defeat the lord Sa Kyah, neither could the lord Sa Kyah kill Hsin Kyan. Our great ancestor Hsin Kyan had seven daughters, whose names to this day are remembered among us as they have been given to the different days of the week, from Nang Ta Nang Nooie, the eldest, after whom we call the first day of the week Wan Ta Nang Nooie, to Nang Hsa Ne, the youngest, and when the mighty lord Sa Kyah found that he could not kill their father, he spoke to these daughters and told them he was searching for one whom he would make his chief queen, and that if one of them would kill his enemy, their father, and bring to him his head, he would choose that one to be his queen and make her joint ruler of the universe; with him she should govern everything created. But the charms tattooed upon Hsin Kyan were very potent. Water would not drown him; fire would not burn him; rope would not strangle him; and he was invulnerable against thrust of spear and stroke of sword, and although all seven of his daughters tried to kill him yet they were not able to do so and six of them gave up the attempt in despair. One day, however, the youngest, she whom we worship on the seventh day of the week and because she was the smallest call it Wan Hsa Nae, was walking in the jungle, and as she was passing under a tree she saw a bird sitting upon its topmost branch. Now this girl knew how clever birds are, and so she said to it: "Brother Bird, oie! can you tell me how I can kill my father?" Now although this daughter was the youngest, yet she was more lovely than all her sisters, and the bird was so pleased with her that he said: "Nang Hsa Nae, you are so beautiful that I will tell you the secret of your father's charm. Water cannot drown him, fire cannot burn him, neither can sword or spear wound him, but there is one way in which he may be killed. Take you, seven strands of a spider's web and twist them into a cord, then with a piece of white bamboo make a bow; with this you will be able to cut off the head of your father and take it to the mighty lord Sa Kyah, and oh!" continued the clever bird, "when you are his queen, do not forget the good turn I have done you, and the debt of gratitude you owe me therefor." Nang Hsa Nae was full of joy when she learned the secret of her father's charm and she promised the little bird that when she became queen of the universe she would grant him any desire that he craved. That night when everybody else was asleep, Nang Hsa Nae crept to her father's side and with the bow made of the seven twisted strands of a spider's web killed him and cut off his head. With great joy she carried it to the universal lord. He was very glad to find that his enemy was at last dead, but although he had given his word to her, yet he would not marry Nang Hsa Nae, for, said he, she has killed her father although I could not conquer him. Were I to marry her, who will go surety for her that she will not do the same to me? So the wicked daughter did not gain her ambitious end after all. Not only that, however, but she and her sisters received a punishment, one they are even now suffering, and will continue till the world ends. It is this: When they found that the lord Sa Kyah would not marry their youngest sister or even accept their father's head, they said among themselves: "What shall we do with the head of our father? Where shall we bury it? Should we place it in the earth the whole world would catch on fire; should we throw it into the sea, all the seven oceans would immediately boil; what shall we do?" In their distress they went to the mighty lord Sa Kyah and in humble tones begged his lordship to give them advice so that they would be freed from the terrible trouble to which their wickedness had brought them. He looked at them and said: "This is what you must do. You," pointing to the youngest, "must carry your father's head in your arms all this year, and when the year is finished you can give it to the sister who is next older than yourself. She will carry it for a year and thus one of you will ever after bear it." And so it is. We know when the year ends because then come the Wan Kyap or washing days, when the princess who has carried her father's head for a year gives it to her elder sister and washes the bloodstains from her clothes. From these spirits all the inhabitants of the world are descended, and so we see the saying of our philosophers is true, "We have all descended from spirits." HOW THE KING OF PAGAN CAUGHT THE THIEF. Many, many years ago there lived near the old city of Pagan a famous robber chief who was so fierce and cruel that he made all men fear his name. He stole and killed and burned till the mothers used to frighten their disobedient children by saying, "Boh Lek Byah will get thee." He was a very brave and clever thief, and he became so strong that the headmen and elders of all the towns and villages throughout the country were obliged to fee him with money and goods, and if by any chance they did not pay this blackmail immediately it was demanded, that very night the followers of the robber chief would assuredly burn down their village and kill every man, woman, and child within it, for this was Shan and Burmese custom. Boh Lek Byah entered every house in Pagan. None was too big, none too small. He stole from the _whon's_ house as easily as from the hut of the poor man; it made no difference to him, till at last the palace where the great king lived was the only place whence he had not gotten booty. Several of his followers were caught and crucified, but that did not stop his bad actions or frighten him. In the old days, when a robber was caught he was taken to the jungle where the tigers are. All the tigers knew the place of execution as well as a dog knows worship days when the women offer rice and curry at the pagodas. They used to tie the thieves fast to the cross by their feet, hands, and hair, and when they had jeered at them and the women and children had pelted them with stones and beaten them with bamboos, everybody went home and left them for the tigers to eat, and thus they did to the followers of Maung Lek Byah, but they could never catch the robber chief himself. At last the people of Pagan city came to the Amat Löng, who was next in rank to the king himself, and said: "Our lord, for long thy slaves have been in great and sore trouble, and unless our lord takes pity upon his servants we shall all arrive at destruction." "What can I do?" cried the _amat_, in a loud, angry voice, "has he not stolen from me? Did I not pay him two whole _ticcals_ of pure silver as protection money no later than the last Water Feast, and yet did he not rob me as I was coming home in my boat yesternight, and when I told him that I was the Amat Löng, did he not laugh in my face and yet rob me just the same. What can I do?" "Our lord can go to the Ruler of the Golden Palace and plead for his slaves," suggested one of the suppliants. Now, the Amat Löng was a very cunning man, and he knew that if the king heard that Boh Lek Byah had stolen so much from his subjects he would be very angry, and might perhaps even deprive him of his rank as chief amat, for it was his duty to see that all robbers were caught and punished, therefore after thinking for a while, he said: "My friends, listen to me; let us each give silver, as much as we can afford; it is better to give part of our possessions than to have everything taken from us. Dost hear? This silver we will give to the _boh_, and he will then not trouble us any more, but will go to towns where the people are poorer and cannot afford to give as much as we, the citizens of this royal city of Pagan; then shall we have peace." This advice was very good and would have been acted upon, but unfortunately, one of the little princes happened to be in the audience chamber that morning and heard what had been said. He went to his father, the ruler of the Golden Palace, and told the king what he had heard; therefore his majesty called the _amat_ to the Golden Foot and asked him of these things. "What is this I hear?" he demanded. "Has this wicked man robbed as much as the people say? Why hast thou not caught him as it was thy duty to do?" "Son of the Sun," replied the servant, trembling very much as he kneeled before him, for who would not be afraid when the king is angry? "it is true; but this thief is a very wicked and clever thief, besides which he has a wonderful charm tattooed upon his body which is so potent that it makes him invulnerable to wounds from sword or gun, neither can he be bound with ropes, therefore it hath been impossible for the slave of our lord the king to capture or harm him." "Then," said the king, still very angry, "get thee a charm still more potent than the one the robber chief hath, for if thou dost not bring him or his head to me ere three days have elapsed, thou shalt fall from thy rank of chief _amat_. Dost thou hear?" The _amat_ bowed till his head touched the floor before the Golden Foot and he crawled away from the presence the most unhappy man in all the king's possessions. Then in great haste he ran to his house and called all the charm-makers in the city to come to him without delay. Then when they had assembled before him he commanded them to make him a charm which would be stronger than the one tattooed upon the body of the robber chief, Boh Lek Byah. But the charm-sellers one and all declared that this was an impossibility, for the thief had upon the luckiest day of the whole year eaten a piece of flesh cut from the body of a murdered man, and so he could not be harmed in any way, neither was it in their power to give his lordship the amat a charm stronger than his. Very frightened was the amat when he heard this, and very frightened were the soldiers who had been ordered to go with him and catch the thief. Their wives also cried all that night, for they knew what a terrible man the robber was, and how angry he would be with the men who had dared come to capture him. He would show no mercy, and without doubt would kill them all, and in derision send their heads back to the city afterward. This the robber had done before more than once to parties of soldiers sent to take him. Now it happened that among the soldiers who followed the Amat Löng was one who had a very wise and clever wife, and when she saw her husband march away and knew the great danger that he and his fellows were in, she went to the wife of another soldier, and this is what she said: "Sister, oie, listen to my words. If we do naught but sit in our houses and weep our husbands will all assuredly arrive at destruction, for the _boh_ is a very cruel and cunning man. Of what use will our houses be to us if we have no husbands? Listen, therefore, to what I say. The man who collects the blackmail for the _boh_ from the headman of a village across the river and delivers it into his hand is well known to me. His name is Maung Gyei, and he sells books in the bazaar. He is a very wise man, and knows all the followers of the Boh Lek Byah. Let our husbands fight the _boh_ with silver. It is sharper than a sword, and injures not the man who handles it skillfully. We will collect all the money we can. I will sell my earrings, thou canst sell thy bracelets, and the wives of all the other soldiers can do likewise. This will bring a big bag of silver, and half of it we will give to Maung Gyei. He will then call some of the followers of the _boh_ to a secret place and tell him that the Amat Löng will give him the balance in return for the head of their master, if they take it to his lordship ere three days have have elapsed. Our husbands will then bring the head of this wicked man to the royal palace and lay it before the Golden Foot; they will reap much honor and glory for having fulfilled the order of the king and the country will be freed from this great trouble." Now, when the wives of the other soldiers heard these words they perceived that she was indeed a very clever woman, fit to be the wife of a great _amat_ instead of a common soldier, and one ran swiftly after the _amat_ and his men, for in truth they had not gone far, but were traveling slowly, because they feared to come up with the _boh_ and his fierce followers; and they were filled with joy at the good news the messenger brought them. At the order of the _amat_ his men hid themselves in a thick jungle till the money should be collected and brought to them. After two days and when it was very dark, a man came to them saying that he was the friend of Maung Gyei, and bore with him the head of the robber chief, and thereupon showed it wrapped up in a cloth. Then were the soldiers full of joy again, and they paid the money to him, and that night they slept peacefully, for they knew that their enemy could harm them no more, and that they had been delivered from the great danger which had been threatening them. Before they slept the _amat_ sent a swift messenger to the city to tell the king the good news that the robber chief was dead, and that they were bearing his head with them and would present it before the Golden Foot the next morning. Next day, therefore, at the head of his men, he marched to the Golden Palace, and the people of the city were so full of joy over the fact that Boh Lek Byah was dead, that great numbers followed the procession to the palace gates in the hopes of getting a glimpse at the head of their enemy, and everybody praised the Amat Löng for his bravery and wisdom in killing the robber chief who had oppressed them so sorely. His wife also called musicians and dancers, and gave orders to her servants to prepare a great feast that night in honor of her brave husband. They reached the Golden Foot and knelt before the throne, but when the basket was opened, behold, it contained the head of another man, and not that of the _boh_ at all. Then did all the people in the city laugh at the _amat_ because his enemy had deceived him, and he fell from his rank of chief _amat_. All his golden umbrellas were taken away from him and given to his successor, and he was obliged to earn his living by selling medicines in bazaar, and from that day till he died he bore the nickname of Amat Toak Arah;[6] but the people all praised the cleverness of his enemy, the thief. Now, when the king saw how cunning Boh Lek Byah was and how easily he had deceived his servant, he determined that he himself would take the robber chief and thus gain great credit and renown. To this end he gave orders to the headman of every village throughout his kingdom that directly the robber should come within his jurisdiction he was to report immediately, and the king would send a trusty officer to arrest him. He did not tell them that he himself would go, therefore for a long time the headmen feared to obey the order of the king for, said they among themselves: "The _boh_ deceived the Amat Löng, who was one of the most cunning of men, and will he not escape from any other whom it should please our lord the king to send against him? Is there any more cunning man in the palace now than before? When he finds out also that we have reported his presence to the king his mind will become hot against us, and he will without doubt return and destroy all our houses and kill everybody in our village. Nay, it is better to give him silver and beg him begone elsewhere," so although they told the messengers of the king they would follow his words, they simply held their peace when the dreaded robber chief was near their village. But after a long time the headman of Myo Haung, who was braver than his fellows, came to the palace and told the king that the _boh_ was then at his village, and would leave when it became dark, taking boat for Myo Kywe, which was a suburb of the city of Pagan. The heart of the king was filled with joy when he heard this piece of good news, and he gave the headman a great reward. Also he took off the royal robes such as is the custom of kings to wear, and put on very poor ones so that no one would think that he was the lord who ate the country of Pagan. He also took with him a sword; not the royal sword with the silver sheath and ivory handle, but an old dah with a wooden handle bound around with rattan string, and a sheath of wood, such as the common people carry, then he went to the bank of the river near Myo Kywe and waited. He waited long, but his heart was strong and he did not become discouraged by reason of the waiting, and at last he saw coming down the river a small boat, and in it a man whom he knew immediately to be the thief. Maung Lek Byah guided his boat toward the bank near where the king was seated, for he was a skillful oarsman, and when he had fastened it with a rattan loop to the end of his oar stuck into the soft mud at the water's edge he ascended the path to the village, and as he reached the top of the bank he caught sight of the king in his dingy clothes and wearing the old sword with the wooden handle, sitting on the side of the path. He was surprised to see a man there at that time of night, for the gongs which call the priests and old women to worship had sounded long before, and everybody in the village was sound asleep, therefore he gazed earnestly at the king and then called out: "Who is that?" "It is a man who wishes to arrive at the rank of disciple to our lord," replied the king. "Art thou a man of the day or a man of the night?" asked the robber looking down at him. "Thy servant is a man of the night," replied the king. "Hast thou not heard how many of my followers have been caught and executed? How that the tigers at the entering in of the villages will not now eat oxen but wait till one of my men is tied up for them? I tell thee they have not long to wait either. Art thou not afraid?" "Ah, our lord," replied the king, "thy disciples suffered because they did not take heed and follow in the footsteps of our lord, therefore have they arrived at destruction; but thy servant will study thee, O payah, and thus will I learn how to become a great _boh_ and also to escape their fate." Now when the king talked in this fashion the _boh_ was very pleased with him, and gave him permission to follow. He also promised to teach his new disciple all his arts; that he would not let him ever be caught and would make him as famous a _boh_ even as he was. "And so," said he, "as thou hast a sword with thee, follow me. I will give thee thy first lesson." Now it happened that as they walked along toward the city the thief began to think within himself, "Who can this new disciple be? He surely comes from a high family, for he speaks not like the common people, but as kings have a custom of speaking. He wears the clothes of a common man, and carries the sword of a coolie, but yet his words are the words of one used to command. Can he be a spy sent by the _amat_ whom I tricked so nicely the other day, I wonder?" and thus he turned it over and over in his mind. The _hpeas_ have ever aided the kings of Burma, and now those whom the king had been in the habit of feeding daily were watching over him, and when they heard the _boh_ thus talk with himself, for the spirits can hear us think even when we make no sounds of words, they put it into the head of the robber to go to the house of the king's own astrologer. It was not very far and they soon arrived there. Then Maung Lek Byah said to the king: "Stay thou here and watch; if thou dost see or hear aught come and call me," but he himself went under the house of the astrologer to discover whether he slept or not. When he knew that the man was sound asleep he would draw a sharp knife which he carried in his girdle, cut a hole in the mat side of the house, creep in through this hole and take what he wished; then he would escape before the lord of the house awoke. As he was watching, however, he heard the astrologer come out upon the veranda so that he could study the stars, for that was his custom; then he heard him say to himself: "Truly this is a good thing to marvel at, for I see the star of that famous robber chief, Boh Lek Byah, and following it closely is the star of none other than the ruler of the Golden Palace himself." For a long time the astrologer sat upon his veranda pondering over this strange occurrence and trying to think what it should portend; but in vain. He could think of no solution of the mystery, so after again saying that it was a good thing to marvel at he gave it up and went into his house to sleep. Thus did the thief discover the high rank of his new disciple, for the astrologer knew the star of the _boh_ well and would make no mistake. He also knew the star of the king. Had this same astrologer not cast the horoscope of the robber chief and foretold which days were lucky and which unlucky to him, so that by taking heed he had never been caught? Therefore when he again came forth from under the royal astrologer's house and saw the king was still waiting without, even as he had given orders, his mind was filled with great fear. Then said the king directly he saw the robber: "O Kin Byah, thy servant knows a place where there are so many rubies that they are as common as _maknin_ seeds that the children play with in the dust; gold is as plentiful as iron is with us, and there is enough silk to stock ten bazaars. All this is within reach of our hands. I can guide thee to the place, for I know it well; wilt thou follow?" Then said the thief: "I know of but one place of which thou canst say that with truth, and that is the Golden Palace; but a man may not enter there and live. Knowest thou not that the guards carry sharp _dahs_, and that if a man is caught there without permission from the king or one of his _amats_, he is immediately impaled? In very truth it is a place good to shun and fear greatly, even as the den of a hungry tiger in the jungle." "True, O brave man," replied the king, "but this evening as I passed by the palace I saw hanging from the top of the wall a rope-ladder; we can climb over, take enough to make us rich for the rest of our lives, and run away before the guards with the sharp _dahs_ discover that we have been there. Thus shall we earn much wealth and glory, and people throughout the land will call our lord the 'Boh Who Entered the Golden Palace,' and all men will fear his name more than the name of a hungry leopard." Then were the thoughts of the _boh_ in great confusion, and he said to himself: "Of a truth I am about to arrive at destruction at last. I have had my last adventure. If I do not follow the king he will assuredly call out to the guard and I shall be taken. If I go, how shall I be delivered from the great dangers which will surround me in the Golden Palace? I am undone whichever way I take." Then said he to the king: "O disciple, whom I love much, I fear to enter the Golden Palace, for this I perceive is one of my unlucky days. We will therefore go to Pin Tha village, for I saw this morning a great number of coolies there. They were following a great prince from the hills. They have been traveling far to-day and are therefore heavy with sleep, and we can despoil them of as much as we can carry away. As they are very weary with their journey, none will know aught till they awake in the morning." "Upon what day wast thou born?" demanded the king, and the _boh_ said that it was upon a Saturday. "Then," said the king, "behold! this is a lucky day," and he drew forth from under his jacket a horoscope, which showed that this was a lucky day upon which a man who had been born upon a Saturday could undertake any deed requiring great wisdom and bravery in its accomplishment, and in spite of all that Maung Lek Byah could say the king led the way toward the palace, and the _boh_ was obliged to follow him, which he did with very slow and hesitating steps, for his heart had become as weak as water. Even as the king had said, there was a rope-ladder hanging over the palace wall, and the _boh_ perceived in what manner the king had left the Golden Palace, but being a very wise man he followed without opening his mouth. They passed through the palace courtyard and saw there a thing good to marvel at; all the guards who ought to have been watching their lord were slumbering, so that the king and the _boh_ gathered up all the spears and _dahs_ belonging to these men and carried them away, hiding them in a secret place under one of the houses. As they entered the palace buildings the thief became so full of alarm that all his strength left him and he could hardly walk. Then the king saw that his follower had arrived at great fear, and as they passed the house where the royal food was prepared, he said: "Friend, I perceive that thou art in sore distress; come, eat the food I am about to prepare for thee and thou wilt become strong." "Nay," said the _boh_, "that I cannot do. Can a common man eat of the golden food and live? This will I not do; surely I should be accounted worthy of death." The king would not listen to him, but entered the royal kitchen, and with his own hands cooked some food which he compelled the thief to eat. Now, the king had prepared two messes, one in which he had cunningly placed some opium and one without, and it was the food which contained the opium that the king gave to the _boh_. Therefore, after a little time, he said to the king: "O disciple of mine, I know not what is the matter with me. I have no strength and although it is death to sleep in the Golden Palace yet must I sleep, for if I do not I shall surely die." As he said these words his head drooped upon his chest, his eyes closed and he fell asleep. Once more was the heart of the king filled with joy and he bound the _boh_ with strong ropes in great haste and made him a prisoner. Early the next morning the king called the officer who was in charge of the guard the night before and when he was come before the face of his majesty, the king said: "I have a parable to tell thee. Once upon a time there was a great king and in his country was also a famous robber chief and, behold, one night the king was sore troubled with questions of statecraft so that he could not sleep, therefore he walked throughout his palace. As he was passing through the courtyard he spied a ladder hanging from the top of the wall. Now the thief of whom I have spoken had that very night entered the Golden Palace and at that same moment the king caught sight of him, loaded down with plunder, creeping toward the rope ladder beside which he stood. Then the king fell upon him and took him prisoner, bound him securely with strong ropes and dragged him to a safe place; but the soldiers who should have been watching were all asleep. What should be done to such guards as these?" Now the officer did not yet know that the _dahs_ of his men had been stolen, so bowing before the Golden Foot, he replied: "Head of thy servant's body, there is but one thing to be done, they are worthy of death. Their lord should pass judgment upon them without mercy and that immediately." "That is a good judgment," replied the king, and turning again to the officer of the guard, he said: "Last night I saw the great and renowned robber chief, Boh Lek Byah, in this palace. I took him prisoner with mine own hands, behold, he lies tied fast with ropes in yonder room, but all the guards who should have been watching were asleep. Where are their _dahs_? Let every man who has no sword be impaled before I eat my morning rice." Then were the hearts of the king's _amats_ full of joy when they heard that the thief whom they all feared was a prisoner in the palace, and they praised the wondrous bravery and subtlety of their royal master, saying that without doubt he was the bravest and wisest king who ever sat under a white umbrella. The king was very proud as he listened to their praises and gave orders that the robber chief should be brought before him. When Boh Lek Byah was led to the Golden Foot he prostrated himself, and the king said: "If a man be found in the royal palace at night what hath custom decreed should be the punishment for his presumption?" Then the prisoner said: "King above all kings, it is death." "Hast thou anything to say why thou shouldst not be impaled or given to the tigers to eat?" demanded the king in a terrible voice. "Lord of the world," replied the unfortunate man, "last night thou didst ask to become disciple to our lord's slave. Will the disciple order his teacher to be executed? When our lord's slave was beneath the royal astrologer's house he discovered that his new disciple was the Eater of the Country and so when our lord of the Golden Palace ordered his slave to enter, he would have been worthy of death had he not obeyed. Will the Son of the Sun execute his slave for following his words?" Then when the king heard that the robber had known who he really was, he marveled much at his wisdom, and said: "Assuredly thou art too wise a man for the tigers to eat. Take thou yonder sword, it belonged to him who yesterday was captain of the royal guard. Follow me and thou shalt later become my chief _amat_." [6] Literally, "The counselor who fell from his rank," _i. e._, was degraded. GLOSSARY OF TERMS PUC. Curry. ZAYAT. A place built for the accommodation of travelers, also used as an assembly place for worship, especially during religious feasts; they are usually built near monasteries. PARAH. (Burmese, _payah_) a god; an image of Gautama Buddha. KAM. Luck. MAU. To be skillful. AMAT L�NG. The chief amat or chief counselor of a prince. SOIE. The Indian "_viss_"; a weight equal to about three and a half pounds avoirdupois. CHATTIE. A cooking pot, usually made of earthenware. H�K. A deep rent in the earth with steep sides; a ravine; a torrent usually runs in it during the rainy season, but it is dry in the hot season. HPEA. Spirit or supernatural being. AMAT. A minister of State. HSAN. A rice bag. NANG ME PRAH. A queen. 
29773	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) _LEGENDS OF THE WAILUKU_ _SECOND EDITION_ _Copyright 1920-1921 by_ THE CHARLES R. FRAZIER COMPANY HONOLULU _Paradise of the Pacific Print_ [Illustration: Drawn by Will Herwig. Paradise Eng. Hina's Spirit Still Lives in the Mists of Rainbow Falls.] LEGENDS OF THE WAILUKU _As told by old Hawaiians and done into the English tongue by Charlotte Hapai_ _Illustrated by Will Herwig_ _To remember our happy hours of story-telling, this printed fragment is in gratitude dedicated to my grandmother, Harriet Kamakanoenoe Hapai._ THE WAILUKU. Fed from the great watershed of Hawaii far up the densely wooded flanks of Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea--often snow-capped in winter--the Wailuku River roars through the very center of Hilo, principal town of the Island of Hawaii. There are many vague stories as to why the Wailuku River was so named. In the Hawaiian tongue Wailuku means literally "destroying water." In olden times before there were bridges and other safeguards the river wrought considerable damage to property and during the rainy season it took its toll of human lives. Legends connected with the Wailuku tend to confirm the belief that it was named for its violent habits. Long ago, so one legend goes, the much dreaded Kuna (dragon) blocked the gorge below Rainbow Falls with intent to back the waters up and drown the goddess Hina, who dwelt in the great cave for which the falls form a curtain. How her son, the demi-god Maui, came to the rescue, saved his mother, and finally hunted Kuna from his lair up the river and slew him, is told in the legend, "The Last of Kuna." When Paoa, a very powerful god from Tahiti, came to visit Hawaii he built a grass hut and made his home on the long, low rock--now known as Maui's canoe--in the Wailuku near its mouth. Local gods viewed this selection of a homesite as foolhardy, but Paoa was unaware of the sudden and rapid rise the river made when heavy rains and cloud-bursts loosed their torrents high upon the slopes of Mauna Kea. Hina, goddess of the river, warned the visitor of his danger and told him how the angry waters would sweep everything before them. In the legend, "The Coming of Paoa," you will find his answer. In those days there must have been much more water in the river than there is today, for a certain amount is now diverted above Rainbow Falls for water power. In spite of the decreased volume the river is still very violent and treacherous. At high water big boulders are clumsily rolled down stream and when the river is unusually high even trees are torn from the banks and carried out to sea. So the Wailuku still lives up to its name, Destroying Water. HOW HILO WAS NAMED. King Kamehameha the Great was a very famous warrior. His chief ambition, which he lived to realize, was to become sole ruler of all the Hawaiian Islands. Naturally he had numerous enemies, and he never remained long in one place for fear some of them might learn of his whereabouts and attack him. One time, when he was encamped near the mouth of the Wailuku, he planned a quiet visit to what is now known as Reed's Island, where lived a particular friend of his. As this friend was a powerful chief, Kamehameha felt safe in going to him without his usual warrior bodyguard. Before leaving camp he called his servants to him and told them to stand watch over his canoe, that it might not be stolen or carried away by the tide. This they promised faithfully to do. As time passed and the king did not return or send word to his servants they grew uneasy about him. Perhaps he might have been ambushed, they reasoned; or more likely fallen into one of the caverns formed by ancient lava flows and which are often treacherously concealed by a thin, brittle crust that a man of Kamehameha's bulk might easily break through. Much as they feared for the king's safety, the servants dared not leave the canoe unguarded. They were in a quandary indeed. "I know what we can do!" cried one of the men. "We can make a rope of ti leaves and tie the canoe so it cannot drift away." "Make a rope," queried another, "how can we do that?" "Simple enough," answered the first speaker. "I'll show you. Take the ti leaves and fasten them together. First you make two chains of leaves--like this--and then twist each one. When you place them together they will naturally twine about each other and you have a very strong rope. Such twisting is called hilo." "I've never seen it done," admitted his fellow sentry, "but it looks very simple." "And so it is," went on the resourceful one, as he rapidly twisted the ti leaves into serviceable ropes. "Now," he concluded, "these are plenty long enough. Let us make the canoe fast to the beach." And taking their ropes to the canoe they tied it securely to that point of land--known to the old Hawaiians as Kaipaaloa--near the mouth of the river where the lighthouse stands today. Then they set out in search of the king. Only a short way up the river they met Kamehameha returning unharmed. Ignoring the spirit of their intent in absenting themselves from their post of duty, the king demanded: "But where is my canoe? What have you done with my canoe? You promised to guard it. By now it may have drifted out to sea or been stolen!" "We tied it with ti ropes," answered the servant who had woven them. "Ti ropes!" roared his majesty. "Why, no one here knows how to make ropes like that. The only place they do know is at Waipio. How did you learn?" "I came to you from there," the man answered. "Oh, and that is where you learned. Well and good. Hereafter this place shall be called Hilo." And so it has been. The town at the mouth of the Wailuku has since that day been known by the Hawaiian word meaning "to twist." MAUI CONQUERS THE SUN. Hina, the goddess who in the long ago made her home in the great cave beneath Rainbow Falls, was especially gifted in the art of tapa making. So wonderfully artistic and fine were the tapas of Hina that people journeyed from all parts of the Island to view them and to covet. Even across the mighty shoulders of Mauna Loa from Kona and Kailua and down the rugged Hamakua Coast from Waipio they came, and from the other islands as well. It was hard, laboring over the tapa every day, and especially hunting for the olona which Hina sometimes used. But she used also the bark of the mamake and wauke trees, which were more plentiful and very good for tapa. Interested though he was in the manufacture and decoration of this beautiful paper-cloth, Hina's son, the demi-god Maui, held aloof from the work. In the making of tapa man's hand was tabu, yet he could not forbear an occasional suggestion when his mother created mystic designs for decoration of her work. After the tapa was made it had to be placed for the Sun to dry, but by the time Hina would reach the drying frames, the Sun was far up in the sky. All too soon long shadows would creep across the stream below Rainbow Falls, warning her that night approached and that it was time to take in her tapa. [Illustration: Drawn by Will Herwig. Paradise Eng. As Maui Reached the Eastern Rim the Sun Was Disappearing.] Quite often the dyes with which the designs were painted on the tapa were not entirely dry when the tapa was taken in, and many fine pieces were smeared and ruined. Days were short in the narrow walled-in river gorge and the Sun shone directly on the tapa for only a few hours, passing then beyond the high western wall, and gloom would settle about the cave, growing deeper with oncoming night. It grieved Maui to see his mother's tapa so often spoiled, so he besought the Sun to go more slowly. For one or two days he did moderate his pace and Hina rejoiced in the lovely tapas she was able to make. But soon the heedless Sun hurried past again as fast as ever, entirely forgetting his promise to Maui. So Maui determined to exact a lasting agreement with the Sun, and set out in his canoe for Maui, the Island which bears his name and on which is situated Haleakala, today the greatest extinct crater in the world and in olden time the Home of the Sun. Maui hoped to catch him there. As Maui reached the eastern rim of Haleakala the Sun was just disappearing over the other side; but Maui knew he would return in the morning, so he prepared to spend the night in waiting. As the Sun returned to his home next morning Maui caught him by his rays, which the Sun used as legs, and, wielding the magic club which he always carried on his many expeditions, broke several of them. Thus crippled, the Sun was forced to stay for parley, though crying out in alarm that he must be let go, as there was no time to waste. Day must be carried westward. But Maui hung on and reminded the Sun of his promises. After much argument they agreed to compromise; so the Sun promised to go slowly six months in the year and then, for the remaining six months, to hurry as fast as before. Maui was content with this arrangement and sure also that the Sun would not again forget, for he had crippled him considerably. It would take some time, he thought, for the Sun's broken rays to mend. So, very well pleased with his success, Maui permitted the Sun to proceed on his journey, while himself he prepared to return with all speed, bearing the good news to his mother. KUNA, THE DRAGON. Far above Rainbow Falls there lived a powerful kupua named Kuna. Kuna had the form of a monstrous dragon, unlike anything in these islands today. Kuna often tormented the goddess Hina in her rocky cave behind Rainbow Falls by sending over great torrents of water or by rolling logs and boulders down the stream. Quite often he would block the stream below the falls with sediment sent down by freshets during the rainy seasons. But Hina was well protected. Her cave was large and the misty cloud of spray from the falling waters helped to conceal it. So in spite of the frequent floods and many threats from Kuna, Hina paid him not the slightest attention, but with her songs and gay laughter lightly mocked him as she worked. On many days Hina was quite alone, while her eldest son, the demi-god Maui, was away on one of his numerous expeditions. Even then she did not mind this, for should any danger befall her she had a peculiar cloud servant which she called "ao-opua." If Hina were in trouble this ao-opua would rise high above the falls, taking an unusual shape. When Maui saw this warning cloud he would hurry home at once to his mother's side. One night while Maui was away from home on the Island of Maui, where he had gone to bargain with the Sun, a storm arose. The angry waters roared about the mouth of Hina's cave. They hissed and tossed in ugly blackness down the narrow river gorge; but Hina heard naught of the wildness without. Being used to the noisy cataract, her slumbers were not disturbed by the heightened tumult of its roar. But Kuna, quite aware of the situation, was quick to take advantage and to act. Hina's apparent indifference annoyed him. He recalled several failures to conquer her, and rage overwhelmed him. Calling upon his powers he lifted an immense boulder and hurled it over the cliffs. It fitted perfectly where it fell between the walls of the gorge and blocked the rush of the hurrying torrent. Laughing loudly at his success, Kuna called on Hina and warned her of her plight, but, still unknowing, Hina slept on until the cold waters entered the cave, rapidly creeping higher and higher until they reached her where she slept. Startled into wakefulness she sprang to her feet, and her cries of panic resounded against the distant hills. As the waters rose higher her cries became more terrified until they reached the Island of Maui and the ears of her son. Through the darkness Maui could see the strange warning cloud, unusually large and mysterious. With his mother's cries ringing in his ears he bounded down the mountain to his canoe, which he sent across the sea to the mouth of the Wailuku with two strong sweeps of his paddle. The long, narrow rock in the river below the Mauka Bridge, called Ka Waa o Maui (The Canoe of Maui), is still just where he ran it aground at the foot of the rapids. Seizing his magic club with which he had conquered the Sun, Maui rushed to the scene of danger. Seeing the rock blocking the river he raised his club and struck it a mighty blow. Nothing could resist the magic club! The rock split in two, allowing the strong current to rush unhindered on its way. Hearing the crash of the club and realizing his attempt on the life of Hina had again failed, Kuna turned and fled up the river. The remains of the great boulder, now known as Lonokaeho, overgrown with tropical plants and with the river rushing through the rift, lies there to this day as proof of Maui's prowess. THE LAST OF KUNA. So great was the wrath of the demi-god Maui at the fell intent of Kuna to drown his mother that he vowed never to relent in his search for the monster, and to kill him on sight. Kuna evidently sensed Maui's intentions, for as soon as he saw his great mischief undone he fled to a hiding-place far up the river. He realized then how great had been his folly and trembled at the thought of capture by the mighty demi-god. In spite of his magic powers Kuna knew Maui's anger to be far greater than all of them put together; still, he had countless secret hiding-places where it would be difficult to find him. He did not have long to wait in his secret lair before he heard the thundering voice of Maui commanding him to come forth. The earth shook with the heavy tread of the vengeful demi-god and the dreadful blows he dealt all obstacles he passed which might possibly conceal the form of his enemy. The thundering voice and quaking earth became more horrible and terrifying as Maui approached. Soon he stood before the hole in which Kuna lay hiding. Catching sight of the ugly monster within, Maui let out a deafening yell, poised his magic spear, and with one sweep of his mighty arm hurled it into the depths of Kuna's hiding-place. But the dragon was sly and agile, notwithstanding his huge bulk, and slipped out in time to save himself. Even today you can see the long hole--puka o Maui--which the demi-god's spear made through the lava beyond the cavern; sufficient evidence of the Herculean strength with which the weapon was driven. Small wonder Kuna so feared a meeting with this outraged son of the goddess he had sought to drown. Wasting no time, Kuna started down stream, with Maui in hot pursuit. Often the dragon tried to conceal himself in some sheltered spot, or evade his pursuer by hiding behind a rock, but Maui gave him no rest, spearing him from one hole to another. Diving into one of several deep pools in the river, Kuna hoped that at last he was safely hidden. Maui was not to be thus easily fooled. He could see the grotesque bulk of his enemy far below the surface of the gloomy water. Kuna was cornered. Calling upon Pele, goddess of the Volcano, to send him hot stones and molten lava, Maui cast these into Kuna's retreat until the waters boiled furiously, sending a vast column of steam far above the rim of the gorge. Known today as the Boiling Pots, although time has cooled their waters, they still bubble and surge as vigorously as ever, especially when the heavy rains come and remind them of the time when Kuna the Dragon sought refuge within their depths. Tough as the hide of Kuna was, it could not save him from the terrific heat generated by the red-hot rocks and lava cast into the pool by Maui. Nearly exhausted, the monster managed to drag himself from the cauldron and, shrieking horribly, he again took up his flight down stream. Maui sent torrents of boiling water after him, scalding at last the life from his ugly body. Then Maui rolled the huge carcass down the river to a point below Rainbow Falls, within sight of his mother's home, where she could view daily the evidence that none might threaten her and live. And there the ungainly form lies today--a long, black-rock island known as Moo Kuna, between the rapids--where every freshet, every heavy rain, beats upon it as though in everlasting punishment for plotting the death of Hawaii's beloved goddess, Hina. THE COMING OF PAOA. Many years ago there lived on the Island of Tahiti several brothers, all very gifted and powerful gods of that land. One was by name Paoa. Now Tahitian customs were very like those of Hawaii at that time, in that the Tahitians offered human sacrifices when a canoe or a heiau was in process of construction. How the observance of this custom caused the flight of Paoa to Hawaii, you shall see. It so happened that one of the brothers was having a canoe built, and they were all undecided as to whom should be offered in sacrifice. A quarrel ensued. Paoa and the owner of the new canoe grew very bitter towards each other over it. When the time came for the sacrifice Paoa's only son was taken and offered to the flames. Grief-stricken at the loss of his son and furious at the cruelty of his brother, Paoa decided to leave it all and seek peace on some other island. In preparation for the long journey by canoe he took only three things with him: two kinds of fish--the aku and opelu--and some pili grass. Journeying northward he encountered a terrific storm which grew more terrible as the days passed until it seemed the low canoe could no longer breast the great mountains of angry water that bore down upon it as though to drive it under and swallow it into the black depths. [Illustration: Drawn by Will Herwig. Paradise Eng. Paoa Stood Upon the Little Plot of Pili Grass As He Answered Her.] Fearing for his safety, Paoa took the two kinds of fish and threw them overside. Almost at once the mighty waves were calmed and the canoe went safely on its way surrounded by an area of calm, peaceful water while the storm raged on all sides a little distance away. Even today if you see a smooth area of water in the midst of a rough sea you will know that there is a school of aku or opelu very near the surface. So Paoa sailed safely through the storm. As soon as it subsided he called back the fish and placed them in his canoe once more. They had been very helpful and might be of use should the storm arise again. At last Paoa came to an island which appeared very large and was covered with vegetation. Paddling his canoe into a great crescent-shaped bay, he observed a river emptying into it and turned the nose of his tiny craft that way. Not far up the river he came to a long, low rock which he called Waa Kauhi, and landed on the southeastern side of its point. So great was the joy of Paoa upon reaching this beautiful island that he decided to make it his home. To commemorate his safe landing he at once planted on the rock the pili grass he had brought with him. Also he liberated his aku and opelu fish in the new waters, where today their progeny teem in countless millions. Very soon he built himself a grass hut for a home, and was careful to protect the pili grass, which grew rapidly and before long spread to other parts of the big island, where it throve even better than on the scant soil of the pahoehoe rock. Hawaiians soon learned to use the pili grass in house building, as it made a tighter thatch and lasted longer than the lauhala or the grasses to which they had been accustomed. The stems of the flowers were later used in weaving hats, as they, too, were firm and strong. Farther up the river, which Paoa learned was called the Wailuku, there lived the goddess Hina. Soon after the arrival of this stranger from Tahiti, Hina heard of him and his chosen home. Evidently he had not come to wage war or do harm to the people, for he had already made friends with many of the fishermen living near him. So Hina decided to see him for herself and went down to his home. She was surprised to find that he really had established himself on that low rock. "Why," she exclaimed, "you must not stay on this rock! Can't you see the waters above here are high? When the rains come you will be washed away and drowned. It is not safe!" Paoa stood upon the little plot of pili grass as he answered her. "No, I will not go away, for no matter how high the waters come they shall never cover this spot." From that day Paoa's word has held true. No matter how high the Wailuku rises, it never has covered the little plot of pili grass which still grows on the long, low rock at the river's mouth. MAUI AND THE ALAE BIRDS. Maui, the eldest son of the goddess Hina, lived with his mother and two brothers in the cave behind Rainbow Falls, in the Wailuku River Gorge, a short distance mauka of what is today the town of Hilo. Often the brothers would go fishing in the harbor. At this time the Hawaiians knew nothing about fire. All their food was eaten raw. Occasionally Maui had found in his various wanderings some bits of cooked banana and pondered over their delicious flavor. He could not understand what had been done to them until one day he came upon a group of little alae birds cooking bananas over a fire. He was so amazed at the scene that the birds had plenty of time to put out their fire and take wing before he could bring himself to action. This only aroused his ambitious nature and he vowed he would learn the secret of fire. In the days that followed he devised many cunning schemes to trap one of the alae birds, but they, too, were cunning and carefully refrained from building any fire when Maui was near. Once or twice while he was out fishing he had seen white puffs of smoke among the trees and knew the birds were preparing a feast, but he could never reach the place in time to catch any of them. One day he thought of a clever trick and took his brothers into his confidence. They fixed up a kalabash covered with tapa to resemble a man and placed it in the middle of Maui's canoe. Then the two brothers took their seats at either end of the canoe and paddled out into the harbor while Maui ran back and concealed himself in the woods. Soon the alae birds came circling overhead and Maui heard them say, "At last we can make our fire and have a good feast. Maui and his two brothers are out for a day's fishing." Quivering with excitement, Maui crouched in his hiding-place and waited. Soon he heard the birds talking quite near him and, peeping out, saw them pushing fresh bananas into a blazing fire. Rushing into their midst he caught one of the birds. "Tell me how you make fire or you shall never go free!" he demanded. At first the bird was sullen and refused to answer, but at Maui's rough treatment resorted to trickery and replied, "Rub two taro stalks together and you shall have fire." Holding the bird closely, Maui did so, but only little drops of water came from the stalks. Very angry, Maui punished the bird again and demanded the truth. Helpless and exhausted, the poor alae told Maui to take two hau sticks and rub them together. Maui found the hau sticks, but fearing the bird was not telling the truth, he rubbed its head with one of the sticks until a drop of blood trickled out, staining the tuft of feathers on its crest. But the bird persisted in this statement, so Maui began rubbing the sticks together. Little sparks appeared and caught fire to the dead leaves on which they fell. Overjoyed at his discovery, Maui set the bird free. But to this day every alae bird wears the symbol of punishment for telling its secret--a tuft of red feathers on the top of its head. MAUI'S KITE. Maui, the great demi-god of Hawaii, was restless. Time hung heavy on his hands. Uneventful days of quiet had fallen upon the land. Adventure seemed to be in hiding, and no exploit invited to service this active youngster's shining spear or magic club. Idleness grew more and more unbearable. Now Laamaomao, god of the winds, dwelt not far above Rainbow Falls in the beautiful gorge of the Wailuku and to him Maui confided his discontent. The old fellow admitted that times were dull. Not for a long time had he been called upon for blasts from his greater windpot, Ipunui. On the heels of this remark came inspiration, and he suggested that Maui fashion a large kite. He, Laamaomao, would see to it that a suitable wind be forthcoming and excitement sufficient to break the dull monotony of too peaceful days. So Maui set about the construction of an enormous kite. His mother, the goddess Hina, made for him a beautiful and strong tapa, and twisted fibres of the olona into a stout cord. From the rich red wood of the koa expert and willing hands put together a graceful frame, and in due time the big plaything was ready. Laamaomao, having fathered the idea, manifested a keen interest in the proceedings and had his windpots in readiness for the initial flight. Calling Ipuiki, smaller of his two windpots, into action, Laamaomao directed a steady, gentle breeze up the gorge against the breast of the great kite, cautioning those who held it to be in readiness to let go at the proper moment and reminding Maui to have a care lest the olona cord slip through his hands. Gracefully the birdlike thing rose into the brilliant turquoise sky--that same sky which today so enchants the malihini--and as it tugged at the line, dipped, rose again and circled about, the thrill of it came down the cord to Maui's hands and his delight knew no bounds. Often in the quiet days that followed did Maui amuse himself with the big kite. As he grew more familiar with its handling the impetuous demi-god would ask Laamaomao for winds from Ipunui and glory in the tussle his kite gave him when buffeted by these stronger blasts--even though wise old Laamaomao was careful to moderate their power. Sometimes Maui would tire of his sport and, drawing its cord through a round hole in a rock which lay in the center of a small lake near the wind caves, would leave his kite to its own devices while he slept. [Illustration: Drawn by Will Herwig. Paradise Eng. Old Laamaomao, the Wind God, Admitted That Times Were Dull.] On one such occasion Laamaomao, having received an order for a great storm, forgot all about Maui's kite and turned loose his most powerful wind from Ipunui. All night long it howled through the creaking trees, driving the rain before it in lashing sheets. Stout as it was, the olona cord with which Maui's big kite was moored could not long withstand the strain and finally parted, leaving the kite to the mercy of the winds. Tossed madly about in the storm, it was carried far across the flank of Mauna Loa and dropped into the sea off the shore of Kau. Now Puuanuhe, the much-dreaded lizard-woman, made her home on the shores of the Kau desert, and to her ears had come the wonderful story of Maui's kite, fanning an already hot jealousy of the young demi-god and his doings. Puuanuhe was the only creature of those days who had fiery red hair, and her temper was none the less caloric. So when she saw this strange object floating in the water near her home on the morning after the storm she recognized it as Maui's kite. Chuckling in vicious satisfaction at this chance opportunity to make trouble for the handsome son of Hina, Puuanuhe hid the kite in the rough hills back of Hilea. Great was Maui's surprise and consternation when he found his kite gone. He at once set out in search of it. Days passed without trace of it, but one day news came to him that Puuanuhe had been seen with a large kite. He knew it must be his, as there was none other so big. Arriving at Hilea he discovered the hideous red-headed lizard-woman, who admitted she had found his kite, but refused to enlighten him as to its whereabouts. This same creature had lured many a poor fisherman to death on the rocky coast of Kau, and Maui thought it high time to put an end to such a pest, so he killed her. Once more he took up his search for his beloved kite and soon found it cleverly hidden in the hills. Ironically he named the spot Puuanuhe, and returning home with his precious toy he fastened it securely to its moorings again. Even today you can see the immense kite, now turned to stone, just as Maui hauled it in for the last time and left it. It is seventy-five feet long and about forty-five feet wide, narrowing to eighteen feet at one end. At the narrow end is a crystal-clear lake, very deep and smooth as glass. In its center is a large, round stone projecting above the surface with a two-inch aperture in the middle where Maui used to make his kite string fast. Near this lake are the two windpots, Ipunui and Ipuiki, and a little way below are three very distinct foot-prints, each fifteen inches long, showing where Maui stood while flying his great kite. MAUI'S FISH-HOOK. Maui, the powerful young demi-god who dwelt with his mother, the goddess Hina, in the great cave behind Rainbow Falls, had succeeded in so many hazardous undertakings, and had the welfare of his people so much at heart, that he resolved upon what was to be his greatest deed of prowess and beneficence. Now Maui had a magic fish-hook which he cleverly used while fishing with his brothers. Maui was very sly and quick, but he was never a good fisherman. He would sit in the canoe and drag his hook through the water, catching no fish himself but snagging those his brothers caught and laughing merrily at their bewildered expressions when they pulled in their lines and found nothing. They distrusted Maui, for he would never let them see his hook, yet they knew it was shaped differently from theirs. It was more complicated and had a double barb, while the common fish-hook had but one. But his brothers could never catch him at his tricks. At last they no longer allowed him to accompany them on their fishing trips, as he took all the fish and honors, and they all knew--Maui included--that he did not deserve them. So Maui would go alone to the bay, but the hook remained idle in the bottom of his magic canoe which, as related in the legend of Kuna, he drove from the shores of the Island of Maui to the mouth of the Wailuku with two sweeps of his paddle. While drifting about Maui watched some of his people who were not blessed with magic canoes, and considered the hard paddling required to send them through the water. One day as he sat in his canoe watching another pass by, evidently on its way to a neighboring island, the demi-god wondered if it might not make things easier to have all the islands joined together, so people could travel to any part of the kingdom without the laborious canoe voyages. Calling a meeting of Hawaii's chiefs and strong men Maui informed them of a plan to draw all the islands together. He told them he would need their help in pulling the islands, but no matter how hard or how long they pulled they must never look back to see how much was being accomplished until the islands were firmly joined together. The men solemnly promised to obey Maui and at once proceeded to their new task. The island now known as Maui was selected for the first attempt. Maui fastened his magic fish-hook into that part of the land nearest Hawaii, and at his command the strong men and chiefs paddled with all their might. Slowly the island moved behind them. No one dared look around, though all were burning with curiosity to see the result of their struggles. Long and steadily they paddled until the two islands were only a few feet apart. Then one of the chiefs could no longer control his curiosity and looked around. In an instant the charm was broken. The island slid back through the sea to its former position in spite of all that Maui, chiefs and strong men could do to stop it. Only a small piece of land was left--that in which the fish-hook was still deeply imbedded. Today that bit of land is covered with lauhala trees and coconut palms, and is known as Coconut Island. So great was Maui's disappointment at this his first failure in any important enterprise that he would not try again. He said his fish-hook had lost its charm and sorrowfully he took it away with him in his canoe. He carried it up the Wailuku River to his home behind Rainbow Falls, where he grieved for many days over the unsuccessful attempt. Later, having no more use for the hook, he carried it away from the cave and threw it into the forest near his home, where it lay undisturbed until the haole came. To those early settlers the magic fish-hook of Maui was of less interest as such than as material for masonry, and not a piece of it remains. At the forks of the Piihonua-Kaumana road one may, however, see the peculiar-shaped depression where it lay for so long before civilization's vanguard swept the tangled jungle of Maui's time from its hiding-place. [Illustration: Drawn by Will Herwig. Paradise Eng. But the Strange Woman Smiled and Told Them to Uncover the Imu.] HINA KEAHI. Just mauka of the Hilo Boarding School are three large, rounded hills which, centuries ago, were mud craters. Covered with the green of rustling cane-tops, at a distance they appear to be soft, grassy mounds. Many a tourist, gazing from the deck of an incoming ship, has yearned to "stroll over those smooth, rolling hills," only to find the pastime quite impossible on nearer view, which revealed the "velvety grass" as lusty sugar cane stalks ten to fifteen feet high and closely interwoven. But now the last crop of cane has been harvested from these graceful mounds and their slopes are being prepared to receive the dwelling-houses of any who choose--and can afford--to live in the rarified atmosphere of romance that hangs about this Hawaiian Olympus. Nor is the term Olympus as applied to these hills a redundant flight of fancy. Long ago--many, many years before the haole came to plant his sugar cane in their deep, rich soil--these hills were the homes of several beautiful goddesses. The makai and largest hill, called Halai, was the home of Hina Keahi, eldest daughter of the goddess Hina, who lived at Waianuenue--the cave behind Rainbow Falls in the Wailuku River--and sister of Maui the demi-god. To Hina Keahi was given power over fire. In many ways this young goddess aided her people, bestowing upon them the blessing of protection from fire while teaching them many ways in which to use it. The remarkable fact has often been noted, by the way, that although the Hawaiians always lived in grass houses, seldom was one known to be destroyed by fire. Hina Keahi was well beloved by her people and her lightest commands were obeyed meticulously. Food had always been plentiful in Hawaii. The people cultivated their fields, which yielded bountifully. But one time the crops failed--grew smaller and smaller--and began to shrivel up and die. Soon a famine spread over the land. Crops were allowed to wholly perish because none was strong enough to tend them. Hina Keahi saw that unless something was done at once her beloved followers would all die. Calling them about her she commanded that an immense imu be dug in the top of Halai Hill. "Prepare a place for each kind of food as though you were ready to fill the imu, then bring as much firewood as you can," she ordered. The starving people summoned new strength at this promise and worked for many days preparing the enormous imu. Knowing a human sacrifice would be offered as the only possible result of their labors, they lived in fear and wondered who would be chosen. Still, they never once thought of deserting their work and finally everything was in readiness. "Fill the imu with wood and heat it," commanded Hina. As soon as this was done she turned to the wondering people and said: "Listen to what I tell you, and follow my instructions. It is the only way you can be saved from starvation. I will step into the imu and you must quickly cover me with earth. Do not stop throwing earth over me until the last puff of smoke disappears. In three days a woman will appear at the edge of the imu and tell you what to do." Bidding them farewell, Hina Keahi stepped quickly into the red-hot imu. Immediately a dense white cloud of smoke surrounded and concealed her. For a moment the people stood transfixed at the sight; but remembering instructions they at once began covering the imu with earth. Followed then three long days of waiting fraught with mingled hopeful expectancy and anxiety for their goddess. On the third day everyone repaired to the edge of the imu and awaited the appearance of the woman of whom Hina Keahi had spoken. In the meantime Hina Keahi had not remained in the imu for long. The fire had not harmed her, for she had complete power over it. Going underground she made her way toward the sea, coming to the surface of the earth somewhere near the spot on which the Hilo Boarding School stands today. The place was marked by a bubbling spring. Once more she disappeared underground and again came to the surface, creating another spring near the present location of the Hilo Hotel. A third time the goddess followed her subterranean route, coming up in a third spring at the place now occupied by the American Factors' lumber yard. Refreshing herself in the clear waters, she started back to her home, this time traveling above ground. Thus on the third day from the disappearance of Hina Keahi those gathered about the imu saw a strange woman approaching from the direction of the sea. As she drew near they noticed a striking resemblance to their own goddess, yet she, they knew, was buried in the imu. In fear they drew away, but the strange woman smiled and told them to uncover the imu. Reluctantly they set to work, dreading the sight which all had in mind. But when the imu was uncovered they found it filled with cooked food--enough to supply their needs until the rains came and new crops could be grown and harvested. In gratitude they turned to thank the strange woman, but she had vanished. And to this day one may see the immense imu in the top of Halai Hill, now overgrown with a thicket of feathery bamboo, which the people left open in memory of their timely deliverance. HINA KULUUA. Hina Kuluua was the second daughter of the goddess Hina, who lived behind Rainbow Falls. Hina Keahi, the elder sister, had received the best of the gifts which their mother could bestow--power over fire and ownership of the largest of the Halai hills. Known as the goddess of fire, Hina Keahi was indeed very powerful and one time gave spectacular evidence of it in saving her people from starvation, as told in the legend, Hina Keahi. Naturally everyone looked upon her thereafter as the most wonderful goddess in the Islands. Even her sister's little band of followers did not refrain from open admiration of the beautiful fire goddess. This made Hina Kuluua exceedingly angry. Her jealousy overwhelmed her; she could not bear to let her sister claim so much glory, and she have none at all. It was not long after this that another famine swept the land. Hina Kuluua thought fortune was at last coming her way. Here was the very opportunity she craved. Now she would prove her power superior to her sister's and all the people would sing her praises and worship her alone. In her excitement she entirely overlooked the fact that she was goddess of rain, and not of fire. She ordered an immense imu to be dug in her own hill, Puu Honu. Comprehending her intentions the people at once realized the utter futility of her proposed action and pleaded with her against it; but to no avail. "Do you mean to tell me that my power is less than Hina Keahi's?" she demanded angrily. "Do you think that I, Hina Kuluua, cannot do as much for my people in their time of need? I will show you! Then you shall recognize Hina Kuluua as the greatest goddess in Hawaii." "You can help as well and perhaps better than your sister," they argued, "but you cannot do it in the same way. Your power, though it may be as great, is nevertheless entirely different from hers." Then Hina Kuluua would order them out of her sight and command them to hurry the completion of the imu. At last all was ready. A group with tear-stained faces were gathered about the smoking imu. Hina Kuluua approached, her head held high in an air of triumph. She stepped to the edge of the imu, cast a glance of disdain toward the wailing women and said, "Cover me quickly. Watch near the imu and in three days a young woman will appear. She will give you further instructions." Stepping into the imu she was quickly covered with soil. The people had expected a cloud of smoke to appear, but were somewhat surprised to see the little there already was become even thinner and dwindle away to mere nothingness. Slowly the long days of waiting passed. The third day dawned. All morning the people watched for signs from the imu. Late in the afternoon found their vigilance unbroken; night closed in and still no sign. Dawn once more, another day of anxiety. On the fifth day they could no longer restrain themselves and cautiously uncovered the great oven. A dark greyish cloud rose over the imu--that was all. Within, the people could distinguish the charred remains of their proud goddess. With reverence they covered the imu once more and carefully smoothed it over. That is why today you cannot see a deep crater in Puu Honu as in Halai, and why the dark, gloomy cloud--a sure sign of rain--often hangs low over the one-time home of Hina Kuluua. THE FIRST LAW. Following one of his great victories King Kamehameha I established his court on the largest island of the Hawaiian group, Hawaii, and prepared to make his headquarters there for the time. Of course a heiau must be built, and he ordered construction to begin immediately, selecting a site near the mouth of the Wailuku where today stands the armory of the National Guard of Hawaii. This heiau was unusually large and considerable time was consumed in building it. Finally it was completed, but before it could be used the customary human sacrifice had to be offered. Not willing to take one of his own men, the king went in search of another. Early one morning, accompanied by a small body of his warriors, Kamehameha set out in his canoe, sailing along the coast in the direction of Puna. As the royal party neared Leleiwi Point, two fishermen in a small outrigger were discovered, busy with their nets. The king's big war canoe bore down upon them, but recognizing the royal craft from afar, they paddled lustily for the shore. Knowing the heiau was nearing completion the fishermen guessed the reason for the king's early morning visit and had no intention of remaining to receive him. [Illustration: Drawn by Will Herwig. Paradise Eng. "Mamalahoa Kanawai o na Alii" Kamehameha Called After Them.] Landing safely, yet with the prow of the big canoe not a spear's length behind, the poor fellows made all speed over the open lava beds that lie between the shore and the jungle at this point. The king, standing in the bow of his canoe, was first ashore and in hot pursuit, but, unfamiliar with the footing there, made poor progress. These lava beds are full of treacherous pukas and into one of them Kamehameha stumbled, sinking to his armpits. There chanced to be a sizeable stone within reach of his hand, and this he hurled after the fleeing men, but his aim was bad and he missed them. This very stone, and the hole into which the king fell, may still be seen just mauka of Leleiwi Point. Glancing over his shoulder, the hindmost fugitive observed the king was trapped and that his retainers were still some distance to the rear. Here was a chance for revenge. Swinging his heavy canoe paddle, which he had been too frightened to drop, the fisherman turned and dealt his majesty a cruel blow on the head and, leaving him for dead, made off at top speed after his companion. When his men came up, the king was just regaining consciousness. One look at their wounded monarch sent them like a pack of hungry wolves after the fishermen. "Mamalahoa Kanawai o na alii!" Kamehameha called after them. "Whoever purposely murders a fellowman shall be hanged." And thus the very first law was made in Hawaii. "Let them go," he said, as his men reluctantly abandoned the chase. "I am not much harmed and they are badly frightened now. They may never do violence again to anyone. If any man hereafter wilfully take the life of another he shall be hanged. Come, let us go back. My heiau will not require a human sacrifice, for it shall never be used." So it happened that this was the first heiau ever built without its human sacrifice, and the last one constructed on the Island. Once the law forbidding murder was enforced heiaus were no longer needed. For the first time on Hawaii trails became safe for travelers. Always theretofore one never knew at what moment an enemy in ambush might rob him or take his life. Women and children could now go abroad at all times in safety. Peace reigned in the land and the people became more prosperous and progressive. Years passed before the law was broken, and, true to his word--for the king's word was law--Kamehameha ordered the murderer hanged. The scene of his execution was the unusually crooked coconut tree which until recent years stood near the present site of a cracker factory on what is now Kamehameha Avenue. Today a careful observer may, by peering beneath the Armory Hall, make out the few remaining stones which were once a part of the foundation of the last heiau built on Hawaii. PAU. HOW TAPA IS MADE. This volume of Hawaiian Legends is bound in genuine tapa, a cloth--or more properly speaking a strong paper--made by hand from the inner bark of the wild mulberry. Briefly, the process of manufacture is as follows: When full of glutinous sap, the bark of the mulberry is stripped and steeped in running water until the outer layer is softened. This is scraped away and the inner bark beaten with corrugated paddles of palm wood until strips two or three inches broad are widened to ten or twelve inches. The edges of these strips are then pasted together with a strong vegetable glue and laminated with more beating. So skillfully is this done that it is impossible to detect the lines of jointure. The tapa used in binding this book is of the stout, heavy grade; but that used for clothing and scarfs is often as sheer as fine muslin. Tapa making is confined entirely to the women, men never occupying themselves with any of its processes. GLOSSARY Hawaiian words may be easily pronounced correctly by using the Spanish alphabet. There are no silent letters, and all syllables are stressed equally. Alae (Hawaiian gallinule): Native bird figuring largely in Hawaiian legends. Ao-opua: Talisman, guardian spirit. Haleakala: House (hale) of the Sun (la). Haole: White man. Hau: Native tree much favored for lanais (arbors) and the wood for outriggers on canoes and floats for its cork-like lightness. (Hibiscus arnottianus). Heiau: Ancient Hawaiian temple. Honu: Turtle, turtle-shaped. Imu: Underground stove made by scooping a hole in the ground, lining it with rocks, and building a fire in it. The food to be cooked is placed in the heated cavern, which is then covered tightly with leaves and earth. Kaipaaloa: Inlet or estuary where the sea is quiet. Keahi: Of the fire. Kuluua: Of the (gentle) rain. Lauhala: Leaf (lau) of the puhala tree (Pandanus odoratissimus). Makai: Toward the sea. Malihini: Stranger, foreigner. Mamake: Shrub about ten feet high (Pipturus albidus). Mamalahoa kanawai o na alii: Your king proclaims this the law of the land (free translation). Mauka: Toward the mountains. Olona: Native flax (Touchardia latifolia). Pahoehoe: The sterile, flintlike lava as distinguished from aa, the friable and highly fertile lava. Pau: The end, finished. Pili: Grass yielding stout fibres (Andropogon contortus). Puka: Doorway, entrance, hole. Puu: Small hill, usually of rounded form. Ti (formerly written ki): Plant of lily family having bright green leaves three feet long and six inches wide (Cordyline terminalis). Waianuenue: Shimmering waters, as a rainbow effect. Wauke: Native mulberry tree (Broussonetia papyrifera). 
20096	----	This eBook was transcribed by Les Bowler. WELSH FOLK-LORE a collection by the Rev. Elias Owen, M.A., F.S.A. CONTENTS TITLE PAGE i PREFACE iii-vi INDEX vii-xii ESSAY 1-352 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS 353-359 WELSH FOLK-LORE A COLLECTION OF THE FOLK-TALES AND LEGENDS OF NORTH WALES BEING THE PRIZE ESSAY OF THE NATIONAL EISTEDDFOD 1887, BY THE REV. ELIAS OWEN, M.A, F.S.A. PREFACE To this Essay on the "Folk-lore of North Wales," was awarded the first prize at the Welsh National Eisteddfod, held in London, in 1887. The prize consisted of a silver medal, and 20 pounds. The adjudicators were Canon Silvan Evans, Professor Rhys, and Mr Egerton Phillimore, editor of the _Cymmrodor_. By an arrangement with the Eisteddfod Committee, the work became the property of the publishers, Messrs. Woodall, Minshall, & Co., who, at the request of the author, entrusted it to him for revision, and the present Volume is the result of his labours. Before undertaking the publishing of the work, it was necessary to obtain a sufficient number of subscribers to secure the publishers from loss. Upwards of two hundred ladies and gentlemen gave their names to the author, and the work of publication was commenced. The names of the subscribers appear at the end of the book, and the writer thanks them one and all for their kind support. It is more than probable that the work would never have been published had it not been for their kind assistance. Although the study of Folk-lore is of growing interest, and its importance to the historian is being acknowledged; still, the publishing of a work on the subject involved a considerable risk of loss to the printers, which, however, has been removed in this case, at least to a certain extent, by those who have subscribed for the work. The sources of the information contained in this essay are various, but the writer is indebted, chiefly, to the aged inhabitants of Wales, for his information. In the discharge of his official duties, as Diocesan Inspector of Schools, he visited annually, for seventeen years, every parish in the Diocese of St. Asaph, and he was thus brought into contact with young and old. He spent several years in Carnarvonshire, and he had a brother, the Revd. Elijah Owen, M.A., a Vicar in Anglesey, from whom he derived much information. By his journeys he became acquainted with many people in North Wales, and he hardly ever failed in obtaining from them much singular and valuable information of bye-gone days, which there and then he dotted down on scraps of paper, and afterwards transferred to note books, which still are in his possession. It was his custom, after the labour of school inspection was over, to ask the clergy with whom he was staying to accompany him to the most aged inhabitants of their parish. This they willingly did, and often in the dark winter evenings, lantern in hand, they sallied forth on their journey, and in this way a rich deposit of traditions and superstitions was struck and rescued from oblivion. Not a few of the clergy were themselves in full possession of all the quaint sayings and Folk-lore of their parishes, and they were not loath to transfer them to the writer's keeping. In the course of this work, the writer gives the names of the many aged friends who supplied him with information, and also the names of the clergy who so willingly helped him in his investigations. But so interesting was the matter obtained from several of his clerical friends, that he thinks he ought in justice to acknowledge their services in this preface. First and foremost comes up to his mind, the Rev. R. Jones, formerly Rector of Llanycil, Bala, but now of Llysfaen, near Abergele. This gentleman's memory is stored with reminiscences of former days, and often and again his name occurs in these pages. The Rev. Canon Owen Jones, formerly Vicar of Pentrefoelas, but now of Bodelwyddan, near Rhyl, also supplied much interesting information of the people's doings in former days, and I may state that this gentleman is also acquainted with Welsh literature to an extent seldom to be met with in the person of an isolated Welsh parson far removed from books and libraries. To him I am indebted for the perusal of many MSS. To the Rev. David James, formerly Rector of Garthbeibio, now of Pennant, and to his predecessor the Rev. W. E. Jones, Bylchau; the late Rev. Ellis Roberts (Elis Wyn o Wyrfai); the Rev. M. Hughes, Derwen; the Rev. W. J. Williams, Llanfihangel-Glyn-Myfyr, and in a great degree to his aged friend, the Rev. E. Evans, Llanfihangel, near Llanfyllin, whose conversation in and love of Welsh literature of all kinds, including old Welsh Almanacks, was almost without limit, and whose knowledge and thorough sympathy with his countrymen made his company most enjoyable. To him and to all these gentlemen above named, and to others, whose names appear in the body of this work, the writer is greatly indebted, and he tenders his best thanks to them all. The many books from which quotations are made are all mentioned in connection with the information extracted from their pages. Welsh Folk-lore is almost inexhaustible, and in these pages the writer treats of only one branch of popular superstitions. Ancient customs are herein only incidentally referred to, but they are very interesting, and worthy of a full description. Superstitions associated with particular days and seasons are also omitted. Weather signs are passed over, Holy wells around which cluster superstitions of bye-gone days form no part of this essay. But on all these, and other branches of Folk-lore, the author has collected much information from the aged Welsh peasant, and possibly some day in the uncertain future he may publish a continuation of the present volume. He has already all but finished a volume on the Holy Wells of North Wales, and this he hopes to publish at no very distance period. The author has endeavoured in all instances to give the names of his informants, but often and again, when pencil and paper were produced, he was requested not to mention in print the name of the person who was speaking to him. This request was made, not because the information was incorrect, but from false delicacy; still, in every instance, the writer respected this request. He, however, wishes to state emphatically that he has authority for every single bit of Folk-lore recorded. Very often his work was merely that of a translator, for most of his information, derived from the people, was spoken in Welsh, but he has given in every instance a literal rendering of the narrative, just as he heard it, without embellishments or additions of any kind whatsoever. ELIAS OWEN _Llanyblodwel Vicarage_, _St. Mark's Day_, _1896_. INDEX Aberhafesp, Spirit in Church of 169 _Angelystor_, announcing deaths 170 AEschylus' Cave-dwellers 113 _Annwn_, _Gwragedd_ 3 134 Annwn, Plant 3 Antagonism between Pagan faiths 160 161 181 _Animal Folk-Lore_ 308-352 Ass 337 Bee 337-340 Birds Singing 310 Flocking 310 Blind worm 352 Cat 321 323 340-342 Cow 129-137 342 Crow 304 314-315 Crane 321 Crickets 342-3 Cuckoo 317-321 Cock 310 321 Duck 321 Eagle 321 Flying Serpent 349 Frog 281 Fox 193 Goose 304 305 312 Goatsucker 322 Haddock 345 Hare 343-345 Heron 321 323 Hen 305 322 Hedgehog 345 Horse 346 Jackdaw 324 Ladybird 347 Magpie 324-327 Mice 348 Mole 348 Owl 304 327 Peacock 327 Pigeon 327 Pigs 348 Raven 304 328 Rook, Crow 304 314 316 316 Robin Redbreast 329 332 Seagull 329 330 Sawyer, Tit 331 Snakes 348-350 Slowworm 352 Sheep 351 Swallow 330 331 Swan 331 Swift 331 Spider 351 Squirrel 351 Tit-Major 331 Woodpigeon 333-336 Woodpecker 336 Wren 331-333 Yellowhammer 337 All Hallow Eve, Nos Glan Gaua 95 Spirits abroad 138-9 168-70 Divination on 280-1 286 288-9 Apparitions 181-209 293-297 Applepip divination 290 Arawn 128 _Avanc_ 133 "_Bardd Cwsg_, _Y_" 144 284 285 Baring-Gould--Spirit leaving body 293 Piper of Hamelin 307 Beaumaris spirit tale 293 Bell, Hand, used at funerals 171-2 Corpse 172 Passing 171-2 Veneration for 172 Devil afraid of 171 Ringing at storms 173 Spirits flee before sound of 173 Bella Fawr, a witch 223 Betty'r Bont, a witch 236 240 Belief in witchcraft 217 Bennion, Doctor 216 Bees, Buying a hive of 337 Swarming 338 Strange swarm 339 Deserting hive 339 Hive in roof of house 339 Informing bees of a death 339 Putting bees into mourning 340 Stolen 340 _Bendith y Mamau_ 2 Bible, a talisman 151 245 248 Bible and key divination 288 Bingley's North Wales--Knockers 121 Birds singing in the night 305 before February 310 Flocking in early Autumn 310 Feathers of 310 Blindworm 352 Boy taken to Fairyland 48 _Brenhin Llwyd_ 142 Bryn Eglwys Man and Fairies 36 "_British Goblins_," Fairy dances 94 97 "_Brython_, _Y_," Fairies' revels 95 Burne's, Miss, Legend of White Cow 131-2 Burns, Old Nick in Kirk 168 Nut divination 289 _Canwyll Corph_, see Corpse Candle, Canoe in Llyn Llydaw 28 Card-playing 147-151 Cat, Fable of 323 Black, unlucky, &c 321 341 indicates weather 340 Black, drives fevers away 341 May, brings snakes to house 341 Witches taking form of 224 Caesar's reference to Celtic Superstitions 277 310 343 _Careg-yr-Yspryd_ 212 _Careg Gwr Drwg_ 190 Caellwyngrydd Spirit 214 Cave-dwellers 112-13 _Ceffyl y Dwfr_, the Water Horse 138-141 _Cetyn y Tylwyth Teg_ 109 Ceridwen 234 Cerrig-y-drudion Spirit Tale 294 Cerrig-y-drudion, Legend of Church 132 _Ceubren yr Ellyll_, Legend of 191 Changelings, Fairy 51-63 Churches built on Pagan sites 160 Mysterious removal of 174-181 Chaucer on Fairies 89 Charms 238-9 258 262 276 Charm for Shingles 262-3 Toothache 264-266 Whooping Cough 266 Fits 266 Fighting Cocks 267 312 Asthma 267 Warts 267-8 Stye 268 Quinsy 268 Wild wart 268 Rheumatism 269 Ringworm 269 Cattle 269-272 Stopping bleeding 272 Charm with Snake's skin 273 Rosemary 273-4 Charm for making Servants reliable 272 Sweethearts 281 Charm of Conjurors 239-254 Charm for Clefyd y Galon, or Heart Disease 274 _Clefyd yr Ede Wlan_, or Yarn Sickness 275 Christmas Eve, free from Spirits 192 Churns witched 238 _Clefyd y Galon_ 274 _Clefyd yr Ede Wlan_ 275 Crickets in House lucky 342 Deserting house unlucky 343 Crane, see Heron _Coblynau_, Knockers 112-121 _Coel Ede Wlan_, or Yarn Test 283 Corpse Candle 298-300 Cock, unlawful to eat 343 Devil in form of 310 Offering of 311 Crowing of, at doors 311 Crowing at night 298 Crowing drives Spirits away 311 Charm for Fighting 312 White, unlucky 321 341 Crow 304 314 315 Conjurors 251-262 Charms of 239 254 258-260 Tricks of 255 257 260-1 Cow, Dun 129 131 137 Legend of White 131 Freckled 130-1 Fairy Stray 134-137 Witched 243 _Cyhyraeth_, Death Sound 302 Cynon's Ghost 212 Cuckoo Superstitions 317-321 _Cwn Annwn_ 125-129 Dancing with Fairies 36-39 Davydd ab Gwilym and the Fairies 3 24 Death Portents 297-307 _Deryn Corph_, Corpse Bird 297 Devil 143-192 Devil's Tree 185 Bridge 190 Kitchen 190 Cave 191 Door 170 Destruction of Foxes 193 Dick Spot 212 255 256 Dick the Fiddler 84 Divination 279-290 Candle and Pin 287 _Coel Ede Wlan_, or Yarn Test 283 Frog stuck with Pins 281 Grass 288 Hemp Seed 286 Holly Tree 288 Key and Bible 288 Lovers' 289-90 Nut 289 Pullet's Egg 286 Snail 280 St. John's Wort 280 _Troi Crysau_, Clothes Drying 285 _Twca_, or Knife 284 Washing at Brook 285 Water in Basin 287 Dogs, Hell 125 127 Sky 125 127 Fairy 49 81 83 125 Dwarfs of Cae Caled 97 Droich 113-121 _Dyn Hysbys_ 209 259 _Drychiolaeth_, Spectre 301 302 Eagle, Superstitions about 263-4 321 _Erdion Banawg_ 131 _Ellyll_ 3 4 111 191 _Dan_ 112 _Ellyllon_, _Menyg_ 111 _Bwyd_ 111 Elf Dancers of _Cae Caled_ 98-100 Stones 110 Shots 110-11 Elidorus, the Fairies and 32-35 Epiphany 285-6 Evil Eye 219 Fable of Heron, Cat, and Bramble 323 Magpie and Woodpigeon 335 Robin Redbreast 329 Sea Gull 329 Famous Witches-- Betty'r Bont 236 240 Bella Fawr 223 Moll White 229 232 Pedws Ffoulk 242 Fabulous Animals, see Mythic Beings Fairies, Origin of 1 2 35 36 Chaucer's reference to 89 Shakespeare's reference to 72 96 97 Milton's reference to 86 Fairies inveigling Men 36-44 Working for Men 85-87 Carrying Men in the air 100-102 in Markets and Fairs 108 Binding Men 112 Children offered to Satan by 63 Love of Truth 35 Grateful 72 Fairy Animals 81-3 124-5 129-132 Dances 87-97 Tricks 100-103 Knockers 112-124 Ladies marrying Men 5-24 Changelings 51-63 Implements 109-112 Men captured 104-107 Mothers and Human Midwives 63-67 Money 82-84 Riches and Gifts 72-81 Visits to human abodes 68-71 Families descended from 6 28 Fetch 294 Fire God 152 Fish, Satan in 153 Flying Serpent 349 Foxglove 111 Frog Divination 281 _Fuwch Frech_ 129-132 _Gyfeiliorn_ 129 134-137 _Ffynnon y Fuwch Frech_ 130 _Elian_ 216 _Oer_ 223 Gay, Nut divination 289 Giraldus Cambrensis 27 32 182 reference to Witches 233-236 Ghost, see Spirit Ghost in Cerrigydrudion Church 132 Aberhafesp Church 169 Powis Castle 204 revealing Treasures 202 at Gloddaeth 193-4 Nannau Park 191 Tymawr 195 Frith Farm 196 Pontyglyn 197 Ystrad Fawr 197-8 Ty Felin 198 Llandegla 199 Llanidloes 199-200 Llawryglyn 348 Clwchdyrnog 202 Llanwddyn 212 David Salisbury's 201 Cynon's 212 Squire Griffiths' 200 Sir John Wynne's 211 Raising 215 Visiting the Earth 192 Glain Nadroedd 350 Goat-sucker 322 Goblins, different kinds of 5 97 Golden Chair 77 Goose flying over House 304 laying small egg 305 egg laying 312 Gossamer 112 _Gwiber_, Flying Serpent 349 _Gwion Bach_ 234 _Gwragedd Annwn_ 3 _Gwrach y Rhibyn_ 142 _Gwr Cyfarwydd_ 38 55 257 259 _Gwyddelod_ 80 _Gwyll_ 4 _Gwylliaid Cochion_ 4 5 6 25 26 Haddock, why so marked 345 Hag, Mist 142 Hare 227-230 236 343-345 crossing the road 230 Caesar's reference to 343 Giraldus Cambrensis on hags changing themselves to 233 hares Man changed to a 236 Witch hunted in form of 230-233 Witch shot in the form of 228 S. Monacella, the patroness of hares 345 Harper and Fairies 91 Hedgehog sucking Cows 345 fee for destroying the 346 Hen Chrwchwd, a humpbacked fiend 142 Hen laying two eggs 305 March Chickens 322 Sitting 322 Hindu Fairy Tale 6-8 Heron, sign of weather changing 321 323 Fable of 323-4 Horse, Water, a mythic animal 138 White, lucky 346 Headless 155 Shoe Charm 246 Huw Llwyd, Cynfael, and Witches 224-227 Huw Llwyd and Magical Books 252 Hu Gadarn and the Avanc 133 Ignis Fatuus 112 Jackdaw considered sacred 324 _Jack Ffynnon Elian_ 216 Knockers, or Coblynau 4 97 in Mines 112-121 Ladybird, Weather Sign 347 Lady Jeffrey's Spirit 199 Lake Dwellers 27 28 Llanbrynmair Conjuror 258-9 Llangerniew Spirit 170 Llandegla Spirit 199 Llanddona Witches 222-3 Laying Spirits 209-215 Laws against Witches 218 _Llyn y Ddau Ychain Banawg_ 132 Legends-- _Careg Gwr Drwg_ 190 _Ceubren yr Ellyll_ 191 Fairy Changelings 51-63 _Dafydd Hiraddug_ 158-160 Devil's Bridge 190 Freckled Cow, or _Y Fuwch Frech_ 130 Fairy Marriages 5-24 Fairies inveigling Mortals 32-50 Fairies and Midwives 63-67 Flying Snake 349 Removal of Churches 174-181 Llanfihangel Glyn Myfyr 10 Ghosts, see Ghost Spirits, see Spirit Satan or Devil, see Satan _Lledrith_, or Spectre 303 _Llysiau Ifan_, St. John's Wort 280 _Llyn y Geulan Goch_ Spirit 162-166 _Llyn Llion_ 133 Magpie teaching Wood Pigeon to make Nest 335 Superstitions 324-327 Magician's Glass 255 Marriages, Fairy 44-48 Man dancing with Fairies 90 91 witnessing a Fairy dance 90 93 taken away by Fairies 32 36 37 101-102 turned into a Hare 236 turned into a Horse 236 May-day Revels 95 Evil Spirits abroad 168 Mermaids 142 Monacella, S. 345 Moles, Weather Sign 318 Moll White, a Witch 229 232 _Meddygon Myddvai_, Physicians 6 23 24 Mythic Beings-- _Avanc_ 133 _Ceffyl y Dwfr_, Water Horse 138 _Cwn Annwn_, Dogs of the Abyss 125 _Cwn Bendith y Mamau_, Fairy Dogs 125 _Cwn Wybir_, Sky Dogs 125 127 Dragon, or Flying Serpent 349-50 Fairies, see Fairy _Fuwch Frech_, Fairy Cow 129-134 _Fuwch Gyfeiliorn_ 134-137 _Gwrach y Rhibyn_, Mist Hag 142 Knockers, see above Mermaids and Mermen 142 Torrent Spectre 141 _Ychain Banawg_ 130-133 _Y Brenhin Llwyd_, the Grey King 142 Mysterious removal of Churches-- Llanllechid 174 Corwen 174 Capel Garmon 175 Llanfair D. C. 175 Llanfihangel Geneu'r Glyn 176 Wrexham 177 Llangar 179 Denbigh 180 Names given to the Devil 191-2 Nightmare 237 North door of Churches opened at Baptisms 171 North door of Churches opened for Satan to go out 170 North side of Churchyard unoccupied 171 _Nos Glan Gaua_ 95 138-9 168-170 280 281 286 288-89 _Ogof Cythreuliaid_ Devils' Cave 191 Ogwen Lake, Tale of Wraith 292 Old Humpbacked, Mythic Being 142 Omen, see Divination 279-290 Owl 304 327 Pan, prototype of Celtic Satan 146 Passing Bell 171-2 Peacock, Weather Sign 327 Pedwe Ffoulk, a Witch 242 Pellings, Fairy Origin 6 13 Pentrevoelas Legend 8 Physicians of Myddfai 6 23 24 Pig Superstitions 154 348 Pigeon Superstitions 327 Pins stuck in "Witch's Butter" 249 Places associated with Satan 190-1 _Plant Annwn_ 3 4 Poocah, Pwka, Pwca 121-124 138-40 Raven 304 328 Rhamanta, see Divination, 279-290 on Hallow Eve 281 _Rhaffau'r Tylwyth Teg_, Gossamer 112 _Rhys Gryg_ 24 Robin Redbreast 329 332-3 Rook, see Crow Rooks deserting Rookery 316 building new Rookery 316 Sabbath-breaking punished 152-157 Satan, see Apparitions and Devil afraid of Bell-sounds 171 appearing to Man carrying Bibles 183 appearing to a Minister 184 appearing to a Man 185 appearing to a Sunday-breaker 152-3 appearing to a Sunday traveller 153 appearing as a lovely Maid 186 appearing to a young Man 188 appearing to a Collier 189 appearing to a Tippler 156-7 carrying a Man away 187 in form of a Pig 166 in form of a Fish 153 disappearing as a ball or wheel of fire 148 150 and Churches 160-170 outwitted 157-160 playing Cards 147 148 149 snatching a Man up into the air 150 Sawyer Bird, Tit-Major 331 Seagull, a Weather Sign 329-30 Seventh Daughter 250 Son 266 Shakespeare's Witches 219 220 221 Sheep, Black 351 Satan cannot enter 351 Sir John Wynne 211 Slowworm 352 Snakes 348 Flying 349 Snake Rings 350 Spells, how to break 244-251 Spectral Funeral 301-2 Spirit, see Ghost Spirit laying 209-211 Spirits laid for a time 164 199 200 210 212 allowed to visit the earth 168 sent to the Red Sea 193 209 210 214 sent to Egypt 211 riding Horses 202 Spirit ejected from Cerrig-y-drudion Church 132 Llanfor Church 152-166 Llandysilio Church 166-7 Spirit in Llangerniew Church 170 Aberhafesp Church 169 Llandegla 199 Lady Jeffrey's 199-200 calling Doctor 294 St. John's Eve 52 95 168 280 St. David 299 307 Spiritualism 290-297 Spirit leaving body 291-293 Spider 351 Squirrel hunting 351-2 Swallow forsaking its nest 330 Breaking nest of 331 Swan, hatching eggs of 381 Swift, flying, Weather Sign 331 _Swyno'r 'Ryri_ 254 262 263-4 Taboo Stories 6 8-24 Tegid 306 Tit-Major, Weather Sign 331 _Tolaeth_ 303 Tobit, Spirit tale 182 210 Torrent Spectre 141 Transformation 227 234-237 Transmigration 276-279 _Tylwyth Teg_, see Fairies Van Lake Fairy tale 16-24 Voice calling a Doctor 294 Water Horse 138-141 Water Worship 161 Welsh Airs 84 88 _Aden Ddu'r Fran_ 84 _Toriad y Dydd_ 88 Williams, Dr. Edward, and Fairies 97 Witches 216-251 Llanddona 222-3 transforming themselves into cats 224-226 transforming themselves into hares 227-235 hunted in form of hare 230-233 killed in form of hare 228 in churn in form of hare 229 cursing Horse 242 cursing Milk 238-9 cursing Pig 238 how tested 250-1 Spells, how broken 244-250 Punishment of 243 Laws against 218 Wife snatching 29 Woodpecker, Weather Sign 336 Woodpigeon 333-336 Wraith 292 294 308 Wren, unlucky to harm 331-2 Hunting the 332 Curse on breaker of nest 333 _Wyn Melangell_ 345 _Ystrad Legend_ 12 Yarn Sickness 275-6 Test 283-4 _Yspryd Cynon_ 212 _Ystrad Fawr_ 197-8 THE FAIRIES. ORIGIN OF THE FAIRIES. (Y TYLWYTH TEG.) The Fairy tales that abound in the Principality have much in common with like legends in other countries. This points to a common origin of all such tales. There is a real and unreal, a mythical and a material aspect to Fairy Folk-Lore. The prevalence, the obscurity, and the different versions of the same Fairy tale show that their origin dates from remote antiquity. The supernatural and the natural are strangely blended together in these legends, and this also points to their great age, and intimates that these wild and imaginative Fairy narratives had some historical foundation. If carefully sifted, these legends will yield a fruitful harvest of ancient thoughts and facts connected with the history of a people, which, as a race, is, perhaps, now extinct, but which has, to a certain extent, been merged into a stronger and more robust race, by whom they were conquered, and dispossessed of much of their land. The conquerors of the Fair Tribe have transmitted to us tales of their timid, unwarlike, but truthful predecessors of the soil, and these tales shew that for a time both races were co-inhabitants of the land, and to a certain extent, by stealth, intermarried. Fairy tales, much alike in character, are to be heard in many countries, peopled by branches of the Aryan race, and consequently these stories in outline, were most probably in existence before the separation of the families belonging to that race. It is not improbable that the emigrants would carry with them, into all countries whithersoever they went, their ancestral legends, and they would find no difficulty in supplying these interesting stories with a home in their new country. If this supposition be correct, we must look for the origin of Fairy Mythology in the cradle of the Aryan people, and not in any part of the world inhabited by descendants of that great race. But it is not improbable that incidents in the process of colonization would repeat themselves, or under special circumstances vary, and thus we should have similar and different versions of the same historical event in all countries once inhabited by a diminutive race, which was overcome by a more powerful people. In Wales Fairy legends have such peculiarities that they seem to be historical fragments of by-gone days. And apparently they refer to a race which immediately preceded the Celt in the occupation of the country, and with which the Celt to a limited degree amalgamated. NAMES GIVEN TO THE FAIRIES. The Fairies have, in Wales, at least three common and distinctive names, as well as others that are not nowadays used. The first and most general name given to the Fairies is "_Y Tylwyth Teg_," or, the Fair Tribe, an expressive and descriptive term. They are spoken of as a people, and not as myths or goblins, and they are said to be a fair or handsome race. Another common name for the Fairies, is, "_Bendith y Mamau_," or, "The Mothers' Blessing." In Doctor Owen Pughe's Dictionary they are called "Bendith _eu_ Mamau," or, "_Their_ Mothers' Blessing." The first is the most common expression, at least in North Wales. It is a singularly strange expression, and difficult to explain. Perhaps it hints at a Fairy origin on the mother's side of certain fortunate people. The third name given to Fairies is "_Ellyll_," an elf, a demon, a goblin. This name conveys these beings to the land of spirits, and makes them resemble the oriental Genii, and Shakespeare's sportive elves. It agrees, likewise, with the modern popular creed respecting goblins and their doings. Davydd ab Gwilym, in a description of a mountain mist in which he was once enveloped, says:-- Yr ydoedd ym mhob gobant _Ellyllon_ mingeimion gant. There were in every hollow A hundred wrymouthed elves. _The Cambro-Briton_, v. I., p. 348. In Pembrokeshire the Fairies are called _Dynon Buch Teg_, or the _Fair Small People_. Another name applied to the Fairies is _Plant Annwfn_, or _Plant Annwn_. This, however, is not an appellation in common use. The term is applied to the Fairies in the third paragraph of a Welsh prose poem called _Bardd Cwsg_, thus:-- Y bwriodd y _Tylwyth Teg_ fi . . . oni bai fy nyfod i mewn pryd i'th achub o gigweiniau _Plant Annwfn_. Where the _Tylwyth Teg_ threw me . . . if I had not come in time to rescue thee from the clutches of _Plant Annwfn_. _Annwn_, or _Annwfn_ is defined in Canon Silvan Evans's Dictionary as an abyss, Hades, etc. _Plant Annwn_, therefore, means children of the lower regions. It is a name derived from the supposed place of abode--the bowels of the earth--of the Fairies. _Gwragedd Annwn_, dames of Elfin land, is a term applied to Fairy ladies. Ellis Wynne, the author of _Bardd Cwsg_, was born in 1671, and the probability is that the words _Plant Annwfn_ formed in his days part of the vocabulary of the people. He was born in Merionethshire. _Gwyll_, according to Richards, and Dr. Owen Pughe, is a Fairy, a goblin, etc. The plural of _Gwyll_ would be _Gwylliaid_, or _Gwyllion_, but this latter word Dr. Pughe defines as ghosts, hobgoblins, etc. Formerly, there was in Merionethshire a red haired family of robbers called _Y Gwylliaid Cochion_, or Red Fairies, of whom I shall speak hereafter. _Coblynau_, or Knockers, have been described as a species of Fairies, whose abode was within the rocks, and whose province it was to indicate to the miners by the process of knocking, etc., the presence of rich lodes of lead or other metals in this or that direction of the mine. That the words _Tylwyth Teg_ and _Ellyll_ are convertible terms appears from the following stanza, which is taken from the _Cambrian Magazine_, vol. ii, p. 58. Pan dramwych ffridd yr Ywen, Lle mae _Tylwyth Teg_ yn rhodien, Dos ymlaen, a phaid a sefyll, Gwilia'th droed--rhag dawnsva'r _Ellyll_. When the forest of the Yew, Where _Fairies_ haunt, thou passest through, Tarry not, thy footsteps guard From the _Goblins'_ dancing sward. Although the poet mentions the _Tylwyth Teg_ and _Ellyll_ as identical, he might have done so for rhythmical reasons. Undoubtedly, in the first instance a distinction would be drawn between these two words, which originally were intended perhaps to describe two different kinds of beings, but in the course of time the words became interchangeable, and thus their distinctive character was lost. In English the words Fairies and elves are used without any distinction. It would appear from Brand's _Popular Antiquities_, vol. II., p. 478., that, according to Gervase of Tilbury, there were two kinds of Goblins in England, called _Portuni_ and _Grant_. This division suggests a difference between the _Tylwyth Teg_ and the _Ellyll_. The _Portuni_, we are told, were very small of stature and old in appearance, "_statura pusilli_, _dimidium pollicis non habentes_," but then they were "_senili vultu_, _facie corrugata_." The wrinkled face and aged countenance of the _Portuni_ remind us of nursery Fairy tales in which the wee ancient female Fairy figures. The pranks of the _Portuni_ were similar to those of Shakespeare's Puck. The species _Grant_ is not described, and consequently it cannot be ascertained how far they resembled any of the many kinds of Welsh Fairies. Gervase, speaking of one of these species, says:--"If anything should be to be carried on in the house, or any kind of laborious work to be done, they join themselves to the work, and expedite it with more than human facility." In Scotland there were at least two species of elves, the _Brownies_ and the _Fairies_. The Brownies were so called from their tawny colour, and the Fairies from their fairness. The _Portuni_ of Gervase appear to have corresponded in character to the Brownies, who were said to have employed themselves in the night in the discharge of laborious undertakings acceptable to the family to whose service they had devoted themselves. The Fairies proper of Scotland strongly resembled the Fairies of Wales. The term _Brownie_, or swarthy elve, suggests a connection between them and the _Gwylliaid Cochion_, or Red Fairies of Wales. FAIRY LADIES MARRYING MORTALS. In the mythology of the Greeks, and other nations, gods and goddesses are spoken of as falling in love with human beings, and many an ancient genealogy began with a celestial ancestor. Much the same thing is said of the Fairies. Tradition speaks of them as being enamoured of the inhabitants of this earth, and content, for awhile, to be wedded to mortals. And there are families in Wales who are said to have Fairy blood coursing through their veins, but they are, or were, not so highly esteemed as were the offspring of the gods among the Greeks. The famous physicians of Myddfai, who owed their talent and supposed supernatural knowledge to their Fairy origin, are, however, an exception; for their renown, notwithstanding their parentage, was always great, and increased in greatness, as the rolling years removed them from their traditionary parent, the Fairy lady of the Van Pool. The _Pellings_ are said to have sprung from a Fairy Mother, and the author of _Observations on the Snowdon Mountains_ states that the best blood in his veins is fairy blood. There are in some parts of Wales reputed descendants on the female side of the _Gwylliaid Cochion_ race; and there are other families among us whom the aged of fifty years ago, with an ominous shake of the head, would say were of Fairy extraction. We are not, therefore, in Wales void of families of doubtful parentage or origin. All the current tales of men marrying Fairy ladies belong to a class of stories called, technically, Taboo stories. In these tales the lady marries her lover conditionally, and when this condition is broken she deserts husband and children, and hies back to Fairy land. This kind of tale is current among many people. Max Muller in _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. ii, pp. 104-6, records one of these ancient stories, which is found in the Brahma_n_a of the Ya_g_ur-veda. Omitting a few particulars, the story is as follows:-- "Urvasi, a kind of Fairy, fell in love with Pururavas, the son of Ida, and when she met him she said, 'Embrace me three times a day, but never against my will, and let me never see you without your royal garments, for this is the manner of women.' In this manner she lived with him a long time, and she was with child. Then her former friends, the Gandharvas, said: 'This Urvasi has now dwelt a long time among mortals; let us see that she come back.' Now, there was a ewe, with two lambs, tied to the couch of Urvasi and Pururavas, and the Gandharvas stole one of them. Urvasi said: 'They take away my darling, as if I had lived in a land where there is no hero and no man.' They stole the second, and she upbraided her husband again. Then Pururavas looked and said: 'How can that be a land without heroes and men where I am?' And naked, he sprang up; he thought it too long to put on his dress. Then the Gandharvas sent a flash of lightning, and Urvasi saw her husband naked as by daylight. Then she vanished; 'I come back,' she said, and went. Pururavas bewailed his love in bitter grief. But whilst walking along the border of a lake full of lotus flowers the Fairies were playing there in the water, in the shape of birds, and Urvasi discovered him and said:-- 'That is the man with whom I dwelt so long.' Then her friends said: 'Let us appear to him.' She agreed, and they appeared before him. Then the king recognised her, and said:-- 'Lo! my wife, stay, thou cruel in mind! Let us now exchange some words! Our secrets, if they are not told now, will not bring us back on any later day.' She replied: 'What shall I do with thy speech? I am gone like the first of the dawns. Pururavas, go home again, I am hard to be caught, like the wind.'" The Fairy wife by and by relents, and her mortal lover became, by a certain sacrifice, one of the Gandharvas. This ancient Hindu Fairy tale resembles in many particulars similar tales found in Celtic Folk-Lore, and possibly, the original story, in its main features, existed before the Aryan family had separated. The very words, "I am hard to be caught," appear in one of the Welsh legends, which shall be hereafter given:-- Nid hawdd fy nala, I am hard to be caught. And the scene is similar; in both cases the Fairy ladies are discovered in a lake. The immortal weds the mortal, conditionally, and for awhile the union seems to be a happy one. But, unwittingly, when engaged in an undertaking suggested by, or in agreement with the wife's wishes, the prohibited thing is done, and the lady vanishes away. Such are the chief features of these mythical marriages. I will now record like tales that have found a home in several parts of Wales. WELSH LEGENDS OF FAIRY LADIES MARRYING MEN. 1. _The Pentrevoelas Legend_. I am indebted to the Rev. Owen Jones, Vicar of Pentrevoelas, a mountain parish in West Denbighshire, for the following tale, which was written in Welsh by a native of those parts, and appeared in competition for a prize on the Folk-Lore of that parish. The son of Hafodgarreg was shepherding his father's flock on the hills, and whilst thus engaged, he, one misty morning, came suddenly upon a lovely girl, seated on the sheltered side of a peat-stack. The maiden appeared to be in great distress, and she was crying bitterly. The young man went up to her, and spoke kindly to her, and his attention and sympathy were not without effect on the comely stranger. So beautiful was the young woman, that from expressions of sympathy the smitten youth proceeded to words of love, and his advances were not repelled. But whilst the lovers were holding sweet conversation, there appeared on the scene a venerable and aged man, who, addressing the female as her father, bade her follow him. She immediately obeyed, and both departed leaving the young man alone. He lingered about the place until the evening, wishing and hoping that she might return, but she came not. Early the next day, he was at the spot where he first felt what love was. All day long he loitered about the place, vainly hoping that the beautiful girl would pay another visit to the mountain, but he was doomed to disappointment, and night again drove him homewards. Thus daily went he to the place where he had met his beloved, but she was not there, and, love-sick and lonely, he returned to Hafodgarreg. Such devotion deserved its reward. It would seem that the young lady loved the young man quite as much as he loved her. And in the land of allurement and illusion (yn nhir hud a lledrith) she planned a visit to the earth, and met her lover, but she was soon missed by her father, and he, suspecting her love for this young man, again came upon them, and found them conversing lovingly together. Much talk took place between the sire and his daughter, and the shepherd, waxing bold, begged and begged her father to give him his daughter in marriage. The sire, perceiving that the man was in earnest, turned to his daughter, and asked her whether it were her wish to marry a man of the earth? She said it was. Then the father told the shepherd he should have his daughter to wife, and that she should stay with him, until he should strike her with _iron_, and that, as a marriage portion, he would give her a bag filled with bright money. The young couple were duly married, and the promised dowry was received. For many years they lived lovingly and happily together, and children were born to them. One day this man and his wife went together to the hill to catch a couple of ponies, to carry them to the Festival of the Saint of Capel Garmon. The ponies were very wild, and could not be caught. The man, irritated, pursued the nimble creatures. His wife was by his side, and now he thought he had them in his power, but just at the moment he was about to grasp their manes, off they wildly galloped, and the man, in anger, finding that they had again eluded him, threw the bridle after them, and, sad to say, the bit struck the wife, and as this was of _iron_ they both knew that their marriage contract was broken. Hardly had they had time to realise the dire accident, ere the aged father of the bride appeared, accompanied by a host of Fairies, and there and then departed with his daughter to the land whence she came, and that, too, without even allowing her to bid farewell to her children. The money, though, and the children were left behind, and these were the only memorials of the lovely wife and the kindest of mothers, that remained to remind the shepherd of the treasure he had lost in the person of his Fairy spouse. Such is the Pentrevoelas Legend. The writer had evidently not seen the version of this story in the _Cambro-Briton_, nor had he read Williams's tale of a like occurrence, recorded in _Observations on the Snowdon Mountains_. The account, therefore, is all the more valuable, as being an independent production. A fragmentary variant of the preceding legend was given me by Mr. Lloyd, late schoolmaster of Llanfihangel-Glyn-Myfyr, a native of South Wales, who heard the tale in the parish of Llanfihangel. Although but a fragment, it may not be altogether useless, and I will give it as I received it:-- Shon Rolant, Hafod y Dre, Pentrevoelas, when going home from Llanrwst market, fortunately caught a Fairy-maid, whom he took home with him. She was a most handsome woman, but rather short and slight in person. She was admired by everybody on account of her great beauty. Shon Rolant fell desperately in love with her, and would have married her, but this she would not allow. He, however, continued pressing her to become his wife, and, by and by, she consented to do so, provided he could find out her name. As Shon was again going home from the market about a month later, he heard some one saying, near the place where he had seized the Fairy-maid, "Where is little Penloi gone? Where is little Penloi gone?" Shon at once thought that some one was searching for the Fairy he had captured, and when he reached home, he addressed the Fairy by the name he had heard, and Penloi consented to become his wife. She, however, expressed displeasure at marrying a dead man, as the Fairies call us. She informed her lover that she was not to be touched with _iron_, or she would disappear at once. Shon took great care not to touch her with _iron_. However, one day, when he was on horseback talking to his beloved Penloi, who stood at the horse's head, the horse suddenly threw up its head, and the curb, which was of _iron_, came in contact with Penloi, who immediately vanished out of sight. The next legend is taken from Williams's _Observations on the Snowdon Mountains_. His work was published in 1802. He, himself, was born in Anglesey, in 1738, and migrated to Carnarvonshire about the year 1760. It was in this latter county that he became a learned antiquary, and a careful recorder of events that came under his notice. His "Observations" throw considerable light upon the life, the customs, and the traditions of the inhabitants of the hill parts and secluded glens of Carnarvonshire. I have thought fit to make these few remarks about the author I quote from, so as to enable the reader to give to him that credence which he is entitled to. Williams entitles the following story, "A Fairy Tale," but I will for the sake of reference call it "The Ystrad Legend." 2. _The Ystrad Legend_. "In a meadow belonging to Ystrad, bounded by the river which falls from Cwellyn Lake, they say the Fairies used to assemble, and dance on fair moon-light-nights. One evening a young man, who was the heir and occupier of this farm, hid himself in a thicket close to the spot where they used to gambol; presently they appeared, and when in their merry mood, out he bounced from his covert and seized one of their females; the rest of the company dispersed themselves, and disappeared in an instant. Disregarding her struggles and screams, he hauled her to his home, where he treated her so very kindly that she became content to live with him as his maid servant; but he could not prevail upon her to tell him her name. Some time after, happening again to see the Fairies upon the same spot, he heard one of them saying, 'The last time we met here, our sister _Penelope_ was snatched away from us by one of the mortals!' Rejoiced at knowing the name of his _Incognita_, he returned home; and as she was very beautiful, and extremely active, he proposed to marry her, which she would not for a long time consent to; at last, however, she complied, but on this condition, 'That if ever he should strike her with iron, she would leave him, and never return to him again.' They lived happily for many years together, and he had by her a son, and a daughter; and by her industry and prudent management as a house-wife he became one of the richest men in the country. He farmed, besides his own freehold, all the lands on the north side of Nant-y-Bettws to the top of Snowdon, and all Cwmbrwynog in Llanberis; an extent of about five thousand acres or upwards. Unfortunately, one day Penelope followed her husband into the field to catch a horse; and he, being in a rage at the animal as he ran away from him, threw at him the bridle that was in his hand, which unluckily fell on poor Penelope. She disappeared in an instant, and he never saw her afterwards, but heard her voice in the window of his room one night after, requesting him to take care of the children, in these words:-- Rhag bod anwyd ar fy mab, Yn rhodd rhowch arno gob ei dad, Rhag bod anwyd ar liw'r cann, Rhoddwch arni bais ei mam. That is-- Oh! lest my son should suffer cold, Him in his father's coat infold, Lest cold should seize my darling fair, For her, her mother's robe prepare. These children and their descendants, they say, were called _Pellings_; a word corrupted from their mother's name, Penelope." Williams proceeds thus with reference to the descendants of this union:-- "The late Thomas Rowlands, Esq., of Caerau, in Anglesey, the father of the late Lady Bulkeley, was a descendant of this lady, if it be true that the name _Pellings_ came from her; and there are still living several opulent and respectable people who are known to have sprung from the _Pellings_. The best blood in my own veins is this Fairy's." This tale was chronicled in the last century, but it is not known whether every particular incident connected therewith was recorded by Williams. _Glasynys_, the Rev. Owen Wynne Jones, a clergyman, relates a tale in the _Brython_, which he regards as the same tale as that given by Williams, and he says that he heard it scores of times when he was a lad. _Glasynys_ was born in the parish of Rhostryfan, Carnarvonshire, in 1827, and as his birth place is not far distant from the scene of this legend, he might have heard a different version of Williams's tale, and that too of equal value with Williams's. Possibly, there were not more than from forty to fifty years between the time when the older writer heard the tale and the time when it was heard by the younger man. An octogenarian, or even a younger person, could have conversed with both Williams and _Glasynys_. _Glasynys's_ tale appears in Professor Rhys's _Welsh Fairy Tales_, _Cymmrodor_, vol. iv., p. 188. It originally appeared in the _Brython_ for 1863, p. 193. It is as follows:-- "One fine sunny morning, as the young heir of Ystrad was busied with his sheep on the side of Moel Eilio, he met a very pretty girl, and when he got home he told the folks there of it. A few days afterwards he met her again, and this happened several times, when he mentioned it to his father, who advised him to seize her when he next met her. The next time he met her he proceeded to do so, but before he could take her away, a little fat old man came to them and begged him to give her back to him, to which the youth would not listen. The little man uttered terrible threats, but he would not yield, so an agreement was made between them that he was to have her to wife until he touched her skin with iron, and great was the joy both of the son and his parents in consequence. They lived together for many years, but once on a time, on the evening of Bettws Fair, the wife's horse got restive, and somehow, as the husband was attending to the horse, the stirrups touched the skin of her bare leg, and that very night she was taken away from him. She had three or four children, and more than one of their descendants, as _Glasynys_ maintains, were known to him at the time he wrote in 1863." 3. _The Llanfrothen Legend_. I am indebted to the Rev. R. Jones, Rector of Llanycil, Bala, for the following legend. I may state that Mr. Jones is a native of Llanfrothen, Merionethshire, a parish in close proximity to the scene of the story. Mr. Jones's informant was his mother, a lady whose mind was well stored with tales of by-gone times, and my friend and informant inherits his mother's retentive memory, as well as her love of ancient lore. A certain man fell in love with a beautiful Fairy lady, and he wished to marry her. She consented to do so, but warned him that if he ever touched her with iron she would leave him immediately. This stipulation weighed but lightly on the lover. They were married, and for many years they lived most happily together, and several children were born to them. A sad mishap, however, one day overtook them. They were together, crossing Traethmawr, Penrhyndeudraeth, on horseback, when the man's horse became restive, and jerked his head towards the woman, and the bit of the bridle touched the left arm of the Fairy wife. She at once told her husband that they must part for ever. He was greatly distressed, and implored her not to leave him. She said she could not stay. Then the man, appealing to a mother's love for her children, begged that she would for the sake of their offspring continue to dwell with him and them, and, said he, what will become of our children without their mother? Her answer was:-- Gadewch iddynt fod yn bennau cochion a thrwynau hirion. Let them be redheaded and longnosed. Having uttered these words, she disappeared and was never seen afterwards. No Welsh Taboo story can be complete without the pretty tale of the Van Lake Legend, or, as it is called, "The Myddfai Legend." Because of its intrinsic beauty and worth, and for the sake of comparison with the preceding stories, I will relate this legend. There are several versions extant. Mr. Wirt Sikes, in his _British Goblins_, has one, the _Cambro-Briton_ has one, but the best is that recorded by Professor Rhys, in the _Cymmrodor_, vol. iv., p. 163, in his _Welsh Fairy Tales_. There are other readings of the legend to be met with. I will first of all give an epitome of the Professor's version. 4. _The Myddvai Legend_. A widow, who had an only son, was obliged, in consequence of the large flocks she possessed, to send, under the care of her son, a portion of her cattle to graze on the Black Mountain near a small lake called Llyn-y-Van-Bach. One day the son perceived, to his great astonishment, a most beautiful creature with flowing hair sitting on the unruffled surface of the lake combing her tresses, the water serving as a mirror. Suddenly she beheld the young man standing on the brink of the lake with his eyes rivetted on her, and unconsciously offering to herself the provision of barley bread and cheese with which he had been provided when he left his home. Bewildered by a feeling of love and admiration for the object before him, he continued to hold out his hand towards the lady, who imperceptibly glided near to him, but gently refused the offer of his provisions. He attempted to touch her, but she eluded his grasp, saying Cras dy fara; Nid hawdd fy nala. Hard baked is thy bread; It is not easy to catch me. She immediately dived under the water and disappeared, leaving the love-stricken youth to return home a prey to disappointment and regret that he had been unable to make further acquaintance with the lovely maiden with whom he had desperately fallen in love. On his return home he communicated to his mother the extraordinary vision. She advised him to take some unbaked dough the next time in his pocket, as there must have been some spell connected with the hard baked bread, or "Bara Cras," which prevented his catching the lady. Next morning, before the sun was up, the young man was at the lake, not for the purpose of looking after the cattle, but that he might again witness the enchanting vision of the previous day. In vain did he glance over the surface of the lake; nothing met his view, save the ripples occasioned by a stiff breeze, and a dark cloud hung heavily on the summit of the Van. Hours passed on, the wind was hushed, the overhanging clouds had vanished, when the youth was startled by seeing some of his mother's cattle on the precipitous side of the acclivity, nearly on the opposite side of the lake. As he was hastening away to rescue them from their perilous position, the object of his search again appeared to him, and seemed much more beautiful than when he first beheld her. His hand was again held out to her, full of unbaked bread, which he offered to her with an urgent proffer of his heart also, and vows of eternal attachment, all of which were refused by her, saying Llaith dy fara! Ti ni fynna. Unbaked is thy bread! I will not have thee. But the smiles that played upon her features as the lady vanished beneath the waters forbade him to despair, and cheered him on his way home. His aged parent was acquainted with his ill success, and she suggested that his bread should the next time be but slightly baked, as most likely to please the mysterious being. Impelled by love, the youth left his mother's home early next morning. He was soon near the margin of the lake impatiently awaiting the reappearance of the lady. The sheep and goats browsed on the precipitous sides of the Van, the cattle strayed amongst the rocks, rain and sunshine came and passed away, unheeded by the youth who was wrapped up in looking for the appearance of her who had stolen his heart. The sun was verging towards the west, and the young man casting a sad look over the waters ere departing homewards was astonished to see several cows walking along its surface, and, what was more pleasing to his sight, the maiden reappeared, even lovelier than ever. She approached the land and he rushed to meet her in the water. A smile encouraged him to seize her hand, and she accepted the moderately baked bread he offered her, and after some persuasion she consented to become his wife, on condition that they should live together until she received from him three blows without a cause, Tri ergyd diachos, Three causeless blows, when, should he ever happen to strike her three such blows, she would leave him for ever. These conditions were readily and joyfully accepted. Thus the Lady of the Lake became engaged to the young man, and having loosed her hand for a moment she darted away and dived into the lake. The grief of the lover at this disappearance of his affianced was such that he determined to cast himself headlong into its unfathomed depths, and thus end his life. As he was on the point of committing this rash act, there emerged out of the lake two most beautiful ladies, accompanied by a hoary-headed man of noble mien and extraordinary stature, but having otherwise all the force and strength of youth. This man addressed the youth, saying that, as he proposed to marry one of his daughters, he consented to the union, provided the young man could distinguish which of the two ladies before him was the object of his affections. This was no easy task, as the maidens were perfect counterparts of each other. Whilst the young man narrowly scanned the two ladies and failed to perceive the least difference betwixt the two, one of them thrust her foot a slight degree forward. The motion, simple as it was, did not escape the observation of the youth, and he discovered a trifling variation in the mode in which their sandals were tied. This at once put an end to the dilemma, for he had on previous occasions noticed the peculiarity of her shoe-tie, and he boldly took hold of her hand. "Thou hast chosen rightly," said the Father, "be to her a kind and faithful husband, and I will give her, as a dowry, as many sheep, cattle, goats, and horses, as she can count of each without heaving or drawing in her breath. But remember, that if you prove unkind to her at any time and strike her three times without a cause, she shall return to me, and shall bring all her stock with her." Such was the marriage settlement, to which the young man gladly assented, and the bride was desired to count the number of sheep she was to have. She immediately adopted the mode of counting by fives, thus:--One, two, three, four, five,--one, two, three, four, five; as many times as possible in rapid succession, till her breath was exhausted. The same process of reckoning had to determine the number of goats, cattle, and horses, respectively; and in an instant the full number of each came out of the lake, when called upon by the Father. The young couple were then married, and went to reside at a farm called Esgair Llaethdy, near Myddvai, where they lived in prosperity and happiness for several years, and became the parents of three beautiful sons. Once upon a time there was a christening in the neighbourhood to which the parents were invited. When the day arrived the wife appeared reluctant to attend the christening, alleging that the distance was too great for her to walk. Her husband told her to fetch one of the horses from the field. "I will," said she, "if you will bring me my gloves which I left in our house." He went for the gloves, and finding she had not gone for the horse, he playfully slapped her shoulder with one of them, saying "_dos_, _dos_, go, go," when she reminded him of the terms on which she consented to marry him, and warned him to be more cautious in the future, as he had now given her one causeless blow. On another occasion when they were together at a wedding and the assembled guests were greatly enjoying themselves the wife burst into tears and sobbed most piteously. Her husband touched her on the shoulder and inquired the cause of her weeping; she said, "Now people are entering into trouble, and your troubles are likely to commence, as you have the _second_ time stricken me without a cause." Years passed on, and their children had grown up, and were particularly clever young men. Amidst so many worldly blessings the husband almost forgot that only _one_ causeless blow would destroy his prosperity. Still he was watchful lest any trivial occurrence should take place which his wife must regard as a breach of their marriage contract. She told him that her affection for him was unabated, and warned him to be careful lest through inadvertence he might give the last and only blow which, by an unalterable destiny, over which she had no control, would separate them for ever. One day it happened that they went to a funeral together, where, in the midst of mourning and grief at the house of the deceased, she appeared in the gayest of spirits, and indulged in inconsiderate fits of laughter, which so shocked her husband that he touched her, saying--"Hush! hush! don't laugh." She said that she laughed because people when they die go out of trouble, and rising up, she went out of the house, saying, "The last blow has been struck, our marriage contract is broken, and at an end. Farewell!" Then she started off towards Esgair Llaethdy, where she called her cattle and other stock together, each by name, not forgetting, the "little black calf" which had been slaughtered and was suspended on the hook, and away went the calf and all the stock, with the Lady across Myddvai Mountain, and disappeared beneath the waters of the lake whence the Lady had come. The four oxen that were ploughing departed, drawing after them the plough, which made a furrow in the ground, and which remains as a testimony of the truth of this story. She is said to have appeared to her sons, and accosting Rhiwallon, her firstborn, to have informed him that he was to be a benefactor to mankind, through healing all manner of their diseases, and she furnished him with prescriptions and instructions for the preservation of health. Then, promising to meet him when her counsel was most needed, she vanished. On several other occasions she met her sons, and pointed out to them plants and herbs, and revealed to them their medicinal qualities or virtues. So ends the Myddvai Legend. A variant of this tale appears in the form of a letter in the _Cambro-Briton_, vol. ii, pp. 313-315. The editor prefaces the legend with the remark that the tale "acquires an additional interest from its resemblance in one particular to a similar tradition current in Scotland, wherein certain beasts, brought from a lake, as in this tale, play much the same part as is here described." The volume of the _Cambro-Briton_ now referred to was published in 1821 and apparently the writer, who calls himself _Siencyn ab Tydvil_, communicates an unwritten tradition afloat in Carmarthenshire, for he does not tell us whence he obtained the story. As the tale differs in some particulars from that already given, I will transcribe it. 5. _The Cambro-Briton version of the Myddvai Legend_. "A man, who lived in the farm-house called Esgair-llaethdy, in the parish of Myddvai, in Carmarthenshire, having bought some lambs in a neighbouring fair, led them to graze near _Llyn y Van Vach_, on the Black Mountains. Whenever he visited the lambs, three most beautiful female figures presented themselves to him from the lake, and often made excursions on the boundaries of it. For some time he pursued and endeavoured to catch them, but always failed; for the enchanting nymphs ran before him, and, when they had reached the lake, they tauntingly exclaimed, Cras dy fara, Anhawdd ein dala, which, with a little circumlocution, means, 'For thee, who eatest baked bread, it is difficult to catch us.' One day some moist bread from the lake came to shore. The farmer devoured it with great avidity, and on the following day he was successful in his pursuit and caught the fair damsels. After a little conversation with them, he commanded courage sufficient to make proposals of marriage to one of them. She consented to accept them on the condition that he would distinguish her from her two sisters on the following day. This was a new, and a very great difficulty to the young farmer, for the fair nymphs were so similar in form and features, that he could scarcely perceive any difference between them. He observed, however, a trifling singularity in the strapping of her sandal, by which he recognized her the following day. Some, indeed, who relate this legend, say that this Lady of the Lake hinted in a private conversation with her swain that upon the day of trial she would place herself between her two sisters, and that she would turn her right foot a little to the right, and that by this means he distinguished her from her sisters. Whatever were the means, the end was secured; he selected her, and she immediately left the lake and accompanied him to his farm. Before she quitted, she summoned to attend her from the lake seven cows, two oxen, and one bull. This lady engaged to live with him until such time as he would strike her three times without cause. For some years they lived together in comfort, and she bore him three sons, who were the celebrated Meddygon Myddvai. One day, when preparing for a fair in the neighbourhood, he desired her to go to the field for his horse. She said she would; but being rather dilatory, he said to her humorously, '_dos_, _dos_, _dos_,' i.e., 'go, go, go,' and he slightly touched her arm _three times_ with his glove. As she now deemed the terms of her marriage broken, she immediately departed, and summoned with her her seven cows, her two oxen, and the bull. The oxen were at that very time ploughing in the field, but they immediately obeyed her call, and took the plough with them. The furrow from the field in which they were ploughing, to the margin of the lake, is to be seen in several parts of that country to the present day. After her departure, she once met her two sons in a Cwm, now called _Cwm Meddygon_ (Physicians' Combe), and delivered to each of them a bag containing some articles which are unknown, but which are supposed to have been some discoveries in medicine. The Meddygon Myddvai were Rhiwallon and his sons, Cadwgan, Gruffydd, and Einion. They were the chief physicians of their age, and they wrote about A.D. 1230. A copy of their works is in the Welsh School Library, in Gray's Inn Lane." Such are the Welsh Taboo tales. I will now make a few remarks upon them. The _age_ of these legends is worthy of consideration. The legend of _Meddygon Myddvai_ dates from about the thirteenth century. Rhiwallon and his sons, we are told by the writer in the _Cambro-Briton_, wrote about 1230 A.D., but the editor of that publication speaks of a manuscript written by these physicians about the year 1300. Modern experts think that their treatise on medicine in the _Red Book of Hergest_ belongs to the end of the fourteenth century, about 1380 to 1400. _Dafydd ab Gwilym_, who is said to have flourished in the fourteenth century, says, in one of his poems, as given in the _Cambro-Briton_, vol. ii., p. 313, alluding to these physicians:-- "Meddyg, nis gwnai modd y gwnaeth Myddfai, o chai ddyn meddfaeth." "A Physician he would not make As Myddvai made, if he had a mead fostered man." It would appear, therefore, that these celebrated physicians lived somewhere about the thirteenth century. They are described as Physicians of Rhys Gryg, a prince of South Wales, who lived in the early part of the thirteenth century. Their supposed supernatural origin dates therefore from the thirteenth, or at the latest, the fourteenth century. I have mentioned _Y Gwylliaid Cochion_, or, as they are generally styled, _Gwylliaid Cochion Mawddwy_, the Red Fairies of Mawddwy, as being of Fairy origin. The Llanfrothen Legend seems to account for a race of men in Wales differing from their neighbours in certain features. The offspring of the Fairy union were, according to the Fairy mother's prediction in that legend, to have red hair and prominent noses. That a race of men having these characteristics did exist in Wales is undoubted. They were a strong tribe, the men were tall and athletic, and lived by plunder. They had their head quarters at Dinas Mawddwy, Merionethshire, and taxed their neighbours in open day, driving away sheep and cattle to their dens. So unbearable did their depredations become that John Wynn ap Meredydd of Gwydir and Lewis Owen, or as he is called Baron Owen, raised a body of stout men to overcome them, and on Christmas Eve, 1554, succeeded in capturing a large number of the offenders, and, there and then, some hundred or so of the robbers were hung. Tradition says that a mother begged hard for the life of a young son, who was to be destroyed, but Baron Owen would not relent. On perceiving that her request was unheeded, baring her breast she said:-- Y bronau melynion hyn a fagasant y rhai a ddialant waed fy mab, ac a olchant eu dwylaw yn ngwaed calon llofrudd eu brawd. These yellow breasts have nursed those who will revenge my son's blood, and will wash their hands in the heart's blood of the murderer of their brother. According to _Pennant_ this threat was carried out by the murder of Baron Owen in 1555, when he was passing through the thick woods of Mawddwy on his way to Montgomeryshire Assizes, at a place called to this day _Llidiart y Barwn_, the Baron's Gate, from the deed. Tradition further tells us that the murderers had gone a distance off before they remembered their mother's threat, and returning thrust their swords into the Baron's breast, and washed their hands in his heart's blood. This act was followed by vigorous action, and the banditti were extirpated, the females only remaining, and the descendants of these women are occasionally still to be met with in Montgomeryshire and Merionethshire. For the preceding information the writer is indebted to _Yr Hynafion Cymreig_, pp. 91-94, _Archaeologia Cambrensis_, for 1854, pp. 119-20, _Pennant_, vol. ii, pp. 225-27, ed. Carnarvon, and the tradition was told him by the Revd. D. James, Vicar of Garthbeibio, who likewise pointed out to him the very spot where the Baron was murdered. But now, who were these _Gwylliaid_? According to the hint conveyed by their name they were of Fairy parentage, an idea which a writer in the _Archaeologia Cambrensis_, vol. v., 1854, p. 119, intended, perhaps, to throw out. But according to _Brut y Tywysogion_, _Myf. Arch_., p. 706, A.D. 1114, Denbigh edition, the _Gwylliaid Cochion Mawddwy_ began in the time of Cadwgan ab Bleddyn ab Cynvyn. From Williams's _Eminent Welshmen_, we gather that Prince Cadwgan died in 1110, A.D., and, according to the above-mentioned _Brut_, it was in his days that the Gwylliaid commenced their career, if not their existence. Unfortunately for this beginning of the red-headed banditti of Mawddwy, Tacitus states in his Life of Agricola, ch. xi., that there were in Britain men with red hair who he surmises were of German extraction. We must, therefore, look for the commencement of a people of this description long before the twelfth century, and the Llanfrothen legend either dates from remote antiquity, or it was a tale that found in its wanderings a resting place in that locality in ages long past. From a legend recorded by _Giraldus Cambrensis_, which shall by and by be given, it would seem that a priest named Elidorus lived among the Fairies in their home in the bowels of the earth, and this would be in the early part of the twelfth century. The question arises, is the priest's tale credible, or did he merely relate a story of himself which had been ascribed to some one else in the traditions of the people? If his tale is true, then, there lived even in that late period a remnant of the aborigines of the country, who had their homes in caves. The Myddvai Legend in part corroborates this supposition, for that story apparently belongs to the thirteenth century. It is difficult to fix the date of the other legends here given, for they are dressed in modern garbs, with, however, trappings of remote times. Probably all these tales have reached, through oral tradition, historic times, but in reality they belong to that far-off distant period, when the prehistoric inhabitants of this island dwelt in Lake-habitations, or in caves. And the marriage of Fairy ladies, with men of a different race, intimates that the more ancient people were not extirpated, but were amalgamated with their conquerors. Many Fairy tales in Wales are associated with lakes. Fairy ladies emerge from lakes and disappear into lakes. In the oriental legend Pururavas came upon his absconding wife in a lake. In many Fairy stories lakes seem to be the entrance to the abodes of the Fairies. Evidently, therefore, those people were lake-dwellers. In the lakes of Switzerland and other countries have been discovered vestiges of Lake-villages belonging to the Stone Age, and even to the Bronze Age. Perhaps those that belong to the Stone Age are the most ancient kind of human abodes still traceable in the world. In Ireland and Scotland these kinds of dwellings have been found. I am not in a position to say that they have been discovered in Wales; but some thirty years ago Mr. Colliver, a Cornish gentleman, told the writer that whilst engaged in mining operations near Llyn Llydaw he had occasion to lower the water level of that lake, when he discovered embedded in the mud a canoe formed out of the trunk of a single tree. He saw another in the lake, but this he did not disturb, and there it is at the present day. The late Professor Peter of Bala believed that he found traces of Lake-dwellings in Bala Lake, and the people in those parts have a tradition that a town lies buried beneath its waters--a tradition, indeed, common to many lakes. It is not therefore unlikely that if the lakes of Wales are explored they will yield evidences of lake-dwellers, and, however unromantic it may appear, the Lady of the Van Lake was only possibly a maiden snatched from her watery home by a member of a stronger race. In these legends the lady does not seem to evince much love for her husband after she has left him. Possibly he did not deserve much, but towards her children she shows deep affection. After the husband is deserted, the children are objects of her solicitation, and they are visited. The Lady of the Van Lake promised to meet her son whenever her counsel or aid was required. A like trait belongs to the Homeric goddesses. Thetis heard from her father's court far away beneath the ocean the terrible sounds of grief that burst from her son Achilles on hearing of the death of his dear friend Patroclus, and quickly ascended to earth all weeping to learn what ailed her son. These Fairy ladies also show a mother's love, immortal though they be. The children of these marriages depart not with their mother, they remain with the father, but she takes with her her dowry. Thus there are many descendants of the Lady of the Van Lake still living in South Wales, and as Professor Rhys remarks--"This brings the legend of the Lady of the Van Lake into connection with a widely spread family;" and, it may be added, shows that the Celts on their advent to Wales found it inhabited by a race with whom they contracted marriages. The manner in which the lady is seized when dancing in the Ystrad Legend calls to mind the strategy of the tribe of Benjamin to secure wives for themselves of the daughters of Shiloh according to the advice of the elders who commanded them,--"Go and lie in wait in the vineyards; and see, and behold, if the daughters of Shiloh come out to dance in dances, then come ye out of the vineyards, and catch you everyone his wife of the daughters of Shiloh, and go to the land of Benjamin," Judges, ch. xxi. The rape of the Sabine women, who were seized by the followers of Romulus on a day appointed for sacrifice and public games, also serves as a precedent for the action of those young Welshmen who captured Fairy wives whilst enjoying themselves in the dance. It is a curious fact, that a singular testimony to wife snatching in ancient times is indicated by a custom once general, and still not obsolete in South Wales, of a feigned attempt on the part of the friends of the young woman about to get married to hinder her from carrying out her object. The Rev. Griffith Jones, Vicar of Mostyn, informed the writer that he had witnessed such a struggle. The wedding, he stated, took place at Tregaron, Cardiganshire. The friends of both the young people were on horseback, and according to custom they presented themselves at the house of the young woman, the one to escort her to the church, and the other to hinder her from going there. The friends of the young man were called "_Gwyr shegouts_." When the young lady was mounted, she was surrounded by the _gwyr shegouts_, and the cavalcade started. All went on peaceably until a lane was reached, down which the lady bolted, and here the struggle commenced, for her friends dashed between her and her husband's friends and endeavoured to force them back, and thus assist her to escape. The parties, Mr. Jones said, rode furiously and madly, and the struggle presented a cavalry charge, and it was not without much apparent danger that the opposition was overcome, and the lady ultimately forced to proceed to the church, where her future husband was anxiously awaiting her arrival. This strange custom of ancient times and obscure origin is suggestive of the way in which the stronger party procured wives in days of old. Before the marriage of the Fairy lady to the mortal takes place, the father of the lady appears on the scene, sometimes as a supplicant, and at others as a consenting party to the inevitable marriage, but never is he depicted as resorting to force to rescue his daughter. This pusillanimity can only be reasonably accounted for by supposing that the "little man" was physically incapable of encountering and overcoming by brute force the aspirant to the hand of his daughter. From this conduct we must, I think, infer that the Fairy race were a weak people bodily, unaccustomed and disinclined to war. Their safety and existence consisted in living in the inaccessible parts of the mountains, or in lake dwellings far removed from the habitations of the stronger and better equipped race that had invaded their country. In this way they could, and very likely did, occupy parts of Wales contemporaneously with their conquerors, who, through marriage, became connected with the mild race, whom they found in possession of the land. In the Welsh legends the maid consents to wed her capturer, and remain with him until he strikes her with _iron_. In every instance where this stipulation is made, it is ultimately broken, and the wife departs never to return. It has been thought that this implies that the people who immediately succeeded the Fair race belonged to the Iron Age, whilst the fair aborigines belonged to the Stone or Bronze age, and that they were overcome by the superior arms of their opponents, quite as much as by their greater bodily strength. Had the tabooed article been in every instance _iron_, the preceding supposition would have carried with it considerable weight, but as this is not the case, all that can be said positively is, that the conquerors of the Fair race were certainly acquainted with iron, and the blow with iron that brought about the catastrophe was undoubtedly inflicted by the mortal who had married the Fairy lady. Why iron should have been tabooed by the Fairy and her father, must remain an open question. But if we could, with reason, suppose, that that metal had brought about their subjugation, then in an age of primitive and imperfect knowledge, and consequent deep superstition, we might not be wrong in supposing that the subjugated race would look upon iron with superstitious dread, and ascribe to it supernatural power inimical to them as a race. They would under such feelings have nothing whatever to do with iron, just as the benighted African, witnessing for the first time the effects of a gun shot, would, with dread, avoid a gun. By this process of reasoning we arrive at the conclusion that the Fairy race belonged to a period anterior to the Iron Age. With one remark, I will bring my reflections on the preceding legends to an end. Polygamy apparently was unknown in the distant times we are considering. But the marriage bond was not indissoluble, and the initiative in the separation was taken by the woman. MEN CAPTURED BY FAIRIES. In the preceding legends, we have accounts of men capturing female Fairies, and marrying them. It would be strange if the kidnapping were confined to one of the two races, but Folk-Lore tells us that the Fair Family were not innocent of actions similar to those of mortals, for many a man was snatched away by them, and carried off to their subterranean abodes, who, in course of time, married the fair daughters of the _Tylwyth Teg_. Men captured Fairy ladies, but the Fairies captured handsome men. The oldest written legend of this class is to be found in the pages of _Giraldus Cambrensis_, pp. 390-92, Bohn's edition. The Archdeacon made the tour of Wales in 1188; the legend therefore which he records can boast of a good old age, but the tale itself is older than _The Itinerary through Wales_, for the writer informs us that the priest Elidorus, who affirmed that he had been in the country of the Fairies, talked in his old age to David II., bishop of St. David, of the event. Now David II. was promoted to the see of St. David in 1147, or, according to others, in 1149, and died A.D. 1176; therefore the legend had its origin before the last-mentioned date, and, if the priest were a very old man when he died, his tale would belong to the eleventh century. With these prefatory remarks, I will give the legend as recorded by Giraldus. 1. _Elidorus and the Fairies_. "A short time before our days, a circumstance worthy of note occurred in these parts, which Elidorus, a priest, most strenuously affirmed had befallen to himself. When a youth of twelve years, and learning his letters, since, as Solomon says, 'The root of learning is bitter, although the fruit is sweet,' in order to avoid the discipline and frequent stripes inflicted on him by his preceptor, he ran away and concealed himself under the hollow bank of the river. After fasting in that situation for two days, two little men of pigmy stature appeared to him, saying, 'If you will come with us, we will lead you into a country full of delights and sports.' Assenting and rising up, he followed his guides through a path, at first subterraneous and dark, into a most beautiful country, adorned with rivers and meadows, woods and plains, but obscure, and not illuminated with the full light of the sun. All the days were cloudy, and the nights extremely dark, on account of the absence of the moon and stars. The boy was brought before the King, and introduced to him in the presence of the court; who, having examined him for a long time, delivered him to his son, who was then a boy. These men were of the smallest stature, but very well proportioned in their make; they were all of a fair complexion, with luxuriant hair falling over their shoulders like that of women. They had horses and greyhounds adapted to their size. They neither ate flesh nor fish, but lived on milk diet, made up into messes with saffron. They never took an oath, for they detested nothing so much as lies. As often as they returned from our upper hemisphere, they reprobated our ambition, infidelities, and inconstancies; they had no form of public worship, being strict lovers and reverers, as it seemed, of truth. The boy frequently returned to our hemisphere, sometimes by the way he had first gone, sometimes by another; at first in company with other persons, and afterwards alone, and made himself known only to his mother, declaring to her the manners, nature, and state of that people. Being desired by her to bring a present of gold, with which that region abounded, he stole, while at play with the king's son, the golden ball with which he used to divert himself, and brought it to his mother in great haste; and when he reached the door of his father's house, but not unpursued, and was entering it in a great hurry, his foot stumbled on the threshold, and falling down into the room where his mother was sitting, the two pigmies seized the ball which had dropped from his hand and departed, showing the boy every mark of contempt and derision. On recovering from his fall, confounded with shame, and execrating the evil counsel of his mother, he returned by the usual track to the subterraneous road, but found no appearance of any passage, though he searched for it on the banks of the river for nearly the space of a year. But since those calamities are often alleviated by time, which reason cannot mitigate, and length of time alone blunts the edge of our afflictions and puts an end to many evils, the youth, having been brought back by his friends and mother, and restored to his right way of thinking, and to his learning, in process of time attained the rank of priesthood. Whenever David II., Bishop of St. David's, talked to him in his advanced state of life concerning this event, he could never relate the particulars without shedding tears. He had made himself acquainted with the language of that nation, the words of which, in his younger days, he used to recite, which, as the bishop often had informed me, were very conformable to the Greek idiom. When they asked for water, they said 'Ydor ydorum,' which meant 'Bring water,' for Ydor in their language, as well as in the Greek, signifies water, whence vessels for water are called Adriai; and Dwr, also in the British language signifies water. When they wanted salt they said 'Halgein ydorum,' 'Bring salt.' Salt is called al in Greek, and Halen in British, for that language, from the length of time which the Britons (then called Trojans and afterwards Britons, from Brito, their leader) remained in Greece after the destruction of Troy, became, in many instances, similar to the Greek." This legend agrees in a remarkable degree with the popular opinion respecting Fairies. It would almost appear to be the foundation of many subsequent tales that are current in Wales. The priest's testimony to Fairy temperance and love of truth, and their reprobation of ambition, infidelities, and inconstancies, notwithstanding that they had no form of public worship, and their abhorrence of theft intimate that they possessed virtues worthy of all praise. Their abode is altogether mysterious, but this ancient description of Fairyland bears out the remarks--perhaps suggested the remarks, of the Rev. Peter Roberts in his book called _The Cambrian Popular Antiquities_. In this work, the author promulgates the theory that the Fairies were a people existing distinct from the known inhabitants of the country and confederated together, and met mysteriously to avoid coming in contact with the stronger race that had taken possession of their land, and he supposes that in these traditionary tales of the Fairies we recognize something of the real history of an ancient people whose customs were those of a regular and consistent policy. Roberts supposes that the smaller race for the purpose of replenishing their ranks stole the children of their conquerors, or slyly exchanged their weak children for their enemies' strong children. It will be observed that the people among whom Elidorus sojourned had a language cognate with the Irish, Welsh, Greek, and other tongues; in fact, it was similar to that language which at one time extended, with dialectical differences, from Ireland to India; and the _Tylwyth Teg_, in our legends, are described as speaking a language understood by those with whom they conversed. This language they either acquired from their conquerors, or both races must have had a common origin; the latter, probably, being the more reasonable supposition, and by inference, therefore, the Fairies and other nations by whom they were subdued were descended from a common stock, and ages afterwards, by marriage, the Fairies again commingled with other branches of the family from which they had originally sprung. Omitting many embellishments which the imagination has no difficulty in bestowing, tradition has transmitted one fact, that the _Tylwyth Teg_ succeeded in inducing men through the allurements of music and the attractions of their fair daughters to join their ranks. I will now give instances of this belief. The following tale I received from the mouth of Mr. Richard Jones, Ty'n-y-wern, Bryneglwys, near Corwen. Mr. Jones has stored up in his memory many tales of olden times, and he even thinks that he has himself seen a Fairy. Standing by his farm, he pointed out to me on the opposite side of the valley a Fairy ring still green, where once, he said, the Fairies held their nightly revels. The scene of the tale which Mr. Jones related is wild, and a few years ago it was much more so than at present. At the time that the event is said to have taken place the mountain was unenclosed, and there was not much travelling in those days, and consequently the Fairies could, undisturbed, enjoy their dances. But to proceed with the tale. 2. _A Bryneglwys Man inveigled by the Fairies_. Two waggoners were sent from Bryneglwys for coals to the works over the hill beyond Minera. On their way they came upon a company of Fairies dancing with all their might. The men stopped to witness their movements, and the Fairies invited them to join in the dance. One of the men stoutly refused to do so, but the other was induced to dance awhile with them. His companion looked on for a short time at the antics of his friend, and then shouted out that he would wait no longer, and desired the man to give up and come away. He, however, turned a deaf ear to the request, and no words could induce him to forego his dance. At last his companion said that he was going, and requested his friend to follow him. Taking the two waggons under his care he proceeded towards the coal pits, expecting every moment to be overtaken by his friend; but he was disappointed, for he never appeared. The waggons and their loads were taken to Bryneglwys, and the man thought that perhaps his companion, having stopped too long in the dance, had turned homewards instead of following him to the coal pit. But on enquiry no one had heard or seen the missing waggoner. One day his companion met a Fairy on the mountain and inquired after his missing friend. The Fairy told him to go to a certain place, which he named, at a certain time, and that he should there see his friend. The man went, and there saw his companion just as he had left him, and the first words that he uttered were "Have the waggons gone far." The poor man never dreamt that months and months had passed away since they had started together for coal. A variant of the preceding story appears in the _Cambrian Magazine_, vol. ii., pp. 58-59, where it is styled the Year's Sleep, or "The Forest of the Yewtree," but for the sake of association with like tales I will call it by the following title:-- 3. _Story of a man who spent twelve months in Fairyland_. "In Mathavarn, in the parish of Llanwrin, and the Cantrev of Cyveilioc, there is a wood which is called _Ffridd yr Ywen_ (the Forest of the Yew); it is supposed to be so called because there is a yew tree growing in the very middle of it. In many parts of the wood are to be seen green circles, which are called 'the dancing places of the goblins,' about which, a considerable time ago, the following tale was very common in the neighbourhood:-- Two servants of John Pugh, Esq., went out one day to work in the 'Forest of the Yew.' Pretty early in the afternoon the whole country was so covered with dark vapour, that the youths thought night was coming on; but when they came to the middle of the 'Forest' it brightened up around them and the darkness seemed all left behind; so, thinking it too early to return home for the night, they lay down and slept. One of them, on waking, was much surprised to find no one there but himself; he wondered a good deal at the behaviour of his companion, but made up his mind at last that he had gone on some business of his own, as he had been talking of it some time before; so the sleeper went home, and when they inquired after his companion, he told them he was gone to the cobbler's shop. The next day they inquired of him again about his fellow-servant, but he could not give them any account of him; but at last confessed how and where they had both gone to sleep. Alter searching and searching many days, he went to a '_gwr cyvarwydd_' (a conjuror), which was a very common trade in those days, according to the legend; and the conjuror said to him, 'Go to the same place where you and the lad slept; go there exactly a year after the boy was lost; let it be on the same day of the year, and at the same time of the day, but take care that you do not step inside the Fairy ring, stand on the border of the green circles you saw there, and the boy will come out with many of the goblins to dance, and when you see him so near to you that you may take hold of him, snatch him out of the ring as quickly as you can.' He did according to this advice, and plucked the boy out, and then asked him, 'if he did not feel hungry,' to which he answered 'No,' for he had still the remains of his dinner that he had left in his wallet before going to sleep, and he asked 'if it was not nearly night, and time to go home,' not knowing that a year had passed by. His look was like a skeleton, and as soon as he had tasted food he was a dead man." A story in its main features similar to that recorded in the _Cambrian Magazine_ was related to me by my friend, the Rev. R. Jones, Rector of Llanycil. I do not think Mr. Jones gave me the locality where the occurrence is said to have taken place; at least, if he did so, I took no note of it. The story is as follows:-- 4. _A man who spent twelve months and a day with the Fairies_. A young man, a farm labourer, and his sweetheart were sauntering along one evening in an unfrequented part of the mountain, when there appeared suddenly before them two Fairies, who proceeded to make a circle. This being done, a large company of Fairies accompanied by musicians appeared, and commenced dancing over the ring; their motions and music were entrancing, and the man, an expert dancer, by some irresistible power was obliged to throw himself into the midst of the dancers and join them in their gambols. The woman looked on enjoying the sight for several hours, expecting every minute that her lover would give up the dance and join her, but no, on and on went the dance, round and round went her lover, until at last daylight appeared, and then suddenly the music ceased and the Fairy band vanished; and with them her lover. In great dismay, the young woman shouted the name of her sweetheart, but all in vain, he came not to her. The sun had now risen, and, almost broken-hearted, she returned home and related the events of the previous night. She was advised to consult a man who was an adept in the black art. She did so, and the conjuror told her to go to the same place at the same time of the night one year and one day from the time that her lover had disappeared and that she should then and there see him. She was farther instructed how to act. The conjuror warned her from going into the ring, but told her to seize her lover by the arm as he danced round, and to jerk him out of the enchanted circle. Twelve months and a day passed away, and the faithful girl was on the spot where she lost her lover. At the very moment that they had in the first instance appeared the Fairies again came to view, and everything that she had witnessed previously was repeated. With the Fairy band was her lover dancing merrily in their midst. The young woman ran round and round the circle close to the young man, carefully avoiding the circle, and at last she succeeded in taking hold of him and desired him to come away with her. "Oh," said he, "do let me alone a little longer, and then I will come with you." "You have already been long enough," said she. His answer was, "It is so delightful, let me dance on only a few minutes longer." She saw that he was under a spell, and grasping the young man's arm with all her might she followed him round and round the circle, and an opportunity offering she jerked him out of the circle. He was greatly annoyed at her conduct, and when told that he had been with the Fairies a year and a day he would not believe her, and affirmed that he had been dancing only a few minutes; however, he went away with the faithful girl, and when he had reached the farm, his friends had the greatest difficulty in persuading him that he had been so long from home. The next Fairy tale that I shall give akin to the preceding stories is to be found in _Y Brython_, vol. iii., pp. 459-60. The writer of the tale was the Rev. Benjamin Williams, whose bardic name was Gwynionydd. I do not know the source whence Mr. Williams derived the story, but most likely he obtained it from some aged person who firmly believed that the tale was a true record of what actually occurred. In the _Brython_ the tale is called: "Y Tylwyth Teg a Mab Llech y Derwydd," and this title I will retain, merely translating it. The introduction, however, I will not give, as it does not directly bear on the subject now under consideration. 5. _The Son of Llech y Derwydd and the Fairies_. The son of Llech y Derwydd was the only son of his parents and heir to the farm. He was very dear to his father and mother, yea, he was as the very light of their eyes. The son and the head servant man were bosom friends, they were like two brothers, or rather twins. As they were such close friends the farmer's wife was in the habit of clothing them exactly alike. The two friends fell in love with two young handsome women who were highly respected in the neighbourhood. This event gave the old people great satisfaction, and ere long the two couples were joined in holy wedlock, and great was the merry-making on the occasion. The servant man obtained a convenient place to live in on the grounds of Llech y Derwydd. About six months after the marriage of the son, he and the servant man went out to hunt. The servant penetrated to a ravine filled with brushwood to look for game, and presently returned to his friend, but by the time he came back the son was nowhere to be seen. He continued awhile looking about for his absent friend, shouting and whistling to attract his attention, but there was no answer to his calls. By and by he went home to Llech y Derwydd, expecting to find him there, but no one knew anything about him. Great was the grief of the family throughout the night, but it was even greater the next day. They went to inspect the place where the son had last been seen. His mother and his wife wept bitterly, but the father had greater control over himself, still he appeared as half mad. They inspected the place where the servant man had last seen his friend, and, to their great surprise and sorrow, observed a Fairy ring close by the spot, and the servant recollected that he had heard seductive music somewhere about the time that he parted with his friend. They came to the conclusion at once that the man had been so unfortunate as to enter the Fairy ring, and they conjectured that he had been transported no one knew where. Weary weeks and months passed away, and a son was born to the absent man. The little one grew up the very image of his father, and very precious was he to his grandfather and grandmother. In fact, he was everything to them. He grew up to man's estate and married a pretty girl in the neighbourhood, but her people had not the reputation of being kind-hearted. The old folks died, and also their daughter-in-law. One windy afternoon in the month of October, the family of Llech y Derwydd saw a tall thin old man with beard and hair as white as snow, who they thought was a Jew, approaching slowly, very slowly, towards the house. The servant girls stared mockingly through the window at him, and their mistress laughed unfeelingly at the "old Jew," and lifted the children up, one after the other, to get a sight of him as he neared the house. He came to the door, and entered the house boldly enough, and inquired after his parents. The mistress answered him in a surly and unusually contemptuous manner, and wished to know "What the drunken old Jew wanted there," for they thought he must have been drinking or he would never have spoken in the way he did. The old man looked at everything in the house with surprise and bewilderment, but the little children about the floor took his attention more than anything else. His looks betrayed sorrow and deep disappointment. He related his whole history, that, yesterday he had gone out to hunt, and that he had now returned. The mistress told him that she had heard a story about her husband's father, which occurred before she was born, that he had been lost whilst hunting, but that her father had told her that the story was not true, but that he had been killed. The woman became uneasy and angry that the old "Jew" did not depart. The old man was roused and said that the house was his, and that he would have his rights. He went to inspect his possessions, and shortly afterwards directed his steps to the servant's house. To his surprise he saw that things there were greatly changed. After conversing awhile with an aged man who sat by the fire, they carefully looked each other in the face, and the old man by the fire related the sad history of his lost friend, the son of Llech y Derwydd. They conversed together deliberately on the events of their youth, but all seemed like a dream. However, the old man in the corner came to the conclusion that his visitor was his dear friend, the son of Llech y Derwydd, returned from the land of the Fairies after having spent there half a hundred years. The old man with the white beard believed the story related by his friend, and long was the talk and many were the questions which the one gave to the other. The visitor was informed that the master of Llech y Derwydd was from home that day, and he was persuaded to eat some food; but, to the horror of all, when he had done so, he instantly fell down dead. Such is the story. The writer adds that the tale relates that the cause of this man's sudden death was that he ate food after having been so long in the land of the Fairies, and he further states that the faithful old servant insisted on his dead friend's being buried with his ancestors, and the rudeness of the mistress of Llech y Derwydd to her father-in-law brought a curse upon the place and family, and her offence was not expiated until the farm had been sold nine times. The next tale that I shall relate is recorded by _Glasynys_ in _Cymru Fu_, pp. 177-179. Professor Rhys in his _Welsh Fairy Tales_, _Y Cymmrodor_, vol. v., pp. 81-84, gives a translation of this story. The Professor prefaces the tale with a caution that _Glasynys_ had elaborated the story, and that the proper names were undoubtedly his own. The reverend author informs his readers that he heard his mother relate the tale many times, but it certainly appears that he has ornamented the simple narrative after his own fashion, for he was professedly a believer in words; however, in its general outline, it bears the impress of antiquity, and strongly resembles other Welsh Fairy tales. It belongs to that species of Fairy stories which compose this chapter, and therefore it is here given as translated by Professor Rhys. I will for the sake of reference give the tale a name, and describe it under the following heading. 6. _A young man marries a Fairy Lady in Fairy Land, and brings her to live with him among his own people_. "Once on a time a shepherd boy had gone up the mountain. That day, like many a day before and after, was exceedingly misty. Now, though he was well acquainted with the place, he lost his way, and walked backwards and forwards for many a long hour. At last he got into a low rushy spot, where he saw before him many circular rings. He at once recalled the place, and began to fear the worst. He had heard, many hundreds of times, of the bitter experiences in those rings of many a shepherd who had happened to chance on the dancing-place or the circles of the Fair Family. He hastened away as fast as ever he could, lest he should be ruined like the rest; but though he exerted himself to the point of perspiring, and losing his breath, there he was, and there he continued to be, a long time. At last he was met by a little fat old man with merry blue eyes, who asked him what he was doing. He answered that he was trying to find his way homeward. 'Oh,' said he, 'come after me, and do not utter a word until I bid thee.' This he did, following him on and on until they came to an oval stone, and the little old fat man lifted it, after tapping the middle of it three times with his walking stick. There was there a narrow path with stairs to be seen here and there, and a sort of whitish light, inclining to grey and blue, was to be seen radiating from the stones. 'Follow me fearlessly,' said the fat man, 'no harm will be done thee.' So on the poor youth went, as reluctantly as a dog to be hanged; but presently a fine-wooded, fertile country spread itself out before them, with well arranged mansions dotting it over, while every kind of apparent magnificence met the eye, and seemed to smile in its landscape; the bright waters of its rivers meandered in twisted streams, and its hills were covered with the luxuriant verdure of their grassy growth, and the mountains with a glossy fleece of smooth pasture. By the time they had reached the stout gentleman's mansion, the young man's senses had been bewildered by the sweet cadence of the music which the birds poured forth from the groves, then there was gold there to dazzle his eyes and silver flashing on his sight. He saw there all kinds of musical instruments and all sorts of things for playing, but he could discern no inhabitant in the whole place; and when he sat down to eat, the dishes on the table came to their places of themselves and disappeared when one had done with them. This puzzled him beyond measure; moreover, he heard people talking together around him, but for the life of him he could see no one but his old friend. At length the fat man said to him, 'Thou canst now talk as much as it may please thee;' but when he attempted to move his tongue it would no more stir than if it had been a lump of ice, which greatly frightened him. At this point, a fine old lady, with health and benevolence beaming in her face, came to them and slightly smiled at the shepherd. The mother was followed by her three daughters, who were remarkably beautiful. They gazed with somewhat playful looks at him, and at length began to talk to him, but his tongue would not wag. Then one of the girls came to him, and, playing with his yellow and curly locks, gave him a smart kiss on his ruddy lips. This loosened the string that bound his tongue, and he began to talk freely and eloquently. There he was, under the charm of that kiss, in the bliss of happiness, and there he remained a year and a day without knowing that he had passed more than a day among them, for he had got into a country where there was no reckoning of time. But by and by he began to feel somewhat of a longing to visit his old home, and asked the stout man if he might go. 'Stay a little yet,' said he, 'and thou shalt go for a while.' That passed, he stayed on; but Olwen, for that was the name of the damsel that had kissed him, was very unwilling that he should depart. She looked sad every time he talked of going away, nor was he himself without feeling a sort of a cold thrill passing through him at the thought of leaving her. On condition, however, of returning, he obtained leave to go, provided with plenty of gold and silver, of trinkets and gems. When he reached home, nobody knew who he was; it had been the belief that he had been killed by another shepherd, who found it necessary to betake himself hastily far away to America, lest he should be hanged without delay. But here is Einion Las at home, and everybody wonders especially to see that the shepherd had got to look like a wealthy man; his manners, his dress, his language, and the treasure he had with him, all conspired to give him the air of a gentleman. He went back one Thursday night, the first of the moon that month, as suddenly as he had left the first time, and nobody knew whither. There was great joy in the country below when Einion returned thither, and nobody was more rejoiced at it than Olwen, his beloved. The two were right impatient to get married, but it was necessary to do that quietly, for the family below hated nothing more than fuss and noise; so, in a sort of a half-secret fashion, they were wedded. Einion was very desirous to go once more among his own people, accompanied, to be sure, by his wife. After he had been long entreating the old man for leave, they set out on two white ponies, that were, in fact, more like snow than anything else in point of colour; so he arrived with his consort in his old home, and it was the opinion of all that Einion's wife was the handsomest person they had anywhere seen. Whilst at home, a son was born to them, to whom they gave the name of Taliesin. Einion was now in the enjoyment of high repute, and his wife received proper respect. Their wealth was immense, and soon they acquired a large estate; but it was not long till people began to inquire after the pedigree of Einion's wife--the country was of opinion that it was not the right thing to be without a pedigree. Einion was questioned about it, without his giving any satisfactory answer, and one came to the conclusion that she was one of the Fair Family (_Tylwyth Teg_). 'Certainly,' replied Einion, 'there can be no doubt that she comes from a very fair family, for she has two sisters who are as fair as she, and if you saw them together, you would admit that name to be a capital one.' This, then, is the reason why the remarkable family in the land of charm and phantasy (_Hud a Lledrith_) are called the Fair Family." 7. _A Boy taken to Fairy Land_. Mrs. Morris, of Cwm Vicarage, near Rhyl, told the writer the following story. She stated that she had heard it related in her family that one of their people had in childhood been induced by the Fairies to follow them to their country. This boy had been sent to discharge some domestic errand, but he did not return. He was sought for in all directions but could not be found. His parents came to the conclusion that he had either been murdered or kidnapped, and in time he was forgotten by most people, but one day he returned with what he had been sent for in his hand. But so many years had elapsed since he first left home, that he was now an old grey-headed man, though he knew it not; he had, he said, followed, for a short time, delightful music and people; but when convinced, by the changes around, that years had slipped by since he first left his home, he was so distressed at the changes he saw that he said he would return to the Fairies. But alas! he sought in vain for the place where he had met them, and therefore he was obliged to remain with his blood relations. The next tale differs from the preceding, insomuch that the seductive advances of the Fairies failed in their object. I am not quite positive whence I obtained the story, but this much I know, that it belongs to Pentrevoelas, and that a respectable old man was in the habit of repeating it, as an event in his own life. _A Man Refusing the Solicitations of the Fairies_. A Pentrevoelas man was coming home one lovely summer's night, and when within a stone's throw of his house, he heard in the far distance singing of the most enchanting kind. He stopped to listen to the sweet sounds which filled him with a sensation of deep pleasure. He had not listened long ere he perceived that the singers were approaching. By and by they came to the spot where he was, and he saw that they were marching in single file and consisted of a number of small people, robed in close-fitting grey clothes, and they were accompanied by speckled dogs that marched along two deep like soldiers. When the procession came quite opposite the enraptured listener, it stopped, and the small people spoke to him and earnestly begged him to accompany them, but he would not. They tried many ways, and for a long time, to persuade him to join them, but when they saw they could not induce him to do so they departed, dividing themselves into two companies and marching away, the dogs marching two abreast in front of each company. They sang as they went away the most entrancing music that was ever heard. The man, spell-bound, stood where he was, listening to the ravishing music of the Fairies, and he did not enter his house until the last sound had died away in the far-off distance. Professor Rhys records a tale much like the preceding. (See his _Welsh Fairy Tales_, pp. 34, 35.) It is as follows:--"One bright moonlight night, as one of the sons of the farmer who lived at Llwyn On in Nant y Bettws was going to pay his addresses to a girl at Clogwyn y Gwin, he beheld the Tylwyth enjoying themselves in full swing on a meadow close to Cwellyn Lake. He approached them and little by little he was led on by the enchanting sweetness of their music and the liveliness of their playing until he got within their circle. Soon some kind of spell passed over him, so that he lost his knowledge of every place, and found himself in a country the most beautiful he had ever seen, where everybody spent his time in mirth and rejoicing. He had been there seven years, and yet it seemed to him but a night's dream; but a faint recollection came to his mind of the business on which he had left home, and he felt a longing to see his beloved one: so he went and asked permission to return home, which was granted him, together with a host of attendants to lead him to his country; and, suddenly, he found himself, as waking from a dream, on the bank where he had seen the Fairy Family amusing themselves. He turned towards home, but there he found everything changed: his parents were dead, his brothers could not recognize him, and his sweetheart was married to another man. In consequence of such changes, he broke his heart, and died in less than a week after coming back." Many variants of the legends already related are still extant in Wales. This much can be said of these tales, that it was formerly believed that marriages took place between men and Fairies, and from the tales themselves we can infer that the men fared better in Fairy land than the Fairy ladies did in the country of their earthly husbands. This, perhaps, is what might be expected, if, as we may suppose, the Fair Tribe were supplanted, and overcome, by a stronger, and bolder people, with whom, to a certain extent, the weaker and conquered or subdued race commingled by marriage. Certain striking characteristics of both races are strongly marked in these legends. The one is a smaller and more timid people than the other, and far more beautiful in mind and person than their conquerors. The ravishing beauty of the Fairy lady forms a prominent feature in all these legends. The Fairies, too, are spoken of as being without religion. This, perhaps, means nothing more than that they differed from their conquerors in forms, or objects of worship. However this might be, it would appear that their conquerors knew but little of that perfect moral teaching which made the Fairies, according to the testimony of Giraldus, truthful, void of ambition, and honest. It must, however, be confessed, that there is much that is mythical in these legends, and every part cannot well be made to correspond with ordinary human transactions. It is somewhat amusing to note how modern ideas, and customs, are mixed up with these ancient stories. They undoubtedly received a gloss from the ages which transmitted the tales. In the next chapter I shall treat of another phase of Fairy Folk-lore, which will still further connect the Fair Race with their conquerors. FAIRY CHANGELINGS. It was firmly believed, at one time, in Wales, that the Fairies exchanged their own weakly or deformed offspring for the strong children of mortals. The child supposed to have been left by the Fairies in the cradle, or elsewhere, was commonly called a changeling. This faith was not confined to Wales; it was as common in Ireland, Scotland, and England, as it was in Wales. Thus, in Spenser's _Faery Queen_, reference is made in the following words to this popular error:-- And her base Elfin brood there for thee left; Such, men do chaungelings call, so chaung'd by Faeries theft. _Faery Queen_, Bk. I, c. 10. The same superstition is thus alluded to by Shakespeare:-- A lovely boy, stol'n from an Indian king, She never had so sweet a changeling. _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, Act II., Sc. 1. And again, in another of his plays, the Fairy practice of exchanging children is mentioned:-- O, that it could be prov'd, That some night-tripping Fairy had exchanged In cradle-clothes our children, where they lay, And call'd mine, Percy, his Plantagenet: Then would I have his Harry, and he mine. _Henry IV_., Pt. 1., Act I, Sc. 1. In Scotland and other countries the Fairies were credited with stealing unbaptized infants, and leaving in their stead poor, sickly, noisy, thin, babies. But to return to Wales, a poet in _Y Brython_, vol. iii, p. 103, thus sings:-- Llawer plentyn teg aeth ganddynt, Pan y cym'rynt helynt hir; Oddi ar anwyl dda rieni, I drigfanau difri dir. Many a lovely child they've taken, When long and bitter was the pain; From their parents, loving, dear, To the Fairies' dread domain. John Williams, an old man, who lived in the Penrhyn quarry district, informed the writer that he could reveal strange doings of the Fairies in his neighbourhood, for often had they changed children with even well-to-do families, he said, but more he would not say, lest he should injure those prosperous families. It was believed that the Fairies were particularly busy in exchanging children on _Nos Wyl Ifan_, or St. John's Eve. There were, however, effectual means for protecting children from their machinations. The mother's presence, the tongs placed cross-ways on the cradle, the early baptism of the child, were all preventives. In the Western Isles of Scotland fire carried round a woman before she was churched, and round the child until he was christened, daily, night and morning, preserved both from the evil designs of the Fairies. (Brand, vol. ii, p. 486.) And it will be shortly shewn that even after an exchange had been accomplished there were means of forcing the Fairies to restore the stolen child. It can well be believed that mothers who had sickly or idiotic babies would, in uncivilized places, gladly embrace the idea that the child she nursed was a changeling, and then, naturally enough, she would endeavour to recover her own again. The plan adopted for this purpose was extremely dangerous. I will in the following tales show what steps were taken to reclaim the lost child. Pennant records how a woman who had a peevish child acted to regain from the Fairies her own offspring. His words are:--"Above this is a spreading oak of great antiquity, size, and extent of branches; it has got the name of _Fairy Oak_. In this very century (the eighteenth) a poor cottager, who lived near the spot, had a child who grew uncommonly peevish; the parents attributed this to the _Fairies_, and imagined that it was a changeling. They took the child, put it into a cradle, and left it all night beneath the tree, in hopes that the _Tylwyth Teg_, or _Fairy Family_, or the Fairy folk, would restore their own before the morning. When morning came, they found the child perfectly quiet, so went away with it, quite confirmed in their belief."--_History of Whiteford_, pp. 5, 6. These people by exposing their infant for a night to the elements ran a risk of losing it altogether; but they acted in agreement with the popular opinion, which was that the Fairies had such affection for their own children that they would not allow them to be in any danger of losing their life, and that if the elfin child were thus exposed the Fairies would rescue it, and restore the exchanged child to its parents. The following tale exhibits another phase of this belief. The story is to be found in the _Cambrian Magazine_, vol. ii., pp. 86, 87. 1. "_The Egg Shell Pottage_." "In the parish of Treveglwys, near Llanidloes, in the county of Montgomery, there is a little shepherd's cot, that is commonly called Twt y Cwmrws (the place of strife) on account of the extraordinary strife that has been there. The inhabitants of the cottage were a man and his wife, and they had born to them twins, whom the woman nursed with great care and tenderness. Some months afterwards indispensable business called the wife to the house of one of her nearest neighbours; yet, notwithstanding she had not far to go, she did not like to leave her children by themselves in their cradle, even for a minute, as her house was solitary, and there were many tales of goblins or the '_Tylwyth Teg_' (the Fair Family or the Fairies) haunting the neighbourhood. However, she went, and returned as soon as she could; but on coming back she felt herself not a little terrified on seeing, though it was mid-day, some of 'the old elves of the blue petticoat,' as they are usually called; however, when she got back to her house she was rejoiced to find everything in the state she had left it. But after some time had passed by, the good people began to wonder that the twins did not grow at all, but still continued little dwarfs. The man would have it that they were not his children; the woman said that they must be their children, and about this arose the great strife between them that gave name to the place. One evening when the woman was very heavy of heart she determined to go and consult a _Gwr Cyfarwydd_ (i.e., a wise man, or a conjuror), feeling assured that everything was known to him, and he gave her his counsel. Now there was to be a harvest soon of the rye and oats; so the wise man said to her:--'When you are preparing dinner for the reapers empty the shell of a hen's egg, and boil the shell full of pottage and take it out through the door as if you meant it for a dinner to the reapers, and then listen what the twins will say; if you hear the children speaking things above the understanding of children, return into the house, take them, and throw them into the waves of Llyn Ebyr, which is very near to you; but if you don't hear anything remarkable, do them no injury.' And when the day of the reaping came, the woman did as her adviser had recommended to her; and as she went outside the door to listen, she heard one of the children say to the other:-- Gwelais vesen cyn gweled derwen, Gwelais wy cyn gweled iar, Erioed ni welais verwi bwyd i vedel Mewn plisgyn wy iar! Acorns before oak I knew, An egg before a hen, Never one hen's egg-shell stew Enough for harvest men! On this the mother returned to her house and took the two children, and threw them into the Llyn, and suddenly the goblins in their trousers came to save their dwarfs, and the woman had her own children back again, and thus the strife between her and her husband ended." The writer of the preceding story says that it was translated almost literally from Welsh, as told by the peasantry, and he remarks that the legend bears a striking resemblance to one of the Irish tales published by Mr. Croker. Many variants of the legend are still extant in many parts of Wales. There is one of these recorded in Professor Rhys's _Welsh Fairy Tales_, _Y Cymmrodor_, vol. iv., pp. 208-209. It is much like that given in the _Cambrian Magazine_. 2. _Corwrion Changeling Legend_. Once on a time, in the fourteenth century, the wife of a man at Corwrion had twins, and she complained one day to the witch who lived close by, at Tyddyn y Barcut, that the children were not getting on, but that they were always crying, day and night. 'Are you sure that they are your children?' asked the witch, adding that it did not seem to her that they were like hers. 'I have my doubts also,' said the mother. 'I wonder if somebody has changed children with you,' said the witch. 'I do not know,' said the mother. 'But why do you not seek to know?' asked the other. 'But how am I to go about it?' said the mother. The witch replied, 'Go and do something rather strange before their eyes and watch what they will say to one another.' 'Well I do not know what I should do,' said the mother. 'Oh,' said the other, 'take an egg-shell, and proceed to brew beer in it in a chamber aside, and come here to tell me what the children will say about it.' She went home and did as the witch had directed her, when the two children lifted their heads out of the cradle to see what she was doing, to watch, and to listen. Then one observed to the other:--'I remember seeing an oak having an acorn,' to which the other replied, 'And I remember seeing a hen having an egg,' and one of the two added, 'But I do not remember before seeing anybody brew beer in the shell of a hen's egg.' The mother then went to the witch and told her what the twins had said one to the other, and she directed her to go to a small wooden bridge not far off, with one of the strange children under each arm, and there to drop them from the bridge into the river beneath. The mother went back home again and did as she had been directed. When she reached home this time, to her astonishment, she found that her own children had been brought back." There is one important difference between these two tales. In the latter, the mother drops the children over the bridge into the waters beneath, and then goes home, without noticing whether the poor children had been rescued by the goblins or not, but on reaching her home she found in the cradle her own two children, presumably conveyed there by the Fairies. In the first tale, we are informed that she saw the goblins save their offspring from a watery grave. Subjecting peevish children to such a terrible ordeal as this must have ended often with a tragedy, but even in such cases superstitious mothers could easily persuade themselves that the destroyed infants were undoubtedly the offspring of elfins, and therefore unworthy of their fostering care. The only safeguard to wholesale infanticide was the test applied as to the super-human precociousness, or ordinary intelligence, of the children. Another version of this tale was related to me by my young friend, the Rev. D. H. Griffiths, of Clocaenog Rectory, near Ruthin. The tale was told him by Evan Roberts, Ffriddagored, Llanfwrog. Mr. Roberts is an aged farmer. 3. _Llanfwrog Changeling Legend_. A mother took her child to the gleaning field, and left it sleeping under the sheaves of wheat whilst she was busily engaged gleaning. The Fairies came to the field and carried off her pretty baby, leaving in its place one of their own infants. At the time, the mother did not notice any difference between her own child and the one that took its place, but after awhile she observed with grief that the baby she was nursing did not thrive, nor did it grow, nor would it try to walk. She mentioned these facts to her neighbours, and she was told to do something strange and then listen to its conversation. She took an egg-shell and pretended to brew beer in it, and she was then surprised to hear the child, who had observed her actions intently, say:-- Mi welais fesen gan dderwen, Mi welais wy gan iar, Ond ni welais i erioed ddarllaw Mewn cibyn wy iar. I have seen an oak having an acorn, I have seen a hen having an egg, But I never saw before brewing In the shell of a hen's egg. This conversation proved the origin of the precocious child who lay in the cradle. The stanza was taken down from Roberts's lips. But he could not say what was done to the fairy changeling. In Ireland a plan for reclaiming the child carried away by the Fairies was to take the Fairy's changeling and place it on the top of a dunghill, and then to chant certain invocatory lines beseeching the Fairies to restore the stolen child. There was, it would seem, in Wales, a certain form of incantation resorted to to reclaim children from the Fairies, which was as follows:--The mother who had lost her child was to carry the changeling to a river, but she was to be accompanied by a conjuror, who was to take a prominent part in the ceremony. When at the river's brink the conjuror was to cry out:-- Crap ar y wrach-- A grip on the hag; and the mother was to respond-- Rhy hwyr gyfraglach-- Too late decrepit one; and having uttered these words, she was to throw the child into the stream, and to depart, and it was believed that on reaching her home she would there find her own child safe and sound. I have already alluded to the horrible nature of such a proceeding. I will now relate a tale somewhat resembling those already given, but in this latter case, the supposed changeling became the mainstay of his family. I am indebted for the _Gors Goch_ legend to an essay, written by Mr. D. Williams, Llanfachreth, Merionethshire, which took the prize at the Liverpool Eisteddfod, 1870, and which appears in a publication called _Y Gordofigion_, pp. 96, 97, published by Mr. I. Foulkes, Liverpool. 4. _The Gore Goch Changeling Legend_. The tale rendered into English is as follows:--"There was once a happy family living in a place called Gors Goch. One night, as usual, they went to bed, but they could not sleep a single wink, because of the noise outside the house. At last the master of the house got up, and trembling, enquired 'What was there, and what was wanted.' A clear sweet voice answered him thus, 'We want a warm place where we can tidy the children.' The door was opened when there entered half full the house of the _Tylwyth Teg_, and they began forthwith washing their children. And when they had finished, they commenced singing, and the singing was entrancing. The dancing and the singing were both excellent. On going away they left behind them money not a little for the use of the house. And afterwards they came pretty often to the house, and received a hearty welcome in consequence of the large presents which they left behind them on the hob. But at last a sad affair took place which was no less than an exchange of children. The Gors Goch baby was a dumpy child, a sweet, pretty, affectionate little dear, but the child which was left in its stead was a sickly, thin, shapeless, ugly being, which did nothing but cry and eat, and although it ate ravenously like a mastiff, it did not grow. At last the wife of Gors Goch died of a broken heart, and so also did all her children, but the father lived a long life and became a rich man, because his new heir's family brought him abundance of gold and silver." As I have already given more than one variant of the same legend, I will supply another version of the Gors Goch legend which appears in _Cymru Fu_, pp. 177-8, from the pen of the Revd. Owen Wyn Jones, _Glasynys_, and which in consequence of the additional facts contained in it may be of some value. I will make use of Professor Rhys's translation. (See _Y Cymmrodor_, vol. v., pp. 79-80.) 5. _Another Version of the Gors Goch Legend_. "When the people of the Gors Goch one evening had gone to bed, lo! they heard a great row and disturbance around the house. One could not at all comprehend what it might be that made a noise that time of night. Both the husband and the wife had waked up, quite unable to make out what there might be there. The children also woke but no one could utter a word; their tongues had all stuck to the roofs of their mouths. The husband, however, at last managed to move, and to ask, 'Who is there? What do you want?' Then he was answered from without by a small silvery voice, 'It is room we want to dress our children.' The door was opened, and a dozen small beings came in, and began to search for an earthen pitcher with water; there they remained for some hours, washing and titivating themselves. As the day was breaking they went away, leaving behind them a fine present for the kindness they had received. Often afterwards did the Gors Goch folks have the company of this family. But once there happened to be a fine roll of a pretty baby in his cradle. The Fair Family came, and, as the baby had not been baptized, they took the liberty of changing him for one of their own. They left behind in his stead an abominable creature that would do nothing but cry and scream every day of the week. The mother was nearly breaking her heart, on account of the misfortune, and greatly afraid of telling anybody about it. But everybody got to see that there was something wrong at Gors Goch, which was proved before long by the mother dying of longing for her child. The other children died broken-hearted after their mother, and the husband was left alone with the little elf without anyone to comfort them. But shortly after, the Fairies began to resort again to the hearth of the Gors Goch to dress children, and the gift which had formerly been silver money became henceforth pure gold. In the course of a few years the elf became the heir of a large farm in North Wales, and that is why the old people used to say, 'Shoe the elf with gold and he will grow.'" (_Fe ddaw gwiddon yn fawr ond ei bedoli ag aur_.) It will be observed that this latter version differs in one remarkable incident from the preceding tale. In the former there is no allusion to the fact that the changed child had not been baptized; in the latter, this omission is specially mentioned as giving power to the Fairies to exchange their own child for the human baby. This preventive carries these tales into Christian days. Another tale, which I will now relate, also proves that faith in the Fairies and in the efficacy of the Cross existed at one and the same time. The tale is taken from _Y Gordofigion_, p. 96. I will first give it as it originally appeared, and then I will translate the story. 6. _Garth Uchaf, Llanuwchllyn_, _Changeling Legend_. "Yr oedd gwraig Garth Uchaf, yn Llanuwchllyn, un tro wedi myned allan i gweirio gwair, a gadael ei baban yn y cryd; ond fel bu'r anffawd, ni roddodd yr efail yn groes ar wyneb y cryd, ac o ganlyniad, ffeiriwyd ei baban gan y Tylwyth Teg, ac erbyn iddi ddyfod i'r ty, nid oedd yn y cryd ond rhyw hen gyfraglach o blentyn fel pe buasai wedi ei haner lewygu o eisiau ymborth, ond magwyd ef er hyny." The wife of Garth Uchaf, Llanuwchllyn, went out one day to make hay, and left her baby in the cradle. _Unfortunately_, _she did not place the tongs crossways on the cradle_, and consequently the Fairies changed her baby, and by the time she came home there was nothing in the cradle but some old decrepit changeling, which looked is if it were half famished, but nevertheless, it was nursed. The reason why the Fairies exchanged babies with human beings, judging from the stories already given, was their desire to obtain healthy well-formed children in the place of their own puny ill-shaped offspring, but this is hardly a satisfactory explanation of such conduct. A mother's love is ever depicted as being so intense that deformity on the part of her child rather increases than diminishes her affection for her unfortunate babe. In Scotland the difficulty is solved in a different way. There it was once thought that the Fairies were obliged every seventh year to pay to the great enemy of mankind an offering of one of their own children, or a human child instead, and as a mother is ever a mother, be she elves flesh or Eve's flesh, she always endeavoured to substitute some one else's child for her own, and hence the reason for exchanging children. In Allan Cunningham's _Traditional Tales_, Morley's edition, p. 188, mention is made of this belief. He writes:-- "'I have heard it said by douce Folk,' 'and sponsible,' interrupted another, 'that every seven years the elves and Fairies pay kane, or make an offering of one of their children, to the grand enemy of salvation, and that they are permitted to purloin one of the children of men to present to the fiend,' 'a more acceptable offering, I'll warrant, than one of their own infernal blood that are Satan's sib allies, and drink a drop of the deil's blood every May morning.'" The Rev. Peter Roberts's theory was that the smaller race kidnapped the children of the stronger race, who occupied the country concurrently with themselves, for the purpose of adding to their own strength as a people. Gay, in lines quoted in Brand's _Popular Antiquities_, vol. ii., p. 485, laughs at the idea of changelings. A Fairy's tongue ridicules the superstition:-- Whence sprung the vain conceited lye, That we the world with fools supply? What! Give our sprightly race away For the dull helpless sons of clay! Besides, by partial fondness shown, Like you, we dote upon our own. Where ever yet was found a mother Who'd give her booby for another? And should we change with human breed, Well might we pass for fools, indeed. With the above fine satire I bring my remarks on Fairy Changelings to a close. FAIRY MOTHERS AND HUMAN MIDWIVES. Fairies are represented in Wales as possessing all the passions, appetites, and wants of human beings. There are many tales current of their soliciting help and favours in their need from men and women. Just as uncivilized nations acknowledge the superiority of Europeans in medicine, so did the Fairies resort in perplexing cases to man for aid. There is a class of tales which has reached our days in which the Fairy lady, who is about to become a mother, obtains from amongst men a midwife, whom she rewards with rich presents for her services. Variants of this story are found in many parts of Wales, and in many continental countries. I will relate a few of these legends. 1. _Denbighshire Version of a Fairy Mother and Human Midwife_. The following story I received from the lips of David Roberts, whom I have previously mentioned, a native of Denbighshire, and he related the tale as one commonly known. As might be expected, he locates the event in Denbighshire, but I have no recollection that he gave names. His narrative was as follows:-- A well-known midwife, whose services were much sought after in consequence of her great skill, had one night retired to rest, when she was disturbed by a loud knocking at her door. She immediately got up and went to the door, and there saw a beautiful carriage, which she was urgently requested to enter at once to be conveyed to a house where her help was required. She did so, and after a long drive the carriage drew up before the entrance to a large mansion, which she had never seen before. She successfully performed her work, and stayed on in the place until her services were no longer required. Then she was conveyed home in the same manner as she had come, but with her went many valuable presents in grateful recognition of the services she had rendered. The midwife somehow or other found out that she had been attending a Fairy mother. Some time after her return from Fairy land she went to a fair, and there she saw the lady whom she had put to bed nimbly going from stall to stall, and making many purchases. For awhile she watched the movements of the lady, and then presuming on her limited acquaintance, addressed her, and asked how she was. The lady seemed surprised and annoyed at the woman's speech, and instead of answering her, said, "And do you see me?" "Yes, I do," said the midwife. "With which eye?" enquired the Fairy. "With this," said the woman, placing her hand on the eye. No sooner had she spoken than the Fairy lady touched that eye, and the midwife could no longer see the Fairy. Mrs. Lowri Wynn, Clocaenog, near Ruthin, who has reached her eightieth year, and is herself a midwife, gave me a version of the preceding which differed therefrom in one or two particulars. The Fairy gentleman who had driven the woman to and from the Hall was the one that was seen in the fair, said Mrs. Wynn, and he it was that put out the eye or blinded it, she was not sure which, of the inquisitive midwife, and Lowri thought it was the left eye. 2. _Merionethshire Version of the Fairy Mother and Human Midwife_. A more complete version of this legend is given in the _Gordofigion_, pp. 97, 98. The writer says:-- "Yr oedd bydwraig yn Llanuwchllyn wedi cael ei galw i Goed y Garth, sef Siambra Duon--cartref y Tylwyth Teg--at un o honynt ar enedigaeth baban. Dywedasant wrthi am gymeryd gofal rhag, cyffwrdd y dwfr oedd ganddi yn trin y babi yn agos i'w llygaid; ond cyffyrddodd y wraig a'r llygad aswy yn ddigon difeddwl. Yn y Bala, ymhen ychydig, gwelai y fydwraig y gwr, sef tad y baban, a dechreuodd ei holi pa sut yr oeddynt yn Siambra Duon? pa fodd yr oedd y wraig? a sut 'roedd y teulu bach i gyd? Edrychai yntau arni yn graff, a gofynodd, 'A pha lygad yr ydych yn fy ngweled i?' 'A hwn,' ebe hithau, gan gyfeirio at ei llygad aswy. Tynodd yntau y llygad hwnw o'i phen, ac yna nis gallai'r wraig ei ganfod." This in English is:-- There was a midwife who lived at Llanuwchllyn, who was called to Coed y Garth, that is, to Siambra Duon, the home of the Tylwyth Teg, to attend to one of them in child birth. They told her to be careful not to touch her eyes with the water used in washing the baby, but quite unintentionally the woman touched her left eye. Shortly afterwards the midwife saw the Fairy's husband at Bala, and she began enquiring how they all were at Siambra Duon, how the wife was, and how the little family was? He looked at her intently, and then asked, "With which eye do you see me?" "With this," she said, pointing to her left eye. He plucked that eye out of her head, and so the woman could not see him. With regard to this tale, the woman's eye is said to have been plucked out; in the first tale she was only deprived of her supernatural power of sight; in other versions the woman becomes blind with one eye. Professor Rhys in _Y Cymmrodor_, vol. iv., pp. 209, 210, gives a variant of the midwife story which differs in some particulars from that already related. I will call this the Corwrion version. 3. _The Corwrion Version_. One of the Fairies came to a midwife who lived at Corwrion and asked her to come with him and attend on his wife. Off she went with him, and she was astonished to be taken into a splendid palace. There she continued to go night and morning to dress the baby for some time, until one day the husband asked her to rub her eyes with a certain ointment he offered her. She did so and found herself sitting on a tuft of rushes, and not in a palace. There was no baby, and all had disappeared. Some time afterwards she happened to go to the town, and whom should she see busily buying various wares but the Fairy on whose wife she had been attending. She addressed him with the question, "How are you, to-day?" Instead of answering her he asked, "How do you see me?" "With my eyes," was the prompt reply. "Which eye?" he asked. "This one," said she, pointing to it; and instantly he disappeared, never more to be seen by her. There is yet one other variant of this story which I will give, and for the sake of reference I will call it the Nanhwynan version. It appears in the _Brython_, vol. ix., p. 251, and Professor Rhys has rendered it into English in _Y Cymmrodor_, vol. ix., p. 70. I will give the tale as related by the Professor. 4. _The Nanhwynan Version_. "Once on a time, when a midwife from Nanhwynan had newly got to the Hafodydd Brithion to pursue her calling, a gentleman came to the door on a fine grey steed and bade her come with him at once. Such was the authority with which he spoke, that the poor midwife durst not refuse to go, however much it was her duty to stay where she was. So she mounted behind him, and off they went like the flight of a swallow, through Cwmllan, over the Bwlch, down Nant yr Aran, and over the Gadair to Cwm Hafod Ruffydd, before the poor woman had time to say 'Oh.' When they had got there she saw before her a magnificent mansion, splendidly lit up with such lamps as she had never before seen. They entered the court, and a crowd of servants in expensive liveries came to meet them, and she was at once led through the great hall into a bed-chamber, the like of which she had never seen. There the mistress of the house, to whom she had been fetched, was awaiting her. She got through her duties successfully, and stayed there until the lady had completely recovered; nor had she spent any part of her life so merrily. There was there nought but festivity day and night: dancing, singing, and endless rejoicing reigned there. But merry as it was, she found she must go, and the nobleman gave her a large purse, with the order not to open it until she had got into her own house; then he bade one of his servants escort her the same way she had come. When she reached home she opened the purse, and, to her great joy, it was full of money, and she lived happily on those earnings to the end of her life." Such are these tales. Perhaps they are one and all fragments of the same story. Each contains a few shreds that are wanting in the others. All, however, agree in one leading idea, that Fairy mothers have, ere now, obtained the aid of human midwives, and this one fact is a connecting link between the people called Fairies and our own remote forefathers. FAIRY VISITS TO HUMAN ABODES. Old people often told their children and servant girls, that one condition of the Fairy visits to their houses was cleanliness. They were always instructed to keep the fire place tidy and the floor well swept, the pails filled with water, and to make everything bright and nice before going to bed, and that then, perhaps, the Fairies would come into the house to dance and sing until the morning, and leave on the hearth stone a piece of money as a reward behind them. But should the house be dirty, never would the Fairies enter it to hold their nightly revels, unless, forsooth, they came to punish the slatternly servant. Such was the popular opinion, and it must have acted as an incentive to order and cleanliness. These ideas have found expression in song. A writer in _Yr Hynafion Cymreig_, p. 153, sings thus of the place loved by the Fairies:-- Ysgafn ddrws pren, llawr glan dan nen, A'r aelwyd wen yn wir, Tan golau draw, y dwr gerllaw, Yn siriaw'r cylchgrwn clir. A light door, and clean white floor, And hearth-stone bright indeed, A burning fire, and water near, Supplies our every need. In a ballad, entitled "The Fairy Queen," in Percy's _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, Nichols's edition, vol. iii., p. 172, are stanzas similar to the Welsh verse given above, which also partially embody the Welsh opinions of Fairy visits to their houses. Thus chants the "Fairy Queen":-- When mortals are at rest, And snoring in their nest, Unheard, and un-espy'd, Through key-holes we do glide; Over tables, stools, and shelves, We trip it with our Fairy elves. And, if the house be foul With platter, dish, or bowl, Upstairs we nimbly creep, And find the sluts asleep: There we pinch their arms and thighs; None escapes, nor none espies. But if the house be swept And from uncleanness kept, We praise the household maid, And duely she is paid: For we use before we goe To drop a tester in her shoe. It was not for the sake of mirth only that the Fairies entered human abodes, but for the performance of more mundane duties, such as making oatmeal cakes. The Rev. R. Jones, Rector of Llanycil, told me a story, current in his native parish, Llanfrothen, Merionethshire, to the effect that a Fairy woman who had spent the night in baking cakes in a farm house forgot on leaving to take with her the wooden utensil used in turning the cakes on the bake stone; so she returned, and failing to discover the lost article bewailed her loss in these words, "Mi gollais fy mhig," "I have lost my shovel." The people got up and searched for the lost implement, and found it, and gave it to the Fairy, who departed with it in her possession. Another reason why the Fairies frequented human abodes was to wash and tidy their children. In the Gors Goch legend, already given, is recorded this cause of their visits. Many like stories are extant. It is said that the nightly visitors expected water to be provided for them, and if this were not the case they resented the slight thus shown them and punished those who neglected paying attention to their wants. But tradition says the house-wives were ever careful of the Fairy wants; and, as it was believed that Fairy mothers preferred using the same water in which human children had been washed, the human mother left this water in the bowl for their special use. In Scotland, also, Fairies were propitiated by attention being paid to their wants. Thus in Allan Cunningham's _Traditional Tales_, p. 11, it is said of Ezra Peden:--"He rebuked a venerable dame, during three successive Sundays for placing a cream bowl and new-baked cake in the paths of the nocturnal elves, who, she imagined, had plotted to steal her grandson from the mother's bosom." But in the traditions of the Isle of Man we obtain the exact counterpart of Welsh legends respecting the Fairies visiting houses to wash themselves. I will give the following quotation from _Brand_, vol. ii., p. 494, on this point:-- "The Manks confidently assert that the first inhabitants of their island were Fairies, and that these little people have still their residence among them. They call them _the good people_, and say they live in wilds and forests, and on mountains, and shun great cities because of the wickedness acted therein. All the houses are blessed where they visit for they fly vice. A person would be thought impudently profane who should suffer his family to go to bed without having first set a tub, or pail full of clean water for the guests to bathe themselves in, which the natives aver they constantly do, as soon as the eyes of the family are closed, wherever they vouchsafe to come." Several instances have already been given of the intercourse of Fairies with mortals. In some parts of Wales it is or was thought that they were even so familiar as to borrow from men. I will give one such tale, taken from the _North Wales Chronicle_ of March 19th, 1887. _A Fairy Borrowing a Gridiron_. "The following Fairy legend was told to Mr. W. W. Cobb, of Hilton House, Atherstone, by Mrs. Williams, wife of Thomas Williams, pilot, in whose house he lodged when staying in Anglesey:--Mary Roberts, of Newborough, used to receive visits once a week from a little woman who used to bring her a loaf of bread in return for the loan of her gridiron (gradell) for baking bread. The Fairy always told her not to look after her when she left the house, but one day she transgressed, and took a peep as the Fairy went away. The latter went straight to the lake--Lake Rhosddu--near the house at Newborough, and plunged into its waters, and disappeared. This took place about a century ago. The house where Mary Roberts lived is still standing about 100 yards north of the lake." Compare the preceding with the following lines:-- If ye will with Mab finde grace, Set each platter in its place; Rake the fire up and set Water in ere sun be set, Wash your pales and cleanse your dairies, Sluts are loathsome to the Fairies; Sweep your house; who doth not so, Mab will pinch her by the toe. _Herrick's Hesperides_, 1648. (See _Brand_, vol. ii., p. 484.) _Fairy Riches and Gifts_. The riches of the Fairies are often mentioned by the old people, and the source of their wealth is variously given. An old man, who has already been mentioned, John Williams, born about 1770, was of opinion that the Fairies stole the money from bad rich people to give it to good poor folk. This they were enabled to do, he stated, as they could make themselves invisible. In a conversation which we once had on this subject, my old friend posed me with this question, "Who do you think robbed . . . of his money without his knowledge?" "Who do you think took . . . money only twenty years ago?" "Why, the Fairies," added he, "for no one ever found out the thief." Shakespeare, in _Midsummer Night's Dream_, A. iii., S. 1, gives a very different source to the Fairy riches:-- I will give thee Fairies to attend on thee, And they _shall fetch thee jewels from the deep_. Without inquiring too curiously into the source of these riches, it shall now be shown how, and for what services, they were bestowed on mortals. Gratitude is a noble trait in the Fairy character, and favours received they ever repaid. But the following stories illustrate alike their commiseration, their caprice, and their grateful bounty. _The Fairies Placing Money on the Ground for a Poor Man_. The following tale was told me by Thomas Jones, a small mountain farmer, who occupies land near Pont Petrual, a place between Ruthin and Llanfihangel Glyn Myfyr. Jones informed me that he was acquainted with all the parties mentioned in the tale. His story was as follows:-- A shoemaker, whose health would not permit him to pursue his own trade, obtained work in a tanyard at Penybont, near Corwen. The shoemaker lived in a house called Ty'n-y-graig, belonging to Clegir isa farm. He walked daily to his employment, a distance of several miles, because he could not afford to pay for lodgings. One day, he noticed a round bit of green ground, close to one of the gates on Tan-y-Coed farm, and going up to it discovered a piece of silver lying on the sward. Day after day, from the same spot, he picked up a silver coin. By this means, as well as by the wage he received, he became a well-to-do man. His wife noticed the many new coins he brought home, and questioned him about them, but he kept the secret of their origin to himself. At last, however, in consequence of repeated inquiries, he told her all about the silver pieces, which daily he had picked up from the green plot. The next day he passed the place, but there was no silver, as in days gone by, and he never discovered another shilling, although he looked for it every day. The poor man did not live long after he had informed his wife whence he had obtained the bright silver coins. _The Fairies and their Chest of Gold_. The following tale I obtained from the Rev. Owen Jones, Vicar of Pentrevoelas. The scene lies amongst the wildest mountains of Merionethshire. David, the weaver, lived in a house called Llurig, near Cerniogau Mawr, between Pentrevoelas and Cerrig-y-Drudion. One day David was going over the hill to Bala. On the top of the Garn two Fairies met him, and desired him to follow them, promising, if he would do so, that they would show him a chest filled with gold, and furthermore, they told him that the gold should be his. David was in want of money, and he was therefore quite willing to follow these good natured Fairies. He walked many miles with them across the bleak, bare mountain, and at last, descending from the summit, they reached a deep secluded glen, lying at the foot of the mountain, and there the Fairies exposed to his view a chest, which had never before been seen by mortal eye, and they informed him that it was his. David was delighted when he heard the good news, and mentally bade farewell to weaving. He knew, though, from tradition, that he must in some way or other, there and then, take possession of his treasure, or it would disappear. He could not carry the chest away, as it was too heavy, but to show his ownership thereto he thrust his walking stick into the middle of the gold, and there it stood erect. Then he started homewards, and often and again, as he left the glen, he turned round to see whether the Fairies had taken his stick away, and with it the chest; but no, there it remained. At last the ridge hid all from view, and, instead of going on to Bala, he hastened home to tell his good wife of his riches. Quickly did he travel to his cottage, and when there it was not long before his wife knew all about the chest of gold, and where it was, and how that David had taken possession of his riches by thrusting his walking stick into the middle of the gold. It was too late for them to set out to carry the chest home, but they arranged to start before the sun was up the next day. David, well acquainted with Fairy doings, cautioned his wife not to tell anyone of their good fortune, "For, if you do," said he, "we shall vex the Fairies, and the chest, after all, will not be ours." She promised to obey, but alas, what woman possesses a silent tongue! No sooner had the husband revealed the secret to his wife than she was impatient to step to her next door neighbour's house, just to let them know what a great woman she had all at once become. Now, this neighbour was a shrewd miller, called Samuel. David went out, to attend to some little business, leaving his wife alone, and she, spying her opportunity, rushed to the miller's house, and told him and his wife every whit, and how that she and David had arranged to go for the chest next morning before the sun was up. Then she hurried home, but never told David where she had been, nor what she had done. The good couple sat up late that night, talking over their good fortune and planning their future. It was consequently far after sunrise when they got up next day, and when they reached the secluded valley, where the chest had been, it had disappeared, and with it David's stick. They returned home sad and weary, but this time there was no visit made to the miller's house. Ere long it was quite clearly seen that Samuel the miller had come into a fortune, and David's wife knew that she had done all the mischief by foolishly boasting of the Fairy gift, designed for her husband, to her early rising and crafty neighbour, who had forestalled David and his wife, and had himself taken possession of the precious chest. _The Fairy Shilling_. The Rev. Owen Jones, Pentrevoelas, whom I have already mentioned as having supplied me with the Folk-lore of his parish, kindly gave me the following tale:-- There was a clean, tidy, hardworking woman, who was most particular about keeping her house in order. She had a place for everything, and kept everything in its place. Every night, before retiring to rest, she was in the habit of brushing up the ashes around the fire place, and putting a few fresh peat on the fire to keep it in all night, and she was careful to sweep the floor before going to bed. It was a sight worth seeing to see her clean cottage. One night the Fairies, in their rambles, came that way and entered her house. It was just such a place as they liked. They were delighted with the warm fire, the clean floor and hearth, and they stayed there all night and enjoyed themselves greatly. In the morning, on leaving, they left a bright new shilling on the hearthstone for the woman. Night after night, they spent in this woman's cottage, and every morning she picked up a new shilling. This went on for so long a time that the woman's worldly condition was much improved. This her neighbours with envy and surprise perceived, and great was their talk about her. At last it was noticed that she always paid for the things she bought with new shilling pieces, and the neighbours could not make out where she got all these bright shillings from. They were determined, if possible, to ascertain, and one of their number was deputed to take upon her the work of obtaining from the woman the history of these new shillings. She found no difficulty whatever in doing so, for the woman, in her simplicity, informed her gossip that every morning the coin was found on the hearthstone. Next morning the woman, as usual, expected to find a shilling, but never afterwards did she discover one, and the Fairies came no more to her house, for they were offended with her for divulging the secret. This tale is exactly like many others that may be heard related by old people, in many a secluded abode, to their grandchildren. A lesson constantly inculcated by Fairy tales is this--Embrace opportunities as they occur, or they will be lost for ever. The following stories have reference to this belief. _The Hidden Golden Chair_. It is a good many years since Mrs. Mary Jones, Corlanau, Llandinorwig, Carnarvonshire, told me the following tale. The scene of the story is the unenclosed mountain between Corlanau, a small farm, and the hamlet, Rhiwlas. There is still current in those parts a tale of a hidden golden chair, and Mrs. Jones said that it had once been seen by a young girl, who might have taken possession of it, but unfortunately she did not do so, and from that day to this it has not been discovered. The tale is this:-- There was once a beautiful girl, the daughter of poor hardworking parents, who held a farm on the side of the hill, and their handsome industrious daughter took care of the sheep. At certain times of the year she visited the sheep-walk daily, but she never went to the mountain without her knitting needles, and when looking after the sheep she was always knitting stockings, and she was so clever with her needles that she could knit as she walked along. The Fairies who lived in those mountains noticed this young woman's good qualities. One day, when she was far from home, watching her father's sheep, she saw before her a most beautiful golden chair. She went up to it and found that it was so massive that she could not move it. She knew the Fairy-lore of her neighbourhood, and she understood that the Fairies had, by revealing the chair, intended it for her, but there she was on the wild mountain, far away from home, without anyone near to assist her in carrying it away. And often had she heard that such treasures were to be taken possession of at once, or they would disappear for ever. She did not know what to do, but all at once she thought, if she could by attaching the yarn in her hand to the chair connect it thus with her home, the chair would be hers for ever. Acting upon this suggestion she forthwith tied the yarn to the foot of the chair, and commenced unrolling the ball, walking the while homewards. But long before she could reach her home the yarn in the ball was exhausted; she, however, tied it to the yarn in the stocking which she had been knitting, and again started towards her home, hoping to reach it before the yarn in the stocking would be finished, but she was doomed to disappointment, for that gave out before she could arrive at her father's house. She had nothing else with her to attach to the yarn. She, however, could now see her home, and she began to shout, hoping to gain the ear of her parents, but no one appeared. In her distress she fastened the end of the yarn to a large stone, and ran home as fast as she could. She told her parents what she had done, and all three proceeded immediately towards the stone to which the yarn had been tied, but they failed to discover it. The yarn, too, had disappeared. They continued a futile search for the golden chair until driven away by the approaching night. The next day they renewed their search, but all in vain, for the girl was unable to find the spot where she had first seen the golden chair. It was believed by everybody that the Fairies had not only removed the golden chair, but also the yarn and stone to which the yarn had been attached, but people thought that if the yarn had been long enough to reach from the chair to the girl's home then the golden chair would have been hers for ever. Such is the tale. People believe the golden chair is still hidden away in the mountain, and that some day or other it will be given to those for whom it is intended. But it is, they say, no use anyone looking for it, as it is not to be got by searching, but it will be revealed, as if by accident, to those fated to possess it. _Fairy treasures seen by a Man near Ogwen Lake_. Another tale, similar to the preceding one, is told by my friend, Mr. Hugh Derfel Hughes, in his Hynafiaethau Llandegai a Llanllechid, pp. 35, 36. The following is a translation of Mr. Hughes's story:-- It is said that a servant man penetrated into the recesses of the mountains in the neighbourhood of Ogwen Lake, and that he there discovered a cave within which there was a large quantity of brazen vessels of every shape and description. In the joy of his heart at his good fortune, he seized one of the vessels, with the intention of carrying it away with him, as an earnest that the rest likewise were his. But, alas, it was too heavy for any man to move. Therefore, with the intention of returning the following morning to the cave with a friend to assist him in carrying the vessels away, he closed its month with stones, and thus he securely hid from view the entrance to the cave. When he had done this it flashed upon his mind that he had heard of people who had accidentally come across caves, just as he had, but that they, poor things, had afterwards lost all traces of them. And lest a similar misfortune should befall him, he determined to place a mark on the mouth of the cave, which would enable him to come upon it again, and also he bethought himself that it would be necessary, for further security, to indicate by some marks the way from his house to the cave. He had however nothing at hand to enable him to carry out this latter design, but his walking stick. This he began to chip with his knife, and he placed the chips at certain distances all along the way homewards. In this way he cut up his staff, and he was satisfied with what he had done, for he hoped to find the cave by means of the chips. Early the next morning he and a friend started for the mountain in the fond hope of securing the treasures, but when they arrived at the spot where the chip-marked pathway ought to begin, they failed to discover a single chip, because, as it was reported--"They had been gathered up by the Fairies." And thus this vision was in vain. The author adds to the tale these words:--"But, reader, things are not always to be so. There is a tradition in the Nant, that a Gwyddel is to have these treasures and this is how it will come to pass. A Gwyddel Shepherd will come to live in the neighbourhood, and on one of his journeys to the mountain to shepherd his sheep, when fate shall see fit to bring it about, there will run before him into the cave a black sheep with a speckled head, and the Gwyddel shepherd will follow it into the cave to catch it, and on entering, to his great astonishment, he will discover the treasures and take possession of them. And in this way it will come to pass, in some future age, that the property of the Gwyddelod will return to them." _The Fairies giving Money to a Man for joining them in their Dance_. The following story came to me through the Rev. Owen Jones, Vicar of Pentrevoelas. The occurrence is said to have taken place near Pentrevoelas. The following are the particulars:-- Tomas Moris, Ty'n-y-Pant, returning home one delightful summer night from Llanrwst fair, came suddenly upon a company of Fairies dancing in a ring. In the centre of the circle were a number of speckled dogs, small in size, and they too were dancing with all their might. After the dance came to an end, the Fairies persuaded Tomas to accompany them to Hafod Bryn Mullt, and there the dance was resumed, and did not terminate until the break of day. Ere the Fairies departed they requested their visitor to join them the following night at the same place, and they promised, if he would do so, to enrich him with gifts of money, but they made him promise that he would not reveal to any one the place where they held their revels. This Tomas did, and night after night was spent pleasantly by him in the company of his merry newly-made friends. True to their word, he nightly parted company with them, laden with money, and thus he had no need to spend his days as heretofore, in manual labour. This went on as long as Tomas Moris kept his word, but alas, one day, he divulged to a neighbour the secret of his riches. That night, as usual, he went to Hafod Bryn Mullt, but his generous friends were not there, and he noticed that in the place where they were wont to dance there was nothing but cockle shells. In certain parts of Wales it was believed that Fairy money, on close inspection, would be found to be cockle shells. Mrs. Hugh Jones, Corlanau, who has already been mentioned, told the writer that a man found a crock filled, as he thought when he first saw it, with gold, but on taking it home he discovered that he had carried home from the mountain nothing but cockle shells. This Mrs. Jones told me was Fairy money. _The Fairies rewarding a Woman for taking care of their Dog_. Mention has already been made of Fairy Dogs. It would appear that now and again these dogs, just like any other dogs, strayed from home; but the Fairies were fond of their pets, and when lost, sought for them, and rewarded those mortals who had shown kindness to the animals. For the following tale I am indebted to the Rev. Owen Jones. One day when going home from Pentrevoelas Church, the wife of Hafod y Gareg found on the ground in an exhausted state a Fairy dog. She took it up tenderly, and carried it home in her apron. She showed this kindness to the poor little thing from fear, for she remembered what had happened to the wife of Bryn Heilyn, who had found one of the Fairy dogs, but had behaved cruelly towards it, and consequently had fallen down dead. The wife of Hafod y Gareg therefore made a nice soft bed for the Fairy dog in the pantry, and placed over it a brass pot. In the night succeeding the day that she had found the dog, a company of Fairies came to Hafod y Gareg to make inquiries after it. The woman told them that it was safe and sound, and that they were welcome to take it away with them. She willingly gave it up to its masters. Her conduct pleased the Fairies greatly, and so, before departing with the dog, they asked her which she would prefer, a clean or a dirty cow? Her answer was, "A dirty one." And so it came to pass that from that time forward to the end of her life, her cows gave more milk than the very best cows in the very best farms in her neighbourhood. In this way was she rewarded for her kindness to the dog, by the Fairies. FAIRY MONEY TURNED TO DROSS. Fairies' treasure was of uncertain value, and depended for its very existence on Fairy intentions. Often and again, when they had lavishly bestowed money on this or that person, it was discovered to be only leaves or some equally worthless substance; but people said that the recipients of the money richly deserved the deception that had been played upon them by the Fairies. In this chapter a few tales shall be given of this trait of Fairy mythology. 1. _A Cruel Man and a Fairy Dog_. The person from whom the following tale was derived was David Roberts, Tycerrig, Clocaenog, near Ruthin. A Fairy dog lost its master and wandered about here and there seeking him. A farmer saw the dog, and took it home with him, but he behaved very unkindly towards the wee thing, and gave it little to eat, and shouted at it, and altogether he showed a hard heart. One evening a little old man called at this farmer's house, and inquired if any stray dog was there. He gave a few particulars respecting the dog, and mentioned the day that it had been lost. The farmer answered in the affirmative, and the stranger said that the dog was his, and asked the farmer to give it up to him. This the farmer willingly did, for he placed no value on the dog. The little man was very glad to get possession of his lost dog, and on departing he placed a well filled purse in the farmer's hand. Some time afterwards the farmer looked into the purse, intending to take a coin out of it, when to his surprise and annoyance he found therein nothing but leaves. Roberts told the writer that the farmer got what he deserved, for he had been very cruel to the wee dog. Another tale much like the preceding one, I have heard, but I have forgotten the source of the information. A person discovered a lost Fairy dog wandering about, and took it home, but he did not nurse the half-starved animal, nor did he nourish it. After a while some of the Fairy folk called on this person to inquire after their lost dog, and he gave it to them. They rewarded this man for his kindness with a pot filled with money and then departed. On further inspection, the money was found to be cockle shells. Such lessons as these taught by the Fairies were not without their effect on people who lived in days gone by. 2. _Dick the Fiddler and the Fairy Crown-Piece_. For the following story I am indebted to my friend, Mr Hamer, who records it in his "Parochial account of Llanidloes," published in the _Montgomeryshire Collections_, vol. x., pp. 252-3-4. Mr Hamer states that the tale was related to him by Mr. Nicholas Bennett, Glanrafon, Trefeglwys. "Dick the Fiddler was in the habit of going about the country to play at merry-makings, fairs, etc. This worthy, after a week's _fuddle_ at Darowen, wending his way homeward, had to walk down 'Fairy Green Lane,' just above the farmstead of Cefn Cloddiau, and to banish fear, which he felt was gradually obtaining the mastery over him, instead of whistling, drew out from the skirt pocket of his long-tailed great coat his favourite instrument. After tuning it, be commenced elbowing his way through his favourite air, _Aden Ddu'r Fran_ (the Crow's Black Wing). When he passed over the green sward where the _Tylwyth Teg_, or Fairies, held their merry meetings, he heard something rattle in his fiddle, and this something continued rattling and tinkling until he reached Llwybr Scriw Riw, his home, almost out of his senses at the fright caused by that everlasting 'tink, rink, jink,' which was ever sounding in his ears. Having entered the cottage he soon heard music of a different kind, in the harsh angry voice of his better half, who justly incensed at his absence, began lecturing him in a style, which, unfortunately, Dick, from habit, could not wholly appreciate. He was called a worthless fool, a regular drunkard and idler. 'How is it possible for me to beg enough for myself and half a house-full of children nearly naked, while you go about the country and bring me nothing home.' 'Hush, hush, my good woman,' said Dick, 'see what's in the blessed old fiddle.' She obeyed, shook it, and out tumbled, to their great surprise, a five-shilling piece. The wife looked up into the husband's face, saw that it was 'as pale as a sheet' with fright: and also noting that he had such an unusually large sum in his possession, she came to the conclusion that he could not live long, and accordingly changed her style saying, 'Good man go to Llanidloes to-morrow, it is market-day and buy some shirting for yourself, for it may never be your good fortune to have such a sum of money again.' The following day, according to his wife's wishes, Dick wended his way to Llanidloes, musing, as he went along, upon his extraordinary luck, and unable to account for it. Arrived in the town, he entered Richard Evans's shop, and called for shirting linen to the value of five shillings, for which he gave the shopkeeper the crown piece taken out of the fiddle. Mr. Evans placed it in the till, and our worthy Dick betook himself to Betty Brunt's public-house (now known as the Unicorn) in high glee with the capital piece of linen in the skirt pocket of his long-tailed top coat. He had not, however, been long seated before Mr. Evans came in, and made sharp enquiries as to how and where he obtained possession of the crown piece with which he had paid for the linen. Dick assumed a solemn look, and then briefly related where and how he had received the coin. 'Say you so,' said Evans, 'I thought as much, for when I looked into the till, shortly after you left the shop, to my great surprise it was changed into a heap of musty horse dung.'" FAIRIES WORKING FOR MEN. It was once thought that kind Fairies took compassion on good folk, who were unable to accomplish in due time their undertakings, and finished in the night these works for them; and it was always observed that the Fairy workman excelled as a tradesman the mortal whom he assisted. Many an industrious shoemaker, it is said, has ere this found in the morning that the Fairies had finished in the night the pair of shoes which he had only commenced the evening before. Farmers too, who had in part ploughed a field, have in the morning been surprised to find it finished. These kind offices, it was firmly believed, were accomplished by Fairy friends. Milton in _L'Allegro_ alludes to this belief in the following lines:-- Tells how the drudging Goblin swet, To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn, That ten day-labourers could not end. MILTON, _L'Allegro_, lines 105-9. In Scotland the sprite, or Fairy, called Browny, haunted family abodes, and did all manner of work in the night for those who treated him kindly. In England, Robin Goodfellow was supposed to perform like functions. Thus sings Robin:-- Yet now and then, the maids to please, At midnight I card up their wooll; And while they sleepe, and take their ease, With wheel to threads their flax I pull. I grind at mill Their malt up still; I dress their hemp, I spin their tow. If any 'wake. And would me take, I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho! _Percy's Reliques_, vol. iii., p. 169. Welsh Fairies are not described as ordinarily inclined to lessen men's labours by themselves undertaking them; but there are a few tales current of their having assisted worthy persons in their manual works. Professor Rhys records one of these stories in _Y Cymmrodor_, vol. iv. 210. He writes thus:-- "One day Guto, the Farmer of Corwrion, complained to his wife that he was in need of men to mow his hay, and she answered, 'Why fret about it? look yonder! there you have a field full of them at it, and stripped to their shirt sleeves.' When he went to the spot the sham workmen of the Fairy family had disappeared. This same Guto, or somebody else, happened another time to be ploughing, when he heard some person he could not see calling out to him, 'I have got the _bins_ (that is the _vice_) of my plough broken.' 'Bring it to me,' said the driver of Guto's team, 'that I may mend it.' When they brought the furrow to an end, there they found the broken vice, and a barrel of beer placed near it. One of the men sat down and mended it. Then they made another furrow, and when they returned to the spot they found there a two-eared dish, filled to the brim with _bara a chwrw_, or bread and beer." FAIRY DANCES. The one occupation of the Fairy folk celebrated in song and prose was dancing. Their green rings, circular or ovoidal in form, abounded in all parts of the country, and it was in these circles they were said to dance through the livelong night. In "_Can y Tylwyth Teg_," or the Fairies' Song, thus they chant:-- O'r glaswellt glen a'r rhedyn man, Gyfeillion dyddan, dewch, E ddarfu'r nawn--mae'r lloer yu llawn, Y nos yn gyflawn gewch; O'r chwarau sydd ar dwyn y dydd, I'r Dolydd awn ar daith. Nyni sydd lon, ni chaiff gerbron, Farwolion ran o'n gwaith. _Yr Hynafion Cymraeg_, p. 153. From grasses bright, and bracken light, Come, sweet companions, come, The full moon shines, the sun declines, We'll spend the night in fun; With playful mirth, we'll trip the earth, To meadows green let's go, We're full of joy, without alloy, Which mortals may not know. The spots where the Fairies held their nightly revels were preserved from intrusion by traditional superstitions. The farmer dared not plough the land where Fairy circles were, lest misfortune should overtake him. Thus were these mythical beings left in undisturbed possession of many fertile plots of ground, and here they were believed to dance merrily through many a summer night. Canu, canu, drwy y nos, Dawnsio, dawnsio, ar waen y rhos, Yn ngoleuni'r lleuad dlos; Hapus ydym ni! Pawb o honom sydd yn llon, Heb un gofid dan ei fron: Canu, dawnsio, ar y ton-- Dedwydd ydym ni! Singing, singing, through the night, Dancing, dancing, with our might, Where the moon the moor doth light: Happy ever we! One and all of merry mien, Without sorrow are we seen, Singing, dancing on the green: Gladsome ever we! _Professor Rhys's Fairy Tales_. These words correctly describe the popular opinion of Fairy dance and song, an opinion which reached the early part of the present century. Since so much has reached our days of Fairy song and dance, it is not surprising that we are told that the beautiful Welsh melody, _Toriad y Dydd_, or the Dawn of Day, is the work of a Fairy minstrel, and that this song was chanted by the Fairy company just as the pale light in the east announced the approach of returning day. Chaucer (1340 c. to 1400 c.), alluding to the Fairies and their dances, in his 'Wife of Bath's Tale,' writes:-- In olde dayes of King Artour, Of which the Bretons speken gret honour, All was this lond ful-filled of Faerie; The elf-quene with hire joly compagnie Danced ful oft in many a grene mede. This was the old opinion as I rede; I speke of many hundred yeres ago; But now can no man see non elves mo. Tyrwhitt's Chaucer i., p. 256. In the days of the Father of English poets, the elves had disappeared, and he speaks of "many hundred yeres ago," when he says that the Fairy Queen and her jolly company danced full often in many a green meadow. Number 419 of the Spectator, published July 1st, 1712, states that formerly "every large common had a circle of Fairies belonging to it." Here again the past is spoken of, but in Wales it would seem that up to quite modern days some one, or other, was said to have seen the Fairies at their dance, or had heard of some one who had witnessed their gambols. Robert Roberts, Tycerrig, Clocaenog, enumerated several places, such as Nantddu, Clocaenog, Craig-fron-Bannog, on Mynydd Hiraethog, and Fron-y-Go, Llanfwrog, where the Fairies used to hold their revels, and other places, such as Moel Fammau, have been mentioned as being Fairy dancing ground. Many an aged person in Wales will give the name of spots dedicated to Fairy sports. Information of this kind is interesting, for it shows how long lived traditions are, and in a manner, places associated with the Fair Tribe bring these mysterious beings right to our doors. I will now relate a few tales of mortals witnessing or joining in Fairy dances. The first was related to me by David Roberts. The scene of the dance was the hill side by Pont Petrual between Ruthin and Cerrig-y-Drudion. 1. _A Man who found himself on a Heap of Ferns after joining in a Fairy Dance_. A man who went to witness a Fairy dance was invited to join them. He did so, and all night long he greatly enjoyed himself. At the break of day the company broke up, and the Fairies took their companion with them. The man found himself in a beautiful hall with everything he could desire at his command, and here he pleasantly passed the time ere he retired to rest. In the morning when he awoke, instead of finding himself on a couch in Fairy Hall, be found himself lying on a heap of fern on the wild mountain side. Although somewhat unfortunate, this man fared better than most men who joined the Fairy dances. 2. _The Fairies threw dust into a Man's Eyes who Saw them Dance_. This tale is taken from _Cymru Fu_, p. 176, and is from the pen of _Glasynys_. I give it in English. William Ellis, of Cilwern, was once fishing in Llyn Cwm Silin on a dark cloudy day, when he observed close by, in the rushes, a great number of men, or beings in the form of men, about a foot high, jumping and singing. He watched them for hours, and he never heard in all his life such singing. But William went too near them, and they threw some kind of dust into his eyes, and whilst he was rubbing his eyes, the little family disappeared and fled somewhere out of sight and never afterwards was Ellis able to get a sight of them. The next tale _Glasynys_ shall relate in his own words. It appears in _Cymru Fu_ immediately after the one just related. 3. _A Man Dancing with the Fairies for Three Days_. "Y mae chwedl go debyg am le o'r enw Llyn-y-Ffynonau. Yr oedd yno rasio a dawnsio, a thelynio a ffidlo enbydus, a gwas o Gelli Ffrydau a'i ddau gi yn eu canol yn neidio ac yn prancio mor sionc a neb. Buont wrthi hi felly am dridiau a theirnos, yn ddi-dor-derfyn; ac oni bai bod ryw wr cyfarwydd yn byw heb fod yn neppell, ac i hwnw gael gwybod pa sut yr oedd pethau yn myned yn mlaen, y mae'n ddiddadl y buasai i'r creadur gwirion ddawnsio 'i hun i farwolaeth. Ond gwaredwyd of y tro hwn." This in English is as follows:-- "There is a tale somewhat like the preceding one told in connection with a place called Llyn-y-Ffynonau. There was there racing and dancing, and harping and furious fiddling, and the servant man of Gelli Ffrydau with his two dogs in their midst jumping and dancing like mad. There they were for three days and three nights without a break dancing as if for very life, and were it not that there lived near by a conjuror, who knew how things were going on, without a doubt the poor creature would have danced himself to death. But he was spared this time." The next tale I received from Mr. David Lloyd, schoolmaster, Llanfihangel-Glyn-Myfyr, and he heard it in that parish. 4. _A Harper and the Fairies_. There once lived in a remote part of Denbighshire, called Hafod Elwy, an old harper, named Shon Robert, who used to be invited to parties to play for the dancers, or to accompany the singers. One evening he went to Llechwedd Llyfn, in the neighbourhood of Cefn Brith, to hold a merry meeting, and it was late before the lads and lasses separated. At last the harper wended his way homeward. His path was over the bare mountain. As he came near a lake called Llyndau-ychain, he saw on its verge a grand palace, vividly illuminated. He was greatly surprised at the sight, for he had never seen such a building there before. He, however, proceeded on his way, and when he came in front of this beautiful palace he was hailed by a footman, and invited to enter. He accepted the invitation, and was ushered into a magnificent room, where a grand ball was being held. The guests surrounded the harper and became very friendly, and, to his wonder, addressed him by name. This hall was magnificently furnished. The furniture was of the most costly materials, many things were made of solid gold. A waiter handed him a golden cup filled with sparkling wine, which the harper gladly quaffed. He was then asked to play for the company, and this he did to the manifest satisfaction of the guests. By and by one of the company took Shon Robert's hat round and collected money for the harper's benefit, and brought it back to him filled with silver and gold. The feast was carried on with great pomp and merriment until near the dawn of day, when, one by one, the guests disappeared, and at last Shon was left alone. Perceiving a magnificent couch near, he laid himself thereon, and was soon fast asleep. He did not awake until mid-day, and then, to his surprise, he found himself lying on a heap of heather, the grand palace had vanished away, and the gold and silver, which he had transferred from his hat the night before into his bag, was changed to withered leaves. The following tale told me by the Rev. R. Jones shows that those who witness a Fairy dance know not how time passes. 5. _A Three Hours Fairy Dance seeming as a Few Minutes_. The Rev. R. Jones's mother, when a young unmarried woman, started one evening from a house called Tyddyn Heilyn, Penrhyndeudraeth, to her home, Penrhyn isaf, accompanied by their servant man, David Williams, called on account of his great strength and stature, Dafydd Fawr, Big David. David was carrying home on his back a flitch of bacon. The night was dark, but calm. Williams walked somewhat in the rear of his young mistress, and she, thinking he was following, went straight home. But three hours passed before David appeared with the pork on his back. He was interrogated as to the cause of his delay, and in answer said he had only been about three minutes after his young mistress. He was told that she had arrived three hours before him, but this David would not believe. At length, however, he was convinced that he was wrong in his time, and then he proceeded to account for his lagging behind as follows:-- He observed, he said, a brilliant meteor passing through the air, which was followed by a ring or hoop of fire, and within this hoop stood a man and woman of small size, handsomely dressed. With one arm they embraced each other, and with the other they took hold of the hoop, and their feet rested on the concave surface of the ring. When the hoop reached the earth these two beings jumped out of it, and immediately proceeded to make a circle on the ground. As soon as this was done, a large number of men and women instantly appeared, and to the sweetest music that ear ever heard commenced dancing round and round the circle. The sight was so entrancing that the man stayed, as he thought, a few minutes to witness the scene. The ground all around was lit up by a kind of subdued light, and he observed every movement of these beings. By and by the meteor which had at first attracted his attention appeared again, and then the fiery hoop came to view, and when it reached the spot where the dancing was, the lady and gentleman who had arrived in it jumped into the hoop, and disappeared in the same manner in which they had reached the place. Immediately after their departure the Fairies vanished from sight, and the man found himself alone and in darkness, and then he proceeded homewards. In this way he accounted for his delay on the way. In Mr. Sikes's _British Goblins_, pp. 79-81, is a graphic account of a mad dance which Tudur ap Einion Gloff had with the Fairies, or Goblins, at a place called Nant-yr-Ellyllon, a hollow half way up the hill to Castell Dinas Bran, in the neighbourhood of Llangollen. All night, and into the next day, Tudur danced frantically in the Nant, but he was rescued by his master, who understood how to break the spell, and release his servant from the hold the Goblins had over him! This he did by pronouncing certain pious words, and Tudur returned home with his master. Mr. Evan Davies, carpenter, Brynllan, Efenechtyd, who is between seventy and eighty years old, informed the writer that his friend John Morris told him that he had seen a company of Fairies dancing, and that they were the handsomest men and women that he had ever seen. It was night and dark, but the place on which the dance took place was strangely illuminated, so that every movement of the singular beings could be observed, but when the Fairies disappeared it became suddenly quite dark. Although from the tales already given it would appear that the Fairies held revelry irrespective of set times of meeting, still it was thought that they had special days for their great banquets, and the eve of the first of May, old style, was one of these days, and another was _Nos Wyl Ifan_, St. John's Eve, or the evening of June 23rd. Thus sings _Glasynys_, in _Y Brython_, vol. iii. p. 270:-- _Nos Wyl Ifan_. _Tylwyth Teg_ yn lluoedd llawen, O dan nodded tawel Dwynwen, Welir yn y cel encilion, Yn perori mwyn alawon, Ac yn taenu hyd y twyni, Ac ar leiniau'r deiliog lwyni, _Hud a Lledrith_ ar y glesni, Ac yn sibrwd dwyfol desni! I am indebted to my friend Mr Richard Williams, F.R.H.S., Newtown, Montgomeryshire, for the following translation of the preceding Welsh lines:-- The Fairy Tribe in merry crowds, Under Dwynwen's calm protection, Are seen in shady retreats Chanting sweet melodies, And spreading over the bushes And the leafy groves Illusion and phantasy on all that is green, And whispering their mystic lore. May-day dances and revelling have reached our days, and probably they have, like the Midsummer Eve's festivities, their origin in the far off times when the Fairy Tribe inhabited Britain and other countries, and to us have they bequeathed these Festivals, as well as that which ushers in winter, and is called in Wales, _Nos glan gaua_, or All Hallow Eve. If so, they have left us a legacy for which we thank them, and they have also given us a proof of their intelligence and love of nature. But I will now briefly refer to Fairy doings on _Nos Wyl Ifan_ as recorded by England's greatest poet, and, further on, I shall have more to say of this night. Shakespeare introduces into his _Midsummer Night's Dream_ the prevailing opinions respecting Fairies in England, but they are almost identical with those entertained by the people of Wales; so much so are they British in character, that it is no great stretch of the imagination to suppose that he must have derived much of his information from an inhabitant of Wales. However, in one particular, the poet's description of the Fairies differs from the more early opinion of them in Wales. Shakespeare's Fairies are, to a degree, diminutive; they are not so small in Wales. But as to their habits in both countries they had much in common. I will briefly allude to similarities between English and Welsh Fairies, confining my remarks to Fairy music and dancing. To begin, both danced in rings. A Fairy says to Puck:-- And I serve the Fairy Queen To dew her orbs upon the green. _Midsummer Night's Dream_, Act II., S I. And allusion is made in the same play to these circles in these words:-- If you will patiently dance in our round And see our moonlight revels, go with us. Act II., S. I. Then again Welsh and English Fairies frequented like spots to hold their revels on. I quote from the same play:-- And now they never meet in grove or green, By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen. Act II., S. I. And again:-- And never since the middle summer's spring Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead By paved fountain or by rushy brook Or by the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind. Act II., S. I And further the Fairies in both countries meet at night, and hold their Balls throughout the hours of darkness, and separate in early morn. Thus Puck addressing Oberon:-- Fairy King, attend and hark; I do hear the morning lark. Act IV., S. I. Now until the break of day Through this house each Fairy stray . . . . . . . . . . . . Trip away, make no stay, Meet we all at break of day. Act V., S. I. In the Welsh tales given of Fairy dances the music is always spoken of as most entrancing, and Shakespeare in felicitous terms gives utterance to the same thought-- Music, lo! music, such as charmeth sleep. I am indebted to the courtesy of the Rev. R. O. Williams, M.A., Vicar of Holywell, for the following singular testimony to Fairy dancing. The writer was the Rev. Dr. Edward Williams, at one time of Oswestry, and afterwards Principal of the Independent Academy at Rotherham in Yorkshire, who was born at Glan Clwyd, Bodfari, Nov. 14th, 1750, and died March 9, 1813. The extract is to be seen in the autobiography of Dr. Williams, which has been published, but the quotation now given is copied from the doctor's own handwriting, which now lies before me. It may be stated that Mr. Wirt Sikes, in his _British Goblins_, refers to the Dwarfs of Cae Caled, Bodfari, as Knockers, but he was not justified, as will be seen from the extract, in thus describing them. For the sake of reference the incident shall be called--The Elf Dancers of Cae Caled. _The Elf Dancers of Cae Caled_. Dr. Edward Williams, under the year 1757, writes as follows:-- "I am now going to relate a circumstance in this young period of my life which probably will excite an alternate smile and thoughtful reflection, as it has often done in myself, however singular the fact and strong the evidence of its authenticity, and, though I have often in mature age called to my mind the principles of religion and philosophy to account for it, I am forced to class it among my _unknowables_. And yet I may say that not only the fact itself, but also the consideration of its being to my own mind inexplicable, has afforded some useful reflections, with which this relation need not be accompanied. "On a fine summer day (about midsummer) between the hours of 12 at noon and one, my eldest sister and myself, our next neighbour's children Barbara and Ann Evans, both older than myself, were in a field called Cae Caled near their house, all innocently engaged at play by a hedge under a tree, and not far from the stile next to that house, when one of us observed on the middle of the field a company of--what shall I call them?--_Beings_, neither men, women, nor children, dancing with great briskness. They were full in view less than a hundred yards from us, consisting of about seven or eight couples: we could not well reckon them, owing to the briskness of their motions and the consternation with which we were struck at a sight so unusual. They were all clothed in red, a dress not unlike a military uniform, without hats, but their heads tied with handkerchiefs of a reddish colour, sprigged or spotted with yellow, all uniform in this as in habit, all tied behind with the corners hanging down their backs, and white handkerchiefs in their hands held loose by the corners. They appeared of a size somewhat less than our own, but more like dwarfs than children. On the first discovery we began, with no small dread, to question one another as to what they could be, as there were no soldiers in the country, nor was it the time for May dancers, and as they differed much from all the human beings we had ever seen. Thus alarmed we dropped our play, left our station, and made for the stile. Still keeping our eyes upon them we observed one of their company starting from the rest and making towards us with a running pace. I being the youngest was the last at the stile, and, though struck with an inexpressible panic, saw the _grim elf_ just at my heels, having a full and clear, though terrific view of him, with his ancient, swarthy, and grim complexion. I screamed out exceedingly; my sister also and our companions set up a roar, and the former dragged me with violence over the stile on which, at the instant I was disengaged from it, this warlike Lilliputian leaned and stretched himself after me, but came not over. With palpitating hearts and loud cries we ran towards the house, alarmed the family, and told them our trouble. The men instantly left their dinner, with whom still trembling we went to the place, and made the most solicitous and diligent enquiry in all the neighbourhood, both at that time and after, but never found the least vestige of any circumstance that could contribute to a solution of this remarkable phenomenon. Were any disposed to question the sufficiency of this quadruple evidence, the fact having been uniformly and often attested by each of the parties and various and separate examinations, and call it a childish deception, it would do them no harm to admit that, comparing themselves with the scale of universal existence, beings with which they certainly and others with whom it is possible they may be surrounded every moment, they are but children of a larger size. I know but few less credulous than the relator, but he is no Sadducee. 'He who hath delivered will yet deliver.'" My friend, Mr. R. Prys Jones, B.A., kindly informs me that he has several intelligent boys in his school, the Boys' Board School, Denbigh, from Bodfari, and to them he read the preceding story, but not one of them had ever heard of it. It is singular that the story should have died so soon in the neighbourhood that gave it birth. FAIRY TRICKS WITH MORTALS. It was formerly believed in Wales that the Fairies, for a little fun, sportively carried men in mid air from place to place, and, having conveyed them to a strange neighbourhood, left them to return to their homes as best they could. Benighted travellers were ever fearful of encountering a throng of Fairies lest they should by them be seized, and carried to a strange part of the country. Allusion is made to this freak of the Fairies in the _Cambro-Briton_, vol. i., p. 348:-- "And it seems that there was some reason to be apprehensive of encountering these 'Fair people' in a mist; for, although allowed not to be maliciously disposed, they had a very inconvenient practice of seizing an unwary pilgrim, and hurrying him through the air, first giving him the choice, however, of travelling above wind, mid-wind, or below wind. If he chose the former, he was borne to an altitude somewhat equal to that of a balloon; if the latter, he had the full benefit of all the brakes and briars in his way, his contact with which seldom failed to terminate in his discomfiture. Experienced travellers, therefore, always kept in mind the advice of Apollo to Phaeton (In medio tutissimus ibis) and selected the middle course, which ensured them a pleasant voyage at a moderate elevation, equally removed from the branches and the clouds." This description of an aerial voyage of a hapless traveller through Fairy agency corresponds with the popular faith in every particular, and it would not have been difficult some sixty, or so, years back, to have collected many tales in various parts of Wales of persons who had been subjected to this kind of conveyance. The first mention that I have been able to find of this Fairy prank is in a small book of prose poetry called _Gweledigaeth Cwrs y Byd_, or _Y Bardd Cwsg_, which was written by the Revd. Ellis Wynne (born 1670-1, died 1734), rector of Llanfair, near Harlech. The "Visions of the Sleeping Bard" were published in 1703, and in the work appear many superstitions of the people, some of which shall by and by be mentioned. In the very commencement of this work, the poet gives a description of a journey which he had made through the air with the Fairies. Addressing these beings, he says:--"Atolwg, lan gynnulleidfa, yr wyf yn deall mai rhai o bell ydych, a gymmerwch chwi Fardd i'ch plith sy'n chwennych trafaelio?" which in English is--"May it please you, comely assembly, as I understand that you come from afar, to take into your company a Bard who wishes to travel?" The poet's request is granted, and then he describes his aerial passage in these words:-- "Codasant fi ar eu hysgwyddau, fel codi Marchog Sir; ac yna ymaith a ni fel y gwynt, tros dai a thiroedd, dinasoedd a theyrnasoedd, a moroedd a mynyddoedd, heb allu dal sylw ar ddim, gan gyflymed yr oeddynt yn hedeg." This translated is:-- "They raised me on their shoulders, as they do a Knight of the Shire, and away we went like the wind, over houses and fields, over cities and kingdoms, over seas and mountains, but I was unable to notice particularly anything, because of the rapidity with which they flew." What the poet writes of his own flight with the Fairies depicts the then prevailing notions respecting aerial journeys by Fairy agencies, and they bear a striking resemblance to like stories in oriental fiction. That the belief in this form of transit survived the days of _Bardd Cwsg_ will be seen from the following tale related by my friend Mr. E. Hamer in his Parochial Account of Llanidloes:-- _A Man Carried Through the Air by the Fairies_. "One Edward Jones, or 'Ned the Jockey,' as he was familiarly called, resided, within the memory of the writer, in one of the roadside cottages a short distance from Llanidloes, on the Newtown road. While returning home late one evening, it was his fate to fall in with a troop of Fairies, who were not pleased to have their gambols disturbed by a mortal. Requesting him to depart, they politely offered him the choice of three means of locomotion, viz., being carried off by a 'high wind, middle wind, or low wind.' The jockey soon made up his mind, and elected to make his trip through the air by the assistance of a high wind. No sooner had he given his decision, than he found himself whisked high up into the air and his senses completely bewildered by the rapidity of his flight; he did not recover himself till he came in contact with the earth, being suddenly dropped in the middle of a garden near Ty Gough, on the Bryndu road, many miles distant from the spot whence he started on his aerial journey. Ned, when relating this story, would vouch for its genuineness in the most solemn manner, and the person who narrated it to the writer brought forward as a proof of its truth, 'that there was not the slightest trace of any person going into the garden while Ned was found in the middle of it.'" Montgomeryshire Collections, vol. x., p. 247. Mr. Hamer records another tale much like the foregoing, but the one I have given is a type of all such stories. Fairy illusion and phantasy were formerly firmly believed in by the inhabitants of Wales. Fairies were credited with being able to deceive the eyesight, if not also the other senses of man. One illustrative tale of this kind I will now record. Like stories are heard in many parts. The following story is taken from _Y Gordofigion_, p. 99, a book which has more than once been laid under contribution. FAIRY ILLUSIONS. "Ryw dro yr oedd brodor o Nefyn yn dyfod adref o ffair Pwllheli, ac wrth yr Efail Newydd gwelai _Inn_ fawreddog, a chan ei fod yn gwybod nad oedd yr un gwesty i fod yno, gofynodd i un o'r gweision os oedd ganddynt ystabl iddo roddi ei farch. Atebwyd yn gadarnhaol. Rhoddwyd y march yn yr ystabl, ac aeth yntau i mewn i'r ty, gofynodd am _beint_ o gwrw, ac ni chafodd erioed well cwrw na'r cwrw hwnw. Yn mhen ychydig, gofynodd am fyned i orphwys, a chafodd hyny hefyd. Aeth i'w orweddle, yr hwn ydoedd o ran gwychder yn deilwng i'r brenhin; ond wchw fawr! erbyn iddo ddeffro, cafodd ei hun yn gorwedd ar ei hyd mewn tomen ludw, a'r ceffyl wedi ei rwymo wrth bolyn clawdd gwrysg." This in English is as follows:--"Once upon a time a native of Nefyn was returning from Pwllheli fair, and when near Efail Newydd he saw a magnificent Inn, and, as he knew that no such public-house was really there, he went up to it and asked one of the servants whether they had a stable where he could put up his horse. He was answered in the affirmative. The horse was placed in the stable, and the man entered the house and asked for a pint of beer, which he thought was the best he had ever drunk. After awhile he inquired whether he could go to rest. This also was granted him, and he retired to his room, which in splendour was worthy of the king. But alas! when he awoke he found himself sleeping on his back on a heap of ashes, and the horse tied to a pole in the hedge." FAIRY MEN CAPTURED. There are many tales current of wee Fairy men having been captured. These tales are, however, evidently variants of the same story. The dwarfs are generally spoken of as having been caught by a trapper in his net, or bag, and the hunter, quite unconscious of the fact that a Fairy is in his bag, proceeds homewards, supposing that he has captured a badger, or some other kind of vermin, but, all at once, he hears the being in the bag speak, and throwing the bag down he runs away in a terrible fright. Such in short is the tale. I will proceed to give several versions of this story. 1. _Gwyddelwern Version_. The following tale was told by Mr. Evan Roberts, Ffridd Agored, a farmer in the parish of Llanfwrog. Roberts heard the story when he was a youth in the parish of Gwyddelwern. It is as follows:-- A man went from his house for peat to the stack on the hill. As he intended to carry away only a small quantity for immediate use, he took with him a bag to carry it home. When he got to the hill he saw something running before him, and he gave chase and caught it and bundled it into the bag. He had not proceeded far on his way before he heard a small voice shout somewhere near him, "Neddy, Neddy." And then he heard another small voice in the bag saying, "There is daddy calling me." No sooner did the man hear these words than in a terrible fright he threw the bag down, and ran home as fast as he could. 2. _The Llandrillo Version_. I am indebted for the following tale to Mr. E. S. Roberts, schoolmaster, Llantysilio, near Llangollen:-- Two men whilst otter-hunting in Gwyn Pennant, Llandrillo, saw something reddish scampering away across the ground just before them. They thought it was an otter, and watching it saw that it entered a hole by the side of the river. When they reached the place they found, underneath the roots of a tree, two burrows. They immediately set to work to catch their prey. Whilst one of the men pushed a long pole into one of the burrows, the other held the mouth of a sack to the other, and very shortly into the sack rushed their prey and it was secured. The men now went homewards, but they had not gone far, ere they heard a voice in the bag say, "My mother is calling me." The frightened men instantly threw the sack to the ground, and they saw a small man, clothed in red, emerge therefrom, and the wee creature ran away with all his might to the brushwood that grew along the banks of the river. 3. _The Snowdon Version_. The following tale is taken from _Y Gordofigion_, p. 98:-- "Aeth trigolion ardaloedd cylchynol y Wyddfa un tro i hela pryf llwyd. Methasant a chael golwg ar yr un y diwrnod cyntaf; ond cynllwynasant am un erbyn trannoeth, trwy osod sach a'i cheg yn agored ar dwll yr arferai y pryf fyned iddo, ond ni byddai byth yn dyfod allan drwyddo am ei fod yn rhy serth a llithrig. A'r modd a gosodasant y sach oedd rhoddi cortyn trwy dyllau yn ei cheg, yn y fath fodd ag y crychai, ac y ceuai ei cheg pan elai rhywbeth iddi. Felly fu; aeth pawb i'w fan, ac i'w wely y noson hono. Gyda'r wawr bore dranoeth, awd i edrych y sach, ac erbyn dyfod ati yr oedd ei cheg wedi crychu, yn arwydd fod rhywbeth oddifewn. Codwyd hi, a thaflodd un hi ar ei ysgwydd i'w dwyn adref. Ond pan yn agos i Bryn y Fedw wele dorpyn o ddynan bychan yn sefyll ar delpyn o graig gerllaw ac yn gwaeddi, 'Meirig, wyt ti yna, dwad?' 'Ydwyf,' attebai llais dieithr (ond dychrynedig) o'r sach. Ar hyn, wele'r helwyr yn dechreu rhedeg ymaith, a da oedd ganddynt wneyd hyny, er gadael y sach i'r pryf, gan dybied eu bod wedi dal yn y sach un o ysbrydion y pwll diwaelod, ond deallasant ar ol hyny mai un o'r Tylwyth Teg oedd yn y sach." The tale in English reads thus:--"Once the people who lived in the neighbourhood of Snowdon went badger-hunting. They failed the first day to get sight of one. But they laid a trap for one by the next day. This they did by placing a sack's open mouth with a noose through it at the entrance to the badger's den. The vermin was in the habit of entering his abode by one passage and leaving it by another. The one by which he entered was too precipitous and slippery to be used as an exit, and the trappers placed the sack in this hole, well knowing that the running noose in the mouth of the sack would close if anything entered. The next morning the hunters returned to the snare, and at once observed that the mouth of the sack was tightly drawn up, a sign that there was something in it. The bag was taken up and thrown on the shoulders of one of the men to be carried home. But when they were near Bryn y Fedw they saw a lump of a little fellow, standing on the top of a rock close by and shouting, 'Meirig, are you there, say?' 'I am,' was the answer in a strange but nervous voice. Upon this, the hunters, throwing down the bag, began to run away, and they were glad to do so, although they had to leave their sack behind them, believing, as they did, that they had captured one of the spirits of the bottomless pit. But afterwards they understood that it was one of the Fairy Tribe that was in the sack." There was at one time a tale much like this current in the parish of Gyffylliog, near Ruthin, but in this latter case the voice in the bag said, "My father is calling me," though no one was heard to do so. The bag, however, was cast away, and the trapper reported that he had captured a Fairy! 4. _The Llanfair Dyffryn Clwyd Version_. Mr. Evan Davies, carpenter, Bryn Llan, Efenechtyd, told the writer that Robert Jones, innkeeper, in the same parish, told him the following tale, mentioning at the same time the man who figures in the narrative, whose name, however, I have forgotten. The story runs thus:-- A man, wishing to catch a fox, laid a bag with its mouth open, but well secured, at the entrance to a fox's den in Coed Cochion, Llanfair Dyffryn Clwyd parish, and hid himself to await the result. He had seen the fox enter its lair, and he calculated that it would ere long emerge therefrom. By and by, he observed that something had entered the bag, and going up to it, he immediately secured its mouth, and, throwing the bag over his shoulder, proceeded homewards, but he had not gone far on his way before he heard someone say, "Where is my son John?" The man, however, though it was dark, was not frightened, for he thought that possibly some one was in search of a lad who had wandered from home. He was rather troubled to find that the question was repeated time after time by some one who apparently was following him. But what was his terror when, ere long, he heard a small voice issue from the bag he was carrying, saying "There is dear father calling me." The man in a terrible fright threw the bag down, and ran away as fast as his feet could carry him, and never stopped until he reached his home, and when he came to himself he related the story of his adventure in the wood to his wife. FAIRIES IN MARKETS AND FAIRS. It was once firmly believed by the Welsh that the Fairy Tribe visited markets and fairs, and that their presence made business brisk. If there was a buzz in the market place, it was thought that the sound was made by the Fairies, and on such occasions the farmers' wives disposed quickly of their commodities; if, however, on the other hand, there was no buzz, the Fairies were absent, and there was then no business transacted. Mr. Richard Jones, Ty'n-y-Wern, Bryneglwys, who, when a youth, lived in Llanbedr parish, near Ruthin, informed the writer that his mother, after attending a market at Ruthin, would return home occasionally with the sad news that "They were not there," meaning that the Fairies were not present in the market, and this implied a bad market and no sweets for Richard. On the other hand, should the market have been a good one, she would tell them that "They filled the whole place," and the children always had the benefit of their presence. This belief that the Fairies sharpened the market was, I think, general. I find in _Y Gordofigion_, p. 97, the following words:-- "Byddai y Tylwyth Teg yn arfer myned i farchnadoedd y Bala, ac yn gwneud twrw mawr heb i neb eu gweled, ac yr oedd hyny yn arwydd fod y farchnad ar godi," which is:-- The Fairies were in the habit of frequenting Bala markets, and they made a great noise, without any one seeing them, and this was a sign that the market was sharpening. NAMES OF THINGS ATTRIBUTED TO THE FAIRIES. Many small stone utensils found in the ground, the use, or the origin, of which was unknown to the finders, were formerly attributed to the Fairies. Thus, flint arrow-heads were called elf shots, from the belief that they once belonged to Elves or Fairies. And celts, and other stone implements, were, by the peasants of Wales and other places, ascribed to the same small folk. Very small clay pipes were also attributed to the same people. All this is curious evidence of a pre-existing race, which the Celts supplanted, and from whom, in many respects, they differed. Although we cannot derive much positive knowledge from an enumeration of the articles popularly associated with the Fairies, still, such a list, though an imperfect one, will not be void of interest. I will, therefore, describe certain pre-historic remains, which have been attributed to the aboriginal people of Britain. _Fairy Pipes_. _Cetyn y Tylwyth Teg_, or Fairy Pipes, are small clay pipes, with bowls that will barely admit the tip of the little finger. They are found in many places, generally with the stem broken off, though usually the bowl is perfect. A short time ago I stayed awhile to talk with some workmen who were engaged in carting away the remains of a small farm house, once called _Y Bwlch_, in the parish of Efenechtyd, Denbighshire, and they told me that they had just found a Fairy Pipe, or, as they called it, _Cetyn y Tylwyth Teg_, which they gave me. A similar pipe was also picked up by Lewis Jones, Brynffynon, on Coed Marchan, in the same parish, when he was enclosing a part of the mountain allotted to his farm. In March, 1887, the workmen employed in taking down what were at one time buildings belonging to a bettermost kind of residence, opposite Llanfwrog Church, near Ruthin, also discovered one of these wee pipes. Pipes, identical in shape and size, have been found in all parts of Wales, and they are always known by the name of _Cetyn y Tylwyth Teg_, or Fairy Pipes. In Shropshire they have also been discovered in the Fens, and the late Rev. Canon Lee, Hanmer, had one in his possession, which had been found in those parts, and, it was called a Fairy Pipe. _Fairy Whetstone_. The small spindle whorls which belong to the stone age, and which have been discovered in the circular huts, called _Cyttiau'r Gwyddelod_, which are the earliest remains of human abodes in Wales, are by the people called Fairy Whetstones, but, undoubtedly, this name was given them from their resemblance to the large circular whetstone at present in common use, the finders being ignorant of the original use of these whorls. _Fairy Hammer and Fairy or Elf Stones_. Stone hammers of small size have been ascribed to the Fairies, and an intelligent Welsh miner once told the writer that he had himself seen, in a very ancient diminutive mine level, stone hammers which, he said, had once belonged to the Fairies. Other pre-historic implements, as celts, have been denominated Fairy remains. Under this head will come flint, or stone arrow-heads. These in Scotland are known by the name Elf Shots or Fairy Stones. Pennant's _Tour in Scotland_, 1769, p. 115, has the following reference to these arrow-heads:-- "_Elf Shots_, i.e., the stone arrow-heads of the old inhabitants of this island, are supposed to be weapons shot by Fairies at cattle, to which are attributed any disorders they have." Jamieson states in his Dictionary, under the heading Elf Shot:--"The _Elf Shot_ or _Elfin Arrow_ is still used in the Highlands as an amulet." Tradition, in thus connecting stone implements with the Fairies, throws a dim light on the elfin community. But evidence is not wanting that the Celts themselves used stone utensils. The things which shall now be mentioned, as being connected with the Fairies, owe their names to no foundation in fact, but are the offspring of a fanciful imagination, and are attributed to the Fairies in agreement with the more modern and grotesque notions concerning those beings and their doings. This will be seen when it is stated that the Fox Glove becomes a Fairy Glove, and the Mushroom, Fairy Food. _Ymenyn y Tylwyth Teg, or Fairy Butter_. I cannot do better than quote Pennant on this matter. His words are:-- "Petroleum, rock oil, or what the Welsh call it, _Ymenin tylwyth teg_, or Fairies' butter, has been found in the lime stone strata in our mineral country. It is a greasy substance, of an agreeable smell, and, I suppose, ascribed to the benign part of those imaginary beings. It is esteemed serviceable in rheumatic cases, rubbed on the parts affected. It retains a place in our dispensary." Pennant's _Whiteford_, p. 131. _Bwyd Ellyllon_, _or Goblins' Food_. This was a kind of fungus or mushroom. The word is given in Dr. Owen Pughe's dictionary under the head _Ellyll_. _Menyg y Tylwyth Teg_, _Or Fairy Gloves_. The Fox Glove is so called, but in Dr. Owen Pughe's dictionary, under the head _Ellyll_, the Fox Glove is called _Menyg Ellyllon_. _Yr Ellyll Dan_, _or Goblin Fire_. The Rev. T. H. Evans, in his _History of the Parish of Llanwddyn_, states that in that parish "Will of the Wisp" is called "_Yr Ellyll Dan_." This is indeed the common name for the _Ignis fatuus_ in most, if not in all parts of Wales, but in some places where English is spoken it is better known by the English term, "Jack o' Lantern," or "Jack y Lantern." _Rhaffau'r Tylwyth Teg_, _or the Ropes of the Fairies_. Professor Rhys, in his Welsh Fairy Tales--_Y Cymmrodor_ vol. v., p. 75--says, that gossamer, which is generally called in North Wales _edafedd gwawn_, or _gwawn_ yarn, used to be called, according to an informant, _Rhaffau'r Tylwyth Teg_, that is to say, the Ropes of the Fair Family, thus associating the Fairies with marshy, or rushy, places, or with ferns and heather as their dwelling places. It was supposed that if a man lay down to sleep in such places the Fairies would come and bind him with their ropes, and cover him with a gossamer sheet, which would make him invisible, and incapable of moving. FAIRY KNOCKERS, OR COBLYNAU. The _Coblynau_ or _Knockers_ were supposed to be a species of Fairies who had their abode in the rocks, and whose province it was to indicate by knocks, and other sounds, the presence of ore in mines. It would seem that many people had dim traditions of a small race who had their dwellings in the rocks. This wide-spread belief in the existence of cave men has, in our days, been shown to have had a foundation in fact, and many vestiges of this people have been revealed by intelligent cave hunters. But the age in which the cave men lived cannot even approximately be ascertained. In various parts of Wales, in the lime rock, their abodes have been brought to light. It is not improbable that the people who occupied the caves of ancient days were, in reality, the original Fairy Knockers. These people were invested, in after ages, by the wonder-loving mind of man, with supernatural powers. AEschylus, the Greek tragic poet, who died in the 69th year of his age, B.C. 456, in _Prometheus Vinctus_, refers to cave dwellers in a way that indicates that even then they belonged to a dateless antiquity. In Prometheus's speech to the chorus--[Greek]--lines 458-461, is a reference to this ancient tradition. His words, put into English, are these:--"And neither knew the warm brick-built houses exposed to the sun, nor working in wood, _but they dwelt underground_, like as little ants, _in the sunless recesses of caves_." The above quotation proves that the Greeks had a tradition that men in a low, or the lowest state of civilization, had their abodes in caves, and possibly the reference to ants would convey the idea that the cave dwellers were small people. Be this as it may, it is very remarkable that the word applied to a _dwarf_ in the dialects of the northern countries of Europe signifies also a _Fairy_, and the dwarfs, or Fairies, are there said to inhabit the rocks. The following quotation from Jamieson's _Scottish Dictionary_ under the word _Droich_, a dwarf, a pigmy, shows this to have been the case:-- "In the northern dialects, _dwerg_ does not merely signify a dwarf, but also a _Fairy_! The ancient Northern nations, it is said, prostrated themselves before rocks, believing that they were inhabited by these pigmies, and that they thence gave forth oracles. Hence they called the echo _dwergamal_, as believing it to be their voice or speech. . . They were accounted excellent artificers, especially as smiths, from which circumstance some suppose that they have received their name . . . Other Isl. writers assert that their ancestors did not worship the pigmies as they did the _genii_ or spirits, also supposed to reside in the rocks." Bishop Percy, in a letter to the Rev. Evan Evans (_Ieuan Prydydd Hir_), writes:-- "Nay, I make no doubt but Fairies are derived from the _Duergar_, or Dwarfs, whose existence was so generally believed among all the northern nations." _The Cambro-Briton_, vol. i., p. 331. And again in Percy's _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, vol. iii., p. 171, are these remarks:-- "It is well known that our Saxon ancestors, long before they left their German forests, believed in the existence of a kind of diminutive demons, or middle species between men and spirits, whom they called _Duergar_, or Dwarfs, and to whom they attributed wonderful performances, far exceeding human art." Pennant, in his _Tour in Scotland_, 1772, pp. 55-56, when describing the collieries of Newcastle, describes the Knockers thus:-- "The immense caverns that lay between the pillars exhibited a most gloomy appearance. I could not help enquiring here after the imaginary inhabitant, the creation of the labourer's fancy, The swart Fairy of the mine; and was seriously answered by a black fellow at my elbow that he really had never met with any, but that his grandfather had found the little implements and tools belonging to this diminutive race of subterraneous spirits. The Germans believed in two species; one fierce and malevolent, the other a gentle race, appearing like little old men, dressed like the miners, and not much above two feet high; these wander about the drifts and chambers of the works, seem perpetually employed, yet do nothing. Some seem to cut the ore, or fling what is cut into vessels, or turn the windlass, but never do any harm to the miners, except provoked; as the sensible Agricola, in this point credulous, relates in his book, _de Animantibus Subterraneis_." Jamieson, under the word _Farefolkis_, writes:--"Besides the Fairies, which are more commonly the subject of popular tradition, it appears that our forefathers believed in the existence of a class of spirits under this name that wrought in the mines;" and again, quoting from a work dated 1658, the author of which says:-- "In northerne kingdomes there are great armies of devils that have their services which they perform with the inhabitants of these countries, but they are most frequent in rocks and _mines_, where they break, cleave, and make them hollow; which also thrust in pitchers and buckets, and carefully fit wheels and screws, whereby they are drawn upwards; and they show themselves to the labourers, when they list, like phantoms and ghosts." The preceding quotations from Pennant and Jamieson correspond with the Welsh miners' ideas of the _Coblynau_, or Knockers. There is a difficulty in tracing to their origin these opinions, but, on the whole, I am strongly inclined to say that they have come down to modern times from that remote period when cave-men existed as a distinct people. But now let us hear what our Welsh miners have to say about the _Coblynau_. I have spoken to several miners on this subject, and, although they confessed that they had not themselves heard these good little people at work, still they believed in their existence, and could name mines in which they had been heard. I was told that they are generally heard at work in new mines, and that they lead the men to the ore by knocking in its direction, and when the lode is reached the knocking ceases. But the following extracts from two letters written by Lewis Morris, a well-known and learned Welshman, fully express the current opinion of miners in Wales respecting Knockers. The first letter was written Oct. 14, 1754, and the latter is dated Dec. 4, 1754. They appear in Bingley's _North Wales_, vol. ii., pp. 269-272. Lewis Morris writes:-- "People who know very little of arts or sciences, or the powers of nature (which, in other words, are the powers of the author of nature), will laugh at us Cardiganshire miners, who maintain the existence of _Knockers_ in mines, a kind of good natured impalpable people not to be seen, but heard, and who seem to us to work in the mines; that is to say, they are the types or forerunners of working in mines, as dreams are of some accidents, which happen to us. The barometer falls before rain, or storms. If we do not know the construction of it, we should call it a kind of dream that foretells rain; but we know it is natural, and produced by natural means, comprehended by us. Now, how are we sure, or anybody sure, but that our dreams are produced by the same natural means? There is some faint resemblance of this in the sense of hearing; the bird is killed before we hear the report of the gun. However this is, I must speak well of the _Knockers_, for they have actually stood my good friends, whether they are aerial beings called spirits, or whether they are a people made of matter, not to be felt by our gross bodies, as air and fire and the like. "Before the discovery of the _Esgair y Mwyn_ mine, these little people, as we call them here, worked hard there day and night; and there are abundance of honest, sober people, who have heard them, and some persons who have no notion of them or of mines either; but after the discovery of the great ore they were heard no more. "When I began to work at Llwyn Llwyd, they worked so fresh there for a considerable time that they frightened some young workmen out of the work. This was when we were driving levels, and before we had got any ore; but when we came to the ore, they then gave over, and I heard no more talk of them. "Our old miners are no more concerned at hearing them _blasting_, boring holes, landing _deads_, etc., than if they were some of their own people; and a single miner will stay in the work, in the dead of the night, without any man near him, and never think of any fear or of any harm they will do him. The miners have a notion that the _Knockers_ are of their own tribe and profession, and are a harmless people who mean well. Three or four miners together shall hear them sometimes, but if the miners stop to take notice of them, the _Knockers_ will also stop; but, let the miners go on at their work, suppose it is _boring_, the _Knockers_ will at the same time go on as brisk as can be in landing, _blasting_, or beating down the _loose_, and they are always heard a little distance from them before they come to the ore. "These are odd assertions, but they are certainly facts, though we cannot, and do not pretend to account for them. We have now very good ore at _Llwyn Llwyd_, where the _Knockers_ were heard to work, but have now yielded up the place, and are no more heard. Let who will laugh, we have the greatest reason to rejoice, and thank the _Knockers_, or rather God, who sends us these notices." The second letter is as follows:-- "I have no time to answer your objection against _Knockers_; I have a large treatise collected on that head, and what Mr. Derham says is nothing to the purpose. If sounds of voices, whispers, blasts, working, or pumping, can be carried on a mile underground, they should always be heard in the same place, and under the same advantages, and not once in a month, a year, or two years. Just before the discovery of ore last week, three men together in our work at _Llwyn Llwyd_ were ear-witnesses of _Knockers_ pumping, driving a wheelbarrow, etc.; but there is no pump in the work, nor any mine within less than a mile of it, in which there are pumps constantly going. If they were these pumps that they had heard, why were they never heard but that once in the space of a year? And why are they not now heard? But the pumps make so little noise that they cannot be heard in the other end of _Esgair y Mwyn_ mine when they are at work. "We have a dumb and deaf tailor in this neighbourhood who has a particular language of his own by signs, and by practice I can understand him, and make him understand me pretty well, and I am sure I could make him learn to write, and be understood by letters very soon, for he can distinguish men already by the letters of their names. Now letters are marks to convey ideas, just after the same manner as the motion of fingers, hands, eyes, etc. If this man had really seen ore in the bottom of a sink of water in a mine, and wanted to tell me how to come at it, he would take two sticks like a pump, and would make the motions of a pumper at the very sink where he knew the ore was, and would make the motions of driving a wheelbarrow. And what I should infer from thence would be that I ought to take out the water and sink or drive in the place, and wheel the stuff out. By parity of reasoning, the language of _Knockers_, by imitating the sound of pumping, wheeling, etc., signifies that we should take out the water and drive there. This is the opinion of all old miners, who pretend to understand the language of the _Knockers_. Our agent and manager, upon the strength of this notice, goes on and expects great things. You, and everybody that is not convinced of the being of _Knockers_, will laugh at these things, for they sound like dreams; so does every dark science. Can you make any illiterate man believe that it is possible to know the distance of two places by looking at them? Human knowledge is but of small extent, its bounds are within our view, we see nothing beyond these; the great universal creation contains powers, etc., that we cannot so much as guess at. May there not exist beings, and vast powers infinitely smaller than the particles of air, to whom air is as hard a body as the diamond is to us? Why not? There is neither great nor small, but by comparison. Our _Knockers_ are some of these powers, the guardians of mines. "You remember the story in Selden's Table-Talk of Sir Robert Cotton and others disputing about Moses's shoe. Lady Cotton came in and asked, 'Gentlemen, are you sure it _is_ a shoe?' So the first thing is to convince mankind that there is a set of creatures, a degree or so finer than we are, to whom we have given the name of _Knockers_ from the sounds we hear in our mines. This is to be done by a collection of their actions well attested, and that is what I have begun to do, and then let everyone judge for himself." The preceding remarks, made by an intelligent and reliable person, conversant with mines, and apparently uninfluenced by superstition, are at least worthy of consideration. The writer of these interesting letters states positively that sounds were heard; whether his attempt to solve the cause of these noises is satisfactory, and conclusive, is open to doubt. We must believe the facts asserted, although disagreeing with the solution of the difficulty connected with the sounds. Miners in all parts of England, Scotland, Wales, Germany, and other parts, believe in the existence of _Knockers_, whatever these may be, and here, as far as I am concerned, I leave the subject, with one remark only, which is, that I have never heard it said that anyone in Wales ever _saw_ one of these _Knockers_. In this they differ from Fairies, who, according to popular notions, have, time and again, been seen by mortal eyes; but this must have been when time was young. The writer is aware that Mr. Sikes, in his _British Goblins_, p. 28, gives an account of _Coblynau_ or _Knockers_ which he affirms had been seen by some children who were playing in a field in the parish of Bodfari, near Denbigh, and that they were dancing like mad, and terribly frightened the children. But in the autobiography of Dr. Edward Williams, already referred to, p. 98, whence Mr. Sikes derived his information of the Dwarfs of Cae Caled, they are called "_Beings_," and not _Coblynau_. Before concluding my remarks on Fairy Knockers I will give one more quotation from Bingley, who sums up the matter in the following words:-- "I am acquainted with the subject only from report, but I can assure my readers that I found few people in Wales that did not give full credence to it. The elucidation of these extraordinary facts must be left to those persons who have better opportunities of inquiring into them than I have. I may be permitted to express a hope that the subject will not be neglected, and that those who reside in any neighbourhood where the noises are heard will carefully investigate their cause, and, if possible, give to the world a more accurate account of them than the present. In the year 1799 they were heard in some mines in the parish of Llanvihangel Ysgeiviog, in Anglesea, where they continued, at intervals, for some weeks." Bingley's _North Wales_, vol. ii., p. 275. In conclusion, I may remark that in living miners' days, as already stated, Knockers have not been heard. Possibly Davy's Safety Lamp and good ventilation have been their destruction. Their existence was believed in when mining operations, such as now prevail, were unknown, and their origin is to be sought for among the dim traditions that many countries have of the existence of small cave men. _The Pwka_, _or Pwca_. Another imaginary being, closely allied to the Fairy family, was the _Pwka_. He seems to have possessed many of the mischievous qualities of Shakespeare's Puck, whom, also, he resembled in name, and it is said that the _Pwka_, in common with the _Brownie_, was a willing worker. The Rev. Edmund Jones in his _Book of Apparitions_ gives an account of one of these goblins, which visited the house of Job John Harry, who lived at a place called the Trwyn, and hence the visitor is called Pwka'r Trwyn, and many strange tales are related of this spirit. The writer of the _Apparitions_ states that the spirit stayed in Job's house from some time before Christmas until Easter Wednesday. He writes:--"At first it came knocking at the door, chiefly by night, which it continued to do for a length of time, by which they were often deceived, by opening it. At last it spoke to one who opened the door, upon which they were much terrified, which being known, brought many of the neighbours to watch with the family. T. E. foolishly brought a gun with him to shoot the spirit, as he said, and sat in the corner. As Job was coming home that night the spirit met him, and told him that there was a man come to the house to shoot him, 'but,' said he, 'thou shalt see how I will beat him.' As soon as Job was come to the house stones were thrown at the man that brought the gun, from which he received severe blows. The company tried to defend him from the blows of the stones, which did strike him and no other person; but it was in vain, so that he was obliged to go home that night, though it was very late; he had a great way to go. When the spirit spoke, which was not very often, it was mostly out of the oven by the hearth's side. He would sometimes in the night make music with Harry Job's fiddle. One time he struck the cupboard with stones, the marks of which were to be seen, if they are not there still. Another time he gave Job a gentle stroke upon his toe, when he was going to bed, upon which Job said, 'Thou art curious in smiting,' to which the spirit answered, 'I can smite thee where I please.' They were at length grown fearless and bold to speak to it, and its speeches and actions were a recreation to them, seeing it was a familiar kind of spirit which did not hurt them, and informed them of some things which they did not know. One old man, more bold than wise, on hearing the spirit just by him, threatened to stick him with his knife, to which he answered, 'Thou fool, how can thou stick what thou cannot see with thine eyes.' The spirit told them that he came from Pwll-y-Gaseg, _i.e_., Mare's Pit, a place so called in the adjacent mountain, and that he knew them all before he came there. . . . On Easter Wednesday he left the house and took his farewell in these words:--'Dos yn iack, Job,' _i.e_., 'Farewell, Job,' to which Job said, 'Where goest thou?' He was answered, 'Where God pleases.'" The Pwka was credited with maliciously leading benighted men astray. He would appear with a lantern or candle in hand, some little distance in front of the traveller, and without any exertion keep ahead of him, and leading him through rocky and dangerous places, would suddenly, with an ironical laugh blow out the candle, and disappear, and leave the man to his fate. The following tale, taken from Croker's _Fairy Legends of Ireland_, vol. ii., pp. 231-3, well illustrates this mischievous trait in the character of the Pwka. The writer has seen the tale elsewhere, but as it differs only slightly from that recorded by Croker, he gives it in the words of this author. His words are as follows:-- "Cwm Pwcca, or the Pwcca's Valley, forms part of the deep and romantic glen of the Clydach, which, before the establishment of the iron works of Messrs. Frere and Powell, was one of the most secluded spots in Wales, and therefore well calculated for the haunt of goblins and fairies; but the bustle of a manufactory has now in a great measure scared these beings away, and of late it is very rarely that any of its former inhabitants, the Pwccas, are seen. Such, however, is their attachment to their ancient haunt, that they have not entirely deserted it, as there was lately living near this valley a man who used to assert that he had seen one, and had a narrow escape of losing his life, through the maliciousness of the goblin. As he was one night returning home over the mountain from his work, he perceived at some distance before him a light, which seemed to proceed from a candle in a lantern, and upon looking more attentively, he saw what he took to be a human figure carrying it, which he concluded to be one of his neighbours likewise returning from his work. As he perceived that the figure was going the same way with himself, he quickened his pace in order that he might overtake him, and have the benefit of his light to descend the steep and rocky path which led into the valley; but he rather wondered that such a short person as appeared to carry the lantern should be able to walk so fast. However, he re-doubled his exertions, determined to come up with him, and although he had some misgivings that he was not going along the usual track, yet he thought that the man with the lantern must know better than himself, and he followed the direction taken by him without further hesitation. Having, by dint of hard walking, overtaken him, he suddenly found himself on the brink of one of the tremendous precipices of Cwm Pwcca, down which another step would have carried him headlong into the roaring torrent beneath. And, to complete his consternation, at the very instant he stopped, the little fellow with the lantern made a spring right across the glen to the opposite side, and there, holding up the light above his head, turned round and uttered with all his might a loud and most malicious laugh, upon which he blew out his candle, and disappeared up the opposite hill." This spirit is also said to have assisted men in their labours, and servant girls and servant men often had their arduous burdens lightened by his willing hands. But he punished those who offended him in a vindictive manner. The Pwka could hide himself in a jug of barm or in a ball of yarn, and when he left a place, it was for ever. In the next chapter I will treat of another phase of legendary lore, which, although highly imaginative, seems to intimate that the people who transmitted these tales had some knowledge, though an exaggerated one, of a people and system which they supplanted. FAIRY, OR MYTHIC ANIMALS. From the Myddvai Legend it would appear that the Fairies possessed sheep, cattle, goats, and horses, and from other tales we see that they had dogs, etc. Their stock, therefore, was much like that of ordinary farmers in our days. But Fairy animals, like their owners, have, in the course of ages, been endowed with supernatural powers. In this chapter shall be given a short history of these mythical animals. _Cwn Annwn_, _or Dogs of the Abyss_. The words _Cwn Annwn_ are variously translated as Dogs of Hell, Dogs of Elfinland. In some parts of Wales they are called _Cwn Wybir_, Dogs of the Sky, and in other places _Cwn Bendith Y Mamau_. We have seen that "_Bendith y Mamau_" is a name given to the Fairies, and in this way these dogs become Fairy Dogs. A description of these Fairy dogs is given in _Y Brython_, vol. iii p. 22. Briefly stated it is as follows:--_Cwn Bendith y Mamau_ were a pack of small hounds, headed by a large dog. Their howl was something terrible to listen to, and it foretold death. At their approach all other dogs ceased barking, and fled before them in terror, taking refuge in their kennels. The birds of the air stopped singing in the groves when they heard their cry, and even the owl was silent when they were near. The laugh of the young, and the talk at the fireside were hushed when the dreadful howl of these Hell hounds was heard, and pale and trembling with fear the inmates crowded together for mutual protection. And what was worse than all, these dogs often foretold a death in some particular family in the neighbourhood where they appeared, and should a member of this family be in a public-house, or other place of amusement, his fright would be so great that he could not move, believing that already had death seized upon some one in his house. The Fairy dogs howled more at Cross-roads, and such like public places, than elsewhere. And woe betide any one who stood in their way, for they bit them, and were likely even to drag a man away with them, and their bite was often fatal. They collected together in huge numbers in the churchyard where the person whose death they announced was to be buried, and, howling around the place that was to be his grave, disappeared on that very spot, sinking there into the earth, and afterwards they were not to be seen. A somewhat different description of _Cwn Annwn_ is given in the _Cambro-Briton_, vol. i., p. 350. Here we are told that "these terrific animals are supposed to be devils under the semblance of hunting dogs . . . and they are usually accompanied by fire in some form or other. Their appearance is supposed to indicate the death of some friend or relative of the person to whom they shew themselves. They have never been known to commit any mischief on the persons of either man or woman, goat, sheep, or cow, etc." In Motley's _Tales of the Cymry_, p. 58, that author says:--"I have met with but a few old people who still cherished a belief in these infernal hounds which were supposed after death to hunt the souls of the wretched to their allotted place of torment." It was, however, once firmly and generally believed, that these awful creatures could be heard of a wild stormy night in full cry pursuing the souls of the unbaptized and unshriven. Mr. Chapman, Dolfor, near Newtown, Montgomeryshire, writes to me thus:--"These mysterious animals are never seen, only heard. A whole pack were recently heard on the borders of Radnorshire and Montgomeryshire. They went from the Kerry hills towards the Llanbadarn road, and a funeral quickly followed the same route. The sound was similar to that made by a pack of hounds in full cry, but softer in tone." The Rev. Edmund Jones, in his work entitled "An Account of Apparitions of Spirits in the county of Monmouth," says that, "The nearer these dogs are to a man, the less their voice is, and the farther the louder, and sometimes, like the voice of a great hound, or like that of a blood hound, a deep hollow voice." It is needless to say that this gentleman believed implicitly in the existence of _Cwn Annwn_, and adduces instances of their appearance. The following is one of his tales:-- "As Thomas Andrews was coming towards home one night with some persons with him, he heard, as he thought, the sound of hunting. He was afraid it was some person hunting the sheep, so he hastened on to meet, and hinder them; he heard them coming towards him, though he saw them not. When they came near him, their voices were but small, but increasing as they went from him; they went down the steep towards the river _Ebwy_, dividing between this parish and _Mynyddislwyn_, whereby he knew they were what are called _Cwn wybir_ (Sky dogs), but in the inward part of Wales _Cwn Annwn_ (Dogs of Hell). I have heard say that these spiritual hunting-dogs have been heard to pass by the eaves of several houses before the death of someone in the family. Thomas Andrews was an honest, religious man, and would not have told an untruth either for fear or for favour." The colour of these dogs is variously given, as white, with red ears, and an old man informed Mr. Motley that their colour was blood-red, and that they always were dripping with gore, and that their eyes and teeth were of fire. This person confessed that he had never seen these dogs, but that he described them from what he had heard.--_Tales of the Cymry_, p. 60. There is in _The Cambro-Briton_, vol. ii., p. 271, another and more natural description of _Cwn Annwn_. It is there stated that Pwyll, prince of Dyved, went out to hunt, and:-- "He sounded his horn and began to enter upon the chase, following his dogs and separating from his companions. And, as he was listening to the cry of his pack, he could distinctly hear the cry of another pack, different from that of his own, and which was coming in an opposite direction. He could also discern an opening in the wood towards a level plain; and as his pack was entering the skirt of the opening, he perceived a stag before the other pack, and about the middle of the glade the pack in the rear coming up and throwing the stag on the ground; upon this be fixed his attention on the colour of the pack without recollecting to look at the stag; and, of all the hounds in the world he had ever seen, he never saw any like them in colour. Their colour was a shining clear white, with red ears; and the whiteness of the dogs, and the redness of their ears, were equally conspicuous." We are informed that these dogs belonged to Arawn, or the silver-tongued King of Annwn, of the lower or southern regions. In this way these dogs are identified with the creatures treated of in this chapter. But their work was less weird than soul-hunting. A superstition akin to that attached to _Cwn Annwn_ prevails in many countries, as in Normandy and Bretagne. In Devonshire, the Wish, or Wisked Hounds, were once believed in, and certain places on Dartmoor were thought to be their peculiar resort, and it was supposed that they hunted on certain nights, one of which was always St. John's Eve. These terrible creations of a cruel mind indicate a phase of faith antagonistic to, and therefore more ancient than, Christianity. With another quotation from _Tales of the Cymry_ (p. 61-62), I will conclude my remarks:-- "In the north of Devon the spectral pack are called Yesh hounds and Yell hounds. There is another legend, evidently of Christian origin, which represents them in incessant pursuit of a lost spirit. In the northern quarter of the moor the Wish hounds, in pursuit of the spirit of a man who had been well known in the country, entered a cottage, the door of which had been incautiously left open, and ran round the kitchen, but quietly, without their usual cry. The Sunday after the same man appeared in church, and the person whose house the dogs had entered, made bold by the consecrated place in which they were, ventured to ask why he had been with the Wish hounds. 'Why should not my spirit wander,' he replied, 'as well as another man's?' Another version represents the hounds as following the spirit of a beautiful woman, changed into the form of a hare; and the reader will find a similar legend, with some remarkable additions, in the Disquisitiones Magicae of the Jesuit Delrio, lib. vi., c.2." The preceding paragraph is from the pen of "R.J.K.," and appears in the _Athenaeum_, March 27, 1847, Art. Folk-lore. _The Fairy Cow_. There are many traditions afloat about a wonderful cow, that supplied whole neighbourhoods with milk, which ceased when wantonly wasted. In some parts of England this is called the Dun Cow; in Shropshire she becomes also the _White Cow_; in Wales she is, _Y Fuwch Frech_, or _Y Fuwch Gyfeiliorn_. This mystic cow has found a home in many places. One of these is the wild mountain land between Llanfihangel Glyn Myfyr and a hamlet called Clawdd Newydd about four miles from Ruthin. About midway between these two places is a bridge called Pontpetrual, and about half a mile from the bridge to the north is a small mountain farm called _Cefn Bannog_, and near this farm, but on the unenclosed mountain, are traces of primitive abodes, and it was here that, tradition says, the _Fuwch Frech_ had her home. But I will now give the history of this strange cow as I heard it from the mouth of Thomas Jones, Cefn Bannog. _Y Fuwch Frech_. _The Freckled Cow_. In ages long gone by, my informant knew not how long ago, a wonderful cow had her pasture land on the hill close to the farm, called Cefn Bannog, after the mountain ridge so named. It would seem that the cow was carefully looked after, as indicated by the names of places bearing her name. The site of the cow house is still pointed out, and retains its name, _Preseb y Fuwch Frech_--the Crib of the Freckled Cow. Close to this place are traces of a small enclosure called _Gwal Erw y Fuwch Frech_, or the Freckled Cow's Meadow. There is what was once a track way leading from the ruins of the cow house to a spring called _Ffynon y Fuwch Frech_, or the Freckled Cow's Well, and it was, tradition says, at this well that the cow quenched her thirst. The well is about 150 yards from the cow house. Then there is the feeding ground of the cow called, _Waen Banawg_, which is about half a mile from the cow house. There are traces of walls several feet thick in these places. The spot is a lonely one, but ferns and heather flourish luxuriantly all about this ancient homestead. It is also said that this cow was the mother of the _Ychain Banawg_, or large-horned oxen. But now to proceed to the tradition that makes the memory of this cow dear to the inhabitants of the Denbighshire moorland. Old people have transmitted from generation to generation the following strange tale of the Freckled Cow. Whenever any one was in want of milk they went to this cow, taking with them a vessel into which they milked the cow, and, however big this vessel was, they always departed with the pail filled with rich milk, and it made no difference, however often she was milked, she could never be milked dry. This continued for a long time, and glad indeed the people were to avail themselves of the inexhaustible supply of new milk, freely given to them all. At last a wicked hag, filled with envy at the people's prosperity, determined to milk the cow dry, and for this purpose she took a riddle with her, and milked and milked the cow, until at last she could get no more milk from her. But, sad to say, the cow immediately, upon this treatment, left the country, and was never more seen. Such is the local history of the Freckled Cow. Tradition further states that she went straight to a lake four miles off, bellowing as she went, and that she was followed by her two children the _Dau Eidion Banawg_, the two long-horned oxen, to _Llyn dau ychain_, the Lake of the Two Oxen, in the parish of Cerrig-y-drudion, and that she entered the lake and the two long-horned oxen, bellowing horribly, went, one on either side the lake, and with their mother disappeared within its waters, and none were ever afterwards seen. Notwithstanding that tradition buries these celebrated cattle in this lake, I find in a book published by Dr. John Williams, the father of the Rev. John Williams, M.A., Vicar of Llanwddyn, in the year 1830, on the "Natural History of Llanrwst," the following statement. The author in page 17, when speaking of _Gwydir_, says:-- "In the middle court (which was once surrounded by the house), there is a large bone, which appears to be the rib of some species of whale, but according to the vulgar opinion, it is the rib of the Dun Cow (_y Fuwch Frech_), killed by the Earl of Warwick." It may be stated that Llanrwst is not many miles distant from Cerrig-y-drudion and yet we have in these places conflicting traditions, which I will not endeavour to reconcile. The Shropshire tale of the Fairy Cow is much the same as the preceding. There she is known as _The White Cow of __Mitchell's Fold_. This place is situated on the Corndon Hill, a bare moorland in the extreme west of Shropshire. To this day there is to be seen there a stone circle known as Mitchell's Fold. The story of the Shropshire Cow is this. There was a dire famine in those parts, and the people depended for support on a beautiful white cow, a Fairy cow, that gave milk to everybody, and it mattered not how many came, there was always enough for all, and it was to be so, so long as every one who came only took one pailful. The cow came night and morning to be milked, and it made no difference what size the vessel was that was brought by each person, for she always gave enough milk to fill it, and all the other pails. At last, there came an old witch to Mitchell's Fold, and in spite and malice she brought a riddle and milked the cow into it; she milked and milked, and at last she milked her dry, and after that the cow was never seen. Folk say she was turned into a stone. I am indebted to Miss Burne's _Shropshire Folk-Lore_ for the particulars above given. A like tale is to be heard in Warwickshire, and also in Lancashire, near Preston, where the Dun cow gave freely her milk to all in time of drought, and disappeared on being subjected to the treatment of the Welsh and Shropshire cow. Mr. Lloyd, Llanfihangel Glyn Myfyr, gave me a different tale of the _Dau ychain Banawg_ to that already related. His story is as follows:-- _The Legend of Llyn y ddau ychain_. The speckled cow had two calves, which, when they grew up, became strong oxen. In those days there was a wicked spirit that troubled Cerrig-y-drudion Church, and the people greatly feared this spirit, and everybody was afraid, even in the day-time, to pass the church, for there, day after day, they saw the evil one looking out of the church windows and grinning at them. They did not know what to do to get rid of this spirit, but at last they consulted a famous conjuror, who told them that no one could dislodge their enemy but the _Dau ychain Banawg_. They knew of the two long-horned cattle which fed on Waen Banawg. There, therefore, they went, and brought the powerful yoke to the church. After considerable difficulty they succeeded in dislodging the spirit, and in securing it to a sledge to which these oxen were yoked, and now struggling to get free, he was dragged along by the powerful oxen towards a lake on Hiraethog Mountain, but so ponderous was their load and so fearful was the spirit's contentions that the sledge ploughed the land between the church and the lake as they went along, leaving in the course that they took deep furrows, and when they came to the hill so terrible were the struggles of the oxen to get along that the marks of their hoofs were left in the rocks where they may still be seen. When at last they reached the lake the spirit would not yield, and therefore oxen, sledge, and spirit were driven into the lake, and thus was the country rid of the evil one, and hence the name of the lake--the Lake of the Two Oxen--for the oxen likewise perished in the lake. The foregoing legend is evidently founded on the older and more obscure story of Hu Gardarn, or Hu the Mighty, who with his _Dau ychain Banawg_ drew to land the _avanc_ out of _Llyn Llion_, so that the lake burst out no more to deluge the earth. For, be it known, it was this _avanc_ that had occasioned the flood. However, there is a rival claimant for the honour of having destroyed the _avanc_, whatever that might have been, for, in Hindu Mythology, Vishnu is credited with having slain the monster that had occasioned the Deluge. This last bit of Folk-lore about Hu Gadarn, which is found in the _Triads_, shows how widespread, and how very ancient, Welsh tales are. Hu Gadarn is by some writers identified with Noah. He was endowed, it would seem, with all the qualities of the gods of the Greeks, Egyptians, and Orientals, and his name is applied by the Welsh poets of the middle ages to the Supreme Being. _Y Fuwch Gyfeiliorn_. _The Stray Cow_. The history of the Fairy Stray Cow appears in _Y Brython_, vol. iii., pp. 183-4. The writer of the story states that he obtained his materials from a Paper by the late Dr. Pugh, Penhelyg, Aberdovey. The article alluded to by Gwilym Droed-ddu, the writer of the account in the _Brython_, appeared in the _Archaeologia Cambrensis_ for 1853, pp. 201-5. The tale, as given by Dr. Pugh, is reproduced by Professor Rhys in his Welsh Fairy Tales, and it is much less embellished in English than in Welsh. I will quote as much of the Doctor's account as refers to the Stray Cow. "A shrewd old hill farmer (Thomas Abergroes by name), well skilled in the folk-lore of the district, informed me that, in years gone by, though when, exactly, he was too young to remember, those dames (_Gwragedd Annwn_) were wont to make their appearance, arrayed in green, in the neighbourhood of Llyn Barfog, chiefly at eventide, accompanied by their kine and hounds, and that, on quiet summer nights in particular, these ban-hounds were often to be heard in full cry, pursuing their prey--the souls of doomed men dying without baptism and penance--along the upland township of Cefnrhosucha. Many a farmer had a sight of their comely, milk-white kine; many a swain had his soul turned to romance and poesy by a sudden vision of themselves in the guise of damsels arrayed in green, and radiant in beauty and grace; and many a sportsman had his path crossed by their white hounds of supernatural fleetness and comeliness, the _Cwn Annwn_; but never had any one been favoured with more than a passing view of either, till an old farmer residing at Dyssyrnant, in the adjoining valley of Dyffryn Gwyn, became at last the lucky captor of one of their milk-white kine. The acquaintance which the _Gwartheg y Llyn_, the kine of the lake, had formed with the farmer's cattle, like the loves of the angels for the daughters of men, became the means of capture; and the farmer was thereby enabled to add the mystic cow to his own herd, an event in all cases believed to be most conducive to the worldly prosperity of him who should make so fortunate an acquisition. Never was there such a cow, never were there such calves, never such milk and butter, or cheese; and the fame of the _Fuwch Gyfeiliorn_, the stray cow, was soon spread abroad through that central part of Wales known as the district of Rhwng y ddwy Afon, from the banks of the Mawddach to those of the Dofwy (Dovey)--from Aberdiswnwy to Abercorris. The farmer, from a small beginning, rapidly became, like Job, a man of substance, possessed of thriving herds of cattle--a very patriarch among the mountains. But, alas! wanting Job's restraining grace, his wealth made him proud, his pride made him forget his obligation to the elfin cow, and fearing she might soon become too old to be profitable, he fattened her for the butcher, and then even she did not fail to distinguish herself, for a more monstrously fat beast was never seen. At last the day of slaughter came--an eventful day in the annals of a mountain farm--the killing of a fat cow, and such a monster of obesity. No wonder all the neighbours were gathered together to see the sight. The old farmer looked upon the preparations in self-pleased importance; the butcher felt he was about no common feat of his craft, and, baring his arm, he struck the blow--not now fatal, for before even a hair had been injured, his arm was paralysed, the knife dropped from his hand, and the whole company was electrified by a piercing cry that awakened an echo in a dozen hills, and made the welkin ring again; and lo and behold! the whole assemblage saw a female figure, clad in green, with uplifted arms, standing on one of the rocks overhanging Llyn Barfog, and heard her calling with a voice loud as thunder:-- 'Dere di velen Einion, Cyrn cyveiliorn--braith y Llyn, A'r voel Dodin, Codwch, dewch adre.' 'Come thou Einion's yellow one, Stray horns--speckled one of the Lake, And the hornless Dodin, Arise, come home.' And no sooner were these words of power uttered, than the original lake cow, and all her progeny to the third and fourth generations, were in full flight towards the heights of Llyn Barfog, as if pursued by the evil one. Self-interest quickly roused the farmer, who followed in pursuit, till, breathless and panting, he gained an eminence overlooking the lake, but with no better success than to behold the green-attired dame leisurely descending mid-lake, accompanied by the fugitive cows, and her calves formed in a circle around her; they tossed their tails, she waved her hands in scorn, as much as to say, 'You may catch us, my friend, if you can,' as they disappeared beneath the dark waters of the lake, leaving only the yellow water-lily to mark the spot where they vanished, and to perpetuate the memory of this strange event. Meanwhile, the farmer looked with rueful countenance upon the spot where the elfin herd disappeared, and had ample leisure to deplore the effects of his greediness, as with them also departed the prosperity which had hitherto attended him, and he became impoverished to a degree below his original circumstances, and in his altered circumstances few felt pity for one who, in the noontide flow of prosperity, had shown himself so far forgetful of favours received, as to purpose slaying his benefactor." Thus ends Dr. Pugh's account of the Stray Cow. A tale very much like the preceding is recorded of a Scotch farmer. It is to be found in vol. ii., pp. 45-6, of Croker's _Fairy Legends of Ireland_, and is as follows:-- "A farmer who lived near a river had a cow which regularly every year, on a certain day in May, left the meadow and went slowly along the banks of the river till she came opposite to a small island overgrown with bushes; she went into the water and waded or swam towards the island, where she passed some time, and then returned to her pasture. This continued for several years; and every year, at the usual season, she produced a calf which perfectly resembled the elf bull. One afternoon, about Martinmas, the farmer, when all the corn was got in and measured, was sitting at his fireside, and the subject of the conversation was, which of the cattle should be killed for Christmas. He said: 'We'll have the cow; she is well fed, and has rendered good services in ploughing, and filled the stalls with fine oxen, now we will pick her old bones.' Scarcely had he uttered these words when the cow with her young ones rushed through the walls as if they had been made of paper, went round the dunghill, bellowed at each of her calves, and then drove them all before her, according to their age, towards the river, where they got into the water, reached the island, and vanished among the bushes. They were never more heard of." _Ceffyl y Dwfr_. _The Water Horse_. The superstition respecting the water-horse, in one form or other, is common to the Celtic race. He was supposed to intimate by preternatural lights and noises the death of those about to perish by water, and it was vulgarly believed that he even assisted in drowning his victims. The water-horse was thought to be an evil spirit, who, assuming the shape of a horse, tried to allure the unwary to mount him, and then soaring into the clouds, or rushing over mountain, and water, would suddenly vanish into air or mist, and precipitate his rider to destruction. The Welsh water-horse resembles the Kelpie of the Scotch. Jamieson, under the word _Kelpie_, in his _Scottish Dictionary_, quoting from various authors, as is his custom, says:-- "This is described as an aquatic demon, who drowns not only men but ships. The ancient Northern nations believed that he had the form of a horse; and the same opinion is still held by the vulgar in Iceland. "Loccenius informs us that in Sweden the vulgar are still afraid of his power, and that swimmers are on their guard against his attacks; being persuaded that he suffocates and carries off those whom he catches under water." "Therefore," adds this writer, "it would seem that ferry-men warn those who are crossing dangerous places in some rivers not so much as to mention his name; lest, as they say, they should meet with a storm and be in danger of losing their lives. Hence, doubtless, has this superstition originated; that, in these places formerly, during the time of paganism, those who worshipped their sea-deity _Nekr_, did so, as it were with a sacred silence, for the reason already given." The Scotch Kelpie closely resembled the Irish Phoocah, or Poocah, a mischievous being, who was particularly dreaded on the night of All Hallow E'en, when it was thought he had especial power; he delighted to assume the form of a black horse, and should any luckless wight bestride the fiendish steed, he was carried through brake and mire, over water and land at a bewildering pace. Woe-betide the timid rider, for the Poocah made short work of such an one, and soon made him kiss the ground. But to the bold fearless rider the Poocah submitted willingly, and became his obedient beast of burden. The following quotation from the _Tales of the Cymry_, p. 151, which is itself an extract from Mrs. S. C. Hall's _Ireland_, graphically describes the Irish water fiend:-- "The great object of the Poocah seems to be to obtain a rider, and then he is in all his most malignant glory. Headlong he dashes through briar and brake, through flood and fall, over mountain, valley, moor, and river indiscriminately; up and down precipice is alike to him, provided he gratifies the malevolence that seems to inspire him. He bounds and flies over and beyond them, gratified by the distress, and utterly reckless and ruthless of the cries, and danger, and suffering of the luckless wight who bestrides him." Sometimes the Poocah assumed the form of a goat, an eagle, or of some other animal, and leaped upon the shoulders of the unwary traveller, and clung to him, however frantic were the exertions to get rid of the monster. Allied to the water-horse were the horses upon which magicians in various lands were supposed to perform their aerial journeys. It was believed in Wales that the clergy could, without danger, ride the water-horse, and the writer has heard a tale of a clergyman, who, when bestride one of these horses, had compassion on his parish clerk, who was trudging by his side, and permitted him to mount behind him, on condition that he should keep silence when upon the horse's back. For awhile the loquacious parish clerk said no word, but ere long the wondrous pace of the horse caused him to utter a pious ejaculation, and no sooner were the words uttered than he was thrown to the ground; his master kept his seat, and, on parting with the fallen parish official, shouted out, "Serve you right, why did you not keep your noisy tongue quiet?" The weird legends and gloomy creations of the Celt assume a mild and frolicsome feature when interpreted by the Saxon mind. The malevolent Poocah becomes in England the fun-loving Puck, who delights in playing his pranks on village maidens, and who says:-- I am that merry wanderer of the night; Jest to Oberon, and make him smile, When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal; And sometimes lurk I in a gossip's bowl, In very likeness of a roasted crab; And when she drinks against her lips I bob, And on her withered dew-lap pour the ale. _Midsummer Night's Dream_, Act I, Sc. I. The _Ceffyl-y-Dwfr_ was very different to Chaucer's wonderful brass horse, which could be ridden, without harm, by a sleeping rider:-- This steed of brasse, and easilie and well Can in the space of a day naturel, This is to say, in foure and twenty houres, Where so ye lists, in drought or elles showers, Baren yours bodie into everie place, In which your hearte willeth for to pace, Withouten wemme of you through foul or fair, Or if you liste to flee as high in th' aire As doth an eagle when him liste to soare, This same steed shall bear you evermore, Withouten harm, till ye be there you leste, Though that ye sleepen on his back or reste; And turn againe with writhing of a pinne, He that it wroughte he coulde many a gin, He waited many a constellation, Ere he had done this operation. _Chaucer's Squire's Tale_, 137-152. The rider of the magic horse was made acquainted with the charm that secured its obedience, for otherwise he took an aerial ride at his peril. This kind of invention is oriental, but it is sufficiently like the Celtic in outline to indicate that all figments of the kind had undoubtedly a common origin. I have seen it somewhere stated, but where I cannot recall to mind, that, the Water Horses did, in olden times, sport, on the Welsh mountains, with the puny native ponies, before they became a mixed breed. It was believed that the initiated could conjure up the River Horse by shaking a magic bridle over the pool wherein it dwelt. There is much curious information respecting this mythic animal in the _Tales of the Cymry_ and from this work I have culled many thoughts. _The Torrent Spectre_. This spectre was supposed to be an old man, or malignant spirit, who directed, and ruled over, the mountain torrents. He delighted in devastating the lands. His appearance was horrible to behold, and it was believed that in the midst of the rushing stream his terrible form could be discerned apparently moving with the torrent, but in reality remaining stationary. Now he would raise himself half out of the water, and ascend like a mist half as high as the near mountain, and then he would dwindle down to the size of a man. His laugh accorded with his savage visage, and his long hair stood on end, and a mist always surrounded him. Davies, in his _Mythology of the Druids_, says that believers in this strange superstition are yet to be met with in Glamorganshire. Davies was born in the parish of Llanvareth, Radnorshire, in 1756, and died January 1st, 1831. _Gwrach y Rhibyn_, _or Hag of the Mist_. Another supernatural being associated with water was the _Gwrach y Rhibyn_. She was supposed to reside in the dripping fog, but was seldom, if ever seen. It was believed that her shriek foretold misfortune, if not death, to the hearer, and some even thought that, in a shrill tenor, and lengthened voice, she called the person shortly to die by name. _Yr Hen Chrwchwd_, or The Old Humpbacked, a fiend in the shape of an old woman, is thought to be identical with this _Gwrach y Rhibyn_. In Carmarthenshire the spirit of the mist is represented, not as a shrivelled up old woman, but as a hoary headed old man, who seats himself on the hill sides, just where the clouds appear to touch them, and he is called _Y Brenhin Llwyd_, or The Grey King. I know not what functions this venerable personage, or king of the mist, performed, unless it were, that he directed the mist's journey through the air. _Mermaids and Mermen_. It is said that these fabulous beings frequented the sea-coasts of Wales to the great danger of the inhabitants. The description of the Welsh mermaid was just as it is all over the world; she is depicted as being above the waist a most lovely young woman, whilst below she is like a fish with fins and spreading tail. Both mermen and mermaids were fond, it is said, of combing their long hair, and the siren-like song of the latter was thought to be so seductive as to entice men to destruction. It was believed that beautiful mermaids fell in love with comely young men and even induced them to enter their abodes in the depth of the sea. I heard the following tale, I believe in Carnarvonshire, but I have no notes of it, and write from memory. A man captured a mermaid, and took her home to his house, but she did nothing but beg and beg to be allowed to return to the sea, but notwithstanding her entreaties her captor kept her safe enough in a room, and fastened the door so that she could not escape. She lingered several days, pitifully beseeching the man to release her, and then she died. But ever after that event a curse seemed to rest upon the man, for he went from bad to worse, and died miserably poor. It was always considered most unlucky to do anything unkind to these beings. Fear acted as a powerful incentive, in days of old, to generous conduct. For it was formerly believed that vengeance ever overtook the cruel. An Isle of Man legend, related by Waldron, in his account of the Isle of Man, and reproduced by Croker, vol. i., p. 56, states, that some persons captured a mermaid, and carried her to a house and treated her tenderly, but she refused meat and drink, neither would she speak, when addressed, though they knew these creatures could speak. Seeing that she began to look ill, and fearing some great calamity would befall the island if she died, they opened the door, after three days, and she glided swiftly to the sea side. Her keeper followed at a distance and saw her plunge into the sea, where she was met by a great number of her own species, one of whom asked her what she had seen among those on land, to which she answered, "Nothing, but that they are so ignorant as to throw away the very water they boil their eggs in." STORIES OF SATAN, GHOSTS, ETC. Although Max Muller, in _Chips from a German Workshop_, vol. ii., p. 238, states that "The Aryan nations had no Devil," this certainly cannot at present be affirmed of that branch of the Celtic race which inhabits Wales. In the Principality the Devil occupies a prominent position in the foreground of Welsh Folk-Lore. He is, however, generally depicted as inferior in cunning and intellect to a bright-witted Welshman, and when worsted in a contest he acknowledges his inferiority by disappearing in a ball or wheel of fire. Men, it was supposed, could sell themselves to the Evil One for a term of years, but they easily managed to elude the fulfilment of the contract, for there was usually a loop-hole by which they escaped from the clutches of the stupid Devil. For instance, a man disposes of his soul for riches, pleasures, and supernatural knowledge and power, which he is to enjoy for a long number of years, and in the contract it is stipulated that the agreement holds good if the man is buried either _in_ or _outside_ the church. To all appearance the victim is irretrievably lost, but no, after enjoying all the fruits of his contract, he cheats the Devil of his due, by being buried _in_ or _under_ the church walls. In many tales Satan is made to act a part detrimental to his own interests; thus Sabbath breakers, card players, and those who practised divination, have been frightened almost to death by the appearance of the Devil, and there and then, being terrified by the horrible aspect of the enemy, they commenced a new life. This thought comes out strongly in _Y Bardd Cwsg_. The poet introduces one of the fallen angels as appearing to act the part given to the Devil, in the play of Faust, when it was being performed at Shrewsbury, and this appearance drove the frequenters of the theatre from their pleasures to their prayers. His words are:-- "Dyma walch, ail i hwnw yn y Mwythig, y dydd arall, ar ganol interlud Doctor Ffaustus; a rhai . . . pan oeddynt brysuraf, ymddangosodd y diawl ei hun i chwareu ei bart ac wrth hynny gyrodd bawb o'i bleser i'w weddiau." In English this is:--"Here's a fine fellow, second to that at Shrewsbury, who the other day, when the interlude of Doctor Faustus was being acted, in the middle of the play, all being busily engaged, the devil himself appeared to take his own part, and by so doing, drove everyone from pleasure to prayer." The absurd conduct of the Evil Spirit on this occasion is held up to ridicule by the poet, but the idea, which is an old one, that demons were, by a superior power, obliged to frustrate their own designs, does not seem to have been taken into consideration by him. He depicts the Devil as a strange mixture of stupidity and remorseless animosity. But this, undoubtedly, was the then general opinion. The bard revels in harrowing descriptions of the tortures of the damned in Gehenna--the abode of the Arch-fiend and his angels. This portion of his work was in part the offspring of his own fervid imagination; but in part it might have been suggested to him by what had been written already on the subject; and from the people amongst whom he lived he could have, and did derive, materials for these descriptions. In any case he did not outrage, by any of his horrible depictions of Pandemonium, the sentiments of his fellow countrymen, and his delineation of Satan was in full accord with the popular opinion of his days. The bard did not create but gave utterance to the fleeting thoughts which then prevailed respecting the Devil. Indeed there does not seem to be in Wales any distinct attributes ascribed to Satan, which are not also believed to be his specialities in other countries. His personal appearance is the same in most places. He is described as being black, with horns, and hoofs and tail, he breathes fire and brimstone, and he is accompanied with the clank of chains. Such was the uncouth form which Satan was supposed to assume, and such was the picture drawn of him formerly in Wales. There is a strong family likeness in this description between Satan and _Pan_, who belongs to Greek and Egyptian mythology. Pan had two small horns on his head, his nose was flat, and his legs, thighs, tail, and feet were those of a goat. His face is described as ruddy, and he is said to have possessed many qualities which are also ascribed to Satan. His votaries were not encumbered with an exalted code of morality. The _Fauni_, certain deities of Italy, are also represented as having the legs, feet, and ears of goats, and the rest of the body human, and the _Satyri_ of the Greeks are also described as having the feet and legs of goats, with short horns on the head, and the whole body covered with thick hair. These demigods revelled in riot and lasciviousness. The satyrs attended upon Bacchus, and made themselves conspicuous in his orgies. The Romans called their satyrs Fauni, Panes, and Sylvani. It is difficult to ascertain whether the Celt of Britain obtained through the Romans their gross notions of the material body of Satan, or whether it was in later times that they became possessed of this idea. It may well have been that the Fauni, and other disreputable deities of the conquerors of the world, on the introduction of Christianity were looked upon as demons, and their forms consequently became fit representations of the Spirit of Evil, from whom they differed little, if any, in general attributes. In this way god after god would be removed from their pedestals in the world's pantheon, and would be relegated to the regions occupied by the great enemy of all that is pure, noble, and good in mankind. Thus the god of one age would become the devil of the succeeding age, retaining, nevertheless, by a cruel irony, the same form and qualities in his changed position that he had in his exalted state. It is by some such reasoning as the preceding that we can account for the striking personal resemblance between the Satan of mediaeval and later times and the mythical deities already mentioned. Reference has been made to the rustic belief that from his mouth Satan emits fire and brimstone, and here again we observe traces of classic lore. The fabulous monsters, Typhaeus, or Typhon, and Chimaera, are probably in this matter his prototypes. It is said that real flames of devouring fire darted from the mouth and eyes of Typhon, and that he uttered horrible yells, like the shrieks of different animals, and Chimaera is described as continually vomiting flames. Just as the gods of old could assume different shapes, so could Satan. The tales which follow show that he could change himself at will into the form of a lovely woman, a mouse, a pig, a black dog, a cock, a fish, a headless horse, and into other animals or monstrous beings. But the form which, it is said, he usually assumed to enable him to escape when discovered in his intrigues was a ball or hoop of fire. The first series of tales which I shall relate depict Satan as taking a part in the pastimes of the people. _Satan Playing Cards_. A good many years ago I travelled from Pentrevoelas to Yspytty in company with Mr. Lloyd, the then vicar of the latter parish, who, when crossing over a bridge that spanned a foaming mountain torrent, called my attention to the spot, and related to me the following tale connected with the place:-- A man was returning home late one night from a friend's house, where he had spent the evening in card playing, and as he was walking along he was joined by a gentleman, whose conversation was very interesting. At last they commenced talking about card playing, and the stranger invited the countryman to try his skill with him, but as it was late, and the man wanted to go home, he declined, but when they were on the bridge his companion again pressed him to have a game on the parapet, and proceeded to take out of his pocket a pack of cards, and at once commenced dealing them out; consequently, the man could not now refuse to comply with the request. With varying success game after game was played, but ultimately the stranger proved himself the more skilful player. Just at this juncture a card fell into the water; and in their excitement both players looked over the bridge after it, and the countryman saw to his horror that his opponent's head, reflected in the water, had on it _two horns_. He immediately turned round to have a careful look at his companion; he, however, did not see him, but in his place was a _ball of fire_, which flashed away from his sight. I must say that when I looked over the bridge I came to the conclusion that nothing could have been reflected in the water, for it was a rushing foaming torrent, with no single placid spot upon its surface. Another version of the preceding tale I obtained from the Rev. Owen Jones. In this instance the _cloven foot_ and not the _horned head_ was detected. The scene of this tale is laid in the parish of Rhuddlan near Rhyl. _Satan Playing Cards at a Merry Meeting_. It was formerly a general custom in Wales for young lads and lasses to meet and spend a pleasant evening together in various farmhouses. Many kinds of amusements, such as dancing, singing, and card playing, were resorted to, to while away the time. The Rev. Owen Jones informed me that once upon a time a merry party met at Henafon near Rhuddlan, and when the fun was at its height a gentleman came to the farm, and joined heartily in all the merriment. By and by, card playing was introduced, and the stranger played better than any present. At last a card fell to the ground, and the party who picked it up discovered that the clever player had a cloven foot. In his fright the man screamed out, and immediately the Evil One--for he it was that had joined the party--transformed himself into a wheel of fire, and disappeared up the chimney. For the next tale I am also indebted to my friend the Rev. Owen Jones. The story appears in a Welsh MS. in his possession, which he kindly lent me. I will, first of all, give the tale in the vernacular, and then I will, for the benefit of my English readers, supply an English translation. _Satan Playing Cards on Rhyd-y-Cae Bridge_, _Pentrevoelas_. "Gwas yn y Gilar a phen campwr ei oes am chwareu cardiau oedd Robert Llwyd Hari. Ond wrth fyn'd adre' o Rhydlydan, wedi bod yn chwareu yn nhy Modryb Ann y Green, ar ben y lou groes, daeth boneddwr i'w gyfarfod, ag aeth yn ymgom rhyngddynt. Gofynodd y boneddwr iddo chware' _match_ o gardiau gydag e. 'Nid oes genyf gardian,' meddai Bob. 'Oes, y mae genyt ddau ddec yn dy bocet,' meddai'r boneddwr. Ag fe gytunwyd i chware' _match_ ar Bont Rhyd-y-Cae, gan ei bod yn oleu lleuad braf. Bu y boneddwr yn daer iawn arno dd'od i Blas Iolyn, y caent ddigon o oleu yno, er nad oedd neb yn byw yno ar y pryd. Ond nacaodd yn lan. Aed ati o ddifrif ar y bont, R. Ll. yn curo bob tro. Ond syrthiodd cardyn dros y bont, ac fe edrychodd yntau i lawr. Beth welai and carnau ceffyl gan y boneddwr. Tyngodd ar y Mawredd na chwareuai ddim chwaneg; ar hyn fe aeth ei bartner yn olwyn o dan rhyngddo a Phlas Iolyn, ac aeth yntau adre' i'r Gilar." The English of the tale is as follows:-- Robert Llwyd Hari was a servant in Gilar farm, and the champion card player of his day. When going home from Rhydlydan, after a game of cards in Aunty Ann's house, called the Green, he was met at the end of the cross-lane by a gentleman, who entered into conversation with him. The gentleman asked him to have a game of cards. "I have no cards," answered Bob. "Yes you have, you have two packs in your pocket," answered the gentleman. They settled to play a game on the bridge of Rhyd-y-Cae, as it was a beautiful moonlight night. The gentleman was very pressing that they should go to Plas Iolyn, because they would find there, he said, plenty of light, although no one was then living at the place. But Bob positively refused to go there. They commenced the game in downright good earnest on the bridge, R. Ll. winning every game. But a card fell over the bridge into the water, and Bob looked over, and saw that the gentleman had hoofs like a horse. He swore by the Great Being that he would not play any longer, and on this his partner turned himself into a _wheel of fire_, and departed bowling towards Plas Iolyn, and Bob went home to Gilar. _Satan Snatching a Man up into the Air_. It would appear that poor Bob was doomed to a sad end. His last exploit is thus given:-- "Wrth fyned adre o chware cardia, ar Bont Maesgwyn gwelai Robert Llwyd Hari gylch crwn o dan; bu agos iddo droi yn ol, cymerodd galon eilwaith gan gofio fod ganddo Feibl yn ei boced, ac i ffordd ag e rhyngddo a'r tan, a phan oedd yn passio fe'i cipiwyd i fyny i'r awyr gan y Gwr Drwg, ond gallodd ddyweyd rhiw air wrth y D---, gollyngodd ef i lawr nes ydoedd yn disgyn yn farw mewn llyn a elwir Llyn Hari." Which in English is as follows:-- When going home from playing cards, on Maesgwyn Bridge Robert Llwyd Hari saw a hoop of fire; he was half inclined to turn back, but took heart, remembering that he had a Bible in his pocket. So on he went, and when passing the fire he was snatched up into the air by the Bad Man, but he was able to utter a certain word to the D---, he was dropped down, and fell dead into a lake called Harry's Lake. Many tales, varying slightly from the preceding three stories, are still extant in Wales, but these given are so typical of all the rest that it is unnecessary to record more. It may be remarked that card playing was looked upon in the last century--and the feeling has not by any means disappeared in our days--as a deadly sin, and consequently a work pleasing to the Evil One, but it appears singular that the aid of Satan himself should have been invoked to put down a practice calculated to further his own interests. The incongruity of such a proceeding did not apparently enter into the minds of those who gave currency to these unequal contests. But in the tales we detect the existence of a tradition that Satan formerly joined in the pastimes of the people, and, if for card playing some other game were substituted, such as dancing, we should have a reproduction of those fabulous times, when satyrs and demigods and other prototypes of Satan are said to have been upon familiar terms with mortals, and joined in their sports. The reader will have noticed that the poor man who lost his life in the Lake thought himself safe because he had a Bible in his pocket. This shows that the Bible was looked upon as a talisman. But in this instance its efficacy was only partial. I shall have more to say on this subject in another part of this work. Satan in the preceding tales, and others, which shall by and by be related, is represented as transforming himself into a ball, or wheel of fire--into fire, the emblem of an old religion, a religion which has its votaries in certain parts of the world even in this century, and which, at one period in the history of the human race, was widespread. It is very suggestive that Satan should be spoken of as assuming the form of the Fire God, when his personality is detected, and the hint, conveyed by this transformation, would imply that he was himself the Fire God. Having made these few comments on the preceding tales, I will now record a few stories in which Satan is made to take a role similar to that ascribed to him in the card-playing stories. In the following tales Satan's aid is invoked to bring about a reformation in the observance of the Sabbath day. _Satan frightening a Man for gathering Nuts on Sunday_. The following tale was related to me by the Rev. W. E. Jones, rector of Bylchau, near Denbigh:-- Richard Roberts, Coederaill, Bylchau, when a young man, worked in Flintshire, and instead of going to a place of worship on Sunday he got into the habit of wandering about the fields on that day. One fine autumn Sunday he determined to go a-nutting. He came to a wood where nuts were plentiful, and in a short time he filled his pockets with nuts, but perceiving a bush loaded with nuts, he put out his hand to draw the branch to him, when he observed a hairy hand stretching towards the same branch. As soon as he saw this hand he was terribly frightened, and without turning round to see anything further of it, he took to his heels, and never afterwards did he venture to go a-nutting on Sunday. Richard Roberts told the tale to Mr. Jones, his Rector, who tried to convince Roberts that a monkey was in the bush, but he affirmed that Satan had come to him. _Satan taking possession of a man who fished on Sunday_. The following tale is in its main features still current in Cynwyd, a village about two miles from Corwen. The first reference to the story that I am acquainted with appeared in an essay sent in to a local Eisteddfod in 1863. The story is thus related in this essay:-- "About half a mile from Cynwyd is the 'Mill Waterfall,' beneath which there is a deep linn or whirlpool, where a man, who was fishing there on Sunday, once found an enormous fish. 'I will catch him, though the D---l take me,' said the presumptuous man. The fish went under the fall, the man followed him, and was never afterwards seen." Such is the tale, but it is, or was believed, that Satan had changed himself into a fish, and by allurement got the man into his power and carried him bodily to the nethermost regions. _Satan appearing in many forms to a Man who Travelled on Sunday_. I received the following tale from my deceased friend, the Rev. J. L. Davies, late Rector of Llangynog, near Llanfyllin, Montgomeryshire, and he obtained it from William Davies, the man who figures in the story. As a preface to the tale, it should be stated that it was usual, some years ago, for Welsh labourers to proceed to the harvest in England, which was earlier there than in Wales, and after that was finished, they hastened homewards to be in time for their own harvest. These migratory Welsh harvestmen are not altogether extinct in our days, but about forty years ago they were much more common than they are at present. Then respectable farmers' sons with sickles on their backs, and well filled wallets over their shoulders, went in companies to the early English Lowlands to hire themselves as harvest labourers. My tale now commences:-- William Davies, Penrhiw, near Aberystwyth, went to England for the harvest, and after having worked there about three weeks, he returned home alone, with all possible haste, as he knew that his father-in-law's fields were by this time ripe for the sickle. He, however, failed to accomplish the journey before Sunday; but he determined to travel on Sunday, and thus reach home on Sunday night to be ready to commence reaping on Monday morning. His conscience, though, would not allow him to be at rest, but he endeavoured to silence its twittings by saying to himself that he had with him no clothes to go to a place of worship. He stealthily, therefore, walked on, feeling very guilty every step he took, and dreading to meet anyone going to chapel or church. By Sunday evening he had reached the hill overlooking Llanfihangel Creuddyn, where he was known, so he determined not to enter the village until after the people had gone to their respective places of worship; he therefore sat down on the hill side and contemplated the scene below. He saw the people leave their houses for the house of God, he heard their songs of praise, and now he thinks he could venture to descend and pass through the village unobserved. Luckily no one saw him going through the village, and now he has entered a barley field, and although still uneasy in mind, he feels somewhat reassured, and steps on quickly. He had not proceeded far in the barley field before he found himself surrounded by a large number of small pigs. He was not much struck by this, though he thought it strange that so many pigs should be allowed to wander about on the Sabbath day. The pigs, however, came up to him, stared at him, grunted, and scampered away. Before he had traversed the barley field he saw approaching him an innumerable number of mice, and these, too, surrounded him, only, however, to stare at him, and then to disappear. By this Davies began to be frightened, and he was almost sorry that he had broken the Sabbath day by travelling with his pack on his back instead of keeping the day holy. He was not now very far from home, and this thought gave him courage and on he went. He had not proceeded any great distance from the spot where the mice had appeared when he saw a large greyhound walking before him on the pathway. He anxiously watched the dog, but suddenly it vanished out of his sight. By this the poor man was thoroughly frightened, and many and truly sincere were his regrets that he had broken the Sabbath; but on he went. He passed through the village of Llanilar without any further fright. He had now gone about three miles from Llanfihangel along the road that goes to Aberystwyth, and he had begun to dispel the fear that had seized him, but to his horror he saw something approach him that made his hair stand on end. He could not at first make it out, but he soon clearly saw that it was a horse that was madly dashing towards him. He had only just time to step on to the ditch, when, horrible to relate, a headless white horse rushed past him. His limbs shook and the perspiration stood out like beads on his forehead. This terrible spectre he saw when close to Tan'rallt, but he dared not turn into the house, as he was travelling on Sunday, so on he went again, and heartily did he wish himself at home. In fear and dread he proceeded on his journey towards Penrhiw. The most direct way from Tan'rallt to Penrhiw was a pathway through the fields, and Davies took this pathway, and now he was in sight of his home, and he hastened towards the boundary fence between Tan'rallt and Penrhiw. He knew that there was a gap in the hedge that he could get through, and for this gap he aimed; he reached it, but further progress was impossible, for in the gap was a lady lying at full length, and immovable, and stopping up the gap entirely. Poor Davies was now more thoroughly terrified than ever. He sprang aside, he screamed, and then he fainted right away. As soon as he recovered consciousness, he, on his knees, and in a loud supplicating voice, prayed for pardon. His mother and father-in-law heard him, and the mother knew the voice and said, "It is my Will; some mishap has overtaken him." They went to him and found he was so weak that he could not move, and they were obliged to carry him home, where he recounted to them his marvellous experience. My clerical friend, who was intimately acquainted with William Davies, had many conversations with him about his Sunday journey, and he argued the matter with him, and tried to persuade him that he had seen nothing, but that it was his imagination working on a nervous temperament that had created all his fantasies. He however failed to convince him, for Davies affirmed that it was no hallucination, but that what he had seen that Sunday was a punishment for his having broken the Fourth Commandment. It need hardly be added that Davies ever afterwards was a strict observer of the Day of Rest. The following tale, taken from _A Relation of Apparitions_, etc., by the Rev. Edmund Jones, inculcates the same lesson as that taught by the previous tales. I will give the tale a title. _The Evil Spirit appearing to a Man who frequented Alehouses on Sunday_. Jones writes as follows:--"W. J. was once a Sabbath-breaker at _Risca_ village, where he frequently used to play and visit the alehouses on the Sabbath day, and there stay till late at night. On returning homeward he heard something walking behind him, and turning to see what it was he could see the likeness of a man walking by his side; he could not see his face, and was afraid to look much at it, fearing it was an evil spirit, as it really was, therefore he did not wish it good night. This dreadful dangerous apparition generally walked by the left side of him. It afterwards appeared like a great mastiff dog, which terrified him so much that he knew not where he was. After it had gone about half a mile, it transformed itself into a great fire, as large as a small field, and resembled the noise which a fire makes in burning gorse." This vision seems to have had the desired effect on W. J. for we are told that he _was once_ a Sabbath breaker, the inference being, that he was not one when the Rev. Edmund Jones wrote the above narrative. Tales of this kind could be multiplied to almost any extent, but more need not be given. The one idea that runs through them all is that Satan has appeared, and may appear again, to Sabbath breakers, and therefore those who wish to avoid coming in contact with him should keep the Sabbath day holy. _Satan Outwitted_. In the preceding tales the Evil One is depicted as an agent in the destruction of his own kingdom. He thus shows his obtuseness, or his subordination to a higher power. In the story that follows, he is outwitted by a Welshman. Many variants of this tale are found in many countries. It is evident from this and like stories, that it was believed the Spirit of Evil could easily be circumvented by an intelligent human being. The tale is taken from _Y Brython_, vol. v., p. 192. I when a lad often heard the story related, and the scene is laid in Trefeglwys, Montgomeryshire, a parish only a few miles distant from the place where I spent my childhood. The writer in _Y Brython_, speaking of _Ffinant_, says that this farm is about a mile from Trefeglwys, on the north side of the road leading to Newtown. He then proceeds as follows:-- "Mae hen draddodiad tra anhygoel yn perthyn i'r lie hwn. Dywedir fod hen ysgubor yn sefyll yn yr ochr ddeheuol i'r brif-ffordd. Un boreu Sul, pan ydoedd y meistr yn cychwyn i'r Eglwys, dywedodd wrth un o'i weision am gadw y brain oddi ar y maes lle yr oedd gwenith wedi ei hau, yn yr hwn y safai yr hen ysgubor. Y gwas, trwy ryw foddion, a gasglodd y brain oll iddi, a chauodd arnynt; yna dilynodd ei feistr i'r Eglwys; yntau, wrth ei weled yno, a ddechreuodd ei geryddu yn llym. Y meistr, wedi clywed y fath newydd, a hwyliodd ei gamrau tua'i gartref; ac efe a'u cafodd, er ei syndod, fel y crybwyllwyd; ac fe ddywedir fod yr ysgubor yn orlawn o honynt. Gelwir y maes hwn yn _Crow-barn_, neu Ysgubor y brain, hyd heddyw. Dywedir mai enw y gwas oedd Dafydd Hiraddug, ac iddo werthu ei hun i'r diafol, ac oherwydd hyny, ei fod yn alluog i gyflawni gweithredoedd anhygoel yn yr oes hon. Pa fodd bynag, dywedir i Dafydd fod yn gyfrwysach na'r hen sarff y tro hwn, yn ol y cytundeb fu rhyngddynt. Yr ammod oedd, fod i'r diafol gael meddiant hollol o Ddafydd, os dygid ei gorff dros erchwyn gwely, neu trwy ddrws, neu os cleddid ef mewn mynwent, neu mewn Eglwys. Yr oedd Dafydd wedi gorchymyn, pan y byddai farw, am gymmeryd yr afu a'r ysgyfaint o'i gorff, a'i taflu i ben tomen, a dal sylw pa un ai cigfran ai colomen fyddai yn ennill buddugoliaeth am danynt; os cigfran, am gymmeryd ei gorff allan trwy waelod ac nid dros erchwyn y gwely; a thrwy bared ac nid trwy ddrws, a'i gladdu, nid mewn mynwent na llan, ond o dan fur yr Eglwys; ac i'r diafol pan ddeallodd hyn lefaru, gan ddywedyd:-- Dafydd Hiraddug ei ryw, _Ffals_ yn farw, _ffals_ yn fyw." The tale in English is as follows:-- There is an incredible tradition connected with this place Ffinant, Trefeglwys. It is said that an old barn stands on the right hand side of the highway. One Sunday morning, as the master was starting to church, he told one of the servants to keep the crows from a field that had been sown with wheat, in which field the old barn stood. The servant, through some means, collected all the crows into the barn, and shut the door on them. He then followed his master to the Church, who, when he saw the servant there, began to reprove him sharply. But the master, when he heard the strange news, turned his steps homewards, and found to his amazement that the tale was true, and it is said that the barn was filled with crows. This barn, ever afterwards was called _Crow-barn_, a name it still retains. It is said that the servant's name was Dafydd Hiraddug, and that he had sold himself to the devil, and that consequently, he was able to perform feats, which in this age are considered incredible. However, it is said that Dafydd was on this occasion more subtle than the old serpent, even according to the agreement which was between them. The contract was, that the devil was to have complete possession of Dafydd if his corpse were taken over the side of the bed, or through a door, or if buried in a churchyard, or inside a church. Dafydd had commanded, that on his death, the liver and lights were to be taken out of his body and thrown on the dunghill, and notice was to be taken whether a raven or a dove got possession of them; if a raven, then his body was to be taken away by the foot, and not by the side of the bed, and through the wall, and not through the door, and he was to be buried, not in the churchyard nor in the Church, but under the Church walls. And the devil, when he saw that by these arrangements he had been duped cried, saying:-- Dafydd Hiraddug, badly bred, False when living, and false when dead. Such is the tale. I now come to another series of Folk-Lore stories, which seem to imply that in ancient days rival religions savagely contended for the supremacy, and in these tales also Satan occupies a prominent position. _Satan and Churches_. The traditional stories that are still extant respecting the determined opposition to the erection of certain churches in particular spots, and the removal of the materials during the night to some other site, where ultimately the new edifice was obliged to be erected, and the many stories of haunted churches, where evil spirits had made a lodgment, and could not for ages be ousted, are evidences of the antagonism of rival forms of paganism, or of the opposition of an ancient religion to the new and intruding Christian Faith. Brash in his _Ogam Inscribed Stones_, p. 109, speaking of Irish Churches, says:-- "It is well known that many of our early churches were erected on sites professedly pagan." The most ancient churches in Wales have circular or ovoidal churchyards--a form essentially Celtic--and it may well be that these sacred spots were dedicated to religious purposes in pagan times, and were appropriated by the early Christians,--not, perhaps, without opposition on the part of the adherents of the old faith--and consecrated to the use of the Christian religion. In these churchyards were often to be found holy, or sacred wells, and many of them still exist, and modes of divination were practised at these wells, which have come down to our days, and which must have originated in pre-Christian or pagan times. It is highly probable that the older faith would for a while exist concurrently with the new, and mutual contempt and annoyance on the part of the supporters of the respective beliefs would as naturally follow in those times as in any succeeding age, but this fact should be emphasised--that the modes of warfare would correspond with the civilized or uncivilized state of the opponents. This remark is general in its application, and applies to races conquered by the Celts in Britain, quite as much as to races who conquered the Celt, and there are not wanting certain indications that the tales associated with Satan belong to a period long anterior to the introduction of Christianity. Certain classes of these tales undoubtedly refer to the antagonism of beliefs more ancient than the Christian faith, and they indicate the measures taken by one party to suppress the other. Thus we see it related that the Evil Spirit is forcibly ejected from churches, and dragged to the river, and there a tragedy occurs. In other words a horrible murder is committed on the representative of the defeated religion. The very fact that he loses his life in a river--in water--in an object of wide spread worship--is not without its significance. We have seen in the legend of the Evil Spirit in Cerrig-y-drudion Church, p. 133,--that it was ejected, after a severe struggle, from the sacred building--that it was dragged to the lake, where it lost its life, by two _Ychain Banawg_--that they, and it, perished together in the lake:--Now these _Ychain Banawg_ or long-horned oxen, huge in size and strong of limb, are traditional, if not fabulous animals, and this one incident in the legend is enough to prove its great antiquity. Undoubtedly it dates from remote pre-Christian times, and yet the tale is associated with modern ideas, and modes of expression. It has come down to us along the tide of time, and has received its colouring from the ages it has passed through. Yet on the very surface of this ancient legend we perceive it written that in days of old there was severe antagonism between rival forms of pagan faith, and the manner in which the weaker--and perhaps the more ancient--is overcome, is made clear. The instrument used is brute force, and the vanquished party is _drowned_ or, in the euphonious language of the tales, _is laid_. There are many stories of spirits that have been cast out of churches, still extant in Wales, and one of the most famous of these is that of Llanfor Church, near Bala. It resembles that of Cerrig-y-drudion. I have succeeded in obtaining several versions of this legend. I am indebted for the first to Mr. R. Roberts, Clocaenog, a native of Bala. _The Ejectment of the Evil Spirit from Llanfor Church_. Mr. Roberts states that his grandmother, born in 1744, had only traditions of this spirit. He was said to have worn a three-cocked hat, and appeared as a gentleman, and whilst divine service was performed he stood up in the church. But at night the church was lit up by his presence, and the staves between the railings of the gallery were set in motion, by him, like so many spindles, although they were fast in their sockets. He is not reported to have harmed any one, neither did he commit any damage in the church. It is said, he had been seen taking a walk to the top of _Moel-y-llan_, and although harmless he was a great terror to the neighbourhood, and but few would venture to enter the church alone. Mr. Roberts was told that on a certain occasion a vestry was held in a public house, that stood on the north side of the church, not a vestige of which now remains, but no one would go to the church for the parish books. The landlady had the courage to go but no sooner had she crossed the threshold than the Evil Spirit blew the light out; she got a light again, but this also was blown out. Instead of returning for another light, she went straight to the coffer in the dark, and brought the books to the house, and that without any molestation. Mr. Roberts states that as the Spirit of darkness became more and more troublesome, it was determined to have him removed, and two gentlemen skilled in divination were called _to offer him to Llyn-y-Geulan-Goch_. These men were procured and they entered the church in the afternoon and held a conversation with the Spirit, and in the end told him that they would call at such an hour of the night to remove him to his rest. But they were not punctual and when they entered they found him intractable, however, he was compelled to submit, and was driven out of the church in the form of a cock, and carried behind his vanquisher on horseback, and thrown into _Llyn-y-Geulan-Goch_. According to tradition the horse made the journey from the church to the pool by two leaps. The distance was two fields' breadth. On their arrival at the river side, a terrible struggle ensued, the Fiend would not submit to be imprisoned, and he made a most determined attempt to drag his captors into the water. He, however, by and by, agreed to enter his prison on the condition that they would lie on their faces towards the ground when he entered the river, this they did, and the Spirit with a splash jumped into the water. Mr. Roberts further states, that there was a tradition in those parts, that the horse which carried the Devil to the river left the impression of his hoof in a stone by the river side, but Mr. Roberts assures me that he could never discover this stone, nor did he know of any one who had seen it. The case of the imprisoned Spirit was not hopeless--tradition says he was to remain in the pool only until he counted all the sand in it. It would almost appear that he had accomplished his task, for Mr. Roberts says that he had heard that his father's eldest brother whilst driving his team in the dead of night through Llanfor village saw two pigs walking behind the waggon. He thought nothing of this, and began to apply his whip to them, but to no purpose, for they followed him to _Llyn-y-Geulan-Goch_, and then disappeared. There was in these latter times some dispute as to the Spirit being still in the pool. This, however, has been settled in the affirmative. A wise man, in company with others, proceeded to the river, and threw a stone with writing on it into the pool, but nothing came of it, and he then affirmed there was no spirit there. This the people would not believe, so he threw another stone into the water, and now the river boiled up and foamed. "Yes," said the sceptic, "he is there, and there he will remain for a long time." Such is Mr. Roberts's account. _Llyn-y-Geulan-Goch_ is a pool in the river Dee, about a quarter of a mile from Llanfor village. For the purpose of shewing how variously tales are narrated, I will give another version of this haunted church, which was taken down by me from the mouth of an aged woman, a native of the village, whose life had been spent among her own people, and who at present lives in a little cottage on the road side between Llanfor Rectory and Bala. Her name is Ann Hughes, she firmly believes the story, but she could not tell how long ago the spirit was driven out of the church, though she thought it was in her grandfather's days. Her tale was as follows:-- The Evil Spirit was heard but not seen by the people, and he was in the habit of coming down the pathway leading from Rhiwlas to the church, making a great noise, as if dragging after him chains, or wheeling a wheelbarrow, and he went straight into the church, and there he stayed all night lighting up the church and making a great noise, as though engaged in manual labour. There was then a pathway leading to a row of houses situated in the church yard on the north side, and the people who occupied those cottages dared not leave them the live-long night, in fact the whole village avoided that, and every other path in the neighbourhood of the church, whilst the Spirit was in the church, and every one could see when he was there. At last the disturbance was so great that the parson and another man determined to lay the Spirit, and therefore one night they walked three times round the church, and then went into it, and by and by three men were seen emerging from the church and they walked into the public house through the door that opened into the church yard and they went together into the little parlour. The parson had already given instructions that no one was to come to them on any account, nor even to try to get a glimpse of them; but there was a man in the house who went to the keyhole of the parlour and, looking into the room, saw distinctly three men sitting round the table. No sooner, however, had he done so than the parson came out and said if anyone looked through the keyhole again their plans would be frustrated. This put a stop to all further inquisitiveness, and their deliberations were not again interrupted. Ann Hughes could not tell me what plan was adopted to get rid of the Evil Spirit, but she knew this much, that he was laid in _Llyn-y-Geulan-Goch_, and that he was to remain there until a lighted candle, which was hidden somewhere in the church, when the Spirit was overcome, should go out. Often and again had she searched for this taper, but failed to discover it, but she supposes it is still burning somewhere, for the Evil One has not yet escaped from the pool. There is a version of the ejectment of Llanfor Spirit given in _Y Gordofigion_, p. 106, which is somewhat as follows:-- Llanfor Spirit troubled the neighbourhood of Bala, but he was particularly objectionable and annoying to the inhabitants of Llanfor, for he had taken possession of their Church. At last, the people were determined to get rid of him altogether, but they must procure a mare for this purpose, which they did. A man riding on the mare entered the Church with a friend, to exorcise the Spirit. Ere long this man emerged from the Church with the Devil seated behind him on the pillion. An old woman who saw them cried out, "Duw anwyl! Mochyn yn yr Eglwys"--"Good God! A pig in the Church." On hearing these words the pig became exceedingly fierce, because the silence had been broken, and because God's name had been used, and in his anger he snatched up both the man and the mare, and threw them right over the Church to the other side, and there is a mark to this day on a grave stone of the horse's hoof on the spot where she lit. But the Spirit's anger was all in vain, for he was carried by the mare to the river, and laid in _Llyn-y-Geulan-Goch_, but so much did the poor animal perspire whilst carrying him, that, although the distance was only a quarter of a mile, she lost all her hair. Tales very much like the preceding are related of many churches in Wales. The details differ, but in general outlines they are alike. I will give one other story of this kind. _An Evil Spirit in Llandysilio Church, Montgomeryshire_. The history of this Spirit's proceedings is given in _Bye-Gones_, Vol. ii, p. 179, and the writer's fictitious name is _Gypt_. "This church," says _Gypt_, "was terribly troubled by a Spirit in times gone by, so I was informed by a person who took me over the church, and, being curious to hear the story, my guide related the following:-- "To such extremes had things come that it was resolved to send for a well known and expert person to lay the Spirit. But the Spirit nearly overcame the expert, and the fight continued hard and fast for a long time. The ghost layer came out often for fresh air and beer, and then was plainly seen, from his bared arms and the perspiration running down his face, that there was a terrible conflict going on within the church. At last success crowned the effort, and the Spirit, not unlike a large fly, was put into a bottle and thrown into a deep pool in the River Verniew, where it remains to this day, and the church was troubled no more." _Gypt_ adds:--"As a proof of the truth of the story, my informant showed me the beams which were cracked at the time the Spirit troubled the church." In these tales we have a few facts common to them all. An Evil Spirit troubles the people, and makes his home nightly in the church, which he illuminates. His presence there becomes obnoxious, and ultimately, either by force or trickery, he is ejected, and loses his life, or at least he is deposited by his captors in a lake, or pool of water, and then peace and quietness ensue. There is a good deal that is human about these stories when stripped of the marvellous, which surrounds them, and it is not unreasonable to ask whether they had, or had not, a foundation in fact, or whether they were solely the creations of an imaginative people. It is not, at least, improbable that these ghostly stories had, in long distant pre-historic times, their origin in fact, and that they have reached our days with glosses received from the intervening ages. They seem to imply that, in ancient times, there was deadly antagonism between one form of Pagan worship and another, and, although it is but dimly hinted, it would appear that fire was the emblem or the god of one party, and water the god of the other; and that the water worshippers prevailed and destroyed the image, or _laid_ the priest, of the vanquished deity in a pool, and took possession of his sacred enclosures. It was commonly believed, within the last hundred years or so, that Evil Spirits at certain times of the year, such as St. John's Eve, and May Day Eve, and All Hallows' Eve, were let loose, and that on these nights they held high revelry in churches. This is but another and more modern phase of the preceding stories. This superstitious belief was common to Scotland, and everyone who has read Burns has heard of Alloway Kirk, and of the "unco sight" which met _Tam o' Shanter's_ eye there, who, looking into the haunted kirk, saw witches, Evil Spirits, and Old Nick himself. Thus sings the poet:-- There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gi'e them music was his charge. But in Wales it was believed that a Spirit--an evil one--certainly not an Angel of Light, revealed, to the inquisitive, coming events, provided they went to the church porch on _Nos G'lan Geua_', or All-Hallows' Eve, and waited there until midnight, when they would hear the Spirit announce the death roll for the coming year. Should, however, no voice be heard, it was a sign that no death would occur within the twelve succeeding months. A couple of tales shall suffice as illustrative of this superstition. _A Spirit in Aberhafesp Church announcing the death of a person on Nos G'lan Geua'_. Mr. Breeze, late governor of the Union House at Caersws, told me that he had heard of a person going to Aberhafesp Church porch, on All-Hallows' Eve, to ascertain whether there would be a death in that parish in the coming year. A couple of men, one of whom, I believe, Mr. Breeze said was his relative, went to the church porch before twelve o'clock at night, and sat there a length of time without hearing any sound in the church; but about the midnight hour, one of the men distinctly heard the name of his companion uttered by a voice within the church. He was greatly terrified, and, addressing his friend, he found that he had fallen asleep, and that, therefore, fortunately he had not heard the ominous voice. Awaking his companion, he said--"Let's go away, it's no use waiting here any longer." In the course of a few weeks, there was a funeral from the opposite parish of Penstrowed, and the departed was to be buried in Aberhafesp Church yard. The River Severn runs between these two parishes, and there is no bridge nearer than that which spans the river at Caersws, and to take the funeral that way would mean a journey of more than five miles. It was determined, therefore, to ford the river opposite Aberhafesp Church. The person who had fallen asleep in the porch volunteered to carry the coffin over the river, and it was placed on the saddle in front of this person, who, to save it from falling, was obliged to grasp it with both arms; and, as the deceased had died of an infectious fever, the coffin bearer was stricken, and within a week he too was a dead man, and he was the first parishioner, as foretold by the Spirit, who died in the parish of Aberhafesp that year. According to Croker, in _Fairy Legends of Ireland_, vol. II., p. 288, the Irish at Easter, Whitsuntide, and Christmas, after decorating the graves of their ancestors:--"Also listen at the church door in the dark, when they sometimes fancy they hear the names called over in church of those who are destined shortly to join their lost relatives in the tomb." It is not difficult to multiply instances of Spirits speaking in churches, for legendary stories of this kind were attached to, or were related of, many churches in Wales. One further tale therefore, shall suffice. _A Spirit in Llangerniew Church_, _Denbighshire_. There was a tradition in this parish that on All-Hallows' Eve a Spirit announced from the altar the names of those who were doomed to die in the coming year. The Spirit was locally called _Angelystor_. Those who were anxious to know whether they or their neighbours had a longer time to live stood underneath the east window on that eve, and anxiously listened for the dreaded revelation. It is related of a tailor, who was reckoned a wit, and affected disbelief in the Spirit story, that he announced his intention to prove the thing a myth, and so, one _Nos G'lan Geua'_, Shon Robert, as he was called, proceeded to the church just before midnight, and, to his horror, he heard his own name--"Shon ap Robert," uttered by the Spirit. "Hold, hold!" said the tailor, "I am not quite ready!" But, ready or not ready, it made no difference to the messenger of death, for that year the tailor died. According to rustic opinion, demons were, from sinister motives, much given to frequenting churches; still it was thought that as the Priest entered the sacred building by the south door these Spirits were obliged to make their exit through the north door, which was called in consequence the Devil's Door; and this door was opened, and left open awhile, to enable these Evil Spirits to escape from the church, before divine service commenced. In agreement with this notion, the north side of church yards was designated the Domain of Demons, and, by association of ideas, no one formerly was buried in this side, but in our days the north part of the church yard--where the space in the other parts has already been occupied--is used for interments, and the north doors in most old churches have been built up. Formerly, at baptisms, the north church door was, in Wales, left open, and that too for the same reason that it was opened before the hours of prayer. But these superstitions have departed, as intimated by the blocking up of north church doors. _Satan and Bell Ringing_. Durand, according to Bourne, in his _Antiquities of the Common People_, ed. 1725, p. 17, was of opinion that Devils were much afraid of bells, and fled away at the sound of them. Formerly, in all parts of Wales, the passing bell was tolled for the dying. This is a very ancient custom being alluded to by the Venerable Bede-- When the bell begins to toll, Lord, have mercy on the soul. A small hand bell was also rung by the parish clerk as he preceded the funeral procession, and the church bell was tolled before, at, and after the burial. I do not know whether this was done because the people, entertaining Durand's opinion, wished to save the souls and bodies of their departed friends from Satan. Reference is often made to small handbells in parish terriers, and they are enumerated in those documents with other church property. Thus, in Llanfair Dyffryn Clwyd terrier, 1729, among the articles mentioned as belonging to the church is a small bell:-- "A little bell to be rung before the corps." In Rhuddlan terrier, 1791, we find:-- "One small bell, and another small corps bell." I may say that there is hardly a terrier belonging to a Church in North Wales which does not mention this portable handbell. Although the modern reason given for their use at funerals was, that all impediments might be removed from the roads before the funeral procession arrived, still it is probable that the custom at one time meant something more than this. The custom does not at present exist. _Giraldus Cambrensis_ thus alludes to these handbells:-- "I must not omit that the portable bells . . . were held in great reverence by the people and clergy both in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales; insomuch that they had greater regard for oaths sworn on these than on the gospels."--Bohn's Edition, p. 146. As it was thought that the Passing Bell was originally intended to drive away the Evil Spirit hovering about in readiness to seize the soul of the deceased, so it might have been thought that the tolling of these handbells at funerals kept the Great Enemy away from the body about to be consigned to consecrated ground. But from a couple of lines quoted by Bourne, p. 14, from Spelman, in which all the ancient offices of bells seem to be included, it does not appear that this opinion was then current. The lines are:-- Laudo Deum verum, Plebem voco, congrego Clerum, Defunctos ploro, pestem fugo, Festa decoro. I praise the true God, call the people, convene the Clergy, Lament the dead, dispel pestilence, grace Festivals. There is nothing in these lines corroborative of Durand's opinion, but as I do not know the age of the lines I cannot controvert his opinion, but if it was believed that the tolling of a bell could drive away pestilence, well can it be understood that its sound could be credited with being inimical to Evil Spirits, and that it sent them away to other places to seek for rest. It certainly was an opinion, according to Croker, entertained in Ireland and elsewhere, that the dwarfs or fairies, were driven away from places by the ringing of the bells of churches, and Croker in his _Fairy Legends of Ireland_, vol. ii., p. 106, states that Thiele collected traditions according to which the Troldes leave the country on the ringing of bells, and remain away. Thus these mythic beings are confounded with Satan; indeed Croker remarks (vol. i., p. 46) "The notion of fairies, dwarfs, brownies, etc., being excluded from salvation, and of their having formed part of the crew that fell with Satan, seems to be pretty general all over Europe." He instances Ireland, Denmark, and Spain. Bells certainly were objects of great superstition. In Dyer's _English Folk-Lore_, p. 264, it is stated that--Wynkin de Worde tells us that bells are rung during thunder storms, to the end that fiends and wicked Spirits should be abashed and flee and cease the moving of the tempest. Croker also remarks in vol. ii., p. 140, of the above-named work:--"The belief in fairies and Spirits prevailed over all Europe long before the introduction of Christianity. The teachers of the new faith endeavoured to abolish the deeply-rooted heathenish ideas and customs of the people, by representing them as sinful and connected with the Devil." In this way the Devil inherited many attributes that once belonged to the Fairies, and these beings were spoken of as Evil Spirits, Fiends, or Devils. I now come to another kind of Welsh Folk-Lore associated with fairies, Evil Spirits, or some mysterious power, that is the removal of churches from one site to another. The agency employed varies, but the work of the day disappeared in the night, and the materials were found, it is said, the next morning, on the spot where the church was to be erected. _Mysterious Removal of Churches_. I. LLANLLECHID CHURCH. There was a tradition extant in the parish of Llanllechid, near Bangor, Carnarvonshire, that it was intended to build a church in a field called Cae'r Capel, not far from Plasuchaf Farm, but it was found the next morning that the labours of the previous day had been destroyed, and that the materials had been transported in the night to the site of the present church. The workmen, however, carried them all back again, and resumed their labours at Cae'r Capel, but in vain, for the next day they found their work undone, and the wood, stones, etc., in the place where they had found them when their work was first tampered with. Seeing that it was useless fighting against a superior power, they desisted, and erected the building on the spot indicated by the destroyers of their labours. I asked the aged, what or who it was that had carried away the materials: some said it was done by Spirits, others by Fairies, but I could obtain no definite information on the point. However, they all agreed that the present site was more convenient for the parishioners than the old one. Many legends of this kind are current in Wales. They are all much alike in general outline. A few only therefore shall be mentioned. II. CORWEN CHURCH. In Thomas's _History of the Diocese of St. Asaph_, p. 687, the legend connected with the erection of the present church is given as follows:--"The legend of its (Corwen Church) original foundation states that all attempts to build the church in any other spot than where stood the 'Carreg y Big yn y fach rewlyd,' i.e., 'The pointed stone in the icy nook,' were frustrated by the influence of certain adverse powers." No agency is mentioned in this narrative. When questioned on such a matter, the aged, of forty years ago, would shake their heads in an ominous kind of manner, and remain silent, as if it were wrong on their part to allude to the affair. Others, more bold, would surmise that it was the work of a Spirit, or of the Fairies. By and by I shall give Mr. A. N. Palmer's solution of the mystery. III. CAPEL GARMON CHURCH. A legend much like the preceding is current respecting Capel Garmon Church. I will give the story in the words of my friend, the Rev. Owen Jones, Pentrevoelas, who writes to me thus:-- "The tradition is that Capel Garmon Church was to have been built on the side of the mountain just above the present village, near the Well now called Ffynnon Armon, but the materials carried there in the daytime were in a mysterious manner conveyed by night to the present site of the church." IV. LLANFAIR DYFFRYN CLWYD. For the following legend, I am indebted to Mr. R. Prys Jones, who resided for several years in the parish of Llanfair Dyffryn Clwyd. In answer to a letter from me respecting mysterious removal of churches, Mr. Jones writes as follows:-- "We have the same tradition in connection with a place not very far from Llanfair village. It was first intended to erect Llanfair Church on the spot where Jesus Chapel now stands, or very near to it. Tradition ascribes the failure of erecting the structure to a phantom in the shape of _a sow's head_, destroying in the night what had been built during the day. The farm house erected on the land is still called _Llanbenwch_"--Llan-pen-hwch, i.e., the _Llan_, _or church_, _of the Sow's Head_. In this tale the agent is a sow, and Mr. Gomme in the _Antiquary_, vol. iii. p. 9, records a like story of Winwick Parish Church, Lancashire. He states that the founder had destined a different site for this church, "but after progress had been made at the original foundation, at night time, 'a pig' was seen running hastily to the site of the new church, crying or screaming aloud We-ee-wick, we-ee-wick, we-ee-wick.' Then taking up a stone in his mouth he carried it to the spot sanctified by the death of St. Oswald, and thus succeeded in removing all the stones which had been laid by the builders." V. LLANFIHANGEL GENEU'R GLYN. The traveller who has gone to Aberystwyth by the Cambrian Line has, most probably, noticed on the left hand side, shortly after he has left Borth, a small church, with a churchyard that enters a wood to the west of the church, the grave stones being seen among the trees. There is in connection with this church a legend much like those already given. I am indebted to the Rev. J. Felix, vicar of Cilcen, near Mold, for the following account of the transaction. "It was intended to build Llanfihangel Church at a place called Glanfread, or Glanfread-fawr, which at present is a respectable farm house, and the work was actually commenced on that spot, but the portion built during the day was pulled down each night, till at last a Spirit spoke in these words:-- Llanfihangel Geneu'r Glyn, Glanfread-fawr gaiff fod fan hyn. Llanfihangel Geneu'r Glyn, Glanfread-fawr shall stand herein," intimating that the church was to be built at Geneu'r Glyn, and that Glanfreadfawr farm house was to occupy the place where they were then endeavouring to build the church. The prophecy, or warning, was attended to, and the church erection abandoned, but the work was carried out at Geneu'r Glyn, in accordance with the Spirit's direction, and the church was built in its present position. VI. WREXHAM CHURCH. The following extract is from Mr. A. Neobard Palmer's excellent _History of the Parish Church of Wrexham_, p. 6:--"There is a curious local tradition, which, _as I understand it_, points distinctly to a re-erection of one of the earlier churches on a site different from that on which the church preceding it had stood." "According to the tradition just mentioned, which was collected and first published by the late Mr. Hugh Davies, the attempt to build the church on another spot (at Bryn-y-ffynnon as 't is said), was constantly frustrated, that which was set up during the day being plucked down in the night. At last, one night when the work wrought on the day before was being watched, the wardens saw it thrown suddenly down, and heard a voice proceeding from a Spirit hovering above them which cried ever 'Bryn-y-grog!' 'Bryn-y-grog!' Now the site of the present church was at that time called 'Bryn-y-grog' (Hill of the Cross), and it was at once concluded that this was the spot on which the church should be built. The occupier of this spot, however, was exceedingly unwilling to part with the inheritance of his forefathers, and could only be induced to do so when the story which has just been related was told to him, and other land given him instead. The church was then founded at 'Bryn-y-grog,' where the progress of the work suffered no interruption, and where the Church of Wrexham still stands." Mr. Palmer, having remarked that there is a striking resemblance between all the traditions of churches removed mysteriously, proceeds to solve the difficulty, in these words:-- "The conclusions which occurred to me were, that these stories contain a record, imaginative and exaggerated, of real incidents connected with the history of the churches to which each of them belongs, and that they are _in most cases_ reminiscences _of an older church which once actually stood on another site_. The destroying powers of which they all speak were probably human agents, working in the interest of those who were concerned in the transference of the site of the church about to be re-built; while the stories, as a whole, were apparently concocted and circulated with the intention of overbearing the opposition which the proposed transference raised--an opposition due to the inconvenience of the site proposed, to sacred associations connected with the older site, or to the unwillingness of the occupier to surrender the spot selected." This is, as everything Mr. Palmer writes, pertinent, and it is a reasonable solution, but whether it can be made to apply to all cases is somewhat doubtful. Perhaps we have not sufficient data to arrive at a correct explanation of this kind of myth. The objection was to the _place_ selected and not to the _building_ about to be erected on that spot; and the _agents_ engaged in the destruction of the proposed edifice differ in different places; and in many instances, where these traditions exist, the land around, as regards agricultural uses, was equally useful, or equally useless, and often the distance between the two sites is not great, and the land in our days, at least, and presumably in former, belonged to the same proprietor--if indeed it had a proprietor at all. We must, therefore, I think, look outside the occupier of the land for objections to the surrender of the spot first selected as the site of the new church. Mr. Gomme, in an able article in the _Antiquary_, vol. iii., p. 8-13, on "Some traditions and superstitions connected with buildings," gives many typical examples of buildings removed by unseen agencies, and, from the fact that these stories are found in England, Scotland, and other parts, he rightly infers that they had a common origin, and that they take us back to primitive times of British history. The cause of the removal of the stones in those early times, or first stage of their history, is simply described as _invisible agency_, _witches_, _fairies_; in the second stage of these myths, the supernatural agency becomes more clearly defined, thus:--_doves_, _a pig_, _a cat_, _a fish_, _a bull_, do the work of demolishing the buildings, and Mr. Gomme remarks with reference to these animals:--"Now here we have some glimmer of light thrown upon the subject--the introduction of animal life leads to the subject of animal sacrifice." I will not follow Mr. Gomme in this part of his dissertation, but I will remark that the agencies he mentions as belonging to the first stage are identical in Wales, England, and Scotland, and we have an example of the second stage in Wales, in the traditions of Llanfair Dyffryn Clwyd, and of Llangar Church, near Corwen. VII. LLANGAR CHURCH. "The tradition is that Llangar Church was to have been built near the spot where the Cynwyd Bridge crosses the Dee. Indeed, we are told that the masons set to work, but all the stones they laid in the day were gone during the night none knew whither. The builders were warned, supernaturally, that they must seek a spot where on hunting a 'Carw Gwyn' (white stag) would be started. They did so, and Llangar Church is the result. From this circumstance the church was called Llan-garw-gwyn, and from this name the transition to Llangar is easy."--_Gossiping Guide to Wales_, p. 128. I find in a document written by the Rural Dean for the guidance of the Bishop of St. Asaph, in 1729, that the stag was started in a thicket where the Church of Llangar now stands. "And (as the tradition is) the boundaries of the parish on all sides were settled for 'em by this poor deer, where he was forc'd to run for his life, there lye their bounds. He at last fell, and the place where he was killed is to this day called _Moel y Lladdfa_, or the _Hill of Slaughter_." VIII. ST. DAVID'S CHURCH, DENBIGH. There is a tradition connected with Old St. David's Church, Denbigh, recorded in Gee's _Guide to Denbigh_, that the building could not be completed, because whatever portion was finished in the day time was pulled down and carried to another place at night by some invisible hand, or supernatural power. The party who malignantly frustrates the builders' designs is in several instances said to have been the Devil. "We find," says Mr. William Crossing, in the _Antiquary_, vol. iv., p. 34, "that the Church of Plymton St. Mary, has connected with it the legend so frequently attached to ecclesiastical buildings, of the removal by the _Enemy of Mankind_ of the building materials by night, from the spot chosen for its erection to another at some distance." And again, Mr A. N. Palmer, quoting in the _Antiquary_, vol. iv., p. 34, what was said at the meeting of the British Association, in 1878, by Mr. Peckover, respecting the detached Tower of the Church of West Walton, near Wisbech, Norfolk, writes:--"During the early days of that Church the Fenmen were very wicked, and the _Evil Spirit_ hired a number of people to carry the tower away." Mr. W. S. Lach-Szyrma, in the _Antiquary_, vol. iii., p. 188, writes:--"Legends of _the Enemy of Mankind_ and some old buildings are numerous enough--e.g., it is said that as the masons built up the towers of Towednack Church, near St. Ives, the _Devil_ knocked the stones down; hence its dwarfed dimensions." The preceding stories justify me in relegating this kind of myth to the same class as those in which spirits are driven from churches and _laid_ in a neighbouring pool; and perhaps in these latter, as in the former, is dimly seen traces of the antagonism, in remote times, between peoples holding different religious beliefs, and the steps taken by one party to seize and appropriate the sacred spots of the other. _Apparitions of the Devil_. To accomplish his nefarious designs the Evil Spirit assumed forms calculated to attain his object. The following lines from Allan Cunningham's _Traditional Tales_, p. 9, aptly describe his transformations:-- Soon he shed His hellish slough, and many a subtle wile Was his to seem a heavenly spirit to man, First, he a hermit, sore subdued in flesh, O'er a cold cruse of water and a crust, Poured out meet prayers abundant. Then he changed Into a maid when she first dreams of man, And from beneath two silken eyelids sent, The sidelong light of two such wondrous eyes, That all the saints grew sinners . . . Then a professor of God's word he seemed, And o'er a multitude of upturned eyes Showered blessed dews, and made the pitchy path, Down which howl damned Spirits, seem the bright Thrice hallowed way to Heaven; yet grimly through The glorious veil of those seducing shapes, Frowned out the fearful Spirit. S. Anthony, in the wilderness, as related in his life by S. Athanasius, had many conflicts in the night with the powers of darkness, Satan appearing personally to him, to batter him from the strongholds of his faith. S. Dunstan, in his cell, was tempted by the Devil in the form of a lovely woman, but a grip of his nose with a heated tongs made him bellow out, and cease his nightly visits to that holy man. Ezra Peden, as related by Allan Cunningham, was also tempted by one who "was indeed passing fair," and the longer he looked on her she became the lovelier--"_owre lovely for mere flesh and blood_," and poor Peden succumbed to her wiles. From the book of Tobit it would appear that an Evil Spirit slew the first seven husbands of Sara from jealousy and lust, in the vain hope of securing her for himself. In Giraldus Cambrensis's _Itinerary through Wales_, Bohn's ed., p. 411 demons are shown to possess those qualities which are ascribed to them in the Apocryphal book of Tobit. There is nothing new, as far as I am aware, respecting the doings of the Great Enemy of mankind in Welsh Folk-Lore. His tactics in the Principality evince no originality. They are the usual weapons used by him everywhere, and these he found to be sufficient for his purposes even in Wales. Gladly would I here put down my pen and leave the uncongenial task of treating further about the spirits of darkness to others, but were I to do so, I should be guilty of a grave omission, for, as I have already said, ghosts, goblins, spirits, and other beings allied to Satan, occupy a prominent place in Welsh Folk-Lore. Of a winter's evening, by the faint light of a peat fire and rush candles, our forefathers recounted the weird stories of olden times, of devils, fairies, ghosts, witches, apparitions, giants, hidden treasures, and other cognate subjects, and they delighted in implanting terrors in the minds of the listeners that no philosophy, nor religion of after years, could entirely eradicate. These tales made a strong impression upon the imagination, and possibly upon the conduct of the people, and hence the necessity laid upon me to make a further selection of the many tales that I have collected on this subject. I will begin with a couple of stories extracted from the work of the Rev. Edmund Jones, by a writer in the _Cambro-Briton_, vol. ii., p. 276. _Satan appearing to a Man who was fetching a Load of Bibles_, _etc._ "A Mr. Henry Llewelyn, having been sent to Samuel Davies, of Ystrad Defodoc Parish, in Glamorganshire, to fetch a load of books, viz., Bibles, Testaments, Watts's Psalms, Hymns, and Songs for Children, said--Coming home by night towards Mynyddustwyn, having just passed by Clwyd yr Helygen ale-house, and being in a dry part of the lane--the mare, which he rode, stood still, and, like the ass of the ungodly Balaam, would go no farther, but kept drawing back. Presently he could see a living thing, round like a bowl, rolling from the right hand to the left, and crossing the lane, moving sometimes slow and sometimes very swift--yea, swifter than a bird could fly, though it had neither wings nor feet,--altering also its size. It appeared three times, less one time than another, seemed least when near him, and appeared to roll towards the mare's belly. The mare would then want to go forward, but he stopped her, to see more carefully what manner of thing it was. He staid, as he thought, about three minutes, to look at it; but, fearing to see a worse sight, he thought it high time to speak to it, and said--'What seekest thou, thou foul thing? In the name of the Lord Jesus, go away!' And by speaking this it vanished, and sank into the ground near the mare's feet. It appeared to be of a _reddish oak colour_." In a footnote to this tale we are told that formerly near Clwyd yr Helygen, the Lord's Day was greatly profaned, and "it may be that the Adversary was wroth at the good books and the bringer of them; for he well knew what burden the mare carried." The editor of the _Cambro-Briton_ remarks that the superstitions recorded, if authentic, "are not very creditable to the intelligence of our lower classes in Wales; but it is some satisfaction to think that none of them are of recent date." The latter remark was, I am sorry to say, rather premature. One other quotation from the same book I will here make. _The Devil appearing to a Dissenting Minister at Denbigh_. "The Rev. Mr. Thomas Baddy, who lived in Denbigh Town, and was a Dissenting Minister in that place, went into his study one night, and while he was reading or writing, he heard some one behind him laughing and grinning at him, which made him stop a little--as well indeed it might. It came again, and then he wrote on a piece of paper, that devil-wounding scripture, 1st John, 3rd,--'For this was the Son of God manifested, that he might destroy the works of the Devil,'--and held it backwards from him, when the laughing ceased for ever; for it was a melancholy word to a scoffing Devil, and enough to damp him. It would have damped him yet more, if he had shewn him James, ii. 19--'The devils believe and tremble.' But he had enough for one time." The following objectless tale, still extant, I believe, in the mountainous parts of Denbighshire, is another instance of the credulity in former days of the people. _Satan seen Lying right across a Road_. The story related to me was as follows:--Near Pentrevoelas lived a man called John Ty'nllidiart, who was in the habit of taking, yearly, cattle from the uplands in his neighbourhood, to be wintered in the Vale of Clwyd. Once, whilst thus engaged, he saw lying across the road right in front of him and the cattle, and completely blocking up the way, Satan with his head on one wall and his tail on the other, moaning horribly. John, as might be expected, hurried homewards, leaving his charge to take their chance with the Evil One, but long before he came to his house, the odour of brimstone had preceded him, and his wife was only too glad to find that it was her husband that came through the door, for she thought that it was someone else that was approaching. _The Devil's Tree by Eglwys Rhos_, _near Llandudno_. At the corner of the first turning after passing the village of Llanrhos, on the left hand side, is a withered oak tree, called by the natives of those parts the Devil's Tree, and it was thought to be haunted, and therefore the young and timid were afraid to pass it of a dark night. The Rev. W. Arthur Jones, late Curate of the parish, told me that his horse was in the habit of shying whenever it came opposite this blighted tree, and his servant accounted for this by saying that the horse saw something there which was invisible to the sight of man. Be this as it may, the tree has an uncanny appearance and a bad reputation, which some years ago was greatly increased by an occurrence that happened there to Cadwaladr Williams, a shoemaker, who lived at Llansantffraid Glan Conway. Cadwaladr was in the habit of carrying his work home to Llandudno to his customers every Saturday night in a wallet, and with the money which they paid him he bought eatables for the coming week, and carried shoes to be patched in one end of the wallet, and groceries, etc., in the other end, and, by adjusting the wallet he balanced it, and carried it, over his shoulders, home again. This shoemaker sometimes refreshed himself too freely before starting homewards from Llandudno, and he was in the habit of turning into the public house at Llanrhos to gain courage to pass the Devil's Tree. One Saturday night, instead of quietly passing this tree on the other side, he walked fearlessly up to it, and defied the Evil One to appear if he were there. No sooner had he uttered the defiant words than something fell from the tree, and lit upon his shoulders, and grasped poor Cadwaladr's neck with a grip of iron. He fought with the incubus savagely to get rid of it, but all his exertions were in vain, and so he was obliged to proceed on his journey with this fearful thing clinging to him, which became heavier and heavier every step he took. At last, thoroughly exhausted, he came to Towyn, and, more dead than alive, he reached a friend's door and knocked, and oh, what pleasure, before the door was opened the weight on his back had gone, but his friend knew who it was that Cadwaladr had carried from the Devil's Tree. _Satan appearing as a Lovely Maiden_. The following story I received from the Rev. Owen Jones, Pentrevoelas. As regards details it is a fragment. A young man who was walking from Dyserth to Rhyl was overtaken by a lovely young lady dressed in white. She invited conversation, and they walked together awhile talking kindly, but, when they came opposite a pool on the road side she disappeared, in the form of a ball of fire, into the water. All that has reached our days, in corroboration of this tale, is the small pool. The next tale was told me by the Rev. R. Jones, Rector of Llanycil. Mr. Jones gave names and localities, which I have indicated by initials. _A Man carried away by the Evil One_. W. E., of Ll--- M---, was a very bad man; he was a brawler, a fighter, a drunkard. He is said to have spat in the parson's face, and to have struck him, and beaten the parish clerk who interfered. It was believed that he had sold himself to work evil, and many foul deeds he committed, and, what was worse, he gloried in them. People thought that his end would be a shocking one, and they were not disappointed. One night this reprobate and stubborn character did not return home. The next day search was made for him, and his dead body was found on the brink of the river. Upon inspecting the ground, it became evident that the deceased had had a desperate struggle with an unknown antagonist, and the battle commenced some distance above the _ceunant_, or _dingle_, where the body was discovered. It was there seen that the man had planted his heels deep into the ground, as if to resist a superior force, intent upon dragging him down to the river. There were indications that he had lost his footing; but a few yards lower down it was observed that his feet had ploughed the ground, and every step taken from this spot was traceable all down the declivity to the bottom of the ravine, and every yard gave proof that a desperate and prolonged struggle had taken place along the whole course. In one place an oak tree intercepted the way, and it was seen that a bough had its bark peeled off, and evidently the wretched man had taken hold of this bough and did not let go until the bark came off in his hands, for in death he still clutched the bark. The last and most severe struggle took place close to the river, and here the body was dragged underneath the roots of a tree, through a hole not big enough for a child to creep through, and this ended the fight. Mr. Jones stated that what was most remarkable and ominous in connection with this foul work was the fact that, although footprints were seen in the ground, they were all those of the miserable man, for there were no other marks visible. From this fact and the previous evil life of this wretched creature, the people in those parts believed that the fearful struggle had taken place between W. E. and the Evil One, and that he had not been murdered by any man, but that he was taken away by Satan. The next tale is a type of many once common in Wales, and as in one respect it connects these tales, or at least this particular one, with Fairy stories, I will relate it. _Satan appearing to a Young Man_. A young man, who had left Pentrevoelas to live in a farm house called Hafod Elwy, had to go over the hills to Denbigh on business. He started very early, before the cock crew, and as it was winter, his journey over the bleak moorlands was dismal and dreary. When he had proceeded several miles on his journey an unaccountable dread crept over him. He tried to dispel his fear by whistling and by knocking the ground with his walking stick, but all in vain. He stopped, and thought of returning home, but this he could not do, for he was more afraid of the ridicule of his friends than of his own fear, and therefore he proceeded on his journey and reached Pont Brenig, where he stopped awhile, and listened, thinking he might see or hear someone approaching. To his horror, he observed, through the glimmering light of the coming day, a tall gentleman approaching, and by a great exertion he mastered his feelings so far as to enable him to walk towards the stranger, but when within a few yards of him he stood still, for from fright he could not move. He noticed that the gentleman wore grey clothes, and breeches fastened with yellow buckles, on his coat were two rows of buttons like gold, his shoes were low, with bright clasps to them. Strange to say, this gentleman did not pass the terrified man, but stepped into the bog and disappeared from view. Ever afterwards, when this man passed the spot where he had met the Evil One, he found there money or other valuables. This latter incident connects this tale with Fairy Folk-Lore, as the Fair People were credited with bestowing gifts on mortals. _Satan appearing to a Collier_. John Roberts of Colliers' Row, Cyfartha, Merthyr, was once going to Aberdare over the mountain. On the top of the hill he was met by a handsome gentleman, who wore a three-cocked hat, a red waistcoat, and a blue coat. The appearance of this well dressed man took John Roberts's fancy; but he could not understand why he should be alone on Aberdare mountain, and, furthermore, why he did not know the way to Aberdare, for he had asked Roberts to direct him to the town. John stared at the gentleman, and saw clearly a cloven foot and a long tail protruding underneath the blue coat, and there and then the gentleman changed himself into a _pig_, which stood before John, gave a big grunt, and then ran away. I received the story from a lady to whom Roberts related it. All these tales belong to modern times, and some of them appear to be objectless as well as ridiculous. There are a few places in Wales which take their names from Satan. The _Devil's Bridge_ is so called from the tradition that it was erected by him upon the condition that the first thing that passed over it should be his. In his design he was balked, for his intended victim, who was accompanied by his faithful dog, threw a piece of bread across the bridge after which the dog ran, and thus became the Devil's property, but this victim Satan would not take. _The Devil's Kitchen_ is a chasm in the rock on the west side of Llyn Idwal, Carnarvonshire. The view through this opening, looking downwards towards Ogwen Lake, is sublime, and, notwithstanding its uncanny name, the Kitchen is well worthy of a visit from lovers of nature. From the following quotation, taken from _Y Gordofigion_, p. 110, it would appear that there is a rock on the side of Cader Idris called after the Evil One. The words are:-- "Mae ar dir Rhiwogo, ar ochr Cader Idris, graig a elwir. '_Careg-gwr-drwg_,' byth ar ol y Sabboth hwnw pan ddaeth yno at drigolion plwyfydd Llanfihangel Pennant ac Ystradgwyn, pan oeddynt wedi ymgasglu i chwareu cardiau, a dawnsio; ac y rhoddodd dro o amgylch y graig gan ddawnsio, ac y mae ol ei draed ar y graig eto." This in English is as follows:--There is on the land belonging to Rhiwogo, on the side of Cader Idris, a rock called _The Rock of the Evil One_, so named ever after that Sabbath, when he came there to join the parishioners of Llanfihangel Pennant and Ystradgwyn, who had gathered together to play cards and dance, and there he danced around the rock, and to this day the marks of his feet are to be seen in the rock. There were, perhaps are, in Pembrokeshire, two stones, called the Devil's Nags, which were haunted by Evil Spirits, who troubled the people that passed that way. _Ceubren yr Ellyll_, the Hobgoblin's Hollow Tree, a noble oak, once ornamented Nannau Park, Merionethshire. Tradition says that it was within the trunk of this tree that Glyndwr buried his cousin, Howel Sele, who fell a victim to the superior strength and skill of his relative. Ever after that sad occurrence the place was troubled, sounds proceeded out of the tree, and fire hovered over it, and, according to a writer in _The Cambro-Briton_, vol. i., p. 226:-- E'en to this day, the peasant still With cautious fear treads o'er the ground; In each wild bush a spectre sees, And trembles at each rising sound. One of the caves in Little Orme's Head, Llandudno, is known as _Ogof Cythreuliaid_, the Cave of Devils. From the preceding names of places, which do not by any means exhaust the list, it will be seen that many romantic spots in Wales are associated with Demons. There are also sayings in Welsh connected with the Evil One. Thus, in our days may be heard, when it rains and the sun shines at the same time, the expression, "_Mae'r Gwr Drwg yn waldio'i wraig_"--the Devil is beating his wife. Besides the Biblical names, by which Satan is known, in Wales, there are several others in use, not to be found in the Bible, but it would seem that these names are borrowed being either importations or translations; in fact, it is doubtful, whether we possess any exclusively Welsh terms applied solely to the Devil. _Andras_ or _Andros_ is common in North Wales for the Evil One. Canon Silvan Evans in his Welsh Dictionary derives this word from _an_, without, and _gras_, grace; thus, the word becomes synonymous with gracelessness, and he remarks that, although the term is generally rendered devil, it is much softer than that term, or its Welsh equivalent _diawl_. _Y Fall_ is another term applied to Satan in Wales. Dr. Owen Pugh defines the word as what is squabby, bulky. The most common expressions for the devil, however, are _Cythraul_, and _diawl_, or _diafol_, but these two last named words are merely forms of Diabolos. Other expressions, such as Old Nick, Old Harry, have found a home in Wales. _Y gwr drwg_, the bad man, _Gwas drwg_, the wicked servant, _Yr yspryd drwg_, the wicked spirit, _Yr hen fachgen_, the old boy, and such like expressions, are also common. Silly women frighten small children by telling them that the _Bo_, the _bogey_, the _bogey bo_, or _bolol_, etc., will take them away if they are not quiet. _Ghosts_, _or Spirits_. Ghosts, or Spirits, were supposed to be the shades of departed human beings who, for certain reasons, were permitted to visit either nightly, or periodically, this upper world. The hour that Spirits came to the earth was mid-night, and they remained until cock-crowing, when they were obliged to depart. So strongly did the people believe in the hours of these visits, that formerly no one would stay from home later than twelve o'clock at night, nor would any one proceed on a journey, until chanticleer had announced that the way was clear. Christmas Eve, however, was an exception, for during that night, no evil Spirit could appear. It was thought that if two persons were together, one only could see the Spirit, to the other he was invisible, and to one person only would the Spirit speak, and this he would do when addressed; otherwise, he remained silent. Ghosts re-visited the world to reveal hidden treasures, and the murdered haunted the place where their unburied bodies lay, or until vengeance overtook the murderer, and the wicked were doomed to walk the earth until they were laid in lake, or river, or in the Red Sea. The presence of Spirits was announced by a clanking of chains, by shrieks, or other horrible noises, and dogs, and horses, were credited with the power of seeing Spirits. Horses trembled and perspired at their presence, and dogs whined and crouched at their approach. The tales which I shall now relate throw a glimmering light on the subject now under consideration. _The Gloddaeth Ghost_. The following tale was told the Rev. Owen Jones, Pentrevoelas, by Thomas Davies, Tycoch, Rhyl, the hero in the story. I may say that Gloddaeth Wood is a remnant of the primaeval forest that is mentioned by Sir John Wynn, in his _History of the Gwydir Family_, as extending over a large tract of the country. This wood, being undisturbed and in its original wild condition, was the home of foxes and other vermin, for whose destruction the surrounding parishes willingly paid half-a-crown per head. This reward was an inducement to men who had leisure, to trap and hunt these obnoxious animals. Thomas Davies was engaged in this work, and, taking a walk through the wood one day for the purpose of discovering traces of foxes, he came upon a fox's den, and from the marks about the burrow he ascertained that there were young foxes in the hole. This was to him a grand discovery, for, in anticipation, cubs and vixen were already his. Looking about him, he noticed that there was opposite the fox's den a large oak tree with forked branches, and this sight settled his plan of operation. He saw that he could place himself in this tree in such a position that he could see the vixen leave, and return to her den, and, from his knowledge of the habits of the animal, he knew she would commence foraging when darkness and stillness prevailed. He therefore determined to commence the campaign forthwith, and so he went home to make his preparations. I should say that the sea was close to the wood, and that small craft often came to grief on the coast. I will now proceed with the story. Davies had taken his seat on a bough opposite the fox's den, when he heard a horrible scream in the direction of the sea, which apparently was that of a man in distress, and the sound uttered was "Oh, Oh." Thus Davies's attention was divided between the dismal, "Oh," and his fox. But, as the sound was a far way off, he felt disinclined to heed it, for he did not think it incumbent on him to ascertain the cause of that distressing utterance, nor did he think it his duty to go to the relief of a suffering fellow creature. He therefore did not leave his seat on the tree. But the cry of anguish, every now and again, reached his ears, and evidently, it was approaching the tree on which Davies sat. He now listened the more to the awful sounds, which at intervals reverberated through the wood, and he could no longer be mistaken--they were coming in his direction. Nearer and nearer came the dismal "Oh! Oh!" and with its approach, the night became pitch dark, and now the "Oh! Oh! Oh!" was only a few yards off, but nothing could be seen in consequence of the deep darkness. The sounds however ceased, but a horrible sight was presented to the frightened man's view. There, he saw before him, a nude being with eyes burning like fire, and these glittering balls were directed towards him. The awful being was only a dozen yards or so off. And now it crouched, and now it stood erect, but it never for a single instant withdrew its terrible eyes from the miserable man in the tree, who would have fallen to the ground were it not for the protecting boughs. Many times Davies thought that his last moment had come, for it seemed that the owner of those fiery eyes was about to spring upon him. As he did not do so, Davies somewhat regained his self possession, and thought of firing at the horrible being; but his courage failed, and there he sat motionless, not knowing what the end might be. He closed his eyes to avoid that gaze, which seemed to burn into him, but this was a short relief, for he felt constrained to look into those burning orbs, still it was a relief even to close his eyes: and so again and again he closed them, only, however, to open them on those balls of fire. About 4 o'clock in the morning, he heard a cock crow at Penbryn farm, and at the moment his eyes were closed, but at the welcome sound he opened them, and looked for those balls of fire, but, oh! what pleasure, they were no longer before him, for, at the crowing of the cock, they, and the being to whom they belonged, had disappeared. _Tymawr Ghost_, _Bryneglwys_. This Ghost plagued the servants, pinched and tormented them, and they could not get rest day nor night; such was the character of this Ghost as told me by Mr. Richard Jones, Ty'n-y-wern. But, said I, what was the cause of his acts, was it the Ghost of anyone who had been murdered? To this question, Jones gave the following account of the Ghost's arrival at Tymawr. A man called at this farm, and begged for something to eat, and as he was shabbily dressed, the girls laughed at him, and would not give him anything, and when going away, he said, speaking over his shoulder, "You will repent your conduct to me." In a few nights afterwards the house was plagued, and the servants were pinched all night. This went on days and days, until the people were tired of their lives. They, however, went to Griffiths, Llanarmon, a minister, who was celebrated as a Layer of Ghosts, and he came, and succeeded in capturing the Ghost in the form of a spider, and shut him up in his tobacco box and carried him away, and the servants were never afterwards plagued. _Ffrith Farm Ghost_. I am indebted to Mr. Williams, schoolmaster, Bryneglwys, for the history of this Ghost. It was not known why Ffrith farm was troubled by a Ghost; but when the servants were busily engaged in cheese making the Spirit would suddenly throw mortar, or filthy matter, into the milk, and thus spoil the curds. The dairy was visited by the Ghost, and there he played havoc with the milk and dishes. He sent the pans, one after the other, around the room, and dashed them to pieces. The terrible doings of the Ghost was a topic of general conversation in those parts. The farmer offered a reward of five pounds to anyone who would lay the Spirit. One Sunday afternoon, about 2 o'clock, an aged priest visited the farm yard, and in the presence of a crowd of spectators exorcised the Ghost, but without effect. In fact, the Ghost waved a woman's bonnet right in the face of the priest. The farmer then sent for Griffiths, an Independent minister at Llanarmon, who enticed the Ghost to the barn. Here the Ghost appeared in the form of a lion, but he could not touch Griffiths, because he stood in the centre of a circle, which the lion could not pass over. Griffiths persuaded the Ghost to appear in a less formidable shape, or otherwise he would have nothing to do with him. The Ghost next came in the form of a mastiff, but Griffiths objected even to this appearance; at last, the Ghost appeared as a fly, which was captured by Griffiths and secured in his tobacco box, and carried away. Griffiths acknowledged that this Ghost was the most formidable one that he had ever conquered. From this tale it would appear that some ghosts were more easily overcome than others. _Pont-y-Glyn Ghost_. There is a picturesque glen between Corwen and Cerrig-y-Drudion, down which rushes a mountain stream, and over this stream is a bridge, called Pont-y-Glyn. On the left hand side, a few yards from the bridge, on the Corwen side, is a yawning chasm, through which the river bounds. Here people who have travelled by night affirm that they have seen ghosts--the ghosts of those who have been murdered in this secluded glen. A man who is now a bailiff near Ruthin, but at the time of the appearance of the Ghost to him at Pont-y-Glyn was a servant at Garth Meilio--states that one night, when he was returning home late from Corwen, he saw before him, seated on a heap of stones, a female dressed in Welsh costume. He wished her good night, but she returned him no answer. She, however, got up and proceeded down the road, which she filled, so great were her increased dimensions. Other Spirits are said to have made their homes in the hills not far from Pont-y-Glyn. There was the Spirit of Ystrad Fawr, a strange Ghost that transformed himself into many things. I will give the description of this Ghost in the words of the author of _Y Gordofigion_. _Ysbryd Ystrad Fawr_. "Yr oedd Ysbryd yn Ystrad Fawr, ger Llangwm, yn arfer ymddangos ar brydiau ar lun twrci, a'i gynffon o'i amgylch fel olwyn troell. Bryd arall, byddai yn y coed, nes y byddai y rhai hyny yn ymddangos fel pe buasent oll ar dan; bryd arall, byddai fel ci du mawr yn cnoi asgwrn."--_Y Gordofigion_, p. 106. _Ystrad Fawr Ghost_ in English is as follows:-- There was a Ghost at Ystrad Fawr, near Llangwm, that was in the habit of appearing like a turkey with his tail spread out like a spinning wheel. At other times he appeared in the wood, when the trees would seem as if they were on fire, again he would assume the shape of a large black dog gnawing a bone. _Ty Felin Ghost_, _Llanynys_. An exciseman, overtaken by night, went to a house called Ty Felin, in the parish of Llanynys, and asked for lodgings. Unfortunately the house was a very small one, containing only two bedrooms, and one of these was haunted, consequently no one dared sleep in it. After awhile, however, the stranger induced the master to allow him to sleep in this haunted room; he had not been there long before a Ghost entered the room in the shape of a travelling Jew, and the Spirit walked around the room. The exciseman tried to catch him, and gave chase, but he lost sight of the Jew in the yard. He had scarcely entered the room, a second time, when he again saw the Ghost. He again chased him, and lost sight of him in the same place. The third time he followed the Ghost, he made a mark on the yard, where the Ghost vanished and went to rest, and was not again troubled. He got up early and went his way, but, before long, he returned to Ty Felin accompanied by a policeman, whom he requested to dig in the place where his mark was. This was done, and, underneath a superficial covering, a deep well was discovered, and in it a corpse. On examining the tenant of the house, he confessed that a travelling Jew, selling jewelry, etc., once lodged with him, and that he had murdered him, and cast his body in the well. _Llandegla Spirit_. The tale of this Spirit was given me by Mr. Roberts, late Schoolmaster of Llandegla. A small river runs close to the secluded village of Llandegla, and in this mountain stream under a huge stone lies a wicked Ghost. The tale is as follows:-- The old Rectory at Llandegla was haunted; the Spirit was very troublesome; no peace was to be got because of it; every night it was at its work. A person of the name of Griffiths, who lived at Graianrhyd, was sent for to lay the Ghost. He came to the Rectory, but the Spirit could not be overcome. It is true Griffiths saw it, but in such a form that he could not approach it; night after night, the Spirit appeared in various forms, but still the conjurer was unable to master it. At last it came to the wise man in the form of a fly, which Griffiths immediately captured, and placed in a small box. This box he buried under a large stone in the river, just below the bridge, near the Llandegla Mills, and there the Spirit is to remain until a certain tree, which grows by the bridge, reaches the height of the parapet, and then, when this takes place, the Spirit shall have power to regain his liberty. To prevent this tree from growing, the school children, even to this day, nip the upper branches, and thus retard its upward growth. Mr. Roberts received the story I have given, from the old Parish Clerk, John Jones the weaver, who died a few years ago. _Lady Jeffrey's Spirit_. This lady could not rest in her grave because of her misdeeds, and she troubled people dreadfully; at last she was persuaded or enticed to contract her dimensions, and enter into a bottle. She did so, after appearing in a good many hideous forms; but when she got into the bottle, it was corked down securely, and the bottle was cast into the pool underneath the Short bridge, Llanidloes, and there the lady was to remain until the ivy that grew up the buttresses should overgrow the sides of the bridge, and reach the parapet. The ivy was dangerously near the top of the bridge when the writer was a schoolboy, and often did he and his companions crop off its tendrils as they neared the prescribed limits for we were all terribly afraid to release the dreaded lady out of the bottle. In the year 1848, the old bridge was blown up, and a new one built instead of it. A schoolfellow, whom we called Ben, was playing by the aforesaid pool when the bridge was undergoing reconstruction, and he found by the river's side a small bottle, and in the bottle was a little black thing, that was never quiet, but it kept bobbing up and down continually, just as if it wanted to get out. Ben kept the bottle safely for a while, but ere long he was obliged to throw it into the river, for his relations and neighbours came to the conclusion that that was the very bottle that contained Lady Jeffrey's Spirit, and they also surmised that the little black restless thing was nothing less than the lady herself. Ben consequently resigned the bottle and its contents to the pool again, there to undergo a prolonged, but unjust, term of imprisonment. _Pentrevoelas_.--_Squire Griffith's Ghost_. A couple of workmen engaged at Foelas, the seat of the late Squire Griffiths, thought they would steal a few apples from the orchard for their children, and for this purpose one evening, just before leaving off work, they climbed up a tree, but happening to look down, whom should they see but the Squire, wearing his three-cornered hat, and dressed in the clothes he used to wear when alive, and he was leaning against the trunk of the tree on which they were perched. In great fright they dropped to the ground and took to their heels. They ran without stopping to Bryn Coch, but there, to their horror, stood the Squire in the middle of the road quietly leaning on his staff. They again avoided him and ran home every step, without looking behind them. The orchard robbers never again saw their late master, nor did they ever again attempt to rob the orchard. _David Salisbury's Ghost_. I will quote from _Bye-Gones_, vol. iii., p. 211, an account of this Spirit. "There was an old Welsh tradition in vogue some fifty years ago, that one David Salisbury, son of _Harri Goch_ of Llanrhaiadr, near Denbigh, and grandson to Thomas Salisbury hen of Lleweni, had given considerable trouble to the living, long after his remains had been laid in the grave. A good old soul, Mr. Griffiths of Llandegla, averred that he had seen his ghost, mounted upon a white horse, galloping over hedges and ditches in the dead of night, and had heard his 'terrible groans,' which, he concluded, proceeded from the weight of sin troubling the unhappy soul, which had to undergo these untimely and unpleasant antics. An old Welsh ballad entitled 'Ysbryd Dafydd Salbri,' professed to give the true account of the individual in question, but the careful search of many years has failed me in securing a copy of that horrible song. GORONWY IFAN." This Spirit fared better than most of his compeers, for they, poor things, were, according to the popular voice, often doomed to ride headless horses, which madly galloped, the livelong night, hither and thither, where they would, to the great terror of the midnight traveller who might meet this mad unmanageable creature, and also, as it would seem, to the additional discomfort of the unfortunate rider. It is, or was believed in Gyffylliog parish, which is in the recesses of the Denbighshire mountains, four or five miles to the west of Ruthin, that the horses ridden by Spirits and goblins were real horses, and it was there said when horses were found in their stables at dawn in a state of perspiration that they had been taken out in the night and ridden by Spirits about the country, and hence their jaded condition in the morning. It was also thought that the horses found in the morning in their pasture ground with tangled manes and tails, and bodies covered with mud, had been during the night used by Spirits, who rushed them through mire and brier, and that consequently they presented the appearance of animals who had followed the hounds in a long chase through a stiff country. There is a strong family likeness between all Ghost stories, and a lack of originality in their construction, but this suggests a common source from which the majority of these fictions are derived. I now come to another phase of Spirit Folk-Lore, which has already been alluded to, viz., the visits of Ghosts for the purpose of revealing hidden treasures. The following tale, which I took down from the mouth of John Rowland, at one time the tenant of Plas-yn-llan, Efenechtyd, is an instance of this kind of story. _A Ghost Appearing to point out Hidden Treasures_. There is a farm house called Clwchdyrnog in the parish of Llanddeusant, Anglesey, which was said to have been haunted by a Spirit. It seems that no one would summon courage to speak to the Ghost, though it was seen by several parties; but one night, John Hughes, Bodedern, a widower, who visited the house for the purpose of obtaining a second Mrs. Hughes from among the servant girls there, spoke to the Ghost. The presence of the Spirit was indicated by a great noise in the room where Hughes and the girl were. In great fright Hughes invoked the Spirit, and asked why he troubled the house. "Have I done any wrong to you," said he, addressing the Spirit. "No," was the answer. Then he asked if the girl to whom he was paying his attentions was the cause of the Spirit's visit, and again he received the answer, "No." Then Hughes named individually all the inmates of the house in succession, and inquired if they were the cause of the Spirit's visits, and again he was answered in the negative. Then he asked why, since no one in the house had disturbed the Spirit, he came there to disturb the inmates. To this pertinent question the Spirit answered as follows:--"There are treasures hidden on the south side of Ffynnon Wen, which belong to, and are to be given to, the nine months old child in this house: when this is done, I will never disturb this house any more." The spot occupied by the treasure was minutely described by the Spirit, and Hughes promised to go to the place indicated. The next day, he went to the spot, and digging into the ground, he came upon an iron chest filled with gold, silver, and other valuables, and all these things he faithfully delivered up to the parents of the child to be kept by them for him until he should come of age to take possession of them himself. This they faithfully did, and the Spirit never again came to the house. John Rowland, my informant, was a native of Anglesey, and he stated that all the people of Llanddeusant knew of the story which he related to me. He was eighty-three years old at the time he told me the tale, and that was in October, 1882. But one of the most singular tales of the appearance of a Ghost is recorded in the autobiography of the grandfather of the late Mr. Thomas Wright, the well-known Shropshire antiquary. Mr. Wright's grandfather was a Methodist, and in the early days of that body the belief in apparitions was not uncommon amongst them. The story was told Mr. Wright, sen., in 1780, at the house, in Yorkshire, of Miss Bosanquet (afterwards the wife of Fletcher of Madeley), by Mr. John Hampson, sen., a well-known preacher among the Methodists, who had just arrived from Wales. As the scene of the tale is laid in Powis Castle, I will call this visitation _The Powis Castle Ghost revealing a Hidden Box to a Woman_. The following is the narrative:--It had been for some time reported in the neighbourhood that a poor unmarried woman, who was a member of the Methodist Society, and had become serious under their ministry, had seen and conversed with the apparition of a gentleman, who had made a strange discovery to her. Mr. Hampson, being desirous to ascertain if there was any truth in the story, sent for the woman, and desired her to give him an exact relation of the whole affair from her own mouth, and as near the truth as she possibly could. She said she was a poor woman, who got her living by spinning hemp and line; that it was customary for the farmers and gentlemen of that neighbourhood to grow a little hemp or line in a corner of their fields for their own home consumption, and as she was a good hand at spinning the materials, she used to go from house to house to inquire for work; that her method was, where they employed her, during her stay to have meat, and drink, and lodging (if she had occasion to sleep with them), for her work, and what they pleased to give her besides. That, among other places, she happened to call one day at the Welsh Earl of Powis's country seat, called Redcastle, to inquire for work, as she usually had done before. The quality were at this time in London, and had left the steward and his wife, with other servants, as usual, to take care of their country residence in their absence. The steward's wife set her to work, and in the evening told her that she must stay all night with them, as they had more work for her to do next day. When bedtime arrived, two or three of the servants in company, with each a lighted candle in her hand, conducted her to her lodging. They led her to a ground room, with a boarded floor, and two sash windows. The room was grandly furnished, and had a genteel bed in one corner of it. They had made her a good fire, and had placed her a chair and a table before it, and a large lighted candle upon the table. They told her that was her bedroom, and she might go to sleep when she pleased. They then wished her a good night and withdrew altogether, pulling the door quickly after them, so as to hasp the spring-sneck in the brass lock that was upon it. When they were gone, she gazed awhile at the fine furniture, under no small astonishment that they should put such a poor person as her in so grand a room and bed, with all the apparatus of fire, chair, table, and candle. She was also surprised at the circumstance of the servants coming so many together, with each of them a candle. However, after gazing about her some little time, she sat down and took a small Welsh Bible out of her pocket, which she always carried about with her, and in which she usually read a chapter--chiefly in the New Testament--before she said her prayers and went to bed. While she was reading she heard the room door open, and turning her head, saw a gentleman enter in a gold-laced hat and waistcoat, and the rest of his dress corresponding therewith. (I think she was very particular in describing the rest of his dress to Mr. Hampson, and he to me at the time, but I have now forgot the other particulars). He walked down by the sash-window to the corner of the room and then returned. When he came to the first window in his return (the bottom of which was nearly breast-high), he rested his elbow on the bottom of the window, and the side of his face upon the palm of his hand, and stood in that leaning posture for some time, with his side partly towards her. She looked at him earnestly to see if she knew him, but, though from her frequent intercourse with them, she had a personal knowledge of all the present family, he appeared a stranger to her. She supposed afterwards that he stood in this manner to encourage her to speak; but as she did not, after some little time he walked off, pulling the door after him as the servants had done before. She began now to be much alarmed, concluding it to be an apparition, and that they had put her there on purpose. This was really the case. The room, it seems, had been disturbed for a long time, so that nobody could sleep peaceably in it, and as she passed for a very serious woman, the servants took it into their heads to put the Methodist and Spirit together, to see what they would make of it. Startled at this thought, she rose from her chair, and kneeled down by the bedside to say her prayers. While she was praying he came in again, walked round the room, and came close behind her. She had it on her mind to speak, but when she attempted it she was so very much agitated that she could not utter a word. He walked out of the room again, pulling the door after him as before. She begged that God would strengthen her and not suffer her to be tried beyond what she was able to bear. She recovered her spirits, and thought she felt more confidence and resolution, and determined if he came in again she would speak to him, if possible. He presently came in again, walked round, and came behind her as before; she turned her head and said, "Pray, sir, who are you, and what do you want?" He put up his finger, and said, "Take up the candle and follow me, and I will tell you." She got up, took up the candle, and followed him out of the room. He led her through a long boarded passage till they came to the door of another room, which he opened and went in. It was a small room, or what might be called a large closet. "As the room was small, and I believed him to be a Spirit," she said, "I stopped at the door; he turned and said, 'Walk in, I will not hurt you.' So I walked in. He said, 'Observe what I do.' I said, 'I will.' He stooped, and tore up one of the boards of the floor, and there appeared under it a box with an iron handle in the lid. He said, 'Do you see that box?' I said, 'Yes, I do.' He then stepped to one side of the room, and showed me a crevice in the wall, where, he said, a key was hid that would open it. He said, 'This box and key must be taken out, and sent to the Earl in London' (naming the Earl, and his place of residence in the city). He said, 'Will you see it done?' I said, 'I will do my best to get it done.' He said, 'Do, and I will trouble the house no more.' He then walked out of the room and left me." (He seems to have been a very civil Spirit, and to have been very careful to affright her as little as possible). "I stepped to the room door and set up a shout. The steward and his wife, and the other servants came to me immediately, all clung together, with a number of lights in their hands. It seems they had all been waiting to see the issue of the interview betwixt me and the apparition. They asked me what was the matter? I told them the foregoing circumstances, and showed them the box. The steward durst not meddle with it, but his wife had more courage, and, with the help of the other servants, lugged it out, and found the key." She said by their lifting it appeared to be pretty heavy, but that she did not see it opened, and therefore did not know what it contained; perhaps money, or writings of consequence to the family, or both. They took it away with them, and she then went to bed and slept peaceably till the morning. It appeared afterwards that they sent the box to the Earl in London, with an account of the manner of its discovery and by whom; and the Earl sent down orders immediately to his steward to inform the poor woman who had been the occasion of this discovery, that if she would come and reside in his family, she should be comfortably provided for for the remainder of her days; or, if she did not choose to reside constantly with them, if she would let them know when she wanted assistance, she should be liberally supplied at his Lordship's expense as long as she lived. And Mr. Hampson said it was a known fact in the neighbourhood that she had been so supplied from his Lordship's family from the time the affair was said to have happened, and continued to be so at the time she gave Mr. Hampson this account. Such is the tale. I will make no comments on it. Many similar stories are extant. After one more tale, I will leave these Spirit stories, and I will then relate how troublesome Ghosts were laid. The Spirits of the preceding tales were sent from the unseen world to do good, but the Spirit of the maiden who gives a name to a Welsh lake, cried out for vengeance; but history does not inform us that she obtained satisfaction. There is a lake in Carnarvonshire called _Llyn-Nad-y-Forwyn_, or the Lake of the Maiden's Cry, to which is attached the following tale. I will call the tale _The Spirit of Llyn-Nad-y-Forwyn_. It is said that a young man was about to marry a young girl, and on the evening before the wedding they were rambling along the water's side together, but the man was false, and loved another better than the woman whom he was about to wed. They were alone in an unfrequented country, and the deceiver pushed the girl into the lake to get rid of her to marry his sweetheart. She lost her life. But ever afterwards her Spirit troubled the neighbourhood, but chiefly the scene of her murder. Sometimes she appeared as a ball of fire, rolling along the river Colwyn, at other times she appeared as a lady dressed in silk, taking a solitary walk along the banks of the river. At other times, groans and shrieks were heard coming out of the river--just such screams as would be uttered by a person who was being murdered. Sometimes a young maiden was seen emerging out of the waters, half naked, with dishevelled hair, that covered her shoulders, and the country resounded with her heart-rending crying as she appeared in the lake. The frequent crying of the Spirit gave to the lake its name, Llyn-Nad-y-Forwyn. _Spirit Laying_. It must have been a consolation to those who believed in the power of wicked Spirits to trouble people, that it was possible to lay these evil visitors in a pool of water, or to drive them away to the Red Sea, or to some other distant part of the world. It was generally thought that Spirits could be laid by a priest; and there were particular forms of exorcising these troublesome beings. A conjuror, or _Dyn Hysbys_, was also credited with this power, and it was thought that the prayer of a righteous man could overcome these emissaries of evil. But there was a place for hope in the case of these transported or laid Spirits. It was granted to some to return from the Red Sea to the place whence they departed by the length of a grain of wheat or barley corn yearly. The untold ages that it would take to accomplish a journey of four thousand miles thus slowly was but a very secondary consideration to the annihilation of hope. Many were the conditions imposed upon the vanquished Spirits by their conquerors before they could be permitted to return to their old haunts, and well might it be said that the conditions could not possibly be carried out; but still there was a place for hope in the breast of the doomed by the imposition of any terminable punishment. The most ancient instance of driving out a Spirit that I am acquainted with is to be found in the Book of Tobit. It seems to be the prototype of many like tales. The angel Raphael and Tobias were by the river Tigris, when a fish jumped out of the river, which by the direction of the angel was seized by the young man, and its heart, and liver, and gall extracted, and, at the angel's command carefully preserved by Tobias. When asked what their use might be, the angel informed him that the smoke of the heart and liver would drive away a devil or Evil Spirit that troubled anyone. In the 14th verse of the sixth chapter of Tobit we are told that a devil loved Sara, but that he did no harm to anyone, excepting to those who came near her. Knowing this, the young man was afraid to marry the woman; but remembering the words of Raphael, he went in unto his wife, and took the ashes of the perfumes as ordered, and put the heart and liver of the fish thereupon, and made a smoke therewith, the which smell, when the Evil Spirit had smelled, he fled into the utmost parts of Egypt, and the angel bound him. Such is the story, many variants of which are found in many countries. I am grieved to find that Sir John Wynne, who wrote the interesting and valuable _History of the Gwydir Family_, which ought to have secured for him kindly recognition from his countrymen, was by them deposited after death, for troubling good people, in Rhaiadr y Wenol. The superstition has found a place in Yorke's _Royal Tribes of Wales_. The following quotation is from the _History of the Gwydir Family_, Oswestry Edition, p. 7:-- "Being shrewd and successful in his dealings, people were led to believe he oppressed them," and says Yorke in his _Royal Tribes of Wales_, "It is the superstition of Llanrwst to this day that the Spirit of the old gentleman lies under the great waterfall, Rhaiadr y Wennol, there to be punished, purged, spouted upon and purified from the foul deeds done in his days of nature." This gentleman, though, is not alone in occupying, until his misdeeds are expiated, a watery grave. There is hardly a pool in a river, or lake in which Spirits have not, according to popular opinion, been laid. In our days though, it is only the aged that speak of such matters. A Spirit could in part be laid. It is said that Abel Owen's Spirit, of Henblas, was laid by Gruffydd Jones, Cilhaul, in a bottle, and buried in a _gors_ near Llanrwst. This Gruffydd Jones had great trouble at Hafod Ucha between Llanrwst and Conway, to lay a Spirit. He began in the afternoon, and worked hard the whole night and the next day to lay the Spirit, but he succeeded in overcoming a part only of the Spirit. He was nearly dead from exhaustion and want of food before he could even master a portion of the Spirit. The preceding is a singular tale, for it teaches that Spirits are divisible. A portion of this Spirit, repute says, is still at large, whilst a part is undergoing purification. The following tale was told me by my friend, the Rev. T. H. Evans, Vicar of Llanwddyn. _Cynon's Ghost_. One of the wicked Spirits which plagued the secluded Valley of Llanwddyn long before it was converted into a vast reservoir to supply Liverpool with water was that of _Cynon_. Of this Spirit Mr. Evans writes thus:--"_Yspryd Cynon_ was a mischievous goblin, which was put down by _Dic Spot_ and put in a quill, and placed under a large stone in the river below Cynon Isaf. The stone is called '_Careg yr Yspryd_,' the Ghost Stone. This one received the following instructions, that he was to remain under the stone until the water should work its way between the stone and the dry land." The poor Spirit, to all appearance, was doomed to a very long imprisonment, but _Dic Spot_ did not foresee the wants and enterprise of the people of Liverpool, who would one day convert the Llanwddyn Valley into a lake fifteen miles in circumference, and release the Spirit from prison by the process of making their Waterworks. I might here say that there is another version current in the parish besides that given me by Mr. Evans, which is that the Spirit was to remain under the stone until the river was dried up. Perhaps both conditions were, to make things safe, imposed upon the Spirit. _Careg yr Yspryd_ and Cynon Isaf were at the entrance to the Valley of Llanwddyn, and down this opening, or mouth of the valley, rushed the river--the river that was to be dammed up for the use of Liverpool. The inhabitants of the valley knew the tradition respecting the Spirit, and they much feared its being disturbed. The stone was a large boulder, from fifteen to twenty tons in weight, and it was evident that it was doomed to destruction, for it stood in the river Vyrnwy just where operations were to commence. There was no small stir among the Welsh inhabitants when preparations were made to blast the huge Spirit-stone. English and Irish workmen could not enter into the feeling of the Welsh towards this stone, but they had heard what was said about it. They, however, had no dread of the imprisoned Spirit. In course of time the stone was bored and a load of dynamite inserted, but it was not shattered at the first blast. About four feet square remained intact, and underneath this the Spirit was, if it was anywhere. The men were soon set to work to demolish the stone. The Welshmen expected some catastrophe to follow its destruction, and they were even prepared to see the Spirit bodily emerge from its prison, for, said they, the conditions of its release have been fulfilled--the river had been diverted from its old bed into an artificial channel, to facilitate the removal of this and other stones--and there was no doubt that both conditions had been literally carried out, and consequently the Spirit, if justice ruled, could claim its release. The stone was blasted, and strange to relate, when the smoke had cleared away, the water in a cavity where the stone had been was seen to move; there was no apparent reason why the water should thus be disturbed, unless, indeed, the Spirit was about to appear. The Welsh workmen became alarmed, and moved away from the place, keeping, however, their eyes fixed on the pool. The mystery was soon solved, for a large frog made its appearance, and, sedately sitting on a fragment of the shattered stone, rubbed its eyes with its feet, as if awaking from a long sleep. The question was discussed, "Is it a frog, or the Spirit in the form of a frog; if it is a frog, why was it not killed when the stone was blasted?" And again, "Who ever saw a frog sit up in that fashion and rub the dust out of its eyes? It must be the Spirit." There the workmen stood, at a respectful distance from the frog, who, heedless of the marked attention paid to it, continued sitting up and rubbing its eyes. They would not approach it, for it must be the Spirit, and no one knew what its next movement or form might be. At last, however, the frog was driven away, and the men re-commenced their labours. But for nights afterwards people passing the spot heard a noise as of heavy chains being dragged along the ground where the stone once stood. _Caellwyngrydd Spirit_. This was a dangerous Spirit. People passing along the road were stoned by it; its work was always mischievous and hurtful. At last it was exorcised and sent far away to the Red Sea, but it was permitted to return the length of a barley corn every year towards its lost home. From the tales already given, it is seen that the people believed in the possibility of getting rid of troublesome Spirits, and the person whose aid was sought on these occasions was often a minister of religion. We have seen how Griffiths of Llanarmon had reached notoriety in this direction, and he lived in quite modern times. The clergy were often consulted in matters of this kind, and they were commonly believed to have power over Spirits. The Rev. Walter Davies had great credit as a Spirit layer, and he lived far into the present century. Going further back, I find that Archdeacon Edmund Prys, and his contemporary and friend, Huw Llwyd, were famous opponents of Evil Spirits, and their services are said to have been highly appreciated, because always successful. The manner of laying Spirits differed. In this century, prayer and Bible reading were usually resorted to, but in other days, incantation was employed. We have seen how Griffiths surrounded himself with an enchanted circle, which the Spirit could not break through. This ring was thought to be impervious to the Ghost tribe, and therefore it was the protection of the person whom it surrounded. The Spirit was invoked and commanded to depart by the person within the magic ring and it obeyed the mandate. Sometimes it was found necessary to conduct a service in Church, in Latin by night, the Church being lit up with consecrated candles, ere the Ghost could be overcome. When Spirits were being laid, we are told that they presented themselves in various forms to the person engaged in laying them, and that ultimately they foolishly came transformed into some innocuous insect or animal, which he was able to overcome. The simplicity of the Ghosts is ridiculous, and can only be understood by supposing that the various steps in the contest for the mastery are not forthcoming, that they have been lost. These various metamorphoses would imply that transmigration was believed in by our forefathers. _Ghost Raising_. If the possibility of Ghost Laying was believed in, so also was the possibility of raising Evil Spirits. This faith dates from olden times. Shakespeare, to this, as to most other popular notions, has given a place in his immortal plays. Speaking rightly in the name of "Glendower," a Welshman, conversant with Ghosts and Goblins, the poet makes him say:-- "I can call Spirits from the vasty deep." _Henry the Fourth_, Act III., S. 1. And again in the same person's mouth are placed these words:-- "Why, I can teach you, cousin, _to command the devil_." The witches in Macbeth have this power ascribed to them: I'll catch it ere it come to ground: And that, distilled by magic sleights, _Shall raise such artificial Sprites_, _As by the strength of their illusion_ Shall draw him on to his confusion. _Macbeth_, Act III., S. 5. This idea has continued right to our own days, and adepts in the black art have affirmed that they possess this power. Doctor Bennion, a gentleman well known in his lifetime in and about Oswestry, was thought to be able to raise Devils. I find in the history of _Ffynnon Elian_, p. 12, that the doctor visited John Evans, the last custodian of the well, and taught him how to accomplish this feat. For the benefit of those anxious to obtain this power, I will give the doctor's recipe:--"Publish it abroad that you can raise the Devil, and the country will believe you, and will credit you with many miracles. All that you have to do afterwards is to be silent, and you will then be as good a raiser of Devils as I am, and I as good as you." Evans confesses that he acted according to the astute doctor's advice, and he adds--"The people in a very short time spoke much about me, and they soon came to intrust everything to me, their conduct frightened me, for they looked upon me as if I were a god." This man died August 14th, 1858. _Witches and Conjurors_. From and before the days of King Saul, to the present moment, witches have held dreaded sway over the affairs of man. Cruel laws have been promulgated against them, they have been murdered by credulous and infuriated mobs, they have lost their lives after legal trial, but still, witches have lived on through the dark days of ignorance, and even in these days of light and learning they have their votaries. There must be something in the human constitution peculiarly adapted to the exercise of witchcraft, or it could not have lived so long, nor could it have been so universal, as it undoubtedly is, unless men lent themselves willingly to its impositions. It is curious to notice how good and enlightened men have clung to a belief in witchcraft. It is, consequently, not to be wondered at that the common people placed faith in witches and conjurors when their superiors in learning professed a like faith. I have often spoken to intelligent men, who did not scruple to confess that they believed in witches and conjurors, and they adduced instances to prove that their faith had a foundation in fact. Almost up to our days, the farmer who lost anything valuable consulted a conjuror, and vowed vengeance on the culprit if it were not restored by such and such a time, and invariably the stolen property was returned to its owner before the specified period had expired. As detectives, the conjurors, therefore, occupied a well-defined and useful place in rural morality, and witches, too, were indirectly teachers of charity, for no farm wife would refuse refreshments to the destitute lest vengeance should overtake her. In this way the deserving beggar obtained needed assistance from motives of self-preservation from benefactors whose fears made them charitable. But, if these benefits were derived from a false faith, the evils attending that faith were nevertheless most disastrous to the community at large, and many inhuman Acts were passed in various reigns to eradicate witchcraft. From the wording of these Acts it will be seen what witches were credited with doing. An Act passed 33 Henry VIII. adjudged all witchcraft and sorcery to be felony. A like Act was passed 1 James, c.12, and also in the reign of Philip and Mary. The following is an extract:-- "All persons who shall practise invocation, or conjuration, of wicked spirits, any witchcraft, enchantment, charm, or sorcery, whereby any person shall happen to be killed, or destroyed, shall, with their aiders, and abettors, be accounted felons, without benefit of clergy; and all persons practising any witchcraft, etc., whereby any person shall happen to be wasted, consumed, or lamed in his or her body, or members, or whereby any goods, or chattels, shall be destroyed, wasted, or impaired, shall, with their counsellors, and aiders, suffer for the first offence one year's imprisonment and the pillory, and for the second the punishment of felony without the clergy." . . . "If any person shall consult, covenant with, entertain, employ, feed, or reward any evil or wicked spirit, or _take up any dead man_, _woman_, _or child out of his_, _her_, _or their grave_; or, the skin, bone, or any other part of any dead person to be employed in any manner of witchcraft, sorcery, charm, or enchantment, etc., _he shall suffer death as a felon_, without benefit of clergy." The law of James I. was repealed in George II.'s. reign, but even then persons pretending to use witchcraft, tell fortunes, or discover stolen goods, by skill in the occult sciences, were to be punished by a year's imprisonment; and by an Act, 5 George IV., c.83, any person or persons using any subtle art, means, or device, by palmistry, or otherwise, to deceive his Majesty's subjects, were to be deemed rogues and vagabonds, and to be punished with imprisonment and hard labour. Acts of Parliament did not succeed in eradicating witchcraft. Its power has waned, but it still exercises an influence, shadowy though it be, on certain minds, though in its grosser forms it has disappeared. Formerly, ailments of all kinds, and misfortunes of every description, were ascribed to the malignant influence of some old decrepit female, and it was believed that nature's laws could be changed by these witches, that they could at will produce tempests to destroy the produce of the earth, and strike with sickness those who had incurred their displeasure. Thus Lady Macbeth, speaking of these hags, says:-- "I have learned by the perfectest report, they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further they made themselves air, into which they vanished." _Macbeth_, Act. i, S. 5. The uncanny knowledge possessed by witches was used, it was thought, to injure people, and their malice towards good, hard-working, honest folk was unmistakable. They afflicted children from sheer love of cruelty, and bewitched animals gratuitously, or for slights which they supposed their owners had shown towards them; consequently their knowledge was considered to be greatly inimical to others, and particularly baneful to the industrious, whom witches hated. There was hardly a district that had not its witches. Children ran away when they saw approaching them an aged woman, with a red shawl on, for they believed she was a witch, who could, with her evil eye, injure them. It was, however, believed that the machinations of witches could be counteracted in various ways, and by and by some of these charms shall be given. Life would have been intolerable but for these antidotes to witchcraft. Shakespeare's knowledge of Welsh Folk-lore was extensive and peculiarly faithful, and what he says of witches in general agrees with the popular opinion respecting them in Wales. I cannot do better than quote from this great Folk-lorist a few things that he tells us about witches. Mention has been made of witches taking dead bodies out of their graves to make use of them in their enchantments, and Shakespeare, in his description of the witches' cauldron, shows that they threw into the seething pot many portions of human beings. The first witch in _Macbeth_ says:-- Round about the cauldron go, In the poisoned _entrails_ throw. The third witch mentions other things that are thrown into the pot, as:-- Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witches' mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digged i' the dark, _Liver of blaspheming Jew_, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse, _Nose of Turk_, _and Tartar's lips_, Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-delivered by a drab. _Macbeth_, A. IV., S. 1. It was thought that witches could change themselves, and other people, into the form of animals. In Wales, the cat and the hare were the favourite animals into which witches transformed themselves, but they did not necessarily confine themselves to these animals. They were able to travel in the air on a broom-stick; make children ill; give maids the nightmare; curse with madness, animals; bring misfortune on families; hinder the dairy maid from making butter; and many more imaginary things were placed to their credit. The personal appearance of witches, as given by Shakespeare, corresponds exactly with the Welsh idea of these hags. On this subject the poet writes:-- What are these _So wither'd and so wild in their attire_ That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't?--Live you? Or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her chappy fingers laying Upon her skinny lips:--you should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. _Macbeth_, Act I., S. 3. A striking and pathetic portrait of a witch, taken from _Otway's Orphan_, Act. II., is given in No. 117 of the _Spectator_. It is so true to life and apposite to our subject that I will quote it:-- In a close lane, as I pursu'd my journey, I spy'd a wrinkled hag, with age grown double, Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself. Her eyes with scalding-rheum were gall'd, and red, Cold palsy shook her head, her hands seemed wither'd, And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapt The tatter'd remnant of an old striped hanging, Which served to keep her carcass from the cold; So there was nothing of a piece about her. Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patched, With different colour'd rags, black, red, white, yellow. And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness. A picture such as this is enough to create sympathy and charity in a selfish heart, but in those dark days, when faith in witchcraft prevailed, such a poor old decrepit woman inspired awe, and was shunned as a malicious evil-doer by all her neighbours. _Llanddona Witches_. There is a tradition in the parish of Llanddona, Anglesey, that these witches, with their husbands, had been expelled from their native country, wherever that was, for practising witchcraft. They were sent adrift, it is said, in a boat, without rudder or oars, and left in this state to the mercy of the wind and the wave. When they were first discovered approaching the Anglesey shore, the Welsh tried to drive them back into the sea, and even after they had landed they were confined to the beach. The strangers, dead almost from thirst and hunger, commanded a spring of pure water to burst forth on the sands. This well remains to our days. This miracle decided their fate. The strangers were allowed, consequently, to land, but as they still practised their evil arts the parish became associated with their name, and hence the _Witches of Llanddona_ was a term generally applied to the female portion of that parish, though in reality it belonged to one family only within its boundaries. The men lived by smuggling and the women by begging and cursing. It was impossible to overcome these daring smugglers, for in their neckerchief was a fly, which, the moment the knot of their cravats was undone, flew right at the eye of their opponents and blinded them, but before this last remedy was resorted to the men fought like lions, and only when their strength failed them did they release their familiar spirit, the fly, to strike with blindness the defenders of the law. The above-mentioned tradition of the coming of these witches to Anglesey is still current in the parish of Llanddona, which is situated on the north coast of Anglesey. It was thought that the witching power belonged to families, and descended from mothers to daughters. This was supposed to be the case with the witches of Llanddona. This family obtained a bad report throughout the island. The women, with dishevelled hair and bared breasts, visited farm houses and requested charity, more as a right than a favour, and no one dared refuse them. _Llanddona Witches_ is a name that is not likely soon to die. Taking advantage of the credulity of the people, they cursed those whom they disliked, and many were the endeavours to counteract their maledictions. The following is one of their curses, uttered at _Y Ffynon Ocr_, a well in the parish of Llanddona, upon a man who had offended one of these witches:-- Crwydro y byddo am oesoedd lawer; Ac yn mhob cam, camfa; Yn mhob camfa, codwm; Yn mhob codwm, tori asgwrn; Nid yr asgwrn mwyaf na'r lleiaf, Ond asgwrn chwil corn ei wddw bob tro. The English is as follows, but the alliteration and rhythm of the Welsh do not appear in the translation:-- May he wander for ages many; And at every step, a stile; At every stile, a fall; At every fall, a broken bone; Not the largest, nor the least bone, But the chief neck bone, every time. This curse seemed to be a common imprecation, possibly belonging to that family. Such was the terror of the _Llanddona Witches_ that if any of them made a bid for a pig or anything else, in fair or market, no one else dared bid against them, for it was believed they would witch the animal thus bought. There were also celebrated witches at Denbigh. _Bella Fawr_ (Big Bella) was one of the last and most famous of her tribe in that town, and many other places were credited with possessing persons endowed with witching powers, as well as those who could break spells. The following tales of the doings of witches will throw light upon the matter under consideration. _Witches transforming themselves into Cats_. One of the forms that witches were supposed to change themselves into was that of a cat. In this metamorphosed state they were the more able to accomplish their designs. The following tale, illustrative of this belief, was told me by the Rev. R. Jones, Rector of Llanycil, Bala. On the side of the old road, between Cerrig-y-drudion and Bettws-y-Coed--long before this latter place had become the resort of artists--stood an inn, which was much resorted to, as it was a convenient lodging house for travellers on their way to Ireland. This inn stood near the present village of Bettws-y-Coed. Many robberies occurred here. Travellers who put up there for the night were continually deprived of their money, and no one could tell how this occurred, for the lodgers were certain that no one had entered their rooms, as they were found locked in the morning just as they were the night before. The mystery was, therefore, great. By and by, one of those who had lost his money consulted _Huw Llwyd_, who lived at Cynvael, in the parish of Festiniog, and he promised to unravel the mystery. Now, Huw Llwyd had been an officer in the army, and, equipped in his regimentals, with sword dangling by his side, he presented himself one evening at the suspected inn, and asked whether he could obtain a room and bed for the night; he represented himself as on his way to Ireland, and he found no difficulty in obtaining a night's lodging. The inn was kept by two sisters of prepossessing appearance, and the traveller made himself most agreeable to these ladies, and entertained them with tales of his travels in foreign parts. On retiring for the night he stated that it was a habit with him to burn lights in his room all night, and he was supplied with a sufficient quantity of candles to last through the night. The request, as Hugh Llwyd was a military man, did not arouse suspicion. Huw retired, and made his arrangements for a night of watching. He placed his clothes on the floor within easy reach of his bed, and his sword unsheathed lay on the bed close to his right hand. He had secured the door, and now as the night drew on he was all attention; ere long two cats stealthily came down the partition between his room and the next to it. Huw feigned sleep, the cats frisked here and there in the room, but the sleeper awoke not; they chased each other about the room, and played and romped, and at last they approached Huw's clothes and played with them, and here they seemed to get the greatest amusement; they turned the clothes about and over, placing their paws now on that string, and now on that button, and ere long their paws were inserted into the pockets of his clothes, and, just as one of the cats had her paw in the pocket that contained Huw Llwyd's purse, he like lightning struck the cat's paw with his sword. With terrible screams they both disappeared, and nothing further was seen of them during the night. Next morning, only one of the sisters appeared at the breakfast table. To the traveller's enquiry after the absent lady of the house, her sister said that she was slightly indisposed, and could not appear. Huw Llwyd expressed regret at this, but, said he--"I must say good-bye to her, for I greatly enjoyed her company last night." He would not be refused, so ultimately he was admitted to her presence. After expressing his sympathy and regret at her illness, the soldier held out his hand to bid good-bye to the lady. She put out her left hand; this Huw refused to take, averring that he had never taken a left hand in his life, and that he would not do so now. Very reluctantly, and with evident pain, she put out her right hand, which was bandaged, and this fact cleared up the mystery connected with the robberies. These two ladies were two witches, who in the form of cats had robbed travellers who lodged under their roof. Huw, when he made this discovery said--"I am Huw Llwyd of Cynvael, and I warn you of the risk you have incurred by your thefts, and I promise you I will not let you off so easily the next time I have need to visit you." The preceding tale is circumstantial, but unfortunately similar tales are current in other places, as shown by the following quotation:-- "The last instance of national credulity on this head was the story of the witches of Thurso, who, tormenting for a long time an honest fellow under the usual form of a cat, at last provoked him so that one night he put them to flight with his broad sword and _cut off the leg_ of one less nimble than the rest. On his taking it up, to his amazement _he found it belonged to a female of his own species_, and next morning discovered the owner, an old hag, with only the companion leg to this." _Brand's Popular Antiquities_, pp. 318-319. _The Witches' Revenge on Huw Llwyd_. Several months after the occurrence recorded above of Huw Llwyd, when he had just started from his home one Sunday morning to go to his Church to officiate there, for he was the parson of Llan Festiniog, he observed that the Bettws-y-Coed ladies were approaching his house, and he perceived that their object was to witch him. He knew full well that as long as his back was turned towards them he was in their power, but that when he faced them they could do him no harm; so; to avoid their evil influence, and to frustrate their designs, he faced them, and walked backwards every step from Cynvael to the Llan, and in this way he escaped being injured by his female enemies. But this was not all. Huw Llwyd knew that when he reached the Church porch he was beyond witchcraft's reach. Having arrived there he shouted out--"I defy you now, and before I leave the Church I will make you that you can never again witch anyone." He was as good as his word, for by his skill in the black art, he deprived those two ladies, ere he left the Church, of their power to witch people, and during the rest of their lives they were like other women. Huw Llwyd, who was born 1533, and died 1620, was a clergyman, and it was generally believed that priests could counteract the evils of the enemy of mankind. The wide-spread belief of witches being able to transform themselves into animals is shown in the legends of many countries, and, as in the case of fairy stories, the same tale, slightly changed, may be heard in various places. The possibility of injuring or _marking_ the witch in her assumed form so deeply that the bruise remained a mark on her in her natural form was a common belief. A tale in certain points like the one recorded of Huw Llwyd and the witches who turned themselves into cats is to be heard in many parts of Wales. It is as follows. I quote the main facts from my friend Mr. Hamer's account of Llanidloes, published in the _Montgomeryshire Collections_, vol. x., p. 243:-- _A Witch transformed into a Hare injured by one whom she tormented_. "An old woman, thought to be a witch, was said by a neighbour to be in the habit of visiting her nightly in the shape of a hare, and that in consequence she was deprived of her rest. The witch came to her bed, as a hare, and crossed it, and the tormented one was determined to put an end to this persecution. For this purpose she procured a hammer, which she placed under her pillow when she retired to rest. That night the old witch, unaware of the reception awaiting her, paid her usual visit to her victim. But the instant she jumped on the bed she received a stunning blow on the head, and, it need not be added, disappeared. Next morning, a friend of the persecuted woman, who was in the secret of the whole case, on some pretext paid the old woman, the supposed witch, a visit, and she was greatly astonished to find her laid up, suffering from a frightful black eye, which her visitor believed to be the result of the blow dealt her with the hammer on the previous night." _A Witch shot when in the form of a Hare_. The following tale was told me by the Rev. R. Jones, Rector of Llanycil:-- An old woman was evicted from a small farm, which she and her family had held for many years. She was naturally greatly annoyed at such conduct on the part of the landlord, and of the person who supplanted her. However, she procured a small cottage close by her late home, and there she lived. But the interloper did not get on, for she was troubled by a hare that came nightly to her house. A labouring man, when going to his work early in the morning, time after time saw a hare going from the farm towards the cottage occupied by this old woman, and he determined to shoot this hare. He procured an old gun, and loaded it with pebbles instead of shot, and awaited the approach of the hare. It came as usual, the man fired, and the hare rolled over and over, screaming and making a terrible noise. He, however, did not heed this much, for hares, when shot, do scream, and so he went to secure the hare, but when he attempted to seize it, it changed into all shapes, and made horrible sounds, and the man was so terrified that he ran away, and he was very glad to get away from the scene of this shocking occurrence. In a few days afterwards the old woman who occupied the cottage was found dead, and it was noticed by the woman who laid her out that her arm and shoulder were riddled with pebbles. It was thought that she was a witch, and that she had troubled the people who had deprived her of her farm, and that she did so in the shape of a hare, and no one doubted that the injury inflicted on the old woman was anything more than the shot of the man, who supposed that he had killed a hare, when in reality he shot and killed the old woman. The farmer was never troubled after the death of the woman whom he had supplanted. Many variants of this tale are still extant. The parish clerk of Llangadfan, a mountainous parish in Montgomeryshire, gave me one, which he located in Nant-yr-eira, but as it is in its main points much like the preceding, I will not relate it. _A Witch in the form of a Hare in a Churn_. In the _Spectator_, No. 117, are these words:-- "If the dairy-maid does not make her butter come so soon as she would have it, _Moll White_ (a supposed witch) is at the bottom of the churn." Until very lately I had thought that the milk only was considered bewitched if it could not be churned, and not that the witch herself was at the bottom of the churn. But I have been disabused of this false notion, for the Rector of Llanycil told me the following story, which was told him by his servant girl, who figures in the tale. When this girl was servant at Drws-y-nant, near Dolgelley, one day, the milk would not churn. They worked a long time at it to no purpose. The girl thought that she heard something knocking up and down in the churn, and splashing about. She told her master there was something in the churn, but he would not believe her; however, they removed the lid, and out jumped a large hare, and ran away through the open door, and this explained all difficulties, and proved that the milk was bewitched, and that the witch herself was in the churn in the shape of a hare. This girl affirmed that she had seen the hare with her own eyes. As the hare was thought to be a form assumed by witches it was impossible for ordinary beings to know whether they saw a hare, or a witch in the form of a hare, when the latter animal appeared and ran before them along the road, consequently the hare, as well as the witch, augured evil. An instance of this confusion of ideas was related to the writer lately by Mr. Richard Jones, Tyn-y-wern, Bryneglwys. _A Hare crossing the Road_. Mr. Jones said that when he was a lad, he and his mother went to Caerwys fair from the Vale of Clwyd, intending to sell a cow at the fair. They had not gone far on their way before a large hare crossed the road, hopping and halting and looking around. His mother was vexed at the sight, and she said--"We may as well go home, Dick, for no good will come of our journey since that old witch crosses our path." They went on, though, and reached Caerwys in safety, but they got no bid for the cow, although they stayed there all day long. _A Witch in the form of a Hare hunted by a Black Greyhound_. The writer has heard variants of the following tale in several parts of Wales:-- An old woman, credited to be a witch, lived on the confines of the hills in a small hut in south Carnarvonshire. Her grandson, a sharp intelligent lad, lived with her. Many gentlemen came to that part with greyhounds for the purpose of coursing, and the lad's services were always in requisition, for he never failed in starting a hare, and whenever he did so he was rewarded with a shilling. But it was noticed that the greyhounds never caught the hare which the lad started. The sport was always good, the race long and exciting, but the hare never failed to elude her pursuers. Scores of times this occurred, until at last the sportsmen consulted a wise man, who gave it as his opinion that this was no ordinary hare, but a witch, and, said he--"She can never be caught but by a black greyhound." A dog of this colour was sought for far and near, and at last found and bought. Away to the hills the coursers went, believing that now the hare was theirs. They called at the cottage for the lad to accompany them and start the prey. He was as ready as ever to lead them to their sport. The hare was soon started, and off the dog was slipped and started after it, and the hare bounded away as usual, but it is now seen that her pursuer is a match for her in swiftness, and, notwithstanding the twistings and windings, the dog was soon close behind the distressed hare. The race became more and more exciting, for hound and hare exerted themselves to their very utmost, and the chase became hot, and still hotter. The spectators shout in their excitement--"_Hei! ci du_," ("_Hi! black dog_,") for it was seen that he was gaining on his victim. "_Hei! Mam_, _gu_," ("_Hei! grandmother_, _dear_,") shouted the lad, forgetting in his trouble that his grandmother was in the form of a hare. His was the only encouraging voice uttered on behalf of the poor hunted hare. His single voice was hardly heard amidst the shouts of the many. The pursuit was long and hard, dog and hare gave signs of distress, but shouts of encouragement buoyed up the strength of the dog. The chase was evidently coming to a close, and the hare was approaching the spot whence it started. One single heart was filled with dread and dismay at the failing strength of the hare, and from that heart came the words--"_Hei! Mam gu_" ("_Hi! grandmother_, _dear_.") All followed the chase, which was now nearing the old woman's cottage, the window of which was open. With a bound the hare jumped through the small casement into the cottage, but the black dog was close behind her, and just as she was disappearing through the window, he bit the hare and retained a piece of her skin in his mouth, but he could not follow the hare into the cottage, as the aperture was too small. The sportsmen lost no time in getting into the cottage, but, after much searching, they failed to discover puss. They, however, saw the old woman seated by the fire spinning. They also noticed that there was blood trickling from underneath her seat, and this they considered sufficient proof that it was the witch in the form of a hare that had been coursed and had been bitten by the dog just as she bounded into the cottage. It was believed in England, as well as in Wales, that witches were often hunted in the shape of hares. Thus in the _Spectator_, No. 117, these words occur:-- "If a hare makes an unexpected escape from the hounds the huntsman curses _Moll White_ (the witch)!" "Nay," (says Sir Roger,) "I have known the master of the pack, upon such an occasion, send one of his servants to see if _Moll White_ had been out that morning." In _Yorkshire Legends and Traditions_, p. 160, is a tale very much like the one which is given above. It is as follows:-- "There was a hare which baffled all the greyhounds that were slipped at her. They seemed to have no more chance with her than if they coursed the wind. There was, at the time, a noted witch residing near, and her advice was asked about this wonderful hare. She seemed to have little to say about it, however, only she thought they had better let it be, but, above all, they must take care how they slipped a _black_ dog at it. Nevertheless, either from recklessness or from defiance, the party did go out coursing, soon after, with a black dog. The dog was slipped, and they perceived at once that puss was at a disadvantage. She made as soon as possible for a stone wall, and endeavoured to escape through a sheep-hole at the bottom. Just as she reached this hole the dog threw himself upon her and caught her in the haunch, but was unable to hold her. She got through and was seen no more. The sportsmen, either in bravado or from terror of the consequences, went straight to the house of the witch to inform her of what had happened. They found her in bed, hurt, she said, by a fall; but the wound looked very much as if it had been produced by the teeth of a dog, and it was on a part of the woman corresponding to that by which the hare had been seized by the black hound before their eyes." _Early reference to Witches turning themselves into Hares_. The prevalence of the belief that witches could transform themselves into hares is seen from a remark made by _Giraldus Cambrensis_ in his topography of Ireland. He writes:-- "It has also been a frequent complaint, from old times, as well as in the present, _that certain hags in Wales_, as well as in Ireland and Scotland, _changed themselves into the shape of hares_, that, sucking teats under this counterfeit, they might stealthily rob other people's milk." _Giraldus Cambrensis_, Bohn's Edition, p. 83. This remark of the Archdeacon's gives a respectable antiquity to the metamorphosis of witches, for it was in 1185 that he visited Ireland, and he tells us that what he records had descended from "old times." The transformation fables that have descended to us would seem to be fossils of a pagan faith once common to the Celtic and other cognate races. It was not thought that certain harmless animals only could become the temporary abode of human beings. Even a wolf could be human under an animal form. Thus _Giraldus Cambrensis_ records that a priest was addressed in Ireland by a wolf, and induced to administer the consolations of his priestly office to his wife, who, also, under the shape of a she-wolf was apparently at the point of death, and to convince the priest that she was really a human being the he-wolf, her husband, tore off the skin of the she-wolf from the head down to the navel, folding it back, and she immediately presented the form of an old woman to the astonished priest. These people were changed into wolves through the curse of one Natalis, Saint and Abbot, who compelled them every seven years to put off the human form and depart from the dwellings of men as a punishment for their sins. (See _Giraldus Cambrensis_, Bohn's Edition, pp. 79-81.) _Ceridwen and Gwion_ (_Gwiawn_) _Bach's Transformation_. But a striking instance of rapid transition from one form to another is given in the _Mabinogion_. The fable of Ceridwen's cauldron is as follows:-- "Ceridwen was the wife of Tegid Voel. They had a son named Morvran, and a daughter named Creirwy, and she was the most beautiful girl in the world, and they had another son named Avagddu, the ugliest man in the world. Ceridwen, seeing that he should not be received amongst gentlemen because of his ugliness, unless he should be possessed of some excellent knowledge or strength . . . . ordered a cauldron to be boiled of knowledge and inspiration for her son. The cauldron was to be boiled unceasingly for one year and a day until there should be in it three blessed drops of the spirit's grace. "These three drops fell on the finger of Gwion Bach of Llanfair Caereinion in Powis, whom she ordered to attend to the cauldron. The drops were so hot that Gwion Bach put his finger to his mouth; no sooner done, than he came to know all things. Now he _transformed himself into a hare_, and ran away from the wrath of Ceridwen. She also _transformed herself into a greyhound_, and went after him to the side of a river. Gwion on this jumped into the river and transformed himself into a fish. She also transformed herself into an otter-bitch, and chased him under the water until he was fain to turn himself into a bird of the air; she, as a hawk, followed him, and gave him no rest in the sky. And just as she was about to swoop upon him, and he was in fear of death, he espied a heap of winnowed wheat on the floor of a barn, and he dropped among the wheat and buried himself into one of the grains. Then she transformed herself into a high-crested black hen, and went to the wheat and scratched it with her feet, and found him and swallowed him." The tale of Ceridwen, whose fame was such that she can without exaggeration be styled the goddess of witches, resembles in part the chase of the witch-hare by the black dog, and probably her story gave rise to many tales of transformations. I now come to another kind of transformation. It was believed by the aged in Wales that witches could not only turn themselves into hares, but that by incantation they could change other people into animals. My friend, the Rev. T. Lloyd Williams, Wrexham, lodged whilst he was at Ystrad Meurig School with a Mrs. Jones, Dolfawr, who was a firm believer in "Rhibo" or Rheibo, or witching, and this lady told my friend the following tales of _Betty'r Bont_, a celebrated witch in those parts. _A Man turned into a Hare_. One of the servant men at Dolfawr, some years before Mr. Williams lodged there, laughed at Betty'r Bont's supposed power. However, he lived to repent his folly. One night after he had gone to bed he found that he had been changed into a hare, and to his dismay and horror he saw a couple of greyhounds slipped upon him. He ran for bare life, and managed to elude his pursuers, and in a terrible plight and fright he ran to Dolfawr, and to his bed. This kind of transformation he ever afterwards was subjected to, until by spells he was released from the witch's power over him. _A Man changed into a Horse_. Mr. Williams writes of the same servant man who figures in the preceding tale:--"However, after that, she (Betty'r Bont) turned him into a grey mare, saddled him, and actually rode him herself; and when he woke in the morning, he was in a bath of perspiration, and positively declared that he had been galloping all night." Singularly enough _Giraldus Cambrensis_ mentions the same kind of transformation. His words are:-- "I myself, at the time I was in Italy, heard it said of some districts in those parts, that there the stable-women, who had learnt magical arts, were wont to give something to travellers in their cheese, which transformed them into beasts of burden, so that they carried all sorts of burdens, and after they had performed their tasks, resumed their own forms."--Bohn's Edition, p. 83. From Brand's _Popular Antiquities_, p. 225, I find that a common name for _nightmare_ was _witch-riding_, and the night-mare, he tells us, was "a spectre of the night, which seized men in their sleep and suddenly deprived them of speech and motion," and he quotes from Ray's Collection of Proverbs:-- "Go in God's name, so _ride_ no witches." I will now leave this subject with the remark that people separated by distance are often brought together by their superstitions, and probably, these beliefs imply a common origin of the people amongst whom these myths prevail. The following tales show how baneful the belief in witchcraft was; but, nevertheless, there was some good even in such superstitions, for people were induced, through fear of being witched, to be charitable. _A Witch who turned a Blue Dye into a Red Dye_. An old hag went to a small farmhouse in Clocaenog parish, and found the farmer's wife occupied in dyeing wool blue. She begged for a little wool and blue dye. She was informed by Mrs. --- that she was really very sorry that she could not part with either, as she had only just barely enough for her own use. The hag departed, and the woman went on with her dyeing, but to her surprise, the wool came out of the pot dyed red instead of blue. She thought that possibly it was the dye that was to blame, and so she gave up for the night her employment, and the next day she went to Ruthin for a fresh supply of blue to finish her work, but again she failed to dye the wool blue, for red, and not blue, was the result of her dyeing. She, in surprise, told a neighbour of her unaccountable failure to dye her wool blue. This neighbour asked her if she had been visited by anyone, and she in answer told her that old so and so had been at her house begging. "Ah," was the response, "I see how it is you can never dye that wool blue, you have been witched, send the red wool and the part that you have not touched here to me, and I will finish the work for you." This was done, and the same colour was used by both women, but now it became blue, whilst with the other, it was red. This tale was told me by a gentleman who does not wish his name to appear in print, as it would lead to the identification of the parties mentioned, and the descendants of the supposed witch, being respectable farmers, would rather that the tale of their canny grandmother were forgotten, but my informant vouches for the truth of the tale. _A Pig Witched_. A woman sold a pig at Beaumaris to a man called Dick y Green; she could not that day sell any more, but the following market day she went again to Beaumaris. Dick was there waiting her appearance, and he told her that the pig he bought was bewitched and she must come with him to undo the curse. Away the woman went with Dick, and when they came to the pig she said, "What am I to do now, Dick?" "Draw thy hand seven times down his back," said Dick, "and say every time, '_Rhad Duw arnat ti_,'" i.e., "The blessing of God be on thee." The woman did so, and then Dick went for physic for the pig, which recovered. _Milk that would not churn_, _and the steps taken to counteract the malice of the Witch that had cursed the churn and its contents_. Before beginning this tale, it should be said that some witches were able to make void the curses of other witches. Bella of Denbigh, who lived in the early part of the present century, was one of these, and her renown extended over many counties. I may further add that my informant is the Rev. R. Jones, whom I have often mentioned, who is a native of Llanfrothen, the scene of the occurrences I am about to relate, and that he was at one time curate of Denbigh, so that he would be conversant with the story by hearsay, both as to its evil effects and its remedy. About the year 1815 an old woman, supposed to be a witch, lived at Ffridd Ucha, Llanfrothen, and she got her living by begging. One day she called at Ty mawr, in the same parish, requesting a charity of milk; but she was refused. The next time they churned, the milk would not turn to butter, they continued their labours for many hours, but at last they were compelled to desist in consequence of the unpleasant odour which proceeded from the churn. The milk was thrown away, and the farmer, John Griffiths, divining that the milk had been witched by the woman who had been begging at their house, went to consult a conjuror, who lived near Pwllheli. This man told him that he was to put a red hot crowbar into the milk the next time they churned. This was done, and the milk was successfully churned. For several weeks the crowbar served as an antidote, but at last it failed, and again the milk could not be churned, and the unpleasant smell made it again impossible for anyone to stand near the churn. Griffiths, as before, consulted the Pwllheli conjuror, who gave him a charm to place underneath the churn, stating, when he did so, that if it failed, he could render no further assistance. The charm did not act, and a gentleman whom he next consulted advised him to go to Bell, or Bella, the Denbigh witch. Griffiths did so, and to his great surprise he found that Bell could describe the position of his house, and she knew the names of his fields. Her instructions were--Gather all the cattle to Gors Goch field, a meadow in front of the house, and then she said that the farmer and a friend were to go to a certain holly tree, and stand out of sight underneath this tree, which to this day stands in the hedge that surrounds the meadow mentioned by Bell. This was to be done by night, and the farmer was told that he should then see the person who had injured him. The instructions were literally carried out. When the cows came to the field they herded together in a frightened manner, and commenced bellowing fearfully. In a very short time, who should enter the field but the suspected woman in evident bodily pain, and Griffiths and his friend heard her uttering some words unintelligible to them, and having done so, she disappeared, and the cattle became quiet, and ever after they had no difficulty in churning the milk of those cows. The two following tales were told the writer by the Rev. T. Lloyd Williams, Wrexham. The scene of the stories was Cardiganshire, and Betty'r Bont was the witch. _A Witch who was refused a Goose_, _and her revenge_. A witch called at a farm when they were feathering geese for sale, and she begged much for one. She was refused, but it would have been better, according to the tale, had her request been granted, for they could not afterwards rear geese on that farm. Another version of the preceding tale is, that the same witch called at a farm when the family was seated at dinner partaking of a goose; she requested a taste, but was refused, when leaving the house door she was heard to mutter, "Let there be no more geese at . . ." and her curse became a fact. _A Witch refused Butter_, _and the consequence_. An old hag called at a farm and begged the wife to sell her a pound of butter. This was refused, as they wanted to pot the butter. The witch went away, therefore, empty handed. The next day when the maid went to the fields for the cows she found them sitting like cats before a fire, with their hind legs beneath them. I am indebted to my friend Mr. Lloyd Williams for this tale. A friend told me the following tale. _A Witch's Revenge_, _and her Discomfiture_. An old beggar woman was refused her requests by a farmer's wife, and it was noticed that she uttered words that might have been a threat, when going away from the door, and it was also observed that she picked up a few straws from the yard and carried them away with her. In the course of a few days, a healthy calf died, and the death of several calves followed in rapid succession. These misfortunes caused the wife to remember the old woman whom she had sent away from her door, and the farmer came to the conclusion that his cattle had been witched by this old woman, so he went to a conjuror, who told him to cut out the heart of the next calf that should die, and roast it before the fire, and then, after it had been properly roasted, he was to prick it all over with a fork, and if anyone should appear as a beggar, they were to give her what she asked. The instructions were carried out literally, and just as the heart was being pricked, the old woman whom the wife had driven away came up to the house in a dreadful state, and rushing into the house, said--"In the name of God, what are you doing here?" She was told that they were doing nothing particular, and while the conversation was being carried on, the pricking operation was discontinued and the old hag became less excited, and then she asked the farmer kindly to give her a few potatoes, which he gladly did, and the old woman departed; and no more calves died after that. Tales of the kind related above are extremely common, and might be multiplied to almost any extent. It would seem that the evil influence of witches was exerted not only at times when they were refused favours, but that, at will, they could accomplish mischief. Thus I have heard it said of an old woman, locally supposed to be a witch, that her very presence was ominous of evil, and disaster followed wherever she went; if she were inclined to work evil she was supposed to be able to do so, and that without any provocation. I will give one tale which I heard in Garthbeibio of this old hag's doings. _A Horse Witched_. Pedws Ffoulk, a supposed witch, was going through a field where people were employed at work, and just as she came opposite the horse it fell down, as if it were dead. The workmen ran to the horse to ascertain what was the matter with it, but Pedws went along, not heeding what had occurred. This unfeeling conduct on her part roused the suspicion of the men, and they came to the conclusion that the old woman had witched the horse, and that she was the cause of its illness. They, therefore, determined to run after the woman and bring her back to undo her own evil work. Off they rushed after her, and forced her back to the field, where the horse was still lying on the ground. They there compelled the old creature to say, standing over the horse, these words--"_Duw arno fo_" (God be with him). This she did, and then she was allowed to go on her way. By and by the horse revived, and got upon his feet, and looked as well as ever, but this, it was thought, would not have been the case had not the witch undone her own curse. In Anglesey, as I was informed by my brother, the late Rev. Elijah Owen, Vicar of Llangoed, it was believed that witches made void their own curses of animals by saying over them "_Rhad Duw ar y da_" (The Blessing of God be on the cattle). _Cows and Horses Witched_. The writer was told the name of the farm where the following events were said to have taken place, but he is not quite sure that his memory has not deceived him, so he will only relate the facts without giving them a locality. A farmer had a good mare that went mad, she foamed at the mouth, rushed about the stall, and died in great agony. But this was not all, his cows kept back their milk, and what they could extract from them stank, nor could they churn the milk, for it turned into froth. A conjuror was consulted, and the farmer was told that all this evil had been brought about by a witch who had been refused milk at his door, and her mischief was counteracted by the conjuror thus consulted. Occasionally we hear of injured persons retaliating upon the witches who had brought about their losses. This, however, was not often attempted, for people feared the consequences of a failure, but it was, nevertheless, supposed to be attainable. I will relate a few instances of this punishment of witches for their evil doings. _Witches Punished_. A neighbour, who does not wish to have his name recorded, states that he can vouch for the incidents in the following tale. A farmer who lost much stock by death, and suspected it was the work of an old hag who lived in his neighbourhood, consulted a conjuror about the matter, and he was told that his suspicions were correct, that his losses were brought about by this old woman, and, added the conjuror, if you wish it, I can wreak vengeance on the wretch for what she has done to your cattle. The injured farmer was not averse to punishing the woman, but he did not wish her punishment to be over severe, and this he told the conjuror, but said he, "I should like her to be deprived of the power to injure anyone in future." This was accomplished, my informant told me, for the witch-woman took to her bed, and became unable to move about from that very day to the end of her life. My informant stated that he had himself visited this old woman on her sick bed, and that she did not look ill, but was disinclined to get up, and the cause of it all was a matter of general gossip in the neighbourhood, that she had been cursed for her evil doings. Another tale I have heard is that a conjuror obliged a witch to jump from a certain rock into the river that ran at its foot, and thus put an end to her life. Rough punishment was often inflicted upon these simple old women by silly people. The tales already given are sufficiently typical of the faith of the credulous regarding witches, and their ability to work out their evil desires on their victims. I will now proceed briefly to relate other matters connected with witchcraft as believed in, in all parts of Wales. _How to break_, _or protect people from_, _a Witch's Spell_. There were various ways of counteracting the evils brought upon people by witches. 1. The intervention of a priest or minister of religion made curses of none effect. The following tale was told me by my friend the Rector of Rhydycroesau. When Mr. Jones was curate of Llanyblodwel a parishioner sent to ask the "parson" to come to see her. He went, but he could not make out what he had been sent for, as the woman was, to all appearance, in her usual health. Perceiving a strong-looking woman before him he said, "I presume I have missed the house, a sick person wished to see me." The answer was, "You are quite right, Sir, I sent for you, I am not well; I am troubled." In the course of conversation Mr. Jones ascertained that the woman had sent for him to counteract the evil machinations of her enemy. "I am witched," she said, "and a parson can break the spell." The clergyman argued with her, but all to no purpose. She affirmed that she was witched, and that a clergyman could withdraw the curse. Finding that the woman was obdurate he read a chapter and offered up a prayer, and wishing the woman good day with a hearty "God bless you," he departed. Upon a subsequent visit he found the woman quite well, and he was informed by her, to his astonishment, that he had broken the spell. 2. Forcing the supposed witch to say over the cursed animals, "_Rhad Duw ar y da_" ("God's blessing be on the cattle"), or some such expressions, freed them from spells. An instance of this kind is related on page 242, under the heading, "A Horse Witched." 3. Reading the Bible over, or to, the bewitched freed them from evil. This was an antidote that could be exercised by anyone who could procure a Bible. In an essay written in Welsh, relating to the parishes of Garthbeibio, Llangadfan, and Llanerfyl, in 1863, I find the following:-- "Gwr arall, ffarmwr mawr, a chanddo fuwch yn sal ar y Sabbath, ar ol rhoddi _physic_ iddi, tybiwyd ei bod yn marw, rhedodd yntau i'r ty i nol y Bibl, _a darllenodd bennod iddi_;" which rendered into English, is:-- Another man, a large farmer, having a cow sick on the Sabbath day, after giving her physic, supposing she was dying, ran into the house to fetch the Bible, and _read a chapter to her_. 4. A Bible kept in a house was a protection from all evil. This was a talisman, formerly only within the reach of the opulent. Quoting again from the essay above referred to, I find these words:-- "Byddai ambell Bibl mewn _ty mawr_ yn cael ei gadw mewn cist neu goffr a chlo arno, tuag at gadw y ty rhag niwaid." That is:-- A Bible was occasionally kept in the bettermost farms in a chest which was locked, to protect the house from harm. 5. A ring made of the mountain ash acted as a talisman. Rings made of this wood were generally placed under the doorposts to frustrate the evil designs of witches, and the inmates dwelt securely when thus protected. This tree was supposed to be a famous charm against witchcraft. Mrs. Susan Williams, Garth, a farm on the confines of Efenechtyd parish, Denbighshire, told the writer that E. Edwards, Llwynybrain, Gwyddelwern, was famous for breaking spells, and consequently his aid was often required. Susan stated that they could not churn at Foel Fawn, Derwen. They sent for Edwards, who came, and offered up a kind of prayer, and then placed a ring made of the bark or of the wood of the mountain ash (she could not recollect which) underneath the churn, or the lid of the churn, and thus the spell was broken. 6. A horse-shoe found on a road or field, and nailed either on or above the door of a house or stable, was considered a protection from spells. I have seen horse-shoes hanging by a string above a door, and likewise nailed with the open part upwards, on the door lintel, but quite as often I have observed that the open part is downwards; but however hung, on enquiry, the object is the same, viz., to secure luck and prevent evil. 7. Drawing blood from a witch or conjuror by anyone incapacitated these evil doers from working out their designs upon the person who spilt their blood. I was told of a tailor's apprentice, who on the termination of his time, having heard, and believing, that his master was a conjuror, when saying good-bye doubled up his fingers and struck the old man on the nose, making his blood spurt in all directions. "There, master," said he, "there is no ill will between us, but you can now do me no harm, for I have drawn your blood, and you cannot witch me." 8. Drawing blood from a bewitched animal breaks the spell. In the days of my youth, at Llanidloes, a couple of valuable horses were said to be bewitched, and they were bled to break the spell. If blood could not be got from horses and cattle, it was considered to be a positive proof that they were bewitched, and unless the spell could be broken, nothing, it was said, could save them from death. 9. It was generally thought that if a witch said the word "God" to a child or person, whom she had bewitched, it would "undo her work." My friend Mr. Edward Hamer, in his "Parochial Account of Llanidloes," published in _The Montgomeryshire Collections_, vol. x., p. 242, records an instance of this belief. His words are:-- "About fifty years ago the narrator was walking up Long Bridge Street, when he saw a large crowd in one of the yards leading from the street to a factory. Upon making his way to the centre of this crowd, he saw an old woman in a 'fit,' real or feigned, he could not say, but he believed the latter, and over her stood an angry, middle-aged man, gesticulating violently, and threatening the old dame, that he would hang her from an adjacent beam if she would not pronounce the word 'God' to a child which was held in its mother's arms before her. It was in vain that the old woman protested her innocence; in vain that she said that by complying with his request she would stand before them a confessed witch; in vain that she fell into one fit after another, and prayed to be allowed to depart; not a sympathising face could she for some time see in the crowd, until the wife of a manufacturer, who lived close by, appeared on the scene, who also pleaded in vain on her behalf. Terrified beyond all measure, and scarcely knowing what she did, the old woman mumbled something to the child. It smiled. The angry parents were satisfied the spell was broken, the crowd dispersed, and the old woman was allowed to depart quietly." 10. The earth from a churchyard sprinkled over any place preserved it from spells. Mr. Roberts, Plas Einion, Llanfair D. Clwyd, a very aged farmer, told me that when a certain main or cock fighting had been arranged, his father's servant man, suspecting unfair play, and believing that his master's birds had been bewitched, went to the churchyard and carried therefrom a quantity of consecrated earth, with which he slyly sprinkled the cock pit, and thus he averted the evil, and broke the spell, and all the birds fought, and won, according to their deserts. 11. Anything taken into a church belonging to a farm supposed to be cursed broke the spell or curse laid upon the place from which that thing was taken. About twenty years ago, when the writer was curate of Llanwnog, Montgomeryshire, a Mrs. Hughes, a farmer's wife, who was a firm believer in omens, charms, and spells, told me that she knew nothing would come of the spell against so and so, and when asked to explain the matter, she said that she had seen straw taken from that farm to kindle the fire in the church, and thus, she said, the spell was broken. 12. A pin thrust into "Witch's Butter" would cause the witch to undo her work. "Witch's Butter" is the name given to a kind of fungus that grows on decayed wood. The fungus resembles little lumps of butter, and hence its name. Should anyone think himself witched, all that he has got to do is to procure "witch's butter," and then thrust a pin into it. It was thought that this pin penetrated the wicked witch, and every pin thrust into the fungus went into her body, and thus she was forced to appear, and undo her mischief, and be herself relieved from bodily pain by relieving others. 13. A conjuror's charm could master a witch's spell. It was thought that when a person was under a witch's spell he could get relief and punish the witch by procuring a charm from a conjuror. This charm was a bit of paper, often covered with illegible writing, but whatever was on it made no great difference, for the persons who procured the charms were usually illiterate. The process was as follows:--The party cursed took the charm, and thrust a pin through it, and having waited awhile to see whether the witch would appear or not, proceeded to thrust another pin through the paper, and if the witch were tardy in appearing, pin after pin was thrust into the paper, and every pin, it was thought, went into the body of the spiteful hag, and brought her ultimately to the house where her curse was being broken, in shocking pain, and when there it was believed she would say-- "Duw gatto bobpeth ag a feddwch chwi." God preserve everything which you possess. 14. Certain plants were supposed to possess the power of destroying charms. The Rev. D. James, Rector of Garthbeibio, was asked by Evan Williams, the Voel, a parishioner, whether he feared witches, and when answered in the negative, his interrogator appeared surprised; however, awhile afterwards, Williams went to the Rectory, and told the rector that he knew why he did not fear witches, and proceeded to tell him that he had seen a plant in the front of the rectory that protected the house from charms. This was what he called, _Meipen Fair_. In some parts of England the snapdragon is supposed to possess a like virtue, and also the elder tree. Mr. Davies, schoolmaster, Llangedwyn, informed the writer that at one time hyssop was hung on the inside of the house door to protect the inmates from charms. 15. The seventh daughter could destroy charms. The seventh son was thought to possess supernatural power, and so also was the seventh daughter, but her influence seems to have been exerted against witchcraft. 16. The sign of the cross on the door made the inmates invulnerable, and when made with the finger on the breast it was a protection from evil. The sign of the cross made on the person was once common in Wales, and the advice given by the aged when a person was in any difficulty was "_ymgroesa_," cross yourself. The custom of crossing the door on leaving the house lingered long in many places, and, I think, it is not altogether given up in our days. 17. Invoking the aid of the Holy Trinity. This was resorted to, as seen in the charm given on page 270, when animals were witched. _The way to find out whether a Hag is a Witch or not_. It was generally supposed that a witch could not pray, and one way of testing her guilty connection with the evil one was to ascertain whether she could repeat the Lord's Prayer correctly. If she failed to do so, she was pronounced to be a witch. This test, as everyone knows, must have been a fallacious one, for there are good living illiterate people who are incapable of saying their _Pader_; but such was the test, and failure meant death. Some fifty years ago, when the writer was a lad in school, he noticed a crowd in Short Bridge Street, Llanidloes, around an aged decrepit woman, apparently a stranger from the hill country, and on inquiring what was going on, he was told that the woman was a suspected witch, and that they were putting her to the test. I believe she was forced to go on her knees, and use the name of God, and say the Lord's Prayer. However, the poor frightened thing got successfully through the ordeal, and I saw her walk away from her judges. Another manner for discovering a witch was to weigh her against the Church Bible; if the Bible went up, she was set at liberty, if, on the other hand, she were lighter than the Bible, she was a witch, and forfeited her life. Swimming a witch was another method, and this was the one generally resorted to. The suspected person was taken to a river or pool of water, her feet and hands were tied, and she was thrown in; if she sank she was innocent, if she floated she was a witch, and never reached the bank alive. Such as the preceding were some of the ridiculous trials to which poor, badly clad, aged, toothless, and wrinkled women were put by their superstitious neighbours to ascertain whether these miserable women were in league with the devil. CONJURORS. 1. It was formerly believed that men could sell themselves to the devil, and thus become the possessors of supernatural power. These men were looked upon as malicious conjurors. 2. Another species of conjurors practised magical arts, having obtained their knowledge from the study of books. These were accounted able to thwart the designs of evil workers of every description. 3. There was another class of men supposed to have obtained strange power from their ancestors. They were looked upon as charmers and conjurors by descent. 1. Those who belonged to the first-mentioned class were not in communion with the Church, and the first step taken by them to obtain their object was to unbaptize themselves. The process was as follows:--The person who wished to sell himself to the devil went to a Holy Well, took water therefrom three times into his mouth, and spurted it out in a derisive manner, and thus having relieved himself, as it was thought, of his baptismal vow, he was ready and fit to make a contract with the evil one. 2. The second kind of conjurors obtained their knowledge of the occult science from the study of books. Generally learned men were by the ignorant supposed to possess uncanny power. When the writer lived in Carnarvonshire he was informed that Owen Williams, Waenfawr, had magical books kept in a box under lock and key, and that he never permitted anyone to see them. Poor Owen Williams, I wonder whether he knew of the popular rumour! The following tale of Huw Llwyd's books I obtained from the Rev. R. Jones, rector of Llanycil. _Huw Llwyd and his Magical Books_. The story, as it has reached our days, is as follows:--It is said that Huw Llwyd had two daughters; one of an inquisitive turn of mind, like himself, while the other resembled her mother, and cared not for books. On his death bed he called his learned daughter to his side, and directed her to take his books on the dark science, and throw them into a pool, which he named, from the bridge that spanned the river. The girl went to Llyn Pont Rhyd-ddu with the books, and stood on the bridge, watching the whirlpool beneath, but she could not persuade herself to throw them over, and thus destroy her father's precious treasures. So she determined to tell him a falsehood, and say that she had cast them into the river. On her return home her father asked her whether she had thrown the books into the pool, and on receiving an answer in the affirmative, he, inquiring whether she had seen anything strange when the books reached the river, was informed that she had seen nothing. "Then," said he, "you have not complied with my request. I cannot die until the books are thrown into the pool." She took the books a second time to the river, and now, very reluctantly, she hurled them into the pool, and watched their descent. They had not reached the water before two hands appeared, stretched upward, out of the pool, and these hands caught the books before they touched the water and, clutching them carefully, both the books and the hands disappeared beneath the waters. She went home immediately, and again appeared before her father, and in answer to his question, she related what had occurred. "Now," said he, "I know you have thrown them in, and I can now die in peace," which he forthwith did. 3. Hereditary conjurors, or charmers, were thought to be beneficial to society. They were charmers rather than conjurors. In this category is to be reckoned:-- (a) The seventh son of a family of sons, born the one after the other. (b) The seventh daughter in a family of daughters, born in succession, without a brother between. This person could undo spells and curses, but she could not herself curse others. (c) The descendants of a person, who had eaten eagles' flesh could, for nine generations, charm for the shingles, or, as it is called in Welsh, _Swyno'r 'Ryri_. Conjurors were formerly quite common in Wales; when I say common, I mean that there was no difficulty in obtaining their aid when required, and they were within easy reach of those who wished to consult them. Some became more celebrated than others, and consequently their services were in greater requisition; but it may be said, that each district had its wise man. The office of the conjuror was to counteract the machinations of witches, and to deliver people from their spells. They were looked upon as the natural enemies of witches. Instances have already been given of this antagonism. But conjurors could act on their own account, and if they did not show the same spiteful nature as witches, they, nevertheless, were credited with possessing great and dangerous power. They dealt freely in charms and spells, and obtained large sums of money for their talismanic papers. They could, it was believed, by their incantations reveal the future, and oblige light-fingered people to restore the things they had stolen. Even a fishing rod made by a conjuror was sure to bring luck to the fisherman. Lovers and haters alike resorted to the wise man to attain through his aid their object. There were but few, if any, matters beyond their comprehension, and hence the almost unbounded confidence placed in these impostors by the superstitious and credulous. Strange as it may seem, even in this century there are many who still consult these deceivers, but more of this by and by. I will now relate a few tales of the doings of these conjurors, and from them the reader can infer how baneful their influence was upon the rustic population of Wales. _The Magician's Glass_. This glass, into which a person looked when he wished to solve the future, or to ascertain whom he or she was to marry, was used by Welsh, as well as other magicians. The glass gave back the features of the person sought after, and reflected the future career of the seeker after the hidden future. It was required that the spectator should concentrate all his attention on the glass, and, on the principle that they who gazed long should not gaze in vain, he obtained the desired glimpse. _Cwrt Cadno_, already referred to, professed to have such a glass. But, the magician's glass is an instrument so often mentioned in connection with necromancy in all parts of the world, that more need not be said of it. I will now give a few stories illustrative of the conjuror's power. _A Conjuror's Punishment of an Innkeeper for his exorbitant charges_. A famous conjuror, Dick Spot, was on his way to Llanrwst, and he turned into a public house at Henllan for refreshments. He called for a glass of beer and bread and cheese, and was charged tenpence for the same, fourpence for the beer, and sixpence for the bread and cheese. This charge he considered outrageous, but he paid the demand, and before departing he took a scrap of paper and wrote on it a spell, and hid it under the table, and then went on his way. That evening, soon after the landlord and landlady had retired for the night, leaving the servant girl to clear up, they were surprised to hear in the kitchen an unaccountable noise; shouting and jumping was the order of the day, or rather night, in that room. The good people heard the girl shout at the top of her voice-- "Six and four are ten, Count it o'er again," and then she danced like mad round and round the kitchen. They sternly requested the girl to cease yelling, and to come to bed, but the only answer they received was-- "Six and four are ten, Count it o'er again," and with accelerated speed she danced round and round the kitchen. The thought now struck the landlord that the girl had gone out of her mind, and so he got up, and went to see what was the matter with her, with the intention of trying to get her away from the kitchen. But the moment he placed his foot in the kitchen, he gave a jump, and joined the girl in her mad dance, and with her he shrieked out-- "Six and four are ten, Count it o'er again." So now the noise was doubled, and the good wife, finding that her husband did not return to her, became very angry, if not jealous. She shouted to them to cease their row, but all to no purpose, for the dancing and the shouting continued. Then she left her bed and went to the kitchen door, and greatly disgusted she was to see her husband and maid dancing together in that shameless manner. She stood at the door a moment or two observing their frantic behaviour, and then she determined forcibly to put a stop to the proceedings, so into the room she bounded, but with a hop and a jump she joined in the dance, and sang out in chorus with the other two-- "Six and four are ten, Count it o'er again." The uproar now was great indeed, and roused the neighbours from their sleep. They from outside heard the mad dance and the words, and guessed that Dick Spot had been the cause of all this. One of those present hurried after the conjuror, who, fortunately, was close at hand, and desired him to return to the inn to release the people from his spell. "Oh," said Dick, "take the piece of paper that is under the table and burn it, and they will then stop their row." The man returned to the inn, pushed open the door, rushed to the table, and cast the paper into the fire, and then the trio became quiet. But they had nearly exhausted themselves by their severe exertions ere they were released from the power of the spell. _A Conjuror and Robbers_. A conjuror, or _Gwr Cyfarwydd_, was travelling over the Denbighshire hills to Carnarvonshire; being weary, he entered a house that he saw on his way, and he requested refreshments, which were given him by a young woman. "But," said she, "you must make haste and depart, for my brothers will soon be here, and they are desperate men, and they will kill you." But no, the stranger was in no hurry to move on, and though repeatedly besought to depart, he would not do so. To the great dread and fear of the young woman, her brothers came in, and, in anger at finding a stranger there, bade him prepare for death. He requested a few minutes' respite, and took out a book and commenced reading it. When he was thus engaged a horn began growing in the centre of the table, and on this the robbers were obliged to gaze, and they were unable even to move. The stranger went to bed, and found the robbers in the morning still gazing at the horn, as he knew they would be, and he departed leaving them thus engaged, and the tale goes, that they were arrested in that position, being unable to offer any resistance to their captors. There are several versions of the Horn Tale afloat; instead of being made to grow out of a table, it was made to grow out of a person's head or forehead. There is a tradition that Huw Llwyd was able to do this wonderful thing, and that he actually did it. _The Conjuror and the Cattle_. R. H., a farmer in Llansilin parish, who lost several head of cattle, sent or went to Shon Gyfarwydd, who lived in Llanbrynmair, a well-known conjuror, for information concerning their death, and for a charm against further loss. Both were obtained, and the charm worked so well that the grateful farmer sent a letter to Shon acknowledging the benefit he had derived from him. This Shon was a great terror to thieves, for he was able to spot them and mark them in such a way that they were known to be culprits. I am indebted to Mr. Jones, Rector of Bylchau, near Denbigh, for the three following stories, in which the very dread of being marked by Shon was sufficient to make the thieves restore the stolen property. _Stolen property discovered through fear of applying to the Llanbrynmair Conjuror_. Richard Thomas, Post Office, Llangadfan, lost a coat and waistcoat, and he suspected a certain man of having stolen them. One day this man came to the shop, and Thomas saw him there, and, speaking to his wife from the kitchen in a loud voice, so as to be heard by his customer in the shop, he said that he wanted the loan of a horse to go to Llanbrynmair. Llanbrynmair was, as we know, the conjuror's place of abode. Thomas, however, did not leave his house, nor did he intend doing so, but that very night the stolen property was returned, and it was found the next morning on the door sill. _Reclaiming stolen property through fear of the Conjuror_. A mason engaged in the restoration of Garthbeibio Church placed a trowel for safety underneath a stone, but by morning it was gone. Casually in the evening he informed his fellow workmen that he had lost his trowel, and that someone must have stolen it, but that he was determined to find out the thief by taking a journey to Llanbrynmair. He never went, but the ruse was successful, for the next morning he found, as he suspected would be the case, the trowel underneath the very stone where he had himself placed it. _Another similar Tale_. Thirty pounds were stolen from Glan-yr-afon, Garthbeibio. The owner made known to his household that he intended going to Shon the conjuror, to ascertain who had taken his money, but the next day the money was discovered, being restored, as was believed, by the thief the night before. These stories show that the ignorant and superstitious were influenced through fear, to restore what they had wrongfully appropriated, and their faith in the conjuror's power thus resulted, in some degree, in good to the community. The _Dyn Hyspys_ was feared where no one else was feared, and in this way the supposed conjuror was not altogether an unimportant nor unnecessary member of society. At a time, particularly when people are in a low state of civilization, or when they still cling to the pagan faith of their forefathers, transmitted to them from remote ages, then something can be procured for the good of a benighted people even through the medium of the _Gwr Cyfarwydd_. Events occurred occasionally by a strange coincidence through which the fame of the _Dyn Hyspys_ became greatly increased. An event of this kind is related by Mr. Edward Hamer. He states that:-- "Two respectable farmers, living in the upper Vale of the Severn (Cwm Glyn Hafren), and standing in relationship to each other of uncle and nephew, a few years ago purchased each a pig of the same litter, from another farmer. When bought, both animals were, to all appearance, in excellent health and condition, and for a short time after their removal to their new homes both continued to improve daily. It was not long, however, before both were taken ill very suddenly. As there appeared something very strange in the behaviour of his animal, the nephew firmly believed that he was 'witched,' and acting upon this belief, set out for the neighbouring conjuror. Having received certain injunctions from the 'wise man,' he returned home, carried them out, and had the satisfaction of witnessing the gradual recovery of his pig. The uncle paid no attention to the persuasions and even entreaties of his nephew; he would not believe that his pig was 'witched,' and refused to consult the conjuror. The pig died after an illness of three weeks; _and many thought the owner deserved little sympathy for manifesting so much obstinacy and scepticism_. These events occurred in the spring of the year 1870, and were much talked of at the time."--_Montgomeryshire Collections_, vol. x., p. 240. Conjurors retained their repute by much knavery and collusion with others. Tales are not wanted that expose their impostures. The Rev. Meredith Hamer, late of Berse, told me of the following exposure of a conjuror. I know not where the event occurred, but it is a typical case. _A Conjuror's Collusion exposed_. This man's house consisted of but few rooms. Between the kitchen and his study, or consulting room, was a slight partition. He had a servant girl, whom he admitted as a partner in his trade. This girl, when she saw a patient approach the house, which she was able to do, because there was only one approach to it, and only one entrance, informed her master of the fact that someone was coming, and he immediately disappeared, and he placed himself in a position to hear the conversation of the girl with the person who had come to consult him. The servant by questioning the party adroitly obtained that information respecting the case which her master required, and when she had obtained the necessary information, he would appear, and forthwith tell the stranger that he knew hours before, or days ago, that he was to have the visit now paid him, and then he would relate all the particulars which he had himself heard through the partition, to the amazement of the stranger, who was ignorant of this means of communication. At other times, if a person who wished to consult him came to the house when the conjuror was in the kitchen, he would disappear as before, stating that he was going to consult his books, and then his faithful helper would proceed to extort the necessary information from the visitor. On this, he would re-appear and exhibit his wonderful knowledge to the amazed dupe. On one occasion, though, a knowing one came to the conjuror with his arm in a sling, and forthwith the wise man disappeared, leaving the maid to conduct the necessary preliminary examination, and her visitor minutely described how the accident had occurred, and how he had broken his arm in two places, etc. All this the conjuror heard, and he came into the room and rehearsed all that he had heard; but the biter was bitten, for the stranger, taking his broken arm out of the sling, in no very polite language accused the conjuror of being an impostor, and pointed out the way in which the collusion had been carried out between him and his maid. This was an exposure the conjuror had not foreseen! _The Conjuror's Dress_. Conjurors, when engaged in their uncanny work, usually wore a grotesque dress and stood within a circle of protection. I find so graphic a description of a doctor who dealt in divination in Mr. Hancock's "History of Llanrhaiadr-yn-Mochnant" that I will transcribe it:--"He" (the raiser of the devils) "was much resorted to by the friends of parties mentally deranged, many of whom he cured. Whenever he assumed to practise the 'black art,' he put on a most grotesque dress, a cap of sheepskin with a high crown, bearing a plume of pigeons' feathers, and a coat of unusual pattern, with broad hems, and covered with talismanic characters. In his hand he had a whip, the thong of which was made of the skin of an eel, and the handle of bone. With this he drew a circle around him, outside of which, at a proper distance, he kept those persons who came to him, whilst he went through his mystic sentences and performances."--_Montgomeryshire Collections_, vol. vi, pp. 329-30. CHARMS. The cure of diseases by charms is generally supposed to be a kind of superstition antagonistic to common sense, and yet there are undoubted cases of complete cures through the instrumentality of charms. Warts are, undoubtedly, removed by the faith of those persons who suffer from them in the power of the charmer and his charms. The writer has had innumerable instances of the efficacy of wart charms, but it is not his intention to endeavour to trace the effect of charms on highly sensitive people, but only to record those charms that he has seen or heard of as having been used. _Swyno'r 'Ryri_ (_Charming the Shingles_). The shingles is a skin disease, which encircles the body like a girdle, and the belief was that if it did so the patient died. However, there was a charm for procuring its removal, which was generally resorted to with success; but the last person who could charm this disease in Montgomeryshire lies buried on the west side of the church at Penybontfawr, and consequently there is no one now in those parts able to charm the shingles. The inscription on his tombstone informs us that Robert Davies, Glanhafon Fawr, died March 13th, 1864, aged 29, so that faith in this charm has reached our days. It was believed that the descendants of a person who had eaten eagle's flesh _to the ninth generation_ could charm for shingles. The manner of proceeding can be seen from the following quotation taken from "The History of Llanrhaiadr-yn-Mochnant," by Mr. T. W. Hancock, which appears in vol. vi., pp. 327-8 of the _Montgomeryshire Collections_. _A Charm for the Shingles_. "This custom (charming for the shingles) was more prevalent in this parish than in any other in Montgomeryshire. A certain amount of penance was to be done by the sufferer, who was to go to the charmer in the morning fasting, and he was also to be fasting. The mode of cure was simple--the charmer breathed gently on the inflamed part, and then followed a series of little spittings upon and around it. A few visits to the charmer, or sometimes a single one, was sufficient to effect a cure. "The power of charming for the ''Ryri' is now lost, or in any event has not been practised in this parish, for several years past. The possession of this remarkable healing power by the charmer was said to have been derived from the circumstance _of either the charmer himself_, _or one of his ancestors within the ninth degree_, _having eaten of the flesh of the eagle_, the virtue being, it was alleged, transmitted from the person who had so partaken to his descendants for nine generations. The tradition is that the disorder was introduced into the country by a malevolent eagle. "Some charmers before the operation of spitting, muttered to themselves the following incantation:-- Yr Eryr Eryres Mi a'th ddanfonais Dros naw mor a thros naw mynydd, A thros naw erw o dir anghelfydd; Lle na chyfartho ci, ac na frefo fuwch, Ac na ddelo yr eryr byth yn uwch." Male eagle, female eagle, I send you (by the operation of blowing, we presume) Over nine seas, and over nine mountains, And over nine acres of unprofitable land, Where no dog shall bark, and no cow shall low, And where no eagle shall higher rise." The charmer spat first on the rash and rubbed it with his finger over the affected parts, and then breathed nine times on it. Jane Davies, an aged woman, a native of Llanrhaiadr-yn-Mochnant, with whom I had many long conversations on several occasions, told the narrator that she had cut a cat's ear to get blood, wherewith to rub the patient's breast who was suffering from the shingles, to stop its progress, until the sufferer could be visited by the charmer, and she said that the cat's blood always stopped it spreading. There were several charms for many of the ailments to which man is subject, which were thought to possess equal curative virtues. _Toothache charms_. By repeating the following doggerel lines the worst case of toothache could be cured-- Peter sat on a marble stone, Jesus came to him all alone. What's up, Peter? The toothache, my lord; Rise up Peter, and be cured of this pain, And all those _who carry these few lines_ for my sake. This charm appeared in the _Wrexham Advertiser_ as one that was used in _Coedpoeth_ and _Bwlch Gwyn_. But the words appear in "_Y Gwyliedydd_" for May, 1826, page 151. The Welsh heading to the charm informs us that it was obtained from an Irish priest in County Cork, Ireland. The words are:-- Fel yr oedd Pedr yn eistedd ar faen Mynor, Crist a ddaeth atto, ac efe yn unig. Pedr, beth a ddarfu i ti? Y Ddanodd, fy Arglwydd Dduw. Cyfod, Pedr, a rhydd fyddi; A bydd pob dyn a dynes iach oddiwrth y ddanodd Y rhai a gredant i'r geiriau hyn, Yr wyf fi yn gwneuthur yn enw Duw. The first two lines of the English and Welsh are the same but the third and succeeding lines in Welsh are as follows:-- Peter, what is the matter? The toothache, my Lord God. Rise Peter, and thou shalt be cured; And every man and woman who believes these words Shall be cured of the toothache, Which I perform in the name of God. Another version of this charm was given me by Mrs. Reynolds, Pembroke House, Oswestry-- As Jesus walked through the gates of Jerusalem, He saw Peter weeping. Jesus said unto him, why weepest thou? I have got the toothache. Jesus touched his tooth, And Jesus said, have faith and believe, Thy tooth shall ache no more. I return you humble and hearty thanks For the blessing which you have bestowed on me. A young man told me that his brother once suffered greatly from toothache, and a woman gave him a charm like the above, written on paper. He rubbed the charm along the tooth, and he kept it in his pocket until it crumbled away, and as long as he preserved it he never was troubled with the toothache. _Rosemary Charm for Toothache_. "Llosg ei bren (Rhosmari) hyd oni bo yn lo du, ac yna dyro ef mewn cadach lliain cry, ac ira dy ddanedd ag ef; ac fo ladd y pryfed, ac a'u ceidw rhag pob clefyd."--_Y Brython_, p. 339. "Burn a Rosemary bough until it becomes black, and then place it in a strong linen cloth, and anoint thy teeth with it, and it will kill the worm, and preserve thee from every kind of fever." It was thought at one time that toothache was caused by a worm in the tooth, as intimated above. _Whooping Cough Charm_. Children suffering from whooping cough were taken to a seventh son, or lacking a seventh son of sons only, to a fifth son of sons only, who made a cake, and gave it to the sufferers to be eaten by them, and they would recover. The visit was to be thrice repeated. Bread and butter were sometimes substituted for the cake. The writer has been told of instances of the success of this charm. Another charm was--buy a penny roll, wrap it in calico, bury it in the garden, take it up next day. The sufferer from whooping-cough is then to eat the roll until it is consumed. _Charm for Fits_. A ring made out of the offertory money was a cure for fits. About the year 1882 the wife of a respectable farmer in the parish of Efenechtyd called at the rectory and asked the rector's wife if she would procure a shilling for her from the offering made at Holy Communion, out of which she was going to have a ring made to cure her fits. This coin was to be given unsolicited and received without thanks. The Rev. J. D. Edwards, late vicar of Rhosymedre, informed the writer that his parishioners often obtained silver coins from the offertory for the purpose now named. So as to comply with the conditions, the sufferers went to Mrs. Edwards some time during the week before "Sacrament Sunday," and asked her to request Mr. Edwards to give him or her a shilling out of the offertory, and on the following Monday the afflicted person would be at the Vicarage, and the Vicar, having already been instructed by Mrs. Edwards, gave the shilling without uttering a word, and it was received in the same manner. Another charm for fits was to procure a human being's skull, grind it into powder, and take it as medicine. _Charm for Cocks about to fight_. The charm consisted of a verse taken from the Bible, written on a slip of paper, wrapped round the bird's leg, as the steel spurs were being placed on him. The verse so employed was, Eph. vi., 16:--"Taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked." William Jones, Pentre Llyffrith, Llanfyllin, was a celebrated cock charmer. There was also a well-known charmer who lived at Llandegla, Denbighshire, who refused a charm to a certain man. When asked why he had not complied with his request, he said--"He will not need charms for his birds, for he will be a dead man before the main comes off." This became true, for the man died, as foretold. _Charm for Asthma_. Place the Bible for three successive nights under the bolster of the sufferer, and it will cure him. _Charms for Warts_. 1. Drop a pin into a holy well and your warts will disappear, but should anyone take the pin out of the well, the warts you have lost will grow on his fingers. 2. Rub the warts with the inside of a bean pod, and then throw the pod away. 3. Take wheat on the stalk, rub the warts with the wheat's beard or bristles at the end of the ear, take these to four crosses or roads that cross each other, bury the straw, and the warts will decay with the decay of the straw. 4. Rub the warts with elderberry leaves plucked by night, and then burn them, and the warts will disappear. 5. Rub the warts with a bit of flesh meat, wrap the flesh up in paper, throw it behind your back, and do not look behind you to see what becomes of it, and whoever picks it up gets your warts. 6. Take a snail and pierce it through with a thorn, and leave it to die on the bush; as it disappears so will your warts. _Charm for removing a Stye from the eye_. Take an ordinary knitting needle, and pass it back and fore over the stye, but without touching it, and at the same time counting its age, thus--One stye, two styes, three styes, up to nine, and then reversing the order, as nine styes, eight styes, down to one stye, and _no_ stye. This counting was to be done in one breath. If the charmer drew his breath the charm was broken, but three attempts were allowed. The stye, it was alleged, would die from that hour, and disappear in twenty-four hours. _Charms for Quinsy_. Apply to the throat hair cut at midnight from the black shoulder stripe of the colt of an ass. _Charming the Wild Wart_. Take a branch of elder tree, strip off the bark, split off a piece, hold this skewer near the wart, and rub the wart three or nine times with the skewer, muttering the while an incantation of your own composing, then pierce the wart with a thorn. Bury the skewer transfixed with the thorn in a dunghill. The wart will rot away just as the buried things decay. _Charm for Rheumatism_. Carry a potato in your pocket, and when one is finished, supply its place with another. _Charm for removing the Ringworm_. 1. Spit on the ground the first thing in the morning, mix the spittle with the mould, and then anoint the ringworm with this mixture. 2. Hold an axe over the fire until it perspires, and then anoint the ringworm with the sweat. _Cattle Charms_. Mr. Hamer in his "Parochial Account of Llanidloes" published in _The Montgomeryshire Collections_, vol x., p. 249, states that he has in his possession two charms that were actually used for the protection of live stock of two small farms. One of them opens thus:-- "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen . . . and in the name of Lord Jesus Christ my redeemer, that I will give relief to --- creatures his cows, and his calves, and his horses, and his sheep, and his pigs, and all creatures that alive be in his possession, from all witchcraft and from all other assaults of Satan. Amen." Mr. Hamer further states that:-- "At the bottom of the sheet, on the left, is the magical word, _Abracadabra_, written in the usual triangular form; in the centre, a number of planetary symbols, and on the right, a circular figure filled in with lines and symbols, and beneath them the words, 'By Jah, Joh, Jab.' It was the custom to rub these charms over the cattle, etc. a number of times, while some incantation was being mumbled. The paper was then carefully folded up, and put in some safe place where the animals were housed, as a guard against future visitations." In other cases the charm was worn by the cattle, as is shown by the following tale:-- _Charm against Foot and Mouth Disease_. The cattle on a certain farm in Llansilin parish suffered from the above complaint, and old Mr. H--- consulted a conjuror, who gave him a written charm which he was directed to place on the horns of the cattle, and he was told this would act both as a preventive and a cure. This farmer's cattle might be seen with the bit of paper, thus procured, tied to their horns. My informant does not wish to be named, nor does she desire the farmer's name to be given, but she vouches for the accuracy of her information, and for my own use, she gave me all particulars respecting the above. This took place only a few years ago, when the Foot and Mouth Disease first visited Wales. I obtained, through the kindness of the Rev. John Davies, vicar of Bryneglwys, the following charm procured from Mr. R. Jones, Tynywern, Bryneglwys, Denbighshire, who had it from his uncle, by whom it was used at one time. _Yn enw y Tad_, _a'r Mab_, _a'r Ysbryd_. Bod I grist Iesu y gysegredig a oddefe ar y groes, Pan godaist Sant Lasarys o'i fedd wedi farw, Pan faddeuaist Bechodau I fair fagdalen, a thrygra wrthyf fel bo gadwedig bob peth a henwyf fi ag a croeswyf fi ++++ trwy nerth a rhinwedd dy eiriau Bendigedig di fy Arglwydd Iesu Crist. Amen. Iesu Crist ain harglwydd ni gwared ni rhag pop rhiwogaeth o Brofedigaeth ar yabrydol o uwch deiar nag o Is deiar, rhag y gythraelig o ddun nei ddynes a chalon ddrwg a reibia dda ei berchenog ei ddrwg rhinwedd ei ddrwg galon ysgymynedig a wahanwyd or ffydd gatholig ++++ trwy nerth a rhinwedd dy eiriau Bendigedig di fy Arglwydd Iesu Crist. Amen. Iesu Crist ain harglwydd ni Gwared ni rhag y glwy ar bar, ar Llid, ar genfigain ar adwyth . . . ar Pleined Wibrenon ar gwenwyn deiarol, trwy nerth a rhinwedd dy eiriau Bedigedig di Fy Arglwydd Iesu Crist. Amen. It was somewhat difficult to decipher the charms and four words towards the end are quite illegible, and consequently they are omitted. The following translation will show the nature of the charm:-- _In the Name of the Father_, _the Son_, _and the Spirit_. May Christ Jesus the sanctified one, who suffered death on the cross, When thou didst raise Lazarus from his tomb after his death, When Thou forgavest sins to Mary Magdalen, have mercy on me, so that everything named by me and crossed by me ++++ may be saved by the power and virtue of thy blessed words my Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. Jesus Christ our Lord save us from every kind of temptation whether spiritual above the earth or under the earth, from the devilish man or woman with evil heart who bewitcheth the goods of their owner; his evil virtue, his evil excommunicated heart cut off from the Catholic Faith ++++ by the power and virtue of thy blessed words my Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. Jesus Christ our Lord save us from the disease and the affliction, and the wrath, and the envy, and the mischief, and the . . . and the planet of the sky and the earthly poison, by the power and virtue of Thy blessed words, my Lord Jesus Christ. Amen. The mark ++++ indicates that crosses were here made by the person who used the charm, and probably the words of the charm were audibly uttered. _Another Cattle Charm Spell_. Mr. Hughes, Plasnewydd, Llansilin, lost several head of cattle. He was told to bleed one of the herd, boil the blood, and take it to the cowhouse at midnight. He did so, and lost no more after applying this charm. _A Charm for Calves_. If calves were scoured over much, and in danger of dying, a hazel twig the length of the calf was twisted round the neck like a collar, and it was supposed to cure them. _A Charm for Stopping Bleeding_. Mrs. Reynolds, whom I have already mentioned in connection with a charm for toothache, gave me the following charm. It bears date April 5, 1842:-- Our Blessed Saviour Jesus Christ was born at Bethlehem, By the Virgin Mary, Baptized in the River Jordan, By St. John the Baptist. He commanded the water to stop, and it obeyed Him. And I desire in the name of Jesus Christ, That the blood of this vein (or veins) might stop, As the water did when Jesus Christ was baptized. Amen. _Charm to make a Servant reliable_. "Y neb a fyno gael ei weinidog yn gywir, doded beth o'r lludw hwn yn nillad ei weinidog ac efe a fydd cywir tra parhao'r lludw."--_Y Brython_, vol. iii., p. 137. Which is:--Whosoever wishes to make his servant faithful let him place the ashes (of a snake) in the clothes of his servant, and as long as they remain there he will be faithful. There are many other wonderful things to be accomplished with the skin of an adder, or snake, besides the preceding. The following are recorded in _Y Brython_, vol. iii., p. 137. _Charms performed with Snake's Skin_. 1. Burn the skin and preserve the ashes. A little salve made out of the ashes will heal a wound. 2. A little of the ashes placed between the shoulders will make a man invulnerable. 3. Whoso places a little of the ashes in the water with which he washes himself, should his enemies meet him, they will flee because of the beauty of his face. 4. Cast a little of the ashes into thy neighbour's house, and he will leave it. 5. Place the ashes under the sole of thy foot, and everybody will agree with thee. 6. Should a man wrestle, let him place some of the ashes under his tongue, and no one can conquer him. 7. Should a man wish to know what is about to occur to him, let him place a pinch of the ashes on his head, and then go to sleep, and his dreams will reveal the future. 8. Should a person wish to ascertain the mind of another, let him throw a little of the ashes on that person's clothes, and then let him ask what he likes, the answer will be true. 9. Has already been given above. (See page 272). 10. If a person is afraid of being poisoned in his food, let him place the ashes on the table with his food, and poison cannot stay there with the ashes. 11. If a person wishes to succeed in love, let him wash his hands and keep some of the ashes in them, and then everybody will love him. 12. The skin of the adder is a remedy against fevers. _The Charms performed with Rosemary_. Rosemary dried in the sun and made into powder, tied in a cloth around the right arm, will make the sick well. The smoke of rosemary bark, sniffed, will, even if you are in gaol, release you. The leaves made into salve, placed on a wound, where the flesh is dead, will cure the wound. A spoon made out of its wood will make whatever you eat therewith nutritious. Place it under the door post, and no snake nor adder can ever enter thy house. The leaves placed in beer or wine will keep these liquids from becoming sour, and give them such a flavour that you will dispose of them quickly. Place a branch of rosemary on the barrel, and it will keep thee from fever, even though thou drink of it for a whole day. Such were some of the wonderful virtues of this plant, as given in the _Brython_, vol. iii., p. 339. _Charm for Clefyd y Galon_, _or Heart Disease_. The Rev. J. Felix, vicar of Cilcen, near Mold, when a young man lodged in Eglwysfach, near Glandovey. His landlady, noticing that he looked pale and thin, suggested that he was suffering from Clefyd y galon, which may be translated as above, or love sickness, a complaint common enough among young people, and she suggested that he should call in David Jenkins, a respectable farmer and a local preacher with the Wesleyans, to cure him. Jenkins came, and asked the supposed sufferer whether he believed in charms, and was answered in the negative. However, he proceeded with his patient as if he had answered in the affirmative. Mr Felix was told to take his coat off, he did so, and then he was bidden to tuck up his shirt above his elbow. Mr. Jenkins then took a yarn thread and placing one end on the elbow measured to the tip of Felix's middle finger, then he told his patient to take hold of the yarn at one end, the other end resting the while on the elbow, and he was to take fast hold of it, and stretch it. This he did, and the yarn lengthened, and this was a sign that he was actually sick of heart disease. Then the charmer tied this yarn around the patient's left arm above the elbow, and there it was left, and on the next visit measured again, and he was pronounced cured. The above information I received from Mr. Felix, who is still alive and well. There were various ways of proceeding in this charm. Yarn was always used and the measurement as above made, and sometimes the person was named and his age, and the Trinity was invoked, then the thread was put around the neck of the sick person, and left there for three nights, and afterwards buried in the name of the Trinity under ashes. If the thread shortened above the second joint of the middle finger there was little hope of recovery; should it lengthen that was a sign of recovery. _Clefyd yr Ede Wlan or Yarn Sickness_. About twenty years ago, when the writer was curate of Llanwnog, Montgomeryshire, a young Welsh married woman came to reside in the parish suffering from what appeared to be that fell disease, consumption. He visited her in her illness, and one day she appeared much elated as she had been told that she was improving in health. She told the narrator that she was suffering from _Clwyf yr ede wlan_ or the woollen thread sickness, and she said that the yarn had _lengthened_, which was a sign that she was recovering. The charm was the same as that mentioned above, supplemented with a drink made of a quart of old beer, into which a piece of heated steel had been dipped, with an ounce of meadow saffron tied up in muslin soaked in it, taken in doses daily of a certain prescribed quantity, and the thread was measured daily, thrice I believe, to see if she was being cured or the reverse. Should the yarn shorten it was a sign of death, if it lengthened it indicated a recovery. However, although the yarn in this case lengthened, the young woman died. The charm failed. Sufficient has been said about charms to show how prevalent faith in their efficiency was. Ailments of all descriptions had their accompanying antidotes; but it is singularly strange that people professing the Christian religion should cling so tenaciously to paganism and its forms, so that even in our own days, such absurdities as charms find a resting-place in the minds of our rustic population, and often, even the better-educated classes resort to charms for obtaining cures for themselves and their animals. But from ancient times, omens, charms, and auguries have held considerable sway over the destinies of men. That charming book, _Plutarch's Lives_, abounds with instances of this kind. Indeed, an excellent collection of ancient Folk-lore could easily be compiled from extant classical authors. Most things die hard, and ideas that have once made a lodgment in the mind of man, particularly when they are connected in any way with his faith, die the very hardest of all. Thus it is that such beliefs as are treated of in this chapter still exist, and they have reached our days from distant periods, filtered somewhat in their transit, but still retaining their primitive qualities. We have not as yet gathered together the fragments of the ancient religion of the Celts, and formed of them a consistent whole, but evidently we are to look for them in the sayings and doings of the people quite as much as in the writings of the ancients. If we could only ascertain what views were held respecting any particular matter in ancient times, we might undoubtedly find traces of them even in modern days. Let us take for instance only one subject, and see whether traces of it still exist. Caesar in his _Commentaries_ states of the Druids that, "One of their principal maxims is that the soul never dies, but that after death it passes into the body of another being. This maxim they consider to be of the greatest utility to encourage virtue and to make them regardless of life." Now, is there anything that can be associated with such teaching still to be found? The various tales previously given of hags turning themselves and others into various kinds of animals prove that people believed that such transitions were in life possible, and they had only to go a step further and apply the same faith to the soul, and we arrive at the transmigration of souls. It is not my intention to make too much of the following tale, for it may be only a shred, but still as such it is worthy of record. A few years ago I was staying at the Rectory, Erbistock, near Ruabon, and the rector, the Rev. P. W. Sparling, in course of conversation, said that a parishioner, one Betsy Roberts, told him that she knew before anyone told her, that a certain person died at such and such a time. The rector asked her how she came to know of the death if no one had informed her, and if she had not been to the house to ascertain the fact. Her answer was, "I knew because I saw a hare come from towards his house and cross over the road before me." This was about all that the rector could elicit, but evidently the woman connected the appearance of the hare with the death of the man. The association of the live hare with the dead man was here a fact, and possibly in the birthplace of that woman such a connection of ideas was common. Furthermore, it has often been told me by people who have professed to have heard what they related, that being present in the death chamber of a friend they have heard a bird singing beautifully outside in the darkness, and that it stopped immediately on the death of their friend. Here again we have a strange connection between two forms of life, and can this be a lingering Druidic or other ancient faith? In the _Dictionary of the Welsh Language_ by the Rev. Canon Silvan Evans, part i., p. 8, under the word _Abred_, we have an exhaustive statement on the subject of transmigration, which I will take the liberty to transcribe, for it certainly throws light on the matter now treated of. "_Abred_ . . . 1. The state or condition through which, by a regular upward gradation, all animated beings pass from the lowest point of existence in which they originate, towards humanity and the highest state of happiness and perfection. All the states of animation below that of humanity are necessarily evil; in the state of humanity, good and evil are equally balanced; and in all the states above humanity, good preponderates and evil becomes impossible. If man, as a free agent, attaches himself to evil, he falls in death into such an animal state of existence as corresponds with the turpitude of his soul, which may be so great as to cast him down into the lowest point of existence, from which he shall again return through such a succession of animal existences as is most proper to divest him of his evil propensities. After traversing such a course, he will again rise to the probationary state of humanity, where according to contingencies he may rise or fall; yet, should he fall, he shall rise again, and should this happen for millions of ages, the path of happiness is still open to him, and will so remain to all eternity, for sooner or later he will infallibly arrive at his destined station or happiness, from which he can never fall. This doctrine of metamorphosis or evolution, attributed to the Druids and the Welsh bards, is succinctly but fully stated by its hierophant, Iolo Morganwg, in his 'Poems' (1794), ii., 195-256, and elucidated by documents which had not previously been made public, but of which none are of an early date." Thus writes the Welsh lexicographer on this matter. The word _abred_ is archaic, as is the idea for which it stands; but as already said, very little has been lost of ideas which were once the property of kindred races; so here we have no exception to the general rule, though the word _abred_ and the theory it represented come down to modern times strengthless, resembling the lifeless mummy of an Egyptian king that once represented a living people and principle. Still, the word and the idea it stands for have descended, in form, to our days, and tell us something about the faith of our forefathers regarding the immortality of the soul. RHAMANTA, OR OMEN SEEKING. _Rhamanta_ was a kind of divination that could be resorted to without the intervention of any outside party, by anyone wishful to ascertain the future with reference to herself or himself. It differed, therefore, from the preceding tales of conjurors or witches, insomuch that the services of neither of these parties were required by the anxious seekers of coming events. They could themselves uplift the veil, using, however, for this purpose certain means, which were credited with possessing the power of opening to their view events which were about to happen. As there was something uncanny in this seeking for hidden information, young women generally in companies of three sought for the information their inquisitiveness required. This was usually done in the dead of night, and twelve o'clock was the hour when they resorted to their incantations. Some of the expedients adopted were harmless, though silly; others were cruel. To the effective carrying out of the matter it was generally necessary that at least one of the party should have slept within the year on an oat-straw bed, or a bed made of the leaves of mountain ash, mixed with the seeds of a spring fern, and a pillow of Maiden Hair. The nights generally resorted to for the purpose mentioned above were All Hallow Eve, S. John's Eve, and Mayday Eve, but there were other times also when the lovesick could get a glimpse of their life partners. I have said that some of the means employed were innocent and others cruel. Before proceeding I will record instances of both kinds. It was thought that if a young woman placed a snail under a basin on _Nos Wyl Ifan_, S. John's Eve, it would by its movements trace the name of her coming husband underneath, or at least his initials. One can very well imagine a young woman not over particular as to form, being able to decipher the snail's wanderings, and making them represent her lover's name. Should the snail have remained immovable during the night, this indicated her own or her lover's death; or at the least, no offer of marriage in the coming year. It was usual for young women to hunt for _Llysiau Ifan_ (S. John's Wort) on _Nos Wyl Ifan_, at midnight, and it was thought that the silvery light of a glow-worm would assist them in discovering the plant. The first thing, therefore, was to search for their living lanthorn. This found, they carried the glow-worm in the palm of the hand, and proceeding in their search they sought underneath or among the fern for St. John's Wort. When found, a bunch was carried away, and hung in the young woman's bedroom. If in the morning the leaves appeared fresh, it was a sign that she should be married within the year; if, however, the leaves were found hanging down or dead, this indicated her death, or that she was not to get a husband within that year. We can well understand that a sharp young person would resort to means to keep the plant alive, and thus avert what she most feared. The following instance of _Rhamanta_ I received from a young woman who witnessed the work done. She gave me the name of the party, but for special reasons I do not supply names. A young woman was madly in love with a young man, and she gave the servant man a jug of beer for procuring a frog for her. This he did; and she took the poor creature to the garden, and thrust several pins into its back. The tortured creature writhed under the pain, but the cruel girl did not cease until the required number had been inserted. Then she placed the frog under a vessel to prevent its escape, and turning to my informant, she said, "There, he will now come to our house this evening." The man certainly came, and when he entered she smiled at my informant, and then both went together to the lacerated frog, and the pins were extracted one by one from its back, and the wounded animal was set at liberty. My informant said that the hard-hearted girl mumbled something both when inserting and extracting the pins. It was believed that the spirit of a person could be invoked and that it would appear, after the performance of certain ceremonies, to the person who was engaged in the weird undertaking. Thus a young woman who had gone round the church seven times on All Hallow Eve came home to her mistress, who was in the secret that she was going to _rhamanta_, and said, "Why did you send master to frighten me?" But the master had not left the house. His wife perceived that it was the spirit of her husband that had appeared to the girl, and she requested the girl to be kind to her children, "for," said she, "you will soon be mistress here." In a short time afterwards the wife died, and the girl became her successor. I obtained the preceding tale from the Rev. P. Edwards, son of the Rector of Llanwyddelan, Montgomeryshire, and the lady who related the tale of herself to Mr. Edwards said the occurrence took place when she was servant girl. There are several versions of the above tale to be met with in many places in Wales. I will give one, omitting names, from my work on "_Old Stone Crosses_," p. 203:--"An aged woman in Gyffylliog parish, who is still alive (1886), saw her husband by _rhamanta_; and so did her fellow-servant. I am indebted to Mr. Jones, Woodland Farm, to whom the woman related it, for the story I am about to give. When young women, she and her fellow-servant, in accordance with the practice of the country, determined to obtain a sight of the men whom they were to marry. The mistress was let into the secret that that night one of the two was going to raise the veil of the future, and the other the following night. As the clock began striking twelve the fellow-servant began striking the floor with a strap, repeating the doggerel lines "Am gyd-fydio i gyd-ffatio," and almost immediately she saw her master come down stairs. The girl innocently the next day asked her mistress why she had sent her master down stairs to frighten her. The answer of her mistress was, 'Take care of my children.' This girl ultimately married her master. The next night it was the other girl's turn, and she saw a dark man, whom she had never seen before; but in the course of a week or so, a stranger came into the farmyard, and she at once perceived that it was the person whom she had seen when divining. Upon inquiry, she ascertained that he was a married man, but in time his wife died, and the girl became his wife." There were several ways of proceeding by young girls who were anxious to ascertain whom they were to marry. One of these was by means of yarn. This divination was usually performed by two young girls after the family had retired for the night. It has been called _Coel ede wlan_, or the yarn test, and under this name I will describe the process. _Coel Ede Wlan_, _or the Yarn Test_. Two young women took a ball of yarn and doubled the threads, and then tied tiny pieces of wood along these threads so as to form a miniature ladder. Then they went upstairs together, and opening the window threw this artificial ladder to the ground, and then the one who was performing the incantation commenced winding the yarn back, saying the while:-- "Y fi sy'n dirwyn Pwy sy'n dal?" I am winding, Who is holding? This was done three times, and if no lover made his appearance, then for that year her chances of marriage were gone. The next evening the other girl in the same manner tried her fortune, and possibly better luck would attend her trial. It was believed that the spirit of the coming husband would mount this ladder and present himself to his future wife. The Rev. R. Jones, rector of Llanycil, told me the following tale. Two young men from Festiniog went to court two young girls in the parish of Maentwrog, servants at a farm called Gellidywyll. As they were going towards the farm one of them said, "Let me rest awhile." He at once seated himself on the ground, and apparently he fell asleep immediately. This surprised his friend, but he was thoroughly frightened when he saw _a blue light emanate_ from his mouth, and he attempted to awaken the man, but he failed to arouse him, he seemed as if dead. However, after awhile, the blue light was seen returning, and it entered the mouth of the sleeper, and he instantly awoke, and they proceeded together towards Gellidywyll. At the very time that the man felt an irresistible inclination to sleep, his love had used the yarn incantation, and the unconscious man during his short sleep dreamt that he had seen his sweetheart in the window, and the girl said that he had appeared to her at the window. In a few months after this proof of true love they were married. Another form of incantation was to walk around the church seven or nine times on certain nights. This I will call the _Twca Test_ or _Knife Test_. This was a very common form of incantation. _Divination with the Twca or Knife_. The proceeding was as follows:--The party who wished to know whom he, or she, was to marry, went to the church secretly and walked around it seven times, repeating the while these words:-- "Dyma'r Twca, Lle mae'r wain?" Here's the knife, Where's the sheath? And it was thought that the spirit of his or her life partner would appear to the person who held the knife, with the sheath in his or her hand, and that it would be found that the one fitted the other exactly. I have been told by a person who resorted to this test that if the person was to become a wife, her lover would certainly appear to her; if she was to die an old maid then a coffin would meet her. The superstition is mentioned in _Bardd Cwsg_-- "Fe glywai rai yn son am fyned i droi o gwmpas yr Eglwys i weled eu cariadau, a pheth a wnaeth y catffwl ond ymddangos i'r ynfydion yn ei lun ei hun." That is in English:-- "He heard some persons talking of going round the church to see their sweethearts, but what did the stupid one (the devil) do, but appear to the foolish things in his own person." _The Washing Test_. Another well-known and often practised form of divination was for a young woman to take an article to wash, such as a stocking, to the water-spout or _pistyll_, and with her she carried two pieces of wood wherewith to strike the article which was being washed. She went on her knees and commenced striking the stocking, saying the while:-- "Am gyd-fydio i gyd-ffatio." We'll live together to strike together. It was thought that her future husband would then appear, take hold of the other piece of wood, and join her in her work; should the wraith appear, a marriage within six months followed. _Troi Crysau or Clothes Drying Test_. Young maidens washed linen after the household had retired, and placed the articles by the fire to dry, and then watched to see who should come at midnight to turn the clothes. In this case, again, the evil one is said to have entered the kitchen to perform this work for the young woman, and also it is affirmed that a coffin has, ere this, moved along through the room, a sure prognostication that she was doomed to die single. _Bardd Cwsg_ mentions this practice. He writes in the third part of his book, where a devil is accused in the Parliament of Hell, thus:--"Aeth nos _Ystwyll_ ddiweddaf i ymweled a dwy ferch ieuanc yng Nghymru _oedd yn troi crysau_, ac yn lle denu'r genethod i faswedd, yn rhith llanc glandeg, myned ag elor i sobreiddio un; a myned a thrwst rhyfel at y llall mewn corwynt uffernol." "He went on the night of _Epiphany_ to visit two young girls in Wales, who were turning shirts, and, instead of enticing them to folly, in the form of a handsome young man, he took to the one a coffin to sober her, and to the other he appeared in a hellish whirlwind, with a horrible noise." Happy, however, is the young woman should the man she loves appear, for he is to be her husband. _Hemp Seed Sowing_. A young married woman, a native of Denbighshire, told me that if a young woman sowed hemp seed, the figure of her lover would appear and follow her. This was to be done by night on Hallow Eve. I find from _English Folk-Lore_, p. 15, that this divination is practised in Devonshire on St. Valentine's Eve, and that the young woman runs round the church repeating, without stopping, the following lines:-- "I sow hempseed, hempseed I sow, He that loves me best Come, and after me now." _Sage Gathering_. A young person who went of a night to the garden, and stripped the leaves of the sage tree, would, as the clock struck twelve, be joined by her lover. This was to be done on All Hallow Eve. _Pullet's Egg Divination_. Mr. J. Roberts, Plas Einion, Llanfair Dyffryn Clwyd, told me the following:--When he was a young man, he, his sister, and the servant man, formed a company to find out by divination their future life partners. They procured a pullet's egg, it was emptied into a cup, to this was added flour and salt, in equal proportions, these ingredients were mixed together, made into three small cakes, and baked. They all ate one half of their cake, and the other half was placed in their respective stockings, to be placed under their bolsters. They went upstairs backward, and thus to bed, preserving the while, absolute silence. It was believed, he said, that they should that night, in their dreams, if everything were carried out properly, see their partners, who would come to their bedsides to offer them a drink of water. _The Candle and Pin Divination_. The process is as follows:--A couple of young women meet, and stick pins in a candle, and if the divination acts properly the last pin drops out of the candle at 12 o'clock at night, and then the future husband of the girl to whom that pin belongs appears. I must not name the lady whom I am indebted to for the following information, but she told me that when she was a young woman, she, and her friend, took part in this prying into the future, and exactly at 12 o'clock her companion's pin fell out of the candle, and at that very instant there was a knocking at the door, and in great fright both ran upstairs, but the knocking continued, and her friend put her head out of the window to enquire who was there, and my informant told me that the man at the door became her friend's husband, though at the time they were consulting the future she was desperately in love with another man. There were other ways in which people could _Rhamant_. Enough has been said on this subject, but there are other practices resorted to, having much the same object in view, which I will now relate. _To ascertain the condition of the Person whom you are to Marry_. _Water in Basin Divination_. Should young persons wish to know whether their husbands were to be bachelors, or their wives spinsters, the following test was to be resorted to:-- Three persons were necessary to carry out the test. These three young ladies were to join in the undertaking and they were to proceed as follows:--On _Nos Calan Gauaf_, All Hallow Eve, at night, three basins were to be placed on a table, _one filled with clear spring water_, _one with muddy water_, _and the other empty_. The young ladies in turn were led blindfolded into the room, and to the table, and they were told to place their hands on the basins. She who placed her hand on the clear spring water was to marry a bachelor, whilst the one who touched the basin with muddy water was to wed a widower, and should the empty basin be touched it foretold that for that person a life of single blessedness was in store. _Hairs of a Lover found under a Holly Tree_. This test is to be carried out on All Hallow Eve. The young person walks backwards to a holly tree, takes a handful of grass from underneath it, and then carries the leaves to the light, and she then sees among the grass several hairs of her true lover. _The Bible and Key Divination_. A key is taken, and placed on the 16th verse of the 1st chapter of Ruth:--"And Ruth said, intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God." The Bible is then closed with that part of the key that enters the lock on this verse. The person who wishes to look into the future takes the garter off his left leg, and then ties the Bible round with his garter, which also passes through the loop of the key. He has with him a friend who joins in carrying out the test. Both men place one of their big or central fingers on the key underneath the loop, and press the key, so as to keep the Bible steady and the key from falling. Then the man, who does not consult the future, reads the verse above written, and should the Bible turn towards the other man, it is an affirmative answer that the young lady he loves will accept him. The writer received this account from a man who had himself consulted the future by the Bible and Key. _Testing a Lover's Love by Cracking of Nuts_. This divination is common to many countries, but the writer knows that it is resorted to on _All Hallows Eve_ in Denbighshire by young ladies, partly, it may be in fun, and partly in earnest. The plan of proceeding is as follows:--Nuts are placed on the bars of the fire grate, equal in number to the young lady's lovers, and the nut that cracks first, and jumps off the bar, represents her true love. She has, of course fixed in her mind the lover each nut stands for. So common is this test that in the North of England _All Hallows Eve_ is called "_Nutcrack night_." _Gay_ describes the ceremony:-- Two hazel nuts I throw into the flame And to each nut I give a sweetheart's name; This with the loudest bounce me sore amazed, That in a flame of brightest-colour blazed; As blazed the nut, so may thy passions grow, For 'twas thy nut that did so brightly glow. _Burns_, in his poem of _Hallowe'en_ also mentions the nut divination. The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits Are round an' round divided, An' monie lads' and lasses' fates Are there that night decided; Some kindle, couthie, side by side, An' burn thegither trimly; Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, And jump out-owre the chimlie Fu' high that night. Jean slips in twa' wi' tentie e'e; Wha 'twas, she wadna tell; But this is Jock, an' this is me, She says in to hersel': He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, As they wad never mair part; 'Till, fuff! he started up the lum, An' Jean had e'en a sair heart To see't that night. _The Apple Pip Trial of Lovers_. The fair lady takes as many pips as she has lovers, and these she places on the point of a knife, which she inserts between the bars of the fire grate. Each pip represents a lover, and the pip that swells out and jumps into the fire indicates that he is the best lover for whom the pip stands. SPIRITUALISM. The next subject I shall treat of is curious, and partakes of the nature of spiritualism. I hardly know by what other word to describe it, therefore I will give particulars, so as to make the matter intelligible to the reader, and call it "Spiritualism." It was believed that it was possible for the spirit to leave the body, and then, after an absence of some time, to return again and re-enter it. The form the spirit assumed when it quitted the body was a bluish light like that of a candle, but somewhat longer. This light left the body through the mouth, and re-entered the same way. The writer was informed by a certain female friend at Llandegla that she had seen a bluish light leave the mouth of a person who was sick, light which she thought was the life, or spirit of that person, but the person did not immediately die. For another tale of this kind I am indebted to Mr. R. Roberts, who lives in the village of Clocaenog, near Ruthin. He was not himself a witness of the occurrence, but vouches for the accuracy of the report. It is as follows:-- _A Spirit leaving and re-entering the body_. A man was in love with two young girls, and they were both in love with him, and they knew that he flirted with them both. It is but natural to suppose that these young ladies did not, being rivals, love each other. It can well be believed that they heartily disliked each other. One evening, according to custom, this young man spent the night with one of his sweethearts, and to all appearance she fell asleep, or was in a trance, for she looked very pale. He noticed her face, and was frightened by its death-like pallor, but he was greatly surprised to see _a bluish flame proceed out of her mouth_, and go towards the door. He followed this light, and saw it take the direction of the house in which his other love lived, and he observed that from that house, too, a like light was travelling, as if to meet the light that he was following. Ere long these lights met each other, and they apparently fought, for they dashed into each other, and flitted up and down, as if engaged in mortal combat. The strife continued for some time, and then the lights separated and departed in the direction of the respective houses where the two young women lived. The man returned to the house of the young woman with whom he was spending the night, following close on the light, which he saw going before him, and which re-entered her body through her mouth; and then she immediately awoke. Here, presumedly, these two troubled young ladies met in a disembodied form to contend for the possession of this young man. A tale much like the preceding occurs on page 283. There is something akin to this spectral appearance believed in in Scotland, where the apparition is called _Wraith_, which word is defined in _Jameson's Etymological Dictionary_, published by Gardner, 1882, thus:-- "_Wraith_, _etc_.: Properly an apparition in the exact likeness of a person, supposed by the vulgar to be seen before, or soon after, death." This definition does not correspond exactly to what has been said of the Welsh spirit appearance, but it teaches the possibility, or shows the people's faith in the possibility, of the soul's existence apart from the body. It would seem that in Scotland this spectre is seen before, or after, death; but the writer has read of a case in which the _wraith_ of a person appeared to himself and was the means of saving his life, and that he long survived after his other self had rescued him from extreme danger. Lately a legend of Lake Ogwen went the round of the papers, but the writer, who lived many years in the neighbourhood of that lake, never heard of it until he saw it in the papers in 1887. As it bears on the subject under consideration, I will in part transcribe the story:-- "On one of these occasions a friend who had known something of the Welsh gipsies repeated to Rossetti an anecdote which had been told him as a 'quite true fack' by a Romani girl--an anecdote touching another Romani girl _whose wraith had been spirited away in the night from the_ '_camping place_' by the incantations of a wicked lover, had been seen rushing towards Ogwen Lake in the moonlight, 'While all the while that 'ere same chavi wur asleep an' a-sobbin' in her daddy's livin' waggin.'"--_Bye-Gones_, Ap. 13, 1887. This tale resembles in many respects the one given on page 291, for there is in both a lover and a sleeping girl, and the girl does not die, but there are minor differences in the tales, as might be expected. In Germany like tales are current. Baring-Gould, in his _Myths of the Middle Ages_, pp. 423-4, says:-- "The soul in German mythology is supposed to bear some analogy to a mouse. In Thuringia, at Saalfeld, a servant girl fell asleep whilst her companions were shelling nuts. They observed _a little red mouse creep out of her mouth_ and run out of the window. One of the fellows present shook the sleeper but could not wake her, so he moved her to another place. Presently the mouse ran back to the former place and dashed about seeking the girl; not finding her, it vanished; at the same moment the girl died." One other tale on this subject I will give, which appeared in the _North Wales Chronicle_ for April 22, 1883, where it is headed-- _A Spiritualistic Story from Wales_. "In an article relating to spiritualism in the February number of the _Fortnightly Review_, a story was told which is here shortened. The anecdote is given on the authority of a Welsh gentleman named Roberts, who resided at Cheetham, near Manchester, and the scene of the adventure is Beaumaris, the date 184--. The narrator was then an apprentice in a draper's shop. His master was strict, and allowed his apprentice but half an hour for dinner, which he had to take at his lodgings, some distance away from the shop. At whatever time he left the shop he had to be back there punctually at half past twelve. One day he was late, and while hastily swallowing his meat, his aunt being at the table, he looked up and saw that the clock pointed to _half past_ twelve! He was thunderstruck, and, with the fear of his master before him, all but lost consciousness, and was indeed in a dazed state for a few minutes, as was noticed by those at the table. Shaking this off by an effort, he again looked at the clock, and, to his relief and astonishment, saw that the hands only pointed to a _quarter past_ twelve. Then he quickly finished his dinner and returned to the shop at the appointed time. There he was told that at a _quarter past_ twelve he had returned to the shop, put up his hat, moved about in an absent manner, had been scolded, and had thereupon put on his hat again and walked out. Several persons on the one hand corroborated this story, whilst on the other his aunt was positive that, although at that moment he had fallen into a strange fit of abstraction, he had never left the table. This is the narrative, attested by a gentleman now living. The year 184-- is not so far back; perhaps there are still those residing on the upper side of the turf at Beaumaris who remember the circumstance." This tale in its nature is not unlike the others herein given. It belongs to the supernatural side of life. However improbable these stories may appear, they point to the notion that spirits can exist independently of the body. The Irish _fetch_, the Scotch _wraith_, and the Welsh _Canwyll Corph_, are alike in their teaching, but of this latter I shall speak more particularly when treating of death portents. _A Doctor called from his bed by a Voice_. Mr. Hugh Lloyd, Llanfihangel-Glyn-Myfyr, who received the story from Dr. Davies, the gentleman who figures in the tale, informed me of the following curious incidents:-- Doctor Davies, of Cerrig-y-drudion, had gone to bed and slept, but in the night he heard someone under his bedroom window shout that he was wanted in a farmhouse called Craigeirchan, which was three miles from the doctor's abode, and the way thereto was at all times beset with difficulties, such as opening and shutting the many gates; but of a night the journey to this mountain farm was one that few would think of taking, unless called to do so by urgent business. The doctor did not pay much attention to the first request, but he lay quietly on the bed listening, and almost immediately he heard the same voice requesting him to go at once to Craigeirchan, as he was wanted there. He now got up to the window, but could not see anyone; he therefore re-entered his bed, but for the third time he heard the voice telling him to go to the farm named, and now he opened the window and said that he would follow the messenger forthwith. The doctor got up, went to the stable, saddled the horse, and off he started for a long dismal ride over a wild tract of mountain country; such a journey he had often taken. He was not surprised that he could not see, nor hear, anyone in advance, for he knew that Welsh lads are nimble of foot, and could, by cutting across fields, etc., outstrip a rider. At last he neared the house where he was wanted, and in the distance he saw a light, and by this sign he was convinced that there was sickness in the house. He drove up to the door and entered the abode, to the surprise but great joy of the inmates. To his inquiry after the person who had been sent for him, he was told that no one had left the house, nor had anyone been requested by the family to go to the doctor. But he was told his services were greatly wanted, for the wife was about to become a mother, and the doctor was instrumental in saving both the life of the child and mother. What makes this tale all the more curious is the fact, that the doctor was an unbeliever in such things as ghosts, etc., and he had often enjoyed a quiet laugh over the tales he heard of a supernatural kind. Mr. Lloyd asked the doctor whether he had heard of the woman's condition, but he affirmed he was ignorant of everything connected with the place and family. _Another Tale of a Doctor_. I received the following tale from the Rev. Philip Edwards, formerly curate at Selattyn, near Oswestry:-- There was, or perhaps is--for my informant says he believes the lady is still alive--in a place called Swyddffynnon, Cardiganshire, a Mrs. Evans, who had a strange vision. Mr. Edwards's father called one evening upon Mrs. Evans, and found her sitting by the fire in company with a few female friends, greatly depressed. On enquiring as to the cause of her distress, she stated that she had had a strange sight that very evening. She saw, she said, in the unoccupied chamber at the further end of the house, a light, and, whilst she was wondering what light it was, she observed a tall, dark, stranger gentleman, who had a long, full beard, enter the house and go straight to the room where the light was, but before going in he took off his hat and placed it on the table; then he took off his gloves and threw them into the hat, and then he placed his riding whip across the hat, and without uttering a single word he entered the lit-up room. Shortly afterwards she saw the stranger emerge from the room and leave the house, and on looking again towards the room she saw that the light had disappeared. It was, she said, this apparition that had disconcerted her. Some time after this vision Mrs. Evans was in a critical state, and as she lived far away from a doctor my informant's father was requested to ride to Aberystwyth for one. He found, however, that the two doctors who then resided in that town were from home. But he was informed at the inn that there was a London doctor staying at Hafod. He determined, whether he could or could not, induce this gentleman to accompany him to Swyddffynnon, to go there. The gentleman, on hearing the urgency of the case, consented to visit the sick woman. Mr. Edwards and the doctor rode rapidly to their destination, and Mr. Edwards was surprised to find that the doctor did everything exactly as had been stated by Mrs. Evans. There was also a light in the chamber, for there the neighbours had placed the still-born child, and it was the providential help of the London doctor that saved Mrs. Evans's life. I may add that the personal appearance of this gentleman corresponded with the description given of him by Mrs. Evans. DEATH PORTENTS. These are common, in one form or other, to all nations. I will give a list of those which were formerly in high repute in Wales. _The Corpse Bird_, _or Deryn Corph_. This was a bird that came flapping its wings against the window of the room in which lay a sick person, and this visit was considered a certain omen of that person's death. The bird not only fluttered about the lighted window, but also made a screeching noise whilst there, and also as it flew away. The bird, singled out for the dismal honour of being a death prognosticator, was the tawny, or screech owl. Many are the instances, which have been told me by persons who heard the bird's noise, of its having been the precursor of death. This superstition is common to all parts of Wales. _A Crowing Hen_. This bird, too, is supposed to indicate the death of an inmate of the house which is its home; or, if not the death, some sore disaster to one or other of the members of that family. The poor hen, though, as soon as it is heard crowing, certainly foretells its own death, for no one will keep such an uncanny bird on the premises, and consequently the crowing hen loses its life. It is a common saying that-- A whistling woman, and a _crowing hen_, Are neither good for God nor men. Should a hen lay a small egg it was to be thrown over the head, and over the roof of the house, or a death would follow. _A Cock Crowing in the Night_. This, too, was thought to foretell a death, but whose death, depended on the direction of the bird's head whilst crowing. As soon as the crowing was heard someone went to ascertain the position of the cock's head, and when it was seen that his head was turned from their own house towards someone else's abode, the dwellers in that house slept in peace, believing that a neighbour, and not one of themselves, was about to die. It was supposed, that to make the prognostication sure, the cock would have to crow three times in succession before or about midnight, and in the same direction. _The Corpse Candle--Canwyll Corph_. The corpse candle, or _canwyll corph_, was a light like that of a candle, which was said to issue from the house where a death was about to occur, and take the course of the funeral procession to the burial place. This was the usual way of proceeding, but this mysterious light was also thought to wend its way to the abode of a person about to die. Instances could be given of both kinds of appearances. I have met with persons in various parts of Wales who told me that they had seen a corpse candle. They described it as a pale bluish light moving slowly along a short distance above the ground. Strange tales are told of the course the light has taken. Once it was seen to go over hedges and to make straight for the churchyard wall. This was not then understood, but when the funeral actually took place the ground was covered with snow, and the drift caused the procession to proceed along the fields and over the hedges and churchyard wall, as indicated by the corpse candle. It was ill jesting with the corpse candle. The Rev. J. Jenkins, Vicar of Hirnant, told me that a drunken sailor at Borth said he went up to a corpse candle and attempted to light his pipe at it, but he was whisked away, and when he came to himself he discovered that he was far off the road in the bog. The Rev. Edmund Jones, in his book entitled _A Relation of Ghosts and Apparitions_, _etc_., states:-- "Some have seen the resemblance of a skull carrying the candle; others the shape of the person that is to die carrying the candle between his fore-fingers, holding the light before his face. Some have said that they saw the shape of those who were to be at the burying." Those who have followed the light state that it proceeded to the church, lit up the building, emerged therefrom, and then hovered awhile over a certain spot in the churchyard, and then sank into the earth at the place where the deceased was to be buried. There is a tradition that St. David, by prayer, obtained the corpse candle as a sign to the living of the reality of another world, and that originally it was confined to his diocese. This tradition finds no place in the Life of the Saint, as given in the _Cambro-British Saints_, and there are there many wonderful things recorded of that saint. It was thought possible for a man to meet his own Candle. There is a tale of a person who met a Candle and struck it with his walking-stick, when it became sparks, which, however, re-united. The man was greatly frightened, became sick, and died. At the spot where he had struck the candle the bier broke and the coffin fell to the ground, thus corroborating the man's tale. I will now record one tale not of the usual kind, which was told me by a person who is alive. _Tale of a Corpse Candle_. My informant told me that one John Roberts, Felin-y-Wig, was in the habit of sitting up a short time after his family had retired to rest to smoke a quiet pipe, and the last thing he usually did before retiring for the night was to take a peep into the night. One evening, whilst peering around, he saw in the distance a light, where he knew there was no house, and on further notice he observed that it was slowly going along the road from Bettws-Gwerfil-Goch towards Felin-y-Wig. Where the road dipped the light disappeared, only, however, to appear again in such parts of the road as were visible from John Roberts's house. At first Roberts thought that the light proceeded from a lantern, but this was so unusual an occurrence in those parts that he gave up this idea, and intently followed the motions of the light. It approached Roberts's house, and evidently this was its destination. He endeavoured to ascertain whether the light was carried by a man or woman, but he could see nothing save the light. When, therefore, it turned into the lane approaching Roberts's house, in considerable fear he entered the house and closed the door, awaiting, with fear, the approach of the light. To his horror, he perceived the light passing through the shut door, and it played in a quivering way underneath the roof, and then vanished. That very night the servant man died, and his bed was right above the spot where the light had disappeared. _Spectral Funerals_, _or Drychiolaeth_. This was a kind of shadowy funeral which foretold the real one. In South Wales it goes by the name _toilu_, _toili_, or _y teulu_ (the family) _anghladd_, unburied; in Montgomeryshire it is called _Drychiolaeth_, spectre. I cannot do better than quote from Mr. Hamer's _Parochial Account of Llanidloes (Montgomeryshire Collections_, vol. x., p. 256), a description of one of these phantom funerals. All were much alike. He writes:-- "It is only a few years ago that some excitement was caused amongst the superstitious portion of the inhabitants by the statement of a certain miner, who at the time was working at the Brynpostig mine. On his way to the mine one dark night, he said that he was thoroughly frightened in China Street on seeing a spectral funeral leaving the house of one Hoskiss, who was then very ill in bed. In his fright the miner turned his back on the house, with the intention of going home, but almost fainting he could scarcely move out of the way of the advancing procession, which gradually approached, at last surrounded him, and then passed on down Longbridge Street, in the direction of the church. The frightened man managed with difficulty to drag himself home, but he was so ill that he was unable to go to work for several days." The following weird tale I received from the Rev. Philip Edwards, whom I have already mentioned (p. 282). I may state that I have heard variants of the story from other sources. While the Manchester and Milford Railway was in course of construction there was a large influx of navvies into Wales, and many a frugal farmer added to his incomings by lodging and boarding workmen engaged on the line. Several of these men were lodged at a farm called Penderlwyngoch, occupied by a man named Hughes. One evening when the men were seated round the fire, which burned brightly, they heard the farm dogs bark, as they always did at the approach of strangers. This aroused the attention of the men, and they perceived from the furious barking of the dogs that someone was coming towards the house. By-and-by they heard the tramp of feet, mingled with the howling of the frightened dogs, and then the dogs ceased barking, just as if they had slunk away in terror. Before many minutes had elapsed the inmates heard the back door opened, and a number of people entered the house, carrying a heavy load resembling a dead man, which they deposited in the parlour, and all at once the noise ceased. The men in great dread struck a light, and proceeded to the parlour to ascertain what had taken place. But they could discover nothing there, neither were there any marks of feet in the room, nor could they find any footprints outside the house, but they saw the cowering dogs in the yard looking the picture of fright. After this fruitless investigation of the cause of this dread sound, the Welsh people present only too well knew the cause of this visit. On the very next day one of the men who sat by the fire was killed, and his body was carried by his fellow-workmen to the farm house, in fact everything occurred as rehearsed the previous night. Most of the people who witnessed the vision are, my informant says, still alive. _Cyhyraeth--Death Sound_. This was thought to be a sound made by a crying spirit. It was plaintive, yet loud and terrible. It made the hair stand on end and the blood become cold; and a whole neighbourhood became depressed whenever the awful sound was heard. It was unlike all other voices, and it could not be mistaken. It took in its course the way the funeral procession was to go, starting from the house of the dead, and ending in the churchyard where the deceased was to be buried. It was supposed to announce a death the morning before it occurred, or, at most, a few days before. It was at one time thought to belong to persons born in the Diocese of Llandaff, but it must have travelled further north, for it is said to have been heard on the Kerry Hills in Montgomeryshire. The function of the _Cyhyraeth_ was much the same as that of the Corpse Candle, but it appealed to the sense of sound instead of to the sense of sight. Dogs, when they heard the distressing sound of the _Cyhyraeth_, showed signs of fear and ran away to hide. _Lledrith--Spectre of a Person_. This apparition of a friend has in the Scotch wraith, or Irish fetch its counterpart. It has been said that people have seen friends walking to meet them, and that, when about to shake hands with the approaching person, it has vanished into air. This optical illusion was considered to be a sign of the death of the person thus seen. _Tolaeth--Death Rapping or Knocking_. The death rappings are said to be heard in carpenters' workshops, and that they resembled the noise made by a carpenter when engaged in coffin-making. A respectable miner's wife told me that a female friend told her, she had often heard this noise in a carpenter's shop close by her abode, and that one Sunday evening this friend came and told her that the _Tolaeth_ was at work then, and if she would come with her she should hear it. She complied, and there she heard this peculiar sound, and was thoroughly frightened. There was no one in the shop at the time, the carpenter and his wife being in chapel. Sometimes this noise was heard by the person who was to die, but generally by his neighbours. The sounds were heard in houses even, and when this was the case the noise resembled the noise made as the shroud is being nailed to the coffin. _A Raven's Croaking_. A raven croaking hoarsely as it flew through the air became the angel of death to some person over whose house it flew. It was a bird of ill omen. _The Owl_. This bird's dismal and persistent screeching near an abode also foretold the death of an inmate of that house. _A Solitary Crow_. The cawing of a solitary crow on a tree near a house indicates a death in that house. _The Dog's Howl_. A dog howling on the doorsteps or at the entrance of a house also foretold death. The noise was that peculiar howling noise which dogs sometimes make. It was in Welsh called _yn udo_, or crying. _Missing a Butt_. Should a farmer in sowing wheat, or other kind of corn, or potatoes, or turnips, miss a row or butt, it was a token of death. _Stopping of a Clock_. The unaccountable stopping of the kitchen clock generally created a consternation in a family, for it was supposed to foretell the death of one of the family. _A Goose Flying over a House_. This unusual occurrence prognosticated a death in that house. _Goose or Hen Laying a Small Egg_. This event also was thought to be a very bad omen, if not a sign of death. _Hen laying Two Eggs in the same day_. Should a hen lay two eggs in the same day, it was considered a sign of death. I have been told that a hen belonging to a person who lived in Henllan, near Denbigh, laid an egg early in the morning, and another about seven o'clock p.m. in the same day, and the master died. _Thirteen at a Table_. Should thirteen sit at a table it was believed that the first to leave would be buried within the year. _Heather_. Should any person bring heather into a house, he brought death to one or other of the family by so doing. _Death Watch_. This is a sound, like the ticking of a watch, made by a small insect. It is considered a sign of death, and hence its name, _Death Watch_. A working man's wife, whose uncle was ill in bed, told the writer, that she had no hopes of his recovery, because death ticks were heard night and day in his room. The man, who was upwards of eighty years old, died. _Music and Bird Singing heard before Death_. The writer, both in Denbighshire and Carnarvonshire, was told that the dying have stated that they heard sweet voices singing in the air, and they called the attention of the watchers to the angelic sounds, and requested perfect stillness, so as not to lose a single note of the heavenly music. A young lad, whom the writer knew--an intelligent and promising boy--whilst lying on his death-bed, told his mother that he heard a bird warbling beautifully outside the house, and in rapture he listened to the bird's notes. His mother told me of this, and she stated further, that she had herself on three different occasions previously to her eldest daughter's death, in the middle of the night, distinctly heard singing of the most lovely kind, coming, as she thought, from the other side of the river. She went to the window and opened it, but the singing immediately ceased, and she failed to see anyone on the spot where she had imagined the singing came from. My informant also told me that she was not the only person who heard lovely singing before the death of a friend. She gave me the name of a nurse, who before the death of a person, whose name was also given me, heard three times the most beautiful singing just outside the sick house. She looked out into the night, but failed to see anyone. Singing of this kind is expected before the death of every good person, and it is a happy omen that the dying is going to heaven. In the _Life of Tegid_, which is given in his _Gwaith Barddonawl_, p. 20, it is stated:-- "Yn ei absenoldeb o'r Eglwys, pan ar wely angeu, ar fore dydd yr Arglwydd, tra yr oedd offeiriad cymmydogaethol yn darllen yn ei le yn Llan Nanhyfer, boddwyd llais y darllenydd gan fwyalchen a darawai drwy yr Eglwys accen uchel a pherseiniol yn ddisymwth iawn. . . . Ar ol dyfod o'r Eglwys cafwyd allan mai ar yr amser hwnw yn gywir yr ehedodd enaid mawr Tegid o'i gorph i fyd yr ysprydoedd." Which translated is as follows:-- In his absence from Church, when lying on his deathbed, in the morning of the Lord's Day, whilst a neighbouring clergyman was taking the service for him in Nanhyfer Church, the voice of the reader was suddenly drowned by the beautiful song of a thrush, that filled the whole Church. . . . It was ascertained on leaving the church that at that very moment the soul of Tegid left his body for the world of spirits. In the _Myths of the Middle Ages_, p. 426, an account is given of "The Piper of Hamelin," and there we have a description of this spirit song:-- Sweet angels are calling to me from yon shore, Come over, come over, and wander no more. Miners believe that some of their friends have the gift of seeing fatal accidents before they occur. A miner in the East of Denbighshire told me of instances of this belief and he gave circumstantial proof of the truth of his assertion. Akin to this faith is the belief that people have seen coffins or spectral beings enter houses, both of which augur a coming death. In _The Lives of the Cambro-British Saints_, p. 444, it is stated that previously to the death of St. David "the whole city was filled with the music of angels." The preceding death omens do not, perhaps, exhaust the number, but they are quite enough to show how prevalent they were, and how prone the people were to believe in such portents. Some of them can be accounted for on natural grounds, but the majority are the creation of the imagination, strengthened possibly in certain instances by remarkable coincidences which were remembered, whilst if no death occurred after any of the omens, the failure was forgotten. BIRDS AND BEASTS. Folk-lore respecting animals is common in Wales. It has been supposed that mountainous countries are the cradles of superstitions. But this is, at least, open to a doubt; for most places perpetuate these strange fancies, and many of them have reached our days from times of old, and the exact country whence they came is uncertain. Still, it cannot be denied that rugged, rocky, sparsely inhabited uplands, moorlands, and fens, are congenial abodes for wild fancies, that have their foundation in ignorance, and are perpetuated by the credulity of an imaginative people that lead isolated and solitary lives. The bleating of the sheep, as they wander over a large expanse of barren mountain land, is dismal indeed, and well might become ominous of storms and disasters. The big fat sheep, which are penned in the lowlands of England, with a tinkling bell strapped to the neck of the king of the flock, convey a notion of peace and plenty to the mind of the spectator, that the shy active mountain sheep, with their angry grunt and stamping of their feet never convey. Still, these latter are endowed with an instinct which the English mutton-producer does not exercise. Welsh sheep become infallible prognosticators of a change of weather; for, by a never failing instinct, they leave the high and bare mountain ridges for sheltered nooks, and crowd together when they detect the approach of a storm. Man does not observe atmospheric changes as quickly as sheep do, and as sheep evidently possess one instinct which is strongly developed and exercised, it is not unreasonable to suppose that man in a low state of civilisation might credit animals with possessing powers which, if observed, indicate or foretell other events beside storms. Thus the lowly piping of the solitary curlew, the saucy burr of the grouse, the screech of the owl, the croaking of the raven, the flight of the magpie, the slowly flying heron, the noisy cock, the hungry seagull, the shrill note of the woodpecker, the sportive duck, all become omens. Bird omens have descended to us from remote antiquity. Rome is credited with having received its pseudo-science of omens from Etruria, but whence came it there? This semi-religious faith, like a river that has its source in a far distant, unexplored mountain region, and meanders through many countries, and does not exclusively belong to any one of the lands through which it wanders; so neither does it seem that these credulities belong to any one people or age; and it is difficult, if not impossible, to trace to their origin, omens, divination, magic, witchcraft, and other such cognate matters, which seem to belong to man's nature. Readers of Livy remember how Romulus and Remus had recourse to bird omens to determine which of the brothers should build Rome. Remus saw six vultures, and Romulus twelve; therefore, as his number was the greater, to him fell the honour of building the famous city. But this was not the only bird test known to the Romans. Before a battle those people consulted their game fowl to ascertain whether or not victory was about to attend their arms. If the birds picked up briskly the food thrown to them victory was theirs, if they did so sluggishly the omen was unpropitious, and consequently the battle was delayed. Plutarch, in his "Life of Alexander," gives us many proofs of that great general's credulity. The historian says:--"Upon his (Alexander's) approach to the walls (of Babylon) he saw a great number of crows fighting, some of which fell down dead at his feet." This was a bad sign. But I will not pursue the subject. Enough has been said to prove how common omens were. I will now confine my remarks to Wales. _Birds singing before February_. Should the feathered songsters sing before February it is a sign of hard, ungenial weather. This applies particularly to the blackbird and throstle. The following lines embody this faith:-- Os can yr adar cyn Chwefror, hwy griant cyn Mai. If birds sing before February, they will cry before May. Thus their early singing prognosticates a prolonged winter.--_Bye-Gones_, vol. i., p. 88. _Birds flocking in early Autumn_. When birds gather themselves together and form flocks in the early days of autumn, it is thought to foretell an early and severe winter. On the other hand, should they separate in early spring, and again congregate in flocks, this shews that hard weather is to be expected, and that winter will rest on the lap of May. _Birds' Feathers_. Feather beds should be made of domestic birds' feathers, such as geese, ducks, and fowls. Wild fowl feathers should not be mixed with these feathers; for, otherwise, the sick will die hard, and thus the agony of their last moments will be prolonged. _The Cock_. Caesar, Bk. v., c.12, tells us that the Celtic nation did not regard it lawful to eat the cock. It was thought that the devil assumed occasionally the form of a cock. It is said that at Llanfor, near Bala, the evil spirit was driven out of the church in the form of a cock, and laid in the river Dee. Formerly the cock was offered to the water god. And at certain Holy Wells in Wales, such as that in the parish of Llandegla, it was customary to offer to St. Tecla a cock for a male patient, and a hen for a female. A like custom prevailed at St. Deifer's Well, Bodfari. Classical readers may remember that Socrates, before his death, desired his friend Crito to offer a cock to AEsculapius. "Crito," said he, and these were his last words, "we owe a cock to AEsculapius, discharge that debt for me, and pray do not forget it;" soon after which he breathed his last. In our days, the above-mentioned superstitions do not prevail, but the cock has not been resigned entirely to the cook. By some means or other, it still retains the power of announcing the visit of a friend; at least, so says the mountain farmer's wife. The good-wife in North Wales, when the cock comes to the door-sill and there crows many times in succession, tells her children that "Some one is coming to visit us, I wonder who it is." Before nightfall a friend drops in, and he is informed that he was expected, that the cock had crowed time after time by the door, and that it was no good sending him away, for he would come back and crow and crow, "and now," adds she, "you have come." "Is it not strange," says the good woman, "that he never makes a mistake," and then follows a word of praise for chanticleer, which the stranger endorses. However much the hospitable liked to hear their cock crow in the day time, he was not to crow at night. But it was formerly believed that at the crowing of the cock, fairies, spirits, ghosts, and goblins rushed to their dread abodes. Puck was to meet the Fairy King, "ere the first cock crow." _Cock-fighting_. Cock-fighting was once common in Wales, and it was said that the most successful cock-fighters fought the bird that resembled the colour of the day when the conflict took place; thus, the blue game-cock was brought out on cloudy days, black when the atmosphere was inky in colour, black-red on sunny days, and so on. Charms for cocks have already been mentioned (p. 267). These differed in different places. In Llansantffraid, Montgomeryshire, a crumb from the communion table, taken therefrom at midnight following the administration of the Holy Communion, was an infallible charm. This was placed in the socket of the steel spur, which was then adjusted to the natural spur.--_Bye-Gones_, vol. i., p. 88. _The Goose_. Should a goose lay a soft egg, a small egg, or two eggs in a day, it is a sign of misfortune to the owner of that goose. An old woman in Llandrinio parish, Montgomeryshire, who lived in a cottage by the side of the Severn, and who possessed a breed of geese that laid eggs and hatched twice a year, when I asked her the time that geese should begin to lay, said:-- Before St. Valentine's Day Every good goose will lay. and she added:-- By St. Chad, Every good goose, and bad. St. Chad's Day is March the 2nd. Mr. Samuel Williams, Fron, Selattyn, gave me the following version of the above ditty:-- On Candlemas Day, Every good goose begins to lay. Another rendering is:-- Every good goose ought to lay On Candlemas Day. Candlemas Day is February 2nd. Geese should sit so as to hatch their young when the moon waxes and not when it wanes, for, otherwise, the goslings would not thrive. The lucky one in the family should place the eggs for hatching under the goose or hen. For the following paragraph I am indebted to "Ffraid," a writer in _Bye-Gones_, vol. i., p. 88:-- "The goose is thought to be a silly bird, and hence the expression, 'You silly goose,' or 'You stupid goose,' as applied to a person. The falling snow is believed to be the effect of celestial goose-feathering, and the patron of geese--St. Michael--is supposed to be then feathering his proteges. The first goose brought to table is called a Michaelmas goose; a large annual fair at Llanrhaiadr-yn-Mochnant is called 'Ffair y cwarter Gwydd,' the quarter goose fair. Seven geese on grass land are supposed to eat as much grass as will keep a cow. Permanent grass land is called 'Tir Gwydd,' goose land. A bed of goose feathers is required to complete a well-furnished house. The fat of geese, called 'goose-oil,' is a recipe for many ailments. A small bone in the head of a goose, called the 'goose's tooth,' is carried in the pocket for luck, and is a sure preventative against toothache." Much of the above paragraph is common to most parts of Wales, but the writer used to be told, when he was a lad, that the snow was caused by "the old woman feathering her geese," and a Michaelmas goose was called a green goose, as well as a "Michaelmas goose." _The Crow_. The crow figures much in Welsh folk-lore. In many ways he is made to resemble the magpie; thus, when one crow or one magpie was seen, it was thought to foretell misfortune, as implied by the saying:-- Un fran ddu, Lwc ddrwg i mi. But should the spectator shout out in a defiant way:-- Hen fran ddu, Gras Duw i mi, no harm would follow. The former lines in English would be:-- One crow I see, Bad luck to me. But this foretold evil, brought about by the old black crow, could be counteracted by repeating the following words, (a translation of the second couplet), with a pause between each line, and thus the last line would assume the form of a prayer:-- Old Black Crow! God, grace bestow; or the evil could be hurled back upon the Old Black Crow by the repetition of these words:-- Hen fran ddu, Gras Duw i mi, Lwc ddrwg i ti. Freely translated, these lines would be:-- Old Black Crow! God's grace to me, Bad luck to thee. In the English-speaking parts of Wales, such as along the borders of Montgomeryshire, adjoining Shropshire, I have heard the following doggerel lines substituted for the Welsh:-- Crow, crow, get out of my sight, Before I kill thee to-morrow night. The bad luck implied by the appearance of one crow could also be overcome, as in the case of the magpie, by making a cross on the ground, with finger or stick. Although one crow implied bad luck, two crows meant good luck; thus we have these lines:-- Dwy fran ddu, Lwc dda i mi. Two black crows, Good luck to me. Many prognostications were drawn from the appearance of crows. A crow seen on the highest branch of a tree implied that the person seeing it should shortly see his or her sweetheart. The manner in which they flew foretold a wedding or a burying. When they fly in a long line there is to be a wedding, if crowded together a funeral. There is a common expression in Montgomeryshire--"Dwy fran dyddyn"--"The two crows of the farm"--just as if each farm had its two crows, either as guardians of the farm--for two crows implied good luck--or as if they were located by couples in various places, which places became their feeding ground and homes. This, however, is not true of rooks, which feed in flocks and roost in flocks. _Crows' Feathers_. In Montgomeryshire it was, at one time, supposed that if a person picked up a crow's feather he was sure to meet a mad dog before the day was over. But in other parts it was considered lucky to find a crow's feather, if, when found, it were stuck on end into the ground. This superstition lingered long in Llanfihangel Glyn Myfyr, a remote, hilly parish in Denbighshire. Some years ago, crows' wing or tail feathers could be seen stuck upright in the ground in many parts of Wales, but at present such a thing cannot be seen. The practice and the superstition have come to an end. _A Rookery deserted was a sign of bad luck_, _but when they nested near a house it was a sign of good luck_. The writer visited, in the year 1887, a gentleman's park, where for generations the rooks had made a lodgment, and by several persons his attention was called to the ominous fact that the rooks had left the ancestral trees which ornamented the spacious and well-wooded park, and had even carried their nests away with them. He was informed that the desertion boded no good to the highly respected family that occupied that ancient seat. The writer also visited a friend, who lives in an ancient abode, a mile or two from the rook-rejected park, and, with a smile, he was informed by the lady of the house that a colony of rooks had taken possession of the trees that surrounded her house. He gladly wished her luck, to which she responded--"It has been a long time coming." Both these places are in East Denbighshire. The writer remembers a case in which a rookery was deserted just before misfortune fell upon the gentleman who occupied the house around which grew the trees occupied by the rooks. This gentleman one morning noticed the rooks carrying away their nests to a new home. Se called his servant man to him, and desired him to go after the rooks and destroy their nests in their new abode, in the fond hope that they would thus be induced to return to their old home. This was done more than once, but the rooks would not take the hint; they persisted in gathering up the scattered sticks that strewed the ground, but these they replaced in the trees above, which now had become their new home. When it was found that they would not return, the man desisted, and his master, as he had feared, met with dire misfortune shortly afterwards (see p. 304). _The Cuckoo_. _Y Gog_. The cuckoo is a sacred bird. It is safe from the gamekeeper's gun. Its advent is welcomed with pleasure. "Have you heard the cuckoo?" is a question put by the fortunate person who first hears its notes to every person he meets. When it is ascertained that the cuckoo has arrived, parents give their children pence for luck, and they themselves take care not to leave their houses with empty pockets, for should they do so, those pockets, if the cuckoo is heard, will be empty all the year. Those who hear the cuckoo for the first time thrust immediately their hand in their pockets, and turn their money, or toss a piece into the air, and all this is for luck for the coming year ushered in by the cheering sound of the cuckoo's notes. It is believed that the cuckoo is in our country for several days before its welcome two notes are heard, and that the cause of its huskiness is, that it is tired, and has not cleared its voice by sucking birds' eggs. Generally the cuckoo is heard for the first time yearly about the same place, and the hill tops not far from the abodes of man are its favourite resort. Thus we have the ditty:-- Cynta' lle y can y cogydd, Yw y fawnog ar y mynydd. The place where first the cuckoo sings, Is by the peat pits on the hills. The cuckoo is supposed to be accompanied by the wry-neck, hence its name, "Gwas-y-gog," the cuckoo's servant. The wryneck was thought to build the nest, and hatch and feed the young of the cuckoo. Many superstitions cluster round the cuckoo; thus, should a person be in doubt as to the way to take, when going from home, to secure success in life, he, or she, waits for the cuckoo's return, and then should the bird be heard for the first time, singing towards the east, as it flies, that is the direction to take, or any other direction as the case may be; and it is, or was, even thought that the flight of the cuckoo, singing as it flies before a person, for the first time in the year, indicated a change of abode for that person, and the new home lay in the direction in which the cuckoo flew. Should the cuckoo make its appearance before the leaves appear on the hawthorn bush, it is a sign of a dry, barren year. Os can y gog ar ddrain-llwyn llwm, Gwerth dy geffyl a phryn dy bwn. If the cuckoo sings on a hawthorn bare, Sell thy horse, and thy pack prepare. The Welsh words I heard at Llanuwchllyn, a good many years ago, just as the cuckoo's voice was heard for the first time in those parts, and there were then no leaves out on the hedgerows. I do not recollect whether the prophecy became true, but it was an aged Welshman that made use of the words. Another version of the same is heard in Llanwddyn parish:-- Os can y gog ar bincyn llwm, Gwerth dy geffyl a phryn dy bwn. If the cuckoo sings on a sprig that's bare, Sell thy horse, and thy pack prepare. The latter ditty suits a hilly country, and the former applies to the low lands where there are hedgerows. The early singing of the cuckoo implies a plentiful crop of hay, and this belief is embodied in the following ditty:-- Mis cyn Clamme can y coge, Mis cyn Awst y cana' inne. That is:-- If the cuckoo sings a month before May-day, I will sing a month before August. _Calan Mai_, May-day, abbreviated to _Clamme_, according to the Old Style, corresponds with our 12th of May, and the above saying means, that there would be such an abundant hay harvest if the cuckoo sang a month before May-day, that the farmer would himself sing for joy on the 12th of July. It was the custom in the uplands of Wales to begin the hay harvest on the 1st of July. The above I heard in Montgomeryshire, and also the following:-- Mis cyn Clamme can y coge, Mis cyn hynny tyf mriallu. That is:-- If the cuckoo sings a month before May-day, Primroses will grow a month before that time. I do not know what this means, unless it implies that early primroses foretell an early summer. But, speaking of the song of the cuckoo, we have the following lines:-- Amser i ganu ydi Ebrill a Mai, A hanner Mehefin, chwi wyddoch bob rhai. This corresponds somewhat with the English:-- The cuckoo sings in April, The cuckoo sings in May, The cuckoo sings to the middle of June, And then she flies away. In Mochdre parish, Montgomeryshire, I was told the following:-- In May she sings all day, In June she's out of tune. The following Welsh lines show that the cuckoo will not sing when the hay harvest begins:-- Pan welith hi gocyn, Ni chanith hi gwcw. When she sees a heap, Silence she will keep. In certain parts of Wales, such as Montgomeryshire, bordering on Shropshire, it is thought that the cuckoo never sings after Midsummer-day. This faith finds corroborative support in the following lines:-- The cuckoo sings in April, The cuckoo sings in May, The cuckoo sings in Midsummer, But never on that day. In Flintshire, in Hawarden parish, it is believed that she mates in June, as shown by these words:-- The cuckoo comes in April, The cuckoo sings in May, The cuckoo mates in June, And in July she flies away. In Montgomeryshire I have often heard these lines:-- The cuckoo is a fine bird, She sings as she flies, She brings us good tidings, And never tells us lies; She sucks young birds' eggs, To make her voice clear, And the more she sings "Cuckoo," The summer is quite near. The last two lines are varied thus:-- And then she sings, "Cuckoo" Three months in every year. Or:-- And when she sings "Cuckoo" The summer is near. The cuckoo was credited with sucking birds' eggs, to make room for her own, as well as to acquire a clear voice. Perhaps the rustic belief is at fault here. The writer has seen a cuckoo rise from the ground with an egg in her mouth, but he has seen it stated that the cuckoo always lays her eggs on the ground, and carries them in her mouth until she discovers a nest wherein to deposit them, and when she has done this her mother's care is over. _A White Cock_. A white cock was looked upon as an unlucky bird, thus:-- Na chadw byth yn nghylch dy dy, Na cheiliog gwyn, na chath ddu. Never keep about thy house, A white cock, nor black cat. _Crane_. The crane is often mistaken for the heron. When the crane flies against the stream, she asks for rain, when with the stream she asks for fair weather. This bird is said to be thin when the moon wanes, and fat at the waxing of the moon. _Ducks_. When ducks sportively chase each other through the water, and flap their wings and dive about, in evident enjoyment of their pastime, it is a sign that rain is not far off. _Eagle_. Persons who had eaten eagle's flesh had power to cure erysipelas, and this virtue was said by some to be transmitted to their descendants for ever, whilst others affirmed it only lasted for nine generations. See page 263, where this subject is fully treated. _The Goat Sucker_. A curious notion prevailed respecting this bird, arrived at, presumably, in consequence of its peculiar name--the _goat sucker_--viz., that it lives on the milk of the goat, which it obtains by sucking the teats of that animal. _Putting Hens to Sit_. Placing the eggs in the nest for hens, geese, and ducks to sit on was considered an important undertaking. This was always done by the lucky member of the family. It was usual to put fowl to sit so as to get the chick out of the egg at the waxing, and not at the waning, of the moon. It was thought that the young birds were strong or weak according to the age of the moon when they were hatched. March chickens were always considered the best. A game bird hatched in March was thought to be stronger and more plucky than those that broke their shells in any other month, and, further, to obtain all extraneous advantages, that bird which was hatched at full moon began life with very good prospects. A singular custom prevailed at Llansantffraid, Montgomeryshire, when putting hens, and other fowl, to sit. I obtained the information from the late Vicar, the Rev. R. H. M. Hughes, M.A., an observant gentleman, who took a lively interest in all matters connected with his parish. I was staying with him, and he made the remark that in his parish it was considered lucky to place the hen, when she first began to sit, with her head towards the church. This the cottagers in the village could easily do, for the parish church was in their midst. I do not know whether this kind of proceeding prevailed in other places. The number of eggs placed under a hen varied with her size, but one general rule was followed, viz., an odd number of eggs was always placed under her; eleven or thirteen was the usual number, but never ten or twelve. _The Heron_. The heron as it flies slowly towards the source of a river is said to be going up the river to bring the water down, in other words, this flight is a sign of coming rain. The same thing is said of the crane. _Fable of why the Heron frequents the banks of rivers and lakes_. It is from thirty to forty years ago that I heard the fable I am about to relate, and the circumstances under which I heard it are briefly as follows. I was walking towards Bangor from Llanllechid, when I saw a farmer at work hedging. I stopped to chat with him, and a bramble which had fastened itself on his trousers gave him a little trouble to get it away, and the man in a pet said, "Have I not paid thee thy tithe?" "Why do you say those words, Enoch?" said I, and he said, "Have you not heard the story?" I confessed my ignorance, and after many preliminary remarks, the farmer related the following fable:-- The heron, the cat, and the bramble bought the tithe of a certain parish. The heron bought the hay, mowed it, harvested it, and cocked it, and intended carrying it the following day, but in the night a storm came on, and carried the hay away, and ever since then the heron frequents the banks of the rivers and lakes, looking for her hay that was carried away, and saying "Pay me my tithe." The cat bought the oats, cut them, and even threshed them, and left them in the barn, intending the following day to take them to the market for sale. But when she went into the barn, early the next morning, she found the floor covered with rats and mice, which had devoured the oats, and the cat flew at them and fought with them, and drove them from the barn, and this is why she is at enmity with rats and mice even to our day. The bramble bought the wheat, and was more fortunate than the heron and cat, for the wheat was bagged, and taken to the market and sold, but sold on trust, and the bramble never got the money, and this is why it takes hold of everyone and says "Pay me my tithe," for it forgot to whom the wheat had been sold. _The Jackdaw_. This bird is considered sacred, because it frequents church steeples and builds its nest there, and it is said to be an innocent bird, though given to carrying off things and hiding them in out-of-the-way places. When ignorance of a fault is pleaded, it is a common saying--"I have no more knowledge of the fact than the Devil has of the jackdaw" (see _Bye-Gones_, Vol. I., 86). The Devil evidently will have nothing to do with this bird, because it makes its home in the church steeple, and he hates the church and everything belonging to it. _The Magpie_. The magpie was considered a bird of ill-omen. No one liked to see a magpie when starting on a journey, but in certain parts of Montgomeryshire, such as the parish of Llanwnog, _if the magpie flew from left to right it foretold good luck_; in other parts, such as Llansantffraid, if seen at all, it was considered a sign of bad luck. However, fortunately, a person could make void this bad luck, for he had only to spit on the ground, and make a cross with his finger, or stick, through the spittle, and boldly say-- "Satan, I defy thee," and the curse, or bad luck, indicated by the appearance of the magpie, could not then come. The number of magpies seen implied different events. It was a common saying:-- One's grief, two's mirth, Three's a marriage, four's a birth; and another rendering of the above heard in Montgomeryshire was:-- One for bad luck, Two for good luck, Three for a wedding, Four for a burying. Another ditty is as follows:-- One's joy, two's greet (crying), Three's a wedding, four's a sheet (death). As stated above, one is grief, or bad luck, if it flies from right to left, but if from left to right it implied success or joy. So these various readings can only be reconciled by a little verbal explanation, but "four's a birth" cannot be made to be an equivalent to "four's a sheet," a winding sheet, or a burying, by any amount of ingenuity. Should a magpie be seen stationary on a tree, it was believed that the direction in which it took its flight foretold either success or disaster to the person who observed it. If it flew to the left, bad luck was to follow; if to the right, good luck; if straight, the journey could be undertaken, provided the bird did not turn to the left whilst in sight, but disappeared in that direction. I heard the following tale in Denbighshire:--In days of old, a company of men were stealthily making their way across the country to come upon the enemy unawares. All at once they espied a magpie on a tree, and by common consent they halted to see which way it would take its flight, and thus foretell the fortune which would attend their journey. One of the party, evidently an unbeliever in his comrades' superstition, noiselessly approached the bird, and shot it dead, to the great horror of his companions. The leader of the party, in great anger, addressed the luckless archer--"You have shot the bird of fate, and you shall be shot." The dauntless man said, "I shot the magpie, it is true, but if it could foretell our fate, why could it not foresee its own?" The archer's reasoning was good, but I do not know whether people were convinced by logic in those distant times, any more than they are in ours. I will relate one other tale of the magpie, which I heard upwards of twenty years ago in the parish of Llanwnog, Montgomeryshire. I was speaking to a farmer's wife--whose name it is not necessary to give, as it has nothing to do with the tale--when a magpie flew across our view. "Ah!" she ejaculated, "you naughty old thing, what do you want here?" "I see," said I, "you think she brings bad luck with her." "Oh, yes," was the response, "I know she does." "What makes you so positive," said I, "that she brings bad luck with her?" My question elicited the following story. My friend commenced:--"You know the brook at the bottom of the hill. Well, my mother met with very bad luck there, a good many years ago, and it was in this way--she was going to Newtown fair, on our old horse, and she had a basket of eggs with her. But, just as she was going to leave the 'fould,' a magpie flew before her. We begged of her not to go that day--that bad luck would attend her. She would not listen to us, but started off. However, she never got further than the brook, at the bottom of the hill, for, when she got there, the old mare made straight for the brook, and jerked the bridle out of mother's hand, and down went the mare's head to drink, and off went the basket, and poor mother too. All the eggs were broken, but I'm glad to say mother was not much the worse for her fall. But ever since then I know it is unlucky to see a magpie. But sir," she added, "there is no bad luck for us to-day, for _the magpie flew from left to right_." The magpie was thought to be a great thief, and it was popularly supposed that if its tongue were split into two with silver it could talk like a man. The cry of the magpie is a sign of rain. To man its dreaded notes indicated disaster, thus:-- Clyw grechwen nerth pen, iaith pi--yn addaw Newyddion drwg i mi. List! the magpie's hoarse and bitter cry Shows that misfortune's sigh is nigh. If this bird builds her nest at the top of a tree the summer will be dry; if on the lower branches, the summer will be wet. _The Owl_. The hooting of an owl about a house was considered a sign of ill luck, if not of death. This superstition has found a place in rhyme, thus:-- Os y ddylluan ddaw i'r fro, Lle byddo rhywun afiach Dod yno i ddweyd y mae'n ddinad, Na chaiff adferiad mwyach. If an owl comes to those parts, Where some one sick is lying, She comes to say without a doubt, That that sick one is dying. _Peacock_. The peacock's shrill note is a sign of rain. Its call is supposed to resemble the word _gwlaw_, the Welsh for rain. _Pigeon_. If the sick asks for a pigeon pie, or the flesh of a pigeon, it is a sign that his death is near. If the feathers of a pigeon be in a bed, the sick cannot die on it. _The Raven_. The raven has ever enjoyed a notoriously bad name as a bird of ill-omen. He was one of those birds which the Jews were to have in abomination (Lev., xi., 5-13). But other nations besides the Jews dreaded the raven. The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under thy battlements. _Macbeth_, Act i., s. 5. Thus wrote Shakespeare, giving utterance to a superstition then common. From these words it would seem that the raven was considered a sign of evil augury to a person whose house was about to be entered by a visitor, for his croaking forebode treachery. But the raven's croaking was thought to foretell misfortune to a person about to enter another's house. If he heard the croaking he had better turn back, for an evil fate awaited him. In Denmark the appearance of a raven in a village is considered an indication that the parish priest is to die, or that the church is to be burnt down that year. (_Notes and Queries_, vol. ii., second series, p. 325.) The Danes of old prognosticated from the appearance of the raven on their banners the result of a battle. If the banner flapped, and exhibited the raven as alive, it augured success; if, however, it moved not, defeat awaited them. In Welsh there is a pretty saying:-- Duw a ddarpar i'r fran. God provides for the raven. But this, after all, is only another rendering of the lovely words:-- Your heavenly Father feedeth them. Such words imply that the raven is a favoured bird. (See p. 304). _Robin Redbreast_. Ill luck is thought to follow the killer of dear Robin Redbreast, the children's winter friend. No one ever shoots Robin, nor do children rob its nest, nor throw stones at it. Bad luck to anyone who does so. The little bird with its wee body endeavoured to staunch the blood flowing from the Saviour's side, and it has ever since retained on its breast the stain of His sacred blood, and it consequently enjoys a sacred life. It is safe from harm wherever English is spoken. There is another legend, which is said to be extant in Carmarthenshire, accounting for the Robin's _red breast_. It is given in _Bye-Gones_, vol. i., p. 173, from Mr. Hardwick's _Traditions_, _Superstitions_, _Folk-lore_, _etc_.:--"Far, far away, is a land of woe, darkness, spirits of evil, and fire. Day by day does the little bird bear in its bill a drop of water to quench the flame. So near to the burning stream does he fly that his dear little feathers are scorched; and hence is he named Bronchuddyn (qu. Bronrhuddyn), i.e., breast-burned, or breast-scorched. To serve little children, the robin dares approach the infernal pit. No good child will hurt the devoted benefactor of man. The robin returns from the land of fire, and therefore he feels the cold of winter far more than the other birds. He shivers in brumal blasts, and hungry he chirps before your door. Oh, my child, then, in pity throw a few crumbs to poor red-breast." _The Sea Gull_. It is believed that when sea gulls leave the sea for the mountains it is a sign of stormy weather. A few years ago I was walking from Corwen to Gwyddelwern, and I overtook an aged man, and we entered into conversation. Noticing the sea gulls hovering about, I said, there is going to be a storm. The answer of my old companion was, yes, for the sea gull says before starting from the sea shore:-- Drychin, drychin, Awn i'r eithin; and then when the storm is over, they say one to the other, before they take their flight back again to the sea:-- Hindda, hindda, Awn i'r morfa. which first couplet may be translated:-- Foul weather, foul weather, Let's go to the heather; and then the two last lines may be rendered:-- The storm is no more, Let's go to the shore. This was the only occasion when I heard the above stanza, and I have spoken to many aged Welshmen, and they had not heard the words, but every one to whom I spoke believed that the sea gulls seen at a distance from the sea was a sign of foul weather. _The Swallow_. The joy with which the first swallow is welcomed is almost if not quite equal to the welcome given to the cuckoo. "One swallow does not make a summer" is an old saw. There is a superstition connected with the swallow that is common in Wales, which is, that if it forsakes its old nest on a house, it is a sign of ill luck to that house. But swallows rarely forsake their old nests, and shortly after their arrival they are busily engaged in repairing the breaches, which the storms of winter or mischievous children have made in their abodes; and their pleasant twitterings are a pleasure to the occupants of the house along which they build their nests, for the visit is a sign of luck. The flight of the swallow is a good weather sign. When the swallow flies high in the air, it is a sign of fair weather; when, on the other hand, it skims the earth, it is a sign of rain. It was a great misfortune to break a swallow's nest, for-- Y neb a doro nyth y wenol, Ni wel fwyniant yn dragwyddol. Whoever breaks a swallow's nest, Shall forfeit everlasting rest. _The Swan_. The eggs of the swan are hatched by thunder and lightning. This bird sings its own death song. _The Swift_. This bird's motions are looked upon as weather signs. Its feeding regions are high up in the air when the weather is settled for fair, and low down when rain is approaching. Its screaming is supposed to indicate a change of weather from fair to rain. _Tit Major_, _or Sawyer_. The Rev. E. V. Owen, Vicar of Llwydiarth, Montgomeryshire, told me that the Tit's notes are a sign of rain, at least, that it is so considered in his parish. The people call the bird "Sawyer," and they say its notes resemble in sound the filing of a saw. A man once said to my friend:--"I dunna like to hear that old sawyer whetting his saw." "Why not," said Mr. Owen. "'Cause it'll rain afore morning," was the answer. This bird, if heard in February, when the snow or frost is on the ground, indicates a breaking up of the weather. Its sharp notes rapidly repeated several times in succession are welcome sounds in hard weather, for they show that spring is coming. _The Wren_. The Wren's life is sacred, excepting at one time of the year, for should anyone take this wee birdie's life away, upon him some mishap will fall. The wren is classed with the Robin:-- The robin and the wren Are God's cock and hen. The cruel sport of hunting the wren on St. Stephen's Day, which the writer has a dim recollection of having in his boyhood joined in, was the one time in the year when the wren's life was in jeopardy. The Rev. Silvan Evans, in a letter to the _Academy_, which has been reproduced in _Bye-Gones_, vol. vii., p. 206, alludes to this sport in these words:-- "Something similar to the 'hunting of the wren' was not unknown to the Principality as late as about a century ago, or later. In the Christmas holidays it was the custom of a certain number of young men, not necessarily boys, to visit the abodes of such couples as had been married within the year. The order of the night--for it was strictly a nightly performance--was to this effect. Having caught a wren, they placed it on a miniature bier made for the occasion, and carried it in procession towards the house which they intended to visit. Having arrived they serenaded the master and mistress of the house under their bedroom window with the following doggerel:-- Dyma'r dryw, Os yw e'n fyw, Neu dderyn to I gael ei rostio. That is:-- Here is the wren, If he is alive, Or a sparrow To be roasted. If they could not catch a wren for the occasion, it was lawful to substitute a sparrow (ad eryn to). The husband, if agreeable, would then open the door, admit the party, and regale them with plenty of Christmas ale, the obtaining of which being the principal object of the whole performance." The second line in the verse, "_Os yw e'n fyw_," intimates that possibly the wren is dead--"If he is alive." This would generally be the case, as it was next to impossible to secure the little thing until it had been thoroughly exhausted, and then the act of pouncing upon it would itself put an end to its existence. Perhaps the English doggerel was intended to put an end to this cruel sport, by intimating that the wee bird belonged to God, was one of His creatures, and that therefore it should not be abused. There is a Welsh couplet still in use:-- Pwy bynnag doro nyth y dryw, Ni chaiff ef weled wyneb Duw. Whoever breaks a wren's nest, Shall never see God's face. This saying protects the snug little home of the wren. Much the same thing is said of the Robin's nest, but I think this was put, "Whoever robs a robin's nest shall go to hell." Another Welsh couplet was:-- Y neb a doro nyth y dryw, Ni chaiff iechyd yn ei fyw. Whoever breaks the wren's nest, Shall never enjoy good health. Although the robin and the wren were favourites of heaven, still it was supposed that they were under some kind of curse, for it was believed that the robin could not fly through a hedge, it must always fly over, whilst on the other hand, the wren could not fly over a hedge, but it was obliged to make its way through it. (See Robin, p. 329). _The Wood Pigeon_. The thrice repeated notes of five sounds, with an abrupt note at the end, of which the cooing of the wood pigeon consists, have been construed into words, and these words differ in different places, according to the state of the country, and the prevailing sentiments of the people. Of course, the language of the wood pigeon is always the language of the people amongst whom he lives. He always speaks Welsh in Wales, and English in England, but in these days this bird is so far Anglicised that it blurts out English all along the borders of Wales. In the cold spring days, when food is scarce and the wood pigeon cold, it forms good resolutions, and says:-- Yn yr haf Ty a wnaf; Gwnaf. In the summer I'll make a house; I will. However, when the summer has come with flower, and warmth, the wood pigeon ridicules its former resolution and changes its song, for in June it forgets January, and now it asks:-- Yn yr ha' Ty pwy wna'? Pwy? In the summer Who'll make a house? Who? For then a house is quite unnecessary, and the trouble to erect one great. The above ditty was told me by the Rev. John Williams, Rector of Newtown, a native of Flintshire. In the English counties bordering upon Wales, such as Herefordshire, the wood pigeon encouraged Welshmen to drive off Englishmen's cattle to their homes, by saying:-- Take two cows, Taffy, Take two cows, Taffy, Take two. and ever since those days the same song is used; but another version is:-- Take two cows Davy, Take two cows Davy, Two. The late Rev. R. Williams, Rector of Llanfyllin, supplied me with the above, and he stated that he obtained it from Herefordshire. In the uplands of Denbighshire the poor wood pigeon has a hard time of it in the winter, and, to make provision for the cold winter days, he, when he sees the farmer sowing spring seeds, says:-- Dyn du, dyn da, Hau pys, hau ffa, Hau ffacbys i ni Fwyta. which rendered into English is:-- Black man, good man, Sow peas, sow beans, Sow vetches for us To eat. Mr. Hugh Jones, Pentre Llyn Cymmer, a farmer in Llanfihangel Glyn Myfyr, a descendant of the bard Robert Davies, Nantglyn, supplied me with the preceding ditty. _The Magpie teaching a Wood Pigeon how to make a nest_. The wood pigeon makes an untidy nest, consisting of a few bits of twigs placed one on the other without much care. There is a fable in the Iolo MSS., p. 159, in Welsh, and the translation appears on page 567 in English, as follows:-- The magpie, observing the slight knowledge of nest building possessed by the wood pigeon, kindly undertook the work of giving his friend a lesson in the art, and as the lesson proceeded, the wood pigeon, bowing, cooed out:-- _Mi wn_! _Mi wn_! _Mi wn_! I know! I know! I know! The instructor was at first pleased with his apt pupil, and proceeded with his lesson, but before another word could be uttered, the bird swelling with pride at its own importance and knowledge, said again:-- I know! I know! I know! The magpie was annoyed at this ignorant assurance, and with bitter sarcasm said: "Since you know, do it then," and this is why the wood pigeon's nest is so untidy in our days. In its own mind it knew all about nest building, and was above receiving instruction, and hence its present clumsy way of building its nest. This fable gave rise to a proverb, "As the wood pigeon said to the magpie: 'I know.'" It is believed that when wood pigeons are seen in large flocks it is a sign of foul weather. _Woodpecker_. The woodpecker's screech was a sign of rain. This bird is called by two names in Welsh which imply that it foretold storms; as, _Ysgrech y coed_, the wood screech, and _Caseg y drycin_, the storm mare. These names have found a place in Welsh couplets:-- "Ysgrech y coed! Mae'r gwlaw yn dod." The Woodpecker's cry! The rain is nigh. _Bardd Nantglyn_, Robert Davies, Nantglyn, has an englyn to the woodpecker:-- "I Gaseg y Drycin." "Och! rhag Caseg, greg rwygiant,--y drycin, Draw accw yn y ceunant, Ar fol pren, uwch pen pant, Cyn 'storm yn canu 'sturmant." Barddoniaeth R. Davies, p. 61. My friend Mr. Richard Williams, Celynog, Newtown, translates this stanza as follows:-- Ah! 'tis the hoarse note of the Woodpecker, In yonder ravine, On the round trunk of a tree, above the hollow, Sounding his horn before the coming storm. _Yellow Hammer_. (_Penmelyn yr Eithin_). There is a strange belief in Wales that this bird sacrifices her young to feed snakes. _Ass_. The stripe over the shoulders of the ass is said to have been made by our Lord when He rode into Jerusalem on an ass, and ever since the mark remains. It was thought that the milk of an ass could cure the "decay," or consumption. This faith was common fifty years ago in Llanidloes, Montgomeryshire. I do not know whether it is so now. People then believed that ass's milk was more nutritious than other kind of food for persons whose constitutions were weak. _The Bee_. The little busy bee has been from times of old an object of admiration and superstition. It is thought that they are sufficiently sensitive to feel a slight, and sufficiently vindictive to resent one, and as they are too valuable to be carelessly provoked to anger, they are variously propitiated by the cottager when their wrath is supposed to have been roused. It is even thought that they take an interest in human affairs; and it is, therefore, considered expedient to give them formal notice of certain occurrences. _Buying a Hive of Bees_. In the central parts of Denbighshire people suppose that a hive of bees, if bought, will not thrive, but that a present of a hive leads to its well-doing. A cottager in Efenechtyd informed the writer that a friend gave her the hive she had, and that consequently she had had luck with it; but, she added, "had I bought it, I could not have expected anything from it, for bought hives do badly." This was in the centre of Denbighshire. _Time of Bee Swarming_. The month in which bees swarm is considered of the greatest importance, and undoubtedly it is so, for the sooner they swarm, the longer their summer, and therefore the greater the quantity of honey which they will accumulate. A late swarm cannot gather honey from every opening flower, because the flower season will have partly passed away before they leave their old home. This faith has found expression in the following lines:-- A swarm of bees in May Is worth a load of hay; A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoon; A swarm of bees in July Is not worth a fly. These words are often uttered by cottagers when a swarm takes place in the respective months named in the lines. It is really very seldom that a swarm takes place in our days in May, and many a swarm takes place in July which is of more value than a fly, But however, be this as it may, the rhyme expresses the belief of many people. _The Day of Swarming_. Sunday is the favourite day for bee swarming. Country people say, when looking at their bees clustering outside the hive, and dangling like a rope from it, "Oh, they won't swarm until next Sunday," and it is true that they are often right in their calculations, for bees seem to prefer the peaceful Day of Rest to all other days for their flight. The kettle and pan beating are often heard of a Sunday in those parts of the country where bees are reared. It is possible that the quietness of the day, and the cessation of every-day noise, is appreciated by the little creatures, and that this prevailing stillness entices them to take then their flight from their old home to seek a new one. _Luck comes with a Strange Swarm_. It is considered very lucky indeed to find that a strange swarm of bees has arrived in the garden, or tree, belonging to a cottager. The advent of the bees is joyfully welcomed, and the conversation of the neighbours on such an occasion intimates that they think that good fortune has come with them to the person whom they have condescended to honour with their presence. Occasionally, if bees settle down on property of doubtful ownership, a good deal of wrangling and bad feeling arises between the rival claimants for their possession. _It is considered unlucky for Bees to fly away from their owner_. As the coming of a strange swarm of bees is indicative of good luck to the person to whom they come, so the decamping of a swarm shows that misfortune is about to visit the person whom they leave. _Bees in a Roof_. It was thought lucky when bees made their home in the roof, or indeed in any part of a house, and this they could easily do when houses were thatched with straw. Many a swarm of bees found shelter in the roofs of ancient churches, but in our days bees are seldom found in either houses or churches. _Informing Bees of a Death in a Family_. Formerly it was the custom to tell the bees of a death in the family. The head of the house whispered the news to the bees in the hive. If this were neglected, it was thought that another death would soon follow the previous one. Instead of speaking to the bees, it was the custom, in some parts of Wales, to turn the bee-hive round before starting the funeral. This was always done by the representative of the family, and it also was thought to be a protection against death. Mrs. Jones, Rhydycroesau Rectory, informed me that an old man, David Roberts of Llanyblodwel, once came to her in deep grief, after the funeral of his grandchild, because he had forgotten to turn the bee-hive before the funeral started for the church. He said that he was in such distress at the loss of the child, that he had neglected to tell the bees of the death, and, said he, some other member of the family is now sure to go. He informed Mrs. Jones that he had turned the hive at the death of his old woman, and that consequently no death had followed hers in his family. _Putting Bees in Mourning_. This is done after a death in a family, and the bees are put into mourning by tying a piece of black ribbon on a bit of wood, and inserting it into the hole at the top of the hive. _Stolen Bees_. It was believed that stolen bees would not make honey, and that the hive which had been stolen would die. _A Swarm entering a House_. Should a swarm enter a house, it was considered unlucky, and usually it was a sign of death to someone living in that house. The culture of bees was once more common than it is, and therefore they were much observed, and consequently they figure in the folk-lore of most nations. _Cat_. The cat was thought to be a capital weather glass. If she stood or lay with her face towards the fire, it was a sign of frost or snow; if she became frisky, bad weather was near. If the cat washed her face, strangers might be expected; and if she washed her face and ears, then rain was sure to come. A _black_ cat was supposed to bring luck to a house, thus:-- Cath ddu, mi glywais dd'wedyd, A fedr swyno hefyd, A chadw'r teulu lle mae'n hyw O afael pob rhyw glefyd. A black cat, I've heard it said, Can charm all ill away, And keep the house wherein she dwells From fever's deadly sway. Cats born in May, or May cats, were no favourites. They were supposed to bring snakes or adders into the house. This supposition has found utterance:-- Cathod mis Mai Ddaw a nadrodd i'r tai. Cats born in May Bring snakes to the house. In some parts the black cat was otherwise thought of than is stated above, for this injunction is heard:-- Na chadw byth yn nghylch dy dy Na cheiliog gwyn na chath ddu. Never keep about thy house A white cock or _black_ puss. Cats are so tenacious of life that they are said to have nine lives. We have already spoken of witches transforming themselves into cats. A singular superstition connected with cats is the supposition that they indicate the place to which the dead have gone by ascending or descending trees immediately after the death of a person. The Rev. P. W. Sparling, Rector of Erbistock, informed me that one day a parishioner met him, and told him that his brother, who had lately died, was in hell, and that he wished the Rector to get him out. Mr. Sparling asked him how he knew where his brother was, and in answer the man said that he knew, because he had seen his brother in the form of a white cat descend a tree immediately after his death. On further inquiry, the man stated that since the cat came _down the tree_, it was a sign that his brother had gone down to hell; but had the cat _gone up the tree_, it would have shown that he had gone up to heaven. I have heard it stated, but by whom I have forgotten, that if a _black_ cat leaves a house where a person dies, immediately after that person's death, it shows he has gone to the bad place; but if a white cat, that he has gone to heaven. _Cows._ _Cows Kneeling on Christmas Morn._ In the upland parishes of Wales, particularly those in Montgomeryshire, it was said, and that not so long ago, that cows knelt at midnight on Christmas eve, to adore the infant Saviour. This has been affirmed by those who have witnessed the strange occurrence. Cows bringing forth two calves are believed to bring luck to a farmer; but in some parts of Wales a contrary view is taken of this matter. If the new born calf is seen by the mistress of the house with its head towards her, as she enters the cowhouse to view her new charge and property, it is a lucky omen, but should any other part of the calf present itself to the mistress's view, it is a sign of bad luck. Witches were thought to have great power over cows, and it was not unusual for farmers to think that their cows, if they did not thrive, had been bewitched. _Crickets_. It is lucky to have crickets in a house, and to kill one is sure to bring bad luck after it. If they are very numerous in a house, it is a sign that peace and plenty reign there. The bakehouse in which their merry chirp is heard is the place to bake your bread, for it is a certain sign that the bread baked there will turn out well. An aged female Welsh friend in Porthywaen told me that it is a sign of death for crickets to leave a house, and she proved her case by an apt illustration. She named all the parties concerned in the following tale:--"There were hundreds of crickets in . . . house; they were 'sniving,' swarming, all about the house, and were often to be seen outside the house, or at least heard, and some of them perched on the wicket to the garden; but all at once they left the place, and very soon afterwards the son died. The crickets, she said, knew that a death was about to take place, and they all left that house, going no one knew where." It was not thought right to look at the cricket, much less to hurt it. The warm fireplace, with its misplaced or displaced stones, was not to be repaired, lest the crickets should be disturbed, and forsake the place, and take with them good luck. They had, therefore, many snug, warm holes in and about the chimneys. Crickets are not so plentiful in Wales as they once were. _Hare_. _Caesar_, bk. v., ch. xii., states that the Celts "do not regard it lawful to eat the _hare_, the cock, and the goose; they, however, breed them for amusement and pleasure." This gives a respectable age to the superstitions respecting these animals. Mention has already been made of witches turning themselves into hares. This superstition was common in all parts of North Wales. The Rev. Lewis Williams, rector of Prion, near Denbigh, told me the following tales of this belief:--A witch that troubled a farmer in the shape of a hare, was shot by him. She then transformed herself into her natural form, but ever afterwards retained the marks of the shot in her nose. Another tale which the same gentleman told me was the following:--A farmer was troubled by a hare that greatly annoyed him, and seemed to make sport of him. He suspected it was no hare, but a witch, so he determined to rid himself of her repeated visits. One day, spying his opportunity, he fired at her. She made a terrible noise, and jumped about in a frightful manner, and then lay as if dead. The man went up to her, but instead of a dead hare, he saw something on the ground as big as a donkey. He dug a hole, and buried the thing, and was never afterwards troubled by hare or witch. In Llanerfyl parish there is a story of a cottager who had only one cow, but she took to Llanfair market more butter than the biggest farmer in the parish. She was suspected of being a witch, and was watched. At last the watcher saw a hare with a tin-milk-can hanging from its neck, and it was moving among the cows, milking them into her tin-can. The man shot it, and it made for the abode of the suspected witch. When he entered, he found her on the bed bleeding. It was supposed that there was something uncanny about hares. Rowland Williams, Parish Clerk, Efenechtyd, an aged man, related to me the following tale, and he gave the name of the party concerned, but I took no note of the name, and I have forgotten it:--A man on his way one Sunday to Efenechtyd Church saw a hare on its form. He turned back for his gun, and fired at the hare. The following Sunday he saw again a hare on the very same spot, and it lifted its head and actually stared at him. The man was frightened and went to church; the third Sunday he again saw a hare on the very same form, and this hare also boldly looked at him. This third appearance thoroughly convinced the man that there was something wrong somewhere, and he afterwards avoided that particular place. The pretty legend of Melangell, called Monacella, the patroness of hares, is well known. One day the Prince of Powis chased a hare, which took refuge under the robe of the virgin Melangell, who was engaged in deep devotion. The hare boldly faced the hounds, and the dogs retired to a distance howling, and they could not be induced to seize their prey. The Prince gave to God and Melangell a piece of land to be henceforth a sanctuary. The legend of the hare and the saint is represented in carved wood on the gallery in the church of Pennant. Formerly it belonged to the screen. Hares were once called in the parish of Pennant Melangell _Wyn Melangell_, or St. Monacella's lambs. Until the last century no one in the parish would kill a hare, and it was believed that if anyone cried out when a hare was being pursued, "God and St. Monacella be with thee," it would escape. _Haddock_. The haddock has a dark spot on each side its gills, and superstition ascribes these marks to the impression of S. Peter's thumb and finger, when he took the tribute money out of the mouth of a fish of the same species in the sea of Galilee. _Hedgehog_. It was believed that hedgehogs sucked cows, and so firmly were the people convinced of this fact, that this useful little animal was doomed to death, and I have seen in many Churchwardens' accounts entries to the effect that they had paid sums of money for its destruction. The amount given in most parishes was two pence. I will give a few entries, from many that I have by me, to show that parishes paid this sum for dead hedgehogs. In Cilcen Churchwardens' Accounts for the year 1710 I find the following entry:-- To Edward Lloyd for killing a hedgehog 00. 00. 02. One hundred years afterwards I find in Llanasa Churchwardens' Accounts for 1810-1811 this entry:-- 9 hedgogs ... ... ... 1. 6. It was thought, should the cow's teats be swollen of a morning, that she had been sucked the previous night by a hedgehog. Formerly dead hedgehogs could be seen in company with foxes, polecats, and other vermin suspended from the boughs of the churchyard yew trees, to prove that the Churchwardens paid for work actually done. _Horse_. A white horse figures in the superstition of school children. When the writer was a lad in school at Llanidloes, it was believed that if a white horse were met in the morning it was considered lucky, and should the boy who first saw the horse spit on the ground, and stealthily make the sign of a cross with his toe across the spittle, he was certain to find a coin on the road, or have a piece of money given to him before the day was over; but he was not to divulge to anyone what he had done, and for the working of the charm it was required that he should make sure that the horse was perfectly white, without any black hairs in any part of the body. In Welshpool a like superstition prevails. Mr. Copnall, the master of the Boys' National School in that town, has kindly supplied me with the following account of this matter:--"It is lucky to meet a white horse on the road, if, when you meet it, you spit three times over your little finger; if you neglect this charm you will be unlucky. I asked the children if it signified whether it was the little finger on the right or left hand; some boys said the left, but the majority said it made no difference which hand." It was said that horses could see spirits, and that they could never be induced to proceed as long as the spirit stood before them. They perspired and trembled whilst the spirit blocked the way, but when it had disappeared, then the horses would go on. _Lady-bird_. This pretty spotted little beetle was used formerly in the neighbourhood of Llanidloes as a prognosticator of the weather. First of all the lady-bird was placed in the palm of the left hand, or right; I do not think it made any difference which hand was used, and the person who held it addressed it as follows:-- Iar fach goch, gwtta, Pa un ai gwlaw, neu hindda? and then having said these words, the insect was thrown skywards, the person repeating the while-- Os mai gwlaw, cwympa lawr, Os mai teg, hedfana; which in English would be-- Lady-bird, lady-bird, tell to me What the weather is going to be; If fair, then fly in the air, If foul, then fall to the ground. The first two lines were said with the beetle in the hand, and the last two whilst it was thrown upwards; if it came to the ground without attempting to fly, it indicated rain; if, however, when thrown into the air it flew away, then fair weather was to be expected. The writer has often resorted to this test, but whether he found it true or false he cannot now say. _Mice_. A mouse nibbling clothes was a sign of disaster, if not death, to the owner. It was thought that the evil one occasionally took the form of a mouse. Years ago, when Craig Wen Farm, Llawr-y-glyn, near Llanidloes, Montgomeryshire was haunted--the rumour of which event I well remember--the servant girl told her mistress, the tenant of the farm, that one day she was going through the corn field, and that a mouse ran before her, and she ran after it to catch it, but that when she was opposite the barn, _the mouse stopped and laughed at her_, and ran into a hole. The mouse, therefore, was the evil spirit, and the cause of all the mischief that followed. _Moles_. Moles are said to have no eyes. If mole hills move there will be a thaw. By the moving of mole hills is meant bits of earth tumbling off the mound. A labourer in Llanmerewig parish, Montgomeryshire, called my attention to this fact. It was a frosty day, and apparently no change was near, but it will thaw, said he, and certain I am, that by the next morning a thaw had set in. _Pigs_. Pigs used to be credited with the power of seeing the wind. Devils were fond of assuming the form of, or entering into, pigs. Pigs littered in February could not be reared. This I was told by a native of Llansantffraid, Montgomeryshire. _The Snake_, _Serpent_. The snake was supposed to be able to understand what men said. A tale was told me by an aged man at Penrhos, Montgomeryshire, of an event which took place in the last century. His father, he said, saw a number of snakes, or _nethers_, as he called them, basking in the sun, and he said when passing them, "I will make you jump to-morrow." The next day he, provided with a rod, passed the spot, but no adder could be seen. The next day he passed again the same spot without his rod, and the man was now obliged to run for his life, so furiously did the snakes attack him. Traditions of Flying Snakes were once common in all parts of Wales. _Flying Serpents_. The traditional origin of these imaginary creatures was that they were snakes, which by having drunk the milk of a woman, and by having eaten of bread consecrated for the Holy Communion, became transformed into winged serpents or dragons. These dangerous creatures had their lurking places in many districts, and they attacked everyone that crossed their paths. There was said to have been one such den on Moel Bentyrch. Old Mrs. Davies, Plas, Dolanog, who died 1890, aged 92, told the Rev. D. R. Evans, B.A., son of the Vicar of Dolanog, that once, when she was a young woman, she went to Llanfair market, and on the way she sat on a stile, and she saw smoke and fire issuing from a hole on Moel Bentyrch, where the _Gwiber_, or Flying Serpent, had its abode. She ran, and never stopped until she had placed a good distance between her and the hill. She believed that both the smoke and fire were caused by the serpent. There is also a tradition still current in Dolanog that this flying serpent was destroyed by wrapping some red material round a post into which sharp nails were driven. The serpent, attacking this post with furious onslaughts, was lacerated by the sharp spikes, and died. A like tradition is current in Llanrhaiadr-yn-Mochnant in connection with the _Post Coch_, or _Post-y-Wiber_, or Maen Hir y Maes-Mochnant. Mr. Hancock in his "History of Llanrhaiadr-yn-Mochnant," writes as follows:-- "The legend connected with this stone pillar is, that it was raised in order to prevent the devastation which a winged serpent or dragon (a _Wiber_) was committing in the surrounding country. The stone was draped with scarlet cloth, to allure and excite the creature to a furor, scarlet being a colour most intolerably hateful and provoking to it. It was studded with iron spikes, that the reptile might wound or kill itself by beating itself against it. Its destruction, it is alleged, was effected by this artifice. It is said to have had two lurking places in the neighbourhood, which are still called _Nant-y-Wiber_, one at Penygarnedd, the other near Bwlch Sychtyn, in the parish of Llansilin, and this post was in the direct line of its flight. Similar legends referring to winged serpents exist in various parts of Wales. In the adjoining parish of Llanarmon-Dyffryn-Ceiriog there is a place called _Sarffle_ (the serpent's hole)."--_Montgomeryshire Collections_, vol. ix., 237. _Snake Rings_, _or Glain Nadroedd_. Mention is made in _Camden_ of snake rings. Omitting certain remarks not connected with the matter directly, he writes:--"In some parts of Wales we find it a common opinion of the vulgar that about Midsummer Eve (though in the time they do not all agree) 'tis usual for snakes to meet in companies, and that by joyning heads together and hissing, a kind of Bubble is form'd like a ring about the head of one of them, which the rest by continual hissing, blow on till it comes off at the tail, and then it immediately hardens, and resembles a glass ring; which whoever finds (as some old women and children are persuaded) shall prosper in all his undertakings." The above quotation is in Gibson's additions to Camden, and it correctly states the popular opinion. Many of these rings formerly existed, and they seemed to be simply glass rings. They were thought to possess many healing virtues, as, for instance, it could cure wens and whooping cough, and I believe I have heard it said that it could cure the bite of a mad dog. _Sheep_. It was thought that the devil could assume any animal's form excepting that of the sheep. This saying, however, is somewhat different from what a farmer friend told me of _black sheep_. He said his father, and other farmers as well, were in the habit of killing all their black lambs, because they were of the same colour as the devil, and the owners were afraid that Satan had entered, or would enter into them, and that therefore these sheep were destroyed. He stated that his father went on his knees on the ground and prayed, either before or after he had killed the black lambs. It is a common saying that the black sheep is the ringleader of all mischief in a flock of sheep. The expression, "He is a black sheep," as applied to a person, conveys the idea that he is a worthless being, inclined to everything that is bad. It is even now in country places thought to be a lucky omen if anyone sees the head of the first spring lamb towards him. This foretells a lucky and prosperous year to the person whose eyes are thus greeted. _Spider_. The long-legged spider, or, as it is generally called in Wales, the Tailor, is an object of cruel sport to children. They catch it, and then handle it roughly, saying the while:-- Old Harry long-leg Cannot say his prayers, Catch him by the right leg, Catch him by the left leg. And throw him down stairs; and then one leg after the other is plucked off, and the poor creature is left to die miserably. This was done in Llanidloes. _The Squirrel_. Hunting this sprightly little animal became at Christmas the sport of our rustic population. A number of lads gathered together, and proceeded to the woods to hunt the squirrel. They followed it with stones and sticks from tree to tree, shouting and screaming, to frighten it on and on, until it was quite unable to make further progress, and then they caught it. The writer, when a lad, has often joined in this cruel hunt, but whether the squirrel was killed when caught he is unable to recall to mind. Generally it escaped. _The Blind Worm_, _or Slow Worm_. This reptile is a snake, varying from twelve to eighteen inches long. Its head is small, and its movements very rapid. At the slightest noise, it darts away in a moment, and hides among rocks, stones, or rank grass. It is said to have no eyes, but this is a popular mistake--hence, however, its name, _Blind Worm_. This beautiful timid creature is often wantonly cut into pieces by its cruel and mistaken captors, for they credit it with the possession of evil propensities. It is said that, could it see, it would be a formidable enemy to man and beast. This supposition has found strength and sanction in doggerel verse. The Blind Worm is said to address the adder as follows:-- If I could see, As well as thee, Man nor beast Should ne'er pass me. 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28990	----	By Abbie Farwell Brown THE STAR JEWELS AND OTHER WONDERS. Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.00. THE FLOWER PRINCESS. Illustrated. Sq. 12mo, $1.00. THE CURIOUS BOOK OF BIRDS. Illustrated. Square 12mo, $1.10, _net_. Postpaid, $1.21. A POCKETFUL OF POSIES. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.00, _net_. Postpaid, $1.09. IN THE DAYS OF GIANTS. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.10, _net_. Postpaid, $1.21. _School edition_, 50 cents, _net_, postpaid. THE BOOK OF SAINTS AND FRIENDLY BEASTS. Illustrated, 12mo, $1.25. THE LONESOMEST DOLL. Illustrated. Sq. 12mo, 85 cents, _net_. Postpaid, 95 cents. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. BOSTON AND NEW YORK THE BOOK OF SAINTS AND FRIENDLY BEASTS [Illustration: ST. BRIDGET & THE KING'S WOLF] THE BOOK OF SAINTS AND FRIENDLY BEASTS BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN. ILLUSTRATED BY FANNY Y. CORY [Illustration] HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO. BOSTON AND NEW YORK COPYRIGHT 1900 BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED IN LOVING MEMORY OF A FRIENDLY BEAST BROTHER, HAST THOU NEVER LEARNED IN HOLY WRIT, THAT WITH HIM WHO HAS LED HIS LIFE AFTER GOD'S WILL THE WILD BEASTS AND WILD BIRDS ARE TAME? SAINT GUTHLAC OF CROWLAND _IN the old legends there may be things which some folk nowadays find it hard to believe. But surely the theme of each is true. It is not hard to see how gentle bodies who had no other friends should make comrades of the little folk in fur and fins and feathers. For, as St. Francis knew so well, all the creatures are our little brothers, ready to meet halfway those who will but try to understand. And this is a truth which every one to-day, even tho' he be no Saint, is waking up to learn. The happenings are set down quite as they read in the old books. Veritable histories, like those of St. Francis and St. Cuthbert, ask no addition of color to make them real. But sometimes, when a mere line of legend remained to hint of some dear Saint's relation with his friendly Beast, the story has been filled out in the way that seemed most likely to be true. For so alone could the old tale be made alive again. So all one's best is dressing old words new._ CONTENTS PAGE Saint Bridget and the King's Wolf 1 Saint Gerasimus and the Lion 11 Saint Keneth of the Gulls 30 Saint Launomar's Cow 42 Saint Werburgh and her Goose 53 The Ballad of Saint Athracta's Stags 69 Saint Kentigern and the Robin 77 Saint Blaise and his Beasts 88 Saint Cuthbert's Peace 95 The Ballad of Saint Felix 108 Saint Fronto's Camels 114 The Blind Singer, Saint Hervé 126 Saint Comgall and the Mice 148 The Wonders of Saint Berach 156 Saint Prisca, the Child Martyr 166 The Fish who helped Saint Gudwall 176 The Ballad of Saint Giles and the Deer 183 The Wolf-Mother of Saint Ailbe 190 Saint Rigobert's Dinner 199 Saint Francis of Assisi 211 A Calendar of Saints' Days 226 _The legend of Saint Fronto's Camels originally appeared in_ The Churchman. THE BOOK OF SAINTS AND FRIENDLY BEASTS SAINT BRIDGET AND THE KING'S WOLF EVERY one has heard of Bridget, the little girl saint of Ireland. Her name is almost as well known as that of Saint Patrick, who drove all the snakes from the Island. Saint Bridget had long golden hair; and she was very beautiful. Many wonderful things happened to her that are written in famous books. But I suspect that you never heard what she did about the King's Wolf. It is a queer story. This is how it happened. The King of Ireland had a tame wolf which some hunters had caught for him when it was a wee baby. And this wolf ran around as it pleased in the King's park near the palace, and had a very good time. But one morning he got over the high wall which surrounded the park, and strayed a long distance from home, which was a foolish thing to do. For in those days wild wolves were hated and feared by the people, whose cattle they often stole; and if a man could kill a wicked wolf he thought himself a very smart fellow indeed. Moreover, the King himself had offered a prize to any man who should bring him a dead wolf. For he wanted his kingdom to be a peaceful, happy one, where the children could play in the woods all day without fear of big eyes or big teeth. Of course you can guess what happened to the King's wolf? A big, silly country fellow was going along with his bow and arrows, when he saw a great brown beast leap over a hedge and dash into the meadow beyond. It was only the King's wolf running away from home and feeling very frisky because it was the first time that he had done such a thing. But the country fellow did not know all that. "Aha!" he said to himself. "I'll soon have you, my fine wolf; and the King will give me a gold piece that will buy me a hat and a new suit of clothes for the holidays." And without stopping to think about it or to look closely at the wolf, who had the King's mark upon his ear, the fellow shot his arrow straight as a string. The King's wolf gave one great leap into the air and then fell dead on the grass, poor fellow. The countryman was much pleased. He dragged his prize straight up to the King's palace and thumped on the gate. "Open!" he cried. "Open to the valiant hunter who has shot a wolf for the King. Open, that I may go in to receive the reward." So, very respectfully, they bade him enter; and the Lord Chamberlain escorted him before the King himself, who sat on a great red-velvet throne in the Hall. In came the fellow, dragging after him by the tail the limp body of the King's wolf. "What have we here?" growled the King, as the Lord Chamberlain made a low bow and pointed with his staff to the stranger. The King had a bad temper and did not like to receive callers in the morning. But the silly countryman was too vain of his great deed to notice the King's disagreeable frown. "You have here a wolf, Sire," he said proudly. "I have shot for you a wolf, and I come to claim the promised reward." But at this unlucky moment the King started up with an angry cry. He had noticed his mark on the wolf's right ear. "Ho! Seize the villain!" he shouted to his soldiers. "He has slain my tame wolf; he has shot my pet! Away with him to prison; and to-morrow he dies." It was useless for the poor man to scream and cry and try to explain that it was all a mistake. The King was furious. His wolf was killed, and the murderer must die. In those days this was the way kings punished men who displeased them in any way. There were no delays; things happened very quickly. So they dragged the poor fellow off to a dark, damp dungeon and left him there howling and tearing his hair, wishing that wolves had never been saved from the flood by Noah and his Ark. Now not far from this place little Saint Bridget lived. When she chose the beautiful spot for her home there were no houses near, only a great oak-tree, under which she built her little hut. It had but one room and the roof was covered with grass and straw. It seemed almost like a doll's playhouse, it was so small; and Bridget herself was like a big, golden-haired wax doll,--the prettiest doll you ever saw. She was so beautiful and so good that people wanted to live near her, where they could see her sweet face often and hear her voice. When they found where she had built her cell, men came flocking from all the country round about with their wives and children and their household goods, their cows and pigs and chickens; and camping on the green grass under the great oak-tree they said, "We will live here, too, where Saint Bridget is." So house after house was built, and a village grew up about her little cell; and for a name it had _Kildare_, which in Irish means "Cell of the Oak." Soon Kildare became so fashionable that even the King must have a palace and a park there. And it was in this park that the King's wolf had been killed. Now Bridget knew the man who had shot the wolf, and when she heard into what terrible trouble he had fallen she was very sorry, for she was a kind-hearted little girl. She knew he was a silly fellow to shoot the tame wolf; but still it was all a mistake, and she thought he ought not to be punished so severely. She wished that she could do something to help him, to save him if possible. But this seemed difficult, for she knew what a bad temper the King had; and she also knew how proud he had been of that wolf, who was the only tame one in all the land. Bridget called for her coachman with her chariot and pair of white horses, and started for the King's palace, wondering what she should do to satisfy the King and make him release the man who had meant to do no harm. But lo and behold! as the horses galloped along over the Irish bogs of peat, Saint Bridget saw a great white shape racing towards her. At first she thought it was a dog. But no: no dog was as large as that. She soon saw that it was a wolf, with big eyes and with a red tongue lolling out of his mouth. At last he overtook the frightened horses, and with a flying leap came plump into the chariot where Bridget sat, and crouched at her feet, quietly as a dog would. He was no tame wolf, but a wild one, who had never before felt a human being's hand upon him. Yet he let Bridget pat and stroke him, and say nice things into his great ear. And he kept perfectly still by her side until the chariot rumbled up to the gate of the palace. Then Bridget held out her hand and called to him; and the great white beast followed her quietly through the gate and up the stair and down the long hall, until they stood before the red-velvet throne, where the King sat looking stern and sulky. They must have been a strange-looking pair, the little maiden in her green gown with her golden hair falling like a shower down to her knees; and the huge white wolf standing up almost as tall as she, his yellow eyes glaring fiercely about, and his red tongue panting. Bridget laid her hand gently on the beast's head which was close to her shoulder, and bowed to the King. The King only sat and stared, he was so surprised at the sight; but Bridget took that as a permission to speak. "You have lost your tame wolf, O King," she said. "But I have brought you a better. There is no other tame wolf in all the land, now yours is dead. But look at this one! There is no white wolf to be found anywhere, and he is both tame and white. I have tamed him, my King. I, a little maiden, have tamed him so that he is gentle as you see. Look, I can pull his big ears and he will not snarl. Look, I can put my little hand into his great red mouth, and he will not bite. Sire, I give him to you. Spare me then the life of the poor, silly man who unwittingly killed your beast. Give his stupid life to me in exchange for this dear, amiable wolf," and she smiled pleadingly. The King sat staring first at the great white beast, wonderfully pleased with the look of him, then at the beautiful maiden whose blue eyes looked so wistfully at him. And he was wonderfully pleased with the look of them, too. Then he bade her tell him the whole story, how she had come by the creature, and when, and where. Now when she had finished he first whistled in surprise, then he laughed. That was a good sign,--he was wonderfully pleased with Saint Bridget's story, also. It was so strange a thing for the King to laugh in the morning that the Chamberlain nearly fainted from surprise; and Bridget felt sure that she had won her prayer. Never had the King been seen in such a good humor. For he was a vain man, and it pleased him mightily to think of owning all for himself this huge beast, whose like was not in all the land, and whose story was so marvelous. And when Bridget looked at him so beseechingly, he could not refuse those sweet blue eyes the request which they made, for fear of seeing them fill with tears. So, as Bridget begged, he pardoned the countryman, and gave his life to Bridget, ordering his soldiers to set him free from prison. Then when she had thanked the King very sweetly, she bade the wolf lie down beside the red-velvet throne, and thenceforth be faithful and kind to his new master. And with one last pat upon his shaggy head, she left the wolf and hurried out to take away the silly countryman in her chariot, before the King should have time to change his mind. The man was very happy and grateful. But she gave him a stern lecture on the way home, advising him not to be so hasty and so wasty next time. "Sirrah Stupid," she said as she set him down by his cottage gate, "better not kill at all than take the lives of poor tame creatures. I have saved your life this once, but next time you will have to suffer. Remember, it is better that two wicked wolves escape than that one kind beast be killed. We cannot afford to lose our friendly beasts, Master Stupid. We can better afford to lose a blundering fellow like you." And she drove away to her cell under the oak, leaving the silly man to think over what she had said, and to feel much ashamed. But the King's new wolf lived happily ever after in the palace park; and Bridget came often to see him, so that he had no time to grow homesick or lonesome. SAINT GERASIMUS AND THE LION I. ONE fine morning Saint Gerasimus was walking briskly along the bank of the River Jordan. By his side plodded a little donkey bearing on his back an earthen jar; for they had been down to the river together to get water, and were taking it back to the monastery on the hill for the monks to drink at their noonday meal. Gerasimus was singing merrily, touching the stupid little donkey now and then with a twig of olive leaves to keep him from going to sleep. This was in the far East, in the Holy Land, so the sky was very blue and the ground smelled hot. Birds were singing around them in the trees and overhead, all kinds of strange and beautiful birds. But suddenly Gerasimus heard a sound unlike any bird he had ever known; a sound which was not a bird's song at all, unless some newly invented kind had a bass voice which ended in a howl. The little donkey stopped suddenly, and bracing his fore legs and cocking forward his long, flappy ears, looked afraid and foolish. Gerasimus stopped too. But he was so wise a man that he could not look foolish. And he was too good a man to be afraid of anything. Still, he was a little surprised. "Dear me," he said aloud, "how very strange that sounded. What do you suppose it was?" Now there was no one else anywhere near, so he must have been talking to himself. For he could never have expected that donkey to know anything about it. But the donkey thought he was being spoken to, so he wagged his head, and said, "He-haw!" which was a very silly answer indeed, and did not help Gerasimus at all. He seized the donkey by the halter and waited to see what would happen. He peered up and down and around and about, but there was nothing to be seen except the shining river, the yellow sand, a clump of bushes beside the road, and the spire of the monastery peeping over the top of the hill beyond. He was about to start the donkey once more on his climb towards home, when that sound came again; and this time he noticed that it was a sad sound, a sort of whining growl ending in a sob. It sounded nearer than before, and seemed to come from the clump of bushes. Gerasimus and the donkey turned their heads quickly in that direction, and the donkey trembled all over, he was so frightened. But his master only said, "It must be a Lion!" And sure enough: he had hardly spoken the word when out of the bushes came poking the great head and yellow eyes of a lion. He was looking straight at Gerasimus. Then, giving that cry again, he bounded out and strode towards the good man, who was holding the donkey tight to keep him from running away. He was the biggest kind of a lion, much bigger than the donkey, and his mane was long and thick, and his tail had a yellow brush on the end as large as a window mop. But as he came Gerasimus noticed that he limped as if he were lame. At once the Saint was filled with pity, for he could not bear to see any creature suffer. And without any thought of fear, he went forward to meet the lion. Instead of pouncing upon him fiercely, or snarling, or making ready to eat him up, the lion crouched whining at his feet. "Poor fellow," said Gerasimus, "what hurts you and makes you lame, brother Lion?" The lion shook his yellow mane and roared. But his eyes were not fierce; they were only full of pain as they looked up into those of Gerasimus asking for help. And then he held up his right fore paw and shook it to show that this was where the trouble lay. Gerasimus looked at him kindly. "Lie down, sir," he said just as one would speak to a big yellow dog. And obediently the lion charged. Then the good man bent over him, and taking the great paw in his hand examined it carefully. In the soft cushion of the paw a long pointed thorn was piercing so deeply that he could hardly find the end. No wonder the poor lion had roared with pain! Gerasimus pulled out the thorn as gently as he could, and though it must have hurt the lion badly he did not make a sound, but lay still as he had been told. And when the thorn was taken out the lion licked Gerasimus' hand, and looked up in his face as if he would say, "Thank you, kind man. I shall not forget." Now when the Saint had finished this good deed he went back to his donkey and started on towards the monastery. But hearing the soft pad of steps behind him he turned and saw that the great yellow lion was following close at his heels. At first he was somewhat embarrassed, for he did not know how the other monks would receive this big stranger. But it did not seem polite or kind to drive him away, especially as he was still somewhat lame. So Gerasimus took up his switch of olive leaves and drove the donkey on without a word, thinking that perhaps the lion would grow tired and drop behind. But when he glanced over his shoulder he still saw the yellow head close at his elbow; and sometimes he felt the hot, rough tongue licking his hand that hung at his side. So they climbed the hill to the monastery. Some one had seen Gerasimus coming with this strange attendant at his heels, and the windows and doors were crowded with monks, their mouths and eyes wide open with astonishment, peering over one another's shoulders. From every corner of the monastery they had run to see the sight; but they were all on tiptoe to run back again twice as quickly if the lion should roar or lash his tail. Now although Gerasimus knew that the house was full of staring eyes expecting every minute to see him eaten up, he did not hurry or worry at all. Leisurely he unloaded the water-jar and put the donkey in his stable, the lion following him everywhere he went. When all was finished he turned to bid the beast good-by. But instead of taking the hint and departing as he was expected to, the lion crouched at Gerasimus' feet and licked his sandals; and then he looked up in the Saint's face and pawed at his coarse gown pleadingly, as if he said, "Good man, I love you because you took the thorn out of my foot. Let me stay with you always to be your watch-dog." And Gerasimus understood. "Well, if you wish to stay I am willing, so long as you are good," he said, and the lion leaped up and roared with joy so loudly that all the monks who were watching tumbled over one another and ran away to their cells in a terrible fright, locking the doors behind them. Gerasimus carried the water-jar into the empty kitchen, and the lion followed. After sniffing about the place to get acquainted, just as a kitten does in its new home, the lion lay down in front of the fire and curled his head up on his paws, like the great big cat he was. And so after a long sigh he went to sleep. Then Gerasimus had a chance to tell the other monks all about it. At first they were timid and would not hear of keeping such a dangerous pet. But when they had all tiptoed down to the kitchen behind Gerasimus and had seen the big kitten asleep there so peacefully they were not quite so much afraid. "I'll tell you what we will do," said the Abbot. "If Brother Gerasimus can make his friend eat porridge and herbs like the rest of us we will let him join our number. He might be very useful,--as well as ornamental,--in keeping away burglars and mice. But we cannot have any flesh-eating creature among us. Some of us are too fat and tempting, I fear," and he glanced at several of the roundest monks, who shuddered in their tight gowns. But the Abbot himself was the fattest of them all, and he spoke with feeling. So it was decided. Gerasimus let the lion sleep a good long nap, to put him in a fine humor. But when it came time for supper he mixed a bowl of porridge and milk and filled a big wooden platter with boiled greens. Then taking one dish in each hand he went up to the lion and set them in front of his nose. "Leo, Leo, Leo!" he called coaxingly, just as a little girl would call "Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!" to her pet. The lion lifted up his head and purred, like a small furnace, for he recognized his friend's voice. But when he smelled the dishes of food he sniffed and made a horrid face, wrinkling up his nose and saying "Ugh!" He did not like the stuff at all. But Gerasimus patted him on the head and said, "You had better eat it, Leo; it is all I have myself. Share and share alike, brother." The lion looked at him earnestly, and then dipped his nose into the porridge with a grunt. He ate it all, and found it not so very bad. So next he tried the greens. They were a poor dessert, he thought; but since he saw that Gerasimus wanted him to eat them he finished the dish, and then lay down on the hearth feeling very tired. Gerasimus was delighted, for he had grown fond of the lion and wanted to keep him. So he hurried back to the dining hall and showed the empty dishes to the Abbot. That settled the lion's fate. Thenceforth he became a member of the monastery. He ate with the other monks in the great hall, having his own private trencher and bowl beside Gerasimus. And he grew to like the mild fare of the good brothers,--at least he never sought for anything different. He slept outside the door of his master's cell and guarded the monastery like a faithful watch-dog. The monks grew fond of him and petted him so that he lived a happy life on the hill, with never a wish to go back to the desert with its thorns. II. WHEREVER Gerasimus went the lion went also. Best of all, Leo enjoyed their daily duty of drawing water from the river. For that meant a long walk in the open air, and a frolic on the bank of the Jordan. One day they had gone as usual, Gerasimus, the lion, and the stupid donkey who was carrying the filled jar on his back. They were jogging comfortably home, when a poor man came running out of a tiny hut near the river, who begged Gerasimus to come with him and try to cure his sick baby. Of course the good man willingly agreed; this was one of the errands which he loved best to do. "Stay, brother," he commanded Leo, who wanted to go with him, "stay and watch the foolish donkey." And he went with the man, feeling sure that the lion would be faithful. Now Leo meant to do his duty, but it was a hot and sleepy day, and he was very tired. He lay down beside the donkey and kept one eye upon him, closing the other one just for a minute. But this is a dangerous thing to do. Before he knew it, the other eye began to wink; and the next moment Leo was sound asleep, snoring with his head on his paws. Then it was that the silly donkey began to grow restless. He saw a patch of grass just beyond that looked tempting, and he moved over to it. Then he saw a greener spot beyond that, and then another still farther beyond that, till he had taken his silly self a long way off. And just then there came along on his way from Dan to Beersheba, a thief of a Camel Driver, with a band of horses and asses. He saw the donkey grazing there with no one near, and he said to himself,-- "Aha! A fine little donkey. I will add him to my caravan and no one will be the wiser." And seizing Silly by the halter, he first cut away the water-jar, and then rode off with him as fast as he could gallop. Now the sound of pattering feet wakened Leo. He jumped up with a roar just in time to see the Camel Driver's face as he glanced back from the top of the next hill. Leo ran wildly about sniffing for the donkey; but when he found that he had really disappeared, he knew the Camel Driver must have stolen him. He was terribly angry. He stood by the water-jar and roared and lashed his tail, gnashing his jaws as he remembered the thief's wicked face. Now in the midst of his rage out came Gerasimus. He found Leo roaring and foaming at the mouth, his red-rimmed eyes looking very fierce. And the donkey was gone--only the water-jar lay spilling on the ground. Then Gerasimus made a great mistake. He thought that poor Leo had grown tired of being a vegetarian, of living upon porridge and greens, and had tried fresh donkey-meat for a change. "Oh, you wicked lion!" he cried, "you have eaten poor Silly. What shall I do to punish you?" Then Leo roared louder than ever with shame and sorrow. But he could not speak to tell how it had happened. The Saint was very sad. Tears stood in his kind eyes. "You will have to be donkey now," he said; "you will have to do his part of the work since he is now a part of you. Come, stand up and let me fasten the water-jar upon your back." He spoke sternly and even switched Leo with his olive stick. Leo had never been treated like this. He was the King of Beasts, and it was shame for a King to do donkey's work. His eyes flashed, and he had half a mind to refuse and to run away. Then he looked at the good man and remembered how he had taken out that cruel thorn. So he hung his head and stood still to be harnessed in the donkey's place. Slowly and painfully Leo carried the water-jar up the hill. But worse than all it was to feel that his dear master was angry with him. Gerasimus told the story to the other monks, and they were even more angry than he had been, for they did not love Leo so well. They all agreed that Leo must be punished; so they treated him exactly as if he were a mean, silly donkey. They gave him only oats and water to eat, and made him do all Silly's work. They would no longer let him sleep outside his master's door, but they tied him in a lonesome stall in the stable. And now he could not go to walk with Gerasimus free and happy as the King of Beasts should be. For he went only in harness, with never a kind word from his master's lips. It was a sad time for Leo. He was growing thinner and thinner. His mane was rough and tangled because he had no heart to keep it smooth. And there were several white hairs in his beautiful whiskers. He was fast becoming melancholy; and the most pitiful beast in all the world is a melancholy lion. He had been hoping that something would happen to show that it was all a mistake; but it seemed as though the world was against him, and truth was dead. It was a sad time for Gerasimus, too; for he still loved Leo, though he knew the lion must be punished for the dreadful deed which he was believed to have done. One day he had to go some distance to a neighboring town to buy provisions. As usual, he took Leo with him to bring back the burden, but they did not speak all the way. Gerasimus had done the errands which he had come to do, and was fastening the baskets on each side of the lion's back. A group of children were standing around watching the queer sight,--a lion burdened like a donkey! And they laughed and pointed their fingers at him, making fun of poor Leo. But suddenly the lion growled and began to lash his tail, quivering like a cat ready to spring on a mouse. The children screamed and ran away, thinking that he was angry with them for teasing him. But it was not that. A train of camels was passing at the moment, and Leo had seen at their head a mean, wicked face which he remembered. And as the last of the caravan went by, Leo caught sight of Silly himself, the missing donkey of the monastery. At the sound of Leo's growl, Silly pricked up his ears and stood on his fore legs, which is not a graceful position for a donkey. Then the Camel Driver came running up to see what was the matter with his stolen donkey. But when he came face to face with Leo, whose yellow eyes were glaring terribly, the thief trembled and turned pale. For he remembered the dreadful roar which had followed him that day as he galloped away across the sand holding Silly's halter. The poor donkey was quivering with fear, thinking that this time he was surely going to be eaten piecemeal. But after all this trouble on Silly's account, the very idea of tasting donkey made Leo sick. He only wanted to show Gerasimus what a mistake had been made. All this time Gerasimus had been wondering what the lion's strange behavior meant. But when he saw Leo seize the donkey's bridle, he began to suspect the truth. He ran up and examined the donkey carefully. Then Leo looked up in his face and growled softly, as if to say:-- "Here is your old donkey, safe and sound. You see I didn't eat him after all. _That_ is the real thief," and turning to the Camel Driver, he showed his teeth and looked so fierce that the man hid behind a camel, crying, "Take away the lion! Kill the wicked lion!" But Gerasimus seized Silly by the bridle. "This is my beast," he said, "and I shall lead him home with me. You stole him, Thief, and my noble lion has found you out," and he laid his hand tenderly on Leo's head. "He is mine, you shall not have him!" cried the Camel Driver, dodging out from behind the camel, and trying to drag the donkey away from Gerasimus. But with a dreadful roar, Leo sprang upon him, and with his great paw knocked him down and sat upon his stomach. "Do not hurt him, Leo," said Gerasimus gently. But to the Camel Driver he was very stern. "Look out, Sir Thief," he said, "how you steal again the donkey of an honest man. Even the yellow beasts of the desert know better than that, and will make you ashamed. Be thankful that you escape so easily." Then he took the baskets from Leo's back and bound them upon Silly, who was glad to receive them once more from his own master's hands. For the Camel Driver had been cruel to him and had often beaten him. So he resolved never again to stray away as he had done that unlucky time. And when they were all ready to start, Gerasimus called Leo, and he got up from the chest of the Camel Driver, where he had been sitting all this time, washing his face with his paws and smiling. "My poor old Leo!" said Gerasimus, with tears in his eyes, "I have made you suffer cruelly for a crime of which you were not guilty. But I will make it up to you." Then happily the three set out for home, and all the way Gerasimus kept his arm about the neck of his lion, who was wild with joy because he and his dear master were friends once more, and the dreadful mistake was discovered. They had a joyful reception at the monastery on the hill. Of course every one was glad to see poor Silly again; but best of all it was to know that their dear old lion was not a wicked murderer. They petted him and gave him so many good things to eat that he almost burst with fatness. They made him a soft bed, and all the monks took turns in scratching his chin for ten minutes at a time, which was what Leo loved better than anything else in the world. And so he dwelt happily with the good monks, one of the most honored brothers of the monastery. Always together he and Gerasimus lived and slept and ate and took their walks. And at last after many, many years, they grew old together, and very tired and sleepy. So one night Gerasimus, who had become an Abbot, the head of the monastery, lay gently down to rest, and never woke up in the morning. But the great lion loved him so that when they laid Saint Gerasimus to sleep under a beautiful plane-tree in the garden, Leo lay down upon the mound moaning and grieving, and would not move. So his faithful heart broke that day, and he, too, slept forever by his dear master's side. But this was not a sad thing that happened. For think how dreadful the days would have been for Leo without Gerasimus. And think how sad a life Gerasimus would have spent if Leo had left him first. Oh, no; it was not sad, but very, very beautiful that the dear Saint and his friendly beast could be happy together all the day, and when the long night came they could sleep together side by side in the garden. SAINT KENETH OF THE GULLS ONCE upon a time, more than a thousand years ago, a great white sea-gull was circling above the waves which roll between South England and Wales. He was pretending that he was doing this just for fun; and he seemed very lazy and dozy as he poised and floated without much trouble to move his wings. But really he was looking for a dinner, though he did not want any one to suspect it. And he hoped that some unwary fish would swim up near the surface of the water within diving reach of his great claws. His keen gray eyes were open all the while unsleepily, and not much that was going on down below on the water escaped his notice. Suddenly his eye caught sight of a little black speck on the waves. "Aha!" he said to himself, "I think I see my dinner!" and with a great swoop down he pounced. You could hardly think how anything which looked so lazy and quiet could dart so like a flash of lightning. But a gull is an air-ship that can sink whenever it chooses. And when he gives a fish a sudden invitation to step in for dinner, the fish is hardly able to refuse. But this was no fish which the hungry gull had spied. Before he reached the water he saw his mistake, and wheeling swiftly as only a gull can, he flapped back again into the air, uttering a screech of surprise. "Cree-e-e!" he cried. "'Tis no scaly water-fish such as I like to eat. 'Tis one of those smooth land-fishes with yellow seaweed growing on its head. What is it doing here? I must see to this. Cree-e-e!" No wonder the great bird circled and swooped curiously over the wicker basket which was floating on the waves. For on a piece of purple cloth lay a tiny pink-and-white baby, sound asleep, his yellow hair curling about the dimpled face, and one thumb thrust into the round red mouth. "Well, well!" said the sea-gull to himself when he had examined the strange floating thing all he wished. "I must go and tell the others about this. Something must be done. There is a storm brewing, and this boat will not bear much rough weather. This little land-fish cannot swim. We must take care of him. Cree-e-e!" So off he flapped, and as he went he gave the family cry to call the gulls about him, wherever they might be. Soon they came, circling carelessly, swooping sulkily, floating happily, darting eagerly, according to their various dispositions; and as they came they gave the Gull cry. "Cree-e-e!" said they, "what is the matter?" "Follow me," said the White Gull to the great fleet of gray-winged air-ships. "Follow me, and you shall see" (which is Gull poetry). Then he led the flock over the spot where the wicker cradle tossed on the growing waves. "Lo," said he, "a land-fish in danger of being drowned among the Scaly Ones. Let us save it. See how pink it is. Its eyes are a piece of the sky, and its voice is not unlike ours--listen!" For by this time the baby had wakened, and feeling cold and hungry and wet with the dashing spray, opened his pink mouth, and began to cry lustily. "E-e-e-e-e!" wailed the baby; and as the White Gull had said, that sounds very like the chief word of the Gull tongue. [Illustration: SAINT KENETH OF THE GULLS] "Poor little thing!" said all the mother gulls in chorus. "He talks our language, he must be saved. Come, brothers and sisters, and use your beaks and talons before the clumsy nest in which he lies is sunk beneath the waves. Cree-e-e, little one, cree-e-e! We will save you." Now, I don't know what _cree-e-e_ means in Gull. But the baby must have understood. For he stopped crying instantly, and looked up laughing at the white wings which fanned his face and the kind gray eyes which peered into his own blue ones. So the strong gulls seized the corners of the purple cloth on which the baby lay, some with their claws, some with their hooked beaks. And at a signal from the White Gull they fluttered up and away, bearing the baby over the waves as if he were in a little hammock. The White Gull flew on before and guided them to land,--a high shelf which hung over the sea roaring on the rocks below, the nicest kind of a gull home. And here they laid the baby down, and sat about wondering what they must do next. But the baby cried. "We must build him a nest," said the White Gull. "These rocks are too hard and too sharp for a little land-fish. I know how they sleep in their home nests, for I have seen." Now the gulls lay their eggs on the bare rocks, and think these quite soft enough for the young gull babies. But they all agreed that this would never do for the little stranger. So they pulled the downy feathers from their breasts till they had a great pile; and of this they made the softest bed in which they laid the baby. And he slept. This is how little Saint Keneth was saved from the waves by the kind sea-gulls. And it goes to show that birds are sometimes kinder than human folk. For Keneth was the Welsh Prince's little son. But no one loved him, and his cruel mother had put him into the wicker basket and set him afloat on the waves, not caring what became of him nor hoping to see him again. But this in after years she did, when Keneth was become a great and famous Saint whom all, even the Prince and Princess, honored. She did not know him then because she believed that he was dead. How proud she would have been if she could have called him "Son!" But that was many years later. Now when the gulls had made Keneth this comfortable nest, they next wondered what they should do to get him food. But the White Gull had an idea. He flew away over the land and was gone for some time. When at last he returned he had with him a kind forest doe,--a yellow mother Deer who had left her little ones, at the White Gull's request, to come and feed the stranger baby. So Keneth found a new mother who loved him far better than his own had done,--a new mother who came every morning and every night and fed him with her milk. And he grew strong and fat and hearty, the happy baby in his nest upon the rocks, where his friends, the sea-gulls, watched over him, and the mother Deer fed and cared for him, and washed him clean with her warm crash-towel tongue. Now when Keneth had lived in the sea-gulls' home for some months, one day the flock of guardian gulls left him while they went upon a fishing trip. The mother Deer had not yet come with his breakfast, but was at home with her own little ones, so that for the first time Keneth was quite alone. He did not know this, but was sleeping peacefully on his purple quilt, when a strange face came peering over the edge of the rocks. It was a Shepherd from the nearest village who had clambered up to seek gulls' eggs for his breakfast. But his eyes bulged out of his head, and he nearly fell over backward into the sea with surprise when he saw Keneth lying in his nest of feathers. "The Saints preserve us!" he cried, "what is this?" But when he had climbed nearer and saw what it really was, he was delighted with the treasure which he had found. "A beautiful little baby!" he exclaimed. "I will take him home to my wife, who has no child of her own." And forthwith he took up Keneth, wrapped in the purple cloth, and started down over the rocks towards his home. But Keneth wakened at the stranger's touch and began to wail. He had no mind to go with the Shepherd; he wanted to stay where he was. So as they went he screamed at the top of his lungs, hoping some of his friends would come. And the mother Deer, who was on her way thither, heard his voice. She came running in a fright, but she could do nothing to protect him, being a gentle, weaponless creature. However, she followed anxiously to see what would happen to her darling. So they went down the rocks, Keneth and the Shepherd, with the Deer close behind. And all the way Keneth shrieked loudly, "E-e-e-e!" Now at last a messenger breeze carried the baby voice out over the water of the Bristol Channel where the gulls were fishing. "What is that?" they said, stopping their work to listen. "Is it not our little land-fish calling us in Gull? He is in trouble or danger. Brothers, to the rescue! Cre-e-e-e!" So the flock of gulls left their fishing and swooped back to the rock where they had left the baby. Dreadful! The nest was empty. They flapped their wide wings and screamed with fear, "What shall we do?" But just then up the rocky hill came panting the mother Deer. Her glossy hide was warm and wet, and her tongue lolled out with weariness, she had run so fast. "He is down there," she panted. "The Shepherd has carried him to his hut and laid him in a nest such as human-folk make. The Shepherd's wife loves him and would keep him there, but he is unhappy and cries for us. You must bring him back." "We will, we will!" screamed the gulls in chorus. "Guide us to the place, mother Deer." And without another word they rose on their great, strong wings, and followed where she led. Back down the hill she took the path, over the moor and up the lane to a little white cottage under the rosebushes. "Here is the place," said the Deer, and she paused. But the flock of gulls with a great whirring and rustling and screaming swooped in at the little low door, straight up to the cradle where Keneth lay crying "E-e-e-e!" as if his heart would break. The Shepherd's wife was sitting by the cradle saying, "Hush!" and "Bye-lo!" and other silly things that Keneth did not understand. But when she heard the rushing of the gulls' wings, she gave a scream and started for the door. "Cree-e-e!" cried the gulls fiercely. "Give us our little one." And they perched on the edge of the cradle and looked tenderly at Keneth. Then he stopped his crying and began to laugh, for these were the voices he knew and loved. And in another minute the gulls had fastened their beaks and claws into the purple cloth, and once more bore him away as they had done when they saved him from the sea. Out of the door they flew, right over the Shepherd's astonished head, while his wife stared wildly at the empty cradle. And soon Keneth was lying in his own nest on the ledge above the roaring billows. After this no one tried again to bring the gulls' adopted baby back among human folk. Little Keneth tarried and thrived with his feathered brothers, growing fat and strong. When he came to walk he was somewhat lame, to be sure; one of his legs was shorter than the other, and he limped like a poor gull who has hurt his foot. But this troubled Keneth very little, and the gulls were kind. He was always happy and contented, full of singing and laughter and kind words for all. And here in his wild, spray-sprinkled nest above the Atlantic breakers, Keneth dwelt all his life. The Welsh peasants of the Gower peninsula revered him as their Saint, knowing him to be a holy man beloved by the gulls and the deer and all the wild creatures of shore and forest, who did their kindly best to make him happy. SAINT LAUNOMAR'S COW SAINT LAUNOMAR had once been a shepherd boy in the meadows of sunny France, and had lived among the gentle creatures of the fold and byre. So he understood them and their ways very well, and they knew him for their friend. For this is a secret which one cannot keep from the animals whose speech is silent. Saint Launomar had a cow of whom he was fond, a sleek black and white beauty, who pastured in the green meadows of Chartres near the monastery and came home every evening to be milked and to rub her soft nose against her master's hand, telling him how much she loved him. Mignon was a very wise cow; you could tell that by the curve of her horns and by the wrinkles in her forehead between the eyes; and especially by the way she switched her tail. And indeed, a cow ought to be wise who has been brought up by a whole monastery of learned men, with Launomar, the wisest person in all the country, for her master and friend. It was a dark night after milking time; Launomar had put Mignon in her stall with a supper of hay before her, and had bade her good-night and a pleasant cud-time. Then he had shut the heavy barn door and had gone back to his cell to sleep soundly till morning. But no sooner had his lantern disappeared through the gate of the monastery, than out of the forest came five black figures, creeping, creeping along the wall and across the yard and up to the great oak door. They were all muffled in long black cloaks, and wore their caps pulled down over their faces, as if they were afraid of being recognized. They were wicked-looking men, and they had big knives stuck in their belts quite convenient to their hands. It was a band of robbers; and they had come to steal Launomar's cow, who was known to be the handsomest in all that part of the world. Very softly they forced open the great door, and very softly they stole across the floor to Mignon's stall and threw a strong halter about her neck to lead her away. But first they were careful to tie up her mouth in a piece of cloth so that she could not low and tell the whole monastery what danger she was in. Mignon was angry, for that was just what she had meant to do as soon as she saw that these were no friends, but wicked men who had come for no good to her or to the monastery. But now she had to go with them dumbly, although she struggled and kicked and made all the noise she could. But the monks were already sound asleep and snoring on their hard pallets, and never suspected what was going on so near to them. Even Launomar, who turned over in his sleep and murmured, "Ho, Mignon, stand still!" when he dimly recognized a sound of kicking,--even Launomar did not waken to rescue his dear Mignon from the hands of those villains who were taking her away. The robbers led her hurriedly down the lane, across the familiar meadows and into the dense woods, where they could hide from any one who happened to pass by. Now it was dark and they could see but dimly where they were going. The paths crossed and crisscrossed in so many directions that they soon began to quarrel about which was the right one to take. They did not know this part of the country very well, for they were strangers from a different province, who had come to Launomar's home because they had heard of his famous cow and were bound to have her for themselves. Very soon the robbers were lost in the tangle of trees and bushes and did not know where they were, or in which direction they ought to go. One said, "Go that way," pointing towards the north. And one said, "No, no! Go _that_ way," pointing directly south. The third grumbled and said, "Ho, fellows! Not so, but _this_ way," and he strode towards the east. While the fourth man cried, "You are all wrong, comrades. It is _there_ we must go," and he started to lead Mignon towards the west. But the fifth robber confessed that indeed he did not know. "Let us follow the cow," he cried; "she is the only one who can see in the dark. I have always heard that animals will lead you aright if you leave the matter to them." Now as the other robbers really did not have the least idea in the world as to which was the right direction, this seemed to them as sensible a plan as any. So they stripped the halter from Mignon's head and said, "Hi, there! Get along, Cow, and show us the way." Mignon looked at them through the dark with her big brown eyes, and laughed inside. It seemed too good to be true! They had left her free, and were bidding her to guide them on their way out of the forest back to their own country. Mignon chuckled again, so loudly that they thought she must be choking, and hastily untied the cloth from her mouth. This was just what she wanted, for she longed to chew her cud again. She tossed her head and gave a gentle "Moo!" as if to say, "Come on, simple men, and I will show you the way." But really she was thinking to herself, "Aha! my fine fellows. Now I will lead you a pretty chase. And you shall be repaid for this night's work, aha!" Mignon was a very wise cow. She had not pastured in the meadows about Chartres with blind eyes. She knew the paths north and south and east and west through the forest and the fern; and even in the dark of the tangled underbrush she could feel out the way quite plainly. But she said to herself, "I must not make the way too easy for these wicked men. I must punish them all I can now that it is my turn." So she led them roundabout and roundabout, through mud and brambles and swamps; over little brooks and through big miry ponds where they were nearly drowned,--roundabout and roundabout all night long. They wanted to rest, but she went so fast that they could not catch her to make her stand still. And they dared not lose sight of her big whiteness through the dark, for now they were completely lost and could never find their way out of the wilderness without her. So all night long she kept them panting and puffing and wading after her, till they were all worn out, cold and shivering with wet, scratched and bleeding from the briars, and cross as ten sticks. But when at last, an hour after sunrise, Mignon led them out into an open clearing, their faces brightened. "Oh, I think I remember this place," said the first man. "Yes, it has a familiar look. We must be near home," said the second. "We are at least twenty-five miles from the monks of Chartres by this time," said the third, "and I wish we had some breakfast." "By another hour we shall have the cow safe in our home den," said the fourth, "and then we will have some bread and milk." But the fifth interrupted them saying, "Look! Who is that man in gray?" They all looked up quickly and began to tremble; but Mignon gave a great "Moo!" and galloped forward to meet the figure who had stepped out from behind a bush. It was Saint Launomar himself! He had been up ever since dawn looking for his precious cow; for when he went to milk her he had found the barn empty, and her footprints with those of the five robbers in the moist earth had told the story and pointed which way the company had gone. But it was not his plan to scold or frighten the robbers. He walked up to them, for they were so surprised to see him that they stood still trembling, forgetting even to run away. "Good-morning, friends," said Launomar kindly. "You have brought back my cow, I see, who to-night for the first time has left her stall to wander far. I thank you, good friends, for bringing Mignon to me. For she is not only a treasure in herself, but she is my dearest friend and I should be most unhappy to lose her." The men stood staring at Launomar in astonishment. They could hardly believe their eyes and their ears. Where did he come from? What did he mean? But when they realized how kind his voice was, and that he was not accusing them nor threatening to have them punished, they were very much ashamed. They hung their heads guiltily; and then all of a sudden they fell at his feet, the five of them, confessing how it had all come about and begging his pardon. "We stole the cow, Master," said the first one. "And carried her these many miles away," said the second. "We are wicked robbers and deserve to be punished," said the third. "But we beg you to pardon us," cried the fourth. "Let us depart, kind Father, we pray you," begged the fifth. "And be so good as to direct us on our way, for we are sorely puzzled." "Nay, nay," answered Saint Launomar pleasantly, "the cow hath led you a long way, hath she not? You must be both tired and hungry. You cannot journey yet." And in truth they were miserable objects to see, so that the Saint's kind heart was filled with pity, robbers though they were. "Follow me," he said. By this time they were too weak and weary to think of disobeying. So meekly they formed into a procession of seven, Launomar and the cow going cheerfully at the head. For these two were very glad to be together again, and his arm was thrown lovingly about her glossy neck as they went. But what was the amazement of the five robbers when in a short minute or two they turned a corner, and there close beside them stood the monastery itself, with the very barn from which they had stolen Mignon the night before! All this time the clever cow had led them in great circles roundabout and roundabout her own home. And after all this scrambling and wading through the darkness, in the morning they were no farther on their journey than they had been at the start. What a wise cow that was! And what a good breakfast of bran porridge and hay and sweet turnips Launomar gave her to pay for her hard night's work. The five robbers had a good breakfast too; but perhaps they did not relish it as Mignon did hers. For their consciences were heavy; besides, they sat at the monastery table, and all the monks stood by in a row, saying nothing but pursing up their mouths and looking pious; which was trying. And when the robbers came to drink their porridge Launomar said mildly,-- "That is Mignon's milk which you drink, Sirs. It is the best milk in France, and you are welcome to it for your breakfast to-day, since we have such reason to be grateful to you for not putting it beyond our reach forever. Ah, my friends, we could ill spare so worthy a cow, so good a friend, so faithful a guide. But I trust that you will not need her services again. Perhaps by daylight you can find your way home without her if I direct you. The highroad is plain and straight for honest men. I commend it to you." So, when they were refreshed and rested, Launomar led them forth and pointed out the way as he had promised. He and Mignon stood on the crest of a little hill and watched them out of sight. Then they turned and looked at one another, the wise Saint and his wise cow. And they both chuckled inside. SAINT WERBURGH & HER GOOSE I. SAINT WERBURGH was a King's daughter, a real princess, and very beautiful. But unlike most princesses of the fairy tales, she cared nothing at all about princes or pretty clothes or jewels, or about having a good time. Her only longing was to do good and to make other people happy, and to grow good and wise herself, so that she could do this all the better. So she studied and studied, worked and worked; and she became a holy woman, an Abbess. And while she was still very young and beautiful, she was given charge of a whole convent of nuns and school-girls not much younger than herself, because she was so much wiser and better than any one else in all the countryside. But though Saint Werburgh had grown so famous and so powerful, she still remained a simple, sweet girl. All the country people loved her, for she was always eager to help them, to cure the little sick children and to advise their fathers and mothers. She never failed to answer the questions which puzzled them, and so she set their poor troubled minds at ease. She was so wise that she knew how to make people do what she knew to be right, even when they wanted to do wrong. And not only human folk but animals felt the power of this young Saint. For she loved and was kind to them also. She studied about them and grew to know their queer habits and their animal way of thinking. And she learned their language, too. Now when one loves a little creature very much and understands it well, one can almost always make it do what one wishes--that is, if one wishes right. For some time Saint Werburgh had been interested in a flock of wild geese which came every day to get their breakfast in the convent meadow, and to have a morning bath in the pond beneath the window of her cell. She grew to watch until the big, long-necked gray things with their short tails and clumsy feet settled with a harsh "Honk!" in the grass. Then she loved to see the big ones waddle clumsily about in search of dainties for the children, while the babies stood still, flapping their wings and crying greedily till they were fed. There was one goose which was her favorite. He was the biggest of them all, fat and happy looking. He was the leader and formed the point of the V in which a flock of wild geese always flies. He was the first to alight in the meadow, and it was he who chose the spot for their breakfast. Saint Werburgh named him Grayking, and she grew very fond of him, although they had never spoken to one another. Master Hugh was the convent Steward, a big, surly fellow who did not love birds nor animals except when they were served up for him to eat. Hugh also had seen the geese in the meadow. But, instead of thinking how nice and funny they were, and how amusing it was to watch them eat the worms and flop about in the water, he thought only, "What a fine goose pie they would make!" And especially he looked at Grayking, the plumpest and most tempting of them all, and smacked his lips. "Oh, how I wish I had you in my frying-pan!" he said to himself. Now it happened that worms were rather scarce in the convent meadow that spring. It had been dry, and the worms had crawled away to moister places. So Grayking and his followers found it hard to get breakfast enough. One morning, Saint Werburgh looked in vain for them in the usual spot. At first she was only surprised; but as she waited and waited, and still they did not come, she began to feel much alarmed. Just as she was going down to her own dinner, the Steward, Hugh, appeared before her cap in hand and bowing low. His fat face was puffed and red with hurrying up the convent hill, and he looked angry. "What is it, Master Hugh?" asked Saint Werburgh in her gentle voice. "Have you not money enough to buy to-morrow's breakfast?" for it was his duty to pay the convent bills. "Nay, Lady Abbess," he answered gruffly; "it is not lack of money that troubles me. It is abundance of geese." "Geese! How? Why?" exclaimed Saint Werburgh, startled. "What of geese, Master Hugh?" "This of geese, Lady Abbess," he replied. "A flock of long-necked thieves have been in my new-planted field of corn, and have stolen all that was to make my harvest." Saint Werburgh bit her lips. "What geese were they?" she faltered, though she guessed the truth. "Whence the rascals come, I know not," he answered, "but this I know. They are the same which gather every morning in the meadow yonder. I spied the leader, a fat, fine thief with a black ring about his neck. It should be a noose, indeed, for hanging. I would have them punished, Lady Abbess." "They shall be punished, Master Hugh," said Saint Werburgh firmly, and she went sadly up the stair to her cell without tasting so much as a bit of bread for her dinner. For she was sorry to find her friends such naughty birds, and she did not want to punish them, especially Grayking. But she knew that she must do her duty. When she had put on her cloak and hood she went out into the courtyard behind the convent where there were pens for keeping doves and chickens and little pigs. And standing beside the largest of these pens Saint Werburgh made a strange cry, like the voice of the geese themselves,--a cry which seemed to say, "Come here, Grayking's geese, with Grayking at the head!" And as she stood there waiting, the sky grew black above her head with the shadowing of wings, and the honking of the geese grew louder and nearer till they circled and lighted in a flock at her feet. She saw that they looked very plump and well-fed, and Grayking was the fattest of the flock. All she did was to look at them steadily and reproachfully; but they came waddling bashfully up to her and stood in a line before her with drooping heads. It seemed as if something made them stay and listen to what she had to say, although they would much rather fly away. Then she talked to them gently and told them how bad they were to steal corn and spoil the harvest. And as she talked they grew to love her tender voice, even though it scolded them. She cried bitterly as she took each one by the wings and shook him for his sins and whipped him--not too severely. Tears stood in the round eyes of the geese also, not because she hurt them, for she had hardly ruffled their thick feathers; but because they were sorry to have pained the beautiful Saint. For they saw that she loved them, and the more she punished them the better they loved her. Last of all she punished Grayking. But when she had finished she took him up in her arms and kissed him before putting him in the pen with the other geese, where she meant to keep them in prison for a day and a night. Then Grayking hung his head, and in his heart he promised that neither he nor his followers should ever again steal anything, no matter how hungry they were. Now Saint Werburgh read the thought in his heart and was glad, and she smiled as she turned away. She was sorry to keep them in the cage, but she hoped it might do them good. And she said to herself, "They shall have at least one good breakfast of convent porridge before they go." Saint Werburgh trusted Hugh, the Steward, for she did not yet know the wickedness of his heart. So she told him how she had punished the geese for robbing him, and how she was sure they would never do so any more. Then she bade him see that they had a breakfast of convent porridge the next morning; and after that they should be set free to go where they chose. Hugh was not satisfied. He thought the geese had not been punished enough. And he went away grumbling, but not daring to say anything cross to the Lady Abbess who was the King's daughter. II. SAINT WERBURGH was busy all the rest of that day and early the next morning too, so she could not get out again to see the prisoned geese. But when she went to her cell for the morning rest after her work was done, she sat down by the window and looked out smilingly, thinking to see her friend Grayking and the others taking their bath in the meadow. But there were no geese to be seen! Werburgh's face grew grave. And even as she sat there wondering what had happened, she heard a prodigious honking overhead, and a flock of geese came straggling down, not in the usual trim V, but all unevenly and without a leader. Grayking was gone! They fluttered about crying and asking advice of one another, till they heard Saint Werburgh's voice calling them anxiously. Then with a cry of joy they flew straight up to her window and began talking all together, trying to tell her what had happened. "Grayking is gone!" they said. "Grayking is stolen by the wicked Steward. Grayking was taken away when we were set free, and we shall never see him again. What shall we do, dear lady, without our leader?" Saint Werburgh was horrified to think that her dear Grayking might be in danger. Oh, how that wicked Steward had deceived her! She began to feel angry. Then she turned to the birds: "Dear geese," she said earnestly, "you have promised me never to steal again, have you not?" and they all honked "Yes!" "Then I will go and question the Steward," she continued, "and if he is guilty I will punish him and make him bring Grayking back to you." The geese flew away feeling somewhat comforted, and Saint Werburgh sent speedily for Master Hugh. He came, looking much surprised, for he could not imagine what she wanted of him. "Where is the gray goose with the black ring about his neck?" began Saint Werburgh without any preface, looking at him keenly. He stammered and grew confused. "I--I don't know, Lady Abbess," he faltered. He had not guessed that she cared especially about the geese. "Nay, you know well," said Saint Werburgh, "for I bade you feed them and set them free this morning. But one is gone." "A fox must have stolen it," said he guiltily. "Ay, a fox with black hair and a red, fat face," quoth Saint Werburgh sternly. "Do not tell me lies. You have taken him, Master Hugh. I can read it in your heart." Then he grew weak and confessed. "Ay, I have taken the great gray goose," he said faintly. "Was it so very wrong?" "He was a friend of mine and I love him dearly," said Saint Werburgh. At these words the Steward turned very pale indeed. "I did not know," he gasped. "Go and bring him to me, then," commanded the Saint, and pointed to the door. Master Hugh slunk out looking very sick and miserable and horribly frightened. For the truth was that he had been tempted by Grayking's fatness. He had carried the goose home and made him into a hot, juicy pie which he had eaten for that very morning's breakfast. So how could he bring the bird back to Saint Werburgh, no matter how sternly she commanded? All day long he hid in the woods, not daring to let himself be seen by any one. For Saint Werburgh was a King's daughter; and if the King should learn what he had done to the pet of the Lady Abbess, he might have Hugh himself punished by being baked into a pie for the King's hounds to eat. But at night he could bear it no longer. He heard the voice of Saint Werburgh calling his name very softly from the convent, "Master Hugh, Master Hugh, come, bring me my goose!" And just as the geese could not help coming when she called them, so he felt that he must go, whether he would or no. He went into his pantry and took down the remains of the great pie. He gathered up the bones of poor Grayking in a little basket, and with chattering teeth and shaking limbs stole up to the convent and knocked at the wicket gate. Saint Werburgh was waiting for him. "I knew you would come," she said. "Have you brought my goose?" Then silently and with trembling hands he took out the bones one by one and laid them on the ground before Saint Werburgh. So he stood with bowed head and knocking knees waiting to hear her pronounce his punishment. "Oh, you wicked man!" she said sadly. "You have killed my beautiful Grayking, who never did harm to any one except to steal a little corn." "I did not know you loved him, Lady," faltered the man in self-defense. "You ought to have known it," she returned; "you ought to have loved him yourself." "I did, Lady Abbess," confessed the man. "That was the trouble. I loved him too well--in a pie." "Oh, selfish, gluttonous man!" she exclaimed in disgust. "Can you not see the beauty of a dear little live creature till it is dead and fit only for your table? I shall have you taught better. Henceforth you shall be made to study the lives and ways of all things which live about the convent; and never again, for punishment, shall you eat flesh of any bird or beast. We will see if you cannot be taught to love them when they have ceased to mean Pie. Moreover, you shall be confined for two days and two nights in the pen where I kept the geese. And porridge shall be your only food the while. Go, Master Hugh." So the wicked Steward was punished. But he learned his lesson; and after a little while he grew to love the birds almost as well as Saint Werburgh herself. But she had not yet finished with Grayking. After Master Hugh had gone she bent over the pitiful little pile of bones which was all that was left of that unlucky pie. A tear fell upon them from her beautiful eyes; and kneeling down she touched them with her white fingers, speaking softly the name of the bird whom she had loved. [Illustration: SAINT WERBURGH & HER GOOSE] "Grayking, arise," she said. And hardly had the words left her mouth when a strange thing happened. The bones stirred, lifted themselves, and in a moment a glad "Honk!" sounded in the air, and Grayking himself, black ring and all, stood ruffling his feathers before her. She clasped him in her arms and kissed him again and again. Then calling the rest of the flock by her strange power, she showed them their lost leader restored as good as new. What a happy flock of geese flew honking away in an even V, with the handsomest, grayest, plumpest goose in all the world at their head! And what an exciting story he had to tell his mates! Surely, no other goose ever lived who could tell how it felt to be made into pie, to be eaten and to have his bones picked clean by a greedy Steward. This is how Saint Werburgh made lifelong friendship with a flock of big gray geese. And I dare say even now in England one of their descendants may be found with a black ring around his neck, the handsomest, grayest, plumpest goose in all the world. And when he hears the name of Saint Werburgh, which has been handed down to him from grandfather to grandson for twelve hundred years, he will give an especially loud "Honk!" of praise. Dear Saint Werburgh! One would almost be willing to make a goose of himself if so he might see her again, with all her feathered friends about her. THE BALLAD OF SAINT ATHRACTA'S STAGS ATHRACTA was a maiden fair, A Prince's daughter she; Down to her feet fell golden hair, A wondrous sight to see. And all amid this golden shower, The sweetest rosebud face Blossomed like a dew-fed flower Upon a stem of grace. Yet loved she not the court of kings, But in the wild would be, With but one maid her hair to braid And bear her company. So, near Lough Cara's silver sheen, They built of turf and bark A hut wherein from springtide green They dwelt through winter's dark. On seven cross-roads the hut was made, That they might offer rest To pilgrims by the night waylaid, And strangers hunger-pressed. To draw them water from the lake, To till their little soil, Two ancient horses did they take, Outworn for other toil. Once gallant chargers these had been, Keen-eyed and prancing gay, Who tourneys brave and wars had seen, All decked in bright array. But now their age in peace was spent By kind Athracta's side; No gallant wars, no tournament, And yet they served with pride. Their neighbors in the forest glades Were stately, antlered deer, Nor of the two most holy maids Had these, their brothers, fear. So dwelt the maidens there alone For many months and years, The doings of the world unknown, Its wars, its woes, its tears. But strife was stirring in the land, And kings must castles build, To guard them from the foeman's hand With fire and weapon filled. And so the King's most stern decree Went forth upon a day,-- "My serfs must build a fort for me, Each must his service pay. "Each man and maiden must fulfill In this great work his share; It is the King of Connaught's will, Let tardy hands beware!" Athracta sent unto the King: "We be but maidens twain, My Liege, we cannot do this thing, I beg we may refrain." But sternly sent he back the word,-- "Ye maids must do your part." He was a hard and cruel lord, No pity touched his heart. So forth they fared into the wood, Athracta with her maid, To fell the timber as they could, Without of men for aid. Heavy the axe and full of pain Each weak and skill-less stroke, Yet strove the maids again, again, With walnut, beech, and oak. Until upon the wagon cast By which the horses stood, Their bleeding hands had piled at last The goodly logs of wood. But when Athracta saw the steeds Straining with feeble will To draw the heavy load, it needs Must make her eyes to fill. Athracta spoke all piteously,-- "Alack! poor broken things, Must you, too, bear your painful share To save the pride of Kings? "How can I ease your burden, how, My faithful servants still? My little hands are bleeding now With toil beyond their skill." "O mistress dear," then spoke her maid, "These be but feeble nags; How would the King's pride be dismayed If you could harness _Stags_!" "Thou sayest well," Athracta vowed. "Come hither, Stags!" she cried, And lo! the thud of hoofs grew loud Ere yet the echo died. "Come hither, Stags!" O'er green and glade The silver summons thrilled, And soon the space about the maid With antlered kings was filled. Through moss and fern and tangled trees Twelve panting creatures broke, And bending low their stately knees They knelt beneath the yoke. Now harnessed in the horses' stead The great Stags strained their best, To please the Lady at their head And follow her behest. But lo! a vexing thing then happed; Scarce had they gained the road, The rusty chains of iron snapped Beneath the heavy load. Yet paused she not in weak despair, This noble-hearted maid, But loosed her heavy golden hair Out from its double braid. She loosed her locks so wonder-bright And shook them to the breeze;-- It seemed a beam of yellow light Had sifted through the trees. Then from amid this golden net She plucked some silken strands, And where the chains had first been set She bound them with her hands. She tied the ends against the strain, And knotted them with care, Then bade the Stags pull once again Upon the ropes of hair. And lo! the slender harness held, And lo! the antlered steeds Went forth to prove their generous love Lent to a maiden's needs. Straight to the King her gift they bore To fill his heart with shame; And her true maiden went before To show him whence they came. Now when the King this wonder saw He turned all pale and red, "She hath a greater power than law," He vowed, and bowed his head. "She hath a greater power than I, Whose slaves the wild stags be, And golden hair like this might snare E'en the wild heart of me. "No need to her of castles stout, No need of moat or tower, With antlered guardians about Her lonely wild-wood bower. "No need to her of watch or ward, With friends like these at hand; Bid her from me henceforth to be Queen of her little land. "Henceforth she is no serf of mine, Nor subject to my throne; Where'er her golden hair may shine That is her realm alone." So where the seven cross-roads met Still dwelt the holy maid, Her hut a place of refuge set For all who shelter prayed. Her realm a holy place of peace, Where, with the ancient nags, Lived out their days in pleasant ways Athracta's faithful Stags. SAINT KENTIGERN & THE ROBIN ONCE upon a time Saint Servan kept a school near Glasgow in Scotland, and many boys, big and little, came there to study. Now of all these boys there was one who surpassed the rest in everything that makes a good scholar. Kentigern was one of the smallest boys in the school, and yet he stood at the head of all his classes. It was Kentigern who found the answer to the knottiest problem, and who read off the hardest passages of Latin when no one else was able to make sense of them. It was Kentigern who learned his lessons first and who recited them best. It was Kentigern who sang the loudest and was never off the pitch; and good Saint Servan loved him best of all his pupils. For all these reasons, and for several more like them, the other boys were jealous of Kentigern and did everything they could to trouble him and make him unhappy. They tried to make him fail in his lessons by talking and laughing when it was his turn to recite. But this was a useless trick; his answers were always ready, so they had to give this up. They teased him and called him names, trying to make him lose his temper so that he would be punished. But he was too good-natured to be cross with them; so they had to give this up. They tried to coax him into mischief and lead him do something which would make Saint Servan angry with him. But Kentigern loved his master too well to do anything to trouble him. So the boys had finally to give this up also. There was only one way to bring Kentigern into disgrace. They must plan a trap, and make him fall into it. For weeks they racked their brains trying to think what they should do; but at last they thought they had hit upon a plan. It was all concerned with a fire. In those days there were no matches with which to strike a light in a second. Matches had not been invented in the year 600, nor indeed for many centuries afterwards. Their way of making a fire was by rubbing two dry sticks together until they grew hot and a spark fell out upon the wood which was to be kindled. And this was a very difficult and tiresome thing to do, especially in the winter when there were few dry sticks to be found. So the fire which was kept burning night and day in the great fireplace of Saint Servan's school was tended carefully, and it would be a very serious thing to let this go out. For how would the breakfast be cooked, and the rooms warmed, and the candles lighted for the morning service in the chapel if there were no fire on the great hearth? So for a week at a time the boys had to take turns in tending the fire; and the boy whose turn it was had to rise at midnight and put on wood enough to keep the blaze bright until morning. And oh! how angry Saint Servan would be with any boy who was so careless as to let the fire go out in the night. Now it was Kentigern's week to tend the fire; and for several days he did tend it faithfully. But the boys were waiting for a chance to play their mean trick. On the fourth night Kentigern rose as the chapel clock boomed "twelve!" and went down to the kitchen to give the hungry fire its midnight lunch of snappy wood. But as soon as he stepped into the great empty hall he knew something was wrong. Br-r-r! The air was damp and chilly, and there was no crimson glow on the hearthstones. Kentigern shivered and ran to the fireplace, peering into the black cavern. There was nothing but a heap of white ashes and half-burnt wood! Then Kentigern's heart sank, for he knew he should be blamed for carelessness, although he suspected that some one had thrown water on the fire and put it out. And he guessed that it was the other boys who had done this spiteful thing to bring him into trouble. He did not know what to do. But a sudden courage came to him. He took up a log of wood from the corner and laid it on the heap of ashes. Then bending down he blew gently on the pile. And oh, wonderful to say! It was as if he had scratched a dozen cards of matches and had touched them to a pile of paper. Hardly had his breath stirred the ashes and made the moss shiver on the great log, when the whole fireplace was filled with dancing flames, and the wood began to snap and crack in the best kind of a blaze. Kentigern laughed softly to himself as he stole back to bed, and said never a word to the sleeping boys who had tried to make mischief for him. When they woke in the morning they began to chuckle and nudge one another, expecting every moment to see Saint Servan come frowning in search of the careless Kentigern. And every boy was ready to declare that the fire was burning brightly when he went to bed, and that Kentigern had forgotten to go down and tend it at midnight. But they were prevented from telling this falsehood. For the bell rang as usual for breakfast, and down they all went to find a beautiful fire burning on the hearth, and Kentigern going with his taper to light the chapel candelabra. They did not know how it had happened till long, long afterwards when Kentigern had made many other wonders come to pass, and when he was known far and wide as a Saint even wiser than Servan his master. But meanwhile the boys hated him more than ever, when they saw how much better Saint Servan loved him every day. And once more they planned to bring him into disgrace. But this time it was an even more cruel thing which they meant to do. For if they succeeded it would not only cause Kentigern to be punished and make Saint Servan unhappy, but it would cost the life of an innocent little creature who never had done any harm to a single one of them. Saint Servan was a kind-hearted old man, and he had a Robin Redbreast of which he was very fond,--a black-eyed fellow who ate his breakfast out of the Saint's hand. And when the master chanted the Psalms the little chorister would perch on Servan's shoulder and flap his wings, twittering as if he were trying to join in the songs of praise. Now one morning when the coast was clear, the boys killed the little Redbreast and pulled off his head. And then the biggest boy of them all took the dead bird in his hand, and followed by all the rest ran screaming to Saint Servan himself, pretending to feel very sorry. "Oh Father!" cried the Big Boy, "just see what the wicked Kentigern has done! Look at your Robin whom Kentigern has killed!" Then they all began to cry out against Kentigern, and some even declared that they had seen him do the wicked deed; which was a horrid story, and their tongues must have smarted well as they spoke it. Of course Saint Servan was very sad and angry. He tenderly took the little limp body in his hand and went to seek Kentigern, the other boys tiptoeing after him to see the fun. And by and by they came upon him in a window bending over a big book which he was studying. Saint Servan strode up to him and laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder. "Look at this, boy," he cried with a sad voice, "look at this cruel deed, and tell me what shall be done to punish the slayer? Did I not love the Robin, even as I loved you, ungrateful boy!" Kentigern turned quite pale with surprise and sorrow, and the tears came into his eyes. "Oh, the dear little bird," he said. "Did I not love him too? Who has killed him, Father?" "You did, you did; we saw you!" cried all the boys in a chorus. Kentigern turned and looked at them in astonishment. He did not say a word, but his cheeks grew red and his eyes flashed. This was more than even his patience could stand. "Well, what have you to say for yourself?" queried Saint Servan sternly. Kentigern turned to him sadly. "Oh Father!" he said, "how can you believe that I would do such a cruel thing, to hurt the bird and to make you sad? I did not do it, Father." "Can you prove it?" asked Saint Servan still more sternly, for he thought the boy was telling a falsehood to hide his guilt. "Give me the Robin, Father," said Kentigern, holding out his hand. "I will prove that it was not this hand which cowardly used so small a thing as a tiny bird." Then holding the limp body in one hand and the downy head in the other, he stood before them all, looking up towards heaven, and made his little prayer. [Illustration: SAINT KENTIGERN & THE ROBIN] "O Father in heaven," he said, "prove to my dear Father on earth that I have not done this cruel thing. If I am innocent, give me power to undo the wrong and restore life to the little singer who loved to praise Thee with his sweet voice." Then gently he set the head in place where it should be and, as his tears fell upon the Robin's neck, it seemed to grow again to the body. The feathers ruffled and the limp wings fluttered feebly; the black eyes opened, and out of the bill came a little chirp. Then the Robin hopped out of Kentigern's hands and across the floor to Saint Servan's feet, and flew up on his master's shoulder. There he sat and sang such a carol of joy as made the great hall ring again. But all the guilty boys put their fingers in their ears and turned pale, as if they understood what he was saying, and as if it told the truth about their jealousy and their cruelty and their falsehood. So Saint Servan learned that Kentigern was innocent, and saw how it had all happened. The real culprits were severely punished. But Kentigern became even dearer than before to his master, who helped him in every way to become the great and famous Saint he afterwards was. And the Robin was another fond and faithful friend. For the bird seemed never to forget that Kentigern had restored his life, and always sang his sweetest song for the boy. You may be sure that after this the boys gave up trying to get the better of Kentigern. They had learned that lesson, and thenceforth they were more kind and respectful to a boy over whom some kind Power seemed to keep special charge. SAINT BLAISE AND HIS BEASTS THIS is the story of a Saint who loved all animals and whom the animals therefore loved in return. Saint Blaise was the son of wealthy people in Sebaste, a town of Armenia near Turkey, in the days when it was fashionable to be a heathen. He was not like the other boys, his playmates, for he was a Christian, full of sympathy for everything that lived. More than all things he longed to learn how to help the creatures that he loved,--men and women, the children, the dumb beasts, and everything that suffered and was sick. So he went to school and studied medicine; and by and by he grew up to be a wise man with a big, tender heart. Every one loved him, for he did great good among the people of his village, tending their children and healing their cattle and household pets. Nor did he neglect even the wild beasts. For Saint Blaise loved to go away into the woods and fields where he could learn about the untamed creatures and teach them to be his friends. The birds and beasts and fishes grew to love him because he never hurt them, but talked to them kindly and healed them when they were sick or wounded. The timid creatures were brave in his presence, and the fierce ones grew tame and gentle at the sound of his voice. The little birds brought him food, and the four-footed beasts ran errands and were his messengers. The legends say that they used to visit him in his forest home, which was a cave on Mount Argus near the city of Sebaste. Every morning they came to see how their master was faring, to receive his blessing and lick his hands in gratitude. If they found the Saint at his prayers they never disturbed him, but waited in a patient, wistful group at the door of his cave until he rose from his knees. One day a poor woman came to him in great distress because a wolf had carried away her pig. Saint Blaise was sorry to hear that one of his friends had done so wicked a thing. He bade the woman go home, and said he would see what could be done. He called the Wolf up to him and shook his head gravely at the culprit. "You bad Wolf!" he said. "Don't you know that the Pig was a friend of mine, too? He is not handsome, but he is nice and plump; and he is the only pig of a poor, lone woman. How could you be so selfish? Go straight home and get my friend Pig, and drive him down to the woman's house." Then the Wolf went sheepishly away, and did what the good Saint had told him to do; for the Pig had not yet been made into pork. And when the poor woman saw the Pig run grunting into her yard, chased by the repentant Wolf, she fell upon his fat neck and wept tears of joy. Then the Wolf went back to Saint Blaise, who told him he was a good wolf, and gave him a dish of fresh milk to cool his throat. Saint Blaise was chosen Bishop by the Christians who loved him for his piety and his charity. And the wood-beasts were glad of this honor done to their dear master. But the poor creatures did not know how dangerous it was to be a Christian in those days, and especially to be a Bishop who had much power over the people. For the heathen were jealous of him, and feared that he would make all the people Christians too, when they saw the wonderful cures which his medicines made. But they could not find him, for he was living in his forest cave. This was 316 years after Christ's birth, and the cruel Emperor Licinius was causing many Christians to be killed. Agricola was the governor whom Licinius had appointed in Sebaste, and he sent his soldiers into the mountains to get some wild beasts for the games in the arena, where the Christians were to be put to death. But they could not find any beasts at all in the mountains, or in the fields, or valleys, or woods. They thought this very strange. But by and by they came by accident to the cave where Saint Blaise lived. And there were the animals, all the fierce beasts whom they feared; lions, tigers, leopards, bears, and wolves, making their morning call upon Saint Blaise and sitting quietly about. In the midst was Blaise himself, praying so earnestly that he never noticed the men with nets and spears who had come to entrap the beasts. Although the creatures were frightened they did not move nor growl for fear of disturbing their master, but kept quite still, glaring at the soldiers with big yellow eyes. The men were so astonished at the sight that they stole away without capturing an animal or saying a word to Saint Blaise, for they thought he must be Orpheus or some heathen god who charmed wild beasts. They went to the Governor and told him what they had seen, and he said,-- "Ho! I know he is a Christian. The Christians and the beasts are great friends. Go and bring him to me straightway." And this time the soldiers went in the afternoon when the animals were taking their after-dinner nap. So they found Saint Blaise quite alone, again at his devotions. They told him he must come with them; but instead of being frightened he said joyfully, "I am ready, I have long expected you." For he was a holy man willing to die for his faith, and holy men often knew what was going to happen to them. It was on his way to prison that Saint Blaise cured his last patient,--a sick child whose mother brought him to the holy man's feet begging help. The child had swallowed a bone and was choking to death, poor little thing. But Saint Blaise touched the baby's throat and the trouble was gone. This is why in olden times people with sore throats always prayed to Saint Blaise to make them well. The good Bishop was put in prison. And after that they tortured him, trying to make him promise not to be a Christian any longer. But Saint Blaise refused to become a heathen and to sacrifice to the gods. And so they determined that he must die. They would have put him in the arena with the wild beasts, but they knew that these faithful creatures would not harm their friend. The beasts could not save him from the cruel men, but at least they would not do anything to hurt him. Those which were still left in the forest howled and moaned about his deserted cave, and went sniffing and searching for him everywhere, like stray dogs who have lost their master. It was a sad day for the wood-creatures when Saint Blaise was taken from them forever. The soldiers were told to drown Saint Blaise in the neighboring lake. But he made the sign of the Cross as they cast him from the boat, and the water bore him up, so that he walked upon it as if it were a floor, just as Christ did once upon the sea of Galilee. When the soldiers tried to do the same, however, thinking to follow and recapture him, they sank and were drowned. At last of his own free will Saint Blaise walked back to the shore, clothed in light and very beautiful to look upon; for he was ready and eager to die. He let the heathen seize him, and soon after this was beheaded. In very old times it used to be the custom in England on the third of February to light great bonfires on all the hills,--_blazes_ in honor of his name. And we can well believe that all the little animals came out of their dens and burrows and nests at the sight of these fires, and thought with loving hearts of the dear old Saint who so many years ago used to be kind to their ancestors, the beasts in the forests of Armenia. SAINT CUTHBERT'S PEACE SAINT CUTHBERT was a Scotch shepherd boy who tended his flocks along the river Tweed near Melrose. Night and day he lived in the open air, drinking in the sunshine and sleeping on the heather. And he grew up big and strong and handsome,--the finest lad in all that part of the country. He could run faster than any one, and was always the champion in the wrestling matches to which he challenged the village boys for miles around. And you should have seen him turn somersaults and walk on his hands! No one in all the world could beat him at that. Saint Cuthbert lived more than a thousand years ago, and yet the people of Scotland still tell tales of his strength and agility and grace in games with the other boys. He was their leader and chief, and every one was sure that he would grow up to be a famous man. But he tended his sheep faithfully until the time came. For he was growing and learning all the while. In his happy outdoor life he became wise in many things which other people never know. He found the secret of the whispering wind, and the song of the brook. He knew what the chatter of the squirrels meant, and the caw of the crows. He learned the ways of all the little bright-eyed animals whom he met in his walks over the hills of heather; and he grew to love every creature which has fur or feathers and goes upon four legs or on two. Especially he loved the birds. He used to watch them for hours together, the little larks gurgling up and trilling down again; the great gulls swooping and curling and sailing like white ships in the blue sea of sky. And he longed, oh! how he longed to have wings and to flutter and float away like the birds. One night while he lay watching his sheep upon the pink heather which bears you up like a springy cushion, he saw a strange thing in the sky. There seemed a great pathway of light, and down it a band of angels came from heaven, clothed all in rainbow glory. And in a little while he saw them mounting back again, bearing a beautiful blossom among them. And he guessed that it was the soul of some holy man, being carried to Paradise. [Illustration: SAINT CUTHBERT'S VISION] Sure enough, the next day the news went abroad that Aidan, the holy Bishop of Lindisfarne, had died that very night. Then Cuthbert knew that he, a little shepherd boy, had been blessed to see a holy vision. He wondered why; but he felt sure that it meant some special grace to him. Day after day, night after night, he thought about it, wondering and wondering. And at last he made up his mind that he, too, would become a holy man, and then perhaps he should find out all about it. He was fifteen years old when he came to Melrose Abbey to be made a monk. And there he lived and grew rich with the wisdom of books; which, added to the wisdom of the woods and hills and streams which he already possessed, made him a very wise man indeed. He had not been there long before every one, even the Abbot himself, saw that this glorious young monk was the most powerful of them all. Every one obeyed and reverenced him. Every one came to ask his advice and help. Every one sent for him in time of trouble. With his beautiful face and strong body, his kind eyes and great hands tender as a woman's to touch a little sick child, he was loved by the people in all the country around. For he had the great gift of sympathy. In those years while he had lived under the kind, hot sun his heart had grown mellow and soft like a ripe apple. Many of the people in the far-off hills and lonely Scotch moorlands were like savages, wild and timid, hating every stranger. But the hearts of these poor children of the heather warmed to the big brother who came among them with love shining in his eyes and a desire to help them. He used to trudge into the wildest, most distant places to reach them, to teach and comfort them. He was always carrying food and clothing to the poor and medicine to the sick, for he could not bear to see others suffer. But he was not afraid of suffering himself. One thing Cuthbert used to do which showed how strong and healthy he was. Even until he grew to be quite an old man he used to take a bath in the sea every day of his life. No matter how cold it was he would plunge into the waves and come out all dripping upon the frozen beach, where he would always kneel and say a little prayer before going home. One bitter night in winter as Cuthbert knelt thus in the snow after his plunge, blue with cold, two brown otters came up out of the sea and stole to Cuthbert's side. And as he prayed, not noticing them at all, they licked his poor frozen feet, trying to warm them, and rubbed against him with their thick, soft fur till he was dry again. Thus the water-creatures did their little best for him who loved them and who had done so much for others. When the Abbot Boswell died Cuthbert became head of the Abbey in his place. But after twelve years of living indoors with the other monks he could bear it no longer. For he longed to get out into the fresh air and under the sky once more. He resolved to become a hermit, and to live a wild outdoor life with the birds whom he loved. He built his nest on a wild little island named Farne, a steep, rocky sea-mountain where ten or fifteen years before had lived that same holy Aidan whose passage to heaven he had witnessed when he was a shepherd boy at Melrose. The nest was really a hole in the ground--you know some birds build so. He dug himself a round cell in the rock, the roof having a window open to his dear sky. The walls were of turf and stone and it was thatched with straw. There were two rooms, one where he lived and slept and cooked; the other for his little chapel, where he sang praises like any bird and sat for hours thinking holy thoughts. Before the door he hung an ox-hide, and this was his only protection from the winds of the sea. He found a spring in the rock and this supplied him with water; and he planted a plot of barley which yielded him food. Thus he lived, alone with the birds which swarmed about the rock. The winds swept over him and the waves curled and broke almost at the door of his hut, but he did not care. Indeed, the sea was a rough friend to him. Once when by mistake it came too near and washed away part of the cottage, Cuthbert sent to his brother monks on the mainland, asking them to bring him a beam to prop up the roof, for there was no wood on his rocky isle. But this the brothers forgot to do. The sea, however, seemed sorry for having been so careless, and at the next high tide it washed up at the Saint's feet the beam he wished. He did not lack for friends. For, as soon as he made this island rock his home, it became the haunt of every kind of bird. The other animals could not reach him from the shore, poor things. But the blessed wings of the gulls and curlews, the eider-ducks and the ravens, bore them to their Master in his retreat. "Hi!" they said to one another, "we have got him to ourselves now. Those poor, featherless creatures can't come here, neither can he get away, without wings. He is all our own now!" This was not quite true, for they forgot that though men cannot fly they make boats with wings, and so can cross the sea. Cuthbert often went ashore to do errands of mercy, in peasants' huts and in the Queen's palace. And many people came to see him also, because his fame had spread over the kingdom. He made them welcome to the house which he had built for his guests as far as possible from his own solitary cell. He loved them, and helped them when he could. But after all, the birds were his dearest friends, and he liked best to be alone with them. They would come and sit upon his shoulders and knees and let him take them up and caress them. They followed him in flocks when he went to walk. They watched at the door of his hut and ate breakfast, dinner, and supper with him. Many people believed that every day the birds brought him food from Paradise, but this story arose, as so many false stories do, from another thing that really happened. For once when some blackbirds thoughtlessly stole his barley and some of the straw from his roof, Cuthbert scolded them, and bade them never to do so again. It made the birds ashamed, and to show that they were sorry they brought him a great lump of suet. He did not eat it, however, as they expected he would, but used it to grease his shoes with, and it lasted a long time. Now Cuthbert loved all these birds dearly, especially the unselfish eider-duck who picks the down from her own breast to make a softer bed for her little ones. He was kind to them and they had no fear of him. But he dreaded lest after he was gone others should be less kind to his pets. So to protect them he made a promise, and he bequeathed them a legacy, the gift of _Saint Cuthbert's Peace_. He promised that no one should harm or kill them on that island without being dreadfully punished. And he gave them this Peace for ever and ever. So that thenceforth ill befell whoever injured one of Saint Cuthbert's birds. There are two stories to prove this, and they both happened long after Cuthbert was gone from Farne. Now Liveing was the servant of Ælric, the hermit who next dwelt in Cuthbert's cell. And one day while Ælric was gone away to the mainland, Liveing killed and ate one of the eider-ducks who still lived and built their nests near the hut where the Saint had lived. Liveing knew the promise of Saint Cuthbert's Peace, but he thought that no one would find out his crime. For he scattered the bones and feathers over the cliff, and saw them washed away by the waves. But after Ælric, his master, came back, he found a lump of bones and feathers rolled together and cast by the tide upon the very steps of his chapel. For even the sea was promised to Saint Cuthbert's Peace, and had to betray the guilty man. So Liveing was discovered and punished. And this is the second story. The birds themselves were bound by the Peace to be kind to one another. The big birds were forbidden to hurt or kill a little one. And this is what happened to a great hawk who flapped over from the neighboring island of Lindisfarne and ate up the tame sparrow which belonged to Bartholomew, another hermit who lived after Ælric at Farne. For Saint Cuthbert's power made the hawk fly for days around and around the island, never able to get away, never able to stop, though he was ready to drop with weariness and hunger. He would have kept on flying until now, or until he fell into the sea and was drowned, if at last the hermit had not taken pity upon him. Bartholomew caught the tired hawk by his wings and carried him to the seashore, and there in Saint Cuthbert's name he bade him fly away, and never come back to Farne to bother him and his peaceful birds. So Saint Cuthbert lived on his island surrounded by his feathered friends. He never grew proud, though every one loved and reverenced him and called him a Saint. He was always poor, although royal ladies, even the Queen herself, made him presents of gold and jewels,--which he gave away to the needy. He was always meek, though Egfried the King himself came all the way to Farne to make him a grand Bishop, kneeling on the ground before Cuthbert and begging him to accept the gift. His life was like a beacon to men, burning bright and clear. And after he died a lighthouse was built on his rock to be a spark of hope for the sailors at sea. As for Saint Cuthbert's Peace, it still blesses the lonely rock of Farne. Flocks of sea-birds swarm about it, descendants of those who knew the Saint himself. They are tame and gentle and suspect no harm from any one, for have they not the promise of their Saint? Alas! Men less kindly than he have forgotten the promise and have broken the Peace. They have killed many of the trusting birds who let them come up close and take them in their hands, expecting to be petted. For the birds never even thought to run away, poor, innocent, soft-eyed creatures. And how cruelly they were deceived! But I am sure that Saint Cuthbert's dreadful charm still binds the murderers. He will not forget his promise; and though they may not be punished immediately, as Liveing was, nor suffer like the wicked hawk, Saint Cuthbert will bring sorrow upon their heads at last and misfortune to the cruel hands which dare to hurt his birds. THE BALLAD OF SAINT FELIX IT was in sunny Italy Where skies are blue and fair, Where little birds sing all the day, And flowers scent the air. But sorrow was through all the land, And bloody deeds, and strife, For the cruel heathen Emperor Was slaying Christian life. And Nola of Campania Was full of soldiers grim, Who sought where good Saint Felix dwelt, To be the death of him. For he, the Bishop, old and wise, Was famous far and near, And to the troubled Christian folk His name was passing dear. Saint Felix would not run away, But thought no shame to hide Until the bloody storm passed o'er, And he might safely bide. And so he doffed his Bishop's robe, And donned a Pilgrim's dress, With hat and staff and sandal-shoon, So none his name would guess. Now as Saint Felix, bent and gray, Was tottering down the street, A band of soldiers, fierce and wild, The old man chanced to meet. "Ho! Pilgrim," cried the Captain stern, Who stopped him with his sword, "Answer me truly, or thy life Shall pay the lying word. "We sought for Felix at his home, We find him not, alas! Say, hast thou met him, for within The hour he did pass? "Say, hast thou met him? Tell us true, Or thou shalt lose thy head." Saint Felix looked him in the eyes, "I _met_ him not," he said. So then the soldiers let him pass,-- But he had spoken truth,-- And hurried forward on their search, A fruitless quest, in sooth! And good Saint Felix hastened too, As quickly as he might, For they would guess full soon, he knew, How he had tricked their sight. And truly, ere his oaken staff Had helped his feeble feet To win a mile, he heard their shouts A-nearing down the street. He heard the clashing of their swords, Their voices' cruel roar, Alack! the chase was almost done, For he could speed no more. All breathless, worn, and clean forspent He looked about him there; He spied a tiny ray of hope, And made a little prayer. There was a broken, ruined wall That crumbled by the road, And through a cleft Saint Felix crept, And in a corner bode. It was a sorry hiding-place, That scarce could hope to 'scape The keen sight of those bloody men, For murder all agape. But lo! in answer to his prayer Made in the Holy Name, To help Saint Felix in his need A little spider came. And there across the narrow hole Through which Saint Felix fled, The spider spun a heavy web Out of her silken thread. So fast she spun, so faithfully, That when the soldiers came To pause beside the ruined wall And shout the Bishop's name. They found a silken curtain there Wherethrough they could not see; And "Ho!" they said, "he is not here, Look, look! it cannot be; "No one has passed this spider's web For many and many a day, See, men, how it is thick and strong;" And so they went away. And this is how Saint Felix fared To 'scape the threatened doom, Saved by a little spider's web, Spun from her wondrous loom. For when the soldiers all had passed It luckily befell, Among the ruins of the walls He found a half-dug well. And there he hid for many months, Safe from the eager eyes Of all those cruel soldier-men And money-seeking spies. And on the eve when this thing happed, It chanced a Christian dame Was passing by the ruined wall Calling her Bishop's name. For well she knew he must be hid, And came to bring him food; And so he answered from the well, Saint Felix, old and good. And for the many weary months She came there, day by day, All stealthily to bring him bread, So no one guessed the way. And when at last the peace was made, Saint Felix left his well. What welcome of his folk he had There are no words to tell! SAINT FRONTO'S CAMELS THIS is a story of Egypt. In the midst of a great yellow sea of sand was a tiny green island of an oasis. Everywhere else the sunlight burned on sand and rocks and low, bare hills to the west. But here there was shade under the palm-trees, and a spring of cool, clear water. It seemed a pleasant place, but the men who were living here were far from happy. There was grumbling and discontent; there were sulky looks and frowns. Yet these men were trying to be holy hermits, to live beautiful lives and forget how to be selfish. But it is hard to be good when one is starving. There were seventy of them in this lonely camp in the desert,--seventy hungry monks, who for many days had had only a few olives to eat. And they blamed one man for all their suffering. It was Fronto who had induced them to leave the pleasant monastery at Nitria, where the rest of their brethren were living in peace and plenty. It was Fronto who had led them into this miserable desert to serve God in solitude, as holy men loved to do in the early days of Christendom. Fronto was a holy man, full of faith and courage. He had promised that they should be fed and cared for in the desert even though they took no care for themselves, and they had believed him. So each monk took a few olives in his pouch and a double-pronged hoe to dig and plant corn with, and followed Fronto into the desert. After trudging many days they found this spot, far to the east, where no caravans would come to interrupt them, for it was out of the way of travel. But soon also they found their provisions gone and no others forthcoming. What were they to do? They asked Fronto, but he only bade them be patient. It was when they had borne the pangs of hunger for several days that they began to grumble and talk of returning home. But Fronto was indignant. "The Lord will provide," he said, "O ye of little faith!" And he bade them go to work and try to forget their hunger. The monks drew the cords tighter about their waists. But that did little good. They had never fasted like this before! Day by day they grew more pale and thin, and their long robes flapped about their lean limbs. The few dates which grew on the palm-trees of their oasis were long since eaten, and the poor monks went about chewing the knotted ends of their rope girdles, trying to pretend that it was bread. Oh, how they longed for even a bit of the hard black bread which was Lenten fare at the monastery beyond the hills! Day by day they grew more hollow-cheeked and despairing. At last one evening they came to Fronto in a body--such a weak, pale body. "Take us back to Nitria, or we starve!" they cried. "We can endure this no longer!" Fronto stood before them even more pale and worn than the rest, but with the light of beautiful trust in his eyes. "Wait yet a little longer, brothers," he begged. "We are bidden to take no thought to the morrow, what we shall eat and drink"-- "Nay, 'tis to-day we think of," interrupted the monks. "If we could eat to-day we would indeed take no thought of the morrow. But we starve!" "Patience, brothers," continued the Saint wearily. "If we return now we shall show that we distrust God's promise. Wait till to-morrow. If help come not then, I give ye leave to go, without me. I shall not return." The monks withdrew, still grumbling and unhappy. But the words of the Saint had made some impression, and they agreed to wait until morning. Each monk stretched himself on his goatskin mat on the floor of the little cell which he had dug in the sand. And with groans of hunger mingled in their prayers they tried to go to sleep and forget how long it was since their last breakfast. But Fronto could not sleep. He was sad and disappointed because his brothers had lost their faith, and because he felt alone, deserted in this desert by the friends who should have helped him with their sympathy and trust. All night he knelt on his goatskin mat praying that the Lord would fulfill His promise now, and prove to the doubting monks how mistaken their lack of faith had been. The other monks slept a hungry sleep about him, dreaming of delicious things to eat. Now and then one of them would cry out: "Another help of pudding, please;" or "Brother, will you pass the toast?" or "Thank you, I will have an egg, brother." And Fronto wept as he heard how faint their voices were. At last the pink fingers of morning began to spread themselves over the face of the sky, pinching its cheeks into a rosy red. Suddenly Fronto, who was on his knees with his back to the door of his cell, started. Hark! what sound was that which came floating on the fresh morning air? Surely, the tinkle of a bell. The good Saint rose from his mat and went hastily to the door, his sure hope sending a smile to his pale lips and color to his hollow cheek. He knew that his prayer was answered. And lo! away in the northwest he saw a thread of black, crawling like a caterpillar over the sand toward his oasis. Nearer and nearer it came; and now he could see plainly what it was,--a line of great rocking camels, the little tinkling bells on whose harness gave the signal that hope was at hand. But the sound had waked the other monks. With a cry of joy they came tumbling out of their cells and rushed toward the camels, which were now close to the camp. How the poor monks ran, to be sure, many of them tripping over the skirts of their long robes and falling flat in the sand from their weakness and excitement. They were like men on a sinking ship who had just caught sight of a rescuing sail. Some of them jumped up and down and clapped their hands like children, they were so glad. And tears stood in the eyes of nearly all. There were seventy camels, soft-eyed gentle creatures, whose flat feet held them up on the soft sand like snowshoes. They bore packs upon their backs which promised good things, and they came straight to the cell of Fronto, where they stopped. And what a welcome they received! The monks threw their arms about the beasts' necks, as they knelt on the sand, and kissed the soft noses as though they were greeting long-lost brothers. They were so glad to see the camels themselves that they almost forgot to wonder whence they came, or what they were bringing. But Fronto was looking for their owner, for the man who drove them. There was no one to be found. They had come all alone across the desert, without any one to guide them. Fronto's face was full of joy. "The Lord has sent them!" he said. And the other monks bowed their heads, and were ashamed because they had doubted. Hungry though they were, first of all the good monks tended the tired beasts who had come so far to save them. They relieved them from their heavy loads, and tenderly washed their hot, weary feet, and gave them draughts of the spring water. Some of the starving monks skurried away to gather the green grass of the oasis for their hungry friends, and others unfastened the bales of hay which some of the camels had brought, and made beds for the animals to lie on. Then they all fell to and built a fold for the seventy camels in the shade of the palm-trees. And here they left the patient creatures to rest and chew their cud with a sigh of relief that the long, hot journey was over. Then the monks hurried back to Fronto, wondering if it were not now almost time for their breakfast. They came upon him reading a letter which he had found on the harness of the foremost camel. It was written from the city of Alexandria, and it explained how the camels had been sent. Four nights before this, Glaucus, the rich merchant, had been resting on a couch in his summer house. He had just finished an excellent dinner, with all his favorite fishes and meats and fruits and sweets, and he was feeling very happy. When suddenly he thought of the seventy monks who had gone out from Nitria many days before to live in the desert with the help which the Lord should send. And a pang smote him. Perhaps they were starving now, while he was feasting. And he wished he could help them to a dinner as good as his. Ha! an idea came to him. Why should he not indeed send them a dinner--many dinners? It should be done. So the next morning he had loaded seventy camels with provisions, five of them with bales of hay for the camels themselves. And taking them to the border of the desert, without driver or any one to guide them, he had sent them out into the sea of sand, the great ships of the desert, to find the right harbor by themselves. For somehow he felt sure that the Lord would guide them safely to the monks. Here the letter of Glaucus ended. Oh, how good that breakfast tasted to the poor, famished monks! There were all kinds of fruit,--fresh figs and olives and dates, citrons and juicy grapes and yellow pomegranates. There were bread and oil which the monks loved, and nuts and combs of the most delicious golden honey such as it makes one's mouth water to think of. Glaucus had sent them a breakfast fit for a king. And they all sat down on the sand in a happy circle and had the finest picnic that was ever seen in that desert. When they had eaten they went out once more to visit the camels who had saved their lives, and to thank them with caressing words. The camels seemed to understand, and looked at them with gentle eyes, chewing their cud earnestly as if thinking: "You see, the Lord was looking out for you all the time. We are only poor, dumb beasts; but we came straight to you across the desert without any fear or wandering, because we trusted. Why were you not trustful, too?" And again the monks were very much ashamed, and went back to Fronto to beg his forgiveness, promising never again to be faint-hearted nor to lose faith. The next morning they made ready to send back the camels to Alexandria. For they knew Glaucus would be anxious to hear how his ships of the desert had fared on their errand. And half the provisions they returned, for they had more than enough to last them a year, according to their simple meals. Then, with tears in their eyes, the monks sent the great beasts forth again into the desert, confident that as they had come so they would find their way back to Alexandria, safe and sound. Each in his cell door the monks stood and watched them slowly winding away over the yellow sand, disappearing at last behind the hills which rose like great waves between them and the world of cities. Now it was eight days since Glaucus had sent out the camels, and he was growing uneasy. Seventy camels are a valuable property, which even a rich man could not afford to lose. Glaucus feared that he had been foolish; the desert was full of robbers, and there was no one to protect this leaderless caravan. Would the Lord take care of affairs which were left wholly to His direction? Glaucus was sitting with his family in the garden, silent and gloomy. His family felt that he had been rash, and they did not hesitate to tell him so, which made him still more unhappy. The leader-camel was the favorite of Glaucus's daughter, Æmilia. She was crying in a corner of the garden, thinking about her dear Humpo, whom she never expected to see again. When, just as Fronto had done, she heard a far-away tinkle. She jumped up and ran out to the road. "What is it, Æmilia, my child?" called out her father, startled by her sudden movement. "Oh, Father, Father!" she cried. "I think I hear the tinkle of a camel bell among the mountains!" And sure enough. As they all hurried down to the garden gate the sound of little bells drew nearer and nearer. And presently came in sight the line of seventy camels, Humpo at the head, half of them loaded with the provisions which the monks were too unselfish to keep. And soon Æmilia had her arms about the neck of her dear Humpo, and was whispering nice things into his floppy ears as he knelt before her, looking lovingly at her with his big brown eyes. Thus it was that Glaucus, the good rich man, knew that the Lord was pleased with him for his kindness, and had helped him to do his duty. And every year after that he sent the seventy camels forth into the desert on their unguided errand to the far-off oasis. So they grew to be dear friends of Saint Fronto and his monks, looked for as eagerly as Santa Claus is at Christmas time. THE BLIND SINGER, SAINT HERVÉ I. ONCE upon a time when Childebert was King of France, a thousand years ago, there lived a young man named Hyvarnion who was very handsome and had the sweetest voice. Hyvarnion was the King's minstrel; he lived at the palace and it was his business to make music for the King to keep him in a good temper. For he wrote the most beautiful songs and sang them to the accompaniment of a golden harp which he carried with him everywhere he went. And besides all this Hyvarnion was very wise; so wise that when he was a boy at school he was called the Little Sage, for Saint Cadoc had been his master and had taught him many things that even the King, who was a heathen, did not know. Now Hyvarnion had lived four years with the King when one night he had a wonderful dream. He dreamed that he saw a beautiful maiden picking flowers in a meadow, and that she smiled at him and gave him a blossom, saying, "This is for my King." And Hyvarnion woke up longing to see the maiden more than anything else in the world. For three nights he dreamed the same dream, of the singing maiden and the meadow and the flowers; and each time she seemed more beautiful than on the last. So on the fourth day he woke up and said, "I must find that maiden. I _must_ find her and hear her call me her King." So, taking his golden harp on his back, he went out from the palace and struck into the deep black forest. By and by he came to an open place, like a meadow, where the grass grew tall and thick, and where in the midst was a spring like a bit of mirror set in a green frame. And Hyvarnion's heart beat fast with joy when he saw on the border of the spring the very maiden about whom he had dreamed, but much more beautiful than any dream. She was bending over, picking something from the grass, and she seemed like a wonderful pink-and-white flower set among the other flowers of yellow and red and blue. For a moment Hyvarnion stood and gazed with open mouth and happy eyes. Then he took his harp and began to sing a song which he had just that minute made. For because he was a minstrel it was easier for him to sing than to talk. And in the song he called her Queen Iris gathering flowers for her crown. Then the maiden raised her head and she turned pinker and whiter, and looked even more like a fair flower than before. For she too had had a dream, three times. And it was of golden-haired Hyvarnion that she had dreamed, whom she now saw looking at her and singing so sweetly with his silver voice. But she also answered him in a song, for she was a singer, too. "I am no Queen Iris," she sang, "I am only the little maiden Rivanone, though they call me Queen of this Fountain. And I am not gathering flowers as you say, fair Sir, but I am seeking simple herbs such as wise men use to cure pain and trouble." [Illustration: HYVARNION AND RIVANONE] "What are the herbs you seek, Rivanone?" asked Hyvarnion, coming nearer. She held up a sprig of green in her white hand. "See, this is the vervain," she answered in song; "this brings happiness and heart's ease. But I seek two others which I have not found. The second opens the eyes of the blind. And the third,--few may ever find that precious herb,--the third is the root of life, and at its touch death flees away. Alas! Fair Sir, I cannot find those two, though some day I feel that I shall need them both most sorely." Rivanone sighed and two tears stood like dewdrops in her flower eyes. But Hyvarnion had now come very close. "Still, you have found the first, which gives happiness, little Queen," he sang tenderly. "Have you not happiness to share with me, Rivanone?" Then the maiden looked up in his eyes and smiled, and held out to him a sprig of the green vervain. "For my King," she sang, just as he had dreamed. And then he did just what she had dreamed he would do; but that is a secret which I cannot tell. For no one knows all that a maiden dreams. And after this and that they came back to the King's palace hand in hand, singing a beautiful song which together they had made about Happiness. So they were married at the court, and the King did them great honor and made them King and Queen of music and of song. So, happily they lived and happily they sang in their little Kingdom of Poesie,--for did they not possess the herb of joy which Rivanone had found and shared with Hyvarnion, her King? II. BUT it was a pity that Rivanone had not also found those other plants for which she had been seeking, the root which brings light to the blind, and the root which gives life to the dying. Because Rivanone had foreseen only too well the need of them which would come to her. For when, after a year or two, their little son was born, his blue eyes were sightless and all the colored wonders of the world were secrets which he could never know. So they named him Hervé, which means Bitterness,--the first bitterness which had come into their lives of joy. But it was not the last. Not long after the little Hervé came, golden-haired Hyvarnion lay ill and dying. And because on that spring morning, Rivanone had not found the herb of life, she could not keep him from going away to find it for himself in that fair country where it is the only plant that grows, with wonderful blossoms which no living man has ever seen. So Hyvarnion passed away from his kingdom of music and song, which he left to be shared by dear Rivanone and Hervé his little son. Thus Hervé became a Prince, heir to all the gifts of that royal pair. And of these there were in particular four of the best: a beautiful face, the sweetest voice that ever thrilled in Brittany, the golden harp of Hyvarnion his father, and many a lovely song made by those two, which Rivanone taught him. What a wonderful Kingdom that was to be his! What beautiful gifts for a little boy to own! But even in a kingdom of this sort one has to bear sorrows and discomforts, just as folk do in other kingdoms which are less fair. Hervé's name meant bitterness, and there was much bitterness in his little life before he learned what a Prince he really was. For he was blind and could not play with the other children. Rivanone was a poor widow and there was no one to earn bread for the two. Sometimes the carols which they sang together were the only breakfast to begin the day. Sometimes the songs Rivanone made beside his bed at night were the only food Hervé had tasted since sunrise. Sometimes they were both so hungry that they could not sing at all; and those were sad times indeed. But when Hervé was seven years old a great idea came to him. Rivanone lay ill and miserable, and there was nothing to eat in the house. Hervé sat by her side holding her hand, and wishing there was something he could do about it. Blind as he was he had never been out of the house alone. But suddenly courage came to him and hope, through his great idea. "I will save you, dear mother!" he cried, throwing his arms about her neck. "I will take father's golden harp and go out upon the highway and sing your beautiful songs. People will give me pennies, and I shall buy you food." So, carrying the golden harp on his back, in his ragged clothes and bare feet the little fellow went out stumbling and feeling his way along the hard road. Now almost at the first corner he met a white dog, who seemed to have no master. This creature came sniffing and whining up to Hervé and licked his hand. And when the boy went on the dog followed close at his side as if to guide and protect him. Hervé asked every one he met whose dog it was; but they all said it was a strange dog come from No-where, and belonged to No-one. It seemed almost as if the beast had been sent especially for Hervé. So at last he said, "You shall be my dog," and at that the great white beast jumped up and barked for joy. Hervé fastened a rope about the dog's neck and kept one end in his hand. So now he had some one to guide and guard him, for the dog was very careful and kind and took care that Hervé never stumbled nor went astray into the ditch by the side of the road. It must have been a hard-hearted man indeed who had no pennies to spare for the blind boy led by the big white dog. With his bare feet blue with cold, his teeth chattering, and his eyes turned wistfully up to the sky which he could not see, he was a sad little figure to meet on the lonely Brittany roads. And he sang so sweetly, too! No one had ever heard such a voice as that, nor such beautiful songs. Every one who heard gave him money. So he was helping his mother, getting her food and medicine and clothes to keep her warm. And this thought comforted him when he was shivering with cold, his rags blown about by the wind and soaked in the rain. Day after day, week after week, Hervé trudged along the flinty roads. Often he limped with cold, bleeding feet which the faithful dog would try to lick warm again. Often he was very tired, and sometimes he was sad, when people were not kind. But this seldom happened. Once Hervé was passing through a strange village where all the folk were heathen. And a band of naughty children began to dance about him and tease him, pulling his hair and twitching his cloak. And they mocked his music, singing, "Blind boy, blind boy! Where are you going, blind boy!" Then it is said that a wonderful thing happened. Hervé was sorry because they were so cruel and unkind, and he struck a strange chord of music on his harp and sang in a low, clear voice,-- "Dance on, bright eyes who can see. Dance on, children who mock a poor blind boy. Dance on,--and never stop so long as the world wags." And it is said that the wicked children are still dancing, over the world and back, around and around, tired though they must be. And they will be still more tired before all is done. For they must whirl and pirouette until the end of the world; and that is a long time even for children who love to dance. At a different time another unkind thing happened to Saint Hervé. But this time it was a beast who hurt his feelings. And this was strange; for usually the beasts loved him and tried to help him as the white dog had done. But after all this was only a mistake; yet it was a sad mistake, for it cost Hervé the life of his faithful guide. This is how it happened. As Hervé and his dog were passing along a lonely road, a black wolf sprang out upon them. He mistook the dog for an ancient enemy of his, another wolf. For indeed Blanco looked like a white wolf,--a wolf such as Saint Bridget gave the King of Ireland. And without stopping to find out who he really was, which would have saved all the trouble, they had a terrible fight, and poor Blanco was killed by the huge black wolf. Then Hervé was sad indeed. He cried and sobbed and was so wretched that the wolf was sorry. Besides, as soon as the fight was over the wolf had found out his mistake, and saw that it was a strange dog whom he had killed, no wolf-enemy at all. He was very much ashamed. He came up to Hervé and fawned at his feet, trying to tell that he was sorry, and asking what he should do about it. So Hervé told him that if he would be his dog now instead of Blanco he would try to forgive the wolf; though he was, oh, so sorry to lose his faithful dog. After that Hervé went on his wanderings led by a big black wolf whom he held in a strong leather leash. And the wolf became as dear to him as Blanco had been. He slept in the barn with the oxen when he was at home, and never snapped nor bit at them as most wolves would do. But he kept sharp watch over his little master, and saw that no one hurt or cheated him. I should be sorry to think what would have happened to any one who had dared to touch Hervé while the wolf was near. And he was always near, with his sharp teeth and watchful eyes. So they wandered and wandered together, Hervé and the wolf, carrying music from town to town, the songs of Hyvarnion and Rivanone. But Hervé had not yet learned to make songs of his own. III. NOW after seven years of wandering, Hervé had earned money enough to keep his mother in comfort. He longed to go to school and be taught things, to grow wise like his father, who had been called the Little Sage, and to learn how to make songs for himself. For he felt that it was time for him to come into the kingdom of Hyvarnion and Rivanone; and the songs shut in his heart were bursting to come out. Gourvoyed, the brother of Rivanone, was a holy hermit who lived alone in the forest, and he would teach Hervé, his nephew, for love of him. For Gourvoyed was a wise man, skilled in all things, but especially in the making of songs. It was a blessed morning when Hervé started for his school in the woods; he was going to his kingdom! The sunlight framed his fair curls in a halo of light, as if giving him a blessing. Birds sang all along the way as if telling him that with Gourvoyed he would learn to make music even sweeter than theirs. The wolf led him eagerly, bounding with joy; for he shared in all the hopes of Hervé's life. And all the creatures knew that he would become a great poet. And so indeed it was. For Hervé soon learned all that Gourvoyed could teach, and in his turn he became a master. Many pupils came to the hut in the forest which the hermit gave up to him, and begged Hervé to make them singer-poets like himself. But he could not do that. He could teach them to sing and to play the harp; but no one could sing as well as he sang, or play as well as he played. And no one can ever be taught to make poetry unless he has it in his soul, as Hervé had. For that is a royal gift, and it came to Hervé from Hyvarnion and Rivanone, the King and Queen of music and of song. It was Hervé's kingdom, and it was given him to take away the bitterness from his name, to make it remembered as sweet, sweet, sweet. And now on his wanderings from town to town Hervé was received like a prince. He sat at great lords' tables, and sang in ladies' bowers. He had golden goblets as his gifts, and shining gems to wear if he chose. But he was so generous that he gave them all away. Never was there heard music so sweet as his; never were there songs so beautiful as he sang to the rippling of his father's golden harp. For Hervé was even a greater minstrel than Hyvarnion or Rivanone had been. In his wanderings all about the country Hervé came to many strange places and met with many strange adventures. Once he spent the night at the castle of a great lord who made Hervé sit on his right hand at table and honored him above all his guests. When the banquet was over, at the Count's request a page brought to Hervé his golden harp, and they all shouted for "A song! a song!" Every one pushed back his stool to listen, and Hervé took the harp and ran his finger over the golden strings with a sound like drops of rain upon the flowers. Now outside the castle, beyond the moat, was a pond. And in the pond lived a whole colony of great green bullfrogs, whose voices were gruffer and grummer than the lowest twanging note on Hervé's harp. And as soon as Hervé began to sing these rude frogs began to bellow and growl as if trying to drown his music. Perhaps they were jealous; for Hervé's voice was sweeter than a silver bell. But all they could sing was "Ker-_chog_! Ker-r-kity-chog, Ker-_chog_!" which is neither very musical nor very original, being the same tune which all the frog-people have sung from the earliest days. Now Hervé was displeased by their disagreeable noise. He could not sing nor play, nor think of the words which belonged with his music: only the "Ker-_chog_! Ker-r-kity-chog! Ker-_chog_!" sounded in his ears. And it grew louder and louder every moment as one by one all the frogs joined in the chorus. Hervé waited for them to stop. But when he found that they did not mean to do this, but were really trying to drown his voice, he was very angry. He strode to the window holding his harp in his hand. And leaning far out he struck another of his wonderful chords of music, such as had charmed the mocking children once before, as you remember. "Sing your last song, O Frogs," he said. "Sing your last Ker-_chog_, for henceforth you will be silent. I command you from this night never to open your mouths again. All save one, the littlest of you all. And he shall sing forever, without cease, to remind you of your rudeness to me." And no sooner had he ceased speaking when there came a great silence outside the window, broken only by one wee piping tadpole voice. "Ker-_chog_! Ker-r-kity-chog! Ker-_chog_!" he chanted his sad little solo. And all alone he had to sing and sing this same tune forever. I dare say one can hear him yet in the greeny pond outside that old French castle. IV. NOW after many years of wandering, of singing, of making beautiful songs, of teaching and wandering again, Hervé's dear mother Rivanone died. But he still had some one to love and look for him and the wolf when he came home from his travels. For Rivanone had adopted a dear little girl named Christine, beautiful as sunshine and sweet as a flower. She called Hervé "Uncle" and loved him dearly, and the wolf was a great friend of hers. So at last he thought to settle down and make music about him in his own home, letting people come there to hear it, instead of carrying it to them by road and river. For he was growing an old man, and it was not so easy to travel in his blindness as it used to be. Besides, the black wolf was also growing gray, and needed rest after these long years of faithful work. Hervé resolved to build a church, and to live there with Christine near him in a little house of her own. He had grown to be an important personage in the world, and had many friends, pupils, and followers who wanted to live near him. So forth they set to find a place for their church, Hervé and his troop of black-robed monks. And before them, like a little white dove among the ravens, ran Christine holding her uncle's hand in one of hers, and in the other grasping the leash at which tugged the grizzled old wolf, who was guiding them. Over many a hill and dale and bloomy meadow he had led Hervé before now, down many a lane and village street, but never upon so important a journey as this. For this was to be the old wolf's last long tramp with his master. And the wolf was to choose the spot where the church should stand. Where he stopped to rest, there would they lay the first stone. So he led them on and on. And at last he lay down in a green spot by a river, just the place for a beautiful church to grow up. And thenceforth Hervé the minstrel would wander no more, but bide and rest and be happy with the wolf and Christine. They built her an arbor near the church, in a clump of willows on the border of a spring. It was cone-shaped and covered with straw like a huge beehive. And Christine herself seemed like a busy bee gathering honey as she buzzed in and out among the roses, humming little tunes below her breath. For she was always among the flowers, as Rivanone had been. Every Saturday morning she would rise early, and with her little basket on her arm would go out to pick the blossoms with the dew still on them. And every Saturday evening she came to the church with her arms full of flowers till she looked like a bouquet of sweetness. And going into the empty church she would busy herself with arranging the flowers for the next morning's service. For it was her duty to see that Uncle Hervé's church was kept clean and sweet and beautiful. And while Christine stood there putting the flowers into tall golden vases, singing softly the songs which Rivanone had taught her, her Uncle Hervé would come creeping up the steps of the church, his hand on the head of the wolf, who always led him to the place where he heard her voice. Softly, very softly, as if he were doing something naughty, Hervé would pull open the heavy door, just a crack, the better to hear her sing. Then he would put his ear to the opening; while the wolf would thrust his nose in below, and wag his tail eagerly. But Christine's keen ears always heard them, no matter how slyly the good blind man crept up to that door. And it became part of the game that she should cry out suddenly,-- "I see you, Uncle! I see you!" And though he could not see her at all, he would start and pop back, pulling the wolf with him as though he had done something wrong. Then without making any noise they would tiptoe away to Hervé's house, their hearts beating with love for the dear little maiden who would soon come to bid them good-night on her way home to her bower. So they lived happily all the rest of their days, these three among the flowers. And in spite of his name Hervé's life was not one of bitterness, but of joy. The kingdom which had come to him from Hyvarnion and Rivanone was his all his life long; and though he no longer wandered painfully from town to town, the songs which he made wandered still from heart to heart. And long, long afterwards their echo made music through the land of Brittany, as the fragrance of a flower lasts long after the flower has passed on its way elsewhere. Dear Saint Hervé! SAINT COMGALL AND THE MICE AT the place where the Irish Sea is narrowest is the town of Bangor. There the green hills of Saint Patrick's island smile over at the purple cliffs of Scotland across the lane of water where the ships pass to and fro, just as neighbors nod across a narrow street above the heads of the passers-by. And here at Bangor Saint Comgall built a monastery, thirteen hundred long years ago. This does not sound very interesting, but it was interesting to many people in those days, and I think it will be interesting to you. For Comgall is an Irish word which means "the goodly pledge." And the man who bore this name was a goodly pledge of friendship between man and beast. Comgall had many pupils in his monastery, and many friends living near who loved and honored him. They did splendid things together, and tales of their doings were put into great books. But the most interesting stories of all are about certain friends of Saint Comgall who could not speak Irish and who did not wear clothes. Some of these friends wore feathers and some wore fur; the strangest story of all is about his friends with long tails and very sharp teeth. But you must wait for that till I have told about the swans. One day Comgall was walking with some friends on the bank of a pond. All of a sudden, through the rushes and the tall grass some one spied six beautiful white swans floating on the water, preening their fine feathers and arching their necks proudly. For they could see in the water, just as if it were a mirror, how handsome they were, and it made them vain. "Oh, Father," cried Comgall's pupils (they always called their teacher "Father" in those days), "see the lovely swans! May we not coax them ashore? We want to play with them." Comgall chuckled inside, for he felt sure that the swans would not come to them, because they were strangers. But he said with a twinkle in his eye,-- "Oh, yes, boys. Call them here if you can. But you must give them something to tempt them, or I fear they will hardly come." Then the boys tried to find a crust of bread or some crumbs in their pockets, to throw to the swans. But no one had anything, not even a peanut; for peanuts were not invented in those days. They stood on the bank whistling and calling, trying in every way to make the swans swim ashore. But the birds only cocked their red-rimmed eyes at the boys and fluttered their wings timidly. "We don't know you," they squawked with their harsh voices. "The like of you are no friends of ours. Hurrooh! Go away and leave our pond in peace." All this time Comgall had been standing behind them on the bank laughing at the vain attempts of his pupils. But now he walked quietly down to the pond. Making a little croony sound in his throat, he put out his hand towards the swans, but with no crumbs to tempt them. The swans had never before seen him. But as soon as they heard his voice you should have seen the commotion! How the water did wrinkle and spatter as those dignified birds scurried headlong towards Comgall! Each one seemed trying to be the first to reach his side; and each one flapped his wings and went almost into a fit for fear another should get ahead of him. So finally they reached the bank and gathered around Comgall, talking to him all at once and telling him how much they liked the look of him. And one great white swan fluttered into the old man's lap and sat there letting himself be stroked and patted, stretching his long neck up to Comgall's face and trying to kiss him with beaky lips. You can imagine how the pupils stared at this strange sight. For they knew that the swans were as truly strangers to Saint Comgall as to the rest of them. But the swans had guessed in some way that this was a man who loved all animals, and that is why they were not afraid, but loved him as soon as they saw him. But this next is the stranger story. Mice are harder even than swans for most people to get acquainted with. But Comgall had also made the mice his friends, as you shall see. There came a time of famine in Ireland, and there was not food enough to go around, as has often happened there from the earliest days until even now. Comgall and his household at Bangor were very hungry. But what made it hardest to bear was that they knew where there was plenty of food close by, if only they could get it. For Croadh was a great Prince who lived in the neighborhood, and Croadh had barns and storehouses full of grain which could be made into bread. But he was a selfish, stingy man and would not give away or even sell his stores, for he would rather see the people starve. Now Croadh had a wicked old mother living in his palace, who was even more cruel than himself. Her name was Luch, and Luch means in Irish "the Mouse." And it was her name which put an idea into Comgall's head. After sending all sorts of messengers to beg Croadh to give them some of his grain; after trying all sorts of ways to make him sell it, Comgall went himself to the Prince's palace to see what he could do. He carried with him a beautiful silver goblet which had been given him by some one as a present, and it was worth many bushels of grain. Comgall strode into the Prince's hall and stood before Croadh holding out the goblet in his hand. And he said,-- "Here, O Prince, is a valuable thing. We are starving in the monastery, and silver we cannot eat. Give me and my monks some of your golden grain and I will exchange for it the silver cup. Be merciful, O Croadh, and hear me." But the Chief only laughed and said mockingly, "Not so. You keep your silver goblet and I will keep my golden grain. Your beggarly pupils shall not eat of my stores. I want all, every grain, for my old Mouse." And by that word he meant his mother, the black-eyed, wrinkled, gray old Luch, whose name meant "the Mouse." For she was the most miserly, wicked, old woman in the world, and she had made him promise not to give up any of the grain. Then Comgall was angry, because he saw that the Prince meant to see the people starve. "Very well," he said, fixing his eyes sternly upon Croadh, "as you have said, so shall it be. The mouse shall have your grain." And drawing his robe about him he strode home with the useless silver goblet. As I have said, the mice were Comgall's friends. He had only to call them and explain what the hard-hearted Prince had done; he had only to tell the mice what he wished them to do, and the matter was settled. The word spread through the kingdom of the mice, carried by the quickest messenger with the shortest tail. All the mice became enemies of Croadh. And there were many mice in Bangor in those days. That very night when every one was asleep, out of every hole and corner came peeping little pointed noses and quivering whiskers. And a great procession of long-tailed tiny things formed into line and crept along, and along, up the hill, and up the walls, and into the barns of Croadh. A legion of mice, thousands upon thousands of them in a gray-uniformed army, pounced upon the Prince's precious grain and ate up every kernel. So the next morning when Croadh went to his barns he found them empty. There was not so much as a single yellow dot of grain left anywhere. But out of every crack and crevice peeped a pair of twinkling black eyes which watched him saucily. Then Croadh began to bellow and roar with anger, and the wicked old woman Luch, his mother, came hobbling in to see what was the matter. But when the mice saw her they gave a chorus of fierce squeaks as if crying "Mouse! Mouse! Mouse!" Then Croadh remembered what Comgall had said, that the mouse should have his grain after all. And he guessed what the Saint had meant, and knew that Comgall had taken this way to punish a selfish and cruel man. THE WONDERS OF SAINT BERACH THE life of Saint Berach was full of wonders from the very first. For when he was a boy at home in the house of his father, Nemnald, he had a vision. An angel appeared to him and beckoned him to follow. So he went, and the angel led him straight to the monastery at Glendalough where holy Saint Coemgen lived with his friend the white doe, and taught boys to be wise. And Berach joined the other boys to be taught all that Saint Coemgen knew, and to learn other things beside. Ireland was a wild country in those days, for this was only six hundred years after Christ's birth and the little towns had hardly begun to grow. The huts which men had made in the wilderness--calling them houses and schools and churches--were not close together but far, far apart. Wild beasts prowled everywhere, and there were no policemen. Close by the monastery were the broad green meadows where the monks pastured the herds of cows which gave them milk. From the windows of his cell the young monk loved to watch the cows and their calves browsing the juicy grass and wading in the brooks which ran under the rows of willows. He especially loved Bel, the sleekest, most beautiful of them all, a proud mother cow who had a new little red calf. One day as he was watching Bel and her baby who had strayed a little distance from the rest of the herd, he saw something which frightened him. A great gray wolf was hiding in the shadow of a hedge, creeping nearer and nearer to the peaceful pair. But Bel did not guess that an enemy was so near. Berach hurried down the turret stair and out of the gate, hardly pausing to tell the brother porter whither he was going. For he knew there was no time to lose. He ran to the meadow, and pushed through the blooming hedge of hawthorne. But alas! he had come too late. The great gaunt wolf, who was very hungry, had pounced upon the little red calf, and had eaten it up. Poor Bel, wild with grief, ran lowing about the pasture as if seeking for her little one. But the wolf was slinking out of sight. When Berach saw what had been done, at first he was very angry with the wolf, for he loved Bel dearly, and it troubled him to see her sad. He thought how lonely the poor cow would be without her calf, and when she came pitifully lowing up to him as if asking him to help her, the tears stood in his kind eyes. But then he thought how hungry the wolf must have been. Poor thing, how thin and hollow he had looked,--perhaps he was not so much to blame after all. Probably he had never been taught any better. And then a strange idea came to Berach. He was a wonderful man, and he must have had great power over animals. For he called to the wolf, who was already some distance away; he called loudly and in a stern voice. You will hardly believe it, but the wolf came slinking back, frightened and whining like a naughty puppy, and crouched at Berach's feet. Then the Saint spoke kindly to the wolf, no longer treating him like a murderer and a thief. He called the cow also, and taking her by the horns led her gently to the wolf, soothing her so that she was not afraid of the great gray beast. And Berach said to the cow, "See, Mother Bel, this shall be your child now, in place of the little one which is gone. He will be a kind and gentle son to you, I promise." And to the wolf he said, "Here, Wolf, is the mother whom you need to make you gentle and good. You shall be kind to her, and make her forget the wrong you have done by being a loving and dutiful son, ever doing her bidding." So after that the cow and the meek wolf dwelt peacefully together in the meadows of the monastery, and he shielded her from danger, and like a huge watchdog kept away the other wild beasts from the herd. After that came a winter when for weeks the ground was white with snow, and the laughing mouths of the brooks were sealed with ice. Duke Colman's little son had been sent to school at the monastery, and the boy was very ill. He was hot and thirsty, and his throat was parched with fever. So little Edward begged for juicy apples, and for salad of fresh sorrel leaves,--things which were not to be found in all the land in the dead of winter. But Coemgen the Abbot trusted in the power of his young friend who could tame wolves. "Go forth, my son," he said to Berach, "take my staff and bring what the boy needs." Then Berach retired to his cell and prayed that he might be blessed to save the dear child's life. After that with faith and courage he went out into the white meadows, using the Abbot's staff to help him over the great drifts of snow. He came to the row of willows by the frozen brook where the cows had loved to wade. And here he paused. Lifting the staff, he touched the bare brown branches of the willow on which the snow clung like shreds of cotton wool, and he pronounced a blessing. Instantly the snow began to melt as it does before the sun in April. The stiff brown twigs turned green and became tender and full of life. Then gray willow buds put forth woolly little pussy-willows, which seemed fairly bursting, like fat round kittens. They grew bigger and bigger, rounder and rounder, till at last they really did burst, and plumped great rosy-cheeked apples into the lap of the Saint, who held up the skirt of his gray gown to catch them as they fell. Lo, under the trees meanwhile the snowdrifts had melted, and little green leaves were poking up through the frozen ground. And Berach gathered there a great bunch of juicy, tart sorrel which makes such good salad. Then with his arms full,--what with this and his apples and the blessed staff,--he floundered back through the snowdrifts to the monastery. They received him eagerly and there was great rejoicing. Little Edward was revived by the out-of-season dainties thus miraculously provided for him, and soon became quite well again. It was many years after this, again a hard and cruel winter, when Saint Berach made another wonder come to pass. Meantime he had grown older and even wiser. He had himself been made Abbot and had built a monastery of his own in a lonely place far away from Glendalough. But he had an enemy. There was a rich man who wanted the land which Berach had chosen, and who was so envious that he tried to do him spite in every way he could. He even sought to destroy the monastery. Then Berach appealed to the King for protection, and both men were summoned to the court. The rich man went in a chariot, splendid in his fine robes of fur, with a gold chain about his neck. And the guards hurried to let down the portcullis for him, and with low bows bade him enter. But when Saint Berach came he wore only his gray monk's robe, all torn and tattered. He was shivering with cold, and weak from having walked so far. So they thought him a mere beggar and would not let him in. As he stood outside the gate, friendless and alone, some rude boys who had gathered there began to laugh and jeer at his bare sandaled feet and the rents in his robe through which the cold winds blew. They made snowballs and rushed upon him in a crowd, like the cowards they were, pelting the poor man most cruelly. But suddenly, what do you think? Their arms stiffened as they raised them to throw the balls; their legs stuck fast in the snow; the grins froze on their faces; and they were almost choked by the shouts which turned to ice in their throats. What had happened? Well, Saint Berach had merely breathed upon them, and they were as if turned into ice, so that they could not stir. Br-r-r! How cold they were! Then the Saint made ready to warm himself. A drift of snow had fallen from the palace gate when it opened to let in the rich man. And going up to this he blew upon it. He blew a warm breath this time. Instantly the whole heap burst into flame, and snapped and crackled like the fire in the chimney-place of the dining-hall at home. In front of this merry blaze the good Saint stood, warming his hands and thawing out his poor frozen feet. But the group of boys stood like statues of snow; so cold, so cold, but unable to come nearer to the fire; so frightened, so frightened, but unable to run away. This is what the King's guards saw when, terrified by the crackling of the fire and the great light which shone through the chinks of the gate, they came to see what it all meant. They ran to the King and told him of the strange sight. And he himself with a crowd of courtiers came out to look. When he saw the ragged beggar who had done all this he was filled with amazement. He immediately suspected that this must be a holy man and powerful. So he invited Berach into the palace hall, and there listened to his story. Now when all was done the rich man was bundled away in disgrace, for daring to meddle with the good works of so wonderful a Saint. But Berach was honored and admired. Before he went back to his monastery they begged him to restore the naughty boys to life and motion. Now Berach had wanted only to teach them a lesson, not to punish them too severely; for he was too kind-hearted to injure any living creature. So going out into the courtyard he blew upon the snow figures, and once more they became live boys. You can imagine how glad they were when they found they were able to move their legs and arms again. Now Berach went back to his monastery in one of the King's chariots, with a robe of fur and a gold chain about his neck. And you may be sure he carried with him many other gifts and precious things from the King, who never thereafter suffered him to be troubled in his far-off retreat. SAINT PRISCA, THE CHILD MARTYR SAINT PRISCA'S name has always been dearly loved, especially in England. January eighteenth is the day which is sacred to her, and she lived over seventeen hundred years ago. She is one of the few child-martyrs whose names have come down to us from those early days, although there were many other brave children who suffered and were strong, and who, at last, gave their lives to prove their faith. Saint Prisca was a little Roman girl whose parents were Christians of a noble family. Claudius was the Emperor at that time, and though during his reign the Christians were not persecuted in such numbers as they had been before that, still many cruel things were done here and there, and it was a dangerous thing to be a Christian. It was in the evil times when one did not always dare to say what he really thought, nor publicly to worship as he believed was right. Many of the Christians were not ashamed to conceal their real belief from the heathen Romans, who were everywhere seeking with hatred for the followers of Christ, to torture and slay them. Prisca's father and mother had managed to keep their secret, and were not suspected of being Christians. They probably went to church in the secret chapels which the Christians had dug deep in the ground under the city. In these dark, gloomy catacombs, as they were called, the Christians held services directly under the feet of the cruel Romans, who were passing overhead without suspecting what was going on so near to them. But Prisca scorned to use any precaution. Small and defenseless though she was, she did not fear to tell every one what she believed and Whose Cross she followed. So she soon became known as a firm little Christian maiden. And there were people in the city cruel enough and wicked enough to hate even a little child-Christian and to wish her evil. These persons reported to the Emperor's officers her brave words of faith, and told them how she would not sacrifice to the Roman gods as the other children did. So very soon she was seized by the guards and brought before the Emperor. Claudius looked at the little maid in surprise to find her so young. And he thought: "Ho! I shall easily make this small Christian change her mind and obey me." And he bade his men take her to the temple of Apollo and make her offer incense to the beautiful god of the silver bow. So they carried her to the top of the Palatine, one of the seven hills on which Rome was built. [Illustration: SAINT PRISCA] They first passed under a great marble arch and came into a fair courtyard surrounded by fifty-two marble pillars. In the centre of this space stood the temple of Apollo, the most magnificent building in all Rome. With its ivory gates and wonderful groups of statues, its inlaid marble floors and altars wreathed with flowers, its golden tripods breathing incense, its lamps and beautiful silver vases, it was a very different place from the bare, dark caverns in which the Christians worshiped. In front of the temple was a group of four oxen made of bronze, and in the centre of this group burned a fire upon a golden tripod. This was the altar to Apollo, the sun-god, whose enormous golden statue, in his four-horse chariot, stood over the door of the temple just above. He was the likeness of a beautiful youth with a wreath of bay about his head, carrying a bow in his hand, with which Apollo was believed to shoot the sunbeams down upon the earth. They thrust incense into Prisca's hand and bade her throw a few grains into the fire in honor of the beautiful god of the sun. It seemed a very simple thing to do, to save her life,--just to scatter a handful of dark powder on the flames. Prisca loved the dear sun as well as any one, but she knew it was foolish to believe that he was a god, and wicked to worship his statue in place of the great God who made the sun and everything else. So Prisca refused to burn the incense. Then the Emperor was very angry, and bade the soldiers whip her until she obeyed his command. But they could not make her yield by cruelty. Even the hard-hearted Romans who had come to look on admired her bravery and pitied her suffering. The women wept to see her so cruelly treated, and the men cried, "Shame! shame! To torture a little child." And then a beautiful thing happened; for Prisca appeared dressed in a robe of yellow sunshine. A wonderful light shone all about her, and she seemed herself a little star giving out light, so brightly did her brave spirit shine among those cruel men. It seemed as if no child could bear all this suffering without yielding, and the Emperor hoped she would give in, for he did not want to have her killed. But Prisca was firm, and would not make the sacrifice. The Emperor was surprised to find a child so brave. He ordered them to drag her away to prison and to keep her there for many days. Here she was most unhappy,--lonely and cold and hungry often, wondering what dreadful thing was to happen next. But her heart was always brave, and she was not afraid. After a long time, one morning the guard came for little Prisca. They led her forth into the dear sunshine, and glad she was to see it and the blue sky once more. But it was only for a short time that they let her enjoy even this little pleasure; for they brought her to the amphitheatre, a great open place like the circus, with tiers upon tiers of seats all about, and crowds of faces looking down into the centre where she was. Prisca knew what this meant, for she had often heard how the Christians were put into the arena to be torn in pieces by wild beasts. And kneeling down on the sand she made a little prayer, not that she might be saved from the fierce beasts, but that she might have courage to show her Christian bravery and teach a lesson to these fiercer men and women who were looking on. Then the keeper opened the grated door of a den at the end of the arena, and out stalked a great yellow lion. With a dreadful roar he rushed into the centre of the circle, and stood there lashing his tail and flashing his big yellow eyes all about the place. Then suddenly he spied the little girl standing quietly at one side with her hands clasped in front of her, looking at him without fear. And the great beast strode gently up to her on his padded paws. He bent his head and licked her little bare feet, and then he crouched down by her side, as a Saint Bernard dog might place himself to guard his little mistress. And this is why the old pictures of Saint Prisca represent her with a lion by her side. There fell a great silence on the tented place. The Emperor and all the people sat perfectly still, wondering at the strange sight and admiring the courage of the child; for she had reached out her hand and was stroking the yellow head of the lion, playing with his mane. She bent her head and no one heard her whisper into his ear:-- "My good friend! you will not hurt me, I know, for the Lord has closed your mouth, just as he did the mouths of the lions into whose den Daniel was thrown by wicked men. These cruel men will put me to death, but you are kinder than they." And the lion looked up in her face as though he understood, and growled softly. He was quite gentle with her, but when the keeper came towards them he roared and bristled and showed his great teeth, so that for a long time no one dared to come near. But even the lion could not save her from the death which she had no wish to shun. At last they captured him and took him away. The Emperor's heart was softened by Prisca's bravery, and he wished to give her one more chance to save her life. They shut her up for many days in the heathen temple, and tried in every way to make her sacrifice to the gods and give up Christianity. They coaxed her and made her fine promises; they threatened and punished her. But still Prisca stood firm, although she was now very worn and tired and ill because she had suffered so much. So when she had borne it all patiently and bravely, and they saw it was impossible to make a little Christian turn back again into a little heathen, they led her away down the road which leads south from the Palatine hill, to the place of execution. This was just outside the Ostian gate, an archway in the great wall which surrounded Rome, through which the road led to the town of Ostium and to the sea. Just outside this gate, to show that they were no longer worthy of being Romans and living within its walls, criminals were executed. And here many Christian martyrs lost their lives. Prisca was one of these, for here she was beheaded. And till the very end she neither cried nor screamed nor was in any way afraid. And so she became Saint Prisca, a little martyr. Then another strange thing befell. When she died a great eagle appeared in the sky, hovering over Saint Prisca's body far up in the air. And when any of the Romans ventured near her the eagle swooped down upon them with dreadful cries and flapping of his wings. And his round gray eyes looked so fierce and his claws so long and sharp, that no one dared to touch her for fear of the bird. Saint Prisca had found another protector in cruel Rome. And this is why many of the old pictures of Saint Prisca's martyrdom show a great eagle hovering over her. The creature guarded her body night and day, driving every one away, until the Christians, who had been waiting for the chance to venture out, came secretly one night and carried her away. They buried her where the Romans could not find her, in their little secret cemetery in the catacombs. This is how Saint Prisca lived and died two hundred and seventy years after Christ's birth. But I wish we knew what became of the noble lion and the devoted eagle. THE FISH WHO HELPED SAINT GUDWALL THE Welsh coast is famous for its beautiful scenery and its terrible storms. People who see it in the summer time think only of the beautiful scenery. But if they should happen to pass that way in midwinter they would be very apt to meet an unpleasant reminder of the terrible storms. Saint Gudwall was born a Welshman, and he should have known all this. Perhaps he did know, but chose to run into danger just because it was dangerous, as so many saints loved to do in those years when it was thought no virtue to take care of one's life. At all events, it was summer when with one friend Gudwall moved to his new home, a tiny island off the coast of Wales, which at that time was very beautiful. The first thing they did was to set about finding a place to live in. The island was one of those high mountains poking up out of the sea, with green grass on top, like colored frosting to a cake; and gray rocks below, all hollowed out into deep caves and crannies, as if mice had been nibbling at the cake. These caves are just the sort of places which smugglers and pirates choose to hide in with their treasures, for no one would think of hunting for any one there. And Gudwall wanted to be left alone with his pupil; so he thought there was no reason why a bad man's hiding-place should not make a good saint's retreat. So they chose the largest and deepest of all the caves, and there they put their books and their beds and their little furniture, and set up house-keeping. Their home was one of those caves into which the sea rushes a little way and then suddenly backs out again as if it had changed its mind this time but would call again. Gudwall and his pupil loved to lie in their cave just beyond the reach of the waves and watch them dash laughingly up on the rocks, then roar and gurgle in pretended anger and creep away out into the blue basin beyond. In summer their daily games with the sea were great fun, and Gudwall was very happy. They spent some lovely months alone with the waves and the rocks and the sea-birds which now and then fluttered screaming into the dark cave, and then again dashed bashfully out when they found they had come uninvited into a stranger's home. It was all very nice and peaceful and pretty in the summer time, just as tourists find it to this day. But oh! what a change when old Winter came roaring down over the waves from the North in his chariot of ice, drawn by fierce winds and angry storm-clouds. Then the temper of the sea was changed. It grew cruel and hungry. It left off its kindly game with the lonely dwellers on the island, and seemed instead to have become their enemy. It tried to seize and swallow them in its cruel jaws. One morning there came a terrible storm. In the far end of the cave Gudwall and the other were nearly swept away by a huge wave which rushed in to devour them. No longer content with pausing on the threshold, the sea swept through their whole house, dashing away their little store of books and furniture, a most unneighborly thing to do. It tried to drag the two men from the corner where they clung to the rough rock. Choked and gasping they escaped this time, while the sea drew back for another plunge. But they did not wait for this, for they knew it would mean their death. Drenched as they were and blinded by the salt spray, they scrambled out of the cave and began to climb the slippery seaweed to the rocks above. It was a hard and dangerous ascent, for the sea leaped after them to pull them back, snarling angrily at their heels like a fierce beast maddened by their escape. But it could not quite seize them, and at last they reached the top of the cliff where they were safe for the time. But what were they to do now? There were no houses on the island, no place to go to keep warm; yet they could not live out in the open air to freeze in the snow and cold. It was no longer possible to live in the cave if the sea was to wash through it like this. But if only there were some barrier to keep out the stormy waves they could still live in their beloved cave. Saint Gudwall fell upon his knees and prayed for help,--prayed for some defense against the winter waves. And what do you think happened? The dwellers in the sea were kinder than the sea itself. The little fish who live safely in the angriest waves were sorry for the big men who were so powerless in the face of this danger. From the sea caves far under the island's foot, from the beds of seaweed and the groves of coral, from the sandy bottom of the ocean fathoms deep below, the fish came swimming in great shoals about Gudwall's island. And each one bore in his mouth a grain of sand. They swam into the shallow water just outside the cave where Gudwall had lived, and one by one they placed their burdens on the sandy bottom. One by one they paused to see that it was well done, then swiftly swam away, to return as soon as might be with another grain of sand. All day long a procession of fish, like people in line at a ticket office, moved steadily up to the shallows and back again. So by night a little bar of sand had begun to grow gradually before the entrance to the cave. Now Saint Gudwall and his pupil were shivering on the top of the cliff, and looking off to sea, when the pupil caught his master's arm. "What is that down there in the water?" he said, pointing to a little brown spot peering above the waves. "I know not," answered the Saint; "what seems it to be, brother?" "I have been watching it," said the other, "and I think it grows. Look! it is even now higher than when first you looked; is it not so?" And sure enough, Gudwall saw that ever so little at a time the brown patch was growing and spreading from right to left. Grain by grain the sand bar rose higher and higher till it thrust bravely above the blueness a solid wall extending for some distance through the water in front of the cave. Against this new breakwater the surf roared and foamed in terrible rage, but it could not pass, it could no longer swoop down into the cavern as it had done before. "The Lord has given us a defense," said Gudwall with a thankful heart. And then his eye caught sight of a great bluefish swimming back into the deep sea. "It is the fish who have built us the wall," he cried. "Blessed be the fish who have this day helped us in our need." For the fish had piled up a stout and lasting barrier between Saint Gudwall and the angry sea, and thenceforth he could live in his cave safely during both summer and winter. THE BALLAD OF SAINT GILES AND THE DEER ALL in the forest far away Where no one ever came, There dwelt a good man, old and gray,-- Saint Giles the hermit's name. His forest home a rocky cave Beneath an aspen tree; And for his friend Saint Giles did have A Deer, who wandered free. A gentle red and mottled Deer Who made her home close by, Who at his call came without fear, Forgetting to be shy. Sure never all in lovely France Was there a Deer so tame; Ah, but to see her start and prance When he would call her name! She gave him milk, his simple fare, And browsed upon the green, Ah, such a gentle, loving pair I wis was never seen. And he was happy in his cell, And joyous 'neath his trees, Content with woodland beasts to dwell, His only neighbors these. The wood was dark, the wood was grim, And never till one day Had human voices troubled him, Or world-folk passed that way. But on a dewy springtime morn When April climbed the hill, There came the wind of silver horn, Halloos and whistles shrill; The galloping of horses' feet, The bloody bay of hounds, Broke through the forest silence sweet And echoed deadly sounds. Saint Giles sat in his lonely cell, Whenas the rout drew nigh; But at the noise his kind heart fell And sorrow dimmed his eye. He loved not men who hunt to kill, Loved not the rich and grand, For in those days the Pagans still Held lordship in the land. But scarcely had he reached the door And seized his staff of oak, When like a billow with a roar The chase upon him broke. With one last hope of dear escape, Into the open space Bounded a light and graceful shape, The quarry of the chase. All flecked with foam, all quivering With weariness and fear, Crouched at his feet the hunted thing, His gentle friend, the Deer. Behind her bayed the pack of hounds, Their cruel teeth gleamed white, Nearing with eager leaps and bounds; He turned sick at the sight. Saint Giles looked down upon the Deer, Saint Giles looked up again, He saw the danger drawing near, The death, with all its pain. He laid his hand upon her head, The soft head of his friend,-- "And shall I let thee die?" he said, "And watch thy hapless end?" He stooped and gently murmured, "Nay!" Stroking her mottled side, He stepped before her where she lay; "They slay me first!" he cried. Her frightened eyes looked up at him, Her little heart beat high, She trembled sore in every limb,-- The bushes parted nigh. "Halloo! Halloo!" the huntsmen cried As through the hedge they burst; An archer all in green espied The crouching quarry first. Swift as a thought his arrow flew, Saint Giles threw out his arm, Alack! the aim was all too true, Saint Giles must bear the harm. The arrow pierced too well, too well; All in that mournful wood Saint Giles upon the greensward fell, And dyed it with his blood. He fell, but falling laid his hand Upon the trembling Deer,-- "My life for hers, dost understand?" He cried so all could hear. Now as upon the green he lay All in a deathly swound, The King dashed up with courtiers gay And looked upon his wound; The King rode up, and "Ho!" he cried, "Whom find we in our wood? Who spares the deer with mottled hide? Who sheds an old man's blood?" The King looked down with ruthful eye When all the thing was told, "Alack!" he cried, "he must not die, So kind a man and bold. "Bear me the Saint into his cave; Who falls to save his friend Deserves for leech his King to have; I will his pallet tend." They spared to him the sore-bought Deer; And in that lowly cell For many weary days and drear The King came there to dwell. The King, who was a godless man, A pagan, heart and soul, Played nurse until the wound began To heal, and Giles was whole. But in the little forest cave The King learned many things Known to the meanest Christian slave, But secrets from the kings. For good Saint Giles had won his heart By his brave deed and bold, And ere the great King did depart His Christian faith he told. And while the red Deer stood beside, The King gave Giles his word That e'er a Christian he would bide, And keep what he had heard. And so the monarch rode away And left the two alone, Saint Giles a happy man that day, The good Deer still his own. Safe from the eager hunting horde The Saint would keep his friend, Protected by the King's own word Thenceforth unto the end. For unmolested in his cell, Careless of everything Giles with his friendly Deer could dwell Liege to a Christian King. THE WOLF-MOTHER OF SAINT AILBE THIS is the story of a poor little Irish baby whose cruel father and mother did not care anything about him. But because they could not sell him nor give him away they tried to lose him. They wrapped him in a piece of cloth and took him up on the mountain side, and there they left him lying all alone on a bush of heather. Now an old mother wolf was out taking her evening walk on the mountain after tending her babies in the den all day. And just as she was passing the heather bush she heard a faint, funny little cry. She pricked up her pointed ears and said, "What's that!" And lo and behold, when she came to sniff out the mystery with her keen nose, it led her straight to the spot where the little pink baby lay, crying with cold and hunger. The heart of the kind mother wolf was touched, for she thought of her own little ones at home, and how sad it would be to see them so helpless and lonely and forgotten. So she picked the baby up in her mouth carefully and ran home with him to her den in the rocks at the foot of the mountain. Here the little one, whose name was Ailbe, lived with the baby wolves, sharing their breakfast and dinner and supper, playing and quarreling and growing up with them. The wolf-mother took good care of him and saw that he had the best of everything, for she loved him dearly indeed. And Ailbe grew stronger and stronger, taller and taller, handsomer and handsomer every day, living his happy life in the wild woods of green Ireland. Now one day, a year or two after this, a hunter came riding over the mountain on his way home from the chase, and he happened to pass near the cave where Ailbe and the wolves lived. As he was riding along under the trees he saw a little white creature run across the path in front of him. At first he thought it was a rabbit; but it was too big for a rabbit, and besides it did not hop. The hunter jumped down from his horse and ran after the funny animal to find out what it was. His long legs soon overtook it in a clump of bushes where it was hiding, and imagine the hunter's surprise when he found that it had neither fur nor horns nor four feet nor a tail, but that it was a beautiful child who could not stand upright, and whose little bare body ran on all-fours like a baby wolf! It was little Ailbe, the wolf-mother's pet, who had grown so fast that he was almost able to take care of himself. But he was not quite able, the hunter thought; and he said to himself that he would carry the poor little thing home to his kind wife, that she might take care of him. So he caught Ailbe up in his arms, kicking and squealing and biting like the wild little animal he was, and wrapped him in a corner of his great cloak. Then he jumped on his horse with a chirrup and galloped away out of the woods towards his village. But Ailbe did not want to leave his forest home, the wolf-den, and his little wolf brothers. Especially he did not want to leave his dear foster mother. So he screamed and struggled to get away from the big hunter, and he called to the wolves in their own language to come and help him. Then out of the forest came bounding the great mother wolf with her four children, now grown to be nearly as big as herself. She chased after the fleeting horse and snapped at the loose end of the huntsman's cloak, howling with grief and anger. But she could not catch the thief, nor get back her adopted son, the little smooth-skinned foundling. So after following them for miles, the five wolves gradually dropped further and further behind. And at last, as he stretched out his little arms to them over the hunter's velvet shoulder, Ailbe saw them stop in the road panting, with one last howl of farewell. They had given up the hopeless chase. And with their tails between their legs and their heads drooping low they slunk back to their lonely den where they would never see their little boy playmate any more. It was a sad day for good wolf-mother. But the hunter carried little Ailbe home with him on the horse's back. And he found a new mother there to receive him. Ailbe never knew who his first mother was, but she must have been a bad, cruel woman. His second mother was the kind wolf. And this one, the third, was a beautiful Princess. For the hunter who had found the child was a Prince, and he lived in a grand castle by a lake near Tipperary, with hundreds of servants and horses and dogs and little pages for Ailbe to play with. And here he lived and was very happy; and here he learned all the things which in those days made a little boy grow up into a wise and great man. He grew up so wise and great that he was made a Bishop and had a palace of his own in the town of Emly. People came to see him from far and near, who made him presents, and asked him questions, and ate his dinners. But though he had grown so great and famous Ailbe had never forgotten his second mother, the good wolf, nor his four-footed brothers, in their coats of gray fur. And sometimes when his visitors were stupid and stayed a long time, or when they asked too many questions, or when they made him presents which he did not like, Ailbe longed to be back in the forest with the good beasts. For they had much more sense, though they had never kissed the Blarney Stone, which makes one talk good Irish. A great many years afterwards there was one day a huge hunt in Emly. All the lords for miles around were out chasing the wild beasts, and among them was the Prince, Ailbe's foster-father. But the Bishop himself was not with them. He did not see any sport in killing poor creatures. It was almost night, and the people of Emly were out watching for the hunters to return. The Bishop was coming down the village street on his way from church, when the sound of horns came over the hills close by, and he knew the chase was nearing home. Louder and louder came the "tantaratara!" of the horns, and then he could hear the gallopy thud of the horses' hoofs and the yelp of the hounds. But suddenly the Bishop's heart stood still. Among all the other noises of the chase he heard a sound which made him think--think--think. It was the long-drawn howl of a wolf, a sad howl of fear and weariness and pain. It spoke a language which he had almost forgotten. But hardly had he time to think again and to remember, before down the village street came a great gaunt figure, flying in long leaps from the foremost dogs who were snapping at her heels. It was Ailbe's wolf-mother. He recognized her as soon as he saw her green eyes and the patch of white on her right foreleg. And she recognized him, too,--how I cannot say, for he had changed greatly since she last saw him, a naked little sunbrowned boy. But at any rate, in his fine robes of purple and linen and rich lace, with the mitre on his head and the crozier in his hand, the wolf-mother knew her dear son. With a cry of joy she bounded up to him and laid her head on his breast, as if she knew he would protect her from the growling dogs and the fierce-eyed hunters. And the good Bishop was true to her. For he drew his beautiful velvet cloak about her tired, panting body, and laid his hand lovingly on her head. Then in the other he held up his crook warningly to keep back the ferocious dogs. "I will protect thee, old mother," he said tenderly. "When I was little and young and feeble, thou didst nourish and cherish and protect me; and now that thou art old and gray and weak, shall I not render the same love and care to thee? None shall injure thee." Then the hunters came tearing up on their foaming horses and stopped short to find what the matter was. Some of them were angry and wanted even now to kill the poor wolf, just as the dogs did who were prowling about snarling with disappointment. But Ailbe would have none of it. He forbade them to touch the wolf. And he was so powerful and wise and holy that they dared not disobey him, but had to be content with seeing their hunt spoiled and their prey taken out of their clutches. But before the hunters and their dogs rode away, Saint Ailbe had something more to say to them. And he bade all the curious townsfolk who had gathered about him and the wolf to listen also. He repeated the promise which he had made to the wolf, and warned every one thenceforth not to hurt her or her children, either in the village, or in the woods, or on the mountain. And turning to her once more he said:-- "See, mother, you need not fear. They dare not hurt you now you have found your son to protect you. Come every day with my brothers to my table, and you and yours shall share my food, as once I so often shared yours." And so it was. Every day after that so long as she lived the old wolf-mother brought her four children to the Bishop's palace and howled at the gate for the porter to let them in. And every day he opened to them, and the steward showed the five into the great dining hall where Ailbe sat at the head of the table, with five places set for the rest of the family. And there with her five dear children about her in a happy circle the kind wolf-mother sat and ate the good things which the Bishop's friends had sent him. But the child she loved best was none of those in furry coats and fine whiskers who looked like her; it was the blue-eyed Saint at the top of the table in his robes of purple and white. But Saint Ailbe would look about him at his mother and his brothers and would laugh contentedly. "What a handsome family we are!" he would say. And it was true. SAINT RIGOBERT'S DINNER SAINT RIGOBERT was hungry. He had eaten nothing that morning, neither had little Pierre, his serving lad, who trotted along before him on the road to Rheims. They were going to visit Wibert, the Deputy-Governor of Rheims, to pay him some money which the Bishop owed,--all the money which he had in the world. And that is why they had nothing left to buy them a breakfast, and why little Pierre gazed into the bakers' shops so hungrily and licked his lips as they passed. Good Saint Rigobert did not see the windows of buns and tarts and pasties as they went along, for his eyes were bent upon the ground and he was singing hymns over to himself under his breath. Still, he too was very faint. Saint Rigobert was poor. He was a good old Bishop; but the King of France did not love him, and had sent him away from the court and the big, rich city to live among the poor folk in the country. Saint Rigobert did not mind this very much, for he loved the pretty little village of Gernicour where he lived. He loved the people who dwelled there, too; and especially he loved Pierre, who had come to his home to be his little page and helper. The people of the village meant to be kind and generous; but they were mostly stupid folk who saw only what was in front of their noses. And they did not guess how very poor their dear Bishop was. They were poor, too, and had to be careful of their little bits of money. But they all had vegetables and milk and eggs and butter, and if every one had helped a little, as they ought,--for he was always doing kind things for them,--Saint Rigobert would not have gone hungry so often. It made the Bishop sorry to find them so careless, but he never complained. He would not tell them, nor beg them to help him, and often even little Pierre did not know how long he fasted. For he would give the boy all the supper and keep none himself. But he was always cheery and contented. He always had a kind word for the people as he passed them on the street. And when he went to the big town of Rheims near by he never complained to the Governor there about what a poor, miserable parish he lived in, or how little the people of Gernicour did for their Bishop. For he liked to believe that they did the best they could. And that is why, when the two came into Wibert's hall, Saint Rigobert paid the money to the Governor without a word of his hunger or his faintness. And even when he saw the great table laid for dinner and the smoking dishes brought in by a procession of serving men, he turned away resolutely and tried not to show how tempting the good things looked and smelled. He gathered up the folds of his robe, and taking his Bishop's staff in his hand, rose to go back to Gernicour and his dinnerless house. But as they were leaving the hall, Pierre trailing out very reluctantly with many a backward look, Wibert the governor called them back. Perhaps he had seen the longing in the eyes of little Pierre as the great haunch of venison was set on the board. Perhaps he had noticed how pale and hollow Saint Rigobert's cheeks were, and half guessed the cause. At all events he said kindly:-- "I pray thee, stay and dine with us, thou and the boy yonder. See, the meat is ready, and there is room for many more at table." But Saint Rigobert had a service to hold in the church at Gernicour, and knew they had barely time to reach home if they walked briskly. Besides, he was too proud to accept charity, and for the sake of his people he feared to let the Governor see how very hungry he was. "Nay," he answered gently, "I thank thee for thy courtesy, friend Wibert. But we may not tarry. The time scants us for a dinner before the service in the church at Gernicour, and we must hasten or we be late. Come, lad, we must be stirring anon." Tears of disappointment were standing in Pierre's eyes, he wanted so much to stay and have some of that good dinner. But he never thought of questioning his master's commands. The Governor pressed them to stay, but Rigobert was firm, and passed on to the door, Pierre following sulkily behind. But just as they reached the door there was a commotion outside, and the sound of quacking and men's laughter. And there came in a serving man bearing in his arms a great white goose, which was flapping his wings and cackling hoarsely in fright. "Ho, what have we here?" said the Governor crossly. "Why do you let such a commotion into my hall, you fellow?" "Please you, sir," answered the serving man as well as he could with the goose struggling in his arms, "this goose is a tribute from the widow Réné, and she begs your Honor to accept him as a poor present." "A poor present indeed," said the Governor testily. "What do I want of the creature? We have more fowls now than we know what to do with. I wish him not." Then an idea came into his head, and he turned to Saint Rigobert. "Why, reverend sir," he said laughing, "since you will not stay to dine with me, I prithee take this fat fellow home with you, for dinner in Gernicour. 'T will be a good riddance for us, in sooth." Saint Rigobert hesitated. But seeing the look of eagerness in Pierre's face he concluded to accept the gift, which was a common one enough in those days. "Grammercy for your courtesy, Master Wibert," he answered. "We take your bounty of the fine goose, since it seemeth that your tables have space for little more. Now then, Pierre lad, take up thy prey. And look he bite thee not," he added as the boy made haste to seize the great struggling bird. The goose pecked and squawked and flapped horribly while Pierre was getting his arms about him. But finally they were ready to start, Pierre going first with the goose who was nearly as big as himself, and the Bishop following grasping his staff, his eyes bent upon the ground. Pierre's heart was full of joy. He chuckled and laughed and could hardly wait till they should reach home, for thinking of the fine dinner at the end of the road. But Saint Rigobert had already forgotten the goose, he had so many other things to think about. That is the way he had taught himself to forget how hungry he was--he just thought about something else. But all on a sudden Rigobert was startled by a great cackle and a scream in front of him down the road. He looked up just in time to see a big white thing sailing away into the sky, and Pierre hopping up and down in the road screaming and crying. The Bishop overtook the little fellow quickly. "Lad, lad, hast thou lost thy goose?" he asked gently. "Oh Father," sobbed the boy, "our nice dinner! Your dinner, master! The wicked goose has flown away. Oh, what a careless boy I am to let him 'scape me so!" And he sat down on a stone and cried as if his heart would break. "Nay, nay," the good Bishop said, patting him on the head soothingly, "perhaps the poor goose did not want to be roasted, Pierre. Can you blame him for seeking his liberty instead? I find no fault with him; but I am sorry for thy dinner, lad. We must try to get something else. Cheer up, Pierre, let the white goose go. All will yet be well, lad." He made Pierre get up, still crying bitterly, and on they trudged again along the dusty road. But this time there was no dinner for them to look forward to, and the way seemed very long. Pierre dragged his feet heavily, and it seemed as if he could not go another step with that emptiness in his stomach and the ache in his head. But again Saint Rigobert began to hum his hymns softly under his breath, keeping time to the beat of his aged feet on the dusty road. The loss of his dinner seemed to trouble him little. Perhaps he was secretly glad that the poor goose had escaped; for he was very tender-hearted and loved not to have creatures killed, even for food. They had gone quite a little distance, and Rigobert began to sing louder and louder as they neared his church. When suddenly there came a strange sound in the air over his head. And then with a great fluttering a big white goose came circling down right before Saint Rigobert's feet. The good Saint stopped short in surprise, and Pierre, turning about, could hardly believe his eyes. But sure enough, there was the very same goose, looking up into Saint Rigobert's face and cackling as if trying to tell him something. "I didn't mean to run away," he seemed to say. "I didn't know you were hungry, holy man, and that I was taking away your dinner. Sing on and I will follow you home." Pierre turned and ran back to the goose and would have seized him by the neck so he could not get away again. But Saint Rigobert held up his finger warningly, and the boy stood still. "Do not touch him, Pierre," said the Bishop earnestly. "I do not think he will run away. Let us see." And sure enough, when they started on once more, Saint Rigobert still singing softly, Pierre, who kept glancing back, saw the goose waddling slowly at his master's heels. So the queer little procession came into Gernicour; and every one stopped along the streets with open mouths, wondering to see them pass. At last they reached the Bishop's house. And there Rigobert ceased his singing, and turning to the goose stroked his feathers gently and said:-- "Good friend, thou hast been faithful. Thou shalt be rewarded. Aye, ruffle up thy feathers, good goose, for they shall never be plucked from thee, nor shalt thou be cooked for food. Thou art my friend from to-day. No pen shall hold thee, but thou shalt follow me as thou wilt." And the Saint kept his promise. For after that the goose lived with him in happiness and peace. They would take long walks together in the fields about Gernicour. They made visits to the sick and the sorrowful. Indeed, wherever Saint Rigobert went the goose followed close at his heels like a dog. Even when Rigobert went again to see the Governor of Rheims, the goose waddled all the way there and back along the crooked road over part of which he had gone that first time in little Pierre's arms. And how the Governor did laugh as he stood in his door and watched the strange pair disappear down the road. "He could not have been very hungry after all," the Governor thought, "or I should never have seen that goose again." Which shows how little even a Governor knows about some things. More than this, whenever Rigobert went to hold service in his little church the goose escorted him there also. But he knew better than to go inside. He would wait by the porch, preening his feathers in the sunshine and snapping bugs in the grass of the churchyard until his dear master came out. And then he would escort him back home again. He was a very well-mannered goose. But dear me! All this time I have left poor little Pierre standing with a quivering chin outside the Bishop's door, hopeless of a dinner. But it all came right, just as the Bishop had said it would. I must tell you about that. For when Rigobert returned from church that same day feeling very faint and hungry indeed, after the long walk and the excitement of the goose-hap, Pierre came running out to meet him with a smiling face. "Oh Father, Father!" he cried. "We are to have a dinner, after all. Come quick, I am so hungry I cannot wait! The village folk have heard about the pious goose who came back to be your dinner, and how you would not eat him. And so they have sent us a basket of good things instead. And they promise that never again so long as they have anything to eat themselves shall we be hungry any more. Oh Father! I am so glad we did not eat the goose." And good Saint Rigobert laid his hand on Pierre's head and said, "Dear lad, you will never be sorry for showing kindness to a friendly bird or beast." Then the goose came quacking up to them and they all three went into the house together to eat their good, good dinner. SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI BAREFOOTED in the snow, bareheaded in the rain, Saint Francis wandered up and down the world smiling for the great love that was in his heart. And because it grew from love the smile of Saint Francis was a wonderful thing. It opened the hearts of men and coaxed the secrets of their thoughts. It led human folk whithersoever Saint Francis willed. It drew the beasts to his side and the birds to nestle in his bosom. It was like a magic charm. Great princes knew his smile and they obeyed its command to be generous and good. The sick and sorrowful knew his smile. It meant healing and comfort. Then they rose and blessed God in the name of Saint Francis. The wretched beggars in the streets of Assisi knew it. To them the smile of "the Lord's own beggar" meant help and sympathy. Like them he was poor and homeless, often ill and hungry. They wondered that he could smile. But he said, "It does not become a servant of God to have an air of melancholy and a face full of trouble." So they also tried to smile, poor fellows. But how different it was! The little lambs to whom he gave his special protection and care knew the smile of Saint Francis. Once he met two woolly lambkins who were being carried to market. He never had any money, but taking off his cloak, which was all he had to part with, he gave it to buy their lives. And he carried the lambs home in his bosom. The wilder beasts beyond the mountains, the fierce wolves and shy foxes of Syria and Spain whom he met in his wanderings knew Saint Francis. Here was a brother who was not afraid of them and whom they could trust in return, a brother who understood and sympathized. The birds in the trees knew also, and his coming was the signal of peace. Then they sang with Francis, but he was the sweetest singer of them all. Besides these living things the green fields of Italy, the trees, the meadows, the brooks, the flowers all knew the smile of Saint Francis. It meant to them many things which only a poet can tell. But Francis understood, for he was a poet. Upon all alike his face of love beamed tenderly. For Saint Francis of Assisi was a little brother of the whole great world and of all created things. Not only did his heart warm to Brother Sheep and Sister Bees, to his Brother Fish and his little Sisters the Doves, but he called the Sun and Wind his brothers and the Moon and Water his sisters. Of all the saints about whom the legends tell, Francis was the gentlest and most loving. And if "He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small," the prayers of Saint Francis must have been very dear to Him who "made and loveth all." * * * * * There was none so poor as Francis. Not a penny did he have, not a penny would he touch. Let them be given to those who could not smile, he said. His food he begged from door to door, broken crusts for a single poor meal; more he would not take. His sleeping place was the floor or the haymow, the ruined church, whatever lodging chance gave him. Oftenest he slept upon the bare ground with a stone for his pillow. He wanted to be poor because Christ was poor, and he was trying to live like his Master. In his coarse brown gown, tied about the waist with a rope, without hat or shoes he wandered singing, smiling. The love which beamed from him like radiance from a star shone back from every pair of eyes which looked into his own. For all the world loved Francis in the time of the Crusades. And even to-day, seven hundred years since that dear beggar passed cheerily up and down the rough Italian roads,--even to-day there are many who love him like a lost elder brother. Saint Francis preached to all lessons of charity and peace. His were simple words, for he had not the wisdom of many books. But he knew the book of the human heart from cover to cover. His words were like fire, they warmed and wakened. No one could resist the entreaty and the love that was in them. So thousands joined the Society of Little Brothers of which he was the founder, and became his helpers in works of charity and holiness. His church was out of doors in the beautiful world that he loved, in mountain, field, or forest, wherever he happened to be wandering. Sometimes he preached by the candle-light of stars. Often the cloistering trees along the roadside made his chapel, and the blue sky was the only roof between him and heaven. Often his choir was of the brother birds in the branches and his congregation a group of brother beasts. For he preached to them also who, though they spoke a different language, were yet children of his Father. And in his little talks to them he always showed the courtesy which one brother owes another. Once, on returning from a journey beyond the sea, he was traveling through the Venetian country, when he heard a great congregation of birds singing among the bushes. And he said to his companion, "Our sisters, the birds, are praising their Maker. Let us then go into their midst and sing." So they did this, and the birds did not fly away but continued to sing so loudly that the brothers could not hear each other. Then Saint Francis turned to the birds and said politely, "Sisters, cease your song until we have rendered our bounden praise to God." So the birds were still until the brothers had finished their psalm. But after that when it was again their turn the birds went on with their song. * * * * * At another time when he was preaching in the town of Alvia among the hills, the swallows flew about and twittered so loudly that the people could not hear Saint Francis' voice. The birds did not mean to be rude, however. So he turned to the swallows and saluted them courteously. "My sisters," he said, "it is now time that I should speak. Since you have had your say, listen now in your turn to the word of God and be silent till the sermon is finished." And again the birds obeyed the smile and the voice of him who loved them. Though whether they understood the grown-up sermon that followed, I cannot tell. But this is the little sermon which he made one day for a congregation of birds who sat around him in the bushes listening. "Brother Birds, greatly are ye bound to praise the Creator who clotheth you with feathers and giveth you wings to fly with and a purer air to breathe; and who careth for you who have so little care for yourselves." It was not a long sermon, so the birds could not have grown tired or sleepy, and I am sure they understood every word. So after he had given them his blessing he let them go, and they went singing as he had bidden them. * * * * * Saint Francis preached the lessons of peace; he would not have cruelty or bloodshed among his human friends. And he also taught his beasts to be kind. He loved best the gentle lambs, one of which was almost always with him, and in his sermons he would point to them to show men what their lives should be. But there is a story told of the lesson he taught a wolf that shows what power the Saint had over the fiercer animals. There are many stories of wolves whom the saints made tame. But this wolf of Saint Francis was the most terrible of them all. This huge and savage wolf had been causing great horror to the people of Gubbio. For in the night he not only stole sheep and cows from the farms, but he came and carried off men also for his dinner. So that people were afraid to go out of the town for fear of being gobbled up. Now Saint Francis came. And he said, "I will go out and seek this wolf." But the townsfolk begged him not to go, for the good man was dear to them and they feared never to see him again. However, he was resolved and went forth from the gate. He had gone but a little way when out rushed the wolf to meet him, with his mouth wide open, roaring horribly. Then Saint Francis made the sign of the cross and said gently:-- "Come hither, Brother Wolf. I command thee in Christ's behalf that thou do no evil to me nor to any one." And wonderful to say! The wolf grew tame and came like a lamb to lie at Saint Francis' feet. Then Francis went on to rebuke him, saying that he deserved to be hung for his many sins, being a robber and a wicked murderer of men and beasts. "But I wish, Brother Wolf," he said, "to make peace between thee and men; therefore vex them no more and they will pardon thee all thy past offenses, and neither dogs nor men will chase thee any more." At this the wolf wagged his tail and bowed his head to show he understood. And putting his right paw in the hand of Saint Francis he promised never again to steal nor slay. Then like a gentle dog he followed the holy man to the market-place of the town, where great crowds of people had gathered to see what Saint Francis would do with the great beast, their enemy, for they thought he was to be punished. But Francis rose and said to them:-- "Hearken, dear brethren: Brother Wolf who is here before you has promised me that he will make peace with you and will never injure you in any way, if ye promise to give him day by day what is needful for his dinner. And I will be surety for him." Thereupon with a great shout all the people promised to give him his daily food. Again the wolf wagged his tail, flapped his long ears, bowed his head, and gave his paw to Saint Francis to show that he would keep his word. All the people saw him do this. And then there were shouts of wonder you may be sure, and great rejoicing because Saint Francis had saved them from this cruel beast, and had made a gentle friend of their dreaded enemy. So after this the wolf lived two years at Gubbio and went about from door to door humbly begging his food like Saint Francis himself. He never harmed any one, not even the little children who teased and pulled him about. But all the people loved him and gave him what he liked to eat; and not even a dog would bark at his heels or growl at the friend of Saint Francis. So he lived to a good old age. And when after two years Brother Wolf died because he was so old, the citizens were very sorrowful. For not only did they miss the soft pat-pat of his steps passing through the city, but they grieved for the sorrow of Saint Francis in losing a kindly friend,--Saint Francis of whose saintliness and power the humble beast had been a daily reminder. * * * * * Francis could not bear to see a little brother in trouble or pain, and this the beasts knew very well. He would not willingly tread upon an insect, but would step aside and gently bid the Brother Worm depart in peace. The fish which a fisherman gave him he restored to the water, where it played about his boat and would not leave him till he bade it go. Once again in the village of Gubbio a live baby hare was brought him as a present, for his breakfast. But when Francis saw the frightened look of the little creature held in the arms of one of the brothers, his heart ached with sympathy. "Little Brother Leveret, come to me," he said. "Why hast thou let thyself be taken?" And the little fellow as if understanding the invitation jumped out of the friar's arms and ran to Francis, hiding in the folds of his gown. But when Francis took it out and set it free, very politely giving it permission to depart instead of staying to make a breakfast, it would not go. Again and again it returned nestling to its new-found friend, as if guessing that here at least it would be safe forever. But at last tenderly Saint Francis sent the good brother away with it into the wood, where it was safe once more among its little bob-tailed brothers and sisters. * * * * * Now after a life spent like Christ's in works of poverty, charity, and love, Saint Francis came at last to have one spot in the world which he could call his own. It was neither a church nor a convent, a cottage nor even a cell. It was only a bare and lonely mountain top where wild beasts lived and wild birds had a home. This retreat in the wilderness was the gift which Orlando, a rich nobleman, chose to make Saint Francis. And it was a precious gift indeed, sorely needed by the Lord's weary beggar. For he was worn with wandering; he was ill and weak, and his gentle eyes were growing dim so that he could not go along the winding ways. But he was happy still. [Illustration: SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI] So one warm September day he went with some of his chosen brethren to take possession of their new home. They left the villages, the farms, and at last even the scattered shepherds' huts far below and behind them, and came into the quiet of the Italian hills. They climbed and climbed over the rocks and along the ravines, till they came in sight of the bald summit where Francis was to dwell. And here in happy weariness he paused to rest under an oak-tree and look about upon the beautiful scene. But suddenly the air was filled with music, a chorus of trills and quavers and carols of the wildest joy. Then the air grew dark with whirring wings. The birds of the mountain were coming from everywhere to welcome home their brother. They flew to him by hundreds, perching on his head and shoulders; and when every other spot was covered they twittered into the hood of his brown mantle. The brothers stood about, wondering greatly, although they had seen Saint Francis in some such plight before. But the peasant who led the ass which had brought Saint Francis so far stood like one turned to stone, unable to believe his eyes. Here was a miracle the like of which he had never dreamed. But Saint Francis was filled with gladness. "Dearest brethren," he said, "I think it must be pleasant to our Lord that we should dwell in this solitary place, since our brothers and sisters the birds are so glad of our coming." And indeed, how could they help being glad of his coming, the dear, kind Saint? And how they hovered around the shelter of branches which the brethren built for him under a beech-tree on the very mountain top! One can picture them at morning, noon, and night joining in his songs of praise, or keeping polite silence while the holy man talked with God. Many wonderful things happened upon the Monte Alverno while Saint Francis dwelt there. But none were more wonderful than the great love of Francis himself; his love which was so big and so wide that it wrapped the whole round world, binding all creatures more closely in a common brotherhood. So that every man and every bird and every beast that lives ought to love the name of that dear Saint, their childlike, simple, happy little brother, Saint Francis of Assisi. HERE THE BOOK OF SAINTS & FRIENDLY BEASTS ENDS A CALENDAR Here follow the Days of the Saints and their Beasts Jan. 4. Saint Rigobert. Jan. 13. Saint Kentigern. Jan. 14. Saint Felix. Jan. 18. Saint Prisca. Jan. 19. Saint Launomar. Feb. 1. Saint Bridget. Feb. 3. {Saint Werburgh {Saint Blaise. Feb. 9. Saint Athracta. Feb. 14. Saint Berach. March 5. Saint Gerasimus. March 20. Saint Cuthbert. April 14. Saint Fronto. May 10. Saint Comgall. June 6. Saint Gudwall. June 17. Saint Hervé. August 1. Saint Keneth. Sept. 1. Saint Giles. Sept. 12. Saint Ailbe. Oct. 4. Saint Francis. [Illustration] =The Riverside Press= ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY H.O. HOUGHTON & CO. CAMBRIDGE, MASS. U. S. A. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 60-61, word split across pages had a dittograph. Extra "pro" was removed (she heard a prodigious) Original read: (she heard a pro-{page break}prodigious) Page 62, a paragraph break was inserted in the text before the line beginning: "A fox must have stolen it," he said guiltily. 
32601	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) [Illustration: Hale-a-ka-la Crater, the House of the Sun.] LEGENDS OF MA-UI--A DEMI GOD OF POLYNESIA AND OF HIS MOTHER HINA. BY W. D. WESTERVELT. HONOLULU: THE HAWAIIAN GAZETTE CO., LTD. 1910 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Maui's Home 3 II. Maui the Fisherman 12 III. Maui Lifting the Sky 31 IV. Maui Snaring the Sun 40 V. Maui Finding Fire 56 VI. Maui the Skillful 78 VII. Maui and Tuna 91 VIII. Maui and His Brother-in-Law 101 IX. Maui's Kite-Flying 112 X. Oahu Legends of Maui 119 XI. Maui Seeking Immortality 128 XII. Hina of Hilo 139 XIII. Hina and the Wailuku River 146 XIV. The Ghosts of the Hilo Hills 155 XV. Hina, the Woman in the Moon 165 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS OPPOSITE PAGE Frontispiece--Haleakala Crater "Rugged Lava of Wailuku River" 7 Leaping to Swim to Coral Reefs 12 Sea of Sacred Caves 14 Spearing Fish 21 Here are the Canoes 29 Iao Mountain from the Sea 43 Haleakala 53 Hawaiian Vines and Bushes 74 Bathing Pool 84 Coconut Grove 96 Boiling Pots--Wailuku River 100 Outside were other Worlds 107 Hilo Coast--Home of the Winds 115 Bay of Waipio Valley 121 The Ieie Vine 125 Rainbow Falls 147 Wailuku River--The Home of Kuna 151 On Lava Beds 163 HELPS TO PRONUNCIATION There are three simple rules which practically control Hawaiian pronunciation: (1) Give each vowel the German sound. (2) Pronounce each vowel. (3) Never allow a consonant to close a syllable. Interchangeable consonants are many. The following are the most common: h=s; l=r; k=t; n=ng; v=w. PREFACE Maui is a demi god whose name should probably be pronounced Ma-u-i, _i. e._, Ma-oo-e. The meaning of the word is by no means clear. It may mean "to live," "to subsist." It may refer to beauty and strength, or it may have the idea of "the left hand" or "turning aside." The word is recognized as belonging to remote Polynesian antiquity. MacDonald, a writer of the New Hebrides Islands, gives the derivation of the name Maui primarily from the Arabic word "Mohyi," which means "causing to live" or "life," applied sometimes to the gods and sometimes to chiefs as "preservers and sustainers" of their followers. The Maui story probably contains a larger number of unique and ancient myths than that of any other legendary character in the mythology of any nation. There are three centers for these legends, New Zealand in the south, Hawaii in the north, and the Tahitian group including the Hervey Islands in the east. In each of these groups of islands, separated by thousands of miles, there are the same legends, told in almost the same way, and with very little variation in names. The intermediate groups of islands of even as great importance as Tonga, Fiji or Samoa, possess the same legends in more or less of a fragmentary condition, as if the three centers had been settled first when the Polynesians were driven away from the Asiatic coasts by their enemies, the Malays. From these centers voyagers sailing away in search of adventures would carry fragments rather than complete legends. This is exactly what has been done and there are as a result a large number of hints of wonderful deeds. The really long legends as told about the demi god Ma-u-i and his mother Hina number about twenty. It is remarkable that these legends have kept their individuality. The Polynesians are not a very clannish people. For some centuries they have not been in the habit of frequently visiting each other. They have had no written language, and picture writing of any kind is exceedingly rare throughout Polynesia and yet in physical traits, national customs, domestic habits, and language, as well as in traditions and myths, the different inhabitants of the islands of Polynesia are as near of kin as the cousins of the United States and Great Britain. The Maui legends form one of the strongest links in the mythological chain of evidence which binds the scattered inhabitants of the Pacific into one nation. An incomplete list aids in making clear the fact that groups of islands hundreds and even thousands of miles apart have been peopled centuries past by the same organic race. Either complete or fragmentary Maui legends are found in the single islands and island groups of Aneityum, Bowditch or Fakaofa, Efate, Fiji, Fotuna, Gilbert, Hawaii, Hervey, Huahine, Mangaia, Manihiki, Marquesas, Marshall, Nauru, New Hebrides, New Zealand, Samoa, Savage, Tahiti or Society, Tauna, Tokelau and Tonga. S. Percy Smith of New Zealand in his book Hawaiki mentions a legend according to which Maui made a voyage after overcoming a sea monster, visiting the Tongas, the Tahitian group, Vai-i or Hawaii, and the Paumotu Islands. Then Maui went on to U-peru, which Mr. Smith says "may be Peru." It was said that Maui named some of the islands of the Hawaiian group, calling the island Maui "Maui-ui in remembrance of his efforts in lifting up the heavens." Hawaii was named Vai-i, and Lanai was called Ngangai--as if Maui had found the three most southerly islands of the group. The Maui legends possess remarkable antiquity. Of course, it is impossible to give any definite historical date, but there can scarcely be any question of their origin among the ancestors of the Polynesians before they scattered over the Pacific ocean. They belong to the prehistoric Polynesians. The New Zealanders claim Maui as an ancestor of their most ancient tribes and sometimes class him among the most ancient of their gods, calling him "creator of land" and "creator of man." Tregear, in a paper before the New Zealand Institute, said that Maui was sometimes thought to be "the sun himself," "the solar fire," "the sun god," while his mother Hina was called "the moon goddess." The noted greenstone god of the Maoris of New Zealand, Potiki, may well be considered a representation of Maui-Tiki-Tiki, who was sometimes called Maui-po-tiki. Whether these legends came to the people in their sojourn in India before they migrated to the Straits of Sunda is not certain; but it may well be assumed that these stories had taken firm root in the memories of the priests who transmitted the most important traditions from generation to generation, and that this must have been done before they were driven away from the Asiatic coasts by the Malays. Several hints of Hindoo connection is found in the Maui legends. The Polynesians not only ascribed human attributes to all animal life with which they were acquainted, but also carried the idea of an alligator or dragon with them, wherever they went, as in the mo-o of the story Tuna-roa. The Polynesians also had the idea of a double soul inhabiting the body. This is carried out in the ghost legends more fully than in the Maui stories, and yet "the spirit separate from the spirit which never forsakes man" according to Polynesian ideas, was a part of the Maui birth legends. This spirit, which can be separated or charmed away from the body by incantations was called the "hau." When Maui's father performed the religious ceremonies over him which would protect him and cause him to be successful, he forgot a part of his incantation to the "hau," therefore Maui lost his protection from death when he sought immortality for himself and all mankind. How much these things aid in proving a Hindoo or rather Indian origin for the Polynesians is uncertain, but at least they are of interest along the lines of race origin. The Maui group of legends is preëminently peculiar. They are not only different from the myths of other nations, but they are unique in the character of the actions recorded. Maui's deeds rank in a higher class than most of the mighty efforts of the demi gods of other nations and races, and are usually of more utility. Hercules accomplished nothing to compare with "lifting the sky," "snaring the sun," "fishing for islands," "finding fire in his grandmother's finger nails," or "learning from birds how to make fire by rubbing dry sticks," or "getting a magic bone" from the jaw of an ancestor who was half dead, that is dead on one side and therefore could well afford to let the bone on that side go for the benefit of a descendant. The Maui legends are full of helpful imaginations, which are distinctly Polynesian. The phrase "Maui of the Malo" is used among the Hawaiians in connection with the name Maui a Kalana, "Maui the son of Akalana." It may be well to note the origin of the name. It was said that Hina usually sent her retainers to gather sea moss for her, but one morning she went down to the sea by herself. There she found a beautiful red malo, which she wrapped around her as a pa-u or skirt. When she showed it to Akalana, her husband, he spoke of it as a gift of the gods, thinking that it meant the gift of Mana or spiritual power to their child when he should be born. In this way the Hawaiians explain the superior talent and miraculous ability of Maui which placed him above his brothers. These stories were originally printed as magazine articles, chiefly in the Paradise of the Pacific, Honolulu; therefore there are sometimes repetitions which it seemed best to leave, even when reprinted in the present form. I. MAUI'S HOME "Akalana was the man; Hina-a-ke-ahi was the wife; Maui First was born; Then Maui-waena; Maui Kiikii was born; Then Maui of the malo." --Queen Liliuokalani's Family Chant. Four brothers, each bearing the name of Maui, belong to Hawaiian legend. They accomplished little as a family, except on special occasions when the youngest of the household awakened his brothers by some unexpected trick which drew them into unwonted action. The legends of Hawaii, Tonga, Tahiti, New Zealand and the Hervey group make this youngest Maui "the discoverer of fire" or "the ensnarer of the sun" or "the fisherman who pulls up islands" or "the man endowed with magic," or "Maui with spirit power." The legends vary somewhat, of course, but not as much as might be expected when the thousands of miles between various groups of islands are taken into consideration. Maui was one of the Polynesian demi-gods. His parents belonged to the family of supernatural beings. He himself was possessed of supernatural powers and was supposed to make use of all manner of enchantments. In New Zealand antiquity a Maui was said to have assisted other gods in the creation of man. Nevertheless Maui was very human. He lived in thatched houses, had wives and children, and was scolded by the women for not properly supporting his household. The time of his sojourn among men is very indefinite. In Hawaiian genealogies Maui and his brothers were placed among the descendants of Ulu and "the sons of Kii," and Maui was one of the ancestors of Kamehameha, the first king of the united Hawaiian Islands. This would place him in the seventh or eighth century of the Christian Era. But it is more probable that Maui belongs to the mist-land of time. His mischievous pranks with the various gods would make him another Mercury living in any age from the creation to the beginning of the Christian era. The Hervey Island legends state that Maui's father was "the supporter of the heavens" and his mother "the guardian of the road to the invisible world." In the Hawaiian chant, Akalana was the name of his father. In other groups this was the name by which his mother was known. Kanaloa, the god, is sometimes known as the father of Maui. In Hawaii Hina was his mother. Elsewhere Ina, or Hina, was the grandmother, from whom he secured fire. The Hervey Island legends say that four mighty ones lived in the old world from which their ancestors came. This old world bore the name Ava-iki, which is the same as Hawa-ii, or Hawaii. The four gods were Mauike, Ra, Ru, and Bua-Taranga. It is interesting to trace the connection of these four names with Polynesian mythology. Mauike is the same as the demi-god of New Zealand, Mafuike. On other islands the name is spelled Mauika, Mafuika, Mafuia, Mafuie, and Mahuika. Ra, the sun god of Egypt, is the same as Ra in New Zealand and La (sun) in Hawaii. Ru, the supporter of the heavens, is probably the Ku of Hawaii, and the Tu of New Zealand and other islands, one of the greatest of the gods worshiped by the ancient Hawaiians. The fourth mighty one from Ava-ika was a woman, Bua-taranga, who guarded the path to the underworld. Talanga in Samoa, and Akalana in Hawaii were the same as Taranga. Pua-kalana (the Kalana flower) would probably be the same in Hawaiian as Bua-taranga in the language of the Society Islands. Ru, the supporter of the Heavens, married Bua-taranga, the guardian of the lower world. Their one child was Maui. The legends of Raro-Tonga state that Maui's father and mother were the children of Tangaroa (Kanaloa in Hawaiian), the great god worshiped throughout Polynesia. There were three Maui brothers and one sister, Ina-ika (Ina, the fish). The New Zealand legends relate the incidents of the babyhood of Maui. Maui was prematurely born, and his mother, not caring to be troubled with him, cut off a lock of her hair, tied it around him and cast him into the sea. In this way the name came to him, Maui-Tiki-Tiki, or "Maui formed in the topknot." The waters bore him safely. The jelly fish enwrapped and mothered him. The god of the seas cared for and protected him. He was carried to the god's house and hung up in the roof that he might feel the warm air of the fire, and be cherished into life. When he was old enough, he came to his relations while they were all gathered in the great House of Assembly, dancing and making merry. Little Maui crept in and sat down behind his brothers. Soon his mother called the children and found a strange child, who proved that he was her son, and was taken in as one of the family. Some of the brothers were jealous, but the eldest addressed the others as follows: "Never mind; let him be our dear brother. In the days of peace remember the proverb, 'When you are on friendly terms, settle your disputes in a friendly way; when you are at war, you must redress your injuries by violence.' It is better for us, brothers, to be kind to other people. These are the ways by which men gain influence--by laboring for abundance of food to feed others, by collecting property to give to others, and by similar means by which you promote the good of others." [Illustration: Rugged Lava of Wailuku River.] Thus, according to the New Zealand story related by Sir George Grey, Maui was received in his home. Maui's home was placed by some of the Hawaiian myths at Kauiki, a foothill of the great extinct crater Haleakala, on the Island of Maui. It was here he lived when the sky was raised to its present position. Here was located the famous fort around which many battles were fought during the years immediately preceding the coming of Captain Cook. This fort was held by warriors of the Island of Hawaii a number of years. It was from this home that Maui was supposed to have journeyed when he climbed Mt. Haleakala to ensnare the sun. And yet most of the Hawaiian legends place Maui's home by the rugged black lava beds of the Wailuku river near Hilo on the island Hawaii. Here he lived when he found the way to make fire by rubbing sticks together, and when he killed Kuna, the great eel, and performed other feats of valor. He was supposed to cultivate the land on the north side of the river. His mother, usually known as Hina, had her home in a lava cave under the beautiful Rainbow Falls, one of the fine scenic attractions of Hilo. An ancient demigod, wishing to destroy this home, threw a great mass of lava across the stream below the falls. The rising water was fast filling the cave. Hina called loudly to her powerful son Maui. He came quickly and found that a large and strong ridge of lava lay across the stream. One end rested against a small hill. Maui struck the rock on the other side of the hill and thus broke a new pathway for the river. The water swiftly flowed away and the cave remained as the home of the Maui family. According to the King Kalakaua family legend, translated by Queen Liliuokalani, Maui and his brothers also made this place their home. Here he aroused the anger of two uncles, his mother's brothers, who were called "Tall Post" and "Short Post," because they guarded the entrance to a cave in which the Maui family probably had its home. "They fought hard with Maui, and were thrown, and red water flowed freely from Maui's forehead. This was the first shower by Maui." Perhaps some family discipline followed this knocking down of door posts, for it is said: "They fetched the sacred Awa bush, Then came the second shower by Maui; The third shower was when the elbow of Awa was broken; The fourth shower came with the sacred bamboo." Maui's mother, so says a New Zealand legend, had her home in the under-world as well as with her children. Maui determined to find the hidden dwelling place. His mother would meet the children in the evening and lie down to sleep with them and then disappear with the first appearance of dawn. Maui remained awake one night, and when all were asleep, arose quietly and stopped up every crevice by which a ray of light could enter. The morning came and the sun mounted up--far up in the sky. At last his mother leaped up and tore away the things which shut out the light. "Oh, dear; oh, dear! She saw the sun high in the heavens; so she hurried away, crying at the thought of having been so badly treated by her own children." Maui watched her as she pulled up a tuft of grass and disappeared in the earth, pulling the grass back to its place. Thus Maui found the path to the under-world. Soon he transformed himself into a pigeon and flew down, through the cave, until he saw a party of people under a sacred tree, like those growing in the ancient first Hawaii. He flew to the tree and threw down berries upon the people. They threw back stones. At last he permitted a stone from his father to strike him, and he fell to the ground. "They ran to catch him, but lo! the pigeon had turned into a man." Then his father "took him to the water to be baptized" (possibly a modern addition to the legend). Prayers were offered and ceremonies passed through. But the prayers were incomplete and Maui's father knew that the gods would be angry and cause Maui's death, and all because in the hurried baptism a part of the prayers had been left unsaid. Then Maui returned to the upper world and lived again with his brothers. Maui commenced his mischievous life early, for Hervey Islanders say that one day the children were playing a game dearly loved by Polynesians--hide-and-seek. Here a sister enters into the game and hides little Maui under a pile of dry sticks. His brothers could not find him, and the sister told them where to look. The sticks were carefully handled, but the child could not be found. He had shrunk himself so small that he was like an insect under some sticks and leaves. Thus early he began to use enchantments. Maui's home, at the best, was only a sorry affair. Gods and demigods lived in caves and small grass houses. The thatch rapidly rotted and required continual renewal. In a very short time the heavy rains beat through the decaying roof. The home was without windows or doors, save as low openings in the ends or sides allowed entrance to those willing to crawl through. Off on one side would be the rude shelter, in the shadow of which Hina pounded the bark of certain trees into wood pulp and then into strips of thin, soft wood-paper, which bore the name of "Tapa cloth." This cloth Hina prepared for the clothing of Maui and his brothers. Tapa cloth was often treated to a coat of cocoa-nut, or candle-nut oil, making it somewhat waterproof and also more durable. Here Maui lived on edible roots and fruits and raw fish, knowing little about cooked food, for the art of fire making was not yet known. In later years Maui was supposed to live on the eastern end of the island Maui, and also in another home on the large island Hawaii, on which he discovered how to make fire by rubbing dry sticks together. Maui was the Polynesian Mercury. As a little fellow he was endowed with peculiar powers, permitting him to become invisible or to change his human form into that of an animal. He was ready to take anything from any one by craft or force. Nevertheless, like the thefts of Mercury, his pranks usually benefited mankind. It is a little curious that around the different homes of Maui, there is so little record of temples and priests and altars. He lived too far back for priestly customs. His story is the rude, mythical survival of the days when of church and civil government there was none and worship of the gods was practically unknown, but every man was a law unto himself, and also to the other man, and quick retaliation followed any injury received. II. MAUI THE FISHERMAN "Oh the great fish hook of Maui! Manai-i-ka-lani 'Made fast to the heavens'--its name; An earth-twisted cord ties the hook. Engulfed from the lofty Kauiki. Its bait the red billed Alae, The bird made sacred to Hina. It sinks far down to Hawaii, Struggling and painfully dying. Caught is the land under the water, Floated up, up to the surface, But Hina hid a wing of the bird And broke the land under the water. Below, was the bait snatched away And eaten at once by the fishes, The Ulua of the deep muddy places." --Chant of Kualii, about A. D. 1700. One of Maui's homes was near Kauiki, a place well known throughout the Hawaiian Islands because of its strategic importance. For many years it was the site of a fort around which fierce battles were fought by the natives of the island Maui, repelling the invasions of their neighbors from Hawaii. [Illustration: Leaping to Swim to Coral Reefs.] Haleakala (the House of the Sun), the mountain from which Maui the demi-god snared the sun, looks down ten thousand feet upon the Kauiki headland. Across the channel from Haleakala rises Mauna Kea, "The White Mountain"--the snow-capped--which almost all the year round rears its white head in majesty among the clouds. In the snowy breakers of the surf which washes the beach below these mountains, are broken coral reefs--the fishing grounds of the Hawaiians. Here near Kauiki, according to some Hawaiian legends, Maui's mother Hina had her grass house and made and dried her kapa cloth. Even to the present day it is one of the few places in the islands where the kapa is still pounded into sheets from the bark of the hibiscus and kindred trees. Here is a small bay partially reef-protected, over which year after year the moist clouds float and by day and by night crown the waters with rainbows--the legendary sign of the home of the deified ones. Here when the tide is out the natives wade and swim, as they have done for centuries, from coral block to coral block, shunning the deep resting places of their dread enemy, the shark, sometimes esteemed divine. Out on the edge of the outermost reef they seek the shellfish which cling to the coral, or spear the large fish which have been left in the beautiful little lakes of the reef. Coral land is a region of the sea coast abounding in miniature lakes and rugged valleys and steep mountains. Clear waters with every motion of the tide surge in and out through sheltered caves and submarine tunnels, according to an ancient Hawaiian song-- "Never quiet, never failing, never sleeping, Never very noisy is the sea of the sacred caves." Sea mosses of many hues are the forests which drape the hillsides of coral land and reflect the colored rays of light which pierce the ceaselessly moving waves. Down in the beautiful little lakes, under overhanging coral cliffs, darting in and out through the fringes of seaweed, the purple mullet and royal red fish flash before the eyes of the fisherman. Sometimes the many-tinted glorious fish of paradise reveal their beauties, and then again a school of black and gold citizens of the reef follow the tidal waves around projecting crags and through the hidden tunnels from lake to lake, while above the fisherman follows spearing or snaring as best he can. Maui's brothers were better fishermen than he. They sought the deep sea beyond the reef and the larger fish. They made hooks of bone or of mother of pearl, with a straight, slender, sharp-pointed piece leaning backward at a sharp angle. This was usually a consecrated bit of bone or mother of pearl, and was supposed to have peculiar power to hold fast any fish which had taken the bait. [Illustration: In the Sea of Sacred Caves.] These bones were usually taken from the body of some one who while living had been noted for great power or high rank. This sharp piece was tightly tied to the larger bone or shell, which formed the shank of the hook. The sacred barb of Maui's hook was a part of the magic bone he had secured from his ancestors in the under-world--the bone with which he struck the sun while lassooing him and compelling him to move more slowly through the heavens. "Earth-twisted"--fibres of vines--twisted while growing, was the cord used by Maui in tying the parts of his magic hook together. Long and strong were the fish lines made from the olona fibre, holding the great fish caught from the depths of the ocean. The fibres of the olona vine were among the longest and strongest threads found in the Hawaiian Islands. Such a hook could easily be cast loose by the struggling fish, if the least opportunity were given. Therefore it was absolutely necessary to keep the line taut, and pull strongly and steadily, to land the fish in the canoe. Maui did not use his magic hook for a long time. He seemed to understand that it would not answer ordinary needs. Possibly the idea of making the supernatural hook did not occur to him until he had exhausted his lower wit and magic upon his brothers. It is said that Maui was not a very good fisherman. Sometimes his end of the canoe contained fish which his brothers had thought were on their hooks until they were landed in the canoe. Many times they laughed at him for his poor success, and he retaliated with his mischievous tricks. "E!" he would cry, when one of his brothers began to pull in, while the other brothers swiftly paddled the canoe forward. "E!" See we both have caught great fish at the same moment. Be careful now. Your line is loose. "Look out! Look out!" All the time he would be pulling his own line in as rapidly as possible. Onward rushed the canoe. Each fisherman shouting to encourage the others. Soon the lines by the tricky manipulation of Maui would be crossed. Then as the great fish was brought near the side of the boat Maui the little, the mischievous one, would slip his hook toward the head of the fish and flip it over into the canoe--causing his brother's line to slacken for a moment. Then his mournful cry rang out: "Oh, my brother, your fish is gone. Why did you not pull more steadily? It was a fine fish, and now it is down deep in the waters." Then Maui held up his splendid catch (from his brother's hook) and received somewhat suspicious congratulations. But what could they do, Maui was the smart one of the family. Their father and mother were both members of the household of the gods. The father was "the supporter of the heavens" and the mother was "the guardian of the way to the invisible world," but pitifully small and very few were the gifts bestowed upon their children. Maui's brothers knew nothing beyond the average home life of the ordinary Hawaiian, and Maui alone was endowed with the power to work miracles. Nevertheless the student of Polynesian legends learns that Maui is more widely known than almost all the demi-gods of all nations as a discoverer of benefits for his fellows, and these physical rather than spiritual. After many fishing excursions Maui's brothers seemed to have wit enough to understand his tricks, and thenceforth they refused to take him in their canoe when they paddled out to the deep-sea fishing grounds. Then those who depended upon Maui to supply their daily needs murmured against his poor success. His mother scolded him and his brothers ridiculed him. In some of the Polynesian legends it is said that his wives and children complained because of his laziness and at last goaded him into a new effort. The ex-Queen Liliuokalani, in a translation of what is called "the family chant," says that Maui's mother sent him to his father for a hook with which to supply her need. "Go hence to your father, 'Tis there you find line and hook. This is the hook--'Made fast to the heavens--' 'Manaia-ka-lani'--'tis called. When the hook catches land It brings the old seas together. Bring hither the large Alae, The bird of Hina." When Maui had obtained his hook, he tried to go fishing with his brothers. He leaped on the end of their canoe as they pushed out into deep water. They were angry and cried out: "This boat is too small for another Maui." So they threw him off and made him swim back to the beach. When they returned from their day's work, they brought back only a shark. Maui told them if he had been with them better fish would have been upon their hooks--the Ulua, for instance, or, possibly, the Pimoe--the king of fish. At last they let him go far out outside the harbor of Kipahula to a place opposite Ka Iwi o Pele, "The bone of Pele," a peculiar piece of lava lying near the beach at Hana on the eastern side of the island Maui. There they fished, but only sharks were caught. The brothers ridiculed Maui, saying: "Where are the Ulua, and where is Pimoe?" Then Maui threw his magic hook into the sea, baited with one of the Alae birds, sacred to his mother Hina. He used the incantation, "When I let go my hook with divine power, then I get the great Ulua." The bottom of the sea began to move. Great waves arose, trying to carry the canoe away. The fish pulled the canoe two days, drawing the line to its fullest extent. When the slack began to come in the line, because of the tired fish, Maui called for the brothers to pull hard against the coming fish. Soon land rose out of the water. Maui told them not to look back or the fish would be lost. One brother did look back--the line slacked, snapped, and broke, and the land lay behind them in islands. One of the Hawaiian legends also says that while the brothers were paddling in full strength, Maui saw a calabash floating in the water. He lifted it into the canoe, and behold! his beautiful sister Hina of the sea. The brothers looked, and the separated islands lay behind them, free from the hook, while Cocoanut Island--the dainty spot of beauty in Hilo harbor--was drawn up--a little ledge of lava--in later years the home of a cocoanut grove. The better, the more complete, legend comes from New Zealand, which makes Maui so mischievous that his brothers refuse his companionship--and therefore, thrown on his own resources, he studies how to make a hook which shall catch something worth while. In this legend Maui is represented as making his own hook and then pleading with his brothers to let him go with them once more. But they hardened their hearts against him, and refused again and again. Maui possessed the power of changing himself into different forms. At one time while playing with his brothers he had concealed himself for them to find. They heard his voice in a corner of the house--but could not find him. Then under the mats on the floor, but again they could not find him. There was only an insect creeping on the floor. Suddenly they saw their little brother where the insect had been. Then they knew he had been tricky with them. So in these fishing days he resolved to go back to his old ways and cheat his brothers into carrying him with them to the great fishing grounds. Sir George Gray says that the New Zealand Maui went out to the canoe and concealed himself as an insect in the bottom of the boat so that when the early morning light crept over the waters and his brothers pushed the canoe into the surf they could not see him. They rejoiced that Maui did not appear, and paddled away over the waters. They fished all day and all night and on the morning of the next day, out from among the fish in the bottom of the boat came their troublesome brother. They had caught many fine fish and were satisfied, so thought to paddle homeward; but their younger brother plead with them to go out, far out, to the deeper seas and permit him to cast his hook. He said he wanted larger and better fish than any they had captured. [Illustration: Spearing Fish.] So they paddled to their outermost fishing grounds--but this did not satisfy Maui-- "Farther out on the waters, O! my brothers, I seek the great fish of the sea." It was evidently easier to work for him than to argue with him--therefore far out in the sea they went. The home land disappeared from view; they could see only the outstretching waste of waters. Maui urged them out still farther. Then he drew his magic hook from under his malo or loin-cloth. The brothers wondered what he would do for bait. The New Zealand legend says that he struck his nose a mighty blow until the blood gushed forth. When this blood became clotted, he fastened it upon his hook and let it down into the deep sea. Down it went to the very bottom and caught the under world. It was a mighty fish--but the brothers paddled with all their might and main and Maui pulled in the line. It was hard rowing against the power which held the hook down in the sea depths--but the brothers became enthusiastic over Maui's large fish, and were generous in their strenuous endeavors. Every muscle was strained and every paddle held strongly against the sea that not an inch should be lost. There was no sudden leaping and darting to and fro, no "give" to the line; no "tremble" as when a great fish would shake itself in impotent wrath when held captive by a hook. It was simply a struggle of tense muscle against an immensely heavy dead weight. To the brothers there came slowly the feeling that Maui was in one of his strange moods and that something beyond their former experiences with their tricky brother was coming to pass. At last one of the brothers glanced backward. With a scream of intense terror he dropped his paddle. The others also looked. Then each caught his paddle and with frantic exertion tried to force their canoe onward. Deep down in the heavy waters they pushed their paddles. Out of the great seas the black, ragged head of a large island was rising like a fish--it seemed to be chasing them through the boiling surf. In a little while the water became shallow around them, and their canoe finally rested on a black beach. Maui for some reason left his brothers, charging them not to attempt to cut up this great fish. But the unwise brothers thought they would fill the canoe with part of this strange thing which they had caught. They began to cut up the back and put huge slices into their canoe. But the great fish--the island--shook under the blows and with mighty earthquake shocks tossed the boat of the brothers, and their canoe was destroyed. As they were struggling in the waters, the great fish devoured them. The island came up more and more from the waters--but the deep gashes made by Maui's brothers did not heal--they became the mountains and valleys stretching from sea to sea. White of New Zealand says that Maui went down into the underworld to meet his great ancestress, who was one side dead and one side alive. From the dead side he took the jaw bone, made a magic hook, and went fishing. When he let the hook down into the sea, he called: "Take my bait. O Depths! Confused you are. O Depths! And coming upward." Thus he pulled up Ao-tea-roa--one of the large islands of New Zealand. On it were houses, with people around them. Fires were burning. Maui walked over the island, saw with wonder the strange men and the mysterious fire. He took fire in his hands and was burned. He leaped into the sea, dived deep, came up with the other large island on his shoulders. This island he set on fire and left it always burning. It is said that the name for New Zealand given to Captain Cook was Te ika o Maui, "The fish of Maui." Some New Zealand natives say that he fished up the island on which dwelt "Great Hina of the Night," who finally destroyed Maui while he was seeking immortality. One legend says that Maui fished up apparently from New Zealand the large island of the Tongas. He used this chant: "O Tonga-nui! Why art Thou Sulkily biting, biting below? Beneath the earth The power is felt, The foam is seen, Coming. O thou loved grandchild Of Tangaroa-meha." This is an excellent poetical description of the great fish delaying the quick hard bite. Then the island comes to the surface and Maui, the beloved grandchild of the Polynesian god Kanaloa, is praised. It was part of one of the legends that Maui changed himself into a bird and from the heavens let down a line with which he drew up land, but the line broke, leaving islands rather than a mainland. About two hundred lesser gods went to the new islands in a large canoe. The greater gods punished them by making them mortal. Turner, in his book on Samoa, says there were three Mauis, all brothers. They went out fishing from Rarotonga. One of the brothers begged the "goddess of the deep rocks" to let his hooks catch land. Then the island Manahiki was drawn up. A great wave washed two of the Mauis away. The other Maui found a great house in which eight hundred gods lived. Here he made his home until a chief from Rarotonga drove him away. He fled into the sky, but as he leaped he separated the land into two islands. Other legends of Samoa say that Tangaroa, the great god, rolled stones from heaven. One became the island Savaii, the other became Upolu. A god is sometimes represented as passing over the ocean with a bag of sand. Wherever he dropped a little sand islands sprang up. Payton, the earnest and honored missionary of the New Hebrides Islands, evidently did not know the name Mauitikitiki, so he spells the name of the fisherman Ma-tshi-ktshi-ki, and gives the myth of the fishing up of the various islands. The natives said that Maui left footprints on the coral reefs of each island where he stood straining and lifting in his endeavors to pull up each other island. He threw his line around a large island intending to draw it up and unite it with the one on which he stood, but his line broke. Then he became angry and divided into two parts the island on which he stood. This same Maui is recorded by Mr. Payton as being in a flood which put out one volcano--Maui seized another, sailed across to a neighboring island and piled it upon the top of the volcano there, so the fire was placed out of reach of the flood. In the Hervey Group of the Tahitian or Society Islands the same story prevails and the natives point out the place where the hook caught and a print was made by the foot in the coral reef. But they add some very mythical details. Maui's magic fish hook is thrown into the skies, where it continuously hangs, the curved tail of the constellation which we call Scorpio. Then one of the gods becoming angry with Maui seized him and threw him also among the stars. There he stays looking down upon his people. He has become a fixed part of the scorpion itself. The Hawaiian myths sometimes represent Maui as trying to draw the islands together while fishing them out of the sea. When they had pulled up the island of Kauai they looked back and were frightened. They evidently tried to rush away from the new monster and thus broke the line. Maui tore a side out of the small crater Kaula when trying to draw it to one of the other islands. Three aumakuas, three fishes supposed to be spirit-gods, guarded Kaula and defeated his purpose. At Hawaii Cocoanut Island broke off because Maui pulled too hard. Another place near Hilo on the large island of Hawaii where the hook was said to have caught is in the Wailuku river below Rainbow Falls. Maui went out from his home at Kauiki, fishing with his brothers. After they had caught some fine fish the brothers desired to return, but Maui persuaded them to go out farther. Then when they became tired and determined to go back, he made the seas stretch out and the shores recede until they could see no land. Then drawing the magic hook, he baited it with the Alae or sacred mud hen belonging to his Mother Hina. Queen Liliuokalani's family chant has the following reference to this myth: "Maui longed for fish for Hina-akeahi (Hina of the fire, his mother), Go hence to your father, There you will find line and hook. Manaiakalani is the hook. Where the islands are caught, The ancient seas are connected. The great bird Alae is taken, The sister bird, Of that one of the hidden fire of Maui." Maui evidently had no scruples against using anything which would help him carry out his schemes. He indiscriminately robbed his friends and the gods alike. Down in the deep sea sank the hook with its struggling bait, until it was seized by "the land under the water." But Hina the mother saw the struggle of her sacred bird and hastened to the rescue. She caught a wing of the bird, but could not pull the Alae from the sacred hook. The wing was torn off. Then the fish gathered around the bait and tore it in pieces. If the bait could have been kept entire, then the land would have come up in a continent rather than as an island. Then the Hawaiian group would have been unbroken. But the bait broke--and the islands came as fragments from the under world. Maui's hook and canoe are frequently mentioned in the legends. The Hawaiians have a long rock in the Wailuku river at Hilo which they call Maui's canoe. Different names were given to Maui's canoe by the Maoris of New Zealand. "Vine of Heaven," "Prepare for the North," "Land of the Receding Sea." His fish hook bore the name "Plume of Beauty." On the southern end of Hawke's Bay, New Zealand, there is a curved ledge of rocks extending out from the coast. This is still called by the Maoris "Maui's fish-hook," as if the magic hook had been so firmly caught in the jaws of the island that Maui could not disentangle it, but had been compelled to cut it off from his line. There is a large stone on the sea coast of North Kohala on the island of Hawaii which the Hawaiians point out as the place where Maui's magic hook caught the island and pulled it through the sea. In the Tonga Islands, a place known as Hounga is pointed out by the natives as the spot where the magic hook caught in the rocks. The hook itself was said to have been in the possession of a chief-family for many generations. [Illustration: Here are the Canoes.] Another group of Hawaiian legends, very incomplete, probably referring to Maui, but ascribed to other names, relates that a fisherman caught a large block of coral. He took it to his priest. After sacrificing, and consulting the gods, the priest advised the fisherman to throw the coral back into the sea with incantations. While so doing this block became Hawaii-loa. The fishing continued and blocks of coral were caught and thrown back into the sea until all the islands appeared. Hints of this legend cling to other island groups as well as to the Hawaiian Islands. Fornander credits a fisherman from foreign lands as thus bringing forth the Hawaiian Islands from the deep seas. The reference occurs in part of a chant known as that of a friend of Paao--the priest who is supposed to have come from Samoa to Hawaii in the eleventh century. This priest calls for his companions: "Here are the canoes. Get aboard. Come along, and dwell on Hawaii with the green back. A land which was found in the ocean, A land thrown up from the sea-- From the very depths of Kanaloa, The white coral, in the watery caves, That was caught on the hook of the fisherman." The god Kanaloa is sometimes known as a ruler of the under-world, whose land was caught by Maui's hook and brought up in islands. Thus in the legends the thought has been perpetuated that some one of the ancestors of the Polynesians made voyages and discovered islands. In the time of Umi, King of Hawaii, there is the following record of an immense bone fish-hook, which was called the "fish-hook of Maui:" "In the night of Muku (the last night of the month), a priest and his servants took a man, killed him, and fastened his body to the hook, which bore the name Manai-a-ka-lani, and dragged it to the heiau (temple) as a 'fish,' and placed it on the altar." This hook was kept until the time of Kamehameha I. From time to time he tried to break it, and pulled until he perspired. Peapea, a brother of Kaahumanu, took the hook and broke it. He was afraid that Kamehameha would kill him. Kaahumanu, however, soothed the King, and he passed the matter over. The broken bone was probably thrown away. III. MAUI LIFTING THE SKY. Maui's home was for a long time enveloped by darkness. The heavens had fallen down, or, rather, had not been separated from the earth. According to some legends, the skies pressed so closely and so heavily upon the earth that when the plants began to grow, all the leaves were necessarily flat. According to other legends, the plants had to push up the clouds a little, and thus caused the leaves to flatten out into larger surface, so that they could better drive the skies back and hold them in place. Thus the leaves became flat at first, and have so remained through all the days of mankind. The plants lifted the sky inch by inch until men were able to crawl about between the heavens and the earth, and thus pass from place to place and visit one another. After a long time, according to the Hawaiian legends, a man, supposed to be Maui, came to a woman and said: "Give me a drink from your gourd calabash, and I will push the heavens higher." The woman handed the gourd to him. When he had taken a deep draught, he braced himself against the clouds and lifted them to the height of the trees. Again he hoisted the sky and carried it to the tops of the mountains; then with great exertion he thrust it upwards once more, and pressed it to the place it now occupies. Nevertheless dark clouds many times hang low along the eastern slope of Maui's great mountain--Haleakala--and descend in heavy rains upon the hill Kauwiki; but they dare not stay, lest Maui the strong come and hurl them so far away that they cannot come back again. A man who had been watching the process of lifting the sky ridiculed Maui for attempting such a difficult task. When the clouds rested on the tops of the mountains, Maui turned to punish his critic. The man had fled to the other side of the island. Maui rapidly pursued and finally caught him on the sea coast, not many miles north of the town now known as Lahaina. After a brief struggle the man was changed, according to the story, into a great black rock, which can be seen by any traveler who desires to localize the legends of Hawaii. In Samoa Tiitii, the latter part of the full name of Mauikiikii, is used as the name of the one who braced his feet against the rocks and pushed the sky up. The foot-prints, some six feet long, are said to be shown by the natives. Another Samoan story is almost like the Hawaiian legend. The heavens had fallen, people crawled, but the leaves pushed up a little; but the sky was uneven. Men tried to walk, but hit their heads, and in this confined space it was very hot. A woman rewarded a man who lifted the sky to its proper place by giving him a drink of water from her cocoanut shell. A number of small groups of islands in the Pacific have legends of their skies being lifted, but they attribute the labor to the great eels and serpents of the sea. One of the Ellice group, Niu Island, says that as the serpent began to lift the sky the people clapped their hands and shouted "Lift up!" "High!" "Higher!" But the body of the serpent finally broke into pieces which became islands, and the blood sprinkled its drops on the sky and became stars. One of the Samoan legends says that a plant called daiga, which had one large umbrella-like leaf, pushed up the sky and gave it its shape. The Vatupu, or Tracey Islanders, said at one time the sky and rocks were united. Then steam or clouds of smoke rose from the rocks, and, pouring out in volumes, forced the sky away from the earth. Man appeared in these clouds of steam or smoke. Perspiration burst forth as this man forced his way through the heated atmosphere. From this perspiration woman was formed. Then were born three sons, two of whom pushed up the sky. One, in the north, pushed as far as his arms would reach. The one in the south was short and climbed a hill, pushing as he went up, until the sky was in its proper place. The Gilbert Islanders say the sky was pushed up by men with long poles. The ancient New Zealanders understood incantations by which they could draw up or discover. They found a land where the sky and the earth were united. They prayed over their stone axe and cut the sky and land apart. "Hau-hau-tu" was the name of the great stone axe by which the sinews of the great heaven above were severed, and Langi (sky) was separated from Papa (earth). The New Zealand Maoris were accustomed to say that at first the sky rested close upon the earth and therefore there was utter darkness for ages. Then the six sons of heaven and earth, born during this period of darkness, felt the need of light and discussed the necessity of separating their parents--the sky from the earth--and decided to attempt the work. Rongo (Hawaiian god Lono) the "father of food plants," attempted to lift the sky, but could not tear it from the earth. Then Tangaroa (Kanaloa), the "father of fish and reptiles," failed. Haumia Tiki-tiki (Maui Kiikii), the "father of wild food plants," could not raise the clouds. Then Tu (Hawaiian Ku), the "father of fierce men," struggled in vain. But Tane (Hawaiian Kane), the "father of giant forests," pushed and lifted until he thrust the sky far up above him. Then they discovered their descendants--the multitude of human beings who had been living on the earth concealed and crushed by the clouds. Afterwards the last son, Tawhiri (father of storms), was angry and waged war against his brothers. He hid in the sheltered hollows of the great skies. There he begot his vast brood of winds and storms with which he finally drove all his brothers and their descendants into hiding places on land and sea. The New Zealanders mention the names of the canoes in which their ancestors fled from the old home Hawaiki. Tu (father of fierce men) and his descendants, however, conquered wind and storm and have ever since held supremacy. The New Zealand legends also say that heaven and earth have never lost their love for each other. "The warm sighs of earth ever ascend from the wooded mountains and valleys, and men call them mists. The sky also lets fall frequent tears which men term dew drops." The Manihiki islanders say that Maui desired to separate the sky from the earth. His father, Ru, was the supporter of the heavens. Maui persuaded him to assist in lifting the burden. Maui went to the north and crept into a place, where, lying prostrate under the sky, he could brace himself against it and push with great power. In the same way Ru went to the south and braced himself against the southern skies. Then they made the signal, and both pressed "with their backs against the solid blue mass." It gave way before the great strength of the father and son. Then they lifted again, bracing themselves with hands and knees against the earth. They crowded it and bent it upward. They were able to stand with the sky resting on their shoulders. They heaved against the bending mass, and it receded rapidly. They quickly put the palms of their hands under it; then the tips of their fingers, and it retreated farther and farther. At last, "drawing themselves out to gigantic proportions, they pushed the entire heavens up to the very lofty position which they have ever since occupied." But Maui and Ru had not worked perfectly together; therefore the sky was twisted and its surface was very irregular. They determined to smooth the sky before they finished their task, so they took large stone adzes and chipped off the rough protuberances and ridges, until by and by the great arch was cut out and smoothed off. They then took finer tools and chipped and polished until the sky became the beautifully finished blue dome which now bends around the earth. The Hervey Island myth, as related by W. W. Gill, states that Ru, the father of Maui, came from Avaiki (Hawa-iki), the underworld or abode of the spirits of the dead. He found men crowded down by the sky, which was a mass of solid blue stone. He was very sorry when he saw the condition of the inhabitants of the earth, and planned to raise the sky a little. So he planted stakes of different kinds of trees. These were strong enough to hold the sky so far above the earth "that men could stand erect and walk about without inconvenience." This was celebrated in one of the Hervey Island songs: "Force up the heavens, O, Ru! And let the space be clear." For this helpful deed Ru received the name "The supporter of the heavens." He was rather proud of his achievement and was gratified because of the praise received. So he came sometimes and looked at the stakes and the beautiful blue sky resting on them. Maui, the son, came along and ridiculed his father for thinking so much of his work. Maui is not represented, in the legends, as possessing a great deal of love and reverence for his relatives provided his affection interfered with his mischief; so it was not at all strange that he laughed at his father. Ru became angry and said to Maui: "Who told youngsters to talk? Take care of yourself, or I will hurl you out of existence." Maui dared him to try it. Ru quickly seized him and "threw him to a great height." But Maui changed himself to a bird and sank back to earth unharmed. Then he changed himself back into the form of a man, and, making himself very large, ran and thrust his head between the old man's legs. He pried and lifted until Ru and the sky around him began to give. Another lift and he hurled them both to such a height that the sky could not come back. Ru himself was entangled among the stars. His head and shoulders stuck fast, and he could not free himself. How he struggled, until the skies shook, while Maui went away. Maui was proud of his achievement in having moved the sky so far away. In this self-rejoicing he quickly forgot his father. Ru died after a time. "His body rotted away and his bones, of vast proportions, came tumbling down from time to time, and were shivered on the earth into countless fragments. These shattered bones of Ru are scattered over every hill and valley of one of the islands, to the very edge of the sea." Thus the natives of the Hervey Islands account for the many pieces of porous lava and the small pieces of pumice stone found occasionally in their islands. The "bones" were very light and greatly resembled fragments of real bone. If the fragments were large enough they were sometimes taken and worshiped as gods. One of these pieces, of extraordinary size, was given to Mr. Gill when the natives were bringing in a large collection of idols. "This one was known as 'The Light Stone,' and was worshiped as the god of the wind and the waves. Upon occasions of a hurricane, incantations and offerings of food would be made to it." Thus, according to different Polynesian legends, Maui raised the sky and made the earth inhabitable for his fellow-men. IV. MAUI SNARING THE SUN. "Maui became restless and fought the sun With a noose that he laid. And winter won the sun, And summer was won by Maui." --Queen Liliuokalani's family chant. A very unique legend is found among the widely-scattered Polynesians. The story of Maui's "Snaring the Sun" was told among the Maoris of New Zealand, the Kanakas of the Hervey and Society Islands, and the ancient natives of Hawaii. The Samoans tell the same story without mentioning the name of Maui. They say that the snare was cast by a child of the sun itself. The Polynesian stories of the origin of the sun are worthy of note before the legend of the change from short to long days is given. The Tongan Islanders, according to W. W. Gill, tell the story of the origin of the sun and moon. They say that Vatea (Wakea) and their ancestor Tongaiti quarreled concerning a child--each claiming it as his own. In the struggle the child was cut in two. Vatea squeezed and rolled the part he secured into a ball and threw it away, far up into the heavens, where it became the sun. It shone brightly as it rolled along the heavens, and sank down to Avaiki (Hawaii), the nether world. But the ball came back again and once more rolled across the sky. Tongaiti had let his half of the child fall on the ground and lie there, until made envious by the beautiful ball Vatea made. At last he took the flesh which lay on the ground and made it into a ball. As the sun sank he threw his ball up into the darkness, and it rolled along the heavens, but the blood had drained out of the flesh while it lay upon the ground, therefore it could not become so red and burning as the sun, and had not life to move so swiftly. It was as white as a dead body, because its blood was all gone; and it could not make the darkness flee away as the sun had done. Thus day and night and the sun and moon always remain with the earth. The legends of the Society Islands say that a demon in the west became angry with the sun and in his rage ate it up, causing night. In the same way a demon from the east would devour the moon, but for some reason these angry ones could not destroy their captives and were compelled to open their mouths and let the bright balls come forth once more. In some places a sacrifice of some one of distinction was needed to placate the wrath of the devourers and free the balls of light in times of eclipse. The moon, pale and dead in appearance, moved slowly; while the sun, full of life and strength, moved quickly. Thus days were very short and nights were very long. Mankind suffered from the fierceness of the heat of the sun and also from its prolonged absence. Day and night were alike a burden to men. The darkness was so great and lasted so long that fruits would not ripen. After Maui had succeeded in throwing the heavens into their place, and fastening them so that they could not fall, he learned that he had opened a way for the sun-god to come up from the lower world and rapidly run across the blue vault. This made two troubles for men--the heat of the sun was very great and the journey too quickly over. Maui planned to capture the sun and punish him for thinking so little about the welfare of mankind. [Illustration: Iao Mountain From the Sea.] As Rev. A. O. Forbes, a missionary among the Hawaiians, relates, Maui's mother was troubled very much by the heedless haste of the sun. She had many kapa-cloths to make, for this was the only kind of clothing known in Hawaii, except sometimes a woven mat or a long grass fringe worn as a skirt. This native cloth was made by pounding the fine bark of certain trees with wooden mallets until the fibres were beaten and ground into a wood pulp. Then she pounded the pulp into thin sheets from which the best sleeping mats and clothes could be fashioned. These kapa cloths had to be thoroughly dried, but the days were so short that by the time she had spread out the kapa the sun had heedlessly rushed across the sky and gone down into the under-world, and all the cloth had to be gathered up again and cared for until another day should come. There were other troubles. "The food could not be prepared and cooked in one day. Even an incantation to the gods could not be chanted through ere they were overtaken by darkness." This was very discouraging and caused great suffering, as well as much unnecessary trouble and labor. Many complaints were made against the thoughtless sun. Maui pitied his mother and determined to make the sun go slower that the days might be long enough to satisfy the needs of men. Therefore, he went over to the northwest of the island on which he lived. This was Mt. Iao, an extinct volcano, in which lies one of the most beautiful and picturesque valleys of the Hawaiian Islands. He climbed the ridges until he could see the course of the sun as it passed over the island. He saw that the sun came up the eastern side of Mt. Haleakala. He crossed over the plain between the two mountains and climbed to the top of Mt. Haleakala. There he watched the burning sun as it came up from Koolau and passed directly over the top of the mountain. The summit of Haleakala is a great extinct crater twenty miles in circumference, and nearly twenty-five hundred feet in depth. There are two tremendous gaps or chasms in the side of the crater wall, through which in days gone by the massive bowl poured forth its flowing lava. One of these was the Koolau, or eastern gap, in which Maui probably planned to catch the sun. Mt. Hale-a-ka-la of the Hawaiian Islands means House-of-the-sun. "La," or "Ra," is the name of the sun throughout parts of Polynesia. Ra was the sun-god of ancient Egypt. Thus the antiquities of Polynesia and Egypt touch each other, and today no man knows the full reason thereof. The Hawaiian legend says Maui was taunted by a man who ridiculed the idea that he could snare the sun, saying, "You will never catch the sun. You are only an idle nobody." Maui replied, "When I conquer my enemy and my desire is attained, I will be your death." After studying the path of the sun, Maui returned to his mother and told her that he would go and cut off the legs of the sun so that he could not run so fast. His mother said: "Are you strong enough for this work?" He said, "Yes." Then she gave him fifteen strands of well-twisted fiber and told him to go to his grandmother, who lived in the great crater of Haleakala, for the rest of the things in his conflict with the sun. She said: "You must climb the mountain to the place where a large wiliwili tree is standing. There you will find the place where the sun stops to eat cooked bananas prepared by your grandmother. Stay there until a rooster crows three times; then watch your grandmother go out to make a fire and put on food. You had better take her bananas. She will look for them and find you and ask who you are. Tell her you belong to Hina." When she had taught him all these things, he went up the mountain to Kaupo to the place Hina had directed. There was a large wiliwili tree. Here he waited for the rooster to crow. The name of that rooster was Kalauhele-moa. When the rooster had crowed three times, the grandmother came out with a bunch of bananas to cook for the sun. She took off the upper part of the bunch and laid it down. Maui immediately snatched it away. In a moment she turned to pick it up, but could not find it. She was angry and cried out: "Where are the bananas of the sun?" Then she took off another part of the bunch, and Maui stole that. Thus he did until all the bunch had been taken away. She was almost blind and could not detect him by sight, so she sniffed all around her until she detected the smell of a man. She asked: "Who are you? To whom do you belong?" Maui replied: "I belong to Hina." "Why have you come?" Maui told her, "I have come to kill the sun. He goes so fast that he never dries the tapa Hina has beaten out." The old woman gave a magic stone for a battle axe and one more rope. She taught him how to catch the sun, saying: "Make a place to hide here by this large wiliwili tree. When the first leg of the sun comes up, catch it with your first rope, and so on until you have used all your ropes. Fasten them to the tree, then take the stone axe to strike the body of the sun." Maui dug a hole among the roots of the tree and concealed himself. Soon the first ray of light--the first leg of the sun--came up along the mountain side. Maui threw his rope and caught it. One by one the legs of the sun came over the edge of the crater's rim and were caught. Only one long leg was still hanging down the side of the mountain. It was hard for the sun to move that leg. It shook and trembled and tried hard to come up. At last it crept over the edge and was caught by Maui with the rope given by his grandmother. When the sun saw that his sixteen long legs were held fast in the ropes, he began to go back down the mountain side into the sea. Then Maui tied the ropes fast to the tree and pulled until the body of the sun came up again. Brave Maui caught his magic stone club or axe, and began to strike and wound the sun, until he cried: "Give me my life." Maui said: "If you live, you may be a traitor. Perhaps I had better kill you." But the sun begged for life. After they had conversed a while, they agreed that there should be a regular motion in the journey of the sun. There should be longer days, and yet half the time he might go quickly as in the winter time, but the other half he must move slowly as in summer. Thus men dwelling on the earth should be blessed. Another legend says that he made a lasso and climbed to the summit of Mt. Haleakala. He made ready his lasso, so that when the sun came up the mountain side and rose above him he could cast the noose and catch the sun, but he only snared one of the sun's larger rays and broke it off. Again and again he threw the lasso until he had broken off all the strong rays of the sun. Then he shouted exultantly, "Thou art my captive; I will kill thee for going so swiftly." Then the sun said, "Let me live and thou shalt see me go more slowly hereafter. Behold, hast thou not broken off all my strong legs and left me only the weak ones?" So the agreement was made, and Maui permitted the sun to pursue his course, and from that day he went more slowly. Maui returned from his conflict with the sun and sought for Moemoe, the man who had ridiculed him. Maui chased this man around the island from one side to the other until they had passed through Lahaina (one of the first mission stations in 1828). There on the seashore near the large black rock of the legend of Maui lifting the sky he found Moemoe. Then they left the seashore and the contest raged up hill and down until Maui slew the man and "changed the body into a long rock, which is there to this day, by the side of the road going past Black Rock." Before the battle with the sun occurred Maui went down into the underworld, according to the New Zealand tradition, and remained a long time with his relatives. In some way he learned that there was an enchanted jawbone in the possession of some one of his ancestors, so he waited and waited, hoping that at last he might discover it. After a time he noticed that presents of food were being sent away to some person whom he had not met. One day he asked the messengers, "Who is it you are taking that present of food to?" The people answered, "It is for Muri, your ancestress." Then he asked for the food, saying, "I will carry it to her myself." But he took the food away and hid it. "And this he did for many days," and the presents failed to reach the old woman. By and by she suspected mischief, for it did not seem as if her friends would neglect her so long a time, so she thought she would catch the tricky one and eat him. She depended upon her sense of smell to detect the one who had troubled her. As Sir George Grey tells the story: "When Maui came along the path carrying the present of food, the old chiefess sniffed and sniffed until she was sure that she smelt some one coming. She was very much exasperated, and her stomach began to distend itself that she might be ready to devour this one when he came near. Then she turned toward the south and sniffed and not a scent of anything reached her. Then she turned to the north, and to the east, but could not detect the odor of a human being. She made one more trial and turned toward the west. Ah! then came the scent of a man to her plainly and she called out, 'I know, from the smell wafted to me by the breeze, that somebody is close to me.'" Maui made known his presence and the old woman knew that he was a descendant of hers, and her stomach began immediately to shrink and contract itself again. Then she asked, "Art thou Maui?" He answered, "Even so," and told her that he wanted "the jaw-bone by which great enchantments could be wrought." Then Muri, the old chiefess, gave him the magic bone and he returned to his brothers, who were still living on the earth. Then Maui said: "Let us now catch the sun in a noose that we may compel him to move more slowly in order that mankind may have long days to labor in and procure subsistence for themselves." They replied, "No man can approach it on account of the fierceness of the heat." According to the Society Island legend, his mother advised him to have nothing to do with the sun, who was a divine living creature, "in form like a man, possessed of fearful energy," shaking his golden locks both morning and evening in the eyes of men. Many persons had tried to regulate the movements of the sun, but had failed completely. But Maui encouraged his mother and his brothers by asking them to remember his power to protect himself by the use of enchantments. The Hawaiian legend says that Maui himself gathered cocoanut fibre in great quantity and manufactured it into strong ropes. But the legends of other islands say that he had the aid of his brothers, and while working learned many useful lessons. While winding and twisting they discovered how to make square ropes and flat ropes as well as the ordinary round rope. In the Society Islands, it is said, Maui and his brothers made six strong ropes of great length. These he called aeiariki (royal nooses). The New Zealand legend says that when Maui and his brothers had finished making all the ropes required they took provisions and other things needed and journeyed toward the east to find the place where the sun should rise. Maui carried with him the magic jaw-bone which he had secured from Muri, his ancestress, in the under-world. They traveled all night and concealed themselves by day so that the sun should not see them and become too suspicious and watchful. In this way they journeyed, until "at length they had gone very far to the eastward and had come to the very edge of the place out of which the sun rises. There they set to work and built on each side a long, high wall of clay, with huts of boughs of trees at each end to hide themselves in." Here they laid a large noose made from their ropes and Maui concealed himself on one side of this place along which the sun must come, while his brothers hid on the other side. Maui seized his magic enchanted jaw-bone as the weapon with which to fight the sun, and ordered his brothers to pull hard on the noose and not to be frightened or moved to set the sun free. "At last the sun came rising up out of his place like a fire spreading far and wide over the mountains and forests. He rises up. His head passes through the noose. The ropes are pulled tight. Then the monster began to struggle and roll himself about, while the snare jerked backwards and forwards as he struggled. Ah! was not he held fast in the ropes of his enemies. Then forth rushed that bold hero Maui with his enchanted weapon. The sun screamed aloud and roared. Maui struck him fiercely with many blows. They held him for a long time. At last they let him go, and then weak from wounds the sun crept very slowly and feebly along his course." In this way the days were made longer so that men could perform their daily tasks and fruits and food plants could have time to grow. The legend of the Hervey group of islands says that Maui made six snares and placed them at intervals along the path over which the sun must pass. The sun in the form of a man climbed up from Avaiki (Hawaiki). Maui pulled the first noose, but it slipped down the rising sun until it caught and was pulled tight around his feet. [Illustration: Hale-a-ka-la Crater. Where the Sun Was Caught.] Maui ran quickly to pull the ropes of the second snare, but that also slipped down, down, until it was tightened around the knees. Then Maui hastened to the third snare, while the sun was trying to rush along on his journey. The third snare caught around the hips. The fourth snare fastened itself around the waist. The fifth slipped under the arms, and yet the sun sped along as if but little inconvenienced by Maui's efforts. Then Maui caught the last noose and threw it around the neck of the sun, and fastened the rope to a spur of rock. The sun struggled until nearly strangled to death and then gave up, promising Maui that he would go as slowly as was desired. Maui left the snares fastened to the sun to keep him in constant fear. "These ropes may still be seen hanging from the sun at dawn and stretching into the skies when he descends into the ocean at night. By the assistance of these ropes he is gently let down into Ava-iki in the evening, and also raised up out of shadow-land in the morning." Another legend from the Society Islands is related by Mr. Gill: Maui tried many snares before he could catch the sun. The sun was the Hercules, or the Samson, of the heavens. He broke the strong cords of cocoanut fibre which Maui made and placed around the opening by which the sun climbed out from the under-world. Maui made stronger ropes, but still the sun broke them every one. Then Maui thought of his sister's hair, the sister Inaika, whom he cruelly treated in later years. Her hair was long and beautiful. He cut off some of it and made a strong rope. With this he lassoed or rather snared the sun, and caught him around the throat. The sun quickly promised to be more thoughtful of the needs of men and go at a more reasonable pace across the sky. A story from the American Indians is told in Hawaii's Young People, which is very similar to the Polynesian legends. An Indian boy became very angry with the sun for getting so warm and making his clothes shrink with the heat. He told his sister to make a snare. The girl took sinews from a large deer, but they shriveled under the heat. She took her own long hair and made snares, but they were burned in a moment. Then she tried the fibres of various plants and was successful. Her brother took the fibre cord and drew it through his lips. It stretched and became a strong red cord. He pulled and it became very long. He went to the place of sunrise, fixed his snare, and caught the sun. When the sun had been sufficiently punished, the animals of the earth studied the problem of setting the sun free. At last a mouse as large as a mountain ran and gnawed the red cord. It broke and the sun moved on, but the poor mouse had been burned and shriveled into the small mouse of the present day. A Samoan legend says that a woman living for a time with the sun bore a child who had the name "Child of the Sun." She wanted gifts for the child's marriage, so she took a long vine, climbed a tree, made the vine into a noose, lassoed the sun, and made him give her a basket of blessings. In Fiji, the natives tie the grasses growing on a hilltop over which they are passing, when traveling from place to place. They do this to make a snare to catch the sun if he should try to go down before they reach the end of their day's journey. This legend is a misty memory of some time when the Polynesian people were in contact with the short days of the extreme north or south. It is a very remarkable exposition of a fact of nature perpetuated many centuries in lands absolutely free from such natural phenomena. V. MAUI FINDING FIRE. "Grant, oh grant me thy hidden fire, O Banyan Tree. Perform an incantation, Utter a prayer To the Banyan Tree. Kindle a fire in the dust Of the Banyan Tree." --Translation of ancient Polynesian chant. Among students of mythology certain characters in the legends of the various nations are known as "culture heroes." Mankind has from time to time learned exceedingly useful lessons and has also usually ascribed the new knowledge to some noted person in the national mythology. These mythical benefactors who have brought these practical benefits to men are placed among the "hero-gods." They have been teachers or "culture heroes" to mankind. Probably the fire finders of the different nations are among the best remembered of all these benefactors. This would naturally be the case, for no greater good has touched man's physical life than the discovery of methods of making fire. Prometheus, the classical fire finder, is most widely known in literature. But of all the helpful gods of mythology, Maui, the mischievous Polynesian, is beyond question the hero of the largest numbers of nations scattered over the widest extent of territory. Prometheus belonged to Rome, but Maui belonged to the length and breadth of the Pacific Ocean. Theft or trickery, the use of deceit of some kind, is almost inseparably connected with fire finding all over the world. Prometheus stole fire from Jupiter and gave it to men together with the genius to make use of it in the arts and sciences. He found the rolling chariot of the sun, secretly filled his hollow staff with fire, carried it to earth, put a part in the breast of man to create enthusiasm or animation, and saved the remainder for the comfort of mankind to be used with the artist skill of Minerva and Vulcan. In Brittany the golden or fire-crested wren steals fire and is red-marked while so doing. The animals of the North American Indians are represented as stealing fire sometimes from the cuttle fish and sometimes from one another. Some swiftly-flying bird or fleet-footed coyote would carry the stolen fire to the home of the tribe. The possession of fire meant to the ancients all that wealth means to the family of today. It meant the possession of comfort. The gods were naturally determined to keep this wealth in their own hands. For any one to make a sharp deal and cheat a god of fire out of a part of this valuable property or to make a courageous raid upon the fire guardian and steal the treasure, was easily sufficient to make that one a "culture hero." As a matter of fact a prehistoric family without fire would go to any length in order to get it. The fire finders would naturally be the hero-gods and stealing fire would be an exploit rather than a crime. It is worth noting that in many myths not only was fire stolen, but birds marked by red or black spots among their feathers were associated with the theft. It would naturally be supposed that the Hawaiians living in a volcanic country with ever-flowing fountains of lava, would connect their fire myths with some volcano when relating the story of the origin of fire. But like the rest of the Polynesians, they found fire in trees rather than in rivers of melted rock. They must have brought their fire legends and fire customs with them when they came to the islands of active volcanoes. Flint rocks as fire producers are not found in the Hawaiian myths, nor in the stories from the island groups related to the Hawaiians. Indians might see the fleeing buffalo strike fire from the stones under his hard hoofs. The Tartars might have a god to teach them "the secret of the stone's edge and the iron's hardness." The Peruvians could very easily form a legend of their mythical father Guamansuri finding a way to make fire after he had seen the sling stones, thrown at his enemies, bring forth sparks of fire from the rocks against which they struck. The thunder and the lightning of later years were the sparks and the crash of stones hurled among the cloud mountains by the mighty gods. In Australia the story is told of an old man and his daughter who lived in great darkness. After a time the father found the doorway of light through which the sun passed on his journey. He opened the door and a flood of sunshine covered the earth. His daughter looked around her home and saw numbers of serpents. She seized a staff and began to kill them. She wielded it so vigorously that it became hot in her hands. At last it broke, but the pieces rubbed against each other and flashed into sparks and flames. Thus it was learned that fire was buried in wood. Flints were known in Europe and Asia and America, but the Polynesian looked to the banyan and kindred trees for the hidden sparks of fire. The natives of De Peyster's Island say that their ancestors learned how to make fire by seeing smoke rise from crossed branches rubbing together while trees were shaken by fierce winds. In studying the Maui myths of the Pacific it is necessary to remember that Polynesians use "t" and "k" without distinguishing them apart, and also as in the Hawaiian Islands an apostrophe (') is often used in place of "t" or "k". Therefore the Maui Ki-i-k-i'i of Hawaii becomes the demi-god Tiki-tiki of the Gilbert Islands--or the Ti'i-ti'i of Samoa or the Tiki of New Zealand--or other islands of the great ocean. We must also remember that in the Hawaiian legends Kalana is Maui's father. This in other groups becomes Talanga or Kalanga or Karanga. Kanaloa, the great god of most of the different Polynesians, is also sometimes called the Father of Maui. It is not strange that some of the exploits usually ascribed to Maui should be in some places transferred to his father under one name or the other. On one or two groups Mafuia, an ancestress of Maui, is mentioned as finding the fire. The usual legend makes Maui the one who takes fire away from Mafuia. The story of fire finding in Polynesia sifts itself to Maui under one of his widely-accepted names, or to his father or to his ancestress--with but very few exceptions. This fact is important as showing in a very marked manner the race relationship of a vast number of the islanders of the Pacific world. From the Marshall Islands, in the west, to the Society Islands of the east; from the Hawaiian Islands in the north to the New Zealand group in the south, the footsteps of Maui the fire finder can be traced. The Hawaiian story of fire finding is one of the least marvelous of all the legends. Hina, Maui's mother, wanted fish. One morning early Maui saw that the great storm waves of the sea had died down and the fishing grounds could be easily reached. He awakened his brothers and with them hastened to the beach. This was at Kaupo on the island of Maui. Out into the gray shadows of the dawn they paddled. When they were far from shore they began to fish. But Maui, looking landward, saw a fire on the mountain side. "Behold," he cried. "There is a fire burning. Whose can this fire be?" "Whose, indeed?" his brothers replied. "Let us hasten to the shore and cook our food," said one. They decided that they had better catch some fish to cook before they returned. Thus, in the morning, before the hot sun drove the fish deep down to the dark recesses of the sea, they fished until a bountiful supply lay in the bottom of the canoe. When they came to land, Maui leaped out and ran up the mountain side to get the fire. For a long, long time they had been without fire. The great volcano Haleakala above them had become extinct--and they had lost the coals they had tried to keep alive. They had eaten fruits and uncooked roots and the shell fish broken from the reef--and sometimes the great raw fish from the far-out ocean. But now they hoped to gain living fire and cooked food. But when Maui rushed up toward the cloudy pillar of smoke he saw a family of birds scratching the fire out. Their work was finished and they flew away just as he reached the place. Maui and his brothers watched for fire day after day--but the birds, the curly-tailed Alae (or the mud-hens) made no fire. Finally the brothers went fishing once more--but when they looked toward the mountain, again they saw flames and smoke. Thus it happened to them again and again. Maui proposed to his brothers that they go fishing leaving him to watch the birds. But the Alae counted the fishermen and refused to build a fire for the hidden one who was watching them. They said among themselves, "Three are in the boat and we know not where the other one is, we will make no fire today." So the experiment failed again and again. If one or two remained or if all waited on the land there would be no fire--but the dawn which saw the four brothers in the boat, saw also the fire on the land. Finally Maui rolled some kapa cloth together and stuck it up in one end of the canoe so that it would look like a man. He then concealed himself near the haunt of the mud-hens, while his brothers went out fishing. The birds counted the figures in the boat and then started to build a heap of wood for the fire. Maui was impatient--and just as the old Alae began to select sticks with which to make the flames he leaped swiftly out and caught her and held her prisoner. He forgot for a moment that he wanted the secret of fire making. In his anger against the wise bird his first impulse was to taunt her and then kill her for hiding the secret of fire. But the Alae cried out: "If you are the death of me--my secret will perish also--and you cannot have fire." Maui then promised to spare her life if she would tell him what to do. Then came the contest of wits. The bird told the demi-god to rub the stalks of water plants together. He guarded the bird and tried the plants. Water instead of fire ran out of the twisted stems. Then she told him to rub reeds together--but they bent and broke and could make no fire. He twisted her neck until she was half dead--then she cried out: "I have hidden the fire in a green stick." Maui worked hard, but not a spark of fire appeared. Again he caught his prisoner by the head and wrung her neck, and she named a kind of dry wood. Maui rubbed the sticks together, but they only became warm. The neck twisting process was resumed--and repeated again and again, until the mud-hen was almost dead--and Maui had tried tree after tree. At last Maui found fire. Then as the flames rose he said: "There is one more thing to rub." He took a fire stick and rubbed the top of the head of his prisoner until the feathers fell off and the raw flesh appeared. Thus the Hawaiian mud-hen and her descendants have ever since had bald heads, and the Hawaiians have had the secret of fire making. Another Hawaiian legend places the scene of Maui's contest with the mud-hens a little inland of the town of Hilo on the Island of Hawaii. There are three small extinct craters very near each other known as The Halae Hills. One, the southern or Puna side of the hills, is a place called Pohaku-nui. Here dwelt two brother birds of the Alae family. They were gods. One had the power of fire making. Here at Pohaku-nui they were accustomed to kindle a fire and bake their dearly loved food--baked bananas. Here Maui planned to learn the secret of fire. The birds had kindled the fire and the bananas were almost done, when the elder Alae called to the younger: "Be quick, here comes the swift son of Hina." The birds scratched out the fire, caught the bananas and fled. Maui told his mother he would follow them until he learned the secret of fire. His mother encouraged him because he was very strong and very swift. So he followed the birds from place to place as they fled from him, finding new spots on which to make their fires. At last they came to Waianae on the island Oahu. There he saw a great fire and a multitude of birds gathered around it, chattering loudly and trying to hasten the baking of the bananas. Their incantation was this: "Let us cook quick." "Let us cook quick." "The swift child of Hina will come." Maui's mother Hina had taught him how to know the fire-maker. "If you go up to the fire, you will find many birds. Only one is the guardian. This is the small, young Alae. His name is Alae-iki: Only this one knows how to make fire." So whenever Maui came near to the fire-makers he always sought for the little Alae. Sometimes he made mistakes and sometimes almost captured the one he desired. At Waianae he leaped suddenly among the birds. They scattered the fire, and the younger bird tried to snatch his banana from the coals and flee, but Maui seized him and began to twist his neck. The bird cried out, warning Maui not to kill him or he would lose the secret of fire altogether. Maui was told that the fire was made from a banana stump. He saw the bananas roasting and thought this was reasonable. So, according to directions, he began to rub together pieces of the banana. The bird hoped for an unguarded moment when he might escape, but Maui was very watchful and was also very angry when he found that rubbing only resulted in squeezing out juice. Then he twisted the neck of the bird and was told to rub the stem of the taro plant. This also was so green that it only produced water. Then he was so angry that he nearly rubbed the head of the bird off--and the bird, fearing for its life, told the truth and taught Maui how to find the wood in which fire dwelt. They learned to draw out the sparks secreted in different kinds of trees. The sweet sandalwood was one of these fire trees. Its Hawaiian name is "Ili-ahi"--the "ili" (bark) and "ahi" (fire), the bark in which fire is concealed. A legend of the Society Islands is somewhat similar. Ina (Hina) promised to aid Maui in finding fire for the islanders. She sent him into the under-world to find Tangaroa (Kanaloa). This god Tangaroa held fire in his possession--Maui was to know him by his tattooed face. Down the dark path through the long caves Maui trod swiftly until he found the god. Maui asked him for fire to take up to men. The god gave him a lighted stick and sent him away. But Maui put the fire out and went back again after fire. This he did several times, until the wearied giver decided to teach the intruder the art of fire making. He called a white duck to aid him. Then, taking two sticks of dry wood, he gave the under one to the bird and rapidly moved the upper stick across the under until fire came. Maui seized the upper stick, after it had been charred in the flame, and burned the head of the bird back of each eye. Thus were made the black spots which mark the head of the white duck. Then arose a quarrel between Tangaroa and Maui--but Maui struck down the god, and, thinking he had killed him, carried away the art of making fire. His father and mother made inquiries about their relative--Maui hastened back to the fire fountain and made the spirit return to the body--then, coming back to Ina, he bade her good bye and carried the fire sticks to the upper-world. The Hawaiians, and probably others among the Polynesians, felt that any state of unconsciousness was a form of death in which the spirit left the body, but was called back by prayers and incantations. Therefore, when Maui restored the god to consciousness, he was supposed to have made the spirit released by death return into the body and bring it back to life. In the Samoan legends as related by G. Turner, the name Ti'iti'i is used. This is the same as the second name found in Maui Ki'i-ki'i. The Samoan legend of Ti'iti'i is almost identical with the New Zealand fire myth of Maui, and is very similar to the story coming from the Hervey Islands from Savage Island and also from the Tokelau and other island groups. The Samoan story says that the home of Mafuie the earthquake god was in the land of perpetual fire. Maui's or Ti'iti'i's father Talanga (Kalana) was also a resident of the under-world and a great friend of the earthquake god. Ti'iti'i watched his father as he left his home in the upper-world. Talanga approached a perpendicular wall of rock, said some prayer or incantation--and passed through a door which immediately closed after him. (This is a very near approach to the "open sesame" of the Arabian Nights stories.) Ti'iti'i went to the rock, but could not find the way through. He determined to conceal himself the next time so near that he could hear his father's words. After some days he was able to catch all the words uttered by his father as he knocked on the stone door-- "O rock! divide. I am Talanga, I come to work On my land Given by Mafuie." Ti'iti'i went to the perpendicular wall and imitating his father's voice called for a rock to open. Down through a cave he passed until he found his father working in the under-world. The astonished father, learning how his son came, bade him keep very quiet and work lest he arouse the anger of Mafuie. So for a time the boy labored obediently by his father's side. In a little while the boy saw smoke and asked what it was. The father told him that it was the smoke from the fire of Mafuie, and explained what fire would do. The boy determined to get some fire--he went to the place from which the smoke arose and there found the god, and asked him for fire. Mafuie gave him fire to carry to his father. The boy quickly had an oven prepared and the fire placed in it to cook some of the taro they had been cultivating. Just as everything was ready an earthquake god came up and blew the fire out and scattered the stones of the oven. Then Ti'iti'i was angry and began to talk to Mafuie. The god attacked the boy, intending to punish him severely for daring to rebel against the destruction of the fire. What a battle there was for a time in the under-world! At last Ti'iti'i seized one of the arms of Mafuie and broke it off. He caught the other arm and began to twist and bend it. Mafuie begged the boy to spare him. His right arm was gone. How could he govern the earthquakes if his left arm were torn off also? It was his duty to hold Samoa level and not permit too many earthquakes. It would be hard to do that even with one arm--but it would be impossible if both arms were gone. Ti'iti'i listened to the plea and demanded a reward if he should spare the left arm. Mafuie offered Ti'iti'i one hundred wives. The boy did not want them. Then the god offered to teach him the secret of fire finding to take to the upper-world. The boy agreed to accept the fire secret, and thus learned that the gods in making the earth had concealed fire in various trees for men to discover in their own good time, and that this fire could be brought out by rubbing pieces of wood together. The people of Samoa have not had much faith in Mafuie's plea that he needed his left arm in order to keep Samoa level. They say that Mafuie has a long stick or handle to the world under the islands--and when he is angry or wishes to frighten them he moves this handle and easily shakes the islands. When an earthquake comes, they give thanks to Ti'iti'i for breaking off one arm--because if the god had two arms they believe he would shake them unmercifully. One legend of the Hervey Islands says that Maui and his brothers had been living on uncooked food--but learned that their mother sometimes had delicious food which had been cooked. They learned also that fire was needed in order to cook their food. Then Maui wanted fire and watched his mother. Maui's mother was the guardian of the way to the invisible world. When she desired to pass from her home to the other world, she would open a black rock and pass inside. Thus she went to Hawaiki, the under-world. Maui planned to follow her, but first studied the forms of birds that he might assume the body of the strongest and most enduring. After a time he took the shape of a pigeon and, flying to the black rock, passed through the door and flew down the long dark passage-way. After a time he found the god of fire living in a bunch of banyan sticks. He changed himself into the form of a man and demanded the secret of fire. The fire god agreed to give Maui fire if he would permit himself to be tossed into the sky by the god's strong arms. Maui agreed on condition that he should have the right to toss the fire god afterwards. The fire-god felt certain that there would be only one exercise of strength--he felt that he had everything in his own hands--so readily agreed to the tossing contest. It was his intention to throw his opponent so high that when he fell, if he ever did fall, there would be no antagonist uncrushed. He seized Maui in his strong arms and, swinging him back and forth, flung him upward--but the moment Maui left his hands he changed himself into a feather and floated softly to the ground. Then the boy ran swiftly to the god and seized him by the legs and lifted him up. Then he began to increase in size and strength until he had lifted the fire god very high. Suddenly he tossed the god upward and caught him as he fell--again and again--until the bruised and dizzy god cried enough, and agreed to give the victor whatever he demanded. Maui asked for the secret of fire producing. The god taught him how to rub the dry sticks of certain kinds of trees together, and, by friction, produce fire, and especially how fire could be produced by rubbing fire sticks in the fine dust of the banyan tree. A Society Island legend says Maui borrowed a sacred red pigeon, belonging to one of the gods, and, changing himself into a dragon fly, rode this pigeon through a black rock into Avaiki (Hawaiki), the fire-land of the under-world. He found the god of fire, Mau-ika, living in a house built from a banyan tree. Mau-ika taught Maui the kinds of wood into which when fire went out on the earth a fire goddess had thrown sparks in order to preserve fire. Among these were the "au" (Hawaiian hau), or "the lemon hibiscus"--the "argenta," the "fig" and the "banyan." She taught him also how to make fire by swift motion when rubbing the sticks of these trees. She also gave him coals for his present need. But Maui was viciously mischievous and set the banyan house on fire, then mounted his pigeon and fled toward the upper-world. But the flames hastened after him and burst out through the rock doors into the sunlit land above--as if it were a volcanic eruption. The Tokelau Islanders say that Talanga (Kalana) known in other groups of islands as the father of Maui, desired fire in order to secure warmth and cooked food. He went down, down, very far down in the caves of the earth. In the lower world he found Mafuika--an old blind woman, who was the guardian of fire. He told her he wanted fire to take back to men. She refused either to give fire or to teach how to make it. Talanga threatened to kill her, and finally persuaded her to teach how to make fire in any place he might dwell--and the proper trees to use, the fire-yielding trees. She also taught him how to cook food--and also the kind of fish he should cook, and the kinds which should be eaten raw. Thus mankind learned about food as well as fire. The Savage Island legend adds the element of danger to Maui's mischievous theft of fire. The lad followed his father one day and saw him pull up a bunch of reeds and go down into the fire-land beneath. Maui hastened down to see what his father was doing. Soon he saw his opportunity to steal the secret of fire. Then he caught some fire and started for the upper-world. His father caught a glimpse of the young thief and tried to stop him. Maui ran up the passage through the black cave--bushes and trees bordered his road. The father hastened after his son and was almost ready to lay hands upon him, when Maui set fire to the bushes. The flames spread rapidly, catching the underbrush and the trees on all sides and burst out in the face of the pursuer. Destruction threatened the under-world, but Maui sped along his way. Then he saw that the fire was chasing him. Bush after bush leaped into flame and hurled sparks and smoke and burning air after him. Choked and smoke-surrounded, he broke through the door of the cavern and found the fresh air of the world. But the flames followed him and swept out in great power upon the upper-world a mighty volcanic eruption. The New Zealand legends picture Maui as putting out, in one night, all the fires of his people. This was serious mischief, and Maui's mother decided that he should go to the under-world and see his ancestress, Mahuika, the guardian of fire, and get new fire to repair the injury he had wrought. She warned him against attempting to play tricks upon the inhabitants of the lower regions. [Illustration: Hawaiian Vines and Bushes.] Maui gladly hastened down the cave-path to the house of Mahuika, and asked for fire for the upper-world. In some way he pleased her so that she pulled off a finger nail in which fire was burning and gave it to him. As soon as he had gone back to a place where there was water, he put the fire out and returned to Mahuika, asking another gift, which he destroyed. This he did for both hands and feet until only one nail remained. Maui wanted this. Then Mahuika became angry and threw the last finger nail on the ground. Fire poured out and laid hold of everything. Maui ran up the path to the upper-world, but the fire was swifter-footed. Then Maui changed himself into an eagle and flew high up into the air, but the fire and smoke still followed him. Then he saw water and dashed into it, but it was too hot. Around him the forests were blazing, the earth burning and the sea boiling. Maui, about to perish, called on the gods for rain. Then floods of water fell and the fire was checked. The great rain fell on Mahuika and she fled, almost drowned. Her stores of fire were destroyed, quenched by the storm. But in order to save fire for the use of men, as she fled she threw sparks into different kinds of trees where the rain could not reach them, so that when fire was needed it might be brought into the world again by rubbing together the fire sticks. The Chatham Islanders give the following incantation, which they said was used by Maui against the fierce flood of fire which was pursuing him: "To the roaring thunder; To the great rain--the long rain; To the drizzling rain--the small rain; To the rain pattering on the leaves. These are the storms--the storms Cause them to fall; To pour in torrents." The legend of Savage Island places Maui in the role of fire-maker. He has stolen fire in the under-world. His father tries to catch him, but Maui sets fire to the bushes by the path until a great conflagration is raging which pursues him to the upper-world. Some legends make Maui the fire-teacher as well as the fire-finder. He teaches men how to use hardwood sticks in the fine dry dust on the bark of certain trees, or how to use the fine fibre of the palm tree to catch sparks. In Tahiti the fire god lived in the "Hale-a-o-a," or House of the Banyan. Sometimes human sacrifices were placed upon the sacred branches of this tree of the fire god. In the Bowditch or Fakaofa Islands the goddess of fire when conquered taught not only the method of making fire by friction but also what fish were to be cooked and what were to be eaten raw. Thus some of the myths of Maui, the mischievous, finding fire are told by the side of the inrolling surf, while natives of many islands, around their poi bowls, rest in the shade of the far-reaching boughs and thick foliage of the banyan and other fire-producing trees. VI. MAUI THE SKILLFUL. According to the New Zealand legends there were six Mauis--the Hawaiians counted four. They were a band of brothers. The older five were known as "the forgetful Mauis." The tricky and quick-witted youngest member of the family was called Maui te atamai--"Maui the skillful." He was curiously accounted for in the New Zealand under-world. When he went down through the long cave to his ancestor's home to find fire, he was soon talked about. "Perhaps this is the man about whom so much is said in the upper-world." His ancestress from whom he obtained fire recognized him as the man called "the deceitful Maui." Even his parents told him once, "We know you are a tricky fellow--more so than any other man." One of the New Zealand fire legends while recording his flight to the under-world and his appearance as a bird, says: "The men tried to spear him, and to catch him in nets. At last they cried out, 'Maybe you are the man whose fame is great in the upper-world.' At once he leaped to the ground and appeared in the form of a man." He was not famous for inventions, but he was always ready to improve upon anything which was already in existence. He could take the sun in hand and make it do better work. He could tie the moon so that it had to swim back around the island to the place in the ocean from which it might rise again, and go slowly through the night. His brothers invented a slender, straight and smooth spear with which to kill birds. He saw the fluttering, struggling birds twist themselves off the smooth point and escape. He made a good light bird spear and put notches in it and kept most of the birds stuck. His brothers finally examined his spear and learned the reason for its superiority. In the same way they learned how to spear fish. They could strike and wound and sometimes kill--but they could not with their smooth spears draw the fish from the waters of the coral caves. But Maui the youngest made barbs, so that the fish could not easily shake themselves loose. The others soon made their spears like his. The brothers were said to have invented baskets in which to trap eels, but many eels escaped. Maui improved the basket by secretly making an inside partition as well as a cover, and the eels were securely trapped. It took the brothers a long time to learn the real difference between their baskets and his. One of the family made a basket like his and caught many eels. Then Maui became angry and chanted a curse over him and bewildered him, then changed him into a dog. The Manahiki Islanders have the legend that Maui made the moon, but could not get good light from it. He tried experiments and found that the sun was quite an improvement. The sun's example stimulated the moon to shine brighter. Once Maui became interested in tattooing and tried to make a dog look better by placing dark lines around the mouth. The legends say that one of the sacred birds saw the pattern and then marked the sky with the red lines sometimes seen at sunrise and sunset. An Hawaiian legend says that Maui tattooed his arm with a sacred name and thus that arm was strong enough to hold the sun when he lassoed it. There is a New Zealand legend in which Maui is made one of three gods who first created man and then woman from one of the man's ribs. The Hawaiians dwelling in Hilo have many stories of Maui. They say that his home was on the northern bank of the Wailuku River. He had a strong staff made from an ohia tree (the native apple tree). With this he punched holes through the lava, making natural bridges and boiling pools, and new channels for its sometimes obstructed waters, so that the people could go up or down the river more easily. Near one of the natural bridges is a figure of the moon carved in the rocks, referred by some of the natives to Maui. Maui is said to have taught his brothers the different kinds of fish nets and the use of the strong fibre of the olona, which was much better than cocoanut threads. The New Zealand stories relate the spear-throwing contests of Maui and his brothers. As children, however, they were not allowed the use of wooden spears. They took the stems of long, heavy reeds and threw them at each other, but Maui's reeds were charmed into stronger and harder fibre so that he broke his mother's house and made her recognize him as one of her children. He had been taken away as soon as he was born by the gods to whom he was related. When he found his way back home his mother paid no attention to him. Thus by a spear thrust he won a home. The brothers all made fish hooks, but Maui the youngest made two kinds of hooks--one like his brothers' and one with a sharp barb. His brothers' hooks were smooth so that it was difficult to keep the fish from floundering and shaking themselves off, but they noticed that the fish were held by Maui's hook better than by theirs. Maui was not inclined to devote himself to hard work, and lived on his brothers as much as possible--but when driven out by his wife or his mother he would catch more fish than the other fishermen. They tried to examine his hooks, but he always changed his hooks so that they could not see any difference between his and theirs. At such times they called him the mischievous one and tried to leave him behind while they went fishing. They were, however, always ready to give him credit for his improvements. They dealt generously with him when they learned what he had really accomplished. When they caught him with his barbed hook they forgot the past and called him "ke atamai"--the skillful. The idea that fish hooks made from the jawbones of human beings were better than others, seemed to have arisen at first from the angle formed in the lower jawbone. Later these human fish hooks were considered sacred and therefore possessed of magic powers. The greater sanctity and power belonged to the bones which bore more especial relation to the owner. Therefore Maui's "magic hook," with which he fished up islands, was made from the jawbone of his ancestress Mahuika. It is also said that in order to have powerful hooks for every-day fishing he killed two of his children. Their right eyes he threw up into the sky to become stars. One became the morning and the other the evening star. The idea that the death of any members of the family must not stand in the way of obtaining magical power, has prevailed throughout Polynesia. From this angle in the jawbone Maui must have conceived the idea of making a hook with a piece of bone or shell which should be fastened to the large bone at a very sharp angle, thus making a kind of barb. Hooks like this have been made for ages among the Polynesians. Maui and his brothers went fishing for eels with bait strung on the flexible rib of a cocoanut leaf. The stupid brothers did not fasten the ends of the string. Therefore the eels easily slipped the bait off and escaped. But Maui made the ends of his string fast, and captured many eels. The little things which others did not think about were the foundation of Maui's fame. Upon these little things he built his courage to snare the sun and seek fire for mankind. In a New Zealand legend, quoted by Edward Tregear, Maui is called Maui-maka-walu, or "Maui with eyes eight." This eight-eyed Maui would be allied to the Hindoo deities who with their eight eyes face the four quarters of the world--thus possessing both insight into the affairs of men and foresight into the future. Fornander, the Hawaiian ethnologist, says: "In Hawaiian mythology, Kamapuaa, the demigod opponent of the goddess Pele, is described as having eight eyes and eight feet; and in the legends Maka-walu, 'eight-eyed,' is a frequent epithet of gods and chiefs." He notes this coincidence with the appearance of some of the principal Hindoo deities as having some bearing upon the origin of the Polynesians. It may be that a comparative study of the legends of other islands of the Pacific by some student will open up other new and important facts. In Tahiti, on the island Raiatea, a high priest or prophet lived in the long, long ago. He was known as Maui the prophet of Tahiti. He was probably not Maui the demigod. Nevertheless he was represented as possessing very strange prophetical powers. According to the historian Ellis, who previous to 1830 spent eight years in the Society and Hawaiian Islands, this prophet Maui clearly prophesied the coming of an outriggerless canoe from some foreign land. An outrigger is a log which so balances a canoe that it can ride safely through the treacherous surf. The chiefs and prophets charged him with stating the impossible. He took his wooden calabash and placed it in a pool of water as an illustration of the way such a boat should float. Then with the floating bowl before him he uttered the second prophecy, that boats without line to tie the sails to the masts, or the masts to the ships, should also come to Tahiti. [Illustration: Hawaiian Bathing Pool.] When English ships under Captain Wallis and Captain Cook, in the latter part of the eighteenth century, visited these islands, the natives cried out, "O the canoes of Maui--the outriggerless canoes." Passenger steamships, and the men-of-war from the great nations, have taught the Tahitians that boats without sails and masts can cross the great ocean, and again they have recurred to the words of the prophet Maui, and have exclaimed, "O the boats without sails and masts." This rather remarkable prophecy could easily have occurred to Maui as he saw a wooden calabash floating over rough waters. Maui's improvement upon nature's plan in regard to certain birds is also given in the legends as a proof of his supernatural powers. White relates the story as follows: "Maui requested some birds to go and fetch water for him. The first one would not obey, so he threw it into the water. He requested another bird to go--and it refused, so he threw it into the fire, and its feathers were burnt. But the next bird obeyed, but could not carry the water, and he rewarded it by making the feathers of the fore part of its head white. Then he asked another bird to go, and it filled its ears with water and brought it to Maui, who drank, and then pulled the bird's legs and made them long in payment for its act of kindness." Diffenbach says: "Maui, the Adam of New Zealand, left the cat's cradle to the New Zealanders as an inheritance." The name "Whai" was given to the game. It exhibited the various steps of creation according to Maori mythology. Every change in the cradle shows some act in creation. Its various stages were called "houses." Diffenbach says again: "In this game of Maui they are great proficients. It is a game like that called cat's cradle in Europe. It is intimately connected with their ancient traditions and in the different figures which the cord is made to assume whilst held on both hands, the outline of their different varieties of houses, canoes or figures of men and women are imagined to be represented." One writer connects this game with witchcraft, and says it was brought from the under-world. Some parts of the puzzle show the adventures of Maui, especially his attempt to win immortality for men. In New Zealand it was said Maui found a large, fine-grained stone block, broke it in pieces, and from the fragments learned how to fashion stone implements. White also tells the New Zealand legend of Maui and the winds. "Maui caught and held all the winds save the west wind. He put each wind into a cave, so that it might not blow. He sought in vain for the west wind, but could not find from whence it came. If he had found the cave in which it stayed he would have closed the entrance to that cave with rocks. When the west wind blows lightly it is because Maui has got near to it, and has nearly caught it, and it has gone into its home, the cave, to escape him. When the winds of the south, east, and north blow furiously it is because the rocks have been removed by the stupid people who could not learn the lessons taught by Maui. At other times Maui allows these winds to blow in hurricanes to punish that people, and also that he may ride on these furious winds in search of the west wind." In the Hawaiian legends Maui is represented as greatly interested in making and flying kites. His favorite place for the sport was by the boiling pools of the Wailuku river near Hilo. He had the winds under his control and would call for them to push his kites in the direction he wished. His incantation calling up the winds is given in this Maui proverb-- "Strong wind come, Soft wind come." White in his "Ancient History of the Maoris," relates some of Maui's experiences with the people whom he found on the islands brought up from the under-world. On one island he found a sand house with eight hundred gods living in it. Apparently Maui discovered islands with inhabitants, and was reported to have fished them up out of the depths of the ocean. Fishing was sailing over the ocean until distant lands were drawn near or "fished up." Maui walked over the islands and found men living on them and fires burning near their homes. He evidently did not know much about fire, for he took it in his hands. He was badly burned and rushed into the sea. Down he dived under the cooling waters and came up with one of the New Zealand islands on his shoulders. But his hands were still burning, so wherever he held the island it was set on fire. These fires are still burning in the secret recesses of the volcanoes, and sometimes burst out in flowing lava. Then Maui paid attention to the people whom he had fished up. He tried to teach them, but they did not learn as he thought they should. He quickly became angry and said, "It is a waste of light for the sun to shine on such stupid people." So he tried to hold his hands between them and the sun, but the rays of the sun were too many and too strong; therefore, he could not shut them out. Then he tried the moon and managed to make it dark a part of the time each month. In this way he made a little trouble for the stupid people. There are other hints in the legends concerning Maui's desire to be revenged upon any one who incurred his displeasure. It was said that Maui for a time lived in the heavens above the earth. Here he had a foster brother Maru. The two were cultivating the fields. Maru sent a snowstorm over Maui's field. (It would seem as if this might be a Polynesian memory of a cold land where their ancestors knew the cold winter, or a lesson learned from the snow-caps of high mountains.) At any rate, the snow blighted Maui's crops. Maui retaliated by praying for rain to destroy Maru's fields. But Maru managed to save a part of his crops. Other legends make Maui the aggressor. At the last, however, Maui became very angry. The foster parents tried to soothe the two men by saying, "Live in peace with each other and do not destroy each other's food." But Maui was implacable and lay in wait for his foster brother, who was in the habit of carrying fruit and grass as an offering to the gods of a temple situated on the summit of a hill. Here Maui killed Maru and then went away to the earth. This legend is told by three or four different tribes of New Zealand and is very similar to the Hebrew story of Cain and Abel. At this late day it is difficult to say definitely whether or not it owes its origin to the early touch of Christianity upon New Zealand when white men first began to live with the natives. It is somewhat similar to stories found in the Tonga Islands and also in the Hawaiian group, where a son of the first gods, or rather of the first men, kills a brother. In each case there is the shadow of the Biblical idea. It seems safe to infer that such legends are not entirely drawn from contact with Christian civilization. The natives claim that these stories are very ancient, and that their fathers knew them before the white men sailed on the Pacific. VII. MAUI AND TUNA. When Maui returned from the voyages in which he discovered or "fished up" from the ocean depths new islands, he gave deep thought to the things he had found. As the islands appeared to come out of the water he saw they were inhabited. There were houses and stages for drying and preserving food. He was greeted by barking dogs. Fires were burning, food cooking and people working. He evidently had gone so far away from home that a strange people was found. The legend which speaks of the death of his brothers, "eaten" by the great fish drawn up from the floor of the sea, may very easily mean that the new people killed and ate the brothers. Maui apparently learned some new lessons, for on his return he quickly established a home of his own, and determined to live after the fashion of the families in the new islands. Maui sought Hina-a-te-lepo, "daughter of the swamp," and secured her as his wife. The New Zealand tribes tell legends which vary in different localities about this woman Hina. She sometimes bore the name Rau-kura--"The red plume." She cared for his thatched house as any other Polynesian woman was in the habit of doing. She attempted the hurried task of cooking his food before he snared the sun and gave her sufficient daylight for her labors. They lived near the bank of a river from which Hina was in the habit of bringing water for the household needs. One day she went down to the stream with her calabash. She was entwined with wreaths of leaves and flowers, as was the custom among Polynesian women. While she was standing on the bank, Tuna-roa, "the long eel," saw her. He swam up to the bank and suddenly struck her and knocked her into the water and covered her with slime from the blow given by his tail. Hina escaped and returned to her home, saying nothing to Maui about the trouble. But the next day, while getting water, she was again overthrown and befouled by the slime of Tuna-roa. Then Hina became angry and reported the trouble to Maui. Maui decided to punish the long eel and started out to find his hiding place. Some of the New Zealand legends as collected by White, state that Tuna-roa was a very smooth skinned chief, who lived on the opposite bank of the stream, and, seeing Hina, had insulted her. When Maui saw this chief, he caught two pieces of wood over which he was accustomed to slide his canoe into the sea. These he carried to the stream and laid them from bank to bank as a bridge over which he might entice Tuna-roa to cross. Maui took his stone axe, Ma-Tori-Tori, "the severer," and concealed himself near the bank of the river. When "the long eel" had crossed the stream, Maui rushed out and killed him with a mighty blow of the stone axe, cutting the head from the body. Other legends say that Maui found Tuna-roa living as an eel in a deep water hole, in a swamp on the sea-coast of Tata-a, part of the island Ao-tea-roa. Other stories located Tuna-roa in the river near Maui's home. Maui saw that he could not get at his enemy without letting off the water which protected him. Therefore into the forest went Maui, and with sacred ceremonies, selected trees from the wood of which he prepared tools and weapons. Meanwhile, in addition to the insult given to Hina, Tuna-roa had caught and devoured two of Maui's children, which made Maui more determined to kill him. Maui made the narrow spade (named by the Maoris of New Zealand the "ko," and by the Hawaiians "o-o") and the sharp spears, with which to pierce either the earth or his enemy. These spears and spades were consecrated to the work of preparing a ditch by which to draw off the water protecting "the long eel." The work of trench-making was accomplished with many incantations and prayers. The ditch was named "The sacred digging," and was tabooed to all other purposes except that of catching Tuna-roa. Across this ditch Maui stretched a strong net, and then began a new series of chants and ceremonies to bring down an abundance of rain. Soon the flood came and the overflowing waters rushed down the sacred ditch. The walls of the deep pool gave way and "the long eel" was carried down the trench into the waiting net. Then there was commotion. Tuna-roa was struggling for freedom. Maui saw him and hastened to grasp his stone axe, "the severer." Hurrying to the net, he struck Tuna-roa a terrible blow, and cut off the head. With a few more blows, he cut the body in pieces. The head and tail were carried out into the sea. The head became fish and the tail became the great conger-eel. Other parts of the body became sea monsters. But some parts which fell in fresh water became the common eels. From the hairs of the head came certain vines and creepers among the plants. After the death of Tuna-roa the offspring of Maui were in no danger of being killed and soon multiplied into a large family. Another New Zealand legend related by White says that Maui built a sliding place of logs, over which Tuna-roa must pass when coming from the river. Maui also made a screen behind which he could secrete himself while watching for Tuna-roa. He commanded Hina to come down to the river and wait on the bank to attract Tuna-roa. Soon the long eel was seen in the water swimming near to Hina. Hina went to a place back of the logs which Maui had laid down. Tuna-roa came towards her, and began to slide down the skids. Maui sprang out from his hiding place and killed Tuna-roa with his axe, and cut him in pieces. The tail became the conger-eel. Parts of his body became fresh-water eels. Some of the blood fell upon birds and always after marked them with red spots. Some of the blood was thrown into certain trees, making this wood always red. The muscles became vines and creepers. From this time the children of Maui caught and ate the eels of both salt and fresh water. Eel traps were made, and Maui taught the people the proper chants or incantations to use when catching eels. This legend of Maui and the long eel was found by White in a number of forms among the different tribes of New Zealand, but does not seem to have had currency in many other island groups. In Turner's "Samoa" a legend is related which was probably derived from the Maui stories and yet differs in its romantic results. The Samoans say that among their ancient ones dwelt a woman named Sina. Sina among the Polynesians is the same as Hina--the "h" is softened into "s". She captured a small eel and kept it as a pet. It grew large and strong and finally attacked and bit her. She fled, but the eel followed her everywhere. Her father came to her assistance and raised high mountains between the eel and herself. But the eel passed over the barrier and pursued her. Her mother raised a new series of mountains. But again the eel surmounted the difficulties and attempted to seize Sina. She broke away from him and ran on and on. Finally she wearily passed through a village. The people asked her to stay and eat with them, but she said they could only help her by delivering her from the pursuing eel. The inhabitants of that village were afraid of the eel and refused to fight for her. So she ran on to another place. Here the chief offered her a drink of water and promised to kill the eel for her. He prepared awa, a stupefying drink, and put poison in it. When the eel came along the chief asked him to drink. He took the awa and prepared to follow Sina. When he came to the place where she was the pains of death had already seized him. While dying he begged her to bury his head by her home. This she did, and in time a plant new to the islands sprang up. It became a tree, and finally produced a cocoanut, whose two eyes could continually look into the face of Sina. Tuna, in the legends of Fiji, was a demon of the sea. He lived in a deep sea cave, into which he sometimes shut himself behind closed doors of coral. When he was hungry, he swam through the ocean shadows, always watching the restless surface. When a canoe passed above him, he would throw himself swiftly through the waters, upset the canoe, and seize some of the boatmen and devour them. He was greatly feared by all the fishermen of the Fijian coasts. [Illustration: A Coconut Grove in Kona.] Roko--a mo-o or dragon god--in his journey among the islands, stopped at a village by the sea and asked for a canoe and boatmen. The people said: "We have nothing but a very old canoe out there by the water." He went to it and found it in a very bad condition. He put it in the water, and decided that he could use it. Then he asked two men to go with him and paddle, but they refused because of fear, and explained this fear by telling the story of the water demon, who continually sought the destruction of this canoe, and also their own death. Roko encouraged them to take him to wage battle with Tuna, telling them he would destroy the monster. They paddled until they were directly over Tuna's cave. Roko told them to go off to one side and wait and watch, saying: "I am going down to see this Tuna. If you see red blood boil up through the water, you may be sure that Tuna has been killed. If the blood is black, then you will know that he has the victory and I am dead." Roko leaped into the water and went down--down to the door of the cave. The coral doors were closed. He grasped them in his strong hands and tore them open, breaking them in pieces. Inside he found cave after cave of coral, and broke his way through until at last he awoke Tuna. The angry demon cried: "Who is that?" Roko answered: "It is I, Roko, alone. Who are you?" Tuna aroused himself and demanded Roko's business and who guided him to that place. Roko replied: "No one has guided me. I go from place to place, thinking that there is no one else in the world." Tuna shook himself angrily. "Do you think I am nothing? This day is your last." Roko replied: "Perhaps so. If the sky falls, I shall die." Tuna leaped upon Roko and bit him. Then came the mighty battle of the coral caves. Roko broke Tuna into several pieces--and the red blood poured in boiling bubbles upward through the clear ocean waters, and the boatmen cried: "The blood is red--the blood is red--Tuna is dead by the hand of Roko." Roko lived for a time in Fiji, where his descendants still find their home. The people use this chant to aid them in difficulties: "My load is a red one. It points in front to Kawa (Roko's home). Behind, it points to Dolomo--(a village on another island)." In the Hawaiian legends, Hina was Maui's mother rather than his wife, and Kuna (Tuna) was a mo-o, a dragon or gigantic lizard possessing miraculous powers. Hina's home was in the large cave under the beautiful Rainbow Falls near the city of Hilo. Above the falls the bed of the river is along the channel of an ancient lava flow. Sometimes the water pours in a torrent over the rugged lava, sometimes it passes through underground passages as well as along the black river bed, and sometimes it thrusts itself into boiling pools. Maui lived on the northern side of the river, but a chief named Kuna-moo--a dragon--lived in the boiling pools. He attacked Hina and threw a dam across the river below Rainbow Falls, intending to drown Hina in her cave. The great ledge of rock filled the river bed high up the bank on the Hilo side of the river. Hina called on Maui for aid. Maui came quickly and with mighty blows cut out a new channel for the river--the path it follows to this day. The waters sank and Hina remained unharmed in her cave. The place where Kuna dwelt was called Wai-kuna--the Kuna water. The river in which Hina and Kuna dwelt bears the name Wailuku--"the destructive water." Maui went above Kuna's home and poured hot water into the river. This part of the myth could easily have arisen from a lava outburst on the side of the volcano above the river. The hot water swept in a flood over Kuna's home. Kuna jumped from the boiling pools over a series of small falls near his home into the river below. Here the hot water again scalded him and in pain he leaped from the river to the bank, where Maui killed him by beating him with a club. His body was washed down the river over the falls under which Hina dwelt, into the ocean. The story of Kuna or Tuna is a legend with a foundation in the enmity between two chiefs of the long ago, and also in a desire to explain the origin of the family of eels and the invention of nets and traps. [Illustration: Wailuku River--the Boiling Pots.] VIII. MAUI AND HIS BROTHER-IN-LAW. The "Stories of Maui's Brother-in-Law," and of "Maui seeking Immortality," are not found in Hawaiian mythology. We depend upon Sir George Grey and John White for the New Zealand myths in which both of these legends occur. Maui's sister Hina-uri married Ira-waru, who was willing to work with his skillful brother-in-law. They hunted in the forests and speared birds. They fished and farmed together. They passed through many experiences similar to those Maui's own brothers had suffered before the brother-in-law took their place as Maui's companion. They made spears together--but Maui made notched barbs for his spear ends--and slipped them off when Ira-waru came near. So for a long time the proceeds of bird hunting fell to Maui. But after a time the brother-in-law learned the secret as the brothers had before, and Maui was looked up to by his fellow hunter as the skillful one. Sometimes Ira-waru was able to see at once Maui's plan and adopt it. He discovered Maui's method of making the punga or eel baskets for catching eels. The two hunters went to the forest to find a certain creeping vine with which to weave their eel snares. Ira-waru made a basket with a hole, by which the eels could enter, but they could turn around and go out the same way. So he very seldom caught an eel. But Maui made his basket with a long funnel-shaped door, by which the eels could easily slide into the snare but could scarcely escape. He made a door in the side which he fastened tight until he wished to pour the eels out. Ira-waru immediately made a basket like Maui. Then Maui became angry and uttered incantations over Ira-waru. The man dropped on the ground and became a dog. Maui returned home and met his sister, who charged him with sorcery concerning her husband. Maui did not deny the exercise of his power, but taught his sister a chant and sent her out to the level country. There she uttered her chant and a strange dog with long hair came to her, barking and leaping around her. Then she knew what Maui had done. "Thus Ira-waru became the first of the long-haired dogs whose flesh has been tabooed to women." The Tahu and Hau tribes of New Zealand tell a different story. They say that Maui went to visit Ira-waru. Together they set out on a journey. After a time they rested by the wayside and became sleepy. Maui asked Ira-waru to cleanse his head. This gave him the restful, soothing touch which aided sleep. Then Maui proposed that Ira-waru sleep. Taking the head in his hands, Maui put his brother-in-law to sleep. Then by incantations he made the sleep very deep and prolonged. Meanwhile he pulled the ears and arms and limbs until they were properly lengthened. He drew out the under jaw until it had the form of a dog's mouth. He stretched the end of the backbone into a tail, and then wakened Ira-waru and drove him back when he tried to follow the path to the settlement. Hina-uri went out and called her husband. He came to her, leaping and barking. She decided that this was her husband, and in her agony reproached Maui and wandered away. The Rua-nui story-tellers of New Zealand say that Maui's anger was aroused against Ira-waru because he ate all the bait when they went fishing, and they could catch no fish after paddling out to the fishing grounds. When they came to land, Maui told Ira-waru to lie down in the sand as a roller over which to drag the canoe up the beach. When he was lying helpless under the canoe, Maui changed him into a dog. The Arawa legends make the cause of Maui's anger the success of Ira-waru while fishing. Ira-waru had many fish while Maui had captured but few. The story is told thus: "Ira-waru hooked a fish and in pulling it in his line became entangled with that of Maui. Maui felt the jerking and began to pull in his line. Soon they pulled their lines close up to the canoe, one to the bow, the other to the stern, where each was sitting. Maui said: 'Let me pull the lines to me, as the fish is on my hook.' His brother-in-law said: 'Not so; the fish is on mine.' But Maui said: 'Let me pull my line in.' Ira-waru did so and saw that the fish was on his hook. Then he said: 'Untwist your lines and let mine go, that I may pull the fish in.' Maui said: 'I will do so, but let me have time.' He took the fish off Ira-waru's hook and saw that there was a barb on the hook. He said to Ira-waru: 'Perhaps we ought to return to land.' When they were dragging the canoe on shore, Maui said to Ira-waru: 'Get between the canoe and outrigger and drag.' Ira-waru did so and Maui leaped on the outrigger and weighed it heavily down and crushed Ira-waru prostrate on the beach. Maui trod on him and pulled his backbone long like a tail and changed him into a dog." Maui is said to have tattooed the muzzle of the dog with a beautiful pattern which the birds (kahui-zara, a flock of tern) used in marking the sky. From this also came the red glow which sometimes flushes the face of man. Another Arawa version of the legend was that Maui and Ira-waru were journeying together. Ira-waru was gluttonous and ate the best food. At last Maui determined to punish his companion. By incantation he lengthened the way until Ira-waru became faint and weary. Maui had provided himself with a little food and therefore was enabled to endure the long way. While Ira-waru slept Maui trod on his backbone and lengthened it and changed the arms and limbs into the legs of a dog. When Hina-uri saw the state of her husband she went into the thatched house by which Ira-waru had so often stood watching the hollow log in which she dried the fish and preserved the birds speared in the mountains. She bound her girdle and hala-leaf apron around her and went down to the sea to drown herself, that her body might be eaten by the monsters of the sea. When she came to the shell-covered beach, she sat down and sang her death song-- "I weep, I call to the steep billows of the sea And to him, the great, the ocean god; To monsters, all now hidden, To come and bury me, Who now am wrapped in mourning. Let the waves wear their mourning, too, And sleep as sleeps the dead." --Ancient Maui Chant of New Zealand. Then Hina-uri threw herself into the sea and was borne on the waves many moons, at last drifting to shore, to be found by two fishermen. They carried the body off to the fire and warmed it back to life. They brushed off the sea moss and sea weeds and rubbed her until she awoke. Soon they told their chief, Tini-rau, what a beautiful woman they had found in the sea. He came and took her away to make her one of his wives. But the other wives were jealous and drove Hina-uri away from the chief's houses. Another New Zealand legend says that Hina came to the sea and called for a little fish to aid her in going away from the island. It tried to carry her, but was too weak. Hina struck it with her open hand. It had striped sides forever after. She tried a larger fish, but fell off before they had gone far from shore. Her blow gave this fish its beautiful blue spots. Another received black spots. Another she stamped her foot upon, making it flat. At last a shark carried her far away. She was very thirsty, and broke a cocoanut on the shark's head, making a bump, which has been handed down for generations. The shark carried her to the home of the two who rescued her and gave her new strength. Meanwhile Rupe or Maui-mua, a brother of Hina-uri and Maui, grieved for his sister. He sought for her throughout the land and then launched his canoe upon the blue waters surrounding Ao-tea-roa (The Great White Land; the ancient native New Zealand) and searched the coasts. He only learned that his sister had, as the natives said, "leaped into the waters and been carried away into the heavens." [Illustration: "Outside Were Other Worlds."] Rupe's heart filled with the desire to find and protect the frenzied sister who had probably taken a canoe and floated away, out of the horizon, seen from New Zealand coasts, into new horizons. During the Viking age of the Pacific, when many chiefs sailed long distances, visiting the most remote islands of Polynesia, they frequently spoke of breaking through from the home land into new heavens--or of climbing up the path of the sun on the waters into a new heaven. This was their poetical way of passing from horizon to horizon. The horizon around their particular island surrounded their complete world. Outside, somewhere, were other worlds and other heavens. Rupe's voyage was an idyll of the Pacific. It was one more story to be added to the prose poems of consecrated travel. It was a brother feeling through the mysteries of unknown lands for a sister, as dear to him as an Evangeline has been to other men. From the mist-land of the Polynesian race comes this story of the trickery of Maui the learned, and the faithfulness of his older brother Maui-mua or Rupe--one of the "five forgetful Mauis." Rupe hoisted mat-sails over his canoe and thus made the winds serve him. He paddled the canoe onward through the hours when calms rested on glassy waves. Thus he passed out of sight of Ao-tea-roa, away from his brothers, and out of the reach of all tricks and incantations of Maui, the mischievous. He sailed until a new island rose out of the sea to greet him. Here in a "new heaven" he found friends to care for him and prepare him for his longer journey. His restless anxiety for his sister urged him onward until days lengthened into months and months into years. He passed from the horizons of newly-discovered islands, into the horizons of circling skies around islands of which he had never heard before. Sometimes he found relatives, but more frequently his welcome came from those who could trace no historical touch in their genealogies. Here and there, apparently, he found traces of a woman whose description answered that of his sister Hina-uri. At last he looked through the heavens upon a new world, and saw his sister in great trouble. According to some legends the jealous wives of the great chief, Tini-rau, attack Hina, who was known among them as Hina-te-ngaru-moana, "Hina, the daughter of the ocean." Tini-rau and Hina lived away from the village of the chief until their little boy was born. When they needed food, the chief said, "Let us go to my settlement and we shall have food provided." But Hina chanted: "Let it down, let it down, Descend, oh! descend--" and sufficient food fell before them. After a time their frail clothing wore out, and the cold chilled them, then Hina again uttered the incantation and clothing was provided for their need. But the jealous wives, two in number, finally heard where Hina and the chief were living, and started to see them. Tini-rau said to Hina, "Here come my other wives--be careful how you act before them." She replied, "If they come in anger it will be evil." She armed herself with an obsidian or volcanic-glass knife, and waited their coming. They tried to throw enchantments around her to kill her. Then one of them made a blow at her with a weapon, but she turned it aside and killed her enemy with the obsidian knife. Then the other wife made an attack, and again the obsidian knife brought death. She ripped open the stomachs of the jealous ones and showed the chief fish lines and sinkers and other property which they had eaten in the past and which Tini-rau had never been able to trace. Another legend says that the two women came to kill Hina when they heard of the birth of her boy. For a time she was greatly terrified. Then she saw that they were coming from different directions. She attacked the nearest one with a stone and killed her. The body burst open, and was seen to be full of green stone. Then she killed the second wife in the same way, and found more green stones. "Thus, according to the legends, originated the greenstone" from which the choicest and most valuable stone tools have since been made. For a time the chief and Hina lived happily together. Then he began to neglect her and abuse her, until she cried aloud for her brother-- "O Rupe! come down. Take me and my child." Rupe assumed the form of a bird and flew down to this world in which he had found his sister. He chanted as he came down-- "It is Rupe, yes Rupe, The elder brother; And I am here." He folded the mother and her boy under his wings and flew away with them. Sir George Gray relates a legend in which Maui-mua or Rupe is recorded as having carried his sister and her child to one of the new lands, found in his long voyage, where dwelt an aged relative, of chief rank, with his retainers. Some legends say that Tini-rau tried to catch Rupe, who was compelled to drop the child in order to escape with the mother. Tini-rau caught the child and carefully cared for him until he grew to be a strong young lad. Then he wanted to find his mother and bring her back to his father. How this was done, how Rupe took his sister back to the old chief, and how civil wars arose are not all these told in the legends of the Maoris. Thus the tricks of Maui the mischievous brought trouble for a time, but were finally overshadowed by happy homes in neighboring lands for his suffering sister and her descendants. IX. MAUI'S KITE FLYING. Maui the demi-god was sometimes the Hercules of Polynesia. His exploits were fully as marvelous as those of the hero of classic mythology. He snared the sun. He pulled up islands from the ocean depths. He lifted the sky into its present position and smoothed its arched surface with his stone adze. These stories belong to all Polynesia. There are numerous less important local myths, some of them peculiar to New Zealand, some to the Society Islands and some to the Hawaiian group. One of the old native Hawaiians says that in the long, long ago the birds were flying around the homes of the ancient people. The flutter of their wings could be heard and the leaves and branches moved when the motion of the wings ceased and the wanderers through the air found resting places. Then came sweet music from the trees and the people marvelled. Only one of all mankind could see the winged warblers. Maui, the demi-god, had clear vision. The swift-flying wings covered with red or gold he saw. The throats tinted many colors and reflecting the sunlight with diamond sparks of varied hues he watched while they trembled with the melody of sweet bird songs. All others heard but did not see. They were blind and yet had open vision. Sometimes the iiwi (a small red bird) fluttered in the air and uttered its shrill, happy song, and Maui saw and heard. But the bird at that time was without color in the eyes of the ancient people and only the clear voice was heard, while no speck of bird life flecked the clear sky overhead. At one time a god from one of the other islands came to visit Maui. Each boasted of and described the beauties and merits of his island. While they were conversing, Maui called for his friends the birds. They gathered around the house and fluttered among the leaves of the surrounding trees. Soon their sweet voices filled the air on all sides. All the people wondered and worshiped, thinking they heard the fairy or menehune people. It was said that Maui had painted the bodies of his invisible songsters and for a long time had kept the delight of their flashing colors to himself. But when the visitor had rejoiced in the mysterious harmonies, Maui decided to take away whatever veil shut out the sight of these things beautiful, that his bird friends might be known and honored ever after. So he made the birds reveal themselves perched in the trees or flying in the air. The clear eyes of the god first recognized the new revelation, then all the people became dumb before the sweet singers adorned in all their brilliant tropical plumage. The beautiful red birds, iiwi and akakani, and the birds of glorious yellow feathers, the oo and the mamo, were a joy to both eye and ear and found high places in Hawaiian legend and story, and all gave their most beautiful feathers for the cloaks and helmets of the chiefs. The Maoris of New Zealand say that Maui could at will change himself into a bird and with his feathered friends find a home in leafy shelters. In bird form he visited the gods of the under-world. His capricious soul was sensitive to the touch of all that mysterious life of nature. With the birds as companions and the winds as his servants Maui must soon have turned his inventive mind to kite making. The Hawaiian myths are perhaps the only ones of the Pacific Ocean which give to any of the gods the pleasure and excitement of kite flying. Maui, after repeated experiments, made a large kite for himself. It was much larger than any house of his time or generation. He twisted a long line from the strong fibers of the native plant known as the olona. He endowed both kite and string with marvelous powers and launched the kite up toward the clouds. It rose very slowly. The winds were not lifting it into the sky. [Illustration: The Home of the Winds, Hilo Coast.] Maui remembered that an old priest lived in Waipio valley, the largest and finest valley of the large island, Hawaii, on which he made his home. This priest had a covered calabash in which he compelled the winds to hide when he did not wish them to play on land and sea. The priest's name was Kaleiioku, and his calabash was known as ipu-makani-a ka maumau, "the calabash of the perpetual winds." Maui called for the priest who had charge of the winds to open his calabash and let them come up to Hilo and blow along the Wailuku river. The natives say that the place where Maui stood was marked by the pressure of his feet in the lava rocks of the river bank as he braced himself to hold the kite against the increasing force of the winds which pushed it towards the sky. Then the enthusiasm of kite flying filled his youthful soul and he cried aloud, screaming his challenge along the coast of the sea toward Waipio-- "O winds, winds of Waipio, In the calabash of Kaleiioku. Come from the ipu-makani, O wind, the wind of Hilo, Come quickly, come with power." Then the priest lifted the cover of the calabash of the winds and let the strong winds of Hilo escape. Along the sea coast they rushed until as they entered Hilo Bay they heard the voice of Maui calling-- "O winds, winds of Hilo, Hasten and come to me." With a tumultuous rush the strong winds turned toward the mountains. They forced their way along the gorges and palisades of the Wailuku river. They leaped into the heavens, making a fierce attack upon the monster which Maui had sent into the sky. The kite struggled as it was pushed upward by the hands of the fierce winds, but Maui rejoiced. His heart was uplifted by the joy of the conflict in which his strength to hold was pitted against the power of the winds to tear away. And again he shouted toward the sea-- "O winds, the winds of Hilo, Come to the mountains, come." The winds which had been stirring up storms on the face of the waters came inland. They dashed against Maui. They climbed the heights of the skies until they fell with full violence against their mighty foe hanging in the heavens. The kite had been made of the strongest kapa (paper cloth) which Maui's mother could prepare. It was not torn, although it was bent backward to its utmost limit. Then the strain came on the strong cord of olona fibre. The line was stretched and strained as the kite was pushed back. Then Maui called again and again for stronger winds to come. The cord was drawn out until the kite was far above the mountains. At last it broke and the kite was tossed over the craters of the volcanoes to the land of the district of Ka-u on the other side of the island. Then Maui was angry and hastily leaped over the mountains, which are nearly fourteen thousand feet in altitude. In a half dozen strides he had crossed the fifty or sixty miles from his home to the place where the kite lay. He could pass over many miles with a single step. His name was Maui-Mama, "Maui the Swift." When Maui returned with his kite he was more careful in calling the winds to aid him in his sport. The people watched their wise neighbor and soon learned that the kite could be a great blessing to them. When it was soaring in the sky there was always dry and pleasant weather. It was a day for great rejoicing. They could spread out their kapa cloth to dry as long as the kite was in the sky. They could carry out their necessary work without fear of the rain. Therefore when any one saw the kite beginning to float along the mountain side he would call out joyfully, "E! Maui's kite is in the heavens." Maui would send his kite into the blue sky and then tie the line to the great black stones in the bed of the Wailuku river. Maui soon learned the power of his kite when blown upon by a fierce wind. With his accustomed skill he planned to make use of his strong servant, and therefore took the kite with him on his journeys to the other islands, using it to aid in making swift voyages. With the wind in the right direction, the kite could pull his double canoe very easily and quickly to its destination. Time passed, and even the demi-god died. The fish hook with which he drew the Hawaiian Islands up from the depths of the sea was allowed to lie on the lava by the Wailuku river until it became a part of the stone. The double canoe was carried far inland and then permitted to petrify by the river side. The two stones which represent the double canoe now bear the name "Waa-Kauhi," and the kite has fallen from the sky far up on the mountain side, where it still rests, a flat plot of rich land between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa. X. THE OAHU LEGENDS OF MAUI. Several Maui legends have been located on the island of Oahu. They were given by Mr. Kaaia to Mr. T. G. Thrum, the publisher of what is well known in the Hawaiian Islands as "Thrum's Annual." He has kindly furnished them for added interest to the present volume. The legends have a distinctly local flavor confined entirely to Oahu. It has seemed best to reserve them for a chapter by themselves although they are chiefly variations of stories already told. MAUI AND THE TWO GODS. This history of Maui and his grandmother Hina begins with their arrival from foreign lands. They dwelt in Kane-ana (Kane's cave), Waianae, Oahu. This is an "ana," or cave, at Puu-o-hulu. Hina had wonderful skill in making all kinds of tapa according to the custom of the women of ancient Hawaii. Maui went to the Koolau side and rested at Kaha-luu, a diving place in Koolaupoko. In that place there is a noted hill called Ma-eli-eli. This is the story of that hill. Maui threw up a pile of dirt and concealed rubbish under it. The two gods, Kane and Kanaloa, came along and asked Maui what he was doing. He said, "What you see. You two dig on that side to the foot of the pali, (precipice) and I will go down at Kaha-luu. If you two dig through first, you may kill me. If I get through first I will kill you." They agreed, and began to dig and throw up the dirt. Then Maui dug three times and tossed up some of the hills of that place. Kane and Kanaloa saw that Maui was digging very fast, so they put forth very great strength and threw the dirt into a hill. Meanwhile Maui ran away to the other side of the island. Thus by the aid of the gods the hill Ma-eli-eli was thrown up and received its name "eli," meaning "dig." "Ma-eli-eli" meant "the place of digging." HOW THEY FOUND FIRE. It was said that Maui and Hina had no fire. They were often cold and had no cooked food. Maui saw flames rising in a distant place and ran to see how they were made. When he came to that place the fire was out and some birds flew away. One of them was Ka-Alae-huapi, "the stingy Alae"--a small duck, the Hawaiian mud hen. Maui watched again and saw fire. When he went up the birds saw him coming and scattered the fire, carrying the ashes into the water; but he leaped and caught the little Alae. "Ah!" he said, "I will kill you, because you do not let me have fire." The bird replied, "If you kill me you cannot find fire." Maui said, "Where is fire?" The Alae said, "Go up on the high land where beautiful plants with large leaves are standing; rub their branches." Maui set the bird free and went inland from Halawa and found dry land taro. He began to rub the stalks, but only juice came out like water. He had no red fire. He was very angry and said, "If that lying Alae is caught again by me I will be its death." [Illustration: Bay of Waipio Valley.] After a while he saw the fire burning and ran swiftly. The birds saw him and cried, "The cooking is over. Here comes the swift grandchild of Hina." They scattered the fire, threw the ashes away and flew into the water. But again Maui caught the Alae and began to kill it, saying: "You gave me a plant full of water from which to get fire." The bird said, "If I die you can never find fire. I will give you the secret of fire. Take a branch of that dry tree and rub." Maui held the bird fast in one hand while he rubbed with the other until smoke and fire came out. Then he took the fire stick and rubbed the head of the bird, making a place where red and white feathers have grown ever since. He returned to Hina and taught her how to make fire, using the two fire sticks and how to twist coconut fibre to catch the fire when it had been kindled in wood. But the Alae was not forgotten. It was called huapi, "stingy," because it selfishly kept the knowledge of fire making to itself. MAUI CATCHING THE SUN. Maui watched Hina making tapa. The wet tapa was spread on a long tapa board, and Hina began at one end to pound it into shape; pounding from one end to another. He noticed that sunset came by the time she had pounded to the middle of the board. The sun hurried so fast that she could only begin her work before the day was past. He went to the hill Hele-a-ka-la, which means "journey of the sun." He thought he would catch the sun and make it move slowly. He went up the hill and waited. When the sun began to rise, Maui made himself long, stretching up toward the sky. Soon the shining legs of the sun came up the hillside. He saw Maui and began to run swiftly, but Maui reached out and caught one of the legs, saying: "O sun, I will kill you. You are a mischief maker. You make trouble for Hina by going so fast." Then he broke the shining leg of the sun. The sufferer said, "I will change my way and go slowly--six months slow and six months faster." Thus arose the saying, "Long shall be the daily journey of the sun and he shall give light for all the people's toil." Hina learned that she could pound until she was tired while the farmers could plant and take care of their fields. Thus also this hill received its name Hele-a-ka-la. This is one of the hills of Waianae near the precipice of the hill Puu-o-hulu. UNITING THE ISLANDS. Maui suggested to Hina that he had better try to draw the islands together, uniting them in one land. Hina told Maui to go and see Alae-nui-a-Hina, who would tell him what to do. The Alae told him they must go to Ponaha-ke-one (a fishing place outside of Pearl Harbor) and find Ka-uniho-kahi, "the one toothed," who held the land under the sea. Maui went back to Hina. She told him to ask his brothers to go fishing with him. They consented and pushed out into the sea. Soon Maui saw a bailing dish floating by the canoe and picked it up. It was named Hina-a-ke-ka, "Hina who fell off." They paddled to Ponaha-ke-one. When they stopped they saw a beautiful young woman in the boat. Then they anchored and again looked in the boat, but the young woman was gone. They saw the bailing dish and threw it into the sea. Maui-mua threw his hook and caught a large fish, which was seen to be a shark as they drew it to the surface. At once they cut the line. So also Maui-hope and Maui-waena. At last Maui threw his hook Manai-i-ka-lani into the sea. It went down, down into the depths. Maui cried, "Hina-a-ke-ka has my hook in her hand. By her it will be made fast." Hina went down with the hook until she met Ka-uniho-kahi. She asked him to open his mouth, then threw the hook far inside and made it fast. Then she pulled the line so that Maui should know that the fish was caught. Maui fastened the line to the outrigger of the canoe and asked his brothers to paddle with all diligence, and not look back. Long, long, they paddled and were very tired. Then Maui took a paddle and dipped deep in the sea. The boat moved more swiftly through the sea. The brothers looked back and cried, "There is plenty of land behind us." The charm was broken. The hook came out of "the one toothed," and the raised islands sank back into their place. The native say, "The islands are now united to America. Perhaps Maui has been at work." MAUI AND PEA-PEA THE EIGHT-EYED. Maui had been fishing and had caught a great fish upon which he was feasting. He looked inland and saw his wife, Kumu-lama, seized and carried away by Pea-pea-maka-walu, "Pea-pea the eight-eyed." This is a legend derived from the myths of many islands in which Lupe or Rupe (pigeon) changed himself into a bird and flew after his sister Hina who had been carried on the back of a shark to distant islands. Sometimes as a man and sometimes as a bird he prosecuted his search until Hina was found. [Illustration: The Ie-ie Vine.] Maui pursued Pea-pea, but could not catch him. He carried Maui's wife over the sea to a far away island. Maui was greatly troubled but his grandmother sent him inland to find an old man who would tell him what to do. Maui went inland and looking down toward Waipahu saw this man Ku-olo-kele. He was hump-backed. Maui threw a large stone and hit the "hill on the back" knocked it off and made the back straight. The old man lifted up the stone and threw it to Waipahu, where it lies to this day. Then he and Maui talked together. He told Maui to go and catch birds and gather ti leaves and fibers of the ie-ie vine, and fill his house. These things Maui secured and brought to him. He told Maui to go home and return after three days. Ku-olo-kele took the ti leaves and the ie-ie threads and made the body of a great bird which he covered with bird feathers. He fastened all together with the ie-ie. This was done in the first day. The second day he placed food inside and tried his bird and it flew all right. "Thus," as the Hawaiians say, "the first flying ship was made in the time of Maui." This is a modern version of Rupe changing himself into a bird. On the third day Maui came and saw the wonderful bird body thoroughly prepared for his journey. Maui went inside. Ku-olo-kele said, "When you reach that land, look for a village. If the people are not there look to the beach. If there are many people, your wife and Pea-pea the eight-eyed will be there. Do not go near, but fly out over the sea. The people will say, 'O, the strange bird;' but Pea-pea will say, 'This is my bird. It is tabu.' You can then come to the people." Maui pulled the ie-ie ropes fastened to the wings and made them move. Thus he flew away into the sky. Two days was his journey before he came to that strange island, Moana-liha-i-ka-wao-kele. It was a beautiful land. He flew inland to a village, but there were no people; according to the ancient chant: "The houses of Lima-loa stand, But there are no people; They are at Mana." The people were by the sea. Maui flew over them. He saw his wife, but he passed on flying out over the sea, skimming like a sea bird down to the water and rising gracefully up to the sky. Pea-pea called out, "This is my bird. It is tabu." Maui heard and came to the beach. He was caught and placed in a tabu box. The servants carried him up to the village and put him in the chief's sleeping house, when Pea-pea and his people returned to their homes. In the night Pea-pea and Maui's wife lay down to sleep. Maui watched Pea-pea, hoping that he would soon sleep. Then he would kill him. Maui waited. One eye was closed, seven eyes were opened. Then four eyes closed, leaving three. The night was almost past and dawn was near. Then Maui called to Hina with his spirit voice, "O Hina, keep it dark." Hina made the gray dawn dark in the three eyes and two closed in sleep. The last eye was weary, and it also slept. Then Maui went out of the bird body and cut off the head of Pea-pea and put it inside the bird. He broke the roof of the house until a large opening was made. He took his wife, Kumu-lama, and flew away to the island of Oahu. The winds blew hard against the flying bird. Rain fell in torrents around it, but those inside had no trouble. "Thus Maui returned with his wife to his home in Oahu. The story is pau (finished)." XI. MAUI SEEKING IMMORTALITY. Climb up, climb up, To the highest surface of heaven, To all the sides of heaven. Climb then to thy ancestor, The sacred bird in the sky, To thy ancestor Rehua In the heavens. --New Zealand kite incantation. The story of Maui seeking immortality for the human race is one of the finest myths in the world. For pure imagination and pathos it is difficult to find any tale from Grecian or Latin literature to compare with it. In Greek and Roman fables gods suffered for other gods, and yet none were surrounded with such absolutely mythical experiences as those through which the demi-god Maui of the Pacific Ocean passed when he entered the gates of death with the hope of winning immortality for mankind. The really remarkable group of legends which cluster around Maui is well concluded by the story of his unselfish and heroic battle with death. The different islands of the Pacific have their Hades, or abode of dead. It is, with very few exceptions, down in the interior of the earth. Sometimes the tunnels left by currents of melted lava are the passages into the home of departed spirits. In Samoa there are two circular holes among the rocks at the west end of the island Savaii. These are the entrances to the under-world for chiefs and people. The spirits of those who die on the other islands leap into the sea and swim around the land from island to island until they reach Savaii. Then they plunge down into their heaven or their hades. The Tongans had a spirit island for the home of the dead. They said that some natives once sailed far away in a canoe and found this island. It was covered with all manner of beautiful fruits, among which rare birds sported. They landed, but the trees were shadows. They grasped but could not hold them. The fruits and the birds were shadows. The men ate, but swallowed nothing substantial. It was shadow-land. They walked through all the delights their eyes looked upon, but found no substance. They returned home, but ever seemed to listen to spirits calling them back to the island. In a short time all the voyagers were dead. There is no escape from death. The natives of New Zealand say: "Man may have descendants, but the daughters of the night strangle his offspring"; and again: "Men make heroes, but death carries them away." There are very few legends among the Polynesians concerning the death of Maui. And these are usually fragmentary, except among the Maoris of New Zealand. The Hawaiian legend of the death of Maui is to the effect that he offended some of the greater gods living in Waipio valley on the Island of Hawaii. Kanaloa, one of the four greatest gods of Hawaii, seized him and dashed him against the rocks. His blood burst from the body and colored the earth red in the upper part of the valley. The Hawaiians in another legend say that Maui was chasing a boy and girl in Honolii gulch, Hawaii. The girl climbed a breadfruit tree. Maui changed himself into an eel and stretched himself along the side of the trunk of the tree. The tree stretched itself upward and Maui failed to reach the girl. A priest came along and struck the eel and killed it, and so Maui died. This is evidently a changed form of the legend of Maui and the long eel. Another Hawaiian fragment approaches very near to the beautiful New Zealand myth. The Hawaiians said that Maui attempted to tear a mountain apart. He wrenched a great hole in the side. Then the elepaio bird sang and the charm was broken. The cleft in the mountain could not be enlarged. If the story could be completed it would not be strange if the death of Maui came with this failure to open the path through the mountain. The Hervey Islands say that after Maui fished up the islands his hook was thrown into the heavens and became the curved tail of the constellation of stars which we know as "The Scorpion." Then the people became angry with Maui and threw him up into the sky and his body is still thought to be hanging among the stars of the scorpion. The Samoans, according to Turner, say that Maui went fishing and tried to catch the land under the seas and pull it to the surface. Finally an island appeared, but the people living on it were angry with Maui and drove him away into the heavens. As he leaped from the island it separated into two parts. Thus the Samoans account for the origin of two of their islands and also for the passing away of Maui from the earth. The natives of New Zealand have many myths concerning the death of Maui. Each tribe tells the story with such variations as would be expected when the fact is noted that these tribes have preserved their individuality through many generations. The substance of the myth, however, is the same. In Maui's last days he longed for the victory over death. His innate love of life led him to face the possibility of escaping and overcoming the relentless enemy of mankind and thus bestow the boon of deathlessness upon his fellow-men. He had been successful over and over again in his contests with both gods and men. When man was created, he stood erect, but, according to an Hawaiian myth, had jointless arms and limbs. A web of skin connected and fastened tightly the arms to the body and the legs to each other. "Maui was angry at this motionless statue and took him and broke his legs at ankle, knee and hip and then, tearing them and the arms from the body, destroyed the web. Then he broke the arms at the elbow and shoulder. Then man could move from place to place, but he had neither fingers or toes." Here comes the most ancient Polynesian statement of the theory of evolution: "Hunger impelled man to seek his food in the mountains, where his toes were cut out by the brambles in climbing, and his fingers were also formed by the sharp splinters of the bamboo while searching with his arms for food in the ground." It was not strange that Maui should feel self-confident when considering the struggle for immortality as a gift to be bestowed upon mankind. And yet his father warned him that his time of failure would surely come. White, who has collected many of the myths and legends of New Zealand, states that after Maui had ill-treated Mahu-ika, his grandmother, the goddess and guardian of fire in the under-world, his father and mother tried to teach him to do differently. But he refused to listen. Then the father said: "You heard our instructions, but please yourself and persist for life or death." Maui replied: "What do I care? Do you think I shall cease? Rather I will persist forever and ever." Then his father said: "There is one so powerful that no tricks can be of any avail." Maui asked: "By what shall I be overcome?" The answer was that one of his ancestors, Hine-nui-te-po (Great Hine of the night), the guardian of life, would overcome him. When Maui fished islands out of the deep seas, it was said that Hine made her home on the outer edge of one of the outermost islands. There the glow of the setting sun lighted the thatch of her house and covered it with glorious colors. There Great Hine herself stood flashing and sparkling on the edge of the horizon. Maui, in these last days of his life, looked toward the west and said: "Let us investigate this matter and learn whether life or death shall follow." The father replied: "There is evil hanging over you. When I chanted the invocation of your childhood, when you were made sacred and guarded by charms, I forgot a part of the ceremony. And for this you are to die." Then Maui said, "Will this be by Hine-nui-te-po? What is she like?" The father said that the flashing eyes they could see in the distance were dark as greenstone, the teeth were as sharp as volcanic glass, her mouth was large like a fish, and her hair was floating in the air like sea-weed. One of the legends of New Zealand says that Maui and his brothers went toward the west, to the edge of the horizon, where they saw the goddess of the night. Light was flashing from her body. Here they found a great pit--the home of night. Maui entered the pit--telling his brothers not to laugh. He passed through and turning about started to return. The brothers laughed and the walls of night closed in around him and held him till he died. The longer legend tells how Maui after his conversation with his father, remembered his conflict with the moon. He had tied her so that she could not escape, but was compelled to bathe in the waters of life and return night after night lest men should be in darkness when evening came. Maui said to the goddess of the moon: "Let death be short. As the moon dies and returns with new strength, so let men die and revive again." But she replied: "Let death be very long, that man may sigh and sorrow. When man dies, let him go into darkness, become like earth, that those he leaves behind may weep and wail and mourn." Maui did not lay aside his purpose, but, according to the New Zealand story, "did not wish men to die, but to live forever. Death appeared degrading and an insult to the dignity of man. Man ought to die like the moon, which dips in the life-giving waters of Kane and is renewed again, or like the sun, which daily sinks into the pit of night and with renewed strength rises in the morning." Maui sought the home of Hine-nui-te-po--the guardian of life. He heard her order her attendants to watch for any one approaching and capture all who came walking upright as a man. He crept past the attendants on hands and feet, found the place of life, stole some of the food of the goddess and returned home. He showed the food to his brothers and persuaded them to go with him into the darkness of the night of death. On the way he changed them into the form of birds. In the evening they came to the house of the goddess on the island long before fished up from the seas. Maui warned the birds to refrain from making any noise while he made the supreme effort of his life. He was about to enter upon his struggle for immortality. He said to the birds: "If I go into the stomach of this woman, do not laugh until I have gone through her, and come out again at her mouth; then you can laugh at me." His friends said: "You will be killed." Maui replied: "If you laugh at me when I have only entered her stomach I shall be killed, but if I have passed through her and come out of her mouth I shall escape and Hine-nui-te-po will die." His friends called out to him: "Go then. The decision is with you." Hine was sleeping soundly. The flashes of lightning had all ceased. The sunlight had almost passed away and the house lay in quiet gloom. Maui came near to the sleeping goddess. Her large, fish-like mouth was open wide. He put off his clothing and prepared to pass through the ordeal of going to the hidden source of life, to tear it out of the body of its guardian and carry it back with him to mankind. He stood in all the glory of savage manhood. His body was splendidly marked by the tattoo-bones, and now well oiled shone and sparkled in the last rays of the setting sun. He leaped through the mouth of the enchanted one and entered her stomach, weapon in hand, to take out her heart, the vital principle which he knew had its home somewhere within her being. He found immortality on the other side of death. He turned to come back again into life when suddenly a little bird (the Pata-tai) laughed in a clear, shrill tone, and Great Hine, through whose mouth Maui was passing, awoke. Her sharp, obsidian teeth closed with a snap upon Maui, cutting his body in the center. Thus Maui entered the gates of death, but was unable to return, and death has ever since been victor over rebellious men. The natives have the saying: "If Maui had not died, he could have restored to life all who had gone before him, and thus succeeded in destroying death." Maui's brothers took the dismembered body and buried it in a cave called Te-ana-i-hana, "The cave dug out," possibly a prepared burial place. Maui's wife made war upon the spirits, the gods, and killed as many as she could to avenge her husband's death. One of the old native poets of New Zealand, in chanting the story to Mr. White, said: "But though Maui was killed, his offspring survived. Some of these are at Hawa-i-i-ki and some at Aotea-roa (New Zealand), but the greater part of them remained at Hawa-i-ki. This history was handed down by the generations of our ancestors of ancient times, and we continue to rehearse it to our children, with our incantations and genealogies, and all other matters relating to our race." "But death is nothing new, Death is, and has been ever since old Maui died. Then Pata-tai laughed loud And woke the goblin-god, Who severed him in two, and shut him in, So dusk of eve came on." --Maori death chant, New Zealand. XII. HINA OF HILO. Hina is not an uncommon name in Hawaiian genealogies. It is usually accompanied by some adjective which explains or identifies the person to whom the name is given. In Hawaii the name Hina is feminine. This is also true throughout all Polynesia except in a few cases where Hina is reckoned as a man with supernatural attributes. Even in these cases it is apparent that the legend has been changed from its original form as it has been carried to small islands by comparatively ignorant people when moving away from their former homes. Hina is a Polynesian goddess whose story is very interesting--one worthy of study when comparing the legends of the island groups of the Pacific. The Hina of Hilo is the same as the goddess of that name most widely known throughout Polynesia--and yet her legends are located by the ancient Hawaiians in Hilo, as if that place were her only home. The legends are so old that the Hawaiians have forgotten their origin in other lands. The stories were brought with the immigrants who settled on the Hilo coast. Thus the stories found their final location with the families who brought them. There are three Hawaiian Hinas practically distinct from each other, although a supernatural element is connected with each one. Hina who was stolen from Hawaii by a chief of the Island of Molokai was an historical character, although surrounded by mythical stories. Another Hina, who was the wife of Kuula, the fish god, was pre-eminently a local deity, having no real connection with the legends of the other islands of the Pacific, although sometimes the stories told concerning her have not been kept entirely distinct from the legends of the Hina of Hilo. The Hilo Hina was the true legendary character closely connected with all Polynesia. The stories about her are of value not simply as legends, but as traditions closely uniting the Hawaiian Islands with the island groups thousands of miles distant. The Wailuku river, which flows through the town of Hilo, has its own peculiar and weird beauty. For miles it is a series of waterfalls and rapids. It follows the course of an ancient lava flow, sometimes forcing its way under bridges of lava, thus forming what are called boiling pots, and sometimes pouring in massive sheets over the edges of precipices which never disintegrate. By the side of this river Hina's son Maui had his lands. In the very bed of the river, in a cave under one of the largest falls, Hina made her own home, concealed from the world by the silver veil of falling water and lulled to sleep by the continual roar of the flood falling into the deep pool below. By the side of this river, the legends say, she pounded her tapa and prepared her food. Here were the small, graceful mamake and the coarser wauke trees, from which the bark was stripped with which she made tapa cloth. Branches were cut or broken from these and other trees whose bark was fit for the purpose. These branches were well soaked until the bark was removed easily. Then the outer bark was scraped off, leaving only the pliable inner bark. The days were very short and there was no time for rest while making tapa cloth. Therefore, as soon as the morning light reddened the clouds, Hina would take her calabash filled with water to pour upon the bark, and her little bundle of round clubs (the hohoa) and her four-sided mallets (the i-e-kuku) and hasten to the sacred spot where, with chants and incantations, the tapa was made. The bark was well soaked in the water all the days of the process of tapa making. Hina took small bundles of the wet inner bark and laid them on the kua or heavy tapa board, pounding them together into a pulpy mass with her round clubs. Then using the four-sided mallets, she beat this pulp into thin sheets. Beautiful tapa, soft as silk, was made by adding pulpy mass to pulpy mass and beating it day after day until the fibres were lost and a sheet of close-woven bark cloth was formed. Although Hina was a goddess and had a family possessing miraculous power, it never entered the mind of the Hawaiian legend tellers to endow her with ease in producing wonderful results. The legends of the Southern Pacific Islands show more imagination. They say that Ina (Hina) was such a wonderful artist in making beautiful tapas that she was placed in the skies, where she beat out glistening fine tapas, the white and glorious clouds. When she stretches these cloud sheets out to dry, she places stones along the edges, so that the fierce winds of the heavens shall not blow them away. When she throws these stones aside, the skies reverberate with thunder. When she rolls her cloud sheets of tapa together, the folds glisten with flashes of light and lightning leaps from sheet to sheet. The Hina of Hilo was grieved as she toiled because after she had pounded the sheets out so thin that they were ready to be dried, she found it almost impossible to secure the necessary aid of the sun in the drying process. She would rise as soon as she could see and hasten to spread out the tapa made the day before. But the sun always hurried so fast that the sheets could not dry. He leaped from the ocean waters in the earth, rushed across the heavens and plunged into the dark waters again on the other side of the island before she could even turn her tapas so that they might dry evenly. This legend of very short days is strange because of its place not only among the myths of Hawaii but also because it belongs to practically all the tropical islands of the Pacific Ocean. In Tahiti the legends said that the sun rushed across the sky very rapidly. The days were too short for fruits to ripen or for work to be finished. In Samoa the "mats" made by Sina had no time to dry. The ancestors of the Polynesians sometime somewhere must have been in the region of short days and long nights. Hina found that her incantations had no influence with the sun. She could not prevail upon him to go slower and give her more time for the completion of her task. Then she called on her powerful son, Maui-ki-i-ki-i, for aid. Some of the legends of the Island Maui say that Hina dwelt by the sea coast of that island near the high hill Kauwiki at the foot of the great mountain Haleakala, House of the Sun, and that there, facing the southern skies under the most favorable conditions for making tapa, she found the days too short for the tapa to dry. At the present time the Hawaiians point out a long, narrow stone not far from the surf and almost below the caves in which the great queen Kaahumanu spent the earliest days of her childhood. This stone is said to be the kua or tapa board on which Hina pounded the bark for her cloth. Other legends of that same island locate Hina's home on the northeast coast near Pohakuloa. The Hilo legends, however, do not deem it necessary that Hina and Maui should have their home across the wide channel which divides the Island Hawaii from the Island Maui in order to wage war successfully with the inconsiderate sun. Hina remained in her home by the Wailuku river, sometimes resting in her cave under Rainbow Falls, and sometimes working on the river bank, trusting her powerful son Maui to make the swiftly-passing lord of day go more slowly. Maui possessed many supernatural powers. He could assume the form of birds or insects. He could call on the winds to do his will, or he could, if he wished, traverse miles with a single stride. It is interesting to note that the Hilo legends differ as to the way in which Ma-ui the man passed over to Mau-i the island. One legend says that he crossed the channel, miles wide, with a single step. Another says that he launched his canoe and with a breath the god of the winds placed him on the opposite coast, while another story says that Maui assumed the form of a white chicken, which flew over the waters to Haleakala. Here he took ropes made from the fibre of trees and vines and lassoed the sun while it climbed the side of the mountain and entered the great crater which hollows out the summit. The sun came through a large gap in the eastern side of the crater, rushing along as rapidly as possible. Then Maui threw his lassoes one after the other over the sun's legs (the rays of light), holding him fast and breaking off some of them. With a magic club Maui struck the face of the sun again and again. At last, wounded and weary, and also limping on its broken legs, the sun promised Maui to go slowly forevermore. "La" among the Polynesians, like the word "Ra" among the Egyptians, means "sun" or "day" or "sun-god"--and the mountain where the son of Hina won his victory over the monster of the heavens has long borne the name Hale-a-ka-la, or House of the Sun. Hina of Hilo soon realized the wonderful deed which Maui had done. She spread out her fine tapas with songs of joy and cheerily performed the task which filled the hours of the day. The comfort of sunshine and cooling winds came with great power into Hina's life, bringing to her renewed joy and beauty. XIII. HINA AND THE WAILUKU RIVER. There are two rivers of rushing, tumbling rapids and waterfalls in the Hawaiian Islands, both bearing the name of Wailuku. One is on the Island of Maui, flowing out of a deep gorge in the side of the extinct volcano Iao. Yosemite-like precipices surround this majestically-walled crater. The name Iao means "asking for clouds." The head of the crater-valley is almost always covered with great masses of heavy rain clouds. Out of the crater the massed waters rush in a swift-flowing stream of only four or five miles, emptying into Kahului harbor. The other Wailuku river is on the Island of Hawaii. The snows melt on the summits of the two great mountains, Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa. The water seeps through the porous lava from the eastern slope of Mauna Loa and the southern slope of Mauna Kea, meeting where the lava flows of centuries from each mountain have piled up against each other. Through the fragments of these volcanic battles the waters creep down the mountain side toward the sea. [Illustration: Rainbow Falls, Hina's Home.] At one place, a number of miles above the city of Hilo, the waters were heard gurgling and splashing far below the surface. Water was needed for the sugar plantations, which modern energy has established all along the eastern coast of the large island. A tunnel was cut into the lava, the underground stream was tapped--and an abundant supply of water secured and sluiced down to the large plantations below. The head waters of the Wailuku river gathered from the melting snow of the mountains found these channels, which centered at last in the bed of a very ancient and very interesting lava flow. Sometimes breaking forth in a large, turbulent flood, the stream forces its way over and around the huge blocks of lava which mark the course of the eruption of long ago. Sometimes it courses in a tunnel left by the flowing lava and comes up from below in a series of boiling pools. Then again it falls in majestic sheets over high walls of worn precipices. Several large falls and some very picturesque smaller cascades interspersed with rapids and natural bridges give to this river a beauty peculiarly its own. The most weird of all the rough places through which the Wailuku river flows is that known as the basin of Rainbow Falls near Hilo. Here Hina, the moon goddess of the Polynesians, lived in a great open cave, over which the falls hung their misty, rainbow-tinted veil. Her son Maui, the mighty demi-god of Polynesia, supposed by some writers to be the sun-god of the Polynesians, had extensive lands along the northern bank of the river. Here among his cultivated fields he had his home, from which he went forth to accomplish the wonders attributed to him in the legends of the Hawaiians. Below the cave in which Hina dwelt the river fought its way through a narrow gorge and then, in a series of many small falls, descended to the little bay, where its waters mingled with the surf of the salt sea. Far above the cave, in the bed of the river, dwelt Kuna. The district through which that portion of the river runs bears to this day the name "Wai-kuna" or "Kuna's river." When the writer was talking with the natives concerning this part of the old legend, they said "Kuna is not a Hawaiian word. It means something like a snake or a dragon, something we do not have in these islands." This, they thought, made the connection with the Hina legend valueless until they were shown that Tuna (or kuna) was the New Zealand name of a reptile which attacked Hina and struck her with his tail like a crocodile, for which Maui killed him. When this was understood, the Hawaiians were greatly interested to give the remainder of this legend and compare it with the New Zealand story. In New Zealand there are several statements concerning Tuna's dwelling place. He is sometimes represented as coming from a pool to attack Hina and sometimes from a distant stream, and sometimes from the river by which Hina dwelt. The Hawaiians told of the annoyances which Hina endured from Kuna while he lived above her home in the Wailuku. He would stop up the river and fill it with dirt as when the freshets brought down the debris of the storms from the mountain sides. He would throw logs and rolling stones into the stream that they might be carried over the falls and drive Hina from her cave. He had sought Hina in many ways and had been repulsed again and again until at last hatred took the place of all more kindly feelings and he determined to destroy the divine chiefess. Hina was frequently left with but little protection, and yet from her home in the cave feared nothing that Kuna could do. Precipices guarded the cave on either side, and any approach of an enemy through the falling water could be easily thwarted. So her chants rang out through the river valley even while floods swirled around her, and Kuna's missiles were falling over the rocky bed of the stream toward her. Kuna became very angry and, uttering great curses and calling upon all his magic forces to aid him, caught a great stone and at night hurled it into the gorge of the river below Hina's home, filling the river bed from bank to bank. "Ah, Hina! Now is the danger, for the river rises. The water cannot flow away. Awake! Awake!" Hina is not aware of this evil which is so near. The water rises and rises, higher and higher. "Auwe! Auwe! Alas, alas, Hina must perish!" The water entered the opening of the cave and began to creep along the floor. Hina cannot fly, except into the very arms of her great enemy, who is waiting to destroy her. Then Hina called for Maui. Again and again her voice went out from the cave. It pierced through the storms and the clouds which attended Kuna's attack upon her. It swept along the side of the great mountain. It crossed the channel between the islands of Hawaii and Maui. Its anguish smote the side of the great mountain Haleakala, where Maui had been throwing his lassoes around the sun and compelling him to go more slowly. When Maui heard Hina's cry for help echoing from cliff to cliff and through the ravines, he leaped at once to rush to her assistance. Some say that Hina, the goddess, had a cloud servant, the "ao-opua," the "warning cloud," which rose swiftly above the falls when Hina cried for aid and then, assuming a peculiar shape, stood high above the hills that Maui might see it. Down the mountain he leaped to his magic canoe. Pushing it into the sea with two mighty strokes of his paddle he crossed the sea to the mouth of the Wailuku river. Here even to the present day lies a long double rock, surrounded by the waters of the bay, which the natives call Ka waa o Maui, "The canoe of Maui." It represents to Hawaiian thought the magic canoe with which Maui always sailed over the ocean more swiftly than any winds could carry him. Leaving his canoe, Maui seized the magic club with which he had conquered the sun after lassoing him, and rushed along the dry bed of the river to the place of danger. Swinging the club swiftly around his head, he struck the dam holding back the water of the rapidly-rising river. [Illustration: Wailuku River, the Home of Kuna.] "Ah! Nothing can withstand the magic club. The bank around one end of the dam gives way. The imprisoned waters leap into the new channel. Safe is Hina the goddess." Kuna heard the crash of the club against the stones of the river bank and fled up the river to his home in the hidden caves by the pools in the river bed. Maui rushed up the river to punish Kuna-mo-o for the trouble he had caused Hina. When he came to the place where the dragon was hidden under deep waters, he took his magic spear and thrust it through the dirt and lava rocks along one side of the river, making a long hole, through which the waters rushed, revealing Kuna-mo-o's hiding place. This place of the spear thrust is known among the Hawaiians as Ka puka a Maui, "the door made by Maui." It is also known as "The natural bridge of the Wailuku river." Kuna-mo-o fled to his different hiding places, but Maui broke up the river bed and drove the dragon out from every one, following him from place to place as he fled down the river. Apparently this is a legendary account of earthquakes. At last Kuna-mo-o found what seemed to be a safe hiding place in a series of deep pools, but Maui poured a lava flow into the river. He threw red-hot burning stones into the water until the pools were boiling and the steam was rising in clouds. Kuna uttered incantation after incantation, but the water scalded and burned him. Dragon as he was, his hard, tough skin was of no avail. The pain was becoming unbearable. With cries to his gods he leaped from the pools and fled down the river. The waters of the pools are no longer scalding, but they have never lost the tumbling, tossing, foaming, boiling swirl which Maui gave to them when he threw into them the red-hot stones with which he hoped to destroy Kuna, and they are known today as "The Boiling Pots." Some versions of the legend say that Maui poured boiling water in the river and sent it in swift pursuit of Kuna, driving him from point to point and scalding his life out of him. Others say that Maui chased the dragon, striking him again and again with his consecrated weapons, following Kuna down from falls to falls until he came to the place where Hina dwelt. Then, feeling that there was little use in flight, Kuna battled with Maui. His struggles were of no avail. He was forced over the falls into the stream below. Hina and her women encouraged Maui by their chants and strengthened him by the most powerful incantations with which they were acquainted. Great was their joy when they beheld Kuna's ponderous body hurled over the falls. Eagerly they watched the dragon as the swift waters swept him against the dam with which he had hoped to destroy Hina; and when the whirling waves caught him and dashed him through the new channel made by Maui's magic club, they rejoiced and sang the praise of the mighty warrior who had saved them. Maui had rushed along the bank of the river with tremendous strides overtaking the dragon as he was rolled over and over among the small waterfalls near the mouth of the river. Here Maui again attacked Kuna, at last beating the life out of his body. "Moo-Kuna" was the name given by the Hawaiians to the dragon. "Moo" means anything in lizard shape, but Kuna was unlike any lizard known in the Hawaiian Islands. Moo Kuna is the name sometimes given to a long black stone lying like an island in the waters between the small falls of the river. As one who calls attention to this legendary black stone says: "As if he were not dead enough already, every big freshet in the stream beats him and pounds him and drowns him over and over as he would have drowned Hina." A New Zealand legend relates a conflict of incantations, somewhat like the filling in of the Wailuku river by Kuna, and the cleaving of a new channel by Maui with the different use of means. In New Zealand the river is closed by the use of powerful incantations and charms and reopened by the use of those more powerful. In the Hervey Islands, Tuna, the god of eels, loved Ina (Hina) and finally died for her, giving his head to be buried. From this head sprang two cocoanut trees, bearing fruit marked with Tuna's eyes and mouth. In Samoa the battle was between an owl and a serpent. The owl conquered by calling in the aid of a friend. This story of Hina apparently goes far back in the traditions of Polynesians, even to their ancient home in Hawaiki, from which it was taken by one branch of the family to New Zealand and by another to the Hawaiian Islands and other groups in the Pacific Ocean. The dragon may even be a remembrance of the days when the Polynesians were supposed to dwell by the banks of the River Ganges in India, when crocodiles were dangerous enemies and heroes saved families from their destructive depredations. XIV. GHOSTS OF THE HILO HILLS. The legends about Hina and her famous son Maui and her less widely known daughters are common property among the natives of the beautiful little city of Hilo. One of these legends of more than ordinary interest finds its location in the three small hills back of Hilo toward the mountains. These hills are small craters connected with some ancient lava flow of unusual violence. The eruption must have started far up on the slopes of Mauna Loa. As it sped down toward the sea it met some obstruction which, although overwhelmed, checked the flow and caused a great mass of cinders and ashes to be thrown out until a large hill with a hollow crater was built up, covering many acres of ground. Soon the lava found another vent and then another obstruction and a second and then a third hill were formed nearer the sea. These hills or extinct craters bear the names Halai, Opeapea and Puu Honu. They are not far from the Wailuku river, famous for its picturesque waterfalls and also for the legends which are told along its banks. Here Maui had his lands overlooking the steep bluffs. Here in a cave under the Rainbow Falls was the home of Hina, the mother of Maui, according to the Hawaiian stories. Other parts of the Pacific sometimes make Hina Maui's wife, and sometimes a goddess from whom he descended. In the South Sea legends Hina was thought to have married the moon. Her home was in the skies, where she wove beautiful tapa cloths (the clouds), which were bright and glistening, so that when she rolled them up flashes of light (cloud lightning) could be seen on the earth. She laid heavy stones on the corners of these tapas, but sometimes the stones rolled off and made the thunder. Hina of the Rainbow Falls was a famous tapa maker whose tapa was the cause of Maui's conflict with the sun. Hina had several daughters, four of whose names are given: Hina Ke Ahi, Hina Ke Kai, Hina Mahuia, and Hina Kuluua. Each name marked the peculiar "mana" or divine gift which Hina, the mother, had bestowed upon her daughters. Hina Ke Ahi meant the Hina who had control of fire. This name is sometimes given to Hina the mother. Hina Ke Kai was the daughter who had power over the sea. She was said to have been in a canoe with her brother Maui when he fished up Cocoanut Island, his line breaking before he could pull it up to the mainland and make it fast. Hina Kuluua was the mistress over the forces of rain. The winds and the storms were supposed to obey her will. Hina Mahuia is peculiarly a name connected with the legends of the other island groups of the Pacific. Mahuia or Mafuie was a god or goddess of fire all through Polynesia. The legend of the Hilo hills pertains especially to Hina Ke Ahi and Hina Kuluua. Hina the mother gave the hill Halai to Hina Ke Ahi and the hill Puu Honu to Hina Kuluua for their families and dependents. The hills were of rich soil and there was much rain. Therefore, for a long time, the two daughters had plenty of food for themselves and their people, but at last the days were like fire and the sky had no rain in it. The taro planted on the hillsides died. The bananas and sugar cane and sweet potatoes withered and the fruit on the trees was blasted. The people were faint because of hunger, and the shadow of death was over the land. Hina Ke Ahi pitied her suffering friends and determined to provide food for them. Slowly her people labored at her command. Over they went to the banks of the river course, which was only the bed of an ancient lava stream, over which no water was flowing; the famished laborers toiled, gathering and carrying back whatever wood they could find, then up the mountain side to the great koa and ohia forests, gathering their burdens of fuel according to the wishes of their chiefess. Their sorcerers planted charms along the way and uttered incantations to ward off the danger of failure. The priests offered sacrifices and prayers for the safe and successful return of the burden-bearers. After many days the great quantity of wood desired by the goddess was piled up by the side of the Halai Hill. Then came the days of digging out the hill and making a great imu or cooking oven and preparing it with stones and wood. Large quantities of wood were thrown into the place. Stones best fitted for retaining heat were gathered and the fires kindled. When the stones were hot, Hina Ke Ahi directed the people to arrange the imu in its proper order for cooking the materials for a great feast. A place was made for sweet potatoes, another for taro, another for pigs and another for dogs. All the form of preparing the food for cooking was passed through, but no real food was laid on the stones. Then Hina told them to make a place in the imu for a human sacrifice. Probably out of every imu of the long ago a small part of the food was offered to the gods, and there may have been a special place in the imu for that part of the food to be cooked. At any rate Hina had this oven so built that the people understood that a remarkable sacrifice would be offered in it to the gods, who for some reason had sent the famine upon the people. Human sacrifices were frequently offered by the Hawaiians even after the days of the coming of Captain Cook. A dead body was supposed to be acceptable to the gods when a chief's house was built, when a chief's new canoe was to be made or when temple walls were to be erected or victories celebrated. The bodies of the people belonged to the will of the chief. Therefore it was in quiet despair that the workmen obeyed Hina Ke Ahi and prepared the place for sacrifice. It might mean their own holocaust as an offering to the gods. At last Hina Ke Ahi bade the laborers cease their work and stand by the side of the oven ready to cover it with the dirt which had been thrown out and piled up by the side. The people stood by, not knowing upon whom the blow might fall. But Hina Ke Ahi was "Hina the kind," and although she stood before them robed in royal majesty and power, still her face was full of pity and love. Her voice melted the hearts of her retainers as she bade them carefully follow her directions. "O my people. Where are you? Will you obey and do as I command? This imu is my imu. I shall lie down on its bed of burning stones. I shall sleep under its cover. But deeply cover me or I may perish. Quickly throw the dirt over my body. Fear not the fire. Watch for three days. A woman will stand by the imu. Obey her will." Hina Ke Ahi was very beautiful, and her eyes flashed light like fire as she stepped into the great pit and lay down on the burning stones. A great smoke arose and gathered over the imu. The men toiled rapidly, placing the imu mats over their chiefess and throwing the dirt back into the oven until it was all thoroughly covered and the smoke was quenched. Then they waited for the strange, mysterious thing which must follow the sacrifice of this divine chiefess. Halai hill trembled and earthquakes shook the land round about. The great heat of the fire in the imu withered the little life which was still left from the famine. Meanwhile Hina Ke Ahi was carrying out her plan for securing aid for her people. She could not be injured by the heat for she was a goddess of fire. The waves of heat raged around her as she sank down through the stones of the imu into the underground paths which belonged to the spirit world. The legend says that Hina made her appearance in the form of a gushing stream of water which would always supply the want of her adherents. The second day passed. Hina was still journeying underground, but this time she came to the surface as a pool named Moe Waa (canoe sleep) much nearer the sea. The third day came and Hina caused a great spring of sweet water to burst forth from the sea shore in the very path of the ocean surf. This received the name Auauwai. Here Hina washed away all traces of her journey through the depths. This was the last of the series of earthquakes and the appearance of new water springs. The people waited, feeling that some more wonderful event must follow the remarkable experiences of the three days. Soon a woman stood by the imu, who commanded the laborers to dig away the dirt and remove the mats. When this was done, the hungry people found a very great abundance of food, enough to supply their want until the food plants should have time to ripen and the days of the famine should be over. The joy of the people was great when they knew that their chiefess had escaped death and would still dwell among them in comfort. Many were the songs sung and stories told about the great famine and the success of the goddess of fire. The second sister, Hina Kuluua, the goddess of rain, was always very jealous of her beautiful sister Hina Ke Ahi, and many times sent rain to put out fires which her sister tried to kindle. Hina Ke Ahi could not stand the rain and so fled with her people to a home by the seaside. Hina Kuluua (or Hina Kuliua as she was sometimes known among the Hawaiians) could control rain and storms, but for some reason failed to provide a food supply for her people, and the famine wrought havoc among them. She thought of the stories told and songs sung about her sister and wished for the same honor for herself. She commanded her people to make a great imu for her in the hill Puu Honu. She knew that a strange power belonged to her and yet, blinded by jealousy, forgot that rain and fire could not work together. She planned to furnish a great supply of food for her people in the same way in which her sister had worked. The oven was dug. Stones and wood were collected and the same ghostly array of potatoes, taro, pig and dog prepared as had been done before by her sister. The kahunas or priests knew that Hina Kuluua was going out of her province in trying to do as her sister had done, but there was no use in attempting to change her plans. Jealousy is self-willed and obstinate and no amount of reasoning from her dependents could have any influence over her. The ordinary incantations were observed, and Hina Kuluua gave the same directions as those her sister had given. The imu was to be well heated. The make-believe food was to be put in and a place left for her body. It was the goddess of rain making ready to lie down on a bed prepared for the goddess of fire. When all was ready, she lay down on the heated stones and the oven mats were thrown over her and the ghostly provisions. Then the covering of dirt was thrown back upon the mats and heated stones, filling the pit which had been dug. The goddess of rain was left to prepare a feast for her people as the goddess of fire had done for her followers. [Illustration: On Lava Beds.] Some of the legends have introduced the demi-god Maui into this story. The natives say that Maui came to "burn" or "cook the rain" and that he made the oven very hot, but that the goddess of rain escaped and hung over the hill in the form of a cloud. At least this is what the people saw--not a cloud of smoke over the imu, but a rain cloud. They waited and watched for such evidences of underground labor as attended the passage of Hina Ke Ahi through the earth from the hill to the sea, but the only strange appearance was the dark rain cloud. They waited three days and looked for their chiefess to come in the form of a woman. They waited another day and still another and no signs or wonders were manifest. Meanwhile Maui, changing himself into a white bird, flew up into the sky to catch the ghost of the goddess of rain which had escaped from the burning oven. Having caught this spirit, he rolled it in some kapa cloth which he kept for food to be placed in an oven and carried it to a place in the forest on the mountain side where again the attempt was made to "burn the rain," but a great drop escaped and sped upward into the sky. Again Maui caught the ghost of the goddess and carried it to a pali or precipice below the great volcano Kilauea, where he again tried to destroy it in the heat of a great lava oven, but this time the spirit escaped and found a safe refuge among kukui trees on the mountain side, from which she sometimes rises in clouds which the natives say are the sure sign of rain. Whether this Maui legend has any real connection with the two Hinas and the famine we do not surely know. The legend ordinarily told among the Hawaiians says that after five days had passed the retainers decided on their own responsibility to open the imu. No woman had appeared to give them directions. Nothing but a mysterious rain cloud over the hill. In doubt and fear, the dirt was thrown off and the mats removed. Nothing was found but the ashes of Hina Kuluua. There was no food for her followers and the goddess had lost all power of appearing as a chiefess. Her bitter and thoughtless jealousy brought destruction upon herself and her people. The ghosts of Hina Ke Ahi and Hina Kuluua sometimes draw near to the old hills in the form of the fire of flowing lava or clouds of rain while the old men and women tell the story of the Hinas, the sisters of Maui, who were laid upon the burning stones of the imus of a famine. XV. HINA, THE WOMAN IN THE MOON. The Wailuku river has by its banks far up the mountain side some of the most ancient of the various interesting picture rocks of the Hawaiian Islands. The origin of the Hawaiian picture writing is a problem still unsolved, but the picture rocks of the Wailuku river are called "na kii o Maui," "the Maui pictures." Their antiquity is beyond question. The most prominent figure cut in these rocks is that of the crescent moon. The Hawaiian legends do not attempt any direct explanation of the meaning of this picture writing. The traditions of the Polynesians both concerning Hina and Maui look to Hina as the moon goddess of their ancestors, and in some measure the Hawaiian stories confirm the traditions of the other island groups of the Pacific. Fornander, in his history of the Polynesian race, gives the Hawaiian story of Hina's ascent to the moon, but applies it to a Hina the wife of a chief called Aikanaka rather than to the Hina of Hilo, the wife of Akalana, the father of Maui. However, Fornander evidently found some difficulty in determining the status of the one to whom he refers the legend, for he calls her "the mysterious wife of Aikanaka." In some of the Hawaiian legends Hina, the mother of Maui, lived on the southeast coast of the Island Maui at the foot of a hill famous in Hawaiian story as Kauiki. Fornander says that this "mysterious wife" of Aikanaka bore her children Puna and Huna, the latter a noted sea-rover among the Polynesians, at the foot of this hill Kauiki. It can very easily be supposed that a legend of the Hina connected with the demi-god Maui might be given during the course of centuries to the other Hina, the mother of Huna. The application of the legend would make no difference to anyone were it not for the fact that the story of Hina and her ascent to the moon has been handed down in different forms among the traditions of Samoa, New Zealand, Tonga, Hervey Islands, Fate Islands, Nauru and other Pacific island groups. The Polynesian name of the moon, Mahina or Masina, is derived from Hina, the goddess mother of Maui. It is even possible to trace the name back to "Sin," the moon god of the Assyrians. The moon goddess of Ponape was Ina-maram. (Hawaiian Hina-malamalama), "Hina giving light." In the Paumotan Islands an eclipse of the sun is called Higa-higa-hana (Hina-hiua-hana), "The act (hana) of Hina--the moon." In New Zealand moonless nights were called "Dark Hina." In Tahiti it is said there was war among the gods. They cursed the stars. Hina saved them, although they lost a little light. Then they cursed the sea, but Hina preserved the tides. They cursed the rivers, but Hina saved the springs--the moving waters inland, like the tides in the ocean. The Hawaiians say that Hina and her maidens pounded out the softest, finest kapa cloth on the long, thick kapa board at the foot of Kauiki. Incessantly the restless sea dashed its spray over the picturesque groups of splintered lava rocks which form the Kauiki headland. Here above the reach of the surf still lies the long, black stone into which the legends say Hina's kapa board was changed. Here Hina took the leaves of the hala tree and, after the manner of the Hawaiian women of the ages past, braided mats for the household to sleep upon, and from the nuts of the kukui trees fashioned the torches which were burned around the homes of those of high chief rank. At last she became weary of her work among mortals. Her family had become more and more troublesome. It was said that her sons were unruly and her husband lazy and shiftless. She looked into the heavens and determined to flee up the pathway of her rainbow through the clouds. The Sun was very bright and Hina said, "I will go to the Sun." So she left her home very early in the morning and climbed up, higher, higher, until the heat of the rays of the sun beat strongly upon her and weakened her so that she could scarcely crawl along her beautiful path. Up a little higher and the clouds no longer gave her even the least shadow. The heat from the sun was so great that she began to feel the fire shriveling and torturing her. Quickly she slipped down into the storms around her rainbow and then back to earth. As the day passed her strength came back, and when the full moon rose through the shadows of the night she said, "I will climb to the moon and there find rest." But when Hina began to go upward her husband saw her and called to her: "Do not go into the heavens." She answered him: "My mind is fixed; I will go to my new husband, the moon." And she climbed up higher and higher. Her husband ran toward her. She was almost out of reach, but he leaped and caught her foot. This did not deter Hina from her purpose. She shook off her husband, but as he fell he broke her leg so that the lower part came off in his hands. Hina went up through the stars, crying out the strongest incantations she could use. The powers of the night aided her. The mysterious hands of darkness lifted her, until she stood at the door of the moon. She had packed her calabash with her most priceless possessions and had carried it with her even when injured by her cruel husband. With her calabash she limped into the moon and found her abiding home. When the moon is full, the Hawaiians of the long ago, aye and even today, look into the quiet, silvery light and see the goddess in her celestial home, her calabash by her side. The natives call her now Lono-moku, "the crippled Lono." From this watch tower in the heavens she pointed out to Kahai, one of her descendents, the way to rise up into the skies. The ancient chant thus describes his ascent: "The rainbow is the path of Kahai. Kahai rose. Kahai bestirred himself. Kahai passed on the floating cloud of Kane. Perplexed were the eyes of Alihi. Kahai passed on on the glancing light. The glancing light on men and canoes. Above was Hanaiakamalama." (Hina). Thus under the care of his ancestress Hina, Kahai, the great sea-rover, made his ascent in quest of adventures among the immortals. In the Tongan Islands the legends say that Hina remains in the moon watching over the "fire-walkers" as their great protecting goddess. The Hervey Island traditions say that the Moon (Marama) had often seen Hina and admired her, and at last had come down and caught her up to live with himself. The moonlight in its glory is called Ina-motea, "the brightness of Ina." The story as told on Atiu Island (one of the Society group) is that Hina took her human husband with her to the moon, where they dwelt happily for a time, but as he grew old she prepared a rainbow, down which he descended to the earth to die, leaving Hina forevermore as "the woman in the moon." The Savage Islanders worshiped the spirits of their ancestors, saying that many of them went up to the land of Sina, the always bright land in the skies. To the natives of Niue Island, Hina has been the goddess ruling over all tapa making. They say that her home is "Motu a Hina," "the island of Hina," the home of the dead in the skies. The Samoans said that the Moon received Hina and a child, and also her tapa board and mallet and material for the manufacture of tapa cloth. Therefore, when the moon is shining in full splendor, they shade their eyes and look for the goddess and the tools with which she fashions the tapa clouds in the heavens. The New Zealand legend says that the woman went after water in the night. As she passed down the path to the spring the bright light of the full moon made the way easy for her quick footsteps, but when she had filled her calabash and started homeward, suddenly the bright light was hidden by a passing cloud and she stumbled against a stone in the path and fell to the ground, spilling the water she was carrying. Then she became very angry and cursed the moon heartily. Then the moon became angry and swiftly swept down upon her from the skies, grasping her and lifting her up. In her terrible fight she caught a small tree with one hand and her calabash with the other. But oh! the strong moon pulled her up with the tree and the calabash and there in the full moon they can all be traced when the nights are clear. Pleasant or Nauru Island, in which a missionary from Central Union Church, Honolulu, is laboring, tells the story of Gigu, a beautiful young woman, who has many of the experiences of Hina. She opened the eyes of the Mother of the Moon as Hina, in some of the Polynesian legends, is represented to have opened the eyes of one of the great goddesses, and in reward is married to Maraman, the Moon, with whom she lives ever after, and in whose embrace she can always be seen when the moon is full. Gigu is Hina under another and more guttural form of speech. Maraman is the same as Malama, one of the Polynesian names for the moon. INDEX Page. Akea or Atea, see Wakea, 41 Akalana, or Ataranga, 3, 4, 166 Alae birds, 12, 18, 27, 62, 65, 120, 123 Alae-Huapi, 120 Alae-nui-a-Hina, 123 Ao-tea-roa, 23, 93, 106, 108, 128, 137 Aumakuas, 26 Ava-iki, or Hawa-i-ki, 5, 37, 41, 52, 72, 137 Awa, 8 Axe, stone, 93, 94 Bailing dish, 123 Bananas, 45, 64 Banyan, 56, 71 Barbs, spears, 79, 101 Birds, 85, 110, 112, 135, 144 Bird-machine, 125 Birds, painted, 85, 112 Black rock, 32, 48 Boiling pots, 100, 152 Bones, fish hooks, 15, 83 Brittany, 57 Bua-Tarana-ga, 5 Cain and Abel, 89 Calabash, 19, 31, 84, 115 Cannibalism, 91, 93 Canoe, Maui's, 28, 118, 150 Cats-cradle, 86 Cloud, Maui's-ao-opua, 150 Coco-nut Island, 19, 26 Cook, Captain, 7 Cooking the rain, 163 Coral, 29 Creation, 4, 80, 86 Crocodile, 148 Death, 25, 38, 67, 82, 137, 170 Death chant, 138 Dog, 80, 102 Dragon, 97, 148, 153 Earth twisted, 12, 15 Eclipse, 42, 158 Eel, 7, 33, 83, 94, 130 Eel baskets, 79, 102 Eight-eyed, 83, 124 Ellis, William, 84 Egypt, 44 Evolution, 85, 103, 109, 132 Fairies, 113 Fire-finding-- Australia, 59 Bowditch Islands, 76 Chatham Islands, 75 De Peysters Islands, 59 Hawaii, 61, 120 Hervey Islands, 67, 70 Indians, 57 New Zealand, 67, 74, 88 Peruvians, 59 Samoa, 67, 70 Savage Islands, 67, 72 Society Islands, 66, 72 Tartary, 59 Tokelau Island, 67 First man, 89 Fishing up islands-- Hawaii, 14, 18, 26 Hervey Islands, 26 New Hebrides, 25 New Zealand, 19, 88 Samoa, 24 Tonga, 24, 28 Fish hooks, 12, 15, 20, 26, 81, 118 Fish nets, 81 Flood, 25 Flying machine, 125 Forbes, Rev. A. O., 42 Fornander, A., 83 Ganges, 154 Gilbert Islands, 34, 60 Gill, W. W., 36 Gray, Sir George, 7, 20, 23, 49, 101, 110 Green stone, 110, 134 Guardian of under-world, 4, 5, 17, 70 Hades, 129 Halai hills, 64, 155 Hale-a-ka-la, 7, 13, 32, 43, 62, 143 Hale-a-o-a, 76 Hau tree, 102 Hau spirit, Preface Haumia-Tiki-Tiki, 34 Hawa-iki, 5, 35, 37, 137, 154 Hawaii-loa, 29 Hawke's bay, 28 Hele-a-ka-la, 122 Hercules, 53, 112 Hervey Islands, 4, 5, 10 Hide-and-seek, 10 Hilo, 7, 19, 26, 64, 129, 147, 155 Hina, 5, 7, 10, 12, 18, 45, 61, 64, 121, 139 Hina-a-ke-ahi, 3, 27, 157 Hina-a-ke-ka, 123 Hina-a-te-lepo, 91 Hina-Kulu-ua, 157, 161 Hina-uri, 101 Hine-nui-te-po, 23, 123, 133 Hina's daughters, 156 Horizon or heaven, 107 Human sacrifices, 159 Hump-back, 125 Huna, 166 Iao, 43 Ie-ie, fiber, 125 Iiwi, 113 Ika-o-Maui, 23 Ili-ahi, 66 Immortality, Maui, 128 Imu, oven, 159 Ina, see Hina, 5, 66, 142 India, 154 Indians, fire-finding, 57 Indians, snaring sun, 54 Ira Waru, 101 Kaahumanu, 143 Ka-alae-huapi, 120 Kahai chant, 169 Ka-iwi-o-Pele, 18 Kalakaua, 8 Kalana-Kalanga, see Akalana, 3, 4, 60 Kalau-hele-moa, 45 Kamapuaa, 83 Kanaloa, 5, 24, 29, 120 Kane, 35, 119, 135 Kane's cave, 119 Kauai, 26 Kauiki, or Kauwiki, 7, 12, 26, 143, 168 Kaula Island, 26 Kipahula, 18 Ki-i-ki-i, 6, 32, 143 Kite-flying, 87, 112, 128 Ko, spade, 94 Kohala, 28 Koolau, 44 Ku, 5 Kualii, 12 Kuna, see Tuna, 7, 99 Ku-olo--Kele, 125 Ku-ula, fish god, 140 La, or Ra, 5, 44 Langi, Lani, 34 Lahaina, 32 Lasso, 47, 51, 80, 144 Lifting the sky-- Ellice Islands, 33 Gilbert Islands, 34 Hawaii, 31 Hervey Islands, 36 Manahiki, 35 New Zealand, 34 Samoa, 32 Liliuokalani chants, 3, 8, 17, 27, 40 Long Eel, 92 Lono, 34 Ma-eli-eli hill, 120 Magic fish hook, 82 Mahui, Mahuika, Mafuia, 5, 60, 68, 73, 132 Mahina, or Masina, 166 Mamo bird, 114 Manahiki Islands, 24, 80 Maori, 28, 34 Marama, or Malama, 166, 171 Marshall Islands, 60 Maru, 89 Mauna Kea, 13 Maui Akalana-- Akamai, 78, 82 baptized, 10, 133 birth, 6 bird or insect, 9, 10, 20, 24, 71, 114, 144 brothers, 3, 6, 14, 22, 24, 78, 107 canoes, 28 children, 82, 93, 137 creation, 4, 80 death, 25, 26 Hawaii, 130 Hervey Islands, 131 New Zealand, 137 Samoa, 131 eight-eyed, 83 footprints, 25, 33 god or demi-god, 4, 148 home, 4, 7, 10, 31, 119 hook, 12, 15, 19, 26, 28 of the malo, Preface prophet, 84 sister, 6 the swift, 64, 117, 121 uncles, 8 Maui-Mua, or Rupe, 106, 125 Maui Hope, 124 Maui Waena, 3, 124 Mercury, 11 Moemoe, 48 Mo-o, 41, 97, 99 Moon, 41, 89, 134 Moon, Hina the goddess, 147, 156, 165 Motu, or Mokua Hina, 170 Mudhen, 120 Muri, 48, 50 Nauru Islands, 171 New Heavens, 107 New Hebrides Islands, 25 New Zealand, 4, 5, 7, 9 Niu Islands, 33 Oahu legends-- Maui and the two gods, 119 How they found fire, 120 Maui catching the sun, 122 Uniting the islands, 123 Maui and Pea-pea, 124 Obsidian, 109, 134 Ohia trees, 80 Olona, 81, 114, 117 O-o, spade, 94 O-o, bird, 114 Paoa, 29 Papa, 34 Payton, 25 Pea-pea, the eight-eyed, 124 Pearl Harbor, 123 Peruvians, 59 Pictographs, 165 Pigeon, 9 Pimoe, 18 Pohakunui, 64 Prometheus, 57 Puka-a-Maui, 151 Pumice stone, 38 Puna, 166 Puu-o-hulu, 119, 123 Ra or La, sun-god, 5, 44 Rainbow Falls, 8, 26, 99, 147 Raro Tonga, 6, 24 Roko, 97 Rongo, 34 Ru, 5, 35 Rupe, Maui-mua, 106, 125 Samoa, 5, 24, 29 Sandalwood, 66 Savage Islands, 74 Savaii, 29, 129 Scorpion, 26 Serpent, 33 Sharks, 18, 123 Short days, 143 Sina, see Hina, 96, 143, 166, 171 Snaring the sun-- Fiji, 54 Hawaii, 42, 122, 144 Hervey Islands, 52 Indians, 54 New Zealand, 48 Samoa, 143 Society Islands, 41, 50, 53, 143 Tonga, 40 Snow, 89 Society Islands, 5 Spears, 81 Spirits, islands of, 129 Stone implements, 86, 93, 110 Sun, created, 41 Supporter of the Heavens, 37 Tabu, 102, 126 Tahiti, 76, 86 Talanga or Kalana, 5, 68 Tane, see Kane, 35 Tangaroa or Kanaloa, 6, 24, 25, 34, 66 Tapa, 11, 13, 42, 62, 116, 119, 122, 141 Taro, 121 Tattooing, 80, 104, 136 Tawhiri, 35 Te-ika-o-Maui, 23 Ti leaves, 125 Ti-i-Ti-i} } Kii-Kii, 6, 25, 32, 34, 60, 68 Tiki-Tiki} Tini-rau, 106, 108 Tokelau Island, 67 Tonga, 28, 40, 89, 129 Tonga-iti, 41 Tracey Islands, 33 Tu or Ku, 35 Tuna or Kuna, 91 Fiji, 91 Hawaii, 99, 148 Hervey Islands, 154 New Zealand, 92 Samoa, 96 Turner, 24 Ulua, 12, 18 Under-world, 4, 9, 15, 51, 68, 129 Uniting the islands, 123 Upolu, 25 Vatea, or Wakea, 41 Vatupu Islands, 33 Waianae, 65, 119 Waikuna, 100, 148 Wailuku, 7, 26, 80, 140, 146 Waipahu, 125 Waipio, 115 Wakea, Vatea, Atea, 4, 41 Water of life, 134 White, John, 87, 96, 101, 132 Wife of Maui, 91, 124, 137, 156 Wiliwili tree, 44 Winds, 86, 115 Woman in the Moon, 165 
32877	----	My Dark Companions, by Henry M. Stanley. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ MY DARK COMPANIONS, BY HENRY M. STANLEY. PREFACE. The nightly custom of gathering around the camp fire, and entertaining one another with stories, began in 1875, after Sabadu, a page of King Mtesa, had astonished his hearers with the legend of the "Blameless Priest." Our circle was free to all, and was frequently well attended; for when it was seen that the more accomplished narrators were suitably rewarded, and that there was a great deal of amusement to be derived, few could resist the temptation to approach and listen, unless fatigue or illness prevented them. Many of the stories related were naturally of little value, having neither novelty nor originality; and in many cases, especially where the Zanzibaris were the narrators, the stories were mere importations from Asia; while others, again, were mere masks of low inclinations. I therefore had often to sit out a lengthy tale which had not a single point in it. But whenever a real aborigine of the interior undertook to tell a tale of the old days, we were sure to hear something new and striking; the language became more quaint, and in almost every tale there was a distinct moral. The following legends are the choicest and most curious of those that were related to me during seventeen years, and which have not been hitherto published in any of my books of travel. Faithfully as I have endeavoured to follow the unsophisticated narrators it is impossible for me to reproduce the simplicity of style with which they were given, or to describe the action which accompanied them. I take my cue from the African native. He told them with the view of pleasing his native audience, after much solicitation. He was unused to the art of public speaking, and never dreamed that he was exposing himself to criticism. He was also shy, and somewhat indolent, or tired perhaps, and would prefer listening to others rather than speak himself, but though protesting strongly that his memory was defective, and that he could not remember anything, he yielded at last for the sake of peace, and good-fellowship. As these few, now about to be published, are not wholly devoid of a certain merit as examples of Central African lore, and oral literature, I have thought it best to consider myself only as a translator and to render them into English with as direct and true a version as possible. I begin with the Creation of Man merely for preference, and not according to the date on which it was related. The legend was delivered by Matageza, a native of the Basoko, in December, 1883. [The Basoko are a tribe occupying the right bank of the Aruwimi river from its confluence with the Congo to within a short distance of the rapids of Yambuya, and inland for a few marches.] He had been an assiduous attendant at our nightly circle, but hitherto had not opened his mouth. Finally, as the silence at the camp fire was getting somewhat awkward, Baruti, one of my tent-boys, was pressed to say something; but he drew back, saying that he never was able to remember a thing that was told to him, but, added he, "Matageza is clever; I have heard him tell a long legend about the making of the first man by the moon." All eyes were at once turned upon Matageza, who was toasting his feet by a little fire of his own, and there was a chorus of cries for "Matageza! Matageza!" He affected great reluctance to come forward, but the men, whose curiosity was aroused, would not take a denial, and some of them seized him, and dragged him with loud laughter to the seat of honour. After a good deal of urging and a promise of a fine cloth if the story was good, he cleared his throat and began the strange legend of the Creation of Man as follows:-- CHAPTER ONE. THE CREATION OF MAN. In the old, old time, all this land, and indeed all the whole earth was covered with sweet water. But the water dried up or disappeared somewhere, and the grasses, herbs, and plants began to spring up above the ground, and some grew, in the course of many moons, into trees, great and small, and the water was confined into streams and rivers, pools and lakes, and as the rain fell it kept the streams and rivers running, and the pools and lakes always fresh. There was no living thing moving upon the earth, until one day there sat by one of the pools a large Toad. How long he had lived, or how he came to exist, is not known; it is suspected, however, that the water brought him forth out of some virtue that was in it. In the sky there was only the Moon glowing and shining--on the earth there was but this one Toad. It is said that they met and conversed together, and that one day the Moon said to him: "I have an idea. I propose to make a man and a woman to live on the fruits of the earth, for I believe that there is rich abundance of food on it fit for such creatures." "Nay," said the Toad, "let me make them, for I can make them fitter for the use of the earth than thou canst, for I belong to the earth, while thou belongest to the sky." "Verily," replied the Moon, "thou hast the power to create creatures which shall have but a brief existence; but if I make them, they will have something of my own nature; and it is a pity that the creatures of one's own making should suffer and die. Therefore, O Toad, I propose to reserve the power of creation for myself, that the creatures may be endowed with perfection and enduring life." "Ah, Moon, be not envious of the power which I share with thee, but let me have my way. I will give them forms such as I have often dreamed of. The thought is big within me, and I insist upon realising my ideas." "An thou be so resolved, observe my words, both thou and they shall die. Thou I shall slay myself and end utterly; and thy creatures can but follow thee, being of such frail material as thou canst give them." "Ah, thou art angry now, but I heed thee not. I am resolved that the creatures to inhabit this earth shall be of my own creating. Attend thou to thine own empire in the sky." Then the Moon rose and soared upward, where with his big, shining face he shone upon all the world. The Toad grew great with his conception, until it ripened and issued out in the shape of twin beings, full-grown male and female. These were the first like our kind that ever trod the earth. The Moon beheld the event with rage, and left his place in the sky to punish the Toad, who had infringed the privilege that he had thought to reserve for himself. He came direct to Toad's pool, and stood blazingly bright over it. "Miserable," he cried, "what hast thou done?" "Patience, Moon, I but exercised my right and power. It was within me to do it, and lo, the deed is done." "Thou hast exalted thyself to be my equal in thine own esteem. Thy conceit has clouded thy wit, and obscured the memory of the warning I gave thee. Even hadst thou obtained a charter from me to attempt the task, thou couldst have done no better than thou hast done. As much as thou art inferior to me, so these will be inferior to those I could have endowed this earth with. Thy creatures are pitiful things, mere animals without sense, without the gift of perception or self-protection. They see, they breathe, they exist; their lives can be measured by one round journey of mine. Were it not out of pity for them, I would even let them die. Therefore for pity's sake I propose to improve somewhat on what thou hast done: their lives shall be lengthened, and such intelligence as malformed beings as these can contain will I endow them with, that they may have guidance through a life which with all my power must be troubled and sore. But as for thee, whilst thou exist my rage is perilous to them, therefore to save thy kin I end thee." Saying which the Moon advanced upon Toad, and the fierce sparks from his burning face were shot forth, and fell upon the Toad until he was consumed. The Moon then bathed in the pool, that the heat of his anger might be moderated, and the water became so heated that it was like that which is in a pot over a fire, and he stayed in it until the hissing and bubbling had subsided. Then the Moon rose out of the pool, and sought the creatures of Toad: and when he had found them, he called them unto him, but they were afraid and hid themselves. At this sight the Moon smiled, as you sometimes see him on fine nights, when he is a clear white, and free from stain or blurr, and he was pleased that Toad's creatures were afraid of him. "Poor things," said he, "Toad has left me much to do yet before I can make them fit to be the first of earthly creatures." Saying which he took hold of them, and bore them to the pool wherein he had bathed, and which had been the home of Toad. He held them in the water for some time, tenderly bathing them, and stroking them here and there as a potter does to his earthenware, until he had moulded them into something similar to the shape we men and women possess now. The male became distinguished by breadth of shoulder, depth of chest, larger bones, and more substantial form; the female was slighter in chest, slimmer of waist, and the breadth and fulness of the woman was midmost of the body at the hips. Then the Moon gave them names; the man he called Bateta, the woman Hanna, and he addressed them and said: "Bateta, see this earth and the trees, and herbs and plants and grasses; the whole is for thee and thy wife Hanna, and for thy children whom Hanna thy wife shall bear unto thee. I have re-made thee greatly, that thou and thine may enjoy such things as thou mayest find needful and fit. In order that thou mayest discover what things are not noxious but beneficial for thee, I have placed the faculty of discernment within thy head, which thou must exercise before thou canst become wise. The more thou prove this, the more wilt thou be able to perceive the abundance of good things the earth possesses for the creatures which are to inhabit it. I have made thee and thy wife as perfect as is necessary for the preservation and enjoyment of the term of life, which by nature of the materials the Toad made thee of must needs be short. It is in thy power to prolong or shorten it. Some things I must teach thee. I give thee first an axe. I make a fire for thee, which thou must feed from time to time with wood, and the first and most necessary utensil for daily use. Observe me while I make it for thee." The Moon took some dark clay by the pool and mixed it with water, then kneaded it, and twisted it around until its shape was round and hollowed within, and he covered it with the embers of the fire, and baked it; and when it was ready he handed it to them. "This vessel," continued the Moon, "is for the cooking of food. Thou wilt put water into it, and place whatsoever edible thou desirest to eat in the water. Thou wilt then place the vessel on the fire, which in time will boil the water and cook the edible. All vegetables, such as roots and bulbs, are improved in flavour and give superior nourishment by being thus cooked. It will become a serious matter for thee to know which of all the things pleasant in appearance are also pleasant for the palate. But shouldst thou be long in doubt and fearful of harm, ask and I will answer thee." Having given the man and woman their first lesson, the Moon ascended to the sky, and from his lofty place shone upon them, and upon all the earth with a pleased expression, which comforted greatly the lonely pair. Having watched the ascending Moon until he had reached his place in the sky, Bateta and Hanna rose and travelled on by the beautiful light which he gave them, until they came to a very large tree that had fallen. The thickness of the prostrate trunk was about twice their height. At the greater end of it there was a hole, into which they could walk without bending. Feeling a desire for sleep, Bateta laid his fire down outside near the hollowed entrance, cut up dry fuel, and his wife piled it on the fire, while the flames grew brighter and lit the interior. Bateta took Hanna by the hand and entered within the tree, and the two lay down together. But presently both complained of the hardness of their bed, and Bateta, after pondering awhile, rose, and going out, plucked some fresh large leaves of a plant that grew near the fallen tree, and returned laden with it. He spread it about thickly, and Hanna rolled herself on it, and laughed gleefully as she said to Bateta that it was soft and smooth and nice; and opening her arms, she cried, "Come, Bateta, and rest by my side." Though this was the first day of their lives, the Moon had so perfected the unfinished and poor work of the Toad that they were both mature man and woman. Within a month Hanna bore twins, of whom one was male and the other female, and they were tiny doubles of Bateta and Hanna, which so pleased Bateta that he ministered kindly to his wife who, through her double charge, was prevented from doing anything else. Thus it was that Bateta, anxious for the comfort of his wife, and for the nourishment of his children, sought to find choice things, but could find little to please the dainty taste which his wife had contracted. Whereupon, looking up to Moon with his hands uplifted, he cried out: "O Moon, list to thy creature Bateta! My wife lies languishing, and she has a taste strange to me which I cannot satisfy, and the children that have been born unto us feed upon her body, and her strength decreases fast. Come down, O Moon, and show me what fruit or herbs will cure her longing." The Moon heard Bateta's voice, and coming out from behind the cloud with a white, smiling face, said, "It is well, Bateta; lo! I come to help thee." When the Moon had approached Bateta, he showed the golden fruit of the banana--which was the same plant whose leaves had formed the first bed of himself and wife. "O Bateta, smell this fruit. How likest thou its fragrance?" "It is beautiful and sweet. O Moon, if it be as wholesome for the body as it is sweet to smell, my wife will rejoice in it." Then the Moon peeled the banana and offered it to Bateta, upon which he boldly ate it, and the flavour was so pleasant that he besought permission to take one to his wife. When Hanna had tasted it she also appeared to enjoy it; but she said, "Tell Moon that I need something else, for I have no strength, and I am thinking that this fruit will not give to me what I lose by these children." Bateta went out and prayed to Moon to listen to Hanna's words--which when he had heard, he said, "It was known to me that this should be, wherefore look round, Bateta, and tell me what thou seest moving yonder." "Why, that is a buffalo." "Rightly named," replied Moon. "And what follows it?" "A goat." "Good again. And what next?" "An antelope." "Excellent, O Bateta; and what may the next be?" "A sheep." "Sheep it is, truly. Now look up above the trees, and tell me what thou seest soaring over them." "I see fowls and pigeons." "Very well called, indeed," said Moon. "These I give unto thee for meat. The buffalo is strong and fierce, leave him for thy leisure; but the goat, sheep, and fowls, shall live near thee, and shall partake of thy bounty. There are numbers in the woods which will come to thee when they are filled with their grazing and their pecking. Take any of them--either goat, sheep, or fowl--bind it, and chop its head off with thy hatchet. The blood will sink into the soil; the meat underneath the outer skin is good for food, after being boiled or roasted over the fire. Haste now, Bateta; it is meat thy wife craves, and she needs naught else to restore her strength. So prepare instantly and eat." The Moon floated upward, smiling and benignant, and Bateta hastened to bind a goat, and made it ready as the Moon had advised. Hanna, after eating of the meat which was prepared by boiling, soon recovered her strength, and the children throve, and grew marvellously. One morning Bateta walked out of his hollowed house, and lo! a change had come over the earth. Right over the tops of the trees a great globe of shining, dazzling light looked out from the sky, and blazed white and bright over all. Things that he had seen dimly before were now more clearly revealed. By the means of the strange light hung up in the sky he saw the difference between that which the Moon gave and that new brightness which now shone out. For, without, the trees and their leaves seemed clad in a luminous coat of light, while underneath it was but a dim reflection of that which was without, and to the sight it seemed like the colder light of the Moon. And in the cooler light that prevailed below the foliage of the trees there were gathered hosts of new and strange creatures; some large, others of medium, and others of small size. Astonished at these changes, he cried, "Come out, O Hanna, and see the strange sights without the dwelling, for verily I am amazed, and know not what has happened." Obedient, Hanna came out with the children and stood by his side, and was equally astonished at the brightness of the light and at the numbers of creatures which in all manner of sizes and forms stood in the shade ranged around them, with their faces towards the place where they stood. "What may this change portend, O Bateta?" asked his wife. "Nay, Hanna, I know not. All this has happened since the Moon departed from me." "Thou must perforce call him again, Bateta, and demand the meaning of it, else I shall fear harm unto thee, and unto these children." "Thou art right, my wife, for to discover the meaning of all this without other aid than my own wits would keep us here until we perished." Then he lifted his voice, and cried out aloud upward, and at the sound of his voice all the creatures gathered in the shades looked upward, and cried with their voices; but the meaning of their cry, though there was an infinite variety of sound, from the round, bellowing voice of the lion to the shrill squeak of the mouse, was: "Come down unto us, O Moon, and explain the meaning of this great change unto us; for thou only who madest us can guide our sense unto the right understanding of it." When they had ended their entreaty unto the Moon, there came a voice from above, which sounded like distant thunder, saying, "Rest ye where ye stand, until the brightness of this new light shall have faded, and ye distinguish my milder light and that of the many children which have been born unto me, when I shall come unto you and explain." Thereupon they rested each creature in its own place, until the great brightness, and the warmth which the strange light gave faded and lessened, and it was observed that it disappeared from view on the opposite side to that where it had first been seen, and also immediately after at the place of its disappearance the Moon was seen, and all over the sky were visible the countless little lights which the children of the Moon gave. Presently, after Bateta had pointed these out to Hanna and the children, the Moon shone out bland, and its face was covered with gladness, and he left the sky smiling, and floated down to the earth, and stood not far off from Bateta, in view of him and his family, and of all the creatures under the shade. "Hearken, O Bateta, and ye creatures of prey and pasture. A little while ago, ye have seen the beginning of the measurement of time, which shall be divided hereafter into day and night. The time that lapses between the Sun's rising and its setting shall be called day, that which shall lapse between its setting and re-rising shall be called night. The light of the day proceeds from the Sun, but the light of the night proceeds from me and from my children the stars; and as ye are all my creatures, I have chosen that my softer light shall shine during the restful time wherein ye sleep, to recover the strength lost in the waking time, and that ye shall be daily waked for the working time by the stronger light of the Sun. This rule never-ending shall remain. "And whereas Bateta and his wife are the first of creatures, to them, their families, and kind that shall be born unto them, shall be given pre-eminence over all creatures made, not that they are stronger, or swifter, but because to them only have I given understanding and a gift of speech to transmit it. Perfection and everlasting life had also been given, but the taint of the Toad remains in the system, and the result will be death,--death to all living things, Bateta and Hanna excepted. In the fulness of time, when their limbs refuse to bear the burden of their bodies and their marrow has become dry, my first-born shall return to me, and I shall absorb them. Children shall be born innumerable unto them, until families shall expand into tribes, and from here, as from a spring, mankind will outflow and overspread all lands, which are now but wild and wold, ay, even to the farthest edge of the earth. "And hearken, O Bateta, the beasts which thou seest, have sprung from the ashes of the Toad. On the day that he measured his power against mine, and he was consumed by my fire, there was one drop of juice left in his head. It was a life-germ which soon grew into another toad. Though not equal in power to the parent toad, thou seest what he has done. Yonder beasts of prey and pasture and fowls are his work. As fast as they were conceived by him, and uncouth and ungainly they were, I dipped them into Toad's Pool, and perfected them outwardly, according to their uses, and, as thou seest, each specimen has its mate. Whereas, both thou and they alike have the acrid poison of the toad, thou from the parent, they in a greater measure from the child toad, the mortal taint when ripe will end both man and beast. No understanding nor gift of speech has been given to them, and they are as inferior to thyself as the child toad was to the parent toad. Wherefore, such qualities as thou mayst discover in them, thou mayst employ in thy services. Meantime, let them go out each to its own feeding-ground, lair, or covert, and grow and multiply, until the generations descending from thee shall have need for them. Enough for thee with the bounties of the forest, jungle, and plain, are the goats, sheep, and fowls. At thy leisure, Bateta, thou mayst strike and eat such beasts as thou seest akin in custom to these that will feed from thy hand. The waters abound in fish that are thine at thy need, the air swarms with birds which are also thine, as thy understanding will direct thee. "Thou wilt be wise to plant all such edibles as thou mayest discover pleasing to the palate and agreeable to thy body, but be not rash in assuming that all things pleasant to the eye are grateful to thy inwards. "So long as thou and Hanna are on the earth, I promise thee my aid and counsel; and what I tell thee and thy wife thou wilt do well to teach thy children, that the memory of useful things be not forgotten--for after I take thee to myself, I come no more to visit man. Enter thy house now, for it is a time, as I have told thee, for rest and sleep. At the shining of the greater light, thou wilt waken for active life and work, and family care and joys. The beasts shall also wander each to his home in the earth, on the tops of the trees, in the bush, or in the cavern. Fare thee well, Bateta, and have kindly care for thy wife Hanna and the children." The Moon ended his speech, and floated upward, radiant and gracious, until he rested in his place in the sky, and all the children of the Moon twinkled for joy and gladness so brightly, as the parent of the world entered his house, that all the heavens for a short time seemed burning. Then the Moon drew over him his cloudy cloak, and the little children of the Moon seemed to get drowsy, for they twinkled dimly, and then a darkness fell over all the earth, and in the darkness man and beast retired, each to his own place, according as the Moon had directed. A second time Bateta waked from sleep, and walked out to wonder at the intense brightness of the burning light that made the day. Then he looked around him, and his eyes rested upon a noble flock of goats and sheep, all of whom bleated their morning welcome, while the younglings pranced about in delight, and after curvetting around, expressed in little bleats the joy they felt at seeing their chief, Bateta. His attention was also called to the domestic fowls; there were red and white and spotted cocks, and as many coloured hens, each with its own brood of chicks. The hens trotted up to their master--cluck, cluck, clucking--the tiny chicks, following each its own mother--cheep, cheep, cheeping--while the cocks threw out their breasts and strutted grandly behind, and crowed with their trumpet throats, "All hail, master." Then the morning wind rose and swayed the trees, plants, and grasses, and their tops bending before it bowed their salutes to the new king of the earth, and thus it was that man knew that his reign over all was acknowledged. A few months afterwards, another double birth occurred, and a few months later there was still another, and Bateta remembered the number of months that intervened between each event, and knew that it would be a regular custom for all time. At the end of the eighteenth year, he permitted his first-born to choose a wife, and when his other children grew up he likewise allowed them to select their wives. At the end of ninety years, Hanna had born to Bateta two hundred and forty-two children, and there were grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and countless great-great-grandchildren, and they lived to an age many times the length of the greatest age amongst us now-a-days. When they were so old that it became a trouble to them to live, the Moon came down to the earth as he had promised, and bore them to himself, and soon after the first-born twins died and were buried in the earth, and after that the deaths were many and more frequent. People ceased to live as long as their parents had done, for sickness, dissensions, wars, famines, accidents ended them and cut their days short, until they at last forgot how to live long, and cared not to think how their days might be prolonged. And it has happened after this manner down to us who now live. The whole earth has become filled with mankind, but the dead that are gone and forgotten are far greater in number than those now alive upon the earth. Ye see now, my friends, what mischief the Toad did unto all mankind. Had his conceit been less, and had he waited a little, the good Moon would have conceived us of a nobler kind than we now are, and the taint of the Toad had not cursed man. Wherefore abandon headstrong ways, and give not way to rashness, but pay good heed to the wise and old, lest ye taint in like manner the people, and cause the innocent, the young, and the weak to suffer. I have spoken my say. If ye have heard aught displeasing, remember I but tell the tale as it was told unto me. "Taking it as a mere story," said Baraka, "it is very well told, but I should like to know why the Moon did not teach Bateta the value of manioc, since he took the trouble to tell him about the banana." "For the reason," answered Matageza, "that when he showed him the banana, there was no one but the Moon could have done so. But after the Moon had given goats and sheep and fowls for his companions, his own lively intelligence was sufficient to teach Bateta many things. The goats became great pets of Bateta, and used to follow him about. He observed that there was a certain plant to which the goats flocked with great greed, to feed upon the tops until their bellies became round and large with it. One day the idea came to him that if the goats could feed so freely upon it without harm, it might be also harmless to him. Whereupon he pulled the plant up and earned it home. While he was chopping up the tops for the pot his pet goats tried to eat the tuber which was the root, and he tried that also. He cut up both leaves and root and cooked them, and after tasting them he found them exceedingly good and palatable, and thenceforward manioc became a daily food to him and his family, and from them to his children's children, and so on down to us." "Verily, that is of great interest. Why did you not put that in the story?" "Because the story would then have no end. I would have to tell you of the sweet potato, and the tomato, of the pumpkin, of the millet that was discovered by the fowls, and of the palm oil-nut that was discovered by the dog." "Ah, yes, tell us how a dog could have shown the uses of the palm oil-nut." "It is very simple. Bateta coaxed a dog to live with him because he found that the dog preferred to sit on his haunches and wait for the bones that his family threw aside after the meal was over, rather than hunt for himself like other flesh-eating beasts. One day Bateta walked out into the woods, and his dog followed him. After a long walk Bateta rested at the foot of the straight tall tree called the palm, and there were a great many nuts lying on the ground, which perhaps the monkeys or the wind had thrown down. The dog after smelling them lay down and began to eat them, and though Bateta was afraid he would hurt himself, he allowed him to have his own way, and he did not see that they harmed him at all, but that he seemed as fond as ever of them. By thinking of this he conceived that they would be no harm to him; and after cooking them, he found that their fat improved the flavour of his vegetables, hence the custom came down to us. Indeed, the knowledge of most things that we know to-day as edibles came down to us through the observation of animals by our earliest fathers. What those of old knew not was found out later through stress of hunger, while men were lost in the bushy wilds." When at last we rose to retire to our tents and huts, the greater number of our party felt the sorrowful conviction that the Toad had imparted to all mankind an incurable taint, and that we poor wayfarers, in particular, were cursed with an excess of it, in consequence of which both Toad and tadpole were heartily abused by all. CHAPTER TWO. THE GOAT, THE LION, AND THE SERPENT. Baruti, which translated means "gunpowder," envied Matageza the "piece" of a dozen gay handkerchiefs, with which he had been rewarded for his excellent story, and one evening while he served dinner, ventured to tell me that he also remembered a story that had been told to him when a child among the Basoko. "Very well, Baruti," I replied, "we will all meet to-night around the camp fire as usual, and according to the merits of your story you will surely be rewarded. If it is better than Matageza's, you shall have a still finer piece of cloth; if it is not so interesting, you cannot expect so much." "All right, sir. Business is business, and nothing for him that can say nothing." Soon after the darkness had fallen the captains of the expedition and the more intelligent men began to form the evening circle, and after we had discussed the state of the night, and the events of the day, I called out to Baruti for his story, when, after telling us what a great time had elapsed since he had heard it, and how by searching into the recesses of his memory he had at last remembered it, he delivered the story of "The Goat, the Lion, and the Serpent," in the following manner:-- A Goat and a Lion were travelling together one day on the outskirts of a forest, at the end of which there was a community of mankind comfortably hutted within a village, which was fenced round with tall and pointed stakes. The Goat said to the Lion: "Well, now, my friend, where do you come from this day?" "I have come from a feast that I have given many friends of mine--to the leopard, hyena, wolf, jackal, wild cat, buffalo, zebra, and many more. The long-necked giraffe and dew-lapped eland were also there, as well as the springing antelope." "That is grand company you keep, indeed," said the Goat, with a sigh. "As for poor me, I am alone. No one cares for me very much, but I find abundance of grass and sweet leafage, and when I am full, I seek a soft spot under a tree, and chew my cud, dreamily and contentedly. And of other sorrows, save an occasional pang of hunger, in my wanderings I know of none." "Do you mean to say that you do not envy me my regal dignity and strength?" "I do not indeed, because as yet I have been ignorant of them." "What? Know you not that I am the strongest of all who dwell in the forest or wilderness? that when I roar all who hear me bow down their heads, and shrink in fear?" "Indeed, I do not know all this, nor am I very sure that you are not deceiving yourself, because I know many whose offensive powers are much more dangerous, my friend, than yours. True, your teeth are large, and your claws are sharp, and your roar is loud enough, and your appearance is imposing. Still, I know a tiny thing in these woods that is much more to be dreaded than you are; and I think if you matched yourself against it in a contest, that same tiny thing would become victor." "Bah!" said the Lion, impatiently, "you anger me. Why, even to-day all who were at the feast acknowledged that they were but feeble creatures compared with me: and you will own that if I but clawed you once there would be no life left in you." "What you say in regard to me is true enough, and, as I said before, I do not pretend to the possession of strength. But this tiny thing that I know of is not likely to have been at your feast." "What may this tiny thing be that is so dreadful?" asked the Lion, sneeringly. "The Serpent," answered the Goat, chewing his cud with an indifferent air. "The Serpent!" said the Lion, astounded. "What, that crawling reptile, which feeds on mice and sleeping birds--that soft, vine-like, creeping thing that coils itself in tufts of grass, and branches of bush?" "Yes, that is its name and character clearly." "Why, my weight alone would tread it until it became flat like a smashed egg." "I would not try to do so if I were you. Its fangs are sharper than your great corner teeth or claws." "Will you match it against my strength?" "Yes." "And if you lose, what will be the forfeit?" "If you survive the fight, I will be your slave, and you may command me for any purpose you please. But what will you give me if you lose?" "What you please." "Well, then, I will take one hundred bunches of bananas; and you had better bring them here alongside of me, before you begin." "Where is this Serpent that will fight with me?" "Close by. When you have brought the bananas he will be here, waiting for you." The Lion stalked proudly away to procure the bananas, and the Goat proceeded into the bush, where he saw Serpent drowsily coiled in many coils on a slender branch. "Serpent," said the Goat, "wake up. Lion is raging for a fight with you. He has made a bet of a hundred bunches of bananas that he will be the victor, and I have pledged my life that you will be the strong one; and, hark you, obey my hints, and my life is safe, and I shall be provided with food for at least three moons." "Well," said Serpent, languidly, "what is it that you wish me to do?" "Take position on a bush about three cubits high, that stands near the scene where the fight is to take place, and when Lion is ready, raise your crest high and boldly, and ask him to advance near you that you may see him well, because you are short-sighted, you know. And he, full of his conceit and despising your slight form, will advance towards you, unwitting of your mode of attack. Then fasten your fangs in his eyebrows, and coil yourself round his neck. If there is any virtue left in your venom, poor Lion will lie stark before long." "And if I do this, what will you do for me?" "I am thy servant and friend for all time." "It is well," answered the Serpent. "Lead the way." Accordingly Goat led Serpent to the scene of the combat, and the latter coiled itself in position, as Goat had advised, on the leafy top of a young bush. Presently Lion came, with a long line of servile animals, bearing one hundred bunches of bananas; and, after dismissing them, he turned to the Goat, and said: "Well, Goatee, where is your friend who is stronger than I am? I feel curious to see him." "Are you Lion?" asked a sibilant voice from the top of a bush. "Yes, I am; and who are you that do not know me?" "I am Serpent, friend Lion, and short of sight and slow of movement. Advance nearer to me, for I see you not." Lion uttered a loud roaring laugh, and went confidently near the Serpent--who had raised his crest and arched his neck--so near that his breath seemed to blow the slender form to a tremulous movement. "You shake already," said Lion, mockingly. "Yes, I shake but to strike the better, my friend," said Serpent, as he darted forward and fixed his fangs in the right eyebrow of Lion, and at the same moment its body glided round the neck of Lion, and became buried out of sight in the copious mane. Like the pain of fire the deadly venom was felt quickly in the head and body. When it reached the heart, Lion fell down and lay still and dead. "Well done," cried Goat, as he danced around the pile of bananas. "Provisions for three moons have I, and this doughty roarer is of no more value than a dead goat." Goat and Serpent then vowed friendship for one another, after which Serpent said: "Now follow me, and obey. I have a little work for you." "Work! What work, O Serpent?" "It is light and agreeable. If you follow that path, you will find a village of mankind. You will there proclaim to the people what I have done, and show this carcase to them. In return for this they will make much of you, and you will find abundance of food in their gardens-- tender leaves of manioc and peanut, mellow bananas, and plenty of rich greens daily. True, when you are fat and a feast is to be made, they will kill you and eat you; but, for all your kind, comfort, plenty, and warm, dry housing is more agreeable than the cold damp jungle, and destruction by the feral beasts." "Nay, neither the work nor the fate is grievous, and I thank you, O Serpent; but for you there can be no other home than the bush and the tuft of grass, and you will always be a dreaded enemy of all who come near your resting-place." Then they parted. The Goat went along the path, and came to the gardens of a village, where a woman was chopping fuel. Looking up she saw a creature with grand horns coming near to her, bleating. Her first impulse was to run away, but seeing, as it bleated, that it was a fodder-eating animal, with no means of offence, she plucked some manioc greens and coaxed it to her, upon which the Goat came and spoke to her. "Follow me, for I have a strange thing to show you a little distance off." The woman, wondering that a four-footed animal could address her in intelligible speech, followed; and the Goat trotted gently before her to where Lion lay dead. The woman upon seeing the body, stopped and asked, "What is the meaning of this?" The Goat answered, "This was once the king of beasts; the fear of him was upon all that lived in the woods and in the wilderness. But he too often boasted of his might, and became too proud. I therefore dared him to fight a tiny creature of the bush, and lo! the boaster was slain." "And how do you name the victor?" "The Serpent." "Ah! you say true. Serpent is king over all, except man," answered the woman. "You are of a wise kind," answered the Goat. "Serpent confessed to me that man was his superior, and sent me to you that I might become man's creature. Henceforth man shall feed me with greens, tender tops of plants, and house and protect me; but when the feast-day comes, man shall kill me, and eat of my flesh. These are the words of Serpent." The woman hearkened to all Goat's words, and retained them in her memory. Then she unrobed the Lion of his furry spoil, and conveyed it to the village, where she astonished her folk with all that had happened to her. From that day to this the goat kind has remained with the families of man, and people are grateful to the Serpent for his gift to them; for had not the Serpent commanded it to seek their presence, the Goat had remained for ever wild like the antelope, its brother. "Well done, Baruti," cried Chowpereh. "That is a very good story, and it is very likely to be a true one too. Wallahi, there is some sense in these pagans after all, and I had thought that their heads were very woodeny." It is needless to say that the sentiments of Chowpereh were generally shared, and that Baruti received the new dress he so well deserved. CHAPTER THREE. THE QUEEN OF THE POOL. Kassim was a sturdy lad from the Basoko country, and a chum of Baruti. As yet he had never related to us a legend, though he loved to sit near the fire, and listen to the tales of the days of old. This silence on his part was at last remarked, and one night he was urged by all of us to speak, because it was unfair that those who frequented our open-air club should be always ready to receive amusement, and yet refuse to contribute their share to the entertainment. This kind of argument pushed home, brought him at last to admit that he owed the party a debt in kind, and he said: Well, friends, each man according to his nature, though there are so many men in the world they differ from one another as much as stones, no two of which are exactly alike. Here is Baruti here, who never seems to tire of speech, while I find more pleasure in watching his lips move up and down, and his tongue pop out and in, than in using my own. I cannot remember any legend, that is the truth; but I know of something which is not fiction, that occurred in our country relating to Izoka--a woman originally of Umane, the big town above Basoko. Izoka, the Queen of the Pool, as we call her, is alive now, and should you ever pass by Umane again, you may ask any of the natives if my words are true, and you will find that they will certify to what I shall now tell you. Izoka is the daughter of a chief of Umane whose name is Uyimba, and her mother is called Twekay. One of the young warriors called Koku lifted his eyes towards her, and as he had a house of his own which was empty, he thought Izoka ought to be the one to keep his hearth warm, and be his companion while he went fishing. The idea became fixed in his mind, and he applied to her father, and the dowry was demanded; and, though it was heavy, it was paid, to ease his longing after her. Now, Izoka was in every way fit to be a chief's wife. She was tall, slender, comely of person; her skin was like down to the touch, her kindly eyes brimmed over with pleasantness, her teeth were like white beads, and her ready laugh was such that all who heard it compared it to the sweet sounds of a flute which the perfect player loves to make before he begins a tune, and men's moods became merry when she passed them in the village. Well, she became Koku's wife, and she left her father's house to live with her husband. At first it seemed that they were born for one another. Though Koku was no mean fisherman, his wife excelled him in every way. Where one fish came into his net, ten entered into that of Izoka, and this great success brought him abundance. His canoe returned daily loaded with fish, and on reaching home they had as much work to clean and cure the fish as they could manage. Their daily catch would have supported quite a village of people from starving. They therefore disposed of their surplus stock by bartering it for slaves, and goats, and fowls, hoes, carved paddles, and swords; and in a short time Koku became the wealthiest among the chiefs of Umane, through the good fortune that attended Izoka in whatever she did. Most men would have considered themselves highly favoured in having such fortunate wives, but it was not so with Koku. He became a changed man. Prosperity proved his bane. He went no more with Izoka to fish; he seldom visited the market in her company, nor the fields where the slaves were at work, planting manioc, or weeding the plantain rows, or clearing the jungle, as he used to do. He was now always seen with his long pipe, and boozing with wretched idlers on the plantain wine purchased with his wife's industry; and when he came home it was to storm at his wife in such a manner that she could only bow to it in silence. When Koku was most filled with malice, he had an irritating way of disguising his spitefulness with a wicked smile, while his tongue expressed all sorts of contrary fancies. He would take delight in saying that her smooth skin was as rough as the leaf with which we polish our spear-shafts, that she was dumpy and dwarfish, that her mouth reminded him of a crocodile's, and her ears of an ape's; her legs were crooked, and her feet were like hippopotamus hoofs, and she was scorned for even her nails, which were worn to the quick with household toil; and he continued in this style to vex her, until at last he became persuaded that it was she who tormented him. Then he accused her of witchcraft. He said that it was by her witch's medicines that she caught so many fish, and he knew that some day she would poison him. Now, in our country this is a very serious accusation. However, she never crossed her husband's humour, but received the bitterness with closed lips. This silent habit of hers made matters worse. For, the more patience she showed, the louder his accusations became, and the worse she appeared in his eyes. And indeed it is no wonder. If you make up your mind that you will see naught in a wife but faults, you become blind to everything else. Her cooking also according to him was vile--there was either too much palm-oil or too little in the herb-mess, there was sand in the meat of the fish, the fowls were nothing but bones, she was said to empty the chilli-pot into the stew, the house was not clean, there were snakes in his bed--and so on and so on. Then she threatened, when her tough patience quite broke down, that she would tell her father if he did not desist, which so enraged him that he took a thick stick, and beat her so cruelly that she was nearly dead. This was too much to bear from one so ungrateful, and she resolved to elope into the woods, and live apart from all mankind. She had travelled a good two days' journey when she came in sight of a lengthy and wide pool which was fed by many springs, and bordered by tall, bending reeds; and the view of this body of water, backed by deep woods all round, appeared to her so pleasing that she chose a level place near its edge for a resting-place. Then she unstrapped her hamper, and sitting down turned out the things she had brought, and began to think of what could be done with them. There was a wedge-like axe which might also be used as an adze, there were two hoes, a handy Basoko bill-hook, a couple of small nets, a ladle, half-a-dozen small gourds full of grains, a cooking-pot, some small fish-knives, a bunch of tinder, a couple of fire-sticks, a short stick of sugar-cane, two banana bulbs, a few beads, iron bangles, and tiny copper balls. As she looked over all these things, she smiled with satisfaction and thought she would manage well enough. She then went into the pool a little way and looked searchingly in for a time, and she smiled again, as if to say "better and better." Now with her axe she cut a hoe-handle, and in a short time it was ready for use. Going to the pool-side, she commenced to make quite a large round hole. She laboured at this until the hole was as deep and wide as her own height; then she plastered the bottom evenly with the mud from the pool-bank, and after that she made a great fire at the bottom of the pit, and throughout the night that followed, after a few winks of sleep, she would rise and throw on more fuel. When the next day dawned, after breaking her fast with a few grains baked in her pot, she swept out all the fire from the well, and wherever a crack appeared in the baked bottom she filled it up carefully, and she also plastered the sides all round smoothly, and again she made a great fire in the pit, and left it to burn all that day. While the fire was baking the bottom and walls of the well, she hid her hamper among a clump of reeds, and explored her neighbourhood. During her wanderings she found a path leading northward, and she noted it. She also discovered many nuts, sweet red berries, some round, others oval and the fruit which is a delight to the elephants; and loading herself with as many of these articles as she could carry, she returned, and sat down by the mouth of the well, and refreshed herself. The last work of the day was to take out the fire, plaster up the cracks in the bottom and sides, and re-make the fire as great as ever. Her bed she made not far from it, with her axe by her side. On the next morning she determined to follow the path she had discovered the day before, and when the sun was well-nigh at the middle of the sky, she came suddenly in view of a banana-grove, whereupon she instantly retreated a little and hid herself. When darkness had well set, she rose, and penetrating the grove, cut down a large blanch of bananas, with which she hurried back along the road. When she came to a stick she had laid across the path, she knew she was not far from the pool, and she remained there until it was sufficiently light to find her way to the well. By the time she arrived at her well it was in a perfect state, the walls being as sound and well-baked as her cooking-pot. After half-filling it with water, she roasted a few bananas, and made a contented meal from them. Then taking her pot she boiled some bananas, and with these she made a batter. She now emptied the pot, smeared the bottom and sides of it thickly with this sticky batter, and then tying a vine round the pot she let it down into the pond. As soon as it touched the ground, lo! the minnows flocked greedily into the vessel to feed on the batter. And on Izoka suddenly drawing it up she brought out several score of minnows, the spawn of catfish, and some of the young of the bearded fish which grow to such an immense size in our waters. The minnows she took out and dried to serve as food, but the young of the cat and bearded fish she dropped into her well. She next dug a little ditch from the well to the pool, and after making a strong and close netting of cane splinters across the mouth of the ditch, she made another narrow ditch to let a thin rillet of spring water supply the well with fresh water. Every day she spent a little time in building a hut, in a cosy place surrounded by bush, which had only one opening; then she would go and work a little at a garden wherein she had planted the sugar-cane, which had been cut into three parts, and the two banana bulbs, and had sowed her millet, and her sesamum, and yellow corn which she had brought in the gourds, and every day she carefully fed her fish in the well. But there were three things she missed most in her loneliness, and these were the cries of an infant, the proud cluck of the hen after she lays an egg, and the bleating of a kid at her threshold. This made her think that she might replace them by something else, and she meditated long upon what it might be. Observing that there were a number of ground-squirrels about, she thought of snares to catch them. She accordingly made loops of slender but strong vines near the roots of the trees, and across their narrow tracks in the woods. And she succeeded at last in catching a pair. With other vines rubbed over with bird-lime she caught some young parrots and wagtails, whose wing feathers she chopped off with her bill-hook. And one day, while out gathering nuts and berries for her birds, she came across a nest of the pelican, wherein were some eggs; and these she resolved to watch until they were hatched, when she would take and rear them. She had found full occupation for her mind, in making cages for her squirrels and birds, and providing them with food, and had no time at all for grief. Izoka, however, being very partial to the fish in her well, devoted most of her leisure to feeding them, and they became so tame, and intelligent that they understood the cooing notes of a strange song which she taught them, as though they were human beings. She fed them plentifully with banana-batter, so that in a few months they had grown into a goodly size. By-and-by, they became too large for the well, and as they were perfectly tame, she took them out, and allowed them to go at large in the pool; but punctually in the early morning, and at noon and sunset, she called them to her, and gave them their daily portion of food, for by this time she had a goodly store of bananas and grain from her plantation and garden. One of the largest fish she called Munu, and he was so intelligent and trustful in his mistress's hands that he disliked going very far from the neighbourhood; and if she laid her two hands in the water, he would rest contentedly in the hollow thus formed. She had also strung her stock of shells and beads into necklaces, and had fastened them round the tails of her favourite fish. Her other friends grew quite as tame as the fish, for all kinds of animals learn to cast off their fears of mankind in return for true kindness, and when no disturbing shocks alarm them. And in this lonely place, so sheltered by protecting woods, where the wind had scarce power to rustle the bending reed and hanging leaves, there was no noise to inspire the most timid with fright. If you try, you can fancy this young woman Izoka sitting on the ground by the pool-side, surrounded by her friends, like a mother by her offspring. In her arms a young pelican, on one shoulder a chattering parrot, on the other a sharp-eyed squirrel, sitting on his haunches, licking his fore-feet; in her lap another playing with his bushy tail, and at her feet the wagtails, wagging friskily their hind parts and kicking up little showers of dusty soil. Between her and the pool a long-legged heron, who has long ago been snared, and has submitted to his mistress's kindness, and now stands on one leg, as though he were watching for her safety. Not far behind her is her woodland home, well stored with food and comforts, which are the products of her skill and care. Swifts and sand-martins are flying about, chasing one another merrily, and making the place ring with their pipings; the water of the pool lies level and unwrinkled, save in front of her, where the fish sometimes flop about, impatient for their mistress's visit. This was how she appeared one day to the cruel eyes of Koku her husband, who had seen the smoke of her fire as he was going by the path which led to the north. Being a woodman as well as a fisher, he had the craft of such as hunt, and he stealthily approached from tree to tree until he was so near that he could see the beady eyes of the squirrel on her shoulder, who startled her by his sudden movements. It was strange how quickly the alarm was communicated from one to another. His brother squirrel peeped from one side with his tail over his back like a crest, the parrot turned one eye towards the tree behind which Koku stood, and appeared transfixed, the heron dropped his other leg to the ground, tittered his melancholy cry, _Kwa-le_, and dropped his tail as though he would surge upward. The wagtails stopped their curtseying, the pelicans turned their long bills and laid them lazily along their backs, looking fixedly at the tree; and at last Izoka, warned by all these signs of her friends, also turned her head in the same direction, but she saw no one, and as it was sunset she took her friends indoors. Presently she came out again, and went to the pool-side with fish-food, and cooed softly to her friends in the water, and the fish rushed to her call, and crowded around her. After giving them their food, she addressed Munu, the largest fish, and said, "I am going out to-night to see if I cannot find a discarded cooking-vessel, for mine is broken. Beware of making friends with any man or woman who cannot repeat the song I taught you," and the fish replied by sweeping his tail to right and left, according to his way. Izoka, who now knew the woods by night as well as by day, proceeded on her journey, little suspecting that Koku had discovered her, and her manner of life and woodland secrets. He waited a little time, then crept to the pool-side, and repeated the song which she had sung, and immediately there was a great rush of fish towards him, at the number and size of which he was amazed. By this he perceived what chance of booty there was here for him, and he sped away to the path to the place where he had left his men, and he cried out to them, "Come, haste with me to the woods by a great pool, where I have discovered loads of fish." His men were only too glad to obey him, and by midnight they had all arrived at the pool. After stationing them near him in a line, with their spears poised to strike, Koku sang the song of Izoka in a soft voice, and the great and small fish leapt joyfully from the depths where they were sleeping, and they thronged towards the shore, flinging themselves over each other, and they stood for awhile gazing doubtfully up at the line of men. But soon the cruel spears flew from their hands, and Munu, the pride of Izoka, was pierced by several, and was killed and dragged on land by the shafts of the weapons which had slain him. Munu was soon cut up, he and some others of his fellows, and the men, loading themselves with the meat, hastily departed. Near morning Izoka returned to her home with a load of bananas and a cooking-vessel, and after a short rest and refreshment, she fed her friends--the ground-squirrels, the young pelicans, the parrots and herons, and scattered a generous supply for the wagtails, and martins, and swifts; then hastened with her bounties to the pool-side. But, alas! near the water's edge there was a sight which almost caused her to faint--there were tracks of many feet, bruised reeds, blood, scales, and refuse of fish. She cooed softly to her friends; they heard her cry, but approached slowly and doubtingly. She called out to Munu, "Munu-nunu, oh, Munu, Munu, Munu;" but Munu came not, and the others stood well away from the shore, gazing at her reproachfully, and they would not advance any nearer. Perceiving that they distrusted her, she threw herself on the ground and wept hot tears, and wailing, "Oh! Munu, Munu, Munu, why do you doubt me?" When Izoka's grief had somewhat subsided she followed the tracks through the woods until she came to the path, where they were much clearer, and there she discovered that those who had violated her peaceful home, had travelled towards Umane. A suspicion that her husband must have been of the number served to anger her still more, and she resolved to follow the plunderers, and endeavour to obtain justice. Swiftly she sped on the trail, and after many hours' quick travel she reached Umane after darkness had fallen. This favoured her purpose, and she was able to steal, unperceived, near to the open place in front of her husband's house, when she saw Koku and his friends feasting on fish, and heard him boast of his discovery of the fine fish in a forest pool. In her fury at his daring villainy she was nearly tempted to rush upon him and cleave his head with her bill-hook, but she controlled herself, and sat down to think. Then she made the resolution that she would go to her father and claim his protection--a privilege she might long ago have used had not her pride been wounded by the brutal treatment her person had received at the hands of Koku. Her father's village was but a little distance away from Umane, and in a short time all the people in it were startled by hearing the shrill voice of one who was believed to be long ago dead, crying out in the darkness the names of Uyimba and Twekay. On hearing the names of their chief and his wife repeatedly called, the men seized their spears and sallied out, and discovered, to their astonishment, that the long-lost Izoka was amongst them once again, and that she was suffering from great and overpowering grief. They led her to her father's door, and called out to Uyimba and his wife Twekay to come out, and receive her, saying that it was a shame that the pride of Umane should be suffering like a slave in her father's own village. The old man and his wife hurried out, torches were lit, and Twekay soon received her weeping daughter in her arms. In our country we are not very patient in presence of news, and as everybody wished to know Izoka's story, she was made to sit down on a shield, and tell all her adventures since she had eloped from Umane. The people listened in wonder to all the strange things that were told; but when she related the cruelty of Koku, the men rose to their feet all together, and beat their shields with their spears, and demanded the punishment of Koku, and that Uyimba should lead them there and then to Umane. They accordingly proceeded in a body to the town, to Koku's house, and as he came out in answer to the call of one of them, to ascertain what the matter was, they fell upon him, and bound him hand and foot, and carrying him to their superior chief's house they put him to his trial. Many witnesses came forward to testify against his cruel treatment of Izoka, and of the robbery of the fish and of the manner of it; and the great chief placed Koku's life in the power of Uyimba, whose daughter he had wronged, who at once ordered Koku to be beheaded, and his body to be thrown into the river. The sentence was executed at the river-side without loss of time. The people of Uman and Uyimba's village then demanded that, as Izoka had shown herself so clever and good as to make birds, animals, and fish obey her voice, some mark of popular favour should be given to her. Whereupon the principal chief of Umane, in the name of the tribe, ceded to her all rights to the Forest Pool, and the wood and all things in it round about as far as she could travel in half a day, and also all the property of which Koku stood possessed. Izoka, by the favour of her tribe, thus became owner of a large district, and mistress of many slaves, and flocks, goats, and fowls, and all manner of useful things for making a settlement by the Pool. There is now a large village there, and Izoka is well known in many lands near Umane and Basoko as the Queen of the Pool, and at last accounts was still living, prosperous and happy; but she has never been known to try marriage again. Kassim's story was greatly applauded, and he became at once a favourite with the Zanzibaris. He was drawn towards the head man, and made to sit down by him. One Zanzibari gave him a handful of roasted peanuts, another gave him a roasted banana, while a third touched up the fire; and the compliments he received were so many, that for the time, as one could see, he was quite vain. When a royal Dabwani cloth was spread out for inspection, and finally flung over his shoulders, we saw him cast a look at Baruti, which we knew to mean, "Ah, ah, Baruti, other folk can tell a story as well as you!" CHAPTER FOUR. THE ELEPHANT AND THE LION. At a camp on the Upper Congo, in 1877, Chakanja drew near our fire as story-telling was about to begin, and was immediately beset with eager demands for a tale from him. Like a singer who always professes to have a cold before he indulges his friends with a song, Chakanja needed more than a few entreaties; but finally, after vowing that he never could remember anything, he consented to gratify us with the legend of the Elephant and the Lion. "Well," he answered, with a deep sigh, "if I must, I must. You must know we Waganda are fond of three things--To have a nice wife, a pleasant farm, and to hear good news, or a lively story. I have heard a great many stories in my life, but unlike Kadu, my mind remembers them not. Men's heads are not the same, any more than men's hearts are alike. But I take it that a poor tale is better than none. It comes back to me like a dream, this tale of the Elephant and the Lion. I heard it first when on a visit to Gabunga's; but who can tell it like him? If you think the tale is not well told, it is my fault; but then, do not blame me too much, or I shall think I ought to blame you to-morrow when it will be your turn to amuse the party." Now open your ears! A huge and sour-tempered elephant went and wandered in the forest. His inside was slack for want of juicy roots and succulent reeds, but his head was as full of dark thoughts as a gadfly is full of blood. As he looked this way and that, he observed a young lion asleep at the foot of a tree. He regarded him for awhile, then, as he was in a wicked mood, it came to him that he might as well kill the lion, and he accordingly rushed forward and impaled him with his tusks. He then lifted the body with his trunk, swung it about, and dashed it against the tree, and afterwards kneeled on it until it became as shapeless as a crushed banana pulp. He then laughed and said, "Ha! ha! This is a proof that I am strong. I have killed a lion, and people will say proud things of me, and will wonder at my strength." Presently a brother elephant came up and greeted him. "See," said the first elephant, "what I have done. It was I that killed him. I lifted him on high, and lo, he lies like a rotten banana. Do you not think that I am very strong? Come, be frank now, and give me some credit for what I have done." Elephant Number 2 replied, "It is true that you are strong, but that was only a young lion. There are others of his kind, and I have seen them, who would give you considerable trouble." "Ho, ho!" laughed the first elephant, "Get out, stupid. You may bring his whole tribe here, and I will show you what I can do. Ay! and to your dam to boot." "What? My own mother, too?" "Yes. Go and fetch her if you like." "Well, well," said Number 2, "you are far gone, there is no doubt. Fare you well." Number 2 proceeded on his wanderings, resolved in his own mind that if he had an opportunity he would send some one to test the boaster's strength. No. I called out to him as he moved off-- "Away you go. Good-by to you." In a little while Number 2 Elephant met a lion and lioness, full-grown, and splendid creatures, who turned out to be the parents of the youngster which had been slain. After a sociable chat with them, he said: "If you go further on along the path I came you will meet a kind of game which requires killing badly. He has just mangled your cub." Meantime Elephant Number 1, after chuckling to himself very conceitedly, proceeded to the pool near by to bathe and cool himself. At every step he went you could hear his "Ha, ha, ha! loh! I have killed a lion!" While he was in the pool, spurting the water in a shower over his back, he suddenly looked up, and at the water's edge beheld a lion and lioness who were regarding him sternly. "Well! What do you want?" he asked. "Why are you standing there looking at me in that way?" "Are you the rogue who killed our child?" they asked. "Perhaps I am," he answered. "Why do you want to know?" "Because we are in search of him. If it be you that did it, you will have to do the same to us before you leave this ground." "Ho! ho!" laughed the elephant loudly. "Well, hark. It was I who killed your cub. Come now, it was I. Do you hear? And if you do not leave here mighty quick, I shall have to serve you both in the same way as I served him." The lions roared aloud in their fury, and switched their tails violently. "Ho, ho!" laughed the elephant gaily. "This is grand. There is no doubt I shall run soon, they make me so skeery," and he danced round the pool and jeered at them, then drank a great quantity of water and blew it in a shower over them. The lions stirred not, but kept steadfastly gazing at him, planning how to make their attack. Perceiving that they were obstinate, he threw another stream of water over the lions and then backed into the deepest part of the pool, until there was nothing seen of him but the tip of his trunk. When he rose again the lions were still watching him, and had not moved. "Ho, ho!" he trumpeted, "still there! Wait a little, I am coming to you." He advanced towards the shore, but when he was close enough the lion sire sprang into the air, and alighted on the elephant's back, and furiously tore at the muscles of the neck, and bit deep into the shoulder. The elephant retreated quickly into the deepest part of the pool, and submerged himself and his enemy, until the lion was compelled to abandon his back and begin to swim ashore. No sooner had the elephant felt himself relieved, than he rose to the surface, and hastily followed and seized the lion with his trunk. Despite his struggles he was pressed beneath the surface, dragged under his knees, and trodden into the mud, and in a short time the lion sire was dead. The elephant laughed triumphantly, and cried, "Ho, ho! am I not strong, Ma Lion? Did you ever see the likes of me before? Two of you! Young Lion and Pa Lion are now killed! Come, Ma Lion, had you not better try now, just to see if you won't have better luck? Come on, old woman, just once." The lioness fiercely answered, while she retreated from the pool, "Rest where you are. I am going to find my brother, and will be back shortly." The elephant trumpeted his scorn of her and her kind, and seizing the carcase of her lord, flung it on shore after her, and declared his readiness to abide where he was, that he might make mash of all the lion family. In a short time the lioness had found her brother, who was a mighty fellow, and full of fight. As they advanced near the pool together, they consulted as to the best means of getting at the elephant. Then the lioness sprang forward to the edge of the pool. The elephant retreated a short distance into deeper water. The lioness upon this crept along the pool, and pretended to lap the water. The elephant moved towards her. The lion waited his chance, and finally, with a great roar, sprang upon his shoulders, and commenced tearing away at the very place which had been torn by lion sire. The elephant backed quickly into deep water as he had done before, and submerged himself, but the lion maintained his hold and bit deeper. The elephant then sank down until there was nothing to be seen but the tip of his trunk, upon which the lion, to avoid suffocation, relaxed his hold and swam vigorously towards shore. The elephant rose up, and as the lion was stepping on shore, seized him, and drove one of his tusks through his adversary's body; but as he was in the act, the lioness sprang upon the elephant's neck, and bit and tore so furiously that he fell dead, and with his fall crushed the dying lion. Soon after the close of the terrible combat, Elephant Number 2 came up, and discovered the lioness licking her chops and paws, and said-- "Hello, it seems there has been quite a quarrel here lately. Three lions are dead, and here lies one of my own kind, stiffening." "Yes," replied lioness, gloomily, "the rogue elephant killed my cub while the little fellow was asleep in the woods. He then killed my husband and brother, and I killed him; but I do not think the elephant has gained much by fighting with us. I did not have much trouble in killing him. Should you meet any friends of his, you may warn them to leave the lioness alone, or she may be tempted to make short work of them." Elephant Number 2, though a patient person generally, was annoyed at this, and gave her a sudden kick with one of his hind feet, which sent her sprawling a good distance off, and asked-- "How do you like that, Ma Lion?" "What do you mean by that?" demanded the enraged lioness. "Oh, because I hate to hear so much bragging." "Do you also wish to fight?" she asked. "We should never talk about doing an impossible thing, Ma Lion," he answered. "I have travelled many years through these woods, and I have never fought yet. I find that when a person minds his own business he seldom comes to trouble, and when I meet one who is even stronger than myself I greet him pleasantly, and pass on, and I should advise you to do the same, Ma Lion." "You are saucy, Elephant. It would be well for you to think upon your stupid brother there, who lies so stark under your nose, before you trouble with your insolence one who slew him." "Well, words never yet made a plantation; it is the handling of a hoe that makes fields. See here, Ma Lion, if I talked to you all day I could not make you wise. I will just turn my back to you. If you will bite me, you will soon learn how weak you are." The lioness, angered still more by the elephant's contempt, sprang at his shoulders, and clung to him, upon which he rushed at a stout tree, and pressing his shoulders against it, crushed the breath out of her body, and she ceased her struggles. When he relaxed his pressure, the body fell to the ground, and he knelt upon it, and kneaded it until every bone was broken. While the elephant was meditatively standing over the body, and thinking what misfortunes happen to boasters, a man came along, carrying a spear, and seeing that the elephant was unaware of his presence, he thought what great luck had happened to him. Said he, "Ah, what fine tusks he has. I shall be rich with them, and shall buy slaves and cattle, and with these I will get a wife and a farm," saying which he advanced silently, and when he was near enough, darted his spear into a place behind the shoulder. The elephant turned around quickly, and on beholding his enemy rushed after and overtook him, and mauled him, until in a few moments he was a mangled corpse. Soon after a woman approached, and seeing four lions, one elephant, and her husband dead, she raised up her hands wonderingly and cried, "How did all this happen?" The elephant, hearing her voice, came from behind a tree, with a spear quivering in his side, and bleeding profusely. At the sight of him the woman turned round to fly, but the elephant cried out to her, "Nay, run not, woman, for I can do you no harm. The happy days in the woods are ended for all the tribes. The memory of this scene will never be forgotten. Animals will be henceforth at constant war one with another. Lions will no more greet elephants, the buffaloes will be shy, the rhinoceroses will live apart, and man when he comes within the shadows will think of nothing else than his terrors, and he will fancy an enemy in every shadow. I am sorely wounded, for thy man stole up to my side and drove his spear into me, and soon I shall die." When she had heard these words the woman hastened home, and all the villagers, old and young, hurried into the woods, by the pool, where they found four lions, two elephants, and one of their own tribe lying still and lifeless. The words of the elephant have turned out to be true, for no man goes now-a-days into the silent and deserted woods but he feels as though something were haunting them, and thinks of goblinry, and starts at every sound. Out of the shadows which shift with the sun, forms seem crawling and phantoms appear to glide, and we are in a fever almost from the horrible illusions of fancy. We breathe quickly and fear to speak, for the smallest vibration in the silence would jar on our nerves. I speak the truth, for when I am in the woods near the night, there swims before my eyes a multitude of terrible things which I never see by the light of day. The flash of a fire-fly is a ghost, the chant of a frog becomes a frightful roar, the sudden piping of a bird signalises murder, and I run. No, no; no woods for me when alone. And Chakanja rose to his feet and went to his own quarters, solemnly shaking his head. But we all smiled at Chakanja, and thought how terribly frightened he would be if any one suddenly rose from behind a dark bush and cried "Boo!" to him. CHAPTER FIVE. KING GUMBI AND HIS LOST DAUGHTER. We were all gathered about the fire as usual, when Safeni, the sage coxswain, exclaimed, "See here, boys; do you not think that for once in a while it would be well to hear some legend connected with men and women? I vote that one of you who have amused us with tales of lions and leopards, should search his memory, and tell the company a brave story about some son of Adam. Come, you Katembo, have the Manyema no legends!" "Well, yes, we have; but my ears have been so open heretofore that my tongue has almost forgotten its uses, and I fear that after the smooth and delightful tales of Kadu, you will not think me expert in speech. However, and if you care to hear of it, I can give you the legend of Gumbi, one of our kings in long-past days, and his daughter." "Speak, speak, Katembo," cried the company; "let us hear a Manyema legend to-night." Katembo, after this general invitation, cleared his throat, brought the soles of his feet nearer the fire, and amid respectful silence spoke as follows:-- It was believed in the olden time that if a king's daughter had the misfortune to be guilty of ten mistakes, she should suffer for half of them, and her father would be punished for the rest. Now, King Gumbi had lately married ten wives, and all at once this old belief of the elders about troubles with daughters came into his head, and he issued a command, which was to be obeyed upon pain of death, that if any female children should be born to him they should be thrown into the Lualaba, and drowned, for, said he, "the dead are beyond temptation to err, and I shall escape mischief." To avoid the reproaches of his wives, on account of the cruel order, the king thought he would absent himself, and he took a large following with him and went to visit other towns of his country. Within a few days after his departure there were born to him five sons and five daughters. Four of the female infants were at once disposed of according to the king's command; but when the fifth daughter was born, she was so beautiful, and had such great eyes, and her colour was mellow, so like a ripe banana, that the chief nurse hesitated, and when the mother pleaded so hard for her child's life, she made up her mind that the little infant should be saved. When the mother was able to rise, the nurse hastened her away secretly by night. In the morning the queen found herself in a dark forest, and, being alone, she began to talk to herself, as people generally do, and a grey parrot with a beautiful red tail came flying along, and asked, "What is it you are saying to yourself, O Miami?" She answered and said, "Ah, beautiful little parrot, I am thinking what I ought to do to save the life of my little child. Tell me how I can save her, for Gumbi wishes to destroy all his female children." The parrot replied, "I grieve for you greatly, but I do not know. Ask the next parrot you see," and he flew away. A second parrot still more beautiful came flying towards her, whistling and screeching merrily, and the queen lifted her voice and cried-- "Ah, little parrot, stop a bit, and tell me how I can save my sweet child's life; for cruel Gumbi, her father, wants to kill it." "Ah, mistress, I may not tell; but there is one comes behind me who knows; ask him," and he also flew to his day's haunts. Then the third parrot was seen to fly towards her, and he made the forest ring with his happy whistling, and Miami cried out again-- "Oh, stay, little parrot, and tell me in what way I can save my sweet child, for Gumbi, her father, vows he will kill it." "Deliver it to me," answered the parrot. "But first let me put a small banana stalk and two pieces of sugar-cane with it, and then I shall carry it safely to its grandmamma." The parrot relieved the queen of her child, and flew through the air, screeching merrier than before, and in a short time had laid the little princess, her banana stalk, and two pieces of sugar-cane in the lap of the grandmamma, who was sitting at the door of her house, and said-- "This bundle contains a gift from your daughter, wife of Gumbi. She bids you be careful of it, and let none out of your own family see it, lest she should be slain by the king. And to remember this day, she requests you to plant the banana stalk in your garden at one end, and at the other end the two pieces of sugar-cane, for you may need both." "Your words are good and wise," answered granny, as she received the babe. On opening the bundle the old woman discovered a female child, exceedingly pretty, plump, and yellow as a ripe banana, with large black eyes, and such smiles on its bright face that the grandmother's heart glowed with affection for it. Many seasons came and went by. No stranger came round to ask questions. The banana flourished and grew into a grove, and each sprout marked the passage of a season, and the sugar-cane likewise throve prodigiously as year after year passed and the infant grew into girlhood. When the princess had bloomed into a beautiful maiden, the grandmother had become so old that the events of long ago appeared to her to be like so many dreams, but she still worshipped her child's child, cooked for her, waited upon her, wove new grass mats for her bed, and fine grass-cloths for her dress, and every night before she retired she washed her dainty feet. Then one day, before her ears were quite closed by age, and her limbs had become too weak to bear her about, the parrot who brought the child to her, came and rested upon a branch near her door, and after piping and whistling its greeting, cried out, "The time has come. Gumbi's daughter must depart, and seek her father. Furnish her with a little drum, teach her a song to sing while she beats it, and send her forth." Then granny purchased for her a tiny drum, and taught her a song, and when she had been fully instructed she prepared a new canoe with food-- from the bananas in the grove, and the plot of sugar-cane, and she made cushions from grass-cloth bags stuffed with silk-cotton floss for her to rest upon. When all was ready she embraced her grand-daughter, and with many tears sent her away down the river, with four women servants. Granny stood for a long time by the river bank, watching the little canoe disappear with the current, then she turned and entered the doorway, and sitting down closed her eyes, and began to think of the pleasant life she had enjoyed while serving Miami's child; and while so doing she was so pleased that she smiled, and as she smiled she slept, and never woke again. But the princess, as she floated down and bathed her eyes, which had smarted with her grief, began to think of all that granny had taught her, and began to sing in a fluty voice, as she beat her tiny drum-- "List, all you men, To the song I sing. I am Gumbi's child, Brought up in the wild; And home I return, As you all will learn, When this my little drum Tells Gumbi I have come, come, come." The sound of her drum attracted the attention of the fishermen who were engaged with their nets, and seeing a strange canoe with only five women aboard floating down the river, they drew near to it, and when they saw how beautiful the princess was, and noted her graceful, lithe figure clad in robes of fine grass-cloths, they were inclined to lay their hands upon her. But she sang again-- "I am Gumbi's child, Make way for me; I am homeward bound, Make way for me." Then the fishermen were afraid and did not molest her. But one desirous of being the first to carry the news to the king, and obtain favour and a reward for it, hastened away to tell him that his daughter was coming to visit him. The news plunged King Gumbi into a state of wonder, for as he had taken such pains to destroy all female children, he could not imagine how he could be the father of a daughter. Then he sent a quick-footed and confidential slave to inquire, who soon returned and assured him that the girl who was coming to him was his own true daughter. Then he sent a man who had grown up with him, who knew all that had happened in his court; and he also returned and confirmed all that the slave had said. Upon this he resolved to go himself, and when he met her he asked-- "Who art thou, child?" And she replied, "I am the only daughter of Gumbi." "And who is Gumbi?" "He is the king of this country," she replied. "Well, but I am Gumbi myself, and how canst thou be my daughter?" he asked. "I am the child of thy wife, Miami, and after I was born she hid me that I might not be cast into the river. I have been living with grandmamma, who nursed me, and by the number of banana-stalks in her garden thou mayest tell the number of the seasons that have passed since my birth. One day she told me the time had come, and she sent me to seek my father; and I embarked in the canoe with four servants, and the river bore me to this land." "Well," said Gumbi, "when I return home I shall question Miami, and I shall soon discover the truth of thy story; but meantime, what must I do for thee?" "My grandmamma said that thou must sacrifice a goat to the meeting of the daughter with the father," she replied. Then the king requested her to step on the shore, and when he saw the flash of her yellow feet, and the gleams of her body, which were like shining bright gum, and gazed on the clear, smooth features, and looked into the wondrous black eyes, Gumbi's heart melted and he was filled with pride that such a surpassingly beautiful creature should be his own daughter. But she refused to set her feet on the shore until another goat had been sacrificed, for her grandmother had said ill-luck would befall her if these ceremonies were neglected. Therefore the king commanded that two goats should be slain, one for the meeting with his daughter, and one to drive away ill-luck from before her in the land where she would first rest her feet. When this had been done, she said, "Now, father, it is not meet that thy recovered daughter should soil her feet on the path to her father's house. Thou must lay a grass-cloth along the ground all the way to my mother's door." The king thereupon ordered a grass-cloth to be spread along the path towards the women's quarters, but he did not mention to which doorway. His daughter then moved forward, the king by her side, until they came in view of all the king's wives, and then Gumbi cried out to them--"One of you, I am told, is the mother of this girl. Look on her, and be not ashamed to own her, for she is as perfect as the egg. At the first sight of her I felt like a man filled with pleasantness, so let the mother come forward and claim her, and let her not destroy herself with a lie." Now all the women bent forward and longed to say, "She is mine, she is mine!" but Miami, who was ill and weak, sat at the door, and said-- "Continue the matting to my doorway, for as I feel my heart is connected with her as by a cord, she must be the child whom the parrot carried to my mother with a banana stalk and two pieces of sugar-cane." "Yes, yes, thou must be my own mother," cried the princess; and when the grass-cloth was laid even to the inside of the house, she ran forward, and folded her arms around her. When Gumbi saw them together he said, "Truly, equals always come together. I see now by many things that the princess must be right. But she will not long remain with me, I fear, for a king's daughter cannot remain many moons without suitors." Now though Gumbi considered it a trifle to destroy children whom he had never seen, it never entered into his mind to hurt Miami or the princess. On the contrary, he was filled with a gladness which he was never tired of talking about. He was even prouder of his daughter, whose lovely shape and limpid eyes so charmed him, than of all his tall sons. He proved this by the feasts he caused to be provided for all the people. Goats were roasted and stewed, the fishermen brought fish without number, the peasants came loaded with weighty bunches of bananas, and baskets of yams, and manioc, and pots full of beans, and vetches, and millet and corn, and honey and palm-oil, and as for the fowls--who could count them? The people also had plenty to drink of the juice of the palm, and thus they were made to rejoice with the king in the return of the princess. It was soon spread throughout Manyema that no woman was like unto Gumbi's daughter for beauty. Some said that she was of the colour of a ripe banana, others that she was like fossil gum, others like a reddish oil-nut, and others again that her face was more like the colour of the moon than anything else. The effect of this reputation was to bring nearly all the young chiefs in the land as suitors for her hand. Many of them would have been pleasing to the king, but the princess was averse to them, and she caused it to be made known that she would marry none save the young chief who could produce matako (brass rods) by polishing his teeth. The king was very much amused at this, but the chiefs stared in surprise as they heard it. The king mustered the choicest young men of the land, and he told them it was useless for any one to hope to be married to the princess unless he could drop brass rods by rubbing his teeth. Though they held it to be impossible that any one could do such a thing, yet every one of them began to rub his teeth hard, and as they did so, lo! brass rods were seen to drop on the ground from the mouth of one of them, and the people gave a great shout for wonder at it. The princess was then brought forward, and as the young chief rose to his feet he continued to rub his teeth, and the brass rods were heard to tinkle as they fell to the ground. The marriage was therefore duly proceeded with, and another round of feasts followed, for the king was rich in flocks of goats, and sheep, and in well-tilled fields and slaves. But after the first moon had waned and gone, the husband said, "Come, now, let us depart, for Gumbi's land is no home for me." And unknown to Gumbi they prepared for flight, and stowed their canoe with all things needful for a long journey, and one night soon after dark they embarked, and paddled down the river. One day the princess, while she was seated on her cushions, saw a curious nut floating near the canoe, upon which she sprang into the river to obtain it. It eluded her grasp. She swam after it, and the chief followed her as well as he was able, crying out to her to return to the canoe, as there were dangerous animals in the water. But she paid no heed to him, and continued to swim after the nut, until, when she had arrived opposite a village, the princess was hailed by an old woman, who cried, "Ho, princess, I have got what thou seekest. See." And she held the nut up in her hand. Then the princess stepped on shore, and her husband made fast his canoe to the bank. "Give it to me," demanded the princess, holding out her hand. "There is one thing thou must do for me before thou canst obtain it." "What is that?" she asked. "Thou must lay thy hands upon my bosom to cure me of my disease. Only thus canst thou have it," the old woman said. The princess laid her hands upon her bosom, and as she did so the old woman was cured of her illness. "Now thou mayest depart on thy journey, but remember what I tell thee. Thou and thy husband must cling close to this side of the river until thou comest abreast of an island which is in the middle of the entrance to a great lake. For the shore thou seekest is on this side. Once there thou wilt find peace and rest for many years. But if thou goest to the other side of the river thou wilt be lost, thou and thy husband." Then they re-embarked, and the river ran straight and smooth before them. After some days they discovered that the side they were on was uninhabited, and that their provisions were exhausted, but the other side was cultivated, and possessed many villages and plantations. Forgetting the advice of the old woman, they crossed the river to the opposite shore, and they admired the beauty of the land, and joyed in the odours that came from the gardens and the plantations, and they dreamily listened to the winds that crumpled and tossed the great fronds of banana, and fancied that they had seen no sky so blue. And while they thus dreamed, lo! the river current was bearing them both swiftly along, and they saw the island which was at the entrance to the great lake, and in an instant the beauty of the land which had charmed them had died away, and they now heard the thunderous booming of waters, and saw them surging upward in great sweeps, and one great wave curved underneath them, and they were lifted up, up, up, and dropped down into the roaring abyss, and neither chief nor princess was ever seen again. They were both swallowed up in the deep. "Is _that_ all?" asked Safeni, who had been listening breathlessly to the story. "That is all," replied Katembo. "Why, what kind of a story is this, that finishes in that way?" "It is not mine," answered Katembo. "The telling of it has been according to the words I heard, and it is not good to alter a tale." "Then what is the object of such a story?" demanded Safeni, in an irritable tone. "Why, to warn people from following their inclinations. Did not the girl find her father? Did not her father welcome her, and pardon the mother for very joy? Was not her own choice of a husband found for her? Was not the young chief fortunate in possessing such a beautiful wife? Why should they have become discontented? Why not have stayed at home instead of wandering into strange lands of which they knew nothing? Did not the old woman warn them of what would happen, and point to them how they might live in peace once again? But it was all to no purpose. We never know the value of anything until we have lost it. Ruin follows the wilful always. They left their home and took to the river, the river was not still, but moved on, and as their heads were already full of their own thoughts, they could not keep advice. But Katembo has ended." CHAPTER SIX. THE STORY OF MARANDA. "Master," said Baruti, "I have been trying hard to recall some of the other legends I used to hear when I was very small, and I now recollect one, which is not very long, about Maranda, a wife of one of the Basoko warriors, called Mafala." Maranda's father was named Sukila, and he lived in the village of Chief Busandiya. Sukila owned a fine large canoe and many paddles, which he had carved with his own hand. He possessed also several long nets which he himself also made, besides spears, knives, a store of grass-cloths, and a few slaves. He was highly respected by his countrymen, and sat by the chief's side in the council place. As the girl grew to be fit for marriage, Mafala thought she would suit him as a wife, and went and spoke of it to Sukila, who demanded a slave girl, six long paddles ornamented with ivory caps, six goats, as many grass-cloths as he had fingers and toes, a new shield, two axes, and two field-hoes. Mafala tried to reduce the demand, and walked backwards and forwards many times to smoke pipes with Sukila, and get him to be less exacting. But the old man knew his daughter was worth the price he had put upon her, and that if he refused Mafala, she would not remain long without a suitor. For a girl like Maranda is not often seen among the Basokos. Her limbs were round and smooth, and ended in thin, small hands and feet. The young men often spoke about Maranda's light, straight feet, and quick-lifting step. A boy's arm could easily enclose the slim waist, and the manner in which she carried her head, and the supple neck and the clear look in her eyes belonged to Maranda only. Mafala, on the other hand, was curiously unlike her. He always seemed set on something, and the lines between the eyebrows gave him a severe face, not pleasant to see, and you always caught something in his eyes that made you think of the glitter which is in a serpent's eye. Perhaps that was one reason why Sukila did not care to have him for his daughter's husband. At any rate, he would not abate his price one grass-cloth, and at last it was paid, and Maranda passed over from her father's house into that of her husband. Soon after, the marriage Maranda was heard to cry out, and it was whispered that she had learned much about Mafala in a few days, and that blows as from a rod had been heard. Half a moon passed away, and then all the village knew that Maranda had fled to Busandiya's house, because of her husband's ill-treatment. Now the custom in such a case is that the father keeps his daughter's dowry, and if it be true that a wife finds life with her husband too harsh to be borne, she may seek the chief's protection, and the chief may give her to another husband who will treat her properly. But before the chief had chosen the man to whom he would give her, Mafala went to a crocodile--for it turned out that he was a Mganga, a witch-man who had dealings with reptiles on land, as well as with the monsters of the river,--and he bargained with it to catch her as she came to the river to wash, and carry her up to a certain place on the river bank where there was a tall tree with a large hole in it. The crocodile bided his chance, and one morning, when Maranda visited the water, he seized her by the hand, and swept her onto his back, and carried her to the hiding-place in the hollow tree. He then left her there, and swam down opposite the village, and signalled to Mafala that he had performed his part of the bargain. On the crocodile's departure Maranda looked about the hole, and saw that she was in a kind of pit, but a long way up the hollow narrowed like the neck of a gourd, and she could see foliage and a bit of sky. She determined to climb up, and though she scratched herself very much, she finally managed to reach the very top, and to crawl outside into the air. The tree was very large and lofty, and the branches spread out far, and they were laden with the heavy fruit of which elephants are so fond [the jackfruit]. At first she thought that she could not starve because of so many of these big fruit; then, as they were large and heavy, she conceived the idea that they might be useful to defend herself, and she collected a great number of them, and laid them in a heap over some sticks she had laid across the branches. By-and-by Mafala came, and discovered her high up among the foliage, and after jeering at her, began to climb the tree. But when he was only half-way up, Maranda lifted one of the ponderous fruit and flung it on his head, and he fell to the ground with his senses all in a whirl and his back greatly bruised. When he recovered he begged the crocodile to help him, and he tried to climb up, but when he had ascended but a little way, Maranda dropped one of the elephant fruit fairly on his snout, which sent him falling backwards. Mafala then begged two great serpents to ascend and bring her down, but Maranda met them with the heavy fruit one after another, and they were glad to leave her alone. Then the man departed to seek a leopard, but while he was absent Maranda, from her tree, saw a canoe on the river with two young fishermen in it, and she screamed loudly for help. The fishermen paddled close ashore and found that it was Sukila's daughter, the wife of Mafala, who was alone on a tall tree. They waited long enough to hear her story, and then returned to the village to obtain assistance. Busandiya was much astonished to hear the fishermen's news, and forthwith sent a war-canoe full of armed men, led by the father, Sukila, to rescue her. By means of rattan-climbers they contrived to reach her, and to bring her down safely. While some of the war-party set out to discover Mafala, the others watched for the crocodile and the two serpents. In a short time the cruel man was seen and caught, and he was brought to the river-side, bound with green withes. His legs and his arms were firmly tied together, and, after the Basoko had made Maranda repeat her story from the beginning, and Sukila had told the manner of the marriage, they searched for great stones, which they fastened to his neck; and, lifting him into the war-canoe, they paddled into the middle of the stream, where they sang a death-chant; after which they dropped Mafala overboard and he was never heard of more. That is all there is of the story of Maranda. CHAPTER SEVEN. THE STORY OF KITINDA AND HER WISE DOG. On another night Baruti, whose memory was freshened by the reward which followed a story worthy of being written in the Master's book, told us about Kitinda and her wise dog, so well indeed that by common consent he was acclaimed one of the best among the story-tellers. But it was not so well rehearsed to me while I had my pencil in hand as he had delivered it at the camp fire. It bothered him to be asked to dictate it a little slower to me, and he showed marked signs of inattention when told to repeat a sentence twice over. All I can flatter myself is that it contains the sense of what was said. Kitinda, a woman of the Basoko, near the Aruwimi river, possessed a dog who was remarkable for his intelligence. It was said that he was so clever that strangers understood his motions as well as though he talked to them; and that Kitinda, familiar with his ways and the tones of his whines, his yelps, and his barks, could converse with him as easily as she could with her husband. One market-day the mistress and her dog agreed to go together, and on the road she told him all she intended to do and say in disposing of her produce in exchange for other articles which she needed in her home. Her dog listened with sympathy, and then, in his own manner, he conveyed to her how great was his attachment to her, and how there never was such a friend as he could be; and he begged her that, if at any time she was in distress, she would tell him, and that he would serve her with all his might. "Only," he said, "were it not that I am afraid of the effects of being too clever, I could have served you oftener and much more than I have done." "What do you mean?" said Kitinda. "Well, you know, among the Basoko, it is supposed, if one is too clever, or too lucky, or too rich, that it has come about through dealings in witchcraft, and people are burned in consequence. I do not like the idea of being burned--and therefore I have refrained often from assisting you because I feared you could not contain your surprise, and would chat about it to the villagers. Then some day, after some really remarkable act of cleverness of mine, people would say, `Ha! this is not a dog. No dog could have done that! He must be a demon--or a witch in a dog's hide!' and of course they would take me and burn me." "Why, how very unkind of you to think such things of me! When have I chatted about you? Indeed I have too many things to do, my housework, my planting and marketing so occupy me, that I could not find time to gossip about my dog." "Well, it is already notorious that I am clever, and I often tremble when strangers look at and admire me for fear some muddle-headed fellow will fancy that he sees something else in me more than unusual intelligence. What would they say, however, if they really knew how very sagacious I am? The reputation that I possess has only come through your affection for me, but I assure you that I dread this excess of affection lest it should end fatally for you and for me." "But are you so much cleverer than you have already shown yourself? If I promise that I will never speak of you to any person again, will you help me more than you have done, if I am in distress?" "You are a woman, and you could not prevent yourself talking if you tried ever so hard." "Now, look you here, my dog. I vow to you that no matter what you do that is strange, I wish I may die, and that the first animal I meet may kill me if I speak a word. You shall see now that Kitinda will be as good as her word." "Very well, I will take you at your word. I am to serve you every time you need help, and if you speak of my services to a soul, you are willing to lose your life by the first animal you may meet." Thus they made a solemn agreement as they travelled to market. Kitinda sold her palm-oil and fowls to great advantage that day, and in exchange received sleeping-mats, a couple of carved stools, a bag of cassava flour, two large well-baked and polished crocks, a bunch of ripe bananas, a couple of good plantation hoes, and a big strong basket. After the marketing was over she collected her purchases together and tried to put them into the basket, but the big crocks and carved stools were a sore trouble to her. She could put the flour and hoes and the bananas on top with the mats for a cover very well, but the stools and the crocks were a great difficulty. Her dog in the meantime had been absent, and had succeeded in killing a young antelope, and had dragged it near her. He looked around and saw that the market was over, and that the people had returned to their own homes, while his mistress had been anxiously planning how to pack her property. He heard her complain of her folly in buying such cumbersome and weighty things, and ask herself how she was to reach home with them. Pitying her in her trouble, the dog galloped away and found a man empty-handed, before whom he fawned and whose hands he licked, and being patted he clung to his cloth with his teeth and pulled him gently along--wagging his tail and looking very amiable. He continued to do this until the man, seeing Kitinda fretting over her difficulty, understood what was wanted, and offered to carry the stools and crocks at each end of his long staff over his shoulders for a few of the ripe bananas and a lodging. His assistance was accepted with pleasure, and Kitinda was thus enabled to reach her home, and on the way was told by the man how it was that he had happened to return to the marketplace. Kitinda was very much tempted there and then to dilate upon her dog's well-known cleverness, but remembered in time her promise not to boast of him. When, however, she reached the village, and the housewives came out of their houses, burning to hear the news at the market, in her eagerness to tell this one and then the other all that had happened to her, and all that she had seen and heard, she forgot her vow of the morning, and forthwith commenced to relate the last wonderful trick of her dog in dragging a man back to the marketplace to help her when she thought that all her profit in trade would be lost, and when she was just about to smash her nice crocks in her rage. The dog listened to her narrative, viewed the signs of wonder stealing over the women's faces, heard them call out to their husbands, saw the men advancing eagerly towards them, saw them all look at him narrowly, heard one man exclaim, "That cannot be a dog! it is a demon within a dog's hide. He--" But the dog had heard enough. He turned, and ran into the woods, and was never more seen in that village. The next market-day came round, and Kitinda took some more palm-oil and a few fowls, and left her home to dispose of them for some other domestic needs. When about half-way, her dog came out of the wood, and after accusing her of betraying him to her stupid countrymen, thus returning evil for good, he sprang upon her and tore her to pieces. CHAPTER EIGHT. THE STORY OF THE PRINCE WHO INSISTED ON POSSESSING THE MOON. "Sir," said Baruti, one evening, "another story came to my mind to-day which was told to me a long time ago by an old man among the Basoko. I doubt whether you will like it, but since you wish to hear another legend of my country you shall have the story as it was told to me." The country now inhabited by the Basoko tribe was formerly known as Bandimba. A king called Bahanga was its sole rider. He possessed a houseful of wives, but all his children were unfortunately of the female sex, which he considered to be a great grievance, and of which he frequently complained. His subjects, on the other hand, were blessed with more sons than daughters, and this fact increased the king's grief, and made him envy the meanest of his subjects. One day, however, he married Bamana, the youngest daughter of his principal chief, and finally he became the father of a male child, and was very happy, and his people rejoiced in his happiness. The prince grew up to be a marvel of strength and beauty, and his father doted on him so much, that he shared his power with the boy in a curious manner. The king reserved authority over all the married people, while the prince's subjects consisted of those not yet mated. It thus happened that the prince ruled over more people than his father, for the children were, of course, more numerous than the parents. But with all the honour conferred upon him the prince was not happy. The more he obtained, the more he wished to possess. His eyes had but to see a thing to make him desire its exclusive possession. Each day he preferred one or more requests to his father, and because of his great love for him, the king had not the heart to refuse anything to him. Indeed, he was persuaded to bestow so many gifts upon his son that he reserved scarcely anything for himself. One day the prince was playing with the youth of his court, and after the sport retired to the shade of a tree to rest, and his companions sat down in a circle at a respectful distance from him. He then felt a gush of pride stealing over him as he thought of his great power, at the number and variety of his treasures, and he cried out boastfully that there never was a boy so great, so rich and so favoured by his father, as he had become. "My father," said he, "can deny me nothing. I have only to ask, and it is given unto me." Then one little slender boy with a thin voice said, "It is true, prince. Your father has been very good to you. He is a mighty king, and he is as generous as he is great. Still, I know of one thing that he cannot give you--and it is certain that you will never possess it." "What thing is that which I may not call my own, when I see it--and what is it that is not in the king's power to give me?" asked the prince, in a tone of annoyance. "It is the moon," answered the little boy; "and you must confess yourself that it is beyond the king's power to give that to you." "Do you doubt it?" asked the prince. "I say to you that I shall possess it, and I will go now and claim it from my father. I will not give him any peace until he gives it to me." Now it so happens that such treasures as are already ours, we do not value so much as those which we have not yet got. So it was with this spoiled prince. The memory of the many gifts of his father faded from his mind, and their value was not to be compared with this new toy--the moon--which he had never thought of before and which he now so ardently coveted. He found the king discussing important matters with the old men. "Father," said he, "just now, while I was with my companions I was taunted because I did not have the moon among my toys, and it was said that it was beyond your power to give it to me. Now, prove this boy a liar, and procure the moon for me, that I may be able to show it to them, and glory in your gift." "What is it you say, my son, you want the moon?" asked the astonished king. "Yes. Do get it for me at once, won't you?" "But, my child, the moon is a long way up. How shall we be ever able to reach it?" "I don't know; but you have always been good to me, and you surely would not refuse me this favour, father?" "I fear, my own, that we will not be able to give you the moon." "But, father, I must have it; my life will not be worth living without it. How may I dare to again face my companions after my proud boast before them of your might and goodness? There was but one thing that yonder pert boy said I might not have, and that was the moon. Now my soul is bent upon possessing this moon, and you must obtain it for me or I shall die." "Nay, my son, speak not of death. It is an ugly word, especially when connected with my prince and heir. Do you not know yet that I live only for your sake? Let your mind be at rest. I will collect all the wise men of the land together, and ask them to advise me. If they say that the moon can be reached and brought down to us, you shall have it." Accordingly the great state drum was sounded for the general palaver, and a score of criers went through the towns beating their little drums as they went, and the messengers hastened all the wise men and elders to the presence of the king. When all were assembled, the king announced his desire to know how the moon could be reached, and whether it could be shifted from its place in the sky and brought down to the earth, in order that he might give it to his only son the prince. If there was any wise man present who could inform him how this could be done, and would undertake to bring it to him, he would give the choicest of his daughters in marriage to him and endow him with great riches. When the wise men heard this strange proposal, they were speechless with astonishment, as no one in the Basoko Land had ever heard of anybody mounting into the air higher than a tree, and to suppose that a person could ascend as high as the moon was, they thought, simple madness. Respect for the king, however, held them mute, though what their glances meant was very clear. But while each man was yet looking at his neighbour in wonder, one of the wise men, who appeared to be about the youngest present, rose to his feet and said: "Long life to the prince and to his father, the king! We have heard the words of our king, Bahanga, and they are good. I--even I--his slave, am able to reach the moon, and to do the king's pleasure, if the king's authority will assist me." The confident air of the man, and the ring of assurance in his voice made the other wise men, who had been so ready to believe the king and prince mad, feel shame, and they turned their faces to him curiously, more than half willing to believe that after all the thing was possible. The king also lost his puzzled look, and appeared relieved. "Say on. How may you be able to perform what you promise?" "If it please the king," answered _the_ man, boldly, "I will ascend from the top of the high mountain near the Cataract of Panga. But I shall first build a high scaffold on it, the base of which shall be as broad as the mountain top, and on that scaffold I will build another, and on the second I shall build a third, and so on and so on until my shoulder touches the moon." "But is it possible to reach the moon in this manner?" asked the king doubtingly. "Most certainly, if I were to erect a sufficient number of scaffolds, one above another, but it will require a vast quantity of timber, and a great army of workmen. If the king commands it, the work will be done." "Be it so, then," said the king. "I place at your service every able-bodied man in the kingdom." "Ah, but all the men in your kingdom are not sufficient, O king. All the grown-up men will be wanted to fell the trees, square the timber and bear it to the works; and every grown-up woman will be required to prepare the food for the workmen; and every boy must carry water to satisfy their thirst, and bark rope for the binding of the timbers; and every girl, big and little, must be sent to till the fields to raise cassava for food. Only in this manner can the prince obtain the moon as his toy." "I say, then, let it be done as you think it ought to be done. All the men, women, and children in the kingdom I devote to this service, that my only son may enjoy what he desires." Then it was proclaimed throughout the wide lands of the Bandimba that all the people should be gathered together to proceed at once with the work of obtaining the moon for the king's son. And the forest was cut down, and while some of the workmen squared the trees, others cut deep holes in the ground, to make a broad and sure base for the lower scaffold; and the boys made thousands of rope coils to lash the timbers together, out of bark, fibre of palm, and tough grass; and the girls, big and little, hoed up the ground and planted the cassava shrubs and cuttings from the banana and the plantain, and sowed the corn; and the women kneaded the bread and cooked the greens, and roasted green bananas for food for the workmen. And all the Bandimba people were made to slave hard every day in order that a spoiled boy might have the moon for his toy. In a few days the first scaffolding stood up as high as the tallest trees, in a few weeks the structure had grown until it was many arrow-flights in height, in two months it was so lofty that the top could not be seen with the naked eye. The fame of the wonderful wooden tower that the Bandimba were building was carried far and wide; and the friendly nations round about sent messengers to see and report to them what mad thing the Bandimba were about, for rumour had spread so many contrary stories among people that strangers did not know what to believe. Some said it was true that all the Bandimba had become mad; but some of those who came to see with their own eyes, laughed, while others began to feel anxious. All, however, admired the bigness, and wondered at the height of the tower. In the sixth month the top of the highest scaffold was so high that on the clearest day people could not see half-way up; and it was said to be so tall that the chief engineer could tell the day he would be able to touch the moon. The work went on, and at last the engineer passed the word down that in a few days more it would be finished. Everybody believed him, and the nations round about sent more people to be present to witness the completion of the great tower, and to observe what would happen. In all the land, and the countries adjoining it, there was found only one wise man who foresaw, if the moon was shifted out of its place what damage would happen, and that probably all those foolish people in the vicinity of the tower would be destroyed. Fearing some terrible calamity, he proposed to depart from among the Bandimba before it should be too late. He then placed his family in a canoe, and, after storing it with sufficient provisions, he embarked, and in the night he floated down the river Aruwimi and into the big river, and continued his journey night and day as fast as the current would take him--far, far below any lands known to the Bandimba. A week later, after the flight of the wise man and his family, the chief engineer sent down word to the king that he was ready to take the moon down. "It is well," replied the king from below. "I will ascend, that I may see how you set about it." Within twenty days the king reached the summit of the tower, and, standing at last by the side of the engineer, he laid his hand upon the moon, and it felt exceedingly hot. Then he commanded the engineer to proceed to take it down. The man put a number of cool bark coils over his shoulder and tried to dislodge it; but, as it was firmly fixed, he used such a deal of force that he cracked it, and there was an explosion, the fire and sparks from which scorched him. The timber on which the king and his chiefs were standing began to burn, and many more bursting sounds were heard, and fire and melted rock ran down through the scaffolding in a steady stream, until all the woodwork was ablaze, and the flames soared upward among the uprights and trestles of the wood in one vast pile of fire; and every man, woman, and child was utterly consumed in a moment. And the heat was so great that it affected the moon, and a large portion of it tumbled to the earth, and its glowing hot materials ran over the ground like a great river of fire, so that most of the country of the Bandimba was burnt to ashes. On those who were not smothered by the smoke, nor burnt by the fire, and who fled from before the burning river, the effect was very wonderful. Such of them as were grown up, male and female, were converted into gorillas, and all the children into different kinds of long-tailed monkeys. The old man who told me this story ended by saying to us, who listened with open mouth to his words: "Friends, if you doubt the truth of what I have said, all you have to do is to look at the moon when it is full, and you may then see on a clear night a curious dark portion on its face, which often appears as though there were peaky mountains in it, and often the dark spots are like some kind of homed animals; and then again, you will often fancy that on the moon you see the outlines of a man's face, but those dark spots are only the holes made in the moon by the man who forced his shoulders through it. By this you will know that I have not lied unto you. Now ever since that dreadful day when the moon burst and the Bandimba country was consumed, parents are not in the habit of granting children all they ask for, but only such things as their age and experience warn them are good for their little ones. And when little children will not be satisfied by such things, but fret and pester their parents to give them what they know will be harmful to them, then it is a custom with all wise people to take the rod to them, to drive out of their heads the wicked thoughts." "But, Baruti," said a Zanzibari who believed the story, for had he not often viewed the dark spots on the moon, "what became of Bahanga and the little prince?" "Why, after the engineer of the works, the first who died were the king and the prince whose folly had brought ruin on the land." CHAPTER NINE. HOW KIMYERA BECAME KING OF UGANDA. Kadu was a native lad of Uganda, who having made blood brotherhood with a young Zanzibari of his own age, asked permission to join our expedition of 1874-77. He survived the perils of the descent of the Congo, and in 1879 enlisted again, and served faithfully another term of three years in Africa. He afterwards joined Mr H.H. Johnston on his visit to Kilimanjaro, and proved himself as devoted to him as he had been for seven years to me. It was while road-making along the banks of the Congo, after becoming thoroughly conversant with the Zanzibari vernacular, that he entertained us with his remarkable legends. Next to his countryman Sabadu he was the most entertaining. One of the first tales he related to us was about Kimyera, a king of Uganda, who by his exploits in hunting deserves to be called the Nimrod of that country. It ran as follows:-- Many ages ago Uni reigned as king over Unyoro, a great country which lies to the north and west of Uganda. One day he took to wife Wanyana, a woman of the neighbouring kingdom, who on the first night she had been taken into the inner harem manifested a violent aversion for his person. At that time a man named Kalimera, who was a dealer in cattle, was visiting the court, and had already resided some months there as an honoured guest of the king, on account of his agreeable manners, and his accomplishments on the flute. During his stay he had not failed to note the beauty of the young women who were permitted to crowd around him while he played; but it had long been observed that he had been specially attracted by the charms of Wanyana. It was whispered by a few of the more maliciously disposed among the women that a meeting had taken place, and that an opportunity had been found by them to inform each other of their mutual passion. However that may be, King Uni, surprised at the dislike which she manifested towards him, forbore pressing her for the time, trustfully believing that her sentiments would change for the better after a more intimate acquaintance with him. Meantime he built for her a separate apartment, and palisaded its court closely around with thick cane. His visits were paid to her on alternate days, and each time he brought some gift of bead or bark-cloth, or soft, furry hide, in the hope of winning her favour. In time she discovered that she was pregnant, and, fearing King Uni's wrath, she made a compact with him that if he would abstain from visiting her for one month she would repay his kindness with all affection. Uni gladly consented to this proposal, and confined his attentions to sending his pages with daily greetings and gifts. Meantime she endeavoured through her own servants to communicate with Kalimera, her lover, but, though no effort on her part was wanting, she could gain no news of him, except a report that soon after she had entered the harem of Uni, Kalimera had disappeared. In a few days she was delivered of a fine male child, but as she would undoubtedly be slain by the king if the child was discovered, she departed by night with it, and laid it, clad in fur adorned with fine bead-work, at the bottom of a potter's pit. She then hastened to a soothsayer in the neighbourhood, and bribed him to contrive in some way to receive and rear her child until he could be claimed. Satisfied with his assurance that the child would be safe, Wanyana returned to her residence at the court in the same secret manner that she had left it. Next morning Mugema, the potter, was seen passing the soothsayer's door, and was hailed by the great witch-finder. "Mugema," said he, "thy pots are now made of rotten clay. They are not at all what they used to be. They now crumble in the hand. Tell me why is this?" "Ah, doctor, it is just that. I thought to bribe thee to tell me, only I did not wish to disturb thee." "It is well, Mugema; I will tell thee why. Thou hast an enemy who wishes evil to thee, but I will defeat his projects. Haste thou to thy pit, and whatever living thing thou findest there, keep it, and rear it kindly. While it lives thou art safe from all harm." Wondering at this news, Mugema departed from the soothsayer's house, and proceeded to the pit where he obtained his clay. Peering softly over the edge of the pit, he saw a bundle of bark-cloth and fur. From its external appearance he could not guess what this bundle might contain, but, fearing to disturb it by any precipitate movement, he silently retreated from the pit, and sped away to tell his wife, as he was in duty bound, and obtain her advice and assistance, for the wife in all such matters is safer than the man. His wife on hearing this news cried out at him, saying: "Why, what a fool thou art! Why didst thou not do as the soothsayer commanded thee? Come, I will go with thee at once, for my mind is troubled with a dream which I had last night, and this thing thou tellest me may have a weighty meaning for us both." Mugema and his wife hurried together towards the clay-pit, and as her husband insisted on it, she crept silently to its edge to look down. At that moment the child uttered a cry and moved the clothes which covered it. "Why, it is a babe," cried the woman; "just as I found it in my dream. Hurry, Mugema. Descend quickly, and bring it up to me; and take care not to hurt it." Mugema wondered so much at his wife's words that he almost lost his wits, but being pushed into the pit he mechanically obeyed, and brought up the bundle and its living occupant, which he handed to his wife without uttering a word. On opening the bundle there was discovered the form of a beautiful and remarkably lusty child, of such weight, size, and form, that the woman exclaimed: "Oh! Mugema, was ever anybody's luck like this of ours? My very heart sighed for a child that I could bring up to be our joy, and here the good spirits have given us the pick of all the world. Mugema, thy fortune is made." "But whose child is it?" asked Mugema, suspiciously. "How can I tell thee that? Hadst thou not brought the news to me of it being in the pit, I should have been childless all my life. The soothsayer who directed thee hither is a wise man. He knows the secret, I warrant him. But come, Mugema, drop these silly thoughts. What sayest thou? shall we rear the child, or leave it here to perish?" "All right, wife. If it prove of joy to thee, I shall live content." Thus it was that the child of Wanyana found foster-parents, and no woman in Unyoro could be prouder of her child than Mugema's wife came to be of the foundling. The milk of woman, goat, and cow was given to him, and he throve prodigiously; and when Mugema asked the soothsayer what name would be fittest for him, the wise man said: "Call him Kimyera--the mighty one." Some months after this, when Kimyera was about a year old, Wanyana came to the potter's house to purchase pots for her household, and while she was seated in the porch selecting the soundest among them, she heard a child crying within. "Ah, has thy wife had a child lately? I did not observe or hear when I last visited thee that she was likely to become a mother." "No, princess," replied Mugema; "that is the cry of a child I discovered in the clay-pit about a year ago." Wanyana's heart gave a great jump, and for a moment she lost all recollection of where she was. Recovering herself with a great effort, she bade Mugema tell her all about the incident: but while he related the story, she was busy thinking how she might assure herself of his secrecy if she declared herself to be the mother of the child. Mugema, before concluding his story, did not fail to tell Wanyana how for a time he had suspected his wife of having played him falsely, and that though he had no grounds for the suspicion further than that the clay-pit was his own and the child had been found in it, he was not quite clear in his mind yet, and he would be willing to slave a long time for any person who could thoroughly disabuse his mind of the doubt, as, with that exception, his wife was the cleverest and best woman in Unyoro. Wanyana, perceiving her opportunity, said: "Well, much as I affected not to know about the child, I know whose child it is, and who placed it in the pit." "Thou, princess!" he cried. "Yes, and, if thou wilt take an oath upon the great Muzimu to keep it secret, I will disclose the name of the mother." "Thou hast my assurance of secrecy upon the condition that the child is not proved to be my wife's. Whosoever else's it may be, matters not to me; the child was found, and is mine by right of the finder. Now name the mother, princess." "Wanyana!" "Thine?" "Even so. It is the offspring of fond love, and Kalimera of Uganda is his father. The young man belongs to one of the four royal clans of Uganda, called the Elephant clan. He is the youngest son of the late king of Uganda. To him, on his father's death, fell his mother's portion, a pastoral district rich in cattle not far from the frontier of Unyoro. It was while he drove fat herds here for sale to Uni that he saw and loved me, and I knew him as my lord. Dreading the king's anger, he fled, and I was left loveless in the power of Uni. One night the child was born, and in the darkness I crept out of the king's court, and bore the babe to thy pit. To the wise man I confided the secret of that birth. Thou knowest the rest." "Princess, my wife never appeared fairer to me than she does now, and I owe the clear eye to thee. Rest in peace. My wife loves the babe, let her nurse it until happier times, and I will guard it safe as though it were mine own. Ay, the babe, I feel assured, will pay me well when he is grown. The words of the wise man come home to me now, and I see whereby good luck shall come to all. If bone and muscle can make a king, Kimyera's future is sure. But come in to see my wife, and to her discretion and wisdom confide thy tale frankly." Wanyana soon was hanging over her child, and, amid tears of joy, she made Mugema's wife acquainted with his birth, and obtained from her earnest assurance that he would be tenderly cared for, and her best help in any service she could perform for Kimyera and his mother. Great friendship sprang up between Princess Wanyana and the potter Mugema and his wife, and she found frequent excuses for visiting the fast-growing child. Through the influence of the princess, the potter increased in riches, and his herds multiplied; and when Kimyera was grown tall and strong, he was entrusted by his foster-father with the care of the cattle, and he gave him a number of strong youths as assistants. With these Kimyera indulged in manly games, until he became wonderfully dexterous in casting the spear, and drawing the bow, and in wrestling. His swiftness exceeded that of the fleetest antelope; no animal of the plain could escape him when he gave chase. His courage, proved in the defence of his charge, became a proverb among all who knew him. If the cry of the herdsman warned him that a beast sought to prey upon the cattle, Kimyera never lost time to put himself in front, and, with spear and arrow, he often became victor. With the pride becoming the possessor of so many admirable qualities, he would drive his herds right through the corn-fields of the villagers, and to all remonstrances he simply replied that the herds belonged to Wanyana, favourite wife of Uni. The people belonged to her also, as well as their corn, and who could object to Wanyana's cattle eating Wanyana's corn? As his reputation for strength and courage was well known, the villagers then submissively permitted him to do as he listed. As he grew up in might and valour, Uni's regards cooled towards Wanyana, and, as she was not permitted that freedom formerly enjoyed by her, her visits to Kimyera ceased. Mugema sympathised with the mother, and contrived to send Kimyera with pots to sell to the people of the court, with strict charge to discover every piece of news relating to the Princess Wanyana. The mother's heart dilated with pride every time she saw her son, and she contrived in various ways to lengthen the interview. And each time he returned to his home he carried away some gift from Wanyana, such as leopard-skins, strings of beast claws, beads, and crocodile-teeth, girdles of white monkey-skin, parcels of ground ochre, or camwood, or rare shells, to show Mugema and his wife. And often he used to say, "Wanyana bade me ask you to accept this gift from her as a token of her esteem," showing them similar articles. His mother's presents to him in a short time enabled him to purchase two fine large dogs--one was black as charcoal, which was named by him _Msigissa_, or "Darkness," the other was white as a cotton tuft, and called _Sema-gimbi_, or "Wood-burr." You must know that it is because of the dog Darkness, that the Baboon clan of Uganda became so attached to black dogs, by which they perpetuate the memory of Kimyera. When he had become the owner of Darkness and Wood-burr, he began to absent himself from home for longer periods, leaving the herds in charge of the herdsmen. With these he explored the plains, and hills, and woods to a great distance from his home. Sometimes he would be absent for weeks, causing great anxiety to his kind foster-parents. The further he went the more grew his passion to know what lay beyond the furthest ridge he saw, which, when discovered, he would be again tempted to explore another that loomed in the far distance before him. With every man he met he entered into conversation, and obtained a various knowledge of things of interest relating to the country, the people, and the chiefs. In this manner before many months he had a wide knowledge of every road and river, village and tribe, in the neighbouring lands. On his return from these daring excursions, he would be strictly questioned by Mugema and his wife as to what he had been doing, but he evaded giving the entire truth by rehearsing the hunting incidents that attended his wanderings, so that they knew not the lands he had seen, nor the distances that he travelled. However, being uneasy in their minds they communicated to Wanyana all that was related to them and all they suspected. Wanyana then sought permission to pay a visit to the potter and his wife, and during the visit she asked Kimyera, "Pray tell me, my son, whither dost thou travel on these long journeys of thine to seek for game?" "Oh! I travel far through woods, and over grassy hills and plains." "But is it in the direction of sunrise, or sunset, is it north or is it south of here?" To which he replied: "I seek game generally in the direction whence the sun rises." "Ah!" said Wanyana. "In that way lies Ganda, where thy father lives, and whence he came in former days to exchange cattle for salt and hoes." "My father! What may be my father's name, mother?" "Kalimera." "And where did he live?" "His village is called Willimera, and is near the town of Bakka." "Bakka! I know the town, for in some of my journeys I entered a long way into Uganda, and have chased the leopard in the woods that border the stream called Myanja, and over the plains beyond the river many an antelope has fallen a victim to my spear." "It is scarcely credible, my son." "Nay, but it is true, mother." "Then thou must have been near Willimera in that case, and it is a pity that thou shouldst not have seen thy father, and been received by him." A few days later Kimyera slung his knitted haversack over his shoulder, and with shield, two spears, and his faithful dogs Darkness and Wood-burr, he strode out of the potter's house, and set his face once more towards the Myanja river. At the first village across the stream he questioned the natives if they knew Willimera, and was told that it was but eight hours east. The next day he arrived, and travelled round the village, and rested that night at the house of one of the herdsmen of Kalimera. He made himself very agreeable to his host, and from him he received the fullest information of all matters relating to his father. The next day he began his return to Unyoro, which he reached in two weeks. He told Mugema and his foster-mother of his success, and they sent a messenger to apprise Wanyana that Kimyera had returned home. Wanyana, impatient to learn the news, arrived that night at Mugema's house, and implored Kimyera to tell her all that he had heard and seen. "In brief, it is this," replied Kimyera. "I now know to a certainty where Kalimera lives. I have gone round the village, I know how many natives are in it, how many herds of cattle, and how many herdsmen and slaves he has. Kalimera is well. All these I learned from one of his chief herdsmen with whom I rested a night. I came here straight to let thee and my foster-parents know it." "It is very well, my son. Now, Mugema, it is time to move," she said to the potter. "Uni daily becomes more intolerable to me. I never have yet mated with him as his wife, and I have been true to the one man who seemed to me to be the comeliest of his kind. Now that I know Kalimera lives, my heart has gone to him, though my body is here. Mugema, speak, my friend." "Wanyana, my wit is slow and my tongue is heavy. Thou knowest my circumstances. I have one wife, but many cattle. The two cows, Namala and Nakaombeh, thou gavest me first, I possess still. Their milk has always been abundant and sweet. Namala has sufficed to nourish Kimyera into perfect lustiness and strength; Nakaombeh gives more than will feed my wife and I. Let Kimyera take his flute, his dogs, Darkness and Wood-burr, his spears and shield; Sebarija, my cowherd, who taught Kimyera the flute, will also take his flute and staff, and drive Namala and Nakaombeh. My wife will carry a few furs, some of the spoils won by Kimyera's prowess; and, lo! I and my family will follow Wanyana." "A true friend thou hast been to me and mine, Mugema! We will hence before dawn. In Willimera thou shalt receive tenfold what thou leavest here. The foundling of the clay-pit has grown tall and strong, and at last he has found the way to his father and his father's kindred." And as Wanyana advised, the journey was undertaken that night, and before the sun arose Wanyana, Mugema and his wife, the slave Sebarija driving the two cows, Namala and Nakaombeh, were far on their way eastward, Kimyera and his two dogs, Darkness and Wood-burr, preceding the emigrants and guiding the way. The food they took with them sustained them for two days; but on the third day they saw a lonely buffalo, and Kimyera, followed by Mugema and Sebarija, chased him. The buffalo was uncommonly wild, and led them a long chase, far out of sight of the two women. Then Mugema reflected that they had done wrong in thus leaving the two women alone, and called out to Sebarija to hurry back, and to look after the women and two cows. Not long after, Darkness fastened his fangs in the buffalo, until Wood-burr came up and assisted him to bring it to the ground, and there they held him until Kimyera gave him his death-stroke. The two men loaded themselves with the meat, and returned to the place where they had left, but alas! they found no traces of the two women, nor of Sebarija and the two cows. Day after day Kimyera and Mugema hunted all around the country for news of the missing party, until, finally, to their great sorrow, they were obliged to abandon the search, and came to the conclusion that it was best for them to continue their journey and trust to chance for the knowledge they desired. Near Ganda another buffalo was sighted by Kimyera, and, bidding Mugema remain at the first house he came to, he went after it with his dogs. The buffalo galloped far, and near noon he stood still under the shelter of a rock. Kimyera bounded to the top, and, exerting all his strength, he shot his spear clean through the back of the animal. That rock is still shown to strangers as the place where Kimyera killed the first game in Uganda, and even the place where he stood may be seen by the marks of his feet which were, impressed on it. While resting on the rock he saw a woman pass near by with a gourd of water. He called out to her, and begged for a drop to allay his thirst. She smilingly complied, as the stranger was comely and his manner pleasant. They entered into conversation, during which he learned that she belonged to Ganda, and served as maid to Queen Naku, wife of Sebwana, and that Naku was kind to strangers, and was famed for her hospitality to them. "Dost thou think she will be kind to me?" asked Kimyera. "I am a native of Unyoro, and I am seeking a house where I may rest." To which the maid replied: "It is the custom of Naku, and, indeed, of all the princes of Ganda, to entertain the stranger since, in the far olden times, the first prince settled in this land in which he was a stranger. But what may that be which is secured in thy girdle?" "That is a reed flute on which I imitate when alone the songs of such birds as sound sweetest to me." "And art thou clever at it?" asked the maid. "Be thou judge," he said; and forthwith blew on his flute until the maid marvelled greatly. When he had ended, she clapped her hands gaily and said: "Thou wilt be more than welcome to Naku and her people. Haste and follow me that I may show thee to her, for thy fortune is made." "Nay. I have a companion not far from here, and I must not lose him. But thou mayest say thou hast met a stranger who, when he has found his friend, will present himself before Queen Naku and Sebwana before sunset." The maid withdrew and Kimyera rose, and cutting a large portion of the meat he retraced his steps, and sought and found Mugema, to whom he told all his adventures. After washing the stains of travel and refreshing themselves, they proceeded into the village to the residence of the queen and her consort Sebwana. Naku was prepared by the favourable reports of the maid to receive Kimyera kindly, but when she saw his noble proportions and handsome figure she became violently in love with him, and turning to Sebwana she said: "See now, we have guests of worth and breeding. They must have travelled from a far land, for I have heard of no tribe which could boast of such a youth as this. Let us receive him and his old friend nobly. Let a house close by our own be made ready for his lodging, and let it be furnished with abundance of food, with wine [banana wine] and milk, bananas and yams, water and fuel, and let nothing be lacking to show our esteem for them." Sebwana gave orders accordingly and proceeded to select a fit house as a lodging for the guests. Then Naku said: "I hear that thou art skilled in music. If that is the instrument in thy girdle with which thou hast delighted my maid, I should be pleased to hear thee." "Yes, Queen Naku, it is my flute; and if my music will delight thee, my best efforts are at thy service." Then Kimyera, kneeling on the leopard-skins placed for the convenience of himself and Mugema, took out his flute, and after one or two flourishes, poured forth such melodious sounds that Naku, unable to keep her eyes open, closed them and lay down with panting breasts, while her senses were filled as it were with dreams of happier lands, and faces of brighter people than ever she knew in real life. As he varied the notes, so varied the gladsome visions of her mind. When the music gently vibrated on her ears, her body palpitated under the influence of the emotions which swayed her; when they became more enlivened she tossed her arms about, and laughed convulsively; and when the notes took a solemn tone, she sighed and wept as though all her friends had left her only their tender memory. Grieved that Naku should suffer, Kimyera woke the queen from her sorrowful condition with tones that soon started her to her feet, and lo, all at once, those who were present joined in the lively dance, and nothing but gay laughter was heard from them. Oh, it was wonderful what quick changes came over people as they heard the flute of Kimyera. When he ceased people began to look at one another in a foolish and confused way, as though something very strange had happened to them. But Naku quickly recovered, and went to Kimyera, smiling and saying: "It is for thee to command, O Kimyera. To resist thy flute would be impossible. Again welcome to Ganda, and we shall see if we cannot keep thee and thy flute amongst us." She conducted Kimyera and his foster-father Mugema to their house. She examined carefully the arrangements made by the slaves, and when she found anything amiss she corrected it with her own hands. Before she parted from them she called Mugema aside, and questioned him further respecting the youth, by which means she obtained many interesting particulars concerning him. On arriving at her own house she called all the pages of the court to her, and gave orders that if Sebwana told them to convey such and such things to the strangers next day, that none of them should do so, but carry them to the rear court where only women were admitted. In consequence of this command Mugema and Kimyera found themselves deserted next day, and not one person went near them. Mugema therefore sought an interview the day after with Queen Naku and said: "The custom of this country seems strange to us, O Queen. On the first day we came thy favours showered abundance on us, but on the next not a single person showed his face to us. Had we been in a wilderness we could not have been more alone. It is possible that we may have offended thee unknown to ourselves. Pray acquaint us with our offence, or permit us to depart at once from Ganda." "Nay, Mugema, I must ask thee to be patient. Food ye shall have in abundance, through my women, and much more is in store for ye. But come, I will visit the young stranger, and thou shalt lead me to him." Kimyera had been deep in thought ever since he had parted from Naku, and he had not observed what Mugema had complained of; but on seeing Naku enter his house, he hasted and laid matting on the floor, and, covering it with leopard-skins, begged Naku to be seated on them. He brought fresh banana-leaves in his arms, and spread them near her, on which he arranged meat and salt, and bananas and clotted milk, and kneeled before her like a ready servitor. Naku observed all his movements, her admiration for his person and graces of body becoming stronger every minute. She peeled a mellow banana and handed it to him, saying, "Let Kimyera taste and eat with me, and I will then know that I am in the house of a friend." Kimyera accepted the gift with thanks, and ate the banana as though he had never eaten anything so delicious in his life. Then he also peeled a beautiful and ripe banana, and, presenting it to her on a fragment of green leaf with both hands, said to her: "Queen Naku, it is the custom of my country for the master of the house to wait upon his guests. Wherefore accept, O Queen, this banana as a token of friendship from the hands of Kimyera." The queen smiled, bent forward with her eyes fixed on his own, and took the yellow fruit, and ate it as though such sweetness was not known in the banana land of Ganda. When she had eaten she said: "List, Kimyera, and thou, Mugema, hearken well, for I am about to utter weighty words. In Ganda, since the death of my father, there has been no king. Sebwana is my consort by choice of the elders of the land, but in name only. He is really only my _kate-kiro_ (Premier). But I am now old enough to choose a king for myself, and according to custom, I may do so. Wherefore I make known to thee, Mugema, that I have already chosen my lord and husband, and he by due right must occupy the chair of my father, the old king who is dead. I have said to myself since the day before yesterday that my lord and husband shall be Kimyera." Both Kimyera and Mugema prostrated themselves three times before Naku, and, after the youth had recovered from his confusion and surprise, he replied: "But, Queen Naku, hast thou thought what the people will say to this? May it not be that they will ask, `who is this stranger that he should reign over us?' and they will be wroth with me and try to slay me?" "Nay. For thou art my father's brother's son, as Mugema told me, and my father having left no male heirs of his body, his daughter may, if she choose, ally herself with a son of his brother. Kalimera is a younger brother of my father. Thou seest, therefore, that thou, Kimyera, hast a right to the king's chair, if I, Naku, will it to be so." "And how, Naku, dost thou propose to act? In thy cause my arm is ready to strike. Thou hast but to speak." "In this way. I will now leave thee, for I have some business for Sebwana. When he has gone I will then send for thee, and thou, when thou comest to me, must say, `Naku, I have come. What can Kimyera do for Queen Naku?' And I will rise and say, `Kimyera, come and seat thyself in thy father's brother's chair.' And thou wilt step forward, bow three times before me, then six times before the king's chair, and, with thy best spear in hand and shield on arm, thou wilt, proceed to the king's chair, and turning to the people who will be present, say in a loud voice thus: `Lo, people of Ganda, I am Kimyera, son of Kalimera, by Wanyana of Unyoro. I hereby declare that with her own free will I this day do take Naku, my father's brother's daughter, to wife, and seat myself in the king's chair. Let all obey, on pain of death, the king's word.'" "It is well, Naku; be it according to thy wish," replied Kimyera. Naku departed and proceeded in search of Sebwana; and, when she found him, she affected great distress and indignation. "How is this, Sebwana? I gave orders that our guests should be tenderly cared for and supplied with every needful thing. But I find, on inquiring this morning, that all through yesterday they were left alone to wonder at our sudden disregard for their wants. Haste, my friend, and make amends for thy neglect. Go to my fields and plantations, collect all that is choicest for our guests, lest, when they leave us, they will proclaim our unkindness." Sebwana was amazed at this charge of neglect, and in anger hastened to find out the pages. But the pages, through Naku's good care, absented themselves, and could not be found; so that old Sebwana was obliged to depend upon a few unarmed slaves to drive the cattle and carry the choicest treasures of the queen's fields and plantations for the use of the strangers. Sebwana having at last left the town, Naku returned to Kimyera, whom she found with a sad and disconsolate aspect. "Why, what ails thee, Kimyera?" she asked. "The chair is now vacant. Arm thyself and follow me to the audience court." "Ah, Naku! I but now remembered that as yet I know not whether my mother and good nurse are alive or dead. They may be waiting for me anxiously somewhere near the Myanja, or their bones may be bleaching on one of the great plains we traversed in coming hither." "Nay, Kimyera, my lord, this is not a time for mourning. Bethink thee of the present needs first. The chair of the king awaits thee. Rise, and occupy it, and to-morrow all Ganda is at thy service to find thy lost mother and nurse. Come, delay not, lest Sebwana return and take vengeance on us all." "Fear not, Naku, it was but a passing fit of grief which filled my mind. Sebwana must needs be strong and brave to dispossess me when Naku is on my side," saying which Kimyera dressed himself in war-costume, with a crown of cock's tail feathers on his head, a great leopard skin depending from his neck down his back, a girdle of white monkey-skin round his waist, his body and face brilliantly painted with vermilion and saffron. He then armed himself with two bright shining spears of great length, and bearing a shield of dried elephant hide, which no ordinary spear could penetrate, he strode after Queen Naku towards the audience court in the royal palace. Mugema, somewhat similarly armed, followed his foster-son. As Kimyera strode proudly on, the great drum of Ganda sounded, and its deep tones were heard far and wide. Immediately the populace, who knew well that the summons of the great drum announced an important event, hastily armed themselves, and filled the great court. Naku, the queen, they found seated in a chair alongside of the king's chair, which was now unfilled, and in front of her was a tall young stranger, who prostrated himself three times before the queen. He was then seen bowing six times before the empty king's chair. Rising to his feet, he stepped towards it, and afterwards faced the multitude, who were looking on wonderingly. The young stranger, lifting his long spears and raising his shield in an attitude of defence, cried out aloud, so that all heard his voice: "Lo, people of Ganda! I am Kimyera, son of Kalimera, by Wanyana of Unyoro. I hereby declare that with her own free will I this day do take Naku, my father's brother's daughter, to wife, and seat myself in the king's chair. Let all obey, on pain of death, the king's word." On concluding this address, he stepped back a pace, and gravely sat in the king's chair. A loud murmur rose from the multitude, and the shafts of spears were seen rising up, when Naku rose to her feet, and said: "People of Ganda, open your ears. I, Naku, the legitimate queen of Ganda, hereby declare that I have found my father's brother's son, and I, this day, of my own free will and great love for him, do take him for my lord and husband. By full right Kimyera fills the king's chair. I charge you all henceforth to be loyal to him, and him only." As she ended her speech the people gave a great shout of welcome to the new king, and they waved their spears, and clashed them against their shields, thus signifying their willing allegiance to King Kimyera. The next day great bodies of strong men were despatched in different directions for the king's mother and his nurse, and for Sebarija and the two cows, Namala and Nakaombeh. If alive they were instructed to convey them with honour and care to Ganda, and if any fatal misadventure had happened to them, their remains were to be borne with all due respect to the king. Sebwana, meanwhile, had started for the plantations, and hearing the thunder of the great drum, divined that Naku had deposed him in favour of the young stranger. To assure himself of the fact, he sent a confidential slave to discover the truth of the matter, while he sought a place where he could await, unobserved, the return of his messenger. When his slave came back to him he learned what great event had occurred during his short absence, and that his power had been given to another. Knowing the fate attending those thus deposed, he secretly retired to the district that had given him birth, where he lived obscure and safe until he died at a good old age. After some days Sebarija and Mugema's wife, and the two cows Namala and Nakaombeh, were found by the banks of Myanja, near a rocky hill which contained a cave, whither they had retired to seek a dwelling-place until news could be found of Mugema and Kimyera. But Wanyana, the king's mother, while gathering fuel near the cave during the absence of Sebarija and the potter's wife, had been fatally wounded by a leopard, before her cries brought Sebarija to her rescue. A short time after she had been taken into the cave she had died of her wounds, and her body had been folded in such furs and covering as her friends possessed, that Kimyera, on his return, might be satisfied of the manner of her death. Kimyera, accompanied by his wife Naku and old Mugema, set out from Ganda with a great escort to receive the long-lost couple and the remains of Wanyana. Mugema rejoiced to see his old wife once more, though he deeply regretted the loss of his friend the princess. As for the king, his grief was excessive, but Naku, with her loving ways, assisted him to bear his great misfortune. A period of mourning, for an entire moon, was enjoined on all the people, after which a great mound was built at Kagoma over the remains of the unfortunate princess, and Sebarija was duly installed as keeper of the monument. Ever since that day it has become the custom to bury the queen-mothers near the grave of Wanyana, and to appoint keepers of the royal cemetery in memory of Sebarija, who first occupied that post. While he lived Sebarija was honoured with a visit, on the first day of every alternate moon, from Kimyera, who always brought with him a young buffalo as a gift to the faithful cowherd. During these days the king and Sebarija were accustomed to play their flutes together as they did in the old time, and their seats were on mats placed on top of the mound, while the escort and servants of the king and queen sat all round the foot of it, and this was the manner in which Wanyana's memory was honoured during her son's life. Kimyera finally settled with Queen Naku at Birra, where he built a large town. Mugema and his wife, with their two cows Namala and Nakaombeh, lived near the palace for many years, until they died. Darkness and Wood-burr accompanied the king on many a hunt in the plains bordering the Myanja, in the woods of Ruwambo, and along the lakelands which look towards Bussi; and they in their turn died and were honourably interred with many folds of bark-cloth. Queen Naku, after giving birth to three sons, died during the birth of her fourth child, and was buried with great honour near Birra, and finally, after living to a great old age, the hunter king, Kimyera, died, mourned by all his people. CHAPTER TEN. THE LEGEND OF THE LEOPARDESS AND HER TWO SERVANTS, DOG AND JACKAL. The following legend was also told by Kadu as we approached Isangila cataract. Long ago, in the early age of Uganda, a leopardess, in want of a servant to do chores in her den, was solicited by a jackal to engage him to perform that duty. As Jackal had a very suspicious appearance, with his ears drawn back, and his furtive eyes, and a smile which always seemed to be a leer, the Leopardess consulted with Dog, whom she had lately hired as her steward, as to the propriety of trusting such a cunning-looking animal. Dog trotted out to the entrance of the den to examine the stranger for himself, and, after close inspection of him, asked Jackal what work he could do. Jackal replied humbly and fawningly, and said that he could fetch water from the brook, collect fuel, sweep out the house, and was willing, if necessary, to cook now and then, as he was not a novice in the art of cooking; and, looking at Leopardess, "I am very fond of cubs, and am very clever in nursing them." Mistress Leopardess, on hearing this, seemed to be impressed with the abilities of Jackal, and, without waiting for the advice of Dog, engaged him at once, and said: "Jackal, you must understand that my custom is to feed my servants well. What is left from my table is so abundant that I have heard no complaints from any who have been with me. Therefore you need fear no starvation, but while you may depend upon being supplied with plenty of meat, the bones must not be touched. Dog shall be your companion, but neither he nor anyone else is permitted to touch the bones." "I shall be quite content, Mistress Leopardess. Meat is good enough for me, and for good meat you may depend upon it I shall give good work." The household of Mistress Leopardess was completed; she suffered no anxiety, and enjoyed herself in her own way. The chase was her great delight. The forest and plains were alive with game, and each morning at sunrise it was her custom to set out for the hunt, and scarcely a day passed but she returned with sufficient meat to fatten her household. Dog and Jackal expressed themselves delighted with the luscious repasts which they enjoyed, and a sleek roundness witnessed that they fared nobly. But as it frequently happens with people who have everything they desire, Dog, in a short while, became more nice and fastidious in his tastes. He hankered after the bones which were forbidden him, and was heard to sigh deeply whenever Mistress Leopardess collected the bones and stored them in the interior, and his eyes became filled with tears as he eyed the rich morsels stowed away. His feelings at last becoming intolerable, he resolved to appeal to his mistress one day, as she appeared to be in a more amiable mood than usual, and said: "Mistress, thanks to you, the house is always well supplied with meat, and none of your servants have any reason to think that they will ever suffer the pangs of hunger; but, speaking for myself, mistress mine, I wish for one thing more, if you will be so good as to grant it." "And what may that be, greedy one?" asked Leopardess. "Well, you see, mistress, I fear you do not understand the nature of dogs very well. You must know dogs delight in marrow, and often prefer it to meat. The latter by itself is good, but however plentiful and good it may be, without an occasional morsel of marrow it is apt to pall. Dogs also love to sharpen their teeth on bones and screw their tongues within the holes for the sake of the rich juice. By itself, marrow would not fatten my ribs; but meat with marrow is most delectable. Now, good mistress, seeing that I have been so faithful in your service, so docile and prompt to do your bidding, will you not be gracious enough to let me gnaw the bones and extract the marrow?" "No," roared Leopardess decisively, "that is positively forbidden; and let me warn you that the day you venture to do so, a strange event will happen suddenly, which shall have most serious consequences to you and to all in this house. "And you, Jackal, bear what I say well in mind," she continued, turning to that servile subordinate. "Yes, mistress; I will, most certainly. Indeed, I do not care very greatly for bones," said Jackal, "and I hope my friend and mate, Dog, will remember, good mistress, what you say." "I hear, mistress," replied Dog, "and since it is your will, I must needs obey." The alarming words of Leopardess had the effect of compelling Dog and Jackal for awhile to desist from even thinking of marrow, and the entreaty of Dog appeared to be forgotten by Leopardess, though Jackal was well aware, by the sparkles in the covetous eyes of Dog when any large bone was near him, how difficult it was for him to resist the temptation. Day after day Leopardess sallied out from her den, and returned with kids, goats, sheep, antelopes, zebra, and often a young giraffe; and one day she brought a great buffalo to her household, and cubs and servants came running to greet her, and praise her successful hunting. On this day Dog undertook to prepare the dinner. The buffalo-meat was cooked in exquisite fashion, and when it was turned out of the great pot, steaming and trickling over everywhere with juice, Dog caught sight of a thigh-bone and yellow marrow glistening within. The temptation to steal it was too great to resist. He contrived to drop the bone back again into the pot, furnished the tray quickly with the meat, and sent Jackal with it to Leopardess, saying that he would follow with the kabobs and stew. As soon as Jackal had gone out of the kitchen, Dog whipped the bone out of the pot and slyly hid it; then, loading stew and kabobs on a tray, he hurried after Jackal, and began officiously bustling about, fawning upon Leopardess, stroking the cubs as he placed them near their mamma around the smoking trays, scolding Jackal for his laziness, and bidding him hurry up with the steaks. All of which, of course, was due to his delight that he had a rare treat in store for himself snugly hidden away. Leopardess was pleased to bestow a good many praises upon Dog's cooking, and the cubs even condescended to smile their approval for the excellent way in which their wants were supplied. Towards evening Mistress Leopardess went out again, but not before reminding Jackal of his duties towards the cubs, and bidding him, if it were late before she returned, on no account to leave them alone in the dark. Dog smilingly followed his mistress to the door, wishing her, in the most fawning manner, every success. When he thought that his mistress was far enough, and Jackal quite occupied with the cubs, Dog hastened to the kitchen, and, taking up his bone, stole out of the house, and carried it to a considerable distance off. When he thought he was safe from observation, he lay down, and, placing the bone between his paws, was about to indulge his craving for marrow, when lo! the bone was seen to fly away back to the den. Wondering at such a curious event, furious at his disappointment, and somewhat alarmed as he remembered Leopardess's warning words, he rushed after it, crying: "Jackal, Jackal! shut the door; the bone is coming. Jackal, please shut the door." Jackal fortunately was at the door, squatting on his haunches, having just arrived there from nursing the cubs, and saw the bone coming straight towards him, and Dog galloping and crying out to shut the door. Quickly perceiving that Dog had at last allowed his appetite to get the better of his duty, and having, truth to say, a fellow-feeling for his fellow-servant, Jackal closed the door just in time, for in about a second afterwards the bone struck the door with a tremendous force, dinting it deeply. Then Jackal turned to Dog, on recovering from his astonishment, and angrily asked, "Oh, Dog, do you know what you are doing? Have you no sense? You came near being the death of me this time. I'll tell you what, my friend, if Mistress Leopardess hears of this, your life is not worth a feather." "Now don't, please, good Jackal--don't say anything of it this time. The fright I have had is quite sufficient to keep me from touching a bone again." "Well, I am sure I don't wish you any harm, but for your life's sake do not be so dull as to forget the lesson you have learned." Soon after Leopardess returned with a small antelope for the morrow's breakfast, and cried out to Jackal, as was usual with her on returning from the hunt: "Now, my Jackal, bring the cubs hither; my dugs are so heavy. How are the little ones?" "Ah, very well, ma'am: poor little dears, they have been in a sweet sleep ever since you went out." A few days later, Leopardess brought a fat young zebra, and Jackal displayed his best skill in preparing it for dinner. Dog also assisted with wise suggestions in the preparation of certain auxiliaries to the feast. When all was ready, Dog laid the table, and as fast as Jackal brought the various dishes, Dog arranged them in the most tempting manner on fresh banana-leaves, spread over the ample plateau. Just before sitting down to the meal, Leopardess heard a strange noise without, and bounded to the door, growling angrily at being disturbed. Dog instantly seized the opportunity of her absence to extract a great bone from one of the trays, and stowed it in a recess in the wall of the passage leading from the kitchen. Presently Leopardess came back, and when the cubs were brought the meal was proceeded with in silence. When they had all eaten enough, the good effect of it was followed by commendations upon the cooking, and the juicy flavour of the meat, and how well Jackal had prepared everything. Neither was Dog forgotten by the mistress and her young ones, and he was dismissed with the plenteous remnants of the feast for himself and mate, with the courteous hope that they would find enough and to spare. In the afternoon Leopardess, having refreshed herself with a nap, sallied out once more, enjoining Jackal, as she was going out of the den, to be attentive to her little ones during her absence. While his friend Jackal proceeded towards the cubs, Dog surreptitiously abstracted his bone from the cavity in the passage wall, and trotted out unobserved. When he had arrived at a secluded place, he lay down, and, seizing the bone between his paws, was about to give it a preliminary lick, when again, to his dismay and alarm, the bone flew up and away straight for the door. Dog loped after it as fast as his limbs could carry him, crying out: "Oh, Jackal, Jackal, good Jackal! Shut the door. Hurry up. Shut the door, good Jackal." Again Jackal heard his friend's cry, and sprang up to close the door, and the instant he had done so the bone struck it with dreadful force. Turning to the crestfallen and panting Dog, Jackal said sternly: "You are a nice fellow, you are. I well see the end of you. Now listen, this is the last time that I shall help you, my friend. The next time you take a bone you will bear the consequences, so look out." "Come, Jackal, now don't say any more; I will not look at a bone again, I make you a solemn promise." "Keep to that, and you will be safe," replied Jackal. Poor Dog, however, was by no means able to adhere to his promise, for a few days afterwards Leopardess brought a fat young eland, and he found an opportunity to abstract a fine marrowbone before serving his generous mistress. Late in the afternoon, after dinner and siesta, Leopardess, before going out, repeated her usual charge to Jackal, and while the faithful servant retired to his nursing duties, greedy Dog sought his bone, and stole out to the forest with it. This time he went further than usual. Jackal meanwhile finding the cubs indisposed for sleep, led them out to the door of the den, where they frisked and gambolled about with all the liveliness of cubhood. Jackal was sitting at a distance from the door when he heard the cries of Dog. "Oh, Jackal, Jackal, good Jackal! Shut the door quickly. Look out for the bone. It is coming. Shut the door quickly." "Ha, ha! friend Dog! At it again, eh?" said the Jackal. "It is too late, too late, Doggie dear, the cubs are in the doorway." He looked up, however, saw the bone coming with terrific speed; he heard it whiz as it flew close over his head, and almost immediately after it struck one of the cubs, killing it instantly. Jackal appeared to quickly realise the consequences of Dog's act, and his own carelessness, and feeling that henceforth Leopardess's den would be no home for him, he resolved to escape. Just then Dog came up, and when he saw the dead cub he set up a piteous howl. "Ay," said Jackal. "You fool, you begin to see what your greed has brought upon us all. Howl on, my friend, but you will howl differently when Mistress Leopardess discovers her dead cub. Bethink yourself how all this will end. Our mighty mistress, if she catches you, will make mincemeat of you. Neither may I stay longer here. My home must be a burrow in the wild wood, or in the rocky cave in future. What will you do?" "I, Jackal? I know not yet. Go, if you will, and starve yourself. I trust to find a better home than a cramped burrow, or the cold shelter of a cave. I love warmth, and kitchen fires, and the smell of roast meats too well to trust myself to the chilly covert you propose to seek, and my coat is too fine for rough outdoor life." "Hark!" cried Jackal, "do you hear that? That is the mistress's warning note! Fare you well, Doggie. I shall dream of you to-night lying stark under the paw of the Leopardess." Jackal waited to say no more, but fled from the scene, and from that day to this Jackal has been a vagabond. He loves the darkness, and the twilight. It is at such times you hear his yelp. He is very selfish and cowardly. He has not courage enough to kill anything for himself, but prefers to wait--licking his chops--until the lion or the leopard, who has struck the game, has gorged himself. As for Dog he was sorely frightened, but after a little deliberation he resolved to face the matter out until he was certain of the danger. He conveyed the cubs, living and dead, quickly within, and then waited with well-dissembled anxiety the coming of his mistress. Leopardess shortly arrived, and was met at the door by the obsequious Dog with fawning welcome. "Where is Jackal?" asked Leopardess as she entered. "I regret to say he has not returned yet from a visit which he said he was bound to pay his friends and family, whom he had not seen for so long," replied Dog. "Then you go and bring my little ones to me. Poor little dears, they must be hungry by this, and my milk troubles me," commanded the mistress. Dog departed readily, thinking to himself, "I am in for it now." He soon returned, bearing one of the cubs, and laid it down. "Bring the other one, quickly," cried Leopardess. "Yes, ma'am, immediately," he said. Dog took the same cub up again, but in a brief time returned with it. The cub, already satisfied, would not touch the teat. "Go and bring the other one, stupid," cried Leopardess, observing that it would not suck. "This is the other one, mistress," he replied. "Then why does it not suck?" she asked. "Perhaps it has not digested its dinner." "Where is Jackal? Has he not yet returned? Jackal!" she cried. "Where are you, Jackal?" From the jungle out-doors Jackal shrilly yelped, "Here I am, mistress!" "Come to me this instant," commanded Leopardess. "Coming, mistress, coming," responded Jackal's voice faintly, for at the sound of her call he had been alarmed and was trotting off. "Why, what can be the matter with the brute, trifling with me in this manner? Here, Dog, take this cub to the crib." Dog hastened to obey, but Leopardess, whose suspicions had been aroused, quietly followed him as he entered the doorway leading into the inner recess of the house where the crib was placed. Having placed the living near the dead cub in the crib, Dog turned to leave, when he saw his dreaded mistress in the doorway, gazing with fierce distended eyes, and it flashed on him that she had discovered the truth, and fear adding speed to his limbs he darted like an arrow between her legs, and rushed out of the den. With a loud roar of fury Leopardess sprang after him, Dog running for dear life. His mistress was gaining upon him, when Dog turned aside, and ran round the trees. Again Leopardess was rapidly drawing near, when Dog shot straight away and increased the distance between them a little. Just as one would think Dog had no hope of escaping from his fierce mistress, he saw a wart-hog's burrow, into which he instantly dived. Leopardess arrived at the hole in the ground as the tail of Dog disappeared from her sight. Being too large of body to enter, she tore up the entrance to the burrow, now and then extending her paw far within to feel for her victim. But the burrow was of great length, and ran deep downwards, and she was at last obliged to desist from her frantic attempts to reach the runaway. Reflecting awhile, Leopardess looked around and saw Monkey near by, sitting gravely on a branch watching her. "Come down, Monkey," she imperatively commanded, "and sit by this burrow and watch the murdering slave who is within, while I procure materials to smoke him out." Monkey obeyed, and descending the tree, took his position at the mouth of the burrow. But it struck him that should Dog venture out, his strength would be unable to resist him. He therefore begged Leopardess to stay a moment, while he went to bring a rock with which he could block the hole securely. When this was done Leopardess said, "Now stay here, and do not stir until I return; I will not be long, and when I come I will fix him." Leopardess, leaving the burrow in charge of Monkey, commenced to collect a large quantity of dry grass, and then proceeded to her house to procure fire wherewith to light it, and suffocate Dog with the smoke. Dog, soon after entering the burrow had turned himself round and faced the hole, to be ready for all emergencies. He had heard Leopardess give her orders to Monkey, had heard Monkey's plans for blockading him, as well as the threat of Leopardess to smoke him out. There was not much hope for him if he stayed longer. After a little while he crept close to the rock that blocked his exit, and whispered: "Monkey, let me out, there's a good fellow." "It may not be," replied Monkey. "Ah, Monkey, why are you so cruel? I have not done any harm to you. Why do you stand guard over me to prevent my escape?" "I am simply obeying orders, Dog. Leopardess said, `Stay here and watch, and see that Dog does not escape;' and I must do so or harm will come to me, as you know." Then said Dog, "Monkey, I see that you have a cruel heart, too, though I thought none but the Leopard kind could boast of that. May you feel some day the deep despair I feel in my heart. Let me say one word more to you before I die. Put your head close to me that you may hear it." Monkey, curious to know what the last word could be about, put his face close between the rock and the earth and looked in, upon which Dog threw so much dust and sand into his cunning eyes as almost to blind him. Monkey staggered back from the entrance, and while knuckling his eyes to nib the sand out, Dog put his fore-feet against the rock and soon rolled it away. Then, after a hasty view around, Dog fled like the wind from the dangerous spot. Monkey, after clearing his eyes from the dirt thrown in them, and reviewing his position, began to be concerned as to his own fate. It was not long before his crafty mind conceived that it would be a good idea to place some soft nuts within the burrow, and roll back the stone into its place. When Leopardess returned with the fire she was told that Dog was securely imprisoned within, upon which she piled the grass over the burrow and set fire to it. Presently a crackling sound was heard within. "What can that be?" demanded Leopardess. "That must surely be one of Dog's ears that you heard exploding," replied Monkey. After a short time another crackling sound was heard. "And what is that?" asked Leopardess. "Ah, that must be the other ear of course," Monkey answered. But as the fire grew hotter and the heat increased within there were a great many of these sounds heard, at which Monkey laughed gleefully and cried: "Ah ha! do you hear? Dog is splitting to pieces now. Oh, he is burning up finely; every bone in his body is cracking. Ah, but it is a cruel death, though, is it not?" "Let him die," fiercely cried Leopardess. "He killed one of my young cubs--one of the loveliest little fellows you ever saw." Both Leopardess and Monkey remained at the burrow until the fire had completely died out, then the first said: "Now, Monkey, bring me a long stick with a hook at the end of it, that I may rake Dog's bones out and feast my eyes upon them." Monkey hastened to procure the stick, with which the embers were raked out, when Leopardess exclaimed: "What a queer smell this is! It is not at all like what one would expect from a burnt dog." "Ah," replied Monkey, "Dog must be completely burnt by this. Of that there can be no doubt. Did you ever burn a dog before that you know the smell of its burnt body so well?" "No," said the Leopardess; "but this is not like the smell of roast meat. Rake out all the ashes that I may see the bones and satisfy myself." Monkey, compelled to do as he was commanded, put in his stick, and drew out several half-baked nuts, the shells of which were cracked and gaping open. These Leopardess no sooner saw than she seized Monkey, and furiously cried: "You wretch, you have deceived and trifled with me! You have permitted the murderer of my cub to escape, and your life shall now be the forfeit for his." "Pardon, mighty Leopardess, but let me ask how do you propose to slay me?" "Why, miserable slave, how else should I kill you but with one scratch of my claws?" "Nay, then, great Queen, my blood will fall on your head and smother you. It is better for yourself that you should toss me up above that thorny bough, so that when I fall upon it the thorns may penetrate my heart and kill me." No sooner had Monkey ended, than fierce Leopardess tossed Monkey upward as he had directed; but the latter seized the bough and sat up, and from this he sprang upward into another still higher, and thence from branch to branch and from tree to tree until he was safe from all possible pursuit. Leopardess perceived that another of her intended victims had escaped, and was furious with rage. "Come down this instant," she cried to Monkey, hoping he would obey her. "Nay, Leopardess. It has been told me, and the forest is full of the report, that your cruelty has driven from you Jackal and Dog, and that they will never serve you again. Cruel people never can reckon upon friends. I and my tribe, so long servants to you, will henceforth be strangers to you. Fare you well." A great rustling was heard in the trees overhead as Monkey and his tribe migrated away from the district of the cruel Leopardess who, devoured with rage, was obliged to depart with not one of her vengeful thoughts gratified. As she was returning to her den, Leopardess bethought herself of the Oracle, who was her friend, who would no doubt, at her solicitations, reveal the hiding-places of Jackal and Dog. She directed her steps to the cave of the Oracle, who was a nondescript practising witchcraft in the wildest part of the district. To this curious being she related the story of the murder of her cub by Jackal and Dog, and requested him to inform her by what means she could discover the criminals and wreak her vengeance on them. The Oracle replied, "Jackal has gone into the wild wood, and he and his family henceforward will always remain there, to degenerate in time into a suspicious and cowardly race. Dog has fled to take his shelter in the home of man, to be his companion and friend, and to serve man against you and your kind. But lest you accuse me of ill-will to you, I will tell you how you may catch Dog if you are clever and do not allow your temper to exceed your caution. Not far off is a village belonging to one of the human tribes, near which there is a large ant-hill, where moths every morning flit about in the sunshine of the early day. About the same time Dog leaves the village to sport and gambol and chase the moths. If you can find a lurking-place not far from it, where you can lie silently in wait, Dog may be caught by you in an unwary moment while at his daily play. I have spoken." Leopardess thanked the Oracle and retired brooding over its advice. That night the moon was very clear and shining bright, and she stole out of her den, and proceeding due west as she was directed, in a few hours she discovered the village and the ant-hill described by the Oracle. Near the mound she also found a thick dense bush, which was made still more dense by the tall wild grass surrounding it. In the depths of this she crouched, waiting for morning. At dawn the village wherein men and women lived was astir, and at sunrise the gates were opened. A little later Dog signalled himself by his well-known barks as he came out to take his morning's exercise. Unsuspicious of the presence of his late dread mistress he bounded up the hill and began to circle around, chasing the lively moths. Leopardess, urged by her anger, did not wait until Dog, tired with his sport, would of his own accord stray among the bushes, but uttering a loud roar sprang out from her hiding-place. Dog, warned by her voice, which he well knew, put his tail between his legs and rushed through the open gates and alarmed his new masters, who came pouring from their houses with dreadful weapons in their hands, who chased her, and would have slain her had she not bounded over the fence. Thus Leopardess lost her last chance of revenging the death of her cub; but as she was creeping homeward her mortification was so great that she vowed to teach her young eternal hostility towards Dog and all his tribe. Dog also, convinced that his late mistress was one who nourished an implacable resentment when offended, became more cautious, and a continued life with his new masters increased his attachment for them. When he finally married, and was blessed with a progeny, he taught his pups various arts by which they might ingratiate themselves more and more with the human race. He lived in comfort and affluence to a good old age, and had the satisfaction to see his family grow more and more in the estimation of their generous masters, until dogs and men became inseparable companions. Leopardess and her cub removed far away from the house associated with her misfortune, but though Time healed the keen sore of her bereavement by blessing her annually with more cubs, her hate for Dog and his kind was lasting and continues to this day. And thus it was that the friendly fellowship which reigned between the forest animals during the golden age of Uganda was broken for ever. For proof of the truth of what I have said consider the matter in your own minds. Regard the Ape who, upon the least alarm springs up the tree, and stays not until he has secured himself far from reach. Think of the Jackal in his cheerless solitude deep in the bowels of the earth, or in the farthest rocky recess that he can discover, ever on the watch against some foe, too full of distrust to have a friend, the most selfish and cowardly of the forest community. The Leopard is the enemy at all times, night and day, of every animal, unless it be the lion and the elephant. As for the Dog, where is the man who is not acquainted with his fidelity, his courage in time of danger, his watchful care of his interests by night, and his honest love for the family which feeds him? My story is here ended. CHAPTER ELEVEN. A SECOND VERSION OF THE LEOPARD AND THE DOG STORY. Sarboko, who was originally from Unyoro, a country which lies to the north of Uganda, and had been employed as a page by Mtesa, king of Uganda, protested that his version of how the dog became estranged from the leopard, his chum, was nearer the truth than that given by Kadu. Perceiving that he was inclined to contribute to our amusement, for a reason of his own, we ranged ourselves around the camp fire in the usual way and prepared to listen to another version of a legend which is popular among most of the tribes dwelling in the Lake Region. HOW THE DOG OUTWITTED THE LEOPARD. In the early time there was a dog and a leopard dwelling together in a cave like chums. They shared and fared alike. Exact half of everything and equal effort were the terms upon which they lived. Many and many a famous raid among the flocks and fowls in the human villages they made. The leopard was by far the strongest and boldest, and was most successful in catching prey. Dog lived so well on the spoils brought home by his friend that he became at last fat and lazy, and he began to dislike going out at night in the rain and cold dew, and to hide this growing habit from Leopard he had to be very cunning. He always invented some excuse or another to explain why he brought nothing to the common larder, and finally he hit upon a new plan of saving himself from the toil and danger. Just before dusk one day, Leopard and Dog were sociably chatting together, when Leopard said that he intended that night to catch a fine fat black goat which he had observed in the nearest village to their den. He had watched him getting fatter every day, and he was bent upon bringing him home. "Black is it?" cried Dog. "That is strange, for that is also the colour of the one I purposed to catch to-night." The two friends slept until most of the night was gone, but when there were signs that morning was not far off they silently loped away to their work. They parted at the village which Leopard had selected to rob, Dog whispering "Good luck" to him. Dog trotted off a little way and sneaked back to watch his friend. Leopard stealthily surveying the tall fence, saw one place which he could leap over, and at one spring was inside the village. Snuffing about, he discovered the goat-pen, forced an entrance, and seizing his prize by the neck, drew it out. He then flung it over his shoulders, and with a mighty leap landed outside the fence. Dog, who had watched his chance, now cried out in an affected voice, "Hi, hi--wake up! Leopard has killed the goat. There he is. Ah, ah! Kill him, kill him!" Alarmed at the noise made, and hearing a rustle in the grass near him, Leopard was obliged to abandon his prize, and to save his own life, dropped the goat and fled. Dog, chuckling loudly at the success of his ruse, picked the dead goat up, and trotted home to the den with it. "Oh, see, Leopard!" cried he, as he reached the entrance, "what a fat goat I've got at my village. Is it not a heavy one? But where is yours? Did you not succeed after all?" "Oh! I was alarmed by the owners in the village, who pursued me and yelled out, `Kill him, kill him!' and there was something rustling in the grass close by, and I thought that I was done for; but I dropped the goat and ran away. I dare say they have found the animal by this, and have eaten our meat. Never mind, though, better luck next time. I saw a fine fat white goat in the pen, which I am sure to catch to-morrow night." "Well, I am very sorry, but cheer your heart. You shall have an equal share with me of this. Let us bestir ourselves to cook it." They gathered sticks and made a fire, and began to roast it. When it was nearly ready Dog went outside, and took a stick and beat the ground, and whined out: "Oh! please, I did not do it. It was Leopard that killed the goat. Oh! don't kill me. It was Leopard who stole it." Leopard, hearing these cries and the blows of the stick, thought to himself: "Ah! the men have followed us to our den, and are killing Dog; then they will come and kill me if I do not run." He therefore ran out and escaped. Dog, on seeing him well away, coolly returned to the den and devoured the whole of the meat, leaving only the bones. After a long time Leopard returned to the den, and found Dog moaning piteously. "What is the matter, my friend?" he asked. "Ah! oh! don't touch me; don't touch me, I beg of you. I am so bruised and sore all over! Ah! my bones! They have half killed me," moaned Dog. "Poor fellow! Well, lie still and rest. There is nothing like rest for a bruised body. I will get that white goat the next time I try." After waiting two or three days, Leopard departed to obtain the white goat. Dog sneaked after him, and served his friend in the same way, bringing the white goat himself, and bragging how he had succeeded, while pretending to pity Leopard for his bad luck. Three times running Dog served him with the same trick, and Leopard was much mortified at his own failure. Then Leopard thought of the Muzimu-- the oracle who knows all things, and gives such good advice to those who are unfortunate and ask for his help--and he resolved, in his distress, to seek him. In the heart of the tall, dark woods, where the bush is most dense, where vines clamber over the clumps, and fold themselves round and round the trees, and hang in long coils by the side of a cool stream, the Muzimu resided. Leopard softly drew near the sacred place and cried, "Oh! Muzimu, have pity on me. I am almost dying with hunger. I used to be bold and strong, and successful, but now, of late, though I catch my prey as of old, something always happens to scare me away, and I lose the meat I have taken. Help me, O Muzimu, and tell how my good luck may return." After a while the Muzimu answered in a deep voice, "Leopard, your ill-luck comes from your own folly. You know how to catch prey, but it takes a dog to know how to eat it. Go; watch your friend, and your ill-luck will fly away." Leopard was never very wise, though he had good eyes, and was swift and brave, and he thought over what the Muzimu said. He could not understand in what way his good luck would return by watching his friend, but he resolved to follow the advice of the Muzimu. The next night Leopard gave out that he was going to seize a dun-coloured goat, and Dog said, "Ah! that is what I mean to do too. I think a dun-coated goat so sweet." The village was reached, a low place was found in the palings, and Leopard, as quick as you could wink, was over and among the goats. With one stroke he struck his victim dead, threw it over his shoulders, and, with a flying leap, carried it outside. Dog, who was hiding near the place, in a strange voice cried, "Ah! here he is--the thief of a Leopard! Kill him! kill him!" Leopard turning his head around, saw him in the grass and heard him yelp, "Awu-ou-ou! Awu-ou-ou! Kill him! kill him!" dropped the goat for an instant and said, "Ah, it is you, my false friend, is it? Wait a bit, and I will teach you how you may steal once too often." With eyes like balls of fire, he rushed at him, and would have torn him into pieces, but Dog's instinct told him that the game he had been playing was up, and burying his tail between his hind legs, he turned and fled for dear life. Round and round the village he ran, darting this way and that, until, finding his strength was oozing out of him, he dashed finally through a gap in the fence, straight into a man's house and under the bed, where he lay gasping and panting. Seeing that the man, who had been scared by his sudden entry, was about to take his spear to kill him, he crawled from under the bed to the man's feet, and licked them, and turned on his back imploring mercy. The man took pity on him, tied him up, and made a pet of him. Ever since Dog and Man have been firm friends, but a mortal hatred has existed between Dog and Leopard. Dog's back always bristles straight up when his enemy is about, and there is no truer warning of the Leopard's presence than that given by Dog--while Leopard would rather eat a dog than a goat any day. That is the way--as I heard it in Unyoro--that the chumship between Leopard and Dog was broken up. CHAPTER TWELVE. THE LEGEND OF THE CUNNING TERRAPIN AND THE CRANE. The following story of the cunning Terrapin and the Crane established Kadu's reputation among us, and the Zanzibaris were never so amused as on this evening. "Master," began Kadu, after we had made ourselves comfortable before a bright and crackling fire, "some men say that animals do not reason, and cannot express themselves, but I should like to know how it is that we perceive that there is great cunning in their actions, as though they calculated beforehand how to act, and what would be the result. We Waganda think animals are very clever. We observe the cock in the yard, and the hen with her chickens; the leopard, as he is about to pounce on his prey; the lion, as he is about to attack; the crocodile, as he prepares for his rush; the buffalo in the shade, as he awaits the hunter; the elephant, as he stands at attention; and we say to ourselves, how intelligent they are! Our legends are all founded on these things, and we interpret the actions of animals from having seen their methods; and I think men placed in the same circumstances could not have acted much better. It may appear to you, as though we were telling you mere idle tales to raise a laugh. Well, it may be very amusing to hear and talk about them, but it is still more amusing to watch the tricks of animals and insects, and our old men are fond of quoting the actions of animals to teach us, while we are children, what we ought to do. Indeed, there is scarcely a saying but what is founded upon something that an animal was seen to do at one time or another. "Now the story that I am about to relate, is a very old one in Uganda. I heard it when a child, and from the fact that a Terrapin was said to be so cunning, I have never liked to ill-treat a Terrapin, and every time I see one, the story comes to my mind in all its freshness." A Terrapin and a Crane were one time travelling together very sociably. They began their conversation by the Terrapin asking: "How is your family to-day, Miss Crane?" "Oh, very well. Mamma, who is getting old, complains now and then, that's all." "But do you know that it strikes me that she is very fat?" said Terrapin. "Now a thought has just entered my head, which I beg to propose to you. My mother, too, is ailing, and I am rather tired of hearing her complaints day after day; but she is exceedingly lean and tough, though there is plenty of her. I wonder what you will say to my plan? We are both hungry. So let us go and kill your mother, and eat her; and to-morrow, you will come to me, and we will kill my mother. We thus shall be supplied with meat for some days." Replied the Crane, "I like the idea greatly, and agree to it. Let us go about it at once, for hunger is an exacting mistress, and the days of fasting are more frequent than those of fulness." The matricides turned upon their tracks, and, arriving at the house of Mrs Crane, the two cruel creatures seized upon Mamma Crane, and put her to death. They then plucked her clean, and placed her body in the stew-pot, and both Terrapin and Crane feasted. Terrapin then crawled home, leaving Crane to sleep, and the process of digestion. But, alas! Crane soon became very ill. Whether some qualms of conscience disturbed digestion or not, I cannot say, but she passed a troublesome night, and for several days afterwards she did not stir from her house. Terrapin, on reaching the house of its mamma, which was in the hollow of a tree, cried out: "Tu-no-no-no!" upon which Mrs Terrapin said, "Oh, that is my child," and she let down a cord, to which young Terrapin made himself fast, and was assisted to the nest where the parent had already prepared a nice supper for him. Several days later, Terrapin was proceeding through the woods to the pool where he was accustomed to bathe, when at the water-side he met Miss Crane apparently quite spruce and strong again. She hailed Terrapin and said, "Oh, here you are, at last. I have been waiting to see you for some time." "Yes," replied Terrapin, "here I am, and you--how do you feel now? My neighbours told me you were very ill." "I am all right again," said Miss Crane, "but I think my old ma disagreed with me, and I was quite poorly for some days; but I am now anxious to know when you are going to keep your part of the bargain which we made." "What--you mean about the disposing of my old ma?" "Yes, to be sure," answered Crane, "I feel quite hungry." "Well, well. Bargains should always be kept, for if the blood-oath be broken misfortune follows. Your mother's death rests on my head, and I mean to return your hospitality with interest, otherwise, may my shell be soon empty of its tenant. Stay here awhile and I will bring her." So saying, Terrapin departed, and crept to where he had secretly stowed a quantity of india-rubber, in readiness for the occasion. After taking out quite a mass of it, he returned to the pond, where Miss Crane stood on one leg, expectant and winking pleasantly. "I fear, sister Crane," said Terrapin, as he laid his burden down, "that you will find my old ma tough. She turned out to be much leaner than I anticipated. There is no more fat on her bones, than there is on my back. But now, fall to, and welcome. There is plenty there. I am not hungry myself, as I have just finished my dinner." Miss Crane, with her empty stomach, was not fastidious, and stepped out eagerly to the feast so faithfully provided, and began to tear away at what Terrapin had brought. The rubber, however, stretched by the greedy Crane, suddenly flew from her foot, and rebounding, struck her in the face a smart blow. "Oh! oh!" cried Crane, confused with the blow. "Your old ma is most tough." "Yes, she is. I suspected she would prove a little tough," answered Terrapin, with a chuckle. "But don't be bashful. Eat away, and welcome." Again Miss Crane tugged at the rubber to tear it, but the more it was stretched, the more severe were the shocks she received, and her left eye was almost blinded. "Well, I never," exclaimed Miss Crane. "She is too tough altogether." "Try again," cried Terrapin. "Try again; little by little, it is said, a fly eats a cow's tail. You will get a rare and tender bit in time." Miss Crane thus pressed, did so, and seizing a piece lay back, and drew on it so hard that when the rubber at last slipped, it bounded back with such force, that she was sent sprawling to the ground. "Why, what is the matter?" asked Terrapin, pretending to be astonished. "She is tough, I admit; but loh! our family are famous for toughness. However, the tougher it is, the longer it lasts on the stomach. Try again, sister Crane; I warrant you will manage it next time." "Oh, bother your old ma. Eat her yourself. I have had enough of that kind of meat." "You give it up, do you?" cried Terrapin. "Well, well, it is a pity to throw good meat away. Maybe, if I keep it longer it will get tenderer by and by." They thus parted, Terrapin bearing his share of rubber away in one direction, and Miss Crane sadly disgusted, striding grandly off in another, but looking keenly about for something to satisfy her hunger. When she had gone a great distance a parrot flew across her path, and perching on a branch near her, cried out, "Oh, royal bird, say since when has rubber become the food of the bird-king's family?" "What do you mean, Parrot?" she asked. "Well, I saw you tearing at a piece of rubber just now, and when you marched off Terrapin carried it away, and I heard him say--because he has a habit of speaking his thoughts aloud--Oh, how stupid my sister Crane is! She thinks my ma is dead. Ho, ho, ho! what a stupid! And all the way he chuckled and laughed as though he was filled with plantain wine." "Is his ma not dead then?" asked Miss Crane. "Dead! Not a bit of it," replied Parrot. "I saw old Ma Terrapin but a moment ago as I flew by her tree, waiting for her son, and the cord is ready for his cry of `Tu-no-no-no. Ano-no-no. We-no-no-no!'" "Ah, Parrot, your words are good. When we know what another is saying behind our backs, we discover the workings of his heart. The words of Terrapin are like the bush that covers the trap. Good-by, Parrot. When we next meet, we shall have another story to tell." On the next day, Terrapin observed Miss Crane approaching his house, and he advanced a little way to meet her. "Well, sister Crane, I hope you are all right this morning?" he asked. "Oh yes, so so, brother Terrapin. But you must excuse me just now; I've heard bad news from my family. A brother and sister of mine are suddenly taken ill, and I am bound to go and visit them," answered Crane. "Ah, Miss Crane, that reminds me of my own brother and sister, who are much younger than I am, but very soft and tender. What do you say now to making another bargain?" asked Terrapin with a wink. "You are very good, Terrapin. I will think of it as I go along. I shall be back before noon to-morrow, and we will talk of a trade then." They were very civil to one another as they parted. Terrapin went for his usual walk to the pond, Miss Crane proceeded to visit her family, but muttered: "Ha, ha, Terrapin, you are great at a trade; but you will not make another with me in a hurry till our first one is squared." After she had gone a little way she turned suddenly round and came back to the foot of Terrapin's tree, and cried, "Tu-no-no-no. Ano-no-no-no. We-no-no-no!" "Ah, that is my child's voice," said Ma Terrapin to herself, and let down the cord. Miss Crane caught hold and climbed up towards the nest. Ma Terrapin craned her neck out far to welcome her child, but before she could discover by what means little Terrapin had changed its dress, Miss Crane struck Ma Terrapin with her long sharp bill in the place where the neck joins the shoulder, and in a short time Ma Terrapin was as dead as Miss Crane's own mother. The body was rolled from the nest, and it went falling down, and Miss Crane slid quickly after it. In a quiet place screened by thick bushes Miss Crane made a great fire, with which Ma Terrapin's thick shell was cracked. She then scooped out the flesh, and carried it to her own home, and stowed it in a big black pot. On the next day as Miss Crane was standing on one leg by the pond, with her head half buried in her feathers, who should come along but Terrapin, crying bitterly, and saying, "Ah, my ma is dead. My old ma has been killed. Who will assist me now?" Miss Crane affected to be asleep, but heard every word. When, however, Terrapin was near, she woke up suddenly and said, cheerfully, "Ah! it is Terrapin, my little brother Terrapin. How do you do to-day?" Now as Terrapin had already slain his mother, according to his own confession, it struck him that it would not do to accuse Miss Crane of the murder, because by doing so he would expose his breach of faith with her, but the scent of the roasted flesh of Ma Terrapin came strong just then, and he knew that it was Crane who, discovering his trick, had killed her. He managed, however, to reply briskly: "Sissy, dear, I am but tolerable. But how is your family to-day?" "My brother and sister are much improved, Terrapin. They are both as fat as tallow. By-the-bye, what about that trade you proposed to me?" "I am ready, Miss Crane, for a trade any day. When shall it be?" "No time so good as the present, and if you jog along to the other end of the pond, I will fix my house here, and soon catch up with you." Terrapin professed great delight, and toddled along; but when he had gone a little way his bad habit of thinking aloud came on him, and he was heard to say:-- "My poor ma! my poor ma is dead! O you wicked Crane! I know by the scent of the meat that you have killed my ma. What can I do now?" Miss Crane knew then that she had been discovered, and she began to think that it was time to remove to another district, for Terrapin had many friends in the woods, such as rabbits, jackals, lions, and serpents, and if Terrapin moaned so loud, all the people of the woods would know what she had done, and many would no doubt assist him to punish her. Casting about in her mind for the best place, she remembered an extremely tall tree which was not far from Terrapin's house, a very lofty clean-shafted tree, on the top of which she would be safe from surprise. Thither she hastily removed her belongings, and soon established herself comfortably. She had also provided herself with a store of strong sticks to be used as weapons in case of necessity. Terrapin meanwhile crawled along, moaning loudly his lamentations. Suddenly Rabbit popped out of the woods, and stood in his path. He soon was made aware of Terrapin's bereavement, and strongly sympathised with him. Terrapin related the story in such a way that made Miss Crane appear to be a murderess, against whom the people of the woods should take vengeance. "Then," said Rabbit, "that must be Miss Crane, who is building her house on the very top of that tall tree near your place." "Is she?" asked Terrapin. "I did not know that. She was to have met me here; but I see she knows that she is detected, and is already taking measures to protect herself. But, Rabbit, you who are always wise, tell me how I may avenge myself?" "There is only one way that I know of," answered Rabbit, dubiously. "Go to the Soko (Gorilla?), but he is a hard dealer who will make you pay handsomely for his help. Soko is the king of the ape kind. If you pay him well, he will fasten a cord to Crane's nest, up which you can climb when she is absent. Once there, lie quietly, and when she alights seize her." The plan pleased Terrapin immensely, and possessing a comfortable property upon the loss of his mother, he thought he had sufficient to purchase Soko's assistance. Through the good offices of Rabbit negotiations were entered into with Soko, who agreed for a potful of good nuts, ten bunches of ripe bananas, one hundred eggs, and sundry other trifles, to hang a stout rattan climber to Crane's nest, long enough to reach the ground. The royal bird was soon informed of the conspiracy against her by the Parrot, who loves to carry tales, and Miss Crane resolved to be absent from home while Soko was fastening the climber, but commissioned her friend the Parrot to observe the proceedings, and to report to her when Soko had completed his task. Soko performed his part expeditiously. Terrapin tested the strength of the rattan, and had to confess that Soko had earned his pay, and Rabbit accompanied Terrapin and Soko to Terrapin's house to see the Soko receive his commission. As they departed Parrot flew to inform Miss Crane, who immediately returned to her house to await her enemy. Not long after Terrapin came to the foot of Crane's tree and commenced to climb up. He had nearly reached the top when Miss Crane stood up and delivered such a thwacking blow on Terrapin's back that it caused him to loose his hold and fall to the ground. When Terrapin recovered his senses, he heard Miss Crane cry out-- "Ha! brother Terrapin, that was a nasty fall. You remember the rubber, don't you? There is nothing like the advice you gave me. Try again, Terrapin, my brother. Try again." "You killed my ma, did you not?" asked Terrapin. "I thought you told me that you had killed her according to agreement. Then how can you say that I killed her?" asked Miss Crane. "That was not my ma I gave you. It was only a lump of rubber." "Ho, ho! You confess it then? Well, we are now quits. You induced me to kill my ma, and as you could not keep your part of the bargain, I saved you the trouble. My ma was as much to me as your ma was to you. We have both lost our ma's now. So let us call it even, and be friends again." Terrapin hesitated, but the memory of his ma's loss soon produced the old bitterness, and he became as unforgiving as ever. Miss Crane must, however, be persuaded that the matter was forgiven, otherwise he would never have the opportunity to avenge his ma's death. "All right, Crane," he answered; "but let me come up, and embrace you over it, or do you descend and let us shake hands." "Come up, by all means, Terrapin. I am always at home to friends," said Miss Crane. Terrapin upon this began to climb, but as he was ascending he foolishly began to think aloud again, and he was heard saying-- "Oh, yes, sister Crane. Just wait a little, and you will see. He, he, he!" Miss Crane, who was quietly listening, heard Terrapin's chuckle and muttering, and prepared to receive him properly. When he was within reach, she cried, "Hold hard, Terrapin," and at once proceeded to shower mighty blows on his back, then laid the stick on his feet so sharply that, to protect them, he had to withdraw them into his shell, in doing which he lost his hold and fell to the ground with such force that to anything but a terrapin the great fall would have been instantly fatal. "Try again, Terrapin; try again, my brother. Another time and you will succeed," cried Miss Crane, mockingly. Terrapin slowly recovered his faculties from the second fall, and exclaimed, "Ah, Crane, Crane. If I heed you a second time, call me fool. Yesterday and to-day you triumphed, to-morrow will be my turn." "_Kwa-le, kwa-le_," Miss Crane shrilly cried. "My tree will stand to-morrow where it stood to-day. You know the way to it; if not, your hate will find it." Terrapin toddled away upon this to seek the Lion, to whom, when he had found him, he pleaded so powerfully that the Lion pitied him greatly, and answered, "I may not help you in this matter, for I was not made to climb trees. Go you, and tell Jackal your story, and he will be able to advise you." Acting on the friendly advice, Terrapin sought out the Jackal, to whom he repeated his lamentable tale. The Jackal rewarded him with a sympathetic sigh, and said, "Friend Terrapin, my teeth are sharp and my feet are swift, but, though I am so happily endowed, I have no wings to fly. Go and seek Elephant. His strength is so great that perhaps he will be able to pull the tree down for you." Terrapin proceeded on his way to search out the Elephant, and, after much patient travel, discovered him brooding under a thick shade. To him at once Terrapin unburdened his breast of its load of grief, and appealed piteously for his assistance. "Little Terrapin," replied the kindly Elephant, "your tale is dour. But though I am strong, there are some things that I cannot do. Miss Crane's house is built on one of the biggest trees of the forest, and it would require two score of elephants to drag it down. It is wisdom, and not strength, that you need. Go you and seek Serpent, and he will assist you." Thence Terrapin went to seek Serpent, and, after long seeking, found him coiled, in many shining folds, in the fork of a sturdy tree. "Ah, Serpent," he cried, "you are a kinsman of mine, and I have long sought you. I am in dire distress, my friend," and he proceeded to inveigh against Miss Crane passionately, and concluded by invoking his assistance. "Help me this day," cried Terrapin, "and you shall be my father and my mother, and all my nearest relations in one." "It is well," replied the Serpent, in his slow, deliberate manner. "Miss Crane shall die, and here I make a pact with you. There shall be no enmity for all future time between your family and mine. Go now, and rest in peace, for the fate of Crane is fixed." In the darkness of the night Serpent roused himself from his sleep and, uncoiling himself, descended the tree and glided noiselessly along the ground towards Miss Crane's tree. The tall clean shaft could not arrest those spiring movements, and the Serpent steadily ascended until he gained the fork. Thence, by an almost imperceptible motion, he advanced towards the nest. Poor Miss Crane was fast asleep, dreaming of the fall of Terrapin, while the Serpent folded his extremity around a stout branch and stood up prepared to strike. Quick as one could wink the Serpent flung himself upon the bird-queen, and in a moment she lay crushed and mangled. Then, seizing her body with his jaws, the Serpent slid down the shaft of the tree and sought Terrapin's house, and laid her remains before him. Terrapin was overjoyed, and invited Serpent to share with him the dainty feast which the body of Miss Crane supplied. From that day to this Serpent and Terrapin have remained close friends, and neither has ever been known to break the solemn agreement that was made between them on that day that Terrapin solicited the help of Serpent against the bird-queen. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. THE LEGEND OF KIBATTI THE LITTLE WHO CONQUERED ALL THE GREAT ANIMALS. I have done my very best to translate this story as closely as possible in order to give the faithful sense of what was said, yet I despair of rendering the little touches and flourishes which Kadu knew so well how to give with voice, gesture, and mobile face. "Friends and freemen," he said, when we were all in listening attitude, "if a son of man knows how to show anger, I need not tell you who are experienced in travel and in the nature of beasts, that the animals of the wilds also know how to show their spite and their passions." The legend of Kibatti runs upon this. On a day ages ago the great animals of the world, consisting of the elephant, the rhinoceros, the buffalo, the lion, the leopard, and hyena, assembled in council in the midst of a forest not far from a village on the frontier of Uganda. The elephant being acknowledged by general consent as the strongest, presided on the occasion. Waving his trunk, and trumpeting to enjoin silence, he said: "Friends, we are gathered together to-day to consider how we may repay in some measure the injuries daily done to us and our kin by the sons of men. Not far from here is situated a village, whence the vicious two-footed animals issue out to make war upon all of us, who possess double the number of feet they have. Without warning of hostility or publishing of cause, they deliberately leave their conical nests, day by day, with fellest intent against any of us whom they may happen to meet during the shining of the sun. Wherefore we are met upon common grounds to devise how we may retaliate upon them the wanton outrages they daily perpetrate upon our unfortunate kind. Personally, I have many injuries to the elephants of my tribe to remember, and which I am not likely to forget. It was only a week ago that a promising child of my sister fell into a deep pit, and was impaled on a short stake set in the bottom of it; and but a few days before my youngest brother fell head-foremost into a horribly deep excavation that was dug, and which was artfully concealed by leaves and grass, whereby none but those, like myself, experienced in their guileful arts, could have escaped. Ye have all, I daresay, been similarly persecuted, and have deep injuries to revenge. I wait to hear what ye propose. Brother Rhinoceros, thou art the next to me in bigness and strength, speak." "Well, brother Elephant and friends, the words we have heard are true. The son of man is, of all creatures that I know, the most wanton in offence against us of the four-footed tribes. Not a day passes but I hear moan and plaint from some sufferer. Not long ago, a cousin, walking quietly through a wood not far from here, caught his foot in a vine that lay across the path, and almost immediately after a hardened and pointed stake was precipitated from above deep into the jointure of the neck with the spine, which killed him instantly, of course. I have, by wonderful good luck, escaped thus far, but it may be my fate to fall to-morrow through some foul practice. Wherefore, I think it were well that we set about doing what we decide to do instanter. I propose that early in the morning, before a glint of sunshine be seen, we set upon the piratical nest and utterly destroy it. I am so loaded with hate of them, that I could dispose of the half of the rascals myself, before they could recover their wits. But if any of ye here has a better plan, I lend my ears to the hearing of it, my heart to the approval of it, and my strength and fury to the doing of it, without further speech. I have spoken." "Now, friend Lion," said the Elephant, turning solemnly to him, "it is thy turn, and say freely what thy wit conceives in this matter. Thy courage we all know, and none of us doubt that thy mind is equal to it." "Truly, friend Elephant, and ye others, the business we are met to consider is pressing. The sons of men are crafty, and their guile is beyond measure. The four-footed tribes have much cause of grievance against me and mine. However, none can accuse me or my family of having taken undue advantage of those whom we meditate striking. We always give loud warning, as you all know, and afterwards strike; for if we did not do this, few of even the strongest would escape our vengeance. But these pestilent, two-footed beasts--by net, trap, falling stake, pit, or noose--are unceasing in their secret malice, and there is no safety in the plain, bush, or rock-fastness against their wiles. For what I and my kin do there is good motive--that of providing meat for ourselves and young; but it passes my wit to discover what the son of man can want with all he destroys. Even our bones--as, for instance, thy long teeth, O Elephant--they carry away with them, and even mine. I have seen the younglings of mankind dangle the teeth of my sister round their necks, and my hide appears to be so precious that the king of the village wears it over his dirty black loins. Thy tribe, O Elephant, have not much cause of complaint against me, and thou, Rhinoceros, it would tax thy memory to accuse me of aught against thy family. Brother Leopard will hold me and mine guiltless of harm to him; so also must my cousin Hyena. Friend Buffalo and our family have sometimes a sharp quarrel, but there is no malice in it, I swear. Whereas the son of man, friends, is the common enemy of us all--it is either our flesh, or our fur, or our hide, or our teeth that he is wanting, and his whole thought is bent upon destruction pure and simple. If ye would follow me, I would glory in leading ye even now against the community, and I give ye my word that few would escape my paw and claw. However, as our object is to destroy all, that none may escape, I agree with my friend Rhinoceros that night-time at its blackest is safest. Wherefore believe me that I am so sharp set for revenge, and I feel so hollow, that nothing but the half of all of them will satisfy my thirst for their blood. I have ended my say." "Now, friend Leopard, thou hadst better follow thy cousin, and we will feel obliged to thee for the benefit of thy advice," said the Elephant. Leopard gave his tail a quick twirl, and licked his chops and spoke: "All that ye, my friends and cousin, have said, I heartily agree and bear witness to. The spite of the son of man towards us is limitless. It is remarkable, too, for its cold-bloodedness and lack of passion. We have our own quarrels in the woods--as ye all know--and they are sharp and quick while they last, but there is no premeditation or malignity in what we do to one another; but Man, to whom we would rather give a wide berth, if possible, pursues each of us as if his existence depended upon the mere slaying, though I observe that he has abundance of fruit, which ought to satisfy any reasonable being of the ape tribe. Wherefore, as I have many sharp reasons for retaliation on him for his countless offences against me and my kin, I gladly attended this council, and I will go as far as any of ye, and further if I can, to return some of this spite on him and his tribe. I propose that night at its darkest is best for our plan. While the human folk are indulging in dreams of slaughter of us, I vote that we turn their dreams into action against themselves. The elephant, and rhinoceros, and buffalo are strong; let each lead his tribe to attack, overturn, and trample down their nests. We, with our families, will range round and slaughter every one that escapes them. Those are my words." "Now, friend Buffalo, what sayest thou?" demanded the Elephant. "Thou art a staunch friend and stout foe. We cannot but listen with respect to such an one as thyself." "Ah, friend Elephant, and ye chiefs of tribes, every sentiment of hostility against the vile and spiteful sons of man that ye have expressed finds an echo in my inwards. If wrong has been done to any here, magnify that wrong tenfold in order that ye may understand the intensity of the hate I bear the remorseless destroyers of my kith and kin. Ask me not how I would slay them, my fury is so great that I am unfit to devise. Do ye the devising, and give the method to me. All I can think of now is the pleasure I shall feel when my horns are warmed in the bodies of the base and treacherous creatures who have murdered wife, brother, sister, and child of mine, besides a countless number of my kindred by lance and line, spear and snare, sword and stake, trick and trap. I will lead my herd into the midst of the vicious community with a joy that only my hate can match. That is all I have to say." "Now, my good friend Hyena. Thou art the only one left whose sentiments are as yet unknown. Speak, and let us hear wisdom from thee in this matter." The Hyena uttered a mocking laugh, and said: "My kind friends and cousins: The night suits me well, for I am in my element then. I may say that I have a large family which is always hungry. It will be a laughing matter to them indeed to hear of your good purpose. It has been long delayed, this signal measure of just vengeance upon those who have outdone in cold cruelty all that generations of the four-footed tribe of the fiercest kind have done. Bird and beast, from the smallest to the greatest, have fallen victims to man's lust for destruction. True, my kind are often indebted to man for bones and refuse, but what we have eaten has been sorely against his good will; and we therefore owe him no gratitude. The young of the human community will be juicy morsels for my tribe, when the signal is given for the attack. With all my heart I say let it be to-night. I have said my say." The Elephant then said: "Friends, chiefs of the most powerful tribes of the forest, let it be to-night, as ye say. Let each go and muster his forces, and let the attack be in the following manner. Half-way betwixt dawn and midnight I will lead my troop from the Uganda side. The Rhinoceros will lead his from the Katonga side. The Buffalo will range his tribe along that side facing Unyoro. Behind my troop the Hyena and his families shall follow to finish those who may be but bruised by our heavy hoofs. Let Leopard place his fellows and kin in rear of the Rhinoceros troop. Lion and his great tribe are needed in rear of Buffalo's forces, for they are apt in their fury to overlook the crafty bipeds. Our object is to make a complete job of it. The sooner we part now, the fitter each will be for the perfect consummation of his long-deferred revenge." It was well past midnight when the four-footed forces were gathered around the doomed village, and, at the shrill trumpet-note of the King Elephant, the several chiefs led their respective troops at the charge. The elephants tore on resistlessly, trampling down the doomed cages of the human folk flat and level with the ground. The rhinoceros and his host pushed on with noses low down, and tossed the human nests as we would kick an empty egg-basket; the buffaloes bellowed in unison, and, closing their eyes, threw themselves upon the huts, and gored everything within reach of their horns. Then the fierce carnivora, all excitement at the prospect of the bloody feast, roared, snarled, and laughed as they tore the mangled victims piecemeal. Ah, poor village, and poor people! In a short time the dreaming souls dreamed no more, but were gone past recall into the regions where dreams are unknown--all excepting one clever boy named Kibatti, and his parents, who survived the calamity. These happened to live in a tiny hut close hidden by a grove of bananas on the edge of the forest, and Kibatti about midnight had been disturbed in his sleep by a pressure on his stomach which woke him, and denied him further sleep. He therefore sat sorrowing over the red embers of his fire, when he heard the hollow tramp of large animals, and pricking his ears, he heard trampling in another direction; whereupon his suspicions that something unusual was about to happen grew on him, so that he woke his parents, and bade them listen to the rumbling sounds that could be heard by such experienced hunters all around them. "Father, come, delay not! make mother rise at once. This night my sleep has been broken as a warning to me that mischief is brewing. Let us ascend the big tree near by and observe." "Child, you are right," said his father, after listening a moment; "the demons of the wilderness are gathered against the village, for human enemies make no such stir as this. We will ascend the great tree at once." Thereupon he drew his wife out. Kibatti wriggled himself through the burrow under the milkweed hedge into the banana-grove, and having gained its deep shadows, raced for the great tree, closely followed by his parents. A large vine hung pendant, and up this vine Kibatti climbed, his mother after him, the old man last. Not a moment too soon, for just then the trumpet-note of the King Elephant was heard, and afterwards such a concert of noises that neither Kibatti nor his aged father had ever heard the like before. In the starlight they saw the huge forms of all kinds of furious animals pass and repass below them; but clinging closely to the shelter of the giant limbs of the tree, they, from their safe perch, witnessed the dreadful ending of their friends and relatives. When he fully realised the catastrophe and its completeness, Kibatti suggested to his parents that they should ascend to the very highest fork, lest they should be observed in the morning, and on climbing up they found a snug hiding-place far above, hidden all round by the thick, fleshy leaves of the tree. There they remained quiet until morning, when the boy's restless curiosity became so strong that he resolved to gratify it. Grasping close a great limb of the tree, he descended as far as the lower fork and looked down. He saw all the huts smashed, and the bones of his tribe white and gleaming, scattered about. The fences were all levelled, but the elephants, under their leader, were re-setting the poles round about. The lions were pacing watchfully around, the rhinoceroses and buffaloes were herded separately, gazing upon the elephants, the leopards were lying down under the trees in scattered groups, the hyenas were crunching bones, for these last never know when they have eaten enough. Kibatti kept his post all day. By night the poles fenced the village round about as before, and in the dusk he saw the gathering together of all the creatures in a circle round the King Elephant, to hear his rumbling voice delivering an harangue to the motley allies. When it was ended the lions roared, the rhinoceroses snorted, the buffaloes bellowed, the hyenas laughed, and the shrill trumpetings of the elephants announced that the meeting was over. What occurred after, Kibatti did not stay to learn, but climbed aloft to give the news to his anxious parents. Said he, "It appears to me, father, that they are going to build the village up again, for they have already fenced it around even better, as I think, than it was before. Those animals have clever leaders, that is certain, but I am not a man-son if Kibatti does not get the better of some of them." "Oh, you are clever, my child, that is true," said the old man. "Whatever you undertake to do, done it is. I have found out that long ago. If wit will get us out of this place of danger, I have a conviction it will be by yours, and not by mine, or by my old woman's." "I do not purpose to leave the tree just yet, father," replied Kibatti. "If we keep quiet, we could not find a safer place than here. The tree is so tall that they cannot hear us talk unless they set their ears to listen at the foot of it, and against all that may happen we must provide ourselves." "Give your confidence to me, boy, and let me judge of your plan," said the father. "Well, my idea is this. To-night they will all start off, some to catch the lesser prey, others to graze and feed. The leaders, of course, will remain behind. I propose, after getting three or four winks of sleep, to go down to the gate and discover how things are. If possible, I will try and get my net-ropes. They will be useful for my purpose. We may trap some game, you know." "I see, I see, my boy. That is a good idea. Shall I help you?" "Not to-night, father, except you keep watch until yonder bright star stands overhead." The old man agreed to keep watch until the star approached the zenith. A little after midnight Kibatti was waked, and having given his father injunctions to go to sleep, he descended. He proceeded straight to his house, and among the wreckage he found his strong nets and their ropes, and his sharp hunting-knife, besides his father's five spears and his own quiver. These weapons he conveyed directly to the tree, and bore them up to the lower fork. This done, he re-descended the tree and crawled away to a bit of marsh-land not far off, where there was a crane's nest which contained some eggs. He took these in his hand, and went around through the bushes to the Unyoro Road. All this had been done very quickly, because, being a hunter, he knew the neighbourhood well, and while watching the animals in the village, his mind had been busy forming his plans. Now when he came to the Unyoro Road, he stood straight up and strode rapidly in the direction of the village which had been that of his tribe. Arriving near it he crawled up to the gate and looked in, then traced the fence all around until he came back to the same gate. Kibatti now stood up and hailed the animals, crying loud, "Hullo, hullo there! Are ye all asleep? Will ye not let a poor benighted stranger in? The night is cold, and I am hungry." King Buffalo, who was on guard, trotted up to the gate, and looking out saw a small boy who was naked, except for a scant robe which depended from his shoulders. "Who art thou?" demanded the buffalo in his gruffest voice. Kibatti answered in the thin voice of a fatherless and starving orphan. "It is I, Kibatti the Little, from Unyoro." "What dost thou want?" "Only a little fire to roast my eggs, and a place to sleep. I am a forest-boy, and live alone in Unyoro. My parents are both dead, and I have no home. If you will give me work I will stay with you; for then I shall have plenty to eat. If not, let me sleep here to-night, and in the morning I will go." "What work canst thou do?" "Not much, but I can fetch water and fuel." "Wait a minute, I will see if our people will let thee in." The buffalo moved away and woke up the rhinoceros, the elephant, the lion, the leopard, and hyena, and told them that there was a little forest-boy seeking a night's lodging. At first the general belief was, that he belonged to the tribe which had owned the village, but the buffalo denied that this boy could have known of the country, as he had come boldly up to the gate from the Unyoro road; besides, was it likely that a small boy, knowing what had happened, would ever have come back when those who had destroyed the village were in possession of it? This last remark settled the matter. King Elephant said, "As thou wilt, Buffalo. Even if the matter were otherwise, a small boy can do no harm. Let him in. We will give him plenty of work." King Buffalo opened the gate and allowed Kibatti to enter, and introduced him to his friends, King Elephant and the rest, all of whom smiled as they saw his slender and small form, the only human amongst them. Buffalo took very kindly to his protege and showed him around, while Kibatti amused him with his innocent unsophisticated prattle, which convinced the kingly bovine that little Kibatti was indeed a wild-wood waif. "And where do you all sleep?" asked Kibatti of Buffalo. "I sleep here, near the gate, King Elephant rests near that big tree. King Lion prefers lying near that great log there, Brother Rhinoceros throws himself down on the edge of the banana-grove, Leopard curls himself near the fence, and Hyena snores stupidly near his pile of bones." After a little while Buffalo lay down near the gate for a little rest. Kibatti stretched himself near him, but not to sleep. His eyes were quite open, and he soon saw Buffalo's nose rest upon the ground and his head sway from side to side. Kibatti then untied a cord, and stealthily passing it round the four legs of the buffalo, drew the other end round the neck in a slip noose without waking him. He then crawled off towards the elephant, and tied his four legs together, gently tightening the slip noose, and fastening the rope three or four times running round, and brought them all together. To the rhinoceros he did the same. He then went out of the gate and brought his bundle of nets. He took one up, fastened one end to the fence, and drawing it lightly like a curtain over the form of the sleeping lion, just hung it on splinters and projections of the fence. In like manner he secured a net over the leopard, and another over the hyena. All this did clever little Kibatti without waking any of them. He then stole out of the gate a second time, and made his way to the tree where his parents were sleeping. "Come, father," he said, "the kings of the herds are trapped and netted. Bring down mother to the lower fork, and come, do you hasten with me with a bundle of spears, two bows, and quivers full of arrows, for we must finish the game before morning." Completely armed with spears and arrows, Kibatti led his father to the gate, and stealthily entered the fenced enclosure, and they stood over the still-sleeping buffalo. Kibatti gave his father a sharp-pointed spear, and gently laying his finger on the vital spot, between neck and head, showed him where to strike. The father lifted his right arm high up, and with one stroke severed the spinal cord. A shiver passed through King Buffalo's body, and he rolled over stone dead. Then Kibatti and his father approached King Lion, who lay lengthways near the log by the fence, with his side exposed. Kibatti pointed to his own left side behind the shoulder-blade, and father and son drew their bows and drove two arrows into Lion's heart, who sprang up and threw himself like a ball into the net, which closed round him taut, and he presently lay still and lifeless. In the same manner father and son despatched Leopard and Hyena. There then only remained Rhinoceros and Elephant. They chose to attack the first-named beast, who was still lying down on his side, unconscious of the tragic fate of his confederates. Kibatti pointed to the enemy's fore-shoulder and touched his father with his finger two inches below the shoulder-blade. His father understood, and launched his spear straight into the body with such force that the blade was buried. King Rhinoceros, feeling the iron in his vitals, snorted and struggled to stand, but in doing so tightened the cords, and fell back rolling half over. Kibatti drew his bow and buried an arrow close to his father's buried spear. Meantime, King Elephant had taken the alarm, and, struggling with his bonds, had capsized himself on the ground. Kibatti gave vent to a war whoop and cried: "Never mind, father, let the rhinoceros die. Let us away to the elephant while he is helpless." They sprang to the prostrate beast, and they shot their arrows first to every vital point exposed, and then launched their spears with such good effect that before long the last of the kings of the beasts had ended his life. Kibatti and his father then flew to where the old woman crouched in the fork of the tree, and taking her with them, they left the ruined village, and sought a home in another district, where, because of the terrible revenge they had taken on the forest lords, they were held by their fellow-creatures all their lives in great esteem. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE PARTNERSHIP OF RABBIT AND ELEPHANT, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. In 1876, while we were travelling towards the Albert Edward Nyanza, Sabadu and Bujomba and others of our Waganda escort would join us at our evening fire, and when they found what entertainment was to be had, they readily yielded to the invitation to contribute their share to it. Besides, Sabadu was unequalled in the art of story-telling: he was fluent and humorous, while his mimicry of the characters he described kept everybody's interest on the alert. To the Rabbit of course he gave a wee thin voice, to the Elephant he gave a deep bass, to the Buffalo a hollow mooing. When he attempted the Lion, the veins of his temple and neck were dreadfully distended as he made the effort; but when he mimicked the Dog, one almost expected a little terrier-like dog to trot up to the fire, so perfect was his yaup-yaup. Every one agreed as Sabadu began his story that his manner, even his style of sitting and smoothing his face, the pose of his head, betrayed the man of practice. The following is his story:-- In Willimesi, Uganda, a Rabbit and an Elephant, coming from different directions, met on a road one day, and being old friends, stopped to greet one another, and chat about the weather and the crops, and to exchange opinions on the state of trade. Finally the Rabbit proposed that the Elephant should join him in a partnership to make a little trading expedition to the Watusi shepherds, "because," said he, "I hear there are some good chances to make profit among them. Cloth, I am told, is very scarce there, and I think we might find a good bargain awaiting us." The Elephant was nothing loth, and closed with the offer of his little friend, and a couple of bales of assorted goods were prepared for the journey. They set out on particularly good terms with each other, and Rabbit, who had a good store of experiences, amused the Elephant greatly. By-and-by the pair of friends arrived at a river, and the Elephant, to whom the water was agreeable, stepped in to cross it, but halted on hearing Rabbit exclaim: "Why, Elephant, you surely are not going to cross without me? Are we not partners?" "Of course we are partners, but I did not agree to carry you or your pack. Why don't you step right in? The water is not deep, it scarcely covers my feet." "But, you stupid fellow, can you not see that what will scarcely cover your feet is more than enough to drown me, and I can't swim a bit; and, besides, if I get my fur wet I shall catch the ague, and how ever am I to carry my pack across?" "Well, I cannot help that. It was you who proposed to take the journey, and I thought a wise fellow like you would have known that there were rivers running across the road, and that you knew what to do. If you cannot travel, then good-bye. I cannot stop here all day," and the Elephant walked on across to the other side. "Surly rascal," muttered Rabbit. "All right, my big friend, I will pay you for it some time." Not far off, however, Rabbit found a log, and after placing his pack on it, he paddled himself over, and reached the other bank safely; but to his grief he discovered that his bale had been wetted and damaged. Rabbit wiped the water up as much as possible, and resumed the journey with the Elephant, who had looked carelessly on the efforts of his friend to cross the river. Fortunately for Rabbit, the latter part of the journey did not present such difficulties, and they arrived in due time among the Watusi shepherds. Now at a trade Elephant was not to be compared with Rabbit, for he could not talk so pleasantly as Rabbit, and he was not at all sociable. Rabbit went among the women, and laughed and joked with them, and said so many funny things, that they were delighted with him, and when at last the trade question was cautiously touched upon, a chief's wife was so kind to him, that she gave a mighty fine cow in exchange for his little bale of cloth. Elephant, on the other hand, went among the men, and simply told them that he had come to buy cattle with cloth. The Watusi shepherds, not liking his appearance or his manner, said they had no cattle to sell, but if he cared to have it, they would give a year-old heifer for his bale. Though Elephant's bale was a most weighty one, and many times more valuable than Rabbit's, yet as he was so gruff and ugly, he was at last obliged to be satisfied with the little heifer. Just as they had left the Watusi to begin their return journey, Elephant said to Rabbit, "Now mind, should we meet anyone on the road, and we are asked whose cattle these are, I wish you to oblige me by saying that they are mine, because I should not like people to believe that I am not as good a trader us yourself. They will also be afraid to touch them if they know they belong to me; whereas, if they hear that they belong to you, every fellow will think he has as good a right to them as yourself, and you dare not defend your property." "Very well," replied Rabbit, "I quite understand." In a little while, as Rabbit and Elephant drove their cattle along, they met many people coming from market who stopped and admired them, and said, "Ah, what a fine cow is that! to whom does it belong?" "It belongs to me," answered the thin voice of Rabbit. "The little one belongs to Elephant." "Very fine indeed. A good cow that," replied the people, and passed on. Vexed and annoyed, Elephant cried angrily to Rabbit, "Why did you not answer as I told you? Now mind, do as I tell you at the next meeting with strangers." "Very well," answered Rabbit, "I will try and remember." By-and-by they met another party going home with fowls and palm wine, who, when they came up, said, "Ah that is a fine beast, and in prime order. Whose is it?" "It is mine," quickly replied Rabbit, "and the little scabby heifer belongs to Elephant." This answer enraged Elephant, who said, "What an obstinate little fool you are. Did you not hear me ask you to say it was mine? Now, remember, you are to say so next time, or I leave you to find your own way home, because I know you are a horrible little coward." "Very well, I'll do it next time," replied Rabbit in a meek voice. In a short time they met another crowd, which stopped when opposite to them, and the people said, "Really, that is an exceedingly fine cow. To which of you does it belong?" "It is mine. I bought it from the Watusi," replied Rabbit. The Elephant was so angry this time, that he broke away from Rabbit, and drove his little heifer by another road, and to Lion, and Hyena, and Buffalo, and Leopard, whom he met, he said what a fine fat cow was being driven by cowardly little Rabbit along the other road. He did this out of mere spite, hoping that some one of them would be tempted to take it by force from Rabbit. But Rabbit was wise, and had seen the spite in Elephant's face as he went off, and was sure that he would play him some unkind trick; and, as night was falling and his home was far, and he knew that there were many vagabonds lying in wait to rob poor travellers, he reflected that if his wit failed to save him he would be in great danger. True enough, it was not long before a big blustering lion rose from the side of the road, and cried out, "Hello, you there. Where are you going with that cow? Come, speak out." "Ah, is that you, Lion? I am taking it to Mugassa (the deity), who is about to give a feast to all his friends, and he told me particularly to invite you to share it, if I should meet you." "Eh? What? To Mugassa? Oh, well, I am proud to have met you, Rabbit. As I am not otherwise engaged I will accompany you, because everyone considers it an honour to wait upon Mugassa." They proceeded a little further, and a bouncing buffalo came up and bellowed fiercely. "You, Rabbit, stop," said he. "Where are you taking that cow to?" "I am taking it to Mugassa, don't you know. How would a little fellow like me have the courage to go so far from home if it were not that I am on service for Mugassa? I am charged also to tell you, Buffalo, that if you like to join in the feast Mugassa is about to give, he will be glad to have you as a guest." "Oh, well, that is good news indeed. I will come along now, Rabbit, and am very glad to have met you. How do you do, Lion?" A short distance off the party met a huge rogue elephant, who stood in the middle of the road, and demanded to know where the cow was being taken, in a tone which required a quick answer. "Now, Elephant, get out of the way. This cow is being taken to Mugassa, who will be angry with you if I am delayed. Have you not heard of the feast he is about to give? By the bye, as you are one of the guests, you might as well help me to drive this cow, and let me get on your back, for I am dreadfully tired." "Why, that's grand," said the Elephant, "I shall be delighted to feast with Mugassa, and--come get on my back. I will carry you with pleasure. And, Rabbit," whispered Elephant, as he lifted him by his trunk, "don't forget to speak a good word for me to Mugassa." Soon a leopard and then a hyena were met, but seeing such a powerful crowd behind the cow, they affected great civility, and were invited to accompany Rabbit's party to Mugassa's feast. It was quite dark by the time they arrived at Rabbit's village. At the gate stood two dogs, who were Rabbit's chums, and they barked furiously; but hearing their friend's voice, they came up and welcomed Rabbit. The party halted, and Rabbit, after reaching the ground, whispered to Dogs how affairs stood, and Dogs wagged their tails approvingly, and yauped with fun as they heard of Rabbit's wit. It did not take long for Dogs to understand what was required of them, and one of them bounded off to the village, and after a short time returned with a pretended message from the great Mugassa. "Well, my friends, do you hear what Mugassa says?" cried Rabbit, with a voice of importance. "Dogs are to lay mats inside the village by the gate, and the cow is to be killed, and the meat prepared nicely and laid on the mats. And when that is done, Mugassa himself will come and give each his portion. He says that you are all very welcome. "Now listen to me before I go in to Mugassa, and I will show you how you can all help to hurry the feast, for I am sure you are all anxious to begin. "You, Hyena, you must kill the cow, and dress the meat, and Dogs will carry it in and lay it on the mats; but remember, if a bit is touched before Mugassa commands, we are all ruined. "You, Elephant, you take this brass hatchet of Mugassa's, and split wood nicely for the hearth. "Buffalo, you go and find a wood with a smooth bark and which burns well, and bring it to Elephant. "Leopard, you go to the banana plantation, and watch for the falling leaf and catch it with your eyelids, in order that we may have proper plates. "Lion, my friend, do you go and fill this pot from the spring, and bring water that Mugassa may wash his hands." Having issued his instructions, Rabbit went strutting into the village; but after he had gone a little way he darted aside, and passing through a side door, went out and came creeping up towards an ant-hill. On the top was a tuft of grass, and from his hiding-place he commanded a view of the gate, and of all who might come near it. Now Buffalo could only find one log with smooth bark, and Dogs shouted out to Buffalo that one log was not enough to roast or to boil the meat, and he returned to hunt up some more. Elephant struck the log with his brass hatchet, which was broken at the first blow, and there was nothing else with which to cut the wood. Leopard watched and watched for falling leaves, but failed to see any. Lion's pot had a hole in the bottom, and he could never keep it full, though he tried ever so many times. Meanwhile Hyena having killed the cow and dressed the meat beautifully, said to Dogs, "Now, my friends, the meat is ready. What shall I do?" "You can help us carry the meat in, and lay it on the mats, if you like, for Mugassa must see it before anybody can touch it." "Ah, but I feel extremely hungry, and my mouth waters so that I am sick with longing. May we not go shares and eat a little bit? It looks very nice and fat," whined the Hyena. "Ah, no, we should not dare do such a thing. We have long ago left the woods, and its habits, and are unfit for anything but human society; but if you were allowed to eat any, you could fly into the woods, and we should have all the blame. No, no, come, help us carry it inside. You will not have to wait long." The Hyena was obliged to obey, but contrived to hide in the grass some of the tripe. Rabbit, from behind his tuft of grass, saw it all, and winked in the dark. When the meat was in, Dogs said, "It is all right now. Just stay outside until the other fellows arrive." Hyena retired, and when he was outside of the gate searched for his tripe, and lay down quietly to enjoy it, but as he was about to bite it, Rabbit screamed, "Ah, you thief, Hyena. You thief, I see you. Stop thief, Mugassa is coming." These cries so alarmed Hyena that he dropped his tripe, and fled away as fast as his legs could carry him, and the others, Buffalo, Elephant, Lion, and Leopard, tired out with waiting, and hearing these alarming cries, also ran away, leaving Rabbit and his dog friends in quiet possession. They carried the tripe into the village, and closed the gate and barred it, after which they laughed loud and long, Rabbit rolling on the ground over and over with the fun of it all. My friends, Rabbit was the smallest of all, but by his wisdom he was more than a match for two Elephants, Buffalo, Leopard, Lion, Hyena, and all. And even his friends, the Dogs, had to confess that Rabbit's wit could not be matched. That is my tale. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THE ADVENTURES OF SARUTI. "I have a poor memory for legends," said Bujomba, one night, while we were in camp at Benga: "but I remember what a young Mtongole (colonel) named Saruti related to Mtesa after his return from an expedition to the frontier of Unyoro. What a head that man had, and such eyes! Mtesa was ever fond of a good story, and loved to question those whom he sent to distant countries, until you might say that there was nothing left in a man worth hearing after he had done with him. But Saruti did not need any questioning. He talked on and on without stopping, until Mtesa could not sit up longer for sheer weariness. These are among the things he said that he had witnessed on his journey. You must not ask me if I believe all that he said. All I can say is that they might have happened, or been seen by many men, but I never could quite understand how it was that Saruti alone was so lucky as to see all the things he talked about. Anyhow, he was very amusing, and Mtesa laughed heartily many times as he listened to him." Kabaka, I think my charms which my father suspended round my neck must be very powerful. I am always in luck. I hear good stones on my journey, I see strange things which no one else seems to have come across. Now on this last journey, by the time I reached Singo, I came to a little village, and as I was drinking banana wine with the chief, he told me that there were two lions near his village who had a band of hyenas to serve as soldiers under them. They used to send them out in pairs, sometimes to one district, and sometimes to another, to purvey food for them. If the peasants showed fight, they went back and reported to their masters, and the lions brought all their soldiers with them, who bothered them so that they were glad to leave a fat bullock tied to a tree as tribute. Then the lions would take the bullock and give orders that the peasant who paid his tribute should be left in peace. The chief declared this to be a fact, having had repeated proof of it. At the next place, which is Mbagwe, the man Buvaiya, who is in charge, told me that when he went a short time before to pay his respects to the Muzimu (the oracle) of the district, he met about thirty _kokorwa_ on the road, hunting close together for snakes, and that as soon as they saw him, they charged at him, and would have killed him had he not run up a tree. He tells me that though they are not much bigger than rabbits, they are very savage, and make travelling alone very dangerous. I think they must be some kind of small dogs. Perhaps the old men of the court may be better able to tell you what they are. At the next village of Ngondo a smart boy named Rutuana was brought to me, who was said to have been lately playing with a young friend of the same age at long stick and little stick (tip-cat?). His friend hit the little stick, and sent it a great way, and Rutuana had to fetch it from the long grass. While searching for it, one of those big serpents which swallow goats and calves caught him, and coiled itself around him. Though he screamed out for help, Rutuana laid his stick across his chest, and clutching hold of each end with a hand, held fast to it until help came. His friend ran up a tree, and only helped him by screaming. As the serpent could not break the boy's hold of the stick, he was unable to crush his ribs, because his outstretched arms protected them; but when he was nearly exhausted the villagers came out with spears and shields. These fellows, however, were so stupid that they did not know how to kill the serpent until Rutuana shouted to them: "Quick! draw your bows and shoot him through the neck." A man stepped forward then, and when close to him pierced his throat with the arrow, and as the serpent uncoiled himself to attack the men, Rutuana fell down. The serpent was soon speared, and the boy was carried home. I think that boy will become a great warrior. At the next village the peasants were much disturbed by a multitude of snakes which had collected there for some reason. They had seen several long black snakes which had taken lodging in the anthills. These had already killed five cows, and lately had taken to attacking the travellers along the road that leads by the anthills, when an Arab, named Massoudi, hearing of their trouble, undertook to kill them. He had some slaves with him, and he clothed their legs with buffalo hide, and placed cooking-pots on their heads, and told them to go among the anthills. When the snakes came out of their holes he shot them one by one. Among the reptiles he killed were three kinds of serpents which possessed horns. The peasants skinned them, and made bags of them to preserve their charms. One kind of horned snake, very thick and short, is said to lay eggs as large as those of fowls. The _mubarasassa_, which is of a greyish colour, is also said to be able to kill elephants. I then went to Kyengi, beyond Singo, and the peasants, on coming to gossip with me, rather upset me with terrible stories of the mischief done by a big black leopard. It seems that he had first killed a woman, and had carried the body into the bush; and another time had killed two men while they were setting their nets for some small ground game. Then a native hunter, under promise of reward from the chief, set out with two spears to kill him. He did not succeed, but he said that he saw a strange sight. As he was following the track of the leopard, he suddenly came to a little jungle, with an open space in the middle. A large wild sow, followed by her litter of little pigs, was rooting about, and grunting as pigs do, when he saw the monstrous black leopard crawl towards one of the pigs. Then there was a shrill squeal from a piggie, and the mother, looking up, discovered its danger, at which it furiously charged the leopard, clashing her tusks and foaming at the mouth. The leopard turned sharp round, and sprang up a tree. The sow tried to jump up after it, but being unable to reach her enemy in that way, she set about working hard at the roots. While she was busy about it the peasant ran back to obtain a net and assistants, and to get his hunting-dog. When he returned, the sow was still digging away at the bottom of the tree, and had made a great hole all round it. The pigs, frightened at seeing so many men, trotted away into the bush, and the hunter and his friends prepared to catch the leopard. They pegged the net all about the tree, then let loose the dog, and urged him towards the net. As he touched the net, the hunters made a great noise, and shouted, at which the leopard bounded from the tree, and with one scratch of his paw ripped the dog open, sprang over the net, tapped one of the men on the shoulder, and was running away, when he received a wound in the shoulder, and stopped to bite the spear. The hunters continued to worry him, until at last, covered with blood, he lay down and died. One day's journey beyond Kyengi, I came to the thorn-fenced village of some Watusi shepherds, who, it seems, had suffered much from a pair of lion cubs, which were very fierce. The headman's little boy was looking after some calves when the cubs came and quietly stalked him through the grass, and caught him. The headman took it so much to heart, that as soon as he heard the news he went straight back to his village and hanged himself to a rafter. The Watusi love their families very much, but it seems to be a custom with these herdsmen that if a man takes his own life, the body cannot be buried, and though he was a headman, they carried it to the jungle, and after leaving it for the vultures, they returned and set fire to his hut, and burnt it to the ground. When they had done that, the Watusi collected together and had a long hunt after the young lions, but as yet they have not been able to find them. When the sun was half-way up the sky, I came from Kyengi to some peasants, who lived near a forest which is affected by the man-monkeys called nzike (gorilla?). I was told by them that the nzike know how to smoke and make fire just as we do. It is a custom among the natives, when they see smoke issuing through the trees, for them to say, "Behold, the nzike is cooking his food." I asked them if it were true that the nzike carried off women to live with them, but they all told me that it was untrue, though the old men sometimes tell such stories to frighten the women, and keep them at home out of danger. Knowing that I was on the king's business, they did not dare tell me their fables. By asking them all sorts of questions, I was shown to a very old man with a white beard, with whom I obtained much amusement. It appears he is a great man at riddles, and he asked me a great many. One was, "What is it that always goes straight ahead, and never looks back?" I tried hard to answer him, but when finally he announced that it was a river, I felt very foolish. He then asked me, "What is it that is bone outside and meat within?" The people laughed, and mocked me. Then he said that it was an egg, which was very true. Another question he gave me was, "What is it that looks both ways when you pass it?" Some said one thing, and some said another, and at last he answered that it was grass. Then he asked me, "What good thing was it which a man eats, and which he constantly fastens his eyes upon while he eats, and after eating, throws a half away?" I thought and considered, but I never knew what it was until he told me that it was a roasted ear of Indian corn. That old man was a very wise one, and among some of his sayings was that "When people dream much, the old moon must be dying." He also said that "When the old moon is dying, the hunter need never leave home to seek game, because it is well known that he would meet nothing." And he further added, that at that time the potter need not try to bake any pots, because the clay would be sure to be rotten. Some other things which he said made me think a little of their meaning. He said, "When people have provisions in their huts, they do not say, Let us go into another man's house and rob him." He also said, "When you see a crook-back, you do not ask him to stand straight, nor an old man to join the dance, nor the man who is in pain, to laugh." And what he said about the traveller is very true. The man who clings to his own hearth does not tickle our ears, like him who sees many lands, and hears new stories. The next day I stopped at a village near the little lake of Kitesa's called Mtukura. The chief in charge loved talking so much, that he soon made me as well acquainted with the affairs of his family as though he courted my sister. His people are accustomed to eat frogs and rats, and from the noise in the reeds, and the rustling and squealings in the roof of the hut I slept in, I think there is little fear of famine in that village. Nor are they averse, they tell me, to iguanas and those vile feeders, the hyenas. It is a common belief in the country that it was Naraki, a wife of Uni, a sultan of Unyoro, who made that lake. While passing through, she was very thirsty, and cried out to her Muzimu (spirit), the Muzimu which attends the kings of Unyoro, and which is most potent. And all at once there was a hissing flight of firestones (meteorites) in the air, and immediately after, there was a fall of a monstrously large one, which struck the ground close to her, and made a great hole, out of which the water spurted and continued leaping up until a lake was formed, and buried the fountain out of sight, and the rising waters formed a river, which has run north from the lake ever since into the Kafu. Close by this lake is a dark grove, sacred to Muzingeh, the king of the birds. It is said that he has only one eye, but once a year he visits the grove, and after building his house, he commands all the birds from the Nyanzas and the groves, to come and see him and pay their homage. For half a moon the birds, great and small, may be seen following him about along the shores of the lake, like so many guards around a king; and before night they are seen returning in the same manner to the grove. The parrots' cries tell the natives when they come, and no one would care to miss the sight, and the glad excitement among the feathered tribe. But there is one bird, called the Kirurumu, that refuses to acknowledge the sovereignty of the Muzingeh. The other birds have tried often to induce him to associate with the Muzingeh; but Kirurumu always answers that a beautiful creature like himself, with gold and blue feathers, and such a pretty crest, was never meant to be seen in the company of an ugly bird that possesses only one eye. On the other side of Lake Mtukura is a forest where Dungu, the king of the animals, lives. It is to Dungu that all the hunters pray when they set out to seek for game. He builds first a small hut, and after propitiating him with a small piece of flesh, he asks Dungu that he may be successful. Then Dungu enters into the hunter's head, if he is pleased with the offering, and the cunning of the man becomes great; his nerves stiffen, and his bowels are strengthened, and the game is secured. When Dungu wishes a man to succeed in the hunt, it is useless for the buffalo to spurn the earth and moo, or for the leopard to cover himself with sand in his rage--the spear of the hunter drinks his blood. But the hunter must not forget to pay the tribute to the deity, lest he be killed on the way home. The friendly chief insisted that I should become his blood-fellow, and stay with him a couple of days. The witch-doctor, a man of great influence in the country, was asked to unite us. He took a sharp little knife, and made a gash in the skin of my right leg, just above the knee, and did the same to the chief, and then rubbed his blood over my wound, and my blood over his, and we became brothers. Among his gifts was this beautiful shield, which I beg Mtesa, my Kabaka, to accept, because I have seen none so beautiful, and it is too good for a colonel whose only hope and wish is to serve his king. I am glad that I rested there, because I saw a most wonderful sight towards evening. As we were seated under the bananas, we heard a big he-goat's bleat, and by the sound of it we knew that it was neither for fun nor for love. It was a tone of anger and fear. Almost at the same time, one of the boys rushed up to us, and his face had really turned grey from fear, and he cried, "There is a lion in the goat-pen, and the big he-goat is fighting with him." They had forgotten to tell me about this famous goat, which was called Kasuju, after some great man who had been renowned in war, and he certainly was worth speaking about, and Kasuju was well known round about for his wonderful strength and fighting qualities. When we got near the pen with our spears and shields, the he-goat was butting the lion--who was young, for he had no mane--as he might have butted a pert young nanny-goat, and baaing with as full a note as that of a buffalo calf. It appears that Kasuju saw the destroyer creeping towards one of his wives, and dashing at his flank knocked him down. As we looked on from the outside, we saw that Kasuju was holding his own very well, and we thought that we would not check the fight, but prepare ourselves to have a good cast at the lion as he attempted to leave. The lion was getting roused up, and we saw the spring he made: but Kasuju nimbly stepped aside and gave him such a stroke that it sounded like a drum. Then Kasuju trotted away in front of his trembling wives, and as the lion came up, we watched him draw his ears back as he raised himself on his hind feet like a warrior. The lion advanced to him, and he likewise rose as though he would wrestle with him, when Kasuju shot into his throat with so true and fair a stroke, that drove one of his horns deep into the throat. It was then the lion's claws began to work, and with every scratch poor Kasuju's hide was torn dreadfully, but he kept his horn in the wound, and pushed home, and made the wound large. Then the lion sprang free, and the blood spurted all over Kasuju. Blinded with his torn and hanging scalp, and weakened with his wounds, he staggered about, pounding blindly at his enemy, until the lion gave him one mighty stroke with its paw, and sent him headlong, and then seized him by the neck and shook him, and we heard the cruel crunch as the fangs met. But it was the last effort of the lion, for just as Kasuju was lifeless, the lion rolled over him, dead also. Had my friend told me this story, I should not have believed him, but as I saw it with my own eyes, I am bound to believe it. We buried Kasuju honourably in a grave, as we would bury a brave man; but the lion we skinned, and I have got his fur with the ragged hole in the throat. The singular fight we had witnessed, furnished us all with much matter for talk about lions, and it brought into the mind of one of them a story of a crocodile and lion fight which had happened some time before in the night. Lake Mtukura swarms with crocodiles, and situated as it is in a region of game they must be fat with prey. One night a full-grown lion with a fine mane came to cool his dry throat in the lake, and was quaffing water, when he felt his nose seized by something that rose up from below. From the traces of the struggle by the water's edge, it must have been a terrible one. The crocodile's long claws had left deep marks, showing how he must have been lifted out of the water, and flung forcibly down; but in the morning both lion and crocodile were found dead, the crocodile's throat wide open with a broad gash, but his teeth still fastened in the lion's nose. Saruti had not half finished his stories when he felt, by seeing Mtesa yawn, that though his adventures were very interesting, and he was quite ready to continue, yet it would be to his advantage to dock his tongue for the time being. So he said, "Kabaka, the wise old man whom I met, told me one thing I had nearly forgotten to say. He said, `I know you are a servant of the king, and if ever you want the king's face to soften to you and his hand to open with gifts, compare yourself to the lid of a cooking-pot, which, though the pot may be full of fragrant stew, receives naught but the vapour, and the king who is wise will understand and will be pleased with his servant.'" "Very well said indeed, Saruti," cried Mtesa, laughing. "I understand. The lid must share with the pot this time. Steward," he said, turning to Kauta, "see that six head of cattle be driven to Saruti's cattle-pen;" and Saruti twiyanzied (thanked with prostrations) so often that his head swam. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE BOY KINNENEH AND THE GORILLA. It is in such stories as the Fable of the Rabbit, the Leopard and the Goat, the Dog and the little Chicken, the Leopard, the Sheep and the Dove, the Crane, the Leopard and the Sheep, the Rabbit and the Lion, the Cow and the Lion, the Lion and his mane, the Rabbit and the Leopard, and the boy Kinneneh and the Gorilla, that Kadu, our accomplished relator of legends, shone. It is not with a wish to be unkind to Kadu that I say he showed only too well that according to him cunning was to be preferred to strength. Perhaps he was right, though cunning is a word in much discredit with us nowadays, because we are accustomed to ally it with deception and fraud, but we will put the best possible construction on it out of admiration for and gratitude to Kadu, and claim that his cunning, which was the moral of most of his stories, was a kind of illegitimate wisdom, or a permissible artfulness. None of us, at least, but sympathised with Kadu's dumb heroes when, by a little pleasant cheat or sly stratagem, the bullying buffalo got the worst of an encounter with the sharp-witted rabbit, or when the dog got the better of his sour mistress the leopardess, or when rabbit put to shame the surly elephant, or when Kibatti conquered the kings of the animal tribes. The legend of Kinneneh and the Gorilla was another story which evidently was meant by Kadu and the unknown ancient of Uganda who invented it to illustrate that cunning is mightier than strength. He told it in this wise: In the early days of Uganda, there was a small village situate on the other side of the Katonga, in Buddu, and its people had planted bananas and plantains which in time grew to be quite a large grove, and produced abundant and very fine fruit. From a grove of bananas when its fruit is ripe there comes a very pleasant odour, and when a puff of wind blows over it, and bears the fragrance towards you, I know of nothing so well calculated to excite the appetite, unless it be the smell of roasted meat. Anyhow, such must have been the feeling of a mighty big gorilla, who one day, while roaming about alone in the woods searching for nuts to eat, stopped suddenly and stood up and sniffed for some time, with his nose well out in the direction of the village. After awhile he shook his head and fell on all fours again to resume his search for food. Again there came with a whiff of wind a strong smell of ripe bananas, and he stood on his feet once more, and with his nose shot out thus he drew in a greedy breath and then struck himself over the stomach, and said: "I thought it was so. There are bananas that way, and I must get some." Down he fell on all fours, and put out his arms with long stretches, just as a fisherman draws in a heavy net, and is eager to prevent the escape of the fish. In a little while he came to the edge of the grove, and stood and looked gloatingly on the beautiful fruit hanging in great bunches. Presently he saw something move. It was a woman bent double over a basket, and packing the fruit neatly in it, so that she could carry a large quantity at one journey. The gorilla did not stay long thinking, but crawled up secretly to her; and then with open arms rushed forward and seized her. Before the woman could utter her alarm he had lifted her and her basket and trotted away with them into the deepest bush. On reaching his den he flung the woman on the ground, as you would fling dead meat, and bringing the banana basket close to him, his two legs hugging it close to his round paunch, he began to gorge himself, muttering while he peeled the fruit strange sounds. By-and-by the woman came to her senses, but instead of keeping quiet, she screamed and tried to run away. If it were not for that movement and noise, she perhaps might have been able to creep away unseen, but animals of all kinds never like to be disturbed while eating, so Gorilla gave one roar of rage, and gave her such a squeeze that the breath was clean driven out of her. When she was still he fell to again, and tore the peeling off the bananas, and tossed one after another down his wide throat, until there was not one of the fruit left in the basket, and the big paunch was swollen to twice its first size. Then, after laying his paw on the body to see if there was any life left in it, he climbed up to his nest above, and curled himself into a ball for a sleep. When he woke he shook himself and yawned, and looking below he saw the body of the woman, and her empty basket, and he remembered what had happened. He descended the tree, lifted the body and let it fall, then took up the basket, looked inside and outside of it, raked over the peelings of the bananas, but could not find anything left to eat. He began to think, scratching the fur on his head, on his sides, and his paunch, picking up one thing and then another in an absent-minded way. And then he appeared to have made up a plan. Whatever it was, this is what he did. It was still early morning, and as there was no sign of a sun, it was cold, and human beings must have been finishing their last sleep. He got up and went straight for the plantation. On the edge of the banana-grove he heard a cock crow; he stopped and listened to it; he became angry. "Some one," he said to himself, "is stealing my bananas," and with that he marched in the direction where the cock was crowing. He came to the open place in front of the village, and saw several tall houses much larger than his own nest; and while he was looking at them, the door of one of them was opened, and a man came out. He crept towards him, and before he could cry out the gorilla had squeezed him until his ribs had cracked, and he was dead; he flung him down, and entered into the hut. He there saw a woman, who was blowing a fire on the hearth, and he took hold of her and squeezed her until there was no life left in her body. There were three children inside, and a bed on the floor. He treated them also in the same way, and they were all dead. Then he went into another house, and slew all the people in it, one with a squeeze, another with a squeeze and a bite with his great teeth, and there was not one left alive. In this way he entered into five houses and killed all the people in them, but in the sixth house lived the boy Kinneneh and his old mother. Kinneneh had fancied that he heard an unusual sound, and he had stood inside with his eyes close to a chink in the reed door for some time when he saw something that resembled what might be said to be half animal and half man. He walked like a man, but had the fur of a beast. His arms were long, and his body was twice the breadth and thickness of a full-grown man. He did not know what it was, and when he saw it go into his neighbours' houses, and heard those strange sounds, he grew afraid, and turned and woke his mother, saying, "Mother, wake up! there is a strange big beast in our village killing our people. So wake up quickly and follow me." "But whither shall we fly, my son?" she whispered anxiously. "Up to the loft, and lie low in the darkest place," replied Kinneneh, and he set her the example and assisted his mother. Now those Uganda houses are not low-roofed like these of Congo-land, but are very high, as high as a tree, and they rise to a point, and near the top there is a loft where we stow our nets, and pots, and where our spear-shafts and bows are kept to season, and where our corn is kept to dry, and green bananas are stored to ripen. It was in this dark lofty place that Kinneneh hid himself and his mother, and waited in silence. In a short time the gorilla put his head into their house and listened, and stepping inside he stood awhile, and looked searchingly around. He could see no one and heard nothing stir. He peered under the bed-grass, into the black pots and baskets, but there was no living being to be found. "Ha, ha," he cried, thumping his chest like a man when he has got the big head. "I am the boss of this place now, and the tallest of these human nests shall be my own, and I shall feast every day on ripe bananas and plantains, and there is no one who can molest me--ha, ha!" "Ha, ha!" echoed a shrill, piping voice after his great bass. The gorilla looked around once more, among the pots, and the baskets, but finding nothing walked out. Kinneneh, after awhile skipped down the ladder and watched between the open cane-work of the door, and saw him enter the banana-grove, and waited there until he returned with a mighty load of the fruit. He then saw him go out again into the grove, and bidding his mother lie still and patient, Kinneneh slipped out and ascended into the loft of the house chosen by the gorilla for his nest, where he hid himself and waited. Presently the gorilla returned with another load of the fruit, and, squatting on his haunches, commenced to peel the fruit, and fill his throat and mouth with it, mumbling and chuckling, and saying, "Ha, ha! This is grand! Plenty of bananas to eat, and all--all my own. None to say, `Give me some,' but all my very own. Ho, ho! I shall feast every day. Ha, ha!" "Ha, ha," echoed the piping voice again. The gorilla stopped eating and made an ugly frown as he listened. Then he said: "That is the second time I have heard a thin voice saying, `Ha, ha!' If I only knew who he was that cried `Ha, ha!' I would squeeze him, and squeeze him until he cried, `Ugh, ugh!'" "Ugh, ugh!" echoed the little voice again. The gorilla leaped to his feet and rummaged around the pots and the baskets, took hold of the bodies one after another and dashed them against the floor, then went to every house and searched, but could not discover who it was that mocked him. In a short time he returned and ate a pile of bananas that would have satisfied twenty men, and afterwards he went out, saying to himself that it would be a good thing to fill the nest with food, as it was a bore to leave the warm nest each time he felt a desire to eat. No sooner had he departed than Kinneneh slipped down, and carried every bunch that had been left away to his own house, where they were stowed in the loft for his mother, and after enjoining his mother to remain still, he waited, peering through the chinks of the door. He soon saw Gorilla bearing a pile of bunches that would have required ten men to carry, and after flinging them into the chief's house, return to the plantation for another supply. While Gorilla was tearing down the plants and plucking at the bunches, Kinneneh was actively engaged in transferring what he brought into the loft by his mother's side. Gorilla made many trips in this manner, and brought in great heaps, but somehow his stock appeared to be very small. At last his strength was exhausted, and feeling that he could do no more that day, he commenced to feed on what he had last brought, promising to himself that he would do better in the morning. At dawn the gorilla hastened out to obtain a supply of fruit for his breakfast, and Kinneneh took advantage of his absence to hide himself overhead. He was not long in his place before Gorilla came in with a huge lot of ripe fruit, and after making himself comfortable on his haunches with a great bunch before him he rocked himself to and fro, saying while he munched: "Ha, ha! Now I have plenty again, and I shall eat it all myself. Ha, ha!" "Ha, ha," echoed a thin voice again, so close and clear it seemed to him, that leaping up he made sure to catch it. As there appeared to be no one in the house, he rushed out raging, champing his teeth, and searched the other houses, but meantime Kinneneh carried the bananas to the loft of the gorilla's house, and covered them with bark-cloth. In a short time Gorilla returned furious and disappointed, and sat down to finish the breakfast he had only begun, but on putting out his hands he found only the withered peelings of yesterday's bananas. He looked and rummaged about, but there was positively nothing left to eat. He was now terribly hungry and angry, and he bounded out to obtain another supply, which he brought in and flung on the floor, saying, "Ha, ha! I will now eat the whole at once--all to myself, and that other thing which says, `Ha, ha!' after me, I will hunt and mash him like this," and he seized a ripe banana and squeezed it with his paw with so much force that the pulp was squirted all over him. "Ha, ha!" he cried. "Ha, ha!" mocked the shrill voice, so clear that it appeared to come from behind his ear. This was too much to bear; Gorilla bounded up and vented a roar of rage. He tossed the pots, the baskets, the bodies, and bed-grass about-- bellowing so loudly and funnily in his fury that Kinneneh, away up in the loft, could scarcely forbear imitating him. But the mocker could not be found, and Gorilla roared loudly in the open place before the village, and tore in and out of each house, looking for him. Kinneneh descended swiftly from his hiding-place, and bore every banana into the loft as before. Gorilla hastened to the plantation again, and so angry was he that he uprooted the banana-stalks by the root, and snapped off the clusters with one stroke of his great dog-teeth, and having got together a large stock, he bore it in his arms to the house. "There," said he, "ha, ha! Now I shall eat in comfort and have a long sleep afterwards, and if that fellow who mocks me comes near--ah! I would"--and he crushed a big bunch in his arms and cried, "ha, ha!" "Ha, ha! Ha, ha!" cried the mocking voice; and again it seemed to be at the back of his head. Whereupon Gorilla flung his arms behind in the hope of catching him, but there was nothing but his own back, which sounded like a damp drum with the stroke. "Ha, ha! Ha, ha!" repeated the voice, at which Gorilla shot out of the door, and raced round the house, thinking that the owner was flying before him, but he never could overtake the flyer. Then he went around outside of the other houses, and flew round and round the village, but he could discover naught. But meanwhile Kinneneh had borne all the stock of bananas up into the loft above, and when Gorilla returned there was not one banana of all the great pile he had brought left on the floor. When, after he was certain that there was not a single bit of a banana left for him to eat, he scratched his sides and his legs, and putting his hand on the top of his head, he uttered a great cry just like a great, stupid child, but the crying did not fill his tummy. No, he must have bananas for that--and he rose up after awhile and went to procure some more fruit. But when he had brought a great pile of it and had sat down with his nice-smelling bunch before him, he would exclaim, "Ha, ha! Now--now I shall eat and be satisfied. I shall fill myself with the sweet fruit, and then lie down and sleep. Ha, ha!" Then instantly the mocking voice would cry out after him, "Ha, ha!" and sometimes it sounded close to his ears, and then behind his head, sometimes it appeared to come from under the bananas and sometimes from the doorway:--that Gorilla would roar in fury, and he would grind his teeth just like two grinding-stones, and chatter to himself, and race about the village, trying to discover whence the voice came, but in his absence the fruit would be swept away by his invisible enemy, and when he would come in to finish his meal, lo! there were only blackened and stained banana peelings--the refuse of his first feast. Gorilla would then cry like a whipped child, and would go again into the plantation, to bring some more fruit into the house, but when he returned with it he would always boast of what he was going to do, and cry out "Ha, ha!" and instantly his unseen enemy would mock him and cry "Ha, ha!" and he would start up raving and screaming in rage, and search for him, and in his absence his bananas would be whisked away. And Gorilla's hunger grew on him, until his paunch became like an empty sack, and what with his hunger and grief and rage, and furious raving and racing about, his strength was at last quite exhausted, and the end of him was that on the fifth day he fell from weakness across the threshold of the chief's house, which he had chosen to make his nest, and there died. When the people of the next village heard of how Kinneneh, a little boy, had conquered the man-killing gorilla, they brought him and his mother away, and they gave him a fine new house and a plantation, and male and female slaves to tend it, and when their old king died, and the period of mourning for him was over, they elected wise Kinneneh to be king over them. "Ah, friends," said Safeni to his companions, after Kadu had concluded his story, "there is no doubt that the cunning of a son of man prevails over the strongest brute, and it is well for us, Mashallah! that it should be so; for if the elephant, or the lion, or the gorilla possessed but cunning equal to their strength, what would become of us!" And each man retired to his hut, congratulating himself that he was born a man-child, and not a thick, muddle-headed beast. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. THE CITY OF THE ELEPHANTS. "Master," said Kassim, one of the Basoko boys, "Baruti's tales have brought back from among forgotten things a legend I once knew very well. Ah, I wish I could remember more, but little by little the stories that I used to hear in my childhood from my mother and the old woman who would come and sit with her, will perhaps return again into the mind. I should never have thought of this that I am about to repeat to you now had it not been that Baruti's legends seem to recall as though they were but yesterday the days that came and went uncounted in our Basoko village. This legend is about the City of the Elephants that one of my countrymen and his wife came across in the far past time, in the manner that I shall tell you." A Bungandu man named Dudu, and his wife Salimba, were one day seeking in the forest a long way from the town for a proper redwood-tree, out of which they could make a wooden mortar wherein they could pound their manioc. They saw several trees of this kind as they proceeded, but after examining one, and then another, they would appear to be dissatisfied, and say, "Perhaps if we went a little further we might find a still better tree for our purpose." And so Dudu and Salimba proceeded further and further into the tall and thick woods, and ever before them there appeared to be still finer trees which would after all be unsuited for their purpose, being too soft, or too hard, or hollow, or too old, or of another kind than the useful redwood. They strayed in this manner very far. In the forest where there is no path or track, it is not easy to tell which direction one came from, and as they had walked round many trees, they were too confused to know which way they ought to turn homeward. When Dudu said he was sure that his course was the right one for home, Salimba was as sure that the opposite was the true way. They agreed to walk in the direction Dudu wished, and after a long time spent on it, they gave it up and tried another, but neither took them any nearer home. The night overtook them and they slept at the foot of a tree. The next day they wandered still farther from their town, and they became anxious and hungry. As one cannot see many yards off on any side in the forest, an animal hears the coming step long before the hunter gets a chance to use his weapon. Therefore, though they heard the rustle of the flying antelope, or wild pig as it rushed away, it only served to make their anxiety greater. And the second day passed, and when night came upon them they were still hungrier. Towards the middle of the third day, they came into an open place by a pool frequented by Kiboko (hippo), and there was a margin of grass round about it, and as they came in view of it, both, at the same time, sighted a grazing buffalo. Dudu bade his wife stand behind a tree while he chose two of his best and sharpest arrows, and after a careful look at his bow-string, he crept up to the buffalo, and drove an arrow home as far as the guiding leaf, which nearly buried it in the body. While the beast looked around and started from the twinge within, Dudu shot his second arrow into his windpipe, and it fell to the ground quite choked. Now here was water to drink and food to eat, and after cutting a load of meat they chose a thick bush-clump a little distance from the pool, made a fire, and, after satisfying their hunger, slept in content. The fourth day they stopped and roasted a meat provision that would last many days, because they knew that luck is not constant in the woods. On the fifth they travelled, and for three days more they wandered. They then met a young lion who, at the sight of them, boldly advanced, but Dudu sighted his bow, and sent an arrow into his chest which sickened him of the fight, and he turned and fled. A few days afterwards, Dudu saw an elephant standing close to them behind a high bush, and whispered to his wife: "Ah, now, we have a chance to get meat enough for a month." "But," said Salimba, "why should you wish to kill him, when we have enough meat still with us? Do not hurt him. Ah, what a fine back he has, and how strong he is. Perhaps he would carry us home." "How could an elephant understand our wishes?" asked Dudu. "Talk to him anyhow, perhaps he will be clever enough to understand what we want." Dudu laughed at his wife's simplicity, but to please her he said, "Elephant, we have lost our way; will you carry us and take us home, and we shall be your friends for ever." The Elephant ceased waving his trunk, and nodding to himself, and turning to them said-- "If you come near to me and take hold of my ears, you may get on my back, and I will carry you safely." When the Elephant spoke, Dudu fell back from surprise, and looked at him as though he had not heard aright, but Salimba advanced with all confidence, and laid hold of one of his ears, and pulled herself up on to his back. When she was seated, she cried out, "Come, Dudu, what are you looking at? Did you not hear him say he would carry you?" Seeing his wife smiling and comfortable on the Elephant's back, Dudu became a little braver and moved forward slowly, when the Elephant spoke again, "Come, Dudu, be not afraid. Follow your wife, and do as she did, and then I will travel home with you quickly." Dudu then put aside his fears, and his surprise, and seizing the Elephant's ear, he ascended and seated himself by his wife on the Elephant's back. Without another word the Elephant moved on rapidly, and the motion seemed to Dudu and Salimba most delightful. Whenever any overhanging branch was in the way, the Elephant wrenched it off, or bent it and passed on. No creek, stream, gulley, or river, stopped him, he seemed to know exactly the way he should go, as if the road he was travelling was well known to him. When it was getting dark he stopped and asked his friends if they would not like to rest for the night, and finding that they so wished it, he stopped at a nice place by the side of the river, and they slid to the ground, Dudu first, and Salimba last. He then broke dead branches for them, out of which they made a fire, and the Elephant stayed by them, as though he was their slave. Hearing their talk, he understood that they would like to have something better than dried meat to eat, and he said to them, "I am glad to know your wishes, for I think I can help you. Bide here a little, and I will go and search." About the middle of the night he returned to them with something white in his trunk, and a young antelope in front of him. The white thing was a great manioc root, which he dropped into Salimba's lap. "There, Salimba," he said, "there is food for you, eat your fill and sleep in peace, for I will watch over you." Dudu and Salimba had seen many strange things that day, but they were both still more astonished at the kindly and intelligent care which their friend the Elephant took of them. While they roasted their fresh meat over the flame, and the manioc root was baking under the heap of hot embers, the Elephant dug with his tusks for the juicy roots of his favourite trees round about their camp, and munched away contentedly. The next morning, all three, after a bathe in the river, set out on their journey more familiar with one another, and in a happier mood. About noon, while they were resting during the heat of the day, two lions came near to roar at them, but when Dudu was drawing his bow at one of them, the Elephant said: "You leave them to me; I will make them run pretty quick," saying which he tore off a great bough of a tree, and nourishing this with his trunk, he trotted on the double quick towards them, and used it so heartily that they both skurried away with their bellies to the ground, and their hides shrinking and quivering out of fear of the great rod. In the afternoon the Elephant and his human friends set off again, and some time after they came to a wide and deep river. He begged his friends to descend while he tried to find out the shallowest part. It took him some time to do this; but, having discovered a ford where the water was not quite over his back, he returned to them, and urged them to mount him as he wished to reach home before dark. As the Elephant was about to enter the river, he said to Dudu, "I see some hunters of your own kind creeping up towards us. Perhaps they are your kinsmen. Talk to them, and let us see whether they be friends or foes." Dudu hailed them, but they gave no answer, and, as they approached nearer, they were seen to prepare to cast their spears, so the Elephant said, "I see that they are not your friends; therefore, as I cross the river, do you look out for them, and keep them at a distance. If they come to the other side of the river, I shall know how to deal with them." They got to the opposite bank safely; but, as they were landing, Dudu and Salimba noticed that their pursuers had discovered a canoe, and that they were pulling hard after them. But the Elephant soon after landing came to a broad path smoothed by much travel, over which he took them at a quick pace, so fast, indeed, that the pursuers had to run to be able to keep up with them. Dudu, every now and then let fly an arrow at the hunters, which kept them at a safe distance. Towards night they came to the City of the Elephants, which was very large and fit to shelter such a multitude as they now saw. Their elephant did not linger, however, but took his friends at the same quick pace until they came to a mighty elephant that was much larger than any other, and his ivories were gleaming white and curled up, and exceedingly long. Before him Dudu and Salimba were told by their friend to descend and salaam, and he told his lord how he had found them lost in the woods, and how for the sake of the kindly words of the woman he had befriended them, and assisted them to the city of his tribe. When the King Elephant heard all this he was much pleased, and said to Dudu and Salimba that they were welcome to his city, and how they should not want for anything, as long as they would be pleased to stay with them, but as for the hunters who had dared to chase them, he would give orders at once. Accordingly he gave a signal, and ten active young elephants dashed out of the city, and in a short time not one of the hunters was left alive, though one of them had leaped into the river, thinking that he could escape in that manner. But then you know that an elephant is as much at home in a river, as a Kiboko [a hippopotamus], so that the last man was soon caught and was drowned. Dudu and Salimba, however, on account of Salimba's kind heart in preventing her husband wounding the elephant, were made free of the place, and their friend took them with him to many families, and the big pa's and ma's told their little babies all about them and their habits, and said that, though most of the human kind were very stupid and wicked, Dudu and Salimba were very good, and putting their trunks into their ears they whispered that Salimba was the better of the two. Then the little elephants gathered about them and trotted by their side and around them and diverted them with their antics, their races, their wrestlings, and other trials of strength, but when they became familiar and somewhat rude in their rough play, their elephant friend would admonish them, and if that did not suffice, he would switch them soundly. The City of the Elephants was a spacious and well-trodden glade in the midst of a thick forest, and as it was entered one saw how wisely the elephant families had arranged their manner of life. For without, the trees stood as thick as water-reeds, and the bush or underwood was like an old hedge of milkweed knitted together by thorny vines and snaky climbers into which the human hunter might not even poke his nose without hurt. Well, the burly elephants had, by much uprooting, created deep hollows, or recesses, wherein a family of two and more might snugly rest, and not even a dart of sunshine might reach them. Round about the great glade the dark leafy arches ran, and Dudu and his wife saw that the elephant families were numerous--for by one sweeping look they could tell that there were more elephants than there are human beings in a goodly village. In some of the recesses there was a row of six and more elephants; in another the parents stood head to head, and their children, big and little, clung close to their parents' sides; in another a family stood with heads turned towards the entrance, and so on all around--while under a big tree in the middle there was quite a gathering of big fellows, as though they were holding a serious palaver; under another tree one seemed to be on the outlook; another paced slowly from side to side; another plucked at this branch or at that; another appeared to be heaving a tree, or sharpening a blunted ivory; others seemed appointed to uproot the sprouts, lest the glade might become choked with underwood. Near the entrance on both sides were a brave company of them, faces turned outward, swinging their trunks, napping their ears, rubbing against each other, or who with pate against pate seemed to be drowsily considering something. There was a continual coming in and a going out, singly, or in small companies. The roads that ran through the glade were like a network, clean and smooth, while that which went towards the king's place was so wide that twenty men might walk abreast. At the far end the king stood under his own tree, with his family under the arches behind him. This was the City of the Elephants as Dudu and Salimba saw it. I ought to say that the outlets of it were many. One went straight through the woods in a line up river, at the other end it ran in a line following the river downward; one went to a lakelet, where juicy plants and reeds throve like corn in a man's fields, and where the elephants rejoiced in its cool water, and washed themselves and infants; another went to an ancient clearing where the plantain and manioc grew wild, and wherein more than two human tribes might find food for countless seasons. Then said their friend to Dudu and Salimba--"Now that I have shown you our manner of life, it is for you to ease your longing for awhile and rest with us. When you yearn for home, go tell our king, and he will send you with credit to your kindred." Then Dudu and his wife resolved to stay, and eat, and they stayed a whole season, not only unhurt, but tenderly cared for, with never a hungry hour or uneasy night. But at last Salimba's heart remembered her children, and kinfolk, and her own warm house and village pleasures, and on hinting of these memories to her husband, he said that after all there was no place like Bungandu. He remembered his long pipe, and the talk-house, the stool-making, shaft-polishing, bow-fitting, and the little tinkering jobs, the wine-trough, and the merry drinking bouts, and he wept softly as he thought of them. They thus agreed that it was time for them to travel homeward, and together they sought the elephant king, and frankly told him of their state. "My friends," he replied, "be no longer sad, but haste to depart. With the morning's dawn guides shall take you to Bungandu with such gifts as shall make you welcome to your folk. And when you come to them, say to them that the elephant king desires lasting peace and friendship with them. On our side we shall not injure their plantations, neither a plantain, nor a manioc root belonging to them; and on your side dig no pits for our unwary youngsters, nor hang the barbed iron aloft, nor plant the poisoned stake in the path, so we shall escape hurt and be unprovoked." And Dudu put his hand on the king's trunk as the pledge of good faith. In the morning, four elephants, as bearers of the gifts from the king-- bales of bark-cloth, and showy mats, and soft hides and other things-- and two fighting elephants besides their old friend, stood by the entrance to the city, and when the king elephant came up he lifted Salimba first on the back of her old companion, and then placed Dudu by her side, and at a parting wave the company moved on. In ten days they reached the edge of the plantation of Bungandu, and the leader halted. The bales were set down on the ground, and then their friend asked of Dudu and his wife-- "Know you where you are?" "We do," they answered. "Is this Bungandu?" he asked. "This is Bungandu," they replied. "Then here we part, that we may not alarm your friends. Go now your way, and we go our way. Go tell your folk how the elephants treat their friends, and let there be peace for ever between us." The elephants turned away, and Dudu and Salimba, after hiding their wealth in the underwood, went arm in arm into the village of Bungandu. When their friends saw them, they greeted them as we would greet our friends whom we have long believed to be dead, but who come back smiling and rejoicing to us. When the people heard their story they greatly wondered and doubted, but when Dudu and Salimba took them to the place of parting and showed them the hoof prints of seven elephants on the road, and the bales that they had hidden in the underwood, they believed their story. And they made it a rule from that day that no man of the tribe ever should lift a spear, or draw a bow, or dig a pit, or plant the poisoned stake in the path, or hang the barbed iron aloft, to do hurt to an elephant. And as a proof that I have but told the truth go ask the Bungandu, and they will say why none of their race will ever seek to hurt the elephant, and it will be the same as I have told you. That is my story. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THE SEARCH FOR THE HOME OF THE SUN. We had a man named Kanga with us in 1883, which name seems to have been bestowed on him by some Islamised resident of Nyangwe by reason of some fancied suggestion made by some of his facial marks to the spots on a guinea-fowl. Kanga had not spoken as yet by the evening fire, but had been an amused listener. When the other tale-tellers were seen sporting their gay robes on the Sunday, it may have inspired him to make an effort to gain one for himself; anyhow, he surprised us one night by saying that he knew of a tale which perhaps we would like to hear. As Kanga's tribe was the Wasongora-Meno on the right bank of the Lualaba, between Nyangwe and Stanley Falls, the mere mention of a tale from that region was sufficient to kindle my interest. After a few suitable compliments to Kanga, which were clearly much appreciated, he spoke as follows: Master and friends. We have an old phrase among us which is very common. It is said that he who waits and waits for his turn, may wait too long, and lose his chance. My tongue is not nimble like some, and my words do not flow like the deep river. I am rather like the brook which is fretted by the stones in its bed, and I hope after this explanation you will not be too impatient with me. My tale is about King Masama and his tribe, the Balira, who dwelt far in the inmost region, behind (east) us, who throng the banks of the great river. They were formerly very numerous, and many of them came to live among us, but one day King Masama and the rest of the tribe left their country and went eastward, and they have never been heard of since, but those who chose to stay with us explained their disappearance in this way. A woman, one cold night, after making up her fire on the hearth, went to sleep. In the middle of the night the fire had spread, and spread, and began to lick up the litter on the floor, and from the litter it crept to her bed of dry banana-leaves, and in a little time shot up into flames. When the woman and her husband were at last awakened by the heat, the flames had already mounted into the roof, and were burning furiously. Soon they broke through the top and leaped up into the night, and a gust of wind came and carried the long flames like a stream of fire towards the neighbouring huts, and in a short time the fire had caught hold of every house, and the village was entirely burned. It was soon known that besides burning up their houses and much property, several old people and infants had been destroyed by the fire, and the people were horror-struck and angry. Then one voice said, "We all know in whose house the fire began, and the owner of it must make our losses good to us." The woman's husband heard this, and was alarmed, and guiltily fled into the woods. In the morning a council of the elders was held, and it was agreed that the man in whose house the fire commenced should be made to pay for his carelessness, and they forthwith searched for him. But when they sought for him he could not be found. Then all the young warriors who were cunning in wood-craft, girded and armed themselves, and searched for the trail, and when one of them had found it, he cried out, and the others gathered themselves about him and took it up, and when many eyes were set upon it, the trail could not be lost. They soon came up to the man, for he was seated under a tree, bitterly weeping. Without a word they took hold of him by the arms and bore him along with them, and brought him before the village fathers. He was not a common man by any means. He was known as one of Masama's principal men, and one whose advice had been often followed. "Oh," said everybody, "he is a rich man, and well able to pay; yet, if he gives all he has got, it will not be equal to our loss." The fathers talked a long time over the matter, and at last decided that to save his forfeited life he should freely turn over to them all his property. And he did so. His plantation of bananas and plantains, his plots of beans, yams, manioc, potatoes, ground-nuts, his slaves, spears, shields, knives, paddles and canoes. When he had given up all, the hearts of the people became softened towards him, and they forgave him the rest. After the elder's property had been equally divided among the sufferers by the fire, the people gained new courage, and set about rebuilding their homes, and before long they had a new village, and they had made themselves as comfortable as ever. Then King Masama made a law, a very severe law--to the effect that, in future, no fire should be lit in the houses during the day or night; and the people, who were now much alarmed about fire, with one heart agreed to keep the law. But it was soon felt that the cure for the evil was as cruel as the fire had been. For the houses had been thatched with green banana-leaves, the timbers were green and wet with their sap, the floor was damp and cold, the air was deadly, and the people began to suffer from joint aches, and their knees were stiff, and the pains travelled from one place to another through their bodies. The village was filled with groaning. Masama suffered more than all, for he was old. He shivered night and day, and his teeth chattered sometimes so that he could not talk, and after that his head would burn, and the hot sweat would pour from him, so that he knew no rest. Then the king gathered his chiefs and principal men together, and said: "Oh, my people, this is unendurable, for life is with me now but one continuous ague. Let us leave this country, for it is bewitched, and if I stay longer there will be nothing left of me. Lo, my joints are stiffened with my disease, and my muscles are withering. The only time I feel a little ease is when I lie on the hot ashes without the house, but when the rains fall I must needs withdraw indoors, and there I find no comfort, for the mould spreads everywhere. Let us hence at once to seek a warmer clime. Behold whence the sun issues daily in the morning, hot and glowing; there, where his home is, must be warmth, and we shall need no fire. What say you?" Masama's words revived their drooping spirits. They looked towards the sun as they saw him mount the sky, and felt his cheering glow on their naked breasts and shoulders, and they cried with one accord: "Let us hence, and seek the place whence he comes." And the people got ready and piled their belongings in the canoes, and on a certain day they left their village and ascended their broad river, the Lira. Day after day they paddled up the stream, and we heard of them from the Bafanya as they passed by their country, and the Bafanya heard of them for a long distance up--from the next tribe--the Bamoru-- and the Bamoru heard about them arriving near the Mountain Land beyond. Not until a long time afterwards did we hear what became of Masama and his people. It was said that the Balira, when the river had become shallow and small, left their canoes and travelled by land among little hills, and after winding in and out amongst them they came to the foot of the tall mountain which stands like a grandsire amongst the smaller mountains. Up the sides of the big mountain they straggled, the stronger and more active of them ahead, and as the days passed, they saw that the world was cold and dark until the sun showed himself over the edge of the big mountain, when the day became more agreeable, for the heat pierced into their very marrows, and made their hearts rejoice. The greater the heat became, the more certain were they that they were drawing near the home of the sun. And so they pressed on and on, day after day, winding along one side of the mountain, and then turning to wind again still higher. Each day, as they advanced towards the top, the heat became greater and greater. Between them and the sun there was now not the smallest shrub or leaf, and it became so fiercely hot that finally not a drop of sweat was left in their bodies. One day, when not a cloud was in the sky, and the world was all below them--far down like a great buffalo hide--the sun came out over the rim of the mountain like a ball of fire, and the nearest of them to the top were dried like a leaf over a flame, and those who were behind were amazed at its burning force, and felt, as he sailed over their heads, that it was too late for them to escape. Their skins began to shrivel up and crackle, and fall off, and none of those who were high up on the mountain side were left alive. But a few of those who were nearest the bottom, and the forest belts, managed to take shelter, and remaining there until night, they took advantage of the darkness, when the sun sleeps, to fly from the home of the sun. Except a few poor old people and toddling children, there was none left of the once populous tribe of the Balira. That is my story. We who live by the great river have taken the lesson, which the end of this tribe has been to us, close to our hearts, and it is this. Kings who insist that their wills should be followed, and never care to take counsel with their people, are as little to be heeded as children who babble of what they cannot know, and therefore in our villages we have many elders who take all matters from the chief and turn them over in their minds, and when they are agreed, they give the doing of them to the chief, who can act only as the elders decree. CHAPTER NINETEEN. A HOSPITABLE GORILLA. "Sir," said Baruti, after we had all gathered around the evening fire, and were waiting expectant for the usual story, "Kassim's tale about the City of the Elephants and the peace that was entered into between the elephants and the Bungandu has reminded me of what happened between a tribe living on the banks of the little Black River above the Basoko, and a Gorilla." "Wallahi, but these Basoko boys beat everybody for telling stories," exclaimed a Zanzibari. "I wonder, however, whether they invent them, or they really have heard them from their old folk, as they say they did." "We heard them, of course," replied Baruti, with an indignant look; "for how could Kassim or I imagine such things? I heard something each day almost from the elders, or the old women of the tribe. My mother also told me some, and my big brother told me others. At our village talk-house, scarcely a day passed but we heard of some strange thing which had happened in old times. It is this custom of meeting around the master's fire, and the legends that we hear, that reminds us of what we formerly heard, and by thinking and thinking over them the words come back anew to us." "But do you think these things of which you talk are true?" the Zanzibari asked. "True!" he echoed. "Who am I that I should say, This thing is true, and that is false! I but repeat what my betters said. I do not speak of what I saw, but of what I heard, and the master's words to us were: `Try and remember what was said to you in your villages by the ancients among your people, and if you will tell it to me properly, I will give you a nice cloth.' Well, when our old men were in good-humour, and smoked their long pipes, and the pot of wine was by their side, and we asked them to tell us somewhat about the days when they were young, they would say, `Listen to this now,' and they would tell us of what happened long ago. It is the things of long ago that we remember best, because they were so strange that they clung on the mind, and would not altogether be forgotten. If there is aught unpleasing in them, it is not our fault, for we but repeat the words that entered into our ears." "That will do, Baruti; go on with your story; and you, Baraka, let your tongue sleep," cried Zaidi. "I but asked a question. Ho! how impatient you fellows are!" "Nay, this is but chatter--we shall never hear the story at this rate. Hyah! Barikallah! [Hurry on, in God's name!] Baruti." Well (began Baruti), this tribe dwelt on the banks of the Black River just above Basoko town, and at that time of the far past the thick forest round about them was haunted by many monstrous animals; big apes, chimpanzees, gorillas and such creatures, which are not often seen nowadays. Not far from the village, in a darksome spot where the branches met overhead and formed a thick screen, and the lower wood hedged it closely round about so that a tortoise could scarcely penetrate it, there lived the Father of the Gorillas. He had housed himself in the fork of one of the tallest trees, and many men had seen the nest as they passed by, but none as yet had seen the owner. But one day a fisherman in search of rattans to make his nets, wandered far into the woods, and in trying to recover the direction home struck the Black River high up. As he stood wondering whether this was the black stream that flowed past his village, he saw, a little to the right of him, an immense gorilla, who on account of the long dark fur on his chest appeared to be bigger than he really was. A cold sweat caused by his great fear began to come out of the man, and his knees trembled so that he could hardly stand, but when he perceived that the gorilla did not move, but continued eating his bananas, he became comforted a little, and his senses came back. He turned his head around, in order to see the clearest way for a run; but as he was about to start, he saw that the gorilla's eyes were fixed on him. Then the gorilla broke out into speech and said: "Come to me, and let me look at thee." The fisherman's fear came back to him, but he did as he was told, and when he thought he was near enough, he stood still. Then the gorilla said: "If thou art kin to me, thou art safe from harm; if not, thou canst not pass. How many fingers hast thou?" he asked. "Four," the fisherman answered, and he held a hand up with its back towards the gorilla, and his thumb was folded in on the palm so that it could not be seen by the beast. "Ay--true indeed. Why, thou must be a kinsman of ours, though thy fur is somewhat scanty. Sit down and take thy share of this food, and eat." The fisherman sat down, and broke off bananas from the stalk and ate heartily. "Now mind," said the gorilla, "thou hast eaten food with me. Shouldst thou ever meet in thy wanderings any of my brothers, thou must be kind to them in memory of this day. Our tribe has no quarrel with any of thine, and thy tribe must have none against any of mine. I live alone far down this river, and thy tribe lives further still. Mind our password, `_Tu-wheli, Tu-wheli_.' By that we know who is friendly and who is against us." The fisherman departed, and speeding on his way reached his village safely; but he kept secret what he had seen and met that day. Some little time after, the tribe resolved to have a grand hunt around their village, to scare the beasts of the forest away; for in some things they resemble us. If we leave a district undisturbed for a moon or so, the animals think that we have either departed the country or are afraid of them. The apes and the elephants are the worst in that respect, and always lead the way, pressing on our heels, and often sending their scouts ahead to report, or as a hint to us that we are lingering too long. The people loaded themselves with their great nets, and first chose the district where the Gorilla Father lived. They set their nets around a wide space, and then the beaters were directed to make a large sweep and drive all the game towards the nets, and here and there where the netting was weak, the hunters stood behind a thick bush, their heavy spears ready for the fling. Well, it just happened that at that very time the Father of the Gorillas was holding forth to his kinsmen, and the first they knew of the hunt, and that a multitude of men were in the woods, was when they heard the horrid yells of the beaters, the sound of horns, the jingle of iron, and the all-round swish of bushes. The fisherman, like the rest of his friends, was well armed, and he was as keen as the others for the hunt, but soon after he heard the cries of the beaters, he saw a large gorilla rushing out of the bushes, and knew him instantly for his friend, and he cried out "_Tu-wheli! Tu-wheli_!" At the sound of it the gorilla led his kinsmen towards him, and passed the word to those behind, saying, "Ah, this is our friend. Do not hurt him." The gorillas passed in a long line of mighty fellows, close by the fisherman, and as they heard the voice of their father, they only whispered to him, "_Tu-wheli, Tu-wheli_," but the last of all was a big, sour-faced gorilla, who, when he saw that the pass was only guarded by one man, made a rush at him. His roar of rage was heard by the father, and turning back he knew that his human brother was in danger, and he cried out to those nearest to part them, "The man is our brother;" but as the fierce gorilla was deaf to words, the father loped back to them, and slew him, and then hastened away as the hunters were pressing up. These, when they came up and observed that the fisherman's spear was still in his hand, and not painted with blood, were furious, and they agreed together that he should not have a share of the meat, "For," said they, "he must have been in a league against us." Neither did he obtain any share of the spoil. A few days after this the fisherman was proceeding through a part of the forest, and a gorilla met him in the path, and said: "Stay, I seem to know thee. Art thou not our brother?" "_Tu-wheli, Tu-wheli_!" he cried. "Ah, it is true, follow me;" and they went together to the gorilla's nesting-tree, where the fisherman was feasted on ripe bananas, berries, and nuts, and juicy roots, and he was shown which roots and berries were sweet, and which were bitter, and so great was the variety of food he saw, that he came to know that though lost in the forest a wise man need not starve. When the fisherman returned to his village he called the elders together, and he laid the whole story of his adventures before his people, and when the elders heard that the berries and roots, nuts, and mushrooms in the forest, of which they had hitherto been afraid, were sweet and wholesome, they exclaimed with one voice, that the gorillas had proved themselves true friends, and had given them much useful knowledge; and it was agreed among them that in future the gorillas should be reckoned among those, against whom it would not be lawful to raise their spears. Ever since the tribes on the Black River avoid harming the gorilla, and all his kind big and little; neither will any of the gorilla trespass on their plantations, or molest any of the people. 
13015	----	Note: The author, Algernon Bertram Freeman-Mitford (1837-1916), Lord Redesdale, was in the British Foreign Service as a young man. He was assigned to the legation in Japan for several years and acquired a life-long fascination with Japanese culture. This book has been a standard source of information about Japanese folklore and customs since its original publication in 1871 and has been in print ever since. Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 13015-h.htm or 13015-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/3/0/1/13015/13015-h/13015-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/1/3/0/1/13015/13015-h.zip) TALES OF OLD JAPAN by LORD REDESDALE, G.C.V.O., K.C.B. Formerly Second Secretary to the British Legation in Japan With Illustrations Drawn and Cut on Wood by Japanese Artists 1910 [Illustration: THE RÔNINS INVITE KÔTSUKÉ NO SUKÉ TO PERFORM HARA-KIRI.] PREFACE In the Introduction to the story of the Forty-seven Rônins, I have said almost as much as is needful by way of preface to my stories. Those of my readers who are most capable of pointing out the many shortcomings and faults of my work, will also be the most indulgent towards me; for any one who has been in Japan, and studied Japanese, knows the great difficulties by which the learner is beset. For the illustrations, at least, I feel that I need make no apology. Drawn, in the first instance, by one Ôdaké, an artist in my employ, they were cut on wood by a famous wood-engraver at Yedo, and are therefore genuine specimens of Japanese art. Messrs. Dalziel, on examining the wood blocks, pointed out to me, as an interesting fact, that the lines are cut with the grain of the wood, after the manner of Albert Dürer and some of the old German masters,--a process which has been abandoned by modern European wood-engravers. It will be noticed that very little allusion is made in these Tales to the Emperor and his Court. Although I searched diligently, I was able to find no story in which they played a conspicuous part. Another class to which no allusion is made is that of the Gôshi. The Gôshi are a kind of yeomen, or bonnet-lairds, as they would be called over the border, living on their own land, and owning no allegiance to any feudal lord. Their rank is inferior to that of the Samurai, or men of the military class, between whom and the peasantry they hold a middle place. Like the Samurai, they wear two swords, and are in many cases prosperous and wealthy men claiming a descent more ancient than that of many of the feudal Princes. A large number of them are enrolled among the Emperor's body-guard; and these have played a conspicuous part in the recent political changes in Japan, as the most conservative and anti-foreign element in the nation. With these exceptions, I think that all classes are fairly represented in my stories. The feudal system has passed away like a dissolving view before the eyes of those who have lived in Japan during the last few years. But when they arrived there it was in full force, and there is not an incident narrated in the following pages, however strange it may appear to Europeans, for the possibility and probability of which those most competent to judge will not vouch. Nor, as many a recent event can prove, have heroism, chivalry, and devotion gone out of the land altogether. We may deplore and inveigh against the Yamato Damashi, or Spirit of Old Japan, which still breathes in the soul of the Samurai, but we cannot withhold our admiration from the self-sacrifices which men will still make for the love of their country. The first two of the Tales have already appeared in the _Fortnightly Review,_ and two of the Sermons, with a portion of the Appendix on the subject of the Hara-Kiri, in the pages of the _Cornhill Magazine_. I have to thank the editors of those periodicals for permission to reprint them here. LONDON, January 7, 1871 CONTENTS THE FORTY-SEVEN RÔNINS THE LOVES OF GOMPACHI AND KOMURASAKI KAZUMA'S REVENGE A STORY OF THE OTOKODATÉ OF YEDO THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF FUNAKOSHI JIUYÉMON THE ETA MAIDEN AND THE HATAMOTO FAIRY TALES THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE THE CRACKLING MOUNTAIN THE STORY OF THE OLD MAN WHO MADE WITHERED TREES TO BLOSSOM THE BATTLE OF THE APE AND THE CRAB THE ADVENTURES OF LITTLE PEACHLING THE FOXES' WEDDING THE HISTORY OF SAKATA KINTOKI THE ELVES AND THE ENVIOUS NEIGHBOUR THE GHOST OF SAKURA HOW TAJIMA SHUMÉ WAS TORMENTED BY A DEVIL OF HIS OWN CREATION CONCERNING CERTAIN SUPERSTITIONS THE VAMPIRE CAT OF NABÉSHIMA THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL CAT HOW A MAN WAS BEWITCHED AND HAD HIS HEAD SHAVED BY THE FOXES THE GRATEFUL FOXES THE BADGER'S MONEY THE PRINCE AND THE BADGER JAPANESE SERMONS THE SERMONS OF KIU-Ô, VOL. I. SERMON I. " " SERMON II. " " SERMON III. APPENDICES:-- AN ACCOUNT OF THE HARA-KIRI THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY ON THE BIRTH AND REARING OF CHILDREN FUNERAL RITES LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS THE RÔNINS INVITE RÔTSUKÉ NO SUKÉ TO PERFORM HARA-KIRI THE WELL IN WHICH THE HEAD WAS WASHED THE SATSUMA MAN INSULTS OISHI KURANOSUKÉ THE TOMBS OF THE RÔNINS THE TOMB OF THE SHIYOKU GOMPACHI AWAKENED BY THE MAIDEN IN THE ROBBERS' DEN FORGING THE SWORD MATAGORÔ KILLS YUKIYÉ THE DEATH OF DANYÉMON TRICKS OF SWORDSMANSHIP AT ASAKUSA THE DEATH OF CHÔBEI OF BANDZUIN FUNAKOSHI JIUYÉMON ON BOARD THE PIRATE SHIP JIUYÉMON PUNISHES HIS WIFE AND THE WRESTLER FUNAKOSHI JIUYÉMON AND THE GOBLINS "GOKUMON" CHAMPION WRESTLER A WRESTLING MATCH GENZABURÔ'S MEETING WITH THE ETA MAIDEN THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW (2) THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE (2) THE HARE AND THE BADGER THE HARE AND THE BADGER (2) THE OLD MAN WHO CAUSED WITHERED TREES TO FLOWER THE OLD MAN WHO CAUSED WITHERED TREES TO FLOWER (2) THE APE AND THE CRAB THE APE AND THE CRAB (2) LITTLE PEACHLING LITTLE PEACHLING (2) THE FOXES' WEDDING THE FOXES' WEDDING (2) THE DEPUTATION OF PEASANTS AT THEIR LORD'S GATE THE GHOST OF SAKURA SÔGORÔ THRUSTING THE PETITION INTO THE SHOGUN'S LITTER THE CAT OF NABÉSHIMA THE FEAST OF INARI SAMA A JAPANESE SERMON THE FORTY-SEVEN RÔNINS The books which have been written of late years about Japan have either been compiled from official records, or have contained the sketchy impressions of passing travellers. Of the inner life of the Japanese the world at large knows but little: their religion, their superstitions, their ways of thought, the hidden springs by which they move--all these are as yet mysteries. Nor is this to be wondered at. The first Western men who came in contact with Japan--I am speaking not of the old Dutch and Portuguese traders and priests, but of the diplomatists and merchants of eleven years ago--met with a cold reception. Above all things, the native Government threw obstacles in the way of any inquiry into their language, literature, and history. The fact was that the Tycoon's Government--with whom alone, so long as the Mikado remained in seclusion in his sacred capital at Kiôto, any relations were maintained--knew that the Imperial purple with which they sought to invest their chief must quickly fade before the strong sunlight which would be brought upon it so soon as there should be European linguists capable of examining their books and records. No opportunity was lost of throwing dust in the eyes of the new-comers, whom, even in the most trifling details, it was the official policy to lead astray. Now, however, there is no cause for concealment; the _Roi Fainéant_ has shaken off his sloth, and his _Maire du Palais_, together, and an intelligible Government, which need not fear scrutiny from abroad, is the result: the records of the country being but so many proofs of the Mikado's title to power, there is no reason for keeping up any show of mystery. The path of inquiry is open to all; and although there is yet much to be learnt, some knowledge has been attained, in which it may interest those who stay at home to share. The recent revolution in Japan has wrought changes social as well as political; and it may be that when, in addition to the advance which has already been made, railways and telegraphs shall have connected the principal points of the Land of Sunrise, the old Japanese, such as he was and had been for centuries when we found him eleven short years ago, will have become extinct. It has appeared to me that no better means could be chosen of preserving a record of a curious and fast disappearing civilization than the translation of some of the most interesting national legends and histories, together with other specimens of literature bearing upon the same subject. Thus the Japanese may tell their own tale, their translator only adding here and there a few words of heading or tag to a chapter, where an explanation or amplification may seem necessary. I fear that the long and hard names will often make my tales tedious reading, but I believe that those who will bear with the difficulty will learn more of the character of the Japanese people than by skimming over descriptions of travel and adventure, however brilliant. The lord and his retainer, the warrior and the priest, the humble artisan and the despised Eta or pariah, each in his turn will become a leading character in my budget of stories; and it is out of the mouths of these personages that I hope to show forth a tolerably complete picture of Japanese society. Having said so much by way of preface, I beg my readers to fancy themselves wafted away to the shores of the Bay of Yedo--a fair, smiling landscape: gentle slopes, crested by a dark fringe of pines and firs, lead down to the sea; the quaint eaves of many a temple and holy shrine peep out here and there from the groves; the bay itself is studded with picturesque fisher-craft, the torches of which shine by night like glow-worms among the outlying forts; far away to the west loom the goblin-haunted heights of Oyama, and beyond the twin hills of the Hakoné Pass--Fuji-Yama, the Peerless Mountain, solitary and grand, stands in the centre of the plain, from which it sprang vomiting flames twenty-one centuries ago.[1] For a hundred and sixty years the huge mountain has been at peace, but the frequent earthquakes still tell of hidden fires, and none can say when the red-hot stones and ashes may once more fall like rain over five provinces. In the midst of a nest of venerable trees in Takanawa, a suburb of Yedo, is hidden Sengakuji, or the Spring-hill Temple, renowned throughout the length and breadth of the land for its cemetery, which contains the graves of the Forty-seven. Rônins,[2] famous in Japanese history, heroes of Japanese drama, the tale of whose deeds I am about to transcribe. On the left-hand side of the main court of the temple is a chapel, in which, surmounted by a gilt figure of Kwanyin, the goddess of mercy, are enshrined the images of the forty-seven men, and of the master whom they loved so well. The statues are carved in wood, the faces coloured, and the dresses richly lacquered; as works of art they have great merit--the action of the heroes, each armed with his favourite weapon, being wonderfully life-like and spirited. Some are venerable men, with thin, grey hair (one is seventy-seven years old); others are mere boys of sixteen. Close by the chapel, at the side of a path leading up the hill, is a little well of pure water, fenced in and adorned with a tiny fernery, over which is an inscription, setting forth that "This is the well in which the head was washed; you must not wash your hands or your feet here." A little further on is a stall, at which a poor old man earns a pittance by selling books, pictures, and medals, commemorating the loyalty of the Forty-seven; and higher up yet, shaded by a grove of stately trees, is a neat inclosure, kept up, as a signboard announces, by voluntary contributions, round which are ranged forty-eight little tombstones, each decked with evergreens, each with its tribute of water and incense for the comfort of the departed spirit. There were forty-seven Rônins; there are forty-eight tombstones, and the story of the forty-eighth is truly characteristic of Japanese ideas of honour. Almost touching the rail of the graveyard is a more imposing monument under which lies buried the lord, whose death his followers piously avenged. [Footnote 1: According to Japanese tradition, in the fifth year of the Emperor Kôrei (286 B.C.), the earth opened in the province of Omi, near Kiôto, and Lake Biwa, sixty miles long by about eighteen broad, was formed in the shape of a _Biwa_, or four-stringed lute, from which it takes its name. At the same time, to compensate for the depression of the earth, but at a distance of over three hundred miles from the lake, rose Fuji-Yama, the last eruption of which was in the year 1707. The last great earthquake at Yedo took place about fifteen years ago. Twenty thousand souls are said to have perished in it, and the dead were carried away and buried by cartloads; many persons, trying to escape from their falling and burning houses, were caught in great clefts, which yawned suddenly in the earth, and as suddenly closed upon the victims, crushing them to death. For several days heavy shocks continued to be felt, and the people camped out, not daring to return to such houses as had been spared, nor to build up those which lay in ruins.] [Footnote 2: The word _Rônin_ means, literally, a "wave-man"; one who is tossed about hither and thither, as a wave of the sea. It is used to designate persons of gentle blood, entitled to bear arms, who, having become separated from their feudal lords by their own act, or by dismissal, or by fate, wander about the country in the capacity of somewhat disreputable knights-errant, without ostensible means of living, in some cases offering themselves for hire to new masters, in others supporting themselves by pillage; or who, falling a grade in the social scale, go into trade, and become simple wardsmen. Sometimes it happens that for political reasons a man will become Rônin, in order that his lord may not be implicated in some deed of blood in which he is about to engage. Sometimes, also, men become Rônins, and leave their native place for a while, until some scrape in which they have become entangled shall have blown over; after which they return to their former allegiance. Nowadays it is not unusual for men to become Rônins for a time, and engage themselves in the service of foreigners at the open ports, even in menial capacities, in the hope that they may pick up something of the language and lore of Western folks. I know instances of men of considerable position who have adopted this course in their zeal for education.] And now for the story. At the beginning of the eighteenth century there lived a daimio, called Asano Takumi no Kami, the Lord of the castle of Akô, in the province of Harima. Now it happened that an Imperial ambassador from the Court of the Mikado having been sent to the Shogun[3] at Yedo, Takumi no Kami and another noble called Kamei Sama were appointed to receive and feast the envoy; and a high official, named Kira Kôtsuké no Suké, was named to teach them the proper ceremonies to be observed upon the occasion. The two nobles were accordingly forced to go daily to the castle to listen to the instructions of Kôtsuké no Suké. But this Kôtsuké no Suké was a man greedy of money; and as he deemed that the presents which the two daimios, according to time-honoured custom, had brought him in return for his instruction were mean and unworthy, he conceived a great hatred against them, and took no pains in teaching them, but on the contrary rather sought to make laughing-stocks of them. Takumi no Kami, restrained by a stern sense of duty, bore his insults with patience; but Kamei Sama, who had less control over his temper, was violently incensed, and determined to kill Kôtsuké no Suké. [Footnote 3: The full title of the Tycoon was Sei-i-tai-Shogun, "Barbarian-repressing Commander-in-chief." The style Tai Kun, Great Prince, was borrowed, in order to convey the idea of sovereignty to foreigners, at the time of the conclusion of the Treaties. The envoys sent by the Mikado from Kiôto to communicate to the Shogun the will of his sovereign were received with Imperial honours, and the duty of entertaining them was confided to nobles of rank. The title Sei-i-tai-Shogun was first borne by Minamoto no Yoritomo, in the seventh month of the year A.D. 1192.] [Illustration: THE WELL IN WHICH THE HEAD WAS WASHED.] One night when his duties at the castle were ended, Kamei Sama returned to his own palace, and having summoned his councillors[4] to a secret conference, said to them: "Kôtsuké no Suké has insulted Takumi no Kami and myself during our service in attendance on the Imperial envoy. This is against all decency, and I was minded to kill him on the spot; but I bethought me that if I did such a deed within the precincts of the castle, not only would my own life be forfeit, but my family and vassals would be ruined: so I stayed my hand. Still the life of such a wretch is a sorrow to the people, and to-morrow when I go to Court I will slay him: my mind is made up, and I will listen to no remonstrance." And as he spoke his face became livid with rage. [Footnote 4: Councillor, lit. "elder." The councillors of daimios were of two classes: the _Karô_, or "elder," an hereditary office, held by cadets of the Prince's family, and the _Yônin_, or "man of business," who was selected on account of his merits. These "councillors" play no mean part in Japanese history.] Now one of Kamei Sama's councillors was a man of great judgment, and when he saw from his lord's manner that remonstrance would be useless, he said: "Your lordship's words are law; your servant will make all preparations accordingly; and to-morrow, when your lordship goes to Court, if this Kôtsuké no Suké should again be insolent, let him die the death." And his lord was pleased at this speech, and waited with impatience for the day to break, that he might return to Court and kill his enemy. But the councillor went home, and was sorely troubled, and thought anxiously about what his prince had said. And as he reflected, it occurred to him that since Kôtsuké no Suké had the reputation of being a miser he would certainly be open to a bribe, and that it was better to pay any sum, no matter how great, than that his lord and his house should be ruined. So he collected all the money he could, and, giving it to his servants to carry, rode off in the night to Kôtsuké no Suké's palace, and said to his retainers: "My master, who is now in attendance upon the Imperial envoy, owes much thanks to my Lord Kôtsuké no Suké, who has been at so great pains to teach him the proper ceremonies to be observed during the reception of the Imperial envoy. This is but a shabby present which he has sent by me, but he hopes that his lordship will condescend to accept it, and commends himself to his lordship's favour." And, with these words, he produced a thousand ounces of silver for Kôtsuké no Suké, and a hundred ounces to be distributed among his retainers. When the latter saw the money their eyes sparkled with pleasure, and they were profuse in their thanks; and begging the councillor to wait a little, they went and told their master of the lordly present which had arrived with a polite message from Kamei Sama. Kôtsuké no Suké in eager delight sent for the councillor into an inner chamber, and, after thanking him, promised on the morrow to instruct his master carefully in all the different points of etiquette. So the councillor, seeing the miser's glee, rejoiced at the success of his plan; and having taken his leave returned home in high spirits. But Kamei Sama, little thinking how his vassal had propitiated his enemy, lay brooding over his vengeance, and on the following morning at daybreak went to Court in solemn procession. When Kôtsuké no Suké met him his manner had completely changed, and nothing could exceed his courtesy. "You have come early to Court this morning, my Lord Kamei," said he. "I cannot sufficiently admire your zeal. I shall have the honour to call your attention to several points of etiquette to-day. I must beg your lordship to excuse my previous conduct, which must have seemed very rude; but I am naturally of a cross-grained disposition, so I pray you to forgive me." And as he kept on humbling himself and making fair speeches, the heart of Kamei Sama was gradually softened, and he renounced his intention of killing him. Thus by the cleverness of his councillor was Kamei Sama, with all his house, saved from ruin. Shortly after this, Takumi no Kami, who had sent no present, arrived at the castle, and Kôtsuké no Suké turned him into ridicule even more than before, provoking him with sneers and covert insults; but Takumi no Kami affected to ignore all this, and submitted himself patiently to Kôtsuké no Suké's orders. This conduct, so far from producing a good effect, only made Kôtsuké no Suké despise him the more, until at last he said haughtily: "Here, my Lord of Takumi, the ribbon of my sock has come untied; be so good as to tie it up for me." Takumi no Kami, although burning with rage at the affront, still thought that as he was on duty he was bound to obey, and tied up the ribbon of the sock. Then Kôtsuké no Suké, turning from him, petulantly exclaimed: "Why, how clumsy you are! You cannot so much as tie up the ribbon of a sock properly! Any one can see that you are a boor from the country, and know nothing of the manners of Yedo." And with a scornful laugh he moved towards an inner room. But the patience of Takumi no Kami was exhausted; this last insult was more than he could bear. "Stop a moment, my lord," cried he. "Well, what is it?" replied the other. And, as he turned round, Takumi no Kami drew his dirk, and aimed a blow at his head; but Kôtsuké no Suké, being protected by the Court cap which he wore, the wound was but a scratch, so he ran away; and Takumi no Kami, pursuing him, tried a second time to cut him down, but, missing his aim, struck his dirk into a pillar. At this moment an officer, named Kajikawa Yosobei, seeing the affray, rushed up, and holding back the infuriated noble, gave Kôtsuké no Suké time to make good his escape. Then there arose a great uproar and confusion, and Takumi no Kami was arrested and disarmed, and confined in one of the apartments of the palace under the care of the censors. A council was held, and the prisoner was given over to the safeguard of a daimio, called Tamura Ukiyô no Daibu, who kept him in close custody in his own house, to the great grief of his wife and of his retainers; and when the deliberations of the council were completed, it was decided that, as he had committed an outrage and attacked another man within the precincts of the palace, he must perform _hara-kiri_,--that is, commit suicide by disembowelling; his goods must be confiscated, and his family ruined. Such was the law. So Takumi no Kami performed _hara-kiri_, his castle of Akô was confiscated, and his retainers having become Rônins, some of them took service with other daimios, and others became merchants. Now amongst these retainers was his principal councillor, a man called Oishi Kuranosuké, who, with forty-six other faithful dependants, formed a league to avenge their master's death by killing Kôtsuké no Suké. This Oishi Kuranosuké was absent at the castle of Akô at the time of the affray, which, had he been with his prince, would never have occurred; for, being a wise man, he would not have failed to propitiate Kôtsuké no Suké by sending him suitable presents; while the councillor who was in attendance on the prince at Yedo was a dullard, who neglected this precaution, and so caused the death of his master and the ruin of his house. So Oishi Kuranosuké and his forty-six companions began to lay their plans of vengeance against Kôtsuké no Suké; but the latter was so well guarded by a body of men lent to him by a daimio called Uyésugi Sama, whose daughter he had married, that they saw that the only way of attaining their end would be to throw their enemy off his guard. With this object they separated and disguised themselves, some as carpenters or craftsmen, others as merchants; and their chief, Kuranosuké, went to Kiôto, and built a house in the quarter called Yamashina, where he took to frequenting houses of the worst repute, and gave himself up to drunkenness and debauchery, as if nothing were further from his mind than revenge. Kôtsuké no Suké, in the meanwhile, suspecting that Takumi no Kami's former retainers would be scheming against his life, secretly sent spies to Kiôto, and caused a faithful account to be kept of all that Kuranosuké did. The latter, however, determined thoroughly to delude the enemy into a false security, went on leading a dissolute life with harlots and winebibbers. One day, as he was returning home drunk from some low haunt, he fell down in the street and went to sleep, and all the passers-by laughed him to scorn. It happened that a Satsuma man saw this, and said: "Is not this Oishi Kuranosuké, who was a councillor of Asano Takumi no Kami, and who, not having the heart to avenge his lord, gives himself up to women and wine? See how he lies drunk in the public street! Faithless beast! Fool and craven! Unworthy the name of a Samurai!"[5] [Footnote 5: _Samurai_, a man belonging to the _Buké_ or military class, entitled to bear arms.] [Illustration: THE SATSUMA MAN INSULTS OISHI KURANOSUKÉ.] And he trod on Kuranosuké's face as he slept, and spat upon him; but when Kôtsuké no Suké's spies reported all this at Yedo, he was greatly relieved at the news, and felt secure from danger. One day Kuranosuké's wife, who was bitterly grieved to see her husband lead this abandoned life, went to him and said: "My lord, you told me at first that your debauchery was but a trick to make your enemy relax in watchfulness. But indeed, indeed, this has gone too far. I pray and beseech you to put some restraint upon yourself." "Trouble me not," replied Kuranosuké, "for I will not listen to your whining. Since my way of life is displeasing to you, I will divorce you, and you may go about your business; and I will buy some pretty young girl from one of the public-houses, and marry her for my pleasure. I am sick of the sight of an old woman like you about the house, so get you gone--the sooner the better." So saying, he flew into a violent rage, and his wife, terror-stricken, pleaded piteously for mercy. "Oh, my lord! unsay those terrible words! I have been your faithful wife for twenty years, and have borne you three children; in sickness and in sorrow I have been with you; you cannot be so cruel as to turn me out of doors now. Have pity! have pity!" "Cease this useless wailing. My mind is made up, and you must go; and as the children are in my way also, you are welcome to take them with you." When she heard her husband speak thus, in her grief she sought her eldest son, Oishi Chikara, and begged him to plead for her, and pray that she might be pardoned. But nothing would turn Kuranosuké from his purpose, so his wife was sent away, with the two younger children, and went back to her native place. But Oishi Chikara remained with his father. The spies communicated all this without fail to Kôtsuké no Suké, and he, when he heard how Kuranosuké, having turned his wife and children out of doors and bought a concubine, was grovelling in a life of drunkenness and lust, began to think that he had no longer anything to fear from the retainers of Takumi no Kami, who must be cowards, without the courage to avenge their lord. So by degrees he began to keep a less strict watch, and sent back half of the guard which had been lent to him by his father-in-law, Uyésugi Sama. Little did he think how he was falling into the trap laid for him by Kuranosuké, who, in his zeal to slay his lord's enemy, thought nothing of divorcing his wife and sending away his children! Admirable and faithful man! In this way Kuranosuké continued to throw dust in the eyes of his foe, by persisting in his apparently shameless conduct; but his associates all went to Yedo, and, having in their several capacities as workmen and pedlars contrived to gain access to Kôtsuké no Suké's house, made themselves familiar with the plan of the building and the arrangement of the different rooms, and ascertained the character of the inmates, who were brave and loyal men, and who were cowards; upon all of which matters they sent regular reports to Kuranosuké. And when at last it became evident from the letters which arrived from Yedo that Kôtsuké no Suké was thoroughly off his guard, Kuranosuké rejoiced that the day of vengeance was at hand; and, having appointed a trysting-place at Yedo, he fled secretly from Kiôto, eluding the vigilance of his enemy's spies. Then the forty-seven men, having laid all their plans, bided their time patiently. It was now midwinter, the twelfth month of the year, and the cold was bitter. One night, during a heavy fall of snow, when the whole world was hushed, and peaceful men were stretched in sleep upon the mats, the Rônins determined that no more favourable opportunity could occur for carrying out their purpose. So they took counsel together, and, having divided their band into two parties, assigned to each man his post. One band, led by Oishi Kuranosuké, was to attack the front gate, and the other, under his son Oishi Chikara, was to attack the postern of Kôtsuké no Suké's house; but as Chikara was only sixteen years of age, Yoshida Chiuzayémon was appointed to act as his guardian. Further it was arranged that a drum, beaten at the order of Kuranosuké, should be the signal for the simultaneous attack; and that if any one slew Kôtsuké no Suké and cut off his head he should blow a shrill whistle, as a signal to his comrades, who would hurry to the spot, and, having identified the head, carry it off to the temple called Sengakuji, and lay it as an offering before the tomb of their dead lord. Then they must report their deed to the Government, and await the sentence of death which would surely be passed upon them. To this the Rônins one and all pledged themselves. Midnight was fixed upon as the hour, and the forty-seven comrades, having made all ready for the attack, partook of a last farewell feast together, for on the morrow they must die. Then Oishi Kuranosuké addressed the band, and said-- "To-night we shall attack our enemy in his palace; his retainers will certainly resist us, and we shall be obliged to kill them. But to slay old men and women and children is a pitiful thing; therefore, I pray you each one to take great heed lest you kill a single helpless person." His comrades all applauded this speech, and so they remained, waiting for the hour of midnight to arrive. When the appointed hour came, the Rônins set forth. The wind howled furiously, and the driving snow beat in their faces; but little cared they for wind or snow as they hurried on their road, eager for revenge. At last they reached Kôtsuké no Suké's house, and divided themselves into two bands; and Chikara, with twenty-three men, went round to the back gate. Then four men, by means of a ladder of ropes which they hung on to the roof of the porch, effected an entry into the courtyard; and, as they saw signs that all the inmates of the house were asleep, they went into the porter's lodge where the guard slept, and, before the latter had time to recover from their astonishment, bound them. The terrified guard prayed hard for mercy, that their lives might be spared; and to this the Rônins agreed on condition that the keys of the gate should be given up; but the others tremblingly said that the keys were kept in the house of one of their officers, and that they had no means of obtaining them. Then the Rônins lost patience, and with a hammer dashed in pieces the big wooden bolt which secured the gate, and the doors flew open to the right and to the left. At the same time Chikara and his party broke in by the back gate. Then Oishi Kuranosuké sent a messenger to the neighbouring houses, bearing the following message:--"We, the Rônins who were formerly in the service of Asano Takumi no Kami, are this night about to break into the palace of Kôtsuké no Suké, to avenge our lord. As we are neither night robbers nor ruffians, no hurt will be done to the neighbouring houses. We pray you to set your minds at rest." And as Kôtsuké no Suké was hated by his neighbours for his covetousness, they did not unite their forces to assist him. Another precaution was yet taken. Lest any of the people inside should run out to call the relations of the family to the rescue, and these coming in force should interfere with the plans of the Rônins, Kuranosuké stationed ten of his men armed with bows on the roof of the four sides of the courtyard, with orders to shoot any retainers who might attempt to leave the place. Having thus laid all his plans and posted his men, Kuranosuké with his own hand beat the drum and gave the signal for attack. Ten of Kôtsuké no Suké's retainers, hearing the noise, woke up; and, drawing their swords, rushed into the front room to defend their master. At this moment the Rônins, who had burst open the door of the front hall, entered the same room. Then arose a furious fight between the two parties, in the midst of which Chikara, leading his men through the garden, broke into the back of the house; and Kôtsuké no Suké, in terror of his life, took refuge, with his wife and female servants, in a closet in the verandah; while the rest of his retainers, who slept in the barrack outside the house, made ready to go to the rescue. But the Rônins who had come in by the front door, and were fighting with the ten retainers, ended by overpowering and slaying the latter without losing one of their own number; after which, forcing their way bravely towards the back rooms, they were joined by Chikara and his men, and the two bands were united in one. By this time the remainder of Kôtsuké no Suké's men had come in, and the fight became general; and Kuranosuké, sitting on a camp-stool, gave his orders and directed the Rônins. Soon the inmates of the house perceived that they were no match for their enemy, so they tried to send out intelligence of their plight to Uyésugi Sama, their lord's father-in-law, begging him to come to the rescue with all the force at his command. But the messengers were shot down by the archers whom Kuranosuké had posted on the roof. So no help coming, they fought on in despair. Then Kuranosuké cried out with a loud voice: "Kôtsuké no Suké alone is our enemy; let some one go inside and bring him forth. dead or alive!" Now in front of Kôtsuké no Suké's private room stood three brave retainers with drawn swords. The first was Kobayashi Héhachi, the second was Waku Handaiyu, and the third was Shimidzu Ikkaku, all good men and true, and expert swordsmen. So stoutly did these men lay about them that for a while they kept the whole of the Rônins at bay, and at one moment even forced them back. When Oishi Kuranosuké saw this, he ground his teeth with rage, and shouted to his men: "What! did not every man of you swear to lay down his life in avenging his lord, and now are you driven back by three men? Cowards, not fit to be spoken to! to die fighting in a master's cause should be the noblest ambition of a retainer!" Then turning to his own son Chikara, he said, "Here, boy! engage those men, and if they are too strong for you, die!" Spurred by these words, Chikara seized a spear and gave battle to Waku Handaiyu, but could not hold his ground, and backing by degrees, was driven out into the garden, where he missed his footing and slipped into a pond, but as Handaiyu, thinking to kill him, looked down into the pond, Chikara cut his enemy in the leg and caused him to fall, and then, crawling out of the water dispatched him. In the meanwhile Kobayashi Héhachi and Shimidzu Ikkaku had been killed by the other Rônins, and of all Kôtsuké no Suké's retainers not one fighting man remained. Chikara, seeing this, went with his bloody sword in his hand into a back room to search for Kôtsuké no Suké, but he only found the son of the latter, a young lord named Kira Sahioyé, who, carrying a halberd, attacked him, but was soon wounded and fled. Thus the whole of Kôtsuké no Suké's men having been killed, there was an end of the fighting; but as yet there was no trace of Kôtsuké no Suké to be found. Then Kuranosuké divided his men into several parties and searched the whole house, but all in vain; women and children weeping were alone to be seen. At this the forty-seven men began to lose heart in regret, that after all their toil they had allowed their enemy to escape them, and there was a moment when in their despair they agreed to commit suicide together upon the spot; but they determined to make one more effort. So Kuranosuké went into Kôtsuké no Suké's sleeping-room, and touching the quilt with his hands, exclaimed, "I have just felt the bed-clothes and they are yet warm, and so methinks that our enemy is not far off. He must certainly be hidden somewhere in the house." Greatly excited by this, the Rônins renewed their search. Now in the raised part of the room, near the place of honour, there was a picture hanging; taking down this picture, they saw that there was a large hole in the plastered wall, and on thrusting a spear in they could feel nothing beyond it. So one of the Rônins, called Yazama Jiutarô, got into the hole, and found that on the other side there was a little courtyard, in which there stood an outhouse for holding charcoal and firewood. Looking into the outhouse, he spied something white at the further end, at which he struck with his spear, when two armed men sprang out upon him and tried to cut him down, but he kept them back until one of his comrades came up and killed one of the two men and engaged the other, while Jiutarô entered the outhouse and felt about with his spear. Again seeing something white, he struck it with his lance, when a cry of pain betrayed that it was a man; so he rushed up, and the man in white clothes, who had been wounded in the thigh, drew a dirk and aimed a blow at him. But Jiutarô wrested the dirk from him, and clutching him by the collar, dragged him out of the outhouse. Then the other Rônin came up, and they examined the prisoner attentively, and saw that he was a noble-looking man, some sixty years of age, dressed in a white satin sleeping-robe, which was stained by the blood from the thigh-wound which, Jiutarô had inflicted. The two men felt convinced that this was no other than Kôtsuké no Suké, and they asked him his name, but he gave no answer, so they gave the signal whistle, and all their comrades collected together at the call; then Oishi Kuranosuké, bringing a lantern, scanned the old man's features, and it was indeed Kôtsuké no Suké; and if further proof were wanting, he still bore a scar on his forehead where their master, Asano Takumi no Kami, had wounded him during the affray in the castle. There being no possibility of mistake, therefore, Oishi Kuranosuké went down on his knees, and addressing the old man very respectfully, said-- "My lord, we are the retainers of Asano Takumi no Kami. Last year your lordship and our master quarrelled in the palace, and our master was sentenced to _hara-kiri,_ and his family was ruined. We have come to-night to avenge him, as is the duty of faithful and loyal men. I pray your lordship to acknowledge the justice of our purpose. And now, my lord, we beseech you to perform _hara-kiri_. I myself shall have the honour to act as your second, and when, with all humility, I shall have received your lordship's head, it is my intention to lay it as an offering upon the grave of Asano Takumi no Kami." Thus, in consideration of the high rank of Kôtsuké no Suké, the Rônins treated him with the greatest courtesy, and over and over again entreated him to perform _hara-kiri._ But he crouched speechless and trembling. At last Kuranosuké, seeing that it was vain to urge him to die the death of a nobleman, forced him down, and cut off his head with the same dirk with which Asano Takumi no Kami had killed himself. Then the forty-seven comrades, elated at having accomplished their design, placed the head in a bucket, and prepared to depart; but before leaving the house they carefully extinguished all the lights and fires in the place, lest by any accident a fire should break out and the neighbours suffer. As they were on their way to Takanawa, the suburb in which the temple called Sengakuji stands, the day broke; and the people flocked out to see the forty-seven men, who, with their clothes and arms all blood-stained, presented a terrible appearance; and every one praised them, wondering at their valour and faithfulness. But they expected every moment that Kôtsuké no Suké's father-in-law would attack them and carry off the head, and made ready to die bravely sword in hand. However, they reached Takanawa in safety, for Matsudaira Aki no Kami, one of the eighteen chief daimios of Japan, of whose house Asano Takumi no Kami had been a cadet, had been highly pleased when he heard of the last night's work, and he had made ready to assist the Rônins in case they were attacked. So Kôtsuké no Suké's father-in-law dared not pursue them. At about seven in the morning they came opposite to the palace of Matsudaira Mutsu no Kami, the Prince of Sendai, and the Prince, hearing of it, sent for one of his councillors and said: "The retainers of Takumi no Kami have slain their lord's enemy, and are passing this way; I cannot sufficiently admire their devotion, so, as they must be tired and hungry after their night's work, do you go and invite them to come in here, and set some gruel and a cup of wine before them." So the councillor went out and said to Oishi Kuranosuké: "Sir, I am a councillor of the Prince of Sendai, and my master bids me beg you, as you must be worn out after all you have undergone, to come in and partake of such poor refreshment as we can offer you. This is my message to you from my lord." "I thank you, sir," replied Kuranosuké. "It is very good of his lordship to trouble himself to think of us. We shall accept his kindness gratefully." So the forty-seven Rônins went into the palace, and were feasted with gruel and wine, and all the retainers of the Prince of Sendai came and praised them. Then Kuranosuké turned to the councillor and said, "Sir, we are truly indebted to you for this kind hospitality; but as we have still to hurry to Sengakuji, we must needs humbly take our leave." And, after returning many thanks to their hosts, they left the palace of the Prince of Sendai and hastened to Sengakuji, where they were met by the abbot of the monastery, who went to the front gate to receive them, and led them to the tomb of Takumi no Kami. And when they came to their lord's grave, they took the head of Kôtsuké no Suké, and having washed it clean in a well hard by, laid it as an offering before the tomb. When they had done this, they engaged the priests of the temple to come and read prayers while they burnt incense: first Oishi Kuranosuké burnt incense, and then his son Oishi Chikara, and after them the other forty-five men performed the same ceremony. Then Kuranosuké, having given all the money that he had by him to the abbot, said-- "When we forty-seven men shall have performed _hara-kiri_, I beg you to bury us decently. I rely upon your kindness. This is but a trifle that I have to offer; such as it is, let it be spent in masses for our souls!" And the abbot, marvelling at the faithful courage of the men, with tears in his eyes pledged himself to fulfil their wishes. So the forty-seven Rônins, with their minds at rest, waited patiently until they should receive the orders of the Government. At last they were summoned to the Supreme Court, where the governors of Yedo and the public censors had assembled; and the sentence passed upon them was as follows: "Whereas, neither respecting the dignity of the city nor fearing the Government, having leagued yourselves together to slay your enemy, you violently broke into the house of Kira Kôtsuké no Suké by night and murdered him, the sentence of the Court is, that, for this audacious conduct, you perform _hara-kiri_." When the sentence had been read, the forty-seven Rônins were divided into four parties, and handed over to the safe keeping of four different daimios; and sheriffs were sent to the palaces of those daimios in whose presence the Rônins were made to perform _hara-kiri_. But, as from the very beginning they had all made up their minds that to this end they must come, they met their death nobly; and their corpses were carried to Sengakuji, and buried in front of the tomb of their master, Asano Takumi no Kami. And when the fame of this became noised abroad, the people flocked to pray at the graves of these faithful men. [Illustration: THE TOMBS OF THE RÔNINS.] Among those who came to pray was a Satsuma man, who, prostrating himself before the grave of Oishi Kuranosuké, said: "When I saw you lying drunk by the roadside at Yamashina, in Kiôto, I knew not that you were plotting to avenge your lord; and, thinking you to be a faithless man, I trampled on you and spat in your face as I passed. And now I have come to ask pardon and offer atonement for the insult of last year." With those words he prostrated himself again before the grave, and, drawing a dirk from his girdle, stabbed himself in the belly and died. And the chief priest of the temple, taking pity upon him, buried him by the side of the Rônins; and his tomb still remains to be seen with those of the forty-seven comrades. This is the end of the story of the forty-seven Rônins. * * * * * A terrible picture of fierce heroism which it is impossible not to admire. In the Japanese mind this feeling of admiration is unmixed, and hence it is that the forty-seven Rônins receive almost divine honours. Pious hands still deck their graves with green boughs and burn incense upon them; the clothes and arms which they wore are preserved carefully in a fire-proof store-house attached to the temple, and exhibited yearly to admiring crowds, who behold them probably with little less veneration than is accorded to the relics of Aix-la-Chapelle or Trèves; and once in sixty years the monks of Sengakuji reap quite a harvest for the good of their temple by holding a commemorative fair or festival, to which the people flock during nearly two months. A silver key once admitted me to a private inspection of the relics. We were ushered, my friend and myself, into a back apartment of the spacious temple, overlooking one of those marvellous miniature gardens, cunningly adorned with rockeries and dwarf trees, in which the Japanese delight. One by one, carefully labelled and indexed boxes containing the precious articles were brought out and opened by the chief priest. Such a curious medley of old rags and scraps of metal and wood! Home-made chain armour, composed of wads of leather secured together by pieces of iron, bear witness to the secrecy with which the Rônins made ready for the fight. To have bought armour would have attracted attention, so they made it with their own hands. Old moth-eaten surcoats, bits of helmets, three flutes, a writing-box that must have been any age at the time of the tragedy, and is now tumbling to pieces; tattered trousers of what once was rich silk brocade, now all unravelled and befringed; scraps of leather, part of an old gauntlet, crests and badges, bits of sword handles, spear-heads and dirks, the latter all red with rust, but with certain patches more deeply stained as if the fatal clots of blood were never to be blotted out: all these were reverently shown to us. Among the confusion and litter were a number of documents, Yellow with age and much worn at the folds. One was a plan of Kôtsuké no Suké's house, which one of the Rônins obtained by marrying the daughter of the builder who designed it. Three of the manuscripts appeared to me so curious that I obtained leave to have copies taken of them. The first is the receipt given by the retainers of Kôtsuké no Suké's son in return for the head of their lord's father, which the priests restored to the family, and runs as follows:-- "MEMORANDUM:-- ITEM. ONE HEAD. ITEM. ONE PAPER PARCEL. The above articles are acknowledged to have been received. Signed, { SAYADA MAGOBELI. (_Loc. sigill._) { SAITÔ KUNAI. (_Loc. sigill._) "To the priests deputed from the Temple Sengakuji, His Reverence SEKISHI, His Reverence ICHIDON." The second paper is a document explanatory of their conduct, a copy of which was found on the person of each of the forty-seven men:-- "Last year, in the third month, Asano Takumi no Kami, upon the occasion of the entertainment of the Imperial ambassador, was driven, by the force of circumstances, to attack and wound my Lord Kôtsuké no Suké in the castle, in order to avenge an insult offered to him. Having done this without considering the dignity of the place, and having thus disregarded all rules of propriety, he was condemned to _hara-kiri,_ and his property and castle of Akô were forfeited to the State, and were delivered up by his retainers to the officers deputed by the Shogun to receive them. After this his followers were all dispersed. At the time of the quarrel the high officials present prevented Asano Takumi no Kami from carrying out his intention of killing his enemy, my Lord Kôtsuké no Suké. So Asano Takumi no Kami died without having avenged himself, and this was more than his retainers could endure. It is impossible to remain under the same heaven with the enemy of lord or father; for this reason we have dared to declare enmity against a personage of so exalted rank. This day we shall attack Kira Kôtsuké no Suké, in order to finish the deed of vengeance which was begun by our dead lord. If any honourable person should find our bodies after death, he is respectfully requested to open and read this document. "15th year of Genroku. 12th month. "Signed, OISHI KURANOSUKÉ, Retainer of Asano Takumi no Kami, and forty-six others."[6] [Footnote 6: It is usual for a Japanese, when bent upon some deed of violence, the end of which, in his belief, justifies the means, to carry about with him a document, such as that translated above, in which he sets forth his motives, that his character may be cleared after death.] The third manuscript is a paper which the Forty-seven Rônins laid upon the tomb of their master, together with the head of Kira Kôtsuké no Suké:-- "The 15th year of Genroku, the 12th month, and 15th day. We have come this day to do homage here, forty-seven men in all, from Oishi Kuranosuké down to the foot-soldier, Terasaka Kichiyémon, all cheerfully about to lay down our lives on your behalf. We reverently announce this to the honoured spirit of our dead master. On the 14th day of the third month of last year our honoured master was pleased to attack Kira Kôtsuké no Suké, for what reason we know not. Our honoured master put an end to his own life, but Kira Kôtsuké no Suké lived. Although we fear that after the decree issued by the Government this plot of ours will be displeasing to our honoured master, still we, who have eaten of your food, could not without blushing repeat the verse, 'Thou shalt not live under the same heaven nor tread the same earth with the enemy of thy father or lord,' nor could we have dared to leave hell and present ourselves before you in paradise, unless we had carried out the vengeance which you began. Every day that we waited seemed as three autumns to us. Verily, we have trodden the snow for one day, nay, for two days, and have tasted food but once. The old and decrepit, the sick and ailing, have come forth gladly to lay down their lives. Men might laugh at us, as at grasshoppers trusting in the strength of their arms, and thus shame our honoured lord; but we could not halt in our deed of vengeance. Having taken counsel together last night, we have escorted my Lord Kôtsuké no Suké hither to your tomb. This dirk,[7] by which our honoured lord set great store last year, and entrusted to our care, we now bring back. If your noble spirit be now present before this tomb, we pray you, as a sign, to take the dirk, and, striking the head of your enemy with it a second time, to dispel your hatred for ever. This is the respectful statement of forty-seven men." [Footnote 7: The dirk with which Asano Takumi no Kumi disembowelled himself and with which Oishi Kuranosuké cut off Kôtsuké no Suké's head.] The text, "Thou shalt not live under the same heaven with the enemy of thy father," is based upon the Confucian books. Dr. Legge, in his "Life and Teachings of Confucius," p. 113, has an interesting paragraph summing up the doctrine of the sage upon the subject of revenge. "In the second book of the 'Le Ke' there is the following passage:--'With the slayer of his father a man may not live under the same heaven; against the slayer of his brother a man must never have to go home to fetch a weapon; with the slayer of his friend a man may not live in the same State.' The _lex talionis_ is here laid down in its fullest extent. The 'Chow Le' tells us of a provision made against the evil consequences of the principle by the appointment of a minister called 'The Reconciler.' The provision is very inferior to the cities of refuge which were set apart by Moses for the manslayer to flee to from the fury of the avenger. Such as it was, however, it existed, and it is remarkable that Confucius, when consulted on the subject, took no notice of it, but affirmed the duty of blood-revenge in the strongest and most unrestricted terms. His disciple, Tsze Hea, asked him, 'What course is to be pursued in the murder of a father or mother?' He replied, 'The son must sleep upon a matting of grass with his shield for his pillow; he must decline to take office; he must not live under the same heaven with the slayer. When he meets him in the market-place or the court, he must have his weapon ready to strike him.' 'And what is the course in the murder of a brother?' 'The surviving brother must not take office in the same State with the slayer; yet, if he go on his prince's service to the State where the slayer is, though he meet him, he must not fight with him.' 'And what is the course in the murder of an uncle or cousin?' 'In this case the nephew or cousin is not the principal. If the principal, on whom the revenge devolves, can take it, he has only to stand behind with his weapon in his hand, and support him.'" I will add one anecdote to show the sanctity which is attached to the graves of the Forty-seven. In the month of September 1868, a certain man came to pray before the grave of Oishi Chikara. Having finished his prayers, he deliberately performed _hara-kiri_,[8] and, the belly wound not being mortal, dispatched himself by cutting his throat. Upon his person were found papers setting forth that, being a Rônin and without means of earning a living, he had petitioned to be allowed to enter the clan of the Prince of Chôshiu, which he looked upon as the noblest clan in the realm; his petition having been refused, nothing remained for him but to die, for to be a Rônin was hateful to him, and he would serve no other master than the Prince of Chôshiu: what more fitting place could he find in which to put an end to his life than the graveyard of these Braves? This happened at about two hundred yards' distance from my house, and when I saw the spot an hour or two later, the ground was all bespattered with blood, and disturbed by the death-struggles of the man. [Footnote 8: A purist in Japanese matters may object to the use of the words _hara-kiri_ instead of the more elegant expression _Seppuku_. I retain the more vulgar form as being better known, and therefore more convenient.] THE LOVES OF GOMPACHI AND KOMURASAKI Within two miles or so from Yedo, and yet well away from the toil and din of the great city, stands the village of Meguro. Once past the outskirts of the town, the road leading thither is bounded on either side by woodlands rich in an endless variety of foliage, broken at intervals by the long, low line of villages and hamlets. As we draw near to Meguro, the scenery, becoming more and more rustic, increases in beauty. Deep shady lanes, bordered by hedgerows as luxurious as any in England, lead down to a valley of rice fields bright with the emerald green of the young crops. To the right and to the left rise knolls of fantastic shape, crowned with a profusion of Cryptomerias, Scotch firs and other cone-bearing trees, and fringed with thickets of feathery bamboos, bending their stems gracefully to the light summer breeze. Wherever there is a spot shadier and pleasanter to look upon than the rest, there may be seen the red portal of a shrine which the simple piety of the country folk has raised to Inari Sama, the patron god of farming, or to some other tutelary deity of the place. At the eastern outlet of the valley a strip of blue sea bounds the horizon; westward are the distant mountains. In the foreground, in front of a farmhouse, snug-looking, with its roof of velvety-brown thatch, a troop of sturdy urchins, suntanned and stark naked, are frisking in the wildest gambols, all heedless of the scolding voice of the withered old grandam who sits spinning and minding the house, while her son and his wife are away toiling at some outdoor labour. Close at our feet runs a stream of pure water, in which a group of countrymen are washing the vegetables which they will presently shoulder and carry off to sell by auction in the suburbs of Yedo. Not the least beauty of the scene consists in the wondrous clearness of an atmosphere so transparent that the most distant outlines are scarcely dimmed, while the details of the nearer ground stand out in sharp, bold relief, now lit by the rays of a vertical sun, now darkened under the flying shadows thrown by the fleecy clouds which sail across the sky. Under such a heaven, what painter could limn the lights and shades which flit over the woods, the pride of Japan, whether in late autumn, when the russets and yellows of our own trees are mixed with the deep crimson glow of the maples, or in spring-time, when plum and cherry trees and wild camellias--giants, fifty feet high--are in full blossom? All that we see is enchanting, but there is a strange stillness in the groves; rarely does the song of a bird break the silence; indeed, I know but one warbler whose note has any music in it, the _uguisu_, by some enthusiasts called the Japanese nightingale--at best, a king in the kingdom of the blind. The scarcity of animal life of all descriptions, man and mosquitoes alone excepted, is a standing wonder to the traveller; the sportsman must toil many a weary mile to get a shot at boar, or deer, or pheasant; and the plough of the farmer and the trap of the poacher, who works in and out of season, threaten to exterminate all wild creatures; unless, indeed, the Government should, as they threatened in the spring of 1869, put in force some adaptation of European game-laws. But they are lukewarm in the matter; a little hawking on a duck-pond satisfies the cravings of the modern Japanese sportsman, who knows that, game-laws or no game-laws, the wild fowl will never fail in winter; and the days are long past when my Lord the Shogun used to ride forth with a mighty company to the wild places about Mount Fuji, there camping out and hunting the boar, the deer, and the wolf, believing that in so doing he was fostering a manly and military spirit in the land. There is one serious drawback to the enjoyment of the beauties of the Japanese country, and that is the intolerable affront which is continually offered to one's sense of smell; the whole of what should form the sewerage of the city is carried out on the backs of men and horses, to be thrown upon the fields; and, if you would avoid the overpowering nuisance, you must walk handkerchief in hand, ready to shut out the stench which assails you at every moment. It would seem natural, while writing of the Japanese country, to say a few words about the peasantry, their relation to the lord of the soil, and their government. But these I must reserve for another place. At present our dealings are with the pretty village of Meguro. At the bottom of a little lane, close to the entrance of the village, stands an old shrine of the Shintô (the form of hero-worship which existed in Japan before the introduction of Confucianism or of Buddhism), surrounded by lofty Cryptomerias. The trees around a Shintô shrine are specially under the protection of the god to whom the altar is dedicated; and, in connection with them, there is a kind of magic still respected by the superstitious, which recalls the waxen dolls, through the medium of which sorcerers of the middle ages in Europe, and indeed those of ancient Greece, as Theocritus tells us, pretended to kill the enemies of their clients. This is called _Ushi no toki mairi,_ or "going to worship at the hour of the ox,"[9] and is practised by jealous women who wish to be revenged upon their faithless lovers. [Footnote 9: The Chinese, and the Japanese following them, divide the day of twenty-four hours into twelve periods, each of which has a sign something like the signs of the Zodiac:-- Midnight until two in the morning is represented by the rat. 2 a.m. " 4 a.m. " " ox. 4 a.m. " 6 a.m. " " tiger. 6 a.m. " 8 a.m. " " hare. 8 a.m. " 10 a.m. " " dragon. 10 a.m. " 12 noon " " snake. 12 noon " 2 p.m. " " horse. 2 p.m. " 4 p.m. " " ram. 4 p.m. " 6 p.m. " " ape. 6 p.m. " 8 p.m. " " cock. 8 p.m. " 10 p.m. " " hog. 10 p.m. " Midnight " " fox.] When the world is at rest, at two in the morning, the hour of which the ox is the symbol, the woman rises; she dons a white robe and high sandals or clogs; her coif is a metal tripod, in which are thrust three lighted candles; around her neck she hangs a mirror, which falls upon her bosom; in her left hand she carries a small straw figure, the effigy of the lover who has abandoned her, and in her right she grasps a hammer and nails, with which she fastens the figure to one of the sacred trees that surround the shrine. There she prays for the death of the traitor, vowing that, if her petition be heard, she will herself pull out the nails which now offend the god by wounding the mystic tree. Night after night she comes to the shrine, and each night she strikes in two or more nails, believing that every nail will shorten her lover's life, for the god, to save his tree, will surely strike him dead. Meguro is one of the many places round Yedo to which the good citizens flock for purposes convivial or religious, or both; hence it is that, cheek by jowl with the old shrines and temples, you will find many a pretty tea-house, standing at the rival doors of which Mesdemoiselles Sugar, Wave of the Sea, Flower, Seashore, and Chrysanthemum are pressing in their invitations to you to enter and rest. Not beautiful these damsels, if judged by our standard, but the charm of Japanese women lies in their manner and dainty little ways, and the tea-house girl, being a professional decoy-duck, is an adept in the art of flirting,--_en tout bien tout honneur_, be it remembered; for she is not to be confounded with the frail beauties of the Yoshiwara, nor even with her sisterhood near the ports open to foreigners, and to their corrupting influence. For, strange as it seems, our contact all over the East has an evil effect upon the natives. In one of the tea-houses a thriving trade is carried on in the sale of wooden tablets, some six inches square, adorned with the picture of a pink cuttlefish on a bright blue ground. These are ex-votos, destined to be offered up at the Temple of Yakushi Niurai, the Buddhist Æsculapius, which stands opposite, and concerning the foundation of which the following legend is told. In the days of old there was a priest called Jikaku, who at the age of forty years, it being the autumn of the tenth year of the period called Tenchô (A.D. 833), was suffering from disease of the eyes, which had attacked him three years before. In order to be healed from this disease he carved a figure of Yakushi Niurai, to which he used to offer up his prayers. Five years later he went to China, taking with him the figure as his guardian saint, and at a place called Kairetsu it protected him from robbers and wild beasts and from other calamities. There he passed his time in studying the sacred laws both hidden and revealed, and after nine years set sail to return to Japan. When he was on the high seas a storm arose, and a great fish attacked and tried to swamp the ship, so that the rudder and mast were broken, and the nearest shore being that of a land inhabited by devils, to retreat or to advance was equally dangerous. Then the holy man prayed to the patron saint whose image he carried, and as he prayed, behold the true Yakushi Niurai appeared in the centre of the ship, and said to him-- "Verily, thou hast travelled far that the sacred laws might be revealed for the salvation of many men; now, therefore, take my image, which thou carriest in thy bosom, and cast it into the sea, that the wind may abate, and that thou mayest be delivered from this land of devils." The commands of the saints must be obeyed, so with tears in his eyes, the priest threw into the sea the sacred image which he loved. Then did the wind abate, and the waves were stilled, and the ship went on her course as though she were being drawn by unseen hands until she reached a safe haven. In the tenth month of the same year the priest again set sail, trusting to the power of his patron saint, and reached the harbour of Tsukushi without mishap. For three years he prayed that the image which he had cast away might be restored to him, until at last one night he was warned in a dream that on the sea-shore at Matsura Yakushi Niurai would appear to him. In consequence of this dream he went to the province of Hizen, and landed on the sea-shore at Hirato, where, in the midst of a blaze of light, the image which he had carved appeared to him twice, riding on the back of a cuttlefish. Thus was the image restored to the world by a miracle. In commemoration of his recovery from the disease of the eyes and of his preservation from the dangers of the sea, that these things might be known to all posterity, the priest established the worship of Tako Yakushi Niurai ("Yakushi Niurai of the Cuttlefish") and came to Meguro, where he built the Temple of Fudô Sama,[10] another Buddhist divinity. At this time there was an epidemic of small-pox in the village, so that men fell down and died in the street, and the holy man prayed to Fudô Sama that the plague might be stayed. Then the god appeared to him, and said-- "The saint Yakushi Niurai of the Cuttlefish, whose image thou carriest, desires to have his place in this village, and he will heal this plague. Thou shalt, therefore, raise a temple to him here that not only this small-pox, but other diseases for future generations, may be cured by his power." [Footnote 10: Fudô, literally "the motionless": Buddha in the state called Nirvana.] Hearing this, the priest shed tears of gratitude, and having chosen a piece of fine wood, carved a large figure of his patron saint of the cuttlefish, and placed the smaller image inside of the larger, and laid it up in this temple, to which people still flock that they may be healed of their diseases. Such is the story of the miracle, translated from a small ill-printed pamphlet sold by the priests of the temple, all the decorations of which, even to a bronze lantern in the middle of the yard, are in the form of a cuttlefish, the sacred emblem of the place. What pleasanter lounge in which to while away a hot day could a man wish for than the shade of the trees borne by the hill on which stands the Temple of Fudô Sama? Two jets of pure water springing from the rock are voided by spouts carved in the shape of dragons into a stone basin enclosed by rails, within which it is written that "no woman may enter." If you are in luck, you may cool yourself by watching some devotee, naked save his loin-cloth, performing the ceremony called _Suigiyô_; that is to say, praying under the waterfall that his soul may be purified through his body. In winter it requires no small pluck to go through this penance, yet I have seen a penitent submit to it for more than a quarter of an hour on a bitterly cold day in January. In summer, on the other hand, the religious exercise called _Hiyakudo_, or "the hundred times," which may also be seen here to advantage, is no small trial of patience. It consists in walking backwards and forwards a hundred times between two points within the sacred precincts, repeating a prayer each time. The count is kept either upon the fingers or by depositing a length of twisted straw each time that the goal is reached; at this temple the place allotted for the ceremony is between a grotesque bronze figure of Tengu Sama ("the Dog of Heaven"), the terror of children, a most hideous monster with a gigantic nose, which it is beneficial to rub with a finger afterwards to be applied to one's own nose, and a large brown box inscribed with the characters _Hiyaku Do_ in high relief, which may generally be seen full of straw tallies. It is no sinecure to be a good Buddhist, for the gods are not lightly to be propitiated. Prayer and fasting, mortification of the flesh, abstinence from wine, from women, and from favourite dishes, are the only passports to rising in office, prosperity in trade, recovery from sickness, or a happy marriage with a beloved maiden. Nor will mere faith without works be efficient. A votive tablet of proportionate value to the favour prayed for, or a sum of money for the repairs of the shrine or temple, is necessary to win the favour of the gods. Poorer persons will cut off the queue of their hair and offer that up; and at Horinouchi, a temple in great renown some eight or nine miles from Yedo, there is a rope about two inches and a half in diameter and about six fathoms long, entirely made of human hair so given to the gods; it lies coiled up, dirty, moth-eaten, and uncared for, at one end of a long shed full of tablets and pictures, by the side of a rude native fire-engine. The taking of life being displeasing to Buddha, outside many of the temples old women and children earn a livelihood by selling sparrows, small eels, carp, and tortoises, which the worshipper sets free in honour of the deity, within whose territory cocks and hens and doves, tame and unharmed, perch on every jutty, frieze, buttress, and coigne of vantage. But of all the marvellous customs that I wot of in connection with Japanese religious exercises, none appears to me so strange as that of spitting at the images of the gods, more especially at the statues of the Ni-ô, the two huge red or red and green statues which, like Gog and Magog, emblems of strength, stand as guardians of the chief Buddhist temples. The figures are protected by a network of iron wire, through which the votaries, praying the while, spit pieces of paper, which they had chewed up into a pulp. If the pellet sticks to the statue, the omen is favourable; if it falls, the prayer is not accepted. The inside of the great bell at the Tycoon's burial-ground, and almost every holy statue throughout the country, are all covered with these outspittings from pious mouths.[11] [Footnote 11: It will be readily understood that the customs and ceremonies to which I have alluded belong only to the gross superstitions with which ignorance has overlaid that pure Buddhism of which Professor Max Müller has pointed out the very real beauties.] [Illustration: THE TOMB OF THE SHIYOKU.] Through all this discourse about temples and tea-houses, I am coming by degrees to the goal of our pilgrimage--two old stones, mouldering away in a rank, overgrown graveyard hard by, an old old burying-ground, forgotten by all save those who love to dig out the tales of the past. The key is kept by a ghoulish old dame, almost as time-worn and mildewed as the tomb over which she watches. Obedient to our call, and looking forward to a fee ten times greater than any native would give her, she hobbles out, and, opening the gate, points out the stone bearing the inscription, the "Tomb of the Shiyoku" (fabulous birds, which, living one within the other--a mysterious duality contained in one body--are the emblem of connubial love and fidelity). By this stone stands another, graven with a longer legend, which runs as follows:-- "In the old days of Genroku, she pined for the beauty of her lover, who was as fair to look upon as the flowers; and now beneath the moss of this old tombstone all has perished of her save her name. Amid the changes of a fitful world, this tomb is decaying under the dew and rain; gradually crumbling beneath its own dust, its outline alone remains. Stranger! bestow an alms to preserve this stone; and we, sparing neither pain nor labour, will second you with all our hearts. Erecting it again, let us preserve it from decay for future generations, and let us write the following verse upon it:--'These two birds, beautiful as the cherry-blossoms, perished before their time, like flowers broken down by the wind before they have borne seed.'" Under the first stone is the dust of Gompachi, robber and murderer, mixed with that of his true love Komurasaki, who lies buried with him. Her sorrows and constancy have hallowed the place, and pious people still come to burn incense and lay flowers before the grave. How she loved him even in death may be seen from the following old-world story. * * * * * About two hundred and thirty years ago there lived in the service of a daimio of the province of Inaba a young man, called Shirai Gompachi, who, when he was but sixteen years of age, had already won a name for his personal beauty and valour, and for his skill in the use of arms. Now it happened that one day a dog belonging to him fought with another dog belonging to a fellow-clansman, and the two masters, being both passionate youths, disputing as to whose dog had had the best of the fight, quarrelled and came to blows, and Gompachi slew his adversary; and in consequence of this he was obliged to flee from his country, and make his escape to Yedo. And so Gompachi set out on his travels. One night, weary and footsore, he entered what appeared to him to be a roadside inn, ordered some refreshment, and went to bed, little thinking of the danger that menaced him: for as luck would have it, this inn turned out to be the trysting-place of a gang of robbers, into whose clutches he had thus unwittingly fallen. To be sure, Gompachi's purse was but scantily furnished, but his sword and dirk were worth some three hundred ounces of silver, and upon these the robbers (of whom there were ten) had cast envious eyes, and had determined to kill the owner for their sake; but he, all unsuspicious, slept on in fancied security. In the middle of the night he was startled from his deep slumbers by some one stealthily opening the sliding door which led into his room, and rousing himself with an effort, he beheld a beautiful young girl, fifteen years of age, who, making signs to him not to stir, came up to his bedside, and said to him in a whisper-- "Sir, the master of this house is the chief of a gang of robbers, who have been plotting to murder you this night for the sake of your clothes and your sword. As for me, I am the daughter of a rich merchant in Mikawa: last year the robbers came to our house, and carried off my father's treasure and myself. I pray you, sir, take me with you, and let us fly from this dreadful place." She wept as she spoke, and Gompachi was at first too much startled to answer; but being a youth of high courage and a cunning fencer to boot, he soon recovered his presence of mind, and determined to kill the robbers, and to deliver the girl out of their hands. So he replied-- "Since you say so, I will kill these thieves, and rescue you this very night; only do you, when I begin the fight, run outside the house, that you may be out of harm's way, and remain in hiding until I join you." Upon this understanding the maiden left him, and went her way. But he lay awake, holding his breath and watching; and when the thieves crept noiselessly into the room, where they supposed him to be fast asleep, he cut down the first man that entered, and stretched him dead at his feet. The other nine, seeing this, laid about them with their drawn swords, but Gompachi, fighting with desperation, mastered them at last, and slew them. After thus ridding himself of his enemies, he went outside the house and called to the girl, who came running to his side, and joyfully travelled on with him to Mikawa, where her father dwelt; and when they reached Mikawa, he took the maiden to the old man's house, and told him how, when he had fallen among thieves, his daughter had come to him in his hour of peril, and saved him out of her great pity; and how he, in return, rescuing her from her servitude, had brought her back to her home. When the old folks saw their daughter whom they had lost restored to them, they were beside themselves with joy, and shed tears for very happiness; and, in their gratitude, they pressed Gompachi to remain with them, and they prepared feasts for him, and entertained him hospitably: but their daughter, who had fallen in love with him for his beauty and knightly valour, spent her days in thinking of him, and of him alone. The young man, however, in spite of the kindness of the old merchant, who wished to adopt him as his son, and tried hard to persuade him to consent to this, was fretting to go to Yedo and take service as an officer in the household of some noble lord; so he resisted the entreaties of the father and the soft speeches of the daughter, and made ready to start on his journey; and the old merchant, seeing that he would not be turned from his purpose, gave him a parting gift of two hundred ounces of silver, and sorrowfully bade him farewell. [Illustration: GOMPACHI AWAKENED BY THE MAIDEN IN THE ROBBERS' DEN.] But alas for the grief of the maiden, who sat sobbing her heart out and mourning over her lover's departure! He, all the while thinking more of ambition than of love, went to her and comforted her, and said: "Dry your eyes, sweetheart, and weep no more, for I shall soon come back to you. Do you, in the meanwhile, be faithful and true to me, and tend your parents with filial piety." So she wiped away her tears and smiled again, when she heard him promise that he would soon return to her. And Gompachi went his way, and in due time came near to Yedo. But his dangers were not yet over; for late one night, arriving at a place called Suzugamori, in the neighbourhood of Yedo, he fell in with six highwaymen, who attacked him, thinking to make short work of killing and robbing him. Nothing daunted, he drew his sword, and dispatched two out of the six; but, being weary and worn out with his long journey, he was sorely pressed, and the struggle was going hard with him, when a wardsman,[12] who happened to pass that way riding in a chair, seeing the affray, jumped down from his chair and drawing his dirk came to the rescue, and between them they put the robbers to flight. [Footnote 12: Japanese cities are divided into wards, and every tradesman and artisan is under the authority of the chief of the ward in which he resides. The word _chônin_, or wardsman, is generally used in contradistinction to the word _samurai_, which has already been explained as denoting a man belonging to the military class.] Now it turned out that this kind tradesman, who had so happily come to the assistance of Gompachi, was no other than Chôbei of Bandzuin, the chief of the _Otokodaté_, or Friendly Society of the wardsmen of Yedo--a man famous in the annals of the city, whose life, exploits, and adventures are recited to this day, and form the subject of another tale. When the highwaymen had disappeared, Gompachi, turning to his deliverer, said-- "I know not who you may be, sir, but I have to thank you for rescuing me from a great danger." And as he proceeded to express his gratitude, Chôbei replied-- "I am but a poor wardsman, a humble man in my way, sir; and if the robbers ran away, it was more by good luck than owing to any merit of mine. But I am filled with admiration at the way you fought; you displayed a courage and a skill that were beyond your years, sir." "Indeed," said the young man, smiling with pleasure at hearing himself praised; "I am still young and inexperienced, and am quite ashamed of my bungling style of fencing." "And now may I ask you, sir, whither you are bound?" "That is almost more than I know myself, for I am a _rônin,_ and have no fixed purpose in view." "That is a bad job," said Chôbei, who felt pity for the lad. "However, if you will excuse my boldness in making such an offer, being but a wardsman, until you shall have taken service I would fain place my poor house at your disposal." Gompachi accepted the offer of his new but trusty friend with thanks; so Chôbei led him to his house, where he lodged him and hospitably entertained him for some months. And now Gompachi, being idle and having nothing to care for, fell into bad ways, and began to lead a dissolute life, thinking of nothing but gratifying his whims and passions; he took to frequenting the Yoshiwara, the quarter of the town which is set aside for tea-houses and other haunts of wild young men, where his handsome face and figure attracted attention, and soon made him a great favourite with all the beauties of the neighbourhood. About this time men began to speak loud in praise of the charms of Komurasaki, or "Little Purple," a young girl who had recently come to the Yoshiwara, and who in beauty and accomplishments outshone all her rivals. Gompachi, like the rest of the world, heard so much of her fame that he determined to go to the house where she dwelt, at the sign of "The Three Sea-coasts," and judge for himself whether she deserved all that men said of her. Accordingly he set out one day, and having arrived at "The Three Sea-coasts," asked to see Komurasaki; and being shown into the room where she was sitting, advanced towards her; but when their eyes met, they both started back with a cry of astonishment, for this Komurasaki, the famous beauty of the Yoshiwara, proved to be the very girl whom several months before Gompachi had rescued from the robbers' den, and restored to her parents in Mikawa. He had left her in prosperity and affluence, the darling child of a rich father, when they had exchanged vows of love and fidelity; and now they met in a common stew in Yedo. What a change! what a contrast! How had the riches turned to rust, the vows to lies! "What is this?" cried Gompachi, when he had recovered from his surprise. "How is it that I find you here pursuing this vile calling, in the Yoshiwara? Pray explain this to me, for there is some mystery beneath all this which I do not understand." But Komurasaki--who, having thus unexpectedly fallen in with her lover that she had yearned for, was divided between joy and shame--answered, weeping-- "Alas! my tale is a sad one, and would be long to tell. After you left us last year, calamity and reverses fell upon our house; and when my parents became poverty-stricken, I was at my wits' end to know how to support them: so I sold this wretched body of mine to the master of this house, and sent the money to my father and mother; but, in spite of this, troubles and misfortunes multiplied upon them, and now, at last, they have died of misery and grief. And, oh! lives there in this wide world so unhappy a wretch as I! But now that I have met you again--you who are so strong--help me who am weak. You saved me once--do not, I implore you, desert me now!!" and as she told her piteous tale the tears streamed from her eyes. "This is, indeed, a sad story," replied Gompachi, much affected by the recital. "There must have been a wonderful run of bad luck to bring such misfortune upon your house, which but a little while ago I recollect so prosperous. However, mourn no more, for I will not forsake you. It is true that I am too poor to redeem you from your servitude, but at any rate I will contrive so that you shall be tormented no more. Love me, therefore, and put your trust in me." When she heard him speak so kindly she was comforted, and wept no more, but poured out her whole heart to him, and forgot her past sorrows in the great joy of meeting him again. When it became time for them to separate, he embraced her tenderly and returned to Chôbei's house; but he could not banish Komurasaki from his mind, and all day long he thought of her alone; and so it came about that he went daily to the Yoshiwara to see her, and if any accident detained him, she, missing the accustomed visit, would become anxious and write to him to inquire the cause of his absence. At last, pursuing this course of life, his stock of money ran short, and as, being a _rônin_ and without any fixed employment, he had no means of renewing his supplies, he was ashamed of showing himself penniless at "The Three Sea-coasts." Then it was that a wicked spirit arose within him, and he went out and murdered a man, and having robbed him of his money carried it to the Yoshiwara. From bad to worse is an easy step, and the tiger that has once tasted blood is dangerous. Blinded and infatuated by his excessive love, Gompachi kept on slaying and robbing, so that, while his outer man was fair to look upon, the heart within him was that of a hideous devil. At last his friend Chôbei could no longer endure the sight of him, and turned him out of his house; and as, sooner or later, virtue and vice meet with their reward, it came to pass that Gompachi's crimes became notorious, and the Government having set spies upon his track, he was caught red-handed and arrested; and his evil deeds having been fully proved against him, he was carried off to the execution ground at Suzugamori, the "Bell Grove," and beheaded as a common male-factor. Now when Gompachi was dead, Chôbei's old affection for the young man returned, and, being a kind and pious man, he went and claimed his body and head, and buried him at Meguro, in the grounds of the Temple called Boronji. When Komurasaki heard the people at Yoshiwara gossiping about her lover's end, her grief knew no bounds, so she fled secretly from "The Three Sea-coasts," and came to Meguro and threw herself upon the newly-made grave. Long she prayed and bitterly she wept over the tomb of him whom, with all his faults, she had loved so well, and then, drawing a dagger from her girdle, she plunged it in her breast and died. The priests of the temple, when they saw what had happened, wondered greatly and were astonished at the loving faithfulness of this beautiful girl, and taking compassion on her, they laid her side by side with Gompachi in one grave, and over the grave they placed a stone which remains to this day, bearing the inscription "The Tomb of the Shiyoku." And still the people of Yedo visit the place, and still they praise the beauty of Gompachi and the filial piety and fidelity of Komurasaki. Let us linger for a moment longer in the old graveyard. The word which I have translated a few lines above as "loving faithfulness" means literally "chastity." When Komurasaki sold herself to supply the wants of her ruined parents, she was not, according to her lights, forfeiting her claim to virtue. On the contrary, she could perform no greater act of filial piety, and, so far from incurring reproach among her people, her self-sacrifice would be worthy of all praise in their eyes. This idea has led to grave misunderstanding abroad, and indeed no phase of Japanese life has been so misrepresented as this. I have heard it stated, and seen it printed, that it is no disgrace for a respectable Japanese to sell his daughter, that men of position and family often choose their wives from such places as "The Three Sea-coasts," and that up to the time of her marriage the conduct of a young girl is a matter of no importance whatever. Nothing could be more unjust or more untrue. It is only the neediest people that sell their children to be waitresses, singers, or prostitutes. It does occasionally happen that the daughter of a _Samurai_, or gentleman, is found in a house of ill-fame, but such a case could only occur at the death or utter ruin of the parents, and an official investigation of the matter has proved it to be so exceptional, that the presence of a young lady in such a place is an enormous attraction, her superior education and accomplishments shedding a lustre over the house. As for gentlemen marrying women of bad character, are not such things known in Europe? Do ladies of the _demi-monde_ never make good marriages? _Mésalliances_ are far rarer in Japan than with us. Certainly among the lowest class of the population such, marriages may occasionally occur, for it often happens that a woman can lay by a tempting dowry out of her wretched earnings-, but amongst the gentry of the country they are unknown. And yet a girl is not disgraced if for her parents' sake she sells herself to a life of misery so great, that, when a Japanese enters a house of ill-fame, he is forced to leave his sword and dirk at the door for two reasons--first, to prevent brawling; secondly, because it is known that some of the women inside so loathe their existence that they would put an end to it, could they get hold of a weapon. It is a curious fact that in all the Daimio's castle-towns, with the exception of some which are also seaports, open prostitution is strictly forbidden, although, if report speaks truly, public morality rather suffers than gains by the prohibition. The misapprehension which exists upon the subject of prostitution in Japan may be accounted for by the fact that foreign writers, basing their judgment upon the vice of the open ports, have not hesitated to pronounce the Japanese women unchaste. As fairly might a Japanese, writing about England, argue from the street-walkers of Portsmouth or Plymouth to the wives, sisters, and daughters of these very authors. In some respects the gulf fixed between virtue and vice in Japan is even greater than in England. The Eastern courtesan is confined to a certain quarter of the town, and distinguished by a peculiarly gaudy costume, and by a head-dress which consists of a forest of light tortoiseshell hair-pins, stuck round her head like a saint's glory--a glory of shame which a modest woman would sooner die than wear. Vice jostling virtue in the public places; virtue imitating the fashions set by vice, and buying trinkets or furniture at the sale of vice's effects--these are social phenomena which the East knows not. The custom prevalent among the lower orders of bathing in public bath-houses without distinction of the sexes, is another circumstance which has tended to spread abroad very false notions upon the subject of the chastity of the Japanese women. Every traveller is shocked by it, and every writer finds in it matter for a page of pungent description. Yet it is only those who are so poor (and they must be poor indeed) that they cannot afford a bath at home, who, at the end of their day's work, go to the public bath-house to refresh themselves before sitting down to their evening meal: having been used to the scene from their childhood, they see no indelicacy in it; it is a matter of course, and _honi soit qui mal y pense_: certainly there is far less indecency and immorality resulting from this public bathing, than from the promiscuous herding together of all sexes and ages which disgraces our own lodging-houses in the great cities, and the hideous hovels in which some of our labourers have to pass their lives; nor can it be said that there is more confusion of sexes amongst the lowest orders in Japan than in Europe. Speaking upon the subject once with a Japanese gentleman, I observed that we considered it an act of indecency for men and women to wash together. He shrugged his shoulders as he answered, "But then Westerns have such prurient minds." Some time ago, at the open port of Yokohama, the Government, out of deference to the prejudices of foreigners, forbade the men and women to bathe together, and no doubt this was the first step towards putting down the practice altogether: as for women tubbing in the open streets of Yedo, I have read of such things in books written by foreigners; but during a residence of three years and a half, in which time I crossed and recrossed every part of the great city at all hours of the day, I never once saw such a sight. I believe myself that it can only be seen at certain hot mineral springs in remote country districts. The best answer to the general charge of immorality which has been brought against the Japanese women during their period of unmarried life, lies in the fact that every man who can afford to do so keeps the maidens of his family closely guarded in the strictest seclusion. The daughter of poverty, indeed, must work and go abroad, but not a man is allowed to approach the daughter of a gentleman; and she is taught that if by accident any insult should be offered to her, the knife which she carries at her girdle is meant for use, and not merely as a badge of her rank. Not long ago a tragedy took place in the house of one of the chief nobles in Yedo. One of My Lady's tire-women, herself a damsel of gentle blood, and gifted with rare beauty, had attracted the attention of a retainer in the palace, who fell desperately in love with her. For a long time the strict rules of decorum by which she was hedged in prevented him from declaring his passion; but at last he contrived to gain access to her presence, and so far forgot himself, that she, drawing her poniard, stabbed him in the eye, so that he was carried off fainting, and presently died. The girl's declaration, that the dead man had attempted to insult her, was held to be sufficient justification of her deed, and, instead of being blamed, she was praised and extolled for her valour and chastity. As the affair had taken place within the four walls of a powerful noble, there was no official investigation into the matter, with which the authorities of the palace were competent to deal. The truth of this story was vouched for by two or three persons whose word I have no reason to doubt, and who had themselves been mixed up in it; I can bear witness that it is in complete harmony with Japanese ideas; and certainly it seems more just that Lucretia should kill Tarquin than herself. The better the Japanese people come to be known and understood, the more, I am certain, will it be felt that a great injustice has been done them in the sweeping attacks which have been made upon their women. Writers are agreed, I believe, that their matrons are, as a rule, without reproach. If their maidens are chaste, as I contend that from very force of circumstances they cannot help being, what becomes of all these charges of vice and immodesty? Do they not rather recoil upon the accusers, who would appear to have studied the Japanese woman only in the harlot of Yokohama? Having said so much, I will now try to give some account of the famous Yoshiwara[13] of Yedo, to which frequent allusion will have to be made in the course of these tales. [Footnote 13: The name Yoshiwara, which is becoming generic for "Flower Districts,"--_Anglicé_, quarters occupied by brothels,--is sometimes derived from the town Yoshiwara, in Sunshine, because it was said that the women of that place furnished a large proportion of the beauties of the Yedo Yoshiwara. The correct derivation is probably that given below.] At the end of the sixteenth century the courtesans of Yedo lived in three special places: these were the street called Kôji-machi, in which dwelt the women who came from Kiôto; the Kamakura Street, and a spot opposite the great bridge, in which last two places lived women brought from Suruga. Besides these there afterwards came women from Fushimi and from Nara, who lodged scattered here and there throughout the town. This appears to have scandalized a certain reformer, named Shôji Jinyémon, who, in the year 1612, addressed a memorial to the Government, petitioning that the women who lived in different parts of the town should be collected in one "Flower Quarter." His petition was granted in the year 1617, and he fixed upon a place called Fukiyacho, which, on account of the quantities of rushes which grew there, was named _Yoshi-Wara,_ or the rush-moor, a name which now-a-days, by a play upon the word _yoshi,_ is written with two Chinese characters, signifying the "good," or "lucky moor." The place was divided into four streets, called the Yedo Street, the Second Yedo Street, the Kiôto Street, and the Second Kiôto Street. In the eighth month of the year 1655, when Yedo was beginning to increase in size and importance, the Yoshiwara, preserving its name, was transplanted bodily to the spot which it now occupies at the northern end of the town. And the streets in it were named after the places from which the greater number of their inhabitants originally came, as the "Sakai Street," the "Fushimi Street," &c. The official Guide to the Yoshiwara for 1869 gives a return of 153 brothels, containing 3,289 courtesans of all classes, from the _Oiran_, or proud beauty, who, dressed up in gorgeous brocade of gold and silver, with painted face and gilded lips, and with her teeth fashionably blacked, has all the young bloods of Yedo at her feet, down to the humble _Shinzo_, or white-toothed woman, who rots away her life in the common stews. These figures do not, however, represent the whole of the prostitution of Yedo; the Yoshiwara is the chief, but not the only, abiding-place of the public women. At Fukagawa there is another Flower District, built upon the same principle as the Yoshiwara; while at Shinagawa, Shinjiku, Itabashi, Senji, and Kadzukappara, the hotels contain women who, nominally only waitresses, are in reality prostitutes. There are also women called _Jigoku-Omna,_ or hell-women, who, without being borne on the books of any brothel, live in their own houses, and ply their trade in secret. On the whole, I believe the amount of prostitution in Yedo to be wonderfully small, considering the vast size of the city. There are 394 tea-houses in the Yoshiwara, which are largely used as places of assignation, and which on those occasions are paid, not by the visitors frequenting them, but by the keepers of the brothels. It is also the fashion to give dinners and drinking-parties at these houses, for which the services of _Taikomochi_, or jesters, among whom there are thirty-nine chief celebrities, and of singing and dancing girls, are retained. The Guide to the Yoshiwara gives a list of fifty-five famous singing-girls, besides a host of minor stars. These women are not to be confounded with the courtesans. Their conduct is very closely watched by their masters, and they always go out to parties in couples or in bands, so that they may be a check upon one another. Doubtless, however, in spite of all precautions, the shower of gold does from time to time find its way to Danaë's lap; and to be the favoured lover of a fashionable singer or dancer is rather a feather in the cap of a fast young Japanese gentleman. The fee paid to singing-girls for performing during a space of two hours is one shilling and fourpence each; for six hours the fee is quadrupled, and it is customary to give the girls a _hana_, or present, for themselves, besides their regular pay, which goes to the master of the troupe to which they belong. Courtesans, singing women, and dancers are bought by contractors, either as children, when they are educated for their calling, or at a more advanced age, when their accomplishments and charms render them desirable investments. The engagement is never made life-long, for once past the flower of their youth the poor creatures would be mere burthens upon their masters; a courtesan is usually bought until she shall have reached the age of twenty-seven, after which she becomes her own property. Singers remain longer in harness, but even they rarely work after the age of thirty, for Japanese women, like Italians, age quickly, and have none of that intermediate stage between youth and old age, which seems to be confined to countries where there is a twilight. Children destined to be trained as singers are usually bought when they are five or six years old, a likely child fetching from about thirty-five to fifty shillings; the purchaser undertakes the education of his charge, and brings the little thing up as his own child. The parents sign a paper absolving him from all responsibility in case of sickness or accident; but they know that their child will be well treated and cared for, the interests of the buyer being their material guarantee. Girls of fifteen or upwards who are sufficiently accomplished to join a company of singers fetch ten times the price paid for children; for in their case there is no risk and no expense of education. Little children who are bought for purposes of prostitution at the age of five or six years fetch about the same price as those that are bought to be singers. During their novitiate they are employed to wait upon the _Oiran_, or fashionable courtesans, in the capacity of little female pages (_Kamuro_). They are mostly the children of distressed persons, or orphans, whom their relatives cruelly sell rather than be at the expense and trouble of bringing them up. Of the girls who enter the profession later in life, some are orphans, who have no other means of earning a livelihood; others sell their bodies out of filial piety, that they may succour their sick or needy parents; others are married women, who enter the Yoshiwara to supply the wants of their husbands; and a very small proportion is recruited from girls who have been seduced and abandoned, perhaps sold, by faithless lovers. The time to see the Yoshiwara to the best advantage is just after nightfall, when the lamps are lighted. Then it is that the women--who for the last two hours have been engaged in gilding their lips and painting their eyebrows black, and their throats and bosoms a snowy white, carefully leaving three brown Van-dyke-collar points where the back of the head joins the neck, in accordance with one of the strictest rules of Japanese cosmetic science--leave the back rooms, and take their places, side by side, in a kind of long narrow cage, the wooden bars of which open on to the public thoroughfare. Here they sit for hours, gorgeous in dresses of silk and gold and silver embroidery, speechless and motionless as wax figures, until they shall have attracted the attention of some of the passers-by, who begin to throng the place. At Yokohama indeed, and at the other open ports, the women of the Yoshiwara are loud in their invitations to visitors, frequently relieving the monotony of their own language by some blasphemous term of endearment picked up from British and American seamen; but in the Flower District at Yedo, and wherever Japanese customs are untainted, the utmost decorum prevails. Although the shape which vice takes is ugly enough, still it has this merit, that it is unobtrusive. Never need the pure be contaminated by contact with the impure; he who goes to the Yoshiwara, goes there knowing full well what he will find, but the virtuous man may live through his life without having this kind of vice forced upon his sight. Here again do the open ports contrast unfavourably with other places: Yokohama at night is as leprous a place as the London Haymarket.[14] [Footnote 14: Those who are interested in this branch of social science, will find much curious information upon the subject of prostitution in Japan in a pamphlet published at Yokohama, by Dr. Newton, R.N., a philanthropist who has been engaged for the last two years in establishing a Lock Hospital at that place. In spite of much opposition, from prejudice and ignorance, his labours have been crowned by great success.] A public woman or singer on entering her profession assumes a _nom de guerre_, by which she is known until her engagement is at an end. Some of these names are so pretty and quaint that I will take a few specimens from the _Yoshiwara Saiken_, the guidebook upon which this notice is based. "Little Pine," "Little Butterfly," "Brightness of the Flowers," "The Jewel River," "Gold Mountain," "Pearl Harp," "The Stork that lives a Thousand Years," "Village of Flowers," "Sea Beach," "The Little Dragon," "Little Purple," "Silver," "Chrysanthemum," "Waterfall," "White Brightness," "Forest of Cherries,"--these and a host of other quaint conceits are the one prettiness of a very foul place. KAZUMA'S REVENGE It is a law that he who lives by the sword shall die by the sword. In Japan, where there exists a large armed class over whom there is practically little or no control, party and clan broils, and single quarrels ending in bloodshed and death, are matters of daily occurrence; and it has been observed that Edinburgh in the olden time, when the clansmen, roistering through the streets at night, would pass from high words to deadly blows, is perhaps the best European parallel of modern Yedo or Kiôto. It follows that of all his possessions the Samurai sets most store by his sword, his constant companion, his ally, defensive and offensive. The price of a sword by a famous maker reaches a high sum: a Japanese noble will sometimes be found girding on a sword, the blade of which unmounted is worth from six hundred to a thousand riyos, say from £200 to £300, and the mounting, rich in cunning metal work, will be of proportionate value. These swords are handed down as heirlooms from father to son, and become almost a part of the wearer's own self. Iyéyasu, the founder of the last dynasty of Shoguns, wrote in his Legacy,[15] a code of rules drawn up for the guidance of his successors and their advisers in the government, "The girded sword is the living soul of the Samurai. In the case of a Samurai forgetting his sword, act as is appointed: it may not be overlooked." [Footnote 15: _The Legacy of Iyéyasu_, translated by F. Lowder. Yokohama, 1868. (Printed for private circulation.)] The occupation of a swordsmith is an honourable profession, the members of which are men of gentle blood. In a country where trade is looked down upon as degrading, it is strange to find this single exception to the general rule. The traditions of the craft are many and curious. During the most critical moment of the forging of the sword, when the steel edge is being welded into the body of the iron blade, it is a custom which still obtains among old-fashioned armourers to put on the cap and robes worn by the Kugé, or nobles of the Mikado's court, and, closing the doors of the workshop, to labour in secrecy and freedom from interruption, the half gloom adding to the mystery of the operation. Sometimes the occasion is even invested with a certain sanctity, a tasselled cord of straw, such as is hung before the shrines of the Kami, or native gods of Japan, being suspended between two bamboo poles in the forge, which for the nonce is converted into a holy altar. At Osaka, I lived opposite to one Kusano Yoshiaki, a swordsmith, a most intelligent and amiable gentleman, who was famous throughout his neighbourhood for his good and charitable deeds. His idea was that, having been bred up to a calling which trades in life and death, he was bound, so far as in him lay, to atone for this by seeking to alleviate the suffering which is in the world; and he carried out his principle to the extent of impoverishing himself. No neighbour ever appealed to him in vain for help in tending the sick or burying the dead. No beggar or lazar was ever turned from his door without receiving some mark of his bounty, whether in money or in kind. Nor was his scrupulous honesty less remarkable than his charity. While other smiths are in the habit of earning large sums of money by counterfeiting the marks of the famous makers of old, he was able to boast that he had never turned out a weapon which bore any other mark than his own. From his father and his forefathers he inherited his trade, which, in his turn, he will hand over to his son--a hard-working, honest, and sturdy man, the clank of whose hammer and anvil may be heard from daybreak to sundown. [Illustration: FORGING THE SWORD.] The trenchant edge of the Japanese sword is notorious. It is said that the best blades will in the hands of an expert swordsman cut through the dead bodies of three men, laid one upon the other, at a blow. The swords of the Shogun used to be tried upon the corpses of executed criminals; the public headsman was entrusted with the duty, and for a "nose medicine," or bribe of two bus (about three shillings), would substitute the weapon of a private individual for that of his Lord. Dogs and beggars, lying helpless by the roadside, not unfrequently serve to test a ruffian's sword; but the executioner earns many a fee from those who wish to see how their blades will cut off a head. The statesman who shall enact a law forbidding the carrying of this deadly weapon will indeed have deserved well of his country; but it will be a difficult task to undertake, and a dangerous one. I would not give much for that man's life. The hand of every swashbuckler in the empire would be against him. One day as we were talking over this and other kindred subjects, a friend of mine, a man of advanced and liberal views, wrote down his opinion, _more Japonico_, in a verse of poetry which ran as follows:--"I would that all the swords and dirks in the country might be collected in one place and molten down, and that, from the metal so produced, one huge sword might be forged, which, being the only blade left, should be the girded sword of Great Japan." The following history is in more senses than one a "Tale of a Sword." About two hundred and fifty years ago Ikéda Kunaishôyu was Lord of the Province of Inaba. Among his retainers were two gentlemen, named Watanabé Yukiyé and Kawai Matazayémon, who were bound together by strong ties of friendship, and were in the habit of frequently visiting at one another's houses. One day Yukiyé was sitting conversing with Matazayémon in the house of the latter, when, on a sudden, a sword that was lying in the raised part of the room caught his eye. As he saw it, he started and said-- "Pray tell me, how came you by that sword?" "Well, as you know, when my Lord Ikéda followed my Lord Tokugawa Iyéyasu to fight at Nagakudé, my father went in his train; and it was at the battle of Nagakudé that he picked up this sword." "My father went too, and was killed in the fight, and this sword, which was an heirloom in our family for many generations, was lost at that time. As it is of great value in my eyes, I do wish that, if you set no special store by it, you would have the great kindness to return it to me." "That is a very easy matter, and no more than what one friend should do by another. Pray take it." Upon this Yukiyé gratefully took the sword, and having carried it home put it carefully away. At the beginning of the ensuing year Matazayémon fell sick and died, and Yukiyé, mourning bitterly for the loss of his good friend, and anxious to requite the favour which he had received in the matter of his father's sword, did many acts of kindness to the dead man's son--a young man twenty-two years of age, named Matagorô. Now this Matagorô was a base-hearted cur, who had begrudged the sword that his father had given to Yukiyé, and complained publicly and often that Yukiyé had never made any present in return; and in this way Yukiyé got a bad name in my Lord's palace as a stingy and illiberal man. But Yukiyé had a son, called Kazuma, a youth sixteen years of age, who served as one of the Prince's pages of honour. One evening, as he and one of his brother pages were talking together, the latter said-- "Matagorô is telling everybody that your father accepted a handsome sword from him and never made him any present in return, and people are beginning to gossip about it." "Indeed," replied the other, "my father received that sword from Matagorô's father as a mark of friendship and good-will, and, considering that it would be an insult to send a present of money in return, thought to return the favour by acts of kindness towards Matagorô. I suppose it is money he wants." When Kazuma's service was over, he returned home, and went to his father's room to tell him the report that was being spread in the palace, and begged him to send an ample present of money to Matagorô. Yukryé reflected for a while, and said-- "You are too young to understand the right line of conduct in such matters. Matagorô's father and myself were very close friends; so, seeing that he had ungrudgingly given me back the sword of my ancestors, I, thinking to requite his kindness at his death, rendered important services to Matagorô. It would be easy to finish the matter by sending a present of money; but I had rather take the sword and return it than be under an obligation to this mean churl, who knows not the laws which regulate the intercourse and dealings of men of gentle blood." So Yukiyé, in his anger, took the sword to Matagorô's house, and said to him-- "I have come to your house this night for no other purpose than to restore to you the sword which your father gave me;" and with this he placed the sword before Matagorô. "Indeed," replied the other, "I trust that you will not pain me by returning a present which my father made you." "Amongst men of gentle birth," said Yukiyé, laughing scornfully, "it is the custom to requite presents, in the first place by kindness, and afterwards by a suitable gift offered with a free heart. But it is no use talking to such as you, who are ignorant of the first principles of good breeding; so I have the honour to give you back the sword." As Yukiyé went on bitterly to reprove Matagorô, the latter waxed very wroth, and, being a ruffian, would have killed Yukiyé on the spot; but he, old man as he was, was a skilful swordsman, so Matagorô, craven-like, determined to wait until he could attack him unawares. Little suspecting any treachery, Yukiyé started to return home, and Matagorô, under the pretence of attending him to the door, came behind him with his sword drawn and cut him in the shoulder. The older man, turning round, drew and defended himself; but having received a severe wound in the first instance, he fainted away from loss of blood, and Matagorô slew him. The mother of Matagorô, startled by the noise, came out; and when she saw what had been done, she was afraid, and said--"Passionate man! what have you done? You are a murderer; and now your life will be forfeit. What terrible deed is this!" "I have killed him now, and there's nothing to be done. Come, mother, before the matter becomes known, let us fly together from this house." "I will follow you; do you go and seek out my Lord Abé Shirogorô, a chief among the Hatamotos,[16] who was my foster-child. You had better fly to him for protection, and remain in hiding." [Footnote 16: _Hatamotos._ The Hatamotos were the feudatory nobles of the Shogun or Tycoon. The office of Taikun having been abolished, the Hatamotos no longer exist. For further information respecting them, see the note at the end of the story.] So the old woman persuaded her son to make his escape, and sent him to the palace of Shirogorô. Now it happened that at this time the Hatamotos had formed themselves into a league against the powerful Daimios; and Abé Shirogorô, with two other noblemen, named Kondô Noborinosuké and Midzuno Jiurozayémon, was at the head of the league. It followed, as a matter of course, that his forces were frequently recruited by vicious men, who had no means of gaining their living, and whom he received and entreated kindly without asking any questions as to their antecedents; how much the more then, on being applied to for an asylum by the son of his own foster-mother, did he willingly extend his patronage to him, and guarantee him against all danger. So he called a meeting of the principal Hatamotos, and introduced Matagorô to them, saying--"This man is a retainer of Ikéda Kunaishôyu, who, having cause of hatred against a man named Watanabé Yukiyé, has slain him, and has fled to me for protection; this man's mother suckled me when I was an infant, and, right or wrong, I will befriend him. If, therefore, Ikéda Kunaishôyu should send to require me to deliver him up, I trust that you will one and all put forth your strength and help me to defend him." "Ay! that will we, with pleasure!" replied Kondô Noborinosuké. "We have for some time had cause to complain of the scorn with which the Daimios have treated us. Let Ikéda Kunaishôyu send to claim this man, and we will show him the power of the Hatamotos." All the other Hatamotos, with one accord, applauded this determination, and made ready their force for an armed resistance, should my Lord Kunaishôyu send to demand the surrender of Matugorô. But the latter remained as a welcome guest in the house of Abé Shirogorô. [Illustration: MATAGORÔ KILLS YUKIYÉ.] Now when Watanabé Kazuma saw that, as the night advanced, his father Yukiyé did not return home, he became anxious, and went to the house of Matagorô to seek for him, and finding to his horror that he was murdered, fell upon the corpse and, embraced it, weeping. On a sudden, it flashed across him that this must assuredly be the handiwork of Matagorô; so he rushed furiously into the house, determined to kill his father's murderer upon the spot. But Matagorô had already fled, and he found only the mother, who was making her preparations for following her son to the house of Abé Shirogorô: so he bound the old woman, and searched all over the house for her son; but, seeing that his search was fruitless, he carried off the mother, and handed her over to one of the elders of the clan, at the same time laying information against Matagorô as his father's murderer. When the affair was reported to the Prince, he was very angry, and ordered that the old woman should remain bound and be cast into prison until the whereabouts of her son should be discovered. Then Kazuma buried his father's corpse with great pomp, and the widow and the orphan mourned over their loss. It soon became known amongst the people of Abé Shirogorô that the mother of Matagorô had been imprisoned for her son's crime, and they immediately set about planning her rescue; so they sent to the palace of my Lord Kunaishôyu a messenger, who, when he was introduced to the councillor of the Prince, said-- "We have heard that, in consequence of the murder of Yukiyé, my lord has been pleased to imprison the mother of Matagorô. Our master Shirogorô has arrested the criminal, and will deliver him up to you. But the mother has committed no crime, so we pray that she may be released from a cruel imprisonment: she was the foster-mother of our master, and he would fain intercede to save her life. Should you consent to this, we, on our side, will give up the murderer, and hand him over to you in front of our master's gate to-morrow." The councillor repeated this message to the Prince, who, in his pleasure at being able to give Kazuma his revenge on the morrow, immediately agreed to the proposal, and the messenger returned triumphant at the success of the scheme. On the following day, the Prince ordered the mother of Matagorô to be placed in a litter and carried to the Hatamoto's dwelling, in charge of a retainer named Sasawo Danyémon, who, when he arrived at the door of Abé Shirogorô's house, said-- "I am charged to hand over to you the mother of Matagorô, and, in exchange, I am authorized to receive her son at your hands." "We will immediately give him up to you; but, as the mother and son are now about to bid an eternal farewell to one another, we beg you to be so kind as to tarry a little." With this the retainers of Shirogorô led the old woman inside their master's house, and Sasawo Danyémon remained waiting outside, until at last he grew impatient, and ventured to hurry on the people within. "We return you many thanks," replied they, "for your kindness in bringing us the mother; but, as the son cannot go with you at present, you had better return home as quickly as possible. We are afraid we have put you to much trouble." And so they mocked him. When Danyémon saw that he had not only been cheated into giving up the old woman, but was being made a laughing-stock of into the bargain, he flew into a great rage, and thought to break into the house and seize Matagorô and his mother by force; but, peeping into the courtyard, he saw that it was filled with Hatamotos, carrying guns and naked swords. Not caring then to die fighting a hopeless battle, and at the same time feeling that, after having been so cheated, he would be put to shame before his lord, Sasawo Danyémon went to the burial-place of his ancestors, and disembowelled himself in front of their graves. [Illustration: THE DEATH OF DANYÉMON.] When the Prince heard how his messenger had been treated, he was indignant, and summoning his councillors resolved, although he was suffering from sickness, to collect his retainers and attack Abé Shirogorô; and the other chief Daimios, when the matter became publicly known, took up the cause, and determined that the Hatamotos must be chastised for their insolence. On their side, the Hatamotos put forth all their efforts to resist the Daimios. So Yedo became disturbed, and the riotous state of the city caused great anxiety to the Government, who took counsel together how they might restore peace. As the Hatamotos were directly under the orders of the Shogun, it was no difficult matter to put them down: the hard question to solve was how to put a restraint upon the great Daimios. However, one of the Gorôjin,[17] named Matsudaira Idzu no Kami, a man of great intelligence, hit upon a plan by which he might secure this end. [Footnote 17: The first Council of the Shogun's ministers; literally, "assembly of imperial elders."] There was at this time in the service of the Shogun a physician, named Nakarai Tsusen, who was in the habit of frequenting the palace of my Lord Kunaishôyu, and who for some time past had been treating him for the disease from which he was suffering. Idzu no Kami sent secretly for this physician, and, summoning him to his private room, engaged him in conversation, in the midst of which he suddenly dropped his voice and said to him in a whisper-- "Listen, Tsusen. You have received great favours at the hands of the Shogun. The Government is now sorely straitened: are you willing to carry your loyalty so far as to lay down your life on its behalf?" "Ay, my lord; for generations my forefathers have held their property by the grace of the Shogun. I am willing this night to lay down my life for my Prince, as a faithful vassal should." "Well, then, I will tell you. The great Daimios and the Hatamotos have fallen out about this affair of Matagorô, and lately it has seemed as if they meant to come to blows. The country will be agitated, and the farmers and townsfolk suffer great misery, if we cannot quell the tumult. The Hatamotos will be easily kept under, but it will be no light task to pacify the great Daimios. If you are willing to lay down your life in carrying out a stratagem of mine, peace will be restored to the country; but your loyalty will be your death." "I am ready to sacrifice my life in this service." "This is my plan. You have been attending my Lord Kunaishôyu in his sickness; to-morrow you must go to see him, and put poison in his physic. If we can kill him, the agitation will cease. This is the service which I ask of you." Tsusen agreed to undertake the deed; and on the following day, when he went to see Kunaishôyu, he carried with him poisoned drugs. Half the draught he drank himself,[18] and thus put the Prince off his guard, so that he swallowed the remainder fearlessly. Tsusen, seeing this, hurried away, and as he was carried home in his litter the death-agony seized him, and he died, vomiting blood. [Footnote 18: A physician attending a personage of exalted rank has always to drink half the potion he prescribes as a test of his good faith.] My Lord Kunaishôyu died in the same way in great torture, and in the confusion attending upon his death and funeral ceremonies the struggle which was impending with the Hatamotos was delayed. In the meanwhile the Gorôjiu Idzu no Kami summoned the three leaders of the Hatamotos and addressed them as follows-- "The secret plottings and treasonable, turbulent conduct of you three men, so unbecoming your position as Hatamotos, have enraged my lord the Shogun to such a degree, that he has been pleased to order that you be imprisoned in a temple, and that your patrimony be given over to your next heirs." Accordingly the three Hatamotos, after having been severely admonished, were confined in a temple called Kanyeiji; and the remaining Hatamotos, scared by this example, dispersed in peace. As for the great Daimios, inasmuch as after the death of my Lord Kunaishôyu the Hatamotos were all dispersed, there was no enemy left for them to fight with; so the tumult was quelled, and peace was restored. Thus it happened that Matagorô lost his patron; so, taking his mother with him, he went and placed himself under the protection of an old man named Sakurai Jiuzayémon. This old man was a famous teacher of lance exercise, and enjoyed both wealth and honour; so he took in Matagorô, and having engaged as a guard thirty Rônins, all resolute fellows and well skilled in the arts of war, they all fled together to a distant place called Sagara. All this time Watanabé Kazuma had been brooding over his father's death, and thinking how he should be revenged upon the murderer; so when my Lord Kunaishôyu suddenly died, he went to the young Prince who succeeded him and obtained leave of absence to go and seek out his father's enemy. Now Kazuma's elder sister was married to a man named Araki Matayémon, who at that time was famous as the first swordsman in Japan. As Kazuma was but sixteen years of age, this Matayémon, taking into consideration his near relationship as son-in-law to the murdered man, determined to go forth with the lad, as his guardian, and help him to seek out Matagorô; and two of Matayémon's retainers, named Ishidomé Busuké and Ikezoyé Magohachi, made up their minds, at all hazards, to follow their master. The latter, when he heard their intention, thanked them, but refused the offer, saying that as he was now about to engage in a vendetta in which his life would be continually in jeopardy, and as it would be a lasting grief to him should either of them receive a wound in such a service, he must beg them to renounce their intention; but they answered-- "Master, this is a cruel speech of yours. All these years have we received nought but kindness and favours at your hands; and now that you are engaged in the pursuit of this murderer, we desire to follow you, and, if needs must, to lay down our lives in your service. Furthermore, we have heard that the friends of this Matagorô are no fewer than thirty-six men; so, however bravely you may fight, you will be in peril from the superior numbers of your enemy. However, if you are pleased to persist in your refusal to take us, we have made up our minds that there is no resource for us but to disembowel ourselves on the spot." When Matayémon and Kazuma heard these words, they wondered at these faithful and brave men, and were moved to tears. Then Matayémon said-- "The kindness of you two brave fellows is without precedent. Well, then, I will accept your services gratefully." Then the two men, having obtained their wish, cheerfully followed their master; and the four set out together upon their journey to seek out Matagorô, of whose whereabouts they were completely ignorant. Matagorô in the meanwhile had made his way, with the old man Sakurai Jiuzayémon and his thirty Rônins, to Osaka. But, strong as they were in numbers, they travelled in great secrecy. The reason for this was that the old man's younger brother, Sakurai Jinsuké, a fencing-master by profession, had once had a fencing-match with Matayémon, Kazuma's brother-in-law, and had been shamefully beaten; so that the party were greatly afraid of Matayémon, and felt that, since he was taking up Kazuma's cause and acting as his guardian, they might be worsted in spite of their numbers: so they went on their way with great caution, and, having reached Osaka, put up at an inn in a quarter called Ikutama, and hid from Kazuma and Matayémon. The latter also in good time reached Osaka, and spared no pains to seek out Matagorô. One evening towards dusk, as Matayémon was walking in the quarter where the enemy were staying, he saw a man, dressed as a gentleman's servant, enter a cook-shop and order some buckwheat porridge for thirty-six men, and looking attentively at the man, he recognized him as the servant of Sakurai Jiuzayémon; so he hid himself in a dark place and watched, and heard the fellow say-- "My master, Sakurai Jiuzayémon, is about to start for Sagara to-morrow morning, to return thanks to the gods for his recovery from a sickness from which he has been suffering; so I am in a great hurry." With these words the servant hastened away; and Matayémon, entering the shop, called for some porridge, and as he ate it, made some inquiries as to the man who had just given so large an order for buckwheat porridge. The master of the shop answered that he was the attendant of a party of thirty-six gentlemen who were staying at such and such an inn. Then Matayémon, having found out all that he wanted to know, went home and told Kazuma, who was delighted at the prospect of carrying his revenge into execution on the morrow. That same evening Matayémon sent one of his two faithful retainers as a spy to the inn, to find out at what hour Matagorô was to set out on the following morning; and he ascertained from the servants of the inn, that the party was to start at daybreak for Sagara, stopping at Isé to worship at the shrine of Tershô Daijin.[19] [Footnote 19: Goddess of the sun, and ancestress of the Mikados.] Matayémon made his preparations accordingly, and, with Kazuma and his two retainers, started before dawn. Beyond Uyéno, in the province of Iga, the castle-town of the Daimio Tôdô Idzumi no Kami, there is a wide and lonely moor; and this was the place upon which they fixed for the attack upon the enemy. When they had arrived at the spot, Matayémon went into a tea-house by the roadside, and wrote a petition to the governor of the Daimio's castle-town for permission to carry out the vendetta within its precincts;[20] then he addressed Kazuma, and said-- "When we fall in with Matagorô and begin the fight, do you engage and slay your father's murderer; attack him and him only, and I will keep off his guard of Rônins;" then turning to his two retainers, "As for you, keep close to Kazuma; and should the Rônins attempt to rescue Matagorô, it will be your duty to prevent them, and succour Kazuma." And having further laid down each man's duties with great minuteness, they lay in wait for the arrival of the enemy. Whilst they were resting in the tea-house, the governor of the castle-town arrived, and, asking for Matayémou, said-- "I have the honour to be the governor of the castle-town of Tôdô Idzumi no Kami. My lord, having learnt your intention of slaying your enemy within the precincts of his citadel, gives his consent; and as a proof of his admiration of your fidelity and valour, he has further sent you a detachment of infantry, one hundred strong, to guard the place; so that should any of the thirty-six men attempt to escape, you may set your mind at ease, for flight will be impossible." [Footnote 20: "In respect to revenging injury done to master or father, it is granted by the wise and virtuous (Confucius) that you and the injurer cannot live together under the canopy of heaven. "A person harbouring such vengeance shall notify the same in writing to the Criminal Court; and although no check or hindrance may be offered to his carrying out his desire within the period allowed for that purpose, it is forbidden that the chastisement of an enemy be attended with riot. "Fellows who neglect to give notice of their intended revenge are like wolves of pretext, and their punishment or pardon should depend upon the circumstances of the case."--_Legacy of Iyéyasu_, ut suprà.] When Matayémon and Kazurna had expressed their thanks for his lordship's gracious kindness, the governor took his leave and returned home. At last the enemy's train was seen in the distance. First came Sakurai Jiuzayémon and his younger brother Jinsuké; and next to them followed Kawai Matagorô and Takénouchi Gentan. These four men, who were the bravest and the foremost of the band of Rônins, were riding on pack-horses, and the remainder were marching on foot, keeping close together. As they drew near, Kazuma, who was impatient to avenge his father, stepped boldly forward and shouted in a loud voice-- "Here stand I, Kazuma, the son of Yukiyé, whom you, Matagorô, treacherously slew, determined to avenge my father's death. Come forth, then, and do battle with me, and let us see which of us twain is the better man." And before the Rônins had recovered from their astonishment, Matayémon said-- "I, Araké Matayémon, the son-in-law of Yukiyé, have come to second Kazuma in his deed of vengeance. Win or lose, you must give us battle." When the thirty-six men heard the name of Matayémon, they were greatly afraid; but Sakurai Jiuzayémon urged them to be upon their guard, and leaped from his horse; and Matayémon, springing forward with his drawn sword, cleft him from the shoulder to the nipple of his breast, so that he fell dead. Sakurai Jinsuké, seeing his brother killed before his eyes, grew furious, and shot an arrow at Matayémon, who deftly cut the shaft in two with his dirk as it flew; and Jinsuké, amazed at this feat, threw away his bow and attacked Matayémon, who, with his sword in his right hand and his dirk in his left, fought with desperation. The other Rônins attempted to rescue Jinsuké, and, in the struggle, Kazuma, who had engaged Matagorô, became separated from Matayémon, whose two retainers, Busuké and Magohachi, bearing in mind their master's orders, killed five Rônins who had attacked Kazuma, but were themselves badly wounded. In the meantime, Matayémon, who had killed seven of the Rônins, and who the harder he was pressed the more bravely he fought, soon cut down three more, and the remainder dared not approach him. At this moment there came up one Kanô Tozayémon, a retainer of the lord of the castle-town, and an old friend of Matayémon, who, when he heard that Matayémon was this day about to avenge his father-in-law, had seized his spear and set out, for the sake of the good-will between them, to help him, and act as his second, and said-- "Sir Matayémon, hearing of the perilous adventure in which you have engaged, I have come out to offer myself as your second." Matayémon, hearing this, was rejoiced, and fought with renewed vigour. Then one of the Rônins, named Takénouchi Gentan, a very brave man, leaving his companions to do battle with Matayémon, came to the rescue of Matagorô, who was being hotly pressed by Kazuma, and, in attempting to prevent this, Busuké fell covered with wounds. His companion Magohachi, seeing him fall, was in great anxiety; for should any harm happen to Kazuma, what excuse could he make to Matayémon? So, wounded as he was, he too engaged Takénouchi Gentan, and, being crippled by the gashes he had received, was in deadly peril. Then the man who had come up from the castle-town to act as Matayémon's second cried out-- "See there, Sir Matayémon, your follower who is fighting with Gentan is in great danger. Do you go to his rescue, and second Sir Kazuma: I will give an account of the others!" "Great thanks to you, sir. I will go and second Kazuma." So Matayémon went to help Kazuma, whilst his second and the infantry soldiers kept back the surviving Rônins, who, already wearied by their fight with Matayémon, were unfit for any further exertion. Kazuma meanwhile was still fighting with Matagorô, and the issue of the conflict was doubtful; and Takénouchi Gentan, in his attempt to rescue Matagorô, was being kept at bay by Magohachi, who, weakened by his wounds, and blinded by the blood which was streaming into his eyes from a cut in the forehead, had given himself up for lost when Matayémon came and cried-- "Be of good cheer, Magohachi; it is I, Matayémon, who have come to the rescue. You are badly hurt; get out of harm's way, and rest yourself." Then Magohachi, who until then had been kept up by his anxiety for Kazuma's safety, gave in, and fell fainting from loss of blood; and Matayémon worsted and slew Gentan; and even then, although be had received two wounds, he was not exhausted, but drew near to Kazuma and said-- "Courage, Kazuma! The Rônins are all killed, and there now remains only Matagorô, your father's murderer. Fight and win!" The youth, thus encouraged, redoubled his efforts; but Matagorô, losing heart, quailed and fell. So Kazuma's vengeance was fulfilled, and the desire of his heart was accomplished. The two faithful retainers, who had died in their loyalty, were buried with great ceremony, and Kazuma carried the head of Matagorô and piously laid it upon his father's tomb. So ends the tale of Kazuma's revenge. I fear that stories of which killing and bloodshed form the principal features can hardly enlist much sympathy in these peaceful days. Still, when such tales are based upon history, they are interesting to students of social phenomena. The story of Kazuma's revenge is mixed up with events which at the present time are peculiarly significant: I mean the feud between the great Daimios and the Hatamotos. Those who have followed the modern history of Japan will see that the recent struggle, which has ended in the ruin of the Tycoon's power and the abolition of his office, was the outburst of a hidden fire which had been smouldering for centuries. But the repressive might had been gradually weakened, and contact with Western powers had rendered still more odious a feudality which men felt to be out of date. The revolution which has ended in the triumph of the Daimios over the Tycoon, is also the triumph of the vassal over his feudal lord, and is the harbinger of political life to the people at large. In the time of Iyéyasu the burden might be hateful, but it had to be borne; and so it would have been to this day, had not circumstances from without broken the spell. The Japanese Daimio, in advocating the isolation of his country, was hugging the very yoke which he hated. Strange to say, however, there are still men who, while they embrace the new political creed, yet praise the past, and look back with regret upon the day when Japan stood alone, without part or share in the great family of nations. NOTE.--_Hatamoto_. This word means "_under the flag_." The Hatamotos were men who, as their name implied, rallied round the standard of the Shogun, or Tycoon, in war-time. They were eighty thousand in number. When Iyéyasu left the Province of Mikawa and became Shogun, the retainers whom he ennobled, and who received from him grants of land yielding revenue to the amount of ten thousand kokus of rice a year, and from that down to one hundred kokus, were called _Hatamoto_. In return for these grants of land, the Hatamotos had in war-time to furnish a contingent of soldiers in proportion to their revenue. For every thousand kokus of rice five men were required. Those Hatamotos whose revenue fell short of a thousand kokus substituted a quota of money. In time of peace most of the minor offices of the Tycoon's government were filled by Hatamotos, the more important places being held by the Fudai, or vassal Daimios of the Shogun. Seven years ago, in imitation of the customs of foreign nations, a standing army was founded; and then the Hatamotos had to contribute their quota of men or of money, whether the country were at peace or at war. When the Shogun was reduced in 1868 to the rank of a simple Daimio, his revenue of eight million kokus reverted to the Government, with the exception of seven hundred thousand kokus. The title of Hatamoto exists no more, and those who until a few months ago held the rank are for the most part ruined or dispersed. From having been perhaps the proudest and most overbearing class in Japan, they are driven to the utmost straits of poverty. Some have gone into trade, with the heirlooms of their families as their stock; others are wandering through the country as Rônins; while a small minority have been allowed to follow the fallen fortunes of their master's family, the present chief of which is known as the Prince of Tokugawa. Thus are the eighty thousand dispersed. The koku of rice, in which all revenue is calculated, is of varying value. At the cheapest it is worth rather more than a pound sterling, and sometimes almost three times as much. The salaries of officials being paid in rice, it follows that there is a large and influential class throughout the country who are interested in keeping up the price of the staple article of food. Hence the opposition with which a free trade in rice has met, even in famine times. Hence also the frequent so-called "Rice Riots." The amounts at which the lands formerly held by the chief Daimios, but now patriotically given up by them to the Mikado, were assessed, sound fabulous. The Prince of Kaga alone had an income of more than one million two hundred thousand kokus. Yet these great proprietors were, latterly at least, embarrassed men. They had many thousand mouths to feed, and were mulcted of their dues right and left; while their mania for buying foreign ships and munitions of war, often at exorbitant prices, had plunged them heavily in debt. A STORY OF THE OTOKODATÉ OF YEDO; BEING THE SUPPLEMENT OF THE STORY OF GOMPACHI AND KOMURASAKI The word Otokodaté occurs several times in these Tales; and as I cannot convey its full meaning by a simple translation, I must preserve it in the text, explaining it by the following note, taken from the Japanese of a native scholar. The Otokodaté were friendly associations of brave men bound together by an obligation to stand by one another in weal or in woe, regardless of their own lives, and without inquiring into one another's antecedents. A bad man, however, having joined the Otokodaté must forsake his evil ways; for their principle was to treat the oppressor as an enemy, and to help the feeble as a father does his child. If they had money, they gave it to those that had none, and their charitable deeds won for them the respect of all men. The head of the society was called its "Father"; if any of the others, who were his apprentices, were homeless, they lived with the Father and served him, paying him at the same time a small fee, in consideration of which, if they fell sick or into misfortune, he took charge of them and assisted them. The Father of the Otokodaté pursued the calling of farming out coolies to the Daimios and great personages for their journeys to and from Yedo, and in return for this received from them rations in rice. He had more influence with the lower classes even than the officials; and if the coolies had struck work or refused to accompany a Daimio on his journey, a word from the Father would produce as many men as might be required. When Prince Tokugawa Iyémochi, the last but one of the Shoguns, left Yedo for Kiôto, one Shimmon Tatsugorô, chief of the Otokodaté, undertook the management of his journey, and some three or four years ago was raised to the dignity of Hatamoto for many faithful services. After the battle of Fushimi, and the abolition of the Shogunate, he accompanied the last of the Shoguns in his retirement. In old days there were also Otokodaté among the Hatamotos; this was after the civil wars of the time of Iyéyasu, when, though the country was at peace, the minds of men were still in a state of high excitement, and could not be reconciled to the dulness of a state of rest; it followed that broils and faction fights were continually taking place among the young men of the Samurai class, and that those who distinguished themselves by their personal strength and valour were looked up to as captains. Leagues after the manner of those existing among the German students were formed in different quarters of the city, under various names, and used to fight for the honour of victory. When the country became more thoroughly tranquil, the custom of forming these leagues amongst gentlemen fell into disuse. The past tense is used in speaking even of the Otokodaté of the lower classes; for although they nominally exist, they have no longer the power and importance which they enjoyed at the time to which these stories belong. They then, like the 'prentices of Old London, played a considerable part in the society of the great cities, and that man was lucky, were he gentle Samurai or simple wardsman, who could claim the Father of the Otokodaté for his friend. The word, taken by itself, means a manly or plucky fellow. * * * * * Chôbei of Bandzuin was the chief of the Otokodaté of Yedo. He was originally called Itarô, and was the son of a certain Rônin who lived in the country. One day, when he was only ten years of age, he went out with a playfellow to bathe in the river; and as the two were playing they quarrelled over their game, and Itarô, seizing the other boy, threw him into the river and drowned him. Then he went home, and said to his father-- "I went to play by the river to-day, with a friend; and as he was rude to me, I threw him into the water and killed him." When his father heard him speak thus, quite calmly, as if nothing had happened, he was thunderstruck, and said-- "This is indeed a fearful thing. Child as you are, you will have to pay the penalty of your deed; so to-night you must fly to Yedo in secret, and take service with some noble Samurai, and perhaps in time you may become a soldier yourself." With these words he gave him twenty ounces of silver and a fine sword, made by the famous swordsmith Rai Kunitoshi, and sent him out of the province with all dispatch. The following morning the parents of the murdered child came to claim that Itarô should be given up to their vengeance; but it was too late, and all they could do was to bury their child and mourn for his loss. Itarô made his way to Yedo in hot haste, and there found employment as a shop-boy; but soon tiring of that sort of life, and burning to become a soldier, he found means at last to enter the service of a certain Hatamoto called Sakurai Shôzayémon, and changed his name to Tsunéhei. Now this Sakurai Shôzayémon had a son, called Shônosuké, a young man in his seventeenth year, who grew so fond of Tsunéhei that he took him with him wherever he went, and treated him in all ways as an equal. When Shônosuké went to the fencing-school Tsunéhei would accompany him, and thus, as he was by nature strong and active, soon became a good swordsman. One day, when Shôzayémon had gone out, his son Shônosuké said to Tsunéhei-- "You know how fond my father is of playing at football: it must be great sport. As he has gone out to-day, suppose you and I have a game?" "That will be rare sport," answered Tsunéhei. "Let us make haste and play, before my lord comes home." So the two boys went out into the garden, and began trying to kick the football; but, lacking skill, do what they would, they could not lift it from the ground. At last Shônosuké, with a vigorous kick, raised the football; but, having missed his aim, it went tumbling over the wall into the next garden, which belonged to one Hikosaka Zempachi, a teacher of lance exercise, who was known to be a surly, ill-tempered fellow. "Oh, dear! what shall we do?" said Shônosuké. "We have lost my father's football in his absence; and if we go and ask for it back from that churlish neighbour of ours, we shall only be scolded and sworn at for our pains." "Oh, never mind," answered Tsunéhei; "I will go and apologize for our carelessness, and get the football back." "Well, but then you will be chidden, and I don't want that." "Never mind me. Little care I for his cross words." So Tsunéhei went to the next-door house to reclaim the ball. Now it so happened that Zempachi, the surly neighbour, had been walking in his garden whilst the two youths were playing; and as he was admiring the beauty of his favourite chrysanthemums, the football came flying over the wall and struck him full in the face. Zempachi, not used to anything but flattery and coaxing, flew into a violent rage at this; and while he was thinking how he would revenge himself upon any one who might be sent to ask for the lost ball, Tsunéhei came in, and said to one of Zempachi's servants-- "I am sorry to say that in my lord's absence I took his football, and, in trying to play with it, clumsily kicked it over your wall. I beg you to excuse my carelessness, and to be so good as to give me back the ball." The servant went in and repeated this to Zempachi, who worked himself up into a great rage, and ordered Tsunéhei to be brought before him, and said-- "Here, fellow, is your name Tsunéhei?" "Yes, sir, at your service. I am almost afraid to ask pardon for my carelessness; but please forgive me, and let me have the ball." "I thought your master, Shôzayémon, was to blame for this; but it seems that it was you who kicked the football." "Yes, sir. I am sure I am very sorry for what I have done. Please, may I ask for the ball?" said Tsunéhei, bowing humbly. For a while Zempachi made no answer, but at length he said-- "Do you know, villain, that your dirty football struck me in the face? I ought, by rights, to kill you on the spot for this; but I will spare your life this time, so take your football and be off." And with that he went up to Tsunéhei and beat him, and kicked him in the head, and spat in his face. Then Tsunéhei, who up to that time had demeaned himself very humbly, in his eagerness to get back the football, jumped up in a fury, and said-- "I made ample apologies to you for my carelessness, and now you have insulted and struck me. Ill-mannered ruffian! take back the ball,--I'll none of it;" and he drew his dirk, and cutting the football in two, threw it at Zempachi, and returned home. But Zempachi, growing more and more angry, called one of his servants, and said to him-- "That fellow, Tsunéhei, has been most insolent: go next door and find out Shôzayémon, and tell him that I have ordered you to bring back Tsunéhei, that I may kill him." So the servant went to deliver the message. In the meantime Tsunéhei went back to his master's house; and when Shônosuké saw him, he said-- "Well, of course you have been ill treated; but did you get back the football?" "When I went in, I made many apologies; but I was beaten, and kicked in the head, and treated with the greatest indignity. I would have killed that wretch, Zempachi, at once, but that I knew that, if I did so while I was yet a member of your household, I should bring trouble upon your family. For your sake I bore this ill-treatment patiently; but now I pray you let me take leave of you and become a Rônin, that I may be revenged upon this man." "Think well what you are doing," answered Shônosuké. "After all, we have only lost a football; and my father will not care, nor upbraid us." But Tsiméhei would not listen to him, and was bent upon wiping out the affront that he had received. As they were talking, the messenger arrived from Zempachi, demanding the surrender of Tsunéhei, on the ground that he had insulted him: to this Shônosuké replied that his father was away from home, and that in his absence he could do nothing. At last Shôzayémon came home; and when he heard what had happened he was much grieved, and at a loss what to do, when a second messenger arrived from Zempachi, demanding that Tsunéhei should be given up without delay. Then Shôzayémon, seeing that the matter was serious, called the youth to him, and said-- "This Zempachi is heartless and cruel, and if you go to his house will assuredly kill you; take, therefore, these fifty riyos, and fly to Osaka or Kiôto, where you may safely set up in business." "Sir," answered Tsunéhei, with tears of gratitude for his lord's kindness, "from my heart I thank you for your great goodness; but I have been insulted and trampled upon, and, if I lay down my life in the attempt, I will repay Zempachi for what he has this day done." "Well, then, since you needs must be revenged, go and fight, and may success attend you! Still, as much depends upon the blade you carry, and I fear yours is likely to be but a sorry weapon, I will give you a sword;" and with this he offered Tsunéhei his own. "Nay, my lord," replied Tsunéhei; "I have a famous sword, by Rai Kunitoshi, which my father gave me. I have never shown it to your lordship, but I have it safely stowed away in my room." When Shôzayémon saw and examined the sword, he admired it greatly, and said, "This is indeed a beautiful blade, and one on which you may rely. Take it, then, and bear yourself nobly in the fight; only remember that Zempachi is a cunning spearsman, and be sure to be very cautious." So Tsunéhei, after thanking his lord for his manifold kindnesses, took an affectionate leave, and went to Zempachi's house, and said to the servant-- "It seems that your master wants to speak to me. Be so good as to take me to see him." So the servant led him into the garden, where Zempachi, spear in hand, was waiting to kill him. When Zempachi saw him, he cried out-- "Ha! so you have come back; and now for your insolence, this day I mean to kill you with my own hand." "Insolent yourself!" replied Tsunéhei. "Beast, and no Samurai! Come, let us see which of us is the better man." Furiously incensed, Zempachi thrust with his spear at Tsunéhei; but he, trusting to his good sword, attacked Zempachi, who, cunning warrior as he was, could gain no advantage. At last Zempachi, losing his temper, began fighting less carefully, so that Tsunéhei found an opportunity of cutting the shaft of his spear. Zempachi then drew his sword, and two of his retainers came up to assist him; but Tsunéhei killed one of them, and wounded Zempachi in the forehead. The second retainer fled affrighted at the youth's valour, and Zempachi was blinded by the blood which flowed from the wound on his forehead. Then Tsunéhei said-- "To kill one who is as a blind man were unworthy a soldier. Wipe the blood from your eyes, Sir Zempachi, and let us fight it out fairly." So Zempachi, wiping away his blood, bound a kerchief round his head, and fought again desperately. But at last the pain of his wound and the loss of blood overcame him, and Tsunéhei cut him down with a wound in the shoulder and easily dispatched him. Then Tsunéhei went and reported the whole matter to the Governor of Yedo, and was put in prison until an inquiry could be made. But the Chief Priest of Bandzuin, who had heard of the affair, went and told the governor all the bad deeds of Zempachi, and having procured Tsunéhei's pardon, took him home and employed him as porter in the temple. So Tsunéhei changed his name to Chôbei, and earned much respect in the neighbourhood, both for his talents and for his many good works. If any man were in distress, he would help him, heedless of his own advantage or danger, until men came to look up to him as to a father, and many youths joined him and became his apprentices. So he built a house at Hanakawado, in Asakusa, and lived there with his apprentices, whom he farmed out as spearsmen and footmen to the Daimios and Hatamotos, taking for himself the tithe of their earnings. But if any of them were sick or in trouble, Chôbei would nurse and support them, and provide physicians and medicine. And the fame of his goodness went abroad until his apprentices were more than two thousand men, and were employed in every part of the city. But as for Chôbei, the more he prospered, the more he gave in charity, and all men praised his good and generous heart. This was the time when the Hatamotos had formed themselves into bands of Otokodaté,[21] of which Midzuno Jiurozayémon, Kondô Noborinosuké, and Abé Shirogorô were the chiefs. And the leagues of the nobles despised the leagues of the wardsmen, and treated them with scorn, and tried to put to shame Chôbei and his brave men; but the nobles' weapons recoiled upon themselves, and, whenever they tried to bring contempt upon Chôbei, they themselves were brought to ridicule. So there was great hatred on both sides. [Footnote 21: See the story of Kazuma's Revenge.] One day, that Chôbei went to divert himself in a tea-house in the Yoshiwara, he saw a felt carpet spread in an upper room, which had been adorned as for some special occasion; and he asked the master of the house what guest of distinction was expected. The landlord replied that my Lord Jiurozayémon, the chief of the Otokodaté of the Hatamotos, was due there that afternoon. On hearing this, Chôbei replied that as he much wished to meet my Lord Jiurozayémon, he would lie down and await his coming. The landlord was put out at this, and knew not what to say; but yet he dare not thwart Chôbei, the powerful chief of the Otokodaté. So Chôbei took off his clothes and laid himself down upon the carpet. After a while my Lord Jiurozayémon arrived, and going upstairs found a man of large stature lying naked upon the carpet which had been spread for him. "What low ruffian is this?" shouted he angrily to the landlord. "My lord, it is Chôbei, the chief of the Otokodaté," answered the man, trembling. Jiurozayémon at once suspected that Chôbei was doing this to insult him; so he sat down by the side of the sleeping man, and lighting his pipe began to smoke. When he had finished his pipe, he emptied the burning ashes into Chôbei's navel; but Chôbei, patiently bearing the pain, still feigned sleep. Ten times did Jiurozayémon fill his pipe,[22] and ten times he shook out the burning ashes on to Chôbei's navel; but he neither stirred nor spoke. Then Jiurozayémon, astonished at his fortitude, shook him, and roused him, saying-- "Chôbei! Chôbei! wake up, man." "What is the matter?" said Chôbei, rubbing his eyes as though he were awaking from a deep sleep; then seeing Jiurozayémon, he pretended to be startled, and said, "Oh, my lord, I know not who you are; but I have been very rude to your lordship. I was overcome with wine, and fell asleep: I pray your lordship to forgive me." "Is your name Chôbei?" "Yes, my lord, at your service. A poor wardsman, and ignorant of good manners, I have been very rude; but I pray your lordship to excuse my ill-breeding." "Nay, nay; we have all heard the fame of Chôbei, of Bandzuin, and I hold myself lucky to have met you this day. Let us be friends." "It is a great honour for a humble wardsman to meet a nobleman face to face." [Footnote 22: The tiny Japanese pipe contains but two or three whiffs; and as the tobacco is rolled up tightly in the fingers before it is inserted, the ash, when shaken out, is a little fire-ball from which a second pipe is lighted.] As they were speaking, the waitresses brought in fish and wine, and Jiurozayémon pressed Chôbei to feast with him; and thinking to annoy Chôbei, offered him a large wine-cup,[23] which, however, he drank without shrinking, and then returned to his entertainer, who was by no means so well able to bear the fumes of the wine. Then Jiurozayémon hit upon another device for annoying Chôbei, and, hoping to frighten him, said-- "Here, Chôbei, let me offer you some fish;" and with those words he drew his sword, and, picking up a cake of baked fish upon the point of it, thrust it towards the wardsman's mouth. Any ordinary man would have been afraid to accept the morsel so roughly offered; but Chôbei simply opened his mouth, and taking the cake off the sword's point ate it without wincing. Whilst Jiurozayémon was wondering in his heart what manner of man this was, that nothing could daunt, Chôbei said to him-- "This meeting with your lordship has been an auspicious occasion to me, and I would fain ask leave to offer some humble gift to your lordship in memory of it.[24] Is there anything which your lordship would specially fancy?" "I am very fond of cold macaroni." [Footnote 23: It is an act of rudeness to offer a large wine-cup. As, however, the same cup is returned to the person who has offered it, the ill carries with it its own remedy. At a Japanese feast the same cup is passed from hand to hand, each person rinsing it in a bowl of water after using it, and before offering it to another.] [Footnote 24: The giving of presents from inferiors to superiors is a common custom.] "Then I shall have the honour of ordering some for your lordship;" and with this Chôbei went downstairs, and calling one of his apprentices, named Tôken Gombei,[25] who was waiting for him, gave him a hundred riyos (about £28), and bade him collect all the cold macaroni to be found in the neighbouring cook-shops and pile it up in front of the tea-house. So Gombei went home, and, collecting Chôbei's apprentices, sent them out in all directions to buy the macaroni. Jiurozayémon all this while was thinking of the pleasure he would have in laughing at Chôbei for offering him a mean and paltry present; but when, by degrees, the macaroni began to be piled mountain-high around the tea-house, he saw that he could not make a fool of Chôbei, and went home discomfited. [Footnote 25: _Tôken_, a nickname given to Gombei, after a savage dog that he killed. As a Chônin, or wardsman, he had no surname.] It has already been told how Shirai Gompachi was befriended and helped by Chôbei.[26] His name will occur again in this story. [Footnote 26: See the story of Gompachi and Komurasaki.] At this time there lived in the province of Yamato a certain Daimio, called Honda Dainaiki, who one day, when surrounded by several of his retainers, produced a sword, and bade them look at it and say from what smith's workshop the blade had come. "I think this must be a Masamuné blade," said one Fuwa Banzayémon. "No," said Nagoya Sanza, after examining the weapon attentively, "this certainly is a Muramasa."[27] [Footnote 27: The swords of Muramasa, although so finely tempered that they are said to cut hard iron as though it were a melon, have the reputation of being unlucky: they are supposed by the superstitious to hunger after taking men's lives, and to be unable to repose in their scabbards. The principal duty of a sword is to preserve tranquillity in the world, by punishing the wicked and protecting the good. But the bloodthirsty swords of Muramasa rather have the effect of maddening their owners, so that they either kill others indiscriminately or commit suicide. At the end of the sixteenth century Prince Tokugawa Iyéyasu was in the habit of carrying a spear made by Muramasa, with which he often scratched or cut himself by mistake. Hence the Tokugawa family avoid girding on Muramasa blades, which are supposed to be specially unlucky to their race. The murders of Gompachi, who wore a sword by this maker, also contributed to give his weapons a bad name. The swords of one Tôshirô Yoshimitsu, on the other hand, are specially auspicious to the Tokugawa family, for the following reason. After Iyéyasu had been defeated by Takéta Katsuyori, at the battle of the river Tenrin, he took refuge in the house of a village doctor, intending to put an end to his existence by _hara-kiri,_ and drawing his dirk, which was made by Yoshimitsu, tried to plunge it into his belly, when, to his surprise, the blade turned. Thinking that the dirk must be a bad one, he took up an iron mortar for grinding medicines and tried it upon that, and the point entered and transfixed the mortar. He was about to stab himself a second time, when his followers, who had missed him, and had been searching for him everywhere, came up, and seeing their master about to kill himself, stayed his hand, and took away the dirk by force. Then they set him upon his horse and compelled him to fly to his own province of Mikawa, whilst they kept his pursuers at bay. After this, when, by the favour of Heaven, Iyéyasu became Shogun, it was considered that of a surety there must have been a good spirit in the blade that refused to drink his blood; and ever since that time the blades of Yoshimitsu have been considered lucky in his family.] A third Samurai, named Takagi Umanojô, pronounced it to be the work of Shidzu Kanenji; and as they could not agree, but each maintained his opinion, their lord sent for a famous connoisseur to decide the point; and the sword proved, as Sanza had said, to be a genuine Muramasa. Sanza was delighted at the verdict; but the other two went home rather crestfallen. Umanojô, although he had been worsted in the argument, bore no malice nor ill-will in his heart; but Banzayémon, who was a vainglorious personage, puffed up with the idea of his own importance, conceived a spite against Sanza, and watched for an opportunity to put him to shame. At last, one day Banzayémon, eager to be revenged upon Sanza, went to the Prince, and said, "Your lordship ought to see Sanza fence; his swordsmanship is beyond all praise. I know that I am no match for him; still, if it will please your lordship, I will try a bout with him;" and the Prince, who was a mere stripling, and thought it would be rare sport, immediately sent for Sanza and desired he would fence with Banzayémon. So the two went out into the garden, and stood up facing each other, armed with wooden swords. Now Banzayémon was proud of his skill, and thought he had no equal in fencing; so he expected to gain an easy victory over Sanza, and promised himself the luxury of giving his adversary a beating that should fully make up for the mortification which he had felt in the matter of the dispute about the sword. It happened, however, that he had undervalued the skill of Sanza, who, when he saw that his adversary was attacking him savagely and in good earnest, by a rapid blow struck Banzayémon so sharply on the wrist that he dropped the sword, and, before he could pick it up again, delivered a second cut on the shoulder, which sent him rolling over in the dust. All the officers present, seeing this, praised Sanza's skill, and Banzayémon, utterly stricken with shame, ran away home and hid himself. After this affair Sanza rose high in the favour of his lord; and Banzayémon, who was more than ever jealous of him, feigned sickness, and stayed at home devising schemes for Sanza's ruin. Now it happened that the Prince, wishing to have the Muramasa blade mounted, sent for Sanza and entrusted it to his care, ordering him to employ the most cunning workmen in the manufacture of the scabbard-hilt and ornaments; and Sanza, having received the blade, took it home, and put it carefully away. When Banzayémon heard of this, he was overjoyed; for he saw that his opportunity for revenge had come. He determined, if possible, to kill Sanza, but at any rate to steal the sword which had been committed to his care by the Prince, knowing full well that if Sanza lost the sword he and his family would be ruined. Being a single man, without wife or child, he sold his furniture, and, turning all his available property into money, made ready to fly the country. When his preparations were concluded, he went in the middle of the night to Sanza's house and tried to get in by stealth; but the doors and shutters were all carefully bolted from the inside, and there was no hole by which he could effect an entrance. All was still, however, and the people of the house were evidently fast asleep; so he climbed up to the second storey, and, having contrived to unfasten a window, made his way in. With soft, cat-like footsteps he crept downstairs, and, looking into one of the rooms, saw Sanza and his wife sleeping on the mats, with their little son Kosanza, a boy of thirteen, curled up in his quilt between them. The light in the night-lamp was at its last flicker, but, peering through the gloom, he could just see the Prince's famous Muramasa sword lying on a sword-rack in the raised part of the room: so he crawled stealthily along until he could reach it, and stuck it in his girdle. Then, drawing near to Sanza, he bestrode his sleeping body, and, brandishing the sword made a thrust at his throat; but in his excitement his hand shook, so that he missed his aim, and only scratched Sanza, who, waking with a start and trying to jump up, felt himself held down by a man standing over him. Stretching out his hands, he would have wrestled with his enemy; when Banzayémon, leaping back, kicked over the night-lamp, and throwing open the shutters, dashed into the garden. Snatching up his sword, Sanza rushed out after him; and his wife, having lit a lantern and armed herself with a halberd,[28] went out, with her son Kosanza, who carried a drawn dirk, to help her husband. Then Banzayémon, who was hiding in the shadow of a large pine-tree, seeing the lantern and dreading detection, seized a stone and hurled it at the light, and, chancing to strike it, put it out, and then scrambling over the fence unseen, fled into the darkness. When Sanza had searched all over the garden in vain, he returned to his room and examined his wound, which proving very slight, he began to look about to see whether the thief had carried off anything; but when his eye fell upon the place where the Muramasa sword had lain, he saw that it was gone. He hunted everywhere, but it was not to be found. The precious blade with which his Prince had entrusted him had been stolen, and the blame would fall heavily upon him. Filled with grief and shame at the loss, Sanza and his wife and child remained in great anxiety until the morning broke, when he reported the matter to one of the Prince's councillors, and waited in seclusion until he should receive his lord's commands. [Footnote 28: The halberd is the special arm of the Japanese woman of gentle blood. That which was used by Kasa Gozen, one of the ladies of Yoshitsuné, the hero of the twelfth century, is still preserved at Asakusa. In old-fashioned families young ladies are regularly instructed in fencing with the halberds.] It soon became known that Banzayémon, who had fled the province, was the thief; and the councillors made their report accordingly to the Prince, who, although he expressed his detestation of the mean action of Banzayémon, could not absolve Sanza from blame, in that he had not taken better precautions to insure the safety of the sword that had been committed to his trust. It was decided, therefore, that Sanza should be dismissed from his service, and that his goods should be confiscated; with the proviso that should he be able to find Banzayémon, and recover the lost Muramasa blade, he should be restored to his former position. Sanza, who from the first had made up his mind that his punishment would be severe, accepted the decree without a murmur; and, having committed his wife and son to the care of his relations, prepared to leave the country as a Rônin and search for Banzayémon. Before starting, however, he thought that he would go to his brother-officer, Takagi Umanojô, and consult with him as to what course he should pursue to gain his end. But this Umanojô, who was by nature a churlish fellow, answered him unkindly, and said-- "It is true that Banzayémon is a mean thief; but still it was through your carelessness that the sword was lost. It is of no avail your coming to me for help: you must get it back as best you may." "Ah!" replied Sanza, "I see that you too bear me a grudge because I defeated you in the matter of the judgment of the sword. You are no better than Banzayémon yourself." And his heart was bitter against his fellow men, and he left the house determined to kill Umanojô first and afterwards to track out Banzayémon; so, pretending to start on his journey, he hid in an inn, and waited for an opportunity to attack Umanojô. One day Umanojô, who was very fond of fishing, had taken his son Umanosuké, a lad of sixteen, down to the sea-shore with him; and as the two were enjoying themselves, all of a sudden they perceived a Samurai running towards them, and when he drew near they saw that it was Sanza. Umanojô, thinking that Sanza had come back in order to talk over some important matter, left his angling and went to meet him. Then Sanza cried out-- "Now, Sir Umanojô, draw and defend yourself. What! were you in league with Banzayémon to vent your spite upon me? Draw, sir, draw! You have spirited away your accomplice; but, at any rate, you are here yourself, and shall answer for your deed. It is no use playing the innocent; your astonished face shall not save you. Defend yourself, coward and traitor!" and with these words Sanza flourished his naked sword. "Nay, Sir Sanza," replied the other, anxious by a soft answer to turn away his wrath; "I am innocent of this deed. Waste not your valour on so poor a cause." "Lying knave!" said Sanza; "think not that you can impose upon me. I know your treacherous heart;" and, rushing upon Umanojô, he cut him on the forehead so that he fell in agony upon the sand. Umanosuké in the meanwhile, who had been fishing at some distance from his father, rushed up when he saw him in this perilous situation and threw a stone at Sanza, hoping to distract his attention; but, before he could reach the spot, Sanza had delivered the death-blow, and Umanojô lay a corpse upon the beach. "Stop, Sir Sanza--murderer of my father!" cried Umanosuké, drawing his sword, "stop and do battle with me, that I may avenge his death." "That you should wish to slay your father's enemy," replied Sanza, "is but right and proper; and although I had just cause of quarrel with your father, and killed him, as a Samurai should, yet would I gladly forfeit my life to you here; but my life is precious to me for one purpose--that I may punish Banzayémon and get back the stolen sword. When I shall have restored that sword to my lord, then will I give you your revenge, and you may kill me. A soldier's word is truth; but, as a pledge that I will fulfil my promise, I will give to you, as hostages, my wife and boy. Stay your avenging hand, I pray you, until my desire shall have been attained." Umanosuké, who was a brave and honest youth, as famous in the clan for the goodness of his heart as for his skill in the use of arms, when he heard Sanza's humble petition, relented, and said-- "I agree to wait, and will take your wife and boy as hostages for your return." "I humbly thank you," said Sanza. "When I shall have chastised Banzayémon, I will return, and you shall claim your revenge." So Sanza went his way to Yedo to seek for Banzayémon, and Umanosuké mourned over his father's grave. Now Banzayémon, when he arrived in Yedo, found himself friendless and without the means of earning his living, when by accident he heard of the fame of Chôbei of Bandzuin, the chief of the Otokodaté, to whom he applied for assistance; and having entered the fraternity, supported himself by giving fencing-lessons. He had been plying his trade for some time, and had earned some little reputation, when Sanza reached the city and began his search for him. But the days and months passed away, and, after a year's fruitless seeking, Sanza, who had spent all his money without obtaining a clue to the whereabouts of his enemy, was sorely perplexed, and was driven to live by his wits as a fortune-teller. Work as he would, it was a hard matter for him to gain the price of his daily food, and, in spite of all his pains, his revenge seemed as far off as ever, when he bethought him that the Yoshiwara was one of the most bustling places in the city, and that if he kept watch there, sooner or later he would be sure to fall in with Banzayémon. So be bought a hat of plaited bamboo, that completely covered his face, and lay in wait at the Yoshiwara. One day Banzayémon and two of Chôbei's apprentices Tôken Gombei and Shirobei, who, from his wild and indocile nature, was surnamed "the Colt," were amusing themselves and drinking in an upper storey of a tea-house in the Yoshiwara, when Tôken Gombei, happening to look down upon the street below, saw a Samurai pass by, poorly clad in worn-out old clothes, but whose poverty-stricken appearance contrasted with his proud and haughty bearing. "Look there!" said Gombei, calling the attention of the others; "look at that Samurai. Dirty and ragged as his coat is, how easy it is to see that he is of noble birth! Let us wardsmen dress ourselves up in never so fine clothes, we could not look as he does." "Ay," said Shirobei, "I wish we could make friends with him, and ask him up here to drink a cup of wine with us. However, it would not be seemly for us wardsmen to go and invite a person of his condition." "We can easily get over that difficulty," said Banzayémon. "As I am a Samurai myself, there will be no impropriety in my going and saying a few civil words to him, and bringing him in." The other two having joyfully accepted the offer, Banzayémon ran downstairs, and went up to the strange Samurai and saluted him, saying-- "I pray you to wait a moment, Sir Samurai. My name is Fuwa Banzayémon at your service. I am a Rônin, as I judge from your appearance that you are yourself. I hope you will not think me rude if I venture to ask you to honour me with your friendship, and to come into this tea-house to drink a cup of wine with me and two of my friends." The strange Samurai, who was no other than Sanza, looking at the speaker through the interstices of his deep bamboo hat, and recognizing his enemy Banzayémon, gave a start of surprise, and, uncovering his head, said sternly-- "Have you forgotten my face, Banzayémon?" For a moment Banzayémon was taken aback, but quickly recovering himself, he replied, "Ah! Sir Sanza, you may well be angry with me; but since I stole the Muramasa sword and fled to Yedo I have known no peace: I have been haunted by remorse for my crime. I shall not resist your vengeance: do with me as it shall seem best to you; or rather take my life, and let there be an end of this quarrel." "Nay," answered Sanza, "to kill a man who repents him of his sins is a base and ignoble action. When you stole from me the Muramasa blade which had been confided to my care by my lord, I became a disgraced and ruined man. Give me back that sword, that I may lay it before my lord, and I will spare your life. I seek to slay no man needlessly." "Sir Sanza, I thank you for your mercy. At this moment I have not the sword by me, but if you will go into yonder tea-house and wait awhile, I will fetch it and deliver it into your hands." Sanza having consented to this, the two men entered the tea-house, where Banzayémon's two companions were waiting for them. But Banzayémon, ashamed of his own evil deed, still pretended that Sanza was a stranger, and introduced him as such, saying-- "Come Sir Samurai, since we have the honour of your company, let me offer you a wine-cup." Banzayémon and the two men pressed the wine-cup upon Sanza so often that the fumes gradually got into his head and he fell asleep; the two wardsmen, seeing this, went out for a walk, and Banzayémon, left alone with the sleeping man, began to revolve fresh plots against him in his mind. On a sudden, a thought struck him. Noiselessly seizing Sanza's sword, which he had laid aside on entering the room, he stole softly downstairs with it, and, carrying it into the back yard, pounded and blunted its edge with a stone, and having made it useless as a weapon, he replaced it in its scabbard, and running upstairs again laid it in its place without disturbing Sanza, who, little suspecting treachery, lay sleeping off the effects of the wine. At last, however, he awoke, and, ashamed at having been overcome by drink, he said to Banzayémon-- "Come, Banzayémon, we have dallied too long; give me the Muramasa sword, and let me go." "Of course," replied the other, sneeringly, "I am longing to give it back to you; but unfortunately, in my poverty, I have been obliged to pawn it for fifty ounces of silver. If you have so much money about you, give it to me and I will return the sword to you." "Wretch!" cried Sanza, seeing that Banzayémon was trying to fool him, "have I not had enough of your vile tricks? At any rate, if I cannot get back the sword, your head shall be laid before my lord in its place. Come," added he, stamping his foot impatiently, "defend yourself." "With all my heart. But not here in this tea-house. Let us go to the Mound, and fight it out." "Agreed! There is no need for us to bring trouble on the landlord. Come to the Mound of the Yoshiwara." So they went to the Mound, and drawing their swords, began to fight furiously. As the news soon spread abroad through the Yoshiwara that a duel was being fought upon the Mound, the people flocked out to see the sight; and among them came Tôken Gombei and Shirobei, Banzayémon's companions, who, when they saw that the combatants were their own friend and the strange Samurai, tried to interfere and stop the fight, but, being hindered by the thickness of the crowd, remained as spectators. The two men fought desperately, each driven by fierce rage against the other; but Sanza, who was by far the better fencer of the two, once, twice, and again dealt blows which should have cut Banzayémon down, and yet no blood came forth. Sanza, astonished at this, put forth all his strength, and fought so skilfully, that all the bystanders applauded him, and Banzayémon, though he knew his adversary's sword to be blunted, was so terrified that he stumbled and fell. Sanza, brave soldier that he was, scorned to strike a fallen foe, and bade him rise and fight again. So they engaged again, and Sanza, who from the beginning had had the advantage, slipped and fell in his turn; Banzayémon, forgetting the mercy which had been shown to him, rushed up, with bloodthirsty joy glaring in his eyes, and stabbed Sanza in the side as he lay on the ground. Faint as he was, he could not lift his hand to save himself; and his craven foe was about to strike him again, when the bystanders all cried shame upon his baseness. Then Gombei and Shirobei lifted up their voices and said-- "Hold, coward! Have you forgotten how your own life was spared but a moment since? Beast of a Samurai, we have been your friends hitherto, but now behold in us the avengers of this brave man." With these words the two men drew their dirks, and the spectators fell back as they rushed in upon Banzayémon, who, terror-stricken by their fierce looks and words, fled without having dealt the death-blow to Sanza. They tried to pursue him, but he made good his escape, so the two men returned to help the wounded man. When he came to himself by dint of their kind treatment, they spoke to him and comforted him, and asked him what province he came from, that they might write to his friends and tell them what had befallen him. Sanza, in a voice faint from pain and loss of blood, told them his name and the story of the stolen sword, and of his enmity against Banzayémon. "But," said he, "just now, when I was fighting, I struck Banzayémon more than once, and without effect. How could that have been?" Then they looked at his sword, which had fallen by his side, and saw that the edge was all broken away. More than ever they felt indignant at the baseness of Banzayémon's heart, and redoubled their kindness to Sanza; but, in. spite of all their efforts, he grew weaker and weaker, until at last his breathing ceased altogether. So they buried the corpse honourably in an adjoining temple, and wrote to Sanza's wife and son, describing to them the manner of his death. Now when Sanza's wife, who had long been anxiously expecting her husband's return, opened the letter and learned the cruel circumstances of his death, she and her son Kosanza mourned bitterly over his loss. Then Kosanza, who was now fourteen years old, said to his mother-- "Take comfort, mother; for I will go to Yedo and seek out this Banzayémon, my father's murderer, and I will surely avenge his death. Now, therefore, make ready all that I need for this journey." And as they were consulting over the manner of their revenge, Umanosuké, the son of Umanojô, whom Sanza had slain, having heard of the death of his father's enemy, came to the house. But he came with no hostile intent. True, Sanza had killed his father, but the widow and the orphan were guiltless, and he bore them no ill-will; on the contrary, he felt that Banzayémon was their common enemy. It was he who by his evil deeds had been the cause of all the mischief that had arisen, and now again, by murdering Sanza, he had robbed Umanosuké of his revenge. In this spirit he said to Kosanza-- "Sir Kosanza, I hear that your father has been cruelly murdered by Banzayémon at Yedo. I know that you will avenge the death of your father, as the son of a soldier should: if, therefore, you will accept my poor services, I will be your second, and will help you to the best of my ability. Banzayémon shall be my enemy, as he is yours." "Nay, Sir Umanosuké, although I thank you from my heart, I cannot accept this favour at your hands. My father Sanza slew your noble father: that you should requite this misfortune thus is more than kind, but I cannot think of suffering you to risk your life on my behalf." "Listen to me," replied Umanosuké, smiling, "and you will think it less strange that I should offer to help you. Last year, when my father lay a bleeding corpse on the sea-shore, your father made a covenant with me that he would return to give me my revenge, so soon as he should have regained the stolen sword. Banzayémon, by murdering him on the Mound of the Yoshiwara, has thwarted me in this; and now upon whom can I avenge my father's death but upon him whose baseness was indeed its cause? Now, therefore, I am determined to go with you to Yedo, and not before the murders of our two fathers shall have been fully atoned for will we return to our own country." When Kosanza heard this generous speech, he could not conceal his admiration; and the widow, prostrating herself at Umanosuké's feet, shed tears of gratitude. The two youths, having agreed to stand by one another, made all ready for their journey, and obtained leave from their prince to go in search of the traitor Banzayémon. They reached Yedo without meeting with any adventures, and, taking up their abode at a cheap inn, began to make their inquiries; but, although they sought far and wide, they could learn no tidings of their enemy. When three months had passed thus, Kosanza began to grow faint-hearted at their repeated failures; but Umanosuké supported and comforted him, urging him to fresh efforts. But soon a great misfortune befell them: Kosanza fell sick with ophthalmia, and neither the tender nursing of his friend, nor the drugs and doctors upon whom Umanosuké spent all their money, had any effect on the suffering boy, who soon became stone blind. Friendless and penniless, the one deprived of his eyesight and only a clog upon the other, the two youths were thrown upon their own resources. Then Umanosuké, reduced to the last extremity of distress, was forced to lead out Kosanza to Asakusa to beg sitting by the roadside, whilst he himself, wandering hither and thither, picked up what he could from the charity of those who saw his wretched plight. But all this while he never lost sight of his revenge, and almost thanked the chance which had made him a beggar, for the opportunity which it gave him of hunting out strange and hidden haunts of vagabond life into which in his more prosperous condition he could not have penetrated. So he walked to and fro through the city, leaning on a stout staff, in which he had hidden his sword, waiting patiently for fortune to bring him face to face with Banzayémon. [Illustration: TRICKS OF SWORDSMANSHIP AT ASAKUSA.] Now Banzayémon, after he had killed Sanza on the Mound of the Yoshiwara, did not dare to show his face again in the house of Chôbei, the Father of the Otokodaté; for he knew that the two men, Tôken Gombei and Shirobei "the loose Colt," would not only bear an evil report of him, but would even kill him if he fell into their hands, so great had been their indignation at his cowardly Conduct; so he entered a company of mountebanks, and earned his living by showing tricks of swordsmanship, and selling tooth-powder at the Okuyama, at Asakusa.[29] One day, as he was going towards Asakusa to ply his trade, he caught sight of a blind beggar, in whom, in spite of his poverty-stricken and altered appearance, he recognized the son of his enemy. Rightly he judged that, in spite of the boy's apparently helpless condition, the discovery boded no weal for him; so mounting to the upper storey of a tea-house hard by, he watched to see who should come to Kosanza's assistance. Nor had he to wait long, for presently he saw a second beggar come up and speak words of encouragement and kindness to the blind youth; and looking attentively, he saw that the new-comer was Umanosuké. Having thus discovered who was on his track, he went home and sought means of killing the two beggars; so he lay in wait and traced them to the poor hut where they dwelt, and one night, when he knew Umanosuké to be absent, he crept in. Kosanza, being blind, thought that the footsteps were those of Umanosuké, and jumped up to welcome him; but he, in his heartless cruelty, which not even the boy's piteous state could move, slew Kosanza as he helplessly stretched out his hands to feel for his friend. The deed was yet unfinished when Umanosuké returned, and, hearing a scuffle inside the hut, drew the sword which was hidden in his staff and rushed in; but Banzayémon, profiting by the darkness, eluded him and fled from the hut. Umanosuké followed swiftly after him; but just as he was on the point of catching him, Banzayémon, making a sweep backwards with his drawn sword, wounded Umanosuké in the thigh, so that he stumbled and fell, and the murderer, swift of foot, made good his escape. The wounded youth tried to pursue him again, but being compelled by the pain of his wound to desist, returned home and found his blind companion lying dead, weltering in his own blood. Cursing his unhappy fate, he called in the beggars of the fraternity to which he belonged, and between them they buried Kosanza, and he himself being too poor to procure a surgeon's aid, or to buy healing medicaments for his wound, became a cripple. [Footnote 29: See Note at end of story.] It was at this time that Shirai Gompachi, who was living under the protection of Chôbei, the Father of the Otokodaté, was in love with Komurasaki, the beautiful courtesan who lived at the sign of the Three Sea-shores, in the Yoshiwara. He had long exhausted the scanty supplies which he possessed, and was now in the habit of feeding his purse by murder and robbery, that he might have means to pursue his wild and extravagant life. One night, when he was out on his cutthroat business, his fellows, who had long suspected that he was after no good, sent one of their number, named Seibei, to watch him. Gompachi, little dreaming that any one was following him, swaggered along the street until he fell in with a wardsman, whom he cut down and robbed; but the booty proving small, he waited for a second chance, and, seeing a light moving in the distance, hid himself in the shadow of a large tub for catching rain-water till the bearer of the lantern should come up. When the man drew near, Gompachi saw that he was dressed as a traveller, and wore a long dirk; so he sprung out from his lurking-place and made to kill him; but the traveller nimbly jumped on one side, and proved no mean adversary, for he drew his dirk and fought stoutly for his life. However, he was no match for so skilful a swordsman as Gompachi, who, after a sharp struggle, dispatched him, and carried off his purse, which contained two hundred riyos. Overjoyed at having found so rich a prize, Gompachi was making off for the Yoshiwara, when Seibei, who, horror-stricken, had seen both murders, came up and began to upbraid him for his wickedness. But Gompachi was so smooth-spoken and so well liked by his comrades, that he easily persuaded Seibei to hush the matter up, and accompany him to the Yoshiwara for a little diversion. As they were talking by the way, Seibei said to Gompachi-- "I bought a new dirk the other day, but I have not had an opportunity to try it yet. You have had so much experience in swords that you ought to be a good judge. Pray look at this dirk, and tell me whether you think it good for anything." "We'll soon see what sort of metal it is made of," answered Gompachi. "We'll just try it on the first beggar we come across." At first Seibei was horrified by this cruel proposal, but by degrees he yielded to his companion's persuasions; and so they went on their way until Seibei spied out a crippled beggar lying asleep on the bank outside the Yoshiwara. The sound of their footsteps aroused the beggar, who seeing a Samurai and a wardsman pointing at him, and evidently speaking about him, thought that their consultation could bode him no good. So he pretended to be still asleep, watching them carefully all the while; and when Seibei went up to him, brandishing his dirk, the beggar, avoiding the blow, seized Seibei's arm, and twisting it round, flung him into the ditch below. Gompachi, seeing his companion's discomfiture, attacked the beggar, who, drawing a sword from his staff, made such lightning-swift passes that, crippled though he was, and unable to move his legs freely, Gompachi could not overpower him; and although Seibei crawled out of the ditch and came to his assistance, the beggar, nothing daunted, dealt his blows about him to such good purpose that he wounded Seibei in the temple and arm. Then Gompachi, reflecting that after all he had no quarrel with the beggar, and that he had better attend to Seibei's wounds than go on fighting to no purpose, drew Seibei away, leaving the beggar, who was too lame to follow them, in peace. When he examined Seibei's wounds, he found that they were so severe that they must give up their night's frolic and go home. So they went back to the house of Chôbei, the Father of the Otokodaté, and Seibei, afraid to show himself with his sword-cuts, feigned sickness, and went to bed. On the following morning Chôbei, happening to need his apprentice Seibei's services, sent for him, and was told that he was sick; so he went to the room, where he lay abed, and, to his astonishment, saw the cut upon his temple. At first the wounded man refused to answer any questions as to how he had been hurt; but at last, on being pressed by Chôbei, he told the whole story of what had taken place the night before. When Chôbei heard the tale, be guessed that the valiant beggar must be some noble Samurai in disguise, who, having a wrong to avenge, was biding his time to meet with his enemy; and wishing to help so brave a man, he went in the evening, with his two faithful apprentices, Tôken Gombei and Shirobei "the loose Colt," to the bank outside the Yoshiwara to seek out the beggar. The latter, not one whit frightened by the adventure of the previous night, had taken his place as usual, and was lying on the bank, when Chôbei came up to him, and said-- "Sir, I am Chôbei, the chief of the Otokodaté, at your service. I have learnt with deep regret that two of my men insulted and attacked you last night. However, happily, even Gompachi, famous swordsman though he be, was no match for you, and had to beat a retreat before you. I know, therefore, that you must be a noble Samurai, who by some ill chance have become a cripple and a beggar. Now, therefore, I pray you tell me all your story; for, humble wardsman as I am, I may be able to assist you, if you will condescend to allow me." The cripple at first tried to shun Chôbei's questions; but at last, touched by the honesty and kindness of his speech, he replied-- "Sir, my name is Takagi Umanosuké, and I am a native of Yamato;" and then he went on to narrate all the misfortunes which the wickedness of Banzayémon had brought about. "This is indeed a strange story," said Chôbei who had listened with indignation. "This Banzayémon, before I knew the blackness of his heart, was once under my protection. But after he murdered Sanza, hard by here, he was pursued by these two apprentices of mine, and since that day he has been no more to my house." When he had introduced the two apprentices to Umanosuké, Chôbei pulled forth a suit of silk clothes befitting a gentleman, and having made the crippled youth lay aside his beggar's raiment, led him to a bath, and had his hair dressed. Then he bade Tôken Gombei lodge him and take charge of him, and, having sent for a famous physician, caused Umanosuké to undergo careful treatment for the wound in his thigh. In the course of two months the pain had almost disappeared, so that he could stand easily; and when, after another month, he could walk about a little, Chôbei removed him to his own house, pretending to his wife and apprentices that he was one of his own relations who had come on a visit to him. After a while, when Umanosuké had become quite cured, he went one day to worship at a famous temple, and on his way home after dark he was overtaken by a shower of rain, and took shelter under the eaves of a house, in a part of the city called Yanagiwara, waiting for the sky to clear. Now it happened that this same night Gompachi had gone out on one of his bloody expeditions, to which his poverty and his love for Komurasaki drove him in spite of himself, and, seeing a Samurai standing in the gloom, he sprang upon him before he had recognized Umanosuké, whom he knew as a friend of his patron Chôbei. Umanosuké drew and defended himself, and soon contrived to slash Gompachi on the forehead; so that the latter, seeing himself overmatched, fled under the cover of the night. Umanosuké, fearing to hurt his recently healed wound, did not give chase, and went quietly back to Chôbei's house. When Gompachi returned home, he hatched a story to deceive Chôbei as to the cause of the wound on his forehead. Chôbei, however, having overheard Umanosuké reproving Gompachi for his wickedness, soon became aware of the truth; and not caring to keep a robber and murderer near him, gave Gompachi a present of money, and bade him return to his house no more. And now Chôbei, seeing that Umanosuké had recovered his strength, divided his apprentices into bands, to hunt out Banzayémon, in order that the vendetta might be accomplished. It soon was reported to him that Banzayémon was earning his living among the mountebanks of Asakusa; so Chôbei communicated this intelligence to Umanosuké, who made his preparations accordingly; and on the following morning the two went to Asakusa, where Banzayémon was astonishing a crowd of country boors by exhibiting tricks with his sword. Then Umanosuké, striding through the gaping rabble, shouted out-- "False, murderous coward, your day has come! I, Umanosuké, the son of Umanojô, have come to demand vengeance for the death of three innocent men who have perished by your treachery. If you are a man, defend yourself. This day shall your soul see hell!" With these words he rushed furiously upon Banzayémon, who, seeing escape to be impossible, stood upon his guard. But his coward's heart quailed before the avenger, and he soon lay bleeding at his enemy's feet. But who shall say how Umanosuké thanked Chôbei for his assistance; or how, when he had returned to his own country, he treasured up his gratitude in his heart, looking upon Chôbei as more than a second father? Thus did Chôbei use his power to punish the wicked, and to reward the good--giving of his abundance to the poor, and succouring the unfortunate, so that his name was honoured far and near. It remains only to record the tragical manner of his death. We have already told how my lord Midzuno Jiurozayémon, the chief of the associated nobles, had been foiled in his attempts to bring shame upon Chôbei, the Father of the Otokodaté; and how, on the contrary, the latter, by his ready wit, never failed to make the proud noble's weapons recoil upon him. The failure of these attempts rankled in the breast of Jiurozayémon, who hated Chôbei with an intense hatred, and sought to be revenged upon him. One day he sent a retainer to Chôbei's house with a message to the effect that on the following day my lord Jiurozayémon would be glad to see Chôbei at his house, and to offer him a cup of wine, in return for the cold macaroni with which his lordship had been feasted some time since. Chôbei immediately suspected that in sending this friendly summons the cunning noble was hiding a dagger in a smile; however, he knew that if he stayed away out of fear he would be branded as a coward, and made a laughing-stock for fools to jeer at. Not caring that Jiurozayémon should succeed in his desire to put him to shame, he sent for his favourite apprentice, Tôken Gombei, and said to him-- "I have been invited to a drinking-bout by Midzuno Jiurozayémon. I know full well that this is but a stratagem to requite me for having fooled him, and maybe his hatred will go the length of killing me. However, I shall go and take my chance; and if I detect any sign of foul play, I'll try to serve the world by ridding it of a tyrant, who passes his life in oppressing the helpless farmers and wardsmen. Now as, even if I succeed in killing him in his own house, my life must pay forfeit for the deed, do you come to-morrow night with a burying-tub,[30] and fetch my corpse from this Jiurozayémon's house." [Footnote 30: The lowest classes in Japan are buried in a squatting position, in a sort of barrel. One would have expected a person of Chôbei's condition and means to have ordered a square box. It is a mistake to suppose the burning of the dead to be universal in Japan: only about thirty per cent of the lower classes, chiefly belonging to the Montô sect of Buddhism, are burnt. The rich and noble are buried in several square coffins, one inside the other, in a sitting position; and their bodies are partially preserved from decay by filling the nose, ears, and mouth with vermilion. In the case of the very wealthy, the coffin is completely filled in with vermilion. The family of the Princes of Mito, and some other nobles, bury their dead in a recumbent position.] Tôken Gombei, when he heard the "Father" speak thus, was horrified, and tried to dissuade him from obeying the invitation. But Chôbei's mind was fixed, and, without heeding Gombei's remonstrances, he proceeded to give instructions as to the disposal of his property after his death, and to settle all his earthly affairs. On the following day, towards noon, he made ready to go to Jiurozayémon's house, bidding one of his apprentices precede him with a complimentary present.[31] Jiurozayémon, who was waiting with impatience for Chôbei to come, so soon as he heard of his arrival ordered his retainers to usher him into his presence; and Chôbei, having bade his apprentices without fail to come and fetch him that night, went into the house. [Footnote 31: It is customary, on the occasion of a first visit to a house, to carry a present to the owner, who gives something of equal value on returning the visit.] No sooner had he reached the room next to that in which Jiurozayémon was sitting than he saw that his suspicions of treachery were well founded; for two men with drawn swords rushed upon him, and tried to cut him down. Deftly avoiding their blows, however, he tripped up the one, and kicking the other in the ribs, sent him reeling and breathless against the wall; then, as calmly as if nothing had happened he presented himself before Jiurozayémon, who, peeping through a chink in the sliding-doors, had watched his retainers' failure. "Welcome, welcome, Master Chôbei," said he. "I always had heard that you were a man of mettle, and I wanted to see what stuff you were made of; so I bade my retainers put your courage to the test. That was a masterly throw of yours. Well, you must excuse this churlish reception: come and sit down by me." "Pray do not mention it, my lord," said Chôbei, smiling rather scornfully. "I know that my poor skill is not to be measured with that of a noble Samurai; and if these two good gentlemen had the worst of it just now, it was mere luck--that's all." So, after the usual compliments had been exchanged, Chôbei sat down by Jiurozayémon, and the attendants brought in wine and condiments. Before they began to drink, however, Jiurozayémon said-- "You must be tired and exhausted with your walk this hot day, Master Chôbei. I thought that perhaps a bath might refresh you, so I ordered my men to get it ready for you. Would you not like to bathe and make yourself comfortable?" Chôbei suspected that this was a trick to strip him, and take him unawares when he should have laid aside his dirk. However, he answered cheerfully-- "Your lordship is very good. I shall be glad to avail myself of your kind offer. Pray excuse me for a few moments." So he went to the bath-room, and, leaving his clothes outside, he got into the bath, with the full conviction that it would be the place of his death. Yet he never trembled nor quailed, determined that, if he needs must die, no man should say he had been a coward. Then Jiurozayémon, calling to his attendants, said-- "Quick! lock the door of the bath-room! We hold him fast now. If he gets out, more than one life will pay the price of his. He's a match for any six of you in fair fight. Lock the door, I say, and light up the fire under the bath;[32] and we'll boil him to death, and be rid of him. Quick, men, quick!" [Footnote 32: This sort of bath, in which the water is heated by the fire of a furnace which is lighted from outside, is called _Goyémon-buro,_ or Goyémon's bath, after a notorious robber named Goyémon, who attempted the life of Taiko Sama, the famous general and ruler of the sixteenth century, and suffered for his crimes by being boiled to death in oil--a form of execution which is now obsolete.] So they locked the door, and fed the fire until the water hissed and bubbled within; and Chôbei, in his agony, tried to burst open the door, but Jiurozayémon ordered his men to thrust their spears through the partition wall and dispatch him. Two of the spears Chôbei clutched and broke short off; but at last he was struck by a mortal blow under the ribs, and died a brave man by the hands of cowards. [Illustration: THE DEATH OF CHÔBEI OF BANDZUIN.] That evening Tôken Gombei, who, to the astonishment of Chôbei's wife, had bought a burying-tub, came, with seven other apprentices, to fetch the Father of the Otokodaté from Jiurozayémon's house; and when the retainers saw them, they mocked at them, and said-- "What, have you come to fetch your drunken master home in a litter?" "Nay," answered Gombei, "but we have brought a coffin for his dead body, as he bade us." When the retainers heard this, they marvelled at the courage of Chôbei, who had thus wittingly come to meet his fate. So Chôbei's corpse was placed in the burying-tub, and handed over to his apprentices, who swore to avenge his death. Far and wide, the poor and friendless mourned for this good man. His son Chômatsu inherited his property; and his wife remained a faithful widow until her dying day, praying that she might sit with him in paradise upon the cup of the same lotus-flower. Many a time did the apprentices of Chôbei meet together to avenge him; but Jiurozayémon eluded all their efforts, until, having been imprisoned by the Government in the temple called Kanyeiji, at Uyéno, as is related in the story of "Kazuma's Revenge," he was placed beyond the reach of their hatred. So lived and so died Chôbei of Bandzuin, the Father of the Otokodaté of Yedo. NOTE ON ASAKUSA _Translated from a native book called the "Yedo Hanjôki," or Guide to the prosperous City of Yedo, and other sources._ Asakusa is the most bustling place in all Yedo. It is famous for the Temple Sensôji, on the hill of Kinriu, or the Golden Dragon, which from morning till night is thronged with visitors, rich and poor, old and young, flocking in sleeve to sleeve. The origin of the temple was as follows:--In the days of the Emperor Suiko, who reigned in the thirteenth century A.D., a certain noble, named Hashi no Nakatomo, fell into disgrace and left the Court; and having become a Rônin, or masterless man, he took up his abode on the Golden Dragon Hill, with two retainers, being brothers, named Hinokuma Hamanari and Hinokuma Takénari. These three men being reduced to great straits, and without means of earning their living, became fishermen. Now it happened that on the 6th day of the 3rd month of the 36th year of the reign of the Emperor Suiko (A.D. 1241), they went down in the morning to the Asakusa River to ply their trade; and having cast their nets took no fish, but at every throw they pulled up a figure of the Buddhist god Kwannon, which they threw into the river again. They sculled their boat away to another spot, but the same luck followed them, and nothing came to their nets save the figure of Kwannon. Struck by the miracle, they carried home the image, and, after fervent prayer, built a temple on the Golden Dragon Hill, in which they enshrined it. The temple thus founded was enriched by the benefactions of wealthy and pious persons, whose care raised its buildings to the dignity of the first temple in Yedo. Tradition says that the figure of Kwannon which was fished up in the net was one inch and eight-tenths in height. The main hall of the temple is sixty feet square, and is adorned with much curious workmanship of gilding and of silvering, so that no place can be more excellently beautiful. There are two gates in front of it. The first is called the Gate of the Spirits of the Wind and of the Thunder, and is adorned with figures of those two gods. The Wind-god, whose likeness is that of a devil, carries the wind-bag; and the Thunder-god, who is also shaped like a devil, carries a drum and a drumstick.[33] The second gate is called the Gate of the gods Niô, or the Two Princes, whose colossal statues, painted red, and hideous to look upon, stand on either side of it. Between the gates is an approach four hundred yards in length, which is occupied by the stalls of hucksters, who sell toys and trifles for women and children, and by foul and loathsome beggars. Passing through the gate of the gods Niô, the main hall of the temple strikes the eye. Countless niches and shrines of the gods stand outside it, and an old woman earns her livelihood at a tank filled with water, to which the votaries of the gods come and wash themselves that they may pray with clean hands. Inside are the images of the gods, lanterns, incense-burners, candlesticks, a huge moneybox, into which the offerings of the pious are thrown, and votive tablets[34] representing the famous gods and goddesses, heroes and heroines, of old. Behind the chief building is a broad space called the _okuyama_, where young and pretty waitresses, well dressed and painted, invite the weary pilgrims and holiday-makers to refresh themselves with tea and sweetmeats. Here, too, are all sorts of sights to be seen, such as wild beasts, performing monkeys, automata, conjurers, wooden and paper figures, which take the place of the waxworks of the West, acrobats, and jesters for the amusement of women and children. Altogether it is a lively and a joyous scene; there is not its equal in the city. [Footnote 33: This gate was destroyed by fire a few years since.] [Footnote 34: Sir Rutherford Alcock, in his book upon Japan, states that the portraits of the most famous courtesans of Yedo are yearly hung up in the temple at Asakusa. No such pictures are to be seen now, and no Japanese of whom I have made inquiries have heard of such a custom. The priests of the temple deny that their fane was ever so polluted, and it is probable that the statement is but one of the many strange mistakes into which an imperfect knowledge of the language led the earlier travellers in Japan. In spite of all that has been said by persons who have had no opportunity of associating and exchanging ideas with the educated men of Japan, I maintain that in no country is the public harlot more abhorred and looked down upon.] At Asakusa, as indeed all over Yedo, are to be found fortunetellers, who prey upon the folly of the superstitious. With a treatise on physiognomy laid on a desk before them, they call out to this man that he has an ill-omened forehead, and to that man that the space between his nose and his lips is unlucky. Their tongues wag like flowing water until the passers-by are attracted to their stalls. If the seer finds a customer, he closes his eyes, and, lifting the divining-sticks reverently to his forehead, mutters incantations between his teeth. Then, suddenly parting the sticks in two bundles, he prophesies good or evil, according to the number in each. With a magnifying-glass he examines his dupe's face and the palms of his hands. By the fashion of his clothes and his general manner the prophet sees whether he is a countryman or from the city. "I am afraid, sir," says he, "you have not been altogether fortunate in life, but I foresee that great luck awaits you in two or three months;" or, like a clumsy doctor who makes his diagnosis according to his patient's fancies, if he sees his customer frowning and anxious, he adds, "Alas! in seven or eight months you must beware of great misfortune. But I cannot tell you all about it for a slight fee:" with a long sigh he lays down the divining-sticks on the desk, and the frightened boor pays a further fee to hear the sum of the misfortune which threatens him, until, with three feet of bamboo slips and three inches of tongue, the clever rascal has made the poor fool turn his purse inside out. The class of diviners called _Ichiko_ profess to give tidings of the dead, or of those who have gone to distant countries. The Ichiko exactly corresponds to the spirit medium of the West. The trade is followed by women, of from fifteen or sixteen to some fifty years of age, who walk about the streets, carrying on their backs a divining-box about a foot square; they have no shop or stall, but wander about, and are invited into their customers' houses. The ceremony of divination is very simple. A porcelain bowl filled with water is placed upon a tray, and the customer, having written the name of the person with whom he wishes to hold communion on a long slip of paper, rolls it into a spill, which he dips into the water, and thrice sprinkles the Ichiko, or medium. She, resting her elbow upon her divining-box, and leaning her head upon her hand, mutters prayers and incantations until she has summoned the soul of the dead or absent person, which takes possession of her, and answers questions through her mouth. The prophecies which the Ichiko utters during her trance are held in high esteem by the superstitious and vulgar. Hard by Asakusa is the theatre street. The theatres are called _Shiba-i_,[35] "turf places," from the fact that the first theatrical performances were held on a turf plot. The origin of the drama in Japan, as elsewhere, was religious. In the reign of the Emperor Heijô (A.D. 805), there was a sudden volcanic depression of the earth close by a pond called Sarusawa, or the Monkey's Marsh, at Nara, in the province of Yamato, and a poisonous smoke issuing from the cavity struck down with sickness all those who came within its baneful influence; so the people brought quantities of firewood, which they burnt in order that the poisonous vapour might be dispelled. The fire, being the male influence, would assimilate with and act as an antidote upon the mephitic smoke, which was a female influence.[36] Besides this, as a further charm to exorcise the portent, the dance called Sambasô, which is still performed as a prelude to theatrical exhibitions by an actor dressed up as a venerable old man, emblematic of long life and felicity, was danced on a plot of turf in front of the Temple Kofukuji. By these means the smoke was dispelled, and the drama was originated. The story is to be found in the _Zoku Nihon Ki_, or supplementary history of Japan. [Footnote 35: In Dr. Hepburn's Dictionary of the Japanese language, the Chinese characters given for the word _Shiba-i_ are _chi chang_ (_keih chang_, Morrison's Dictionary), "theatrical arena." The characters which are usually written, and which are etymologically correct, are _chih chü_ (_che keu_, Morrison), "the place of plants or turf plot."] [Footnote 36: This refers to the Chinese doctrine of the Yang and Yin, the male and female influences pervading all creation.] Three centuries later, during the reign of the Emperor Toba (A.D. 1108), there lived a woman called Iso no Zenji, who is looked upon as the mother of the Japanese drama. Her performances, however, seem only to have consisted in dancing or posturing dressed up in the costume of the nobles of the Court, from which fact her dance was called Otoko-mai, or the man's dance. Her name is only worth mentioning on account of the respect in which her memory is held by actors. It was not until the year A.D. 1624 that a man named Saruwaka Kanzaburô, at the command of the Shogun, opened the first theatre in Yedo in the Nakabashi, or Middle Bridge Street, where it remained until eight years later, when it was removed to the Ningiyô, or Doll Street. The company of this theatre was formed by two families named Miako and Ichimura, who did not long enjoy their monopoly, for in the year 1644 we find a third family, that of Yamamura, setting up a rival theatre in the Kobiki, or Sawyer Street. In the year 1651, the Asiatic prejudice in favour of keeping persons of one calling in one place exhibited itself by the removal of the playhouses to their present site, and the street was called the Saruwaka Street, after Saruwaka Kanzaburô, the founder of the drama in Yedo. Theatrical performances go on from six in the morning until six in the evening. Just as the day is about to dawn in the east, the sound of the drum is heard, and the dance Sambasô is danced as a prelude, and after this follow the dances of the famous actors of old; these are called the extra performances (_waki kiyôgen_). The dance of Nakamura represents the demon Shudendôji, an ogre who was destroyed by the hero Yorimitsu according to the following legend:--At the beginning of the eleventh century, when Ichijô the Second was Emperor, lived the hero Yorimitsu. Now it came to pass that in those days the people of Kiôto were sorely troubled by an evil spirit, which took up its abode near the Rashô gate. One night, as Yorimitsu was making merry with his retainers, he said, "Who dares go and defy the demon of the Rashô gate, and set up a token that he has been there?" "That dare I," answered Tsuna, who, having donned his coat of mail, mounted his horse, and rode out through the dark bleak night to the Rashô gate. Having written his name upon the gate, he was about to turn homewards when his horse began to shiver with fear, and a huge hand coming forth from the gate seized the back of the knight's helmet. Tsuna, nothing daunted, struggled to get free, but in vain, so drawing his sword he cut off the demon's arm, and the spirit with a howl fled into the night. But Tsuna carried home the arm in triumph, and locked it up in a box. One night the demon, having taken the shape of Tsuna's aunt, came to him and said, "I pray thee show me the arm of the fiend." Tsuna answered, "I have shown it to no man, and yet to thee I will show it." So he brought forth the box and opened it, when suddenly a black cloud shrouded the figure of the supposed aunt, and the demon, having regained its arm, disappeared. From that time forth the people were more than ever troubled by the demon, who carried off to the hills all the fairest virgins of Kiôto, whom he ravished and ate, so that there was scarce a beautiful damsel left in the city. Then was the Emperor very sorrowful, and he commanded Yorimitsu to destroy the monster; and the hero, having made ready, went forth with four trusty knights and another great captain to search among the hidden places of the mountains. One day as they were journeying far from the haunts of men, they fell in with an old man, who, having bidden them to enter his dwelling, treated them kindly, and set before them wine to drink; and when they went away, and took their leave of him, he gave them a present of more wine to take away with them. Now this old man was a mountain god. As they went on their way they met a beautiful lady, who was washing blood-stained clothes in the waters of the valley, weeping bitterly the while. When they asked her why she shed tears, she answered, "Sirs, I am a woman from Kiôto, whom the demon has carried off; he makes me wash his clothes, and when he is weary of me, he will kill and eat me. I pray your lordships to save me." Then the six heroes bade the woman lead them to the ogre's cave, where a hundred devils were mounting guard and waiting upon him. The woman, having gone in first, told the fiend of their coming; and he, thinking to slay and eat them, called them to him; so they entered the cave, which reeked with the smell of the flesh and blood of men, and they saw Shudendôji, a huge monster with the face of a little child. The six men offered him the wine which they had received from the mountain god, and he, laughing in his heart, drank and made merry, so that little by little the fumes of the wine got into his head, and he fell asleep. The heroes, themselves feigning sleep, watched for a moment when the devils were all off their guard to put on their armour and steal one by one into the demon's chamber. Then Yorimitsu, seeing that all was still, drew his sword, and cut off Shudendôji's head, which sprung up and bit at his head; luckily, however, Yorimitsu had put on two helmets, the one over the other, so he was not hurt. When all the devils had been slain, the heroes and the woman returned to Kiôto carrying with them the head of Shudendôji, which was laid before the Emperor; and the fame of their action was spread abroad under heaven. This Shudendôji is the ogre represented in the Nakamura dance. The Ichimura dance represents the seven gods of wealth; and the Morita dance represents a large ape, and is emblematical of drinking wine. As soon as the sun begins to rise in the heaven, sign-boards all glistening with paintings and gold are displayed, and the playgoers flock in crowds to the theatre. The farmers and country-folk hurry over their breakfast, and the women and children, who have got up in the middle of the night to paint and adorn themselves, come from all the points of the compass to throng the gallery, which is hung with curtains as bright as the rainbow in the departing clouds. The place soon becomes so crowded that the heads of the spectators are like the scales on a dragon's back. When the play begins, if the subject be tragic the spectators are so affected that they weep till they have to wring their sleeves dry. If the piece be comic they laugh till their chins are out of joint. The tricks and stratagems of the drama baffle description, and the actors are as graceful as the flight of the swallow. The triumph of persecuted virtue and the punishment of wickedness invariably crown the story. When a favourite actor makes his appearance, his entry is hailed with cheers. Fun and diversion are the order of the day, and rich and poor alike forget the cares which they have left behind them at home; and yet it is not all idle amusement, for there is a moral taught, and a practical sermon preached in every play. The subjects of the pieces are chiefly historical, feigned names being substituted for those of the real heroes. Indeed, it is in the popular tragedies that we must seek for an account of many of the events of the last two hundred and fifty years; for only one very bald history[37] of those times has been published, of which but a limited number of copies were struck off from copper plates, and its circulation was strictly forbidden by the Shogun's Government. The stories are rendered with great minuteness and detail, so much so, that it sometimes takes a series of representations to act out one piece in its entirety. The Japanese are far in advance of the Chinese in their scenery and properties, and their pieces are sometimes capitally got up: a revolving stage enables them to shift from one scene to another with great rapidity. First-rate actors receive as much as a thousand riyos (about £300) as their yearly salary. This, however, is a high rate of pay, and many a man has to strut before the public for little more than his daily rice; to a clever young actor it is almost enough reward to be allowed to enter a company in which there is a famous star. The salary of the actor, however, may depend upon the success of the theatre; for dramatic exhibitions are often undertaken as speculations by wealthy persons, who pay their company in proportion to their own profit. Besides his regular pay, a popular Japanese actor has a small mine of wealth in his patrons, who open their purses freely for the privilege of frequenting the greenroom., The women's parts are all taken by men, as they used to be with us in ancient days. Touching the popularity of plays, it is related that in the year 1833, when two actors called Bandô Shuka and Segawa Rokô, both famous players of women's parts, died at the same time, the people of Yedo mourned to heaven and to earth; and if a million riyos could have brought back their lives, the money would have been forthcoming. Thousands flocked to their funeral, and the richness of their coffins and of the clothes laid upon them was admired by all. [Footnote 37: I allude to the _Tai Hei Nem-piyô,_ or Annals of the Great Peace, a very rare work, only two or three copies of which have found their way into the libraries of foreigners.] "When I heard this," says Terakado Seiken, the author of the _Yedo Hanjôki_, "I lifted my eyes to heaven and heaved a great sigh. When my friend Saitô Shimei, a learned and good man, died, there was barely enough money to bury him; his needy pupils and friends subscribed to give him a humble coffin. Alas! alas! here was a teacher who from his youth up had honoured his parents, and whose heart know no guile: if his friends were in need, he ministered to their wants; he grudged no pains to teach his fellow-men; his good-will and charity were beyond praise; under the blue sky and bright day he never did a shameful deed. His merits were as those of the sages of old; but because he lacked the cunning of a fox or badger he received no patronage from the wealthy, and, remaining poor to the day of his death, never had an opportunity of making his worth known. Alas! alas!" The drama is exclusively the amusement of the middle and lower classes. Etiquette, sternest of tyrants, forbids the Japanese of high rank to be seen at any public exhibition, wrestling-matches alone excepted. Actors are, however, occasionally engaged to play in private for the edification of my lord and his ladies; and there is a kind of classical opera, called Nô, which is performed on stages specially built for the purpose in the palaces of the principal nobles. These Nô represent the entertainments by which the Sun Goddess was lured out of the cave in which she had hidden, a fable said to be based upon an eclipse. In the reign of the Emperor Yômei (A.D. 586-593), Hada Kawakatsu, a man born in Japan, but of Chinese extraction, was commanded by the Emperor to arrange an entertainment for the propitiation of the gods and the prosperity of the country. Kawakatsu wrote thirty-three plays, introducing fragments of Japanese poetry with accompaniments of musical instruments. Two performers, named Takéta and Hattori, having especially distinguished themselves in these entertainments, were ordered to prepare other similar plays, and their productions remain to the present day. The pious intention of the Nô being to pray for the prosperity of the country, they are held in the highest esteem by the nobles of the Court, the Daimios, and the military class: in old days they alone performed in these plays, but now ordinary actors take part in them. The Nô are played in sets. The first of the set is specially dedicated to the propitiation of the gods; the second is performed in full armour, and is designed to terrify evil spirits, and to insure the punishment of malefactors; the third is of a gentler intention, and its special object is the representation of all that is beautiful and fragrant and delightful. The performers wear hideous wigs and masks, not unlike those of ancient Greece, and gorgeous brocade dresses. The masks, which belong to what was the private company of the Shogun, are many centuries old, and have been carefully preserved as heirlooms from generation to generation; being made of very thin wood lacquered over, and kept each in a silken bag, they have been uninjured by the lapse of time. During the Duke of Edinburgh's stay in Yedo, this company was engaged to give a performance in the Yashiki of the Prince of Kishiu, which has the reputation of being the handsomest palace in all Yedo. So far as I know, such an exhibition had never before been witnessed by foreigners, and it may be interesting to give an account of it. Opposite the principal reception-room, where his Royal Highness sat, and separated from it by a narrow courtyard, was a covered stage, approached from the greenroom by a long gallery at an angle of forty-five degrees. Half-a-dozen musicians, clothed in dresses of ceremony, marched slowly down the gallery, and, having squatted down on the stage, bowed gravely. The performances then began. There was no scenery, nor stage appliances; the descriptions of the chorus or of the actors took their place. The dialogue and choruses are given in a nasal recitative, accompanied by the mouth-organ, flute, drum, and other classical instruments, and are utterly unintelligible. The ancient poetry is full of puns and plays upon words, and it was with no little difficulty that, with the assistance of a man of letters, I prepared beforehand the arguments of the different pieces. The first play was entitled _Hachiman of the Bow_. Hachiman is the name under which the Emperor Ojin (A.C. 270-312) was deified as the God of War. He is specially worshipped on account of his miraculous birth; his mother, the Empress Jingo, having, by the virtue of a magic stone which she wore at her girdle, borne him in her womb for three years, during which she made war upon and conquered the Coreans. The time of the plot is laid in the reign of the Emperor Uda the Second (A.D. 1275-1289). In the second month of the year pilgrims are flocking to the temple of Hachiman at Mount Otoko, between Osaka and Kiôto. All this is explained by the chorus. A worshipper steps forth, sent by the Emperor, and delivers a congratulatory oration upon the peace and prosperity of the land. The chorus follows in the same strain: they sing the praises of Hachiman and of the reigning Emperor. An old man enters, bearing something which appears to be a bow in a brocade bag. On being asked who he is, the old man answers that he is an aged servant of the shrine, and that he wishes to present his mulberry-wood bow to the Emperor; being too humble to draw near to his Majesty he has waited for this festival, hoping that an opportunity might present itself. He explains that with this bow, and with certain arrows made of the Artemisia, the heavenly gods pacified the world. On being asked to show his bow, he refuses; it is a mystic protector of the country, which in old days was overshadowed by the mulberry-tree. The peace which prevails in the land is likened to a calm at sea. The Emperor is the ship, and his subjects the water. The old man dwells upon the ancient worship of Hachiman, and relates how his mother, the Empress Jingo, sacrificed to the gods before invading Corea, and how the present prosperity of the country is to be attributed to the acceptance of those sacrifices. After having revealed himself as the god Hachiman in disguise, the old man disappears. The worshipper, awe-struck, declares that he must return to Kiôto and tell the Emperor what he has seen. The chorus announces that sweet music and fragrant perfumes issue from the mountain, and the piece ends with felicitations upon the visible favour of the gods, and especially of Hachiman. The second piece was _Tsunémasa_. Tsunémasa was a hero of the twelfth century, who died in the civil wars; he was famous for his skill in playing on the _biwa_, a sort of four-stringed lute. A priest enters, and announces that his name is Giyôkei, and that before he retired from the world he held high rank at Court. He relates how Tsunémasa, in his childhood the favourite of the Emperor, died in the wars by the western seas. During his lifetime the Emperor gave him a lute, called Sei-zan, "the Azure Mountain"; this lute at his death was placed in a shrine erected to his honour, and at his funeral music and plays were performed during seven days within the palace, by the special grace of the Emperor. The scene is laid at the shrine. The lonely and awesome appearance of the spot is described. Although the sky is clear, the wind rustles through the trees like the sound of falling rain; and although it is now summer-time, the moonlight on the sand looks like hoar-frost. All nature is sad and downcast. The ghost appears, and sings that it is the spirit of Tsunémasa, and has come to thank those who have piously celebrated his obsequies. No one answers him, and the spirit vanishes, its voice becoming fainter and fainter, an unreal and illusory vision haunting the scenes amid which its life was spent. The priest muses on the portent. Is it a dream or a reality? Marvellous! The ghost, returning, speaks of former days, when it lived as a child in the palace, and received the Azure Mountain lute from the Emperor--that lute with the four strings of which its hand was once so familiar, and the attraction of which now draws it from the grave. The chorus recites the virtues of Tsunémasa--his benevolence, justice, humanity, talents, and truth; his love of poetry and music; the trees, the flowers, the birds, the breezes, the moon--all had a charm for him. The ghost begins to play upon the Azure Mountain lute, and the sounds produced from the magical instrument are so delicate, that all think it is a shower falling from heaven. The priest declares that it is not rain, but the sound of the enchanted lute. The sound of the first and second strings is as the sound of gentle rain, or of the wind stirring the pine-trees; and the sound of the third and fourth strings is as the song of birds and pheasants calling to their young. A rhapsody in praise of music follows. Would that such strains could last for ever! The ghost bewails its fate that it cannot remain to play on, but must return whence it came. The priest addresses the ghost, and asks whether the vision is indeed the spirit of Tsunémasa. Upon this the ghost calls out in an agony of sorrow and terror at having been seen by mortal eyes, and bids that the lamps be put out: on its return to the abode of the dead it will suffer for having shown itself: it describes the fiery torments which will be its lot. Poor fool! it has been lured to its destruction, like the insect of summer that flies into the flame. Summoning the winds to its aid, it puts out the lights, and disappears. _The Suit of Feathers_ is the title of a very pretty conceit which followed. A fisherman enters, and in a long recitative describes the scenery at the sea-shore of Miwo, in the province of Suruga, at the foot of Fuji-Yama, the Peerless Mountain. The waves are still, and there is a great calm; the fishermen are all out plying their trade. The speaker's name is Hakuriyô, a fisherman living in the pine-grove of Miwo. The rains are now over, and the sky is serene; the sun rises bright and red over the pine-trees and rippling sea; while last night's moon is yet seen faintly in the heaven. Even he, humble fisher though he be, is softened by the beauty of the nature which surrounds him. A breeze springs up, the weather will change; clouds and waves will succeed sunshine and calm; the fishermen must get them home again. No; it is but the gentle breath of spring, after all; it scarcely stirs the stout fir-trees, and the waves are hardly heard to break upon the shore. The men may go forth in safety. The fisherman then relates how, while he was wondering at the view, flowers began to rain from the sky, and sweet music filled the air, which was perfumed by a mystic fragrance. Looking up, he saw hanging on a pine-tree a fairy's suit of feathers, which he took home, and showed to a friend, intending to keep it as a relic in his house. A heavenly fairy makes her appearance, and claims the suit of feathers; but the fisherman holds to his treasure trove. She urges the impiety of his act--a mortal has no right to take that which belongs to the fairies. He declares that he will hand down the feather suit to posterity as one of the treasures of the country. The fairy bewails her lot; without her wings how can she return to heaven? She recalls the familiar joys of heaven, now closed to her; she sees the wild geese and the gulls flying to the skies, and longs for their power of flight; the tide has its ebb and its flow, and the sea-breezes blow whither they list: for her alone there is no power of motion, she must remain on earth. At last, touched by her plaint, the fisherman consents to return the feather suit, on condition that the fairy shall dance and play heavenly music for him. She consents, but must first obtain the feather suit, without which she cannot dance. The fisherman refuses to give it up, lest she should fly away to heaven without redeeming her pledge. The fairy reproaches him for his want of faith: how should a heavenly being be capable of falsehood? He is ashamed, and gives her the feather suit, which she dons, and begins to dance, singing of the delights of heaven, where she is one of the fifteen attendants who minister to the moon. The fisherman is so transported with joy, that he fancies himself in heaven, and wishes to detain the fairy to dwell with him for ever. A song follows in praise of the scenery and of the Peerless Mountain capped with the snows of spring. When her dance is concluded, the fairy, wafted away by the sea-breeze, floats past the pine-grove to Ukishima and Mount Ashidaka, over Mount Fuji, till she is seen dimly like a cloud in the distant sky, and vanishes into thin air. The last of the Nô was _The Little Smith_, the scene of which is laid in the reign of the Emperor Ichijô (A.D. 987--1011). A noble of the court enters, and proclaims himself to be Tachibana Michinari. He has been commanded by the Emperor, who has seen a dream of good omen on the previous night, to order a sword of the smith Munéchika of Sanjô. He calls Munéchika, who comes out, and, after receiving the order, expresses the difficulty he is in, having at that time no fitting mate to help him; he cannot forge a blade alone. The excuse is not admitted; the smith pleads hard to be saved from the shame of a failure. Driven to a compliance, there is nothing left for it but to appeal to the gods for aid. He prays to the patron god of his family, Inari Sama.[38] A man suddenly appears, and calls the smith; this man is the god Inari Sama in disguise. The smith asks who is his visitor, and how does he know him by name. The stranger answers, "Thou hast been ordered to make a blade for the Emperor." "This is passing strange," says the smith. "I received the order but a moment since; how comest thou to know of it?" "Heaven has a voice which is heard upon the earth. Walls have ears, and stones tell tales.[39] There are no secrets in the world. The flash of the blade ordered by him who is above the clouds (the Emperor) is quickly seen. By the grace of the Emperor the sword shall be quickly made." Here follows the praise of certain famous blades, and an account of the part they played in history, with special reference to the sword which forms one of the regalia. The sword which the Emperor has sent for shall be inferior to none of these; the smith may set his heart at rest. The smith, awe-struck, expresses his wonder, and asks again who is addressing him. He is bidden to go and deck out his anvil, and a supernatural power will help him. The visitor disappears in a cloud. The smith prepares his anvil, at the four corners of which he places images of the gods, while above it he stretches the straw rope and paper pendants hung up in temples to shut out foul or ill-omened influences. He prays for strength to make the blade, not for his own glory, but for the honour of the Emperor. A young man, a fox in disguise, appears, and helps Munéchika to forge the steel. The noise of the anvil resounds to heaven and over the earth. The chorus announces that the blade is finished; on one side is the mark of Munéchika, on the other is graven "The Little Fox" in clear characters. [Footnote 38: The note at the end of the Story of the Grateful Foxes contains an account of Inari Sama, and explains how the foxes minister to him.] [Footnote 39: This is a literal translation of a Japanese proverb.] The subjects of the Nô are all taken from old legends of the country; a shrine at Miwo, by the sea-shore, marks the spot where the suit of feathers was found, and the miraculously forged sword is supposed to be in the armoury of the Emperor to this day. The beauty of the poetry--and it is very beautiful--is marred by the want of scenery and by the grotesque dresses and make-up. In the _Suit of Feathers_, for instance, the fairy wears a hideous mask and a wig of scarlet elf locks: the suit of feathers itself is left entirely to the imagination; and the heavenly dance is a series of whirls, stamps, and jumps, accompanied by unearthly yells and shrieks; while the vanishing into thin air is represented by pirouettes something like the motion of a dancing dervish. The intoning of the recitative is unnatural and unintelligible, so much so that not even a highly educated Japanese could understand what is going on unless he were previously acquainted with the piece. This, however, is supposing that which is not, for the Nô are as familiarly known as the masterpieces of our own dramatists. The classical severity of the Nô is relieved by the introduction between the pieces of light farces called Kiyôgen. The whole entertainment having a religious intention, the Kiyôgen stand to the Nô in the same relation as the small shrines to the main temple; they, too, are played for the propitiation of the gods, and for the softening of men's hearts. The farces are acted without wigs or masks; the dialogue is in the common spoken language, and there being no musical accompaniment it is quite easy to follow. The plots of the two farces which were played before the Duke of Edinburgh are as follows:-- In the _Ink Smearing_ the hero is a man from a distant part of the country, who, having a petition to prefer, comes to the capital, where he is detained for a long while. His suit being at last successful, he communicates the joyful news to his servant, Tarôkaja (the conventional name of the Leporello of these farces). The two congratulate one another. To while away his idle hours during his sojourn at the capital the master has entered into a flirtation with a certain young lady: master and servant now hold a consultation as to whether the former should not go and take leave of her. Tarôkaja is of opinion that as she is of a very jealous nature, his master ought to go. Accordingly the two set out to visit her, the servant leading the way. Arrived at her house, the gentleman goes straight in without the knowledge of the lady, who, coming out and meeting Tarôkaja, asks after his master. He replies that his master is inside the house. She refuses to believe him, and complains that, for some time past, his visits have been few and far between. Why should he come now? Surely Tarôkaja is hoaxing her. The servant protests that he is telling the truth, and that his master really has entered the house. She, only half persuaded, goes in, and finds that my lord is indeed there. She welcomes him, and in the same breath upbraids him. Some other lady has surely found favour in his eyes. What fair wind has wafted him back to her? He replies that business alone has kept him from her; he hopes that all is well with her. With her, indeed, all is well, and there is no change; but she fears that his heart is changed. Surely, surely he has found mountains upon mountains of joy elsewhere, even now, perhaps, he is only calling on his way homeward from some haunt of pleasure. What pleasure can there be away from her? answers he. Indeed, his time has not been his own, else he would have come sooner. Why, then, did he not send his servant to explain? Tarôkaja here puts in his oar, and protests that, between running on errands and dancing attendance upon his lord, he has not had a moment to himself. "At any rate," says the master, "I must ask for your congratulations; for my suit, which was so important, has prospered." The lady expresses her happiness, and the gentleman then bids his servant tell her the object of their visit. Tarôkaja objects to this; his lord had better tell his own story. While the two are disputing as to who shall speak, the lady's curiosity is aroused. "What terrible tale is this that neither of you dare tell? Pray let one or other of you speak." At last the master explains that he has come to take leave of her, as he must forthwith return to his own province. The girl begins to weep, and the gentleman following suit, the two shed tears in concert. She uses all her art to cajole him, and secretly produces from her sleeve a cup of water, with which she smears her eyes to imitate tears. He, deceived by the trick, tries to console her, and swears that as soon as he reaches his own country he will send a messenger to fetch her; but she pretends to weep all the more, and goes on rubbing her face with water. Tarôkaja, in the meanwhile, detects the trick, and, calling his master on one side, tells him what she is doing. The gentleman, however, refuses to believe him, and scolds him right roundly for telling lies. The lady calls my lord to her, and weeping more bitterly than ever, tries to coax him to remain. Tarôkaja slyly fills another cup, with ink and water, and substitutes it for the cup of clear water. She, all unconcerned, goes on smearing her face. At last she lifts her face, and her lover, seeing it all black and sooty, gives a start. What can be the matter with the girl's face? Tarôkaja, in an aside, explains what he has done. They determine to put her to shame. The lover, producing from his bosom a box containing a mirror, gives it to the girl, who, thinking that it is a parting gift, at first declines to receive it. It is pressed upon her; she opens the box and sees the reflection of her dirty face. Master and man burst out laughing. Furious, she smears Tarôkaja's face with the ink; he protests that he is not the author of the trick, and the girl flies at her lover and rubs his face too. Both master and servant run off, pursued by the girl. The second farce was shorter than the first, and was called _The Theft of the Sword_. A certain gentleman calls his servant Tarôkaja, and tells him that he is going out for a little diversion. Bidding Tarôkaja follow him, he sets out. On their way they meet another gentleman, carrying a handsome sword in his hand, and going to worship at the Kitano shrine at Kiôto. Tarôkaja points out the beauty of the sword to his master, and says what a fine thing it would be if they could manage to obtain possession of it. Tarôkaja borrows his master's sword, and goes up to the stranger, whose attention is taken up by looking at the wares set out for sale in a shop. Tarôkaja lays his hand on the guard of the stranger's sword; and the latter, drawing it, turns round, and tries to cut the thief down. Tarôkaja takes to his heels, praying hard that his life may be spared. The stranger takes away the sword which Tarôkaja has borrowed from his master, and goes on his way to the shrine, carrying the two swords. Tarôkaja draws a long breath of relief when he sees that his life is not forfeited; but what account is he to give of his master's sword which he has lost. There is no help for it, he must go back and make a clean breast of it. His master is very angry; and the two, after consulting together, await the stranger's return from the shrine. The latter makes his appearance and announces that he is going home. Tarôkaja's master falls upon the stranger from behind, and pinions him, ordering Tarôkaja to fetch a rope and bind him. The knave brings the cord; but, while he is getting it ready, the stranger knocks him over with his sword. His master calls out to him to get up quickly and bind the gentleman from behind, and not from before. Tarôkaja runs behind the struggling pair, but is so clumsy that he slips the noose over his master's head by mistake, and drags him down. The stranger, seeing this, runs away laughing with the two swords. Tarôkaja, frightened at his blunder, runs off too, his master pursuing him off the stage. A general run off, be it observed, something like the "spill-and-pelt" scene in an English pantomime, is the legitimate and invariable termination of the Kiyôgen. NOTE ON THE GAME OF FOOTBALL. The game of football is in great favour at the Japanese Court. The days on which it takes place are carefully noted in the "Daijôkwan Nishi," or Government Gazette. On the 25th of February, 1869, for instance, we find two entries: "The Emperor wrote characters of good omen," and "The game of football was played at the palace." The game was first introduced from China in the year of the Empress Kôkiyoku, in the middle of the seventh century. The Emperor Mommu, who reigned at the end of the same century, was the first emperor who took part in the sport. His Majesty Toba the Second became very expert at it, as also did the noble Asukai Chiujo, and from that time a sort of football club was formed at the palace. During the days of the extreme poverty of the Mikado and his Court, the Asukai family, notwithstanding their high rank, were wont to eke out their scanty income by giving lessons in the art of playing football. THE WONDERFUL ADVENTURES OF FUNAKOSHI JIUYÉMON The doughty deeds and marvellous experiences of Funakoshi Jiuyémon are perhaps, like those of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, rather traditional than historical; but even if all or part of the deeds which popular belief ascribes to him be false, his story conveys a true picture of manners and customs. Above all, the manner of the vengeance which he wreaked upon the wife who had dishonoured him, and upon her lover, shows the high importance which the Japanese attach to the sanctity of the marriage tie. The 50th and 51st chapters of the "Legacy of Iyéyasu," already quoted, say: "If a married woman of the agricultural, artisan, or commercial class shall secretly have intercourse with another man, it is not necessary for the husband to enter a complaint against the persons thus confusing the great relation of mankind, but he may put them both to death. Nevertheless, should he slay one of them and spare the other, his guilt is the same as that of the unrighteous persons. "In the event, however, of advice being sought, the parties not having been slain, accede to the wishes of the complainant with, regard to putting them to death or not. "Mankind, in whose bodies the male and female elements induce a natural desire towards the same object, do not look upon such practices with aversion; and the adjudication of such cases is a matter of special deliberation and consultation. "Men and women of the military class are expected to know better than to occasion disturbance by violating existing regulations; and such an one breaking the regulations by lewd, trifling, or illicit intercourse shall at once be punished, without deliberation or consultation. It is not the same in this case as in that of agriculturists, artisans, and traders." As a criminal offence, adultery was, according to the ancient laws of Japan, punished by crucifixion. In more modern times it has been punished by decapitation and the disgraceful exposure of the head after death; but if the murder of the injured husband accompany the crime of adultery, then the guilty parties are crucified to this day. At the present time the husband is no longer allowed to take the law into his own hands: he must report the matter to the Government, and trust to the State to avenge his honour. Sacred as the marriage tie is so long as it lasts, the law which cuts it is curiously facile, or rather there is no law: a man may turn his wife out of doors, as it may suit his fancy. An example of this practice was shown in the story of "The Forty-seven Rônins." A husband has but to report the matter to his lord, and the ceremony of divorce is completed. Thus, in the days of the Shoguns' power, a Hatamoto who had divorced his wife reported the matter to the Shogun. A Daimio's retainer reports the matter to his Prince. The facility of divorce, however, seems to be but rarely taken advantage of: this is probably owing to the practice of keeping concubines. It has often been asked, Are the Japanese polygamists? The answer is, Yes and no. They marry but one wife; but a man may, according to his station and means, have one or more concubines in addition. The Emperor has twelve concubines, called Kisaki; and Iyéyasu, alluding forcibly to excess in this respect as _teterrima belli causa_, laid down that the princes might have eight, high officers five, and ordinary Samurai two handmaids. "In the olden times," he writes, "the downfall of castles and the overthrow of kingdoms all proceeded from this alone. Why is not the indulgence of passions guarded against?" The difference between the position of the wife and that of the concubine is marked. The legitimate wife is to the handmaid as a lord is to his vassal. Concubinage being a legitimate institution, the son of a handmaid is no bastard, nor is he in any way the child of shame; and yet, as a general rule, the son of the bondwoman is not heir with the son of the free, for the son of the wife inherits before the son of a concubine, even where the latter be the elder; and it frequently happens that a noble, having children by his concubines but none by his wife, selects a younger brother of his own, or even adopts the son of some relative, to succeed him in the family honours. The family line is considered to be thus more purely preserved. The law of succession is, however, extremely lax. Excellent personal merits will sometimes secure to the left-handed son the inheritance of his ancestors; and it often occurs that the son of a concubine, who is debarred from succeeding to his own father, is adopted as the heir of a relation or friend of even higher rank. When the wife of a noble has a daughter but no son, the practice is to adopt a youth of suitable family and age, who marries the girl and inherits as a son. The principle of adoption is universal among all classes, from the Emperor down to his meanest subject; nor is the family line considered to have been broken because an adopted son has succeeded to the estates. Indeed, should a noble die without heir male, either begotten or adopted, his lands are forfeited to the State. It is a matter of care that the person adopted should be himself sprung from a stock of rank suited to that of the family into which he is to be received. Sixteen and upwards being considered the marriageable age for a man, it is not usual for persons below that age to adopt an heir; yet an infant at the point of death may adopt a person older than himself, that the family line may not become extinct. An account of the marriage ceremony will be found in the Appendix upon the subject. In the olden time, in the island of Shikoku[40] there lived one Funakoshi Jiuyémon, a brave Samurai and accomplished man, who was in great favour with the prince, his master. One day, at a drinking-bout, a quarrel sprung up between him and a brother-officer, which resulted in a duel upon the spot, in which Jiuyémon killed his adversary. When Jiuyémon awoke to a sense of what he had done, he was struck with remorse, and he thought to disembowel himself; but, receiving a private summons from his lord, he went to the castle, and the prince said to him-- "So it seems that you have been getting drunk and quarrelling, and that you have killed one of your friends; and now I suppose you will have determined to perform _hara-kiri_. It is a great pity, and in the face of the laws I can do nothing for you openly. Still, if you will escape and fly from this part of the country for a while, in two years' time the affair will have blown over, and I will allow you to return." [Footnote 40: _Shikoku_, one of the southern islands separated from the chief island of Japan by the beautiful "Inland Sea;" it is called _Shikoku_, or the "Four Provinces," because it is divided into the four provinces, _Awa, Sanuki, Iyo,_ and _Tosa_.] And with these words the prince presented him with a fine sword, made by Sukésada,[41] and a hundred ounces of silver, and, having bade him farewell, entered his private apartments; and Jiuyémon, prostrating himself, wept tears of gratitude; then, taking the sword and the money, he went home and prepared to fly from the province, and secretly took leave of his relations, each of whom made him some parting present. These gifts, together with his own money, and what he had received from the prince, made up a sum of two hundred and fifty ounces of silver, with which and his Sukésada sword he escaped under cover of darkness, and went to a sea-port called Marugamé, in the province of Sanuki, where he proposed to wait for an opportunity of setting sail for Osaka. As ill luck would have it, the wind being contrary, he had to remain three days idle; but at last the wind changed; so he went down to the beach, thinking that he should certainly find a junk about to sail; and as he was looking about him, a sailor came up, and said-- "If your honour is minded to take a trip to Osaka, my ship is bound thither, and I should be glad to take you with me as passenger." "That's exactly what I wanted. I will gladly take a passage," replied Jiuyémon, who was delighted at the chance. [Footnote 41: _Sukésada_, a famous family of swordsmiths, belonging to the Bizen clan. The Bizen men are notoriously good armourers, and their blades fetch high prices. The sword of Jiuyémon is said to have been made by one of the Sukésada who lived about 290 years ago.] "Well, then, we must set sail at once, so please come on board without delay." So Jiuyémon went with him and embarked; and as they left the harbour and struck into the open sea, the moon was just rising above the eastern hills, illumining the dark night like a noonday sun; and Jiuyémon, taking his place in the bows of the ship, stood wrapt in contemplation of the beauty of the scene. [Illustration: JIUYÉMON ON BOARD THE PIRATE SHIP.] Now it happened that the captain of the ship, whose name was Akagôshi Kuroyémon, was a fierce pirate who, attracted by Jiuyémon's well-to-do appearance, had determined to decoy him on board, that he might murder and rob him; and while Jiuyémon was looking at the moon, the pirate and his companions were collected in the stern of the ship, taking counsel together in whispers as to how they might slay him. He, on the other hand, having for some time past fancied their conduct somewhat strange, bethought him that it was not prudent to lay aside his sword, so he went towards the place where he had been sitting, and had left his weapon lying, to fetch it, when he was stopped by three of the pirates, who blocked up the gangway, saying-- "Stop, Sir Samurai! Unluckily for you, this ship in which you have taken a passage belongs to the pirate Akagôshi Kuroyémon. Come, sir! whatever money you may chance to have about you is our prize." When Jiuyémon heard this he was greatly startled at first, but soon recovered himself, and being an expert wrestler, kicked over two of the pirates, and made for his sword; but in the meanwhile Shichirohei, the younger brother of the pirate captain, had drawn the sword, and brought it towards him, saying-- "If you want your sword, here it is!" and with that he cut at him; but Jiuyémon avoided the blow, and closing with the ruffian, got back his sword. Ten of the pirates then attacked him with spear and sword; but he, putting his back against the bows of the ship, showed such good fight that he killed three of his assailants, and the others stood off, not daring to approach him. Then the pirate captain, Akagôshi Kuroyémon, who had been watching the fighting from the stern, seeing that his men stood no chance against Jiuyémon's dexterity, and that he was only losing them to no purpose, thought to shoot him with a matchlock. Even Jiuyémon, brave as he was, lost heart when he saw the captain's gun pointed at him, and tried to jump into the sea; but one of the pirates made a dash at him with a boat-hook, and caught him by the sleeve; then Jiuyémon, in despair, took the fine Sukésada sword which he had received from his prince, and throwing it at his captor, pierced him through the breast so that he fell dead, and himself plunging into the sea swam for his life. The pirate captain shot at him and missed him, and the rest of the crew made every endeavour to seize him with their boat-hooks, that they might avenge the death of their mates; but it was all in vain, and Jiuyémon, having shaken off his clothes that he might swim the better, made good his escape. So the pirates threw the bodies of their dead comrades into the sea, and the captain was partly consoled for their loss by the possession of the Sukésada sword with which one of them had been transfixed. As soon as Jiuyémon jumped over the ship's side, being a good swimmer, he took a long dive, which carried him well out of danger, and struck out vigorously; and although he was tired and distressed by his exertions, he braced himself up to greater energy, and faced the waves boldly. At last, in the far distance, to his great joy, he spied a light, for which he made, and found that it was a ship carrying lanterns marked with the badge of the governor of Osaka; so he hailed her, saying-- "I have fallen into great trouble among pirates: pray rescue me." "Who and what are you?" shouted an officer, some forty years of age. "My name is Funakoshi Jiuyémon, and I have unwittingly fallen in with pirates this night. I have escaped so far: I pray you save me, lest I die." "Hold on to this, and come up," replied the other, holding out the butt end of a spear to him, which he caught hold of and clambered up the ship's side. When the officer saw before him a handsome gentleman, naked all but his loincloth, and with his hair all in disorder, he called to his servants to bring some of his own clothes, and, having dressed him in them, said-- "What clan do you belong to, sir?" "Sir, I am a Rônin, and was on my way to Osaka; but the sailors of the ship on which I had embarked were pirates;" and so he told the whole story of the fight and of his escape. "Well done, sir!" replied the other, astonished at his prowess. "My name is Kajiki Tozayémon, at your service. I am an officer attached to the governor of Osaka. Pray, have you any friends in that city?" "No, sir, I have no friends there; but as in two years I shall be able to return to my own country, and re-enter my lord's service, I thought during that time to engage in trade and live as a common wardsman." "Indeed, that's a poor prospect! However, if you will allow me, I will do all that is in my power to assist you. Pray excuse the liberty I am taking in making such a proposal." Jiuyémon warmly thanked Kajiki Tozayémon for his kindness; and so they reached Osaka without further adventures. Jiuyémon, who had secreted in his girdle the two hundred and fifty ounces which he had brought with him from home, bought a small house, and started in trade as a vendor of perfumes, tooth-powder, combs, and other toilet articles; and Kajiki Tozayémon, who treated him with great kindness, and rendered him many services, prompted him, as he was a single man, to take to himself a wife. Acting upon this advice, he married a singing-girl, called O Hiyaku.[42] [Footnote 42: The O before women's names signifies "_Imperial_," and is simply an honorific.] Now this O Hiyaku, although at first she seemed very affectionately disposed towards Jiuyémon, had been, during the time that she was a singer, a woman of bad and profligate character; and at this time there was in Osaka a certain wrestler, named Takaségawa Kurobei, a very handsome man, with whom O Hiyaku fell desperately in love; so that at last, being by nature a passionate woman, she became unfaithful to Jiuyémon. The latter, little suspecting that anything was amiss, was in the habit of spending his evenings at the house of his patron Kajiki Tozayémon, whose son, a youth of eighteen, named Tônoshin, conceived a great friendship for Jiuyémon, and used constantly to invite him to play a game at checkers; and it was on these occasions that O Hiyaku, profiting by her husband's absence, used to arrange her meetings with the wrestler Takaségawa. One evening, when Jiuyémon, as was his wont, had gone out to play at checkers with Kajiki Tônoshin, O Hiyaku took advantage of the occasion to go and fetch the wrestler, and invite him to a little feast; and as they were enjoying themselves over their wine, O Hiyaku said to him-- "Ah! Master Takaségawa, how wonderfully chance favours us! and how pleasant these stolen interviews are! How much nicer still it would be if we could only be married. But, as long as Jiuyémon is in the way, it is impossible; and that is my one cause of distress." "It's no use being in such a hurry. If you only have patience, we shall be able to marry, sure enough. What you have got to look out for now is, that Jiuyémon does not find out what we are about. I suppose there is no chance of his coming home to-night, is there?" "Oh dear, no! You need not be afraid. He is gone to Kajiki's house to play checkers; so he is sure to spend the night there." And so the guilty couple went on gossiping, with their minds at ease, until at last they dropped off asleep. In the meanwhile Jiuyémon, in the middle of his game at checkers, was seized with a sudden pain in his stomach, and said to Kajiki Tônoshin, "Young sir, I feel an unaccountable pain in my stomach. I think I had better go home, before it gets worse." "That is a bad job. Wait a little, and I will give you some physic; but, at any rate, you had better spend the night here." "Many thanks for your kindness," replied Jiuyémon; "but I had rather go home." So he took his leave, and went off to his own house, bearing the pain as best he might. When he arrived in front of his own door, he tried to open it; but the lock was fastened, and he could not get in, so he rapped violently at the shutters to try and awaken his wife. When O Hiyaku heard the noise, she woke with a start, and roused the wrestler, saying to him in a whisper-- "Get up! get up! Jiuyémon has come back. You must hide as fast as possible." "Oh dear! oh dear!" said the wrestler, in a great fright; "here's a pretty mess! Where on earth shall I hide myself?" and he stumbled about in every direction looking for a hiding-place, but found none. Jiuyémon, seeing that his wife did not come to open the door, got impatient at last, and forced it open by unfixing the sliding shutter and, entering the house, found himself face to face with his wife and her lover, who were both in such confusion that they did not know what to do. Jiuyémon, however, took no notice of them, but lit his pipe and sat smoking and watching them in silence. At last the wrestler, Takaségawa, broke the silence by saying-- "I thought, sir, that I should be sure to have the pleasure of finding you at home this evening, so I came out to call upon you. When I got here, the Lady O Hiyaku was so kind as to offer me some wine; and I drank a little more than was good for me, so that it got into my head, and I fell asleep. I must really apologize for having taken such a liberty in your absence; but, indeed, although appearances are against us, there has been nothing wrong." "Certainly," said O Hiyaku, coming to her lover's support, "Master Takaségawa is not at all to blame. It was I who invited him to drink wine; so I hope you will excuse him." Jiuyémon sat pondering the matter over in his mind for a moment, and then said to the wrestler, "You say that you are innocent; but, of course, that is a lie. It's no use trying to conceal your fault. However, next year I shall, in all probability, return to my own country, and then you may take O Hiyaku and do what you will with her: far be it from me to care what becomes of a woman with such a stinking heart." When the wrestler and O Hiyaku heard Jiuyémon say this quite quietly, they could not speak, but held their peace for very shame. "Here, you Takaségawa," pursued he; "you may stop here to-night, if you like it, and go home to-morrow." "Thank you, sir," replied the wrestler, "I am much obliged to you; but the fact is, that I have some pressing business in another part of the town, so, with your permission, I will take my leave;" and so he went out, covered with confusion. As for the faithless wife, O Hiyaku, she was in great agitation, expecting to be severely reprimanded at least; but Jiuyémon took no notice of her, and showed no anger; only from that day forth, although she remained in his house as his wife, he separated himself from her entirely. Matters went on in this way for some time, until at last, one fine day, O Hiyaku, looking out of doors, saw the wrestler Takaségawa passing in the street, so she called out to him-- "Dear me, Master Takaségawa, can that be you! What a long time it is since we have met! Pray come in, and have a chat." "Thank you, I am much obliged to you; but as I do not like the sort of scene we had the other day, I think I had rather not accept your invitation." "Pray do not talk in such a cowardly manner. Next year, when Jiuyémon goes back to his own country, he is sure to give me this house, and then you and I can marry and live as happily as possible." "I don't like being in too great a hurry to accept fair offers."[43] [Footnote 43: The original is a proverbial expression like "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes."] "Nonsense! There's no need for showing such delicacy about accepting what is given you." And as she spoke, she caught the wrestler by the hand and led him into the house. After they had talked together for some time, she said:-- "Listen to me, Master Takaségawa. I have been thinking over all this for some time, and I see no help for it but to kill Jiuyémon and make an end of him." "What do you want to do that for?" "As long as he is alive, we cannot be married. What I propose is that you should buy some poison, and I will put it secretly into his food. When he is dead, we can be happy to our hearts' content." At first Takaségawa was startled and bewildered by the audacity of their scheme; but forgetting the gratitude which he owed to Jiuyémon for sparing his life on the previous occasion, he replied:-- "Well, I think it can be managed. I have a friend who is a physician, so I will get him to compound some poison for me, and will send it to you. You must look out for a moment when your husband is not on his guard, and get him to take it." Having agreed upon this, Takaségawa went away, and, having employed a physician to make up the poison, sent it to O Hiyaku in a letter, suggesting that the poison should be mixed up with a sort of macaroni, of which Jiuyémon was very fond. Having read the letter, she put it carefully away in a drawer of her cupboard, and waited until Jiuyémon should express a wish to eat some macaroni. One day, towards the time of the New Year, when O Hiyaku had gone out to a party with a few of her friends, it happened that Jiuyémon, being alone in the house, was in want of some little thing, and, failing to find it anywhere, at last bethought himself to look for it in O Hiyaku's cupboard; and as he was searching amongst the odds and ends which it contained, he came upon the fatal letter. When he read the scheme for putting poison in his macaroni, he was taken aback, and said to himself, "When I caught those two beasts in their wickedness I spared them, because their blood would have defiled my sword; and now they are not even grateful for my mercy. Their crime is beyond all power of language to express, and I will kill them together." So he put back the letter in its place, and waited for his wife to come home. So soon as she made her appearance he said-- "You have come home early, O Hiyaku. I feel very dull and lonely this evening; let us have a little wine." And as he spoke without any semblance of anger, it never entered O Hiyaku's mind that he had seen the letter; so she went about her household duties with a quiet mind. The following evening, as Jiuyémon was sitting in his shop casting up his accounts, with his counting-board[44] in his hand, Takaségawa passed by, and Jiuyémon called out to him, saying:-- "Well met, Takaségawa! I was just thinking of drinking a cup of wine to-night; but I have no one to keep me company, and it is dull work drinking alone. Pray come in, and drink a bout with me." [Footnote 44: The _abacus_, or counting-board, is the means of calculation in use throughout the Continent from St. Petersburg to Peking, in Corea, Japan, and the Liukiu Islands.] "Thank you, sir, I shall have much pleasure," replied the wrestler, who little expected what the other was aiming at; and so he went in, and they began to drink and feast. "It's very cold to-night," said Jiuyémon, after a while; "suppose we warm up a little macaroni, and eat it nice and hot. Perhaps, however, you do not like it?" "Indeed, I am very fond of it, on the contrary." "That is well. O Hiyaku, please go and buy a little for us." "Directly," replied his wife, who hurried off to buy the paste, delighted at the opportunity for carrying out her murderous design upon her husband. As soon she had prepared it, she poured it into bowls and set it before the two men; but into her husband's bowl only she put poison. Jiuyémon, who well knew what she had done, did not eat the mess at once, but remained talking about this, that, and the other; and the wrestler, out of politeness, was obliged to wait also. All of a sudden, Jiuyémon cried out-- "Dear me! whilst we have been gossiping, the macaroni has been getting cold. Let us put it all together and warm it up again. As no one has put his lips to his bowl yet, it will all be clean; so none need be wasted." And with these words he took the macaroni that was in the three bowls, and, pouring it altogether into an iron pot, boiled it up again. This time Jiuyémon served out the food himself, and, setting it before his wife and the wrestler, said-- "There! make haste and eat it up before it gets cold." Jiuyémon, of course, did not eat any of the mess; and the would-be murderers, knowing that sufficient poison had been originally put into Jiuyémon's bowl to kill them all three, and that now the macaroni, having been well mixed up, would all be poisoned, were quite taken aback, and did not know what to do. "Come! make haste, or it will be quite cold. You said you liked it, so I sent to buy it on purpose. O Hiyaku! come and make a hearty meal. I will eat some presently." At this the pair looked very foolish, and knew not what to answer; at last the wrestler got up and said-- "I do not feel quite well. I must beg to take my leave; and, if you will allow me, I will come and accept your hospitality to-morrow instead." "Dear me! I am sorry to hear you are not well. However, O Hiyaku, there will be all the more macaroni for you." As for O Hiyaku, she put a bold face upon the matter, and replied that she had supped already, and had no appetite for any more. Then Jiuyémon, looking at them both with a scornful smile, said-- "It seems that you, neither of you, care to eat this macaroni; however, as you, Takaségawa, are unwell, I will give you some excellent medicine;" and going to the cupboard, he drew out the letter, and laid it before the wrestler. When O Hiyaku and the wrestler saw that their wicked schemes had been brought to light, they were struck dumb with shame. Takaségawa, seeing that denial was useless, drew his dirk and cut at Jiuyémon; but he, being nimble and quick, dived under the wrestler's arm, and seizing his right hand from behind, tightened his grasp upon it until it became numbed, and the dirk fell to the ground; for, powerful man as the wrestler was, he was no match for Jiuyémon, who held him in so fast a grip that he could not move. Then Jiuyémon took the dirk which had fallen to the ground, and said:-- "Oh! I thought that you, being a wrestler, would at least be a strong man, and that there would be some pleasure in fighting you; but I see that you are but a poor feckless creature, after all. It would have defiled my sword to have killed such an ungrateful hound with it; but luckily here is your own dirk, and I will slay you with that." Takaségawa struggled to escape, but in vain; and O Hiyaku, seizing a large kitchen knife, attacked Jiuyémon; but he, furious, kicked her in the loins so violently that she fell powerless, then brandishing the dirk, he cleft the wrestler from the shoulder down to the nipple of his breast, and the big man fell in his agony. O Hiyaku, seeing this, tried to fly; but Jiuyémon, seizing her by the hair of the head, stabbed her in the bosom, and, placing her by her lover's side, gave her the death-blow. [Illustration: JIUYÉMON PUNISHES HIS WIFE AND THE WRESTLER.] On the following day, he sent in a report of what he had done to the governor of Osaka, and buried the corpses; and from that time forth he remained a single man, and pursued his trade as a seller of perfumery and such-like wares; and his leisure hours he continued to spend as before, at the house of his patron, Kajiki Tozayémon. One day, when Jiuyémon went to call upon Kajiki Tozayémon, he was told by the servant-maid, who met him at the door, that her master was out, but that her young master, Tônoshin, was at home; so, saying that he would go in and pay his respects to the young gentleman, he entered the house; and as he suddenly pushed open the sliding-door of the room in which Tônoshin was sitting, the latter gave a great start, and his face turned pale and ghastly. "How now, young sir!" said Jiuyémon, laughing at him, "surely you are not such a coward as to be afraid because the sliding-doors are opened? That is not the way in which a brave Samurai should behave." "Really I am quite ashamed of myself," replied the other, blushing at the reproof; "but the fact is that I had some reason for being startled. Listen to me, Sir Jiuyémon, and I will tell you all about it. To-day, when I went to the academy to study, there were a great number of my fellow-students gathered together, and one of them said that a ruinous old shrine, about two miles and a half to the east of this place, was the nightly resort of all sorts of hobgoblins, who have been playing pranks and bewitching the people for some time past; and he proposed that we should all draw lots, and that the one upon whom the lot fell should go to-night and exorcise those evil beings; and further that, as a proof of his having gone, he should write his name upon a pillar in the shrine. All the rest agreed that this would be very good sport; so I, not liking to appear a coward, consented to take my chance with the rest; and, as ill luck would have it, the lot fell upon me. I was thinking over this as you came in, and so it was that when you suddenly opened the door, I could not help giving a start." "If you only think for a moment," said Jiuyémon, "you will see that there is nothing to fear. How can beasts[45] and hobgoblins exercise any power over men? However, do not let the matter trouble you. I will go in your place to-night, and see if I cannot get the better of these goblins, if any there be, having done which, I will write your name upon the pillar, so that everybody may think that you have been there." [Footnote 45: Foxes, badgers, and cats. See the stories respecting their tricks.] "Oh! thank you: that will indeed be a service. You can dress yourself up in my clothes, and nobody will be the wiser. I shall be truly grateful to you." So Jiuyémon having gladly undertaken the job, as soon as the night set in made his preparations, and went to the place indicated--an uncanny-looking, tumble-down, lonely old shrine, all overgrown with moss and rank vegetation. However, Jiuyémon, who was afraid of nothing, cared little for the appearance of the place, and having made himself as comfortable as he could in so dreary a spot, sat down on the floor, lit his pipe, and kept a sharp look-out for the goblins. He had not been waiting long before he saw a movement among the bushes; and presently he was surrounded by a host of elfish-looking creatures, of all shapes and kinds, who came and made hideous faces at him. Jiuyémon quietly knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and then, jumping up, kicked over first one and then another of the elves, until several of them lay sprawling in the grass; and the rest made off, greatly astonished at this unexpected reception. When Jiuyémon took his lantern and examined the fallen goblins attentively, he saw that they were all Tônoshin's fellow-students, who had painted their faces, and made themselves hideous, to frighten their companion, whom they knew to be a coward: all they got for their pains, however, was a good kicking from Jiuyémon, who left them groaning over their sore bones, and went home chuckling to himself at the result of the adventure. [Illustration: FUNAKOSHI JIUYÉMON AND THE GOBLINS.] The fame of this exploit soon became noised about Osaka, so that all men praised Jiuyémon's courage; and shortly after this he was elected chief of the Otokodaté,[46] or friendly society of the wardsmen, and busied himself no longer with his trade, but lived on the contributions of his numerous apprentices. [Footnote 46: See the Introduction to the Story of Chôbei of Bandzuin.] Now Kajiki Tônoshin was in love with a singing girl named Kashiku, upon whom he was in the habit of spending a great deal of money. She, however, cared nothing for him, for she had a sweetheart named Hichirobei, whom she used to contrive to meet secretly, although, in order to support her parents, she was forced to become the mistress of Tônoshin. One evening, when the latter was on guard at the office of his chief, the Governor of Osaka, Kashiku sent word privately to Hichirobei, summoning him to go to her house, as the coast would be clear. While the two were making merry over a little feast, Tônoshin, who had persuaded a friend to take his duty for him on the plea of urgent business, knocked at the door, and Kashiku, in a great fright, hid her lover in a long clothes-box, and went to let in Tônoshin, who, on entering the room and seeing the litter of the supper lying about, looked more closely, and perceived a man's sandals, on which, by the light of a candle, he saw the figure seven.[47] Tônoshin had heard some ugly reports of Kashiku's proceedings with this man Hichirobei, and when he saw this proof before his eyes he grew very angry; but he suppressed his feelings, and, pointing to the wine-cups and bowls, said:-- "Whom have you been feasting with to-night?" "Oh!" replied Kashiku, who, notwithstanding her distress, was obliged to invent an answer, "I felt so dull all alone here, that I asked an old woman from next door to come in and drink a cup of wine with me, and have a chat." [Footnote 47: _Hichi_, the first half of _Hichirobei_, signifies seven.] All this while Tônoshin was looking for the hidden lover; but, as he could not see him, he made up his mind that Kashiku must have let him out by the back door; so he secreted one of the sandals in his sleeve as evidence, and, without seeming to suspect anything, said:-- "Well, I shall be very busy this evening, so I must go home." "Oh! won't you stay a little while? It is very dull here, when I am all alone without you. Pray stop and keep me company." But Tônoshin made no reply, and went home. Then Kashiku saw that one of the sandals was missing, and felt certain that he must have carried it off as proof; so she went in great trouble to open the lid of the box, and let out Hichirobei. When the two lovers talked over the matter, they agreed that, as they both were really in love, let Tônoshin kill them if he would, they would gladly die together: they would enjoy the present; let the future take care of itself. The following morning Kashiku sent a messenger to Tônoshin to implore his pardon; and he, being infatuated by the girl's charms, forgave her, and sent a present of thirty ounces of silver to her lover, Hichirobei, on the condition that he was never to see her again; but, in spite of this, Kashiku and Hichirobei still continued their secret meetings. It happened that Hichirobei, who was a gambler by profession, had an elder brother called Chôbei, who kept a wine-shop in the Ajikawa Street, at Osaka; so Tônoshin thought that he could not do better than depute Jiuyémon to go and seek out this man Chôbei, and urge him to persuade his younger brother to give up his relations with Kashiku; acting upon this resolution, he went to call upon Jiuyémon, and said to him-- "Sir Jiuyémon, I have a favour to ask of you in connection with that girl Kashiku, whom you know all about. You are aware that I paid thirty ounces of silver to her lover Hichirobei to induce him to give up going to her house; but, in spite of this, I cannot help suspecting that they still meet one another. It seems that this Hichirobei has an elder brother--one Chôbei; now, if you would go to this man and tell him to reprove his brother for his conduct, you would be doing me a great service. You have so often stood my friend, that I venture to pray you to oblige me in this matter, although I feel that I am putting you to great inconvenience." Jiuyémon, out of gratitude for the kindness which he had received at the hands of Kajiki Tozayémon, was always willing to serve Tônoshin; so he went at once to find out Chôbei, and said to him-- "My name, sir, is Jiuyémon, at your service; and I have come to beg your assistance in a matter of some delicacy." "What can I do to oblige you, sir?" replied Chôbei, who felt bound to be more than usually civil, as his visitor was the chief of the Otokodaté. "It is a small matter, sir," said Jiuyémon. "Your younger brother Hichirobei is intimate with a woman named Kashiku, whom he meets in secret. Now, this Kashiku is the mistress of the son of a gentleman to whom I am under great obligation: he bought her of her parents for a large sum of money, and, besides this, he paid your brother thirty ounces of silver some time since, on condition of his separating himself from the girl; in spite of this, it appears that your brother continues to see her, and I have come to beg that you will remonstrate with your brother on his conduct, and make him give her up." "That I certainly will. Pray do not be uneasy; I will soon find means to put a stop to my brother's bad behaviour." And so they went on talking of one thing and another, until Jiuyémon, whose eyes had been wandering about the room, spied out a very long dirk lying on a cupboard, and all at once it occurred to him that this was the very sword which had been a parting gift to him from his lord: the hilt, the mountings, and the tip of the scabbard were all the same, only the blade had been shortened and made into a long dirk. Then he looked more attentively at Chôbei's features, and saw that he was no other than Akagôshi Kuroyémon, the pirate chief. Two years had passed by, but he could not forget that face. Jiuyémon would have liked to have arrested him at once; but thinking that it would be a pity to give so vile a robber a chance of escape, he constrained himself, and, taking his leave, went straightway and reported the matter to the Governor of Osaka. When the officers of justice heard of the prey that awaited them, they made their preparations forthwith. Three men of the secret police went to Chôbei's wine-shop, and, having called for wine, pretended to get up a drunken brawl; and as Chôbei went up to them and tried to pacify them, one of the policemen seized hold of him, and another tried to pinion him. It at once flashed across Chôbei's mind that his old misdeeds had come to light at last, so with a desperate effort he shook off the two policemen and knocked them down, and, rushing into the inner room, seized the famous Sukésada sword and sprang upstairs. The three policemen, never thinking that he could escape, mounted the stairs close after him; but Chôbei with a terrible cut cleft the front man's head in sunder, and the other two fell back appalled at their comrade's fate. Then Chôbei climbed on to the roof, and, looking out, perceived that the house was surrounded on all sides by armed men. Seeing this, he made up his mind that his last moment was come, but, at any rate, he determined to sell his life dearly, and to die fighting; so he stood up bravely, when one of the officers, coming up from the roof of a neighbouring house, attacked him with a spear; and at the same time several other soldiers clambered up. Chôbei, seeing that he was overmatched, jumped down, and before the soldiers below had recovered from their surprise he had dashed through their ranks, laying about him right and left, and cutting down three men. At top speed he fled, with his pursuers close behind him; and, seeing the broad river ahead of him, jumped into a small boat that lay moored there, of which the boatmen, frightened at the sight of his bloody sword, left him in undisputed possession. Chôbei pushed off, and sculled vigorously into the middle of the river; and the officers--there being no other boat near--were for a moment baffled. One of them, however, rushing down the river bank, hid himself on a bridge, armed with. a spear, and lay in wait for Chôbei to pass in his boat; but when the little boat came up, he missed his aim, and only scratched Chôbei's elbow; and he, seizing the spear, dragged down his adversary into the river, and killed him as he was struggling in the water; then, sculling for his life, he gradually drew near to the sea. The other officers in the mean time had secured ten boats, and, having come up with Chôbei, surrounded him; but he, having formerly been a pirate, was far better skilled in the management of a boat than his pursuers, and had no great difficulty in eluding them; so at last he pushed out to sea, to the great annoyance of the officers, who followed him closely. Then Jiuyémon, who had come up, said to one of the officers on the shore-- "Have you caught him yet?" "No; the fellow is so brave and so cunning that our men can do nothing with him." "He's a determined ruffian, certainly. However, as the fellow has got my sword, I mean to get it back by fair means or foul: will you allow me to undertake the job of seizing him?" "Well, you may try; and you will have officers to assist you, if you are in peril." Jiuyémon, having received this permission, stripped off his clothes and jumped into the sea, carrying with him a policeman's mace, to the great astonishment of all the bystanders. When he got near Chôbei's boat, he dived and came up alongside, without the pirate perceiving him until he had clambered into the boat. Chôbei had the good Sukésada sword, and Jiuyémon was armed with nothing but a mace; but Chôbei, on the other hand, was exhausted with his previous exertions, and was taken by surprise at a moment when he was thinking of nothing but how he should scull away from the pursuing boats; so it was not long before Jiuyémon mastered and secured him. For this feat, besides recovering his Sukésada sword, Jiuyémon received many rewards and great praise from the Governor of Osaka. But the pirate Chôbei was cast into prison. Hichirobei, when he heard of his brother's capture, was away from home; but seeing that he too would be sought for, he determined to escape to Yedo at once, and travelled along the Tôkaidô, the great highroad, as far as Kuana. But the secret police had got wind of his movements, and one of them was at his heels disguised as a beggar, and waiting for an opportunity to seize him. Hichirobei in the meanwhile was congratulating himself on his escape; and, little suspecting that he would be in danger so far away from Osaka, he went to a house of pleasure, intending to divert himself at his ease. The policeman, seeing this, went to the master of the house and said-- "The guest who has just come in is a notorious thief, and I am on his track, waiting to arrest him. Do you watch for the moment when he falls asleep, and let me know. Should he escape, the blame will fall upon you." The master of the house, who was greatly taken aback, consented of course; so he told the woman of the house to hide Hichirobei's dirk, and as soon as the latter, wearied with his journey, had fallen asleep, he reported it to the policeman, who went upstairs, and having bound Hichirobei as he lay wrapped up in his quilt, led him back to Osaka to be imprisoned with his brother. When Kashiku became aware of her lover's arrest, she felt certain that it was the handiwork of Jiuyémon; so she determined to kill him, were it only that she might die with Hichirobei. So hiding a kitchen knife in the bosom of her dress, she went at midnight to Jiuyémon's house, and looked all round to see if there were no hole or cranny by which she might slip in unobserved; but every door was carefully closed, so she was obliged to knock at the door and feign an excuse. "Let me in! let me in! I am a servant-maid in the house of Kajiki Tozayémon, and am charged with a letter on most pressing business to Sir Jiuyémon." Hearing this, one of Jiuyémon's servants, thinking her tale was true, rose and opened the door; and Kashiku, stabbing him in the face, ran past him into the house. Inside she met another apprentice, who had got up, aroused by the noise; him too she stabbed in the belly, but as he fell he cried out to Jiuyémon, saying:-- "Father, father![48] take care! Some murderous villain has broken into the house." [Footnote 48: The apprentice addresses his patron as "father."] [Illustration: "GOKUMON."] And Kashiku, desperate, stopped his further utterance by cutting his throat. Jiuyémon, hearing his apprentice cry out, jumped up, and, lighting his night-lamp, looked about him in the half-gloom, and saw Kashiku with the bloody knife, hunting for him that she might kill him. Springing upon her before she saw him, he clutched her right hand, and, having secured her, bound her with cords so that she could not move. As soon as he had recovered from his surprise, he looked about him, and searched the house, when, to his horror, he found one of his apprentices dead, and the other lying bleeding from a frightful gash across the face. With the first dawn of day, he reported the affair to the proper authorities, and gave Kashiku in custody. So, after due examination, the two pirate brothers and the girl Kashiku were executed, and their heads were exposed together.[49] [Footnote 49: The exposure of the head, called _Gokumon_, is a disgraceful addition to the punishment of beheading. A document, placed on the execution-ground, sets forth the crime which has called forth the punishment.] Now the fame of all the valiant deeds of Jiuyémon having reached his own country, his lord ordered that he should be pardoned for his former offence, and return to his allegiance; so, after thanking Kajiki Tozayémon for the manifold favours which he had received at his hands, he went home, and became a Samurai as before. * * * * * The fat wrestlers of Japan, whose heavy paunches and unwieldy, puffy limbs, however much they may be admired by their own country people, form a striking contrast to our Western notions of training, have attracted some attention from travellers; and those who are interested in athletic sports may care to learn something about them. The first historical record of wrestling occurs in the sixth year of the Emperor Suinin (24 B.C.), when one Taima no Kéhaya, a noble of great stature and strength, boasting that there was not his match under heaven, begged the Emperor that his strength might be put to the test. The Emperor accordingly caused the challenge to be proclaimed; and one Nomi no Shikuné answered it, and having wrestled with Kéhaya, kicked him in the ribs and broke his bones, so that he died. After this Shikuné was promoted to high office, and became further famous in Japanese history as having substituted earthen images for the living men who, before his time, used to be buried with the coffin of the Mikado. In the year A.D. 858 the throne of Japan was wrestled for. The Emperor Buntoku had two sons, called Koréshito and Korétaka, both of whom aspired to the throne. Their claims were decided in a wrestling match, in which one Yoshirô was the champion of Koréshito, and Natora the champion of Korétaka. Natora having been defeated, Koréshito ascended his father's throne under the style of Seiwa. In the eighth century, when Nara was the capital of Japan, the Emperor Shômu instituted wrestling as part of the ceremonies of the autumn festival of the Five Grains, or Harvest Home; and as the year proved a fruitful one, the custom was continued as auspicious. The strong men of the various provinces were collected, and one Kiyobayashi was proclaimed the champion of Japan. Many a brave and stout man tried a throw with him, but none could master him. Rules of the ring were now drawn up; and in order to prevent disputes, Kiyobayashi was appointed by the Emperor to be the judge of wrestling-matches, and was presented, as a badge of his office, with a fan, upon which were inscribed the words the "Prince of Lions." The wrestlers were divided into wrestlers of the eastern and of the western provinces, Omi being taken as the centre province. The eastern wrestlers wore in their hair the badge of the hollyhock; the western wrestlers took for their sign the gourd-flower. Hence the passage leading up to the wrestling-stage was called the "Flower Path." Forty-eight various falls were fixed upon as fair--twelve throws, twelve lifts, twelve twists, and twelve throws over the back. All other throws not included in these were foul, and it was the duty of the umpire to see that no unlawful tricks were resorted to. It was decided that the covered stage should be composed of sixteen rice-bales, in the shape of one huge bale, supported by four pillars at the four points of the compass, each pillar being painted a different colour, thus, together with certain paper pendants, making up five colours, to symbolize the Five Grains. [Illustration: CHAMPION WRESTLER.] The civil wars by which the country was disturbed for a while put a stop to the practice of wrestling; but when peace was restored it was proposed to re-establish the athletic games, and the umpire Kiyobayashi, the "Prince of Lions," was sought for; but he had died or disappeared, and could not be found, and there was no umpire forthcoming. The various provinces were searched for a man who might fill his place, and one Yoshida Iyétsugu, a Rônin of the province of Echizen, being reported to be well versed in the noble science, was sent for to the capital, and proved to be a pupil of Kiyobayashi. The Emperor, having approved him, ordered that the fan of the "Prince of Lions" should be made over to him, and gave him the title of Bungo no Kami, and commanded that his name in the ring should be Oi-Kazé, the "Driving Wind." Further, as a sign that there should not be two styles of wrestling, a second fan was given to him bearing the inscription, "A single flavour is a beautiful custom." The right of acting as umpire in wrestling-matches was vested in his family, that the "Driving Wind" might for future generations preside over athletic sports. In ancient days, the prizes for the three champion wrestlers were a bow, a bowstring, and an arrow: these are still brought into the ring, and, at the end of the bout, the successful competitors go through a variety of antics with them. To the champion wrestlers--to two or three men only in a generation--the family of the "Driving Wind" awards the privilege of wearing a rope-girdle. In the time of the Shogunate these champions used to wrestle before the Shogun. At the beginning of the 17th century (A.D. 1606) wrestling-matches, as forming a regular part of a religious ceremony, were discontinued. They are still held, however, at the shrines of Kamo, at Kiôto, and of Kasuga, in Yamato. They are also held at Kamakura every year, and at the shrines of the patron saints of the various provinces, in imitation of the ancient customs. In the year 1623 one Akashi Shiganosuké obtained leave from the Government to hold public wrestling-matches in the streets of Yedo. In the year 1644 was held the first wrestling-match for the purpose of raising a collection for building a temple. This was done by the priests of Kofukuji, in Yamashiro. In the year 1660 the same expedient was resorted to in Yedo, and the custom of getting up wrestling-matches for the benefit of temple funds holds good to this day. The following graphic description of a Japanese wrestling-match is translated from the "Yedo Hanjôki":-- "From daybreak till eight in the morning a drum is beaten to announce that there will be wrestling. The spectators rise early for the sight. The adversaries having been settled, the wrestlers enter the ring from the east and from the west. Tall stalwart men are they, with sinews and bones of iron. Like the Gods Niô,[50] they stand with their arms akimbo, and, facing one another, they crouch in their strength. The umpire watches until the two men draw their breath at the same time, and with his fan gives the signal. They jump up and close with one another, like tigers springing on their prey, or dragons playing with a ball. Each is bent on throwing the other by twisting or by lifting him. It is no mere trial of brute strength; it is a tussle of skill against skill. Each of the forty-eight throws is tried in turn. From left to right, and from right to left, the umpire hovers about, watching for the victory to declare itself. Some of the spectators back the east, others back the west. The patrons of the ring are so excited that they feel the strength tingling within them; they clench their fists, and watch their men, without so much as blinking their eyes. At last one man, east or west, gains the advantage, and the umpire lifts his fan in token of victory. The plaudits of the bystanders shake the neighbourhood, and they throw their clothes or valuables into the ring, to be redeemed afterwards in money; nay, in his excitement, a man will even tear off his neighbour's jacket and throw it in." [Footnote 50: The Japanese Gog and Magog.] [Illustration: A WRESTLING MATCH.] Before beginning their tussle, the wrestlers work up their strength by stamping their feet and slapping their huge thighs. This custom is derived from the following tale of the heroic or mythological age:-- After the seven ages of the heavenly gods came the reign of Tensho Daijin, the Sun Goddess, and first Empress of Japan. Her younger brother, Sosanöô no Mikoto, was a mighty and a brave hero, but turbulent, and delighted in hunting the deer and the boar. After killing these beasts, he would throw their dead bodies into the sacred hall of his sister, and otherwise defile her dwelling. When he had done this several times, his sister was angry, and hid in the cave called the Rock Gate of Heaven; and when her face was not seen, there was no difference between the night and the day. The heroes who served her, mourning over this, went to seek her; but she placed a huge stone in front of the cave, and would not come forth. The heroes, seeing this, consulted together, and danced and played antics before the cave to lure her out. Tempted by curiosity to see the sight, she opened the gate a little and peeped out. Then the hero Tajikaraô, or "Great Strength," clapping his hands and stamping his feet, with a great effort grasped and threw down the stone door, and the heroes fetched back the Sun Goddess.[51] As Tajikaraô is the patron god of Strength, wrestlers, on entering the ring, still commemorate his deed by clapping their hands and stamping their feet as a preparation for putting forth their strength. [Footnote 51: The author of the history called "Kokushi Riyaku" explains this fable as being an account of the first eclipse.] The great Daimios are in the habit of attaching wrestlers to their persons, and assigning to them a yearly portion of rice. It is usual for these athletes to take part in funeral or wedding processions, and to escort the princes on journeys. The rich wardsmen or merchants give money to their favourite wrestlers, and invite them to their houses to drink wine and feast. Though low, vulgar fellows, they are allowed something of the same familiarity which is accorded to prize-fighters, jockeys, and the like, by their patrons in our own country. The Japanese wrestlers appear to have no regular system of training; they harden their naturally powerful limbs by much beating, and by butting at wooden posts with their shoulders. Their diet is stronger than that of the ordinary Japanese, who rarely touch meat. THE ETA MAIDEN AND THE HATAMOTO It will be long before those who were present at the newly opened port of Kôbé on the 4th of February, 1868, will forget that day. The civil war was raging, and the foreign Legations, warned by the flames of burning villages, no less than by the flight of the Shogun and his ministers, had left Osaka, to take shelter at Kôbé, where they were not, as at the former place, separated from their ships by more than twenty miles of road, occupied by armed troops in a high state of excitement, with the alternative of crossing in tempestuous weather a dangerous bar, which had already taken much valuable life. It was a fine winter's day, and the place was full of bustle, and of the going and coming of men busy with the care of housing themselves and their goods and chattels. All of a sudden, a procession of armed men, belonging to the Bizen clan, was seen to leave the town, and to advance along the high road leading to Osaka; and without apparent reason--it was said afterwards that two Frenchmen had crossed the line of march--there was a halt, a stir, and a word of command given. Then the little clouds of white smoke puffed up, and the sharp "ping" of the rifle bullets came whizzing over the open space, destined for a foreign settlement, as fast as the repeating breech-loaders could be discharged. Happily, the practice was very bad; for had the men of Bizen been good shots, almost all the principal foreign officials in the country, besides many merchants and private gentlemen, must have been killed: as it was, only two or three men were wounded. If they were bad marksmen, however, they were mighty runners; for they soon found that they had attacked a hornets' nest. In an incredibly short space of time, the guards of the different Legations and the sailors and marines from the ships of war were in hot chase after the enemy, who were scampering away over the hills as fast as their legs could carry them, leaving their baggage ingloriously scattered over the road, as many a cheap lacquered hat and flimsy paper cartridge-box, preserved by our Blue Jackets as trophies, will testify. So good was the stampede, that the enemy's loss amounted only to one aged coolie, who, being too decrepit to run, was taken prisoner, after having had seventeen revolver shots fired at him without effect; and the only injury that our men inflicted was upon a solitary old woman, who was accidently shot through the leg. If it had not been for the serious nature of the offence given, which was an attack upon the flags of all the treaty Powers, and for the terrible retribution which was of necessity exacted, the whole affair would have been recollected chiefly for the ludicrous events which it gave rise to. The mounted escort of the British Legation executed a brilliant charge of cavalry down an empty road; a very pretty line of skirmishers along the fields fired away a great deal of ammunition with no result; earthworks were raised, and Kôbé was held in military occupation for three days, during which there were alarms, cutting-out expeditions with armed boats, steamers seized, and all kinds of martial effervescence. In fact, it was like fox-hunting: it had "all the excitement of war, with only ten per cent. of the danger." The first thought of the kind-hearted doctor of the British Legation was for the poor old woman who had been wounded, and was bemoaning herself piteously. When she was carried in, a great difficulty arose, which, I need hardly say, was overcome; for the poor old creature belonged to the Etas, the Pariah race, whose presence pollutes the house even of the poorest and humblest Japanese; and the native servants strongly objected to her being treated as a human being, saying that the Legation would be for ever defiled if she were admitted within its sacred precincts. No account of Japanese society would be complete without a notice of the Etas; and the following story shows well, I think, the position which they hold. Their occupation is to slay beasts, work leather, attend upon criminals, and do other degrading work. Several accounts are given of their origin; the most probable of which is, that when Buddhism, the tenets of which forbid the taking of life, was introduced, those who lived by the infliction of death became accursed in the land, their trade being made hereditary, as was the office of executioner in some European countries. Another story is, that they are the descendants of the Tartar invaders left behind by Kublai Khan. Some further facts connected with the Etas are given in a note at the end of the tale. * * * * * Once upon a time, some two hundred years ago, there lived at a place called Honjô, in Yedo, a Hatamoto named Takoji Genzaburô; his age was about twenty-four or twenty-five, and he was of extraordinary personal beauty. His official duties made it incumbent on him to go to the Castle by way of the Adzuma Bridge, and here it was that a strange adventure befel him. There was a certain Eta, who used to earn his living by going out every day to the Adzuma Bridge, and mending the sandals of the passers-by. Whenever Genzaburô crossed the bridge, the Eta used always to bow to him. This struck him as rather strange; but one day when Genzaburô was out alone, without any retainers following him, and was passing the Adzuma Bridge, the thong of his sandal suddenly broke: this annoyed him very much; however, he recollected the Eta cobbler who always used to bow to him so regularly, so he went to the place where he usually sat, and ordered him to mend his sandal, saying to him: "Tell me why it is that every time that I pass by this bridge, you salute me so respectfully." [Illustration: GENZABURÔ'S MEETING WITH THE ETA MAIDEN.] When the Eta heard this, he was put out of countenance, and for a while he remained silent; but at last taking courage, he said to Genzaburô, "Sir, having been honoured with your commands, I am quite put to shame. I was originally a gardener, and used to go to your honour's house and lend a hand in trimming up the garden. In those days your honour was very young, and I myself little better than a child; and so I used to play with your honour, and received many kindnesses at your hands. My name, sir, is Chokichi. Since those days I have fallen by degrees info dissolute habits, and little by little have sunk to be the vile thing that you now see me." When Genzaburô heard this he was very much surprised, and, recollecting his old friendship for his playmate, was filled with pity, and said, "Surely, surely, you have fallen very low. Now all you have to do is to presevere and use your utmost endeavours to find a means of escape from the class into which you have fallen, and become a wardsman again. Take this sum: small as it is, let it be a foundation for more to you." And with these words he took ten riyos out of his pouch and handed them to Chokichi, who at first refused to accept the present, but, when it was pressed upon him, received it with thanks. Genzaburô was leaving him to go home, when two wandering singing-girls came up and spoke to Chokichi; so Genzaburô looked to see what the two women were like. One was a woman of some twenty years of age, and the other was a peerlessly beautiful girl of sixteen; she was neither too fat nor too thin, neither too tall nor too short; her face was oval, like a melon-seed, and her complexion fair and white; her eyes were narrow and bright, her teeth small and even; her nose was aquiline, and her mouth delicately formed, with lovely red lips; her eyebrows were long and fine; she had a profusion of long black hair; she spoke modestly, with a soft sweet voice; and when she smiled, two lovely dimples appeared in her cheeks; in all her movements she was gentle and refined. Genzaburô fell in love with her at first sight; and she, seeing what a handsome man he was, equally fell in love with him; so that the woman that was with her, perceiving that they were struck with one another, led her away as fast as possible. Genzaburô remained as one stupefied, and, turning to Chokichi, said, "Are you acquainted with those two women who came up just now?" "Sir," replied Chokichi, "those are two women of our people. The elder woman is called O Kuma, and the girl, who is only sixteen years old, is named O Koyo. She is the daughter of one Kihachi, a chief of the Etas. She is a very gentle girl, besides being so exceedingly pretty; and all our people are loud in her praise." When he heard this, Genzaburô remained lost in thought for a while, and then said to Chokichi, "I want you to do something for me. Are you prepared to serve me in whatever respect I may require you?" Chokichi answered that he was prepared to do anything in his power to oblige his honour. Upon this Genzaburô smiled and said, "Well, then, I am willing to employ you in a certain matter; but as there are a great number of passers-by here, I will go and wait for you in a tea-house at Hanakawado; and when you have finished your business here, you can join me, and I will speak to you." With these words Genzaburô left him, and went off to the tea-house. When Chokichi had finished his work, he changed his clothes, and, hurrying to the tea-house, inquired for Genzaburô, who was waiting for him upstairs. Chokichi went up to him, and began to thank him for the money which he had bestowed upon him. Genzaburô smiled, and handed him a wine-cup, inviting him to drink, and said-- "I will tell you the service upon which I wish to employ you. I have set my heart upon that girl O Koyo, whom I met to-day upon the Adzuma Bridge, and you must arrange a meeting between us." When Chokichi heard these words, he was amazed and frightened, and for a while he made no answer. At last he said--- "Sir, there is nothing that I would not do for you after the favours that I have received from you. If this girl were the daughter of any ordinary man, I would move heaven and earth to comply with your wishes; but for your honour, a handsome and noble Hatamoto, to take for his concubine the daughter of an Eta is a great mistake. By giving a little money you can get the handsomest woman in the town. Pray, sir, abandon the idea." Upon this Genzaburô was offended, and said-- "This is no matter for you to give advice in. I have told you to get me the girl, and you must obey." Chokichi, seeing that all that he could say would be of no avail, thought over in his mind how to bring about a meeting between Genzaburô and O Koyo, and replied-- "Sir, I am afraid when I think of the liberty that I have taken. I will go to Kihachi's house, and will use my best endeavours with him that I may bring the girl to you. But for to-day, it is getting late, and night is coming on; so I will go and speak to her father to-morrow." Genzaburô was delighted to find Chokichi willing to serve him. "Well," said he, "the day after to-morrow I will await you at the tea-house at Oji, and you can bring O Koyo there. Take this present, small as it is, and do your best for me." With this he pulled out three riyos from his pocket and handed them to Chokichi. who declined the money with thanks, saying that he had already received too much, and could accept no more; but Genzaburô pressed him, adding, that if the wish of his heart were accomplished he would do still more for him. So Chokichi, in great glee at the good luck which had befallen him, began to revolve all sorts of schemes in his mind; and the two parted. But O Koyo, who had fallen in love at first sight with Genzaburô on the Adzuma Bridge, went home and could think of nothing but him. Sad and melancholy she sat, and her friend O Kuma tried to comfort her in various ways; but O Koyo yearned, with all her heart, for Genzaburô; and the more she thought over the matter, the better she perceived that she, as the daughter of an Eta, was no match for a noble Hatamoto. And yet, in spite of this, she pined for him, and bewailed her own vile condition. Now it happened that her friend O Kuma was in love with Chokichi, and only cared for thinking and speaking of him; one day, when Chokichi went to pay a visit at the house of Kihachi the Eta chief, O Kuma, seeing him come, was highly delighted, and received him very politely; and Chokichi, interrupting her, said-- "O Kuma, I want you to answer me a question: where has O Koyo gone to amuse herself to-day?" "Oh, you know the gentleman who was talking with you the other day, at the Adzuma Bridge? Well, O Koyo has fallen desperately in love with him, and she says that she is too low-spirited and out of sorts to get up yet." Chokichi was greatly pleased to hear this, and said to O Kuma-- "How delightful! Why, O Koyo has fallen in love with the very gentleman who is burning with passion for her, and who has employed me to help him in the matter. However, as he is a noble Hatamoto, and his whole family would be ruined if the affair became known to the world, we must endeavour to keep it as secret as possible." "Dear me!" replied O Kuma; "when O Koyo hears this, how happy she will be, to be sure! I must go and tell her at once." "Stop!" said Chokichi, detaining her; "if her father, Master Kihachi, is willing, we will tell O Koyo directly. You had better wait here a little until I have consulted him;" and with this he went into an inner chamber to see Kihachi; and, after talking over the news of the day, told him how Genzaburô had fallen passionately in love with O Koyo, and had employed him as a go-between. Then he described how he had received kindness at the hands of Genzaburô when he was in better circumstances, dwelt on the wonderful personal beauty of his lordship, and upon the lucky chance by which he and O Koyo had come to meet each other. When Kihachi heard this story, he was greatly flattered, and said-- "I am sure I am very much obliged to you. For one of our daughters, whom even the common people despise and shun as a pollution, to be chosen as the concubine of a noble Hatamoto--what could be a greater matter for congratulation!" So he prepared a feast for Chokichi, and went off at once to tell O Koyo the news. As for the maiden, who had fallen over head and ears in love, there was no difficulty in obtaining her consent to all that was asked of her. Accordingly Chokichi, having arranged to bring the lovers together on the following day at Oji, was preparing to go and report the glad tidings to Genzaburô; but O Koyo, who knew that her friend O Kuma was in love with Chokichi, and thought that if she could throw them into one another's arms, they, on their side, would tell no tales about herself and Genzaburô, worked to such good purpose that she gained her point. At last Chokichi, tearing himself from the embraces of O Kuma, returned to Genzaburô, and told him how he had laid his plans so as, without fail, to bring O Koyo to him, the following day, at Oji, and Genzaburô, beside himself with impatience, waited for the morrow. The next day Genzaburô, having made his preparations, and taking Chokichi with him, went to the tea-house at Oji, and sat drinking wine, waiting for his sweetheart to come. As for O Koyo, who was half in ecstasies, and half shy at the idea of meeting on this day the man of her heart's desire, she put on her holiday clothes, and went with O Kuma to Oji; and as they went out together, her natural beauty being enhanced by her smart dress, all the people turned round to look at her, and praise her pretty face. And so after a while, they arrived at Oji, and went into the tea-house that had been agreed upon; and Chokichi, going out to meet them, exclaimed-- "Dear me, Miss O Koyo, his lordship has been all impatience waiting for you: pray make haste and come in." But, in spite of what he said, O Koyo, on account of her virgin modesty, would not go in. O Kuma, however, who was not quite so particular, cried out-- "Why, what is the meaning of this? As you've come here, O Koyo, it's a little late for you to be making a fuss about being shy. Don't be a little fool, but come in with me at once." And with these words she caught fast hold of O Koyo's hand, and, pulling her by force into the room, made her sit down by Genzaburô. When Genzaburô saw how modest she was, he reassured her, saying-- "Come, what is there to be so shy about? Come a little nearer to me, pray." "Thank you, sir. How could I, who am such a vile thing, pollute your nobility by sitting by your side?" And, as she spoke, the blushes mantled over her face; and the more Genzaburô looked at her, the more beautiful she appeared in his eyes, and the more deeply he became enamoured of her charms. In the meanwhile he called for wine and fish, and all four together made a feast of it. When Chokichi and O Kuma saw how the land lay, they retired discreetly into another chamber, and Genzaburô and O Koyo were left alone together, looking at one another. "Come," said Genzaburô, smiling, "hadn't you better sit a little closer to me?" "Thank you, sir; really I'm afraid." But Genzaburô, laughing at her for her idle fears, said-- "Don't behave as if you hated me." "Oh, dear! I'm sure I don't hate you, sir. That would be very rude; and, indeed, it's not the case. I loved you when I first saw you at the Adzuma Bridge, and longed for you with all my heart; but I knew what a despised race I belonged to, and that I was no fitting match for you, and so I tried to be resigned. But I am very young and inexperienced, and so I could not help thinking of you, and you alone; and then Chokichi came, and when I heard what you had said about me, I thought, in the joy of my heart, that it must be a dream of happiness." And as she spoke these words, blushing timidly, Genzaburô was dazzled with her beauty, and said--- "Well, you're a clever child. I'm sure, now, you must have some handsome young lover of your own, and that is why you don't care to come and drink wine and sit by me. Am I not right, eh?" "Ah, sir, a nobleman like you is sure to have a beautiful wife at home; and then you are so handsome that, of course, all the pretty young ladies are in love with you." "Nonsense! Why, how clever you are at flattering and paying compliments! A pretty little creature like you was just made to turn all the men's heads--a little witch." "Ah! those are hard things to say of a poor girl! Who could think of falling in love with such a wretch as I am? Now, pray tell me all about your own sweetheart: I do so long to hear about her." "Silly child! I'm not the sort of man to put thoughts into the heads of fair ladies. However, it is quite true that there is some one whom I want to marry." At this O Koyo began to feel jealous. "Ah!" said she, "how happy that some one must be! Do, pray, tell me the whole story." And a feeling of jealous spite came over her, and made her quite unhappy. Genzaburô laughed as he answered-- "Well, that some one is yourself, and nobody else. There!" and as he spoke, he gently tapped the dimple on her cheek with his finger; and O Koyo's heart beat so, for very joy, that, for a little while, she remained speechless. At last she turned her face towards Genzaburô, and said-- "Alas! your lordship is only trifling with me, when you know that what you have just been pleased to propose is the darling wish of my heart. Would that I could only go into your house as a maid-servant, in any capacity, however mean, that I might daily feast my eyes on your handsome face!" "Ah! I see that you think yourself very clever at hoaxing men, and so you must needs tease me a little;" and, as he spoke, he took her hand, and drew her close up to him, and she, blushing again, cried-- "Oh! pray wait a moment, while I shut the sliding-doors." "Listen to me, O Koyo! I am not going to forget the promise which I made you just now; nor need you be afraid of my harming you; but take care that you do not deceive me." "Indeed, sir, the fear is rather that you should set your heart on others; but, although I am no fashionable lady, take pity on me, and love me well and long." "Of course! I shall never care for another woman but you." "Pray, pray, never forget those words that you have just spoken." "And now," replied Genzaburô, "the night is advancing, and, for to-day, we must part; but we will arrange matters, so as to meet again in this tea-house. But, as people would make remarks if we left the tea-house together, I will go out first." And so, much against their will, they tore themselves from one another, Genzaburô returning to his house, and O Koyo going home, her heart filled with joy at having found the man for whom she had pined; and from that day forth they used constantly to meet in secret at the tea-house; and Genzaburô, in his infatuation, never thought that the matter must surely become notorious after a while, and that he himself would be banished, and his family ruined: he only took care for the pleasure of the moment. Now Chokichi, who had brought about the meeting between Genzaburô and his love, used to go every day to the tea-house at Oji, taking with him O Koyo; and Genzaburô neglected all his duties for the pleasure of these secret meetings. Chokichi saw this with great regret, and thought to himself that if Genzaburô gave himself up entirely to pleasure, and laid aside his duties, the secret would certainly be made public, and Genzaburô would bring ruin on himself and his family; so he began to devise some plan by which he might separate them, and plotted as eagerly to estrange them as he had formerly done to introduce them to one another. At last he hit upon a device which satisfied him. Accordingly one day he went to O Koyo's house, and, meeting her father Kihachi, said to him-- "I've got a sad piece of news to tell you. The family of my lord Genzaburô have been complaining bitterly of his conduct in carrying on his relationship with your daughter, and of the ruin which exposure would bring upon the whole house; so they have been using their influence to persuade him to hear reason, and give up the connection. Now his lordship feels deeply for the damsel, and yet he cannot sacrifice his family for her sake. For the first time, he has become alive to the folly of which he has been guilty, and, full of remorse, he has commissioned me to devise some stratagem to break off the affair. Of course, this has taken me by surprise; but as there is no gainsaying the right of the case, I have had no option but to promise obedience: this promise I have come to redeem; and now, pray, advise your daughter to think no more of his lordship." When Kihachi heard this he was surprised and distressed, and told O Koyo immediately; and she, grieving over the sad news, took no thought either of eating or drinking, but remained gloomy and desolate. In the meanwhile, Chokichi went off to Genzaburô's house, and told him that O Koyo had been taken suddenly ill, and could not go to meet him, and begged him to wait patiently until she should send to tell him of her recovery. Genzaburô, never suspecting the story to be false, waited for thirty days, and still Chokichi brought him no tidings of O Koyo. At last he met Chokichi, and besought him to arrange a meeting for him with O Koyo. "Sir," replied Chokichi, "she is not yet recovered; so it would be difficult to bring her to see your honour. But I have been thinking much about this affair, sir. If it becomes public, your honour's family will be plunged in ruin. I pray you, sir, to forget all about O Koyo." "It's all very well for you to give me advice," answered Genzaburô, surprised; "but, having once bound myself to O Koyo, it would be a pitiful thing to desert her; I therefore implore you once more to arrange that I may meet her." However, he would not consent upon any account; so Genzaburô returned home, and, from that time forth, daily entreated Chokichi to bring O Koyo to him, and, receiving nothing but advice from him in return, was very sad and lonely. One day Genzaburô, intent on ridding himself of the grief he felt at his separation from O Koyo, went to the Yoshiwara, and, going into a house of entertainment, ordered a feast to be prepared, but, in the midst of gaiety, his heart yearned all the while for his lost love, and his merriment was but mourning in disguise. At last the night wore on; and as he was retiring along the corridor, he saw a man of about forty years of age, with long hair, coming towards him, who, when he saw Genzaburô, cried out, "Dear me! why this must be my young lord Genzaburô who has come out to enjoy himself." Genzaburô thought this rather strange; but, looking at the man attentively, recognized him as a retainer whom he had had in his employ the year before, and said-- "This is a curious meeting: pray, what have you been about since you left my service? At any rate, I may congratulate you on being well and strong. Where are you living now?" "Well, sir, since I parted from you I have been earning a living as a fortune-teller at Kanda, and have changed my name to Kaji Sazen. I am living in a poor and humble house; but if your lordship, at your leisure, would honour me with a visit--" "Well, it's a lucky chance that has brought us together, and I certainly will go and see you; besides, I want you to do something for me. Shall you be at home the day after to-morrow?" "Certainly, sir, I shall make a point of being at home." "Very well, then, the day after to-morrow I will go to your house." "I shall be at your service, sir. And now, as it is getting late, I will take my leave for to-night." "Good night, then. We shall meet the day after to-morrow." And so the two parted, and went their several ways to rest. On the appointed day Genzaburô made his preparations, and went in disguise, without any retainers, to call upon Sazen, who met him at the porch of his house, and said, "This is a great honour! My lord Genzaburô is indeed welcome. My house is very mean, but let me invite your lordship to come into an inner chamber." "Pray," replied Genzaburô, "don't make any ceremony for me. Don't put yourself to any trouble on my account." And so he passed in, and Sazen called to his wife to prepare wine and condiments; and they began to feast. At last Genzaburô, looking Sazen in the face, said, "There is a service which I want you to render me--a very secret service; but as if you were to refuse me, I should be put to shame, before I tell you what that service is, I must know whether you are willing to assist me in anything that I may require of you." "Yes; if it is anything that is within my power, I am at your disposal." "Well, then," said Genzaburô, greatly pleased, and drawing ten riyos from his bosom, "this is but a small present to make to you on my first visit, but pray accept it." "No, indeed! I don't know what your lordship wishes of me; but, at any rate, I cannot receive this money. I really must beg your lordship to take it back again." But Genzaburô pressed it upon him by force, and at last he was obliged to accept the money. Then Genzaburô told him the whole story of his loves with O Koyo--how he had first met her and fallen in love with her at the Adzuma Bridge; how Chokichi had introduced her to him at the tea-house at Oji, and then when she fell ill, and he wanted to see her again, instead of bringing her to him, had only given him good advice; and so Genzaburô drew a lamentable picture of his state of despair. Sazen listened patiently to his story, and, after reflecting for a while, replied, "Well, sir, it's not a difficult matter to set right: and yet it will require some little management. However, if your lordship will do me the honour of coming to see me again the day after to-morrow, I will cast about me in the meanwhile, and will let you know then the result of my deliberations." When Genzaburô heard this he felt greatly relieved, and, recommending Sazen to do his best in the matter, took his leave and returned home. That very night Sazen, after thinking over all that Genzaburô had told him, laid his plans accordingly, and went off to the house of Kihachi, the Eta chief, and told him the commission with which he had been entrusted. Kihachi was of course greatly astonished, and said, "Some time ago, sir, Chokichi came here and said that my lord Genzaburô, having been rebuked by his family for his profligate behaviour, had determined to break off his connection with my daughter. Of course I knew that the daughter of an Eta was no fitting match for a nobleman; so when Chokichi came and told me the errand upon which he had been sent, I had no alternative but to announce to my daughter that she must give up all thought of his lordship. Since that time she has been fretting and pining and starving for love. But when I tell her what you have just said, how glad and happy she will be! Let me go and talk to her at once." And with these words, he went to O Koyo's room; and when he looked upon her thin wasted face, and saw how sad she was, he felt more and more pity for her, and said, "Well, O Koyo, are you in better spirits to-day? Would you like something to eat?" "Thank you, I have no appetite." "Well, at any rate, I have some news for you that will make you happy. A messenger has come from my lord Genzaburô, for whom your heart yearns." At this O Koyo, who had been crouching down like a drooping flower, gave a great start, and cried out, "Is that really true? Pray tell me all about it as quickly as possible." "The story which Chokichi came and told us, that his lordship wished to break off the connection, was all an invention. He has all along been wishing to meet you, and constantly urged Chokichi to bring you a message from him. It is Chokichi who has been throwing obstacles in the way. At last his lordship has secretly sent a man, called Kaji Sazen, a fortune-teller, to arrange an interview between you. So now, my child, you may cheer up, and go to meet your lover as soon as you please." When O Koyo heard this, she was so happy that she thought it must all be a dream, and doubted her own senses. Kihachi in the meanwhile rejoined Sazen in the other room, and, after telling him of the joy with which his daughter had heard the news, put before him wine and other delicacies. "I think," said Sazen, "that the best way would be for O Koyo to live secretly in my lord Genzaburô's house; but as it will never do for all the world to know of it, it must be managed very quietly; and further, when I get home, I must think out some plan to lull the suspicions of that fellow Chokichi, and let you know my idea by letter. Meanwhile O Koyo had better come home with me to-night: although she is so terribly out of spirits now, she shall meet Genzaburô the day after to-morrow." Kihachi reported this to O Koyo; and as her pining for Genzaburô was the only cause of her sickness, she recovered her spirits at once, and, saying that she would go with Sazen immediately, joyfully made her preparations. Then Sazen, having once more warned Kihachi to keep the matter secret from Chokichi, and to act upon the letter which he should send him, returned home, taking with him O Koyo; and after O Koyo had bathed and dressed her hair, and painted herself and put on beautiful clothes, she came out looking so lovely that no princess in the land could vie with her; and Sazen, when he saw her, said to himself that it was no wonder that Genzaburô had fallen in love with her; then, as it was getting late, he advised her to go to rest, and, after showing her to her apartments, went to his own room and wrote his letter to Kihachi, containing the scheme which he had devised. When Kihachi received his instructions, he was filled with admiration at Sazen's ingenuity, and, putting on an appearance of great alarm and agitation, went off immediately to call on Chokichi, and said to him-- "Oh, Master Chokichi, such a terrible thing has happened! Pray, let me tell you all about it." "Indeed! what can it be?" "Oh! sir," answered Kihachi, pretending to wipe away his tears, "my daughter O Koyo, mourning over her separation from my lord Genzaburô, at first refused all sustenance, and remained nursing her sorrows until, last night, her woman's heart failing to bear up against her great grief, she drowned herself in the river, leaving behind her a paper on which she had written her intention." When Chokichi heard this, he was thunderstruck, and exclaimed, "Can this really be true! And when I think that it was I who first introduced her to my lord, I am ashamed to look you in the face." "Oh, say not so: misfortunes are the punishment due for our misdeeds in a former state of existence. I bear you no ill-will. This money which I hold in my hand was my daughter's; and in her last instructions she wrote to beg that it might be given, after her death, to you, through whose intervention she became allied with a nobleman: so please accept it as my daughter's legacy to you;" and as he spoke, he offered him three riyos. "You amaze me!" replied the other. "How could I, above all men, who have so much to reproach myself with in my conduct towards you, accept this money?" "Nay; it was my dead daughter's wish. But since you reproach yourself in the matter when you think of her, I will beg you to put up a prayer and to cause masses to be said for her." At last, Chokichi, after much persuasion, and greatly to his own distress, was obliged to accept the money; and when Kihachi had carried out all Sazen's instructions, he returned home, laughing in his sleeve. Chokichi was sorely grieved to hear of O Koyo's death, and remained thinking over the sad news; when all of a sudden looking about him, he saw something like a letter lying on the spot where Kihachi had been sitting, so he picked it up and read it; and, as luck would have it, it was the very letter which contained Sazen's instructions to Kihachi, and in which the whole story which had just affected him so much was made up. When he perceived the trick that had been played upon him, he was very angry, and exclaimed, "To think that I should have been so hoaxed by that hateful old dotard, and such a fellow as Sazen! And Genzaburô, too!--out of gratitude for the favours which I had received from him in old days, I faithfully gave him good advice, and all in vain. Well, they've gulled me once; but I'll be even with them yet, and hinder their game before it is played out!" And so he worked himself up into a fury, and went off secretly to prowl about Sazen's house to watch for O Koyo, determined to pay off Genzaburô and Sazen for their conduct to him. In the meanwhile Sazen, who did not for a moment suspect what had happened, when the day which had been fixed upon by him and Genzaburô arrived, made O Koyo put on her best clothes, smartened up his house, and got ready a feast against Genzaburô's arrival. The latter came punctually to his time, and, going in at once, said to the fortune-teller, "Well, have you succeeded in the commission with which I entrusted you?" At first Sazen pretended to be vexed at the question, and said, "Well, sir, I've done my best; but it's not a matter which can be settled in a hurry. However, there's a young lady of high birth and wonderful beauty upstairs, who has come here secretly to have her fortune told; and if your lordship would like to come with me and see her, you can do so." But Genzaburô, when he heard that he was not to meet O Koyo, lost heart entirely, and made up his mind to go home again. Sazen, however, pressed him so eagerly, that at last he went upstairs to see this vaunted beauty; and Sazen, drawing aside a screen, showed him O Koyo, who was sitting there. Genzaburô gave a great start, and, turning to Sazen, said, "Well, you certainly are a first-rate hand at keeping up a hoax. However, I cannot sufficiently praise the way in which you have carried out my instructions." "Pray, don't mention it, sir. But as it is a long time since you have met the young lady, you must have a great deal to say to one another; so I will go downstairs, and, if you want anything, pray call me." And so he went downstairs and left them. Then Genzaburô, addressing O Koyo, said, "Ah! it is indeed a long time since we met. How happy it makes me to see you again! Why, your face has grown quite thin. Poor thing! have you been unhappy?" And O Koyo, with the tears starting from her eyes for joy, hid her face; and her heart was so full that she could not speak. But Genzaburô, passing his hand gently over her head and back, and comforting her, said, "Come, sweetheart, there is no need to sob so. Talk to me a little, and let me hear your voice." At last O Koyo raised her head and said, "Ah! when I was separated from you by the tricks of Chokichi, and thought that I should never meet you again, how tenderly I thought of you! I thought I should have died, and waited for my hour to come, pining all the while for you. And when at last, as I lay between life and death, Sazen came with a message from you, I thought it was all a dream." And as she spoke, she bent her head and sobbed again; and in Genzaburô's eyes she seemed more beautiful than ever, with her pale, delicate face; and he loved her better than before. Then she said, "If I were to tell you all I have suffered until to-day, I should never stop." "Yes," replied Genzaburô, "I too have suffered much;" and so they told one another their mutual griefs, and from that day forth they constantly met at Sazen's house. One day, as they were feasting and enjoying themselves in an upper storey in Sazen's house, Chokichi came to the house and said, "I beg pardon; but does one Master Sazen live here?" "Certainly, sir: I am Sazen, at your service. Pray where are you from?" "Well, sir, I have a little business to transact with you. May I make so bold as to go in?" And with these words, he entered the house. "But who and what are you?" said Sazen. "Sir, I am an Eta; and my name is Chokichi. I beg to bespeak your goodwill for myself: I hope we may be friends." Sazen was not a little taken aback at this; however, he put on an innocent face, as though he had never heard of Chokichi before, and said, "I never heard of such a thing! Why, I thought you were some respectable person; and you have the impudence to tell me that your name is Chokichi, and that you're one of those accursed Etas. To think of such a shameless villain coming and asking to be friends with me, forsooth! Get you gone!--the quicker, the better: your presence pollutes the house." Chokichi smiled contemptuously, as he answered, "So you deem the presence of an Eta in your house a pollution--eh? Why, I thought you must be one of us." "Insolent knave! Begone as fast as possible." "Well, since you say that I defile your house, you had better get rid of O Koyo as well. I suppose she must equally be a pollution to it." This put Sazen rather in a dilemma; however, he made up his mind not to show any hesitation, and said, "What are you talking about? There is no O Koyo here; and I never saw such a person in my life." Chokichi quietly drew out of the bosom of his dress the letter from Sazen to Kihachi, which he had picked up a few days before, and, showing it to Sazen, replied, "If you wish to dispute the genuineness of this paper, I will report the whole matter to the Governor of Yedo; and Genzaburô's family will be ruined, and the rest of you who are parties in this affair will come in for your share of trouble. Just wait a little." And as he pretended to leave the house, Sazen, at his wits' end, cried out, "Stop! stop! I want to speak to you. Pray, stop and listen quietly. It is quite true, as you said, that O Koyo is in my house; and really your indignation is perfectly just. Come! let us talk over matters a little. Now you yourself were originally a respectable man; and although you have fallen in life, there is no reason why your disgrace should last for ever. All that you want in order to enable you to escape out of this fraternity of Etas is a little money. Why should you not get this from Genzaburô, who is very anxious to keep his intrigue with O Koyo secret?" Chokichi laughed disdainfully. "I am ready to talk with you; but I don't want any money. All I want is to report the affair to the authorities, in order that I may be revenged for the fraud that was put upon me." "Won't you accept twenty-five riyos?" "Twenty-five riyos! No, indeed! I will not take a fraction less than a hundred; and if I cannot get them I will report the whole matter at once." Sazen, after a moment's consideration, hit upon a scheme, and answered, smiling, "Well, Master Chokichi, you're a fine fellow, and I admire your spirit. You shall have the hundred riyos you ask for; but, as I have not so much money by me at present, I will go to Genzaburô's house and fetch it. It's getting dark now, but it's not very late; so I'll trouble you to come with me, and then I can give you the money to-night." Chokichi consenting to this, the pair left the house together. Now Sazen, who as a Rônin wore a long dirk in his girdle, kept looking out for a moment when Chokichi should be off his guard, in order to kill him; but Chokichi kept his eyes open, and did not give Sazen a chance. At last Chokichi, as ill-luck would have it, stumbled against a stone and fell; and Sazen, profiting by the chance, drew his dirk and stabbed him in the side; and as Chokichi, taken by surprise, tried to get up, he cut him severely over the head, until at last he fell dead. Sazen then looking around him, and seeing, to his great delight, that there was no one near, returned home. The following day, Chokichi's body was found by the police; and when they examined it, they found nothing upon it save a paper, which they read, and which proved to be the very letter which Sazen had sent to Kihachi, and which Chokichi had picked up. The matter was immediately reported to the governor, and, Sazen having been summoned, an investigation was held. Sazen, cunning and bold murderer as he was, lost his self-possession when he saw what a fool he had been not to get back from Chokichi the letter which he had written, and, when he was put to a rigid examination under torture, confessed that he had hidden O Koyo at Genzaburô's instigation, and then killed Chokichi, who had found out the secret. Upon this the governor, after consulting about Genzaburô's case, decided that, as he had disgraced his position as a Hatamoto by contracting an alliance with the daughter of an Eta, his property should be confiscated, his family blotted out, and himself banished. As for Kihachi, the Eta chief, and his daughter O Koyo, they were handed over for punishment to the chief of the Etas, and by him they too were banished; while Sazen, against whom the murder of Chokichi had been fully proved, was executed according to law. NOTE At Asakusa, in Yedo, there lives a man called Danzayémon, the chief of the Etas. This man traces his pedigree back to Minamoto no Yoritomo, who founded the Shogunate in the year A.D. 1192. The whole of the Etas in Japan are under his jurisdiction; his subordinates are called Koyagashira, or "chiefs of the huts"; and he and they constitute the government of the Etas. In the "Legacy of Iyéyasu," already quoted, the 36th Law provides as follows:--"All wandering mendicants, such as male sorcerers, female diviners, hermits, blind people, beggars, and tanners (Etas), have had from of old their respective rulers. Be not disinclined, however, to punish any such who give rise to disputes, or who overstep the boundaries of their own classes and are disobedient to existing laws." The occupation of the Etas is to kill and flay horses, oxen, and other beasts, to stretch drums and make shoes; and if they are very poor, they wander from house to house, working as cobblers, mending old shoes and leather, and so earn a scanty livelihood. Besides this, their daughters and young married women gain a trifle as wandering minstrels, called Torioi, playing on the _shamisen_, a sort of banjo, and singing ballads. They never marry out of their own fraternity, but remain apart, a despised and shunned race. At executions by crucifixion it is the duty of the Etas to transfix the victims with spears; and, besides this, they have to perform all sorts of degrading offices about criminals, such as carrying sick prisoners from their cells to the hall of justice, and burying the bodies of those that have been executed. Thus their race is polluted and accursed, and they are hated accordingly. Now this is how the Etas came to be under the jurisdiction of Danzayémon:-- When Minamoto no Yoritomo was yet a child, his father, Minamoto no Yoshitomo, fought with Taira no Kiyomori, and was killed by treachery: so his family was ruined; and Yoshitomo's concubine, whose name was Tokiwa, took her children and fled from the house, to save her own and their lives. But Kiyomori, desiring to destroy the family of Yoshitomo root and branch, ordered his retainers to divide themselves into bands, and seek out the children. At last they were found; but Tokiwa was so exceedingly beautiful that Kiyomori was inflamed with love for her, and desired her to become his own concubine. Then Tokiwa told Kiyomori that if he would spare her little ones she would share his couch; but that if he killed her children she would destroy herself rather than yield to his desire. When he heard this, Kiyomori, bewildered by the beauty of Tokiwa, spared the lives of her children, but banished them from the capital. So Yoritomo was sent to Hirugakojima, in the province of Idzu; and when he grew up and became a man, he married the daughter of a peasant. After a while Yoritomo left the province, and went to the wars, leaving his wife pregnant; and in due time she was delivered of a male child, to the delight of her parents, who rejoiced that their daughter should bear seed to a nobleman; but she soon fell sick and died, and the old people took charge of the babe. And when they also died, the care of the child fell to his mother's kinsmen, and he grew up to be a peasant. Now Kiyomori, the enemy of Yoritomo, had been gathered to his fathers; and Yoritomo had avenged the death of his father by slaying Munémori, the son of Kiyomori; and there was peace throughout the land. And Yoritomo became the chief of all the noble houses in Japan, and first established the government of the country. When Yoritomo had thus raised himself to power, if the son that his peasant wife had born to him had proclaimed himself the son of the mighty prince, he would have been made lord over a province; but he took no thought of this, and remained a tiller of the earth, forfeiting a glorious inheritance; and his descendants after him lived as peasants in the same village, increasing in prosperity and in good repute among their neighbours. But the princely line of Yoritomo came to an end in three generations, and the house of Hôjô was all-powerful in the land. Now it happened that the head of the house of Hôjô heard that a descendant of Yoritomo was living as a peasant in the land, so he summoned him and said:-- "It is a hard thing to see the son of an illustrious house live and die a peasant. I will promote you to the rank of Samurai." Then the peasant answered, "My lord, if I become a Samurai, and the retainer of some noble, I shall not be so happy as when I was my own master. If I may not remain a husbandman, let me be a chief over men, however humble they may be." But my lord Hôjô was angry at this, and, thinking to punish the peasant for his insolence, said:-- "Since you wish to become a chief over men, no matter how humble, there is no means of gratifying your strange wish but by making you chief over the Etas of the whole country. So now see that you rule them well." When he heard this, the peasant was afraid; but because he had said that he wished to become a chief over men, however humble, he could not choose but become chief of the Etas, he and his children after him for ever; and Danzayémon, who rules the Etas at the present time, and lives at Asakusa, is his lineal descendant. FAIRY TALES FAIRY TALES I think that their quaintness is a sufficient apology for the following little children's stories. With the exception of that of the "Elves and the Envious Neighbour," which comes out of a curious book on etymology and proverbial lore, called the Kotowazagusa, these stories are found printed in little separate pamphlets, with illustrations, the stereotype blocks of which have become so worn that the print is hardly legible. These are the first tales which are put into a Japanese child's hands; and it is with these, and such as these, that the Japanese mother hushes her little ones to sleep. Knowing the interest which many children of a larger growth take in such Baby Stories, I was anxious to have collected more of them. I was disappointed, however, for those which I give here are the only ones which I could find in print; and if I asked the Japanese to tell me others, they only thought I was laughing at them, and changed the subject. The stories of the Tongue-cut Sparrow, and the Old Couple and their Dog, have been paraphrased in other works upon Japan; but I am not aware of their having been literally translated before. THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW Once upon a time there lived an old man and an old woman. The old man, who had a kind heart, kept a young sparrow, which he tenderly nurtured. But the dame was a cross-grained old thing; and one day, when the sparrow had pecked at some paste with which she was going to starch her linen, she flew into a great rage, and cut the sparrow's tongue and let it loose. When the old man came home from the hills and found that the bird had flown, he asked what had become of it; so the old woman answered that she had cut its tongue and let it go, because it had stolen her starching-paste. Now the old man, hearing this cruel tale, was sorely grieved, and thought to himself, "Alas! where can my bird be gone? Poor thing! Poor little tongue-cut sparrow! where is your home now?" and he wandered far and wide, seeking for his pet, and crying, "Mr. Sparrow! Mr. Sparrow! where are you living?" One day, at the foot of a certain mountain, the old man fell in with the lost bird; and when they had congratulated one another on their mutual safety, the sparrow led the old man to his home, and, having introduced him to his wife and chicks, set before him all sorts of dainties, and entertained him hospitably. "Please partake of our humble fare," said the sparrow; "poor as it is, you are very welcome." "What a polite sparrow!" answered the old man, who remained for a long time as the sparrow's guest, and was daily feasted right royally. At last the old man said that he must take his leave and return home; and the bird, offering him two wicker baskets, begged him to carry them with him as a parting present. One of the baskets was heavy, and the other was light; so the old man, saying that as he was feeble and stricken in years he would only accept the light one, shouldered it, and trudged off home, leaving the sparrow-family disconsolate at parting from him. When the old man got home, the dame grew very angry, and began to scold him, saying, "Well, and pray where have you been this many a day? A pretty thing, indeed, to be gadding about at your time of life!" "Oh!" replied he, "I have been on a visit to the sparrows; and when I came away, they gave me this wicker basket as a parting gift." Then they opened the basket to see what was inside, and, lo and behold! it was full of gold and silver and precious things. When the old woman, who was as greedy as she was cross, saw all the riches displayed before her, she changed her scolding strain, and could not contain herself for joy. [Illustration: THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW.] "I'll go and call upon the sparrows, too," said she, "and get a pretty present." So she asked the old man the way to the sparrows' house, and set forth on her journey. Following his directions, she at last met the tongue-cut sparrow, and exclaimed-- "Well met! well met! Mr. Sparrow. I have been looking forward to the pleasure of seeing you." So she tried to flatter and cajole the sparrow by soft speeches. The bird could not but invite the dame to its home; but it took no pains to feast her, and said nothing about a parting gift. She, however, was not to be put off; so she asked for something to carry away with her in remembrance of her visit. The sparrow accordingly produced two baskets, as before, and the greedy old woman, choosing the heavier of the two, carried it off with her. But when she opened the basket to see what was inside, all sorts of hobgoblins and elves sprang out of it, and began to torment her. [Illustration: THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW. (2)] But the old man adopted a son, and his family grew rich and prosperous. What a happy old man! THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE A long time ago, at a temple called Morinji, in the province of Jôshiu, there was an old tea-kettle. One day, when the priest of the temple was about to hang it over the hearth to boil the water for his tea, to his amazement, the kettle all of a sudden put forth the head and tail of a badger. What a wonderful kettle, to come out all over fur! The priest, thunderstruck, called in the novices of the temple to see the sight; and whilst they were stupidly staring, one suggesting one thing and another, the kettle, jumping up into the air, began flying about the room. More astonished than ever, the priest and his pupils tried to pursue it; but no thief or cat was ever half so sharp as this wonderful badger-kettle. At last, however, they managed to knock it down and secure it; and, holding it in with their united efforts, they forced it into a box, intending to carry it off and throw it away in some distant place, so that they might be no more plagued by the goblin. For this day their troubles were over; but, as luck would have it, the tinker who was in the habit of working for the temple called in, and the priest suddenly bethought him that it was a pity to throw the kettle away for nothing, and that he might as well get a trifle for it, no matter how small. So he brought out the kettle, which had resumed its former shape and had got rid of its head and tail, and showed it to the tinker. When the tinker saw the kettle, he offered twenty copper coins for it, and the priest was only too glad to close the bargain and be rid of his troublesome piece of furniture. But the tinker trudged off home with his pack and his new purchase. That night, as he lay asleep, he heard a strange noise near his pillow; so he peeped out from under the bedclothes, and there he saw the kettle that he had bought in the temple covered with fur, and walking about on four legs. The tinker started up in a fright to see what it could all mean, when all of a sudden the kettle resumed its former shape. This happened over and over again, until at last the tinker showed the tea-kettle to a friend of his, who said, "This is certainly an accomplished and lucky tea-kettle. You should take it about as a show, with songs and accompaniments of musical instruments, and make it dance and walk on the tight rope." [Illustration: THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE.] The tinker, thinking this good advice, made arrangements with a showman, and set up an exhibition. The noise of the kettle's performances soon spread abroad, until even the princes of the land sent to order the tinker to come to them; and he grew rich beyond all his expectations. Even the princesses, too, and the great ladies of the court, took great delight in the dancing kettle, so that no sooner had it shown its tricks in one place than it was time for them to keep some other engagement. At last the tinker grew so rich that he took the kettle back to the temple, where it was laid up as a precious treasure, and worshipped as a saint. [Illustration: THE ACCOMPLISHED AND LUCKY TEA-KETTLE. (2)] THE CRACKLING MOUNTAIN Once upon a time there lived an old man and an old woman, who kept a pet white hare, by which they set great store. One day, a badger, that lived hard by, came and ate up the food which had been put out for the hare; so the old man, flying into a great rage, seized the badger, and, tying the beast up to a tree, went off to the mountain to cut wood, while the old woman stopped at home and ground the wheat for the evening porridge. Then the badger, with tears in his eyes, said to the old woman-- "Please, dame, please untie this rope!" The dame, thinking that it was a cruel thing to see a poor beast in pain, undid the rope; but the ungrateful brute was no sooner loose, than he cried out-- "I'll be revenged for this," and was off in a trice. When the hare heard this, he went off to the mountain to warn the old man; and whilst the hare was away on this errand, the badger came back, and killed the dame. Then the beast, having assumed the old woman's form, made her dead body into broth, and waited for the old man to come home from the mountain. When he returned, tired and hungry, the pretended old woman said-- "Come, come; I've made such a nice broth of the badger you hung up. Sit down, and make a good supper of it." With these words she set out the broth, and the old man made a hearty meal, licking his lips over it, and praising the savoury mess. But as soon as he had finished eating, the badger, reassuming its natural shape, cried out-- "Nasty old man! you've eaten your own wife. Look at her bones, lying in the kitchen sink!" and, laughing contemptuously, the badger ran away, and disappeared. Then the old man, horrified at what he had done, set up a great lamentation; and whilst he was bewailing his fate, the hare came home, and, seeing how matters stood, determined to avenge the death of his mistress. So he went back to the mountain, and, falling in with the badger, who was carrying a faggot of sticks on his back, he struck a light and set fire to the sticks, without letting the badger see him. When the badger heard the crackling noise of the faggot burning on his back, he called out-- "Holloa! what is that noise?" "Oh!" answered the hare, "this is called the Crackling Mountain. There's always this noise here." And as the fire gathered strength, and went pop! pop! pop! the badger said again-- "Oh dear! what can this noise be?" "This is called the 'Pop! Pop! Mountain,'" answered the hare. [Illustration: THE HARE AND THE BADGER.] All at once the fire began to singe the badger's back, so that he fled, howling with pain, and jumped into a river hard by. But, although the water put out the fire, his back was burnt as black as a cinder. The hare, seeing an opportunity for torturing the badger to his heart's content, made a poultice of cayenne pepper, which he carried to the badger's house, and, pretending to condole with him, and to have a sovereign remedy for burns, he applied his hot plaister to his enemy's sore back. Oh! how it smarted and pained! and how the badger yelled and cried! [Illustration: THE HARE AND THE BADGER. (2)] When, at last, the badger got well again, he went to the hare's house, thinking to reproach him for having caused him so much pain. When he got there, he found that the hare had built himself a boat. "What have you built that boat for, Mr. Hare?" said the badger. "I'm going to the capital of the moon,"[52] answered the hare; "won't you come with me?" [Footnote 52: The mountains in the moon are supposed to resemble a hare in shape. Hence there is a fanciful connection between the hare and the moon.] "I had enough of your company on the Crackling Mountain, where you played me such tricks. I'd rather make a boat for myself," replied the badger, who immediately began building himself a boat of clay. The hare, seeing this, laughed in his sleeve; and so the two launched their boats upon the river. The waves came plashing against the two boats; but the hare's boat was built of wood, while that of the badger was made of clay, and, as they rowed down the river, the clay boat began to crumble away; then the hare, seizing his paddle, and brandishing it in the air, struck savagely at the badger's boat, until he had smashed it to pieces, and killed his enemy. When the old man heard that his wife's death had been avenged, he was glad in his heart, and more than ever petted and loved the hare, whose brave deeds had caused him to welcome the returning spring. THE STORY OF THE OLD MAN WHO MADE WITHERED TREES TO BLOSSOM In the old, old days, there lived an honest man with his wife, who had a favourite dog, which they used to feed with fish and titbits from their own kitchen. One day, as the old folks went out to work in their garden, the dog went with them, and began playing about. All of a sudden, the dog stopped short, and began to bark, "Bow, wow, wow!" wagging his tail violently. The old people thought that there must be something nice to eat under the ground, so they brought a spade and began digging, when, lo and behold! the place was full of gold pieces and silver, and all sorts of precious things, which had been buried there. So they gathered the treasure together, and, after giving alms to the poor, bought themselves rice-fields and corn-fields, and became wealthy people. Now, in the next house there dwelt a covetous and stingy old man and woman, who, when they heard what had happened, came and borrowed the dog, and, having taken him home, prepared a great feast for him, and said-- "If you please, Mr. Dog, we should be much obliged to you if you would show us a place with plenty of money in it." The dog, however, who up to that time had received nothing but cuffs and kicks from his hosts, would not eat any of the dainties which they set before him; so the old people began to get cross, and, putting a rope round the dog's neck, led him out into the garden. But it was all in vain; let them lead him where they might, not a sound would the dog utter: he had no "bow-wow" for them. At last, however, the dog stopped at a certain spot, and began to sniff; so, thinking that this must surely be the lucky place, they dug, and found nothing but a quantity of dirt and nasty offal, over which they had to hold their noses. Furious at being disappointed, the wicked old couple seized the dog, and killed him. When the good old man saw that the dog, whom he had lent, did not come home, he went next door to ask what had become of him; and the wicked old man answered that he had killed the dog, and buried him at the root of a pine-tree; so the good old fellow, with, a heavy heart, went to the spot, and, having set out a tray with delicate food, burnt incense, and adorned the grave with flowers, as he shed tears over his lost pet. But there was more good luck in store yet for the old people--the reward of their honesty and virtue. How do you think that happened, my children? It is very wrong to be cruel to dogs and cats. [Illustration: THE OLD MAN WHO CAUSED WITHERED TREES TO FLOWER.] That night, when the good old man was fast asleep in bed, the dog appeared to him, and, after thanking him for all his kindness, said-- "Cause the pine-tree, under which, I am buried, to be cut down and made into a mortar, and use it, thinking of it as if it were myself." The old man did as the dog had told him to do, and made a mortar out of the wood of the pine-tree; but when he ground his rice in it, each grain of rice was turned into some rich treasure. When the wicked old couple saw this, they came to borrow the mortar; but no sooner did they try to use it, than all their rice was turned into filth; so, in a fit of rage, they broke up the mortar and burnt it. But the good old man, little suspecting that his precious mortar had been broken and burnt, wondered why his neighbours did not bring it back to him. [Illustration: THE OLD MAN WHO CAUSED WITHERED TREES TO FLOWER. (2)] One night the dog appeared to him again in a dream, and told him what had happened, adding that if he would take the ashes of the burnt mortar and sprinkle them on withered trees, the trees would revive, and suddenly put out flowers. After saying this the dream vanished, and the old man, who heard for the first time of the loss of his mortar, ran off weeping to the neighbours' house, and begged them, at any rate, to give him back the ashes of his treasure. Having obtained these, he returned home, and made a trial of their virtues upon a withered cherry-tree, which, upon being touched by the ashes, immediately began to sprout and blossom. When he saw this wonderful effect, he put the ashes into a basket, and went about the country, announcing himself as an old man who had the power of bringing dead trees to life again. A certain prince, hearing of this, and thinking it a mighty strange thing, sent for the old fellow, who showed his power by causing all the withered plum and cherry-trees to shoot out and put forth flowers. So the prince gave him a rich reward of pieces of silk and cloth and other presents, and sent him home rejoicing. So soon as the neighbours heard of this they collected all the ashes that remained, and, having put them in a basket, the wicked old man went out into the castle town, and gave out that he was the old man who had the power of reviving dead trees, and causing them to flower. He had not to wait long before he was called into the prince's palace, and ordered to exhibit his power. But when he climbed up into a withered tree, and began to scatter the ashes, not a bud nor a flower appeared; but the ashes all flew into the prince's eyes and mouth, blinding and choking him. When the prince's retainers saw this, they seized the old man, and beat him almost to death, so that he crawled off home in a very sorry plight. When he and his wife found out what a trap they had fallen into, they stormed and scolded and put themselves into a passion; but that did no good at all. The good old man and woman, so soon as they heard of their neighbours' distress, sent for them, and, after reproving them for their greed and cruelty, gave them a share of their own riches, which, by repeated strokes of luck, had now increased to a goodly sum. So the wicked old people mended their ways, and led good and virtuous lives ever after. THE BATTLE OF THE APE AND THE CRAB If a man thinks only of his own profit, and tries to benefit himself at the expense of others, he will incur the hatred of Heaven. Men should lay up in their hearts the story of the Battle of the Ape and Crab, and teach it, as a profitable lesson, to their children. Once upon a time there was a crab who lived in a marsh in a certain part of the country. It fell out one day that, the crab having picked up a rice cake, an ape, who had got a nasty hard persimmon-seed, came up, and begged the crab to make an exchange with him. The crab, who was a simple-minded creature, agreed to this proposal; and they each went their way, the ape chuckling to himself at the good bargain which he had made. When the crab got home, he planted the persimmon-seed in his garden, and, as time slipped by, it sprouted, and by degrees grew to be a big tree. The crab watched the growth of his tree with great delight; but when the fruit ripened, and he was going to pluck it, the ape came in, and offered to gather it for him. The crab consenting, the ape climbed up into the tree, and began eating all the ripe fruit himself, while he only threw down the sour persimmons to the crab, inviting him, at the same time, to eat heartily. The crab, however, was not pleased at this arrangement, and thought that it was his turn to play a trick upon the ape; so he called out to him to come down head foremost. The ape did as he was bid; and as he crawled down, head foremost, the ripe fruit all came tumbling out of his pockets, and the crab, having picked up the persimmons, ran off and hid himself in a hole. The ape, seeing this, lay in ambush, and as soon as the crab crept out of his hiding-place gave him a sound drubbing, and went home. Just at this time a friendly egg and a bee, who were the apprentices of a certain rice-mortar, happened to pass that way, and, seeing the crab's piteous condition, tied up his wounds, and, having escorted him home, began to lay plans to be revenged upon the cruel ape. [Illustration: THE APE AND THE CRAB.] Having agreed upon a scheme, they all went to the ape's house, in his absence; and each one having undertaken to play a certain part, they waited in secret for their enemy to come home. The ape, little dreaming of the mischief that was brewing, returned home, and, having a fancy to drink a cup of tea, began lighting the fire in the hearth, when, all of a sudden, the egg, which was hidden in the ashes, burst with. the heat, and bespattered the frightened ape's face, so that he fled, howling with pain, and crying, "Oh! what an unlucky beast I am!" Maddened with the heat of the burst egg, he tried to go to the back of the house, when the bee darted out of a cupboard, and a piece of seaweed, who had joined the party, coming up at the same time, the ape was surrounded by enemies. In despair, he seized the clothes-rack, and fought valiantly for awhile; but he was no match for so many, and was obliged to run away, with the others in hot pursuit after him. Just as he was making his escape by a back door, however, the piece of seaweed tripped him up, and the rice-mortar, closing with him from behind, made an end of him. [Illustration: THE APE AND THE CRAB. (2)] So the crab, having punished his enemy, went home in triumph, and lived ever after on terms of brotherly love with the seaweed and the mortar. Was there ever such a fine piece of fun! THE ADVENTURES OF LITTLE PEACHLING Many hundred years ago there lived an honest old wood-cutter and his wife. One fine morning the old man went off to the hills with his billhook, to gather a faggot of sticks, while his wife went down to the river to wash the dirty clothes. When she came to the river, she saw a peach floating down the stream; so she picked it up, and carried it home with her, thinking to give it to her husband to eat when he should come in. The old man soon came down from the hills, and the good wife set the peach before him, when, just as she was inviting him to eat it, the fruit split in two, and a little puling baby was born into the world. So the old couple took the babe, and brought it up as their own; and, because it had been born in a peach, they called it _Momotarô_,[53] or Little Peachling. [Footnote 53: _Momo_ means a peach, and _Tarô_ is the termination of the names of eldest sons, as _Hikotarô_, _Tokutarô_, &c. In modern times, however, the termination has been applied indifferently to any male child.] By degrees Little Peachling grew up to be strong and brave, and at last one day he said to his old foster-parents-- "I am going to the ogres' island to carry off the riches that they have stored up there. Pray, then, make me some millet dumplings for my journey." So the old folks ground the millet, and made the dumplings for him; and Little Peachling, after taking an affectionate leave of them, cheerfully set out on his travels. As he was journeying on, he fell in with an ape, who gibbered at him, and said, "Kia! kia! kia! where are you off to, Little Peachling?" "I'm going to the ogres' island, to carry off their treasure," answered Little Peachling. "What are you carrying at your girdle?" "I'm carrying the very best millet dumplings in all Japan." "If you'll give me one, I will go with you," said the ape. So Little Peachling gave one of his dumplings to the ape, who received it and followed him. When he had gone a little further, he heard a pheasant calling-- "Ken! ken! ken![54] where are you off to, Master Peachling?" [Footnote 54: The country folk in Japan pretend that the pheasant's call is a sign of an approaching earthquake.] Little Peachling answered as before; and the pheasant, having begged and obtained a millet dumpling, entered his service, and followed him. A little while after this, they met a dog, who cried-- "Bow! wow! wow! whither away, Master Peachling?" "I'm going off to the ogres' island, to carry off their treasure." "If you will give me one of those nice millet dumplings of yours, I will go with you," said the dog. [Illustration: LITTLE PEACHLING.] "With all my heart," said Little Peachling. So he went on his way, with the ape, the pheasant, and the dog following after him. When they got to the ogres' island, the pheasant flew over the castle gate, and the ape clambered over the castle wall, while Little Peachling, leading the dog, forced in the gate, and got into the castle. Then they did battle with the ogres, and put them to flight, and took their king prisoner. So all the ogres did homage to Little Peachling, and brought out the treasures which they had laid up. There were caps and coats that made their wearers invisible, jewels which governed the ebb and flow of the tide, coral, musk, emeralds, amber, and tortoiseshell, besides gold and silver. All these were laid before Little Peachling by the conquered ogres. [Illustration: LITTLE PEACHLING. (2)] So Little Peachling went home laden with riches, and maintained his foster-parents in peace and plenty for the remainder of their lives. THE FOXES' WEDDING Once upon a time there was a young white fox, whose name was Fukuyémon. When he had reached the fitting age, he shaved off his forelock[55] and began to think of taking to himself a beautiful bride. The old fox, his father, resolved to give up his inheritance to his son,[56] and retired into private life; so the young fox, in gratitude for this, laboured hard and earnestly to increase his patrimony. Now it happened that in a famous old family of foxes there was a beautiful young lady-fox, with such lovely fur that the fame of her jewel-like charms was spread far and wide. The young white fox, who had heard of this, was bent on making her his wife, and a meeting was arranged between them. There was not a fault to be found on either side; so the preliminaries were settled, and the wedding presents sent from the bridegroom to the bride's house, with congratulatory speeches from the messenger, which were duly acknowledged by the person deputed to receive the gifts; the bearers, of course, received the customary fee in copper cash. [Footnote 55: See the Appendix on "Ceremonies."] [Footnote 56: See the note on the word Inkiyô, in the story of the "Prince and the Badger."] When the ceremonies had been concluded, an auspicious day was chosen for the bride to go to her husband's house, and she was carried off in solemn procession during a shower of rain, the sun shining all the while.[57] After the ceremonies of drinking wine had been gone through, the bride changed her dress, and the wedding was concluded, without let or hindrance, amid singing and dancing and merry-making. [Footnote 57: A shower during sunshine, which we call "the devil beating his wife," is called in Japan "the fox's bride going to her husband's house."] The bride and bridegroom lived lovingly together, and a litter of little foxes were born to them, to the great joy of the old grandsire, who treated the little cubs as tenderly as if they had been butterflies or flowers. "They're the very image of their old grandfather," said he, as proud as possible. "As for medicine, bless them, they're so healthy that they'll never need a copper coin's worth!" As soon as they were old enough, they were carried off to the temple of Inari Sama, the patron saint of foxes, and the old grand-parents prayed that they might be delivered from dogs and all the other ills to which fox flesh is heir. [Illustration: THE FOXES' WEDDING.] In this way the white fox by degrees waxed old and prosperous, and his children, year by year, became more and more numerous around him; so that, happy in his family and his business, every recurring spring brought him fresh cause for joy. [Illustration: THE FOXES' WEDDING. (2)] THE HISTORY OF SAKATA KINTOKI A long time ago there was an officer of the Emperor's body-guard, called Sakata Kurando, a young man who, although he excelled in valour and in the arts of war, was of a gentle and loving disposition. This young officer was deeply enamoured of a fair young lady, called Yaégiri, who lived at Gojôzaka, at Kiyôto. Now it came to pass that, having incurred the jealousy of certain other persons, Kurando fell into disgrace with the Court, and became a Rônin, so he was no longer able to keep up any communication with his love Yaégiri; indeed, he became so poor that it was a hard matter for him to live. So he left the place and fled, no one knew whither. As for Yaégiri, lovesick and lorn, and pining for her lost darling, she escaped from the house where she lived, and wandered hither and thither through the country, seeking everywhere for Kurando. Now Kurando, when he left the palace, turned tobacco merchant, and, as he was travelling about hawking his goods, it chanced that he fell in with Yaégiri; so, having communicated to her his last wishes, he took leave of her and put an end to his life. Poor Yaégiri, having buried her lover, went to the Ashigara Mountain, a distant and lonely spot, where she gave birth to a little boy, who, as soon as he was born, was of such wonderful strength that he walked about and ran playing all over the mountain. A woodcutter, who chanced to see the marvel, was greatly frightened at first, and thought the thing altogether uncanny; but after a while he got used to the child, and became quite fond of him, and called him "Little Wonder," and gave his mother the name of the "Old Woman of the Mountain." One day, as "Little Wonder" was playing about, he saw that on the top of a high cedar-tree there was a tengu's nest;[58] so he began shaking the tree with all his might, until at last the tengu's nest came tumbling down. [Footnote 58: _Tengu_, or the Heavenly Dog, a hobgoblin who infests desert places, and is invoked to frighten naughty little children.] As luck would have it, the famous hero, Minamoto no Yorimitsu, with his retainers, Watanabé Isuna, Usui Sadamitsu, and several others, had come to the mountain to hunt, and seeing the feat which "Little Wonder" had performed, came to the conclusion that he could be no ordinary child. Minamoto no Yorimitsu ordered Watanabé Isuna to find out the child's name and parentage. The Old Woman of the Mountain, on being asked about him, answered that she was the wife of Kurando, and that "Little Wonder" was the child of their marriage. And she proceeded to relate all the adventures which had befallen her. When Yorimitsu heard her story, he said, "Certainly this child does not belie his lineage. Give the brat to me, and I will make him my retainer." The Old Woman of the Mountain gladly consented, and gave "Little Wonder" to Yorimitsu; but she herself remained in her mountain home. So "Little Wonder" went off with the hero Yorimitsu, who named him Sakata Kintoki; and in aftertimes he became famous and illustrious as a warrior, and his deeds are recited to this day. He is the favourite hero of little children, who carry his portrait in their bosom, and wish that they could emulate his bravery and strength. THE ELVES AND THE ENVIOUS NEIGHBOUR Once upon a time there was a certain man, who, being overtaken by darkness among the mountains, was driven to seek shelter in the trunk of a hollow tree. In the middle of the night, a large company of elves assembled at the place; and the man, peeping out from his hiding-place, was frightened out of his wits. After a while, however, the elves began to feast and drink wine, and to amuse themselves by singing and dancing, until at last the man, caught by the infection of the fun, forgot all about his fright, and crept out of his hollow tree to join in the revels. When the day was about to dawn, the elves said to the man, "You're a very jolly companion, and must come out and have a dance with us again. You must make us a promise, and keep it." So the elves, thinking to bind the man over to return, took a large wen that grew on his forehead and kept it in pawn; upon this they all left the place, and went home. The man walked off to his own house in high glee at having passed a jovial night, and got rid of his wen into the bargain. So he told the story to all his friends, who congratulated him warmly on being cured of his wen. But there was a neighbour of his who was also troubled with a wen of long standing, and, when he heard of his friend's luck, he was smitten with envy, and went off to hunt for the hollow tree, in which, when he had found it, he passed the night. Towards midnight the elves came, as he had expected, and began feasting and drinking, with songs and dances as before. As soon as he saw this, he came out of his hollow tree, and began dancing and singing as his neighbour had done. The elves, mistaking him for their former boon-companion, were delighted to see him, and said-- "You're a good fellow to recollect your promise, and we'll give you back your pledge;" so one of the elves, pulling the pawned wen out of his pocket, stuck it on to the man's forehead, on the top of the other wen which he already bad. So the envious neighbour went home weeping, with two wens instead of one. This is a good lesson to people who cannot see the good luck of others, without coveting it for themselves. THE GHOST OF SAKURA The misfortunes and death of the farmer Sôgorô, which, although the preternatural appearances by which they are said to have been followed may raise a smile, are matters of historic notoriety with which every Japanese is familiar, furnish a forcible illustration of the relations which exist between the tenant and the lord of the soil, and of the boundless power for good or for evil exercised by the latter. It is rather remarkable that in a country where the peasant--placed as he is next to the soldier, and before the artisan and merchant, in the four classes into which the people are divided--enjoys no small consideration, and where agriculture is protected by law from the inroads of wild vegetation, even to the lopping of overshadowing branches and the cutting down of hedgerow timber, the lord of the manor should be left practically without control in his dealings with his people. The land-tax, or rather the yearly rent paid by the tenant, is usually assessed at forty per cent. of the produce; but there is no principle clearly defining it, and frequently the landowner and the cultivator divide the proceeds of the harvest in equal shapes. Rice land is divided into three classes; and, according to these classes, it is computed that one _tan_ (1,800 square feet) of the best land should yield to the owner a revenue of five bags of rice per annum; each of these bags holds four tô (a tô is rather less than half an imperial bushel), and is worth at present (1868) three riyos, or about sixteen shillings; land of the middle class should yield a revenue of three or four bags. The rent is paid either in rice or in money, according to the actual price of the grain, which varies considerably. It is due in the eleventh month of the year, when the crops have all been gathered, and their market value fixed. The rent of land bearing crops other than rice, such as cotton, beans, roots, and so forth, is payable in money during the twelfth month. The choice of the nature of the crops to be grown appears to be left to the tenant. The Japanese landlord, when pressed by poverty, does not confine himself to the raising of his legitimate rents: he can always enforce from his needy tenantry the advancement of a year's rent, or the loan of so much money as may be required to meet his immediate necessities. Should the lord be just, the peasant is repaid by instalments, with interest, extending over ten or twenty years. But it too often happens that unjust and merciless lords do not repay such loans, but, on the contrary, press for further advances. Then it is that the farmers, dressed in their grass rain-coats, and carrying sickles and bamboo poles in their hands, assemble before the gate of their lord's palace at the capital, and represent their grievances, imploring the intercession of the retainers, and even of the womankind who may chance to go forth. Sometimes they pay for their temerity by their lives; but, at any rate, they have the satisfaction of bringing shame upon their persecutor, in the eyes of his neighbours and of the populace. [Illustration: THE DEPUTATION OF PEASANTS AT THEIR LORD'S GATE.] The official reports of recent travels in the interior of Japan have fully proved the hard lot with which the peasantry had to put up during the government of the Tycoons, and especially under the Hatamotos, the created nobility of the dynasty. In one province, where the village mayors appear to have seconded the extortions of their lord, they have had to flee before an exasperated population, who, taking advantage of the revolution, laid waste and pillaged their houses, loudly praying for a new and just assessment of the land; while, throughout the country, the farmers have hailed with acclamations the resumption of the sovereign power by the Mikado, and the abolition of the petty nobility who exalted themselves upon the misery of their dependants. Warming themselves in the sunshine of the court at Yedo, the Hatamotos waxed fat and held high revel, and little cared they who groaned or who starved. Money must be found, and it was found. It is necessary here to add a word respecting the position of the village mayors, who play so important a part in the tale. The peasants of Japan are ruled by three classes of officials: the Nanushi, or mayor; the Kumigashira, or chiefs of companies; and the Hiyakushôdai, or farmers' representatives. The village, which is governed by the Nanushi, or mayor, is divided into companies, which, consisting of five families each, are directed by a Kumigashira; these companies, again, are subdivided into groups of five men each, who choose one of their number to represent them in case of their having any petition to present, or any affairs to settle with their superiors. This functionary is the Hiyakushôdai. The mayor, the chief of the company, and the representative keep registers of the families and people under their control, and are responsible for their good and orderly behaviour. They pay taxes like the other farmers, but receive a salary, the amount of which depends upon the size and wealth of the village. Five per cent. of the yearly land tax forms the salary of the mayor, and the other officials each receive five per cent. of the tax paid by the little bodies over which they respectively rule. The average amount of land for one family to cultivate is about one chô, or 9,000 square yards; but there are farmers who have inherited as much as five or even six chô from their ancestors. There is also a class of farmers called, from their poverty, "water-drinking farmers," who have no land of their own, but hire that of those who have more than they can keep in their own hands. The rent so paid varies; but good rice land will bring in as high a rent as from £1 18s. to £2 6s. per tan (1,800 square feet). Farm labourers are paid from six or seven riyos a year to as much as thirty riyos (the riyo being worth about 5s. 4d.); besides this, they are clothed and fed, not daintily indeed, but amply. The rice which they cultivate is to them an almost unknown luxury: millet is their staple food, and on high days and holidays they receive messes of barley or buckwheat. Where the mulberry-tree is grown, and the silkworm is "educated," there the labourer receives the highest wage. The rice crop on good land should yield twelve and a half fold, and on ordinary land from six to seven fold only. Ordinary arable land is only half as valuable as rice land, which cannot be purchased for less than forty riyos per tan of 1,800 square feet. Common hill or wood land is cheaper, again, than arable land; but orchards and groves of the Pawlonia are worth from fifty to sixty riyos per tan. With regard to the punishment of crucifixion, by which Sôgorô was put to death, it is inflicted for the following offences:--parricide (including the murder or striking of parents, uncles, aunts, elder brothers, masters, or teachers) coining counterfeit money, and passing the barriers of the Tycoon's territory without a permit.[59] The criminal is attached to an upright post with two cross bars, to which his arms and feet are fastened by ropes. He is then transfixed with spears by men belonging to the Eta or Pariah class. I once passed the execution-ground near Yedo, when a body was attached to the cross. The dead man had murdered his employer, and, having been condemned to death by crucifixion, had died in prison before the sentence could be carried out. He was accordingly packed, in a squatting position, in a huge red earthenware jar, which, having been tightly filled up with. salt, was hermetically sealed. On the anniversary of the commission of the crime, the jar was carried down to the execution-ground and broken, and the body was taken out and tied to the cross, the joints of the knees and arms having been cut, to allow of the extension of the stiffened and shrunken limbs; it was then transfixed with spears, and allowed to remain exposed for three days. An open grave, the upturned soil of which seemed almost entirely composed of dead men's remains, waited to receive the dishonoured corpse, over which three or four Etas, squalid and degraded beings, were mounting guard, smoking their pipes by a scanty charcoal fire, and bandying obscene jests. It was a hideous and ghastly warning, had any cared to read the lesson; but the passers-by on the high road took little or no notice of the sight, and a group of chubby and happy children were playing not ten yards from the dead body, as if no strange or uncanny thing were near them. [Footnote 59: This last crime is, of course, now obsolete.] THE GHOST OF SAKURA.[60] [Footnote 60: The story, which also forms the subject of a play, is published, but with altered names, in order that offence may not be given to the Hotta family. The real names are preserved here. The events related took place during the rule of the Shogun Iyémitsu, in the first half of the seventeenth century.] How true is the principle laid down by Confucius, that the benevolence of princes is reflected in their country, while their wickedness causes sedition and confusion! [Illustration: THE GHOST OF SAKURA.] In the province of Shimôsa, and the district of Sôma, Hotta Kaga no Kami was lord of the castle of Sakura, and chief of a family which had for generations produced famous warriors. When Kaga no Kami, who had served in the Gorôjiu, the cabinet of the Shogun, died at the castle of Sakura, his eldest son Kôtsuké no Suké Masanobu inherited his estates and honours, and was appointed to a seat in the Gorôjiu; but he was a different man from the lords who had preceded him. He treated the farmers and peasants unjustly, imposing additional and grievous taxes, so that the tenants on his estates were driven to the last extremity of poverty; and although year after year, and month after month, they prayed for mercy, and remonstrated against this injustice, no heed was paid to them, and the people throughout the villages were reduced to the utmost distress. Accordingly, the chiefs of the one hundred and thirty-six villages, producing a total revenue of 40,000 kokus of rice, assembled together in council and determined unanimously to present a petition to the Government, sealed with their seals, stating that their repeated remonstrances had been taken no notice of by their local authorities. Then they assembled in numbers before the house of one of the councillors of their lord, named Ikéura Kazuyé, in order to show the petition to him first, but even then no notice was taken of them; so they returned home, and resolved, after consulting together, to proceed to their lord's yashiki, or palace, at Yedo, on the seventh day of the tenth month. It was determined, with one accord, that one hundred and forty-three village chiefs should go to Yedo; and the chief of the village of Iwahashi, one Sôgorô, a man forty-eight years of age, distinguished for his ability and judgment, ruling a district which produced a thousand kokus, stepped forward, and said-- "This is by no means an easy matter, my masters. It certainly is of great importance that we should forward our complaint to our lord's palace at Yedo; but what are your plans? Have you any fixed intentions?" "It is, indeed, a most important matter," rejoined the others; but they had nothing further to say. Then Sôgorô went on to say-- "We have appealed to the public office of our province, but without avail; we have petitioned the Prince's councillors, also in vain. I know that all that remains for us is to lay our case before our lord's palace at Yedo; and if we go there, it is equally certain that we shall not be listened to--on the contrary, we shall be cast into prison. If we are not attended to here, in our own province, how much less will the officials at Yedo care for us. We might hand our petition into the litter of one of the Gorôjiu, in the public streets; but, even in that case, as our lord is a member of the Gorôjiu, none of his peers would care to examine into the rights and wrongs of our complaint, for fear of offending him, and the man who presented the petition in so desperate a manner would lose his life on a bootless errand. If you have made up your minds to this, and are determined, at all hazards, to start, then go to Yedo by all means, and bid a long farewell to parents, children, wives, and relations. This is my opinion." The others all agreeing with what Sôgorô said, they determined that, come what might, they would go to Yedo; and they settled to assemble at the village of Funabashi on the thirteenth day of the eleventh month. On the appointed day all the village officers met at the place agreed upon,--Sôgorô, the chief of the village of Iwahashi, alone being missing; and as on the following day Sôgorô had not yet arrived, they deputed one of their number, named Rokurobei, to inquire the reason. Rokurobei arrived at Sôgorô's house towards four in the afternoon, and found him warming himself quietly over his charcoal brazier, as if nothing were the matter. The messenger, seeing this, said rather testily-- "The chiefs of the villages are all assembled at Funabashi according to covenant, and as you, Master Sôgorô, have not arrived, I have come to inquire whether it is sickness or some other cause that prevents you." "Indeed," replied Sôgorô, "I am sorry that you should have had so much trouble. My intention was to have set out yesterday; but I was taken with a cholic, with which I am often troubled, and, as you may see, I am taking care of myself; so for a day or two I shall not be able to start. Pray be so good as to let the others know this." Rokurobei, seeing that there was no help for it, went back to the village of Funabashi and communicated to the others what had occurred. They were all indignant at what they looked upon as the cowardly defection of a man who had spoken so fairly, but resolved that the conduct of one man should not influence the rest, and talked themselves into the belief that the affair which they had in hand would be easily put through; so they agreed with one accord to start and present the petition, and, having arrived at Yedo, put up in the street called Bakurochô. But although they tried to forward their complaint to the various officers of their lord, no one would listen to them; the doors were all shut in their faces, and they had to go back to their inn, crestfallen and without success. On the following day, being the 18th of the month, they all met together at a tea-house in an avenue, in front of a shrine of Kwannon Sama;[61] and having held a consultation, they determined that, as they could hit upon no good expedient, they would again send for Sôgorô to see whether he could devise no plan. Accordingly, on the 19th, Rokurobei and one Jiuyémon started for the village of Iwahashi at noon, and arrived the same evening. [Footnote 61: A Buddhist deity.] Now the village chief Sôgorô, who had made up his mind that the presentation of this memorial was not a matter to be lightly treated, summoned his wife and children and his relations, and said to them-- "I am about to undertake a journey to Yedo, for the following reasons:--Our present lord of the soil has increased the land-tax, in rice and the other imposts, more than tenfold, so that pen and paper would fail to convey an idea of the poverty to which the people are reduced, and the peasants are undergoing the tortures of hell upon earth. Seeing this, the chiefs of the various villages have presented petitions, but with what result is doubtful. My earnest desire, therefore, is to devise some means of escape from this cruel persecution. If my ambitious scheme does not succeed, then shall I return home no more; and even should I gain my end, it is hard to say how I may be treated by those in power. Let us drink a cup of wine together, for it may be that you shall see my face no more. I give my life to allay the misery of the people of this estate. If I die, mourn not over my fate; weep not for me." Having spoken thus, he addressed his wife and his four children, instructing them carefully as to what he desired to be done after his death, and minutely stating every wish of his heart. Then, having drunk a parting cup with them, he cheerfully took leave of all present, and went to a tea-house in the neighbouring village of Funabashi, where the two messengers, Rokurobei and Jiuyémon, were anxiously awaiting his arrival, in order that they might recount to him all that had taken place at Yedo. "In short," said they, "it appears to us that we have failed completely; and we have come to meet you in order to hear what you propose. If you have any plan to suggest, we would fain be made acquainted with it." "We have tried the officers of the district," replied Sôgorô, "and we have tried my lord's palace at Yedo. However often we might assemble before my lord's gate, no heed would be given to us. There is nothing left for us but to appeal to the Shogun." So they sat talking over their plans until the night was far advanced, and then they went to rest. The winter night was long; but when the cawing of the crows was about to announce the morning, the three friends started on their journey for the tea-house at Asakusa, at which, upon their arrival, they found the other village elders already assembled. "Welcome, Master Sôgorô," said they. "How is it that you have come so late? We have petitioned all the officers to no purpose, and we have broken our bones in vain. We are at our wits' end, and can think of no other scheme. If there is any plan which seems good to you, we pray you to act upon it." "Sirs," replied Sôgorô, speaking very quietly, "although we have met with no better success here than in our own place, there is no use in grieving. In a day or two the Gorôjiu will be going to the castle; we must wait for this opportunity, and following one of the litters, thrust in our memorial. This is my opinion: what think you of it, my masters?" One and all, the assembled elders were agreed as to the excellence of this advice; and having decided to act upon it, they returned to their inn. Then Sôgorô held a secret consultation with Jiuyémon, Hanzô, Rokurobei, Chinzô, and Kinshirô, five of the elders, and, with their assistance, drew up the memorial; and having heard that on the 26th of the month, when the Gorôjiu should go to the castle, Kuzé Yamato no Kami would proceed to a palace under the western enclosure of the castle, they kept watch in a place hard by. As soon as they saw the litter of the Gorôjiu approach, they drew near to it, and, having humbly stated their grievances, handed in the petition; and as it was accepted, the six elders were greatly elated, and doubted not that their hearts' desire would be attained; so they went off to a tea-house at Riyôgoku, and Jiuyémon said-- "We may congratulate ourselves on our success. We have handed in our petition to the Gorôjiu, and now we may set our minds at rest; before many days have passed, we shall hear good news from the rulers. To Master Sôgorô is due great praise for his exertions." Sôgorô, stepping forward, answered, "Although we have presented our memorial to the Gorôjiu, the matter will not be so quickly decided; it is therefore useless that so many of us should remain here: let eleven men stay with me, and let the rest return home to their several villages. If we who remain are accused of conspiracy and beheaded, let the others agree to reclaim and bury our corpses. As for the expenses which we shall incur until our suit is concluded, let that be according to our original covenant. For the sake of the hundred and thirty-six villages we will lay down our lives, if needs must, and submit to the disgrace of having our heads exposed as those of common malefactors." Then they had a parting feast together, and, after a sad leave-taking, the main body of the elders went home to their own country; while the others, wending their way to their quarters waited patiently to be summoned to the Supreme Court. On the 2d day of the 12th month, Sôgorô, having received a summons from the residence of the Gorôjiu Kuzé Yamato no Kami, proceeded to obey it, and was ushered to the porch of the house, where two councillors, named Aijima Gidaiyu and Yamaji Yôri, met him, and said-- "Some days since you had the audacity to thrust a memorial into the litter of our lord Yamato no Kami. By an extraordinary exercise of clemency, he is willing to pardon this heinous offence; but should you ever again endeavour to force your petitions; upon him, you will be held guilty of riotous conduct;" and with this they gave back the memorial. "I humbly admit the justice of his lordship's censure. But oh! my lords, this is no hasty nor ill-considered action. Year after year, affliction upon affliction has been heaped upon us, until at last the people are without even the necessaries of life; and we, seeing no end to the evil, have humbly presented this petition. I pray your lordships of your great mercy to consider our case" and deign to receive our memorial. Vouchsafe to take some measures that the people may live, and our gratitude for your great kindness will know no bounds." "Your request is a just one," replied the two councillors after hearing what he said; "but your memorial cannot be received: so you must even take it back." With this they gave back the document, and wrote down the names of Sôgorô and six of the elders who had accompanied him. There was no help for it: they must take back their petition, and return to their inn. The seven men, dispirited and sorrowful, sat with folded arms considering what was best to be done, what plan should be devised, until at last, when they were at their wits' end, Sôgorô said, in a whisper-- "So our petition, which we gave in after so much pains, has been returned after all! With what f ace can we return to our villages after such a disgrace? I, for one, do not propose to waste my labour for nothing; accordingly, I shall bide my time until some day, when the Shogun shall go forth from the castle, and, lying in wait by the roadside, I shall make known our grievances to him, who is lord over our lord. This is our last chance." [Illustration: SÔGORÔ THRUSTING THE PETITION INTO THE SHOGUN'S LITTER.] The others all applauded this speech, and, having with one accord hardened their hearts, waited for their opportunity. Now it so happened that, on the 20th day of the 12th month, the then Shogun, Prince Iyémitsu, was pleased to worship at the tombs of his ancestors at Uyéno;[62] and Sôgorô and the other elders, hearing this, looked upon it as a special favour from the gods, and felt certain that this time they would not fail. So they drew up a fresh memorial, and at the appointed time Sôgorô hid himself under the Sammayé Bridge, in front of the black gate at Uyéno. When Prince Iyémitsu passed in his litter, Sôgorô clambered up from under the bridge, to the great surprise of the Shogun's attendants, who called out, "Push the fellow on one side;" but, profiting by the confusion, Sôgorô, raising his voice and crying, "I wish to humbly present a petition to his Highness in person," thrust forward his memorial, which he had tied on to the end of a bamboo stick six feet long, and tried to put it into the litter; and although there were cries to arrest him, and he was buffeted by the escort, he crawled up to the side of the litter, and the Shogun accepted the document. But Sôgorô was arrested by the escort, and thrown into prison. As for the memorial, his Highness ordered that it should be handed in to the Gorôjiu Hotta Kôtsuké no Suké, the lord of the petitioners. [Footnote 62: Destroyed during the revolution, in the summer of 1868, by the troops of the Mikado. See note on the tombs of the Shoguns, at the end of the story.] When Hotta Kôtsuké no Suké had returned home and read the memorial, he summoned his councillor, Kojima Shikibu, and said-- "The officials of my estate are mere bunglers. When the peasants assembled and presented a petition, they refused to receive it, and have thus brought this trouble upon me. Their folly has been beyond belief; however, it cannot be helped. We must remit all the new taxes, and you must inquire how much was paid to the former lord of the castle. As for this Sôgorô, he is not the only one who is at the bottom of the conspiracy; however, as this heinous offence of his in going out to lie in wait for the Shogun's procession is unpardonable, we must manage to get him given up to us by the Government, and, as an example for the rest of my people, he shall be crucified--he and his wife and his children; and, after his death, all that he possesses shall be confiscated. The other six men shall be banished; and that will suffice." "My lord," replied Shikibu, prostrating himself, "your lordship's intentions are just. Sôgorô, indeed, deserves any punishment for his outrageous crime. But I humbly venture to submit that his wife and children cannot be said to be guilty in the same degree: I implore your lordship mercifully to be pleased to absolve them from so severe a punishment." "Where the sin of the father is great, the wife and children cannot be spared," replied Kôtsuké no Suké; and his councillor, seeing that his heart was hardened, was forced to obey his orders without further remonstrance. So Kôtsuké no Suké, having obtained that Sôgorô should be given up to him by the Government, caused him to be brought to his estate of Sakura as a criminal, in a litter covered with nets, and confined him in prison. When his case had been inquired into, a decree was issued by the Lord Kôtsuké no Suké that he should be punished for a heinous crime; and on the 9th day of the 2d month of the second year of the period styled Shôhô (A.D. 1644) he was condemned to be crucified. Accordingly Sôgorô, his wife and children, and the elders of the hundred and thirty-six villages were brought before the Court-house of Sakura, in which were assembled forty-five chief officers. The elders were then told that, yielding to their petition, their lord was graciously pleased to order that the oppressive taxes should be remitted, and that the dues levied should not exceed those of the olden time. As for Sôgorô and his wife, the following sentence was passed upon them:-- "Whereas you have set yourself up as the head of the villagers; whereas, secondly, you have dared to make light of the Government by petitioning his Highness the Shogun directly, thereby offering an insult to your lord; and whereas, thirdly, you have presented a memorial to the Gorôjiu; and, whereas, fourthly, you were privy to a conspiracy: for these four heinous crimes you are sentenced to death by crucifixion. Your wife is sentenced to die in like manner; and your children will be decapitated. "This sentence is passed upon the following persons:-- "Sôgorô, chief of the village of Iwahashi, aged 48. "His wife, Man, aged 38. "His son, Gennosuké, aged 13. "His son, Sôhei, aged 10. "His son, Kihachi, aged 7." The eldest daughter of Sôgorô, named Hatsu, nineteen years of age, was married to a man named Jiuyémon, in the village of Hakamura, in Shitachi, beyond the river, in the territory of Matsudaira Matsu no Kami (the Prince of Sendai). His second daughter, whose name was Saki, sixteen years of age, was married to one Tôjiurô, chief of a village on the property of my lord Naitô Geki. No punishment was decreed against these two women. The six elders who had accompanied Sôgorô were told that although by good rights they had merited death, yet by the special clemency of their lord their lives would be spared, but that they were condemned to banishment. Their wives and children would not be attainted, and their property would be spared. The six men were banished to Oshima, in the province of Idzu. Sôgorô heard his sentence with pure courage. The six men were banished; but three of them lived to be pardoned on the occasion of the death of the Shogun, Prince Genyuin,[63] and returned to their country. [Footnote 63: The name assigned after death to Iyétsuna, the fourth of the dynasty of Tokugawa, who died on the 8th day of the 5th month of the year A.D. 1680.] According to the above decision, the taxes were remitted; and men and women, young and old, rejoiced over the advantage that had been gained for them by Sôgorô and by the six elders, and there was not one that did not mourn for their fate. When the officers of the several villages left the Court-house, one Zembei, the chief of the village of Sakato, told the others that he had some important subjects to speak to them upon, and begged them to meet him in the temple called Fukushôin. Every man having consented, and the hundred and thirty-six men having assembled at the temple, Zembei addressed them as follows:-- "The success of our petition, in obtaining the reduction of our taxes to the same amount as was levied by our former lord, is owing to Master Sôgorô, who has thus thrown away his life for us. He and his wife and children are now to suffer as criminals for the sake of the one hundred and thirty-six villages. That such a thing should take place before our very eyes seems to me not to be borne. What say you, my masters?" "Ay! ay! what you say is just from top to bottom," replied the others. Then Hanzayémon, the elder of the village of Katsuta, stepped forward and said-- "As Master Zembei has just said, Sôgorô is condemned to die for a matter in which all the village elders are concerned to a man. We cannot look on unconcerned. Full well I know that it is useless our pleading for Sôgorô; but we may, at least, petition that the lives of his wife and children may be spared." The assembled elders having all applauded this speech, they determined to draw up a memorial; and they resolved, should their petition not be accepted by the local authorities, to present it at their lord's palace in Yedo, and, should that fail, to appeal to the Government. Accordingly, before noon on the following day, they all affixed their seals to the memorial, which four of them, including Zembei and Hanzayémon, composed, as follows:-- "With deep fear we humbly venture to present the following petition, which the elders of the one hundred and thirty-six villages of this estate have sealed with their seals. In consequence of the humble petition which we lately offered up, the taxes have graciously been reduced to the rates levied by the former lord of the estate, and new laws have been vouchsafed to us. With reverence and joy the peasants, great and small, have gratefully acknowledged these favours. With regard to Sôgorô, the elder of the village of Iwahashi, who ventured to petition his highness the Shogun in person, thus being guilty of a heinous crime, he has been sentenced to death in the castle-town. With fear and trembling we recognize the justice of his sentence. But in the matter of his wife and children, she is but a woman, and they are so young and innocent that they cannot distinguish the east from the west: we pray that in your great clemency you will remit their sin, and give them up to the representatives of the one hundred and thirty-six villages, for which we shall be ever grateful. We, the elders of the villages, know not to what extent we may be transgressing in presenting this memorial. We were all guilty of affixing our seals to the former petition; but Sôgorô, who was chief of a large district, producing a thousand kokus of revenue, and was therefore a man of experience, acted for the others; and we grieve that he alone should suffer for all. Yet in his case we reverently admit that there can be no reprieve. For his wife and children, however, we humbly implore your gracious mercy and consideration. "Signed by the elders of the villages of the estate, the 2d year of Shôhô, and the 2d month." Having drawn up this memorial, the hundred and thirty-six elders, with Zembei at their head, proceeded to the Court-house to present the petition, and found the various officers seated in solemn conclave. Then the clerk took the petition, and, having opened it, read it aloud; and the councillor, Ikéura Kazuyé, said-- "The petition which you have addressed to us is worthy of all praise. But you must know that this is a matter which is no longer within our control. The affair has been reported to the Government; and although the priests of my lord's ancestral temple have interceded for Sôgorô, my lord is so angry that he will not listen even to them, saying that, had he not been one of the Gorôjiu, he would have been in danger of being ruined by this man: his high station alone saved him. My lord spoke so severely that the priests themselves dare not recur to the subject. You see, therefore, that it will be no use your attempting to take any steps in the matter, for most certainly your petition will not be received. You had better, then, think no more about it." And with these words he gave back the memorial. Zembei and the elders, seeing, to their infinite sorrow, that their mission was fruitless, left the Court-house, and most sorrowfully took counsel together, grinding their teeth in their disappointment when they thought over what the councillor had said as to the futility of their attempt. Out of grief for this, Zembei, with Hanzayémon and Heijiurô, on the 11th day of the 2d month (the day on which Sôgorô and his wife and children suffered), left Ewaradai, the place of execution, and went to the temple Zenkôji, in the province of Shinshiu, and from thence they ascended Mount Kôya in Kishiu, and, on the 1st day of the 8th month, shaved their heads and became priests; Zembei changed his name to Kakushin, and Hanzayémon changed his to Zenshô: as for Heijiurô, he fell sick at the end of the 7th month, and on the 11th day of the 8th month died, being forty-seven years old that year. These three men, who had loved Sôgorô as the fishes love water, were true to him to the last. Heijiurô was buried on Mount Kôya. Kakushin wandered through the country as a priest, praying for the entry of Sôgorô and his children into the perfection of paradise; and, after visiting all the shrines and temples, came back at last to his own province of Shimôsa, and took up his abode at the temple Riukakuji, in the village of Kano, and in the district of Imban, praying and making offerings on behalf of the souls of Sôgorô, his wife and children. Hanzayémon, now known as the priest Zenshô, remained at Shinagawa, a suburb of Yedo, and, by the charity of good people, collected enough money to erect six bronze Buddhas, which remain standing to this day. He fell sick and died, at the age of seventy, on the 10th day of the 2d month of the 13th year of the period styled Kambun. Zembei, who, as a priest, had changed his name to Kakushin, died, at the age of seventy-six, on the 17th day of the 10th month of the 2d year of the period styled Empô. Thus did those men, for the sake of Sôgorô and his family, give themselves up to works of devotion; and the other villagers also brought food to soothe the spirits of the dead, and prayed for their entry into paradise; and as litanies were repeated without intermission, there can be no doubt that Sôgorô attained salvation. "In paradise, where the blessings of God are distributed without favour, the soul learns its faults by the measure of the rewards given. The lusts of the flesh are abandoned; and the soul, purified, attains to the glory of Buddha."[64] [Footnote 64: Buddhist text.] On the 11th day of the 2d month of the 2d year of Shôhô, Sôgorô having been convicted of a heinous crime, a scaffold was erected at Ewaradai, and the councillor who resided at Yedo and the councillor who resided on the estate, with the other officers, proceeded to the place in all solemnity. Then the priests of Tôkôji, in the village of Sakénaga, followed by coffin-bearers, took their places in front of the councillors, and said-- "We humbly beg leave to present a petition." "What have your reverences to say?" "We are men who have forsaken the world and entered the priesthood," answered the monks, respectfully; "and we would fain, if it be possible, receive the bodies of those who are to die, that we may bury them decently. It will be a great joy to us if our humble petition be graciously heard and granted." "Your request shall be granted; but as the crime of Sôgorô was great, his body must be exposed for three days and three nights, after which the corpse shall be given to you." At the hour of the snake (10 A.M.), the hour appointed for the execution, the people from the neighbouring villages and the castle-town, old and young, men and women, flocked to see the sight: numbers there were, too, who came to bid a last farewell to Sôgorô, his wife and children, and to put up a prayer for them. When the hour had arrived, the condemned were dragged forth bound, and made to sit upon coarse mats. Sôgorô and his wife closed their eyes, for the sight was more than they could bear; and the spectators, with heaving breasts and streaming eyes, cried "Cruel!" and "Pitiless!" and taking sweetmeats and cakes from the bosoms of their dresses threw them to the children. At noon precisely Sôgorô and his wife were bound to the crosses, which were then set upright and fixed in the ground. When this had been done, their eldest son Gennosuké was led forward to the scaffold, in front of the two parents. Then Sôgorô cried out-- "Oh! cruel, cruel! what crime has this poor child committed that he is treated thus? As for me, it matters not what becomes of me." And the tears trickled down his face. The spectators prayed aloud, and shut their eyes; and the executioner himself, standing behind the boy, and saying that it was a pitiless thing that the child should suffer for the father's fault, prayed silently. Then Gennosuké, who had remained with his eyes closed, said to his parents-- "Oh! my father and mother, I am going before you to paradise, that happy country, to wait for you. My little brothers and I will be on the banks of the river Sandzu,[65] and stretch out our hands and help you across. Farewell, all you who have come to see us die; and now please cut off my head at once." [Footnote 65: The Buddhist Styx, which separates paradise from hell, across which the dead are ferried by an old woman, for whom a small piece of money is buried with them.] With this he stretched out his neck, murmuring a last prayer; and not only Sôgorô and his wife, but even the executioner and the spectators could not repress their tears; but the headsman, unnerved as he was, and touched to the very heart, was forced, on account of his office, to cut off the child's head, and a piteous wail arose from the parents and the spectators. Then the younger child Sôhei said to the headsman, "Sir, I have a sore on my right shoulder: please, cut my head off from the left shoulder, lest you should hurt me. Alas! I know not how to die, nor what I should do." When the headsman and the officers present heard the child's artless speech, they wept again for very pity; but there was no help for it, and the head fell off more swiftly than water is drunk up by sand. Then little Kihachi, the third son, who, on account of his tender years, should have been spared, was butchered as he was in his simplicity eating the sweetmeats which had been thrown to him by the spectators. When the execution of the children was over, the priests of Tôkôji took their corpses, and, having placed them in their coffins, carried them away, amidst the lamentations of the bystanders, and buried them with great solemnity. Then Shigayémon, one of the servants of Danzayémon, the chief of the Etas, who had been engaged for the purpose, was just about to thrust his spear, when O Man, Sôgorô's wife, raising her voice, said-- "Remember, my husband, that from the first you had made up your mind to this fate. What though our bodies be disgracefully exposed on these crosses?--we have the promises of the gods before us; therefore, mourn not. Let us fix our minds upon death: we are drawing near to paradise, and shall soon be with the saints. Be calm, my husband. Let us cheerfully lay down our single lives for the good of many. Man lives but for one generation; his name, for many. A good name is more to be prized than life." So she spoke; and Sôgorô on the cross, laughing gaily, answered-- "Well said, wife! What though we are punished for the many? Our petition was successful, and there is nothing left to wish for. Now I am happy, for I have attained my heart's desire. The changes and chances of life are manifold. But if I had five hundred lives, and could five hundred times assume this shape of mine, I would die five hundred times to avenge this iniquity. For myself I care not; but that my wife and children should be punished also is too much. Pitiless and cruel! Let my lord fence himself in with iron walls, yet shall my spirit burst through them and crush his bones, as a return for this deed." And as he spoke, his eyes became vermilion red, and flashed like the sun or the moon, and he looked like the demon Razetsu.[66] [Footnote 66: A Buddhist fiend.] "Come," shouted he, "make haste and pierce me with the spear." "Your wishes shall be obeyed," said the Eta, Shigayémon, and thrust in a spear at his right side until it came out at his left shoulder, and the blood streamed out like a fountain. Then he pierced the wife from the left side; and she, opening her eyes, said in a dying voice-- "Farewell, all you who are present. May harm keep far from you. Farewell! farewell!" and as her voice waxed faint, the second spear was thrust in from her right side, and she breathed out her spirit. Sôgorô, the colour of his face not even changing, showed no sign of fear, but opening his eyes wide, said-- "Listen, my masters! all you who have come to see this sight. Recollect that I shall pay my thanks to my lord Kôtsuké no Suké for this day's work. You shall see it for yourselves, so that it shall be talked of for generations to come. As a sign, when I am dead, my head shall turn and face towards the castle. When you see this, doubt not that my words shall come true." When he had spoken thus, the officer directing the execution gave a sign to the Eta, Shigayémon, and ordered him to finish the execution, so that Sôgorô should speak no more. So Shigayémon pierced him twelve or thirteen times, until he died. And when he was dead, his head turned and faced the castle. When the two councillors beheld this miracle, they came down from their raised platform, and knelt down before Sôgorô's dead body and said-- "Although you were but a peasant on this estate, you conceived a noble plan to succour the other farmers in their distress. You bruised your bones, and crushed your heart, for their sakes. Still, in that you appealed to the Shogun in person, you committed a grievous crime, and made light of your superiors; and for this it was impossible not to punish you. Still we admit that to include your wife and children in your crime, and kill them before your eyes, was a cruel deed. What is done, is done, and regret is of no avail. However, honours shall be paid to your spirit: you shall be canonized as the Saint Daimiyô, and you shall be placed among the tutelar deities of my lord's family." With these words the two councillors made repeated reverences before the corpse; and in this they showed their faithfulness to their lord. But he, when the matter was reported to him, only laughed scornfully at the idea that the hatred of a peasant could affect his feudal lord; and said that a vassal who had dared to hatch a plot which, had it not been for his high office, would have been sufficient to ruin him, had only met with his deserts. As for causing him to be canonized, let him be as he was. Seeing their lord's anger, his councillors could only obey. But it was not long before he had cause to know that, though Sôgorô was dead, his vengeance was yet alive. The relations of Sôgorô and the elders of the villages having been summoned to the Court-house, the following document was issued:-- "Although the property of Sôgorô, the elder of the village of Iwahashi, is confiscated, his household furniture shall be made over to his two married daughters; and the village officials will look to it that these few poor things be not stolen by lawless and unprincipled men. "His rice-fields and corn-fields, his mountain land and forest land, will be sold by auction. His house and grounds will be given over to the elder of the village. The price fetched by his property will be paid over to the lord of the estate. "The above decree will be published, in full, to the peasants of the village; and it is strictly forbidden to find fault with this decision. "The 12th day of the 2d month, of the 2d year of the period Shôhô." The peasants, having heard this degree with all humility, left the Court-house. Then the following punishments were awarded to the officers of the castle, who, by rejecting the petition of the peasants in the first instance, had brought trouble upon their lord:-- "Dismissed from their office, the resident councillors at Yedo and at the castle-town. "Banished from the province, four district governors, and three bailiffs, and nineteen petty officers. "Dismissed from office, three metsukés, or censors, and seven magistrates. "Condemned to _hara-kiri_, one district governor and one Yedo bailiff. "The severity of this sentence is owing to the injustice of the officials in raising new and unprecedented taxes, and bringing affliction upon the people, and in refusing to receive the petitions of the peasants, without consulting their lord, thus driving them to appeal to the Shogun in person. In their avarice they looked not to the future, but laid too heavy a burden on the peasants, so that they made an appeal to a higher power, endangering the honour of their lord's house. For this bad government the various officials are to be punished as above." In this wise was justice carried out at the palace at Yedo and at the Court-house at home. But in the history of the world, from the dark ages down to the present time, there are few instances of one man laying down his life for the many, as Sôgorô did: noble and peasant praise him alike. As month after month passed away, towards the fourth year of the period Shôhô, the wife of my lord Kôtsuké no Suké, being with child, was seized with violent pains; and retainers were sent to all the different temples and shrines to pray by proxy, but all to no purpose: she continued to suffer as before. Towards the end of the seventh month of the year, there appeared, every night, a preternatural light above the lady's chamber; this was accompanied by hideous sounds as of many people laughing fiendishly, and sometimes by piteous wailings, as though myriads of persons were lamenting. The profound distress caused by this added to her sufferings; so her own privy councillor, an old man, took his place in the adjoining chamber, and kept watch. All of a sudden, he heard a noise as if a number of people were walking on the boards of the roof of my lady's room; then there was a sound of men and women weeping; and when, thunderstruck, the councillor was wondering what it could all be, there came a wild burst of laughter, and all was silent. Early the following morning, the old women who had charge of my lady's household presented themselves before my lord Kôtsuké no Suké, and said-- "Since the middle of last month, the waiting-women have been complaining to us of the ghostly noises by which my lady is nightly disturbed, and they say that they cannot continue to serve her. We have tried to soothe them, by saying that the devils should be exorcised at once, and that there was nothing to be afraid of. Still we feel that their fears are not without reason, and that they really cannot do their work; so we beg that your lordship will take the matter into your consideration." "This is a passing strange story of yours; however, I will go myself to-night to my lady's apartments and keep watch. You can come with me." Accordingly, that night my lord Kôtsuké no Suké sat up in person. At the hour of the rat (midnight) a fearful noise of voices was heard, and Sôgorô and his wife, bound to the fatal crosses, suddenly appeared; and the ghosts, seizing the lady by the hand, said-- "We have come to meet you. The pains you are suffering are terrible, but they are nothing in comparison with those of the hell to which we are about to lead you." At these words, Kôtsuké no Suké, seizing his sword, tried to sweep the ghosts away with a terrific cut; but a loud peal of laughter was heard, and the visions faded away. Kôtsuké no Suké, terrified, sent his retainers to the temples and shrines to pray that the demons might be cast out; but the noises were heard nightly, as before. When the eleventh month of the year came round, the apparitions of human forms in my lady's apartments became more and more frequent and terrible, all the spirits railing at her, and howling out that they had come to fetch her. The women would all scream and faint; and then the ghosts would disappear amid yells of laughter. Night after night this happened, and even in the daytime the visions would manifest themselves; and my lady's sickness grew worse daily, until in the last month of the year she died, of grief and terror. Then the ghost of Sôgorô and his wife crucified would appear day and night in the chamber of Kôtsuké no Suké, floating round the room, and glaring at him with red and flaming eyes. The hair of the attendants would stand on end with terror; and if they tried to cut at the spirits, their limbs would be cramped, and their feet and hands would not obey their bidding. Kôtsuké no Suké would draw the sword that lay by his bedside; but, as often as he did so, the ghosts faded away, only to appear again in a more hideous shape than before, until at last, having exhausted his strength and spirits, even he became terror-stricken. The whole household was thrown into confusion, and day after day mystic rites and incantations were performed by the priests over braziers of charcoal, while prayers were recited without ceasing; but the visions only became more frequent, and there was no sign of their ceasing. After the 5th year of Shôhô, the style of the years was changed to Keian; and during the 1st year of Keian the spirits continued to haunt the palace; and now they appeared in the chamber of Kôtsuké no Suké's eldest son, surrounding themselves with even more terrors than before; and when Kôtsuké no Suké was about to go to the Shogun's castle, they were seen howling out their cries of vengeance in the porch of the house. At last the relations of the family and the members of the household took counsel together, and told Kôtsuké no Suké that without doubt no ordinary means would suffice to lay the ghosts; a shrine must be erected to Sôgorô, and divine honours paid to him, after which the apparitions would assuredly cease. Kôtsuké no Suké having carefully considered the matter and given his consent, Sôgorô was canonized under the name of Sôgo Daimiyô, and a shrine was erected in his honour. After divine honours had been paid to him, the awful visions were no more seen, and the ghost of Sôgorô was laid for ever. In the 2d year of the period Keian, on the 11th day of the 10th month, on the occasion of the festival of first lighting the fire on the hearth, the various Daimios and Hatamotos of distinction went to the castle of the Shogun, at Yedo, to offer their congratulations on this occasion. During the ceremonies, my lord Hotta Kôtsuké no Suké and Sakai Iwami no Kami, lord of the castle of Matsumoto, in the province of Shinshiu, had a quarrel, the origin of which was not made public; and Sakai Iwami no Kami, although he came of a brave and noble family, received so severe a wound that he died on the following day, at the age of forty-three; and in consequence of this, his family was ruined and disgraced.[67] My lord Kôtsuké no Suké, by great good fortune, contrived to escape from the castle, and took refuge in his own house, whence, mounting a famous horse called Hira-Abumi,[68] he fled to his castle of Sakura, in Shimôsa, accomplishing the distance, which is about sixty miles, in six hours. When he arrived in front of the castle, he called out in a loud voice to the guard within to open the gate, answering, in reply to their challenge, that he was Kôtsuké no Suké, the lord of the castle. The guard, not believing their ears, sent word to the councillor in charge of the castle, who rushed out to see if the person demanding admittance were really their lord. When he saw Kôtsuké no Suké, he caused the gates to be opened, and, thinking it more than strange, said-- "Is this indeed you, my lord? What strange chance brings your lordship hither thus late at night, on horseback and alone, without a single follower?" [Footnote 67: In the old days, if a noble was murdered, and died outside his own house, he was disgraced, and his estates were forfeited. When the Regent of the Shogun was murdered, some years since, outside the castle of Yedo, by a legal fiction it was given out that he had died in his own palace, in order that his son might succeed to his estates.] [Footnote 68: Level stirrups.] With these words he ushered in Kôtsuké no Suké, who, in reply to the anxious inquiries of his people as to the cause of his sudden appearance, said-- "You may well be astonished. I had a quarrel to-day in the castle at Yedo, with Sakai Iwami no Kami, the lord of the castle of Matsumoto, and I cut him down. I shall soon be pursued; so we must strengthen the fortress, and prepare for an attack." The household, hearing this, were greatly alarmed, and the whole castle was thrown into confusion. In the meanwhile the people of Kôtsuké no Suké's palace at Yedo, not knowing whether their lord had fled, were in the greatest anxiety, until a messenger came from Sakura, and reported his arrival there. When the quarrel inside the castle of Yedo and Kôtsuké no Suké's flight had been taken cognizance of, he was attainted of treason, and soldiers were sent to seize him, dead or alive. Midzuno Setsu no Kami and Gotô Yamato no Kami were charged with the execution of the order, and sallied forth, on the 13th day of the 10th month, to carry it out. When they arrived at the town of Sasai, they sent a herald with the following message-- "Whereas Kôtsuké no Suké killed Sakai Iwami no Kami inside the castle of Yedo, and has fled to his own castle without leave, he is attainted of treason; and we, being connected with him by ties of blood and of friendship, have been charged to seize him." The herald delivered this message to the councillor of Kôtsuké no Suké, who, pleading as an excuse that his lord was mad, begged the two nobles to intercede for him. Gotô Yamato no Kami upon this called the councillor to him, and spoke privately to him, after which the latter took his leave and returned to the castle of Sakura. In the meanwhile, after consultation at Yedo, it was decided that, as Gotô Yamato no Kami and Midzuno Setsu no Kami were related to Kôtsuké no Suké, and might meet with difficulties for that very reason, two other nobles, Ogasawara Iki no Kami and Nagai Hida no Kami, should be sent to assist them, with orders that should any trouble arise they should send a report immediately to Yedo. In consequence of this order, the two nobles, with five thousand men, were about to march for Sakura, on the 15th of the month, when a messenger arrived from that place bearing the following despatch for the Gorôjiu, from the two nobles who had preceded them-- "In obedience to the orders of His Highness the Shogun, we proceeded, on the 13th day of this month, to the castle of Sakura, and conducted a thorough investigation of the affair. It is true that Kôtsuké no Suké has been guilty of treason, but he is out of his mind; his retainers have called in physicians, and he is undergoing treatment by which his senses are being gradually restored, and his mind is being awakened from its sleep. At the time when he slew Sakai Iwami no Kami he was not accountable for his actions, and will be sincerely penitent when he is aware of his crime. We have taken him prisoner, and have the honour to await your instructions; in the meanwhile, we beg by these present to let you know what we have done. "(Signed) GOTÔ YAMATO NO KAMI. MIDZUNO SETSU NO KAMI. _To the Gorôjiu, 2d year of Keian, 2d month, 14th day_." This despatch reached Yedo on the 16th of the month, and was read by the Gorôjiu after they had left the castle; and in consequence of the report of Kôtsuké no Suké's madness, the second expedition was put a stop to, and the following instructions were sent to Gotô Yamato no Kami and Midzuno Setsu no Kami-- "With reference to the affair of Hotta Kôtsuké no Suké, lord of the castle of Sakura, in Shimôsa, whose quarrel with Sakai Iwami no Kami within the castle of Yedo ended in bloodshed. For this heinous crime and disregard of the sanctity of the castle, it is ordered that Kôtsuké no Suké be brought as a prisoner to Yedo, in a litter covered with nets, that his case may be judged. "2d year of Keian, 2d month. (_Signed by the Gorôjiu_) INABA MINO NO KAMI. INOUYE KAWACHI NOKAMI. KATÔ ECCHIU NO KAMI." Upon the receipt of this despatch, Hotta Kôtsuké nô Suké was immediately placed in a litter covered with a net of green silk, and conveyed to Yedo, strictly guarded by the retainers of the two nobles; and, having arrived at the capital, was handed over to the charge of Akimoto Tajima no Kami. All his retainers were quietly dispersed; and his empty castle was ordered to be thrown open, and given in charge to Midzuno Iki no Kami. At last Kôtsuké no Suké began to feel that the death of his wife and his own present misfortunes were a just retribution for the death of Sôgorô and his wife and children, and he was as one awakened from a dream. Then night and morning, in his repentance, he offered up prayers to the sainted spirit of the dead farmer, and acknowledged and bewailed his crime, vowing that, if his family were spared from ruin and re-established, intercession should be made at the court of the Mikado,[69] at Kiyôto, on behalf of the spirit of Sôgorô, so that, being worshipped with even greater honours than before, his name should be handed down to all generations. [Footnote 69: In the days of Shogun's power, the Mikado remained the Fountain of Honour, and, as chief of the national religion and the direct descendant of the gods, dispensed divine honours.] In consequence of this it happened that the spirit of Sôgorô having relaxed in its vindictiveness, and having ceased to persecute the house of Hotta, in the 1st month of the 4th year of Keian, Kôtsuké no Suké received a summons from the Shogun, and, having been forgiven, was made lord of the castle of Matsuyama, in the province of Déwa, with a revenue of twenty thousand kokus. In the same year, on the 20th day of the 4th month, the Shogun, Prince Iyémitsu, was pleased to depart this life, at the age of forty-eight; and whether by the forgiving spirit of the prince, or by the divine interposition of the sainted Sôgorô, Kôtsuké no Suké was promoted to the castle of Utsu no Miya, in the province of Shimotsuké, with a revenue of eighty thousand kokus; and his name was changed to Hotta Hida no Kami. He also received again his original castle of Sakura, with a revenue of twenty thousand kokus: so that there can be no doubt that the saint was befriending him. In return for these favours, the shrine of Sôgorô was made as beautiful as a gem. It is needless to say how many of the peasants of the estate flocked to the shrine: any good luck that might befall the people was ascribed to it, and night and day the devout worshipped at it. Here follows a copy of the petition which Sôgorô presented to the Shogun-- "We, the elders of the hundred and thirty-six villages of the district of Chiba, in the province of Shimôsa, and of the district of Buji, in the province of Kadzusa, most reverently offer up this our humble petition. "When our former lord, Doi Shosho, was transferred to another castle, in the 9th year of the period Kanyé, Hotta Kaga no Kami became lord of the castle of Sakura; and in the 17th year of the same period, my lord Kôtsuké no Suké succeeded him. Since that time the taxes laid upon us have been raised in the proportion of one tô and two sho to each koku.[70] [Footnote 70: 10 Sho = 1 Tô. 10 Tô = 1 Koku.] "_Item_.--At the present time, taxes are raised on nineteen of our articles of produce; whereas our former lord only required that we should furnish him with pulse and sesamum, for which he paid in rice. "_Item_.--Not only are we not paid now for our produce, but, if it is not given in to the day, we are driven and goaded by the officials; and if there be any further delay, we are manacled and severely reprimanded; so that if our own crops fail, we have to buy produce from other districts, and are pushed to the utmost extremity of affliction. "_Item_.--We have over and over again prayed to be relieved from these burthens, but our petitions are not received. The people are reduced to poverty, so that it is hard for them to live under such grievous taxation. Often they have tried to sell the land which they till, but none can be found to buy; so they have sometimes given over their land to the village authorities, and fled with their wives to other provinces, and seven hundred and thirty men or more have been reduced to begging, one hundred and eighty-five houses have fallen into ruins; land producing seven thousand kokus has been given up, and remains untilled, and eleven temples have fallen into decay in consequence of the ruin of those upon whom they depended. "Besides this, the poverty-stricken farmers and women, having been obliged to take refuge in other provinces, and having no abiding-place, have been driven to evil courses and bring men to speak ill of their lord; and the village officials, being unable to keep order, are blamed and reproved. No attention has been paid to our repeated representations upon this point; so we were driven to petition the Gorôjiu Kuzé Yamato no Kami as he was on his way to the castle, but our petition was returned to us. And now, as a last resource, we tremblingly venture to approach his Highness the Shogun in person. "The 1st year of the period Shôhô, 12th month, 20th day. [Illustration: Seal] "The seals of the elders of the 136 villages." The Shogun at that time was Prince Iyémitsu, the grandson of Iyéyasu. He received the name of Dai-yu-In after his death. The Gorôjiu at that time were Hotta Kôtsuké no Suké, Sakai Iwami no Kami, Inaba Mino no Kami, Katô Ecchiu no Kami, Inouyé Kawachi no Kami. The Wakadoshiyôri (or 2d council) were Torii Wakasa no Kami, Tsuchiya Dewa no Kami, and Itakura Naizen no Sho. * * * * * The belief in ghosts appears to be as universal as that in the immortality of the soul, upon which it depends. Both in China and Japan the departed spirit is invested with the power of revisiting the earth, and, in a visible form, tormenting its enemies and haunting those places where the perishable part of it mourned and suffered. Haunted houses are slow to find tenants, for ghosts almost always come with revengeful intent; indeed, the owners of such houses will almost pay men to live in them, such is the dread which they inspire, and the anxiety to blot out the stigma. One cold winter's night at Yedo, as I was sitting, with a few Japanese friends, huddled round the imperfect heat of a brazier of charcoal, the conversation turned upon the story of Sôgorô and upon ghostly apparitions in general. Many a weird tale was told that evening, and I noted down the three or four which follow, for the truth of which the narrators vouched with the utmost confidence. About ten years ago there lived a fishmonger, named Zenroku, in the Mikawa-street, at Kanda, in Yedo. He was a poor man, living with his wife and one little boy. His wife fell sick and died, so he engaged an old woman to look after his boy while he himself went out to sell his fish. It happened, one day, that he and the other hucksters of his guild were gambling; and this coming to the ears of the authorities, they were all thrown into prison. Although their offence was in itself a light one, still they were kept for some time in durance while the matter was being investigated; and Zenroku, owing to the damp and foul air of the prison, fell sick with fever. His little child, in the meantime, had been handed over by the authorities to the charge of the petty officers of the ward to which his father belonged, and was being well cared for; for Zenroku was known to be an honest fellow, and his fate excited much compassion. One night Zenroku, pale and emaciated, entered the house in which his boy was living; and all the people joyfully congratulated him on his escape from jail. "Why, we heard that you were sick in prison. This is, indeed, a joyful return." Then Zenroku thanked those who had taken care of the child, saying that he had returned secretly by the favour of his jailers that night; but that on the following day his offence would be remitted, and he should be able to take possession of his house again publicly. For that night, he must return to the prison. With this he begged those present to continue their good offices to his babe; and, with a sad and reluctant expression of countenance, he left the house. On the following day, the officers of that ward were sent for by the prison authorities. They thought that they were summoned that Zenroku might be handed back to them a free man, as he himself had said to them; but to their surprise, they were told that he had died the night before in prison, and were ordered to carry away his dead body for burial. Then they knew that they had seen Zenroku's ghost; and that when he said that he should be returned to them on the morrow, he had alluded to his corpse. So they buried him decently, and brought up his son, who is alive to this day. The next story was told by a professor in the college at Yedo, and, although it is not of so modern a date as the last, he stated it to be well authenticated, and one of general notoriety. About two hundred years ago there was a chief of the police, named Aoyama Shuzen, who lived in the street called Bancho, at Yedo. His duty was to detect thieves and incendiaries. He was a cruel and violent man, without heart or compassion, and thought nothing of killing or torturing a man to gratify spite or revenge. This man Shuzen had in his house a servant-maid, called O Kiku (the Chrysanthemum), who had lived in the family since her childhood, and was well acquainted with her master's temper. One day O Kiku accidentally broke one of a set of ten porcelain plates, upon which he set a high value. She knew that she would suffer for her carelessness; but she thought that if she concealed the matter her punishment would be still more severe; so she went at once to her master's wife, and, in fear and trembling, confessed what she had done. When Shuzen came home, and heard that one of his favourite plates was broken, he flew into a violent rage, and took the girl to a cupboard, where he left her bound with cords, and every day cut off one of her fingers. O Kiku, tightly bound and in agony, could not move; but at last she contrived to bite or cut the ropes asunder, and, escaping into the garden, threw herself into a well, and was drowned. From that time forth, every night a voice was heard coming from the well, counting one, two, three, and so on up to nine--the number of the plates that remained unbroken--and then, when the tenth plate should have been counted, would come a burst of lamentation. The servants of the house, terrified at this, all left their master's service, until Shuzen, not having a single retainer left, was unable to perform his public duties; and when the officers of the government heard of this, he was dismissed from his office. At this time there was a famous priest, called Mikadzuki Shônin, of the temple Denzuin, who, having been told of the affair, came one night to the house, and, when the ghost began to count the plates, reproved the spirit, and by his prayers and admonitions caused it to cease from troubling the living. The laying of disturbed spirits appears to form one of the regular functions of the Buddhist priests; at least, we find them playing a conspicuous part in almost every ghost-story. About thirty years ago there stood a house at Mitsumé, in the Honjô of Yedo, which was said to be nightly visited by ghosts, so that no man dared to live in it, and it remained untenanted on that account. However, a man called Miura Takéshi, a native of the province of Oshiu, who came to Yedo to set up in business as a fencing-master, but was too poor to hire a house, hearing that there was a haunted house, for which no tenant could be found, and that the owner would let any man live in it rent free, said that he feared neither man nor devil, and obtained leave to occupy the house. So he hired a fencing-room, in which he gave his lessons by day, and after midnight returned to the haunted house. One night, his wife, who took charge of the house in his absence, was frightened by a fearful noise proceeding from a pond in the garden, and, thinking that this certainly must be the ghost that she had heard so much about, she covered her head with the bed-clothes and remained breathless with terror. When her husband came home, she told him what had happened; and on the following night he returned earlier than usual, and waited for the ghostly noise. At the same time as before, a little after midnight, the same sound was heard--as though a gun had been fired inside the pond. Opening the shutters, he looked out, and saw something like a black cloud floating on the water, and in the cloud was the form of a bald man. Thinking that there must be some cause for this, he instituted careful inquiries, and learned that the former tenant, some ten years previously, had borrowed money from a blind shampooer,[71] and, being unable to pay the debt, had murdered his creditor, who began to press him for his money, and had thrown his head into the pond. The fencing-master accordingly collected his pupils and emptied the pond, and found a skull at the bottom of it; so he called in a priest, and buried the skull in a temple, causing prayers to be offered up for the repose of the murdered man's soul. Thus the ghost was laid, and appeared no more. [Footnote 71: The apparently poor shaven-pated and blind shampooers of Japan drive a thriving trade as money-lenders. They give out small sums at an interest of 20 per cent. per month--210 per cent. per annum--and woe betide the luckless wight who falls into their clutches.] The belief in curses hanging over families for generations is as common as that in ghosts and supernatural apparitions. There is a strange story of this nature in the house of Asai, belonging to the Hatamoto class. The ancestor of the present representative, six generations ago, had a certain concubine, who was in love with a man who frequented the house, and wished in her heart to marry him; but, being a virtuous woman, she never thought of doing any evil deed. But the wife of my lord Asai was jealous of the girl, and persuaded her husband that her rival in his affections had gone astray; when he heard this he was very angry, and beat her with a candlestick so that he put out her left eye. The girl, who had indignantly protested her innocence, finding herself so cruelly handled, pronounced a curse against the house; upon which, her master, seizing the candlestick again, dashed out her brains and killed her. Shortly afterwards my lord Asai lost his left eye, and fell sick and died; and from that time forth to this day, it is said that the representatives of the house have all lost their left eyes after the age of forty, and shortly afterwards they have fallen sick and died at the same age as the cruel lord who killed his concubine. NOTE. Of the many fair scenes of Yedo, none is better worth visiting than the temple of Zôjôji, one of the two great burial-places of the Shoguns; indeed, if you wish to see the most beautiful spots of any Oriental city, ask for the cemeteries: the homes of the dead are ever the loveliest places. Standing in a park of glorious firs and pines beautifully kept, which contains quite a little town of neat, clean-looking houses, together with thirty-four temples for the use of the priests and attendants of the shrines, the main temple, with its huge red pillars supporting a heavy Chinese roof of grey tiles, is approached through a colossal open hall which leads into a stone courtyard. At one end of this courtyard is a broad flight of steps--the three or four lower ones of stone, and the upper ones of red wood. At these the visitor is warned by a notice to take off his boots, a request which Englishmen, with characteristic disregard of the feelings of others, usually neglect to comply with. The main hall of the temple is of large proportions, and the high altar is decorated with fine bronze candelabra, incense-burners, and other ornaments, and on two days of the year a very curious collection of pictures representing the five hundred gods, whose images are known to all persons who have visited Canton, is hung along the walls. The big bell outside the main hall is rather remarkable on account of the great beauty of the deep bass waves of sound which it rolls through the city than on account of its size, which is as nothing when compared with that of the big bells of Moscow and Peking; still it is not to be despised even in that respect, for it is ten feet high and five feet eight inches in diameter, while its metal is a foot thick: it was hung up in the year 1673. But the chief objects of interest in these beautiful grounds are the chapels attached to the tombs of the Shoguns. It is said that as Prince Iyéyasu was riding into Yedo to take possession of his new castle, the Abbot of Zôjôji, an ancient temple which then stood at Hibiya, near the castle, went forth and waited before the gate to do homage to the Prince. Iyéyasu, seeing that the Abbot was no ordinary man, stopped and asked his name, and entered the temple to rest himself. The smooth-spoken monk soon found such favour with Iyéyasu, that he chose Zôjôji to be his family temple; and seeing that its grounds were narrow and inconveniently near the castle, he caused it to be removed to its present site. In the year 1610 the temple was raised, by the intercession of Iyéyasu, to the dignity of the Imperial Temples, which, until the last revolution, were presided over by princes of the blood; and to the Abbot was granted the right, on going to the castle, of sitting in his litter as far as the entrance-hall, instead of dismounting at the usual place and proceeding on foot through several gates and courtyards. Nor were the privileges of the temple confined to barren honours, for it was endowed with lands of the value of five thousand kokus of rice yearly. When Iyéyasu died, the shrine called Antoku In was erected in his honour to the south of the main temple. Here, on the seventeenth day of the fourth month, the anniversary of his death, ceremonies are held in honour of his spirit, deified as Gongen Sama, and the place is thrown open to all who may wish to come and pray. But Iyéyasu is not buried here; his remains lie in a gorgeous shrine among the mountains some eighty miles north of Yedo, at Nikkô, a place so beautiful that the Japanese have a rhyming proverb which says, that he who has not seen Nikkô should never pronounce the word Kekkô (charming, delicious, grand, beautiful). Hidétada, the son and successor of Iyéyasu, together with Iyénobu, Iyétsugu, Iyéshigé, Iyéyoshi, and Iyémochi, the sixth, seventh, ninth, twelfth, and fourteenth Shoguns of the Tokugawa dynasty, are buried in three shrines attached to the temple; the remainder, with the exception of Iyémitsu, the third Shogun, who lies with his grandfather at Nikkô, are buried at Uyéno. The shrines are of exceeding beauty, lying on one side of a splendid avenue of Scotch firs, which border a broad, well-kept gravel walk. Passing through a small gateway of rare design, we come into a large stone courtyard, lined with a long array of colossal stone lanterns, the gift of the vassals of the departed Prince. A second gateway, supported by gilt pillars carved all round with figures of dragons, leads into another court, in which are a bell tower, a great cistern cut out of a single block of stone like a sarcophagus, and a smaller number of lanterns of bronze; these are given by the Go San Ké, the three princely families in which the succession to the office of Shogun was vested. Inside this is a third court, partly covered like a cloister, the approach to which is a doorway of even greater beauty and richness than the last; the ceiling is gilt, and painted with arabesques and with heavenly angels playing on musical instruments, and the panels of the walls are sculptured in high relief with admirable representations of birds and flowers, life-size, life-like, all being coloured to imitate nature. Inside this enclosure stands a shrine, before the closed door of which a priest on one side, and a retainer of the house of Tokugawa on the other, sit mounting guard, mute and immovable as though they themselves were part of the carved ornaments. Passing on one side of the shrine, we come to another court, plainer than the last, and at the back of the little temple inside it is a flight of stone steps, at the top of which, protected by a bronze door, stands a simple monumental urn of bronze on a stone pedestal. Under this is the grave itself; and it has always struck me that there is no small amount of poetical feeling in this simple ending to so much magnificence; the sermon may have been preached by design, or it may have been by accident, but the lesson is there. There is little difference between the three shrines, all of which are decorated in the same manner. It is very difficult to do justice to their beauty in words. Writing many thousand miles away from them, I have the memory before me of a place green in winter, pleasant and cool in the hottest summer; of peaceful cloisters, of the fragrance of incense, of the subdued chant of richly robed priests, and the music of bells; of exquisite designs, harmonious colouring, rich gilding. The hum of the vast city outside is unheard here: Iyéyasu himself, in the mountains of Nikkô, has no quieter resting-place than his descendants in the heart of the city over which they ruled. Besides the graves of the Shoguns, Zôjôji contains other lesser shrines, in which are buried the wives of the second, sixth, and eleventh Shoguns, and the father of Iyénobu, the sixth Shogun, who succeeded to the office by adoption. There is also a holy place called the Satsuma Temple, which has a special interest; in it is a tablet in honour of Tadayoshi, the fifth son of Iyéyasu, whose title was Matsudaira Satsuma no Kami, and who died young. At his death, five of his retainers, with one Ogasasawara Kemmotsu at their head, disembowelled themselves, that they might follow their young master into the next world. They were buried in this place; and I believe that this is the last instance on record of the ancient Japanese custom of _Junshi_, that is to say, "dying with the master." There are, during the year, several great festivals which are specially celebrated at Zôjoji; the chief of these are the Kaisanki, or founder's day, which is on the eighteenth day of the seventh month; the twenty-fifth day of the first month, the anniversary of the death of the monk Hônen, the founder of the Jôdo sect of Buddhism (that to which the temple belongs); the anniversary of the death of Buddha, on the fifteenth of the second month; the birthday of Buddha, on the eighth day of the fourth month; and from the sixth to the fifteenth of the tenth month. At Uyéno is the second of the burial-grounds of the Shoguns. The Temple Tô-yei-zan, which stood in the grounds of Uyéno, was built by Iyémitsu, the third of the Shoguns of the house of Tokugawa, in the year 1625, in honour of Yakushi Niôrai, the Buddhist Æsculapius. It faces the Ki-mon, or Devil's Gate, of the castle, and was erected upon the model of the temple of Hi-yei-zan, one of the most famous of the holy places of Kiyôto. Having founded the temple, the next care of Iyémitsu was to pray that Morizumi, the second son of the retired emperor, should come and reside there; and from that time until 1868, the temple was always presided over by a Miya, or member of the Mikado's family, who was specially charged with the care of the tomb of Iyéyasu at Nikkô, and whose position was that of an ecclesiastical chief or primate over the east of Japan. The temples in Yedo are not to be compared in point of beauty with those in and about Peking; what is marble there is wood here. Still they are very handsome, and in the days of its magnificence the Temple of Uyéno was one of the finest. Alas! the main temple, the hall in honour of the sect to which it belongs, the hall of services, the bell-tower, the entrance-hall, and the residence of the prince of the blood, were all burnt down in the battle of Uyéno, in the summer of 1868, when the Shogun's men made their last stand in Yedo against the troops of the Mikado. The fate of the day was decided by two field-pieces, which the latter contrived to mount on the roof of a neighbouring tea-house; and the Shogun's men, driven out of the place, carried off the Miya in the vain hope of raising his standard in the north as that of a rival Mikado. A few of the lesser temples and tombs, and the beautiful park-like grounds, are but the remnants of the former glory of Uyéno. Among these is a temple in the form of a roofless stage, in honour of the thousand-handed Kwannon. In the middle ages, during the civil wars between the houses of Gen and Hei, one Morihisa, a captain of the house of Hei, after the destruction of his clan, went and prayed for a thousand days at the temple of the thousand-handed Kwannon at Kiyomidzu, in Kiyôto. His retreat having been discovered, he was seized and brought bound to Kamakura, the chief town of the house of Gen. Here he was condemned to die at a place called Yui, by the sea-shore; but every time that the executioner lifted his sword to strike, the blade was broken by the god Kwannon, and at the same time the wife of Yoritomo, the chief of the house of Gen, was warned in a dream to spare Morihisa's life. So Morihisa was reprieved, and rose to power in the state; and all this was by the miraculous intervention of the god Kwannon, who takes such good care of his faithful votaries. To him this temple is dedicated. A colossal bronze Buddha, twenty-two feet high, set up some two hundred years ago, and a stone lantern, twenty feet high, and twelve feet round at the top, are greatly admired by the Japanese. There are only three such lanterns in the empire; the other two being at Nanzenji--a temple in Kiyôto, and Atsura, a shrine in the province of Owari. All three were erected by the piety of one man, Sakuma Daizen no Suké, in the year A.D. 1631. Iyémitsu, the founder of the temple, was buried with his grandfather, Iyéyasu, at Nikkô; but both of these princes are honoured with shrines here. The Shoguns who are interred at Uyéno are Iyétsuna, Tsunayoshi, Yoshimuné, Iyéharu, Iyénori, and Iyésada, the fourth, fifth, eighth, tenth, eleventh, and thirteenth Princes of the Line. Besides them, are buried five wives of the Shoguns, and the father of the eleventh Shogun. HOW TAJIMA SHUMÉ WAS TORMENTED BY A DEVIL OF HIS OWN CREATION Once upon a time, a certain Rônin, Tajima Shumé by name, an able and well-read man, being on his travels to see the world, went up to Kiyôto by the Tôkaidô.[72] One day, in the neighbourhood of Nagoya, in the province of Owari, he fell in with a wandering priest, with whom he entered into conversation. Finding that they were bound for the same place, they agreed to travel together, beguiling their weary way by pleasant talk on divers matters; and so by degrees, as they became more intimate, they began to speak without restraint about their private affairs; and the priest, trusting thoroughly in the honour of his companion, told him the object of his journey. [Footnote 72: The road of the Eastern Sea, the famous high-road leading from Kiyôto to Yedo. The name is also used to indicate the provinces through which it runs.] "For some time past," said he, "I have nourished a wish that has engrossed all my thoughts; for I am bent on setting up a molten image in honour of Buddha; with this object I have wandered through various provinces collecting alms and (who knows by what weary toil?) we have succeeded in amassing two hundred ounces of silver--enough, I trust, to erect a handsome bronze figure." What says the proverb? "He who bears a jewel in his bosom bears poison." Hardly had the Rônin heard these words of the priest than an evil heart arose within him, and he thought to himself, "Man's life, from the womb to the grave, is made up of good and of ill luck. Here am I, nearly forty years old, a wanderer, without a calling, or even a hope of advancement in the world. To be sure, it seems a shame; yet if I could steal the money this priest is boasting about, I could live at ease for the rest of my days;" and so he began casting about how best he might compass his purpose. But the priest, far from guessing the drift of his comrade's thoughts, journeyed cheerfully on, till they reached the town of Kuana. Here there is an arm of the sea, which is crossed in ferry-boats, that start as soon as some twenty or thirty passengers are gathered together; and in one of these boats the two travellers embarked. About half-way across, the priest was taken with a sudden necessity to go to the side of the boat; and the Rônin, following him, tripped him up whilst no one was looking, and flung him into the sea. When the boatmen and passengers heard the splash, and saw the priest struggling in the water, they were afraid, and made every effort to save him; but the wind was fair, and the boat running swiftly under the bellying sails, so they were soon a few hundred yards off from the drowning man, who sank before the boat could be turned to rescue him. When he saw this, the Rônin feigned the utmost grief and dismay, and said to his fellow-passengers, "This priest, whom we have just lost, was my cousin: he was going to Kiyôto, to visit the shrine of his patron; and as I happened to have business there as well, we settled to travel together. Now, alas! by this misfortune, my cousin is dead, and I am left alone." He spoke so feelingly, and wept so freely, that the passengers believed his story, and pitied and tried to comfort him. Then the Rônin said to the boatmen-- "We ought, by rights, to report this matter to the authorities; but as I am pressed for time, and the business might bring trouble on yourselves as well, perhaps we had better hush it up for the present; and I will at once go on to Kiyôto and tell my cousin's patron, besides writing home about it. What think you, gentlemen?" added he, turning to the other travellers. They, of course, were only too glad to avoid any hindrance to their onward journey, and all with one voice agreed to what the Rônin had proposed; and so the matter was settled. When, at length, they reached the shore, they left the boat, and every man went his way; but the Rônin, overjoyed in his heart, took the wandering priest's luggage, and, putting it with his own, pursued his journey to Kiyôto. On reaching the capital, the Rônin changed his name from Shumé to Tokubei, and, giving up his position as a Samurai, turned merchant, and traded with the dead man's money. Fortune favouring his speculations, he began to amass great wealth, and lived at his ease, denying himself nothing; and in course of time he married a wife, who bore him a child. Thus the days and months wore on, till one fine summer's night, some three years after the priest's death, Tokubei stepped out on to the verandah of his house to enjoy the cool air and the beauty of the moonlight. Feeling dull and lonely, he began musing over all kinds of things, when on a sudden the deed of murder and theft, done so long ago, vividly recurred to his memory, and he thought to himself, "Here am I, grown rich and fat on the money I wantonly stole. Since then, all has gone well with me; yet, had I not been poor, I had never turned assassin nor thief. Woe betide me! what a pity it was!" and as he was revolving the matter in his mind, a feeling of remorse came over him, in spite of all he could do. While his conscience thus smote him, he suddenly, to his utter amazement, beheld the faint outline of a man standing near a fir-tree in the garden: on looking more attentively, he perceived that the man's whole body was thin and worn and the eyes sunken and dim; and in the poor ghost that was before him he recognized the very priest whom he had thrown into the sea at Kuana. Chilled with horror, he looked again, and saw that the priest was smiling in scorn. He would have fled into the house, but the ghost stretched forth its withered arm, and, clutching the back of his neck, scowled at him with a vindictive glare, and a hideous ghastliness of mien, so unspeakably awful that any ordinary man would have swooned with fear. But Tokubei, tradesman though he was, had once been a soldier, and was not easily matched for daring; so he shook off the ghost, and, leaping into the room for his dirk, laid about him boldly enough; but, strike as he would, the spirit, fading into the air, eluded his blows, and suddenly reappeared only to vanish again: and from that time forth Tokubei knew no rest, and was haunted night and day. At length, undone by such ceaseless vexation, Tokubei fell ill, and kept muttering, "Oh, misery! misery!--the wandering priest is coming to torture me!" Hearing his moans and the disturbance he made, the people in the house fancied he was mad, and called in a physician, who prescribed for him. But neither pill nor potion could cure Tokubei, whose strange frenzy soon became the talk of the whole neighbourhood. Now it chanced that the story reached the ears of a certain wandering priest who lodged in the next street. When he heard the particulars, this priest gravely shook his head, as though he knew all about it, and sent a friend to Tokubei's house to say that a wandering priest, dwelling hard by, had heard of his illness, and, were it never so grievous, would undertake to heal it by means of his prayers; and Tokubei's wife, driven half wild by her husband's sickness, lost not a moment in sending for the priest, and taking him into the sick man's room. But no sooner did Tokubei see the priest than he yelled out, "Help! help! Here is the wandering priest come to torment me again. Forgive! forgive!" and hiding his head under the coverlet, he lay quivering all over. Then the priest turned all present out of the room, put his mouth to the affrighted man's ear, and whispered-- "Three years ago, at the Kuana ferry, you flung me into the water; and well you remember it." But Tokubei was speechless, and could only quake with fear. "Happily," continued the priest, "I had learned to swim and to dive as a boy; so I reached the shore, and, after wandering through many provinces, succeeded in setting up a bronze figure to Buddha, thus fulfilling the wish of my heart. On my journey homewards, I took a lodging in the next street, and there heard of your marvellous ailment. Thinking I could divine its cause, I came to see you, and am glad to find I was not mistaken. You have done a hateful deed; but am I not a priest, and have I not forsaken the things of this world? and would it not ill become me to bear malice? Repent, therefore, and abandon your evil ways. To see you do so I should esteem the height of happiness. Be of good cheer, now, and look me in the face, and you will see that I am really a living man, and no vengeful goblin come to torment you." Seeing he had no ghost to deal with, and overwhelmed by the priest's kindness, Tokubei burst into tears, and answered, "Indeed, indeed, I don't know what to say. In a fit of madness I was tempted to kill and rob you. Fortune befriended me ever after; but the richer I grew, the more keenly I felt how wicked I had been, and the more I foresaw that my victim's vengeance would some day overtake me. Haunted by this thought, I lost my nerve, till one night I beheld your spirit, and from that time forth fell ill. But how you managed to escape, and are still alive, is more than I can understand." "A guilty man," said the priest, with a smile, "shudders at the rustling of the wind or the chattering of a stork's beak: a murderer's conscience preys upon his mind till he sees what is not. Poverty drives a man to crimes which he repents of in his wealth. How true is the doctrine of Môshi,[73] that the heart of man, pure by nature, is corrupted by circumstances." [Footnote 73: Mencius.] Thus he held forth; and Tokubei, who had long since repented of his crime, implored forgiveness, and gave him a large sum of money, saying, "Half of this is the amount I stole from you three years since; the other half I entreat you to accept as interest, or as a gift." The priest at first refused the money; but Tokubei insisted on his accepting it, and did all he could to detain him, but in vain; for the priest went his way, and bestowed the money on the poor and needy. As for Tokubei himself, he soon shook off his disorder, and thenceforward lived at peace with all men, revered both at home and abroad, and ever intent on good and charitable deeds. CONCERNING CERTAIN SUPERSTITIONS CONCERNING CERTAIN SUPERSTITIONS Cats, foxes, and badgers are regarded with superstitious awe by the Japanese, who attribute to them the power of assuming the human shape in order to bewitch mankind. Like the fairies of our Western tales, however, they work for good as well as for evil ends. To do them a good turn is to secure powerful allies; but woe betide him who injures them!--he and his will assuredly suffer for it. Cats and foxes seem to have been looked upon as uncanny beasts all the world over; but it is new to me that badgers should have a place in fairy-land. The island of Shikoku, the southernmost of the great Japanese islands, appears to be the part of the country in which the badger is regarded with the greatest veneration. Among the many tricks which he plays upon the human race is one, of which I have a clever representation carved in ivory. Lying in wait in lonely places after dusk, the badger watches for benighted wayfarers: should one appear, the beast, drawing a long breath, distends his belly and drums delicately upon it with his clenched fist, producing such entrancing tones, that the traveller cannot resist turning aside to follow the sound, which, Will-o'-the-wisp-like, recedes as he advances, until it lures him on to his destruction. Love is, however, the most powerful engine which the cat, the fox, and the badger alike put forth for the ruin of man. No German poet ever imagined a more captivating water-nymph than the fair virgins by whom the knight of Japanese romance is assailed: the true hero recognizes and slays the beast; the weaker mortal yields and perishes. The Japanese story-books abound with tales about the pranks of these creatures, which, like ghosts, even play a part in the histories of ancient and noble families. I have collected a few of these, and now beg a hearing for a distinguished and two-tailed[74] connection of Puss in Boots and the Chatte Blanche. [Footnote 74: Cats are found in Japan, as in the Isle of Man, with stumps, where they should have tails. Sometimes this is the result of art, sometimes of a natural shortcoming. The cats of Yedo are of bad repute as mousers, their energies being relaxed by much petting at the hands of ladies. The Cat of Nabéshima, so says tradition, was a monster with two tails.] THE VAMPIRE CAT OF NABÉSHIMA There is a tradition in the Nabéshima[75] family that, many years ago, the Prince of Hizen was bewitched and cursed by a cat that had been kept by one of his retainers. This prince had in his house a lady of rare beauty, called O Toyo: amongst all his ladies she was the favourite, and there was none who could rival her charms and accomplishments. One day the Prince went out into the garden with O Toyo, and remained enjoying the fragrance of the flowers until sunset, when they returned to the palace, never noticing that they were being followed by a large cat. Having parted with her lord, O Toyo retired to her own room and went to bed. At midnight she awoke with a start, and became aware of a huge cat that crouched watching her; and when she cried out, the beast sprang on her, and, fixing its cruel teeth in her delicate throat, throttled her to death. What a piteous end for so fair a dame, the darling of her prince's heart, to die suddenly, bitten to death by a cat! Then the cat, having scratched out a grave under the verandah, buried the corpse of O Toyo, and assuming her form, began to bewitch the Prince. [Footnote 75: The family of the Prince of Hizen, one of the eighteen chief Daimios of Japan.] But my lord the Prince knew nothing of all this, and little thought that the beautiful creature who caressed and fondled him was an impish and foul beast that had slain his mistress and assumed her shape in order to drain out his life's blood. Day by day, as time went on, the Prince's strength dwindled away; the colour of his face was changed, and became pale and livid; and he was as a man suffering from a deadly sickness. Seeing this, his councillors and his wife became greatly alarmed; so they summoned the physicians, who prescribed various remedies for him; but the more medicine he took, the more serious did his illness appear, and no treatment was of any avail. But most of all did he suffer in the night-time, when his sleep would be troubled and disturbed by hideous dreams. In consequence of this, his councillors nightly appointed a hundred of his retainers to sit up and watch over him; but, strange to say, towards ten o'clock on the very first night that the watch was set, the guard were seized with a sudden and unaccountable drowsiness, which they could not resist, until one by one every man had fallen asleep. Then the false O Toyo came in and harassed the Prince until morning. The following night the same thing occurred, and the Prince was subjected to the imp's tyranny, while his guards slept helplessly around him. Night after night this was repeated, until at last three of the Prince's councillors determined themselves to sit up on guard, and see whether they could overcome this mysterious drowsiness; but they fared no better than the others, and by ten o'clock were fast asleep. The next day the three councillors held a solemn conclave, and their chief, one Isahaya Buzen, said-- "This is a marvellous thing, that a guard of a hundred men should thus be overcome by sleep. Of a surety, the spell that is upon my lord and upon his guard must be the work of witchcraft. Now, as all our efforts are of no avail, let us seek out Ruiten, the chief priest of the temple called Miyô In, and beseech him to put up prayers for the recovery of my lord." [Illustration: THE CAT OF NABÉSHIMA.] And the other councillors approving what Isahaya Buzen had said, they went to the priest Ruiten and engaged him to recite litanies that the Prince might be restored to health. So it came to pass that Ruiten, the chief priest of Miyô In, offered up prayers nightly for the Prince. One night, at the ninth hour (midnight), when he had finished his religious exercises and was preparing to lie down to sleep, he fancied that he heard a noise outside in the garden, as if some one were washing himself at the well. Deeming this passing strange, he looked down from the window; and there in the moonlight he saw a handsome young soldier, some twenty-four years of age, washing himself, who, when he had finished cleaning himself and had put on his clothes, stood before the figure of Buddha and prayed fervently for the recovery of my lord the Prince. Ruiten looked on with admiration; and the young man, when he had made an end of his prayer, was going away; but the priest stopped him, calling out to him-- "Sir, I pray you to tarry a little: I have something to say to you." "At your reverence's service. What may you please to want?" "Pray be so good as to step up here, and have a little talk." "By your reverence's leave;" and with this he went upstairs. Then Ruiten said-- "Sir, I cannot conceal my admiration that you, being so young a man, should have so loyal a spirit. I am Ruiten, the chief priest of this temple, who am engaged in praying for the recovery of my lord. Pray what is your name?" "My name, sir, is Itô Sôda, and I am serving in the infantry of Nabéshima. Since my lord has been sick, my one desire has been to assist in nursing him; but, being only a simple soldier, I am not of sufficient rank to come into his presence, so I have no resource but to pray to the gods of the country and to Buddha that my lord may regain his health." When Ruiten heard this, he shed tears in admiration of the fidelity of Itô Sôda, and said-- "Your purpose is, indeed, a good one; but what a strange sickness this is that my lord is afflicted with! Every night he suffers from horrible dreams; and the retainers who sit up with him are all seized with a mysterious sleep, so that not one can keep awake. It is very wonderful." "Yes," replied Sôda, after a moment's reflection, "this certainly must be witchcraft. If I could but obtain leave to sit up one night with the Prince, I would fain see whether I could not resist this drowsiness and detect the goblin." At last the priest said, "I am in relations of friendship with Isahaya Buzen, the chief councillor of the Prince. I will speak to him of you and of your loyalty, and will intercede with him that you may attain your wish." "Indeed, sir, I am most thankful. I am not prompted by any vain thought of self-advancement, should I succeed: all I wish for is the recovery of my lord. I commend myself to your kind favour." "Well, then, to-morrow night I will take you with me to the councillor's house." "Thank you, sir, and farewell." And so they parted. On the following evening Itô Sôda returned to the temple Miyô In, and having found Ruiten, accompanied him to the house of Isahaya Buzen: then the priest, leaving Sôda outside, went in to converse with the councillor, and inquire after the Prince's health. "And pray, sir, how is my lord? Is he in any better condition since I have been offering up prayers for him?" "Indeed, no; his illness is very severe. We are certain that he must be the victim of some foul sorcery; but as there are no means of keeping a guard awake after ten o'clock, we cannot catch a sight of the goblin, so we are in the greatest trouble." "I feel deeply for you: it must be most distressing. However, I have something to tell you. I think that I have found a man who will detect the goblin; and I have brought him with me." "Indeed! who is the man?" "Well, he is one of my lord's foot-soldiers, named Itô Sôda, a faithful fellow, and I trust that you will grant his request to be permitted to sit up with my lord." "Certainly, it is wonderful to find so much loyalty and zeal in a common soldier," replied Isahaya Buzen, after a moment's reflection; "still it is impossible to allow a man of such low rank to perform the office of watching over my lord." "It is true that he is but a common soldier," urged the priest; "but why not raise his rank in consideration of his fidelity, and then let him mount guard?" "It would be time enough to promote him after my lord's recovery. But come, let me see this Itô Sôda, that I may know what manner of man he is: if he pleases me, I will consult with the other councillors, and perhaps we may grant his request." "I will bring him in forthwith," replied Ruiten, who thereupon went out to fetch the young man. When he returned, the priest presented Itô Sôda to the councillor, who looked at him attentively, and, being pleased with his comely and gentle appearance, said-- "So I hear that you are anxious to be permitted to mount guard in my lord's room at night. Well, I must consult with the other councillors, and we will see what can be done for you." When the young soldier heard this he was greatly elated, and took his leave, after warmly thanking Buiten, who had helped him to gain his object. The next day the councillors held a meeting, and sent for Itô Sôda, and told him that he might keep watch with the other retainers that very night. So he went his way in high spirits, and at nightfall, having made all his preparations, took his place among the hundred gentlemen who were on duty in the prince's bed-room. Now the Prince slept in the centre of the room, and the hundred guards around him sat keeping themselves awake with entertaining conversation and pleasant conceits. But, as ten o'clock approached, they began to doze off as they sat; and in spite of all their endeavours to keep one another awake, by degrees they all fell asleep. Itô Sôda all this while felt an irresistible desire to sleep creeping over him, and, though he tried by all sorts of ways to rouse himself, he saw that there was no help for it, but by resorting to an extreme measure, for which he had already made his preparations. Drawing out a piece of oil paper which he had brought with him, and spreading it over the mats, he sat down upon it; then he took the small knife which he carried in the sheath of his dirk, and stuck it into his own thigh. For awhile the pain of the wound kept him awake; but as the slumber by which he was assailed was the work of sorcery, little by little he became drowsy again. Then he twisted the knife round and round in his thigh, so that the pain becoming very violent, he was proof against the feeling of sleepiness, and kept a faithful watch. Now the oil paper which he had spread under his legs was in order to prevent the blood, which might spurt from his wound, from defiling the mats. So Itô Sôda remained awake, but the rest of the guard slept; and as he watched, suddenly the sliding-doors of the Prince's room were drawn open, and he saw a figure coming in stealthily, and, as it drew nearer, the form was that of a marvellously beautiful woman some twenty-three years of age. Cautiously she looked around her; and when she saw that all the guard were asleep, she smiled an ominous smile, and was going up to the Prince's bedside, when she perceived that in one corner of the room there was a man yet awake. This seemed to startle her, but she went up to Sôda and said-- "I am not used to seeing you here. Who are you?" "My name is Itô Sôda, and this is the first night that I have been on guard." "A troublesome office, truly! Why, here are all the rest of the guard asleep. How is it that you alone are awake? You are a trusty watchman." "There is nothing to boast about. I'm asleep myself, fast and sound." "What is that wound on your knee? It is all red with blood." "Oh! I felt very sleepy; so I stuck my knife into my thigh, and the pain of it has kept me awake." "What wondrous loyalty!" said the lady. "Is it not the duty of a retainer to lay down his life for his master? Is such a scratch as this worth thinking about?" Then the lady went up to the sleeping prince and said, "How fares it with my lord to-night?" But the Prince, worn out with sickness, made no reply. But Sôda was watching her eagerly, and guessed that it was O Toyo, and made up his mind that if she attempted to harass the Prince he would kill her on the spot. The goblin, however, which in the form of O Toyo had been tormenting the Prince every night, and had come again that night for no other purpose, was defeated by the watchfulness of Itô Sôda; for whenever she drew near to the sick man, thinking to put her spells upon him, she would turn and look behind her, and there she saw Itô Sôda glaring at her; so she had no help for it but to go away again, and leave the Prince undisturbed. At last the day broke, and the other officers, when they awoke and opened their eyes, saw that Itô Sôda had kept awake by stabbing himself in the thigh; and they were greatly ashamed, and went home crestfallen. That morning Itô Sôda went to the house of Isahaya Buzen, and told him all that had occurred the previous night. The councillors were all loud in their praises of Itô Sôda's behaviour, and ordered him to keep watch again that night. At the same hour, the false O Toyo came and looked all round the room, and all the guard were asleep, excepting Itô Sôda, who was wide awake; and so, being again frustrated, she returned to her own apartments. Now as since Sôda had been on guard the Prince had passed quiet nights, his sickness began to get better, and there was great joy in the palace, and Sôda was promoted and rewarded with an estate. In the meanwhile O Toyo, seeing that her nightly visits bore no fruits, kept away; and from that time forth the night-guard were no longer subject to fits of drowsiness. This coincidence struck Sôda as very strange, so he went to Isahaya Buzen and told him that of a certainty this O Toyo was no other than a goblin. Isahaya Buzen reflected for a while, and said-- "Well, then, how shall we kill the foul thing?" "I will go to the creature's room, as if nothing were the matter, and try to kill her; but in case she should try to escape, I will beg you to order eight men to stop outside and lie in wait for her." Having agreed upon this plan, Sôda went at nightfall to O Toyo's apartment, pretending to have been sent with a message from the Prince. When she saw him arrive, she said-- "What message have you brought me from my lord?" "Oh! nothing in particular. Be so look as to look at this letter;" and as he spoke, he drew near to her, and suddenly drawing his dirk cut at her; but the goblin, springing back, seized a halberd, and glaring fiercely at Sôda, said-- "How dare you behave like this to one of your lord's ladies? I will have you dismissed;" and she tried to strike Sôda with the halberd. But Sôda fought desperately with his dirk; and the goblin, seeing that she was no match for him, threw away the halberd, and from a beautiful woman became suddenly transformed into a cat, which, springing up the sides of the room, jumped on to the roof. Isahaya Buzen and his eight men who were watching outside shot at the cat, but missed it, and the beast made good its escape. So the cat fled to the mountains, and did much mischief among the surrounding people, until at last the Prince of Hizen ordered a great hunt, and the beast was killed. But the Prince recovered from his sickness; and Itô Sôda was richly rewarded. THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL CAT About sixty years ago, in the summertime, a man went to pay a visit at a certain house at Osaka, and, in the course of conversation, said-- "I have eaten some very extraordinary cakes to-day," and on being asked what he meant, he told the following story:-- "I received the cakes from the relatives of a family who were celebrating the hundredth anniversary of the death of a cat that had belonged to their ancestors. When I asked the history of the affair, I was told that, in former days, a young girl of the family, when she was about sixteen years old, used always to be followed about by a tom-cat, who was reared in the house, so much so that the two were never separated for an instant. When her father perceived this, he was very angry, thinking that the tom-cat, forgetting the kindness with which he had been treated for years in the house, had fallen in love with his daughter, and intended to cast a spell upon her; so he determined that he must kill the beast. As he was planning this in secret, the cat overheard him, and that night went to his pillow, and, assuming a human voice, said to him-- "'You suspect me of being in love with your daughter; and although you might well be justified in so thinking, your suspicions are groundless. The fact is this:--There is a very large old rat who has been living for many years in your granary. Now it is this old rat who is in love with my young mistress, and this is why I dare not leave her side for a moment, for fear the old rat should carry her off. Therefore I pray you to dispel your suspicions. But as I, by myself, am no match for the rat, there is a famous cat, named Buchi, at the house of Mr. So-and-so, at Ajikawa: if you will borrow that cat, we will soon make an end of the old rat.' "When the father awoke from his dream, he thought it so wonderful, that he told the household of it; and the following day he got up very early and went off to Ajikawa, to inquire for the house which the cat had indicated, and had no difficulty in finding it; so he called upon the master of the house, and told him what his own cat had said, and how he wished to borrow the cat Buchi for a little while. "'That's a very easy matter to settle,' said the other: 'pray take him with you at once;' and accordingly the father went home with the cat Buchi in charge. That night he put the two cats into the granary; and after a little while, a frightful clatter was heard, and then all was still again; so the people of the house opened the door, and crowded out to see what had happened; and there they beheld the two cats and the rat all locked together, and panting for breath; so they cut the throat of the rat, which was as big as either of the cats: then they attended to the two cats; but, although they gave them ginseng[76] and other restoratives, they both got weaker and weaker, until at last they died. So the rat was thrown into the river; but the two cats were buried with all honours in a neighbouring temple." [Footnote 76: A restorative in high repute. The best sorts are brought from Corea.] HOW A MAN WAS BEWITCHED AND HAD HIS HEAD SHAVED BY THE FOXES In the village of Iwahara, in the province of Shinshiu, there dwelt a family which had acquired considerable wealth in the wine trade. On some auspicious occasion it happened that a number of guests were gathered together at their house, feasting on wine and fish; and as the wine-cup went round, the conversation turned upon foxes. Among the guests was a certain carpenter, Tokutarô by name, a man about thirty years of age, of a stubborn and obstinate turn, who said-- "Well, sirs, you've been talking for some time of men being bewitched by foxes; surely you must be under their influence yourselves, to say such things. How on earth can foxes have such power over men? At any rate, men must be great fools to be so deluded. Let's have no more of this nonsense." Upon this a man who was sitting by him answered-- "Tokutarô little knows what goes on in the world, or he would not speak so. How many myriads of men are there who have been bewitched by foxes? Why, there have been at least twenty or thirty men tricked by the brutes on the Maki Moor alone. It's hard to disprove facts that have happened before our eyes." "You're no better than a pack of born idiots," said Tokutarô. "I will engage to go out to the Maki Moor this very night and prove it. There is not a fox in all Japan that can make a fool of Tokutarô." "Thus he spoke in his pride; but the others were all angry with him for boasting, and said-- "If you return without anything having happened, we will pay for five measures of wine and a thousand copper cash worth of fish; and if you are bewitched, you shall do as much for us." Tokutarô took the bet, and at nightfall set forth for the Maki Moor by himself. As he neared the moor, he saw before him a small bamboo grove, into which a fox ran; and it instantly occurred to him that the foxes of the moor would try to bewitch him. As he was yet looking, he suddenly saw the daughter of the headman of the village of Upper Horikané, who was married to the headman of the village of Maki. "Pray, where are you going to, Master Tokutarô?" said she. "I am going to the village hard by." "Then, as you will have to pass my native place, if you will allow me, I will accompany you so far." Tokutarô thought this very odd, and made up his mind that it was a fox trying to make a fool of him; he accordingly determined to turn the tables on the fox, and answered--"It is a long time since I have had the pleasure of seeing you; and as it seems that your house is on my road, I shall be glad to escort you so far." With this he walked behind her, thinking he should certainly see the end of a fox's tail peeping out; but, look as he might, there was nothing to be seen. At last they came to the village of Upper Horikané; and when they reached the cottage of the girl's father, the family all came out, surprised to see her. "Oh dear! oh dear! here is our daughter come: I hope there is nothing the matter." And so they went on, for some time, asking a string of questions. In the meanwhile, Tokutarô went round to the kitchen door, at the back of the house, and, beckoning out the master of the house, said-- "The girl who has come with me is not really your daughter. As I was going to the Maki Moor, when I arrived at the bamboo grove, a fox jumped up in front of me, and when it had dashed into the grove it immediately took the shape of your daughter, and offered to accompany me to the village; so I pretended to be taken in by the brute, and came with it so far." On hearing this, the master of the house put his head on one side, and mused a while; then, calling his wife, he repeated the story to her, in a whisper. But she flew into a great rage with Tokutarô, and said-- "This is a pretty way of insulting people's daughters. The girl is our daughter, and there's no mistake about it. How dare you invent such lies?" "Well," said Tokutarô, "you are quite right to say so; but still there is no doubt that this is a case of witchcraft." Seeing how obstinately he held to his opinion, the old folks were sorely perplexed, and said-- "What do you think of doing?" "Pray leave the matter to me: I'll soon strip the false skin off, and show the beast to you in its true colours. Do you two go into the store-closet, and wait there." With this he went into the kitchen, and, seizing the girl by the back of the neck, forced her down by the hearth. "Oh! Master Tokutarô, what means this brutal violence? Mother! father! help!" So the girl cried and screamed; but Tokutarô only laughed, and said-- "So you thought to bewitch me, did you? From the moment you jumped into the wood, I was on the look-out for you to play me some trick. I'll soon make you show what you really are;" and as he said this, he twisted her two hands behind her back, and trod upon her, and tortured her; but she only wept, and cried-- "Oh! it hurts, it hurts!" "If this is not enough to make you show your true form, I'll roast you to death;" and he piled firewood on the hearth, and, tucking up her dress, scorched her severely. "Oh! oh! this is more than I can bear;" and with this she expired. The two old people then came running in from the rear of the house, and, pushing aside Tokutarô, folded their daughter in their arms, and put their hands to her mouth to feel whether she still breathed; but life was extinct, and not the sign of a fox's tail was to be seen about her. Then they seized Tokutarô by the collar, and cried-- "On pretence that our true daughter was a fox, you have roasted her to death. Murderer! Here, you there, bring ropes and cords, and secure this Tokutarô!" So the servants obeyed, and several of them seized Tokutarô and bound him to a pillar. Then the master of the house, turning to Tokutarô, said-- "You have murdered our daughter before our very eyes. I shall report the matter to the lord of the manor, and you will assuredly pay for this with your head. Be prepared for the worst." And as he said this, glaring fiercely at Tokutarô, they carried the corpse of his daughter into the store-closet. As they were sending to make the matter known in the village of Maki, and taking other measures, who should come up but the priest of the temple called Anrakuji, in the village of Iwahara, with an acolyte and a servant, who called out in a loud voice from the front door-- "Is all well with the honourable master of this house? I have been to say prayers to-day in a neighbouring village, and on my way back I could not pass the door without at least inquiring after your welfare. If you are at home, I would fain pay my respects to you." As he spoke thus in a loud voice, he was heard from the back of the house; and the master got up and went out, and, after the usual compliments on meeting had been exchanged, said-- "I ought to have the honour of inviting you to step inside this evening; but really we are all in the greatest trouble, and I must beg you to excuse my impoliteness." "Indeed! Pray, what may be the matter?" replied the priest. And when the master of the house had told the whole story, from beginning to end, he was thunderstruck, and said-- "Truly, this must be a terrible distress to you." Then the priest looked on one side, and saw Tokutarô bound, and exclaimed, "Is not that Tokutarô that I see there?" "Oh, your reverence," replied Tokutarô, piteously, "it was this, that, and the other: and I took it into my head that the young lady was a fox, and so I killed her. But I pray your reverence to intercede for me, and save my life;" and as he spoke, the tears started from his eyes. "To be sure," said the priest, "you may well bewail yourself; however, if I save your life, will you consent to become my disciple, and enter the priesthood?" "Only save my life, and I'll become your disciple with all my heart." When the priest heard this, he called out the parents, and said to them-- "It would seem that, though I am but a foolish old priest, my coming here to-day has been unusually well timed. I have a request to make of you. Your putting Tokutarô to death won't bring your daughter to life again. I have heard his story, and there certainly was no malice prepense on his part to kill your daughter. What he did, he did thinking to do a service to your family; and it would surely be better to hush the matter up. He wishes, moreover, to give himself over to me, and to become my disciple." "It is as you say," replied the father and mother, speaking together. "Revenge will not recall our daughter. Please dispel our grief, by shaving his head and making a priest of him on the spot." "I'll shave him at once, before your eyes," answered the priest, who immediately caused the cords which bound Tokutarô to be untied, and, putting on his priest's scarf, made him join his hands together in a posture of prayer. Then the reverend man stood up behind him, razor in hand, and, intoning a hymn, gave two or three strokes of the razor, which he then handed to his acolyte, who made a clean shave of Tokutarô's hair. When the latter had finished his obeisance to the priest, and the ceremony was over, there was a loud burst of laughter; and at the same moment the day broke, and Tokutarô found himself alone, in the middle of a large moor. At first, in his surprise, he thought that it was all a dream, and was much annoyed at having been tricked by the foxes. He then passed his hand over his head, and found that he was shaved quite bald. There was nothing for it but to get up, wrap a handkerchief round his head, and go back to the place where his friends were assembled. "Hallo, Tokutarô! so you've come back. Well, how about the foxes?" "Really, gentlemen," replied he, bowing, "I am quite ashamed to appear before you." Then he told them the whole story, and, when he had finished, pulled off the kerchief, and showed his bald pate. "What a capital joke!" shouted his listeners, and amid roars of laughter, claimed the bet of fish, and wine. It was duly paid; but Tokutarô never allowed his hair to grow again, and renounced the world, and became a priest under the name of Sainen. There are a great many stories told of men being shaved by the foxes; but this story came under the personal observation of Mr. Shôminsai, a teacher of the city of Yedo, during a holiday trip which he took to the country where the event occurred; and I[77] have recorded it in the very selfsame words in which he told it to me. [Footnote 77: The author of the "Kanzen-Yawa," the book from which the story is taken.] THE GRATEFUL FOXES One fine spring day, two friends went out to a moor to gather fern, attended by a boy with a bottle of wine and a box of provisions. As they were straying about, they saw at the foot of a hill a fox that had brought out its cub to play; and whilst they looked on, struck by the strangeness of the sight, three children came up from a neighbouring village with baskets in their hands, on the same errand as themselves. As soon as the children saw the foxes, they picked up a bamboo stick and took the creatures stealthily in the rear; and when the old foxes took to flight, they surrounded them and beat them with the stick, so that they ran away as fast as their legs could carry them; but two of the boys held down the cub, and, seizing it by the scruff of the neck, went off in high glee. The two friends were looking on all the while, and one of them, raising his voice, shouted out, "Hallo! you boys! what are you doing with that fox?" The eldest of the boys replied, "We're going to take him home and sell him to a young man in our village. He'll buy him, and then he'll boil him in a pot and eat him." "Well," replied the other, after considering the matter attentively, "I suppose it's all the same to you whom you sell him to. You'd better let me have him." "Oh, but the young man from our village promised us a good round sum if we could find a fox, and got us to come out to the hills and catch one; and so we can't sell him to you at any price." "Well, I suppose it cannot be helped, then; but how much would the young man give you for the cub?" "Oh, he'll give us three hundred cash at least." "Then I'll give you half a bu;[78] and so you'll gain five hundred cash by the transaction." [Footnote 78: _Bu_. This coin is generally called by foreigners "ichibu," which means "one bu." To talk of "_a hundred ichibus_" is as though a Japanese were to say "_a hundred one shillings."_ Four bus make a _riyo>,_ or ounce; and any sum above three bus is spoken of as so many riyos and bus--as 101 riyos and three bus equal 407 bus. The bu is worth about 1s. 4d.] "Oh, we'll sell him for that, sir. How shall we hand him over to you?" "Just tie him up here," said the other; and so he made fast the cub round the neck with the string of the napkin in which the luncheon-box was wrapped, and gave half a bu to the three boys, who ran away delighted. The man's friend, upon this, said to him, "Well, certainly you have got queer tastes. What on earth are you going to keep the fox for?" "How very unkind of you to speak of my tastes like that. If we had not interfered just now, the fox's cub would have lost its life. If we had not seen the affair, there would have been no help for it. How could I stand by and see life taken? It was but a little I spent--only half a bu--to save the cub, but had it cost a fortune I should not have grudged it. I thought you were intimate enough with me to know my heart; but to-day you have accused me of being eccentric, and I see how mistaken I have been in you. However, our friendship shall cease from this day forth." And when he had said this with a great deal of firmness, the other, retiring backwards and bowing with his hands on his knees, replied-- "Indeed, indeed, I am filled with admiration at the goodness of your heart. When I hear you speak thus, I feel more than ever how great is the love I bear you. I thought that you might wish to use the cub as a sort of decoy to lead the old ones to you, that you might pray them to bring prosperity and virtue to your house. When I called you eccentric just now, I was but trying your heart, because I had some suspicions of you; and now I am truly ashamed of myself." And as he spoke, still bowing, the other replied, "Really! was that indeed your thought? Then I pray you to forgive me for my violent language." When the two friends had thus become reconciled, they examined the cub, and saw that it had a slight wound in its foot, and could not walk; and while they were thinking what they should do, they spied out the herb called "Doctor's Nakasé," which was just sprouting; so they rolled up a little of it in their fingers and applied it to the part. Then they pulled out some boiled rice from their luncheon-box and offered it to the cub, but it showed no sign of wanting to eat; so they stroked it gently on the back, and petted it; and as the pain of the wound seemed to have subsided, they were admiring the properties of the herb, when, opposite to them, they saw the old foxes sitting watching them by the side of some stacks of rice straw. "Look there! the old foxes have come back, out of fear for their cub's safety. Come, we will set it free!" And with these words they untied the string round the cub's neck, and turned its head towards the spot where the old foxes sat; and as the wounded foot was no longer painful, with one bound it dashed to its parents' side and licked them all over for joy, while they seemed to bow their thanks, looking towards the two friends. So, with peace in their hearts, the latter went off to another place, and, choosing a pretty spot, produced the wine bottle and ate their noon-day meal; and after a pleasant day, they returned to their homes, and became firmer friends than ever. Now the man who had rescued the fox's cub was a tradesman in good circumstances: he had three or four agents and two maid-servants, besides men-servants; and altogether he lived in a liberal manner. He was married, and this union had brought him one son, who had reached his tenth year, but had been attacked by a strange disease which defied all the physician's skill and drugs. At last a famous physician prescribed the liver taken from a live fox, which, as he said, would certainly effect a cure. If that were not forthcoming, the most expensive medicine in the world would not restore the boy to health. When the parents heard this, they were at their wits' end. However, they told the state of the case to a man who lived on the mountains. "Even though our child should die for it," they said, "we will not ourselves deprive other creatures of their lives; but you, who live among the hills, are sure to hear when your neighbours go out fox-hunting. We don't care what price we might have to pay for a fox's liver; pray, buy one for us at any expense." So they pressed him to exert himself on their behalf; and he, having promised faithfully to execute the commission, went his way. In the night of the following day there came a messenger, who announced himself as coming from the person who had undertaken to procure the fox's liver; so the master of the house went out to see him. "I have come from Mr. So-and-so. Last night the fox's liver that you required fell into his hands; so he sent me to bring it to you." With these words the messenger produced a small jar, adding, "In a few days he will let you know the price." When he had delivered his message, the master of the house was greatly pleased, and said, "Indeed, I am deeply grateful for this kindness, which will save my son's life." Then the goodwife came out, and received the jar with every mark of politeness. "We must make a present to the messenger." "Indeed, sir, I've already been paid for my trouble." "Well, at any rate, you must stop the night here." "Thank you, sir: I've a relation in the next village whom I have not seen for a long while, and I will pass the night with him;" and so he took his leave, and went away. The parents lost no time in sending to let the physician know that they had procured the fox's liver. The next day the doctor came and compounded a medicine for the patient, which at once produced a good effect, and there was no little joy in the household. As luck would have it, three days after this the man whom they had commissioned to buy the fox's liver came to the house; so the goodwife hurried out to meet him and welcome him. "How quickly you fulfilled our wishes, and how kind of you to send at once! The doctor prepared the medicine, and now our boy can get up and walk about the room; and it's all owing to your goodness." "Wait a bit!" cried the guest, who did not know what to make of the joy of the two parents. "The commission with which you entrusted me about the fox's liver turned out to be a matter of impossibility, so I came to-day to make my excuses; and now I really can't understand what you are so grateful to me for." "We are thanking you, sir," replied the master of the house, bowing with his hands on the ground, "for the fox's liver which we asked you to procure for us." "I really am perfectly unaware of having sent you a fox's liver: there must be some mistake here. Pray inquire carefully into the matter." "Well, this is very strange. Four nights ago, a man of some five or six and thirty years of age came with a verbal message from you, to the effect that you had sent him with a fox's liver, which you had just procured, and said that he would come and tell us the price another day. When we asked him to spend the night here, he answered that he would lodge with a relation in the next village, and went away." The visitor was more and more lost in amazement, and; leaning his head on one side in deep thought, confessed that he could make nothing of it. As for the husband and wife, they felt quite out of countenance at having thanked a man so warmly for favours of which he denied all knowledge; and so the visitor took his leave, and went home. That night there appeared at the pillow of the master of the house a woman of about one or two and thirty years of age, who said, "I am the fox that lives at such-and-such a mountain. Last spring, when I was taking out my cub to play, it was carried off by some boys, and only saved by your goodness. The desire to requite this kindness pierced me to the quick. At last, when calamity attacked your house, I thought that I might be of use to you. Your son's illness could not be cured without a liver taken from a live fox, so to repay your kindness I killed my cub and took out its liver; then its sire, disguising himself as a messenger, brought it to your house." And as she spoke, the fox shed tears; and the master of the house, wishing to thank her, moved in bed, upon which his wife awoke and asked him what was the matter; but he too, to her great astonishment, was biting the pillow and weeping bitterly. "Why are you weeping thus?" asked she. At last he sat up in bed, and said, "Last spring, when I was out on a pleasure excursion, I was the means of saving the life of a fox's cub, as I told you at the time. The other day I told Mr. So-and-so that, although my son were to die before my eyes, I would not be the means of killing a fox on purpose; but asked him, in case he heard of any hunter killing a fox, to buy it for me. How the foxes came to hear of this I don't know; but the foxes to whom I had shown kindness killed their own cub and took out the liver; and the old dog-fox, disguising himself as a messenger from the person to whom we had confided the commission, came here with it. His mate has just been at my pillow-side and told me all about it; hence it was that, in spite of myself, I was moved to tears." [Illustration: THE FEAST OF INARI SAMA.] When she heard this, the goodwife likewise was blinded by her tears, and for a while they lay lost in thought; but at last, coming to themselves, they lighted the lamp on the shelf on which the family idol stood, and spent the night in reciting prayers and praises, and the next day they published the matter to the household and to their relations and friends. Now, although there are instances of men killing their own children to requite a favour, there is no other example of foxes having done such a thing; so the story became the talk of the whole country. Now, the boy who had recovered through the efficacy of this medicine selected the prettiest spot on the premises to erect a shrine to Inari Sama,[79] the Fox God, and offered sacrifice to the two old foxes, for whom he purchased the highest rank at the court of the Mikado. [Footnote 79: Inari Sama is the title under which was deified a certain mythical personage, called Uga, to whom tradition attributes the honour of having first discovered and cultivated the rice-plant. He is represented carrying a few ears of rice, and is symbolized by a snake guarding a bale of rice grain. The foxes wait upon him, and do his bidding. Inasmuch as rice is the most important and necessary product of Japan, the honours which Inari Sama receives are extraordinary. Almost every house in the country contains somewhere about the grounds a pretty little shrine in his honour; and on a certain day of the second month of the year his feast is celebrated with much beating of drums and other noises, in which the children take a special delight. "On this day," says the Ô-Satsuyô, a Japanese cyclopædia, "at Yedo, where there are myriads upon myriads of shrines to Inari Sama, there are all sorts of ceremonies. Long banners with inscriptions are erected, lamps and lanterns are hung up, and the houses are decked with various dolls and figures; the sound of flutes and drums is heard, the people dance and make holiday according to their fancy. In short, it is the most bustling festival of the Yedo year."] * * * * * The passage in the tale which speaks of rank being purchased for the foxes at the court of the Mikado is, of course, a piece of nonsense. "The saints who are worshipped in Japan," writes a native authority, "are men who, in the remote ages, when the country was developing itself, were sages, and by their great and virtuous deeds having earned the gratitude of future generations, received divine honours after their death. How can the Son of Heaven, who is the father and mother of his people, turn dealer in ranks and honours? If rank were a matter of barter, it would cease to be a reward to the virtuous." All matters connected with the shrines of the Shintô, or indigenous religion, are confided to the superintendence of the families of Yoshida and Fushimi, Kugés or nobles of the Mikado's court at Kiyôto. The affairs of the Buddhist or imported religion are under the care of the family of Kanjuji. As it is necessary that those who as priests perform the honourable office of serving the gods should be persons of some standing, a certain small rank is procured for them through the intervention of the representatives of the above noble families, who, on the issuing of the required patent, receive as their perquisite a fee, which, although insignificant in itself, is yet of importance to the poor Kugés, whose penniless condition forms a great contrast to the wealth of their inferiors in rank, the Daimios. I believe that this is the only case in which rank can be bought or sold in Japan. In China, on the contrary, in spite of what has been written by Meadows and other admirers of the examination system, a man can be what he pleases by paying for it; and the coveted button, which is nominally the reward of learning and ability, is more often the prize of wealthy ignorance. The saints who are alluded to above are the saints of the whole country, as distinct from those who for special deeds are locally worshipped. To this innumerable class frequent allusion is made in these Tales. Touching the remedy of the fox's liver, prescribed in the tale, I may add that there would be nothing strange in this to a person acquainted with the Chinese pharmacopoeia, which the Japanese long exclusively followed, although they are now successfully studying the art of healing as practised in the West. When I was at Peking, I saw a Chinese physician prescribe a decoction of three scorpions for a child struck down with fever; and on another occasion a groom of mine, suffering from dysentery, was treated with acupuncture of the tongue. The art of medicine would appear to be at the present time in China much in the state in which it existed in Europe in the sixteenth century, when the excretions and secretions of all manner of animals, saurians, and venomous snakes and insects, and even live bugs, were administered to patients. "Some physicians," says Matthiolus, "use the ashes of scorpions, burnt alive, for retention caused by either renal or vesical calculi. But I have myself thoroughly experienced the utility of an oil I make myself, whereof scorpions form a very large portion of the ingredients. If only the region of the heart and all the pulses of the body be anointed with it, it will free the patients from the effects of all kinds of poisons taken by the mouth, corrosive ones excepted." Decoctions of Egyptian mummies were much commended, and often prescribed with due academical solemnity; and the bones of the human skull, pulverized and administered with oil, were used as a specific in cases of renal calculus. (See Petri Andreæ Matthioli Opera, 1574.) These remarks were made to me by a medical gentleman to whom I mentioned the Chinese doctor's prescription of scorpion tea, and they seem to me so curious that I insert them for comparison's sake. THE BADGER'S MONEY It is a common saying among men, that to forget favours received is the part of a bird or a beast: an ungrateful man will be ill spoken of by all the world. And yet even birds and beasts will show gratitude; so that a man who does not requite a favour is worse even than dumb brutes. Is not this a disgrace? Once upon a time, in a hut at a place called Namékata, in Hitachi, there lived an old priest famous neither for learning nor wisdom, but bent only on passing his days in prayer and meditation. He had not even a child to wait upon him, but prepared his food with his own hands. Night and morning he recited the prayer "Namu Amida Butsu,"[80] intent upon that alone. Although the fame of his virtue did not reach far, yet his neighbours respected and revered him, and often brought him food and raiment; and when his roof or his walls fell out of repair, they would mend them for him; so for the things of this world he took no thought. [Footnote 80: A Buddhist prayer, in which something approaching to the sounds of the original Sanscrit has been preserved. The meaning of the prayer is explained as, "Save us, eternal Buddha!" Many even of the priests who repeat it know it only as a formula, without understanding it.] One very cold night, when he little thought any one was outside, he heard a voice calling "Your reverence! your reverence!" So he rose and went out to see who it was, and there he beheld an old badger standing. Any ordinary man would have been greatly alarmed at the apparition; but the priest, being such as he has been described above, showed no sign of fear, but asked the creature its business. Upon this the badger respectfully bent its knees, and said-- "Hitherto, sir, my lair has been in the mountains, and of snow or frost I have taken no heed; but now I am growing old, and this severe cold is more than I can bear. I pray you to let me enter and warm myself at the fire of your cottage, that I may live through this bitter night." When the priest heard what a helpless state the beast was reduced to, he was filled with pity, and said-- "That's a very slight matter: make haste and come in and warm yourself." The badger, delighted with so good a reception, went into the hut, and squatting down by the fire began to warm itself; and the priest, with renewed fervour, recited his prayers and struck his bell before the image of Buddha, looking straight before him. After two hours the badger took its leave, with profuse expressions of thanks, and went out; and from that time forth it came every night to the hut. As the badger would collect and bring with it dried branches and dead leaves from the hills for firewood, the priest at last became very friendly with it, and got used to its company; so that if ever, as the night wore on, the badger did not arrive, he used to miss it, and wonder why it did not come. When the winter was over, and the spring-time came at the end of the second month, the Badger gave up its visits, and was no more seen; but, on the return of the winter, the beast resumed its old habit of coming to the hut. When this practice had gone on for ten years, one day the badger said to the priest, "Through your reverence's kindness for all these years, I have been able to pass the winter nights in comfort. Your favours are such, that during all my life, and even after my death, I must remember them. What can I do to requite them? If there is anything that you wish for, pray tell me." The priest, smiling at this speech, answered, "Being such as I am, I have no desire and no wishes. Glad as I am to hear your kind intentions, there is nothing that I can ask you to do for me. You need feel no anxiety on my account. As long as I live, when the winter comes, you shall be welcome here." The badger, on hearing this, could not conceal its admiration of the depth of the old man's benevolence; but having so much to be grateful for, it felt hurt at not being able to requite it. As this subject was often renewed between them, the priest at last, touched by the goodness of the badger's heart, said, "Since I have shaven my head, renounced the world, and forsaken the pleasures of this life, I have no desire to gratify, yet I own I should like to possess three riyos in gold. Food and raiment I receive by the favour of the villagers, so I take no heed for those things. Were I to die to-morrow, and attain my wish of being born again into the next world, the same kind folk have promised to meet and bury my body. Thus, although I have no other reason to wish for money, still if I had three riyos I would offer them up at some holy shrine, that masses and prayers might be said for me, whereby I might enter into salvation. Yet I would not get this money by violent or unlawful means; I only think of what might be if I had it. So you see, since you have expressed such kind feelings towards me, I have told you what is on my mind." When the priest had done speaking, the badger leant its head on one side with a puzzled and anxious look, so much so that the old man was sorry he had expressed a wish which seemed to give the beast trouble, and tried to retract what he had said. "Posthumous honours, after all, are the wish of ordinary men. I, who am a priest, ought not to entertain such thoughts, or to want money; so pray pay no attention to what I have said;" and the badger, feigning assent to what the priest had impressed upon it, returned to the hills as usual. From that time forth the badger came no more to the hut. The priest thought this very strange, but imagined either that the badger stayed away because it did not like to come without the money, or that it had been killed in an attempt to steal it; and he blamed himself for having added to his sins for no purpose, repenting when it was too late: persuaded, however, that the badger must have been killed, he passed his time in putting up prayers upon prayers for it. After three years had gone by, one night the old man heard a voice near his door calling out, "Your reverence! your reverence!" As the voice was like that of the badger, he jumped up as soon as he heard it, and ran out to open the door; and there, sure enough, was the badger. The priest, in great delight, cried out, "And so you are safe and sound, after all! Why have you been so long without coming here? I have been expecting you anxiously this long while." So the badger came into the hut, and said, "If the money which you required had been for unlawful purposes, I could easily have procured as much as ever you might have wanted; but when I heard that it was to be offered to a temple for masses for your soul, I thought that, if I were to steal the hidden treasure of some other man, you could not apply to a sacred purpose money which had been obtained at the expense of his sorrow. So I went to the island of Sado,[81] and gathering the sand and earth which had been cast away as worthless by the miners, fused it afresh in the fire; and at this work I spent months and days." As the badger finished speaking, the priest looked at the money which it had produced, and sure enough he saw that it was bright and new and clean; so he took the money, and received it respectfully, raising it to his head. [Footnote 81: An island on the west coast of Japan, famous for its gold mines.] "And so you have had all this toil and labour on account of a foolish speech of mine? I have obtained my heart's desire, and am truly thankful." As he was thanking the badger with great politeness and ceremony, the beast said, "In doing this I have but fulfilled my own wish; still I hope that you will tell this thing to no man." "Indeed," replied the priest, "I cannot choose but tell this story. For if I keep this money in my poor hut, it will be stolen by thieves: I must either give it to some one to keep for me, or else at once offer it up at the temple. And when I do this, when people see a poor old priest with a sum of money quite unsuited to his station, they will think it very suspicious, and I shall have to tell the tale as it occurred; but as I shall say that the badger that gave me the money has ceased coming to my hut, you need not fear being waylaid, but can come, as of old, and shelter yourself from the cold." To this the badger nodded assent; and as long as the old priest lived, it came and spent the winter nights with him. From this story, it is plain that even beasts have a sense of gratitude: in this quality dogs excel all other beasts. Is not the story of the dog of Totoribé Yorodzu written in the Annals of Japan? I[82] have heard that many anecdotes of this nature have been collected and printed in a book, which I have not yet seen; but as the facts which I have recorded relate to a badger, they appear to me to be passing strange. [Footnote 82: The author of the tale.] THE PRINCE AND THE BADGER In days of yore there lived a forefather of the Prince of Tosa who went by the name of Yamanouchi Kadzutoyo. At the age of fourteen this prince was amazingly fond of fishing, and would often go down to the river for sport. And it came to pass one day that he had gone thither with but one retainer, and had made a great haul, that a violent shower suddenly came on. Now, the prince had no rain-coat with him, and was in so sorry a plight that he took shelter under a willow-tree and waited for the weather to clear; but the storm showed no sign of abating, and there was no help for it, so he turned to the retainer and said-- "This rain is not likely to stop for some time, so we had better hurry home." As they trudged homeward, night fell, and it grew very dark; and their road lay over a long bank, by the side of which they found a girl, about sixteen years old, weeping bitterly. Struck with wonder, they looked steadfastly at her, and perceived that she was exceedingly comely. While Kadzutoyo stood doubting what so strange a sight could portend, his retainer, smitten with the girl's charms, stepped up to her and said-- "Little sister, tell us whose daughter you are, and how it comes that you are out by yourself at night in such a storm of rain. Surely it is passing strange." "Sir," replied she, looking up through her tears, "I am the daughter of a poor man in the castle town. My mother died when I was seven years old, and my father has now wedded a shrew, who loathes and ill-uses me; and in the midst of my grief he is gone far away on his business, so I was left alone with my stepmother; and this very night she spited and beat me till I could bear it no longer, and was on my way to my aunt's, who dwells in yonder village, when the shower came on; but as I lay waiting for the rain to stop, I was seized with a spasm, to which I am subject, and was in great pain, when I had the good luck to fall in with your worships." As she spoke, the retainer fell deeply in love with her matchless beauty, whilst his lord Kadzutoyo, who from the outset had not uttered a word, but stood brooding over the matter, straightway drew his sword and cut off her head. But the retainer stood aghast, and cried out-- "Oh! my young lord, what wicked deed is this that you've done? The murder of a man's daughter will bring trouble upon us, for you may rely on the business not ending here." "You don't know what you're talking about," answered Kadzutoyo: "only don't tell any one about it, that is all I ask;" and so they went home in silence. As Kadzutoyo was very tired, he went to bed, and slept undisturbed by any sense of guilt; for he was brave and fearless. But the retainer grew very uneasy, and went to his young lord's parents and said-- "I had the honour of attending my young lord out fishing to-day, and we were driven home by the rain. And as we came back by the bank, we descried a girl with a spasm in her stomach, and her my young lord straightway slew; and although he has bidden me tell it to no one, I cannot conceal it from my lord and my lady." Kadzutoyo's parents were sore amazed, bewailing their son's wickedness, and went at once to his room and woke him; his father shed tears and said-- "Oh! dastardly cut-throat that you are! how dare you kill another man's daughter without provocation? Such unspeakable villany is unworthy a Samurai's son. Know, that the duty of every Samurai is to keep watch over the country, and to protect the people; and such is his daily task. For sword and dirk are given to men that they may slay rebels, and faithfully serve their prince, and not that they may go about committing sin and killing the daughters of innocent men. Whoever is fool enough not to understand this will repeat his misdeed, and will assuredly bring shame on his kindred. Grieved as I am that I should take away the life which I gave you, I cannot suffer you to bring dishonour on our house; so prepare to meet your fate!" With these words he drew his sword; but Kadzutoyo, without a sign of fear, said to his father-- "Your anger, sir, is most just; but remember that I have studied the classics and understand the laws of right and wrong, and be sure I would never kill another man without good cause. The girl whom I slew was certainly no human being, but some foul goblin: feeling certain of this, I cut her down. To-morrow I beg you will send your retainers to look for the corpse; and if it really be that of a human being, I shall give you no further trouble, but shall disembowel myself." Upon this the father sheathed his sword, and awaited daybreak. When the morning came, the old prince, in sad distress, bade his retainers lead him to the bank; and there he saw a huge badger, with his head cut off, lying dead by the roadside; and the prince was lost in wonder at his son's shrewdness. But the retainer did not know what to make of it, and still had his doubts. The prince, however, returned home, and sending for his son, said to him-- "It's very strange that the creature which appeared to your retainer to be a girl, should have seemed to you to be a badger." "My lord's wonder is just," replied Kadzutoyo, smiling: "she appeared as a girl to me as well. But here was a young girl, at night, far from any inhabited place. Stranger still was her wondrous beauty; and strangest of all that, though it was pouring with rain, there was not a sign of wet on her clothes; and when my retainer asked how long she had been there, she said she had been on the bank in pain for some time; so I had no further doubt but that she was a goblin, and I killed her." "But what made you think she must be a goblin because her clothes were dry?" "The beast evidently thought that, if she could bewitch us with her beauty, she might get at the fish my retainer was carrying; but she forgot that, as it was raining, it would not do for her clothes not to be wet; so I detected and killed her." When the old prince heard his son speak thus, he was filled with admiration for the youth's sagacity; so, conceiving that Kadzutoyo had given reliable proof of wisdom and prudence, he resolved to abdicate;[83] and Kadzutoyo was proclaimed Prince of Tosa in his stead. [Footnote 83: _Inkiyô_, abdication. The custom of abdication is common among all classes, from the Emperor down to his meanest subject. The Emperor abdicates after consultation with his ministers: the Shogun has to obtain the permission of the Emperor; the Daimios, that of the Shogun. The abdication of the Emperor was called _Sentô_; that of the Shogun, _Oyoshô_; in all other ranks it is called _Inkiyô_. It must be remembered that the princes of Japan, in becoming Inkiyô, resign the semblance and the name, but not the reality of power. Both in their own provinces and in the country at large they play a most important part. The ex-Princes of Tosa, Uwajima and Owari, are far more notable men in Japan than the actual holders of the titles.] JAPANESE SERMONS [Illustration: A JAPANESE SERMON.] JAPANESE SERMONS "Sermons preached here on 8th, 18th, and 28th days of every month." Such was the purport of a placard, which used to tempt me daily, as I passed the temple Chô-ô-ji. Having ascertained that neither the preacher nor his congregation would have any objection to my hearing one of these sermons, I made arrangements to attend the service, accompanied by two friends, my artist, and a scribe to take notes. We were shown into an apartment adjoining a small chapel--a room opening on to a tastily arranged garden, wealthy in stone lanterns and dwarfed trees. In the portion of the room reserved for the priest stood a high table, covered with a cloth of white and scarlet silk, richly embroidered with flowers and arabesques; upon this stood a bell, a tray containing the rolls of the sacred books, and a small incense-burner of ancient Chinese porcelain. Before the table was a hanging drum, and behind it was one of those high, back-breaking arm-chairs which adorn every Buddhist temple. In one corner of the space destined for the accommodation of the faithful was a low writing-desk, at which sat, or rather squatted, a lay clerk, armed with a huge pair of horn spectacles, through which he glared, goblin-like, at the people, as they came to have their names and the amount of their offerings to the temple registered. These latter must have been small things, for the congregation seemed poor enough. It was principally composed of old women, nuns with bald shiny pates and grotesque faces, a few petty tradesmen, and half-a-dozen chubby children, perfect little models of decorum and devoutness. One lady there was, indeed, who seemed a little better to do in the world than the rest; she was nicely dressed, and attended by a female servant; she came in with a certain little consequential rustle, and displayed some coquetry, and a very pretty bare foot, as she took her place, and, pulling out a dandy little pipe and tobacco-pouch, began to smoke. Fire-boxes and spittoons, I should mention, were freely handed about; so that half-an-hour which passed before the sermon began was agreeably spent. In the meanwhile, mass was being celebrated in the main hall of the temple, and the monotonous nasal drone of the plain chant was faintly heard in the distance. So soon as this was over, the lay clerk sat himself down by the hanging drum, and, to its accompaniment, began intoning the prayer, "Na Mu Miyô Hô Ren Go Kiyô," the congregation fervently joining in unison with him. These words, repeated over and over again, are the distinctive prayer of the Buddhist sect of Nichiren, to which the temple Chô-ô-ji is dedicated. They are approximations to Sanscrit sounds, and have no meaning in Japanese, nor do the worshippers in using them know their precise value. Soon the preacher, gorgeous in red and white robes, made his appearance, following an acolyte, who carried the sacred book called _Hokké_ (upon which the sect of Nichiren is founded) on a tray covered with scarlet and gold brocade. Having bowed to the sacred picture which hung over the _tokonoma_--that portion of the Japanese room which is raised a few inches above the rest of the floor, and which is regarded as the place of honour--his reverence took his seat at the table, and adjusted his robes; then, tying up the muscles of his face into a knot, expressive of utter abstraction, he struck the bell upon the table thrice, burnt a little incense, and read a passage from the sacred book, which he reverently lifted to his head. The congregation joined in chorus, devout but unintelligent; for the Word, written in ancient Chinese, is as obscure to the ordinary Japanese worshipper as are the Latin liturgies to a high-capped Norman peasant-woman. While his flock wrapped up copper cash in paper, and threw them before the table as offerings, the priest next recited a passage alone, and the lay clerk irreverently entered into a loud dispute with one of the congregation, touching some payment or other. The preliminary ceremonies ended, a small shaven-pated boy brought in a cup of tea, thrice afterwards to be replenished, for his reverence's refreshment; and he, having untied his face, gave a broad grin, cleared his throat, swallowed his tea, and beamed down upon us, as jolly, rosy a priest as ever donned stole or scarf. His discourse, which was delivered in the most familiar and easy manner, was an _extempore_ dissertation on certain passages from the sacred books. Whenever he paused or made a point, the congregation broke in with a cry of "Nammiyô!" a corruption of the first three words of the prayer cited above, to which they always contrived to give an expression or intonation in harmony with the preacher's meaning. "It is a matter of profound satisfaction to me," began his reverence Nichirin, smiling blandly at his audience, "to see so many gentlemen and ladies gathered together here this day, in the fidelity of their hearts, to do honour to the feast of Kishimojin."[84] [Footnote 84: Kishimojin, a female deity of the Buddhists.] "Nammiyô! nammiyô!" self-depreciatory, from the congregation. "I feel certain that your piety cannot fail to find favour with Kishimojin. Kishimojin ever mourns over the tortures of mankind, who are dwelling in a house of fire, and she ever earnestly strives to find some means of delivering them. "Nammiyô! nammiyô!" grateful and reverential. "Notwithstanding this, it is useless your worshipping Kishimojin, and professing to believe in her, unless you have truth in your hearts; for she will not receive your offerings. Man, from his very birth, is a creature of requirements; he is for ever seeking and praying. Both you who listen, and I who preach, have all of us our wants and wishes. If there be any person here who flatters himself that he has no wishes and no wants, let him reflect. Does not every one wish and pray that heaven and earth may stand for ever, that his country and family may prosper, that there may be plenty in the land, and that the people may be healthy and happy? The wishes of men, however, are various and many; and these wishes, numberless as they are, are all known to the gods from the beginning. It is no use praying, unless you have truth in your heart. For instance, the prayer _Na Mu_ is a prayer committing your bodies to the care of the gods; if, when you utter it, your hearts are true and single, of a surety your request will be granted. Now, this is not a mere statement made by Nichiren, the holy founder of this sect; it is the sacred teaching of Buddha himself, and may not be doubted." "Nammiyô! nammiyô!" with profound conviction. "The heart of man is, by nature, upright and true; but there are seven passions[85] by which it is corrupted. Buddha is alarmed when he sees the fires by which the world is being consumed. These fires are the five lusts of this sinful world; and the five lusts are, the desire for fair sights, sweet sounds, fragrant smells, dainty meats, and rich trappings. Man is no sooner endowed with a body than he is possessed by these lusts, which become his very heart; and, it being a law that every man follows the dictates of his heart, in this way the body, the lusts of the flesh, the heart, and the dictates of the heart, blaze up in the consuming fire. 'Alas! for this miserable world!' said the divine Buddha." [Footnote 85: The seven passions are joy, anger, sadness, fear, love, hatred, and desire.] "Nammiyô! nammiyô!" mournful, and with much head-shaking. "There is not so foul thing under heaven as the human body. The body exudes grease, the eyes distil gums, the nose is full of mucus, the mouth of slobbering spittle; nor are these the most impure secretions of the body. What a mistake it is to look upon this impure body as clean and perfect! Unless we listen to the teachings of Buddha, how shall we be washed and purified?" "Nammiyô, nammiyô!" from an impure and very miserable sinner, under ten years of age. "The lot of man is uncertain, and for ever running out of the beaten track. Why go to look at the flowers, and take delight in their beauty? When you return home, you will see the vanity of your pleasure. Why purchase fleeting joys of loose women? How long do you retain the delicious taste of the dainties you feast upon? For ever _wishing_ to do this, _wishing_ to see that, _wishing_ to eat rare dishes, _wishing_ to wear fine clothes, you pass a lifetime in fanning the flames which consume you. What terrible matter for thought is this! In the poems of the priest Saigiyo it is written, 'Verily I have been familiar with the flowers; yet are they withered and scattered, and we are parted. How sad!' The beauty of the convolvulus, how bright it is!--and yet in one short morning it closes its petals and fades. In the book called _Rin Jo Bo Satsu_[86] we are told how a certain king once went to take his pleasure in his garden, and gladden his eyes with the beauty of his flowers. After a while he fell asleep; and as he slumbered, the women of his train began pulling the flowers to pieces. When the king awoke, of all the glory of his flowers there remained but a few torn and faded petals. Seeing this, the king said, 'The flowers pass away and die; so is it with mankind: we are born, we grow old, we sicken and die; we are as fleeting as the lightning's flash, as evanescent as the morning dew.' I know not whether any of you here present ever fix your thoughts upon death; yet it is a rare thing for a man to live for a hundred years. How piteous a thing it is that in this short and transient life men should consume themselves in a fire of lust! and if we think to escape from this fire, how shall we succeed save only by the teaching of the divine Buddha?" [Footnote 86: One of the Buddhist classics.] "Nammiyô! nammiyô!" meekly and entreatingly. "Since Buddha himself escaped from the burning flames of the lusts of the flesh, his only thought has been for the salvation of mankind. Once upon a time there was a certain heretic, called Rokutsuponji, a reader of auguries, cunning in astrology and in the healing art. It happened, one day, that this heretic, being in company with Buddha, entered a forest, which was full of dead men's skulls. Buddha, taking up one of the skulls and tapping it thus" (here the preacher tapped the reading-desk with his fan), "said, 'What manner of man was this bone when alive?--and, now that he is dead, in what part of the world has he been born again?' The heretic, auguring from the sound which the skull, when struck, gave forth, began to tell its past history, and to prophesy the future. Then Buddha, tapping another skull, again asked the same question. The heretic answered-- "'Verily, as to this skull, whether it belonged to a man or a woman, whence its owner came or whither he has gone, I know not. What think you of it?" "'Ask me not,' answered Buddha. But the heretic pressed him, and entreated him to answer; then Buddha said, 'Verily this is the skull of one of my disciples, who forsook the lusts of the flesh.' "Then the heretic wondered, and said-- "'Of a truth, this is a thing the like of which no man has yet seen. Here am I, who know the manner of the life and of the death even of the ants that creep. Verily, I thought that no thing could escape my ken; yet here lies one of your disciples, than whom there lives no nobler thing, and I am at fault. From this day forth I will enter your sect, praying only that I may receive your teaching.' "Thus did this learned heretic become a disciple of Buddha. If such an one as he was converted, how much the more should after-ages of ordinary men feel that it is through. Buddha alone that they can hope to overcome the sinful lusts of the flesh! These lusts are the desires which agitate our hearts: if we are free from these desires, our hearts will be bright and pure, and there is nothing, save the teaching of Buddha, which can ensure us this freedom. Following the commands of Buddha, and delivered by him from our desires, we may pass our lives in peace and happiness." "Nammiyô! nammiyô!" with triumphant exultation. "In the sacred books we read of conversion from a state of sin to a state of salvation. Now this salvation is not a million miles removed from us; nor need we die and be born again into another world in order to reach it. He who lays aside his carnal lusts and affections, at once and of a certainty becomes equal to Buddha. When we recite the prayer _Na Mu Miyô Hô Ren Go Kiyô_, we are praying to enter this state of peace and happiness. By what instruction, other than that of Nichiren, the holy founder of this sect, can we expect to attain this end? If we do attain it, there will be no difference between our state and that of Buddha and of Nichiren. With this view we have learnt from the pious founder of our sect that we must continually and thankfully repeat the prayer _Na Mu Miyô Hô Ren Go Kiyô_, turning our hearts away from lies, and embracing the truth." Such were the heads of the sermon as they were taken down by my scribe. At its conclusion, the priest, looking about him smiling, as if the solemn truths he had been inculcating were nothing but a very good joke, was greeted by long and loud cries of "Nammiyô! nammiyô!" by all the congregation. Then the lay clerk sat himself down again by the hanging drum; and the service ended as it had begun, by prayer in chorus, during which the priest retired, the sacred book being carried out before him by his acolyte. Although occasionally, as in the above instance, sermons are delivered as part of a service on special days of the month, they are more frequently preached in courses, the delivery occupying about a fortnight, during which two sermons are given each day. Frequently the preachers are itinerant priests, who go about the towns and villages lecturing in the main hall of some temple or in the guest-room of the resident priest. There are many books of sermons published in Japan, all of which have some merit and much quaintness: none that I have seen are, however, to my taste, to be compared to the "Kiu-ô Dô-wa," of which the following three sermons compose the first volume. They are written by a priest belonging to the Shingaku sect--a sect professing to combine all that is excellent in the Buddhist, Confucian, and Shin Tô teaching. It maintains the original goodness of the human heart; and teaches that we have only to follow the dictates of the conscience implanted in us at our birth, in order to steer in the right path. The texts are taken from the Chinese classical books, in the same way as our preachers take theirs from the Bible. Jokes, stories which are sometimes untranslatable into our more fastidious tongue, and pointed applications to members of the congregation, enliven the discourses; it being a principle with the Japanese preacher that it is not necessary to bore his audience into virtue. SERMON I (THE SERMONS OF KIU-Ô, VOL. I) Môshi[87] says, "Benevolence is the heart of man; righteousness is the path of man. How lamentable a thing is it to leave the path and go astray, to cast away the heart and not know where to seek for it!" [Footnote 87: Môshi, the Japanese pronunciation of the name of the Chinese philosopher Mêng Tse, whom Europeans call Mencius.] The text is taken from the first chapter of Kôshi (the commentator), on Môshi. Now this quality, which we call benevolence, has been the subject of commentaries by many teachers; but as these commentaries have been difficult of comprehension, they are too hard to enter the ears of women and children. It is of this benevolence that, using examples and illustrations, I propose to treat. A long time ago, there lived at Kiôto a great physician, called Imaôji--I forget his other name: he was a very famous man. Once upon a time, a man from a place called Kuramaguchi advertised for sale a medicine which he had compounded against the cholera, and got Imaôji to write a puff for him. Imaôji, instead of calling the medicine in the puff a specific against the cholera, misspelt the word cholera so as to make it simpler. When the man who had employed him went and taxed him with this, and asked him why he had done so, he answered, with a smile-- "As Kuramaguchi is an approach to the capital from the country, the passers-by are but poor peasants and woodmen from the hills: if I had written 'cholera' at length, they would have been puzzled by it; so I wrote it in a simple way, that should pass current with every one. Truth itself loses its value if people don't understand it. What does it signify how I spelt the word cholera, so long as the efficacy of the medicine is unimpaired?" Now, was not that delightful? In the same way the doctrines of the sages are mere gibberish to women and children who cannot understand them. Now, my sermons are not written for the learned: I address myself to farmers and tradesmen, who, hard pressed by their daily business, have no time for study, with the wish to make known to them the teachings of the sages; and, carrying out the ideas of my teacher, I will make my meaning pretty plain, by bringing forward examples and quaint stories. Thus, by blending together the doctrines of the Shintô, Buddhist, and other schools, we shall arrive at something near the true principle of things. Now, positively, you must not laugh if I introduce a light story now and then. Levity is not my object: I only want to put things in a plain and easy manner. Well, then, the quality which we call benevolence is, in fact, a perfection; and it is this perfection which Môshi spoke of as the heart of man. With this perfect heart, men, by serving their parents, attain to filial piety; by serving their masters they attain to fidelity; and if they treat their wives, their brethren, and their friends in the same spirit, then the principles of the five relations of life will harmonize without difficulty. As for putting perfection into practice, parents have the special duties of parents; children have the special duties of children; husbands have the special duties of husbands; wives have the special duties of wives. It is when all these special duties are performed without a fault that true benevolence is reached; and that again is the true heart of man. For example, take this fan: any one who sees it knows it to be a fan; and, knowing it to be a fan, no one would think of using it to blow his nose in. The special use of a fan is for visits of ceremony; or else it is opened in order to raise a cooling breeze: it serves no other purpose. In the same way, this reading-desk will not do as a substitute for a shelf; again, it will not do instead of a pillow: so you see that a reading-desk also has its special functions, for which you must use it. So, if you look at your parents in the light of your parents, and treat them with filial piety, that is the special duty of children; that is true benevolence; that is the heart of man. Now although you may think that, when I speak in this way, I am speaking of others, and not of yourselves, believe me that the heart of every one of you is by nature pure benevolence. I am just taking down your hearts as a shopman does goods from his shelves, and pointing out the good and bad qualities of each; but if you will not lay what I say to your own accounts, but persist in thinking that it is all anybody's business but yours, all my labour will be lost. Listen! You who answer your parents rudely, and cause them to weep; you who bring grief and trouble on your masters; you who cause your husbands to fly into passions; you who cause your wives to mourn; you who hate your younger brothers, and treat your elder brothers with contempt; you who sow sorrow broadcast over the world;--what are you doing but blowing your noses in fans, and using reading-desks as pillows? I don't mean to say that there are any such persons here; still there are plenty of them to be found--say in the back streets in India, for instance. Be so good as to mind what I have said. Consider, carefully, if a man is born with a naturally bad disposition, what a dreadful thing that is! Happily, you and I were born with perfect hearts, which we would not change for a thousand--no, not for ten thousand pieces of gold: is not this something to be thankful for? This perfect heart is called in my discourses, "the original heart of man." It is true that benevolence is also called the original heart of man; still there is a slight difference between the two. However, as the inquiry into this difference would be tedious, it is sufficient for you to look upon this original heart of man as a perfect thing, and you will fall into no error. It is true that I have not the honour of the personal acquaintance of every one of you who are present: still I know that your hearts are perfect. The proof of this, that if you say that which you ought not to say, or do that which you ought not to do, your hearts within you are, in some mysterious way, immediately conscious of wrong. When the man that has a perfect heart does that which is imperfect, it is because his heart has become warped and turned to evil. This law holds good for all mankind. What says the old song?--"When the roaring waterfall is shivered by the night-storm, the moonlight is reflected in each scattered drop."[88] Although there is but one moon, she suffices to illuminate each little scattered drop. Wonderful are the laws of Heaven! So the principle of benevolence, which is but one, illumines all the particles that make up mankind. Well, then, the perfection of the human heart can be calculated to a nicety, So, if we follow the impulses of our perfect heart in whatever we undertake, we shall perform our special duties, and filial piety and fidelity will come to us spontaneously. You see the doctrines of this school of philosophy are quickly learnt. If you once thoroughly understand this, there will be no difference between your conduct and that of a man who has studied a hundred years. Therefore I pray you to follow the impulses of your natural heart; place it before you as a teacher, and study its precepts. Your heart is a convenient teacher to employ too: for there is no question of paying fees; and no need to go out in the heat of summer, or the cold of winter, to pay visits of ceremony to your master to inquire after his health. What admirable teaching this is, by means of which you can learn filial piety and fidelity so easily! Still, suspicions are apt to arise in men's minds about things that are seen to be acquired too cheaply; but here you can buy a good thing cheap, and spare yourselves the vexation of having paid an extravagant price for it. I repeat, follow the impulses of your hearts with all your might. In the _Chin-yo_, the second of the books of Confucius, it is certified beyond a doubt that the impulses of nature are the true path to follow; therefore you may set to work in this direction with your minds at ease. [Footnote 88: "The moon looks on many brooks; The brooks see but one moon."--T. MOORE.] Righteousness, then, is the true path, and righteousness is the avoidance of all that is imperfect. If a man avoids that which is imperfect, there is no need to point out how dearly he will be beloved by all his fellows. Hence it is that the ancients have defined righteousness as that which ought to be--that which is fitting. If a man be a retainer, it is good that he should perform his service to his lord with all his might. If a woman be married, it is good that she should treat her parents-in-law with filial piety, and her husband with reverence. For the rest, whatever is good, that is righteousness and the true path of man. The duty of man has been compared by the wise men of old to a high road. If you want to go to Yedo or to Nagasaki, if you want to go out to the front of the house or to the back of the house, if you wish to go into the next room or into some closet or other, there is a right road to each of these places: if you do not follow the right road, scrambling over the roofs of houses and through ditches, crossing mountains and desert places, you will be utterly lost and bewildered. In the same way, if a man does that which is not good, he is going astray from the high road. Filial piety in children, virtue in wives, truth among friends--but why enumerate all these things, which are patent?--all these are the right road, and good; but to grieve parents, to anger husbands, to hate and to breed hatred in others, these are all bad things, these are all the wrong road. To follow these is to plunge into rivers, to run on to thorns, to jump into ditches, and brings thousands upon ten thousands of disasters. It is true that, if we do not pay great attention, we shall not be able to follow the right road. Fortunately, we have heard by tradition the words of the learned Nakazawa Dôni: I will tell you about that, all in good time. It happened that, once, the learned Nakazawa went to preach at Ikéda, in the province of Sesshiu, and lodged with a rich family of the lower class. The master of the house, who was particularly fond of sermons, entertained the preacher hospitably, and summoned his daughter, a girl some fourteen or fifteen years old, to wait upon him at dinner. This young lady was not only extremely pretty, but also had charming manners; so she arranged bouquets of flowers, and made tea, and played upon the harp, and laid herself out to please the learned man by singing songs. The preacher thanked her parents for all this, and said-- "Really, it must be a very difficult thing to educate a young lady up to such a pitch as this." The parents, carried away by their feelings, replied-- "Yes; when she is married, she will hardly bring shame upon her husband's family. Besides what she did just now, she can weave garlands of flowers round torches, and we had her taught to paint a little;" and as they began to show a little conceit, the preacher said-- "I am sure this is something quite out of the common run. Of course she knows how to rub the shoulders and loins, and has learnt the art of shampooing?" The master of the house bristled up at this and answered-- "I may be very poor, but I've not fallen so low as to let my daughter learn shampooing." The learned man, smiling, replied, "I think you are making a mistake when you put yourself in a rage. No matter whether her family be rich or poor, when a woman is performing her duties in her husband's house, she must look upon her husband's parents as her own. If her honoured father-in-law or mother-in-law fall ill, her being able to plait flowers and paint pictures and make tea will be of no use in the sick-room. To shampoo her parents-in-law, and nurse them affectionately, without employing either shampooer or servant-maid, is the right path of a daughter-in-law. Do you mean to say that your daughter has not yet learnt shampooing, an art which is essential to her following the right path of a wife? That is what I meant to ask just now. So useful a study is very important." At this the master of the house was ashamed, and blushing made many apologies, as I have heard. Certainly, the harp and guitar are very good things in their way; but to attend to nursing their parents is the right road of children. Lay this story to heart, and consider attentively where the right road lies. People who live near haunts of pleasure become at last so fond of pleasure, that they teach their daughters nothing but how to play on the harp and guitar, and train them up in the manners and ways of singing-girls, but teach them next to nothing of their duties as daughters; and then very often they escape from their parents' watchfulness, and elope. Nor is this the fault of the girls themselves, but the fault of the education which they have received from their parents. I do not mean to say that the harp and guitar, and songs and dramas, are useless things. If you consider them attentively, all our songs incite to virtue and condemn vice. In the song called "The Four Sleeves," for instance, there is the passage, "If people knew beforehand all the misery that it brings, there would be less going out with young ladies, to look at the flowers at night." Please give your attention to this piece of poetry. This is the meaning of it:--When a young man and a young lady set up a flirtation without the consent of their parents, they think that it will all be very delightful, and find themselves very much deceived. If they knew what a sad and cruel world this is, they would not act as they do. The quotation is from a song of remorse. This sort of thing but too often happens in the world. When a man marries a wife, he thinks how happy he will be, and how pleasant it will be keeping house on his own account; but, before the bottom of the family kettle has been scorched black, he will be like a man learning to swim in a field, with his ideas all turned topsy-turvy, and, contrary to all his expectations, he will find the pleasures of housekeeping to be all a delusion. Look at that woman there. Haunted by her cares, she takes no heed of her hair, nor of her personal appearance. With her head all untidy, her apron tied round her as a girdle, with a baby twisted into the bosom of her dress, she carries some wretched bean sauce which she has been out to buy. What sort of creature is this? This all comes of not listening to the warnings of parents, and of not waiting for the proper time, but rushing suddenly into housekeeping. And who is to blame in the matter? Passion, which does not pause to reflect. A child of five or six years will never think of learning to play the guitar for its own pleasure. What a ten-million times miserable thing it is, when parents, making their little girls hug a great guitar, listen with pleasure to the poor little things playing on instruments big enough for them to climb upon, and squeaking out songs in their shrill treble voices! Now I must beg you to listen to me carefully. If you get confused and don't keep a sharp look-out, your children, brought up upon harp and guitar playing, will be abandoning their parents, and running away secretly. Depend upon it, from all that is licentious and meretricious something monstrous will come forth. The poet who wrote the "Four Sleeves" regarded it as the right path of instruction to convey a warning against vice. But the theatre and dramas and fashionable songs, if the moral that they convey is missed, are a very great mistake. Although you may think it very right and proper that a young lady should practise nothing but the harp and guitar until her marriage, I tell you that it is not so; for if she misses the moral of her songs and music, there is the danger of her falling in love with some man and eloping. While on this subject, I have an amusing story to tell you. Once upon a time, a frog, who lived at Kiôto, had long been desirous of going to see Osaka. One spring, having made up his mind, he started off to see Osaka and all its famous places. By a series of hops on all-fours he reached a temple opposite Nishi-no-oka, and thence by the western road he arrived at Yamazaki, and began to ascend the mountain called Tenôzan. Now it so happened that a frog from Osaka had determined to visit Kiôto, and had also ascended Tenôzan; and on the summit the two frogs met, made acquaintance, and told one another their intentions. So they began to complain about all the trouble they had gone through, and had only arrived half-way after all: if they went on to Osaka and Kiôto, their legs and loins would certainly not hold out. Here was the famous mountain of Tenôzan, from the top of which the whole of Kiôto and Osaka could be seen: if they stood on tiptoe and stretched their backs, and looked at the view, they would save themselves from stiff legs. Having come to this conclusion, they both stood up on tiptoe, and looked about them; when the Kiôto frog said-- "Really, looking at the famous places of Osaka, which I have heard so much about, they don't seem to me to differ a bit from Kiôto. Instead of giving myself any further trouble to go on, I shall just return home." The Osaka frog, blinking with his eyes, said, with a contemptuous smile, "Well, I have heard a great deal of talk about this Kiôto being as beautiful as the flowers, but it is just Osaka over again. We had better go home." And so the two frogs, politely bowing to one another, hopped off home with an important swagger. Now, although this is a very funny little story, you will not understand the drift of it at once. The frogs thought that they were looking in front of them; but as, when they stood up, their eyes were in the back of their heads, each was looking at his native place, all the while that he believed himself to be looking at the place he wished to go to. The frogs stared to any amount, it is true; but then they did not take care that the object looked at was the right object, and so it was that they fell into error. Please, listen attentively. A certain poet says-- "Wonderful are the frogs! Though they go on all-fours in an attitude of humility, their eyes are always turned ambitiously upwards." A delightful poem! Men, although they say with their mouths, "Yes, yes, your wishes shall be obeyed,--certainly, certainly, you are perfectly right," are like frogs, with their eyes turned upwards. Vain fools! meddlers ready to undertake any job, however much above their powers! This is what is called in the text, "casting away your heart, and not knowing where to seek for it." Although these men profess to undertake any earthly thing, when it comes to the point, leave them to themselves, and they are unequal to the task; and if you tell them this, they answer-- "By the labour of our own bodies we earn our money; and the food of our mouths is of our own getting. We are under obligation to no man. If we did not depend upon ourselves, how could we live in the world?" There are plenty of people who use these words, _myself_ and _my own_, thoughtlessly and at random. How false is this belief that they profess! If there were no system of government by superiors, but an anarchy, these people, who vaunt themselves and their own powers, would not stand for a day. In the old days, at the time of the war at Ichi-no-tani, Minamoto no Yoshitsuné[89] left Mikusa, in the province of Tamba, and attacked Settsu. Overtaken by the night among the mountains, he knew not what road to follow; so he sent for his retainer, Benkei, of the Temple called Musashi, and told him to light the big torches which they had agreed upon. Benkei received his orders and transmitted them to the troops, who immediately dispersed through all the valleys, and set fire to the houses of the inhabitants, so that one and all blazed up, and, thanks to the light of this fire, they reached Ichi-no-tani, as the story goes. If you think attentively, you will see the allusion. Those who boast about _my_ warehouse, _my_ house, _my_ farm, _my_ daughter, _my_ wife, hawking about this "_my_" of theirs like pedlers, let there once come trouble and war in the world, and, for all their vain-gloriousness, they will be as helpless as turtles. Let them be thankful that peace is established throughout the world. The humane Government reaches to every frontier: the officials of every department keep watch night and day. When a man sleeps under his roof at night, how can he say that it is thanks to himself that he stretches his limbs in slumber? You go your rounds to see whether the shutters are closed and the front door fast, and, having taken every precaution, you lay yourself down to rest in peace: and what a precaution after all! A board, four-tenths of an inch thick, planed down front and rear until it is only two-tenths of an inch thick. A fine precaution, in very truth!--a precaution which may be blown down with a breath. Do you suppose such a thing as that would frighten a thief from breaking in? This is the state of the case. Here are men who, by the benevolence and virtue of their rulers, live in a delightful world, and yet, forgetting the mysterious providence that watches over them, keep on singing their own praises. Selfish egotists! [Footnote 89: The younger brother of Minamoto no Yoritomo, who first established the government of the Shoguns. The battle of Ichi-no-tani took place in the year A.D. 1184.] "My property amounts to five thousand ounces of silver. I may sleep with my eyes turned up, and eat and take my pleasure, if I live for five hundred or for seven hundred years. I have five warehouses and twenty-five houses. I hold other people's bills for fifteen hundred ounces of silver." So he dances a fling[90] for joy, and has no fear lest poverty should come upon him for fifty or a hundred years. Minds like frogs, with eyes in the middle of their backs! Foolhardy thoughts! A trusty castle of defence indeed! How little can it be depended upon! And when such men are sleeping quietly, how can they tell that they may not be turned into those big torches we were talking about just now, or that a great earthquake will not be upheaved? These are the chances of this fitful world. With regard to the danger of too great reliance, I have a little tale to tell you. Be so good as to wake up from your drowsiness, and listen attentively. [Footnote 90: Literally, "a dance of the Province of Tosa."] There is a certain powerful shell-fish, called the Sazayé, with a very strong operculum. Now this creature, if it hears that there is any danger astir, shuts up its shell from within, with a loud noise, and thinks itself perfectly safe. One day a Tai and another fish, lost in envy at this, said-- "What a strong castle this is of yours, Mr. Sazayé! When you shut up your lid from within, nobody can so much as point a finger at you. A capital figure you make, sir." When he heard this, the Sazayé, stroking his beard, replied-- "Well, gentlemen, although you are so good as to say so, it's nothing to boast of in the way of safety; yet I must admit that, when I shut myself up thus, I do not feel much anxiety." And as he was speaking thus, with the pride that apes humility, there came the noise of a great splash; and the shell-fish, shutting up his lid as quickly as possible, kept quite still, and thought to himself, what in the world the noise could be. Could it be a net? Could it be a fish-hook? What a bore it was, always having to keep such a sharp look-out! Were the Tai and the other fish caught, he wondered; and he felt quite anxious about them: however, at any rate, he was safe. And so the time passed; and when he thought all was safe, he stealthily opened his shell, and slipped out his head and looked all round him, and there seemed to be something wrong--something with which he was not familiar. As he looked a little more carefully, lo and behold there he was in a fishmonger's shop, and with a card marked "sixteen cash" on his back. Isn't that a funny story? And so, at one fell swoop, all your boasted wealth of houses and warehouses, and cleverness and talent, and rank and power, are taken away. Poor shell-fish! I think there are some people not unlike them to be found in China and India. How little self is to be depended upon! There is a moral poem which says, "It is easier to ascend to the cloudy heaven without a ladder than to depend entirely on oneself." This is what is meant by the text, "If a man casts his heart from him, he knows not where to seek for it." Think twice upon everything that you do. To take no care for the examination of that which relates to yourself, but to look only at that which concerns others, is to cast your heart from you. Casting your heart from you does not mean that your heart actually leaves you: what is meant is, that you do not examine your own conscience. Nor must you think that what I have said upon this point of self-confidences applies only to wealth and riches. To rely on your talents, to rely on the services you have rendered, to rely on your cleverness, to rely on your judgment, to rely on your strength, to rely on your rank, and to think yourself secure in the possession of these, is to place yourselves in the same category with the shell-fish in the story. In all things examine your own consciences: the examination of your own hearts is above all things essential. (The preacher leaves his place.) SERMON II (THE SERMONS OF KIU-Ô, VOL. I) "If a man loses a fowl or a dog, he knows how to reclaim it. If he loses his soul, he knows not how to reclaim it. The true path of learning has no other function than to teach us how to reclaim lost souls." This parable has been declared to us by Môshi. If a dog, or a chicken, or a pet cat does not come home at the proper time, its master makes a great fuss about hunting for it, and wonders can it have been killed by a dog or by a snake, or can some man have stolen it; and ransacking the three houses opposite, and his two next-door neighbours' houses, as if he were seeking for a lost child, cries, "Pray, sir, has my tortoiseshell cat been with you? Has my pet chicken been here?" That is the way in which men run about under such circumstances. It's a matter of the utmost importance. And yet to lose a dog or a tame chicken is no such terrible loss after all. But the soul, which is called the lord of the body, is the master of our whole selves. If men part with this soul for the sake of other things, then they become deaf to the admonitions of their parents, and the instructions of their superiors are to them as the winds of heaven. Teaching is to them like pouring water over a frog's face; they blink their eyes, and that is all; they say, "Yes, yes!" with their mouths, but their hearts are gone, and, seeing, they are blind, hearing, they are deaf. Born whole and sound, by their own doing they enter the fraternity of cripples. Such are all those who lose their souls. Nor do they think of inquiring or looking for their lost soul. "It is my parents' fault; it is my master's fault; it is my husband's fault; it is my elder brother's fault; it is Hachibei who is a rogue; it is Matsu who is a bad woman." They content themselves with looking at the faults of others, and do not examine their own consciences, nor search their own hearts. Is not this a cruel state of things? They set up a hue and cry for a lost dog or a pet chicken, but for this all-important soul of theirs they make no search. What mistaken people! For this reason the sages, mourning over such a state of things, have taught us what is the right path of man; and it is the receiving of this teaching that is called learning. The main object of learning is the examination and searching of our own hearts; therefore the text says, "The true path of learning has no other function than to teach us how to reclaim lost souls." This is an exhaustive exposition of the functions of learning. That learning has no other object, we have this gracious pledge and guarantee from the sage. As for the mere study of the antiquities and annals of China and Japan, and investigation into literature, these cannot be called learning, which is above all things an affair of the soul. All the commentaries and all the books of all the teachers in the world are but so many directories by which to find out the whereabouts of our own souls. This search after our own souls is that which I alluded to just now as the examination of our consciences. To disregard the examination of our consciences is a terrible thing, of which it is impossible to foresee the end; on the other hand, to practise it is most admirable, for by this means we can on the spot attain filial piety and fidelity to our masters. Virtue and vice are the goals to which the examination and non-examination of our consciences lead. As it has been rightly said, benevolence and malice are the two roads which man follows. Upon this subject I have a terrible and yet a very admirable story to tell you. Although I dare say you are very drowsy, I must beg you to listen to me. In a certain part of the country there was a well-to-do farmer, whose marriage had brought him one son, whom he petted beyond all measure, as a cow licks her calf. So by degrees the child became very sly: he used to pull the horses' tails, and blow smoke into the bulls' nostrils, and bully the neighbours' children in petty ways and make them cry. From a peevish child he grew to be a man, and unbearably undutiful to his parents. Priding himself on a little superior strength, he became a drunkard and a gambler, and learned to wrestle at fairs. He would fight and quarrel for a trifle, and spent his time in debauchery and riotous living. If his parents remonstrated with him, he would raise his voice and abuse them, using scurrilous language. "It's all very well your abusing me for being dissolute and disobedient. But, pray, who asked you to bring me into the world? You brought me into the world, and I have to thank you for its miseries; so now, if you hate dissolute people, you had better put me back where I came from, and I shall be all right again." This was the sort of insolent answer he would give his parents, who, at their wits' end, began to grow old in years. And as he by degrees grew more and more of a bully, unhappy as he made them, still he was their darling, and they could not find it in their hearts to turn him out of the house and disinherit him. So they let him pursue his selfish course; and he went on from worse to worse, knocking people down, breaking their arms, and getting up great disturbances. It is unnecessary to speak of his parents' feelings. Even his relations and friends felt as if nails were being hammered into their breasts. He was a thoroughly wicked man. Now no one is from his mother's womb so wicked as this; but those who persist in selfishness lose their senses, and gradually reach this pitch of wickedness. What a terrible thing is this throwing away of our hearts! Well, this man's relations and friends very properly urged his parents to disown him; but he was an only child, and so his parents, although they said, "To-day we really will disinherit him," or "To-morrow we really will break off all relations with him," still it was all empty talk; and the years and months passed by, until the scapegrace reached his twenty-sixth year, having heaped wickedness upon wickedness; and who can tell how much trouble he brought upon his family, who were always afraid of hearing of some new enormity? At last they held a family council, and told the parents that matters had come to such a pass that if they did not disown their son the rest of the family must needs break off all communication with them: if he were allowed to go on in his evil courses, the whole village, not to speak of his relations, would be disgraced; so either the parents, against whom, however, there was no ill-will felt, must be cut by the family, or they must disinherit their son: to this appeal they begged to have a distinct answer. The parents, reflecting that to separate themselves from their relations, even for the sake of their own son, would be an act of disrespect to their ancestors, determined to invite their relations to assemble and draw up a petition to the Government for leave to disinherit their son, to which petition the family would all affix their seals according to form; so they begged them to come in the evening, and bring their seals with them. This was their answer. There is an old saw which says, "The old cow licks her calf, and the tigress carries her cub in her mouth." If the instinct of beasts and birds prompt them to love their young, how much the more must it be a bitter thing for a man to have to disown his own son! All this trouble was the consequence of this youth casting his heart from him. Had he examined his own conscience, the storm of waves and of wind would not have arisen, and all would have been calm. But as he refused to listen to his conscience, his parents, much against their will, were forced to visit him with the punishment of disinheritance, which he had brought upon himself. A sad thing indeed! In the poems of his Reverence Tokuhon, a modern poet, there is the following passage: "Since Buddha thus winds himself round our hearts, let the man who dares to disregard him fear for his life." The allusion is to the great mercy and love of the gods. The gods wish to make men examine their consciences, and, day and night, help men to discern that which is evil; but, although they point out our desires and pleasures, our lusts and passions, as things to be avoided, men turn their backs upon their own consciences. The love of the gods is like the love of parents for their children, and men treat the gods as undutiful children treat their parents. "Men who dare to disregard the gods, let them fear for their lives." I pray you who hear me, one and all, to examine your own consciences and be saved. To return to the story of the vagabond son. As it happened, that day he was gambling in a neighbouring village, when a friend from his own place came up and told him that his relations had met together to disinherit him; and that, fine fellow as he was, he would find it a terrible thing to be disowned. Before he had heard him half out, the other replied in a loud voice-- "What, do you mean to say that they are holding a family council to-night to disinherit me? What a good joke! I'm sure I don't want to be always seeing my father's and mother's blubbering faces; it makes me quite sick to think of them: it's quite unbearable. I'm able to take care of myself; and, if I choose to go over to China, or to live in India, I should like to know who is to prevent me? This is the very thing above all others for me. I'll go off to the room where they are all assembled, and ask them why they want to disinherit me. I'll just swagger like Danjurô [91] the actor, and frighten them into giving me fifty or seventy ounces of silver to get rid of me, and put the money in my purse, and be off to Kiôto or Osaka, where I'll set up a tea-house on my own account; and enjoy myself to my heart's content! I hope this will be a great night for me, so I'll just drink a cup of wine for luck beforehand." [Footnote 91: A famous actor of Yedo, who lived 195 years ago. He was born at Sakura, in Shimôsa.] And so, with a lot of young devils of his own sort, be fell to drinking wine in teacups,[92] so that before nightfall they were all as drunk as mud. Well, then, on the strength of this wine, as he was setting out for his father's house, he said, "Now, then, to try my luck," and stuck a long dirk in his girdle. He reached his own village just before nightfall, thinking to burst into the place where he imagined his relations to be gathered together, turning their wisdom-pockets inside out, to shake out their small provision of intelligence in consultation; and he fancied that, if he blustered and bullied, he would certainly get a hundred ounces of silver out of them. Just as he was about to enter the house, he reflected-- [Footnote 92: The ordinary wine-cup holding only a thimbleful, to drink wine out of teacups is a great piece of debauchery--like drinking brandy in tumblers.] "If I show my face in the room where my relations are gathered together, they will all look down on the ground and remain silent; so if I go in shouting and raging, it will be quite out of harmony; but if they abuse me, then I shall be in the right if I jump in on them and frighten them well. The best plan will be for me to step out of the bamboo grove which is behind the house, and to creep round the verandah, and I can listen to these fellows holding their consultation: they will certainly be raking up all sorts of scandal about me. It will be all in harmony, then, if I kick down the shutters and sliding-doors with a noise like thunder. And what fun it will be!" As he thought thus to himself, he pulled off his iron-heeled sandals, and stuck them in his girdle, and, girding up his dress round his waist, left the bamboo grove at the back of the house, and, jumping over the garden wicket, went round the verandah and looked in. Peeping through a chink in the shutters, he could see his relations gathered together in council, speaking in whispers. The family were sitting in a circle, and one and all were affixing their seals to the petition of disinheritance. At last, having passed from hand to hand, the document came round to where the two parents were sitting. Their son, seeing this, said-- "Come, now, it's win or lose! My parents' signing the paper shall be the sign for me to kick open the door and jump into the middle of them." So, getting ready for a good kick, he held his breath and looked on. What terrible perversion man can allow his heart to come to! Môshi has said that man by nature is good; but although not a particle of fault can be found with what he has said, when the evil we have learned becomes a second nature, men reach this fearful degree of wickedness. When men come to this pass, Kôshi[93] and Môshi themselves might preach to them for a thousand days, and they would not have strength to reform. Such hardened sinners deserve to be roasted in iron pots in the nethermost hell. Now, I am going to tell you how it came about that the vagabond son turned over a new leaf and became dutiful, and finally entered paradise. The poet says, "Although the hearts of parents are not surrounded by dark night, how often they stray from the right road in their affection for their children!" [Footnote 93: Kôshi is the Japanese pronunciation of the name of the Chinese philosopher Kung Ts[=u], or Kung Fu Ts[=u], whom we call Confucius.] When the petition of disinheritance came round to the place where the two parents were sitting, the mother lifted up her voice and wept aloud; and the father, clenching his toothless gums to conceal his emotion, remained with his head bent down: presently, in a husky voice, he said, "Wife, give me the seal!" But she returned no answer, and with tears in her eyes took a leather purse, containing the seal, out of a drawer of the cupboard and placed it before her husband. All this time the vagabond son, holding his breath, was peeping in from outside the shutters. In the meanwhile, the old man slowly untied the strings of the purse, and took out the seal, and smeared on the colouring matter. Just as he was about to seal the document, his wife clutched at his hand and said, "Oh, pray wait a little." The father replied, "Now that all our relations are looking on, you must not speak in this weak manner." But she would not listen to what he said, but went on-- "Pray listen to what I have to say. It is true that if we were to give over our house to our undutiful son, in less than three years the grass would be growing in its place, for he would be ruined. Still, if we disinherit our child--the only child that we have, either in heaven or upon earth--we shall have to adopt another in his place. Although, if the adopted son turned out honest and dutiful, and inherited our property, all would be well; still, what certainty is there of his doing so? If, on the other hand, the adopted son turned out to be a prodigal, and laid waste our house, what unlucky parents we should be! And who can say that this would not be the case? If we are to be ruined for the sake of an equally wicked adopted son, I had rather lose our home for the sake of our own son, and, leaving out old familiar village as beggars, seek for our lost boy on foot. This is my fervent wish. During fifty years that we have lived together, this has been the only favour that I have ever asked of you. Pray listen to my prayer, and put a stop to this act of disinheritance. Even though I should become a beggar for my son's sake, I could feel no resentment against him." So she spoke, sobbing aloud. The relations, who heard this, looked round at one another, and watched the father to see what he would do; and he (who knows with what thoughts in his head?) put back the seal into the leather purse, and quickly drew the strings together, and pushed back the petition to the relations. "Certainly," said he, "I have lost countenance, and am disgraced before all my family; however, I think that what the good wife has just said is right and proper, and from henceforth I renounce all thoughts of disinheriting my son. Of course you will all see a weakness of purpose in what I say, and laugh at me as the cause of my son's undutiful conduct. But laugh away: it won't hurt me. Certainly, if I don't disinherit this son of mine, my house will be ruined before three years are over our heads. To lay waste the house of generations upon generations of my ancestors is a sin against those ancestors; of this I am well aware. Further, if I don't disinherit my son, you gentlemen will all shun me. I know that I am cutting myself off from my relations. Of course you think that when I leave this place I shall be dunning you to bestow your charity upon me; and that is why you want to break off relations with me. Pray don't make yourselves uneasy. I care no more for my duties to the world, for my impiety to my ancestors, or for my separation from my family. Our son is our only darling, and we mean to go after him, following him as beggars on foot. This is our desire. We shall trouble you for no alms and for no charity. However we may die, we have but one life to lose. For our darling son's sake, we will lay ourselves down and die by the roadside. There our bodies shall be manure for the trees of the avenue. And all this we will endure cheerfully, and not utter a complaint. Make haste and return home, therefore, all of you. From to-morrow we are no longer on speaking terms. As for what you may say to me on my son's account, I do not care." And as his wife had done, he lifted up his voice and wept, shedding manly tears. As for her, when she heard that the act of disinheritance was not to be drawn up, her tears were changed to tears of joy. The rest of the family remained in mute astonishment at so unheard-of a thing, and could only stare at the faces of the two old people. You see how bewildered parents must be by their love for their children, to be so merciful towards them. As a cat carrying her young in her mouth screens it from the sun at one time and brings it under the light at another, so parents act by their children, screening their bad points and bringing out in relief their good qualities. They care neither for the abuse of others, nor for their duties to their ancestors, nor for the wretched future in store for themselves. Carried away by their infatuation for their children, and intoxicated upon intoxication, the hearts of parents are to be pitied for their pitifulness. It is not only the two parents in my story who are in this plight; the hearts of all parents of children all over the world are the same. In the poems of the late learned Ishida it is written, "When I look round me and see the hearts of parents bewildered by their love for their children, I reflect that my own father and mother must be like them." This is certainly a true saying. To return to the story: the halo of his parents' great kindness and pity penetrated the very bowels of the prodigal son. What an admirable thing! When he heard it, terrible and sly devil as he had been, he felt as if his whole body had been squeezed in a press; and somehow or other, although the tears rose in his breast, he could not for shame lift up his voice and weep. Biting the sleeve of his dress, he lay down on the ground and shed tears in silence. What says the verse of the reverend priest Eni? "To shed tears of gratitude one knows not why." A very pretty poem indeed! So then the vagabond son, in his gratitude to his parents, could neither stand nor sit. You see the original heart of man is by nature bright virtue, but by our selfish pursuit of our own inclinations the brilliancy of our original virtue is hidden. To continue: the prodigal was pierced to the core by the great mercy shown by his parents, and the brilliancy of his own original good heart was enticed back to him. The sunlight came forth, and what became of all the clouds of self-will and selfishness? The clouds were all dispelled, and from the bottom of his soul there sprang the desire to thank his parents for their goodness. We all know the story of the rush-cutter who saw the moon rising between the trees on a moorland hill so brightly, that he fancied it must have been scoured with the scouring-rush which grew near the spot. When a man, who has been especially wicked, repents and returns to his original heart, he becomes all the more excellent, and his brightness is as that of the rising moon scoured. What an admirable thing this is! So the son thought to enter the room at once and beg his parents' forgiveness; but he thought to himself, "Wait a bit. If I burst suddenly into the room like this, the relations will all be frightened and not know what to make of it, and this will be a trouble to my parents. I will put on an innocent face, as if I did not know what has been going on, and I'll go in by the front door, and beg the relations to intercede for me with my parents." With stealthy step he left the back of the house, and went round to the front. When he arrived there, he purposely made a great noise with his iron-heeled sandals, and gave a loud cough to clear his throat, and entered the room. The relations were all greatly alarmed; and his parents, when they saw the face of their wicked son, both shed tears. As for the son, he said not a word, but remained weeping, with his head bent down. After a while, he addressed the relations and said, "Although I have frequently been threatened with disinheritance, and although in those days I made light of it, to-night, when I heard that this family council had assembled, I somehow or other felt my heart beset by anxiety and grief. However I may have heaped wickedness upon wickedness up to the present moment, as I shall certainly now mend my ways, I pray you to delay for a while to-night's act of disinheritance. I do not venture to ask for a long delay,--I ask but for thirty days; and if within that time I shall not have given proofs of repentance, disinherit me: I shall not have a word to say. I pray you, gentlemen, to intercede with my parents that they may grant this delay of thirty days, and to present them my humble apologies." With this he rubbed his head on the mat, as a humble suppliant, in a manner most foreign to his nature. The relations, after hearing the firm and resolute answer of the parents, had shifted about in their places; but, although they were on the point of leaving the house, had remained behind, sadly out of harmony; when the son came in, and happily with a word set all in tune again. So the relations addressed the parents, and said, "Pray defer to-night's affair;" and laid the son's apologies at their feet. As for the parents, who would not have disinherited their son even had he not repented, how much the more when they heard what he said did they weep for joy; and the relations, delighted at the happy event, exhorted the son to become really dutiful; and so that night's council broke up. So this son in the turn of a hand became a pious son, and the way in which he served his parents was that of a tender and loving child. His former evil ways he extinguished utterly. The fame of this story rose high in the world; and, before half a year had passed, it reached the ears of the lord of the manor, who, when he had put on his noble spectacles and investigated the case, appointed the son to be the head man of his village. You may judge by this what this son's filial piety effected. Three years after these events, his mother, who was on her death-bed, very sick, called for him and said, "When some time since the consultation was being held about disinheriting you, by some means or other your heart was turned, and since then you have been a dutiful son above all others. If at that time you had not repented, and I had died in the meanwhile, my soul would have gone to hell without fail, because of my foolish conduct towards you. But, now that you have repented, there is nothing that weighs upon me, and there can be no mistake about my going to paradise. So the fact of my becoming one of the saints will all be the work of your filial piety." And the story goes, that with these words the mother, lifting up her hands in prayer, died. To be sure, by the deeds of the present life we may obtain a glimpse into the future. If a man's heart is troubled by his misdeeds in this life, it will again be tortured in the next. The troubled heart is hell. The heart at rest is paradise. The trouble or peace of parents depends upon their children. If their children are virtuous, parents are as the saints: if their children are wicked, parents suffer the tortures of the damned. If once your youthful spirits, in a fit of heedlessness, have led you to bring trouble upon your parents and cause them to weep, just consider the line of argument which I have been following. From this time forth repent and examine your own hearts. If you will become dutiful, your parents from this day will live happy as the saints. But if you will not repent, but persist in your evil ways, your parents will suffer the pains of hell. Heaven and hell are matters of repentance or non-repentance. Repentance is the finding of the lost heart, and is also the object of learning. I shall speak to you further upon this point to-morrow evening. SERMON III (THE SERMONS OF KIU-Ô, VOL. 1) Môshi has said, "There is the third finger. If a man's third or nameless finger be bent, so that he cannot straighten it, although his bent finger may cause him no pain, still if he hears of some one who can cure it, he will think nothing of undertaking a long journey from _Shin_ to _So_[94] to consult him upon this deformed finger; for he knows it is to be hateful to have a finger unlike those of other men. But he cares not a jot if his heart be different to that of other men; and this is how men disregard the true order of things." [Footnote 94: Ancient divisions of China.] Now this is the next chapter to the one about benevolence being the true heart of man, which I expounded to you the other night. True learning has no other aim than that of reclaiming lost souls; and, in connection with this, Môshi has thus again declared in a parable the all-importance of the human heart. The nameless finger is that which is next to the little finger. The thumb is called the parent-finger; the first finger is called the index; the long is called the middle finger; but the third finger has no name. It is true that it is sometimes called the finger for applying rouge; but that is only a name given it by ladies, and is not in general use. So, having no name, it is called the nameless finger. And how comes it to have no name? Why, because it is of all the fingers the least useful. When we clutch at or grasp things, we do so by the strength of the thumb and little finger. If a man scratches his head, he does it with the forefinger; if he wishes to test the heat of the wine[95] in the kettle, he uses the little finger. Thus, although each finger has its uses and duties, the nameless finger alone is of no use: it is not in our way if we have it, and we do not miss it if we lose it. Of the whole body it is the meanest member: if it be crooked so that we cannot straighten it, it neither hurts nor itches; as Môshi says in the text, it causes no pain; even if we were without it, we should be none the worse off. Hence, what though it should be bent, it would be better, since it causes no pain, to leave it as it is. Yet if a person, having such a crooked finger, hears of a clever doctor who can set it straight, no matter at how great a distance he may be, he will be off to consult this doctor. And pray why? Because he feels ashamed of having a finger a little different from the rest of the world, and so he wants to be cured, and will think nothing of travelling from Shin to So--a distance of a thousand miles--for the purpose. To be sure, men are very susceptible and keenly alive to a sense of shame; and in this they are quite right. The feeling of shame at what is wrong is the commencement of virtue. The perception of shame is inborn in men; but there are two ways of perceiving shame. There are some men who are sensible of shame for what regards their bodies, but who are ignorant of shame for what concerns their hearts; and a terrible mistake they make. There is nothing which can be compared in importance to the heart. The heart is said to be the lord of the body, which it rules as a master rules his house. Shall the lord, who is the heart, be ailing and his sickness be neglected, while his servants, who are the members only, are cared for? If the knee be lacerated, apply tinder to stop the bleeding; if the moxa should suppurate, spread a plaster; if a cold be caught, prepare medicine and garlic and gruel, and ginger wine! For a trifle, you will doctor and care for your bodies, and yet for your hearts you will take no care. Although you are born of mankind, if your hearts resemble those of devils, of foxes, of snakes, or of crows, rather than the hearts of men, you take no heed, caring for your bodies alone. Whence can you have fallen into such a mistake? It is a folly of old standing too, for it was to that that Môshi pointed when he said that to be cognizant of a deformed finger and ignore the deformities of the soul was to disregard the true order of things. This is what it is, not to distinguish between that which is important and that which is unimportant--to pick up a trifle and pass by something of value. The instinct of man prompts him to prefer the great to the small, the important to the unimportant. [Footnote 95: Wine is almost always drunk hot.] If a man is invited out to a feast by his relations or acquaintances, when the guests are assembled and the principal part of the feast has disappeared, he looks all round him, with the eyeballs starting out of his head, and glares at his neighbours, and, comparing the little titbits of roast fowl or fish put before them, sees that they are about half an inch bigger than those set before him; then, blowing out his belly with rage, he thinks, "What on earth can the host be about? Master Tarubei is a guest, but so am I: what does the fellow mean by helping me so meanly? There must be some malice or ill-will here." And so his mind is prejudiced against the host. Just be so good as to reflect upon this. Does a man show his spite by grudging a bit of roast fowl or meat? And yet even in such trifles as these do men show how they try to obtain what is great, and show their dislike of what is small. How can men be conscious of shame for a deformed finger, and count it as no misfortune that their hearts are crooked? That is how they abandon the substance for the shadow. Môshi severely censures the disregard of the true order of things. What mistaken and bewildered creatures men are! What says the old song? "Hidden far among the mountains, the tree which seems to be rotten, if its core be yet alive, may be made to bear flowers." What signifies it if the hand or the foot be deformed? The heart is the important thing. If the heart be awry, what though your skin be fair, your nose aquiline, your hair beautiful? All these strike the eye alone, and are utterly useless. It is as if you were to put horse-dung into a gold-lacquer luncheon-box. This is what is called a fair outside, deceptive in appearance. There's the scullery-maid been washing out the pots at the kitchen sink, and the scullion Chokichi comes up and says to her, "You've got a lot of charcoal smut sticking to your nose," and points out to her the ugly spot. The scullery-maid is delighted to be told of this, and answers, "Really! whereabouts is it?" Then she twists a towel round her finger, and, bending her head till mouth and forehead are almost on a level, she squints at her nose, and twiddles away with her fingers as if she were the famous Gotô[96] at work, carving the ornaments of a sword-handle. "I say, Master Chokichi, is it off yet?" "Not a bit of it. You've smeared it all over your cheeks now." "Oh dear! oh dear! where can it be?" And so she uses the water-basin as a looking-glass, and washes her face clean; then she says to herself, "What a dear boy Chokichi is!" and thinks it necessary, out of gratitude, to give him relishes with his supper by the ladleful, and thanks him over and over again. But if this same Chokichi were to come up to her and say, "Now, really, how lazy you are! I wish you could manage to be rather less of a shrew," what do you think the scullery-maid would answer then? Reflect for a moment. "Drat the boy's impudence! If I were of a bad heart or an angular disposition, should I be here helping him? You go and be hung! You see if I take the trouble to wash your dirty bedclothes for you any more." And she gets to be a perfect devil, less only the horns. [Footnote 96: A famous gold- and silver-smith of the olden time. A Benvenuto Cellini among the Japanese. His mark on a piece of metal work enhances its value tenfold.] There are other people besides the poor scullery-maid who are in the same way. "Excuse me, Mr. Gundabei, but the embroidered crest on your dress of ceremony seems to be a little on one side." Mr. Gundabei proceeds to adjust his dress with great precision. "Thank you, sir. I am ten million times obliged to you for your care. If ever there should be any matter in which I can be of service to you, I beg that you will do me the favour of letting me know;" and, with a beaming face, he expresses his gratitude. Now for the other side of the picture. "Really, Mr. Gundabei, you are very foolish; you don't seem to understand at all. I beg you to be of a frank and honest heart: it really makes me quite sad to see a man's heart warped in this way." What is his answer? He turns his sword in his girdle ready to draw, and plays the devil's tattoo upon the hilt: it looks as if it must end in a fight soon. In fact, if you help a man in anything which has to do with a fault of the body, he takes it very kindly, and sets about mending matters. If any one helps another to rectify a fault of the heart, he has to deal with a man in the dark, who flies in a rage, and does not care to amend. How out of tune all this is! And yet there are men who are bewildered up to this point. Nor is this a special and extraordinary failing. This mistaken perception of the great and the small, of colour and of substance, is common to us all--to you and to me. Please give me your attention. The form strikes the eye; but the heart strikes not the eye. Therefore, that the heart should be distorted and turned awry causes no pain. This all results from the want of sound judgment; and that is why we cannot afford to be careless. The master of a certain house calls his servant Chokichi, who sits dozing in the kitchen. "Here, Chokichi! The guests are all gone; come and clear away the wine and fish in the back room." Chokichi rubs his eyes, and with a sulky answer goes into the back room, and, looking about him, sees all the nice things paraded on the trays and in the bowls. It's wonderful how his drowsiness passes away: no need for any one to hurry him now. His eyes glare with greed, as he says, "Hullo! here's a lot of tempting things! There's only just one help of that omelette left in the tray. What a hungry lot of guests! What's this? It looks like fish rissoles;" and with this he picks out one, and crams his mouth full; when, on one side, a mess of young cuttlefish, in a Chinese[97] porcelain bowl, catches his eyes. There the little beauties sit in a circle, like Buddhist priests in religious meditation! "Oh, goodness! how nice!" and just as he is dipping his finger and thumb in, he hears his master's footstep; and knowing that he is doing wrong, he crams his prize into the pocket of his sleeve, and stoops down to take away the wine-kettle and cups; and as he does this, out tumble the cuttlefish from his sleeve. The master sees it. [Footnote 97: Curiosities, such as porcelain or enamel or carved jade from China, are highly esteemed by the Japanese. A great quantity of the porcelain of Japan is stamped with counterfeit Chinese marks of the Ming dynasty.] "What's that?" Chokichi, pretending not to know what has happened, beats the mats, and keeps on saying, "Come again the day before yesterday; come again the day before yesterday."[98] [Footnote 98: An incantation used to invite spiders, which are considered unlucky by the superstitious, to come again at the Greek Kalends.] But it's no use his trying to persuade his master that the little cuttlefish are spiders, for they are not the least like them. It's no use hiding things,--they are sure to come to light; and so it is with the heart,--its purposes will out. If the heart is enraged, the dark veins stand out on the forehead; if the heart is grieved, tears rise to the eyes; if the heart is joyous, dimples appear in the cheeks; if the heart is merry, the face smiles: thus it is that the face reflects the emotions of the heart. It is not because the eyes are filled with tears that the heart is sad; nor because the veins stand out on the forehead that the heart is enraged. It is the heart which leads the way in everything. All the important sensations of the heart are apparent in the outward appearance. In the "Great Learning" of Kôshi it is written, "The truth of what is within appears upon the surface." How then is the heart a thing which can be hidden? To answer when reproved, to hum tunes when scolded, show a diseased heart; and if this disease is not quickly taken in hand, it will become chronic, and the remedy become difficult: perhaps the disease may be so virulent that even Giba and Henjaku[99] in consultation could not effect a cure. So, before the disease has gained strength, I invite you to the study of the moral essays entitled _Shin-gaku_ (the Learning of the Heart). If you once arrive at the possession of your heart as it was originally by nature, what an admirable thing that will be! In that case your conscience will point out to you even the slightest wrong bias or selfishness. [Footnote 99: Two famous Indian and Chinese physicians.] While upon this subject, I may tell you a story which was related to me by a friend of mine. It is a story which the master of a certain money-changer's shop used to be very fond of telling. An important part of a money-changer's business is to distinguish between good and bad gold and silver. In the different establishments, the ways of teaching the apprentices this art vary; however, the plan adopted by the money-changer was as follows:--At first he would show them no bad silver, but would daily put before them good money only; when they had become thoroughly familiar with the sight of good money, if he stealthily put a little base coin among the good, he found that they would detect it immediately,--they saw it as plainly as you see things when you throw light on a mirror. This faculty of detecting base money at a glance was the result of having learned thoroughly to understand good money. Having once been taught in this way, the apprentices would not make a mistake about a piece of base coin during their whole lives, as I have heard. I can't vouch for the truth of this; but it is very certain that the principle, applied to moral instruction, is an excellent one,--it is a most safe mode of study. However, I was further told that if, after having thus learned to distinguish good money, a man followed some other trade for six months or a year, and gave up handling money, he would become just like any other inexperienced person, unable to distinguish the good from the base. Please reflect upon this attentively. If you once render yourself familiar with the nature of the uncorrupted heart, from that time forth you will be immediately conscious of the slightest inclination towards bias or selfishness. And why? Because the natural heart is illumined. When a man has once learned that which is perfect, he will never consent to accept that which is imperfect; but if, after having acquired this knowledge, he again keeps his natural heart at a distance, and gradually forgets to recognize that which is perfect, he finds himself in the dark again, and that he can no longer distinguish base money from good. I beg you to take care. If a man falls into bad habits, he is no longer able to perceive the difference between the good impulses of his natural heart and the evil impulses of his corrupt heart. With this benighted heart as a starting-point, he can carry out none of his intentions, and he has to lift his shoulders sighing and sighing again. A creature much to be pitied indeed! Then he loses all self-reliance, so that, although it would be better for him to hold his tongue and say nothing about it, if he is in the slightest trouble or distress, he goes and confesses the crookedness of his heart to every man he meets. What a wretched state for a man to be in! For this reason, I beg you to learn thoroughly the true silver of the heart, in order that you may make no mistake about the base coin. I pray that you and I, during our whole lives, may never leave the path of true principles. I have an amusing story to tell you in connection with this, if you will be so good as to listen. Once upon a time, when the autumn nights were beginning to grow chilly, five or six tradesmen in easy circumstances had assembled together to have a chat; and, having got ready their picnic box and wine-flask, went off to a temple on the hills, where a friendly priest lived, that they might listen to the stags roaring. With this intention they went to call upon the priest, and borrowed the guests' apartments[100] of the monastery; and as they were waiting to hear the deer roar, some of the party began to compose poetry. One would write a verse of Chinese poetry, and another would write a verse of seventeen syllables; and as they were passing the wine-cup the hour of sunset came, but not a deer had uttered a call; eight o'clock came, and ten o'clock came; still not a sound from the deer. [Footnote 100: All the temples in China and Japan have guests' apartments, which may be secured for a trifle, either for a long or short period. It is false to suppose that there is any desecration of a sacred shrine in the act of using it as a hostelry; it is the custom of the country.] "What can this mean?" said one. "The deer surely ought to be roaring." But, in spite of their waiting, the deer would not roar. At last the friends got sleepy, and, bored with writing songs and verses, began to yawn, and gave up twaddling about the woes and troubles of life; and as they were all silent, one of them, a man fifty years of age, stopping the circulation of the wine-cup, said-- "Well, certainly, gentlemen, thanks to you, we have spent the evening in very pleasant conversation. However, although I am enjoying myself mightily in this way, my people at home must be getting anxious, and so I begin to think that we ought to leave off drinking." "Why so?" said the others. "Well, I'll tell you. You know that my only son is twenty-two years of age this year, and a troublesome fellow be is, too. When I'm at home, he lends a hand sulkily enough in the shop: but as soon as he no longer sees the shadow of me, he hoists sail and is off to some bad haunt. Although our relations and connections are always preaching to him, not a word has any more effect that wind blowing into a horse's ear. When I think that I shall have to leave my property to such a fellow as that, it makes my heart grow small indeed. Although, thanks to those to whom I have succeeded, I want for nothing, still, when I think of my son, I shed tears of blood night and day." And as he said this with a sigh, a man of some forty-five or forty-six years said-- "No, no; although you make so much of your misfortunes, your son is but a little extravagant after all. There's no such great cause for grief there. I've got a very different story to tell. Of late years my shopmen, for one reason or another, have been running me into debt, thinking nothing of a debt of fifty or seventy ounces; and so the ledgers get all wrong. Just think of that. Here have I been keeping these fellows ever since they were little children unable to blow their own noses, and now, as soon as they come to be a little useful in the shop, they begin running up debts, and are no good whatever to their master. You see, you only have to spend your money upon your own son." Then another gentleman said-- "Well, I think that to spend money upon your shop-people is no such great hardship after all. Now I've been in something like trouble lately. I can't get a penny out of my customers. One man owes me fifteen ounces; another owes me twenty-five ounces. Really that is enough to make a man feel as if his heart was worn away." When he had finished speaking, an old gentleman, who was sitting opposite, playing with his fan, said-- "Certainly, gentlemen, your grievances are not without cause; still, to be perpetually asked for a little money, or to back a bill, by one's relations or friends, and to have a lot of hangers-on dependent on one, as I have, is a worse case still." But before the old gentleman had half finished speaking, his neighbour called out-- "No, no; all you gentlemen are in luxury compared to me. Please listen to what I have to suffer. My wife and my mother can't hit it off anyhow. All day long they're like a couple of cows butting at one another with their horns. The house is as unendurable as if it were full of smoke. I often think it would be better to send my wife back to her village; but then I've got two little children. If I interfere and take my wife's part, my mother gets low-spirited. If I scold my wife, she says that I treat her so brutally because she's not of the same flesh and blood; and then she hates me. The trouble and anxiety are beyond description: I'm like a post stuck up between them." And so they all twaddled away in chorus, each about his own troubles. At last one of the gentlemen, recollecting himself, said-- "Well, gentlemen, certainly the deer ought to be roaring; but we've been so engrossed with our conversation, that we don't know whether we have missed hearing them or not." With this he pulled aside the sliding-door of the verandah and looked out, and, lo and behold! a great big stag was standing perfectly silent in front of the garden. "Hullo!" said the man to the deer, "what's this? Since you've been there all the time, why did you not roar?" Then the stag answered, with an innocent face-- "Oh, I came here to listen to the lamentations of you gentlemen." Isn't that a funny story? Old and young, men and women, rich and poor, never cease grumbling from morning till night. All this is the result of a diseased heart. In short, for the sake of a very trifling inclination or selfish pursuit, they will do any wrong in order to effect that which is impossible. This is want of judgment, and this brings all sorts of trouble upon the world. If once you gain possession of a perfect heart, knowing that which is impossible to be impossible, and recognizing that that which is difficult is difficult, you will not attempt to spare yourself trouble unduly. What says the Chin-Yo?[101] The wise man, whether his lot be cast amongst rich or poor, amongst barbarians or in sorrow, understands his position by his own instinct. If men do not understand this, they think that the causes of pain and pleasure are in the body. Putting the heart on one side, they earnestly strive after the comforts of the body, and launch into extravagance, the end of which is miserly parsimony. Instead of pleasure they meet with grief of the heart, and pass their lives in weeping and wailing. In one way or another, everything in this world depends upon the heart. I implore every one of you to take heed that tears fall not to your lot. [Footnote 101: The second book of Confucius.] APPENDICES APPENDIX A AN ACCOUNT OF THE HARA-KIRI (FROM A RARE JAPANESE MS.) Seppuku _(hara-kiri)_ is the mode of suicide adopted amongst Samurai when they have no alternative but to die. Some there are who thus commit suicide of their own free will; others there are who, having committed some crime which does not put them outside the pale of the privileges of the Samurai class, are ordered by their superiors to put an end to their own lives. It is needless to say that it is absolutely necessary that the principal, the witnesses, and the seconds who take part in the affair should be acquainted with all the ceremonies to be observed. A long time ago, a certain Daimio invited a number of persons, versed in the various ceremonies, to call upon him to explain the different forms to be observed by the official witnesses who inspect and verify the head, &c., and then to instruct him in the ceremonies to be observed in the act of suicide; then he showed all these rites to his son and to all his retainers. Another person has said that, as the ceremonies to be gone through by principal, witnesses, and seconds are all very important matters, men should familiarize themselves with a thing which is so terrible, in order that, should the time come for them to take part in it, they may not be taken by surprise. The witnesses go to see and certify the suicide. For seconds, men are wanted who have distinguished themselves in the military arts. In old days, men used to bear these things in mind; but now-a-days the fashion is to be ignorant of such ceremonies, and if upon rare occasions a criminal is handed over to a Daimio's charge, that he may perform _hara-kiri,_ it often happens, at the time of execution, that there is no one among all the prince's retainers who is competent to act as second, in which case a man has to be engaged in a hurry from some other quarter to cut off the head of the criminal, and for that day he changes his name and becomes a retainer of the prince, either of the middle or lowest class, and the affair is entrusted to him, and so the difficulty is got over: nor is this considered to be a disgrace. It is a great breach of decorum if the second, who is a most important officer, commits any mistake (such as not striking off the head at a blow) in the presence of the witnesses sent by the Government. On this account a skilful person must be employed; and, to hide the unmanliness of his own people, a prince must perform the ceremony in this imperfect manner. Every Samurai should be able to cut off a man's head: therefore, to have to employ a stranger to act as second is to incur the charge of ignorance of the arts of war, and is a bitter mortification. However, young men, trusting to their youthful ardour, are apt to be careless, and are certain to make a mistake. Some people there are who, not lacking in skill on ordinary occasions, lose their presence of mind in public, and cannot do themselves justice. It is all the more important, therefore, as the act occurs but rarely, that men who are liable to be called upon to be either principals or seconds or witnesses in the _hara-kiri_ should constantly be examined in their skill as swordsmen, and should be familiar with all the rites, in order that when the time comes they may not lose their presence of mind. According to one authority, capital punishment may be divided into two kinds--beheading and strangulation. The ceremony of _hara-kiri_ was added afterwards in the case of persons belonging to the military class being condemned to death. This was first instituted in the days of the Ashikaga[102] dynasty. At that time the country was in a state of utter confusion; and there were men who, although fighting, were neither guilty of high treason nor of infidelity to their feudal lords, but who by the chances of war were taken prisoners. To drag out such men as these, bound as criminals, and cut their heads off, was intolerably cruel; accordingly, men hit upon a ceremonious mode of suicide by disembowelling, in order to comfort the departed spirit. Even at present, where it becomes necessary to put to death a man who has been guilty of some act not unworthy of a Samurai, at the time of the execution witnesses are sent to the house; and the criminal, having bathed and put on new clothes, in obedience to the commands of his superiors, puts an end to himself, but does not on that account forfeit his rank as a Samurai. This is a law for which, in all truth, men should be grateful. [Footnote 102: Ashikaga, third dynasty of Shoguns, flourished from A.D. 1336 to 1568. The practice of suicide by disembowelling is of great antiquity. This is the time when the ceremonies attending it were invented.] ON THE PREPARATION OF THE PLACE OF EXECUTION In old days the ceremony of _hara-kiri_ used to be performed in a temple. In the third year of the period called Kan-yei (A.D. 1626), a certain person, having been guilty of treason, was ordered to disembowel himself, on the fourteenth day of the first month, in the temple of Kichijôji, at Komagomé, in Yedo. Eighteen years later, the retainer of a certain Daimio, having had a dispute with a sailor belonging to an Osaka coasting-ship, killed the sailor; and, an investigation having been made into the matter by the Governor of Osaka, the retainer was ordered to perform _hara-kiri_, on the twentieth day of the sixth month, in the temple called Sokusanji, in Osaka. During the period Shôhô (middle of seventeenth century), a certain man, having been guilty of heinous misconduct, performed _hara-kiri_ in the temple called Shimpukuji, in the Kôji-street of Yedo. On the fourth day of the fifth month of the second year of the period Meiréki (A.D. 1656), a certain man, for having avenged the death of his cousin's husband at a place called Shimidzudani, in the Kôji-street, disembowelled himself in the temple called Honseiji. On the twenty-sixth day of the sixth month of the eighth year of the period Yempô (A.D. 1680), at the funeral ceremonies in honour of the anniversary of the death of Genyuin Sama, a former Shogun, Naitô Idzumi no Kami, having a cause of hatred against Nagai Shinano no Kami, killed him at one blow with a short sword, in the main hall of the temple called Zôjôji (the burial-place of the Shoguns in Yedo). Idzumi no Kami was arrested by the officers present, and on the following day performed _hara-kiri_ at Kiridôshi, in the temple called Seiriuji. In modern times the ceremony has taken place at night, either in the palace or in the garden of a Daimio, to whom the condemned man has been given in charge. Whether it takes place in the palace or in the garden depends upon the rank of the individual. Daimios and Hatamotos, as a matter of course, and the higher retainers of the Shogun, disembowel themselves in the palace: retainers of lower rank should do so in the garden. In the case of vassals of feudatories, according to the rank of their families, those who, being above the grade of captains, carry the bâton,[103] should perform _hara-kiri_ in the palace; all others in the garden. If, when the time comes, the persons engaged in the ceremony are in any doubt as to the proper rules to be followed, they should inquire of competent persons, and settle the question. At the beginning of the eighteenth century, during the period Genroku, when Asano Takumi no Kami[104] disembowelled himself in the palace of a Daimio called Tamura, as the whole thing was sudden and unexpected, the garden was covered with matting, and on the top of this thick mats were laid and a carpet, and the affair was concluded so; but there are people who say that it was wrong to treat a Daimio thus, as if he had been an ordinary Samurai. But it is said that in old times it was the custom that the ceremony should take place upon a leather carpet spread in the garden; and further, that the proper place is inside a picket fence tied together in the garden: so it is wrong for persons who are only acquainted with one form of the ceremony to accuse Tamura of having acted improperly. If, however, the object was to save the house from the pollution of blood, then the accusation of ill-will may well be brought; for the preparation of the place is of great importance. [Footnote 103: A bâton with a tassel of paper strips, used for giving directions in war-time.] [Footnote 104: See the story of the Forty-seven Rônins.] Formerly it was the custom that, for personages of importance, the enclosure within the picket fence should be of thirty-six feet square. An entrance was made to the south, and another to the north: the door to the south was called _Shugiyômon_ ("the door of the practice of virtue"); that to the north was called _Umbanmon_ ("the door of the warm basin"[105]). Two mats, with white binding, were arranged in the shape of a hammer, the one at right angles to the other; six feet of white silk, four feet broad, were stretched on the mat, which was placed lengthwise; at the four corners were erected four posts for curtains. In front of the two mats was erected a portal, eight feet high by six feet broad, in the shape of the portals in front of temples, made of a fine sort of bamboo wrapped in white[106] silk. White curtains, four feet broad, were hung at the four corners, and four flags, six feet long, on which should be inscribed four quotations from the sacred books. These flags, it is said, were immediately after the ceremony carried away to the grave. At night two lights were placed, one upon either side of the two mats. The candles were placed in saucers upon stands of bamboo, four feet high, wrapped in white silk. The person who was to disembowel himself, entering the picket fence by the north entrance, took his place upon the white silk upon the mat facing the north. Some there were, however, who said that he should sit facing the west: in that case the whole place must be prepared accordingly. The seconds enter the enclosure by the south entrance, at the same time as the principal enters by the north, and take their places on the mat that is placed crosswise. [Footnote 105: No Japanese authority that I have been able to consult gives any explanation of this singular name.] [Footnote 106: White, in China and Japan, is the colour of mourning.] Nowadays, when the _hara-kiri_ is performed inside the palace, a temporary place is made on purpose, either in the garden or in some unoccupied spot; but if the criminal is to die on the day on which he is given in charge, or on the next day, the ceremony, having to take place so quickly, is performed in the reception-room. Still, even if there is a lapse of time between the period of giving the prisoner in charge and the execution, it is better that the ceremony should take place in a decent room in the house than in a place made on purpose. If it is heard that, for fear of dirtying his house, a man has made a place expressly, he will be blamed for it. It surely can be no disgrace to the house of a soldier that he was ordered to perform the last offices towards a Samurai who died by _hara-kiri_. To slay his enemy against whom he has cause of hatred, and then to kill himself, is the part of a noble Samurai; and it is sheer nonsense to look upon the place where he has disembowelled himself as polluted. In the beginning of the eighteenth century, seventeen of the retainers of Asano Takumi no Kami performed _hara-kiri_ in the garden of a palace at Shirokané, in Yedo. When it was over, the people of the palace called upon the priests of a sect named Shugenja to come and purify the place; but when the lord of the palace heard this, he ordered the place to be left as it was; for what need was there to purify a place where faithful Samurai had died by their own hand? But in other palaces to which the remainder of the retainers of Takumi no Kami were entrusted, it is said that the places of execution were purified. But the people of that day praised Kumamoto Ko (the Prince of Higo), to whom the palace at Shirokané belonged. It is a currish thing to look upon death in battle or by _hara-kiri_ as a pollution: this is a thing to bear in mind. In modern times the place of _hara-kiri_ is eighteen feet square in all cases; in the centre is a place to sit upon, and the condemned man is made to sit facing the witnesses; at other times he is placed with his side to the witnesses: this is according to the nature of the spot. In some cases the seconds turn their backs to the witnesses. It is open to question, however, whether this is not a breach of etiquette. The witnesses should be consulted upon these arrangements. If the witnesses have no objection, the condemned man should be placed directly opposite to them. The place where the witnesses are seated should be removed more than twelve or eighteen feet from the condemned man. The place from which the sentence is read should also be close by. The writer has been furnished with a plan of the _hara-kiri_ as it is performed at present. Although the ceremony is gone through in other ways also, still it is more convenient to follow the manner indicated. If the execution takes place in a room, a kerchief of five breadths of white cotton cloth or a quilt should be laid down, and it is also said that two mats should be prepared; however, as there are already mats in the room, there is no need for special mats: two red rugs should be spread over all, sewed together, one on the top of the other; for if the white cotton cloth be used alone, the blood will soak through on to the mats; therefore it is right the rugs should be spread. On the twenty-third day of the eighth month of the fourth year of the period Yenkiyô (A.D. 1740), at the _hara-kiri_ of a certain person there were laid down a white cloth, eight feet square, and on that a quilt of light green cotton, six feet square, and on that a cloth of white hemp, six feet square, and on that two rugs. On the third day of the ninth month of the ninth year of the period Tempô (A.D. 1838), at the _hara-kiri_ of a certain person it is said that there were spread a large double cloth of white cotton, and on that two rugs. But, of these two occasions, the first must be commended for its careful preparation. If the execution be at night, candlesticks of white wood should be placed at each of the four corners, lest the seconds be hindered in their work. In the place where the witnesses are to sit, ordinary candlesticks should be placed, according to etiquette; but an excessive illumination is not decorous. Two screens covered with white paper should be set up, behind the shadow of which are concealed the dirk upon a tray, a bucket to hold the head after it has been cut off, an incense-burner, a pail of water, and a basin. The above rules apply equally to the ceremonies observed when the _hara-kiri_ takes place in a garden. In the latter case the place is hung round with a white curtain, which need not be new for the occasion. Two mats, a white cloth, and a rug are spread. If the execution is at night, lanterns of white paper are placed on bamboo poles at the four corners. The sentence having been read inside the house, the persons engaged in the ceremony proceed to the place of execution; but, according to circumstances, the sentence may be read at the place itself. In the case of Asano Takumi no Kami, the sentence was read out in the house, and he afterwards performed _hara-kiri_ in the garden. On the third day of the fourth month of the fourth year of the period Tenmei (A.D. 1784), a Hatamoto named Sano, having received his sentence in the supreme court-house, disembowelled himself in the garden in front of the prison. When the ceremony takes place in the garden, matting must be spread all the way to the place, so that sandals need not be worn. The reason for this is that some men in that position suffer from a rush of blood to the head, from nervousness, so their sandals might slip off their feet without their being aware of their loss; and as this would have a very bad appearance, it is better to spread matting. Care must be taken lest, in spreading the matting, a place be left where two mats join, against which the foot might trip. The white screens and other things are prepared as has been directed above. If any curtailment is made, it must be done as well as circumstances will permit. According to the crime of which a man who is handed over to any Daimio's charge is guilty, it is known whether he will have to perform _hara-kiri_; and the preparations should be made accordingly. Asano Takumi no Kami was taken to the palace of Tamura Sama at the hour of the monkey (between three and five in the afternoon), took off his dress of ceremony, partook of a bowl of soup and five dishes, and drank two cups of warm water, and at the hour of the cock (between five and seven in the evening) disembowelled himself. A case of this kind requires much attention; for great care should be taken that the preparations be carried on without the knowledge of the principal. If a temporary room has been built expressly for the occasion, to avoid pollution to the house, it should be kept a secret. It once happened that a criminal was received in charge at the palace of a certain nobleman, and when his people were about to erect a temporary building for the ceremony, they wrote to consult some of the parties concerned; the letter ran as follows-- "The house in which we live is very small and inconvenient in all respects. We have ordered the guard to treat our prisoner with all respect; but our retainers who are placed on guard are much inconvenienced for want of space; besides, in the event of fire breaking out or any extraordinary event taking place, the place is so small that it would be difficult to get out. We are thinking, therefore, of adding an apartment to the original building, so that the guard may be able at all times to go in and out freely, and that if, in case of fire or otherwise, we should have to leave the house, we may do so easily. We beg to consult you upon this point." When a Samurai has to perform _hara-kiri_ by the command of his own feudal lord, the ceremony should take place in one of the lesser palaces of the clan. Once upon a time, a certain prince of the Inouyé clan, having a just cause of offence against his steward, who was called Ishikawa Tôzayémon, and wishing to punish him, caused him to be killed in his principal palace at Kandabashi, in Yedo. When this matter was reported to the Shogun, having been convicted of disrespect of the privileges of the city, he was ordered to remove to his lesser palace at Asakusa. Now, although the _hara-kiri_ cannot be called properly an execution, still, as it only differs from an ordinary execution in that by it the honour of the Samurai is not affected, it is only a question of degree; it is a matter of ceremonial. If the principal palace[107] is a long distance from the Shogun's castle, then the _hara-kiri_ may take place there; but there can be no objection whatever to its taking place in a minor palace. Nowadays, when a man is condemned to _hara-kiri_ by a Daimio, the ceremony usually takes place in one of the lesser palaces; the place commonly selected is an open space near the horse-exercising ground, and the preparations which I have described above are often shortened according to circumstances. [Footnote 107: The principal yashikis (palaces) of the nobles are for the most part immediately round the Shogun's castle, in the enclosure known as the official quarter. Their proximity to the palace forbids their being made the scenes of executions.] When a retainer is suddenly ordered to perform _hara-kiri_ during a journey, a temple or shrine should be hired for the occasion. On these hurried occasions, coarse mats, faced with finer matting or common mats, may be used. If the criminal is of rank to have an armour-bearer, a carpet of skin should be spread, should one be easily procurable. The straps of the skin (which are at the head) should, according to old custom, be to the front, so that the fur may point backwards. In old days, when the ceremony took place in a garden, a carpet of skin was spread. To hire a temple for the purpose of causing a man to perform _hara-kiri_ was of frequent occurrence: it is doubtful whether it may be done at the present time. This sort of question should be referred beforehand to some competent person, that the course to be adopted may be clearly understood. In the period Kambun (A.D. 1661-1673) a Prince Sakai, travelling through the Bishiu territory, hired a temple or shrine for one of his retainers to disembowel himself in; and so the affair was concluded. ON THE CEREMONIES OBSERVED AT THE HARA-KIRI OF A PERSON GIVEN IN CHARGE TO A DAIMIO. When a man has been ordered by the Government to disembowel himself, the public censors, who have been appointed to act as witnesses, write to the prince who has the criminal in charge, to inform them that they will go to his palace on public business. This message is written directly to the chief, and is sent by an assistant censor; and a suitable answer is returned to it. Before the ceremony, the witnesses send an assistant censor to see the place, and look at a plan of the house, and to take a list of the names of the persons who are to be present; he also has an interview with the _kaishaku_, or seconds, and examines them upon the way of performing the ceremonies. When all the preparations have been made, he goes to fetch the censors; and they all proceed together to the place of execution, dressed in their hempen-cloth dress of ceremony. The retainers of the palace are collected to do obeisance in the entrance-yard; and the lord, to whom the criminal has been entrusted, goes as far as the front porch to meet the censors, and conducts them to the front reception-room. The chief censor then announces to the lord of the palace that he has come to read out the sentence of such an one who has been condemned to perform _hara-kiri_, and that the second censor has come to witness the execution of the sentence. The lord of the palace then inquires whether he is expected to attend the execution in person, and, if any of the relations or family of the criminal should beg to receive his remains, whether their request should be complied with; after this he announces that he will order everything to be made ready, and leaves the room. Tea, a fire-box for smoking, and sweetmeats are set before the censors; but they decline to accept any hospitality until their business shall have been concluded. The minor officials follow the same rule. If the censors express a wish to see the place of execution, the retainers of the palace show the way, and their lord accompanies them; in this, however, he may be replaced by one of his _karô_ or councillors. They then return, and take their seats in the reception-room. After this, when all the preparations have been made, the master of the house leads the censors to the place where the sentence is to be read; and it is etiquette that they should wear both sword and dirk.[108] The lord of the palace takes his place on one side; the inferior censors sit on either side in a lower place. The councillors and other officers of the palace also take their places. One of the councillors present, addressing the censors without moving from his place, asks whether he shall bring forth the prisoner. [Footnote 108: A Japanese removes his sword on entering a house, retaining only his dirk.] Previously to this, the retainers of the palace, going to the room where the prisoner is confined, inform him that, as the censors have arrived, he should change his dress, and the attendants bring out a change of clothes upon a large tray: it is when he has finished his toilet that the witnesses go forth and take their places in the appointed order, and the principal is then introduced. He is preceded by one man, who should be of the rank of _Mono-gashira_ (retainer of the fourth rank), who wears a dirk, but no sword. Six men act as attendants; they should be of the fifth or sixth rank; they walk on either side of the principal. They are followed by one man who should be of the rank of _Yônin_ (councillor of the second class). When they reach the place, the leading man draws on one side and sits down, and the six attendants sit down on either side of the principal. The officer who follows him sits down behind him, and the chief censor reads the sentence. When the reading of the sentence is finished, the principal leaves the room and again changes his clothes, and the chief censor immediately leaves the palace; but the lord of the palace does not conduct him to the door. The second censor returns to the reception-room until the principal has changed his clothes. When the principal has taken his seat at the place of execution, the councillors of the palace announce to the second censor that all is ready; he then proceeds to the place, wearing his sword and dirk. The lord of the palace, also wearing his sword and dirk, takes his seat on one side. The inferior censors and councillors sit in front of the censor: they wear the dirk only. The assistant second brings a dirk upon a tray, and, having placed it in front of the principal, withdraws on one side: when the principal leans his head forward, his chief second strikes off his head, which is immediately shown to the censor, who identifies it, and tells the master of the palace that he is satisfied, and thanks him for all his trouble. The corpse, as it lies, is hidden by a white screen which is set up around it, and incense is brought out. The witnesses leave the place. The lord of the palace accompanies them as far as the porch, and the retainers prostrate themselves in the yard as before. The retainers who should be present at the place of execution are one or two councillors (_Karô_), two or three second councillors (_Yônin_), two or three _Mono-gashira_, one chief of the palace (_Rusui_), six attendants, one chief second, two assistant seconds, one man to carry incense, who need not be a person of rank--any Samurai will do. They attend to the setting up of the white screen. The duty of burying the corpse and of setting the place in order again devolves upon four men; these are selected from Samurai of the middle or lower class; during the performance of their duties, they hitch up their trousers and wear neither sword nor dirk. Their names are previously sent in to the censor, who acts as witness; and to the junior censors, should they desire it. Before the arrival of the chief censor, the requisite utensils for extinguishing a fire are prepared, firemen are engaged,[109] and officers constantly go the rounds to watch against fire. From the time when the chief censor comes into the house until he leaves it, no one is allowed to enter the premises. The servants on guard at the entrance porch should wear their hempen dresses of ceremony. Everything in the palace should be conducted with decorum, and the strictest attention paid in all things. [Footnote 109: In Japan, where fires are of daily occurrence, the fire-buckets and other utensils form part of the gala dress of the house of a person of rank.] When any one is condemned to _hara-kiri_, it would be well that people should go to the palace of the Prince of Higo, and learn what transpired at the execution of the Rônins of Asano Takumi no Kami. A curtain was hung round the garden in front of the reception-room; three mats were laid down, and upon these was placed a white cloth. The condemned men were kept in the reception-room, and summoned, one by one; two men, one on each side, accompanied them; the second, followed behind; and they proceeded together to the place of execution. When the execution was concluded in each case, the corpse was hidden from the sight of the chief witness by a white screen, folded up in white cloth, placed on a mat, and carried off to the rear by two foot-soldiers; it was then placed in a coffin. The blood-stained ground was sprinkled with sand, and swept clean; fresh mats were laid down, and the place prepared anew; after which the next man was summoned to come forth. ON CERTAIN THINGS TO BE BORNE IN MIND BY THE WITNESSES. When a clansman is ordered by his feudal lord to perform _hara-kiri_, the sentence must be read out by the censor of the clan, who also acts as witness. He should take his place in front of the criminal, at a distance of twelve feet; according to some books, the distance should be eighteen feet, and he should sit obliquely, not facing the criminal; he should lay his sword down by his side, but, if he pleases, he may wear it in his girdle; he must read out the sentence distinctly. If the sentence be a long document, to begin reading in a very loud voice and afterwards drop into a whisper has an appearance of faint-heartedness; but to read it throughout in a low voice is worse still: it should be delivered clearly from beginning to end. It is the duty of the chief witness to set an example of fortitude to the other persons who are to take part in the execution. When the second has finished his work, he carries the head to the chief witness, who, after inspecting it, must declare that he has identified it; he then should take his sword, and leave his place. It is sufficient, however, that the head should be struck off without being carried to the chief witness; in that case, the second receives his instructions beforehand. On rising, the chief witness should step out with his left foot and turn to the left. If the ceremony takes place out of doors, the chief witness, wearing his sword and dirk, should sit upon a box; he must wear his hempen dress of ceremony; he may hitch his trousers up slightly; according to his rank, he may wear his full dress--that is, wings over his full dress. It is the part of the chief witness to instruct the seconds and others in the duties which they have to perform, and also to preconcert measures in the event of any mishap occurring. If whilst the various persons to be engaged in the ceremony are rubbing up their military lore, and preparing themselves for the event, any other person should come in, they should immediately turn the conversation. Persons of the rank of Samurai should be familiar with all the details of the _hara-kiri_; and to be seen discussing what should be done in case anything went wrong, and so forth, would have an appearance of ignorance. If, however, an intimate friend should go to the place, rather than have any painful concealment, he may be consulted upon the whole affair. When the sentence has been read, it is probable that the condemned man will have some last words to say to the chief witness. It must depend on the nature of what he has to say whether it will be received or not. If he speaks in a confused or bewildered manner, no attention is paid to it: his second should lead him away, of his own accord or at a sign from the chief witness. If the condemned man be a person who has been given in charge to a prince by the Government, the prince after the reading of the sentence should send his retainers to the prisoner with a message to say that the decrees of the Government are not to be eluded, but that if he has any last wishes to express, they are ordered by their lord to receive them. If the prisoner is a man of high rank, the lord of the palace should go in person to hear his last wishes. The condemned man should answer in the following way-- "Sir, I thank you for your careful consideration, but I have nothing that I wish to say. I am greatly indebted to you for the great kindness which I have received since I have been under your charge. I beg you to take my respects to your lord and to the gentlemen of your clan who have treated me so well." Or he may say, "Sirs, I have nothing to say; yet, since you are so kind as to think of me, I should be obliged if you would deliver such and such a message to such an one." This is the proper and becoming sort of speech for the occasion. If the prisoner entrusts them with any message, the retainers should receive it in such a manner as to set his mind at rest. Should he ask for writing materials in order to write a letter, as this is forbidden by the law, they should tell him so, and not grant his request. Still they must feel that it is painful to refuse the request of a dying man, and must do their best to assist him. They must exhaust every available kindness and civility, as was done in the period Genroku, in the case of the Rônins of Asano Takumi no Kami. The Prince of Higo, after the sentence had been read, caused paper and writing materials to be taken to their room. If the prisoner is light-headed from excitement, it is no use furnishing him with writing materials. It must depend upon circumstances; but when a man has murdered another, having made up his mind to abide by the consequences, then that man's execution should be carried through with all honour. When a man kills another on the spot, in a fit of ungovernable passion, and then is bewildered and dazed by his own act, the same pains need not be taken to conduct matters punctiliously. If the prisoner be a careful man, he will take an early opportunity after he has been given in charge to express his wishes. To carry kindness so far as to supply writing materials and the like is not obligatory. If any doubt exists upon the point, the chief witness may be consulted. After the Rônins of Asano Takumi no Kami had heard their sentence in the palace of Matsudaira Oki no Kami, that Daimio in person went and took leave of them, and calling Oishi Chikara,[110] the son of their chief, to him, said, "I have heard that your mother is at home in your own country; how she will grieve when she hears of your death and that of your father, I can well imagine. If you have any message that you wish to leave for her, tell me, without standing upon ceremony, and I will transmit it without delay." For a while Chikara kept his head bent down towards the ground; at last he drew back a little, and, lifting his head, said, "I humbly thank your lordship for what you have been pleased to say. My father warned me from the first that our crime was so great that, even were we to be pardoned by a gracious judgment upon one count, I must not forget that there would be a hundred million counts against us for which we must commit suicide: and that if I disregarded his words his hatred would pursue me after death. My father impressed this upon me at the temple called Sengakuji, and again when I was separated from him to be taken to the palace of Prince Sengoku. Now my father and myself have been condemned to perform _hara-kiri_, according to the wish of our hearts. Still I cannot forget to think of my mother. When we parted at Kiyôto, she told me that our separation would be for long, and she bade me not to play the coward when I thought of her. As I took a long leave of her then, I have no message to send to her now." When he spoke thus, Oki no Kami and all his retainers, who were drawn up around him, were moved to tears in admiration of his heroism. [Footnote 110: Oishi Chikara was separated from his father, who was one of the seventeen delivered over to the charge of the Prince of Higo.] Although it is right that the condemned man should bathe and partake of wine and food, these details should be curtailed. Even should he desire these favours, it must depend upon his conduct whether they be granted or refused. He should be caused to die as quickly as possible. Should he wish for some water to drink, it should be given to him. If in his talk he should express himself like a noble Samurai, all pains should be exhausted in carrying out his execution. Yet however careful a man he may be, as he nears his death his usual demeanour will undergo a change. If the execution is delayed, in all probability it will cause the prisoner's courage to fail him; therefore, as soon as the sentence shall have been passed, the execution should be brought to a conclusion. This, again, is a point for the chief witness to remember. CONCERNING SECONDS (KAISHAKU). When the condemned man is one who has been given in charge for execution, six attendants are employed; when the execution is within the clan, then two or three attendants will suffice; the number, however, must depend upon the rank of the principal. Men of great nerve and strength must be selected for the office; they must wear their hempen dress of ceremony, and tuck up their trousers; they must on no account wear either sword or dirk, but have a small poniard hidden in their bosom: these are the officers who attend upon the condemned man when he changes his dress, and who sit by him on the right hand and on the left hand to guard him whilst the sentence is being read. In the event of any mistake occurring (such as the prisoner attempting to escape), they knock him down; and should he be unable to stand or to walk, they help to support him. The attendants accompanying the principal to the place of execution, if they are six in number, four of them take their seats some way off and mount guard, while the other two should sit close behind the principal. They must understand that should there be any mistake they must throw the condemned man, and, holding him down, cut off his head with their poniard, or stab him to death. If the second bungles in cutting off the head and the principal attempts to rise, it is the duty of the attendants to kill him. They must help him to take off his upper garments and bare his body. In recent times, however, there have been cases where the upper garments have not been removed: this depends upon circumstances. The setting up of the white screen, and the laying the corpse in the coffin, are duties which, although they may be performed by other officers, originally devolved upon the six attendants. When a common man is executed, he is bound with cords, and so made to take his place; but a Samurai wears his dress of ceremony, is presented with a dagger, and dies thus. There ought to be no anxiety lest such a man should attempt to escape; still, as there is no knowing what these six attendants may be called upon to do, men should be selected who thoroughly understand their business. The seconds are three in number--the chief second, the assistant second, and the inferior second. When the execution is carried out with proper solemnity, three men are employed; still a second and assistant second are sufficient. If three men serve as seconds, their several duties are as follows:--The chief second strikes off the head; that is his duty: he is the most important officer in the execution by _hara-kiri._ The assistant second brings forward the tray, on which is placed the dirk; that is his duty: he must perform his part in such a manner that the principal second is not hindered in his work. The assistant second is the officer of second importance in the execution. The third or inferior second carries the head to the chief witness for identification; and in the event of something suddenly occurring to hinder either of the other two seconds, he should bear in mind that he must be ready to act as his substitute: his is an office of great importance, and a proper person must be selected to fill it. Although there can be no such thing as a _kaishaku_ (second) in any case except in one of _hara-kiri,_ still in old times guardians and persons who assisted others were also called _kaishaku_: the reason for this is because the _kaishaku_, or second, comes to the assistance of the principal. If the principal were to make any mistake at the fatal moment, it would be a disgrace to his dead body: it is in order to prevent such mistakes that the _kaishaku,_ or second, is employed. It is the duty of the _kaishaku_ to consider this as his first duty. When a man is appointed to act as second to another, what shall be said of him if he accepts the office with a smiling face? Yet must he not put on a face of distress. It is as well to attempt to excuse oneself from performing the duty. There is no heroism in cutting a man's head off well, and it is a disgrace to do it in a bungling manner; yet must not a man allege lack of skill as a pretext for evading the office, for it is an unworthy thing that a Samurai should want the skill required to behead a man. If there are any that advocate employing young men as seconds, it should rather be said that their hands are inexpert. To play the coward and yield up the office to another man is out of the question. When a man is called upon to perform the office, he should express his readiness to use his sword (the dirk may be employed, but the sword is the proper weapon). As regards the sword, the second should borrow that of the principal: if there is any objection to this, he should receive a sword from his lord; he should not use his own sword. When the assistant seconds have been appointed, the three should take counsel together about the details of the place of execution, when they have been carefully instructed by their superiors in all the ceremonies; and having made careful inquiry, should there be anything wrong, they should appeal to their superiors for instruction. The seconds wear their dresses of ceremony when the criminal is a man given in charge by the Government: when he is one of their own clan, they need only wear the trousers of the Samurai. In old days it is said that they were dressed in the same way as the principal; and some authorities assert that at the _hara-kiri_ of a nobleman of high rank the seconds should wear white clothes, and that the handle of the sword should be wrapped in white silk. If the execution takes place in the house, they should partially tuck up their trousers; if in the garden, they should tuck them up entirely. The seconds should address the principal, and say, "Sir, we have been appointed to act as your seconds; we pray you to set your mind at rest," and so forth; but this must depend upon the rank of the criminal. At this time, too, if the principal has any last wish to express, the second should receive it, and should treat him with every consideration in order to relieve his anxiety. If the second has been selected by the principal on account of old friendship between them, or if the latter, during the time that he has been in charge, has begged some special retainer of the palace to act as his second in the event of his being condemned to death, the person so selected should thank the principal for choosing so unworthy a person, and promise to beg his lord to allow him to act as second: so he should answer, and comfort him, and having reported the matter to his lord, should act as second. He should take that opportunity to borrow his principal's sword in some such terms as the following: "As I am to have the honour of being your second, I would fain borrow your sword for the occasion. It may be a consolation to you to perish by your own sword, with which you are familiar." If, however, the principal declines, and prefers to be executed with the second's sword, his wish must be complied with. If the second should make an awkward cut with his own sword, it is a disgrace to him; therefore he should borrow some one else's sword, so that the blame may rest with the sword, and not with the swordsman. Although this is the rule, and although every Samurai should wear a sword fit to cut off a man's head, still if the principal has begged to be executed with the second's own sword, it must be done as he desires. It is probable that the condemned man will inquire of his second about the arrangements which have been made: he must attend therefore to rendering himself capable of answering all such questions. Once upon a time, when the condemned man inquired of his second whether his head would be cut off at the moment when he received the tray with the dirk upon it, "No," replied the second; "at the moment when you stab yourself with the dirk your head will be cut off." At the execution of one Sanô, he told his second that, when he had stabbed himself in the belly, he would utter a cry; and begged him to be cool when he cut off his head. The second replied that he would do as he wished, but begged him in the meantime to take the tray with the dirk, according to proper form. When Sanô reached out his hand to take the tray, the second cut off his head immediately. Now, although this was not exactly right, still as the second acted so in order to save a Samurai from the disgrace of performing the _hara-kiri_ improperly (by crying out), it can never be wrong for a second to act kindly, If the principal urgently requests to be allowed really to disembowel himself, his wish may, according to circumstances, be granted; but in this case care must be taken that no time be lost in striking off the head. The custom of striking off the head, the prisoner only going through the semblance of disembowelling himself, dates from the period Yempô (about 190 years ago). When the principal has taken his place, the second strips his right shoulder of the dress of ceremony, which he allows to fall behind his sleeve, and, drawing his sword, lays down the scabbard, taking care that his weapon is not seen by the principal; then he takes his place on the left of the principal and close behind him. The principal should sit facing the west, and the second facing the north, and in that position should he strike the blow. When the second perceives the assistant second bring out the tray on which is laid the dirk, he must brace up his nerves and settle his heart beneath his navel: when the tray is laid down, he must put himself in position to strike the blow. He should step out first with the left foot, and then change so as to bring his right foot forward: this is the position which he should assume to strike; he may, however, reverse the position of his feet. When the principal removes his upper garments, the second must poise his sword: when the principal reaches out his hand to draw the tray towards him, as he leans his head forward a little, is the exact moment for the second to strike. There are all sorts of traditions about this. Some say that the principal should take the tray and raise it respectfully to his head, and set it down; and that this is the moment to strike. There are three rules for the time of cutting off the head: the first is when the dirk is laid on the tray; the second is when the principal looks at the left side of his belly before inserting the dirk; the third is when he inserts the dirk. If these three moments are allowed to pass, it becomes a difficult matter to cut off the head: so says tradition. However, four moments for cutting are also recorded: first, when the assistant second retires after having laid down the stand on which is the dirk; second, when the principal draws the stand towards him; third, when he takes the dirk in his hand; fourth, when he makes the incision into the belly. Although all four ways are approved, still the first is too soon; the last three are right and proper. In short, the blow should be struck without delay. If he has struck off the head at a blow without failure, the second, taking care not to raise his sword, but holding it point downwards, should retire backward a little and wipe his weapon kneeling; he should have plenty of white paper ready in his girdle or in his bosom to wipe away the blood and rub up his sword; having replaced his sword in its scabbard, he should readjust his upper garments and take his seat to the rear. When the head has fallen, the junior second should enter, and, taking up the head, present it to the witness for inspection. When he has identified it, the ceremony is concluded. If there is no assistant or junior second, the second, as soon as he has cut off the head, carrying his sword reversed in his left hand, should take the head in his right hand, holding it by the top-knot of hair, should advance towards the witness, passing on the right side of the corpse, and show the right profile of the head to the witness, resting the chin of the head upon the hilt of his sword, and kneeling on his left knee; then returning again round by the left of the corpse, kneeling on his left knee, and carrying the head in his left hand and resting it on the edge of his sword, he should again show the left profile to the witness. It is also laid down as another rule, that the second, laying down his sword, should take out paper from the bosom of his dress, and placing the head in the palm of his left hand, and taking the top-knot of hair in his right hand, should lay the head upon the paper, and so submit it for inspection. Either way may be said to be right. NOTE.--To lay down thick paper, and place the head on it, shows a disposition to pay respect to the head; to place it on the edge of the sword is insulting: the course pursued must depend upon the rank of the person. If the ceremony is to be curtailed, it may end with the cutting off of the head: that must be settled beforehand, in consultation with the witness. In the event of the second making a false cut, so as not to strike off the head at a blow, the second must take the head by the top-knot, and, pressing it down, cut it off. Should he take bad aim and cut the shoulder by mistake, and should the principal rise and cry out, before he has time to writhe, he should hold him down and stab him to death, and then cut off his head, or the assistant seconds, who are sitting behind, should come forward and hold him down, while the chief second cuts off his head. It may be necessary for the second, after he has cut off the head, to push down the body, and then take up the head for inspection. If the body does not fall at once, which is said to be sometimes the case, the second should pull the feet to make it fall. There are some who say that the perfect way for the second to cut off the head is not to cut right through the neck at a blow, but to leave a little uncut, and, as the head hangs by the skin, to seize the top-knot and slice it off, and then submit it for inspection. The reason of this is, lest, the head being struck off at a blow, the ceremony should be confounded with an ordinary execution. According to the old authorities, this is the proper and respectful manner. After the head is cut off, the eyes are apt to blink, and the mouth to move, and to bite the pebbles and sand. This being hateful to see, at what amongst Samurai is so important an occasion, and being a shameful thing, it is held to be best not to let the head fall, but to hold back a little in delivering the blow. Perhaps this may be right; yet it is a very difficult matter to cut so as to leave the head hanging by a little flesh, and there is the danger of missing the cut; and as any mistake in the cut is most horrible to see, it is better to strike a fair blow at once. Others say that, even when the head is struck off at a blow, the semblance of slicing it off should be gone through afterwards; yet be it borne in mind that; this is unnecessary. Three methods of carrying the sword are recognized amongst those skilled in swordsmanship. If the rank of the principal be high, the sword is raised aloft; if the principal and second are of equal rank, the sword is carried at the centre of the body; if the principal be of inferior rank, the sword is allowed to hang downwards. The proper position for the second to strike from is kneeling on one knee, but there is no harm in his standing up: others say that, if the execution takes place inside the house, the second should kneel; if in the garden, he should stand. These are not points upon which to insist obstinately: a man should strike in whatever position is most convenient to him. The chief duty for the assistant second to bear in mind is the bringing in of the tray with the dirk, which should be produced very quietly when the principal takes his place: it should be placed so that the condemned man may have to stretch his hand well out in order to reach it.[111] The assistant second then returns to his own place; but if the condemned man shows any signs of agitation, the assistant second must lend his assistance, so that the head may be properly cut off. It once happened that the condemned man, having received the tray from the assistant second, held it up for a long time without putting it down, until those near him had over and over again urged him to set it down. It also happens that after the tray has been set down, and the assistant second has retired, the condemned man does not put out his hand to take it; then must the assistant second press him to take it. Also the principal may ask that the tray be placed a little nearer to him, in which case his wish must be granted. The tray may also be placed in such a way that the assistant second, holding it in his left hand, may reach the dirk to the condemned man, who leans forward to take it. Which is the best of all these ways is uncertain. The object to aim at is, that the condemned man should lean forward to receive the blow. Whether the assistant second retires, or not, must depend upon the attitude assumed by the condemned man. [Footnote 111: It should be placed about three feet away from him.] If the prisoner be an unruly, violent man, a fan, instead of a dirk, should be placed upon the tray; and should he object to this, he should be told, in answer, that the substitution of the fan is an ancient custom. This may occur sometimes. It is said that once upon a time, in one of the palaces of the Daimios, a certain brave matron murdered a man, and having been allowed to die with all the honours of the _hara-kiri,_ a fan was placed upon the tray, and her head was cut off. This may be considered right and proper. If the condemned man appears inclined to be turbulent, the seconds, without showing any sign of alarm, should hurry to his side, and, urging him to get ready, quickly cause him to make all his preparations with speed, and to sit down in his place; the chief second, then drawing his sword, should get ready to strike, and, ordering him to proceed as fast as possible with the ceremony of receiving the tray, should perform his duty without appearing to be afraid. A certain Prince Katô, having condemned one of his councillors to death, assisted at the ceremony behind a curtain of slips of bamboo. The councillor, whose name was Katayama, was bound, and during that time glared fiercely at the curtain, and showed no signs of fear. The chief second was a man named Jihei, who had always been used to treat Katayama with great respect. So Jihei, sword in hand, said to Katayama, "Sir, your last moment has arrived: be so good as to turn your cheek so that your head may be straight." When Katayama heard this, he replied, "Fellow, you are insolent;" and as he was looking round, Jihei struck the fatal blow. The lord Katô afterwards inquired of Jihei what was the reason of this; and he replied that, as he saw that the prisoner was meditating treason, he determined to kill him at once, and put a stop to this rebellious spirit. This is a pattern for other seconds to bear in mind. When the head has been struck off, it becomes the duty of the junior second to take it up by the top-knot, and, placing it upon some thick paper laid over the palm of his hand, to carry it for inspection by the witness. This ceremony has been explained above. If the head be bald, he should pierce the left ear with the stiletto carried in the scabbard of his dirk, and so carry it to be identified. He must carry thick paper in the bosom of his dress. Inside the paper he shall place a bag with rice bran and ashes, in order that he may carry the head without being sullied by the blood. When the identification of the head is concluded, the junior second's duty is to place it in a bucket. If anything should occur to hinder the chief second, the assistant second must take his place. It happened on one occasion that before the execution took place the chief second lost his nerve, yet he cut off the head without any difficulty; but when it came to taking up the head for inspection, his nervousness so far got the better of him as to be extremely inconvenient. This is a thing against which persons acting as seconds have to guard. * * * * * As a corollary to the above elaborate statement of the ceremonies proper to be observed at the _hara-kiri_, I may here describe an instance of such an execution which I was sent officially to witness. The condemned man was Taki Zenzaburô, an officer of the Prince of Bizen, who gave the order to fire upon the foreign settlement at Hiogo in the month of February 1868,--an attack to which I have alluded in the preamble to the story of the Eta Maiden and the Hatamoto. Up to that time no foreigner had witnessed such an execution, which was rather looked upon as a traveller's fable. The ceremony, which was ordered by the Mikado himself, took place at 10.30 at night in the temple of Seifukuji, the headquarters of the Satsuma troops at Hiogo. A witness was sent from each of the foreign legations. We were seven foreigners in all. We were conducted to the temple by officers of the Princes of Satsuma and Choshiu. Although the ceremony was to be conducted in the most private manner, the casual remarks which we overheard in the streets, and a crowd lining the principal entrance to the temple, showed that it was a matter of no little interest to the public. The courtyard of the temple presented a most picturesque sight; it was crowded with soldiers standing about in knots round large fires, which threw a dim flickering light over the heavy eaves and quaint gable-ends of the sacred buildings. We were shown into an inner room, where we were to wait until the preparation for the ceremony was completed: in the next room to us were the high Japanese officers. After a long interval, which seemed doubly long from the silence which prevailed, Itô Shunské, the provisional Governor of Hiogo, came and took down our names, and informed us that seven _kenshi_, sheriffs or witnesses, would attend on the part of the Japanese. He and another officer represented the Mikado; two captains of Satsuma's infantry, and two of Choshiu's, with a representative of the Prince of Bizen, the clan of the condemned man, completed the number, which was probably arranged in order to tally with that of the foreigners. Itô Shunské further inquired whether we wished to put any questions to the prisoner. We replied in the negative. A further delay then ensued, after which we were invited to follow the Japanese witnesses into the _hondo_ or main hall of the temple, where the ceremony was to be performed. It was an imposing scene. A large hall with a high roof supported by dark pillars of wood. From the ceiling hung a profusion of those huge gilt lamps and ornaments peculiar to Buddhist temples. In front of the high altar, where the floor, covered with beautiful white mats, is raised some three or four inches from the ground, was laid a rug of scarlet felt. Tall candles placed at regular intervals gave out a dim mysterious light, just sufficient to let all the proceedings be seen. The seven Japanese took their places on the left of the raised floor, the seven foreigners on the right. No other person was present. After an interval of a few minutes of anxious suspense, Taki Zenzaburô, a stalwart man, thirty-two years of age, with a noble air, walked into the hall attired in his dress of ceremony, with the peculiar hempen-cloth wings which are worn on great occasions. He was accompanied by a _kaishaku_ and three officers, who wore the _jimbaori_ or war surcoat with gold-tissue facings. The word _kaishaku_, it should be observed, is one to which our word _executioner_ is no equivalent term. The office is that of a gentleman: in many cases it is performed by a kinsman or friend of the condemned, and the relation between them is rather that of principal and second than that of victim and executioner. In this instance the _kaishaku_ was a pupil of Taki Zenzaburô, and was selected by the friends of the latter from among their own number for his skill in swordsmanship. With the _kaishaku_ on his left hand, Taki Zenzaburô advanced slowly towards the Japanese witnesses, and the two bowed before them, then drawing near to the foreigners they saluted us in the same way, perhaps even with more deference: in each case the salutation was ceremoniously returned. Slowly, and with great dignity, the condemned man mounted on to the raised floor, prostrated himself before the high altar twice, and seated[112] himself on the felt carpet with his back to the high altar, the _kaishaku_ crouching on his left-hand side. One of the three attendant officers then came forward, bearing a stand of the kind used in temples for offerings, on which, wrapped in paper, lay the _wakizashi_, the short sword or dirk of the Japanese, nine inches and a half in length, with a point and an edge as sharp as a razor's. This he handed, prostrating himself, to the condemned man, who received it reverently, raising it to his head with both hands, and placed it in front of himself. [Footnote 112: Seated himself--that is, in the Japanese fashion, his knees and toes touching the ground, and his body resting on his heels. In this position, which is one of respect, he remained until his death.] After another profound obeisance, Taki Zenzaburô, in a voice which betrayed just so much emotion and hesitation as might be expected from a man who is making a painful confession, but with no sign of either in his face or manner, spoke as follows:-- "I, and I alone, unwarrantably gave the order to fire on the foreigners at Kôbé, and again as they tried to escape. For this crime I disembowel myself, and I beg you who are present to do me the honour of witnessing the act." Bowing once more, the speaker allowed his upper garments to slip down to his girdle, and remained naked to the waist. Carefully, according to custom, he tucked his sleeves under his knees to prevent himself from falling backwards; for a noble Japanese gentleman should die falling forwards. Deliberately, with a steady hand, he took the dirk that lay before him; he looked at it wistfully, almost affectionately; for a moment he seemed to collect his thoughts for the last time, and then stabbing himself deeply below the waist on the left-hand side, he drew the dirk slowly across to the right side, and, turning it in the wound, gave a slight cut upwards. During this sickeningly painful operation he never moved a muscle of his face. When he drew out the dirk, he leaned forward and stretched out his neck; an expression of pain for the first time crossed his face, but he uttered no sound. At that moment the _kaishaku_, who, still crouching by his side, had been keenly watching his every movement, sprang to his feet, poised his sword for a second in the air; there was a flash, a heavy, ugly thud, a crashing fall; with one blow the head had been severed from the body. A dead silence followed, broken only by the hideous noise of the blood throbbing out of the inert heap before us, which but a moment before had been a brave and chivalrous man. It was horrible. The _kaishaku_ made a low bow, wiped his sword with a piece of paper which he had ready for the purpose, and retired from the raised floor; and the stained dirk was solemnly borne away, a bloody proof of the execution. The two representatives of the Mikado then left their places, and, crossing over to where the foreign witnesses sat, called us to witness that the sentence of death upon Taki Zenzaburô had been faithfully carried out. The ceremony being at an end, we left the temple. The ceremony, to which the place and the hour gave an additional solemnity, was characterized throughout by that extreme dignity and punctiliousness which are the distinctive marks of the proceedings of Japanese gentlemen of rank; and it is important to note this fact, because it carries with it the conviction that the dead man was indeed the officer who had committed the crime, and no substitute. While profoundly impressed by the terrible scene it was impossible at the same time not to be filled with admiration of the firm and manly bearing of the sufferer, and of the nerve with which the _kaishaku_ performed his last duty to his master. Nothing could more strongly show the force of education. The Samurai, or gentleman of the military class, from his earliest years learns to look upon the _hara-kiri_ as a ceremony in which some day he may be called upon to play a part as principal or second. In old-fashioned families, which hold to the traditions of ancient chivalry, the child is instructed in the rite and familiarized with the idea as an honourable expiation of crime or blotting out of disgrace. If the hour comes, he is prepared for it, and gravely faces an ordeal which early training has robbed of half its horrors. In what other country in the world does a man learn that the last tribute of affection which he may have to pay to his best friend may be to act as his executioner? Since I wrote the above, we have heard that, before his entry into the fatal hall, Taki Zenzaburô called round him all those of his own clan who were present, many of whom had carried out his order to fire, and, addressing them in a short speech, acknowledged the heinousness of his crime and the justice of his sentence, and warned them solemnly to avoid any repetition of attacks upon foreigners. They were also addressed by the officers of the Mikado, who urged them to bear no ill-will against us on account of the fate of their fellow-clansman. They declared that they entertained no such feeling. The opinion has been expressed that it would have been politic for the foreign representatives at the last moment to have interceded for the life of Taki Zenzaburô. The question is believed to have been debated among the representatives themselves. My own belief is that mercy, although it might have produced the desired effect among the more civilized clans, would have been mistaken for weakness and fear by those wilder people who have not yet a personal knowledge of foreigners. The offence--an attack upon the flags and subjects of all the Treaty Powers, which lack of skill, not of will, alone prevented from ending in a universal massacre--was the gravest that has been committed upon foreigners since their residence in Japan. Death was undoubtedly deserved, and the form chosen was in Japanese eyes merciful and yet judicial. The crime might have involved a war and cost hundreds of lives; it was wiped out by one death. I believe that, in the interest of Japan as well as in our own, the course pursued was wise, and it was very satisfactory to me to find that one of the ablest Japanese ministers, with whom I had a discussion upon the subject, was quite of my opinion. The ceremonies observed at the _hara-kiri_ appear to vary slightly in detail in different parts of Japan; but the following memorandum upon the subject of the rite, as it used to be practised at Yedo during the rule of the Tycoon, clearly establishes its judicial character. I translated it from a paper drawn up for me by a Japanese who was able to speak of what he had seen himself. Three different ceremonies are described:-- 1st. _Ceremonies observed at the "hara-kiri" of a Hatamoto (petty noble of the Tycoon's court) in prison._--This is conducted with great secrecy. Six mats are spread in a large courtyard of the prison; an _ometsuké_ (officer whose duties appear to consist in the surveillance of other officers), assisted by two other _ometsukés_ of the second and third class, acts as _kenshi_ (sheriff or witness), and sits in front of the mats. The condemned man, attired in his dress of ceremony, and wearing his wings of hempen cloth, sits in the centre of the mats. At each of the four corners of the mats sits a prison official. Two officers of the Governor of the city act as _kaishaku_ (executioners or seconds), and take their place, one on the right hand and the other on the left hand of the condemned. The _kaishaku_ on the left side, announcing his name and surname, says, bowing, "I have the honour to act as _kaishaku_ to you; have you any last wishes to confide to me?" The condemned man thanks him and accepts the offer or not, as the case may be. He then bows to the sheriff, and a wooden dirk nine and a half inches long is placed before him at a distance of three feet, wrapped in paper, and lying on a stand such as is used for offerings in temples. As he reaches forward to take the wooden sword, and stretches out his neck, the _kaifihaku_ on his left-hand side draws his sword and strikes off his head. The _kaishaku_ on the right-hand side takes up the head and shows it to the sheriff. The body is given to the relations of the deceased for burial. His property is confiscated. 2nd. _The ceremonies observed at the "hara-kiri" of a Daimio's retainer._--When the retainer of a Daimio is condemned to perform the _hara-kiri,_ four mats are placed in the yard of the _yashiki_ or palace. The condemned man, dressed in his robes of ceremony and wearing his wings of hempen cloth, sits in the centre. An officer acts as chief witness, with a second witness under him. Two officers, who act as _kaishaku_, are on the right and left of the condemned man; four officers are placed at the corners of the mats. The _kaishaku_, as in the former case, offers to execute the last wishes of the condemned. A dirk nine and a half inches long is placed before him on a stand. In this case the dirk is a real dirk, which the man takes and stabs himself with on the left side, below the navel, drawing it across to the right side. At this moment, when he leans forward in pain, the _kaishaku_ on the left-hand side cuts off the head. The _kaishaku_ on the right-hand side takes up the head, and shows it to the sheriff. The body is given to the relations for burial. In most cases the property of the deceased is confiscated. 3rd. _Self-immolation of a Daimio on account of disgrace_.--When a Daimio had been guilty of treason or offended against the Tycoon, inasmuch as the family was disgraced, and an apology could neither be offered nor accepted, the offending Daimio was condemned to _hara-kiri_. Calling his councillors around him, he confided to them his last will and testament for transmission to the Tycoon. Then, clothing himself in his court dress, he disembowelled himself, and cut his own throat. His councillors then reported the matter to the Government, and a coroner was sent to investigate it. To him the retainers handed the last will and testament of their lord, and be took it to the Gorôjiu (first council), who transmitted it to the Tycoon. If the offence was heinous, such as would involve the ruin of the whole family, by the clemency of the Tycoon, half the property might be confiscated, and half returned to the heir; if the offence was trivial, the property was inherited intact by the heir, and the family did not suffer. In all cases where the criminal disembowels himself of his own accord without condemnation and without investigation, inasmuch as he is no longer able to defend himself, the offence is considered as non-proven, and the property is not confiscated. In the year 1869 a motion was brought forward in the Japanese parliament by one Ono Seigorô, clerk of the house, advocating the abolition of the practice of _hara-kiri_. Two hundred members out of a house of 209 voted against the motion, which was supported by only three speakers, six members not voting on either side. In this debate the _seppuku, or hara-kiri_, was called "the very shrine of the Japanese national spirit, and the embodiment in practice of devotion to principle," "a great ornament to the empire," "a pillar of the constitution," "a valuable institution, tending to the honour of the nobles, and based on a compassionate feeling towards the official caste," "a pillar of religion and a spur to virtue." The whole debate (which is well worth reading, and an able translation of which by Mr. Aston has appeared in a recent Blue Book) shows the affection with which the Japanese cling to the traditions of a chivalrous past. It is worthy of notice that the proposer, Ono Seigorô, who on more than one occasion rendered himself conspicuous by introducing motions based upon an admiration of our Western civilization, was murdered not long after this debate took place. There are many stories on record of extraordinary heroism being displayed in the _hara-kiri._ The case of a young fellow, only twenty years old, of the Choshiu clan, which was told me the other day by an eye-witness, deserves mention as a marvellous instance of determination. Not content with giving himself the one necessary cut, he slashed himself thrice horizontally and twice vertically. Then he stabbed himself in the throat until the dirk protruded on the other side, with its sharp edge to the front; setting his teeth in one supreme effort, he drove the knife forward with both hands through his throat, and fell dead. One more story and I have done. During the revolution, when the Tycoon, beaten on every side, fled ignominiously to Yedo, he is said to have determined to fight no more, but to yield everything. A member of his second council went to him and said, "Sir, the only way for you now to retrieve the honour of the family of Tokugawa is to disembowel yourself; and to prove to you that I am sincere and disinterested in what I say, I am here ready to disembowel myself with you." The Tycoon flew into a great rage, saying that he would listen to no such nonsense, and left the room. His faithful retainer, to prove his honesty, retired to another part of the castle, and solemnly performed the _hara-kiri._ APPENDIX B THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY (FROM THE "SHO-REI HIKKI"--RECORD OF CEREMONIES.) The ceremonies observed at marriages are various, and it is not right for a man, exceeding the bounds of his condition in life, to transgress against the rules which are laid down. When the middle-man has arranged the preliminaries of the marriage between the two parties, he carries the complimentary present, which is made at the time of betrothal, from the future bridegroom to his destined bride; and if this present is accepted, the lady's family can no longer retract their promise. This is the beginning of the contract. The usual betrothal presents are as follows. Persons of the higher classes send a robe of white silk; a piece of gold embroidery for a girdle; a piece of silk stuff; a piece of white silk, with a lozenge pattern, and other silk stuffs (these are made up into a pile of three layers); fourteen barrels of wine, and seven sorts of condiments. Persons of the middle class send a piece of white silk stuff; a piece of gold embroidery for a girdle; a piece of white silk, with a lozenge pattern, and other silk stuffs (these are made up into a pile of two layers); ten barrels of wine, and five sorts of condiments. The lower classes send a robe of white silk, a robe of coloured silk, in a pile of one layer, together with six barrels of wine and three sorts of condiments. To the future father-in-law is sent a sword, with a scabbard for slinging, such as is worn in war-time, together with a list of the presents; to the mother-in-law, a silk robe, with wine and condiments. Although all these presents are right and proper for the occasion, still they must be regulated according to the means of the persons concerned. The future father-in-law sends a present of equal value in return to his son-in-law, but the bride elect sends no return present to her future husband; the present from the father-in-law must by no means be omitted, but according to his position, if he be poor, he need only send wine and condiments. In sending the presents care must be taken not to fold the silk robe. The two silk robes that are sent on the marriage night must be placed with the collars stitched together in a peculiar fashion. The ceremonies of sending the litter to fetch the bride on the wedding night are as follows. In families of good position, one of the principal retainers on either side is deputed to accompany the bride and to receive her. Matting is spread before the entrance-door, upon which the bride's litter is placed, while the two principal retainers congratulate one another, and the officers of the bridegroom receive the litter. If a bucket containing clams, to make the wedding broth, has been sent with the bride, it is carried and received by a person of distinction. Close by the entrance-door a fire is lighted on the right hand and on the left. These fires are called garden-torches. In front of the corridor along which the litter passes, on the right hand and on the left, two men and two women, in pairs, place two mortars, right and left, in which they pound rice; as the litter passes, the pounded rice from the left-hand side is moved across to the right, and the two are mixed together into one. This is called the blending of the rice-meal.[113] Two candles are lighted, the one on the right hand and the other on the left of the corridor; and after the litter has passed, the candle on the left is passed over to the right, and, the two wicks being brought together, the candles are extinguished. These last three ceremonies are only performed at the weddings of persons of high rank; they are not observed at the weddings of ordinary persons. The bride takes with her to her husband's house, as presents, two silken robes sewed together in a peculiar manner, a dress of ceremony with wings of hempen cloth, an upper girdle and an under girdle, a fan, either five or seven pocket-books, and a sword: these seven presents are placed on a long tray, and their value must depend upon the means of the family. [Footnote 113: Cf. Gibbon on Roman Marriages, _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. iv. p. 345: "The contracting parties were seated on the same sheepskin; they tasted a salt cake of _far_, or rice; and this _confarreation_, which denoted the ancient food of Italy, served as an emblem of their mystic union of mind and body."] The dress of the bride is a white silk robe with a lozenge pattern, over an under-robe, also of white silk. Over her head she wears a veil of white silk, which, when she sits down, she allows to fall about her as a mantle. The bride's furniture and effects are all arranged for her by female attendants from her own house on a day previous to the wedding; and the bridegroom's effects are in like manner arranged by the women of his own house. When the bride meets her husband in the room where the relations are assembled, she takes her seat for this once in the place of honour, her husband sitting in a lower place, not directly opposite to her, but diagonally, and discreetly avoiding her glance. On the raised part of the floor are laid out beforehand two trays, the preparations for a feast, a table on which are two wagtails,[114] a second table with a representation of Elysium, fowls, fish, two wine-bottles, three wine-cups, and two sorts of kettles for warming wine. The ladies go out to meet the bride, and invite her into a dressing-room, and, when she has smoothed her dress, bring her into the room, and she and the bridegroom take their seats in the places appointed for them. The two trays are then brought out, and the ladies-in-waiting, with complimentary speeches, hand dried fish and seaweed, such as accompany presents, and dried chestnuts to the couple. Two married ladies then each take one of the wine-bottles which have been prepared, and place them in the lower part of the room. Then two handmaids, who act as wine-pourers, bring the kettles and place them in the lower part of the room. The two wine-bottles have respectively a male and female butterfly, made of paper, attached to them. The female butterfly is laid on its back, and the wine is poured from the bottle into the kettle. The male butterfly is then taken and laid on the female butterfly, and the wine from the bottle is poured into the same kettle, and the whole is transferred with due ceremony to another kettle of different shape, which the wine-pourers place in front of themselves. Little low dining-tables are laid, one for each person, before the bride and bridegroom, and before the bride's ladies-in-waiting; the woman deputed to pour the wine takes the three wine-cups and places them one on the top of the other before the bridegroom, who drinks two cups[115] from the upper cup, and pours a little wine from the full kettle into the empty kettle. The pouring together of the wine on the wedding night is symbolical of the union that is being contracted. The bridegroom next pours out a third cup of wine and drinks it, and the cup is carried by the ladies to the bride, who drinks three cups, and pours a little wine from one kettle into the other, as the bridegroom did. A cup is then set down and put on the other two, and they are carried back to the raised floor and arranged as before. After this, condiments are set out on the right-hand side of a little table, and the wine-pourers place the three cups before the bride, who drinks three cups from the second cup, which is passed to the bridegroom; he also drinks three cups as before, and the cups are piled up and arranged in their original place, by the wine-pourers. A different sort of condiment is next served on the left-hand side; and the three cups are again placed before the bridegroom, who drinks three cups from the third cup, and the bride does the same. When the cups and tables have been put back in their places, the bridegroom, rising from his seat, rests himself for a while. During this time soup of fishes' fins and wine are served to the bride's ladies-in-waiting and to the serving-women. They are served with a single wine-cup of earthenware, placed upon a small square tray, and this again is set upon a long tray, and a wine-kettle with all sorts of condiments is brought from the kitchen. When this part of the feast is over, the room is put in order, and the bride and bridegroom take their seats again. Soups and a preparation of rice are now served, and two earthenware cups, gilt and silvered, are placed on a tray, on which there is a representation of the island of Takasago.[116] This time butterflies of gold and silver paper are attached to the wine-kettles. The bridegroom drinks a cup or two, and the ladies-in-waiting offer more condiments to the couple. Rice, with hot water poured over it, according to custom, and carp soup are brought in, and, the wine having been heated, cups of lacquer ware are produced; and it is at this time that the feast commences. (Up to now the eating and drinking has been merely a form.) Twelve plates of sweetmeats and tea are served; and the dinner consists of three courses, one course of seven dishes, one of five dishes, and one of three dishes, or else two courses of five dishes and one of three dishes, according to the means of the family. The above ceremonies are those which are proper only in families of the highest rank, and are by no means fitting for the lower classes, who must not step out of the proper bounds of their position. [Footnote 114: The god who created Japan is called Kunitokodachi no Mikoto. Seven generations of gods after his time existed Izanagi no Mikoto and Izanami no Mikoto--the first a god, the second a goddess. As these two divine beings were standing upon the floating bridge of heaven, two wagtails came; and the gods, watching the amorous dalliance of the two birds, invented the art of love. From their union thus inaugurated sprang the mountains, the rivers, the grass, the trees, the remainder of the gods, and mankind. Another fable is, that as the two gods were standing on the floating bridge of heaven, Izanagi no Mikoto, taking the heavenly jewelled spear, stirred up the sea, and the drops which fell from the point of it congealed and became an island, which was called _Onokoro-jima_, on which the two gods, descending from heaven, took up their abode.] [Footnote 115: Each cup contains but a sip.] [Footnote 116: In the island of Takasago, in the province of Harima, stands a pine-tree, called the "pine of mutual old age." At the root the tree is single, but towards the centre it springs into two stems--an old, old pine, models of which are used at weddings as a symbol that the happy pair shall reach old age together. Its evergreen leaves are an emblem of the unchanging constancy of the heart. Figures of an old man and woman under the tree are the spirits of the old pine.] There is a popular tradition that, in the ceremony of drinking wine on the wedding night, the bride should drink first, and then hand the cup to the bridegroom; but although there are some authorities upon ceremonies who are in favour of this course, it is undoubtedly a very great mistake. In the "Record of Rites," by Confucius, it is written, "The man stands in importance before the woman: it is the right of the strong over the weak. Heaven ranks before earth; the prince ranks before his minister. This law of honour is one." Again, in the "Book of History," by Confucius, it is written, "The hen that crows in the morning brings misfortune." In our own literature in the Jusho (Book of the Gods), "When the goddesses saw the gods for the first time, they were the first to cry cut, 'Oh! what beautiful males!' But the gods were greatly displeased, and said, 'We, who are so strong and powerful, should by rights have been the first to speak; how is it that, on the contrary, these females speak first? This is indeed vulgar.'" Again it is written, "When the gods brought forth the cripple Hiruko, the Lord of Heaven, answering, said that his misfortune was a punishment upon the goddesses who had presumed to speak first." The same rule therefore exists in China and in Japan, and it is held to be unlucky that the wife should take precedence: with this warning people should be careful how they commit a breach of etiquette, although it may be sanctioned by the vulgar. At the wedding of the lower classes, the bride and her ladies and friends have a feast, but the bridegroom has no feast; and when the bride's feast is over, the bridegroom is called in and is presented with the bride's wine-cup; but as the forms observed are very vulgar, it is not worth while to point out the rules which guide them. As this night is essentially of importance to the married couple only, there are some writers on ceremonies who have laid down that no feast need be prepared for the bride's ladies, and in my opinion they are right: for the husband and wife at the beginning of their intercourse to be separated, and for the bride alone to be feasted like an ordinary guest, appears to be an inauspicious opening. I have thus pointed out two ill-omened customs which are to be avoided. The ceremonies observed at the weddings of persons of ordinary rank are as follows:--The feast which is prepared is in proportion to the means of the individuals. There must be three wine-cups set out upon a tray. The ceremony of drinking wine three times is gone through, as described above, after which the bride changes her dress, and a feast of three courses is produced--two courses of five dishes and one of three dishes, or one course of five dishes, one of three, and one of two, according to the means of the family. A tray, with a representation of the island of Takasago, is brought out, and the wine is heated; sweetmeats of five or seven sorts are also served in boxes or trays; and when the tea comes in, the bridegroom gets up, and goes to rest himself. If the wine kettles are of tin, they must not be set out in the room: they must be brought in from the kitchen; and in that case the paper butterflies are not attached to them. In old times the bride and bridegroom used to change their dress three or five times during the ceremony; but at the present time, after the nine cups of wine have been drunk, in the manner recorded above, the change of dress takes place once. The bride puts on the silk robe which she has received from the bridegroom, while he dons the dress of ceremony which has been brought by the bride. When these ceremonies have been observed, the bride's ladies conduct her to the apartments of her parents-in-law. The bride carries with her silk robes, as presents for her parents and brothers and sister-in-law. A tray is brought out, with three wine-cups, which are set before the parents-in-law and the bride. The father-in-law drinks three cups and hands the cup to the bride, who, after she has drunk two cups, receives a present from her father-in-law; she then drinks a third cup, and returns the cup to her father-in-law, who again drinks three cups. Fish is then brought in, and, in the houses of ordinary persons, a preparation of rice. Upon this the mother-in-law, taking the second cup, drinks three cups and passes the cup to the bride, who drinks two cups and receives a present from her mother-in-law: she then drinks a third cup and gives back the cup to the mother-in-law, who drinks three cups again. Condiments are served, and, in ordinary houses, soup; after which the bride drinks once from the third cup and hands it to her father-in-law, who drinks thrice from it; the bride again drinks twice from it, and after her the mother-in-law drinks thrice. The parents-in-law and the bride thus have drunk in all nine times. If there are any brothers or sisters-in-law, soup and condiments are served, and a single porcelain wine-cup is placed before them on a tray, and they drink at the word of command of the father-in-law. It is not indispensable that soup should be served upon this occasion. If the parents of the bridegroom are dead, instead of the above ceremony, he leads his bride to make her obeisances before the tablets on which their names are inscribed. In old days, after the ceremonies recorded above had been gone through, the bridegroom used to pay a visit of ceremony to the bride's parents; but at the present time the visit is paid before the wedding, and although the forms observed on the occasion resemble those of the ancient times, still they are different, and it would be well that we should resume the old fashion. The two trays which had been used at the wedding feast, loaded with fowl and fish and condiments neatly arranged, used to be put into a long box and sent to the father-in-law's house. Five hundred and eighty cakes of rice in lacquer boxes were also sent. The modern practice of sending the rice cakes in a bucket is quite contrary to etiquette: no matter how many lacquer boxes may be required for the purpose, they are the proper utensils for sending the cakes in. Three, five, seven, or ten men's loads of presents, according to the means of the family, are also offered. The son-in-law gives a sword and a silk robe to his father-in-law, and a silk robe to his mother-in-law, and also gives presents to his brothers and sisters-in-law. (The ceremony of drinking wine is the same as that which takes place between the bride and her parents-in-law, with a very slight deviation: the bridegroom receives no presents from his mother-in-law, and when the third cup is drunk the son-in-law drinks before the father-in-law). A return visit is paid by the bride's parents to the bridegroom, at which similar forms are observed. At the weddings of the great, the bridal chamber is composed of three rooms thrown into one,[117] and newly decorated. If there are only two rooms available, a third room is built for the occasion. The presents, which have been mentioned above, are set out on two trays. Besides these, the bridegroom's clothes are hung up upon clothes-racks. The mattress and bedclothes are placed in a closet. The bride's effects must all be arranged by the women who are sent on a previous day for the purpose, or it may be done whilst the bride is changing her clothes. The shrine for the image of the family god is placed on a shelf adjoining the sleeping-place. There is a proper place for the various articles of furniture. The _kaioké_[118] is placed on the raised floor; but if there be no raised floor, it is placed in a closet with the door open, so that it may be conspicuously seen. The books are arranged on a book-shelf or on a cabinet; if there be neither shelf nor cabinet, they are placed on the raised floor. The bride's clothes are set out on a clothes-rack; in families of high rank, seven robes are hung up on the rack; five of these are taken away and replaced by others, and again three are taken away and replaced by others; and there are either two or three clothes-racks: the towel-rack is set up in a place of more honour than the clothes-racks. If there is no dressing-room, the bride's bedclothes and dressing furniture are placed in the sleeping-room. No screens are put up on the bridal night, but a fitting place is chosen for them on the following day. All these ceremonies must be in proportion to the means of the family. [Footnote 117: The partitions of a Japanese suite of apartments being merely composed of paper sliding-screens, any number of rooms, according to the size of the house, can be thrown into one at a moment's notice.] [Footnote 118: A _kaioké_ is a kind of lacquer basin for washing the hands and face.] NOTE. The author of the "Sho-rei Hikki" makes no allusion to the custom of shaving the eyebrows and blackening the teeth of married women, in token of fidelity to their lords. In the upper classes, young ladies usually blacken their teeth before leaving their father's house to enter that of their husbands, and complete the ceremony by shaving their eyebrows immediately after the wedding, or, at any rate, not later than upon the occasion of their first pregnancy. The origin of the fashion is lost in antiquity. As a proof that it existed before the eleventh century, A.D., a curious book called "Teijô Zakki," or the Miscellaneous Writings of Teijô, cites the diary of Murasaki Shikibu, the daughter of one Tamésoki, a retainer of the house of Echizen, a lady of the court and famous poetess, the authoress of a book called "Genji-mono-gatari," and other works. In her diary it is written that on the last night of the fifth year of the period Kankô (A.D. 1008), in order that she might appear to advantage on New Year's Day, she retired to the privacy of her own apartment, and repaired the deficiencies of her personal appearance by re-blackening her teeth, and otherwise adorning herself. Allusion is also made to the custom in the "Yeiga-mono-gatari," an ancient book by the same authoress. The Emperor and nobles of his court are also in the habit of blackening their teeth; but the custom is gradually dying out in their case. It is said to have originated with one Hanazono Arishito, who held the high rank of _Sa-Daijin,_ or "minister of the left," at the commencement of the twelfth century, in the reign of the Emperor Toba. Being a, man of refined and sensual tastes, this minister plucked out his eyebrows, shaved his beard, blackened his teeth, powdered his face white, and rouged his lips in order to render himself as like a woman as possible. In the middle of the twelfth century, the nobles of the court, who went to the wars, all blackened their teeth; and from this time forth the practice became a fashion of the court. The followers of the chiefs of the Hôjô dynasty also blackened their teeth, as an emblem of their fidelity; and this was called the Odawara fashion, after the castle town of the family. Thus a custom, which had its origin in a love of sensuality and pleasure, became mistaken for the sign of a good and faithful spirit. The fashion of blackening the teeth entails no little trouble upon its followers, for the colour must be renewed every day, or at least every other day. Strange and repelling as the custom appears at first, the eye soon learns to look without aversion upon a well-blacked and polished set of teeth; but when the colour begins to wear away, and turns to a dullish grey, streaked with black, the mouth certainly becomes most hideous. Although no one who reads this is likely to put a recipe for blackening the teeth to a practical test, I append one furnished to me by a fashionable chemist and druggist in Yedo:-- "Take three pints of water, and, having warmed it, add half a teacupful of wine. Put into this mixture a quantity of red-hot iron; allow it to stand for five or six days, when there will be a scum on the top of the mixture, which should then be poured into a small teacup and placed near a fire. When it is warm, powdered gallnuts and iron filings should be added to it, and the whole should be warmed again. The liquid is then painted on to the teeth by means of a soft feather brush, with more powdered gallnuts and iron, and, after several applications, the desired colour will be obtained." The process is said to be a preservative of the teeth, and I have known men who were habitual sufferers from toothache to prefer the martyrdom of ugliness to that of pain, and apply the black colouring when the paroxysms were severe. One man told me that he experienced immediate relief by the application, and that so long as he blackened his teeth he was quite free from pain. ON THE BIRTH AND BEARING OF CHILDREN (FROM THE "SHO-REI HIKKI.") In the fifth month of a woman's pregnancy, a very lucky day is selected for the ceremony of putting on a girdle, which is of white and red silk, folded, and eight feet in length. The husband produces it from the left sleeve of his dress; and the wife receives it in the right sleeve of her dress, and girds it on for the first time. This ceremony is only performed once. When the child is born, the white part of the girdle is dyed sky-blue, with a peculiar mark on it, and is made into clothes for the child. These, however, are not the first clothes which it wears. The dyer is presented with wine and condiments when the girdle is entrusted to him. It is also customary to beg some matron, who has herself had an easy confinement, for the girdle which she wore during her pregnancy; and this lady is called the girdle-mother. The borrowed girdle is tied on with that given by the husband, and the girdle-mother at this time gives and receives a present. The furniture of the lying-in chamber is as follows:--Two tubs for placing under-petticoats in; two tubs to hold the placenta; a piece of furniture like an arm-chair, without legs, for the mother to lean against;[119] a stool, which is used by the lady who embraces the loins of the woman in labour to support her, and which is afterwards used by the midwife in washing the child; several pillows of various sizes, that the woman in child-bed may ease her head at her pleasure; new buckets, basins, and ladles of various sizes. Twenty-four baby-robes, twelve of silk and twelve of cotton, must be prepared; the hems must be dyed saffron-colour. There must be an apron for the midwife, if the infant is of high rank, in order that, when she washes it, she may not place it immediately on her own knees: this apron should be made of a kerchief of cotton. When the child is taken out of the warm water, its body must be dried with a kerchief of fine cotton, unhemmed. [Footnote 119: Women in Japan are delivered in a kneeling position, and after the birth of the child they remain night and day in a squatting position, leaning back against a support, for twenty-one days, after which they are allowed to recline. Up to that time the recumbent position is supposed to produce a dangerous rush of blood to the head.] On the seventy-fifth or hundred and twentieth day after its birth, the baby leaves off its baby-linen; and this day is kept as a holiday. Although it is the practice generally to dress up children in various kinds of silk, this is very wrong, as the two principles of life being thereby injured, the child contracts disease; and on this account the ancients strictly forbade the practice. In modern times the child is dressed up in beautiful clothes; but to put a cap on its head, thinking to make much of it, when, on the contrary, it is hurtful to the child, should be avoided. It would be an excellent thing if rich people, out of care for the health of their children, would put a stop to a practice to which fashion clings. On the hundred and twentieth day after their birth children, whether male or female, are weaned.[120] This day is fixed, and there is no need to choose a lucky day. If the child be a boy, it is fed by a gentleman of the family; if a girl, by a lady. The ceremony is as follows:--The child is brought out and given to the weaning father or sponsor. He takes it on his left knee. A small table is prepared. The sponsor who is to feed the child, taking some rice which has been offered to the gods, places it on the corner of the little table which is by him; He dips his chop-sticks thrice in this rice, and very quietly places them in the mouth of the child, pretending to give it some of the juice of the rice. Five cakes of rice meal are also placed on the left side of the little table, and with these he again pretends to feed the child three times. When this ceremony is over, the child is handed back to its guardian, and three wine-cups are produced on a tray. The sponsor drinks three cups, and presents the cup to the child. When the child has been made to pretend to drink two cups, it receives a present from its sponsor, after which the child is supposed to drink a third time. Dried fish is then brought in, and the baby, having drunk thrice, passes the cup to its sponsor, who drinks thrice. More fish of a different kind is brought in. The drinking is repeated, and the weaning father receives a present from the child. The guardian, according to rules of propriety, should be near the child. A feast should be prepared, according to the means of the family. If the child be a girl, a weaning mother performs this ceremony, and suitable presents must be offered on either side. The wine-drinking is gone through as above. [Footnote 120: This is only a nominal weaning. Japanese children are not really weaned until far later than is ordinary in Europe; and it is by no means uncommon to see a mother in the poorer classes suckling a hulking child of from five to seven years old. One reason given for this practice is, that by this means the danger of having to provide for large families is lessened.] On the fifteenth day of the eleventh month of the child's third year, be the child boy or girl, its hair is allowed to grow. (Up to this time the whole head has been shaven: now three patches are allowed to grow, one on each side and one at the back of the head.) On this occasion also a sponsor is selected. A large tray, on which are a comb, scissors, paper string, a piece of string for tying the hair in a knot, cotton wool, and the bit of dried fish or seaweed which accompanies presents, one of each, and seven rice straws--these seven articles must be prepared.[121] [Footnote 121: For a few days previous to the ceremony the child's head is not shaved.] The child is placed facing the point of the compass which is auspicious for that year, and the sponsor, if the child be a boy, takes the scissors and gives three snips at the hair on the left temple, three on the right, and three in the centre. He then takes the piece of cotton wool and spreads it over the child's head, from the forehead, so as to make it hang down behind his neck, and he places the bit of dried fish or seaweed and the seven straws at the bottom of the piece of cotton wool, attaching them to the wool, and ties them in two loops, like a man's hair, with a piece of paper string; he then makes a woman's knot with two pieces of string. The ceremony of drinking wine is the same as that gone through at the weaning. If the child is a girl, a lady acts as sponsor; the hair-cutting is begun from the right temple instead of from the left. There is no difference in the rest of the ceremony. On the fifth day of the eleventh month of the child's fourth year he is invested with the _hakama_, or loose trousers worn by the Samurai. On this occasion again a sponsor is called in. The child receives from the sponsor a dress of ceremony, on which are embroidered storks and tortoises (emblems of longevity--the stork is said to live a thousand years, the tortoise ten thousand), fir-trees (which, being evergreen, and not changing their colour, are emblematic of an unchangingly virtuous heart), and bamboos (emblematic of an upright and straight mind). The child is placed upright on a chequer-board, facing the auspicious point of the compass, and invested with the dress of ceremony. It also receives a sham sword and dirk. The usual ceremony of drinking wine is observed. NOTE.--In order to understand the following ceremony, it is necessary to recollect that the child at three years of age is allowed to grow its hair in three patches. By degrees the hair is allowed to grow, the crown alone being shaved, and a forelock left. At ten or eleven years of age the boy's head is dressed like a man's, with the exception of this forelock. The ceremony of cutting off the forelock used in old days to include the ceremony of putting on the noble's cap; but as this has gone out of fashion, there is no need to treat of it. Any time after the youth has reached the age of fifteen, according to the cleverness and ability which he shows, a lucky day is chosen for this most important ceremony, after which the boy takes his place amongst full-grown men. A person of virtuous character is chosen as sponsor or "cap-father." Although the man's real name (that name which is only known to his intimate relations and friends, not the one by which he usually goes in society) is usually determined before this date, if it be not so, he receives his real name from his sponsor on this day. In old days there used to be a previous ceremony of cutting the hair off the forehead in a straight line, so as to make two angles: up to this time the youth wore long sleeves like a woman, and from that day he wore short sleeves. This was called the "half cutting." The poorer classes have a habit of shortening the sleeves before this period; but that is contrary to all rule, and is an evil custom. A common tray is produced, on which is placed an earthenware wine-cup. The sponsor drinks thrice, and hands the cup to the young man, who, having also drunk thrice, gives back the cup to the sponsor, who again drinks thrice, and then proceeds to tie up the young man's hair. There are three ways of tying the hair, and there is also a particular fashion of letting the forelock grow long; and when this is the case, the forelock is only clipped. (This is especially the fashion among the nobles of the Mikado's court.) This applies only to persons who wear the court cap, and not to gentlemen of lower grade. Still, these latter persons, if they wish to go through the ceremony in its entirety, may do so without impropriety. Gentlemen of the Samurai or military class cut off the whole of the forelock. The sponsor either ties up the hair of the young man, or else, placing the forelock on a willow board, cuts it off with a knife, or else, amongst persons of very high rank, he only pretends to do so, and goes into another room whilst the real cutting is going on, and then returns to the same room. The sponsor then, without letting the young man see what he is doing, places the lock which has been cut into the pocket of his left sleeve, and, leaving the room, gives it to the young man's guardians, who wrap it in paper and offer it up at the shrine of the family gods. But this is wrong. The locks should be well wrapped up in paper and kept in the house until the man's death, to serve as a reminder of the favours which a man receives from his father and mother in his childhood; when he dies, it should be placed in his coffin and buried with him. The wine-drinking and presents are as before. * * * * * In the "Sho-rei Hikki," the book from which the above is translated, there is no notice of the ceremony of naming the child: the following is a translation from a Japanese MS.:-- "On the seventh day after its birth, the child receives its name; the ceremony is called the congratulations of the seventh night. On this day some one of the relations of the family, who holds an exalted position, either from his rank or virtues, selects a name for the child, which name he keeps until the time of the cutting of the forelock, when he takes the name which he is to bear as a man. This second name is called _Yeboshina_,[122] the cap-name, which is compounded of syllables taken from an old name of the family and from the name of the sponsor. If the sponsor afterwards change his name, his name-child must also change his name. For instance, Minamoto no Yoshitsuné, the famous warrior, as a child was called Ushiwakamaru; when he grew up to be a man, he was called Kurô; and his real name was Yoshitsuné." [Footnote 122: From _Yeboshi_, a court cap, and _Na_, a name.] FUNERAL RITES (FROM THE "SHO-REI HIKKI.") On the death of a parent, the mourning clothes worn are made of coarse hempen cloth, and during the whole period of mourning these must be worn night and day. As the burial of his parents is the most important ceremony which a man has to go through during his whole life, when the occasion comes, in order that there be no confusion, he must employ some person to teach him the usual and proper rites. Above all things to be reprehended is the burning of the dead: they should be interred without burning.[123] The ceremonies to be observed at a funeral should by rights have been learned before there is occasion to put them in practice. If a man have no father or mother, he is sure to have to bury other relations; and so he should not disregard this study. There are some authorities who select lucky days and hours and lucky places for burying the dead, but this is wrong; and when they talk about curses being brought upon posterity by not observing these auspicious seasons and places, they make a great mistake. It is a matter of course that an auspicious day must be chosen so far as avoiding wind and rain is concerned, that men may bury their dead without their minds being distracted; and it is important to choose a fitting cemetery, lest in after days the tomb should be damaged by rain, or by men walking over it, or by the place being turned into a field, or built upon. When invited to a friend's or neighbour's funeral, a man should avoid putting on smart clothes and dresses of ceremony; and when he follows the coffin, he should not speak in a loud voice to the person next him, for that is very rude; and even should he have occasion to do so, he should avoid entering wine-shops or tea-houses on his return from the funeral. [Footnote 123: On the subject of burning the dead, see a note to the story of Chôbei of Bandzuin.] The list of persons present at a funeral should be written on slips of paper, and firmly bound together. It may be written as any other list, only it must not be written beginning at the right hand, as is usually the case, but from the left hand (as is the case in European books). On the day of burial, during the funeral service, incense is burned in the temple before the tablet on which is inscribed the name under which the dead person enters salvation.[124] The incense-burners, having washed their hands, one by one, enter the room where the tablet is exposed, and advance half-way up to the tablet, facing it; producing incense wrapped in paper from their bosoms, they hold it in their left hands, and, taking a pinch with the right hand, they place the packet in their left sleeve. If the table on which the tablet is placed be high, the person offering incense half raises himself from his crouching position; if the table be low, he remains crouching to burn the incense, after which he takes three steps backwards, with bows and reverences, and retires six feet, when he again crouches down to watch the incense-burning, and bows to the priests who are sitting in a row with their chief at their head, after which he rises and leaves the room. Up to the time of burning the incense no notice is taken of the priest. At the ceremony of burning incense before the grave, the priests are not saluted. The packet of incense is made of fine paper folded in three, both ways. [Footnote 124: After death a person receives a new name. For instance, the famous Prince Tokugawa Iyéyasu entered salvation as Gongen Sama. This name is called _okurina_, or the accompanying name.] NOTE. The reason why the author of the "Sho-rei Hikki" has treated so briefly of the funeral ceremonies is probably that these rites, being invariably entrusted to the Buddhist priesthood, vary according to the sect of the latter; and, as there are no less than fifteen sects of Buddhism in Japan, it would be a long matter to enter into the ceremonies practised by each. Should Buddhism be swept out of Japan, as seems likely to be the case, men will probably return to the old rites which obtained before its introduction in the sixth century of our era. What those rites were I have been unable to learn. 
27228	----	[Note: the original text had two footnotes 160 and two footnotes 396. I have indicated these by naming them 160a and b, and 396a and b. In the Index, I changed the spelling of "Aglonquins" to "Algonquins". All other spelling remains the same.] [Illustration: moon01] VOYAGING TO THE MOON _From Domingo Gonsales [A.D. 1638]_ _See page_ 46. MOON LORE BY THE REV. TIMOTHY HARLEY, F.R.A.S. "And when the clear moon, with its soothing influences, rises full in my view,--from the wall-like rocks, out of the damp underwood, the silvery forms of past ages hover up to me, and soften the austere pleasure of contemplation." _Goethe's "Faust." Hayward's Translation, London_, 1855, _p_. 100. LONDON: SWAN SONNENSCHEIN, LE BAS & LOWREY, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1885 BUTLER & TAYLOR THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS FROME, AND LONDON "I beheld the moon walking in brightness."--_Job_ xxxi. 26. "The moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained."--_Psalm_ viii. 3. "Who is she that looketh forth, fair as the moon?"--_Solomon's Song_ vi. 10. "The precious things put forth by the moon."--_Deuteronomy_ xxxiii. 14. "Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale."--Addison's _Ode_. "In fall-orbed glory, yonder moon Divine Rolls through the dark-blue depths."--Southey's _Thalaba_. "Queen of the silver bow! by thy pale beam, Alone and pensive, I delight to stray, And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way; And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast: And oft I think-fair planet of the night-- That in thy orb the wretched may have rest; The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go-- Released by death-to thy benignant sphere; And the sad children of despair and woe Forget in thee their cup of sorrow here. Oh that I soon may reach thy world serene, Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene!" --_Charlotte Smith_. PREFACE This work is a contribution to light literature, and to the literature of light. Though a monograph, it is also a medley. The first part is mythological and mirthsome. It is the original nucleus around which the other parts have gathered. Some years since, the writer was led to investigate the world-wide myth of the Man in the Moon, in its legendary and ludicrous aspects; and one study being a stepping-stone to another, the ball was enlarged as it rolled. The second part, dealing with moon-worship, is designed to show that anthropomorphism and sexuality have been the principal factors in that idolatry which in all ages has paid homage to the hosts of heaven, as _heaved_ above the aspiring worshipper. Man adores what he regards as higher than he. And if the moon is supposed to affect his tides, that body becomes his water-god. The third part treats of lunar superstitions, many of which yet live in the vagaries which sour and shade our modern sweetness and light. The fourth and final part is a literary essay on lunar inhabitation, presenting _in nuce_ the present state of the enigma of "the plurality of worlds." Of the imperfections of his production the author is partly conscious. Not _wholly_ so; for others see us often more advantageously than we see ourselves. But a hope is cherished that this work--a compendium of lunar literature in its least scientific branches--may win a welcome which shall constitute the worker's richest reward. To the innumerable writers who are quoted, the indebtedness felt is inexpressible. CONTENTS. I _MOON SPOTS_ 1 Introduction 1 2 The Man in the Moon 5 3 The Woman in the Moon 53 4 The Hare in the Moon 60 5 The Toad in the Moon 69 6 Other Moon Myths 71 II _MOON WORSHIP_ 1 Introduction 77 2 The Moon Mostly a Male Deity 82 3 The Moon a World-Wide Deity 87 4 The Moon a Water Deity 132 III _MOON SUPERSTITIONS_ 1 Introduction 145 2 Lunar Fancies 152 3 Lunar Influences 175 IV _MOON INHABITATION_ _APPENDIX_ 259 _NOTES_ 263 _INDEX_ 285 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 1 Voyaging to the Moon _Frontispiece_ From Domingo Gonsales, 1638 2 The Man in the Moon 9 From Hone's _Facetiae and Miscellanies_, 1821. Drawn by George Cruikshank. 3 "The Man in the Moon Drinks Claret" 12 (From the _Bagford Ballads_, ii, 119, Brit. Mus.) 4 "Who'll Smoak with the Man in the Moon?" 13 (Banks Collection in Brit. Mus.) 5 The Man in the Moon 22 From Ludwig Richter's _Der Familienshatz_, Leipzig, p. 25 6 Seal 28 In the _Archaeological Journal_ for March, 1848, p. 68 7 Representation of the Sabbath-Breaker in Gyffyn Church, Near Conway 32 From Baring-Gould's _Curious Myths_ 8 The Hare in the Moon 63 From Colin de Plancy's _Dictionnaire Infernal_ MOON SPOTS. I. INTRODUCTION. With the invention of the telescope came an epoch in human history. To Hans Lippershey, a Dutch optician, is accorded the honour of having constructed the first astronomical telescope, which he made so early as the 2nd of October, 1608. Galileo, hearing of this new wonder, set to work, and produced and improved instrument, which he carried in triumph to Venice, where it occasioned the intensest delight. Sir David Brewster tells us that "the interest which the exhibition of the telescope excited at Venice did not soon subside: Sirturi describes it as amounting to frenzy. When he himself had succeeded in making one of these instruments, he ascended the tower of St. Mark, where he might use it without molestation. He was recognised, however, by a crowd in the street, and such was the eagerness of their curiosity, that they took possession of the wondrous tube, and detained the impatient philosopher for several hours till they had successively witnessed its effects." [1] it was in May, 1609, that Galileo turned his telescope on the moon. "The first observations of Galileo," says Flammarion, "did not make less noise than the discovery of America; many saw in them another discovery of a new world much more interesting than America, as it was beyond the earth. It is one of the most curious episodes of history, that of the prodigious excitement which was caused by the unveiling of the world of the moon." [2] Nor are we astonished at their astonishment when they beheld mountains which have since been found to be from 15,000 to 26,000 feet in height--highlands of the moon indeed--far higher in proportion to the moon's diameter than any elevations on the earth; when they saw the surface of the satellite scooped out into deep valleys, or spread over with vast walled plains from 130 to 140 miles across. No wonder that the followers of Aristotle resented the explosion of their preconceived beliefs; for their master had taught that the moon was perfectly spherical and smooth, and that the spots were merely reflections of our own mountains. Other ancient philosophers had said that these patches were shadows of opaque bodies floating between the sun and the moon. But to the credit of Democritus be it remembered that he propounded the opinion that the spots were diversities or inequalities upon the lunar surface; and thus anticipated by twenty centuries the disclosures of the telescope. The invention of this invaluable appliance we have regarded as marking a great modern epoch; and what is usually written on the moon is mainly a summary of results obtained through telescopic observation, aided by other apparatus, and conducted by learned men. We now purpose to go back to the ages when there were neither reflectors nor refractors in existence; and to travel beyond the bounds of ascertained fact into the regions of fiction, where abide the shades of superstition and the dreamy forms of myth. Having promised a contribution to light literature, we shall give to fancy a free rein, and levy taxes upon poets and story-tellers, wits and humorists wherever they may be of service. Much will have to be said, in the first place, of the man in the moon, whom we must view as he has been manifested in the mask of mirth, and also in the mirror of mythology. Then we shall present the woman in the moon, who is less known than the immortal man. Next a hare will be started; afterwards a frog, and other objects; and when we reach the end of our excursion, if we mistake not, it will be confessed that the moon has created more merriment, more marvel, and more mystery, than all of the other orbs taken together. But before we forget the fair moon in the society of its famous man, let us soothe our spirits in sweet oblivion of discussions and dissertations, while we survey its argentine glories with poetic rapture. Like Shelley, we are all in love with "That orbèd maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon." (_The Cloud_.) Our little loves, who take the lowest seats in the domestic synagogue, if they cannot have the moon by crying for it, will rush out, when they ought to be in bed, and chant, "Boys and girls come out to play, The moon doth shine as bright as day." The young ladies of the family, without a tincture of affectation, will languish as they gaze on the lovely Luna. Not, as a grumpy, grisly old bear of a bachelor once said, "Because there's a man in it!" No; the precious pets are fond of moonlight rather because they are the daughters of Eve. They are in sympathy with all that is bright and beautiful in the heavens above, and in the earth beneath; and it has even been suspected that the only reason why they ever assume that invisible round-about called crinoline is that, like the moon, they may move in a circle. Our greatest men, likewise, are susceptible to Luna's blandishments. In proof of this we may produce a story told by Mark Lemon, at one time the able editor of Punch. By the way, an irrepressible propensity to play upon words has reminded some one that punch is always improved by the essence of lemon. But this we leave to the bibulous, and go on with the story. Lord Brougham, speaking of the salary attached to a new judgeship, said it was all moonshine. Lord Lyndhurst, in his dry and waggish way, remarked, "May be so, my Lord Harry; but I have a strong notion that, moonshine though it be, you would like to see the _first quarter_ of it." [3] That Hibernian was a discriminating admirer of the moon who said that the sun was a coward, because he always went away as soon as it began to grow dark, and never came back till it was light again; while the blessed moon stayed with us through the forsaken night. And now, feeling refreshed with these exhilarating meditations, we, for awhile, leave this lovable orb to those astronomical stars who have studied the heavens from their earliest history; and hasten to make ourselves acquainted with the proper study of mankind, the ludicrous and legendary lunar man. II. THE MAN IN THE MOON. We must not be misunderstood. By the man in the moon we do not mean any public tavern, or gin-palace, displaying that singular sign. The last inn of that name known to us in London stands in a narrow passage of that fashionable promenade called Regent Street, close to Piccadilly. Nor do we intend by the man in the moon the silvery individual who pays the election expenses, so long as the elector votes his ticket. Neither do we mean the mooney, or mad fellow who is too fond of the cup which cheers and then inebriates; nor even one who goes mooning round the world without a plan or purpose. No; if we are not too scientific, we are too straightforward to be allured by any such false lights as these. By the man in the moon we mean none other than that illustrious personage, whose shining countenance may be beheld many a night, clouds and fogs permitting, beaming good-naturedly on the dark earth, and singing, in the language of a lyric bard, "The moon is out to-night, love, Meet me with a smile." But some sceptic may assail us with a note of interrogation, saying, "Is there a man in the moon?" "Why, of course, there is!" Those who have misgivings should ask a sailor; he knows, for the punsters assure us that he has been to _sea_. Or let them ask any _lunatic_; he should know, for he has been so _struck_ with his acquaintance, that he has adopted the man's name. Or ask any little girl in the nursery, and she will recite, with sweet simplicity, how "The man in the moon Came down too soon, And asked the way to Norwich." The darling may not understand why he sought that venerable city, nor whether he ever arrived there, but she knows very well that "He went by the south, And burnt his mouth With eating hot pease porridge." But it is useless to inquire of any stupid joker, for he will idly say that there is no such man there, because, forsooth, a certain single woman who was sent to the moon came back again, which she would never have done if a man had been there with whom she could have married and remained, Nor should any one be misled by those blind guides who darkly hint that it is all moonshine. There is not an Indian moonshee, nor a citizen of the Celestial Empire, some of whose ancestors came from the nocturnal orb, who does not know better than that. Perhaps the wisest course is to inquire within. Have not we all frequently affirmed that we knew no more about certain inscrutable matters than the man in the moon? Now we would never have committed ourselves to such a comparison had we not been sure that the said man was a veritable and creditable, though somewhat uninstructed person. But our feelings ought not to be wrought upon in this way. We "had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, than such a Roman" as is not at least distantly acquainted with that brilliant character in high life who careers so conspicuously amid the constellations which constitute the upper ten thousand of super-mundane society. And now some inquisitive individual may be impatient to interrupt our eloquence with the question, "What are you going to make of the man in the moon?" Well, we are not going to make anything of him. For, first, he is a man; therefore incapable of improvement. Secondly, he is in the moon, and that is out of our reach. [*] All that we can promise just now is, to furnish a few particulars of the man himself; some account of calls which he is reported to have made to his friends here below; and also some account of visits which his friends on earth have paid him in return. [*] Besides, as old John Lilly says in the prologue to his _Endymion_ (1591), "There liveth none under the sunne, that knows what to make of the man in the moone." We know something of his residence, whenever he is at home: what do we know of the man? We have been annoyed at finding his lofty name desecrated to base uses. If "imagination may trace the noble dust of Alexander, till he find it stopping a bung-hole," literature traces the man in the moon, and discovers him pressed into the meanest services. Our readers need not be disquieted with details; though our own equanimity has been sorely disturbed as we have seen scribblers dragging from the skies a "name at which the world grows pale, to point a moral, or adorn a tale." Political squibs, paltry chapbooks, puny satires, and penny imbecilities, too numerous for mention here, with an occasional publication of merit, have been printed and sold at the expense of the man in the moon. For the sake of the curious we place the titles and dates of some of these in an appendix and pass on. We have not learned very many particulars relating to the domestic habits or personal character of the man in the moon, consequently our smallest biographical contributions will be thankfully received. We must not be pressed for his photograph, at present. We certainly wish it could have been procured; but though photography has taken some splendid views of the [Illustration: moon02] _Geo. Cruikshank_. Hone's "_Facetiae_," 1821. THE MAN IN THE MOON "If Caesar can hide the sun with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light" (_Cymbeline_). face of the moon, it has not yet produced any perfect picture of the physiognomy of the man. It should always be borne in mind that, as Stilpo says in the old play of _Timon_, written about 1600, "The man in the moone is not in the moone superficially, although he bee in the moone (as the Greekes will have it) catapodially, specificatively, and quidditatively." [4] This beautiful language, let us explain for the behoof of any foreign reader, simply means that he is not always where we can get at him; and therefore his venerable visage is missing from our celestial portrait gallery. One fact we have found out, which we fear will ripple the pure water placidity of some of our best friends; but the truth must be told. "Our man in the moon drinks clarret, With powder-beef, turnep, and carret. If he doth so, why should not you Drink until the sky looks blew?" [5] Another old ballad runs: "The man in the moon drinks claret, But he is a dull Jack-a-Dandy; Would he know a sheep's head from a carrot, He should learn to drink cyder and brandy." In a _Jest Book of the Seventeenth Century_ we came across the following story: "A company of gentlemen coming into a tavern, whose signe was the Moone, called for a quart of sacke. The drawer told them they had none; whereat the gentlemen wondring were told by the drawer that the man in the moon always drunke claret." [6] Several astronomers assert the absence of water in the moon; if this be the case, what is the poor man to drink? Still, it is an unsatisfactory announcement to us all; for we are afraid that it is the claret which makes him look so red in the face sometimes when he is full, and gets a little fogged. We have ourselves seen [Illustration: moon03] "THE MAN IN THE MOON DRINKS CLARET." "_Bagford Ballads_," ii. 119. him actually what sailors call "half-seas over," when we have been in mid-Atlantic. We only hope that he imbibes nothing stronger, though it is said that moonlight is but another name for smuggled spirits. The lord of Cynthia must not be too hastily suspected, for, at most, the moon fills her horn but once a month. Still, the earth itself being so invariably sober, its satellite, like Caesar's wife, should be above suspicion. We therefore hope that our lunar hero may yet take a ribbon of sky-blue from the milky way, and become a staunch abstainer; if only for example's sake. Some old authors and artists have represented the [Illustration: moon04] BANKS' COLLECTION OF SHOP BILLS. man in the moon as an inveterate smoker, which habit surprises us, who supposed him to be "Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth," as the magnificent Milton has it. His tobacco must be bird's-eye, as he takes a bird's-eye view of things; and his pipe is presumably a meer-sham, whence his "sable clouds turn forth their silver lining on the night." Smoking, without doubt, is a bad practice, especially when the clay is choked or the weed is worthless; but fuming against smokers we take to be infinitely worse. We are better pleased to learn that the man in the moon is a poet. Possibly some uninspired groveller, who has never climbed Parnassus, nor drunk of the Castalian spring, may murmur that this is very likely, for that all poetry is "moonstruck madness." Alas if such an antediluvian barbarian be permitted to "revisit thus the glimpses of the moon, making night hideous" as he mutters his horrid blasphemy! We, however, take a nobler view of the matter. To us the music of the spheres is exalting as it is exalted; and the music of earth is a "sphere-descended maid, friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid." We are therefore disposed to hear the following lines, which have been handed down for publication. Their title is autobiographical, and, for that reason, they are slightly egotistical. "A SHREWD OLD FELLOW'S THE MAN IN THE MOON." "From my palace of light I look down upon earth, When the tiny stars are twinkling round me; Though centuries old, I am now as bright As when at my birth Old Adam found me. Oh! the strange sights that I have seen, Since earth first wore her garment of green! King after king has been toppled down, And red-handed anarchy's worn the crown! From the world that's beneath me I crave not a boon, For a shrewd old fellow's the Man in the Moon. And I looked on 'mid the watery strife, When the world was deluged and all was lost Save one blessed vessel, preserver of life, Which rode on through safety, though tempest tost. I have seen crime clothed in ermine and gold, And virtue shuddering in winter's cold. I have seen the hypocrite blandly smile, While straightforward honesty starved the while. Oh! the strange sights that I have seen, Since earth first wore her garment of green! I have gazed on the coronet decking the brow Of the villain who, breathing affection's vow, Hath poisoned the ear of the credulous maiden, Then left her to pine with heart grief laden. Oh! oh! if this, then, be the world, say I, I'll keep to my home in the clear blue sky; Still to dwell in my planet I crave as a boon, For the earth ne'er will do for the Man in the Moon." [7] This effusion is not excessively flattering to our "great globe," and "all which it inherit"; and we surmise that the author was in a misanthropic mood when it was written. Yet it is serviceable sometimes to see ourselves as others see us. On the other hand, we have but little liking for those who "hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell," in any sense. We prefer to believe that the tide is rising though the waves recede, and that our dark world is waxing towards the full-orbed glory "to which the whole creation moves." Here for the present we part company with the man in the moon as material for amusement, that we may track him through the mythic maze, where, in well-nigh every language, he has left some traces of his existence. As there is a side of the moon which we have never seen, and according to Laplace never shall see, there is also an aspect of the matter in hand that remains to be traversed, if we would circumambulate its entire extent. Our subject must now be viewed in the magic mirror of mythology. The antiquarian Ritson shall state the question to be brought before our honourable house of inquiry. He denominates the man in the moon "an imaginary being, the subject of perhaps one of the most ancient, as well as one of the most popular, superstitions of the world." [8] And as we must explore the vestiges of antiquity, Asiatic and European, African and American, and even Polynesian, we bespeak patient forbearance and attention. One little particular we may partly clear up at once, though it will meet us again in another connection. It will serve as a sidelight to our legendary scenes. In English, French, Italian, Latin, and Greek, the moon is feminine; but in all the Teutonic tongues the moon is masculine. Which of the twain is its true gender? We go back to the Sanskrit for an answer. Professor Max Müller rightly says, "It is no longer denied that for throwing light on some of the darkest problems that have to be solved by the student of language, nothing is so useful as a critical study of Sanskrit." [9] Here the word for the moon is _mâs_, which is masculine. Mark how even what Hamlet calls "words, words, words" lend their weight and value to the adjustment of this great argument. The very moon is masculine, and, like Wordsworth's child, is "father of the man." If a bisexous moon seem an anomaly, perhaps the suggestion of Jamieson will account for the hermaphrodism: "The moon, it has been said, was viewed as of the masculine gender in respect of the earth, whose husband he was supposed to be; but as a female in relation to the sun, as being his spouse." [10] Here, also, we find a clue to the origin of this myth. If modern science, discovering the moon's inferiority to the sun, call the former feminine, ancient nescience, supposing the sun to be inferior to the moon, called the latter masculine. The sun, incomparable in splendour, invariable in aspect and motion, to the unaided eye immaculate in surface, too dazzling to permit prolonged observation, and shining in the daytime, when the mind was occupied with the duties of pastoral, agricultural, or commercial life, was to the ancient simply an object of wonder as a glory, and of worship as a god. The moon, on the contrary, whose mildness of lustre enticed attention, whose phases were an embodiment of change, whose strange spots seemed shadowy pictures of things and beings terrestrial, whose appearance amid the darkness of night was so welcome, and who came to men susceptible, from the influences of quiet and gloom, of superstitious imaginings, from the very beginning grew into a familiar spirit of kindred form with their own, and though regarded as the subordinate and wife of the sun, was reverenced as the superior and husband of the earth. With the transmission of this myth began its transmutation. From the moon being a man, it became a man's abode: with some it was the world whence human spirits came; with others it was the final home whither human spirits returned. Then it grew into a penal colony, to which egregious offenders were transported; or prison cage, in which, behind bars of light, miserable sinners were to be exposed to all eternity, as a warning to the excellent of the earth. One thing is certain, namely, that, during some phases, the moon's surface strikingly resembles a man's countenance. We usually represent the sun and the moon with the faces of men; and in the latter case the task is not difficult. Some would say that the moon is so drawn to reproduce some lunar deity: it would be more correct to say that the lunar deity was created through this human likeness. Sir Thomas Browne remarks, "The sun and moon are usually described with human faces: whether herein there be not a pagan imitation, and those visages at first implied Apollo and Diana, we may make some doubt." [11] Brand, in quoting Browne, adds, "Butler asks a shrewd question on this head, which I do not remember to have seen solved:-- "Tell me but what's the natural cause, Why on a Sign no Painter draws The _Full Moon_ ever, but the _Half_?" (Hudibras, B. II., c. iii.) [12] Another factor in the formation of our moon-myth was the anthropomorphism which sees something manlike in everything, not only in the anthropoid apes, where we may find a resemblance more faithful than flattering, but also in the mountains and hills, rivers and seas of earth, and in the planets and constellations of heaven. Anthropomorphism was but a species of personification, which also metamorphosed the firmament into a menagerie of lions and bears, with a variety of birds, beasts, and fishes. Dr. Wagner writes: "The sun, moon, and stars, clouds and mists, storms and tempests, appeared to be higher powers, and took distinct forms in the imagination of man. As the phenomena of nature seemed to resemble animals either in outward form or in action, they were represented under the figure of animals." [13] Sir George W. Cox points out how phrases ascribing to things so named the actions or feelings of living beings, "would grow into stories which might afterwards be woven together, and so furnish the groundwork of what we call a legend or a romance. This will become plain, if we take the Greek sayings or myths about Endymion and Selênê. Here, besides these two names, we have the names Protogenia and Asterodia. But every Greek knew that Selênê was a name for the moon, which was also described as Asterodia because she has her path among the stars, and that Protogenia denoted the first or early born morning. Now Protogenia was the mother of Endymion, while Asterodia was his wife; and so far the names were transparent. Had all the names remained so, no myth, in the strict sense of the word, could have sprung up; but as it so happened, the meaning of the name Endymion, as denoting the sun, when he is about to plunge or dive into the sea, had been forgotten, and thus Endymion became a beautiful youth with whom the moon fell in love, and whom she came to look upon as he lay in profound sleep in the cave of Latmos." [14] To this growth and transformation of myths we may return after awhile; meanwhile we will follow closely our man in the moon, who, among the Greeks, was the young Endymion, the beloved of Diana, who held the shepherd passionately in her embrace. This fable probably arose from Endymion's love of astronomy, a predilection common in ancient pastors. He was, no doubt, an ardent admirer of the moon; and soon it was reported that Selênê courted and caressed him in return. May such chaste enjoyment be ours also! We may remark, in passing, that classic tales are pure or impure, very much according to the taste of the reader. "To the jaundiced all things seem yellow," say the French; and Paul said, "To the pure all things are pure: but unto them that are defiled is nothing pure." According to Serapion, as quoted by Clemens Alexandrinus, the tradition was that the face which appears in the moon is the soul of a Sibyl. Plutarch, in his treatise, _Of the Face appearing in the roundle of the Moone_, cites the poet Agesinax as saying of that orb, "All roundabout environed With fire she is illumined: And in the middes there doth appeere, Like to some boy, a visage cleere; Whose eies to us doe seem in view, Of colour grayish more than blew: The browes and forehead tender seeme, The cheeks all reddish one would deeme." [15] The story of the man in the moon as told in our British nurseries is supposed to be founded on Biblical fact. But though the Jews have a Talmudic tradition that Jacob is in the moon, and though they believe that his face is plainly visible, the Hebrew Scriptures make no mention of the myth. Yet to our fireside auditors it is related that a man was found by Moses gathering sticks on the Sabbath, and that for this crime he was transferred to the moon, there to remain till the end of all things. The passage cited in support of this tale is _Numbers_ xv. 32-36. Upon referring to the sacred text, we certainly find a man gathering sticks upon the Sabbath day, and the congregation gathering stones for his merciless punishment, but we look in vain for any mention of the moon. _Non est inventus_. Of many an ancient story-teller we may say, as Sheridan said of Dundas, "the right honourable gentleman is indebted to his memory for his jests and to his imagination for his facts." Mr. Proctor reminds us that "according to German nurses, the day was not the Sabbath, but Sunday. Their tale runs as follows: Ages ago there went one Sunday an old man into the woods to hew sticks. He cut a faggot and slung it on a stout staff, cast it over his shoulder, and began to trudge home with his burthen. On his way he met a handsome man in Sunday suit, walking towards the church. The man stopped, and asked the faggot-bearer, 'Do you know that this is Sunday on earth, when all must rest from their labours?' 'Sunday on earth, or Monday in heaven, it's all one to me!' laughed the woodcutter. 'Then bear your bundle for ever!' answered the stranger. 'And as you value not Sunday on earth, yours shall [Illustration: moon05] be a perpetual moon-day in heaven; you shall stand for eternity in the moon, a warning to all Sabbath-breakers.' Thereupon the stranger vanished, and the man was caught up with his staff and faggot into the moon, where he stands yet." [16] In Tobler's account the man was given the choice of burning in the sun, or of freezing in the moon; and preferring a lunar frost to a solar furnace, he is to be seen at full moon seated with his bundle of sticks on his back. If "the cold in clime are cold in blood," we may be thankful that we do not hibernate eternally in the moon and in the nights of winter, when the cold north winds blow, "we may look up through the casement and "pity the sorrows of this poor old man." Mr. Baring-Gould finds that "in Schaumberg-lippe, the story goes, that a man and a woman stand in the moon: the man because he strewed brambles and thorns on the church path, so as to hinder people from attending mass on Sunday morning; the woman because she made butter on that day. The man carries his bundle of thorns, the woman her butter tub. A similar tale is told in Swabia and in Marken. Fischart says that there 'is to be seen in the moon a mannikin who stole wood'; and Praetorius, in his description of the world, that 'superstitious people assert that the black flecks in the moon are a man who gathered wood on a Sabbath, and is therefore turned into stone.'" [17] The North Frisians, among the most ancient and pure of all the German tribes, tell the tale differently. "At the time when wishing was of avail, a man, one Christmas Eve, stole cabbages from his neighbour's garden. When just in the act of walking off with his load, he was perceived by the people, who conjured (wished) him up in the moon. There he stands in the full moon, to be seen by everybody, bearing his load of cabbages to all eternity. Every Christmas Eve he is said to turn round once. Others say that he stole willow-boughs, which he must bear for ever. In Sylt the story goes that he was a sheep-stealer, that enticed sheep to him with a bundle of cabbages, until, as an everlasting warning to others, he was placed in the moon, where he constantly holds in his hand a bundle of cabbages. The people of Rantum say that he is a giant, who at the time of the flow stands in a stooping posture, because he is then taking up water, which he pours out on the earth, and thereby causes the flow; but at the time of the ebb he stands erect and rests from his labour, when the water can subside again." [18] Crossing the sea into Scandinavia, we obtain some valuable information. First, we find that in the old Norse, or language of the ancient Scandinavians, the sun is always feminine, and the moon masculine. In the _Völu-Spá_, a grand, prophetic poem, it is written-- "But the sun had not yet learned to trace The path that conducts to her dwelling-place To the moon arrived was not the hour When he should exert his mystic power Nor to the stars was the knowledge given, To marshal their ranks o'er the fields of heaven." [19] We also learn that "the moon and the sun are brother and sister; they are the children of Mundilföri, who, on account of their beauty, called his son Mâni, and his daughter Sôl." Here again we observe that the moon is masculine. "Mâni directs the course of the moon, and regulates Nyi (the new moon) and Nithi (the waning moon). He once took up two children from the earth, Bil and Hiuki, as they were going from the well of Byrgir, bearing on their shoulders the bucket Soeg, and the pole Simul." [20] These two children, with their pole and bucket, were placed in the moon, "where they could be seen from earth"; which phrase must refer to the lunar spots. Thorpe, speaking of the allusion in the _Edda_ to these spots, says that they "require but little illustration. Here they are children carrying water in a bucket, a superstition still preserved in the popular belief of the Swedes." [21] We are all reminded at once of the nursery rhyme-- "Jack and Jill went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after." Little have we thought, when rehearsing this jingle in our juvenile hours, that we should some day discover its roots in one of the oldest mythologies of the world. But such is the case. Mr. Baring-Gould has evolved the argument in a manner which, if not absolutely conclusive in each point, is extremely cogent and clear. "This verse, which to us seems at first sight nonsense, I have no hesitation in saying has a high antiquity, and refers to the Eddaic Hjuki and Bil. The names indicate as much. Hjuki, in Norse, would be pronounced Juki, which would readily become Jack; and Bil, for the sake of euphony and in order to give a female name to one of the children, would become Jill. The fall of Jack, and the subsequent fall of Jill, simply represent the vanishing of one moon spot after another, as the moon wanes. But the old Norse myth had a deeper signification than merely an explanation of the moon spots. Hjuki is derived from the verb jakka, to heap or pile together, to assemble and increase; and Bil, from bila, to break up or dissolve. Hjuki and Bil, therefore, signify nothing more than the waxing and waning of the moon, and the water they are represented as bearing signifies the fact that the rainfall depends on the phases of the moon. Waxing and waning were individualized, and the meteorological fact of the connection of the rain with the moon was represented by the children as water-bearers. But though Jack and Jill became by degrees dissevered in the popular mind from the moon, the original myth went through a fresh phase, and exists still under a new form. The Norse superstition attributed _theft_ to the moon, and the vulgar soon began to believe that the figure they saw in the moon was the thief. The lunar specks certainly may be made to resemble one figure, but only a lively imagination can discern two. The girl soon dropped out of popular mythology, the boy oldened into a venerable man, he retained his pole, and the bucket was transformed into the thing he had stolen--sticks or vegetables. The theft was in some places exchanged for Sabbath-breaking, especially among those in Protestant countries who were acquainted with the Bible story of the stick-gatherer." [22] The German Grimm, who was by no means a grim German, but a very genial story-teller, also maintains this transformation of the original myth. "Plainly enough the water-pole of the heathen story has been transformed into the axe's shaft, and the carried pail into the thornbush; the general idea of theft was retained, but special stress laid on the keeping of the Christian holiday, the man suffers punishment not so much for cutting firewood, as because he did it on a Sunday." [23] Manifestly "Jack and Jill went up the hill" is more than a Runic rhyme, and like many more of our popular strains might supply us with a most interesting and instructive entertainment; but we must hasten on with the moon-man. We come next to Britain. Alexander Neckam, a learned English abbot, poet, and scholar, born in St. Albans, in 1157, in commenting on the dispersed shadow in the moon, thus alluded to the vulgar belief: "Nonne novisti quid vulgus vocet rusticum in luna portantem spinas? Unde quidam vulgariter loquens ait, Rusticus in Luna Quem sarcina deprimit una Monstrat per spinas Nulli prodesse rapinas." [24] This may be rendered, "Do you not know what the people call the rustic in the moon who carries the thorns? Whence one vulgarly speaking says, The Rustic in the moon, Whose burden weighs him down, This changeless truth reveals, He profits not who steals." Thomas Wright considers Neckam's Latin version of this popular distich "very curious, as being the earliest allusion we have to the popular legend of the man in the moon." We are specially struck with the reference to theft; while no less noteworthy is the absence of that sabbatarianism, which is the "moral" of the nursery tale. In the British Museum there is a manuscript of English poetry of the thirteenth century, containing an old song composed probably about the middle of that century. It was first printed by Ritson in his _Ancient Songs_, the earliest edition of which was published in London, in 1790. The first lines are as follows: "Mon in the mone stond ant strit, On is bot-forke is burthen he bereth Hit is muche wonder that he na down slyt, For doute leste he valle he shoddreth and shereth." [25] [Illustration: moon06] In the _Archaeological Journal_ we are presented with a relic from the fourteenth century. "Mr. Hudson Taylor submitted to the Committee a drawing of an impression of a very remarkable personal seal, here represented of the full size. It is appended to a deed (preserved in the Public Record Office) dated in the ninth year of Edward the Third, whereby Walter de Grendene, clerk, sold to Margaret, his mother, one messuage, a barn and four acres of ground in the parish of Kingston-on-Thames. The device appears to be founded on the ancient popular legend that a husbandman who had stolen a bundle of thorns from a hedge was, in punishment of his theft, carried up to the moon. The legend reading _Te Waltere docebo cur spinas phebo gero_, 'I will teach you, Walter, why I carry thorns in the moon,' seems to be an enigmatical mode of expressing the maxim that honesty is the best policy." [26] About fifty years later, in the same century, Geoffrey Chaucer, in his _Troylus and Creseide_ adverts to the subject in these lines: "(Quod Pandarus) Thou hast a full great care Lest the chorl may fall out of the moone." (Book i. Stanza 147.) And in another place he says of Lady Cynthia, or the moon: "Her gite was gray, and full of spottis blake, And on her brest a chorl painted ful even, Bering a bush of thornis on his backe, Whiche for his theft might clime so ner the heaven." Whether Chaucer wrote the _Testament and Complaint of Creseide_, in which these latter lines occur, is doubted, though it is frequently ascribed to him. [27] Dr. Reginald Peacock, Bishop of Chichester, in his _Repressor_, written about 1449, combats "this opinioun, that a man which stale sumtyme a birthan of thornis was sett in to the moone, there for to abide for euere." Thomas Dekker, a British dramatist, wrote in 1630: "A starre? Nay, thou art more than the moone, for thou hast neither changing quarters, nor a man standing in thy circle with a bush of thornes." [28] And last, but not least, amid the tuneful train, William Shakespeare, without whom no review of English literature or of poetic lore could be complete, twice mentions the man in the moon. First, in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_, Act iii. Scene 1, Quince the carpenter gives directions for the performance of Pyramus and Thisby, who "meet by moonlight," and says, "One must come in with a bush of thorns and a lanthorn, and say he comes to disfigure, or to present, the person of Moonshine." Then in Act v. the player of that part says, "All that I have to say is, to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog." And, secondly, in the _Tempest_, Act ii., Scene 2, Caliban and Stephano in dialogue: "_Cal_. Hast thou not dropp'd from heaven? _Ste_. Out o' the moon, I do assure thee. I was the man i' the moon, when time was. _Cal_. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee: my mistress show'd me thee, thy dog, and bush." Robert Chambers refers the following singular lines to the man in the moon: adding, "The allusion to Jerusalem pipes is curious; Jerusalem is often applied, in Scottish popular fiction, to things of a nature above this world": "I sat upon my houtie croutie (hams), I lookit owre my rumple routie (haunch), And saw John Heezlum Peezlum Playing on Jerusalem pipes." [29] Here is an old-fashioned couplet belonging probably to our northern borders: "The man in the moon Sups his sowins with a cutty spoon." Halliwell explains _sowins_ to be a Northumberland dish of coarse oatmeal and milk, and a _cutty_ spoon to be a very _small_ spoon. [30] Wales is not without a memorial of this myth, for Mr. Baring-Gould tells us that "there is an ancient pictorial representation of our friend the Sabbath-breaker in Gyffyn Church, near Conway. The roof of the chancel is divided into compartments, in four of which are the evangelistic symbols, rudely, yet effectively painted. Besides these symbols is delineated in each compartment an orb of heaven. The sun, the moon, and two stars, are placed at the feet of the Angel, the Bull, the Lion, and the Eagle. The representation of the moon is as follows: in the disk is the conventional man with his bundle of sticks, but without the dog." [31] Mr. Gould says, "our friend the Sabbath-breaker" perhaps the artist would have said "the thief," for stealing appears to be more antique. [Illustration: moon07] REPRESENTATION IN GYFFYN CHURCH, NEAR CONWAY. A French superstition, lingering to the present day, regards the man in the moon as Judas Iscariot, transported to the moon for his treason. This plainly is a Christian invention. Some say the figure is Isaac bearing a burthen of wood for the sacrifice of himself on Mount Moriah. Others that it is Cain carrying a bundle of thorns on his shoulder, and offering to the Lord the cheapest gift from the field. [32] This was Dante's view, as the succeeding passages will show: "For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confine On either hemisphere, touching the wave Beneath the towers of Seville. Yesternight The moon was round." (_Hell_. Canto xx., line 123.) "But tell, I pray thee, whence the gloomy spots Upon this body, which below on earth Give rise to talk of Cain in fabling quaint?" (_Paradise_, ii. 50.) [33] When we leave Europe, and look for the man in the moon under other skies, we find him, but with an altogether new aspect. He is the same, and yet another; another, yet the same. In China he plays a pleasing part in connubial affairs. "The Chinese 'Old Man in the Moon' is known as _Yue-lao_, and is reputed to hold in his hands the power of predestining the marriages of mortals--so that marriages, if not, according to the native idea, exactly made in heaven, are made somewhere beyond the bounds of earth. He is supposed to tie together the future husband and wife with an invisible silken cord, which never parts so long as life exists." [34] This must be the man of the Honey-moon, and we shall not meet his superior in any part of the world. Among the Khasias of the Himalaya Mountains "the changes of the moon are accounted for by the theory that this orb, who is a man, monthly falls in love with his wife's mother, who throws ashes in his face. The sun is female." [35] The Slavonic legend, following the Himalayan, says that "the moon, King of night and husband of the sun, faithlessly loves the morning Star, wherefore he was cloven through in punishment, as we see him in the sky." [36] "One man in his time plays many parts," and the man in the moon is no exception to the rule. In Africa his _rôle_ is a trying one; for "in Bushman astrological mythology the moon is looked upon as a man who incurs the wrath of the sun, and is consequently pierced by the knife (_i.e._ rays) of the latter. This process is repeated until almost the whole of the moon is cut away, and only a little piece left; which the moon piteously implores the sun to spare for his (the moon's) children. (The moon is in Bushman mythology a male being.) From this little piece, the moon gradually grows again until it becomes a full moon, when the sun's stabbing and cutting processes recommence." [37] We cross the Atlantic, and among the Greenlanders discover a myth, which is _sui generis_. "The sun and moon are nothing else than two mortals, brother and sister. They were playing with others at children's games in the dark, when _Malina_, being teased in a shameful manner by her brother _Anninga_, smeared her hands with the soot of the lamp, and rubbed them over the face and hands of her persecutor, that she might recognise him by daylight. Hence arise the spots in the moon. Malina wished to save herself by flight, but her brother followed at her heels. At length she flew upwards, and became the sun. Anninga followed her, and became the moon; but being unable to mount so high, he runs continually round the sun, in hopes of some time surprising her. When he is tired and hungry in his last quarter, he leaves his house on a sledge harnessed to four huge dogs, to hunt seals, and continues abroad for several days. He now fattens so prodigiously on the spoils of the chase, that he soon grows into the full moon. He rejoices on the death of women, and the sun has her revenge on the death of men; all males therefore keep within doors during an eclipse of the sun, and females during that of the moon." [38] This Esquimaux story, which has some interesting features, is told differently by Dr. Hayes, the Arctic explorer, who puts a lighted taper into the sun's hands, with which she discovered her brother, and which now causes her bright light, "while the moon, having lost his taper, is cold, and could not be seen but for his sister's light." [39] This belief prevails as far south as Panama, for the inhabitants of the Isthmus of Darien have a tradition that the man in the moon was guilty of gross misconduct towards his elder sister, the sun. [40] The Creek Indians say that the moon is inhabited by a man and a dog. The native tribes of British Columbia, too, have their myth. Mr. William Duncan writes to the Church Missionary Society: "One very dark night I was told that there was a moon to be seen on the beach. On going to see, there was an illuminated disk, with the figure of a man upon it. The water was then very low, and one of the conjuring parties had lit up this disk at the water's edge. They had made it to wax with great exactness, and presently it was at full. It was an imposing sight. Nothing could be seen around it; but the Indians suppose that the medicine party are then holding converse with the man in the moon." [41] Mr. Duncan was at another time led to the ancestral village of a tribe of Indians, whose chief said to him: "This is the place where our fore fathers lived, and they told us something we want to tell you. The story is as follows: 'One night a child of the chief class awoke and cried for water. Its cries were very affecting--"Mother, give me to drink!" but the mother heeded not. The moon was affected, and came down, entered the house, and approached the child, saying, "Here is water from heaven: drink." The child anxiously laid hold of the pot and drank the draught, and was enticed to go away with the moon, its benefactor. They took an underground passage till they got quite clear of the village, and then ascended to heaven.' And," said the chief, "our forefathers tell us that the figure we now see in the moon is that very child; and also the little round basket which it had in its hand when it went to sleep appears there." [42] The aborigines of New Zealand have a suggestive version of this superstition. It is quoted from D'Urville by De Rougemont in his _Le Peuple Primitif_ (tom. ii. p. 245), and is as follows:--"Before the moon gave light, a New Zealander named Rona went out in the night to fetch some water from the well. But he stumbled and unfortunately sprained his ankle, and was unable to return home. All at once, as he cried out for very anguish, he beheld with fear and horror that the moon, suddenly becoming visible, descended towards him. He seized hold of a tree, and clung to it for safety; but it gave way, and fell with Rona upon the moon; and he remains there to this day." [43] Another account of Rona varies in that he escapes falling into the well by seizing a tree, and both he and the tree were caught up to the moon. The variation indicates that the legend has a living root. Here we terminate our somewhat wearisome wanderings about the world and through the mazes of mythology in quest of the man in the moon. As we do so, we are constrained to emphasize the striking similarity between the Scandinavian myth of Jack and Jill, that exquisite tradition of the British Columbian chief, and the New Zealand story of Rona. When three traditions, among peoples so far apart geographically, so essentially agree in one, the lessons to be learned from comparative mythology ought not to be lost upon the philosophical student of human history. To the believer in the unity of our race such a comparison of legends is of the greatest importance. As Mr. Tylor tells us, "The number of myths recorded as found in different countries, where it is hardly conceivable that they should have grown independently, goes on steadily increasing from year to year, each one furnishing a new clue by which common descent or intercourse is to be traced." [44] The same writer says on another page of his valuable work, "The mythmaking faculty belongs to mankind in general, and manifests itself in the most distant regions, where its unity of principle develops itself in endless variety of form." [45] Take, for example, China and England, representing two distinct races, two languages, two forms of religion, and two degrees of civilization yet, as W. F. Mayers remarks, "No one can compare the Chinese legend with the popular European belief in the 'Man in the Moon,' without feeling convinced of the certainty that the Chinese superstition and the English nursery tale are both derived from kindred parentage, and are linked in this relationship by numerous subsidiary ties. In all the range of Chinese mythology there is, perhaps, no stronger instance of identity with the traditions that have taken root in Europe than in the case of the legends relating to the moon." [46] This being the case, our present endeavour to establish the consanguinity of the nations, on the ground of agreement in myths and modes of faith and worship, cannot be labour thrown away. The recognition of friends in heaven is an interesting speculation; but far more good must result, as concerns this life at least, from directing our attention to the recognition of friends on earth. If we duly estimate the worth of any comparative science, whether of anatomy or philology, mythology or religion, this is the grand generalization to be attained, essential unity consistent and concurrent with endless multiformity; many structures, but one life; many creeds, but one faith; many beings and becomings, but all emanating from one Paternity, cohering through one Presence, and converging to one Perfection, in Him who is the Author and Former and Finisher of all things which exist. Let no man therefore ridicule a myth as puerile if it be an aid to belief in that commonweal of humanity for which the Founder of the purest religion was a witness and a martyr. We have sought out the man in the moon mainly because it was one out of many scattered stories which, as Max Müller nobly says, "though they may be pronounced childish and tedious by some critics, seem to me to glitter with the brightest dew of nature's own poetry, and to contain those very touches that make us feel akin, not only with Homer or Shakespeare, but even with Lapps, and Finns, and Kaffirs." [47] Vico discovered the value of myths, as an addition to our knowledge of the mental and moral life of the men of the myth-producing period. Professor Flint tells us that mythology, as viewed by the contemporaries of Vico, "appeared to be merely a rubbish-heap, composed of waste, worthless, and foul products of mind; but he perceived that it contained the materials for a science which would reflect the mind and history of humanity, and even asserted some general principles as to how these materials were to be interpreted and utilised, which have since been established, or at least endorsed, by Heyne, Creuzer, C O Müller, and others." [48] Let us cease to call that common which God has cleansed, and with thankfulness recognise the solidarity of the human race, to which testimony is borne by even a lunar myth. We now return to the point whence we deflected, and rejoin the chief actor in the selenographic comedy. It is a relief to get away from the legendary man in the moon, and to have the real man once more in sight. We are like the little boy, whom the obliging visitor, anxious to show that he was passionately fond of children, and never annoyed by them in the least, treated to a ride upon his knee. "Trot, trot, trot; how do you enjoy that, my little man? Isn't that nice?" "Yes, sir," replied the child, "but not so nice as on the real donkey, the one with the four legs." It is true, the mythical character has redeeming traits; but then he breaks the Sabbath, obstructs people going to mass, steals cabbages, and is undergoing sentence of transportation for life. While the real man, who lives in a well-lighted crescent, thoroughly ventilated; whose noble profile is sometimes seen distinctly when he passes by on the shady side of the way; whose beaming countenance is at other times turned full upon us, reflecting nothing but sunshine as he winks at his many admirers: he is a being of quite another order. We do not forget that he has been represented with a claret jug in one hand, and a claret cup in the other; that he frequently takes half and half; that he is a smoker; that he sometimes gets up when other people are going to bed; that he often stops out all the night; and is too familiar with the low song-- "We won't go home till morning." But these are mere eccentricities of greatness, and with all such irregularities he is "a very delectable, highly respectable" young fellow; in short, "A most intense young man, A soul-full-eyed young man, An ultra-poetical, super-aesthetical, Out-of-the-way young man." Why, he has been known to take the shine out of old Sol himself; though from his partiality to us it always makes him look black in the face when we, Alexander-like, stand between him and that luminary. We, too, are the only people by whom he ever allows himself to be eclipsed. Illustrious man in the moon I he has lifted our thoughts from earth to heaven, and we are reluctant to leave him. But the best of friends must part; especially as other lunar inhabitants await attention. "Other inhabitants!" some one may exclaim. Surely! we reply; and though it will necessitate a digression, we touch upon the question _en passant_. Cicero informs us that "Xenophanes says that the moon is inhabited, and a country having several towns and mountains in it." [49] This single dictum will be sufficient for those who bow to the influence of authority in matters of opinion. Settlement of questions by "texts" is a saving of endless pains. For that there are such lunar inhabitants must need little proof. Every astronomer is aware that the moon is full of craters; and every linguist is aware that "cratur" is the Irish word for creature. Or, to state the argument syllogistically, as our old friend Aristotle would have done: "Craturs" are inhabitants; the moon is full of craters; therefore the moon is full of inhabitants. We appeal to any unbiased mind whether such argumentation is not as sound as much of our modern reasoning, conducted with every pretence to logic and lucidity. Besides, who has not heard of that astounding publication, issued fifty years since, and entitled _Great Astronomical Discoveries lately made by Sir John Herschel, LL.D., F.R.S., etc., at the Cape of Good Hope_? One writer dares to designate it a singular satire; stigmatizes it as the once celebrated _Moon Hoax_, and attributes it to one Richard Alton Locke, of the United States. What an insinuation! that a man born under the star-spangled banner could trifle with astronomy. But if a few incredulous persons doubted, a larger number of the credulous believed. When the first number appeared in the New York Sun, in September, 1835, the excitement aroused was intense. The paper sold daily by thousands; and when the articles came out as a pamphlet, twenty thousand went off at once. Not only in Young America, but also in Old England, France, and throughout Europe, the wildest enthusiasm prevailed. Could anybody reasonably doubt that Sir John had seen wonders, when it was known that his telescope contained a prodigious lens, weighing nearly seven tons, and possessing a magnifying power estimated at 42,000 times? A reverend astronomer tells us that Sir Frederick Beaufort, having occasion to write to Sir John Herschel at the Cape, asked if he had heard of the report current in England that he (Sir John) had discovered sheep, oxen, and flying _men_ in the moon. Sir John had heard the report; and had further heard that an American divine had "improved" the revelations. The said divine had told his congregation that, on account of the wonderful discoveries of the present age, lie lived in expectation of one day calling upon them for a subscription to buy Bibles for the benighted inhabitants of the moon. [50] What more needs to be said? Give our astronomical mechanicians a little time, and they will produce an instrument for full verification of these statements regarding the lunar inhabitants; and we may realize more than we have imagined or dreamed. We may obtain observations as satisfactory as those of a son of the Emerald Isle, who was one day boasting to a friend of his excellent telescope. "Do you see yonder church?" said he. "Although it is scarcely discernible with the naked eye, when I look at it through my telescope, it brings it so close that I can hear the organ playing." Two hundred years ago, a wise man witnessed a wonderful phenomenon in the moon: he actually beheld a live elephant there. But the unbelieving have ever since made all manner of fun at the good knight's expense. Take the following burlesque of this celebrated discovery as an instance. "Sir Paul Neal, a conceited virtuoso of the seventeenth century, gave out that he had discovered 'an elephant in the moon.' It turned out that a mouse had crept into his telescope, which had been mistaken for an elephant in the moon." [51] Well, we concede that an elephant and a mouse are very much alike; but surely Sir Paul was too sagacious to be deceived by resemblances. If we had more faith, which is indispensable in such matters, the revelations of science, however extraordinary or extravagant, would be received without a murmur of distrust. We should not then meet with such sarcasm as we found in the seventeenth century _Jest Book_ before quoted: "One asked why men should thinke there was a world in the moone? It was answered, because they were lunatique." According to promise, we must make mention of at least one visit paid by our hero to this lower world. We do this in the classic language of a student of that grand old University which stands in the city of Oxford. May the horns of Oxford be exalted, and the shadow of the University never grow less, while the moon endureth! "The man in the moon! why came he down From his peaceful realm on high; Where sorrowful moan is all unknown, And nothing is born to die? The man in the moon was tired, it seems, Of living so long in the land of dreams; 'Twas a beautiful sphere, but nevertheless Its lunar life was passionless; Unchequered by sorrow, undimmed by crime, Untouched by the wizard wand of time; 'Twas all too grand, there was no scope For dread, and of course no room for hope To him the future had no fear, To make the present doubly dear; The day no cast of coming night, To make the borrowed ray more bright; And life itself no thought of death, To sanctify the boon of breath:-- In short, as we world-people say, The man in the moon was _ennuyé_." [52] Poor man in the moon! what a way he must have been in! We hope that he found improving fellowship, say among the Fellows of some Royal Astronomical Society; and that when e returned to his skylight, or lighthouse on the coast of immensity's wide sea, he returned a wiser and much happier man. It is for us, too, to remember with Spenser, "The noblest mind the best contentment has." And now we record a few visits which men of this sublunary sphere are said to have paid to the moon. The chronicles are unfortunately very incomplete. Aiming at historical fulness and fidelity, we turned to our national bibliotheca at the British Museum, where we fished out of the vasty deep of treasures a MS. without date or name. We wish the Irish orator's advice were oftener followed by literary authors. Said he, "Never write an anonymous letter without signing your name to it." This MS. is entitled "_Selenographia_, or News from the world in the moon to the lunatics of this world. By Lucas Lunanimus of Lunenberge." [53] We are here told how the author, "making himself a kite of ye hight(?) of a large sheet, and tying himself to the tayle of it, by the help of some trusty friends, to whom he promised mountains of land in this his new-found world; being furnished also with a tube, horoscope, and other instruments of discovery, he set saile the first of Aprill, a day alwaies esteemed prosperous for such adventures." Fearing, however, lest the date of departure should make some suspicious that the author was desirous of making his readers April fools, we leave this aërial tourist to pursue his explorations without our company, and listen to a learned bishop, who ought to be a canonical authority, for the man in the moon himself is an overseer of men. Dr. Francis Godwin, first of Llandaff, afterwards of Hereford, wrote about the year 1600 _The Man in the Moone_, or a discourse of a voyage thither. This was published in 1638, under the pseudonym of Domingo Gonsales. The enterprising aeronaut went up from the island of El Pico, carried by wild swans. _Swans_, be it observed. It was not a wild-goose chase. The author is careful to tell us what we believe so soon as it is declared. "The further we went, the lesser the globe of the earth appeared to us; whereas still on the contrary side the moone showed herselfe more and more monstrously huge." After eleven days' passage, the exact time that Arago allowed for a cannon ball to reach the moon, "another earth" was approached. "I perceived that it was covered for the most part with a huge and mighty sea, those parts only being drie land, which show unto us here somewhat darker than the rest of her body; that I mean which the country people call _el hombre della Luna_, the man of the moone." This last clause demands a protest. The bishop knocks the country-people's man out of the moon, to make room for his own man, which episcopal creation is twenty-eight feet high, and weighs twenty-five or thirty of any of us. Besides ordinary men, of extraordinary measurement, the bishop finds in the moon princes and queens. The females, or lunar ladies, as a matter of course, are of absolute beauty. Their language has "no affinity with any other I ever heard." This is a poor look-out for the American divine who expects to send English Bibles to the moon. "Food groweth everywhere without labour": this is a cheering prospect for our working classes who may some day go there. "They need no lawyers": oh what a country! "And as little need is there of physicians." Why, the moon must be Paradise regained. But, alas! "they die, or rather (I should say) cease to live." Well, my lord bishop, is not that how we die on earth? Perhaps we need to be learned bishops to appreciate the difference. If so, we might accept episcopal distinction. Lucian, the Greek satirist, in his _Voyage to the Globe of the Moon_, sailed through the sky for the space of seven days and nights and on the eighth "arrived in a great round and shining island which hung in the air and yet was inhabited. These inhabitants were Hippogypians, and their king was Endymion." [54] Some of the ancients thought the lunarians were fifteen times larger than we are, and our oaks but bushes compared with their trees. So natural is it to magnify prophets not of our own country. William Hone tells us that a Mr. Wilson, formerly curate of Halton Gill, near Skipton-in-Craven, Yorkshire, in the last century wrote a tract entitled _The Man in the Moon_, which was seriously meant to convey the knowledge of common astronomy in the following strange vehicle: A cobbler, Israel Jobson by name, is supposed to ascend first to the top of Penniguit; and thence, as a second stage equally practicable, to the moon; after which he makes the grand tour of the whole solar system. From this excursion, however, the traveller brings back little information which might not have been had upon earth, excepting that the inhabitants of one of the planets, I forget which, were made of "pot metal." [55] This curious tract, full of other extravagances, is rarely if ever met with, it having been zealously bought up by its writer's family. We must not be detained with any detailed account of M. Jules Verne's captivating books, entitled _From the Earth to the Moon_, and _Around the Moon_. They are accessible to all, at a trifling cost. Besides, they reveal nothing new relating to the Hamlet of our present play. Nor need we more than mention "the surprising adventures of the renowned Baron Munchausen." His lunarians being over thirty-six feet high, and "a common flea being much larger than one of our sheep," [56] Munchausen's moon must be declined, with thanks. "Certain travellers, like the author of the _Voyage au monde de Descartes_, have found, on visiting these different lunar countries, that the great men whose names they had arbitrarily received took possession of them in the course of the sixteenth century, and there fixed their residence. These immortal souls, it seems, continued their works and systems inaugurated on earth. Thus it is, that on Mount Aristotle a real Greek city has risen, peopled with peripatetic philosophers, and guarded by sentinels armed with propositions, antitheses, and sophisms, the master himself living in the centre of the town in a magnificent palace. Thus also in Plato's circle live souls continually occupied in the study of the prototype of ideas. Two years ago a fresh division of lunar property was made, some astronomers being generously enriched." [57] That the moon is an abode of the departed spirits of men, an upper hades, has been believed for ages. In the Egyptian _Book of Respirations_, which M. p. J. de Horrack has translated from the MS. in the Louvre in Paris, Isis breathes the wish for her brother Osiris "that his soul may rise to heaven in the disk of the moon." [58] Plutarch says, "Of these soules the moon is the element, because soules doe resolve into her, like as the bodies of the dead into the earth." [59] To this ancient theory Mr. Tylor refers when he writes, "And when in South America the Saliva Indians have pointed out the moon, their paradise where no mosquitoes are, and the Guaycurus have shown it as the home of chiefs and medicine-men deceased, and the Polynesians of Tokelau in like manner have claimed it as the abode of departed kings and chiefs, then these pleasant fancies may be compared with that ancient theory mentioned by Plutarch, that hell is in the air and elysium in the moon, and again with the mediaeval conception of the moon as the seat of hell, a thought elaborated in profoundest bathos by Mr. M. F. Tupper: 'I know thee well, O Moon, thou cavern'd realm, Sad satellite, thou giant ash of death, Blot on God's firmament, pale home of crime, Scarr'd prison house of sin, where damnèd souls Feed upon punishment. Oh, thought sublime, That amid night's black deeds, when evil prowls Through the broad world, thou, watching sinners well, Glarest o'er all, the wakeful eye of--Hell!' Skin for skin, the brown savage is not ill-matched in such speculative lore with the white philosopher." [60] The last journey to the moon on our list we introduce for the sake of its sacred lesson. Pure religion is an Attic salt, which wise men use in all of their entertainments: a condiment which seasons what is otherwise insipid, and assists healthy digestion in the compound organism of man's mental and moral constitution. About seventy years since, a little tract was published, in which the writer imagined himself on _luna firma_. After giving the inhabitants of the moon an account of our terrestrial race, of its fall and redemption, and of the unhappiness of those who neglect the great salvation, he says, "The secret is this, that nothing but an infinite God, revealing Himself by His Spirit to their minds, and enabling them to believe and trust in Him, can give perfect and lasting satisfaction." He then adds, "My last observation received the most marked approbation of the lunar inhabitants: they truly pitied the ignorant triflers of our sinful world, who prefer drunkenness, debauchery, sinful amusements, exorbitant riches, flattery, and other things that are highly esteemed amongst men, to the pleasures of godliness, to the life of God in the soul of man, to the animating hope of future bliss." [61] Here the man in the moon and we must part. Hitherto some may have supposed their thoughts occupied with a mere creature of imagination, or gratuitous creation of an old-world mythology. Perhaps the man in the moon is nothing more: perhaps he is very much more. Possibly we have information of every being in the universe; and possibly there are beings in every existing world of which we know nothing whatever. The latter possibility we deem much the more probable. Remembering our littleness as contrasted with the magnitude of the whole creation, we prefer to believe that there are rational creatures in other worlds besides this small-sized sphere in, it may be, a small-sized system. Therefore, till we acquire more conclusive evidence than has yet been adduced, we will not regard even the moon as an empty abode, but as the home of beings whom, in the absence of accurate definition, we denominate men. Whether the man in the moon have a body like our own, whether his breathing apparatus, his digestive functions, and his cerebral organs, be identical with ours, are matters of secondary moment. The Fabricator of terrestrial organizations has limited himself to no one type or form, why then should man be the model of beings in distant worlds? Be the man in the moon a biped or quadruped; see he through two eyes as we do, or a hundred like Argus; hold he with two hands as we do, or a hundred like Briarius; walk he with two feet as we do, or a hundred like the centipede, "the mind's the standard of the man" everywhere. If he have but a wise head and a warm heart; if he be not shut up, Diogenes--like, within his own little tub of a world, but take an interest in the inhabitants of kindred spheres; and if he be a worshipper of the one God who made the heavens with all their glittering hosts;--then, in the highest sense, he is a _man_, to whom we would fain extend the hand of fellowship, claiming him as a brother in that universal family which is confined to no bone or blood, no colour or creed, and, so far as we can conjecture, to no world, but is co-extensive with the household of the Infinite Father, who cares for all of His children, and will ultimately blend them in the blessed bonds of an endless confraternity. Whether we or our posterity will ever become better acquainted in this life with the man in the moon is problematical; but in the ages to come, "when the manifold wisdom of God" shall be developed among "the principalities and powers in heavenly places," he may be something more than a myth or topic of amusement. He may be visible among the first who will declare every man in his own tongue wherein he was born the wonderful works of God, and he may be audible among the first who will lift their hallelujahs of undivided praise when every satellite shall be a chorister to laud the universal King. Let us, brothers of earth, by high and holy living, learn the music of eternity; and then, when the discord of "life's little day" is hushed, and we are called to join in the everlasting song, we may solve in one beatific moment the problem of the plurality of worlds, and in that solution we shall see more than we have been able to see at present of the man in the moon. III. THE WOMAN IN THE MOON. "O woman! lovely woman! nature made thee To temper man; we had been brutes without you. Angels are painted fair, to look like you: There's in you all that we believe of heaven Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, Eternal joy, and everlasting love." (Otway's _Venice Preserved_, 1682.) It is not good that the man in the moon should be alone; therefore creative imagination has supplied him with a companion. The woman in the moon as a myth does not obtain to any extent in Europe; she is to be found chiefly in Polynesia, and among the native races of North America. The _Middle Kingdom_ furnishes the following allusion: "The universal legend of the man in the moon takes in China a form that is at least as interesting as the ruder legends of more barbarous people. The 'Goddess of the Palace of the Moon,' Chang-o, appeals as much to our sympathies as, and rather more so than, the ancient beldame who, in European folk-lore, picks up perpetual sticks to satisfy the vengeful ideas of an ultra-Sabbatical sect. Mr. G. C. Stent has aptly seized the idea of the Chinese versifier whom he translates "On a gold throne, whose radiating brightness Dazzles the eyes--enhaloing the scene, Sits a fair form, arrayed in snowy whiteness. She is Chang-o, the beauteous Fairy Queen. Rainbow-winged angels softly hover o'er her, Forming a canopy above the throne; A host of fairy beings stand before her, Each robed in light, and girt with meteor zone.'" [62] A touching tradition is handed down by Berthold that the moon is Mary Magdalene, and the spots her tears of repentance. [63] Fontenelle, the French poet and philosopher, saw a woman in the moon's changes. "Everything," he says, "is in perpetual motion; even including a certain young lady in the moon, who was seen with a telescope about forty years ago, everything has considerably aged. She had a pretty good face, but her cheeks are now sunken, her nose is lengthened, her forehead and chin are now prominent to such an extent, that all her charms have vanished, and I fear for her days." "What are you relating to me now?" interrupted the marchioness. "This is no jest," replied Fontenelle. "Astronomers perceived in the moon a particular figure which had the aspect of a woman's head, which came forth from between the rocks, and then occurred some changes in this region. Some pieces of mountain fell, and disclosed three points which could only serve to compose a forehead, a nose, and an old woman's chin." [64] Doubtless the face and the disfigurements were fictions of the author's lively imagination, and his words savour less of science than of satire; but Fontenelle was neither the first nor the last of those to whom "the inconstant moon that monthly changes" has been an impersonation of the fickle and the feminine. The following illustration is from Plutarch: "Cleobulus said, As touching fooles, I will tell you a tale which I heard my mother once relate unto a brother of mine. The time was (quoth she) that the moone praied her mother to make her a peticoate fit and proportionate for her body. Why, how is it possible (quoth her mother) that I should knit or weave one to fit well about thee considering that I see thee one while full, another while croissant or in the wane and pointed with tips of horns, and sometime again halfe rounde?" [65] Old John Lilly, one of our sixteenth-century dramatists, likewise supports this ungallant theory. In the _Prologus_ to one of his very rare dramas he writes: "Our poet slumb'ring in the muses laps, Hath seen a woman seated in the moone." [66] This woman is Pandora, the mischief-maker among the Utopian shepherds. In Act v. she receives her commission to conform the moon to her own mutability: "Now rule _Pandora_ in fayre _Cynthia's_ steede, And make the moone inconstant like thyselfe, Raigne thou at women's nuptials, and their birth, Let them be mutable in all their loves. Fantasticall, childish, and folish, in their desires Demanding toyes; and stark madde When they cannot have their will." In North America the woman in the moon is a cosmological myth. Take, for example, the tale told by the Esquimaux, which word is the French form of the Algonquin Indian _Eskimantsic_, "raw-flesh eaters." "Their tradition of the formation of the sun and moon is, that not long after the world was formed, a great conjuror or angikak became so powerful that he could ascend into the heavens when he pleased, and on one occasion took with him a beautiful sister whom he loved very much, and also some fire, to which he added great quantities of fuel, and thus formed the sun. For a time the conjuror treated his sister with great kindness, and they lived happily together; but at last he became cruel, ill-used her in many ways, and, as a climax, burnt one side of her face with fire. After this last indignity she ran away from him and became the moon. Her brother in the sun has been in chase of her ever since; but although he sometimes gets near, will never overtake her. When new moon, the burnt side of her face is towards the earth; when full moon, the reverse is the case." [67] The likeness between this tradition and the Greenlanders' myth of Malina and Anninga is very close, the difference consisting chiefly in the change of sex; here the moon is feminine, there the moon is masculine. [68] In Brazil the story is further varied, in that it is the sister who falls in love, and receives a discoloured face for her offence. Professor Hartt says that Dr. Silva de Coutinho found on the Rio Branco and Sr. Barbosa has reported from the Jamundá a myth "in which the moon is represented as a maiden who fell in love with her brother and visited him at night, but who was finally betrayed by his passing his blackened hand over her face." [69] The Ottawa tale of Indian cosmogony, called Iosco, narrates the adventures of two Indians who "found themselves in a beautiful country, lighted by the moon, which shed around a mild and pleasant light. They could see the moon approaching as if it were from behind a hill. They advanced, and the aged woman spoke to them; she had a white face and pleasing air, and looked rather old, though she spoke to them very kindly. They knew from her first appearance that she was the moon. She asked them several questions. She informed them that they were halfway to her brother's (the sun), and that from the earth to her abode was half the distance." [70] Other American Indians have a tradition of an old woman who lived with her grand-daughter, the most beautiful girl that ever was seen in the country. Coming of age, she wondered that only herself and her grandmother were in the world. The grandam explained that an evil spirit had destroyed all others; but that she by her power had preserved herself and her grand-daughter. This did not satisfy the young girl, who thought that surely some survivors might be found. She accordingly travelled in search, till on the tenth day she found a lodge inhabited by eleven brothers, who were hunters. The eleventh took her to wife, and died after a son was born. The widow then wedded each of the others, beginning with the youngest. When she took the eldest, she soon grew tired of him, and fled away by the western portal of the hunter's lodge. Tearing up one of the stakes which supported the door, she disappeared in the earth with her little dog. Soon all trace of the fugitive was lost. Then she emerged from the earth in the east, where she met an old man fishing in the sea. This person was he who made the earth. He bade her pass into the air toward the west. Meanwhile the deserted husband pursued his wife into the earth on the west, and out again on the east, where the tantalizing old fisherman cried out to him, "Go, go; you will run after your wife as long as the earth lasts without ever overtaking her, and the nations who will one day be upon the earth will call you _Gizhigooke_, he who makes the day." From this is derived _Gizis_, the sun. Some of the Indians count only eleven moons, which represent the eleven brothers, dying one after another. [71] Passing on to Polynesia, we reach Samoa, where "we are told that the moon came down one evening, and picked up a woman, called Sina, and her child. It was during a time of famine. She was working in the evening twilight, beating out some bark with which to make native cloth. The moon was just rising, and it reminded her of a great bread-fruit. Looking up to it, she said, 'Why cannot you come down and let my child have a bit of you?' The moon was indignant at the idea of being eaten, came down forthwith, and took her up, child, board, mallet, and all. The popular superstition is not yet forgotten in Samoa of the _woman_ in the moon. 'Yonder is Sina,' they say, 'and her child, and her mallet, and board.'" [72] The same belief is held in the adjacent Tonga group, or Friendly Islands, as they were named by Captain Cook, on account of the supposed friendliness of the natives. "As to the spots in the moon, they are compared to the figure of a woman sitting down and beating _gnatoo_" (bark used for clothing). [73] In Mangaia, the southernmost island of the Hervey cluster, the woman in the moon is Ina, the pattern wife, who is always busy, and indefatigable in the preparation of resplendent cloth, _i.e. white clouds_. At Atiu it is said that Ina took to her celestial abode a mortal husband, whom, after many happy years, she sent back to the earth on a beautiful rainbow, lest her fair home should be defiled by death. [74] Professor Max Müller is reminded by this story of Selênê and Endymion, of Eos and Tithonos. IV. THE HARE IN THE MOON. When the moon is waxing, from about the eighth day to the full, it requires no very vivid imagination to descry on the westward side of the lunar disk a large patch very strikingly resembling a rabbit or hare. The oriental noticing this figure, his poetical fancy developed the myth-making faculty, which in process of time elaborated the legend of the hare in the moon, which has left its marks in every quarter of the globe. In Asia it is indigenous, and is an article of religious belief. "To the common people in India the spots look like a hare, _i.e._ Chandras, the god of the moon, carries a hare (sasa), hence the moon is called Sasin or Sasanka, hare mark or spot." [75] Max Müller also writes, "As a curious coincidence it may be mentioned that in Sanskrit the moon is called Sasanka,_i.e._ 'having the marks of a hare,' the black marks in the moon being taken for the likeness of the hare." [76] This allusion to the sacred language of the Hindus affords a convenient opportunity of introducing one of the most beautiful legends of the East. It is a Buddhist tract; but in the lesson which it embodies it will compare very favourably with many a tract more ostensibly Christian. "In former days, a hare, a monkey, a coot, and a fox, became hermits, and lived in a wilderness together, after having sworn not to kill any living thing. The god Sakkria having seen this through his divine power, thought to try their faith, and accordingly took upon him the form of a brahmin, and appearing before the monkey begged of him alms, who immediately brought to him a bunch of mangoes, and presented it to him. The pretended brahmin, having left the monkey, went to the coot and made the same request, who presented him a row of fish which he had just found on the bank of a river, evidently forgotten by a fisherman. The brahmin then went to the fox, who immediately went in search of food, and soon returned with a pot of milk and a dried liguan, which he had found in a plain, where apparently they had been left by a herdsman. The brahmin at last went to the hare and begged alms of him. The hare said, 'Friend, I eat nothing but grass, which I think is of no use to you.' Then the pretended brahmin replied, 'Why, friend, if you are a true hermit, you can give me your own flesh in hope of future happiness.' The hare directly consented to it, and said to the supposed brahmin, 'I have granted your request, and you may do whatever you please with me.' The brahmin then replied, 'Since you are willing to grant my request, I will kindle a fire at the foot of the rock, from which you may jump into the fire, which will save me the trouble of killing you and dressing your flesh.' The hare readily agreed to it, and jumped from the top of the rock into the fire which the supposed brahmin had kindled; but before he reached the fire, it was extinguished; and the brahmin appearing in his natural shape of the god Sakkria, took the hare in his arms and immediately drew its figure in the moon, in order that every living thing of every part of the world might see it." [77] All will acknowledge that this is a very beautiful allegory. How many in England, as well as in Ceylon, are described by the monkey, the coot, and the fox--willing to bring their God any oblation which costs them nothing; but how few are like the hare--ready to present themselves as a living sacrifice, to be consumed as a burnt offering in the Divine service! Those, however, who lose their lives in such self-sacrifice, shall find them, and be caught up to "shine as the brightness of the firmament and as the stars for ever and ever." Another version of this legend is slightly variant. Grimm says: "The people of Ceylon relate as follows: While Buddha the great god sojourned upon earth as a hermit, he one day lost his way in a wood. He had wandered long, when a _hare_ accosted him: 'Cannot I help thee? Strike into the path on thy right. I will guide thee out of the wilderness.' Buddha replied: 'Thank thee, but I am poor and hungry, and unable to repay thy kindness.' 'If thou art hungry,' said the hare, 'light a fire, and kill, roast, and eat me.' Buddha made a fire, and the hare immediately jumped in. Then did Buddha manifest his divine power; he snatched the beast out of the flames, and set him in the moon, where he may be seen to this day." [78] Francis Douce, the antiquary, relates this myth, and adds, "this is from the information of a learned and intelligent French gentleman recently arrived from Ceylon, who adds that the Cingalese would often request of him to permit them to look for the hare through his telescope, and exclaim in raptures that they saw it. It is remarkable that the Chinese represent the moon by a rabbit pounding rice in a mortar. Their mythological moon Jut-ho is figured by a beautiful young woman with a double sphere behind her head, and a rabbit at her feet. The period of this animal's gestation is thirty days; may it not therefore typify the moon's revolution round the earth." [79] [Illustration: moon08] SÂKYAMUNI AS A HARE IN THE MOON. _Collin de Plancy's_ "_Dictionnaire Infernal_." In this same apologue we have doubtless a duplicate, the original or a copy, of another Buddhist legend found among the Kalmucks of Tartary; in which Sâkyamuni himself, in an early stage of existence, had inhabited the body of a hare. Giving himself as food to feed the hunger of a starving creature, he was immediately placed in the moon, where he is still to be seen. [80] The Mongolian also sees a hare in the lunar shadows. We are told by a Chinese scholar that "tradition earlier than the period of the Han dynasty asserted that a hare inhabited the surface of the moon, and later Taoist fable depicted this animal, called the gemmeous hare, as the servitor of the genii, who employ it in pounding the drugs which compose the elixir of life. The connection established in Chinese legend between the hare and the moon is probably traceable to an Indian original. In Sanskrit inscriptions the moon is called Sason, from a fancied resemblance of its spots to a leveret; and pandits, to whom maps of the moon's service have been shown, have fixed on _Loca Paludosa_, and _Mons Porphyrites_ or _Keplerus_ and _Aristarchus_, for the spots which they think exhibit the similitude of a hare." [81] On another page of the same work we read: "During the T'ang dynasty it was recounted that a cassia tree grows in the moon, this notion being derived apparently from an Indian source. The _sal_ tree (_shorea robusta_), one of the sacred trees of the Buddhists, was said during the Sung dynasty to be identical with the cassia tree in the moon. The lunar hare is said to squat at the foot of the cassia tree, pounding its drugs for the genii. The cassia tree in the moon is said to be especially visible at mid-autumn, and hence to take a degree at the examinations which are held at this period is described as plucking a leaf from the cassia." [82] This hare myth, attended with the usual transformation, has travelled to the Hottentots of South Africa. The fable which follows is entitled "From an original manuscript in English, by Mr. John Priestly, in Sir G. Grey's library." "The moon, on one occasion, sent the hare to the earth to inform men that as she (the moon) died away and rose again, so mankind should die and rise again. Instead, however, of delivering this message as given, the hare, either out of forgetfulness or malice, told mankind that as the moon rose and died away, so man should die and rise no more. The hare, having returned to the moon, was questioned as to the message delivered, and the moon, having heard the true state of the case, became so enraged with him that she took up a hatchet to split his head; falling short, however, of that, the hatchet fell upon the upper lip of the hare, and cut it severely. Hence it is that we see the 'hare-lip.' The hare, being duly incensed at having received such treatment, raised his claws, and scratched the moon's face; and the dark parts which we now see on the surface of the moon are the scars which she received on that occasion." [83] In an account of the Hottentot myth of the "Origin of Death," the angered moon heats a stone and burns the hare's mouth, causing the hare-lip. [84] Dr. Marshall may tell us, with all the authority of an eminent physiologist, that hare-lip is occasioned by an arrest in the development of certain frontal and nasal processes, [85] and we may receive his explanation as a sweetly simple solution of the question; but who that suffers from this leporine-labial deformity would not prefer a supernatural to a natural cause? Better far that the lip should be cleft by Shakespeare's "foul fiend Flibbertigibbet," than that an abnormal condition should be accounted for by science, or comprised within the reign of physical law. Even Europe is somewhat hare-brained: for Caesar tells us that the Britons did not regard it lawful to eat the hare, though he does not say why; and in Swabia still, children are forbidden to make shadows on the wall to represent the sacred hare of the moon. We may pursue this matter even in Mexico, whose deities and myths a recent Hibbert lecturer brought into clearer light, showing that the Mexicans "possessed beliefs, institutions, and a developed mythology which would bear comparison with anything known to antiquity in the old world." [86] The Tezcucans, as they are usually called, are described by Prescott as "a nation of the same great family with the Aztecs, whom they rivalled in power, and surpassed in intellectual culture and the arts of social refinement." [87] Their account of the creation is that "the sun and moon came out equally bright, but this not seeming good to the gods, one of them took a rabbit by the heels and slung it into the face of the moon, dimming its lustre with a blotch, whose mark may be seen to this day." [88] We have now seen that the fancy of a hare in the moon is universal; but not so much importance is to be attached to this, as to some other aspects of moon mythology. The hare-like patch is visible in every land, and suggested the animal to all observers. That the rabbit's period of gestation is thirty days is a singular coincidence; but that is all--nay, it is not even that, for "the moon's revolution round the earth," which Douce supposed the Chinese myth to typify, is accomplished in a little more than _twenty-seven_ days. Neither is much weight due to the fanciful comparison of Gubernatis: "The moon is the watcher of the sky, that is to say, she sleeps with her eyes open; so also does the hare, whence the _somnus leporinus_ became a proverb." [89] The same author says on another page, and here we follow him: "The mythical hare is undoubtedly the moon. In the first story of the third book of the _Pancatantram_, the hares dwell upon the shore of the lake Candrasaras, or lake of the moon, and their king has for his palace the lunar disk." [90] It is this story, which Mr. Baring-Gould relates in outline; and which we are compelled still further to condense. In a certain forest there once lived a herd of elephants. Long drought having dried up the lakes and swamps, an exploring party was sent out in search of a fresh supply of water. An extensive lake was discovered, called the moon lake. The elephants with their king eagerly marched to the spot, and found their thirsty hopes fully realized. All round the lake were in numerable hare warrens, which the tread of the mighty monsters crushed unmercifully, maiming and mangling the helpless inhabitants. When the elephants had withdrawn, the poor hares met together in terrible plight, to consult upon the course which they should take when their enemies returned. One wise hare undertook the task of driving the ponderous herd away. This he did by going alone to the elephant king, and representing himself as the hare which lived in the moon. He stated that he was deputed by his excellency the moon to say that if the elephants came any more to the lake, the beams of night would be withheld, and their bodies would be burned up with perpetual sunshine. The king of the elephants thinking that "the better part of valour is discretion," decided to offer an apology for his offence. He was conducted to the lake, where the moon was reflected in the water, apparently meditating his revenge. The elephant thrust his proboscis into the lake, which disturbed the reflection. Whereupon the elephant, judging the moon to be enraged, hurried with his apology, and then went off vowing never to return. The wise hare had proven that "wisdom is better than strength"; and the hares suffered no more molestation. "We may also remark, in this event, the truth of that saying of Euripides, 'that one wise counsel is better than the strength of many'" (_Polybius_, i. 35). V. THE TOAD IN THE MOON. We owe an immense debt of gratitude and honour to the many enterprising and cultivated men who have gone into all parts of the earth and among all peoples to investigate human history and habit, mythology and religion, and thus enrich the stores of our national literature. With such a host of travellers gathering up the fragments, nothing of value is likely to be lost. We have to thank intelligent explorers for all we know of the mythical frog or toad in the moon: an addition to our information which is not unworthy of thoughtful notice. The Selish race of North-west American Indians, who inhabit the country between the Cascade and Rocky Mountains, have a tradition, which Captain Wilson relates as follows: "The expression of 'a toad in the moon,' equivalent to our 'man in the moon,' is explained by a very pretty story relating how the little wolf, being desperately in love with the toad, went a-wooing one night and prayed that the moon might shine brightly on his adventure; his prayer was granted, and by the clear light of a full moon he was pursuing the toad, and had nearly caught her, when, as a last chance of escape, she made a desperate spring on to the face of the moon, where she remains to this day." [91] Another writer says that "the Cowichan tribes think that the moon has a frog in it." [92] From the Great Western we turn to the Great Eastern world, and in China find the frog in the moon. "The famous astronomer Chang Hêng was avowedly a disciple of Indian teachers. The statement given by Chang Hêng is to the effect that 'How I, the fabled inventor of arrows in the days of Yao and Shun,[*] obtained the drug of immortality from Si Wang Mu (the fairy 'Royal Mother' of the West); and Chang Ngo (his wife) having stolen it, fled to the moon, and became the frog--_Chang-chu_--which is seen there.' The lady _Chang-ngo_ is still pointed out among the shadows in the surface of the Moon." [93] Dr. Wells Williams also tells us that in China "the sun is symbolized by the figure of a raven in a circle, and the moon by a rabbit on his hind legs pounding rice in a mortar, or by a three-legged toad. The last refers to the legend of an ancient beauty, Chang-ngo, who drank the liquor of immortality, and straightway ascended to the moon, where she was transformed into a toad, still to be traced in its face. It is a special object of worship in autumn, and moon cakes dedicated to it are sold at this season." [94] We have little doubt that what the Chinese look for they see. We in the West characterize and colour objects which we behold, as we see them through the painted windows of our predisposition or prejudice. As a great novelist writes: "From the same object different conclusions are drawn; the most common externals of nature, the wind and the wave, the stars and the heavens, the very earth on which we tread, never excite in different bosoms the same ideas; and it is from our own hearts, and not from an outward source, that we draw the hues which colour the web of our existence. It is true, answered Clarence. You remember that in two specks of the moon the enamoured maiden perceived two unfortunate lovers, while the ambitious curate conjectured that they were the spires of a cathedral." [95] Besides, it must be confessed that the particular moon-patch that has awakened so much interest in every age and nation is quite as much like a frog or toad as it is like a rabbit or hare. [*] Mr. Herbert A. Giles says that How I was a legendary chieftain, who "flourished about 2,500 B.C." _Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio_, London, 1880, i. 19, _note_. VI. OTHER MOON MYTHS. It is almost time that we should leave this lunar zoology; we will therefore merely present a few creatures which may be of service in a comparative anatomy of the whole subject, and then close the account. There is a story told in the Fiji Islands which so nearly approaches the Hottentot legend of the hare, that they both seem but variations of a common original. In the one case the opponent of the moon's benevolent purpose affecting man's hereafter was a hare, in the other a rat. The story thus runs: There was "a contest between two gods as to how man should die. Ra Vula (the moon) contended that man should be like himself--disappear awhile, and then live again. Ra Kalavo (the rat) would not listen to this kind proposal, but said, 'Let man die as a rat dies.' And he prevailed." [96] Mr. Tylor, who quotes this rat story, adds: "The dates of the versions seem to show that the presence of these myths among the Hottentots and Fijians, at the two opposite sides of the globe, is at any rate not due to transmission in modern times." [97] From the rat to one of its mortal enemies is an easy transition. The Australian story is that Mityan, the moon, was a native cat, who fell in love with another's wife, and while trying to induce her to run away with him, was discovered by the husband, when a fight took place. Mityan was beaten and ran away, and has been wandering ever since. [98] We are indebted for another suggestion to Bishop Wilkins, who wrote over two centuries ago: "As for the form of those spots, _Albertus_ thinks that it represents a lion, with his tail towards the east, and his head the west; and some others have thought it to be very much like a fox, and certainly 'tis as much like a lion as that in the _zodiac_, or as _ursa major_ is like a bear." [99] This last remark of the old mathematician is "a hit, a very palpable hit," at those unpoetical people who catalogue the constellations under all sorts of living creatures' names, implying resemblances, and then "sap with solemn sneer" our myths of the moon. We have now seen that the moon is populated with men, women, and children,--hares and rabbits, toads and frogs, cats and dogs, and sundry small "cattle"; we observe in making our exit that it is also planted with a variety of trees; in short, is a zoological garden of a high order. Even among the ancients some said the lunar spots were forests where Diana hunted, and that the bright patches were plains. Captain Cook tells us that in the South Pacific "the spots observed in the moon are supposed to be groves of a sort of trees which once grew in Otaheite, and, being destroyed by some accident, their seeds were carried up thither by doves, where they now flourish." [100] Ellis also tells of these Tahitians that "their ideas of the moon, which they called _avae_ or _marama_, were as fabulous as those they entertained of the sun. Some supposed the moon was the wife of the sun; others that it was a beautiful country in which the aoa grew." [101] These arborary fancies derive additional interest, if not a species of verisimilitude, from the record of a missionary that "a stately tree, clothed with dark shining leaves, and loaded with many hundreds of large green or yellowish-coloured fruit, is one of the most splendid and beautiful objects to be met with among the rich and diversified scenery of a Tahitian landscape." Our collection of lunar legends is now on exhibition. No thoughtful person will be likely to dispute the dictum of Sir John Lubbock that "traditions and myths are of great importance, and indirectly throw much light on the condition of man in ancient times." [102] But they serve far more purposes than this. They are the raw material, out of which many of our goodly garments of modern science and religion are made up. The illiterate negroes on the cotton plantation, and the rude hunters in the jungle or seal fishery, produce the staple, or procure the skins, which after long labour afford comfort and adornment to proud philosophers and peers. The golden cross on the saintly bosom and the glittering crown on the sovereign brow were embedded as rough ore in primeval rocks ages before their wearers were born to boast of them. We shall esteem our treasures none the less because their origin is known, as we love "the Best of men" none the less because he was born of a woman. We closed our series of moon myths with a vision of a beautiful country, ornamented with groves of fruitful trees, whose seeds had been carried thither by white-winged doves; and carried thither because "some accident" had destroyed the trees in their native isles on earth. Thus the lunar world had become a desirable scene of superior and surpassing loveliness. Who can reflect upon this dream of human childhood, and not recall some dreams of later years? Who can fail to discern slight touches of the same hand which we see displayed in other designs? "Happily for historic truth," says Mr. Tylor, "mythic tradition tells its tales without expurgating the episodes which betray its real character to more critical observation." [103] Who is not led on from Tahiti to Greece, and to the Isles of the Blessed, the Elysium which abounds in every charm of life, and to the garden of the Hesperides, with its apples of gold; thence to the Meru of the Hindoos, the sacred mountain which is perpetually clothed in the rays of the sun, and adorned with every variety of plants and trees; thence again to the Heden of the Persians, of matchless beauty, where ever flourishes the tree Hom with its wonderful fruit; on to the Chinese garden, near the gate of heaven, whose noblest spring is the fountain of life, and whose delightful trees bear fruits which preserve and prolong the existence of man? [104] Thence an easy entrance is gained to the Hebrew Paradise, with its abounding trees "pleasant to the sight and good for food, the tree of life also in the midst of the garden"; and finally arises a sight of the "better land" of the Christian poetess, the incorruptible and undefiled inheritance of the Christian preacher, the prospect which is "ever vernal and blooming,--and, best of all, amid those trees of life there lurks no serpent to destroy,--the country, through whose vast region we shall traverse with untired footsteps, while every fresh revelation of beauty will augment our knowledge, and holiness, and joy." [105] Who will travel on such a pilgrimage of enlarged thought, and not come to the conclusion that if one course of development has been followed by all scientific and spiritual truth, then "almost the whole of the mythology and theology of civilized nations maybe traced, without arrangement or co-ordination, and in forms that are undeveloped and original rather than degenerate, in the traditions and ideas of savages"? [106] Such a conclusion may diminish our self-esteem, if we have supposed ourselves the sole depositaries of Divine knowledge; but it will exalt our conception of the generosity of the Father of all men, who never left a human soul without a witness of His invisible presence and ineffable love. MOON WORSHIP. I. INTRODUCTION. We have now to show that the moon has been in every age, and remains still, one of the principal objects of human worship. Even among certain nations credited with pure monotheism, it will be manifested that there was the practice of that primitive polytheism which adored the hosts of heaven. And, however humiliating or disappointing the disclosure may prove, it will be established that some of the foremost Christian peoples of the world maintain luniolatry to this day, notwithstanding that they have the reproving light of the latest civilization. We are so prone to talk of heathenism as abroad, that we forget or neglect the gross heathenism which abounds at home; and while we complacently speak of the march of the world's progress with which we identify ourselves, we are oblivious of the fact that much ancient falsehood survives and blends with the truth in which our superior minds, or minds with superior facilities, have been trained. How few of us reflect that the signs and symbols of rejected theories have passed into the nomenclature of received systems! Nay, we plume ourselves upon the new translation or revision as if we were the favoured recipients of some fresh revelation. Not only in the names of our days and months, but also in some of our most cherished dogmas, we are but the "liberal-conservatives" in religion, who retain the old, while we congratulate ourselves upon being the apostles of the new. That the past must always run into the present, and the present proceed from the past, we readily enough allow as a natural and necessary law; yet baptized heathenism is often heathenism still, under another name. Again, we are sometimes so short-sighted that we deny to former periods the paternity of their own more fortunate offspring, and behave like prosperous children who ungratefully ignore their poorer parents, to whom they owe their breath and being. Such treatment of history is to be emphatically deprecated, whether it arises from ignorance or ingratitude. We ought to know, if we do not, and we ought also to acknowledge, that our perfect day grew out of primeval darkness, and that the progress was a lingering dawn. This we hold to be the clearest view of the Divine causation. Our modern method in philosophy, largely owing to the _Novum Organum_ of Bacon, is evolution, the _novum organum_ of the nineteenth century; and this process recognises no abrupt or interruptive creations, but gradual transformations from pre-existent types, "variations under domestication," and the passing away of the old by its absorption into the new. Our religion, like our language, is a garden not only for indigenous vegetation, but also for acclimatisation, in which we improve under cultivation exotic plants whose roots are drawn from every soil on the earth. And, as Paul preached in Athens the God whom the Greeks worshipped in ignorance, so our missionaries carry back to less enlightened peoples the fruit of that life-giving tree whose germs exist among themselves, undeveloped and often unknown. No religion has fallen from heaven, like the fabled image of Athene, in full-grown beauty. All spiritual life is primordially an inspiration or intuition from the Father of spirits, whose offspring all men are, and who is not far from every one of them. This intuition prompts men to "seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after Him, and find Him." Thus prayer becomes an instinct; and to worship is as natural as to breathe. But man is a being with five senses, and as his contact with his fellow-creatures and with the whole creation is at one or other of those five points, he is necessarily sensuous. Endowed with native intelligence, the _intellectus ipse_ of Leibnitz, he nevertheless receives his impressions on _sensitive_ nerves, his emotions are _sentiments_, his words become _sentences_, and his stock of wisdom is his common _sense_. A few, very few, words express his sensations, a few more his perceptions, and so on; but he is conscious of _objects_ at first, he deals with _subjects_ afterwards. Soon the sun, moon, and stars, as bright lights attract his eyes, as we have all seen an infant of a few days fix its gaze upon a candle or lamp. These heavenly orbs are found to be in motion, to be far away, to be the glory of day and night: what wonder if _ideas_ of these _images_ are formed in the religious mind, if the worshipper imagines the sun and moon to be reflections of the God of light, and pays homage to the creature which renders the Creator visible? Thus in the childhood of man religion grows, and with the multiplication of intellect and sensation, endless diversity of language, conception and faith is the result. Another result, of course, is the endless diversity of deities. Every race, every nation, every tribe, every household, every heart, has had its own God. And yet, with all this multiplicity in religious literature and dogma, subject and object, a unity co-exists which the student of the science notes with profound interest. All nations of men are of one blood; and all forms of God embody the one Eternal Spirit. To this unity mythology tends. As one writer says: "We must ever bear in mind that the course of mythology is from many gods toward one, that it is a synthesis, not an analysis, and that in this process the tendency is to blend in one the traits and stories of originally separate divinities." [107] The ancient Hebrew worshipped God as "the Eternal, our righteousness"; the Greek worshipped Him as wisdom and beauty; the Roman as power and government; the Persian as light and goodness; and so forth. Few hymns have surpassed the beauty of Pope's _Universal Prayer_. It is the _Te Deum laudamus_ of that catholic Church which embraces God-loved humanity. "Father of all! in every age, In every clime, adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!" The Christian, believing his to be the "One Religion," as a recent Bampton Lecturer termed it, too often forgets that his system is a recomposition of rays of a religious light which was decomposed in the prismatic minds of earlier men. And further, with a change of metaphor, if Christianity has flourished and fructified through eighteen centuries, it must not be denied that it is a graft upon an old stock which through fifteen previous centuries had borne abundant fruit. The same course must be adopted still. We find men everywhere holding some truth; we add further truth; until, as a chemist would say, we saturate the solution, which upon evaporation produces a crystallized life of entirely new colour and quality and form. Thus Professor Nilsson writes: "Every religious _change_ in a people is, in fact, only an intermixture of religions; because the new religion, whether received by means of convincing arguments, or enforced by the eloquence of fire and sword, cannot _at once_ tear up all the wide-spreading roots by which its forerunner has grown in the heart of the people; this must be the work of many years, perhaps of many generations." [108] We cannot better close this lengthy introduction than by reminding Christians of the saying of their Great and Good Teacher, "I am not come to destroy, but to fulfil." II. THE MOON MOSTLY A MALE DEITY. We have already in part pointed out that the moon has been considered as of the masculine gender; and have therefore but to travel a little farther afield to show that in the Aryan of India, in Egyptian, Arabian, Slavonian, Latin, Lithuanian, Gothic, Teutonic, Swedish, Anglo-Saxon, and South American, the moon is a male god. To do this, in addition to former quotations, it will be sufficient to adduce a few authorities. "Moon," says Max Müller, "is a very old word. It was _móna_ in Anglo-Saxon, and was used there, not as a feminine, but as a masculine for the moon was originally a masculine, and the sun a feminine, in all Teutonic languages; and it is only through the influence of classical models that in English moon has been changed into a feminine, and sun into a masculine. It was a most unlucky assertion which Mr. Harris made in his _Hermes_, that all nations ascribe to the sun a masculine, and to the moon a feminine gender." [109] Grimm says, "Down to recent times, our people were fond of calling the sun and moon _frau sonne_ and _herr mond_." [110] Sir Gardner Wilkinson writes: "Another reason that the moon in the Egyptian mythology could not be related to Bubastis is, that it was a male and not a female deity, personified in the god Thoth. This was also the case in some religions of the West. The Romans recognised the god Lunus; and the Germans, like the Arabs, to this day, consider the moon masculine, and not feminine, as were the Selênê and Luna of the Greeks and Latins." [111] Again, "The Egyptians represented their moon as a male deity, like the German _mond_ and _monat_, or the _Lunus_ of the Latins; and it is worthy of remark, that the same custom of calling it male is retained in the East to the present day, while the sun is considered female, as in the language of the Germans." [112] "In Slavonic," Sir George Cox tells us, "as in the Teutonic mythology, the moon is male. His wedding with the sun brings on him the wrath of Perkunas [the thunder-god], as the song tells us 'The moon wedded the sun In the first spring. The sun rose early The moon departed from her. The moon wandered alone; Courted the morning star. Perkunas, greatly wroth, Cleft him with a sword. 'Wherefore dost thou depart from the sun, Wandering by night alone, Courting the morning star?'" [113] "In a Servian song a girl cries to the sun-- 'O brilliant sun! I am fairer than thou Than thy brother, the bright moon.'" In South Slavonian poetry the sun often figures as a radiant youth. But among the northern Slavonians, as well as the Lithuanians, the sun was regarded as a female being, the bride of the moon. 'Thou askest me of what race, of what family I am,' says the fair maiden of a song preserved in the Tambof Government-- 'My mother is--the beauteous Sun, And my father--the bright Moon.'" [114] "Among the Mbocobis of South America the moon is a man and the sun his wife." [115] The Ahts of North America take the same view; and we know that in Sanskrit and in Hebrew the word for moon is masculine. This may seem to many a matter of no importance; but if mythology throws much light upon ancient history and religion, its importance may be considerable, especially as it lies at the root of that sexuality which has been the most prolific parent of both good and evil in human life. The sexual relation has existed from the very birth of animated nature; and it is remarkable that a man of learning and piety in Germany has made the strange if not absurd statement that in the beginning "Adam was externally sexless." [116] Another idea, more excusable, but equally preposterous, is, that grammatical gender has been the cause of the male and female personation of deities, when really it has been the result. The cause, no doubt, was inherent in man's constitution; and was the inevitable effect of thought and expression. The same necessity of natural language which led the Hebrew prophets to speak of their land as married, of their nation as a wife in prosperity and a widow in calamity, of their Maker as their husband, who rejoices over them as the bridegroom rejoiceth over the bride: [117] this same necessity, becoming a habit like that of our own country folks in Hampshire, of whom Cobbett speaks, who call almost everything _he_ or _she_; led the sensuous and imaginative ancients, as it leads simple and poetical peoples still, to call the moon a man and to worship him as a god. Objects of fear and reverence would be usually masculines; and objects of love and desire feminines. We may thus find light thrown upon the honours paid to such goddesses as Astarte and Aphrodite: which will also help us to understand the deification by a celibate priesthood of the Virgin Mary. We may, moreover, account partly for the fact that to the sailor his ship is always she; to the swain the flowers which resemble his idol, as the lily and the rose, are always feminine, and used as female names; while to the patriot the mother country is nearly always of the tender sex. [118] Prof. Max Müller thinks that the distinction between males and females began, "not with the introduction of masculine nouns, but with the introduction of feminines, _i.e._ with the setting apart of certain derivative suffixes for females. By this all other words became masculine." [119] Thus the sexual emotions of men created that grammatical gender which has contributed so powerfully to our later mythology, and has therefore been mistaken for the author of our male and female personations. What beside sexuality suggested the thought of the Chevalier Marini? "He introduces the god _Pan_, who boasts that the spots which are seen in the moon are impressions of the kisses he gave it." [120] That grammar is very much younger than sexual relations is proven by the curious fact mentioned by Max Müller that _pater_ is not a masculine, nor _mater_ a feminine. Gender, we must not forget, is from _genus_, a kind or class; and that the classification in various languages has been arranged on no fixed plan. We in our modern English, with much still to do, have improved in this respect, since, in Anglo-Saxon, _wif_ = wife, was neuter, and _wif-mann_ = woman, was masculine. In German still _die frau_, the woman, is feminine; but _das weib_, the wife, is neuter. [121] Dr. Farrar finds the root of gender in the imagination: which we admit if associated with sex. Otherwise, we cannot understand how an _unfelt_ distinction of this sort could be mentally _seen_. But Dr. Farrar means more than imagination, for he says, "from this source is derived the whole system of genders for inanimate things, which was perhaps inevitable at that early childish stage of the human intelligence, when the actively working soul attributed to everything around it some portion of its own life. Hence, well-nigh everything is spoken of as masculine or feminine." [122] We are surprised that Dr. Farrar seems to think German an exception, in making a masculine noun of the moon. He has failed to apply to this point his usual learned and laborious investigation. [123] Diogenes Laertius describes the theology of the Jews as an offshoot from that of the Chaldees, and says that the former affirm of the latter "that they condemn images, and especially those persons who say that the gods are male and female." [124] Which condemnation implies the prevalence of this sexual distinction between their deities. In concluding this chapter we think that it will be granted that gender in the personification of inanimate objects was the result of sex in the animate subject: that primitive men saw the moon as a most conspicuous object, whose spots at periods had the semblance of a man's face, whose waxing and waning increased their wonder: whose coming and going amid the still and solemn night added to the mystery: until from being viewed as a man, it was feared, especially when apparently angry in a mist or an eclipse, and so reverenced and worshipped as the heaven-man, the monthly god. III. THE MOON A WORLD-WIDE DEITY. Anthropomorphism, or the representation of outward objects in the _form_ of _man_, wrought largely, as we have seen, in the manufacture of the man in the moon; it entered no less into the composition of the moon-god. The twenty-first verse of the fiftieth Psalm contains its recognition and rebuke. "Thou thoughtest that I was altogether as thyself"; or, still more literally, "Thou hast thought that being, I shall be like thee." As Dr. Delitzsch says, "Because man in God's likeness has a bodily form, some have presumed to infer backwards therefrom that God also has a bodily form like to man, which is related by way of prototype to the human form." [125] As well might we say that because a watchmaker constructs a chronometer with a movement somewhat like that of his own heart, therefore he is mechanical, metallic, and round. Against this anthropomorphic materialism science lifts up its voice; for what modern philosopher, worthy of the name, fails to distinguish between phenomenon and fact, inert matter and active force? Says a recent writer, "We infer that as our own master of the mint is neither a sovereign nor a half-sovereign, so the force which coins and recoins this ulh, or matter, must be altogether in the god-part and none of it in the metal or paste in which it works." [126] With the progress of man's intelligence we shall observe improvement in this anthropomorphism, but it will still survive. As Mr. Baring-Gould tells us: "The savage invests God with bodily attributes; in a more civilized state man withdraws the bodily attributes, but imposes the limitations of his own mental nature; and in his philosophic elevation he recognises in God intelligence only, though still with anthropomorphic conditions." [127] Xenophanes said that if horses, oxen, and lions could paint, they would make gods like themselves. And Ralph Waldo Emerson says: "The gods of fable are the shining moments of great men. We run all our vessels into one mould. Our colossal theologies of Judaism, Christism, Buddhism, Mahometism, are the necessary and structural action of the human mind. The student of history is like a man going into a warehouse to buy clothes or carpets. He fancies he has a new article. If he go to the factory, he shall find that his new stuff still repeats the scrolls and rosettes which are found on the interior walls of the pyramids of Thebes. Our theism is the purification of the human mind. Man can paint, or make, or think nothing but man. He believes that the great material elements had their origin from his thought. And our philosophy finds one essence collected or distributed." [128] And a devout author, whose orthodoxy --whatever that may mean--is unquestioned, acknowledges that man adored the unknown power in the sun, and "in the moon, which bathes the night with its serene splendours. Under this latter form, completed by a very simple anthropomorphism which applies to the gods the law of the sexes, the religions of nature weighed during long ages upon Western Asia." [129] A volume might be written upon this subject; but we have other work in hand. It seems to be generally admitted that no form of idolatry is older than the worship of the moon. Lord Kames says, "It is probable that the sun and moon were early held to be deities, and that they were the first visible objects of worship." [130] Dr. Inman says, "That the sun and moon were at a very early period worshipped, none who has studied antiquity can deny." [131] And Goldziher maintains that "the lunar worship is older than the solar." [132] Maimonides, "the light of Israel," says that the Zabaists not only worshipped the moon themselves, but they also asserted that Adam led mankind to that species of worship. No doubt luniolatry is as old as the human race. In some parts the moon is still the superior god. Mr. Tylor writes: "Moon worship, naturally ranking below sun worship in importance, ranges through nearly the same district of culture. There are remarkable cases in which the moon is recognised as a great deity by tribes who take less account, or none at all, of the sun. An old account of the Caribs describes them as esteeming the moon more than the sun, and at new moon coming out of their houses crying, Behold the moon!" [133] This deity, then, is ancient and modern: also a chief of the gods: let us now show that he is a god whose empire is the world. We begin in Asia, and with the Assyrian monuments, which display many religious types and emblems. "Representations of the heavenly bodies, as sacred symbols, are of constant occurrence in the most ancient sculptures. In the bas-reliefs we find figures of the sun, moon, and stars, suspended round the neck of the king when engaged in the performance of religious ceremonies." [134] In Chaldaea "the moon was named Sin and Hur. Hurki, Hur, and Ur was the chief place of his worship, for the satellite was then considered as being masculine. The name for the moon in Armenian was _Khaldi_, which has been considered by some to be the origin of the word Chaldee, as signifying moon worshippers." [135] With this Chaldaean deity may be connected "the Akkadian moon god, who corresponds with the Semitic Sin," and who "is Aku, 'the seated-father,' as chief supporter of kosmic order, styled 'the maker of brightness,' En-zuna, 'the lord of growth,' and Idu, 'the measuring lord,' the Aïdês of Hesychios." [136] "With respect to the name of Chaldaean, perhaps the most probable account of the origin of the word is, that it designates properly the inhabitants of the ancient capital, Ur or Hur,--_Kkaldi_ being in the Burbur dialect the exact equivalent of _Hur_, which was the proper name of the moon god, and Chaldaeans being thus either 'moon worshippers,' or simply, inhabitants of the town dedicated to, and called after, the moon." [137] Again: "The first god of the second triad is Sin or Hurki, the moon deity. It is in condescension to Greek notions that Berosus inverts the true Chaldaean order, and places the sun before the moon in his enumeration of the heavenly bodies. Chaldaean mythology gives a very decided preference to the lesser luminary, perhaps because the nights are more pleasant than the clays in hot countries. With respect to the names of the god, we may observe that Sin, the Assyrian or Semitic term, is a word of quite uncertain etymology, which, however, is found applied to the moon in many Semitic languages." [138] "_Sin_ is used for the moon in Mendaean and Syriac at the present day. It is the name given to the moon god in St. James of Seruj's list of the idols of Harran; and it was the term used for Monday by the Sabaeans as late as the ninth century." [139] Another author writes: "The Babylonian and Assyrian moon god is Sin, whose name probably appears in Sinai. The expression, 'from the origin of the god Sin,' was used by the Assyrians to mark remote antiquity; because, as chaos preceded order, so night preceded day, and the enthronement of the moon as the night-king marks the commencement of the annals of kosmic order." [140] When we search the Hebrew Scriptures, we find too many allusions to the Queen of Heaven, to Astarte and the groves, for us to doubt that the Israelites adored "--moonèd Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both." (Milton's _Odes_.) Dr. Goldziher is an incontestable authority, and thus writes: "Queen or Princess of Heaven is a very frequent name for the moon." [141] Again, "Even in the latest times the Hebrews called the moon the 'Queen of Heaven' (Jer. vii. 18), and paid her Divine honours in this character at the time of the captivity." [142] And, to complete this author's witness, he again says: "What was the antiquity of this lunar worship among the Hebrews, is testified (as has long been known) by the part played by Mount Sinai in the history of Hebrew religion. For this geographical name is doubtless related to _Sin_, one of the Semitic names of the moon. The mountain must in ancient times have been consecrated to the moon. The beginning of the Hebrew religion, which was connected with the phenomena of the night-sky, germinated first during the residence in Egypt on the foundation of an ancient myth. The recollection of this occasioned them to call the part of Egypt which they had long inhabited, eres Sînîm, 'moonland' (Isa. xlix. 12)." [143] It is but just that we should hear the other side, when there is a difference of opinion. The above mentioned 'Queen of Heaven' is beyond question the Ashtoreth or Astarte (identical with our _star_), which was the principal goddess of the Phoenicians; and we believe she was originally the goddess of the moon. This is doubted by a modern writer, who says, "Baal is constantly coupled with Astarte; and the more philosophical opinion is that this national god and goddess were the lord and lady of Phoenicia, rather than the sun and moon: for to a people full of political life the sun and moon would have been themselves representatives, while a Divine king and queen were the realities. And if so, the habitual inclination of the Israelites, an essentially political people, for this worship becomes the more easily understood." [144] Professor F. D. Maurice, in his _Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy_, also takes this view. The question here is not whether the Jews worshipped Astarte, but whether Astarte was the moon. This we cannot hesitate to answer in the affirmative. Kenrick writes: "Ashtoreth or Astarte appears physically to represent the moon. She was the chief local deity of Sidon; but her worship must have been extensively diffused, not only in Palestine, but in the countries east of the Jordan, as we find Ashtaroth-Karnaim (Ashtaroth of two horns) mentioned in the book of Genesis (xiv. 5). This goddess, like other lunar deities, appears to have been symbolized by a heifer, or a figure with a heifer's head, whose horns resembled the crescent moon. The children of Israel renounced her worship at the persuasion of Samuel; and we do not read again of her idolatry till the reign of Solomon (1 Kings xi. 5), after which it appears never to have been permanently banished, though put down for a time by Josiah (2 Kings xxiii. 13). She is the Queen of Heaven, to whom, according to the reproaches of Jeremiah (vii. 18, xliv. 25), the women of Israel poured out their drink-offerings, and burnt incense, and offered cakes, regarding her as the author of their national prosperity. This epithet accords well with the supposition that she represented the moon, as some ancient authors inform us." [145] Dr. Gotch, an eminent Hebrew scholar, says that there is no doubt that the moon is the symbol of productive power and must be identified with Astarte. "That this goddess was so typified can scarcely be doubted. The ancient name of the city, Ashtaroth-Karnaim, already referred to, seems to indicate a horned Astarte, that is an image with a crescent moon on her head like the Egyptian Athor. At any rate, it is certain that she was by some ancient writers identified with the moon, as Lucian and Herodian. On these grounds Movers, Winer, Keil, and others maintain that originally Ashtoreth was the moon goddess." [146] Clearly, then, the Hebrews worshipped the moon. But, even apart from Astarte, this worship may be proven on other evidence. Dr. Jamieson says that the word _mena_ (moon: Anglo-Saxon, _mona_) "approaches most nearly to a word used by the prophet Isaiah, which has been understood by the most learned interpreters as denoting the moon. 'Ye are they that prepare a table for _Gad_, and that furnish the offering unto _Meni_.' (Isa. lxv. 11). As _Gad_ is understood of the _sun_, we learn from Diodor Sicul that _Meni_ is to be viewed as a designation of the _moon_." [147] This is Bishop Lowth's view. "The disquisitions and conjectures of the learned concerning Gad and Meni are infinite and uncertain: perhaps the most probable may be, that Gad means good fortune, and Meni the moon." [148] One point is worthy of notice. In our English version _Meni_ is rendered "number"; and we know very well that by the courses of the moon ancient months and years were numbered. In Isaiah iii. 18 we find the daughters of Zion ornamented with feet-rings, and networks, and _crescents_: or, as our translation reads, "round tires like the moon." And, once more, in Ezekiel xlvi., we read that the gate of the inner court of the sanctuary that "looketh toward the east, shall be opened on the day of the new moon"; and the meat offering on "the day of the new moon shall be a young bullock without blemish, and six lambs, and a ram." If there was no sacred significance in the observance of these lunar changes, why did the writer of the New Testament Epistle to the Colossians say, "Let no man judge you in respect of the new moon"? A competent scholar, in recognising this consociation of Hebrew religion with the moon's phases, rightly ascribes to it an earlier origin. Says Ewald: "To connect the annual festivals with the full moon, and to commence them in the evening, as though greeting her with a glad shout, was certainly a primitive custom, both among other races and in the circle of nations from which in the earliest times Israel sprang." [149] And the Bishop of Derry remarks: "To a religious Hebrew it was rather the moon than the sun which marked the seasons, as the calendar of the Church was regulated by it." [150] We have sought to place this Hebrew luniolatry beyond dispute, because so many Christians have supposed that "the chosen people" lived in unclouded light, and "the uncovenanted heathen" in outer and utter darkness. Passing on we find that "in Pontus and Phrygia were temples to _Meen_, and Homer says _Meen_ presides over the months, whilst in the Sanskrit _Mina_, we see her connected with the Fish and Virgin. It is not improbable that the great Akaimenian race, as worshipping and upholding sun and moon faiths, were called after _Meni_, the moon." [151] Among the Arabians the moon was the great divinity, as may be learned from Pocock's _Specimen Historiae Arabum_; Prideaux's _Connection_; Gibbon's _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_; and Sale's _Preliminary Discourse_ to his translation of the _Koran_. Tiele says: "The ancient religion of the Arabs rises little higher than animistic polydaemonism. The names Itah and Shamsh, the sun god, occur among all the Semitic peoples; Allât, or Alilât, and Al-Uzza, as well as the triad of moon goddesses to which these last belong, are common to several, and the deities which bear them are reckoned among the chief." [152] The Saracens called the moon _Cabar_, the great; and its crescent is the religious symbol of the Turks to this day. Tradition says that "Philip, the father of Alexander, meeting with great difficulties in the siege of Byzantium, set the workmen to undermine the walls, but a crescent moon discovered the design, which miscarried; consequently the Byzantines erected a statue to Diana, and the crescent became the symbol of the state." Dr. Brewer, who cites this story, adds: "Another legend is that Othman, the sultan, saw in a vision a crescent moon, which kept increasing till its horns extended from east to west, and he adopted the crescent of his dream for his standard, adding the motto, _Donec repleat orbem_." [153] Schlegel mentions the story that Mahomet "wished to pass with his disciples as a person transfigured in a supernatural light, and that the credulity of his followers saw the moon, or the moon's light, descend upon him, pierce his garments, and replenish him. That veneration for the moon which still forms a national or rather religious characteristic of the Mahometans, may perhaps have its foundation in the elder superstition, or pagan idolatry of the Arabs." [154] No doubt this last sentence contains the true elucidation of the crescent. For astrolatry lives in the east still. The _Koran_ may expressly forbid the practice, saying: "Bend not in adoration to the sun or moon"; [155] yet, "monotheist as he is, the Moslem still claps his hands at sight of the new moon, and says a prayer." [156] We come next to the Persians, whom Herodotus accuses of adoring the sun and moon. But, as Gibbon says, "the Persians of every age have denied the charge, and explained the equivocal conduct, which might appear to give colour to it." [157] It will certainly require considerable explanation to free from lunar idolatry the following passage, which we find in the _Zend Avesta_: "We sacrifice unto the new moon, the holy and master of holiness: we sacrifice unto the full moon, the holy and master of holiness." [158] Unquestionably the Persian recognised the Lord of Light _in_ the ordinances of heaven; and therefore his was superior to many forms of blind idol-worship. So far we may accept Hegel's interpretation of the _Zend_ doctrine. "Light is the _body of Ormuzd_; thence the worship of fire, because Ormuzd is present in all light; but he is not the sun or moon itself In these the Persians venerate only the light, which is Ormuzd." [159] In fact, we owe to the Persians a valuable testimony to the God in whom is no darkness at all. "The prayer of Ajax was for light"; and we too little feel the Fire which burns and shines beyond the stars. In Central India the sun and moon are worshipped by many tribes, as the Khonds, Korkús, Tunguses, and Buraets. The Korkús adore the powers of nature, as the gods of the tiger, bison, the hill, the cholera, etc., "but these are all secondary to the sun and the moon, which among this branch of the Kolarian stock, as among the Kols in the far east, are the principal objects of adoration." [160a] "Although the Tongusy in general worship the sun and moon, there are many exceptions to this observation. I have found intelligent people among them, who believed that there was a being superior to both sun and moon; and who created them and all the world." [160b] This last sentence we read with gratitude, but not with surprise. There is some good in all, if there seem to be all good in some. "The aboriginal tribes in the Dekkan of India also acknowledge the presence of the sun and moon by an act of reverence." [161] The inhabitants of the island of Celebes, in the East Indian Archipelago, "formerly acknowledged no gods but the sun and the moon, which were held to be eternal. Ambition for superiority made them fall out." [162] According to Milton, ambition created unpleasantness in the Hebrew heaven. In Northern Asia the moon had adoring admirers among the Samoyedes, the Morduans, the Tschuwasches, and other tribes. This is stated by Sir John Lubbock. [163] Lord Kames says: "The people of Borneo worship the sun and moon as real divinities. The Samoides worship both, bowing to them morning and evening in the Persian manner." [164] The _Samoides_ are the "salmon-eaters" of Asia. Moon-worship in China is of ancient origin, and exists in our own time. Professor Legge tells us that the primitive _shih_ "is the symbol for manifestation and revelation. The upper part of it is the same as that in the older form of Tî, indicating 'what is above'; but of the three lines below I have not found a satisfactory account. Hsü Shan says they represent 'the sun, moon, and stars,' and that the whole symbolizes 'the indications by these bodies of the will of Heaven! Shih therefore tells us that the Chinese fathers believed that there was communication between heaven and men. The idea of revelation did not shock them. The special interpretation of the strokes below, however, if it were established, would lead us to think that even then, so far back, there was the commencement of astrological superstition, and also, perhaps, of Sabian worship." [165] Sabianism, as most readers are aware, is the adoration of the armies of heaven: the word being derived from the Hebrew _tzaba_, a host. Dr. Legge leaves Chinese Sabianism in some doubt, in the above quotation; but later on he speaks of the spirits associated with the solstitial worship, whose intercession was thus secured, "I, the emperor of the Great Illustrious dynasty, have respectfully prepared this paper, to inform the spirit of the sun, the spirit of the moon, the spirits of the five planets, of the constellations of the zodiac, and of all the stars in all the sky," and so on: and the professor adds: "This paper shows how there had grown up around the primitive monotheism of China the recognition and worship of a multitude of celestial and terrestrial spirits." [166] This is ample evidence to prove moon-worship. True, these celestial beings were "but ministering spirits," and the "monotheism remained." There was no _henotheism_, no worship of several _single_ supreme deities: _One only_ was supreme. So among the Hebrews, Persians, Hindoos, there was one only God; and yet they offered prayers and sacrifices to heaven's visible and innumerable host. When we come to modern China we shall find some very remarkable celebrations taking place, which throw sunlight upon these ancient mists. Meanwhile to strengthen our position, we may draw additional support from each of the three great stages reached in the progress of Chinese religion: namely, Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism. Dr. Edkins describes them as the moral, materialistic, and metaphysical systems, standing at the three corners of a great triangle. [167] The god of Confucianism is _Shang-tî_ or _Shang-te_. And with the universal anthropomorphism "Shang-te is the great father of gods and men: Shang-te is a gigantic man." [168] Again "Heaven is a great man, and man is a little heaven." [169] And now what does Confucianism say of moon-worship? "The sun and moon being the chief objects of veneration to the most ancient ancestors of the Chinese, they translated the soul of their great father heaven or the first man (Shang-te) to the sun, and the soul of their great mother earth or the first woman (the female half of the first man) to the moon." [170] In Taoism there is no room for question. Dr. Legge says that it had its Chang and Liû, and "many more gods, supreme gods, celestial gods, great gods, and divine rulers." [171] And Dr. Edkins writes: "The Taouist mythology resembles, in several points, that of many heathen nations. Some of its divinities personate those beings that are supposed to reside in the various departments of nature. Many of the stars are worshipped as gods." [172] Buddhism not only supplies further evidence, it also furnishes a noteworthy instance of mythic transformation. Sakchi or Sasi, the moon, is literally one who made a sacrifice. This refers to the legend of the hare who gave himself to feed the god. The wife of Indra adopted the hare's name, and was herself called Sasi. "The Tantra school gave every deity its Sakti or consort, and speculation enlarged the meaning of the term still further, making it designate female energy or the female principle." [173] Buddhism, then, the popular religion in China at the present day, the religion which Dr. Farrar ventures to call "atheism fast merging into idolatry," [174] is not free from the nature worship which deifies the moon. But Buddhism, like most other imperfect systems, has precious gold mixed with its dross; and at the expense of a digression we delight to quote the statement of a recent writer, who says: "There is no record, known to me, in the whole of the long history of Buddhism, throughout the many countries where its followers have been for such lengthened periods supreme, of any persecution by the Buddhists of the followers of any other faith." [175] How glad we should feel if we could assert the same of the Christian Church! We come at once to those celebrations which still take place in China, and illustrate the worship of the moon. The festival of _Yue-Ping_--which is held annually during the eighth month, from the first day when the moon is new, to the fifteenth, when it is full--is of high antiquity and of deep interest. Dr. Morrison says that "the custom of civil and military officers going on the first and fifteenth of every moon to the civil and military temples to burn incense, began in the time of the Luh Chaon," which would be not far from A.D. 550. Also that the "eighth month, fifteenth day, is called Chung-tsew-tsëë. It is said that the Emperor Ming-hwang, of the dynasty Tang, was one night led to the palace of the moon, where he saw a large assembly of Chang-go-sëën-neu--female divinities playing on instruments of music. Persons now, from the first to the fifteenth, make cakes like the moon, of various sizes, and paint figures upon them: these are called Yue-ping, 'mooncakes.' Friends and relations pay visits, purchase and present the cakes to each other, and give entertainments. At full moon they spread out oblations and make prostrations to the moon." [176] Dennys writes: "The fifteenth day of the eighth month is a day on which a ceremony is performed by the Chinese, which of all others we should least expect to find imitated among ourselves. Most people resident in China have seen the moon-cakes which so delight the heart of the Chinese during the eighth month of every year. These are made for an autumnal festival often described as 'congratulating' or 'rewarding' the moon. The moon, it is well known, represents the female principle in Chinese celestial cosmogony, and she is further supposed to be inhabited by a multitude of beautiful females; the cakes made in her honour are therefore veritable offerings to the Queen of the Heavens. Now in a part of Lancashire, on the banks of the Ribble, there exists a precisely similar custom of making cakes in honour of the 'Queen of Heaven,'--a relic, in all probability, of the old heathen worship which was the common fount of the two customs." [177] Witness is also borne to this ceremony by a well-known traveller. "We arrived at Chaborté on the fifteenth day of the eighth moon, the anniversary of great rejoicings among the Chinese. This festival, known as the _Yue-Ping_ (loaves of the moon), dates from the remotest antiquity. Its original purpose was to honour the moon with superstitious rites. On this solemn day, all labour is suspended; the workmen receive from their employers a present of money, every person puts on his best clothes; and there is merry-making in every family. Relations and friends interchange cakes of various sizes, on which is stamped the image of the moon; that is to say, a hare crouching amid a small group of trees." [178] And Doolittle says: "It is always full moon on the fifteenth of every Chinese month; and, therefore, for several days previous, the evenings are bright, unless it happens to be cloudy, which is not often the case. The moon is a prominent object of attention and congratulation at this time. At Canton, it is said, offerings are made to the moon on the fifteenth. On the following day, young people amuse themselves by playing what is called _'pursuing_,' or '_congratulating_' the moon. At this city [Fuhchau], in the observance of this festival, the expression '_rewarding the moon_' is more frequently used than 'congratulating the moon.' It is a common saying that there is 'a white rabbit in the moon pounding out rice.' The dark and the white spots on the moon's face suggest the idea of that animal engaged in the useful employment of shelling rice. The notion is prevalent that the moon is inhabited by a multitude of beautiful females, who are called by the name of an ancient beauty who once visited that planet; but how they live, and what they do, is not a matter of knowledge or of common fame. To the question, 'Is the moon inhabited?' discussed by some Western philosophers, the Chinese would answer in the affirmative. Several species of trees and flowers are supposed to flourish in the moon. Some say that, one night in ancient times, one of the three souls of the originator of theatrical plays rambled away to the moon and paid a visit to the Lunar Palace. He found it filled with Lunarians engaged in theatrical performances. He is said to have remembered the manner of conducting fashionable theatres in the moon, and to have imitated them after his return to this earth. About the time of the festival of the middle of autumn, the bake shops provide an immense amount and variety of cakes: many of them are circular, in imitation of the shape of the moon at that time, and are from six to twelve inches in diameter. Some are in the form of a pagoda, or of a horse and rider, or of a fish, or other animals which please and cause the cake to be readily sold. Some of these 'moon-cakes' have a white rabbit, engaged with his pounder, painted on one side, together with a lunar beauty, and some trees or shrubs; on others are painted gods or goddesses, animals, flowers, or persons, according to fancy." [179] If we turn now to Jeremiah vii. 18, and read there, "The women knead dough, to make cakes to the Queen of Heaven, and to pour out drink offerings unto other gods," and remember that, according to Rashi, these cakes of the Hebrews had the image of the god or goddess stamped upon them, we are in view of a fact of much interest. We are so unaccustomed to think that our peasants in Lancashire can have anything in common with the Chinese five thousand miles away, and with the Jews of two thousand five hundred years ago, that to many these moon-cakes will give a genuine surprise. But this is not all. Other analogies appear between Buddhist and Christian rites, such as those mentioned by Dr. Medhurst. "The very titles of their intercessors, such as 'goddess of mercy,' 'holy mother,' 'queen of heaven,' with the image of a virgin, having a child in her arms, holding a cross, are all such striking coincidences, that the Catholic missionaries were greatly stumbled at the resemblance between the Chinese worship and their own, when they came over to convert the natives to Christianity." [180] It is for the philosophical historian to show, if possible, whether these Chinese ceremonies are copies of Christian or Hebrew originals; or whether, many of our own Western forms with others of Oriental character, are not transcripts of primitive faiths now well-nigh forgotten in both East and West. The hot cross buns of Good Friday, at first sight, have little relevancy to moon worship, and those who eat them suppose they were originated to commemorate the Christian Sacrifice; but we know that the cross was a sacred symbol with the earliest Egyptians, for it is carved upon their imperishable records; we know too that _bun_ itself is ancient Greek, and that Winckelmann relates the discovery at Herculaneum of two perfect buns, each marked with a cross: while the _boun_ described by Hesychius was a cake with a representation of _two horns_. Incredible as it may seem to some, the cross bun in its origin had nothing to do with an event with which it is in England identified; it probably commemorates the worship of the moon. In passing from China, we may also note the influence of that sexuality of which we have spoken before. Dr. Medhurst remarks: "The principle of the Chinese cosmogony seems to be founded on a sexual system of the universe." [181] Dr. Prichard tells us that among the Japanese "sacred festivals are held at certain seasons of the year and at changes of the moon." Also, "It appears that _Sin-too_, or original Japanese religion, is merely a form of the worship of material objects, common to all the nations of Northern Asia, which, among the more civilized tribes, assumes the aspect of mythology." [182] From Asia we come to Africa, and to Egypt, that wonderful land with a lithographed history at least five thousand years old; a land that basked in the sunshine of civilization and culture when nearly the whole world without was in shadow and gloom. The mighty pyramid of Gizeh still stands, a monument of former national greatness, and a marvel to the admirer of sublimity in design and perfection in execution. "The setting of the sides to the cardinal points is so exact as to prove that the Egyptians were excellent observers of the elementary facts of astronomy." [183] But they went farther. Diodorus says: "The first generation of men in Egypt, contemplating the beauty of the superior world, and admiring with astonishment the frame and order of the universe, judged that there were two chief gods that were eternal, that is to say, the sun and the moon, the first of which they called _Osiris_, and the other _Isis_." [184] This passage is proof that the Greeks and Romans had a very limited acquaintance with Egyptian mythology; for the historian was indubitably in error in supposing Osiris and Isis to be sun and moon. But he was right in calling the sun and moon the first gods of the Egyptians. Rawlinson says: "The Egyptians had two moon-gods, Khons or Khonsu, and Tet or Thoth." [185] Dr. Birch has translated an inscription relating to Thoth, which reads: "All eyes are open on thee, and all men worship thee as a god." [186] And M. Renouf says: "The Egyptian god Tehuti is known to the readers of Plato under the name of Thoyth. He represents the moon, which he wears upon his head, either as crescent or as full disk." [187] The same learned Egyptologist tells us that Khonsu or Chonsu was one of the triad of Theban gods, and was the moon one of his attributes being the reckoner of time. [188] Of the former divinity, Rawlinson relates an instructive myth. "According to one legend Thoth once wrote a wonderful book, full of wisdom and science, containing in it everything relating to the fowls of the air, the fishes of the sea, and the four-footed beasts of the mountains. The man who knew a single page of the work could charm the heaven, the earth, the great abyss, the mountains and the seas. This marvellous composition he inclosed in a box of gold, which he placed within a box of silver; the box of silver within a box of ivory and ebony, and that again within a box of bronze; the box of bronze within a box of brass; and the box of brass within a box of iron; and the book, thus guarded, he threw into the Nile at Coptos. The fact became known, and the book was searched for and found. It gave its possessor vast knowledge and magical power, but it always brought on him misfortune. What became of it ultimately does not appear in the manuscript from which this account is taken; but the moral of the story seems to be the common one, that unlawful knowledge is punished by all kinds of calamity." [189] There is also a story of the moon-god Chonsu, which is worthy of repetition. Its original is in the _Bibliothèque Nationale_ at Paris, and for its first translation we are indebted to Dr. Birch, of the British Museum. [190] A certain Asiatic princess of Bechten, wherever that was, was possessed by a spirit. Being connected, through her sister's marriage, with the court of Egypt, on her falling ill, an Egyptian practitioner was summoned to her aid. He declared that she had a demon, with which he himself was unable to cope. Thereupon the image of the moon-god Chonsu was despatched in his mystic ark, for the purpose of exorcising the spirit and delivering the princess. The demon at once yielded to the divine influence; and the king of Bechten was so delighted that he kept the image in his possession for upwards of three years. In consequence of an alarming dream he then sent him back to Egypt with presents of great value. Whatever evil powers the moon may have exerted since, we must credit him with having once ejected an evil spirit and prolonged a royal life. Returning to Thoth, we find the following valuable hints in the great work of Baron Bunsen:--"The connection between Tet and the moon may allude, according to Wilkinson, to the primitive use of a lunar year. The ancients had already remarked that the moon in Egyptian was masculine, not feminine, as the Greeks and Romans generally made it. Still we have no right to suppose a particular moon-god, separate from Thoth. We meet with a deity called after the moon (Aah) either as a mere personification, or as Thoth, in whom the agency of the moon and nature become a living principle. We find him so represented in the tombs of the Ramesseum, opposite to Phre; a similar representation in Dendyra is probably symbolical. According to Champollion he is often seen in the train of Ammon, and then he is Thoth. He makes him green, with the four sceptres and cup of Ptah, by the side of which, however, is a sort of Horus curl, the infantine lock, as child or son. In the inscriptions there is usually only the crescent, but on one occasion the sign _nuter_ (god) is added. In the tombs a moon-god is represented sitting on a bark, and holding the sceptre of benign power, to whom two Cynocephali are doing homage, followed by the Crescent and Nuter god. Lastly, the same god is found in a standing posture, worshipped by two souls and two Cynocephali." [191] With these "dog-headed" worshippers of the moon may be associated another animal that from an early date has been connected with the luminaries of the day and night. We saw that the Australian moon-myth of Mityan was of a native cat. Renouf says: "It is not improbable that the cat, in Egyptian _mäu_, became the symbol of the Sun-god, or Day, because the word mäu also means light." [192] Charles James Fox, with no thought of Egyptian, told the Prince of Wales that "cats always prefer the sunshine." The native land of this domestic pet, or nuisance, is certainly Persia, and some etymologists assign _pers_ as the origin of _puss_. Be this as it may, the pupil of a cat's eye is singularly changeable, dilating from the narrow line in the day-time to the luminous orb in the dark. On this account the cat is likened to the moon. But in Egypt feline eyes shine with supernatural lustre. Mr. Hyde Clarke tells us that "the mummies of cats, which Herodotus saw at Bubastis, attested then, as they do now, to the dedication of the cat to Pasht, the moon, and the veneration of the Egyptians for this animal. The cat must have been known to man, and have been named at least as early as the origin of language. The superstition of its connection with the moon is also of pre-historic date, and not invented by the Egyptians. According to Plutarch, a cat placed in a lustrum denoted the moon, illustrating the mutual symbology. He supposes that this is because the pupils of a cat's eyes dilate and decrease with the moon. The reason most probably depends, as before intimated, on another phenomenon of periodicity corresponding to the month. Dr. Rae has, however, called my attention to another possible cause of the association, which is the fact that the cat's eyes glisten at night or in the dark. It is to be observed that the name of the sun in the Malayan and North American languages is the day-eye, or sky-eye, and that of the moon the night-eye." [193] Our own daisy, too, is the _day's eye_, resembling the sun, and opening its little pearly lashes when the spring wakes to newness of life. The Nubians "pay adoration to the moon; and that their worship is performed with pleasure and satisfaction, is obvious every night that she shines. Coming out from the darkness of their huts, they say a few words upon seeing her brightness, and testify great joy, by motions of their feet and hands, at the first appearance of the new moon." [194] The Shangalla worship the moon, and think that "a star passing near the horns of the moon denotes the coming of an enemy." [195] In Western Africa moon-worship is very prevalent. Merolla says: "They that keep idols in their houses, every first day of the moon are obliged to anoint them with a sort of red wood powdered. At the appearance of every new moon, these people fall on their knees, or else cry out, standing and clapping their hands, 'So may I renew my life as thou art renewed.'" [196] H. H. Johnston, Esq., F.Z.S., F.R.G.S., who had just returned from the region of the Congo, related the following curious incident before the Anthropological Institute, in January, 1884. It looks remarkably like a relic of ancient worship, which gave the fruit of the body for the sin of the soul, and committed murder on earth to awaken mercy in heaven! "At certain villages between Manyanga and Isangila there are curious eunuch dances to celebrate the new moon, in which a white cock is thrown up into the air alive, with clipped wings, and as it falls towards the ground it is caught and plucked by the eunuchs. I was told that originally this used to be a human sacrifice, and that a young boy or girl was thrown up into the air and torn to pieces by the eunuchs as he or she fell, but that of late years slaves had got scarce or manners milder, and a white cock was now substituted." [197] The Mandingoes are more attracted to the varying moon than to the sun. "On the first appearance of the new moon, which they look upon to be newly created, the Pagan natives, as well as Mahomedans, say a short prayer; and this seems to be the only visible adoration which the Kaffirs offer up to the Supreme Being." The purport of this prayer is "to return thanks to God for His kindness through the existence of the past moon, and to solicit a continuation of His favour during that of the new one." [198] Park writes on another page: "When the fast month was almost at an end, the Bushreens assembled at the Misura to watch for the appearance of the new moon; but the evening being rather cloudy, they were for some time disappointed, and a number of them had gone home with a resolution to fast another day, when on a sudden this delightful object showed her sharp horns from behind a cloud, and was welcomed with the clapping of hands, beating of drums, firing muskets, and other marks of rejoicing." [199] The Makololo and Bechuana custom of greeting the new moon is curious. "They watch most eagerly for the first glimpse of the new moon, and when they perceive the faint outline after the sun has set deep in the west, they utter a loud shout of 'Ku?!' and vociferate prayers to it." [200] The degraded Hottentots have not much improved since Bory de St. Vincent described them as "brutish, lazy, and stupid," and their worship of the moon is still demonstrative, as when Kolben wrote: "These dances and noises are religious honours and invocations to the moon. They call her _Gounja_. The Supreme they call _Gounja-Gounja_, or _Gounja Ticquoa_, the god of gods, and place him far above the moon. The moon, with them, is an inferior visible god --the subject and representation of the High and Invisible. They judge the moon to have the disposal of the weather, and invoke her for such as they want. They assemble for the celebration of her worship at full and change constantly. No inclemency of the weather prevents them. And their behaviour at those times is indeed very astonishing. They throw their bodies into a thousand different distortions, and make mouths and faces strangely ridiculous and horrid. Now they throw themselves flat on the ground, screaming out a strange, unintelligible jargon. Then jumping up on a sudden, and stamping like mad (insomuch that they make the ground shake), they direct, with open throats, the following expressions, among others, to the moon: '_I salute you; you are welcome. Grant us fodder for our cattle and milk in abundance_.' These and other addresses to the moon they repeat over and over, accompanying them with dancing and clapping of hands. At the end of the dance they sing '_Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!_' many times over, with a variation of notes; which being accompanied with clapping of hands makes a very odd and a very merry entertainment to a stranger." [201] In reality they hold a primitive watch-night service; their welcome of the new moon being very similar to our popular welcome of the new year. Nor should it be omitted that the ancient Ethiopians worshipped the moon; and that those who lived above Meroë admitted the existence of eternal and incorruptible gods, among which the moon ranked as a chief divinity. Descending the Nile and crossing the Mediterranean, we come to Greece. "The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set." [202] Yes, Pericles and Plato, Sophocles and Pheidias, are dust; and much of their nation's pristine glory has "melted into the infinite azure of the past": but the sun shines as youthful yet as on that eventful day when unwearied he sank in ocean, "loth, and ere his time: "So the sun sank, and all the host had rest From onset and the changeful chance of war." [203] Where Phoebus sprang, sprang Phoebe also--the bright and beautiful moon. To a people addicted to the idolatry of perfect form and comeliness, no object could be more attractive than the queen of the night. When Socrates was accused of innovating upon the Greek religion, and of ridiculing the Athenian deities, he replied on his trial, "You strange man, Melêtus, are you seriously affirming that I do not think Helios and Selene to be gods, as the rest of mankind think?" [204] Pausanias, the historian, tells us that in Phocis there was a chapel consecrated to Isis, which of all the places erected by the Greeks to this Egyptian goddess was by far the most holy. It was not lawful for any one to approach this sacred edifice but those whom the goddess had invited by appearing to them for that purpose in a dream. [205] By Isis, as we saw from Diodorus, the Greeks understood the moon. Diana was also one of the Grecian moon-goddesses, but Sir George C. Lewis thinks that this was not till a comparatively late period. The religion of Greece was so mixed up, or made up, with mythology, that for an interpretation of their theogony we must resort to poetry and impersonation. Here again we see the working of sexual anthropomorphism. _Ouranos_ espoused _Ge_, and their offspring was _Kronos_; which is but an ancient mode of saying that chronology is the measurement on earth of heavenly motion. Solar and lunar worship was but the recognition in the primitive consciousness of the superior _worth-ship_ of these celestial bodies. As Grote says: "To us these now appear puerile, though pleasing fancies, but to our Homeric Greek they seemed perfectly natural and plausible. In his view, the description of the sun, as given in a modern astronomical treatise, would have appeared not merely absurd, but repulsive and impious." [206] What an amount of misunderstanding would be obviated if readers of the Bible would bear this in mind when they meet with erroneous conceptions in Hebrew cosmogony. Grote further says on the same page of his magnificent history: "Personifying fiction was blended by the Homeric Greeks with their conception of the physical phenomena before them, not simply in the way of poetical ornament, but as a genuine portion of their everyday belief." We cannot better conclude our brief glance at ancient Greece than by quoting that splendid comparison from the bard of Chios, which Pope thought "the most beautiful night-piece that can be found in poetry." Pope's own version is fine, but, as a translation, Lord Derby's must be preferred: "As when in heaven, around the glittering moon The stars shine bright amid the breathless air; And every crag and every jutting peak Stands boldly forth, and every forest glade Even to the gates of heaven is opened wide The boundless sky; shines each particular star Distinct; joy fills the gazing shepherd's heart." [207] The Romans had many gods, superior and inferior. The former were the _celestial_ deities, twelve in number, among whom was Diana; and the _Dii Selecti_, numbering eight. Of these, one was Luna, the moon, daughter of Hyperion and sister of the Sun. [208] Livy speaks of "a temple of Luna, which is on the Aventine"; and Tacitus mentions, in his Annals, a temple consecrated to the moon. In Horace, Luna is "_siderum regina_"; [209] and in Apuleius, "_Regina coeli_," [210] Bishop Warburton, in his synopsis of Apuleius, speaks of the hopeless condition of _Lucius_, which obliged him to fly to heaven for relief. "The _moon_ is in full splendour; and the awful silence of the night inspires him with sentiments of religion." He then purifies himself, and so makes his prayer to the moon, invoking her by her several names, as the celestial _Venus_ and _Diana_. [211] This whole section of the _Divine Legation_ is worthy of close study. "The ancient Goths," says Rudbeck ("Atalantis," ii. 609), "paid such regard to the moon, that some have thought that they worshipped her more than the sun." [212] And of the ancient Germans Grimm says: "That to our remote ancestry the heavenly bodies, especially the sun and moon, were divine beings, will not admit of any doubt." [213] Gibbon, Friedrich Schlegel, and others, say the same. The Finns worshipped "Kun, the male god of the moon, who corresponded exactly with the Aku, Enizuna, or Itu of the Accadians." [214] In ancient Britain the moon occupied a high position in the religion of the Druids, who had superstitious rites at the lunar changes, and who are "always represented as having the crescent in their hands." [215] "From the _Penitential_ of Theodore, Archbishop of Canterbury, in the seventh century, and the _Confessional_ of Ecgbert, Archbishop of York, in the early part of the eighth century, we may infer that homage was then offered to the sun and moon." [216] Again, "There are many proofs, direct and circumstantial, that place it beyond all doubt that the moon was one of the objects of heathen worship in Britain. But under what name the moon was invoked is not discoverable, unless it may have been Andraste, the goddess to whom the British queen Boadicea, with hands outstretched to heaven, appealed when about to engage in battle with the Romans." [217] A writer of the seventeenth century, says: "In Yorkeshire, etc., northwards, some country woemen do-e worship the New Moon on their bare knees, kneeling upon an earthfast stone. And the people of Athol, in the High-lands in Scotland, doe worship the New Moon." [218] Camden writes of the Irish: "Whether or no they worship the moon, I know not; but, when they first see her after the change, they commonly bow the knee, and say the Lord's Prayer; and near the wane, address themselves to her with a loud voice, after this manner: 'Leave us as well as thou foundest us.'" [219] Sylvester O'Halloran, the Irish general and historian, speaking of "the correspondent customs of the Phoenicians and the Irish," adds: "Their deities were the same. They both adored Bel, or the sun, the Moon, and the stars. The house of Rimmon (2 Kings v. 18), which the Phoenicians worshipped in, like our temples of Fleachta, in Meath, was sacred to the moon. The word 'Rimmon' has by no means been understood by the different commentators; and yet by recurring to the Irish (a branch of the Phoenicians) it becomes very intelligible; for _Re_ is Irish for the moon, and _Muadh_ signifies an image; and the compound word _Reamham_ signifies prognosticating by the appearances of the moon. It appears by the life of our great St. Columba, that the Druid temples were _here_ decorated with figures of the sun, the moon, and the stars. The Phoenicians, under the name of Bel-Samen, adored the Supreme; and it is pretty remarkable that _to this very day_, to wish a friend every happiness this life can afford, we say in Irish, '_the blessings of Samen and Eel be with you_!' that is, of all the seasons; Bel signifying the sun, and Samhain the moon." [220] And again: "Next to the sun was the moon, which the Irish undoubtedly adored. Some remains of this worship may be traced, even at this day; as particularly borrowing, if they should not have it about them, a piece of silver on the first night of a new moon, as an omen of plenty during the month; and at the same time saying in Irish, 'As you have found us in peace and prosperity, so leave us in grace and mercy.'" [221] Tuathal, the prince to whom the estates (_circa_ A.D. 106) swore solemnly "by the sun, moon, and stars," to bear true allegiance, "in that portion of the imperial domain taken from Munster, erected a magnificent temple called Flachta, sacred to the fire of Samhain, and to the Samnothei, or priests of the moon. Here, on every eve of November, were the fires of Samhain lighted up, with great pomp and ceremony, the monarch, the Druids, and the chiefs of the kingdom attending; and from this holy fire, and no other, was every fire in the land first lit for the winter. It was deemed an act of the highest impiety to kindle the winter fires from any other; and for this favour the head of every house paid a Scrubal, or threepence, tax, to the Arch-Druid of Samhain." [222] Another writer mentions another Irish moon-god. "The next heathen divinity which I would bring under notice is St. Luan, _alias_ Molua, _alias_ Euan, _alias_ Lugidus, _alias_ Lugad, and Moling, etc. The foundations, with which this saint under some of his _aliases_ is connected, extend over eight counties in the provinces of Ulster, Leinster, and Munster. Luan is to this; day the common Irish word for the moon. We read that there were fifteen saints of the name of Lugadius; and as Lugidus was one of Luan's _aliases_, I have set them all down as representing the moon in the several places where that planet was worshipped as the symbol of Female nature." [223] We have already seen that the moon was the embodiment of the female principle in China, and now we see that the primitive Kelts associated sexuality with astronomy and religion. It but further proves that "one touch of nature makes the whole world kin." Moreover, to show that former moon-worship still colours our religion, it is not to be overlooked that, as our Christmas festivities are but a continuation of the Roman saturnalia, with their interchanges of visits and presents, so "the Church, celebrating in August the festival of the harvest moon, celebrates at the same time the feast of the Assumption and of the Sacred Heart of the Virgin. And Catholic painters, following the description in the Apocalypse, fondly depict her as 'clothed with the sun, and having the moon under her feet,' and both as overriding the dragon. Even the triumph of Easter is not celebrated until, by attaining its full, the moon accords its aid and sanction. Is it not interesting thus to discover the true note of Catholicism in the most ancient paganisms, and to find that the moon, which for us is incarnate in the blessed Virgin Mary, was for the Syrians and Greeks respectively personified in the virgin Ashtoreth, the queen of heaven, and Diana, or Phoebe, the feminine of Phoebus?" [224] A recent contributor to one of our valuable serials writes: "I take the following extract from a little book published under the auspices of Dr. Barnardo. It is the 'truthful narrative' of a little sweep-girl picked up in the streets of some place near Brighton, and 'admitted into Dr. Barnardo's Village Home.' 'She had apparently no knowledge of God or sense of His presence. The only thing she had any reverence for was the moon. On one occasion, when the children were going to evening service, and a beautiful moon was shining, one of them pointed to it, exclaiming, 'Oh, mother! look, what a beautiful moon!' Little Mary caught hold of her hand, and cried, 'Yer mustn't point at the blessed moon like that; and yer mustn't talk about it!' Was it from constantly sleeping under hedges and in barns, and waking up and seeing that bright calm eye looking at her, that some sense of a mysterious Presence had come upon the child?" [225] To this query, the answer we think should be negative. The cause more likely was that she had heard the common tradition which is yet current in East Lancashire, Cumberland, and elsewhere, that it is a sin to point at the moon. Certain old gentlemen, who ought to be better informed, still touch their hats, and devout young girls in the country districts still curtsey, to the new moon, as an act of worship. The American races practise luniolatry very generally. The Dakotahs worship both sun and moon. The Delaware and Iroquois Indians sacrifice to these orbs, and it is most singular that "they sacrifice to a hare, because, according to report, the first ancestor of the Indian tribes had that name." But, although they receive in a dream as their tutelar spirits, the sun, moon, owl, buffalo, and so forth, "they positively deny that they pay any adoration to these subordinate good spirits, and affirm that they only worship the true God, through them." [226] This reminds us of some excellent remarks made by one whose intimate acquaintance with North American Indians entitled him to speak with authority. We have seen from Dr. Legge's writings that though the Chinese worshipped a multitude of celestial spirits, "yet the monotheism remained." Mr. Catlin will now assure us that though the American Indians adore the heavenly bodies, they recognise the Great Spirit who inhabits them all. These are his words: "I have heard it said by some very good men, and some who have even been preaching the Christian religion amongst them, that they have no religion--that all their zeal in their worship of the Great Spirit was but the foolish excess of ignorant superstition--that their humble devotions and supplications to the sun and the moon, where many of them suppose that the Great Spirit resides, were but the absurd rantings of idolatry. To such opinions as these I never yet gave answer, nor drew other instant inferences from them, than that, from the bottom of my heart, I pitied the persons who gave them." [227] Mr. Catlin undoubtedly was right, as the Apostle Paul was right, when he acknowledged that the Athenians worshipped the true God, albeit in ignorance. At the same time, though idolatry is in numberless instances nothing more than the use of media and mediators, in seeking the One, Invisible, Absolute Spirit, it is so naturally abused by sensuous beings who rest in the concrete, that no image worshipper is free from the propensity to worship the creature more than the Creator, and to forget the Essence in familiarity with the form. The perfection of worship, we conceive, is pure theism; but how few are capable of breathing in such a supersensuous air! Men must have their "means of grace," their visible symbols, their holy waters and consecrated wafers, their crucifixes and talismans, their silver shrines and golden calves. "These be thy gods, O Israel." "The Ahts undoubtedly worship the sun and the moon, particularly the full moon, and the sun while ascending to the zenith. Like the Teutons, they regard the moon as the husband, and the sun as the wife; hence their prayers are more generally addressed to the moon, as being the superior deity. The moon is the highest of all the objects of their worship; and they describe the moon--I quote the words of my Indian informant--as looking down upon the earth in answer to prayer, and as seeing everybody." [228] Of the Indians of Vancouver Island, another writer says: "The moon is among all the heavenly bodies the highest object of veneration. When working at the settlement at Alberni in gangs by moonlight, individuals have been observed to look up to the moon, blow a breath, and utter quickly the word, '_Teech! teech!_' (health, or life). Life! life! this is the great prayer of these people's hearts." [229] "Among the Comanches of Texas, the sun, moon, and earth are the principal objects of worship." The Kaniagmioutes consider the moon and sun to be brother and sister. [230] Meztli was the moon as deified by the Mexicans. In Teotihuacan, thirty miles north of the city of Mexico, is the site of an ancient city twenty miles in circumference. Near the centre of this spot stand the Pyramid of the Sun and the Pyramid of the Moon. The Pyramid of the Sun has a base 682 feet long and is 180 feet high (the Pyramid of Cheops is 728 feet at the base, and is 448 feet in height). The Pyramid of the Moon is rather less, and is due north of that of the Sun. [231] No doubt the philosophy of all pyramids would show that they embody the uplifting of the human soul towards the Heaven-Father of all. In Northern Mexico still "the Ceris superstitiously celebrate the new moon." [232] This luniolatry the Abbé Brasseur de Bourbourg explains by a novel theory. He holds that the forefathers of American civilization lived in a certain Crescent land in the Atlantic that a physical catastrophe destroyed their country whereupon the remnant that was saved commemorated their lost land by adopting the moon as their god. [233] "The population of Central America," says the Vicomte de Bussierre, "although they had preserved the vague notion of a superior eternal God and Creator, known by the name Teotl, had an Olympus as numerous as that of the Greeks and the Romans. It would appear that the inhabitants of Anahuac joined to the idea of a supreme being the worship of the sun and the moon, offering them flowers, fruits, and the first fruits of their fields." [234] Dr. Reville bids us "note that the ancient Central-American cultus of the sun and moon, considered as the two supreme deities, was by no means renounced by the Aztecs." [235] Regarding this remarkable race, a writer in the _Quarterly Review_ for April, 1883, says: "Even the Chaldaeans were not greater astrologers than the Aztecs, and we need no further proof that the heavenly bodies were closely and accurately observed, than we find in the fact that the true length of the tropical year had been ascertained long before scientific instruments were even thought of. Their religious festivals were regulated by the movements of these bodies; but with their knowledge was mingled so vast a mass of superstition, that it is difficult to discern a gleam of light through the thick darkness." "The Botocudos of Brazil held the moon in high veneration, and attributed to her influence the chief phenomena in nature." [236] The Indian of the Coroados tribe in Brazil, "chained to the present, hardly ever raises his eyes to the starry firmament. Yet he is actuated by a certain awe of some constellations, as of everything that indicates a spiritual connection of things. His chief attention, however, is not directed to the sun, but to the moon; according to which he calculates time, and from which he is used to deduce good and evil." [237] The celebrated Abipones honour with silver altars and adoration the moon, which they call the consort of the sun, and certain stars, which they term the handmaids of the moon: but their most singular idea is that the Pleiades represent their grandfather; and "as that constellation disappears at certain periods from the sky of South America, upon such occasions they suppose that their grandfather is sick, and are under a yearly apprehension that he is going to die; but as soon as those seven stars are again visible in the month of May, they welcome their grandfather, as if returned and restored from sickness, with joyful shouts, and the festive sound of pipes and trumpets, congratulating him on the recovery of his health." [238] The Peruvians "acknowledge no other gods than the Pachacamac, who is the supreme, and the Sun, who is inferior to him, and the Moon, who is his sister and wife." [239] In the religion of the Incas the idol (huaco) of the Moon was in charge of women, and when it was brought from the house of the Sun, to be worshipped, it was carried on their shoulders, because they said "it was a woman, and the figure resembled one." [240]_Pachacamac_, the great deity mentioned above, signifies "earth-animator." Prescott, in describing the temple of the Sun, at Cuzco in Peru, tells us that "adjoining the principal structure were several chapels of smaller dimensions. One of them was consecrated to the Moon, the deity held next in reverence, as the mother of the Incas. Her effigy was delineated in the same manner as that of the Sun, on a vast plate that nearly covered one side of the apartment. But this plate, as well as all the decorations of the building, was of silver, as suited to the pale, silvery light of the beautiful planet." [241] In the far-off New Hebrides the Eramangans "worship the moon, having images in the form of the new and full moons, made of a kind of stone. They do not pray to these images, but cleave to them as their protecting gods." [242] We have now circumnavigated the globe, touching at many points, within many degrees of latitude and longitude. But everywhere, among men of different literatures and languages, colours and creeds, we have discovered the worship of the moon. No nation has outgrown the practice, for it obtains among the polished as well as the rude. One thing, indeed, we ought to have had impressed upon our minds with fresh force; namely, that we often draw the lines of demarcation too broad between those whom we are pleased to divide into the civilized and the savage. Israelite and heathen, Grecian and barbarian, Roman and pagan, enlightened and benighted, saintly and sinful, are fine distinctions from the Hebrew, Greek, Roman, enlightened, and saintly sides of the question; but they often reflect small credit upon the wisdom and generosity of their authors. The antipodal Eramangan who cleaves to his moon image for protection may be quite equal, both intellectually and morally, with the Anglo-Saxon who still wears his amulet to ward off disease, or nails up his horse-shoe, as Nelson did to the mast of the _Victory_, as a guarantee of good luck. Sir George Grey has written: "It must be borne in mind, that the native races, who believed in these traditions or superstitions, are in no way deficient in intellect, and in no respect incapable of receiving the truths of Christianity; on the contrary, they readily embrace its doctrines and submit to its rules; in our schools they stand a fair comparison with Europeans; and, when instructed in Christian truths, blush at their own former ignorance and superstitions, and look back with shame and loathing upon their previous state of wickedness and credulity." [243] IV. THE MOON A WATER-DEITY. We design this chapter to be the completion of moon-worship, and at the same time an anticipation of those lunary superstitions which are but scattered leaves from luniolatry, the parent tree. If the new moon, with its waxing light, may represent the primitive nature-worship which spread over the earth; and the full moon, the deity who is supposed to regulate our reservoirs and supplies of water: the waning moon may fitly typify the grotesque and sickly superstition, which, under the progress of radiant science and spiritual religion, is readier every hour to vanish away. "The name Astarte was variously identified with the moon, as distinguished from the sun, or with air and water, as opposed in their qualities to fire. The name of this goddess represented to the worshipper the great female parent of all animated things, variously conceived of as the moon, the earth, the watery element, primeval night, the eldest of the destinies." [244] It is worthy of note that Van Helmont, in the seventeenth century, holds similar language. His words are, "The moon is chief over the night darkness, rest, death, and the waters." [245] It is also remarkable that in the language of the Algonquins of North America the ideas of night, death, cold, sleep, water, and moon are expressed by one and the same word. [246] In the oriental mythology "the connection between the moon and water suggests the idea that the moon produces fertility and freshness in the soil." [247] "Al Zamakhshari, the commentator on the Koran, derives _Manah_ (one of the three idols worshipped by the Arabs before the time of Mohammad) from the root 'to flow,' because of the blood which flowed at the sacrifices to this idol, or, as Millius explains it, because the ancient idea of the moon was that it was a star full of moisture, with which it filled the sublunary regions." [248] The Persians held that the moon was the cause of an abundant supply of water and of rain, and therefore the names of the most fruitful places in Persia are compounded with the word _mâh_, "moon"; "for in the opinion of the Iranians the growth of plants depends on the influence of the moon." [249] In India "the moon is generally a male, for its most popular names, _Candras_, _Indus_, and _Somas_, are masculine; but as Somas signifies ambrosia, the moon, as giver of ambrosia, soon came to be considered a milk-giving cow; in fact, moon is one among the various meanings given in Sanskrit to the word Gâus (cow). The moon, Somas, who illumines the nocturnal sky, and the pluvial sun, Indras, who during the night, or the winter, prepares the light of morn, or spring, are represented as companions; a young girl, the evening, or autumnal twilight, who goes to draw water towards night, or winter, finds in the well, and takes to Indras, the ambrosial moon, that is, the Somas whom he loves. Here are the very words of the Vedic hymn: 'The young girl, descending towards the water, found the moon in the fountain, and said: I will take you to Indras, I will take you to Çakras; flow, O moon, and envelop Indras.'" [250] Here in India we again find our old friend "the frog in the moon." "It is especially Indus who satisfies the frog's desire for rain. Indus, as the moon, brings or announces the Somas, or the rain; the frog, croaking, announces or brings the rain; and at this point the frog, which we have seen identified at first with the cloud, is also identified with the pluvial moon." [251] This myth is not lacking in involution. In China "the moon is regarded as chief and director of everything subject in the kosmic system to the Yin [feminine] principle, such as darkness, the earth, female creatures, water, etc. Thus Pao P'ah Tsze declares with reference to the tides: 'The vital essence of the moon governs water: and hence, when the moon is at its brightest, the tides are high.'" [252] According to the Japanese fairy tale the moon was to "rule over the new-born earth and the blue waste of the sea, with its multitudinous salt waters." [253] Thus we see that throughout Asia, "as lord of moisture and humidity, the moon is connected with growth and the nurturing power of the peaceful night." [254] Of the kindred of the Pharaohs, Plutarch observes: "The sun and moon were described by the Egyptians as sailing round the world in boats, intimating that these bodies owe their power of moving, as well as their support and nourishment, to the principle of humidity" (Plut. de Isid. s. 34): which statement Sir J. Gardner Wilkinson says is confirmed by the sculptures. The moon-god Khons bears in his hands either a palm-branch or "the Nilometer." When the Egyptians sacrificed a pig to the moon, "the first sacred emblem they carried was a _hydria_, or water-pitcher." At another festival the Egyptians "marched in procession towards the sea-side, whither likewise the priests and other proper officers carried the sacred chest, inclosing a small boat or vessel of gold, into which they first poured some fresh water; and then all present cried out with a loud voice 'Osiris is found.' This ceremony being ended, they threw a little fresh mould, together with rich odours and spices, into the water, mixing the whole mass together, and working it up into a little image in the shape of a crescent. The image was afterwards dressed and adorned with a proper habit, and the whole was intended to intimate that they looked upon these gods as the essence and power of earth and water." [255] The Austro-Hungarians have a man in the moon who is a sort of aquarius. Grimm says: "Water, an essential part of the Norse myth, is wanting in the story of the man with the thorn bush, but it reappears in the Carniolan story cited in Bretano's Libussa (p. 421): the man in the moon is called Kotar, he makes her grow by pouring water." [256] The Scandinavian legend, distilled into Jack and Jill, is, as we have seen, an embodiment of early European belief that the ebb and flow of the tides were dependent upon the motions and mutations of the moon. We find the same notion prevailing in the western hemisphere. "As the MOON is associated with the dampness and dews of night, an ancient and widespread myth identified her with the goddess of water. Moreover, in spite of the expostulations of the learned, the common people the world over persist in attributing to her a marked influence on the rains. Whether false or true, this familiar opinion is of great antiquity, and was decidedly approved by the Indians, who were all, in the words of an old author, 'great observers of the weather by the moon.' They looked upon her, not only as forewarning them by her appearance of the approach of rains and fogs, but as being their actual cause. Isis, her Egyptian title, literally means moisture; Ataensic, whom the Hurons said was the moon, is derived from the word for water; and Citatli and Atl, moon and water, are constantly confounded in Aztec theology." [257] One of the gods of the Dakotahs was "Unk-ta-he (god of the water). The Dakotahs say that this god and its associates are seen in their dreams. It is the master-spirit of all their juggling and superstitious belief, From it the medicine men obtain their supernatural powers, and a great part of their religion springs from this god." [258] Brinton also says of this large Indian nation, "that Muktahe, spirit of water, is the master of dreams and witchcraft, is the belief of the Dakotahs." [259] We know that the Dakotahs worshipped the moon, and therefore see no difficulty in identifying that divinity with their god of dreams and water. "In the legend of the Muyscas it is Chia, the moon, who was also goddess of water and flooded the earth out of spite." [260] In this myth the moon is a malevolent deity, and water, usually a symbol of life, becomes an agency of death. Reactions are constantly occurring in the myth-making process. The god is male or female, good or evil, angry or amiable, according to the season or climate, the aspect of nature or the mood of the people. "In hot countries," says Sir John Lubbock, "the sun is generally regarded as an evil, and in cold as a beneficent being." [261] We are willing to accept this, with allowance. There is little question that taking men as a whole they are mainly optimistic in their judgments respecting the gifts of earth and the glories of heaven. Mr. Brinton, in reference to the imagined destructiveness of the water deity, writes: "Another reaction in the mythological laboratory is here disclosed. As the good qualities of water were attributed to the goddess of night, sleep, and death, so her malevolent traits were in turn reflected back on this element. Taking, however, American religions as a whole, water is far more frequently represented as producing beneficent effects than the reverse." [262] "The time of full moon was chosen both in Mexico and Peru to celebrate the festival of the deities of water, the patrons of agriculture, and very generally the ceremonies connected with the crops were regulated by her phases. The Nicaraguans said that the god of rains, Quiateot, rose in the east, thus hinting how this connection originated." [263] "The Muyscas of the high plains of Bogota were once, they said, savages without agriculture, religion, or law; but there came to them from the east an old and bearded man, Bochica, the child of the sun, and he taught them to till the fields, to clothe themselves, to worship the gods, to become a nation. But Bochica had a wicked, beautiful wife, Huythaca, who loved to spite and spoil her husband's work; and she it was who made the river swell till the land was covered by a flood, and but a few of mankind escaped upon the mountain tops. Then Bochica was wroth, and he drove the wicked Huythaca from the earth, and made her the moon, for there had been no moon before; and he cleft the rocks and made the mighty cataract of Tequendama, to let the deluge flow away. Then, when the land was dry, he gave to the remnant of mankind the year and its periodic sacrifices, and the worship of the sun. Now the people who told this myth had not forgotten, what indeed we might guess without their help, that Bochica was himself Zuhé, the sun, and Huytheca, the sun's wife, the moon." [264] This interesting and instructive legend, to which we alluded before in a brief quotation from Mr. Brinton, is worthy of reproduction in its fuller form, and fitly concludes our moon mythology and worship, as it presents a synoptical view of the chief points to which our attention has been turned. It shows us primitive or primeval man, the dawn of civilization, the daybreak of religion, the upgrowth of national life. In its solar husband and lunar wife it embraces that anthropomorphism and sexuality which we think have been and still are the principal factors in the production of legendary and religious impersonations. It includes that dualism which is one of man's oldest attempts to account for the opposition of good and evil. And finally it predicts a new humanity, springing from a remnant of the old; and a progress of brighter years, when, the deluge having disappeared, the dry land shall be fruitful in every good; when men shall worship the Father of lights, and "God shall be all in all." [*] For further information on the universality of moon-worship, see _The Ceremonies and Religious Customs of the Various Nations of the Known World_, by Bernard Picart. London: 1734, folio, vol. iii. MOON SUPERSTITIONS. I. INTRODUCTION. Superstition may be defined as an extravagance of faith and fear: not what Ecclesiastes calls being "righteous overmuch," but religious reverence in excess. Some etymologists say that the word originally meant a "_standing_ still _over_ or by a thing" in fear, wonder, or dread. [265] Brewer's definition is rather more classical: "That which survives when its companions are dead (Latin, _supersto_). Those who escaped in battle were called _superstitës_. Superstition is that religion which remains when real religion is dead; that fear and awe and worship paid to the religious impression which survives in the mind when correct notions of Deity no longer exist." [266] Hooker says that superstition "is always joined with a wrong opinion touching things divine. Superstition is, when things are either abhorred or observed with a zealous or fearful, but erroneous relation to God. By means whereof the superstitious do sometimes serve, though the true God, yet with needless offices, and defraud Him of duties necessary; sometimes load others than Him with such honours as properly are His." [267] A Bampton Lecturer on this subject says: "Superstition is an _unreasonable belief_ of that which is mistaken for truth concerning the nature of God and the invisible world, our relations to these unseen objects, and the duties which spring out of those relations." [268] We may next briefly inquire into the origin of the thing, which, of course, is older than the word. Burton will help us to an easy answer. He tells us that "the _primum mobile_, and first mover of all superstition, is the devil, that great enemy of mankind, the principal agent, who in a thousand several shapes, after divers fashions, with several engines, illusions, and by several names, hath deceived the inhabitants of the earth, in several places and countries, still rejoicing at their falls." [269] Verily this protean, omnipresent, and malignant devil has proved himself a great convenience! He has been the scapegoat upon whom we have laid the responsibility of all our mortal woe: and now we learn that to his infernal influence we are indebted for our ignorance and superstition. Henceforth, when we are at our wit's end, we may apostrophize the difficulty, and exclaim, "O thou invisible spirit, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil!" We hesitate to spoil this serviceable illusion: for as we have known some good people, of a sort, who would be distressed to find that there was no hell to burn up the opponents of their orthodoxy; we fear lest many would be disappointed if they found out that the infernal spirit was not at the bottom of our abysmal ignorance. But we will give even the devil his due. We are not like Sir William Brown, who "could never bring himself heartily to hate the devil." We can, wherever we find him; but we think it only honest to father our own mental deficiencies, as well as our moral delinquencies, and instead of seeking a substitute to use the available remedy. "To err is human"; and it is in humanity itself that we shall discover the source of superstition. We are the descendants of ancestors who were the children of the world, and we were ourselves children not so long ago. Childhood is the age of fancy and fiction; of sensitiveness to outer influences; of impressions of things as they seem, not as they are. When we become men we put away childish things; and in the manhood of our race we shall banish many of the idols and ideas which please us while we grow. Darwin has told us that our "judgment will not rarely err from ignorance and weak powers of reasoning. Hence the strangest customs and superstitions, in complete opposition to the true welfare and happiness of mankind, have become all-powerful throughout the world. How so many absurd rules of conduct, as well as so many absurd religious beliefs, have originated, we do not know; nor how it is that they have become, in all quarters of the world, so deeply impressed on the mind of men; but it is worthy of remark that a belief constantly inculcated during the early years of life, whilst the brain is impressible, appears to acquire almost the nature of an instinct; and the very essence of an instinct is that it is followed independently of reason." [270] But if superstition be the result of imperfection, there is no gainsaying the fact that it is productive of infinite evil; and on this account it has been attributed to a diabolical paternity. Bacon even affirms that "it were better to have no opinion of God at all, than such an opinion as is unworthy of Him; for the one is unbelief, the other is contumely: and certainly superstition is the reproach of the Deity." [271] Most heartily do we hold with Dr. Thomas Browne: "It is not enough to believe in God as an irresistible power that presides over the universe; for this a malignant demon might be. It is necessary for our devout happiness that we should believe in Him as that pure and gracious Being who is the encourager of our virtues and the comforter of our sorrows. Quantum religio potuit suadere malorum, exclaims the Epicurean poet, in thinking of the evils which superstition, characterized by that ambiguous name, had produced; and where a fierce or gloomy superstition has usurped the influence which religion graciously exercises only for purposes of benevolence to man, whom she makes happy with a present enjoyment, by the very expression of devout gratitude for happiness already enjoyed, it would not be easy to estimate the amount of positive misery which must result from the mere contemplation of a tyrant in the heavens, and of a creation subject to his cruelty and caprice." [272] The above quoted line from Lucretius--To such evils could religion persuade!--is more than the exclamation of righteous indignation against the sacrifice of Iphigenia by her father, Agamemnon, at the bidding of a priest, to propitiate a goddess. It is still further applicable to the long chain of outrageous wrongs which have been inflicted upon the innocent at the instigation of a stupid and savage fanaticism. What is worst of all, much of this bloodthirsty religion has claimed a commission from the God of love, and performed its detestable deeds in the insulted name of that "soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit," whom the loftiest and best of men delight to adore as the Prince of peace. No wonder that Voltaire cried out, "Christian religion, behold thy consequences!" if he could calculate that ten million lives had been immolated on the altar of a spurious Christianity. One hundred thousand were slain in the Bartholomew massacre alone. Righteousness, peace, and love were not the monster which Voltaire laboured to crush: he was most intensely incensed against the blind and bigoted priesthood, against the malicious and murderous servants who ate the bread of a holy and harmless Master, against "their intolerance of light and hatred of knowledge, their fierce yet profoundly contemptible struggles with one another, the scandals of their casuistry, their besotted cruelty." [273] We have been betrayed into speaking thus strongly of the extreme lengths to which superstition will carry those who yield themselves to its ruthless tyranny. But perhaps we have not gone far from our subject, after all; for the innocent Iphigenia, whose doom kindled our ire, was sacrificed to the goddess of the moon. II. LUNAR FANCIES. There are a few phosphorescent fancies about the moon, like _ignes fatui_, "Dancing in murky night o'er fen and lake," which we may dispose of in a section by themselves. Those of them that are mythical are too evanescent to become full-grown myths; and those which are religious are too volatile to remain in the solution or salt of any bottled creed. Like the wandering lights of the Russians, answering to our will-o'-the-wisp, they are the souls of still-born children. There is, for example, the insubstantial and formless but pleasing conception of the Indian Veda. In the Râmâyanam the moon is a good fairy, who in giving light in the night assumes a benignant aspect and succours the dawn. In the Vedic hymn, Râkâ, the full moon, is exhorted to sew the work with a needle which cannot be broken. Here the moon is personified as preparing during the night her luminous garments, one for the evening, the other for the morning, the one lunar and of silver, the other solar and of gold. [274] Another notion, equally airy but more religious, has sprung up in Christian times and in Catholic countries. It is that heathen fancy which connects the moon with the Virgin Mary. Abundant evidence of this association in the minds of Roman Catholics is furnished by the style of the ornaments which crowd the continental churches. One of the most conspicuous is the sun and moon in conjunction, precisely as they are represented on Babylonian and Grecian coins; and the identification of the Virgin and her Child with the moon any Roman Catholic cathedral will show. [275] The _Roman Missal_ will present to any reader "Sancta Maria, coeli Regina, et mundi Domina"; the _Glories of Mary_ will exhibit her as the omnipotent mother, Queen of the Universe; and Ecclesiastical History will declare how, as early as the close of the fourth century, the women who were called Collyridians worshipped her "as a goddess, and judged it necessary to appease her anger, and seek her favour and protection, by libations, sacrifices, and oblations of cakes (_collyridae_)." [276] This is but a repetition of the women kneading dough to make cakes to the queen of heaven, as recorded by Jeremiah; and proves that the relative position occupied by Astarte in company with Baal, Juno with Jupiter, Doorga with Brahma, and Ma-tsoo-po with Boodh, is that occupied by Mary with God. Nay more, she is "Mater Creatoris" and "Dei Genetrix": Mother of the Creator, Mother of God. Having thus been enthroned in the position in the universal pantheon which was once occupied by the moon, what wonder that the ignorant devotee should see her in that orb, especially as the sun, moon, and stars of the Apocalypse are her chief symbols. Southey has recorded a good illustration of this superstitious fancy. "A fine circumstance occurred in the shipwreck of the _Santiago_, 1585. The ship struck in the night; the wretched crew had been confessing, singing litanies, etc., and this they continued till, about two hours before break of day, the moon arose beautiful and exceeding bright; and forasmuch as till that time they had been in such darkness that they could scarcely sec one another when close at hand, such was the stir among them at beholding the brightness and glory of that orb, that most part of the crew began to lift up their voices, and with tears, cries, and groans called upon Our Lady, saying they saw her in the moon." [277] The preceding fancies would produce upon the poetic and religious sense only an agreeable effect. Other hallucinations have wrought effects of an opposite kind. The face in the moon does not always wear an amiable aspect, and it is not unnatural that those who have been taught to believe in angry gods and frowning providences should see the caricatures of their false teachers reproduced in the heavens above and in the earth beneath. We are reminded here of the magic mirror mentioned by Bayle. There is a trick, invented by Pythagoras, which is performed in the following manner. The moon being at the full, some one writes with blood on a looking-glass anything he has a mind to; and having given notice of it to another person, he stands behind that other and turns towards the moon the letters written in the glass. The other looking fixedly on the shining orb reads in it all that is written on the mirror as if it were written on the moon. [278] This is precisely the _modus operandi_ by which the knavish have imposed upon the foolish in all ages. The manipulator of the doctrine stands behind his credulous disciple, writing out of sight his invented science or theology, and writing too often with the blood of some innocent victim. The poor patient student is meanwhile gazing on the moon in dreamy devotion; until as the writing on the mirror is read with solemn intonation, it all appears before his moon-struck gaze as a heavenly revelation. Woe to the truth-loving critic who breaks the enchantment and the mirror, crying out in the vernacular tongue, Your mysteries are myths, your writings are frauds; and the fair moon is innocent of the lying imposition! To multitudes the moon has always been an object of terror and dread. Not only is it a supramundane and magnified man--that it will always be while its spots are so anthropoid, and man himself is so anthropomorphic--but it has ever been, and still is, a being of maleficent and misanthropic disposition. As Mr. Tylor says, "When the Aleutians thought that if any one gave offence to the moon, he would fling down stones on the offender and kill him; or when the moon came down to an Indian squaw, appearing in the form of a beautiful woman with a child in her arms, and demanding an offering of tobacco and fur-robes: what conceptions of personal life could be more distinct than these?" [279] Personal and distinct, indeed, but far from pleasant. Another author tells us that "in some parts of Scotland to point at the stars or to do aught that might be considered an indignity in the face of the sun or moon, is still to be dreaded and avoided; so also it was not long since, probably still is, in Devonshire and Cornwall. The Jews seem to have been equally superstitious on this point (Jer. viii. 1, 2), and the Persians believed leprosy to be an infliction on those who had committed some offence against the sun." [280] Southey supplies us with an illustration of the moon in a fit of dudgeon. He is describing the sufferings of poor Hans Stade, when he was caught by the Tupinambas and expected that he was about to die. "The moon was up, and fixing his eyes upon her, he silently besought God to vouchsafe him a happy termination of these sufferings. Yeppipo Wasu, who was one of the chiefs of the horde, and as such had convoked the meeting, seeing how earnestly he kept gazing upwards, asked him what he was looking at. Hans had ceased from praying, and was observing the man in the moon, and fancying that he looked angry; his mind was broken down by continual terror, and he says it seemed to him at that moment as if he were hated by God, and by all things which God had created. The question only half roused him from this phantasy, and he answered, it was plain that the moon was angry. The savage asked whom she was angry with, and then Hans, as if he had recollected himself, replied that she was looking at his dwelling. This enraged him, and Hans found it prudent to say that perhaps her eyes were turned so wrathfully upon the Carios; in which opinion the chief assented, and wished she might destroy them all." [281] Some such superstitious fear must have furnished the warp into which the following Icelandic story was woven. "There was once a sheep-stealer who sat down in a lonely place, with a leg of mutton in his hand, in order to feast upon it, for he had just stolen it. The moon shone bright and clear, not a single cloud being there in heaven to hide her. While enjoying his gay feast, the impudent thief cut a piece off the meat, and, putting it on the point of his knife, accosted the moon with these godless words:-- 'O moon, wilt thou On thy mouth now This dainty bit of mutton-meat?' Then a voice came from the heavens, saying:-- 'Wouldst thou, thief, like Thy cheek to strike This fair key, scorching-red with heat?' At the same moment, a red-hot key fell from the sky on to the cheek of the thief, burning on it a mark which he carried with him ever afterwards. Hence arose the custom in ancient times of branding or marking thieves." [282] The moral influence of this tale is excellent, and has the cordial admiration of all who hate robbery and effrontery: at the same time it exhibits the moon as an irascible body, with which no liberty may be taken. In short, it is an object of superstitious awe. One other lunar fancy, born and bred in fear, is connected with the abominable superstition of witchcraft. Abominable, unquestionably, the evil was; but justice compels us to add that the remedy of relentless and ruthless persecution with which it was sought to remove the pest was a reign of abhorrent and atrocious cruelty. Into the question itself we dare not enter, lest we should be ourselves bewitched. We know that divination by supposed supernatural agency existed among the Hebrews, that magical incantations were practised among the Greeks and Romans, and that more modern witchcraft has been contemporaneous with the progress of Christianity. But we must dismiss the subject in one borrowed sentence. "The main source from which we derived this superstition is the East, and traditions and facts incorporated in our religion. There were only wanted the ferment of thought of the fifteenth century, the energy, ignorance, enthusiasm, and faith of those days, and the papal denunciation of witchcraft by the bull of Innocent the Eighth, in 1459, to give fury to the delusion. And from this time, for three centuries, the flames at which more than a hundred thousand victims perished cast a lurid light over Europe." [283] The singular notion, which we wish to present, is the ancient belief that witches could control the moon. In the _Clouds_ of Aristophanes, Strepsiades tells Socrates that he has "a notion calculated to deprive of interest"; which is as follows:-- "_Str_. If I were to buy a Thessalian witch, and draw down the moon by night, then shut her up in a round helmet-case, like a mirror, and then keep watching her--" "_Soc_. What good would that do you, then?" "_Str_. What? If the moon were not to rise any more anywhere, I should not pay the interest." "_Soc_. Because what?" "_Str_. Because the money is lent by the month." [284] Shakespeare alludes to this, where Prospero says, "His mother was a witch, and one so strong that could control the moon" (_Tempest_, Act v.). If the witch's broom, on whose stick she rode to the moon, be a type of the wind, we may guess how the fancy grew up that the airy creation could control those atmospheric vapours on which the light and humidity of the night were supposed to depend. [285] III. LUNAR ECLIPSES. All round the globe, from time immemorial, those periodic phenomena known as solar and lunar eclipses have been occasions of mental disquietude and superstitious alarm. Though now regarded as perfectly natural and regular, they have seemed so preternatural and irregular to the unscientific eye that we cannot wonder at the consternation which they have caused. And it must be confessed that a total obscuration of the sun in the middle of the day casts such a gloom over the earth that men not usually timid are still excusable if during the parenthesis they feel a temporary uneasiness, and are relieved when the ruler of the day emerges from his dark chamber, apparently rejoicing to renew his race. An eclipse of the moon, though less awe-inspiring, is nevertheless sufficiently so to awaken in the superstitious brain fearful forebodings of impending calamity. Science may demonstrate that there is nothing abnormal in these occurrences, but to the seeker after signs it wilt be throwing words away; for, as Lord Kames says, "Superstitious eyes are never opened by instruction." We will now produce a number of testimonies to show how these lunar eclipses have been viewed among the various races of the earth in ancient and modern times. The Chaldaeans were careful observers of eclipses, and Berosus believed that when the moon was obscured she turned to us her dark side. Anaximenes said that her mouth was stopped. Plato, Aristotle, the Stoics, and the Mathematicians said that she fell into conjunction with the bright sun. Anaxagoras of Clazomenae (born B.C. 499) was the first to explain the eclipse of the moon as caused by the shadow of the earth cast by the sun. But he was as one born out of due time. We are all familiar with the use made by students of unfulfilled prophecy of every extraordinary occurrence in nature, such as the sudden appearance of a comet, an earthquake, an eclipse, etc. We know how mysteriously they interpret those simple passages in the Bible about the sun being darkened and the moon being turned into blood. If they were not wilfully blind, such facts as are established by the following quotations would open their eyes to the errors in their exegesis. At any rate, they would find their theories anticipated in nearly every particular by those very heathen whom they are wont to pity as so benighted and hopelessly lost. Grimm writes: "One of the most terrible phenomena to heathens was an _eclipse_ of the sun or moon, which they associated with a destruction of all things and the end of the world. I may safely assume that the same superstitious notions and practices attend eclipses among nations ancient and modern. The Indian belief is that a serpent eats up the sun and moon when they arc eclipsed, or a demon devours them. To this day the Hindoos consider that a giant lays hold of the luminaries and tries to swallow them. The Chinese call the solar eclipse zhishi (solis devoratio), the lunar yueshi (lunae devoratio), and ascribe them both to the machinations of a dragon. Nearly all the populations of Northern Asia hold the same opinion. The Finns of Europe, the Lithuanians, and the Moors in Africa, have a similar belief." [286] Flammarion says: "Among the ancient nations people used to come to the assistance of the moon, by making a confused noise with all kinds of instruments, when it was eclipsed. It is even done now in Persia and some parts of China, where they fancy that the moon is fighting with a great dragon, and they think the noise will make him loose his hold and take to flight. Among the East Indians they have the same belief that when the sun and the moon are eclipsed, a dragon is seizing them, and astronomers who go there to observe eclipses are troubled by the fears of their native attendants, and by their endeavours to get into the water as the best place under the circumstances. In America the idea is that the sun and moon are tired when they are eclipsed. But the more refined Greeks believed for a long time that the moon was bewitched, and that the magicians made it descend from heaven to put into the herbs a certain maleficent froth. Perhaps the idea of the dragon arose from the ancient custom of calling the places in the heavens at which the eclipses of the moon took place the head and tail of the dragon." [287] Sir Edward Sherburne, in his "Annotations upon the _Medea_," quaintly says: "Of the beating of kettles, basons, and other brazen vessels used by the ancients when the moone was eclipsed (which they did to drown the charms of witches, that the moon might not hear them, and so be drawne from her spheare as they suppos'd), I shall not need to speake, being a thing so generally knowne, a custom continued among the Turks to this day; yet I cannot but adde, and wonder at, what Joseph Scaliger, in his 'Annotations upon Manilius,' reports out of Bonincontrius, an ancient commentator upon the same poet, who affirms that in a town of Italy where he lived (within these two centuries of yeares), he saw the same piece of paganisme acted upon the like occasion." [288] Another, and more recent writer, also says of these eclipses: "The Chinese imagine them to be caused by great dragons trying to devour the sun and moon, and beat drums and brass kettles to make the monsters give up their prey. Some of the tribes of American Indians speak of the moon as hunted by huge dogs, catching and tearing her till her soft light is reddened and put out by the blood flowing from her wounds. To this day in India the native beats his gong, as the moon passes across the sun's face, and it is not so very long ago that in Europe both eclipses and rushing comets were thought to show that troubles were near." [289] Respecting China, a modern traveller speaks in not very complimentary language. "If there is on the earth a nation absorbed by the affairs of this world and who trouble themselves little about what passes among the heavenly bodies, it is assuredly the Chinese. The most erudite among them just know of the existence of astronomy, or, as they call it, _tienwen_--'celestial literature.' But they are ignorant of the simplest principles of the science, and those who regard an eclipse as a natural phenomenon, instead of a dragon who is seeking to devour the sun and moon, are enlightened indeed." [290] This statement ought to be taken with more than one _granum salis_, especially as Mrs. Somerville assures us that the Chinese had made advances in the science of astronomy 1,100 years before the Christian era, and also adds: "Their whole chronology is founded on the observation of eclipses, which prove the existence of that empire for more than 4,700 years." [291] With this discount the charge against Chinese ignorance may be passed. "A Mongolian myth makes out that the gods determined to punish Arakho for his misdeeds, but he hid so effectually that no one could find out his lurking-place. They therefore asked the _sun_, who gave an unsatisfactory answer; but when they asked the _moon_, she disclosed his whereabouts. So Arakho was dragged forth and chastised; in revenge of which he _pursues both sun and moon_, and whenever he comes to hand-grips with one of them, _an eclipse occurs_. To help the lights of heaven in their sad plight, a _tremendous uproar_ is made with musical and other instruments, till Arakho is scared away." [292] "Referring to the Shoo, Pt. III., Bk. IV., parag. 4, we find this sentence: 'On the first day of the last month of autumn the sun and moon did not meet harmoniously in Fang.'" [293] In less euphemistic phrase, the sun and moon were _crossed_. Dr. Wells Williams describes an interesting scene. "In the middle of the sixth moon lanterns are hung from the top of a pole placed on the highest part of the house. A single small lantern is deemed sufficient, but if the night be calm, a greater display is made by some householders, and especially in boats, by exhibiting coloured glass lamps arranged in various ways. The illumination of a city like Canton, when seen from a high spot, is made still more brilliant by the moving boats on the river. On one of these festivals at Canton, an almost total eclipse of the moon called out the entire population, each one carrying something with which to make a noise, kettles, pans, sticks, drums, gongs, guns, crackers, and what not to frighten away the dragon of the sky from his hideous feast. The advancing shadow gradually caused the myriads of lanterns to show more and more distinctly, and started a still increasing clamour, till the darkness and the noise were both at their climax. Silence gradually resumed its sway as the moon recovered her fulness." [294] On another page Dr. Williams tells us that "some clouds having on one occasion covered the sky, so that an eclipse could not be seen, the courtiers joyfully repaired to the emperor to felicitate him that Heaven, touched by his virtues, had spared him the pain of witnessing the 'eating of the sun.'" [295] The following passage from Doolittle's work on the Chinese is sufficiently interesting to be given without abridgment: "It is a part of the official duties of mandarins to 'save the sun and moon when eclipsed.' Prospective eclipses are never noticed in the Imperial Calendar, published originally at Peking, and republished in the provinces. The imperial astronomers at the capital, a considerable time previous to a visible eclipse, inform the Board of Rites of its month, day, and hour. These officers send this intelligence to the viceroys or governors of the eighteen provinces of the empire. These, in turn, communicate the information to all the principal subordinate officers in the provinces of the civil and the military grade. The officers make arrangements to save the moon or the sun at the appointed time. On the day of the eclipse, or on the day preceding it, some of them put up a written notice in or near their yamuns, for the information of the public. "The Chinese generally have no rational idea of the cause of eclipses. The common explanation is that the sun or the moon has experienced some disaster. Some even affirm that the object eclipsed is being devoured by an immense ravenous monster. This is the most popular sentiment in Fuhchau in regard to the procuring cause of eclipses. All look upon the object eclipsed with wonder. Many are filled with apprehension and terror. Some of the common people, as well as mandarins generally, enter upon some course of action, the express object of which is to save the luminary from its dire calamity, or to rescue it from the jaws of its greedy enemy. Mandarins must act officially, and in virtue of their being officers of government. Neither they nor the people seem to regard the immense distance of the celestial object as at all interfering with the success of their efforts. The various obstacles which ought apparently to deter them from attempting to save the object eclipsed do not seem to have occurred to them at all, or, if they have occurred, do not appear to be sufficient to cause them to desist from prosecuting their laudable endeavours. The high mandarins procure the aid of priests of the Taoist sect at their yamuns. These place an incense censer and two large candlesticks for holding red candles or tapers on a table in the principal reception room of the mandarin, or in the open space in front of it under the open heavens. "At the commencement of the eclipse the tapers are lighted, and soon after the mandarin enters, dressed in his official robes. Taking some sticks of lighted incense in both hands, he makes his obeisance before or facing the table, raising and depressing the incense two or three times, according to the established fashion, before it is placed in the censer. Or sometimes the incense is lighted and put in the censer by one of the priests employed. The officer proceeds to perform the high ceremony of kneeling down three times, and knocking his head on the ground nine times. After this he rises from his knees. Large gongs and drums near by are now beaten as loudly as possible. The priests begin to march slowly around the tables, reciting formulas, etc., which marching they keep up, with more or less intermissions, until the eclipse has passed off. "A uniform result always follows these official efforts to save the sun and the moon. _They are invariably successful_. There is not a single instance recorded in the annals of the empire when the measures prescribed in instructions from the emperor's astronomers at Peking, and correctly carried out in the provinces by the mandarins, have not resulted in a complete rescue of the object eclipsed. Doubtless the vast majority of the common people in China believe that the burning of tapers and incense, the prostration of the mandarins, the beating of the gongs and drums, and the recitations on the part of the priests, are signally efficacious in driving away the voracious monster. They observe that the sun or the moon does not seem to be permanently injured by the attacks of its celestial enemy, although a half or nearly the whole appeared to have been swallowed up. This happy result is doubtless viewed with much complacency by the parties engaged to bring it about. The lower classes generally leave the saving of the sun or the moon, when eclipsed, to their mandarins, as it is a part of their official business. Some of the people occasionally beat in their houses a winnowing instrument, made of bamboo splints, on the occasion of an eclipse. This gives out a loud noise. Some venture to assert that the din of this instrument penetrates the clouds as high as the very temple of Heaven itself! The sailors connected with junks at this place, on the recurrence of a lunar eclipse, always contribute their aid to rescue the moon by beating their gongs in a most deafening manner. "Without doubt, most of the mandarins understand the real occasion of eclipses, or, at least, they have the sense to perceive that nothing which they can do will have any effect upon the object eclipsed, or the cause which produces the phenomenon; but they have no optional course in regard to the matter. They must comply with established custom, and with the understood will of their superiors. The imperial astronomers, having been taught the principles of astronomy and the causes which produce eclipses by the Roman Catholic missionaries a long while since, of course know that the common sentiments on the subject are as absurd as the common customs relating to it are useless. But the emperor and his cabinet cling to ancient practices, notwithstanding the clearest evidences of their false and irrational character." [296] Mr. Herbert Giles accounts for this Chinese obtuseness, or, as some would have it, opacity, in much the same way. Under the head of _Natural Phenomena_, he writes: "It is a question of more than ordinary interest to those who regard the Chinese people as a worthy object of study, What are the speculations of the working and uneducated classes concerning such natural phenomena as it is quite impossible for them to ignore? Their theory of eclipses is well known, foreign ears being periodically stunned by the gonging of an excited crowd of natives, who are endeavouring with hideous noises to prevent some imaginary dog of colossal proportions from banqueting, as the case may be, upon the sun or moon. At such laughable exhibitions of native ignorance it will be observed there is always a fair sprinkling of well-to-do, educated persons, who not only ought to know better themselves, but should be making some effort to enlighten their less fortunate countrymen instead of joining in the din. Such a hold, however, has superstition on the minds of the best informed in a Chinese community, that under the influence of any real or supposed danger, philosophy and Confucius are scattered to the four winds of heaven, and the proudest disciple of the master proves himself after all but a man." [297] No doubt Mr. Doolittle and Mr. Giles are both right: custom and superstition form a twisted rope which pinions the popular mind. But there is yet another strand to be mentioned which makes the bond a threefold cord which it will take some time to break. _Prescriptive right_ requires that the official or cultured class in China, answering to the clerical caste elsewhere, should keep the other classes in ignorance; because, if science and religion are fellow-helpers, science and superstition can never dwell together, and the downfall of superstition in China would be the destruction of imperial despotism and magisterial tyranny. "Sirs, ye know that by this craft we have our wealth. But this Paul says that they be no gods, which are made with hands: so that our craft is in danger to be set at nought. Great is Diana of the Ephesians!" The mandarins know why they encourage the mechanics and merchants to save the moon. We once met a good story in reading one of Jean Astruc's medical works. "Theodore de Henry, of Paris, coming one time into the church of St. Dionis, he fell prostrate at the foot of the statue of Charles the Eighth, as in a sudden fit of devotion. When being told by one of the monks that was not the image of any saint, he replied, he was not ignorant of that, but was willing to pay a grateful acknowledgment to the memory of that prince who had brought the _Morbus Gallicus_ into France, by which he had made his own fortune." Herein lies the secret of half of the hypocrisy of the world. Thank God! the world moves; and the millennium of truth is at hand. The literature of China is, happily, not all linsey-woolsey. The following sample is of the finest silk, worthy to adorn the purest saint. "MING TI of the HOUSE of WEI. "Reigned 227-239 A.D. "_On an Eclipse.--A Rescript_. WE have heard that if a sovereign is remiss in government, Heaven terrifies him by calamities and strange portents. These are divine reprimands sent to recall him to a sense of duty. Thus, partial eclipses of the sun and moon are manifest warnings that the rod of empire is not wielded aright. Ever since WE ascended the throne, OUR inability to continue the glorious traditions of our departed ancestors and carry on the great work of civilization, has now culminated in a warning message from on high. It therefore behoves Us to issue commands for personal reformation, in order to avert the impending calamity. "But the relations of Heaven with Man are those of a father and son; and a father about to chastise his son would not be deterred were the latter to present him with a dish of meat. WE do not therefore consider it part of OUR duty to act in accordance with certain memorials advising that the prime minister and chief astronomer be instructed to offer up sacrifices on this occasion. Do ye, governors of districts and other high officers of State, seek rather to rectify your own hearts; and if any one can devise means to make up for OUR shortcomings, let him submit his proposals to the Throne." [298] The writer of that was "not far from the kingdom of God." Father Borri, in his account of Cochin China, describes the effect of a lunar eclipse upon several scholars in the city of Nuoecman in the province of Pulucambi. "I showed them that the circle of the moon, on that side the eclipse began, was not so perfect as it should be, and soon after all the moon being darkened, they perceived the truth of my prediction. The commander and all of them being astonished, presently sent to give notice of it to all the ward, and spread the news of the eclipse throughout the city, that every man might go out to make the usual noise in favour of the moon; giving out everywhere that there were no such men as the fathers, whose doctrine and books could not fail being true, since they had so exactly foretold the eclipse, which their learned men had taken no notice of; and therefore, in performance of his promise, the commander with all his family became Christians, as did many more of his ward, with some of the most learned men of the city and others of note." [299] In no unkind spirit we cannot refrain from noticing, what will strike every reader, how ready divines of all denominations are to turn the teachings of science to their own account in the propagation of their faith. It would have been seemlier for theologians in all ages, if their attitude towards physical inquirers had been less hostile; they would then have made converts through eclipses with a better grace. They would, moreover, have prevented the alienation of many of their truest friends. Captain Beeckman gives an amusing story of an eclipse in Cantongee, in the island of Borneo, on the 10th of November, 1714. "We sat very merry till about eight at night, when, preparing to go to bed, we heard all on a sudden a most terrible outcry, mixed with squealing, halloing, whooping, firing of guns, ringing and clattering of gongs or brass pans, that we were greatly startled, imagining nothing less but that the city was surprised by the rebels. I ran immediately to the door, where I found my old fat landlord roaring and whooping like a man raving mad. This increased my astonishment, and the noise was so great that I could neither be heard, nor get an answer to know what the matter was. At last I cried as loud as possibly I could to the old man to know the reason of this sad confusion and outcry, who in a great fright pointed up to the heavens, and said, '_Look there; see, the devil is eating up the moon_!' I was very glad to hear that there was no other cause of their fright but their own ignorance. It was only a great eclipse of the moon. I smiled, and told him that there was no danger; that in a little while the moon would be as well as ever. Whereupon, catching fast hold of my sleeve, as I was returning to bed, he asked me if I was sure on't (for they take us white men to be very wise in those matters). I assured him I was, and that we always knew many years before when such a thing would happen; that it proceeded from a natural cause, according to the course and motion of the sun and moon, and that the devil had no hand in it. After the eclipse was over, the old man, being not a little rejoiced, took me in." [300] Another writer speaks of the East India Islands in general. "There is to this day hardly a country of the Archipelago in which the ceremony of frightening the supposed monster from his attack on the luminary is not performed. This consists in shouting, in striking gongs, but, above all, in striking their stampers against the sides of the wooden mortars which are used by the villagers in husking their corn." [301] That the Indians of the continent regard the phenomena in question with more than ordinary interest is evinced by their resorting in large numbers to Benares, the ancient seat of brahminical learning and religion, on every occasion of an eclipse of the moon. Lord Kames reminds us that among the Greeks "an eclipse being held a prognostic given by the gods of some grievous calamity, Anaxagoras was accused of atheism for attempting to explain the eclipse of the moon by natural causes: he was thrown into prison, and with difficulty was relieved by the influence of Pericles. Protagoras was banished Athens for maintaining the same doctrine." [302] Thucydides tells us that an eclipse of the moon delayed the departure of the expedition against the Syracusans. "The preparations were made, and they were on the point of sailing, when the moon, being just then at the full, was eclipsed. The mass of the army was greatly moved, and called upon the generals to remain. Nicias himself, who was too much under the influence of divination and omens, refused even to discuss the question of their removal until they had remained thrice nine days, as the soothsayers prescribed. This was the reason why the departure of the Athenians was finally delayed." [303] "At any eclipse of the moone, the Romanes would take their brazen pots and pannes, and beat them, lifting up many torches and linckes lighted, and firebrandes into the aire, thinking by these superstitious meanes to reclaime the moone to her light." [304] _The Constantinople Messenger_ of December 23rd, 1880, contains the following:--"Mgr. Mamarbasci, who represents the Syrian Patriarch at the Porte, and who resides in St. Peter's Monastery in Galata, underwent a singular experience on the evening of the last eclipse of the moon. Hearing a great noise outside of the firing of revolvers and pistols, he opened his window to see what could be the cause of so much waste of powder. Being a native of Aleppo, he was at no loss to understand the cause of the disturbance as soon as he cast his eye on the heavens, and he therefore immediately withdrew his head from the window again. Hardly had he done so, however, ere a ball smashed the glass into a thousand pieces. Rising from the seat into which he had but just sat down, he perceived a conical ball on the floor of his room, which there is every reason to believe would have killed him on the spot had he remained a moment longer on the spot he had just quitted. From the yard of the mosque of Arab-Djami, which is in front of the prelate's window, the bullet had, it appears, been fired with the intention of frightening the dragon or bear which, according to oriental superstition, lies in wait to devour the moon at its eclipse. It is a fortunate circumstance that the Syrian ecclesiastic escaped scathless from the snares laid to destroy the celestial dragon." [305] In the _Edda_, an ancient collection of Scandinavian poetry, embodying the national mythology, Managarmer is the monster who sometimes swallows up the moon, and stains the heaven and the air with blood. "Here," says M. Mallett, "we have the cause of eclipses; and it is upon this very ancient opinion that the general practice is founded, of making noises at that time, to fright away the monster, who would otherwise devour the two great luminaries." [306] Of the Germans, Grimm says:--"In a lighted candle, if a piece of the wick gets half detached and makes it burn away too fast, they say 'a _wolf_ (as well as a thief) is in the candle'; this too is like the wolf devouring the sun or moon. Eclipses of sun or moon have been a terror to many heathen nations; the incipient and increasing obscuration of the luminous orb marks for them the moment when the gaping jaws of the wolf threaten to devour it, and they think by loud cries to bring it succour." [307] And again:--"The personality of the sun and moon shows itself moreover in a fiction that has well-nigh gone the round of the world. These two, in their unceasing unflagging career through the void of heaven, appear to be in flight, avoiding some pursuer. A pair of wolves are on their track, _Sköll_ dogging the steps of the sun, _Hati_ of the moon: they come of a giant race, the mightiest of whom, Mânagarmr (moon-dog), apparently but another name for Hati, is sure some day to _overtake and swallow the moon_." [308] Francis Osborn, whose _Advice_ contains, in the opinion of Hallam, "a considerable sprinkling of sound sense and observation," thus counsels his son: "Imitate not the wild Irish or Welch, who, during eclipses, run about beating kettles and pans, thinking their clamour and vexations available to the assistance of the higher orbs." [309] "In eclipses of the moon, the Greenlanders carry boxes and kettles to the roofs of their houses, and beat on them as hard as they can." [310] With the Californian Indians, "on an eclipse, all is consternation. They congregate and sing, as some say to appease, and others to frighten, the evil spirits. They believe that the devils are eating up the luminary, and they do not cease until it comes forth in its wonted splendour." [311] Among certain Indian tribes "dogs were supposed to stand in some peculiar relation to the moon, probably because they howl at it, and run at night; uncanny practices which have cost them dear in reputation. The custom prevailed among tribes so widely asunder as Peruvians, Tupis, Creeks, Iroquois, Algonkins, and Greenland Eskimos, to thrash the curs most soundly during an eclipse. The Creeks explained this by saying that the big dog was swallowing the sun, and that by whipping the little ones they could make him desist. What the big dog was they were not prepared to say. We know. It was the night goddess, represented by the dog, who was thus shrouding the world at midday." [312] It is well known that Columbus found his acquaintance with the calculations of astronomy of great practical value. For when, during his last expedition, he was reduced to famine by the inhabitants of the newly discovered continent, who kept him and his companions prisoners, he, aware that an eclipse was at hand, threatened to deprive them of the light of the moon, if they did not forthwith bring him provisions. At first they did not care; but when the moon disappeared, they brought abundance of supplies, with much entreaty of pardon. This occurred on the 1st day of March, 1504, a date which modern tables of lunar eclipses may fully verify. "In the Mexican mythology we read of the woman serpent, or the moon, devoured by the sun, a myth probably descriptive of the changes in the phases of the moon." [313] More probably this myth referred to the moon's eclipse; for Bradford tells us that "the Mexicans believed when there was an eclipse of the sun or moon, that one of those bodies was being devoured by the other. The Peruvians believed these phenomena portended some great calamity; that the eclipsed body was sick and about to die, in which case the world would perish. As soon as an eclipse commenced, they made a dreadful noise with their musical instruments; they struck their dogs and made them howl, in the hope that the moon, which they believed had an affection for those animals in consequence of some signal service which they had rendered her, would have pity on their cries. The Araucanians called eclipses the 'deaths' of the sun and moon." [314] In Aglio we are told of the Mexicans that "in the year of Five Rabbits, or in 1510, there was an eclipse of the sun; they take no account of the eclipses of the moon, but only of those of the sun; for they say that the sun devours the moon when an eclipse of the moon takes place." [315] "The Tlascaltecs, regarding the sun and the moon as husband and wife, believed eclipses to be domestic quarrels. Ribas tells how the Sinaloas held that the moon in an eclipse was darkened with the dust of battle. Her enemy had come upon her, and a terrible fight, big with consequence to those on earth, went on in heaven. In wild excitement the people beat on the sides of their houses, encouraging the moon, and shooting flights of arrows up into the sky to distract her adversary. Much the same as this was also done by certain Californians." [316] "At a lunar eclipse the Orinoko Indians seized their hoes and laboured with exemplary vigour on their growing corn, saying the moon was veiling herself in anger at their habitual laziness." [317] The umbrated moon did good in this way: as many of us remember the beautiful comet of 1858 did good, when it frightened some trembling Londoners into a speedy settlement of old debts, in anticipation of the final account. Ellis says of the Tahitians: "An eclipse of the moon filled them with dismay; they supposed the planet was _natua_, or under the influence of the spell of some evil spirit that was destroying it. Hence they repaired to the temple, and offered prayers for the moon's release. Some imagined that on an eclipse, the sun and moon were swallowed by the god which they had by neglect offended. Liberal presents were offered, which were supposed to induce the god to abate his anger, and eject the luminaries of day and night from his stomach." [318] The Tongans or Friendly Islanders have a notion that the earth's surface is flat, that the sun and moon "pass through the sky and come back some way, they know not how. When the moon is eclipsed, they attribute the phenomenon to a thick cloud passing over it: the same with the sun." [319] In the Hervey Islands, the common exclamation during an eclipse is, "Alas! a divinity has devoured the moon!" Finally, to close this chapter where it commenced, in Chaldaea, the cradle of _star-reading_, Sir Austen Henry Layard says: "I gained, as other travellers have done before me, some credit for wisdom and superhuman knowledge by predicting, through the aid of an almanack, a partial eclipse of the moon. It duly took place, to the great dismay of my guests, who well-nigh knocked out the bottoms of all my kitchen utensils in their endeavour to frighten away the jins who had thus laid hold of the planet. The common notion amongst ignorant Mahometans is, that an eclipse is caused by some evil spirit catching hold of the sun or moon. On such occasions, in Eastern towns, the whole population assembles with pots, pans, and other equally rude instruments of music, and, with the aid of their lungs, make a din and turmoil which might suffice to drive away a whole army of evil spirits, even at so great a distance." [320] We have reached three general conclusions. _First_, when the moon is occulted by the earth it is believed to be devoured by some evil demon, or by wolves or dogs. This is the superstitious vagary of the Hindoos, the Chinese, Asiatics generally, Europeans, Africans, Americans, and Polynesians. _Secondly_, a lunar eclipse is the precursor of some dreadful calamity to the inhabitants of the earth. This notion is also traceable in every quarter of the globe. And _thirdly_, during the obscuration the light of the moon is reddened, and at last extinguished, by the blood which flows from its wounds; which belief originates with the _Edda_, and obtains in the Western world. Students of sacred prophecy may still elect to deem these occurrences that are purely natural as of supernatural significance, and may risk the interests of true religion in their insane disregard of science; but the truth will remain, in spite of their misconceptions, that eclipses of the moon have no concern with the moral destiny of mankind. IV. LUNAR INFLUENCES. The superficies of the earth being twice seven times that of the moon, what an influence the earth must exercise over its satellite! We may be unable to describe this influence in all of its effects; but we may observe its existence in some of its apparent signs. The moon not only turns while we turn, but its rotations on its axis keep exact time with its revolutions round our globe; it accompanies us as we encircle the sun, facing us all the while, never turning its back upon us; it waits on us like a link-bearer, or lackey; is our admiring Boswell, living and moving and having its being in the equability it derives from attending its illustrious master. An African sage once illustrated this philosophical principle of the greater controlling the less, by the following fine conundrum. "Why does the dog waggle his tail?" This problem, being beyond his auditors, was given up. The sage made answer, "Because the dog is bigger than the tail; else the tail would waggle the dog." It is alarming to contemplate the effect which the moon might have upon our august earth, if it were fourteen times larger instead of fourteen times smaller in extent of surface. As it is, Luna's influences are so many and so mighty, that we will require considerable space merely to set them in order, and to substantiate them with a few facts. We believe that most, if not all, of them, are the offspring of superstition; but we shall none the less find them in every land, in every age. In the nineteenth century as well as in the dark ages, in London as well as in the ends of the earth, men of all colours and clans are found turning their faces heavenward to read their duty and destiny in the oracular face of the moon. Many consult their almanacks more than their Bibles, and follow the lunar phases as their sole interpretation of the will of God. Among those who worship the moon as a personal deity, whether beneficent or malign, its influences are of course welcomed or dreaded as the manifestations of supreme power. In South America, for example, "the Botocudos are said to give the highest rank among the heavenly bodies to Taru, the moon, as causing thunder and lightning and the failure of vegetables and fruits, and as even sometimes falling to the earth, whereby many men die." [321] So, in Africa, the emotions of the worshippers vary with their subjective views of their god. "Negro tribes seem almost universally to greet the new moon, whether in delight or disgust. The Guinea people fling themselves about with droll gestures, and pretend to throw firebrands at it; the Ashango men behold it with superstitious fear; the Fetu negroes jumped thrice into the air with hands together and gave thanks." [322] But even amongst men who neither personify nor deify the moon, its dominion over the air, earth, and sea, over human health and happiness, is held to be so all-important, that if the Maker and Monarch of all were jealous, as men count jealousy, such lunar fears and affections would be unpardonable sin. Let us proceed to particulars, rising from inorganic nature to beings endowed with the highest instruments of life. Even the mineral kingdom is supposed to be swayed by the moon; for in Scotland, Martin says, "The natives told me, that the rock on the east side of Harries, in the Sound of Island Glass, hath a vacuity near the front, on the north-west side of the Sound; in which they say there is a stone that they call the _Lunar Stone_, which advances and retires according to the increase and decrease of the moon." [323] An ancient instance of belief in lunar influence upon inanimate matter is cited by Plutarch. "_Euthydemus_ of _Sunium_ feasted us upon a time at his house, and set before us a wilde bore, of such bignesse, that all wee at the table wondred thereat; but he told us that there was another brought unto him farre greater; mary naught it was, and corrupted in the carriage, by the beames of the moone-shine; whereof he made great doubt and question, how it should come to passe; for that he could not conceive, nor see any reason, but that the sunne should rather corrupt flesh, being as it was, farre hotter than the moone." [324] Pliny said that the moon corrupted carcases of animals exposed to its malefic rays. As with the lifeless, so with the living. "The inhabitants of St. Kilda observe that when the April moon goes far in May, the fowls are ten or twelve days later in laying their eggs than ordinarily they use to be." [325] The influence of the moon upon vegetation is an opinion hoary with age. In the _Zend-Avesta_ we read, "And when the light of the moon waxes warmer, golden-hued plants grow on from the earth during the spring." [326] An old English author writes:-- "Sowe peason and beanes, in the wane of the moone, Who soweth them sooner, he soweth too soone That they with the planet may rest and arise, And flourish, with bearing most plentiful wise." [327] Cucumbers, radishes, turnips, leeks, lilies, horseradish, saffron, and other plants, are said to increase during the fulness of the moon; but onions, on the contrary, are much larger and are better nourished during the decline. [328] To recur to Plutarch is to find him saying: "The moone showeth her power most evidently even in those bodies, which have neither sense nor lively breath; for carpenters reject the timber of trees fallen in the ful-moone, as being soft and tender, subject also to the worme and putrifaction, and that quickly, by reason of excessive moisture; husbandmen, likewise, make haste to gather up their wheat and other grain from the threshing-floore, in the wane of the moone, and toward the end of the month, that being hardened thus with drinesse, the heape in the garner may keepe the better from being fustie, and continue the longer; whereas corne which is inned and laied up at the full of the moone, by reason of the softnesse and over-much moisture, of all other, doth most cracke and burst. It is commonly said also, that if a leaven be laied in the ful-moone, the paste will rise and take leaven better." [329] Still in Cornwall the people gather all their medicinal plants when the moon is of a certain age; which practice is very probably a relic of druidical superstition. "In some parts it is a prevalent belief that the growth of mushrooms is influenced by the changes of the moon, and in Essex the subjoined rule is often scrupulously adhered to:-- "When the moon is at the full, Mushrooms you may freely pull But when the moon is on the wane, Wait ere you think to pluck again.'" [330] Henderson says, "I may, perhaps, mention here, that apples are said to 'shrump up' in Devonshire if picked when the moon is waning." [331] A writer of miscellaneous literature tells us that "it has been demonstrated that moonlight has the power, _per se_, of awakening the sensitive plant, and consequently that it possesses an influence of some kind on vegetation. It is true that the influence is very feeble, compared with that of the sun; but the action is established, and the question remains, what is the practical value of the fact? 'It will immediately,' says Professor Lindley, 'occur to the reader that possibly the screens which are drawn down over hothouses at night, to prevent loss of heat by radiation, may produce some unappreciated injury by cutting off the rays of the moon, which nature intended to fall upon plants as much as the rays of the sun." [332] The same author says elsewhere, "Columella, Cato, Vitruvius, and Pliny, all had their notions of the advantages of cutting timber at certain ages of the moon; a piece of mummery which is still preserved in the royal ordonnances of France to the conservators of the forests, who are directed to fell oaks only 'in the wane of the moon' and 'when the wind is at north.'" [333] Of trees, astrologers affirm that the moon rules the palm tree (which the ancients say "sends forth a twig every time the moon rises") and all plants, trees, and herbs that are juicy and full of sap. [334] "A description of the New Netherlands, written about 1650, remarks that the savages of that land 'ascribe great influence to the moon over crops.' This venerable superstition, common to all races, still lingers among our own farmers, many of whom continue to observe 'the signs of the moon' in sowing grain, setting out trees, cutting timber, and other rural avocations." [335] What is here said of the new world applies also to the old; for in England a current expression in Huntingdonshire is "a dark Christmas sends a fine harvest": dark meaning moonless. Of the lunar influence upon the tides, old John Lilly writes: "There is nothing thought more admirable, or commendable in the sea, than the ebbing and flowing; and shall the moone, from whom the sea taketh this virtue, be accounted fickle for encreasing and decreasing?" [336] Another writer of the sixteenth century says, "The moone is founde, by plaine experience, to beare her greatest stroke uppon the seas, likewise in all things that are moiste, and by consequence in the braines of man." [337] Dennys tells us that "the influence exerted by the moon on tides is recognised by the Chinese." [338] What some record in prose, others repeat in rhyme. The following is _one_ kind of poetry. "Moone changed, keepes closet, three daies as a Queene, Er she in hir prime, will of any be scene: If great she appereth, it showreth out, If small she appereth, it signifieth drout. At change or at full, come it late, or else soone, Maine sea is at highest, at midnight and noone, But yet in the creekes, it is later high flood: Through farnesse of running, by reason as good." [339] Indirectly, through the influence upon the tides, the moon is concerned in human mortality. "Tyde flowing is feared, for many a thing, Great danger to such as be sick it doth bring. Sea eb, by long ebbing, some respit doth give, And sendeth good comfort, to such as shal live." [340] Henderson says, "It is a common belief along the east coast of England, from Northumberland to Kent, that deaths mostly occur during the falling of the tide." [341] Every reader of the inimitable Dickens will be reminded here of the death of poor old Barkis. "'He's a-going out with the tide,' said Mr. Peggotty to me, behind his hand. "My eyes were dim, and so were Mr. Peggotty's; but I repeated in a whisper, 'With the tide?' "'People can't die, along the coast,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'except when the tide's pretty nigh out. They can't be born, unless it's pretty nigh in-not properly born, till flood. He's a-going out with the tide. It's ebb at half-arter three, slack water half an hour. If he lives till it turns, he'll hold his own till past the flood, and go out with the next tide.' "'He's coming to himself,' said Peggotty. "Mr. Peggotty touched me, and whispered with much awe and reverence, 'They are both a-going out fast.' "He now opened his eyes. "I was on the point of asking him if he knew me, when he tried to stretch out his arm, and said to me distinctly, with a pleasant smile,-- "'Barkis is willin'.' "And, it being low water, he went out with the tide." [342] That the rise and fall of our tides twice a day, with spring and neap tides twice in the lunar month, are the effect of the combined action of the sun and moon, is never called in question. The water under the moon is drawn up from the earth, and the earth is drawn from the water on the opposite side, the consequence of which is two high tides in the two hemispheres at the same hour. The rotation of the earth bringing the same point of the ocean twice under the moon's meridian, once under the upper meridian and once under the lower, each hemisphere has two high tides in the course of the day. The spring tide is caused by the attractive force of the sun and moon acting in conjunction, or in a straight line; and the neap tide is caused by the moon being in quadrature, or when the sun and moon are at right angles to each other. They counteract each other's influence, and our tides arc therefore low. So much is science; but the connection of ebb and flow with life and death is superstition. From a very remote antiquity, in the twilight of natural astrology, a belief arose that changes in the weather were occasioned by the moon. [343] That the notion lives on, and will not soon die, is clear to any one who is conversant with current literature and common folk-lore. Even intelligent, well-informed people lend it countenance. Professor Newcomb, of Washington, rightly says: "Thus far there is no evidence that the moon directly affects the earth or its inhabitants in any other way than by her attraction, which is so minute as to be entirely insensible except in the ways we have described. A striking illustration of the fallibility of the human judgment when not disciplined by scientific training is afforded by the opinions which have at various times obtained currency respecting a supposed influence of the moon on the weather. Neither in the reason of the case nor in observations do we find any real support for such a theory. It must, however, be admitted that opinions of this character are not confined to the uneducated." [344] Mr. Edward B. Tylor holds similar language: "The notion that the weather changes with the moon's quarterings is still held with great vigour in England. That educated people to whom exact weather records are accessible should still find satisfaction in the fanciful lunar rule, is an interesting case of intellectual survival." [345] No marvel that the "heathen Chinee" considers lunar observations as forecasting scarcity of provisions he is but of the same blood with his British brother, who takes his tea and sends him opium. "The Hakkas (and also many Puntis) believe that if in the night of the fifteenth day of the eighth month (mid autumn) there are clouds obscuring the moon before midnight, it is a sign that oil and salt will become very dear. If, however, there are clouds obscuring the moon after midnight, the price of rice will, it is supposed, undergo a similar change." [346] One of our provincial proverbs is: "So many days old the moon is on Michaelmas Day, so many floods after." Sometimes a proverb is a short saying spoken after long experience; at other times it is a small crystal left after a lengthy evaporation. In certain instances our rural apothegms are sacred relics of extinct but canonized fictions. An equally wise prediction is that if Christmas comes during a waxing moon we shall have a very good year; and the nearer to the new moon, the better. But if during a waning moon, a hard year; and the nearer the end of the moon, so much the worse. Another sage belief is that the condition of the weather is dependent upon the day of the week upon which the new moon chances to fall. We are told that "Dr. Forster, of Bruges, well known as a meteorologist, declares that by the _Journal_ kept by his grandfather, father, and self, ever since 1767, to the present time, whenever the new moon has fallen on a _Saturday_, the following _twenty days_ have been wet and windy, in nineteen cases out of twenty." [347] In Italy it is said, "If the moon change on a Sunday, there will be a flood before the month is out." New moon on Monday, or moon-day, is, of course, everywhere held a sign of good weather and luck. That a misty moon is a misfortune to the atmosphere is widely supposed. In Scotland it is an agricultural maxim among the canny farmers that-- "If the moon shows like a silver shield, You need not be afraid to reap your field But if she rises haloed round, Soon we'll tread on deluged ground." [348] Others say that a mist is unfavourable only with the new moon, not with the old. "An old moon in a mist Is worth gold in a kist (chest) But a new moon's mist Will never lack thirst," [349] is a rugged rhyme found in several places. In Cornwall the idea is that-- "A fog and a small moon Bring an easterly wind soon." The east wind, as we know, is dry. Two of the Shepherd of Banbury's rules are: "xii. If mists in the new moon, rain in the old. xiii. If mists in the old, rain in the new moon." [350] One thing is a meteorological certainty: the full moon very frequently clears the sky. But this may be partly accounted for by the fact that a full moon shows the night to be clear, which in the moon's absence might be called cloudy. Another observation shows that in proportion to the clearness of the night is its cold. The clouds covering the earth with no thick blanket, it radiates its heat into space. This has given rise to the notion that the moon itself reduces our temperature. It is _cold_ at night without doubt. But the cold moon is so warm when the sun is shining full on its disk that no creature on earth could endure a moment's contact with its surface. The centre of the "pale-faced moon" is hotter than boiling water. This thought may cheer us when "the cold round moon shines deeply down." We may be pardoned if we take with a tincture of scepticism the following statement "Native Chinese records aver that on the 18th day of the 6th moon, 1590, snow fell one summer night from the midst of the moon. The flakes were like fine willow flowers on shreds of silk." [351] Instead of cold, it is more likely that the white moon gives us heat, for from Melloni's letter to Arago it seems to be already an ascertained fact. Having concentrated the lunar rays with a lens of over three feet diameter upon his thermoscopic pile, Melloni found that the needle had deviated from 0° 6' to 4° 8', according to the lunar phase. Other thermoscopes may give even larger indications; but meanwhile the Italian physicist has exploded an error with a spark of science. "Another weather guide connected with the moon is, that to see 'the old moon in the arms of the new one' is reckoned a sign of fine weather; and so is the turning up of the horns of the new moon. In this position it is supposed to retain the water, which is imagined to be in it, and which would run out if the horns were turned down." [352] On this novel idea of a lunar bason or saucer, Southey writes from "Keswick, December 29th, 1828," as follows:--"Poor Littledale has this day explained the cause of our late rains, which have prevailed for the last six weeks, by a theory which will probably be as new to you as it is to me. 'I have observed,' he says, 'that, when the moon is turned upward, we have fine weather after it; but if it is turned down, then we have a wet season; and the reason I think is, that when it is turned down, it holds no water, like a bason, you know, and then down it all comes.' There, it will be a long while before the march of intellect shall produce a theory as original as this, which I find, upon inquiry, to be the popular opinion here." [353] George Eliot has taken notice of this fancy in the burial of "poor old Thias Bede." "They'll ha' putten Thias Bede i' the ground afore ye get to the churchyard," said old Martin, as his son came up. "It 'ud ha' been better luck if they'd ha' buried him i' the forenoon when the rain was fallin'; there's no likelihoods of a drop now, an' the moon lies like a boat there, dost see? That's a sure sign o' fair weather; there's a many as is false, but that's sure." [354] In Dekker's _Match Me in London_, Act i., the King says, "My Lord, doe you see this change in the moone? Sharp hornes doe threaten windy weather." In the famous ballad of Sir Patrick Spens, concerning whose origin there has been so much discussion, without eliciting any very accurate information, we read: "O ever alack! my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. I saw the new moon late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm And if ye gang to sea, maister, I fear we'll suffer harm." [355] Jamieson informs us that "prognostications concerning the weather, during the course of the month, are generally formed by the country people in Scotland from the appearance of the _new moon_. It is considered as an almost infallible presage of bad weather, if she _lies sair on her back_, or when her horns are pointed towards the zenith. It is a similar prognostic, when the new moon appears _wi' the auld moon in her arm_, or, in other words, when that part of the moon which is covered with the shadow of the earth is seen through it." [356] The last sentence is a _lapsus calami_. Dr. Jamieson should have said, when that part of the moon which is turned from the sun is dimly visible through the reflected light of the earth. "At Whitby, when the moon is surrounded by a halo with watery clouds, the seamen say that there will be a change of weather, for the 'moon dogs' are about." [357] At Ulceby, in Lincolnshire, "there is a very prevalent belief amongst sailors and seafaring men that when a large star or planet is seen near the moon, or, as they express it, 'a big star is dogging the moon,' that this is a certain prognostication of wild weather. I have met old sailors having the strongest faith in this prediction, and who have told me that they have verified it by a long course of observation." [358] "Some years ago," says a writer from Torquay, "an old fisherman of this place told me, on the morning next after a violent gale, that he had foreseen the storm for some time, as he had observed one star ahead of the moon, towing her, and another astern, chasing her. 'I know'd 'twas coming, safe enough.'" [359] The moon was simply in apparent proximity to two stars; but the old Devonian descried mischief. The following incident from Zulu life will be of interest. "1878. A curious phenomenon occurred 7th January. A bright star appeared near the moon at noonday, the sun shining brightly. _Omen_--The natives from this foretold the coming war with the Amazulu. Intense heat and drought prevailed at this time." [360] Hitherto we have reviewed only the imaginary influences of the moon over inanimate nature and what are called irrational beings. We have seen that this potent orb is supposed to affect the lightning and thunder of the air; the rocks and seas, the vegetables and animals of the earth; and generally to govern terrestrial matters in a manner altogether its own. Furthermore, we have found these imaginations rooted in all lands, and among men whose culture might have been expected to refuse such fruitless excrescences. When classical authors counsel us to set eggs under the hen at new moon, and to root up trees only when the moon is waning and after mid-day; and when "the wisest, brightest," if not the "meanest of mankind" seriously attributes to the moon the extraction of heat, the furtherance of putrification, the increase of moisture, and the excitement of animal spirits, with the increase of hedges and herbs if cut or set during certain phases of that body, we can but repeat to ourselves the saying, "The best of men are but men at the best." The half, however, has not been told; and we must now pass on to speak of lunar influences upon the birth, health, intellect, and fortune of microcosmical man. In the system of astrology, which professed to interpret the events of human existence by the movements of the stars, the moon was one of the primary planets. As man was looked upon in the light of a microcosm, or world in miniature, so the several parts of his constitution were viewed as but a reproduction in brief of the great parts of the vast organism. Creation was a living, intelligent being, whose two eyes were the sun and the moon, whose body was the earth, whose intellect was the ether, whose wings were the heavens. Man was an epitome of all this; and as the functions of the less were held to correspond with the functions of the greater, the microcosm with the macrocosm, man's movements could be inferred by first ascertaining the motions of the universe. The moon, having dominion in the twelve "houses" of heaven, through which she passed in the course of the year, her _aspects_ to the other bodies were considered as of prime significance, in indicating benignant or malignant influences upon human life. This system, which was based upon ignorance and superstition, and upheld by arbitrary rules and unreasoning credulity, is so repugnant to all principles of science and common sense, that it would be unworthy of notice, if we did not know that to this day there are educated persons still to be seen poring over old almanacs and peering into the darkness of divination, to read their own fortune or that of their children by the dim light of some lucky or unlucky configuration of the planets with the moon. The wheel of fortune yet revolves, and the despotism of astrology is not dead. The lunar influence is considered supreme in the hour of birth. Nay, with some the moon is potential even before birth. In Iceland it is said: "If a pregnant woman sit with her face turned towards the moon, her child will be a lunatic." [361] And this imagination obtains at home as well as abroad. We are told that "astrologers ascribe the most powerful influence to the moon on every person, both for success and health, according to her zodiacal and mundane position at birth, and her aspects to other planets. The sensual faculties depend almost entirely on the moon, and as she is aspected so are the moral or immoral tendencies. She has great influence always upon every person's constitution." [362] This is the doctrine of a book published not thirty years ago. Another work, issued also in London, says, "Cynthia, 'the queen of heaven,' as the ancients termed her, or the MOON, the companion of the earth, and chief source of our evening light, is a cold, moist, watery, phlegmatic planet, variable to an extreme, in astrological science; and partaking of good or evil, as she is aspected by good or evil stars. When angular and unafflicted in a nativity, she is the promissory pledge of great success in life and continual good fortune. She produces a full stature, fair, pale complexion, round face, gray eyes, short arms, thick hands and feet, smooth, corpulent, and phlegmatic body. Blemishes in the eyes, or a peculiar weakness in the sight, is the result of her being afflicted by the Sun. Her conjunction, semi-sextile, sextile, or trine, to Jupiter, is exceeding fortunate; and she is said by the old Astrologers to govern the _brain_, _stomach_, _bowels_, _left eye_ of the male, and _right eye_ of the female. Her usual diseases are rheumatism, consumption, palsy, cholic, apoplexy, vertigo, lunacy, scrophula, smallpox, dropsy, etc.; also most diseases peculiar to young children." [363] Such teaching is not a whit in advance of Plutarch's odd dictum that the moon has a "special hand in the birth of children." If this belief have disciples in London, it is not by any means confined to that city. In Sweden great influence is ascribed to the moon, not only in regulating the weather, but as affecting all the affairs of man's daily life. The lower orders, and many of the better sort, will not fell a tree for agricultural purposes in the wane of that orb, lest it should shrink and decay; nor will the housewife then slaughter for her family, lest the meat should shrivel and melt away in the pot. The moon is the domestic deity, whom the household must fear: the Fortuna who presides over the daily doings of sublunary mortals. In the matter of birth, we find Francis Bacon affirming that "the calculation of nativities, fortunes, good or bad hours of business, and the like fatalities, are mere levities that have little in them of certainty and solidity, and may be plainly confuted by physical reasons"; [364] and yet in his Natural History he writes: "It may be that children and young cattle that are brought forth in the full of the moon, are stronger and larger than those that are brought forth in the wane." [365] There surely can be no superstition in studying the moon's conjunctions and oppositions if her influence in a nativity have the slightest weight. And this influence is still widely maintained by philosophers who read Bacon, as well as by the peasants who read nothing at all. "In Cornwall, when a child is born in the interval between an old moon and the first appearance of a new one, it is said that it will never live to reach the age of puberty. Hence the saying, 'no moon, no man.' In the same county, too, when a boy is born in the wane of the moon, it is believed that the next birth will be a girl, and vice versa; and it is also commonly said that when a birth takes place on the 'growing of the moon' the next child will be of the same sex." [366] As a natural proceeding, we find that the moon has influence when the child is weaned. Caledonian mothers very carefully observe the lunar phases on this account. Jamieson tells us that "this superstition, with respect to the fatal influence of a waning moon, seems to have been general in Scotland. In Angus, it is believed, that, if a child be put from the breast during the waning of the moon, it will decay all the time that the moon continues to wane." [367] So in the heart of Europe, "the Lithuanian precept to wean boys at a waxing, but girls on a waning moon, no doubt to make the boys sturdy and the girls slim and delicate, is a fair match for the Orkney Islanders' objection to marrying except with a growing moon, while some even wish for a flowing tide." [368] As to marriage, the ancient Greeks considered the day of the full moon the most propitious period for that ceremony. In Euripides, Clytemnestra having asked Agamemnon when he intended to give Iphigenia in marriage to Achilles, he replies, "When the full moon comes forth with good luck." In Pindar, too, this season is preferred. [369] Lunar influences over physical health and disease must be a fearful contemplation to those who are of a superstitious turn. There is no malady within the whole realm of pathology which the moon's destroying angel cannot inflict; and from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot the entire man is at the mercy of her beams. We have all seen those disgusting woodcuts to which the following just condemnation refers: "The moon's influence on parts of the human body, as given in some old-fashioned almanacs, is an entire _fallacy_; it is most untrue and absurd, often indecent, and is a discredit to the age we live in." [370] Most of these inartistic productions are framed upon the assumption of the old alchymists that the physiological functions were regulated by planetary influence. The sun controlled the heart, the moon the brain, Jupiter the lungs, Saturn the spleen, Mars the liver, Venus the kidneys, and Mercury the reproductive powers. But even with this distribution among the heavenly bodies the moon was allowed plenipotentiary sway. As in mythology it is the god or goddess of water, so in astrology it is the embodiment of moisture, and therefore rules the humours which circulate throughout the human system. No wonder that phlebotomy prevailed so long as the reign of the moon endured. "This lunar planet," says La Martinière, "is damp of itself, but, by the radiation of the sun, is of various temperaments, as follows: in its first quadrant it is warm and damp, at which time it is good to let the blood of sanguine persons; in its second it is warm and dry, at which time it is good to bleed the choleric; in its third quadrant it is cold and moist, and phlegmatic people may be bled; and in its fourth it is cold and dry, at which time it is well to bleed the melancholic." Whatever the moon's phase may be, let blood be shed! We are reminded here of that sanguifluous theology, which even Christians of a certain temperament seem to enjoy, while they sing of fountains filled with blood: as though a God of love could take delight in the effusion of precious life. La Martinière continues, and physicians will make a note of his words: "It is a thing quite necessary to those who meddle with medicine to understand the movement of this planet, in order to discern the causes of sickness. And as the moon is often in conjunction with Saturn, many attribute to it apoplexy, paralysis, epilepsy, jaundice, hydropsy, lethargy, catapory, catalepsy, colds, convulsions, trembling of the limbs, etc., etc. I have noticed that this planet has such enormous power over living creatures, that children born at the first quarter of the declining moon are more subject to illness, so that children born when there is no moon, if they live, are weak, delicate, and sickly, or are of little mind or idiots. Those who are born under the house of the moon which is Cancer, are of a phlegmatic disposition." [371] That the ancient Hebrews, Greeks, and Romans believed in the deleterious influence of the moon on the health of man, is very evident. The Talmud refers the words, "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death" (Ps. xxiii. 4) "to him who sleeps in the shadow of the moon." [372] Another Psalm (cxxi. 6) reads, literally, "By day the sun shall not smite thee, and the moon in the night." In the Greek Testament we find further proof of this belief. Among those who thronged the Great Teacher (Matt. iv. 24) were the seleniaxomenoi (_lunatici_, Beza; _i lunatici_, Diodati; _les lunatiques_, French version; "those who were lunatick"). The Revised Version of 1881 reads "epileptic," but that is a comment, not a translation. So again (Matt. xvii. 15) we read of a boy who was "lunatick"--seleniaxetai. On which Archbishop Trench remarks, "Of course the word originally, like mania (from mene) and lunaticus, arose from the widespread belief of the evil influence of the moon on the human frame." [373] Jerome attributes all this superstition to daemons, of which men were the dupes. "The _lunatics_," he says, "were not really smitten by the moon, but were believed to be so, through the subtlety of the daemons, who by observing the seasons of the moon sought to bring an evil report against the creature, that it might redound to the blasphemy of the Creator." [374] Demons or no demons, faith in moonstroke is clear enough. Pliny was of opinion that the moon induced drowsiness and stupor in those who slept under her beams. Galen, in the second century, taught that those who were born when the moon was falciform, or sickle-shaped, were weak and short-lived, while those born during the full moon were vigorous and of long life. He also took notice of the lunar influence in epilepsy [375] of which fearful malady a modern physician writes, "This disease has been known from the earliest antiquity, and is remarkable as being that malady which, even beyond insanity, was made the foundation of the doctrine of possession by evil spirits, alike in the Jewish, Grecian, and Roman philosophy." [376] The terrible disorder was a fact; and evil spirits or the moon had to bear the blame. In modern times the moon is no less the deity of insalutary disaster. Of Mexico, Brinton says: "Very different is another aspect of the moon-goddess, and well might the Mexicans paint her with two colours. The beneficent dispenser of harvests and offspring, she nevertheless has a portentous and terrific phase. She is also the goddess of the night, the dampness, and the cold; she engenders the miasmatic poisons that rack our bones; she conceals in her mantle the foe who takes us unawares; she rules those vague shapes which fright us in the dim light; the causeless sounds of night or its more oppressive silence are familiar to her; she it is who sends dreams wherein gods and devils have their sport with man, and slumber, the twin brother of the grave." [377] So farther south, "the Brazilian mother carefully shielded her infant from the lunar rays, believing that they would produce sickness; the hunting tribes of our own country will not sleep in its light, nor leave their game exposed to its action. We ourselves have not outgrown such words as lunatic, moon-struck, and the like. Where did we get these ideas? The philosophical historian of medicine, Kurt Sprengel, traces them to the primitive and popular medical theories of ancient Egypt, in accordance with which all maladies were the effects of the anger of the goddess Isis, the moisture, the moon." [378] Perhaps Dr. Brinton's own Mexican myth is a better elucidation of this origin of nocturnal evil than that which traces it to Egypt. According to an ancient tradition in Mexico, "it is said that in the absence of the sun all mankind lingered in darkness. Nothing but a human sacrifice could hasten his arrival. Then Metzli, the moon, led forth one Nanahuatl, the leprous, and building a pyre, the victim threw himself in its midst. Straightway Metzli followed his example, and as she disappeared in the bright flames, the sun rose over the horizon. Is not this a reference to the kindling rays of the aurora, in which the dark and baleful night is sacrificed, and in whose light the moon presently fades away, and the sun comes forth?" [379] We venture to think that it is, and that it is nearest to a natural explanation of purely natural effects. Coming next to Britain, we find that "no prejudice has been more firmly rivetted than the influence of the moon over the human frame, originating perhaps in some superstition more ancient than recorded by the earliest history. The frequent intercourse of Scotland with the north may have conspired to disseminate or renew the veneration of a luminary so highly venerated there, in counteracting the more southern ecclesiastical ordinances." [380] Forbes Leslie surely goes too far, and mixes matters up too much, when he writes: "An ancient belief, adhered to by the ignorant after being denounced and apparently disproved by the learned, is now admitted to be a fact; viz. the influence of the moon in certain diseases. This, from various circumstances, is more apparent in some of the Asiatic countries, and may have given rise to the custom which extended into Britain, of exposing sick children on the housetops." [381] We know that the _solar_ rays, from the time of Hippocrates, the reputed "father of medicine," were believed by the Greeks to prolong life; and that the Romans built terraces on the tops of their houses called _solaria_, where they enjoyed their solar baths. "Levato sole levatur morbus," was one of their medical axioms. But who ever heard of the _lunar_ rays as beneficial? If sick children were exposed on the housetops, it must have been in the daytime; and, unless it were intended as an alterative, it is difficult to see what connection this had with the belief that disease was the product of the lunar beam. Besides, is the moon's influence in disease an admitted fact? The "certain diseases" should be specified, and their lunar origin sustained. The following strange superstition is singularly like that interpolated legend in the Gospel of John, about the angel troubling the pool of Bethesda. In this case the medicinal virtue seems to come with the change of the moon. But in both cases supernatural agency is equally mythical. "A cave in the neighbourhood of Dunskey ought also to be mentioned, on account of the great veneration in which it is held by the people. At the change of the moon (which is still considered with superstitious reverence), it is usual to bring, even from a great distance, infirm persons, and particularly ricketty children, whom they often suppose bewitched, to bathe in a stream which pours from the hill, and then dry them in the cave." [382] Those who are in danger of apoplexy, or other cerebral disease, through indulgence too freely in various liquids, vinous and spirituous, should cherish Bacon's sapient deliverance: "It is like that the brain of man waxeth moister and fuller upon the full of the moon; and therefore it were good for those that have moist brains, and are great drinkers, to take sume of _lignum aloes_, rosemary, frankincense, etc., about the full of the moon. It is like, also, that the humours in men's bodies increase and decrease as the moon doth; and therefore it were good to purge some day or two after the full; for that then the humours will not replenish so soon again." [383] All this sounds so unphilosophical that it is almost incredible that the learned Bacon believed what he wrote. Darker superstitions, however, still linger in our land. "In Staffordshire, it is commonly said, if you want to cure chin-cough, take out the child and let it look at the new moon; lift up its clothes and rub your right hand up and down its stomach, and repeat the following lines (looking steadfastly at the moon, and rubbing at the same time):-- 'What I see, may it increase; What I feel, may it decrease; In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.'" [384] There is a little ambiguity here. What is felt is the child's stomach. But the desire is not that that may decrease, but only the whooping cough, which is _felt_, we take it, by proxy. A lady, writing of the southern county of Sussex, says: "A superstition lingering amongst us, worthy of the days of paganism, is that the new May moon, aided by certain charms, has the power of curing scrofulous complaints." [385] As the cutting of hair, finger-nails, and corns has some relation to health and comfort, we may here mention that in Devonshire it is said that hair and nails should always be cut in the waning of the moon, thereby beneficial consequences will result. If corns are cut after the full moon, some say that they will gradually disappear. In the _British Apollo_ we have the following request for advice: "Pray tell your querist if he may Rely on what the vulgar say, That when the moon's in her increase, If corns be cut they'll grow apace But if you always do take care After the full your corns to pare, They do insensibly decay And will in time wear quite away. If this be true, pray let me know, And give the reason why 'tis so." [386] The following passage is worth quoting, without any abbreviation, as an excellent summary of wisdom and sense regarding the moon's influence on health: "There is much reason for regarding the moon as a source of evil, yet not that she herself is so, but only the circumstances which attend her. With us it happens that a bright moonlight night is always a cold one. The absence of cloud allows the earth to radiate its heat into space, and the air gradually cools, until the moisture it contained is precipitated in the form of dew, and lies like a thick blanket on the ground to prevent a further cooling. When the quantity of moisture in the air is small, the refrigerating process continues until frost is produced, and many a moonlight night in spring destroys half or even the whole of the fruit of a new season. Moonlight, therefore, frequently involves the idea of frigidity. With us, whose climate is comparatively cold, the change from the burning, blasting, or blighting heat of day, or sun-up, to the cold of a clear night, or sun-down, is not very great, but within the tropics the change is enormous. To such sudden vicissitudes in temperature, an Indian doctor, in whom I have great confidence, attributes fevers and agues. As it is clear that those persons only, whose business or pleasure obliges them to be out on cloudless nights, suffer from the severe cold produced by the rapid radiation into space of the heat of their own bodies and that of the earth, those who remain at home are not likely to suffer from the effects of the sudden and continued chill. Still further, it is clear that people in general will not care to go out during the darkness of a moonless night, unless obliged to do so. Consequently few persons have experience of the deleterious influence of starlight nights. But when a bright moon and a hot, close house induce the people to turn out and enjoy the coldness and clearness of night, it is very probable that refrigeration may be followed by severe bodily disease. Amongst such a people, the moon would rather be anathematised than adored. One may enjoy half an hour, or perhaps an hour, of moonlight, and yet be blighted or otherwise injured by a whole night of it." [387] In Denmark a superstition is current concerning the noxious influences of night. The Danes have a kind of elves which they call the "Moon Folk." "The man is like an old man with a low-crowned hat upon his head; the woman is very beautiful in front, but behind she is hollow, like a dough-trough, and she has a sort of harp on which she plays, and lures young men with it, and then kills them. The man is also an evil being, for if any one comes near him he opens his mouth and breathes upon them, and his breath causes sickness. It is easy to see what this tradition means: it is the damp marsh wind, laden with foul and dangerous odours; and the woman's harp is the wind playing across the marsh rushes at nightfall." [388] It is the Queen of the Fairies in the _Midsummer-Night's Dream_ who says to the Fairy King,-- These are the forgeries of jealousy And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead, By pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook, Or in the beachèd margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport. No night is now with hymn or carol blest: Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound And this same progeny of evils comes From our debate, from our dissension We are their parents and original. It will be thought rashly iconoclastic if we cast the least doubt upon the idea that blindness is caused directly by the light of the moon. So many cases have been adduced that it is considered a settled point. We, however, dare to dispute some of the evidence. For instance "A poor man born in the village _Rowdil_, commonly called St. Clement's, blind, lost his sight at every change of the moon, which obliged him to keep his bed for a day or two, and then he recovered his sight." [389] If logic would enable us to prove a negative to this statement, we would meet it with simple denial. But we have no hesitation in saying that an investigation into this case would have exonerated the moon of any share in the affliction, and have revealed some other and likely cause. Our chief objection to this story is its element of periodicity; and we would require overwhelming testimony to establish even the probability of such a miracle once a month. That permanent injury may accrue to those whose sleeping eyes are exposed all night to the brightness of a full moon is probable enough. But this would take place not because the moon's beams were peculiarly baneful, but because any strong light would have a hurtful effect upon the eyes when fixed for hours in the condition of sleep. We can quite believe that in a dry atmosphere like that of Egypt, where ophthalmia is very prevalent on account of constant irritation from the fine sand in the air, the eye, weary with the heat and aridity of the day, would be impaired if uncovered in the air to the rays of the moon. Carne's statements are consequently quite credible. He tells us: "The effect of the moonlight on the eyes in this country is singularly injurious; the natives tell you, as I found they also afterwards did in Arabia, always to cover your eyes when you sleep in the open air. The moon here really strikes and affects the sight, when you sleep exposed to it, much more than the sun; indeed, the sight of a person who should sleep with his face exposed at night, would soon be utterly impaired or destroyed." [390] For the same reason, that strong light oppresses the slumbering eye, "the seaman in his hammock takes care not to face the full moon, lest he be struck with blindness." [391] Nor can we regard the following as "an _extraordinary_ effect of moonlight upon the human subject." In 1863, "a boy, thirteen years of age, residing near Peckham Rye, was expelled his home by his mother for disobedience. He ran away to a cornfield close by, and, on lying down in the open air, fell asleep. He slept throughout the night, which was a moonlight one. Some labourers on their way to work, next morning, seeing the boy apparently asleep, aroused him; the lad opened his eyes, but declared he could not see. He was conveyed home, and medical advice was obtained; the surgeon affirmed that the total loss of sight resulted from sleeping in the moonlight." [392] This was sad enough; but it was antecedently probable. No doubt a boy of thirteen who for disobedience was cast out of home in such a place as London had a hard lot, and went supperless to his open bed. His optic nerves were young and sensitive, and the protracted light so paralysed them that the morning found them closed "in endless night." This was a purely natural result: to admitting it, reason opposes no demur. But we must object, for truth's sake, to the tendency to account for natural consequences by assigning supernatural causes. The moon is no divinity; moonlight is no Divine emanation, with a vindictive animus; and those who countenance such silly superstition as that moonstroke is a mysterious, evil agency, are contributing to a polytheism which leads to atheism: for many gods logically means no GOD at all. Another branch of this umbrageous if not fructuous tree of lunar superstition is the moon's influence on human fortune. Butler satirizes the visionary who-- "With the moon was more familiar Than e'er was almanac well-willer (compiler); Her secrets understood so clear That some believed he had been there; Knew when she was in fittest mood For cutting corns, or letting blood: Whether the wane be, or increase, Best to set garlick, or sow pease: Who first found out the man i' th' moon, That to the ancients was unknown."--_Hudibras_. A Swiss theologian amusingly describes the superstitious person who reads his fortune in the stars. He, it is said, "will be more afraid of the constellation fires than the flames of his next neighbour's house. He will not open a vein till he has asked leave of the planets. He will not commit his seed to the earth when the soil, but when the moon, requires it. He will have his hair cut when the moon is either in _Leo_, that his locks may stare like the lion's shag, or in _Aries_, that they may curl like a ram's horn. Whatever he would have to grow, he sets about when she is in her increase; but for what he would have made less, he chuses her wane. When the moon is in _Taurus_, he never can be persuaded to take physic, lest that animal which chews its cud should make him cast it up again. He will avoid the sea whenever _Mars_ is in the midst of heaven, lest that warrior-god should stir up pirates against him. In _Taurus_ he will plant his trees, that this sign, which the astrologers are pleased to call _fixed_, may fasten them deep in the earth. If at any time he has a mind to be admitted into the presence of a prince, he will wait till the moon is in conjunction with the sun; for 'tis then the society of an inferior with a superior is salutary and successful." [393] The _new moon_ is considered pre-eminently auspicious for commencements,--for all kinds of building up, and beginning _de novo_. Houses are to be erected and moved into; marriages are to be concluded, money counted, hair and nails cut, healing herbs and pure dew gathered, all at the new moon. Money counted at that period will be increased. The _full moon_ is the time for pulling down, and thinking of the end of all things. Cut your timber, mow your grass, make your hay, not while the sun shines, but while the moon wanes; also stuff your feather-bed then, and so kill the newly plucked feathers completely, and bring them to rest. Wash your linen, too, by the waning moon, that the dirt may disappear with the dwindling light. [394] According to one old notion it was deemed unlucky to assume a new dress when the moon was in her decline. So says the Earl of Northampton: "They forbidde us when the moone is in a fixed signe, to put on a newe garment. Why so? Because it is lyke that it wyll be too longe in wearing, a small fault about this towne, where garments seldome last till they be payd for. But thyr meaning is, that the garment shall continue long, not in respect of any strength or goodness in the stuffe, but by the durance or disease of him that hath neyther leysure nor liberty to weare it." [395] It is well known that the ancient Hebrews held the new moon in religious reverence. The trumpets were blown, solemn sacrifices were offered and festivals held; and the first clay of the lunar month was always holy. In a Talmudic compilation, to which Dr. Farrar has contributed a preface, we find an interesting account of the _Blessing the new moon_. "It is a very pious act to bless the moon at the close of the Sabbath, when one is dressed in his best attire and perfumed. If the blessing is to be performed on the evening of an ordinary week-day, the best dress is to be worn. According to the Kabbalists the blessings upon the moon are not to be said till seven full days after her birth, but, according to later authorities, this may be done after three days. The reason for not performing this monthly service under a roof, but in the open air, is because it is considered as the reception of the presence of the Shekinah, and it would not be respectful so to do anywhere but in the open air. It depends very much upon circumstances when and where the new moon is to be consecrated, and also upon one's own predisposition, for authorities differ. We will close these remarks with the conclusion of the Kitzur Sh'lu on the subject, which, at p. 72, col. 2, runs thus: "When about to sanctify the new moon, one should straighten his feet (as at the Shemonah-esreh) and give one glance at the moon before he begins to repeat the ritual blessing, and having commenced it he should not look at her at all. Thus should he begin --'In the united name of the Holy and Blessed One' and His Shekinah, through that Hidden and Consecrated One! and in the name of all Israel!' Then he is to proceed with the 'Form of Prayer for the New Moon,' word for word, with out haste, but with solemn deliberation, and when he repeats-- 'Blessed is thy Former, Blessed is thy Maker, Blessed is thy Possessor, Blessed is thy Creator,' he is to meditate on the initials of the four Divine epithets, which form 'Jacob'; for the moon, which is called 'the lesser light,' is his emblem or symbol, and he is also called 'little' (see Amos vii. 2). This he is to repeat three times. He is to skip three times while repeating thrice the following sentence, and after repeating three times forwards and backwards: thus (_forwards_)--'Fear and dread shall fall upon them by the greatness of thine arm; they shall be as still as a stone'; thus (_backwards_)--'Still as a stone may they be; by the greatness of thine arm may fear and dread fall on them'; he then is to say to his neighbour three times, 'Peace be unto you,' and the neighbour is to respond three times, 'Unto you be peace.' Then he is to say three times (very loudly), 'David, the King of Israel, liveth and existeth!' and finally, he is to say three times, 'May a good omen and good luck be upon us and upon all Israel! Amen!'" [396a] That the ancient Germans held the moon in similar regard we know from Caesar, who, having inquired why Ariovistus did not come to an engagement, discovered this to be the reason: "that among the Germans it was the custom for their matrons to pronounce from lots and divination, whether it were expedient that the battle should be engaged in or not; that they had said, 'that it was not the will of heaven that the Germans should conquer, if they engaged in battle before the new moon.'" [396b] Halliwell has reproduced an illustration of British superstition of the same sort. "A very singular divination practised at the period of the harvest moon is thus described in an old chap-book. When you go to bed, place under your pillow a prayer-book open at the part of the matrimonial service 'with this ring I thee wed'; place on it a key, a ring, a flower, and a sprig of willow, a small heart-cake, a crust of bread, and the following cards:--the ten of clubs, nine of hearts, ace of spades, and the ace of diamonds. Wrap all these in a thin handkerchief of gauze or muslin, and on getting into bed, cross your hands, and say:-- 'Luna, every woman's friend, To me thy goodness condescend Let me this night in vision see Emblems of my destiny.' If you dream of storms, trouble will betide you; if the storm ends in a fine calm, so will your fate; if of a ring or the ace of diamonds, marriage; bread, an industrious life; cake, a prosperous life; flowers, joy; willow, treachery in love; spades, death; diamonds, money; clubs, a foreign land; hearts, illegitimate children; keys, that you will rise to great trust and power, and never know want; birds, that you will have many children; and geese, that you will marry more than once." [397] Such ridiculous absurdities would be rejected as apocryphal if young ladies were not still in the habit of placing bits of wedding cake under their pillows in the hope that their dreaming eyes may be enchanted with blissful visions of their future lords. Hone tells us that in Berkshire, "at the first appearance of a new moon, maidens go into the fields, and, while they look at it, say:-- 'New moon, new moon, I hail thee! By all the virtue in thy body. Grant this night that I may see He who my true love is to be.' Then they return home, firmly believing that before morning their future husbands will appear to them in their dreams." [398] In Devonshire also "it is customary for young people, as soon as they see the first new moon after midsummer, to go to a stile, turn their back to it, and say:-- 'All hail, new moon, all hail to thee! I prithe, good moon, reveal to me This night who shall my true love be Who is he, and what he wears, And what he does all months and years.'" [399] Aubrey says the same of the Scotch of his day, and the custom is not yet extinct. "In Scotland (especially among the Highlanders) the women doe make a curtsey to the new moon; I have known one in England doe it, and our English woemen in the country doe retain (some of them) a touch of this gentilisme still, _e.g._:-- 'All haile to thee, moon, all haile to thee I prithe, good moon, declare to me, This night, who my husband must be.' This they doe sitting astride on a gate or stile the first evening the new moon appears. In Herefordshire, etc., the vulgar people at the prime of the moon say, ''Tis a fine moon, God bless her.'" [400] "In Ireland, at the new moon, it is not an uncommon practice for people to point with a knife, and after invoking the Holy Trinity, to say:-- 'New moon, true morrow, be true now to me, That I ere the morrow my true love may see.' The knife is then placed under the pillow, and silence strictly observed, lest the charm should be broken." [401] Dr. Charles Mackay quotes from Mother Bridget's _Dream and Omen Book_ the following prescription for ascertaining the events of futurity. "_First new moon of the year_. On the first new moon in the year take a pint of clear spring water, and infuse into it the _white_ of an egg laid by a _white_ hen, a glass of _white_ wine, three almonds peeled _white_, and a tablespoonful of _white_ rose-water. Drink this on going to bed, not making more nor less than three draughts of it; repeating the following verses three several times in a clear distinct voice, but not so loud as to be overheard by anybody:-- 'If I dream of water pure Before the coming morn, 'Tis a sign I shall be poor, And unto wealth not born. If I dream of tasting beer, Middling, then, will be my cheer-- Chequered with the good and bad, Sometimes joyful, sometimes sad; But should I dream of drinking wine, Wealth and pleasure will be mine. The stronger the drink, the better the cheer-- Dreams of my destiny, appear, appear!'" [402] The day of the week on which the moon is new or full, is a question that awakens the most anxious concern. In the north of Italy Wednesday is dreaded for a lunar change, and in the south of France the inauspicious day is Friday. [403] In most of our own rural districts Friday's new moon is much disliked "Friday's moon, Come when it wool, It comes too soon." Saturday is unlucky for the _new_, and Sunday for the _full_ moon. In Norfolk it is said:-- "Saturday's new and Sunday's full, Never was good, and never wull." An apparently older version of the same weather-saw runs:-- "A Saturday's change, and a Sunday's prime, Was nivver a good mune in nea man's time." In Worcestershire, a cottager near Berrow Hill told Mr. Edwin Lees, F.L.S., that as the new moon had fallen on a Saturday, there would follow twenty-one days of wind or rain; for "If the moon on a Saturday be new or full, There always _was_ rain, and there always _wüll_." One rustic rhyme rehearsed in some places is:-- "A Saturday moon, If it comes once in seven years, Comes once too soon." Next to the day, the medium through which the new moon is first beheld, is of vital moment. In Staffordshire it is unlucky to see this sight through trees. A correspondent in _Notes and Queries_ (21st January, 1882) once saw a person almost in tears because she looked on the new moon through her veil, feeling convinced that misfortune would follow. Henderson cites a canon to be observed by those who would know what year they would wed. "Look at the first new moon of the year through a silk handkerchief which has never been washed. As many moons as you see through the handkerchief (the threads multiplying the vision), so many years will pass ere you are married." [404] Hunt tells us, what in fact is widely believed, that "to see the new moon for the first time through glass, is unlucky; you may be certain that you will break glass before that moon is out. I have known persons whose attention has been called to a clear new moon hesitate. 'Hev I seed her out o' doors afore?' if not, they will go into the open air, and, if possible, show the moon 'a piece of gold,' or, at all events, turn their money." [405] Mrs. Latham says: "Many of our Sussex superstitions are probably of Saxon origin; amongst which may be the custom of bowing or curtseying to the new or Lady moon, as she is styled, to deprecate bad luck. There is another kindred superstition, that the Queen of night will dart malignant rays upon you, if on the first day of her re-appearance you look up to her without money in your pocket. But if you are not fortunate enough to have any there, in order to avert her evil aspect, you must immediately turn head over heels! It is considered unlucky to see the new moon through a window-pane, and I have known a maidservant shut her eyes when closing the shutters lest she should unexpectedly see it through the glass. Do not kill your pig until full moon, or the pork will be ruined." [406] In Suffolk, also, "it is considered unlucky to kill a pig in the wane of the moon; if it is done, the pork will waste in boiling. I have known the shrinking of bacon in the pot attributed to the fact of the pig having been killed in the moon's decrease; and I have also known the death of poor piggy delayed, or hastened, so as to happen during its increase." [407] The desirability of possessing _silver_ in the pocket, and of turning it over, when the new moon is first seen, is a point of some interest. Forbes Leslie says, "The ill-luck of having no _silver_ money --coins of other metals being of no avail--when you first see or hail a new moon, is still a common belief from Cornwall to Caithness, as well as in Ireland." [408] And Jamieson writes: "Another superstition, equally ridiculous and unaccountable, is still regarded by some. They deem it very unlucky to see the new moon for the first time without having _silver_ in one's pocket. Copper is of no avail." [409] We venture to think that this is not altogether unaccountable. The moon at night, in a clear sky, reflects a brilliant whiteness. The two Hebrew words used of this luminary in the Bible, mean "pale light" and "white." "Hindooism says that the moon, Soma, was turned into a female called Chandra--'the White or Silvery One.'" [410] The Santhals of India call the sun _Chando_, which means bright, and is also a name for the moon. Now pure silver is of a very white colour and of a strong metallic lustre. It was one of the earliest known metals, and used as money from the remotest times. Its whiteness led the ancient astrologers, as it afterwards led the alchemists, to connect it with the moon, and to call it Diana and Luna, names previously given to the satellite. For Artemis, the Greek Diana, the Ephesian craftsmen made silver shrines. The moon became the symbol of silver; and to this day fused nitrate of silver is called _lunar_ caustic. It was natural and easy for superstition to suppose that silver was the moon's own metal; and to imagine that upon the reappearance of the lunar deity or demon, its beams should be propitiated by some argentine possession. We find that silver was exclusively used in the worship of the moon in Peru. In a book published in the earlier part of last century, and attributed to Daniel Defoe, we read; "To see a new moon the first time after her change, on the right hand, or directly before you, betokens the utmost good fortune that month; as to have her on your left, or behind you, so that in turning your head back you happen to see her, foreshows the worst; as also, they say, to be without gold in your pocket at that time is of very bad consequence." [411] The mistake in substituting gold for silver here is easily explained. As among the Romans _aes_ meant both copper and money; and among the French _argent_ means both silver and money in general; so in England gold is the common expression for coin of any substance. Silver being _money_, the word gold was thus substituted; the generic for the specific. Other superstitions besides those above noticed are found in different parts of our enlightened land. Denham says, "I once saw an aged matron turn her apron to the new moon to insure good luck for the ensuing month." [412] And Halliwell mentions a prayer customary among some persons:-- "I see the moon, and the moon sees me. God bless the moon, and God bless me." [413] In Devonshire it is lucky to see the new moon over the right, but unlucky to see it over the left shoulder; and to see it straight before is good fortune to the end of the month. "In Renfrewshire, if a man's house be burnt during the wane of the moon, it is deemed unlucky. If the same misfortune take place when the moon is waxing, it is viewed as a presage of prosperity. In Orkney, also, it is reckoned unlucky to flit, or to remove from one habitation to another, during the waning of the moon." [414] A recent writer tells us that in Orkney "there are superstitions likewise associated with the moon. The increase, and full growth, and wane of that satellite are the emblems of a rising, flourishing, and declining fortune. No business of importance is begun during the moon's wane; if even an animal is killed at that period, the flesh is supposed to be unwholesome. A couple to think of marrying at that time would be regarded as recklessly careless respecting their future happiness Old people in some parts of Argyllshire were wont to invoke the Divine blessing on the moon after the monthly change. The Gaelic word for fortune is borrowed from that which denotes the full moon; and a marriage or birth occurring at that period is believed to augur prosperity." [415] Kirkmichael, says another writer on the Highlands of Scotland, hath "its due proportion of that superstition which generally prevails over the Highlands. Unable to account for the cause, they consider the effects of times and seasons as certain and infallible. The moon in her increase, full growth, and in her wane, are with them the emblems of a rising, flourishing, and declining fortune. At the last period of her revolution they carefully avoid to engage in any business of importance; but the first and the middle they seize with avidity, presaging the most auspicious issue to their undertakings. Poor Martinus Scriblerus never more anxiously watched the blowing of the west wind to secure an heir to his genius, than the love-sick swain and his nymph for the coming of the new moon to be noosed together in matrimony. Should the planet happen to be at the height of her splendour when the ceremony is performed, their future life will be a scene of festivity, and all its paths strewed over with rosebuds of delight. But when her tapering horns are turned towards the north, passion becomes frost-bound, and seldom thaws till the genial season again approaches. From the moon they not only draw prognostications of the weather, but according to their creed also discover future events. There they are clearly portrayed, and ingenious illusion never fails in the explanation. The veneration paid to this planet, and the opinion of its influences, are obvious from the meaning still affixed to some words of the Gaelic language. In Druidic mythology, when the circle of the moon was complete, fortune then promised to be most propitious. Agreeably to this idea, _rath_, which signifies in Gaelic a wheel or circle, is transferred to signify fortune." [416] Forbes Leslie writes: "The influence which the moon was supposed to exercise on mankind, as well as on inanimate objects, may be traced in the practice of the Druids. It is not yet extinct in Scotland; and the moon, in the increase, at the full, and on the wane, are emblems of prosperity, established success, or declining fortune, by which many persons did, and some still do, regulate the period for commencing their most important undertakings." [417] And yet once more, to make the induction most conclusive; we are told that "the canon law anxiously prohibited observance of the moon as regulating the period of marriage; nor was any regard to be paid to certain days of the year for ceremonies. If the Lucina of the ancients be identified with Diana, it was not unreasonable to court the care of the parturient, by selecting the time deemed most propitious. The strength of the ecclesiastical interdiction does not seem to have prevailed much in Scotland. Friday, which was consecrated to a northern divinity, has been deemed more favourable for the union. In the southern districts of Scotland, and in the Orkney Islands, the inhabitants preferred the increase of the moon for it. Auspicious circumstances were anticipated in other parts, from its celebration at full moon. Good fortune depended so much on the increase of that luminary, that nothing important was undertaken during its wane. Benefit even accrued to the stores provided during its increase, and its effect in preserving them is still credited." [418] To what, but to this prevalent belief in lunar influence on fortune can Shakespeare allude, when Romeo swears: "_Rom_. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops-- _Jul_. Oh, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable." [419] Upon the physiological influence of the lunar rays in the generation or aggravation of disease, we have but little to add to what has been already written. It is a topic for a special treatise, and properly belongs to those medical experts whose research and practice in this particular branch of physics qualify them to speak with plenary authority. Besides, it has been so wisely handled by Dr. Forbes Winslow, in his admirable monograph on _Light_, that inquirers cannot follow a safer guide than his little book affords. Dr. Winslow accounts for the theory of planetary influence partly by the action of the moon in producing the tides. He says: "Astronomers having admitted that the moon was capable of producing this physical effect upon the waters of the ocean, it was not altogether unnatural that the notion should become not only a generally received but a popular one, that the ebb and flow of the tides had a material influence over the bodily functions. The Spaniards imagine that all who die of chronic diseases breathe their last during the ebb. Southey says, that amongst the wonders of the isles and city of Cadiz, which the historian of that city, Suares de Salazar, enumerates, one is, according to p. Labat, that the sick never die there while the tide is rising or at its height, but always during the ebb. He restricts the notion to the isle of Leon, but implies that the effect was there believed to take place in diseases of all kinds, acute as well as chronic. 'Him fever,' says the negro in the West Indies, 'shall go when the water come low; him always come not when the tide high.' The popular notion amongst the negroes appears to be that the ebb and flow of the tides are caused by a '_fever of the sea_,' which rages for six hours, and then intermits for as many more." [420] Dr. Winslow then subjoins a long list of learned authorities, several of whose writings he subjects to a brief analysis. He disapproves of the presumption that the subject is altogether visionary and utopian; and affirms that it has not always been pursued by competent observers. Periodicity is noted as an important symptom in disease; a feature in febrile disturbance which the present writer himself had abundant opportunity of marking and measuring during an epidemic of yellow fever in the city of Savannah in the year 1876. This periodicity Dr. Winslow regards as the foundation of the alleged lunar influence in morbid conditions. Some remarkable cases are referred to, which, if the fact of the moon's interference with human functions could be admitted, would go a long way to corroborate and confirm it. The supposed influence of the moon on plants is not passed over, nor the chemical composition of lunar light as a possible evil agency. Still considering the matter _sub judice_, Dr. Winslow then proceeds to the alleged influence of the moon on the insane; a question with which he was pre-eminently competent to cope. After alluding to the support given to the popular belief by poets and philosophers of ancient and modern times, the question of periodicity, or "lucid intervals," is again discussed, this time in its mental aspect, and the hygienic or sanatory influence of light is allowed its meed of consideration. The final result of the investigation is that the matter is held to be purely speculative, and it is esteemed wise to hold in reserve any theory in relation to the subject that may have been formed. With this conclusion we are greatly disappointed. Dr. Winslow's aid in the inquiry is most valuable, and if he, after his careful review of pathological literature on lunar influence, coupled with his own extended experience, holds the question in abeyance, who will venture upon a decision? We however believe, notwithstanding every existing difficulty, that the subject will be brought into clear light ere long, and all superstition end in accurate science. Meanwhile, many, even of the enlightened, will cling to the unforgotten fancy which gave rise to the word _lunatic_, and in cases of mental derangement will moralize with young Banks in the _Witch of Edmonton_ (1658), "When the moon's in the full, then wit's in the wane." MOON INHABITATION. Science having practically diminished the moon's distance, and rendered distinct its elevations and depressions, it is natural for "those obstinate questionings of sense and outward things" to urge the inquiry, _Is the moon inhabited_? This question it is easier to ask than to answer. It has been a mooted point for many years, and our wise men of the west seem still disposed to give it up, or, at least, to adjourn its decision for want of evidence. Of "guesses at truth" there have been a great multitude, and of dogmatic assertions not a few; but demonstrations are things which do not yet appear. We now take leave to report progress, and give the subject a little ventilation. We do not expect to furnish an Ariadne's thread, but we may hope to find some indication of the right way out of this labyrinth of uncertainty. _Veritas nihil veretur nisi abscondi_: or, as the German proverb says, "Truth creeps not into corners"; its life is the light. But before we advance a single step, we desire to preclude all misunderstanding on one point, by distinctly avowing our conviction that the teachings of Christian theology are not at all involved in the issue of this discussion, whatever it may prove. Infinite harm has been done by confusing the religion of science with the science of religion. Religion _is_ a science, and science is a religion; but they are not identical. Philosophy ought to be pious, and piety ought to be philosophical; but philosophy and piety are two quantities and qualities that may dwell apart, though, happily, they may also be found in one nature. Each has its own faculties and functions; and in our present investigation, religion has nothing more to do than to shed the influence of reverence, humility, and teachableness over the scientific student as he ponders his problem and works out the truth. In this, and in kindred studies, we may yield without reluctance what a certain professor of religion concedes, and grant without grudging what a certain professor of science demands. Dr. James Martineau says, "In so far as Church belief is still committed to a given kosmogony and natural history of man, it lies open to scientific refutation"; and again, "The whole history of the Genesis of things Religion must unconditionally surrender to the Sciences." [421] In this we willingly concur, for science ought to be, and will be, supreme in its own domain. Bishop Temple does "not hesitate to ascribe to Science a clearer knowledge of the true interpretation of the first chapter of Genesis, and to scientific history a truer knowledge of the great historical prophets. Science enters into Religion, and the believer is bound to recognise its value and make use of its services." [422] Then, to quote the professor of science, Dr. John Tyndall says. "The impregnable position of science may be described in a few words. We claim, and we shall wrest from Theology, the entire domain of cosmological theory." [423] We wish the eloquent professor all success. It was not the spirit of primitive Christianity, but the spirit of priestly ignorance, intolerance, and despotism, which invaded the territory of natural science; and if those who are its rightful lords can recover the soil, we bid them heartily, God speed! We have been driven to these remarks by a twofold impulse. First, we can never forget the injury that has been inflicted on science by the oppositions of a headless religion; any more than we can forget the injury which has been inflicted on religion by the oppositions of a heartless science. Secondly, we have seen this very question of the inhabitation of the planets and satellites rendered a topic of ridicule for Thomas Paine, and an inviting theme for raillery to others of sophistical spirit, by the way in which it has been foolishly mixed up with sacred or spiritual concerns. Surely, the object of God in the creation of our terrestrial race, or the benefits of the death of Jesus Christ, can have no more to do with the habitability of the moon, than the doctrine of the Trinity has to do with the multiplication table and the rule of three, or the hypostatical union with the chemical composition of water and light. Having said thus much of compulsion, we return, not as ministers in the temple of religion so much as students in the school of science, to consider with docility the question in dispute, _Is the moon inhabited_? Three avenues, more or less umbrageous, are open to us; all of which have been entered. They may be named _observation_, _induction_, and _analogy_. The first, if we could pursue it, would explicate the enigma at once. The second, if clear, would satisfy our reason, which, in such a matter, might be equivalent to sight. And the third might conduct us to a shadow which would "prove the substance true." We begin by dealing briefly with the argument from _observation_. Here our data are small and our difficulties great. One considerable inconvenience in the inquiry is, of course, the moon's distance. Though she is our next-door neighbour in the many-mansioned universe, two hundred and thirty-seven thousand miles are no mere step heavenward. Transit across the intervenient space being at present impracticable, we have to derive our most enlarged views of this "spotty globe" from the "optic glass." But this admirable appliance, much as it has revealed, is thus far wholly inadequate to the solution of our mystery. Robert Hooke, in the seventeenth century, thought that he could construct a telescope with which we might discern the inhabitants of the moon life-size --seeing them as plainly as we see the inhabitants of the earth. But, alas! the sanguine mathematician died in his sleep, and his dream has not yet come true. Since Hooke's day gigantic instruments have been fitted up, furnished with all the modern improvements which could be supplied through the genius or generosity of such astronomers as Joseph Fraunhofer and Sir William Herschel, the third Earl of Rosse and the fourth Duke of Northumberland. But all of these worthy men left something to be done by their successors. Consequently, not long since, our scientists set to work to increase their artificial eyesight. The Rev. Mr. Webb tells us that "the first 'Moon Committee' of the British Association recommended a power of 1,000." But he discourages us if we anticipate large returns; for he adds: "Few indeed are the instruments or the nights that will bear it; but when employed, what will be the result? Since increase of magnifying is equivalent to decrease of distance, we shall see the moon as large (though not as distinct) as if it were 240 miles off, and any one can judge what could be made of the grandest building upon earth at that distance." [424] If therefore we are to see the settlement of the matter in the speculum of a telescope, it may be some time before we have done with what Guillemin calls "the interesting, almost insoluble question, of the existence of living and organized beings on the surface of the satellite of our little earth." [425] Some cynic may interpose with the quotation,-- "But optics sharp it needs, I ween, To see what is not to be seen." [426] True, but it remains to be shown that there is nothing to be seen beyond what _we_ see. We are not prepared to deny the existence of everything which our mortal eyes may fail to trace. Four hundred years ago all Europe believed that to sail in search of a western continent was to wish "to see what is not to be seen"; but a certain Christopher Columbus went out persuaded of things not seen as yet, and having embarked in faith he landed in sight. The lesson must not be lost upon us. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Because we cannot now make out either habitations or habitants on the moon, it does not necessarily follow that the night will never come when, through some mightier medium than any ever yet constructed or conceived, we shall descry, beside mountains and valleys, also peopled plains and populous cities animating the fair features of this beautiful orb. One valuable auxiliary of the telescope, destined to play an important part in lunar discovery, must not be overlooked. Mr. Norman Lockyer says, "With reference to the moon, if we wish to map her correctly, it is now no longer necessary to depend on ordinary eye observations alone; it is perfectly clear that by means of an image of the moon, taken by photography, we are able to fix many points on the lunar surface." [427] With telescopic and photographic lenses in skilled hands, and a wealth of inventive genius in fertile brains, we can afford to wait a long while before we close the debate with a final negative. In the meantime, eyes and glasses giving us no satisfaction, we turn to scientific _induction_. Speculation is a kind of mental mirror, that before now has anticipated or supplemented the visions of sense. Not being practical astronomers ourselves, we have to follow the counsel of that unknown authority who bids us believe the expert. But expertness being the fruit of experience, we may be puzzled to tell who have attained that rank. We will inquire, however, with due docility, of the oracles of scientific research. It is agreed on all sides that to render the moon habitable by beings at all akin with our own kind, there must be within or upon that body an atmosphere, water, changing seasons, and the alternations of day and night. We know that changes occur in the moon, from cold to heat, and from darkness to light. But the lunar day is as long as 291 of ours; so that each portion of the surface is exposed to, or turned from, the sun for nearly 14 days. This long exposure produces excessive heat, and the long darkness excessive cold. Such extremities of temperature are unfavourable to the existence of beings at all like those living upon the earth, especially if the moon be without water and atmosphere. As these two desiderata seem indispensable to lunar inhabitation, we may chiefly consider the question, Do these conditions exist? If so, inductive reasoning will lead us to the inference, which subsequent experience will strengthen, that the moon is inhabited like its superior planet. But if not, life on the satellite similar to life on the earth, is altogether improbable, if not absolutely impossible. The replies given to this query will be by no means unanimous. But, for the full understanding of the state of the main question, and to assist us in arriving at some sort of verdict, we will hear several authorities on both sides of the case. The evidence being cumulative, we pursue the chronological order, and begin with La Place. He writes: "The lunar atmosphere, if any such exists, is of an extreme rarity, greater even than that which can be produced on the surface of the earth by the best constructed air-pumps. It may be inferred from this that no terrestrial animal could live or respire at the surface of the moon, and that if the moon be inhabited, it must be by animals of another species." [428] This opinion, as Sir David Brewster points out, is not that the moon has no atmosphere, but that if it have any it is extremely attenuated. Mr. Russell Hind's opinion is similar with respect to water. He says: "Earlier selenographists considered the dull, grayish spots to be water, and termed them the lunar seas, bays, and lakes. They arc so called to the present day, though we have strong evidence to show that if water exist at all on the moon, it must be in very small quantity." [429] Mr. Grant tells us that "the question whether the moon be surrounded by an atmosphere has been much discussed by astronomers. Various phenomena are capable of indicating such an atmosphere, but, generally speaking, they are found to be unfavourable to its existence, or at all events they lead to the conclusion that it must be very inconsiderable." [430] Humboldt thinks that Schroeter's assumptions of a lunar atmosphere and lunar twilight are refuted, and adds: "If, then, the moon is without any gaseous envelope, the entire absence of any diffused light must cause the heavenly bodies, as seen from thence, to appear projected against a sky _almost black_ in the day-time. No undulation of air can there convey sound, song, or speech. The moon, to our imagination, which loves to soar into regions inaccessible to full research, is a desert where silence reigns unbroken." [431] Dr. Lardner considers it proven "that there does not exist upon the moon an atmosphere capable of reflecting light in any sensible degree," and also believes that "the same physical tests which show the non-existence of an atmosphere of air upon the moon are equally conclusive against an atmosphere of vapour." [432] Mr. Breen is more emphatic. He writes: "In the want of water and air, the question as to whether this body is inhabited is no longer equivocal. Its surface resolves itself into a sterile and inhospitable waste, where the lichen which flourishes amidst the frosts and snows of Lapland would quickly wither and die, and where no animal with a drop of blood in its veins could exist." [433] The anonymous author of the Essay on the _Plurality of Worlds_ announces that astronomers are agreed to negative our question without dissent. We shall have to manifest his mistake. His words are: "Now this minute examination of the moon's surface being possible, and having been made by many careful and skilful astronomers, what is the conviction which has been conveyed to their minds with regard to the fact of her being the seat of vegetable or animal life? Without exception, it would seem, they have all been led to the belief that the moon is not inhabited; that she is, so far as life and organization are concerned, waste and barren, like the streams of lava or of volcanic ashes on the earth, before any vestige of vegetation has been impressed upon them; or like the sands of Africa, where no blade of grass finds root." [434] Robert Chambers says: "It does not appear that our satellite is provided with an atmosphere of the kind found upon earth; neither is there any appearance of water upon the surface. . . . These characteristics of the moon forbid the idea that it can be at present a theatre of life like the earth, and almost seem to declare that it never can become so." [435] Schoedler's opinion is concurrent with what has preceded. He writes: "According to the most exact observations it appears that the moon has no atmosphere similar to ours, that on its surface there are no great bodies of water like our seas and oceans, so that the existence of water is doubtful. The whole physical condition of the lunar surface must, therefore, be so different from that of our earth, that beings organized as we are could not exist there." [436] Another German author says: "The observations of Fraunhofer (1823), Brewster and Gladstone (1860), Huggins and Miller, as well as Janssen, agree in establishing the complete accordance of the lunar spectrum with that of the sun. In all the various portions of the moon's disk brought under observation, no difference could be perceived in the dark lines of the spectrum, either in respect of their number or relative intensity. From this entire absence of any special absorption lines, it must be concluded that there is no atmosphere in the moon, a conclusion previously arrived at from the circumstance that during an occultation no refraction is perceived on the moon's limb when a star disappears behind the disk." [437] Mr. Nasmyth follows in the same strain. Holding that the moon lacks air, moisture, and temperature, he says, "Taking all these adverse conditions into consideration, we are in every respect justified in concluding that there is no possibility of animal or vegetable life existing on the moon, and that our satellite must therefore be regarded as a barren world." [438] A French astronomer holds a like opinion, saying: "There is nothing to show that the moon possesses an atmosphere; and if there was one, it would be perceptible during the occultations of the stars and the eclipses of the sun. It seems impossible that, in the complete absence of air, the moon can be peopled by beings organized like ourselves, nor is there any sign of vegetation or of any alteration in the state of its surface which can be attributed to a change of seasons." [439] On the same side Mr. Crampton writes most decisively, "With what we _do_ know, however, of our satellite, I think the idea of her being inhabited may be dismissed _summarily_; _i.e._ her inhabitation by intelligent beings, or an animal creation such as exist here." [440] And, finally, in one of Maunder's excellent _Treasuries_, we read of the moon, "She has no atmosphere, or at least none of sufficient density to refract the rays of light as they pass through it, and hence there is no water on her surface; consequently she can have no animals like those on our planet, no vegetation, nor any change of seasons." [441] These opinions, recorded by so many judges of approved ability and learning, have great weight; and some may regard their premisses and conclusions as irresistibly cogent and convincing. The case against inhabitation is certainly strong. But justice is impartial. _Audi alteram partem_. Judges of equal erudition will now speak as respondents. We go back to the seventeenth century, and begin with a work whose reasoning is really remarkable, seeing that it is nearly two hundred and fifty years since it was first published. We refer to the _Discovery of a New World_ by John Wilkins, Bishop of Chester; in which the reverend philosopher aims to prove the following propositions:--"1. That the strangeness of this opinion (that the moon may be a world) is no sufficient reason why it should be rejected; because other certain truths have been formerly esteemed as ridiculous, and great absurdities entertained by common consent. 2. That a plurality of worlds does not contradict any principle of reason or faith. 3. That the heavens do not consist of any such pure matter which can privilege them from the like change and corruption, as these inferior bodies are liable unto. 4. That the moon is a solid, compacted, opacous body. 5. That the moon hath not any light of her own. 6. That there is a world in the moon, hath been the direct opinion of many ancient, with some modern mathematicians; and may probably be deduced from the tenets of others. 9. That there are high mountains, deep valleys, and spacious plains in the body of the moon. 10. That there is an atmosphoera, or an orb of gross vaporous air, immediately encompassing the body of the moon. 13. That 'tis probable there may be inhabitants in this other world; but of what kind they are, is uncertain." [442] We go on to 1686, and listen to the French philosopher, Fontenelle, in his Conversations with the Marchioness. "'Well, madam,' _said I_, 'you will not be surprised when you hear that the moon is an earth too, and that she is inhabited as ours is.' 'I confess,' _said she_, 'I have often heard talk of the world in the moon, but I always looked upon it as visionary and mere fancy.' 'And it may be so still,' _said I_. 'I am in this case as people in a civil war, where the uncertainty of what may happen makes them hold intelligence with the opposite party; for though I verily believe the moon is inhabited, I live civilly with those who do not believe it; and I am still ready to embrace the prevailing opinion. But till the unbelievers have a more considerable advantage, I am for the people in the moon.'" [443] Whatever may be thought of his philosophy, no one could quarrel with the Secretary of the Academy on the score of his politeness or his prudence. A more recent and more reliable authority appears in Sir David Brewster. He tells us that "MM. Mädler and Beer, who have studied the moon's surface more diligently than any of their predecessors or contemporaries, have arrived at the conclusion that she has an atmosphere." Sir David himself maintains that "_every planet and satellite in the solar system must have an atmosphere_." [444] Bonnycastle, whilom professor of mathematics in the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, writes: "Astronomers were formerly of opinion that the moon had no atmosphere, on account of her never being obscured by clouds or vapours; and because the fixed stars, at the time of an occultation, disappear behind her instantaneously, without any gradual diminution of their light. But if we consider the effects of her days and nights, which are near thirty times as long as with us, it may be readily conceived that the phenomena of vapours and meteors must be very different. And besides, the vaporous or obscure part of our atmosphere is only about the one thousand nine hundred and eightieth part of the earth's diameter, as is evident from observing the clouds, which are seldom above three or four miles high; and therefore, as the moon's apparent diameter is only about thirty-one minutes and a half, or one thousand eight hundred and ninety seconds, the obscure part of her atmosphere, supposing it to resemble our own, when viewed from the earth, must subtend an angle of less than one second; which is so small a space, that observations must be extremely accurate to determine whether the supposed obscuration takes place or not." [445] Dr. Brinkley, at one time the Astronomer-Royal of Ireland, writes: "Many astronomers formerly denied the existence of an atmosphere at the moon; principally from observing no variation of appearance on the surface, like what would take place, did clouds exist as with us; and also, from observing no change in the light of the fixed stars on the approach of the dark edge of the moon. The circumstance of there being no clouds, proves either that there is no atmosphere similar to that of our earth, or that there are no waters on its surface to be converted into vapour; and that of the lustre of the stars not being changed, proves that there can be no dense atmosphere. But astronomers now seem agreed that an atmosphere does surround the moon, although of small density when compared with that of our earth. M. Schroeter has observed a small twilight in the moon, such as would arise from an atmosphere capable of reflecting the rays at the height of about one mile." [446] Dr. Brinkley is inaccurate in saying that astronomers are agreed as to the lunar atmosphere. Like students in every other department of inquiry, spiritual as well as physical, they fail at present to see "eye to eye"; which is not surprising, seeing that the eye is so restricted, and the object so remote. Dr. Dick, whose productions have done much to popularize the study of the heavens, and to promote its reverent pursuit, says: "On the whole it appears most probable that the moon is surrounded with a fluid which serves the purpose of an atmosphere; although this atmosphere, as to its nature, composition, and refractive power, may be very different from the atmosphere which surrounds the earth. It forms no proof that the moon, or any of the planets, is destitute of an atmosphere, because its constitution, its density, and its power of refracting the rays of light are different from ours. An atmosphere may surround a planetary body, and yet its parts be so fine and transparent that the rays of light, from a star or any other body, may pass through it without being in the least obscured, or changing their direction. In our reasonings on this subject, we too frequently proceed on the false principle, that everything connected with other worlds must bear a resemblance to those on the earth." [447] Mr. Neison, who has written one of the latest contributions to the science of selenography, says, "Of the present non-existence of masses of water upon the surface of the moon, there remains no doubt, though no evidence of its entire absence from the lunar crust can be adduced; and similarly, many well-established facts in reference to the moon afford ample proof of the non-existence of a lunar atmosphere, having a density equal to, or even much less than, that of the earth; but of the absence of an atmosphere, whose mass should enable it to play an important part in the moulding of the surface of the moon, and comparable almost to that of the terrestrial atmosphere, in their respective ratios to the masses of their planets, little, if any, trustworthy evidence exists." On another page of the same work, the author affirms "that later inquiries have shown that the moon may possess an atmosphere that must be regarded as fully capable of sustaining various forms of vegetation of even an advanced type; and, moreover, it does not appear how it can justly be questioned that the lunar surface in favourable positions may yet retain a sufficiency of moisture to support vegetation of many kinds; whilst in a very considerable portion of the entire surface of the moon, the temperature would not vary sufficiently to materially affect the existence of vegetable life." [448] Some of these writers may appear to be travelling rather too fast or too far, and their assumptions may wear more of the aspect of plausibility than of probability. But on their atmospheric and aqueous hypothesis, vegetation in abundance is confessedly a legitimate consequence. If a recent writer has liberty to condense into a sentence the conclusion from the negative premiss in the argument by saying, "As there is but a little appearance of water or air upon the moon, the conclusion has been inferred that there exists no vegetable or animal life on that globe," [449] other writers, holding opposite views of the moon's physical condition, may be allowed to expatiate on the luxuriant life which an atmosphere with water and temperature would undoubtedly produce. Mr. Proctor's tone is temperate, and his language that of one who is conscious with Hippocrates that "art is long and life is short." He says, in one of his contributions to lunar science, "It may safely be asserted that the opportunities presented during the life of any single astronomer for a trustworthy investigation of any portion of the moon's surface, under like conditions, are few and far between, and the whole time so employed must be brief, even though the astronomer devote many more years than usual to observational research." [450] This prepares us to find in another of the same author's works the following suggestive sentence: "With regard to the present habitability of the moon, it may be remarked that we are not justified in asserting positively that no life exists upon her surface. Life has been found under conditions so strange, we have been so often mistaken in assuming that _here_ certainly, or _there_, no living creatures can possibly exist, that it would be rash indeed to dogmatise respecting the state of the moon in this respect." [451] Narrien, one of the historians of the science, may be heard, though his contribution might be cast into either scale. He writes: "The absence of those variations of light and shade which would be produced by clouds floating above her surface, and the irregularities of the ground, visible at the bottom and on the sides of her cavities, have given reason to believe that no atmosphere surrounds her, and that she is destitute of rivers and seas. Such are the opinions generally entertained concerning the moon; but M. Schroeter, a German astronomer, ventures to assert that our satellite is the abode of living and intellectual beings; he has perceived some indications of an atmosphere which, however, he admits, cannot exceed two miles in height, and certain elevations which appear to him to be works of art rather than of nature. He considers that a uniformity of temperature must be produced on her surface by her slow rotation on her axis, by the insensible change from day to night, and the attenuated state of her atmosphere, which is never disturbed by storms; and that light vapours, rising from her valleys, fall in the manner of a gentle and refreshing dew to fertilize her fields." [452] Dr. H. W. M. Olbers is fully persuaded "that the moon is inhabited by rational creatures, and that its surface is more or less covered with a vegetation not very dissimilar to that of our own earth." Dr. Gruithuisen, of Munich, maintains that he has descried through his large achromatic telescope "great artificial works in the moon erected by the lunarians," which he considers to be "a system of fortifications thrown up by the selenitic engineers." We should have scant hope of deciding the dispute by the dicta of the ancients, were these far more copious than we find them to be. Yet reverence for antiquity may justify our quoting one of the classic fathers. Plutarch says, "The Pythagoreans affirme, that the moone appeereth terrestriall, for that she is inhabited round about, like as the earth wherein we are, and peopled as it were with the greatest living creatures, and the fairest plants." Again, "And of all this that hath been said (my friend _Theon_) there is nothing that doth proove and show directly, this habitation of men in the moon to be impossible." [453] Here we close the argument based on _induction_, and sum up the evidence in our possession. On the one hand, several scientific men, whose names we need not repeat, having surveyed the moon, deny it an atmosphere, water, and other conditions of life. Consequently, they disbelieve in its inhabitation, solely because they consider the fact undemonstrable; none of them being so unscientific as to believe it to be absolutely impossible. On the other hand, we have the valuable views of Mädler and Beer, whose lunar labours are unsurpassed, and whose map of the moon is a marvel and model of advanced selenography. They do not suppose the conditions on our satellite to be exactly what they are on this globe. In their own words, the moon is "no copy of the earth, much less a colony of the same." They merely believe her to be environed with air, and thus habitable. And when we recall our own Sir David Brewster, Professor Bonnycastle, Dr. Brinkley, Dr. Dick, Mr. Neison, and Mr. Proctor; and reckon with them the continental astronomers, Dr. Gruithuisen, Dr. Olbers, and Schroeter, all of whom attempted to fix the idea of planetary inhabitation on the popular mind, we must acknowledge that they, with their opponents, have a strong claim on our attention. The only verdict we are able just now to render, after hearing these conflicting testimonies, is the Scotch one, _Not proven_. We but append the legal indorsement _ignoramus_, we do not know. The subject must remain _sub judice_; but what we know not now, we hope to know hereafter. Having interrogated _sense_ and _science_, with the solution of our enigma anything but complete, we resort last of all to the argument from _analogy_. If this can illumine the obscurity, it will all be on the positive side of the inquiry. At present the question resembles a half-moon: analogy may show that the affirmative is waxing towards a full-orbed conviction. We open with Huyghens, a Dutch astronomer of note, who, while he thinks it certain "that the moon has no air or atmosphere surrounding it as we have," and "cannot imagine how any plants or animals whose whole nourishment comes from fluid bodies, can thrive in a dry, waterless, parched soil," yet asks, "What, then, shall this great ball be made for; nothing but to give us a little weak light in the night time, or to raise our tides in the sea? Shall not we plant some people there that may have the pleasure of seeing our earth turn upon its axis, presenting them sometimes with a prospect of Europe and Africa, and then of Asia and America; sometimes half and sometimes full?" [454] Ray was "persuaded that this luminary doth serve many ends and uses, especially to maintain the creatures which in all likelihood breed and inhabit there." [455] Swedenborg's _ipse dixit_ ought to convince the most incredulous; for he speaks "from what has been heard and seen." Thus he says: "That there are inhabitants in the moon is well known to spirits and angels, and in like manner that there are inhabitants in the moons or satellites which revolve about Jupiter and Saturn. They who have not seen and discoursed with spirits coming from those moons still entertain no doubt but there are men inhabiting them, because they are earths alike with the planets, and wherever an earth is, there are men inhabitants; for man is the end for which every earth was created, and nothing was made by the great Creator without an end." [456] If any are still sceptical, Sir William Herschel, an intellectual light of no mean magnitude, may reach them. He writes: "While man walks upon the ground, the birds fly in the air, and fishes swim in water, we can certainly not object to the conveniences afforded by the moon, if those that are to inhabit its regions are fitted to their conditions as well as we on this globe arc to ours. An absolute or total sameness seems rather to denote imperfections, such as nature never exposes to our view; and, on this account, I believe the analogies that have been mentioned fully sufficient to establish the high probability of the moon's being inhabited like the earth." [457] The voice of Dr. Dwight, the American theologian, will not be out of harmony here. In discoursing of the starry heavens, he says of the planets: "Of these inferior worlds, the moon is one; and to us, far the most interesting. How many important purposes which are known does this beautiful attendant of our earth continually accomplish! How many more, in all probability, which are hitherto unknown, and which hereafter may be extensively disclosed to more enlightened, virtuous, and happy generations of men! At the same time, it is most rationally concluded that intelligent beings in great multitudes inhabit her lucid regions, being far better and happier than ourselves." [458] Whewell's _Bridgewater Treatise_ will furnish us a fitting quotation. "The earth, the globular body thus covered with life, is not the only globe in the universe. There are, circling about our own sun, six others, so far as we can judge, perfectly analogous in their nature: besides our moon and other bodies analogous to it. No one can resist the temptation to conjecture, that these globes, some of them much larger than our own, are not dead and barren: --that they are, like ours, occupied with organization, life, intelligence." [459] In a most eloquent passage, Dr. Chalmers, who will always be heard with admiration, exclaims: "Who shall assign a limit to the discoveries of future ages? Who shall prescribe to science her boundaries, or restrain the active and insatiable curiosity of man within the circle of his present acquirements? We may guess with plausibility what we cannot anticipate with confidence. The day may yet be coming when our instruments of observation shall be inconceivably more powerful. They may ascertain still more decisive points of resemblance. They may resolve the same question by the evidence of sense which is now so abundantly convincing by the evidence of analogy. They may lay open to us the unquestionable vestiges of art, and industry, and intelligence. We may see summer throwing its green mantle over those mighty tracts, and we may see them left naked and colourless after the flush of vegetation has disappeared. In the progress of years or of centuries, we may trace the hand of cultivation spreading a new aspect over some portion of a planetary surface. Perhaps some large city, the metropolis of a mighty empire, may expand into a visible spot by the powers of some future telescope. Perhaps the glass of some observer, in a distant age, may enable him to construct the map of another world, and to lay down the surface of it in all its minute and topical varieties. But there is no end of conjecture; and to the men of other times we leave the full assurance of what we can assert with the highest probability, that yon planetary orbs are so many worlds, that they teem with life, and that the mighty Being who presides in high authority over this scene of grandeur and astonishment has there planted the worshippers of His glory." [460] How fine is this outburst of the great Scotch orator! He spoke as one inspired with prophetic foreknowledge; for in less than twenty years after this utterance, Beer and Mädler published their splendid _Mappe Selenographica_, or map of the moon; and photography offered its aid to the fuller delineation of our silvery satellite. Who can tell what the last fifteen years of this eventful century may develop in the same direction? Verily these intuitions of reason seem often favoured with an apocalypse of coming disclosures; and, if we may venture to adopt with slight alteration a sentence of Shelley, we will say: "It is impossible to read the compositions of the most celebrated writers of the present day without being startled with the electric life which burns within their words. They measure the circumference and sound the depths of nature with a comprehensive and all-penetrating spirit, and they are themselves perhaps the most sincerely astonished at its manifestations; for it is less their spirit than the spirit of the age." The poets of science, in their analogies, are "the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present." [461] Equally noble with the language of Chalmers is a paragraph which we have extracted from a work by that scholarly writer, Isaac Taylor. He says: "There are two facts, each of which is significant in relation to our present subject, and of which the first has long been understood, while the latter (only of late ascertained) is every day receiving new illustrations; namely, that our planet is, in no sense, of primary importance in the general system, or entitled, by its magnitude, or its position, or its constitution, to be considered as exerting any peculiar influence over others, or as the object of more regard than any others. This knowledge of our real place and value in the universe is a very important consequence of our modern astronomy, and should not be lost sight of in any of our speculations. But then it is also now ascertained that the great laws of our own planet, and of the solar system to which it belongs, prevail in all other and the most remote systems, so as to make the visible universe, in the strictest sense, ONE SYSTEM--indicating one origin and showing the presence of one Controlling Power. Thus the law of gravitation, with all the conditions it implies, and the laws of light, are demonstrated to be in operation in regions incalculably remote; and just so far as the physical constitution of the other planets of our system can be either traced, or reasonably conjectured, it appears that, amid great diversities of constitution, the same great principles prevail in all; and therefore our further conjecture concerning the existence of sentient and rational life in other worlds is borne out by every sort of analogy, abstract and physical; and this same rule of analogy impels us to suppose that rational and moral agents, in whatever world found, and whatever diversity of form may distinguish them, would be such that we should soon feel at home in their society, and able to confer with them, to communicate knowledge to them, and to receive knowledge from them. Neither truth nor virtue is local; nor can there be wisdom and goodness in one planet, which is not wisdom and goodness in every other." [462] The writer of the _Plurality of Worlds_, a little work distinct from the essay already quoted, vigorously vindicates "the deeply cherished belief of some philosophers, and of many Christians, that our world, in its present state, contains the mere embryo of intelligent, moral, and religious happiness; that the progress of man in his present state is but the initiation of an interminable career of glory; and that his most widely extended associations are a preparation for as interminably an intercourse with the whole family of an intelligent universe." [463] Dr. Arnott may add a final word, a last link in this evidential chain of analogy. He writes: "To think, as our remote forefathers did, that the wondrous array of the many planets visible from this earth serve no purpose but to adorn its nocturnal sky, would now appear absurd indeed; but whether they are inhabited by beings at all resembling the men of this earth, we have not the means of knowing. All the analogies favour the opinion that they are the abodes of life and its satisfactions. On this earth there is no place so hot or so cold, so illumined or so dark, so dry or so wet, but that it has creatures constituted to enjoy life there." [464] Here our long list of learned authorities shall terminate. We have strung together a large number of citations, and have ourselves furnished only the string. Indeed, what more have amateurs that they can do? For, as Pope puts it,-- "Who shall decide, when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?" Besides, astronomy is no child's play, nor are its abstruse problems to be mastered by superficial meddlers. "Its intricacy," as Narrien reminds us, "in the higher departments, is such as to render the processes unintelligible to all but the few distinguished persons who, by nature and profound application to the subject, are qualified for such researches." [465] But if professionals must be summoned as witnesses, ordinary men may sit as jurors. This function we have wished to fufil; and we avow ourselves considerably perplexed, though not in despair. We hoped that after a somewhat exhaustive examination, we might be able to state the result with an emphasis of conviction. This we find impossible; but we can affirm on which side the evidence appears to preponderate, and whither, we rest assured, further light will lead our willing feet. The conclusion, therefore, of the whole matter is: we cannot see any living creatures on the moon, however long we strain our eyes. No instrument has yet been constructed that will reveal the slightest vestige of inhabitation. Consequently, the actual evidence of sense is all against us, and we resign it without demur. This point, being settled, is dismissed. Next, we reconsider the results of scientific study, and are strongly inclined to think the weight of testimony favours the existence of a thin atmosphere, at least some water, and a measure of light and shade in succession. These conditions must enable vegetables and animals to exist upon its surface, though their constitution is in all probability not analogous with that of those which are found upon our earth. But to deny the being of inhabitants of some kind, even in the absence of these conditions, we submit would be unphilosophical, seeing that the Power which adapted terrestrial life to terrestrial environments could also adapt lunar life to the environments in the moon. We are seeking no shelter in the miraculous, nor do we run from a dilemma to the refuges of religion. Apart from our theological belief in the potency of the Creator and Controller of all worlds, we simply regard it as illogical and inconclusive to argue that because organization, life, and intelligence obtain within one sphere under one order of circumstances, _therefore_ the same order obtains in every other sphere throughout the system to which that one belongs. The unity of nature is as clear to us as the unity of God; but unity is not uniformity. We view the whole creation as we view this world; the entire empire as we view this single province, "Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree." And, finally, as analogy is unreservedly on the side of the occupation of every domain in creation, by some creatures who have the dominion, we cannot admit the probability that the earth is the only tenement with tenants: we must be confirmed in our judgment that the sun and the planets, with their moons, ours of course included, are neither blank nor barren, but abodes of variously organized beings, fitted to fulfil the chief end of all noble existence: the enjoyment of life, the effluence of love, the good of all around and the glory of God above. This article, that the moon is inhabited, may therefore form a clause of our scientific creed; not to be held at any hazard, as a matter of life or death, or a test of communion, but to be maintained subject to corrections such as future elucidation may require. We believe that we are justified by science, reason, and analogy; and confidently look to be further justified by verification. We accept many things as matters of faith, which we have not fully ascertained to be matters of fact; but "faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the proving of things not seen." By double entry the books of science are kept, by reasoning and demonstration: when future auditors shall examine the accounts of the moon's inhabitation, we are persuaded that the result of our reckoning will be found to be correct. If any would charge us with a wish to be wise above what is written, we merely reply: There are unwritten revelations which are nevertheless true. Besides, we are not sure that at least an intimation of other races than those of the earth is not already on record. Not to prove any position, but to check obstructive criticism, we refer to the divine who is said to have witnessed in magnificent apocalypse some closing scenes of the human drama. If he also heard in sublime oratorio a prelude of this widely extended glory, our vision may not be a "baseless fabric." After the quartettes of earth, and the interludes of angels, came the grand finale, when every creature which is in heaven, as well as on the earth, was heard ascribing "Blessing and honour and glory and power to Him who sitteth upon the throne." Assuredly, our conception of a choir worthy to render that chorus is not of an elect handful of "saints," or contracted souls, embraced within any Calvinistic covenant, but of an innumerable multitude of ennobled, purified, and expanded beings, convoked from every satellite and planet, every sun and star, and overflowing with gratitude and love to that universal Father of lights, with whom is no parallax, nor descension, and who kindled every spark of life and beauty that in their individual and combined lustre He might reflect and repeat His own ineffable blessedness. APPENDIX. _Literature of the Lunar Man_. _Vide_ p. 8. 1. _The Man in the Moone_. Telling Strange Fortunes. London, 1609. 2. "_The Man in the Moone_, discovering a world of Knavery under the Sunne; both in the _Parliament_, the _Councel_ of _State_, the _Army_, the _City_, and the _Country_." Dated, "Die Lunae, From Nov. 14 to Wednesday Novemb. 21 1649." _Periodical Publications, London_. British Museum. Another Edition, "Printed for Charles Tyns, at the Three Cups on London Bridge, 1657." 3. "SELENARCHIA, _or the Government of the World in the Moon_." A comical history written by Cyrano Bergerac, and done into English by Tho. St. Serf. London 1659." The same, Englished by A. Lovell, A.M., London, 1687. 4. "_The Man in the Moon, or Travels into the Lunar Regions_," by W. Thomson, London, 1783. In this lucubration the Man in the Moon shows the Man of the People (Charles Fox), many eminent contemporaries, by means of a magical glass. 5. "_The Man in the Moon_, consisting of Essays and Critiques." London, 1804. Of no value. After shining feebly like a rushlight for about two months, it went out in smoke. 6. _The Man in the Moon_. London, 1820. A Political Squib. 7. _The Loyal Man in the Moon_, 1820, is a Political Satire, with thirteen cuts. 8. _The Man in the Moon_, London, 1827(?). A Poem. _N.B._ The word _poem_ has many meanings. 9. _The Man in the Moon_. Edinburgh, 1832. A small sheet, sold for political purposes, at the high price of a penny. The Lunar Man pledges himself to "do as I like, and not to care one straw for the opinion of any person on earth." 10. _The Man in the Moon_. London, 1847. This is a comical serial, edited by Albert Smith and Angus B. Reach; and is rich, racy, and now rare. 11. _The Moon's Histories_. By a Lady. London, 1848. _The Mirror of Pythagoras_ _Vide_ p. 147. "In laying thus the blame upon the moone, Thou imitat'st subtill _Pythagoras_, Who, what he would the people should beleeve, The same be wrote with blood upon a glasse, And turn'd it opposite 'gainst the new moone Whose beames reflecting on it with full force, Shew'd all those lynes, to them that stood behinde, Most playnly writ in circle of the moone; And then he said, Not I, but the new moone Fair _Cynthia_, perswades you this and that." _Summer to Sol_, in _A Pleasant Comedie, called Summer's Last Will and Testament_. Written by Thomas Nash. London, 1600. _The East Coast of Greenland_. _Vide_ p. 171. "When an eclipse of the moon takes place, they attribute it to the moon's going into their houses, and peeping into every nook and corner, in search of skins and eatables, and on such occasions accordingly, they conceal all they can, and make as much noise as possible, in order to frighten away their unbidden guest." --_Narrative of an Expedition to the East Coast of Greenland_: Capt. W. A. Graah, of the Danish Roy. Navy. London, 1837, p. 124. _Lord Iddesleigh on the Moon_. _Vide_ p. 189. Speaking at a political meeting in Aberdeen, on the 22nd of September, 1885, the Earl of Iddesleigh approved the superannuated notion of lunar influence, and likened the leading opponents of his party to the old and new moon. "What signs of bad weather are there which sometimes you notice when storms are coming on? It always seems to me that the worst sign of bad weather is when you see what is called the new moon with the old moon in its arms. I have no doubt that many of you Aberdeen men have read the fine old ballad of Sir Patrick Spens, who was drowned some twenty or thirty miles off the coast of Aberdeen. In that ballad he was cautioned not to go to sea, because his faithful and weatherwise attendant had noticed the new moon with the old moon in its lap. I think myself that that is a very dangerous sign, and when I see Mr. Chamberlain, the new moon, with Mr. Gladstone, the old one, in his arms, I think it is time to look out for squally weather."--_The Standard_, London, Sept. 23rd, 1885. The Scottish ballad of Sir Patrick Spens, which is given in the collections of Thomas Percy, Sir Walter Scott, William Motherwell, and others, is supposed by Scott to refer to a voyage that may really have taken place for the purpose of bringing back the Maid of Norway, Margaret, daughter of Alexander III., to her own kingdom of Scotland. Finlay regards it as of more modern date. Chambers suspects Lady Wardlaw of the authorship. While William Allingham counsels his readers to cease troubling themselves with the historical connection of this and all other ballads, and to enjoy rather than investigate. Coleridge calls Sir Patrick Spens a "grand old ballad." _Greeting the New Moon in Fiji_. _Vide_ p. 212. "There is, I find, in Colo ('the devil's country' as it is called), in the mountainous interior of Viti Levu, the largest island of Fiji, a very curious method of greeting the new moon, that may not, as few Europeans have visited this wild part, have been noticed. The native, on seeing the thin crescent rise above the hills, salutes it with a prolonged 'Ah!' at the same time quickly tapping his open mouth with his hand, thus producing a rapid vibratory sound. I inquired of a chief in the town the meaning and origin of this custom, and my interpreter told me that he said, 'We always look and hunt for the moon in the sky, and when it comes we do so to show our pleasure at finding it again. I don't know the meaning of it; our fathers always did so.'"--Alfred St. Johnston, in _Notes and Queries_ for July 23rd, 1881, p. 67. See also Mr. St. Johnston's _Camping Among Cannibals_, London, 1883, p. 283. _Lunar Influence on Dreams_. _Vide_ p. 214. Arnason says that in Iceland "there are great differences between a dream dreamt in a crescent moon, and one dreamt when the moon is waning. Dreams that are dreamt before full moon are but a short while in coming true; those dreamt later take a longer time for their fulfilment."--_Icelandic Legends_, Introductory Essay, p. lxxxvii. NOTES. 1 _The Martyrs of Science_, by Sir David Brewster, K.H., D.C.L. London, 1867, p. 21. 2 _The Marvels of the Heavens_, by Camile Flammarion. London, 1870, p. 238. 3 _The Jest Book_. Arranged by Mark Lemon. London, 1864, p. 310. 4 _Timon_, a Play. Edited by the Rev. A. Dyce. London (Shakespeare Society), 1842, Act iv. Scene iii. 5 _The Man in the Moon drinks Claret_, as it was lately sung at the Court in Holy-well. _Bagford Ballads_, Folio Collection in the British Museum, vol. ii. No. 119. 6 _Conceits, Clinches, Flashes, and Whimzies_. Edited by J. O. Halliwell, F.R.S. London, 1860, p. 41. 7 _The Man in the Moon_, by C. Sloman. London, 1848, Music by E. J. Loder. 8 _Ancient Songs and Ballads_, by Joseph Ritson. London, 1877, p. 58. 9 _On the Religions of India_. Hibbert Lectures for 1878. London, p. 132. 10 _An Etymological Dictionary of the Scottish Language_, by John Jamieson, D.D. Paisley, 1880, iii. 299. 11 _Sir Thomas Browne's Works_. Edited by Simon Wilkin, F.L.S., London, 1835, iii. 157. 12 _Popular Antiquities of Great Britain_. Hazlitt's Edition. London, 1870, ii. 275. 13 _Asgard and the Gods_. Adapted from the work of Dr. Wägner, by M.W. Macdowall; and edited by W. S. Anson. London, 1884, p. 30. 14 _An Introduction to the Science of Comparative Mythology and Folk Lore_, by the Rev. Sir George W. Cox, Bart., M.A. London, 1881, p. 12. 15 _Plutarch's Morals_. Translated by p. Holland. London, 1603, p. 1160. 16 _Myths and Marvels of Astronomy_, by R. A. Proctor. London, 1878, p. 245. See also, _As Pretty as Seven and other German Tales_, by Ludwig Bechstein. London, p. 111. 17 _Curious Myths of the Middle Ages_, by S. Baring-Gould, M.A. London, 1877, p. 193. 18 _Northern Mythology_, by Benjamin Thorpe. London, 1851, iii. 57. 19 _Notes and Queries_. First Series, 1852, vol. vi. p. 232. The entire text of this poem is given in Bunsen's _God in History_. London, 1868, ii. 495. 20 Thorpe's _Mythology_, i. 6. 21 _Ibid.,_ 143. 22 _Curious Myths_, pp. 201-203. 23 _Teutonic Mythology_, by Jacob Grimm. Translated by J. S. Stallybrass. London, 1883, ii. 717. 24 _De Natura Rerum_. MS. Harl. No. 3737. 25 MS. Harl. No. 2253, 81. 26 _The Archaeological Journal_ for March, 1848, pp. 66, 67. 27 See Tyrwhitt's _Chaucer_. London, 1843, p. 448. 28 Dekker's _Dramatic Works_. Reprinted, London, 1873, ii. 121. 29 _Popular Rhymes of Scotland_. Robert Chambers. London and Edinburgh, 1870, p. 185. 30 _Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales_, by J. O. Halliwell. London, 1849, p. 228. 31 _Curious Myths_, p. 197. 32 Grimm's _Teutonic Mythology_, ii. 719-20. 33 _The Vision of Dante Alighieri_. Translated by the Rev. H. F. Cary, A.M. London. 34 _The Folk-Lore of China_, by N. B. Dennys, Ph.D. London and Hong Kong, 1876, p. 117. 35 _Himalayan Journals_, by Joseph D. Hooker, M.D., R.N., F.R.S. London, 1855, ii. 278. 36 _Primitive Culture_, by Edward B. Tyler. London, 1871, i 320. 37 _A Brief Account of Bushman Folk-Lore_, by W. H. J. Bleek, Ph.D. Cape Town, 1875, p. 9. 38 _The History of Greenland_, from the German of David Cranz. London, 1820, i. 212. 39 _An Arctic Boat Journey in the Autumn of 1854_, by Isaac J. Hayes, M.D. Boston, U.S., 1883, p. 254. 40 _The Natural Genesis_, by Gerald Massey. London, 1883, i. 115. 41 _The Church Missionary Intelligencer_ for November, 1858, p. 249. 42 _Ibid._, for April, 1865, p. 116. 43 See _Notes and Queries_. First Series. Vol. xi. p. 493. 44 _Researches into the Early History of Mankind_, by Edward B. Tylor, D.C.L., LL.D., F.R.S. London, 1878, p. 378. 45 _Ibid.,_ p. 336. 46 _Notes and Queries: on China and Japan_. Hong Kong, August, 1869, p, 123. 47 _Selected Essays on Language, Mythology, and Religion_. London, 1881, i. 613. 48 _Vico_, by Robert Flint. Edinburgh, 1884, p. 210. 49 _The Dictionary Historical and Critical_ of Mr. Peter Bayle. London, 1734, v. 576. 50 See _Lunar World_, by the Rev. J. Crampton, M.A. Edinburgh, 1863, p. 83. 51 _Dictionary of Phrase and Fable_, by the Rev. E. Cobham Brewer, LL.D. London, p. 592. 52 _The Man in the Moon_. By an Undergraduate of Worcester College. Oxford, 1839, Part i. p. 3. 53 MS. in the British Museum Library. Additional MSS. No. 11,812. 54 Lucian's _Works_. Translated from the Greek by Ferrand Spence. London, 1684, ii. 182. 55 _The Table Book_. By William Hone. London, 1838, ii. 252. 56 _Adventures of Baron Munchausen_. London, 1809, p. 44. 57 Flammarion's _Marvels of the Heavens_, p. 241. 58 _Records of the Past_. Edited by S. Birch, LL.D., D.C.L. London, iv. 121. 59 _The Philosophie_, 1603, Holland's Transl. p. 1184. 60 _Primitive Culture_, ii. 64. 61 _A Journey to the Moon_, by the Author of _Worlds Displayed_. London, p. 6. 62 Dennys' _Folk-Lore of China_, p. 101. 63 Grimm's _Teutonic Mythology_, ii. 720. 64 Flammarion's _Marvels of the Heavens_, p. 253. 65 _The Philosophie_, p. 338. 66 _The Woman in the Moone_, by John Lyllie. London, 1597. 67 Dr. Rae, _On the Esquimaux_. Transactions of the Ethnological Society, vol. iv., p. 147. 68 _Vide_ also _A Description of Greenland_, by Hans Egede. Second Edition. London, 1818, p. 206. 69 _Amazonian Tortoise Myths_, by Ch. Fred. Hartt, A.M. Rio de Janeiro, 1875, p. 40. 70 _Algic Researches_, by Henry Rowe Schoolcraft. New York, 1839, ii. 54. 71 _Information respecting the History, &c., of the Indian Tribes_, by H. R. Schoolcraft. Philadelphia, v. 417. 72 _Nineteen Years in Polynesia_, by the Rev. George Turner. London, 1861, p. 247. 73 _An Account of the Natives of the Tonga Islands in the South Pacific Ocean_, by William Mariner. Arranged by John Martin, M.D. London, 1818, ii. 127. 74 _Myths and Songs from the South Pacific_, by the Rev. W. W. Gill, B.A. London, 1876, p. 45. 75 Grimm's _Teutonic Mythology_, ii. 716. 76 _Selected Essays_, vol. i. note to p. 611. 77 _The Sacred and Historical Books of Ceylon_, edited by Edward Upham. London, 1833, iii. 309. 78 _Teutonic Mythology_, ii. 716. 79 _Illustrations of Shakespeare_. London, 1807, i. 17. 80 _Dictionnaire Infernal_, par J. Collin de Plancy. Paris, 1863, p. 592. 81 _The Chinese Reader's Manual_, by W. F. Mayers. Shanghai, 1874, p. 219. 82 _The Chinese Readers Manual_, p. 95. 83 _Reynard the Fox in South Africa; or, Hottentot Fables and Tales_ by W. H. J. Bleek. London, 1864, p. 72. 84 _A Brief Account of Bushman Folk-Lore_, by Dr. Bleek. Cape Town, 1875, p. 10. 85 _Outlines of Physiology, Human and Comparative_, by John Marshall, F.R.S. London, 1867, ii. 625. 86 _Lectures on the Native Regions of Mexico and Peru_, by Albert Réville, D.D. London, 1884, p. 8. 87 _History of the Conquest of Mexico_, by William H. Prescott. London, 1854, p. 50. 88 _The Native Races of the Pacific States of North America_, by Hubert Howe Bancroft. New York, 1875, iii. 62. 89 _Zoological Mythology; or, the Legends of Animals_, by Angelo de Gubernatis. London, 1872, ii. 80. 90 _Ibid._, ii. 76. 91 _Report on the Indian Tribes Inhabiting the Country in the Vicinity of the 49th Parallel of North Latitude_, by Capt. Wilson. Trans. of Ethnolog. Society of London, 1866. New Series, iv. 304. 92 _The Races of Mankind_, by Robert Brown, M.A., Ph.D. London, 1873-76, i. 148. 93 Dennys' _Folk-Lore of China_, p. 117. 94 _The Middle Kingdom_, by S. Wells Williams, LL.D. New York, 1883, ii. 74. 95 _The Disowned_, by the Right Hon. Lord Lytton, chap. lxii. 96 _Fiji and the Fijians_, by Thomas Williams. London, 1858, i. 205. 97 _Primitive Culture_, i. 321. 98 _On the Aborigines of Southern Australia_, by W. E. Stanbridge, of Wombat, Victoria. Transactions of Ethnolog. Society of London, 1861, p. 301. 99 _A Discovery of a New World_, by John Wilkins, Bishop of Chester. London, 1684, p. 77. 100 _A Voyage to the Pacific Ocean_, by Capt. James Cook, F.R.S., and Capt. James King, LL.D., F.R.S. London, 1784, ii. 167. 101 _Polynesian Researches during a Residence of nearly Eight Years in the Society and Sandwich Islands_, by William Ellis. London, 1833, iii. 171. 102 _Prehistoric Times_, by Sir John Lubbock, Bart., M.P., D.C.L. London, 1878, p. 440. 103 _Primitive Culture_, i. 318. 104 _See_ Kalisch on _Genesis_. London, 1858, p. 70. 105 _Sermons_, by the Rev. W. Morley Punshon, LL.D. Second Series. London, 1884, p. 376. 106 _Outlines of the History of Religion_, by C. P. Tiele. Trans. by J. E. Carpenter. London, 1877, p. 8. 107 _The Myths of the New World_, by Daniel G. Brinton, A.M., M.D. New York, 1868, p. 131. 108 _The Primitive Inhabitants of Scandinavia_. By Sven Nilsson (Lubbock's edit.). London, 1868, p. 206. 109 _Lectures on the Science of Language_. London, 1880, i. 6. 110 _Teutonic Mythology_, iii. 704. 111 _The Manners and Customs of the Ancient Egyptians_. London, 1878, iii. 39. 112 _Ibid._, iii. 165. 113 _The Mythology of the Aryan Nations_. London, 1882, note to p. 372. 114 _Russian Folk-Lore_, by W. R. S. Ralston, M.A. London, 1873, p. 176. 115 Tylor's _Primitive Culture_, i. 260. 116 _A System of Biblical Psychology_, by Franz Delitzsch, D.D., translated by the Rev. R. E. Wallis, Ph.D. Edinburgh, 1875, p. 124. 117 _The Book of Isaiah_ liv. 4-6, and lxii. 4. 118 _English Grammar, Historical and Analytical_, by Joseph Gostwick. London, 1878, pp. 67-72. 119 _Hibbert Lectures_ for 1878, p. 190. 120 Bayle's _Dictionary_, i. 113. 121 Vide Tylor's _Anthropology_. London, 1881, p. 149. 122 _Language and Languages_, by the Rev. Frederic W. Farrar, D.D., F.R.S. London, 1878, p. 181. 123 _Ibid._, p. 182. Coleridge also was in error on this question. See his _Table Talk_, under date May 7th, 1830. 124 _Hebrew and Christian Records_, by the Rev. Dr. Giles. London, 1877, i. 366. 125 _Biblical Psychology_, p. 79. 126 _Antitheism_, by R. H. Sandys, M.A. London, 1883, p. 32. 127 _The Origin and Development of Religious Belief_. London, 1878, i. 187. 128 _The Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson_. London, 1882, i. 274. 129 _Jesus Christ: His Times, Life, and Work_, by E. de Pressensé. London, 1866, p. 38. 130 _Sketches of the History of Man_, by the Hon. Henry Home of Kames. Edinburgh, 1813, iii. 364. 131 _Ancient Faiths Embodied in Ancient names_, by Thomas Inman. London, 1872, ii. 325. 132 _Mythology among the Hebrews_, by Ignaz Goldziher, Ph.D. London, 877, p. 76. 133 _Primitive Culture_, ii. 271. 134 _Nineveh and its Remains_, by Austen Henry Layard, M.P. London, ii. 446. 135 Inman's _Ancient Faiths_, i. 93. 136 _The Unicorn: a Mythological Investigation_, by Robert Brown, F.S.A. London, 1881, p. 34. 137 _The Five Great Monarchies of the Ancient Eastern World_, by George Rawlinson, M.A. London, 1871, i. 56. 138 _Ibid._, vol. i. p. 123. 139 _Ibid._, vol. i. note to p. 124. 140 Brown's _Unicorn_, p. 34. 141 _Mythology among the Hebrews_, p. 158, 142 _Ibid._, 159. 143 _Ibid._, 160. 144 _Jewish History and Politics_, by Sir Edward Strachey, Bart. London, 1874, p. 256. 145 _Phoenicia_, by John Kenrick, M.A. London, 1855, p. 301. 146 _Dictionary of the Bible_, edited by William Smith, LL.D. Art. ASHTORETH. 147 _Dictionary of the Scottish Language_, iii. 299. 148 On _Isaiah_. London, 1824, ii. 374. 149 _The Antiquities of Israel_, by Heinrich Ewald (trans. by Solly).London, 1876, p. 341. 150 _The Bampton Lectures for 1876_, by William Alexander, D.D., D.C.L. London, 1878, p. 378. 151 _Rivers of Life, showing the Evolution of Faiths_, by Major-General J. G. R. Forlong. London, 1883, ii. 62. 152 _Outlines of the History of Religion_, by C. p. Tiele, p. 63. 153 _Dictionary of Phrase and Fable_, p. 194. 154 _The Philosophy of History_, by Frederick von Schlegel, translated by J. B. Robertson. London, 1846, p. 325. 155 _El-Koran; or, The Koran_, translated from the Arabic by J. M. Rodwell, M.A. London, 1876, p. 199. 156 Tylor's _Primitive Culture_, ii. 274. 157 _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. London, 1862, p. 76. 158 _The Zend-Avesta_, translated by James Darmesteter. Oxford, 1883, Part ii., p. 90. 159 _The Philosophy of History_, by G. W. F. Hegel, translated by J. Sibree, M.A. London, 1861, p. 186. 160a _The Highlands of Central India_, by Captain J. Forsyth. London, 1871, p. 146. 160b _Travels from St. Petersburg in Russia to Diverse Parts of Asia_, by John Bell of Antermony. Glasgow, 1763, i. 230. 161 _The Early Races of Scotland_, by Forbes Leslie. Edinburgh, 1866, i. 138. 162 Kames' _History of Man_, iii. 299. 163 _The Origin of Civilization and the Primitive Condition of Man_, by Sir John Lubbock, Bart., M.P., F.R.S., D.C.L., LL.D. London, 1882, p. 315. 164 _History Of Man_, iii. 366. 165 _The Religions of China_, by James Legge. London, 1880, p. 12. 166 _Ibid._, pp. 44-46. 167 _Religion in China_, by Joseph Edkins, D.D. London, 1878, p. 60. 168 _A Translation of the Confucian Yih King_, by the Rev. Canon McClatchie, M.A. Shanghai, 1876, p. 386. 169 _Ibid._, p. 388. 170 _Ibid._, p. 449. 171 _The Religions of China_, p. 170. 172 _Religion in China_, p. 105. 173 _Handbook for the Student of Chinese Buddhism_, by Rev. E. J. Eitel, London. 1870, p. 107. 174 _Hulsean Lectures for 1870_, p. 203. 175 _Hibbert Lectures on Indian Buddhism_, by T. W. Rhys Davids. London, 1881, p. 231. 176 _A View of China for Philological Purposes_, by the Rev. R. Morrison. Macao, 1817, p. 107. 177 Dennys' _Folk-Lore of China_, p. 28. 178 _Travels in Tartary, Thibet, and China during the years 1844-46_, by M. Huc. Translated by W. Hazlitt. London, i. 61. 179 _Social Life of the Chinese_, by Rev. Justus Doolittle. New York, 1867, ii. 65. 180 _China: Its State and Prospects_, by W. H. Medhurst. London, 1838, p. 217. 181 _Ibid._, p. 188. 182 _Researches into the Physical History of Mankind_, by James Cowles Prichard, M.D., F.R.S. London, 1844, iv. 496-7. 183 Tylor's _Anthropology_, p. 21. 184 _The Historical Library of Diodorus the Sicilian_, Made English by G. Booth. London, 1700, p. 21. 185 _History of Ancient Egypt_, by George Rawlinson, M.A. London, 1881, i. 369. 186 _Records of the Past_, Edited by S. Birch, LL.D., D.C.L., etc. London, vi. iii. 187 _Hibbert Lectures for 1879_, p. 116. 188 _Ibid._, p. 155. 189 _Ancient Egypt_, i. 373. 190 _Records of the Past_, iv. 53. 191 _Egypt's Place in Universal History_, by Christian C. J. Bunsen, D.Ph., and D.C.L. Translated by C. H. Cottrell, M.A. London, 1848, i. 395. 192 _Hibbert Lectures_, p. 237. 193 _On the Relations between Pasht, the Moon, and the Cat, in Egypt_. Transactions of the Society of Biblical Archaeology, 1878, vol. vi. 3 16. 194 _Travels to Discover the Source of the Nile, in the years_ 1768-73, by James Bruce, F.R.S. Edinburgh, 1813, vi. 343. 195 _Ibid._, iv. 36. 196 _A Voyage to Congo_, by Father Jerom Merolla da Sorrento. Pinkerton's _Voyages and Travels_. London, 1814, vol. xvi. 273. 197 _Journal of the Anthropological Institute_, May, 1884. 198 _Travels in the Interior Districts of Africa_, by Mungo Park, Surgeon. London, 1779, vol. i. 271. 199 _Ibid._, i. 322. 200 _Missionary Travels and Researches in South Africa_, by David Livingstone, LL.D., D.C.L., etc. London, 1857, p. 235. 201 _The Present State of the Cape of Good Hope_, by Peter Kolben, A.M. London, 1731, i. 96. 202 _The Poetical Works of Lord Byron_. London, 1876 (_Don Juan_, Canto iii.), p. 636. 203 _The Iliad of Homer_. Translated by J. G. Cordery. London, 1871, ii. 183. 204 _A History of Greece_, by George Grote, F.R.S. London, 1872, i. 317. 205 _Vide Pausan_., L. x. c. 32, p. 880. Edit. Kuhnii, fol. Lips, 1696. 206 _History of Greece_, i. 317. 207 _The Iliad of Homer_, by Edward Earl of Derby. London, 1867, i. 190. 208 See _Roman Antiquities_, by Alexander Adam, LL.D. London, 1825, pp. 251-60. 209 _Carmen Saeculare_, 35. 210 _Metam_., lib. xi. 657. 211 _The Divine Legation of Moses Demonstrated_, by William Warburton, D. D. London, 1837, i. 316. 212 Jamieson's _Scottish Dictionary_, iii. 299. 213 _Teutonic Mythology_, ii. 704. 214 _Chaldaean Magic: Its Origin and Development_, by François Lenormant. London, p. 249. 215 _Flammarion's Astronomical Myths_, p. 35. 216 Leslie's _Early Races of Scotland_, i. 113. 217 _Ibid._, i. 134. 218 _Remaines of Gentilisme and Judaisme_, by John Aubrey, 1686-7. Edited by James Britten, F.L.S. London, 1881, p. 83. 219 _Britannia_, by William Camden, translated by Edmund Gibson, D.D. London, 1772, ii. 380. 220 _A General History of Ireland from the Earliest Accounts_, by Mr. O'Halloran. London, 1778, i. 47. 221 _Ibid._, i. 113. 222 _Ibid._, i. 221. 223 _The Towers and Temples of Ancient Ireland_, by Marcus Keane, M.R.I.A. Dublin, 1867, p. 59. 224 _The Keys of the Creeds_. London, 1875, p. 148. 225 A. S., in _Notes and Queries_ for Nov. 19, 1881, p. 407. 226 _History of the Missions of the United Brethren among the Indians in North America_, by George Henry Loskiel. London, 1794, Part i. p. 40. 227 _Illustrations of the Manners, Customs, and Condition of the North American Indians_, by George Catlin. London, 1876, ii. 242. 228 _Scenes and Studies of Savage Life_, by Gilbert Malcolm Sproat. London, 1868, p. 206. 229 Brown's _Races of Mankind_, p. 142. 230 Lubbock's _Origin of Civilization_, p. 315. 231 See _Mexico To-day_, by Thomas Unett Brocklehurst. London, 1883, p. 175. 232 Bancroft's _Races of the Pacific_, i. 587. 233 _Ibid._, iii. 112. 234 _Ibid._, iii. 187. 235 _Hibbert Lectures for 1884_, p. 45. 236 _American Antiquities and Researches into the Origin anti History of the Red Race_, by Alexander W. Bradford. New York, 1843, p. 353. 237 _Travels in Brazil in the Years_ 1817-20, by Dr. Joh. Bapt. von Spix and Dr. C. F. Phil. von Martius. London, 1824, ii. 243. 238 _An Account of the Abipones, an Equestrian People of Paraguay_, from the Latin of Martin Dobrizhoffer. London, 1822, ii. 65. 239 _The Royal Commentaries of Peru_, by the Inca Garcilasso de la Vega. Translated by Sir Paul Rycaut, Knt. London, 1688, folio, p. 455. 240 _Narratives of the Rites and Laws of the Yncas_. Translated from the Spanish MS. of Christoval de Molina, by Clements R. Markham, C.B., F.R.S. London, 1873, p. 37. 241 _History of the Conquest of Peru_, by William H. Prescott. London, 1878, p. 47. 242 _Jottings during the Cruise of H.M.S. Curaçoa among the South Sea Islands_ in 1865, by Julius L. Brenchley, M.A., F.R.G.S. London, 1873, p. 320. 243 _Polynesian Mythology_, by Sir George Grey, late Governor in Chief of New Zealand. London, 1855, _Pref_. xiii. 244 Kenrick's _Phoenicia_, p. 303. 245 _Workes_ of John Baptista Van Helmont. London, 1644, p. 142. 246 Goldziher's _Hebrew Mythology_, Note to p. 206. 247 _Ibid._, p. 206. 248 Dr. Smith's _Bible Dictionary_, Article _Meni_, by William A. Wright, M.A., ii. 323. 249 Goldziher's _Hebrew Mythology_, p. 160. 250 Gubernatis' _Zoological Mythology_, i. 18. 251 _Ibid._, ii. 375. 252 Mayers' _Chinese Reader's Manual_, p. 288. 253 _Japanese Fairy World_. Stories from the Wonder Lore of Japan, by William Elliot Griffis. Schenectady, N. Y., 1880, p. 299. 254 Brown's _Unicorn_, p. 69. 255 Wilkinson's _Ancient Egyptians_, iii. 375. 256 _Teutonic Mythology_, ii. Note to p. 719. 257 Brinton's _Myths of the New World_, p. 130. 258 Schoolcraft's _Indian Tribes_, iii. 485. 259 _Myths of the New World_, p. 133. 260 _Ibid._, p. 134. 261 _Origin of Civilization_, p. 315. 262 _Myths of the New World_, pp. 135-7. 263 _Ibid._, p. 131. 264 Tylor's _Primitive Culture_, i. 318. 265 Chambers's _Etymological Dictionary_ (Findlater). 266 _Dictionary of Phrase and Fable_, p. 865. 267 _Ecclesiastical Polity_. London, 1617, p. 191. 268 _The Natural History of Infidelity and Superstition_, by J. E. Riddle, M.A. Oxford, 1852, p. 155. 269 _The Anatomy of Melancholy_. London, 1836, p. 669. 270 _The Descent of Man_, by Charles Darwin, M.A., F.R.S., etc. London, 1877, p. 121. 271 _Essays. Of Superstition_. 272 _Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human Mind_. Edinburgh, 1828, p. 673 273 _Voltaire_, by John Morley. London, 1878, p. 156. See also Parton's _Life of Voltaire_. 274 Gubernatis' _Zoological Mythology_, i. 56. 275 _Vide_ Inman's _Ancient Faiths_, ii. 260, 326. 276 Mosheim's _Ecclesiastical History_. London, 1847, i. 116. 277 _History of Brazil_, by Robert Southey. London, 1810, p. 635. 278 _The Dictionary, Historical and Critical_. London, 1734, iv. 672. 279 _Primitive Culture_, i. 262. 280 Leslie's _Early Races of Scotland_, ii. 496. 281 _History of Brazil_, i. 193. 282 _Icelandic Legends_. Collected by Jón Arnason (Powell and Magnússon). London, 1866, p. 663. 283 _On the Truths contained in Popular Superstitions_, by Herbert Mayo, M.D. Edinburgh and London, 1851, p. 135. 284 _A Literal Translation of Aristophanes: The Clouds_, by a First-Class Man of Balliol College. Oxford, 1883, p. 31. 285 See _Curiosities of Indo-European Tradition and Folk-Lore_, by Walter H. Kelly. London, 1863, p. 226. 286 _Teutonic Mythology_, ii. 706. 287 _Astronomical Myths_, p. 331 288 _Medea: a Tragedie_. Written in Latin by Lucius Anneus Seneca. London, 1648, p. 105. 289 _The Childhood of the World_, by Edward Clodd, F.R.A.S. London, 1875, p. 65. 290 _The Chinese Empire_, by M. Hue. London, 1855, ii. 376. 291 _The Connection of the Physical Sciences_. London, 1877, p. 104. 292 Grimm's _Teutonic Mythology_, ii. 707. 293 _Appendix on the Astronomy of the Ancient Chinese_, by the Rev. John Chalmers, A.M. Legge's Chinese Classics. Vol. iii. Part i. Hong-Kong, 1861, p. 101. 294 _The Middle Kingdom_, i. 818. 295 _Ibid._, ii. 73. 296 _Social Life of the Chinese_, by the Rev. Justus Doolittle, of Fuhchau. New York, 1867, i. 308. 297 _Chinese Sketches_, by Herbert A. Giles. London, 1876, p. 99. 298 _Gems of Chinese Literature_, by Herbert A. Giles. Shanghai, 1884 p. 102. 299 _An Account of Cochin China_. Written in Italian by the R. E. Christopher Borri, a Milanese, of the Society of Jesus. Pinkerton's Travels, ix. 816. 300 _A Voyage to and from the Island of Borneo in the East Indies_, by Captain Daniel Beeckman. London, 1878, p. 107. 301 _History of the Indian Archipelago_, by John Crawfurd, F.R.S. Edinburgh, 1820, i. 305. 302 _Sketches of the History of Man_, iii. 300. 303 _Thucydides_. Translated by B. Jowett, M.A. Oxford, 1881, i. 521. 304 _The Stratagems of Jerusalem_, by Lodowick Lloyd, Esq., One of her Majestie's Serjeants at arms. London, 1602, p. 286. 305 Quoted in _Notes and Queries_, 16th of April, 1881, by William E. A. Axon. 306 _Northern Antiquities_, by Paul Henri Mallett. London, 1790, i. 39. 307 _Teutonic Mythology_, i. 245. 308 _Ibid._, ii. 705. 309 _Advice to a Son_. Oxford, 1658, p. 105 310 Grimm's _Teutonic Mythology_, ii. 714. 311 Schoolcraft's _Indian Tribes_, v. 2 16. 312 Brinton's _Myths_, p. 137. 313 Bradford's _American Antiquities_, p. 332. 314 _Ibid._, p. 333. 315 _The Antiquities of Mexico_, by Augustine Aglio. London, 1830, folio vi. 144. 316 Bancroft's _Native Races_, iii. 111. 317 Brinton's _Myths_, p. 131. 318 _Polynesian Researches_, i. 331. 319 Mariner's _Natives of the Tonga Islands_, ii. 127. 320 _Discoveries in the Ruins of Nineveh and Babylon_. London, 1853, p. 552. 321 Tylor's _Primitive Culture_, ii. 272. 322 _Ibid._, ii. 272. 323 _Description of the Western Islands of Scotland_, by Martin Martin. London, 1716, p. 41. 324 _The Philosophie_, p. 696. 325 _A Voyage to St. Kilda, the remotest of all the Hybrides_, by M. Martin, Gent. Printed in the year 1698. Miscellanea Scottica. Glasgow, 1818, p. 34. 326 _The Zend-Avesta_. Oxford, 1883, ii. 90. 327 _Five Hundred pointes of good Husbandrie_, by Thomas Tusser. London, 1580, p. 37. 328 Flammarion's _Marvels of the Heavens_, p. 244. 329 _The Philosophie_, 1603, p. 697. 330 _English Folk-Lore_, by the Rev. T. F. Thiselton Dyer, M.A., Oxon. London, 1880, p. 42. 331 _Notes on the Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders_, by William Henderson. London, 1866, p. 86. 332 _Knowledge for the Time_, by John Timbs, F.S.A. London, p. 227. 333 _Popular Errors, Explained and Illustrated_, by John Timbs, F.S.A. London, 1857, p. 131. 334 _A Manual of Astrology_, by Raphael. London, 1828, p. 90. 335 Brinton's _Myths_, p. 132. 336 _Endimion: The Man in the Moone_. London, 159 1, Act i. Sc. I. 337 _A defensative against the poyson of supposed Prophecies_, by Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton. London, 1583. 338 _Folk-Lore of China_, p. 118. 339 Tusser's _Good Husbandrie_, p. 13. 340 _Ibid._, p. 13. 341 _Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties of England_, p. 41 342 _David Copperfield_. The "Charles Dickens" edition, p. 270. 343 See _An Historical Survey of the Astronomy of the Ancients_, by the Rt. Hon. Sir George C. Lewis, Bart. London, 1862, p. 312. 344 _Popular Astronomy_, by Simon Newcomb, LL.D. New York, 1882, p. 325. 345 _Primitive Culture_, i. 118. 346 Dennys's _Folk-Lore of China_, p. 32. 347 _Folk-Lore; or, Manners and Customs of the North of England_, by M.A.D. Novo-Castro-sup. Tynan, 1850-51, p. 11. 348 Dyer's _Folk-Lore_, p. 42. 349 _Ibid._, p. 41. 350 _Time's Telescope_ for 1814. London, p. 368. 351 Dennys's _Folk-Lore of China_, p. 118. 352 _The Book of Days: a Miscellany of Popular Antiquities_. Edited by R. Chambers. London and Edinburgh, ii. 203. 353 _The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey_. Edited by his son. London, 1850, v. 341. 354 _Adam Bede_, chap. xviii. 355 _Scottish Ballads and Songs_. Edited by James Maidment. Edinburgh, 1868, i. 41. 356 _Etymological Dictionary of the Scottish Language_. Paisley, 1880, iii. 299. 357 Dyer's _Folk-Lore_, p. 38. 358 _Notes and Queries_ for May 16th, 1874, p. 384. 359 _Ibid._ for August 1st, 1874, p. 84. 360 _Amazulu_, by Thomas B. Jenkinson, B.A., late Canon of Maritzburg. London, 1882, p. 61. 361 _Legends of Iceland_. Collected by Jón Arnason. Second series. London, 1866, p. 635. 362 _Astrology, as it is, not as it has been represented_, by a Cavalry Officer. London, 1856, p. 37. 363 _A Manual of Astrology_, by Raphael. London, 1828, p. 89. 364 _The Dignity and Advancement of Learning_. London (Bohn), 1853, p. 129. 365 _Works_. London, 1740, iii. 187. 366 Dyer's _Folk-Lore_, p. 41. 367 _Scottish Dictionary_, iii. 300. 368 Tylor's _Primitive Culture_, i. 117. 369 Vide Potter's _Antiquities of Greece_, ii. 262. 370 _Recreations in Astronomy_, by the Rev. Lewis Tomlinson, M.A. London, 1858, p. 251. 371 Flammarion's _Marvels of the Heavens_, p. 243. 372 _Genesis, with a Talmudic Commentary_, by Paul Isaac Hershon. London, 1883, p. 50. 373 _Notes on the Miracles_, p. 363. 374 _The Gospel of S. Matthew illustrated from Ancient and Modern Authors_, by the Rev. James Ford, M.A. London, 1859, p. 310. 375 See _Light: Its Influence on Life and Health_, by Forbes Winslow, M.D., D.C.L. London, 1867, p. 94. Also, _The History of Astronomy_, by George Costard, M.A. London, 1767, p. 275. 376 _The Science and Practice of Medicine_, by William Aitken, M.D. London, 1864, ii. 353. 377 _Myths of the New World_, p. 132. 378 _Ibid._, p. 134. 379 _Ibid._, p. 135. 380 _The Darker Superstitions of Scotland illustrated from history and practice_, by John Graham Dalyell. Edinburgh, 1834, p. 286. 381 _The Early Races of Scotland_, i. 136. 382 _The Statistical Account of Scotland_, by Sir John Sinclair, Bart. Edinburgh, 1791, i. 47. 383 _Works_. London, 1740, iii. 187. 384 Dyer's _Folk-Lore_, p. 47. 385 _Some West Sussex Superstitions Lingering in_ 1868. Collected by Charlotte Latham, at Fittleworth. _The Folk-Lore Record_ for 1878, p. 45. 386 Dyer's _Folk-Lore_, p. 48. 387 Inman's _Ancient Faiths_, ii. 327. 388 _Fairy Tales: their origin and meaning_, by John Thackray Bunce. London, 1878, p. 131. 389 Martin's _Western Islands of Scotland_, 1716, p. 42. 390 _Letters from the East_, by John Carne, Esq. London, 1826, p. 77. 391 Grimm's _Teutonic Mythology_, ii. 715. 392 Timbs's _Knowledge for the Time_, p. 227. 393 _Dissertation upon Superstitions in Natural Things_, by Samuel Werenfels, Basil, Switzerland. London, 1748, p. 6. 394 Vide Grimm's _Teutonic Mythology_, ii. 714-716. 395 _Defensative_, 1583. 396a _A Talmudic Miscellany_. Compiled and translated by Paul Isaac Hershon. London, 1880, p. 342. 396b _Caesar's Commentaries_. London (Bohn), 1863, Book i. Chap. 50. 397 _Popular Rhymes_, p. 217. 398 _The Year Book of Daily Recreation and Information_, by William Hone. London, 1838, p. 254. 399 Dyer's _Folk-Lore_, p. 43. 400 _Gentilisme_, p. 37. 401 Dyer's _Folk-Lore_, p. 44. 402 _Extraordinary Popular Delusions_. London, i. 260. 403 Dyer's _Folk-Lore_, p. 38. 404 Henderson's _Folk-Lore_, p. 86. 405 _Popular Romances of the West of England_. Collected by Robert Hunt, F.R.S. London, 1881, p. 429. 406 _West Sussex Superstitions_, p. 10. 407 C. W. J. in Chambers's _Book of Days_, ii. 202. 408 _Early Races of Scotland_, i. 136. 409 _Scottish Dictionary_, iii. 300. 410 Forlong's _Rivers of Life_, ii. 63. 411 _Secret Memoirs of the late Mr. Duncan Campbel_. Written by Himself. London, 1732, p. 62. 412 _Folk-Lore_, 1851, p. 8. 413 _Popular Rhymes_. 414 Jamieson's _Scottish Dictionary_, iii. 300. 415 _Familiar Illustrations of Scottish Character_, by the Rev. Charles Rogers, LL. D. London, 1865, p. 172. 416 _Statistical Account of Scotland_, xii. 457. 417 _Early Races of Scotland_, ii. Note to p. 406. 418 Dalyell's _Darker Superstitions of Scotland_, p. 285. 419 _Romeo and Juliet_, Act ii. Sc. 2. 420 _Light: Its Influence on Life and Health_, p. 101. 421 _Religion as Affected by Modern Materialism_, by James Martineau, LL.D. London, 1874, pp. 7, 11. 422 _The Relations between Religion and Science_. Bampton Lectures for 1884, p. 245. 423 _Address delivered before the British Association assembled at Belfast_, by John Tyndall, F.R.S. London, 1874, p. 61. 424 _Celestial Objects for Common Telescopes_, by the Rev. T. W. Webb, M.A., F.R.A.S. London, 1873, p. 58. 425 _The Heavens_, by Amédée Guillemin. London, 1876, p. 144. 426 _McFingal_, by John Trumbull. Hartford, U.S.A., 1782 Canto i. line 69. 427 _Stargazing_, by J. Norman Lockyer, F.R.S. London, 1878, p. 476. 428 _The System of the World_, by M. le Marquis de La Place. Dublin, 1830, i. 42. 429 _The Solar System_, by J. Russell Hind. London, 1852, p. 48. 430 _History of Physical Astronomy_, by Robert Grant, F.R.A.S. London, 1852, p. 230. 431 _Cosmos_, by Alexander von Humboldt (Sabine's Edition). London, 1852, iii. 357. 432 _Handbook of Astronomy_, by Dionysinus Lardner, D.C.L. London, 1853, pp. 194, 197. 433 _The Planetary Worlds_, by James Breen. London, 1854, p. 123. 434 _Of the Plurality of Worlds. An Essay_. Fourth Edition. London, 1855, p. 289. 435 _Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation_. Eleventh Edition. London, 1860, pp. 21, 22. 436 _The Treasury of Science_, by Friedrich Schoedler, Ph.D. London, 1865, p. 167. 437 _Spectrum Analysis_, by Dr. H. Schellen. London, 1872, p. 481. 438 _The Moon_, by James Nasmyth, C.E., and James Carpenter, F.R.A.S. London, 1874, p. 157. 439 _Astronomy_, by J. Rambosson. Translated by C. B. Pitman. London, 1875, p. 191. 440 _The Three Heavens_, by the Rev. Josiah Crampton, M.A. London, 1879, p. 328. 441 _Scientific and Literary Treasury_, by Samuel Maunder. London, 1880, p. 470. 442 _The Mathematical and Philosophical Works of John Wilkins_. London, 1708. 443 _A Plurality of Worlds_, by Bernard le Bovier de Fontenelle. London, 1695, p. 35. 444 _More Worlds than One_, by Sir David Brewster, M.A., D.C.L. London, 1874, pp. 120, 121. 445 _An Introduction to Astronomy_, by John Bonnycastle. London, 1822, p. 367. 446 _Elements of Astronomy_, by John Brinkley, D. D., F.R.S. Dublin, 1819, p. 113. 447 _Celestial Scenery_, by Thomas Dick, LL.D. London, 1838, p. 350. 448 _The Moon_, by Edmund Neison, F.R.A.S. London, 1876, pp. 17, 129. 449 _The Art of Scientific Discovery_, by G. Gore, LL. D., F.R.S. London, 1878, p. 587. 450 _The Moon, her Motions, Aspect, Scenery, and Physical, Condition_, by Richard A. Proctor. London, 1878, p. 300. 451 _Other Worlds than Ours_. London, 1878, p. 167. 452 _An Historical Account of Astronomy_, by John Narrien, F.R.A.S. London, 1833, p. 448. See also Schroeter's, Observations on the Atmosphere of the Moon. Philosophical Trans. for 1792, p. 337. 453 _Plutarch's Morals_. Translated by P. Holland. London, 1603, pp. 825, 1178. 454 _Cosmotheoros_, by Christian Huyghens van Zuylichem. Glasgow, 1757, pp. 177, 178. 455 _The Wisdom of God in the Creation_, by John Ray, F.R.S. London, 1727, p. 66. 456 _On the Earths in our Solar System_, by Emanuel Swedenborg. London, 1840, p. 59. 457 _Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society for_ 1795, p. 66. 458 _Theology_, by Timothy Dwight, LL.D. London, 1836, p. 91. 459 _Astronomy and General Physics_, by William Whewell, M.A. London, 1836, p. 269. 460 _Astronomical Discourses_, by Thomas Chalmers, D. D., LL.D. Edinburgh, 1871, p. 23. 461 _A Defence of Poetry_, in ESSAYS, etc., by Percy Bysshe Shelley. London, 1852, i. 48. 462 _Physical Theory of Another Life_. London, 1836, p. 200. 463 _The Plurality of Worlds, the Positive Argument from Scripture_, etc. London (Bagster), 1855, p. 146. 464 _Elements of Physics_, by Neil Arnott, M.D., F.R.S. London, 1865, part ii. p. 684. 465 _Historical Account of Astronomy_, p. 520. INDEX. Aah, 111. Abipones, 129. Adam, Alexander, 119. Africa, 114, 177. Agesinax, 20. Aglio, 172. Ahts, 84, 127. Aitken, Dr., 198. Ajax, 99. Albertus, 72. Alchymists, 196. Aleutians, 148. Alexander, Bishop of Derry, 96. Algonquins, 133. Al Zamakhshari, 133. Anahuac, 128. Anaxagoras, 153, 168. Anaximines, 153. Andraste, 121. Anglo-Saxon, 86. Angus, 195. Anninga and Malina, 34. Anthropomorphism, 19, 87, 118. Aphrodite, 85. Apollo, 18. Apuleius, 119. Arabians, 83, 97. Arago, 46. Arakho, 157. Araucanians, 172. _Archaeological Journal_, 28. Aristophanes, 152. Aristotle, 2, 41, 49, 153. Arnason, 150, 192, 262. Arnott, Dr., 253. Ashango, 177. Asia, Northern, 100, 154. Assyrians, 90. Astarte, 85, 92, 94, 132. Asterodia, 19. Astrology, 191. Astruc, 163. Ataensic, 136. Athenians, 117, 168. Athol, 121. Atiu, 59. Atmosphere of the moon, 234. Aubrey, 121, 214. Australians, 72. Austro-Hungarians, 135. Aztecs, 128, 136. Baal, 93. Babylonians, 92. Bacon, 78, 143, 190, 194, 202. Bancroft, H. H., 66, 128, 172. Barbosa, 57. Baring-Gould, 23, 25, 31, 67, 88. Barnardo, Dr., 124. Bayles, 41, 86, 147. Beaufort, Sir F., 42. Bechstein, Ludwig, 22. Bechten, Princess, 110. Bechuana, 115. Beeckman, Capt., 166. Beer, Wilhelm, 240, 246, 251. Bell, John, 99. Berkshire, 214. Berosus, 91, 153. Berthold, 54. Bil and Hiuki, 24. Birch, Dr. S., 49, 109, 110. Bleek, Dr.W. H. J., 33,65. Blindness and the moon, 206. Bochica, 138. Bogota, 138. Bonnycastle, 240. _Book of Respirations_, 49. Borneo, 100, 166. Borri, Father, 165. Bory de St. Vincent, 115. Botocudos, 129, 176. Bradford, A. W., 129, 172. Brahmins, 6i, 146. _Brand's Antiquities_, 18. Brasseur de Bourbourg, 128. Brazil, 57, 199. Breen, James, 235. Brenchley, J. L., 130. Brewer, Dr. E. C, 43, 97, 140. Brewster, Sir D., 1, 234, 240. Brinkley, Dr. John, 241. Brinton, D. G., 80, 136, 137, 171, 173, 180, 199. British Apollo, 203. British Columbians, 35. British Museum Library, 28, 45. Britons, Ancient, 66, 120. Brocklehurst, T. U., 127. Brougham, Lord, 4. Brown, Robert, F.S.A., 91, 92, 134. Brown, Robert, M.A., 69, 127. Brown, Dr. T., 143. Brown, Sir W., 142. Browne, Sir T., 18. Bruce, James, 113. Buddha, 62. Buddhists, 60, 64, 102. Bunce, J. T., 205. Buns, Cross, 107. Bunsen, Baron, 111. Buraets, 99. Burton, Robert, 141. Bushmen, 33, 115. Bussierre, 128. Butler, Samuel, 18, 208. Byron, 117. Byzantium, 97. Caesar, 66, 212. Cain, 32. Caledonia, 194. Californian Indians, 171. Camden, 121. Campbel, Duncan, 220. Candrasaras, 67. Canton, 105, 158. Caribs, 90. Carne, 207. Carpenter, James, 237. Cassia tree, 64. Cat, 72, 112. Catholics, 124, 146. Catlin, 125. Celebes, 99. Ceris, 128. Ceylon, 62. Chaldseans, 87, 90, 153, 174. Chalmers, J., 157. Chalmers, Dr. T., 249. Chambers, R., 30, 140, 187, 218, 236. Champollion, 111. Chandras, 60, 219. Chang-Heng, 70. Chang-ngo, 74. Chaucer, 29. Cheap John, Chinese, 33, 38, 54, 63, 64, 70, 75, 100-108, 134, 154, 156, 164, 181, 184, 187. Christmas, 185. Cicero, 41. Clarke, Hyde, 112. Clemens Alexandrinus, 20. Cleobulus, 55. Clodd, E., 156. Cobbett, 85. Cochin China, 165. Collin de Plancy, 63. Collyridians, 146. Columbus, 171, 232. Comanches, 127. Comparative mythology, 37. _Confessional of Ecgbert_, 120. Confucianism, 101. Congo, 114. _Constantinople Messenger_, 168. Cook, Capt., 59, 73. Cordery's Homer, 117. Cornwall, 149, 179, 186, 194. Coroados, 129. Coutinho, 57. Cowichans, 69. Cox, Sir G. W., 19, 83. Crampton, Josiah, 42, 238. Cranz, 34. Craters, 41. Crawfurd, 167. Creeks, 35, 171. Crescent, 97. Cruikshank, 9. Cuzco, 130. Cynocephali, 112. Cynthia, 29. Dakotahs, 125, 136, 137. Dalyell, 200, 223. Dante, 32. Darien, 35. Darwin, 142. Day's eye, 113. Davids, T. W. Rhys, 103. Defoe, 220. Dekkan, 99. Dekker, 30, 188. Delawares, 125. Delitzsch, Dr., 84, 88. Democritus, 2. Demons, 198. Denham, 220. Denmark, 205. Dennys, N. B., 33, 54, 70, 104, 181, 184, 187. Derby, Earl of, 119. De Rougemont, 36. Descartes, 49. Devil, 141. Devonshire, 149, 179, 203, 214, 220. Diana, 18, 20, 73, 97, 118, 119, 219. Dick, Dr. Thomas, 242. Dickens, 182. Diodorus, 109. Diogenes Laertius, 87. Disease and the moon, 195, 224. Dobrizhoffer, 129. Domingo Gonsales, 46. Doolittle, Justus, 105, 158. Douce, Francis, 62, 67. Dragon, 155. Dreams, 213, 215, 262. Druids, 120, 222. Duncan, William, 35. Dundas, 22. Dunskey, 201. D'Urville, 36. Dwight, Dr. T., 249. Dyer, 179, 185, 189, 194, 202, 203, 214, 215, 216, 217. Easter, 124. East Indian Archipelago, 167. Eclipses, 152. _Edda_, 25, 169. Edkins, Dr. J., 101, 102. Egede, Hans, 57. Egyptians, 49, 82, 93, 107, 108, 112, 135, 207. Eitel, E. J., 102. Eliot, George, 188. Ellis, W., 73, 173. Elysium, 75. Emerson, R. W., 89. Endymion, 19, 20, 47, 59. Eos, 59. Eramangans, 130. Esquimaux, 35, 56. Essex, 179. Ethiopians, 116. Euripides, 68, 195. Euthydemus, 177. Ewald, Heinrich, 96. Farrar, F. W., 86, 103. Fetu negroes, 177. Fijians, 71, 261. Finns, 120, 154. Fischart, 23. Flammarion, 2, 49, 55, 120, 154, 178, 196. Fleachta, 121. Flibbertigibbet, 66. Flint, Professor, 39. Fontenelle, 54, 239. Forlong, Major-General, 96. Forster, Dr., 185. Forsyth, Capt. J., 99. Fortune and the moon, 208. Fox, Charles J., 112. Fraunhofer, 231. French, 20, 32, 180, 216. Friendly Islands, 59, 173. Frisians, North, 23. Frog in the moon, 69, 134. Fuhchau, 105. Galen, 198. Galileo, 1. Garcilasso de la Vega, 130. Gender, 16, 84. Germans, 22, 83, 86, 120, 170, 212. Gibbon, 97, 98. Giles, Dr. J. A., 87. Giles, Herbert A., 70, 162, 164. Gill, W. W., 59. Gizeh Pyramid, 108. Godwin, Francis, 46. Goethe, title page. Goldziher, 90, 92, 133. Gore, George, 243. Gostwick, J., 85. Gotch, Dr. F. W., 94. Goths, 120. Graah, Capt., 260. Grant, Robert, 234. Greeks, 19, 75, 80, 117, 155, 168, 195, 201. Greenlanders, 34, 170, 260. Grey, Sir George, 65, 131. Griffis, 134. Grimm, 26, 54, 60, 62, 82, 120, 135, 154, 157, 170, 207, 210. Grote, George, 117, 118. Gruithuisen, 245. Guaycurus, 49. Gubernatis, 67, 133, 145. Guillemin, 231. Guinea, 177. Gyffyn Church, 31. Hakkas, 184. Halliwell, J. O., 31, 213, 220. Hampshire, 85. Hans Stade, 149. Hare in the moon, 60. Hare-lip, 65. Hartt, C F., 57. Hayes, Dr. J. J., 35. Hebrews, 75, 80, 85, 92, 94, 106, 197, 210. Heden of the Persians, 75. Hegel, 98. Helmont, 132. Hemans, Mrs., 75. Henderson, 179, 182. Henotheism, 101. Herefordshire, 215. Herodotus, 98, 112. Herschel, Sir John, 42. Herschel, Sir William, 231, 248. Hershon, 197. Hervey Islands, 59, 174. Hesperides, 75. Hesychios, 108. Hibernian, 5. Himalayas, 33. Hind, J. R., 234. Hindoos, 154, 219. Hippogypians, 47. Hiuki and Bil, 24. Homer, 117, 119. Hone, 9,48, 214. Hooke, 230. Hooker, J. D., 33. Hooker, R., 140. Horace, 119. Horrack, P. J. de, 49. Hottentots, 65, 115. Howard, Earl of Northampton, 181, 210. How I, 70. Hue, 104, 156. Humboldt, 235. Hunt, Robert, 217. Huntingdonshire, 181. Huyghens, 247. Huythaca, 138. Iceland, 150, 192, 262. Iddesleigh, Earl of, 261. Ina, 59. Incas, 130. India, 60, 99, 133, 145, 155, 156, 167. India, Central, 99. Indians, American, 35, 57, 69, 125, 127, 136, 155, 156, 171. Indras, 133. Indus, 133. Inhabitants of the moon, 47, 106. Inman, Dr. T., 90, 146, 203. Iosco, 57. Iphigenia, 144. Irish, 43, 45, 121. Iroquois, 125. Isaac, 32. Isis, 49, 109, 118, 136, 199. Italy, 156, 185, 216. Jack and Jill, 25, 136. Jacob, 21. Jamieson, 17,95,120, 189, 195, 218. Jamunda, 57. Japanese, 108, 134. Jenkinson, T. B., 190. Jerome, 198. Jerusalem pipes, 31. _Jest Book_ of 17th century, 11, 44. Jews, 21, 87, 149. Johnston, H. H., 114. _Journey to the Moon_, 50. Judas Iscariot, 32. Jut-ho, 63. Kaffirs, 115. Kalisch, M. M., 75. Kalmucks of Tartary, 63. Kames, Lord, 89, 99, 100, 153, 168. Kaniagmioutes, 127. Keane, 123. Kelly, W. H., 152. Kenrick, John, 94, 132. _Keys of the Creeds_, 124. Khasias, 33. Khonds, 99. Khonsu, or Chonsu, 109, 110, 135 King, Capt. James, 59, 73. Kirkmichael, 221. Kolben, Peter, 115. _Koran_, 98. Korkus, 99. Kun, 120. La Martiniere, 196. Lancashire custom, 104. Laplace, 16, 234. Lardner, Dr. D., 235. Latham, Mrs., 202, 217. Layard, Sir A. H., 90, 174. Lees, Edwin, 216. Legge, Dr. James, 100, 102. Leibnitz, 79. Lemon, Mark, 4. Lenormant, 120. Leslie, Forbes, 99, 120, 149, 200, 218, 222. Lewis, Sir G. C, 118. Lindley, Professor, 180. Lippershey, Hans, 1. Lithuanians, 154, 195. Littledale, 187. Livingstone, 115. Livy, 119. Lloyd, Lodowick, 168. Locke, R. Alton, 42. Lockyer, J. N., 232. Loskiel, G. H., 125. Lowth, Bishop, 95. Luan, St., 123. Lubbock, Sir John, 73, 100, 127, 137. Lucian, 47. Lucius, 120. Lucretius, 143. Luna, 4, 119. Lunar fancies, 145. Lunar influences, 175. Lunar inhabitation, 227. Lunar stone, 177. Lunatic, 6. Lyllie, or Lilly, 7, 55, 181. Lyndhurst, Lord, 4. Lytton, Lord, 70. McClatchie, Canon, 101. Mackay, Charles, 215. Madler, 240, 246, 251. Mahomet, 97. Maidment, 188. Maimonides, 90. Makololo, 115. Malayan, 113. Malina and Anninga, 34. Mallett, 169. Mamarbasci, 168. Managarmer, 169. Mandarins, 159. Mandingoes, 114. Mangaians, 59. _Man in the Moon drinks Claret_, 11. Mani, 24. Mariner, W., 59, 173. Marini, 86. Marken, 23. Marshall, Dr. John, 65. Martin, 177, 206. Martineau, Dr. James, 228. _Mary, Glories of_, 146. Mary Magdalene, 54. Massey, Gerald, 35. Maunder, Samuel, 238. Maurice, F. D., 93. Mayers, W. F., 38, 64, 134. Mayo, Herbert, 151. Mbocobis, 84. Medhurst, W. H., 107, 108. Meen, 96. Melloni, 187. Meni, 95. Merolla, 114. Mem of the Hindoos, 75. Mexicans, 66, 127, 138, 172, 199. Meztli, 127, 200. Microcosm, 191. Milton, 13, 100. Ming Ti, 164. Mityan, 72. Molina, 130. Mongolians, 64, 157. Moon-cakes, 104, 106. Moon, cold, 186. " full, 209. " misty, 185. " new, 189, 209. " no, 194. " old, 187. Moon folk, 205. _Moon Hoax_, 42. Moon inhabitation, 227. Moon lake, 67. Moon worship, 77. "Moone" Tavern, 11. Mooney, 5. Moors, 154. Morduans, 100. Morley, John, 144. Morrison, R., 103. Moses, 21. Mosheim, 146. Mountains of the Moon, 2. Müller, Max, 16, 39, 59, 60, 82, 85, 86. Munchausen, Baron, 48. Mundilföri, 24. Muyscas, 138. Nanahuatl, 200. Narrien, John, 244, 254. Nash, Thomas, 260. Nasmyth, James, 237. Neal, Sir Paul, 43. Neckham, Alexander, 27. Negroes, 225. Neison, Edmund, 242. Nelson, 131. Newcomb, Simon, 183. New Hebrides, 130. New Netherlands, 180. _New York Sun_, 42. New Zealanders, 36. Nicaraguans, 138. Nilsson, Sven, 81. Nithi, 24. Norfolk, 216. Norse, 24. Northumberland, 31. Northumberland, Duke of, 231. _Notes and Queries_, 124, 168, 217. Nubians, 113. Nyi, 24. O'Halloran, 121. Olbers, 245. "Origin of Death," 65. Orinokos, 173. Orkney, 221, 223. Ormuzd, 98. Osborn, Francis, 170. Osiris, 49, 109, 135. Otaheite, 73. Othman, 97. Ottawas, 57. Otway, 53. Oxford undergraduate, 44. Pachacamac, 130. Paine, Thomas, 219. Pan, 86. Panama, 33. _Pancatantram_, 67. Pandora, 56. Paradise, 75. Park, Mungo, 114. Pasht, 113. Paul, 20, 79. Pausanias, 118. Peacock, Reginald, 30. _Penitential _of Theodore, 120. Periodicity, 225. Perkunas, 83. Persians, 80, 98, 131, 133, 149. Personification, 19. Peruvians, 130, 172, 219. Philip of Macedon, 97. Phlebotomy, 196. Phocis, 118. Phoenicia, 93, 121. Photography, 8, 232. Phrygia, 96. Picart, 139. Pindar, 195. Plato, 49, 153. Pleiades, 129. Pliny, 178, 198. _Plurality of Worlds, Essay on_, 236. _Plurality of Worlds. Positive Argument_, 253. Plutarch, 20, 49, 55, 113, 135, 177, 178, 193, 246. Pocock, 97. Poetry, 14. Polybius, 68. Polynesians, 50, 59. Pontus, 96. Pope, Alexander, 81, 119, 254. Potter, Dr. John, 195. Prescott, W. H., 66, 130. Pressensé, Dr. E. de, 89. Prichard, J. C, 108. Prideaux, 97. Priestly, John, 65. Proctor, R. A., 222, 244. Praetorius, 23. Protagoras, 168. Protogenia, 19. _Punch_, 4. Punshon, W. M., 75. Pythagoras, 147, 260. _Quarterly Review_, 128. Queen of heaven, 92, 104. Quiateot, 138. Rabbit in the moon, 56, 105. Rae, Dr., 56, 113. Raka, 145. Ralston, W. R. S., 83. Ramayanam, 145. Rambosson, 237. Rantum, 24. "Raphael," 180, 192. Rashi, 107. Rat story, 71. Ravvlinson, George, 91, 109. Ray, John, 248. Renfrewshire, 220. Renouf, P. le Page, 109, 112. Reville, Dr. A., 66, 128. Riddle, J. E., 141. Rimmon, 121. Ritson, Joseph, 16, 28. Rodvvell, J. M., 98. Rogers, Charles, 221. Romans, 80, 83, 119, 168, 201. _Roman Missal_, 146. Rona, 36. Rosse, Earl of, 231. Rudbeek, 120. Sabianism, 100. St. Johnston, Alfred, 262. St. Kilda, 178. Sakkria, 60. Sakyamuni, 63. Sale, 97. Saliva Indians, 49. Samoa, 59. Samoides, 100. Sandys, R. H., 88. Sanskrit, 16, 60, 64. Santhals, 219. Saracens, 97. Sasanka, 60. Savannah, 225. Scaliger, 155. Scandinavians, 24. Schaumberg-Lippe, 23. Schellen, Dr. H., 237. Schlegel, F., 97. Schoedler, Dr. F., 236. Schoolcraft, H. R., 57, 136, 171. Schroeter, 235, 241, 245. Scotch Highlanders, 149, 214, 221. Scotland, 177, 185,223. Selene, 19, 59. Selenograpkia, 45. Selish Indians, 69. Serapion, 20. Servian, 83. Sexuality, 84, 108. Shakespeare, 9,30, 66, 152, 205, 223, 232. Shangalla, 113. Shang-te, 102. Shelley, 3, 251. Shepherd of Banbury, 186. Sherburne, Sir E., 155. Sheridan, 22. Sibyl, 20. Sidonians, 94. Silver, 218, 220. Sin and Sinim, 91, 93. Sina, 59. Sinaloas, 173. Sinclair, Sir John, 201, 222. Sin-too, 108. Sirturi, 1. Slavonians, 33, 83. Sloman, Charles, 14. Smith, Charlotte, ix. Smith, Dr. W., 95. Smoker-man in the moon, A, 13. Socrates, 117. Sol, 24. Solaria, 201. Somas, 133, 219. Somerville, Mary, 157. Southey, 147, 149, 187. Spaniards, 224. Spectrum, lunar, 237. Spens, Sir Patrick, 188, 261. Spenser, Edmund, 45. Spix and Martius, 129. Sprengel, 199. Sproat, 127. Staffordshire, 202, 217. Stanbridge, W. E., 72. _Standard_, 261. Stent, G. S., 54. Stilpo, 11. Stoics, 153. Strachey, Sir E., 93. Suffolk, 218. Superstition, 140. Sussex, 203, 217. Swabia, 23, 66. Swedenborg, 248. Swedes, 25, 193. Sylt, 23. Tacitus, 119. Tahitians, 73, 173. _Talmud_, 21, 197. Taoism, 64, 102. Taru, 176. Taylor, Hudson, 28. Taylor, Isaac, 251. Telescope, 1. Temple, Bishop, 228. Teotihuacan, 127. Tezcucans, 66. Theism, 126. Thorpe, Benjamin, 25. Thoth, 83, 109, 111. Thucydides, 168. Tides, 183. Tiele, C. P., 76, 97. Timbs, John, 180, 207. _Time's Telescope_, 186. _Timon_, a Play, II. Tithonos, 59. Tlascaltecs, 172. Toad in the moon, 69. Tobler, 22. Tomlinson, 195. Tongans, 59, 173. Tongusy, 99. Torquay, 190. Trench, 198. Trumbull, John, 232. Tschuwasches, 100. Tuathal, 122. Tunguses, 99. Tupper, M. F., 50. Turks, 97, 155. Turner, Dr. G., 59. Tusser, 178, 181. Tylor, E. B., 37, 49, 72, 74, 84, 86, 90, 98, 109, 138, 148, 176,184, 195. Tyndall, John, 229. Tyrwhitt's Chaucer, 29. Ulceby, 189. Unk-ta-he, 136. Upham, Edward, 60. Verne, Jules, 48. Vico, 39. Virgin Mary, 85, 146. Voltaire, 144. _Völu-Spa_, 24. Wagner, Dr. W., 19. Wales, 31. Walled plains in the moon, 234. Warburton, W., 120. Water in the moon, 234. Weather, 183. Webb, T. W., 231. Werenfels, 209. Whewell, W., 249. Whitby, 189. Wilkins, John, 72, 238. Wilkinson, Sir G., 82, 135. Williams, S. Wells, 70, 157. Williams, Thomas, 71. Wilson, Captain, 69. Wilson, Rev. Mr., 48. Winckelmann, 108. Winslow, Dr. Forbes, 198, 224. Witchcraft, 151. Witch of Edmonton, 226. Woman in the moon, 53. Worcestershire, 216. Wright, Thomas, 27. Wright, W. A., 133. Xenophanes, 41, 88. Yorkshire, 131. Yue Lao, 33. Yue Ping, 103. Zabaists, 90. Zend-avesta, 98, 178. Zulus, 190. 
23634	----	Transcriber's note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected. Carets (^) indicate a superscript letter. This book has two types of notes. Footnotes are in the text and are indicated by a letter. These have been moved to the end of the appropriate paragraph. Endnotes are indicated by a number, and the notes for all the chapters are at the end of the stories. ITALIAN POPULAR TALES by THOMAS FREDERICK CRANE, A. M. Professor of the Romance Languages in Cornell University Boston and New York Houghton, Mifflin and Company The Riverside Press, Cambridge Copyright, 1885, by Thomas Frederick Crane. All rights reserved. The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. To GIUSEPPE PITRÈ. PREFACE. The growing interest in the popular tales of Europe has led me to believe that a selection from those of Italy would be entertaining to the general reader, and valuable to the student of comparative folk-lore. The stories which, with but few exceptions, are here presented for the first time to the English reader, have been translated from recent Italian collections, and are given exactly as they were taken down from the mouths of the people, and it is in this sense, belonging to the people, that the word popular is used in the title of this work. I have occasionally changed the present to the past tense, and slightly condensed by the omission of tiresome repetitions;[A] but otherwise my versions follow the original closely, too closely perhaps in the case of the Sicilian tales, which, when recited, are very dramatic, but seem disjointed and abrupt when read. [Footnote A: Other condensations are indicated by brackets.] The notes are intended to supplement those of Pitrè and Köhler by citing the stories published since the _Fiabe, Novelle e Racconti_, and the _Sicilianische Märchen_, and also to furnish easy reference to the parallel stories of the rest of Europe. As the notes are primarily intended for students I have simply pointed out the most convenient sources of information and those to which I have had access. My space has obliged me to restrict my notes to what seemed to me the most important, and I have as a rule given only references which I have verified myself. My object has been simply to present to the reader and student unacquainted with the Italian dialects a tolerably complete collection of Italian popular tales; with theories as to the origin and diffusion of popular tales in general, or of Italian popular tales in particular, I have nothing to do at present either in the text or notes. It is for others to draw such inferences as this collection seems to warrant. It was, of course, impossible in my limited space to do more than give a small selection from the class of Fairy Tales numbering several hundred; of the other classes nearly everything has been given that has been published down to the present date. The Fairy Tales were selected to represent as well as possible typical stories or classes, and I have followed in my arrangement, with some modification and condensation, Hahn's _Märchen- und Sagformeln_ (_Griechische und Albanesische Märchen_, vol. i. p. 45), an English version of which may be found in W. Henderson's _Notes on the Folk-lore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders. With an Appendix on Household Stories_, by S. Baring-Gould. London, 1866. In conclusion, I must express my many obligations to Dr. Giuseppe Pitrè, of Palermo, without whose admirable collection this work would hardly have been undertaken, and to the library of Harvard College, which so generously throws open its treasures to the scholars of less favored institutions. T. F. CRANE. ITHACA, N. Y., _September 9, 1885_. CONTENTS. PAGE INTRODUCTION ix BIBLIOGRAPHY xix LIST OF STORIES xxix I. FAIRY TALES 1 II. FAIRY TALES CONTINUED 97 III. STORIES OF ORIENTAL ORIGIN 149 IV. LEGENDS AND GHOST STORIES 185 V. NURSERY TALES 240 VI. STORIES AND JESTS 275 NOTES 317 LIST OF BOOKS REFERRED TO 384 INDEX 387 INTRODUCTION. By popular tales we mean the stories that are handed down by word of mouth from one generation to another of the illiterate people, serving almost exclusively to amuse and but seldom to instruct. These stories may be roughly divided into three classes: nursery tales, fairy stories, and jests. In countries where the people are generally educated, the first two classes form but one; where, on the other hand, the people still retain the credulity and simplicity of childhood, the stories which with us are confined to the nursery amuse the fathers and mothers as well as the children. These stories were regarded with contempt by the learned until the famous scholars, the brothers Grimm, went about Germany some sixty years ago collecting this fast disappearing literature of the people. The interesting character of these tales, and the scientific value attributed to them by their collectors, led others to follow their footsteps, and there is now scarcely a province of Germany that has not one or more volumes devoted to its local popular tales. The impulse given by the Grimms was not confined to their own country, but extended over all Europe, and within the last twenty years more than fifty volumes have been published containing the popular tales of Iceland, Greenland, Norway, Sweden, Russia, Germany, England, Scotland, France, Biscay, Spain, Portugal, and Greece. Asia and Africa have contributed stories from India, China, Japan, and South Africa. In addition to these we have now to mention what has been done in this field in Italy. From their very nature the stories we are now considering were long confined to the common people, and were preserved and transmitted solely by oral tradition. It did not occur to any one to write them down from the lips of the people until within the present century. The existence of these stories is, however, revealed by occasional references, and many of them have been preserved, but not in their original form, in books designed to entertain more cultivated readers.[1] The earliest literary collection of stories having a popular origin was made in the sixteenth century by an Italian, Giovan Francesco Straparola, of Caravaggio.[2] It is astonishing that a person of Straparola's popularity should have left behind him nothing but a name. We only know that he was born near the end of the fifteenth century at Caravaggio, now a small town half way between Milan and Cremona, but during the Middle Ages an important city belonging to the duchy of Milan. In 1550 he published at Venice a collection of stories in the style of the _Decameron_, which was received with the greatest favor. It passed through sixteen editions in twenty years, was translated into French and often printed in that language, and before the end of the century was turned into German. The author feigns that Francesca Gonzaga, daughter of Ottaviano Sforza, Duke of Milan, on account of commotions in that city, retires to the island of Murano, near Venice, and surrounded by a number of distinguished ladies and gentlemen, passes the time in listening to stories related by the company. Thirteen nights are spent in this way, and seventy-four stories are told, when the approach of Lent cuts short the diversion. These stories are of the most varied form and origin; many are borrowed without acknowledgment from other writers, twenty-four, for example, from the little known Morlini, fifteen from Boccaccio, Sachetti, Brevio, Ser Giovanni, the Old-French _fabliaux_, the Golden Legend, and the _Romance of Merlin_. Six others are of Oriental origin, and may be found in the _Pantschatantra_, _Forty Viziers_, _Siddhi Kûr_, and _Thousand and One Nights_.[3] There remain, then, twenty-nine stories, the property of Straparola, of which twenty-two are _märchen_, or popular tales. We say "the property" of Straparola: we mean they had never appeared before in the _literature_ of Europe, but they were in no sense original with Straparola, being the common property which the Occident has inherited from the Orient. There is no need of mentioning in detail here these stories as they are frequently cited in the notes of the present work, and one, the original of the various modern versions of "Puss in Boots," is given at length in the notes to Chapter I.[4] Two of Straparola's stories have survived their author's oblivion and still live in Perrault's "_Peau d'Ane_" and "_Le Chat Botté_," while others in the witty versions of Madame D'Aulnoy delighted the romance-loving French society of the seventeenth century.[5] Straparola's work had no influence on contemporary Italian literature, and was soon forgotten,--an unjust oblivion, for to him belongs the honor of having introduced the Fairy Tale into modern European literature. He has been criticised for his style and blamed for his immorality. The former, it seems to us, is not bad, and the latter no worse than that of many contemporaneous writers who have escaped the severe judgment meted out to Straparola. We find no further traces of popular tales until nearly a century later, when the first edition of the celebrated _Pentamerone_ appeared at Naples in 1637. Its author, Giambattista Basile (known as a writer by the anagram of his name, Gian Alesio Abbattutis), is but little better known to us than Straparola. He spent his youth in Crete, became known to the Venetians, and was received into the _Academia degli Stravaganti_. He followed his sister Adriana, a celebrated cantatrice, to Mantua, enjoyed the duke's favor, roamed much over Italy, and finally returned to Naples, near where he died in 1632.[6] The _Pentamerone_, as its title implies, is a collection of fifty stories in the Neapolitan dialect, supposed to be narrated, during five days, by ten old women, for the entertainment of the person (Moorish slave) who has usurped the place of the rightful princess.[7] Basile's work enjoyed the greatest popularity in Italy, and was translated into Italian and into the dialect of Bologna. It is worthy of notice that the first fairy tale which appeared in France, and was the _avant-coureur_ of the host that soon followed under the lead of Charles Perrault, "_L'Adroite Princesse_," is found in the _Pentamerone_.[8] We know nothing of the sources of Basile's work, but it contains the most popular and extended of all European tales, and must have been in a great measure drawn directly from popular tradition. The style is a wonderful mass of conceits, which do not, however, impair the interest in the material, and it is safe to say that no people in Europe possesses such a monument of its popular tales as the _Pentamerone_. Its influence on Italian literature was not greater than that of Straparola's _Piacevoli Notti_. From the _Pentamerone_ Lorenzo Lippi took the materials for the second _cantare_ of his _Malmantile Racquistato_, and Carlo Gozzi drew on it for his curious _fiabe_, the earliest dramatizations of fairy tales, which, in our day, after amusing the nursery, have again become the vehicles of spectacular dramas. Although there is no proof that Mlle. Lhéritier and Perrault took their stories from Straparola and the _Pentamerone_, there is little doubt that the French translation of the former, which was very popular (Jannet mentions fourteen editions between 1560 and 1726) awakened an interest in this class of stories, and was thus the origin of that copious French fairy literature, which, besides the names mentioned above, includes such well-known writers as Mde. D'Aulnoy, the Countess Murat, Mlle. De La Force, and Count Caylus, all of whom drew on their Italian prototypes more or less.[9] Popular as were the two collections above mentioned they produced but one imitation, _La Posillecheata_, a collection of five stories in the Neapolitan dialect and in the style of the _Pentamerone_, by Pompeo Sarnelli, Bishop of Bisceglie, whose anagram is Masillo Reppone. The first edition appeared at Naples in 1684, and it has been republished twice since then at the same place. The work is exceedingly coarse, and has fallen into well-deserved oblivion.[10] Nearly two centuries elapsed before another collection of Italian tales made its appearance. The interest that the brothers Grimm aroused in Germany for the collection and preservation of popular traditions did not, for obvious reasons, extend to Italy. A people must first have a consciousness of its own nationality before it can take sufficient interest in its _popular_ literature to inspire even its scholars to collect its traditions for the sake of science, to say nothing of collections for entertainment. In 1860, Temistocle Gradi, of Siena, published in his _Vigilia di Pasqua di Ceppo_, eight, and in his _Saggio di Letterature varie_, 1865, four popular tales, as related in Siena. These were collected without any other aim than that of entertainment, but are valuable for purposes of comparison. No attempt at a scientific collection of tales was made until 1869, when Professor De Gubernatis published the _Novelline di Santo Stefano_, containing thirty-five stories, preceded by an introduction on the relationship of the myth to the popular tale. This was the forerunner of numerous collections from the various provinces of Italy, which will be found noted in the Bibliography. The attention of strangers was early directed to Italian tales, and the earliest scientific collection was the work of two Germans, Georg Widter and Adam Wolf, who published a translation of twenty-one Venetian tales in the _Jahrbuch für romanische und englische Literatur_, Vol. VII. (1866), pp. 1-36, 121-154, 249-290, with comparative notes by R. Köhler. In the same volume were published, pp. 381-400, twelve tales from Leghorn, collected by Hermann Knust; and finally the eighth volume of the same periodical, pp. 241-260, contains three stories from the neighborhood of Sora, in Naples. In 1867 Schneller published at Innsbruck a German translation of sixty-nine tales, collected by him in the Italian Tyrol. Of much greater interest and importance than any of the above are the two volumes of Sicilian tales, collected and translated into German by Laura Gonzenbach, afterwards the wife of the Italian general, La Racine. There are but two other collections of Italian stories by foreigners: Miss Busk's _Folk-Lore of Rome_, and the anonymous _Tuscan Fairy Tales_ recently published. The number of stories published, in German and English, is about twice as many as those published in Italian before Pitrè's collection, being over four hundred. Pitrè contains more than all the previous Italian publications together, embracing over three hundred tales, etc., besides those previously published by him in periodicals and elsewhere. Since Pitrè's collection, the three works of Comparetti, Visentini, and Nerucci, have added one hundred and eighty tales, not to speak of wedding publications, containing from one to five stories. It is, of course, impossible to examine separately all these collections,--we will mention briefly the most important. To Imbriani is due the first collection of tales taken down from the mouths of the people and compared with previously published Italian popular tales. In 1871 appeared his _Novellaja fiorentina_, and in the following year the _Novellaja milanese_. These two have been combined, and published as a second edition of the _Novellaja fiorentina_, containing fifty Florentine and forty-five Milanese tales, besides a number of stories from Straparola, the _Pentamerone_, and the Italian novelists, given by way of illustration. The stories are accompanied by copious references to the rest of Italy, and Liebrecht's references to other European parallels. It is an admirable work, but one on which we have drawn but seldom, restricting ourselves to the stories in the various dialects as much as possible. The Milanese stories are in general very poor versions of the typical tales, being distorted and fragmentary. In 1873 Dr. Giuseppe Pitrè, of Palermo, well known for his collection of popular Sicilian songs, published three specimens of a collection of Sicilian popular tales, and two years later gave to the world his admirable work, _Fiabe, Novelle e Racconti_, forming vols. IV.-VII. of the _Biblioteca delle Tradizioni populari Siciliane_ per cura di Giuseppe Pitrè. It is not, however, numerically that Pitrè's collection surpasses all that has previously been done in this field. It is a monument of patient, thorough research and profound study. Its arrangement is almost faultless, the explanatory notes full, while the grammar and glossary constitute valuable contributions to the philology of the Italian dialects. In the Introduction the author, probably for the first time, makes the Sicilian public acquainted with the fundamental principles of comparative mythology and its relation to folk-lore, and gives a good account of the Oriental sources of the novel. He has, it seems to us, very properly confined his notes and comparisons entirely to Italy, with references of course to Gonzenbach and Köhler's notes to Widter-Wolf when necessary. In other words, his work is a contribution to _Italian_ folk-lore, and the student of comparative Aryan folk-lore must make his own comparisons: a task no longer difficult, thanks to the works of Grimm, Hahn, Köhler, Cox, De Gubernatis, etc. The only other collection that need be mentioned here is the one in the _Canti e Racconti del Popolo italiano_, consisting of the first volume of the _Novellino pop. ital._ pub. ed ill. da Dom. Comparetti, and of Visentini's _Fiabe Mantovane_. The stories in both of the above works are translated into Italian. In the first there is no arrangement by locality or subject; and the annotations, instead of being given with each story, are reserved for one of the future volumes,--an unhandy arrangement, which detracts from the value of the work. We will now turn our attention from the collections themselves to the stories they contain, and examine these first as to their form, and secondly as to their contents. The name applied to the popular tale differs in various provinces, being generally a derivative of the Latin _fabula_. So these stories are termed _favuli_ and _fràuli_ in parts of Sicily, _favole_ in Rome, _fiabe_ in Venice, _foe_ in Liguria, and _fole_ in Bologna. In Palermo and Naples they are named _cunti_, _novelle_ and _novelline_ in Tuscany, _esempi_ in Milan, and _storie_ in Piedmont.[11] There are few peculiarities of form, and they refer almost exclusively to the beginning and ending of the stories. Those from Sicily begin either with the simple "_cc'era_" (there was), or "_'na vota cc'era_" (there was one time), or "_si raccunta chi'na vota cc'era_" (it is related that there was one time). Sometimes the formula is repeated, as, "_si cunta e s' arricunta_" (it is related and related again), with the addition at times of "_a lor signuri_" (to your worships), or the story about to be told is qualified as "_stu bellissimu cuntu_" (this very fine story). Ordinarily they begin, as do our own, with the formula, "once upon a time there was." The ending is also a variable formula, often a couplet referring to the happy termination of the tale and the relatively unenviable condition of the listeners. The Sicilian ending usually is:-- "Iddi arristaru filici e cuntenti, E nuàtri semu senza nenti." (They remained happy and contented, and we are without anything.) The last line often is "_E nui semu ccà munnamu li denti_" (And here we are picking our teeth), or "_Ma a nui 'un ni dèsinu nenti_" (But to us they gave nothing), which corresponds to a Tuscan ending:-- "Se ne stettero e se la goderono E a me nulla mi diedero." (They stayed and enjoyed it, and gave nothing to me.) A common Tuscan ending is:-- "In santa pace pia Dite la vostra, ch'io detto la mia." (In holy pious peace tell yours, for I have told mine.) In some parts of Sicily (Polizzi) a similar conclusion is found:-- "Favula scritta, favula ditta; Diciti la vostra, ca la mia è ditta." (Story written, story told; tell yours, for mine is told.) So in Venice,-- "Longa la tua, curta la mia; Conta la tua, chè la mia xè finìa." (Long yours, short mine; tell yours, for mine is ended.) The first line is sometimes as follows:-- "Stretto il viuolo, stretta la via; Dite la vostra, ch'io detto la mia." (Narrow the path, narrow the way; tell yours, for I have told mine.) The most common form of the above Tuscan ending is:-- "Stretta è la foglia è larga è la via, Dite la vostra chè ho detto la mia." (Narrow is the leaf, broad is the way, etc.) This same ending is also found in Rome.[12] These endings have been omitted in the present work as they do not constitute an integral part of the story, and are often left off by the narrators themselves. The narrative is usually given in the present tense, and in most of the collections is animated and dramatic. Very primitive expedients are employed to indicate the lapse of time, either the verb indicating the action is repeated, as, "he walked, and walked, and walked," a proceeding not unknown to our own stories, or such expressions as the following are used: _Cuntu 'un porta tempu_, or _lu cuntu 'un metti tempu_, or _'Ntra li cunti nun cc'è tempu_, which are all equivalent to, "The story takes no note of time." These Sicilian expressions are replaced in Tuscany by the similar one: _Il tempo delle novelle passa presto_ ("Time passes quickly in stories"). Sometimes the narrator will bring himself or herself into the story in a very naive manner; as, for example, when a name is wanted. So in telling a Sicilian story which is another version of "The Fair Angiola" given in our text, the narrator, Gna Sabbedda, continues: "The old woman met her once, and said: 'Here, little girl, whose daughter are you?' 'Gna Sabbedda's', for example; I mention myself, but, however, I was not there."[13] If we turn our attention now to the contents of our stories we shall find that they do not differ materially from those of the rest of Europe, and the same story is found, with trifling variations, all over Italy.[14] There is but little local coloring in the fairy tales, and they are chiefly interesting for purposes of comparison. We have given in our text such a copious selection from all parts of the country that the reader can easily compare them for himself with the tales of other lands in their more general features. If they are not strikingly original they will still, we trust, be found interesting variations of familiar themes; and we shall perhaps deem less strange to us a people whose children are still amused with the same tales as our own. BIBLIOGRAPHY. ARCHIVIO per lo Studio delle Tradizioni popolari. Rivista trimestrale diretta da G. Pitrè e S. Salomone-Marino. Palermo, 1882-1885. 8vo. The following popular tales have been published in the Archivio: _Novelle popolari toscane_, edited by G. Pitrè, vol. I. pp. 35-69, 183-205, 520-540; vol. II. pp. 157-172. _La Storia del Re Crin_, collected by A. Arietti [Piedmont], vol. I. pp. 424-429. _Cuntu di lu Ciropiddhu, novellina popolare messinese_, collected by T. Cannizzaro, vol. I. pp. 518-519. _Novelle popolari sarde_, collected by P. E. Guarnerio, vol. II. pp. 19-38, 185-206, 481-502; vol. III. pp. 233-240. _La Cenerentola a Parma e a Camerino_, collected by Caterina Pigorini-Beri, vol. II. pp. 45-58. _Fiabe popolari crennesi_ [_provincia di Milano_], collected by V. Imbriani, vol. II. pp. 73-81. _Fiaba veneziana_ [= Pitrè, xxxix.], collected by Cristoforo Pasqualigo, vol. II. pp. 353-358. _Il Re Porco, novellina popolare marchigiana_, collected by Miss R. H. Busk, vol. II. pp. 403-409. _Tre novellini pugliesi di Cerignola_, collected by N. Zingarelli, vol. III. pp. 65-72. _La Bona Fia, fiaba veneziana_, collected by A. Dalmedico, vol. III. pp. 73-74. _Tradizioni popolari abruzzesi, Novelle_, collected by G. Finamore, vol. III. pp. 359-372, 331-350. _I Tre Maghi ovverosia Il Merlo Bianco, novella popolare montalese_, collected by G. Nerucci, vol. III. pp. 373-388, 551-568. BARTOLI, A., E G. SANSONI. Una novellina e una poesia popolare gragnolesi. Florence, 1881. 8^o. Pp. 15. Per le Nozze Biagi-Piroli. Edizione di 100 copie numerate. The _novellina_ is a version of Pitrè, Nos. 159, 160 ("The Treasure of Rhampsinitus"). BASILE, GIAMBATTISTA. Lo Cunto de li Cunti. Overo Lo Trattenemiento de Peccerille. De Gian Alesio Abbattutis. Iornate Cinco. Naples, Per Camillo Cavallo. 1644. 12^o. Il conto de' conti trattenimento a' fanciulli. Trasportato dalla Napolitana all' Italiana favella, ed adornato di bellissime Figure. Naples, 1784. La Chiaqlira dla Banzola o per dir mìi Fol divers tradutt dal parlar Napulitan in lengua Bulgnesa per rimedi innucent dla sonn, e dla malincunj. Dedicà al merit singular dl gentilessem sgnori d' Bulogna. Bologna, 1813. 4^o. Der Pentamerone oder: Das Märchen aller Märchen von Giambattista Basile. Aus dem Neapolitanischen übertragen von Felix Liebrecht. Nebst einer Vorrede von Jacob Grimm. 2 vols. Breslau, 1846. 8^o. The Pentamerone, or the Story of Stories, Fun for the Little Ones. By Giambattista Basile. Translated from the Neapolitan by John Edward Taylor. With Illustrations by George Cruikshank. Second edition. London, 1850. 8^o. Archiv für das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen. Herausgegeben von Ludwig Herrig. Vol. XLV. p. 1. Eine neapolitanische Märchen-sammlung aus der ersten Hälfte des XVII. Jahrhunderts--Pentamerone des Giambattista Basile. BASILE, GIAMBATTISTA. Archivio di Letteratura popolare. Naples, 1883-85. A monthly periodical devoted to popular literature. The volumes which have already appeared contain a large number of popular tales collected at Naples or in the vicinity. BERNONI, DOM. GIUSEPPE. Fiabe popolari veneziane raccolte da Dom. Giuseppe Bernoni. Venice, 1875. 8^o. Leggende fantastiche popolari veneziane raccolte da Dom. Giuseppe Bernoni. Venice, 1873. 8^o. Le Strighe: Leggende popolari veneziane raccolte da Dom. Giuseppe Bernoni. Venice, 1874. 16^o. Tradizioni popolari veneziane raccolte da Dom. Giuseppe Bernoni. Puntate I.-IV. Venice, 1875-77. BOLOGNINI, DR. NEPOMUCENO. Fiabe e Legende della Valle di Rendena nel Trentino. Rovereto, 1881. 8^o. Pp. 50. [Estratto dal VII. Annuario della Società degli Alpinisti Tridentini.] BUSK, R. H. Household Stories from the Land of Hofer; or, Popular Myths of Tirol, including the Rose-Garden of King Lareyn. London, 1871. 8^o. The Folk-Lore of Rome. Collected by word of mouth from the people. By R. H. Busk. London, 1874. 8^o. CANTI E RACCONTI DEL POPOLO ITALIANO. See Comparetti and Visentini. COMPARETTI, DOMENICO. Novelline popolari italiane pubblicate ed illustrate da Domenico Comparetti. Vol. I. Turin, 1875. 8^o. In Canti e Racconti del Popolo italiano. Pubblicati per cura di D. Comparetti ed A. D'Ancona. Vol. VI. COOTE, HENRY CHARLES. Some Italian Folk-Lore, Folk-Lore Record, I., pp. 187-215. Notice of Comparetti's Nov. pop. ital., with translations. CORAZZINI, FRANCESCO. I Componimenti minori della letteratura popolare italiana nei principali dialetti o saggio di letteratura dialettale comparata. Benevento, 1877. 8^o. Novelle toscane, beneventane, apicese (Benvento), bolognese, bergamasca e vicentina. Pp. 409-489. CORONEDI-BERTI, CAROLINA. Novelle popolari bolognesi raccolte da Carolina Coronedi-Berti. Bologna, 1874. 8^o. La Fola dêl Muretein, Novellina popolare Bolognese. Estratto dalla Rivista Europea. Florence, 1873. 8^o. Pp. 9. CRANE, T. F. A Nursery Tale. The Cornell Review, May, 1876, pp. 337-347. Italian Fairy Tales. St. Nicholas, December, 1878, pp. 101-107. Italian Popular Tales. North American Review, July, 1876, pp. 25-60. Le Novelle Popolari Italiane. In Giornale di Sicilia. Palermo. Nos. 186-188, 190, 195, 206, 207, 216, 225, 236, 239, 240. Aug.-Oct., 1877. Italian translation of above Article. Recent Italian Popular Tales. The Academy, London, March 22, 1879, pp. 262-263. Sicilian Folk-Lore. Lippincott's Magazine, October, 1876, pp. 433-443. Devoted to Pitrè's collection. La Novellistica Popolare di Sicilia per T. F. Crane. Versione dall' Inglese per F. Polacci Nuccio. Estratto dalle Nuove Effemeridi Siciliane, Vol. VI. Palermo, 1877. 8^o. Pp. 26. Italian translation of above Article. DE GUBERNATIS, A. Le Novelline di Santo Stefano raccolte da Angelo De Gubernatis e precedute da una introduzione sulla parentela del mito con la novella. Turin, 1869. 8^o. See Rivista di Letteratura Popolare. Zoölogical Mythology, or the Legends of Animals. By Angelo De Gubernatis. 2 vols. London, 1872. 8^o. DE NINO, ANTONIO. Usi e Costumi Abruzzesi. Vol. III. Fiabe. Florence, 1883. 16^o. FINAMORE, GENNARO. Tradizioni popolari abruzzesi. Vol. I. Novelle. Prima Parte, Lanciano, 1882. 8^o. Parte seconda, Lanciano, 1885. FRIZZI, GIUSEPPE. Novella montanina, Florence, 1876. 8^o. Pp. 36. Edizione di 150 esemplari. GARGIOLLI, CARLO. Novelline e Canti popolari delle Marche. Fano, 1878. 8^o. Pp. 18. Per le Nozze Imbriani-Rosnati. GIANANDREA, ANTONIO. Biblioteca delle Tradizioni popolari marchigiane. Novelline e Fiabe popolari marchigiane raccolte e annotate da Antonio Gianandrea. Jesi, 1878. 12^o. Punt. I. pp. 32. See Academy, March 22, 1879, p. 262. Della novella del Petit Poucet. In Giornale di Filologia Romanza, II., pp. 231-234. A few copies were printed separately. GONZENBACH, LAURA. Sicilianische Märchen. Aus dem Volksmund gesammelt von Laura Gonzenbach. Mit Anmerkungen Reinhold Köhler's und einer Einleitung herausgegeben von Otto Hartwig. 2 vols. Leipzig, 1870. 8^o. GRADI, TEMISTOCLE. Saggio di Letture varie per i Giovani di Temistocle Gradi da Siena. Turin, 1865. 8^o. La Vigilia di Pasqua di Ceppo. Otto Novelle di Temistocle Gradi. Coll' aggiunta di due racconti. Turin, 1860. 8^o. GUARNERIO, P. E. Una novellina nel dialetto di Luras in Gallura (Sardinia). Milan, 1884. Per le Nozze Vivante-Ascoli. Edizione di soli L. esemplari. An incomplete version of the Cupid and Psyche myth. IMBRIANI, VITTORIO. La Novellaja fiorentina cioè fiabe e novelline stenografate in Firenze dal dettato popolare e corredate di qualche noterella da Vittorio Imbriani. Naples, 1871. Esemplari 150. 16^o. La Novellaja milanese, esempii e panzane lombarde raccolte nel Milanese da Vittorio Imbriani. Bologna, 1872. Esemplari 40. 8^o. Paralipomeni alla Novellaja Milanese. Bologna, pp. 9. Tratura a parte del Propugnatore, Vol. VI. Esemplari 30. 'A 'Ndriana Fata. Cunto pomiglianese. Per nozze. Pomigliano d' Arco, 1875. 8^o. Pp. 14. 250 esemplari fuori di commercio. Due Fiabe Toscane annotate da V. I. Esemplari 100. Naples, 1876. 8^o. Pp. 23. These _fiabe_ are also in Nerucci, pp. 10, 18. Dodici conti pomiglianesi con varianti avellinesi, montellesi, bagnolesi, milanesi, toscane, leccesi, ecc. Illustrati da Vittorio Imbriani. Naples, 1877. 8^o. 'E Sette Mane-Mozze. In dialetto di Avellino. Principato Ulteriore. Pomigliano d'Arco, 1877. 8^o. Per le nozze Pitrè-Vitrano. Esemplari cc. Fuori commercio. La Novellaja Fiorentina. Fiabe e Novelline stenografate in Firenze dal dettato popolare da Vittorio Imbriani. Ristampa accresciuta di molte novelle inedite, di numerosi riscontri e di note, nelle quali è accolta integralmente La Novellaja Milanese dello stesso raccoglitore. Leghorn, 1877. 8^o. IVE, ANTONIO. Fiabe popolari rovignesi. Per le Nozze Ive-Lorenzetto, XXVIII. Novembre, 1877. Vienna, 1877. 8^o. Pp. 32. Edizione fuori di commercio di soli 100 esemplari. See Academy, March 22, 1879, p. 262. Fiabe popolari rovignesi raccolte ed annotate da Antonio Ive. Per le Nozze Ive-Rocco. Vienna, 1878. 8^o. Pp. 26. Edizione fuori di commercio di soli 100 esemplari. See Academy, March 22, 1879, p. 262 KADEN, WOLDEMAR. Unter den Olivenbäumen. Süditalienische Volksmärchen. Nacherzählt, Leipzig, 1880. 8^o. Of the forty-four stories in this work thirty-four are translated from Pitrè's Fiabe, six from Comparetti's Nov. pop. ital., and three from Imbriani's XII. Conti pomig., without any acknowledgment. This plagiarism was first exposed by R. Köhler in the Literarisches Centralblatt, 1881, vol. XXXII. p. 337, and afterwards by Pitrè in the Nuove Effemeridi siciliane, 1881. KNUST, HERMANN. Italienische Märchen. (Leghorn.) In Jahrbuch für romanische und englische Literatur. Leipzig, 1866. Vol. VII. Pp. 381-401. KOEHLER, REINHOLD. Italienische Volksmärchen. (Sora). In Jahrbuch für romanische und englische Literatur. Leipzig, 1867. Vol. VIII. Pp. 241-260. MARC-MONNIER. Les Contes de Nourrice de la Sicile, d'après des recueils nouveaux publiés récemment in Italie. Revue des Deux Mondes, 15 Aug., 1875. Devoted to Pitrè's collection. Les Contes de Pomigliano et la filiation des Mythes populaires. Revue des Deux Mondes, 1 Nov., 1877. Contes populaires de l'Italie. Les Contes de Toscane et de Lombardie. Revue des Deux Mondes, 1 Dec., 1879. Devoted to the Novellaja Fiorentina of Imbriani. Les Contes populaires en Italie. Paris, 1880. 16^o. Reprint of the above articles. MOROSI, PROF. DOTT. GIUSEPPE. Studi sui Dialetti Greci della Terra d' Otranto. Preceduto da una raccolta di Canti, Leggende, Proverbi, e Indovinelli. Lecce, 1870. 4^o. Leggende, pp. 73-77. NERUCCI, PROF. GHERARDO. Sessanta novelle popolari montalesi (Circondario di Pistoja). Florence, 1880. 12^o. Cincelle da Bambini in nella stietta parlatura rustica d' i' Montale Pistolese. Pistoia, 1881. 8^o. ORTOLI, J. B. FRÉDÉRIC. Les Contes populaires de l'Ile de la Corse. Paris, 1883. 8^o. Vol. XVI. of Littératures populaires de toutes les Nations, Paris, Maisonneuve. PANZANEGA D' ON RE. In dialetto di Crenna [Provincia di Milano]. Rome, 1876. 8^o. Pp. 15. 200 esemplari fuori di commercio. PAPANTI, GIOVANNI. Novelline popolari livornesi raccolte e annotate da Giovanni Papanti. Leghorn, 1877. 8^o. Pp. 29. Per le nozze Pitrè-Vitrano. Edizione fuori di commercio di soli 150 esemplari. PELLIZZARI, P. Fiabe e Canzoni popolari del Contado di Maglie in Terra d' Otranto. Fasc. I. Maglie, 1884. 8^o. Pp. 143. PITRÈ, GIUSEPPE. Saggio (Primo) di Fiabe e Novelle popolari Siciliane raccolte da Giuseppe Pitrè. Palermo, 1873. 8^o. Pp. 16. Nuovo Saggio (Secundo) di Fiabe e Novelle popolari Siciliane raccolte ed illustrate da Giuseppe Pitrè. Estratto dalla Rivista di Filologia Romanza, vol. I., fasc. II. e III. Imola, 1873. 8^o. Pp. 34. Otto Fiabe (Terzo Saggio) e Novelle Siciliane raccolte dalla bocca del Popolo ed annotate da Giuseppe Pitrè. Bologna, 1873. Estratto dal Propugnatore, Vol. VI. 8^o. Pp. 42. Novelline popolari siciliane raccolte in Palermo ed annotate da Giuseppe Pitrè. Palermo, 1873. 8^o. Edizione di soli 100 esemplari. Fiabe, Novelle e Racconti. 4 vols. Palermo, 1875. 8^o.[B] Biblioteca delle tradizioni popolari siciliane per cura di Giuseppe Pitrè. Vols. IV.-VII. [Footnote B: When Pitrè is mentioned without any other qualification than that of a numeral, this work is understood.] La Scatola di Cristallo. Novellina popolare senese raccolta da Giuseppe Pitrè. Palermo, 1875. 8^o. Per le Nozze Montuoro-Di Giovanni. Cinque novelline popolari siciliane ora per la prima volta pubblicate da G. Pitrè. Palermo, 1878. 8^o. Per le Nozze Salomone Marino-Abate. Ediz. di 50 esemplari. See Academy, March 22, 1879, p. 262. Novelline popolari toscane ora per la prima volta pubblicate da G. Pitrè. Il Medico grillo. Vocaboli. La Gamba. Serpentino. Palermo, 1878. 8^o. Pp. 16. Per le Nozze Imbriani-Rosnati. Tirato a soli 25 esemplari. Una variante toscana della novella del Petit Poucet. 8^o. Pp. 6. Estratto dalla Rivista di Lett. Pop. Vol. I. pp. 161-166. La Tinchina dell' alto Mare. Fiaba toscana raccolta ed illustrata da Giuseppe Pitrè. Quattrasteriscopoli, 1882. 8^o. Pp. 14. Per le Nozze Papanti-Giraudini. Esemplari novanta. Il Zoccolo di Legno, Novella popolare fiorentina. In Giornale Napoletano della Domenica, 2 July, 1882. [= Pitrè, Fiabe, No. XIII.] I tre pareri. Novella popolare toscana di Pratovecchio nel Cosentino. In Giornale Napoletano della Domenica, 20 August, 1882. [= Pitrè, Fiabe, No. CXCVII.] Novelle popolari toscane. Florence, 1885. 16^o. Collected by Giovanni Siciliano. A few of the stories in this collection have already been published in the Archivio per lo Studio delle Tradizioni popolari. PRATO, STANISLAO. La Leggenda Indiana di Nala in una Novellina popolare Pitiglianese. 8^o. Pp. 8. Extract from I Nuovi Goliardi. La Leggenda del Tesoro di Rampsinite nelle varie redazioni Italiane e Straniere. Como, 1882. 8^o. Pp. xii., 51. Edizione di soli 100 esemplari numerati. Una Novellina popolare monferrina. Como, 1882. 8^o. Pp. 67. Edizione di soli 80 esemplari. Quattro Novelline popolare livornesi accompagnate da varianti umbre raccolte, pubblicate ed illustrate con note comparative. Spoleto, 1880. Gr. 8^o. Pp. 168. L' Uomo nella Luna. Fol. pp. 4. Estratto dalla rivista di Ancona: Il Preludio, del 30 gennaio, 1881. L' Orma del Leone, un racconto orientale nella tradizione popolare. Romania XII., pp. 535-565. RALSTON, W. R. S. Sicilian Fairy Tales. Fraser's Magazine, New Series, vol. XIII. 1876, pp. 423-433. RIVISTA DI LETTERATURA POPOLARE DIRETTA DA G. PITRÈ, F. SABATINI. Rome, 1877. Vol. I., pp. 81-86, contains _Novelline di Sto. Stefano di Calcinaia_ in continuation of _Le Novelline di Santo Stefano_, see De Gubernatis; p. 161, G. Pitrè, _Una variante toscana della novella del Petit Poucet_; p. 213, R. Köhler _Das Räthselmärchen von dem ermordeten Geliebten_; p. 266, G. Pitrè, _La Lucerna, nov. pop. tosc._; p. 288, F. Sabatini, _La Lanterna, nov. pop. bergamasca_. ROMANE, QUATTRO NOVELLINE POPOLARI. Nel giornale Il Manzoni (Spoleto), No. 1, 1 Marzo, 1880. SABATINI, FRANCESCO. La Lanterna. Novella popolare siciliana pubblicata ed illustrata a cura di Francesco Sabatini. Imola, 1878. 8^o. Pp. 19. Per le nozzi Salomone-Marino-Abate. Edizione di soli 180 esemplari. See Academy, March 22, 1879, p. 262. SARNELLI, POMPEO, BISHOP OF BISCEGLIE. La Posillecheata de Masillo Reppone di Gnanopole. Naples, 1789. In Collezione di tutti li poeti in lingua Napoletana. 28 vols. 12^o. Naples, 1789. SCALAGERI DELLA FRATTA, CAMILLO. Sette novellette, non più ristampate da oltre due secoli, ripubblicate da V. Imbriani. Pomigliano d'Arco, 1875. 8^o. Pp. 15. Soli 150 esemplari. SCHNELLER, CHRISTIAN. Märchen und Sagen aus Wälschtirol. Ein Beitrag zur deutschen Sagenkunde. Gesammelt von Christian Schneller. Innsbruck, 1867. 8^o. SOMMA, MICHELE. Cento Racconti per divertire gli amici nelle ore oziose e nuovi brindisi per spasso nelle tavole e nelle conversazioni. Messina, 1883. 16^o. The book really contains one hundred and thirty-one stories, and deserves mention here solely for its relation to the class of stories discussed in Chapter VI. STRAPAROLA, GIOVAN FRANCESCO. Piacevoli Notti di M. Giovan Francesco Straparola da Caravaggio, Nelle quali si contengono le Favole con i loro Enimmi da dieci donne, et da duo giovani raccontate. 2 vols. Venice, Per Comin da Trino di Monferrato, 1562. 8^o. Le Tredici Piacevolissime Notte di M. Gio: Francesco Straparola da Caravaggio. Divise in due libri... con licenza de' superiori. Venice, 1604. Appresso Zanetto Zanetti. 8^o. Con figure. Les Facetieuses Nuits de Straparole. Traduites par Jean Louveau et Pierre de Larivey. 2 vols. Paris, 1857. 8^o. Bibliothèque elzeverienne. Die Märchen des Straparola. Aus dem Italienischen, mit Anmerkungen von Dr. F. W. V. Schmidt. Berlin, 1817. 8^o. In Märchen-Saal. Sammlung alter Märchen mit Anmerkungen; herausgegeben von Dr. F. W. V. Schmidt. Erster Band. Giovan Francesco Straparola da Caravaggio. Inaugural-Dissertation zur Erlangung der philosophischen Doctorwürde in Göttingen von F. W. J. Brakelmann. Göttingen, 1867. 8^o. TEZA, E. La Tradizione dei Sette Savi nelle novelline magiare di E. Teza. Bologna, 1874. Pp. 56. Contains: _Mila e Buccia, novellina veneziana_, p. 26; _La Novellina del Papagallo, novellina toscana_, p. 52. TUSCAN FAIRY TALES (Taken down from the Mouths of the People). With sixteen illustrations by J. Stanley, engraved by Edmund Evans. London, 1880. 16^o. VENETIAN POPULAR LEGENDS. The Cornhill Magazine, July, 1875, pp. 80-90. Devoted to Bernoni's collections. VISENTINI, ISAIA. Fiabe Mantovane raccolte da Isaia Visentini. Turin, 1879. In Canti e Racconti del Popolo italiano. Vol. VII. WIDTER-WOLF. Volksmärchen aus Venetian. Gesammelt und herausgegeben von Georg Widter und Adam Wolf. Mit Nachweisen und Vergleichungen verwandter Märchen von Reinhold Köhler. In Jahrbuch für romanische und englische Literatur. Leipzig, 1866. VII. vol., pp. 1-36; 121-154; 249-290. LIST OF STORIES. Those marked with an * are translated from the dialect; those in italics are found in the notes. PAGE I. * THE KING OF LOVE. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 18, _Lu Re d'Amuri_) 1 II. ZELINDA AND THE MONSTER. (Tuscan, Nerucci, No. 1, _Zelinda e il Mostro_) 7 III. * KING BEAN. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Fiabe_, No. 17, _El Re de Fava_) 12 IV. * THE DANCING WATER, THE SINGING APPLE AND THE SPEAKING BIRD. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 36, _Li Figghi di lu Cavuliciddaru_) 17 V. THE FAIR ANGIOLA. (Sicilian, Gonzenbach, No. 53, _Von der schönen Angiola_) 26 VI. THE CLOUD. (Tuscan, Comparetti, No. 32, _La Nuvolaccia_) 30 VII. * THE CISTERN. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 80, _La Jisterna_) 36 VIII. * THE GRIFFIN. (Neapolitan, Imbriani, _Pomiglianesi_, p. 195, _L'Auciello Crifone_) 40 IX. CINDERELLA. (Tuscan, _Novellaja fiorentina_, p. 151, _La Cenerentola_) 42 X. * FAIR MARIA WOOD. (Vincenza, Corazzini, p. 484, _La Bela Maria del Legno_) 48 XI. * THE CURSE OF THE SEVEN CHILDREN. (Bolognese, Coronedi-Berti, No. 19, _La Malediziôn di Sèt Fiù_) 54 XII. ORAGGIO AND BIANCHINETTA. (Tuscan, _Novellaja fiorentina_, p. 314, _Oraggio e Bianchinetta_) 58 XIII. THE FAIR FIORITA. (Basilicata, Comparetti, No. 20, _La Bella Fiorita_) 61 XIV. * BIERDE. (Istrian, Ive, 1877, p. 13, _Bierde_) 68 XV. * SNOW-WHITE-FIRE-RED. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 13, _Bianca-comu-nivi-russa-comu-focu_) 72 XVI. HOW THE DEVIL MARRIED THREE SISTERS. (Venetian, Widter-Wolf, No. 11, _Der Teufel heirathet drei Schwestern_) 78 XVII. IN LOVE WITH A STATUE. (Piedmontese, Comparetti, No. 29, _L'Innamorato d'una Statua_) 85 XVIII. * THIRTEENTH. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 33, _Tridicinu_) 90 XIX. * THE COBBLER. (Milanese, _Novellaja fiorentina_, p. 575, _El Sciavattin_) 94 XX. SIR FIORANTE, MAGICIAN. (Tuscan, De Gubernatis, _Sto. Stefano_, No. 14, _Sor Fiorante mago_) 322 XXI. THE CRYSTAL CASKET. (Tuscan, _La Scatola di Cristallo raccolta da_ G. Pitrè) 326 XXII. * THE STEPMOTHER. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 283, _La Parrastra_) 331 XXIII. * WATER AND SALT. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 10, _L'Acqua e lu Sali_) 333 XXIV. * THE LOVE OF THE THREE ORANGES. (Istrian, Ive, 1878, p. 3, _L'Amur dei tri Narançi_) 338 XXV. THE KING WHO WANTED A BEAUTIFUL WIFE. (Sicilian, Gonzenbach, No. 73, _Von dem Könige, der eine schöne Frau wollte_) 97 XXVI. * THE BUCKET. (Milanese, _Novellaja fiorentina_, p. 190, _El Sidellin_) 100 XXVII. THE TWO HUMPBACKS. (Tuscan, _Novellaja fiorentina_, p. 559, _I due Gobbi_) 103 XXVIII. THE STORY OF CATHERINE AND HER FATE. (Sicilian, Gonzenbach, No. 21, _Die Geschichte von Caterina und ihrem Schicksal_) 105 XXIX. * THE CRUMB IN THE BEARD. (Bolognese, Coronedi-Berti, No. 15, _La Fola d' Brisla in Barba_) 110 XXX. * THE FAIRY ORLANDA. (Neapolitan, _Novellaja fiorentina_, p. 333, _'A Fata Orlanna_) 114 XXXI. THE SHEPHERD WHO MADE THE KING'S DAUGHTER LAUGH. (Sicilian, Gonzenbach, No. 31, _Von dem Schäfer der die Königstochter zum Lachen brachte_) 119 XXXII. THE ASS THAT LAYS MONEY. (Tuscan, Nerucci, No. 43, _Il Ciuchino caca-zecchini_) 123 XXXIII. * DON JOSEPH PEAR. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 88, _Don Giuseppi Piru_) 127 XXXIV. PUSS IN BOOTS. (Straparola, XI. 1.) 348 XXXV. * FAIR BROW. (Istrian, Ive, 1877, p. 19, _Biela Fronte_) 131 XXXVI. LIONBRUNO. (Basilicata, Comparetti, No. 41, _Lionbruno_) 136 XXXVII. * THE PEASANT AND THE MASTER. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 194, _Lu Burgisi e lu Patruni_) 150 XXXVIII. THE INGRATES. (Piedmontese, Comparetti, No. 67, _Gli Ingrati_) 150 XXXIX. * THE TREASURE. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 138, _La Truvatura_) 156 XL. * THE SHEPHERD. (Milanese, _Novellaja fiorentina_, p. 572, _El Pegorée_) 156 XLI. * THE THREE ADMONITIONS. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 197, _Li tri Rigordi_) 157 XLII. * VINEYARD I WAS AND VINEYARD I AM. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Trad. pop. venez., Punt._ I. p. 11, _Vigna era e Vigna son_) 159 XLIII. THE LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS. (Piedmontese, Comparetti, No. 56, _Il Linguaggio degli Animali_) 161 XLIV. * THE MASON AND HIS SON. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 160, _Lu Muraturi e sò Figghiu_) 163 XLV. THE PARROT. FIRST VERSION. (Tuscan, Comparetti, No. 1, _Il Pappagallo_) 168 XLVI. THE PARROT. SECOND VERSION. (Tuscan, Teza, _La Tradizione dei Sette Savi_, etc., p. 52, _La Novellina del Papagallo_) 169 XLVII. * THE PARROT WHICH TELLS THREE STORIES. THIRD VERSION. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 2, _Lu Pappagaddu chi cunta tri cunti_) 173 First Story of the Parrot 175 Second Story of the Parrot 178 Third Story of the Parrot 180 XLVIII. * TRUTHFUL JOSEPH. (Neapolitan, _Pomiglianesi_, p. 1, _Giuseppe 'A Veretà_) 184 XLIX. _The Man, the Serpent, and the Fox._ (Otranto, Morosi, p. 75) 354 L. * THE LORD, ST. PETER, AND THE APOSTLES. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 123, _Lu Signuri, S. Petru e li Apostuli_) 186 LI. THE LORD, ST. PETER, AND THE BLACKSMITH. (Venetian, Widter-Wolf, No. 5, _Der Herrgott, St. Peter und der Schmied_) 188 LII. * IN THIS WORLD ONE WEEPS AND ANOTHER LAUGHS. (Sicilian, Pitrè, _Cinque nov. pop. sicil._, p. 7, _A stu munnu cu' chianci e cu' ridi_) 190 LIII. * THE ASS. (Sicilian, Pitrè, _Cinque nov. pop. sicil._, p. 8, _Lu Sceccu_) 190 LIV. ST. PETER AND HIS SISTERS. (Tyrolese, Schneller, p. 6, _St. Petrus und seine Schwestern_) 193 LV. * PILATE. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 119, _Pilatu_) 194 LVI. * THE STORY OF JUDAS. (Sicilian, Pitrè, vol. I. p. cxxxviii., _Lu Cuntu di Giuda_) 195 LVII. * DESPERATE MALCHUS. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 120, _Marcu dispiratu_) 196 LVIII. * MALCHUS AT THE COLUMN. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Preghiere pop. veneziane_, p. 18, _Malco a la Colona_) 197 LIX. * THE STORY OF BUTTADEU. (Sicilian, Pitrè, vol. I. p. cxxxiii., _La Storia di Buttadeu_) 197 LX. THE STORY OF CRIVÒLIU. (Sicilian, Gonzenbach, No. 85, _Vom Crivòliu_) 198 LXI. THE STORY OF ST. JAMES OF GALICIA. (Sicilian, Gonzenbach, No. 90, _Die Geschichte von San Japicu alla Lizia_) 202 LXII. * THE BAKER'S APPRENTICE. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 111, _Lu Giuvini di lu Furnaru_) 212 LXIII. * OCCASION. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 124, _Accaciùni_) 215 LXIV. * BROTHER GIOVANNONE. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 125, _Fra Giugannuni_) 217 LXV. GODFATHER MISERY. (Tuscan, De Gubernatis, _Sto. Stefano_, No. 32, _Compar Miseria_) 221 LXVI. BEPPO PIPETTA. (Venetian, Widter-Wolf, No. 7, _Beppo Pipetta_) 222 LXVII. * THE JUST MAN. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Trad. pop. venez., Punt._ I. p. 6, _El Giusto_) 226 LXVIII. * OF A GODFATHER AND A GODMOTHER OF ST. JOHN WHO MADE LOVE. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Leggende_, p. 3, _De una comare e un compare de San Zuane che i conversava in fra de lori_) 228 LXIX. * THE GROOMSMAN. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Leggende_, p. 7, _De un compare de l' anelo ch' el gà strucà la man a la sposa co cativa intenzion_) 231 LXX. * THE PARISH PRIEST OF SAN MARCUOLA. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Leggende_, p. 17, _De un piovan de San Marcuola, che gà dito che i morti in dove che i xè i resta_) 234 LXXI. * THE GENTLEMAN WHO KICKED A SKULL. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Leggende_, p. 19, _De un signor che gà dà 'na peada a un cragno da morto_) 236 LXXII. * _The Gossips of St. John._ (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 110, _Li Cumpari di S. Giuvanni_) 369 LXXIII. * SADDAEDDA. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 128, _Saddaedda_) 238 LXXIV. * MR. ATTENTIVE. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Punt._ II. p. 53, _Sior Intento_) 240 LXXV. * THE STORY OF THE BARBER. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 141, _Lu Cuntu di lu Varveri_) 241 LXXVI. * DON FIRRIULIEDDU. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 130, _Don Firriulieddu_) 241 LXXVII. LITTLE CHICK-PEA. (Tuscan, _Rivista di Lett. pop._ I. p. 161, _Cecino_) 242 LXXVIII. * PITIDDA. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 131, _Pitidda_) 248 LXXIX. * THE SEXTON'S NOSE. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 135, _Lu Nasu di lu Sagristanu_) 250 LXXX. * THE COCK AND THE MOUSE. (Principato Ulteriore, Imbriani, _Pomiglianesi_, p. 239, _'O Gallo e 'o Sorece_) 252 LXXXI. * GODMOTHER FOX. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 132, _Cummari Vurpidda_) 254 LXXXII. * THE CAT AND THE MOUSE. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 134, _La Gatta e lu Surci_) 257 LXXXIII. * A FEAST DAY. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Fiabe_, No. 4, _'Na Giornada de Sagra_) 261 LXXXIV. * THE THREE BROTHERS. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Trad. pop. venez., Punt._ I. p. 18, _I tre Fradei_) 263 LXXXV. BUCHETTINO. (Tuscan, Papanti, _Novelline pop. livornesi_, p. 25, _Buchettino_) 265 LXXXVI. * THE THREE GOSLINGS. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Trad. pop. venez., Punt._ III. p. 65, _Le Tre Ochete_) 267 LXXXVII. * THE COCK. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Trad. pop. venez., Punt._ III. p. 69, _El Galo_) 270 LXXXVIII. THE COCK THAT WISHED TO BECOME POPE. (Sicilian, Gonzenbach, No. 66, _Von dem Hahne, der Pabst werden wollte_) 272 LXXXIX. _The Goat and the Fox._ (Otranto, Morosi, p. 73) 375 XC. _The Ant and the Mouse._ (Otranto, Morosi, p. 73) 376 XCI. * THE COOK. (Milan, _Novellaja fiorentina_, p. 621, _El Coeugh_) 275 XCII. * THE THOUGHTLESS ABBOT. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 97, _L' Abbati senza Pinseri_) 276 XCIII. * BASTIANELO. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Fiabe_, No. 6, _Bastianelo_) 279 XCIV. * CHRISTMAS. (Neapolitan, Imbriani, _Pomiglianesi_, p. 226, _Natale_) 283 XCV. * THE WAGER. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Fiabe_, No. 13, _La Scomessa_) 284 XCVI. * SCISSORS THEY WERE. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 257, _Fòrfici fôro_) 285 XCVII. * THE DOCTOR'S APPRENTICE. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 180, _L' Apprinnista di lu Medicu_) 287 XCVIII. * FIRRAZZANU'S WIFE AND THE QUEEN. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 156, _La Mugghieri di Firrazzanu e la Riggina_) 288 XCIX. * GIUFÀ AND THE PLASTER STATUE. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 190, I, _Giufà e la statua di ghissu_) 291 C. * GIUFÀ AND THE JUDGE. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 190, 3, _Giufà e lu Judici_) 293 CI. THE LITTLE OMELET. (Tuscan, _Novellaja fiorentina_, p. 545, _La Frittatina_) 294 CII. * EAT, MY CLOTHES! (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 190, 9, _Manciati, rubbiceddi mei!_) 296 CIII. GIUFÀ'S EXPLOITS. (Sicilian, Gonzenbach, No. 37, _Giufà_) 297 CIV. * THE FOOL. (Venetian, Bernoni, _Fiabe_, No. 11, _El Mato_) 302 CV. * UNCLE CAPRIANO. (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 157, _Lu Zu Crapianu_) 303 CVI. * _Peter Fullone and the Egg._ (Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 200, _Petru Fudduni e l' ovu_) 381 CVII. THE CLEVER PEASANT. (Sicilian, Gonzenbach, No. 50, _Vom Klugen Bauer_) 309 CVIII. THE CLEVER GIRL. (Tuscan, Comparetti, No. 43, _La Ragazza astuta_) 311 CIX. CRAB. (Mantuan, Visentini, No. 41, _Gàmbara)_ 314 ITALIAN POPULAR TALES CHAPTER I. FAIRY TALES. The most wide-spread and interesting class of Fairy Tales is the one in which a wife endeavors to behold the face of her husband, who comes to her only at night. She succeeds, but her husband disappears, and she is not reunited to him until she has expiated her indiscretion by weary journeys and the performance of difficult tasks. This class, which is evidently the popular form of the classic myth of Cupid and Psyche, may for convenience be divided into four classes. The first turns on the punishment of the wife's curiosity; the second, on the husband's (Melusina); in the third the heroine is married to a monster, is separated from him by her disobedience, but finally is the means of his recovering his human form; the fourth class is a variant of the first and third, the husband being an animal in form, and parted from his wife by the curiosity or disobedience of the latter or of her envious sisters. To illustrate the first class, we select, from the large number of stories before us, a Sicilian tale (Pitrè, No. 18) entitled: I. THE KING OF LOVE. Once upon a time there was a man with three daughters, who earned his living by gathering wild herbs. One day he took his youngest daughter with him. They came to a garden, and began to gather vegetables. The daughter saw a fine radish, and began to pull it up, when suddenly a Turk appeared, and said: "Why have you opened my master's door? You must come in now, and he will decide on your punishment." They went down into the ground, more dead than alive; and when they were seated they saw a green bird come in and bathe in a pan of milk, then dry itself, and become a handsome youth. He said to the Turk: "What do these persons want?" "Your worship, they pulled up a radish, and opened the door of the cave." "How did we know," said the father, "that this was Your Excellency's house? My daughter saw a fine radish; it pleased her, and she pulled it up." "Well, if that's the case," said the master, "your daughter shall stay here as my wife; take this sack of gold and go; when you want to see your daughter, come and make yourself at home." The father took leave of his daughter and went away. When the master was alone with her, he said: "You see, Rosella (Rusidda), you are now mistress here," and gave her all the keys. She was perfectly happy (literally, "was happy to the hairs of her head"). One day, while the green bird was away, her sisters took it into their heads to visit her, and asked her about her husband. Rosella said she did not know, for he had made her promise not to try to find out who he was. Her sisters, however, persuaded her, and when the bird returned and became a man, Rosella put on a downcast air. "What is the matter?" asked her husband. "Nothing." "You had better tell me." She let him question her a while, and at last said: "Well, then, if you want to know why I am out of sorts, it is because I wish to know your name." Her husband told her that it would be the worse for her, but she insisted on knowing his name. So he made her put the gold basins on a chair, and began to bathe his feet. "Rosella, do you really want to know my name?" "Yes." And the water came up to his waist, for he had become a bird, and had got into the basin. Then he asked her the same question again, and again she answered yes, and the water was up to his mouth. "Rosella, do you really want to know my name?" "Yes, yes, yes!" "Then know that I am called THE KING OF LOVE!" And saying this he disappeared, and the basins and the palace disappeared likewise, and Rosella found herself alone out in an open plain, without a soul to help her. She called her servants, but no one answered her. Then she said: "Since my husband has disappeared, I must wander about alone and forlorn to seek him!" The poor woman, who expected before long to become a mother, began her wanderings, and at night arrived at another lonely plain; then she felt her heart sink, and, not knowing what to do, she cried out:-- "Ah! King of Love, You did it, and said it. You disappeared from me in a golden basin, And who will shelter to-night This poor unfortunate one?" When she had uttered these words an ogress appeared and said: "Ah! wretch, how dare you go about seeking my nephew?" and was going to eat her up; but she took pity on her miserable state, and gave her shelter for the night. The next morning she gave her a piece of bread, and said: "We are seven sisters, all ogresses, and the worst of all is your mother-in-law; look out for her!" To be brief, the poor girl wandered about six days, and met all six of the ogresses, who treated her in the same way. The seventh day, in great distress, she uttered her usual lament, and the sister of the King of Love appeared and said, "Rosella, while my mother is out, come up!" and she lowered the braids of her hair, and pulled her up. Then she gave her something to eat, and told her how to seize and pinch her mother until she cried out: "Let me alone for the sake of my son, the King of Love!" Rosella did as she was told, but the ogress was so angry she was going to eat her. But her daughters threatened to abandon her if she did. "Well, then, I will write a letter, and Rosella must carry it to my friend." Poor Rosella was disheartened when she saw the letter, and, descending, found herself in the midst of a plain. She uttered her usual complaint, when the King of Love appeared, and said: "You see your curiosity has brought you to this point!" Poor thing! when she saw him she began to cry, and begged his pardon for what she had done. He took pity on her, and said: "Now listen to what you must do. On your way you will come to a river of blood; you must bend down and take some up in your hands, and say: 'How beautiful is this crystal water! such water as this I have never drunk!' Then you will come to another stream of turbid water, and do the same there. Then you will find yourself in a garden where there is a great quantity of fruit; pick some and eat it, saying: 'What fine pears! I have never eaten such pears as these.' Afterward, you will come to an oven that bakes bread day and night, and no one buys any. When you come there, say: 'Oh, what fine bread! bread like this I have never eaten,' and eat some. Then you will come to an entrance guarded by two hungry dogs; give them a piece of bread to eat. Then you will come to a doorway all dirty and full of cobwebs; take a broom and sweep it clean. Half-way up the stairs you will find two giants, each with a dirty piece of meat by his side; take a brush and clean it for them. When you have entered the house, you will find a razor, a pair of scissors, and a knife; take something and polish them. When you have done this, go in and deliver your letter to my mother's friend. When she wants to make you enter, snatch up a little box on the table, and run away. Take care to do all the things I have told you, or else you will never escape alive." Rosella did as she was told, and while the ogress was reading the letter Rosella seized the box and ran for her life. When the ogress had finished reading her letter, she called: "Rosella! Rosella!" When she received no answer, she perceived that she had been betrayed, and cried out: "Razor, Scissors, Knife, cut her in pieces!" They answered: "As long as we have been razor, scissors, and knife, when did you ever deign to polish us? Rosella came and brightened us up." The ogress, enraged, exclaimed: "Stairs, swallow her up!" "As long as I have been stairs, when did you ever deign to sweep me? Rosella came and swept me." The ogress cried in a passion: "Giants, crush her!" "As long as we have been giants, when did you ever deign to clean our food for us? Rosella came and did it." Then the furious ogress called on the entrance to bury her alive, the dogs to devour her, the furnace to burn her, the fruit-tree to fall on her, and the rivers to drown her; but they all remembered Rosella's kindness, and refused to injure her. Meanwhile Rosella continued her way, and at last became curious to know what was in the box she was carrying. So she opened it, and a great quantity of little puppets came out; some danced, some sang, and some played on musical instruments. She amused herself some time with them; but when she was ready to go on, the little figures would not return to the box. Night approached, and she exclaimed, as she had so often before:-- "Ah! King of Love," etc. Then her husband appeared and said, "Oh, your curiosity will be the death of you!" and commanded the puppets to enter the box again. Then Rosella went her way, and arrived safely at her mother-in-law's. When the ogress saw her she exclaimed: "You owe this luck to my son, the King of Love!" and was going to devour poor Rosella, but her daughters said: "Poor child! she has brought you the box; why do you want to eat her?" "Well and good. You want to marry my son, the King of Love; then take these six mattresses, and go and fill them with birds' feathers!" Rosella descended, and began to wander about, uttering her usual lament. When her husband appeared Rosella told him what had happened. He whistled and the King of the Birds appeared, and commanded all the birds to come and drop their feathers, fill the six beds, and carry them back to the ogress, who again said that her son had helped Rosella. However, she went and made up her son's bed with the six mattresses, and that very day she made him marry the daughter of the King of Portugal. Then she called Rosella, and, telling her that her son was married, bade her kneel before the nuptial bed, holding two lighted torches. Rosella obeyed, but soon the King of Love, under the plea that Rosella was not in a condition to hold the torches any longer, persuaded his bride to change places with her. Just as the queen took the torches in her hands, the earth opened and swallowed her up, and the king remained happy with Rosella. When the ogress heard what had happened she clasped her hands over her head, and declared that Rosella's child should not be born until she unclasped her hands. Then the King of Love had a catafalque erected, and stretched himself on it as though he were dead, and had all the bells tolled, and made the people cry, "How did the King of Love die?" The ogress heard it, and asked: "What is that noise?" Her daughters told her that their brother was dead from her fault. When the ogress heard this she unclasped her hands, saying, "How did my son die?" At that moment Rosella's child was born. When the ogress heard it she burst a blood-vessel (in her heart) and died. Then the King of Love took his wife and sisters, and they remained happy and contented.[1] * * * * * There is another version of this story in Pitrè (No. 281) entitled, "The Crystal King," which resembles more closely the classic myth. A father marries the youngest of his three daughters to a cavalier (the enchanted son of a king) who comes to his wife at night only. The cavalier once permits his wife to visit her sisters, and they learn from her that she has never seen her husband's face. The eldest gives her a wax candle, and tells her to light it when her husband is asleep, and then she can see him and tell them what he is like. She did so, and beheld at her side a handsome youth; but while she was gazing at him some of the melted wax fell on his nose. He awoke, crying, "Treason! treason!" and drove his wife from the house. On her wanderings she meets a hermit, and tells him her story. He advises her to have made a pair of iron shoes, and when she has worn them out in her travels she will come to a palace where they will give her shelter, and where she will find her husband. The remainder of the story is of no interest here.[2] In the second class of stories belonging to this myth it is the curiosity of the husband which is punished, the best known example of this class, out of Italy, being the beautiful French legend of Melusina.[3] A Sicilian story in Gonzenbach, No. 16, "The Story of the Merchant's Son Peppino," is a very close counterpart of "The King of Love," above given. Peppino is wrecked on a rock in the sea; the rock opens, fair maidens come out and conduct Peppino to a beautiful castle in the cave. There a maiden visits him at night only. After a time Peppino wishes to see his parents, and his wife allows him to depart, with the promise to return at a certain date. His parents, after hearing his story, give him a candle with which to see his wife. Everything happens as in the first story; the castle disappears, and Peppino finds himself on the top of a snow-covered mountain. He recovers his wife only after the lapse of many years and the accomplishment of many difficult tasks.[4] The third class, generally known by the title of "Beauty and the Beast," is best represented by a story from Montale (near Pistoja), called: II. ZELINDA AND THE MONSTER. There was once a poor man who had three daughters; and as the youngest was the fairest and most civil, and had the best disposition, her other two sisters envied her with a deadly envy, although her father, on the contrary, loved her dearly. It happened that in a neighboring town, in the month of January, there was a great fair, and that poor man was obliged to go there to lay in the provisions necessary for the support of his family; and before departing he asked his three daughters if they would like some small presents in proportion, you understand, to his means. Rosina wished a dress, Marietta asked him for a shawl, but Zelinda was satisfied with a handsome rose. The poor man set out on his journey early the next day, and when he arrived at the fair quickly bought what he needed, and afterward easily found Rosina's dress and Marietta's shawl; but at that season he could not find a rose for his Zelinda, although he took great pains in looking everywhere for one. However, anxious to please his dear Zelinda, he took the first road he came to, and after journeying a while arrived at a handsome garden inclosed by high walls; but as the gate was partly open he entered softly. He found the garden filled with every kind of flowers and plants, and in a corner was a tall rose-bush full of beautiful rose-buds. Wherever he looked no living soul appeared from whom he might ask a rose as a gift or for money, so the poor man, without thinking, stretched out his hand, and picked a rose for his Zelinda. Mercy! scarcely had he pulled the flower from the stalk when there arose a great noise, and flames darted from the earth, and all at once there appeared a terrible Monster with the figure of a dragon, and hissed with all his might, and cried out, enraged at that poor Christian: "Rash man! what have you done? Now you must die at once, for you have had the audacity to touch and destroy my rose-bush." The poor man, more than half dead with terror, began to weep and beg for mercy on his knees, asking pardon for the fault he had committed, and told why he had picked the rose; and then he added: "Let me depart; I have a family, and if I am killed they will go to destruction." But the Monster, more wicked than ever, responded: "Listen; one must die. Either bring me the girl that asked for the rose or I will kill you this very moment." It was impossible to move him by prayers or lamentations; the Monster persisted in his decision, and did not let the poor man go until he had sworn to bring him there in the garden his daughter Zelinda. Imagine how downhearted that poor man returned home! He gave his oldest daughters their presents and Zelinda her rose; but his face was distorted and as white as though he had arisen from the dead; so that the girls, in terror, asked him what had happened and whether he had met with any misfortune. They were urgent, and at last the poor man, weeping bitterly, related the misfortunes of that unhappy journey and on what condition he had been able finally to return home. "In short," he exclaimed, "either Zelinda or I must be eaten alive by the Monster." Then the two sisters emptied the vials of their wrath on Zelinda. "Just see," they said, "that affected, capricious girl! She shall go to the Monster! She who wanted roses at this season. No, indeed! Papa must stay with us. The stupid creature!" At all these taunts Zelinda, without growing angry, simply said: "It is right that the one who has caused the misfortune should pay for it. I will go to the Monster's. Yes, Papa, take me to the garden, and the Lord's will be done." The next day Zelinda and her sorrowful father began their journey and at nightfall arrived at the garden gate. When they entered they saw as usual no one, but they beheld a lordly palace all lighted and the doors wide open. When the two travellers entered the vestibule, suddenly four marble statues, with lighted torches in their hands, descended from their pedestals, and accompanied them up the stairs to a large hall where a table was lavishly spread. The travellers, who were very hungry, sat down and began to eat without ceremony; and when they had finished, the same statues conducted them to two handsome chambers for the night. Zelinda and her father were so weary that they slept like dormice all night. At daybreak Zelinda and her father arose, and were served with everything for breakfast by invisible hands. Then they descended to the garden, and began to seek the Monster. When they came to the rose-bush he appeared in all his frightful ugliness. Zelinda, on seeing him, became pale with fear, and her limbs trembled, but the Monster regarded her attentively with his great fiery eyes, and afterward said to the poor man: "Very well; you have kept your word, and I am satisfied. Now depart and leave me alone here with the young girl." At this command the old man thought he should die; and Zelinda, too, stood there half stupefied and her eyes full of tears; but entreaties were of no avail; the Monster remained as obdurate as a stone, and the poor man was obliged to depart, leaving his dear Zelinda in the Monster's power. When the Monster was alone with Zelinda he began to caress her, and make loving speeches to her, and managed to appear quite civil. There was no danger of his forgetting her, and he saw that she wanted nothing, and every day, talking with her in the garden, he asked her: "Do you love me, Zelinda? Will you be my wife?" The young girl always answered him in the same way: "I like you, sir, but I will never be your wife." Then the Monster appeared very sorrowful, and redoubled his caresses and attentions, and, sighing deeply, said: "But you see, Zelinda, if you should marry me wonderful things would happen. What they are I cannot tell you until you will be my wife." Zelinda, although in her heart not dissatisfied with that beautiful place and with being treated like a queen, still did not feel at all like marrying the Monster, because he was too ugly and looked like a beast, and always answered his requests in the same manner. One day, however, the Monster called Zelinda in haste, and said: "Listen, Zelinda; if you do not consent to marry me it is fated that your father must die. He is ill and near the end of his life, and you will not be able even to see him again. See whether I am telling you the truth." And, drawing out an enchanted mirror, the Monster showed Zelinda her father on his death-bed. At that spectacle Zelinda, in despair and half mad with grief, cried: "Oh, save my father, for mercy's sake! Let me be able to embrace him once more before he dies. Yes, yes, I promise you I will be your faithful and constant wife, and that without delay. But save my father from death." Scarcely had Zelinda uttered these words when suddenly the Monster was transformed into a very handsome youth. Zelinda was astounded by this unexpected change, and the young man took her by the hand, and said: "Know, dear Zelinda, that I am the son of the King of the Oranges. An old witch, touching me, changed me into the terrible Monster I was, and condemned me to be hidden in this rose-bush until a beautiful girl consented to become my wife." * * * * * The remainder of the story has no interest here. Zelinda and her husband strive to obtain his parents' consent to his marriage. They refuse and the young couple run away from the royal palace and fall into the power of an ogre and his wife, from whom they at last escape.[5] A characteristic trait of this class of stories is omitted in the above version, but found in a number of others. In a Sicilian version (Pitrè, No. 39, "The Empress Rosina") the monster permits Rosina to visit her family, but warns her that if she does not return at the end of nine days he will die. He gives her a ring the stone of which will grow black in that event. The nine days pass unheeded, and when Rosina looks at her ring it is as black as pitch. She returns in haste, and finds the monster writhing in the last agony under the rose-bush. Four days she rubbed him with some ointment she found in the palace, and the monster recovered. As in the last story, he resumes his shape when Rosina consents to marry him. In one of Pitrè's variants the monster allows Elizabeth to visit her dying father, if she will promise not to tear her hair. When her father dies she forgets, in her grief, her promise, and tears out her hair. When she returns to the palace the monster has disappeared. She seeks him, exclaiming:-- "Fierce animal mine, If I find thee alive I will marry thee although an animal." She finds him at last, and he resumes his form.[6] The fourth class consists of stories more or less distantly connected with the first and third classes above mentioned, and which turn on the heroine's separation from, and search after, her lost husband, usually an animal in form. The example we have selected from this class is from Venice (Bernoni, XVII.), and is as follows:-- III. KING BEAN. There was once an old man who had three daughters. One day the youngest called her father into her room, and requested him to go to King Bean and ask him whether he wished her for his wife. The poor old man said: "You want me to go, but what shall I do; I have never been there?" "No matter," she answered; "I wish you to obey me and go." Then he started on his way, and asked (for he did not know) where the king lived, and they pointed out the palace to him. When he was in the king's presence he said: "Your Majesty's servant." The king replied: "What do you want of me, my good old man?" Then he told him that his daughter was in love with him, and wanted to marry him. The king answered: "How can she be in love with me when she has never seen or known me?" "She is killing herself with weeping, and cannot stand it much longer." The king replied: "Here is a white handkerchief; let her dry her tears with it." The old man took back the handkerchief and the message to his daughter, who said: "Well, after three or four days you must go back again, and tell him that I will kill myself or hang myself if he will not marry me." The old man went back, and said to the king: "Your Majesty, do me the favor to marry my daughter; if not, she will make a great spectacle of herself." The king replied: "Behold how many handsome portraits I have here, and how many beautiful young girls I have, and not one of them suits me." The old man said: "She told me also to say to you that if you did not marry her she would kill herself or hang herself." Then the king gave him a knife and a rope, and said: "Here is a knife if she wants to kill herself, and here is a rope if she wants to hang herself." The old man bore this message back to his daughter, who told her father that he must go back to the king again, and not leave him until he obtained his consent. The old man returned once more, and, falling on his knees before the king, said: "Do me this great favor: take my daughter for your wife; do not say no, for the poor girl is beside herself." The king answered: "Rise, good old man, and I will consent, for I am sorry for your long journeys. But hear what your daughter must do first. She must prepare three vessels: one of milk and water, one of milk, and one of rose-water. And here is a bean; when she wants to speak with me, let her go out on the balcony and open the bean, and I will come." The old man returned home this time more satisfied, and told his daughter what she must do. She prepared the three vessels as directed, and then opened the bean on the balcony, and saw at once something flying from a distance towards her. It flew into the room by the balcony, and entered the vessel of water and milk to bathe; then it hastened into the vessel of milk, and finally into that containing the rose-water. And then there came out the handsomest youth that was ever seen, and made love to the young girl. Afterward, when they were tired of their love-making, he bade her good-night, and flew away. After a time, when her sisters saw that she was always shut up in her room, the oldest said: "Why does she shut herself up in her room all the time?" The other sister replied: "Because she has King Bean, who is making love to her." The oldest said: "Wait until she goes to church, and then we will see what there is in her room." One day the youngest locked her door, and went to church. Then the two sisters broke open the door, and saw the three vessels prepared, and said: "This is the vessel in which the king goes to bathe." The oldest said: "Let us go down into the store, and get some broken glass, and put a little in each of the three vessels; and when the king bathes in them, the glass will pierce him and cut all his body." They did so, and then left the room looking as it did first. When the youngest sister returned, she went to her room, and wished to talk with her husband. She opened the balcony, and then she opened the bean, and saw at once her husband come flying from a distance, with his arms open to embrace her. He flew on to the balcony, and threw himself into the vessel of milk and water, and the pieces of glass pierced his body; then he entered the vessel of milk and that of rose-water, and his body was filled with the fragments of glass. When he came out of the rose-water, he flew away. Then his wife hastened out on the balcony, and saw a streak of blood wherever he had flown. Then she looked into the vessels, and saw all three full of blood, and cried: "I have been betrayed! I have been betrayed!" She called her father, and told him that she had been betrayed by her sisters, and that she wished to go away and see whether she could cure her husband. She departed, and had not gone far when she found herself in a forest. There she saw a little house, with a little bit of a door, at which she knocked, and heard a voice saying, "Are you Christians?" She replied, "Yes." Then the door opened, and she saw a holy hermit, who said: "Blessed one, how did you get here? In a moment the witches will come who might bewitch you." She replied: "Father, I am seeking King Bean, who is ill." The hermit said: "I know nothing about him. Climb that tree; the witches will soon come, and you will learn something from them. If you want anything afterward, come to me, and I will give it to you." When she was up the tree she heard a loud noise and the words, "Here we are! here we are!" and all the witches run and seat themselves on the ground in the midst of the forest, and begin to say: "The cripple is not here! Where has that cursed cripple gone?" Some one answered: "Here she is coming!" Another said: "You cursed cripple, where have you been?" The cripple answered: "Be still; I will tell you now. But wait a moment until I shake this tree to see whether there is any one in it." The poor girl held on firmly so as not to fall down. After she had shaken it this cripple said to her companions: "Do you want me to tell you something? King Bean has only two hours to live." Another witch said: "What is the matter with him?" The cripple answered: "He had a wife, and she put some broken glass in the three vessels, and he filled his body with it." Another witch asked: "Is there nothing that can cure him?" The cripple replied: "It is very difficult." Another said: "What would be necessary?" The cripple said: "Listen to what it needs. One of us must be killed, and her blood put in a kettle, and have added to it the blood of one of these doves flying about here. When this blood is well mixed, it must be heated, and with this blood the whole body of the king must be anointed. Another thing yet is necessary. Under the stone you see there is a flask of water. The stone must be removed, a bottle of the water must be poured over the king, and all the bits of glass will come out of him, and in five minutes he will be safe and sound." Then the witches ate and drank until they were intoxicated and tired, and then threw themselves down on the ground to sleep. When the young girl saw that they were asleep, she descended quietly from the tree, knocked at the hermit's door, told him what the witches had said, and asked him for a kettle, knife, and bottle. He gave them to her, and caught a dove, which he killed, bled, and put the blood in a kettle. The young girl did not know which one of the witches to kill, but finally she decided to kill the cripple who had spoken, and put her blood in the kettle. Afterward she lifted the stone, found the flask of water, and filled her bottle with it. She then returned to the hermit, and told him all she had done. He gave her a physician's dress, which she put on, and went to the palace of King Bean. There she asked the guards to let her pass, for she was going, she said, to see about curing the king. The guards refused at first, but, seeing her so confident, allowed her to enter. The king's mother went to her at once and said: "My good physician, if you can cure my son, you shall mount the throne, and I will give you my crown." "I have come in haste from a distance," said the physician, "and will cure him." Then the physician went to the kitchen, put the kettle on the fire, and afterward entered the room of the king, who had but a few minutes to live, anointed his whole body with the blood, and then poured the bottle of water all over him. Then the glass came out of his body, and in five minutes he was safe and sound. The king said: "Here, physician, is my crown. I wish to put it on your head." The physician answered: "How did your Majesty come to have this slight trouble?" The king said: "On account of my wife. I went to make love to her, and she prepared for me three vessels of water and milk, of milk, and of rose-water, and put broken glass in them, so that I had my body full of it." Said the physician: "See whether it was your wife who worked you this treason! Could it not have been some one else?" "That is impossible," said the king; "for no one entered her room." "And what would you do," said the physician, "if you had her now in your hands?" "I would kill her with a knife." "You are right," said the physician; "because, if it is true that she has acted thus, she deserves nothing but death." Then the physician said he must depart; but the king's mother said: "No, no! It shall never be said that after saving my son's life you went away. Here you are, and here I wish you to stay; and, on account of the promise I made you, I wish my crown to come upon your head." "I want but one thing," said the physician. "Command, doctor; only say what you desire." "I wish the king to write on the palm of one of my hands my name and surname, and on the other his name and surname." The king did so, and the physician said: "Now I am going to make some visits, then I will return." Instead of returning, the pretended physician went to her own home, and threw away the water and milk in the three vessels, and put in other pure water and milk and rose-water. Then she went out on the balcony, and opened the bean. The king, who felt his heart opened, seized his dagger, and hastened to his wife to kill her. When she saw the dagger, she raised her hands, and the king beheld his name and hers. Then he threw his dagger away, bathed in the three vessels, and then threw his arms about his wife's neck, and exclaimed: "If you are the one who did me so much harm, you are also the one who cured me." She answered: "It was not I. I was betrayed by my sisters." "If that is so," said he, "come at once to my parents' house, and we will be married there." When she arrived at the king's palace, she related everything to his parents, and showed them her hands with her name and surname. Then the king's parents embraced her, and gave her a wedding, and she and the king loved each other as long as they lived.[7] * * * * * The next class to which we shall direct our attention is the one in which jealous relatives (usually envious sisters or mother-in-law), steal a mother's new-born children, who are exposed and afterwards rescued and brought up far from their home by some childless person; or the mother is accused of having devoured them, and is repudiated or punished, and finally delivered and restored to her former position by her children, who are discovered by their father.[8] The following story, belonging to this class, is from Pitrè (No. 36), slightly condensed. IV. THE DANCING WATER, THE SINGING APPLE, AND THE SPEAKING BIRD.[9] There was once an herb-gatherer who had three daughters who earned their living by spinning. One day their father died and left them all alone in the world. Now the king had a habit of going about the streets at night, and listening at the doors to hear what the people said of him. One night he listened at the door of the house where the three sisters lived, and heard them disputing about something. The oldest said: "If I were the wife of the royal butler, I would give the whole court to drink out of one glass of water, and there would be some left." The second said: "If I were the wife of the keeper of the royal wardrobe, with one piece of cloth I would clothe all the attendants, and have some left." The youngest said: "Were I the king's wife, I would bear him three children: two sons with apples in their hands, and a daughter with a star on her brow." The king went back to his palace, and the next morning sent for the sisters, and said to them: "Do not be frightened, but tell me what you said last night." The oldest told him what she had said, and the king had a glass of water brought, and commanded her to prove her words. She took the glass, and gave all the attendants to drink, and there was some water left. "Bravo!" cried the king, and summoned the butler. "This is your husband. Now it is your turn," said the king to the next sister, and commanded a piece of cloth to be brought, and the young girl at once cut out garments for all the attendants, and had some cloth left. "Bravo!" cried the king again, and gave her the keeper of the wardrobe for her husband. "Now it is your turn," said the king to the youngest. "Your Majesty, I said that were I the king's wife, I would bear him three children: two sons with apples in their hands, and a daughter with a star on her brow." The king replied: "If that is true, you shall be queen; if not, you shall die," and straightway he married her. Very soon the two older sisters began to be envious of the youngest. "Look," said they: "she is going to be queen, and we must be servants!" and they began to hate her. A few months before the queen's children were to be born, the king declared war, and was obliged to depart; but he left word that if the queen had three children: two sons with apples in their hands and a girl with a star on her brow, the mother was to be respected as queen; if not, he was to be informed of it, and would tell his servants what to do. Then he departed for the war. When the queen's children were born, as she had promised, the envious sisters bribed the nurse to put little dogs in the place of the queen's children, and sent word to the king that his wife had given birth to three puppies. He wrote back that she should be taken care of for two weeks, and then put into a tread-mill. Meanwhile the nurse took the little babies, and carried them out of doors, saying: "I will make the dogs eat them up," and she left them alone. While they were thus exposed, three fairies passed by and exclaimed: "Oh how beautiful these children are!" and one of the fairies said: "What present shall we make these children?" One answered: "I will give them a deer to nurse them." "And I a purse always full of money." "And I," said the third fairy, "will give them a ring which will change color when any misfortune happens to one of them." The deer nursed and took care of the children until they grew up. Then the fairy who had given them the deer came and said: "Now that you have grown up, how can you stay here any longer?" "Very well," said one of the brothers, "I will go to the city and hire a house." "Take care," said the deer, "that you hire one opposite the royal palace." So they all went to the city and hired a palace as directed, and furnished it as if they had been royal personages. When the aunts saw these three youths, imagine their terror! "They are alive!" they said. They could not be mistaken, for there were the apples in their hands, and the star on the girl's brow. They called the nurse and said to her: "Nurse, what does this mean? are our nephews and niece alive?" The nurse watched at the window until she saw the two brothers go out, and then she went over as if to make a visit to the new house. She entered and said: "What is the matter, my daughter; how do you do? Are you perfectly happy? You lack nothing. But do you know what is necessary to make you really happy? It is the Dancing Water. If your brothers love you, they will get it for you!" She remained a moment longer and then departed. When one of the brothers returned, his sister said to him: "Ah! my brother, if you love me go and get me the Dancing Water." He consented, and next morning saddled a fine horse, and departed. On his way he met a hermit, who asked him, "Where are you going, cavalier?" "I am going for the Dancing Water." "You are going to your death, my son; but keep on until you find a hermit older than I." He continued his journey until he met another hermit, who asked him the same question, and gave him the same direction. Finally he met a third hermit, older than the other two, with a white beard that came down to his feet, who gave him the following directions: "You must climb yonder mountain. On top of it you will find a great plain and a house with a beautiful gate. Before the gate you will see four giants with swords in their hands. Take heed; do not make a mistake; for if you do that is the end of you! When the giants have their eyes closed, do not enter; when they have their eyes open, enter. Then you will come to a door. If you find it open, do not enter; if you find it shut, push it open and enter. Then you will find four lions. When they have their eyes shut, do not enter; when their eyes are open, enter, and you will see the Dancing Water." The youth took leave of the hermit, and hastened on his way. Meanwhile the sister kept looking at the ring constantly, to see whether the stone in it changed color; but as it did not, she remained undisturbed. A few days after leaving the hermit the youth arrived at the top of the mountain, and saw the palace with the four giants before it. They had their eyes shut, and the door was open. "No," said the youth, "that won't do." And so he remained on the lookout a while. When the giants opened their eyes, and the door closed, he entered, waited until the lions opened their eyes, and passed in. There he found the Dancing Water, and filled his bottles with it, and escaped when the lions again opened their eyes. The aunts, meanwhile, were delighted because their nephew did not return; but in a few days he appeared and embraced his sister. Then they had two golden basins made, and put into them the Dancing Water, which leaped from one basin to the other. When the aunts saw it they exclaimed: "Ah! how did he manage to get that water?" and called the nurse, who again waited until the sister was alone, and then visited her. "You see," said she, "how beautiful the Dancing Water is! But do you know what you want now? The Singing Apple." Then she departed. When the brother who had brought the Dancing Water returned, his sister said to him: "If you love me you must get for me the Singing Apple." "Yes, my sister, I will go and get it." Next morning he mounted his horse, and set out. After a time he met the first hermit, who sent him to an older one. He asked the youth where he was going, and said: "It is a difficult task to get the Singing Apple, but hear what you must do: Climb the mountain; beware of the giants, the door, and the lions; then you will find a little door and a pair of shears in it. If the shears are open, enter; if closed, do not risk it." The youth continued his way, found the palace, entered, and found everything favorable. When he saw the shears open, he went in a room and saw a wonderful tree, on top of which was an apple. He climbed up and tried to pick the apple, but the top of the tree swayed now this way, now that. He waited until it was still a moment, seized the branch, and picked the apple. He succeeded in getting safely out of the palace, mounted his horse, and rode home, and all the time he was carrying the apple it kept making a sound. The aunts were again delighted because their nephew was so long absent; but when they saw him return, they felt as though the house had fallen on them. Again they summoned the nurse, and again she visited the young girl, and said: "See how beautiful they are, the Dancing Water and the Singing Apple! But should you see the Speaking Bird, there would be nothing left for you to see." "Very well," said the young girl; "we will see whether my brother will get it for me." When her brother came she asked him for the Speaking Bird, and he promised to get it for her. He met, as usual on his journey, the first hermit, who sent him to the second, who sent him on to a third one, who said to him: "Climb the mountain and enter the palace. You will find many statues. Then you will come to a garden, in the midst of which is a fountain, and on the basin is the Speaking Bird. If it should say anything to you, do not answer. Pick a feather from the bird's wing, dip it into a jar you will find there, and anoint all the statues. Keep your eyes open, and all will go well." The youth already knew well the way, and soon was in the palace. He found the garden and the bird, which, as soon as it saw him, exclaimed: "What is the matter, noble sir; have you come for me? You have missed it. Your aunts have sent you to your death, and you must remain here. Your mother has been sent to the tread-mill." "My mother in the tread-mill?" cried the youth, and scarcely were the words out of his mouth when he became a statue like all the others. When the sister looked at her ring she saw that it had changed its color to blue. "Ah!" she exclaimed, and sent her other brother after the first. Everything happened to him as to the first. He met the three hermits, received his instructions, and soon found himself in the palace, where he discovered the garden with the statues, the fountain, and the Speaking Bird. Meanwhile the aunts, who saw that both their nephews were missing, were delighted; and the sister, on looking at her ring, saw that it had become clear again. Now when the Speaking Bird saw the youth appear in the garden it said to him: "What has become of your brother? Your mother has been sent to the tread-mill." "Alas, my mother in the tread-mill!" And when he had spoken these words he became a statue. The sister looked at her ring, and it had become black. Poor child! not having anything else to do, she dressed herself like a page and set out. Like her brothers, she met the three hermits, and received their instructions. The third concluded thus: "Beware, for if you answer when the bird speaks you will lose your life." She continued her way, followed exactly the hermit's directions, and reached the garden in safety. When the bird saw her it exclaimed: "Ah! you here, too? Now you will meet the same fate as your brothers. Do you see them? one, two, and you make three. Your father is at the war. Your mother is in the tread-mill. Your aunts are rejoicing." She did not reply, but let the bird sing on. When it had nothing more to say it flew down, and the young girl caught it, pulled a feather from its wing, dipped it into the jar, and anointed her brothers' nostrils, and they at once came to life again. Then she did the same with all the other statues, with the lions and the giants, until all became alive again. Then she departed with her brothers, and all the noblemen, princes, barons, and kings' sons rejoiced greatly. Now when they had all come to life again the palace disappeared, and the hermits disappeared, for they were the three fairies. The day after the brothers and sister reached the city where they lived, they summoned a goldsmith, and had him make a gold chain, and fasten the bird with it. The next time the aunts looked out they saw in the window of the palace opposite the Dancing Water, the Singing Apple, and the Speaking Bird. "Well," said they, "the real trouble is coming now!" The bird directed the brothers and sister to procure a carriage finer than the king's, with twenty-four attendants, and to have the service of their palace, cooks and servants, more numerous and better than the king's. All of which the brothers did at once. And when the aunts saw these things they were ready to die of rage. At last the king returned from the war, and his subjects told him all the news of the kingdom, and the thing they talked about the least was his wife and children. One day the king looked out of the window and saw the palace opposite furnished in a magnificent manner. "Who lives there?" he asked, but no one could answer him. He looked again and saw the brothers and sister, the former with the apples in their hands, and the latter with the star on her brow. "Gracious! if I did not know that my wife had given birth to three puppies, I should say that those were my children," exclaimed the king. Another day he stood by the window and enjoyed the Dancing Water and the Singing Apple, but the bird was silent. After the king had heard all the music, the bird said: "What does your Majesty think of it?" The king was astonished at hearing the Speaking Bird, and answered: "What should I think? It is marvellous." "There is something more marvellous," said the bird; "just wait." Then the bird told his mistress to call her brothers, and said: "There is the king; let us invite him to dinner on Sunday. Shall we not?" "Yes, yes," they all said. So the king was invited and accepted, and on Sunday the bird had a grand dinner prepared and the king came. When he saw the young people, he clapped his hands and said: "I cannot persuade myself; they seem my children." He went over the palace and was astonished at its richness. Then they went to dinner, and while they were eating the king said: "Bird, every one is talking; you alone are silent." "Ah! your Majesty, I am ill; but next Sunday I shall be well and able to talk, and will come and dine at your palace with this lady and these gentlemen." The next Sunday the bird directed his mistress and her brothers to put on their finest clothes; so they dressed in royal style and took the bird with them. The king showed them through his palace and treated them with the greatest ceremony: the aunts were nearly dead with fear. When they had seated themselves at the table, the king said: "Come, bird, you promised me you would speak; have you nothing to say?" Then the bird began and related all that had happened from the time the king had listened at the door until his poor wife had been sent to the tread-mill; then the bird added: "These are your children, and your wife was sent to the mill, and is dying." When the king heard all this, he hastened to embrace his children, and then went to find his poor wife, who was reduced to skin and bones and was at the point of death. He knelt before her and begged her pardon, and then summoned her sisters and the nurse, and when they were in his presence he said to the bird: "Bird, you who have told me everything, now pronounce their sentence." Then the bird sentenced the nurse to be thrown out of the window, and the sisters to be cast into a cauldron of boiling oil. This was at once done. The king was never tired of embracing his wife. Then the bird departed and the king and his wife and children lived together in peace.[10] * * * * * We next pass to the class of stories in which children are promised by their parents to witches or the Evil One. The children who are thus promised are often unborn, and the promise is made by the parents either to escape some danger with which they are threatened by witch or demon, or in return for money. Sometimes there is a misunderstanding, as in Grimm's story of the "Handless Maiden," where the Miller in return for riches promises the Evil One to give him "what stands behind his mill." The Miller supposes his apple-tree is meant, but it is his daughter, who happened to be behind the mill when the compact was made. The most usual form of the story in Italian is this: A woman who expects to give birth to a child is seized with a great longing for some herb or fruit (generally parsley) growing in the witch's garden. The witch (ogress) catches her picking it, and only releases her on condition that she shall give her the child after it is born and has reached a definite age. The following Sicilian story from Gonzenbach (No. 53) will illustrate this class sufficiently: V. THE FAIR ANGIOLA. Once upon a time there were seven women, neighbors, all of whom were seized with a great longing for some jujubes which only grew in a garden opposite the place where they all lived, and which belonged to a witch. Now this witch had a donkey that watched the garden and told the old witch when any one entered. The seven neighbors, however, had such a desire for the jujubes that they entered the garden and threw the donkey some nice soft grass, and while he was eating it they filled their aprons with jujubes and escaped before the witch appeared. This they did several times, until at last the witch noticed that some one had been in her garden, for many of the jujubes were gone. She questioned the donkey, but he had eaten the nice grass and noticed nothing. Then she resolved the third day to remain in the garden herself. In the middle of it was a hole, in which she hid and covered herself with leaves and branches, leaving only one of her long ears sticking out. The seven neighbors once more went into the garden and began picking jujubes, when one of them noticed the witch's ear sticking out of the leaves and thought it was a mushroom and tried to pick it. Then the witch jumped out of the hole and ran after the women, all of whom escaped but one. The witch was going to eat her, but she begged hard for pardon and promised never to enter the garden again. The witch finally forgave her on the condition that she would give her her child, yet unborn, whether a boy or girl, when it was seven years old. The poor woman promised in her distress, and the witch let her go. Some time after the woman had a beautiful little girl whom she named Angiola. When Angiola was six years old, her mother sent her to school to learn to sew and knit. On her way to school she had to pass the garden where the witch lived. One day, when she was almost seven, she saw the witch standing in front of her garden. She beckoned to Angiola and gave her some fine fruits and said: "You see, fair Angiola, I am your aunt. Tell your mother you have seen your aunt, and she sends her word not to forget her promise." Angiola went home and told her mother, who was frightened and said to herself: "Ah! the time has come when I must give up my Angiola." Then she said to the child: "When your aunt asks you to-morrow for an answer, tell her you forgot her errand." The next day she told the witch as she was directed. "Very well," she replied, "tell her to-day, but don't forget." Thus several days passed; the witch was constantly on the watch for Angiola when she went to school, and wanted to know her mother's answer, but Angiola always declared that she had forgotten to ask her. One day, however, the witch became angry and said: "Since you are so forgetful, I must give you some token to remind you of your errand." Then she bit Angiola's little finger so hard that she bit a piece out. Angiola went home in tears and showed her mother her finger. "Ah!" thought her mother, "there is no help for it. I must give my poor child to the witch, or else she will eat her up in her anger." The next morning as Angiola was going to school, her mother said to her: "Tell your aunt to do with you as she thinks best." Angiola did so, and the witch said: "Very well, then come with me, for you are mine." So the witch took the fair Angiola with her and led her away to a tower which had no door and but one small window. There Angiola lived with the witch, who treated her very kindly, for she loved her as her own child. When the witch came home after her excursions, she stood under the window and cried: "Angiola, fair Angiola, let down your pretty tresses and pull me up!" Now Angiola had beautiful long hair, which she let down and with which she pulled the witch up. Now it happened one day when Angiola had grown to be a large and beautiful maiden, that the king's son went hunting and chanced to come where the tower was. He was astonished at seeing the house without any door, and wondered how the people got in. Just then the old witch returned home, stood under the window, and called: "Angiola, fair Angiola, let down your beautiful tresses and pull me up." Immediately the beautiful tresses fell down, and the witch climbed up by them. This pleased the prince greatly, and he hid himself near by until the witch went away again. Then he went and stood under the window and called: "Angiola, fair Angiola, let down your beautiful tresses and pull me up." Then Angiola let down her tresses and drew up the prince, for she believed it was the witch. When she saw the prince, she was much frightened at first, but he addressed her in a friendly manner and begged her to fly with him and become his wife. She finally consented, and in order that the witch should not know where she had gone she gave all the chairs, tables, and cupboards in the house something to eat; for they were all living beings and might betray her. The broom, however, stood behind the door, so she did not notice it, and gave it nothing to eat. Then she took from the witch's chamber three magic balls of yarn, and fled with the prince. The witch had a little dog that loved the fair Angiola so dearly that it followed her. Soon after they had fled, the witch came back, and called: "Angiola, fair Angiola, let down your beautiful tresses and draw me up." But the tresses were not let down for all she called, and at last she had to get a long ladder and climb in at the window. When she could not find Angiola, she asked the tables and chairs and cupboards: "Where has she fled?" But they answered: "We do not know." The broom, however, called out from the corner: "The fair Angiola has fled with the king's son, who is going to marry her." Then the witch started in pursuit of them and nearly overtook them. But Angiola threw down behind her one of the magic balls of yarn, and there arose a great mountain of soap. When the witch tried to climb it she slipped back, but she persevered until at last she succeeded in getting over it, and hastened after the fugitives. Then Angiola threw down the second ball of yarn, and there arose a great mountain covered all over with nails small and large. Again the witch had to struggle hard to cross it; when she did she was almost flayed. When Angiola saw that the witch had almost overtaken them again, she threw down the third ball, and there arose a mighty torrent. The witch tried to swim across it, but the stream kept increasing in size until she had at last to turn back. Then in her anger she cursed the fair Angiola, saying: "May your beautiful face be turned into the face of a dog!" and instantly Angiola's face became a dog's face. The prince was very sorrowful and said: "How can I take you home to my parents? They would never allow me to marry a maiden with a dog's face." So he took her to a little house, where she was to live until the enchantment was removed. He himself returned to his parents; but whenever he went hunting he visited poor Angiola. She often wept bitterly over her misfortunes, until one day the little dog that had followed her from the witch's said: "Do not weep, fair Angiola. I will go to the witch and beg her to remove the enchantment." Then the little dog started off and returned to the witch and sprang up on her and caressed her. "Are you here again, you ungrateful beast?" cried the witch, and pushed the dog away. "Did you leave me to follow the ungrateful Angiola?" But the little dog caressed her until she grew friendly again and took him up on her lap. "Mother," said the little dog, "Angiola sends you greeting; she is very sad, for she cannot go to the palace with her dog's face and cannot marry the prince." "That serves her right," said the witch. "Why did she deceive me? She can keep her dog's face now!" But the dog begged her so earnestly, saying that poor Angiola was sufficiently punished, that at last the witch gave the dog a flask of water, and said: "Take that to her and she will become the fair Angiola again." The dog thanked her, ran off with the flask, and brought it safely to poor Angiola. As soon as she washed in the water, her dog's face disappeared and she became beautiful again, more beautiful even than she had been before. The prince, full of joy, took her to the palace, and the king and queen were so pleased with her beauty that they welcomed her, and gave her a splendid wedding, and all remained happy and contented.[11] * * * * * An interesting class of stories is the one in which the heroes are twin brothers (sometimes three born at the same time, or a larger number) who are born in some unusual manner, generally in consequence of the mother's partaking of some magic fruit or fish. One of the brothers undertakes some difficult task (liberation of princess, etc.) and falls into great danger; the other brother discovers the fact from some sympathetic object and proceeds to rescue him. The following story from Pisa (Comparetti, No. 32) will give a good idea of the Italian stories of this class: VI. THE CLOUD. Once upon a time there was a fisherman who had a wife and many children. Now it happened that the fisherman did not catch any fish for a time and did not know how to support his family. One day he cast his net and drew out a large fish which began to talk: "Let me go and cast in your net again and you will catch as many fish as you wish." The fisherman did so and caught more fish than he remembered to have taken before. But in a few days the fish were gone and the fisherman cast his net again, and again caught the big fish, which said: "I see clearly that I must die, so kill me now, and cut me into pieces. Give half to the king, a piece to your wife, one to your dog; and one to your horse; the bones you will tie to the kitchen rafters; your wife will bear sons, and when anything happens to one of them the fish-bone will sweat drops of blood." The fisherman did as he was told, and in due time his wife gave birth to three sons, the dog to three puppies, and the horse to three colts. The boys grew up and went to school and learned much and prospered. One day the oldest said: "I want to go and see a little of the world," and took one of the dogs, one of the horses, and some money, and set out, after receiving his father's and mother's blessing. He arrived at a forest, and there saw a lion, an eagle, and an ant which had found a dead ass that they wanted to divide among themselves, but could not agree and so were quarrelling. They saw the youth, and called on him to make the division. He was afraid at first, but took heart and gave the lean meat to the eagle, the brains to the ant, and the rest to the lion. They were all satisfied, and the youth continued his way. After he had gone a few steps the animals called him back, and the lion said: "You have settled our dispute, and we wish to reward you; when you wish to become a lion, you have only to say: 'No more a man, a lion, with the strength of a hundred lions!'" The eagle said: "When you wish to become an eagle, say: 'No more a man, an eagle, with the strength of a hundred eagles!'" The ant, also, gave him power to transform himself into an ant in the same way. The youth thanked them and departed. As he was passing along the shore of the sea, he saw a dog-fish that was out of the water; he put it back into the sea. The fish said: "When you need me, come to the sea and cry: 'Dog-fish, help me!'" The youth continued his way and arrived at a city all hung with mourning. "What is the matter?" the young man asked. "There is here," they told him, "a big cloud (it was a fairy) that every year must have a young girl. This year the lot has fallen on the king's daughter. If they do not give her up, the cloud will throw so many things into the city that we shall all be killed." The youth asked if he could see how the thing went, and they told him he could. The ceremony began with muffled drums and an escort of soldiers; the king and queen in tears accompanied their daughter, who was taken to the top of a mountain, placed in a chair, and left alone. The youth, who had followed them, hid himself behind a bush. Then the cloud came, took the young girl in her lap, took her finger in her mouth, and began to suck her blood. This was what the cloud lived on. The princess remained half dead, like a log, and then the cloud carried her away. The youth, who had seen all this, cried: "No more a man, an eagle, with the strength of a hundred eagles!" Then he became an eagle and flew after the cloud. They arrived at a palace, the doors flew open and the cloud entered and carried the princess up-stairs. The eagle alighted on a tree opposite and saw a large room all full of young girls in bed. When the cloud entered they exclaimed: "Mamma! here is our mamma!" The poor girls were always in bed, because the fairy half killed them. She put the princess in a bed, and said to the girls: "I am going to leave you for a few days." She went away and left the girls. The youth was near and heard everything; he said: "No more an eagle, an ant, with the force of a hundred ants!" He became an ant, entered the palace unseen, and went to the room where the young girls were. There he resumed his shape, and the girls were astonished at seeing a man appear so suddenly, and one of them said to him: "Take care, there is a fairy here; if she finds you on her return she will kill you." "Do not be troubled," he answered, "for I wish to see about setting you all free." Then he went to the bed of the king's daughter and asked her if she had some token to send her mother. She gave him a ring, and the youth took it and went to the queen, told her where her daughter was, and asked her to send some food to the poor girl. She did so, and the youth retraced his steps, reached the palace, informed the girls, and drew up the food with ropes. He then said to the girls: "When the fairy returns, ask her what you shall do when she dies; thus you will find out how to kill her." Then he hid himself, and when the fairy returned the girls asked her the question; but she answered: "I shall never die." They urged her to tell them, and the next day she took them out on a terrace, and said: "Do you see that mountain far off there? On that mountain is a tigress with seven heads. If you wish me to die, a lion must fight that tigress and tear off all seven of her heads. In her body is an egg, and if any one hits me with it in the middle of my forehead I shall die; but if that egg falls into my hands the tigress will come to life again, resume her seven heads, and I shall live." "Good!" said the young girls; "certainly our mamma can never die." But in their hearts they were discouraged. When the fairy had departed, the youth came forth and they told him all. "Do not be disheartened," he said, and straightway went to the princess' father, asked him for a room, a pan of bread, a barrel of good wine, and a child seven years old. He took all these things and shut himself up in the room, and said to the child: "Do you want to see something, my child? I am going to turn into a lion." Then he turned into a lion, and the child was afraid; but the youth persuaded him that it was only himself after all, and the child fed him, and was no longer frightened. As soon as he had instructed the child, he took all the things and went to the mountain where the tigress was. Then he filled the pan with bread and wine and said to the child: "I am going to become a lion; when I return give me something to eat." Then he became a lion, and went to fight the tigress. Meanwhile the fairy returned home, saying: "Alas! I feel ill!" The young girls said to themselves, in delight: "Good!" The youth fought until night, and tore off one of the tigress' heads; the second day another, and so on until six heads were gone. The fairy kept losing her strength all the time. The youth rested two days before tearing off the last head, and then resumed the fight. At evening the last head was torn off, and the dead tigress disappeared, but the youth was not quick enough to catch the egg, which rolled from her body into the sea and was swallowed by the dog-fish. Then the youth went to the sea: "Dog-fish, help me!" The fish appeared: "What do you want?" "Have you found an egg?" "Yes." "Give it to me;" and the fish gave him the egg. He took it and went in search of the fairy, and suddenly appeared before her with the egg in his hand. The fairy wanted him to give her the egg, but he made her first restore all the young girls to health and send them home in handsome carriages. Then the youth took the egg, struck it on the fairy's forehead, and she fell down dead. When the youth saw that she was really dead, he entered a carriage with the king's daughter and drove to the palace. When the king and queen saw their daughter again, they wept for joy, and married her to her deliverer. The wedding took place with great magnificence, and there were great festivities and rejoicings in the city. A few days after, the husband looked out of the window and saw at the end of the street a dense fog; he said to his wife: "I will go and see what that fog is." So he dressed for the chase and went away with his dog and horse. After he had passed through the mist, he saw a mountain on which were two beautiful ladies. They came to meet him, and invited him to their palace. He accepted and they showed him into a room, and one of the ladies asked: "Would you like to play a game of chess?" "Very well," he answered, and began to play and lost. Then they took him into a garden where there were many marble statues, and turned him into one, together with his dog and horse. These ladies were sisters of the fairy, and this was the way they avenged her death. Meanwhile the princess waited and her husband did not return. One morning the father and brothers of the youth found the kitchen full of blood, which dropped from the fish-bone. "Something has happened to him," they said, and the second brother started in search of him with another one of the dogs and horses. He passed by the palace of the princess, who was at the window, and those brothers looked so much alike that when she saw him she thought it was her husband and called him. He entered and she spoke to him of the fog, but he did not understand her; he let her talk on, however, imagining that his brother was mixed up in that affair. The next morning he arose and went to see the fog with his dog and horse. He passed through the fog, found the mountain and the two ladies, and, to make the story short, the same thing happened to him that happened to his brother, and he became stone. And the queen waited, and in the father's kitchen the bone dropped blood faster than ever. The third brother too set out with his dog and horse. When he came to the palace, the princess saw him from the window, took him for her husband, and called him in. He entered and she reproved him for having made her wait so long, and spoke of the mist; but he did not understand her and said: "I did not see very clearly what was in the mist, and I wish to go there again." He departed, and when he had passed through the mist he met an old man who said to him: "Where are you going? Take care, your brothers have been turned into statues. You will meet two ladies; if they ask you to play chess with them, here are two pawns, say that you cannot play except with your own pawns. Then make an agreement with them that, if you win, you can do with them what you please; if they win, they can do what they please with you. If you win, and they beg for mercy, command them to restore to life all the stone statues with which the palace is filled, and when they have done so, you can do what you will with these ladies." The youth thanked the old man, departed, followed his directions, and won. The two ladies begged for their lives, and he granted their prayer on condition of restoring to life all those stone statues. They took a wand, touched the statues, and they became animated; but no sooner were they all restored to life than they fell on the two ladies and cut them into bits no larger than their ears. Thus the three brothers were reunited. They related their adventures, and returned to the palace. The princess was astonished when she saw them, and did not know which was her husband. But he made himself known, told her that these were his brothers, and they had their parents come there, and they all lived happily together, and thus the story is ended.[12] * * * * * We now pass to the class of stories in which one of several brothers succeeds in some undertaking where the others fail, and thereby draws down on himself the hatred of the others, who either abandon him in a cavern, or kill him and hide his body, which is afterwards discovered by a musical instrument made of one of the bones or of the reeds growing over the grave. The former treatment is illustrated by a Sicilian tale (Pitrè, No. 80) called: VII. THE CISTERN. There were once three king's sons. Two of them were going hunting one day, and did not want to take their youngest brother with them. Their mother asked them to let him go with them, but they would not. The youngest brother, however, followed them, and they had to take him with them. They came to a beautiful plain, where they found a fine cistern, and ate their lunch near it. After they had finished, the oldest said: "Let us throw our youngest brother into the cistern, for we cannot take him with us." Then he said to his brother: "Salvatore, would you like to descend into this cistern, for there is a treasure in it?" The youngest consented, and they lowered him down. When he reached the bottom, he found three handsome rooms and an old woman, who said to him: "What are you doing here?" "I am trying to find my way out; tell me how to do it." The old woman answered: "There are here three princesses in the power of the magician; take care." "Never mind, tell me what to do; I am not afraid." "Knock at that door." He did so and a princess appeared: "What has brought you here?" "I have come to liberate you; tell me what I have to do." "Take this apple and pass through that door; my sister is there, who can give you better directions than I can." She gave him the apple as a token. He knocked at that door, another princess appeared, who gave him a pomegranate for a remembrance and directed him to knock at a third door. It opened and the last princess appeared. "Ah! Salvatore" (for she knew who he was), "what have you come for?" "I have come to liberate you; tell me what to do." She gave him a crown, and said: "Take this; when you are in need, say: 'I command! I command!' and the crown will obey you. Now enter and eat; take this bottle; the magician, you see, is about rising; hide yourself behind this door, and when he awakens he will ask you: 'What are you here for?' You will answer: 'I have come to fight you; but you must agree to take smaller horse and sword than mine, because I am smaller than you.' You will see there a fountain which will invite you to drink; do not risk it, for all the statues you see there are human beings who have become statues drinking that water; when you are thirsty drink secretly from this bottle." With these directions the youth went and knocked at the door. Just then the magician arose and said: "What are you here for?" "I have come to fight with you." And he added what the princess had told him. The fountain invited him to drink, but he would not. They began to fight, and at the first blow the youth cut off the magician's head. He took the head and sword, and went to the princesses and said: "Get your things together, and let us go, for my brothers are still waiting at the mouth of the cistern." Let us now return to the brothers. After they had lowered their youngest brother into the cistern, they turned around and went back to the royal palace. The king asked: "Where is your brother?" "We lost him in a wood, and could not find him." "Quick!" said the king, "go and find my son, or I will have your heads cut off." So they departed, and on their way found a man with a rope and a bell, and took them with them. When they reached the cistern, they lowered the rope with the bell, saying among themselves: "If he is alive he will hear the bell and climb up; if he is dead, what shall we do with our father?" When they lowered the rope, Salvatore made the princesses ascend one by one. As the first appeared, who was the oldest, the oldest brother said: "Oh, what a pretty girl! This one shall be my wife." When the second appeared, the other brother said: "This is mine." The youngest princess did not wish to ascend, and said to Salvatore: "You go up, Salvatore, first; if you do not, your brothers will leave you here." He said he would not; she said he must; finally he prevailed, and she ascended. When she appeared the two brothers took her, and left Salvatore in the cistern, and returned to the palace. When they arrived there, they said to their father: "We have looked for Salvatore, but we could not find him; but we have found these three young girls, and now we wish to marry them." "I," said the oldest brother, "will take this one." "And I," said the second, "take this one. The other sister we will marry to some other youth." Now let us return to Salvatore, who, when he found himself alone and disconsolate, felt in his pockets and touched the apple. "O my apple, get me out of this place!" And at once he found himself out of the cistern. He went to the city where he lived, and met a silversmith, who took him as an apprentice, feeding and clothing him. While he was with the silversmith, the king commanded the latter to make a crown for his oldest son, who was to be married: "You must make me a royal crown for my son, and to-morrow evening you must bring it to me." He gave him ten ounces and dismissed him. When he reached home, the silversmith was greatly disturbed, for he had such a short time to make the crown in. Salvatore said: "Grandfather, why are you so disturbed?" The master replied: "Take these ten ounces, for now I am going to seek refuge in a church, for there is nothing else for me to do." (For in olden times the church had the privilege that whoever robbed or killed fled to the church, and they could not do anything with him.) The apprentice replied: "Now I will see if I can make this crown. My master would take refuge in a church for a trifle." So he began to make the crown. What did he do? He took out the apple and commanded it to make a very beautiful crown. He hammered away, but the apple made the crown. When it was finished he gave it to the wife of the silversmith, who took it to her husband. When the latter saw that he need not flee to the church, he went to the king, who, well pleased, invited him to the feast in the evening. When he told this at home, the apprentice said: "Take me to the feast." "How can I take you when you have no clothes fit to wear? I will buy you some, and when there is another feast I will take you." When it struck two, the silversmith departed, and Salvatore took the apple and said: "O my apple, give me clothes and carriages and footmen, for I am going to see my brother married." Immediately he was dressed like a prince, and went to the palace, where he hid in the kitchen, saw his brother married, and then took a big stick and gave the silversmith a sound beating. When the latter reached home, he cried: "I am dying! I am dying!" "What is the matter?" asked the apprentice, and when he learned what had happened, he said: "If you had taken me with you to the feast this would not have happened." A few days after, the king summoned the silversmith again to make another crown within twenty-four hours. Everything happened as before: the apprentice made a crown handsomer than the first, with the aid of the pomegranate. The smith took it to the king, but after the feast came home with his shoulders black and blue from the beating he received. After a time they wanted to marry the third sister, but she said: "Who wishes me must wait a year, a month, and a day." And she had no peace wondering why Salvatore did not appear for all he had the apple, the pomegranate, and the crown. After a year, a month, and a day, the wedding was arranged, and the smith had orders to make another crown more beautiful than the first two. (This was so that no one could say that because the young girl was a foreigner they treated her worse than the others.) Again the smith was in despair, and the apprentice had to make, by the aid of his magic crown, a better and larger crown than the others. The king was astonished when he saw the beautiful crown, and again invited the silversmith to the feast. The smith returned home sorrowful, for fear that he should again receive a beating, but he would not take his apprentice with him. After Salvatore had seen him depart, he took his magic crown and ordered splendid clothes and carriages. When he reached the palace, he did not go to the kitchen, but before the bride and groom could say "yes," "Stop!" said Salvatore. He took the apple and said: "Who gave me this?" "I did," replied the wife of the oldest brother. "And this?" showing the pomegranate. "I, my brother-in-law," said the wife of the second brother. Then he took out the crown. "Who gave me that?" "I, my husband," said the young girl whom they were marrying. And at once she married Salvatore, "for," said she, "he freed me from the magician." The bridegroom was fooled and had to go away, and the astonished silversmith fell on his knees, begging for pity and mercy.[13] * * * * * In some of the versions of the above story, the hero, after he is abandoned by his brothers in the cistern or cave, is borne into the upper world by an eagle. The rapacious bird on the journey demands from the young man flesh from time to time. At last the stock of flesh with which he had provided himself is exhausted and he is obliged to cut off and give the eagle a piece of his own flesh. In one version (Pitrè, ii. p. 208) he gives the eagle his leg; and when the journey is concluded the bird casts it up, and the hero attaches it again to his body, and becomes as sound as ever.[14] The class of stories in which the brother is killed and his death made known by a musical instrument fashioned from his body is sufficiently illustrated by a short Neapolitan story (Imbriani, _Pomiglianesi_, p. 195) entitled: VIII. THE GRIFFIN. There was once a king who had three sons. His eyes were diseased, and he called in a physician who said that to cure them he needed a feather of the griffin. Then the king said to his sons: "He who finds this feather for me shall have my crown." The sons set out in search of it. The youngest met an old man, who asked him what he was doing. He replied: "Papa is ill. To cure him a feather of the griffin is necessary. And papa has said that whoever finds the feather shall have his crown." The old man said: "Well, here is some corn. When you reach a certain place, put it in your hat. The griffin will come and eat it. Seize him, pull out a feather, and carry it to papa." The youth did so, and for fear that some one should steal it from him, he put it into his shoe, and started all joyful to carry it to his father. On his way he met his brothers, who asked him if he had found the feather. He said No; but his brothers did not believe him, and wanted to search him. They looked everywhere, but did not find it. Finally they looked in his shoe and got it. Then they killed the youngest brother and buried him, and took the feather to their father, saying that they had found it. The king healed his eyes with it. A shepherd one day, while feeding his sheep, saw that his dog was always digging in the same place, and went to see what it was, and found a bone. He put it to his mouth, and saw that it sounded and said: "Shepherd, keep me in your mouth, hold me tight, and do not let me go! For a feather of the griffin, my brother has played the traitor, my brother has played the traitor." One day the shepherd, with this whistle in his mouth, was passing by the king's palace, and the king heard him, and called him to see what it was. The shepherd told him the story, and how he had found it. The king put it to his mouth, and the whistle said: "Papa! papa! keep me in your mouth, hold me tight, and do not let me go. For a feather of the griffin, my brother has played the traitor, my brother has played the traitor." Then the king put it in the mouth of the brother who had killed the youngest, and the whistle said: "Brother! brother! keep me in your mouth, hold me fast, and do not let me go. For a feather of the griffin, you have played the traitor, you have played the traitor." Then the king understood the story and had his two sons put to death. And thus they killed their brother and afterwards were killed themselves.[15] The feminine counterpart of "Boots," or the successful youngest brother, is Cinderella, the youngest of three sisters who despise and ill-treat her. Her usual place is in the chimney-corner, and her name is derived from the grime of cinders and ashes (her name in German is _Aschenputtel_). Assisted by some kind fairy who appears in various forms, she reveals herself in her true shape, captivates the prince, who finally recognizes her by the slipper. There are two branches of this story: the one just mentioned, and one where the heroine assumes a repulsive disguise in order to escape the importunities of a father who wishes to marry her. This second branch may be distinguished by the name of "Allerleirauh," the well-known Grimm story of this class. For the first branch of this story we have selected a Florentine story (_Novellaja fior._ p. 151) called: IX. CINDERELLA. Once upon a time there was a man who had three daughters. He was once ordered to go away to work, and said to them: "Since I am about making a journey, what do you want me to bring you when I return?" One asked for a handsome dress; the other, a fine hat and a beautiful shawl. He said to the youngest: "And you, Cinderella, what do you want?" They called her Cinderella because she always sat in the chimney-corner. "You must buy me a little bird Verdeliò." "The simpleton! she does not know what to do with the bird! Instead of ordering a handsome dress, a fine shawl, she takes a bird. Who knows what she will do with it!" "Silence!" she says, "it pleases me." The father went, and on his return brought the dress, hat, and shawl for the two sisters, and the little bird for Cinderella. The father was employed at the court, and one day the king said to him: "I am going to give three balls; if you want to bring your daughters, do so; they will amuse themselves a little." "As you wish," he replies, "thanks!" and accepts. He went home and said: "What do you think, girls? His Majesty wishes you to attend his ball." "There, you see, Cinderella, if you had only asked for a handsome dress! This evening we are going to the ball." She replied: "It matters nothing to me! You go; I am not coming." In the evening, when the time came, they adorned themselves, saying to Cinderella: "Come along, there will be room for you, too." "I don't want to go; you go; I don't want to." "But," said their father, "let us go, let us go! Dress and come along; let her stay." When they had gone, she went to the bird and said: "O Bird Verdeliò, make me more beautiful than I am!" She became clothed in a sea-green dress, with so many diamonds that it blinded you to behold her. The bird made ready two purses of money, and said to her: "Take these two purses, enter your carriage, and away!" She set out for the ball, and left the bird Verdeliò at home. She entered the ball-room. Scarcely had the gentlemen seen this beautiful lady (she dazzled them on all sides), when the king, just think of it, began to dance with her the whole evening. After he had danced with her all the evening, his Majesty stopped, and she stood by her sisters. While she was at her sisters' side, she drew out her handkerchief, and a bracelet fell out. "Oh, Signora," said the eldest sister, "you have dropped this." "Keep it for yourself," she said. "Oh, if Cinderella were only here, who knows what might not have happened to her?" The king had given orders that when this lady went away they should find out where she lived. After she had remained a little, she left the ball. You can imagine whether the servants were on the lookout! She entered her carriage and away! She perceives that she is followed, takes the money and begins to throw it out of the window of the carriage. The greedy servants, I tell you, seeing all that money, thought no more of her, but stopped to pick up the money. She returned home and went up-stairs. "O Bird Verdeliò, make me homelier than I am!" You ought to see how ugly, how horrid, she became, all ashes. When the sisters returned, they cried: "Cin-der-ella!" "Oh, leave her alone," said her father; "she is asleep now, leave her alone!" But they went up and showed her the large and beautiful bracelet. "Do you see, you simpleton? You might have had it." "It matters nothing to me." Their father said: "Let us go to supper, you little geese." Let us return to the king, who was awaiting his servants, who had not the courage to appear, but kept away. He calls them. "How did the matter go?" They fall at his feet. "Thus and thus! She threw out so much money!" "Wretches, you are nothing else," he said, "were you afraid of not being rewarded? Well! to-morrow evening, attention, under pain of death." The next evening the usual ball. The sisters say: "Will you come this evening, Cinderella?" "Oh," she says, "don't bother me! I don't want to go." Their father cries out to them: "How troublesome you are! Let her alone!" So they began to adorn themselves more handsomely than the former evening, and departed. "Good-by, Cinderella!" When they had gone, Cinderella went to the bird and said: "Little Bird Verdeliò, make me more beautiful than I am!" Then she became clothed in sea-green, embroidered with all the fish of the sea, mingled with diamonds more than you could believe. The bird said: "Take these two bags of sand, and when you are followed, throw it out, and so they will be blinded." She entered her carriage and set out for the ball. As soon as his Majesty saw her he began to dance with her and danced as long as he could. After he had danced as long as he could (she did not grow weary, but he did), she placed herself near her sisters, drew out her handkerchief, and there fell out a beautiful necklace all made of coal. The second sister said: "Signora, you have dropped this." She replied: "Keep it for yourself." "If Cinderella were here, who knows what might not happen to her! To-morrow she must come!" After a while she leaves the ball. The servants (just think, under pain of death!) were all on the alert, and followed her. She began to throw out all the sand, and they were blinded. She went home, dismounted, and went up-stairs. "Little Bird Verdeliò, make me homelier than I am!" She became frightfully homely. When her sisters returned they began from below: "Cin-der-ella! if you only knew what that lady gave us!" "It matters nothing to me!" "But to-morrow evening you must go!" "Yes, yes! you would have had it!" Their father says: "Let us go to supper and let her alone; you are really silly!" Let us return to his Majesty, who was waiting for his servants to learn where she lived. Instead of that they were all brought back blinded, and had to be accompanied. "Rogue!" he exclaimed, "either this lady is some fairy or she must have some fairy who protects her." The next day the sisters began: "Cinderella, you must go this evening! Listen; it is the last evening; you must come." The father: "Oh let her alone! you are always teasing her!" Then they went away and began to prepare for the ball. When they were all prepared, they went to the ball with their father. When they had departed, Cinderella went to the bird: "Little Bird Verdeliò, make me more beautiful than I am!" Then she was dressed in all the colors of the heavens; all the comets, the stars, and moon on her dress, and the sun on her brow. She enters the ball-room. Who could look at her! for the sun alone they lower their eyes, and are all blinded. His Majesty began to dance, but he could not look at her, because she dazzled him. He had already given orders to his servants to be on the lookout, under pain of death; not to go on foot, but to mount their horses that evening. After she had danced longer than on the previous evenings she placed herself by her father's side, drew out her handkerchief, and there fell out a snuff-box of gold, full of money. "Signora, you have dropped this snuff-box." "Keep it for yourself!" Imagine that man: he opens it and sees it full of money. What joy! After she had remained a time she went home as usual. The servants followed her on horseback, quickly; at a distance from the carriage; but on horseback that was not much trouble. She perceived that she had not prepared anything to throw that evening. "Oh!" she cried, "what shall I do?" She left the carriage quickly, and in her haste lost one of her slippers. The servants picked it up, took the number of the house, and went away. Cinderella went up-stairs and said: "Little Bird Verdeliò, make me more homely than I am!" The bird does not answer. After she had repeated it three or four times, it answered: "Rogue! I ought not to make you more homely, but..." and she became homely and the bird continued: "What are you going to do now? You are discovered." She began to weep in earnest. When her sisters returned, they cried: "Cin-der-ella!" You can imagine that she did not answer them this evening. "See what a beautiful snuff-box. If you had gone you might have had it." "I do not care! Go away!" Then their father called them to supper. Let us now turn to the servants who went back with the slipper and the number of the house. "To-morrow," said his Majesty, "as soon as it is day, go to that house, take a carriage, and bring that lady to the palace." The servants took the slipper and went away. The next morning they knocked at the door. Cinderella's father looked out and exclaimed: "Oh, Heavens! it is his Majesty's carriage; what does it mean?" They open the door and the servants ascend. "What do you want of me?" asked the father. "How many daughters have you?" "Two." "Well, show them to us." The father made them come in there. "Sit down," they said to one of them. They tried the slipper on her; it was ten times too large for her. The other one sat down; it was too small for her. "But tell me, good man, have you no other daughters? Take care to tell the truth! because his Majesty wishes it, under pain of death!" "Gentlemen, there is another one, but I do not mention it. She is all in the ashes, the coals; if you should see her! I do not call her my daughter from shame." "We have not come for beauty, or for finery; we want to see the girl!" Her sisters began to call her: "Cin-der-ella!" but she did not answer. After a time she said: "What is the matter?" "You must come down! there are some gentlemen here who wish to see you." "I don't want to come." "But you must come, you see!" "Very well; tell them I will come in a moment." She went to the little bird: "Ah little Bird Verdeliò, make me more beautiful than I am!" Then she was dressed as she had been the last evening, with the sun, and moon, and stars, and in addition, great chains all of gold everywhere about her. The bird said: "Take me away with you! Put me in your bosom!" She puts the bird in her bosom and begins to descend the stairs. "Do you hear her?" said the father, "do you hear her? She is dragging with her the chains from the chimney-corner. You can imagine how frightful she will look!" When she reached the last step, and they saw her, "Ah!" they exclaimed, and recognized the lady of the ball. You can imagine how her father and sisters were vexed. They made her sit down, and tried on the slipper, and it fitted her. Then they made her enter the carriage, and took her to his Majesty, who recognized the lady of the other evenings. And you can imagine that, all in love as he was, he said to her: "Will you really be my wife?" You may believe she consents. She sends for her father and sisters, and makes them all come to the palace. They celebrate the marriage. Imagine what fine festivals were given at this wedding! The servants who had discovered where Cinderella lived were promoted to the highest positions in the palace as a reward.[16] * * * * * In the second class of stories alluded to above, the heroine flees in disguise from her home to avoid a marriage with her father or brother. The remainder of the story resembles Cinderella: the heroine reveals herself from time to time in her true form, and finally throws off her disguise. The following story, which illustrates this class, is from the province of Vicenza (Corazzini, p. 484), and is entitled: X. FAIR MARIA WOOD. There was once a husband and wife who had but one child, a daughter. Now it happened that the wife fell ill and was at the point of death. Before dying she called her husband, and said to him, weeping: "I am dying; you are still young; if you ever wish to marry again, be mindful to choose a wife whom my wedding ring fits; and if you cannot find a lady whom it fits well, do not marry." Her husband promised that he would do so. When she was dead he took off her wedding ring and kept it until he desired to marry again. Then he sought for some one to please him. He went from one to another, but the ring fitted no one. He tried so many but in vain. One day he thought of calling his daughter, and trying the ring on her to see whether it fitted her. The daughter said: "It is useless, dear father; you cannot marry me, because you are my father." He did not heed her, put the ring on her finger, and saw that it fitted her well, and wanted to marry his daughter _nolens volens_. She did not oppose him, but consented. The day of the wedding, he asked her what she wanted. She said that she wished four silk dresses, the most beautiful that could be seen. He, who was a gentleman, gratified her wish and took her the four dresses, one handsomer than the other, and all the handsomest that had ever been seen. "Now, what else do you want?" said he. "I want another dress, made of wood, so that I can conceal myself in it." And at once he had this wooden dress made. She was well pleased. She waited one day until her husband was out of sight, put on the wooden dress, and under it the four silk dresses, and went away to a certain river not far off, and threw herself in it. Instead of sinking and drowning, she floated, for the wooden dress kept her up. The water carried her a long way, when she saw on the bank a gentleman, and began to cry: "Who wants the fair Maria Wood?" That gentleman who saw her on the water, and whom she addressed, called her and she came to the bank and saluted him. "How is it that you are thus dressed in wood, and come floating on the water without drowning?" She told him that she was a poor girl who had only that dress of wood, and that she wanted to go out to service. "What can you do?" "I can do all that is needed in a house, and if you would only take me for a servant you would be satisfied." He took her to his house, where his mother was, and told her all that had happened, saying: "If you, dear mother, will take her as a servant, we can try her." In short, she took her and was pleased with this woman dressed in wood. It happened that there were balls at that place which the best ladies and gentlemen attended. The gentleman who had the servant dressed in wood prepared to go to the ball, and after he had departed, the servant said to his mother: "Do me this kindness, mistress: let me go to the ball too, for I have never seen any dancing." "What, you wish to go to the ball so badly dressed that they would drive you away as soon as they saw you!" The servant was silent, and when the mistress was in bed, dressed herself in one of her silk dresses and became the most beautiful woman that was ever seen. She went to the ball, and it seemed as if the sun had entered the room; all were dazzled. She sat down near her master, who asked her to dance, and would dance with no one but her. She pleased him so much that he fell in love with her. He asked her who she was and where she came from. She replied that she came from a distance, but told him nothing more. At a certain hour, without any one perceiving it, she went out and disappeared. She returned home and put on her wooden dress again. In the morning the master returned from the ball, and said to his mother: "Oh! if you had only seen what a beautiful lady there was at the ball! She appeared like the sun, she was so beautiful and well dressed. She sat down near me, and would not dance with any one but me." His mother then said: "Did you not ask her who she was and where she came from?" "She would only tell me that she came from a distance; but I thought I should die; I wish to go again this evening." The servant heard all this dialogue, but kept silent, pretending that the matter did not concern her. In the evening he prepared himself again for the ball, and the servant said to him: "Master, yesterday evening I asked your mamma to let me, too, go to the ball, for I have never seen dancing, but she would not; will you have the kindness to let me go this evening?" "Be still, you ugly creature, the ball is no place for you!" "Do me this favor," she said, weeping, "I will stand out of doors, or under a bench, or in a corner so no one shall see me; but let me go!" He grew angry then, and took a stick and began to beat the poor servant. She wept and remained silent. After he had gone, she waited until his mother was in bed, and put on a dress finer than the first, and so rich as to astonish, and away to the ball! When she arrived all began to gaze at her, for they had never seen anything more beautiful. All the handsomest young men surround her and ask her to dance; but she would have nothing to do with any one but her master. He again asked her who she was, and she said she would tell him later. They danced and danced, and all at once she disappeared. Her master ran here and there, asked one and another, but no one could tell him where she had gone. He returned home and told his mother all that had passed. She said to him: "Do you know what you must do? Take this diamond ring, and when she dances with you give it to her; and if she takes it, it is a sign that she loves you." She gave him the ring. The servant listened, saw everything, and was silent. In the evening the master prepared for the ball and the servant again asked him to take her, and again he beat her. He went to the ball, and after midnight, as before, the beautiful lady returned more beautiful than before, and as usual would dance only with her master. At the right moment he took out the diamond ring, and asked her if she would accept it. She took it and thanked him, and he was happy and satisfied. Afterward he asked her again who she was and where from. She said that she was of that country That when they speak of going to a ball, They are beaten on the head; and said no more. At the usual hour she stopped dancing and departed. He ran after her, but she went like the wind, and reached home without his finding out where she went. But he ran so in all directions, and was in such suffering, that when he reached home he was obliged to go to bed more dead than alive. Then he fell ill and grew worse every day, so that all said he would die. He did nothing but ask his mother and every one if they knew anything of that lady, and that he would die if he did not see her. The servant heard everything; and one day, when he was very ill, what did she think of? She waited until her mistress' eye was turned, and dropped the diamond ring in the broth her master was to eat. No one saw her, and his mother took him the broth. He began to eat it, when he felt something hard, saw something shine, and took it out.... You can imagine how he looked at it and recognized the diamond ring! They thought he would go mad. He asked his mother if that was the ring and she swore that it was, and all happy, she said that now he would see her again. Meanwhile the servant went to her room, took off her wooden dress, and put on one all of silk, so that she appeared a beauty, and went to the room of the sick man. His mother saw her and began to cry: "Here she is; here she is!" She went in and saluted him, smiling, and he was so beside himself that he became well at once. He asked her to tell him her story,--who she was, where she came from, how she came, and how she knew that he was ill. She replied: "I am the woman dressed in wood who was your servant. It is not true that I was a poor girl, but I had that dress to conceal myself in, for underneath it I was the same that I am now. I am a lady; and although you treated me so badly when I asked to go to the ball, I saw that you loved me, and now I have come to save you from death." You can believe that they stayed to hear her story. They were married and have always been happy and still are.[17] * * * * * In the various stories thus far mentioned which involve the family relations, we have had examples of treachery on the part of brothers, ill-treatment of step-children, etc. It remains now to notice the trait of treachery on the part of sister or mother towards brother or son. The formula as given by Hahn (No. 19) is as follows: The hero, who is fleeing with his sister (or mother), overcomes a number of dragons or giants. The only survivor makes love to the sister (or mother), and causes her, for fear of discovery, to send her brother, in order to destroy him, on dangerous adventures, under the pretence of obtaining a cure for her illness. The hero survives the dangers, discovers the deception, and punishes the guilty ones. Traces of this formula are found in several Italian stories,[18] but it constitutes only two entire stories: one in Pitrè (No. 71) the other in Comparetti (No. 54, "The Golden Hair," from Monferrato, Piedmont). The latter is in substance as follows: A king with three sons marries again in his old age. The youngest son falls in love with his step-mother and the jealous father tries to poison her. The son and wife flee together, and fall in with some robbers whom they kill, and set at liberty a princess who has the gift of curing blindness and other diseases. They afterward find a cave containing rooms and all the necessaries of life, but see no one. They spend the night there, and the next morning the youth goes hunting; and as soon as he has departed a giant appears and solicits the step-mother's love, saying that if she will marry him, she will always be healthy and never lose her youth. But first it will be necessary to remove from her step-son's head a golden hair, and then he will become so weak that he can be killed by a blow. She was unwilling at first, because he had saved her life, but finally yielded. First she tried to get rid of him by pretending to be ill, and sending him for some water from a fountain near which was a lion. He obtained the water safely. Then his step-mother, pretending to comb his hair, cut off the golden hair, and the giant dragged him by the feet fifty miles, and let him fall first in the bushes and then on the ground. From the wounds in his head he became blind, but recovered his sight by means of the princess mentioned in the first part of the story, whom he married. After his golden lock had grown out again he returned to the cave and killed the giant, punishing his step-mother by leaving her there without even looking at her. The story in Pitrè (No. 71, "The Cyclops") is more detailed. A queen who has been unfaithful to her husband is put in confinement, gives birth to a son, and afterward, through his aid, escapes. They encounter some cyclops, a number of whom the son kills; but one becomes secretly the mother's lover. To get rid of her son, she sends him for the water of a certain fountain, which he brings back safely. Finally the mother binds the son fast, under the pretence of playing a game, and delivers him to the cyclops, who kills him and cuts him into small bits, which he loads on his horse and turns him loose. The youth is, however, restored to life by the same water that he had brought back, and kills the cyclops and his mother, finally marrying the princess to whom he owes his life.[19] In marked contrast to the above class is the one in which a number of brothers owe their deliverance from enchantment to the self-sacrifice of a sister. Generally the sister is the innocent cause of her brothers' transformation. They live far from home, and their sister is not aware for a long time of their existence. When she learns it she departs in search of them, finds them, and, after great risk to herself, delivers them. But two versions of this story have yet been published in Italy: one from Naples (Pent. IV. 8), the other from Bologna (Coronedi-Berti, No. 19). The latter version we give at length. XI. THE CURSE OF THE SEVEN CHILDREN. There was once a king and a queen who had six children, all sons. The queen was about to give birth to another child, and the king said that if it was not a daughter all seven children would be cursed. Now it happened that the king had to go away to war; and before departing he said to the queen, "Listen. If you have a son, hang a lance out of the window; if a daughter, a distaff; so that I can see as soon as I arrive which it is." After the king had been gone a month, the queen gave birth to the most beautiful girl that was ever seen. Imagine how pleased the queen was at having a girl. She could scarcely contain herself for joy, and immediately gave orders to hang the distaff out of the window; but in the midst of the joyful confusion, a mistake was made, and they put out a lance. Shortly after, the king returned and saw the sign at the window, and cursed all his seven sons; but when he entered the house and the servants crowded around him to congratulate him and tell him about his beautiful daughter, then the king was amazed and became very melancholy. He entered the queen's room and looked at the child, who seemed exactly like one of those wax dolls to be kept in a box; then he looked about him and saw nothing of his sons, and his eyes filled with tears, for those poor youths had wandered out into the world. Meanwhile the girl grew, and when she was large she saw that her parents caressed her, but always with tears in their eyes. One day she said to her mother: "What is the matter with you, mother, that I always see you crying?" Then the queen told her the story, and said that she was afraid that some day she would see her disappear too. When the girl heard how it was, what did she do? One night she rose softly and left the palace, with the intention of going to find her brothers. She walked and walked, and at last met a little old man, who said to her: "Where are you going at this time of the night?" She answered: "I am in search of my brothers." The old man said: "It will be difficult to find them, for you must not speak for seven years, seven months, seven weeks, seven days, seven hours, and seven minutes." She said: "I will try." Then she took a bit of paper which she found on the ground, wrote on it the day and the hour with a piece of charcoal, and left the old man and hastened on her way. After she had run a long time, she saw a light and went towards it, and when she was near it, she saw that it was over the door of a palace where a king lived. She entered and sat down on the stairway, and fell asleep. The servants came later to put out the light, and saw the pretty girl asleep on the stone steps; they awakened her, asking her what she was doing there. She began to make signs, asking them to give her a lodging. They understood her, and said they would ask the king. They returned shortly to tell her to enter, for the king wished to see her before she was shown to her room. When the king saw the beautiful girl, with hair like gold, flesh like milk and wine, teeth white as pearls, and little hands that an artist could not paint as beautiful as they were, he suddenly imagined that she must be the daughter of some lord, and gave orders that she should be treated with all possible respect. They showed her to a beautiful room; then a maid came and undressed her and put her to bed. Next morning, Diana, for so she was called, arose, saw a frame with a piece of embroidery in it, and began to work at it. The king visited her, and asked if she needed anything, and she made signs that she did not. The king was so pleased with the young girl that he ended by falling in love with her, and after a year had passed he thought of marrying her. The queen-mother, who was an envious person, was not content with the match, because, said she, no one knows where she came from, and, besides, she is dumb, something that would make people wonder if a king should marry her. But the king was so obstinate that he married her; and when his mother saw that there was no help, she pretended to be satisfied. Shortly after, the queen-mother put into the king's hands a letter which informed him of an imminent war, in which, if he did not take part, he would run the risk of losing his realm. The king went to the war, in fact, with great grief at leaving his wife; and before departing, he commended her earnestly to his mother, who said: "Do not be anxious, my son, I shall do all that I can to make her happy." The king embraced his wife and mother, and departed. Scarcely had the king gone when the queen-mother sent for a mason, and made him build a wall near the kitchen-sink, so that it formed a sort of box. Now you must know that Diana expected soon to become a mother, and this afforded the queen-mother a pretext to write to her son that his wife had died in giving birth to a child. She took her and put her in the wall she had had built, where there was neither light nor air, and where the wicked woman hoped that she would die. But it was not so. The scullion went every day to wash the dishes at the sink near where poor Diana was buried alive. While attending to his business, he heard a lamentation, and listened to see where it could come from. He listened and listened, until at last he perceived that the voice came from the wall that had been newly built. What did he do then? He made a hole in the wall, and saw that the queen was there. The scullion asked how she came there; but she only made signs that she was about to give birth to a child. The poor scullion had his wife make a fine cushion, on which Diana reposed as well as she could, and gave birth to the most beautiful boy that could be seen. The scullion's wife went to see her every moment, and carried her broth, and cared for the child; in short, this poor woman, as well as her husband, did everything she could to alleviate the poor queen, who tried to make them understand by signs what she needed. One day it came into Diana's head to look into her memorandum book and see how long she still had to keep silent, and she saw that only two minutes yet remained. As soon as they had passed, she told the scullion all that had happened. At that moment the king arrived, and the scullion drew the queen from out the hole, and showed her to the king. You can imagine how delighted he was to see again his Diana, whom he believed to be dead. He embraced her, and kissed her and the child; in short, such was his joy that it seemed as if he would go mad. Diana related everything to him: why she had left her home, and why she had played dumb so long, and finally how she had been treated by the queen-mother, and what she had suffered, and how kind those poor people had been to her. When he had heard all this, he said: "Leave the matter to me; I will arrange it." The next day the king invited all the nobles and princes of his realm to a great banquet. Now it happened that in setting the tables the servants laid six plates besides the others; and when the guests sat down, six handsome youths entered, who advanced and asked what should be given to a sister who had done so and so for her brothers. Then the king sprang up and said: "And I ask what shall be done to a mother who did so and so to her son's wife?" and he explained everything. One said: "Burn her alive." Another: "Put her in the pillory." Another: "Fry her in oil in the public square." This was agreed to. The youths had been informed by that same old man whom Diana had met, and who was a magician, where their sister was and what she had done for them. Then they made themselves known, and embraced Diana and their brother-in-law the king, and after the greatest joy, they all started off to see their parents. Imagine the satisfaction of the king and queen at seeing again all their seven children. They gave the warmest reception to the king, Diana's husband, and after they had spent some days together, Diana returned with her husband to their city. And all lived there afterward in peace and contentment.[20] * * * * * We shall now turn our attention to another wide-spread story, which may be termed "The True Bride," although the Grimm story of that name is not a representative of it. One of the simplest versions is Grimm's "The Goose-Girl," in which a queen's daughter is betrothed to a king's son who lives far away. When the daughter grew up she was sent to the bridegroom, with a maid to wait upon her. On the journey the maid takes the place of the princess, who becomes a poor goose-girl. The true bride is of course discovered at last, and the false one duly punished. "The White and the Black Bride," of the same collection, is a more complicated version of the same theme. The first part is the story of two sisters (step-sisters) who receive different gifts from fairies, etc.; the second part, that of the brother who paints his sister's portrait, which the king sees and desires to marry the original. The sister is sent for, but on the journey the ugly step-sister pushes the bride into a river or the sea, and takes her place. The true bride is changed into a swan (or otherwise miraculously preserved), and at last resumes her lawful place. In the above stories the substitution of the false bride is the main incident in the story; but there are many other tales in which the same incident occurs, but it is subordinate to the others. Examples of this latter class will be given as soon as we reach the story of "The Forgotten Bride." The first class mentioned is represented in Italy by two versions also. The first is composed of the two traits: "Two Sisters" and "True Bride"; the second, of "Brother who shows beautiful sister's portrait to king." This second version sometimes shows traces of the first. It is with this second version that we now have to do, as in it only is the substitution of the false bride the main incident. Examples of the first version will be found in the notes.[21] The story we have selected to illustrate the second version of this story is from Florence (_Nov. fior._ p. 314), and is entitled: XII. ORAGGIO AND BIANCHINETTA. There was once a lady who had two children: the boy was called Oraggio, the girl, Bianchinetta. By misfortunes they were reduced from great wealth to poverty. It was decided that Oraggio should go out to service, and indeed he found a situation as _valet de chambre_ to a prince. After a time the prince, satisfied with his service, changed it, and set him to work cleaning the pictures in his gallery. Among the various paintings was one of a very beautiful lady, which was constantly Oraggio's admiration. The prince often surprised him admiring the portrait. One day he asked him why he spent so much time before that picture. Oraggio replied that it was the very image of his sister, and having been away from her some time, he felt the need of seeing her again. The prince answered that he did not believe that picture resembled his sister, because he had a search made, and it had not been possible to find any lady like the portrait. He added: "Have her come here, and if she is as beautiful as you say, I will make her my wife." Oraggio wrote at once to Bianchinetta, who immediately set out on her journey. Oraggio went to the harbor to await her, and when he perceived the ship at a distance, he called out at intervals: "Mariners of the high sea, guard my sister Bianchina, so that the sun shall not brown her." Now, on the ship where Bianchinetta was, was also another young girl with her mother, both very homely. When they were near the harbor, the daughter gave Bianchinetta a blow, and pushed her into the sea. When they landed, Oraggio could not recognize his sister; and that homely girl presented herself, saying that the sun had made her so dark that she could no longer be recognized. The prince was surprised at seeing such a homely woman, and reproved Oraggio, removing him from his position and setting him to watch the geese. Every day he led the geese to the sea, and every day Bianchinetta came forth and adorned them with tassels of various colors. When the geese returned home, they said:-- "Crò! crò! From the sea we come, We feed on gold and pearls. Oraggio's sister is fair, She is fair as the sun; She would suit our master well." The prince asked Oraggio how the geese came to repeat those words every day. He told him that his sister, thrown into the sea, had been seized by a fish, which had taken her to a beautiful palace under the water, where she was in chains. But that, attached to a long chain, she was permitted to come to the shore when he drove the geese there. The prince said: "If what you relate is true, ask her what is required to liberate her from that prison." The next day Oraggio asked Bianchinetta how it would be possible to take her from there and conduct her to the prince. She replied: "It is impossible to take me from here. At least, the monster always says to me: 'It would require a sword that cuts like a hundred, and a horse that runs like the wind.' It is almost impossible to find these two things. You see, therefore, it is my fate to remain here always." Oraggio returned to the palace, and informed the prince of his sister's answer. The latter made every effort, and succeeded in finding the horse that ran like the wind, and the sword that cut like a hundred. They went to the sea, found Bianchinetta, who was awaiting them. She led them to her palace. With the sword the chain was cut. She mounted the horse, and thus was able to escape. When they reached the palace the prince found her as beautiful as the portrait Oraggio was always gazing at, and married her. The other homely one was burned in the public square, with the accustomed pitch-shirt; and they lived content and happy.[22] * * * * * We have already encountered the trait of "Thankful Animals," who assist the hero in return for kindness he has shown them. What is merely an incident in the stories above alluded to constitutes the main feature of a class of stories which may be termed "Animal Brothers-in-law." The usual formula in these stories is as follows: Three princes, transformed into animals, marry the hero's sisters. The hero visits them in turn; they assist him in the performance of difficult tasks, and are by him freed from their enchantment. This formula varies, of course. Sometimes there are but two sisters, and the brothers-in-law are freed from their enchantment in some other way than by the hero. A good specimen of this class is from the south of Italy, Basilicata (Comparetti, No. 20), and is called: XIII. THE FAIR FIORITA. There was once a king who had four children: three daughters and a son, who was the heir to the throne. One day the king said to the prince: "My son, I have decided to marry your three sisters to the first persons who pass our palace at noon." At that time there first passed a swine-herd, then a huntsman, and finally a grave-digger. The king had them all three summoned to his presence, and told the swine-herd that he wished to give him his oldest daughter for a wife, the second to the huntsman, and the third to the grave-digger. Those poor creatures thought they were dreaming. But they saw that the king spoke seriously, or rather commanded. Then, all confused, but well pleased, they said: "Let your Majesty's will be done." The prince, who loved his youngest sister dearly, was deeply grieved that she should become a grave-digger's wife. He begged the king not to make this match, but the king would not listen to him. The prince, grieved at his father's caprice, would not be present at his sisters' wedding, but took a walk in the garden at the foot of the palace. Now, while the priest in the marriage hall was blessing the three brides, the garden suddenly bloomed with the fairest flowers, and there came forth from a white cloud a voice which said: "Happy he who shall have a kiss from the lips of the fair Fiorita!" The prince trembled so that he could hardly stand; and afterward, leaning against an olive-tree, he began to weep for the sisters he had lost, and remained buried in thought many hours. Then he started, as if awakening from a dream, and said to himself: "I must flee from my father's house. I will wander about the world, and will not rest until I have a kiss from the lips of the fair Fiorita." He travelled over land and sea, over mountains and plains, and found no living soul that could give him word of the fair Fiorita. Three years had elapsed, when one day, leaving a wood and journeying through a beautiful plain, he arrived at a palace before which was a fountain, and drew near to drink. A child two years old, who was playing by the fountain, seeing him approach, began to cry and call its mother. The mother, when she saw the prince, ran to meet him, embraced him, and kissed him, crying: "Welcome, welcome, my brother!" The prince at first did not recognize her; but looking at her closely in the face, he saw that it was his oldest sister, and embracing her in turn, exclaimed: "How glad I am to see you, my sister!" and they rejoiced greatly. The sister invited him to enter the palace, which was hers, and led him to her husband, who was much pleased to see him, and all three overwhelmed with caresses the child who, by calling his mother, had been the cause of all that joy. The prince then asked about his other two sisters, and his brother-in-law replied that they were well, and lived in a lordly way with their husbands. The prince was surprised, and his brother-in-law added that the fortunes of the three husbands of his sisters had changed since they had been enchanted by a magician. "And cannot I see my other two sisters?" asked the prince. The brother-in-law replied: "Direct your journey towards sunrise. After a day you will find your second sister; after two days, the third." "But I must seek the way to the fair Fiorita, and I do not know whether it is towards sunrise or sunset." "It is precisely towards sunrise; and you are doubly fortunate: first, because you will see your two sisters again; secondly, because from the last you can receive information about the fair Fiorita. But before departing I wish to give you a remembrance. Take these hog's bristles. The first time you encounter any danger from which you cannot extricate yourself, throw them on the ground, and I will free you from the danger." The prince took the bristles, and after he had thanked his brother-in-law, resumed his journey. The next day he arrived at the palace of his second sister; was received there also with great joy, and this brother-in-law, too, wished to give him a memento before he departed; and because he had been a huntsman, presented him with a bunch of birds' feathers, telling him the same thing that the other brother-in-law had. He thanked him and departed. The third day he came to his youngest sister's, who, seeing the brother who had always loved her more dearly than his other sisters, welcomed him more warmly, as did also her husband. The latter gave him a little human bone, giving him the same advice as the other brothers-in-law had. His sister then told him that the fair Fiorita lived a day's journey from there, and that he could learn more about her from an old woman who was indebted to her, and to whom she sent him. As soon as the prince arrived at the fair Fiorita's country (she was the king's daughter), he went to the old woman. When she heard that he was the brother of the one who had been so kind to her, she received him like a son. Fortunately, the old woman's house was exactly opposite that side of the king's palace where there was a window to which the fair Fiorita came every day at dawn. Now one morning at that hour she appeared at the window, scarcely covered by a white veil. When the prince saw that flower of beauty, he was so agitated that he would have fallen had not the old woman supported him. The old woman attempted to dissuade him from the idea of marrying the fair Fiorita, saying that the king would give his daughter only to him who should discover a hidden place, and that he killed him who could not find it, and that already many princes had lost their lives for her. But, notwithstanding, he answered that he should die if he could not obtain possession of the fair Fiorita. Having learned afterward from the old woman that the king bought for his daughter the rarest musical instruments, hear what he devised! He went to a cymbal-maker and said: "I want a cymbal that will play three tunes, and each tune to last a day, and to be made in such a way that a man can be hidden inside of it; and I will pay you a thousand ducats for it. When it is finished I will get in it; and you must go and play it in front of the king's palace; and if the king wishes to buy it you will sell it to him on condition that you shall take it every three days to fix it." The cymbal-maker consented, and did all that the prince commanded him. The king purchased the cymbal with the maker's condition, had it carried to his daughter's bed-chamber, and said to her: "See, my daughter, I do not wish you to lack any diversion, even when you are in bed and cannot sleep." Next to the fair Fiorita's chamber slept her maids of honor. In the night when all were asleep, the prince, who was hidden in the cymbal, came out and called: "Fair Fiorita! fair Fiorita!" She awoke in a fright and cried: "Come, my maids of honor, I hear some one calling me." The maids of honor came quickly, but found no one, for the prince hid himself suddenly in the instrument. The same thing happened twice, and the maids coming and finding no one, the fair Fiorita said: "Well, it must be my fancy. If I call you again, do not come, I command you." The prince, within the cymbal, heard this. Scarcely had the maids of honor fallen asleep again, when the prince approached the fair one's bed and said: "Fair Fiorita, give me, I beg you, a kiss from your lips; if you do not, I shall die." She, all trembling, called her maids; but obeying her command, they did not come. Then she said to the prince: "You are fortunate and have won. Draw near." And she gave him the kiss, and on the prince's lips there remained a beautiful rose. "Take this rose," she said, "and keep it on your heart, for it will bring you good luck." The prince placed it on his heart, and then told his fair one all his history from the time he had left his father's palace until he had introduced himself into her chamber by the trick with the cymbal. The fair Fiorita was well pleased, and said that she would willingly marry him; but to succeed, he must perform many difficult tasks which the king would lay upon him. First he must discover the way to a hiding-place where the king had concealed her with a hundred damsels; then he must recognize her among the hundred damsels, all dressed alike and veiled. "But," she said, "you need not trouble yourself about these difficulties, for the rose you have taken from my lips, and which you will always wear over your heart, will draw you like the loadstone, first to the hiding-place, and afterward to my arms. But the king will set you other tasks, and perhaps terrible ones. These you must think of yourself. Let us leave it to God and fortune." The prince went at once to the king, and asked for the fair Fiorita's hand. The king did not refuse it, but made the same conditions, that the princess had told him of. He consented, and by the help of the rose quickly performed the first tasks. "Bravo!" exclaimed the king, when the prince recognized the fair Fiorita among the other damsels; "but this is not enough." Then he shut him up in a large room all full of fruit, and commanded him, under pain of death, to eat it all up in a day. The prince was in despair, but fortunately he remembered the hog's bristles and the advice which his first brother-in-law had given him. He threw the bristles on the ground, and there suddenly came forth a great herd of swine which ate up all the fruit and then disappeared. This task was accomplished. But the king proposed another. He wished the prince to retire with his bride, and cause her to fall asleep at the singing of the birds which are the sweetest to hear and the most beautiful to see. The prince remembered the bunch of feathers given him by his brother-in-law the huntsman, and threw them on the ground. Suddenly there appeared the most beautiful birds in the world, and sang so sweetly that the king himself fell asleep. But a servant awakened him at once, because he had commanded it, and he said to the prince and his daughter: "Now you can enjoy your love at liberty. But to-morrow, on arising, you must present me with a child two years old, who can speak and call you by name. If not, you will both be killed." "Now let us retire, my dear wife," said the prince to the fair Fiorita. "Between now and to-morrow some saint will aid us." The next morning the prince remembered the bone which his brother-in-law the grave-digger had given him. He rose and threw it to the ground, and lo! a beautiful child, with a golden apple in his right hand, who cried papa and mamma. The king entered the room, and the child ran to meet him, and wished to put the golden apple on the crown which the king wore. The king then kissed the child, blessed the pair, and taking the crown from his head, put it on his son-in-law's, saying: "This is now yours." Then they gave a great feast at the court for the wedding, and they invited the prince's three sisters, with their husbands. And the prince's father, receiving such good news of the son whom he believed lost, hastened to embrace him, and gave him his crown too. So the prince and the fair Fiorita became king and queen of two realms, and from that time on were always happy.[23] * * * * * In the above story the wife is won by the performance of difficult tasks by the suitor. A somewhat similar class of stories is the one in which the bride is won by the solution of a riddle. The riddle, or difficult question, is either proposed by the bride herself, and the suitor who fails to answer it is killed, or the suitor is obliged to propose one himself, and if the bride fails to solve it, she marries him; if she succeeds, the suitor is killed. The first of the above two forms is found in three Italian stories, two of which resemble each other quite closely. In the Pentamerone (I. 5, "The Flea"), the King of High-Hill, "being bitten by a flea, caught him by a wonderful feat of dexterity; and seeing how handsome and stately he was, he could not in conscience pass sentence on him upon the bed of his nail. So he put him into a bottle, and feeding him every day with the blood of his own arm, the little beast grew at such a rate that at the end of seven months it was necessary to shift his quarters, for he was grown bigger than a sheep. When the king saw this, he had him flayed, and the skin dressed. Then he issued a proclamation, that whoever could tell to what animal this skin had belonged should have his daughter to wife." The question is answered by an ogre, to whom the king gives his daughter rather than break his promise. The hapless wife is afterward rescued by an old woman's seven sons, who possess remarkable gifts. In Gonz. (No. 22, "The Robber who had a Witch's Head"), a king with three daughters fattens a louse and nails its skin over the door as in the Pentamerone. A robber, who had a witch's head that told him everything he wanted to know, answers the question, and receives in marriage the king's eldest daughter. He takes her home and leaves her alone for a time, and on his return learns from the witch's head that his wife has reviled him. He kills her and marries the second sister, whom he kills for the same reason, and marries the youngest. She is more discreet, and the witch's head can only praise her. One day she finds the head and throws it in the oven; and the robber, whose life was in some way connected with it, died. The wife then anointed her sisters with a life-giving salve, and all three returned to their father's house, and afterward married three handsome princes. The third story, from the Tyrol (Schneller, No. 31, "The Devil's Wife"), is connected with the Bluebeard story which will be mentioned later. A king and queen had an only daughter, who was very pretty and fond of dress. One day she found a louse; and as she did not know what kind of an animal it was, she ran to her mother and asked her. Her mother told her and said: "Shut the louse up in a box and feed it. As soon as it is very large, we will have a pair of gloves made of its skin; these we will exhibit, and whoever of your suitors guesses from the skin of what animal they are made, shall be your husband." The successful suitor is no other than the Devil, who takes his wife home and forbids her to open a certain room. One day, while he is absent, she opens the door of the forbidden chamber, and sees from the flames and condemned souls who her husband is. She is so frightened that she becomes ill, but manages to send word to her father by means of a carrier-pigeon. The king sets out with many brave men to deliver her; on the way he meets three men who possess wonderful gifts (far seeing, sharp ear, great strength), and with their aid rescues his daughter. More frequently, however, this class of stories turns on a riddle proposed by the suitor himself, and which the bride is unable to solve. The following story, which illustrates the latter version, is from Istria (Ive, 1877, p. 13), and is entitled: XIV. BIERDE. Once upon a time there was a mother who had a son, who went to school. One day he came home and said to his mother: "Mother, I want to go and seek my fortune." She replied: "Ah, my son, are you mad? Where do you want to seek it?" "I want to wander about the world until I find it." Now he had a dog whose name was Bierde. He said: "To-morrow morning bake me some bread, put it into a bag, give me a pair of iron shoes, and I and Bierde will go and seek our fortune." His mother said: "No, my son, don't go, for I shall not see you again!" And she wept him as dead. After she was quieted she said to him: "Well, if you will go, to-morrow I will bake you some bread, and I will make you a bread-cake." She made the bread-cake, and put some poison in it; she put the bread and the bread-cake in the bag, and he went away. He walked and walked and walked until he felt hungry, and said to the dog: "Ah, poor Bierde, how tired you are, and how hungry, too! Wait until we have gone a little farther, and then we will eat." He went on, tired as he was, and at last seated himself under a tree, with the dog near him. He said: "Oh, here we are; now we will eat. Wait, Bierde; I will give you a piece of the bread-cake so that you, too, can eat." He broke off a piece of the cake, and gave it to him to eat. The dog was so hungry that he ate it greedily. After he had eaten it he took two or three turns, and fell dead on the ground, with his tongue sticking out. "Ah, poor Bierde!" said his master. "You have been poisoned! My mother has done it! The wretch! She has put poison in the cake in order to kill me!" He kept weeping and saying: "Poor Bierde, you are dead, but you have saved my life!" While he was weeping three crows passed, alighted, and pecked at the tongue of the dog, and all three died. Then he said: "Well, well! _Bierde dead has killed three crows!_ I will take them with me." So he took them and continued his journey. He saw at a distance a large fire; he approached and heard talking and singing, and beheld seven highwaymen, who had eaten a great many birds, and who had a great deal of meat still left. He said to himself: "Poor me! Now I shall have to die; there is no escape; they will certainly take me and kill me!" Then he said: "Enough; I will go ahead." As soon as they saw him they cried: "Stop! Your money or your life!" The poor fellow said: "Brothers, what would you have me give you? Money I have not. I am very hungry. I have nothing but these three birds. If you want them I will give them to you." "Very well," they said; "eat and drink; we will eat the birds." They took the birds, picked them, skinned them, roasted them over the coals, and said to the youth: "We will not give you any of these; you can eat the others." They ate them, and all seven fell down dead. When the youth saw that they did not stir, but were dead, he said: "Well, well! _Bierde dead has killed three, and these three have killed seven!_" He rose and went away after he had made a good meal. On the way he felt hungry again, and sat down under a tree, and began to eat. When he got up he saw a beautiful canary-bird on the top of another tree. He took up a stone and threw at it. The bird flew away. Now, behind this tree was a hare, big with young, and it happened that the stone fell on it and killed it. The youth went to see where the stone fell, and when he saw the dead hare he said: "Well, well! _I threw it at the canary-bird and the stone killed the hare!_ I will take it with me. If I had the fire that those robbers left I would cook it." He went on until he came to a church, in which he found a lighted lamp and a missal. So he skinned the hare, and made a fire with the missal, and roasted and ate the hare. Then he continued his journey until he came to the foot of a mountain, where the sea was. On the shore he saw two persons with a boat, who ferried over those who wished to reach the other shore, because one could not go on foot on account of the great dust, which was suffocating. The price for crossing was three _soldi_. The youth said to the owners of the bark: "How much do you want to set me down on the other bank?" "Three _soldi_." "Take me across, brothers; I will give you two, for I have no more." They replied: "_Two do not enter if there are not three._" He repeated his offer and they made the same answer. Then he said: "Very well. I will stay here." And he remained there. In a moment, however, there came up a shower, and laid the dust, and he went on. He reached a city, and found it in great confusion. He asked: "What is the matter here, that there are so many people?" They answered: "It is the governor's daughter, who guesses everything. He whose riddle she cannot guess is to marry her; but he whose riddle she guesses is put to death." He asked: "Could I, too, go there?" "What, you go, who are a foolish boy! So many students have abstained, and you, so ignorant, wish to go! You will certainly go to your death!" "Well," he said, "my mother told me that she would never see me again, so I will go." He presented himself to the governor and said: "Sir governor, I wish to go to your daughter and see whether she can guess what I have to tell her." "Do you wish," he replied, "to go to your death? So many have lost their lives, do you, also, wish to lose yours?" He answered: "Let me go and try." He wished to go and see for himself. He entered the hall where the daughter was. The governor summoned many gentlemen to hear. When they were all there the governor again said that the youth should reflect that if she guessed what he had to say that he would lose his life. He replied that he had thought of that. The room was full of persons of talent, and the youth presented himself and said:-- "Bierde dead has killed three." She said to herself: "How can it be that one dead should kill three?" "And three have killed seven." She said: "Here is nothing but dead and killed; what shall I do?" She was puzzled at once, and felt herself perplexed. He continued:-- "I threw where I saw, and reached where I did not expect to. I have eaten that which was born, and that which was not born. It was cooked with words. Two do not enter if there are not three; But the hard passes over the soft." When she heard this the governor's daughter could not answer. All the others were astonished likewise, and said that she must marry him. Then he told them all that had happened, and the marriage took place.[24] * * * * * We shall now direct our attention to a class of stories found in all lands, and which may, from one of its most important episodes, be called "The Forgotten Bride." In the ordinary version, the hero, in consequence of some imprecation, sets out in search of the heroine, who is either the daughter or in the custody of ogre or ogress. The hero, by the help of the heroine, performs difficult tasks imposed upon him by her father or mother, etc., and finally elopes with her. The pursuit of father or mother, etc., is avoided by magic obstacles raised in their way, or by transformations of the fugitives. The hero leaves his bride, to prepare his parents to receive her; but at a kiss, usually from his mother, he entirely forgets his bride until she recalls herself to his memory, and they are both united. The trait of difficult tasks performed by the hero is sometimes omitted, as well as flight with magic obstacles or transformations. All the episodes of the above story, down to the forgetting bride at mother's kiss, are found in many stories; notably in the class "True Bride," already mentioned. A Sicilian story (Pitrè, No. 13) will best illustrate this class. It is entitled: XV. SNOW-WHITE-FIRE-RED. There was once a king and queen who had no son, and they were always making vows to obtain one; and they promised that if they had a son, or even a daughter, they would maintain two fountains for seven years: one running wine, the other oil. After this vow the queen gave birth to a handsome boy. As soon as the child was born, the two fountains were erected, and everybody went and took oil and wine. At the end of seven years the fountains began to dry up. An ogress, wishing to collect the drops that still fell from the fountain, went there with a sponge and pitcher. She sopped up the drops with the sponge and then squeezed it in the pitcher. After she had worked so hard to fill this pitcher, the little son of the king, who was playing ball, from caprice threw a ball and broke the pitcher. When the old woman saw this, she said: "Listen. I can do nothing to you, for you are the king's son; but I can bestow upon you an imprecation: May you be unable to marry until you find Snow-white-fire-red!" The cunning child took a piece of paper and wrote down the old woman's words, put it away in a drawer, and said nothing about it. When he was eighteen the king and queen wished him to marry. Then he remembered the old woman's imprecation, took the piece of paper, and said: "Ah! if I do not find Snow-white-fire-red I cannot marry!" When it seemed fit, he took leave of his father and mother, and began his journey entirely alone. Months passed without meeting any one. One evening, night overtook him, tired and discouraged, in a plain in the midst of which was a large house. At daybreak he saw an ogress coming, frightfully tall and stout, who cried: "Snow-white-fire-red, lower your tresses for me to climb up!" When the prince heard this he took heart, and said: "There she is!" Snow-white-fire-red lowered her tresses, which seemed never to end, and the ogress climbed up by them. The next day the ogress descended, and when the prince saw her depart, he came from under the tree where he had concealed himself, and cried: "Snow-white-fire-red, lower your tresses for me to climb up!" She, believing it was her mother (for she called the ogress mother), lowered her tresses, and the prince climbed boldly up. When he was up, he said: "Ah! my dear little sister, how I have labored to find you!" And he told her of the old woman's imprecation when he was seven years old. She gave him some refreshments, and then said: "You see, if the ogress returns and finds you here, she will devour you. Hide yourself." The ogress returned, and the prince concealed himself. After the ogress had eaten, her daughter gave her wine to drink, and made her drunk. Then she said: "My mother, what must I do to get away from here? Not that I want to go, for I wish to stay with you; but I want to know just out of curiosity. Tell me!" "What you must do to get away from here!" said the ogress. "You must enchant everything that there is here, so that I shall lose time. I shall call, and instead of you, the chair, the cupboard, the chest of drawers, will answer for you. When you do not appear, I will ascend. You must take the seven balls of yarn that I have laid away. When I come and do not find you, I shall pursue you; when you see yourself pursued, throw down the first ball, and then the others. I shall always overtake you until you throw down the last ball." Her daughter heard all that she said, and remembered it. The next day the ogress went out, and Snow-white-fire-red and the prince did what they had to do. They went about the whole house, saying: "Table, you answer if my mother comes; chairs, answer if my mother comes; chest of drawers, answer if my mother comes;" and so she enchanted the whole house. Then she and the prince departed in such a hurry that they seemed to fly. When the ogress returned, she called: "Snow-white-fire-red, let down your tresses that I may climb up!" The table answered: "Come, come, mother!" She waited a while, and when no one appeared to draw her up, she called again: "Snow-white-fire-red, lower your tresses for me to climb up!" The chair answered: "Come, come, mother!" She waited a while, but no one appeared; then she called again, and the chest of drawers replied: "Come, come, mother!" Meanwhile the lovers were fleeing. When there was nothing left to answer, the ogress cried out: "Treason! treason!" Then she got a ladder and climbed up. When she saw that her daughter and the balls of yarn were gone, she cried: "Ah, wretch! I will drink your blood!" Then she hastened after the fugitives, following their scent. They saw her afar off, and when she saw them, she cried: "Snow-white-fire-red, turn around so that I can see you." (If she had turned around she would have been enchanted.) When the ogress had nearly overtaken them, Snow-white-fire-red threw down the first ball, and suddenly there arose a lofty mountain. The ogress was not disturbed; she climbed and climbed until she almost overtook the two again. Then Snow-white-fire-red, seeing her near at hand, threw down the second ball, and there suddenly appeared a plain covered with razors and knives. The ogress, all cut and torn, followed after the lovers, dripping with blood. When Snow-white-fire-red saw her near again, she threw down the third ball, and there arose a terrible river. The ogress threw herself into the river and continued her pursuit, although she was half dead. Then another ball, and there appeared a fountain of vipers, and many other things. At last, dying and worn out, the ogress stopped and cursed Snow-white-fire-red, saying: "The first kiss that the queen gives her son, may the prince forget you!" Then the ogress could stand it no longer, and died in great anguish. The lovers continued their journey, and came to a town near where the prince lived. He said to Snow-white-fire-red: "You remain here, for you are not provided with proper clothes, and I will go and get what you need, and then you can appear before my father and mother." She consented, and remained. When the queen beheld her son, she threw herself on him to kiss him. "Mother," said he, "I have made a vow not to allow myself to be kissed." The poor mother was petrified. At night, while he was asleep, his mother, who was dying to kiss him, went and did so. From that moment he forgot all about Snow-white-fire-red. Let us leave the prince with his mother, and return to the poor girl, who was left in the street without knowing where she was. An old woman met her, and saw the poor girl, as beautiful as the sun, weeping. "What is the matter, my daughter?" "I do not know how I came here!" "My daughter, do not despair; come with me." And she took her to her house. The young girl was deft with her hands, and could work enchantment. She made things, and the old woman sold them, and so they both lived. One day the maiden said to the old woman that she wanted two bits of old cloth from the palace for some work she had to do. The old woman went to the palace, and began to ask for the bits, and said so much that at last she obtained them. Now the old woman had two doves, a male and a female, and with these bits of cloth Snow-white-fire-red dressed the doves so prettily that all who saw them marvelled. The young girl took these doves, and whispered in their ears: "You are the prince, and you are Snow-white-fire-red. The king is at the table, eating; fly and relate all that you have undergone." While the king, queen, prince, and many others were at the table, the beautiful doves flew in and alighted on the table. "How beautiful you are!" And all were greatly pleased. Then the dove which represented Snow-white-fire-red began: "Do you remember when you were young how your father promised a fountain of oil and one of wine for your birth?" The other dove answered: "Yes, I remember." "Do you remember the old woman whose pitcher of oil you broke? do you remember?" "Yes, I remember." "Do you remember the imprecation she pronounced on you,--that you could not marry until you found Snow-white-fire-red?" "I remember," replied the other dove. In short, the first dove recalled all that had passed, and finally said: "Do you remember how you had the ogress at your heels, and how she cursed you, saying that at your mother's first kiss you must forget Snow-white-fire-red?" When the dove came to the kiss, the prince remembered everything, and the king and queen were astounded at hearing the doves speak. When they had ended their discourse, the doves made a low bow and flew away. The prince cried: "Ho, there! ho, there! see where those doves go! see where they go!" The servants looked and saw the doves alight on a country house. The prince hastened and entered it, and found Snow-white-fire-red. When he saw her he threw his arms about her neck, exclaiming: "Ah! my sister, how much you have suffered for me!" Straightway they dressed her beautifully and conducted her to the palace. When the queen saw her there, she said: "What a beauty!" Things were soon settled and the lovers were married.[25] * * * * * As we have remarked above, this story is often found incomplete, the ending--"forgetfulness of bride"--being wanting. Several of these versions are from Milan (_Nov. fior._ pp. 411, 415, 417). In the first, "The King of the Sun," a trait occurs that is of some interest. The hero plays billiards with the King of the Sun and wins his daughter. He goes in search of his bride, and at last finds an old man who tells him where the King of the Sun lives, and adds: "In a wood near by is a pond where, in the afternoon, the king's three daughters bathe. Go and carry away their clothes; and when they come and ask for them give them back on condition that they will take you to their father." The hero does as he is told, is taken to the king, and obliged to choose his bride from among the three, with his eyes blindfolded. The remainder of the story consists of the usual flight, with the transformations of the lovers. The incident of the maidens who bathe, and whose clothes the hero steals, is clearly an example of the Swan-maiden myth, and occurs in a few other Italian tales. In a story from the North of Italy (Monferrato, Comparetti, No. 50), "The Isle of Happiness," a poor boy goes to seek his fortune. He encounters an old man who tells him that fortune appears but once in a hundred years, and if not taken then, never is. He adds that this is the very time for fortune to appear--that day or the next--and advises the youth to hide himself in a wood near the bank of a stream, and when three beautiful girls come and bathe, to carry away the clothes of the middle one. He does so, and compels the owner (who is none other than Fortune) to marry him. By his mother's fault he loses his bride, as in the Cupid and Psyche stories, and is obliged to go in search of her to the Isle of Happiness. The same incident occurs in several Sicilian stories. In one (Pitrè, No. 50, "Give me the Veil!") the hero, a poor youth, goes in search of his fortune as in the last story, and meets an old woman who tells him to go to a certain fountain, where twelve doves will come to drink and become twelve maidens "as beautiful as the sun, with veils over their faces," and advises the youth to seize the veil of the most beautiful girl and keep it; for if she obtains it she will become a dove again. The youth does as he is commanded, and takes his wife home, giving the veil to his mother to keep for him. She gives it to the wife, who becomes a dove again, and disappears. The same thing happens twice; the third time the veil is burned, and the wife, who turns out to be the enchanted daughter of the king of Spain, remains with her husband.[26] There yet remains a large and interesting class of stories to be examined. The class may conveniently be termed "Bluebeard," although, as we shall see, there are three versions of this story, to only one of which the above name properly belongs. These three versions are well represented by the three Grimm stories of "The Feather Bird" (No. 46), "The Robber Bridegroom" (No. 40), and "The Wood-cutter's Child" (No. 3). In the first version, which is, properly speaking, the Bluebeard story, two sisters are married in turn and killed by their husband, because they open the forbidden chamber. The youngest sister, although she opens the forbidden door, manages to escape and deliver her sisters, whom she restores to life. In the second version a robber marries several sisters, whom he kills for disobeying his commands (the trait of forbidden chamber is usually wanting); the youngest sister again manages to escape and restores her dead sisters to life. Generally in this version the husband makes a desperate effort to be revenged on the sister who has escaped from him, but fails in this also. In the third version a young girl is under the guardianship of some supernatural being, who forbids her to open a certain door. The child disobeys, denies her fault, and is sent away in disgrace; she afterward marries and her children are taken from her one by one until she confesses her fault, or, as is the case in an Italian version, persists in her denial to the very end. We shall examine these three versions separately, and first give an example of the first, or Bluebeard, class. It is from Venice (Widter-Wolf, No. 11, _Jahrb._ VII. 148), and is entitled: XVI. HOW THE DEVIL MARRIED THREE SISTERS. Once upon a time the Devil was seized with a desire to marry. He therefore left hell, took the form of a handsome young man, and built a fine large house. When it was completed and furnished in the most fashionable style, he introduced himself to a family where there were three pretty daughters, and paid his addresses to the eldest of them. The handsome man pleased the maiden, her parents were glad to see a daughter so well provided for, and it was not long before the wedding was celebrated. When he had taken his bride home, he presented her with a very tastefully arranged bouquet, led her through all the rooms of the house, and finally to a closed door. "The whole house is at your disposal," said he, "only I must request one thing of you; that is, that you do not on any account open this door." Of course the young wife promised faithfully; but equally, of course, she could scarcely wait for the moment to come when she might break her promise. When the Devil had left the house the next morning, under pretence of going hunting, she ran hastily to the forbidden door, opened it, and saw a terrible abyss full of fire that shot up towards her, and singed the flowers on her bosom. When her husband came home and asked her whether she had kept her promise, she unhesitatingly said "Yes;" but he saw by the flowers that she was telling a lie, and said: "Now I will not put your curiosity to the test any longer. Come with me. I will show you myself what is behind the door." Thereupon he led her to the door, opened it, gave her such a push that she fell down into hell, and shut the door again. A few months after he wooed the next sister for his wife, and won her; but with her everything that had happened with the first wife was exactly repeated. Finally he courted the third sister. She was a prudent maiden, and said to herself: "He has certainly murdered my two sisters; but then it is a splendid match for me, so I will try and see whether I cannot be more fortunate than they." And accordingly she consented. After the wedding the bridegroom gave her a beautiful bouquet, but forbade her, also, to open the door which he pointed out. Not a whit less curious than her sisters, she, too, opened the forbidden door when the Devil had gone hunting, but she had previously put her flowers in water. Then she saw behind the door the fatal abyss and her sisters therein. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "poor creature that I am; I thought I had married an ordinary man, and instead of that he is the Devil! How can I get away from him?" She carefully pulled her two sisters out of hell and hid them. When the Devil came home he immediately looked at the bouquet, which she again wore on her bosom, and when he found the flowers so fresh he asked no questions; but reassured as to his secret, he now, for the first time, really loved her. After a few days she asked him if he would carry three chests for her to her parents' house, without putting them down or resting on the way. "But," she added, "you must keep your word, for I shall be watching you." The Devil promised to do exactly as she wished. So the next morning she put one of her sisters in a chest, and laid it on her husband's shoulders. The Devil, who is very strong, but also very lazy and unaccustomed to work, soon got tired of carrying the heavy chest, and wanted to rest before he was out of the street on which he lived; but his wife called out to him: "Don't put it down; I see you!" The Devil went reluctantly on with the chest until he had turned the corner, and then said to himself: "She cannot see me here; I will rest a little." But scarcely had he begun to put the chest down when the sister inside cried out: "Don't put it down; I see you still!" Cursing, he dragged the chest on into another street, and was going to lay it down on a doorstep, but he again heard the voice: "Don't lay it down, you rascal; I see you still!" "What kind of eyes must my wife have," he thought, "to see around corners as well as straight ahead, and through walls as if they were made of glass!" and thus thinking he arrived, all in a perspiration and quite tired out, at the house of his mother-in-law, to whom he hastily delivered the chest, and then hurried home to strengthen himself with a good breakfast. The same thing was repeated the next day with the second chest. On the third day she herself was to be taken home in the chest. She therefore prepared a figure which she dressed in her own clothes, and placed on the balcony, under the pretext of being able to watch him better; slipped quickly into the chest, and had the maid put it on the Devil's back. "The deuce!" said he; "this chest is a great deal heavier than the others; and to-day, when she is sitting on the balcony, I shall have so much the less chance to rest." So by dint of the greatest exertions he carried it, without stopping, to his mother-in-law, and then hastened home to breakfast, scolding, and with his back almost broken. But quite contrary to custom, his wife did not come out to meet him, and there was no breakfast ready. "Margerita, where are you?" he cried; but received no answer. As he was running through the corridors he at length looked out of a window, and saw the figure on the balcony. "Margerita, have you gone to sleep? Come down. I am as tired as a dog, and as hungry as a wolf." But there was no reply. "If you do not come down instantly I will go up and bring you down," he cried, angrily; but Margerita did not stir. Enraged, he hastened up to the balcony, and gave her such a box on the ear that her head flew off, and he saw that the head was nothing but a milliner's form, and the body, a bundle of rags. Raging, he rushed down and rummaged through the whole house, but in vain; he found only his wife's empty jewel-box. "Ha!" he cried; "she has been stolen from me, and her jewels, too!" and he immediately ran to inform her parents of the misfortune. But when he came near the house, to his great surprise he saw on the balcony above the door all three sisters, his wives, who were looking down on him with scornful laughter. Three wives at once terrified the Devil so much that he took his flight with all possible speed. Since that time he has lost his taste for marrying.[27] * * * * * We have already mentioned, in the class of "Bride Won by Solving Riddle," the story in Gonzenbach of "The Robber who had a Witch's Head." In this story, after the robber has married the first princess, he takes her home, and learns from the witch's head, which hangs over the window in a basket, what his wife says of him in his absence. The counterpart of the witch's head is found in several very curious Italian stories. In these a magician is substituted for the robber, and marries, in the same way, several sisters. In the version in Gonzenbach, No. 23 ("The Story of Ohimè"), Ohimè, the magician, leaves his wife for a few days, and before he goes gives her a human bone, telling her she must eat it before his return. The wife throws the bone away; but when the magician returns he calls out: "Bone, where are you?" "Here I am." "Come here, then." Then the bone came, and the magician murdered his wife because she had not done her duty. The second sister is married and killed in the same way. Then the youngest becomes the magician's bride. In her perplexity and grief at her husband's command to eat a human arm during his absence, she invokes her mother's spirit, which tells her to burn the arm to a coal, powder it, and bind it about her body. When the magician returns and asks the arm where it is, it replies: "In Maruzza's body." Then her husband trusted her, and treated her kindly, showing her, among other things, a closet containing flasks of salve which restored the dead to life. He forbade her, however, to open a certain door. Maruzza could not restrain her curiosity, and the first opportunity she had she opened the door, and found in the room a handsome young prince murdered. She restored him to life, heard his story, and then killed him again, so that her husband would not notice it. Then she extracted from her husband the secret of his life: "I cannot be killed, but if any one sticks a branch of this herb in my ears I shall fall asleep, and not wake up again." Maruzza, of course, throws her husband, as soon as possible, into this magic sleep, restores the prince, flies with him, and marries him. Some years after, the branch in the magician's ears withered and fell out, and he awakened. Then he desired to be revenged, and travelled about until he found where his wife lived. Then he had a silver statue made in which he could conceal himself, and in which he placed some musical instruments. He shut himself up in it, and had himself and the statue taken to the palace where Maruzza and her husband lived. In the night, when all were asleep, the magician came out of the statue, carried Maruzza to the kitchen, kindled a fire, and put on some oil to boil, into which he intended to throw poor Maruzza. But just as he was about to do it, the flask which he had laid on the king's bed, and which had thrown him into a magic sleep, rolled off, and the king awoke, heard Maruzza's cries, saved her, and threw the magician into the boiling oil. In spite of his assurances he seems to have been very thoroughly killed.[28] A Florentine story (_Nov. fior._ p. 290), called "The Baker's Three Daughters," is a combination of the Bluebeard and Robber Bridegroom stories. The husband forbids his wife to open a certain door with a gold key, saying: "You cannot deceive me; the little dog will tell me; and, besides, I will leave you a bouquet of flowers, which you must give me on my return, and which will wither if you enter that room." The two sisters yield to their curiosity, and are killed. The third sister kills the treacherous little dog, delivers the prince, as in the last story, flies with him, and the story ends much as the last does. In a Milanese version of this story, with the same title (_Nov. fior._ p. 298), the robber bridegroom takes his wife home, and informs her that it is her duty to watch at night, and open the door to the robbers when they return. The poor wife falls asleep, and is murdered. So with the second sister. The third remains awake, rescues the prince, and flies with him. The rest of the story is as above. Of the third version of the Bluebeard story there are but two Italian examples: one from Sicily (Gonz. No. 20), and one from Pisa (Comparetti, No. 38). The former is entitled "The Godchild of St. Francis of Paula," and is, briefly, as follows: A queen, through the intercession of St. Francis of Paula, has a girl, whom she names Pauline, from the saint. The saint is in the habit of meeting the child on her way to school, and giving her candy. One day the saint tells her to ask her mother whether it is best to suffer in youth or old age. The mother replies that it is better to suffer in youth. Thereupon the saint carries away Pauline, and shuts her up in a tower, climbing up and down by her tresses, as in other stories we have already mentioned. In the tower the saint instructed Pauline in all that belonged to her rank. One day a king climbs up by the hair, and persuades Pauline to fly with him. She consents and becomes his bride. When her first child was born St. Francis came and took it away, rubbed the mother's mouth with blood, and deprived her of speech. Three times this happened, and then the queen was repudiated and confined in a remote room, where she spent her time in praying to St. Francis. Meanwhile the queen-mother arranged another marriage for her son; but during the banquet the saint brought Pauline royal robes, and restored her three children to her. Then he led all four to the banquet-hall, and the happy family lived thereafter in peace and happpiness. The "forbidden chamber" is omitted in the above version, but is found in the Pisan story, "The Woodman." The main idea of the story, however, is curiously distorted. A woodman had three daughters whom he cannot support. One day a lady met him in the wood, and offered to take one of his daughters for a companion, giving him a purse of money, and assuring him that he would always find enough wood. The lady took her home, and told her she must not open a certain door during her absence. The girl did so, however, and saw her mistress in a bath, with two damsels reading a book. She closed the door at once; but when the mistress returned and asked her whether she had disobeyed, and what she had seen, she confessed her fault, and told what she saw. Then the lady cut her head off, hung it by the hair to a beam, and buried the body. The same thing happened to the second sister, who opened the door, and saw the lady sitting at a table with gentlemen. The lady killed her, too, and then took the third sister, who, in spite of having seen her two sisters' heads, could not control her curiosity, and opened the door. She saw her mistress reclining in a beautiful bed. In the evening the lady returned and asked her what she had seen; but she answered: "I have seen nothing." The lady could extort no other answer from her, and finally clothed her in her peasant's dress, and took her back to the wood and left her. The king of the neighboring city happened to pass by, and fell in love with her, and married her. When her first child was born the lady appeared at her bedside, and said: "Now it is time to tell me what you saw." "I saw nothing," replied the young queen. Then the lady carried away the child, having first rubbed the mother's mouth with blood. This happened a second time, and then the king put her away, and prepared to marry again. The first wife was invited to the wedding feast. While at the table the lady appeared under it, and pulled the first wife's dress, and said: "Will you tell what you saw?" The reply was twice: "Nothing." Then the queen fainted. At that moment a carriage drove up to the palace with a great lady in it, who asked to see the king. She told him that it was she who had carried away his children, and added that from her childhood she had been subjected to an enchantment that was to end when she found a person who should say that she had seen nothing in that room. She then brought back the children, and all lived together in peace and joy.[29] One of the most beautiful and touching of all fairy tales is the one known to the readers of Grimm's collection by the title of "Faithful John," and which has such a charming parallel in the story of "Rama and Luxman," in Miss Frere's "Old Deccan Days." There are seven Italian versions of this interesting story, which we shall mention briefly, giving first the shortest entire, as a point of departure. It is from the North of Italy (Comparetti, Monferrato, No. 29), and is called: XVII. IN LOVE WITH A STATUE. There was once a king who had two sons. The eldest did not wish to marry, and the youngest, although he went about everywhere, found no lady to his taste. Now it happened that he once went to a certain city, and there saw a statue with which he fell in love. He bought it, had it carried to his room, and every day embraced and kissed it. One day his father became aware of this, and said to him: "What are you doing? If you want a wife, take one of flesh and bones, and not one of marble." He answered that he would take one exactly like the statue, or none at all. His older brother, who at this time had nothing to do, went out into the world to seek her. On his way he saw in a city a man who had a mouse which danced so that it seemed like a human being. He said to himself: "I will take it home to my brother to amuse himself with." He continued his journey, and, arrived in a more distant town, where he found a bird that sang like an angel, and bought that, too, for his brother. He was on the point of returning home, and was passing through a street, when he saw a beggar knocking at a door. A very beautiful girl appeared at the window, who resembled in every respect the prince's statue, and suddenly withdrew. Then he told the beggar to ask alms again; but the beggar refused, because he feared that the magician, who was then absent, would return home and eat him up. But the prince gave him so much money and other things that he knocked again, and the young girl appeared again, and suddenly withdrew. Then the prince went through the streets, saying that he mended and sold looking-glasses. The servant of the young girl, who heard him, told her mistress to go and see the mirrors. She went, but he told her that if she wanted to select the mirrors she would have to go on board his ship. When she was there, he carried her away, and she wept bitterly and sighed, so that he would let her return home, but it was like speaking to the wall. When they were out at sea, there was heard the voice of a large black bird, saying: "_Ciriù, ciriù!_ what a handsome mouse you have! You will take it to your brother; you will turn his head; and if you tell him of it, you will become marble. _Ciriù, ciriù!_ a fine bird you have; you will take it to your brother; you will turn his head; and if you tell him, you will become marble. _Ciriù, ciriù!_ a fine lady you have; you will take her to your brother; you will turn his head; and if you tell him of it, you will become marble." He did not know how he could tell his brother, because he was afraid of becoming marble. He landed, and took the mouse to his brother; and when he had seen it and wanted it, the elder brother cut off its head. Then he showed him the bird that sang like an angel, and his brother wanted it; but the elder brother again cut off its head. Then he said: "I have something handsomer," and he produced the beautiful girl who looked like the statue. And as the brother who had brought her said nothing, the other feared that he would take her away from him, and had him thrown into prison, where he was a long time; and because he continued to keep silence, he was condemned to death. Three days before he was to die he asked his brother to come and see him, and he consented, although unwillingly. Then the condemned brother said: "A large black bird told me that if I brought you back the dancing mouse, and spoke, I should become a statue." And saying this, he became a statue to the waist. "And if, bringing you the singing bird, I spoke, it would be the same." Then he became a statue to his breast. "And if, bringing you the lady, I spoke, I should become a statue." Then he became a statue all over, and his brother began to lament in despair, and tried to restore him to life. All kinds of physicians came, but none succeeded. Finally there came one who said that he was capable of turning the statue into a man provided they gave him what he needed. The king said he would do so, and the physician demanded the blood of the king's two children; but the mother would on no account consent. Then the king gave a ball, and while his wife was dancing he had the two children killed, and bathed with their blood the statue of his brother, and the statue straightway became a man and went to the ball. The mother, when she beheld him, suddenly thought of her children. She ran to them and found them half dead, and fainted away. All around sought to console and encourage her; but when she opened her eyes and saw the physician, she cried: "Out of my sight, ugly wretch! It is you who have caused my children to be killed." He answered: "Pardon me, my lady, I have done no harm. Go and see whether your children are there!" She ran to see, and found them alive and making a great noise. Then the physician said: "I am the magician, your father, whom you forsook, and I have wished to show you what it is to love one's children." Then they made peace, and remained happy and contented. * * * * * In the Venetian version (Teza, _La Trad. dei Sette Sari_, p. 26), called "Mela and Buccia," from the names of the prince and his friend, while the two friends are spending the night in a deserted castle, Buccia hears a voice foretelling the dangers to which Mela will be exposed. His horse will throw him if Buccia does not kill it; a dragon will devour him on his wedding night if Buccia does not kill it; and finally, the queen's pet dog will mortally wound him if Buccia does not kill it. If, however, Buccia reveals what he has heard, he will turn to stone. Buccia acts accordingly, and the king forgives him everything but killing the queen's pet dog; for that Buccia is condemned to be hung. Then he relates all, and gradually turns to stone from his feet up. The king, queen, and Buccia's mother are inconsolable until they are informed by an old woman that the blood of the little prince will bring the statue back to life. The faithful friend is by that means restored, and the child also saved. In this version the abduction is wanting, and the last danger is not the one usually threatened. In a version from Siena (Gradi, _Vigilia_, p. 64), one of two brothers goes in search of the "Princess with Blonde Tresses." He also buys a parrot and a horse, and the dangers are: he who touches the parrot will have his eyes put out; he who mounts the horse will be thrown; he who marries the fair one will be devoured by a dragon; and he who reveals these dangers will become stone. The remainder of the story is like the last version. The Florentine version (_Nov. fior._ p. 421) is mixed up with a number of other incidents. The dangers from which the prince is saved by his faithful servant are: poisoned apples, poisoned pastry, and a lion in the royal chamber. The servant is turned to stone and restored, as in the other versions. In a Mantuan story (_Fiabe mant_, No. 9), the dangers are: parrot, horse, and bride; whoever touches these will be devoured by a dragon; whoever reveals these dangers will become stone. The conclusion is the same as above. The last version we shall mention here is in the Pentamerone (IV. 9), and resembles the one from Monferrato. The elder brother, who goes in search of a bride for his younger brother, buys a falcon and a horse. The first will pick out the younger brother's eyes; the horse will throw him, and finally a dragon will devour him on his wedding night. The remainder of the story is as usual.[30] We shall conclude this chapter with the class of stories in which giants are outwitted by men. The simplest form is found in two stories which are interesting examples of the survival of classic myths. Both stories are from Sicily, and one was told to Pitrè by a girl eight years old (Pitrè, No. 51). It is entitled "The Little Monk," and is, in substance, as follows: There were once two monks who went begging for the church every year. One was large and the other small. They lost their way once and came to a large cave, in which was a monster (lit. animal, _armalu_), who was building a fire. The two monks, however, did not believe it was a monster, but said: "Let us go and rest there." They entered, and saw the monster killing a sheep and roasting it. He had already killed and cooked twenty. "Eat!" said the monster to them. "We don't want to eat; we are not hungry." "Eat, I tell you!" After they had eaten the sheep, they lay down, and the monster closed the entrance to the cave with a great stone. Then he took a sharp iron, heated it in the fire, and stuck it in the throat of the larger of the two monks, roasted the body, and wanted the other monk to help eat it. "I don't want to eat," said he; "I am full." "Get up!" said the monster. "If you don't I will kill you." The wretched monk arose in fright, seated himself at the table, and pretended to eat, but threw the flesh away. In the night the good man took the iron, heated it, and plunged it in the monster's eyes. Then the monk in his terror slipped into the skin of a sheep. The monster felt his way to the entrance of the cave, removed the stone, and let the sheep out one by one; and so the good man escaped and returned to Trapani, and told his story to some fishermen. The monster went fishing, and being blind, stumbled against a rock and broke his head. The other version is from the Albanian colony of Piana de' Greci (Comparetti, No. 70), in Sicily, and is substantially the same as the story just given.[31] Generally, however, the stories in which giants are outwitted by men are more complicated, and may be divided into two classes: one where the giant is outwitted by superior cunning, the other where the giant's stupidity is deceived by the man's braggadocio. The first class may be represented by a Sicilian story (Pitrè, No. 33), entitled: XVIII. THIRTEENTH. There was once a father who had thirteen sons, the youngest of whom was named Thirteenth. The father had hard work to support his children, but made what he could gathering herbs. The mother, to make the children quick, said to them: "The one who comes home first shall have herb soup." Thirteenth always returned the first, and the soup always fell to his share, on which account his brothers hated him and sought to get rid of him. The king issued a proclamation in the city that he who was bold enough to go and steal the ogre's coverlet should receive a measure of gold. Thirteenth's brothers went to the king and said: "Majesty, we have a brother, named Thirteenth, who is confident that he can do that and other things too." The king said: "Bring him to me at once." They brought Thirteenth, who said: "Majesty, how is it possible to steal the ogre's coverlet? If he sees me he will eat me!" "No matter, you must go," said the king. "I know that you are bold, and this act of bravery you must perform." Thirteenth departed and went to the house of the ogre, who was away. The ogress was in the kitchen. Thirteenth entered quietly and hid himself under the bed. At night the ogre returned. He ate his supper and went to bed, saying as he did so: "I smell the smell of human flesh; Where I see it I will swallow it!" The ogress replied: "Be still; no one has entered here." The ogre began to snore, and Thirteenth pulled the coverlet a little. The ogre awoke and cried: "What is that?" Thirteenth began to mew like a cat. The ogress said: "Scat! scat!" and clapped her hands, and then fell asleep again with the ogre. Then Thirteenth gave a hard pull, seized the coverlet, and ran away. The ogre heard him running, recognized him in the dark, and said: "I know you! You are Thirteenth, without doubt!" After a time the king issued another proclamation, that whoever would steal the ogre's horse and bring it to the king should receive a measure of gold. Thirteenth again presented himself, and asked for a silk ladder and a bag of cakes. With these things he departed, and went at night to the ogre's, climbed up without being heard, and descended to the stable. The horse neighed on seeing him, but he offered it a cake, saying: "Do you see how sweet it is? If you will come with me, my master will give you these always." Then he gave it another, saying: "Let me mount you and see how we go." So he mounted it, kept feeding it with cakes, and brought it to the king's stable. The king issued another proclamation, that he would give a measure of gold to whoever would bring him the ogre's bolster. Thirteenth said: "Majesty, how is that possible? The bolster is full of little bells, and you must know that the ogre awakens at a breath." "I know nothing about it," said the king. "I wish it at any cost." Thirteenth departed, and went and crept under the ogre's bed. At midnight he stretched out his hand very softly, but the little bells all sounded. "What is that?" said the ogre. "Nothing," replied the ogress; "perhaps it is the wind that makes them ring." But the ogre, who was suspicious, pretended to sleep, but kept his ears open. Thirteenth stretched out his hand again. Alack! the ogre put out his arm and seized him. "Now you are caught! Just wait; I will make you cry for your first trick, for your second, and for your third." After this he put Thirteenth in a barrel, and began to feed him on raisins and figs. After a time he said: "Stick out your finger, little Thirteenth, so that I can see whether you are fat." Thirteenth saw there a mouse's tail, and stuck that out. "Ah, how thin you are!" said the ogre; "and besides, you don't smell good! Eat, my son; take the raisins and figs, and get fat soon!" After some days the ogre told him again to put out his finger, and Thirteenth stuck out a spindle. "Eh, wretch! are you still lean? Eat, eat, and get fat soon." At the end of a month Thirteenth had nothing more to stick out, and was obliged to show his finger. The ogre cried out in joy: "He is fat, he is fat!" The ogress hastened to the spot: "Quick, my ogress, heat the oven three nights and three days, for I am going to invite our relatives, and we will make a fine banquet of Thirteenth." The ogress heated the oven three days and three nights, and then released Thirteenth from the barrel, and said to him: "Come here, Thirteenth; we have got to put the lamb in the oven." But Thirteenth caught her meaning; and when he approached the oven, he said: "Ah, mother ogress, what is that black thing in the corner of the oven?" The ogress stooped down a little, but saw nothing. "Stoop down again," said Thirteenth, "so that you can see it." When she stooped down again, Thirteenth seized her by the feet and threw her into the oven, and then closed the oven door. When she was cooked, he took her out carefully, cut her in two, divided her legs into pieces, and put them on the table, and placed her trunk, with her head and arms, in the bed, under the sheet, and tied a string to the chin and another to the back of her head. When the ogre arrived with his guests he found the dishes on the table. Then he went to his wife's bed and asked: "Mother ogress, do you want to dine?" Thirteenth pulled the string, and the ogress shook her head. "How are you, tired?" And Thirteenth, who was hidden under the bed, pulled the other string and made her nod. Now it happened that one of her relatives moved something and saw that the ogress was dead, and only half of her was there. She cried in a loud voice: "Treason! treason!" and all hastened to the bed. In the midst of the confusion Thirteenth escaped from under the bed and ran away to the king with the bolster and the ogre's most valuable things. After this, the king said to Thirteenth: "Listen, Thirteenth. To complete your valiant exploits, I wish you to bring me the ogre himself, in person, alive and well." "How can I, your Majesty?" said Thirteenth. Then he roused himself, and added: "I see how, now!" Then he had a very strong chest made, and disguised himself as a monk, with a long, false beard, and went to the ogre's house, and called out to him: "Do you know Thirteenth? The wretch! he has killed our superior; but if I catch him! If I catch him, I will shut him up in this chest!" At these words the ogre drew near and said: "I, too, would like to help you, against that wretch of an assassin, for you don't know what he has done to me." And he began to tell his story. "But what shall we do?" said the pretended monk. "I do not know Thirteenth. Do you know him?" "Yes, sir." "Then tell me, father ogre, how tall is he?" "As tall as I am." "If that is so," said Thirteenth, "let us see whether this chest will hold you; if it will hold you, it will hold him." "Oh, good!" said the ogre; and got into the chest. Then Thirteenth shut the chest and said: "Look carefully, father ogre, and see whether there is any hole in the chest." "There is none." "Just wait; let us see whether it shuts well, and is heavy to carry." Meanwhile Thirteenth shut and nailed up the chest, took it on his back, and hastened to the city. When the ogre cried: "Enough, now!" Thirteenth ran all the faster, and, laughing, sang this song to taunt the ogre: "I am Thirteenth, Who carry you on my back; I have tricked you and am going to trick you. I must deliver you to the king." When he reached the king, the king had an iron chain attached to the ogre's hands and feet, and made him gnaw bones the rest of his miserable life. The king gave Thirteenth all the riches and treasures he could bestow on him, and always wished him at his side, as a man of the highest valor.[32] * * * * * The second version of the above story, in which the giant is deceived by the hero's braggadocio, is represented by several Italian stories; the simplest are some Milanese versions (_Nov. fior._ pp. 575-580), one of which (_Ibid._ p. 575) is as follows: XIX. THE COBBLER. There was once a cobbler who one day was so tired of cobbling that he said: "Now I will go and seek my fortune." He bought a little cheese and put it on the table. It got full of flies, and he took an old shoe, and hit the cheese and killed all the flies. He afterward counted them, and five hundred were killed, and four hundred wounded. He then girded on a sword, and put on a cocked hat, and went to the court, and said to the king: "I am the chief warrior of the flies. Four hundred I have killed, and five hundred I have wounded." The king answered: "Since you are a warrior, you will be brave enough to climb that mountain there, where there are two magicians, and kill them. If you kill them, you shall marry my daughter." Then he gave him a white flag to wave when he had killed them. "And sound the trumpet, you will put his head in a bag, both the heads, to show me." The cobbler then departed, and found a house, which was an inn, and the innkeeper and his wife were none other than the magician and his wife. He asked for lodging and food, and all he needed. Afterward he went to his room; but before going to bed, he looked up at the ceiling. There he saw a great stone over the bed. Instead of getting into bed, he got into a corner. When a certain hour struck, the magicians let the stone drop and it crushed the whole bed. The next morning the cobbler went down and said that he could not sleep for the noise. They told him they would change his room. The same thing happened the next night, and in the morning they told him they would give him another room. When it was a certain hour, the husband and wife went to the forest to cut a bundle of fagots. Then the magician went home; and the cobbler, who had made ready a sickle, said: "Wait until I help you to take the bundle off your back." Then he gave the magician a blow with the sickle and cut off his head. He did the same thing when the magician's wife returned. Then he unfurled his flag, and sounded his trumpet, and the band went out to meet him. After he had arrived at the court, the king said to him: "Now that you have killed the two magicians, you shall marry my daughter." But the cobbler had got so used to drawing the thread that he did so in his sleep, and kept hitting his wife, so that she could not rest. Then the king gave him a great deal of money and sent him home.[33] * * * * * A more detailed version is found in a Sicilian story in Gonzenbach, "The Brave Shoemaker" (No. 41), the first part of which is like the Milanese version. On his way to the giant's, the cobbler makes some balls of plaster of Paris and cream-cheese, and puts them in his pocket. When he heard the giant coming through the woods, he climbed a tree; but the giant scented him, and told him to come down. The cobbler answered that if he did not leave him alone he would twist his neck; and to show him how strong he was, he crushed the balls of plaster of Paris in his hands, telling the giant they were marble. The giant was frightened, and invited the cobbler to remain with him, and took him home. After a while, the giant asked him to bring some water in a pitcher from the well. The cobbler said that if the giant would give him a strong rope he would bring the well itself. The giant in terror took the pitcher, and drew the water himself. Then the giant asked the cobbler to cut some wood, but the latter asked for a strong rope to drag a whole tree to the house with. Then the giant proposed a trial of strength, to see which could carry a heavy stick the longer. The cobbler said that the giant had better wind something about the thick end, for when he, the cobbler, turned a somersault with it, he might hit the giant. When they went to bed, the giant made the cobbler sleep with him; but the latter crept under the bed, leaving a pumpkin in his place. The giant, who was anxious to get rid of the cobbler, took an iron bar and struck at the pumpkin all night, believing it the cobbler's head. After he had beaten the pumpkin to pieces, the cobbler, under the bed, gave a sigh. "What is the matter with you?" asked the terrified giant. "A flea has just bitten my ear," answered the cobbler. The next day the cobbler proposed to the giant to cook a great kettle of macaroni, and after they had eaten it, he would cut open his stomach to show the giant that he had eaten it without chewing it; the giant was to do the same afterward. The cobbler, of course, secretly tied a sack about his neck, and put his macaroni in it; then he took a knife and ripped open the bag, and the macaroni fell out. The giant, in attempting to follow the cobbler's example, killed himself. Then the cobbler cut his head off, carried it to the king, and claimed his daughter's hand.[34] The stories given in this chapter constitute, as we have already said in the Introduction, but a small part of Italian fairy tales. They represent, however, as well as our space will allow, the great fairy cycles, so to speak. As our purpose has been to give only those stories which have been taken down from the mouths of the people, we have not drawn, except for purposes of reference, upon the Pentamerone, one of the most original and charming collections of fairy tales in any language. Enough has been given, we trust, to show how the Italians have treated the themes familiar to us from childhood, and to furnish the scholar with additional material for comparison. CHAPTER II. FAIRY TALES CONTINUED. The fairy tales given in the last chapter belong to what may be called the great fairy tale cycles; that is, to extensive classes that are typical forms. It remains to notice in this chapter those stories which do not belong to any of these typical classes, but constitute, so to speak, independent forms. The reader has perhaps noticed in the fairy tales of the first chapter the conspicuous absence of the fairies to which we are accustomed in German or Celtic stories. We have met ogres and magicians with magic powers, old men and women, and hermits who have aided the hero and heroine, and played the rôle of the "good fairy," but the fairy in the bright shape in which we see her in French and Irish stories, for example, has been wanting. It will not be amiss, then, to give a few stories in which the fairies play a more important part. We shall first mention a curious story in which the fairies are represented in one of their most usual rôles--that of bestowing good gifts. The story is from Sicily (Gonz. No. 73), and is entitled: XXV. THE KING WHO WANTED A BEAUTIFUL WIFE. There was once a king who wanted to marry. But his wife must be more beautiful than the sun, and no matter how many maidens he saw, none was beautiful enough to suit him. Then he called his trusty servant, and commanded him to seek everywhere and see whether he could find a beautiful girl. The servant set out, and wandered through the whole land, but found none who seemed handsome enough to him. One day, however, after he had run about a great deal and was very thirsty, he came to a little house. He knocked and asked for a drink of water. Now there dwelt in the house two very old women,--one eighty and the other ninety years old,--who supported themselves by spinning. When the servant asked for water, the one eighty years old rose, opened a little wicket in the shutter, and handed him out the water. From spinning so much, her hands were very white and delicate; and when the servant saw them he thought, "It must be a handsome maiden, for she has such a delicate white hand." So he hastened to the king, and said: "Your royal Majesty, I have found what you seek; so and so has happened to me." "Very well," answered the king, "go once more and try to see her." The servant returned to the little house, knocked, and asked again for some water. The old woman did not open the window, but handed him the pitcher through the little opening in the shutter. "Do you live here all alone?" asked the servant. "No," she answered. "I live here with my sister; we are poor girls and support ourselves by the work of our hands." "How old are you, then?" "I am fifteen and my sister twenty." The servant went back to the king and told him all, and the king said: "I will take the one who is fifteen. Go and bring her to me." When the servant returned to the two old women, and told them that the king wished to elevate the younger to the position of his wife, she answered: "Tell the king I am ready to do his will. Since my birth no ray of the sun has ever struck me, and if a ray of the sun or a beam of light should strike me now, I would become perfectly black. Ask the king, therefore, to send a closed carriage for me at night, and I will come to his palace." When the king heard this he sent royal apparel and a closed carriage, and at night the old woman covered her face with a thick veil and rode to the palace. The king received her joyfully, and begged her to lay aside the veil. She replied: "There are too many lighted candles here; their light would make me black." So the king married her without having seen her face. When they came into the king's chamber, however, and she removed her veil, the king saw for the first time what an ugly old woman he had married, and in his rage he opened the window and threw her out. Fortunately there was a nail in the wall, on which she caught by her clothes, and remained hanging between heaven and earth. Four fairies chanced to pass by, and when they saw the old woman hanging there, one of them cried: "See, sisters, there is the old woman who cheated the king; shall we wish her dress to tear and let her fall?" "Oh, no! let us not do that," cried the youngest and most beautiful of the fairies. "Let us rather wish her something good. I wish her youth." "And I, beauty." "And I, prudence." "And I, a good heart." Thus the fairies cried, and while they were yet speaking the old woman became a wondrous fair maiden. The next morning, when the king looked out of the window and saw the beautiful girl hanging there, he was terrified, and thought: "Unhappy man! What have I done! Had I no eyes last night?" Then he had her carefully taken down with long ladders, and begged her pardon, saying: "Now we will have a great festival and be right happy." So they celebrated a splendid feast, and the young queen was the fairest in the whole city. But one day the sister ninety years old came to the palace to visit the queen, her sister. "Who is this ugly creature?" asked the king. "An old neighbor of mine who is half-witted," replied the queen, quickly. The old woman kept looking at her rejuvenated sister, and asked: "What did you do to become so young and lovely? I, too, would like to be young and pretty again." She kept asking this the whole day, until the queen finally lost her patience, and said: "I had my old skin taken off, and this new, smooth skin came to light." The old woman went to a barber and said: "I will give you what you will to remove my old skin, so that I may become young and handsome again." "But good old woman, you will surely die if I skin you." The old woman would not listen to him, and at last he had to do her will. He took his knife and made a cut in her forehead. "Oh!" cried the old woman. "Who will look fair Must grief and pain bear," answered the barber. "Then skin away, master," said the old woman. The barber kept cutting on, until all at once the old woman fell down dead.[1] * * * * * This story leads quite naturally to the class in which gifts, good and bad, are bestowed by the fairies on two persons, one of whom is deserving of good fortune; the other, of punishment or reproof. The simplest form of this story is found in a Milanese tale (_Nov. fior._ p. 190). XXVI. THE BUCKET. There was once a mother who had two daughters: one was bad and the other was very good. But the mother loved the bad one more than the good one. She said one day to the bad one: "Go and draw a bucket of water." The bad one did not want to go, and so she would not obey her mother. The good daughter, however, said: "I will go and draw it." She went to draw the water, and the bucket fell down the well. She said: "If I go home now without the bucket, who knows what my mother will do to me?" So she climbed down the well, and at the bottom found a narrow passage, with a door. She knocked at the door. "Have you not found a cord and bucket?" There was a saint there, who answered: "No, my child." She continued her way and found another door. "Have you not found a cord and bucket?" "No!" That was the devil there. He answered her angrily because she was a good girl; he did not say: "My child." She knocked at another door. "Have you not found a cord and bucket?" It was the Madonna who replied: "Yes, my child. Listen. You could do me a pleasure to stay here while I am away. I have my little son here, to whom you will give his soup; you will sweep and put the house in order. When I come home I will give you your bucket." The Madonna went away, and the good girl put the house in order, gave the child his broth, swept the house; and while she was sweeping, instead of finding dirt, she found coral and other beautiful things. She saw that it was not dirt, and put it aside to give the Madonna when she returned. When the Madonna came back, she asked: "Have you done all I told you to do?" The good girl answered: "Yes, but I have kept these things here; I found them on the ground; it is not dirt." "Very well; keep them for yourself. Would you like a dress of calico, or one of silk?" The girl answered: "No, no! a calico dress." Instead of that, the Madonna gave her the silk one. "Do you wish a brass thimble, or a silver one?" "Give me the brass one." "No, take the silver thimble. Here is the bucket and your cord. When you reach the end of this passage, look up in the air." The girl did so, and a beautiful star fell on her brow. She went home, and her mother ran to meet her to scold her for being away so long; and was about to strike her, when she saw the star on her brow, which shone so that it was beautiful to see, and said: "Where have you been until now? Who put that thing on your forehead?" The girl answered: "I don't know what there is there." Her mother tried to wash it away, but instead of disappearing, it shone more beautiful than ever. Then the girl told what had happened to her, and the other sister wished to go there, too. She went, and did the same as her sister. She let the bucket fall, climbed down, and knocked at the saint's door. "Have you not found a cord and bucket?" "No, my child." She knocked at the next door. "Have you not found a cord and bucket?" The devil answered: "No, I have not found them; but come here, my child, come here." But when she heard that he had not found her bucket, she said: "No, I will go on." She knocked at the Madonna's door. "Have you not found a cord and bucket?" The Madonna said that she had. "I am going away: you will give my son his broth, and then you will sweep. When I return I will give you your bucket." Instead of giving the broth to the child, the bad girl ate it herself. "Oh!" she said, "how good it was!" She swept and found a great deal of dirt. "Oh, poor me! My sister found so many pretty things!" The Madonna returned. "Have you done what I told you?" "Yes." "Do you wish the brass or silver thimble?" "Oh! I want the silver one!" She gave her the brass one. "Do you want the calico dress or the silk one?" "Give me the silk dress." She gave her the calico dress. "Here is your bucket and cord. When you are out of here, look up into the air." When she was out she looked up into the air and there fell on her forehead a lump of dirt that soiled her whole face. She went home in a rage to weep and scold her sister because she had had the star, while she had that dirt on her face. Her mother began to wash her face and rub it; and the more she did so the less the dirt went away. Then the mother said: "I understand; the Madonna has done this to show me that I loved the bad girl and neglected the good one."[2] * * * * * In other versions (mentioned in the note to the above story) the two sisters receive different gifts from the fairies. In a Sicilian tale (Pitrè, No. 62) it is the children of unlike sisters who receive the gifts: the one, beauty. When she combs her hair jewels fall from it; when she washes the water becomes full of fishes; when she opens her mouth flowers fall out; her cheeks are like apples; and finally she can finish her work in a short time. The cousin receives, of course, gifts the very reverse of the above. The story ends with the trait of "True Bride," mentioned at length in Chapter I. There is still a third version of the above story, which is popular in many lands. The following example is from Florence (_Nov. fior._ p. 559), and is entitled: XXVII. THE TWO HUMPBACKS. There were once two companions who were humpbacks, but one more so than the other. They were both so poor that they had not a penny to their names. One of them said: "I will go out into the world, for here there is nothing to eat; we are dying of hunger. I want to see whether I can make my fortune." "Go," said the other. "If you make your fortune, return, and I will go and see if I can make mine." So the humpback set off on his journey. Now these two humpbacks were from Parma. When the humpback had gone a long way, he came to a square where there was a fair, at which everything was sold. There was a person selling cheese, who cried out: "Eat the little Parmesan!" The poor humpback thought he meant him, so he ran away and hid himself in a court-yard. When it was one o'clock, he heard a clanking of chains and the words "Saturday and Sunday" repeated several times. Then he answered: "And Monday." "Oh, heavens!" said they who were singing. "Who is this who has harmonized with our choir?" They searched and found the poor humpback hidden. "O gentlemen!" he said, "I have not come here to do any harm, you know!" "Well! we have come to reward you; you have harmonized our choir; come with us!" They put him on a table and removed his hump, healed him, and gave him two bags of money. "Now," they said, "you can go." He thanked them and went away without his hump. He liked it better, you can believe! He returned to his place at Parma, and when the other humpback saw him he exclaimed: "Does not that look just like my friend? But he had a hump! It is not he! Listen! You are not my friend so and so, are you?" "Yes, I am," he replied. "Listen! Were you not a humpback?" "Yes. They have removed my hump and given me two bags of money. I will tell you why. I reached," he continued, "such and such a place, and I heard them beginning to say, '_Eat the little Parmesan! eat the little Parmesan!_' I was so frightened that I hid myself." (He mentioned the place--in a court-yard.) "At a certain hour, I heard a noise of chains and a chorus singing: '_Saturday and Sunday._' After two or three times, I said: '_And Monday._' They came and found me, saying that I had harmonized their chorus, and they wanted to reward me. They took me, removed my hump, and gave me two bags of money." "Oh, heavens!" said the other humpback. "I want to go there, too!" "Go, poor fellow, go! farewell!" The humpback reached the place, and hid himself precisely where his companion had. After a while he heard a noise of chains, and the chorus: "Saturday and Sunday!" Then another chorus: "And Monday!" After the humpback had heard them repeat: "Saturday and Sunday, and Monday!" several times, he added: "And Tuesday!" "Where," they exclaimed, "is he who has spoiled our chorus? If we find him, we will tear him in pieces." Just think! they struck and beat this poor humpback until they were tired; then they put him on the same table on which they had placed his companion, and said: "Take that hump and put it on him in front." So they took the other's hump and fastened it to his breast, and then drove him away with blows. He went home and found his friend, who cried: "Mercy! is not that my friend? but it cannot be, for this one is humpbacked in front. Listen," he said, "are you not my friend?" "The same," he answered, weeping. "I did not want to bear my own hump, and now I have to carry mine and yours! and so beaten and reduced, you see!" "Come," said his friend, "come home with me, and we will eat a mouthful together; and don't be disheartened." And so, every day, he dined with his friend, and afterward they died, I imagine.[3] * * * * * There are a number of Sicilian stories in which one's fate is personified and appears in the rôle of a guardian angel, or good and bad fairy. In the same way fortune is personified in several stories. The best example of the former class, which has also a point of contact with the latter, is found in Gonzenbach, No. 21, and is entitled: XXVIII. THE STORY OF CATHERINE AND HER FATE. There was once a merchant who was very rich and had greater treasures than the king. In his reception room stood three wonderfully beautiful seats. One was of silver, the second of gold, and the third of diamonds. This merchant had an only daughter, whose name was Catherine, and who was fairer than the sun. One day as Catherine was sitting in her chamber, the door suddenly opened of itself, and there entered a tall, beautiful lady, who held in her hand a wheel. "Catherine," said she, "when would you rather enjoy your life, in youth or in old age?" Catherine gazed at her in amazement, and could make no answer. The beautiful lady again asked: "Catherine, when would you rather enjoy your life, in youth or in old age?" Then thought Catherine: "If I say in youth, I must suffer for it in old age; wherefore I will rather enjoy my life in old age, and in youth God's will be done." So she answered: "In old age." "Be it as you have wished," said the beautiful woman, turned her wheel once, and disappeared. Now this beautiful tall lady was poor Catherine's Fate. A few days later, her father suddenly received news that some of his ships had been wrecked in a storm; a few days after, he learned that several more of his ships had foundered; and to cut the matter short, scarcely a month had passed when he was himself deprived of all his riches. He had to sell all that he had, and this, too, he lost, until at last he remained poor and wretched. From grief he fell ill and died. So poor Catherine remained all alone in the world, without a penny, and with no one to give her shelter. She thought: "I will go to another city and seek me a place there." So she set out and walked until she came to another city. As she was going through the streets a noble lady happened to be standing by the window, and asked her: "Where are you going, all alone, pretty maiden?" "Ah! noble lady, I am a poor girl, and would like to find a place to earn my bread. Can you not find use for me?" So the noble lady received her, and Catherine served her faithfully. Some days later the lady said one evening: "Catherine, I must go out for a time, and will lock the house door." "Very well," said Catherine, and after her mistress had gone she took her work and sat down and sewed. Suddenly the door opened, and her Fate entered. "So?" she cried, "are you here, Catherine? and do you think now that I am going to leave you in peace?" With these words, her Fate ran to all the cupboards, dragged out the linen and clothes of Catherine's mistress, and tore everything into a thousand pieces. Catherine thought: "Woe is me if my mistress returns and finds everything in this condition; she will certainly kill me!" And in her anguish she opened the door and fled. Her Fate, however, gathered up all the torn and ruined things, made them whole, and laid them away in their places. When the mistress returned she called Catherine, but Catherine was nowhere to be seen. "Can she have robbed me?" she thought; but when she looked about, nothing was gone. She was very much astonished, but Catherine did not return, but hastened on until she came to another city. As she was passing through the streets, another lady, standing by the window, asked her: "Where are you going, all alone, pretty maiden?" "Ah! noble lady, I am a poor girl, and would like a place to earn my bread. Can you not make use of me?" Then the lady took her in, and Catherine served her and thought now she could rest in peace. It lasted, however, but a few days. One evening, when her mistress was out, her Fate appeared again and addressed her harshly: "So, here you are now? Do you think you can escape me?" Then the Fate tore and destroyed everything that it found, so that poor Catherine again fled, in her anguish of heart. To cut the matter short, poor Catherine led this frightful life seven years, flying from one city to another, and everywhere attempting to find a place. Her Fate always appeared after a few days, and tore and destroyed her employers' things, so that the poor girl had to flee. As soon as she had left the house the Fate restored everything and put it in its place. Finally, after seven years, her Fate seemed weary of always persecuting the unfortunate Catherine. One day Catherine came again to a city and saw a lady standing at a window, who asked her: "Where are you going, all alone, pretty girl?" "Ah! noble lady, I am a poor girl, and would like to find a place to earn my bread. Can you not find use for me?" The lady answered: "I will give you a place willingly, but you must perform daily a service, and I do not know whether you have strength for it." "Tell me what it is," said Catherine, "and if I can, I will do it." "Do you see yonder high mountain?" asked the lady. "Every morning you must carry up there a large board covered with fresh bread, and cry with a loud voice: 'O my mistress' Fate! O my mistress' Fate! O my mistress' Fate!' thrice. Then my Fate will appear and receive the bread." "I will do that willingly," said Catherine, and the lady took her into her service. Now Catherine remained years with this lady, and every morning she took a board with fresh bread and carried it up the mountain, and when she had called three times: "O my mistress' Fate!" there appeared a beautiful tall lady, who received the bread. Catherine often wept when she thought that she, who had once been so rich, must now serve like a poor maid. One day her mistress said to her: "Catherine, why do you weep so much?" Then Catherine told her how ill it had fared with her, and her mistress said: "I will tell you what, Catherine, when you take the bread to the mountain to-morrow, ask my Fate to try and persuade your Fate to leave you now in peace. Perhaps that will do some good." This advice pleased poor Catherine, and the next morning, after she had taken the bread to her mistress' Fate, she disclosed her trouble to her, and said: "O my mistress' Fate, beg my Fate to persecute me no longer." Then the Fate answered: "Ah, poor girl, your Fate is just now covered with seven coverlets, so that she cannot hear you; but when you come to-morrow I will take you to her." After Catherine had returned home, her mistress' Fate went to the young girl's Fate and said: "Dear sister, why are you never weary of making poor Catherine suffer? Permit her again to see some happy days." The Fate answered: "Bring her to me to-morrow and I will give her something that will help her out of all her trouble." When Catherine brought the bread the next morning, her mistress' Fate conducted her to her own Fate, who was covered with seven coverlets. Her Fate gave her a small skein of silk, and said: "Preserve it carefully; it will be of use to you." Then Catherine went home and said to her mistress: "My Fate has given me a little skein of silk; what shall I do with it? It is not worth three _grani_." "Well," said her mistress, "preserve it; who knows of what use it may be?" Now it happened, some time after this, that the young king was to marry, and on that account had royal garments made for himself. As the tailor was about to sew a beautiful dress, there was no silk of the same color to be found. So the king proclaimed throughout the whole land that whoever had such silk should bring it to the court and would be well rewarded. "Catherine," said her mistress, "your skein is of that color; take it to the king so that he may make you a handsome present." Then Catherine put on her best clothes, and went to the Court; and when she appeared before the king, she was so beautiful that he could not keep his eyes from her. "Royal Majesty," said she, "I have brought you a little skein of silk, of the color that could not be found." "I will tell you what, royal Majesty," cried one of his ministers, "we will pay the maiden for the silk with its weight in gold." The king was satisfied and they brought a balance; in one scale the king laid the silk, in the other, a gold coin. Now just imagine what happened: no matter how many gold coins the king laid in the scale, the silk was always heavier. Then the king had a larger balance brought, and threw all his treasures into the scale, but the silk still weighed the more. Then the king at last took his crown from his head and placed it with all the other treasures, and behold! the scale with gold sank and weighed exactly as much as the silk. "Where did you get this silk?" asked the king. "Royal Majesty, it was a present from my mistress," answered Catherine. "No, that is impossible," cried the king. "If you do not tell me the truth, I will have your head cut off." Then Catherine related all that had happened to her since she was a rich maiden. Now there lived at the court a wise lady, who said: "Catherine, you have suffered much, but you will now see happy days; and that it was not until the golden crown was put in the scale that the balance was even, is a sign that you will be a queen." "If she is to be a queen," cried the king, "I will make her one, for Catherine and none other shall be my wife." And so it was; the king informed his betrothed that he no longer wished her, and married the fair Catherine. And after Catherine in her youth had suffered so much, she enjoyed nothing but happiness in her old age, and was happy and contented.[4] * * * * * In the class of stories of which "The Bucket" is an example, we have seen the good sister rewarded, and the naughty one punished. Another well-known moral story is the one in which a king's daughter is punished for her pride, in refusing to marry a suitable lover, by being made to marry the first one who asks her hand. This is the case in the Grimm story "King Thrush-Beard," or rather the king gives his proud daughter to the first beggar who comes to the palace gate. The same occurs in one of the Italian versions of this story, but usually the haughty princess, after refusing a noble suitor, either falls in love with the same suitor, who has disguised himself as a person of ignoble rank, or she sells herself to the disguised lover for some finery with which he tempts her. At all events, her pride is thoroughly humbled. An example of the more common version is found in Coronedi-Berti's Bolognese tales (No. 15), and is as follows: XXIX. THE CRUMB IN THE BEARD. There was once a king who had a daughter whose name was Stella. She was indescribably beautiful, but was so whimsical and hard to please that she drove her father to despair. There had been princes and kings who had sought her in marriage, but she had found defects in them all and would have none of them. She kept advancing in years, and her father began to despair of knowing to whom he should leave his crown. So he summoned his council, and discussed the matter, and was advised to give a great banquet, to which he should invite all the princes and kings of the surrounding countries, for, as they said, there cannot fail to be among so many, some one who should please the princess, who was to hide behind a door, so that she could examine them all as she pleased. When the king heard this advice, he gave the orders necessary for the banquet, and then called his daughter, and said: "Listen, my little Stella, I have thought to do so and so, to see if I can find any one to please you; behold, my daughter, my hair is white, and I must have some one to leave my crown to." Stella bowed her head, saying that she would take care to please him. Princes and kings then began to arrive at the court, and when it was time for the banquet, they all seated themselves at the table. You can imagine what sort of a banquet that was, and how the hall was adorned: gold and silver shone from all their necks; in the four corners of the room were four fountains, which continually sent forth wine and the most exquisite perfumes. While the gentlemen were eating, Stella was behind a door, as has been said, and one of her maids, who was near by, pointed out to her now this one, now that one. "See, your Majesty, what a handsome youth that is there." "Yes, but he has too large a nose." "And the one near your father?" "He has eyes that look like saucers." "And that other at the head of the table?" "He has too large a mouth; he looks as if he liked to eat." In short, she found fault with all but one, who, she said, pleased her, but that he must be a very dirty fellow, for he had a crumb on his beard after eating. The youth heard her say this, and swore vengeance. You must know that he was the son of the king of Green Hill, and the handsomest youth that could be seen. When the banquet was finished and the guests had departed, the king called Stella and asked: "What news have you, my child?" She replied, that the only one who pleased her was the one with the crumb in his beard, but that she believed him to be a dirty fellow and did not want him. "Take care, my daughter, you will repent it," answered her father, and turned away. You must know that Stella's chamber looked into a court-yard into which opened the shop of a baker. One night, while she was preparing to retire, she heard, in the room where they sifted the meal, some one singing so well and with so much grace that it went to her heart. She ran to the window and listened until he finished. Then she began to ask her maid who the person with the beautiful voice could be, saying she would like to know. "Leave it to me, your Majesty," said the maid; "I will inform you to-morrow." Stella could not wait for the next day; and, indeed, early the next day she learned that the one who sang was the sifter. That evening she heard him sing again, and stood by the window until everything became quiet. But that voice had so touched her heart that she told her maid that the next day she would try and see who had that fine voice. In the morning she placed herself by the window, and soon saw the youth come forth. She was enchanted by his beauty as soon as she saw him, and fell desperately in love with him. Now you must know that this was none other than the prince who was at the banquet, and whom Stella had called "dirty." So he had disguised himself in such a way that she could not recognize him, and was meanwhile preparing his revenge. After he had seen her once or twice he began to take off his hat and salute her. She smiled at him, and appeared at the window every moment. Then they began to exchange words, and in the evening he sang under her window. In short, they began to make love in good earnest, and when he learned that she was free, he began to talk about marrying her. She consented at once, but asked him what he had to live on. "I haven't a penny," said he; "the little I earn is hardly enough to feed me." Stella encouraged him, saying that she would give him all the money and things he wanted. To punish Stella for her pride, her father and the prince's father had an understanding, and pretended not to know about this love affair, and let her carry away from the palace all she owned. During the day Stella did nothing but make a great bundle of clothes, of silver, and of money, and at night the disguised prince came under the balcony, and she threw it down to him. Things went on in this manner some time, and finally one evening he said to her: "Listen. The time has come to elope." Stella could not wait for the hour, and the next night she quietly tied a cord about her and let herself down from the window. The prince aided her to the ground, and then took her arm and hastened away. He led her a long ways to another city, where he turned down a street and opened the first door he met. They went down a long passage; finally they reached a little door, which he opened, and they found themselves in a hole of a place which had only one window, high up. The furniture consisted of a straw bed, a bench, and a dirty table. You can imagine that when Stella saw herself in this place she thought she should die. When the prince saw her so amazed, he said: "What is the matter? Does the house not please you? Do you not know that I am a poor man? Have you been deceived?" "What have you done with all the things I gave you?" "Oh, I had many debts, and I have paid them, and then I have done with the rest what seemed good to me. You must make up your mind to work and gain your bread as I have done. You must know that I am a porter of the king of this city, and I often go and work at the palace. To-morrow, they have told me, the washing is to be done, so you must rise early and go with me there. I will set you to work with the other women, and when it is time for them to go home to dinner, you will say that you are not hungry, and while you are alone, steal two shirts, conceal them under your skirt, and carry them home to me." Poor Stella wept bitterly, saying it was impossible for her to do that; but her husband replied: "Do what I say, or I shall beat you." The next morning her husband rose with the dawn, and made her get up, too. He had bought her a striped skirt and a pair of coarse shoes, which he made her put on, and then took her to the palace with him, conducted her to the laundry and left her, after he had introduced her as his wife, saying that she should remember what awaited her at home. Then the prince ran and dressed himself like a king, and waited at the gate of the palace until it was time for his wife to come. Meanwhile poor Stella did as her husband had commanded, and stole the shirts. As she was leaving the palace, she met the king, who said: "Pretty girl, you are our porter's wife, are you not?" Then he asked her what she had under her skirt, and shook her until the shirts dropped out, and the king cried: "See there! the porter's wife is a thief; she has stolen some shirts." Poor Stella ran home in tears, and her husband followed her when he had put on his disguise again. When he reached home Stella told him all that had happened and begged him not to send her to the palace again; but he told her that the next day they were to bake, and she must go into the kitchen and help, and steal a piece of dough. Everything happened as on the previous day. Stella's theft was discovered, and when her husband returned he found her crying like a condemned soul, and swearing that she had rather be killed than go to the palace again. He told her, however, that the king's son was to be married the next day, and that there was to be a great banquet, and she must go into the kitchen and wash the dishes. He added that when she had the chance she must steal a pot of broth and hide it about her so that no one should see it. She had to do as she was told, and had scarcely concealed the pot when the king's son came into the kitchen and told his wife she must come to the ball that had followed the banquet. She did not wish to go, but he took her by the arm and led her into the midst of the festival. Imagine how the poor woman felt at that ball, dressed as she was, and with the pot of broth! The king began to poke his sword at her in jest, until he hit the pot, and all the broth ran on the floor. Then all began to jeer her and laugh, until poor Stella fainted away from shame, and they had to go and get some vinegar to revive her. At last the king's mother came forward and said: "Enough; you have revenged yourself sufficiently." Then turning to Stella: "Know that this is your mother, and that he has done this to correct your pride and to be avenged on you for calling him dirty." Then she took her by the arm and led her to another room, where her maids dressed her as a queen. Her father and mother then appeared and kissed and embraced her. Her husband begged her pardon for what he had done, and they made peace and always lived in harmony. From that day on she was never haughty, and had learned to her cost that pride is the greatest fault.[5] * * * * * A curious feature in Italian stories is the part played by dolls or puppets. They sometimes serve to represent an absent mistress, or to take her place and receive the brunt of the husband's anger. The most peculiar of these doll-stories are found in the south of Italy; the one that follows is from Naples (_Nov. fior._ p. 333) and is entitled: XXX. THE FAIRY ORLANDA. There was once a merchant who had no children. He was obliged to go away for merchandise. His wife said to him: "Here is a ring; put it on your finger. You must bring me a doll as large as I am; one that can move, sew, and dress herself. If you forget, this ring will turn red, and your steamer will go neither forward nor backward." And so it happened. He forgot the doll, embarked on the steamer, and it would not move. The pilot said: "Sir, have you forgotten anything?" to all the gentlemen who were there. "No, sir; nothing." At the end of the steamer was this merchant. "Sir, have you forgotten anything; for the steamer cannot move?" He looked at his hand and replied: "Yes, I have forgotten something--my wife's doll." He landed, got the doll, reëmbarked, and the steamer continued its way. On his arrival at Naples, he carried the doll to his wife, well dressed and elegant; it seemed like a very handsome young girl. His wife, well pleased, talked to the doll, and they both worked near the balcony. Opposite lived a king's son, who fell in love with the doll, and became ill from his passion. The queen, who saw that her son was ill, asked: "My son, what is the matter with you? Tell your mamma. To-day or to-morrow we die, and you reign; and if you take an illness and die, who will reign?" He answered: "Mamma, I have taken this illness because there is a young girl, the daughter of the merchant who lives opposite, who is so beautiful that she has enamored me." The queen said: "Yes, my son, I shall marry you to her. Were she the daughter of a scavenger, you shall marry her." "You would do a good thing. Now let us send for the merchant." They sent a servant to the merchant's house. "Her Majesty wishes you at the palace!" "What does she want?" "She must speak with you." The merchant went to the palace, and asked: "Majesty, what do you wish?" "Have you a daughter?" "No, Majesty." "What do you mean? My son has fallen ill from the love he has conceived for your daughter." "Your Majesty, I tell you it is a doll, and not a human being." "I don't want to hear nonsense! If you don't present your daughter to me in a fortnight, your head will fall under the guillotine." (Do you not know what the guillotine is? It is the gallows. He was to be hung if he did not take her his daughter within a fortnight.) The merchant went home, weeping. His wife said: "What is the matter; what has the king said to you at the palace, to make you weep?" "Can you not guess what has happened to me? The king's son has fallen ill for the sake of the doll you have!" "He has fallen ill? did he not see that it was a doll?" "He would not believe it, and says it is my daughter, and that if I do not bring her to him within a fortnight, my head will fall under the guillotine." "Well," said his wife, "take the doll, and carry her out into the country, and see what will happen." He did so, and while he was going along, all confused, he met an old man who asked him: "Merchant, what are you doing?" "Ah, my old man, why should I tell you?" "I know all." Then said the merchant: "Since you know all, find some remedy for my life." The old man said: "Exactly. Go to such and such a place, where there is a fairy, who is called the fairy Orlanda. She has a palace with no doorkeeper, and no stairway. Here is a violin and a silk ladder. When you reach this palace, begin to play. The fairy and all her twelve maidens will appear at the window. This fairy Orlanda can give you help." The merchant continued his journey, and found the palace without a doorkeeper, and with no stairway. He began to play the violin, and the fairy and all her twelve damsels appeared and said: "What do you want that you call us?" "Ah! fairy Orlanda, help me!" "What help do you want?" "I have this doll, and the king's son has fallen in love with it, and is ill. What shall I do? If I do not present her to him in a fortnight my head will be cut off." The fairy Orlanda said: "Put this ladder to the wall. Give me the doll. Wait two hours and I will give her back to you again." He waited two hours and then the fairy appeared: "Here is your daughter. She will speak to all, to the king, to the queen, but not to the prince. Farewell." The fairy Orlanda disappeared within, and the merchant departed with his daughter. He took her home to his wife. The doll said: "Mamma, how do you do?" "I am very well, my daughter. Where have you been?" "I have been into the country with papa, and now I have returned." In a fortnight the merchant dressed her elegantly and carried her to the palace. As soon as the king saw her he said to the queen: "My son was right; she is a beautiful girl!" She went into the gallery and spoke with the king and queen, but did not speak to the prince. The mortified prince thought: "She speaks to papa, she speaks to mamma, but not to me! What does it mean? Perhaps she does not speak to me from embarrassment." They were married, but even then she did not speak to him. So the prince was obliged to separate from her, and they lived in two rooms apart. The prince, meanwhile, courted another princess. One morning, while he was breakfasting with his sweetheart, his wife called a servant: "Come here; is the prince at table?" "Yes, Highness." "Wait!" She cut off her two hands and put them in the oven, and there came out a roast, with ten sausages. "Carry these to the prince." "Prince, the princess sends you this." He asked: "How was it made?" The servant replied: "Prince, she cut off her two hands and put them in the oven. She amazed me." "Enough," said the prince, "let us eat them." His sweetheart said: "I can do it, too." So she cut off her hands and put them in the oven; but they were burned and she died. "Oh, what have you done to me! you have killed one for me!" said the prince. After a time he made love to another. The first time he sat at table with her, the princess called another servant: "Servant, where are you going?" "I am going, Majesty, to the prince's table." "Wait!" She cut off her arms, and put them in the oven, and there came out a roast, with two blood-puddings. She said: "Carry it to the prince, at table." "Prince!" "Go away, I don't want to hear any nonsense." "But listen; let me tell you!" "Well, tell away." So the servant told how the princess had cut off her arms (which had grown out again) and put them in the oven, and the roast and puddings had come out. The second sweetheart tried to do the same and died. After a while the prince fell in love with another, and the same thing was repeated. The princess cut off her legs and put them in the oven, and a large roast came out, with two larded hams. The third sweetheart tried to do the same, and died like the others. Then the prince said: "Ah! she has done it to three for me! Unhappy me! I will not make love to any more." During the night when the princess had gone to bed, the lamp said: "Lady, I want to drink." "Oil-cruet, give the lamp a drink." "Lady, it has hurt me." "Oil-cruet, why did you hurt the lamp? How beautiful is the fairy Orlanda! How beautiful is the fairy Orlanda! How beautiful is the fairy Orlanda!" So she did all night until day. All these things were enchanted: the lamp and the oil-cruet. The prince, who heard it, said one day to a servant: "This evening you must enter the princess' room. You must spend the night under her bed. You must see what she does in the night." The servant did so, and the same thing was repeated with the lamp and the oil-cruet. The servant told the prince, who said: "To-night, I will go." At night he crept under his wife's bed. The same thing was repeated. The lamp said: "Lady, I want to drink!" "Oil-cruet, give the lamp a drink." "Lady, it has hurt me." "Oil-cruet, why have you hurt the lamp? How beautiful is the fairy Orlanda!" The whole night she repeated: "How beautiful is the fairy Orlanda!" The prince responded: "Blessed be the fairy Orlanda!" "Ah!" said the princess, "did it need so much to say a word?" Then they embraced and kissed each other, and remained contented and happy.[6] * * * * * We now pass to an amusing class of stories, in which the hero comes in possession of enchanted objects and loses them, finally regaining them in various ways. There are three versions of this class. In the first, the hero loses the objects by the cunning of a woman, and regains them by means of two kinds of fruits, one of which produces some bodily defect and the other cures it. In the second, the episode of the fruits is wanting, and the owner regains his property either by preventing the princess from cheating him at play or by making her fall in love with him. In the third, a person (usually a landlord) substitutes worthless objects for two enchanted ones, which are recovered by means of a third magic object (usually a stick), which beats until the stolen property is restored.[7] To illustrate the first version, we will give a Sicilian story from Gonzenbach (No. 31), which is entitled: XXXI. THE SHEPHERD WHO MADE THE KING'S DAUGHTER LAUGH. There was once a king and a queen who had an only daughter, whom they loved very dearly. When she was fifteen years old she became suddenly very sad and would not laugh any more. So the king issued a proclamation that whoever made his daughter laugh, whether he were a prince, peasant, or beggar, should become her husband. Many made the attempt, but none succeeded. Now there was a poor woman who had an only son, who was idle and would not learn any trade; so finally his mother sent him to a farmer to keep his sheep. One day, as he was driving the sheep over the fields, he came to a well, and bent over it to drink. As he did so he saw a handsome ring on the wheel, and as it pleased him, he put it on the ring finger of his right hand. He had scarcely put it on, however, when he began to sneeze violently, and could not stop until he had accidentally removed the ring. Then his sneezing ceased as suddenly as it had begun. "Oh!" thought he, "if the ring has this virtue, I had better try my fortune with it, and see whether it will not make the king's daughter laugh." So he put the ring on his left hand, and no longer had to sneeze. Then he drove the sheep home, took leave of his master, and set out toward the city where the king lived. He was obliged, however, to pass through a dense forest which was so extensive that it grew dark before he left it. He thought: "If the robbers find me here they will take away my ring, and then I should be a ruined man. I would rather climb a tree and spend the night there." So he climbed a tree, tied himself fast with his belt, and soon fell asleep. Before long, thirteen robbers came and sat down under the tree, and talked so loud that the shepherd awoke. The captain of the robbers said: "Let each relate what he has accomplished to-day;" and each exhibited what he had taken. The thirteenth, however, pulled out a tablecloth, a purse, and a whistle, and said: "I have gained to-day the greatest treasures, for these three things I have taken from a monk, and each of them has a particular virtue. If any one spreads out the tablecloth and says: 'My little tablecloth, give me macaroni, or roast meat,' or whatever one will, he will find everything there immediately. Likewise the purse will give all the money one wants; and whoever hears the whistle must dance whether he will or no." The robbers at once put the power of the tablecloth to the test, and then went to sleep, the captain laying the precious articles near himself. When they were all snoring hard the shepherd descended, took the three articles, and crept away. The next day he came to the city where the king lived, and went straight to the palace. "Announce me to the king," said he to the servants; "I will try to make the king's daughter laugh." The servants tried to dissuade him, but he insisted on being led before the king, who took him into a large room, in which was the king's daughter, sitting on a splendid throne and surrounded by the whole court. "If I am to make the princess laugh," said the shepherd to the king, "you must first do me the kindness to put this ring on the ring-finger of your right hand." The king had scarcely done so when he began to sneeze violently, and could not stop, but ran up and down the room, sneezing all the time. The entire court began to laugh, and the king's daughter could not stay sober, but had to run away laughing. Then the shepherd went up to the king, took off the ring, and said: "Your Majesty, I have made the princess laugh; to me belongs the reward." "What! you worthless shepherd!" cried the king. "You have not only made me the laughing-stock of the whole court, but now you want my daughter for your wife! Quick! take the ring from him, and throw him into prison." While there the wonderful tablecloth provides him and his companions with plenty to eat, and when it is discovered and taken from him by the king's orders, the purse enables them all to live in comfort. That is also discovered, and nothing is left but the whistle. "Well!" thought the shepherd, "if we can't eat any more, we will at least dance;" and he pulled out his pipe and began to play on it, and all the prisoners began to dance, and the guards with them, and between them all they made a great noise. When the king heard it he came running there with his servants, and had to dance like all the rest, but found breath enough to order the pipe to be taken away from the shepherd, and all became quiet again. So now the shepherd had nothing left, and remained in prison some time, until he found an old file, and one night filed through the iron bars and escaped. He wandered about all day, and at last came to the same forest where he had formerly been. All at once he saw a large fig-tree bearing the most beautiful fruit,--on one side black figs, on the other, white ones. "That is something I have never seen," thought the shepherd,--"a fig-tree that bears black and white figs at the same time. I must try them." Scarcely had he tasted them when he felt something move on the top of his head, and putting his hand up, found he had two long horns. "Unhappy man!" he cried; "what shall I do?" However, as he was very hungry, he picked some of the white figs and ate them, and immediately one of the horns disappeared, and also the other after he had eaten a few more white figs. "My fortune is made!" he thought. "The king will have to give me all my things back, and his daughter in the bargain." The shepherd disguised himself and went to the city with two baskets of figs,--one of the black and one of the white kind, the former of which he sold to the king's cook, whom he met in the market place. While the king was at the table the servant put the figs before him, and he was much pleased with them, and gave some to his wife and daughter; the rest he ate himself. Scarcely had they eaten them when they saw with terror the long horns that had grown from their heads. The queen and her daughter began to weep, and the king, in a rage, called the cook and asked him who had sold him the figs. "A peasant in the market," answered the cook. "Go at once and bring him here," cried the king. The shepherd had remained near the palace, and as the cook came out, he went up to him with the basket of white figs in his hand. "What miserable figs did you sell me this morning!" cried out the cook to him. "As soon as the king, queen, and princess had eaten your figs, great horns grew on their heads." "Be quiet," said the shepherd; "I have a remedy here, and can soon remove the horns. Take me to the king." He was led before the king, who asked him what kind of figs he had sold. "Be quiet, your Majesty," said the shepherd, "and eat these figs," at the same time giving him a white one; and as soon as the king had eaten it one of the horns disappeared. "Now," said the shepherd, "before I give you any more of my figs you must give me back my whistle; if not, you may keep your horn." The king in his terror gave up the whistle, and the shepherd handed the queen a fig. When one of the queen's horns had disappeared, he said: "Now give me my purse back, or else I will take my figs away." So the king gave him his purse, and the shepherd removed one of the princess' horns. Then he demanded his tablecloth; and when he had received it he gave the king another fig, so that the second horn disappeared. "Now give me my ring," he said; and the king had to give him his ring before he would remove the queen's horn. The only one left now was the princess, and the shepherd said: "Now fulfil your promise and marry me to the princess; otherwise she may keep her horn as long as she lives." So the princess had to marry him, and after the wedding he gave her another fig to eat, so that her last horn also disappeared. They had a merry wedding, and when the old king died the shepherd became king, and so they remained contented and happy, and were like a bundle of roots.[8] * * * * * The second version of this story is represented by but three examples, none of them worth giving at length. In one (_Pomiglianesi_, p. 110) the princess wins the magic objects (purse, cloak that renders invisible, and horn that blows out soldiers) at play. The loser disguises himself as a priest and confesses the princess when she is ill, and makes her give back the objects she has won or stolen. In a Florentine version (_Nov. fior._ p. 349), the owner of the objects, a poor shepherd's son, pretends to be the son of the king of Portugal. He plays with the princess and wins, but his true origin is discovered and he is thrown into prison. There he makes use of the magic tablecloth, which he sells to the king for the privilege of passing a night in the princess' room. The same payment is asked for the box that fills itself with money, and the little organ that makes every one dance. The shepherd, of course, becomes the princess' husband and inherits the kingdom when the king dies. In the Sicilian story (Pitrè, No. 26) the fairies give Peter the purse, tablecloth, and violin, and he goes to play chess with the daughter of the king of Spain, who is to marry whoever beats her at the game. She cheats and wins, and Peter is thrown into prison. There he uses the tablecloth, and when the princess hears of it, she proposes to play for it. Again she cheats by changing a chessman while Peter is looking away, and the loser is thrown into prison again. They play again for the magic violin, and Peter, who has been warned in prison by other losers of the princess' tricks, keeps a sharp lookout, detects, and defeats her. They are married, and Peter releases all the defeated players from jail, and afterward gets rid of them by means of the violin.[9] The third version is the most popular one; the following example of it is from Nerucci's collection of Montalese tales (No. 43). XXXII. THE ASS THAT LAYS MONEY. There was once a poor widow with an only son, and whose brother-in-law was a steward. One day she said to her child: "Go to your uncle and ask him to give you something to keep you from starving." The boy went to the farm and asked his uncle to help him a little. "We are dying of hunger, uncle. My mother earns a little by weaving, and I am too small to find anything. Be charitable to us, for we are your relatives." The steward answered: "Why not? You should have come sooner and I would have helped you the sooner. But now I will give you something to support you always, without need of anything more. I will give you this little ass that lays money. You have only to put a cloth under him, and he will fill it for you with handsome coins. But take care! Don't tell it, and don't leave this animal with any one." The youth departed in joy, and after he had travelled a long way, he stopped at an inn to sleep, for his house was distant. He said to the landlord: "Give me a lodging, but look! my ass spends the night with me." "What!" said the landlord, "what are you thinking about! It cannot be." The youth replied: "Yes, it can be, because my ass does not leave my side." They disputed a while, but the landlord finally consented; but he had some suspicions; and when the boy and his beast were shut in the room, he looked through the key-hole, and saw that wonder of an ass that laid money in abundance. "Bless me!" cried the host. "I should be a fool, indeed, if I let this piece of good fortune escape my hands!" He at once looked for another ass of the same color and size, and while the lad was asleep, exchanged them. In the morning the boy paid his bill and departed, but on the way, the ass no longer laid any money. The stupefied child did not know what to think at first, but afterward examining it more closely, it appeared to him that the ass was not his, and straightway he returned to the innkeeper, to complain of his deception. The landlord cried out: "I wonder at your saying such a thing! We are all honest people here, and don't steal anything from anybody. Go away, blockhead, or you will find something to remember a while." The child, weeping, had to depart with his ass, and he went back to his uncle's farm, and told him what had happened. The uncle said: "If you had not stopped at the innkeeper's, you could not have met with this misfortune. However, I have another present to help you and your mother. But take care! Do not mention it to any one, and take good care of it. Here it is. I give you a tablecloth, and whenever you say: '_Tablecloth, make ready_,' after having spread it out, you will see a fine repast at your pleasure." The youth took the tablecloth in delight, thanked his uncle, and departed; but like the fool he was, he stopped again at the same inn. He said to the landlord: "Give me a room and you need not prepare anything to eat. I have all I want with me." The crafty innkeeper suspected that there was something beneath this, and when the lad was in his room, he looked through the key-hole, and saw the tablecloth preparing the supper. The host exclaimed: "What good luck for my inn! I will not let it escape me." He quickly looked for another tablecloth like this one, with the same embroidery and fringe, and while the child was sleeping, he exchanged it for the magic one, so that in the morning the lad did not perceive the knavery. Not until he had reached a forest where he was hungry, did he want to make use of the tablecloth. But it was in vain that he spread it out and cried: "_Tablecloth, make ready._" The tablecloth was not the same one, and made nothing ready for him. In despair the boy went back to the innkeeper to complain, and the landlord would have thrashed him if he had not run away, and he ran until he reached his uncle's. His uncle, when he saw him in such a plight, said: "Oh! what is the matter?" "Uncle!" said the boy, "the same innkeeper has changed the tablecloth, too, for me." The uncle was on the point of giving the dunce a good thrashing; but afterward, seeing that it was a child, he calmed his anger, and said: "I understand; but I will give you a remedy by which you can get back everything from that thief of a landlord. Here it is! It is a stick. Hide it under your bolster; and if any one comes to rob you of it, say to it, in a low voice: '_Beat, beat!_' and it will continue to do so until you say to it, '_Stop_.'" Imagine how joyfully the boy took the stick! It was a handsome polished stick, with a gold handle, and delighted one only to see it. So the boy thanked his uncle for his kindness, and after he had journeyed a while, he came to the same inn. He said: "Landlord, I wish to lodge here to-night." The landlord at once drew his conclusions about the stick, which the boy carried openly in his hands, and at night when the lad appeared to be sound asleep, but really was on the watch, the landlord felt softly under the bolster and drew out the stick. The boy, although it was dark, perceived the theft and said in a low voice: "_Beat, beat, beat!_" Suddenly blows were rained down without mercy; everything broken to pieces, the chest of drawers, the looking-glass, all the chairs, the glass in the windows; and the landlord, and those that came at the noise, beaten nearly to death. The landlord screamed to split his throat: "Save me, boy, I am dead!" The boy answered: "What! I will not deliver you, if you do not give me back my property,--the ass that lays gold, and the tablecloth that prepares dinner." And if the landlord did not want to die of the blows, he had to consent to the boy's wishes. When he had his things back, the boy went home to his mother and told her what had happened to him, and then said: "Now, we do not need anything more. I have an ass that lays money, a tablecloth that prepares food at my will, and a stick to defend me from whoever annoys me." So that woman and her son, who, from want had become rich enough to cause every one envy, wished from pride to invite their relatives to a banquet, to make them acquainted with their wealth. On the appointed day the relatives came to the woman's new house; but noon strikes, one o'clock strikes, it is almost two, and in the kitchen the fire is seen extinguished, and there were no provisions anywhere. "Are they playing a joke on us?" said the relatives. "We shall have to depart with dry teeth." At that moment, however, the clock struck two, and the lad, after spreading the cloth on the table, commanded: "Tablecloth, prepare a grand banquet." In short, those people had a fine dinner and many presents in money, and the boy and his mother remained in triumph and joy.[10] * * * * * The next story to which we shall direct our attention is "Puss in Boots," which, in the form known to our children, is of French origin, being one of the tales which Perrault made so popular by his versions. Before Perrault, however, two literary versions of this story existed: one in Straparola and one in the Pentamerone. There are, besides, several popular versions of this story, which are somewhat peculiar. The one that follows is from Sicily (Pitrè, No. 88). XXXIII. DON JOSEPH PEAR. There were once three brothers who owned a pear-tree and lived on the pears. One day one of the brothers went to pick these pears, and found that they had been gathered. "Oh! my brothers! what shall we do, for our pears have been picked?" So the eldest went and remained in the garden to guard the pear-tree during the night. He fell asleep, however, and the next morning the second brother came and said: "What have you done, my brother? Have you been sleeping? Do you not see that the pears have been picked? To-night I will stay." That night the second brother remained. The next morning the youngest went there and saw more of the pears picked, and said: "Were you the one that was going to keep a good watch? Go, I will stay here to-night; we shall see whether they can cheat me to my face." At night the youngest brother began to play and dance under the pear-tree; while he was not playing, a fox, believing that the youth had gone to sleep, came out and climbed the tree and picked the rest of the pears. When it was coming down the tree, the youth quickly aimed his gun at it and was about to shoot. The fox said: "Don't shoot me, Don Joseph; for I will have you called Don Joseph Pear, and will make you marry the king's daughter." Don Joseph answered: "And where shall I see you again? What has the king to do with you? With one kick that he would give you, you would never appear before him again." However, Don Joseph Pear from pity let her escape. The fox went away to a forest and caught all sorts of game, squirrels, hares, and quails, and carried them to the king; so that it was a sight. "Sir Majesty, Don Joseph Pear sends me; you must accept this game." The king said: "Listen, little fox, I accept this game; but I have never heard this Don Joseph Pear mentioned." The fox left the game there, and ran away to Don Joseph. "Softly, Don Joseph, I have taken the first step; I have been to the king, and carried him the first game; and he accepted it." A week later the fox went to the forest, caught the best animals, squirrels, hares, birds, and took them to the king. "Sir Majesty, Don Joseph Pear sends me to you with this game." The king said to the fox: "My daughter, I don't know who this Don Joseph Pear is; I am afraid you have been sent somewhere else! I will tell you what: have this Don Joseph Pear come here, so that I can make his acquaintance." The fox wished to leave the game, and said: "I am not mistaken; my master sent me here; and for a token, he said that he wished the princess for his wife." The fox returned to Don Joseph Pear, and said to him: "Softly, things are going well; after I have been to the king again, the matter is settled." Don Joseph said: "I will not believe you until I have my wife." The fox now went to an ogress and said: "Friend, friend, have we not to divide the gold and silver?" "Certainly," said the ogress to the fox; "go and get the measure and we will divide the gold from the silver." The fox went to the king and did not say: "The ogress wants to borrow your measure;" but she said: "Don Joseph Pear wants to borrow, for a short time, your measure to separate the gold from the silver." "What!" said the king, "has this Don Joseph Pear such great riches? Is he then richer than I?" And he gave the fox the measure. When he was alone with his daughter he said to her, in the course of his conversation: "It must be that this Don Joseph Pear is very rich, for he divides the gold and silver." The fox carried the measure to the ogress, who began to measure and heap up gold and silver. When she had finished, the fox went to Don Joseph Pear and dressed him in new clothes, a watch with diamonds, rings, a ring for his betrothed, and everything that was needed for the marriage. "Behold, Don Joseph," said the fox, "I am going before you now; you go to the king and get your bride and then go to the church." Don Joseph went to the king; got his bride, and they went to the church. After they were married, the princess got into the carriage and the bridegroom mounted his horse. The fox made a sign to Don Joseph and said: "I will go before you; you follow me and let the carriages and horses come after." They started on their way, and came to a sheep-farm which belonged to the ogress. The boy who was tending the sheep, when he saw the fox approach, threw a stone at her, and she began to weep. "Ah!" she said to the boy; "now I will have you killed. Do you see those horsemen? Now I will have you killed!" The youth, terrified, said: "If you will not do anything to me I will not throw any more stones at you." The fox replied: "If you don't want to be killed, when the king passes and asks you whose is this sheep-farm, you must tell him: 'Don Joseph Pear's,' for Don Joseph Pear is his son-in-law, and he will reward you." The cavalcade passed by, and the king asked the boy: "Whose is this sheep-farm?" The boy replied at once: "Don Joseph Pear's." The king gave him some money. The fox kept about ten paces before Don Joseph, and the latter did nothing but say in a low tone: "Where are you taking me, fox? What lands do I possess that you can make me believed to be rich? Where are we going?" The fox replied: "Softly, Don Joseph, and leave it to me." They went on and on, and the fox saw another farm of cattle, with the herdsman. The same thing happened there as with the shepherd: the stone thrown and the fox's threat. The king passed. "Herdsman, whose is this farm of cattle?" "Don Joseph Pear's." And the king, astonished at his son-in-law's wealth, gave the herdsman a piece of gold. Don Joseph was pleased on the one hand, but on the other was perplexed and did not know how it was to turn out. When the fox turned around, Joseph said: "Where are you taking me, fox? You are ruining me." The fox kept on as if she had nothing to do with the matter. Then she came to another farm of horses and mares. The boy who was tending them threw a stone at the fox. She frightened him, and he told the king, when the king asked him, that the farm was Don Joseph Pear's. They kept on and came to a well, and near it the ogress was sitting. The fox began to run and pretended to be in great terror. "Friend, friend, see, they are coming! These horsemen will kill us! Let us hide in the well, shall we not?" "Yes, friend," said the ogress in alarm. "Shall I throw you down first?" said the fox. "Certainly, friend." Then the fox threw the ogress down the well, and then entered the ogress' palace. Don Joseph Pear followed the fox, with his wife, his father-in-law, and all the riders. The fox showed them through all the apartments, displaying the riches, Don Joseph Pear contented at having found his fortune, and the king still more contented because his daughter was so richly settled. There was a festival for a few days, and then the king, well satisfied, returned to his own country and his daughter remained with her husband. One day the fox was looking out of the window, and Don Joseph Pear and his wife were going up to the terrace. Don Joseph Pear took up a little dust from the terrace and threw it at the fox's head. The fox raised her eyes. "What is the meaning of this, after the good I have done you, miserable fellow?" said she to Don Joseph. "Take care or I will speak!" The wife said to her husband: "What is the matter with the fox, to speak thus?" "Nothing," answered her husband. "I threw a little dust at her and she got angry." Don Joseph took up a little more dust and threw it at the fox's head. The fox, in a rage, cried: "Joe, you see I will speak! and I declare that you were the owner of a pear-tree!" Don Joseph was frightened, for the fox told his wife everything; so he took an earthen jar and threw it at the fox's head, and so got rid of her. Thus--the ungrateful fellow that he was--he killed the one who had done him so much kindness; but nevertheless he enjoyed all his wealth with his wife.[11] * * * * * The story we shall next consider is, in some of its versions, legendary in its nature, and might more properly, perhaps, have been treated in chapter IV. Its legendary character, however, is only accidental, and it really belongs to the class of stories discussed in the present chapter. The story in general maybe termed "The Thankful Dead," from the most important episode in it. The hero shows some respect to a corpse (paying the debts it incurred when alive, and so obtaining the right of burial for it), the soul of which becomes the hero's good fairy, and assists him when in danger, and finally brings about his good fortune. Around this nucleus have gathered various episodes, which will be mentioned in the notes. As an example of this story, we give, on account of its rarity, the Istrian version (Ive, _Nozze Ive-Lorenzetto_, III. p. 19). XXXV. FAIR BROW. There was once a father who had a son. After this son had passed through school, his father said to him: "Son, now that you have finished your studies, you are of an age to travel. I will give you a vessel, in order that you may load it and unload it, buy and sell. Be careful what you do; take care to make gains!" He gave him six thousand _scudi_ to buy merchandise, and the son started on his voyage. On his journey, without having yet purchased anything, he arrived at a town, and on the sea-shore he saw a bier, and noticed that those who passed by left there some a penny, some two; they bestowed alms on the corpse. The traveller went there and asked: "Why do you keep this dead man here? _for the dead desires the grave_." They replied: "Because he owed a world of debts, and it is the custom here _to bury no one until his debts are paid_. Until this man's debts are paid by charity we cannot bury him." "What is the use of keeping him here?" he said. "Proclaim that all those whom he owed shall come to me and be paid." Then they issued the proclamation and he paid the debts; and, poor fellow! he did not have a farthing left--not a penny of his capital. So he returned to his father's house. "What news, son? What means your return so soon?" He replied: "On crossing the sea, we encountered pirates; they have robbed me of all my capital!" His father said: "No matter, son; it is enough that they have left you your life. Behold, I will give you more money; but you must not go again in that direction." He gave him another six thousand _scudi_. The son replied: "Yes, father, don't worry; I will change my course." He departed and began his journey. When he was well out at sea he saw a Turkish vessel. He said to himself: "Now it is better for me to summon them on board than for them to summon us." They came on board. He said to them: "Whence do you come?" They answered: "We come from the Levant." "What is your cargo?" "Nothing but a beautiful girl." "How do you come to have this girl?" "For her beauty; to sell her again. We have stolen her from the Sultan, she is so beautiful!" "Let me see this girl." When he saw her he said: "How much do you want for her?" "We want six thousand _scudi_!" The money which his father gave him he gave to those corsairs, and took the girl and carried her away to his ship. But he at once had her become a Christian and married her. He returned to his father's house; he went up, and his father said to him: "Welcome! O my handsome son. What merchandise of women have you made?" "My father, I bring you a handsome ring, I bring it for your reward; It cost me neither city nor castle, But the most beautiful woman you have ever seen: The daughter of the Sultan, who is in Turkey, Her I bring for my first cargo!" "Ah, you miserable knave!" cried his father. "Is this the cargo you have brought?" He ill-treated them both, and drove them from the house. Those poor unfortunate ones did not know where to find shelter. They went away, and at a short distance from their town there were some rooms at a villa. They went to live in one of those. He said: "What shall we do here? I do not know how to do anything; I have no profession or business!" She said: "Now I can paint beautiful pictures; I will paint them, and you shall go and sell them!" He said: "Very well!" "But, remember, you must tell no one that I paint them!" "No, no!" he said. Now let us go to Turkey. The Sultan, meanwhile, had sent out many vessels in search of his daughter. These ships went here and there in quest of her. Now it happened that one of these vessels arrived in the town near where she lived, and many of the sailors went on land. Now one day the husband said to his wife: "Make many pictures, for to-day we shall sell them!" She made them, and said to him that he should not sell them for less than twenty _scudi_ apiece. She made a great many, and he carried them to the public square. Some of the Turks came there; they gave a glance at the paintings, and said to themselves: "Surely, it must be the Sultan's daughter who has painted these." They came nearer, and asked the young man how he sold them. He said they were dear; that he could not let them go for less than twenty _scudi_. They said: "Very well! we will buy them; but we want some more." He answered: "Come to the house of my wife who makes them!" They went there, and when they saw the Sultan's daughter, they seized her, bound her, and carried her far away to Turkey. This husband, then, unhappy, without wife, without a trade, alone in that house, what could he do? Every day he walked along the beach, to see if he could find a ship that would take him on board; but he never saw any. One day he saw an old man fishing in a little boat; he cried: "Good old man, how much better off you are than I!" The old man asked: "Why, my dear son?" He said: "Good old man, will you take me to fish with you?" "Yes, my son," said he; "if you wish to come with me in this boat, I will take you!" "Thank heaven!" said he. "Good!" said the old man: "You with the rod, and I with the boat, Perhaps we shall catch some fish. I will go and sell the fish, for I am not ashamed, and we will live together!" They ate, and afterward went to sleep; without knowing it, there arose in the night a severe storm, and the wind carried them to Turkey. The Turks, seeing this boat arrive, went on board, seized them, made slaves of them, and took them before the Sultan. He said: "Let one of them make bouquets; let the other plant flowers; put them in the garden!" They placed the old man there as gardener, and the young man to carry flowers to the Sultan's daughter, who with her maids was shut up in a very high tower for punishment. They were very comfortable there. Every day they went into the garden and made friends with the other gardeners. As time went on, the old man made some fine guitars, violins, flutes, clarionets, piccolos--all sorts of instruments he made. The young man played them beautifully when he had time. One day his wife, who was in the tower, hearing his fine songs,--Fair Brow had a voice which surpassed all instruments,--said: "Who is playing, who is singing so beautifully?" They went out on the balcony, and when she saw Fair Brow, she thought at once of having him come up. The Sultan's daughter said to one of those who filled the basket with flowers: "Put that young man in the basket and cover him with flowers!" He put him in, and the maids drew him up. When he was up, he came out of the basket, and beheld his wife. He embraced and kissed her and thought about escaping from there. Then she told her damsels that she wished to depart without any one knowing it. So they loaded a large ship with pearls and precious stones, with rods of gold and jewels; then they let down Fair Brow first, then his wife; finally the damsels. They embarked and departed. When they were out at sea the husband remembered that he had forgotten the old man and left him on shore. Fair Brow said: "My sister, even if I thought I should lose my life, I would turn back, for _the word which I have given him is the mother of faith_!" So they turned back, and saw the old man, who was still awaiting them in a cave; they took him with them, and put to sea again. When they were near home, the old man said: "Now, my son, it is fitting for us to settle our accounts and divide things!" "Know, good old man," said Fair Brow to him, "that all the wealth that I have belongs half to you and half to me!" "Your wife, too, belongs half to me!" He said: "Good old man, I will leave you three quarters, and I will take one only, but leave me my wife. Do you want me to divide her in two?" Then the old man said: "You must know that I am the soul of him whom you had buried; and you have had all this good fortune because you did that good action, and converted and baptized your wife!" Then he gave him his blessing and disappeared. Fair Brow, when he heard this, as you can imagine, came near dying of joy. When they reached his city, they fired a salute, for Fair Brow had arrived with his wife, the wealthiest gentleman in the world. He sent for his father and told him all that had happened to him. He went to live with them, and as he was old, he died soon, and all his riches went to Fair Brow.[12] * * * * * We have already stated in the preface that it was not our design to admit into this work (except for occasional reference) any stories that were literary in their character. For this reason we have not drawn on the treasures of Straparola or Basile, or even on the more popular chap-books, of which there are in Italy, as elsewhere, a great profusion. Of some of the stories contained in the last named class of works there are purely popular versions. As an example of the class, and for purposes of comparison, we give the story of Leombruno, or Lionbruno, one of the oldest and most popular of its kind. The most complete version is the one from the Basilicata, given by Comparetti, No. 41, which is as follows: XXXVI. LIONBRUNO. There was once a mariner who had a wife and three or four children. He followed the business of a fisherman, and he and his family lived on his fishing. For three or four years there had been a dearth of fish, so that he had not been able to catch even a sardine. Poor mariner! From this misfortune he had been obliged to sell, little by little, all he possessed, to live, and was reduced almost to beggary. One day he was fishing, and as you can imagine, poor fellow! he did not haul in even a shell. He cursed madonnas and saints. All at once a certain person (it was the Enemy) rose in the midst of the sea before his bark. "What is the matter, mariner, that you are so angry?" "What should the matter be? My bad luck. For three or four years I have been ruining myself, body and soul, in this sea with these nets, and I cannot catch even a string to hang myself with." "Listen," said the Enemy. "If you will agree to give me your wife's next child in thirteen years, from now until you deliver it to me I will cause you to catch so much fish that you shall become the richest of men by selling it." Then the mariner understood that this was the Enemy, and said to himself: "My wife has had no children for some years. Will she take it into her head to have another just now when I make this agreement with the Enemy? Oh, come! she is old now; she will have no more." Then turning to the Enemy, he said: "Well, since you wish to make this contract, let us make it. But, remember, you must make me rich." "Don't fear," said the Enemy; "let us make the agreement and then leave the matter to me." "Softly, we must settle another matter first; then we will make the contract." "What is it?" "Listen. Suppose my wife should have no children during these thirteen years?" "Then you will remain rich and give me nothing." "That is what I wanted to know. Now we can make the contract." And they settled everything at once. Then the Enemy disappeared. The mariner began to draw in his nets, and they were full to overflowing of all kinds of fish, and he became richer from day to day. In great joy he said: "I have played a trick on the devil!"--and, poor man! he did not know that it was the devil who had played a trick on him. Now you must know that just when they were making the contract, the mariner's wife, old as she was, expected to become a mother again, and the Enemy knew it. In due time the wife gave birth to a boy so handsome that he seemed a flower. His parents named him Lionbruno. The Enemy suddenly appeared: "Mariner! mariner!" "How can I serve you?" replied the poor man, all trembling. "The promise is due. Lionbruno is mine." "Yes, you are right. But you must obey the contract. Remember that it is in thirteen years. Now only a few months have passed." "That is true," replied the Enemy; "farewell, then, until the end of the thirteen years." Then he vanished. Meanwhile Lionbruno grew every day, and became constantly handsomer, and his parents sent him to school. But time passes, and behold the end of the thirteen years draws near. One day, before the time agreed upon, the Enemy appeared. "Mariner! mariner!" "Oh, poor me!" said the wretched man, who recognized him by his horrid voice. But he had to answer. And what could he do? The contract was clear and the time come. The poor mariner, willingly or unwillingly, was obliged to promise to send the boy the next day alone to the sea. The next day the mother sent her son, when he returned from school, to carry something to eat to his father. The unhappy father had, however, gone far out to sea, so that his son could not find him. The poor boy sat down on the beach, and to pass the time, took pieces of wood and made little crosses of them, and stuck them in the sand around him, so that he was surrounded by them, and held one also in his hand, singing all the time. Behold, the Enemy comes to take him, and says to him: "What are you doing, boy?" "I am waiting for my father," he replied. The Enemy looked and saw that he could not take him, because he was seated in the midst of all those little crosses, and moreover had one in his hand. He regarded the boy with an ugly look, and cried: "Destroy those crosses, miserable boy!" "No, I will not destroy them." "Destroy them at once, or--or"--and he threatened him and frightened him with his ugly face. Then the poor child destroyed the little crosses around him, but still held one in his hand. "Destroy the other, quick!" cried the Enemy, more enraged than ever. "No, no!" the poor child replied, all in tears; "I will not destroy this little cross." The Enemy threatened him again and terrified him with his rolling eyes, but the child was firm, and then a bright light appeared in the air. The fairy Colina, queen of the fairies, came down, took the good boy by the hair, and delivered him from the Enemy. Then if you had seen what lightnings and thunder! what darts! The Enemy shot fire from his eyes, mouth, nose, ears, everywhere! But with all his flames he remained duped, and the fairy carried the good boy away to her splendid palace. There Lionbruno grew up in the midst of the fairies. Imagine how well off he was there! He lacked nothing. Increasing always in beauty, he became a youth whom you should have seen! Some years passed. One day Lionbruno said to the fairy Colina: "Listen. I want to go and see my mother and father a little. You will not refuse me your permission, will you?" "No, I will not refuse you it," said the fairy. "I will give you twenty days to go and see your family. But do not stay any longer. Remember that I have saved you from the Enemy and have brought you up in the midst of great wealth. Now this wealth we are to enjoy together, for you, Lionbruno, are to be my husband." You can imagine whether the youth wished to say no. He replied at once: "I will do your will in all things." Then the fairy said: "My Lionbruno, take this ruby; all that you ask of it you shall have." He took the ruby. Then all the fairies gave him in turn some token. He took them, and thanked them all. Then he embraced his bride and departed. Lionbruno travelled better than a prince, magnificently dressed, on a superb horse, with guards before him. He arrived at his town, went to the square, and a crowd of people surrounded him out of curiosity. He asked his way to the house of the mariner who was his father. He did not reveal himself to his parents, but asked them for a lodging that night. At midnight Lionbruno changed, by virtue of the ruby, the wretched hovel into a magnificent palace, and the next day he changed himself into the thirteen-year-old Lionbruno and revealed himself to his parents, telling them how the fairy Colina had liberated him from the Enemy, brought him up, and made him her husband. "For this reason, dear father and mother," said he, "I cannot remain with you. I have come to see you, to embrace you, to make you rich; but I can stay with you a few days only, and then I must leave you." His father and mother saw that they could do nothing, and had to be contented. One fine morning Lionbruno, by an order to the ruby, which he wore on his finger, brought together a great mass of riches, and then called his parents and said: "I leave you masters of all this wealth and of this palace. You will no longer need anything. Now give me your blessing, for I wish to go." The poor people began to weep, and said: "Bless you, my son!" They embraced each other in tears, and he departed. He arrived at a great city,--like Naples, for example,--and went to lodge at the finest inn. Then he went out to walk and heard a proclamation which declared: "Whatever prince or knight, on horse, with spear in hand, shall pierce and carry away a gold star, shall marry the king's daughter." Imagine how many princes and knights entered the lists! Lionbruno, more for braggadocio than for anything else, said to himself: "I wish to go and carry away the star;" and he commanded the ruby: "My ruby, to-morrow, I wish to carry away the golden star." The princes and knights began to assemble and try their skill. Every one reached the star and touched it with his spear, but there was no talk of their carrying it away. Lionbruno came, and with a master-stroke carried off the star. Then he quickly escaped with his horse to the inn, so that no one should see him. "Who is he?" "Where is the winner?" No one can give any news of him. The king was ill-humored about it, and issued the proclamation again for the next day. But, to cut the matter short, the same thing occurred the next day. Lionbruno duped them a second time. Imagine how angry the king was! He issued a third proclamation. But this time what does the crafty king do? He posts a large number of soldiers at all the places by which one could escape. The princes and knights begin their courses. As usual, no one carries away the star, and Lionbruno carries it off and rides away. But the soldiers, quicker than he, seize him, arrest him, and carry him to the king. "What do you take me for, that, not satisfied with duping me twice, you wish to dupe me a third time?" Thus spoke the king, who was seated on the throne. "Pardon, Majesty. I did not dare to enter your presence." "Then you ought not to have undertaken to carry away the star. Now you have done so, and must become my daughter's husband." Lionbruno, _nolens volens_, was obliged to marry the princess. The king prepared a magnificent feast for the wedding, and invited all the princes, counts, and barons,--all sorts of persons. When the hall was filled with these gentlemen, Lionbruno, before marrying the princess, said to the king: "Majesty, it is true that your daughter is a very beautiful girl, but I had a bride by whose side your daughter could not stand for beauty, grace, everything." Imagine how the king felt when he heard these words. The poor princess, at this affront in the presence of so many noblemen, became as red as fire. The king, greatly disturbed, said: "Well, if it is so, we wish to see your wife, if she is as beautiful as you say." "Yes, yes!" cried all the noblemen; "we, too, wish to see her; we wish to see her!" Poor Lionbruno was in a tight place. What could he do? He had recourse to the ruby. "Ruby mine, make fairy Colina come here." But this time he was mistaken. The ruby could do everything, but it could not compel the fairy to come, for it was she who had given it its magic power. The summons, however, reached the fairy Colina; but she did not go. "My friend has done a pretty thing!" said she. "Bravo! good! Now I will fix him as he deserves!" She called the lowest of her servants, and made her suddenly appear in the great hall of the king, where all were assembled for the wedding. "How beautiful she is! how beautiful she is!" all said as soon as they saw her. "Is this, then, your first bride?" "What!" answered Lionbruno, "my first bride! This is the lowest of the servants of my first bride." "Gracious!" exclaimed the noblemen; "if this is the lowest of the servants and is so beautiful, imagine what the mistress must be!" "Then," said the king, "if this is not your first bride, I wish you to make her come herself." "Yes, yes, herself!" cried the others, likewise. Poor Lionbruno! He was obliged to have recourse again to the ring. But this time, also, the fairy did not go, but sent instead her next servant. Scarcely had they seen her when they all said: "This one, oh, this one, is really beautiful! This, now, is certainly your first bride, is she not, Lionbruno?" "No, no!" replied Lionbruno; "my first bride is a marvel of beauty. Different from this one! This one is only the second servant." Then the king, in a threatening tone, said to him: "Lionbruno, let us put an end to this! I command you to cause your first wife to come here instantly." The matter was growing serious. Poor Lionbruno had recourse for the third time to the ruby, and said to it: "Ruby mine, if you really wish to help me, now is the moment. You must cause the fairy Colina herself to come here." The summons reached her at once, and this time she went. When all those great lords and the king and his daughter saw that marvel of beauty, they became as so many statues. But the fairy Colina approached Lionbruno, pretended to take his hand, and drew off his ring, saying: "Traitor! you cannot find me until you have worn out seven pairs of iron shoes." Then she vanished. The king, in fury, said to Lionbruno: "I understand. The power of carrying off the star was not yours, but your ruby's. Leave my palace!" He had him seized and well beaten and sent away. And so poor Lionbruno was left without the fairy Colina and the king's daughter, and departed from the city in great grief. When he had gone a few steps, he heard a great noise. It was a smithy. He entered, and called the blacksmith: "Master, I want seven pairs of iron shoes." "I will make you twelve if you wish, but it seems to me that you must have some agreement with the Eternal to live who knows how many hundred years to wear out all these shoes." "What does that matter to you? It is enough if I pay you. Make me the shoes and hold your tongue." He made them for him at once. Lionbruno paid him, put on one pair, and stuck three in one side of his travelling sack and three in the other, and set out. After walking a long time, he arrived late at night in a forest. All at once three robbers came there. "Good man," said they to Lionbruno, "how did you happen here?" "I am a poor pilgrim," he replied; "it grew dark and I stopped here to rest. And who are you, gentlemen?" "We are travellers." And they all stopped there to rest. The next day Lionbruno arose, took leave of the three robbers, and departed. But he had scarcely gone a few steps when he heard them quarrelling. Now you must know that those robbers had stolen three objects of great value, and were now disputing as to how they should divide them. One of them said: "Fools that we are! We had here that pilgrim, who could have acted as judge and made the division, and we have let him go. Let us call him back." "Yes, yes! let us call him," said the others. They called him, and he came back. "How can I serve you, gentlemen?" said he. "Listen, good man; we have three objects of great value to divide. You must be the judge, and give to each one what belongs to him." "Very well; but what objects are you talking of?" "Here is a pair of boots, a purse, and a cloak. The boots have this virtue, that he who has them on runs faster than the wind. If you say to the purse, 'open and shut,' it at once gives you a hundred ducats. Finally he who puts on the cloak and buttons it up, can see and yet not be seen." "Very good. But to act the judge well, I must first examine these three objects carefully." "Certainly, that is right." Lionbruno put on the boots, tried to run, and went marvellously. "What do you think of these boots?" asked the thieves. "Excellent, indeed," replied Lionbruno, and kept them on. Then he said: "Now let us see the purse." He took it and said: "Purse, open and shut," and at once there came forth a hundred silver ducats. "Now let us see what this cloak is," he said, at last. He put it on and began to button it up. While he was doing so he asked the robbers: "Do you see me now?" They answered: "Yes." He kept on buttoning it and asked again: "Now do you see me?" "Yes." Finally he reached the last button. "Now do you see me?" "No." "If you don't see me now you never will see me again." He threw away the iron shoes and cried: "Now for you, boots!" And away! faster than the wind. When the three robbers saw themselves duped in that way, what a rage they were in! They thrashed each other soundly, and especially the one who had called Lionbruno back; and at last they all found themselves with broken bones. Lionbruno, after having cheated the robbers thus, continued his way joyfully. After a long journey, he arrived in the midst of a forest. He saw at a distance a slight smoke, and among frightful rocks, a little old hovel all surrounded by dense wild shrubs, with a little door entirely covered with ivy, so that it could scarcely be seen. Lionbruno approached the door and knocked softly. "Who is knocking?" asked from within an old woman's voice. "I am a poor Christian," replied Lionbruno; "night has overtaken me here, and I am seeking a lodging, if it can be had." The door opened and Lionbruno entered. "Oh, poor youth! How have you been tempted to come and ruin yourself in this remote place?" demanded, in great wonder, the old woman, who was within, and who was Borea.[13] (Do you know who Borea is? No less a person than the mother of the winds.) "Oh, dear little old lady, my aunt," replied Lionbruno, "I am lost in this great forest, for I have been travelling a long time to find my dear bride, the fairy Colina, and I have not yet been able to find any trace of her." "My son, you have made a great mistake! What shall we do now that my sons are coming home? Perhaps, God help you! they will want to eat you." "Oh, wretched me!" cried Lionbruno, then, all trembling; "who, my aunt, are these sons of yours who so devour Christians?" "My son," replied Borea, "you do not know where you are. Do you not know that this house in the midst of these precipices is the house of the winds? And I, you do not recognize me; I, my son, am Borea, the mother of all the winds." "What shall I do now? Oh, my dear aunt, help me; do not let your sons eat me up!" The old woman finally concealed him in a chest, telling him not to make the slightest noise when her sons returned. Soon a loud noise was heard at a distance: it was the winds returning home. The nearer they approached the louder the noise grew, and a sound of branches and trees broken off was heard. At last the winds arrived, pushed open the door, and entered. "Good evening, mamma." "Welcome, my sons!" replied their mother, all smiling. And so one after the other all the winds entered, and the last to enter was Sirocco, for you must know that Sirocco is the youngest of Borea's sons. Scarcely had they entered when they began to say: "What smell of human flesh is here? Here Christians, Christians!" "Oh, bad luck to you! what fools you are! Where is there any smell of human flesh here? Who do you think would risk their lives by coming here?" But her sons would not be convinced, especially that obstinate Sirocco. Lionbruno commended his soul to God, for he saw death at his heels. But finally Borea succeeded in convincing her sons. "Oh, mamma, what is there to eat to-night? We have travelled so far, and are so hungry!" "Here, my sons," the mother answered, "come here; for a nice polenta is cooking for you. I will finish cooking it soon, and put it at once on the table." The next day Borea said to her sons: "My sons, when you came you said you smelled human flesh. Tell me, should you really see a man now, what would you do to him?" "Now, we would not do anything to him. Last night, we should have torn him in pieces." "But you would not do anything to him, truly?" "Truly." "Well, if you will give me your promise by St. John not to harm him, I will show you a live man." "Oh! just see! A man here! Yes, yes, mamma, show him to us at once. We swear by St. John! we will not touch a hair of his head." Then their mother opened the chest and made Lionbruno come forth. If you had heard the winds then! They puffed and blowed around him and asked him, first of all, how he had come to that place, where no living soul had ever penetrated. Lionbruno said: "Would to heaven that my journey ended here! I must go to the palace of the fairy Colina; perhaps one of you can tell me where it is?" Then Borea asked her sons one by one and each replied that he knew nothing of it. Finally she questioned her youngest son: "And you, Sirocco, do you not know anything about it?" "I? Should I not know something about it? Am I perchance like my brothers who never can find a hiding-place? The fairy Colina is love-sick. She says that her lover has betrayed her, and continually weeps, and is so reduced by her grief that she can live but little longer. And I deserve to be hanged, for I have seen her in this condition, and yet I have annoyed her so that I have driven her to despair. I amused myself by making a noise about her palace, and more than once I burst open windows and turned things upside down, even the bed she was resting on." "Oh, my dear Sirocco!" said Lionbruno; "my good Sirocco, you must aid me! Since you have given me news of her, you must also do me the favor to show me the way to my bride's palace. I, dear Sirocco, am the betrothed of the fairy Colina, and it is not true that I have betrayed her; on the contrary, if I do not find her, I shall die of grief." "My son," said Sirocco, "listen; for my part I would take you there with all my heart. But I should have to carry you about my neck. And the trouble is I cannot do so, for I am wind, I am air, and you would slip off. Were you like me the matter would go very well." "Don't worry about that," said Lionbruno, "show me the way, and I will not lag behind." "He is crazy," said Sirocco to himself; then he said to Lionbruno: "Very well, since you feel so strong, to-morrow we will make the trial. Meanwhile let us go to bed, for it is late, and to-morrow, God willing, we will rise early!" And all went to sleep. In the morning early Sirocco arose and cried: "Lionbruno! Lionbruno! get up quickly!" And Lionbruno put on his boots in a hurry, seized his purse, fixed his cloak carefully, and left the house with Sirocco. "There," said Sirocco, "is the way we must take. Be careful! Don't let me out of your sight, and leave the rest to me. If a few hours after sunset to-night I don't make you find your beauty, you may call me an ass." They started. They ran like the wind. Every little while Sirocco called out: "Lionbruno!" and he, who was ahead, answered at once: "Oh! don't think I am going to lag behind!" and with these questions and answers they finally reached the palace of the fairy Colina about two hours after sunset. "Here we are," said Sirocco. "Here is your fair one's balcony! See how I am going to blow open the window for you. Attention, now! As soon as it is opened you give a jump and spring in." And so he did. Before the servants could run and shut the balcony window, Lionbruno was already under the fairy Colina's bed. Afterwards one of the maids said to the fairy: "My mistress, how do you feel now? Do you not feel a little better?" "Better? I am half dead. That cursed wind has nearly killed me." "But, mistress, will you not take something this evening? A little coffee, or chocolate, or broth?" "I wish nothing at all." "Take something, if you don't, you will not rest to-night, you have eaten nothing for three or four days. Really, you must take something." And the servant said so much that to get rid of her importunity the fairy said: "Well, bring something; if I want it, I will take it." The servant brought a little coffee, and left it by the side of the bed. Lionbruno, in his cloak so that no one could see him, came from under the bed and drank the coffee himself. The servant, believing her mistress had drunk it, brought the chocolate too, and Lionbruno drank that as before. Then the servant brought the fairy some broth and a pigeon. "Mistress," said she, "since, thank God, you have taken the coffee and the chocolate, take this broth and a bit of pigeon, and so you will gain strength and be better to-morrow." The mistress on hearing all this believed that the servants were making fun of her. "Oh, stupid blockheads! What are you saying? Are not the cups still here with the coffee and the chocolate? I have touched nothing." The servants thought that their mistress was out of her mind. Then Lionbruno took off his cloak, came out from under the bed, and said: "My bride, do you know me?" "Lionbruno mine, is it you?" and she rose from the bed and embraced him. "Then it is not true, my Lionbruno, that you have forgotten me?" "If I had forgotten you I should not have suffered so much to find you. But do you still love me?" "My Lionbruno, if I had not always loved you, you would not have found me at the point of death. And now you see I am cured only because I have seen you." Then they ate and drank together, and summoned the servants and made a great festival. The next day they arranged everything for the wedding and were married with great splendor and joy. In the evening they gave a grand ball and a fine banquet, which you should have seen![14] * * * * * The above story is extremely popular, and has long circulated among the people as an independent work in the shape of a chap-book. We have, however, given the form which is handed down by oral tradition, purposely avoiding the use of any literary materials. Many similar tales might be added to this chapter, but the most important and best known have been given. To give those tales which cannot be described as fairy tales and which are usually found in the shape of chap-books in prose and poetry would fall without the scope of the present volume, and would belong more appropriately to a work on Italian popular literature.[15] CHAPTER III. STORIES OF ORIENTAL ORIGIN. The geographical situation of Italy and its commercial connections during the Middle Ages would lead us to expect a large foreign element in its popular tales. This foreign element, it is hardly necessary to say, is almost exclusively Oriental, and was introduced either by direct communication with the East, or indirectly from France, which received it from Spain, whither it was brought by the Saracens. Although this Oriental element is now perfectly popular, it is, as far as its origin is concerned, purely literary. That is to say, the stories we are about to examine are to be found in the great Oriental collections of tales which were early translated into all the languages of Europe, and either passed directly from these translations into circulation among the people, or became familiar to them from the novelists who made such frequent use of this element.[1] A few stories may have been taken from the French _fabliaux_ or from the French translations of the _Disciplina Clericalis_, as we shall afterwards see.[2] The Pentamerone, and especially Straparola's tales, may finally be mentioned as the source from which many Oriental stories have flowed into popular circulation.[3] In this chapter it is proposed to notice briefly only those stories the Oriental origin of which is undoubted, and which may be found in the great collections above mentioned and in some others less known. For convenience, some stories of this class have been referred to chapter VI. The first of this class which we shall mention is well known from the version in Lafontaine (IX. 1), _Le Dépositaire infidèle_. The only Italian version we have found is Pitrè, No. 194, which is as follows: XXXVII. THE PEASANT AND THE MASTER. A peasant one day, conversing in the farmhouse with his master and others, happened, while speaking of sheep and cheese, to say that he had had a present of a little cheese, but the mice had eaten it all up. Then the master, who was rich, proud, and fat, called him a fool, and said that it was not possible that the mice could have eaten the cheese, and all present said the master was right and the peasant wrong. What more could the poor man say? Talk makes talk. After a while the master said that having taken the precaution to rub with oil his ploughshares to keep them from rusting, the mice had eaten off all the points. Then the friend of the cheese broke forth: "But, master, how can it be that the mice cannot eat my cheese, if they can eat the points of your ploughshares?" But the master and all the others began to cry out: "Be silent, you fool! Be silent, you fool! the master is right!"[4] * * * * * The above story really belongs to the class of fables of which there are but few of Oriental origin in the Italian collections.[5] The following version of one of the most famous of the Eastern apologues is from Monferrato (Comparetti, No. 67). It is called: XXXVIII. THE INGRATES. There was once a man who went into the forest to gather wood, and saw a snake crushed under a large stone. He raised the stone a little with the handle of his axe and the snake crawled out. When it was at liberty it said to the man: "I am going to eat you." The man answered: "Softly; first let us hear the judgment of some one, and if I am condemned, then you shall eat me." The first one they met was a horse as thin as a stick, tied to an oak-tree. He had eaten the leaves as far as he could reach, for he was famished. The snake said to him: "Is it right for me to eat this man who has saved my life?" The nag answered: "More than right. Just look at me! I was one of the finest horses. I have carried my master so many years, and what have I gained? Now that I am so badly off that I can no longer work they have tied me to this oak, and after I have eaten these few leaves I shall die of hunger. Eat the man, then; for he who does good is ill rewarded, and he who does evil must be well rewarded. Eat him, for you will be doing a good day's work." They afterwards happened to find a mulberry-tree, all holes, for it was eaten by old age; and the snake asked it if it was right to eat the man who had saved its life. "Yes," the tree answered at once, "for I have given my master so many leaves that he has raised from them the finest silk-worms in the world; now that I can no longer stand upright, he has said that he is going to throw me into the fire. Eat him, then, for you will do well." Afterwards they met the fox. The man took her aside and begged her to pronounce in his favor. The fox said: "The better to render judgment I must see just how the matter has happened." They all returned to the spot and arranged matters as they were at first; but as soon as the man saw the snake under the stone he cried out: "Where you are, there I will leave you." And there the snake remained. The fox wished in payment a bag of hens, and the man promised them to her for the next morning. The fox went there in the morning, and when the man saw her he put some dogs in the bag, and told the fox not to eat the hens close by, for fear the mistress of the house would hear it. So the fox did not open the bag until she had reached a distant valley; then the dogs came out and ate her; and so it is in the world; for who does good is ill rewarded and who does evil is well rewarded.[6] * * * * * It would be surprising if we did not find the fascinating stories of the Thousand and One Nights naturalized among the people. It is, of course, impossible to tell whether they were communicated to the people directly from a literary source, or whether the separate stories came to Italy from the Orient by way of oral transmission.[7] These stories have circulated among the people long enough to be treated as their own property and changed to suit their taste. Incidents from other stories have been added and the original story remodelled until it is hardly recognizable. The story of "Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp," for instance, is found from Sicily to Lombardy; but in no one version are all the features of the original story preserved. In one of the Sicilian versions (Messina) Aladdin does not lose his lamp; in another (Palermo), after Aladdin has lost his lamp he goes in search of it, and on his journey settles the quarrel of an ant, an eagle, and a lion, who give him the power to transform himself into any one of them. He finally discovers the magician, who has his life elsewhere than in his own body, and who is killed after the usual complicated process. In the Roman version the point of the unfinished window in Aladdin's palace is missed, the magician requires to be killed, as in the version from Palermo, and there are some additional incidents not in the Oriental original. In the Mantuan story, instead of a lamp we have a rusty ring, which the youngest brother finds inside of a dead cock bequeathed to three brothers by their father. After the ring has fallen into the possession of the magician and the palace has disappeared, the hero goes in search of his wife and ring. On his way he is assisted by the "King of the Fishes" and the "King of the Birds." The eagle carries a letter to the captive princess, who obtains the ring from the magician, rubs it on a stone, and when it asks what she wishes, answers: "I wish this palace to return where it first was and the magician to be drowned in the sea."[8] Of almost equal popularity is the story of the "Forty Thieves," who are, however, in the Italian versions, reduced to thirteen, twelve, or six in number. The versions in Pitrè (No. 23 and variants) contain but one incident of the original story, where the robbers are detected in the oil-jars, and killed by pouring boiling oil over them. In one of Pitrè's versions the robbers are hidden in sacks of charcoal, and the cunning daughter pierces the bags with a red-hot spit. In another, they are hidden in oil-skins, and sold to the abbess of a certain convent for oil. One of the nuns has some suspicion of the trick, and invites her companions to tap the skins with red-hot irons. Another Sicilian version (Gonz. No. 79, "The Story of the Twelve Robbers") contains the first part of the Arabian tale, the robbers' cave which opens and closes by the words, "Open, door!" and "Shut, door!" The story ends with the death of one of the brothers, who entered the cave and was killed by one of the robbers who had remained. It is only in the version from Mantua (Visentini, No. 7, "The Cunning Maid") that we find the story complete; boiling water is used instead of oil in killing the thieves, and the servant girl afterwards kills the captain, who had escaped before. The story of the "Third Calendar" is told in detail in Comparetti (No. 65, "The Son of the King of France") and the "Two Envious Sisters" furnishes details for a number of distinct stories.[9] The story of "The Hunchback" is found in Pitrè and Straparola, and as it is also the subject of an Old-French _fabliau_, it may have been borrowed from the French, or, what is more likely, both French and Italians took it from a common source.[10] The fable of "The Ass, the Ox, and the Peasant," which the Vizier relates to prevent his daughter becoming the Sultan's wife, is found in Pitrè (No. 282) under the title of "The Curious Wife," and is also in Straparola.[11] The beautiful story of "Prince Ahmed and the fairy Peribanu" is found in Nerucci, No. 40, "The Three Presents, or the Story of the Carpets." The three presents are the magic telescope that sees any distance, the carpet that carries one through the air, and the magic grapes that bring to life. The Italian version follows closely the Oriental original. The same may be said of another story in the same collection, No. 48, "The Traveller from Turin," which is nothing but Sindbad's "Fourth Voyage."[12] The last story taken from the Arabian Nights which we shall mention is that of "The Second Royal Mendicant," found in Comparetti (No. 63, "My Happiness") from the Basilicata, and in the collection of Mantuan stories. The latter (No. 8) is entitled: "There is no longer any Devil." The magician is the devil, and the story concludes, after the transformations in which the peasant's son kills the devil in the shape of a hen, with the words: "And this is the reason why there is no longer any devil."[13] The first collection of Oriental tales known in Europe as a collection was the _Disciplina Clericalis_, that is, Instruction or Teaching for Clerks or Clergymen. It was the work of a converted Spanish Jew, Petrus Alphonsi, and was composed before 1106, the date of the baptism of the author, the time and place of whose death are not known. The _Disciplina Clericalis_ was early translated into French prose and poetry, and was the storehouse from which all subsequent story-tellers drew abundant material.[14] Precisely how the _Disciplina Clericalis_ became known in Italy we cannot tell; but the separate stories must have become popular and diffused by word of mouth at a very early date. One of the stories of this collection is found in Italian literature as early as the _Cento Novelle Antiche_.[15] Four of the stories in the _Disciplina Clericalis_ are found in Pitrè and other collections of popular tales, and although belonging, with one exception, to the class of jests, they are mentioned here for the sake of completeness. In one of the stories of the _Disciplina Clericalis_, two citizens of a certain town and a countryman were making the pilgrimage to Mecca together, and on the way ran so short of food that they had only flour enough left to make one small loaf. The two citizens in order to cheat the countryman out of his share devised the following scheme: While the bread was baking they proposed that all three should sleep, and whoever should have the most remarkable dream should have the whole loaf. While the citizens were asleep, the countryman, who had divined their plan, stole the half-cooked bread from the fire, ate it, and then threw himself down again. One of the other two pretended to wake up in a fright, and told his companion that he had dreamed that two angels had led him through the gates of heaven into the presence of God. The other declared that he had been led by two angels into the nether-world. The countryman heard all this and still pretended to sleep. When his companions aroused him he asked in amazement: "Who are those calling me?" They answered: "We are your companions." "What," said he, "have you got back already?" "Where have we been to in order to return?" The countryman replied: "It seemed to me that two angels led one of you to heaven, and afterwards two others conducted the other to hell. From this I imagined that neither of you would return, so I got up and ate the bread."[16] The same story is told in Pitrè (No. 173) of a monk who was an itinerant preacher, and who was accompanied on his journey by a very cunning lay brother. One day the monk received a present of some fish which he wished to eat himself alone, and therefore proposed to the brother that the one of them who dreamed the best dream should have all the fish. The dreams and the conclusion are the same as in the original.[17] The next story is well known from the use made of it by Cervantes in Don Quixote (Part I., chap. xx.) where Sancho relates it to beguile the hours of the memorable night when the noise of the fulling-mill so terrified the doughty knight and his squire. The version in the _Disciplina Clericalis_ is as follows: A certain king had a story-teller who told him five stories every night. It happened once that the king, oppressed by cares of state, was unable to sleep, and asked for more than the usual number of stories. The story-teller related three short ones. The king wished for more still, and when the story-teller demurred, said: "You have told me several very short ones. I want something long, and then you may go to sleep." The story-teller yielded, and began thus: "Once upon a time there was a certain countryman who went to market and bought two thousand sheep. On his way home a great inundation took place, so that he was unable to cross a certain river by the ford or bridge. After anxiously seeking some means of getting across with his flock, he found at length a little boat in which he could convey two sheep over." After the story-teller had got thus far he went to sleep. The king roused him and ordered him to finish the story he had begun. The story-teller answered: "The flood is great, the boat small, and the flock innumerable; let the aforesaid countryman get his sheep over, and I will finish the story I have begun."[18] The version in Pitrè (No. 138) lacks all connection and is poor, but we give it here, as it is very brief. XXXIX. THE TREASURE. Once upon a time there was a prince who studied and racked his brains so much that he learned magic and the art of finding hidden treasures. One day he discovered a treasure in a bank, let us say the bank of Ddisisa: "Oh, he says, now I am going to get it out." But to get it out it was necessary that ten million million ants should cross one by one the river Gianquadara (let us suppose it was that one) in a bark made of the half shell of a nut. The prince puts the bark in the river and begins to make the ants pass over. One, two, three,----and he is still doing it. Here the person who is telling the story pauses and says: "We will finish this story when the ants have finished passing over."[19] * * * * * The version from Milan is still shorter: XL. THE SHEPHERD. Once upon a time there was a shepherd who went to feed his sheep in the fields, and he had to cross a stream, and he took the sheep up one by one to carry them over.... What then? Go on! When the sheep are over, I will finish the story.[20] * * * * * In chapter V. we shall meet two popular figures in Sicilian tales, whose jokes are repeated elsewhere as detached stories. One of these persons is Firrazzanu, the practical joker and knave, who is cunning enough to make others bear the penalty of his own boldness. In the story in Pitrè (No. 156, var. 2) Firrazzanu's master wants a tailor for some work, and Firrazzanu tells him he knows of one who is good, but subject to fits, which always make their approach known by a twitching of the mouth, and the only remedy for them is a sound beating. Of course, when the unlucky tailor begins to cut his cloth, he twists his mouth, and receives, to his amazement, a sudden beating. In this version there is no reason given why Firrazzanu should play such a joke on the innocent tailor. In the original, however, a motive is given for the trick.[21] The last story we shall mention from the _Disciplina Clericalis_ is the one known in Pitrè (No. 197) as: XLI. THE THREE ADMONITIONS. A man once left his country to go to foreign parts, and there entered the service of an abbot. After he had spent some time in faithful service, he desired to see his wife and native land. He said to the abbot: "Sir, I have served you thus long, but now I wish to return to my country." "Yes, my son," said the abbot, "but before departing I must give you the three hundred ounces[C] that I have put together for you. Will you be satisfied with three admonitions, or with the three hundred ounces?" The servant answered: "I will be satisfied with the three admonitions." "Then listen: First: When you change the old road for the new, you will find troubles which you have not looked for. Second: See much and say little. Third: Think over a thing before you do it, for a thing deliberated is very fine.[22] Take this loaf of bread and break it when you are truly happy." [Footnote C: The ounce is equivalent to nearly thirteen francs (12.75).] The good man departed, and on his journey met other travellers. These said to him: "We are going to take the by-way. Will you come with us?" But he remembering the three admonitions of his master answered: "No, my friends, I will keep on this road." When he had gone half way, bang! bang! he heard some shots. "What was that, my sons?" The robbers had killed his companions. "I have gained the first hundred ounces!" he said, and continued his journey. On his way he arrived at an inn as hungry as a dog and called for something to eat. A large dish of meat was brought which seemed to say: "Eat me, eat me!" He stuck his fork in it and turned it over, and was frightened out of his wits, for it was human flesh! He wanted to ask the meaning of such food and give the innkeeper a lecture, but just then he thought: "See much and say little;" so he remained silent. The innkeeper came, he settled his bill, and took leave. But the innkeeper stopped him and said: "Bravo, bravo! you have saved your life. All those who have questioned me about my food have been soundly beaten, killed, and nicely cooked." "I have gained the second hundred ounces," said the good man, who did not think his skin was safe until then. When he reached his own country he remembered his house, saw the door ajar and slipped in. He looked about and saw no one, only in the middle of the room was a table, well set with two glasses, two forks, two seats, service for two. "How is this?" he said: "I left my wife alone and here I find things arranged for two. There is some trouble." So he hid himself under the bed to see what went on. A moment after he saw his wife enter, who had gone out a short time before for a pitcher of water. A little after he saw a sprucely dressed young priest come in and seat himself at the table. "Ah, is that he?" and he was on the point of coming forth and giving him a sound beating; but there came to his mind the final admonition of the abbot: "Think over a thing before you do it, for a thing deliberated is very fine;" and he refrained. He saw them both sit down at the table, but before eating his wife turned to the young priest and said: "My son, let us say our accustomed Paternoster for your father." When he heard this he came from under the bed crying and laughing for joy, and embraced and kissed them both so that it was affecting to see him. Then he remembered the loaf his master had given him and told him to eat in his happiness; he broke the loaf and there fell on the table all the three hundred ounces, which the master had secretly put in the loaf.[23] * * * * * We now turn to some stories taken from a collection more famous in some respects than those previously mentioned, The Seven Wise Masters, which enjoyed during the Middle Ages a popularity second only to that of the Bible. Of this collection there are several Italian translations reaching back to the fourteenth century.[24] From one of these, or possibly from oral tradition, the stories about to be mentioned passed into the popular tales of Italy. The first story we shall cite is interesting because popular tradition has connected it with Pier delle Vigne, the famous chancellor of the Emperor Frederick the Second. The Venetian version (Bernoni, _Trad. pop. venez._ Punt. I. p. 11) is in substance as follows: XLII. VINEYARD I WAS AND VINEYARD I AM. A king, averse to marriage, commanded his steward to remain single. The latter, however, one day saw a beautiful girl named Vigna, and married her secretly. Although he kept her closely confined in her chamber, the king became suspicious and sent the steward off on an embassy. After his departure the king entered the apartment occupied by him, and saw his officer's wife sleeping. He did not disturb her, but, in leaving the room, dropped one of his gloves accidentally on the bed. When the husband returned he found it, but kept a discreet silence, ceasing, however, all demonstrations of affection, believing his wife had been faithless. The king, anxious to see again the beautiful woman, made a feast and ordered the steward to bring his wife. He denied in vain that he had one, but brought her at last, and while every one else was talking gayly at the feast she was silent. The king observed it and asked her the cause of her silence; and she answered with a pun on her name: "Vineyard I was and Vineyard I am, I was loved and no longer am: I know not for what reason the Vineyard has lost its season." Her husband, who heard this, replied: "Vineyard thou wast and Vineyard thou art, loved thou wast and no longer art: the Vineyard has lost its season for the lion's claw." The king, who understood what he meant, answered: "I entered the Vineyard, I touched the leaves, but I swear by my crown that I have not tasted the fruit." Then the steward understood that his wife was innocent, and the two made peace and always after lived happy and contented.[25] * * * * * This story is found only in the Greek and Hebrew versions of The Seven Wise Masters, and in the Arabic Seven Viziers. It did not pass into any of the Occidental versions, although it was known to Boccaccio, who based on it the fifth novel of the first day of the Decameron. Either, then, the story is a late adaptation of the Oriental tale, which is unlikely, or it comes from some now lost, but once popular Italian version of the Oriental form of The Seven Wise Masters.[26] The three following stories are found only in the Western, or European versions of the collection. The first, technically called "_Vaticinium_" or "The Prophecy," relates that a son who understood the language of birds heard the prediction that his father and mother should come to such want that they would not have bread to eat; but that he, the son, should rise so high that his father should offer him water to wash his hands with. The father, enraged at this prediction, threw his son into the sea. He was rescued, and after many adventures, married the daughter of the king of Sicily. One day, while riding through Messina, he saw his father and mother, meanly dressed, sitting at the door of an inn. He alighted from his horse, entered their house, and asked for food. After his father and mother had brought him water to wash his hands he revealed himself to them and forgave his father for his cruelty. The only Italian version, and disfigured by some extraneous details, is in the Mantuan tales (Visentini, No. 50): "Fortune aid me." Here the son does not hear the prophecy from the birds, but an angel tells a king, who has long desired a son, that he shall have one whom he shall one day serve. When the child was ten years old the king was so vexed by the prediction that he exposed his son in a wood. The child was found by a magician, who brought him up, and from whom he afterwards escaped. He went to the court of the king, his father, and won the hand of the princess (his own sister) by leaping his horse over a broad ditch. At the marriage banquet the king handed his son a glass of wine, and the latter recognized him and exclaimed: "Behold, the father serves the son." The marriage was of course given up and the previous aversion of the sister explained.[27] Closely connected with the original story in The Seven Wise Masters is the class of stories where the hero is acquainted with the language of animals, and attains by means of it some high position (generally becoming pope) after he has been driven from home by his father. The following version is from Monferrato (Comparetti, No. 56) and is entitled: XLIII. THE LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS. A father once had a son who spent ten years in school. At the end of that time, the teacher wrote the father to take away his son because he could not teach him anything more. The father took the boy home and gave a grand banquet in his honor, to which he invited the most noble gentlemen of the country. After many speeches by those gentlemen, one of the guests said to the host's son: "Just tell us some fine thing that you have learned." "I have learned the language of dogs, of frogs, and of birds." There was universal laughter on hearing this, and all went away ridiculing the pride of the father and the foolishness of the son. The former was so ashamed at his son's answer and so angry at him that he gave him up to two servants, with orders to take him into a wood and kill him and to bring back his heart. The two servants did not dare to obey this command, and instead of the lad they killed a dog, and carried its heart to their master. The youth fled from the country and came to a castle a long way off, where lived the treasurer of the prince, who had immense treasures. There he asked for and obtained a lodging, but scarcely had he entered the house when a multitude of dogs collected about the castle. The treasurer asked the young man why so many dogs had come, and as the latter understood their language he answered that it meant that a hundred assassins would attack the castle that very evening, and that the treasurer should take his precautions. The castellan made two hundred soldiers place themselves in ambush about the castle and at night they arrested the assassins. The treasurer was so grateful to the youth that he wished to give him his daughter, but he replied that he could not remain now, but that he would return within a year and three days. After he left that castle he arrived at a city where the king's daughter was very ill because the frogs which were in a fountain near the palace gave her no rest with their croaking. The lad perceived that the frogs croaked because the princess had thrown a cross into the fountain, and as soon as it was removed the girl recovered. The king, too, wished the lad to marry her, but he again said that he would return within a year and three days. After leaving the king he set out for Rome, and on the way met three young men, who became his companions. One day it was very warm and all three lay down to sleep under an oak. Immediately a great flock of birds flew into the oak and awakened the pilgrims by their loud singing. One of them asked: "Why are these birds singing so joyfully?" The youth answered: "They are rejoicing with the new Pope, who is to be one of us." And suddenly a dove alighted on his head, and in truth shortly after he was made Pope. Then he sent for his father, the treasurer, and the king. All presented themselves trembling, for they knew that they had committed some sin. But the Pope made them all relate their deeds, and then turned to his father and said: "I am the son whom you sent to be killed because I said I understood the language of birds, of dogs, and of frogs. You have treated me thus, and on the other hand a treasurer and a king have been very grateful for this knowledge of mine." The father, repenting his fault, wept bitterly, and his son pardoned him and kept him with him while he lived.[28] * * * * * The next story is doubly interesting because it is found not only in the mediæval collection last mentioned, but also in Greek literature, being told of Rampsinitus, King of Egypt, by Herodotus (II. 121), and by Pausanias of the two architects Agamedes and Trophonius who robbed the treasury of Hyrieus.[29] There are four versions in Italian: two from Sicily (Pitrè, Nos. 159, 160), one from Bologna (Coronedi-Berti, No. 2), and one from Monferrato (Comparetti, No. 13). In one of the Sicilian versions (Pitrè, No. 159), and in the other two from Bologna and Monferrato, the thieves are two friends. In the other Sicilian version they are a father and son. We give a translation of the last named version, which is called: XLIV. THE MASON AND HIS SON. There was once a mason who had a wife and son. One day the king sent for the mason to build a country-house in which to put his money, for he was very rich and had no place to keep it. The mason set to work with his son. In one corner they put in a stone that could be taken out and put back, large enough for a man to enter. When the house was finished the king paid them and they went home. The king then had his money carted to the house and put guards around it. After a few days he saw that no one went there and took away the guard. Let us leave the king, who took away the guard, and return to the mason. When his money was gone he said to his son: "Shall we go to the country-house?" They took a sack and went there. When they arrived at the house they took out the stone and the father entered and filled the bag with gold. When he came out he put the stone back as it was before and they departed. The next day the king rode out to his house and saw that his pile of gold had diminished. He said to his servants: "Who has been taking the money?" The servants answered: "It is not possible, your Majesty; for who comes here; where could they get in? It may be that the house has settled, being newly built." So they took and repaired it. After a while the mason said again to his son: "Let us go back there." They took the accustomed sack and went there; arriving as usual they took out the stone and the father entered, filled the sack, and they departed. The same night they made another trip, filled the same sack again, and went away. The next day the king visited the house with his soldiers and councillors. When he entered he went to see the money and it was very greatly diminished; he turned to his councillors and said: "Some one comes here and takes the money." The councillors said: "But, your Majesty, while you are saying so, one thing can be done; take a few tubs, fill them with melted pitch, and place them around the walls on the inside, whoever enters will fall in them, and the thief is found." They took the tubs and put them inside, and the king left sentinels and returned to the city. The sentinels remained there a week; but as they saw no one, they, too, left. Let us leave the sentinels, who have departed, and return to the mason. He said to his son: "Let us go to the accustomed place." They took the sack and went. Arriving there, they took out the stone, and the father entered. As he entered he stuck fast in the pitch. He tried to help himself and get his feet loose, but his hands stuck fast. Then he said to his son: "Do you hear what I tell you, my son? Cut off my head, tear my coat to pieces, put back the stone as it was, and throw my head in the river, so that I shall not be known." The son did as he was told, and returned home. When he told his mother what had become of his father, she began to tear her hair. After a few days, the son, who did not know any trade, entered the service of a carpenter, and told his mother not to say anything, as if nothing had happened. Let us leave these and return to the king, who went the next day with his councillors to the country-house. They entered and saw the body, and the king said: "But it has no head! How shall we find out who it is?" The councillors said: "Take him and carry him through the streets three days; where you see weeping you will know who it is." They took the body, and called Filippu Carruba and Brasi Vutùru,[D] and made them carry it about. When they passed through the street where the mason's widow lived, she began to weep. The son, whose shop was near by, heard it, and gave himself a blow in the hand with an axe and cut off his fingers. The police arrested the mother, saying: "We have found out who it is." Meanwhile the son arrived there and said: "She is not weeping for that; she is weeping because I have cut off my fingers and can no longer work and earn my bread." The police saw it was so, believed him, and departed. At night they carried the body to the palace and built outside a scaffold to put the body on, because they had to carry it around three days. About the scaffold they placed nine sentinels--eight soldiers and a corporal. Now it was in the winter and was very cold; so the son took a mule and loaded it with drugged wine, and passed up and down. When the soldiers saw him they cried: "Friend, are you selling that wine?" He said: "I am." "Wait until we drink, for we are trembling with the cold." After they had drunk they threw themselves down and went to sleep, and the son took the body, and, after he had buried it outside of the town, returned home. [Footnote D: Names of two undertakers in Salaparuta, where the story was collected.] [In the morning the soldiers awoke and told the king what had happened, and he issued a proclamation that whoever found the body should receive a large sum of money. The body was found and carried about the street again, but no one wept. That night new sentinels were appointed, but the same thing happened as the night before. The soldiers were drugged and dressed in monks' robes, and the corporal had a cross stuck between his legs. The next day another proclamation, the body again found and carried about, but no one detected weeping. The story then continues:] The mason's son (here called for the first time Ninu) could not rest, and went to Cianedda.[E] "Will you do me a favor?" "If I can," answered Cianedda; "not one, but two. What can I do for you?" "Will you lend me your goats this evening?" "I will." Ninu took them, bought four _rotula_[F] of candles and an old earthen pot, knocked out the bottom and fastened some candles around it. Then he took the goats and fixed two candles to the horns of each one and took them where the body was, and followed with the pot on his head and the candles lighted. The soldiers ran away in terror, and the son took the body and threw it in the sea. [Footnote E: The name of a goatherd in Salaparuta.] [Footnote F: A rotulu = .793 kilos.] [The next day the king commanded that the price of meat should be set at twelve _tari_[G] a _rotulu_, and ordered that all the old women of the city should assemble at the palace. A hundred came, and he told them to go begging about the city and find out who was cooking meat; thinking that only the thief could afford to buy meat at that price. Ninu, of course, bought some and gave it to his mother to cook. While it was cooking, and Ninu absent, one of the old women came begging, and the widow gave her a piece of meat. As she was going down-stairs Ninu met her and asked her what she was doing. She explained that she was begging for some bread. Ninu, suspecting the trick, took her and threw her into the well.] [Footnote G: Frs. 5.10.] At noon, when the old women were to present themselves to the king, one was missing. The king then sent for the butchers, and found that just one _rotulu_ of meat had been sold. When the king saw this, he issued a proclamation to find out who had done all these wonders, and said: "If he is unmarried, I will give him my daughter; if he is married, I will give him two measures of gold." Ninu presented himself to the king and said: "Your Majesty, it was I." The king burst out laughing, and asked: "Are you married or single?" He said: "Your Majesty, I am single." And the king said: "Will you be satisfied with my daughter, or with two measures, of gold?" "Your Majesty," he said, "I want to marry; give me your daughter." So he did, and they had a grand banquet.[30] * * * * * The story in The Seven Wise Masters, known as "_Inclusa_," or "The Elopement," is found only in Pitrè (No. 176), where it is told of a tailor who lived next to the king's palace, with which his house communicated by a secret door known only to the king and the tailor's wife. The tailor, while at work in the palace, imagines he sees his wife there, and pretending that he has forgotten his shears, etc., rushes home to find his wife there. She finally elopes with the king, leaving at her window an image that deceives her husband until she is beyond pursuit.[31] Far more curious than any of the stories above given is the last one we shall mention from The Seven Wise Masters. The story in this collection known as "_Avis_," or "The Talking Bird," is briefly as follows: A jealous husband has a talking bird that is a spy upon his wife's actions. In order to impair his confidence in the bird, one night while he is absent the wife orders a servant to shower water over the bird's cage, to make a heavy sound like thunder, and to imitate the flashing of lightning with candles. The bird, on its master's return, tells him of the terrific storm the night before, and is killed for its supposed falsehood. This story is found in both the Eastern and Western versions of The Seven Wise Masters, and practically constitutes the framework of another famous Oriental collection, the Çukasaptati (from _çuka_, a parrot, and _saptati_, seventy, The Seventy Tales of a Parrot), better known by its Persian and Turkish name, Tûtî-Nâmeh, Tales of a Parrot.[32] The frame, or groundwork, of the various Oriental versions is substantially the same. A husband is obliged to leave home on business, and while he is absent his wife engages in a love affair with a stranger. A parrot, which the husband has left behind, prevents the wife meeting her lover by telling her stories which interest her so much that she keeps putting off her appointment until her husband returns. In the Turkish version the parrot reconciles the husband and wife; in the Persian versions the parrot relates what has happened, and the faithless wife is killed. The Italian versions, as will soon be seen, are not derived from The Seven Wise Masters, but from the Çukasaptati; and what is very curious, the framework has been retained and filled with stories that are not in the original.[33] The most simple version is from Pisa (Comparetti, No. 1), and is called: XLV. THE PARROT (FIRST VERSION). There was once a merchant who had a beautiful daughter, with whom the king and the viceroy were both in love. The former knew that the merchant would soon have to depart on business, and he would then have a chance to speak with the girl. The viceroy knew it, too, and pondered on how he could prevent the king succeeding in his plan. He was acquainted with a witch, and promised her immunity and a large sum of money if she would teach him how to change himself into a parrot. This she did, and of course the merchant bought him for his daughter, and departed. When the parrot thought it was about time for the king to come, he said to the girl: "Now, to amuse you, I will tell you a story; but you must attend to me and not see any one while I am telling it." Then he began his story, and after he had gone a little way in it a servant entered and told her mistress that there was a letter for her. "Tell her to bring it later," said the parrot, "and now listen to me." "I do not receive letters while my father is away," said the mistress, and the parrot continued. After a while another interruption. A servant announces the visit of an aunt. (It was not an aunt, but a woman who came from the king.) The parrot said: "Do not receive her; we are in the finest part of our story," and the young girl sent word that she did not receive any visits while her father was absent, and the parrot went on. When his story was ended the girl was so pleased that she would listen to no one else until her father returned. Then the parrot disappeared, and the viceroy visited the merchant and asked his daughter's hand. He consented, and the marriage took place that very day. The wedding was scarcely over when a gentleman came to ask the girl's hand for the king; but it was too late, and the poor king, who was much in love with her, died of a broken heart, and the girl remained the wife of the viceroy, who had been more cunning than the king. * * * * * We have omitted the story told by the parrot because we shall meet it again in the Sicilian version, and substantially in the following version from Florence, which we give entire on account of the rarity of the work in which it is found, and for its own merits.[34] It is also entitled: XLVI. THE PARROT. (SECOND VERSION.) Once upon a time there was a merchant who, having to go on a journey, gave his wife a parrot to amuse her in her loneliness. The wife, vexed that her husband should leave her so soon, threw the bird in a corner and thought no more about it. At evening she went to the window and saw pass a young man, who fell in love with her as soon as he saw her. On the first floor there lived a woman who sold coals, and the young man began to tempt her to help him in his love affair. She would not promise, because the merchant's wife had been married but a few days, and was an honest woman. She added, however, that there was a way; her daughter was to be married shortly, she would invite the young wife to the wedding, and the young man, being there too, could manage the rest. The wife accepted the invitation, dressed herself in her finest clothes, and was on the point of leaving when the parrot cried from its corner: "O mistress, where are you going? I wished to tell you a story; but suit yourself." The wife then dismissed the coal-woman, who, not to spoil matters, promised to put off the wedding and return for her the next day. Then the parrot began: "Once upon a time there was a king's son whose master was so learned in magic that with certain words he could change himself into various animals. The prince wanted to learn these words, too; but the magician hesitated and refused, although he had to yield at last. Then the prince became a crow and flew far away to a distant country and into the garden of a king, where he saw a beautiful girl with a mirror in which was set her portrait. The crow in wonder snatched the glass from her hands, and flew home and resumed his own form, but he fell so deeply in love with the unknown girl that he became ill. "She, meanwhile, who was the daughter of a king, seeing the glass taken from her, no longer had any peace of mind, and begged her father until he gave her permission to go in search of it. She dressed herself like a physician and departed. She came to a city and heard a proclamation by the king, that whatever physician should pass that way should be obliged to visit and try to cure his daughter. Then the new physician had to go to the palace, but she could not discover any remedy for the grave disease. At night, while sitting by the princess' bed, the light went out, and she left the room to light it, and saw in a little cottage three old women sitting around a cauldron boiling over a great fire. 'Good women, are you washing?' 'What a washing! these are three heads, and when they are cooked the princess will die.' 'Bravo, my good women; bring the wood and I will help, too.' She remained there some time and promised to return. The brighter the fire burned, the nearer the princess came to death. The physician consoled the king and had a fine supper prepared. The second night she carried food and a great deal of wine to the old women, and when they were drunk threw them into the fire and lifted off the cauldron with the boiling heads. The princess recovered and the king wished to give her to the physician and reward him with gems and gold, but the physician would take nothing, and departed." "You know, mistress, it is late and I am tired," interrupted the parrot; "I will tell you the rest to-morrow." The next day the woman who sold coals came again, and the merchant's wife was on the point of accompanying her; but the parrot detained her, promising to finish the story. So the woman went away in anger, and the parrot continued: "The princess disguised as a physician journeyed until she came to another city, and heard a proclamation by the king, that every physician who passed that way should be forced to visit and attempt to cure his son. The new physician, too, had to go to court; but could find no remedy for the severe disease. At night, while sitting at the bedside of the prince, she heard a loud noise in the next room: went to the door and saw three old women, who were preparing a banquet. Afterwards they approached the invalid, anointed him from head to foot, and carried him healed to the table; then when they were full of wine and merry, they anointed him again and replaced him on his bed worse than before. The physician comforted the king, and the second night allowed the witches to take the prince to the table, then appeared and frightening the old women with threats of the king's anger drove them from the room and restored the son to his father. The king, well pleased, wished to recompense the physician, who would take nothing, and departed." "But you know, mistress, it is late and I am weary. I will tell you the rest to-morrow." The next day the woman who sold coals returned, and the merchant's wife was on the point of following her; but the parrot detained her, promising to finish the story. The woman went away angry, and the parrot continued: "After a long journey the princess disguised as a physician came to another city, and heard a proclamation by the king, that every physician who passed that way should be compelled to visit and attempt to cure his son. The new physician, too, had to go to court; but she could find no remedy for the severe disease. The prince would speak to no one, but the physician at last made the invalid disclose the secret of his heart, and he told of the mirror and showed the portrait of the unknown lady whom he loved desperately. The physician consoled the king; had garments and ornaments exactly like those of the young girl in the glass prepared; dressed in them, and as she appeared before the prince he leaped from his bed, embracing his betrothed in the midst of rejoicings." But here the lady hears her husband arriving. Joy makes her beside herself; and she throws from the window the poor parrot, which now seems to her only a tiresome companion. The merchant enters and inquires about the bird; sees the parrot hurt upon the neighboring roof and picks it up kindly. The parrot narrates to him the wiles of the coal-woman and its own prudence; assures the husband that his wife is innocent; but complains of her being so ungrateful; she had promised him a gold vase, and now treats him thus. The merchant consoles the dying bird, and afterwards has him embalmed and placed in the gold vase. As for his wife, he loved her more than ever. * * * * * Another version from Piedmont (Comparetti, No. 2; De Gub. Zoöl. Myth. II. 322) differs materially from the ones just given. A king is obliged to go to war and leave behind him his wife, with whom another king is in love. Before parting he forbids his wife to leave the palace during his absence, and presents her with a parrot. No sooner has the king departed than his rival attempts to obtain an interview with the queen by giving a feast and inviting her to it. The parrot prevents her going by relating the story contained in the first version. They are interrupted in the same manner by an old woman sent by the lover, but to no purpose. When the story is finished, the husband returns, and the parrot becomes a young man, whom the king had engaged to watch over his wife's fidelity. The Sicilian version of our story is the most interesting as well as the most complete of all; the single story in the continental versions has been expanded into three, and the frame is more artistic. The story is the second in Pitrè, and is as follows: XLVII. THE PARROT WHICH TELLS THREE STORIES. (THIRD VERSION.) Once upon a time there was a rich merchant who wanted to marry, and who happened to find a wife as good as the day was long, and who loved her husband desperately. One day she saw him a little annoyed, and said: "What makes you feel so?" "What should make me feel so! I have important business to attend to, and must go and see to it on the spot." "And are you annoyed about that? let us arrange matters thus: you will leave me provisions and close up all the doors and windows but one high up; make me a wicket, and then depart." "The advice pleases me," said her husband, and he laid in at once a large provision of bread, flour, oil, coals, and everything; had all the doors and windows closed up but one, to take the air, had a wicket made like those in the convents, and departed, and the wife remained with her maid. The next day a servant called at the wicket to do what was necessary and then went away. After ten days the lady began to be oppressed, and had a great mind to cry. The maid said: "There is a remedy for everything, my mistress; let us draw the table up to the window, and climb up and enjoy the sight of the Corso." They did so, and the lady looked out. "Ah! I thank you, sirs!" As she uttered the ah! opposite her was a notary's office, and there were the notary and a cavalier. They turned and saw this beautiful young woman. "Oh! what a handsome woman! I must speak with her!" said the cavalier. "No: I will speak first," said the notary. And "I first," and "I first." They laid a wager of four hundred ounces as to who would speak with her first. The lady perceived them and withdrew from the window. The notary and the cavalier thought about the bet, and had no rest running here and there and trying to speak with the lady. At last the notary in despair went out into the fields and began to call his demon. The demon appeared and the notary told him everything, saying: "And this cavalier wishes to have the advantage of speaking with the lady first." "What will you give me?" said the demon. "My soul." "Then see what you have to do; I will change you into a parrot and you must fly and alight on the window of the lady. The maid will take you and have a silver cage made for you and put you in it. The cavalier will find an old woman who is able to make the lady leave the house. But she will not make her leave, you know. You must say: 'My pretty mamma, sit down while I tell you a story.' The old woman will come thrice; you must tear out your feathers and fly into a passion and say always: 'My pretty mamma, don't go with that old woman, she will betray you; sit down while I tell you a story.' And then tell her any story you wish." The demon ended with: "Man you are, become a parrot!" and the parrot flew away to the window. The maid saw it and caught it with her handkerchief. When the lady saw the parrot she said: "How beautiful you are! Now you will be my consolation." "Yes, pretty mamma, I will love you, too." The lady had a silver cage made, and shut the parrot up in it. Let us leave the parrot in the cage, and return to the cavalier, who was making desperate efforts to see the lady. An old woman met him, and asked him what the matter was. "Must I tell you what the matter is?" and dismissed her; but the old woman was persistent. At last to get rid of her he told her all about the wager. The old woman said: "I am able to make you speak with the lady. You must have prepared for me two handsome baskets of early fruit." The cavalier was so anxious to see the lady that he had the baskets of early fruit prepared and given to her. With these things the old woman went to the wicket, pretending that she was the lady's grandmother. The lady believed her. One word brings on another. "Tell me, my granddaughter, you are always shut up, but don't you hear mass Sundays?" "How could I hear it shut up?" "Ah, my daughter, you will be damned. No, this is not well. You must hear mass Sundays. To-day is a feast day; let us go to mass." While the lady was being persuaded, the parrot began to lament. When its mistress opened the clothespress, the parrot said: "My pretty mamma, don't go, for the old woman will betray you. If you don't go I will tell you a story." The lady took an idea into her head. "Now, my grandmother," she said, "go away, for I cannot come." And the old woman went away. When she had gone, the lady went to the parrot, which related to her this story: FIRST STORY OF THE PARROT. Once upon a time there was a king who had an only daughter, who was very fond of dolls, and had one that was her delight. She dressed her and undressed her and put her to bed, in short did for her what is done for children. One day the king wished to go into the country, and the princess wished to take the doll. While they were walking about, in a moment of forgetfulness, she left her doll on a hedge. It was meal time, and after they had eaten they got into the carriage and returned to the royal palace. What do you suppose the princess forgot? the doll! As soon as they arrived at the palace the princess remembered the doll. What did she do? Instead of going up-stairs, she turned round and went to look for the doll. When she got outdoors, she became lost and wandered about like a person bereft of her senses. After a time she came to a royal palace and asked who was the king of that palace. "The King of Spain," they said. She asked for a lodging. She entered; the king gave her lodging and treated her like a daughter. She made herself at home in the palace and began to be the mistress. The king had no daughters and gave her liberty to do as she pleased in spite of twelve royal damsels. Now, as there is envy among equals, the damsels began to oppose her. Said they: "Just see! Who knows who she is? and is she to be our princess? Now this thing must stop!" The next day they said to the princess: "Will you come with us?" "No, because papa does not wish it. If he is willing, I will come." "Do you know what you must do to make him let you come? tell him: 'By the soul of his daughter he must let you go.' When he hears that, he will let you go at once." The princess did so, but when the king heard her say: "By the soul of his daughter!" "Ah! wretch," exclaimed the king; "quick, throw her down the trap-door!" When the princess fell down the trap-door she found a door, then another, and another, always feeling her way along. At a certain point she felt with her hands like the blind, and found tinder and matches. She then lighted a candle which she found there, and saw a beautiful young girl, with a padlock on her mouth, so that she could not speak, but she made signs that the key to open it with was under the pillow of the bed. The princess got it and opened the padlock; then the young girl spoke, and said that she was the daughter of the king whom a magician had stolen. This magician brought her, every day, something to eat, and then locked up her mouth, and she had to wait until the next day to open it again. "But tell me," said the princess, "what way is there to free you?" "How do I know? I can do nothing but ask the magician when he opens my mouth; you hide under the bed and listen, and afterwards think what has to be done." "Good! good!" The princess locked her mouth, put the key under the pillow, and crawled under the bed. But at midnight a great noise was heard; the earth opened, lightning, smoke, and smell of sulphur, and the magician appeared in a magician's robe. With the magician was a giant with a bowl of food, and two servants with two torches. The magician sent away the servants, and locked the doors, took the key, and opened the mouth of the king's daughter. While they were eating, she said: "Magician, I have a thought: out of curiosity I would like to know what it would be necessary for me to do to escape from here." "You want to know a great deal, my daughter!" "Never mind, I don't care to know." "However, I will tell you. It would be necessary to make a mine all around the palace, and precisely at midnight, when I am on the point of entering, to explode the mine: you will find yourself with your father, and I will fly up in the air." "It's as if you had not told any one," said the young girl. The magician dressed himself and went away. After a few hours the princess came out from under the bed, took leave of her little sister, for she already called her "little sister," and departed. She went back to the trap-door and, at a certain point, stopped and called for help. The king heard her, and had a rope lowered. The princess climbed up and related everything to the king. He was astounded, and began the mine, which he had filled with shot, powder, and balls. When it was full to the brim, the princess descended with a watch and went to the king's daughter: "Either both dead, or both alive!" When she entered the room, she said: "It is I," took the lock from her mouth, talked with her, and then concealed herself under the bed. At midnight the magician came, and the king was on the lookout, with his watch in his hand. As the clock struck twelve, the princess fired the mine: boom! and a great noise was heard: the magician vanished, and the two young girls found themselves free and in each other's arms. When the king saw them, he exclaimed: "Ah! my daughters! your misfortune was your good fortune. My crown belongs to you," said he to the princess whom he had adopted. "No, your Majesty, for I am a king's daughter, and I, too, have a crown." This matter spread over the world, and her fame passed through all the kingdoms, and every one talked of nothing but the great courage and goodness of this princess who had delivered the other princess from the magician. And they remained happy and always enjoyed holy peace. "What do you think, pretty mamma, of this story?" "It is very fine," said the lady to the parrot. A week passed after the story; the old woman again came with two other baskets of fruit to her granddaughter: "Pretty idea!" said the parrot. "Take care, pretty mamma; the old woman is coming." The old woman said: "Come, my daughter, are you going to mass?" "Yes, my grandmother;" and the lady began dressing herself. When the parrot saw her dressing herself it began to tear out its feathers and weep: "No, pretty mamma, don't go to mass; that old woman will ruin you. If you will stay with me, I will tell you another story." "Now go away," said the lady to the old woman, "for I cannot kill my dear little parrot, for the sake of the mass." "Ah! wicked woman! to lose your soul for an animal!" The old woman went away and the parrot told this story: SECOND STORY OF THE PARROT. Well then, my lady, there was once upon a time a king who had an only daughter as beautiful as the sun and moon. When she was eighteen a Turkish king wished to marry her. When she heard that it was a Turkish king she said: "What do I want of Turks!" and refused him. Shortly after she became very ill, convulsions, twisting of the body, rolling of her eyes to the back of her head, and the doctors did not know what was the matter. The poor father in confusion called his council together, and said: "Gentlemen, my daughter is losing ground every day; what advice do you give me?" The sages said: "Your Majesty, there is a young girl who found the daughter of the King of Spain;[H] find her and she will tell you what must be done for your daughter." "Bravo! the council has been favorable." The king ordered vessels to go for this young girl: "And if the King of Spain will not let her go, give him this iron glove and declare war!" The vessels departed and reached Spain one morning. They fired a salute, the ambassador landed, presented himself to the king, and gave him a sealed letter. The king opened it and after reading it began to weep and said: "I prefer war, and I will not give up this girl." Meanwhile the girl entered: "What is the matter, your Majesty? (and she saw the letter). What are you afraid of? I will go at once to this king." "How, my daughter, will you then leave me thus?" "I will return. I will go and see what is the matter with this young girl and then come back." [Footnote H: The princess of the last story.] She took leave of her half-sister and departed. When she arrived the king went to meet her: "My daughter, if you cure this sick daughter of mine, I will give you my crown!" "That makes two crowns!" she said to herself. "I have a crown, your Majesty. Let us see what the matter is, and never mind the crowns." She went and saw the princess all wasted away. She turned to the king and said: "Your Majesty! have some broth and substantial things made," and they were prepared at once. "I am going to shut myself up with your daughter, and you must not open the door, for in three days I will give her to you alive or dead. And listen to what I say: even if I should knock you must not open." Everything was arranged and the door was fastened with chains and padlocks, but they forgot the tinder to light the candle with at night. In the evening there was great confusion. The young girl did not wish to knock, and as she looked out of the window she saw a light at a distance. So she descended by a ladder of silk, taking with her a candle. When she drew near the light she saw a large cauldron placed on some stones and a furnace under it, and a Turk who was stirring it with a stick. "What are you doing, Turk?" "My king wanted the daughter of the king, she did not want him, he is bewitching her." "My poor little Turk! You are tired, are you not? do you know what you must do? rest yourself a little while I stir." "I will, by Mahomet!" He got down; she got up and began to stir with the stick. "Am I doing it all right thus?" "Yes, by Mahomet." "Well then, you take a nap, and I will stir." When he was asleep, she came down, seized him, and threw him into the boiling cauldron, where he died. When she saw that he was dead, she lighted her candle and returned to the palace. She entered the room and found the invalid had fainted on the floor. She brought her to with cologne water (_acqua d' oduri_) and in three days she had recovered. Then she knocked at the door and the king entered, beside himself at finding his daughter cured. "Ah! my daughter," he said to the young girl who had healed her, "how much we owe you! you must remain here with me." "It is impossible; you threatened my father with war if he did not allow me to come; now my father declares war with you if you do not let me return to him." She remained there a fortnight, then departed, and the king gave her quantities of riches and jewels. She returned to the king of Spain's palace. And so the story ends. * * * * * "What did you think of the story, pretty mamma?" said the parrot. "Beautiful, beautiful." "But you must not go with the old woman, because there is treason." After a week the old woman came with her baskets. "My daughter, you must do me this pleasure to-day, come and hear the holy mass." "I will." When the parrot heard that, he began to weep and tear out his feathers: "No, my pretty mamma, don't go with the old woman. If you will stay, I will tell you another story." "Grandmother mine," says she, "I can't come, for I don't wish to lose the parrot for your sake." She closed the wicket and the old woman went away grumbling and cursing. The lady then seated herself near the parrot, which told this story: THIRD STORY OF THE PARROT. Once upon a time there was a king and a queen who had an only son, whose sole diversion was the chase. Once he wished to go hunting at a distance, and took with him his attendants. Where do you think he happened to go? To the country where the doll was.[I] When he saw the doll he said: "I have finished my hunt, let us return home!" He took the doll and placed it before him on the horse, and exclaimed every few minutes: "How beautiful this doll is! think of its mistress!" When he reached the palace he had a glass case made in the wall, and put the doll in it, and kept looking at it continually and saying: "How beautiful the doll is! think of the mistress!" [Footnote I: The doll of the first story.] The young man would not see any one and became so melancholy that his father summoned the physicians, who said: "Your Majesty, we know nothing of this illness; see what he does with his doll." The king went to see his son and found him gazing at the doll, and exclaiming: "Oh! how beautiful the doll is! think of the mistress!" The physicians departed as wise as when they came. The prince meanwhile did nothing but sit and look at the doll, and draw deep breaths, and sigh, and exclaim: "How beautiful the doll is! think of the mistress!" The king at last, in despair, summoned his council, and said: "See how my son is reduced! He has no fever, or pain in his head, but he is wasting away, and some one else will enjoy my kingdom! Give me advice." "Majesty, are you perplexed? Is there not that young girl who found the King of Spain's daughter, and cured the other princess? Send for her. If her father will not let her come, declare war with him." The king sent his ambassadors with the message that the young girl should be sent _nolens volens_. While the ambassadors were in the king's presence, his daughter entered, the one who had done the wonders, and found her father perplexed: "What is the matter, your Majesty?" "Nothing, my daughter. Another occasion has arrived, another king wants you. Does he mean that I am no longer your master?" "Never mind, your Majesty; let me go; I will soon return." So she embarked with all her attendants and began her journey. When she arrived where the prince was, she saw him drawing such deep breaths that it seemed as if he would swallow himself, and always exclaiming: "Oh! how beautiful the doll is! think of the mistress!" She said: "You have called me none too soon! However, give me a week: bring me ointments, food; and in a week, alive and well, or dead." She shut herself up with him and listened to hear what the prince said, for she had not yet heard what he was saying, he was so feeble. When she heard him whisper: "Oh! how be-au-ti-ful is the doll; con-sid-er," and saw the doll, she cried: "Ah! wretch! it was you who had my doll! Leave it to me, I will cure you." When he heard these words he came to himself and said: "Are you the doll's mistress?" "I am." Just think! he returned to life and she began to give him broth until she had restored him. When he was restored she said: "Now tell me how you got the doll," and the prince told her everything. To make the matter short, in a week the prince was cured, and they declared that they would marry each other. The king, beside himself with joy because his son was healed, wrote several letters: one to the King of Spain to tell him that his daughter had found her doll, another to the other king, her father, to tell him that his daughter was found, and another to the king whose daughter she had cured. Afterwards all these monarchs came together and made great festivals, and the prince married the princess, and they lived together in great peace. * * * * * "Has this story pleased you, pretty mamma?" "Yes, my son." "But you must not go with the old woman, you know." After the story was ended a servant came: "My lady, my lady, the master is coming!" "Truly!" said the lady. "Now, parrot, listen; I will have a new cage made for you." The master arrived, the windows were all opened, and he embraced his wife. At dinner they placed the parrot in the middle of the table, and when the joy was at its height the bird threw some soup in its master's eyes. The master, when he felt it, put his hands to his eyes, and the parrot darted at his throat, strangled him, and flew away. He flew away to the country, and saying, "I am a parrot, and I become a man," he was changed into a handsome, cunning, and well-kempt man on the Corso. He met the cavalier: "Do you know," said this one, "that the poor lady's husband is dead? a parrot strangled him!" "Truly? poor woman! poor woman!" said the notary, and went his way without speaking of the wager. The notary learned that the lady had a mother, and went to her to ask her daughter in marriage. After hesitating, the lady finally said yes, and they were married. That evening the notary said to the lady: "Now tell me, who killed your husband?" "A parrot." "And what about this parrot?" The lady told him everything to where the parrot dashed the broth in its master's eyes, and then flew away. "True! true!" said the notary. "Was I not the parrot?" "It was you! I am amazed." "It was I, and I became a parrot for your sake!" The next day the notary went to the cavalier to get the four hundred ounces of the wager, which he enjoyed with his wife. * * * * * The three stories related by the parrot are, as has been seen, in reality one story, and they are, in fact found as such independent of the frame.[35] It has also been seen that the story or stories related by the parrot are, substantially, the same in all the versions. The Florentine version alone does not contain the episode of the doll. The story, as a whole, has no parallels, although it bears a slight resemblance to the story in the Pentamerone (II. 2), "Green Meadow." The princess as physician, and the secret malady of the prince or princess, are traits which abound in all the popular tales of Europe.[36] Many single stories of Oriental origin will be found in the chapters following. We shall close this one with a story which was popular in Europe during the Middle Ages, being found in one of the great collections of that period, the _Gesta Romanorum_. Of the various Italian versions we shall select one from Pomigliano d'Arco called: XLVIII. TRUTHFUL JOSEPH. Once upon a time there was a mother who had a son named Joseph; and because he never told a lie she called him Truthful Joseph. One day when she was calling him, the king happened to pass by, and hearing her call him thus, asked her: "Why do you call him Truthful Joseph?" "Because he never tells a lie." Then the king said that he would like to have him in his service, and set him to keeping his cows. Every morning Joseph presented himself to the king, and said: "Your Majesty's servant." The king answered: "Good morning, Truthful Joseph. How are the cows?" "Well and fat." "How are the calves?" "Well and handsome." "How is the bull?" "The same." So he did every morning. The king praised him so highly in the presence of all his courtiers that they became angry at him; and one day, to make Joseph a liar, they sent to him a lady, who was to induce him by her words to kill the bull. Joseph was urged so strongly that he consented; but afterwards he was in great perplexity as to what he should tell the king. So he put his cloak on a chair and pretended that it was the king, and said: "Your Majesty's servant. Good morning, Truthful Joseph. How are the cows? Well and fat. How are the calves? Well and handsome. How is the bull? The same. But no; that will not do! I am telling a lie! When the king asks me how the bull is, I will tell him that it is dead." He presented himself to the king and said: "Your Majesty's servant." "Good morning, Truthful Joseph. How are the cows?" "Well and fat." "How are the calves?" "Well and handsome." "How is the bull?" "Your Majesty, a lady came and with her manners made me kill the bull. Pardon me." The king answered: "Bravo, Truthful Joseph!" He summoned his courtiers and showed them that Joseph had not yet told any lie. And so Joseph remained always with the king, and the courtiers were duped, because they gained nothing that they had expected.[37] CHAPTER IV. LEGENDS AND GHOST STORIES. The Italian people possess an inexhaustible store of legends which they have inherited from the Middle Ages. With the great mass of these stories--legends of the saints or local legends--we have at present nothing to do. It is enough to say that they do not differ materially from the legends of the other Catholic peoples of Europe. The class to which we shall devote our attention in this chapter is that of popular legendary stories which have clustered around the person of our Lord and his disciples, and around other favorite characters of mediæval fancy, such as Pilate, The Wandering Jew, etc. To these may be added tales relating to the other world and stories which are of a legendary nature. The first stories which we shall mention are those referring to mythical journeys of our Lord and his apostles. The first, "St. Peter and the Robbers" (Pitrè, No. 121), relates that once while the Master was journeying with the apostles they found themselves at night out in the fields, and took shelter in a cabin belonging to some shepherds, who received them very inhospitably and gave them nothing to eat. Soon after, a band of robbers attacked the flock and robbed the shepherds, who ran away. The robbers came to the cabin, and when they heard from the apostles how shabbily they had been treated, gave them the supper that the shepherds had prepared for themselves, and went their way. "Blessed be the robbers!" said St. Peter, "for they treat the hungry poor better than the rich do." "Blessed be the robbers!" said the apostles, and ate their fill. This story, as can easily be seen, is a tradition of the robbers who pretend to have been blessed by Christ. St. Peter is the hero of several stories, in which he plays anything but a dignified rôle. In one (Pitrè, No. 122), he is sent to buy some wine, and allows himself to be persuaded by the wine merchant to eat some fennel-seed. After this he cannot distinguish between good and bad wine, and purchases an inferior kind. When the Master tasted it he said: "Eh! Peter! Peter! you have let yourself be deceived."[J] Peter tasted it again and saw that it was sour. Another apostle was sent to get some good wine, and "hence it is that when you have to taste wine to see whether it is good, you must not eat fennel-seed." [Footnote J: This story is an attempt to explain the origin of the word _'nfinucchiari_ (_infinocchiare_) to impose on one, by the word _finocchio_, fennel-seed.] L. THE LORD, ST. PETER, AND THE APOSTLES. Once, while the Master was on a journey with the thirteen apostles, they came to a village where there was no bread. The Master said: "Peter, let each one of you carry a stone." They each took up a stone--St. Peter a little bit of a one. The others were all loaded down, but St. Peter went along very easily. The Master said: "Now let us go to another village. If there is any bread there, we shall buy it; if there is none, I will give you my blessing and the stones will become bread." They went to another town, put the stones down, and rested. The Master gave them his blessing, and the stones became bread. St. Peter, who had carried a little one, felt his heart grow faint. "Master," he said, "how am I going to eat?" "Eh! my brother, why did you carry a little stone? The others, who loaded themselves down, have bread enough." Then they went on, and the Master made them each carry another stone. St. Peter was cunning this time and took a large one and all the others carried small ones. The Lord said to the others: "Little ones, we will have a laugh at Peter's expense." They arrived at another village, and all the apostles threw away their stones because there was bread there; and St. Peter was bent double, for he had carried a paving-stone with him to no purpose. On their journey they met a man; and as St. Peter was in advance of the others, he said: "The Lord is coming shortly; ask Him a favor for your soul." The man drew near and said: "Lord, my father is ill with old age. Cure him, Master." The Lord said: "Am I a physician? Do you know what you must do? Put him in a hot oven and your father will become a boy again." They did so, and his father became a little boy. The idea pleased St. Peter, and when he found himself alone he went about seeking to make some old men young. By chance there met him one who was seeking the Master because his mother was at the point of death and he wanted her cured. St. Peter said: "What do you want?" "I want the Master, for I have an old mother who is very ill, and the Master alone can cure her." "Fortunately Peter is here! Do you know what you must do? Heat an oven and put her in it, and she will be cured." The poor man believed him, for he knew that the Lord loved St. Peter, so he went home and immediately put his mother in the hot oven. What more could you expect? The old woman was burned to a coal. "Ah! _santu di ccà e di ddà!_"[K] cried the son; "that scurvy fellow has made me kill my mother!" He hastened to St. Peter. The Master was present, and when he heard the story could not control his laughter, and said: "Ah, Peter! what have you done?" St. Peter tried to excuse himself, but the poor man kept crying for his mother. What must the Master do? He had to go to the house of the dead, and with a blessing which he there pronounced he brought the old woman to life again, a beautiful young girl, and relieved St. Peter of his great embarrassment. [Footnote K: This is the strongest imprecation in Sicily.] * * * * * The last anecdote is quite popular, and is found in a number of popular stories, as well as in the _Cento Novelle Antiche_[1]. A very amusing version is from Venice (Widter-Wolf, No. 5), and is entitled: LI. THE LORD, ST. PETER, AND THE BLACKSMITH. In a little town about as large as Sehio or Thiene once lived a master-smith,--a good, industrious, and skilful man, but so proud of his skill that he would not deign to reply to anyone who did not address him as "Professor." This pride in a man otherwise so blameless gave universal dissatisfaction. One day our Lord appeared in the blacksmith's shop, accompanied by St. Peter, whom He was always in the habit of taking with Him on such excursions. "Professor," said the Lord, "will you be so good as to permit me to do a little work at your forge?" "Why not? it is at your service," replied the flattered smith. "What do you wish to make?" "That you will soon see," said the Lord, and took up a pair of tongs, with which he seized Peter and held him in the forge until he was red-hot. Then he drew him out and hammered him on all sides, and in less than ten minutes the old bald-headed apostle was forged anew into a wonderfully handsome youth with beautiful hair. The blacksmith stood speechless with astonishment, while the Lord and St. Peter exchanged the most courteous thanks and compliments. Finally the master-smith recovered himself and ran straight up to the second story, where his sick old father lay in bed. "Father," he cried, "come quickly! I have just learned how to make a strong young man of you." "My son, have you lost your senses?" said the old man, half terrified. "No; only believe me. I have just seen it myself." Finding that the old man protested against the attempt, his son seized him forcibly, carried him to the shop, and in spite of his shrieks and entreaties, thrust him into the forge, but brought nothing out but a piece of charred leg, which fell to pieces at the first blow of the hammer. Then he was seized with anguish and remorse. He ran quickly in search of the two men, and fortunately found them in the market-place. "Sir," he cried, "what have you done? You have misled me. I wanted to imitate your skill, and I have burned my father alive! Come with me quickly, and help me, if you can!" Then the Lord smiled graciously, and said: "Go home comforted. You will find your father alive and well, but an old man again." And so he did find him, to his great joy. From that time his pride disappeared, and whenever any one called him "Professor" he would exclaim: "Ah, what folly that is! There are gentlemen in Venice and professors in Padua, but I am a bungler." * * * * * The version in Knust is different. It is called "A Journey of Our Saviour on Earth," and is, in substance, as follows: A father whose son is a gambler, makes him become a soldier. The son deserts during a stormy night and takes refuge in an inn. There he meets a man who seems acquainted with his whole life and whose name is Salvatore (Saviour). He knows that Peter has deserted and is pursued, but he will save him. To gain a livelihood, he proposes to him to travel together and heal the sick. An opportunity to do this is soon offered. A rich man is ill, and Salvatore promises to heal him in three days. He makes every one withdraw, prepares a potion from herbs, and cures the patient. The relatives of the rich man offer in their gratitude all manner of costly things to Salvatore, who, however, accepts only enough to support life. Such an unreasonable proceeding enrages his companion to such a degree that he parts from him. He wishes to cure people independently, and promises a king to heal his sick daughter at once. But although he does everything exactly like Salvatore, the only effect of the potion is to kill the princess. As soon as the king learns this, he has Peter thrown into prison. On his way there he meets Salvatore, who is ready to help him at his request. The latter goes to the king and promises to raise his daughter if he will release to him the prisoner. The king consents, but threatens Salvatore with death in case of failure. The dead, however, comes to life, and in gratitude offers her hand, through her father, to Salvatore, who declares that it is his vocation to wander over the earth. He asks that the maiden be given to his companion.[2] In a story from Venice our Lord and St. Peter are hospitably received by a poor woman who has no bed to offer them, but makes up one for them from some straw and five ells of linen which she has bought that day. When the Lord departs the next morning he bestows on the woman the power of doing all day the first thing she does in the morning. She begins by taking the linen from the bed of her guests, and pulls off piece after piece of linen. A friend of hers learns this and determines to do the same, but is punished by the Lord for her selfishness.[3] LII. IN THIS WORLD ONE WEEPS AND ANOTHER LAUGHS. Once the Lord, while he was making the world, called one of the apostles and told him to look and see what the people were doing. The apostle looked and said: "How curious! the people are weeping." The Lord answered: "It is not the world yet!" The next day he bade the apostle look again and see what the people were doing. The apostle looked and saw the people laughing, and said: "The people are laughing." The Lord answered: "It is not the world yet." The third day he made him look again, and the apostle saw that some were weeping, and some were laughing, and said: "Some of the people are weeping, and some are laughing." The Lord said: "Now it is the world, because in this world one weeps and another laughs." * * * * * The next legend accounts for the ass' long ears. LIII. THE ASS. It is related that when the Lord created the world, he also made all the animals, and gave each its name. He also created the ass, which said: "Lord, what is my name?" "Your name is ass!" The ass went away well pleased. After a while it forgot its name, and went back to the Lord. "Lord, what is my name?" "Ass!" After a while it came back again. "Excuse me, Lord, what is my name?" "Ass, ass!" The ass turned and went away, but forgot it another time, and came back. "Lord, I have forgotten my name." The Lord could not stand it any longer, but seized its ears and pulled them sharply, exclaiming: "Ass! Ass! Ass!" The ears were pulled so hard that they became long, and that is why the ass has long ears, and why we pull a person's ears to keep him from forgetting a thing. * * * * * Another legend relates that when Christ was journeying through the world he happened, dying with thirst, to enter a town. He saw a woman combing her hair, and said: "Will you give me a drink of water? for I am dying of thirst." "I am busy; it is not the time for water!" Christ said at once: "Cursed be the braid That is braided Friday." And continued his journey. After a time he saw a woman making dough for bread. "Good woman, will you give me a drink of water?" "As much as you will!" and went and drew some water and gave him. Christ said: "Blessed be the dough That is kneaded on Friday." Hence it is that certain women are accustomed not to comb their hair on Friday. There is a satirical legend, called "The Lord's Will," which relates that when Christ came to leave the world, he was in doubt as to whom to leave all on the earth. If he left it to the gentlemen, what would the nobility do? if to the nobility, what would become of the gentry, and the workmen, and the peasants? While He was reflecting, the noblemen came and asked the Lord to give them everything, which he did. Then the priests came; and when they were told that everything had been given to the nobility, "Oh! the devil!" they exclaimed. "Then I leave you the devil," said the Lord. To the monks, who, when they heard what had been done, exclaimed, "Patience!" patience was left. The workmen cried: "What a fraud!" and received that for their share. Finally the peasants came and said, with resignation: "Let us do the will of God;" and that was their portion. And this is the reason why in this world the noblemen command, the priests are helped by the devil, the monks are patient, workmen fraudulent, and the peasants have to do many things they don't want to, and are obliged to submit to the will of God.[4] St. Peter's mother is the subject of a story which has given rise to a wide-spread proverb. She was, so runs the story, an avaricious woman, who never was known to do good to any one. In fact, during her whole life she never gave anything away, except the top of an onion to a beggar woman. After her death St. Peter's mother went to hell, and the saint begged our Lord to release her. In consideration of her one charitable act, an angel was sent to draw her from hell with an onion-top. The other lost spirits clutched hold of her skirts, in order to escape with her, but the selfish woman tried to shake them off, and in her efforts to do so broke the onion-top, and fell back into hell. This story has given rise to the saying, "Like St. Peter's mamma," which is found, with slight variations, all over Italy.[5] A curious version of this story is given in Bernoni (_Leggende fant._ No. 8): After the onion-top was broken and St. Peter's mother had fallen back into hell, the story continues: "Out of regard, however, for St. Peter, the Lord permitted her once a year, on St. Peter's day, to leave hell and wander about the earth a week; and, indeed, she does so every year, and during this week she plays all sorts of pranks and causes great trouble."[6] St. Peter's sisters are the subject of a story with a moral, contained in Schneller, p. 6. LIV. ST. PETER AND HIS SISTERS. St. Peter had two sisters--one large, the other small. The little one entered a convent and became a nun. St. Peter was delighted at this and tried to persuade his big sister to become a nun also. She would not listen to him, however, and said: "I would rather marry." After St. Peter had suffered martyrdom, he became, as is well known, Porter of Heaven. One day the Lord said to him: "Peter, open the gate of heaven to-day as wide as you can, and get out all the heavenly ornaments and decorations, for to-day a very deserving soul is going to arrive here." St. Peter did as he was told with great joy, and thought: "Certainly my little sister is dead, and is coming to heaven to-day." When everything was ready, there came the soul of ---- his big sister, who had died and left many children, who bitterly lamented her loss. The Lord gave her an exalted place in heaven, much to the astonishment of St. Peter, who thought: "I never should have imagined this; what shall I have to do when the soul of my little sister comes?" Not long after, the Lord said to him: "Peter, open the gate of heaven to-day a little way, but a very little,--do you hear?" St. Peter did so and wondered: "Who is coming to-day?" Then came the soul of his little sister, and had so much trouble to squeeze through the gate that she hurt herself; and she received a much lower place in heaven than the big sister. At first St. Peter was amazed; afterwards he said: "It has happened differently from what I imagined; but I see now that every profession has its merits, and every one, if he only wishes, can enter heaven." * * * * * The cycle of stories referring to our Lord would not be complete without legends of Pilate, Judas, and the Wandering Jew. A powerful story is told of the first in Pitrè, No. 119, which is as follows: LV. PILATE. It is said that the following once took place at Rome: A wagon loaded with stones was crossing a solitary spot in the country when one of the wheels sank into the ground and it was impossible to extricate it for some time. Finally they got it out, but there remained a large hole that opened into a dark room under ground. "Who wishes to descend into this hole?" "I," said the carter. They soon procured a rope and lowered the carter into the dark room. We will suppose that this carter's name was Master Francis. Well, then, Master Francis, when he was let down, turned to the right and saw a door, which he opened, and found himself in darkness that you could cut. He turned to the left, the same; he went forward, the same; he turned once more and when he opened the door what did he see? He saw a man seated before a table; before him, pen, ink, and a written paper that he was reading; and when he finished it he began over again, and never raised his eyes from the paper. Master Francis, who was of incomparable courage, went up to him and said: "Who are you?" The man made no answer, but continued to read. "Who are you?" said Master Francis again; but not a word. The third time, the man said: "Turn around, open your shirt, and I will write who I am on your back. When you leave this place, go to the Pope and make him read who I am. Remember, however, that the Pope alone must read it." Master Francis turned about, opened his shirt, the man wrote on his back, and then sat down again. Master Francis was courageous, it is true; but he was not made of wood, and in that moment he was frightened to death. He fixed his shirt and then asked: "How long have you been here?" but could get no answer from him. Seeing that it was time lost to question him, he gave the signal to those outside and was drawn up. When they saw him they did not recognize him; he had grown entirely white and seemed like an old man of ninety. "What was it? What happened?" they all began to say. "Nothing, nothing," he replied; "take me to the Pope, for I must confess." Two of those who were present conducted him to the Pope. When he was with him he related what had happened and taking off his shirt, said to him: "Read, your Holiness!" His Holiness read: "I AM PILATE." And as he uttered these words the poor carter became a statue. And it is said that that man was Pilate, who was condemned to stay in a cave, always reading the sentence that he had pronounced on Jesus Christ, without ever being able to take his eyes from the paper. This is the story of Pilate who is neither saved nor damned.[7] * * * * * Judas is believed to have hanged himself on a tamarind-tree, which, before that time, was a tall, beautiful tree. After Judas's death it became the diminutive, shapeless shrub called _vruca_, which is a synonym for all that is worthless. The soul of the traitor is condemned to wander through the air, and every time it sees this shrub it pauses, and imagines it sees its miserable body dangling from it, the prey of birds and dogs.[8] This popular legend is told in the following words: LVI. THE STORY OF JUDAS. You must know that Judas was the one who betrayed Jesus Christ. Now when Judas betrayed him, his Master said: "Repent, Judas, for I pardon you." But Judas, not at all! he departed with his bag of money, in despair and cursing heaven and earth. What did he do? While he was going along thus desperate he came across a tamarind-tree. (You must know that the tamarind was formerly a large tree, like the olive and walnut.) When he saw this tamarind a wild thought entered his mind, remembering the treason he had committed. He made a noose in a rope and hung himself to the tamarind. And hence it is (because this traitor Judas was cursed by God) that the tamarind-tree dried up, and from that time on it ceased growing up into a tree and became a short, twisted, and tangled bush; and its wood is good for nothing, neither to burn, nor to make anything out of, and all on account of Judas, who hanged himself on it. Some say that the soul of Judas went to the lowest hell, to suffer the most painful torments; but I have heard, from older persons who can know, that Judas's soul has a severer sentence. They say that it is in the air, always wandering about the world, without being able to rise higher or fall lower; and every day, on all the tamarind shrubs that it meets, it sees its body hanging and torn by the dogs and birds of prey. They say that the pain he suffers cannot be told, and that it makes the flesh creep to think of it. And thus Jesus Christ condemned him for his great treason.[9] * * * * * An interesting legend (Pitrè, No. 120) is told of the Jew who struck our Lord with the palm of his hand (St. John xviii. 22), and whom the popular imagination has identified with the Malchus mentioned by St. John, xviii. 10. It is called LVII. DESPERATE MALCHUS. This Malchus was one of those Jews who beat our Lord; a Jew more brutal than can be told. When Christ was taken to Pilate's house, this Malchus, with an iron glove, gave him a blow so heavy that it knocked out all his teeth. For the sacrilegious act, the Lord condemned him to walk constantly, without ever resting, around a column in an underground room. This column is in a round room, and Malchus walks and walks without ever having peace or rest. They say that he has walked so much that he has worn the ground down many yards and made the column seem higher than it was, for this Malchus has led this life ever since our Lord's passion and death. It is said that this Malchus is desperate from his remorse, and while he walks he beats the column, strikes his head against the wall, and rages and laments; but notwithstanding he does not die, for the sentence of God is that he must live until the day of judgment.[10] The same legend is found in Bernoni as follows: LVIII. MALCHUS AT THE COLUMN. Malchus was the head of the Jews who killed our Lord. The Lord pardoned them all, and likewise the good thief, but he never pardoned Malchus, because it was he who gave the Madonna a blow. He is confined under a mountain, and condemned to walk around a column, without resting, as long as the world lasts. Every time that he walks about the column he gives it a blow in memory of the blow he gave the mother of our Lord. He has walked around the column so long that he has sunk into the ground. He is now up to his neck. When he is under, head and all, the world will come to an end, and God will then send him to the place prepared for him. He asks all those who go to see him (for there are such) whether children are yet born; and when they say yes, he gives a deep sigh and resumes his walk, saying: "The time is not yet!" for before the world comes to an end there will be no children born for seven years.[11] * * * * * This legend recalls the Wandering Jew, who is known in Sicilian tradition under the name of _Buttadeu_ (from _buttari_, to thrust away, and _deu_, God) or more commonly as "The Jew who repulsed Jesus Christ." He is reported to have appeared in Sicily, and the daughter of a certain Antonino Caseio, a peasant of Salaparuta, gives the following account of her father's encounter with _Buttadeu_: LIX. THE STORY OF BUTTADEU. It was in the winter, and my good father was at Scalone, in the warehouse, warming himself at the fire, when he saw a man enter, dressed differently from the people of that region, with breeches striped in yellow, red, and black, and his cap the same way. My good father was frightened. "Oh!" he said, "what is this person?" "Do not be afraid," the man said. "I am called _Buttadeu_." "Oh!" said my father, "I have heard you mentioned. Be pleased to sit down a while and tell me something." "I cannot sit, for I am condemned by my God always to walk." And while he was speaking he was always walking up and down and had no rest. Then he said: "Listen. I am going away; I leave you, in memory of me, this, that you must say a _credo_ at the right hand of our Lord, and five other _credos_ at his left, and a _salve regina_ to the Virgin, for the grief I suffer on account of her son. I salute you." "Farewell." "Farewell, my name is _Buttadeu_."[12] * * * * * We have only a few legends of the saints to mention. Undoubtedly a large number are current among the people (Busk, pp. 196, 202, 203, 213-228, gives a good many), but they do not differ materially from the literary versions circulated by the Church. Those which we shall cite are purely popular and belong to the great mediæval legend-cycle. The first is the legend of "Gregory on the Stone," which was so popular in the mediæval epics. There are several Italian versions, but we select as the most complete the one in Gonzenbach, No. 85, called: LX. THE STORY OF CRIVÒLIU. Once upon a time there was a brother and sister who had neither father nor mother, and lived alone together. They loved each other so much that they committed a sin which they should not have committed. When the time came the sister gave birth to a boy, which the brother had secretly baptized. Then he burnt into his shoulders a cross, with these words: "Crivòliu, who is baptized; son of a brother and sister." After the child was thus marked, he put it in a little box and threw it into the sea. Now it happened that a fisherman had just gone out to fish, and saw the box floating on the waves. "A ship must have sunk somewhere," he thought. "I will get the box, perhaps there is something useful in it." So he rowed after it and got it. When he opened it and saw the little child in it, he had pity on the innocent child, took it home to his wife, and said: "My dear wife, our youngest child is already old enough to wean; nurse in its place this poor innocent child." So his wife took little Crivòliu and nursed him, and loved him as though he were her own child. The boy grew and thrived and became every day larger and stronger. The fisherman's sons, however, were jealous because their parents loved the little foundling as well as them, and when they played with Crivòliu and quarrelled, they called him a "foundling." The boy's heart was saddened by this and he went to his foster-parents and said: "Dear parents, tell me, am I truly not your son?" The fisherman's wife said: "How should you not be my son? Have I not nursed you when you were a baby?" The fisherman forbade his children very strictly to call little Crivòliu a "foundling." When the child was larger, the fisherman sent him to school with his sons. The children, when they were out of their father's hearing, began again to mock little Crivòliu and to call him "foundling," and the other children in the school did the same. Then Crivòliu went again to his foster-parents and asked them if he was not their son. They persuaded him out of it, however, and put him off until he was fourteen. Then he could no longer stand being called "foundling," and went to the fisherman and his wife, and said: "Dear parents, I entreat you to tell me whether I am your child or not." Then the fisherman told him how he had found him and what was written on his shoulders. "Then I will go forth, and do penance for the sins of my parents," said Crivòliu. The fisherman's wife wept and lamented and would not let him go; but Crivòliu would not be detained and wandered out into the wide world. After he had wandered about a long time, he came one day to a lonely place where there was only an inn. He asked the hostess: "Tell me, good woman, is there a cave near by, to which you alone know the entrance?" She answered: "Yes, my handsome youth, I know such a cave and will take you to it willingly." Then Crivòliu took two _grani's_ worth of bread and a little pitcher of water with him and had the hostess show him the cave. It was some distance from the inn, and the entrance was so covered with thorns and bushes that he could scarcely penetrate into the cave. He sent the hostess back, crept into the cave, put the bread and water on the ground, knelt with folded arms, and so did penance for the sins of his parents. Many, many years passed, I know not how many, but so many, that his knees took root and he grew fast to the ground. Now it happened that the Pope died at Rome, and a new one was to be chosen. The cardinals all assembled, and a white dove was let loose: for he on whom it should alight was to be Pope. The white dove made several circles in the air, but alighted on no one. Then all the archbishops and bishops were summoned, and the dove was again let loose, but it did not settle on any one. Then all the priests and monks and hermits were collected, but the white dove would not choose any of them. The people were in great despair, and the cardinals had to wander forth and search the whole country to see whether another hermit was yet to be found, and a crowd of people accompanied them. At last they came to the inn in the lonely neighborhood, and asked the hostess whether she knew of any hermit or penitent who was yet unknown to the world. The hostess answered: "Many years ago a sorrowful youth came here and made me conduct him to a cave to do penance. He is surely dead long ago, for he took with him only two _grani's_ worth of bread and a pitcher of water." The cardinals said: "We will look, however, and see whether he is still alive; take us to him." Then the hostess conducted them to the cave; the entrance was scarcely to be recognized, so overgrown was it with brambles, and before they could enter the attendants had to cut away the brambles and bushes with axes. After they had forced their way in, they saw Crivòliu kneeling in the cave, with crossed arms, and his beard had grown so long that it touched the ground, and before him lay the bread, and by it the pitcher of water; for in all those years he had not eaten or drunken. When they let the white dove loose now, it flew about in a circle for a moment and then alighted on the head of the penitent. Then the cardinals perceived that he was a saint, and begged him to come with them and be their Pope. As they were going to raise him up, they noticed that his knees had grown fast, and they had to cut the roots. Then they took him to Rome with them and he was made Pope. Now it happened that at the same time the sister said to her brother: "Dear brother, when we were young, we committed a sin that we have not yet confessed, for the Pope alone can absolve us from it. Let us go, then, to Rome, before death overtakes us, and confess there our sin." So they started on their journey to Rome, and when they arrived there they entered the church where the Pope sat in the confessional. When they had confessed in a loud voice, for one always confesses openly to the Pope, the Pope said: "Behold, I am your son, for on my shoulder is the mark you speak of. I have done penance many years for your sin, until it has been forgiven you. I absolve you, therefore, from your sin, and you shall stay with me and live in comfort." So they remained with him, and when their time came, the Lord called them all three to his kingdom.[13] * * * * * An important episode of the original legend is omitted in the above version, but preserved in those in Pitrè (No. 117) and Knust (No. 7). The youth after discovering his origin sets out on his wanderings and comes by chance to the country where his mother is living. They meet and, not knowing their relation, marry. In the Sicilian story this relationship is disclosed the day of the marriage by the son showing his mother the box in which he was exposed as a child. In the version of Knust (from Leghorn), the child leaves his foster-father and goes in search of his parents. He encounters them without knowing it of course, and they, supposing him to be a beggar boy, give him shelter and care for him until he has grown up. Then he marries his mother, who recognizes him by a lock of red hair. At the conclusion of the story, after the Pope has heard the confession of his parents he reveals himself, they all three embrace, and die thus united. The story adds, "their tomb is still preserved in St. Peter's at Rome." Another Pope, Silvester I, is the subject of a legend in Pitrè (No. 118) which contains the well-known myth of Constantine's leprosy healed by his baptism at the hands of St. Silvester. Of greater interest is a legend of St. James the Elder, the patron-saint of Spain, a pilgrimage to whose shrine at Santiago in Galicia was so popular during the Middle Ages. The only popular version which we have found is in a Sicilian story in Gonzenbach, No. 90. LXI. THE STORY OF ST. JAMES OF GALICIA. There was once a king and queen who had no children, and who longed to have a son or daughter. The queen prayed to St. James of Galicia, and said: "O St. James! if you will grant me a son, he shall make a pilgrimage to your shrine when he is eighteen years old." After a time the queen had, through the favor of God and the saint, a beautiful boy who was as handsome as if God had made him. The child grew rapidly and became larger and fairer every day. When he was twelve years old, the king died, and the queen remained alone with this son, whom she loved as dearly as her eyes. Many years passed and the time drew near when the prince should be eighteen. When the queen thought that she must soon part from him to send him alone on the long pilgrimage, she became very sorrowful and wept and sighed the whole day. One day the prince said to her: "Mother, why do you sigh all day?" "It is nothing, my son, only some cares of mine," she answered. "What are you concerned about?" asked he. "Are you afraid that your farms in the Plain (of Catania) are badly tilled? Let me go and look after them and bring you news of them." The queen consented and the prince rode to the Plain, to the property that belonged to them. He found everything in good order, and returned to his mother and said: "Dear mother, rejoice, and cease your care, for everything is going well on your property; the cattle are thriving; the fields are tilled, and the grain will soon be ripe." "Very well, my son," answered the queen, but she was not cheerful, and the next day began to sigh and weep again. Then the prince said to her: "Dear mother, if you do not tell me why you are so sad, I will depart, and wander out in the wide world." The queen answered: "Ah, my dear son, I am sad because you must now part from me. For before you were born, when I longed for you so much, I vowed to St. James of Galicia, that if he would grant you to me, you should make a pilgrimage to his shrine when you were eighteen years old. And now you will soon be eighteen, and I am sad because you must wander away alone, and be gone so many years; for to reach the saint, one must journey a whole year." "Is it nothing but that, dear mother?" asked her son. "Be not so sorrowful. Only the dead return not. If I live, I will soon come back to you." So he comforted his mother, and when he was eighteen he took leave of the queen, and said: "Now farewell, dear mother, and, God willing, we shall meet again." The queen wept bitterly, and embraced him with many tears; then she gave him three apples, and said: "My son, take these three apples and give heed to my words. You shall not make the long journey alone. When, however, a youth joins you and wishes to accompany you, take him with you to the inn, and let him eat with you. After the meal cut an apple in two halves, one large and the other small, and offer them to the young man. If he takes the larger half, part from him, for he will be no true friend to you; but if he takes the smaller half, regard him as your brother, and share everything that you have with him." After these words she embraced her son and blessed him, and the prince departed. He had already travelled a long time, and no one had met him. One day, however, he saw a youth coming along the road who joined him and asked: "Where are you going, handsome youth?" "I am making a pilgrimage to St. James of Galicia;" and he told him of his mother's vow. "I must go there, too," said the other, "for the same thing happened to my mother as to yours; if we have the same journey to make, we can make it together." They continued their journey together, but the prince was not confidential towards his companion, for he thought: "I must first make the trial with the apple." As they were passing an inn, the prince said: "I am hungry: shall we not have something to eat?" The other was willing, so they went in and ate together. After they had eaten, the prince took out the apple, cut it in two unequal halves, and offered them to the other, who took the larger half. "You are no true friend," thought the prince; and to get rid of him, he pretended to be ill, and obliged to remain there. The other said: "I cannot wait for you, for I have far to go yet; so farewell." "Farewell," said the prince, and was glad to be rid of him. When he continued his journey again, he thought: "Ah, if God would only send me a true friend, so that I should not have to travel alone!" Not long after, another youth joined him and asked: "Handsome young man, where are you going?" The prince answered him as he had done before, and everything happened the same as with the first young man. After the prince had got rid of him he resumed his journey and thought: "O God, let me find a true friend who shall be to me a brother on the long journey!" While he was uttering this prayer he saw a youth coming along the way, who was a handsome lad, and appeared so friendly that he liked him at once, and thought: "Ah, may this be the true friend!" The youth joined him, and everything passed as before, except that this time the youth took the smaller half of the apple, and the prince rejoiced that he had found a true friend. "Fair youth," said he to him, "we must consider ourselves as brothers now; what is mine shall be yours also, and what is yours, shall be mine. We will travel together, until we come to the shrine of the saint; and if one of us dies on the way, the other must carry his body there. We will both promise this." They did so, and regarded each other as brothers, and continued their journey together. To reach the shrine of the saint requires a whole year; imagine, then, how long the two must travel. One day when they came, weary and exhausted, to a large, beautiful city, they said: "We will stay here and rest a few days, and afterwards continue our journey." So they took a small house, and dwelt in it. Now opposite it was the royal palace, and one morning as the king was standing on the balcony, he saw the two handsome youths, and thought: "Oh! how handsome these two youths are! one is, however, much handsomer than the other. I will give him my daughter in marriage." Now the prince was the handsomer of the two. In order to attain his aim, the king invited them both to dinner, and when they came to the palace received them in a very friendly manner and had his daughter called, who was more beautiful than the sun and moon. When they retired for the night, the king had a poisonous drink given to the prince's companion, who fell down dead; for the king thought: "If his friend dies, the other will remain here willingly, and think no more of his pilgrimage, but marry my daughter." The next morning, when the prince awoke, he asked: "Where is my friend?" "He died suddenly last night, and is to be buried at once," answered the servants. The prince said: "If my friend is dead, I cannot remain here longer, but must depart this very hour." "Ah! do remain here," begged the king. "I will give you my daughter for your wife." "No," said the prince, "I cannot stay here. If you will grant me a wish, give me a horse, and let me depart in peace; and when I have completed my pilgrimage, I will return and marry your daughter." The king then gave him a horse, which the prince mounted, and took his dead friend before him on the saddle, and thus completed his journey. The young man, however, was not dead, but lay only in a deep sleep. When the prince reached the shrine of St. James of Galicia, he dismounted, took his friend in his arms like a child, and entered the church and laid the body on the steps of the altar before the saint, and prayed: "O St. James of Galicia! behold, I have kept my vow. I have come to you and have brought you my friend, also. I confide him now to you; if you will restore him to life, we will laud your mercy; but if he is not to come to life again, he has at least kept his vow." And behold, while he was still praying, his dead friend rose, and became again alive and well. Both thanked the saint, and gave him costly presents, and then started on their journey home. When they reached the city where the king lived, they occupied again the little house opposite the royal palace. The king was greatly rejoiced to see the handsome prince there again, and much handsomer than before; he arranged great festivities, and had a splendid marriage celebrated, and thus the prince married the fair princess. After the wedding they remained several months with her father, and then the prince said: "My mother is expecting me at home with great anxiety; therefore I cannot stay longer here, but will return to my mother with my wife and my friend." The king consented and they prepared for the journey. Now the king had a deadly hatred against the poor, innocent youth, to whom he had before given the fatal drink, and who had nevertheless returned alive, and in order to cause him sorrow, he sent him in great haste on the morning of the departure into the country with an errand. "Hasten," he said. "Your friend will not start until you return." The youth hastened away, without taking leave, and performed the king's errand. The king, meanwhile, said to the prince: "Hasten your departure, otherwise you cannot reach your quarters for the night before evening." "I cannot depart without my friend," answered the prince. The king, however, said: "Set out on your journey; he will be here within an hour, and will soon overtake you on his swift horse." The prince allowed himself to be persuaded, took leave of his father-in-law, and departed with his wife. The poor friend could not fulfil the king's commission before several hours, and when he finally returned, the king said to him: "Your friend is already far from here; see how you can overtake him." So the poor youth had to leave the palace, and did not even receive a horse, and began to run, and ran day and night until he overtook the prince. From his great exertions, however, he contracted leprosy, so that he looked ill, wretched, and dreadful. The prince, nevertheless, received him in a friendly manner and cared for him like a brother. They finally reached home, where the queen had awaited her son with great anxiety, and now embraced him with perfect joy. The prince had a bed prepared at once for his sick friend and summoned all the physicians of the town and state, but no one could help him. When the poor youth grew no better the prince addressed himself to St. James of Galicia and said: "O St. James of Galicia! you raised my friend from the dead; help him now this time also, and let him recover from his leprosy." While he was praying, a servant entered and said: "A strange physician is without, who will make the poor youth well again." This physician was St. James of Galicia himself, who had heard the prayer of the prince and had come to help his friend. You must know now that the prince's wife had had a little girl who was a pretty, lovely child. When the saint approached the bed of the sick youth, he first examined him, and then said to the prince: "Do you really wish to see your friend well again at any price?" "At any price," answered the prince; "only tell me what can help him." "This evening, take your child," said the saint, "open all her veins, and anoint with her blood your friend's wounds, and he will be healed at once." The prince was horrified when he heard that he himself must kill his dear little daughter, but he answered: "I have promised my friend to treat him like my brother; and if there is no other remedy, I will sacrifice my child." At evening he took the child and opened her veins and anointed with the blood the sores of the sick youth, who was at once cleansed from his foul leprosy. The child became pale and weak, and looked as if it were dead. Then they laid it in its cradle and the poor parents were deeply grieved, for they believed they had lost their child. The next morning the physician came and asked after the patient. "He is well and sound," answered the prince. "And where have you put your child?" asked the saint. "There it lies dead in its cradle," said the poor father, sadly. "Just look at her once and see how she is," said the saint; and when they hastened to the cradle, they saw the child in it alive and well again. Then the saint said: "I am St. James of Galicia, and have come to help you, because I have seen what true friendship you have displayed. Continue to love one another, and when you are in trouble turn to me and I will come to your aid." With these words he blessed them and disappeared from their sight. They lived piously and did much good to the poor, and were happy and contented.[14] * * * * * There are several interesting legends found only in Gonzenbach's collection. They can be mentioned but briefly here. The first (No. 87) is entitled: "The Story of St. Onirià or Nerià." Two huntsmen lost their way in a wood and found at night a hut in which was a table set for supper, and a fire which emitted a heavenly odor. They examined it and found in the coals a heart, which they took with them when they departed, the next morning. After they had travelled a while, they stopped at an inn, and the pious and virtuous daughter of the innkeeper waited on them, and noticed the odor which came from the jacket that one of the huntsmen had laid aside on account of the heat. In the pocket she found the heart, which she kept for a time on a table in her room. One day she was seized with a great longing to eat it. She did so, and it soon was evident that she was about to become a mother. Her father treated her cruelly, for the shame she was going to bring on the family, but her godmother interfered, and one night had a strange dream. There appeared to her a saint, who said: "I am St. Onirià, and was consumed by fire. Only my heart was left, so that I might be born again. This heart the host's daughter has eaten, and she will, in due time, give birth to me." The child was born as predicted, and grew handsomer every day. The grandfather, however, could not endure him, and ill-treated him as well as his mother. One day, when the child was five years old, the grandfather took him to the city. On the way they passed a place where there was much filth, and the child said to his grandfather: "I wish you might wallow in it." Afterwards they saw a poor man being carried to the grave on a ladder, without any coffin. The child here wished that his grandfather, when he died, might be like this one. Next they met the long funeral procession of a rich man, and the child wished that his grandfather might not be like this rich man. The grandfather, of course, in each case was very angry, and was only restrained from beating the child by the mother's godfather, who had accompanied them. After they had finished their business in the city they set out for home; and when they came to the spot where they had met the rich man's funeral procession, the child made his grandfather put his ear to the ground, when he heard a great noise, as if of iron pestles and lamentations. The child explained that what he heard were the devils tormenting the rich man's soul. When they came where they had seen the poor man on the ladder, the grandfather listened again and heard the rejoicings of the angels on receiving the poor man's soul. When they came to the place where the filth was, the child made his grandfather dig and find a pot of money which he told him to use better than he had done his own. The child then said he was St. Onirià, exculpated his mother, and said his grandfather would see him again when the dead spoke with the living. Then he was taken up into heaven. Years after, two men spent the night in the inn, and one murdered the other and hid the body under the straw, where it was afterwards found by other travellers, and the innkeeper accused of the murder. He was condemned and was on the scaffold when a beautiful youth came riding in hot haste, crying: "Pardon!" The youth led the people into the church, before the coffin of the murdered man, and cried: "Rise, dead one, and speak with the living, and tell us who murdered you." The dead man replied: "The innkeeper is innocent; my treacherous companion killed me." Then the youth accompanied the innkeeper home, revealed himself as St. Onirià, blessed them, and disappeared.[15] Another legend (No. 92), "The Story of the Hermit," has as its subject the mystery of God's Providence, and is familiar to English readers in the form of Parnell's Hermit. The substance of the Sicilian version is as follows: A hermit sees a man wrongfully accused of theft and shockingly maltreated. He thereupon concludes that God is unjust to suffer such things, and determines to return to the world. On his way back a handsome youth meets him and they journey together. A muleteer allows them to ride his beasts, and in return the youth abstracts the muleteer's money from his wallet and drops it in the road. A woman who keeps an inn receives them hospitably, and on leaving the next morning, the youth strangles her child in the cradle. All at once the youth becomes a shining angel, and says to the hermit: "Listen to me, O man who has been bold enough to murmur against God's decrees;" and then explains that the person who had been wrongfully accused of theft had years before murdered his father on that very spot; the muleteer's money was stolen money, and the child of the hostess, had it lived, would have become a robber and murderer. Then the angel says: "Now you see that God's justice is more far-sighted than man's. Return, then, to your hermitage, and repent if so be that your murmuring be forgiven you." The angel disappears and the hermit returns to his mountain, does severer penance, and dies a saint.[16] The legend in Gonzenbach (No. 91) entitled "Joseph the Just" is nothing but the story of Joseph and his Brethren, taken from the Bible. In the Sicilian version Joseph has only three brothers; otherwise the story follows the account in Genesis very closely. Another legend in the same collection (No. 89), "The Story of Tobià and Tobiòla," is the story of Tobit and Tobias, taken from the apocryphal book of Tobit. The Sicilian story differs in the names only. There are several other Sicilian legends the heroes of which are pious, simple youths, the religious counterparts of Giufà. One (Pitrè, No. 112), called "The Poor Boy," tells the story of a simple youth who asked the priest the way to paradise, and was told he must follow the strait and narrow way. He took the first one he came to, and reached a convent church during a festival, and imagined he had reached paradise. He was found in the church when all had departed; but he persisted in remaining, and the superior sent him a bowl of soup, which he put on the altar; and when he was alone he began to converse confidentially with the Lord on the crucifix, and said: "Lord, who put you on the cross?" "Your sins!" and so the Lord responded to all his questions. The youth, in tears, promised he would sin no more, and invited the Lord to descend and partake of his repast with him. The Lord did so, and commanded him to tell the monks in the convent that they would be damned unless they sold all their property and bestowed it on the poor. If they would do so and come and confess to the Lord himself, he would hear their confession and give them the communion, and when it was finished they would all die, one after the other, and enter the glory of paradise. The poor youth went to the superior and gave him the Lord's message. The superior sold the property of the convent, and everything turned out as the Lord had said. The monks all confessed and died, and all who were present or heard of the event were converted and died in the grace of God.[17] This legend leads quite naturally to another, in which intercourse with the other world is represented as still occasionally permitted to mortals. It is found only in Sicily, having, curiously enough, parallels in the rest of Europe, but none in Italy. It is called: LXII. THE BAKER'S APPRENTICE. There was once a baker who every morning loaded an ounceworth of bread on a horse that came to his shop. One day he said: "I give this ounceworth of bread to this horse and he renders me no account of it." Then he said to his apprentice: "Vincenzo, the horse will come to-morrow and I will give him the bread, but you must follow him and see where he goes." The next day the horse came and the baker loaded him, and gave the apprentice a piece of bread for himself. Vincenzo followed the horse, and after a while came to a river of milk, and began to eat bread and milk, and could not overtake the horse again. He then returned to his master, who, seeing him return to no purpose, said: "To-morrow the horse will come again; if you cannot tell me where he goes I will no longer have you for my apprentice." The next day the apprentice followed the horse again, and came to a river of wine, and began to eat bread and wine, and lost sight of the horse. He returned to his master in despair at having lost the horse. His master said: "Listen. The first time, one pardons; the second time, one condones; the third time, one beats. If to-morrow you do not follow the horse I will give you a good thrashing and send you home." What did poor Vincenzo do? He followed the horse the next day with his eyes open. After a while he came to a river of oil. "What shall I do? the horse will get away from me now!" So he tied the horse's reins to his girdle and began to eat bread and oil. The horse pulled, but Vincenzo said: "When I finish the bread I will come." When he had finished the bread he followed the horse, and after a time he came to a cattle-farm where the grass was long and thick and the cattle so thin that they could scarcely stand on their feet. Vincenzo was astonished at seeing the grass so long and the cattle so lean. Then he came to another farm, and saw that the grass was dry and short, and the cattle fatter than you can believe. He said to himself: "Just see! There, where the grass was long, the cattle were lean; here, where you can hardly see the grass, the cattle are so fat!" The horse kept on, and Vincenzo after him. After a while he met a sow with her tail full of large knots, and wondered why she had such a tail. Farther on he came to a watering-trough, where there was a toad trying to reach a crumb of bread, and could not. Vincenzo continued his way, and arrived at a large gate. The horse knocked at the gate with his head, and the door opened and a beautiful lady appeared, who said she was the Madonna. When she saw the youth she asked: "And what are you here for?" Vincenzo replied: "This horse comes constantly to my master's to get an ounceworth of bread, and my master never has been able to find out where he carries it." "Very well; enter," said the lady; "I will show you where he carries it." Then the lady began to call all the souls in purgatory: "My children, come hither!" The souls then descended; and to some she gave the worth of a _grano_ of bread, to some the worth of a _baiocco_, and to others the worth of five _grani_, and the bread was gone in a moment. When the bread had disappeared, the lady said to Vincenzo: "Did you see nothing on your way?" "Yes, lady. The first day that my master sent me to see where the horse went, I saw a river of milk." The lady said: "That is the milk I gave my son." "The second day I saw a river of wine." "That," said the lady, "is the wine with which my son was consecrated." "The third day I saw a river of oil." "That is the oil that they ask of me and of my son. What else did you see the third day?" "I saw," answered Vincenzo, "a farm with cattle. There was plenty of grass, but the cattle were lean. Afterwards I saw another farm, where you could scarcely see the grass, and the cattle were fine and fat." "These, my son, are the rich, who are in the midst of wealth; and no matter how much they eat, it does no good; and the fat ones, that have no grass to eat, are the poor, for my son supports and fattens them. What else did you see?" "I saw a sow with her tail full of knots." "That, my son, is those who repeat their rosaries and do not offer their prayers to me or to my son; and my son makes knots in them." "I also saw a watering-trough, with a toad that was reaching after a crumb of bread, and could not get it." She said: "A poor person asked a woman for a bit of bread, and she gave his hand such a blow that she made him drop it. And what else did you see, my son?" "Nothing, lady." "Then come with me, and I will show you something else." She took him by the hand and led him into hell. When the poor youth heard the clanking of chains and saw the darkness, he came near dying, and wanted to get out. "You see," said the lady, "those who are lamenting and in chains and darkness are those who are in mortal sin. Now come, and I will take you to purgatory." There they heard nothing, and the darkness was so great that they could see nothing. Vincenzo wished to depart, for he felt oppressed by anguish. "Now," said the lady, "I will take you to the church of the Holy Fathers. Do you see it, my son? This is the church of the Holy Fathers, which first was full and now is empty. Come; now I will take you to limbo. Do you see these little ones? These are those who died unbaptized." The lady wished to show him paradise; but he was too confused, so the lady made him look through a window. "Do you see this great palace? There are three seats there; one for you, one for your master, and one for your mistress." After this she took him to the gate. The horse was no longer there. "Now," said Vincenzo, "how shall I find my way back? I will follow the tracks of the horse, and so will get home." The lady answered: "Close your eyes!" Vincenzo closed his eyes, and found himself behind his master's door. When he entered he told all that had occurred to his master and mistress. When he had finished his story all three died and went to paradise.[18] The most famous story of the class we are now considering is, however, the one best known by its French title, "_Bonhomme Misère._" The French version was popular as a chap-book as early as 1719, running through fifteen editions from that date. The editor of the reprint referred to in the note, as well as Grimm (II. 451), believed the story to be of Italian origin and that the original would some day be discovered.[19] This has proved to be the case, and we have now before us a number of versions. These may be divided into two classes: one independent, the other constituting a part only of some other story. The latter class is generally connected with the cycle of our Lord's journeys upon earth, and is represented by "The Master Thief" and "Brother Lustig" in Germany, and "Beppo Pipetta" from Venice. The Sicilian versions which we shall mention first, although independent stories, are connected with the cycle of our Lord's journeys upon earth. We give first two versions from Pitrè (Nos. 124, 125). LXIII. OCCASION. Once upon a time there was a father and a mother who had a little boy. They died and the child was left in the street. One of the neighbors had pity upon him and took him in. The boy throve well and when he had grown up the one who had sheltered him said: "Come now, Occasion (for this was the boy's name), you are a man; why do you not think about supporting yourself and relieving us from that care?" So the lad made up a bundle and departed. He journeyed and journeyed until his clothes were worn out and he was almost dead from hunger. One day he saw an inn and entered it, and said to the innkeeper: "Do you want me for a servant? I wish only a piece of bread for my wages." The host said to his wife: "What do you say, Rosella? We have no children; shall we take this lad?" "Yes;" and so they took him. The boy was very attentive and did willingly whatever was commanded him, and at last his master and mistress, who had grown to love him like a son, went before the judge and adopted him. Time passed and the innkeeper and his wife died and left all their property to the young man, who, when he saw himself in possession of it, made known: "That whoever should come to Occasion's inn could have food for nothing." You can imagine the people that went there! Now the Master and his apostles happened once to pass that way, and when St. Thomas read this announcement he said: "Unless I see and touch with my hands I shall not believe it. Let us go to this inn." They went there and ate and drank and Occasion treated them like gentlemen. Before leaving St. Thomas said: "Occasion, why don't you ask a favor of the Master?" Then Occasion said: "Master, I have before my door this fig-tree, and the children do not let me eat one of the figs. Whoever goes by climbs up and pulls off some. Now I would like this favor, that when any one climbs this tree, he must stay there until I permit him to come down." "Your request is granted," said the Lord, and blessed the tree. It was a fine thing! The first who climbed up for figs stuck fast to the tree without being able to move; another came, the same thing; and so on; all stuck fast, one by the hand, another by the foot, another by the head. When Occasion saw them he gave them a sound scolding and let them go. The children were frightened and touched the figs no more. Years passed and Occasion's money was coming to an end; so he called a carpenter and told him to cut up the fig-tree and make him a bottle out of it. This bottle had the property that Occasion could shut up in it whoever he wished. One day Death went to fetch him, for Occasion was now very old. Occasion said: "At your service; we will go. But see here, Death, first do me a favor. I have this bottle of wine, and there is a fly in it, and I don't like to drink from it; just go in there and take it out for me, and then we will go." Death very foolishly entered the bottle, when Occasion corked it and put it in his wallet, saying: "Stay a bit with me." While Death was shut up no one died; and everywhere you might see old men with such long white beards that it was a sight. The apostles, seeing this, went to the Master about it several times, and at last he visited Occasion. "What is this? Here you have kept Death shut up so many years, and the people are falling down from old age without dying!" "Master," said Occasion, "do you want me to let Death out? If you will give me a place in paradise, I will let him out." The Lord thought: "What shall I do? If I don't grant him this favor, he will not leave me in peace." So he said: "Your request is granted!" At these words Death was set at liberty; Occasion was permitted to live a few years longer, and then Death took him. Hence it is "That there is no death without Occasion." LXIV. BROTHER GIOVANNONE. Once upon a time there was a convent at Casteltermini which contained many monks, one of whom was named Brother Giovannone. At the time when the Lord and all his apostles were on their travels they visited this convent, and all the monks asked the Lord to pardon their souls; Brother Giovannone asked nothing. St. Peter said to him: "Why do you not ask pardon for your soul, like the others?" "I don't wish anything." St. Peter said: "Nothing? When you come to paradise we will talk about it." When the Master had taken his departure and had gone some distance, Brother Giovannone began to cry out: "Master, Master, wait! I want a favor, and it is that any one I command must get into my pouch." The Master said: "This request is granted." Brother Giovannone was old and one day Death came and said to him: "Giovannone, you have three hours to live!" Brother Giovannone replied: "When you come for me you must let me know half an hour before." After a while Death came and said: "You are a dead man!" Brother Giovannone replied: "In the name of Brother Giovannone, into my pouch with you, Death!" Then he carried his pouch to a baker and asked him to hang it up in the chimney until he came for it. For forty years no one died. At the end of that time Brother Giovannone went and set Death free, so that he might himself die, for he was so old he could do no more. The first one that Death killed when he was free was Brother Giovannone, and then he destroyed all those who had not died in the forty years. After he was dead Brother Giovannone went and knocked at the gate of paradise and St. Peter said to him: "There is no room for you here." "Where must I go, then?" asked Brother Giovannone. "To purgatory," answered St. Peter. So he knocked at purgatory and they told him: "There is no place for you here." "Where must I go, then?" "To hell." He knocked at hell and Lucifer asked: "Who is there?" "Brother Giovannone." Then Lucifer said to his devils: "You take the mace; you, the hammer; you, the tongs!" Brother Giovannone asked: "What are you going to do with these instruments?" "We are going to beat you." "In the name of Brother Giovannone, into my pouch with you, all you devils!" Then he hung the pouch about his neck and carried all the devils to a smith who had eight apprentices, and the master, nine. "Master-smith, how much do you want to hammer this pouch eight days and nights?" They agreed upon forty ounces, and hammered day and night and the pouch was not reduced to powder, and Brother Giovannone was always present. The last day the smiths said: "What the devil are these; for they cannot be pounded fine!" Brother Giovannone answered: "They are indeed devils! Pound hard!" After they were through hammering, he took the pouch and emptied it out in the plain; the devils were so bruised and mangled that they could hardly drag themselves back to hell. Then Brother Giovannone went and knocked again at paradise. "Who is there?" "Brother Giovannone." "There is no room for you." "Peter, if you don't let me in I will call you baldhead." "Now that you have called me baldhead," said St. Peter, "you shall not enter." Brother Giovannone said: "Ah, what is that you say? I will be even with you!" So he stood near the gate of paradise and said to all the souls who were going to enter: "In the name of Brother Giovannone, into my pouch, all you souls!" and no more souls entered paradise. One day St. Peter said to the Master: "Why do no more souls enter?" The Lord answered: "Because Brother Giovannone is behind the gate putting them all in his pouch." "What shall we do?" said St. Peter. The Lord answered: "See if you can get hold of the pouch and bring them all in together." Brother Giovannone heard all this outside. What did he do? He said: "Into the pouch with myself!" and in a moment was in his own pouch. When St. Peter looked Brother Giovannone was not to be seen, so he seized the pouch and dragged it into paradise and shut the gate at once, and opened the pouch. The first one who came out was Brother Giovannone himself, who began at once to quarrel with St. Peter because St. Peter wished to put him out, and Brother Giovannone did not want to go. Then the Lord said: "When one once enters the house of Jesus, he does not leave it again."[20] * * * * * These stories have close parallels in two Roman legends collected by Miss Busk. In the first, the innkeeper asks first for the faculty of always winning at cards; and second, that any one who climbs his fig-tree must stay there. When Death comes the host asks her (Death is feminine in Italian) to climb the tree and pick him a few figs. When once up the tree, the host refuses to let her down until she promises him four hundred years of life. Death has to consent and the host in turn promises to go quietly with her when she comes again. At the end of the four hundred years Death takes the host to paradise. They pass by hell on the way and the host proposes to the devil to play for the newly received souls. The host wins fifteen thousand, which he carries with him to paradise. St. Peter objects to letting the "rabble" in, and Jesus Christ himself says: "The host may come in himself, but he has no business with the others." Then the host says that he has made no difficulty about numbers when Christ has come to his inn With as many as he pleased. "That is true! that is right!" answered Jesus Christ. "Let them all in! let them all in!"[21] In the other story, a priest, Pret' Olivo, received from the Lord, in reward for his hospitality, the favor of living a hundred years, and that when Death came to fetch him he should be able to give her what orders he pleased, and that she must obey him. Death called at the end of the hundred years, and Pret' Olivo made her sit by the fire while he said a mass. The fire grew hotter and hotter, but Death could not stir until Pret' Olivo permitted her to, on condition that she should leave him alone a hundred years. The second time Death called, Pret' Olivo asked her to gather him some figs and commanded her to stay in the tree. So Death a second time was obliged to promise him a respite of a hundred years. The next time Death called, Pret' Olivo put on his vestments and a cope, and took a pack of cards in his hand and went with Death. She wanted to take him directly to paradise, but he insisted on going around by the way of hell and playing a game of cards with the Devil. The stakes were souls, and as fast as Pret' Olivo won, he hung a soul on his cope until it was covered with them; then he hung them on his beretta, and at last was obliged to stop, for there was no more room to hang any souls. Death objected to taking all these souls to paradise, but could not take Pret' Olivo without them. When they arrived at paradise St. Peter made some objection to admitting them, but the Master gave his permission and they all got in.[22] * * * * * The Tuscan version, which contains some of the traits of the last story, is as follows: LXV. GODFATHER MISERY. Godfather Misery was old,--God knows how old! One day Jesus and St. Peter, while wandering through the world to name the countries, came to Godfather Misery's, who offered his visitors some polenta, and gave them his own bed. Jesus, pleased with this reception, gave him some money, and granted him these three favors: that whoever sits on his bench near the fire cannot get up; that whoever climbs his fig-tree cannot descend; and finally, out of regard to St. Peter, the salvation of his soul. One day Death came to Godfather Misery, and wanted to carry him off. Godfather Misery said: "It is too cold to travel." Death pressed him; then he asked her to sit by the fire and warm herself a moment, and he would soon be ready. Meanwhile he piled wood on the fire. Death felt herself burning, and tried to move, but could not; so she had to grant Godfather Misery another hundred years of life. Death was released; the hundred years passed, and Death returned. Godfather Misery was at the door, pretending to wait for her, and looking at his fig-tree in sorrow. He begged Death to pick him a few figs for their journey. So Death climbed up, but could not descend until she granted Godfather Misery another hundred years. Even these passed, and Death reappeared. This time there was no help, he must go. Death gave him time only to recite an Ave Maria, and a Paternoster. Godfather Misery, however, could not find this time, and said to Death, who was hurrying him: "You have given me time, and I am taking it." Then Death had recourse to a stratagem, and disguised herself like a Jesuit, and went where Godfather Misery lived, and preached. Godfather Misery at first did not attend these sermons, but his wife finally persuaded him to go to the church and hear a sermon. Just as he entered, the preacher cried out that whoever said an Ave Maria should save his soul. Godfather Misery, who recognized Death, answered from a distance: "Go away! you will not get me." Then Death went away in despair, and never got hold of him again. Godfather Misery still lives, since misery never ends.[23] In another Tuscan story, similar gifts are bestowed upon a smith, who had always been a good Christian, to enable him to avoid a contract he had made with the Devil, to sell him his soul for two years of life. The first time the Devil comes he sits on the bench near the fire, and cannot rise again until he extends his contract two years. The next time he comes he does not enter the house, but looks in at a window that has the power to detain any one who looks through it. Again the contract is extended. The third time the Devil is caught in the fig-tree, and then a new contract is drawn up, that the Devil and the smith are never to see each other again.[24] The second class of versions of the story of "_Bonhomme Misère_" is where the legend is merely an episode of some other story. This class comprises two stories from the territory of Venice. The first is entitled "Beppo Pipetta," from the hero who saved the king's life, which is threatened by some robbers. The king was in disguise, and Beppo did not know who he was until he was summoned to the palace to be rewarded. The king told Beppo that he need not be a soldier any longer, but might remain with him or wherever he pleased, and offered to pay for all he needed; for he had saved his life. We give the rest of the story in the words of the original. LXVI. BEPPO PIPETTA. When his first joy at this good fortune was over, Beppo decided to visit his relations. There he met a man in the street who entered into conversation with him, and they chatted for a long time, until they finally went into an inn to refresh themselves with something to eat and drink. "How happens it," asked his new friend, who was vastly entertained by Beppo's conversation, "that you, a soldier, carry no knapsack?" "Hm!" said Beppo, "I don't care to weigh myself down on a march with unnecessary things. I have no effects, and if I need anything, I have a good master who pays all my bills." "Now," said the stranger, "I will give you a knapsack, and a very valuable one too; for if you say to any one, 'Jump in,' he will jump into the sack." With these words the stranger took his leave. "Wait," thought Beppo; "I will put this to the proof." And, indeed, a favorable opportunity offered itself, for just then the landlord appeared to demand the payment of his bill. "What do you want?" asked Beppo. "My money; you might know that of yourself." "Let me alone! I have no money." "What? you ragged soldier"--"Jump in!" said Beppo; and the landlord went over his ears into the sack. Only after long entreaty, and on condition that he would never again present his bill, would Beppo let him out again. "Just wait, fellow! I'll teach you how to insult soldiers," said he to the landlord, as he went out. Tired and hungry after a long walk, Beppo again turned into an inn. There he saw a man who was continually emptying a purse, but never finished, for it always became full again. He quickly snatched the purse out of the man's hand, and ran out of the inn, but no less quickly did the owner run after him; and since he had not walked as far as Beppo, who had been wandering about all day, he soon caught up with him. Then Beppo cried: "Jump in!" and the owner was in the sack. "Listen," said Beppo, after he had somewhat recovered his breath, "listen and be reasonable. You have had the purse long enough; give it to me now, or else you shall always stay in the sack." What could the man do? Willingly or unwillingly, he had to give up the purse in order to get out of the accursed sack. For two years Beppo stayed at home, doing much good with the purse, and much mischief with the sack, until at last he began to long for the capital again, and returned there; but what was his astonishment at seeing everything hung with black, and everybody in mourning. "Do you not know what the trouble is?" he was asked, in reply to his questions as to the cause of this sorrow; "don't you know that to-morrow the Devil is going to carry away the king's daughter, on account of a foolish vow that her father once made?" Then he went directly to the king, in order to console him, but the latter would not put any faith in him. "Your Majesty," said he, "you do not know what Beppo Pipetta can do. Only let me have my own way." Then he prepared, in a room of the palace, a large table, with paper, pen, and ink, while the princess, in the next room, awaited her sad fate in prayer. At midnight a fearful noise was heard, like the roaring of the tempest; and at the last stroke of the clock, the Devil came through the window into--the sack which Beppo held open for him, crying, "Jump in!" "What are you doing here?" asked Beppo of the raging Devil. "How does that concern you?" "I have my reasons," was the bold reply. "Wait a little, you rascal!" cried Beppo; "I'll teach you manners!" and he seized a stick and belabored the sack until the Devil in anguish called upon all the saints. "Are you going to carry off the princess, now?" "No, no; only let me out of this infamous sack!" "Do you promise never to molest her?" "I promise, only let me out!" "No," said Beppo; "you must repeat your promise before witnesses, and also give it in writing." Then he called some gentlemen of the court into the room, had the promise repeated, and permitted the Devil to stretch one hand out of the sack, in order to write as follows: "I, the very Devil, herewith promise that I will neither carry away H. R. H., the Princess, nor ever molest her in future. SATAN, SPIRIT OF HELL." "Good!" said Beppo; "the affair of the princess is now ended. But now, on account of your previous impoliteness, allow me to give you a few blows that may serve as reminders of me on your journey." When he had done this, he opened the sack, and the Devil went out as he had come in, through the window. Then the king gave a great feast, at which Beppo sat between him and the princess; and there was joy throughout the whole kingdom. After a while Beppo took a pleasure trip and came to a place that pleased him so much that he decided to remain there; but the police must needs go through certain ceremonies and wanted to know who he was, whence he came, and a multitude of other things. Then he answered: "I am myself; let that suffice you. If you want to know anything more, write to the king." Accordingly they wrote to the king, but he commanded them to treat him with respect and not to disturb him. When he had lived for many years in this place and had grown old, Death came and knocked at his door. Beppo opened it and asked: "Who are you?" "I am Death," was the answer. "Jump in!" cried Beppo, in great haste, and behold! Death was in the sack. "What!" he exclaimed, "shall I, who have so much to do, loiter my time away here?" "Just stay where you are, you old villain," replied Beppo, and did not let him out for a year and a half. Then there was universal satisfaction throughout the world, the physicians being especially jubilant, for none of them ever lost a patient. Then Death begged so humbly and represented so forcibly what would be the consequences of this disorder, that Beppo agreed to let him out, on condition that Death should not come back for him unless he was willing. Death departed and sought by means of a few wars and pestilences to make up for lost time. At length Beppo grew so old that life became distasteful to him. Then he sent for Death, who, however, would not come, fearing that Beppo might change his mind. So the latter decided to go himself to Death. Death was not at home; but remembering his vacation in the sack, had prudently left the order that in case a certain Beppo Pipetta should come, he was to be beaten soundly; an order which was executed punctiliously. Beaten and cast out by Death, he went sadly to hell; but there the Devil had given the porter orders to show him the same attention that he had received at Death's abode, and that command also was conscientiously obeyed. Smarting from the blows he had received, and vexed that neither Death nor the Devil wanted him, he went to paradise. Here he announced himself to St. Peter, but the saint thought that he had better first consult the Lord. Meanwhile Beppo threw his cap over the wall into paradise. After he had waited a while, St. Peter reappeared and said: "I am very sorry, but our Lord doesn't want you here." "Very well," said Beppo, "but you will at least let me get my cap," and with that he slipped through the gate and sat down on the cap. When St. Peter commanded him to get up and begone, he replied, composedly: "Gently, my dear sir! at present I am sitting on my own property, where I do not receive orders from any one!" And so he remained in paradise.[25] * * * * * The story known to our readers from the Grimm collection, "Godfather Death," is found in Sicily and Venice. The version from the latter place given in Bernoni (_Trad. pop._ p. 6) is as follows: LXVII. THE JUST MAN. Once upon a time there was a peasant and his wife who had a child that they would not baptize until they could find a just man for his godfather. The father took the child in his arms and went into the street to look for this just man. After he had walked along a while, he met a man, who was our Lord, and said to him: "I have this child to baptize, but I do not want to give him to any one who is not just; are you just?" The Lord answered: "But--I don't know whether I am just." Then the peasant passed on and met a woman, who was the Madonna, and said to her: "I have this child to baptize and do not wish to give him to any one who is not just; are you just?" "I don't know," said the Madonna; "but go on, for you will find some one who is just." He went his way and met another woman, who was Death, and said to her: "I have been sent to you, for I have been told that you are just, and I have this child to baptize, and do not wish to give it to one who is not just; are you just?" Death said: "Yes, I believe I am just! Let us baptize the child, and then I will show you whether I am just." Then they baptized the child, and afterwards Death led the peasant into a very long room, where there were many lights burning. "Godmother," said the man, astonished at seeing all the lights, "what are all these lights?" Death said: "These are the lights of all the souls in the world. Would you like to see, friend? this is yours and this is your son's." When the peasant saw that his light was about to expire, he said: "And when the oil is all consumed, godmother?" "Then," answered Death, "you must come with me, for I am Death." "Oh! for mercy's sake," cried the peasant, "let me at least take a little oil from my son's lamp and put it in mine!" "No, no, godfather," said Death, "I don't do anything of that sort; you wished to see a just person, and a just person you have found. And now go home and arrange your affairs, for I am waiting for you."[26] * * * * * We can mention but briefly another Venetian legend which, like several of those already given, reaches back to the Middle Ages. A wealthy knight, who has led a wicked life, repents when he grows old, and his confessor enjoins on him a three years' penance. The knight refuses, for he might die at the end of two years and lose all that amount of penance. He refuses in turn a penance of two years, of one year, and even of a month, but agrees to do penance for one night. He mounts his horse, takes leave of his family, and rides away to the church, which is at some distance. After he has ridden for a time, his daughter comes running after him and calls him back, for robbers have attacked the castle. He will not be diverted from his purpose, and tells her that there are servants and soldiers enough to defend the house. Then a servant cries out that the castle is in flames, and his own wife calls for help against violence. The knight calmly continues his way, leaving his servants to act for him, and simply saying: "I have no time for it now." Finally he enters the church and begins his penance. Here he is disturbed by the sexton, who bids him depart, so that he can close the church; a priest orders him to leave, as he is not worthy to hear a mass; at midnight twelve watchmen come and order him to go with them to the judge, but he will not move for any of them; at two o'clock a band of soldiers surround him and order him to depart, and at five o'clock a wild throng of people burst into the church and cry: "Let us drive him out!" then the church begins to burn, and the knight finds himself in the midst of flames, but still he moves not. At last, when the appointed hour comes, he leaves the church and rides home to find that none of his family had left the castle, but the various persons who had tried to divert him from his penance were emissaries of the Devil. Then the knight sees how great a sinner he was and declares that he will do penance all the rest of his life.[27] Bernoni in his _Leggende fantastiche_ gives nine legends, one of which is the story of St. Peter's mother, mentioned above. Of the remaining ones, several may be classed under ghost stories, and two illustrate the great sanctity attached by the Italian to the spiritual relationship contracted by godmothers and godfathers, and by groomsmen and the bride. It is well known that in the Romish Church a godfather or godmother contracts a spiritual relationship with the godson or goddaughter and their parents which would prevent marriage between the parties. This relationship the popular imagination has extended to the godfather and godmother, and any improper intimacy between the two is regarded as the most deadly sin. The first of Bernoni's legends is entitled: LXVIII. OF A GODFATHER AND A GODMOTHER OF ST. JOHN WHO MADE LOVE. Here in Venice, heaven knows how many centuries ago, there was a gentleman and a lady, husband and wife, who were rich people. Well, there frequented their house a _compare_ (godfather) of St. John; and it came to pass that he and his _comare_ (godmother, _i. e._ the one who had been godmother to the same child to which he had been godfather), the lady of the house, made love to each other in secret. This lady had a maid, and this maid knew everything. So one day this lady said to the maid: "Hold your tongue, and you'll see that you will be satisfied with me. When I come to die, you shall have an allowance of a dollar a day." So this maid kept always on good terms with the lady. It happened that the _compare_ fell very ill. The lady was so desperately sorry, that her husband kept saying to her: "Come, will you make yourself ill too? It's no use fretting, for it's what we must all come to." At last the _compare_ died. And she took it so to heart, that she fell ill in earnest. When her husband saw her giving way to such low spirits, he began to suspect that there had been something between her and the _compare_; but he never said a word about it to annoy her, but bore it like a philosopher. The maid was always by her mistress' bedside, and the mistress said to her: "Remember that, if I die, you must watch by me quite alone, for I won't have any one else." And the maid promised her that she would. Well, that day went by, and the next day, and the next, and the lady got worse and worse, until at last she died. You can fancy how sorry her husband was. And the maid and the other servants were very sorry, too, for she was a very good lady. The other servants offered to sit up and watch with the maid; but she said: "No; I must sit up by myself, for my mistress said she would have no others." And they said: "Very well. If you want anything, ring the bell, and we shall be ready to do anything you want." Then the maid had four tapers lighted, and placed at the foot of the bed, and she took the Office for the Dead in her hand and began to read it. Just at midnight the door of the room burst open, and she saw the figure of the _compare_ come in. Directly she saw him she felt her blood turn to water. She tried to cry out, but she was so terrified that she couldn't make a sound. Then she got up from her chair and went to ring the bell; and the dead man, without saying a word (because, of course, dead folks can't talk), gave her a sharp blow on the hand to prevent her from ringing. And he signed her to take a taper in her hand, and come with him to her mistress' bed. She obeyed. When the dead man got to the bedside, he took the lady, and sat her up on the bed, and he began to put her stockings on her feet, and he dressed her from head to foot. When she was dressed, he pulled her out of bed, took her by the arm, and they both went out at the door, with the maid going before them to light the way. In this palace there was an underground passage--there are many like it in Venice--and they went down into it. When they got to a certain part of it, he gave a great knock to the taper that the maid had in her hand, and left her in the dark. The maid was so terrified that she fell down on the ground, all rolled up together like a ball, and there she lay. At daybreak the other servants thought they would go and see how the maid was getting on, as she had not called them all night. So they went and opened the door of the room, and saw nobody there at all, either living or dead. They were frightened out of their wits, and ran to their master, and said: "Oh, mercy on us, there's nobody left, neither the dead woman nor the live one! The room's quite empty." Said the master: "You don't say so!" Then he dressed himself as fast as he could, and went and looked, and found nobody. And he saw that the clothes his wife wore to go out in were gone too. Then he called the servants, and said to them: "Here, take these torches, and let us go and look in the underground passage." So all the people went down there with lighted torches; and after searching about a bit, they found the poor maid, who gave no sign of life. The servants took her by one arm; but it was all bent up stiff, and wouldn't move. And they tried the other arm, and that was the same, and all her body was knotted together quite stiff. Then they took up this ball of a woman, and carried her up-stairs, and put her on her bed. The master sent for the doctors, to see if they could bring back life to her. And by degrees she began to open her eyes and move her fingers. But she had had a stroke and couldn't speak. But by the movements of her fingers they could make out nearly everything she wanted to say. Then the master had the torches lighted again, and went down again into the underground passage, to see if he could find any trace of the dead woman. They looked and looked, but they could find nothing but a deep hole. And the master understood directly that that was where his wife and her _compare_ had been swallowed up. And upon that he went up-stairs again; but he wouldn't stay any longer in that palace, nor even in Venice, and he went away to Verona. And in the palace he left the maid, with her dollar a day and people to take care of her and feed her, for to the end of her days she was bedridden and couldn't speak. And the master would have every one free to go and see that sight, that it might be a warning to all people who had the evil intention of not respecting the baptismal relationship.[28] * * * * * The second of Bernoni's legends turns on the peculiar sanctity of the relation of a groomsman (_compare de l'anelo_) to the bride. The full title is: "About a _compare de l'anelo_ who pressed the bride's hand with evil intent." It is as follows: LIX. THE GROOMSMAN You must know that we Venetians have a saying that the groomsman is the godfather of the first child. Well, in the parish of the Angel Raphael it happened that there was a young man and woman who were in love with each other. So they agreed to be married, and the bridegroom looked out for his best man. According to custom, directly he had chosen his best man, he took him to the bride's house, and said to her: "Look here, this is your groomsman." Directly the groomsman saw the bride he fell so much in love with her that he consented more than willingly to be the best man. Well, the wedding day came, and this man went into the church with evil thoughts in his heart. When they came out of the church they had a collation, according to custom, and then in the afternoon they had a gondola to go to the tavern, as people used to do on such days. First the bride got into the gondola, with the best man, and then the bridegroom and the relations. When they were getting into the boat the groomsman took the bride's hand to help her in, and he squeezed it, and squeezed it so hard that he hurt her severely. As time went on he saw that the bride thought nothing about him, and he began not to care for her, either. But by and by he began to have a sort of scruple of conscience about what he had done to his _comare_ on the wedding day. And the more he thought of it, the more he felt this scruple. So he made up his mind to go to confession, and to tell his confessor what he had done, and with what evil intention. "You have committed a great sin, my son," said the priest; "I shall give you a penance,--a heavy penance. Will you do it?" "Yes, father," said he; "tell me what it is." The priest answered: "Listen. You must make a journey in the night-time to a place that I shall tell you of. But mind; whatever voices you hear, you must never turn back for an instant! And take three apples with you, and you will meet three noblemen, and you must give one apple to each of them." Then the priest told him the place he was to go to, and the groomsman left him. Well, he waited until night-fall, and then he took his three apples and set out. He walked and walked and walked, until at last he came to the place the priest had told him of, and he heard such a talking and murmuring, you can't think! One voice said one thing, and one another. These were all folks who had committed great sins against St. John; but he knew nothing about that. He heard them calling out: "Turn back! turn back!" But not he! No; he went straight on, without ever looking round, let them call ever so much. After he had gone on a while he saw the three noblemen, and he saluted them and gave them an apple apiece. The last of the three had his arm hidden under his cloak, and the _compare_ saw that the gentleman had great difficulty in stretching his arm out to take the apple. At length he pulled his arm from under his cloak, and showed a hand swelled up to such a huge size that the _compare_ was frightened to look at it. But he gave him the apple, the same as to the others, and they all three thanked him and went away. The _compare_ returned home again, and went to his confessor and told him all that had happened. Then the priest said: "See, now, my son, you are saved. For the first of the three noblemen was the Lord, the second was St. Peter, and the third was St. John. You saw what a hand he had. Well, that was the hand you squeezed on the wedding day; and so, instead of squeezing the bride's hand, you really hurt St. John!"[29] * * * * * The third legend is entitled: "Of two _compari_ of St. John who swore by the name of St. John." Two _compari_ who had not seen each other for some time met one day, and one invited the other to lunch and paid the bill. The other declared that he would do the same a week hence. When he said this they happened to be standing where two streets crossed. "Then we meet a week from to-day at this spot and at this hour!" "Yes." "By St. John, I will not fail!" "I swear by St. John that I will be here awaiting you!" During the week, however, the _compare_ who had paid for the lunch died. The other did not know he was dead, and at the appointed time he went to the place to meet him. While there a friend passed, who asked: "What are you doing here?" "I am waiting for my _compare_ Tony." "You are waiting for your _compare_ Tony! Why, he has been dead three days! You will wait a long time!" "You say he is dead? There he is coming!" And, indeed, he saw him, but his friend did not. The dead man stopped before his _compare_ and said: "You are right in being here at this spot, and you can thank God; otherwise, I would teach you to swear in the name of St. John!" Then he suddenly disappeared and his _compare_ saw him no more, for his oath was only to be at that spot. The sanctity of an ordinary oath is shown in the fourth story: "Of two lovers who swore fidelity in life and death." Two young persons made love, unknown to the girl's parents. The youth made her swear that she would love him in life and death. Some time after, he was killed in a brawl. The girl did not know it, and the young man's ghost continued to visit her as usual, and she began to grow pale and thin. The father discovered the state of the case, and consulted the priest, who learned from the girl, in confession, how matters stood, and came with a black cat, a stole, and book, to conjure the spirit and save the girl. The fifth legend is entitled: "The Night of the Dead"; _i. e._ the eve of All Saints' Day. A servant girl, rising early one morning as she supposed (it was really midnight), witnesses a weird procession, which she unwittingly disturbs by lowering her candle and asking the last passer-by to light it. This he does; but when she pulls up her basket she finds in it, besides the lighted candle, a human arm. Her confessor tells her to wait a year, until the procession passes again, then hold a black cat tightly in her arms, and restore the arm to its owner. This she does, with the words: "Here, master, take your arm; I am much obliged to you." He took the arm angrily, and said: "You may thank God you have that cat in your arms; otherwise, what I am, that you would be also." The sixth legend is of an incredulous priest, who believes that where the dead are, there they stay. It is as follows: LXX. THE PARISH PRIEST OF SAN MARCUOLA. Once upon a time there was a parish priest at San Marcuola, here in Venice, who was a very good man. He couldn't bear to see women in church with hats or bonnets on their heads, and he had spirit enough to go and make them take them off. "For," said he, "the church is the house of God; and what is not permitted to men ought not to be permitted to women." But when a woman had a shawl over her shoulders he would have her throw it over her head, that she might not be stared at and ogled. But this priest had one fault: he did not believe in ghosts; and one day he was preaching a sermon, and in this sermon he said to the people: "Listen, now, dearly beloved brethren. This morning, when I came into the church here, there comes up to me one of my flock, and she says to me, all in a flutter: 'Oh, Father, what a fright I have had this night! I was asleep in my bed, and the ghosts came and twitched away my coverlet!' But I answered her: 'Dear daughter, that is not possible; because _where the dead are, there they stay_.'" And so he declared before all the congregation that it was not true that the dead could come back and be seen and heard. In the evening the priest went to bed as usual, and about midnight he heard the house-bell ring loudly. The servant went out on to the balcony and saw a great company of people in the street, and she called out: "Who's there?" and they asked her if the Priest of San Marcuola was at home. And she said Yes; but he was in bed. Then they said he must come down. But the priest, when he heard about it, refused to go. They then began to ring the bell again and tell the servant to call her master; and the priest said he wouldn't go anywhere. Then all the doors burst open, and the whole company marched up-stairs into the priest's bedroom, and bade him get up and dress himself and come with them; and he was obliged to do what they said. When they reached a certain spot they set him in the midst of them, and they gave him so many knocks and cuffs that he didn't know which side to turn himself; and then they said: "This is for a remembrance of the poor defunct;" and upon that they all vanished away and were seen no more, and the poor priest went back home, bruised from head to foot. And so the ghosts proved plain enough that it isn't true to say: "_Where the dead are, there they stay_."[30] * * * * * The story of Don Juan appears in the seventh legend, entitled: LXXI. THE GENTLEMAN WHO KICKED A SKULL. There was once a youth who did nothing but eat, drink, and amuse himself, because he was immensely wealthy and had nothing to think about. He scoffed at every one; he dishonored all the young girls; he played all sorts of tricks, and was tired of everything. One day he took it into his head to give a grand banquet; and thereupon he invited all his friends and many women and all his acquaintances. While they were preparing the banquet he took a walk, and passed through a street where there was a cemetery. While walking he noticed on the ground a skull. He gave it a kick, and then he went up to it and said to it in jest: "You, too, will come, will you not, to my banquet to-night?" Then he went his way, and returned home. At the house the banquet was ready and the guests had all arrived. They sat down to the table, and ate and drank to the sound of music, and diverted themselves joyfully. Meanwhile midnight drew near, and when the clock was on the stroke a ringing of bells was heard. The servants went to see who it was, and beheld a great ghost, who said to them: "Tell Count Robert that I am the one he invited this morning to his banquet." They went to their master and told him what the ghost had said. The master said: "I? All those whom I invited are here, and I have invited no one else." They said: "If you should see him! It is a ghost that is terrifying." Then it came into the young man's mind that it might be that dead man; and he said to the servants: "Quick! quick! close the doors and balconies, so that he cannot enter!" The servants went to close everything; but hardly had they done so when the doors and balconies were thrown wide open and the ghost entered. He went up where they were feasting, and said: "Robert! Robert! was it not enough for you to profane everything? Have you wished to disturb the dead, also? The end has come!" All were terrified, and fled here and there, some concealing themselves, and some falling on their knees. Then the ghost seized Robert by the throat and strangled him and carried him away with him; and thus he has left this example, that it is not permitted to mock the poor dead.[31] * * * * * The ninth and last of Bernoni's legends is a story about Massariol, the domestic spirit of the Venetians. A man of family, whose business takes him out at night, finds in the street a basket containing an infant. The weather is very cold, so the good man carries the foundling home, and his wife, who already has a young child, makes the little stranger as comfortable as possible. He is cared for and put in the cradle by the side of the other child. The husband and wife have to leave the room a moment; when they return the foundling has disappeared. The husband asks in amazement: "What can it mean?" She answers: "I am sure I don't know; can it be Massariol?" Then he goes out on the balcony and sees at a distance one who seems like a man, but is not, who is clapping his hands and laughing and making all manner of fun of him, and then suddenly disappears. The same mischievous spirit plays many other pranks. Sometimes he cheats the ferrymen out of their toll; sometimes he disguises himself like the baker's lad, and calls at the houses to take the bread to the oven, and then carries it away to some square or bridge; sometimes, when the washing is hung out, he carries it off to some distant place, and when the owners have at last found their property, Massariol laughs in their faces and disappears. The woman who related these stories to Bernoni added: "Massariol has never done anything bad; he likes to laugh and joke and fool people. He, too, has been shut up, I don't know where, by the Holy Office, the same as the witches, fairies, and magicians." Pitrè's collection contains little that falls under the second heading of this chapter. The following story, however, is interesting from its English parallels: LXXIII. SADDAEDDA. Once upon a time there was a girl called Saddaedda, who was crazy. One day, when her mother had gone into the country and she was left alone in the house, she went into a church where the funeral service was being read over the body of a rich lady. The girl hid herself in the confessional. No one knew she was there; so, when the other people had gone, she was left alone with the corpse. It was dressed out in a rose-colored robe and everything else becoming, and it had ear-rings in its ears and rings on its fingers. These the girl took off, and then she began to undress the body. When she came to the stockings she drew off one easily, but at the other she had to pull so hard that at last the leg came off with it. Saddaedda took the leg, carried it to her lonely home, and locked it up in a box. At night came the dead lady and knocked at the door. "Who's there?" said the girl. "It is I," answered the corpse. "Give me back my leg and stocking!" But Saddaedda paid no heed to the request. Next day she prepared a feast and invited some of her playfellows to spend the night with her. They came, feasted, and went to sleep. At midnight the dead woman began to knock at the door and to repeat last night's request. Saddaedda took no notice of the noise but her companions, whom it awoke, were horrified, and as soon as they could, they ran away. On the third night just the same happened. On the fourth she could persuade only one girl to keep her company. On the fifth she was left entirely alone. The corpse came, forced open the door, strode up to Saddaedda's bed, and strangled her. Then the dead woman opened the box, took out her leg and stocking, and carried them off with her to her grave.[32] * * * * * This chapter would be incomplete without reference to treasure stories. A number of these are given by Miss Busk in her interesting collection. A few are found in Pitrè, only one of which needs mention here, on account of its parallels in other countries. It is called _Lu Vicerrè Tunnina_, "Viceroy Tunny" (_tunnina_ is the flesh of the tunny-fish). There was at Palermo a man who sold tunny-fish. One night he dreamed that some one appeared to him and said: "Do you wish to find your Fate? Go under the bridge _di li Testi_ (of the Heads, so the people call the _Ponte dell' Ammiraglio_, a bridge now abandoned, constructed in 1113 by the Admiral Georgios Antiochenos); there you will find it." For three nights he dreamed the same thing. The third time, he went under the bridge and found a poor man all in rags. The fish-seller was frightened and was going away, when the man called him. It was his Fate. He said: "To-night, at midnight, where you have placed the barrels of fish, dig, and what you find is yours." The fish-dealer did as he was told; dug, and found a staircase, which he descended, and found a room full of money. The fish-dealer became wealthy, lent the king of Spain money, and was made viceroy and raised to the rank of prince and duke.[33] CHAPTER V. NURSERY TALES. The tales we have thus far given, although they may count many young people among their auditors, are not distinctly children's stories. The few that follow are, and it is greatly to be regretted that their number is not larger. That many more exist, cannot be doubted; but collectors have probably overlooked this interesting class. Even Pitrè in his large collection gives but eleven (Nos. 130-141), and those in the other collections are mostly parallels to Pitrè's. We will begin with those that are advantages taken of children's love for stories. The first is from Venice (Bernoni, Punt. II. p. 53) and is called: LXXIV. MR. ATTENTIVE. "Do you want me to tell you the story of Mr. Attentive?" "Tell me it." "But you must not say 'tell me it,' for it is The story of Mr. Attentive, Which lasts a long time, Which is never explained: Do you wish me to tell it, or relate it?" "Relate it." "But you must not say 'relate it,' for it is The story of Mr. Attentive, Which lasts a long time, Which is never explained: Do you wish me to tell it, or relate it?" "But come! tell me it." "But you must not say," etc., etc.[1] * * * * * The following are intended to soothe restless children, and are so short that they may be given entire. LXXV. THE STORY OF THE BARBER. Once upon a time there was a barber.... Be good and I will tell it to you again.[2] * * * * * The next is from the same source. Once upon a time there was a king, a pope, and a dwarf.... This king, this pope, and this dwarf.... (Then the story-teller begins again). * * * * * But it is time to give some of the stories that are told to the good children. The first is from Pitrè (No. 130) and is called: LXXVI. DON FIRRIULIEDDU. Once upon a time there was a farmer who had a daughter who used to take his dinner to him in the fields. One day he said to her: "So that you may find me I will sprinkle bran along the way; you follow the bran, and you will come to me." By chance the old ogre passed that way, and seeing the bran, said: "This means something." So he took the bran and scattered it so that it led to his own house. When the daughter set out to take her father his dinner, she followed the bran until she came to the ogre's house. When the ogre saw the young girl, he said: "You must be my wife." Then she began to weep. When the father saw that his daughter did not appear, he went home in the evening, and began to search for her; and not finding her, he asked God to give him a son or a daughter. A year after, he had a son whom they called "_Don Firriulieddu_." When the child was three days old it spoke, and said: "Have you made me a cloak? Now give me a little dog and the cloak, for I must look for my sister." So he set out and went to seek his sister. After a while he came to a plain where he saw a number of men, and asked: "Whose cattle are these?" The herdsman replied: "They belong to the ogre, who fears neither God nor the saints, who fears _Don Firriulieddu_, who is three days old and is on the way, and gives his dog bread and says: 'Eat, my dog, and do not bark, for we have fine things to do.'" Afterwards he saw a flock of sheep, and asked: "Whose are these sheep?" and received the same answer as from the herdsman. Then he arrived at the ogre's house and knocked, and his sister opened the door and saw the child. "Who are you looking for?" she said. "I am looking for you, for I am your brother, and you must return to mamma." When the ogre heard that _Don Firriulieddu_ was there, he went and hid himself up-stairs. _Don Firriulieddu_ asked his sister: "Where is the ogre?" "Up-stairs." _Don Firriulieddu_ said to his dog: "Go up-stairs and bark, and I will follow you." The dog went up and barked, and _Firriulieddu_ followed him, and killed the ogre. Then he took his sister and a quantity of money, and they went home to their mother, and are all contented. * * * * * Certain traits in the above story, as the size of the hero and the bran serving to guide the girl to her father, recall somewhat faintly, it is true, our own "Tom Thumb." It is only recently that a Tuscan version of "Tom Thumb" has been found.[3] It is called: LXXVII. LITTLE CHICK-PEA.[L] Once upon a time there was a husband and wife who had no children. The husband was a carpenter, and when he came home from his shop he did nothing but scold his wife because she had no children, and the poor woman was constantly weeping and despairing. She was charitable, and had festivals celebrated in the church; but no children. One day a woman knocked at her door and asked for alms; but the carpenter's wife answered: "I will not give you any, for I have given alms and had masses said, and festivals celebrated for a long time, and have no son." "Give me alms and you will have children." "Good! in that case I will do all you wish." "You must give me a whole loaf of bread, and I will give you something that will bring you children." "If you will, I will give you two loaves." "No, no! now, I want only one; you can give me the other when you have the children." So she gave her a loaf, and the woman said: "Now I will go home and give my children something to eat, and then I will bring you what will make you have children." "Very well." [Footnote L: _Cecino_, dim. of _Cece_, chick-pea.] The woman went home, fed her children, and then took a little bag, filled it with chick-peas, and carried it to the carpenter's wife, and said: "This is a bag of peas; put them in the kneading-trough, and to-morrow they will be as many sons as there are peas." There were a hundred peas, and the carpenter's wife said: "How can a hundred peas become a hundred sons?" "You will see to-morrow." The carpenter's wife said to herself: "I had better say nothing about it to my husband, because if by any mischance the children should not come, he would give me a fine scolding." Her husband returned at night and began to grumble as usual; but his wife said not a word and went to bed repeating to herself: "To-morrow you will see!" The next morning the hundred peas had become a hundred sons. One cried: "Papa, I want to drink." Another said: "Papa, I want to eat." Another: "Papa, take me up." He, in the midst of all this tumult, took a stick and went to the trough and began to beat, and killed them all. One fell out (imagine how small they were!) and ran quickly into the bedroom and hid himself on the handle of the pitcher. After the carpenter had gone to his shop his wife said: "What a rascal! he has grumbled so long about my not having children and now he has killed them all!" Then the son who had escaped said: "Mamma, has papa gone?" She said: "Yes, my son. How did you manage to escape? Where are you?" "Hush! I am in the handle of the pitcher; tell me: has papa gone?" "Yes, yes, yes, come out!" Then the child who had escaped came out and his mamma exclaimed: "Oh! how pretty you are! How shall I call you?" The child answered: "Cecino." "Very well, bravo, my Cecino! Do you know, Cecino, you must go and carry your papa's dinner to him at the shop." "Yes, you must put the little basket on my head, and I will go and carry it to papa." The carpenter's wife, when it was time, put the basket on Cecino's head and sent him to carry her husband's dinner to him. When Cecino was near the shop, he began to cry: "O papa! come and meet me; I am bringing you your dinner." The carpenter said to himself: "Oh! did I kill them all, or are there any left?" He went to meet Cecino and said: "O my good boy! how did you escape my blows?" "I fell down, ran into the room, and hid myself on the handle of the pitcher." "Bravo, Cecino! Listen. You must go around among the country people and hear whether they have anything broken to mend." "Yes." So the carpenter put Cecino in his pocket, and while he went along the way did nothing but chatter; so that every one said he was mad, because they did not know that he had his son in his pocket. When he saw some countrymen he asked: "Have you anything to mend?" "Yes, there are some things about the oxen broken, but we cannot let you mend them, for you are mad." "What do you mean by calling me mad? I am wiser than you. Why do you say I am mad?" "Because you do nothing but talk to yourself on the road." "I was talking with my son." "And where do you keep your son?" "In my pocket." "That is a pretty place to keep your son." "Very well, I will show him to you;" and he pulls out Cecino, who was so small that he stood on one of his father's fingers. "Oh, what a pretty child! you must sell him to us." "What are you thinking about! I sell you my son who is so valuable to me!" "Well, then, don't sell him to us." What does he do then? He takes Cecino and puts him on the horn of an ox and says: "Stay there, for now I am going to get the things to mend." "Yes, yes, don't be afraid; I will stay on my horn." So the carpenter went to get the things to mend. Meanwhile two thieves passed by, and seeing the oxen, one said: "See those two oxen there alone. Come, let us go and steal them." When they drew near, Cecino cried out: "Papa, look out! there are thieves here! they are stealing your oxen!" "Ah! where does that voice come from?" And they approached nearer to see; and Cecino, the nearer he saw them come, the more he called out: "Look out for your oxen, papa; the thieves are stealing them!" When the carpenter came the thieves said to him: "Good man, where does that voice come from?" "It is my son." "If he is not here, where is he?" "Don't you see? there he is, up on the horn of one of the oxen." When he showed him to them, they said: "You must sell him to us; we will give you as much money as you wish." "What are you thinking about! I might sell him to you, but who knows how much my wife would grumble about it!" "Do you know what you must tell her? that he died on the way." They tempted him so much that at last he gave him to them for two sacks of money. They took their Cecino, put him in one of their pockets, and went away. On their journey they saw the king's stable. "Let us take a look at the king's stable and see whether we can steal a pair of horses." "Very good." They said to Cecino: "Don't betray us." "Don't be afraid, I will not betray you." So they went into the stable and stole three horses, which they took home and put in their own stable. Afterwards they went and said to Cecino: "Listen. We are so tired! save us the trouble, go down and give the horses some oats." Cecino went to do so, but fell asleep on the halter and one of the horses swallowed him. When he did not return, the thieves said: "He must have fallen asleep in the stable." So they went there and looked for him and called: "Cecino, where are you?" "Inside of the black horse." Then they killed the black horse; but Cecino was not there. "Cecino, where are you?" "In the bay horse." So they killed the bay horse; but Cecino was not there. "Cecino, where are you?" But Cecino answered no longer. Then they said: "What a pity! that child who was so useful to us is lost." Then they dragged out into the fields the two horses that they had cut open. A famished wolf passed that way and saw the dead horses. "Now I will eat my fill of horse," and he ate and ate until he had finished and had swallowed Cecino.[M] Then the wolf went off until it became hungry again and said: "Let us go and eat a goat." [Footnote M: It appears from this that Cecino had been in one of the horses all the time, but the thieves had not seen him because he was so small.] When Cecino heard the wolf talk about eating a goat, he cried out: "Goat-herd, the wolf is coming to eat your goats!" [The wolf supposes that it has swallowed some wind that forms these words, hits itself against a stone, and after several trials gets rid of the wind and Cecino, who hides himself under a stone, so that he shall not be seen.] Three robbers passed that way with a bag of money. One of them said: "Now I will count the money, and you others be quiet or I will kill you!" You can imagine whether they kept still! for they did not want to die. So he began to count: "One, two, three, four, and five." And Cecino: "One, two, three, four, and five." (Do you understand? he repeats the robber's words.) "I hear you! you will not keep still. Well, I will kill you; we shall see whether you will speak again." He began to count the money again: "One, two, three, four, and five." Cecino repeats: "One, two, three, four, and five." "Then you will not keep quiet! now I will kill you!" and he killed one of them. "Now we shall see whether you will talk; if you do I will kill you too." He began to count: "One, two, three, four, and five." Cecino repeats: "One, two, three, four, and five." "Take care, if I have to tell you again I will kill you!" "Do you think I want to speak? I don't wish to be killed." He begins to count: "One, two, three, four, and five." Cecino repeats: "One, two, three, four, and five." "You will not keep quiet either; now I will kill you!" and he killed him. "Now I am alone and can count by myself and no one will repeat it." So he began again to count: "One, two, three, four, and five." And Cecino: "One, two, three, four, and five." Then the robber said: "There is some one hidden here; I had better run away or he will kill me." So he ran away and left behind the sack of money. When Cecino perceived that there was no one there, he came out, put the bag of money on his head, and started for home. When he drew near his parents' house he cried: "Oh, mamma, come and meet me; I have brought you a bag of money!" When his mother heard him she went to meet him and took the money and said: "Take care you don't drown yourself in these puddles of rain-water." The mother went home, and turned back to look for Cecino, but he was not to be seen. She told her husband what Cecino had done, and they went and searched everywhere for him, and at last found him drowned in a puddle.[4] * * * * * The next story is one that has always enjoyed great popularity over the whole of Europe, and is a most interesting example of the diffusion of nursery tales. It is also interesting from the attempt to show that it is of comparatively late date, and has been borrowed from a people not of European extraction.[5] The story belongs to the class of what may be called "accumulative" stories, of which "The House that Jack built" is a good example. It is a version of the story so well known in English of the old woman who found a little crooked sixpence, and went to market and bought a little pig. As she was coming home the pig would not go over the stile. The old woman calls on a dog to bite pig, but the dog will not. Then she calls in turn on a stick, fire, water, ox, butcher, rope, rat, and cat. They all refuse to help her except the cat, which promises help in exchange for a saucer of milk. "So away went the old woman to the cow. But the cow said to her: 'If you will go to yonder hay-stack and fetch me a handful of hay, I'll give you the milk.' So away went the old woman to the hay-stack; and she brought the hay to the cow. As soon as the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer to the cat. "As soon as the cat had lapped up the milk, the cat began to kill the rat; the rat to gnaw the rope; the rope began to hang the butcher; the butcher began to kill the ox; the ox began to drink the water; the water began to quench the fire; the fire began to burn the stick; the stick began to beat the dog; the dog began to bite the pig; the little pig in a fright jumped over the stile, and so the old woman got home that night."[6] The Italian versions may be divided into two classes: first, where the animals and inanimate objects are invoked to punish some human being; second, where all the actors are animals. The first version of the first class that we shall give is from Sicily, Pitrè, No. 131, and is called: LXXVIII. PITIDDA. Once upon a time there was a mother who had a daughter named Pitidda. She said to her: "Go sweep the house." "Give me some bread first." "I cannot," she answered. When her mother saw that she would not sweep the house, she called the wolf. "Wolf, go kill Pitidda, for Pitidda will not sweep the house." "I can't," said the wolf. "Dog, go kill the wolf," said the mother, "for the wolf will not kill Pitidda, for Pitidda will not sweep the house." "I can't," said the dog. "Stick, go kill the dog, for the dog will not kill the wolf, for the wolf won't kill Pitidda, for Pitidda won't sweep the house." "I can't," said the stick. "Fire, burn stick, for stick won't kill dog, for dog won't kill wolf, for wolf won't kill Pitidda, for Pitidda won't sweep the house." "I can't," said the fire. "Water, quench fire, for fire won't burn stick, for stick won't kill dog, for dog won't kill wolf, for wolf won't kill Pitidda, for Pitidda won't sweep the house." "I can't." "Cow, go drink water, for water won't quench fire, for fire won't burn stick, for stick won't kill dog, for dog won't kill wolf, for wolf won't kill Pitidda, for Pitidda won't sweep the house." "I can't," said the cow. "Rope, go choke cow," etc. [Then the mother calls on the mouse to gnaw the rope, the cat to eat the mouse, and the story ends.] The cat runs and begins to eat the mouse, the mouse runs and begins to gnaw the rope, the rope to choke the cow, the cow to drink the water, the water to quench the fire, the fire to burn the stick, the stick to kill the dog, the dog to kill the wolf, the wolf to kill Pitidda, Pitidda to sweep the house, and her mother runs and gives her some bread.[7] * * * * * The Italian story, it will be seen, has a moral. The animals, etc., are invoked to punish a disobedient child. In the Neapolitan version a mother sends her son to gather some fodder for the cattle. He does not wish to go until he has had some macaroni that his mother has just cooked. She promises to keep him some, and he departs. While he is gone the mother eats up all the macaroni, except a small bit. When her son returns, and sees how little is left for him, he begins to cry and refuses to eat; and his mother calls on stick, fire, water, ox, rope, mouse, and cat to make her son obey, and eat the macaroni.[8] The disobedient son is also found in two Tuscan versions, one from Siena, and one from Florence, which are almost identical.[9] In the Venetian version, a naughty boy will not go to school, and his mother invokes dog, stick, fire, water, ox, butcher, and soldier.[10] The Sicilian story of "The Sexton's Nose" (Pitrè, No. 135) will serve as the connecting link between the two classes above mentioned. Properly speaking, only the second part of it belongs here; but we will give a brief analysis of the first also. LXXIX. THE SEXTON'S NOSE. A sexton, one day in sweeping the church, found a piece of money (it was the fifth of a cent) and deliberated with himself as to what he would buy with it. If he bought nuts or almonds, he was afraid of the mice; so at last he bought some roasted peas, and ate all but the last pea. This he took to a bakery near by, and asked the mistress to keep it for him; she told him to leave it on a bench, and she would take care of it. When she went to get it, she found that the cock had eaten it. The next day the sexton came for the roast pea, and when he heard what had become of it, he said they must either return the roast pea or give him the cock. This they did, and the sexton, not having any place to keep it, took it to a miller's wife, who promised to keep it for him. Now she had a pig, which managed to kill the cock. The next day the sexton came for the cock, and on finding it dead, demanded the pig, and the woman had to give it to him. The pig he left with a friend of his, a pastry-cook, whose daughter was to be married the next day. The woman was mean and sly, and killed the pig for her daughter's wedding, meaning to tell the sexton that the pig had run away. The sexton, however, when he heard it, made a great fuss, and declared that she must give him back his pig or her daughter. At last she had to give him her daughter, whom he put in a bag and carried away. He took the bag to a woman who kept a shop, and asked her to keep for him this bag, which he said contained bran. The woman by chance kept chickens, and she thought she would take some of the sexton's bran and feed them. When she opened the bag she found the young girl, who told her how she came there. The woman took her out of the sack, and put in her stead a dog. The next day the sexton came for his bag, and putting it on his shoulder, started for the sea-shore, intending to throw the young girl in the sea. When he reached the shore, he opened the bag, and the furious dog flew out and bit his nose. The sexton was in great agony, and cried out, while the blood ran down his face in torrents: "Dog, dog, give me a hair to put in my nose, and heal the bite."[N] The dog answered: "Do you want a hair? give me some bread." The sexton ran to a bakery, and said to the baker: "Baker, give me some bread to give the dog; the dog will give a hair; the hair I will put in my nose, and cure the bite." The baker said: "Do you want bread? give me some wood." The sexton ran to the woodman. "Woodman, give me wood to give the baker; the baker will give me bread; the bread I will give to the dog; the dog will give me a hair; the hair I will put in my nose, and heal the bite." The woodman said: "Do you want wood? give me a mattock." The sexton ran to a smith. "Smith, give me a mattock to give the woodman; the woodman will give me wood; I will carry the wood to the baker; the baker will give me bread; I will give the bread to the dog; the dog will give me a hair; the hair I will put in my nose, and heal the bite." The smith said: "Do you want a mattock? give me some coals." The sexton ran to the collier. "Collier, give me some coals to give the smith; the smith will give me a mattock; the mattock I will give the woodman; the woodman will give me some wood; the wood I will give the baker; the baker will give me bread; the bread I will give the dog; the dog will give me a hair; the hair I will put in my nose, and heal the bite." "Do you want coals? give me a cart." The sexton ran to the wagon-maker. "Wagon-maker, give me a cart to give the collier; the collier will give me some coals; the coals I will carry to the smith; the smith will give me a mattock; the mattock I will give the woodman; the woodman will give me some wood; the wood I will give the baker; the baker will give me bread; the bread I will give to the dog; the dog will give me a hair; the hair I will put in my nose, and heal the bite." [Footnote N: As with us the hair of a dog is supposed to heal the bite the same dog has inflicted.] The wagon-maker, seeing the sexton's great lamentation, is moved to compassion, and gives him the cart. The sexton, well pleased, takes the cart and goes away to the collier; the collier gives him the coals; the coals he takes to the smith; the smith gives him the mattock; the mattock he takes to the woodman; the woodman gives him wood; the wood he carries to the baker; the baker gives him bread; the bread he carries to the dog; the dog gives him a hair; the hair he puts in his nose, and heals the bite.[11] * * * * * The second class contains the versions in which all the actors are animals or personified inanimate objects. The first example we shall give is from Avellino in the Principato Ulteriore (Imbriani, p. 239), and is called: LXXX. THE COCK AND THE MOUSE. Once upon a time there was a cock and a mouse. One day the mouse said to the cock: "Friend Cock, shall we go and eat some nuts on yonder tree?" "As you like." So they both went under the tree and the mouse climbed up at once and began to eat. The poor cock began to fly, and flew and flew, but could not come where the mouse was. When it saw that there was no hope of getting there, it said: "Friend Mouse, do you know what I want you to do? Throw me a nut." The mouse went and threw one and hit the cock on the head. The poor cock, with its head broken and all covered with blood, went away to an old woman. "Old aunt, give me some rags to cure my head." "If you will give me two hairs, I will give you the rags." The cock went away to a dog. "Dog, give me some hairs; the hairs I will give the old woman; the old woman will give me rags to cure my head." "If you will give me a little bread," said the dog, "I will give you the hairs." The cock went away to a baker. "Baker, give me bread; I will give the bread to the dog; the dog will give hairs; the hairs I will carry to the old woman; the old woman will give me rags to cure my head." The baker answered: "I will not give you bread unless you give me some wood!" The cock went away to the forest. "Forest, give me some wood; the wood I will carry to the baker; the baker will give me some bread; the bread I will give to the dog; the dog will give me hairs; the hairs I will carry to the old woman; the old woman will give me rags to cure my head." The forest answered: "If you will bring me a little water, I will give you some wood." The cock went away to a fountain. "Fountain, give me water; water I will carry to the forest; forest will give wood; wood I will carry to the baker; baker will give bread; bread I will give dog; dog will give hairs; hairs I will give old woman; old woman will give rags to cure my head." The fountain gave him water; the water he carried to the forest; the forest gave him wood; the wood he carried to the baker; the baker gave him bread; the bread he gave to the dog; the dog gave him the hairs; the hairs he carried to the old woman; the old woman gave him the rags; and the cock cured his head.[12] * * * * * There are other versions from Florence (_Nov. fior._ p. 551), Bologna (Coronedi-Berti, X. p. 16), and Venice (Bernoni, Punt. III. p. 74), which do not call for any detailed notice. In the Florentine version a cock gives a peck at a mouse's head and the mouse cries out: "Where must I go to be cured?" Then follow the various objects which are almost identical with those in the other versions. The mouse, however, is killed by the ox, to which he goes last. The Venetian version is the most elaborate; in it the cock and mouse go nutting together, and while the former flies up into the tree and throws the nuts down, the mouse eats them all up. When the cock comes down he flies into a passion and gives the mouse a peck at his head. The mouse runs off in terror, and the rest of the story is as above until the end. The last person the mouse calls on is a cooper, to make him a bucket to give to the well, to get water, etc. The cooper asks for money, which the mouse finds after a while. He gives the money to the cooper and says: "Take and count it; meanwhile I am going to drink, for I am dying of thirst." As he is going to drink he sees Friend Cock coming along. "Ah, poor me," says he to himself, "I am a dead mouse!" The cock sees him and goes to meet him and says: "Good day, friend, are you still afraid of me? Come, let us make peace!" The mouse then takes heart and says: "Oh, yes, yes! let us make peace!" So they made peace, and Friend Mouse said to Friend Cock: "Now that you are here you must do me the favor to hold me by the tail while I hang over the ditch to drink, and when I say _slapo, slapo_, pull me back." The cock said: "I will do as you wish." Then the mouse went to the ditch and Friend Cock held him by the tail. After the mouse had drunk his fill, he said: "Friend, _slapo, slapo_!" The cock answered: "Friend, and I let you go by the tail!" And in truth he did let go his tail, and the poor mouse went to the bottom and was never seen or heard of more.[13] The following story from Sicily (Pitrè, No. 132) belongs also to a class of tales very popular and having only animals for its actors. It is called: LXXXI. GODMOTHER FOX.[O] Once upon a time there was Godmother Fox and Godmother Goat.[P] The former had a little bit of a house adorned with little chairs, cups, and dishes; in short, it was well furnished. One day Godmother Goat went out and carried away the little house. Godmother Fox began to lament, when along came a dog, barking, that said to her: "What are you crying about?" She answered: "Godmother Goat has carried off my house!" "Be quiet. I will make her give it back to you." So the dog went and said to Godmother Goat: "Give the house back to Godmother Fox." The goat answered: "I am Godmother Goat. I have a sword at my side, and with my horns I will tear you in pieces." When the dog heard that, he went away. [Footnote O: _Cummari Vurpidda_ (diminutive of Fox).] [Footnote P: _Cummari Crapazza_ (diminutive of Goat).] Then a sheep passed by and said to the little fox: "What are you crying about?" and she told her the same thing. Then the sheep went to Godmother Goat and began to reprove her. The goat made the same answer she had made the dog, and the sheep went away in fright. In short, all sorts of animals went to the goat, with the same result. Among others the mouse went and said to the little fox: "What are you crying about?" "Godmother Goat has carried off my house." "Be still. I will make her give it back to you." So the mouse went and said to Godmother Goat: "Give Godmother Fox her house back right away." The goat answered: "I am Godmother Goat. I have a sword at my side, and with my fist and with my horns I will smash you!" The mouse answered at once: "I am Godfather Mouse. By my side I have a spit. I will heat it in the fire and stick it in your tail." * * * * * The inference of course is that Godmother Goat gave back the house. The story does not say so, but ends with the usual formula: Story told, story written, Tell me yours, for mine is said. Pitrè (No. 133) gives another version in which a goat gets under a nun's bed and she calls on her neighbors, a dog, pig, and cricket, to put the goat out. The cricket alone succeeds, with a threat similar to that in the last story. In the Neapolitan version (Imbriani, _Dodici Conti Pomiglianesi_, p. 273) an old woman, in sweeping the church, found a piece of money and, like the sexton in the story of "The Sexton's Nose," did not know what to buy with it. At last she bought some flour and made a hasty-pudding of it. She left it on the table and went again to church, but forgot to close the window. While she was gone a herd of goats came along, and one smelled the pudding, climbed in at the window, and ate it up. When the old woman came back and tried to open the door, she could not, for the goat was behind it. Then she began to weep and various animals came along and tried to enter the house. The goat answered them all: "I am the goat, with three horns on my head and three in my belly, and if you don't run away I will eat you up." The mouse at last replied: "I am Godfather Mouse, with the halter, and if you don't run away, I will tear your eyes out." The goat ran away and the old woman went in with Godfather Mouse, whom she married, and they both lived there together. The Florentine version (_Nov. fior._ p. 556) is called "The Iron Goat." In it a widow goes out to wash and leaves her son at home, with orders not to leave the door open so that the Iron Goat, with the iron mouth and the sword tongue, can enter. The boy after a time wanted to go after his mother, and when he had gone half way he remembered that he had left the door open and went back. When he was going to enter he saw there the Iron Goat. "Who is there?" "It is I; I am the Iron Goat, with the iron mouth and the sword tongue. If you enter I will slice you like a turnip." The poor boy sat down on the steps and wept. A little old woman passed by and asked the cause of his tears; he told her and she said she would send the goat away for three bushels of grain. The old woman tried, with the usual result, and finally said to the boy: "Listen, my child. I don't care for those three bushels of grain; but I really cannot send the goat away." Then an old man tried his luck, with no better success. At last a little bird came by and promised for three bushels of millet to drive the goat away. When the goat made its usual declaration, the little bird replied: "And I with my beak will peck your brains out." The goat was frightened and ran away, and the boy had to pay the little bird three bushels of millet.[14] The next story affords, like "Pitidda," a curious example of the diffusion of nursery tales. Our readers will remember the Grimm story of "The Spider and the Flea." A spider and a flea dwelt together in one house and brewed their beer in an egg-shell. One day, when the spider was stirring it up, she fell in and scalded herself. Thereupon the flea began to scream. And then the door asked: "Why are you screaming, flea?" "Because Little Spider has scalded herself in the beer-tub," replied she. Thereupon the door began to creak as if it were in pain, and a broom, which stood in the corner, asked: "What are you creaking for, door?" "May I not creak?" it replied. "The little spider scalded herself, And the flea weeps." So a broom sweeps, a little cart runs, ashes burn furiously, a tree shakes off its leaves, a maiden breaks her pitcher, and a streamlet begins to flow until it swallows up the little girl, the little tree, the ashes, the cart, the broom, the door, the flea, and, last of all, the spider, all together.[15] The first Italian version of this story which we shall mention is from Sicily (Pitrè, No. 134), and is called: LXXXII. THE CAT AND THE MOUSE. Once upon a time there was a cat that wanted to get married. So she stood on a corner, and every one who passed by said: "Little Cat, what's the matter?" "What's the matter? I want to marry." A dog passed by and said: "Do you want me?" "When I see how you can sing." The dog said: "Bow, wow!" "Fy! What horrid singing! I don't want you." A pig passed. "Do you want me, Little Cat?" "When I see how you sing." "Uh! uh!" "Fy! You are horrid! Go away! I don't want you." A calf passed and said: "Little Cat, will you take me?" "When I see how you sing." "Uhm!" "Go away, for you are horrid! What do you want of me?" A mouse passed by: "Little Cat, what are you doing?" "I am going to get married." "Will you take me?" "And how can you sing?" "Ziu, ziu!" The cat accepted him, and said: "Let us go and be married, for you please me." So they were married. One day the cat went to buy some pastry, and left the mouse at home. "Don't stir out, for I am going to buy some pastry." The mouse went into the kitchen, saw the pot on the fire, and crept into it, for he wanted to eat the beans. But he did not; for the pot began to boil, and the mouse stayed there. The cat came back and began to cry; but the mouse did not appear. So the cat put the pastry in the pot for dinner. When it was ready the cat ate, and put some on a plate for the mouse, also. When she took out the pastry she saw the mouse stuck fast in it. "Ah! my little mouse! ah! my little mouse!" so she went and sat behind the door, lamenting the mouse. "What is the matter," said the door, "that you are scratching yourself so and tearing out your hair?" The cat said: "What is the matter? My mouse is dead, and so I tear my hair." The door answered: "And I, as door, will slam." In the door was a window, which said: "What's the matter, door, that you are slamming?" "The mouse died, the cat is tearing her hair, and I am slamming." The window answered: "And I, as window, will open and shut." In the window was a tree, that said: "Window, why do you open and shut?" The window answered: "The mouse died, the cat tears her hair, the door slams, and I open and shut." The tree answered and said: "And I, as tree, will throw myself down." A bird happened to alight in this tree, and said: "Tree, why did you throw yourself down?" The tree replied: "The mouse died, the cat tears her hair, the door slams, the window opens and shuts, and I, as tree, threw myself down." "And I, as bird, will pull out my feathers." The bird went and alighted on a fountain, which said: "Bird, why are you plucking out your feathers so?" The bird answered as the others had done, and the fountain said: "And I, as fountain, will dry up." A cuckoo went to drink at the fountain, and asked: "Fountain, why have you dried up?" And the fountain told him all that had happened. "And I, as cuckoo, will put my tail in the fire." A monk of St. Nicholas passed by, and said: "Cuckoo, why is your tail in the fire?" When the monk heard the answer he said: "And I, as monk of St. Nicholas, will go and say mass without my robes." Then came the queen, who, when she heard what the matter was, said: "And I, as queen, will go and sift the meal." At last the king came by, and asked: "O Queen! why are you sifting the meal?" When the queen had told him everything, he said: "And I, as king, am going to take my coffee." * * * * * And thus the story abruptly ends. In one of Pitrè's variants a sausage takes the place of the mouse; in another, a tortoise. In the version from Pomigliano d'Arco (Imbriani, p. 244), an old woman, who finds a coin in sweeping a church, hesitates in regard to what she will spend it for, as in the stories above mentioned. She finally concludes to buy some paint for her face. After she has put it on, she stations herself at the window. A donkey passes, and asks what she wants. She answers that she wishes to marry. "Will you take me?" asks the donkey. "Let me hear what kind of a voice you have." "_Ingò! Ingò! Ingò!_" "Away! away! you would frighten me in the night!" Then a goat comes along, with the same result. Then follows a cat, and all the animals in the world; but none pleases the old woman. At last a little mouse passes by, and says: "Old Aunt, what are you doing there?" "I want to marry." "Will you take me?" "Let me hear your voice." "_Zivuzì! zivuzì! zivuzì! zivuzì!_" "Come up, for you please me." So the mouse went up to the old woman, and stayed with her. One day the old woman went to mass, and left the pot near the fire and told the mouse to be careful not to fall in it. When she came home she could not find the mouse anywhere. At last she went to take the soup from the pot, and there she found the mouse dead. She began to lament, and the ashes on the hearth began to scatter, and the window asked what was the matter. The ashes answered: "Ah! you know nothing. Friend Mouse is in the pot; the old woman is weeping, weeping; and I, the ashes, have wished to scatter." Then the window opens and shuts, the stairs fall down, the bird plucks out its feathers, the laurel shakes off its leaves, the servant girl who goes to the well breaks her pitcher, the mistress who was making bread throws the flour over the balcony, and finally the master comes home, and after he hears the story, exclaims: "And I, who am master, will break the bones of both of you!" And therewith he takes a stick and gives the servant and her mistress a sound beating.[16] There is a curious class of versions of the above story, in which the principal actors are a mouse and a sausage, reminding one of the Grimm story of "The Little Mouse, the Little Bird, and the Sausage." In the Venetian version (Bernoni, Punt. III. p. 81), the beginning is as follows: Once upon a time there was a mouse and a sausage, and one day the mouse said to the sausage: "I am going to mass; meanwhile get ready the dinner." "Yes, yes," answered the sausage. Then the mouse went to mass, and when he returned he found everything ready. The next day the sausage went to mass and the mouse prepared the dinner. He put on the pot, threw in the rice, and then went to taste if it was well salted. But he fell in and died. The sausage returned home, knocked at the door,--for there was no bell,--and no one answered. She called: "Mouse! mouse!" But he does not answer. Then the sausage went to a smith and had the door broken in, and called again: "Mouse, where are you?" And the mouse did not answer. "Now I will pour out the rice, and meanwhile he will come." So she went and poured out the rice, and found the mouse dead in the pot. "Ah! poor mouse! Oh! my mouse! What shall I do now? Oh! poor me!" And she began to utter a loud lamentation. Then the table began to go around the room, the sideboard to throw down the plates, the door to lock and unlock itself, the fountain to dry up, the mistress to drag herself along the ground, and the master threw himself from the balcony and broke his neck. "And all this arose from the death of this mouse." The version from the Marches (Gianandrea, p. 11) resembles the above very closely; the conclusion is as follows: "The mouse, the master of this castle, is dead; the sausage weeps, the broom sweeps, the door opens and shuts, the cart runs, the tree throws off its leaves, the bird plucks out its feathers, the servant breaks her pitcher," etc. The version from Milan (_Nov. fior._ p. 552) resembles the one from Venice. Instead of the mouse and the sausage we have the big mouse and the little mouse. In the version from Leghorn (Papanti, p. 19) called "Vezzino and Lady Sausage,"[Q] the actors are Lady Sausage and her son Vezzino, who falls into the pot on the fire while his mother is at mass. The rest of the story does not differ materially from the above versions. [Footnote Q: _Vezzino e Madonna Salciccia. Vezzino_ is the dim. of _vezzo_, delight, pastime.] In the Grimm story of the "Golden Goose," the goose has the power of causing anything that touches it to stick fast. This same idea is reproduced in several Italian stories. The best is from Venice (Bernoni, _Fiabe_, p. 21) and is called: LXXXIII. A FEAST DAY. Once upon a time there was a husband and wife; the husband was a boatman. One feast day the boatman took it into his head to buy a fowl, which he carried home and said: "See here, wife, to-day is a feast day; I want a good dinner; cook it well, for my friend Tony is coming to dine with us and has said that he would bring a tart." "Very well," she said, "I will prepare the fowl at once." So she cleaned it, washed it, put it on the fire, and said: "While it is boiling I will go and hear a mass." She shut the kitchen door and left the dog and the cat inside. Scarcely had she closed the door when the dog went to the hearth and perceived that there was a good odor there and said: "Oh, what a good smell!" He called the cat, also, and said: "Cat, you come here, too; smell what a good odor there is! see if you can push off the cover with your paws." The cat went and scratched and scratched and down went the cover. "Now," said the dog, "see if you can catch it with your claws." Then the cat seized the fowl and dragged it to the middle of the kitchen. The dog said: "Shall we eat half of it?" The cat said: "Let us eat it all." So they ate it all and stuffed themselves like pigs. When they had eaten it they said: "Alas for us! What shall we do when the mistress comes home? She will surely beat us both." So they both ran all over the house, here and there, but could find no place in which to hide. They were going to hide under the bed. "No," they said, "for she will see us." They were going under the sofa; but that would not do, for she would see them there. Finally the cat looked up and saw under the beams a cobweb. He gave a leap and jumped into it. The dog looked at him and said: "Run away! you are mad! you can be seen, for your tail sticks out! come down, come down!" "I cannot, I cannot, for I am stuck fast!" "Wait, I will come and pull you out." He gave a spring to catch him by the tail and pull him down. Instead of that he, too, stuck fast to the cat's tail. He made every effort to loosen himself, but he could not and there he had to stay. Meanwhile the mistress does not wait until the priest finishes the mass, but runs quickly home. She runs and opens the door and is going to skim the pot, when she discovers that the fowl is no longer there, and in the middle of the kitchen she sees the bones all gnawed. "Ah, poor me! the cat and the dog have eaten the fowl. Now I will give them both a beating." So she takes a stick and then goes to find them. She looks here, she looks there, but does not find them anywhere. In despair she comes back to the kitchen, but does not find them there. "Where the deuce have they hidden?" Just then she raises her eyes and sees them both stuck fast under the beams. "Ah, are you there? now just wait!" and she climbs on a table and is going to pull them down, when she sticks fast to the dog's tail. She tries to free herself, but cannot. Her husband knocked at the door. "Here, open!" "I cannot, I am fast." "Loosen yourself and open the door! where the deuce are you fastened?" "I cannot, I tell you." "Open! it is noon." "I cannot, for I am fast." "But where are you fast?" "To the dog's tail." "I will give you the dog's tail, you silly woman!" He gave the door two or three kicks, broke it in, went into the kitchen, and saw cat, dog, and mistress all fast. "Ah, you are all fast, are you? just wait, I will loosen you." He went to loosen them, but stuck fast himself. Friend Tony comes and knocks. "Friend? Open! I have the tart here." "I cannot; my friend, I am fast!" "Bad luck to you! Are you fast at this time? You knew I was coming and got fast? Come, loosen yourself and open the door!" He said again: "I cannot come and open, for I am fast." Finally the friend became angry, kicked in the door, went into the kitchen, and saw all those souls stuck fast and laughed heartily. "Just wait, for I will loosen you now." So he gave a great pull, the cat's tail was loosened, the cat fell into the dog's mouth, the dog into his mistress' mouth, the mistress into her husband's, her husband into his friend's, and his friend into the mouth of the blockheads who are listening to me.[17] * * * * * The following nonsense story from Venice (Bernoni, Punt. I. p. 18) will give a good idea of a class that is not very well represented in Italy. It is called: LXXXIV. THE THREE BROTHERS. Once upon a time there were three brothers: two had no clothes and one no shirt. The weather was very bad and they make up their minds to go shooting. So they took down three guns,--two were broken and one had no barrel,--and walked and walked until they came at last to a meadow, where they saw a hare. They began to fire at it, but could not catch it. "What shall we do?" said one of them. They remembered that near by a godmother of theirs lived; so they went and knocked at her door and asked her to lend them a pot to cook the hare they had not caught. The godmother was not at home, but nevertheless she answered: "My children, go in the kitchen and there you will find three pots, two broken and one with no bottom; take whichever you wish." "Thanks, Godmother!" They went into the kitchen and chose the one without a bottom and put the hare in it to cook. While the hare was cooking, one said: "Let us ask our godmother whether she has anything in her garden." So they asked her and she said: "Yes, yes, my children, I have three walnut-trees; two are dead and one has never borne any nuts; knock off as many as you wish." One went and shook the tree that had never borne nuts, and a little nut fell on his hat and broke his heel. Thereupon they picked up the nuts and went to get the hare, which meanwhile was cooked, and said: "What shall we do with so much stuff?" So they went to a village where there were many ill, and they put up a notice in the street that whoever wished might, at such and such a place, get broth given him in charity. Every one went to get some, and they took it in the salad-basket, and it was given to them with a skimmer. One who did not belong to the village, drank so much of this broth that he was at the point of death. Then they sent for three physicians: one was blind, one deaf, and one dumb. The blind man went in and said: "Let me look at your tongue." The deaf man asked: "How are you?" The dumb said: "Give me some paper, pen and ink." They gave them to him and he said: "Go to the apothecary, For he knows the business; Buy two cents' worth of I know not what, Put it wherever you wish. He will get well I know not when, I will leave and commend him to you."[18] One of the most popular of Italian tales, as the collector tells us, is one of which we give the version from Leghorn (Papanti, p. 25). It is called: LXXXV. BUCHETTINO. Once upon a time there was a child whose name was Buchettino. One morning his mamma called him and said: "Buchettino, will you do me a favor? Go and sweep the stairs." Buchettino, who was very obedient, did not wait to be told a second time, but went at once to sweep the stairs. All at once he heard a noise, and after looking all around, he found a penny. Then he said to himself: "What shall I do with this penny? I have half a mind to buy some dates... but no! for I should have to throw away the stones. I will buy some apples... no! I will not, for I should have to throw away the core. I will buy some nuts... but no, for I should have to throw away the shells! What shall I buy, then? I will buy--I will buy--enough; I will buy a pennyworth of figs." No sooner said than done: he bought a pennyworth of figs, and went to eat them in a tree. While he was eating, the ogre passed by, and seeing Buchettino eating figs in the tree, said: "Buchettino, My dear Buchettino, Give me a little fig With your dear little hand, If not I will eat you!" Buchettino threw him one, but it fell in the dirt. Then the ogre repeated: "Buchettino, My dear Buchettino, Give me a little fig With your dear little hand, If not I will eat you!" Then Buchettino threw him another, which also fell in the dirt. The ogre said again: "Buchettino, My dear Buchettino, Give me a little fig With your dear little hand, If not I will eat you!" Poor Buchettino, who did not see the trick, and did not know that the ogre was doing everything to get him into his net and eat him up, what does he do? he leans down and foolishly gives him a fig with his little hand. The ogre, who wanted nothing better, suddenly seized him by the arm and put him in his bag; then he took him on his back and started for home, crying with all his lungs: "Wife, my wife, Put the kettle on the fire, For I have caught Buchettino! Wife, my wife, Put the kettle on the fire, For I have caught Buchettino!" When the ogre was near his house he put the bag on the ground, and went off to attend to something else. Buchettino, with a knife that he had in his pocket, cut the bag open in a trice, filled it with large stones, and then: "My legs, it is no shame To run away when there is need." When the rascal of an ogre returned he picked up the bag, and scarcely had he arrived home when he said to his wife: "Tell me, my wife, have you put the kettle on the fire?" She answered at once: "Yes." "Then," said the ogre, "we will cook Buchettino; come here, help me!" And both taking the bag, they carried it to the hearth and were going to throw poor Buchettino into the kettle, but instead they found only the stones. Imagine how cheated the ogre was. He was so angry that he bit his hands. He could not swallow the trick played on him by Buchettino and swore to find him again and be revenged. So the next day he began to go all about the city and to look into all the hiding places. At last he happened to raise his eyes and saw Buchettino on a roof, ridiculing him and laughing so hard that his mouth extended from ear to ear. The ogre thought he should burst with rage, but he pretended not to see it and in a very sweet tone he said: "O Buchettino; just tell me, how did you manage to climb up there?" Buchettino answered: "Do you really want to know? Then listen. I put dishes upon dishes, glasses upon glasses, pans upon pans, kettles upon kettles; afterwards I climbed up on them and here I am." "Ah! is that so?" said the ogre; "wait a bit!" And quickly he took so many dishes, so many glasses, pans, kettles, and made a great mountain of them; then he began to climb up, to go and catch Buchettino. But when he was on the top--_brututum_--everything fell down; and that rascal of an ogre fell down on the stones and was cheated again. Then Buchettino, well pleased, ran to his mamma, who put a piece of candy in his little mouth--See whether there is any more![19] * * * * * We will end this chapter with two stories in which the chief actors are animals. One of these stories will doubtless be very familiar to our readers. The first is from Venice (Bernoni, Punt. III. p. 65). LXXXVI. THE THREE GOSLINGS. Once upon a time there were three goslings who were greatly afraid of the wolf; for if he found them he would eat them. One day the largest said to the other two: "Do you know what I think? I think we had better build a little house, so that the wolf shall not eat us, and meanwhile let us go and look for something to build the house with." Then the other two said: "Yes, yes, yes... good! let us go!" So they went and found a man who had a load of straw and said to him: "Good man, do us the favor to give us a little of that straw to make a house of, so that the wolf shall not eat us." The man said: "Take it, take it!" and he gave them as much as they wanted. The goslings thanked the man and took the straw and went away to a meadow, and there they built a lovely little house, with a door, and balconies, and kitchen, with everything, in short. When it was finished the largest gosling said: "Now I want to see whether one is comfortable in this house." So she went in and said: "Oh! how comfortable it is in this house! just wait!" She went and locked the door with a padlock, and went out on the balcony and said to the other two goslings: "I am very comfortable alone here; go away, for I want nothing to do with you." The two poor little goslings began to cry and beg their sister to open the door and let them in; if she did not, the wolf would eat them. But she would not listen to them. Then the two goslings went away and found a man who had a load of hay. They said to him: "Good man, do us the kindness to give us a little of that hay to build a house with, so that the wolf shall not eat us!" "Yes, yes, yes, take some, take some!" And he gave them as much as they wanted. The goslings, well pleased, thanked the man and carried the hay to a meadow and built a very pretty little house, prettier than the other. The middle-sized gosling said to the smallest: "Listen. I am going now to see whether one is comfortable in this house; but I will not act like our sister, you know!" She entered the house and said to herself: "Oh! how comfortable it is here! I don't want my sister! I am very comfortable here alone." So she went and fastened the door with a padlock, and went out on the balcony and said to her sister: "Oh! how comfortable it is in this house! I don't want you here! go away, go away!" The poor gosling began to weep and beg her sister to open to her, for she was alone, and did not know where to go, and if the wolf found her he would eat her; but it did no good: she shut the balcony and stayed in the house. Then the gosling, full of fear, went away and found a man who had a load of iron and stones and said to him: "Good man, do me the favor to give me a few of those stones and a little of that iron to build me a house with, so that the wolf shall not eat me!" The man pitied the gosling so much that he said: "Yes, yes, good gosling, or rather I will build your house for you." Then they went away to a meadow, and the man built a very pretty house, with a garden and everything necessary, and very strong, for it was lined with iron, and the balcony and door of iron also. The gosling, well pleased, thanked the man and went into the house and remained there. Now let us go to the wolf. The wolf looked everywhere for these goslings, but could not find them. After a time he learned that they had built three houses. "Good, good!" he said; "wait until I find you!" Then he started out and journeyed and journeyed until he came to the meadow where the first house was. He knocked at the door and the gosling said: "Who is knocking at the door?" "Come, come," said the wolf; "open, for it is I." The gosling said: "I will not open for you, because you will eat me." "Open, open! I will not eat you, be not afraid. Very well," said the wolf, "if you will not open the door I will blow down your house." And indeed he did blow down the house and ate up the gosling. "Now that I have eaten one," he said, "I will eat the others too." Then he went away and came at last to the house of the second gosling, and everything happened as to the first, the wolf blew down the house and ate the gosling. Then he went in search of the third and when he found her he knocked at the door, but she would not let him in. Then he tried to blow the house down, but could not; then he climbed on the roof and tried to trample the house down, but in vain. "Very well," he said to himself, "in one way or another I will eat you." Then he came down from the roof and said to the gosling: "Listen, gosling. Do you wish us to make peace? I don't want to quarrel with you who are so good, and I have thought that to-morrow we will cook some macaroni and I will bring the butter and cheese and you will furnish the flour." "Very good," said the gosling, "bring them then." The wolf, well satisfied, saluted the gosling and went away. The next day the gosling got up early and went and bought the meal and then returned home and shut the house. A little later the wolf came and knocked at the door and said: "Come, gosling, open the door, for I have brought you the butter and cheese!" "Very well, give it to me here by the balcony." "No indeed, open the door!" "I will open when all is ready." Then the wolf gave her the things by the balcony and went away. While he was gone the gosling prepared the macaroni, and put it on the fire to cook in a kettle full of water. When it was two o'clock the wolf came and said: "Come, gosling, open the door." "No, I will not open, for when I am busy I don't want any one in the way; when it is cooked, I will open and you may come in and eat it." A little while after, the gosling said to the wolf: "Would you like to try a bit of macaroni to see whether it is well cooked?" "Open the door! that is the better way." "No, no; don't think you are coming in; put your mouth to the hole in the shelf and I will pour the macaroni down." The wolf, all greedy as he was, put his mouth to the hole and then the gosling took the kettle of boiling water and poured the boiling water instead of the macaroni through the hole into the wolf's mouth; and the wolf was scalded and killed. Then the gosling took a knife and cut open the wolf's stomach, and out jumped the other goslings, who were still alive, for the wolf was so greedy that he had swallowed them whole. Then these goslings begged their sister's pardon for the mean way in which they had treated her, and she, because she was kind-hearted, forgave them and took them into her house, and there they ate their macaroni and lived together happy and contented.[20] * * * * * A curious variant of the above story is found in the same collection (p. 69) under the title: LXXXVII. THE COCK. Once upon a time there was a cock, and this cock flew here and flew there, and flew on an arbor, and there he found a letter. He opened the letter and saw: "Cock, steward,"----and that he was invited to Rome by the Pope. The cock started on his journey, and after a time met the hen: "Where are you going, Friend Cock?" said the hen. "I flew," said he, "upon an arbor and found a letter, and this letter said that I was invited to Rome by the Pope." "Just see, friend," said the hen, "whether I am there too." "Wait a bit." Then he turned the letter, and saw written there: "Cock, steward; Hen, stewardess." "Come, friend, for you are there too." "Very well!" Then the two started off, and soon met the goose, who said: "Where are you going, Friend Cock and Friend Hen?" "I flew," said the cock, "upon an arbor, and I found a letter, and this letter said that we were invited to Rome by the Pope." "Just look, friend, whether I am there too." Then the cock opened the letter, read it, and saw that there was written: "Cock, steward; Hen, stewardess; Goose, abbess." "Come, come, friend; you are there too." So they took her along, and all three went their way. [After a time they found the duck, and the cock saw written in the letter: "Cock, steward; Hen, stewardess; Goose, abbess; Duck, countess." They next met a little bird, and found he was down in the letter as "little man-servant." Finally they came across the wood-louse, whom they found mentioned in the letter as "maid-servant." On their journey they came to a forest, and saw a wolf at a distance. The cock, hen, goose, and duck plucked out their feathers and built houses to shelter themselves from the wolf. The poor bug, that had no feathers, dug a hole in the ground and crept into it. The wolf came, and as in the last story, blew down the four houses and devoured their occupants. Then he tried to get at the bug in the same way; but blew so hard that he burst, and out came the cock, hen, goose, and duck, safe and sound, and began to make a great noise. The bug heard it and came out of her hole, and after they had rejoiced together, they separated and each returned home and thought no more of going to Rome to the Pope.] * * * * * There is a version from the Marches (Gianandrea, p. 21), called, "The Marriage of Thirteen." The animals are the same as in the last story. On their journey they meet the wolf, who accompanies them, although his name is not in the letter. After a time the wolf becomes hungry, and exclaims: "I am hungry." The cock answers: "I have nothing to give you." "Very well; then I will eat you;" and he swallows him whole. And so he devours one after the other, until the bird only remains. The bird flies from tree to tree and bush to bush, and around the wolf's head, until he drives him wild with anger. At last along comes a woman with a basket on her head, carrying food to the reapers. The bird says to the wolf that if he will spare his life he will get him something to eat from the basket. The wolf promises, and the bird alights near the woman, who tries to catch him; the bird flies on a little way, and the woman puts down her basket and runs after him. Meanwhile the wolf draws near the basket and begins eating its contents. When the woman sees that, she cries: "Help!" and the reapers run up with sticks and scythes, and kill the wolf, and the animals that he had devoured all came out of his stomach, safe and sound.[21] There are two Sicilian versions of the story of "The Cock." One (Pitrè, No. 279), "The Wolf and the Finch," opens like the Venetian. The animals are: Cock, king; Hen, queen; Viper, chambermaid; Wolf, Pope; and Finch, keeper of the castle. The wolf then proceeds to confess the others, and eats them in turn until he comes to the finch, which plays a joke on him and flies away. The conclusion of the story is disfigured, nothing being said of the wolf's punishment or the recovery of the other animals. The other Sicilian version is in Gonzenbach (No. 66). We give it, however, for completeness and because it recalls a familiar story in Grimm.[22] It is entitled: LXXXVIII. THE COCK THAT WISHED TO BECOME POPE. It occurred once to the cock to go to Rome and have himself elected Pope. So he started out, and on the way found a letter, which he took with him. The hen met him, and asked: "Mr. Cock, where are you going?" "I am going to Rome, to be Pope." "Will you take me with you?" she asked. "First I must look in my letter," said the cock, and looked at his letter. "Come along; if I become Pope, you can be the Popess." So Mr. Cock and Mrs. Hen continued their journey and met a cat, who said: "Mr. Cock and Mrs. Hen, where are you going?" "We are going to Rome, and wish to be Pope and Popess." "Will you take me with you?" "Wait until I look in my letter," said the cock, and glanced at it. "Very well; come along; you can be our lady's-maid." After a while they met a weasel, who asked: "Where are you going, Mr. Cock, Mrs. Hen, and Mrs. Cat?" "We are going to Rome, where I intend to become Pope," answered the cock. "Will you take me with you?" "Wait until I look in my letter," said he. When the cock looked in his letter, he said: "Very well; come along." So the three animals continued their journey together towards Rome. At night-fall they came to a little house where lived an old witch, who had just gone out. So each animal chose a place to suit him. The weasel sat himself in the cupboard, the cat on the hearth in the warm ashes, and the cock and the hen flew up on the beam over the door. When the old witch came home she wanted to get a light out of the cupboard, and the weasel struck her in the face with his tail. Then she wanted to light the candle, and went to the hearth. She took the bright eyes of the cat for live coals and tried to light the match by them, and hit the cat in the eyes. The cat jumped in her face and scratched her frightfully. When the cock heard all the noise he began to crow loudly. Then the witch saw that they were no ghosts, but harmless domestic animals, and took a stick and drove all four out of the house. The cat and the weasel had no longer any desire to prolong their journey; but the cock and hen continued their way. When they reached Rome they entered an open church, and the cock said to the sexton: "Have all the bells rung, for now I will be Pope." "Good!" answered the sexton; "that may be, but just come in here." Then he led the cock and the hen into the sacristry, shut the door, and caught them both. After he had caught them he twisted their necks and put them in the pot. Then he invited his friends, and they ate with great glee Mr. Cock and Mrs. Hen. CHAPTER VI. STORIES AND JESTS. Until the Reformation, Europe was, by its religion and the culture growing out of it, a homogeneous state. Not only, however, did the legends of the Church find access to the people everywhere, but the stories imported from the Orient were equally popular and wide-spread. The absence of other works of entertainment and the monotonous character of the legends increased the popularity of tales which were amusing and interesting. We have considered in other places the fairy tales and those stories which are of more direct Oriental origin. In the present chapter we shall examine those stories which are of the character of jests or amusing stories, some of which are also Oriental, but may more appropriately be classed in this chapter. The first story we shall mention is familiar to the reader from the ballad of "King John and the Abbot of Canterbury," in Percy and Bürger's poem of _Der Kaiser und der Abt_. There are two popular versions in Italian, as well as several literary ones. The shortest is from Milan (Imbriani, _Nov. fior._ p. 621), and is entitled: XCI. THE COOK. There was once a lord whose name was "Abbot-who-eats-and-drinks-without-thinking." The king went there and saw this name on the door, and said that if he had nothing to think of, he would give him something to think of. He told him that he must do in a week the three things which he told him. First, to tell him how many stars there were in heaven, how many fathoms of rope it would take to reach to heaven, and what he, the king, was thinking of. The cook saw that his master was sad, and sat with his head bent over the table, and asked him what was the matter, and his master told him everything. The cook promised to settle the matter if he would give him half of his property. He also asked for the skin of a dead ass, a cart-load of rope, and his master's hat and cloak. Then the cook went to the king, who said to him: "Well, how many stars are there in heaven?" The cook answered: "Whoever counts the hairs on this ass' skin will know how many stars there are in heaven." Then the king told him to count them, and he answered that his share was already counted, and that it was for the king to count now. Then the king asked him how many fathoms of rope it would take to reach to heaven, and the cook replied: "Take this rope and go to heaven, and then come back and count how many fathoms there are." Finally the king asked: "What am I thinking of?" "You are thinking that I am the abbot; instead of that, I am the cook, and I have here the stew-pan to try the broth." * * * * * The version in Pitrè (No. 97) is much better. It is called: XCII. THE THOUGHTLESS ABBOT. There was once in a city a priest who became an abbot, and who had his carriages, horses, grooms, steward, secretary, valet, and many other persons on account of the wealth that he had. This abbot thought only of eating, drinking, and sleeping. All the priests and laymen were jealous of him, and called him the "Thoughtless Abbot." One day the king happened to pass that way, and stopped, and all the abbot's enemies went to him straightway, and accused the abbot, saying: "Your Majesty, in this town there is a person happier than you, very rich, and lacking nothing in the world, and he is called the 'Thoughtless Abbot.'" After reflection the king said to the accusers: "Gentlemen, depart in peace, for I will soon make this abbot think." The king sent directly for the abbot, who had his carriage made ready, and went to the king in his coach and four. The king received him kindly, made him sit at his side, and talked about various things with him. Finally he asked him why they called him the "Thoughtless Abbot," and he replied that it was because he was free from care, and that his servants attended to his interests. Then the king said: "Well, then, Sir Abbot, since you have nothing to do, do me the favor to count all the stars in the sky, and this within three days and three nights; otherwise you will surely be beheaded." The poor "Thoughtless Abbot" on hearing these words began to tremble like a leaf, and taking leave of the king, returned home, in mortal fear for his neck. When meal-time came, he could not eat on account of his great anxiety, and went at once out on the terrace to look at the sky, but the poor man could not see a single star. When it grew dark, and the stars came out, the poor abbot began to count them and write it down. But it grew dark and light again, without the abbot succeeding in his task. The cook, the steward, the secretaries, the grooms, the coachmen, and all the persons in the house became thoughtful when they saw that their master did not eat or drink, and always watched the sky. Not knowing what else to think, they believed that he had gone mad. To make the matter short, the three days passed without the abbot counting the stars, and the poor man did not know how to present himself to the king, for he was sure he would behead him. Finally, the last day, an old and trusty servant begged him so long, that he told him the whole matter, and said: "I have not been able to count the stars, and the king will cut my head off this morning." When the servant had heard all, he said: "Do not fear, leave it to me; I will settle everything." He went and bought a large ox-hide, stretched it on the ground, and cut off a piece of the tail, half an ear, and a small piece out of the side, and then said to the abbot: "Now let us go to the king; and when he asks your excellency how many stars there are in heaven, your excellency will call me; I will stretch the hide on the ground, and your excellency will say: 'The stars in heaven are as many as the hairs on this hide; and as there are more hairs than stars, I have been obliged to cut off part of the hide.'" After the abbot had heard him, he felt relieved, ordered his carriage, and took his servant to the king. When the king saw the abbot, he saluted him, and then said: "Have you fulfilled my command?" "Yes, your Majesty," answered the abbot, "the stars are all counted." "Then tell me how many they are." The abbot called his servant, who brought the hide, and spread it on the ground, while the king, not knowing how the matter was going to end, continued his questioning. When the servant had stretched out the hide, the abbot said to the king: "Your Majesty, during these three days I have gone mad counting the stars, and they are all counted." "In short, how many are they?" "Your Majesty, the stars are as many as the hairs of this hide, and those that were in excess, I have had to cut off, and they are so many hundreds of millions; and if you don't believe me, have them counted, for I have brought you the proof." Then the king remained with his mouth open, and had nothing to answer; he only said: "Go and live as long as Noah, without thoughts, for your mind is enough for you;" and so speaking, he dismissed him, thanking him, and remaining henceforth his best friend. The abbot returned home with his servant, delighted and rejoicing. He thanked his servant, made him his steward and intimate friend, and gave him more than an ounce of money a day to live on.[1] * * * * * In another Sicilian version referred to by Pitrè, vol. IV., p. 437, the Pope, instead of the king, wishes to know from the abbot: "What is the distance from heaven to earth; what God is doing in heaven; what the Pope is thinking of." The cook, disguised as the abbot, answers: "As long as this ball of thread. Rewarding the good, and punishing the wicked. He thinks he is speaking with the abbot, and on the contrary, is talking to the cook." The following story from Venice (Bernoni, _Fiabe_, No. 6) is a combination of the two stories in Grimm, "Clever Alice" and the "Clever People." It is called: XCIII. BASTIANELO. Once upon a time there was a husband and wife who had a son. This son grew up, and said one day to his mother: "Do you know, mother, I would like to marry!" "Very well, marry! whom do you want to take?" He answered: "I want the gardener's daughter." "She is a good girl; take her; I am willing." So he went, and asked for the girl, and her parents gave her to him. They were married, and when they were in the midst of the dinner, the wine gave out. The husband said: "There is no more wine!" The bride, to show that she was a good housekeeper, said: "I will go and get some." She took the bottles and went to the cellar, turned the cock, and began to think: "Suppose I should have a son, and we should call him Bastianelo, and he should die. Oh! how grieved I should be! oh! how grieved I should be!" And thereupon she began to weep and weep; and meanwhile the wine was running all over the cellar. When they saw that the bride did not return, the mother said: "I will go and see what the matter is." So she went into the cellar, and saw the bride, with the bottle in her hand, and weeping, while the wine was running over the cellar. "What is the matter with you, that you are weeping?" "Ah! my mother, I was thinking that if I had a son, and should name him Bastianelo, and he should die, oh! how I should grieve! oh! how I should grieve!" The mother, too, began to weep, and weep, and weep; and meanwhile the wine was running over the cellar. When the people at the table saw that no one brought the wine, the groom's father said: "I will go and see what is the matter. Certainly something wrong has happened to the bride." He went and saw the whole cellar full of wine, and the mother and bride weeping. "What is the matter?" he said; "has anything wrong happened to you?" "No," said the bride, "but I was thinking that if I had a son and should call him Bastianelo, and he should die, oh! how I should grieve! oh! how I should grieve!" Then he, too, began to weep, and all three wept; and meanwhile the wine was running over the cellar. When the groom saw that neither the bride, nor the mother, nor the father came back, he said: "Now I will go and see what the matter is that no one returns." He went into the cellar and saw all the wine running over the cellar. He hastened and stopped the cask, and then asked: "What is the matter, that you are all weeping, and have let the wine run all over the cellar?" Then the bride said: "I was thinking that if I had a son and called him Bastianelo and he should die, oh! how I should grieve! oh! how I should grieve!" Then the groom said: "You stupid fools! are you weeping at this, and letting all the wine run into the cellar? Have you nothing else to think of? It shall never be said that I remained with you! I will roam about the world, and until I find three fools greater than you I will not return home." He had a bread-cake made, took a bottle of wine, a sausage, and some linen, and made a bundle, which he put on a stick and carried over his shoulder. He journeyed and journeyed, but found no fool. At last he said, worn out: "I must turn back, for I see I cannot find a greater fool than my wife." He did not know what to do, whether to go on or to turn back. "Oh!" he said, "it is better to try and go a little farther." So he went on and shortly he saw a man in his shirt-sleeves at a well, all wet with perspiration and water. "What are you doing, sir, that you are so covered with water and in such a sweat?" "Oh! let me alone," the man answered, "for I have been here a long time drawing water to fill this pail and I cannot fill it." "What are you drawing the water in?" he asked him. "In this sieve," he said. "What are you thinking about, to draw water in that sieve? Just wait!" He went to a house near by, and borrowed a bucket, with which he returned to the well and filled the pail. "Thank you, good man, God knows how long I should have had to remain here!" "Here is one who is a greater fool than my wife." He continued his journey and after a time he saw at a distance a man in his shirt who was jumping down from a tree. He drew near, and saw a woman under the same tree holding a pair of breeches. He asked them what they were doing, and they said that they had been there a long time, and that the man was trying on those breeches and did not know how to get into them. "I have jumped, and jumped," said the man, "until I am tired out and I cannot imagine how to get into those breeches." "Oh!" said the traveller, "you might stay here as long as you wished, for you would never get into them in this way. Come down and lean against the tree." Then he took his legs and put them in the breeches, and after he had put them on, he said: "Is that right?" "Very good, bless you; for if it had not been for you, God knows how long I should have had to jump." Then the traveller said to himself: "I have seen two greater fools than my wife." Then he went his way and as he approached a city he heard a great noise. When he drew near he asked what it was, and was told it was a marriage, and that it was the custom in that city for the brides to enter the city gate on horseback, and that there was a great discussion on this occasion between the groom and the owner of the horse, for the bride was tall and the horse high, and they could not get through the gate; so that they must either cut off the bride's head or the horse's legs. The groom did not wish his bride's head cut off, and the owner of the horse did not wish his horse's legs cut off, and hence this disturbance. Then the traveller said: "Just wait," and came up to the bride and gave her a slap that made her lower her head, and then he gave the horse a kick, and so they passed through the gate and entered the city. The groom and the owner of the horse asked the traveller what he wanted, for he had saved the groom his bride, and the owner of the horse his horse. He answered that he did not wish anything and said to himself: "Two and one make three! that is enough; now I will go home." He did so and said to his wife: "Here I am, my wife; I have seen three greater fools then you; now let us remain in peace and think about nothing else." They renewed the wedding and always remained in peace. After a time the wife had a son whom they named Bastianelo, and Bastianelo did not die, but still lives with his father and mother.[2] * * * * * There is a Sicilian version of this story (Pitrè, No. 148) called, "The Peasant of Larcàra," in which the bride's mother imagines that her daughter has a son who falls into the cistern. The groom (they are not yet married) is disgusted and sets out on his travels with no fixed purpose of returning if he finds some fools greater than his mother-in-law, as in the Venetian tale. The first fool he meets is a mother, whose child, in playing the game called _nocciole_,[R] tries to get his hand out of the hole while his fist is full of stones. He cannot, of course, and the mother thinks they will have to cut off his hand. The traveller tells the child to drop the stones, and then he draws out his hand easily enough. Next he finds a bride who cannot enter the church because she is very tall and wears a high comb. The difficulty is settled as in the former story. [Footnote R: A game played with peach-pits, which are thrown into holes made in the ground and to which certain numbers are attached.] After a while he comes to a woman who is spinning and drops her spindle. She calls out to the pig, whose name is Tony, to pick it up for her. The pig does nothing but grunt, and the woman in anger cries: "Well, you won't pick it up? May your mother die!" The traveller, who had overheard all this, takes a piece of paper, which he folds up like a letter, and then knocks at the door. "Who is there?" "Open the door, for I have a letter for you from Tony's mother, who is ill and wishes to see her son before she dies." The woman wonders that her imprecation has taken effect so soon, and readily consents to Tony's visit. Not only this, but she loads a mule with everything necessary for the comfort of the body and soul of the dying pig. The traveller leads away the mule with Tony, and returns home so pleased with having found that the outside world contains so many fools that he marries as he had first intended. The credulity of the woman in the last version, in allowing Tony to visit his sick mother, finds a parallel in a Neapolitan story (Imbriani, _Pomiglianesi_, p. 226) called: XCIV. CHRISTMAS. Once upon a time there was a husband who had a wife who was a little foolish. One day he said to her: "Come, put the house in order, for Christmas is coming." As soon as he left the house his wife went out on the balcony and asked every one who passed if his name was Christmas. All said No; but finally, one--to see why she asked--said Yes. Then she made him come in, and gave him everything that she had (in order to clean out the house). When her husband returned he asked her what she had done with things. She responded that she had given them to Christmas, as he had ordered. Her husband was so enraged at what he heard that he seized her and gave her a good beating. Another time she asked her husband when he was going to kill the pig. He answered: "At Christmas." The wife did as before, and when she spied the man called Christmas she called him and gave him the pig, which she had adorned with her earrings and necklace, saying that her husband had so commanded her. When her husband returned and learned what she had done, he gave her a sound thrashing; and from that time he learned to say nothing more to his wife.[3] In the Sicilian version, Pitrè, No. 186, "Long May,"[S] the wife, who is very anxious to make more room in her house by getting rid of the grain stored in it, asks her husband when they shall clean out the house. He answers: "When Long May comes." The wife asks the passers-by if they are Long May; and at last a swindler says he is, and receives as a gift all the grain. The swindler was a potter, and the woman told him that he ought to give her a load of pots. He did so, and the wife knocked a hole in the bottom of each, and strung them on a rope stretched across the room. It is needless to say that when the husband returned the wife received a beating "that left her more dead than alive." [Footnote S: There is a Sicilian phrase: "Long as the month of May," to indicate what is very long.] Another story about foolish people is the following Venetian tale (Bernoni, _Fiabe_, xiii.), entitled: XCV. THE WAGER. There was once a husband and a wife. The former said one day to the latter: "Let us have some fritters." She replied: "What shall we do for a frying-pan?" "Go and borrow one from my godmother." "You go and get it; it is only a little way off." "Go yourself; I will take it back when we are done with it." So she went and borrowed the pan, and when she returned said to her husband: "Here is the pan, but you must carry it back." So they cooked the fritters, and after they had eaten, the husband said: "Now let us go to work, both of us, and the one who speaks first shall carry back the pan." Then she began to spin and he to draw his thread,--for he was a shoemaker,--and all the time keeping silence, except that when he drew his thread he said: "_Leulerò, leulerò_;" and she, spinning, answered: "_Picicì, picicì, piciciò_." And they said not another word. Now there happened to pass that way a soldier with a horse, and he asked a woman if there was any shoemaker in that street. She said that there was one near by, and took him to the house. The soldier asked the shoemaker to come and cut his horse a girth, and he would pay him. The latter made no answer but: "_Leulerò, leulerò_," and his wife: "_Picicì, picicì, piciciò_." Then the soldier said: "Come and cut my horse a girth, or I will cut your head off!" The shoemaker only answered: "_Leulerò, leulerò_," and his wife: "_Picicì, picicì, piciciò_." Then the soldier began to grow angry, and seized his sword and said to the shoemaker: "Either come and cut my horse a girth, or I will cut your head off!" But to no purpose. The shoemaker did not wish to be the first one to speak, and only replied: "_Leulerò, leulerò_," and his wife: "_Picicì, picicì, piciciò_." Then the soldier got mad in good earnest, seized the shoemaker's head, and was going to cut it off. When his wife saw that, she cried out: "Ah! don't, for mercy's sake!" "Good!" exclaimed her husband, "good! Now you go and carry the pan back to my godmother, and I will go and cut the horse's girth." And so he did, and won the wager. * * * * * In a Sicilian story with the same title (Pitrè, No. 181), the husband and wife fry some fish, and then set about their respective work,--shoemaking and spinning,--and the one who finishes first the piece of work begun is to eat the fish. While they were singing and whistling at their work, a friend comes along, who knocks at the door, but receives no answer. Then he enters and speaks to them, but still no reply; finally, in anger, he sits down at the table and eats up all the fish himself.[4] One of our most popular stories illustrating woman's obstinacy is found everywhere in Italy. The following is the Sicilian version: XCVI. SCISSORS THEY WERE. Once upon a time there was a husband and a wife. The husband was a tailor; so was the wife, and in addition was a good housekeeper. One day the husband found some things in the kitchen broken,--pots, glasses, plates. He asked: "How were they broken?" "How do I know?" answered the wife. "What do you mean by saying 'how do I know?' Who broke them?" "Who broke them? I, with the scissors," said the wife, in anger. "With the scissors?" "With the scissors!" "Are you telling the truth? I want to know what you broke them with. If you don't tell me, I will beat you." "With the scissors!" (for she had the scissors in her hand). "Scissors, do you say?" "Scissors they were!" "Ah! what do you mean? Wait a bit; I will make you see whether it was you with the scissors." So he tied a rope around her and began to lower her into the well, saying: "Come, how did you break them? You see I am lowering you into the well." "It was the scissors!" The husband, seeing her so obstinate, lowered her into the well; and she, for all that, did not hold her tongue. "How did you break them?" said the husband. "It was the scissors." Then her husband lowered her more, until she was half way down. "What did you do it with?" "It was the scissors." Then he lowered her until her feet touched the water. "What did you do it with?" "It was the scissors!" Then he let her down into the water to her waist. "What did you do it with?" "It was the scissors!" "Take care!" cried her husband, enraged at seeing her so obstinate, "it will take but little to put you under the water. You had better tell what you did it with; it will be better for you. How is it possible to break pots and dishes with the scissors! What has become of the pieces, if they were cut?" "It was the scissors! the scissors!" Then he let go the rope. Splash! his wife is all under the water. "Are you satisfied now? Do you say any longer that it was with the scissors?" The wife could not speak any more, for she was under the water; but what did she do? She stuck her hand up out of the water, and with her fingers began to make signs as if she were cutting with the scissors. What could the poor husband do? He said: "I am losing my wife, and then I shall have to go after her. I will pull her out now, and she may say that it was the scissors or the shears." Then he pulled her out, and there was no way of making her tell with what she had broken all those things in the kitchen.[5] * * * * * Another familiar story is: XCVII. THE DOCTOR'S APPRENTICE. Once upon a time there was a doctor who took his apprentice with him when he made his visits. One day while visiting a patient, the doctor said: "Why do you not listen to my orders that you are not to eat anything?" The invalid said: "Sir, I assure you that I have eaten nothing." "That is not true," answered the doctor, "for I have found your pulse beating like that of a person who has eaten grapes." The patient, convicted, said: "It is true that I have eaten some grapes; but it was only a little bunch." "Very well; do not risk eating again, and don't think you can fool me." The poor apprentice, who was with the doctor, was amazed to see how his master guessed from the pulse that his patient had eaten grapes; and as soon as they had left the house he asked: "Master, how did you perceive that he had eaten grapes?" "Listen," said the doctor. "A person who visits the sick must never pass for a fool. As soon as you enter, cast your eyes on the bed and under the bed, too, and from the crumbs that you see you can guess what the patient has eaten. I saw the stalk of the grapes, and from that I inferred that he had eaten grapes." The next day there were many patients in the town, and the doctor, not being able to visit them all, sent his apprentice to visit a few. Among others, the apprentice went to see the man who had eaten the grapes; and wishing to play the part of an expert like his master, to show that he was a skilful physician, when he perceived that there were bits of straw under the bed, said angrily: "Will you not understand that you must not eat?" The invalid said: "I assure you that I have not even tasted a drop of water." "Yes, sir, you have," answered the apprentice; "you have been eating straw, for I see the bits under the bed." The sick man replied at once: "Do you take me for an ass like yourself?" And so the apprentice cut the figure of the fool that he was.[6] * * * * * There are two figures in Sicilian folk-lore around whom many jokes have gathered which are, in other parts of Italy, told of some nameless person or attributed to the continental counterparts of the insular heroes. These two are Firrazzanu and Giufà. The former is the practical joker; the second, the typical booby found in the popular literature of all peoples. The following stories of Firrazzanu (unless otherwise indicated) are from Pitrè, No. 156. XCVIII. FIRRAZZANU'S WIFE AND THE QUEEN. Firrazzanu was the valet of a prince in Palermo, on whom he also played his tricks; but as Firrazzanu was known and everybody was amused by him, the prince overlooked them. The queen was once in Palermo, and wished to know Firrazzanu. He went to see her, and amused her somewhat. The queen said: "Are you married, or single?" "Married, your Majesty." "I wish to make your wife's acquaintance." "How can that be, your Majesty, for my wife is deaf?" (Firrazzanu made this up out of his own head, for it was not true.) "No matter; when I speak with her I will scream. Go, have your wife come here." Firrazzanu went home. "Fanny, the queen wants to know you; but you must remember that she is a little hard of hearing, and if you wish to speak to her, you must raise your voice." "Very well," said his wife, "let us go." When they arrived at the palace she said to the queen, in a loud voice: "At your Majesty's feet!" The queen said to herself: "You see, because she is deaf, she screams as if everybody else were deaf!" Then she said to her, loudly: "Good day, my friend; how do you do?" "Very well, your Majesty!" answered Firrazzanu's wife, still louder. The queen, to make herself heard, raised her voice and screamed, also, and Fanny, for her part, cried out louder and louder, so that it seemed as if they were quarrelling. Firrazzanu could contain himself no longer, and began to laugh, so that the queen perceived the joke; and if Firrazzanu had not run away, perhaps she would have had him arrested, and who knows how the matter had ended?[7] * * * * * The second story, "The Tailor who twisted his Mouth," has already been mentioned in Chapter III. On one occasion (No. 7) the viceroy gave a feast, and needed some partridges. Now the word _pirnicana_ means both partridge and humpback; so Firrazzanu said he would get the viceroy as many _pirnicani_ as he wanted, although they were very scarce. The viceroy said twenty would do. Firrazzanu then collected a score of humpbacks and introduced them into the viceroy's kitchen, sending word to the viceroy that the _pirnicani_ were ready. His excellency wished to see them, and Firrazzanu led his troop to his apartment. When they were all in, Firrazzanu said: "Here they are." The viceroy looked around and said: "Where?" "Here. You wanted _pirnicani_, and these are _pirnicani_." The viceroy laughed, gave each of the humpbacks a present, and dismissed them.[8] Another time, while the prince was at dinner, Firrazzanu led a number of asses under his window, and made them bray so that the poor prince was driven almost to distraction. The author of the joke, as usual, took to his heels, and escaped. Once a very wealthy prince, having a great number of rents to collect, and not succeeding, thought of making Firrazzanu collector. "Here," said he to him, "take my authority, and collect for me, and I will give you twenty per cent." Firrazzanu went into the places where the rents were to be collected, and called together all the debtors. What do you suppose he did? He made them pay his share, that is, twenty per cent., and nothing more. "The rest," he said, "you can pay another year to the prince; now you may depart." Then he went back to the prince. "What have you done, Firrazzanu? Have you collected all the rents?" "What are you talking about collecting! I had hard work to collect my share." "What do you mean?" "I collected with difficulty the twenty per cent. that belonged to me; your share will be paid next year." The prince was obliged to laugh at last, and Firrazzanu went away happy and satisfied.[9] Another time the prince went hunting, and ordered Firrazzanu, when it was convenient, to tell the princess that he should not be home to dinner that day. Firrazzanu did not find it convenient to deliver the message for a week, when he said that the prince would not be home to dine that day. On the first occasion, of course, the princess waited for her husband in great anxiety until midnight; on the second she went out to pay visits, and when the prince returned, he found his wife out, and no dinner prepared. Firrazzanu, when scolded, excused himself by saying that the prince told him to deliver the message when convenient. This recalls the story in Straparola (XIII. 6) where a master orders his lazy servant to go to market and buy some meat, and says to him, sarcastically: "Go and stay a year!" which command the servant obeys to the letter. The viceroy at last, angry at one of Firrazzanu's jokes, banished him to the town of Murriali. When Firrazzanu grew tired of the place, he had a cart filled with the earth of the town, and rode into Palermo on it. The viceroy had him arrested as soon as he saw him, but Firrazzanu protested that he had not broken the viceroy's command, for he was still on the earth of Murriali. The same story is told of Gonnella, the Italian counterpart of Firrazzanu, by Sacchetti (Nov. 27), and Bandello (IV. 18). The prince desired once to give Firrazzanu a lesson that would correct him of his fondness for jokes; so he told the commandant of the castle that he would send him one day a servant of his with a letter, and that he, the commandant, should carry out the orders contained in it. A week after, the prince called Firrazzanu and said: "Go to the commandant of the castle and ask him to give you what this letter says." Firrazzanu went, turning over the letter and in doubt about the matter. Just then he met another servant and said to him: "Carry this letter for me to the commandant of the castle, and tell him to give you what he has to give you. When you return, we will have a good drink of wine." The servant went and delivered the letter to the commandant, who opened it, and read: "The commandant will give my servant, who is a rascal, a hundred lashes, and then send him back to me." The order was carried out, and the poor servant returned to the palace more dead than alive. When Firrazzanu saw him, he burst out laughing, and said: "My brother, for me and for you, better you than me." This story is told in Gonzenbach (No. 75) as the way in which the queen tried to punish Firrazzanu for the joke he played on her by telling her his wife was deaf. There are other stories told of Firrazzanu, but they do not deserve a place here, and we can direct our attention at once to Giufà, the typical booby, who appears in the various provinces of Italy under different names.[10] The first story told of him in Pitrè's collection (No. 190) is: XCIX. GIUFÀ AND THE PLASTER STATUE. Once upon a time there was a very poor woman who had a son called Giufà, who was stupid, lazy, and cunning. His mother had a piece of cloth, and said one day to Giufà: "Take this cloth, and go and sell it in a distant town, and take care to sell it to those who talk little." So Giufà set out, with the cloth on his shoulder. When he came to a town, he began to cry: "Who wants cloth?" The people called him, and began to talk a great deal; one thought it coarse, another dear. Giufà thought they talked too much, and would not sell it to them. After walking a long way, he entered a court-yard where he found nothing but a plaster image. Giufà said to it: "Do you want to buy the cloth?" The statue said not a word, and Giufà, seeing that it spoke little, said: "Now I must sell you the cloth, for you speak little;" and he took the cloth and hung it on the statue, and went away, saying: "To-morrow I will come for the money." The next day he went after the money, and found the cloth gone. "Give me the money for the cloth." The statue said nothing. "Since you will not give me the money, I will show you who I am;" and he borrowed a mattock, and struck the statue until he overthrew it, and inside of it he found a jar of money. He put the money in a bag, and went home to his mother, and told her that he had sold the cloth to a person who did not speak, and gave him no money; that he had killed him with a mattock, and thrown him down, and he had given him the money which he had brought home. His mother, who was wise, said to him: "Say nothing about it, and we will eat this money up little by little."[11] Another time his mother said to him: "Giufà, I have this piece of cloth to be dyed; take it and leave it with the dyer, the one who dyes green and black." Giufà put it on his shoulder, and went off. On his way he saw a large, beautiful snake, and because it was green he said to it: "My mother has sent me with this cloth which she wants dyed. To-morrow I will come for it." And there he left it. He went home and told his mother, who began to tear her hair. "Ah! shameless fellow! how you ruin me! Hasten and see whether it is there still!" Giufà went back, but the cloth had disappeared.[12] C. GIUFÀ AND THE JUDGE. One day Giufà went out to gather herbs, and it was night before he returned. On his way back the moon rose through the clouds, and Giufà sat down on a stone and watched the moon appear and disappear behind the clouds, and he exclaimed constantly: "It appears, it appears! it sets, it sets!" Now there were near the way some thieves, who were skinning a calf which they had stolen, and when they heard: "It appears, it sets!" they feared that the officers of justice were coming, so they ran away and left the meat. When Giufà saw the thieves running away, he went to see what it was and found the calf skinned. He took his knife and cut off flesh enough to fill his sack and went home. When he arrived there his mother asked him why he came so late. He said it was because he was bringing some meat which she was to sell the next day, and the money was to be kept for him. The next day his mother sent him into the country and sold the meat. In the evening Giufà returned and asked his mother: "Did you sell the meat?" "Yes, I sold it to the flies on credit." "When will they give you the money?" "When they get it." A week passed and the flies brought no money, so Giufà went to the judge and said to him: "Sir, I want justice. I sold the flies meat on credit and they have not come to pay me." The judge said: "I pronounce this sentence on them: wherever you see them you may kill them." Just then a fly lighted on the judge's nose, and Giufà dealt it such a blow that he broke the judge's head. * * * * * The anecdote of the fly in the latter part of the story is found independently in a version from Palermo. "The flies plagued Giufà and stung him. He went to the judge and complained of them. The judge laughed and said: 'Wherever you see a fly you can strike it.' While the judge was speaking a fly rested on his face and Giufà dealt it such a blow that he broke the judge's nose." This story, which, as we shall see, has variants in different parts of Italy, is of Oriental origin and is found in the _Pantschatantra_. A king asked his pet monkey to watch over him while he slept. A bee settled on the king's head; the monkey could not drive it away, so he took the king's sword and killed the bee--and the king, too. A similar parable is put into the mouth of Buddha. A bald carpenter was attacked by a mosquito. He called his son to drive it away; the son took the axe, aimed a blow at the insect, but split his father's head in two, in killing the mosquito. In the _Anvar-i-Suhaili_, the Persian translation of the _Pantschatantra_, it is a tame bear who keeps the flies from the sleeping gardener by throwing a stone at his head.[13] The only popular European versions of this story, as far as we know, are found in Italy. Besides those from Sicily, there are versions from Florence, Leghorn, and Venice. The first is called: CI. THE LITTLE OMELET. Once upon a time there was a little woman who had a little room and a little hen. The hen laid an egg and the little woman took it and made a little omelet of it, and put it to cool in the window. Along came a fly and ate it up. Imagine what an omelet that must have been! The little woman went to the magistrate and told him her story. He gave her a club and told her to kill the fly with it wherever she saw it. At that moment a fly lighted on the magistrate's nose, and the woman, believing it to be the same fly, gave it a blow and broke the magistrate's nose. The versions from Leghorn and Venice are in almost the same words.[14] The literary versions are quite abundant, four or five being found in Italy, and a number in France, the best known of which is La Fontaine's fable of "The Bear and the Amateur Gardener," Book VIII. 10.[15] One morning, before Giufà was up, he heard a whistle and asked his mother who was passing. She answered that it was the morning-singer. One day Giufà, tired of the noise, went out and killed the man who was blowing the whistle, and came back and told his mother that he had killed the morning-singer. His mother went out and brought the body into the house and threw it into the well, which happened to be dry. Then she remembered that she had a lamb, which she killed and also threw in the well. Meanwhile the family of the murdered man had learned of the murder and had gone to the judge, with their complaint, and all together went to Giufà's house to investigate the matter. The judge said to Giufà: "Where did you put the body?" Giufà, who was silly, replied: "I threw it in the well." Then they tied Giufà to a rope and lowered him into the well. When he reached the bottom he began to feel around and touched wool, and cried out to the son of the murdered man: "Did your father have wool?" "My father did not have wool." "This one has wool; he is not your father." Then he touched the tail: "Did your father have a tail?" "My father did not have a tail." "Then it's not your father." Then he felt four feet and asked: "How many feet did your father have?" "My father had two feet." Giufà said: "This one has four feet; he is not your father." Then he felt the head and said: "Did your father have horns?" "My father did not have horns." Giufà replied: "This one has horns; he is not your father." Then the judge said: "Giufà, bring him up either with the horns or with the wool." So they drew up Giufà with the lamb on his shoulder, and when the judge saw that it was a real lamb, they set Giufà at liberty. In a variant of the above story Giufà's mother, to get rid of him, one day tells him to take his gun and go off and shoot a cardinal-bird. Giufà asks what a cardinal is, and his mother tells him that it is one that has a red head. Giufà, of course, shoots a cardinal and carries him home. The remainder of the story is as above. In another variant Giufà's mother has a cock which she cooks one day, and Giufà, who had never eaten anything of the kind before, likes it greatly and asks what it is. His mother tells him it is the night-singer. One evening Giufà saw a poor man singing behind a door, and thinking he was a night-singer, killed him and carried him home. The rest of the story is like the first version.[16] Giufà is not without an occasional gleam of wit, as is shown in the following story (Pitrè No. 190, § 8), entitled: CII. EAT, MY CLOTHES! As Giufà was half a simpleton no one showed him any kindness, such as to invite him to his house or give him anything to eat. Once Giufà went to a farm-house for something, and the farmers, when they saw him looking so ragged and poor, came near setting the dogs on him, and made him leave in a hurry. When his mother heard it she procured for him a fine coat, a pair of breeches, and a velvet vest. Giufà dressed up like an overseer, went to the same farm-house, and then you should see what great ceremonies they made! they invited him to dine with them. While at the table all were very attentive to him. Giufà, on the one hand, filled his stomach, and on the other, put into his pockets, coat, and hat whatever was left over, saying: "Eat, my clothes, for you were invited!" * * * * * It is interesting to note that this story is told of no less a person than Dante, about whom cluster more popular traditions than many are aware of. It is the subject of one of Sercambi's novels, and will be found with many other interesting traditions of the great poet in Papanti's _Dante secondo la Tradizione e i Novellatori_, Leghorn, 1873.[17] Giufà was not a very safe person to leave alone in the house. Once his mother went to church and told him to make some porridge for his little sister. Giufà made a great kettle of boiling porridge and fed it to the poor child and burned her mouth so that she died. On another occasion his mother, on leaving home, told him to feed the hen that was sitting and put her back on the nest, so that the eggs should not get cold. Giufà stuffed the hen with the food until he killed her, and then sat on the eggs himself until his mother returned.[18] Giufà's mother went to mass once and said to him: "Pull the door to!" When his mother had gone out Giufà took hold of the door and began to pull it, and pulled and pulled until it came off. Giufà put it on his back and carried it to the church, and threw it down before his mother, saying: "There is the door!"[19] A number of other stories about Giufà are found in Gonzenbach (No. 37) which we give here for completeness. CIII. GIUFÀ'S EXPLOITS. After Giufà had scalded his little sister to death, his mother drove him from the house, and he entered the service of a priest. "What wages do you want?" asked the priest. "One egg a day, and as much bread as I can eat with it; and you must keep me in your service until the screech-owl cries in the ivy." The priest was satisfied and thought he could not find such a cheap servant again. The next morning Giufà received his egg and a loaf of bread. He opened the egg and ate it with a pin, and every time he licked off the pin he ate a great piece of bread. "Bring me a little more bread," he cried; "this is not enough;" and the priest had to get him a large basket of bread. So it was every morning. "Alas for me!" cried the priest; "in a few weeks he will reduce me to beggary." It was winter then and would be several months until the screech-owl cried in the ivy. In despair the priest said to his mother: "This evening you must hide in the ivy and scream like an owl." The old woman did as she was told and began to cry: "Miu, miu!" "Do you hear, Giufà?" said the priest, "the screech-owl is crying in the ivy; we must part." So Giufà took his bundle and was going to return to his mother. As he was going by the place where the priest's mother was still crying "Miu, miu," he exclaimed: "O you cursed screech-owl suffer punishment and sorrow!" and threw stones into the ivy and killed the old woman. Giufà's mother would not allow him to remain at home, and made him take service as a swineherd with a farmer, who sent him into the woods to keep the swine until they were fat and then drive them back. So Giufà lived several months in the woods until the swine were fat. As he was driving them home he met a butcher and said to him: "Would you like to buy these swine? I will sell them to you at half price if you will give me back the ears and tails." The butcher bought the whole herd, and paid Giufà the money, together with the ears and tails. Giufà then went to a bog near by and planted two ears close together and three spans off a tail, and so with all of them. Then he ran in great trouble to the farmer and cried: "Sir, imagine what a great misfortune has happened to me. I had fattened your swine beautifully and was driving them home when they fell into a bog and are all swallowed up in it. The ears and tails only are still sticking out." The farmer hastened with all his people to the bog, where the ears and tails still stuck out. They tried to pull the swine out, but whenever they seized an ear or a tail it came right off and Giufà exclaimed: "You see how fat the swine were: they have disappeared in the marsh from pure fatness." The farmer was obliged to return home without his swine, while Giufà took the money home to his mother and remained a time with her. One day his mother said to him: "Giufà, we have nothing to eat to-day; what shall we do?" "Leave it to me," said he, and went to a butcher. "Gossip, give me half a _rotulu_ of meat; I will give you the money to-morrow." The butcher gave him the meat and he went in the same way to the baker, the oil-merchant, the wine-dealer, and the cheese-merchant and took home to his mother the meat, macaroni, bread, oil, wine, and cheese which he had bought on credit, and they ate together merrily. The next day Giufà pretended he was dead and his mother wept and lamented. "My son is dead, my son is dead!" He was put in an open coffin and carried to the church and the priests sang the mass for the dead over him. When, however, every one in the city heard that Giufà was dead, the butcher, the baker, the oil-merchant, and the wine-dealer said: "What we gave him yesterday is as good as lost. Who will pay us for it now?" The cheese-dealer, however, thought: "Giufà, it is true, owes me only four _grani_[T] but I will not give them to him. I will go and take his cap from him." So he crept into the church, but there was still a priest there praying over Giufà's coffin. "As long as the priest is there, it is not fitting for me to take his cap," thought the cheese-merchant, and hid himself behind the altar. When it was night the last priest departed and the cheese-merchant was on the point of coming out from his hiding-place when a band of thieves rushed into the church. They had stolen a large bag of money and were going to divide it in the dark church. They quarrelled over the division and began to cry out and make a noise. Thereupon Giufà sat up in his coffin and exclaimed: "Out with you!" The thieves were greatly frightened when the dead man rose up, and believed he was calling to the other dead, so they ran out in terror, leaving the sack behind. As Giufà was picking up the sack, the cheese-merchant sprang from his hiding-place and claimed his share of the money. Giufà, however, kept crying: "Your share is four _grani_." The thieves outside thought he was dividing the money among the dead and said to each other: "How many he must have called if they receive but four _grani_ apiece!" and ran away as fast as they could run. Giufà took the money home to his mother, after he had given the cheese-merchant a little to say nothing about what had happened. [Footnote T: About a cent and a half.] Giufà's mother once bought a large stock of flax and said to her son: "Giufà, you can surely spin a little so as to be doing something." Giufà took a skein from time to time, and instead of spinning it put it in the fire and burned it. Then his mother became angry and beat him. What did Giufà do then? He took a bundle of twigs and wound it with flax like a distaff; then he took a broom for a spindle and sat himself on the roof and began to spin. While he was sitting there three fairies came by and said: "Just see how nicely Giufà is sitting there and spinning. Shall we not give him something?" The first fairy said: "I will enable him to spin as much flax in a night as he touches." The second said: "I will enable him to weave in a night as much yarn as he has spun." The third said: "I will enable him to bleach all the linen he has woven in one night." Giufà heard this and at night when his mother had gone to bed, he got behind her stock of flax, and as often as he touched a skein it was at once spun. When the flax was all gone he began to weave, and as soon as he touched the loom the linen began to roll from it. Finally he spread the linen out and had scarcely wet it a little when it was bleached. The next morning Giufà showed his mother the fine pieces of linen, and she sold them and earned much money. Giufà continued this for several nights; finally he grew tired and wanted to go out to service again. He found a place with a smith, whose bellows he was to blow. He blew them so hard, however, that he put the fire out. The smith said: "Leave off blowing and hammer the iron on the anvil." But Giufà pounded on the anvil so hard that the iron flew into a thousand pieces. Then the smith became angry, but he could not send him away, for he had agreed to keep him a year. So he went to a poor man and said: "I will make you a handsome present if you will tell Giufà that you are Death, and that you have come to take him away." The poor man met Giufà one day, and said what the smith had told him. Giufà was not slow. "What, are you Death?" cried he, seized the poor man, put him in his sack, and carried him to the smithy. There he laid him on the anvil and began to hammer away on him. "How many years shall I yet live?" he asked, while he was hammering. "Twenty years," cried the man in the sack. "That is not near enough." "Thirty years, forty years, as long as you will," screamed the man; but Giufà kept on hammering until the poor man was dead. The bishop once announced to the whole town that every goldsmith should make him a crucifix, and he would pay four hundred ounces for the most beautiful one. Whoever brought a crucifix that did not please him must lose his head. So a goldsmith came and brought him a handsome crucifix, but the bishop said it did not please him and had the poor man's head cut off, but kept the crucifix. The next day a second goldsmith came, who brought a still handsomer crucifix, but it went no better with him than with the first. This lasted for some time and many a poor man lost his head. When Giufà heard of this he went to a goldsmith and said: "Master, you must make me a crucifix with a very thick body, but otherwise as fine as you can make it." When the crucifix was done Giufà took it on his arm and carried it to the bishop. Scarcely had the bishop seen it when he cried out: "What are you thinking of, to bring me such a monster? Wait, you shall pay me for it!" "Ah, worthy sir," said Giufà, "just hear me and learn what has happened to me. This crucifix was a model of beauty when I started with it; on the way it began to swell with anger and the nearer your house I came the more it swelled, most of all when I was mounting your stairs. The Lord is angry with you on account of the innocent blood that you have shed, and if you do not at once give me the four hundred ounces and an annuity to each of the goldsmiths' widows, you, too, will swell in the same way, and God's wrath will visit you." The bishop was frightened and gave him the four hundred ounces, and bade him send all the widows to him so that he could give each of them a yearly pension. Giufà took the money and went to each widow and said: "What will you give me if I will procure you an annuity from the bishop?" Each gave him a handsome sum and Giufà took home to his mother a great heap of money. One day Giufà's mother sent him to another town, where there was a fair. On the way some children met him, who asked: "Where are you going, Giufà?" "To the fair." "Will you bring me back a whistle?" "Yes!" "And me, too?" "Yes!" "Me, too?" "Me, too?" asked one after the other, and Giufà said "Yes" to all. At last there was a child who said: "Giufà, bring me a whistle, too. Here is a penny." When Giufà came back from the fair, he brought one whistle only and gave it to the last boy. "Giufà, you promised each of us one," cried the other children. "You did not give me a penny to buy it with," answered Giufà.[20] * * * * * The counterpart of Giufà is found in a Venetian story (Bernoni, _Fiabe_, No. 11) entitled "The Fool," which is, in substance, as follows: CIV. THE FOOL. Once upon a time there was a mother who had a son with little brains. One morning she said: "We must get up early, for we have to make bread." So they both rose early and began to make bread. The mother made the loaves, but took no pains to make them the same size. Her son said to her finally: "How small you have made this loaf, mother!" "Oh!" said she, "it does not matter whether they are big or little; for the proverb says: 'Large and small, all must go to mass.'" "Good, good!" When the bread was made, instead of carrying it to the baker's, the son took it to the church, for it was the hour for mass, saying: "My mother said that, 'Large and small, all must go to mass.'" So he threw the loaves down in the middle of the church. Then he went home to his mother and said: "I have done what you told me to do." "Good! did you take the bread to the baker's?" "Oh! mother, if you had seen how they all looked at me!" "You might also have cast an eye on them in return," said his mother. "Wait, wait, I will cast an eye at them, too," he exclaimed, and went to the stable and cut out the eyes of all the animals, and putting them in a handkerchief, went to the church and when any man or woman looked at him he threw an eye at them. When his mother learned what he had done she took to her bed and sent her son for a physician. When the doctor came he felt her pulse and said: "Oh! how weak this poor woman is!" Then he told the son that he must take good care of his mother and make her some very thin broth and give her a bowlful every minute. The son promised to obey him and went to the market and bought a sparrow and put on the fire a pail of water. When it boiled he put in the sparrow and waited until it boiled up two or three times, and then took a bowl of the broth to his mother, and repeated the dose as fast as he could. The next day the physician found the poor woman weaker than ever, and told her son he must put something heavy on her so as to throw her into a perspiration. When the doctor had gone the son piled all the heavy furniture in the room on her, and when she could no longer breathe he ran for the doctor again. This time the doctor saw that nothing was to be done, and advised her son to have her confess and prepare for death. So her son dressed her and carried her to church and sat her in the confessional and told the priest that some one was waiting for him and then went home. The priest soon saw that the woman was dead and went to find her son. When the son heard that his mother was dead, he declared that the priest had killed her, and began to beat him.[21] * * * * * There are many stories in Italy which turn on the tricks played by a sharper on his credulous friends; a good specimen of the class is the following from Sicily (Pitrè, No. 157): CV. UNCLE CAPRIANO. There was once a husband and wife who had a daughter. The man's name was Uncle Capriano and he owned near the town a piece of property, where he always worked. One day thirteen robbers happened to pass that way, saw Uncle Capriano, dismounted, and began to talk with him, and soon formed a friendship for him. After this they frequently went to divert themselves with him. When they arrived they always saluted him with: "Good day, Uncle Capriano," and he answered: "Your servant, gentlemen; what are your worships doing?" "We have come to amuse ourselves. Go, Uncle Capriano, go and lunch, for we will do the work meanwhile." So he went and ate and they did his work for him. Finally, what do you suppose Uncle Capriano tried to do? He sought to invent some way to get money from the robbers. When he went home he said to his wife: "I am on friendly terms with the robbers and I would like to see whether I can get a little money out of them, and I have invented this story to tell them: that we have a rabbit, which I send home alone every evening with fire-wood and things for soup, which my wife cooks." Then he said to his daughter: "When I come with the thieves, you bathe the rabbit in water and come out of the door to meet me and say: 'Is that the way to load the poor little rabbit so that it comes home tired to death?'" When the thieves heard that he had a rabbit that carried things, they wanted it, saying: "If we had it we could send it to carry money, food, and other things to our houses." Uncle Capriano said to them one day: "I should like to have you come to my house to-day." There were thirteen of the thieves; one said Yes, another said No. The captain said: "Let us go and see the rabbit." When they arrived at the house the daughter came to the door and said: "Is that the way to load the poor little rabbit so that it comes home tired to death?" When they entered the house all felt of the rabbit and exclaimed: "Poor little animal! poor little animal! it is all covered with sweat." When the thieves saw this they looked at each other and said: "Shall we ask him to give us this little rabbit?" Then they said: "Uncle Capriano, you must give us the rabbit without any words, and we will pay you whatever you ask." He answered: "Ask me for anything except this rabbit, for if I give you that I shall be ruined." They replied: "You must give it to us without further words, whether you are ruined or not." Finally Uncle Capriano let them have the rabbit for two hundred ounces, and they gave him twenty besides to buy himself a present with. After the thieves had got possession of the rabbit, they went to a house in the country to try it. They each took a bag of money and said: "Let us send a bag to each of our houses." The captain said: "First, carry a bag to mine." So they took the rabbit to load it, and after they had put the bags on it, the rabbit could not move and one of the thieves struck it on the haunch with a switch. Then the rabbit ran away instantly. The thieves went in great anger to Uncle Capriano and said: "Did you have the boldness to play such a trick on us, to sell us a rabbit that could not stir when we put a few bags of money on it?" "But, gentlemen," said the old man, "did you beat it?" "Of course," answered one of the thieves, "my companion struck it with a switch on the haunch." The old man asked: "But where did you strike it, on the right or on the left haunch?" "On the left." "That is why the rabbit ran away," said the old man. "You should have hit it on the right. If you did not observe these conditions, what fault is it of mine?" "This is true," said the thieves, "Uncle Capriano is right; so go and eat and we will attend to the work." And so their friendship was not broken this time. After a time Uncle Capriano said to his wife: "We must get some more money from the thieves." "In what way?" "To-morrow you must buy a new pot, and then you must cook in an old pot somewhere in the house, and at Ave Maria, just before I come home, you must empty the old pot into the new one, and put it on the hearth without any fire. To-morrow I will tell the thieves that I have a pot that cooks without any fire." The next evening Uncle Capriano persuaded the thieves to go home with him. When they saw the pot they looked at one another and said: "We must ask him to give it to us." After some hesitation, he sold it to them for four hundred ounces, and twenty over as before. When the thieves arrived at their house in the country, they killed a fine kid, put it into the pot, and set it on the hearth, without any fire, and went away. In the evening they all ran and tried to see who would arrive first, and find the meat cooked. The one who arrived first took out a piece of meat, and saw that it was as they had left it. Then he gave the pot a kick, and broke it in two. When the others came and found the meat not cooked, they started for Uncle Capriano's, and complained to him that he had sold them a pot that cooked everything, and that they had put meat into it, and found it raw. "Did you break the pot?" asked Uncle Capriano. "Of course we broke it." "What kind of a hearth did you have, high or low?" One of the thieves answered: "Rather high." "That was why the pot did not cook; it should have been low. You did not observe the conditions and broke the pot; what fault is that of mine?" The thieves said: "Uncle Capriano is right; go, Uncle Capriano, and eat, for we will do your work." Some time after, Uncle Capriano said again to his wife: "We must get some more money out of them." "But how can we manage it?" "You know that we have a whistle in the chest; have it put in order, and to-morrow go to the butcher's, and get a bladder of blood, and fix it about your neck, and put on your mantilla; and when I return home, let me find you sitting down and angry, and the candle not lighted. I will bring my friends with me, and when I find the candle not lighted, I will begin to cry out, and you will not utter a word; then I will take my knife and cut your throat. You will fall down on the floor; the blood will run out of the bladder, and the thieves will believe that you are dead. You" (turning to his daughter)--"what I say I mean, when I tell you: 'Get the whistle'--get it and give it to me. When I blow it three times, you" (speaking to his wife) "will get up from the floor. When the thieves see this operation they will want the whistle, and we will get another six hundred ounces from them." [Everything took place as Uncle Capriano had arranged; the thieves paid him six hundred ounces, and twenty over as usual, and then went home and killed their wives, to try the whistle on them. The rage of the thieves can be imagined when they found they had been deceived again. In order to avenge themselves, they took a sack and went to Uncle Capriano, and without any words seized him, put him in it, and taking him on a horse, rode away. They came after a time to a country-house, where they stopped to eat, leaving Uncle Capriano outside in the bag.] Uncle Capriano, who was in the bag, began to cry: "They want to give me the king's daughter, and I don't want her!" There happened to be near by a herdsman, who heard what he was saying about the king's daughter, and he said to himself: "I will go and take her myself." So he went to Uncle Capriano and said: "What is the matter with you?" "They want to give me the king's daughter, and I don't want her, because I am married." The herdsman said: "I will take her, for I am single; but how can we arrange it?" Uncle Capriano answered: "Take me out, and get into the bag yourself." "That is a good idea," said the herdsman; so he set Uncle Capriano at liberty, and got into the bag himself. Uncle Capriano tied him fast, took his crook, and went to tend the sheep. The herdsman soon began to cry: "They want to give me the king's daughter. I will take her, I will take her!" In a little while the thieves came and put the bag on a horse, and rode away to the sea, the herdsman crying out all the time: "They want to give me the king's daughter. I will take her, I will take her!" When they came to the sea, they threw the bag in, and returned home. On their way back, they happened to look up on the mountain, and exclaimed: "See there! is that not Uncle Capriano?" "Yes, it is." "How can that be; did we not throw him into the sea, and is he there now?" Then they went to him and said: "How is this, Uncle Capriano, didn't we throw you in the sea?" "Oh! you threw me in near the shore, and I found these sheep and oxen; if you had thrown me in farther out, I would have found many more." Then they asked Uncle Capriano to throw them all in, and they went to the sea, and he began to throw them in, and each said: "Quick, Uncle Capriano, throw me in quickly before my comrades get them all!" After he had thrown them all in, Uncle Capriano took the horses and sheep and oxen, and went home and built palaces, and became very rich, and married his daughter, and gave a splendid banquet.[22] * * * * * A very interesting class of stories is found in Pitrè (Nos. 246-270) illustrating proverbial sayings. The first, on the text "The longer one lives, the more one learns," relates that a child came to an old man and asked for some coals to light a fire with. The old man said he would willingly give them, but the child had nothing to carry them in. The child, however, filled his palm with ashes, put a coal on them, and went away. The old man gave his head a slap, and exclaimed: "With all my years and experience, I did not know this thing. 'The longer one lives, the more one learns.'" And from that time these words have remained for a proverb. Another (No. 252) recalls one of Giufà's pranks. A husband, to test his wife and friend, who is a bailiff, throws a goat's head into the well, and tells the wife that he has killed a person and cut off the head to prevent the body from being recognized. The wife promises secrecy, but soon tells the story to her friend, who denounces the supposed murderer to the judge. The house is entered by an arbor, from which they climb into a window, and the husband is arrested and taken to the well, which a bailiff descends, and finds the goat's head. The husband explains his trick, which gave rise to the saying: "Do not confide a secret to a woman; do not make a bailiff your friend, and do not rent a house with an arbor."[23] Another shows how the stories of classic times survive among the people. Nero, a wicked king, goes about in disguise to hear what the people say of him. One day he meets an old woman in the field, and when Nero's name is mentioned, instead of cursing him as others do, she says: "May God preserve him." She explains her words by saying that they have had several kings, each worse than the other, and now they have Nero, who tears every son from his mother, wherefore may God guard and preserve him, for "There is no end to evil."[24] There was once a whimsical prince who thought he could arrange the world and animals as he pleased and overcome Nature. He taught his horse to devour flesh and his dogs to eat grass. He trained an ass to dance and accompany himself by his braying: in short, the prince boasted that by means of Art one could rule Nature. Among other things he trained a cat to stand on the table and hold a lighted candle while he was eating. No matter what was brought on the table, the cat never moved, but held the candle as if it had been a statue of wood. The prince showed the cat to his friends and said, boastingly: "Nature is nothing; my art is more powerful and can do this and other things." His friends often said that everything must be true to its nature; "Art departs and Nature prevails." The prince invited them to make any trial they wished, asserting that the cat would never forget the art he had taught it. One of his friends caught a mouse one day and wrapped it up in a handkerchief and carried it with him to the prince's. When the cat heard and saw the mouse, it dropped the candlestick and ran after the mouse. The friend began to laugh, and said to the prince, who stood with his mouth wide open with amazement: "Dear prince, I always told you Art departs and Nature prevails!" This story is told of Dante and Cecco d' Ascoli, the former playing the rôle of the prince.[25] To counterbalance the stories of foolish people which have been related above, we will conclude this chapter with some stories of clever people, stories which were popular as long ago as the Middle Ages. The first is from Sicily (Gonz., No. 50) and is called: CVII. THE CLEVER PEASANT. There was once a king who, while hunting, saw a peasant working in the fields and asked him: "How much do you earn in a day?" "Four _carlini_, your Majesty," answered the peasant. "What do you do with them?" continued the king. The peasant said: "The first I eat; the second I put out at interest; the third I give back, and the fourth I throw away." The king rode on, but after a time the peasant's answer seemed very curious to him, so he returned and asked him: "Tell me, what do you mean by eating the first _carlino_, putting the second out to interest, giving back the third, and throwing away the fourth?" The peasant answered: "With the first I feed myself; with the second I feed my children, who must care for me when I am old; with the third I feed my father, and so repay him for what he has done for me, and with the fourth I feed my wife, and thus throw it away, because I have no profit from it." "Yes," said the king, "you are right. Promise me, however, that you will not tell any one this until you have seen my face a hundred times." The peasant promised and the king rode home well pleased. While sitting at table with his ministers, he said: "I will give you a riddle: A peasant earns four _carlini_ a day; the first he eats; the second he puts out at interest; the third he gives back, and the fourth he throws away. What is that?" No one was able to answer it. One of the ministers remembered finally that the king had spoken the day before with the peasant, and he resolved to find the peasant and obtain from him the answer. When he saw the peasant he asked him for the answer to the riddle, but the peasant answered: "I cannot tell you, for I have promised the king to tell no one until I have seen his face a hundred times." "Oh!" said the minister, "I can show you the king's face," and drew a hundred coins from his purse and gave them to the peasant. On every coin the king's face was to be seen of course. After the peasant had looked at each coin once, he said: "I have now seen the king's face a hundred times, and can tell you the answer to the riddle," and told him it. The minister went in great glee to the king and said: "Your Majesty, I have found the answer to the riddle; it is so and so." The king exclaimed: "You can have heard it only from the peasant himself," had the peasant summoned, and took him to task. "Did you not promise me not to tell it until you had seen my face a hundred times?" "But, your Majesty," answered the peasant, "your minister showed me your picture a hundred times." Then he showed him the bag of money that the minister had given him. The king was so pleased with the clever peasant that he rewarded him, and made him a rich man for the rest of his life.[26] CVIII. THE CLEVER GIRL. Once upon a time there was a huntsman who had a wife and two children, a son and a daughter; and all lived together in a wood where no one ever came, and so they knew nothing about the world. The father alone sometimes went to the city and brought back the news. The king's son once went hunting and lost himself in that wood, and while he was seeking his way it became night. He was weary and hungry. Imagine how he felt! But all at once he saw a light shining at a distance. He followed it and reached the huntsman's house and asked for lodging and something to eat. The huntsman recognized him at once and said: "Highness, we have already supped on our best. But if we can find anything for you, you must be satisfied with it. What can we do? We are so far from the towns, that we cannot procure what we need every day." Meanwhile he had a capon cooked for him. The prince did not wish to eat it alone, but called all the huntsman's family, and gave the head of the capon to the father, the back to the mother, the legs to the son, and the wings to the daughter, and ate the rest himself. In the house there were only two beds, in the same room. In one the husband and wife slept, in the other the brother and sister. The old people went and slept in the stable, giving up their bed to the prince. When the girl saw that the prince was asleep, she said to her brother: "I will wager that you do not know why the prince divided the capon among us in the manner he did." "Do you know? Tell me why." "He gave the head to papa because he is the head of the family, the back to mamma because she has on her shoulders all the affairs of the house, the legs to you because you must be quick in performing the errands which are given you, and the wings to me to fly away and catch a husband." The prince pretended to be asleep; but he was awake and heard these words, and perceived that the girl had much judgment; and as she was also pretty, he fell in love with her. The next morning he left the huntsman's; and as soon as he reached the court, he sent him, by a servant, a purse of money. To the young girl he sent a cake in the form of a full moon, thirty patties, and a cooked capon, with three questions: "Whether it was the thirtieth of the month in the wood, whether the moon was full, and whether the capon crowed in the night." The servant, although a trusty one, was overcome by his gluttony and ate fifteen of the patties, and a good slice of the cake, and the capon. The young girl, who had understood it all, sent back word to the prince that the moon was not full but on the wane; that it was only the fifteenth of the month and that the capon had gone to the mill; and that she asked him to spare the pheasant for the sake of the partridge. The prince, too, understood the metaphor, and having summoned the servant, he cried: "Rogue! you have eaten the capon, fifteen patties, and a good slice of the cake. Thank that girl who has interceded for you; if she had not, I would have hung you." A few months after this, the huntsman found a gold mortar, and wished to present it to the prince. But his daughter said: "You will be laughed at for this present. You will see that the prince will say to you: 'The mortar is fine and good, but, peasant, where is the pestle?'" The father did not listen to his daughter; but when he carried the mortar to the prince, he was greeted as his daughter had foretold. "My daughter told me so," said the huntsman. "Ah! if I had only listened to her!" The prince heard these words and said to him: "Your daughter, who pretends to be so wise, must make me a hundred ells of cloth out of four ounces of flax; if she does not I will hang you and her." The poor father returned home weeping, and sure that he and his daughter must die, for who could make a hundred ells of cloth with four ounces of flax. His daughter came out to meet him, and when she learned why he was weeping, said: "Is that all you are weeping for? Quick, get me the flax and I will manage it." She made four small cords of the flax and said to her father: "Take these cords and tell him that when he makes me a loom out of these cords I will weave the hundred ells of cloth." When the prince heard this answer he did not know what to say, and thought no more about condemning the father or the daughter. The next day he went to the wood to visit the girl. Her mother was dead, and her father was out in the fields digging. The prince knocked, but no one opened. He knocked louder, but the same thing. The young girl was deaf to him. Finally, tired of waiting, he broke open the door and entered: "Rude girl! who taught you not to open to one of my rank? Where are your father and mother?" "Who knew it was you? My father is where he should be and my mother is weeping for her sins. You must leave, for I have something else to do than listen to you." The prince went away in anger and complained to the father of his daughter's rude manners, but the father excused her. The prince, at last seeing how wise and cunning she was, married her. The wedding was celebrated with great splendor, but an event happened which came near plunging the princess into misfortune. One Sunday two peasants were passing a church; one of them had a hand-cart and the other was leading a she-ass ready to foal. The bell rang for mass and they both entered the church, one leaving his cart outside and the other tying the ass to the cart. While they were in the church the ass foaled, and the owner of the ass and the owner of the cart both claimed the colt. They appealed to the prince, and he decided that the colt belonged to the owner of the cart, because, he said, it was more likely that the owner of the ass would tie her to the cart in order to lay a false claim to the colt than that the owner of the cart would tie it to the ass. The owner of the ass had right on his side, and all the people were in his favor, but the prince had pronounced sentence and there was nothing to say. The poor man then applied to the princess, who advised him to cast a net in the square when the prince passed. When the prince saw the net, he said: "What are you doing, you fool? Do you expect to find fish in the square?" The peasant, who had been advised by the princess, answered: "It is easier for me to find fish in the square than for a cart to have foals." The prince revoked the sentence, but when he returned to the palace, knowing that the princess had suggested the answer to the peasant, he said to her: "Prepare to return to your own home within an hour. Take with you what you like best and depart." She was not at all saddened by the prospect, but ate a better dinner than usual, and made the prince drink a bottle of wine in which she had put a sleeping potion; and when he was as sound asleep as a log, she had him put in a carriage and took him with her to her house in the wood. It was in January, and she had the roof of the house uncovered and it snowed on the prince, who awoke and called his servants: "What do you wish?" said the princess. "I command here. Did you not tell me to take from your house the thing I liked best? I have taken you, and now you are mine." The prince laughed and they made peace.[27] * * * * * The next story is the Italian version of the tale familiar to the readers of Grimm by the title of "Doctor Knowall." There is a Sicilian version in Pitrè, No. 167, in which our story forms one of several episodes. It is found, however, independently in the Mantuan collection from which we take it, changing the name slightly to suit the conclusion of the story. CIX. CRAB. There was once a king who had lost a valuable ring. He looked for it everywhere, but could not find it. So he issued a proclamation that if any astrologer could tell him where it was he would be richly rewarded. A poor peasant by the name of Crab heard of the proclamation. He could neither read nor write, but took it into his head that he wanted to be the astrologer to find the king's ring. So he went and presented himself to the king, to whom he said: "Your Majesty must know that I am an astrologer, although you see me so poorly dressed. I know that you have lost a ring and I will try by study to find out where it is." "Very well," said the king, "and when you have found it, what reward must I give you?" "That is at your discretion, your Majesty." "Go, then, study, and we shall see what kind of an astrologer you turn out to be." He was conducted to a room, in which he was to be shut up to study. It contained only a bed and a table on which were a large book and writing materials. Crab seated himself at the table and did nothing but turn over the leaves of the book and scribble the paper so that the servants who brought him his food thought him a great man. They were the ones who had stolen the ring, and from the severe glances that the peasant cast at them whenever they entered, they began to fear that they would be found out. They made him endless bows and never opened their mouths without calling him "Mr. Astrologer." Crab, who, although illiterate, was, as a peasant, cunning, all at once imagined that the servants must know about the ring, and this is the way his suspicions were confirmed. He had been shut up in his room turning over his big book and scribbling his paper for a month, when his wife came to visit him. He said to her: "Hide yourself under the bed, and when a servant enters, say: 'That is one;' when another comes, say: 'That is two;' and so on." The woman hid herself. The servants came with the dinner, and hardly had the first one entered when a voice from under the bed said: "That is one." The second one entered; the voice said: "That is two;" and so on. The servants were frightened at hearing that voice, for they did not know where it came from, and held a consultation. One of them said: "We are discovered; if the astrologer denounces us to the king as thieves, we are lost." "Do you know what we must do?" said another. "Let us hear." "We must go to the astrologer and tell him frankly that we stole the ring, and ask him not to betray us, and present him with a purse of money. Are you willing?" "Perfectly." So they went in harmony to the astrologer, and making him a lower bow than usual, one of them began: "Mr. Astrologer, you have discovered that we stole the ring. We are poor people and if you reveal it to the king, we are undone. So we beg you not to betray us, and accept this purse of money." Crab took the purse and then added: "I will not betray you, but you must do what I tell you, if you wish to save your lives. Take the ring and make that turkey in the court-yard swallow it, and leave the rest to me." The servants were satisfied to do so and departed with a low bow. The next day Crab went to the king and said to him: "Your Majesty must know that after having toiled over a month I have succeeded in discovering where the ring has gone to." "Where is it, then?" asked the king. "A turkey has swallowed it." "A turkey? very well, let us see." They went for the turkey, opened it, and found the ring inside. The king, amazed, presented the astrologer with a large purse of money and invited him to a banquet. Among the other dishes, there was brought on the table a plate of crabs. Crabs must then have been very rare, because only the king and a few others knew their name. Turning to the peasant the king said: "You, who are an astrologer, must be able to tell me the name of these things which are in this dish." The poor astrologer was very much puzzled, and, as if speaking to himself, but in such a way that the others heard him, he muttered: "Ah! Crab, Crab, what a plight you are in!" All who did not know that his name was Crab rose and proclaimed him the greatest astrologer in the world.[28] NOTES. INTRODUCTION. [1] There are some popular tales, chiefly Oriental in their origin, in the _Cente novelle antiche_ (see the notes to Chapter III.), and Boccaccio and his imitators undoubtedly made use of popular material. These popular elements, however, are almost exclusively of the class of jests. The fairy tale, which constitutes by far the largest and most important class of popular tales, is not found in European literature until Straparola. For a few earlier traces of fairy tales in mediæval literature, see an article by the writer, "Two Mediæval Folk-Tales," in the _Germania_, XVIII. [New Series], p. 203. [2] The little that is known of Straparola and a very complete bibliography of his _Piacevoli Notti_ will be found in an excellent monograph entitled, _Giovan Francesco Straparola da Caravaggio_, Inaugural-Dissertation von F. W. J. Brakelmann aus Soest, Göttingen, 1867. Straparola's work, especially the unexpurgated editions, is scarce, and the student will ordinarily be obliged to consult it in the French translation of Louveau and Larivey, of which there is an excellent edition in the _Bibliothèque Elzevirienne_ of P. Jannet, Paris, 1857. There is a German translation with valuable notes of the _märchen_ contained in the _Piacevoli Notti_ by F. W. Val. Schmidt, Berlin, 1817. Schmidt used, without knowing it, an expurgated edition, and translated eighteen instead of twenty-two popular tales. [3] The reader will find all the necessary references to Straparola's borrowed materials in Liebrecht's translation of Dunlop's History of Fiction, pp. 283, 493; in Brakelmann's dissertation above cited; in the French version in the _Bib. Elzevir._; and in Grimm, II. 477. [4] A comparison of Straparola's tales with those of Grimm, and an analysis of those lacking in Schmidt's translation, will be found in Grimm, II. 477-481. [5] The imitations of Straparola will be found in Dunlop-Liebrecht, p. 284. It is impossible to say with absolute certainty that Perrault borrowed his "_Chat Botté_" and "_Peau d'Ane_" from Straparola. It is, however, quite likely. Perrault's stories appeared 1694-97, and twelve editions of the French translation of Straparola had been issued before that date. [6] The few details of Basile's life will be found in Grimm, II. 481, Liebrecht's translation, II. p. 316, and Taylor's translation, p. v. An article in a recent number of the periodical named from Basile, vol. II. p. 17, gives the conflicting testimony of a number of Italian writers as to Basile's birth and death. The writer has discovered a mention of Basile's burial in the church of St. Sophia at Giugliano, near Naples, and in a record of deaths kept in the same town, an entry stating that Basile died there on the 23d of February, 1632. The following are all the editions of which I can find mention: Naples, 1637, 8vo, 1644, 12mo, 1645, 1674, 1694 (Graesse), 1697 (Pitrè), 1714, 1722, 1728, 1747, 1749 (Liebrecht), 1788, _Collezione di Tutti i Poemi_, etc.; Rome, 1679, 1797 (Pitrè). Italian translations appeared at Naples in 1754, 1769, 1784, and 1863, and in Bolognese at Bologna, 1742, 1813, 1872, and at Venice in 1813. The editions used in the preparation of this work will be found in the Bibliography. In spite of the numerous editions above cited, the _Pentamerone_ is a very scarce work, and the scholar will usually have to content himself with Liebrecht's excellent translation. Thirty-one of the fifty stories have been admirably translated by John Edward Taylor, London, 1848, 1850. The _Pentamerone_ suffered the same fate as the _Piacevoli Notti_. It was not known, for instance, in Germany, until Fernow described it in his _Römische Studien_, Zürich, 1808, vol. III. pp. 316, 475, although Wieland had taken the material for his "Pervonte" from the third story of the first day. [7] The frame of the _Pentamerone_ is the story of the "False Bride:" see Gonz., Nos. 11, 12; Pitrè, No. 13; Imbriani, "_'E Sette Mane-Mozze_;" and Hahn, Nos. 12, 49. Grimm, II. p. 483, gives the stories in the _Pent._ which have parallels among his own _Kinder- und Hausmärchen_. The notes to Liebrecht's translation are to be supplemented by the same author's additional notes in his translation of Dunlop, p. 515. [8] This story is usually printed with Perrault's tales, but its author was really Mlle. Lhéritier. See the latest edition of Perrault's tales, _Les Contes de Charles Perrault_, par André Lefèvre, Paris, Lemerre, 1875, p. xli. [9] See Dunlop-Liebrecht, p. 408 _et seq._; and Grimm, II. p. 489 _et seq._ [10] References to four of the five stories will be found as follows: I., Pitrè, vol. IV. pp. 372, 375; II., Pitrè, _ibid._ p. 381; III., _Nov. fior._ pp. 93, 112, Pitrè, No. 36; V., Pitrè, vol. IV. p. 391. The two editions of Naples, 1684 and 1751, are extremely scarce and the student will be obliged to have recourse to the edition of 1789, contained in the _Collezione di tutti li poeti in lingua Napoletana_. [11] Pitrè, vol. I. p. xliii., mentions some other names, as, _rumanzi_ by the inhabitants of Termini, and _pugaret_ by the Albanian colonists. To these may be added another Milanese appellation, _panzanega_. [12] Other endings are given by Imbriani, _Pomiglianesi_, p. 129:-- Cuccurucù, No' noe n' cchiù. (Cuccurucù, there is no more.) Cuccurucù. Sa' 'o vuo' cchiù bello, t' o dice tu. (Cuccurucù, if you want it finer, tell it yourself.) See also Pitrè, vol. I. p. 196, note 2. The most curious introductions and endings are those in De Nino, _Usi e Costumi abruzzesi_, vol. III. There is no general formula, but each _fiaba_ has one of its own. Some are meaningless jingles, but others are quite extensive poems on religious subjects. Among these may be found legends of various saints, St. Nicholas, p. 335, etc. [13] An interesting article might be written on the Italian story-tellers, generally illiterate women, from whose lips the stories in the modern collections have been taken down. Some details may be found in Pitrè, vol. I. p. xvii. (repeated in Ralston's article in _Fraser's Magazine_). [14] Any attempt at an explanation of these facts would lead into the vexed question of the origin and diffusion of popular tales in general. We cannot refrain, however, from calling attention to a remark by Nerucci in the preface to his _Nov. pop. montalesi_, p. v. He thinks that the Italian popular tale will be found to have much the same origin as the Italian popular poetry, that is, that very much is of a literary origin which has usually been deemed popular. This is undoubtedly true of many stories; but may not two versions of a given story, a popular and a literary one, have had a source common to both? A very interesting study might be made of the Italian popular tales in their relation to literary versions which may be the originals. The most valuable contributions to the question of the origin of Italian popular tales are those by Pitrè in the first volume of his _Fiabe_, pp. xli.-cxlv., and in the same author's _Nov. pop. tosc._ pp. v.-xxxviii. CHAPTER I. FAIRY TALES. [1] This story is a variant of Pitrè, No. 17, _Marvizia_ (the name of the heroine who was as small as a _marva_, the mallow plant), in which the introduction is wanting. The heroine falls in love with a green bird she sees in her garden, and goes in search of it. After many adventures, she restores the bird to its former human shape and marries it. Other Italian versions of the story in the text are: Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 281, _Nuovo Saggio_, V.; Gonz., No. 15; Neapolitan, _Pent._ II. 9, V. 4; Comp., No. 33 (from the Basilicata); Roman, Busk, p. 99; Tuscan, De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 14; and Tyrolese, Schneller, No. 13. An important trait in the above class is "Tasks set Wife." Besides in the above stories, this trait is also found in those belonging to other classes: see De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 2, and _Nov. fior._ p. 209. Another important trait is the following: When after a long search the wife discovers her husband, it is only to find him in the power of a second wife, who, however, by various bribes, is induced to permit the first wife to spend a night in her husband's chamber. She is unable to awaken her husband, who has been drugged by the second wife. The third night she succeeds, makes herself known to him, and they escape. As an example of this trait, we give in full De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 14, referred to above. XX. SIR FIORANTE, MAGICIAN. A woodman had three daughters. Every morning one after the other, in turn, carried him his bread to the wood. The father and the daughters noticed in a thicket a large snake, which one day asked the old man for one of his daughters in marriage, threatening him with death if none of them would accept such an offer. The father told his daughters of the snake's offer, and the first and second immediately refused. If the third had refused too, there would have been no hope of salvation for the father; but for his sake she declared at once that snakes had always pleased her, and she thought the snake proposed by her father very handsome. At this the snake shook his tail in token of great joy, and making his bride mount it, carried her away to the midst of a beautiful meadow, where he caused a splendid palace to arise while he himself became a handsome man, and revealed himself as Sir Fiorante with the red and white stockings. But woe to her if she ever disclosed to any one his existence and name! She would lose him forever, unless, to obtain possession of him again, she wore out a pair of iron shoes, a staff and a hat, and filled with her tears seven bottles. The maiden promised; but she was a woman; she went to visit her sisters; one of them wished to know her husband's name, and was so cunning that at last her sister told her, but when the poor girl went back to see her husband, she found neither husband nor palace. To find him again, she was obliged in despair to do penance. She walked and walked and walked, and wept unceasingly. She had already filled one bottle with tears, when she met an old woman who gave her a fine walnut to crack in time of need, and disappeared. When she had filled four bottles, she met another old woman, who gave her a hazel-nut to crack in time of need, and disappeared. She had filled all seven bottles when a third old woman appeared to her, and left her an almond to be cracked in a third case of need, and she, too, disappeared. At last the young girl reached the castle of Sir Fiorante, who had taken another wife. The girl broke first the walnut, and found in it a beautiful dress which the second wife wanted herself. The young girl said: "You may have it if you will let me sleep with Sir Fiorante." The second wife consented, but meanwhile she gave Sir Fiorante some opium. In the night, the young girl said: "Sir Fiorante with the red and white stockings, I have worn out a pair of iron shoes, the staff and the hat, and filled seven bottles with tears, wherefore you must recognize your first wife." He made no answer, for he had taken opium. The next day the girl opened the hazel-nut, and out came a dress more beautiful than the first; Sir Fiorante's second wife wanted this, and obtained it on the same condition as the first, but took care that Sir Fiorante should take some opium before going to bed. The third day, a faithful servant asked Sir Fiorante if he had not heard in the night the cries that were uttered near him. Sir Fiorante replied, No, but was careful not to take any opium the third night, when, having broken the almond and found in it a dress of unapproachable beauty, the young girl obtained the second wife's consent to sleep anew with Sir Fiorante. The latter pretended this time to take the opium, but did not. Then he feigned to be asleep, but remained awake in order to hear the cries of his abandoned wife, which he could not resist, and began to embrace her. The next day they left that palace to the second wife, and departed together and went to live in happiness at another more wonderful castle. * * * * * This episode is found in the _Pent._ V. 3, otherwise not belonging to this class; and in Comp., No. 51, and _Nov. fior._ p. 168, which properly belong to the formula of "Animal Children." Hahn's formula No. 6, in which a maiden sells herself for three costly presents, and is obliged to marry the buyer, is sufficiently illustrated by Gonz., No. 18, Pitrè, No. 105, and Nerucci, No. 50. In the last story the person to whom the maiden has sold herself refuses to marry her. The wedding torch is found also in Pitrè, No. 17, and is clearly a survival of the classic custom. The episode in which the birth of the child is hindered recalls the myths of Latona and Alcmene, see Köhler's notes to Gonz., No. 12 (II. p. 210). Other cases of malicious arrest of childbirth in popular literature may be found in Child's _English and Scottish Pop. Ballads_, Part I. p. 84. Pandora's box is also found in _Pent._ V. 4. Copious references to other Europeans versions of our story will be found in Köhler's notes to Gonz., No. 15 (II. 214), and to Bladé, _Contes pop. rec. en Agenais_, p. 145, to which may be added the notes to the Grimm stories Nos. 88, 113, 127 ("The Soaring Lark," "The Two Kings' Children," and "The Iron Stove"), and Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 255. [2] The lamp lighted at night to enable the wife to see her husband is found in Pitrè, No. 82, and in a Calabrian story in De Gub., _Zoöl. Myth._ II. 286-287, where the drop of wax falls on the mirror of the sleeping youth. The same incident occurs in the curious story of "The Enchanted Palace," in Comp., No. 27, which is simply a reversal of the Cupid and Psyche myth, and in which the husband is the curious one, and the drop of wax falls on the sleeping wife, and awakens her. The "iron shoes" are found in Comp., No. 51; Pitrè, No. 56; _Pent._ V. 4; De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 14; Gradi, _Vigilia_, p. 26; and Ortoli, p. 8. See also Hahn, Nos. 73, 102, and _Basque Legends_, p. 39. [3] See Köhler to Gonz., No. 16; Dunlop-Liebrecht, p. 406 (_Anmerkung._ 475, and _Nachtrag_, p. 544); Graesse, _Sagen-Kreise_, p. 380; Benfey, I. 254; and Simrock, _D.M._ pp. 332, 391, 427. [4] Other Italian versions of this story are: Nerucci, Nos. 33, 59; Comparetti, No. 27 (Monferrato), mentioned already in Note 2; and Schneller, No. 13. Pitrè, No. 27, has some points of contact also with our story. [5] Nerucci, No. 1, and _Nov. fior._ p. 319. For the story of "Beauty and the Beast" in general, see Ralston's article with this title in the _Nineteenth Century_, No. 22, December, 1878; and notes to Schiefner's _Tibetan Tales_, London, 1882, p. xxxvii. [6] The following versions all contain the episodes of the father asking his daughters what gifts he shall bring them, and daughter's tardy return to the monster: Busk, p. 115; Gradi, _Saggio_, p. 189; Comparetti, No. 64 (Montale); and _Zoöl. Myth._ II. p. 382 (Leghorn), with which compare _Indian Fairy Tales_, p. 292. In _Fiabe Mant._ No. 24, we have father's gifts and sympathetic ring; but the danger to monster does not depend on the tardiness of his bride. In _Zoöl. Myth._ II. p. 381 (Piedmont), we have father's gift; but danger to monster results from wife's revealing his name to her sisters. Schneller, No. 25, contains the usual introduction (father's gifts), but the monster, a snake, accompanies his bride on her visit home, and while they are dancing together she steps on his tail and crushes it, whereupon the snake becomes a handsome young man. A Sicilian story, "Zafarana" (Gonz., No. 9), contains both episodes above mentioned, but otherwise differs from the class of stories we are now examining. Closely allied with the formula of "Beauty and the Beast" is that of "Animal Children." In the latter class the introduction (father's gift) is wanting, and also the episode of visit of wife and tardy return. The "animal child" is usually born in accordance with a rash wish of childless mother that she might have a son, even if he were like one of the animals which she happens to see (Hahn, Formula No. 7). When the "animal child" is grown up his parents attempt to obtain a wife for him; two of three sisters show their disgust and are killed; the third is more prudent, and ultimately disenchants her husband, usually by burning his skin, which he puts on and off at pleasure. The typical story of this class is Pitrè, No. 56, "The Serpent." To Pitrè's copious references may be added: Comparetti, No. 9 (Monferrato), in which the prince resumes his shape after his third marriage without any further means of disenchantment; No 66 (Monferrato), the prince takes off seven skins, and from a dragon becomes a handsome youth. In both these stories the prince is enchanted and not born in accordance with mother's wish. Gianandrea, p. 15, is a version of Comp., No. 9. Corazzini, p. 429 (Benevento), belongs more properly to "Beauty and the Beast;" the husband disappears on wife's revealing to his mother the secret of his being a handsome youth by night. A somewhat similar version is in Prato, No. 4, "_Il Re Serpente_." See also Finamore, _Nov. pop. abruzzesi_, Nos. 6, 21, and _Archivio_, I. 424 (Piedmont), 531 (Tuscany); II. 403 (Marches); III. 362 (Abruzzi). For other references to this class see Köhler's notes to Widter-Wolf, _Jahrb._ VII. p. 249; Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 265 _et seq._; and notes to Grimm, Nos. 108 ("Hans the Hedgehog") and 144 ("The Little Ass"). [7] Other Italian versions may be found in Pitrè, No. 38; Gonz., No. 27; _Pent._ II. 2; Busk, pp. 46, 57, and 63; _Fiabe Mant._ Nos. 3 and 17; _Nov. tosc._ 4; and Schneller, No. 21. _Pent._ II. 5, contains many points of resemblance, although it belongs to the class of "Animal Children." Two very close non-Italian versions are Asbj., No. 84, "The Green Knight" [_Tales from the Fjeld_, p. 311, "The Green Knight"], and Hahn, No. 7, "The Golden Wand." An important episode in the above stories is "sick prince and secret remedy." This is found in stories belonging to other classes, as for example in Schneller, 9, 10, 11; in 10 the princess is ill, in 11 there is simply the "overheard council of witches;" _Nov. fior._ pp. 599, 601 (princess ill), and Comp., No. 8 (sick prince). The above trait is found in the class of stories which may be named "True and Untrue," and of which Grimm, No. 107, "The Two Travellers," is a good example. Italian versions may be found in Widter-Wolf, No. 1 (_Jahrb._ VII. p. 3); Nerucci, No. 23; Ive, _Nozze Ive-Lorenzetto_, p. 31, "_La Curona del Gran Giegno_." Non-Italian versions will be found in Köhler's notes to Widter-Wolf, and Ive's notes to above cited story. [8] This class is named by Hahn from Geneviève de Brabant, whose legend may be found in _Dict. des Légendes_, p. 396, and, with copious references, in D'Ancona's _Sacre Rappresentazioni_, III. p. 235. [9] The title of the original is "_Li figghi di lu Cavuliciddaru_," "The Herb-gatherer's Daughters." [10] Another Sicilian version is "_Re Sonnu_," in Pitrè, _Nuovo Saggio_, No. 1. To the references in Pitrè, No. 36, and Gonz., No. 5, may be added: _Fiabe Mant._ No. 14, only as far as abstraction of children are concerned and accusation of murder against the mother; No. 46, a poor version, the beginning of which is lost; Comparetti, Nos. 6 (Basilicata), and 30 (Pisa); No. 17 (Pisa) is a defective version, the search for the marvellous objects being omitted; another distorted version from Monferrato is found in the same collection, No. 25. See also Prato, _Quattro nov. pop. livornesi_, No. 2, and Finamore, No. 39. Two of the traits of our story are found in many others; they are: "Sympathetic objects," ring, etc., and "Life-giving ointment or leaves." For the former, see notes to next two stories, and in general, Brueyre, p. 93; for the latter, see Gonz., No. 40; Comparetti, No. 32 (see Note 12); Bernoni, _Punt._ III. p. 84. In these stories the life-restoring substance is an ointment; leaves possessing the same power are found in Pitrè, No. 11, _Pent._ I. 7, _La Posillecheata_, No. 1, and Coronedi-Berti, No. 14. See also Grimm, No. 16, "The Three Snake-Leaves;" _Basque Legends_, p. 117; Benfey, _Pant._ I. 454, Cox, _Aryan Myth._ I. 160; and _Germania_, XXI. p. 68. For non-Italian versions of the story in the text see Köhler's notes in _Mélusine_, p. 213, to a Breton version, and _Indian Fairy Tales_, pp. 242, 277. In the above formula are embraced several somewhat different stories in which the persecution of innocent wife proceeds from various persons. For instance, in the Italian legends Sta. Guglielma is persecuted by her brother-in-law; Sta. Ulila by her father and mother-in-law; and Stella by her stepmother. See D'Ancona, _op. cit._, pp. 199, 235, 317. A popular version, somewhat distorted, of the second of the above-mentioned legends may be found in Nerucci, No. 39; of the third in Gonz., No. 24. More commonly, however, the persecution is on the part of envious sisters or wicked stepmother. The important rôle played by the last in tales of the North of Europe has its counterpart in those of the South. The following story from Siena (Pitrè, _La Scatola di Cristallo_) will sufficiently illustrate this class. XXI. THE CRYSTAL CASKET. There was once a widower who had a daughter. This daughter was between ten and twelve years old. Her father sent her to school, and as she was all alone in the world commended her always to her teacher. Now, the teacher, seeing that the child had no mother, fell in love with the father, and kept saying to the girl: "Ask your father if he would like me for a wife." This she said to her every day, and at last the girl said: "Papa, the school-mistress is always asking me if you will marry her." The father said: "Eh! my daughter, if I take another wife, you will have great troubles." But the girl persisted, and finally the father was persuaded to go one evening to the school-mistress' house. When she saw him she was well pleased, and they settled the marriage in a few days. Poor child! how bitterly she had to repent having found a stepmother so ungrateful and cruel to her! She sent her every day out on a terrace to water a pot of basil, and it was so dangerous that if she fell she would go into a large river. One day there came by a large eagle, and said to her: "What are you doing here?" She was weeping because she saw how great the danger was of falling into the stream. The eagle said to her: "Get on my back, and I will carry you away, and you will be happier than with your new mamma." After a long journey they reached a great plain, where they found a beautiful palace all of crystal; the eagle knocked at the door and said: "Open, my ladies, open! for I have brought you a pretty girl." When the people in the palace opened the door, and saw that lovely girl, they were amazed, and kissed and caressed her. Meanwhile the door was closed, and they remained peaceful and contented. Let us return to the eagle, who thought she was doing a spite to the stepmother. One day the eagle flew away to the terrace where the stepmother was watering the basil. "Where is your daughter?" asked the eagle. "Eh!" she replied, "perhaps she fell from this terrace and went into the river; I have not heard from her in ten days." The eagle answered: "What a fool you are! I carried her away; seeing that you treated her so harshly I carried her away to my fairies, and she is very well." Then the eagle flew away. The stepmother, filled with rage and jealousy, called a witch from the city, and said to her: "You see my daughter is alive, and is in the house of some fairies of an eagle which often comes upon my terrace; now you must do me the favor to find some way to kill this stepdaughter of mine, for I am afraid that some day or other she will return, and my husband, discovering this matter, will certainly kill me." The witch answered: "Oh, you need not be afraid of that: leave it to me." What did the witch do? She had made a little basketful of sweetmeats, in which she put a charm; then she wrote a letter, pretending that it was her father, who, having learned where she was, wished to make her this present, and the letter pretended that her father was so glad to hear that she was with the fairies. Let us leave the witch who is arranging all this deception, and return to Ermellina (for so the young girl was named). The fairies had said to her: "See, Ermellina, we are going away, and shall be absent four days; now in this time take good care not to open the door to any one, for some treachery is being prepared for you by your stepmother." She promised to open the door to no one: "Do not be anxious, I am well off, and my stepmother has nothing to do with me." But it was not so. The fairies went away, and the next day when Ermellina was alone, she heard a knocking at the door, and said to herself: "Knock away! I don't open to any one." But meanwhile the blows redoubled, and curiosity forced her to look out of the window. What did she see? She saw one of the servant girls of her own home (for the witch had disguised herself as one of her father's servants). "O my dear Ermellina," she said, "your father is shedding tears of sorrow for you, because he really believed you were dead, but the eagle which carried you off came and told him the good news that you were here with the fairies. Meanwhile your father, not knowing what civility to show you, for he understands very well that you are in need of nothing, has thought to send you this little basket of sweetmeats." Ermellina had not yet opened the door; the servant begged her to come down and take the basket and the letter, but she said: "No, I wish nothing!" but finally, since women, and especially young girls, are fond of sweetmeats, she descended and opened the door. When the witch had given her the basket, she said: "Eat this," and broke off for her a piece of the sweetmeats which she had poisoned. When Ermellina took the first mouthful the old woman disappeared. Ermellina had scarcely time to close the door, when she fell down on the stairs. When the fairies returned they knocked at the door, but no one opened it for them; then they perceived that there had been some treachery, and began to weep. Then the chief of the fairies said: "We must break open the door," and so they did, and saw Ermellina dead on the stairs. Her other friends who loved her so dearly begged the chief of the fairies to bring her to life, but she would not, "for," said she, "she has disobeyed me;" but one and the other asked her until she consented; she opened Ermellina's mouth, took out a piece of the sweetmeat which she had not yet swallowed, raised her up, and Ermellina came to life again. We can imagine what a pleasure it was for her friends; but the chief of the fairies reproved her for her disobedience, and she promised not to do so again. Once more the fairies were obliged to depart. Their chief said: "Remember, Ermellina: the first time I cured you, but the second I will have nothing to do with you." Ermellina said they need not worry, that she would not open to any one. But it was not so; for the eagle, thinking to increase her stepmother's anger, told her again that Ermellina was alive. The stepmother denied it all to the eagle, but she summoned anew the witch, and told her that her stepdaughter was still alive, saying: "Either you will really kill her, or I will be avenged on you." The old woman, finding herself caught, told her to buy a very handsome dress, one of the handsomest she could find, and transformed herself into a tailoress belonging to the family, took the dress, departed, went to poor Ermellina, knocked at the door and said: "Open, open, for I am your tailoress." Ermellina looked out of the window and saw her tailoress; and was, in truth, a little confused (indeed, anyone would have been so). The tailoress said, "Come down, I must fit a dress on you." She replied, "No, no; for I have been deceived once." "But I am not the old woman," replied the tailoress, "you know me, for I have always made your dresses." Poor Ermellina was persuaded, and descended the stairs; the tailoress took to flight while Ermellina was yet buttoning up the dress, and disappeared. Ermellina closed the door, and was mounting the stairs; but it was not permitted her to go up, for she fell down dead. Let us return to the fairies, who came home and knocked at the door; but what good did it do to knock! There was no longer any one there. They began to weep. The chief of the fairies said: "I told you that she would betray me again; but now I will have nothing more to do with her." So they broke open the door, and saw the poor girl with that beautiful dress on; but she was dead. They all wept, because they really loved her. But there was nothing to do; the chief struck her enchanted wand, and commanded a beautiful rich casket all covered with diamonds and other precious stones to appear; then the others made a beautiful garland of flowers and gold, put it on the young girl, and then laid her in the casket, which was so rich and beautiful that it was marvellous to behold. Then the old fairy struck her wand as usual and commanded a handsome horse, the like of which not even the king possessed. Then they took the casket, put it on the horse's back, and led him into the public square of the city, and the chief of the fairies said: "Go, and do not stop until you find some one who says to you: 'Stop, for pity's sake, for I have lost my horse for you.'" Now let us leave the afflicted fairies, and turn our attention to the horse, which ran away at full speed. Who happened to pass at that moment? The son of a king (the name of this king is not known); and saw this horse with that wonder on its back. Then the king began to spur his horse, and rode him so hard that he killed him, and had to leave him dead in the road; but the king kept running after the other horse. The poor king could endure it no longer; he saw himself lost, and exclaimed: "Stop, for pity's sake, for I have lost my horse for you!" Then the horse stopped (for those were the words). When the king saw that beautiful girl dead in the casket, he thought no more about his own horse, but took the other to the city. The king's mother knew that her son had gone hunting; when she saw him returning with this loaded horse, she did not know what to think. The son had no father, wherefore he was all powerful. He reached the palace, had the horse unloaded, and the casket carried to his chamber; then he called his mother and said: "Mother, I went hunting, but I have found a wife." "But what is it? A doll? A dead woman?" "Mother," replied her son, "don't trouble yourself about what it is, it is my wife." His mother began to laugh, and withdrew to her own room (what could she do, poor mother?). Now this poor king no longer went hunting, took no diversion, did not even go to the table, but ate in his own room. By a fatality it happened that war was declared against him, and he was obliged to depart. He called his mother, and said: "Mother, I wish two careful chambermaids, whose business it shall be to guard this casket; for if on my return I find that anything has happened to my casket, I shall have the chambermaids killed." His mother, who loved him, said: "Go, my son, fear nothing, for I myself will watch over your casket." He wept several days at being obliged to abandon this treasure of his, but there was no help for it, he had to go. After his departure he did nothing but commend his wife (so he called her) to his mother in his letters. Let us return to the mother, who no longer thought about the matter, not even to have the casket dusted; but all at once there came a letter which informed her that the king had been victorious, and should return to his palace in a few days. The mother called the chambermaids, and said to them: "Girls, we are ruined." They replied: "Why, Highness?" "Because my son will be back in a few days, and how have we taken care of the doll?" They said: "True, true; now let us go and wash the doll's face." They went to the king's room and saw that the doll's face and hands were covered with dust and fly-specks, so they took a sponge and washed her face, but some drops of water fell on her dress and spotted it. The poor chambermaids began to weep, and went to the queen for advice. The queen said: "Do you know what to do! call a tailoress, and have a dress precisely like this bought, and take off this one before my son comes." They did so, and the chambermaids went to the room and began to unbutton the dress. The moment that they took off the first sleeve, Ermellina opened her eyes. The poor chambermaids sprang up in terror, but one of the most courageous said: "I am a woman, and so is this one; she will not eat me." To cut the matter short, she took off the dress, and when it was removed Ermellina began to get out of the casket to walk about and see where she was. The chambermaids fell on their knees before her and begged her to tell them who she was. She, poor girl, told them the whole story. Then she said: "I wish to know where I am?" Then the chambermaids called the king's mother to explain it to her. The mother did not fail to tell her everything, and she, poor girl, did nothing but weep penitently, thinking of what the fairies had done for her. The king was on the point of arriving, and his mother said to the doll: "Come here; put on one of my best dresses." In short, she arrayed her like a queen. Then came her son. They shut the doll up in a small room, so that she could not be seen. The king came with great joy, with trumpets blowing, and banners flying for the victory. But he took no interest in all this, and ran at once to his room to see the doll; the chambermaids fell on their knees before him saying that the doll smelled so badly that they could not stay in the palace, and were obliged to bury her. The king would not listen to this excuse, but at once called two of the palace servants to erect the gallows. His mother comforted him in vain: "My son, it was a dead woman." "No, no, I will not listen to any reasons; dead or alive, you should have left it for me." Finally, when his mother saw that he was in earnest about the gallows, she rang a little bell, and there came forth no longer the doll, but a very beautiful girl, whose like was never seen. The king was amazed, and said: "What is this!" Then his mother, the chambermaids, and Ermellina, were obliged to tell him all that had happened. He said: "Mother, since I adored her when dead, and called her my wife, now I mean her to be my wife in truth." "Yes, my son," replied his mother, "do so, for I am willing." They arranged the wedding, and in a few days were man and wife. * * * * * Sicilian versions of this story may be found in Pitrè, Nos. 57, 58; Gonz., Nos. 2-4. To the copious references in the notes to the stories just mentioned may be added: _Fiabe Mant._ No. 28; _Tuscan Fairy Tales_, No. IX.; _Nov. fior._ pp. 232, 239; De Nino, XLI., XLIX., L.; _Nov. tosc._ 9. Other European versions are: Grimm, No. 53, "Little Snow-White;" Hahn, No. 103; _Lo Rondallayre_, No. 46: see also Köhler's notes to Gonz., Nos. 2-4. The last class of "stepmother" stories which we shall mention is Hahn's Formula 15, "Phryxos and Helle," in which both brother and sister are persecuted by stepmother. A good example of this class is Pitrè, No. 283. XXII. THE STEPMOTHER. There was once a husband and a wife who had two children, a son and a daughter. The wife died, and the husband married a woman who had a daughter blind of one eye. The husband was a farmer, and went to work in a field. The stepmother hated her husband's children, and to get rid of them she baked some bread, and sent it by them to her husband, but directed them to the wrong field, so that they might get lost. When the children reached a mountain they began to call their father, but no one answered. Now the girl was enchanted; and when they came to a spring and the brother wanted to drink, she said to him: "Do not drink of this fountain, or you will become an ass." Afterwards they found another spring, and the brother wanted to drink; but his sister said to him: "Do not drink of it, or you will become a calf." However, the boy would drink, and became a calf with golden horns. They continued their journey, and came to the sea-shore, where there was a handsome villa belonging to the prince. When the prince saw the young girl, and beheld how beautiful she was, he married her, and afterwards asked her what there was about the little calf, and she replied: "I am fond of him because I have brought him up." Let us now return to her father, who, from the great grief he had on account of his children's disappearance, had gone out to divert himself, and wandered away, gathering fennel. He arrived at last at the villa, where was his daughter who had married the king. His daughter looked out of the window and said to him: "Come up, friend." His daughter had recognized him, and asked: "Friend, do you not know me?" "No, I do not recognize you." Then she said: "I am your daughter, whom you believed lost." She threw herself at his feet, and said: "Pardon me, dear father; I came by chance to this villa, and the king's son was here and married me." The father was greatly consoled at finding his daughter so well married. "Now, my father," said she, "empty this sack of fennel, for I will fill it with gold for you." And then she begged him to bring his wife, and the daughter blind of one eye. The father returned home with his bag full of money, and his wife asked in terror: "Who gave you this money?" He answered: "O wife! do you know that I have found my daughter, and she is the king's wife, and filled this bag with money?" She, instead of being happy, was angry at hearing that her stepdaughter was still alive; however, she said to her husband: "I will go and take my daughter." So they went, the husband, the wife, and the blind daughter, and came to the husband's daughter, who received her stepmother very kindly. But the latter, seeing that the king was away, and that her stepdaughter was alone, seized her and threw her from a window into the sea; and what did she do then? She took her blind daughter and dressed her in the other's clothes, and said to her: "When the king comes and finds you here weeping, say to him: 'The little calf has blinded me with his horn, and I have only one eye!'" Then the stepmother returned to her own house. The king came and found her daughter in bed weeping, and said to her: "Why are you weeping?" "The little calf struck me with his horn and put out one of my eyes." The king cried at once: "Go call the butcher to kill the calf?" When the calf heard that he was to be killed, he went out on the balcony and called to his sister in the sea:-- "Oh! sister, For me the water is heated, And the knives are sharpened." The sister replied from the sea:-- "Oh! brother, I cannot help you, I am in the dog-fish's mouth." When the king heard the calf utter these words, he looked out of the window, and when he saw his wife in the sea, he summoned two sailors, and had them take her out and bring her up and restore her. Then he took the blind girl and killed her and cut her in pieces and salted her like tunny-fish, and sent her to her mother. When her husband found it out he left her and went to live with his daughter. * * * * * It may not be amiss to mention here another class of stories which come under the formula of "Persecuted Maiden." The class resembles in some respects the story of King Lear. The youngest daughter is persecuted by her father because he thinks she does not love him as much as her older sisters. A good example of this class is Pitrè, No. 10, _L'Acqua e lu Sali_. XXIII. WATER AND SALT. A very fine story is related and told to your worships. Once upon a time there was a king with three daughters. These three daughters being at table one day, their father said: "Come now, let us see which of you three loves me." The oldest said: "Papa, I love you as much as my eyes." The second answered: "I love you as much as my heart." The youngest said: "I love you as much as water and salt." The king heard her with amazement: "Do you value me like water and salt? Quick! call the executioners, for I will have her killed immediately." The other sisters privately gave the executioners a little dog, and told them to kill it and rend one of the youngest sister's garments, but to leave her in a cave. This they did, and brought back to the king the dog's tongue and the rent garment: "Royal Majesty, here is her tongue and garment." And his Majesty gave them a reward. The unfortunate princess was found in the forest by a magician, who took her to his house opposite the royal palace. Here the king's son saw her and fell desperately in love with her, and the match was soon agreed upon. Then the magician came and said: "You must kill me the day before the wedding. You must invite three kings, your father the first. You must order the servants to pass water and salt to all the guests except your father." Now let us return to the father of this young girl, who the longer he lived the more his love for her increased, and he was sick of grief. When he received the invitation he said: "And how can I go with this love for my daughter?" And he would not go. Then he thought: "But this king will be offended if I do not go, and will declare war against me some time." He accepted and went. The day before the wedding they killed the magician and quartered him, and put a quarter in each of four rooms, and sprinkled his blood in all the rooms and on the stairway, and the blood and flesh became gold and precious stones. When the three kings came and saw the golden stairs, they did not like to step on them. "Never mind," said the prince, "go up: this is nothing." That evening they were married: the next day they had a banquet. The prince gave orders: "No salt and water to that king." They sat down at table, and the young queen was near her father, but he did not eat. His daughter said: "Royal Majesty, why do you not eat? Does not the food please you?" "What an idea! It is very fine." "Why don't you eat then?" "I don't feel very well." The bride and groom helped him to some bits of meat, but the king did not want it, and chewed his food over and over again like a goat (as if he could eat it without salt!). When they finished eating they began to tell stories, and the king told them all about his daughter. She asked him if he could still recognize her, and stepping out of the room put on the same dress she wore when he sent her away to be killed. "You caused me to be killed because I told you I loved you as much as salt and water: now you have seen what it is to eat without salt and water." Her father could not say a word, but embraced her and begged her pardon. They remained happy and contented, and here we are with nothing. * * * * * A Venetian version (Bernoni, No. 14) is translated in the _Cornhill Magazine_, July, 1875, p. 80, a Bolognese version may be found in Coronedi-Berti, No. 5, and from the Abruzzi in Finamore, Nos. 18, 26. Compare also _Pomiglianesi_, p. 42. For transmutation of magician's body see _Zoöl. Myth._ I. p. 123, Benfey, _Pant._ I. pp. 477, 478, Ralston, _R. F. T._ p. 223, and _Indian Fairy Tales_, p. 164. Other Sicilian versions are in Gonz., Nos. 48, 49. A Neapolitan is in _Pent._ V. 8; a Mantuan, in _Fiabe Mant._ No. 16; a Tuscan, in _Archivio per le Trad. pop._ I. p. 44, and one from the Abruzzi in _Archivio_, III. 546. The same story is in Grimm, Nos. 11 and 141. "The Little Brother and Sister" and "The Little Lamb and the Little Fish." See also Hahn, No. 1. The latter part of the story is connected with "False Bride." See note 21 of this chapter. [11] Other Italian versions are: Pitrè, No. 20; _Pent._ II. 1; _Pomiglianesi_, pp. 121, 130, 136, 188, 191; Busk, p. 3; _Nov. fior._ p. 209; Gargiolli, No. 2; _Fiabe Mant._ No. 20; Bernoni, No. 12; _Archivio_, I. 525 (Tuscan), III. 368 (Abruzzi), and De Nino, XX. Some points of resemblance are found also in _Pent._ V. 4; Coronedi-Berti, No. 8; and Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 12. Other stories in which children are promised to ogre, demon, etc., are to be found in Pitrè, No. 31, Widter-Wolf, No. XIII., and in the various versions of the story of "Lionbruno." See Chap. II., note 13. For other European versions of the story in the text, see Ralston's _R. F. T._ p. 141; Grimm, No. 12, "Rapunzel," and _Basque Legends_, p. 59. For child promised to demon, see _Romania_, No. 28, p. 531; Grimm, Nos. 31 ("The Girl Without Hands") 55, ("Rumpelstiltskin") 92, ("The King of the Golden Mountain"), and 181 ("The Nix of the Mill-Pond"). See also Hahn, I. p. 47, No. 8. Some of the incidents of this story are found in those belonging to other classes. The girl's face changed to that of dog, etc., is in Comparetti, No. 3 (furnished with a long beard), and Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 1, _Pent._ I. 8 (goat), Nerucci, Nos. 30 (sheep's neck), 37 (buffalo), and _Nov. pop. toscani_, in _Archivio per la Trad. pop._ No. 1 (goat). For "flight and obstacles," see _Nov. fior._ pp. 12, 415, _Pent._ II. 1, and stories cited by Pitrè in his notes to No. 13, also note 25 to this chapter, _Basque Legends_, p. 120, _Orient und Occident_, II. p. 103, and Brueyre, p. 111. For "ladder of hair," see _Pomiglianesi_, p. 126. [12] Other Italian versions are: _Pent._ I, 9; Gonz., Nos. 39, 40; Comparetti, No. 46 (Basilicata); De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, Nos. 17, 18; Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 22; De Nino LXV.; _Nov. fior_, pp. 375, 387 (Milan); Coronedi-Berti, No. 16; _Fiabe Mant._ No. 19; and Schneller, No. 28. This story, as far as the two brothers (not born miraculously) and liberation of princess are concerned, is in _Pent._ I. 7, and Widter-Wolf, No. 8. References to other European versions may be found in the _Romania_, Nos. 19, pp. 336, 339; 28, p. 563; 32, p. 606: _Orient und Occident_, II. p. 115 (Köhler to Campbell, No. 4), and Bladé, _Agenais_, No. 2 (p. 148). As regards the separate traits, as usual many of them are found in other classes of stories: the cloud occurs in Comp., No. 40; children born from fish, De Gub., _Zoöl. Myth._ II. 29; for sympathetic objects and life-giving ointment, see last two stories. For "kindness to animals," and "thankful beasts," see _Fiabe Mant._ Nos. 37, 26, Gonz., No. 6, and the stories belonging to the class "Giant with no heart in his body" mentioned below. The gratitude and help of an animal form the subject of some independent stories, _e. g._, Strap. III. 1; _Pent._ I. 3; and Gonz., No. 6, above mentioned; and are also found in the formula "Animal Brothers-in-law." See note 23. For European versions see _Orient und Occident_, II. p. 101; Brueyre, p. 98; Ralston, _R. F. T._ p. 98; Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 193 _et seq._; _Basque Legends_, p. 81, and _Zoöl. Myth._ I. p. 197; II. 45. For transformation into statues, see stories mentioned in note 10, Bernoni, _Punt._ III. p. 89, _Nov. fior._ p. 112, and Ortoli, pp. 10, 34. The most interesting episode, however, is that of "Magician (or Giant) with no heart in his body" (see Chap. III., note 8), which is in the following Italian tales: Pitrè, No. 81, Busk, p. 158; _Nov. fior._ pp. 7, 347; Gonz., Nos. 6, 16; _Fiabe Mant._ No. 37; and _Pomiglianesi_, No. 2, p. 21 (v. p. 41). For other references, see _Basque Legends_, p. 83; Brueyre, pp. 81-83; Ralston, _R. F. T._, Am. ed., pp. 119-125; _Orient und Occident_, II. p. 101; Hahn, I. p. 56, No. 31; and _Romania_, No. 22, p. 234. See also note 18 of this chapter. The story in our text is not a good example of Hahn's Form. 13, "Andromeda, or Princess freed from Dragon." Some of the other stories cited are much better, notably Widter-Wolf, No. 8, Gonz., Nos. 39, 40, and also Strap., X. 3, and Schneller, No. 39. Hahn's Danaë Form. 12 is represented by _Nov. tosc._ No. 30. The allied myth of Medusa by _Nov. tosc._ No. 1, and _Archivio_, I. p. 57. [13] Versions of this wide-spread story are in Pitrè, _Otto Fiabe_, No. 1; Gonz., Nos. 58, 59, 61, 62, 63 (partly), and 64; Köhler, _Italien Volksm._ (Sora) No. 1, "_Die drei Brüder und die drei befreiten Königstochter_" (_Jahrb._ VIII. p. 241); Widter-Wolf, No. 4 (_Jahrb._ VII. p. 20); Schneller, No. 39; _Nov. fior._ p. 70, and De Gub., _Zoöl. Myth._ II. 187 (Tuscan). Part of our story is also found in Schneller, pp. 188-192, and Pitrè, Nos. 83, 84 (var.). To these references, which are given by Pitrè, may be added the following: Comparetti, Nos. 19 (Monferrato) partly, 35 (Monferrato), and 40 (Pisa); De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 19; _Fiabe Mant._ Nos. 18, 32 (the latter part), 49 (partly); _Tuscan Fairy Tales_, No. 3; Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 29; and _Nov. tosc._ No. 3. The trait "underground world" is also found in Busk, p. 141. These stories illustrate sufficiently Hahn's Form. 40, "Descent into the Nether World." [14] To the stories in Note 13 containing "liberation of hero by eagle" may be added Comparetti, No. 24 (Monferrato). See in general: De Gub., _Zoöl. Myth._ II. 186; Benfey, _Pant._ I. pp. 216, 388; _Rivista Orientale_, I. p. 27; _Orient und Occident_, II. p. 299; and _Basque Legends_, p. 110. [15] Another version from Avellino is in the same collection, p. 201. Other Italian versions are: Pitrè, No. 79; Gonz., No. 51; De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 20; De Nino, No. 2; Comparetti, No. 28 (Monferrato); Ive, _Fiabe pop. rovignesi_, p. 20; No. 3, "_El Pumo de uoro_;" Schneller, No. 51; and Corazzini, p. 455 (Benevento). In general see Ive's and Köhler's notes to stories above cited, and _Romania_, No. 24, p. 565. The corresponding Grimm story is No. 28, "The Singing Bone." [16] Other Italian versions are: Pitrè, Nos. 41, 42; _Pent._ I. 6; Busk, pp. 26, 31; Comp., No. 23 (Pisa); _Fiabe Mant._ No. 45; _Nov. fior._ p. 162 (Milan); Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. II.; and _Archivio_, II. 185 (Sardinia). Schneller, No. 24, and Bernoni, No. 8, are connecting links between "Cinderella" and "Allerleirauh." In the former, Cinderella's father asks his three daughters what present he shall make them. Cinderella asks for a sword, and shortly after leaves her home and obtains a situation in a city as servant. In the palace opposite lives a young count, with whom Cinderella falls in love. She obtains a situation in his house. Her sword, which is enchanted, gives her beautiful dresses, and she goes to the balls as in the other versions. The third evening the count slips a costly ring on her finger, which Cinderella uses to identify herself with. Bernoni, No. 8, is substantially the same. After the death of their mother and father Cinderella's sisters treat her cruelly, and she obtains a place as servant in the king's palace, and is aided by the fairies, who take pity upon her. She is identified by means of a ring, and also by her diamond slipper, which she throws to the servants, who are following her to see where she lives. European versions will be found in the notes to Grimm, No. 21 ("Cinderella"), and W. R. S. Ralston's article, "Cinderella," in the _Nineteenth Century_, November, 1879. [17] Other Italian versions are: Pitrè, No. 43; Gonz., 38; _Pent._ II. 6; Busk, pp. 66, 84, 90, 91; Comparetti, No. 57. (Montale); De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 3 (see also _Rivista di Lett. Pop._ I. p. 86); Gradi, _Saggio_, p. 141; _Fiabe Mant._ No. 38; _Nov. fior._ p. 158 (Milan), Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 3; De Nino, No. 17, and _Archivio_, I. 190 (Tuscany), II. 26 (Sardinia). Straparola, I. 4, contains the first part of our story, which is also partly found in Coronedi-Berti, No. 3, and Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 13. The gifts, which in the story in the text are given the day of the wedding, in the other versions are bestowed before marriage by father, in order to overcome daughter's opposition. The recognition by means of ring is found in the last two stories mentioned in Note 16, in _Fiabe Mant._ No. 38, above cited, and _Nov. fior._ p. 158 (Milan). See also Grimm, Nos. 93 ("The Raven"), 101 ("Bearskin"); Hahn, No. 25; Asbj., No. 71 (_Tales from the Field_, p. 130); and _Romania_, No. 23, p. 359. Other European versions of our story will be found mentioned in the notes to Grimm, No. 65 ("Allerleirauh"), to Gonz., No. 38 (II. 229); _Orient und Occident_, II. 295; D'Ancona, _Sacre Rappresent._ III. 238; _Romania_, No. 24, 571; _Basque Legends_, p. 165, and Ralston's _R. F. T._ p. 159. [18] See Gonz., No. 26, and Widter-Wolf, No. 8 (_Jahrb._ VII. p. 128). For story in general, see notes to stories just cited, and Cox, _Aryan Myth._ vol. I. p. 224; II. p. 261, "The Myth of Nisos and Skylla;" Hahn, I. p. 52; and De Gub., _Zoöl. Myth._ I. p. 211 _et seq._ [19] Pitrè, in his notes to No. 71, gives two variants of his story, and mentions a Piedmontese version yet unpublished. Comparetti, No. 54, an analysis of which is given in the text, represents sufficiently Hahn's Form. No. 37, "Strong Hans." [20] In the version in _Pent._ IV. 8, after the seven sons have disappeared, their sister goes in search of them, finds them, and they all live happily together until by her fault they are changed into doves, and she is obliged to go to the house of the Mother of Time and learn from her the mode of disenchantment. In a story in Pitrè, No. 73, a husband threatens to kill his wife if she does not give birth to a male child. For other European versions of our story, see Grimm, No. 9, "The Twelve Brothers;" No. 25, "The Seven Ravens;" and No. 49, "The Six Swans;" _Mélusine_, p 419, and _Basque Legends_, p. 186. Part of the story in text belongs to the Geneviève formula, see notes 8, 10, of this chapter. [21] The first trait, "Two Sisters," is also found as an independent story, see Chap. II., p. 100, and note 2. "Substitution of false bride" is found without "Two Sisters" in Comp., Nos. 53 (Montale) and 68 (Montale); _Fiabe Mant._ No. 16; and Gradi, _Saggio_, p. 141. See note 10 of this chapter. The best example of "substitution" is, as we have said before, Grimm, No. 89, "The Goose-Girl;" see also _Romania_, No. 24, p. 546. The same trait is found also in a very extensive and interesting class of stories which may be termed, from the usual titles of the stories, "The Three Citrons," some of the versions of which belong to "Forgotten Bride." We give here, however, a version belonging to the class above-mentioned, and which we have taken, on account of its rarity, from Ive, _Fiabe pop. rovignesi_, p. 3. XXIV. THE LOVE OF THE THREE ORANGES. Once upon a time there was a king and queen who had a half-witted son. The queen was deeply grieved at this, and she thought to go to the Lord and ask counsel of him what she was to do with this son. The Lord told her to try and do something to make him laugh. She replied: "I have nothing but a jar of oil, unfortunately for me!" The Lord said to her: "Well, give this oil away in charity, for there will come many people; some bent, some straight, some humpbacked, and it may happen that your son will laugh." So the queen proclaimed that she had a jar of oil, and that all could come and take some. And everybody, indeed, hurried there and took the oil down to the last drop. Last of all came an old witch, who begged the queen to give her a little, saying: "Give me a little oil, too!" The queen replied: "Ah, it is all gone, there is no more!" The queen was angry and full of spite because her son had not yet laughed. The old witch said again to the queen: "Let me look in the jar!" The queen opened the jar, and the old woman got inside of it and was all covered with the dregs of the oil; and the queen's son laughed, and laughed, and laughed. The old woman came out, saw the prince laughing, and said to him: "May you never be happy until you go and find the Love of the three Oranges." The son, all eager, said to his mother: "Ah, mother, I shall have no more peace until I go and find the Love of the three Oranges." She answered: "My dear son, how will you go and find the Love of the three Oranges?" But he would go; so he mounted his horse and rode and rode and rode until he came to a large gate. He knocked, and some one within asked: "Who is there?" He replied: "A soul created by God." The one within said: "In all the years that I have been here no one has ever knocked at this gate." The prince repeated: "Open, for I am a soul created by God!" Then an old man came down and opened the gate. He had eyelids that reached to his feet, and he said: "My son, take down those little forks, and lift up my eyelids." The prince did so, and the old man asked: "Where are you going, my son, in this direction?" "I am going to find the Love of the three Oranges." The old man answered: "So many have gone there and never returned! Do you wish not to return, too? My son, take these twigs: you will meet some witches who are sweeping out their oven with their hands; give them these twigs, and they will let you pass." The prince very gratefully took the twigs, mounted his horse and rode away. He journeyed a long time, and at last saw in the distance the witches of immense size who were coming towards him. He threw them the twigs, and they allowed him to pass. He continued his journey, and arrived at a gate larger than the first. Here the same thing occurred as at the first one, and the old man said: "Well! since you will go, too, take these ropes, on your way you will encounter some witches drawing water with their tresses; throw them these ropes, and they will let you pass." Everything happened as the old man said; the prince passed the witches, continued his journey and came to a third gate larger than the second. Here an old man with eyelids longer than the other two gave him a bag of bread, and one of tallow, saying: "Take this bag of bread; you will meet some large dogs; throw them the bread and they will let you pass; then you will come to a large gate with many rusty padlocks; then you will see a tower, and in it the Love of the three Oranges. When you reach that place, take this tallow and anoint well the rusty padlocks; and when you have ascended the tower, you will find the oranges hanging from a nail. There you will also find an old woman who has a son who is an ogre and has eaten all the Christians who have come there; you see, you must be very careful!" The prince, well contented, took the bag of bread and the tallow and rode away. After a long journey, he saw at a distance, three great dogs with their mouths wide open coming to eat him. He threw them the bread, and they let him pass. He journeyed on until he came to another large gate with many rusty padlocks. He dismounted, tied his horse to the gate, and began to anoint the locks with the tallow, until, after much creaking, they opened. The prince entered, saw the tower, went up and met an old woman who said to him: "Dear son, where are you going? What have you come here for? I have a son who is an ogre, and will surely eat you up." While she was uttering these words, the son arrived. The old woman made the prince hide under the bed; but the ogre perceived that there was some one in the house, and when he had entered, he began to cry:-- "_Geîn geîn_, I smell a Christian, _Giàn giàn_, I smell a Christian!" "Son," his mother said, "there is no one here." But he repeated his cry. Then his mother, to quiet him, threw him a piece of meat, which he ate like a madman; and while he was busy eating, she gave the three oranges to the prince, saying: "Take them, my son, and escape at once, for he will soon finish eating his meat, and then he will want to eat you, too." After she had given him the three oranges, she repented of it, and not knowing what else to do, she cried out: "Stairs, throw him down! lock, crush him!" They answered: "We will not, for he gave us tallow!" "Dogs, devour him!" "We will not, for he gave us bread!" Then he mounted his horse and rode away, and the old woman cried after him: "Witch, strangle him!" "I will not, for he gave me ropes!" "Witch, kill him!" "I will not, for he gave me twigs!" The prince continued his journey, and on the way became very thirsty, and did not know what to do. Finally he thought of opening one of the oranges. He did so, and out came a beautiful girl, who said to him: "Love, give me to drink!" He replied: "Love, I have none!" And she said: "Love, I shall die!" And she died at once. The prince threw away the orange, and continued his journey, and soon became thirsty again. In despair he opened another orange, and out sprang another girl more beautiful than the first. She, too, asked for water, and died when the prince told her he had none to give her. Then he continued his way, saying: "The next time I surely do not want to lose her." When he became thirsty again, he waited until he reached a well; then he opened the last orange and there appeared a girl more beautiful than the first two. When she asked for water, he gave her the water of the well; then took her out of the orange, put her on horseback with himself, and started for home. When he was nearly there, he said to her: "See, I will leave you here for a time under these two trees;" one had leaves of gold and silver fruit, and the other gold fruit and silver leaves. Then he made her a nice couch, and left her resting between the two trees. "Now," said he, "I must go to my mother to tell her that I have found you, then I will come for you and we shall be married!" Then he mounted his horse and rode away to his mother. Now while he was gone an old witch approached the girl and said: "Ah, dear daughter, let me comb your hair." The young girl replied: "No, the like of me do not wish it." Again she said: "Come, my dear daughter, let me comb you!" Tired of being asked so often by the old woman, the girl at last allowed her to comb her hair, and what did that monster of an old witch take it into her head to do. She stuck a pin through the girl's temples from side to side, and the girl at once was changed into a dove. What did this wretch of an old woman then do? She got into the couch in the place of the young girl, who flew away. Meanwhile the prince reached his mother's house, and she said to him: "Dear son, where have you been? how have you spent all this time?" "Ah, my mother," said he "what a lovely girl I have for my wife!" "Dear son, where have you left her?" "Dear mother, I have left her between two trees, the leaves of one are of gold and the fruit is silver, the leaves of the other one are silver and the fruit gold." Then the queen gave a grand banquet, invited many guests, and made ready many carriages to go and bring the young girl. They mounted their horses, they entered their carriages, they set out, but when they reached the trees they saw the ugly old woman, all wrinkled, in the couch between the trees, and the white dove on top of them. The poor prince, you can imagine it! was grieved to the heart, and ashamed at seeing the ugly old woman. His father and mother, to satisfy him, took the old woman, put her in a carriage, and carried her to the palace, where the wedding-feast was prepared. The prince was downhearted, but his mother said to him: "Don't think about it, my son, for she will become beautiful again." But her son could not think of eating or of talking. The dinner was brought on and the guests placed themselves at the round table. Meanwhile, the dove flew up on the kitchen balcony, and began to sing: "Let the cook fall asleep, Let the roast be burned, Let the old witch be unable to eat of it." The guests waited for the cook to put the roast on the table. They waited, and waited and waited, and at last they got up and went to the kitchen, and there they found the cook asleep. They called and called him, and at last he awoke, but soon became drowsy again. He said he did not know what was the matter with him, but he could not stand up. He put another roast on the spit, however. Then the dove again flew on the balcony and sang: "Let the cook fall asleep, Let the roast be burned, Let the old witch be unable to eat of it." Again the guests waited until they grew weary, and then the groom went to see what was the matter. He found the cook asleep again, and said: "Cook, good cook, what is the matter with you that you sleep?" Then the cook told him that there was a dove that flew on the balcony and repeated:-- "Let the cook fall asleep, Let the roast be burned, Let the old witch be unable to eat of it."-- and that he was immediately seized with drowsiness, and fell asleep at once. The bridegroom went out on the balcony, saw the dove, and said to it: "_Cuócula_, pretty _cuócula_, come here and let me see you!" The dove came near him and he caught it, and while he was caressing it he saw the pins planted in its head, one in its forehead, and one in each of its temples. What did he do? He pulled out the pin in the forehead! Then he caressed it again, and pulled out the pins from its temples. Then the dove became a beautiful girl, more beautiful than she was before, and the prince took her to his mother and said: "Here, my mother, this is my bride!" His mother was delighted to see the beautiful girl, and the king, too, was well pleased. When the old witch saw the girl, she cried: "Take me away, take me away, I am afraid!" Then the fair girl told the whole secret how it was. The guests who were present wished to give their opinions as to what should be done with the old woman. One of the highest rank said: "Let her be well greased, and burned!" "Bravo, bravo!" exclaimed the others, "burn her; she must be burned!" So they seized the old woman, had wood brought, and burned her in the midst of the city. Then they returned home, and had a finer wedding than before. * * * * * The following are the Italian versions of the above: _Pent._ IV. 9; Pitrè, _Otto Fiabe_, II. "_La Bella di li setti Citri_;" Gonz., No. 13; Busk, p. 15; _Nov. fior._ pp. 305, 308 (Milan); Comparetti, No. 68 (also in Nerucci, p. 111); De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, Nos. 4, 5; Prato, _Quattro nov. pop. livornesi_, No. 1; _Archivio_, I. 525 (Tuscan); II. 204 (Sardinian); Piedmontese in Mila y Fontanals _Observaciones sobre la poesia popular_, Barcelona, 1853, p. 179; Coronedi-Berti, No. 11; Corazzini (Benevento), p. 467; and Schneller, No. 19. Part of our story is the same as Pitrè, No. 13, "Snow-white-fire-red," given in full in our text. See also Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 15. Copious references to other European versions will be found in the notes of Ive, Köhler, etc., to the above versions; to these may be added, _Lo Rondallayre_, Nos. 18, 37, Liebrecht to Simrock's _Deut. Märchen_ in _Orient und Occident_, III. p. 378 (Kalliopi), No. 3, and _Indian Fairy Tales_, pp. 253, 284. [22] See _Pent._ IV. 7; Gonz., Nos. 33, 34; Pitrè, Nos. 59, 60 (61); _Archivio_, II. 36 (Sardinia); De Nino, No. 19; and Schneller, No. 22. The corresponding Grimm story is No. 135, "The White Bride and the Black One." For other European references, see Köhler to Gonz., Nos. 33, 34 (II. p. 225), and _Romania_, No. 24, pp. 546, 561. See also Chapter II., note 1. [23] The best version is in the _Pent._ IV. 3, where the three daughters are married to a falcon, a stag, and a dolphin, who, as in our story, assist their brother-in-law, but are disenchanted without his aid. Other Italian versions are: Pitrè, No. 16, and _Nov. pop. sicil._, Palermo, 1873, No. 1; Gonz., No. 29; Knust (Leghorn), No. 2 (_Jahrb._ VII. 384); Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 23; _Nov. fior._ p. 266; Comparetti, Nos. 4, 58; _Archivio_, II, p. 42 (Tuscan); _Nov. tosc._ No. 11. For other European versions see, besides references in notes to above stories, Hahn, No. 25; Grimm, vol. II. p. 510, to Musäus' "_Die drei Schwestern_," and No. 197, "The Crystal Ball;" Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 534; and Ralston, _R. F. T._ p. 96. See also note 12 of this chapter. As usual, many of the incidents of our stories are found in those belonging to other classes; among the most important are: Prince hidden in musical instrument, Pitrè, No. 95; finding princess' place of concealment, Pitrè, Nos. 95, 96; Gonz., No. 68; and Grimm, No. 133; "The Shoes which were danced to Pieces;" princess recognized among others dressed alike, or all veiled; _Nov. fior._ p. 411 (Milan); Grimm, No. 62, "The Queen Bee," Ralston, _R. F. T._ p. 141, note; _Basque Legends_, p. 125; _Orient und Occident_, II. pp. 104, 107-114; tasks set hero to win wife, Pitrè, Nos. 21, 95, 96; Gonz., No. 68; De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 8; _Basque Legends_, p. 120; _Orient und Occident_, II. 103; and _Romania_, No. 28, p. 527. This last incident is found also in "Forgotten Bride," see note 25 of this chapter. [24] For other European references to the first class, "riddle solved by suitor," see _Jahrb._ V. 13; Grimm, No. 114, "The Cunning Little Tailor," and Hahn, I. p. 54. Other Italian versions of the second class are: Comparetti, Nos. 26 (Basilicata), 59 (Monferrato); Nerucci, p. 177 (partly); and Widter-Wolf, No. 15 (_Jahrb._ VII. 269). See also Köhler's notes to last-mentioned story, and also to Campbell, No. 22, in _Orient und Occident_, II. 320; Grimm, No. 22, "The Riddle;" and Prof. F. J. Child, _English and Scottish Popular Ballads_, Part II. p. 414. For other stories containing riddles belonging to other classes than the above, see Bernoni, _Punt._ II. p. 54; Gradi, _Vigilia_, p. 8; Corazzini, p. 432; Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 7; and Köhler's article, _Das Räthselmärchen von dem ermordeten Geliebten_ in the _Rivista di Lett. pop._ I. p. 212. A peculiar version of the second class may be found in Ortoli, p. 123, where a riddle very much like the one in the text is proposed by suitor to princess' father. [25] Other Italian versions are: Gonz., Nos. 14, 54, 55; _Pent._ II. 7, III. 9 (forgets bride on touching shore); _Pomiglianesi_, p. 136 (the first part belongs to the class of "Fair Angiola;") Busk, p. 3 (first part same as last story); De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 5 (see also _Rivista di Lett. pop._ I. p. 84); Coronedi-Berti, No. 13 (this is one of the few "Three Citrons" stories containing episode of bride forgotten at mother's kiss); Schneller, No. 27; Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 4 (mother's kiss); Pitrè, vol. IV. p. 285, gives an Albanian version of our story. The imprecation and mother's kiss are also found in another of the "Three Citrons" stories, Gonz., No. 13. For obstacles to flight, see Note 11 of this chapter. For other European versions see Köhler's notes to Gonz., No. 14; to Campbell, No. 2 (_Orient und Occident_, II. 103); to Kreutzwald-Löwe, No. 14; Hahn, I. p. 55; _Romania_, Nos. 19, p. 354, 20, p. 527; Grimm, Nos. 56, ("Sweetheart Roland"), 113 ("The Two Kings' Children"), 186 ("The True Bride"), 193 ("The Drummer;") _Basque Legends_, p. 120; Ralston, _R. F. T._ pp. 119, 131; Brueyre, p. 111; and B. Schmidt, _Griechische Märchen, Sagen und Volkslieder_, Leipzig, 1877, cited by Cosquin, _Romania_, No. 28, p. 543. See also in general, Cox, _Aryan Myth._ I. p. 158. [26] The same incident is found in Gonz., No. 6, and Pitrè, No. 61. See Köhler's notes to Gonz., No. 6; Grimm, No. 193 ("The Drummer"); _Romania_, No. 28, p. 527; and Hahn, No. 15. [27] Another Venetian version is in Bernoni, No. 3. See also _Nov. fior._ p. 290; Gradi, _Vigilia_, p. 53; _Fiabe Mant._ No. 39; and Schneller, No. 32. For other European versions, see Grimm, No. 46 ("Fitcher's Bird"), Köhler's notes to Widter-Wolf, No. 11 (_Jahrb._ VII. 148); and Ralston, _R. F. T._ p. 97. [28] See Pitrè, No. 19, _Nuovo Saggio_, No. 4; _Nov. fior._ pp. 7, 12; and Nerucci, No. 49. Compare also Gonz., Nos. 10 and 22 (already mentioned, "The Robber who had a Witch's Head"), and Comparetti, No. 18 (Pisa). For other references to this class, see Grimm, No. 40 ("The Robber-Bridegroom") and _Romania_, No. 22, p. 236. [29] See Chap. II., note 4. For other references to this class, see Grimm, No. 3 ("Our Lady's Child"), and _Romania_, No. 28, p. 568. [30] The seventh version is from Bologna and is entitled _La Fola dêl Muretein_ ("The Story of the Little Moor"), and was published by Coronedi-Berti in the _Rivista Europea_, Florence, 1873. It is briefly as follows: A queen has no children and visits a witch who gives her an apple to eat, telling her that in due time she will bear a son. One of the queen's maids eats the peel and both give birth to sons; the maid's being called the Little Moor from resembling the dark red color of the apple peel. The two children grow up together, and when the prince goes off on his travels his friend the little Moor accompanies him. They spend the night in an enchanted castle and the friend hears a voice saying that the prince will conquer in a tournament and marry the king's daughter, but on their wedding night a dragon will devour the bride, and whoever tells of it will become marble. The friend saves the princess' life, but is thrown into prison, and when he exculpates himself becomes marble. He can only be restored to life by being anointed with the blood of a cock belonging to a wild man (_om salvadgh_) living on a certain mountain. The prince performs the difficult feat of stealing the cock and healing his friend. For other European versions, see Grimm, No. 6 ("Faithful John"); Hahn, No. 29; Wolf, _Proben Port. und Cat. Volksm._ p. 52; _Lo Rondallayre_, No. 35 ("_Lo bon criat_"); _Old Deccan Days_, p. 98; and in general, Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 417, and Köhler in _Weimarische Beiträge zur Lit. und Kunst_, Weimar, 1865, p. 192 _et seq._ [31] See Pitrè, vol. I. pp. xcix., ciii.; IV. pp. 382, 430, and Comparetti, No. 44. A version from the Abruzzi may be found in Finamore, No. 38. See also Grimm, No. 191 ("The Robber and his Sons"); _Basque Legends_, p. 4; _Dolopathos_ ed. Oesterley, pp. xxii., 65; and in general, _Orient und Occident_, II. 120, and Benfey, _Pant._ I. 295. [32] Another Sicilian version is in Gonz., No. 83. Other versions are: _Pent._ III. 7; Nerucci, p. 341; De Nino, No. 30; _Fiabe Mant._ No. 4; _Nov. fior._ p. 340 (Milan); and Widter-Wolf, No. 9 (_Jahrb._ VII. p. 134). There are other similar stories in which a person is forced by those envious of him to undertake dangerous enterprises: see Pitrè, Nos. 34, 35; Comparetti, No. 16; _Tuscan Fairy Tales_, No. 8, De Nino, No. 39, etc. Strap., I. 2, also offers many points of resemblance to our story. For other versions, see Grimm, No. 192 ("The Master-Thief"), and Köhler's notes to Widter-Wolf, No. 9. [33] The version in _Nov. fior._ p. 574, is from Florence, the others, pp. 575 (the story in our text), 577, 578, 579, are from Milan, and closely resemble each other. [34] Compare Pitrè, No. 83, and De Nino, No. 43. Tyrolese versions are in Schneller, Nos. 53, 54. See also Widter-Wolf, No. 2 (_Jahrb._ VII. 13), and _Jahrb._ VIII. p. 246, _Italien. Märchen aus Sora_, No. 2. For additional European versions, see _Jahrb. ut supra_, and V. 7; _Romania_, Nos. 19, p. 350; 24, p. 562; 28, p. 556; and Grimm, Nos. 20 ("The Valiant Little Taylor"), and 183 ("The Giant and the Tailor") Some of the episodes mentioned in the text may be found in a Corsican story in Ortoli, p. 204, where, however, instead of a giant, a priest is outwitted by his servant. CHAPTER II. FAIRY TALES CONTINUED. [1] This story is found in the _Pent._ I. 10. In Schneller, No. 29, the king falls in love with a frog (from hearing its voice without seeing it) which is transformed by the fairies into a beautiful girl. The good wishes of the fairies are found in Pitrè, Nos. 61, 94. See also _Pent._ I. 3; III. 10, and Chap. I. of the present work, note 22. For gifts by the fairies, see Pitrè, vol. I. p. 334, and the following note. [2] This story is often found as an introduction to "False Bride;" see Chap. I., note 21. Sicilian versions may be found in Pitrè, Nos. 62, 63; Neapolitan, _Pent._ III. 10; from the Abruzzi in Finamore, No. 48; De Nino, No. 18; Tuscan, Gradi, _Vigilia_, p. 20, De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 1, _Zoöl. Myth._ II. p. 62, note, _Tuscan Fairy Tales_, pp. 9, 18, Corazzini, p. 409, _Nov. tosc._ No. 8, _La Tinchina dell' alto Mare_; Venetian, Bernoni, XIX.; and Tyrolese, Schneller, Nos. 7, 8. In several of the Tuscan versions (Gradi, _Zoöl. Myth., Tuscan Fairy Tales_, p. 9, and _Nov. fior._ p. 202, which is composed of "Two Sisters" and "True Bride") instead of fairies the sisters find cats who bestow the varying gifts. Other European versions of this story will be found in Grimm, No. 24, "Old Mother Holle;" Norwegian in Asbj. & Moe, No. 15; [Dasent, _Pop. Tales from the Norse_, p. 103, "The Two Step-Sisters"] French in Bladé, _Contes agen._ p. 149, and Cosquin, _Contes pop. lorrains_, No. 48 (_Romania_, No. 32, p. 564). The Oriental versions are mentioned by Cosquin in his notes to the last named story; see also Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 219. [3] Other Tuscan versions are in Gradi, _Saggio di Letture varie_, p. 125, and _Nov. tosc._ No. 22; Sicilian and Roman versions may be found in Pitrè, No. 64, and Busk, p. 96. French versions will be found in _Mélusine_, pp. 113 (_conte picard_) and 241 (_conte de l' Amiénois_). A Japanese version is given in the same periodical, p. 161. An Irish version is in Croker, _Fairy Legends_ etc. (translated in Brueyre, p. 206); and a Turkish version is given in _The Wonder World Stories_, New York, Putnam, 1877, p. 139. Other French and Oriental versions are noticed in _Mélusine_, pp. 161, 241. A somewhat similar German version is in Grimm, No. 182. "The Presents of the Little Folk." [4] This story somewhat resembles Gonz., No. 20, mentioned in Chap. I., note 29. Another Sicilian version is in Pitrè, No. 86. I have been unable to find any other Italian parallels. Personification of one's Fate maybe found in Gonz., Nos. 52, 55, Pitrè, No. 12; and of Fortune in Pitrè, No. 29, and Comparetti, No. 50. See _Indian Fairy Tales_, p. 263. [5] Sicilian versions are in Pitrè, No. 105, and Gonz., No. 18. In the latter version the king drives his daughter from the palace and the rejected suitor disguises himself, follows her, and marries her. A Neapolitan version is in the _Pent._ IV. 10; Tuscan in Gradi, _Vigilia_, p. 97; Nerucci, p. 211; and _Jahrb._ VII. p. 394 (Knust, No. 9). Other European versions are: Grimm No. 52, "King Thrushbeard;" Norwegian, Asbj. & Moe, No. 45, and Grundtwig, III. [1]; French, _Romania_, No. 32, p. 552 (_Contes pop. lorrains_, No. 45); and Greek, Hahn, No. 113. See also _Tibetan Tales_, London, 1882, Ralston's notes, p. lviii. [6] Other versions of this story are: Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 67, and Gonz., No. 28; Tuscan, _Archivio_, I. pp. 41, 65, _Nov. tosc._ No. 7, Abruzzi, De Nino, No. 1. For the first part of the story, see _Nov. fior._ pp. 332-333. [7] I have followed in this division Imbriani, _Pomiglianesi_, p. 89. [8] Another Sicilian version, which, however, does not contain the trait "cure by laughing," is in Pitrè, No. 28. Gonz., No. 30, may be mentioned here, as it contains a part of our story. The magic gifts in it are a carpet that transports the owner wherever he wishes to go, a purse always full, and a horn that when one blows in the little end covers the sea with ships, when one blows in the big end, the ships disappear. Neapolitan versions are in Imbriani, _Pomiglianesi_, pp. 62, 83; Roman in Busk, pp. 129, 136, comp. p. 146; and Tuscan in Frizzi, _Novella montanina_, Florence, A. Ciardelli e C. 1876, Nerucci, p. 471 _Archivio per le Trad. pop._ I. p. 57, and _Nov. tosc._ No. 16. De Gub., _Zoöl. Myth._ I. p. 288, n. 3, gives a version from the Marches, and there is a Bolognese version in Coronedi-Berti, No. 9. Other versions may be found in Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 30, and Bolognini, p. 21. For other European versions, see _Gesta Rom._ ed. Oesterley, cap. cxx.; Grimm, No. 122; Campbell, No. 10, "The Three Soldiers" (see Köhler's notes to this story in _Orient und Occident_, II. p. 124, and Brueyre, p. 138); Cosquin, _Contes pop. lorrains_, Nos. 11 (_Rom._ No. 19, p. 361) and 42 (_Rom._ No. 28, p. 581); and finally, Kreutzwald, _Ehstnische Märchen_, No. 23. Comp. also De Gub., _Zoöl. Myth._ I. p. 182, and Ralston's notes to Schiefner's _Tibetan Tales_, p. liv. [9] I have been unable to find any European parallels to this form of the story. [10] Another version of this story is found in the same collection, p. 359. Other Tuscan versions are found in De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 21, Gradi, _Saggio di Letture varie_, p. 181, _Nov. tosc._ No. 29, and Comparetti, No. 7 (Mugello). The other versions are as follows: Sicilian, Pitrè, No. 29 (comp. No. 30), Gonz., No. 52; Neapolitan, _Pent._ I. 1 (Comp. _Pomiglianesi_, p. 116); Abruzzi, Finamore, No. 37; De Nino, No. 6; Ortoli, pp. 171, 178; Venetian, Bernoni, No. 9; the Marches, Comp., No. 12; and Tyrolese, Schneller, p. 28. For the other European parallels, see Grimm, No. 36, "The Table, the Ass, and the Stick;" _Mélusine_ (_conte breton_), p. 130; Cosquin, _Contes pop. lorrains_, No. 14 (_Rom._ No. 19, p. 333); De Gub., _Zoöl. Myth._ II. p. 262 (Russian); Brueyre, p. 48 (B. Gould, Yorkshire, Appendix to Henderson's _Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties of England_); Asbj. & Moe, No. 7 [Dasent, _Pop. Tales from the Norse_, p. 261, "The Lad who went to the North Wind"], and _Old Deccan Days_, No. 12. [11] Another Sicilian version is in Gonz., No. 65, with same title and contents. A Neapolitan version is in the _Pent._ II. 4, where the fox is replaced by a cat. This is also the case in the versions from the Abruzzi, Finamore, No. 46, De Nino, No. 53; in the Florentine versions in _Nov. fior._ p. 145, _Nov. tosc._ No. xii. var.; and in the Tyrolese given by Schneller, p. 122 ("_Il Conte Martin dalla gatta_"). In another story in Schneller, p. 124 ("_L'Anello_"), a youth possesses a magic ring and a dog and cat which recover the ring when stolen from its owner. Older and more interesting than the above versions is the one in Straparola, XI. 1. We give it here in full in order that our readers may compare with it the version in our text and Perrault's "Puss in Boots," which is the form in which the story has become popular all over Europe. The following translation is from the edition of 1562 (Venice). XXXIV. PUSS IN BOOTS. SORIANA DIES AND LEAVES THREE SONS: DUSOLINO, TESIFONE, AND CONSTANTINE THE LUCKY, WHO, BY VIRTUE OF A CAT, ACQUIRES A POWERFUL KINGDOM. There was once in Bohemia a very poor lady named Soriana, who had three sons: one was called Dusolino, the other Tesifone, and the third Constantine the Lucky. She owned nothing valuable in the world but three things: a kneading-trough, a rolling-board, and a cat. When Soriana, laden with years, came to die, she made her last testament, and left to Dusolino, her eldest son, the kneading-trough, to Tesifone the rolling-board, and to Constantine the cat. When the mother was dead and buried, the neighbors, as they had need, borrowed now the kneading-trough, now the rolling-board; and because they knew that the owners were very poor, they made them a cake, which Dusolino and Tesifone ate, giving none to Constantine, the youngest brother. And if Constantine asked them for anything, they told him to go to his cat, which would get it for him. Wherefore poor Constantine and his cat suffered greatly. Now the cat, which was enchanted, moved to compassion for Constantine, and angry at the two brothers who treated him so cruelly, said: "Constantine, do not be downcast, for I will provide for your support and my own." And leaving the house, the cat went out into the fields, and, pretending to sleep, caught a hare that passed and killed it. Thence, going to the royal palace and seeing some of the courtiers, the cat said that she wished to speak with the king, who, when he heard that a cat wished to speak to him, had her shown into his presence, and asked her what she wished. The cat replied that her master, Constantine, had sent him a hare which he had caught. The king accepted the gift, and asked who this Constantine was. The cat replied that he was a man who had no superior in goodness, beauty, and power. Wherefore the king treated the cat very well, giving her to eat and drink bountifully. When the cat had satisfied her hunger, she slyly filled with her paw (unseen by any one) the bag that hung at her side, and taking leave of the king, carried it to Constantine. When the brothers saw the food over which Constantine exulted, they asked him to share it with them; but he refused, rendering them tit for tat. On which account there arose between them great envy, that continually gnawed their hearts. Now Constantine, although handsome in his face, nevertheless, from the privation he had suffered, was covered with scabs and scurf, which caused him great annoyance. But going with his cat to the river, she licked him carefully from head to foot, and combed his hair, and in a few days he was entirely cured. The cat (as we said above) continued to carry gifts to the royal palace, and thus supported her master. But after a time she wearied of running up and down so much, and feared that she would annoy the king's courtiers; so she said to her master: "Sir, if you will do what I order, I will make you rich in a short time." "How?" said her master. The cat replied: "Come with me, and do not ask any more, for I am ready to enrich you." So they went together to the stream, which was near the royal palace, and the cat stripped her master, and with his agreement threw him into the river, and then began to cry out in a loud voice: "Help! help! Messer Constantine is drowning." The king hearing this, and remembering that he had often received presents from him, sent his people at once to aid him. When Messer Constantine was taken out of the water and dressed in fine clothes, he was taken to the king, who received him cordially, and asked him why he had been thrown into the river. Constantine could not answer for grief; but the cat, which was always at his side, said: "Know, O king, that some robbers learned from spies that my master was loaded with jewels, which he was coming to present to you. They robbed him of all, and threw him into the river, thinking to kill him, but thanks to these gentlemen he has escaped from death." The king, hearing this, ordered that he should be well cared for; and seeing that he was handsome, and knowing him to be wealthy, he concluded to give him Elisetta, his daughter, for a wife, endowing her with jewels and most beautiful garments. After the wedding festivities had been ended, the king had ten mules loaded with money, and five with costly apparel, and sent his daughter to her husband's home, accompanied by a great retinue. Constantine, seeing that he had become so wealthy and honored, did not know where to lead his wife, and took counsel with his cat, which said: "Do not fear, my master, for we shall provide for everything." So they all set out gayly on horseback, and the cat ran hastily before them; and having left the company some distance behind, met some horsemen, to whom she said: "What are you doing here, wretched men? Depart quickly, for a large band of people are coming, and will take you prisoners. They are near by: you can hear the noise of the neighing horses." The horsemen said in terror: "What must we do, then?" The cat replied: "Do this,--if you are asked whose horsemen you are, answer boldly, Messer Constantine's, and you will not be molested." Then the cat went on, and found a large flock of sheep, and did the same with their owners, and said the same thing to all those whom she found in the road. The people who were escorting Elisetta asked the horsemen: "Whose knights are you," and "whose are so many fine flocks?" and all with one accord replied: "Messer Constantine's." Then those who accompanied the bride said: "So then, Messer Constantine, we are beginning to enter your territory." And he nodded his head, and replied in like manner to all that he was asked. Wherefore the company judged him to be very wealthy. At last the cat came to a very fine castle, and found there but few servants, to whom she said: "What are you doing, good men; do you not perceive the destruction which is impending?" "What?" asked the servants. "Before an hour passes, a host of soldiers will come here and cut you to pieces. Do you not hear the horses neighing? Do you not see the dust in the air? If you do not wish to perish, take my advice and you will be saved. If any one asks you whose this castle is, say, Messer Constantine's." So they did; and when the noble company reached the handsome castle they asked the keepers whose it was, and all answered boldly Messer Constantine the Lucky's. Then they entered, and were honorably entertained. Now the castellan of that place was Signor Valentino, a brave soldier, who, a short time before, had left the castle to bring home the wife he had lately married; and to his misfortune, before he reached the place where his wife was he was overtaken on the way by a sudden and fatal accident, from which he straightway died, and Constantine remained master of the castle. Before long, Morando, King of Bohemia, died, and the people elected for their king Constantine the Lucky because he was the husband of Elisetta, the dead king's daughter, to whom the kingdom fell by right of succession. And so Constantine, from being poor and a beggar, remained Lord and King, and lived a long time with his Elisetta, leaving children by her to succeed him in the kingdom. * * * * * For copious references to other European versions, see Köhler's notes to Gonz., No. 65 (II. p. 242), and Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 222. [12] The earliest Italian versions are in the _Cento nov. ant., Testo Papanti_ (_Romania_, No. 10, p. 191), and Straparola, XI. 2. Later popular versions, besides the Istrian one in the text, are: Nerucci, p. 430, and Bernoni, III. p. 91, both of which are much distorted. Some of the episodes are found in other stories, as, for instance, the division of the property, including the wife, which occurs in Gonz., No. 74. "The Thankful Dead" is also the subject of an Italian novel, _Novella di Messer Danese e di Messer Gigliotto_, Pisa, 1868 (privately printed), and of a popular poem, _Istoria bellissima di Stellante Costantina_ composta da Giovanni Orazio Brunetto. The extensive literature of this interesting story can best be found in D'Ancona's notes to the version in the _Cento nov. ant._, cited above. To these may be added: Ive's notes to the story in the text, Cosquin's notes to No. 19 of the _Contes pop. lorrains_ (_Rom._ No. 24, p. 534), and Nisard, _Hist. des Livres pop._ II. p. 450. Basque and Spanish versions have been published recently, the former in Webster's _Basque Legends_, pp. 146, 151, and the latter in Caballero, _Cuentos, oraciones_, etc., Leipzig, 1878, p. 23. A version from Mentone may be found in the _Folk-Lore Record_, vol. III. p. 48, "John of Calais." [13] In the original it is _la Voria_, which in Sicilian means "breeze," but I take it to be the same as _Boria_ in Italian (Lat. _Boreas -æ_), the North Wind. [14] Other Italian versions are: _Nov. fior._ p. 440; _Archivio_, III. 542 (Abruzzi); Pitrè, No. 31; _Tuscan Fairy Tales_, No. 10, p. 102; De Nino, No. 69; and Widter-Wolf, No. 10 (_Jahrbuch_, VII. 139). See also Prato, _Una nov. pop. monferrina_, Como, 1882; and Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, Nos. 17, 19. References to other European versions will be found in Köhler's notes to Widter-Wolf, No. 10. See also Grimm, No. 92; Ralston's _R. F. T._ p. 132, and Chap. I., note 11, of the present work. [15] A work of this kind, similar in scope to Nisard's _Hist. des Livres populaires_, is greatly to be desired, and ought to be undertaken before the great changes in the social condition of Italy shall have rendered such a task difficult, if not impossible. CHAPTER III. STORIES OF ORIENTAL ORIGIN. [1] There are three Italian translations of the _Pantschatantra_, all of the XVI. century. Two, _Discorsi degli Animali_, by Angelo Firenzuola, 1548, and _La Filosofia Morale_, by Doni, 1552, represent the Hebrew translation by Rabbi Joel (1250), from which they are derived through the _Directorium humanae vitae_ of Johannes de Capua (1263-78); the third, _Del Governo de' Regni_, by G. Nuti, 1583, is from the Greek version of Simeon Seth (1080). A full account of the various translations of the _Pantschatantra_ may be found in Max Müller's _Chips_, Vol. IV. p. 165, "The Migration of Fables." See also Benfey, _Pant._ I. pp. 1-19, _Buddhist Birth Stories_; or, _Jataka Tales_, By V. Fausböll and T. W. Rhys Davids, Boston, 1880, p. xciii., and Landau, _Die Quellen des Decamerone_, mentioned in the following note. _The Seven Wise Masters_ was also translated into Italian at an early date. One version, _Il Libro dei Sette Savj di Roma_, Pisa, 1864, edited by Prof. A. D'Ancona, is a XIII. century translation from a French prose version (Cod. 7974, _Bib. nat._); another, of the same date, _Storia d' una crudele Matrigna_, Bologna, 1862, is from an uncertain source, from which is probably derived a third version, _Il Libro dei Sette Savi di Roma tratto da un codice del secolo XIV._ per cura di Antonio Cappelli, Bologna, 1865. The MS. from which the version edited by Della Lucia in 1832 (reprinted at Bologna, 1862) was taken has been recently discovered and printed in _Operette inedite o rare, Libreria Dante_, Florence, 1883, No. 3. A fourth version of the end of the XIII. or the beginning of the XIV. century is still inedited, it is mentioned by D'Ancona in the _Libro dei Sette Savj_, p. xxviii., and its contents given. The latest and most curious version is _I Compassionevoli Avvenimenti di Erasto_, a work of the XVI. century (first edition, Venice, 1542) which contains four stories found in no other version of the Seven Wise Masters. The popularity of this version, the source of which is unknown, was great. See D'Ancona, _op. cit._, pp. xxxi.-xxxiv. The _Disciplina Clericalis_ was not known, apparently, in Italy as a collection, but the separate stories were known as early as Boccaccio, who borrowed the outlines of three of his stories from it (VII. 4; VIII. 10: X. 8). Three of the stories of the _Disc. Cler._ are also found in the Ital. trans. of Frate Jacopo da Cessole's book on Chess (_Volgarizzamento del libro de' Costumi e degli offizii de' nobili sopra il giuoco degli Scachi_, Milan, 1829) and reprinted in _Libro di Novelle Antiche_, Bologna, 1868, Novelle III., IV., and VI. This translation is of the XII. century. Other stories from the _Disc. Cler._ are found in the _Cento nov. ant._, Gualt., LIII., XXXI., LXVI., Borg., LXXIV. (_Cent. nov._, Biagi, pp. 226, 51, 58); and in Cintio, _Gli Ecatommiti_, I, 3; VII. 6. [2] It has been generally supposed that the Oriental element was introduced into European literature from Spain through the medium of the French. We shall see later that this was the case with the famous collection of tales just mentioned, the _Disciplina Clericalis_. Oriental elements are also found in the French _fabliaux_ which are supposed to have furnished Boccaccio with the plots of a number of his novels. See Landau, _Die Quellen des Decamerone_, 2d ed., Vienna, 1884, p. 107. Professor Bartoli in his _I Precursori del Boccaccio e alcune delle sue Fonti_, Florence, 1876, endeavors to show that Boccaccio may have taken the above mentioned novels from sources common to them and the French _fabliaux_. It is undeniable that there was in the Middle Ages an immense mass of stories common to the whole western world, and diffused by oral tradition as well as by literary means, and it is very unsafe to say that any one literary version is taken directly from another. Sufficient attention has not been paid to the large Oriental element in European entertaining literature prior to the Renaissance. In early Italian literature besides Boccaccio, the _Cento novelle antiche_ abound in Oriental elements. See D'Ancona, _Le Fonti del Novellino_, in the _Romania_, vol. III. pp. 164-194, since republished in _Studj di Critica e Storia Letteraria_, Bologna, 1880, pp. 219-359. [3] See Introduction, Notes 3, 7. [4] In the _Pantschatantra_ (Benfey's trans, vol. II. p. 120) this story is as follows: A merchant confides to a neighbor some iron scales or balances for safe-keeping. When he wishes them back he is told that the mice have eaten them up. The merchant is silent, and some time after asks his neighbor to lend him his son to aid him in bathing. After the bath the merchant shuts the boy up in a cave, and when the father asks where he is, is told that a falcon has carried him off. The neighbor exclaimed: "Thou liar, how can a falcon carry away a boy?" The merchant responded: "Thou veracious man! If a falcon cannot carry away a boy, neither can mice eat iron scales. Therefore give me back my scales if you desire your son." See also Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 283. La Fontaine has used the same story for his fable of _Le Dépositaire infidèle_ (livre IX. 1): see also references in _Fables inédites_, vol. II. p. 193. [5] The fables in Pitrè of non-Oriental origin may be mentioned here; they are: No. 271, "_Brancaliuni_," found also in Straparola, X. 2; No. 272, "The Two Mice," compare Aesop, ed. Furia, 198, and Schneller, No. 59; No. 274, "Wind, Water, and Honor," found in Straparola, XI. 2; No. 275, "Godfather Wolf and Godmother Fox"; No. 276, "The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox," Aesop, ed. Furia, 233; No. 277, "The Fox," see _Roman du Renart_, Paris, 1828, I. p. 129, and _Nov. tosc._ No. 69; No. 278, "L'Acidduzzu (Pretty Little Bird)," compare Asbj. & Moe, No. 42, Bernoni, _Punt._ III. p. 69, "_El Galo_," Nerucci, _Cincelle da Bambini_, p. 38; No. 279, "The Wolf and the Finch," Gonz., No. 66, _Nov. tosc._ No. 52 (add to Köhler's references: Asbj. & M., Nos. 42, 102, [Dasent, _Tales from the Fjeld_, p. 35, "The Greedy Cat,"] and Bernoni, _Punt._ III. p. 69); and finally No. 280, "The Cricket and the Ants," see Aesop, ed. Furia, 121, La Fontaine, _La Cigale et la Fourmi_, livre I. 1: see copious references in Robert, _Fables inédites_, I. p. 2. For Bernoni, III. p. 69, "_El Galo_," and Pitrè, No. 279, see Chap. V. pp. 270, 272. There are two fables in Coronedi-Berti's collection: No. 20: "_La Fola del Corov_," and No. 21, "_La Fola dla Vôulp_." The first is the well-known fable of the crow in the peacock's feathers; for copious references see Robert, _Fables inédites_, I. p. 247, to La Fontaine's _Le Geai paré des plumes du Paon_, livre IV, fab. IX., and Oesterley to Kirchhof's _Wendunmuth_, 7, 52. In the second fable the fox leaves her little ones at home, bidding them admit no one without a counter-sign. The wolf learns it from the simple little foxes themselves, gains admission, and eats two of them up. The mother takes her revenge in almost the same way as does the fox in Pitrè's fable, No. 277. [6] This fable is also found in Pitrè, No. 273, "The Man, the Wolf, and the Fox," and in Gonz., No. 69, "Lion, Horse, and Fox:" see Benfey, _Pant._ I. 113, and Köhler's references to Gonz., No. 69. There is also a version of this fable in Morosi, p. 75, which is as follows:-- XLIX. THE MAN, THE SERPENT, AND THE FOX. There was once a huntsman, who, in passing a quarry, found a serpent under a large stone. The serpent asked the hunter to liberate him, but the latter said: "I will not free you, for you will eat me." The serpent replied: "Liberate me, for I will not eat you." When the hunter had set the serpent at liberty, the latter wanted to devour him, but the hunter said: "What are you doing? Did you not promise me that you would not eat me?" The serpent replied that hunger did not observe promises. The hunter then said: "If you have no right to eat me, will you do it?" "No," answered the serpent. "Let us go, then," said the hunter, "and ask three times." They went into the woods and found a greyhound, and asked him, and he replied: "I had a master, and I went hunting and caught hares, and when I carried them home my master had nothing too good to give me to eat; now, when I cannot overtake even a tortoise, because I am old, my master wishes to kill me; for this reason I condemn you to be eaten by the serpent; for he who does good finds evil." "Do you hear? We have one judge," said the serpent. They continued their journey, and found a horse, and asked him, and he too replied that the serpent was right to eat the man, "for," he said, "I had a master, who fed me when I could travel; now that I can do so no longer, he would like to hang me." The serpent said: "Behold, two judges!" They went on, and found a fox. The huntsman said: "Fox, you must aid me. Listen: I was passing a quarry, and found this serpent dying under a large stone, and he asked aid from me, and I released him, and now he wants to eat me." The fox answered: "I will be the judge. Let us return to the quarry, to see how the serpent was." They went there, and put the stone on the serpent, and the fox asked: "Is that the way you were?" "Yes," answered the serpent. "Very well, then, stay so always!" said the fox. [7] The individual stories of the _Thousand and One Nights_ were known in Europe long before the collection, which was not translated into French until 1704-1717. This is shown by the fact that some of the XIII. century _fabliaux_ embody stories of the _Thousand and One Nights_. See Note 10. An interesting article by Mr. H. C. Coote on "Folk-Lore, the source of some of M. Galland's Tales," will be found in the _Folk-Lore Record_, vol. III. pp. 178-191. [8] The Sicilian versions are in Pitrè, No. 81. The version from Palermo, of which Pitrè gives only a _résumé_, is printed entire in F. Sabatini, _La Lanterna, Nov. pop. sicil._ Imola, 1878. The Roman version, "How Cajusse was married," is in Busk, p. 158; and the Mantuan in Visentini, No. 35. Tuscan versions may be found in the _Rivista di Lett. pop._ p. 267; De Nino, No. 5; and a version from Bergamo in the same periodical, p. 288. For the episode of the "Magician with no heart in his body," see Chap. I. note 12. [9] See Pitrè, No. 36, and Gonz., No. 5, with Köhler's copious references. As this story is found in Chap. I. p. 17, it is only mentioned here for the sake of completeness. There is another complete version of "The Forty Thieves" in Nerucci, No. 54, _Cicerchia, o i ventidua Ladri_. The thieves are twenty-two, and _cicerchia_ is the magic word that opens and shuts the robbers' cave. A version in Ortoli, p. 137, has seven thieves. [10] Pitrè, No. 164, "The Three Hunchbacks;" Straparola, V. 3. It is also found in the _fabliau_, _Les Trois Bossus_, Barbazan-Méon, III. 245; for copious references see Von der Hagen, _Gesammtabenteuer_, III. p. xxxv. _et seq._ Pitrè, No. 165, "_Fra Ghiniparu_," is a variation of the above theme, and finds its counterpart in the _fabliau_ of _Le Sacristain de Cluni_: see _Gesammtabenteuer_, _ut sup._ Other versions are in Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, No. 9, and _Nov. tosc._ No. 58. [11] The story is, properly speaking, in the introduction to the _Thousand and One Nights_: see Lane, _The Thousand and One Nights_, London, 1865, I. 10. See Straparola, XII. 3, and _Schmipf und Ernst_ von Johannes Pauli, herausgegeben von Hermann Oesterley (_Bibliothek des litt. Vereins_, LXXXV.), Stuttgart, 1866, No. 134, "_Ein bösz weib tugenhaft zemachen_." [12] For the first story, see _Thousand and One Nights_ (ed. Breslau), IX. 129; _Pent._ V. 7; Gonz., No. 45; Hahn, No. 47; and Grimm, No. 129. For the second, see _Thousand and One Nights_ (ed. Breslau), II. 196; ed. Lane, III. 41. [13] See Lane, I. 140, and, for the transformations, p. 156. This story is also in Straparola, VIII. 5. It is well known in the North of Europe from the Grimm tale (No. 68), "The Thief and his Master," To the references in Grimm, II. p. 431, may be added: _Revue Celtique_, I. 132, II.; Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 410; Brueyre, 253; Ralston, _R. F. T._ 229; Asbj. & M., No. 57 [Dasent, _Pop. Tales_, No. XXXIX.] (comp. Nos. 9, 46 [Dasent, _Pop. Tales_, Nos. XXIII., IX.]); Hahn, No. 68; Bernhauer, _Vierzig Viziere_, p. 195; _Orient und Occident_, II. 313; III. 374; Grundtvig, I. 248; Jülg, _Kalmükische Märchen, Einleitung_, p. 1; and F. J. Child, _English and Scottish Popular Ballads_, Part II. p. 399, "The Twa Magicians." [14] The principal sources of information in regard to the _Disciplina Clericalis_ and its author are the two editions of Paris and Berlin: _Disciplina Clericalis_: auctore Petro Alphonsi, Ex-Judæo Hispano, Parisiis, MDCCCXXIV. 2 vols. (Société des Bibliophiles français); Petri Alfonsi Disciplina Clericalis, zum ersten Mal herausgegeben mit Einleitung und Anmerkungen von Fr. Wilh. Val. Schmidt, Berlin, 1827. The first edition was edited by J. Labouderie, Vicar-general of Avignon, and as only two hundred and fifty copies were printed, it is now very scarce. Schmidt even had not seen it: and when he published his own edition, three years later, thought it the first. The Paris edition contains the best text, and has besides two Old-French translations, one in prose, the other in verse. The Berlin edition is, however, more valuable on account of the notes. [15] This is the story shortly after mentioned, Pitrè, No. 138, "The Treasure." The date of the _Cento nov. ant._ cannot be accurately fixed; the compilation was probably made at the end of the XIII. cent., although individual stories may be of an earlier date. [16] See _Disciplina Cler._ ed. Schmidt, pp. 63 and 142. For copious references see Oesterley's _Gesta Rom._ cap. 106. [17] There are several literary Italian versions of this story: one in Casalicchio, VI., I., VI.; and in Cintio, _Ecatommiti_, I. 3. There is another popular version in Imbriani's _Nov. fior._ p. 616, "The Three Friends." [18] See _Disc. Cler._ ed. Schmidt, pp. 50 and 128. The version in the _Cento nov. ant._ ed. Gualt, No. 31, is as follows: Messer Azzolino had a story-teller, whom he made tell stories during the long winter nights. It happened one night that the story-teller had a great mind to sleep, and Azzolino asked him to tell stories. The story-teller began to relate a story about a peasant who had a hundred bezants. He went to market to buy sheep, and had two for a bezant. Returning home with his sheep, a river that he had crossed was greatly swollen by a heavy rain that had fallen. Standing on the bank he saw a poor fisherman with an exceedingly small boat, so small that it would only hold the peasant and one sheep at a time. Then the peasant began to cross with one sheep, and began to row: the river was wide. He rows and crosses. And the story-teller ceased relating. Azzolino said: "Go on." And the story-teller answered: "Let the sheep cross, and then I will tell the story." For the sheep would not be over in a year, so that meanwhile he could sleep at his leisure. The story passed from the _Disc. Cler._ into the Spanish collection _El Libro de los Enxemplos_, No. 85. A similar story is also found in Grimm, No. 86, "The Fox and the Geese." [19] The word translated bank (_bancu_) is here used to indicate a buried treasure. The most famous of these concealed treasures was that of Ddisisa, a hill containing caves, and whose summit is crowned by the ruins of an Arab castle. This treasure is mentioned also in Pitrè, No. 230, "The Treasure of Ddisisa," where elaborate directions are given for finding it. [20] See Pitrè, vol. IV. p. 401, and _Nov. fior._ p. 572. [21] See _Disc. Cler._ ed. Schmidt, pp. 64 and 147, where the story is as follows: A certain tailor to the king had, among others, an apprentice named Nedui. On one occasion the king's officers brought warm bread and honey, which the tailor and his apprentices ate without waiting for Nedui, who happened to be absent. When one of the officers asked why they did not wait for Nedui, the tailor answered that he did not like honey. When Nedui returned, and learned what had taken place, he determined to be revenged; and when he had a chance he told the officer who superintended the work done for the king that the tailor often went into a frenzy and beat or killed the bystanders. The officer said that if they could tell when the attack was coming on, they would bind him, so that he could not injure any one. Nedui said it was easy to tell; the first symptoms were the tailor's looking here and there, beating the ground with his hands, and getting up and seizing his seat. The next day Nedui securely hid his master's shears, and when the latter began to look for them, and feel about on the floor, and lift up his seat, the officer called in the guard and had the tailor bound, and, for fear he should beat any one, soundly thrashed. At last the poor tailor succeeded in obtaining an explanation; and when he asked Nedui: "When did you know me to be insane?" the latter responded: "When did you know me not to eat honey?" See also references in Kirchhof's _Wendunmuth_, I. 243. [22] In the original the admonitions are in the form of a verse, as follows:-- "_Primu:_ Cu' cancia la via vecchia pi la nova, Le guai ch' 'un circannu ddà li trova. _Secunnu:_ Vidi assai e parra pocu. _Terzu:_ Pensa la cosa avanti chi la fai, Ca la cosa pinsata è bedda assai." [23] See _Disc. Cler._ ed. Schmidt, pp. 61 and 141. This story is also found in the _Gesta Romanorum_, cap. 103; Gonz., No. 81, where copious references by Oesterley and Köhler may be found; in Nerucci, No. 53; and in a distorted version in Ortoli, p. 118: see also _Giornale Napoletano della Domenica_, August 20, 1882; Pitrè, "_I Tre Pareri_," and _Notes and Queries_, London, February 7, March 14, 1885. [24] See Note 1 of this chapter. [25] In the original, what the husband, wife, and king, say, is in verse, as follows:-- "Vigna era e Vigna son, Amata era e più non son; E non so per qual cagion, Che la Vigna à perso la so stagion." "Vigna eri e Vigna sei, Amata eri e più non sei: Per la branca del leon La Vigna à perso la so stagion." "Ne la Vigna io son intrato, Di quei pampani n' ò tocato; Ma lo guiro per la corona che porto in capo, Che de quel fruto no ghe n' ò gustato." This story is also found in Pitrè, No. 76, "_Lu Bracceri di manu manca_" ("The Usher on the Left Hand," _i. e._, of the king, who also had one on his right hand); _Pomiglianesi_, No. 6, "_Villa_;" and, in the shape of a poetical dialogue, in Vigo, _Raccolta amplissima di Canti popolari siciliani_. Secunda ediz. Catania, 1870-1874, No. 5145. The story is told of Pier delle Vigne by Jacopo d'Aqui (XIII. cent.) in his _Chronicon imaginis mundi_, and of the Marchese di Pescara by Brantôme, _Vie des Dames galantes_. These versions will be found with copious references in Pitrè and Imbriani as cited above: see also, _Cantilene e Ballate, Strambotti e Madrigali nei Secoli XIII. e XIV._, A cura di Giosuè Carducci, Pisa, 1871, p. 26. The story is discussed in an exhaustive manner by S. Prato in the _Romania_, vol. XII. p. 535; XIV. p. 132, "_L' Orma del Leone_." [26] For the Oriental versions see _Essai sur les Fables indiennes_, _par_ A. Loiseleur Deslongchamps, Paris, 1838, p. 96; _Das Buch von den sieben weisen Meistern_, aus dem Hebräischen und Griechischen zum ersten Male übersetzt von H. Sengelmann, Halle, 1842, p. 40 (_Mischle Sandabâr_), p. 87 (_Syntipas_), _Tausend und Eine Nacht_, Deutsch von Max Habicht, Von der Hagen und Schall, Breslau, 1836, vol. XV. p. 112 (Arabic); _Li Romans des Sept Sages_, nach der Pariser Handschrift herausgegeben von H. A. Keller, Tübingen, 1836, p. cxxxviii.; _Dyocletianus Leben_, von Hans von Bühel, herausgegeben von A. Keller, Quedlinburg und Leipzig, 1841, p. 45. All students of this subject are acquainted with Domenico Comparetti's masterly essay _Ricerche intorno al Libro di Sindibâd_, Milan, 1869, which has recently been made accessible to English readers in a version published by the English Folk-Lore Society in 1882. The Persian and Arabic texts may be consulted in an English translation, reprinted with valuable introduction and notes in the following work: _The Book of Sindibad; or, The Story of the King, his Son, the Damsel, and the Seven Vazirs_, From the Persian and Arabic, with Introduction, Notes, and an Appendix, by W. A. Clouston. Privately printed, 1884 [Glasgow], pp. xvii.-lvi. [27] For the original version in the various forms of the Western _Seven Wise Masters_, see Loiseleur-Deslongchamps, p. 162; Keller, _Romans_, p. ccxxix., and _Dyocletianus_, p. 63; and D'Ancona, _Il Libro dei Sette Savi di Roma_, p. 121. To the references in D'Ancona may be added: _Deux Rédactions du Roman des Sept Sages_, G. Paris, Paris, 1876, pp. 47, 162; Benfey, in _Orient und Occident_, III. 420; _Romania_, VI. p. 182; _Mélusine_, p. 384; and _Basque Legends_, collected by Rev. W. Webster, London, 1879, pp. 136, 137. [28] See Grimm, No. 33, "The Three Languages;" Hahn, No. 33; _Basque Legends_, p. 137; and _Mélusine_, p. 300. There is a verbose version in the _Fiabe Mantovane_, No. 23, "_Bobo_." [29] See Herodotus, with a commentary by J. W. Blakesley, London, 1854, I. p. 254, n. 343. For the literature of this story, and for various other Italian versions, see _La Leggenda del Tesoro di Rampsinite_, Stanislao Prato, Como, 1882; and Ralston's notes to Schiefner's _Tibetan Tales_, p. xlvii. [30] For the story in the _Seven Wise Masters_, see D'Ancona, _op. cit._ p. 108; Loiseleur-Deslongchamps, p. 146; Keller, _Romans_, p. cxciii., and _Dyoclet_. p. 55. Besides the popular versions in Italian, the story is also found in Bandello, I., XXV., who follows Herodotus closely. [31] For the story in the _Seven Wise Masters_ see D'Ancona, _op. cit._ p. 120; Loiseleur-Deslongchamps, p. 158; Keller, _Romans_, p. ccxxxvii., and _Dyoclet._ p. 61. Literary versions of this story are in Straparola, II. 11; _Pecorone_, II. 2; Malespini, 53; Bandello, I. 3; and Sercambi, XIII. See Pitrè, IV. pp. 407, 442. [32] The literature of this famous collection of tales will best be found in an article by Wilhelm Pertsch, "_Ueber Nachschabî's Papagaienbuch_" in the _Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft_, Bd. XXI. pp. 505-551. Prof. H. Brockhaus discovered that the eighth night of Nachschabî's version was nothing but a version of the _Seven Wise Masters_ containing seven stories. Nachschabî, in preparing his work, used probably the oldest version of the _Seven Wise Masters_ of which we have any knowledge. Professor Brockhaus made this discovery known in a brief pamphlet entitled: _Die Sieben Weisen Meister von Nachschabî_, Leipzig, 1843, of which only twelve copies were printed. The above, except the Persian text, was reprinted in the _Blätt. für lit. Unterhaltung_, 1843, Nos. 242, 243 (pp. 969 _et seq._); and, in an Italian translation, in D'Ancona's _Il Libro dei Sette Savi di Roma_. The Persian version of Qâdirî (a compend of Nachschabî's) is the one most frequently translated. The German translation: _Toutinameh_. Eine Sammlung pers. Märchen, von C. J. L. Iken, mit einem Anhange von J. G. L. Kosegarten, Stuttgart, 1822, is easily found. The Turkish version is elegantly translated by G. Rosen: _Tuti-nameh, das Papagaienbuch_, eine Sammlung orientalischer Erzählungen nach der türkischen Bearbeitung zum ersten Male übersetzt von G. Rosen, Leipzig, 1858, 2 vols. [33] The preservation of the frame of the _Çukasaptati_ in Italian popular tales is only paralleled, to our knowledge, by the preservation of the _Seven Wise Masters_ in a Magyar popular tale. See _La Tradizione dei Sette Savi nelle Novelline magiare_. Lettera al Prof. A. D'Ancona di E. Teza, Bologna, 1864. It is possible that the Italian stories containing the frame of the _Çukasaptati_ may have been developed from the story in the _Seven Wise Masters_ which is found in both the Oriental and Occidental versions. The spirit of Folk-tales seems to us averse to expansion, and that condensation is the rule. We think it more likely that it was by way of oral tradition, or from some now lost collection of Oriental tales once known in Italy. [34] It is in the work by Teza mentioned in the last note, p. 52. [35] See Pitrè, vol. I. p. 23. The three stories in one are called _Donna Viulanti_ (Palermo) and _Lu Frati e lu Soru_ (Salaparuta). [36] See Chapter I. note 7. [37] The Italian versions are: Pitrè, No. 78, "_Lu Zu Viritati_" ("Uncle Truth"); Gonz., No. 8, "_Bauer Wahrhaft_" ("Farmer Truth"); _XII. Conti Pomiglianesi_, p. 1, "_Giuseppe 'A Veretà_" ("Truthful Joseph," the version translated by us); p. 6, another version from same place and with same name; and in Straparola, III. 5. References to Oriental sources maybe found in Köhler's notes to Gonz., No. 8, and Oesterley's notes to _Gesta Rom._ cap. 111. * * * * * In addition to the Oriental elements mentioned in the third chapter, Stanislao Prato has discovered the story of Nala in a popular tale from Pitigliano (Tuscany), see S. Prato, _La Leggenda indiana di Nala in una novella popolare pitiglianese_, Como, 1881. (Extracted from _I Nuovi Goliardi_.) CHAPTER IV. LEGENDS AND GHOST STORIES. [1] It is the LXXV. novel of the _Testo_ Gualteruzzi (Biagi, p. 108): _Qui conta come Domeneddio s' accompagnò con un giullare_. The Lord once went in company with a jester. One day the former went to a funeral, and the latter to a marriage. The Lord called the dead to life again, and was richly rewarded. He gave the jester some of the money with which he bought a kid, roasted it and ate the kidneys himself. His companion asked where they were, and the jester answered that in that country the kids had none. The next time the Lord went to a wedding and the jester to a funeral, but he could not revive the dead, and was considered a deceiver, and condemned to the gallows. The Lord wished to know who ate the kidneys, but the other persisted in his former answer; but in spite of this the Lord raises the dead, and the jester is set at liberty. Then the Lord said he wished to dissolve their partnership, and made three piles of money, one for himself, another for the jester, and the third for the one who ate the kidneys. Then the jester said: "By my faith, now that you speak thus, I will tell you that I ate them; I am so old that I ought not to tell lies now." So some things are proved by money, which a man would not tell to escape from death. For the sources and imitations of this story see D'Ancona, _Le Fonti del Novellino_, in the _Romania_, No. 10, p. 180, (_Studj_, p. 333). To D'Ancona's references may be added the following: Grimm, 147, "The Old Man made young again"; Asbjørnsen and Moe, No. 21 [Dasent, _Pop. Tales_, No. XIV.], _Ny Samm._ No. 101 [Dasent, _Tales from the Fjeld_, p. 94, "Peik"]; Ralston, _R. F. T._ p. 350; Simrock's _Deutsche Märchen_, Nos. 31^b (p. 148), 32; _Romania_, No. 24, p. 578, "_Le Foie de Mouton_" (E. Cosquin, _Contes pop. lorrains_, No. 30); Brueyre, p. 330; and an Italian version, which is simply an amplification of the one in the _Cento nov. ant._, in the recently published _Sessanta Nov. pop. montalesi_, Nerucci, No. 31. [2] See _Jahrbuch_, VII. pp. 28, 396. The professional pride of the smith finds a parallel in an Irish story in Kennedy, "How St. Eloi was punished for the sin of Pride." Before the saint became religious he was a goldsmith, but sometimes amused himself by shoeing horses, and boasted that he had never found his master in anything. One day a stranger stopped at his forge and asked permission to shoe his horse. Eloi consented, and was very much surprised to see the stranger break off the horse's leg at the shoulder, carry it into the smithy and shoe it. Then the stranger put on again the horse's leg, and asked Eloi if he knew any one who could do such a good piece of work. Eloi tries himself, and fails miserably. The stranger, who is Eloi's guardian angel, cures the horse, reproves the smith for his pride, and disappears. See Brueyre, p. 329, and Bladé, _Agenais_, p. 61, and Köhler's notes, p. 157. [3] Bernoni, _Punt._ I. p. 1, "_I cinque brazzi de Tela_." See Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 497, where the same story (without the coarseness of the Italian version) is related of Buddha, who tells the hospitable woman that "what she begins shall not end until sunset." She begins to measure linen and it lengthens in her hands so that she continues to measure it all day. The envious neighbor receives the same gift, but before she begins to measure the linen, she thinks she will water the swine; the bucket does not become empty until evening, and the whole neighborhood is inundated. See Benfey's parallels, _ut. sup._ pp. 497-98, and Grimm, No. 87, notes. [4] These four legends are in Pitrè, _Cinque Novelline popolari siciliane_, Palermo, 1878. In the third story, "_San Pietru e sò cumpari_," St. Peter gets something to eat from a stingy man by a play on the word _mussu_, "snout," and _cu lu mussu_, "to be angry." For a similar story see Pitrè, III. 312. A parallel to the first of the above legends may be found in Finamore, No. 34, IV., where are also some other legends of St. Peter. Since the above note was written, some similar legends have been published by Salomone Marino in the _Archivio per lo Studio delle Tradizioni popolari_, vol. II. p. 553. One "The Just suffers for the Sinner" ("_Chianci lu giustu pri lu piccaturi_") relates how St. Peter complained to our Lord that the innocent were punished with the guilty. Our Lord made no answer, but shortly after commanded St. Peter to pick up a piece of honey-comb filled with bees, and put it in the bosom of his dress. One of the bees stung him, and St. Peter in his anger killed them all, and when the Lord rebuked him, excused himself by saying: "How could I tell among so many bees which one stung me?" The Lord answered: "Am I wrong then, when I punish men likewise? _Chianci lu giustu pri lu piccaturi._" Another legend relates the eagerness of St. Peter's sister to marry. Thrice she sent her brother to our Lord to ask his consent, and thrice the Lord, with characteristic patience, answered: "Tell her to do what she wishes." A third legend explains why some are rich and some are poor in this world. Adam and Eve had twenty-four children, and one day the Lord passed by the house, and the parents concealed twelve of their children under a tub. The Lord, at the parents' request, blessed the twelve with riches and happiness. After he had departed, the parents realized what they had done, and called the Master back. When he heard that they had told him a falsehood about the number of their children, he replied that the blessing was bestowed and there was no help for it. "Oh!" said Adam in anguish, "what will become of them?" The Lord replied: "Let those who are not blessed serve the others, and let those who are blessed support them." "And this is why in the world half are rich and half are poor, and the latter serve the former, and the former support the latter." The last of these legends which I shall mention is entitled: "All things are done for money." ("_Tutti cosi su' fatti pri dinari._") There once died a poor beggar who had led a pious life, and was destined for paradise. When his soul arrived at the gate and knocked, St. Peter asked who he was and told him to wait. The poor soul waited two months behind the gate, but St. Peter did not open it for him. Meanwhile, a wealthy baron died and went, exceptionally, to paradise. His soul did not need even to knock, for the gate was thrown open, and St. Peter exclaimed: "Throw open the gate, let the baron pass! Come in Sir Baron, your servant, what an honor!" The soul of the beggar squeezed in, and said to himself: "The world is not the only one who worships money; in heaven itself there is this law, that all things are done for money." [5] Pitrè, No. 126, where other Sicilian versions are mentioned. A version from Siena is in T. Gradi, _Proverbi e Modi di dire_, p. 23, repeated in the same author's _Saggio di Letture varie_, p. 52, and followed by an article by Tommaseo, originally printed in the _Institutore_ of Turin, in which Servian and Greek parallels are given. Besides the Venetian variant mentioned in the text, there are versions from Umbria and Piedmont cited by Pitrè, a Tuscan one in _Nov. tosc._ No. 26, and one from the Tyrol in Schneller, No. 4. Pitrè, in his notes to _Nov. tosc._ No. 26, mentions several other versions from Piedmont, Friuli, and Benevento. An exact version is also found in Corsica: see Ortoli, p. 235. [6] This reminds one of the "Sabbath of the Damned:" see Douhet, _Dictionnaire des Légendes_, Paris, 1855, p. 1040. [7] Pitrè, in a note to this story, mentions several proverbial sayings in which Pilate's name occurs: "To wash one's hands of the matter like Pilate," and "To come into a thing like Pilate in the Creed," to express engaging in a matter unwillingly, or to indicate something that is _mal à propos_. [8] Pitrè, I. p. cxxxvii., and Pitrè, _Appunti di Botanica popolare siciliana_, in the _Rivista Europea_, May, 1875, p. 441. [9] Pitrè, I. p. cxxxviii. [10] This legend is mentioned in a popular Sicilian legend in verse, see Pitrè, _Canti pop. sic._ II. p. 368, and is the subject of a chap-book, the title of which is given by Pitrè, _Fiabe_, vol. IV. p. 397. [11] _Preghiere pop. veneziane_ raccolte da Dom. Giuseppe Bernoni, p. 18. [12] Pitrè, I. p. cxxxiii. For earlier appearances of the Wandering Jew in Italian literature, see A. D'Ancona, _La Leggenda dell' Ebreo errante, Nuova Antologia_, serie II. vol. XXIII. 1880, p. 425; _Romania_, vol. X. p. 212, _Le Juif errant en Italia au XIII^e siècle_, G. Paris and A. D'Ancona; vol. XII. p. 112, _Encore le Juif errant en Italie_, A. D'Ancona, and _Giornale Storico_, vol. III. p. 231, R. Renier, where an Italian text of the XVIII. cent. is printed for the first time. The myth of the Wandering Jew can best be studied in the following recent works: G. Paris, _Le Juif Errant, Extrait de l'Encyclopédie des Sciences Religieuses_, Paris, 1880; Dr. L. Neubaur, _Die Sage vom ewigen Juden_, Leipzig, 1884; P. Cassel, _Ahasverus, die Sage vom ewigen Juden_, Berlin, 1885. The name Buttadeu (Buttadæus in the Latin texts of the XVII. cent.) has been explained in various ways. It is probably from the Ital. verb _buttare_, to thrust away, and _dio_, God. [13] Crivòliu is a corruption of Gregoriu, Gregory, and the legend is, as Köhler says, a peculiar transformation of the well-known legend of "Gregory on the Stone." For the legend in general, see A. D'Ancona's Introduction to the _Leggenda di Vergogna e la Leggenda di Giuda_, Bologna, 1869, and F. Lippold, _Ueber die Quelle des Gregorius Hartmann's von Aue_, Leipzig, 1869, p. 50 _et seq._ See also Pitrè's notes to No. 117. An example of this class of stories from Cyprus may be found in the _Jahrb._ XI. p. 357. [14] See Köhler's notes to Gonz., No. 90, and _Sacre Rappresentazioni dei Secoli XIV.-XVI._ raccolte e illustrate di A. D'Ancona, Florence, 1872, III. p. 435. There is another legend of St. James of Galicia in Busk, p. 208, entitled "The Pilgrims." A husband and wife make the usual vow to St. James that if he will give them children they will make the pilgrimage to Santiago. When the children are fifteen and sixteen the parents start on the pilgrimage, taking with them the son, and leaving the daughter in charge of a priest, who wrote slanderous letters about her, whereupon the son returned suddenly, slew his sister, and threw her body in a ditch. A king's son happened to pass by, found the body, and discovered that it still contained life. He had her cured, and married her, and they afterwards became king and queen. While the king was once at war, the viceroy tempted the queen, and when she would not listen to him, killed her two children and slandered her to the king. The queen took the bodies of the children and wandered about until she met the Madonna, who took the children, and the queen went to Galicia. The king and viceroy also made a pilgrimage to the same place where the queen's parents had dwelt since the supposed death of their daughter. All met at the saint's shrine and forgave each other, and the Madonna restored the children alive and well. There are two or three other stories in Pitrè and Gonz. in which saints appear in the _rôle_ of good fairies, aiding the hero when in trouble. One of these stories, "The Thankful Dead" (Gonz., No. 74), has already been mentioned in Chapter II. p. 131; two others may be briefly mentioned here. The first is Gonz., No. 74, "Of one who by the help of St. Joseph won the king's daughter." A king proclaims that he will give his daughter to any one who builds a ship that will go by land and water. The youngest of three brothers constructs such a vessel by the help of St. Joseph, after his two brothers have failed. The saint, who is not known to the youth, accompanies him on the voyage on the condition that he shall receive the half of everything that the youth receives. During the voyage they take on board a man who can fill a sack with mist, one who can tear up half a forest and carry the trees on his back, a man who can drink up half a river, one who can always hit what he shoots at, and one who walks with such long steps that when one foot is in Catania the other is in Messina. The king refuses to give his daughter to the youth in spite of the ship that goes by land and water. The youth, however, by the help of his wonderful servants and St. Joseph, fulfils all the king's requirements, and carries away the princess. When the youth returned home with his bride and treasures, St. Joseph called on him to fulfil his promise to him. The youth gives him half of his treasures, and even half of the crown he had won. The saint reminds him that the best of his possessions yet remains undivided,--his bride. The youth determines to keep his promise, draws his sword, and is about to cut his bride in two, when St. Joseph reveals himself, blesses the pair, and disappears. This story is sometimes found as a version of the "Thankful Dead," see Chapter II. note 12. The second story is Pitrè, No. 116, "St. Michael the Archangel and one of his devotees," of which there is a version in Gonz., No. 76, called, "The Story of Giuseppino." In the first version a child, Pippino, is sold by his parents to the king in order to obtain the means to duly celebrate the feast of St. Michael, to whom they were devoted. The child is brought up in the palace as the princess's playmate; but when he grows up the king is anxious to get rid of him, and so sends him on a voyage in an unseaworthy vessel. St. Michael appears to the lad, and tells him to load the ship with salt. They set sail, and the rotten ship is about to go to pieces, when the saint appears and changes the ship into a vessel all of gold. They sell the cargo to a king who has never tasted salt before, and return to their own country wealthy. The next voyage Pippino, by the saint's advice, takes a cargo of cats, which they sell to the king of a country overrun by mice. Pippino returns and marries the king's daughter. In the version in Gonz., Giuseppino is a king's son, who leaves his home to see the world, and becomes the stable-boy of the king whose daughter he marries. The three cargoes are: salt, cats, and uniforms. On the last voyage, Giuseppino captures a hostile fleet, and makes his prisoners put on the uniforms he has in his ship. With this army he returns, and compels the king to give him his daughter. St. Joseph acts the same part in this version as St. Michael in Pitrè's. The story of "Whittington and his Cat" will at once occur to the reader. See Pitrè's notes to No. 116, and vol. IV. p. 395, and Köhler to Gonz., No. 76. [15] Köhler has no note on this legend, and I have been unable to find in the list of saints any name of which Onirià or Nerià may be a corruption. [16] The references to this story will best be found in Pauli's _Schimpf und Ernst_, ed. Oesterley, No. 682, and in the same editor's notes to the _Gesta Romanorum_, cap. 80. To these may be added a story by De Trueba in his _Narraciones populares_, p. 65, entitled, "_Las Dudas de San Pedro_;" Luzel, _Légendes Chrétiennes_, I. 282, II. 4; _Fiore di Virtù_, Naples, 1870, p. 68; Etienne de Bourbon, No. 396 (_Anecdotes historiques, légendes et apologues tirés du Receuil inédit d'Etienne de Bourbon_), pub. pour la Société de l'Hist. de France par A. Lecoy de la Marche, Paris, 1877. Since the above was written, several important contributions to the literature of this story have been made. The first in point of time and importance is a paper by Gaston Paris in the _Comptes Rendus_ of the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres, vol. VIII. pp. 427-449 (reprinted in _La Poésie du Moyen Age_, Leçons et Lectures par Gaston Paris, Paris, 1885). Next may be mentioned "_The Literary History of Parnell's Hermit_," by W. E. A. Axon, London, 1881 (reprinted from the Seventh Volume of the Third Series of _Memoirs of the Manchester Literary and Philosophical Society, Session 1879-80_). An Icelandic version is in _Islendzk Aeventyri, Isländische Legenden, Novellen und Märchen_, herausgegeben von Hugo Gering, Halle, 1884, vol. II. p. 247. The legend is clearly shown by Gaston Paris to be of Jewish origin. [17] There is another version of this story in Gonz., No. 86, "_Von dem frommen Kinde_" ("The Pious Child"), Köhler in his notes cites Grimm's _Children's Legends_, No. 9, and Schneller, No. 1. In this last story a pious child is cruelly treated by his step-mother, and leaves his home to live in a convent. One day he notices in a corner a neglected crucifix covered with dust and cobwebs. He sees how thin the figure is, and at meal-time brings his food where the crucifix is and begins to feed the image, which opens its mouth and eats with appetite. As the image grows stouter the pious child grows thinner. The Superior learns one day the fact, and tells the child to ask the Lord to invite him and the Superior to his table. The next day both die suddenly after mass. In a story in Gonz., No. 47, "Of the pious youth who went to Rome," the youth talks to the image on the crucifix in a familiar way, and receives information about questions put to him by various persons. The youth also dies suddenly at the end of the story. [18] Pitrè, No. 111. Another Sicilian version is in Gonz., No. 88, "The Story of Spadònia." Spadònia is the son of a king, who every day has bread baked and sent to the souls in purgatory by means of an ass sent for that purpose by the Lord. Spadònia becomes king, and sends one of his servants, Peppe, to see where the ass goes. Peppe crosses a river of clear water, one of milk, and one of blood. Then he sees the thin oxen in a rich pasture, and the reverse; in addition he beholds a forest with small and large trees together, and a handsome youth cutting down now a large tree, now a small one, with a single stroke of a bright axe. Then he passed through a door with the ass, and sees St. Joseph, and St. Peter, and all the saints, and among them God the Father. Farther on Peppe sees many saints, and among them the parents of Spadònia. Finally Peppe comes where the Saviour and his Mother are on a throne. The Lord says to him that Spadònia must marry a maiden named Sècula, and open an inn, in which any one may eat and lodge without cost. The Lord then explains what Peppe has seen. The river of water is the good deeds of men which aid and refresh the poor souls in purgatory; the river of milk is that with which Christ was nourished; and the river of blood that shed for sinners. The thin cattle are the usurers, the fat, the poor who trust in God, the youth felling the trees is Death. Peppe returns and tells his master all he had seen, and Spadònia wanders forth in search of a maiden called Sècula. He finds at last a poor girl so called, and marries her, and opens an inn as he had been directed. After a time the Lord and his Apostles visit the inn, and the king and his wife wait on them, and treat them with the utmost consideration. The next day after they had departed Spadònia and his wife find out who their guests were, and hasten after them in spite of a heavy storm. When they overtake the Lord they ask pardon for their sins, and eternal happiness for all belonging to them. The Lord grants their request, and tells them to be prepared at Christmas, when he will come for them. They return home, give all their property to the poor, and at Christmas they confess, take communion, and die peacefully near each other, together with Sècula's old parents. This curious legend has no parallels in Italy out of Sicily. It is, however, found in the rest of Europe, the best parallel being _L'Homme aux dents rouges_, in Bladé, _Agenais_, p. 52. Köhler cites Bladé, _Contes et proverbes pop. rec. en Armagnac_, p. 59, and Asbjørnsen, No. 62 [Dasent, _Tales from the Fjeld_, p. 160, "Friends in Life and Death"]. To these may be added the story in Schneller, p. 215, and the references given by Köhler in his notes to Gonz., No. 88. [19] See Champfleury, _De la littérature populaire en France. Recherches sur les origines et les variations de la légende du bonhomme Misère_, Paris, 1861. It contains a reprint of the oldest yet known edition of the chap-book, that of 1719. The most valuable references to the legend in general will be found (besides the above work, and Grimm's notes to Nos. 81, 82) in the _Jahrb._ V. pp. 4, 23; VII. 128, 268; and in Pitrè's notes, vol. III. p. 63, and IV. pp. 398, 439. All the Italian versions are mentioned in the text or following notes. To the stories from the various parts of Europe mentioned in the articles above cited, may be added Webster, _Basque Legends_, pp. 195, 199. Since this note was written another Tuscan version has been published by Pitrè in his _Nov. tosc._ No. 28, who cites in his notes: Ortoli, p. 1, § 1, No. XXII. (Corsica); and two literary versions in Cintio de' Fabritii, Venice, 1726, _Origine de' volgari proverbi_, and Domenico Batacchi in his _Novelle galanti: La Vita e la Morte di Prete Ulivo_. [20] See Pitrè, No. 125. [21] See Busk, p. 178. [22] See Busk, p. 183. [23] _Novelline di Sto. Stefano_, No. XXXII. A version from Monferrato is found in Comparetti, No. 34, entitled, "_La Morte Burlata_" ("Death Mocked"), in which a schoolmaster, who is a magician, tells one of his scholars that he will grant him every day any favor he may ask. The first day the scholar asks that any one who climbs his pear-tree must remain there; the second day he asks that whoever approaches his fireplace to warm himself must stay there; and finally he asks to win always with a pack of cards that he has. When the possessor of these favors has lived a hundred years Death comes for him, but is made to climb the tree, and is forced to grant the owner another hundred years of life. The fireplace procures another respite, and then the man dies and goes to paradise; but the Lord will not admit him, for he had not asked for mercy. Hell will not receive him, for he had been a good man; so he goes to the gate of purgatory and begins playing cards, with souls for stakes, and wins enough to form a regiment. Then he goes to paradise, and the Lord tells him he can enter alone. But he persists in going in with all those who are attached to him; so all the souls enter too. [24] _Novelline di Sto. Stefano_, No. 33. A similar story, told in greater detail, is in Schneller, No. 17, "_Der Stöpselwirth_" ("The Tapster"). A generous host ruins himself by his hospitality, and borrows money of the Devil for seven years; if he cannot repay it his soul is to belong to the lender. The host continues his liberality, and at the end of seven years is poorer than before. The Lord, St. Peter, and St. John come to the tavern and tell the landlord to ask three favors. He asks that whoever climbs his fig-tree may remain there; whoever sits on his sofa must stay there; and finally, whoever puts his hands in a certain chest must keep them there. The Devil first sends his eldest son after the money. The host sends him up the fig-tree, and then gives him a sound beating. Then the Devil sends his second son, whom the landlord invites to sit on his sofa, and gives him a sound thrashing too. Finally the Devil himself comes, and the host tells him to get his money himself out of the chest. The Devil sticks fast, and is set free only on condition of renouncing all claims to the landlord's soul. The conclusion of the story is like that of "Beppo Pipetta." There is another story about a bargain with the Devil in the _Novelline di Sto. Stefano_, No. 35, "_Le Donne ne sanno un punto più del diavolo_" ("Women know a point more than the Devil"). A fowler sells his soul to the Devil for twelve years of life and plenty of birds. When the time is nearly up the fowler's wife persuades him to alter his bargain with the Devil a little. The latter is to give up his claim if the former can find a bird unknown to the Devil. The Devil consents, and comes the last day and recognizes easily every bird, until finally the fowler's wife, disguised with tar and feathers, comes out of a case and frightens the fowler and the Devil so that he runs away. The mysterious bird recalls the one in Grimm, No. 46, "Fitcher's Bird." [25] _Jahrbuch_, VII. 121. The wonderful sack occurs in another Venetian story, Widter-Wolf, No. 14, "_Der Höllenpförtner_" ("The Porter of Hell"). The gifts are: a gun that never misses, a violin that makes every one dance, and a sack into which every one must spring when commanded by the owner. See Köhler's notes to this story, _Jahrb_. VII. 268. A Corsican version is in Ortoli, p. 155. The episode of the Devil beaten in the sack is also found in Comparetti, No. 49, "_Il Ramaio_." A wandering smith gives alms to St. Peter and the Lord, and receives in return a pouch like the above. When the Devil comes to fetch him he wishes him in his sack, and gives him a good pounding. When the smith dies he gets into paradise by throwing his bag inside and wishing himself in it. There are two other stories in which the Devil gets worsted: they are Gianandrea, No. VI, "_Quattordici_" ("Fourteen"), and _Fiabe Mantovane_, No. II, "_Pacchione_" In these stories a cunning person is sent to the Devil to bring back a load of gold. The cunning person takes a long pair of tongs, catches the Devil by the nose, loads his horse, and returns in safety. The first part of the story of "_Quattordici_" is found in the Basque Legend of "Fourteen:" see Webster, p. 195. [26] Another Venetian version is in Widter-Wolf, No. 3, "_Der Gevatter Tod_" ("Godfather Death"). There are also two Sicilian versions: Pitrè, No. 109, "_La Morti e sò figghiozzu_" ("Death and her Godson"); and Gonz., No. 19, "_Gevatter Tod_," which do not differ materially from the version given in our text. References to European parallels may be found in Köhler's notes to Widter-Wolf, No. 3, _Jahrb._ VII. p. 19; to Gonz., No. 19, and in Grimm's notes to No. 44. [27] Widter-Wolf, No. 16, "_Der standhafter Büsser_" ("The Constant Penitent"), _Jahrb._ VII. p. 273. For parallels, see Köhler's article, _Die Legende von dem Ritter in der Capelle_, _Jahrb._ VI. p. 326. [28] Bernoni, _Legg. fant._ p. 3. The translation in text, as well as that of the two following stories, I have taken from _The Cornhill Magazine_, July, 1875, "Venetian Popular Legends," p. 86. Another story illustrating the same point is found in Pitrè, No. 110, _Li Cumpari di S. Giuvanni_, which is translated as follows by Ralston in _Fraser's Magazine_, April, 1876, "Sicilian Fairy Tales," p. 424. LXXII. THE GOSSIPS OF ST. JOHN. Once upon a time there lived a husband and wife, and they were both bound in gossipry with a certain man. The husband got arrested, and was taken away to prison. Now the gossip was very fond of his cummer, and used often to go and visit her. One day she said to him: "Gossip, shall we go and see my husband?" "_Gnursi, cummari_" ("Certainly, cummer"), said her gossip; so off they went. On the way they bought a large melon--for it was the melon season--to take to the poor prisoner. We are but flesh and blood! The gossip and his cummer sinned against St. John. In short, they brought things to a pretty pass. St. John wasn't going to let that pass unpunished. When they had come to the prison and had visited the prisoner, before going away they wanted to make a present to the jailer; so they gave him the melon. He cut it open before their eyes. Horror of horrors! When the melon was cut open, there was found in the middle of it a head! Now this was the head of St. John, which had slipped itself in there for the purpose of bringing home their sin to the minds of the gossips. The matter immediately came to the ears of justice, and they were arrested. They confessed the wrong they had done. The husband was set at liberty, and the gossip and his cummer were sent to the gallows. * * * * * In regard to Saint John and the relationship of godfather, see Pitrè's note in vol. I. p. 73. [29] Bernoni, p. 7; _Cornhill Magazine_, p. 88. [30] Bernoni, p. 17; _Cornhill Magazine_, p. 89. [31] Bernoni, p. 19. There are prose versions of the closely related story of Don Juan in Busk, p. 202, "_Don Giovanni_," and in _Nov. tosc._ No. 21, "_Don Giovanni_." There are poetical versions of this legend in G. Ferraro, _Canti popolari raccolti a Pontelagoscuro_, No. 19; "_La Testa di Morto_," in _Rivista di Filologia Romanza_, vol. II. p. 204; Ive, _Canti pop. istriani_, Turin, 1877, cap. xxv. No. 6, "_Lionzo_;" Salomone-Marino, _Leggende pop. sicil._ XXVII. "_Lionziu_." [32] Pitrè, No. 128. The version in the text is Ralston's condensation, taken from _Fraser's Magazine_, p. 433. As Pitrè notes, there is some slight resemblance between this story and that of "_Cattarinetta_" in Schneller, No. 5, which has a close parallel in Bernoni, _Trad. pop. venez. Punt._ III. p. 76, "_Nono Cocon_" and one not so close in Papanti, _Nov. pop. livor_, No. 1, "_La Mencherina_," p. 7. There is a close parallel to the Sicilian story in a Tuscan tale, "_La Gamba_" ("The Leg"), in _Novelline pop. toscane_, pubb. da G. Pitrè, p. 12. In a note Pitrè mentions a variant from Pratovecchio in which the leg is of gold. He also gives copious references to versions from all parts of Europe. The English reader will recall at once Halliwell's story of "Teeny-Tiny" (_Nursery Tales_, p. 25). To the above references may be added: "_Le Pendu_" in Cosquin, _Contes pop. lorrains_, No. 41, in _Romania_, No. 28, p. 580. Since the above note was written, another Tuscan version has been published by Pitrè, _Nov. tosc._ No. 19. [33] Pitrè, No. 203. The parallels to this story may best be found in J. Grimm's _Kleinere Schriften_, III. p. 414, _Der Traum von dem Schatz auf der Brücke_. To Grimm's references may be added: Graesse, _Sagenschatz Sachsen's_, No. 587; Wolf, _Hesseche Sagen_, No. 47; Kuhn, _Westfalische Sagen_, No. 169; and _Vierzig Veziere_, p. 270. CHAPTER V. NURSERY TALES. [1] The verse in this story is given somewhat differently by Bolza, _Canzoni pop. Comasche_, Vienna, 1866, Note 9:-- "La storia de Sior Intento, Che dura molto tempo, Che mai no se destriga; Volè che ve la diga?" The story of Mr. Attentive, which lasts a long time, which is never explained, do you wish me to tell it? There are in Bernoni, _Punt._ II. pp. 53, 54, two or three other rhymes of this class that may be given here. ONCE UPON A TIME. Once upon a time--that I remember--into a blind-man's eye--a fly went--and I thought--that it was a quail--wretched blind-man--go away from here! ONE AND ANOTHER. Fiaba, aba--Questa xe una--Muro e malta--Questa xe un' altra, Story, ory--This is one--Wall and mud--This is another. "A long one and a short one, Do you wish me to tell you a long one? This is the finger and this is the nail. Do you wish me to tell you a short one? This is the finger and this the end of it." [2] Pitrè, No. 141. In the notes to this story are given some more of this class. "Once upon a time there was a page who drew three carts: one of wine, one of bread, and one of relishes.... And once upon a time there was a page." Some poetical versions are given in the same place from various parts of Italy. "Once upon a time, An old man and an old woman Were on top of a mountain... Be quiet, for I am going to tell you it." --Naples. "Once upon a time there was a man Behind the church With a basket on his back... But be still if I am to tell you it!" --Milan, _Nov. fior._ p. 570. Some more rhymes of this class may be found in Papanti, _Nov. pop. livor_, p. 17: "Once upon a time there was a man, whose name was Boccabella, who skinned his wife to make a skirt; and skinned his children to make some towels." "Once upon a time there was a man, A woman, and a little bottle... Listen to this!" "Once upon a time there was a king Who ate more than you; He ate bread and cheese, Pull, pull this nose." Here the speaker pulls the child's nose. "Once upon a time there was a rich poor man Who had seven daughters to marry: On one hand there came a felon, And on the other seven blisters." [3] _Rivista di Letteratura popolare_, vol. I. p. 161 (1878). "_Una Variante toscana della Novella del Petit Poucet_." Versions from the Marches, the Abruzzi, and Tuscany may now be found in _Giornale di Filologia romanza_, II. p. 23; Finamore, _Tradizioni popolari abruzzesi_, 1882, No. 47, p. 233; and _Nov. tosc._ No. 42. [4] The myth of "Tom Thumb" has been thoroughly examined in an admirable monograph: _Le Petit Poucet et la Grande Ourse_ par Gaston Paris, Paris, 1875. The author says in conclusion (p. 52): "Si nous cherchons enfin quels sont les peuples qui nous offrent soit ce conte, soit cette dénomination, nous voyons qu'ils comprennent essentiellement les peuples slaves (lithuanien, esclavon) et germaniques (allemand, danois, suédois, anglais). Les contes des Albanais, des Roumains et des Grecs modernes sont sans doute empruntés aux Slaves, comme une très-grande partie de la mythologie populaire de ces nations. Le nom wallon et le conte forézien nous montrent en France (ainsi que le _titre_ du conte de Perrault) la légende de Poucet: mais elle a pu fort bien, comme tant d'autres récits semblables, y être apportée par les Germains. Ni en Italie, ni en Espagne, ni dans les pays celtiques je n'ai trouvé trace du conte ou du nom." This latter statement must now, of course, be modified. To the references in Paris' book may be added: _Romania_, No. 32, p. 59 (Cosquin, No. 53), and Köhler in _Zeit. f. rom. Phil._ III. p. 617. The transformation of the chick-peas into children has a parallel in the Greek story of "Pepper-Corn" shortly to be mentioned. [5] The discussion of this point may best be found in the following works: Halliwell's _Nursery Rhymes of England_ (_Percy Soc._ IV.), London, 1842, pp. 2, 159; _Romania_, I. p. 218; and _Un Canto popolare piemontese e un Canto religioso popolare israelitico_. Note e confronti di Cesare Foa, Padova, 1879. The references to the other European versions of this story may be found in _Romania_, No. 28, p. 546 (Cosquin, No. 34), and Köhler in _Zeit. f. rom. Phil._ III. 156. [6] Halliwell's _Nursery Rhymes_, p. 160. [7] There is a poetical version of this story in Vigo, _Raccolta amplissima di Canti pop. sicil._ 2^{da} ediz. Catania, 1870-1874, No. 4251, beginning:-- "Susi, Bittudda Va scupa la casa. --Signura, non pozzu Mi doli lu cozzu," etc. The ending, however, is incomplete. [8] Imbriani, _Pomiglianesi_, p. 232, "_Micco_." [9] The version from Siena is in _Saggio di Letture varie per i Giovani_ di T. Gradi, Torino, 1865, p. 175, "_La Novella di Petuzzo_;" the Tuscan (Florence) version is in Imbriani, _Nov. fior._ p. 548, "_Petruzzo_." Another Tuscan version may be found in Nerucci, _Cincelle da Bambini_, No. 7; and one from Apulia in _Archivio_, III. p. 69. [10] Bernoni, _Punt._ III. p. 72, "_Petin-Petele_." [11] The first part of this story is found also in a Tuscan version given by Corazzini in his _Componimenti minori_, p. 412, "_Il Cecio_" ("The Chick-pea"). The chick-pea is swallowed by a cock, that is eaten by a pig, that is killed by a calf, that is killed and cooked by an innkeeper's wife for her sick daughter, who recovers, and is given in marriage to the owner of the chick-pea. The sexton's doubt as to how he shall invest the money he has found is a frequent trait in Italian stories, and is found in several mentioned in this chapter. See notes in Papanti, _Nov. pop. livor._ p. 29. Copious references to this class of stories may be found in the _Romania_, Nos. 24, p. 576, and 28, p. 548; Köhler in _Zeitschrift für rom. Phil._ II. 351; Grimm, No. 80; _Orient und Occident_, II. 123; Bladé, _Agenais_, No. 5; _Mélusine_, 148, 218, 426; and Brueyre, p. 376. See also Halliwell, p. 33, "The Cat and the Mouse." [12] This version is a variant of a story in the same collection, p. 236, which cannot well be translated, as it is mostly in rhyme. There is another version from Montella in the _Principato Ulteriore_, p. 241, "_Lo Haddro e lo Sorece_" ("The Cock and the Mouse"), which has a satirical ending. The beginning is like that of the other versions: the cock and the mouse go to gather pears; one falls and wounds the mouse's head. The mouse goes to the physician, who demands rags, the ragman asks for the tail of the dog. The dog demands bread, the baker wood, the mountain an axe; the iron-monger says: "Go to the _galantuomo_ (gentleman, wealthy person), get some money, and I will give you the axe." The mouse goes to the _galantuomo_, who says: "Sit down and write, and then I will give you the money." So the mouse begins to write for the _galantuomo_, but his head swells and he dies. A similar story is found in Corsica, see Ortoli, p. 237. [13] It remains to mention two poetical versions: one in Corazzini, from Verona, _op. cit._ p. 139, which begins:-- "Cos' è questo? La camera del Vesco. Cos' è dentro? Pan e vin," etc. "What is this? The bishop's chamber. What is in it? Bread and wine. Where is my share? The cat has eaten it. Where is the cat? The stick has beaten him. Where is the stick? The fire has burned it. Where is the fire? The water has quenched it. Where is the water? The ox has drunk it. Where is the ox? Out in the fields. Who is behind there? My friend Matthew. What has he in his hand? A piece of bread. What has he on his feet? A pair of torn shoes. What has he on his back? A whale. What has he in his belly? A balance. What has he on his head? A cap upside down." The choice of objects is determined by the rhyme, _e. g._:-- "Cosa g'àlo in schena? Na balena. Cosa g'àlo in panza? Una balanza." The second poetical version is from Turin, and is given by Foa, _op. cit._ p. 5. It begins:-- 1. "A j'era' na crava C' a pasturava, A m' a rout 'l bout Oh 'l bon vin c'a j'era' nt 'l me bout L' è la crava c' a' m l' a rout! 2. "A j'è riva-ie l' luv L' a mangià la crava C' a pasturava C' a m' ha rout 'l bout," etc. (_ut supra._) The following is a literal prose translation of this curious version. "There was a goat that was feeding, it has broken my bottle. Oh, the good wine that was in my bottle, it is the goat that has broken it! Then came the wolf that ate the goat that was feeding, that broke my bottle, etc. Then came the dog, that barked at the wolf, that ate the goat, etc. Then came the stick that beat the dog, that barked at the wolf, etc. Then came the fire that burned the stick, that beat the dog, etc. Then came the water that quenched the fire, that burned the stick, etc. Then came the ox, that drank the water, that quenched the fire, etc. Then came the butcher that killed the ox, that drank the water, etc. Then came the hangman that hung the butcher, that killed the ox, etc. Then came death, and carried away the hangman, that hung the butcher, etc. Then came the wind, that carried away death, that carried away the hangman," etc. A variant of this song reminds one more closely of the prose versions. "Then came the hangman that hung the butcher, etc. Then came the rat that gnawed the cord, that hung the butcher, etc. Then came the cat that ate the rat, that gnawed the cord, etc. Then came the dog that caught the cat, that ate the rat, that gnawed the cord," etc. The above Italian version, it will be clearly seen, is only a popular rendition of the Jewish hymn in the _Sepher Haggadah_. Foa, in the work above cited, gives another version from Orio Canarese, and also a number of Italian versions of the "Song of the Kid." His conclusion is the same as that of Gaston Paris in the _Romania_, I. p. 224, that the "Song of the Kid" is not of Jewish origin, but was introduced into the _Haggadah_ from the popular song or story. [14] A version of this story is found in Morosi's _Studi sui Dialetti greci_, Lecce, 1870. LXXXIX. THE GOAT AND THE FOX. Once upon a time a goat entered the den of the fox while the latter was absent. At night the fox returned home, and finding the goat fled because frightened by the horns. A wolf passed by, and was also terrified. Then came a hedgehog and entered the den, and pricked the goat with its quills. The goat came out, and the wolf killed it, and the fox ate it. [15] Grimm, No. 30. Another version from the North of Europe is in Asbjørnsen, No. 103 [Dasent, _Tales from the Fjeld_, p. 30, "The Death of Chanticleer"]. Several French versions may be found in the _Romania_, No. 22, p. 244, and _Mélusine_, p. 424. There is a Spanish version in Caballero's _Cuentos_, etc., Leipzig, 1878, p. 3, "_La Hormiguita_" ("The Little Ant"). There is a curious version in Hahn's _Griechische und Albanesische Märchen_, Leipzig, 1864, No. 56, "Pepper-Corn." The story is from Smyrna, and is as follows:-- PEPPER-CORN. Once upon a time there was an old man and an old woman who had no children; and one day the old woman went into the fields and picked a basket of beans. When she had finished, she looked into the basket and said: "I wish all the beans were little children." Scarcely had she uttered these words when a whole crowd of little children sprang out of the basket and danced about her. Such a family seemed too large for the old woman, so she said: "I wish you would all become beans again." Immediately the children climbed back into the basket and became beans again, all except one little boy, whom the old woman took home with her. He was so small that everybody called him little Pepper-Corn, and so good and charming that everybody loved him. One day the old woman was cooking her soup and little Pepper-Corn climbed up on the kettle and looked in to see what was cooking, but he slipped and fell into the boiling broth and was scalded to death. The old woman did not notice until meal-time that he was missing, and looked in vain for him everywhere to call him to dinner. At last they sat down to the table without little Pepper-Corn, and when they poured the soup out of the kettle into the dish the body of little Pepper-Corn floated on top. Then the old man and the old woman began to mourn and cry: "Dear Pepper-Corn is dead, dear Pepper-Corn is dead." When the dove heard it she tore out her feathers, and cried: "Dear Pepper-Corn is dead. The old man and the old woman are mourning." When the apple-tree saw that the dove tore out her feathers it asked her why she did so, and when it learned the reason it shook off all its apples. In like manner, the well near by poured out all its water, the queen's maid broke her pitcher, the queen broke her arm, and the king threw his crown on the ground so that it broke into a thousand pieces; and when his people asked him what the matter was, he answered: "Dear Pepper-Corn is dead, the old man and the old woman mourn, the dove has torn out her feathers, the apple-tree has shaken off all its apples, the well has poured out all its water, the maid has broken her pitcher, the queen has broken her arm, and I, the king, have lost my crown; dear Pepper-Corn is dead." * * * * * See also Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 191. There is also a version in Morosi, _op. cit._, given by Imbriani in _Pomiglianesi_, p. 268; and mention is made of one from the Abruzzi in Finamore, _Trad. pop. abruzzesi_, p. 244. [16] In addition to the versions mentioned in the text, Imbriani (_Pomiglianesi_, pp. 250, 252) gives two versions from Lecco. The following version is found in Morosi, p. 73. XC. THE ANT AND THE MOUSE. There was once an ant who, while sweeping her house one day, found three _quattrini_, and began to say: "What shall I buy? What shall I buy? Shall I buy meat? No, because meat has bones, and I should choke. Shall I buy fish? No, for fish has bones, and I should be scratched." After she had mentioned many other things, she concluded to buy a red ribbon. She put it on, and sat in the window. An ox passed by and said: "How pretty you are! do you want me for your husband?" She said: "Sing, so that I may hear your voice." The ox with great pride raised his voice. After the ant had heard it, she said: "No, no, you frighten me." A dog passed by, and the same happened to him as to the ox. After many animals had passed, a little mouse went by and said: "How pretty you are! do you want me for your husband?" She said: "Let me hear you sing." The mouse sang, and went, _pi, pi, pi!_ His voice pleased the ant, and she took him for her husband. Sunday came, and while the ant was with her friends, the mouse said: "My dear little ant, I am going to see whether the meat that you have put on the fire is done." He went, and when he smelled the odor of the meat, he wanted to take a little; he put in one paw and burned it; he put in the other, and burned that too; he stuck in his nose, and the smoke drew him into the pot, and the poor little mouse was all burned. The ant waited for him to eat. She waited two, she waited three hours, the mouse did not come. When she could wait no longer, she put the dinner on the table. But when she took out the meat, out came the mouse dead. When she saw him the ant began to weep, and all her friends; and the ant remained a widow, because he who is a mouse must be a glutton. If you don't believe it, go to her house and you will see her. [17] Other Italian versions are: Pitrè, No. 136, "_Li Vecchi_" ("The Old Folks"); and _Nov. fior._ p. 567, "The Story of Signor Donato." [18] There are two versions of this story in Pitrè, No. 139, and notes. They differ but little from the one we have translated. An Istrian version is in Ive, _Fiabe pop. rovignesi_, 1878, No. 4, "_I tri fardai_" and a Corsican one in Ortoli, p. 278. [19] Other Italian versions are: Coronedi-Berti, p. 49, "_La Fola d' Zanninein_;" and Bernoni, _Trad. pop._ p. 79, "_Rosseto_." [20] There is another Italian version in _Fiabe Mantovane_, No. 31, "The Wolf." The only parallel I can find to this story out of Italy is a negro story in _Lippincott's Magazine_, December, 1877, "Folk-Lore of the Southern Negroes," p. 753, "Tiny Pig." Allusion is made to the Anglo-Saxon story of the "Three Blue Pigs," but I have been unable to find it. [21] A Sicilian version is in Pitrè, No. 278, "_L'Acidduzzu_" ("Little Bird"), and one from Tuscany in Nerucci, _Cincelle da Bambini_, No. 12. [22] Köhler, in his notes to this story, gives parallels from various parts of Europe. To these may be added Asbjørnsen and Moe, Nos. 42, 102 [Dasent, _Tales from the Fjeld_, p. 35, "The Greedy Cat"]. Comp. Halliwell, p. 29, "The story of Chicken-licken." A French version is in the _Romania_, No. 32, p. 554 (Cosquin, No. 45), where copious references to this class of stories may be found. Add to these those by Köhler in _Zeitschrift für rom. Phil._ III. p. 617. CHAPTER VI. STORIES AND JESTS. [1] A well-known literary version of this story is Sachetti, Nov. IV. Copious references to this popular story will be found in Oesterley's notes to Pauli's _Schimpf und Ernst_, No. 55; see also Pitrè, IV. pp. 392, 437. The entire literature of the subject is summed up in a masterly manner by Professor F. J. Child in _English and Scottish Popular Ballads_, Part II. p. 403. [2] There is a version from Siena in Gradi, _Saggio di Letture varie_, p. 179, "_Teà, Tècla e Teopista_;" and from Rome in Busk, pp. 357, 367. References to other European versions of this story may be found in Grimm, Nos. 34, 104; Schneller, No. 56, "_Die närrischen Weiber_;" Zingerle, _Märchen_, I. No. 14; Dasent's _Tales from the Norse_, p. 191, "Not a Pin to choose between Them" (Asbj. & M., No. 10); Ralston, _R. F. T._ pp. 52-54; _Jahrbuch_, V. 3, Köhler to Cénac Moncaut's _Contes pop. de la Gascogne_, p. 32, "_Maître Jean l'habile Homme_;" _Orient und Occident_, II. p. 319; Köhler to Campbell, No. 20, "The Three Wise Men," p. 686, to No. 48, "Sgire Mo Chealag." [3] This story is sometimes found as one of the episodes of the last tale, as for example in Schneller, No. 56. Imbriani, _Pomiglianesi_, p. 227, cites as parallels: Coronedi-Berti, XII. "_La fola dla Patalocca_;" Beroaldo di Verville, _Le Moyen de Parvenir_, LXXVIII.; and a story in _La Civiltà italiana_, 1865, No. 13. See also _Romania_, VI. p. 551 (E. Cosquin, _Contes pop. lorrains_, No. 22), and _Jahrb._ VIII. 267, Köhler to the above cited story in the _Civiltà ital._ from Calabria. It is also the story of "The Miser and his Wife" in Halliwell, p. 31. [4] There is a literary version in Straparola, VIII. 1. Other literary versions are cited in Pitrè, IV. p. 443. [5] Pitrè, No. 257, where references to other Italian versions may be found. See also Pitrè, IV. pp. 412 and 447; and Köhler's notes to Bladé, _Contes pop. recueillis en Agenais_, p. 155, for other European versions. Additional references may be found in Oesterley's notes to Pauli's _Schimpf und Ernst_, No. 595. A similar story is in Pitrè's _Nov. tosc._ No. 67. [6] Pitrè, No. 180. A literary version is in Straparola, VIII. 6. For other references see Schmidt, Straparola, p. 329; and Oesterley's notes to Pauli's _Schimpf und Ernst_, No. 357. [7] This story is found in Gonz., No. 75, "_Von Firrazzanu_," and is (with the queen's attempt to punish him for it) the only joke in that collection relating to Firrazzanu. A literary version is in Bandello, _Novelle_, IV. 27. [8] See Pitrè, No. 156, var. 5 (III. p. 181). [9] Imbriani in his notes to Pitrè (IV. p. 417) gives a French version of this joke entitled: _Un Neveu pratique_. [10] The name Giufà is retained in many localities with slight phonetic changes. Thus it is Giucà in Trapani; Giuchà in the Albanian colonies in Sicily; in Acri, Giuvali; and in Tuscany, Rome, and the Marches, Giucca. Pitrè, III. p. 371, adds that the name Giufà is the same as that of an Arab tribe. The best known continental counterparts of Giufà are Bertoldino and Cacasenno (see Olindo Guerrini, _La Vita e le Opere di Giulio Cesare Croce_, Bologna, 1879, pp. 257-279). Tuscan versions of the stories of Giufà given in the text may be found in _Nov. tosc._ pp. 179-193. [11] The same story is told by Miss Busk, "The Booby," p. 371, and is in the _Pent._ I. 4. It is probably founded on the well-known fable of Aesop, "_Homo fractor simulacri_" (ed. Furia, No. 21), which seems very widely spread. A Russian version, from Afanasieff, is in De Gub., _Zoöl. Myth._ I. p. 176. See also Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 478; and Köhler to Gonz., No. 37. [12] In Gonz., No. 37, Giufà takes the cloth, and on his way to the dyer's sits down to rest on a heap of stones in a field. A lizard creeps out from the stones, and Giufà, taking it for the dyer, leaves the cloth on the stones and returns home. His mother, of course, sends him immediately back for the cloth, but it has disappeared, as well as the lizard. Giufà cries: "Dyer, if you don't give me back my cloth I will tear down your house." Then he begins to pull down the heap of stones, and finds a pot of money which had been hidden there. He takes it home to his mother, who gives him his supper and sends him to bed, and then buries the money under the stairs. Then she fills her apron with figs and raisins, climbs upon the roof, and throws figs and raisins down the chimney into Giufà's mouth as he lies in his bed. Giufà is well pleased with this, and eats his fill. The next morning he tells his mother that the Christ child has thrown him figs and raisins from heaven the night before. Giufà cannot keep the pot of money a secret, but tells every one about it, and finally is accused before the judge. The officers of justice go to Giufà's mother and say: "Your son has everywhere told that you have kept a pot of money which he found. Do you not know that money that is found must be delivered up to the court?" The mother protests that she knows nothing about the money, and that Giufà is always telling stupid stories. "But mother," said Giufà, "don't you remember when I brought you home the pot, and in the night the Christ child rained figs and raisins from heaven into my mouth?" "There, you see how stupid he is," says the mother, "and that he does not know what he says." The officers of justice go away thinking, "Giufà is too stupid!" Köhler, in his Notes to Gonz., No. 37, cites as parallels to the above, _Pent._ I. 4, and _Thousand and One Nights_, Breslau trans. XI. 144. For the rain of figs and raisins he refers to _Jahrb._ VIII. 266 and 268; and to Campbell, II. 385, for a shower of milk porridge. See Note 16 of this chapter, and _Indian Fairy Tales_, p. 257. [13] See Max Müller's _Chips_, II. p. 229, and Benfey, _Pant._ I. p. 293. [14] See Imbriani, _Nov. fior._ p. 545; Papanti, _Nov. pop. livor._ No. 3; and Bernoni, _Punt._ III. p. 83. [15] See Robert, _Fables inédites_, II. p. 136. The Italian literary versions are: Morlini, XXI., Straparola, XIII. 4; and two stories mentioned by Imbriani in his _Nov. fior._ pp. 545, 546. [16] This episode is in Strap. XIII. 4; Pitrè, IV. p. 291, gives a version from the Albanian colony of Piana de' Greci, sixteen miles from Palermo. In the same vol., p. 444, he gives a variant from Erice in which, after Giufà has killed the "_canta-la-notti_," his mother climbs a fig-tree and rains down figs into the mouth of Giufà, who is standing under. In this way she saves herself from the accusation of having thrown a murdered man into the well. See Note 12. For another Sicilian version of this episode see Gonz., No. 37 (I. p. 252). [17] Papanti, p. 65. Copious references will be found in Papanti, pp. 72-81; Oesterley to Pauli, _Schimpf und Ernst_, No. 416; and Kirchof, _Wendunmuth_, I. 122; and Köhler's notes to Sercambi's Novels in _Jahrb._ XII. p. 351. [18] Köhler, in his notes to Gonz., No. 37 (II. p. 228), cites for this story: _Thousand and One Days_, V. 119; _Pent._ I. 4; Grimm, II. 382; Morlini, No. 49; Zingerle, I. 255; Bebelius, _Facetiæ_, I. 21; Bladé, _Contes et Proverbes_, Paris, 1867, p. 21; and Bertoldino (Florence, Salani), p. 31, "_Bertoldino entra nella cesta dell' oca a covare in cambio di lei_." In the story in the _Fiabe Mant._ No. 44, "_Il Pazzo_" ("The Fool"), the booby kills his own mother by feeding her too much macaroni when she is ill. [19] See Pitrè, No. 190, var. 9; _Jahrb._ V. 18; Simrock, _Deutsche Märchen_, No. 18 (_Orient und Occident_, III. p. 373); Hahn, No. 34; _Jahrb._ VIII. 267; _Mélusine_, p. 89; _Nov. fior._ p. 601; _Romania_, VI. p. 551; Busk, pp. 369, 374; and _Fiabe Mant._ No. 44. In the Sicilian stories Giufà simply takes the door off its hinges and carries it to his mother, who is in church. In the other Italian versions the booby takes the door with him, and at night carries it up into a tree. Robbers come and make a division of their booty under the tree, and the booby lets the door fall, frightens them away, and takes their money himself. [20] See Köhler's notes to Gonz., II. p. 228. To these may be added, for the story of Giufà planting the ears and tails of the swine in the marsh: Ortoli, p. 208; _Mélusine_, p. 474; and _Romania_, VII. p. 556, where copious references to parallels from all of Europe may be found. In the story in Ortoli, cited above, the priest's mother is killed, as in text. [21] For the literal throwing of eyes, see: _Jahrb._ V. p. 19; Grimm, No. 32 (I. p. 382); _Nov. fior._ p. 595; Webster, _Basque Legends_, p. 69; _Orient und Occident_, II. 684 (Köhler to Campbell, No. 45). [22] See Gonz., Nos. 70, 71, and Köhler's notes, II. p. 247. Other Italian versions are: De Gub., _Sto. Stefano_, No. 30; Widter-Wolf, No. 18, and Köhler's notes (_Jahrb._ VII. 282); Strap., I. 3: _Nov. fior._ p. 604; _Fiabe Mant._ No. 13. To these may be added: _Romania_, V. p. 357; VI. p. 539; and VIII. p. 570. [23] See Pitrè's notes, IV. pp. 124, 412; and F. Liebrecht in the _Academy_, vol. IV. p. 421. [24] See Pitrè's notes, IV. pp. 140, 448; Wright's _Latin Stories_, pp. 49, 226. [25] Pitrè, No. 290. See Papanti, _op. cit._ p. 197, where other versions are cited. To these may be added the story in Marcolf, see Guerrini, _Vita di G. C. Croce_, p. 215; and _Marcolphus, Hoc est Disputationis_, etc., in _Epistolæ obscuror, virorum_, Frankf. a. M., 1643, p. 593. There is another story in Pitrè (No. 200) which is also attributed to Dante. It is called:-- CVI. PETER FULLONE AND THE EGG. Once upon a time Peter Fullone, the stone-cutter, was working at the cemetery, near the church of Santo Spirito; a man passed by and said: "Peter, what is the best mouthful?" Fullone answered: "An egg;" and stopped. A year later Fullone was working in the same place, sitting on the ground and breaking stones. The man who had questioned him the year before passed by again and said: "Peter, with what?" meaning: what is good to eat with an egg. "With salt," answered Peter Fullone. He had such a wise head that after a year he remembered a thing that a passer-by had said. * * * * * The cemetery alluded to, Pitrè says, is beyond the gate of St. Agatha, near the ancient church of Sto. Spirito, where the Sicilian Vespers began. An interesting article on Peter Fullone may be found in Pitrè, _Studi di Poesia popolare_, p. 109, "_Pietro Fullone e le Sfide popolari siciliane_." The sight-seer in Florence has noticed, on the east side of the square in which the cathedral stands, a block of stone built into the wall of a house, and bearing the inscription, "_Sasso di Dante_." The guide-books inform the traveller that this is the stone on which the great poet was wont to sit on summer evenings. Tradition says that an unknown person once accosted Dante seated in his favorite place, and asked: "What is the best mouthful?" Dante answered: "An egg." A year after, the same man, whom Dante had not seen meanwhile, approached and asked: "With what?" Dante immediately replied: "With salt." A poet, Carlo Gabrielli, put this incident into rhyme, and drew from it the following moral (_senso_):-- "L'acuto ingegno grande apporta gloria; Maggior, se v'è congiunta alta memoria." See Papanti, _op. cit._ pp. 183, 205. [26] This story is told in almost the same words in Pitrè, No. 297, "The Peasant and the King." There are several Italian literary versions, the best known being in the _Cento nov. ant._ ed. Borghini, Nov. VI.: see D'Ancona's notes to this novel in the _Romania_, III. p. 185, "_Le Fonti del Novellino_." It is also found in the _Gesta Romanorum_, cap. 57, see notes in Oesterley's edition; and in Simrock's _Deutsche Märchen_, No. 8, see Liebrecht's notes in _Orient und Occident_, III. p. 372. To the above may, finally, be added Köhler's notes to Gonz., No. 50 (II. p. 234). [27] Comparetti, No. 43, "_La Ragazza astuta_" (Barga). The first part of the story, dividing the fowl, and sending the presents, which are partly eaten on the way, is found in Gonz., No. 1, "_Die Kluge Bauerntochter_" ("The Peasant's Clever Daughter"). See Köhler's notes to Gonz., No. 1 (II. 205); and to Nasr-eddin's _Schwänke_ in _Orient und Occident_, I. p. 444. Grimm, No. 94, "The Peasant's Wise Daughter," contains all the episodes of the Italian story except the division of the fowl. An Italian version in the _Fiabe Mant._ No. 36, "_La giovane accorta_," contains the episode of the mortar. The king sends word to the clever daughter that she must procure for him some _ahimè_ (sneeze) salad. She sent him some ordinary salad with some garlic sprinkled over it, and when he touched it he sneezed (and formed the sound represented by the word _ahimè_). The rest of the story contains the episode lacking in the other popular Italian versions, but found in Grimm, and technically known as "_halb geritten_." For this episode see _Gesta Romanorum_, ed. Oesterley, cap. 124, and Pauli, 423. Another Italian version from Bergamo may be found in Corazzini, p. 482, "_La Storia del Pestu d' or_" ("The Story of the Gold Pestle"), which is like the version in the text from the episode of the mortar on. In the story from Bergamo it is a gold pestle, and not a mortar, that is found, and the story of "_halb geritten_" is retained. The episode of the foal is changed into a sharp answer made (at the queen's suggestion) by the king's herdsman to his master, who had failed to pay him for his services. A version from Montale, Nerucci, p. 18, "_Il Mortajo d'oro_" ("The Golden Mortar"), contains all the episodes of the story in the text (including "_halb geritten_") except the division of the fowl. The first part of the story is found in a tale from Cyprus, in the _Jahrb._ XI. p. 360. A parallel to the story in our text may also be found in Ralston's _R. F. T._ p. 30. The literature of the story of "The Clever Girl" may be found in Child's _English and Scottish Popular Ballads_, Part I. p. 6, "The Elfin Knight." [28] _Fiabe Mantovane_, No. 41, "_Gàmbara_." The Italian for crab is _gambero_. There is a Tuscan story (_Nov. pop. tosc._ p. 8), "_Il Medico grillo_" ("Doctor Cricket"), with reference perhaps to the other meaning of _grillo_, whim, fancy, which reminds one of the story in the text. The pretended doctor cures a king's daughter by making her laugh so hard that she dislodges a fish-bone that had stuck in her throat. Doctor Cricket becomes so popular that the other doctors starve, and finally ask the king to kill him. The king refuses, but sets him a difficult task to do, namely, to cure all the patients in the hospital; failing to accomplish this, he is to be killed or dismissed. Doctor Cricket has a huge cauldron of water heated, and then goes into the wards and tells the patients that when the water is hot they are all to be put into it, but if any one wishes to depart he can go away then. Of course they all run away in haste, and when the king comes the hospital is empty. The doctor is then richly rewarded, and returns to his home. For parallels to our story see Pitrè's notes, vol. IV. p. 442, and to the Tuscan story above-mentioned. Another Tuscan version has recently been published in _Nov. tosc._ No. 60. See also Grimm, No. 98; Asbjørnsen, _Ny Sam._ No. 82 [Dasent, _Tales from the Fjeld_, p. 139, "The Charcoal Burner"]; Caballero, _Cuentos_, p. 68; _Orient und Occident_, I. 374; and Benfey, _Pant._ I. 374. There is a story in Straparola (XIII. 6) that recalls the story in our text. A mother sends her stupid son to find "good day" (_il buon dì_). The youth stretched himself in the road near the city gate where he could observe all those who entered or left the town. Now it happened that three citizens had gone out into the fields to take possession of a treasure that they had discovered. On their return they greeted the youth in the road with "good day." The youth said, when the first one saluted him: "I have one of them," meaning one of the good days, and so on with the other two. The citizens who had found the treasure, believing that they were discovered, and that the youth would inform the magistrates of the find, shared the treasure with him. LIST OF WORKS MOST FREQUENTLY REFERRED TO IN THE NOTES. (_For works relating directly to Italian Popular Tales, see Bibliography._) Asbjørnsen: Norske Folke-Eventyr fortalte af P. Chr. Asbjørnsen. Ny Samling. Christiania, 1871. 8^o. [English version in Tales from the Fjeld. A second series of Popular Tales from the Norse of P. Chr. Asbjørnsen. By G. W. Dasent, London, 1874.] Asbjørnsen and Moe: Norse Folke-Eventyr fortalte af P. Chr. Asbjørnsen og Jørgen Moe. 5^{te} Udgave. Christiania, 1874. 8^o. [Partly translated by G. W. Dasent in Popular Tales from the Norse. 2d ed. Edinburgh, 1859. New York, 1859.] Basque Legends: collected, chiefly in the Labourd, by the Rev. Wentworth Webster. London, 2d ed. 1879. 8^o. Benfey, Pantschatantra: Fünf Bücher indischer Fabeln, Märchen und Erzählungen. Aus dem Sanskrit übersetzt mit Einleitung und Anmerkungen von Theodor Benfey. Erster Theil, Einleitung. Leipzig, 1859. 8^o. Bladé: Contes populaires recueillis en Agenais par M. Jean-François Bladé suivis de notes comparatives par M. Reinhold Köhler. Paris, 1874. 8^o. Brueyre: Contes populaires de la Grande-Bretagne par Loys Brueyre. Paris, 1875. 8^o. Cosquin, Emmanuel: Contes populaires lorrains recueillis dans un village du Barrois, à Montiers-sur-Baulx (Meuse), _Romania_, V. 83, 133; VI. 212, 529; VII. 527; VIII. 545; IX. 377; X. 117, 543. Cox: The Mythology of the Aryan Nations. By G. W. Cox. 2 vols. London, 1870. 8^o. Dunlop-Liebrecht: Geschichte der Prosadichtung. Aus dem englischen von F. Liebrecht. Berlin, 1851. 8^o. Folk-Lore Record, London, 1879-1882. 5 vols. 8^o. Gesammtabenteuer. Von F. H. von der Hagen. 3 vols. Stuttgart und Tübingen, 1850. 8^o. Gesta Romanorum von Herm. Oesterley. Berlin, 1872. 8^o. Graesse, J. G. T.: Die grossen Sagenkreise des Mittelalters. Dresden und Leipzig, 1842. 8^o. Grimm, The Brothers: Grimm's Household Tales. With the Author's Notes translated from the German and edited by M. Hunt. With an Introduction by A. Lang, M. A. In two volumes. London: G. Bell & Sons. 1884. (Bohn's Standard Library.) [This excellent version contains all the stories and notes of the third edition of the original text, Göttingen, 1856, the third volume of which, containing the notes, is rather scarce. The numbers of the stories correspond in the German and English editions, and the latter will be cited for the convenience of the reader.] Grundtwig: Danske Folkeminder, Viser, Sagn og Eventyr. Udgivne af Svend Grundtwig. Kjøbenhavn, 1861. 1^{ste}-3^{die} Samling. 8^o. Hahn: Griechische und Albanesische Märchen. Gesammelt, übersetzt und erläutert von J. G. von Hahn. Leipzig, 1864. 2 vols. 8^o. Halliwell, J. O.: Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales. London, 1849. 12^o. Kreutzwald: Ehstnische Märchen. Aufgezeichnet von Friedrich Kreutzwald. Halle, 1869. 8^o. Luzel: Contes bretons recueillis et traduits par F. M. Luzel. Quimperlé, 1870. 8^o. Mélusine: Revue de Mythologie, Litt. pop., Traditions et usages, dirigée par MM. H. Gaidoz et E. Rolland. Paris, 1877, 1884. 4^o. Nisard, Ch.: Histoire des Livres populaires. Paris, 1854. 2 vols. 8^o. Novelle Ant. Biagi: Le Novelle Antiche dei codici Panciatichiano-Palatino 138 e Laurenziano-Gaddiano 193, con una introduzione etc per Guido Biagi. Florence, 1880. 8^o. Novelle Ant. Borg: Le Cento Novelle Antiche secondo l'edizione del MDXXV. corrette ed illustrate con note. Milano, 1825. 8^o. Novelle Ant. Gualt.: Cento Novelle Antiche. Libro di Novelle e di Bel parlar gentile (Gualteruzzi da Fano). Florence (Naples), 1727. 8^o. Novelle Ant. Papanti. _Romania_, vol. III. p. 189. Old Deccan Days, or Hindoo Fairy Legends. Collected by M. Frere. Philadelphia: Lippincott & Co. 1868. Orient und Occident insbes. in ihren gegenwärtigen Beziehungen. Forschungen und Mittheilungen. Eine Vierteljahrschrift herausgegeben von Theodor Benfey. Vols I.-III. Göttingen, 1860-1864. 8^o. Ralston: Russian Folk-Tales. By W. R. S. Ralston. London, 1873. 8^o. [There is an American reprint, without date.] Robert: Fables inédites des XII^e, XIII^e, XIV^e Siècles et Fables de La Fontaine. Par A. C. M. Robert. 2 vols. Paris, 1825. 8^o. Romania: Recueil Trimestriel consacré à l'étude des langues et des litteratures romanes. Publié par P. Meyer et G. Paris. Paris, 1872, still in course of publication. Rondallayre, lo: Quentos populars catalans coleccionats per F. Maspons y Labros. Barcelona, 1871. 18^o. Schiefner, F. Anton von: Tibetan Tales, done into English from the German, with an Introduction by W. R. S. Ralston, M. A. London, 1882 (Trübner's Oriental Series). Stokes, Maive: Indian Fairy Tales. With notes by Mary Stokes, and an Introduction by W. R. S. Ralston, M. A. London, 1880. Sacre Rappresentazioni dei Secoli XIV., XV., XVI. Raccolte e illustrate per cura di Alessandro D'Ancona. Florence, 1872. 3 vols. 16^o. Schimpf und Ernst: J. Pauli. Herausgegeben von Herm. Oesterley. Bibliothek des Litt. Vereins in Stuttgart. Bd. LXXXV. Stuttgart, 1866. 8^o. Tausend und Eine Nacht. Arabische Erzählungen. Deutsch von M. Habicht, von der Hagen und C. Schall. Breslau, 1836. 15 vols. 8^o. Wendunmuth: Hans Wilhelm Kirchhof, Wendunmuth. Herausgegeben von Herm. Oesterley. Bibliothek des Litt. Vereins in Stuttgart. Bd. XCV.-XCIX. 5 vols. 8^o. Tübingen, 1869. INDEX. Admonitions, the Three, story of, 157. Andromeda, or Princess freed from Dragon, 335. Angiola, the Fair, story of, 26. Animal brothers-in-law, 60; animal children, 324; animals, dispute of, settled by hero, 31. Ant and the Mouse, story of the, 376. Apple, unequally divided, indicates true friend, 204 Ass, story of the, 190. Ass that lays Money, story of the, 123. Baker's Apprentice, story of the, 212. Barber, story of the, 241. Basile, Giambattista, xi. Bastianelo, story of, 279. Beauty and the Beast, 7. Beppo Pipetta, story of, 222. Bierde, story of, 68. Bird, magic, bestowing gifts, 43; bird, transformation into, 2, 13. Blood of children restores uncle to life, 87. Bluebeard, 77. Bone of hero as musical instrument discovering murderers, 41; human bone to be eaten, 81. Bonhomme Misère, 215, 222, 367. Boots, magic, faster than wind, 143. Bottles, seven, filled with tears, 322. Bride, the Forgotten, 58, 71. Bride, the True, 57, 71, 102. Brother Giovannone, story of, 217. Brothers, three, born from mother eating magic fish, 30. Buchettino, story of, 265. Bucket, story of the, 100. Buddha, parable of, 294. Buttadeu, story of, 197. Capon divided in peculiar manner, 311. Cat and the Mouse, story of the, 257. Catherine and her Fate, story of, 105. Cento Novelle Antiche, 154, 188. Chess, winning at, disposes of princess's hand, 123. Chick-Pea, Little, story of, 242. Children born from chick-peas, 243; from fish, 30, 335; apple-peel, 344; Children promised to witches, 25; to Devil, 136. Christmas, story of, 283. Cinderella, story of, 42. Cistern, story of the, 36. Clever Girl, story of the, 311. Clever Peasant, story of the, 309. Cloak that renders invisible, 123, 1. Cloud, story of the, 30. Cobbler, the, story of, 94. Cock, story of the, 270. Cock and the Mouse, story of the, 252. Cock that wished to become Pope, story of the, 272. Constantine's leprosy healed by St. Silvester, 202. Cook, story of the, 275. Crab, story of, 314. Crivòliu, story of, 198. Cross protects child against Devil, 137. Crumb in the Beard, story of the, 110. Crystal Casket, story of the, 326. Çukasaptati, Oriental collection of tales, 167, 359. Cupid and Psyche, 1, 77. Cure by laughing, 119, 347. Curse of the Seven Children, story of the, 54. Cymbal, prince concealed in, 64. Danaë, 336. Dante, 309, 381. Daughters, two, good and bad, 100. Der Kaiser und der Abt, Bürger's poem of, 275. Devil, how the, married Three Sisters, story of, 78. Disciplina Clericalis of Petrus Alphonsi, 154, 157, 352, 355. Doctor's Apprentice, story of the, 287. Dog's face, by witch's imprecation, 29; dogs substituted for queen's children, 19. Doll which moves, sees, and dresses itself, 114; king's son in love with, 117, 180. Don Firiulieddu, story of, 241. Don Joseph Pear, story of, 127. Don Juan, 235. Don Quixote, 155. Doves recall forgotten bride, 75; indicate future Pope, 200. Eagle carries hero up from cave, 40. Eat, My Clothes! story of, 296. Egg which kills fairy, 32. Eyes, diseased, cured by feather of griffin, 40. Fables of Oriental origin, 150, 353. Fabliaux, French, 149, 352. Fair Brow, story of, 131. Fairies' gifts, 19, 99, 100, 102. Fate personified, 105. Feast Day, a, story of, 261. Figs producing horns, 121. Fiorita, the Fair, story of, 61. Firrazzanu, stories of, 289, 290; Firrazzanu's Wife and the Queen, 288. Flesh of hero given to eagle, 40. Flight of lovers and pursuit by witch, 28, 74, 335. Fool, story of the, 302. Forbidden chamber, 77, 79. Fountain of wine and oil, 72. Fox as Puss in Boots, 127. Gentleman who kicked a Skull, story of the, 236. Gesta Romanorum, 183. Giant with no heart in his body, 32, 335, 355; giant outwitted by men, 89, 94, 95. Giufà's Exploits, story of, 297. Giufà and the Judge, story of, 293. Giufà and the Plaster Statue, story of, 291. Goat and the Fox, story of the, 375. Goat, the Iron, 256. Godfather and Godmother of St. John who made love, story of, 228. Godfather Misery, story of, 221. Godmother Fox, 254. Gold, magician's body turned to, 333. Gossips of St. John, story of the, 369. Gregory on the Stone, 198, 363. Griffin, story of the, 40. Grimm's Tales cited in text: Allerleirauh, 42; Brother Lustig, 215; Clever Alice, 279; Clever People, 279; Doctor Knowall, 314; Faithful John, 85; Feather Bird [Fitcher's Bird], 77; Golden Goose, 261; Goose-Girl, 57; Handless Maiden, 25; King Thrushbeard, 109; Little Mouse, Little Bird, and the Sausage, 260; Master Thief, 215; Robber Bridegroom, 77; Spider and the Flea, 256; White and the Black Bride, 58; Wood-cutter's Child [Our Lady's Child], 77. Groomsman, story of the, 231. Hair, tresses used as ladder, 3, 27, 72, 83, 335. Hands, clasped, prevent child's birth, 6. Heart of saint eaten by maiden produces child, 208. Hermit as adviser, 7, 14, 20. Horn that blows out soldiers, 123. House that Jack built, 247. Humpbacks, the Two, story of, 103. Hump removed by fairies, 103; added to humpback, 104. In this World one weeps and another laughs, story of, 190. Ingrates, story of the, 150. Joseph and his Brethren, 211. Journey of our Saviour on Earth, 189. Judas, story of, 195. Just Man, story of the, 226. King Bean, story of, 12. King, Crystal, story of the, 6. King John and the Abbot of Canterbury, Percy's poem of, 275. King Lear, 333. King of Love, story of the, 1. King who wanted a Beautiful Wife, story of the, 97. Kiss of mother makes hero forget bride, 71, 74, 343. La Fontaine, fables of, cited, 149, 294. Language of Animals, story of the, 161. Leprosy healed by human blood, 207. Life-giving ointment or leaves, 326. Lionbruno, story of, 136. Long May, 284. Lord, St. Peter, and the Apostles, story of the, 186. Lord, St. Peter, and the Blacksmith, story of the, 188. Lord's Will, 192. Love of the Three Oranges, story of the, 338. Malchus at the Column, story of, 197. Malchus, Desperate, story of, 196. Man, the Serpent, and the Fox, story of the, 354. Maria Wood, Fair, story of, 48. Mason and his Son, story of the, 163. Massariol, domestic spirit of the Venetians, 237. Medusa, 336. Melusina, 1. Mother-in-law ill-treats son's wife, 56; killed by boiling oil, 57. Mr. Attentive, story of, 240. Nala, story of, in an Italian popular tale, 360 Nero, 308. Occasion, story of, 215. Old Deccan Days, stories from, cited, 85. Omelet, Little, story of the, 294. Oraggio and Bianchinetta, story of, 58. Oriental elements in Italian popular tales, 149, 352. Orlanda, the Fairy, story of, 114. Pandora's box, 5. Pantschatantra, Italian versions of, 351. Parish Priest of San Marcuola, story of, 234. Parnell's Hermit, 210, 365. Parrot, story of the, first version, 168; second version, 169; third version, 173. Peasant and the Master, story of the, 150. Penance, Knight's, 227. Pentamerone, xi. Pepper-Corn, story of, 375. Perrault, Charles, xii. Persecution of innocent wife, 326. Peter Fullone and the Egg, story of, 381. Physician, wife disguised as, 15; princess disguised as, 170. Pier delle Vigne, 159. Pig, little, that would not go over the stile, 247. Pilate, story of, 194. Pitidda, story of, 248. Polyphemus, myth of, 89. Pot that cooks without any fire, 305. Proverbial sayings, 308, 309. Purse always full of money, 19, 120, 143. Puss in Boots, story of, 348. Rabbit that carries things, 304. Rain of figs and raisins, 380. Rampsinitus, treasure house of, 163. Riddle, bride won by solving, 66; proposed by suitor, 68; in general, 343. Ring, as means of recognition, 51; turns red and stops steamer at owner's forgetfulness, 114; ring which causes sneezing, 119. Rose discovers concealed princess, 65. Ruby, magic, does all that owner asks, 138. Saddaedda, story of, 238. St. James of Galicia, story of, 202. St. Onirià or Nerià, 208. St. Peter and the Robbers, 185. St. Peter's Mamma, 192. St. Peter and his Sisters, story of, 193. Sanctuary, privilege of, 38. Sarnelli, Pompeo, Bishop of Bisceglie, xii. Scissors they were, story of, 285. Sepher Haggadah, Jewish hymn in, 375. Seven Wise Masters, the, 159, 160, 161, 167, 168; Italian versions of, 351; in general, 358; Magyar version, 359. Sexton's Nose, story of the, 250. Shepherd, story of the, 156. Shepherd who made the King's Daughter laugh, story of the, 119. Shoes, iron, worn out in search of husband, 7, 322; in search of wife, 142. Sick prince and secret remedy, 325. Silence of princess disenchants brothers, 55. Sir Fiorante, Magician, story of, 322. Sisters' envy, 7, 17. Sisters, Two, 58, 338. Skein of silk outweighs king's treasures, 108. Sleep, magic, 82. Slipper, lost by Cinderella, 46. Snake, youngest daughter marries, 322. Snow-White-Fire-Red, story of, 72. Star on daughter's brow, 18, 101. Statue, in love with, story of, 85. Statue, transformation into, 22, 34, 86. Stepmother, story of the, 331. Stepmother persecutes daughter-in-law, 326, 331. Stick, magic, beats thief, 125. Straparola, Giovan Francesco, x. Sultan's daughter, 132. Swan-maidens, 76. Sympathetic objects: ring, 11, 19; fish-bone, 30; in general, 326. Tablecloth, magic, producing food, 120, 125. Tasks, 5, 7, 30; set suitor by father-in law, 65. Thankful Dead, episode of, 131, 350, 364. Thirteenth, story of, 90. Thoughtless Abbot, story of the, 276. Thousand and One Nights, stories from in Italian popular tales, 151; Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp, 152; Forty Thieves, 152; Third Calendar, 153; Two Envious Sisters, 153; The Hunchback, 153; The Ass, the Ox, and the Peasant, 153; Prince Ahmed and the Fairy Peribanu, 153; Sindbad's Fourth Voyage, 153; The Second Royal Mendicant, 153. Three Brothers, story of the, 263. Three Goslings, story of the, 267. Tobit, 211. Tokens, magic: apple, pomegranate, crown, 36. Tom Thumb, 242, 372. Torches, nuptial, 6. Transformation of hero into bird, 2, 13; eagle, 32; ant, 32; lion, 33. See _Statue_. Treasure, story of the, 156. Treasure stories, 238. True and Untrue, 325. Truthful Joseph, story of, 184. Turk, in Sicilian tales, 1, 2, 178. Turkish corsairs, 132. Tûtî-Nâmeh, 167, 359. Uncle Capriano, story of, 303. Vineyard I was and Vineyard I am, story of, 159. Wager, story of the, 284. Wandering Jew, 197, 363. Water and Salt, story of, 332. Water, Dancing, the Singing Apple, and the Speaking Bird, story of the, 17. Water of life, 53. Whistle that brings dead to life, 306; whistle which makes people dance, 120. Whittington and his Cat, 365. Witches' council under tree, 14; imprecation, 338. Wooden dress, disguise of heroine, 48. Zelinda and the Monster, story of, 7. 
32921	----	Old Hendrik's Tales, by Captain Arthur Owen Vaughan. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ OLD HENDRIK'S TALES, BY CAPTAIN ARTHUR OWEN VAUGHAN. CHAPTER ONE. WHY OLD BABOON HAS THAT KINK IN HIS TAIL. The day was hot, and the koppies simmered blue and brown along the Vaal River. Noon had come, dinner was done. "Allah Mattie!" said the grey old kitchen boy to himself, as he stretched to sleep in the shade of the mimosa behind the house. "Allah Mattie! but it near break my back in dem tobacco lands dis mawnin'. I sleep now." He stretched himself with a slow groan of pleasure, settling his face upon his hands as he lay, soaking in comfort. In three minutes he was asleep. But round the corner of the house came the three children, the eldest a ten-year-old, the youngest six. With a whoop and a dash the eldest flung himself astride the old Hottentot's back, the youngest rode the legs behind, while the girl, the eight-year-old with the yellow hair and the blue eyes, darted to the old man's head and caught him fast with both hands. "Ou' Ta'! Ou' Ta'!" she cried. "Now you're Ou' Jackalse and we're Ou' Wolf, and we've got you this time at last." She wanted to dance in the triumph of it, could she have done it without letting go. Old Hendrik woke between a grunt and a groan, but the merry clamour of the little girl would have none of that. "Now we've got you, Ou' Jackalse," cried she again. The old man's yellow face looked up in a sly grin. "Ah, Anniekye," said he unctuously; "but Ou' Wolf never did ketch Ou' Jackalse. He ain't never bin slim enough yet. He make a big ole try dat time when he got Oom Baviyaan to help him; but all dey got was dat kink in Ou' Baviyaan's tail--you can see it yet." "But how _did_ old Bobbyjohn get that kink in his tail? You never told us that, Ou' Ta'," protested Annie. The old Hottentot smiled to the little girl, and then straightway sighed to himself. "If you little folks only knowed de Taal," said he plaintively. "It don't soun' de same in you' Englis' somehow." He shook his head sadly over English as the language for a Hottentot story handed down in the Boer tongue. He had been long enough in the service of this "English" family (an American father and Australian mother) to know enough of the language for bald use; though, being a Hottentot, he had never mastered the "th," as a Basuto or other Bantu might have done, and was otherwise uncertain also--the pronunciation of a word often depending upon that of the words next before and after it. But English was not fond enough, nor had diminutives enough, for a kitchen tale as a house Kaffir loves to tell it. None the less, his eyes brightened till the smile danced in his face as his words began. "Ou' Wolf--well, Ou' Wolf, he'd a seen a lot less trouble if he ha'n't had sich a wife, for Ou' Missis Wolf she yust had a temper like a meer-cat. Folks use' to won'er how Ou' Wolf manage' wid her, an' Ou' Jackalse use' to say to him, `Allah man! if she was on'y my wife for about five minutes she'd fin' out enough to tink on as long's she keep a-livin'.' An' den Ou' Jackalse, he'd hit 'is hat back on to de back of his head an' he'd step slouchin' an' fair snort agen a-grinnin'. "But Ou' Wolf ud look behind to see if his missis was hearin', an' den he'd shake his head, an' stick his hands in his pockets an' walk off an tink. He'd see some mighty tall tinkin' yust up over his head, but he couldn' somehow seem to get a-hold of it. "Well, one mawnin' Missis Wolf she get up, an' she look on de hooks an' dere ain't no meat, an' she look in de pot an' dere ain't no mealies. `Allah Crachty!' says she, `but dat Ou' Wolf is about de laziest skellum ever any woman wore herse'f out wid. I'll ketch my deat' of him afore I's done.' "Den she look outside, an' dere she seen Ou' Wolf a-settin' on de stoop in de sun. He was yust a-waitin', sort o' quiet an' patient, for his breakfas', never dreamin' nothin' about bein' banged about de yead wid a mealie ladle, when out flops Missis Wolf, an' fair bangs him a biff on one side his head wid de long spoon. `You lazy skellum!' ses she, an' bash she lams him on his t'other year. `Where's darie [that there] meat for de breakfas' I don' know?' ses she, an' whack she smack him right on top his head. `Off you go an' fetch some dis ver' minute,' ses she, an' Ou' Wolf he don' say no moh, but he yust offs, an' he offs wid a yump too, I can tell you. "Ou' Wolf as he go he won'er how he's goin' to get dat meat quick enough. `I tink I'll get Ou' Jackalse to come along a-huntin' too,' ses he. `He's mighty slim when he ain't no need to be, an' p'raps if he'd be slim a-huntin' dis mawnin' we'd ketch somet'in' quicker.' An' Ou' Wolf rub his head in two-t'ree places as he tink of it. "Now Ou' Jackalse, he was a-sittin' in de sun agen de wall of his house, a-won'erin' where he's gun' to get breakfas', 'cause he feel dat hungry an' yet he feel dat lazy dat he wish de grass was sheep so he could lie down to it. But grass ain't sheep till it's inside one, an' so Missis Jackalse, inside a-spankin' little Ainkye, was a-won'erin' where she's gun' to get some breakfas' to stop it a-squallin'. `I yust wish you' daddy 'ud tink a bit oftener where I's gun' to get bones for you,' ses she. "Little Ainkye, she stop an' listen to dat, an' den she tink awhile, but she fin' she don't get no fatter on on'y talk about bones, an' fus' t'ing her mammy know she puts her two han's up to her eyes an' fair dives into squallin' agen. "Missis Jackalse she ketches hold o' Ainkye an' gives her such a shakin' till her eyes fly wide open. `I's yust about tired o' hearin' all dat row,' ses she. An' while Ainkye's quiet considerin' dat, Missis Jackalse she hear Ou' Wolf come along outside, axin' her Ou' Baas ain't he comin' huntin' dis mawnin'? Den she hear Ou' Jackalse answer back, sort o' tired like. `But I cahnt come. I's sick.' "Den Ainkye lets out a squall fit to split, an' her mammy she biffs her a bash dat s'prise her quite quiet, before she stick her head out o de doh an' say, mighty tremblin' like--`I don't tink we got no meat fo' breakfas' at all, Ou' Man'. "But Ou' Jackalse he ain't a troublin' hisse'f about no women's talk. He don't turn his 'ead nor not'in'. He yust hutch hisse'f closer to de wall to bake hisse'f some more, an' he say agen--`I tell you I's sick, an' I cahnt go huntin' dis mawnin', nohow'. "Missis Jackalse she pop her head inside agen mighty quick at dat, an' Ou' Wolf he sling off down de spruit wid his back up. Ou' Jackalse he yust sit still in de sun an' watch him go, an' he ses to hisse'f ses he: `Now dat's big ole luck fo' me. If he ha'n't a come along like dat I don' know but I'd a had to go an' ketch somet'in' myse'f, I'm dat 'ongry. But now it'll be all right when he come back wid some sort o' buck.' "Den he turn his head to de doh. `_Frowickie_,' ses he to his missis inside, soft an' chucklin', `tell Ainkye to stop dat squallin' an' bawlin'. Ou' Wolf's gone huntin', an' yust as sure as he come back we'll have all de breakfas' we want. Tell 'er if she don't stop anyhow I'll come inside to her.' "Missis Jackalse she frown at Ainkye. `You hear dat now,' ses she, `an' you better be quiet now 'less you want to have you' daddy come in to you.' An' Ainkye she say, `Well, will you le' me play wid your tail den?' An' her mammy she say, `All right,' an' dey 'gun a-laughin' an' a-goin' on in whispers. But Ou' Jackalse he yust sit an' keep on bakin' hisse'f in de sun by de wall. "By'n'by here comes Ou' Wolf back agen, an' a big fat Eland on his back, an' de sweat yust a-drippin' off him. An' when he comes past de house he look up an' dere he see Ou' Jackalse yust a-settin' an' a-bakin', an' a-makin' slow marks in de dust wid his toes now an' agen, an' lookin' might comfy. An' Ou' Wolf he feel darie big fat Eland more bigger an heavier dan ever on his back, an he feel dat savage at Ou' Jackalse dat he had to look toder way, for fear he'd let out all his bad words _Kerblob_ in one big splosh on darie Ou' Jackalse head. But Ou' Jackalse he say nawt'in'; he yust sit an' bake. But he tink inside hisse'f, an' his eye kind o' 'gun to shine behind in his head as he watch darie meat go past an' go on, an' he feel his mouf run all water. "But he ha'n't watched dat breakfas' out o' sight, an' he ha'n't quite settle hisse'f yust how he's goin' to get his share, when up hops Klein Hahsie--what you call Little Hare. "`Mawnin', Klein Hahsie,' ses Ou' Jackalse, but yust so high an' mighty's he know how, 'cause little Hahsie he's de runner for Big Baas King Lion, an Ou' Jackalse he tink he'll show him dat oder folks ain't no chicken feed, too. "`Mawnin', Ou' Jackalse,' ses Little Hahsie, kind o' considerin' him slow out of his big shiny eyes. Den he make a grab at one of his own long years as if it tickle him, an' when he turn his face to look at de tip o' darie year he sorto' wunk at it, kind o' slow and solemn. `Darie ou' year o' mine!' ses he to Ou' Jackalse. "Den he sort o' remember what he come for, an' he speak out mighty quick. `You yust better get a wiggle on you mighty sudden,' ses he. `Ou' King Lion he's a roarin' for darie Ou' Jackalse fit to tear up de bushes. "Where's darie Ou' Jackalse? If he don't get here mighty quick he'll know all about it," roars he. "What's de use o' me makin' him my doctor if he ain't here when he's wanted? Dis claw I neah tore out killin' a Koodoo yeste'day--he'd better be yust lively now a-gittin' here to doctor dat. Fetch him!" roars he, an' here I am, an' I tell you you yust better git a move on you,' ses Hahsie. "Ou' Jackalse he tink, but he don't let on nawthin' but what he's yust so sick as to split. `I's dat bad I cahnt har'ly crawl,' ses he--`but you go 'long an' tell King Lion I's a-comin' as soon's ever I get some medicine mix'.' "`Well, I tol' you--you better be quicker'n blue lightnin' all de same,' ses Hahsie, an' off he flicks, as if he's sort o' considerin' what's de matter wid Ou' Jackalse. "Well, Ou' Jackalse he tink, an' he tink, an' he know he'd better be gettin' along to King Lion, but yet he ain't a-goin' to give in about darie breakfas'. He ain't a-movin' mighty fast about it, but he goes into de woods an' he gets some leaves off o' one bush, an' some roots off'n anoder, an' yust when he tink dat's about all he want, who should he see but Ou' Wolf, kind o' saunterin' along an' lookin' yust good an' full o' breakfas', an' chock full o' feelin' fine all inside him. "Dat stir Ou' Jackalse where he's so empty in his tummy, an' dat make it strike him what to do. He comes along to Ou' Wolf lookin' like he's in a desprit rush an' yust in de worst kind of a tight place. `Here, Ou' Wolf,' ses he in a hustle, `you's yust him I was tinkin' on. Hyer's King Lion about half crazy wid a pain, an' he's roarin' for me, an' I set off wid a yump, an' I got all de stuff for de medicine, but all de time I clean forgot de book to mix it by. Now you yust do me a good turn, like a good chap, an' you rush off to King Lion wid dis hyer medicine, while I streaks back for de book. You does dis foh me an' I ain't a-goin' to fo'get what I owe you for it.' "Ou' Wolf he's quite took off his feet an' out o' breaf on it all. `Why, o' course,' ses he. `You gi' me darie medicine an' I offs right away. A good yob I had breakfas' a'ready,' an' he fair seizes darie medicine an' he offs. "Ou' Jackalse lie right down where he's standin' an' he fair roll an' kick hisse'f wid laughin'. `A good yob I _ar'n't_ had my breakfas',' ses he. `I'd a lost a deal more'n meat if I had a done,' ses he agen, an' den he ups an' he offs back to Ou' Wolf's house. "All de way back he kep' on a-smilin' to hisse'f, an' every once in a while he'd give a skip an' a dance to tink what a high ole time he was a-havin'. Den by'n'by he picks up a piece o' paper. `Yust de t'ing I's wantin',' ses he. "Well, he come to Ou' Wolf's house an dere was Missis Wolf a-sittin' out on de stoop an' a pullin' down de flaps of her cappie to keep de flies off'n her nose. `Mawnin', Cousin,' ses Ou' Jackalse; fair as polite as honey wouldn't run down his t'roat if you let him hold it in his mouf. "`Mawnin',' ses she, an' she ain't a-singin' it out like a Halleloolya needer, an' she don't stir from where she's a-settin', an' she don't say how-dy-do. She yust look at him like she's seen him befo'e, an' like she ain't a breakin' her neck if she don't never see him agen. "But Ou' Jackalse he ain't a-seein' nawtin' but what she's yust as glad to see him as if he was a predicant. `I's got a bit of a note here from your man,' ses he. `P'r'aps you don't mind readin' it an' den you'll know,' ses he. "Missis Wolf she cock her nose down at dat note, an' den Missis Wolf she slant her eye up at Ou' Jackalse. But Ou' Jackalse he yust kep' on between a sort o' smilin' to see her keepin' so well, and a sort o' dat tired feelin' dat life's sich a one-hawse business anyhow, till at last she up an' took darie paper. "She turn dis piece o' paper dis way an' turn it dat way, an' upside-down an' t'oder-side-to, an' at last she ses, ses she, `I don't never could read pen-writin' so well's I could book letters, an' darie Ou' Wolf he write sich a terr'ble fist anyhow. I al'ays said he ought to be sent to school agen. You better to read it fo' me,' ses she. "Ou' Jackalse he took de paper as if it ain't nawtin' anyhow, an' he looks as if livin' ain't no more'n a team o' donkeys an' a ole rope harness to a buck waggon nohow. Den he reads it off to hisse'f, sort o' mutterin' it over fus' to see what it's all about, an' den he ups an' talks it off about as happy as if it give him a hoe an' sent him into de to'acco lan's. "`Oh,' he ses. `Your man he yust ses for you to gi' me dem hin'quarters o' darie Eland I yust bargained for wid him. But, _Siss_! it 'pears he want me to car' it home myse'f, an' all de time he bargain to do dat fo' me. Ne'er mind dough; now I's here I met as well take it anyhow. But I'll have a few remarks wid Ou' Wolf when I sees him agen.' "Missis Wolf she look at Ou' Jackalse, an' Ou' Jackalse he smile as if it's all right an' quite nice dere in de sun. Den Missis Wolf she look at darie paper an' she shake her head yust once. `Yes,' ses she, `I s'pose you will ha' to take it if you bargained for it atween you, but-- you le' me have darie paper an' den I's'll have a few remarks too wid Ou' Wolf when I see him agen,' an' she look at Ou' Jackalse as if dat was gun' to be a bit of all right. "Ou' Jackalse he han' over darie piece o' paper as polite as sugar cane, an' he take over de hin'quarters of Eland wid a look on his face like dat meat was a hoe on a hot day. An' he grunt an' he grumble all de way he go till he's out o' sight an' hearin'. "Den,--well, if you wantto know yust what sort o' good ole time he had over darie breakfas', you should ha' seen him comin' out in de sun agen ahter it, his hair all shinin' wid fat an' his tail a-hangin' down straight 'cause he's too full to cock it. "Well, ahter all, he's got to be gittin' away an' seein' to King Lion pretty quick if he ain't a-goin' to get into moh trouble dan he can comb out of his hair in a twel'-mont', but he do feel so good an' comfy all inside him dat he ain't in any _baiya_ hurry even yet. `I s'pose I better take a book wid me,' ses he to hisse'f. `Wife,' ses he over his shoulder, back t'rough de do', `gi' me some sort o' book; any sort: darie ole almanac Ainkye was a-screevin' picters in'll do me yust a treat. Ou' King Lion he ain't a-gun' to look inside it.' "So he gets dis almanac an' off he sets, an' if he don't skip and flick dis time, it's only because his wais'coat's too tight. But he pick 'is teef wid a long stem o' grass, an' he biff his hat back over one year, an' one time he's a-winkin' to hisse'f an' t'oder time he wave one arm an' sing `De Kimberleysa trainsa,' like a location Kaffir wid two tickies in his pocket. "Well, by'n'by he come to de place, an' he hear King Lion a-roarin' fit to shake de wind, till yust at first Ou' Jackalse he miss a step or two, tinkin' what nex'. Den he tink again, an' it wahnt a minute till he wink at hisse'f, an' he touch up darie ol' almanac under his arm to make it look like it's mighty important. Den he set his hat on mighty straight an' pull down his coat, an' in he go. "`Vah vas yeh all dis time?' roar Ou' King Lion, makin' all de place tremble. "`Please, sir,' ses Ou' Jackalse, terr'ble busy to look at, `my fool missis she len' de medicine book to darie ou' gossippin' Missis Duck, an' I had yust a terror of a yob to spoor her out where she was a quackin' an' a scan'alin' till I got it back. But I sent de medicine on by Ou' Wolf here an' tole him what to do till I come.' "`Did you?' roars King Lion, fair a-lashin' his tail in such a wax; `an' here he's bin standin' like a clay man all dis time, yust a-holdin' leaves an' roots, an' a-sayin' nawtin', an' my claw gettin' moh and wohse pain every minute!' "Ou' Wolf he look at de King an' he begin to shake a bit. Den he look at Ou' Jackalse an' he won'er how in de worl' he come to forget what he ses he tell him. But Ou' Jackalse he look at Ou' Wolf yust as if he was fair disgusted wid such forgettin', an' den he look at de King's claw an' he shake his head. `It's gone pretty bad, but dere is yust one t'ing might cure it--it might.' "`What's dat?' roars King Lion, an' Ou' Wolf he begin to feel de air shake in de roots of his hair. "`Well, sir,' ses Ou' Jackalse, `if Ou' Wolf 'ud bring his uncle or his cousin I don't know. But,'--an' he shake his head, an' tap de ole almanac under his arm, an' look solemn all over--`dis book ses de same an' I agrees wid it, 'cause I's found it so; dere's nawtin' else for it but you take de skin of a live wolf an' wrop it roun' you' paw till it get well. Ou' Wolf's uncle now,' ses he. "`Ou' Wolf hisse'f!' roars King Lion, an'--_clip_!--he make a dive to gash a-hold of Ou' Wolf. But Ou' Wolf he'd bin a-feelin' somet'in' comin', feelin' it in his bones, an' Ou' Jackalse hadn't more'n said `Wolf!' dan Ou' Wolf wasn't dere--he was yust a-streakin' out o' dat till you couldn't see him for heel dust. "`Well, sir,' says Ou' Jackalse, an' he heaves a whackin' big sigh 'cause he's tinkin' what Ou' Wolfs gun' to do to him now when he see him agen--`I'm a gall darn sorry, you' Majesty, but now you's let Ou' Wolf get away I can't do nawtin', on'y yust put some medicine on you' claw till you ketch him agen.' An' wid dat he ups an' he doctor darie ou' claw an' comes away. An' he ain't a skippin' an' he ain't a singin' nawtin' about de `Kimberleysa trainsa' dis time nudder, 'cause he's tinkin' a deal about what Ou' Wolf's a-gun' to do. "Ahter dat Ou' Jackalse keep his eye skin' pretty clear all de time, an' Ou' Wolf keep his eyes yust a-yinglin' till he hear King Lion's got well again. Den he say to hisse'f, `Now I's gun' to get square wi' darie Ou' Jackalse--you watch me if I don't,' an' off he go to see Ou' Baviyaan in de koppies. "`Mawnin', Nief,' ses he. "`Mawnin', Oom,' ses Baviyaan. "`Very dry,' ses Ou' Wolf; `d'ye t'ink we'l get rain pretty soon?' ses he. "Ou' Baviyaan, he scratch his back, an' he look roun', an' he chew de bark off'n a piece o' stick. `P'raps it rain by'n'by,' ses he. `Dese yer koppies pretty hot dis mawnin'.' "`Well,' ses Ou' Wolf, now he'd cleared de groun' polite like dat, `you 'members darie skellum, Ou' Jackalse, dat never pay you yet for all dat lamb meat an' dat kid meat you let him have, don't you?' "`Don't I,' ses Baviyaan, puckerin' his eyebrows down an' makin' sharp eyes, an' grabbin' a fresh twig an' strippin' de bark off it--_rip_!-- wid one snatch of his teef. `I yust does.' "`Well now, look a-hyere, Nief,' ses Ou' Wolf. `I cahnt stan' him no longer nohow. I's yust a-gun' to get even wid him. He done one t'ing an' he done anoder t'ing, an' he don't pay me for de hin'quarters o' de finest Eland you ever seen, an' so I votes we yust stops all dese little die-does of his. Wat you say now if we go an' give him such a shambokkin' till he don't stir out till dis time nex' year?' "Ou' Baviyaan look at de little bird in de tree, an' Ou' Baviyaan look at de little shiny lizard on de rock. An' he looks at Ou' Wolf an' he looks round agen, an' he yumps an' he biffs a scorpion what he sees him wriggle his tail out from under a stone. Den he say, ses he, `Yeh, but how's I know you ain't a-gun' to streak it out o' dat as soon's Ou' Jackalse prance out for us? Den where'd I be, huh?' "`But who's a-gun' to run away?' ses Ou' Wolf, swellin' hisse'f out mighty big. `D'ye mean to say _I's_ a-gun' to run away f'm a skellum like dat? Me scared o' him? Huh!' "Ou' Baviyaan, he scratch hisse'f on de hip, an' he eat what you cahnt see out'n his finger an' t'umb. `Den what you want me to help you foh?' ses he, kind o' pucker in' his eyes an' glintin' here an' dere in Ou' Wolf's face. "`Oh, dat's all right,' ses Ou' Wolf, an' he try to t'ink so quick dat de inside his head tumble all over itself like rags in a basket upside down. `On'y if I go an' do it my lone se'f, den people t'ink it's yust fightin', an' dey say, "Poor Ou' Jackalse". But if we go an' do it, all two of us, den dey say, "What's darie ou' skellum bin up to dis time?" Dat's why I come for you, Nief.' "Ou' Baviyaan, he screw hisse'f roun' on his part what he sits on, an' Ou' Baviyaan, he screw hisse'f back, an' he look at a fly dat wants to light on Ou' Wolf's nose. `Look a-hyer, Oom Wolf,' ses he; `you show me some way to make sure dat you don't run off an' leave me on my own if Ou' Jackalse do somet'in', den I'll listen to you. You can run yust as fast as he can, but dere ain't no trees for me to yump for where Ou' Jackalse live.' "Ou' Wolf he scratch his ear wid his back foot, but Ou' Baviyaan he scratch his tummy wid his front han'. `Now you do dis, Oom Wolf,' ses he; `you le' me tie our tails togedder good'n fast so I know dey won't come undone, den I'll know you cahnt up an' dust it out o' dat an' leave me when de time comes. You say yes to dat, an' I'll come.' "Ou' Wolf yust laugh right out. If he'd axed for it hisse'f he cou'dn't a done better. Dat way he's sure hisse'f dat Ou' Baviyaan can't skip out an' leave _him_ needer, an' he know Ou' Baviyaan he's pretty full o' prickles to meddle wid in a tight corner. `Dere's my tail,' ses Ou' Wolf; `you tie it fas', an' you yust keep on a-tyin' till you's satisfied.' "So off dey starts. "Well, I tole you Ou' Jackalse he yust keep his eye a-rollin' all dese days, an' dis mawnin' he was out in front of his house a-choppin' out yokeskeys, an' you believe me darie axe in his han' was yust so sharp an' yust so bright in de sun dat it flashed like streaks o' hot lightnin' when he chop an' chip, an' keep on chip-a-choppin'. An' all de time his eye was yust a-smokin' an' a-burnin', till a long an' a long way off he sees Ou' Wolf an Ou' Baviyaan a-comin' a-wobblin', terr'ble close alongside each oder, an' mighty awk'ard. "`Well, dat's about de funniest commando I ever did see,' ses he to hisse'f, wid his ear a-cockin' out, an' his nose a-cockin' up. An' den his tail begun to wilt a bit while he tink what he's goin' to do now. "Den he scratch his ear, an' his tail begin to stick out agen, an' he wink one eye to his nose end. `Ou' Frow!' ses he, back over his shoul'er to Missis Jackalse in de house. "`Ya, daddy!' ses Missis Jackalse, stickin' her nose half an inch out o' de door. "`Now you be careful an' do yust what I tells you,' ses he. `When I stop choppin' den you pinch Ainkye, an' you pinch her till she fair bawls agen. An' when I shouts out for you to stop her a-squallin', den you answer up on you' top note an' say--"It's all you' own fault. You would bring you' baby up on nawtin' but wolf meat, an' now you shouts 'cause it cry fo' mo'." You hear me now, don't you forget,' ses Ou' Jackalse. "`Dat's all right,' ses his ole missis. "Well, along come Ou' Wolf an' his commando--one Baviyaan--an' Ou' Wolf he say, `What's dat flashin' like lightnin' in Ou' Jackalse han'? Hyere; I don't know what's a-gun' to happen,' ses he, an' he ain't a comin' on so fast as he has bin. "But Ou' Baviyaan he answer pretty scornful like, `Dat's yust a axe he's a-choppin' out yokeskeys wid. You ain't a-gun' to turn afeard, huh?' "`Who's afeard?' ses Ou' Wolf, in yust such a bi-ig voice. `But it do look like a terr'ble sharp axe,' ses he. `Why don't he use a rusty ole, gappy ole axe, like anyb'dy else a-choppin' out yokeskeys, I wantto know?' An' Ou' Wolf he 'gun a-movin' slower an' slower. `I tink dat's mo'en yust a axe,' ses he. "`No backin' out now,' ses Ou' Baviyaan, kind o' rough. "`Ain't my tail tied fast enough?' savages Ou' Wolf. `Di'n't you tie it yourse'f?' ses he, trying to stop still an' argue de point. "Ou' Baviyaan he give a yank. `Come on now,' ses he. "`Ain't I?' ses Ou' Wolf, an' he come yust half a step--to easy de pull on his tail. An' while dey start to quar'lin', Ou' Jackalse he stop choppin' an' he lift up, an' right den his Ou' Missis she pincht Ainkye so she fair opens out a-bawlin' till her eyes shut tight. You could hear it a mile off. "Den Ou' Jackalse he shout out, `If you don't stop dat Ainkye a-squallin' like dat den I'll come inside dere, an' she'll get somet'in' to squall for,' ses he. "`It's all you' own fault,' screams Ou' Missis (an' don't she yust like to say it! It makes her feel good an' good to talk back to her Ou' Baas once, i'stead of on'y tinkin' back). `You goes an' brings up you' chile on nawtin' but wolf meat, an' den you 'gins to shout when she's yust so hungry fo' mo' dat she cahnt hold quiet.' "`Dat's all right,' ses Ou' Jackalse, (`an' don' you get too high, Ou' Missis,' he puts in on de quiet, 'cause he hears what's in her mind). `I send Ou' Baviyaan out t'ree days back to bring some wolf meat, an' here he comes now wid yust an ole scrag of a one. It look a bit flyblow a'ready, but it'll do better'n nawtin' I s'pose,' ses he, an' he pick up his axe, an' he gin it a swing up an' roun' as if he's a-openin' his chest to slaughter lots. "Ou' Wolf he hear dat an' he yust make one yump an' land right roun' wid his head where his tail was. He tinks it's nawtin' else but Ou' Baviyaan is drawed him on an' in to it, as Ou' Jackalse ses. `Dat's why you wanted my tail tied so fast, is it?' ses he. `Dat's it, is it?' an' he ramp an' he yerk, an' car' on. "`It ain't, fathead! big fathead!' ses Ou' Baviyaan, rearin' an' yankin' to pull Ou' Wolf roun' again to face it. `Dat's yust Ou' Jackalse's lies to scare you.' "But Ou' Wolf he see Ou' Jackalse comin', a-skippin' an' a-runnin', wid de axe a-frolicin' in his han', an' he yust gi'es one yank an' lan's Ou' Baviyaan a yard back. Baviyaan he try to hold him, but about dat time Ou' Jackalse gets dere, an' he 'gins to yump an' dodge roun', an' all de time he's shoutin' out, `Stan' over a bit, Nief Baviyaan; stan' wide a bit till I gets a cle'r biff at him. Yust shift you' head de oder side till I gaps him one wi' dis yere axe.' "Den dere was de fuss. De more Ou' Baviyaan try to hol' back de more Ou' Wolf yerks him away, an' de wusser Ou' Jackalse sings out, till at last Ou' Wolf he get dat ter'fied he fair yanks Ou' Baviyaan right into de air an' over an' over, an' den streaks out straight for de koppies, wid him on de end of him like a dog an' a kettle. "`I tink dat's about de finish to dat little lot,' ses Ou' Jackalse, watchin' de dust an' de hair fly." Old Hendrik paused, looked the little girl very seriously in the eye; and then concluded, using his most impressive tones: "An' if you don' b'lieve me, den you yust look at Ou' Baviyaan's tail nex' time he comes stealin' in de garden--you'll see de kink yet where it ain't never straighten out f'm dat day to this." CHAPTER TWO. OLD JACKAL AND YOUNG BABOON. "Ou' Ta'," said the eldest boy the next evening, as they waited at the kraal for the coming of the cows to the milking, "you never told us what Old Bobbyjohn said to Old Wolf that time when he stopped running away from Old Jackalse at last." "No," replied Old Hendrik, with a droll, droll leer; "an' I'd hatto be a mighty sight smarter dan I ever 'members bein' if I was to tell you dat. For when Ou' Wolf stopped at last, den Ou' Baviyaan yust looked at him; yust stopped an' looked an' untied his tail an' crawled off. As you' daddy ses--`not a word, not a sound; not a whisper of a noise said he'. Ou' Baviyaan yust saved it all up so he can tink it all over every time he see Ou' Wolf agen. It'll last him longer dat way." "So then he went home an' put poultices on his tail, I suppose," suggested Annie, impatient for every detail of the tale that must lie in the curing of that tail. "Well, I dunno about no poultices on no tails," returned Hendrik; "but a day or two ahter dat, Ou' Jackalse was a-slinkin' an' a-slopin' along de koppies, an' yust as he come under a mispyl tree an' tink he's gun' to have a rest an' a look round, he gets a smack in de ribses wid one stone, biff! an' anoder smack on de roots o' de tail wid anoder, bash! An', kleinkies, you should yust a-seen him streak it out o' range o' dat ole mispyl tree. "Den he stop an' he look back, an' dar he see Leelikie Baviyaan, Ou' Baviyaan's younges' son, a-showin' his head an' shoul'ers out o' de leaves o' de mispyl, an' a-yarkin' an' a-barkin' at him. `Mighty smart you tinks you is, don't you?' snarls Leelikie. `But I'll teach you to try tricks on de baviyaans,' ses he. "When Ou' Jackalse see it's dat young squirt, he gets dat mad he feel like bitin' a chunk out o' de biggest stone he can reach. But he knows he ain't a-gun' to get even wid young Leelikie, 'less'n he sof' soap him down. So he yust grins like he is mighty astonish', an' rubs his ribses like dey's sore as billy-o. `Well,' ses he, `what tricks is I ever played on you?' "`None,' ses Leelikie; `you bet you didn't I's too smart for no sich a fathead as you to play tricks on me. But you played one on my ole daddy, an' I dropped in for it a lot worse troo him.' "`How's dat?' ax Ou' Jackalse, yust a-squirmin' like he cahnt keep still for his ribs a-hurtin him. "`Why, you rakes Ou' Wolf till he cahnt stand no more o' you, an' den he gets my daddy to he'p him. An' my ole daddy comes back wid his tail dat busted dat he cahnt on'y yust sit an' nurse it an' growl. An' when he feel bad he alwiz wants gum, an' he send me an' my broder up de trees to get it. Den if I eats a bit myse'f, de ole daddy he shambok me till I has to fair yell enough to make him tink he's killin' me 'fore he'll stop. Dat's how.' "`So all's de matter wid you is you has to give up de gum dat you picks, is it?' ses Ou' Jackalse. "`Dat's it, an' de shambokkin's for eatin' de leetle teenty bits I puts in my mouf,' ses Leelikie. "`Well, you is a nice 'un,' ses Ou' Jackalse, a-sneerin' like. `Why, if dat was me, I'd eat all de gum I picked an' still give de ole daddy all he wanted as well. I heerd you say you was mighty smart, but ahter dat,--well, I'd be ashamed o' myse'f if I wasn't smarter dan dat.' "De way Ou' Jackalse stick his nose up fair rile Leelikie. `Yis,' ses he. `I hear you talk a lot, but I bet you cahnt show me how dat's done.' "`An' I bet I cahnt needer--not as soft as dat,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `You don't get me as cheap as dat. But I'll tell you what I'll do. You come here to-morrow an' you bring me some gum, nice clear gum, an' den I'll tell you how to do, so's you'll have all de gum you wants for yourse'f, an' leave all de shambokkins to your broder.' "`Shambokkins to my broder!' sings out Leelikie. `Oh, dat's de right-o tip. You come, an' I'll be here wid de gum, don't forget.' "`I won't,' ses Jackalse, an' off he go, a-winkin' to every bush as he pass it. "Well, come next day, dere was young Leelikie up in de mispyl tree, an' dere was Ou' Jackalse at de foot of it lookin' up. `Now, what's dis game you's goin' to tell me?' ses Leelikie. "`Where's de gum first?' ses Ou' Jackalse. "`Here's it,' ses Leelikie, showin' it. `Let's hear de plan now.' "`Ho! you gi'e me de gum first so's I'll know it's good gum,' ses Jackalse. "`Oh, I'll soon show you dat,' ses Leelikie. `See me!' an' he bite off a big piece o' de gum, an' he smack, smacks wid his mouf like an ox team pullin' its feets out o' deep mud. "Dat rile Ou' Jackalse terr'ble. `Ho! yeh!' shout he. `What's you a-eatin' up my gum for?' "`'Cause you ses it ain't good; I's yust a-showin' you how good it is,' ses Leelikie, rollin' his eyes at de rest of it. `'Sides, it ain't you' gum till you tells me dis plan you bargain to, yestiday.' "`Ain't I likely to tell you 'fore I gets de gum!' ses Ou' Jackalse, like he'd like to ketch hisse'f doin' any sich a fool trick. "`An' ain't I likely to let you have dis gum 'fore you's told me de trick!' ses Leelikie leerin'. "`Ho, dat's de game, is it? Den I tink I'd better go 'long an' find you' broder--he won't want to cheat me,' ses Ou' Jackalse, an' he make as if he's a-gun' to slope right off out o' dat. He tinks dat's gun' to fetch young Leelikie to time. "But--`Oh, dat's all right,' ses Leelikie. `I can knock de pips off him any day, an make him tell me too. You go on, an' den I'll have dis gum to myse'f. Dat's so much ahead anyhow.' "Ou' Jackalse stops, an' his eye look sort o' longin'. `Den you ain't a-gun' to trust me?' ses he, as if dat's de last word he's gun' to say. "`Look a-hyer, Oom Jackalse,' ses Leelikie. `I has dis gum a'ready. I can see it, an' I knows it's good. But I hasn't got what you wants to give fo' it, an' I can't see it, an' I don't know if it's good. So I tink I'll make sure o' what I has,' ses he, openin' his mouf wide an' lettin' his tongue flop up an' down, while he holds de gum a little way off his eye wid de one hand and rub his tummy wid de oder. `Yum, yum, yum,' ses he. "`Well,' ses Ou' Jackalse, as if he yust couldn' he'p it. `You is a bright sort, you is, by de jimminy!' "Young Leelikie he grin back like he tinks a lot o' dat `Allah Crachty!' ses he, `won't my ole mammy be pleased to hear dat.' "Ou' Jackalse sees he's on de wrong side de fence dis time. `Well, I s'pose we'll ha' to do sometin',' ses he. `Now, you put de gum dere on dat stone at de tree root an' I'll stand off here an' tell you.' "`Right-o,' ses Leelikie. `Here's de gum,' an' he swings down an' plants it on de stone--but he don't leave it. "`By jimminy!' ses Ou' Jackalse at dat. But he sees he's on de spike a' right, an' he'll hatto be honest if he's a-gun' to get dat gum. So he up an' tell young Leelikie how he done wid Ou' Wolf an' de bessie berries when de Mensefreiter had 'em. `All you has to do den,' ses he, `when you goes up into de tree wid you' broder, is to eat all de gum you picks you'se'f an' den swop you' calabas' fo' his when he ain't lookin'. Den you'll be all right, an' he'll get de shambokkin, when you takes de calabashes down to you' daddy.' "`Dat do sound mighty smart,' ses Leelikie, like he's admirin' it immense. `But'--an' yust as Ou' Jackalse is makin' one fair ole dive for him an' de gum, he grabs it up an' skips right up into de tree agen. "Ou' Jackalse look up at him, an he look down at Ou' Jackalse. `T'ank you, Oom,' ses he. `Here I t'ought I'd ha' to pay dis gum for you tellin' me sometin', but now--well, now, I'll scoff it myse'f.' "Ou' Jackalse yust had his mouf open to shout like mad when he see de gum go up de tree, but dat last words o' young Leelikie 'stonish him dat much he stop right short. `What's dat little lot fo'?' ses he. "`What fo'? Oh, for instance,' ses young Leelikie, bitin' at de gum till de clear part run all down his chin. "Ou' Jackalse down below fair ramp on his hind legs agen at dat. `Didn't I tell you what I said I'd tell you, you skellum?' "`Did you, billy-o!' ses Leelikie, bitin' some more gum. `You said you'd tell me how to get me all de gum an' my broder all de shambokkins. But my broder ain't no fool, Ou' Wolf: dere ain't no time when he ain't a-lookin', so dere ain't no changin' calabashes wid him. He's yust as smart as rock aloes, an' he'd about knock all de hair off me de first time I tried it. So here eats de gum I's got an' chance it fo more.' "`Didn' you say you could knock de pips off him any day?' shouts Ou' Jackalse. "`Yes; but didn' you notice dat he wahnt anywhere in hearin' when I said it?' ses Leelikie. "`Well, I's got you, anyway,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `You'll ha' to come down out o' dat tree sometime, an' here I'll be ready.' "`Dat's yust all right,' ses Leelikie. `My daddy an' de rest o' de baviyaans is comin' dis way in a bit. Den p'r'aps you'll stop some more dan you want to.' "Ou' Jackalse skip roun' to look, an' dere he ketch a glimp' o' de ruffy ole, snappy ole scout dat leads de baviyaans when dey's feedin. An' didn' Ou' Jackalse get out o' dat, dat's all. "Well, he slink off over de rise an' sit him down to tink how he's a-gun' to get even wid young Leelikie. But young Leelikie he yust swings down out o' de mispyl tree an' slants off to de rest o' de baviyaans, an' 'gins to turn over de stones fo' scorpions an' tarantulas an' all de rest o' de tit-bits de baviyaans likes. "By'n'by dey comes to a place where dere's some big ole Doorn trees, fair sticky wid de gum runnin' out o' 'em. Young Leelikie he looks up at de gum an' he looks at his daddy, an' he tinks here's yust a good ole chance fo' gum if he can work it. Den he tink an' he study an' he won'er, till at last he smack hisse'f in de ribses--he's got it. "`Daddy,' ses he to Ou' Baviyaan, `you'd like to get a chance at darie Ou' Jackalse, wouldn' you?' "`Wouldn' I yust,' ses his daddy, his eyes fair shinin' red. "`Well, daddy,' ses young Leelikie, an' he look as slim as nex' week, `here's you' chance. You sees all dis gum; now if you gets it all an' smears it all over me, yards t'ick, an' den gi'es me a big ole lump of it in my hand an' sets me on a stone in de sun, while all de rest o' you feed away till you gets over de rise; well, I'll soon get Ou' Jackalse for you.' "`How'll you do dat?' ax de ole daddy, sort o' tryin' to guess where de young fella's tryin' to sell him. "`You'll see a' right enough, if you watches,' ses Leelikie. `An' you'll ha' to watch like t'ieves, an' come a-scootin' an' a-boundin' when I shouts. Dere won't be no time to catch tings out o' you' tail on de way.' "Well, Ou' Baviyaan he look at young Baviyaan, an' he weigh it all up an' he won'er, an' while he's a-doin' dat young Leelikie sort o' knock up against dat sore tail of his daddy's. Dat settle it. Ou' Baviyaan he wants Ou' Jackalse, an he wants him very bad, an if de young fella tinks he knows of a plan--why, he's about as smart a young baviyaan as dere is in de koppies, so he'll let him try anyway. "So dey gets all dis gum, sticky ole gum, an' dey rubs it into young Leelikie's hair, an' dey daubs an' dey plasters an' dey piles it on till at last he's yust dat tick wid de gum he cahnt stir. Den dey sits him nice an' comfy on a nice big stone, an' dey puts a whackin' ole chunk o' half baked gum in his hand in front of his mouth, an' dere dey leaves him. "Now dis is de time young Leelikie 'xpected to get in his work on de gum. He reckoned he'd be yust wolfin' down dat gum, first de big chunk in his hand an' nex' to scrape hisse'f clean o' what's on him. But ole sun had a say in dis f'm above, an' de hot stone had a say in it f'm below, till 'fore de rest o' de baviyaans had got out o' sight, de gum was dat sticky dat he couldn' stir hand or leg; not so much as wiggle his head. An' dar's Ou' Jackalse a-creepin' an' a-peepin' an' a-watchin' him. "For Ou' Jackalse he'd bin yust dat mad he'd follo'd on ahter de baviyaans, yust as young Leelikie made de rest tink he would. But Leelikie ha'n't reckoned he was a-gun' to be stuck like dis. He'd reckoned he'd be finis' eatin' de gum while Ou' Jackalse 'ud be waitin' for de rest to get far enough off, an' dat 'ud give him yust de right time to be skippin' back out o dat. Whereas--here he wuz. "An' here was Ou' Jackalse too, yust a-dancin' an a-prancin'. `I's got you dis time!' ses he. `I's got you at last, gum an' all! Won't I yust teach you!' "Young Leelikie nearly busted a-tryin' to loose hisse'f, an' when Ou' Jackalse seen how fast he was, he yust sit down an' open his mouf an' lick his chops. `Look at my teef,' ses he. `Now I has you!' "Young Leelikie tried to let a yell out o' him for his daddy to come an' he'p him, but his yaws was yust dat bunged up wid gum dere wahnt no openin' dem needer. `Oh, ain't you nice an' fat,' ses Ou' Jackalse, watchin' him an' grinnin'. `Yust feel here where I's gun' to take de first bite,' ses he, an' he digs young Leelikie in de ribs wid his right han'. "But yust about dat time he cahnt pull dat hand away to dig young Leelikie somewhere else. `You make los' my hand,' ses he, mighty snappy; `make it los', or I'll biff de pips off you,' ses he, an' he smacks his toder hand agen Leelikie's ribses to give him a stand to get de oder away. An' right dere dat's fast too. "Ou' Jackalse's years begin to stick up. `Allah Crachty!' ses he, `if you don't make los' my fisties I'll yust knock seven kinds o' chicken feed out o' you. Make los', you skellum!' "But young Leelikie on'y wished he could make los', or do anytin' else but yust sit an' say nawtin', an' wish his daddy was comin'. Den Ou' Jackalse's eyes begin to stick out wid 'fraid o' dis baviyaankie dat holds him an' ses nawtin'. He tinks if he don't get his hands loose sometin's a-gun' to happen, `By de jimminy!' ses he, grindin' his teef, `if you don't lemme los' dis minute, I'll bite you' bally head off!' "Wid dat he makes a reg'lar dive, teef first, to scoff young Leelikie's head off, but he's in such a sweat he grabs de chunk o' gum in de hand instead, an dere he is, bofe hands fast an' his head fast, an' here's Ou' Baviyaan and Leelikie's broder yust a flyin' dis way now dey's got Ou' Jackalse fast. "Ou' Jackalse sees 'em comin' an' he hears 'em car-rackin' an' bar-rackin', an' he yust puts every hair o' him into one mighty ole wrench or else he's done for. Sometin' had to come--sometin' did--de seat o' young Leelikie's hide. For Ou' Jackalse gi'en such a terr'ble ole yank, an' de stone set back wid such a terr'ble ole stick fast, dat young Leelikie flew one way wid Ou' Jackalse, an' de seat of his hide stayed de oder way wid de gum on de stone; tore off wid a rip like a yard o' calico. "De stone yust sot tight an' shined like he's smilin', but Ou' Jackalse he whirraloo round dere like a fireworks. An' about dat time Ou' Baviyaan an' de oder young baviyaankie made deir dive for him. "Well, you never did see no sich a mix up. For Ou' Jackalse he see dat dive yust in time, an' he yanks tings round so dey dives not into him but into young Leelikie, an' dere dey is, yust as fast as he is, an' all pullin' de roots out to get loose agen in different d'rections. "But it he'p Ou' Jackalse all de same. Two o' dem pullin' dat way an' him pullin' dis, de two o' dem was boun' to be strongest, an' dey gi'es one Allah Crachty of a yank till dey fair tears--not demselves, but young Leelikie, loose from Ou' Jackalse. An' you can see to dis day how all de long hair was tore off his paws an' his yaws so bad it never grow long any more," ended Old Hendrik solemnly. "Oh, but," protested Annie, "what happened then when Ou' Jackalse got loose?" "Why dere wahnt nawtin' to happen," returned Old Hendrik in a little astonishment. "Ou' Jackalse was loose, dat was what he was ahter, so he went home an' sit down. But Ou' Baviyaan he was yust dat proud o' young Leelikie bein' so smart as to ketch Ou' Jackalse dat way, dat it set de fashion to leave de seat o' you' hide on a gummy stone, an' dat's how it comes dat all de baviyaans has a cobbler's patch to sit down on nowadays. It ain't for pretty but for proud dey wears it. "So now you knows why," ended Old Hendrik solemnly. CHAPTER THREE. WHY OLD JACKAL DANCED THE WAR-DANCE. A solid burst of rain; the hissing, thrashing deluge of the high veldt had driven the hoe-wielders from the tobacco "lands," and the old Hottentot had retired thankfully to the barn to work on a lambskin kaross he was making for the mistress. There the children found him, though for the moment they were quiet as their father stepped in to ask Old Hendrik, in his strong American accent, if this rain was likely to flush the Vaal too deep for crossing at the drift below. "Well, baas," answered he, "dis hyer rain won't do it, p'r'aps, but I seen it pretty black up de river all dis mawnin', an' I reckon de drift's a-gun' to be too strong for goin' a-visitin'." "Then I guess I ain't a-tryin' it," decided the baas, withdrawing to the house. The children took up the subject. "Is it goin' to be just _so_ big wide, Ou' Ta'?" asked little Annie. "Well, Ainkye," answered Old Hendrik, "p'r'aps it ain't a-goin' to be yust so wide's it was when Ou' Jackalse danced de war-dance, and Ou' Mensefreiter hit hisse'f on a rock into no bigger'n a water-millon; but it's a-goin' to be too full fo' your daddy to go yust sa'nterin' troo it." "Oh, Ou' Ta', you never told us about that Mensefreiter at all," cried the little girl reproachfully. "Didn't I now?" cried Old Hendrik. "Well, I'd ought to anyhow, 'cause it was mighty tough times for Ou' Jackalse an' Ou' Wolf dem days. Besides, dis is de same drift right hyer below. "You see," he went on, squaring himself on the sack of mealies which served him for a seat, "times was hard wid all sorts of folk dat year. De rinderpest come along, an' it just clean out all de game an' de buck, till Ou' Jackalse an' Ou' Wolf dey may hunt all day an' dey may hunt all week an' Sunday, an' den dey won't get de shadda of a buck. Dey ha' to keep on a-drinkin' water to keep deir tummies from growin' front an' back togeder." "An what did Missis Jackalse an' little Ainkye Jackalse do for sometin' to eat, then?" asked Annie anxiously. "Oh, dere was no Missis Jackalse den," answered the old Hottentot cheerily. "Dis was long 'fore that Dis was when Ou' Jackalse an' Ou' Wolf was young fellas, an' don't only go roun' upsittin' wid de nices' young misses dey can hear of. An' it stand 'em in han' to be young fellas an' to had no fam'lies; 'cause de young fellas can scratch all day if dey like an' den dere ain't nawtin' to eat. "Well, you knows Ou' Jackalse is mighty slim a-gettin' scoff if dere's anybody else has some, but it wahnt no use waitin' to steal what oder folk ain't polished off, 'cause dere ain't nawtin' for oder folk to begin on, let alone to leave for him to sneak it. He yust ha' to hump hisse'f an' rustle roun' if he's a-gun' to get anytin'. An' dis is where Ou' Jackalse's bein' so smart come in handy. Ou' Wolf he keeps a-gauntin' an' a-wobblin' on ahter de buck he tink he _might_ see over de nex' rise, but Ou' Jackalse he yust keep his eye skinned to size up _what's_ on de yonder side de ridge. "Well, by'n'by he sees a farm where dere's a patch o' to'acco wanted 'tendin' to mighty bad, an' de farmer he's a-leanin' on de gate an' first a-lookin' at de row an' den a-lookin' at de hoe, as if fo' one ting he can't make up his mind where he's a-gun' to begin, an' as if for anoder ting he can't yust settle if he's goin' to start at all dis mawnin' nohow. "Ou' Jackalse he look, an' he sit down, an' he 'gun to brush de grass behin' him wid his tail, sort o' slow an' like he's tinkin' pretty deep. He can't _eat_ tobacco; he know dat, but de man what work in de to'acco he can eat sometin', an' sometin' a long shot better'n to'acco--he eat scoff. So Ou' Jackalse he make up his mind an' down he go to de farmer. "`Mawnin', baas!' ses he. `Darie to'acco 'gin to look as if some of it's goin' to run wild an' some of it goin' to choke 'fore long,' ses he. "`Oh! 'tain't nawtin' to shout about yet,' ses de farmer. `A good man an' a good hoe soon set dat a'right agen.' "`Well, what you reckon you's goin' to give de good man fo' usin' de good hoe an' doin' it?' ses Ou' Jackalse straight out. "`Oh, I give him his scoff, an' a twist o' to'acco,' ses de farmer, lazy like. "`Hu!' ses Ou' Jackalse. `Ain't you feared you'll send him to drink an' to end up in de tronk wid all de money he'll have fo' spendin'?' An' Ou' Jackalse he fair sniff a bit. "De man turn roun'. `You please yourse'f,' ses he. `I tink scoff's a lot in dese times, when de rinderpest is kill off not on'y all de meat but all de oxen too, so we cahnt fetch nawtin' from nowhere.' "`Well, good scoff?' axes Ou' Jackalse, like he want to make de best of it. "`Dere ain't on'y one sort o' scoff at my place,' ses de man. `Same sort o' scoff I get myse'f.' "`Well, you leave de hoe here an' I see about it,' ses Ou' Jackalse, an' de man he yust drop dat hoe like it was hot, an' offs home to sit in de cool an' drink coffee. "So Ou' Jackalse he'd made a start anyhow; he'd got a yob at least. But if you tink he's goin' to balance hisse'f on de end o' dat hoe, well, you's got hold o' de wrong ox dis time. He yust come along to Ou' Wolf. `At last,' ses he. `At last I's got a sight to get some scoff anyhow,' an' he fetch a big ole breaf like as if a sack o' Kaffir corn flop off his back. "`How's dat?' ses Ou' Wolf, a-sittin' down an' proppin' hisse'f up wid his front foots, an' his tongue hangin' out like a sheepskin. "`Dere's a farmer de yonder side de ridge, an' he want some'dy to do a bit in his to'acco, an' he'll give us a share of his scoff same as hisse'f,' ses Ou' Jackalse; an' he look at Ou' Wolf as if he ought to drop two tickies in de bag next time he goes to church, like an ole dopper farmer when de rain save de crop. "But Ou' Wolf he look at Ou' Jackalse sort o' s'picious. `Do a bit in de to'acco?' ses he. `Dat's _work_, ain't it?' ses he. "`An' mighty glad to get it,' ses Ou' Jackalse, out big an' loud, makin' as if he was just wishin' dere was a hoe dere dis minute, so he could lick right in. "`But--work,' ses Ou' Wolf, an' he droop his head an' he shake it slow an' swingin'. "`Well,' ses Ou' Jackalse, sort o' like he's ponderin' it. `Darie baas he reckon de man on de hoe is a-gun' to be workin', but de man on de hoe he might reckon he don't know so much about dat. He might reckon he'll knock it off in his own time. He might s'pose it's him ha' to do it; an' he might 'member dat de longer dat yob last de longer his scoff last. See? fathead!' ses he. "`Well, I wants de scoff,' ses Ou' Wolf; `dere ain't no shadda 'bout dat. But, de work; I don't know,' ses he. "`Now you look-a'-me,' ses Ou' Jackalse, 's if he was fair tired o' fool argyin'. `You knows me. Is _I_ likely to make de grass fly much a-workin'? or is _I_ de sort o' one to work at all if dere was any oder snift of a chance o' scoff?' ses he. "Ou' Wolf tink he know Ou' Jackalse pretty well by dis time. `No,' ses he, kind o' considerin'. `I don't tink you'd _work_ if dere was any oder chance,' ses he. "`Come along o' me, den,' ses Ou' Jackalse, an' away dey pops. "Ou' Jackalse he bring Ou' Wolf along to de gate an' he give him darie hoe. `Dis is you' patch,' ses he, `mine's furder along on de yonder side de house. I'll bring de scoff at dinner time, an' in de meantime you yust get a sort o' wiggle on you, like's if you could work if you had to,' an' off he stalk till he get out o' sight. Den he flop down an' bake hisse'f in de sun. "Well, Ou' Wolf he gets a sort o' stroke on him like a bywoner dat tinks it's a-pretty near time he shifted to some farm where dey don't raise no crops nohow, and den about an hour before noon along comes Ou' Jackalse agen, an' he looks at what Ou' Wolf's done, an' he slant his eye at what he ain't done, an' he tinks dere's a fair ole little lot o' dat yet. "`Look-a'-me, Ou' Wolf,' ses he. `It's a-comin' along to dinner time soon, but _you_; you yust about ain't if dat's all you's done yet. De baas he'll tink what I done, an' he'll see what you ain't done, an' den, why, dere you is! You ought to be sorry fo' you'se'f, when you looks at what you done.' "`I yust is,' ses Ou' Wolf, an' he ain't a-considerin' 'fore he ses it needer. `I yust is,' an' he sort o' squint up at de sun to see how soon it's a-gun' to be noon, an' he sort o' guess at de row to see how soon it ain't likely to be done. "`Well, it ain't my look out if de baas don't gi'e you no scoff fo' dat bit,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `I got you de work, but you cahnt look fo' me to do it fo' you too, as well's my own. I cahnt only 'pologise fo' you. You better get a bit wigglier wiggle on you if you wants some dinner, anyhow,' ses he, an' off he pops. "Well, Ou' Wolf he tinks p'r'aps he had better hump hisse'f along a bit an' make a kind of a shine anyhow. `I ain't a-gun' to let no sich a skellum ha' to 'pologise fo' me,' ses he, an' he yust lit into dat row like he wants to get de baas to let him opset wid his daughter. "Den it come along to noon, an' de farmer he come out to see what about de hoein'. Ou' Jackalse he pop up out o' de long grass an' meet him. `I was yust a-comin' fo' de scoff,' ses he. "`Scoff fo' dat much?' ses de farmer; `an' two o' you too!' ses he. "`Well,' ses Ou' Jackalse, `we's a bit gone in fo' want o' scoff, dese last days since de rinderpest, so p'r'aps we ain't a-quite got into de stroke yet. But if we has a good dinner to-day, why den to-morro'-- well, to-morro',' ses he, an' he t'row out his ban's like to-morro' dey'll yust scoff darie hoein'! "`Well, we'll see,' ses de farmer. `You can come along now an' get de scoff,' an' so dey goes. "Well, dis yere scoff turn out to be all bisceyt, Boer bisceyt, an' de baas he give Ou' Jackalse enough fo' bofe o' dem, an' Ou' Jackalse he start back. "Now on de way he see a bushy little bush, an' he t'row one bisceyt in dere to hide it. An' on de way he seen anoder little bush, an' he t'row anoder bisceyt into dat bush too, an' he do like a-dat till he ha'n't on'y one bisceyt left. An' den he up an' show Ou' Wolf dat _leetle_ one bisceyt. `Dat's all de man had,' ses he. `One f'r hisse'f, one f'r his wife an' childer, an' one f'r us. But he's a-gun' to have mo' to-morro', he ses.' "`I reckon he yust is,' ses Ou' Wolf, letting de hoe drop like he never had hold of it yet. `If he's a-gun' to get any more o' dis yere lan's hoed den he yust is. How's I a-gun' to hoe to'acco on half a bisceyt?' ses he. `An' dis is de sort o' yob you was so sa'cy dat you'd got it to keep us f'm starvin', is it?' ses he. `A whole one half o' one bisceyt!' snorts he, 's if he wants to see some'dy yust step on his shadda, dat's all. "`Well, half o' one bisceyt--dat's a deal better'n de whole o' one day widout no scoff at all,' sniffs Ou' Jackalse, mighty insulted. `But den, never mind. _I is a_ bit stronger'n you, anyhow; so you yust eat my half o' dat bisceyt as well's your own, an' I'll slip back an' eat some o' de corn I seen dropped by de barn. Dere's two-t'ree grains dere yet if de birds ain't pick 'em up 'fore dis,' an' off he flops, lookin' yust as full o' pious as a location predicant [Parson] when he's got a good collection on a Sunday. "Ou' Wolf he feel a mighty sneak to let Ou' Jackalse lose his half de bisceyt like dat, but he don't can he'p it nohow, an' he's yust so 'ongry dat while he bite off his own half o' de bisceyt he mess de yonder half de same time, an' den he might yust as well eat dat half too, 'cause he cahnt offer it to Ou' Jackalse now when it's all mussed. An'--well; de fus' ting Ou' Wolf know, gop! he scoff dat half too. But he feel dat mean dat he work dat hoe like steam to easy his mind a bit. "All dis time Ou' Jackalse he's a-pickin' up dem bisceyt he hid in de bushes, an' yust a-blowin' hisse'f out, till he cahnt on'y wink an' har'ly stir his tail where he lie an' bake alongside a stone. "Well, it go on like dis for one day after anoder, till one day along comes Ou' Mensefreiter, an' he see Ou' Wolf a-hoein' in de to'acco, an' he see Ou' Jackalse a-snuggin' an' a-bakin' atween a bush an' a stone. `Wotto!' ses Ou' Mensefreiter. `Here's two,' an' he fair seizes 'em, an' he offs." "But Ou' Ta'," interjected the little girl. "What was that Mensefreiter like?" "Oh, he was one o' dese yere bo'-constructors yo' daddy tells you about. An' yet he don't was yust a constructor needer. He was one o' dese puff-adders what spring t'ree yards high an' t'ree yards far at you, quicker'n you' eye can flash to watch 'em; only he was de grandaddy of 'em all, an' so he was bigger'n a bo'-constructor, an' de same way he could strike forty yard high, an' forty yard far, an' forty times quicker'n de biggest puff-adder dat ever make you yump an' run in de veldt. An' he yust grab dese two and offs wid 'em to where he live--an' dat's de yonder side de drift down here. "Well, de Mensefreiter he took de two out an' look 'em up an down, top an' bottom, as soon as he gets to his kraal. He feel Ou' Wolf's bones an' he shake his head. `You _is_ pretty fine drawed,' ses he. `It 'ud take two o' you to make a shadda. You'll want some fattin' 'fore you's good enough for a bile, let alone a roast.' "Den he feel Ou' Jackalse, an' he sort o' smile all de way down his back. `Well, you bin have a high ole time, ain't you, wid all dat fat on you? A week's feedin on de berries here'll give you yust a nice flavour,' ses he. "So nex' day he gi'en 'em baskets; a sort o' baskets like a bottle, so's you cahnt open it, an' so's you cahnt get your hand in. You yust drops de berries in, an' den Ou' Mensefreiter he unlock de lid an' see how much you fetch home. An' off dese two flops to pick berries. "`Now look-a'-me,' ses Ou' Wolf to Ou' Jackalse. `You better don't eat too much now, else you'll get scoffed 'fore you know it. You better to get t'in like me an' den you'll live longer. I's yust a-gun' to pick berries till de sweat run, den Ou' Mensefreiter ain't a-gun' to was'e time eatin' me, I'll keep dat t'in.' "`A' right I'll tink on,' ses Ou' Jackalse, but he ain't no more'n see de berries in de sun dan he wink to his nose end. `I's fat,' ses he to hisse'f. `I's fat, an' I's a-goin' to keep fat Ou' Mensefreiter ain't a-eat me yet, and he ha'n't better hold his breat' till he does, needer, else he's likely to get black in de face 'fore he finis'.' "Next he tas'e one berry, an' ahter dat he yust about put one berry in his basket and forty-one in his mout', till the yuice run all down his chest, an' he feel dat good he yust cahnt he'p it but he fair stan' on his head wid fun like a wildebeeste. "Well, it come along to time to get back to de kraal, an' yust when Ou' Wolf was fair a-workin' an' a-snatchin' at de berries to fill his basket, Ou' Jackalse he sort o' sa'nter past de basket behind him an' swop his own for it, yust so slim an' so quick dat Ou' Wolf never dream on it. On'y when dey start fo' de kraal, he say. `Dese yere berries is mighty light, considerin' what a lot I picked an' all,' an' he mop his fore'ead as if he's glad dat yob's done. "Dis went on de same every day; Ou' Wolf bringin' yust a han'ful home, an' Ou' Jackalse a fat basket, till one day Ou' Mensefreiter he wink at Ou' Jackalse. `You is a bit slim, ain't you, bringin' all your berries home an' eatin' none, so's you won't get no fatter, huh? But dis is where _I_ comes in. I yust drops you inside dis hock,' ses he, droppin' him in an empty place like a pigsty, `an' I fat you up wid seven days' feed o' pun'kin like a little pig. Den we'll see if you don't make de finest kind o' dinner,' ses he. `An' you, Ou' Wolf,' ses he, `you's de all right sort. Yust you keep on in de berries, eatin plenty like you bin a doin', an' den one o' dese days you'll be nice an' fat too.' "Ou' Wolf he take his basket at dat an' off out to de bessie berries agen, an' he won'er a bit; an' Ou' Jackalse he stop in de hock an' he kind o' begin to won'er too. Dere's two or t'ree pun'kins, de finest kind o' pampoene, in de hock wid him--dat's his scoff fo' de day, an' if he don't eat 'em all up 'fore night, den he's yust agun' to ketch it. "Well, Ou' Jackalse he look at dem pampoene an' he kind o' feel he ain't yust a-yearnin' fo' dinner nohow. He look over de top o' de wall o' de hock, but he know it ain't no manner o' use to try an' run for it, 'cause Ou' Mensefreiter 'll snap him back 'fore he get into his stride har'ly. It ain't yust sich a fat time, bein' fat, ahter all, tinks he, an' he sort o' wish he had Ou' Wolf dere wid him somehow. He look dis way an' he look dat way, but dere ain't nawtin', on'y de little pat' a-runnin' down to de drift, and de drift a-risin' an' a-risin' wid it keepin' on a-rainin' an' a-rainin' up de river. It look mighty like Ou' Jackalse's name's goin' to be `mud' dis time, an' his tail yust drop flop. "Den he feel a sort o' quiet little twitch at his tail. He look roun' sharp, an' dere he see little Kleinkie Mousie. `What you bite me fo'?' ses Ou' Jackalse, kind o' big, 'cause it kind o' give him a start wid makin' him tink it was Ou' Mensefreiter had him. "`You's got all dese pampoene, ain't you? An' I want to talk to you about de seeds for my dinner,' ses Kleinkie, his eyes a-shinin' black an' his paws yust ready to off 'fore you can swip you' tail. "Ou' Jackalse he know he can't eat de seeds hisse'f, an' besides he ain't yust dead gone on dem pun'kins nohow. He tink he might's well be a fine fella an' get his name up wid Kleinkie. `A'right,' ses he, `if you want a dinner, why, dere you is,' ses he, an' he sweep his hand up like di'monds is dust an' he's yust scatterin' dust down de wind. Den he lean up agen de corner o' de hock an' watch Kleinkie fair gnawin' dem seeds, like it quite do him good to watch it. "Well, dis went on till de sevent' day, an' to-morro' mawnin' Ou' Jackalse is goin' to be shove in de pot an' roas'. He 'gin to look down his nose some, 'specially when he look at de pun'kin Ou' Mensefreiter drop in fo' him to eat dis day. It was yust one pun'kin, only one; but it was de biggest old pun'kin you ever did see. `If I did get myse'f wrop round de outside o' dat pampoene I'd be sort o' fat-lookin' anyhow,' ses he, an' he smile kind o' mournful. "Den up pops little Kleinkie. `What's de matter?' ses he. `You looks like a location Kaffir when he bin had a night on Kaffir beer an' den ha' to work next mawnin',' ses he. "`Well,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `I never did work yet 'cept to get out o' work. But if I don't find some way o' gettin' out o' dis 'fore night, widout Ou' Mensefreiter seein' me, den it's mighty likely I'd be glad to ha' de chance to go to work to-morro' mawnin'.' "`A bit rough dat,' ses Kleinkie. `If dere was any way I could he'p now?' "Dat set Ou' Jackalse to studyin', an' it ain't a minute or two 'fore de twinkle 'gin to shine in his eye, and his tail begin to rise itse'f. `Look-a'-me now, Kleinkie,' ses he; `dere is one way, if you an' de rest o' you' people like to he'p a bit.' "`How's dat?' axes Kleinkie. "`Dis way,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `I cuts a hole in darie pampoene, an' den you an' de rest turn to an' gnaw an' scrape out de inside till dere ain't on'y yust de shell left.' "`An' den?' axes Kleinkie. "`Oh, den you'll see,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `You yust get darie pampoene scrape' out first,' ses he. "`Well,' ses Kleinkie. `You gin us dem seeds a'right, you did, so now we'll see what about dis yob;' an' off he pop an' fetch all de rest o' de mouses, an' it ain't har'ly no time 'fore dey has dat pun'kin scrape as clean inside as de mealie pap pot in a bywoner's fam'ly. "`See me now,' ses Ou' Jackalse, an' he lift darie pun'kin an' he drop it _qu-i_-etly over de wall onto de groun' outside, on dat side away from where Ou' Mensefreiter's lyin' sunnin' hisse'f. `See de drift down dere?' ses he; `an see how high it is wid de flood? Well, once I get to de yonder side dat drift den Ou' Mensefreiter cahnt folio' me. Floods is dat much good anyhow. Now watch,' ses he. "Wid dat he wriggle hisse'f out ahter de pun'kin, yust as flat as a new skun sheepskin, an' 'fore you could look twice he wiggle hisse'f right into de inside o' dat pun'kin, till you couldn't see hide nor hair of him. "Den Kleinkie hear him begin to sing, _ve-ery_ soft an' low:-- "Pampoenekie; Pampoenekie, Roll down de pat'ickie; Pampoenekie pat'ickie, Pampoene roll! "An' darie pun'kin begun an' ro-o-oll. "Den Kleinkie keep on a-watchin', an' darie pun'kin find de pat' dat run down to de drift. Kleinkie watch yet, an' darie pun'kin keep on a-rollin' an' a-swiftin' till, bounce! it splosh an' hit de water in de drift Kleinkie watch, an' darie pun'kin went so fast it yust swish right across to de yonder side de drift, an' Ou' Jackalse he step out an' snatch up a willow stick in one hand, an' a big leaf in de oder, like a assegai an' a shield, an' swip! he begin to do a war-dance, yust a-leapin' high an' a-chantin. "Ou' Mensefreiter he lift his head when de pun'kin 'gun to roll Ou' Mensefreiter he kink his back when de pun'kin hit de drift. But Ou' Mensefreiter, when he see Ou' Jackalse doin' darie war-dance--swip! he whip hisse'f t'rough de air, an' de first place he light was down by de edge o' de drift. "Dat drift was mighty wider'n he ever tried it afore, but he see Ou' Jackalse a-springin' an' a-clinkin' his heels togeder on de yonder side, an' Ou' Mensefreiter he hump hisse'f agen, an'--swip!--he strike for it to get dat Jackalse anyhow. "Forty yards was his everyday jump, an' sixty yards at Nachtmaal. But dis day he bested dat mor'n double, an' yet he don't do enough. Dere was a big rock a-stickin' out o' de water, a long way short o' bein' across, an' Ou' Mensefreiter come into it wid his nose, whack! smack! sich a bash an' a biff dat it yust drove his tail right on up into de inside of his head, an' dere he was, all in a ball no bigger'n a water-millon, an' he roll off into de water an' down he go wid de stream; a-rubble an' a-bubble, an' a-over an' a-pover, till he drownded. An dat's what happen to darie Mensefreiter," finished Old Hendrik. "An' what did Ou' Wolf do?" demanded the little girl. "Oh, Ou' Jackalse he shout for Ou' Wolf to come along. But Ou' Wolf he look at de drift an' he look at Ou' Jackalse. `Ain't you a-comin'?' shouts Ou' Jackalse. "`What do I want to come for?' ses Ou' Wolf. `All de berries I pick now I'll get a chance to eat 'em myse'f. An' what do I want to come for? Eatin' berries is better'n hoein' to'acco for half a bisceyt a day. You go an' hoe; I keep's here wid de bessie berries. Besides--dere's pun'kin.'" "And what did Old Jackalse have to do then?" demanded the youngest boy. "Well, I wouldn' yust like to say what Ou' Jackalse ha' to do," answered Old Hendrik. "But you can bet on what he didn' do--he didn' hoe." CHAPTER FOUR. HOW OLD JACKAL GOT THE PIGS. The pigs had been very troublesome all the morning, almost destroying the gate of the garden in their efforts to get at the tempting show within. It was in reward for the help of the children in driving the marauders away that Old Hendrik yielded at last to a question of Annie's and told them another tale. "But you never told us, Ou' Ta'," said the little girl, "what Old Jackal did for something to eat in the rinderpest time, after he crossed the drift in the pumpkin. What did he do?" "Well," replied the old Hottentot, scratching his head, "I tole you what he didn't do--he didn't hoe. An' I'll tell you now dat, whatever he is do, it's a-gun' to be sometin' skellum. O' course, he hatto do sometin' to eat, now de game's all dead o' de rinderpest, an' he hatto do it quick an' lively too. So he go raungin' round, an' he trot dis way an' he trot dat way, an' de on'y chance he can see at all is at a farm where dere's some pigs. "Dese yere pigs was all de time a-sneakin' into de lands, an' a-rootin' up de crops, an' de farmer he'd chase 'em out wid a long ox-whip till he nearly bu'st, an' den he'd stand an' mop his face an' swear what he's a-gun' to do wid dem pigs if he don't get some'dy to look ahter 'em soon. O' course, if Ou' Jackalse had a-bin Ou' Wolf he'd a-gone right up an' ax for de yob hisse'f, straight out, an' de ting 'ud be done an' no more about it. But he wahnt: he was yust Ou' Jackalse, an' he done Jackalse--he plan'. "De nex' time de man chase de pigs, Ou' Jackalse wait till dey gets into a leetle grass-pan, an' den he try to drive 'em off furder. But de man he'd seen him a-stalkin', an' he run along wid his whip an' fetch a cut so near his tail dat Ou' Jackalse near yump out troo his eyeholes, an' he fair light out f'm dere into some sugar cane an' hide. "Well, dar he sit an' dar he tink an' study till he's added it all up, an' den he ses it out in once. `I'll hatto get Ou' Wolf here,' ses he, breakin' off a piece o' sugar cane an' bitin' on it. `I reckon dat's what I'll hatto do; den I'll get dem pigs a' right.' "Well, off he go, an' he come to de river side an' shout for Ou' Wolf. By'n'by Ou' Wolf come an' stand on de oder bank, and Ou' Jackalse make like he yust is s'prise' to see de look on him. `Why, what's de matter wid you?' ses he. `You does look mighty bad.' "`I don't,' ses Ou' Wolf out straight. `I feel yust dat good an' fat I wish dere was buck to hunt, even if I didn't ketch none.' "`Don't you b'lieve it,' ses Ou' Jackalse, mighty concerned. `You yust looks good'n' bad. You take an' look at you' eyes; dey're all red an' yalla, like you's in a terr'ble state. An' look at de skin under your yaws, an den at de hair on de top o' you' head, an' you'll see straight off how bad you is.' "Well, Ou' Jackalse speak dat se'ious dat Ou' Wolf try to look where Ou' Jackalse tell him. But he didn' had no lookin'-glass, an' he try to look widout one. An' he look dat cross-eyed, tryin' to see wid his one eye into his toder eye, dat he fair loose all de skin along bofe sides his ribses an' stiffen his tail right flop up wid de pull in tryin'. An' when he see dat his eyes cahnt see into one anoder, he 'gin to tink if he ain't a bit bad ahter all. "Den he try to see de skin under his yaws, and he twist an' he snake till he fair stan' on his head an' scratch de air--an' yet he cahnt get a look at it. Dat make him feel he ain't a-feelin' well at all. But when he try to 'xamine de hair on de top of his head, he get dat desprit he fair t'row a double back somerset an' land hisse'f clean into de muddy river, an' when he's crawled onto a rock an' stood a bit he makes up his min' dat dere ain't no two ways about it--he's feelin' bad. "`What'll I ha' to do for it?' ses he to Ou' Jackalse, 'cause Ou' Jackalse is King Lion's doctor. "`Well,' ses Ou' Jackalse, `you see what it is. It comes o' you' eatin' on'y dese yere bessie berries an' pun'kin; an' pun'kins is mighty bad widout some meat wid 'em. You'll hatto yust eat meat for a while, dat's what you'll hatto do; an' I's sorry for dat, 'cause I's yust found out where dere is some, an' dere ain't har'ly mo' dan enough for me. But, bein' as it is, an' bein' as it's you, I s'pose I'll hatto share wid you now, you an' me bein' such ole chummies. A' right den; if I has to do it I has to, so come on across an' we'll get it done,' ses he. "Ou' Wolf he tink by jimminy Ou' Jackalse is yust about de decentis' chap he's seen for a long time. `It's mighty good o' you to do it,' ses he; `an' I ain't a-gun' to forget it needer.' Den he plunk into de drift an' come out on de bank. `Where's dis yere meat at?' ses he. "`Well,' ses Ou' Jackalse, lookin' kind o' far away over his shoulder, `it's a dis way. Over on de yonder side dat spruit dere's a farm where dey has some pigs, an' dese yere pigs is makin' a terr'ble trouble, rootin' up de mealie lands, an' de sugar cane, an' de water-millons; an de baas he says he want some'dy to look ahter 'em. You should hear him swear to dat Well now, you go an' take de yob o' mindin' 'em. Den you drive 'em down to de spruit to look ahter 'em, an' I'll be dere, an' we'll see what we do nex.' "`Right-o!' ses Ou' Wolf, an' off he go. "Well, he gets de yob. `Mind now an' keep you' eye open for a Jackalse dere is som'eres about,' ses de man. `I seen him a'ready havin' a try for 'em.' "`Oh, I'll be a-lookin' out for darie Jackalse,' ses Ou' Wolf. `I's seen him myse'f a'ready, an' he ain't a-gun' to get de best o' me,' ses he. "So Ou' Wolf he drives de pigses down to de spruit, an' dar's Ou' Jackalse a-waitin' him. `What we gotto do nex'?' ses he. "Ou' Jackalse he stop chewin' on de piece o' sugar cane an' he laugh right out. `I'll show you,' ses he. `Now we'll yust drive de pigs into de donga here, an' we'll ketch 'em an' cut off all deir tailses; every last one o' dem.' "Well, dey done it, an' mighty hard work on sich a hot day too; an' Ou' Wolf notice every now an' agen dat he's doin' most o' de work an' Ou' Jackalse doin' mighty little but de bossin'. But he don't say nawtin' yet, 'cause he feel he'll yust hatto get cured. `An' what do we do wid dese yere tails now?' ses he when dey finis'. "`See dat mud hole?' ses Ou' Jackalse. `Well, you stick de tails all about in de mud, wid deir little curls a-curlin' in de air. Do dat now.' "Ou' Wolf he done it. `An' what's de nex' ting?' ses he. "`Well, de nex' ting is one ting, but dere's anoder ting afore dat,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `De nex' ting is for you to go an' tell de man dat de _wilde-honde_ come an' chase de pigs till dey run 'em plunk-clunk right into de mud hole, an' dar dey all is, head down an' dead down, smodered, wid on'y deir little curly tailses a-stickin' out. Dat's de nex' ting, but de ting afore dat is dis way. De man he'll say--"Why didn' you pull 'em out?" An' you'll say you tried to an' come mighty near bein' smoder yourse'f. Den he'll say--"Where's de mud on you?" An'--well, dere you is, where is dat mud?' ses Ou' Jackalse, an' he look mighty business like. "`Den I hatto daub myself wid mud?' ses Ou' Wolf, like he's tinkin' weder he will or not. "`Daub yourse'f?' ses Ou' Jackalse. `Daub ain't no sort o' word for it. You's fair got to roll in it, an' squirm in it, till you look like you come so near bein' smodered dat dere wahnt no fun in it at all. But I'll he'p you,' ses he. `Here you is now, an' over you goes,' an' 'fore Ou' Wolf knows what's a-happenin', Ou' Jackalse lands in his ribses, biff! head first an' wollop he go, smack into de mud. "Wid Ou' Wolf bein' tuk so s'prise' like dat he had his mouf open an' shoutin' when he hit de mud, an' his years an' his eyes open, an' he squash 'em all so full o' mud, inside an' out, dat he tink he surely is a goner. An' Ou' Jackalse he yust lie down on de bank an' flop wid laughin', an' he feel dat good he 'gin to lam more mud at Ou' Wolf where he's a-diggin' hisse'f out. "Den Ou' Wolf, gets out at last, an' he stand an' try to scrape de mud outen his eyes till he can look at Ou' Jackalse. But Ou' Jackalse he look at him like it was a hawse he was a-buyin'. `Dat's about it,' ses he. `You's yust about right now. De man'll see right off dat you done all you could to save dem pigs, an' he'll gi'e you sometin' for it. You's about de mise'blest looking ting in de veldt yust now, but you's about de usefullest chummy ever was.' "`Oh, I is, is I?' ses Ou' Wolf, an' he don't know weder he's a-gun' to fight or on'y use some words. But de mud in his tummy make him feel dat sick he don't do one nor toder. He on'y ses--`An' what's you goin' to do all dis time?' "`Oh, while you's gone I takes de pigses an' I lights out for de kraal at you' house. Den when you comes an' finds me dere well have meat; all de meat we want. An' dat's what'll cure you; you tink o' dat now,' ses he. "Ou' Wolf he tunk. `Well, a'right dis time,' ses he, an' off he snake hisse'f, for he was dat t'ick an heavy wid de mud he cahnt trot at all. "Well, he comes to de man, an' he tell him how de pigs is smodered, an' de man comes back wid him to have a look. He looks at de mud hole, an' at all de little curly tails a-stickin' up, an' den he look at Ou' Wolf. `You's sure de pigs is smoder' in dere?' ses he. "`Dere's deir little curly tails a-stickin' out,' ses Ou' Wolf. `Dey's all down under dere, head firs'.' "`Well,' ses de man, `dat's mighty funny now; 'cause yestiday I rode troo dat mud hole an' it wahnt knee deep.' An' den he make a grab for a tail, an' dar it is in his han', clean cut off. "Ou' Wolf he tink it's about time to be slantin' out o' dat, but he ha'n't made de second stride afore de man had him. `Deir little curly tails is a-stickin' out, is dey?' ses he, an bash he biffs him in de ribses. `De _wilde-honde_ chase 'em into de mud, did dey?' an' he yust mash de wind outen him. `Dey's smoder', is dey?' ses he, an' he grabs Ou' Wolf up in de air an' lam him down on de ground, an' den he fair wipe up de scenery wid him. Den he left what was left an' went off back to de house. "Well, ahter a while Ou' Wolf he scrape up what dere is of him, an' he slant out for home, mighty slow an' mighty sorry, on'y he tink, well, he's a-gun' to get dat meat now to cure hisse'f wid, as soon as he gets to de kraal an' de pigs. "But he gets to de kraal an' he don't get to de pigs, 'cause de pigs ain't dere, an' dere ain't no sign of Ou' Jackalse needer. `Dat's funny,' ses he. Den he sit down to wait, an' he wait till it drop dark, an' still dere ain't no Jackalse an' no pigses. `If he don't come 'fore long,' ses Ou' Wolf, an he grines his teef. "But long or short Ou' Jackalse didn't come--dat night nor de next mawnin'. An' what's mo'," ended Old Hendrik, "he ain't never come dere yet. But f'm dat day to dis he's al'ays had plenty lard in his house to keep his nose well greased. I don't say how he has it, but he has it-- dat's all." CHAPTER FIVE. WHEN OU' WOLF BUILT HIS HOUSE. It was a day or two afterwards before the children caught Old Hendrik in the mood again. But sweet dumplings to dinner, with cinnamon sauce, had mellowed him this day, and they were quick to see it. "But how did Ou' Wolf an' Ou' Jackalse first fall out, Ou' Ta'?" demanded the eldest boy. "Dere never was no first fall out," answered the old Hottentot with a sly grin, shifting his seat under the old mimosa to get the best of its shade before beginning. "Dere didn't need to be no first: it yust come natural. Ou' jackalse yust couldn't he'p hisse'f. Dar was Ou' Wolf; all de time so quiet, an' all de time a-workin' an' a-doin' sometin' for hisse'f. An' den dere was Ou' Jackalse; all de time so slim, an' all de time never a-workin' nor a-doin' anytin' 'cept to get out o' workin' an' doin' sometin' for hisse'f. Ou' Wolf he'd go a-huntin' for what he _had to_ get; an' Ou' Jackalse he'd sit an' bake in de sun an' plan skellum for what he _want_ to get. Natchally dey was al'ays fall out f'm de beginnin': dere wahnt no oder way to it. "Look now, dat time when Ou' Wolf build his house--look what happen den. Dar was Ou' Wolf all jump-an'-ginger to get Missus Wolf married to him. But he cahnt get married till he build his house to put her in. So dere he was a-workin' away at darie house, yust so set to finis' it 'fore de time's up dat he don't har'ly gi'e hisse'f time to hunt enough to eat. He don't take but mighty little to breakfas', an' ahter breakfas' he yust slap de rest o' de meat an' de bones into de pot to be cookin', ready agen dinner-time, while he's a-workin' away like crazy. "Well, he gets to t'atchin' away, an' along comes Ou' Jackalse, an' he smell darie stew in de pot, an' 'fore you can wink he's on to it an' a-holdin' up dat lid. `Allah man!' ses he, `dat do smell good.' "Ou' Wolf up on de roof-poles hears darie lid a-liftin', an' he look round yust in time. You should a-hear him shout, `Ho, yeh! What for yeh lookin' in darie pot?' ses he, an' he grabs his two hands on de beam, an' sets one foot on it, as if he was yust a-comin' down in one yump, flop on Ou' Jackalse chest. "`Mawnin'! Oom Wolf,' ses Ou' Jackalse, yust as s'prise' an' cheerful as sun-up. `Glad it's you. I been a-wantin' some breakfas' yust so bad dat my tummy tinks my troat's cut.' "`Ho! you wants some breakfas', does you?' ses Ou' Wolf, mighty snifty. `Well, you yust keep on a-wantin'. Dere ain't no breakfas' here for nob'dy. Dere's yust one dinner an' dat's for me. Darie meat in darie pot's it. I hain't no time to go a-huntin' for oder folks eatin': I got sometin' else to do,' ses he. "Ou' Jackalse he put dat lid back mighty slow an' mighty sorry (like a little boy I knows when his mammy makes him put down de sugar pot at breakfas'), an' all de time he's watchin' Ou' Wolf out o' de corner of his eye to see if he's reg'lar raungin' mad about it or not. But Ou' Wolf reg'lar is. "Ou' Jackalse he 'gun to tink p'r'aps he ain't a-gun' to get darie breakfas' so much ahter all. Den he sniff de smell agen, an' it ain't no manner o' use--four men an' a dog couldn't a-druv him away f'm dat smell; he yust ha' to have dat breakfas'. "`So yeh's got sometin' else to do, has yeh?' ses he den, a sort o' slow an' hurt like. `You mustto, I should say; an' it must be sometin' mighty busy to make you so snarley like dat when an ole friend like me t'ought you'd like him to take a bite o' breakfas' wid you.' "Ou' Wolf he feel mighty mean, but den he tink on Missus Wolf, an' it ain't no use; he yust ha' to get dat house finis'. `I cahnt he'p it,' ses he, stiff an' hairy. `Dis yere house gotto be finis'. I hain't no time to be a-huntin' my dinner when dinner-time come. 'Sides, I'll be too 'ungry.' "`Well,' ses Ou' Jackalse, shakin' his head as if he wouldn' ha' b'lieved it of Ou' Wolf if he ha'n't a-seen it. `Well, if you feel like dat it must be sometin' pretty bad. What's you in such a Allah Crachty hurry to finis' dis house for anyhow?' ses he. `Ou' Wolf he don't like to let it out, but he ha' to say sometin' to 'scuse hisse'f.' He outs wid it. `Goin' to get married,' ses he, sharp an' spiky. `Dat's what.' "`Oh, dat's it, is it?' ses Ou' Jackalse sort o' brightenin' up an half a-laughin' all at once. `Well, dat is sometin' to be a bit hairy about. If dat's it, why I ain't got nawtin' more to say about it, but on'y yust to turn to an' he'p you straightaway. If you's goin' to be married, den we's yust gotto get dis house finis',' ses he, an' he brace up an' look as if he's gettin' a mighty fine speech off'n his chest. "But Ou' Wolf he 'members Ou' Jackalse, an' he don't b'lieve in no sich a fine offer. `'Tain't no good,' ses he. `Dat's my dinner, an' it ain't a-gun' to be nob'dy's breakfas'.' "But you cahnt insult Ou' Jackalse nohow while he's a-smellin' dat smell. `It ain't a-gun' to be my breakfas' nohow,' ses he, mighty brisk and pleasant like. `I yust wouldn' have it--now I knows what's de matter--not if you wanted me to. You'll want you' dinner pretty bad when de time comes--a lot mo' dan I shall' (an' here Ou' Jackalse sort o' skip his back leg out an' wink at it), `so I'm yust a-gun' to lend you a hand to get finis',' an' he offs wid his coat an' chucks it down. `Look out for me,' ses he. `I's a-comin' up to dat t'atchin'.' "Well, Ou' Wolf he don't know what to say. He feel dat mean he wish Ou' Jackalse 'ud slip an' break his neck comin' up. But Ou' Jackalse he ain't a slippin' while he ain't had dat meat yet outen darie pot, an' he comes up yust as chirpy as a finch in a peach tree. `Why, we'll ha' dis yob finis' in no time,' ses he, an' he smack Ou' Wolf on his back atween de shoulders dat hearty he jarred de frown right off'n his face. "`You's too slow to shift you' own shadda. See me now. I'll lay de t'atch on dis lower row an' you work on up to de top f'm dat,' ses Ou' Jackalse, as he slam one bundle o' reeds at Ou' Wolf an' hitch anoder under his own leg on de rafter where he's a-straddlin'. `You's worse dan Ou' Miss Kuraan for stan'in' an' yaw, yaw, yawin',' ses he. "Well, Ou' Wolf he cahnt yust feel like he's a-likin' it at all; he's knowed Ou' Jackalse too long for dat; but yet he cahnt yust see his way outen it needer. De longer dey work, de harder he get to studyin' yust what Ou' Jackalse is a-meanin'; an' he tink so much an' he tink so deep dat he clean forgot to watch yust what Ou' Jackalse is a-doin'. "An' what _was_ Ou' Jackalse a-doin' all de time, ses you? Why now, what would darie ou' skellum be a-doin' but doin' skellum. First string o' t'atch he lay along de rafters he's mighty cheerful an' mighty busy. Second string he lay along an' you can see all de cheerful drop outen his face an' see de grin begin to run an' flicker where de cheerful was before. De t'ird string he lay an' de fun begun to sheet in his eyes like de dry lightnin' on a summer night, an' he yust couldn't hold in no longer. He ketch hold o' de roots of his tail an' he fair whizz it round and round till he almos' make it hum, he feel dat full o' laughin' inside him. An' all dis time Ou' Wolf yust had his back to him, a-studyin' an' a-won'erin' what mischief make Ou' Jackalse want to he'p him. But he don't like to look round to watch somehow. "Den de fourt' string Ou' Jackalse lay he work as quiet an' as slim as if he's a-stealin' it; an' de ting dat it's in his mind to do, dat's de time he's doin' it? Ou' Wolf he's still a-studyin' an' he keep on still a-studyin', till in about one jiff he hear darie pot lid a-liftin' agen, an de smell comes up dat good an' t'ick he can taste it. "He swip his head round, an' dere was Ou' Jackalse wid de lid up an' his nose a-workin' an' a-sniffin' in de steam Didn' Ou' Wolf shout den. `Ho, yeh! How com' yeh at darie dinner again?' "Ou' Jackalse he cock one year up to hear, an' he cock one eye up to see. `Oh, dat's all right,' ses he, quite comfy. `Dis ain't dat pot at all. Dis ain't no dinner; dis is yust a breakfas'. You ain't got no shout in dis at all.' "Ou' Wolf he don't say not a word, but he yust make one flyin' yump to land right fair on Ou' Jackalse neck. "But he don't land. 'Stead o' dat he tink he's yumped right troo hisse'f an turned hisse'f inside out. Anyway, he knows he finds hisse'f hangin' down, head first, between de rafters, a-scratchin' an' a-fratchin' in de air. When Ou' Jackalse t'atch dat fourt' string he t'atch Ou' Wolf's tail fast in wid it, an' dere's Ou' Wolf now a-hangin' by dat tail, head down an' fightin', an' he cahnt get back nohow. "An' don't he shout! `Le' me down out o' dis,' ses he. `You hear me now! Le' me down or I'll bang de stuffin' out o' you!' "Ou' Jackalse he smile quite s'prise' like. `What you want down out o' dat for anyhow?' ses he, spearin' out a piece o' meat f'm de pot--an' ho! but you ought to seen him lick his lips. `Dis cahnt be nawtin' to do wi' you nohow. Yours is a dinner, ses you, an' dis is a breakfas', you can see dat you'se'f, 'cause I's a-eatin' it an' it's breakfas' time.' An' he gullups down de meat off'n half a dozen bones. "`Le' me down now!' yells Ou' Wolf, gettin' black in de face. `I'll yust show you weder dat's a breakfas' or a dinner. I'll teach you weder it's mine or not!' "`Now you look-a'-me, Oom Wolf,' ses Ou' Jackalse, his eyes a-twinklin' fresh as he swipe down de last meat off'n de first rib. `I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll divide wid yeh--dat's fair enough. So here you is for your share,' an' he lams de clean bone at Ou' Wolf an' catches him a hummer on de jaw. "Ou' Wolf he fair lets out at dat; big words; words what make you' years stand on end. An' all de time Ou' Jackalse keep on a-dippin' an' a-spearin' in de pot, an' a-tellin' Ou' Wolf what a clinkin' fine piece o' meat he's pullin' out, an' how nice it taste, an' how he hope Ou' Wolf 'll fin' his dinner yust as nice when de time come--`'Cause you said yust now you has your dinner in a pot som'eres round here, didn' yeh?' ses he, an' he lams him wid anoder bone, biff! "Den de last meat was eat an' de last bone t'rown, an' Ou' Jackalse he come wid a long reed an' he gun' to tickle Ou' Wolf on de end of his nose where he's a-hangin'. But Ou' Wolf he's in dat rage he yust snap an' yap at darie reed till all de frame o' de house begin to shake, an' Ou' Jackalse he tink it's about time to get f'm under. An' dere ain't no more to stop for anyhow--he might as well keep on a-movin'. So he did. "Well, Ou' Wolf he's yust dat mad he won't shout Ou' Jackalse back to let him down an' dey'll say no more about it. Not him; he'll yust hang an' rattle an' see him blowed first. But young Missus Wolf--well, you 'members dey wahnt married yet till de house 'ud be finis', an' I s'pose somehow she couldn't he'p herse'f, but she yust hatto sa'nter past in de trees, an' sort o' peep an' see how de house is a-gettin' on. An' dere she seen Ou' Wolf a-hangin', head down, an' black in de face. "Sich a scrick she got, an' sich a scream she let out! an' in about two ticks she was inside darie house frame to hold him up. She cahnt reach his head de fust time, but de second time she yump so high she ketch him by de years, an' dere she is, a-hangin' down f'm him--to hold him up! An' Ou' Wolf he's dat much gone on her he don't like to say nawtin' about it--but he feel his tail like comin' out by de roots. "At last ses he--`You'd better go up on de roof an' make loose my tail. I'll p'r'aps get down quicker dat way,' ses he. "As soon as she hear him speak--`Oh, he ain't dead yet, he's alive yet,' ses she. An' she's yust dat glad she fair hangs an' swings agen, till Ou' Wolf hatto say sometin'. `But my tail ain't a-gun' to last much more,' ses he. "Dat sort o' cut into her sense a bit, an' she stop an' look. `Oh, dat's it, is it?' ses she, an' she looks as if dat ain't no great shakes to be de matter wid him. `If you'd yust go up an' make it loose?' ses he. "`Hump!' ses she, but she cahnt say no more yust yet, an' so up she go. But when she get up on de roof an' see how fast his tail is t'atched in wid de rest, it kind o' strike her to won'er how de jimminy his tail come like dat, an' she hadn't more'n begun to un-t'atch it 'fore she begin to ax him how come it so. "Ou' Wolf he ain't in no Allah Crachty hurry to tell her all about it, but he ain't no good at tellin' you-know-whats. So what he hatto do he yust up an' did, an' he told her de hull tale plump. "Now p'r'aps she tinks a lot of Ou' Wolf, an' agen p'r'aps she tinks more about bein' goin' to get married an' have a house o' her own to boss in. But anyhow she tinks a lot de most o' herse'f, an' she gets dat mad wid him for bein' had so silly dat she cahnt stand it nohow. She yust stop unt'atchin', an' she fair slam herse'f half way down troo de rafters to reach him an' biff him a one-two in de ribses. `Take dat!' ses she, `an' dat! for bein' sich a fathead!' "`Ouk! Ouk!' Ou' Wolf he yell, an' he make sich a kick an' sich a fluster to get out o' reach, dat fust ting you know de t'atch won't hold no longer an' it come loose an' let him down _wollop_! fair on his head. But Missus Wolf she's yust dat mad-an'-ginger dat she try to grab him an' hold him up f'm droppin' till she can biff him agen; an' she grab yust too far an' miss her reach, an' down she come as well, head fust too, biff into his tummy, an' knock de wind clean outen him. "Atween his head an' his tummy Ou' Wolf he tink he's fair about dyin', but in yust two ticks Missus Wolf was up an' a-lammin' into him. Den he knowed yust how dead he ain't, for he yumps up wid a howl an' a howler, an' he fair streak it out o' dat into de vach-a-bikkie bushes till he could lost her. He sit down dere, but he cahnt tink for feelin', an' he cahnt rub his head for tinkin' on his tummy, nor rub his tummy for tinkin' on his head. "But he lay it all up to Ou' Jackalse. `Yust wait till I get a fair ole chance,' ses he, `den see if I don't get so even wid him it'll stick out de oder side. Dat's all.' "Well, it went on like dis till one day Ou' Wolf was a-raungin' along, an' who should he see alongside de road but Ou' Jackalse, a-sittin' an' a-polishin' off de last piece o' biltong outen a bag; nice, fat, buck-biltong. "`Now I's got him! See me if I don't do sometin' now,' ses Ou' Wolf, an' he sits him down for a minute to see what's de best way to do it. "But Ou' Jackalse had seen him long ago a'ready, an' he don't hatto sit down an' study how he's goin' to do. He knows it an' he does it. He don't wait to be yumped. He yust gets straight up and skips over to Ou' Wolf, like as if he ain't seen him for he don't know how long, an' he never was so glad. `Here you is,' ses he `Yust de very one an' yust in time. Here, taste dat,' ses he an' he offers him de last little piece o' de biltong. `I owes you a good breakfas', an' now I's a-gun' to pay you half a dozen for it.' "Ou' Wolf he don't know. He's mighty s'picious of Ou' Jackalse any time you like, an' worse when he's a-offerin' good turns. He draws back a bit. But dat biltong it look so red an' sweet in de middle, where it's cut across, an' Ou' Jackalse is a-lickin' his lips wid such a smacks, dat Ou' Wolf he take dat little piece an' he wolf it down. "Dat piece taste yust so good he cahnt he'p it--he's gotto ha' some more. `Where's dere more o' dat?' ses he. `Tell me quick till I gets at it.' "Ou' Jackalse smile. `Well,' ses he, `I've a-eat dat much dat I cahnt run fast enough myse'f. If I hadn't a-done I'd a-gone wid you. But it don't matter anyhow--it's yust too easy for troublin' about.' "`Ne'er min' dat. Where's it?' ses Ou' Wolf, short an' sharp. "`On de road dere,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `On dat road you sees de spoor of a waggon dat's went along not so long since. All you has to do is to run a bit wide an' get ahead o' dat waggon. Den you lie down in de road an' make like you's dead--too dead for skinnin' in a hurry. De waggon'll come along an' de baas he'll see you, an' he'll say--"Hello! here's a dead wolf. His skin'll make a fine mat for my wife. I'll take him home an' skin him." "`Den he'll pick you up an chuck you on de waggon, an' dere's where all de biltong is--sacks an' sacks of it. All you has to do is to wait a bit till de man ain't a-lookin', an' den, flip!--you drops a sack o' de nicest biltong out an' slips off ahter it you'se'f. I on'y wish I had room for mo',' ses he, an' he rubs his tummy like he's fair a-longin'. "Ou' Wolf he look at Ou' Jackalse an' he tink what he was intendin' o' doin'. But de taste o' dat biltong yust make his mouf run, an' he cahnt wait. `Is dat de way you got yours?' ses he, sharp an' hairy. "`Dat's de hull way,' ses Ou' Jackalse; `an' I's a laughin' yet to tink on it--it's so easy.' "Ou' Wolf he don't want to seem like he's too soft a-b'lievin', but de biltong make him fair yammer for more. `Well,' ses he, `we'll see,' an' off he sets to come round darie waggon. "By'n'by he gets ahead, an' den he cuts into de road an' lies down, an' makes yust de same as if he's dead. "De waggon comes along, an' de man he see Ou' Wolf a-lyin' like dead in de road. `Hello!' ses he, fair a-bristlin', `here's anoder on 'em, is dere? On'y toder one was a yackalse. An' dis 'un's goin' to get chucked into de waggon too, is he, an' steal anoder sack o' biltong as well? But we'll yust see about dat, we will. Here's you!' ses he, an' he fair yump right square on Ou' Wolf's ribses--wallop! "`Wou-uk!' yells Ou' Wolf, an' he try to up an' run for it. "`So, you're anoder, is you?' shouts de man, an' wallop he yumps on him agen. "`I didn't. Le' me go,' yells Ou' Wolf at dat. "`Steal anoder sack, will you!' shouts de man, an'--wop!--he yumps on him some more. "But Ou' Wolf's yust about had enough. If he don't get out o' dat immeejitly, if not sooner, den he's goin' to be deader dan he shammed a minute since. 'Fore you can say knife! he yust scratched up an' away an' light out for de oder side o' de sky line, wid de man a-peltin' him wid a stone for every stride. `P'r'aps you'll come agen,' ses de man. "When Ou' Wolf manage to crawl to de ridge he look back, an' he sees de man a-whackin' de whip into his team an' shoutin' like he feels right good an' sa'cy. `Allah Crachty! look-a'-dat now,' ses Ou' Wolf to hisse'f, but he don't rub no spot 'cause he cahnt make up his mind which is de sorest. "Den he look along de ridge an' dere he see Ou' Jackalse, yust a-hoppin' an' a-rollin' wid laughin'. Ou' Wolf he look an' Ou' Wolf he tink. But Ou' Wolf he's still a-feelin' too, an he fair flop down an' say nothin'. Dere wahnt anytin' else to say. But he shake his head: I tell you he shake his head," ended Old Hendrik, shaking his own head with the word. CHAPTER SIX. OU' WOLF LAYS A TRAP. The little girl was in a great way for a day or two at the immunity of the rascal Jackal in his dealings with Old Wolf. "But, Ou' Ta'," demanded she at last, "did Ou' Wolf _never_ pay off Ou' Jackalse for his skellum tricks?" "Well," answered Old Hendrik, taking a fresh piece of sugar cane from under his arm and biting a good two inches off it as he began, sitting by the barn end, "dere was one time when he come so near it he would a-got square if it hadn't a-bin Ou' Jackalse. It look one time like Ou' Jackalse was a-goner, but bein' it was him, why o' cou'se-- "It come like dis. Ahter Ou' Wolf was new married, his missus she kep' on a-yawin' about how he'd let Ou' Jackalse t'atch his tail fast, an' steal his dinner, an' biff him wid bones, an' let him in for a bashin' f'm de man wid de biltong waggon, till Ou' Wolf he 'gin to be mighty glad he hadn't tol' her about all de rest o' de times Ou' Jackalse done him down. But all de same it seem like he ain't save' much by not tellin' her, for de ting she did know seem like it's quite enough to keep her goin' all day an' every day, an double span on Sunday. If she'd a-knowed more she couldn't ha' yawed more, 'cause dere ain't but sev'n days in de week to yaw in when you've done your best. Ou' Wolf couldn't stan' no more. He yust sneaked out an' off. "Well, he see it stickin' out pretty plain dat he'll hatto get square wid darie Ou' Jackalse or he'll hatto leave home--one or toder. But for de life o' him he cahnt yust make up his mind what's de best way to do it, an' he tink dat hard as he go along, and he tink dat close as he stride along, dat fust ting he know he find hisse'f walkin' plump onto Ou' Jackalse's house. He yust wake up in time to sit down sudden behin' a bush till he see weder Ou' Jackalse is at home or not. "Pretty soon he's pretty sure Ou' Jackalse ain't at home. In de fust place dere ain't no smoke, an' nex' place de door's shut fas' an' de window hole is bung up tight wid a vach-a-bikkie bush. `Dis is yust my chance at las',' ses Ou' Wolf to hisse'f. `Dis is de time I's a-gun' to get even wid darie ou' skellum. I'll yust go inside dere an' get behind de door till he comes in. Den--well den--won't I bash him I'll feel good, I will, when I biffs him. He won't; dere won't be no more'n a big mess left of him: yust a grease spot to swear by.' "Well, Ou' Wolf he shamber over an' sneak into de house an' hide hisse'f behind de door, an' he hadn't more'n fit hisse'f into de cohner dan here comes Ou' Jackalse home agen. "But Ou' Jackalse he ain't de sort to walk into no place foolish unless dere's sometin' extray on. 'Stead o' goin' straight up an' steppin' right in, he circle roun' outside de house to see if it's all serene fust an same's he left it. He hadn't gone half way roun' 'fore he plump right on de spoor of Ou' Wolf an' dere he stop. `Dat ain't my spoor,' ses he, cockin' his years all roun'. `Dat's Ou' Wolf ben here. P'r'aps he's inside my house, hey?' "Well, he study an' he won'er an' den at last he stroke his nose. `I know what I'll do,' ses he. `I'll ax my house if dere's anybody inside.' "Den he call out, slow an' cunnin': `My ole house! My ole house!' An' he waits an' dere ain't no answer. "He call agen: `My ole house! My ole house!' an' agen dere ain't no answer. "Dis time he winks an' he change de call. `My ole house! I know Ou' Wolf's inside you, else you'd say, "Come in," like you al'ays does.' Den he laugh till you could hear him right troo de trees. "Ou' Wolf behind de door he hear every word, an' he hear dat laugh besides. `Now,' ses he to hisse'f, `if I calls out "Come in," he'll tink it's his ole house a-callin' an' he'll step right in Ou' Jackalse ain't so smart as he reckon dis time, else he wouldn't ha' tol' de words for de house to say.' Den he try to make his voice soft an' wheedlin', while he call out high an' cunnin', `Co-o-me in!' "Ou' Jackalse he let out a great big laugh fit to split, an' he lam stones at de door till it rattle agen. `Come out o' dat, ole fathead! Tink I cahnt tell your voice? 'Sides, dere's you' tail, wid de hairs a-stickin' out troo de cracks.' "Ou' Wolf he's dat mad at bein' had agen so cheap an' nasty he yust swang de door open, an' at fust he tinks he'll chase Ou' Jackalse till he plum runs him down. But Ou' Jackalse he go two licks for his one, an' every once in a while he kick out his back foot to rile him up mo'. Ou' Wolf yust hatto go home an' tink it all over agen. "Well, dis sort o' ting go on an' on till at last Ou' Wolf he feel dat desprit he'll hatto do sometin' or bu'st. So off he sets for where de white owl lives, 'cause he 'members why de white owl on'y fly at night time, an' he's pretty sure Ole Owl's a-gun' to he'p him. "De white owl listen to what Ou' Wolf tell him, an' he look so straight at Ou' Wolf dat you'd tink his eyes was fas' to him. `Well,' ses he at last, `Ou' Jackalse is mighty slim, but Tink Tinkey was slimmer when de birds was choosin' a king. An' Young Tinkey's de littlest bird in de veldt. I's a deal bigger'n Tinkey, an' we'll see if I cahnt beat Ou' Jackalse worse dan him. So here's what you do. "`You know where de leopard live, in de kloof on de yonder side de berg? Now she's yust got four little cubses, an' she fin's it mighty hard scratchin' to get scoff enough Well, tomorrow you comes home past Ou' Jackalse's house, as if you was comin' from dat kloof, an' you have some honey a-runnin' down your yaws an' a-drippin' on your paws, an' you pass Ou' Jackalse where he's a-sittin' in de sun' at his house end. But you don't say good mawnin' nor nawtin'--you yust goes on home. "`Nex' day you does de same agen, an' dat time he's mighty sure to say good mawnin', 'cause he'll a-bin tinkin' an' studyin' about dat honey ever since yestiday. But you don't say not a word agen--you yust goes on home. "`Den de nex' day once mo', an' dat day you ses good mawnin' when he ses it, an' dat'll be enough. Ahter dat he's mighty sure to open out an' wheedle an' coax to get it out o' you where you got dat honey. But you don't tell him at fust; you yust gives him a leetle teenty piece o' honey-comb, what you's got wropped up in a green leaf. Dat'll make him fair wild to get mo', an' den's your chance. "`Ses you to him, p'r'aps you'll take him to it if he promise to keep it quiet, an' he'll be dat stirred he'll promise afo'e you's done axin'. Den you take him along to de kloof, an' in de kloof you take him along to de great big rock at de fur end, an' under de rock you show him de leopard's house. "Dere," ses you, "in dere's de honey;" an' in he'll pop. Den you rolls a big stone in de door an' leaves him dere--de leopard 'll do all de rest as soon as it come home.' "Well, Ou' Wolf feel sure dat's a-gun' to be all right. It soun' so slim he tink it's about all done a'ready except de laughin'. An he do most o' dat, too, as he go off to start de business. "Well, de fust day when Ou' Wolf come past his house Ou' Jackalse was a-sittin' by de prickly pear in front an' he don't say a word. He yust looks over his shoulder to see if de door's open so he can pop inside an' bang it shut if Ou' Wolf make a dive for him. Den he notice de honey a-drippin' on Ou' Wolfs mouf an' his paws an' he beat his tail once on de groun' considerin'. But Ou' Wolf take no mo' notice dan if he was his own shadda on de wall. "Nex' day when Ou' Jackalse see him a-comin' he 'gun to won'er. `Watto!' ses he. `Here's Ou' Wolf agen, an' de honey drippin' off'n him worse'n yestiday. Dat's a bit funny.' "'Stead o' lookin' at de door dis time he speak out. `Mawnin', Oom Wolf,' ses he. "Ou' Wolf he don't turn his head no mo' 'n if it was meer-cats. He keep straight on an' he lick his lips, smack! smack! till Ou' Jackalse he fair hump his back wid wantin' some o' dat honey. "De day ahter dat, when Ou' Wolf come past, Ou' Jackalse was a-waitin' ready, an' as soon as he see de honey a-drippin' he sort o' sa'nter over close. `Mawnin', Oom Wolf,' ses he, `fine rains we bin a-havin'. Dere's a Koodoo wid a calf de yonder side de spruit. Don't you think we might get de calf if we all two goes togeder?' "Ou' Wolf stop at dat as if he's sort o' considerin'. `No,' ses he; `I ain't so dead gone on Koodoo meat dese days nohow. I's dat full o' honey I ain't a-itchin' for anytin' else.' "Ou' Jackalse tongue begin to run. `Do you tink dat honey mightn't be bad?' ses he. `It look mighty dark.' "`Oh, it's de dark sort,' ses Ou' Wolf, an' he lick his chops till Ou' Jackalse cahnt stan' it. He yust come right up an' ketch a drop as it drip down. "Dat set him a-twitchin' for mo'. `Oom Wolf,' ses he, `ain't you goin' to gi'e me yust a leetle teenty bittie honey now? Ole chummies like us two, you know.' "Ou' Wolf he sort o' consider dat. `Well,' ses he, `I wouldn't mind doin' it, but I's on'y got one piece lef; a piece I's a-takin' home to my missus.' "`Your missus!' ses Ou' Jackalse, sort o' pityin' like. `Well, if you does dat sort o' ting, why'--an' he shake his head like he's pretty sorry for a man dat's come down to dat. `But anyhow,' ses he, `your wife don't know you got dis honey, so it won't matter if you does gi'e it me. What she don't know about she cahnt trouble about. You can gi'e me it an' she won't never know.' "`Oh, but she knows I went to get some,' ses Ou' Wolf, as if he'd like to do it but darsn't. "`Tell her some'dy else is been dere afo' you an' scrape' it all away,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `She won't know but what it's true.' "`Well,' ses Ou' Wolf, `I might do dat--dough I 'spects I'll be sorry for it. Here it is den,' an' he unwrops de leetle piece o' honeycomb. "In yust one bite Ou' Jackalse take it in, an' den dat set him on prickles to get a reg'lar feed of it. `Allah man!' ses he, `dat's good. Whar you get it?' "`Oh! long way off,' ses Ou' Wolf. `Too fur to carry it home; so I goes an' has a feed as much as I can hol' every day. Dere's such lots of it.' "`Lots of it',' ses Ou' Jackalse ahter him, fair squirmin'. `Couldn't we yust go back dere now, an' I'd take a calabas an' fetch a calabasful back for you to take to your missus? Dat'd do all right den.' "Ou' Wolf he shake his head an' draw back a bit. "`Well,' ses Ou' Jackalse, `you'd a-better do it now. Your missus'll see where it's dripped on you, an' she'll smell it anyhow, an' den she ain't a-gun' to b'lieve you nohow--you knows dat. You'd better come now an' le' me carry a calabasful back for her.' "Ou' Wolf seem like dat strike him new. `Well,' ses he, `p'r'aps I'd better. But no shenanigin now. If I takes you to dis yere place you'll hatto carry two calabasies back, not one.' "`Is dere all dat honey den?' ses Ou' Jackalse. `Allah Crachty! yust hol' on an' I'll get de two calabasies dis minute an' show you,' an' off he darts into his house an' out agen wid two o' de biggest sort o' nice new calabasies. `Here's 'um, come on,' ses he. But he wink to hisse'f, an' he ses to hisse'f, `If I carry dat honey back I know who'll eat it too.' "Ou' Wolf he make like he's mighty onwillin', an' he on'y go 'cause he's feared of his missus. An' all de way Ou' Jackalse is a-tellin' him where dey'll hunt togeder nex' day, an' nex' week; an' where dere's a-gun' to be some fine water-millons 'fore long. An' all de way Ou' Wolf's a-takin' it all in an' sayin' he shouldn' won'er if dere was. "Well, dey come to de kloof an' dey come to de rock, an' dere was de house where de leopard live. `De honey's in dere,' ses Ou' Wolf. `Right inside, an' you turn up de bed an' dere it is. An' don't forget dem two calabasful for my missus.' "Ou' Jackalse he laugh, an' he dive right inside. He'll see about dem two calabasies, he will. But he hadn't mo'en got inside 'fore Ou' Wolf spring about an' roll a great big stone plump into de doorway. `Ho yeh, smarty!' ses he. `Dis is de time you wahnt smart enough. You'll be a' right when de leopard comes home an' finds you wid her cubses. You'd carry me two calabasies full o' honey, hey? Lots o' honey I'd trust you wid, wouldn't I?' "Ou' Jackalse hear de stone a-rollin' in an' he make a dive to get out agen, but he on'y bang his head--bang stars outen it. Den he hear what Ou' Wolf say, an' he sniff an' sniff high. `I'll bet you b'lieved I was a-gun' to carry dat honey for you!' ses he. "`An' I'll bet you tink I should ha' trusted you if dere'd bin honey here!' ses Ou' Wolf. "`An' I know you tink all de time I b'lieved dere _was_ honey here!' sniffs Ou' Jackalse. `I know dere'd be no honey, or you wouldn't ha' showed me. But I knowed dere'd be sometin'--an' dere is. Dere's better eatin' still; dere's cubses.' "`An' dere's mo',' ses Ou' Wolf; `dere's deir mammy. Dere's de leopard. An'--Allah Crachty, here she come!' "You should ha' seen Ou' Wolf get out o' dat. "De leopard come an' look, an' de leopard put its paw on de stone. `What's dis doin' here?' ses it, an' it growl till it give Ou' Jackalse wits a scrick. "He hatto do sometin' an' be sharp about it too. He speak up quick an' lively. `I put dat stone dere. You better not to shift it. I see Ou' Wolf a-smackin' his lips, tinkin' what a nice dinner he was goin' to make off 'n your cubses. So I yust got inside an' pull dis stone agin de door to keep him out an' save your little cubickies. If you look you'll see his spoor.' "De leopard look, an' sure enough dere's Ou' Wolfs spoor. `Allah man!' ses it. `An' so dat Ou' Wolf want to get my cubses while I's out a-huntin', hey?' "`He is dat,' ses Ou' Jackalse inside. `An' he reckon if he cahnt get 'em to-day he'll do it anoder day. So you better to leave de stone dere an' le' me hand out your cubses troo de winda to be suckle' an' put back. Den I'll watch 'em while you go huntin' agen, an' I'll keep on like dat till dey's big enough to see an' go wid you a-huntin'.' "`Dere's sense in dat,' ses de leopard. `I'll yust do dat. Hand me out de cubses.' "So Ou' Jackalse he hand out one cub, an' when it's had enough he take it back an' hand out anoder; an' he do dat way till all four bin out an' feed. `Now you look ahter 'em agen till I come back,' ses de leopard, an' off it go agen. "Ou' Jackalse he sit down and look roun'. `Well,' ses he, `dere never was no honey here, but dis dat's here is near as sweet an' a big lot better--dese's cubses; fat cubses; yuicy cubses. Ou' Leopard would hatto pay me for nursin' 'em when I finis' anyhow, but I reckon it's better I draw my pay fust, den if you don't like de work you nee'nt to do it. Here's me has one o' dem cubses anyhow.' "Well, he eat one cub, an' it eat dat sweet he tink by jimminy it'll take more dan one leopard to drive him out o' dat while dere's any cubses left. So dere he set an' he sing a song about de honey dat had hair on. Den de leopard come back an' ax, `Hello! how's my cubickies?' "`Yust fine,' ses Ou' Jackalse--`for eatin'.' "`What's dat?' ses de leopard, tail a-wavin'. "`Well, deir eatin's drinkin',' ses Ou' Jackalse. `An' here's de first,' ses he, handin' out one. "Well, dey hands 'em out an' dey hands 'em in, an' dat's t'ree cubses. De leopard's a-waitin' for de fourt', an' dat's de one Ou' Jackalse cahnt hand out 'cause it's inside him. But he don't turn a hair; he yust wink to hisse'f an' hand out de first agen. `Extra dose for you,' ses he when he take it in agen. `Extra yuice for me.' "So when de leopard's gone a-huntin' agen Ou' Jackalse eat de cub what had de two drinks, an' when de leopard come back he hands out de cubses, one, two, an' den number one agen for number t'ree, and number two for number four. An' he feel dat tickled wid hisse'f he stan' on his head inside dere. Den de leopard go huntin' agen, an' Ou' Jackalse eat anoder cub, an' when de leopard come back dere's on'y one lef. `How's de cubickies?' ses de leopard. "`Fine,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `Dey yust is fine!' an' he wink to hisse'f. `On'y dere's one make like he ain't so well. But it'll be a' right ahter it's had a drink.' "Den he pass out de one last cub, an' it take it's milk, an' de leopard hand it back. Den he pass it out agen an' it have anoder feed. Same way de nex' time, an' den de last time it's yust so full it cahnt drink no more, an' its little tummy's all swell out. `Dat's de one what ain't so well,' ses Ou' Jackalse. "`It do look like it's a bit sickie,' ses de leopard. `I wonder what's de matter wid it?' "`I tink dis stone stop up all de air,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `You might yust pull it a little way back; not de hool way out, else Ou' Wolf might try to get in agen.' "So de leopard pull out de stone a bit; not too far, but yust far enough for Ou' Jackalse to squeeze out if he want to. `Look ahter dat sick 'un,' ses de leopard, an' off she go. "Den Ou' Jackalse scoff de last cub. `Allah man!' ses he, `ain't it a pity dey's all done. An' now I'll ha' to slant for home 'fore de leopard come an' want to feed her cubses agen.' "Den he squeeze hisse'f outside ready to go, an' he hadn't strid de fust stride 'fore he sees de leopard comin' back. Dere he was, an' dere's de leopard comin' for her cubses; but darie ou' skellum he ain't done yet. He let a yell outen him, an' run an put his shoulder to de rock. `Make hurry! make haste,' he shout `De rock's a-fallin' on your house. Come an' he'p me hol' it up! make hurry!' "De leopard don't stop to look, an' de leopard don't stop to tink. It hear Ou' Jackalse yellin', an' it see him plank his shoulder to de rock, an' strain an' puff till his eyes stick out to hol' up dat rock; an' in yust about one tick dat leopard was dere too, wid his shoulder to de rock, scratchin' an' yammin' to hol' it up too. "`Hol' it now till I run an' get a prop,' shouts Ou' Jackalse, an' de leopard he yust double hol's while Ou' Jackalse dive into de trees to look for de prop. "But," concluded the old Hottentot, with an impressive pause, "he ain't got back wid dat prop yet." CHAPTER SEVEN. OU' JACKALSE TAKES OU' WOLF A-SHEEP STEALING. The children had been privately discussing for several days the state of things as between Ou' Jackalse and Ou' Wolf, and the verdict came out on this hot mid-day as they sat beside Old Hendrik under the big mimosa. "Ou' Wolf was always such a big fool," protested the eldest boy, with the wondrous contempt of his years; "such a fool to let that Ou' Jackal best him every time, like he did." "Well," admitted Old Hendrik with a grin, "Ou' Wolf he might ha' look out a bit mo' p'r'aps, when he come near Ou' Jackalse. But den, I tell you, darie Ou' Jackalse is yust dat slim dere ain't no slimmer. If you want to keep ahead o' him you'd ha' to get up so early dere ain't no time to go to bed, an' den you'd on'y see his heel dust away yonder. Look dat time when Ou' Jackalse got Ou' Wolf into goin' a-sheep stealin' wid him. What 'ud you want mo' fairer dan dat look at de start? An' den what about de finis' of it? "Times is been a lot better many a time dan dey was den. De rinderpest was gone a' right enough, but de game was mighty sca'se yet, an' if Ou' Jackalse want to live on meat he hatto go mostly stalkin' roun' farmers' kraals for sheep. But him bein' doin' it on his lonesome he ain't had so much luck as he tink he'd like to have. One kraal specially he yust would like to get into, an' dere he tink he'd have de biggest feed of his life. It's a' right to get into it some night an' fill hisse'f up to de eyes wid meat, but dere's de mawnin' after--dat's de trouble. De mawnin' after de man's a-goin' to find out what's happen', an' he'll get his dogs an' hunt for de one dat did it. An' Ou' Jackalse he's a-goin' to be too full o' feed to be hunted dat nex' mawnin'. Huntin' ain't a-goin' to agree wid him at all dat nex' day. "But he wants dat feed, an' he don't want to get ketched--dat's two tings; an' he tink, an' he tink, an' study, but it all come back to de one ting; he'll yust hatto rope Ou' Wolf into de game if he's a-goin' to do it at all. "Well, he raunge about, an' he dodge about till at last he see Ou' Wolf a-comin'. Den he turn his back to him an' make like he's a-slinkin' an' a-stalkin' ahter sometin'. Dat set Ou' Wolf a-wonderin', an' he sit down an' watch Ou' Jackalse a-stealin' an' a-feelin' troo de bushes till he's most out o' sight. `Tell you what,' ses Ou' Wolf to hisse'f, `darie Ou' Jackalse is ahter sometin' good, I know. I's better watch him an' see if dere ain't sometin' in it for me too.' "So up he get an' stalk on ahter Ou' Jackalse; an' Ou' Jackalse he don't let on but yust keeps on a-walkin' an' a-baulkin' till he comes to where he can see dat kraal he's a-wantin' at. Dere he get behind a big stone where Ou' Wolf ain't a-gun' to see him till he step out right alongside him. "Ou' Wolf he keep on a-stalk an' a-stalkin', till all in a eye-open he find hisse'f rubbin' ribses wid Ou' Jackalse, an' he's dat 'stonish dat he ketch his breaf, an' he don't know de fust word to say. "But Ou' Jackalse open on him wid de biggest wide-open smile. `Oh!' ses he, `so dat's you, is it? An' you stalks me like dat, does you? By de jimminy, I al'ays did say you was about de slimmes' ole _takhaar_ on de veldt. Well, dat's good, dat is, to ketch me like dat; an' now you's foun' me out I s'pose I'll ha' to own up. Dat _is_ de kraal I's a-gun' to get de big feed outo'. But I don't mind anyhow; dere's enough for de two of us, an' forty times over if dat's all. An' to-night's a-gun' to be yust de right night as well.' "Ou' Wolf he's dat shamed at bein' ketched like dat, an' dat glad o' gettin' off so good, dat he sit right down an' talk growly to save his feelin's. `Ho! you ses dere's enough for de two on us, does you. Dat's how many?' "`You count 'em when you sees 'em by'n'by,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `You wait here till it 'gins to get night an' den you'll see de sheep yust make darie kraal white. An' fat!--dey's yust so fat dey waddles.' "`Is dey?' Ou' Wolf fair feel his back begin to rise. `An' you tinks we'll get 'em a' right?' ses he. "`Get 'em?' ses Ou' Jackalse, like dat is a ting to say. `You yust wait an' see.' "Well, dere dey wait an' dere dey watch, an' dere when de sun drop dey see de sheep draw into de kraal, an' see de farmer come out an' look 'em over, an' ahter dat him an' de boy go off to supper an' sleep. Den it drop dark an' come midnight. `Now we go down,' ses Ou' Jackalse. "So down dey goes, an' dey comes to de kraal, movin' as quiet as shaddas an' as soft as de dark, an' dey's yust dat light an' empty dey yumps on to de kraal wall like birds a-lightin'. Den dey drops down, an' dere dey begins to eat. "Dey eats one sheep an' dey eats two sheep, an' den Ou' Jackalse he draw off dat quiet dat Ou' Wolf don't hear, an' he crawl to de water-let hole at de bottom o' de kraal wall, an' tries if he's still not swell' too much to slip out troo dat hole, 'cause he knows right well dey's bofe too full to yump back over de kraal wall. But he finds dat's a' right; he can get out easy yet, so he go back an' he has mo' feed. An dat way he keep on an' on, eatin' fust an' den tryin if his tummy ain't too big yet to slip troo', till at last he cahnt on'y yust scrape troo wid scratchin' till he's black in de face. `Pity I ain't shav' all my sideses,' ses he, `den I could slip troo yust one time mo'. Dem sheep dey is so fat.' "Well, dere's de man an' de dogs to tink on now, an' dis is de time he want Ou' Wolf for. He knows Ou' Wolf's gone on eat an' eat an eatin', till he fair couldn't har'ly get out o' de gate if it was open, let alone troo de waterlet hole, not if de dogs had hol' of his tail. An' dat's yust what Ou' Jackalse bin a' figurin' on, so now he slink away into de bushes close by, an' den he change his voice an' begin to call out: `Baas! baas! Wolf in de kraal. Baas! baas! Wolf's in de kraal!' "`Dere!' ses he to hisse'f, `I'm a right now. De man an' his dogs 'll find Ou' Wolf in de kraal, an' dey'll know all about who done it, so dey won't be lookin' for anyb'dy else. Dere won't be no huntin' ahter me-- dat's what I couldn't stan' yust now; it's mo' dan I ought to hatto do is to walk, let alone run, out o' dis,' ses he. "But he hatto walk some anyhow, 'cause de man he's heerd de shouts, an' he wake up, an his dogs an his Koranna boys, an dey all rush out for de kraal. Ou' Wolf he hear 'em comin' an' he make a slope for de waterlet hole, an' he dive head fust into dat. "De head part's a' right; dere ain't no trouble about dat part goin' in. But his body!--Allah Crachty, man! but dat body ain't a-gun' to begin a-goin' into, let alone troo, dat hole. An' fust ting he know de man has him f'm behind. "Well, I's tole you mo' dan once o' de lammins an' de bashins Ou' Wolf's had afore dat, an' he's been knock pretty sick in his time. But all de biffinest bashins what he ever had was yust pettin' an' strokin' alongside o' what he get dis time, till at last, when de dogs tink dey's worried de last life outen him, an' de man tinks he's kill' all der is in him, den de Koranna boys pick up de carcase an' chuck it over de wall on to de veldt outside, an' dere it lie, lookin' de deadest ting dat ever was alive, while de man an' de boys an' de dogs go back to sleep. "Ou' Jackalse he's been a-watchin' all dat, an' along about de break o' day he see Ou' Wolf stir a leg. Den come sun-up an' Ou' Wolf stir his tail, an ahter dat it ain't but a little while 'fore he pulls de pieces of hisse'f togeder an' 'gins to crawl off somehow, 'cause he know if de man find him lyin' dere when he get up he'll skin him for a kaross. "`Ou' Wolf's off for home now,' ses Ou' Jackalse to hisse'f. `So's I-- but I ain't a-walkin'; dat 'ud be too bad, I's dat full. Watch me now,' an' he wink to hisse'f dat same ole wink. "Well, Ou' Wolf he drag hisse'f along, an' he hump hisse'f along, an' he wish hisse'f along, an' den of a sudden he come plump right onto Ou' Jackalse, lyin' lookin' like he's quite de nex' skyline toder side o' dead. `By de jimminy!' ses Ou' Wolf, `dead or ain't dead, I's yust a-gun' to bite his year off for shoutin' out de farmer an' de dogs on to me. I will dat.' "But he hadn't no sooner come closer to worry him dan Ou' Jackalse open his eyes. `Ho!' ses he. `So dat's how you pay me for lettin' you come along o' me, an' givin' you a fair ole gorge, is it? Fust you gets all you can stuff, an' den you shouts to de farmer dat Ou' Jackalse is in de kraal! an' out he comes an' de dogs, an' dey's most killed me de deadest Jackalse ever was. Allah Crachty! I's know better dan trust you anoder time if ever I gets over dis,' ses he, an' he kick out one leg wid a yerk as if he's goin' a deader. "Ou' Wolf he's fair knock' back on his tail wid de 'stonishment. `Well, I be jimminied!' ses he. `When I hear you wid my own years shoutin' "Wolf in de kraal!" an' now you try to come over me dat I shout de farmer out to you! Dat's a good 'un, dat is.' "`Does you mean dat I didn't hear you a-shoutin' de farmer dat I was in de kraal?' snarl' Ou' Jackalse, like he want to know what next. "`An' does you mean to say I didn't hear you a-shoutin' de farmer dat I was in de kraal?' growl' Ou' Wolf. "Ou' Jackalse make like dey'll be tellin' him dem ain't his own years nex'. `Look-a'-me, Ou' Wolf,' ses he. `Dis yere's mighty funny. Some'dy must ha' shouted some'dy's in de kraal, else how come de man out an' bash me like I is. Who could ha' done it if it wasn't you? 'nless, 'nless--by jimminy!' ses he, `'nless'n it's darie Ou' Baviyaan! I seen him chained up dere by de house, an' he look mighty sour at me 'cause I's loose. But I didn't tink he'd a done it on us--did you now?' "Well, Ou' Wolf he 'gun to go back in his mind on all de tings what Ou' Baviyaan's done in time past, an' he 'gin to tink he ain't so su'e but what it's yust de sort o' ting Ou' Baviyaan would do if he got de off chance. `If I'd on'y a-seen darie Ou' Baviyaan,' ses he, `I bet I'd a-done sometin'.' "`Yes. But now dere's de gettin' home,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `You's a' right, you can travel; but me--I don't know what I's a-gun' to do, as bad as I is.' "Ou' Wolf he tink it over. He's yust about so bad hisse'f he couldn't feel no badder. But Ou' Jackalse had let him in to a share o' dat big ole feed, an' he's had dat feed anyhow. He ain't a-gun' to leave no ole chummie like dat. `Well,' ses he, `I's pretty rocky myse'f, but if you manage to get onto my back, I tink I'll get you home some ways.' "`You looks mighty bad,' ses Ou' Jackalse, an' he screw his face up like he wantto groan, but dat's to hide de chuckle. `An' yet I'll hatto get carried somehow!' "`Up you come den, an' say no more about it,' ses Ou' Wolf. "Well, dey got him up on his back ahter a terr'ble struggle, an' Ou' Wolf he stuck to it an' 'gin to knock off de len'ths to'ards home. But Ou' Jackalse he's yust dat tickle wid hisse'f he cahnt keep it in, he ha' to sing it out:-- "Dis de funniest ever you foun', For de sick he carry de soun'-- Work's on'y a fool to a trick, For de soun' he ride de sick. "`What's dat?' ses Ou' Wolf, stoppin' like he's ready to t'row him down. "`Oh,' ses Ou' Jackalse, `I only sing sometin':' "`It's good when de one dat's soun' Don't mind to carry de sick.' "`A' right,' ses Ou' Wolf. `But I t'ought it soun' like sometin' else.' Den he go on agen. "Well, he go on an' on, carryin' Ou' Jackalse, till dey comes nigh home, an' Ou' Jackalse he cahnt hold in no longer for fear de laugh in his inside'll bu'st him tryin' to get out. He yust ha' to get down an' dance, an' he gi'es one high ole kick an' a yump, an' over go Ou' Wolf on his head, an' den darie skellum he's a-prancin' an' a-dancin' all roun' him, wid de same ole song a-goin':-- "It's de funniest ever you foun'. When de sick he carry de soun', It never was done before Dat de well he ride de sore. "Ou' Wolf he wantto get up an' yust fight an' bite, but what wid de bashin' he had in de kraal, an' de fashin' he had carryin' darie Ou' Jackalse, he's too fair gone in to get up agen. `But on'y wait till I get hold o' you agen,' ses he, `dat's all!' "`Yes, yust wait,' ses Ou' Jackalse a-chucklin'. "An'," ended the old Hottentot, "as fur as I can make out he's bin a-waitin' ever since. Leastaways, I don't hear yet as he's ever done it. An' de bettin's all de oder way till now." CHAPTER EIGHT. WHEN THE BIRDS WOULD CHOOSE A KING WHICH TELLS ALSO WHY THE WHITE OWL ONLY FLIES BY NIGHT. The three children were lounging with the dogs under the tall blue-gums by the house corner, when the old Hottentot stepped out of the kitchen to find a shady spot for his afternoon nap. Before he could settle anywhere, however, the eldest boy lifted his face and caught sight of a mere speck, far up in the still hot sky, where a vulture hung motionless in the blue. "Oh, look!" cried he at once. "There's Old Baldy, the Aasvo'el, almost out of sight. Ain't he just high! I bet there ain't any other bird can fly as high as he can." The old Hottentot turned, first to look at the vulture and then at the little boy. "Well," said he, "dere was one time, dough, when it took a whole big indaba of all de birds to say which flew de highest--him or Young Tink Tinky." "Young Tink Tinky!" echoed the eldest boy scornfully. "Why! he's the very littlest, teeniest bird in the veldt!" "Yes, dat's yust de way Ou' Jackalse talked," answered Old Hendrik gleefully. "But he find out 'fore he finis' dat it ain't de size but de sense dat counts." "Well, I bet I could soon settle which flew the highest," returned the boy. "Mebbe," said Hendrik. "But anyhow, it took de birds a deal o' time to settle it. An' trouble--dere was trouble, too, 'fore dey finis', an' de White Owl he ain't never fly about in de daytime from dat day to dis. He's mighty big, an' he's a mighty ole beak an' clawses, but he darsent on'y fly about o' nights since den." "Oh, now, you _must_ tell us all about it, Ou' Ta'," commanded little Annie. "You'll see how soon we'll settle it." "Will I, Ainkye?" answered the old fellow, with his deepest smile. "Well, here's de tale an' you can try anyhow. You see, it was all along o' dese yere birds dat on'y come in de summer an' don't stay for de hard times in de winter. De Af'icander birds dat live here all de time dey got to studyin' about dese outlander birds what yust comes to skim de cream o' de year; an' nawtin' 'ud do 'em but dey's goin' to make a King. Dey reckon de King he'll tell dese outlander birds he's had yust about enough o' deir hanky panky, an' dey'll ha' to stop here all de year roun' or stop som'ere's else; but dey cahnt do bofe. Dat's what Kings is for. "Well, de birds dey talks to one anoder, an' de birds dey gets togeder for a big indaba; but when one ses do dis way, anoder ses do dat way, till dey all dunno what's it all a-gun' to end in, an' at last dey all agrees to ax a outsider to set some way o' choosin' dis yere King. An' what outsider? Why, who but Ou' Jackalse, o' course. "But dey'll ha' to wait a day or two 'fore dey gets him. De Aard-Vark is invite' Ou' Jackalse to a big _dwala_ drink, an' it ain't no use to talk till dat's over. "Well, dis yust suit Ole Baldy Aasvo'el. He don't say a word, but he sail off, an' by'n'by he's a-hangin' yust over de Aard-Vark's kraal, where de Aard-Vark's frien's is drinkin' dwala, an' he hang dere till he sees Ou' Jackalse a-lookin' up at him. Den he drops down behind de rise a little way off, an' dere he waits. He knows Ou' Jackalse 'll come sniffin' out, tinkin' dere's meat dere. "Tain't more'n a minute 'fore here comes Ou' Jackalse a' right. `Hello! Baldy,' ses he, `where's de meat?' "`Well,' ses Baldy, `dere ain't no meat here yust now. But dere can be lots an' lots of it for you 'fore long if you an' me is frien's dese nex' few days.' "Ou' Jackalse is pretty full of dwala, an' de dwala make him pretty full o' feelin' yust a' right, so he on'y laugh an' sit down. `How come dat?' ses he. "`Dis way,' ses Baldy. `All us birds is a-gun' to make us a King, an' we've agree' to call you in to gi'e us sometin' to go by to settle de one it's to be. You's to set sometin' for de birds to do, an' de one dat does it he's to be de King. So I's come to see you about it beforehand.' "`You is, hey?' ses Ou' Jackalse, de dwala warmin' him up good an' happy. `An' how is you come now? Is you a depitation, or is you come on your own? Is you here for all de birds or yust for one--yust for Ole Baldy?' "Ole Baldy fair scowl to hear Ou' Jackalse bring it out full an' ugly like dat. But he reckon it's de dwala doin' it, an' so he'll try a bit longer. `Well,' ses he, an' he gi'en hisse'f a look up an' down. `Don't you tink I'd be a bit a' right in de Kingin' line myse'f? I tinks I'd be full price an' some change over myself.' "`You does? Ho! you does, hey?' ses Ou' Jackalse, an' he drop his nose atween his paws an' fair root it in de groun' wid laughin'. "You should ha' seen Ole Baldy's feders stand up. `Yes, I does,' ses he. `An' how come not, I'd like to know?' ses he. `Anyhow, it's a-gun' to pay you a lot better to stand in wid me an' get me King dan wid any o' de oders. It'll pay you a lot de best,' ses he. "Ou' Jackalse ain't got so much dwala in him but what he ketch on to dat word `pay' a' right. `How's it gun' to pay me?' ses he. "`Easy,' ses Baldy. `If you gets me King, den every bird dat eats meat'll ha' to leave you de one half of it. What price me now?' ses he. `Is dere any oder bird can offer better?' "`Well, dat ain't bad,' ses Jackalse. `But s'posin' I bargains wid you, den what's de plan? I s'pose you's made some sort o' plan for me to work on?' "`Dis,' ses Baldy. `When all de birds at de indaba axes you what dey's to go by, den you answers an' tells 'em dat de birds is got wings yust to lift 'em in de air. Well, an' since de birds is on'y birds so's dey can rise in de air instead o' walkin' on de ground, den de bird dat can do bird's work best is de best one, an' it stand to reason de best should be King. So let 'em all fly up, an' de one dat flies de highest is de King--dat's fair enough, ain't it?' ses he. "`It do soun' a' right,' ses Jackalse. `An' you can ax de oder birds weder it's fair or not if you like. Anyhow, it's a bargain so far--an' now I's off back to de dwala,' and off he pop. "Ole Baldy yust stop long enough to watch him out o' sight. `I's fix' dat skellum dis time a' right,' ses he. `King o' de birds, eh! See me when I's doin' de Kingin'. I bet I'll make 'em all fly round a bit.' Den off he pop too. "In de meantime Ou' Jackalse is a-headin' back for de dwala, but he hadn't got half way 'fore up yumps little Tink Tinky. `Mawnin', Oom Jackalse,' ses he, yust as smart as a new ticky. "`Go 'way, you spot o' shadda!' ses Ou' Jackalse, in a hurry to get back to de dwala. `Go 'way, or I'll blow you away wid de wind of a wink o' my eye.' "`Oh, dat's it, is it?' ses young Tink. `Well, I was comin' to see you about dis King o' de bird business. But if dat's de sort you is, why I reckon I'll do it on my own, an' den I shan't owe nawtin' to no such a fathead as you.' "`King o' de birds,' ses Ou' Jackalse, an' he squot on his haunches an' laugh till he fair wobble. `You!' ses he, an' he laugh agen till he fall on his side an' beat de ground wid his tail. `Oh, do go an' be King o' de rest o' de birds. Be King over Ole Baldy an' de big White Owl an' all dat lot.' "`All dat lot o' big fatheads, like you,' ses young Tinky, an' he yust flick down an' tweak a beakful o' hair out of Ou' Jackalse tail. `What price dat?' ses he, as he fly up out o' reach. "Ou' Jackalse yump up like lightnin' struck him. `You young squirt!' yell' he. `I'll gi'e you King o' de birds if I gets hold o you.' "`An' I'll show you all about King o' de birds 'fore I's done wid you,' ses Tinky. `You tinks you's yust too smart for common everyday. But I'll show you yust how smart you ain't. You wait an' see.' An' off he flick for where he seen Ole Baldy fly up. He knows Ou' Jackalse come f'm dere too. "Now when Ou' Jackalse an' Ole Baldy was a-talkin' togeder, dey ain't needer on 'em seen de Hokhi-Khee (dat's de ladybird) a-sittin' under a grass blade close by. An' de Hokhi-Khee she on'y want to keep out o' sight till dey's gone, 'cause all de brown lace of her wings is all ruffle down her back, an' it won't lie nice an' straight under dat yella cloak o' hers wid de black spots. `Goodness gracious o' me,' ses she to herse'f, `I yust ain't fit to be seen! I hope dese two ole buffers 'll get away soon.' "So she kept dat close out o' sight dey never seen her, an' as soon as dey's gone she hop down an' start to get dat lace straighten' out an' tucked away nice an' neat under her cloak, an' she's all in a shake an' a fluster, when down pops young Tink Tinky. "`Well, I yust do declare!' ses she. `What do you drop down on a body like dat for? You's got as much imperence as if you was de biggest bird, instead o' de smallest.' "`All right,' ses young Tinky. `I may be de littlest bird, an' Ole Baldy may be de biggest, an' he may a-bin here talkin' soft to you. But I can yust dust him down any day,' an' you should a-seen dat young Tinky stretch-in' out first one little wing an' den de oder, like he's sayin'--`Look at dat now'. "But de ladybird ain't a-listenin' to none o' his foolishness. `Yes,' ses she, `you ses dat now. But you wait a bit till de Aasvo'el's King of all you birds, den you'll ha' to sing small enough, Mr Tink Tinky.' "`Ho!' ses Tinky. `So Ole Baldy's bin tellin' you he's gun' to be King o' de birds, is he? But we'll see about dat. Some'dy else may ha' sometin' to say about dat.' "`Well, I never,' ses de ladybird. `If dat ain't yust like your imperence! P'r'aps you 'magines you's gun' to be King yourse'f?' "`Why not?' ses he. `I's as good a man as Ole Baldy any day.' "`You ses you is, an' you has cheek enough to tink you is,' ses de ladybird. `But wait till you comes to try. De one dat flies highest is gun' to be King. I yust heard him settle dat wid Ou' Jackalse. An' now where's you? But p'r'aps you tink you can fly higher dan de Aasvo'el-- you has imperence enough.' "`An' I has gumption enough too,' ses young Tinky. `You yust wait an' see if I ain't.' "`I don't care what you has if you'll only go away out o' dis now,' ses de ladybird. `An' don't you come roun' me any mo' till you's beat Ole Baldy flyin' high.' "`Den I'll be King,' ses Tinky. `Don't you wish I'd come if I was King?' "`No, I don't,' ses she. "`Den I won't,' ses he, an' off he pops. "Well, de day comes for choosin' dis yere King, an' all de birds dey brings Ou' Jackalse into de indaba, an' dey ax him what dey's got to do to find de right one. An' Ole Baldy look so hard at Jackalse dat he wrinkle all his head an' half his neck, an' Ou' Jackalse he smile back 'fore he speak. `Dere's on'y one way o' gettin' at it,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `Birds was made wid wings so dey could get up off de earth. So if dat's what a bird's for, an' if dat's de one ting dat make him a bird, den it stand to reason de one dat can do bird work best is de best bird. If you is to have a King den, why, de best bird should be de best King, or de best King should be de best bird, whichever way you likes it. So now de one dat flies de highest--dat's de one to be King.' "Dere's a lot o' dem birds 'ud like to say a lot o' bad words yust den. But de way Ou' Jackalse lay de business down dey cahnt see yust where to tackle what he said. Dey all has to say, `A' right!' an' dey all ses it, but they don't all tink it. So dere ain't no more said, an' dey all lines up in a row. An dere ain't nob'dy noticin' dat nob'dy's seen Young Tinky yet. But dere ain't nob'dy troublin much about nob'dy else nohow. "`Is you ready?' ses Ou' Jackalse. `Yes,' ses dey. `Den go!' ses he. "Up dey goes, an' up, an' up, an' up. An' fust de partridge drops, an' den de long-tail fink; and de Kurhaan she tink she never did hear no such foolishness nohow, so down she drop too. An' dat way dey go on, fust one an' den anoder droppin' out, till last of all dere ain't but one left--Ole Baldy. "Ole Baldy he go up, an' on, an' on, an' up, till at last he cahnt get higher; but by jimminy, he is up dere. `How's dis for high?' ses he. "All de birds look up, an' none of 'em cahnt say one word. `You's got it,' ses Ou' Jackalse, `you's de highest.' "`Is he?' squeaks a chinky little voice. `Is he?' an' dere, where dey're all lookin', up pops little Tinky off'n Ole Baldy's back, where he's bin hid in de feders widout Ole Baldy knowin'. `What price me now?' ses he, an' up he go, yards up! `How's dis for higher?' ses he. "Ole Baldy he turn his head an' look up. `Hello, you speck!' ses he, `what you doin' up dere?' "`Flyin' higher'n you,' ses Tinky. `Dat makes me de King.' "`King!' ses Baldy. `If I could yust get up dere I'd King you. Come down now!' "`Oh, oh!' ses Tinky. `So you gi'es in you can't get up to me! Dat's done den. I's King a' right,' an' he comes down yust as cheeky as billy-o, wid his tink, tink, tink, tinky, till he gets to de ground. Den he chucks a leg. `King Tinky!' ses he. `Dat's me.' "Well, de birds dey all drop down an' dey wait for someb'dy to say somefin'. But young Tinky he hop in front of Ou' Jackalse an' he stick his coat tails out. `Well, Oom Jackalse,' ses he, `who's de smart 'un to-day?' "`I wish I was one o' de birds you's bin foolin',' ses Ou' Jackalse; `I'd show you which was smart.' "Just den Ole Baldy bounce down in front of 'em. `Who's King?' ses he. "`De one dat went highest,' ses Ou' Modher Reyer, de Blue Crane. "`An' dat's me,' ses Baldy. "`An' dat's me,' ses Tinky, stickin' his little wings out an' bouncin' hisse'f like he was mockin' Ole Baldy. "`Look-a'-here,' ses Baldy, `if you ses anoder word I'll scoff you.' "`Will you?' ses Young Tinky, settin' hisse'f in front of Ole Baldy like a bantam. `You will, hey? Well--anoder word--dere, I's said it.' "Ole Baldy yust look one look at Tinky, an' den he make one dive to scoff him, straight. But he's dat slow an' heavy on de ground he might as well try to catch a flea on a blanket; an' dere's him a-divin' an' a-floppin', an' dere's Young Tink a-flickin' an' a hoppin', till Ole Baldy fair boil over an' stand still. `Birds!' ses he, `is we gun' to stand dis an' have dis little squirt say he's King over us?' "`You bet we ain't,' ses de White Owl. `Is I de King den?' ses Baldy nex', lookin' at 'em all roun'. "But dey all want to say sometin' to dat, 'cause if dey cahnt be King deirselves dey don't want anyb'dy else to be it. `No,' ses dey. `It was to be de one went highest, an' we all hear you say to Tinky what you'd do if on'y you could get up at him.' "`Den what's a-gun' to be done?' ses Baldy, as mad's a scorpion. "`Well, we'll ha' to study dat out,' ses dey. `We'll ha' to hold a indaba an' see what we'll do about it.' "Well, dey ketches Young Tinky an' dey takes him over and puts him into a big Aard-Vark hole. `Who'll we put to watch him now?' ses dey. "`Put de White Owl,' ses Ou' Jackalse; `he's got de biggest eyes an' de widest open.' "So dey put de White Owl to guard de hole, an' dey all goes back to hold a indaba. "`Why, dis is yust a fine place, it's so reg'lar nice an' shady,' ses Young Tinky to de White Owl. `I's gun' to have a look for a place to be comfy in.' "`Do,' ses de White Owl. `Den you won't bodder me.' "But what Tinky's a lookin' for is a place to get out at, an' he look, an' he look, but dere ain't no sich a place. `I 'specs I'll ha' to do sometin' pretty soon if I's gun' to keep dis side o' trouble,' ses he to hisse'f. "Well, dere's on'y one way out o' de hole, an' dat's de way he come in at, an' dere's de White Owl standin' at it wid his tail dis way, an' a-starin' out across de veldt to where de indaba's goin' on. Den it strike Tinky what he'll do. `Allah Crachty! I knows what. Wait now,' ses he to hisse'f. "So he goes to work, an' he take some dirt, an' he wet it an' he work till he's made a mud mouse. You should ha' seen darie mouse. If any mouse 'ad a-seen it he'd a-tink it was his grandaddy, it look such a whoppin' ole mouse. It fair tickle young Tinky so much when he'd finis' it dat he hatto yust stop an' laugh. "Den he go to de hole an' he stick dat mouse out slow on one side o' de White Owl till it yust come into de tail of his left eye, an' afore you can ketch your breaf Ole Owl make a lightnin' of a strike at it--biff! "Well, he ain't made sich a mighty ole strike since he was a young fella, an' he strike dat hard an' he strike dat true, dat he biff his beak right troo de mouse, so dat de mud bung up his two eyes an' chock up his froat, an' you fair never did see no sich a splosh an' sich a splutter in your time. `Mak' los'!' screech he, an' it sound like a bushman on de mad. `Mak' los'!' But de mud mouse ain't a-sayin' a word, not a word; an' Young Tink Tinky's yust a-gettin' out o' dat at de rate of half-a-mile in a hunder' yards--on'y de White Owl ain't knowin' nawtin' about dat. "Well, Ole Owl he hadn't more'n got de mud outen his eyes 'fore de indaba's finis', an' here comes all de birds. `Where's dat Tink Tinky?' ses dey. `Fetch him out!' "`He's in dere a' right,' ses de Owl. `What's you all decided on?' "`Well,' ses dey, `by de law we cahnt yust say. Ole Baldy ain't King, 'cause he said he couldn't get up to Tinky. An' as to Tinky, he ain't King 'cause he ain't big enough nohow. But we's a-goin' to hang' him, so dere won't be no mistake about him not bein' King. Trot him out den.' "`You better trot him out yourse'f,' ses Ole Owl. `My eyes is yust dat full o' dirt I cahnt see.' "Well, de Sec'etary Bird he cock his eye into darie hole, like a ole crow squintin' down a marrow bone. `Come out o' dat an' be hanged,' ses he. `Make hurry now! We ain't a-gun' to wait all day for a speck like you.' "But dere ain't no Tinky come out. `Dat's funny he don't come out when I shout,' ses Ole Sec. "Well, de birds dey ses dey ain't got no more time to fool about. `Come on, Ole Owl,' ses dey. `You's lookin' after him anyhow. In you pops, den, an' outs him.' "`A' right.' In pops Ole Owl, an' out don't pop no Tinky. `By gum!' ses all de birds. "Ole Owl in de hole he look an' he crook, an' he glint, an' he squint, but he don't find no Tinky. `Dat's mighty funny,' ses he, comin' out. `I seen you all shove him in here, an' I ain't seen him come out; but he ain't dere now. He must ha' spooked!' "`Oh, he's spooked, is he?' ses all de birds, tearin' mad. `Well, we'll yust make spook o' you,' ses dey, an' dey make a dive for him like one man. "Ole Owl he yust glint one glance at de lot, an' den he turn an' he fair make a head fust for it into dat hole agen, an' dat's de one ting saved him. De birds dey cahnt get at him in dere on'y one at a time, an' dere ain't any one o' 'em feel like facin' dat ole hook of a beak on his lonesome. So dere dey sits outside de hole, waitin' for him to come out. An' dere he sits inside de hole, waitin' for dem to come in; an' so dere ain't needer in nor out, but dey bofe sits an' waits. "Ses all de birds outside--`If you don't come out an' let us get at you, we'll yust about dance on you' chest'. "Ses Ole Owl inside, ses he--not a word! not a sound! "Well, dey wait all day, an' dey wait all afternoon, but Ole Owl ain't a-comin' out, an' dey ain't a-goin' in. Den it drop sundown, an' de birds dey ha' to fly som'eres to sleep. Dey look at one anoder. `Yust wait till to-morrow, dat's all!' ses dey, an' off dey fly to deir sleepin' places. "When dey's gone Ole Owl comes out. `I reckon I'll hatto get as much to eat as I can to-night,' ses he, `an' den hide some place to-morrow, so dey won't see me.' "An' dat's yust what he done, an' yust what he's hatto do ever since-- hunt all night an' hide all day, for fear de rest o' de birds see him an' ketch him, if he move about in de daylight. "So now you knows how it come dat de Ole White Owl can on'y fly at night," ended Old Hendrik. "Oh!" said little Annie. CHAPTER NINE. WHY OLD JACKAL SLINKS HIS TAIL. The little girl was full of excitement. Driving home with her mother from the "dorp," she had seen Ou' Jackalse himself--Mynheer Jackal-- slinking across the veldt, and all the tales Old Hendrik had told her about him crowded her mind as she watched him. She could hardly contain herself now, as she stood before the old Hottentot pouring forth the story. There was only one regret in it--"He must have been in some trouble, Ou' Ta'," said she; "'cause all the time I watched him his tail was right down. I watched and I watched to see if it wouldn't stick up, 'cause then I'd know he was thinking of a plan; but it never did." Old Hendrik smiled. "So his tail was a-hangin' an' a-slinkin' ahter him, was it? An' didn't he look back at you over his shoulder as he went?" "Yes, he did," answered Annie, still more eager at finding how well Old Hendrik knew the ways and doings of Ou' Jackalse. "I kept hoping he was thinking of fetching Ou' Wolf to work for us, then I could tell Ou' Wolf not to trust him any more, no matter what he said." Old Hendrik's delight bubbled into a jeering shake of the head and a half laugh of derision over the subject as he repeated the name--"Ou' Jackalse, hey! Ou' Jackalse!" "But you needn't to be feared he's a-gun' to get Ou' Wolf into much more trouble nowadays, Ainkye," went on the old Hottentot. "He ain't a-gun' to get de best o' so many more folks, not since he went to get even wid Young Tink Tinky, de littlest bird on de veldt. Little Missis Tinky got Ou' Mammy Reyer, de Crane, to he'p her, an' dat made all de difference. You seen how he slunk his tail along behind him?--well, dat's why. He's a-tinkin' o' what happened den, an' he looked at you over his shoulder, wonderin' all de time weder you'd heerd de tale or not. It happened dis while or two back, an' since den he ain't bin near so sa'cy as he used to was." "Oh, poor Old Jackalse!" cried the little girl, "what did happen? Do tell me, Ou' Ta'." "Well," began Old Hendrik, "if ever you sees Ou' Jackalse tryin' to fool Ou' Wolf into trouble agen, you don't ha' to say on'y yust one ting. You's on'y got to ask him how he likes eggs, an' den see if he don't turn round an fair slink off wid his tail draggin'. Dat's where de trouble come in, he would go ahter eggs. "You 'members me tellin' you how Young Tink Tinky bested Ou' Jackalse when de birds wantto choose a King for demselves? Well, Ou' Jackalse he never forgot dat, an' he was al'ays a-studyin' how he's a-gun' to get even, but he couldn't find de way nohow till at last he sees Missis Tinky a-sittin' on de nest, an' he knows by dat dere's eggs dere. `Dat's me,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `Eggs is de ting I does like--an' here's some. Watch me teach dat Young Tinky dis time.' "Now dere was a t'orn-tree like dis,"--here Old Hendrik indicated the mimosa under which he sat,--"an' dis t'orn-tree was a-growin close beside de river, an' a willow-tree dat was bigger yet was a-hangin' over de t'orn. In dat t'orn-tree Young Tinky build his nest, an ahter de eggs is all laid, an' his missis is well an' comfy settled into sittin' on 'em, Young Tink he offs to look for scoff for hisse'f an' de missis. Den's de time when Ou' Jackalse is a-watchin' him, an' as soon as he's gone, here comes Jackalse to de bottom o' de t'orn-tree an' begins to scratch on de bark--scratch! scratch! scratch! "Little Missis Tinky she look down out o de nest. `Who's dere?' ses she. "`Me,' ses Ou' Jackalse. "`What you want?' ses Missis Tinky, all in a tremble. "`Want dem eggs you got,' ses Ou' Jackalse, wid his hair up. `You better be sharp about it too.' "`Well, you ain't a-gun' to get 'em,' flutter Missis Tinky; but she's yust dat frighten' she cahnt har'ly speak. "`Please yourse'f,' ses Ou' Jackalse; `but if you don't drop me down a egg dis minute, den I's a-comin' _up_, an' if I once does come up dere, den I's a-gun' to eat you first as well as de eggs. Make a hurry now-- drop one!' "Little missis she get sich a scrik when Ou' Jackalse ses he's a-comin' up dat she yust go all a-flitty flutty, an' dere ain't no two ways about it, she hatto drop him one egg to save de rest. So out she pull it an down she drop it, right into Ou' Jackalse mouf, where he stand on his back legs wid his front feets agen de tree. An' as soon as he feel it in his mouf he yust gullup it down, an' off he go for dat day. `I'll make dis ting last a bit,' ses he to hisse'f. "Well, little Missis Tinky she's in dat terr'ble way she cahnt har'ly sit still till Young Tinky comes home, an' as soon's ever she sees him she burst out a-cryin' an' a-tellin' him what happened. "`What! An' you b'lieve sich a fool tale as dat about him climbin' de tree,' ses Young Tinky, fair fightin' mad at de way he lose dat egg. `He cahnt climb dis tree, not if he break his neck a-tryin'.' "But Young Tinky he sees it ain't no use; it ain't a-gun' to he'p his missis for him to shout an' talk about it. `Never you mind dis time, little missis,' ses he. `To-morrow you can go an' look for de scoff, an' I stay at home an' wait for Ou' Jackalse. I'll show him what's what dis time, too,' ses he. An' his missis she stop cryin', dough she cahnt stop lookin' where dat one egg ought to be. "Well, de nex' day Young Tinky he stop at home an' sit on de nest while his missis went for scoff, an' it ain't but a while or two 'fore along comes Ou' Jackalse to de foot o' de tree-scratch! scratch! scratch! "Young Tinky he ain't a-lettin' Ou' Jackalse see who's at home to-day; he yust on'y slant half o' one eye down at him. `Who's dere?' ses he. "`Me,' ses Ou' Jackalse. "`An' what you want scratchin' dere?' ses Tinky. "`Anoder egg, an' you best be sharp about it,' ses Ou' Jackalse. "`Well, you's yust about got all de eggs you's a-gun' to get here,' ses Tinky, stickin' all his head an' shoulders out for Jackalse to have a good look at him. "`Oh, it's you, is it?' ses Ou' Jackalse, showin' his teef. `Well, if you won't drop darie egg down in one minute, den I's a-comin' up an' eat you all up--bones, beak an' feders!' "`Come up den,' ses Young Tinky, hoppin' out onto a branch. `Yust you come up here if you darse, you hairy skellum you,' squeak Tinky, hoppin' up an' down an' flickin' his wings like he's fair a-gun' to peck de eyes out o' de hull fam'ly o' de Jackalses. `You try it on, Mister Ou' Jackalse, an' see what I's do to you!' an' Tinky swells hisse'f into a reg'lar ole rage as he tink o' dat egg yestiday an' his little missis frighten' to deaf nearly. "Dat make Ou' Jackalse in sich a wax dat he spurt out de word he didn't mean to. `I on'y wish I could yust come up dis tree to you. I'd scoff you down in yust one gullup an' your eggses ahter you,' ses he, a-rampin' an' a-tearin'. "`You ses dat,' squeak young Tinky, `but I knows better. It's not you cahnt--it's you dahnt. But I'll teach you to frighten poor little mammickies into givin' you deir eggses, you skellum! skellum! skellum!' "Ou' Jackalse he get dat mad, a-snappin' an' a-snarlin' while he listen, dat he fair turn away an' slant out o' dat, an' Young Tinky is yust dat conceited of hisse'f he cahnt har'ly wait till his missis comes home 'fore he begin a-tellin' her dat's de way she ought to done yestiday. An' Missis Tink she listen an' she tink she'll do de same herse'f now, if ever Ou' Jackalse trouble her agen. "So de nex' day Young Tinky he go ahter de scoff, an' his missis she sit on de eggs, tinkin' it's all right now. But Ou' Jackalse he'd bin a-watchin', an' he know's who's a-gone an who's a-stop at home, an in about no time he's at de foot o' darie t'orn-tree agen, an' de same ole scratch! scratch! scratch! at it. "Little Missis Tink she stick her head out an' she start to tell him to get out o' dat, in de biggest voice she's got. But she hadn't more dan got out de first two words dan she see his teef where he bare 'em all round, white an' yammerin', an' he look dat savage an' murderin' dat de rest o' de words stuck fast in her froat, an' she fair chattered wid fright. "`Down wi' darie egg, else I'll come an' tear you into smitchies,' ses Ou' Jackalse. "Missis Tinky nearly drop out o' de nest wid de scrik she got; but she tink o' what Tink Tinky say, an' she squeak it out. `You cahnt come up dis tree if you try,' ses she. "`Cahnt I?' ses he, all hair an' spiky. `Yust see me half try!' an' he gives de biggest yump he ever make in his life, an' it scrape him a couple o' yards up de tree stem. "Little missis she fair gi'en one big squawk an' tink she's all gone-- eggs, nest, an' all. `Is you a-gun' to drop me dat egg?' shouts Ou' Jackalse. "`Yes, yes. Here it is! Take it, take it!' squeak de little missis, an' she drop out de one egg to him. "Ou' Jackalse he ketch dat egg an' he gulp it down an' off he go agen. `Nex' time I come you better drop one quicker. I ain't a-gun' to ax twice no more,' ses he. "Well, as soon as he go, little Missis Tinky she cry like her heart break, an' she cahnt sit dere on de dest at all. Anyhow she's feared to wait till Young Tinky comes home, 'cause she don't know what he'll say when he finds anoder egg gone, an' she's in dat misery dat she don't know what to do. Den she tink of her Aunt, Ou' Reyer, de Blue Crane, an' she fly off to her where she's a-fis'in' in de reeds, an' she yust up an' tell her de hull tale of it. "`So darie Ou' Jackalse's up to his tricks agen, is he?' ses Ou' Reyer. `Well, he's meddle wid de birds before, an' dis time we'll teach him to don't do it no more. Now you yust go home an' sit on de nest agen, an' I'll come in a minute or two--den well be ready for him.' "Little missis she go back, an' in a minute or two Ou' Reyer follows, an' she hide herse'f in de top o' de willow-tree over de nest. `Now for Ou' Jackalse,' ses she. "Well, it ain't but a little while rill here come Ou' Jackalse agen, wid de same ole scratch! scratch! scratch! an' de same ole terr'fyin' words--`Drop me down anoder egg or I'll come up an' eat you,' ses he. "`Make like you's a-gun' to drop him one,' whispers Ou' Reyer; an' little Missis Tinky she make like she's a-doin' it. "Ou' Jackalse he rise up on his hine legs, an' he put his paws agen de tree, an' he open his mouf an' shut his eyes, an' he fair feel de taste o' dat egg a'ready. An' den, yust den, Ou' Reyer she lean out over Missis Tinky an' she open her big long beak, an', swock! she drop a great big bull-frog right into Ou' Jackalse's froat. "Wow! but dere was a chokin' an' a squeal-in' den. Ou' Jackalse he yump an' he roll, an' he fling hisse'f along de ground a-tryin' to cough up darie fat bull-frog, an' darie ou' bull-frog he puff an' he wiggle an' he slip down an' down till dere he is in Ou' Jackalse's tummy, a-hoppin' an' a-floppin' an' a-croakin' an' a-gloakin' till Ou' Jackalse is yust dat scared dat he light out f'm dere plump across de scenery. An' he go dat fast he yust hit de high places as he went an' never touch' de low. I tell you Ou' Jackalse was scared. "He don't stop nudder till he's yust dat puffed out dat he roll over an' over like a shot hare, an' he's so long a-gettin' over it dat he forget what day it happen in. Ever since den, too, de birds all click deir beakses at him, an' chatter at him, an' ax him how he likes Tinky eggs; an' dat's what make him so shamed he ain't never cocked up his tail no more--he yust cahnt do it." "And serve him right," cried all the children in chorus. Old Hendrik only shook his head. CHAPTER TEN. WHY LITTLE HARE HAS SUCH A SHORT TAIL. Old Hendrik was standing by the corner of the house, milking pail in hand, watching the slow procession of the cows homeward from the veldt. The calves in the kraal clamoured insistently to hasten their mammies home; those mammies answered now and then with a patient bellow of assurance as they continued their placid pace, and Old Hendrik seemed to be as vacant of thought or stir as they. But when little Annie came strolling out to enjoy the never-staling delight of seeing the headlong rush of each calf in turn to its mammy, the old Hottentot looked down at her and begun without further warning. "Ole King Lion had five cows, an' t'ree o' dem was wild an' wand'ry." "Oh!" cried Annie, "I never heard of that. And what did he do with them, Ou' Ta'?" "Why, milk 'em, o' course," returned Old Hendrik. "What else? An' some o' de milk his ole missis an' de kleinkies drink, an' some he drink hisse'f. De rest he make de butter wid to grease all deir ole noses." "Oh, how funny!" cried Annie in huge delight. "And did he mind them himself?" "Course not!" retorted Hendrik, a little scornfully. "Ain't he a king? Kings don't mind cows. Not him. He yust make all de animals try deir turn at it, but dese t'ree wand'ry ones dey'd keep gettin' away, an' den de animal dat come home wid dem t'ree missin'--well, he'd be a-missin' too, an' Ole King Lion he'd be dat much fatter. "Well, it come Little Hahsie's turn at last--Klein Hahsie, dat you call Little Hare, dat skellum Little Hare--but he yust prance out behind dem cows in de mawnin' wid a high ole hop an a skip. He'd show 'em about mindin' five bally ole cows, he would, ses he. He sticks a green twig in his mouf, an' he biffs his ole hat down over his eyes, an' he gets dem cows down in a hook o' de river an' squots down on a little koppiekie to watch 'em, all nice an' all right. `Mind five ole cows,' ses he; `by de jimminy, gi'e me sometin' easier--if dere is any.' "Well, it did look all serene-o, wid him dis side of 'em an' de river bent all round 'em on de oder sides, an' plenty o' grass an' water an' nice trees about. `Sho,' ses he, `dem cows stray off? Dey's got mo' sense,' ses he. "It was yust sich a easy yob dat in a while his eye 'gun a-wanderin' round to see what else dere is dere besides de cows an' de rest of it. An' fust he sees a little bushiekie, wid green leaves like he swears he ain't seen afore, or leastways he ain't 'xamined much; so o' course he hops over to dat an' pretends to tas'e it, an feel it, an' turn it over gen'ally. "Den he sees de blesbuck wanderin' past, wid de teenty little buckies whimperin' an' nosin' ahter deir mammies, an' fust he squot an' watch 'em, an' den he get to feelin' cussed, an' he fair hop round 'em to scare 'em an' make 'em flurry, till deir mammies turn round an' chase him out o' dat. Next he slant his eye at de spruit an' tinks he'll yust sa'nter down an' frow stones at Ou' Sculpat, de Tortoise, an' ax him what's his latest time for a mile wid a flyin' start. Den he can hear Ou' Sculpat use some rocky ole words. "But when he gets down to de spruit Ou' Sculpat ain't dere at all, an' dat make him hoppin' mad. He's yust dat mad he chucks stones into de water an' savages de reeds for anoder five minutes on end. Den he looks up an' dere he sees de honey-bird a-whickerin' about. `Whatto!' ses Hahsie. `Dere's honey somewheres. Here's on to it like one man.' "Well, he hops on ahter de honey-bird, an' he hops on an' on, tinkin' every mile he's gun' to get to dat honey soon. An' den here comes a man ridin' along, an' he sees de honey-bird too, an' he 'gins to folio' as well. Hahsie looks at him once, an' he sizes his face up. `Dat lets me out,' ses he to hisse'f. `Dat face ain't a-gun' to stand me gettin' any o' dat honey. I'd about better turn back.' "So he turns back, but de day's got dat hot an' de shade under de little bushiekies is dat cool, he tinks he'll rest him a little while an' den go on agen. Wid dat he finds a nice bush an' squots him down. An' you know what's bound to happen den--he pop off to sleep. "Along in de afternoon, when de day gets a bit cooler, he wake up an' open his eyes. `Hello!' ses he, `where's dem cows by dis time?' Den he rub his eyes an' he grin. `One ting anyhow,' ses he, `if Ole King Lion don't eat again till he eat me for dis, den he's mighty liable to die o' starvation.' "But when he gets back to de hook o' de river, dere's de two quiet ole cows all right, but de t'ree wand'ry ones--well, dey's wandered. He look round an' round, an' he hop dis way an' dat, but he don't find hide nor hair o' dem t'ree, till at last it's about time to be startin' for de kraal wid dese two. He takes one more long ole look round, but it ain't no use, it don't find dem cows, an' so he starts dese two for home. "He ain't a-goin' far wid 'em dough. He yust folio's on till de two can see de kraal, an' den he pops back to de place where de oders was lost. Now dere was a long ole, rocky ole, bushy ole island in de river dere, wid rocks stickin' up all de way across de water to it, so Little Hahsie can cross wid some tall hoppin'. An' he crossed, you bet he crossed mighty smart--an' he find him a snug little place all in a patch o' big boulders an' bushes an' trees. `Here's me,' ses he, `till I sees what's a-goin' to happen.' "Well, he ain't dere very long 'fore here comes Ole King Lion, yust a-gur-r-rowlin' an' a-pur-rowlin an' a-singin' out, `Where's dat Klein Hahsie dat went out so high an' smarty dis mawnin'? Lemme yust find him, dat's all!' You bet Little Hahsie lie low den, an' wish dere was big wings to him as well as long legs an' short 'uns. "But Ole King Lion couldn't find him. He ramp an' he stamp, an' he squot down like he's goin' to be sick an' brings up a whackin' ole roar dat fair shakes de island, but he don't start Little Hahsie, 'cause Little Hahsie's too tremblin' to shift a foot, an' by'n'by King Lion he go off to roar up some oder spot. `Dat's a bit more like what I likes,' ses Hahsie den. "So at last it come dark, an' de lion was far enough off, an' Little Hahsie hop out to stretch his legs an' tink a bit. `But I wonder how I'll do now when I goes back home to-morro',' ses he. "Well, to-morro' come, an' Hahsie he tink dis way an' dat way, but he make so little out of it dat he stop anoder night on de island, an' he 'gin to feel mighty longin' for home, I tell you. An' nex' day it on'y got worse, till it got dat bad about sundown he yust couldn't stand it no longer. `Here's off home,' ses he, `an' chance de chips. I'll bet I'll manage somehow.' "In a while he gets home to King Lion's place, an' it's as dark as billy-o, an' he squots down by de end o' de barn to see what's happenin'. By'n'by out comes his ole missis f'm de kitchen where she's a-washin' up ahter supper. `Sh--shee!' ses he, as low as he could for her to hear him. "She tink she know dat sound, an' she come up to him to see who it was, an' she yust open her mouf to let out one big squeal, but he nabs her by de ear in time. `If you don't stop dat row, ole missis,' ses he, `I'll bite your long fool ears off,' ses he. "`But we all tink you was dead,' ses she. "`Hmp!' ses he; `an' I s'pose you's a'ready got anoder ole man in your eye?' ses he. "`I hain't,' ses she. `One's enough if he's bin like you. But when Ole King Lion found de t'ree cows yestiday, an' you wasn't wid 'em, he made sure you was dead.' "`An' was he sorry?' axes Hahsie. "`Yes; he said it was sich a waste o' meat, him not gettin' you to eat,' ses she. "`Him he blowed!' ses Hahsie. `You go an' bring me out sometin' nice to eat, an' den I'll see about him. He may be big an' ugly, but he ain't so smart as some folk I knows.' "Well, his missis she bring him out a mealie pap pot wid lots in it yet, an' some milk, an' he tucks a fair ole little lot inside him. `Dat's all right,' ses he when he finis'. `Now, you yust fetch me de rake, an' den skip back an' leave de kitchen door open.' "She fetches de rake an' hands it to him. `But what's you goin' to do wid dat?' ses she. "`Get out o' dis an' shut up, or I'll do it to you instead!' ses he, makin' a comb at her wid de rake, till she fair flew back to de kitchen. "Well, he looks at de lights in de winda, an' he tinks o' de good ole times he's had dere, an' den he fair lands into hisse'f wid dat rake. He tears all his clo'es an' he tears all his hair, an' he gashes big streaks in his face an' his hands an' his ribses, till he looks like he's yust fell into a big ole mimosa an' bin drag' out by de heels. Den he stagger into de kitchen an' drop on de floor all of a heap. `Where's Ou' Doctor Jackalse?' ses he--`bring Ou' Jackalse, for I's yust about gone up.' "His wife yust gi'en one big ole squeal an' all de house was upside down. Here dey all comes a runnin' an' a yappin', an' here's King Lion troo 'em all. `Hello, you skellum,' ses he, `where come yeh from now?' "Little Hahsie opens one eye an' looks at him. `From where dem t'ree cows horn me nea'ly to deaf, 'cause I stopped 'em wanderin',' ses he. `I yust got here to-night to see my ole missis agen 'fore I pegs out.' "`Allah Crachty now!' ses King Lion, `ain't dat funny! But where's darie Ou' Jackalse? Let's have dis Hahsie doctored in less'n two shakes of a lamb's tail.' "So dey puts Little Hahsie to bed, an' Ou' Jackalse turn everybody out o' de room while he can 'xamine him. He look him over, an' he turn him over, an' he feel him over, an' den--well den, Ou' Jackalse he wink at Ole Hahsie, slow an' solemn, an' Ole Hahsie he wink at Ou' Jackalse half a-grinnin'. "`I tink you' back's pretty bad,' ses Ou' Jackalse. `I 'specs you'll ha' to stop in bed dese nex' days or two, an' nice bits o' scoff to tempt your appetite.' "`Yes,' ses Hahsie. `A bit o' sugar cane or a water-millon now 'ud do me pretty fine.' "So Little Hahsie has to stop in bed for a week, an' all de time his wife's a-grumblin' at him 'cause she has to wait on him, an tellin' him she'll tell King Lion. An' Hahsie tells her she'd yust better do it, dat's all. But all dis time he's s'posed to a-ketched sich a fair ole cold dat he cahnt har'ly whisper, an' his back's dat bad he cahnt har'ly bend it. "Well, come de end o' de week an' King Lion 'gun to smell a rat. `To-day you can go an' work in de to'acco lands,' ses he. "Little Hahsie don't like dat, but he has to go an' git hold. He lifts dat hoe, an' he look at dat row, an' he squint out on de grass alongside an' see a nice round Aard-Vark hole. But he don't look de oder way, else he'd a-seen King Lion hidin' hisse'f to watch him. `To'acco hoein's worse'n watchin' cows,' ses Hahsie, as he bent his back an' put his hoe to work. "Now de day was yust de sort o' day for makin' you feel good, an' Hahsie hadn't hoed ten yards 'fore he forgot all about everytin' but wishin' he was out on de veldt. An' all de time King Lion in his hidin' place was watchin' an' watchin' till at last he stick his head up an' shout out--`Hahsie! Klein Hahsie!' "`Here I is!' ses Hahsie, clear out an' yumpin' up, forgettin' dat cold an' dat sore back he's s'posed to be sick wid. "King Lion he ses yust one word--`Ho!' ses he, an' he make a forty mile spring to ketch Ole Hahsie. "An' Hahsie he ses on'y one word too--`Oh!' ses he, an' he make a fifty mile dive for darie Aard-Vark hole, an' he drops down it out o' sight yust as Ole King Lion claws de tail off him, all but de stump. "`By jimminy! dat skellum!' ses King Lion outside. "`Allah Crachty! dat close shave!' ses Hahsie inside. "Well, King Lion he waited an' he waited, but it wahnt no use at all, for Klein Hahsie he didn't wait two shakes, but he sets to work an' digs out at anoder place, a long way off in de mealies, an' pops off over de sky line dat way. But he's mighty careful to keep out of Ole King Lion's way since den, for he got sich a scare dat time dat he hain't never manage to grow a long tail agen, like he used to have afore. "An' if you want's to know yust what a hairy ole scare he got," continued Old Hendrik, "you notice him nex' time you sees him. You'll see a white patch on his tail--dat's gone white wid de fright he got when de great big claws was a-grabbin' de rest o' de tail off. But here's de cows, an' I's got to get to de milkin'," broke off the old story-teller, swinging his pail and starting for the kraal. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE BARGAIN FOR THE LITTLE SILVER FISHES. The youngest of the three children had brought in a tortoise from the spruit behind the house, and was half-indignant and half-amused at the stolid refusal of Mr Tortoise to put out his head in response to any stroking of his shell, or to any shaking or bumping on the ground. "He's just that cunning, Ou' Ta', I never did see anything like him," cried the little boy to Old Hendrik. "Well, he is tink hisse'f mighty cunnin' sometimes," answered the old Hottentot genially. "But dere was once now, when Klein Hahsie want him to ketch him de little silver fis'es." "Oh, but that Klein Hahsie--that Little Hare--he is just such a skellum!" broke in Annie. "Well," hesitated Old Hendrik, "Little Hahsie he is a bit smart, but den he don't get nob'dy's bones broke anyhow. An' besides, Ou' Sculpat dere--de Tortoise--he was yust too lazy for ornament, let alone use. "It was a' dis way. Little Hahsie he was a-hoppin' an' a-floppin' along down de spruit one day, an' he come to where de water was a-runnin' clear an' fine, an' what should he see in de big water-hole but all de little silver fis'es yust a-glintin' an' a-twinklin'. Allah Crachty! he fair squot right down an' watch 'em, dey look dat good an' fine. "But Little Hahsie ain't yust like a otter in de water, dough dere ain't no otter of 'em all could beat him at wantin' dem fis'es. So he squot, an' he study, an' he tink till at last he see Ou' Sculpat a-danderin' down, an' makin' no mo' to do but fair flop right in to de water, an' sort o' hang in dere wid his nose yust out, like a bird might be a-hangin' in de air wid his beak catchin' on to a cloud. "Little Hahsie fair cock his one year at dat to see Ou' Sculpat do it so easy, an' so twenty-shillin's-in-de-pound comfy like. `By jimminy, Sculpat, you looks at home all right,' ses he. "`I is,' ses Sculpat, an' he don't take so much trouble as to turn his head when he speak to Little Hahsie behind him, much less to turn his body. He sort o' shift one eye half-way round, an' dat's quite enough too, tink he. "`An' what does you do when you is at home?' ax Hahsie. "`Dis,' ses Sculpat, an' he don't take de trouble to keep dat one eye half-way round, but let it swing back like a swivel. "Little Hahsie he flick his years like he tink someb'dy ought to yust kick de stuffin' out o' Sculpat. `But,' ses he, `you has to eat What you do den?' "`Eat,' ses Sculpat--yust de one word. "`Oh,' ses Hahsie, like he'd like to do dat kickin' hisse'f. `Den you does ha' to shift yourse'f a bit sometimes.' "`But I don't,' ses Sculpat. `I's in my dinner now--dese water-weeds!' "`Oh, you is, is you?' ses Little Hahsie, an' he's yust dat hairy over it dat he biffs de ground wid his back leg an' he yump over his own shadda. `You's fair dat lazy you'd rader eat weeds, when all de time dem pretty little silver fis'es is a-twinklin' an' a-slantin' roun' you! Allah Crachty!' "`What's I want wid twinkly little fis'es?' ses Sculpat. `Weeds is nice now, but fis'es--' "`You can keep all de weeds if you gi'es me de fis'es!' ses Hahsie, like he never did hear no such a fathead notion. "`An' how if I keeps all de weeds anyhow, an' lets you do de same wid de twinkly little fis'es, hey?' ses Sculpat, an' his face kind o' shine like he'd be a-grinnin' if it wahnt too much trouble. "Little Hahsie squot down agen at dat What Ou' Sculpat ses is yust so right flat an' square dat Hahsie he feel right flat too. But he see de little silver fis'es a-flashin' agen an' he fair cahnt give up yet. `Dat's a' right,' ses he; `but I's got my good clo'es on, an' dey won't do to get wet. What say you now if you was to ketch me out a little string of 'em, hey?' "`What ses I?' ses Sculpat. `Rats!' "Little Hahsie he's yust dat mad he pick up one foot to go, but he's yust dat gone on dem fis'es dat he put anoder foot down to stop. `Look-a'-here,' ses he. `If you ketch me out some o' dem fis', den I'll fetch you lots o' de nicest garden stuff from de farm yonder.' "`Garden stuff!' ses Sculpat. `Huh!--here's weeds!' "`An' what if I eats up dem weeds?--what den?' ses Hahsie. "`Dere's mo' weeds in de nex' water-hole,' ses Sculpat. "`But I'll eat dem too,' ses Little Hahsie. "Ou' Sculpat he yust lift his head clear o' de water, an' he stick it straight up, and he laugh as quiet an as ghosty as if dat's de richest ting he's ever hear. `Oh! you yust go on an' eat 'em,' ses he. `Do go on an' eat 'em--an' by dat time your little tummy 'll be swell' an' swell' till you's all blowed up like a poisoned pup. Ho, yis! you start in an' eat 'em, do!' an Ou' Sculpat he laugh like he's never a-gun' to stop. "Dat make Little Hahsie dat huffy he fair snift agen. `You might laugh some mo',' ses he. `Why don't you go on an' laugh some mo'? You' moufs big enough, an' you's ugly enough.' "`But I ain't half as ugly as you'd be if you eat all de water-weeds, or dropped in an' tried to ketch de little twinkly fis'es,' ses Sculpat; an' he laugh agen worser an' ghostier dan ever. "Dat stir up Little Hahsie till he's fair clawin' mad, but yust when you tink he's 'gun to begin to ploppin' out bad words, right den he seem to wilt down into quiet, an' his face straighten out all de wrinkles like a boy when you gi'es him sixpence for sweets. He tinks dere's anoder way, an' all he ses is--`All right, Sculpat. Good mawnin',' and he offs, an' he don't turn round needer, nor let on at all when he hear Ou' Sculpat laughin' some mo' behind him. He on'y grin an' grin. "But 'stead o' goin' home he goes off to see Ou' Waxa, de Honey-bird. `I wants some honey,' ses he. "`So does I,' ses Waxa; `an' wouldn't I like to get some too!' "`But ain't you got none?' ses Little Hahsie, wid his bofe years cocked straight up wid s'prise. `Ain't you got yust a leetle teenty bit? Yust a scrape o' honey'll do me.' "`Dere's de place where de honey was,' ses Waxa, showin' him de hole in de tree. `I 'specs dere's all de scrape you wants--but I don't know about de honey.' "`De drippin's 'll do. What you's dropped 'll do me,' ses Hahsie. `Ou' Sculpat he ain't never taste honey yet, so he won't know de diffrence of a bit o' dirt or two. De calabas' I'll put it in'll look big all de same, weder dere's lots o' honey inside it or on'y one drop,'--an' wid dat he pulls out a big calabasie wid a long bottle neck, an' 'gins to scrape up de drippin's what Ou' Waxa drop when she pull de bits o' de comb out o de tree. "Well, it come de nex' day, an' Ou' Sculpat was dere in de water-hole, feelin' de weeds agen his mouf an' not takin' de trouble to make up his mind weder he'll eat or not, when here comes Klein Hahsie, yust a-hoppin' an' a-skippin', wid a calabas' in his one hand, an' a-beatin' it wid his toder like a drum. An' all de time he's a-keepin' time wid singin':-- "Hahsie, Hahsie; Calabasie; Dum! Dum! Dam! "Ou' Sculpat open his eyes at dat. He turn his head, an' on dat Little Hahsie gives a extry kick an' a stride. `Here you is, Sculpat!' ses he. `Taste dis!' an' he sticks a long feder into de calabas' an' pulls it out wid a flouris' an' holds it up. `Open your mouf, an' shut you' eyes, an' see what comes dat's spiffin' nice,' ses he. "Ou' Sculpat he wave hisse'f to de side o' de pool like he dunno weder it's wort while or not; but he comes out an' he stick his head up an' open his mouf an' shut his eyes--an' dat's why he don't see de grin come in Little Hahsie's face, nor' de double extry flouris' he give de feder. Den Hahsie draw de feder troo Ou' Sculpat's mouf an' out agen. "As soon as he taste dat honey Ou' Sculpat's eyes flew wide open an' his mouf begun a-workin' all ways at once. `Allah Crachty! but dat's fair fine-o,' ses he. `Yust gi'e me a little teenty bit more o' dat, won't you?' "`Ah, now,' ses Hahsie. `Yestiday when I ax you for some little fis'es you was mighty snifty. To-day I gi'es you some o' my nice stuff an' you ses--"Mo." An' I ses--"What for?"' "`Well, I'll gi'e you a fis' if you gi'es me some more o' dat,' ses Sculpat. "`Hoho!' ses Hahsie. `Yestiday I offer' to fetch you garden stuff an' you ses you's got weeds. S'pose I says now--"What do I want wid fis'es--I's got honey?"--eh?' "Ou' Sculpat he try to tink dat over, an' dis time it's Little Hahsie is a-grinnin'. `Yestiday you laugh' at me,' ses Hahsie. `What price you laugh at yourse'f to-day? You wouldn't gi'e me what you had, but you want me to gi'e you what I got. What's de difference, Sculpat?' "`Honey,' ses Sculpat; `an' you's got it. How many silver fis'es you want for dat calabas' o' honey?' "`Ten,' ses Hahsie. "`Right,' ses Sculpat. `You be here in half an hour an' I'll have de ten ready.' "Well, Little Hahsie he hop off wid de same ole drummin' on de calabas', an' de same ole song, `Hahsie, Hahsie, Calabasie! Dum! Dum! Dum!' Ou' Sculpat he sets to work to ketch dem fis'es." "But, Ou' Ta'," interrupted the eldest boy, "how does Ou' Sculpat catch fish?" "Ah!" answered the old Hottentot slyly; "dat's yust what Ou' Sculpat ain't never let anyb'dy see yet. Dat's why he sent Klein Hahsie away till he done it. But anyhow, he ketched dese yere ten, an' laid 'em out on de green o' de grass, all white an' shinin' silver in de sun; dey looked mighty fine an' tasty, I can tell you. An' den along comes Little Hahsie agen wid de calabas'. "`Here's de fis'; where's de honey?' ses Ou' Sculpat. "`Here's de honey: count de fis',' ses Hahsie. "Dey counted out de fis an' dere was de ten a' right, an' one little one beside for bargain. `Dat's de style,' ses Hahsie. `Now open your mouf an' shut your eyes an' see if dis stuff ain't rippin' nice.' "Ou' Sculpat he shut his eyes an' he open his mouf, an' Little Hahsie he flouris' de feder out o' de calabas' wid a mighty ole twirl, an' den he draw it troo Ou' Sculpat's mouf slow an' slower till it come out across. Den he yabs it half-way down his froat an' draw it back. `Dere!' ses he. `Ain't dat nice?' "Ou' Sculpat he don't say a word. He yust smack his lips an' work his mouf an' den plank it wide open for more. "Little Hahsie he sort o' consider dat open mouf, an' he grin into it, an' he slant his eye into it like he's lookin' down it to see what Sculpat had for breakfas', an' he pat it under de chin, an' den, while he's a-considerin' it some mo', Ou' Sculpat open his eyes an' ketch ole Hahsie a-squintin' down his gumses. `Well,' ses he, `what about de rest of it?' "`Dat's exac'ly what I wants to know,' ses Hahsie. `Dat's why I's a-lookin' down your froat--to see where de rest is went to. Here's me tipped up de calabas', an' den I rub a taste nicely in your mouf, an' den I drop in all de rest, so you'd have a nice ten minutes suckin' on it. It drop in a' right, but, Allah Crachty! where's it go to? Tell me dat, Sculpat, for dere ain't no sign of it where I looked.' "Ou' Sculpat stretch his eyes wide open at dat. `It must ha' gone somewhere,' ses Hahsie. `Hyer's de calabas' quite empty for you to see.' "Ou' Sculpat cock his eye into de calabas', but he cahnt see nawtin' dere, an' he look at Little Hahsie, an' Little Hahsie look back like dis is de funniest merrikle ever was. Den Sculpat dive into de inside o' his shell to see if p'r'aps de honey might ha' got dere, but it ain't; an' at last he ses--`What's you goin' to do about it?--you's got de fis'es.' "`An' you's got de honey,' ses Little Hahsie. "`Where's it den?' ses Sculpat. "`I put it into dis end o' you,' ses Hahsie. `You's de one to know what's happen' to it after dat.' "Ou' Sculpat he consider a bit. `Well, I did feel sometin' ticklin' half-way down my froat,' ses he, `but I didn't feel it no furder.' "`P'r'aps dat's de way you's made inside,' ses Hahsie; `half-way down an' den a drop.' "Ou' Sculpat he didn't say nawtin' to dat; he stick to business. `When's I to have some mo'?' ses he. "`When I wants more fis',' ses Hahsie, his big eyes fair a-shinin' wid wonderin' about dat honey still. "`An' when's dat?' ses Sculpat. "`When I feels like I'd like some,' ses Hahsie, an' he don't grin a bit. "`To-morro'?' axes Sculpat. "`A' right,' ses Hahsie. `You have de fis'es ready an' I'll see about gettin' some mo' honey. So long, den,'--an' Mr Hahsie he picks up de ten fis'es an' de little one, an' he offs. "Ou' Sculpat watch him go a minute. `Dat stuff is taste rippin',' ses he. Den he flop into de water agen, but he don't eat any weeds. "Well, de nex' day dere's Ou' Sculpat ready wid de ten fis'es but dere ain't no little one extry dis time, an' hyer comes Hahsie wid de same ole drummin' an' singin'--`Hahsie, Hahsie, Calabasie! Dum! Dum! Dum!' "But dis time when Ou' Sculpat open his mouf an' shut his eyes he don't shut 'em; not quite; he keep one eye half-open. Dat's de way he seen de gay old flouris' Little Hahsie give de feder, an' de little little drop o' honey dere is on it too. Dat's de way also he seen de grin on Little Hahsie's face, when Hahsie's a-lookin' into his mouf, where he's touchin' spots here an' dere wid de feder, an' he get dat s'picious dat his one eye spring wide open--an' dat's de way Little Hahsie seen yust in time dat he's a-lookin'. "But Little Hahsie he's a gamey ole bird, an' he don't turn a hair nor let on in any sort o' way. He yust holds de feder up like he's waitin', an' he ain't a bit astonish' when Ou' Sculpat lets de oder eye spring open too. `How's de taste o' dat, Sculpat?' ses he. "`It's a-gun' to taste better when dere's more on top of it,' ses Sculpat. `Come on wid de rest.' "`Well,' ses Hahsie, `you ain't no picaninny. You don't want me to stick a bib under your chin an' feed you wid a feder. Here you is--take de calabas' an' eat de lot, an' I'll take de fis.' "Sculpat he take de calabas', an' Hahsie he pick up de fis'; but he ain't got two skips away before Ou' Sculpat sings out: `Hey yeh! Where's-dis honey?' "`Where you's got it, in de calabas',' ses Hahsie. "`Dat's yust where I ain't got it,' ses Sculpat. `Dere's de calabas' an' dere ain't de honey; you look for yourse'f.' "Little Hahsie look dat astonish'--you never seen no sich astonishment. `Why,' ses he, `I went to Ou' Waxa, de Honey-bird, myse'f wid dat calabas', so's to be sure an' get it full. An' now I yust turns my back an' you ses dere ain't none in it!' "`An' dere was yestiday, too,' ses Sculpat. "`Yes,' ses Hahsie, comin' one step back. `Dere was yestiday; an' I 'specs dat's what's de matter to-day, same as 'yestiday. You's gulluped de lot down in one, an' now you wants to bluff me out dat you ain't had none.' "`Dat sort o' talk won't do,' ses Sculpat `Hyer's de calabas' an' hyer ain't no honey. You can look for yourse'f.' "Hahsie looks, an' he cahnt see no mo' inside dat calabas' dan' anyb'dy else can see de inside of any other bottle-neck calabas'. But he make like he's fair astonish', all de same. `By jimminy! it do look like it's empty,' ses he. `But I'll tell you what, you let me have dat calabas' agen, an' I'll take it back to Ou' Waxa an' ax her how it is dere ain't no honey in it. An' to-morro' when you has de fis'es ready I'll bring two lots o' honey, one for to-day as well as to-morro'. I'll ha' to go quick, dough, if I's gun' to ketch Ou' Waxa 'fore she go. So long, den,' an' he offs wid de calabas' an de fis' 'fore you can say rats! "Ou' Sculpat ses on'y one ting: `To-morro' I has de honey fust'. Den he ins to de water-hole an' tinks. "Well, to-morro' comes, an' de ten fis'es dis time is all laid out in a wheel, wid deir little tails togeder an' deir heads out, so dey look mighty fine in de sun. But dis time here come Little Hahsie widout no calabas' at all. `Hello!' ses Sculpat, `where's de honey?' "`Dat's yust what Ou' Waxa said when I took her de calabas',' ses Hahsie. `An' dis time she ain't a-trustin' me wid de honey. You's got to bring de fis'es an' come wi' me an' get de honey from her yourse'f.' "`Well,' ses Sculpat, `I's gun' to see dis ting troo dis time. I's comin'. Show de way, den,' an' he slings de fis'es two by two on his back an' off dey pop. "Off dey pops an' dey gets five yards on de road an' Hahsie finds hisse'f a hundred yards ahead, so he squots an' waits for Sculpat to come up. `You better to shift yourse'f a bit mo' livelier,' ses he. "Dey gets twenty yards furder, an' Little Hahsie finds hisse'f hoppin' along on his lonesome near out o' sight ahead. `Allah Crachty!' ses he, `I might do a sleep while I's waitin' like dis,' an' as soon as Ou' Sculpat comes up--`Is you goin' to get dere to-day, or is it to-morro'?' ses he. "But Ou' Sculpat he ain't got time for talkin'. He yust keep on flip-a-flipperin' along de road, an' Hahsie he starts wid him agen. "Well, dis time Hahsie gets clean out o' sight over de rise, till after a while he comes tearin' back, head fust, an' his front legs havin all dey can do to keep out o' de way o' de hind 'uns. `Look-a'-hyer, I's been over de rise, an' dere'll be no honey left by de time we get dere at dis rate.' "`Ain't I a-comin'?' ses Sculpat. "`Yes,' snort Hahsie, `an' so's good times--but when? We's a-gun' to lose dat honey if we don't do sometin'. Here,' ses he, an' he hops alongside Ou' Sculpat. `Gi'e me de fis'es an' I'll go on an' get de honey till you come,' an' 'fore Ou' Sculpat can consider dat, Little Hahsie snatches de fis'es off his back. `You keep comin' along till you gets dere,' ses he, an' off he scoot wid his legs goin' yards long. "`I'll come along in time,' ses Sculpat as Hahsie go over de rise. `I'll keep on. I wants dat honey.' "Well, he did keep on," concluded Old Hendrik. "He kep' on an' he kep' on, over de rise an' over de veldt. An' he look about an he ax about, but--he ain't never come along to dat honey yet. An' he never will." CHAPTER TWELVE. WHY THE TORTOISE HAS NO HAIR ON. "But," demanded Annie of the old Hottentot, a couple of days later, "after that horrid Little Hare cheated Old Tortoise over the little twinkly fishes, what did Old Tortoise say next time he met him?" "What did Ou' Sculpat say to Little Hahsie?" repeated Old Hendrik, with a sudden wide open laugh. "Well, Ainkye, he said a lot; you may bet he said a lot. He yust hatto say a lot 'cause what he ha' to say wahnt true; an' when you hain't got de trufe to tell, den you has to use a mighty lot o' words to make it stick." "But surely Old Tortoise didn't believe that Little Hare after what he'd done!" protested Annie. "Oh, but you hain't never hear dat Little Hahsie talk when he's a mind to butter some'dy down," rejoined Old Hendrik. "Ou' Sculpat's one o' dese people what wants to know 'fore dey b'lieves anytin', an' he was raungin' round for blood an' t'under lookin' for Little Hahsie. Well, an' he meet him, an' de nex' ting you knows dey's yust ole chummies a-plantin' peach-trees togeder. Dat's fine, ain't it? But den, de finis' of it!--an' de finis' of it is, Ou' Sculpat hain't got no hair on him any mo'." "Why! did tortoises ever have hair on?" demanded little Annie in blank astonishment. "O' course dey had hair on," retorted Old Hendrik, protesting at such astonishment in his hearer. "Ain't his big broder, de otter, got hair on him yet? But Sculpat would get mix' up wid Little Hahsie, an' dere you is; he hain't got no hair on him no more." "Oh, how was that? Do tell us," begged Annie. "Why, it was dis a-way," went on Hendrik. "When dey did meet, an' when Ou' Sculpat finis' talkin' big, an' Little Hahsie finis' talkin' butter, den Hahsie feel dat good an' harum-scarum inside him dat he hop, an' he skip, an' he monkey off across de veldt till he come to a farm, an' dere was de peach garden right in his way, wid de farm house a bit way off f'm it. "Well, Little Hahsie he squot an' he sniff, an' he tink about de dogs an' de little boys dat frow stones; but he tink o' de peaches too, an' he feel yust dat cussed dat he's a-gun' to have a try at dem peaches if he lose his tail for it. He can see de fence is all aloes an' prickly-pear, growin' dat close dere ain't room even for Ou' Ringhals, de snake, to get troo, let alone a Hahsie; but dat ain't a-gun' to send him off widout peaches. "So he looks about, an' dere's a round stony koppie yust back o' de house an' garden, an' he hop round an' up de back side o' dat koppie, an' peep over to have a reglar look at tings. An' under a tree at de foot o' de koppie he sees two fat dogs a-sleepin', an' comin' f'm de garden dere's a little boy wid his daddy's ole hat full o' peaches; dese big, fine, girl's-cheek peaches. An' de boy goes an' sets down under de tree. "Little Hahsie he look at de boy, an' he look at de dogs. Den he look at de big stones, an' de little bushes all down de side o' de koppie, an his big eyes 'gin a-shinin'. `I knows how I'll get dem peaches,' ses he. "Well, he creep down de koppie troo de bushes an' de stones till he's right at de bottom an' on'y about forty yards away from de little boy, an' den he pop out right in front o' him. He gi'es one hop an' he gi'es two hop, an' den all of a sudden he squot flat, like he's yust seen de little boy an' tinks de boy ain't seen him. But dere's one fair ole yell an' one mighty ole yump f'm darie boy, an' den he's yust a-sikkin' de dogs on to ketch dis hare. "Dat's all Little Hahsie want. While de boy's a-yellin' an' a-yumpin', an' while de dogs is a-wakin' an' a-lookin' out to see what's it all about all dat time Klein Hahsie's yust a-makin' a brown streak round dat koppie. "But he ain't. He on'y make ten yards of it an' den he's out o' sight round de corner. Dat's far enough, an' he yust gi'es one fair ole yump to one side, up de koppie, an' squots down flat behind a stone till de dogs is rush past wid de little boy runnin' all he know ahter 'em. Den Hahsie yust hop back to darie ole hatful o' peaches under de tree, an' pick it up an' skip out o' dat eatin peaches all de way." "And what did the little boy do when he got back and found his peaches gone?" broke in Annie's younger brother. "Well," answered Hendrik, "I on'y heard about what Klein Hahsie done. Dey don't say nawtin' about what de boy done. But I 'specs he yust went back an' got some mo' peaches. "But about Klein Hahsie," resumed he. "Dese yere peaches taste yust dat good dat all de while he's a-eatin' 'em he's tinkin' how nice it 'ud be if he had his own tree to pick at widout no dogs to chase him. An' de mo' he eat de mo' he study, till at last it strike him what to do. Den he saves de last two o' de peaches, an' he biff dat ole hat into shape wid a one-two, an' swack it down on one ear an' de back of his head, an' off he set down de spruit to de water-hole where he'll find Ou' Sculpat. "Ou' Sculpat was dere, wid his chin on top de water, lookin' yust as leary as ever, an' he don't so much as wink his eye till Little Hahsie shout him out. `Hello! Sculpat!' ses he. `I's struck luck since I lef you. I's got peaches; an' I reckoned now we's frens I'd better gi'e you one an' me de oder. Here you is den, choose which one you'll have.' "Well, Ou' Sculpat he tinks he'll tink it over, but he look at dem two peach in Little Hahsie's han's, an' fust ting he knows he's flipped his way out o' de water an' he's comin' to Hahsie, where he's a-sittin' wid one leg crossed over toder, makin' hisse'f all nice an' comfy. `Here you is,' ses Hahsie, givin' him de biggest an' de ripest o' de two. `You squot now, an' we'll fair enjoy dese ole peaches.' "So Ou' Sculpat he squot, an' dey rolls dem peaches in deir han's, an' dey suck 'em wid deir lips, an' dey squeeze deir teef in yust a leetle bit an' taste de yuice o' dat. An' dat's so nice dey cahnt hold off no longer, but dey fair yum-yums into dem peaches an' scoffs 'em down an' suck de stones clean. `What you tink o' peaches now?' ses Hahsie. "`I tinks I'd like to know where dere's some mo',' ses Sculpat. `I'd yust fair live on peaches if I had 'em.' "`So'd I,' ses Hahsie; `an' I'll tell you what, Sculpat, I's bin a-studyin'. What you say now if we plant dese two stones an' grow two trees for us ownselfs, an' yust sit under de branches an' watch de peaches ripen? Wouldn't dat be fine?' "`Wouldn't it yust,' ses Sculpat. `Wouldn't it yust.' "`Right-o den,' ses Hahsie. `Here we is now. You pick a place an' we'll plant dese two stones, one for me an' one for you. We'll soon have peaches ahter dat--tons an' tons,' ses he. "`Right you is,' ses Sculpat. `Yonder's de place. We'll soon plant 'em.' "So dey plants dese two stones, an' de trees spring up, an' den comes de time to be waterin' 'em every day. An' every day Ou' Sculpat's at it, carryin' de water in his mouf to his tree; an' a-carryin' all de day 'cause he cahnt on'y hold a mighty little water in his mouf at one time. So his tree kep' on a-growin' an' a-branchin'. "But Little Hahsie he ain't a-waterin' no trees. If darie ole tree o' his want water, den it 'ad a-better sa'nter over to de water-hole an' get it; or if it want to die, well, it can yust die an' be blowed to it, ses he. Den he'd go off an' squot down an' watch Ou' Sculpat carryin' water, an' he'd laugh an' laugh; but he don't let nob'dy ketch him at dat. "Well, dis went on an' on, till Little Hahsie's tree's dead wid de want o' water, while Ou' Sculpat's is big an' bushy wid de plenty of it, an' in a while it's fair hangin' full an' bendin' down wid peaches--nice, big, yuicy, girl's-cheek peaches. "Ses Ou' Sculpat to Hahsie: `If you'd on'y a-watered your tree you'd a-had peaches too now. Don't you wis' you had?' "`Well, dem peaches is look nice,' ses Hahsie. `But dey'd be a lot nicer for you if you could get at 'em to eat 'em. How's you gun' to do dat, Sculpat?' "Ou' Sculpat swivel his eye to look at Hahsie. Hahsie don't wink a word. Ses he: `It's all right, ain't it? Dere's your peaches an' dere's you, but dere ain't de eatin'--an' de eadn's de ting, ain't it? How about dat part, Sculpat?' "Ou' Sculpat yust drop right flat at dat; he hain't never tink o' dat. He look at dat tree an' he look at dem peaches, such nice big peaches; an' den he look at Little Hahsie. `What'll I ha' to do?' ses he. "`Well,' ses Hahsie, `I reckon dere ain't on'y one way. You'll ha' to get some'dy to climb up in de tree an' drop 'em down to you.' "`An' you's de on'y one I knows dat can do it,' ses Sculpat. `How if you was to go up in de tree den?' "`A' right,' ses Hahsie, like he's doin' de bigges' kind of a favour. `I'll have a try, anyhow,' ses he, like he ain't so sure he can do it. But he gi'es a hop, a skip, an' a yump, an' you can hear him laugh as he land up in dem lower branches like a bird. Den he climb an' he climb till he's right up where de nicest peaches is. An' den--why, den he 'gins to eat 'em. "You should a-hear Ou' Sculpat shout at dat. `Ho yeh!' ses he, `what for you eat dem peaches up dere?' "`'Cause dey's nice, what else?' ses Hahsie. `Dey's about de nicest peaches I ever tasted. Here you is; dis stone now,' ses he, an' he drop a peach stone fair on Ou' Sculpat's nose. `You plant darie stone, an' by'n'by you'll have a tree o' your own to eat off, an' den you won't need to dance an' prance round dis one while you's watchin' me eat peaches.' "Sculpat he fair whistle, he's dat mad. `By gum! You flop right down out o' dat or I'll knock de by-gum stuffin' out o' you,' ses he, an' he yust paw de air. `Dem's my peaches,' ses he. "`Is dey?' ses Hahsie. `Den if dey is I'd advise you to shake yourse'f a bit an' come up an' get a few while dere's some left,' an' Hahsie sort o' smile down at him. "Ou' Sculpat he reg'lar stretch his neck down dere on de ground. `You's smart,' ses he, `almighty smart; but I know what I'll do. You yust stop up dere an' see if I don't fix you. You wait a bit, dat's all,' an' he turns an' he offs back to de spruit, wid Little Hahsie singin' a song to him as far as he can hear him, about how nice it is to eat peaches in de tree. "But it ain't no time at all 'fore here comes Ou' Sculpat back agen, an' de hool gang o' de sculpats wid him. An' dey make no mo' to do, but dey marches right up to de tree an' 'gins to bite it round to cut it down. `Now we's got you,' ses Sculpat. `We'll see how you like it when we get hold o you.' "`When you get hold o' me,' ses Hahsie. `Fire away den,' an' he yust keep on a-eatin' peaches like dat's what he was born doin'. "By'n'by de tree's mighty near cut troo, an' by dat time dere ain't one peach left. Little Hahsie's eat de last one. `Dat's a' right,' ses Sculpat. `But I's yust a-gun' to knock dem peaches out o' you agen now, wid all de rest o' de by-gum stuffin'.' "Den _car-r-rack_! goes de tree, an' it 'gin to swing dis way an' dat way, an' all de sculpats stand ready to ketch Little Hahsie. Den _cur-rack-rack_ sounds de tree an' down it come; but, yust as it's a-fallin', dere's Little Hahsie, _dar soh_! away out yonder. For he gi'en one fair ole winger of a yump, an' he land far out de yonder side de ring o' sculpats, an' dere he goes now a-streakin' over de rise an' out o' sight. `Who's a-knockin' de stuffin' out o' who now?' ses he, as he send de heel dust a-flyin' behind him. "But de sculpats dey ain't done yet. Dey's too mad to gi'e up so easy as dat. `I know what he'll do,' ses Ou' Sculpat. `He's yust so full o' peaches he'll squot right down dere over de rise an' go to sleep. So we'll do dis; we'll get round him in a great big ring a mile wide, an' den when he 'gins to run agen we'll keep a-poppin' up an' a-poppin' up everywhere he stops, till he'll yust run on till he drops. Den we has him.' "`Dat's yust what we'll do,' ses all de sculpats. An' right dere dey start to do it. "Well, Little Hahsie was a-sleepin' on de yonder side de ridge, where he'd squotted down, when up pops Ou' Sculpat, yust dat close dat dere ain't no time for foolin' or anytin' but gettin' away. But Hahsie flick up his heels an' laugh as he go. `Why don't you ketch me?' ses he. "Ou' Sculpat grin, but he don't say nawtin'. He yust flop down in de grass agen an' wait. "In a while Klein Hahsie rinks he's run fur enough, but he hadn't more'n stop 'fore up pops anoder sculpat a-comin' at him. "`Hello!' ses Hahsie. `Here a'ready, is you? Allah Crachty! how you manage dat?' But de sculpat keep a-comin' on, an' Hahsie has to off agen, an' dis time he don't flick his heels. "Well, de same ring happen once an' de same ring happen twice, an' it went on like dat till Little Hahsie was dat near done for dat de sculpats 'gin to close in on him. `Now we's got you,' ses dey. "`Has you?' ses Hahsie, an' he look round, an' dere he sees a dead elephant lyin' in de grass. `Dat's de ting,' ses he, an' he makes a dive an' he pops right inside dat elephant, troo his mouf. "Now dat elephant was all swelled up wid bein' two days dead, an' when Little Hahsie dives inside it, head fust it set up such a morion an' commotion dat it look like de elephant's a-gun' to roll over an' get up on to his four big legs. De trunk lift up, an' de top ear wag, an' de sculpats all rink, by jimminy, darie elephant's de liv'est elephant dey's seen dis many a day. "`Run now!' shouts de sculpats. `Darie elephant's Klein Hahsie's daddy, an' he's a-gun' to get up an' tromp us to smash! Get away now!' ses dey. "Little Hahsie, inside, he hear all dat, an' he fair 'gun to ramp about in dat elephant, an' he shout outen his trunk like billy-o, an' it made dat big a row, an' dat big a wiggle, dat you hain't never seen no sculpats ever doin' no sich a gettin' away as dey did. 'Fore dat time dey used to have hair on 'em like a otter, but dey went dat far an' dey went dat fas'--for sculpats--troo de bush an' de stones an' de grass, dat dey wear all de hair off n 'em, till dey get's quite smoove an' polish like you sees 'em now. "An' dat's why de sculpats is got no hair on 'em," concluded the old Hottentot, with all the dignity of a learned professor to his class. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. WHY THE RATEL IS SO KEEN ON HONEY. The children were accompanying Old Hendrik from the tobacco lands to the mealie lands farther out, and on the way, in crossing the broken, bush-grown spruit between, the eldest boy marked a fresh earth of the Ratel or honey-badger. "Dat's bad to see if we don't do sometin'," said Old Hendrik. "Dere'll be mighty little honey on dis place 'fore long if we don't drop on to Mr Ratel." "But, Ou' Ta'," demanded Annie, "why is the Ratel always after the honey?" "Well, Ainkye," answered Old Hendrik gravely, "it's 'cause it's in de blood. Some folk ses it's dis way an' some ses it's dat way but as soon as Ou' Ratel sees 'em comin' to ax, he fair dives into diggin', an' he's half-way down to Dublin, as your mammy ses, 'fore dey comes to where he started f'm. It ain't dat dese hyer Ratels ain't proud o' de reason, 'cause dey tinks it was mighty smart o' deir grandaddy. It's yust dey rinks nobody knows, an' so dey won't tell. "But I knows, 'cause my ole grandaddy tole me, an' it happen in his grandaddy's time. You see it was de grandaddy of all dese yere Ratels, an it was when he was a young _kerel_ in his daddy's house. Dere ain't no doubt he was slim, _baiah_ slim, an' he was yust dat gone on honey dat he even played tricks on his ole daddy, till at last he tried on dat about de sack o' honey an' de honey-gum tree. Den--well, you listen. "Dis young Seeunkie Ratel was de sort dat his mammy was al'ays a-fallin' out wid his daddy over him, reckonin' his daddy was al'ays a-tinkin' he was up to some skellumness or other. An I reckon myse'f dat de ole man know'd. However, de ole man had a big goatskin chock full o' de finest honey, an' he kep' it under de bed in de sleepin' chamber, so it 'ud be nice an handy--an' safe. In a mawnin' dey'd all get up, an de ole daddy he'd go out an' have a look round, an' de ole mammy she'd be busy a-gettin' de breakfas' ready, while little missy Wilhelmina Ratel she'd play about, inside or outside or underfoot, yust like little girls does when deir mammies is busy. An' all dis time young Seeunkie Ratel he'd be--well--dat's when de honey 'ud be doin' de dis-appearin'. "What he used to do was to wait till de rest was outside or in de eatin' room, an' den he'd sneak back into de sleepin' chamber, pull out his knife, snick a chunk o' dis sugary honey out o' de bag, slip it into his pocket an' off out to have a look round too, 'fore breakfas'. Dat's when he'd scoff dis chunk o' honey. "Well, de ole daddy he sees his honey lookin' less an' less every day, an' he scratch his head an' he say to his wife: `Mammy,' ses he, `dat's mighty funny about dat honey. It's a-goin' somewheres.' "`Well,' ses she, `what you expect? You let dat good-for-nuffin' Wilhelmina play about yust as she likes an' do what she likes, an' yet you won't never b'lieve nawtin' I tells you about her. I know'd she'd be in some mischief soon,' ses she, for Ole Missis Ratel was one o' dese women what's all for deir skellum of a boy, an' so de daddy has to be good to de little girl hisse'f. "Well, ole daddy he sit down an' he tink an' tink, an' old mammy she go out an' ketch hold o' little Wilhelmina an' spank an' spank, but young Seeunkie he stays out on de veldt an smack an' smack his lips on de honey, an' keep de tail o' one eye over his shoulder to watch if his daddy's comin'. "Tings went on a-dis way den, till one mawnin' at breakfas' dey had a pretty good ole breakfas', an' by de time dey'd finis' de ole daddy was a-feelin' yust right an' comfy, an' he lean back in his chair an' pulls out half a yard o' yuicy ole to'acco. `Len' your ole daddy your knife for a minute, Seeunkie,' ses he. "Young Seeunkie tink no mo' about it, but dives down in his pocket an' haul out his knife an' lifts it over. But he hadn't no mo' dan stretch it out 'fore he feels de honey sticky on it, yust as de ole daddy grips his fingers on it. De yoke's on his neck now, tinks Seeunkie, as he looks at his daddy, but he never lets on yust yet. "Oom Ratel gets de knife open 'fore de sticky feelin' strikes him. Den he looks down at de blade an' de joints of it an' den he looks up at young Seeunkie an' de cheeks of him, an'--well, he gets up an' grabs dat young burgher by de scruff. `So it's you bin steal all dat honey, is it?' ses he. `Yust what I t'ought a'ready.' "`Dere you is agen,' shouts de ole fool mammy. `Blamin' him 'fore you knows if it's true or not. You ain't ask him what he's got to say.' "`Dere ain't no need for any say in it,' ses ole daddy. `Dere's de honey on his knife to do all de sayin'.' "`But dat ain't honey at all;' ses Seeunkie, bold as brass now his mammy's up. `Dat's yust sweet honey-gum. I found a tree o' sweet gum yestiday down by de spruit.' "`Sweet gum!' ses Oom Ratel. `I's lived a bit longer an' seen a bit mo' dan you, Seeunkie, but I ain't never seen any sweet gum tree nor heerd o' one yet.' "`Well, you's seen an' heerd o' sweet gum now,' snaps dat ole fool mammy; `an' dat on'y shows how much smarter he is dan you. You let him go, an' he'll show you de tree a' right enough.' "`Yes, I will,' ses Seeunkie, as sa'cy as a new ticky. "`Right den,' ses de ole daddy. `I's yust a-goin' round de koppie now, an' as soon as I'm back you'll ha' to show me dis sweet gum tree, or else I'll knock some gum out o' you.' "So off goes Oom Ratel round de koppie, an' den young Seeunkie looks at his mammy, an' his mammy looks at him. `What'll you do now, Seeunkie?' ses she. "`Go an' show him de tree,' ses Seeunkie. `You lend me anoder knife now, an' you'll see.' "Well, she lend him dis knife, an' off he pops an' down to de spruit. Dere he pick out a nice young t'orn tree standin' by itself, one dat hain't got many gum cracks on it, an' he set to work like billy-o to scrape off every bit o' dat gum an' leave de spots bare. An' when he couldn't see not de glisten o' one speck left, den he goes back home an' waits for de ole daddy. "Well, an' here comes in Oom Ratel. `Ready to show me dat tree now?' ses he. "`I is,' ses Seeunkie. `Come dis way an' I'll show you.' "So off dey pops an' comes to de tree. `Dat's de tree, daddy,' ses Seeunkie. `See how clean I scraped it till dere ain't none left, it was dat good.' "Oom Ratel he look at de tree an' he see de bare spots, an' he try to scrape de cracks wid his nails to taste it. But young Seeunkie's scraped too clean for dat, an' so de ole daddy has to turn round an' look at him. `An' when's dis tree goin' to ha' some more honey on it?' ses he. "`Well, it's of a mawnin' de honey's out,' ses Seeunkie. `Dere has to be de sun on it all day, an' den at night de stuff runs. To-morro' mawnin's de time den.' "`A' right,' ses ole daddy. `To-morro' mawnin' you leave dis tree alone till I comes. Don't you dah to touch it 'fore I sees it. Den we'll see,' ses he. "Well, p'r'aps you tink dat 'ud set young Seeunkie to studyin' hard. But not him; he yust stalks back wid his ole daddy, hands in pockets an' mouf in a whistle, like a location Kaffir wid new yalla boots on. It ain't no sort o' trouble to him to plan skellum; it yust come nat'ral to him. "When dey gets home young Seeunkie grins at his mammy, but Oom Ratel he goes out agen on business. An dis time he takes de honey sack wid him, for he's got a plan an' he's yust a-startin' to work it. But he hain't got nawtin sure yet to say to his missis one way or anoder as he goes out. She has. She ses it too. `Didn't I tole you!' ses she. "Next mawnin' Oom Ratel gets all his goin's out done 'fore breakfas', so as he'll be ready for dis honey tree first ting ahter it. But young Seeunkie he goes out too on his own account, on'y he first cuts anoder chunk o' honey out of his ole daddy's goatskin under de bed, an' takes dat wid him, an' as soon as he gets to de young mimosa he scrapes de gum spots clean agen an' daubs 'em all fresh wid honey. Den he sneaks home an' smiles to hisse'f all troo breakfas' time. "Well, ahter breakfas' Oom Ratel he ses. `Come on,' an' de young Seeunkie he ses, `A' right,' an' off dey pops down to de honey-gum tree. Sure enough, dere's de honey an' dere's de ole daddy a-tastin' it an' a-sayin' what mighty good stuff it is. "`Well,' ses de young fella, `I tole you all de time, but you wouldn't b'lieve me. An' now what?' ses he. "`Oh, now everytin's all right,' ses de ole daddy grinnin'. `An' here you is, Seeunkie, I's brought dis,' ses he, pullin' out a big new goatskin sack. `You scrape off all dat honey-gum now onto a big leaf for your ole daddy to eat an' den you can stop here wid dis sack an' keep on scrapin' every mawnin' till you gets it full.' "`Oh, but,' ses young Seeunkie, `it'll take so long to fill dat!' "`Oh, dat's all right,' ses his ole daddy, all a-smilin'. `In de daytime you can dig yourse'f a little house, an' your sister Wilhelmina can bring you some scoff every mawnin', an' you'll yust have a fine ole time wid no ole daddy to boss you.' "Well, wasn't young Seeunkie s'prise, an' didn't he sniff an' he snivel. But it ain't no use, he ha' to stop. An' when it come ahternoon too, an' he go up home an' he howl an he prowl, it still ain't no manner o' use eeder, for de ole man just pops out ahter him an' shambok him away agen. "`Now, what's all dat for?' scream ole Missis Ratel. `Didn't he show you de tree, an hain't you eat de sweet gum yourse'f?' "`I did,' ses ole Ratel. `Dat's yust it. If I hadn't a-eat it I mightn't a-know'd. But I put rock aloes yuice on de honey dat was in de bag under de bed last night, an' dis sweet gum f'm de t'orn tree was yust a-stingin' wid aloes yuice dis mawnin'. If young Seeunkie's smart enough to steal his daddy's honey, an' try to fool him, den he's big enough an' smart enough to look out for hisse'f f'm now on. Dere's lots o' country out o' doors for him to dig in.' "Well, ole Missis Ratel she rage an' she ramp, but it ain't no manner o' use. De ole man stick to what he say, an' young Seeunkie hatto go, all 'cause he couldn't leave any honey alone, not even his ole daddy's. "So," concluded the old Hottentot, "now you knows why de Ratel is yust so dead gone on honey--it's in de blood, an' you cahnt get dat out nohow. An' ahter dat, don't you Kleinkies ever go stealin' your ole daddy's honey, else you'll be gettin' de same way." With which debatable threat Old Hendrik resumed his course to the mealie lands beyond. 
19438	----	THE HERO OF ESTHONIA AND OTHER STUDIES IN THE ROMANTIC LITERATURE OF THAT COUNTRY _COMPILED FROM ESTHONIAN AND GERMAN SOURCES BY_ W.F. KIRBY, F.L.S., F.E.S., ETC. CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE FINNISH LITERARY SOCIETY WITH A MAP OF ESTHONIA _IN TWO VOLUMES_ VOLUME THE FIRST LONDON JOHN C. NIMMO 14, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND. MDCCCXCV CONTENTS OF VOL. I PAGE PREFACE ix INTRODUCTION-- ESTHONIA xiii THE KALEVIPOEG xviii FOLK-TALES IN PROSE xxii BALLADS AND OTHER SHORT POEMS xxiii PASTOR HURT'S COLLECTIONS xxiv MYTHOLOGY xxvi _PART I_ THE HERO OF ESTHONIA THE KALEVIPOEG 1 THE ARGUMENT 2 CANTO I.--THE MARRIAGES OF SALME AND LINDA 7 CANTO II.--THE DEATH OF KALEV 18 CANTO III.--THE FATE OF LINDA 24 CANTO IV.--THE ISLAND MAIDEN 32 CANTO V.--THE KALEVIDE AND THE FINNISH SORCERER 38 CANTO VI.--THE KALEVIDE AND THE SWORD SMITHS 42 CANTO VII.--THE RETURN OF THE KALEVIDE 49 CANTO VIII.--THE CONTEST AND PARTING OF THE BROTHERS 55 CANTO IX.--RUMOURS OF WAR 61 CANTO X.--THE HEROES AND THE WATER-DEMON 64 CANTO XI.--THE LOSS OF THE SWORD 72 CANTO XII.--THE FIGHT WITH THE SORCERER'S SONS 80 CANTO XIII.--THE KALEVIDE'S FIRST JOURNEY TO HADES 87 CANTO XIV.--THE PALACE OF SARVIK 94 CANTO XV.--THE MARRIAGE OF THE SISTERS 105 CANTO XVI.--THE VOYAGE OF THE KALEVIDE 110 CANTO XVII.--THE HEROES AND THE DWARF 119 CANTO XVIII.--THE KALEVIDE'S JOURNEY TO PÕRGU 124 CANTO XIX.--THE LAST FEAST OF THE HEROES 129 CANTO XX.--ARMAGEDDON 135 _PART II_ ESTHONIAN FOLK-TALES SECTION I TALES ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE "KALEVIPOEG" THE MILKY WAY 147 THE GRATEFUL PRINCE 152 THE CLEVER COUNTRYWOMAN 186 SLYBOOTS 187 THE HOUSE-SPIRIT 207 THE GOLD-SPINNERS 208 SECTION II ORPHAN AND FOUNDLING STORIES THE WOOD OF TONTLA 237 THE KING OF THE MISTY HILL 259 THE ORPHAN'S HANDMILL 260 THE ORPHAN BOY AND THE HELL-HOUNDS 261 THE EGG-BORN PRINCESS 273 THE ROYAL HERD-BOY 279 TIIDU, THE FLUTE-PLAYER 303 THE LUCKY EGG 308 THE MAGICIAN IN THE POCKET 321 THE GOD-DAUGHTER OF THE ROCK-MAIDENS 321 THE FOUNDLING 321 PREFACE When I took up the study of the _Kalevala_ and Finnish literature, with the intention of publishing a critical English edition of the poem, on which I am still engaged, the accumulation of the necessary materials led me to examine the literature of the neighbouring countries likewise. I had expected to find the _Kalevipoeg_ an Esthonian variant of the _Kalevala_; but I found it so dissimilar, and at the same time so interesting, when divested of the tedious and irrelevant matter that has been added to the main story, that I finally decided to publish a full account of it in prose, especially as nothing of the kind has yet been attempted in English, beyond a few casual magazine articles. The Esthonian folk-tales are likewise of much interest, and in many cases of an extremely original character; and these also have never appeared in an English dress. I have, therefore, selected a sufficiently representative series, and have added a few ballads and short poems. This last section of the work, however, amounts to little more than an appendix to the _Kalevipoeg_, though it is placed at the end of the book. Esthonian ballad literature is of enormous extent, and only partially investigated and published at present, even in the original; and it would therefore be premature to try to treat of it in detail here, nor had I time or space to attempt it. I had, however, intended to have included a number of poems from Neus' _Ehstnische Volkslieder_ in the present volumes, but found that it was unnecessary, as Latham has already given an English version of most of the best in his "Nationalities of Europe." The Introduction and Notes will, it is hoped, be sufficiently full to afford all necessary information for the intelligent comprehension of the book, without overloading it; and it has been decided to add a sketch-map of this little known country, including some of the places specially referred to. But Esthonian folk-literature, even without the ballads, is a most extensive study, and I do not pretend to do more than offer a few specimens culled from some of the most easily accessible sources. My professional work does not allow me time to attempt more at present; and it is from the same cause that my work on the _Kalevala_ has been delayed so long. In outlying parts of Europe like Finland and Esthonia, which were not Christianised till long after the southern and western countries, primitive literature has survived to a much greater extent than elsewhere; and the publication of the _Kalevala_ and the _Kalevipoeg_ during the present century furnishes a striking example before our very eyes of the manner in which the Iliad and the Odyssey grew up among the Greeks, before these poems were edited in the form in which they have come down to us, by order of Pisistratus. The principal books used in the preparation of this work are mentioned in the short Bibliography. The names of others quoted or referred to will be found in the Index, which has also been drawn up in such a manner as to form a general glossary. W.F. KIRBY. CHISWICK, _September 1894_. INTRODUCTION ESTHONIA Esthonia, or Estonia, as some prefer to write it, is the most northerly of the three so-called German or Baltic provinces of Russia--Esthonia, Livonia, and Courland. It is bounded on the north by the Gulf of Finland, which lies between that country and Esthonia; on the east by the Government of St. Petersburg; on the south by Livonia, and on the west by the Baltic. Opposite its western coast lie numerous large islands, the most important of which are Dagö and Oesel; these islands nearly close the north-west corner of the Gulf of Riga. The northern part of Livonia (including the island of Oesel, already mentioned) is partly inhabited by Esthonians, and is dealt with in popular literature as forming part of the country. The four provinces of Esthonia proper, which are constantly referred to, are as follows, the German names being added in brackets. Two western, Arju or Harju (Harrien) on the north, and Lääne (Wiek) on the south; one central, Järva (Jerwen), and one eastern, Viru (Wierland). East of Livonia lies the great Lake Peipse or Peipus, eighty miles long and thirty-two miles broad at the broadest part, across which the son of Kalev is said to have waded to fetch timber from Pihgast or Pleskau, which name is used to include the Russian province of Pskov, bordering the lake on the south and south-east. At two-thirds of its length the lake is divided nearly in two, and the southern portion is sometimes called Lake Pskov. It may have been across the narrow part between the two ends of the lake that the hero is supposed to have waded, when, even during a great storm, the water reached only to his girdle. The coast of Esthonia is rocky, but the interior of the country is very marshy, though there are no navigable rivers or lakes of much importance except Lake Peipus, which we have already mentioned. Small lakes, however, are very numerous, the largest being Lake Virts. Esthonia was one of the countries conquered during the Middle Ages by the crusading German Knights of the Sword, and has been described as a country with a Finnish population and a German aristocracy under Russian rule. Occasionally we meet with reminiscences of oppression by the German nobility in the songs and tales; as, for instance, in the story of the Royal Herd-boy; while everything beautiful or above the ordinary life of the peasants is characterised as Saxon. The bulk of the population speak a language very closely allied to Finnish, and they possess a large store of oral literature, much of which has been collected, and in part published, during the present century. It has, however, attracted very little attention out of Esthonia, except in Finland, and to some extent in Germany, and very few articles on the subject have appeared in England or France. It is believed that this is the first work published in England giving any detailed account of the popular literature of Esthonia, and it does not pretend to be exhaustive, nor to extend much beyond the publication of Kreutzwald, Neus, and Jannsen. The Finnish-Ugrian race, though not Aryan, is widely distributed throughout Europe and Asiatic Russia, and the principal peoples belonging to it in the North are the Finns, the Esthonians, and the Lapps, who speak very similar languages, and whose tales and legends possess much similarity, while in the south the Magyars are more distantly related to them. The Lapp hero-tales, however, have more of a historical basis, while the popular tales are much shorter and less artistic. It is, however, curious that Swan-maiden stories are peculiarly common among the Lapps. Several other lesser known peoples belong to the same race, whom we need not further notice. Esthonian abounds in dialects, but is so close to Finnish that it bears almost the same relation to it as Lowland Scotch to English, or perhaps as Danish to Swedish. But there is a strong admixture of German words in Esthonian, and their tales, when exhibiting traces of foreign influence, have apparently derived it from Germany. In Finnish tales, on the contrary, Russian influence is often very apparent. The orthography is a little unsettled, words like Ukko or Kalev being often written with a single or double consonant, as Uko or Kallev; while words like Käpä are often written with double vowels, as Kääpä. The pronunciation of most of the letters resembles that of English, or, in the case of the vowels, German, and calls for no special remark. _j_, as in nearly all languages except English and French, corresponds to our _y_. _v_ is printed either _v_ or _w_ in Finnish and Esthonian, but corresponds to our _v_, and is thus used by the best Finnish authorities. Of course the Germans properly write it _w_, their _w_ corresponding to our _v_. For the modified vowels we have no exact equivalent in English; _ä_ and _ü_ are pronounced nearly as in German; but the _õ_ may roughly be said to resemble our _ee_ in sound. _y_ has somewhat of a _u_ sound, as in the Scandinavian languages; and, as in these too, the modified vowels are placed at the end of the alphabet, but in the following order: _ü_, _ä_, _õ_. Musical as is Finnish itself, Esthonian is still softer, as may be seen in the dropping of final consonants, as Vanemuine for Väinämöinen; and in such words as _kannel_ (harp) for _kantele_. As in most parts of Northern Europe, the Gothic character is still much used in Finland and Esthonia, especially in literary works. As a specimen of the language we may quote the original of the lines on p. 14:-- Ristitantsi tantsitie, Viru tantsi veeritie, Arju tantsi hakkatie, Lääne tantsi lõhutie, Sõre liiva sõtkutie, Murupinda piinatie. Tähte peig ja Salme neidu, Pidasivad pulma ilu! We may add the text of the lines on p. 49:-- Kalevide poeg ei väsi; Piht on meehel pihlakane, Õlanukud õunapuusta, Käevarred vahterased, Küünarnukud künnapuusta, Sõrmelülid sõsterased, Sõrmeküüned kuuslapuused, Raudarammu kõiges kehas. THE KALEVIPOEG In the year 1838 some Esthonian scholars founded a society called "_Die gelehrte Ehstnische Gesellschaft_," and set themselves to collect the popular literature of their country. Doubtless encouraged by the recent publication of the _Kalevala_ in Finland, Dr. Fählmann undertook specially to collect any fragments of verse or prose relative to the mythical hero of Esthonia, the son of Kalev, intending to weave them into a connected whole. He did not live to complete the work; but after his death Dr. Kreutzwald carried out his design, and the book was published, accompanied by a German translation by Reinthal and Bertram, from 1857 to 1861. The materials were defective, and were augmented and pieced together, not always very successfully or artistically,[1] by Dr. Kreutzwald, and the story is interrupted by long lyrical passages, especially at the beginning of some of the cantos, which are tedious and out of place in a narrative poem. Consequently, a complete translation would hardly be sufficiently attractive; but there is so much that is curious and beautiful in the poem, that I think that a tolerably full prose abstract may perhaps be found both useful and interesting, as opening up an almost new subject to English readers. Besides Reinthal's translation, there are two condensed abstracts of the poem in German, one by C. C. Israel, in prose, published in 1873, and the other by Julius Grosse, in hexameters, published in 1875. But while the _Kalevala_ has been translated into six or seven languages, and into several of them two or three times, extremely little has been published on the _Kalevipoeg_ outside of Esthonia and Finland. The metre is the eight-syllable trochaic, which is the commonest metre used by the Esthonians and Finns. In the _Kalevipoeg_ the verse usually flows continuously, while in the _Kalevala_ it is arranged in distichs, almost every second line being a repetition of the first in other words; nor is the _Kalevipoeg_ quite so full of alliteration as the _Kalevala_. Longfellow adapted this metre in his _Hiawatha_ from Schiefner's German translation of the _Kalevala_, and as it was then a novelty in English, it was set down at the time as Longfellow's own invention, and was much ridiculed. A similar metre, however, was used before the appearance of _Hiawatha_ in some parts of Kenealy's _Goethe_, which was published in 1850, and subsequently condensed and completed under the title of "A New Pantomime." I quote a passage from this wonderful but eccentric poem (_Goethe_, p. 301) to show the manner in which Kenealy has used it in the lighter parts of his work; but in some of the darker passages it shows itself as a versatile metre of great power in English:-- "We have come, enchanting ladyes, To sojourn awhile, and revel In these bowers, far outshining The six heavens of Mohammed, Or the sunbright spheres of Vishnu, Or the Gardens of Adonis, Or the viewless bowers of Irim, Or the fine Mosaic mythus, Or the fair Elysian flower-land, Or the clashing halls of Odin, Or the cyclop-orbs of Brahma, Or the marble realms of Siva, Or the grandly proud Walhalla." I do not find this metre used in either of the two cognate poems, _Faust_ and _Festus_. To return to the _Kalevipoeg_, the poem consists of twenty cantos and about 19,000 verses. Some of the legends are found also in the _Kalevala_, and the giant-hero whose life and adventures form its subject is evidently the same as the Kullervo of the _Kalevala_, as will be seen in our notes on various passages in the poem. Of the other heroes of the _Kalevala_, besides an occasional reference to Vanemuine and Ilmarine (Väinämöinen and Ilmarinen), we find no trace; but three heroes, apparently cousins of the Kalevipoeg, appear suddenly in the poem. These are usually called by their patronymics, Alevide, Sulevide, and Olevide, but sometimes simply Alev, Sulev, and Olev. [Footnote 1: This is specially noticeable in the manner in which the story of the Great Oak Tree is scattered in disjointed fragments through three cantos; and in the unsuccessful result of the Kalevide's voyage, when he reaches his goal after his return by a land journey.] FOLK-TALES IN PROSE The most important collection of Esthonian prose tales was edited by Kreutzwald, and was published by the Finnish Literary Society at Helsingfors in 1866, under the title of _Eestirahwa Ennemuistesed jutud_, and has since been reprinted at Dorpat. In 1869 the same Society published a useful little Esthonian-Finnish glossary to the volume. A good German translation of many of these tales, by F. Löwe, appeared at Halle in 1869, under the title of _Ehstnische Märchen_, with notes by various contributors; and M. Dido, who has lately translated two or three of the tales into French, and given more or less detailed notices of the others, mentions that they have also been translated into Russian. Other collections of Esthonian tales have since been published; and Harry Jannsen has published a selection in German under the title of _Märchen und Sagen des estnischen Volkes_ (Dorpat, 1881; Riga, 1888). Some of his tales are taken from Kreutzwald, but I have not seen the Esthonian originals of the others. Many of the longer and more interesting tales in those collections I have given in full; others are more or less abridged, or simply noticed, and some few unimportant tales towards the end of Kreutzwald's collection have been passed over altogether. One of Kreutzwald's longer tales, which I thought too unlike the others to be noticed in the body of the work, is, "How Seven Tailors went to war in Turkey." Their names were, "First-man, One-strong, Two-strong, Three-strong, Four-strong, Five-strong, and Last-man;" and the story gives a comic account of their poltrooneries. Other tales relate to a plot against a chaste wife; a girl who clears herself from scandal by lifting and hurling a huge stone; &c. BALLADS AND OTHER SHORT POEMS The plan of the present work did not allow of many short poetical pieces being included; nevertheless, two of the best of the numerous songs and ballads interspersed through the _Kalevipoeg_ have been given, and two other specimens from Neus' _Ehstnische Volkslieder_ (Revel, 1850-1852) and Kreutzwald and Neus' _Mythische und Magische Lieder der Ehsten_ (St. Petersburg, 1854). More poetical specimens were thought unnecessary, because many of the principal ballads in the former work will be found translated in Latham's "Nationalities of Europe," 1863. PASTOR HURT'S COLLECTIONS In recent years enormous collections of Esthonian folk-lore have been formed by Pastor Jacob Hurt and his coadjutors. "Three volumes of these collections were edited by Hurt in 1875, 1876, and 1886, under the title of _Vana Kannel_, the 'Old Harp;' and other collections were published by several of his colleagues. In 1888 Hurt made a renewed appeal to the Esthonians to collect their old songs, and fresh contributions came pouring in from all quarters. "Special attention was called to Pastor Hurt's work at the Congress of Folk-lorists in Paris by Henry Carnoy. "According to the latest intelligence which I have received from Dr. Krohn, Pastor Hurt has received contributions from 633 different folk-tale collectors in the last three and a half years. Most of these contributors are simple peasants; some are schoolmasters, but only a few are students or highly educated persons. "He now possesses, as the result of three and a half years' work of this nature, epics, lyrics, wedding-songs, &c., upwards of 20,000 items; tales, about 3000; proverbs, about 18,000; riddles, about 20,000. Besides these he has a large collection of magical formulæ, superstitions, &c. "He has only been able to accomplish these extraordinary results by his having been able to awaken popular interest in the subject."[2] I am glad to hear from my friend Dr. Kaarle Krohn, to whom I have been indebted for much useful information and assistance in my own studies, that part of the results of these great collections are likely to be published very shortly. Of course a great number of tales and songs are merely variants. Many relate to legends belonging rather to the _Kalevala_ than to the _Kalevipoeg_. In Dr. Krohn's important paper, _Die geographische Verbreitung Estnischer Lieder_, published in 1892, he divides Esthonia and Northern Livonia into several districts, and marks the number of variants obtained in each. It may be interesting to summarise the latter, to show the extent to which the collection of variants has been carried on in Esthonia. 1. Legend of the creation of the earth and of the origin of the heavenly bodies, 62 variants. 2. Salme and her suitors, 160 variants; and 33 relative to the celestial suitors. 3. The Great Ox, 24 variants. 4. The Great Oak, 130 variants, and 61 relative to its fragments. 5. The Weeping Oak, 61 variants. 6. The origin of the harp and of boating, three variations, with 19, 39, and 17 variants respectively. 7. The bride of gold and silver, 52 variants. 8. Songs of the Seluks or Orthodox Esths, 91 variants. [Footnote 2: Kirby in "Papers and Transactions of International Folk-lore Congress of 1891," p. 429.] MYTHOLOGY We can, I think, trace Finnish and Esthonian religion through four well-marked stages. 1. Fetishism, as seen in the story of the Treasure-Bringer, and in the account given of the origin of various animals, &c. 2. Nature-worship. 3. Transitional stage, well marked in the _Kalevala_, where the heroes sometimes pray to the gods in conventional Christian phraseology, and at other times try to compel their assistance by invocations and spells. This stage is also seen in the strange travesty of the Nativity in the last Runo of the _Kalevala_; and indeed, one of the older writers says that the favourite deities of the Finns in his time were Väinämöinen and the Virgin Mary. But this stage is much less visible in the _Kalevipoeg_, which is, on the whole, a more archaic and more heathenish poem than the _Kalevala_. 4. Mediæval Christianity. The gods belong to the stage of Nature-worship. The supreme god is Taara, to whom the oak is sacred. The most celebrated of his sacred oak-forests was in the neighbourhood of Dorpat. Thursday is his day; whence it is more often mentioned in popular tales than any other day in the week. He is also called Uko or Ukko (the Old God), by which name he is usually known in the _Kalevala_; and also Vana Isa, or Old Father. The Christian God is called Jumal or Jumala, and is probably to be identified with Taara. Ukko or Taara is the ancestor and protector of the heroes; he attended with Rõugutaja at the birth of the Kalevipoeg, watched over and protected him during his life, sometimes appeared to counsel him in visions, received him in his heavenly halls after death, and assigned to him his future employment. Ukko's daughters are Lindu and Jutta, the queens of the birds; and Siuru, who is described as a blue bird herself. Possibly these may be all the same; and the first at least may be identical with Kalev's bride, Linda, who was born from an egg, and whose name is evidently derived from _lind_ or _lindu_, a bird. Äike, Kõu, Paristaja, Pikne, Piker, or Pikker, is the god of thunder, and some of his names connect him with the Lithuanian Perkunas. He thunders across the iron bridges of the skies in his chariot; and hurls his thunderbolts at the demons, like Thor. He also possesses a musical instrument, of which the demons stand in great terror. He has a ne'er-do-weel son, who has dealings with the Devil, and a mischievous little daughter, called the Air-Maiden. Ahti, the god of the waters, is mentioned occasionally, but much less frequently than Ahto in the _Kalevala_. He must not be confounded with Ahti, one of the names of the hero Lemminkainen in the latter poem. Rõugutaja is the god of the winds and waves, and attends specially on births. In one story, however, he appears rather in the character of a morose wood-demon with very undesirable family connections than as a god. This is very probably due to missionary efforts to malign his character and discredit his worship. However, there is a class of magicians who are called Wind-sorcerers, and witches often invoke the aid of the Mother of the Wind. An old man, with one eye and a long grey beard, often appears to travellers in the forests. He is probably the Finnish Tapio, but is not named. The sun, moon, and stars are represented as male deities. Goddesses preside over the woods, fields, waters, &c. Thus we have the Meadow-Queen (literally, Grass-mother), who presides over the home-field, and is therefore one of the protecting deities of the household. She is also the queen of the woods and fields. The Wind-mother and Water-mother are similar deities, and the wood-nymphs and water-nymphs are their daughters. Vanemuine, the Väinämöinen of the Finns, is the god of song and music, rather than the patriarch and culture-hero of the _Kalevala_. All voices and sounds in nature are only echoes of his music. He has a foster-daughter, Jutta, of whom we have given an account elsewhere. Ilmarine (Finnish, Ilmarinen) is a great smith, whose workshop is under a mountain at the centre of the earth. The Devil has many names, being called Kurat, the Evil One; Tühi or Tühja, the Empty One, or rather, perhaps, the Contemptible One; but most often Vana Pois, the Old Boy; God being frequently called Vana Isa, the Old Father. He dwells in the underground kingdom, and has three daughters, or foster-daughters; a hat of invisibility, composed of nail-parings; a bridge-building wand, and a sword. He has also much gold and silver plate, and ducks and geese with gold and silver plumage. These treasures are often carried off by enterprising heroes. The maidens whom the Kalevipoeg found in the palace of Sarvik do not appear to have been at all unkindly treated, though they had to work hard, and much regretted that they had no human company. Another Devil, more prominent in the _Kalevipoeg_, is Vana Sarvik, or Old Hornie, who is represented as Tühi's brother-in-law. The Devil's underground kingdom is called Põrgu, or Hell. His mother usually appears in the form of a bitch, and his grandmother under that of a white mare. The minor Esthonian devils are usually stupid rather than malevolent. They are sometimes ogres or soul-merchants, but are at times quite ready to do a kindness, or to return one to those who aid them. Their great enemies are the Thunder-God and the wolf. The principal outwitter of the devil is generally called Crafty Hans; and several volumes of their adventures have been published in Esthonian. The Devil is often represented as fond of beer. Besides the above-named gods and demons, we have spirits of the whirlwind and the Northern Lights; gnomes; and a host of inferior demons, as well as various grades of sorcerers, especially Wind-sorcerers, Word-sorcerers, or soothsayers, and Death-sorcerers, or necromancers. The Tont, or House-Spirit, goes by various names; among others Kratt or Puuk. Kratt is perhaps a word of Scandinavian or German origin; Puuk must be the same as our Puck, or the Irish Pouka. He was probably originally a beneficent house-spirit, and in later times assumed the demoniacal character in which he appears in the story of the Treasure-Bringer. In the story of "Martin and his Dead Master," we have a spectre much resembling a vampyre in character. The gigantic race of the heroes is represented as descended from Taara. As in the case of so many other hero-races--as, for example, the knights of Arthur, Finn, Charlemagne, Vladimir, Palmerin, &c.--they are at length practically destroyed in a series of terrible battles, while the Kalevipoeg, like Arthur, Olger, Barbarossa, and Tell, remains in enchanted bondage till the day shall come for him to restore the ancient glories of his country.[3] [Footnote 3: Further information on most of the subjects discussed in the Introduction will be found in the Notes and Index.] PART I THE HERO OF ESTHONIA The _Kalevipoeg_, which may be called the national epic of Esthonia, contains the adventures of a mythical hero of gigantic size, who ruled over the country in its days of independence and prosperity. He is always called by his patronymic, Kalevipoeg, or Kalevide, the son of Kalev; and, notwithstanding the great differences between them, he is evidently the Kullervo of the Finnish _Kalevala_. The _Kalevipoeg_ consists of twenty cantos and about 19,000 lines; and a fairly complete prose outline of the story is here given, all the tedious lyrical interludes which break its continuity, especially at the beginning of several of the cantos, being entirely omitted. For further general information respecting the poem itself we will refer to the Introduction, and will now proceed to give a short abstract of the principal contents of the cantos, before proceeding to a more detailed analysis. ARGUMENT OF THE "KALEVIPOEG" _Canto I._--Three brothers travel in various directions, one of whom, Kalev,[4] is carried by an eagle to Esthonia, where he becomes king. A widow finds a hen, a grouse's egg, and a young crow. From the two first spring the fair maidens, Salme and Linda, and from the last a slave-girl. Salme chooses the Youth of the Stars, and Linda the young giant-king Kalev, as their respective husbands, with whom they depart. _Canto II._--Death and burial of Kalev; birth of his posthumous son, the Kalevipoeg. _Canto III._--The Kalevipoeg and his brothers go hunting in the forest. During their absence Linda is carried off by a Finnish sorcerer whose suit she has despised. She escapes from him through the interference of the gods, who afterwards change her into a rock. Return of the brothers; the Kalevide seeks help and counsel at his father's grave. _Canto IV._--The Kalevide throws himself into the sea to swim to Finland. In the evening he lands on an island where he meets a maiden whom he seduces. When she hears his name, she is horrified, and falls into the sea. He plunges after her, but being unable to save her, swims onwards on his journey. The parents rake the sea, and find an oak and a fir and other things, but not their daughter. Song of a maiden who was enticed into the sea by a man of copper. _Canto V._--The planting of the great oak-tree on the island. The Kalevide arrives in Finland and slays the sorcerer. _Canto VI._--The Kalevide visits a famous smith, from whom he buys a huge sword, which was bespoken by his father Kalev. A great drinking-bout is held in his honour, during which he slays the smith's eldest son in a fit of drunken fury, and the smith curses him. The felling of the great oak-tree on the island. _Canto VII._--The Kalevide finds the sorcerer's boat, and sails homeward. The three brothers relate their adventures and the eldest proposes that they should now decide which of them shall settle in the country as his father's heir. The Kalevide again visits his father's grave. _Canto VIII._--The three sons of Kalev journey to the shores of a lake, and try their strength in hurling rocks across it. The youngest makes the best cast, and the other two leave the country. The Kalevide ploughs the land, and one day while he is sleeping his horse is devoured by wolves. _Canto IX._--The Kalevide slaughters the wolves. News of war. The visit of Taara. The Finnish Bridge. _Canto X._--In order to settle a dispute between two water-demons, the Kalevide's cousin, the Alevide, begins to drain a swamp. The water-demon begs the hero to desist, and the latter tricks the demon out of his treasures. Visit of the Kalevide's cup-bearer to the water-demon's palace, and his escape. The Kalevide overcomes the demon in hurling and wrestling. He decides to build fortified towns, and sets out to Lake Peipus to fetch timber. Meeting with the Air-maiden at a well. _Canto XI._--The Kalevide wades through Lake Peipus. A sorcerer steals his sword and sinks it in the brook Käpä, where the Kalevide leaves it, after enjoining it to cut off the legs of him who had brought it there; meaning the sorcerer. He encounters a man of ordinary stature in a forest, whom he puts in his wallet. The man relates his adventure with two giants and their mother. _Canto XII._--The Kalevide is attacked by three sons of the sorcerer, and beats them off with the boards, which are destroyed. Adventure with the hedgehog. The Kalevide finds to his grief that the man in his wallet has been killed by a chance blow during the fight. He falls asleep, and the sorcerer casts a spell upon him which throws him into a deep sleep for seven weeks. Vision of Ilmarine's workshop. The Kalevide wakes, and sets out on his return. Adventures of two poor boys. _Canto XIII._--On his return journey the Kalevide finds some demons cooking at the entrance to a cave. He enters the cavern, which leads him to the door of the palace of Sarvik,[5] which he breaks open. In the antechamber, he finds three maidens. _Canto XIV._--Next day the maidens show the Kalevide over Sarvik's palace. Sarvik surprises them, and wrestles with the Kalevide in the enclosure, but is overcome and vanishes. The Kalevide and the sisters escape from the palace. _Canto XV._--The fugitives are pursued by the demons, but the youngest sister raises a flood between them. The leader, Tühi, questions the Kalevide, who answers him sarcastically, and the demons take to flight. The three sisters are married to the Kalevide's kinsmen. _Canto XVI._--The Kalevide projects a voyage to the end of the world. Building of the ship Lennuk. Voyage to Finland and Lapland. Meeting with Varrak, the Laplander. Voyage to the Island of Fire. The Giant's Daughter. The Northern Lights. The Dog-men. Homeward voyage. _Canto XVII._--The fortified cities. Great battle with invaders. Land journey of the Kalevide and his friends. Encounter with Sarvik disguised as a dwarf. The daughters of the Meadow-Queen. _Canto XVIII._--The gates of Põrgu.[6] The Kalevide enters the cavern, notwithstanding every obstacle fights his way across an iron bridge, and enters Sarvik's palace. _Canto XIX._--The Kalevide overcomes Sarvik in a wrestling match, and loads him with chains. He returns to the upper world, and finds the Alevide waiting for him at the entrance to the cavern. Return of the Kalevide to Lindanisa.[7] Great feast and songs. News of a formidable invasion. Departure of Varrak for Lapland. Arrival of fugitives. _Canto XX._--The Kalevide buries his treasure. Terrible battles, in which his cousin the Sulevide is slain. Drowning of the Alevide. The Kalevide abdicates in favour of his surviving cousin, the Olevide, and retires to live in seclusion on the bank of a river. Being annoyed by occasional visitors, he wanders away towards Lake Peipus, and steps into the brook Käpä, when his sword cuts off his legs. His soul takes flight to the halls of Taara,[8] but is bidden by the gods to reanimate his body. He is mounted on a horse, and stationed at the gates of Põrgu, to keep watch and ward on Sarvik and his hosts. [Footnote 4: The names of the others are not mentioned, but later in the poem we meet with three heroes, the sons of Alev, Olev, and Sulev respectively, associated with the son of Kalev, and spoken of as his cousins. Alev and Sulev may have been the brothers of Kalev.] [Footnote 5: The Prince of Hades, literally Hornie.] [Footnote 6: Hades or Hell.] [Footnote 7: Linda's Bosom, the Kalevide's capital, named in honour of his mother; now Revel.] [Footnote 8: Ukko, the principal god of the Finns and Esthonians, is frequently called Taara in the _Kalevipoeg_. This name is not used in Finnish; but Tora is the name of God among the Chuvash of Kasan.] THE KALEVIPOEG OR, _THE ADVENTURES OF THE SON OF KALEV, THE HERO OF ESTHONIA._ The poem commences with an invocation to Vanemuine.[9] This is followed by a long lyrical exordium. [Footnote 9: In the Finnish _Kalevala_, Väinämöinen is represented as a culture-hero, and as the father of his people; in Esthonia Vanemuine is usually a demi-god. He is always the inventor and patron of music and the harp. He plays no part in the _Kalevipoeg_, where his name is only mentioned once or twice.] CANTO I THE MARRIAGES OF SALME AND LINDA In ancient days, the race of Taara dwelt here and there in the land, and took to themselves wives of the daughters of men.[10] In the far North, near the sacred oak forest of Taara, such a household existed, and from thence three sons went forth into the world to seek their fortunes. One son travelled to Russia, where he became a great merchant; another journeyed to Lapland, and became a warrior; while the third, the famous Kalev,[11] the father of heroes, was borne to Esthonia on the back of an eagle.[12] The eagle flew with him to the south across the Gulf of Finland, and then eastward across Lääne[13] and Viru,[14] until, by the wise ordering of Jumala,[15] the eagle finally descended with him on the rocky shores of Viru, where he founded a kingdom. In the province of Lääne a young widow lived quietly by herself. One Sunday she followed the footprints of her cattle, and what did she find on her way? On the path she found a hen; she found a grouse's egg in the footprints of the cattle, and she found a young crow near the village. She carried them all home with her to comfort her loneliness, and she made a nest for the hen and the egg in a basket lined with wool, but she threw the young crow into a corner behind the boxes. The hen soon began to grow, and her head reached the lid of the basket while she sat on the egg. She grew taller for three months, and for several days of the fourth month. The widow went into the storehouse to look at her foster-children, and what did she behold on raising the lid of the basket? The hen had grown into the fair maiden Salme;[16] the egg had given birth to a second maiden, Linda, while the poor crow had become an orphan girl, a maid-of-all-work, to carry wood to the stove and to bend under the weight of water-pails from the well. Salme was besieged by suitors. Five and six brought her offerings of corn-brandy, seven sent her offers of marriage, and eight sent trustworthy messengers to bring them news of her. The fame of her beauty spread far and wide, and at length not merely mortal lovers, but even the Moon, the Sun,[17] and the eldest son of the Pole Star sought her hand in marriage. The Moon drove up in a grand chariot drawn by fifty horses, and attended by a train of sixty grooms. He was a pale slender youth, and found no favour in the eyes of Salme, who cried out from the storehouse: "Him I will not have for husband, And the night-illumer love not. Far too varied are his duties, And his work is much too heavy. Sometimes he must shine in heaven Ere the day, or late in evening; Sometimes when the sun is rising; Sometimes he must toil at morning, Ere the day has fully broken; Sometimes watches in the daytime, Lingering in the sky till mid-day." When the Moon heard her answer, he grew yet paler, and returned home sorrowful. And now the Sun himself appeared, a young man with fiery eyes; and he drove up with similar state to the Moon. But Salme declared that she liked him even less than the Moon, for he was much too fickle. Sometimes, during the finest summer weather, he would send rain in the midst of the hay-harvest; or if the time had come for sowing oats, he would parch the land with drought; or if the time for sowing is past, he dries up the barley in the ground, beats down the flax, and presses down the peas in the furrows; he won't let the buckwheat grow, or the lentils in their pods; and when the rye is white for harvest, he either glows fiercely and drives away the clouds, or sends a pouring rain. The Sun was deeply offended; his eyes glowed with anger, and he departed in a rage. At last the Youth of the Stars made his appearance, driving with a similar cortège to those who had preceded him. As soon as Salme heard of his arrival, she cried out that his horse was to be led into the stable and tended with the utmost care. The horse must have the best provender, and must be given fine linen to rest on and be covered with silken cloths; his head was to rest on satin, and his hoofs on soft hay. After this she declared to his master: "Him I will accept as lover, Give the Star my hand in marriage, And will prove his faithful consort. Gently shine his eyes of starlight, And his temper alters nothing. Never can he thwart the sowing, Never will destroy the harvest." Having thus accepted her suitor and provided for the comfort of his horse, Salme ordered the bridegroom to be ushered into the hall, where the broad table was washed clean and covered with a new tablecloth. The Star was to be seated with his back to the wall and his feet comfortably propped up on the bench, while he was to be feasted on the best meat and fish, and offered wedding-cake and honey, besides beer and sweet mead. The widow invited the Star to take his place at the table, and pressed him to eat and drink, but he was greatly excited, and his weapons, ornaments, and heavy spurs jingled and clanked as he stamped on the floor, and declared that he would eat nothing till Salme herself appeared before him. But Salme asked him to wait awhile while she adorned herself, and asked her sister Linda to fetch her woollen dress and her silken shift with gold-embroidered sleeves, her stockings with the pretty garters, and the brightly coloured and gold-worked kerchiefs of silk and linen. Meantime, the widow again invited the Star to eat and drink, or, if he were tired, to sleep; but he declared, as before, that he would neither eat nor drink till he had seen Salme, and that the stars never closed their eyes in sleep. At last Salme herself appeared in the hall, but the Meadow-Queen[18] and the wood nymphs had so adorned her that her foster-mother did not know her again, and asked in astonishment, "Is it the moon,[19] or the sun, or one of the young daughters of the sunset?" Guests gathered to the wedding from far and near, and even the oaks and alders came, roots, branches, and all. After this they danced the cross-dance,[20] Waltzed the waltzes of Esthonia, And they danced the Arju[21] dances, And the dances of the West Land; And they danced upon the gravel, And they trampled all the greensward. Starry youth and maiden Salme, Thus their nuptials held in rapture. In the midst of these joyous festivities, the Moon and then the Sun returned in greater state than before to seek the hand of Linda, who was resting on a couch in the bathroom; but she also refused them both, almost in the same terms as her sister had done; and they retired sorrowfully. A third suitor, the Lord of the Waters, now appeared; but Linda replied that the roaring of the waves was terrible, and the depth of the sea was awful; that the brooks only gave a scanty supply of water, and the river-floods were devastating. He was followed by the Wind, who rode the Horse of the Tempest, and, like all the other suitors, was attended by a cavalcade of fifty horses and sixty grooms; and he too asked the hand of Linda. But she replied that a delicate girl could never take pleasure in the howling of the wind and the raging of the tempest. The Wind whistled out of the house, but his trouble did not weigh on his heart very long. Another suitor for the hand of Linda now appeared in the person of the Prince of Kungla.[22] All the guests, and Linda's own sisters, approved of this suitor. But Linda declared that she could not think of accepting him; for the king, his father, had wicked daughters, who would treat a stranger unkindly. A sixth suitor now appeared in the person of the young and handsome giant Kalev. All the wedding-guests grumbled, and even the widow was opposed to the match; but he pleased Linda, and she accepted him at once. The widow then invited him to enter and partake of the good cheer; but he trembled with eagerness, so that his sword in its sheath, and his chains and spurs, and even the money in his purse, jingled as he answered that he would neither eat nor drink till Linda appeared before him. Linda begged for a little delay to adorn herself, but Kalev still refused to eat or drink, and then she called her slave-sister to help her, while the widow continued her ineffectual invitations to Kalev to feast and enjoy himself. At last Linda appeared in the hall, where she excited as much admiration as her sister, and her wedding was celebrated with still greater festivities than Salme's, the guests dancing the local dances of every province of Esthonia. But now the Youth of the Stars could delay no longer, and Salme took an affecting farewell of her foster-mother and all her kith and kin, declaring that she would now be hidden behind the clouds, or wandering through the heavens transformed into a star. Then she mounted her sledge, and again bade her foster-mother a last and eternal farewell. Linda and her slave-sister called after her to ask whither she was going; but there came no answer save the sighing of the wind, and tears of joy and regret in the rain and the dew; nor did they ever receive tidings of Salme more. After Salme's departure, the wedding-festival of Linda was kept up for some time, and when Kalev finally drove off with her in her sledge, she bade farewell to her foster-mother; but Kalev reminded her that she had forgotten the moon before the house, who was her father; the sun before the storehouse, who was her old uncle; and the birch-tree before the window, who was her brother, besides her cousins in the wood. They gazed after her sorrowfully; but she was happy with Kalev, and heeded them not. Kalev and Linda drove on in their sledge day and night across the snow-fields and through the pine-forests till they reached their home. [Footnote 10: If this is a Scriptural allusion, it is almost the only one in the book. The _Kalevipoeg_ is essentially a pre-Christian poem, and nowhere exhibits the curious mixture of pre-Christian and Christian ideas that we meet with in many parts of the Kalevala, and notably in Runo 50.] [Footnote 11: In the _Kalevala_ (= the country of Kaleva), the hero himself does not appear in person, though we constantly read of his sons and daughters. Some critics, however, identify him with the dead giant, Antero Vipunen, in Runo 17 of the _Kalevala_.] [Footnote 12: The eagle of the North plays a conspicuous part in Finnish and Esthonian literature. It is this bird for whose resting-place Väinämöinen spares the birch-tree, and which afterwards rescues him from the waves and carries him to Pohjola. In several cosmogonic ballads, too, it is the eggs of this bird and not of the blue duck which contribute to the formation of the world: for the Mundane Egg plays a part here as well as in other cosmogonies. The passage in the _Kalevipoeg_, to which this note refers, corresponds almost exactly to one in the _Kalevala_ (xxx. 1-10), which ushers in the adventures of Kullervo.] [Footnote 13: A province in Western Esthonia, called Wiek by the Germans.] [Footnote 14: Esthonia proper; specially applied to the north-eastern province.] [Footnote 15: God: this word is applied to the Christian God in Esthonia, Finland, and Lapland, as well as to the local divinities.] [Footnote 16: There are many tales and ballads about the miraculous birth and wooing of Salme and Linda. (Compare Neus, _Ehstnische Volkslieder_, p. 9; Latham's _Nationalities of Europe_, i. p. 142.) In the story of the "Milky Way," which commences Part II. of this volume, Linda is represented as the daughter of Uko, and the queen of the birds. We also read of a blue bird, Siuru, the daughter of Taara, in the ballads. The name Linda or Lindu is evidently derived from the word _Lind_, a bird.] [Footnote 17: The Sun and Moon are both male deities in Finnish and Esthonian. In the _Kalevala_ (Runo 11) the sun, moon, and a star seek the hand of Kyllikki, the fair maid of Saari, for their sons, but she rejects them all as unceremoniously as Salme. In the _Kanteletar_ (iii. 6), a maiden called Suometar (= Finland's daughter) plays a similar part. Suometar is born from a duck's egg, found by a young girl named Katrina.] [Footnote 18: _Muru eit_, the meadow-queen (literally grass-mother), is regarded as one of the tutelary divinities of the house. Esthonian houses generally stand in a _grass field_, entered by a gate. Within the enclosure are the storehouses, cattle-pens, and other outbuildings.] [Footnote 19: This is somewhat inconsistent with the rather undignified appearance of the Sun and Moon in person a little while before.] [Footnote 20: The cross-dance is still danced in out-of-the-way parts of the country; it is a kind of quadrille. Four couples station themselves in such a manner as to form a cross. The opposite pairs advance and retire several times, and then they dance round, when the second pairs dance in the same manner, and another dance round follows, till they have danced enough. The dance is accompanied with a song, in which the dancers, and sometimes the bystanders, join.] [Footnote 21: Arju or Harju (German, Harrien) one of the provinces of Esthonia.] [Footnote 22: Kungla is described as a country of untold wealth and the land of adventures--a kind of fairyland. It appears, however, to have been a real country, separated from Esthonia by sea, of which fabulous tales were told. Some writers identify it with the Government of Perm; but this is improbable, as it is generally described as an island. Others think that the island of Gottland is meant.] CANTO II THE DEATH OF KALEV Kalev and Linda lived very happily together, and were blessed with a numerous offspring;[23] but the country was small, and as soon as the children were grown up they wandered forth into the world to seek their fortunes, more especially as Kalev had determined that one son only should be the heir to his possessions. At length Kalev began to grow old, and felt that his end was approaching. Two of his younger sons, who were still little boys, remained at home; but the youngest of all, the famous Sohni, more often known by his patronymic, the Son of Kalev, was still unborn. Kalev foretold the glory and greatness of this last son to Linda, indicating him as his heir,[24] and shortly afterwards fell dangerously sick. Then Linda took her brooch, and spun it round on a thread, while she sent forth the Alder-Beetle[25] to bid the Wind-Magician and Soothsayer hasten to the bedside of her husband. Seven days the brooch spun round, and seven days the beetle flew to the north, across three kingdoms and more, till he encountered the Moon, and besought his aid. But the Moon only gazed on him sorrowfully without speaking, and went on his way. Again Linda spun the brooch for seven days, and sent forth the beetle, who flew farther this time, through many thick forests, and as far as the Gold Mountain, till he encountered the Evening Star; but he also refused him an answer. Next time the beetle took a different route, over wide heaths and thick fir-woods, till he reached the Gold Mountain, and met the rising Sun. He also returned no answer; but on a fourth journey the beetle encountered the Wind-Magician, the old Soothsayer from Finland,[26] and the great Necromancer himself. He besought their aid, but they replied with one voice that what the drought had parched up, the moonlight blanched, and the stars withered, could never bloom again. And before the beetle returned from his fruitless journey the mighty Kalev had expired. Linda sat weeping by his bedside without food or sleep for seven days and nights, and then began to prepare his corpse for burial. First she bathed it with her tears, then with salt water from the sea, rain water from the clouds, and lastly water from the spring. Then she smoothed his hair with her fingers, and brushed it with a silver brush, and combed it with the golden comb which the water-nymphs had used to comb their hair. She drew on him a silken shirt, a satin shroud, and a robe over it, confined by a silver girdle. She herself dug his grave thirty ells below the sod, and grass and flowers soon sprang from it. From the grave the grasses sprouted, And the herbage from the hillock; From the dead man dewy grasses, From his cheeks grew ruddy flowers, From his eyes there sprang the harebells, Golden flowerets from his eyelids.[27] Linda mourned for Kalev for one month after another till three months had passed, and the fourth was far advanced. She heaped a cairn of stones over his tomb, which formed the hill on which the Cathedral of Revel now stands. One day she was carrying a great stone to the cairn, but found herself too weak, and let it fall. She sat down on it, and lamented her sad fate, and her tears formed the lake called "Ülemiste järv," the Upper Lake, beside which the huge stone block may still be seen.[28] After this, Linda felt her time approaching, and she retired to the bathroom,[29] and called upon the gods to aid her. Ukko and Rõugutaja[30] both attended at her call, and one brought a bundle of straw, and the other pillows, and they made her up a soft bed; nor was it long before Kalev's posthumous son saw the light. Linda was sitting by the cradle one day, trying to sing the child to sleep, when suddenly he began to scream, and continued to scream day and night for a whole month, when he burst his swaddling-clothes, smashed the cradle to pieces, and began to creep about the floor.[31] Linda suckled the child till he was three years old, and he grew up a fine strong boy. He first learned to tend the cattle, and then to guide the plough, and grew up like a young oak-tree. When he played _kurni_ (tipcat), his blocks flew far and wide all over the country, and many even as far as the sea. Sometimes he used to go down to the sea, and make ducks and drakes of huge rocks, which he sent spinning out to sea for a verst or more, while he stood on his head to watch them. At other times he used to amuse himself quietly in the enclosure, carving skates or weaving baskets. Thus he passed his days till he came to man's estate. After the death of Kalev, Linda was much pestered by suitors who were anxious to marry the rich widow; but she refused them all, and at length they ceased to trouble her. Last of all came a mighty wind-sorcerer from Finland, calling himself Kalev's cousin; and when she refused him also, he vowed revenge. But she laughed at his threats, telling him she had three young eagles with sharp claws growing up in the house, who would protect their mother. Linda was no longer tormented by suitors, but the magician whom she had discarded recommended all his friends not to seek a wife in Kalev's house, for notwithstanding Linda's wealth her beauty was faded, her teeth were iron, and her words were red-hot pincers. They would do better to sail to Finland, where they would find rows of maidens, rich in money, pearls, jewels, and golden bracelets, waiting for them on the rocky coast. [Footnote 23: According to various traditions, Kalev and Linda are said to have had seven or twelve sons.] [Footnote 24: This is what Jacobs calls "junior right;" the patriarchal custom of the elder children going forth into the world to seek their fortunes, and the youngest remaining at home to look after his parents and inherit their possessions. Hence the rivalry between Esau and Jacob.] [Footnote 25: Has this anything to do with boys spinning cockchafers on a thread? The beetle alluded to in the text is said to be the ladybird, but the ladybird has no particular connection with the alder. When a brooch is thus spun on a thread, a question is asked, and if the motion stops, the answer is unfavourable, but favourable if it continues. The flight of the beetle is fortunate towards the south, but unfortunate towards the north.] [Footnote 26: It is curious that the Esthonians always regarded the Finns, and the Finns the Lapps, as great sorcerers; each nation attributing special skill in magic to those living north of themselves.--But there is a Finnish ballad (_Kanteletar_, iii. 2) in which we read of the sun and moon being stolen by German and Esthonian sorcerers.] [Footnote 27: This reminds us of Ariel's well-known song-- "Full fathom five thy father lies, Of his bones are coral made," &c. ] [Footnote 28: The origin of stone blocks is usually ascribed to non-human beings in many countries, but most frequently to the devil, especially in Northern Europe. Compare also the church-stories, &c., in a later part of this work.] [Footnote 29: The usual place employed on such occasions in Finland and Esthonia.] [Footnote 30: Ukko or Taara commonly appears as the principal god of the Finns and Esthonians; Rõugutaja usually as an accoucheur, but occasionally also as a malicious demon. Rõugutaja is also called the God of the Wind. Other authorities consider him a water-god. (Kreutzwald und Neus, _Mythische und Magische Lieder_, p. 108.)] [Footnote 31: Kullervo in the _Kalevala_ (Runo 30) bursts his swaddling-clothes and smashes his cradle in the same way.] CANTO III THE FATE OF LINDA One hot day, the youngest son of Kalev was sitting on the top of a cliff watching the clouds and waves. Suddenly the sky became overcast, and a terrific storm arose, which lashed the breakers into foam. Äike,[32] the Thunder-God, was driving his brazen-wheeled chariot over the iron bridges of the sky, and as he thundered above, the sparks flew from the wheels, and he hurled down flash after flash of lightning from his strong right hand against a company of wicked demons of the air, who plunged from the rocks into the sea, dodged the thunderbolts among the waves, and mocked and insulted the god. The hero was enraged at their audacity, and plunging into the water, dragged them from their hiding-places like crabs, and filled a whole sack with them. He then swam to the shore, and cast them out on the rocks, where the bolts of the angry god soon reduced them to a disgusting mass that even the wolves would not touch. Another day, the three sons of Kalev went hunting in the forest with their three dogs.[33] The dogs killed a bear among the bushes, an elk in the open country, and a wild ox in the fir-wood. Next they encountered a pack of wolves and another of foxes, numbering five dozen of each, and killed them all. All this game the youngest brother bound together and carried on his back; and on the way home they found the rye-fields full of hares, of which they likewise secured five dozen.[34] Meantime the Finnish sorcerer had been watching Kalev's house from his boat, where he remained in hiding among the rocks a little way from the shore, till he saw that the three young heroes had left the house and wandered far into the forest, leaving their home unprotected. The sorcerer then steered boldly to the shore, hid his boat, and made his way by devious and unfrequented paths to the house of Kalev, where he climbed over the low gate into the enclosure, and went to the door, but he looked cautiously round when he reached the threshold. Linda was just boiling soup over the fire when he rushed in, and, without saying a word, seized her by the girdle and dragged her away to his boat. She resisted him with tooth and nail, but he muttered spells which unnerved her strength and overpowered her feeble efforts, and her prayers and cries for help were unheard by men. But she cried to the gods for protection, and the Thunder-God himself came to her aid. Just as the sorcerer was about to push off from the shore, Pikker darted a bolt from the clouds. His chariot thundered over the iron bridges of the sky, scattering flames around it, and the sorcerer was struck down senseless. Linda fled; but the gods spared her further sorrow and outrage by transforming her into a rock on Mount Iru. It was a long time before the sorcerer woke from his swoon, when he sat up, rubbing his eyes, and wondering what had become of his prey; but he could discover no trace of her. The rock is now called "Iru's Stepmother;" and old people relate that when it was once rolled down into the valley, it was found next morning in its original place on the mountain. The sons of Kalev were now making the best of their way home, sometimes along well-trodden paths or across the plains, sometimes wading through deep sand or mossy bogs, and then through forests of pine, oak, birch, and alder. The pine forest was called the King's Wood; the oak forest was sacred to the God Taara; the forest where the slender birch-trees grew was called the Maidens' Wood, and the alder-wood was sacred to mourners, and was called the Wood of the Poor Orphans. As they passed through the pine forest which was called the King's Wood, the eldest brother sat down under a tree and began to sing a song. He sang till the leaves on the trees shone brighter than ever, and the needles on the fir-trees turned to silken tassels, and the fir-cones gleamed purple in the sunshine. Acorns sprouted on the oaks, tender catkins on the birch-trees, and other trees were covered with sweet-scented snow-white flowers, which shone in the sunshine and glimmered in the moonlight, while the woods re-echoed with his singing, and the tones were heard far over the heaths and meadows, and the daughter of the king of Kungla wept tears of rapture.[35] The second brother sat down in the birch-wood under a weeping birch-tree, and began to sing a song. As he sang, the buds unfolded and the flowers bloomed, the golden ears of corn swelled, and the apples reddened, the kernels formed in the nuts, the cherries ripened, red berries grew on the hills and blue berries in the marshes, while black berries grew at the edges of the swamps, yellow ones on the mossy hillocks, and the elder-trees were covered with rich purple grapes, while the woods re-echoed with the song, and its notes spread far over the heaths and meadows till the little water-nymphs shed tears of rapture. The third brother sat down under a magnificent oak in the sacred oak-forest of Taara, and began to sing a song. As he sang, the wild beasts of the neighbouring woods and heaths gathered round him, and the cuckoos, doves, magpies, larks, nightingales, and swallows joined in the concert. The swans, geese, and ducks swam towards the sound, the waves of the sea beat on the rocks, and the crowns of the trees bowed down. The green hills trembled, and the clouds parted to permit the sky to listen to the singing, while the forest-king's daughter, the slender wood-nymphs, and the yellow-haired water-nymphs wept tears of rapture and glowed with longing for the handsome singer. Evening now approached, and the heroes made the best of their way homewards, the youngest, as before, loading himself with all the game. They looked out anxiously for the smoke of their home and the glow of the kitchen-fire, but they could discover nothing. They quickened their pace as they crossed the deep sand of the heath, but no smoke nor fire nor steam from the kettle could be seen. They rushed into the house, but the fire was out and the hearth was cold. Again and again they shouted to their mother, but there was no answer save the echo. The evening became darker and stiller, and the brothers went out to search in different directions. The youngest went down to the beach, where he found such traces of his mother's presence that he concluded that she had been carried off by her disappointed suitor, the Finnish sorcerer. The eldest brother proposed that they should eat their supper and go to sleep, hoping that a dream might show them where to seek for their mother. The second assented, hoping that Ukko would send them a vision; but the youngest was unwilling to put off till to-morrow what might be done to-day, and finally determined to repair to his father's grave.[36] From his grave there spoke the father-- "Who upon the sand is treading, With his feet the grave disturbing? In my eyes the sand is running, On my eyelids grass is pressing." The youth told his father who he was, and all his trouble, and implored him to rise and help him. But his father answered that he could not rise, for the rocks lay on his breast, lilies of the valley on his eyelids, harebells on his eyes, and red flowers on his cheeks. But he prayed the wind to show his son the right path, and a gentle zephyr to guide him on the way pointed out by the stars of heaven. So the young hero returned to the sea-shore and followed his mother's footprints till they were lost in the sea. He gazed over the sea and shore, but could detect no further traces of her, nor was any boat in sight. There he sat till it grew quite dark, and the moon and stars appeared in the sky; but winds and waves, sea and sky, moon and stars, alike were silent, and brought him no tidings of his mother. [Footnote 32: The Esthonian Thunder-God goes by a variety of names, but is usually called Pikker or Pikne, evidently the Perkunas of the Lithuanians. He resembles Thor in driving about in a chariot, waging war with the evil demons; but one of his attributes, not appertaining to Thor, is his flute (or bagpipe, as some critics regard it). It will be seen in many places that the Esthonians, like all other peoples among whom the belief in fairies, demons, &c., survives, do not share the absurd modern notion that such beings must necessarily be immortal.] [Footnote 33: Peter, in the story of the Lucky Rouble, is also attended by three black dogs. The dogs of the sons of Kalev were named Irmi, Armi, and Mustukene; the last name means Blackie, not Throttler, as Reinthal translates it.] [Footnote 34: In the _Maha-Bharata_ Bhima is represented as carrying enormous loads, and in one passage Yudhishthira is searching for his brother in the Himalayas, when he comes to a place where slaughtered lions and tigers are lying about by thousands, which convinces him that he is on the right track.] [Footnote 35: This passage would seem to indicate that the daughter of the king of Kungla was sometimes looked upon rather as a fairy than as a human princess.] [Footnote 36: Visits to a father's grave for counsel are very common in the literature of Northern Europe.] CANTO IV THE ISLAND MAIDEN When the Kalevide had satisfied himself that no further traces of his mother were to be found, he cast himself into the sea beneath the stars, and swam northwards manfully towards Finland, swimming with his hands, steering with his feet, and with his hair floating like a sail. He swam on till past midnight without meeting with a resting-place; but at length he espied a black speck in the distance, which proved to be a small rocky island. The hero discovered a mossy bank on a projecting rock, and made his way to the shore, and lay down, intending to sleep a little, when he was roused by the voice of a maiden singing a love-song. It was very dark and somewhat foggy, but he saw the light of a fire at a little distance at the foot of an oak-tree, beneath which sat a fair girl with brown eyes.[37] The hero soon joined her, and they talked together for some time, when the maiden became alarmed at his familiarities, and cried out. Her mother awoke, and thought it was only a bad dream; but her father hastened to her aid, armed with a great club. But when he saw the terrible giant, he grew as pale as death, and his club dropped from his hand. The maiden could not lift her eyes to her father, but the Kalevide asked carelessly if he had seen the Finnish sorcerer pass the island in his boat on the previous evening. "No," replied the islander, "I have not seen anything of him for weeks; but tell me your name and lineage, for I judge that you are of the race of the gods." The hero answered him fully; but when the maiden heard that he was the son of Kalev and Linda, she was seized with terror, and her foot slipping she fell from the cliff into the sea. The father shrieked and wrung his hands, but the Kalevide plunged into the sea after the maiden, and sought for her for a long time in vain. When he abandoned the search, he did not venture to return to the island, but after crying out a few words of unavailing regret swam again towards Finland. The father's cry of despair fully roused the mother, who sprang up, and ran down to the shore, only to learn that her daughter was lost. Then the mother took a rake with a long copper handle, and the father took his net, and with them they sought for their daughter's body at the bottom of the sea.[38] They did not find their daughter, but they raked up an oak-tree, a fir-tree, an eagle's egg, an iron helmet, a fish, and a silver dish. They took them all carefully home, and went again to seek for their lost child. Then a song arose from the deep, telling how a maiden went down to the sea:[39] What beheld she in the ocean? What beneath the sea was shining? From the sea a sword shone golden, In the waves a spear of silver, From the sand a copper crossbow. Then to grasp the sword she hastened, And to seize the spear of silver, And to lift the copper crossbow. Then there came a man to meet her; 'Twas an aged man of copper;[40] On his head a helm of copper; Wearing, too, a shirt of copper; Round his waist a belt of copper; On his hands were copper gauntlets; On his feet were boots of copper; In his belt were copper buckles, And the buckles chased with copper; Copper was his neck and body, And his face and eyes were copper. And the copper man demanded: "In the sea what seeks the maiden, Singing thus amid the waters, She, a dove[41] among the fishes?" And the maiden heard and hearkened, And the little duck made answer: "To the sea I went to rock me, And amid the waves to carol; And I saw the sword that glittered, And the spear of silver shining, And the copper crossbow gleaming. And to grasp the sword I hastened, And to seize the spear of silver, And to lift the copper crossbow." Then the copper man made answer, With his copper tongue he answered: "'Tis the sword of son of Kalev, And the spear is son of Alev's, And the crossbow son of Sulev's. On the bed of ocean guarded, Here the man of copper keeps them, Of the golden sword the guardian, Guardian of the spear of silver, Guardian of the copper crossbow." Then the man of copper offered her the weapons if she would take him as her husband, but she refused, saying that she was the daughter of a landsman, and preferred a husband from the village on the land. He laughed scornfully; her foot slipped, and she sank into the sea. Her father and mother came to seek her, and found only her ornaments scattered on the beach. They called her by her name, and implored her to go home with them; but she answered that she could not, for she was weighed down by the water; and she related to them her adventure with the copper man. But she begged her parents not to weep for her, for she had a house at the bottom of the sea, and a soft resting-place in the ooze. "Do not weep, my dearest mother, Nor lament, my dearest father. In the sea is now my dwelling, On its bed a pleasant chamber, In the depths a room to rest in, In the ooze a nest of softness." [Footnote 37: The story in the _Kalevipoeg_ is very confused, but this maiden evidently corresponds to the lost sister of Kullervo (_Kalevala_, Runo 35), whom he meets casually, and seduces. When they discover the truth, the girl throws herself into a torrent. In the _Kalevipoeg_, Canto 7, the Kalevide and the maiden are actually spoken of as brother and sister. There are many versions of this story; in one of them (Neus, _Ehstnische Volkslieder_, pp. 5-8; Latham's _Nationalities of Europe_, i. p. 138), the maiden is represented as slaying her brother, who is called indifferently the son of Kalev or of Sulev, to the great satisfaction of her father and mother.] [Footnote 38: In the _Kalevala_, Runo 15, Lemminkainen's mother collects together the fragments of his body from the River of Death with a long rake.] [Footnote 39: This song and story (except for the incident of the man of copper) resembles that of the drowning of Aino in the _Kalevala_, Runo 4.] [Footnote 40: It was a copper man who rose from the water to fell the great oak-tree (_Kalevala_, Runo 2). Compare also the variant in Canto 6 of the _Kalevipoeg_. We may also remember the copper men connected with the mountain of loadstone (_Thousand and One Nights_, Third Calendar's Story).] [Footnote 41: Literally a "house-hen;" one of those idiomatic terms of endearment which cannot be reproduced in another language.] CANTO V THE KALEVIDE AND THE FINNISH SORCERER Day was breaking as the dauntless swimmer approached the coast of Finland, where his enemy, the sorcerer, had arrived somewhat before him, and had made his boat fast under a projecting rock. The Kalevide gazed round without seeing any traces of him, and lay down to sleep; but though the morning was calm and peaceful, his dreams were but of battle and murder. Meantime the islander and his wife, not being able to find their daughter, returned home weeping, and planted the oak and the fir in the field where their daughter used to swing in the evening, in remembrance of her. Then they went to look in the helmet where they had put the egg; but it was cold and damp, so the mother put the egg in the warm sun by day, and nursed it in her bosom at night. Then they went to look at the trees, and the oak had already shot up a hundred fathoms, and the fir-tree ten. Next they visited the fish, which prayed for its liberty, and they restored it to the sea. The oak and fir now reached the clouds; and a young eagle was hatched from the egg, which the mother tended; but one day it escaped and flew away. The oak now scattered the clouds and threatened to pierce the sky. Then they sought a sorcerer to fell the tree, and the woman took a golden rake on her shoulder with a copper handle and silver prongs. She raked up three swathes of grass, and in the third she found the eagle which she had lately reared from the egg. She took him home, and under his wing was a little man, scarcely two spans high, holding an axe in his hands.[42] The Kalevide had only intended to take a short nap, but he was so weary that he slept all through the day and night, and did not awake till sunrise next morning.[43] When he awoke, he set off at once in search of his mother and the sorcerer into the interior of the country. At last he climbed a high mountain, and saw from thence an inhabited valley with a brook running through it, and the sorcerer's farm at the edge of the wood. The son of Kalev rushed down the mountain and through the plain till he reached the gate of the enclosure and looked in. The sorcerer was lying on the grass in the shade of his house. The Kalevide turned towards the wood, tore up an oak-tree by the roots, and trimmed it into a club. He swung it in his right hand, and strode through the enclosure, the whole country trembling and the hills and valleys shaking with fear as he advanced. The sorcerer started from his sleep, and saw Linda's avenger at the gate, but he was too unnerved and terrified to attempt to hide himself. He hurriedly took a handful of feathers from his bosom, and blew them from him with a few magic words, and lo! they became an armed host of warriors,--thousands of them, both on foot and on horseback.[44] They rushed upon the son of Kalev like a swarm of gnats or bees; but he laid about him with his club as if he was threshing, and beat them down, horse and man together, on all sides, like drops of hail or rain. The fight was hardly begun when it was over, and the hero waded chest-deep in blood. The sorcerer, whose magic troops had never failed him before, was now at his wit's end, and prayed for mercy, giving a long account of how he had endeavoured to carry off Linda, and had been struck down by the enraged Thunder-God. But the Kalevide paid no attention to his speech, and, after a few angry words, he smashed his head with his club. Then he rushed through the house from room to room in search of his mother, breaking open every door and lock which opposed him, while the noise resounded far over the country. But he found not his mother, and regretted that he had killed the sorcerer, who might have helped him. At last, wearied out with his own violence, he threw himself on a couch, and wept himself to sleep. He had a vision of his mother in her youth and beauty, swinging with her companions, and awoke, convinced that she was really dead. [Footnote 42: We find this great oak-tree over and over again in Finnish and Esthonian tales. Compare _Kalevala_, Runo 2, and Cantos 4, 5, 6, and 16 of the _Kalevipoeg_. Neus, _Ehstnische Volkslieder_, p. 47; Kreutzwald and Neus, _Mythische und Magische Lieder_, p. 8, &c. Could this oak have any connection, direct or indirect, with the ash Yggthrasil? or could the story have originated in some report or tradition of the banyan?] [Footnote 43: The tremendous exploits of the Kalevide and his weariness afterwards give him much of the character of a Berserk.] [Footnote 44: In the 26th Runo of the _Kalevala_ Lemminkainen creates a flock of birds from a handful of feathers, to appease the fiery eagle who obstructed his way to Pohjola. We may also remember Jason and the dragon's teeth.] CANTO VI THE KALEVIDE AND THE SWORD-SMITHS The Kalevide mourned two days for his mother, but on the third day he began to get over his grief, and determined, before returning home, to visit a famous smith of Finland, and to provide himself with a good sword. So he set off in another direction, and lost himself in the woods, and had to pass the night on the wet grass under a fir-tree, which he did not at all relish. Next morning he started off again early, and a thrush sang to him, and directed him to turn to the west. He sprang forward with renewed energy and soon found himself in the open country, where he encountered an old woman,[45] who gave him minute instructions for finding his way to the smithy, which was three days' journey off. When at length he reached the smithy, he found the old smith and his three sons hard at work forging swords. The hero saluted the smith, who replied to him courteously, and at once acceded to his request to try the swords before purchasing one. At a sign from the smith, one of the sons went out and fetched an armful of swords. The Kalevide picked out the longest, and bent it into a hoop, when it straightened itself at once. He then whirled it round his head, and struck at the massive rock which stood in the smithy with all his might. The sparks flew from the stone and the blade shivered to pieces, while the old smith looked on and swore. "Who mixes up children's toys with weapons for men?" said the Kalevide scornfully, and caught up a second and third sword, which he shivered in the same way before the smith could interfere. "Stop, stop," cried the smith at last, "don't break any more swords to show off your strength;" and he called to his sons to bring some swords of the best quality they had. The youths brought in an armful of the very best, and the Kalevide chose a huge sword, which he brandished like a reed in his right hand, and then brought down on the anvil. The sword cut deep into the iron, and the blade did not fly, but the sharp edge was somewhat blunted. Then the smith was well pleased, and said that he had one sword in store worthy of the strength of the hero, if he was rich enough to buy it; for, between friends, the price was nine strong carthorses, four pairs of good packhorses, twenty good milch kine, ten pairs of good yoke oxen, fifty well-fed calves, a hundred tons of the best wheat, two boatsful of barley, and a large shipload of rye, a thousand old dollars, a hundred pairs of bracelets, two hundred gold coins, a lapful of silver brooches, the third of a kingdom, and the dowries of three maidens. Then from a little iron cupboard they fetched a sword which had not its equal in the world, and on which the smith and his sons had laboured for seven long years without intermission. It was wrought of seven different kinds of Swedish iron with the aid of seven powerful charms, and was tempered in seven different waters, from those of the sea and Lake Peipus to rain-water. It had been bespoken by Kalev himself, but he had not lived till the work was completed. The son of Kalev received the huge blade from the hands of the smith with reverence, and whirled it round like a fiery wheel, and it whistled through the air like the tempest that breaks oaks and unroofs houses. Then he turned and brought down the keen edge like a flash of lightning on the great anvil, and clove it to the ground without the sword receiving the slightest injury. Then the hero joyfully expressed his thanks to the smith for forging such a splendid sword, and promised to bring him the full price demanded upon his return to Esthonia. But the smith said he would rather go and fetch the value of the sword himself. And now a great drinking-bout was prepared in honour of the sword and its owner, which lasted for seven days. Beer and mead flowed in abundance, and the guests drank till they lost all restraint, shouting and laughing, and throwing their caps about, and rolling on the grass. The Kalevide had lost his senses like the rest, and told the whole story of his adventure on the island and the drowning of the maiden. Upon this, the eldest son of the smith, his father's pride and joy, sprang forward, denouncing him for his aspersions on the maiden's honour. The Kalevide defied him, maintaining the truth of the story, and from words they soon came to blows; and, before any one could comprehend what was going on or interfere, the Kalevide drew the sword from its sheath and struck off the head of his adversary before the face of his father, mother, and brothers, the hero thus loading himself with a second great crime. The youth's father shrieked with horror and his mother fell fainting to the ground; the smith then cried out to the Kalevide that he had murdered the support of his old age, and had stained the innocence and honour of his new sword for ever. Then he called to his sons to fetch the hammers from the smithy and break the bones of the murderer. But the drunken giant advanced against them with his sword, defying them to the combat; and the smith, recognising the hopelessness of any attempt against him, cried to his sons to let him pass and leave vengeance to the gods, cursing him like a mad dog, and calling on the sword itself to avenge the crime. But the Kalevide seemed to hear nothing, and staggered away from the house through the wood along the road till he came to a high waterfall. He followed the course of the stream some distance till he found a resting-place, where he laid down, and snored till the whole neighbourhood shook, and people asked in fear whether enemies had invaded the land and a battle was in progress. The oak which the islander had planted sprang up, first as a small tree, but it grew so rapidly that it reached the clouds, and almost touched the sun. The sun and moon were hidden, the windows darkened, and all the country around made dismal by the shadow of its branches. The islander sought far and near for some one to fell the tree, for whole cities and fleets might have been built of its wood. Proclamation was made everywhere for some one to fell the tree, but no one dared to attempt it, and he returned home, grumbling to his wife at the failure of his long and fruitless journey. Then the old woman led the way to the room where the eagle and the dwarf were still remaining, and told her husband how she had found the dwarf, who was no larger than Kalev's thumb, under the wing of the eagle. The islander asked the dwarf if he would fell the oak-tree, and he consented at once, on condition that he should be released from his captivity; he was also given a dish of pure gold. The dwarf went out and took a good look at the oak-tree, and then he himself began to grow, first by ells, and then by fathoms. Having thus become a giant, he began to hew at the tree, and he hewed at it for three days, till it fell, covering half the island and half the sea with its branches. The trunk was used to make a great bridge, with two arms, reaching from the island to Finland on the one side, and to Esthonia on the other. Large ships were built of the summit, merchant-vessels from the trunk, towns from the roots, rowing-boats from the branches, and children's boats from the chips. What remained was used to make shelters for weak old men, sick widows, and orphan children, and the last branches left were used to build a little room in which the minstrel could sing his songs. Strangers who came now and then across the bridge stopped before the minstrel's hut to ask the name of the city with the magnificent palace; and the minstrel replied that there was nothing there but his poor hut, and all the splendour they beheld was the light of his songs reflected from heaven. [Footnote 45: In the _Kalevala_ (Runo 34) an old woman directs Kullervo to the house of his parents.] CANTO VII THE RETURN OF THE KALEVIDE The Kalevide slept till the following morning, and when at length he awoke he tried in vain to recollect the events of the day before. He could not remember whether he had been in Finland or on the island, or whether he had been engaged in battle. He had no remembrance of having slain the smith's son; but he got up half-dazed, and walked on without stopping till he reached the seashore on the third day afterwards. Here he found the sorcerer's boat; so he stepped into it, hoisted sail, and set off homewards. Kalev's offspring was not weary, For his back was like an oak-tree, And his shoulders gnarled and knotted, And his arms like trunks of oak-trees, And like elm-trees were his elbows, And his fingers spread like branches, And his finger-nails like boxwood, And his loins like hardened iron. The Kalevide was now in high spirits, and began to sing a song, in which he pictured himself as going on a voyage, and meeting three shiploads of enchantresses, old and young, whose blandishments he resisted. But as he approached the shores of Esthonia, the fresh sea-breeze dispelled the mists that still clouded his memory, and the blood-stained sword and the splashes of blood on his clothes bore witness of the murder he had committed. About midnight he approached the small island where the maiden had fallen into the sea, and the whole sad scene arose again before his imagination. And now he could hear the maiden singing a sad song beneath the waves, lamenting her sad fate, and yet more the evil lot of her brother, who had slain the son of his father's old friend.[46] The blood from the sword reddened the cheeks of the maiden, and a long and terrible penance lay before her brother. For a while the hero sat lost in thought, bitterly lamenting the past; but presently he roused himself, and proceeded on his voyage, singing a lamentation for his mother beginning: Where upgrows the weeping alder, And the aspen of confusion, And the pine-tree of distraction, And the deep remorse of birch-tree? Where I sorrow, springs the alder; Where I tremble, sprouts the aspen; Where I weep, the pine is verdant; Where I suffer, sighs the birch-tree. Next morning the Kalevide reached the shore, made fast the boat, and went homewards; but as he passed Mount Iru, where the form of his mother stood, his steps were arrested by the sweet singing of her unseen spirit in the wind. She sang how the young eagle had soared from the nest in youthful innocence, and had returned stained with crime. He knew now that his mother was dead, and realised more fully the two crimes which weighed upon his soul--the one committed thoughtlessly and without evil intent, and the other without his knowledge, when he was not master of himself. He hastened on, and when he reached home his brothers, who had long mourned him as dead, received him with open arms. In the evening the three brothers sat together and related their adventures. The first sang how he had wandered in search of his mother over vast regions, and through a great part of Courland, Poland, Russia, Germany, and Norway, and had met on his wanderings maidens of tin, copper, silver, and gold. But only the golden daughter of the Gold King could speak, and she directed him along a path which would lead him to a beautiful maiden who could reply to his question. He hurried on a long way, and at last met a rosy-cheeked maiden of flesh and bone, who replied to his questions that she had seen no traces of his mother, and the hawk must have flown away with her. But she invited him to her village, where he would find plenty of rich and beautiful maidens. He answered that he had not come to choose a wife, but to seek his mother. Then the second brother sang how he also had wandered a long way, but at last reached a cottage where he found an old man and woman, whom he saluted and asked for tidings. They made no reply, and only the cat mewed in answer. He went on farther, and met a wolf; but when he asked if he had seen his mother, he only opened his mouth to grin at him. Next he met the bear, who only growled, but finally the cuckoo[47] directed him through a wood and across a green meadow to some maidens who would give him information. When he reached the spot, he found four beautiful maidens in elegant attire, who told him that they had been wandering about the woods and meadows every day, but had seen nothing of his mother, and they thought she must have flown away. They recommended him to seek a wife; but he answered that a young wife could not fill the place of his dear lost mother. Then the youngest brother related his adventures; but he said nothing about the fatal brawl at the smith's feast, nor of the sad songs of the island-maiden and of the spirit of his mother. Then the eldest brother remarked that they knew not what had become of their mother, but their parents were no more, and they must shift for themselves, so he proposed a trial to decide which of the three should rule as king in the land. The second brother agreed, and the third proposed that the trial should take place next day, and be decided according to the will of Taara. In the evening, before twilight had quite given way to night, the youngest son took his handkerchief, which was wet with tears, and climbed up his father's cairn. And his father asked from below: "Who disturbs the sandy hillock, With his feet the grave disturbing, Stamping with his heels the gravel, And the gravestone thus disturbing?" The hero besought his father to rise up and stroke his hair and speak to him; but his father answered that he had long lain in his grave; his bones were decayed, and the grass and moss grew over him, and he could not rise. Let the wind and the sun caress his son. The son answered that the wind only blew sometimes, and the sun only shone by day, but Taara lives for ever. And the father told him not to weep or grieve, for the spirit of his dead father should follow him throughout his life, and that the good gods would protect him even through the desert wastes of the waters of the ocean; and he also counselled him to do his best to atone for every fault and error. [Footnote 46: The smith is sometimes called the uncle of Kalev; but the term may only mean that he was an old friend.] [Footnote 47: The cuckoo is a sacred bird, but more often alluded to in Finnish than in Esthonian literature.] CANTO VIII THE CONTEST AND PARTING OF THE BROTHERS On the following morning the three sons of Kalev set out before sunrise towards the south; but they rested under the trees and took some refreshment during the heat of the day. In the evening they passed a house which was lighted up as if for company. The father and mother stood at the door, and invited them to choose brides from among their rich and beautiful daughters. The eldest brother answered that they were not come to woo brides, and had no thought of marriage; but the second brother said he should like the girls to come out to swing with them; and they were forthwith summoned. Then the youngest brother said he hoped the young ladies would not distress themselves, but really he and his brothers had no idea of marrying at present, and they must beg to be excused. Then they continued their journey southwards, and on the third day they reached a small lake with steep banks.[48] Water-birds were sporting in the lake, and on the opposite shore they saw the holy forest of Taara shining in the sunset. "Here is the place where our lot must be decided," said the eldest brother; and each selected a stone for the trial of strength. It was arranged that whoever should cast his stone across the lake to the firm ground opposite should be adjudged his father's heir, and the other two should wander forth to seek their fortunes in other lands. The eldest brother, in all friendliness, claimed his right to the first trial, and cast his stone. It flew from his hand with the speed of a bird or of the tempest, but suddenly changed its direction, and plunged into the middle of the lake. The water foamed up over it, and entirely concealed it from sight. The second brother then seized his stone, and sent it whistling through the air like an arrow. It rose up till it was nearly lost to sight, and then turned and fell on the shore close to the water, where it sank for half its bulk into the mud. Then came the turn of the third, who, though the youngest, was much taller and stronger than his brothers. The youngest brother made some sad reflections on his posthumous birth, and on the course of his childhood, and then cast forth his rock like a bird, or like a ship in a storm. It flew up far and high, but not up to the clouds, like that cast by his brother, and afterwards made great ducks and drakes across the whole lake, reaching at last the firm ground beyond. "Don't let us wait here," said the eldest brother, "but let us go and look for the stones, and decide our competition." As the nearest way to the opposite shore was through the lake, they waded straight across it, and at the deepest place the water reached a little above their knees. The stone cast by the eldest brother had disappeared entirely in the water, and no trace of it could be found; but that thrown by the second was found on the shore half sunken in the mud. Only the stone thrown by the youngest brother, easily recognisable by its marks, was found on firm ground, lying on the grass at some little distance beyond the lake. Then the eldest brother declared that the gods had plainly assigned the kingdom to the youngest, and that the others must now bathe him and adorn him as king.[49] After this the three brothers took an affectionate leave of each other, and the two elder ones wandered cheerfully away. The youngest sat on the rock sadly reflecting on the lost joys of youth, and how he must now depend on his own unaided efforts. At length he threw a silver coin into the water as an offering to the gods, an old custom now forgotten. It was the duty of the new king both to plough the country and to defend it, and he therefore set to work with his sword by his side. Early and late he ploughed, stocking the country with corn, grass, trees, and berries. One hot noonday, seeing his white horse[50] nearly exhausted, he unyoked him from the plough, hobbled him, and left him to graze, while he himself lay down in the grass and fell asleep. His head rested on the top of a hill, and his body and legs spread far over the plain below. The sweat ran from his forehead and sank into the earth, whence arose a healing and strengthening spring of wonderful virtues. Those who taste the water of this spring are greatly strengthened; weak children grow strong, the sick grow healthy; the water heals sore eyes, and even blindness; the weary are refreshed, and the maidens who taste it have rosy cheeks for their whole lifetime. While the Kalevide lay asleep, he dreamed that he saw his good horse torn to pieces by wolves. And truly the horse had strayed away to some distance, when a host of wild animals, wolves, bears, and foxes, emerged from the forest. As the horse's feet were hobbled, he could not escape, and was soon overtaken. He defended himself as well as he could with hoofs and head, and killed many of the beasts; but he was finally overpowered by their ever-increasing numbers, and fell. Where he sank the ground is hollow, and a number of little hills represent the wolves killed in the struggle. The horse's blood formed a red lake, his liver a mountain, his entrails a marsh, his bones hills, his hair rushes, his mane bulrushes, and his tail hazel-bushes.[51] [Footnote 48: This lake (Saad järv) lies a little north of Dorpat.] [Footnote 49: Nothing is said as to how the government was carried on during the Kalevide's minority.] [Footnote 50: White horses constantly occur in Esthonian tales; and the devil's mother or grandmother usually appears as a white mare. One of the commentators remarks that as the white horse was sacred in pre-Christian times, the missionaries represented it as peculiarly diabolical. It will be remembered with what severity the early missionaries suppressed the horse feasts among the Teutonic tribes.] [Footnote 51: This is a little like the formation of the world from the body of the giant Ymir, as described in the Edda. As W. Herbert paraphrases it, "Of his bones the rocks high swelling, Of his flesh the globe is made, From his veins the tide is welling, And his locks are verdant shade." "Helga" is a somewhat poor production, containing but few striking passages except the description of the appearance of the Valkyrior before the fight between Hialmar and Angantyr. But the shorter poems at the end, "The Song of Vala" and "Brynhilda," ought to be alone sufficient to remove the name of this forgotten poet from oblivion.] CANTO IX RUMOURS OF WAR When the Kalevide awoke, he followed the traces of his horse till he found the remains; and he secured the skin as a relic, cursing the wolves, and then drew his sword, and rushed into the wood in pursuit of them, breaking down the trees and bushes in his way, and destroying all the wild beasts he met with, while those who could fled to distant swamps and thickets. He would have utterly exterminated all the wolves and bears, if the increasing darkness of night had not compelled him at length to desist from further pursuit. He retired to the open country, and being wearied out, lay down to sleep on the skin of the horse. But he had scarcely closed his eyes before a messenger arrived from the elders of Esthonia, announcing that war had broken out, and that a hostile army was ravaging the country. The Kalevide heard the long and woful story to an end, and then threw himself down again to sleep off his weariness, when another messenger arrived, whom he sharply upbraided for disturbing him. The second messenger was a venerable old man with a white beard. He saluted the king, and apologised for disturbing him, but reminded him that when he was young the birds had sung to him that a ruler could know no rest: Heavy cares oppress the monarch, And a weighty load the ruler; Heavier yet a hero's burden: Thousand duties wait the strongest; More await the Kalevide! He then spoke encouragingly to the king, assuring him that much would result from all his labours for the good of his people. The Kalevide answered that he would not shun toil and weariness, and would do his best. The old man assured him that nothing could prosper without the aid of the gods; and now the Kalevide recognised that Ukko himself spoke with him. Then the god exhorted him not to quarrel with destiny, and warned him to beware of his sword, for murder could only be atoned for by murder, and he who had murdered an innocent man was never secure. His voice died away in the wind, and the Kalevide sank into slumber till dawn; and when he awoke he could only recall vague fragments of the long discourse he had heard in his vision. He then gave the Esthonian messenger directions for the conduct of the war, and especially the defence of the coasts, asking to be particularly informed if the war should spread farther and the need grow greater, and then he himself would come at once; but he was compelled to rest a little from his fatigues before he could take part in the war in person. Here is inserted the grand ballad of the Herald of War, from Neus, _Ehstnische Volkslieder_, p. 305. It is out of place in the _Kalevipoeg_, but will be included in a later section of our work. CANTO X THE HEROES AND THE WATER-DEMON As the Kalevide was wandering through Esthonia, he arrived one day at the swamp of Kikerpärä. Two demon brothers had settled themselves in the swamp, and were fighting for its possession, and when the hero appeared they referred their dispute to him. As he could not stay to attend to the matter himself, he requested his friend, the son of Alev, who was with him, to measure out the swamp fairly. So the Alevide began to drive piles into the bed of the river at a place called Mustapall, to fasten his measuring lines to, when the wretched old water-demon[52] raised his head from the river, and asked what he was doing. The hero replied that he was damming up the river; but the demon, who had lived under the water for many years, and did not like to be turned out of his comfortable home, offered him a reward to desist. So the Alevide asked him to fill his old felt hat for him with bright silver coins; which he promised to do on the morrow, the hero declaring that he would hold him to his bargain in the words of the proverb:[53] By the horns the ox we grapple, By his word the man is fastened. Then the demon dived back into the water, while the son of Alev, who was a cousin of the Kalevide, got a friend to help him to dig a hole in the ground during the night, a fathom in depth and broad at the bottom, but with an opening at the top just wide enough for the top of the hat to fit into; but the hat was cut at the sides, so that the heavy money should fall through into the pit. Before daybreak the stupid demon brought a lapful of roubles,[54] which he poured into the hat. He brought a second and a third, and afterwards brought money by the hogshead, but the hat still remained empty. Presently his coffers, purses, and pockets were all exhausted. He then begged for time; but the Alevide declared that if he did not keep his promise, and fill his hat with bright silver coins, he should begin his work again. Then the demon thought of appealing to his mother to help him; but first he asked the Alevide to come with him to receive his money himself, hoping to circumvent him. But the hero knew that it was only a trick to get him away from the hat, so he refused to budge, but sent the Kalevide's cupbearer, the smallest of the company, to help to carry the money. The boy was ready at once; but his heart failed him as the demon preceded him to the under-world,[55] leading him by paths that no living man had ever trodden before, and through an utterly unknown country, where the sun and moon never shone, and where the only light came from the torches that flared on both sides of their way. When they reached the palace of the demon, his sons came to the door, and invited the guest to take his place at the table, which was loaded with gold and silver plate, and eat and drink. But the boy could touch nothing from terror, for sparks of fire flew from the dishes and viands, and blue flames played over the beakers. Then the water-demons began to titter, and to whisper to each other in their own language, which sounded just like Lettish,[56] and which their guest could not understand. The boy began to reproach his avaricious friend in his thoughts for having thus sent him to Põrgu without thinking of what might happen to him; but presently the younger demons seized upon him, and began to toss him from one to another like a ball, sometimes from one side of the room to the other, and sometimes up to the ceiling. The boy begged them to let him rest a little, and presently they allowed him to do so. Then he drew a cord from his pocket, and pretended to measure the length and breadth of the room. Presently he came to the door, and seized the opportunity to bolt, and was fortunate enough to make his way back to daylight, where the demon had no more power to interfere with him. As he passed the gates, the guards whispered to him to turn to the right to avoid the many snares in his path. He did not escape without a good fright; for only strong men can go where they please, like the birds, while the weak man is exposed to a thousand terrors. On the boy's way he met a small bitch[57] accompanied by two puppies; and this was the mother of the demons, just returning from the bath-house. The boy now remembered the warning he had received, and turned aside to the right, and the three ran past without noticing him. When the boy reached the place where he had left the Alevide, he found that both his friend and the money had disappeared. Presently the water-demon came up, and asked him jestingly whether he had burnt himself, or whether he had been stung by a gadfly, that he ran away like that, instead of helping him to carry the heavy money-bags. He then proposed that they should look for a good place where they might wrestle. He thought he could easily overcome the boy by strength, if not by craft, and the boy consented. Before they had gone far, they met the sons of Kalev and Alev, who had hidden their treasure, walking arm-in-arm. The Kalevide asked, "Whence did you bring that Lettish comrade, and to what queer race does he belong?" His cousin answered that he was the same who had promised to fill his hat with silver, and hadn't kept his word. Then the boy said that they were going to engage in a contest, and the Kalevide answered, "You must grow a little taller, my lad, before you engage in a serious struggle, for you are only a child at present." So the Kalevide, laughing, stuck the boy in his trouser-pocket to grow, and took over the challenge himself, and they all went to a mountain where the contest was to take place; and first they began with hurling stones. The demon took up a rock, which he balanced for an hour in his clumsy fingers, and at last swung it round more than ten times before he loosed it. The stone fell ten paces from the sandy shore of Lake Virts, and it lies there now, conspicuous by its size, for it is at least as big as a bath-house. Then the Kalevide took up a rock in his hand, and threw it without more ado. They heard it rushing through the air for a long time, and at last it fell on the shore of Lake Peipus, and any one who visits the lake can see it there. Then they engaged in a wrestling match, and the Kalevide soon lifted the demon from his feet and flung him into the air. When he came to the ground, he rolled seven versts, and then fell down a little hill among the bushes, where he lay stunned for seven days, hardly able to open his eyes or lift his head, or even to move a limb. At this the Kalevide and his companions laughed till the hills shook, and the cup-bearer loudest of all. Then the Alevide told his story; but when he came to mention the proverb, it reminded the son of Kalev that he had not yet paid the debt which he owed to the smith in Finland for his sword. So the Kalevide asked his cousin to take the goods across to Finland, and he himself laid down to rest under a tree, and pondered on how he could provide for the safety of the people during the war. He decided to improve and beautify the towns as well as to fortify them, and to make an excursion to survey the country while his cousin was away in Finland. Presently the Kalevide felt in his pocket, and pulled out the boy, with whom he began to jest; but soon their conversation became more serious, and the Kalevide ordered him to wait for the expected messengers, while he himself should proceed to Lake Peipus, where he had important business. As the Kalevide proceeded on his journey, he passed a well in a lonely place, where the Air-Maiden,[58] the fair daughter of the Thunder-God, sat bewailing the loss of her ring, which had dropped into it.[59] When the hero saw the blue-eyed, golden-haired maiden in tears, he asked the cause of her trouble, and when he heard it he plunged into the well to look for the ring. A party of young sorcerers quickly gathered round, thinking that the mouse was in the trap, and they flung a great millstone after him. But he searched in the mud and water for some time, and presently sprang out of the water with the millstone on his finger, which he offered to the maiden, saying that he had not been able to find anything else in the mud, and that she would not need a larger finger-ring. [Footnote 52: The Esthonian demons are often represented as contemptible creatures, very easily outwitted. Later in the present canto the personage in question is distinctly called a water-demon.] [Footnote 53: A common proverb in Esthonian tales. We also find it in Italian, in almost the same words.] [Footnote 54: The money is sometimes called roubles, and sometimes thalers.] [Footnote 55: Visits to Hades or Hell (Põrgu) are common in the _Kalevipoeg_ and in the popular tales, some of which we shall afterwards notice.] [Footnote 56: The term "Lett," which the Kalevide himself afterwards applies to the demon, seems to be used in contempt; otherwise the passage in the text might have been taken as equivalent to our old-fashioned expression, "It's all Greek to me."] [Footnote 57: Usually the devil's mother (or grandmother) is represented as a white mare. Compare Canto 14 of the _Kalevipoeg_, and also the story of the Grateful Prince.] [Footnote 58: This Air-Maiden, who seems to be only a mischievous sprite, must not be confounded with Ilmatar, the creatrix of the world in the first Runo of the _Kalevala_.] [Footnote 59: Finn, the Irish hero, was once entrapped by a sorceress on a similar pretext into plunging into an enchanted lake, which changed him into an old man. (See Joyce's _Old Celtic Romances_, "The Chase of Slieve Cullin.") The story is also related in one of Kenealy's ballads.] CANTO XI THE LOSS OF THE SWORD Next morning the Kalevide arose at dawn, and hurried on towards Lake Peipus, clearing and levelling the country as he went. When he arrived at the lake, there was no boat to be seen; so he girded himself, and plunged into it at a point where it was too wide to see the opposite shore, while the fish fled before him as he waded through. On the shore opposite, a hideous sorcerer was hiding in the bushes. He was as bristly as a wild boar, with wide mouth and small oblique eyes.[60] He was well skilled in all magic; he could make the wind blow from any quarter, could remove ill from one man to cast it on another, and could cause quarrels between the best friends. He had evil demons at his beck and call; but for all that, he could cure all hurts and diseases when he pleased. But to-day he was in a bad humour, and blew a tremendous storm against the son of Kalev. Presently he saw a human form struggling through the waters, which reached to his girdle. Even at four or five miles' distance the figure seemed as large as a man, and he appeared to be heavily laden. Sometimes the water hid him from view, but as he came nearer the form became ever huger and more terrible. The Kalevide laughed at the raging storm, and said to the lake, "You nasty little puddle, you're wetting my girdle." He had taken scarcely an hour in his passage, when he reached the firm ground, carrying a load of planks which a horse or a pair of oxen could hardly have dragged along. He had brought them from Pleskau to build a refuge for his people; over twenty dozen planks, three inches thick, an ell broad, and ten yards long. He drew his sword to trim the timber, and the sorcerer determined to reward himself for his late exertions in raising the tempest by possessing himself of it; but this was not the time for action, and he slunk deeper into the shades of the forest. The Kalevide was tired with his journey, and found a level place some little distance from the shore, so he brought a lapful of shingle from the beach and a quantity of sand, and made himself a comfortable bed in a dry spot. Then he refreshed himself with bread and milk from his wallet, loosed his girdle, laid his sword beside him, and soon fell asleep, with his head to the west and his feet to the east, that the first rays of the morning sun might shine in his eyes and awaken him. Presently the ground shook, and the woods re-echoed, and the billows of the lake rose in answer to his snoring, which sounded like the Thunder-God driving three-in-hand through the clouds. The sorcerer now stole from his hiding-place, and advanced towards the sleeping giant with catlike steps; but he tried in vain to steal the good sword from its master's side by his incantations. Neither commands nor supplications would avail, and he was forced to use stronger spells. So he scattered rowan-leaves, thyme, fern, and other magic herbs over the sword, and at last it inclined towards the sorcerer, and he took it in his arms. The huge weapon weighed him to the ground, and he was only able to struggle along painfully under its weight, step by step, with the sweat pouring from his face; but still he would not relinquish his booty. Presently he came to the brook Käpä, and jumped over it; but the sword slipped from his arm, and sank in the mud in the deepest place. He renewed his incantations, but was now quite unable to repossess himself of the sword, and on the approach of dawn he fled into the forest, to hide from the vengeance of its owner. When the Kalevide awoke, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and felt for his sword, but it had disappeared. He could see its traces where it had been dragged away, and he followed on its track, calling to the sword as to a brother, and beseeching it to answer him, and not to let him search in vain. But there was no reply, and then he tried a song, but still there was no reply, and he searched everywhere for the sword, till at last he saw it shining at the bottom of the water. Then the Kalevide asked the sword who had stolen it and sunk it in the water, and the sword sang in reply how the sorcerer had carried it off, and how it had slipped from his grasp into the water, into the embraces of the fairest of the water-nymphs. The Kalevide answered, "Does my sword prefer to lie in the arms of a water-nymph rather than to feel the grasp of a hero in battle?" The sword reminded the Kalevide of the terrible murder in Finland, which it declared it could never forget, and the hero abandoned the weapon to its sweet repose, saying that he relied on his own strength to overcome his enemies in battle. But he laid his commands on the sword that if any heroes of his race, Kalevides, Alevides, or Sulevides, should come to the spot, then the sword should address them in words. If a great singer came, the sword was to sing to him; if a hero as brave and as strong as the Kalevide himself should come to the brook, then the sword was to rise from its bed and join him; but if the man himself who had brought the sword there should come that way, then the sword was to cut off both his feet. By this he meant the sorcerer, but he expressed himself ambiguously. The son of Kalev then left the brook, took the boards on his back, and set out for home. On his journey he passed through a pine forest which belonged to men, a leafy forest sacred to women, and a hazel thicket, the last refuge of the maidens, the orphans, and the sick. Here his foot touched something soft, which he found to be a man of about the stature of our present race, who was quaking with fear and besought his protection. The Kalevide took him up kindly by the hair, and dropped him into his wallet, where he fell as down a deep precipice, till he came to a stop among the bread and herrings at the bottom. Then the hero asked him what had frightened him so much. Up from the bottom of the bag came a voice like the croaking of a frog from the bottom of a deep well, and this was the man's story:--"Yesterday evening I was wandering on the shores of Lake Peipus, and lost my way. Presently I came to a footpath which led me to a poor hut, where I thought to find a night's lodging. I came into a great empty room, where an old woman was standing by the hearth preparing supper. She was cooking half a pig in a great pot with peas, and kindly gave me a cupful, but told me to eat my supper quick. As soon as I had finished, she told me to hide among the straw which she had laid under the table, and to lie as still as a mouse, for if I only moved a finger after her sons returned, they would be sure to kill me. I thanked the good old woman, and crept into the straw, where three men could easily have hidden themselves; and I hoped to sleep. But presently I heard steps approaching which shook the house; and whether or not it was my fear that makes me think so, I fancy, noble scion of the Kalevides, that even your heavy tread never made such a noise. "The two brothers rushed into the room like wild bears, and one of them sniffed about the room and said, 'Mother, who has been here? I smell man's sweat.' 'Nobody has even been near the house to-day, my son,' answered the old woman. 'If you smell anything, you must have brought the smell with you from out of doors.' "Then she gave them their supper, and they ate as much as would have satisfied fifty of our race, and left something over. Then they laid themselves down on the hard floor, one on each side the table, while the old woman crept cautiously up the ladder to her couch above the stove. "Poor wretch that I am! if I had ever expected to find myself in such a position, I would rather have drowned myself in the lake or thrown myself over a precipice. I could not sleep a wink all night, and when the old woman opened the door in the morning I crept behind her, and fled through two woods till I reached the third, where you found me." This was the poor man's story, and the Kalevide laughed heartily at the recital. [Footnote 60: This is a well-known Mongol characteristic; and it is rather oddly attributed by Arabic writers to the Jinn. "Two of them appeared in the form and aspect of the Jarm, each with one eye slit endlong, and jutting horns and projecting tusks."--Story of Tohfat-el-Kulub (_Thousand and One Nights_, Breslau edition).] CANTO XII THE FIGHT WITH THE SORCERER'S SONS As the Kalevide proceeded on his way, carrying his heavy load of planks, the sorcerer's three sons rushed upon him from an ambush close to a high waterfall which foams over steep rocks. He had been walking quietly along, and the man in his wallet had fallen comfortably asleep. The villains sprang upon the hero from behind, armed with slender young birch-trees and dry pine-trunks. Two of them carried long whips, the handle formed of strong beech-wood, and the lash armed with a great millstone, with which they belaboured the hero unmercifully. He had just armed himself with a huge club, in case he should be assaulted in passing through the wood. It was a great pine-trunk from which he had broken the crown. It was five-and-thirty ells long, and two feet thick at the thick end, and with this he could defend himself as with a sword. The Kalevide tried at first to remonstrate with his assailants, but as they continued to annoy him he rushed upon them with his club. The pine club was soon splintered, the fragments flying in all directions, and then the Kalevide defended himself with the planks which he was carrying, and at every blow he smashed one on the backs of his enemies. Presently his load was nearly exhausted, and the sorcerer's sons, hoping now for an easy victory, pressed him more hardly, when suddenly he heard a little voice crying from the bushes, "Dear son of Kalev, strike them with the edges!"[61] The hero at once took the hint, and, instead of striking with the flat side of the planks, began to strike with the sharp edges, and his enemies soon fled before him, howling like wolves. If the savages had not been thoroughly hardened by long exposure to heat and cold by day and night, he would have left them dead on the field. The Kalevide sat down to rest after the battle, and called to his dear brother, who had aided him, to show himself. But his friend answered that he could not venture out into the open, for he was only a poor naked little hedgehog. So the hero called to him to come, and he would clothe him. The hedgehog crept out of his warm nest, naked and shivering, and the hero cut a piece from the lining of his own coat, and gave it to the hedgehog, who joyfully wrapped himself in the warm covering. But the piece was not large enough to cover him entirely, and his legs and belly remained naked as before. The Kalevide now wanted to sleep, but he was in the midst of a swamp. He therefore fetched a load of sand from the distant sandhills, to make himself a bed. He then felt into his bag for something to eat, when his thumb came against the cold stiff body of his little friend, who had been killed in his sleep by a chance blow during the fight, without having had time to cry out or move a limb. He was much grieved at the untimely death of his _protégé_, and dug him a grave with his own hands, round which he planted berry-bearing bushes. Then he ate his supper and fell asleep, to dream of the events of the past day. While he was asleep, the sorcerer himself crept to his side, and by his spells and incantations, and the use of magic herbs, threw him into a deep slumber, which lasted for days and nights. Presently a messenger came in haste to summon the king, and the cup-bearer directed him to Lake Peipus; but no one had seen or heard anything of him. On a fine summer's day, the people flocked from all parts of the country to the sacred hill of Taara for a great festival, and as yet there came no news of the king. Summer faded into autumn, and the Kalevide still slept on, but he was dreaming of a new sword, much better than the uncle of his father Kalev had forged for him, which was forged in an underground smithy. This sword had been forged by the pupils of Ilmarine[62] in a workshop in the interior of a great mountain at the middle point of the earth, the peak of which was lost in the clouds. Seven strong smiths wrought it with copper hammers, the handles of which were of silver, and one of their company turned it on the fire or laid it on the anvil with tongs of the purest silver, while Ilmarine himself watched every stroke of the hammers. Presently a young man entered, pale and covered with blood, and he only touched his cap without further salutation, and cried out to the workmen not to waste the sword on the murderous son of Kalev, who could slay his best friends in his rage. The Kalevide tried to cry out that it was false, but the son of the old Tühja[63] oppressed him with a nightmare, and he could not utter a word; he felt as if a mountain lay upon his breast, and the sweat ran from his face. On the following morning the Kalevide awoke from his sleep. He knew that the vision of the smithy was a dream, but he was not aware that he had slept for seven weeks without intermission. He found that his planks were nearly all destroyed, and determined to fetch a fresh load from Pleskau. When he came to the lake, he heard a boy shouting for help. It was a herd-boy, whose favourite lamb was being carried off by a wolf. He killed the wolf with a stone,[64] and then stood by the lake considering what to do next. Presently he decided to build a bridge across the "puddle;" and built it out into the lake for perhaps a couple of miles, when a great storm arose and swept away the unfinished structure. When he saw his work destroyed, he said, "Why didn't I wade straight through, as I did before, instead of wasting my time like this?" So he caught a supply of crayfish, which he roasted and ate, and then set out on his journey through the water. On the shores of Lake Peipus lived a poor orphan boy, who had lost all dear to him by famine, pestilence, and war, and who was now compelled to slave as herd-boy for a hard mistress,[65] and to mind the children as well as to look after the sheep and goats. He sang sad songs, till at length the wood-nymph took compassion on him, and sang to him one evening from the summit of an oak-tree, telling him that good luck would be his in the morning. Next morning he found a lark's egg hidden among leaves, which he hid in his bosom next his heart wrapped in wool and a strip of linen. A mouse was hatched from it, which he fostered in the same way till it became a kitten, a puppy, a lamb, and at length a sheep[66] with fine white wool, and the sheep was so dear to the boy that he left off weeping and lamenting, and always felt happy and contented, though his lot was still a hard one. [Footnote 61: This reminds us of the help given to Hiawatha by the woodpecker during his fight with Megissogwun; but the one incident can hardly be copied from the other. _Hiawatha_ was published some years before the _Kalevipoeg_.] [Footnote 62: This is the only passage in the _Kalevipoeg_ in which one of the heroes of the _Kalevala_ is personally introduced.] [Footnote 63: Emptiness; probably the Contemptible One; a name often used for one of the principal demons.] [Footnote 64: The rock is still shown, bearing the imprints of the hero's fingers, each cleft large enough to hold a man.] [Footnote 65: This was the fate of Kullervo himself in the _Kalevala_. Orphans, for whom much sympathy is expressed, constantly appear in Esthonian tales. Compare p. 236 of the present volume.] [Footnote 66: We have a similar series of transformations (mouse, cat, dog, ass, buffalo) in the story of Noor Ed-Deen and Shes Ed-Deen in the _Thousand and One Nights_.] CANTO XIII THE KALEVIDE'S FIRST JOURNEY TO HADES On the Kalevide's homeward journey he slept for a night at the place where his sword had been stolen, and set out early next morning, making his way through bush and brake. He walked on till sunset with his load of planks without stopping to rest, and then ate his supper and prepared himself a bed of sand as usual. When he awoke in the morning, a magpie informed him for the first time that the sorcerer had kept him in a magic sleep for seven weeks, and he quickened his pace. But when he reached Lake Ilma he found it, to his disgust, too deep to wade through, and he was compelled to go round it. Presently he encountered an old witch, a relative of the sorcerer who had done him so much harm already, sitting among the bushes and singing magic songs. The hero stopped to rest himself, for the day was very warm, and listened to her song, which was a long charm against snake-bites. Then he walked on till noon, when he took a siesta, breaking down trees of all kinds to make himself a couch. Afterwards he turned to the left in the direction of Lake Endla, and towards evening he came to the entrance of a cavern, before which a great fire was burning. A huge caldron hung over it by heavy iron chains, just opposite the entrance to the cavern, and three fellows were standing round, who grinned and whispered to each other as the stranger approached. The Kalevide threw down the planks and asked the men what they had got in the caldron, and whether they were getting ready for a feast or a wedding. They replied that the caldron cooked for everybody, and that when they made a feast they killed a great ox. It took a hundred men to kill it, five hundred to bleed it, and a thousand to cleanse it.[67] But to-day they were only cooking for poor people; only half an elk, the ribs of an old boar, the lungs and liver of a bear, the suet of a young wolf, the hide of an old bear, and an egg from an eagle's nest. Old Sarvik[68] and the old mother were to dine from it; the cat and dog were to get their share, and the rest was to be divided among the cooks and workmen; but the old mother was going to bake cakes for the young ladies' dinner. The Kalevide expressed his disgust at such cookery, but they told him it was good enough for witches and sorcerers, and he then asked them to show him the way to their master's house, as he wished to pay his respects to the family. They warned him that he might not escape easily; but as he persisted, they directed him to the cavern, which he immediately entered, while the demons laughed, saying that the bear had fallen into the trap and the lion[69] into the net, and that he was carrying his hide to market for nothing. The cave was so dark and narrow that the hero soon found himself obliged to creep on all fours, and to grope his way. At last he perceived a faint light at a distance, and the cavern enlarged so much that he could now stand upright again. Where the roof rose highest, a heavy lamp hung by chains from the ceiling, and beyond it were great folding-doors. On each side stood a jar, one filled with a liquid as white as milk, and the other with a liquid as black as pitch. Inside he could hear maidens spinning and singing,[70] lamenting the happiness of their former lives, and hoping that some deliverer might appear. Then he strove to force the door, but it resisted all his efforts, so he sang a song in his softest tones, telling how he had encountered four fair maidens gathering flowers in the woods. The maidens sang back that he had come at a good time, for all the family were out, and they directed him to dip his hands in the dark liquid, which would give him magic strength; but if he wished to moderate his strength, then to dip his hands in the white liquid, for the dark liquid would give him strength to dash everything to pieces. The hero dipped his hands in the dark liquid, and felt his strength redoubled. He pushed against the door again, and the door and door-posts too came thundering to the ground. The maidens fled into the adjoining room, crying out to him not to approach them till he had dipped his hands in the white liquid, which would remove the enchantment. He laughed, and, notwithstanding their entreaties, followed them into the next room, where he saw a naked sword, a small willow wand, and a ragged old hat hanging on the wall. "Look," cried he joyfully, "this is the sword which I saw forged for me in my dream!" "Beware," said one of the maidens, "do not touch that sword, for it belongs to Sarvik; but take the rod and the hat, for they are yours, and you can work any wonders with them. Swords you can only obtain from the smith himself." But the Kalevide answered that he could have his will without the wishing-rod and cap, which were only fit for witches and wizards. So the maiden, who was anxious to convince him of the value of the treasures which he despised, took down the hat from its peg. It was made of the cuttings of finger-nails,[71] and she declared that there was not another like it in the world, for it could fulfil every desire of its possessor. So she put it on her head and said-- "Raise thee, raise thee, golden[72] maiden, Blue-eyed maiden, raise thee, raise thee, Like unto the son of Kalev, Like unto thy friend in stature." She began at once to grow taller, ell after ell, till she grew fully as tall as the son of Kalev himself. Then the Kalevide took the hat from her head and set it on his own, wishing to become as small as she had been. His stature immediately sank, ell after ell, till he was reduced to the size of an ordinary man.[73] The young giantess took back the hat, and wished to resume her former stature, which accordingly befell. The Kalevide then said to the maiden that he would willingly remain a little boy that day for her sake, but he was now anxious to keep the hat, that he might at once resume his own stature and strength in case of any sudden and unexpected danger. They sang and danced and sported to their heart's content, and the maiden called her second sister, whose duty it was to polish the gold, silver, and copper ware; and her third sister, who tended the geese on the common; and the sisters locked and bolted the kitchen door, for fear the old woman should hear the noise and come to disturb their merriment. The maidens were delighted, for though the Kalevide declared that he could not think of marrying a wife himself, he would deliver them from Hades next day, and would marry one to the son of Alev, one to the son of Sulev, and one to the cup-bearer.[74] So they played all sorts of games; the falcon-game, in which the hero was the falcon, and they were the birds; kiss-in-the-ring, blind man's buff, &c. But whatever they played at, the hero always got the best of the game. When they were tired of this amusement, they put out all the lights. [Footnote 67: We meet with this big ox elsewhere in the _Kalevipoeg_ (Canto 19), as well as in the _Kalevala_, Runo 20.] [Footnote 68: Old Hornie, the name of the ruler of Põrgu (Hell).] [Footnote 69: The word used for lion is "_lõwi_," undoubtedly derived from the German. The Finns generally call the lion "_jalopeura_," which also denotes the lynx.] [Footnote 70: Compare the story of the Gold Spinners.] [Footnote 71: We meet with a similar hat in other stories. Many Esthonians and Lithuanians still hide their nail-parings as carefully as possible, or else make a cross over them lest the devil should find them and use them to make a wishing-hat. Can this hat have any connection with the white straw hat of the devil in a Deptford rhyme?--Gomme's _Traditional Games_, I. p. 4. In the Edda, we are told that Naglfar, the largest ship in the world, which is to bring the giants to the fight at Ragnarök, is similarly constructed, and as both gods and men wish that it should be completed as late as possible, every one should be very careful not to die with unpared nails, lest he should supply materials for its construction.] [Footnote 72: Golden is often used in Finnish and Esthonian, as in many other languages, as a term of endearment.] [Footnote 73: The maidens were afterwards married to the relatives of the Kalevide, giants like himself, and are described as walking arm-in-arm with them, nothing being then said of any difference in their stature.] [Footnote 74: This reminds us of a well-known feudal custom, more honoured in the breach than in the observance, which also prevailed among the old kings of Scotland for several reigns. The second sister was ultimately married, not to the cup-bearer, but to the son of Olev.] CANTO XIV THE PALACE OF SARVIK The sisters were sorry to see the dawn of day, though they were no longer obliged to spin and weave, for the old woman was locked up in the kitchen, and could not interfere with them. That day they amused themselves by showing their guest all over the house, and all the treasure-chambers, but they blushed and dropped their eyes whenever he looked at themselves. Presently they passed through a stone door into a stone gallery, likewise paved with stone, and after passing through it for some little distance, arrived at a room in which the walls and furniture were wholly of iron. "This," said the eldest sister, "is the room of old Sarvik, where his men-servants assemble and work or amuse themselves, and where they are sometimes tortured in all sorts of ways." They left this room through an iron archway which opened into a gallery of iron, which they followed for some distance till they reached a second room, entirely of copper, and with copper furniture. "This," said the eldest sister again, "is old Sarvik's room, where the maids assemble to work or amuse themselves, and where, too, they are punished and tormented." From this room they passed through a copper archway into a copper gallery, which led them presently to a third room of silver, with silver furniture and fittings, and the chests in the corners were filled with silver coins. Then said the second sister, "This is old Sarvik's room, where he spends most of his time, and where he sleeps and refreshes himself." They passed from this room into a silver gallery, which led them into a room of gold, with gold fittings and furniture, and the chests in the corners were filled with gold coins. "This," said the second sister again, "is old Sarvik's room, where he feasts and amuses himself. I was busy yesterday for hours sweeping this room and polishing up all the gold." From this room they went through a golden gallery to a fifth chamber, which was of silk, and everything in it was silk. The walls were hung with silken raiment, and the chests in the corners were filled with silken stuffs. "This," said the youngest sister, "is the maidens' room, where they deck themselves out in silk on gala days." They passed through a silken gallery into a chamber of satin, of which she gave a similar explanation. From this they passed to a lace chamber, where the little girls decked themselves out. The lace gallery from this room led them out into the enclosure, which was paved with silver coins instead of grass. Round the court stood seven storehouses, the first composed of a single block of granite, the second of plates of iron, the third of hens' eggs, the fourth of goose-eggs, the fifth of polished quartz, the sixth of the finest eagles' eggs, and the seventh of eggs of the Siuru.[75] The barns were filled respectively with rye, barley, oats, wheat, maize, vegetables, and the last with lumps of lard and tallow. At the back of the enclosure stood cattle-stalls, constructed of all sorts of bones. The Kalevide did not care to look at these things long, but asked the sisters to tell him all they could about Sarvik. "We can't tell you anything about his birth and parentage," answered the eldest sister. "We don't know if a bear was his father and a wolf his mother, or whether a mare suckled him and a goat rocked him in the cradle. "He has large estates, which occupy much of his time, and he makes long journeys secretly in an incredibly short time; but no one has seen or heard which way he goes or what places he visits. Everybody can see him going out and coming in, but nothing further is known about his movements. It is said that there is a vast space in the centre of the earth where he rules over seven worlds; seven islands, very thickly populated with the souls of the departed, where they live in large villages, and are subject to old Sarvik, as the wisdom of Taara has decreed from the beginning of the world. "Sarvik rules his subjects with great severity; but once a year, on All Souls' Day, they are permitted to revisit their homes, to see and salute their friends and relatives. They rush up in shoals, on these occasions, to the places which they once inhabited in joy or grief; but as soon as their time is over they are compelled to return, each to his own dwelling." The second sister added, "Old Sarvik selects his workmen and maids from this kingdom, and they are forced to follow him, and perform hard tasks for him in the iron and copper chambers; and if they fail in anything, they are beaten with bars of iron and rods of copper. "This is Sarvik's abode, where he lives with his wife, and rests and refreshes himself, and sleeps on soft pillows, when he is tired with long journeys and knocking about. Then the old woman heats the bath for him, and whisks his back and shoulders with the bath-whisk.[76] "Sometimes he makes a great feast for his friends and relatives, when they shout and drink beer till they are tipsy. His brother-in-law is Tühi,[77] his mother is the bitch of Põrgu, and his grandmother is the white mare."[78] "We expect him back this evening from the upper world, for he does not like to stay where the sun shines by day and the moon and stars by night. But when he has anything to do in the under world, he stays away from home for days and weeks together." The third sister added, "Noble scion of the Kalevides, if Sarvik found you among us here unawares, it would surely be your death, for no one who passes the threshold of his abode ever sees the sun again. We, poor creatures, were carried away as children from a country a thousand versts distant, and have had to do the hardest work early and late. But Taara mercifully decreed that we should always retain our youth as long as we retained our innocence." "But what avails it," interrupted the eldest sister, "when we are cut off from all pleasure and happiness?" Then the son of Kalev soothed and comforted them, assuring them that he was strong enough to rescue them. He would fight Sarvik himself, and overcome the old woman too. The eldest sister answered that if he really wished to fight with Sarvik, he must make use of the rod and the hat; for strength and bravery would avail nothing against Sarvik, who had thousands of allies at his beck and call, and was lord of the winds and of all kinds of magic spells. But the Kalevide only laughed, and declared that he had fought with a whole host of demons in Finland. Then the second sister implored him to escape while there was yet time, and to wish himself away with the wishing-hat; for as soon as Sarvik returned, all the doors would fly back to their places behind him, and escape would become impossible. The hero laughed again, proud of his strength, and the sisters, greatly distressed, consulted how they could help him in spite of himself, by some artifice. Two glasses stood by Sarvik's bed, half filled with a magic liquor that looked like beer. They looked just alike, but the liquor on the right hand gave the strength of ten oxen, while that on the left produced corresponding weakness. The eldest sister hastened to change these glasses, while the second secured the wishing-rod. As they returned, they heard the heavy footsteps of Sarvik approaching, and the youngest sister again implored the hero to fly before it was too late. Sarvik approached with a noise like hundreds of cavalry prancing over a bridge, or heavy iron waggons thundering along a copper roadway. The earth quaked and the cavern shook under his steps, but the hero stood at the entrance: Like the oak-tree in the tempest, Or the red glow 'mid the cloudlets, Or the rock amid a hailstorm, Or a tower in windy weather. Presently Sarvik dashed open the last door with a blow of his fist, and stopped, confronting the intruder. The sisters shrank back pale and trembling, but the Kalevide stood beside them, with the hat in his hand, and apparently no taller than themselves. Sarvik asked who he was, and how he came to throw himself into the trap; but the hero at once challenged him to wrestle, and he accepted the challenge. Then Sarvik advanced to the bed, not knowing that the glasses had been changed, and drained the water of weakness to the very bottom. Meantime the Kalevide concealed the magic hat in his bosom, so that he could at once resume his former strength and stature in case of need. The combatants then went to the enclosure to wrestle, but Sarvik sent the eldest sister to the iron room to fetch a double chain with which the victor might bind his conquered foe. Meantime the wrestling-place was marked off with posts, so that all might be fair. Now they rushed upon each other, and struggled together like waves in a tempest or roofs in a storm. The whole underground kingdom trembled, the palace walls cracked and their foundations heaved, the arches bowed and the roof began to totter. The contest remained long undecided, but when they paused to rest, the Kalevide drew out the hat, and wished to resume his former size and strength. He grew up at once, as strong as an oak-tree and as tall as a pine. He grasped Sarvik by the hair, raised him up ten fathoms, and then rammed him into the ground like a pointed stake, first to the calves, then to the knees, and then to the loins, so that he could not move. He then grasped the chain to bind him, but suddenly Sarvik grew smaller and smaller, and finally sank into the ground out of sight, like a stone in a swamp. The Kalevide shouted after him, upbraiding him for a coward, and threatened to follow him up and fetter him some other day; but his present care was to release the sisters from their long captivity. So he seized and girded on the sword, took a load of old treasures, and many bags full of gold coins, and barrels full of silver money. All this he took on his shoulders and mounted the three sisters on the top. Then he put on the hat, and cried out, "Hat, carry us quickly to the entrance gate, where I left the planks." He found himself there at once, but the cooks and the kettle had disappeared, and nothing was left behind but the ashes of the fire, in which a few dying embers still remained. These the hero fanned into a flame, into which he contemptuously tossed the hat, which was immediately consumed. The sisters began to cry, and reproached him with having destroyed a hat which had not its equal on earth or in Põrgu, and said that all hope was now at an end. But the hero comforted them, telling them that it was no time for lamentation, for the summer was at its loveliest, and they should soon find themselves in full possession of all the pleasures of life, from which they had been so long debarred. So he took the planks on his back, piled all his booty upon them, and then invited the sisters to take their place again on the top of all. Before their departure, the sisters had also provided themselves with good store of rich clothing from the silk and satin chambers, while the youngest had secured the wishing-rod in case of need. Notwithstanding his load, the Kalevide ran on as if his feet were burning, while the sisters jested and laughed and sang. [Footnote 75: A mythical blue bird, the daughter of Taara. Two songs respecting her will be found in another part of the book. Reinthal improperly translates the word "griffin." "Phoenix" or "Seemurgh" would have been a more appropriate rendering.] [Footnote 76: These bath-whisks, which are dried birch-twigs with the leaves left on, are often alluded to in the _Kalevala_.] [Footnote 77: Or Tühja. See _ante_, p. 84.] [Footnote 78: Compare Canto 10 of the _Kalevipoeg_, and the story of the Grateful Prince, as well as _ante_, p. 58 note. Sarvik seems to have belonged to the same family as the water-demon who was tricked by the Alevide in Canto 10.] CANTO XV THE MARRIAGE OF THE SISTERS The Kalevide had not gone far on his homeward journey when he found that Tühi himself was pursuing him with a band of his followers. Then the youngest sister took the wishing-rod, and called upon it to flood the whole country, a bridge rising before them for the hero, while water flowed behind between him and his enemies. The demons stopped in confusion, and Tühi shouted to the Kalevide to ask if he was carrying off his adopted daughters? "It looks like it," answered the hero.[79] Then Tühi asked again, "Dear brother, did you wrestle with my good brother-in-law in his own enclosure, and then drive him into the ground like a post?" "Likely enough," retorted the hero; "but it's not my fault if his bones are still sound." Then the demon asked again, "My dear brother, son of Kalev, did you lock up our old mother in the kitchen just like a mouse in a trap, while she was baking cakes?" "O yes," said the hero; "and I suppose she roared, and made up a bed among the boxes of peas, and for aught I know she may be sleeping there still, unless a flea has woke her up." "Have you stolen Sarvik's good sword?" asked Tühi again. "Perhaps I may have taken the weapon too, dear brother," answered the hero. "Who can separate a man and his sword? One is worth nothing without the other." Then Tühi asked if he had taken the hat. "I think so," said the hero; "but Sarvik will never put it on his head again, for I threw it into the fire and burned it to ashes, which have blown away in the wind." Tühi then asked if he had plundered his brother's treasures. "Yes, my dear sir," answered the hero; "I took a little gold and silver, but not much. Ten horses could drag such a load, and twenty oxen easily; but you may depend upon it I didn't carry away any copper." Tühi's next question was whether he had stolen the bridge-builder, the wishing-rod. The hero replied, "I suppose some brown-eyed maiden stole it, for no stronger person would have troubled about such a thing." Tühi next inquired how he had treated the maidens; and to this the hero replied that he'd tell him another time. "Won't you come back again, dear brother, and pay your debts?" asked Tühi at last. "Who knows, dear brother?" said the hero; "if I ever find myself short of money, I may perchance come back to fetch some more gold and silver, and repay my old debts with new ones." And upon this Tühi and his seventy people decamped in the greatest haste, as if they had been on fire, or as if they were pursued by gadflies. Strong as was the Kalevide, his back was weary and chafed with his heavy load, and he threw it off and lay down to rest; but while he slept he was in danger of being carried away by a sudden flood from the mountains, raised against him by a sorceress.[80] After stemming it with some trouble, on resuming his journey, he met a stranger who asked him what he was going to do with the planks. The stranger proved to be the son of Olev, the great master-builder, and to him was intrusted the task of building the cities and fortifications. When the Kalevide learned that he had lost seven weeks in a magic sleep, he gave the three sisters to the charge of the son of Alev, who married the youngest. The son of Sulev married the eldest, but the second sister found no lover, and while the others were talking together of their wedded happiness she stole apart weeping; and at length she was carried away by a famous sorcerer, and her strong brothers-in-law went in search of her. On the third evening they came upon her track, when the sorcerer spread out a great lake to impede their passage. But the Alevide had brought with him the wishing-rod, which quickly provided them with a bridge. They rushed across, broke the locks, and burst open the doors, slew the sorcerer, released the captive, and then sent the red cock on the roof.[81] Then the son of Olev took the second sister to wife; and thus all the three sisters whom the Kalevide had released from the regions of Sarvik were happily married, and many great tribes derived their origin from them. [Footnote 79: Compare the similar scene in the story of "Slyboots," later in this volume.] [Footnote 80: This incident resembles an adventure attributed to Thor. In the legends of all countries, sorcerers or fugitives are represented as raising magic floods, either to sweep away their enemies or to baffle pursuit. There are three instances in this very canto.] [Footnote 81: This is the usual Esthonian euphemism for setting a house on fire. I understand that there is also some connection between red cocks and fire in Scottish folk-lore; and in Scandinavian mythology two of the three cocks which are to crow before Ragnarök are red. May they not have some connection with the fire of Surtur?] CANTO XVI THE VOYAGE OF THE KALEVIDE The Kalevide now decided on a journey north, to the uttermost end of the world, where it touches the sky. He imagined that he could only reach this point by sea, and thought at first of travelling on the wings of an eagle. Meantime, a raven directed him, when he came to a broad expanse of blue water, to look for a place where rushes grew on the bank, and to stamp on the ground with his right foot, when the mouth of the earth and the strongly guarded doors would fly open, and he would reach the end of the world. Then the Kalevide reflected how he had waded through every lake and sea, and had found none too deep for him except Lake Ilma. He then thought he would visit Finland, Norway, and the islands, where he expected to find old friends to direct him on his journey. So he directed Olev to fell the great oak-tree which their father and mother had planted, and which neither sun, moon, stars, nor rain, could penetrate,[82] and to make the strongest sailing vessels for exploring voyages from the trunk, warships from the crown, merchantmen from the large branches, slave-ships from the smaller ones, children's boats from the splinters, and maiden's boats from the chips. He ordered the remainder to be used for building towns, fortresses, and houses for the people in various parts of the country. Olev replied, "I know what to do, dear brother, if we can find a strong man in the country able to fell the oak-tree." The raven told them to send out to seek for such a man, and they did so; whereupon the wise men of Norway and Finland assembled to give them advice. But they told the Kalevide that it was no use building a wooden ship to sail to the world's end, for the spirits of the Northern Lights would set it in flames. He must build a strong vessel of iron and copper and tin. The Kalevide then constructed a vessel, not of iron and copper, but of silver. The whole of the ship--planking, deck, masts, and chains--was of silver, and he named the vessel Lennuk.[83] For himself he provided golden armour, silver for the nobles, iron for the crew, copper for the old men, and steel for the wise men. The Kalevide selected experienced sailors and many wise men to accompany him, and they set sail joyfully towards Finland; but soon turned, and directed their course to the far north, in the direction of the Great Bear. To the north they sailed under the guidance of a wise helmsman who knew all languages and the speech of birds and beasts. But the Finnish sorcerers raised storms against the ship, and they were driven along for seven days and nights, till a coast rose before them which the helmsman declared was quite unknown to him. The son of Kalev then sprang into the sea, swam ashore, and towed the ship after him.[84] The birds sang to them that it was the poverty-stricken coast of Lapland.[85] They went to explore the country, but wandered a long way without meeting with any inhabitants. At last they found a solitary cottage, where a maiden sat on the grass plot before the door spinning. And she sang how a milkmaid once found a cock and a hen. The cock flew away, but she caught the hen, and brought it home, where it grew up into a proud princess who had many lovers, among whom were the sun and--"The Kalevide," shouted he; and the maiden screamed and fled into the house. Then her father came to the door, and the Kalevide saluted him courteously, and asked him the way to the world's end. The wise man answered that it was a vain quest. The sea had no end, and those who had formerly attempted this quest had found their deaths on the Fire Island. The raven had only directed them on the road to Põrgu, but if they wished to return home, he would be pleased to guide them. The Kalevide answered that he needed no pilot to show him the way home, but would be glad if the Lapp could pilot him to the door at the World's End. The Lapp consented, but bargained for what was chained to the wall at home, which the hero readily promised. So Varrak the Laplander took the helm and steered the vessel due north for many days and nights. The first danger they encountered was a great whirlpool,[86] which threatened to engulf the ship. Then Varrak threw a small barrel overboard, wrapped in red cloths and ornamented with red streamers. This bait was swallowed by a whale, which took to flight, and towed the ship to a place of safety. Again they sailed on for a long distance, till they came in sight of the Island of Fire,[87] where huge pillars of flame were towering up, and vast clouds of smoke filled the air. The Kalevide wished to visit the island, but Varrak warned him of the danger, and at length the Sulevide volunteered to land alone. So Varrak ran the ship ashore at a spot where one mountain was casting up flames, a second smoke, and a third boiling water, while the burning lava ran down into the valley. The son of Sulev wandered on amid ashes and snowfields, amid a rain of red-hot stones, till he reached the mouth of the volcano, when his coat caught fire and his hair and eyebrows were singed, and he returned scorched to the ship. The Kalevide asked if he had seen anything of the cupbearer, who had followed him; but he had not. Then a white bird perched on the ship, and the wise Finn, who knew the language of animals, asked for tidings of the boy. But the bird answered that he had wandered away to a beautiful country which lay behind the snow-mountains, where he was enjoying himself in the company of the water-nymphs. He would return no more; let the ship proceed on her course.[88] Next they reached a country where the birds all fed on gold and silver and copper, and where the herbage grew as high as the pine-trees. The Kalevide sent some of the crew ashore, under the guidance of the magician, to view the country, while he and the Sulevide lay down on deck to sleep in the sun, leaving the Alevide to keep watch. The ship's company, headed by the magician, wandered into the country, and, when night came, lay down to rest under a bush. Next morning the little daughter of a giant[89] found them asleep, and wondering what they were, put them all into her apron, and carried them home to her father, and scattered them before him, saying: "Look at these, O dearest father, I have brought them here to play with, For I found them in the cabbage, Where the six like fleas were lying, Stiffened in the chilly dewdrops, Sleeping 'neath a head of cabbage." The giant[90] wished to test the wisdom of the strangers, so he inquired, "What walks along the grass, steps on the edge of the fence, and walks along the sides of the reeds?" "The bee," replied the magician.[91] "What drinks from the brooks and wells, and from the stones on the bank?" "The rainbow." "What comes hissing from the meadow, and rushing from the blue forest?" "The rain." The giant was pleased with the answers to his riddles, and told his daughter to carry the men back to where she had found them, but the wise man asked her to take them to the ship for fun. The maiden willingly obeyed; she leaned over the ship like a vast cloud, shook the men out of her apron on deck, and then blew the ship four miles out to sea, for which the Kalevide shouted back his thanks to her. Now they sailed farther north, and the cold became intense, while the spirits of the Northern Lights began their combats in the air with silver spears and golden shields. The sailors were frightened, but the Kalevide was pleased that they should now be able to direct their course when they had left the sun and moon behind them. Next they reached an unknown shore, where the inhabitants were half men and half dogs, and had long dog's tails.[92] They were armed with great clubs, and the Kalevide sprang ashore to fight. A horse which he mounted soon fell dead under him, but he tore up an oak by the roots and began to lay the country waste. The wisest man of the country expostulated with him, and he repented of his violence, and prayed to Ukko to send fish to the country to replace the good ground which he had destroyed in his fury. Peace was thus concluded; and the wise man told the Kalevide that the raven had sent him on an idle quest to the gates of Põrgu. The Kalevide then decided to return home, and they directed the ship towards Lalli in the bay of Lindanisa, where Olev was building a city. [Footnote 82: Here we have the great oak-tree mentioned in Cantos 5 and 6 reappearing in another connection.] [Footnote 83: The Flyer.] [Footnote 84: In the present canto the Kalevide is never spoken of as of gigantic size, unless we may consider feats like this as implying it.] [Footnote 85: Baring Gould considers this country to be the North Cape, but the geography of the voyage is confused.] [Footnote 86: The Maelström?] [Footnote 87: The commentators identify this island with Iceland, but the voyagers were apparently on the wrong side of Scandinavia to reach either the Maelström or Iceland. Still we have both geysers and volcanoes in the text.] [Footnote 88: Here the Kalevide's sun begins to decline, for the first of his faithful companions leaves his side, as Hylas left Heracles.] [Footnote 89: This is Chamisso's Alsatian legend, "Das Riesenspielzeug," "The Giant's Toy," usually called in English translations "The Giant's Daughter and the Peasant." The girl in the poem seems to have far exceeded even the Kalevide in stature; and we may remember Gulliver's remark respecting the Brobdingnagians--"Who knows but that even this prodigious race of mortals might be equally overmatched in some distant part of the world whereof we have yet no discovery?"] [Footnote 90: Throughout this passage the giant is usually called simply the magician, and the other "the wise man."] [Footnote 91: Asking riddles of this kind was a common amusement in Northern Europe. Compare Prior's _Danish Ballads_, i. 185, 334.] [Footnote 92: Baring-Gould ingeniously suggests that this country is Greenland, and that the Dog-men are Esquimaux, clad in furs, and riding in dog-sledges. The end of this canto is inconsequential, for the hero should have reached his goal during this voyage, not by a land-journey afterwards.] CANTO XVII THE HEROES AND THE DWARF Olev had now built a magnificent city, fortified with towers and ditches, around the burial-mound of Kalev. Large numbers of people flocked to it, and the Kalevide named it Lindanisa, in memory of his mother.[93] Other fortified cities were founded by the Alevide and the Sulevide. But news came that hostile troops were landing on the coast, and the Kalevide mounted his war-horse. The king wore a golden helmet, gold spurs, and a silver belt, and carried a shield of gold, and the steed was all caparisoned with gold and silver and pearls, while the maidens of the country looked on with admiration. The Kalevide and his three friends fought a pitched battle with the countless forces of the enemy on the plains of Esthonia. Their heads fell before him like autumn leaves, and their scattered limbs were strewn about in heaps like straw or rushes. His horse waded in blood and bones to the belly; for the Kalevide slaughtered his enemies by tens of thousands, and would have utterly annihilated them, but, as he was pursuing the fugitives over hill and dale, his horse lost his footing in a bog, and was engulfed in the morass. As the Kalevide was unable to continue the pursuit after the loss of his horse, he recalled his troops and divided the booty. Then he sent his soldiers to carry news of the victory to the towns and villages throughout the country, and he and his three friends set out on a journey across the plains and swamps, and through primeval forests, making a pathway for others as they advanced. At length they came to a place where smoke and flames were shooting up into the air, and when they reached the spot they found an old woman sitting at the mouth of a cave and stirring the fire under a pot. The Alevide asked what she was cooking, and she answered, "Cabbage for my sons and for myself." Then the son of Sulev said they were hungry travellers, and asked her to give them some, and to take a rest while they finished the cookery. The old woman consented, but warned them, if a strange youth asked to be allowed to taste the broth, to take good care that he did not empty the pot and leave them nothing. Three of the heroes at once volunteered to take turns to watch the pot, but the Kalevide said nothing. Then the old woman crept into the bushes, and hid herself in a wolf's den. The Alevide took the first watch, and his companions lay down by the fire to sleep. He had not been long sitting there, and throwing fresh faggots on the fire, when one of the little dwarf race stole up stealthily and timidly through the long grass. He was about three spans high, and had a gold bell[94] hanging to his neck. He had small horns behind the ears, and a goat's beard under his chin. He asked humbly to be allowed to taste the soup, and the hero gave him leave, but warned him to take care not to drown himself in it. The dwarf replied that he would like to taste the soup without a spoon, and jumped on the edge of the pot; but he grew up in an instant to the height of a pine-tree, and then to the clouds, rising to the height of seventy fathoms and more. Then he vanished like a mist, and the Alevide found the pot as empty as if the contents had been scraped out.[95] So he refilled the pot with water, put in some fresh cabbage, and roused the Olevide, but said nothing of what had happened. Then he lay down and went to sleep, leaving his companion on guard. But presently the dwarf reappeared, and neither the Olevide nor the Sulevide, who took the third watch, fared any better than their companion. The watch now fell to the Kalevide, but he would not allow the dwarf to taste the soup until he gave him his gold bell as a pledge of good faith. As soon as he had received it, he playfully gave the dwarf a fillip on the forehead, when there was a tremendous crash of thunder, and the dwarf sank into the earth and disappeared from the sight of the hero. The other heroes and the old woman then assembled round the fire to hear what had happened. They sat down to their supper, after which the Kalevide advised his companions to lie down and rest for the remainder of the night, and to return home to their wives and children in the morning. During the night the daughters of the Meadow Queen danced and sported, and sang to the Kalevide of his approaching adventures and journey. [Footnote 93: Linda's bosom, now Revel.] [Footnote 94: The bells of the dwarfs are often of great importance in Northern fairy mythology.] [Footnote 95: This incident is common in Esthonian tales.] CANTO XVIII THE KALEVIDE'S JOURNEY TO PÕRGU Next morning the Kalevide rose at daybreak and looked about him. Where the dwarf had vanished in blue smoke, he now beheld a sheet of blue water with rushes on the bank, and knew that he had unexpectedly chanced upon the entrance to Põrgu. His wearied comrades were still sleeping, and, without disturbing them, he stamped with his right foot, and the hidden strongly-guarded doors of Hades flew open. The hero gazed down into the abyss, but clouds of smoke and hot steam rolled up, and made his eyes smart, and he hesitated a moment, when a raven called to him from the summit of a pine-tree to sound the bell. Instantly the clouds of smoke disappeared, and he set out on the downward path. As he proceeded, he found himself in thick darkness, without a ray of light to guide him, and he was forced to grope his way, when the voice of a mouse directed him to sound the bell again. The path grew dimly light, and the Kalevide proceeded, but soon found his way so much impeded by nets and snares, which multiplied faster than he could destroy them, that he was unable to advance, and his strength began to fail him. This time it was a toad who advised him to sound the bell, when all the magic snares vanished, and he hurried on till he reached the edge of a rivulet about two spans broad. Every time he attempted to cross, his foot sank in the mud in the middle, and no matter how often he renewed his efforts, he could not reach the opposite shore. While the Kalevide was lamenting that he found less difficulty in crossing Lake Peipus with a heavy load of timber on his back, he heard a crayfish advising him to sound the bell, when the brook instantly vanished. There was nothing in these caverns to mark the difference between night and day, and the Kalevide did not know how long he had been struggling against the various difficulties of the road. He was now assailed by swarms of mosquitoes, which he thought to escape by hurrying through them and leaving them behind; but they grew thicker and thicker, till a cricket in the grass called to him to sound the bell. The mosquitoes vanished as if carried away by the wind, and the hero sat down to rest and refresh himself, and having at length learned wisdom from experience, tied the bell on his little finger, that he might have its constant aid in future. Then he advanced farther. And now the hosts of hell, the servants of Sarvik, heard his heavy tread, and they sent out scouts, who fled back in consternation, reporting that the son of Kalev, the strongest of men, was advancing with hostile intentions. Then Sarvik commanded his forces to march against him. The Kalevide had now reached a river of blazing pitch, crossed by an iron bridge. Here the hosts of hell determined to make a stand, and formed themselves into four detachments, one upon the bridge, one below, one on the bank, and one in the rear. "What's this swarm of frogs?" cried the Kalevide, drawing his sword and rushing forward to the bridge. He was at once assailed with a shower of arrows, and was then attacked with spear and battleaxe; but he stood like a wall of iron, and scattered his enemies, though fresh hosts continually advanced against him. At length he fought his way through all the hostile troops, and Sarvik was in despair, and did his utmost to block the paths and to fortify himself against the imminent danger. When the Kalevide reached the bridge, he rested for a moment to look round, and then casting the bodies of his enemies into the river as he advanced, his steps thundered across the bridge, and he soon reached the fortifications. Three strokes of his fist sufficed to burst in the gates, and he trod down all impediments and forced his way into the enclosure. When he came to the inner door, he beat and kicked it down, and it fell in fragments, door, door-posts, bolts, and bars, all battered to pieces. In the hall he found a shade resembling his mother Linda spinning. At her right hand was a cup of the water of strength, and at her left a cup of the water of weakness. Without speaking, she offered her son the cup with the water of strength, which he drank, and then lifting a huge rock broke his way into the inner hall, where Sarvik's old mother was sitting spinning. She knew, and tried to beg the bell, but the Kalevide put her off, and inquired if Sarvik was at home. She answered that he left home the day before yesterday, and would not return for two or three days; but if the hero liked to wait for him, he should be received as a guest; but first he must taste her mead. He knew that she would give him the water of weakness, and declined, but looked about till he saw a secret door in a recess in the wall, and was about to break it open, when it flew open of itself with a tremendous noise, and a host of armed warriors rushed out. He repulsed them all, and then Sarvik himself cried out to him, reproaching him with all the wrongs he had suffered at his hands, and the numerous thefts he had committed. In reply the Kalevide reproached Sarvik with his own tricks; but nevertheless he sheathed his sword and put the bell in his pocket. Then Sarvik came forth from his hiding-place pale and trembling, and wishing to recover himself a little by a potion, mistook the cups in his confusion, and drank the water of weakness, while the Kalevide took another draught of the water of strength. CANTO XIX THE LAST FEAST OF THE HEROES After this the Kalevide and Sarvik engaged in a terrific wrestling-match, which lasted for seven days and nights, with varying success. At length the shade of Linda, who was looking on, took her distaff, swung it ten times round her head, and dashed it to the ground. The hint was not lost on her son. He seized Sarvik by the garters, whirled him ten times round, and then hurled him down, set his knee on his chest, and seized his throat and tried to strangle him. Then he took his belt, bound Sarvik firmly, and dragged him to the iron chamber, where he bound him hand and foot with chains. A third chain he fastened round his neck, and a fourth round his body, and drove the ends into the walls of rock. He rolled a great stone, as large as a house, against the door, and fixed the chains to this also, so that Sarvik could hardly move. The Kalevide washed the traces of the struggle away, and Sarvik tried to obtain some concessions from him, but failing this he began to curse and swear. The Kalevide then went to pack up a store of treasures, but was warned by a mouse not to overload himself. So he contented himself with taking two sacks on each shoulder, and then set out on his homeward journey, and the iron bridge thundered beneath his footsteps, while Sarvik shouted curses after him. At last the Kalevide struggled up to daylight, and sank down exhausted by the side of the son of Alev, who had been waiting anxiously for his friend, and had heard faint sounds of conflict far below. When his friend had fetched him some water, and he had recovered a little from his fatigue, he asked how long he had been absent, and learned that he had been away about three weeks. The Kalevide remarked that where he had been there was no means of distinguishing day and night or measuring time, and he then related his adventures. The Alevide then slaughtered a great ox, a feat which no one else had been able to accomplish. The blood filled a hundred vats and the flesh a thousand barrels. They sat down to supper, and the Kalevide ate till he was ready to burst, and then laid down to sleep, while the son of Alev seated himself on the treasure-sacks. The Kalevide slept for two days and nights, and did not wake till the third morning was well advanced. While he slept, his snoring resounded for miles, and the great trees shook as if they were saplings. About noon on the third day they set out homeward. The son of Alev carried one sack of treasure, and the Kalevide the other three. After the Kalevide's return from his journey, he resided at Lindanisa, occupying himself with schemes for the good of his people. Olev had built three more cities, in the north, west, and south of the country. His friends advised the Kalevide to seek a bride in Kungla, and he replied that they would first build a beautiful fortified city and rear a magnificent house, and then he would follow their advice. One day the Kalevide sat at a feast with his friends, and a harper sang the adventures of Siuru, the blue bird,[96] the daughter of Taara. The Kalevide invited his friends to drink, and sang a song relating how he had gone down to the beach where two trees, the apple of fortune and the oak of wisdom, grew in the sea. Here he found some girls who told him that his little brother had fallen into the water. He waded into the water to look for him, and saw a naked sword at the bottom, which he was just about to grasp, when his sister called from the shore to tell him that his father, mother, brothers, and sisters were all dead or dying. He hurried home, but it proved to be a hoax, for they were all alive and well. The son of Sulev next sang a ditty relating an adventure with four coy maidens, and the drinking and mirth continued. And now messengers arrived in great haste, announcing that hostile armies of Letts, Vends, and Poles had invaded the kingdom on all sides. But the Kalevide bade his comrades empty their cups, while he himself quietly gave general orders, and declared that to-morrow he would take the field in person. Then he sang a song about two lovers. While the Kalevide was thus drinking and singing, Varrak the Laplander entered and embraced his knees. He called down blessings from Ukko on the hero, and then requested to receive the reward which had been promised him, as he intended to set sail for home on the morrow. The Kalevide asked him what he wished for; and he answered that he had found a chained book in an iron cover, which he wished to possess. The Kalevide could not read the book, which nevertheless contained all the priceless wisdom which his father had recorded; and he willingly gave it to Varrak, notwithstanding the loud protests of the sons of Sulev and Olev. The book was fastened with three chains and three locks, and the keys could not be found. Varrak knew very well where they were, but he kept his knowledge to himself. So the Kalevide ordered the wall to be broken down to release the book, which was then laid on a waggon, and dragged by a yoke of oxen to the boat, which Varrak had already loaded with bags of gold.[97] Meantime a troop of fugitives came flying to the city, bringing word that the war was close at hand, and that the axes of the youths were useless against the swords of the mail-clad warriors.[98] The Kalevide ordered the weary men to be fed and comfortably housed, and while they slept he repaired to his father's grave. But there was no voice nor counsel; there was no sound but the sighing of the wind and the moaning of the distant sea, and the clouds shed sad tears. The hero returned home sorrowful and uneasy. [Footnote 96: This song will be included in a later section of the book.] [Footnote 97: Some of the commentators regard this book as a palladium on which the independence of Esthonia depended; and the thoughtlessness of the Kalevide in parting with the book which contained the wisdom of his father as a sacrilegious action which precipitated his ruin.] [Footnote 98: These are identified by the commentators with the Teutonic Knights of the Sword, who conquered Esthonia in the eleventh century.] CANTO XX ARMAGEDDON The news of the invasion had brought the feast to a sudden end, and the Kalevide consulted with his friends, and proposed to bury his treasure, thinking it might otherwise be insecure. So at dead of night the Kalevide, Alevide, and Sulevide dug a deep pit in a secret place. Then the Kalevide solemnly delivered over the treasure to Taara's protection, and declared that no one should obtain it but the son of a pure mother, who should come to the spot on St. John's Eve, and should sacrifice three black animals without a white hair upon them--a black cock with a curled comb, a black dog or cat, and a mole. Then he murmured secret spells over the treasure; but the man is not yet born who shall raise it. When the morning dawned, the son of Kalev took his spear and sword, mounted his war-horse, and ordered the Alevide to follow him as his shield-bearer. Then he blew his horn, and set his forces in battle array. The sound of the horn echoed through city and forest, and was heard in every province of Esthonia,[99] and the people flocked to the king at the summons. The women wept and lamented, but their husbands, sons, brothers, and lovers went forth to the war. The Kalevide assembled his army in the sacred oak-forest of Taara, and a bird advised him to sharpen his sword and spear before the fight. By the fifth evening the last stragglers had come in, and the Kalevide allowed his men two days' longer rest. On the third day thereafter the battle began in earnest, and the Kalevide fought against the mailed warriors for half a day, when his horse was killed under him. Hundreds were slain on both sides, and at last the Sulevide fell severely wounded. The soothsayer was summoned hastily, and adjured the blood to cease flowing:[100] Quickly came the man of wisdom, Who should charm the blood from flowing And should still the pain by magic. "Flow thou not, O blood, like water; Still thee, blood, of life the honey; Wherefore thus thy source o'erflowing, Breaking thus the bonds that hold thee? Let the blood as stone be hardened, Firm as oak-tree let it stiffen; In the stone-like veins around it, Let the blood be stanched, O Taara!" But the blood continued to flow, and then the magician used stronger spells, pressed his fingers on the wound to stop the bleeding, and tied up the limb with red thread, afterwards applying healing herbs. Meantime the Kalevide had routed the enemy and dispersed them over the plain in flight, the dead being piled up in heaps behind them. But the hero was weary and overcome with heat and thirst, and went to a lake, which he drained to the last drop, leaving only the mud at the bottom. Three days were given to the burial of the dead and the care of the wounded, and then the Kalevide set out in pursuit of the enemy. Olev built a bridge over the Võhanda according to the Kalevide's directions, and presently the army fell in with a murderous host of Tartars, Poles, and Letts, who were ravaging the neighbourhood of Pleskau. Another great battle was fought, and the Kalevide slaughtered his enemies till their bodies lay in heaps a fathom high about the field, and the blood was five spans deep. The battle lasted for seven days, and many notable chiefs were slain, among whom was the son of Sulev, who had been so severely wounded in a previous battle. The Tartars and Poles had now been slain or put to flight, and the Kalevide gathered together the remnants of his army to attack the Vends, and ordered the Alevide to break their centre. The fight with the Vends lasted two days longer, and again vast numbers were slain on both sides. A great mound was raised on the battlefield over the grave of the Sulevide in memory of the fallen hero. The three remaining heroes, the Kalevide, the Alevide, and Olev, stood like towers against the attacks of the mailed warriors; but at last they were overcome by thirst, and went to a lake in a valley, with steep high banks, to drink. The Alevide, who was very weary, stooped down to drink, when his foot slipped, and he fell into the water, and was drowned before his friends could recover his body. In the bright sunshine his huge iron helmet and his three-edged sword may still be seen gleaming at the bottom of the water. The Kalevide was so overcome with grief at this last misfortune that he abandoned his kingdom, abdicating in favour of Olev, and retired to the pine-forests on the banks of the river Koiva, where he built a cottage and thought to dwell in peace and retirement. Here he lived alone, supporting himself on fish and crayfish. One day a party of armed men found their way to his hermitage, and invited him to join company with them. He turned his back on them contemptuously, when he saw in the water the reflection of one of them advancing with his sword drawn to murder him.[101] He turned angrily on his foes with an indignant exclamation, and seizing one of them by the helmet, whirled him round, and the air sounded as if disturbed by the rush of the Northern eagle. Then he dashed him down so that he sank to his waist in the ground. He seized the second by the hand, and swung him round till the forest was shaken as if by a tempest, and him he sank to the cheeks in the ground. The third he seized in the same way, and drove him so far into the ground that nothing could be seen of him but the hole where he had disappeared. Another time the Kalevide was troubled by a messenger sent by the merchants on the coast to invite him to visit them. After listening to his talk for some time, he told him to pull up the rod which he had baited for crayfish, and after he had eaten, they might discuss the matter further. The youth went down to the river bank, and found, to his amazement, that the rod was a tall fir-tree, which the Kalevide had torn up by the roots, but which the youth could not even move. Then the Kalevide lifted the rod with one hand, and showed the youth that it was baited with the whole carcass of a dead mare; and sent him about his business, telling him to report what he had seen. These intrusions vexed the Kalevide, and he wandered away from his hermitage through the forests, and three days afterwards he reached Lake Peipus, without remembering that he had ever travelled the same way before. Singing gaily, he came to the brook Käpä, and waded in. The hero had laid an injunction on his lost sword which he had intended to apply to the sorcerer who had robbed him of it; but the understanding of the sword was confused by the curse which the Finnish smith had previously laid upon it, and it reflected that now was the time for vengeance. So without more ado the great sword raised itself, and cut off both the hero's legs at the knee. He cried out for help, and dragged himself with his hands to the shore, where he lay down bleeding, his legless body covering a whole acre of ground. The cries of the dying Kalevide rose above the clouds and ascended to heaven. The heavenly powers assembled round the hero, and vainly tried to salve his wounds and soothe his pain. Presently he expired, and his soul, like a joyful bird, took its flight to the halls of Taara in heaven. There he sat in the firelight among the heroes of Taara, resting his cheek on his hand, and listening to the bards as they sang of his great deeds. But the old father of the gods knew that so great a hero, who had conquered all his enemies in battle, and had bound even the prince of Põrgu in chains, could not remain idle in heaven. So he summoned all the gods in secret conclave to consider what work they should assign to the Kalevide, and the debate lasted for many days and nights. At last they determined that he should keep watch and ward at the gates of Põrgu, so that Sarvik should never be able to free himself from his bonds. So the soul of the Kalevide flew down from heaven like a bird, and was bidden to reanimate his body; but the might of all the gods, and even the divine wisdom of Taara, could not put his legs on again. Then they mounted him on a white charger,[102] and sent him to the post which had been assigned to him at the gates of Põrgu. When the Kalevide reached the rocky portal, a voice was heard from heaven, "Strike the rock with thy fist!" He did so, and clove open the rock, and his right hand was caught in the cleft. Here he sits now on his horse at the gates of Põrgu, watching the bonds of others while bound himself. The demons attempt unceasingly to soften their chains by heaping up charcoal faggots around them, but when the cock crows at dawn their fetters grow thicker again. From time to time, too, the Kalevide struggles to free his hand from the wall of rock, till the earth trembles and the sea foams; but the hand of Mana[103] holds him, that the warder shall never depart from his post. But one day a vast fire will break out on both sides of the rock and melt it, when the Kalevide will withdraw his hand, and return to earth to inaugurate a new day of prosperity for the Esthonians.[104] [Footnote 99: Here we have a reminiscence of the Giallar horn of Heimdall, and of the horn of Roland (or Orlando).] [Footnote 100: Compare the much longer story in the 9th Runo of the _Kalevala_.] [Footnote 101: A similar adventure happened to the naturalist Macgillivray in the Solomon Islands during the voyage of the _Herald_. He turned round and shot the savage dead.] [Footnote 102: There is a curious variant relating how the Kalevide waded across Lake Peipus with a bridle in his hand to look for a horse, and the water threatened to rise above his boots, when he said, "Don't think to drown this man." Then the devil brought him first his daughter and then his son in the shape of horses; but they both broke down under him. Then the devil brought him his mother, in her usual shape of a white mare, and she galloped away with the hero, and he could not rein her in. Then a voice from heaven cried, "Godson, godson, strike your hand into the oak!" The hero seized a great oak-tree as they were passing, when it came away in his hand, roots and all. Then the mare rushed to Põrgu, and the voice again bade the hero strike his hand into the doorpost. He did so, and his hand was caught fast, and the mare galloped away to hell from between his legs, and left him hanging there.] [Footnote 103: The God of Death.] [Footnote 104: The guardian hero of every nation is looked for to return in a similar manner; even William Tell.] END OF THE KALEVIPOEG. PART II Esthonian Folk-Tales These are very numerous, and, while some are of course identical with well-known stories of world-wide distribution, others have a peculiarly original character of their own. We have divided them into sections, but this classification must not be taken as too stringent, for many tales would fall equally well under two or three of our separate headings. In so far as any foreign elements are visible, they are apparently Scandinavian or German. Finnish tales show more trace of Russian influence, but there is seldom any visible in Esthonian tales, and even in the _Kalevipoeg_ there is no resemblance to the Russian hero-legends. It is, however, noteworthy that even in the most heathenish tales, the heroes usually have names of Christian origin; though not in the _Kalevipoeg_. It is possible that the Gospel of Nicodemus, which describes the descent into hell, may have suggested the name of Nicodemus for Slyboots. SECTION I _TALES ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE "KALEVIPOEG"_ The following stories are thoroughly Esthonian in character, and, with the exception of the first, mostly exhibit variants of the Kalevide's journeys to Põrgu. That of "Slyboots" is also interesting from the resemblance of a portion of it to "Jack and the Beanstalk." THE MILKY WAY. (JANNSEN.) Soon after the creation of the world, God created a fair maiden and gave into her charge all the birds beneath the heavens. This was Lindu, the lovely daughter of Uko, who knew the paths of all the birds of passage, whence they came in spring, and whither they went in autumn, and appointed to each his dwelling. She cared for the birds with a tender heart, like a mother for her children, and gave them her aid whenever it was possible; and like a flower in the morning sunlight under a thousand dewdrops, so brightly shone Lindu in her motherly care for the birds. Therefore was it not surprising that all gazed upon her and loved her. Every one desired the maiden as a wife, and suitors came in crowds. The North Star drove up in a grand coach drawn by six brown horses, and brought ten presents. But Lindu gave him a sharp answer. "You must always remain at your post, and cannot stir from it," said she. Then came the Moon in a silver coach drawn by ten brown horses, and he brought twenty presents. But Lindu refused the Moon too. "You are much too changeable," said she, "and yet you always run in your old path, and that won't suit me." Scarcely had the Moon taken a sorrowful departure than the Sun drove up. He rode in a golden coach drawn by twenty gold-red horses, and brought thirty presents with him. But all his splendour and magnificence and rich presents went for nothing; for Lindu said, "I don't like you. You always run on the same course day by day, just like the Moon." At length the Northern Light came from midnight in a diamond coach drawn by a thousand white horses. His arrival was so splendid that Lindu went to the door to meet him. His attendants carried a whole coach-load of gold and silver, pearls, and jewellery into her house. And behold, the bridegroom and his presents pleased Lindu so much that she accepted him at once, saying, "You don't always travel the same path, like the others. You set out when you will, and rest when it pleases you. Each time you appear in new splendour and magnificence, and each time you don a new robe, and each time you ride in a new coach with new horses. You are the fitting bridegroom, whom one can receive with joy." Now they celebrated their betrothal with great splendour. But the Sun, Moon, and Pole Star looked on sadly, and envied the happiness of the Northern Light. The Northern Light could not tarry long in the bride's house, for he was obliged to journey back towards midnight. But before his departure he promised soon to return for the wedding, and to carry the maiden to his home in the North. In the meantime she was to prepare her trousseau and get everything ready for the wedding. Lindu now waited and made everything ready. One day followed another, but the bridegroom came not to hold a joyous wedding with his bride. The winter passed away, and the warm spring adorned the earth with new beauty, then came the summer; but Lindu waited in vain for her bridegroom; nothing was seen of him. Then she began to lament bitterly, and sorrowed day and night. She sat in the meadow by the river in her bridal robes and white veil and the wreath on her head, and from her thousand tears sprang the little brooks in the valley. She did not heed the little birds who flew about her head and shoulders, and sought to soothe her with their soft blandishments, nor did she remember to direct their migrations to foreign parts, and to care for their nurture and food. So they wandered about and flew from place to place, not knowing what to do or where to remain. At length the news of the maiden's distress and the needs of the birds came to the ears of Uko. Then he resolved in his heart to help them all, and ordered the winds to carry his daughter to him, away from the misery of the world. While Lindu was sitting on the ground weeping and lamenting, the winds sank down before her, and lifted her so gently that she herself perceived it not, and bore her away to heaven, where they set her down on the blue firmament. There dwells Lindu still in a heavenly pavilion. Her white bridal veil spreads from one end of the heavens to the other, and he who lifts his eyes to the Milky Way beholds the maiden in her bridal robes. From thence she still directs the birds on their long migrations; from thence she still gazes towards midnight at the other end of the heavens, and waves her hand in greeting to the Northern Light. There she has forgotten her sorrow, and her former happy life reawakens in her heart. And when winter approaches, she sees with joy that the Northern Light visits her as a guest, and asks after his bride. Often he rises up to her, and, heart to heart, renews the bond of their love. But they may not hold their wedding. Uko has stationed the maiden in the heavens with her bridal robe and veil, and the bridegroom cannot carry away his love from her seat. Thus has Uko in his wisdom determined, and thus has the Milky Way arisen. THE GRATEFUL PRINCE. (KREUTZWALD.) Once upon a time, the king of the Golden Land[105] lost his way in a forest, and, notwithstanding all his efforts, could not find his way out. Presently he encountered a stranger, who said to him, "What are you doing here, my friend, in this gloomy forest, where only wild beasts dwell?" The king replied, "I have lost my way, and am trying to find the road home." "If you will promise to give me the first living thing that meets you when you return to your palace, I will show you the right way," said the stranger.[106] The king reflected awhile, and then answered, "Why should I run the risk of losing my good hunting-dog? I may perhaps succeed in finding my way home by myself." The stranger went away, but the king wandered about in the wood till his provisions were exhausted, while he was unable to discover the least trace of the right path. Then the stranger met him a second time, and said, "Promise me the first living thing that meets you on your return to your palace." But as the king was very obstinate, he refused to promise anything yet. He once more boldly explored the forest backwards and forwards, and at length sank down exhausted under a tree, and thought that his last hour had come. Then the stranger, who was none other than the Old Boy[107] himself, appeared to the king for the third time, and said, "Don't be a fool. How can you be so fond of your dog that you are unwilling to part with him to save your life? Only promise me what I require, and you will soon be relieved from your anxiety, and your life will be saved." "My life is worth more than a thousand dogs," answered the king. "The welfare of a whole country and people is at stake. Let it be so, I will grant your request, if you will only take me home." He had hardly uttered the words when he found himself at once on the borders of the wood, and could see his palace in the distance. He hurried thither, and the first thing which met him at the gate was the nurse with the royal infant, who stretched out his arms to his father. The king was horrified, and scolded the nurse, telling her to take the child away as quickly as possible. Directly afterwards came his faithful dog, and fawned upon his master, who repulsed his advances with a kick. Innocent dependants often suffer thus for the folly and ill-humour of their superiors. As soon as the king's anger had cooled a little, he exchanged his child, a promising boy, for the daughter of a peasant, and thus the prince was reared up in the house of poor people, while the peasant's daughter slept in silken robes in the royal cradle. In a year's time, the Old Boy made his appearance to demand his due, and took the little girl with him, supposing her to be the king's child, for he knew nothing of the artifice by which the children had been changed. The king exulted at the success of his stratagem, and ordered a great feast. He loaded the parents of the stolen child with rich presents, that the prince might want for nothing in the cottage, but did not yet venture to reclaim his son, fearing lest the deception might be discovered. The peasant family were well satisfied with the arrangement, for they had one mouth less to feed, and plenty of food and money. Meantime the prince grew up to boyhood, and spent a very pleasant life in the house of his foster-parents. But still he was not quite happy, for as soon as he learned how the stratagem had succeeded, he was much grieved that a poor innocent girl should have to suffer the consequences of his father's thoughtlessness in his place. He formed a fixed resolve either to release the poor girl, if this was possible, or to perish with her. He could not endure the thought of becoming king by the sacrifice of a maiden.[108] One day he secretly disguised himself as a peasant lad, took a bag of peas on his shoulder, and went to the wood where his father had lost his way eighteen years before. Soon after entering the wood he began to cry out, "O what an unfortunate boy I am! how far I must have wandered from the path! Who will show me the way out of this wood, for there is no human soul to be seen far or near!" Presently a stranger with a long grey beard and a leather pouch at his girdle, like a Tartar,[109] made his appearance. He gave the youth a friendly greeting, adding, "I know this neighbourhood well, and can direct you anywhere you please, if you will promise me a good return." "What can a poor lad like me promise you?" answered the artful prince. "I have nothing more than my young life, for even the coat on my body belongs to the master whom I must serve in exchange for food and clothing." The stranger looked at the bag of peas on the lad's shoulder, and remarked, "You can't be quite destitute, for you carry a bag which seems to be very heavy." "There are peas in the bag," said the prince. "My old aunt died last night, and has left me so much as this, that I may be able to set boiled peas before the watchers of the dead[110] as is the custom in this country. I have begged the peas from my host in the name of God, and was going away with them, when I struck into a forest path as a short cut, and it has led me astray, as you see." "Then I conclude, from what you say, that you are an orphan," observed the stranger with a grin. "If you will enter my service, I happen just to be in want of a handy workman for my small household, and I've taken a fancy to you." "Why shouldn't I, if we can come to terms?" replied the prince. "I was born to servitude, and a stranger's bread is always bitter, so that it matters little to me what master I serve. But what will you promise me for a year's service?" "Well," said the stranger, "you shall have fresh food every day, meat twice a week, and when you work out of doors, butter or herrings as a treat, a full suit of summer and winter clothing, besides two acres of land for your own use." "That will suit me," said the crafty prince. "Let other people bury my aunt; I'll go with you." The Old Boy seemed well pleased at having made such a good stroke of business, and spun round on one foot like a teetotum, hallooing so loud that the wood re-echoed. Then he started off on the road with his new servant, and enlivened the tedium of the way by a variety of jokes, without observing that his companion dropped a pea from his bag at every ten or fifteen paces. The travellers halted for the night in the forest under a large fir-tree, and continued their journey next morning. The sun was already high in the heavens when they reached a large stone. Here the old man stopped, looked sharply round on all sides, whistled loudly, and then stamped on the ground three times with his left foot.[111] Suddenly a secret door opened under the stone, and revealed a covered way like the entrance to a cavern. Then the old man seized the prince's arm, and said roughly, "Follow me!" They were in utter darkness, but it seemed to the prince that the path led them deeper and deeper into the earth. After some time a glimmer of light again grew visible, but the light did not resemble that of either the sun or moon. The prince looked up in some alarm, but could see neither sun nor sky; only a mass of shining clouds floated over him, which seemed to canopy this new world, in which everything had a strange appearance. Land and water, trees and plants, animals and birds, all had a different aspect from what he had seen before. But what seemed strangest to him was the wonderful silence around, for there was not a voice or a rustle to be heard anywhere. All was as still as in the grave, and even the prince's own footsteps made no sound. Here and there a bird might be seen sitting on a bough with stretched-out neck and swelled throat, as if singing, but no sound was audible. The dogs opened their mouths to bark, and the bulls raised their heads to bellow, but neither bark nor bellow could be heard. The water flowed over the gravel without gushing, the wind waved the tops of the trees without rustling, and flies and beetles flew about without buzzing. The Old Boy did not speak a word, and when his companion tried to speak he felt his voice die away in his throat. Nobody knows how long they travelled through this unearthly silent country. Terror seized on the heart of the prince, his hair stood on end like bristles, and he shivered with fear, when at length, to his great joy, the first sound fell on his straining ears, and seemed to make a real country of this shadowy land. It seemed to him that a great herd of horses was toiling through swampy ground. At last the old man opened his mouth, and said, licking his lips, "The soup kettle's boiling, and they are expecting us at home." They went on some distance farther, when the prince thought he heard the sound of a sawmill, in which at least two dozen saws seemed to be at work, but the host said, "My old grandmother is already fast asleep and snoring." Presently they reached the top of a hill, and the prince could see the homestead of his new master at some distance, but there were so many buildings that it looked more like a village or an outlying suburb than the residence of a single owner. At length they arrived, and found an empty dog-kennel at the gate. "Creep in there," said the master, "and lie quiet till I have spoken to my grandmother about you. She is very self-willed, like most old people, and can't bear a stranger in the house." The prince crept trembling into the dog-kennel, and began to repent the rashness that had brought him into such a scrape. After a time the host came back, called the prince from his hiding-place, and said with a wry face, "Take good note of the arrangements of our household, and take care not to go against them, or you might fare very badly. "Keep your eyes and ears both open, But your mouth fast closed for ever, And obey without a question: Think whatever it may please you; Never speak without permission." When the prince crossed the threshold, his eyes fell upon a young girl of great beauty, with brown eyes and curly hair. He thought to himself, "If the old man has many such daughters as this, I should be glad to become his son-in-law. The maiden is just to my taste." The fair maiden laid the table without saying a word, set the food upon it, and then modestly took her place by the hearth, as if she had not observed the stranger. She took out needles and worsted, and began to knit a stocking. The master sat down alone at the table, and did not ask either the man or maid to join him, nor was anything to be seen of the old grandmother. The Old Boy's appetite was immeasurable, and in a very short time he had made a clean sweep of everything on the table, though it would have been plenty for at least a dozen people. When at last he allowed his jaws to rest, he said to the maiden, "Scrape out what is left at the bottom of the pot and kettle, and content yourselves with the fragments, but throw the bones to the dog." The prince's countenance fell at the idea of this meal from the scrapings of the kettle, which he was to share with the pretty girl and the dog. But he soon recovered his spirits when he found a very nice meal placed on the table from these fragments. During supper he cast many stolen glances at the maiden, and would have given a great deal if he could have ventured to speak to her. But whenever he was on the point of speaking, he met the imploring glance of the maiden, which seemed to say, "Silence!" So the young man allowed his eyes to speak, and gave expression to this dumb language by his good appetite, for the maiden had prepared the supper, and it must be pleasant to her to see that the guest appreciated her cookery. Meantime the old man had lain down on the stove-bench, and made the walls re-echo with his snoring. After supper he roused himself, and said to the prince, "You may rest for two days after your long journey, and look round the house. But come to me to-morrow evening and I will arrange your work for next day, for my household must always set about their work before I get up myself. The girl will show you your lodging." The prince made an effort to speak, but the old man came down on him like a thunderbolt, and screamed out, "You dog of a servant! If you break the rules of the house, you'll find yourself a head shorter without more ado. Hold your jaw, and off to bed with you!" The maiden beckoned him to follow, unlocked a door and signed to him to enter. The prince thought he saw a tear glisten in her eye, and would have been only too glad to loiter on the threshold, but he was too much afraid of the old man. "It's impossible that this beautiful girl can be his daughter," thought he, "for she has a kind heart. She must be the poor girl who was brought here in my place, and for whose sake I undertook this foolhardy enterprise." He did not fall asleep for a long time, and even then his uneasy dreams gave him no rest. He dreamed of all sorts of unknown dangers which threatened him, and it was always the form of the fair girl that came to his aid. When he awoke next morning, his first thought was to do his best to ingratiate himself with the maiden. He found the industrious girl already at work, and helped her to draw water from the well and carry it into the house, chopped wood, kept up the fire under the pots, and helped her in all her other work. In the afternoon he went out to make himself better acquainted with his new abode, and was much surprised that he could find no trace of the old grandmother. He saw a white mare in the stable, and a black cow with a white-headed calf in the enclosure, and in other locked outhouses he thought he heard ducks, geese, fowls, &c. Breakfast and dinner were just as good as last night's supper, and he would have been very well content with his position, but that it was so very hard to hold his tongue with the maiden opposite him. On the evening of the second day he went to the master to receive his instructions for next day's work. The old man said, "I'll give you an easy job for to-morrow. Take the scythe, and mow as much grass as the white mare needs for her day's provender, and clean out the stable. But if I should come and find the manger empty or any litter on the floor, it will go badly enough with you. Take good heed!" The prince was well pleased, for he thought, "I shall soon be able to manage this piece of work, for although I have never handled either plough or scythe before, I have often seen how easily the country-people manage these tools, and I am quite strong enough." But when he was about to go to bed, the maiden crept in gently, and asked in a low voice, "What work has he given you?" "I've an easy task for to-morrow," answered the prince. "I have only to mow grass for the white mare, and to clean out the stable; that's all." "O poor fellow!" sighed the maiden, "how can you ever accomplish it? The white mare is the master's grandmother, and she is an insatiable creature, for whom twenty mowers could hardly provide the daily fodder, and another twenty would have to work from morning till night to clear the litter from the stable. How will you be able to manage both tasks alone? Take my advice, and follow it exactly. When you have thrown a few loads of grass to the mare, you must plait a strong rope of willow-twigs in her sight. She will ask you what this is for, and you must answer, 'To bind you up so tightly that you will not feel disposed to eat more than I give you, or to litter the stable after I have cleared it.'" As soon as the girl had finished speaking, she slid out of the room as gently as she had come, without giving the youth time to thank her. He repeated her instructions to himself several times, for fear of forgetting anything, and then went to sleep. Early next morning he set to work. He plied the scythe lustily, and soon mowed down so much grass that he could rake several loads together. He took one load to the mare, but when he returned with the second he found with dismay that the manger was already empty, and that there was half a ton of litter on the floor. He saw now that he would have been lost without the maiden's good advice, and resolved to follow it at once. He began to plait the rope, when the mare turned her head and asked in astonishment, "My dear son, what do you want with this rope?" "O nothing at all," he answered; "I am only going to bind you up so tightly that you won't care to eat more than I choose to give you, or to drop more litter than I choose to carry away." The white mare looked at him, and sighed deeply once or twice, but it was clear that she understood him, for long after midday there was still fodder in the manger and the floor remained clean. Presently the master came to inspect the work, and when he found everything in good order he was much surprised, and asked, "Are you clever enough to do this yourself, or did any one give you good advice?" But the prince was on his guard, and answered at once, "I have no one to help me but my own poor head and a mighty God in heaven." The old man was silenced, and left the stable grumbling, but the prince was delighted that everything had succeeded so well. In the evening the master said, "I have no particular work for you to-morrow, but as the maid has plenty to do in the house, you must milk the black cow. But take care not to leave a drop of milk in the udder. If I find that you have done so, it might cost you your life." As the prince went away, he thought, "If there is not some trick in this, I cannot find the work hard. Thank God, I have strong fingers, and will not leave a drop of milk behind." But when he was about to retire to rest, the maiden came to him again, and asked, "What work have you to do to-morrow?" "I've a whole holiday to-morrow," answered the prince. "All I have to do to-morrow is to milk the black cow, and not leave a drop of milk in the udder." "O you unfortunate fellow!" sighed she, "how will you ever accomplish it? Know, dear young stranger, that if you were to milk the black cow from morning till evening, the milk would continue to flow in one unbroken stream. I am convinced that the old man is bent on your ruin. But fear nothing, for as long as I am alive no harm shall happen to you, if you will remember my advice, and follow it exactly. When you go milking, take a pan full of hot coals, and a smith's tongs with you. When you reach the place, put the tongs in the fire, and blow the coals to a bright flame. If the black cow asks what this is for, answer her as I am about to whisper in your ear." Then the maiden crept out of the room on tiptoe as she had come, and the prince lay down to sleep. The prince got up almost before dawn next day, and went to the cowhouse with the milk-pail in one hand, and a pan of live coals in the other. The black cow looked at his proceedings for a while in silence, and then asked, "What are you doing, my dear son?" "Nothing at all," he replied; "but some cows have a bad habit of keeping back milk in their udders after they are milked, and in such cases I find hot tongs useful to prevent the chance of any waste." The black cow sighed deeply and seemed scared. The prince then took the pail, milked the cow dry, and when he tried again after a while he found not a drop of milk in her udder. Some time after the master came into the cowhouse, and as he was also unable to draw a drop of milk, he asked angrily, "Are you so clever yourself, or did any one give you good advice?" But the prince answered as before, "I have no one to help me but my own poor head and a mighty God in heaven." The old man went off in great vexation. When the prince went to the master in the evening, the latter said, "There is still a heap of hay in the field that I should like to have brought under cover during dry weather. Bring the hay home to-morrow, but take care not to leave a particle behind, or it might cost you your life." The prince left the room well pleased, thinking, "It's no great job to bring hay home. I have only to load it, and the mare must draw it. I won't spare the master's grandmother." In the evening the maiden crept to his side, and asked about his work for to-morrow. The prince said smiling, "I am learning all sorts of farmwork here. I have to bring home a heap of hay to-morrow, and only to take care not to leave a scrap behind. This is all my work for to-morrow." "O poor fellow!" sighed she, "how will you ever do it? If you were to set to work for a week, with the help of all the inhabitants of a large district, you could not remove this heap. Whatever you took away from the top would grow up again from the ground directly. Mark well what I say. You must get up to-morrow before daybreak, and lead the white mare from the stable, taking with you some strong cords. Then go to the haycock, fasten the cords round it, and then bind them to the mare. When this is done, climb on the haycock, and begin to count one, two, three, four, five, six, and so on. The mare will ask what you are counting, and you must answer her as I whisper." Then the maiden left the room, and the prince went to bed. When he awoke next morning, the first thing he remembered was the maiden's good advice. So he took some strong ropes with him, led out the white mare, and rode on her back to the haycock, but found that the so-called haycock contained at least fifty loads. The prince did all that the maiden had told him, and when he was sitting on the heap, and had counted up to twenty, the white mare asked in surprise, "What are you counting, my dear son?" "Nothing at all," said he; "I was only amusing myself by counting up the packs of wolves[112] in the forest, but there are so many that I can't reckon them all up." He had hardly spoken when the white mare darted off like the wind, and the haycock was safely housed in a few moments. The master was not a little surprised, when he came out after breakfast, to find that the new labourer had already finished his day's work. He put him the same question as before, and received the same reply; and he went off shaking his head and cursing. In the evening, the prince went as usual to inquire about his work, and the old man said, "To-morrow you must take the white-headed calf to pasture, but take care that he doesn't run away, or it might cost you your life." The prince thought, "There are many ten-year old farm-boys who have whole herds to manage, and surely I can't find it so very difficult to look after one calf." But when the maiden heard of it she said, "Know that this calf is so wild that he would run three times round the world in a day.[113] Take this silk thread, and bind one end to the left fore-leg of the calf, and the other to the little toe of your left foot, and then the calf will not be able to stir a step from your side, whether you are walking, standing, or lying down." Then she left him, and the prince lay down, but it vexed him to think that he had again forgotten to thank her for her good advice. Next morning he followed the advice of the friendly maiden, and led the calf to the pasture by the silken thread. It remained by his side like a faithful dog, and in the evening he led it back to the stall, where the old man met him angrily, and, after the usual question and answer, went off in a fury, and the prince thought it must be the mention of the holy name which kept him under restraint. Late in the evening the prince went to his master for instructions, when the old man gave him a bag of barley, saying, "I will give you a holiday to-morrow, and you may sleep as long as you like, but you must work hard to-night instead. Sow me this barley, which will spring up and ripen quickly; then you must cut it, thresh it, and winnow it, so that you can malt it and grind it. You must brew beer of this malt, and when I wake to-morrow morning, you must bring me a jug of fresh beer for my morning drink. Take care to follow my instructions exactly, or it might easily cost you your life." This time the prince was quite confounded, and on leaving the room, he stood outside weeping bitterly, and said to himself, "This is my last night, for no mortal can do this work, and the clever maiden's aid will avail me no longer. O unhappy wretch that I am! why was I so thoughtless as to leave the king's palace, and thrust myself into this danger! I cannot even lament my unhappy lot to the stars in heaven, for here there are neither stars nor sky. But yet God reigns over all." He was still standing with the bag of barley in his hand when the house-door opened and the kind maiden came out. She asked what troubled him so much, and he replied, "Alas! my last hour has come, and we must part for ever. I will tell you all before I die. I am the only son of a great king, from whom I should inherit a mighty empire; but now all hope and happiness are at an end." Then he told the maiden with tears of the task the old man had laid upon him; but it pained him to see that she did not seem to share his trouble. When he had finished his long story, she smiled and said, "My dear prince, you may sleep quietly to-night, and enjoy yourself all day to-morrow. Take my advice, and don't despise it because I am only a poor servant-girl. Take this little key, which unlocks the third hen-house, where the Old Boy keeps the spirits who serve him.[114] Throw the bag of barley into the house, and repeat word for word the commands that you have received from the master, and add, 'If you depart a hair's breadth from my instructions, you will all perish together; but if you want help, the door of the seventh pen will be open to-night, in which dwell the most powerful of the old man's spirits.'" The prince carried out all her instructions, and then lay down to sleep. When he awoke in the morning and went to the beer tub, he found it full of beer violently working, with the foam flowing over the edge. He tasted the beer, filled a large jug with the foaming drink, and brought it to his master, who was just getting up. But instead of the thanks which he expected from him, the old man broke out in uncontrollable fury, "That's not from yourself. I see you have good friends and helpers. All right! we'll talk again this evening." In the evening the old man said, "I have no work for you to-morrow, but you must come to my bedside to-morrow morning, and shake hands with me." The prince was amused at the old man's queer whim, and laughed when he told the maiden. But when she heard it she became very serious, and said, "Now you must look to yourself, for the old man intends to eat you to-morrow morning, and there is only one way of escape. You must heat a shovel red-hot in the stove,[115] and offer it to him instead of your own hand." Then she hastened away, and the prince went to bed. Next morning he took good care to heat the shovel red-hot before the old man awoke. At last he heard him shouting, "What has become of you, you lazy fellow? Come and shake hands with me." But when the prince entered the room with the red-hot shovel in his hand, the old man cried out with a whining voice, "I am very ill to-day, and cannot take your hand. But come back this evening to receive my orders." The prince loitered about all day, and went to the old man in the evening as usual to receive his commands for the morrow. He found him very friendly, and he said, "I am well pleased with you. Come to me to-morrow morning with the maiden, for I know that you have long been attached to each other, and I will give her to you as your bride." The prince would have liked to dance and shout for joy, but by good luck he remembered the strict rules of the house, and kept silent. But when he spoke to his betrothed of his good fortune, and expected that she would receive the news with equal delight, he saw her turn as white as the wall with terror, and her tongue seemed to be paralysed. As soon as she recovered herself a little, she said, "The Old Boy has discovered that I have been your counsellor, and has resolved to destroy us both. We must fly this very night, or we are lost. Take an axe, and strike off the head of the white-headed calf with a heavy blow, and then split the skull in two with a second stroke. In the brain of the calf you will find a shining red reel, which you must bring me. I will arrange whatever else is needful." The prince thought, "I would rather kill an innocent calf than sacrifice both myself and this dear girl, and if our flight succeeds, I shall see my home once more. The peas I sowed must have sprung up by this time, so that we cannot miss our way." He went into the stall, and found the cow and the calf lying asleep near together, and they slept so fast that they did not hear his approach. But when he struck off the calf's head, the cow groaned very loud, as if she had had a bad dream. He hastened to split the calf's skull with the second blow, and lo! the whole stall suddenly became as light as if it was day. The red reel fell out of the brain, and shone like a little sun. The prince wrapped it carefully in a cloth, and hid it in his bosom. It was fortunate that the cow did not wake, or she would have begun to roar so loud that she might easily have roused her master too. The prince found the maiden waiting for him at the gate with a small bundle on her arm. "Where is the reel?" she whispered. "Here," replied the prince, and gave it to her. "Now we must hasten our flight," said she, and she unravelled a small part of the reel from the cloth that its shining light might illuminate the darkness of the way like a lantern. As the prince had expected, the peas had all sprung up, so that they could not miss the way. The maiden then told the prince that she had once overheard a conversation between the old man and his grandmother, and had learned that she was a princess whom the Old Boy had stolen from her parents by a trick. The prince knew the real state of the case better, but kept silence, rejoicing inwardly that he had succeeded in freeing the poor girl. The travellers must have gone a long way before the day began to break. The Old Boy did not wake till late In the morning, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes for a long time before he remembered that he was going to devour the couple. After waiting for them a good while he said to himself, "Perhaps they haven't quite finished their preparations for the wedding." But at last he got tired of waiting so long, and shouted out, "Ahoy, man and maid, what has become of you?" He repeated the cry several times, shouting and cursing, but neither man nor maid appeared. At last he scrambled out of bed in a rage, and went in search of the defaulters. But he found the house empty, and discovered, too, that the beds had not been slept in. Then he rushed into the stall, and when he saw the calf slaughtered and the magic reel stolen, he comprehended all. He cursed till everything was black, and opened the third spirit-house, sending his messengers forth to seek the fugitives. "Bring me them just as you find them, for I must have them," said the Old Boy, and the spirits flew forth like the wind. The fugitives were just crossing a great plain, when the maiden suddenly stopped and said, "All is not as it should be. The reel moves in my hand, and we are certainly pursued." When they looked back, they saw a black cloud rushing towards them with great speed. Then the maiden turned the reel thrice in her hand and said: "Hear me, reel, and reel, O hearken; Fain would I become a streamlet, Where as fish my lover's swimming." Instantly they were both transformed. The maiden flowed away like a brook, and the prince swam in the water like a little fish. The spirits rushed past, and turned after a time, and flew back home; but they did not touch the brook or the fish. As soon as the pursuers were gone, the brook became a maiden, and the fish a youth, and they continued their journey in human form. When the spirits returned, weary and empty-handed, the Old Boy asked if they had not noticed anything unusual on their journey. "Nothing at all," they answered, "but a brook on the plain, with a single fish swimming in it." The old man growled angrily, "There they were! there they were!" Immediately he threw open the doors of the fifth pen and let out the spirits, commanding them to drink up the water of the brook, and to capture the fish; and the spirits flew off like the wind. The travellers were just approaching the edge of a wood, when the maiden stopped, saying, "All is not as it should be. The reel moves again in my hand." They looked round, and saw another cloud in the sky, darker than the first, and with red borders. "These are our pursuers," she cried, and turned the reel three times round in her hand, saying: "Hear me, reel, and reel, O hear me; Change us both upon the instant: I'll become a wild rose-briar, And my love a rose upon it." Instantly the maiden was changed into a wild rose-bush, and the youth hung upon it in the form of a rose. The spirits rushed away over their heads, and did not return for some time; but they saw nothing of the brook and the fish, and they did not trouble about the wild rose-tree. As soon as their pursuers were gone, the rose-tree and the rose again became a maiden and a youth, and after their short rest they hurried away. "Have you found them?" cried the old man, when the spirits returned and crouched before him. "No," answered their leader; "we found neither brook nor fish on the plain." "Did you see nothing else remarkable on the way?" asked their master. The leader answered, "We saw nothing but a wild rose-bush on the edge of the wood, with a single rose upon it." "Fools!" cried the old man, "there they were! there they were!" He threw open the door of the seventh pen, and sent out his most powerful spirits to search for the fugitives. "Bring them me just as you find them, for I must have them, dead or alive. Tear up the accursed rose-tree by the roots, and bring everything else with you that looks strange." And the spirits rushed forth like a tempest. The fugitives were just resting in the shade of a wood, and strengthening themselves for further efforts with food and drink. Suddenly the maiden cried out, "All is not right, for the reel feels as if it was being pulled from my bosom. We are certainly again pursued, and the danger is close at hand, but the wood still hides us from our enemies." Then she took the reel from her bosom, and turned it over three times in her hand, saying: "Hear me reel, and reel, O hear me; To a puff of wind transform me, To a gnat transform my lover." Instantly they were both transformed, and the maiden rose into the air as a puff of wind, and the prince sported in the breeze like a gnat. The mighty host of spirits swept over them like a tempest, and returned some time afterwards, as they could neither find the rose-bush nor anything else remarkable. But they were hardly gone before the youth and the maiden resumed their proper forms, and the maiden cried out, "Now we must make haste, before the old man himself comes to look for us, for he would know us under any disguise." They ran on for some distance till they reached the dark passage, which they could easily climb up by the bright light of the reel. They were breathless and exhausted when they reached the great rock; when the maiden again turned the reel three times round, saying: "Hear me, reel, and reel, O hear me; Let the rock aside be lifted, And a portal opened for us." Instantly the rock was lifted, and they found themselves once more upon the earth. "God be praised," cried the maiden, "we are saved. The Old Boy has no further power over us here, and we can guard against his cunning. But now, my friend, we must part. Do you go to your parents, and I will go to mine." "By no means," replied the prince, "I cannot part from you, and you must come with me, and become my wife. You have passed days of sorrow with me, and now it is only right that we should enjoy days of happiness together." The maiden resisted for a time, but at last she consented to accompany the youth. They met with a woodcutter in the wood, who told them that there was great trouble in the palace and throughout the whole country, because of the unaccountable disappearance of the king's son, every trace of whom had been lost for years.[116] The maiden made use of the magic reel to provide the prince with suitable robes in which to present himself to his father. Meanwhile she stayed behind in a peasant's cottage, till the prince should have informed his father of his adventures.[117] But the old king had died before the prince's arrival, for trouble at the loss of his only son had shortened his life. On his death-bed he repented bitterly of his thoughtless promise, and of his treachery in delivering a poor innocent maiden to the old rascal, for which God had punished him by the loss of his son. The prince mourned for the death of his father, as befitted a good son, and buried him with great honours. Then he mourned for three days, refusing all food and drink. On the fourth morning he presented himself to the people as their new ruler, assembled his councillors, and related to them the wonderful things that he had seen and experienced in the Old Boy's dwelling, and did not forget to say how the clever maiden had saved his life. Then the councillors all exclaimed with one voice, "She must become your consort and our queen." When the young king set out to seek his bride, he was much surprised to meet the maiden advancing in regal state. The magic reel had provided her with everything that was necessary, and all the people supposed that she must be the daughter of some very wealthy king, and came from a distant country. Then the wedding festivities commenced, which lasted four weeks, and they lived together in happiness and prosperity for many a pleasant year.[118] [Footnote 105: Löwe suggests that Kungla is meant, which appears not improbable.] [Footnote 106: This has been a common _motif_ in folk-tales from the time of Jephthah downwards; but the manner in which the different stories are worked out is very various.] [Footnote 107: The usual Esthonian euphemism for the Devil.] [Footnote 108: The moral tone of some of these Esthonian tales is much higher than usual in folk-tales. In the story of the "Northern Frog," we shall see that it is considered a wrong action, involving Karmic punishment, even to steal a talisman from a demon who is trying to entrap your soul. In most folk-tales, the basest cruelty and treachery is looked upon as quite laudable when your own interests require it, even against your best friend or most generous benefactor, and much more so against a Jew or a demon. But there are other Esthonian tales ("Slyboots," for instance), in which the morality is not much superior to that of average folk-tales.] [Footnote 109: Here we find the Devil compared to a Tartar, just as in the 10th canto of the _Kalevipoeg_ a water-demon is compared to a Lett.] [Footnote 110: Boiled peas and salt are provided on such occasions, as mentioned in other stories.] [Footnote 111: The Kalevide was directed to stamp with his right foot to open the gates of Põrgu.] [Footnote 112: In Esthonian legends, the wolf is the great enemy of the devil. See vol. ii. Beast-stories.] [Footnote 113: We meet with similar miraculously swift animals in other Esthonian tales.] [Footnote 114: The outhouses in Sarvik's palace (_Kalevipoeg_, Canto 14) contained mere ordinary stores.] [Footnote 115: A not very unusual incident in folk-tales, though it often takes the form of offering an iron bar instead of your own hand to a giant who wishes to shake hands with you.] [Footnote 116: A visit to any description of non-human intelligent beings in Esthonian tales almost always extends to years, though it may have apparently lasted for only a day or two.] [Footnote 117: In most stories of this class, the hero forgets his companion on reaching home, either by a charm or by breaking a taboo.] [Footnote 118: Another instance of a child being asked for by an ambiguous request is to be found in the story of the Clever Countrywoman (Jannsen), which must not be confounded with one in Kreutzwald's collection with a nearly similar title, and of which we append an abstract. The story ends, rather unusually, in a subterfuge. A herd-boy returned one evening, and reported to his mistress that a cow was missing. The woman went herself, but everything round her was changed by magic, and she could not find her way home. However, as the mist rose from the moor, a little white man appeared, whom she recognised as one of the moor-dwellers. He took her home, and returned her cow, on her promising him what she would carry night and day under her heart. From thenceforth she took care always to wear her apron. A year afterwards, she became the mother of a fine boy, and when he was nine weeks old, the window was opened one night, and the intruder cried out, "Give me what you have carried night and day under your heart, as you promised." The woman flung him her apron, crying out, "In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, receive what I promised you;" and he instantly vanished with the apron.] SLYBOOTS. (KREUTZWALD.) In the days of the son of Kalev there reigned a very rich king of Kungla, who gave a great feast to his subjects every seven years at midsummer, which lasted for two or three weeks together.[119] The time for the feast came round again, and its commencement had been looked forward to for some months, though with some uncertainty; for twice already, seven years ago and fourteen years ago, the anticipated festival had come to nothing. Both times the king had made full preparations for the feast, but no man had tasted it. This seemed strange and incredible, but there were many people everywhere who could bear witness to the facts. It was said that on both these occasions an unknown stranger had come to the head-cook and asked to be permitted to taste a little of the food and drink, but the moment he had dipped his spoon in the soup-kettle, and put the froth in the beer-can to his mouth, the whole contents of the storehouses, pantries, and cellars vanished in a moment, so that not a scrap or drop of anything remained.[120] The cooks and kitchen-boys had all seen and sworn to the truth of the matter, but the people were so enraged at the collapse of the feast, that the king was obliged to appease them seven years before, by ordering the head-cook to be hanged for having given the stranger permission to taste the food. In order to prevent any repetition of the trouble, the king proclaimed that he would richly reward any one who would undertake the preparation of the feast; and at length, when no one would undertake the responsibility, the king promised his youngest daughter in marriage to any one who should succeed, but added that failure would be punished with death. A long way from the capital, and near the borders of the kingdom, lived a rich farmer who had three sons, the youngest of whom showed great intelligence from his youth, because the Meadow-Queen[121] had nursed him, and had often secretly given him the breast. The father called him Slyboots, and used to say to the brothers, "You two elder ones must earn your living by your bodily strength and by the work of your hands, but as for you, little Slyboots, you will be able to rise higher in the world than your brothers, by your own cleverness." Before the father died, he divided all his corn-land and meadows between his two elder sons, but to the youngest he gave enough money to enable him to go forth into the wide world to seek his fortune. But the father's corpse was scarcely cold when the two elder brothers stripped the youngest of every farthing, and thrust him out of the door, saying mockingly, "Your cleverness alone, Slyboots, is to exalt you over our heads, and therefore you might find the money troublesome to you." The youngest brother scorned to notice the ill-treatment of his brothers, and went cheerfully on his way. "Good fortune may come from God," was the comforting reflection which he took with him from his father's house, and he whistled away his sad thoughts. Just as he was beginning to feel hungry, he encountered two travelling journey-men. His pleasant countenance and cheerful talk pleased them, and when they rested, they shared their provisions with him, so that Slyboots did not fare so badly on the first day. He parted from his companions before evening quite contented, for his present comfort left him without anxiety for the morrow. He could sleep anywhere with the green grass for a couch and the blue sky above, and a stone under his head served as well as a soft pillow. Next morning he set out on his way again, and arrived at a lonely farm, where a young woman was sitting at the door, weeping bitterly. Slyboots asked what was her trouble, and she answered, "I have a bad husband, who beats me every day if I cannot humour his mad freaks. He has ordered me to-day to cook him a fish which is not a fish, and which has eyes, but not in its head. Where in the world shall I find such a creature?" "Don't cry, young woman," answered Slyboots. "Your husband wants a crab, which is a water-animal to be sure, but is not a fish, and which has eyes, but not in its head." The woman thanked him for his good advice, and gave him something to eat, and a bag of provisions which would last him for several days. As soon as he received this unexpected assistance, he determined to set out for the royal capital, where cleverness was likely to be in most request, and where he hoped to make his fortune. Wherever he went, he heard every one talking of the king's midsummer banquet, and when he heard of the reward which was offered to the man who should prepare the feast, he began to reflect whether he might not be able to accomplish the adventure. "If I succeed," said he to himself, "I shall find myself at a stroke on the highway to fortune; and in the worst case of all, I shall only lose my life, and we must all die sooner or later. If I begin in the right way, why shouldn't I succeed? Perhaps I may be more fortunate than others. And even if the king should refuse me his daughter, he must at least give me the promised reward in money, which will make me a rich man." Buoyed up with such thoughts, he pursued his journey, singing and whistling like a lark, sometimes resting under the shadow of a bush during the heat of the day, and sleeping at night under a tree or in the open fields. One morning he finished the last remains of his provisions, and in the evening he arrived safe and sound at the city. Next day he craved audience of the king. The king saw that he had to deal with an intelligent and enterprising man, and it was easy for them to come to terms. "What is your name?" asked the king. The man of brains replied, "My baptismal name is Nicodemus, but I was always called Slyboots at home, to show that I did not fall on my head." "I will leave you your name," returned the king, "but your head must answer for all mischief if the affair should go wrong." Slyboots asked the king to give him seven hundred workmen, and set about his preparations without delay. He ordered twenty large sheds to be constructed, and arranged in a square like a series of large cowhouses, so that a great open space was left in the middle, to which led one single large gate. He ordered great cooking-pots and caldrons to be built in the rooms which were to be heated, and the ovens were furnished with iron spits, where meat and sausages could be roasted. Other sheds were furnished with great boilers and vats for brewing beer, so that the boilers were above and the vats below. Other houses without fireplaces were fitted up as storehouses for cold provisions, such as black bread, barm bracks, white bread, &c. All needful stores, such as flour, groats, meat, salt, lard, butter, &c., were brought into the open space, and fifty soldiers were stationed before the door, so that nothing should be touched by the finger of any thief. The king came every day to view the preparations, and praised the skill and forethought of Slyboots. Besides all this, several dozen bakehouses were built in the open air, and a special guard of soldiers was stationed before each. They slaughtered for the feast a thousand oxen, two hundred calves, five hundred swine, ten thousand sheep, and many more small animals, which were driven together in flocks from all quarters. Stores of provisions were constantly brought by river in boats and barges, and by land in waggons, and this went on without intermission for several weeks. Seven thousand hogsheads were brewed of beer alone. Although the seven hundred assistants toiled late and early, and many additional labourers were engaged, yet most of the toil and trouble fell upon Slyboots, who was obliged to look sharply after the others at every point. He had warned the cooks, the bakers, and the brewers, in the most stringent manner, not to allow any strange mouth to taste the food or drink, and any one who broke this command was threatened with the gallows. If such a greedy stranger should make his appearance anywhere, he was to be brought immediately to the superintendent of the preparations. On the morning of the first day of the feast, word was brought to Slyboots that an unknown old man had come into one of the kitchens, and asked the cook to allow him to taste a little from the soup-kettle with a spoon, which the cook could not permit him to do on his own responsibility. Slyboots ordered the stranger to be brought before him, and presently he beheld a little old man with grey hair, who humbly begged to be allowed to taste the food and drink prepared for the banquet. Slyboots told him to come into one of the kitchens, when he would gratify his wish if it were possible. As they went, he scanned the old man sharply, to see whether he could not detect something strange about him. Presently he observed a shining gold ring on the ring-finger of the old man's left hand. When they reached the kitchen, Slyboots asked, "What security can you give me that no harm shall come of it if I let you taste the food?" "My lord," answered the stranger, "I have nothing to offer you as a pledge." Slyboots pointed to the fine gold ring and demanded that as a pledge. The old fellow resisted with all his might, protesting that the ring was a token of remembrance from his dead wife, and he had vowed never to take it from his hand, lest some misfortune should happen. "Then it is quite impossible for me to grant your request," said Slyboots, "for I cannot permit any one to taste either the food or drink without a pledge." The old man was so anxious about it that at last he gave his ring as a pledge. Just as he was about to dip his spoon in the pot, Slyboots struck him so heavy a blow on the head with the flat of an axe, that it might have felled the strongest ox; but the old fellow did not fall, but only staggered a little. Then Slyboots seized him by the beard with both hands, and ordered strong ropes to be brought, with which he bound the old man hand and foot, and hung him up by the legs to a beam. Then Slyboots said to him mockingly, "You may wait there till the feast is over, and then we will resume our conversation. Meantime, I'll keep your ring, on which your power depends, as a token." The old man was obliged to submit, whether he liked it or not, for he was bound so firmly that he could not move hand or foot. Then the great feast began, to which the people flocked in thousands from all quarters. Although the feasting lasted for three whole weeks, there was no want of either food or drink, for there was plenty and to spare. The people were much pleased, and had nothing but praise for the king and the manager of the feast. When the king was about to pay Slyboots the promised reward, he answered, "I have still a little business to transact with the stranger before I receive my reward." Then he took seven strong men with him, armed with heavy cudgels, and took them to the place where the old man had been hanging for the last three weeks. "Now, then," said Slyboots, "grasp your cudgels firmly, and belabour the old man so that he shall never forget his hospitable reception for the rest of his life." The seven men began to whack the old man all at once, and would soon have made an end of his life, if the rope had not given way under their blows. The little man fell down, and vanished underground in an instant, leaving a wide opening behind him. Then said Slyboots, "I have his pledge, with which I must follow him. Bring the king a thousand greetings from me, and tell him to divide my reward among the poor, if I should not return." He then crept downwards through the hole in which the old man had disappeared. At first he found the pathway very narrow, but it widened considerably at the depth of a few fathoms, so that he was able to advance easily. Steps were hewn in the rock, so that he did not slip, notwithstanding the darkness. Slyboots went on for some distance, till he came to a door. He looked through a crack, and saw three young girls[122] sitting with the old man, whose head was resting on the lap of one of them. The girl was saying, "If I only rub the bruise a few times more with the bell,[123] the pain and swelling will disappear." Slyboots thought, "That is certainly the place where I struck the old man with the back of the axe three weeks ago." He decided to wait behind the door till the master of the house had lain down to sleep and the fire was extinguished. Presently the old man said, "Help me into my room, that I may go to bed, for my body is quite out of joint, and I can't move hand or foot." Then they brought him to his room. When it grew dark, and the girls had left the room, Slyboots crept gently in, and hid himself behind the beer-barrel.[124] Presently the girls came back, and spoke gently, so as not to rouse the old man. "The bruise on the head is of no consequence," said one, "and the sprained body will also soon be cured, but the loss of the ring of strength is irreparable, and this troubles the old man more than his bodily sufferings." Soon afterwards they heard the old man snoring, and Slyboots came out of his hiding-place and made friends with the maidens. At first they were rather frightened, but the clever youth soon contrived to dispel their alarm, and they allowed him to stay there for the night. The maidens told him that the old man possessed two great treasures, a magic sword and a rod of rowan-wood, and he resolved to possess himself of both. The rod would form a bridge over the sea for its possessor, and he who bore the sword could destroy the most numerous army.[125] On the following evening Slyboots contrived to seize upon the wand and the sword, and escaped before daybreak with the help of the youngest girl. But the passage had disappeared from before the door, and in its place he found a large enclosure, beyond which was a broad sea. As soon as Slyboots was gone the girls began to quarrel, and their loud talking woke up the old man. He learned from what they said that a stranger had been there, and he rose up in a passion, and found the wand and sword gone. "My best treasures are stolen!" he roared, and, forgetting his bruises, he rushed out. Slyboots was still sitting on the beach, thinking whether he should try the power of the wand, or seek for a dry path. Suddenly he heard a rushing sound behind him like a gust of wind. When he looked round, he saw the old man charging upon him like a madman. He sprang up, and had just time to strike the waves with the rod, and to cry out, "Bridge before, water behind!" He had scarcely spoken, when he found himself standing on a bridge over the sea, already at some distance from the shore.[126] The old man came to the beach panting and puffing, but stopped short when he saw the thief on the bridge over the sea. He called out, snuffling, "Nicodemus, my son, where are you going?" "Home, papa," was the reply. "Nicodemus, my son, you struck me on the head with an axe, and hung me up to a beam by the legs." "Yes, papa." "Nicodemus, my son, did you call seven men to beat me, and steal my gold ring from me?" "Yes, papa." "Nicodemus, my son, have you bamboozled my daughters?" "Yes, papa." "Nicodemus, my son, have you stolen my sword and wand?" "Yes, papa." "Nicodemus, my son, will you come back?" "Yes, papa," answered Slyboots again. Meantime he had advanced so far on the bridge, that he could no longer hear the old man speak. When he had crossed the sea, he inquired the nearest way to the royal city, and hastened thither to claim his reward. But lo! he found everything very different from what he had expected. Both his brothers had entered the service of the king, one as a coachman and the other as a chamberlain. Both were living in grand style and were rich people. When Slyboots applied to the king for his reward, the latter answered, "I waited for you for a whole year, and I neither saw nor heard anything of you. I supposed you were dead, and was about to divide your reward among the poor, as you desired. But one day your elder brothers arrived to inherit your fortune. I left the matter to the court, who assigned the money to them, because it was supposed that you were dead. Since then your brothers have entered my service, and both still remain in it." When Slyboots heard what the king said, he thought he must be dreaming, for he imagined that he had been only two nights in the old man's subterranean dwelling, and had then taken a few days to return home; but now it appeared that each night had been as long as a year. He would not go to law with his brothers, but abandoned the money to them, thanked God that he had escaped with his life, and looked out for some fresh employment. The king's cook engaged him as kitchen-boy, and he now had to turn the joints on the spit every day. His brothers despised him for his mean employment, and did not like to have anything to do with him, although he still loved them. One evening he told them much of what he had seen in the under-world, where the geese and ducks had gold and silver plumage. The brothers related this to the king, and begged him to send their youngest brother to fetch these curious birds. The king sent for the kitchen-boy, and ordered him to start next morning in search of the birds with the costly feathers. Slyboots set out next day with a heavy heart, but he took with him the ring, the wand, and the sword, which he had carefully preserved. Some days afterwards he reached the sea, and saw an old man[127] with a long grey beard sitting on a stone at the place where he had reached land after his flight. When Slyboots came nearer, the old man asked, "Why are you so sad, my friend?" Slyboots told him how badly he had fared, and the old man bid him be of good cheer, and not vex himself, adding, "No harm can happen to you, as long as you wear the ring of strength." He then gave Slyboots a mussel-shell,[128] and advised him to build the bridge with the magic wand to the middle of the sea, and then to step on the shell with his left foot, when he would immediately find himself in the under-world, while every one there was asleep. He also advised him to make himself a bag of spun yarn in which to put the water-birds with gold and silver plumage, and then he could return unmolested. Everything fell out as the old man predicted, but Slyboots had hardly reached the sea-shore with his booty when he heard his former acquaintance behind him; and when he was on the bridge he heard him calling out, "Nicodemus, my son," and repeating the same questions as before. At last he asked if he had stolen the birds? Slyboots answered "Yes" to every question, and hastened on. Slyboots arrived at the royal city in the evening, as his friend with the grey beard had foretold, and the yarn bag held the birds so well that none had escaped. The king made him a present, and told him to go back next day, for he had heard from the two elder brothers that the lord of the under-world had many gold and silver utensils, which the king desired for his own use. Slyboots did not venture to refuse, but he went very unwillingly, because he did not know how to manage the affair. However, when he reached the sea-shore, he met his friend with the grey beard, who asked the reason of his sadness. The old man gave Slyboots another mussel-shell, and a handful of small stones, with the following advice. "If you go there in the afternoon, you will find the father in bed taking his siesta, the daughters spinning in the sitting-room, and the grandmother in the kitchen scouring the gold and silver vessels bright. Climb nimbly on the chimney, throw down the stones tied up in a bag on the old woman's neck, come down yourself as quick as possible, put the costly vessels in the yarn bag, and then run off as fast as your legs will carry you." Slyboots thanked his friend, and followed his advice exactly. But when he dropped the bag of pebbles, it expanded into a six hundred weight sack of paving stones, which dashed the old woman to the ground. In a moment Slyboots swept all the gold and silver vessels into his bag and took to flight. When the Old Boy heard the noise, he thought the chimney had fallen down, and did not venture to get up directly. But when he had called the grandmother for a long time without receiving any answer, he was obliged to go himself. When he discovered the misfortune that had happened, he hastened in pursuit of the thief, who could not be gone far. Slyboots was already on the sea, when his pursuer reached the shore panting and puffing. As before, the Old Boy cried out, "Nicodemus, my son," and repeated the former questions. At last he asked, "Nicodemus, my son, have you stolen my gold and silver utensils?" "Certainly, my father," answered Slyboots. "Nicodemus, my son, do you promise to come again?" "No, my father," answered Slyboots, hurrying along the bridge. Although the old man cursed and scolded after the thief, he could not catch him, and he had now been despoiled of all his magic treasures. Slyboots found his friend with the grey beard waiting for him on the other side of the sea, and he threw down the bag of heavy gold and silverware, which the ring of strength had enabled him to bring away, and sat down to rest his weary limbs. The old man now told him much that shocked him. "Your brothers hate you, and will do all they can to destroy you, if you do not oppose their wicked attempts. They will urge the king on to set you tasks in which you are very likely to perish. When you bring your rich load to the king this evening, you will find him friendly disposed towards you; and then ask, as your only reward, that his daughter should be hidden behind the door in the evening, to hear what your brothers talk about together." When Slyboots came before the king with his rich booty, which was enough to make at least ten horse-loads, he found him extremely kind and friendly, and he took the opportunity to make the request which his old friend had advised. The king was glad that the treasure-bringer asked for no greater reward, and ordered his daughter to hide herself behind the door in the evening, to overhear what the coachman and the chamberlain were talking about. The brothers had grown haughty with prosperity, and boasted of their good luck, and what was worse, they both boasted to each other of the favours of the princess in her own hearing! She ran to her father, flushed with shame and anger, and told him weeping what shameful lies she had heard with her own ears, and begged him to punish the wretches. The king immediately ordered them both to be thrown into prison, and when they had confessed their guilt before the court next day, they were executed, while Slyboots was promoted to the rank of king's councillor. Some time afterwards the country was invaded by a foreign king, and Slyboots was sent against the enemy in the field. Then he drew the sword which he had brought from the under-world for the first time, and began to slaughter the hostile army, and soon none were left alive on the bloody field. The king was so pleased at the victory that he made Slyboots his son-in-law. Jannsen gives an inferior variant of this story under the title of the House-Spirit. Here a little man who creeps from under the stove is permitted by the cook to taste the soup three times running, and every time the pot is emptied. His master tells him to quit his service next morning, and orders the steward to make soup; and the steward knocks down the dwarf with the spoon. Next morning, as the cook is leaving, the dwarf invites him to his house under the stove, and gives him a little box, on which he has only to tap, and ask for whatever he wants. The steward meets the cook, hears the story, puts on soup, and invites the dwarf to partake. In return he receives a box, which he takes to his master, but out of the box jumps a dwarf with an iron club, who belabours them both till they are nearly dead, and then disappears with the box. The kitchen dwarf was never seen again. The next story is peculiarly interesting and original. I place it here, because we find three maidens busy spinning for a witch, as the Kalevide found them in the palace of Sarvik. [Footnote 119: These great public periodical feasts are Eastern rather than Western. Compare the story of Ali Shar and Zumurrud (_Thousand and One Nights_).] [Footnote 120: A similar feat is performed by Sarvik in the _Kalevipoeg_, Canto 17.] [Footnote 121: See page 13.] [Footnote 122: As in the _Kalevipoeg_, Canto 13; and the story of the Gold-Spinners, &c.] [Footnote 123: Compare p. 121 (anteà). The bell is not mentioned elsewhere in this story.] [Footnote 124: A beer-barrel with a tap, for general use, often stands in the houses of the Esthonian peasantry.] [Footnote 125: "And as to the sword, if it be drawn against an army, and its bearer shake it, he will rout the army; and if he say to it at the time of his shaking it, 'Slay this army,' there will proceed from that sword a lightning which will slay the whole army."--_Story of Joodar_ (_Thousand and One Nights_).] [Footnote 126: Compare the scene between the Kalevide and Tühi, in Canto 15 of the poem.] [Footnote 127: This old man may have been the consort of the Meadow-Queen. _Cf._ pp. 188, 259.] [Footnote 128: We shall find mussel-shells used as boats in other tales.] THE GOLD-SPINNERS. (KREUTZWALD.) I am going to tell you a beautiful story about what happened in the world in ancient days, when the meadows still resounded with the wise sayings of birds and beasts. Once upon a time a lame old woman lived in a thick forest with her three beautiful daughters in a cottage hidden among the bushes. The three daughters were like three fair flowers, especially the youngest, who was as fair and delicate as a bean-flower, while the mother was like a withered stem. But there was none to look upon them in their loneliness save the sun by day, and by night the moon and the starry eyes of heaven. Hot, like eyes of youthful lovers, Shone the sun upon their head-gear, Shining on their coloured ribands, Turning red their garment's edges. The old mother did not allow the girls to grow up in idleness, but kept them hard at work from morning to night spinning golden flax into thread. She gave the poor creatures no half-holidays on Thursdays or Saturdays, to provide themselves with anything they needed, and if they had not sometimes taken their needles in their hands by stealth at twilight or by moonlight, they would have possessed nothing. As soon as the distaff was empty, they were immediately furnished with a fresh supply, and the thread was required to be fine and regular. When the thread was finished, the old woman hid it away under lock and key in a secret chamber, where her daughters were never allowed to set foot. The spinners knew not how the golden flax came into the house, nor for what fabric the thread was used, for the mother never replied to any questions on these subjects. The old woman went off on a journey two or three times every summer, and sometimes stayed away more than a week, but her daughters never knew where she went or what she brought back with her, for she always returned by night. When she was about to start, she always distributed as many days' work to her daughters as she expected to be away. The time came round again for the old woman to set out on her journey, and she gave out work to the girls for six days, repeating her usual admonition. "Children, do not let your eyes wander, and hold your fingers carefully, that the thread on the reel is not broken, or the glitter of the golden thread will vanish, and with it all your prospects of good fortune." The girls laughed at this impressive warning, and before their mother had hobbled ten steps from the house on her crutches, all three began to make light of it. "There is no need of this useless warning, which is always repeated," said the youngest sister. "The golden threads do not break with picking, much less with spinning." The other sisters added, "It is equally unlikely that the golden lustre should disappear." The girls often ventured on such jests, but at last, after much merriment, tears rose to their eyes. On the third day after their mother's departure an unexpected event took place, which at first filled the daughters with alarm, and then with joy and happiness, but which was destined to cause them great trouble for a long time afterwards. A prince of the race of Kalev found himself separated from his companions while hunting in the forest,[129] and wandered so far out of his way that he could no longer hear the barking of the dogs, nor the blowing of the horns to direct him aright. All his shouts met with no response but their own echo, or were lost in the thick bush. At length the prince, tired and disheartened, dismounted from his horse and lay down to rest under a bush, while he allowed his horse to stray about and graze at liberty. When the prince awoke from his sleep, the sun was already low in the heavens. As he was again wandering backwards and forwards in search of the right road, he came at length to a small footpath which led him to the cottage of the lame old woman. The daughters were startled when they suddenly saw the stranger appear, whose like they had never before beheld. But they had finished their day's work, and soon made friends with the visitor in the cool evening, feeling no inclination to retire to rest. And even after the elder sisters had lain down to sleep, the youngest still sat on the doorstep with their guest, and no sleep visited their eyes that night. We will leave the pair to exchange confidences and sweet words in the light of the moon and stars, and will return to the huntsmen who had lost their master in the wood. They searched unweariedly through the whole forest, until the darkness of night put an end to their quest. After this, two men were sent to carry the sad news to the city, while the others camped for the night under a great pine-tree, ready to renew their search next day. The king immediately issued orders that a regiment of horse and a regiment of foot should march out next morning to seek for his lost son. The wood was so long and broad that the search lasted till the third day, when horse-tracks were at length discovered which they followed till they reached the footpath which led to the cottage. The prince had not found the time pass heavily in company with the maiden, and he was but little disposed to go home. Before he departed, he gave her a secret promise that he would return in a short time, and take her with him, either with good-will or by force, and would make her his bride. But although the elder sisters had heard nothing of the matter, it nevertheless came to light in a way which nobody anticipated. The youngest daughter was not a little astonished, when she sat down to work after the departure of the prince, to find that the thread on the spool was broken. She pieced the ends together, and set the wheel in rapid motion that she might make up for the time which she had lost with her lover, by diligent labour, but her heart fluttered at a strange and inexplicable event, for the gold thread had lost its former lustre. No terror and no sighs or tears could repair the mischief. According to an old proverb, misfortune springs into the house through the door, enters by the window, and creeps in through any crevice which is not blocked up; and thus was it now.[130] The old woman returned home by night; and as soon as she came into the room in the morning, she perceived at once that something was wrong. Her heart was filled with rage, and she called her daughters one by one, and severely cross-questioned them. They could not help themselves with lies and excuses, for lies have short legs, and the cunning old woman soon discovered what the village cock had crowed in her youngest daughter's ear behind her back. Then the old woman began to curse so terribly that it seemed as if she wanted to darken heaven and earth with her imprecations. At last she threatened to break the neck of the young man and give his flesh to the wild beasts to devour if he ever ventured near the house again. The youngest daughter turned as red as a boiled crab, and found no rest by day nor sleep by night; for the thought oppressed her ever, that if the youth should return, he might meet his death. Early in the morning she stole quietly out of the house while her mother and sisters were still asleep, to breathe the freshness of the dewy air. As luck would have it, she had learned the language of birds from her mother when she was still a child, and her knowledge now stood her in good stead. A raven was sitting in the branches of a pine-tree near, preening his feathers, and the maiden called to him, "Dear bird of wisdom, wisest of the race of birds, come to my aid." "What help dost thou need?" answered the raven. The girl answered, "Fly from the wood afar into the country, until you reach a stately city with a royal palace. Endeavour to find the king's son, and warn him of the misfortune which has come upon us." Then she told the raven the whole story, from the breaking of the thread to the terrible threat of her mother, and begged that the youth would never return to the house. The raven promised to deliver her message, if he could find anybody who understood his language, and flew away immediately. The mother would not allow the youngest daughter to work at the spinning-wheel again, but kept her busy winding the spun thread. This work would have been easier to the maiden than the other, but her mother's incessant cursing and scolding gave her no rest from morning to night. Any attempt to palliate her offence only made matters worse. If a woman's heart overflows with anger and loosens her tongue, no power on earth can stay it. Towards evening the voice of the raven was heard croaking on the summit of the pine-tree, and the tortured girl hurried out to inquire what news he brought. The raven had had the good fortune to meet with the son of a magician in the garden of the king, who perfectly understood the language of birds. To him the bird delivered the message of the maiden, and besought him to convey it to the prince. "Tell the raven," said the prince to the magician's son, "that he must return, and say to the maiden, 'Sleep not on the ninth night, for a deliverer will then appear to rescue the chick from the claws of the hawk.'" They gave the raven a piece of meat as a reward for his message and to strengthen his wings, and then sent him back again. The maiden thanked the bird for his news, but concealed his message carefully in her own bosom, so that the others heard nothing of it. But as the ninth day approached her heart grew ever heavier, for she dreaded lest some unexpected mischance might yet ruin all. When the ninth night came, and the mother and daughters had retired to rest, the youngest sister stole from the house on tip-toe, and sat down on the grass under a tree to wait for her lover. Her heart was full of mingled hope and fear. The cock had already crowed twice, but there was not a step nor a voice to be heard in the wood. But between the second and third cockcrow she heard the distant sound of horses' hoofs. Guided by the sound, she made her way in their direction, lest the noise of their approach should rouse the sleeping household. She soon caught sight of the troop of soldiers, at whose head rode the prince himself, guiding them by the secret marks he had made on the trees when he departed. As soon as he perceived the maiden, he sprang from his horse, lifted her into the saddle, seated himself before her, so that she could cling to him, and then hastened homewards. The moon shone so brightly between the trees that the soldiers could not miss the track. Presently the birds roused up, and began to chirp and twitter in the dawning light. And if the maiden had had time to listen to their warnings, they would have profited her more than the honeyed words of her lover, which were all that reached her ear. But she saw and heard nothing but the voice of her lover, who bade her dismiss all idle fears, and to trust in the protection of the soldiers. The sun was already high in the heavens when they left the forest and emerged into the open country. Fortunately the old mother did not discover her daughter's flight very early in the morning. It was only when she found that the twists of thread had not been wound that she asked what had become of the youngest sister, but no one could inform her. There were many indications to show that she had fled, and the mother immediately devised a crafty plan to punish the fugitive. She went out and gathered a handful of nine[131] different sorts of magic herbs, scattered charmed salt over them, and tied up the whole in a bundle. Then she muttered curses and imprecations over the witch-packet, and cast it to the winds, saying-- "Lend the ball thy wings, O whirlwind! Mother of the wind, thy pinions; Drive the witch's bundle onward, Let it fly with wind-like swiftness, Let it scatter death around it, Let it cast disease beyond it." Somewhat before noon the prince and his army arrived on the bank of a broad river, over which a narrow bridge had been thrown, which only permitted the soldiers to pass one by one. The prince was just riding on the middle of the bridge, when the witch's bundle came flying along, borne by the wind, and attacked his horse like a gadfly. The horse snorted with terror, reared up on his hind-legs, and before any help could be given, the maiden slid from the saddle and fell headlong into the river. The prince would have leaped in after her, but the soldiers seized hold of him and prevented him, for the river was of unfathomable depth, and no human aid could avail to remedy the misfortune which had happened. The prince was almost distracted with grief and horror, and the soldiers forced him to accompany them home against his will. He lay in a quiet room for weeks mourning over the calamity, and at first refused all food and drink. The king summoned magicians from all quarters, but none of them could discover the nature of the disease or suggest any remedy. But one day the son of the wind-sorcerer, who was one of the labourers in the king's garden, advised, "Send to Finland for the oldest of all magicians, for he is wiser than the magicians of our country." When the king heard this, he sent a messenger to the old Finnish sorcerer, who arrived after a week on the wings of the wind. He spoke thus to the king: "Mighty king, the disease which afflicts the prince is caused by the wind. An evil witch-packet has robbed the prince of the half of his heart, and therefore he suffers unceasingly. Send him often into the wind that the wind may bear away his sorrows into the forest." He was not wrong, for the health of the prince soon began to improve, his appetite grew better, and he was able to sleep at night. At last he confided the sorrow of his heart to his parents, and his father wished him to seek out another young bride to lead home; but the prince would not listen to the proposal. The young man had already passed a year in mourning, when one day he happened to come to the bridge where he had lost his betrothed, and bitter tears rose to his eyes at the recollection. Suddenly he heard a sweet voice singing, although no living creature was in sight. And the voice sang: "By the mother's curse o'ertaken, Sank in flood the hapless maiden, In the watery grave the fair one, And in Ahti's[132] waves thy darling." The prince dismounted from his horse, and looked round everywhere to see whether some one might not be hidden under the bridge, but he could see no singer anywhere. The only object visible was a water-lily, swaying on the water amid its broad leaves. But a swaying flower could not sing, and there must be something mysterious about it. He tied his horse to a stump on the bank, and sat down on the bridge to listen, hoping that his eyes or ears would give him some solution of the riddle. All was still for a while, but presently the invisible singer sang again: "By the mother's curse o'ertaken, Sank in flood the hapless maiden, In the watery grave the fair one, And in Ahti's waves thy darling." Sometimes the wind brings a fortunate idea to men, and such was the case now. The prince thought, "If I rode alone to the cottage in the wood, who knows but that the gold-spinners might be able to give me some explanation of this wonderful occurrence." He mounted his horse and rode towards the forest. He hoped to find his way easily by the former indications, but the wood had grown, and he rode for more than one day before he could discover the footpath. When he drew near the cottage, he stopped and waited, hoping that one of the maidens would come out. Early in the morning the eldest sister came out to wash her face at the spring. The young man went to her, and told her of the misfortune that had happened on the bridge the year before, and of the song which he had heard there a day or two ago. It happened that the old mother was absent from home, and the maiden invited the prince into the house. As soon as the two girls heard his story, they knew that the misfortune must have been caused by their mother's witch's coil, and that their sister was not dead, but only enchanted. The eldest sister inquired, "Did you see nothing on the surface of the water from whence the song might have proceeded?" "Nothing," replied the prince. "As far as my eyes could reach, nothing could be perceived on the surface of the water but a yellow water-lily surrounded by its broad leaves; but leaves and flowers cannot sing." The maidens immediately suspected that the water-lily could be nothing but their sister, who had fallen into the water, and had been changed into a flower by enchantment. They knew that their old mother had let fly the witch's coil after the maiden, with her curse, and that if it had not killed her, it might have transformed her into any shape. But they would not tell the prince of their suspicions until they could devise some means for their sister's release, lest they might inspire him with fruitless hopes. As they did not expect their mother to return home for some days, there was plenty of time to consider the best course to adopt. In the evening the eldest sister gathered a sufficient quantity of various magic herbs, which she rubbed with flour into a dough; and baked a pie which she gave to the young man to eat before he retired to rest at night. During the night the prince had a wonderful dream. He thought that he was in the wood among the birds, and that he could understand the language of them all. In the morning he related his dream to the maidens, and the eldest sister observed, "You have come to us at a fortunate hour, and you have had your dream at a fortunate hour, for it will be fulfilled on your way home. The pork pie which I baked for your welfare yesterday, and gave you to eat, was mixed with magic herbs which will enable you to understand everything which the knowing birds say to one another. These little feathered people are gifted with much wisdom which is unknown to mankind. Turn a sharp ear to whatever their beaks may utter. And when your own time of trouble is over, do not forget us poor children, who sit here at the spinning-wheel as if in an eternal prison." The prince thanked the maidens for their kindness, and promised to do his best to release them, either by ransom or by force. He then took leave of them and turned his way homewards. The maidens were pleased to find that the threads were not broken, and still retained their golden lustre, so that their mother would have no cause to reproach them when she returned. The prince found his ride through the wood still more pleasant. He seemed to be surrounded with a numerous company, for the singing and chirping of the birds sounded like articulate words to his ears. He was greatly surprised to find how much wisdom is lost to men who do not understand the language of birds. At first the wanderer was not able to understand clearly what the feathered people were saying, for they were talking of the affairs of various persons who were unknown to him; but suddenly he saw a magpie and a thrush sitting in a tall pine-tree, who were talking about himself. "How great is the stupidity of men!" said the thrush. "They cannot rightly comprehend the most trifling matter. For a whole year the foster-child of a lame old woman has been sitting near the bridge in the form of a water-lily, lamenting her sad fate in song, but no one has been able to release her. A few days ago her lover was riding over the bridge, and heard her melancholy song, but he was no wiser than anybody else." The magpie answered, "And yet the maiden was punished by her mother on his account. Unless he is gifted with greater wisdom that falls to the lot of men, she must remain a flower for ever." "It would be a trifling matter to release the maiden," said the thrush, "if the matter were fully explained to the old magician of Finland. He could easily deliver her from her watery prison and flowery bondage." This conversation made the young man thoughtful, and as he rode on, he began to consider what messenger he could send to Finland. Presently he heard one swallow say to another over his head, "Let us go to Finland, where we can build our nests better than here." "Stay, friends," cried the prince in the language of the birds. "Please to convey a thousand compliments from me to the old sorcerer of Finland, and ask him to give me directions how to restore a maiden who has been transformed into a water-lily to her original form." The swallows promised to fulfil his request, and flew away. When he came to the bank of the river, he allowed his horse to graze, and remained standing on the bridge, to listen whether he could not hear the song again. But all was still, and he could hear nothing but the rushing of the waters and the sighing of the wind. At last he mounted his horse unwillingly and rode home, but did not say a word to any one of his excursion and his adventure. He was sitting in the garden a week afterwards, and thinking that the swallows must have forgotten his message, when a great eagle circled above him high in the air. The bird gradually descended, and at length alighted on the branch of a lime-tree near the prince, and thus addressed him: "I bring you greetings from the old sorcerer in Finland, who hopes that you will not think ill of him that he did not reply to your message sooner, for he could not find a messenger who was coming this way. It is a very simple matter to disenchant the maiden. You have only to go to the bank of the river, throw off your clothes, and smear yourself all over with mud till not a speck remains white. Then take the tip of your nose between your fingers, and say, 'Let the man become a crayfish.' Immediately you will become a crayfish, when you can descend into the river without any fear of being drowned. Squeeze yourself boldly under the roots of the water-lily, and clear them from mud and reeds, so that no portion remains fixed. Then grasp one of the roots with your pincers, and the water will raise you with the flower to the surface. Allow yourself to drift with the stream till you see a rowan-tree[133] with leafy branches on the left bank. Near the rowan-tree is a rock about as high as a small bath-house. When you reach the rock you must say, 'Let the water-lily become a maiden and the crayfish a man!' and it will be accomplished immediately." When the eagle had delivered his message, he spread his wings, and flew away. The young man looked after him for a time, not knowing what to think of the whole affair. A week passed by, and found him still undecided, for he had neither courage nor confidence sufficient to undertake such an enterprise. At length a crow said to him, "Why do you neglect to follow the old man's advice? The old sorcerer has never given false information, and the language of birds never deceives. Hasten to the river, and let the maiden dry your tears of longing." This gave the young man courage, for he reflected, "Nothing worse can befall me but death, and death is easier than constant weeping." He mounted his horse and took the well-known path to the banks of the river. When he came to the bridge, he could distinguish the song: "By my mother's curse o'ertaken, Here I lie in slumber sunken; Here the youthful maid must languish On the bosom of the waters, And the bed is cold and oozy Where the tender maid is resting." The prince dismounted, and hobbled his horse to prevent him from straying too far from the bridge. Then he took off his clothes, and smeared himself over and over with mud, so that no spot remained white. After this, he caught hold of the end of his nose, and jumped into the water, exclaiming, "Let the man become a crayfish." There was a splash in the water, and then everything became as still as before. The prince, now transformed into a crayfish, immediately began to disentangle the roots of the water-lily from the bed of the river, but it took him a long time. The roots were firmly fixed in the sand and mud, so that the crayfish had to work for seven whole days before he could complete his task. Then he seized one of the rootlets with his pincers, and the water buoyed him up to the surface with the flower. They drifted along slowly with the current, but although there were plenty of trees and bushes on the banks, it was some time before the prince caught sight of the rowan-tree and the rock. At last, however, he spied the tree with its leaves and clusters of red berries on the left bank, and a little farther on stood the rock, which was as high as a small bath-house. Upon this he cried out, "Let the water-lily become a maiden and the crayfish a man." Then the youth and the maiden swam with their heads above the water. The water bore them to the bank, but they were both mother-naked, as God had created them. Then said the shame-faced maiden, "Dear youth, I have no clothes to put on, and cannot come out of the water." But the prince answered, "Go ashore near the rowan-tree, and I will shut my eyes while you climb up and hide yourself under the tree. Then I will hurry to the bridge where I left my horse and my clothes when I plunged into the river." So the maiden hid herself under the tree, while the prince hurried to the spot where he had left his horse and his clothes, but he could find neither one nor the other. He did not know that he had passed so many days in the form of a crayfish, and supposed that he had only spent a few hours in the water. Presently he saw a magnificent chariot with six horses coming slowly along the bank to meet him. In the chariot he found everything needful both for himself and for the maiden whom he had released from her watery prison, as well as an attendant and a lady's maid. The prince kept the attendant with him, but sent the chariot and the maid with the clothes to the spot where his naked darling was waiting under the rowan-tree. Rather more than an hour elapsed before the coach returned, bringing the maiden attired as a royal bride to the spot where the prince was waiting. He also was richly dressed in wedding robes, and seated himself by her side in the chariot. They drove straight to the city, and stopped before the door of the church. In the church sat the king and queen in black garments, mourning for the loss of their beloved son, who was supposed to have been drowned in the river, for his horse and his clothes had been found on the bank. Great was their joy when their lost son appeared before them, accompanied by a beautiful girl, both in wedding attire. The king himself led them to the altar, and they were married. Then a wedding-feast was prepared, which lasted for six whole weeks. But there is no peace nor rest in the course of time, for days of happiness appear to pass more quickly than hours of trouble. Soon after the wedding, autumn set in, followed by frost and snow, and the young couple did not feel much inclination to leave the house. But when spring returned, the prince and his young consort went to walk in the garden. There they heard a magpie crying out from the summit of a tree, "O what an ungrateful creature to neglect the friends who have helped him so much, in his days of happiness! Must the two poor girls sit spinning gold thread all their lives? The lame old woman is not the mother of the maidens, but a wicked witch who stole them away from a far country when they were children. The old woman has committed many crimes, and deserves no mercy. Let her be punished with boiled hemlock, or she will perhaps direct another witch's coil against the child who has been rescued." This reminded the prince of all that had happened, and he told his consort how he had gone to the cottage in the wood to ask the advice of her sisters, and how the maidens had taught him the language of birds, and he had promised to release them from their servitude. His wife begged him with tears in her eyes to go to the aid of her sisters. When they awoke next morning, she said, "I had an important dream last night. I dreamed that the old mother had left the house, and that the girls were alone. No doubt this would be a good opportunity to go to their aid." The prince immediately equipped a troop of soldiers, and led them to the cottage in the wood, where they arrived on the following day. The maidens were alone, as the dream had fore-shadowed, and ran out with joyful cries to meet their deliverers. A soldier was ordered to gather hemlock-roots, and to boil them for the punishment of the old woman, so that she should need no more food if she came home, and ate a sufficiency of them. They passed the night in the cottage, and on the following morning set out early on the road with the maidens, so that they reached the town in the evening. Great was the joy of the sisters, who had not seen each other for two years. The old woman returned home the same night, and greedily devoured the food which she found on the table. Then she crept into bed to rest, but she never awoke again, for the hemlock put an end to her wicked life. A week later the prince sent a trusty captain to see how things were going on, when he found the old woman dead. Fifty loads of golden thread were found in the secret chamber, and were divided among the sisters. As soon as the treasure was carried away, the captain sent the red cock on the roof.[134] But while the cock was already stretching his red comb out of the smoke-hole, a great cat with fiery eyes clambered down the wall from the roof. The soldiers chased the cat, and soon caught her, when a bird sang from the summit of a tree, "Fix the cat in a trap by her tail, and all will come to light." The men obeyed. "Don't torture me, good people," said the cat. "I am a human being like yourselves, and have been changed into the shape of a cat by witchcraft, though it was a just return for my wickedness. I was the housekeeper in the palace of a great king a long way from here, and the old woman was the queen's first chambermaid. We were led by avarice to plot together secretly to steal the king's three daughters and a great treasure, and then to make our escape. After we had contrived to make away with all the golden vessels, which the old woman changed into golden flax, we took the children, when the eldest was three years old, and the youngest six months. The old woman was afraid that I might repent and change my intentions, so she transformed me into a cat. Her death loosed my tongue, but I did not recover my former shape." When the captain heard this, he answered, "You deserve no better fate than the old woman," and ordered her to be thrown into the fire. It was not long before the two elder princesses married kings' sons, like their youngest sister, and the golden thread which they had spun in the cottage in the wood provided them with rich dowries. But they never discovered their parents, nor the place of their birth. It was reported that the old woman had buried many more loads of golden thread in the ground, but no one could find the spot. [Footnote 129: "These forests are very useful in delivering princes from their courtiers, like a sieve that keeps back the bran. Then the princes get away to follow their fortunes."--_George MacDonald_, "_The Light Princess_."] [Footnote 130: Compare the scene with the four Grey Women in the second part of _Faust_.] [Footnote 131: Nine is a mystical number as well as seven.] [Footnote 132: Ahti, the God of the Waters.] [Footnote 133: A sacred tree in Eastern Europe, as it is in the British Isles.] [Footnote 134: See page 108.] SECTION II _ORPHAN AND FOUNDLING STORIES_ The Esthonians appear to be very compassionate towards orphans, for many of their tales relate to the adventures of neglected or ill-used orphan children, and the wonderful events by which their welfare was finally secured. Nevertheless, wicked stepmothers and farmers' wives are just as common as in other folk-tales. The first story of this class which we have selected, "The Wood of Tontla,"[135] is specially interesting from its resemblance to Tieck's well-known German story of "The Elves," which must originally have been derived from the same source as the present narrative. With the Orphan Stories proper I have placed others relating to stolen or friendless children. [Footnote 135: _Tont_ is a common name for a house-spirit.] THE WOOD OF TONTLA. (KREUTZWALD.) In ancient times there was a beautifully wooded region in Alutaga (north of Lake Peipus), which was called the Wood of Tontla. But no one dared to enter it, and those who had chanced to approach it related that they had seen an old tumbledown house through the thick trees, surrounded by creatures of human appearance, with which the grass swarmed like an anthill. These forms were ragged and dusky, and looked like gipsies, and there were many old women and half-naked children among them. A peasant who had wandered rather deeper into the wood than usual, as he was returning home one dark night after a carouse, beheld a strange sight. A number of women and children were gathered round a bright fire, and some were sitting on the ground while others danced. An old woman held a broad iron shovel in her hand, and every now and then scattered the red hot cinders over the grass, when the children flew up into the air, fluttering about like owls in the rising smoke, and then sinking down again. Then a little old man with a long beard came out of the wood, carrying a sack longer than himself. The women and children shouted out, and ran to meet him, dancing round him, and trying to pull the sack off his back; but the old man shook himself free. After this, a black cat as large as a foal, which had been sitting on the doorstep glaring with fiery eyes, leaped upon the old man's sack, and then disappeared in the cottage. But as the spectator's head ached and everything swam before his eyes, his report was not clear, and people could not quite distinguish between the false and the true. It was remarkable that such stories were repeated about the Wood of Tontla from generation to generation, without anybody being able to give a more definite account of it. The King of Sweden more than once ordered the wood to be felled, but the people did not venture to execute his command. One day a rash man struck his axe into a tree, when blood flowed, and a cry was heard as of a man in pain.[136] The terrified woodcutter fled, shaking all over with fear; and after this, no command was so stringent and no reward great enough, to induce a woodcutter to touch the wood of Tontla. It was also very strange that no paths led either into or out of the wood, and that throughout the year no smoke was seen to rise which might indicate the presence of human dwellings. The wood was not large, and it was surrounded by open fields, so that it lay exposed to the view of all. If living creatures had actually dwelt there from olden times, they could only get in and out of the wood by secret subterranean passages; or else they must fly through the air by night, like witches, when all around were asleep. According to tradition, the latter alternative seemed the most probable. Perhaps we shall learn more about these strange birds if we drive on the carriage of the story a little farther, and rest at the next village. There was a large village a few versts from the Wood of Tontla, where a peasant who had lately been left a widower had married a young wife, and, as often happens, he brought a regular shrew into the house, so that there was no end to the trouble and quarrelling. The first wife had left a clever and intelligent girl named Elsie,[137] who was now seven years old. The wicked stepmother made the poor child's life more intolerable than hell; she banged and cuffed her from morning to night, and gave her worse food than the dogs. As the woman was mistress in the house, the father could not protect his daughter, and even the smoke of the house was forced to dance to the woman's tune. Elsie had now endured this miserable life for more than two years, and had shed many tears, when she went out one Sunday with the other village children to pluck berries. They strolled about as children do, till they came accidentally to the borders of the Wood of Tontla, where the grass was quite red with the finest strawberries. The children ate the sweet berries, and gathered as many as they could into their baskets, when all at once one of the older boys recognised the dreaded spot and cried out, "Fly, fly, for we are in the Wood of Tontla!" The wood was more dreaded than thunder and lightning, and the children rushed off as if all the monsters of the wood were close upon their heels. But Elsie, who had gone rather farther than the others, and had found some very fine strawberries under the trees, went on plucking them, although she heard the boy shout. She only thought, "The dwellers in the Tontla Wood cannot be worse than my stepmother at home." Presently a little black dog with a silver bell hung round its neck ran up to her barking. This brought a little girl dressed in fine silken garments to the spot, who quieted the dog, and said to Elsie, "It is a good thing that you did not run away like the other children. Stay with me for company, and we will play very nice games together, and go to pluck berries every day. My mother will not refuse her consent, if I ask her. Come, and we will go to her at once." Then the beautiful strange child seized Elsie by the hand, and led her deeper into the wood. The little black dog barked for pleasure now, and jumped upon Elsie and licked her hand as if she were an old acquaintance. O what wonders and magnificence made Elsie open her eyes! She thought herself in heaven. A beautiful garden lay before her, filled with trees and bushes laden with fruit; birds were sitting on the branches, more brightly coloured than the most brilliant butterflies, and decked with feathers of gold and silver. And the birds were not shy, but allowed the children to take them in their hands at pleasure. In the midst of the garden stood the dwelling-house, built of glass and precious stones, so that the roof and walls shone like the sun. A lady clad in beautiful robes sat on a bench before the door, and asked her daughter, "Who is this guest you have brought with you?" Her daughter answered, "I found her alone in the wood, and brought her with me for company. Won't you allow her to stay here?" The mother smiled, but did not speak, and scanned Elsie sharply from head to foot. Then she told Elsie to come nearer, patted her cheek, and asked in a friendly way where she lived, whether her parents were still alive, and if she would like to stay here. Elsie kissed the lady's hand and fell down and embraced her knees, and then answered, weeping, "My mother has long been at rest under the turf-- "My mother was borne to the grave, And none left to comfort or save. "It is true that my father still lives, but this is small comfort to me when my stepmother hates me, and beats me unmercifully every day. I cannot do anything to please her. O my dearest lady, let me stay here! Let me mind the flocks, or set me to any other work and I will do anything, and will be always obedient to you, but don't send me back to my stepmother. She would beat me almost to death, because I did not go back with the other village children." The lady smiled, and answered, "We will see what we can do for you." Then she rose from the bench and went into the house. Meantime the daughter said to Elsie, "Take comfort, for my mother is friendly to you. I can see in her face that she will consent to our wishes as soon as she has had time to think over the matter." She then followed her mother into the house, leaving Elsie waiting outside. Elsie's heart palpitated with hope and fear, and she waited anxiously for the decision which was to be announced to her. After a time the daughter came out again with a box of toys in her hand, and said, "My mother says we are to play together while she considers what is to be done about you. I hope you will stay here, for I don't want to let you leave me again. Have you been for a row on the lake?" Elsie stared, and asked, "On the lake! What is that? I never heard anything about it." "You'll see presently," said the young lady, taking off the lid of the box. It contained a leaf of lady's-smock, a mussel-shell, and two fish-bones. There were a few drops of water glittering on the leaf, which the girl threw on the grass. Immediately the grass, the garden, and everything else vanished, as if they had sunk in the ground, and water spread around to the horizon in every direction. Only a small patch remained dry under the feet of the children. Then the young lady set the shell in the water, and took the fish-bones in her hand. The shell began to expand, until it became a pretty boat, in which a dozen children or more could easily have found room. The two seated themselves in it, Elsie not without hesitation, but her companion only laughed, and the fish-bones turned to oars in her hands. The children were rocked by the waves as if they were in a cradle, and presently other boats came in sight, and the people in them were laughing and singing. "We should sing back to them," said the young lady; but Elsie did not know how to sing; so she herself began to sing very sweetly. Elsie could not understand much of what the others sang, but she heard the word Kiisike[138] repeated several times, and asked what it meant, and her companion answered, "That is my name." They floated thus together for a long time, till they heard a voice crying, "Come home, children, for it is nearly evening." Kiisike took the box out of her pocket, and dipped the leaf in the water, so that a few drops lay upon it. Instantly they found themselves in the garden near the beautiful house: everything looked as firm and solid as before, and no water was to be seen anywhere. The shell and fish-bones were put back into the box with the leaf, and the children went home. Here they saw four-and-twenty ladies sitting round a dinner-table, all splendidly dressed as if for a wedding. The lady of the house sat at the head of the table in a golden chair. Elsie's eyes did not know how to admire sufficiently all the splendour which surrounded her. Thirteen gold and silver dishes stood upon the table, but one of these was taken up and carried away without the cover having been removed. Elsie ate of the dainty dishes, which were nicer than cakes, and again she thought she must be in heaven, for she could not imagine anything like this on earth. During dinner, conversation was carried on in low tones, but in a foreign language of which Elsie did not understand a word.[139] At length the lady spoke to a maid who stood behind her chair. The latter went out, and soon returned accompanied by a little old man, whose beard was longer than himself.[140] The old man made a bow, and stood waiting at the door. The lady pointed to Elsie, and said, "Look at this little peasant girl; I am going to adopt her as my foster-child. Make me an image of her, which we can send to the village to-morrow in her stead." The old man looked at Elsie sharply, as if to take her measure, bowed to the lady again, and left the room. After dinner the lady said kindly to Elsie, "Kiisike has asked me to keep you here as a companion for her, and you said yourself that you would like to stay with us. Is this really so?" Elsie fell on her knees, and kissed the hands and feet of the lady in gratitude for her deliverance from her cruel stepmother. But the lady raised her from the ground, stroked her head and her tearful cheeks, and said, "If you are always a good and diligent child, it shall fare well with you. I will take care of you, and you shall be carefully instructed in everything useful till you are grown up, and are able to shift for yourself. My governess, who teaches Kiisike, shall teach you all kinds of fine work, and other things besides." After a time the old man came back with a long trough on his shoulder filled with clay, and a covered basket in his left hand. He set them down on the ground, and took a piece of clay, which he moulded into a doll. The body was hollow, and he put three salt herrings and a bit of bread into it. Then he made a hole in the breast of the doll, took a black snake a yard long from the basket, and made it creep through. The snake hissed and lashed its tail as if it resisted, but he forced it through the hole. After the lady had carefully inspected the doll on all sides, the old man said, "We want nothing more now but a drop of the peasant girl's blood." Elsie turned pale with terror when she heard this, for she thought that her soul was sold to the Evil One. But the lady comforted her and said, "Fear nothing. We don't want your blood for any evil purpose, but for a good end, and for your future happiness." Then she took a small gold needle, and pricked Elsie's arm, after which she gave the needle to the old man, who thrust it into the heart of the doll. Then he put the doll into the basket to grow, and promised to show the lady the result of his work next morning. Then they retired to rest, and a chambermaid showed Elsie to a room where she found a soft bed ready for her. When she opened her eyes next morning in the silken bed with soft pillows, she found herself wearing a shift of fine linen, and she saw rich garments lying on a chair near the bed. Then a girl came into the room, and told Elsie to wash herself and comb her hair, after which she dressed her from head to foot in the fine new clothes, like the proudest Saxon child.[141] Nothing delighted Elsie so much as the shoes,[142] for until now she had always gone barefoot. Elsie thought that no king's daughter could possess the like. She was so delighted with the shoes that she had no time to admire the rest of her outfit, although everything was beautiful. The poor clothes which she had worn had been removed during the night, for a purpose which she was afterwards to discover. They were put on the doll, which was to be sent to the village in her place. The doll had grown in its case during the night, and had now become a perfect image of Elsie, and ran about like a creature which God had made. Elsie was startled when she saw the doll, which looked exactly like what she herself had been yesterday. When the lady saw Elsie's alarm, she said, "Don't be afraid, child. This clay image cannot do you any harm, and we will send it to your stepmother, for her to beat. She may beat it as much as she likes, for the image is as hard as stone, and cannot feel pain. But if the wicked woman does not alter her conduct, your image will some day punish her as she deserves." After this, Elsie lived as happily as any spoiled Saxon child which is rocked in a golden cradle. She had neither sorrow nor weariness to suffer; her lessons became easier and easier every day, and her hard life in the village seemed now no more than a bad dream. But the more happiness she found in this new life, the more wonderful everything appeared to her. It could not be natural, and some mysterious power must rule over everything here. A rock of granite stood in the enclosure about twenty paces from the house. When meal-time approached, the old man with the long beard went to the rock, drew a silver wand from his bosom, and struck the rock three times, when it gave out a clear sound. Then a large golden cock sprang out, and perched upon the rock; and as often as he clapped his wings and crowed, something came out of the rock. First came a long table with covers ready laid for all the company, and the table moved into the house of itself, as if on the wings of the wind. When the cock crowed a second time, chairs went after the table, followed by one dish after another. Everything leaped out of the rock, and flew like the wind to the table. It was the same with bottles of mead and apples and pears; everything seemed alive, so that no one needed to fetch and carry anything. When everybody had eaten enough, the old man knocked on the rock a second time with his silver wand, and then the golden cock crowed, and the bottles, dishes, plates, chairs, and table went back into the rock. But when the thirteenth dish came, from which nothing was eaten, a great black cat ran after it, and sat on the rock with the cock, till the old man carried them away. He took the dish in his hand, the cat on his arm, and the golden cock on his shoulder, and disappeared with them under the rock. Not only food and drink, but everything else required for the household, and even clothes, came out of the rock upon the crowing of the cock. Although but little conversation was carried on at table, and even that in a foreign language, the lady and the governess talked and sang a great deal in the house and garden. In time Elsie also learned to understand almost everything, but years elapsed before she could attempt to speak the strange language herself. One day Elsie asked Kiisike why the thirteenth dish came to table every day, although nobody ate anything from it; but Kiisike could not tell her. However, she must have asked her mother, who sent for Elsie a few days afterwards, and talked to her very seriously. "Do not vex your soul with useless curiosity. You would like to know why we never eat from the thirteenth dish? Mark well, dear child; this is the dish of hidden blessing. We dare not touch it, or our happy life would come to an end. It would be much better, too, for men in this world if they did not grasp avariciously after all things without returning anything in gratitude to the Heavenly Dispenser. Avarice is the worst fault of mankind."[143] The years flew by with arrow-like swiftness, and Elsie had now become a blooming maiden, and had learned many things which would never have become known to her during her whole life, if she had lived in the village. But Kiisike remained the same little child as on the day when she first met Elsie in the wood. The governess who lived in the house with the lady instructed Kiisike and Elsie for some hours daily in reading and writing, and in all kinds of fine work. Elsie learned everything easily, but Kiisike had more taste for childish games than for her lessons. When the whim took her, she threw her work away, caught up her little box, and ran out of doors to play on the lake, and nobody scolded her. Sometimes she said to Elsie, "It's a pity you've grown so big: you can't play with me any longer." Nine years passed in this way, and one evening the lady sent for Elsie to come to her room. This surprised Elsie, for the lady had never sent for her before; and her heart beat almost to bursting. When Elsie entered, she saw that the lady's cheeks were red, and her eyes were filled with tears, which she hastily wiped away as if to hide them. "My dear child," said the lady, "the time has come when we must part." "Part!" exclaimed Elsie, throwing herself at the lady's feet. "No, dear lady, we must never part till death shall separate us. I have always behaved well; don't drive me from you." But the lady said soothingly, "Calm yourself, child. You do not yet know how much it will increase your happiness. You are now grown up, and I must not keep you here any longer in confinement. You must go back among mankind, where happiness awaits you." Elsie still besought her, "Dear lady, don't send me away; I wish for no other happiness than to live and die with you. Let me be your chambermaid, or give me any other work to do that you like, only don't send me out into the wide world again. It would have been better for you to have left me with my stepmother in the village than for me to have spent so many years in heaven only to be thrust out again into hell." "Be still, dear child," said the lady. "You cannot understand what it is my duty to do for your good, hard as it is for me also. But everything must be done as I direct. You are a child of mortal man,[144] and your years must come at length to an end, and therefore you cannot remain here any longer. I myself and those around me possess human forms, but we are not human beings like you, but beings of a higher order, whom you cannot comprehend. You will find a beloved husband far away from here, who is destined for you, and you will live happily with him, until your days draw to a close. It is not easy for me to part with you, but so it must be, and therefore you must also submit quietly." Then she passed her golden comb through Elsie's hair and told her to go to bed. But how should poor Elsie sleep this unhappy night? Her life seemed like a dark starless night-sky. We will leave Elsie in her trouble, and go to the village to see what is taking place at her father's house, to which the clay image was sent for the stepmother to beat in Elsie's stead. It is well known that a wicked woman does not improve with age. It sometimes happens that a wild youth becomes a quiet lamb in his old age; but if a girl whose heart is bad assumes the matron's cap, she becomes like a raging wolf in her old days. The stepmother tortured the clay image like a firebrand from hell both day and night, but she could not hurt the impassive creature, whose body was impervious to pain. If the husband endeavoured to protect his child, she beat him too, as a reward for his attempts at peace-making. One day the stepmother had again beaten her clay daughter terribly, and threatened to kill her. In her fury she seized the clay image by the throat with both hands, and was going to strangle it, when a black snake glided hissing from the child's mouth and bit the stepmother in the tongue, so that she fell dead without uttering a sound. When the husband returned home in the evening, he found the dead and swollen body of his wife lying on the floor, but his daughter was nowhere to be found. He cried out, and some of the villagers assembled. They had heard a great noise in the house about noon, but as this was an almost daily occurrence, no one had gone in. In the afternoon all was quiet, but no one had seen the daughter. The body of the dead woman was washed and shrouded, and peas were boiled in salt for those who should watch the dead during the night.[145] The weary man went to his room to rest, and sincerely thanked his stars that he was rid of this firebrand from hell. He found three salt herrings and a piece of bread on the table, which he ate, and then went to bed. Next morning he was found dead in bed, with his body swollen up like that of the woman. A few days afterwards they were carried to the grave, where they could do each other no more harm. The peasants troubled themselves no further concerning the vanished daughter. Elsie did not close her eyes all night. She wept and lamented the necessity of parting with her happiness so soon and so unexpectedly. In the morning the lady placed a gold seal-ring on Elsie's finger, and hung a small golden casket round her neck. Then she called the old man, pointed to Elsie with her hand, and took leave of her in the same gesture. Elsie was just going to thank her for her kindness, when the old man touched her head gently three times with his silver wand. Elsie felt immediately that she was changed into a bird. Her arms became wings, and her legs became eagle's legs with long claws, and her nose became a curved beak, while feathers covered her whole body. Then she rose up suddenly into the air, and soared away below the clouds like an eagle hatched from the egg. She flew southwards thus for several days, and would gladly have rested sometimes when her wings grew weary, but she felt no hunger. It came to pass one day that she was flying above a low wood where dogs were barking, which could not harm the bird, for they had no wings. All at once she felt her feathers pierced through with a sharp arrow, and she fell to the ground and fainted with terror. When Elsie awoke from her swoon and opened her eyes wide, she found herself lying under a bush in her human shape. How she came there, and all the other strange events which had happened to her, lay behind her like a dream. Presently a handsome young prince rode up, sprang from his horse, and gave his hand kindly to Elsie, saying, "By good fortune I rode here this morning. I have dreamed, dear lady, every night for the last half-year that I should find you here in the wood. Although I have ridden this way to no purpose more than a hundred times, my longing and my hopes were not extinguished. I shot a great eagle to-day, which must have fallen here, and I went to seek the game, and instead of the eagle I found--you!" Then he helped Elsie to mount the horse, and rode with her to the town, where the old king gave her a friendly reception. A few days afterwards they prepared a splendid wedding; and on the wedding morning fifty loads of treasure arrived, which had been sent by Elsie's dear foster-mother. After the old king's death, Elsie became queen, and in her old age she herself related the adventures of her youth. But since that time no one has ever seen or heard any more of the Wood of Tontla. * * * * * The King of the Misty Hill (Kreutzwald) is a somewhat similar, but very inferior story. A girl who is out in a wood all night sees a fire on a hill, and finds an old man standing by it. He had a long grey beard, and only one eye, and wore an iron helmet. He threw it on the ground, when two girls appeared, and the village child stayed with them till morning, when a young woman gave her a brooch which would enable her to return to the Misty Hill whenever she pleased. On reaching home, she found she had been absent seven years. On the first opportunity she returned to the hill by night, and her friend who had given her the brooch told her that the old man was the King of the Misty Hill, and the consort of the Meadow Queen, and she was their daughter. The girl continued her nightly visits to the Misty Hill; but after her marriage, her husband discovered her disappearance, and taking her for a were-wolf, tried to burn her; but the King of the Misty Hill carried her away to his dwelling uninjured. * * * * * In the story of "The Orphan's Handmill" (Kreutzwald), a compassionate magician from Finland in the guise of a beggar enables an ill-used and overworked orphan girl to obtain a wonderful handmill in a chest, which he forbids her to open, but which grinds all the corn poured into it, without any labour on her part. Her mistress sends her to church, intending to discover the secret of the chest, and then to drive her away and keep the chest; but when she raises the lid, a bright flame bursts from the chest which burns her to ashes. Shortly afterwards, the girl's master marries the orphan, when the chest, having done its work, vanishes, leaving no trace, it having been carried away to the underground kingdom from which the girl had brought it in a vision, with the aid of the white horse (or mare), which always figures as an inhabitant of Põrgu. [Footnote 136: Talking trees are common in Esthonian tales; I do not remember another instance of bleeding trees.] [Footnote 137: Else.] [Footnote 138: Pussy.] [Footnote 139: It must be remembered that the dominant race in Esthonia is German, and that the gentry, even if not fairies, would be expected to speak a language unintelligible to the people. It is significant that the very word for lady in Esthonian is _proua_, a corruption of _Frau_. Everything particularly fine is called "Saxon."] [Footnote 140: In some countries the beard is regarded as a symbol of power, as well as of age and wisdom. Compare the account of Schaibar in the story of Prince Ahmed (_Thousand and One Nights_).] [Footnote 141: The Germans are generally represented in Esthonian tales as rich, and sometimes as very haughty people.] [Footnote 142: Compare _Goody Two-Shoes_; but this is a modern tale, believed to have been written by Goldsmith.] [Footnote 143: There is a story (French, I think) of a king who overheard a poor man and his wife abusing Adam and Eve for their poverty. The king took them home, and entertained them. They had a grand feast of many covers every day, but there was always one, the largest of all, which they were forbidden to open. The wife soon persuaded her husband to do so, when a mouse ran out, and the king turned them out of doors.] [Footnote 144: This expression shows the late date of the present story, for no people uninfluenced by the modern Christian notion that all reasoning beings except men must be necessarily angels or devils, and therefore immortal, represent superhuman beings as immortal, with the exception of the gods, and not always even these.] [Footnote 145: See page 157.] THE ORPHAN BOY AND THE HELL-HOUNDS.[146] (KREUTZWALD.) Once upon a time there lived a poor labourer and his wife, who dragged on a wretched existence from day to day. They had three children, but only the youngest survived. He was a boy of nine years old when he buried first his father and then his mother, and he had no other resource than to beg his bread from door to door. A year afterwards he happened to come to the house of a rich farmer just when they wanted a herdboy. The farmer himself was not such a bad man to deal with, but his wife had control of everything, and she was a regular brute. It may easily be imagined how much the poor orphan boy suffered. The blows that he received daily were three times more than sufficient, but he never got enough bread to eat. But as the orphan had nothing better to look forward to, he was forced to endure his misery. One day the poor boy had the misfortune to lose a cow from the herd. He ran about the forest till sundown from one place to another, but could not find the lost cow; and although he well knew what awaited him when he reached home, he was at last obliged to gather the herd together without the missing cow. The sun had not set long when he already heard the voice of his mistress shouting, "You lazy dog, where are you dawdling with the herd?" He could not wait longer, but was forced to hurry home to the stick. It was already growing dusk when the herd arrived at the gate, but the sharp eyes of the mistress had already discovered that one cow was missing. Without saying a word, she snatched the first stake from the fence, and began to belabour the boy, as if she would beat him to a jelly. She was in such a rage that she would certainly have beaten him to death, or made him a cripple for life, if the farmer, hearing his cries and sobs, had not compassionately come to his aid. But as he knew the temper of the furious woman, he would not venture to interfere directly, but sought to soften her, and said beseechingly, "Don't beat the boy quite to pieces, or he won't be able to look for the lost cow. We shall get more profit out of him if you don't quite kill him." "True enough," said the woman, "his carrion won't be worth as much as the good beef." Then she gave him a few more good whacks, and packed him off to look for the cow, saying, "If you come back without the cow, I'll beat you to death." The boy ran from the door sobbing and crying, and went back to the forest where he had been with the herd in the daytime, and searched all night, but could not find a trace of the cow anywhere. But when the sun rose next morning, he made up his mind what to do. "Whatever may happen to me," he said, "I won't go back again." Then he made a start, and ran straight forward at one stretch, till he had left the house far behind him. He himself could not tell how far he ran before his strength failed, and he sank down half dead when it was already almost noon. When at length he awoke from a long heavy sleep, he felt something cool in his mouth, and on opening his eyes, he saw a little old man with a long grey beard putting the ladle back into a milk-can. "Please give me a little more to drink," said the boy. "You have had enough for to-day," answered the old man. "If I had not been passing this way by accident, you would have slept your last sleep, for you were already half dead when I found you." Then the old man asked the boy whence he came and whither he was going. The boy related everything that had happened to him, as far back as he could remember, down to last night's beating. The old man listened attentively to the story, but without interrupting, and after a while he remarked, "My dear child, you have fared neither better nor worse than many others whose dear friends and protectors lie beneath the sod. As you have run away, you must seek your fortune elsewhere in the world. But as I have neither house nor farm, nor wife nor child, I cannot do anything to help you but give you good advice gratis. Sleep here quietly through the night, and to-morrow morning note carefully the exact spot where the sun rises. You must proceed in that direction, so that the sun shines in your face every morning, and on your back every evening. Every day you will feel stronger, and after seven years you will see a great mountain before you, so high that its summit reaches to the clouds. There you will find your future fortune. Take my wallet and my flask, and you will find as much food and drink in them as you require each day. But take care always to leave a crumb of bread and a drop of liquid untouched, or else your store of food will fail you.[147] You may give freely to a hungry bird or to a thirsty animal, for God is pleased when one of His creatures is kind to another. You will find a folded plantain-leaf at the bottom of the wallet, which you must take the greatest care of. When you come to a river or lake on your journey, spread the leaf on the water, and it will immediately change into a boat which will carry you over to the other side. Then fold the leaf together again, and put it into your wallet." After thus speaking, he gave the wallet and the flask to the boy, and said, "God bless you!" The next moment he had vanished from the boy's eyes. The boy would have supposed it to be all a dream, if he had not held the wallet and flask in his hand to convince him that it was a reality. He then looked into the wallet, where he found half a loaf, a small case of salt herrings, another of butter, and a nice piece of bacon. When the boy had eaten enough, he lay down to sleep, with the wallet and flask under his head, so that no thief should be able to take them from him. Next morning at sunrise he awoke, refreshed himself with food and drink, and then set out on his journey. It was strange that he felt no weariness, and only hunger made him aware that it was nearly noon. He ate the good fare with relish, took a nap, and travelled on. He found that he had taken the right course when the sun set behind his back. He travelled for many days in the same direction, when he arrived on the bank of a small lake. Now he had an opportunity of testing the properties of the leaf. All befell as the old man had foretold, for a small boat with oars lay before him on the water. He stepped in, and a few good strokes of the oars landed him on the other side. Then the boat changed back into a leaf, and he put it into his wallet. Thus the boy travelled for several years, without the provisions in his flask and wallet failing. Seven years may well have passed, for he had now become a strong youth, when one day he beheld afar off a lofty mountain which seemed to reach the clouds. But a whole week more passed before he could reach its foot. Then he sat down to rest, and to see whether the predictions of the old man would be accomplished. He had not sat there very long when a strange hissing fell upon his ear, and immediately afterwards an enormous serpent appeared, at least twelve fathoms long, which came quite close to the young man. Horror seized him, and he was unable to move, but the serpent passed by him in a moment. Then all was still awhile, but afterwards it seemed to him as if something heavy was moving along in sudden leaps. This proved to be a great toad,[148] as large as a foal of two years old. This ugly creature also passed by without taking any notice of the youth. Then he heard a rushing noise above him, as if a great storm had arisen, and when he looked up, he saw a great eagle flying over his head in the direction which the serpent and the toad had taken. "These are queer things to bring me good fortune," thought the youth. Suddenly he beheld a man on a black horse riding towards him. The horse seemed to have wings to his feet, for he flew like the wind. When the man saw the youth sitting at the foot of the mountain, he reined in his horse and asked, "Who has passed by here?" The youth answered, "First of all a great serpent, perhaps twelve fathoms long, then a toad as large as a two-year-old foal, and lastly a great eagle high above my head. I could not guess at his size, but the sound of his wings was like that of a tempest." "You have seen well," answered the stranger. "These are my worst enemies, and I am now in pursuit of them. I might take you into my service, if you have nothing better in view. Climb over the mountain, and you will come straight to my house. I shall be there as soon as you, if not sooner." The young man promised to come, and the stranger rode away like the wind. The youth did not find it easy to climb the mountain. It was three days before he could reach the summit, and three days more before he reached the foot of the mountain on the opposite side. His new acquaintance was standing in front of his house, and he informed him that he had succeeded in killing the serpent and the toad, but that he had not been able to reach the eagle. Then he asked the young man if he was willing to engage himself as his servant. "You can have as much good food as you want every day, and I will give you liberal wages too, if you will do your duty faithfully." The bargain was struck, and the master took his new servant into the house, and showed him what he had to do. A cellar was hewn in the rock, and closed with threefold doors of iron. "My savage dogs are chained in this cellar," said the master, "and you must take care that they do not dig their way out under the door with their paws. For know that if one of these savage dogs got loose, it would no longer be possible to restrain the others, for each would follow the other and destroy everything which lives upon the earth. If the last dog should break out, the end of the world would come, and the sun would have shone for the last time." Then he led his servant to a hill which was not created by God, but heaped together by human hands from immense blocks of stone. "These stones," said the master, "have been heaped together so that a fresh stone can always be rolled up as often as the dogs dig out a hole. I will show you the oxen which drag the stones, in the stall, and instruct you about everything else which you have to attend to." In the stall were a hundred black oxen, each of which had seven horns, and they were fully as large as the largest oxen of the Ukraine.[149] "Six yoke of oxen harnessed before the waggon will drag a stone easily away. I will give you a crowbar, and when you touch the stone with it, it will roll into the waggon of itself. You see that your work is not very laborious, but your vigilance must be great in proportion. You must look to the door three times during the day, and once at night, lest any misfortune should happen, for the mischief might be much greater than you would be able to answer for to me." Our friend soon comprehended his duties, and his new occupation was just to his taste. Each day he had the best of everything to eat and drink that a man could wish for. After two or three months the dogs had scratched a hole under the door large enough to put their tails out; but a stone was immediately rolled against the breach, and the dogs were forced to begin their work afresh. Many years passed by, and the young man had accumulated a good store of money. Then the desire awoke in him to mingle with other men again, for it was so long since he had seen any human face except his master's. Although his master was kind, the young man found the time terribly long, especially when his master took the fancy to have a long sleep. At such times he slept for seven weeks at a stretch, without interruption, and without showing himself. It chanced that the master had fallen into one of his deep slumbers, when one day a great eagle descended on the hill of stones and began to speak. "Are you not a great fool to sacrifice your pleasant life to good living? The money which you have saved is quite useless to you, for there are no men here who require it. Take your master's swift horse from the stable, bind your bag of money to his neck, leap on his back, and ride away in the direction in which the sun sets, and after some weeks you will again find yourself among men. But you must bind the horse fast with an iron chain, so that he cannot run away, or he would return to his usual haunts, and your master would come to fight with you; but if he is without the horse, he cannot leave the place." "But who will watch the dogs here, if I go away while my master sleeps?" asked the young man. "A fool you are, and a fool you will remain," replied the eagle. "Are you not yet aware that God has created him for the express purpose of guarding the hell-hounds? It is from sheer laziness that he sleeps for seven weeks at a stretch. When he has no stranger as a servant, he will be obliged to rouse himself and do his own work himself." This advice delighted the young man. He followed the counsel of the eagle, took the horse, bound the bag of gold on his neck, leaped on his back, and rode away. He had not ridden very far from the mountain when he heard his master calling after him, "Stop, stop! Take your money and begone in God's name, but leave me my horse!" The youth paid no heed, but rode away, and after some weeks he found himself once more among mortal men. Then he built himself a nice house, married a young wife, and lived happily as a rich man. If he is not dead, he must be still living, but the wind-swift horse died long ago. * * * * * Of the next story we give only an abstract. It will be remembered that Linda was hatched from an egg, while the later adventures of the princess in the following tale resemble those of Cinderella. [Footnote 146: The original title of this story is, "How an orphan made his fortune unexpectedly." Some commentators identify the keeper of the hounds with Othin. In the Scandinavian mythology the breaking loose of the monsters, the most terrible of whom is Garm, the watch-dog of Helheim, precedes the cataclysms of Ragnarök.] [Footnote 147: This is the usual condition attached to such gifts, as in the Swiss story of a chamois-hunter who received an inexhaustible cheese from a mountain-spirit. But in the case of the magic saddlebags of the Moor in the story of Joodar (_Thousand and One Nights_), it was a condition that all the dishes should be put back empty. The Jews, too, were forbidden to leave anything over from the Passover Feast.] [Footnote 148: Or frog: the word is the same.] [Footnote 149: Either the extinct urus or the nearly extinct aurochs must be here intended.] THE EGG-BORN PRINCESS. (KREUTZWALD.) Like many others, this story begins with a childless queen whose husband is absent at the wars. She is visited by an old woman on crutches, who gives her a little box of birch-bark containing a bird's egg, and tells her to foster it in her bosom for three months, till a live doll like a human infant is hatched from it. This was to be kept in a woollen basket till it had grown to the size of a new-born child. It would not require food or drink, but the basket must be kept in a warm place. Nine months after the doll's birth, the queen herself would give birth to a son, and the king was to proclaim that God had sent the royal parents a son and daughter. The queen was to suckle the prince herself, but to procure a nurse for the princess; and when the children were christened, the old woman wished to be their godmother, and gave the queen a bird's feather with which to summon her. The matter was to be kept secret. Then the old woman departed, but as she went, she grew suddenly young, and seemed to fly rather than to walk. A fortnight afterwards the king returned victorious, and the queen was encouraged to hope for the best. In three months' time, a doll, half a finger long, was hatched from the egg, and all came to pass as the old woman had foretold. On the christening day, the queen opened one of the windows and cast out the feather. When all the guests were assembled, a grand carriage drove up, drawn by six yolk-coloured horses, and a young lady stepped out in rose-coloured gold-embroidered silken robes, which shone with sunlike radiance, though the face of the lady was concealed by a fine veil. She removed it on entering, when all agreed that she was the fairest maiden they had ever seen in their lives. She took the princess in her arms, and named her Rebuliina,[150] which puzzled everybody. A noble lord stood sponsor for the prince, who was named Villem. The godmother then gave the queen many instructions concerning the rearing of the children, and told her to keep the box with the eggshells always beside them in the cradle, to ward off evil from them. Then she took her leave, and the queen gave out that she was a great princess from a foreign country. The children throve, and the nurse observed that a strange lady sometimes came to gaze on the princess by night. Two years afterwards the queen fell sick, and gave over the princess to the charge of the nurse, directing her, under oath of secrecy, to fasten the talisman round the neck of the child when she was ten years old. She then sent for the king, and begged him to let the nurse remain with the princess as long as the princess herself wished it, and after this she expired. The king then brought home the inevitable cruel stepmother, who could not endure the sight of the children. When the princess was ten years old, her nurse put the talisman round her neck, but the thoughtless girl stowed it away with some other relics of her mother, and forgot it till a year or two afterwards, when the king was absent, and her stepmother cruelly beat her. She ran crying into the house, and looked in the box, but rinding only a handful of wool and two empty eggshells in the box, threw them out of the window, along with a small feather which was under the wool. Immediately her godmother stood before her, and soothed and comforted her. She charged her to submit to her stepmother's tyranny, but always to carry the talisman in her bosom, for then no one could injure her, and when she was grown up, her stepmother would have no further power over her. The feather, too, would summon her godmother whenever she needed her. The lady then took the girl into the garden, pronounced a spell over the little box, and fetched out supper from it, teaching the princess the spell by which she could obtain what she needed from it. But after this time her stepmother grew much more friendly to her. The princess grew up a peerless maiden; but at length war broke out, and the royal city, and even the palace, were in such straits that Rebuliina summoned her godmother to her aid; but she told her that though she could rescue her, the rest must abide their fate. She then led her invisibly out of the city through the besieging army, and next day the city was taken. The prince escaped, but the king and his household were made prisoners, and the queen was slain by a hostile spear. The princess was changed by her godmother into a peasant maiden, and instructed to wait for better times, when she could resume her former appearance with the aid of the casket. After wandering alone for some days, the princess reached a district unravaged by war, and engaged herself as maid at a farm-house. She did her work admirably with the aid of the casket, and after a time attracted the notice of a noble lady who was passing through the village, who asked her to enter her service. Six months afterwards came news that the prince had driven out the enemy with the aid of an army from abroad, and had been proclaimed king, the old king having died in prison in the meantime. The prince was greatly grieved at his father's death, but after a year of mourning he resolved to take a bride, and all the maidens were bidden to a feast. The three daughters of Rebuliina's mistress were invited, and the godmother directed her in a dream to attire them first, and then to set out after them. She grew very restless, and when her mistress and the young ladies were gone, she sat down and wept bitter tears; but a voice told her to make use of the casket, and immediately magnificent gold-embroidered robes appeared on the bed; and as soon as she had washed her face, she resumed her former appearance, and was amazed at her own beauty when she looked in the glass. When she went down-stairs, she found a magnificent coach with four yolk-coloured horses at the door. Just as she reached the palace, she found to her horror that she had forgotten the casket, and was about to turn back, when a swallow brought it to her. Everything in the palace was joy and splendour; but as the princess entered, the other ladies paled like stars before the sun, and the king never left her side. At midnight the hall was suddenly darkened, and then grew light again, when the godmother of the princess appeared, and presented her to the king as the adopted child of his father's first queen. Then there was a loud noise, and she disappeared. The king married the princess, and they lived happily together, but the casket was seen no more, and it was supposed that the god-mother had taken it with her. [Footnote 150: Yolk-Carrie.] THE ROYAL HERD-BOY. (KREUTZWALD.) Once upon a time there lived a king who was so mild and good to his subjects that there was no one who did not bless him, and pray to the Heavenly Father to grant him a long life. The king had lived happily with his wife for many years, but as yet no child had blessed his marriage. Great was the rejoicing of the king and all his subjects when at length the queen brought a fair child into the world. But their happiness was short-lived, for three days after the birth of the prince, the mother closed her eyes for ever, leaving her child an orphan and her husband a widower. The king mourned grievously for the loss of his dear consort, and his subjects mourned with him, and there was not a cheerful face to be seen anywhere. Three years afterwards the king married again, in deference to the wishes of his subjects, but he was unfortunate in his second choice. He had buried a dove and married a hawk in her place, and unfortunately it goes thus with many widowers. The new consort was a wicked, hard-hearted woman, who never showed any good-will towards the king and his subjects. She could not bear the sight of the former queen's son, as she feared that the succession would fall to him, for the people loved him greatly for his mother's sake. The crafty queen conceived the wicked design of sending the boy to some place where the king would be unable to discover him, for she had not courage to murder him. She paid a wicked old woman a large sum to help her to carry out her infamous design. The child was handed over to the old woman at night, and she carried it far away along unfrequented paths, and delivered it to some poor people to adopt as their child. On the way, the old woman stripped off the child's good clothes, and wrapped it in rags, so that no one should discover the deceit. The queen had bound her by a solemn oath never to reveal to any one the place to which she had carried the prince. The child-stealer did not venture to travel by day, because she feared pursuit, so that it was a long time before she found a sufficiently retired spot. At last she reached a lonely house in a wood, where the feet of strangers rarely penetrated, and she thought this a suitable abode for the prince, and paid the peasant a hundred roubles for the expense of bringing up the child. It was lucky for the prince that he had fallen among good people, who cared for him as if he had been their own dear child. The lively boy often made them laugh, especially when he called himself a prince. They saw from the liberal payment that they had received that the boy could be from no common stock, and that he must be of noble birth on either the father's or the mother's side, but their ideas never soared high enough to fancy the boy's sallies to be actual truth. It can easily be imagined how great was the consternation at the palace when it was discovered in the morning that the prince had been stolen during the night, and in so strange a manner that no one had heard anything, and that not the slightest trace of the thief was left behind. The king wept bitterly for days for his son, whom he loved so tenderly in remembrance of his mother, and all the more because he was so unhappy with his new consort. Every place was searched thoroughly for a long time for some trace of the vanished child, and a great reward was offered to any one who could give any information; but every effort was vain, and it seemed as if the boy had been blown away. None of the searchers found his way to the lonely cottage in the wood where the prince lived, and no one brought the news to the inhabitants. No one could discover the secret, and many people thought that the prince had been carried away by an evil spirit or by witchcraft. But while the prince was wept for at home as if he was dead, he grew up in the lonely forest, and prospered wonderfully, till he grew to such an age that he was fit for work. Meantime he developed such wonderful intelligence, that his foster-parents were often obliged to admit that the egg was much cleverer than the hen. The prince had lived thus for more than ten years, when he became anxious to associate with other people. He begged his foster-parents to allow him to earn his bread with his own hands, and said, "I have strength and understanding enough to keep myself without your help. I find the time very long during this lonely life here." His foster-parents opposed the plan at first, but were at length obliged to consent and to gratify the young fellow's wish. The peasant himself accompanied him in search of suitable employment. He found a rich farmer in a village who wanted a herd-boy, and as his foster-son wanted just such a post, they soon came to an agreement. The arrangement was made for a year, but it was settled that the boy might leave his employment at any time and return to his foster-parents. It was also settled that if the farmer was dissatisfied with the boy, he might send him away during the course of the year, but not without informing his foster-parents. The village where the prince had thus taken service was not far from a great highway, along which many people passed daily, both high and low. The royal herd-boy often sat close to the road, and talked to the passers-by, from whom he learned many things which would otherwise have remained unknown to him. So it happened one day that an old man with grey hair and a long white beard passed that way when the prince was sitting on a stone and playing the flute while the animals were grazing, and if one of them strayed too far from the others, the boy's dog drove it back. The old man gazed awhile at the boy and his flock, and then he went a few paces nearer and said, "You don't seem to have been born a herd-boy." The boy answered, "It may be so; I only know that I was born to be a ruler, and first learned the business of a ruler. If it goes well with the quadrupeds, I will perhaps try my fortune later on with the bipeds." The old man shook his head in wonder and went his way. Another time a handsome coach passed by, in which sat a lady and two children. There was a coachman on the box and a footman behind. The prince happened to have a basket of freshly-plucked strawberries in his hand, which attracted the notice of the proud Saxon lady.[151] She ordered the coachman to stop, and called out from the coach-window, "Come here, you lout, and bring me the strawberries. I will give you a few copecks for them, to buy wheaten bread." The royal herd-boy did as if he had heard nothing, and did not imagine that the order was addressed to him, while the lady called out a second and a third time; but it was as if she had spoken to the wind. Then she called to the footman behind, "Go and give that vagabond a box on the ear, to teach him to listen." The footman jumped down to execute the order. But before he reached him, the herd-boy jumped up, seized a thick stick, and called out to the footman, "If you don't want a broken head, don't come a step nearer, or I'll smash your face." The footman went back and reported the occurrence. Then the lady cried out angrily, "What, you rascal, are you afraid of this lout of a boy? Go and take away his basket by force. I'll show him who I am, and I'll punish his parents too, for not bringing him up better." "Oho!" cried the herd-boy, who heard the order. "As long as there is any life in my limbs, nobody shall deprive me of my rightful property by force. I'll stamp anybody to broth who tries to rob me of my strawberries." As he spoke, he spat on his hands, and whirled his cudgel round his head till it whistled. When the footman saw it, he had not the least desire to attempt it, but the lady drove away with violent threats, declaring that she would not permit this insult to remain unpunished. Other herd-boys who had seen and heard the affair from a distance related it to their companions in the evening. The people were all frightened, for they thought it would fare ill with them also if the great lady complained to the authorities about the boy's stupid obstinacy and an inquiry was ordered. The prince's master scolded him, and said, "I can't say anything in your favour, and what you've cooked you must eat yourself." The boy replied, "I shall come off scatheless; that's my affair. God has put a mouth in my head and a tongue in my mouth, and I can speak for myself if necessary, and I won't ask you to be my advocate. If the lady had asked for the strawberries in a proper way, I would have given them to her; but how dared she call me a lout? My nose[152] is just as clean as hers." Meantime the lady drove to the royal city, where she had nothing more pressing to do than to complain to the authorities of the insolent behaviour of the herd-boy. An investigation was ordered at once, and the youth and his master were ordered to appear before the authorities. When the messenger entered the village to enforce the order, the prince said, "My master has nothing to do with this affair, and I myself must answer for what I did yesterday." They wanted to bind his hands behind his back, and to lead him before the court as a prisoner, but he drew a sharp knife from his pocket, stepped some paces back, turned the point against his breast, and cried out, "No one shall bind me while I live! Rather than let you bind me, I will thrust the knife into my heart. You may then bind my corpse, or do whatever you please with it, but no man shall lay a cord or fetter on me while I live. I am quite ready to appear before the court and give evidence, but I will never go there as a prisoner." His boldness frightened the messengers, and they were afraid to approach him, for they feared that the blame would fall on them if the boy carried out his threat; and as he was ready to go with them of his own accord, they were obliged to be content. On the way, the messengers wondered more and more at the understanding and cleverness of their prisoner, for he knew everything better than they did themselves. But much greater was the astonishment of the judges when they heard the account of the affair from the boy's own mouth. He spoke so clearly and reasonably that they gave judgment in his favour, and acquitted him of all blame. The great lady then applied to the king, who promised to investigate the whole affair himself; but he also was forced to agree with the judges and to pronounce the youth innocent. The lady was now ready to burst with rage at the thought that a peasant boy should have gained a verdict in her despite. She complained to the queen, knowing that she was very much harsher than the king. "My consort," said the queen, "is an old idiot, and his judges are all fools. It is a pity that you brought the matter before the court, instead of coming to me, for I would have managed the affair differently, and would have done you justice. Now that the matter has passed through the court, and the judgment is confirmed by the king, I am no longer in a position to put a better face on it openly, but we must see how we can arrange to punish the youth without attracting attention." It occurred to the lady that there lived a very ill-tempered peasant woman on her estate, with whom no servant would stay, while her husband said that his life with her was more uncomfortable than if he was in hell. If the impudent boy could be induced to go to her as herd-boy, she thought the woman would give him a severer punishment than any judge could inflict upon him. "I'll arrange the matter just as you wish," said the queen. So she summoned a trustworthy messenger, and instructed him what to do. If she had had the least idea that the herd-boy was the exiled prince, she would have had him put to death at once, without troubling herself about the king or the judges' decision. As soon as the prince's master heard the queen's desire, he at once released the herd-boy from his service. He thanked his stars that he had got out of the scrape so easily. The queen's messenger now took the lad to the farm to which she had consigned him without his consent. The wicked old woman shouted for joy when she heard that the queen had found her a herd-boy, and sent word that she might treat him as she pleased, because the youth was very perverse, and nothing good was to be got out of him. She did not know how hard the new millstone was, and hoped to treat him in her usual fashion; but she was soon to discover that this fence was too high to jump over, and that the youth would not sacrifice a hair's-breadth of his rights. If she gave him a single bad word without cause, he gave her a dozen back; and if she lifted her hand against him, he caught up a stone or a log of wood, or anything else which happened to come to hand, and cried out, "Don't dare to come a step nearer, or I'll split your skull and mash you to soup." The woman had never heard such language from anybody, least of all from her servants; but her husband rejoiced in secret when he heard her quarrelling, and he did not stand by his wife, for the boy did not neglect his duty. The woman tried to break the boy's spirit with hunger, and refused him food, but the boy helped himself by force to whatever he could find, and helped himself to milk from the cow besides, so that he was never hungry. The more difficult she found it to manage the boy, the more she vented her rage on her husband and others about her. When the prince had led this vexatious life for some weeks, and found that each day was like the other, he determined to pay the old woman out for her wickedness in such a fashion that the world should be quite rid of such a monster. In order to carry out his design, he caught a dozen wolves and shut them up in a cave, and he threw them a beast from his flock every day, so that they should not starve. Who can describe the woman's rage when she saw her property gradually dwindling, for every day the boy brought home an animal less than he had taken to pasture in the morning, and his only answer when questioned was, "The wolves have devoured it." She screamed like a maniac, and threatened to throw the boy to the wild beasts to devour, but he answered, laughing, "Wouldn't your own savage meat be better for them?" Then he left the wolves for three days without food in the cave, and at night, when every one was asleep, he drove the herd from their stall, and put the twelve wolves in instead, fastening the door securely, so that the wild beasts should not escape. When he had thus arranged everything, he turned his back on the farm, for he had long been tired of playing herd-boy, and now felt strong enough for greater undertakings.[153] But what horrors happened next morning, when the woman went into the stall to let out the animals and to milk the cows! The wolves, maddened with hunger, rushed upon her, pulled her down, and devoured the whole of her, clothes and skin, and hair and all, so that nothing remained but her tongue and heart, which were too poisonous for even the wild beasts to touch. Neither her husband nor her servants lamented the misfortune, for every one was delighted to be rid of such an infernal woman. The prince wandered about the world for some years, trying his hand first at one trade and then at another, but he never stayed long in one place, for the recollections of his childhood, which hovered about him like vivid dreams, always warned him that he was born to a higher condition. From time to time he encountered the old man again, who had read this in his eyes while he was still a herd-boy. When the prince was eighteen years old, he engaged himself to a gardener to learn gardening. Just at this time an event happened which changed the course of his life. The wicked old woman who had taken him away by the queen's orders, and had given him into the charge of the people at the forest-farm, confessed her crime to the priest on her death-bed, for her soul was burdened with the weight of her sins, and could not find rest till she had revealed it. She indicated the farmhouse to which she had brought the child, but could not tell whether the prince was now living or dead. The priest hastened to the king with the joyful tidings that a trace of his lost son was found at last. The king informed no one of what he had heard, but immediately ordered his horse to be saddled, and set out on his way with three faithful attendants. In a few days they reached the farm in the wood. Both the farmer and his wife confirmed the fact that at such and such a time a male child had been given into their charge to rear, and that they had received one hundred roubles at the same time for their expenses. They had concluded from this circumstance that the child was probably of high birth, but they had never supposed that he was of royal descent, and had thought that the boy was only jesting when he had called himself a prince. Then the farmer himself attended the king to the village where he had taken the youth as herd-boy, not, indeed, by his own wish, but at the request of the boy, who could not live longer in that lonely place. But how shocked was the farmer, and still more the king, when they did not find the boy, who must now be grown to a young man, in the village, and could learn no further tidings of him! All that the people could tell them was that the boy was summoned before the court at the suit of a noble lady, and that he had been acquitted and set at liberty; but after this one of the queen's servants had taken the boy away and put him to service at another farm. The king hastened thither, and found that his son had indeed been there for a few weeks, but he had fled, and nothing more had been heard of him. Where should they now seek for advice, and who was able to direct their search aright? While the king was thus greatly troubled at losing all traces of his son, the old man who had several times encountered the prince presented himself and said that he knew such a young man as they sought for, who had first served as a herdsman and had afterwards worked at several other occupations, and that he hoped to be able to discover him. The king promised the old man a rich reward if he could help him to find his son, and he ordered one of his attendants to dismount from his horse, and pressed the old man to mount, so that they could travel quicker; but he said, smiling, "No matter how fast a horse can run, my legs can run as fast, for they have traversed larger districts of the world than any horse." In fact, in a week's time they came upon the traces of the prince, and found him in the grounds of a magnificent mansion, where he was engaged as gardener. The king's joy was unbounded when he recovered his son, whom he had mourned for so many years as dead. Tears of joy streamed down his cheeks as he strained his son to his breast and kissed him. But he heard tidings from his son's mouth which damped the joy of their meeting, and caused him fresh trouble. The gardener had a young and beautiful daughter, fairer than all the flowers in this splendid garden, and as pure and good as an angel. The prince had lost his heart to this maiden, and he told his father plainly that he would never marry a lady of higher rank, but would take the gardener's daughter as his consort, even if he should be forced to abandon his kingdom for her. "Come home first," said the king, "and afterwards we will talk the matter over." Then the prince asked his father for a costly gold ring, and put it on the maiden's finger before the eyes of all, saying, "With this ring I betroth thee, and I will return, whether the time be long or short, to claim thee as my bride." But the king answered, "No, not so; the affair shall be arranged otherwise." He took the ring from the maiden's finger and clove it in twain with his sword. One half he gave to his son, and the other to the gardener's daughter, and said, "If God has created you for one another, the two halves of the ring will grow together of themselves at the proper time, so that the point at which the ring was divided cannot be detected. Let each keep their half till the time shall be fulfilled." The queen was ready to burst with rage when she saw her stepson, whom she thought had disappeared for ever, suddenly return as the undisputed heir to the throne, for the king had only two daughters by his second marriage. A few years afterwards the king closed his eyes in death, and his son became king. Notwithstanding the great wrongs which he had received from his stepmother, he would not return evil for evil, but left her to the justice of God. Although she no longer hoped to set one of her daughters on the throne in his place, she hoped at least to wed him to a noble lady of her own family; but he answered, "I will not consent, for I have chosen my bride long since." When the queen-dowager learned that the young king was resolved to marry a maiden of low birth, she incited the highest councillors of the kingdom to attempt unanimously to prevent it. But the king remained firm, and would not yield. After the matter had been discussed for a long time, the king announced his final decision. "We will give a great feast, and invite all the princesses and all the other unmarried ladies of high birth; and if I find one among them who surpasses my chosen bride in grace and beauty, I will marry her. But if this is not the case, my betrothed shall become my consort." Thereupon a magnificent feast was prepared in the royal palace, which was to last a fortnight, that the king might have full opportunity of considering whether any of the ladies surpassed the gardener's daughter. All the great ladies in the neighbourhood were invited to bring their daughters to the feast, and as the object of the gathering was generally known, every maiden hoped that the great prize would fall to her. The feast drew to a close, and yet the king had not met with one who pleased his fancy. On the last day of the feast the highest councillors of the kingdom again presented themselves before the king, and said, as the queen had instructed them, that if the king did not make his choice before evening, an insurrection might break out, for all his subjects wished the king to marry. The king replied, "I will accede to the wish of my subjects, and will announce my choice this evening." Then, unknown to the others, he sent a trustworthy messenger to bring the gardener's daughter away secretly, and to keep her in concealment till evening. In the evening the royal palace was ablaze with light, and all the great ladies were robed in their most elegant attire, expecting the moment which should bring them good fortune or the reverse. But the king advanced to a young lady in the hall who was so muffled up that you could hardly see the tip of her nose. All were struck with the simple dress of the stranger. She was clothed in fine white linen, and wore neither silk, satin, nor gold, while all the other ladies were robed from head to foot in silks and satins. Some curled their lips, and others turned up their noses, but the king took no notice, but loosed the maiden's head-gear, and led her to the queen-dowager, saying, "Here is my chosen bride, whom I will take as my consort, and I invite all who are here assembled to my wedding." The queen-dowager cried out angrily, "What better could be expected of a man who was reared as a herd-boy? If you want to go back to your business, take the maid with you, who may perhaps understand tending swine, but is quite unfit for a king's consort. Such a peasant girl can only disgrace the throne of a king." These words moved the king to anger, and he answered sternly, "I am king, and can do what I will, but woe to you who have brought my former condition to my remembrance; and you have also reminded me who reduced me to this. However, as no sensible man buys a cat in a sack, I will show you all before we separate that I could nowhere have found a more suitable bride than this very maiden, who is as pure and good as an angel from heaven." As he spoke, he left the room, but soon returned with the old man whom he had known ever since he was a herd-boy, and who had afterwards put the king on the track of his son. The old man was a famous sorcerer from Finland, who knew many secret arts. The king said, "Mighty sorcerer, show us by your art the inmost character of the maidens here present, that we may know which of them is most worthy to become my bride." The sorcerer took a bottle filled with a liquid that looked like wine, muttered a spell over it, and directed the maidens to gather in the midst of the hall. He then sprinkled a few drops on the head of each, and they all fell asleep as they stood. But what a wonderful thing now happened! In a short time they were all so transformed that none retained her human shape, but some were changed into snakes, wolves, bears, toads, swine, or cats, and others became hawks or other birds of prey. But among all these bestial forms was a beautiful rose-bush, covered with flowers, and with two doves nestling on its branches. And this was the gardener's daughter whom the king had chosen as his consort. Then said the king, "We have now seen the inmost kernel of each, and I am not going to let myself be dazzled by the outer shell." The queen-dowager could not contain herself for rage, but the matter was so clear that she was unable to help herself. Then the sorcerer fumigated all the maidens with magic herbs, which roused them from their sleep and restored them to their human shapes. The king received his beloved from the rose-bush, and asked for her half-ring, and when the maiden drew it from her bosom, he took his own half-ring, and laid them together on the palm of his hand, when the two halves immediately united, and no eye could perceive a crack or any indication of the spot where the sword-stroke had cleft the ring. "Now my honoured father's wish has come to pass," said the young king, and celebrated his union with the gardener's daughter on the same evening. He invited all those present to a wedding-feast, but the noble ladies had learned what wonders had taken place during their sleep, and they returned home full of shame. But so much the greater was the joy of the king's subjects that their queen was a perfect woman both in form and character. When the wedding festivities were ended, the king assembled all the leading judges of the kingdom and asked them what punishment was fitting for a criminal who had secretly stolen away the king's son, and had him brought up in a peasant's cot as a herd-boy, and had afterwards treated the youth with insolent contempt after he had recovered his former position. All the judges answered with one accord, "Such a criminal is worthy to die on the gallows." Then said the king, "Good! let the queen-dowager be brought to trial." The queen-dowager was summoned, and the sentence was announced to her. When she heard it, she turned as white as the wall, and fell on her knees before the young king pleading for mercy. The king said, "I give you your life, and I should never have brought you before the court if it had not happened that you lately insulted me respecting the misfortunes which I endured through your crime; but you cannot remain in my kingdom any longer. You must pack up your goods this very day, and quit my city before sundown. An escort will accompany you to the frontier. But beware lest you ever set foot again in my territories, for any man, even the meanest, has leave to kill you like a mad dog. Your daughters, who are also the daughters of my honoured father, may remain here, for they are innocent of the crimes which rest upon your soul." Now that the queen-dowager was banished, the young king built two pretty houses near his city, one of which he assigned to the parents of his bride, and the other to his own foster-father, who had so carefully brought up the helpless prince. The prince who had grown up as a herd-boy and his low-born bride lived happily to the end, and ruled their subjects with as much affection as parents their children. * * * * * The story of Tiidu[154] the Flute-player introduces us to a mysterious old man, and is therefore given a place after the narrative of the stolen prince. It contains many points of interest, including the cosmopolitan incident of the Nose-tree (which, however, some critics suggest is probably a recent addition); but it is long and tedious in the original, and therefore only an abstract is given here. [Footnote 151: Compare pages 246 and 248.] [Footnote 152: The word translated "lout" means literally "filthy-nose."] [Footnote 153: In the _Kalevala_, Runo 33, Kullervo revenges himself in the same manner upon the wife of Ilmarinen, whom he has been serving as herd-boy, and who has treated him with great cruelty and harshness.] [Footnote 154: Titus.] TIIDU THE FLUTE-PLAYER. A poor man with a large family had among them a lazy useless son who would do nothing but play tunes on a willow-pipe. One day a strange old man passed by, and asked what trade he would prefer. He replied that he would like to be rich and independent. The old man advised him to make use of the gift he had, and to earn money enough by playing on his willow-flute to buy a flute.[155] So Tiidu left his home without telling his parents of his intention, but they were glad enough to be rid of him. He wandered from village to village till he had earned enough money to buy a good flute, and in a few years he became a famous and prosperous flute-player. But his avarice left him no peace, and he heard so much of the wealth of the land of Kungla, that he longed to go there to make his fortune. One day he arrived at the town of Narva, where he found a ship just sailing for Kungla; but as he could not afford to pay his passage, he contrived to smuggle himself on board with the aid of one of the sailors. On the following night, Tiidu's friend threw him into the sea with a rope round his body, when Tiidu began to cry for help, and his friend roused the other sailors. The captain crossed himself thrice, and on being assured by the sailors that it was not a spirit but a mortal man, ordered a rope to be thrown to the aid of the swimmer. As soon as Tiidu seized the rope, he cut away that which was fastened round him, and on being hauled on board, pretended to have swum from the shore. On this the captain offered him a free passage, and he amused the crew with his flute during the voyage. When Tiidu reached Kungla, he set out for the capital, which he found to be a city of great wealth and splendour. He was afraid to try his luck with his flute, and after many days he succeeded in obtaining a post as kitchen-boy. All the utensils were of gold and silver, the food was cooked in silver pots, the cakes were baked in silver pans, and dinner was served up in golden cups and dishes, and even the pigs fed from silver pails. Tiidu's month's wages were larger than he would have earned in a year at home, but still he was very discontented. One day Tiidu's master gave a christening, and distributed fine clothes to his servants; and next Sunday Tiidu put them on and went to a pleasure-garden, where he met his old friend who had advised him to play the flute, and who now reproached him for having neglected to use it in Kungla. He made him fetch it and begin to play, when a crowd gathered round, who made a good collection for Tiidu. The old man gave Tiidu full instructions how to follow the vocation of a flute-player profitably, and Tiidu followed his advice and grew very rich. At last he decided to return home, and chartered a ship to convey himself and his treasures to his native land; but a great storm arose, the ship was wrecked, and only Tiidu contrived to struggle ashore. He lay dazed for a time, and dreamed that the old man visited him, and gave him a pull from his flask. Next morning, much refreshed, he wandered into the country, which he found to be an uninhabited island. He now repented of his undutiful conduct in leaving his parents, and felt his sad plight to be a fitting punishment for his fault. All at once he saw a tree with beautiful red apples, feasted on them, lay down to sleep for the night, breakfasted on the apples, and walked on; but on stooping down to drink at a spring, he saw to his horror that his nose hung down to his middle, and looked like the wattles of an enraged turkey-cock; and the more he lamented his misfortune, the bigger and bluer became his nose. At last he discovered a nut-tree, and found that eating a few nuts restored his nose to its natural state. So he laid in a stock of nuts, wove himself a basket, which he filled with apples, and then slept under the tree, when the old man appeared to him in a dream, advised him to return to the shore, and gave him a new flute. When he reached the shore, he was picked up by a passing vessel, and returned to Kungla, where he disguised himself, sold the apples at the palace, and next day presented himself in another guise as a learned foreign physician to cure the king and the royal family of the turkey-disease. In return, Tiidu asked only as much reward as would enable him to purchase an estate on which he could live comfortably for the rest of his life, but the king cheerfully gave him three times as much as he asked, and Tiidu then went to the harbour and sailed home. First, however, he paid his passage-money to the captain who had rescued him from the desert island. On reaching home, Tiidu found his father and several brothers and sisters still living, but his mother and some of his brothers were dead. He bought an estate, invited the whole family to a great feast, and revealed himself to them, and he insisted that they should all settle on his estate, and that his father should stay with him in his own house as long as he lived. A little later he married a good and pretty but dowerless girl, and on entering the bridal chamber they found that it contained all the treasures which Tiidu had lost at sea, with a paper attached: "Even the depths of the sea restore the treasures which they have stolen to a good son who cares for parents and relatives." But Tiidu never discovered anything about the aged enchanter who had been his friend and protector. [Footnote 155: Here, as well as in the stories relative to the Thunder-God's musical instrument, Löwe calls it a bagpipe; but I do not find this meaning for the word in the dictionaries. Still, in the present story, it appears to have been a rather expensive instrument.] THE LUCKY EGG. (KREUTZWALD.) Once upon a time a poor man lived in a great forest with his wife. God had given them eight children, and the elder ones were already earning their living with strangers. So the parents were not much rejoiced when a ninth little son was born to them in their old age. But as God had given it to them, they were obliged to accept it, and to have it christened according to Christian usage. But they could find no one willing to stand sponsor for the child, for everybody thought that if the parents died, the child would be left a burden on their hands. Then said the father, "I will take the child and carry it to church next Sunday, and say that although I can find no sponsors for the child, the parson may please himself. Then, whether he christens the child or not, no sin can rest on my soul." When he set out on Sunday, he found a beggar sitting by the wayside near his house, who asked for alms. The father said, "I have nothing to give you, dear brother, for I must pay out the few copecks which I have in my pocket for the christening. But if you will do me a kindness, come and stand godfather to my child, and afterwards go home with me, and share the christening feast which my good wife has prepared." The beggar, who had never before been invited to stand godfather to anybody's child, joyfully accepted the man's proposal, and went with him to the church. Just as they arrived, a magnificent carriage and four drove up, and a young Saxon lady alighted from it. The poor man thought, "Now I'll try my luck for the last time." He bowed respectfully to the unknown lady, and said, "Noble lady, whoever you may be! will you not have the kindness to stand godmother to my child?" The lady consented. When the child was brought up to be baptized after the sermon, the parson and the congregation were much surprised to see a poor beggar-man and a proud handsome lady standing together as sponsors for the child. The child was baptized by the name of Pärtel.[156] The rich lady paid the christening fees, and also made a christening present of three roubles, which much rejoiced the child's father. The beggar went home to the christening feast. Before leaving in the evening, he took from his pocket a small box wrapped in a piece of rag, and gave it to the child's mother, saying, "My christening gift is poor enough, but do not despise it, for it may possibly bring your son good fortune some day. I had a very clever aunt, who understood all sorts of magic arts, and before she died she gave me the bird's egg in this little box, saying, 'When something quite unexpected happens to you, which you could never have imagined, then part with this egg. If it comes into the possession of him for whom it is destined, it may bring him great good fortune. But guard the egg like the apple of your eye, that it does not break, for the shell of fortune is tender.' But although I am nearly sixty years old, nothing unexpected has happened to me till to-day, when I was invited to stand as godfather, and my first thought was, You must give the egg to the child as a christening gift." The little Pärtel grew and prospered, and became the delight of his parents, and at the age of ten he was sent to another village to become herd-boy to a rich farmer. All the people of the household were well satisfied with the herd-boy, as he was a good quiet fellow, who never gave any annoyance to his companions. When he left home, his mother put his christening gift in his pocket, and charged him to keep it as safe as the apple of his eye, and Pärtel did so. There was an old lime-tree in the pasturage, and a large granite rock lay under it. The boy was very fond of this place, and every day in summer he used to go and sit on the stone under the lime-tree. Here he used to eat the lunch which was given him every morning, and he quenched his thirst at a little brook hard by. Pärtel had no friendship with the other herd-boys, who were up to all sorts of pranks. It was remarkable that there was no such fine grass anywhere as between the stone and the spring, and although the flocks grazed here every day, next morning the grass looked more like that of an enclosed meadow than of a pasturage. When Pärtel slept a little while on the stone on a hot day, he had wonderfully pleasant dreams, and when he awoke, the sounds of music and song were still in his ears, so that he dreamed on after his eyes were open. The stone was like a dear friend to him, and he parted from it every day with a heavy heart, and returned to it next day full of longing. Thus Pärtel lived till he was fifteen years old, and was no longer to be herd-boy. His master now employed him as a farm-labourer, but did not give him any heavier work than he was able to accomplish. On Sundays and summer evenings, the other young men used to go to visit their sweethearts, but Pärtel did not join their company. He stole away, in deep meditation, to his favourite lime-tree in the pasturage, and often sat under it for half the night. One Sunday evening he was sitting on the stone playing the flute, when a milk-white snake crept out from under the stone. It raised its head as if to listen, and looked at Pärtel with its bright eyes, which shone like fire. This happened often, and whenever Pärtel had any time to spare, he used to hasten to the stone to see the beautiful white snake, which at last became so familiar with him that it often coiled round his leg. Pärtel was now growing up to be a young man; his father and mother were dead, and his brothers and sisters lived widely scattered, and seldom heard any tidings of each other, and still more rarely met. But the white snake had grown dearer to him than his brothers and sisters, and his thoughts were with her by day, and he dreamed of her almost every night. This made the wintertime seem very long to him, when the earth was frozen and the snow lay deep on the ground. When the sun-rays melted the snow in spring and the ground was thawed, Pärtel's first walk was to the stone under the lime-trees, though there was not a leaf to be seen upon the tree as yet. O what joy! As soon as he breathed forth his longing in the notes of the flute, the white snake crept out from under the stone, and played about his feet. But it seemed to Pärtel to-day that the snake shed tears, and this made his heart sad. He now let no evening pass without visiting the stone, and the snake grew continually tamer, and she would let him stroke her; but if he tried to hold her fast, she slipped through his fingers, and crept back under the stone. On Midsummer Eve all the villagers, old and young, went together to St. John's fire. Pärtel was not allowed to stay behind, though his heart drew him in another direction. But in the midst of the fun, when all the others were singing, dancing, and amusing themselves, he slipped away to the lime-tree, the only place where his heart was at ease. When he drew near, he saw a clear bright fire shining from the stone, which surprised him very much, for, as far as he knew, nobody but himself ever visited the spot. But when he reached the stone, the fire had disappeared, without leaving either ashes or sparks behind it. He sat down on the stone, and began to play on his flute as usual. All at once the fire blazed up again, and it was nothing else than the sparkling eyes of the white snake. She played about his feet again, allowed him to stroke her, and gazed at him as wistfully as if she was going to speak. It must have been almost midnight when the snake crept back to her nest under the stone, and did not reappear while Pärtel was playing. As he took the instrument from his mouth and put it in his pocket and prepared to go home, the leaves of the lime-tree rustled in the breeze so strangely that it sounded like a human voice, and he thought he heard the following words repeated several times: "Thin-shelled is the egg of Fortune, And the heart is full of sorrow; Venture not to spoil your fortune." Thereupon he experienced such a painful longing that his heart was like to break, and yet he did not know himself what he pined for. He began to weep bitterly, and lamented, "What does the lucky egg avail me, when no happiness is permitted me in this world? I have felt from childhood that I was unfit to mix with men, for they do not understand me, and I do not understand them. What causes pleasure to them is painful to me, while I myself know not what could make me happy, and how then should others know it? Riches and poverty stood together as my sponsors, and therefore nothing will go right with me." Suddenly it became as bright around him as if the mid-day sun was shining on the lime-tree and the rock, and he could not open his eyes for a time, until he had got used to the light. Then he beheld a lovely female figure sitting beside him on the stone, clad in snow-white raiment, as if an angel had flown down from heaven. The maiden's voice sounded sweeter to him than the song of the nightingale as she addressed him. "Dear youth, fear nothing, but give heed to the prayer of an unhappy girl. I am imprisoned in a miserable dungeon, and if you do not pity me, I can never hope to escape. O dear youth, take pity on me, and do not cast me off! I am the daughter of a king of the East, possessed of fabulous riches in gold and silver, but all this avails me nothing, for an enchanter has compelled me to live under this stone in the form of a white snake. I have lived thus for many centuries, without ever growing older. Although I never injured any human being, all fled before my shape, as soon as they beheld me. You are the only living being who did not fly at my approach; you have even allowed me to play about your feet, and have often kindly stroked me with your hand. Your kindness has led me to hope that you might be able to effect my deliverance. Your heart is as pure as that of a child, as yet ignorant of falsehood and deception. You have all the signs which point to my rescue; a noble lady and a beggar stood together as your sponsors, and your christening gift was the egg of Good Fortune. I am only permitted to resume my human form once in twenty-five years on Midsummer Eve, and to wander about the earth for an hour, and if I should meet with a youth pure in heart, and with your peculiarities, who would listen to my request, I might be released from my long imprisonment. Save me, O save me from this endless imprisonment! I beseech you in the name of all the angels." Having thus spoken, she fell at Pärtel's feet, embraced his knees, and wept bitterly. Pärtel's heart was melted by her tears and supplications, and he begged the maiden to stand up, and to tell him what he could do to rescue her. "If it was possible for me to save you," said he, "I would go through fire and water. I am filled with an unknown longing which allows me no peace; but what I long for, I cannot tell." The maiden answered, "Come here again to-morrow evening about sunset, and if I meet you in my snake-form, and wind myself round your body like a girdle, and kiss you three times, do not start or shrink back, or I shall again be overwhelmed by the waters of enchantment, and who knows for how many centuries?" As she spoke, the maiden vanished from the youth's sight, and he again heard the sighing in the leaves of the lime-tree: "Thin-shelled is the egg of Fortune, And the heart is full of sorrow; Venture not to spoil your fortune." Pärtel went home and lay down to sleep before dawn, but his rest was disturbed by wonderfully varied dreams, some beautiful, some hideous. He sprang up with a shriek, for a dream showed him the white snake coiling round his breast and suffocating him. But he thought no more of this horrible picture, and firmly resolved to release the princess from the bonds of enchantment, even if he himself should perish. Nevertheless his heart failed him more and more as the sun sank nearer the horizon. At the appointed time he stood by the stone under the lime-tree, and gazed, sighing, towards heaven, praying for strength and courage, that he might not tremble with weakness when the snake should coil round his body and kiss him. Suddenly he remembered the lucky egg: he took the little box from his pocket, opened it, and took the little egg, which was not larger than that of a sparrow, between his fingers. At this moment the snow-white snake glided from under the stone, wound round his body, and had just raised her head to kiss him, when--he himself knew not how it happened--he pushed the lucky egg into her mouth. His heart froze within him, but he stood firm, without shrinking, till the snake had kissed him three times. A tremendous flash and crash followed, as if the stone had been struck by lightning, and amid the loud pealing of the thunder, Pärtel fell on the ground like one dead, and knew nothing more of what happened to him. But at this terrible moment the bondage of the enchantment was loosened, and the royal maiden was released from her long captivity. When Pärtel awakened from his heavy swoon, he found himself lying on cushions of white silk in a magnificent glass room of a sky-blue colour. The fair maiden knelt by his bedside, patted his cheek, and cried out, when he opened his eyes, "Thanks to the Heavenly Father who has heard my prayer, and a thousand thousand thanks to you, dear youth, who released me from my long enchantment! Take my kingdom as your reward, along with this beautiful palace, and all my treasures, and if you will, accept me also as your bride into the bargain! You shall always live here in happiness, as befits the lord of the lucky egg. Hitherto your lot has been as that of your godfather, but now you succeed to a better lot, such as fell to your godmother." No one could now come between Pärtel and his happiness and good fortune, and all the unknown longings of his heart, which constantly drew him back under the lime-tree, were finally laid to rest. He lived apart from the world with his dear bride in the enjoyment of the greatest happiness until his death. But great sorrow was caused by his disappearance, both in the village, and in the farm-house where he had worked, and where he was much loved for his steady quiet ways. All the people went out to look for him, and their first visit was to the lime-tree which Pärtel was accustomed to visit so often, and towards which they had seen him going on the previous evening. Great was the amazement of the people when they found no trace of either Pärtel, the lime-tree, or the stone. The little spring near was dried up, and no trace of anything that had thus vanished was ever again beheld by human eyes. * * * * * Kreutzwald relates several other stories of young adventurers who go forth into the world to seek their fortunes with the aid of powerful protectors. In one of these, "The Magician in the Pocket," a young man releases a magician who had been imprisoned by his enemy under a great stone, after which the magician accompanies him in his wanderings in the form of a flea, and helps him to deliver four princesses from enchantment, one of whom he marries. In another, "The God-Daughter of the Rock-Maidens," a young girl named Maasika (Strawberry) is taken down into an underground region by her godmothers, the rock-spirits, one of whom her mother had once aided when in distress. When she is grown up, she goes out into the world, kills the king of the serpents, and disenchants a king, queen, and prince, who prove to be the parents and brother of her godmothers, and she marries the prince. In a third story, "The Foundling," the hero likewise goes out in a similar manner, and meets with various adventures before marrying a princess. [Footnote 156: Bartholomew.] * * * * * THE HERO OF ESTHONIA AND OTHER STUDIES IN THE ROMANTIC LITERATURE OF THAT COUNTRY _COMPILED FROM ESTHONIAN AND GERMAN SOURCES BY_ W.F. KIRBY, F.L.S., F.E.S., ETC. CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE FINNISH LITERARY SOCIETY WITH A MAP OF ESTHONIA _IN TWO VOLUMES_ VOLUME THE SECOND LONDON JOHN C. NIMMO 14, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND MDCCCXCV CONTENTS OF VOL. II _PART II_ ESTHONIAN FOLK-TALES--(_continued_) SECTION III COSMOPOLITAN STORIES PAGE BLUEBEARD (THE WIFE-MURDERER) 1 CINDERELLA (TUHKA TRIINU) 4 THE DRAGON-SLAYER (THE LUCKY ROUBLE) 6 THE DWARF'S CHRISTENING 8 THE ENVIOUS SISTERS (THE PRINCE WHO RESCUED HIS BROTHERS) 9 THE GIFTED BROTHERS (SWIFTFOOT, QUICKHAND, AND SHARPEYE) 12 THE SWIFT-FOOTED PRINCESS 23 THE IDIOT'S LUCK (STRANGE TALE OF AN OX) 24 THE MAGICIAN'S HEIRS (THE DWARFS' QUARREL) 24 THE MAN IN THE MOON 29 VIDEVIK, KOIT, AND ÄMARIK 30 THE MAIDEN AT THE VASKJALA BRIDGE 34 THE WOMAN IN THE MOON 37 POLYPHEMUS 38 RED RIDING-HOOD (THE DEVIL'S VISIT) 38 SNOWWHITE, THE GLASS MOUNTAIN, AND THE DESPISED YOUNGEST SON (THE PRINCESS WHO SLEPT FOR SEVEN YEARS) 40 THE THREE SISTERS 43 THE THREE WISHES (LOPPI AND LAPPI) 45 THE WITCH-BRIDE (RÕUGUTAJA'S DAUGHTER) 45 THE STEPMOTHER 46 SECTION IV FAMILIAR STORIES OF NORTHERN EUROPE MELUSINA 48 THE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE (THE POWERFUL CRAYFISH AND THE INSATIABLE WIFE) 48 THE MERMAID 49 HOW THE SEA BECAME SALT 70 THE TWO BROTHERS AND THE FROST 71 THE SOLDIER AND THE DEVIL 76 SECTION V STORIES OF THE GODS AND SPIRITS OF THE ELEMENTS THE SONG-GOD'S DEPARTURE 81 JUTTA 85 THE TWELVE DAUGHTERS 87 THE FOUR GIFTS OF THE WATER-SPRITE 98 THE LAKE-DWELLERS 98 THE FAITHLESS FISHERMAN 104 THE MERMAID AND THE LORD OF PAHLEN 106 THE SPIRITS OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS 107 THE SPIRIT OF THE WHIRLWIND 110 THE WILL O' THE WISPS 111 THE FOUNDLING 112 THE CAVE-DWELLERS 114 THE COMPASSIONATE WOODCUTTER 125 CHRISTIAN VARIANT OF SAME 127 THE GOOD DEED REWARDED 128 SECTION VI HEATH LEGENDS THE WONDERFUL HAYCOCK 133 THE MAGIC EGG 134 SECTION VII LAKE LEGENDS LAKE PEIPUS 136 THE LAKE AT EUSEKÜLL 142 EMMU LAKE AND VIRTS LAKE 144 THE BLUE SPRING 145 THE BLACK POOL 146 SECTION VIII STORIES OF THE DEVIL AND OF BLACK MAGIC THE SON OF THE THUNDER-GOD 149 THE MOON-PAINTER 159 THE TREASURE-BRINGER 168 THE WOODEN MAN AND THE BIRCH-BARK MAID 180 THE COMPASSIONATE SHOEMAKER 182 MISCELLANEOUS STORIES OF THE DEVIL 185 MARTIN AND HIS DEAD MASTER 188 THE HUNTER'S LOST LUCK 191 THE COINERS OF LEAL 192 THE BEWITCHED HORSE 193 SECTION IX HIDDEN TREASURES THE COURAGEOUS BARN-KEEPER 195 THE GALLOWS-DWARFS 210 THE TREASURE AT KERTELL 222 THE GOLDEN SNAKES 224 THE DEVIL'S TREASURE 225 THE NOCTURNAL CHURCH-GOERS 226 SECTION X ORIENTAL TALES THE MAIDENS WHO BATHED IN THE MOONLIGHT 233 THE NORTHERN FROG 237 SECTION XI CHURCH STORIES THE CHURCH AT REVEL 262 THE CHURCH AT PÜHALEPP 263 THE CHURCH OF THE HOLY CROSS 265 THE CHURCH AT FELLIN 265 SECTION XII UNNATURAL BROTHERS THE RICH BROTHER AND THE POOR ONE 267 SECTION XIII PLAGUE-LEGENDS 271 SECTION XIV BEAST-STORIES WOLF-STORIES 274 THE MAN WITH THE BAST SHOES 278 WHY THE DOG AND CAT AND THE CAT AND MOUSE ARE ENEMIES 282 THE ORIGIN OF THE SWALLOW 283 THE SPIDER AND THE HORNET 284 THE OFFICIOUS FLIES 285 _PART III_ ESTHONIAN BALLADS, &c. THE HERALD OF WAR 285 THE BLUE BIRD (I.) 292 THE BLUE BIRD (II.) 296 CHARM AGAINST SNAKE-BITE 298 BIBLIOGRAPHY 299 INDEX AND GLOSSARY 305 PART II ESTHONIAN FOLK-TALES (_continued_) SECTION III _COSMOPOLITAN STORIES_ Under this heading we propose to notice a series of tales which are almost the common property of all nations, and the origin of which is lost in remote antiquity. These we have arranged under their most familiar names in alphabetical order. BLUEBEARD. (KREUTZWALD.) The Esthonian version of "Bluebeard" (the Wife-Murderer) is very similar to the usual story. A rich lord, reported to have vast treasure-vaults under his castle, lost his wives very fast, and married, as his twelfth wife, the youngest of the three daughters of a reduced gentleman in the neighbourhood. An orphan boy had been brought up in the household, and had served first as gooseherd, and then as page; but he was always known as "Goose-Tony." He was nearly of the same age as the young lady, who had been his playmate, and he declared that the rich suitor was a murderer; his heart told him so, and his presentiments had never yet deceived him. The boy was scolded and threatened, but his warnings made so much impression that he was allowed to accompany the bride to her new home. Three weeks afterwards, the husband set out on a journey, leaving his keys with his wife, among which was the gold key of the forbidden chamber. He warned her that if she even looked in, he would be forced to behead her with his own hand. She begged him in vain to take charge of it himself; but he refused, and left it with her. Next morning one of the lady's sisters came to stay with her; but a day or two afterwards the page gave her another warning, after which he suddenly disappeared, and no trace of him could be found. The two sisters looked over the house, and at last encouraged each other to enter the secret chamber. In the middle stood an oaken block with a broad axe upon it, and the floor was splashed with blood. In the background against the wall stood a table, with the bloody heads of the squire's former wives ranged upon it. The lady dropped the key in her horror, and on picking it up found it covered with blood-stains, which nothing could remove, while the door stood a handbreadth open, as if an invisible wedge had fallen between the door and the door-post. The squire was not expected to return for a week, but he came back next morning, and rushed upstairs in a frenzied rage, dragged his wife to the block by her hair, and was just lifting the axe, when he was struck down by Goose-Tony with a heavy cudgel, and bound. He was brought to justice, and sentenced to death, and his property was adjudged to his widow, who shortly after married the page who had saved her life. CINDERELLA. (KREUTZWALD.) The Esthonian story of Tuhka-Triinu (Ash-Katie[1]), as given by Kreutzwald, is more on the lines of the German _Aschenputtel_ than on those of the French _Cendrillon_. Once upon a time there lived a rich man with his wife and an only daughter. When the mother dies, she directs her daughter to plant a tree on her grave, where the birds can find food and shelter.[2] The father marries a widow with two daughters, who ill-treat the motherless girl, declaring that she shall be their slave-girl. A magpie cries from the summit of the tree, "Poor child, poor child! why do you not go and complain to the rowan-tree? Ask for counsel, when your hard life will be lightened." She goes to the grave at night, and a voice asks her to whom she should appeal, and in whom she should trust, and she answers, "God." Then the voice tells her to call the cock and hen to help her, when she has work to do which she cannot perform by herself. When the king's ball is announced, Cinderella has to dress her sisters, after which the eldest throws lentils into the ashes, telling her to pick them up; but this is done by the cock and hen. She is left at home weeping, and a voice tells her to go and shake the rowan-tree. When she had done so, a light appeared in the darkness, and she saw a woman sitting on the summit of the tree. She was an ell high, and clothed in golden raiment, and she held a small basket and a gold wand in her hands. She took a hen's egg from her basket, which she turned into a coach; six mice formed the horses, a black beetle[3] formed the coachman, and two speckled butterflies the footmen. The little witch-maiden then dressed Tuhka Triinu as magnificently as a Saxon lady. She then sent her to the ball, warning her to leave before the cock crows for the third time, as everything will then resume its original shape. On the second night Tuhka Triinu took to flight, and lost one of her little gold shoes, which the prince found next morning. When it came to be tried on, Tuhka Triinu's sisters, who thought they had small feet, tugged and squeezed without success. But the shoe fitted Tuhka Triinu. Her guardian again robed her magnificently, and she married the prince.[4] [Footnote 1: Here Cinderella's real name is Katrina; in Finnish she is sometimes called Kristina (see Miss Cox, _Cinderella_, p. 552), while in Slavonic tales she is called Marya, and in some German adaptations Aennchen.] [Footnote 2: When Väinämöinen cleared the forest, he left a birch-tree standing for the same purpose (_Kalevala_, Runo ii.).] [Footnote 3: A black dung-beetle (_Geotrupes_) is meant, not a cockroach.] [Footnote 4: This story is one of those which Löwe has passed over, and it is also omitted by Miss Cox.] THE DRAGON-SLAYER. We find this story in a familiar form in that of "The Lucky Rouble" (Kreutzwald). The father of three sons, before his death, gives Peter,[5] the youngest, a magic silver rouble, which always returns to the pocket of its possessor. Peter afterwards meets a one-eyed old man, who sells him three black dogs, named Run-for-Food, Tear-Down, and Break-Iron. Afterwards, when passing through a forest, he meets a grand coach, in which a princess, who has been chosen by lot to be delivered over to a monster, is being conveyed to her doom. Peter abides the issue, and encounters the monster, which is described as like a bear, but much bigger than a horse, covered with scales instead of hair, with two crooked horns on the head, two long wings, long boars' tusks, and long legs and claws.[6] With the assistance of the dog Tear-Down, Peter kills the monster, cuts off his horns and tusks, and leaves the princess with the coachman, promising to return in three years. The coachman compels the princess by threats to say that he killed the dragon; but the princess contrives to delay her marriage with the coachman, and on the wedding-day Peter returns, is imprisoned by order of the king, but released by Break-Iron. Then he sends Run-for-Food to the princess, who recognises him, and reveals the secret to her father. The coachman is condemned to death, and Peter produces the horns and claws of the dragon, and marries the princess, when the dogs, whose mission is accomplished, assume the forms of swans, and fly away. [Footnote 5: Peeter.] [Footnote 6: Not a bad description of a conventional dragon. If these stories could be traced back to their original source, we should certainly find them to be founded on traditions of some of the great extinct Saurians. They are too explicit, and too discordant, to be founded only on rumours of the existence of crocodiles.] THE DWARF'S CHRISTENING. (JANNSEN.) This story takes a very similar form in Esthonia to that familiar to us nearer home. A young lady out walking with her maid encounters a snake, which the maid wishes to destroy, but the lady remonstrates. A few days afterwards, a little man enters her room and asks her to become godmother to his child. She at last consents, and he promises to fetch her at the right time, and informs her that he lives under the kitchen steps in the subterranean kingdom. Next Thursday evening, the dwarf leads her down a long flight of stairs to a great house with many rooms, all lit up with tapers and full of company. She was invited to take her seat at table, but on looking up, she saw a sharp sword suspended over her head. She wanted to flee, but the master ordered the sword to be removed, and the child's mother told her that her own life lately hung on a hair, for she was the snake whose life she had saved. When the young lady left, the master filled her apron with earth, but she shook it out, whereupon he raked it up, and pressed it on her again, saying, "Don't despise the least gift from a grateful heart." In the morning, of course, it had turned to gold and silver. After this, the dwarf often visited the young lady, and at length asked her to pour a jug of milk under the kitchen-stairs every morning. But one day the wicked maid ordered a dishful of boiling milk to be poured down very early. Presently the dwarf came weeping to the young lady, saying that his child had been scalded to death by the hot milk. But he knew who was to blame; let her put what she most valued together, and leave the house at once. She did so, and on looking back, she saw the whole house in flames, and in a few hours nothing remained of it and its inhabitants but a heap of ashes. But the lady took another house, married happily, and lived to see her children's children. THE ENVIOUS SISTERS. The Esthonian version of this story (the last in Galland's original translation of the _Thousand and One Nights_, and also found in Germany and elsewhere), is peculiarly fantastic as "The Prince who rescued his Brothers" (Kreutzwald). A young king was very ill, and the soothsayers and magicians could not cure him. One of the magicians, however, at length finding that the king's hands and arms were gold-coloured to the elbows, his legs silver-coloured to the knees, and his belly of the colour of blue glass, told him that he would only be cured by marrying a young bride similarly coloured. Such a bride was discovered in the daughter of one of the king's generals, and she was made queen. The queen was confined of six boys at once; but her elder sister was jealous of her, and availed herself of the services of an old witch, who carried the children away by night, and handed them over to the Old Boy, replacing them with puppies. The queen was confined a second and a third time, each time of three princes, who suffered the same fate, but the nurse contrived to hide one of the last three princes. Nevertheless, the king was now so enraged that he ordered the mother and child to be thrown into the sea on an iron bed for a boat. But it floated away with them; and when the prince was seven weeks old, he had grown to be a young man, and he began to talk to his mother. Soon afterwards they reached an island, when the prince kicked the bed to pieces, and they went ashore. The prince met an old man, who gave him a hatchet which would build houses, and a wand which would change ants into men; whereupon the prince built and populated a city. The prince then changed himself into a flea, and went to his father's palace. The king had married the wicked sister-in-law, and she was trying to persuade him not to visit the island where the queen and prince had settled, but to visit another country, where he would see more wonderful things. He went; but his son had already removed the wonders to his own island, and he returned disappointed. As the king was still bent on visiting the island, the new queen advised him instead to visit a country where he would see eleven men, coloured like himself. When the prince told his mother what he had heard, she knew that they were her sons. Then the queen prepared three cakes, one poisoned, and the others mixed with milk from her breast. The prince set out, gave the poisoned cake to the old devil who guarded his brothers, and divided the other cakes with them. They then escaped to the prince's island in the form of doves, and presently the king and queen arrived, and the king was informed of the whole plot. Then the king ordered the wicked queen and the sorceress to be put to death, and settled down in his son's island with his wife and children. THE GIFTED BROTHERS. (KREUTZWALD.) This familiar story appears in the form of Swiftfoot, Quickhand, and Sharpeye. It begins with the lamentation of a rich but childless wife, who is consoled by a pretty little girl,[7] who suddenly appeared, and directed her to boil three eggs of a black hen for her husband's supper, and then to send him to bed, but to walk in the open air herself before retiring. In due course, three strong boys were born, and the fairy came to see them in their cradles. She took a ball of red thread from her pocket, and tied threads round the ankles of one boy, the wrists of another, and the temples of the third. She directed the mother not to disturb the threads till the children were taken to the christening, and then to burn the threads, collect the ashes in a spoon, and moisten them with milk from her breast; and as soon as the children were brought home from the christening, to give each two drops of the mixture on his tongue. Of course one boy was gifted with great swiftness, and another with great strength and skill in handiwork, and another with great sharpness of sight. When they grew up, the youths separated to seek their fortunes, agreeing to meet at home in three years' time, and Swiftfoot went eastwards, and entered into the service of a king as groom, and made himself famous in that capacity. Quickhand, who went southwards, could take up any trade without learning it, and could turn out twenty coats or pairs of shoes in a day, better made than the best tailor or shoemaker. He too made himself famous by supplying a whole army with a full outfit at the shortest notice, when all the workmen in the kingdom were unable to do so by the time required. The adventures of Sharpeye may be given more in detail. Sharpeye, the third brother, set out westwards. He wandered about for a long time from one place to another without meeting with any profitable employment. He could easily earn enough anywhere for his daily expenses as a good shot, but what could he make in this way to bring home? At length he reached a large city, where everybody was talking about a misfortune which had befallen the king thrice already, but which no one was able to comprehend or guard against. The king had a valuable tree in his garden, which bore golden apples, many of which were as large as a great ball of thread, and might have been worth many thousand roubles. It may be imagined that such fruit was not left uncounted, and that guards were stationed around night and day to prevent any attempt at robbery. Nevertheless one of the largest apples, valued at six thousand roubles, had been stolen every night for three nights running. The guards had neither seen the thief nor been able to discover any trace of him. It immediately occurred to Sharpeye that there must be some very strange trick in the affair, which his piercing sight might perhaps enable him to discover. He thought that if the thief did not approach the tree incorporeally and invisibly, he would never be able to escape his sharp eyes. He therefore asked the king to allow him to visit the garden to make his observations without the knowledge of the guards. On receiving permission, he prepared himself a place of concealment in the summit of a tree not far from the golden apple-tree, where no one could see him, while his sharp eyes could pierce everywhere, and see everything that happened. He took with him a bag of bread and a bottle of milk, so that there would be no need for him to leave his hiding-place. He now kept close watch on the golden apple-tree, and on everything around it. The guards were posted round the tree in three rows, so close that not a mouse could have crept between them unobserved. The thief must have wings, for he could not reach the tree by the ground. But Sharpeye could detect nothing all day which looked like a thief. Towards sunset a little yellow moth fluttered round the tree, and at last settled on a branch which bore a very fine apple. Everybody could understand just as well as Sharpeye that a little moth could not carry a golden apple away from the tree, but as he could see nothing bigger, he kept his eyes fixed upon it. The sun had set long ago, and the last traces of twilight were fading from the horizon, but the lanterns round the tree gave so much light that he could see everything distinctly. The yellow moth still sat motionless on the branch. It was about midnight when the eyes of the watchman in the tree closed for a moment. How long he dozed, he could not tell, but when his eyes fell next upon the apple-tree, he saw that the yellow moth was no longer sitting on the branch, and was still more startled to discover that the beautiful golden apple on that branch had also disappeared. He could not doubt that a theft had been committed, but if the concealed watchman had related the affair, people would have thought him mad, for even a child might know that a moth could not carry away a golden apple. In the morning there was again a great uproar when it was discovered that another apple was missing without any of the guards having seen a trace of the thief. But Sharpeye went to the king again and said, "It is true that I have seen as little of the thief as your guards; but if there is a skilful magician in or near the town, let me know, and I hope with his aid to catch the thief to-night." As soon as he learned where the magician lived, he went straight to him. The two men consulted what was best to be done, and at length Sharpeye cried out, "I have hit upon a plan. Can you make a woven net so strong by magic that the thread will hold the most powerful creature fast, and then we can chain up the thief so that he cannot escape again?" The magician said it was possible, and took three large spiders, which he made so strong by sorcery that no creature could escape from their meshes, and put them in a little box, which he gave to Sharpeye, saying, "Place these spiders wherever you like, and point with your finger where they shall spin their net, and they will immediately spin a cage round the prisoner, which only Mana's[8] power can loosen; and I will come to your aid myself, if needful." Sharpeye hid the box in his bosom, and crept back to his tree to wait the upshot of the affair. He saw the yellow moth fluttering round the apple-tree at the same time as the day before; but it waited much longer before settling on a branch which bore a large golden apple. Sharpeye immediately slid down from his tree, went up to the golden apple-tree, set a ladder against it, and climbed up carefully, so as not to scare the moth, and set each of his small weavers on separate branches. One spider was a few spans above the moth, a second to the right, and a third to the left, and then Sharpeye drew lines with his finger backwards and forwards round the moth, which sat motionless with raised wings. At sunset the watcher was back in his hiding-place in the tree, from whence he saw to his joy that his three weavers had woven a net round the moth on all sides, from which it could not hope to escape, if the magician possessed the power which he pretended. The man in the tree did his best to keep awake, but nevertheless his eyes closed all at once. How long he slept he knew not, but he was roused up by a great noise. When he looked round, he saw that the soldiers on guard were running about the apple-tree like ants, and shouting, and in the tree sat an old grey-bearded man with a golden apple in his hand in an iron net. Sharpeye jumped hastily from his tree, but before he reached the apple-tree the king himself arrived. He had sprung from his bed at the shouts of the guards, and hurried to see what unusual event was happening in the garden. There sat the thief in the tree, and could not get away. "Most noble king," said Sharpeye, "you can now go quietly to rest again, and sleep till to-morrow morning, for the thief cannot now escape us. If he was as strong again as he is, he could not break the magic meshes of his cage." The king thanked him, and ordered the greater part of the soldiers to retire to rest also, leaving only a few on guard under the tree. Sharpeye, who had kept watch for two nights and two days, also went away to sleep. Next morning the magician went to the king's palace. He was glad when he saw the thief in the cage, and would not let him out till the fellow showed himself in his real form. At last he cut off half his beard under his chin, called for a light and began to singe the hairs.[9] Oh, how the bird in the iron cage suffered now! He shrieked pitifully and beat himself with pain, but the magician went on singeing fresh hairs to make the thief manageable. At last he said, "Confess who you are." The fellow answered, "I am the servant of the sorcerer Piirisilla,[10] who sent me here to steal." The magician began again to singe the hairs. "Ow! ow!" shouted the sorcerer; "give me time and I will confess. I am not the servant, but the sorcerer's son." Again they singed his hairs, when the prisoner yelled out, "I'm the sorcerer Piirisilla himself." "Show yourself in your proper form or I'll singe you again," said the mighty magician. Then the little man in the cage began to expand, and grew in a few minutes to the size of an ordinary man, who could have carried off a golden apple easily. He was taken down from the tree in the cage, and asked where the stolen apples were hidden. He offered to show the place himself, but Sharpeye begged the king not to let the thief out of the cage, or he would become a moth again, and escape. They were obliged to singe his hair many times before he would give up all the stolen property; and at last, when all the golden apples had been recovered, the thief was burned in the cage, and his ashes scattered to the winds. There was great rejoicing when the three brothers returned home at the end of the term agreed upon. Shortly afterwards, hearing that the daughter of a rich king in the North was destined as the bride of any one who could perform three wonderful feats, they set out to the court of her father. The first feat was to watch a swift reindeer cow for a whole day, and bring her back to the stable at night; the second to bolt the palace door in the evening; and the third was to shoot an arrow straight through the middle of an apple, which a man, standing on the top of a high hill, held in his mouth by the stalk. The three brothers were so much alike that as each could accomplish one of the feats only, they decided to personate the same man, which was not difficult, when they trimmed their beards to exactly the same pattern. Swiftfoot went first to the king, and the princess peeped at him through the crack of the door, and fell in love with him, wishing she could hobble the reindeer's feet that the handsome man might win her. However, he found that he was easily a match for the reindeer, though she could have run across the world in a single day. In the evening he brought the cow back to her stable, and after supper returned to his brothers. Next day, Quickhand dressed himself up like his brother, and went to the court, where every one took him for Swiftfoot. The princess again peeped at him, and wished she could drive away the witch from the palace door. This witch was accustomed to change herself into the iron door bar, and if any one climbed a ladder to close it, she would grasp his hand, and set the folding doors swinging backwards and forwards till morning, while the man swung helpless in her grasp. But Quickhand ordered an iron hand to be made,[11] which he heated red hot, and mounting the ladder, held it out to the witch, and shot the bolt at the moment that she grasped it; and the door remained bolted till the king rose in the morning. Quickhand spent that day with the king, and returned to his brothers in the evening. Next day, Sharpeye went to the palace, and it was arranged that the shooting feat should come off on the following morning; and the princess declared that she would part with all she possessed to ensure his success. The man who held the apple on the mountain looked no bigger than a crow, and fearing for his own safety, did not hold the apple by the stalk, but in his mouth, thinking that the marksman would be more likely to shoot the arrow at a safe distance from him. But Sharpeye struck the apple precisely in the middle, carrying away a bit of flesh from each cheek of the holder with it. Sharpeye declined the king's proposal to betroth him to his daughter immediately, and he returned to his brothers, when they rejoiced in their success like children, and then cast lots[12] for the princess.[13] The lot fell to Sharpeye, who married the princess, while his two brothers returned home, when they bought large estates and lived like princes. The brothers are once spoken of as "Swedes," for what reason does not appear. Another story on similar lines is that of the Swift-footed Princess (Kreutzwald); but here the various feats, including the race against the princess, who will not marry unless she is worsted in a foot-race, are performed by the gifted servants in the train of the prince who seeks her in marriage. [Footnote 7: The word used means a little girl or a doll; Löwe translates it "doll," which seems to be incorrect in this place.] [Footnote 8: The God of Death.] [Footnote 9: Combings or cuttings of hair are never burned or allowed to be blown about in the air in Esthonia, but carefully buried; otherwise the owner would suffer from violent headache.] [Footnote 10: This word would have no apparent meaning as a proper name; but Löwe suggests that it might be a corruption of Virgilius, which, though not impossible, seems rather far fetched.] [Footnote 11: Compare vol. i. p. 176.] [Footnote 12: Their good faith and absence of envy is as conspicuous as in the case of the sons of Kalev (vol. i. p. 58).] [Footnote 13: When the five Pandavas, the heroes of the Maha-Bharata, were returning victorious from an expedition during which Arjuna had won the princess Draupadi in a contest with the bow, their mother, hearing them coming, but not knowing what had happened, cried out, "Share equally what you have brought." Upon which it was arranged that she should become the joint wife of the five brother princes.] THE IDIOT'S LUCK. We find this form of the story of the despised younger son in the "Strange Tale of an Ox" (Kreutzwald). A dying father leaves an ox to his third son, a simpleton, who goes to sell it, and when passing through a wood he hears a noise in a tree, and thinks it is an offer to buy the ox; so he ties it to the tree, and takes a log home with him as security for the money. Not receiving it when he expected, he breaks open the log, and finds a jar of money inside. He afterwards kills a shepherd who tries to cheat him out of it; and it is given out that the shepherd has been carried away by the devil. THE MAGICIAN'S HEIRS. (KREUTZWALD.) The story of the traveller who appropriates the magical properties over which the sons of a dead magician are quarrelling is widely distributed, and frequently occurs as a mere incident in a story; as, for example, in that of Hasan of El Basrah in the _Thousand and One Nights_. In the Esthonian story of the "Dwarf's[14] Quarrel," the articles form the leading _motif_, but mixed up with details curiously resembling some Celtic fairy tales. A man passing through a wood came upon a small clearing, where he found three dwarfs beating, pushing, kicking, and biting each other, and tearing each other's hair so that it was shocking to see them. They proved to be fighting over an old hat, composed of the parings of finger-nails[15], the wearer of which could see everything taking place in the world, whether near or far; a pair of bast shoes, which would carry the wearer anywhere at a step; and a stick which would demolish everything before it. Each of the dwarfs wanted to take all these articles, to go to a great wedding which was just taking place in Courland. The referee put on the hat, saw the wedding, and told the dwarfs to stand with their backs to him, when he demolished them with the stick, only three drops of water being left where they had been standing. Then he went to the wedding in Courland, where he found a great number of people assembled, both high and low, for the entertainer was a very rich householder. As the wearer of the magic hat could see everything hidden as well as obvious, he saw when he lifted his eyes to the crossbeams[16] that there were a vast crowd of little guests both there and on the door-posts, who seemed to be far more numerous than the invited guests. But no one else could see the little people. Presently some of them began to whisper, "Look there; our old uncle's come to the feast too." "No," answered others, "it seems that this stranger has our uncle's hat, shoes, and stick, but uncle himself isn't here." Meantime, covered dishes were brought in for the feast. Then the stranger saw what nobody else could perceive, that the good food was abstracted from the dishes with wonderful quickness, and worse put in its place. It went just the same with the jugs and bottles. Then the stranger asked for the master of the house, greeted him politely, and said, "Don't be offended that I have come to the feast as an uninvited stranger." "You are welcome," returned the host. "We have plenty to eat and drink, so that we are not inconvenienced by a few uninvited guests." The stranger rejoined, "I can well believe that one or two uninvited guests would make no difference, but if the uninvited guests are far more numerous than those who are invited, the richest host may run short." "I don't understand you," said the host. The stranger gave him the hat, saying, "Put my hat on, and raise your eyes to the crossbeams, and then you'll see them." The host did so, and when he saw the tricks that the little guests were playing with the feast, he turned as pale as death, and cried out with a trembling voice, "Ah! my friend, my heart never dreamed of such guests; and now I've taken off your hat, they've all vanished. How can I ever get rid of them?" The owner of the hat returned, "I will soon rid you of these little guests, if you will ask the invited guests to step out for a short time, closing the doors and windows carefully, and taking care that no chink or crack in the wall remains unstopped." Although the founder of the feast did not quite understand what he meant, he consented to the stranger's offer, and asked him to get rid of the little nuisances. In a short time the room was cleared of all the invited guests, the doors, windows, and other openings were carefully closed, and the stranger was left alone with the little guests. Then he began to swing his cudgel towards the crossbeams and corners of the room so vigorously that it was a pleasure to behold. In a few moments the whole mob of little guests was annihilated, and as many drops of water were left on the floor as if it had been raining heavily. Only one auger-hole had been accidentally left unstopped, through which one of the dwarfs slipped out, although the cudgel might still have reached the fugitive. He fled across the enclosure, bellowing, "Oh, oh, what a calamity! Many a time have I been terrified at the arrows of old father Pikne,[17] but they are nothing to this cudgel!" When the host had convinced himself, by the aid of the magic hat, that the room was cleared of the dwarfs, he invited the guests to re-enter. During the feast the omniscient man read the secret thoughts of the wedding-guests, and learned much which the others did not suspect. The bridegroom thought more of the wealth of his father-in-law than of his young wife; and she, who was not altogether faultless, hoped that her husband and her matron's cap would protect her from scandal. It's a great pity that such a hat is no longer to be met with in our times. [Footnote 14: The Esthonian term is peculiar. "Ox-knee people"--_i.e._, people as tall as an ox's knee.] [Footnote 15: Compare the _Kalevipoeg_, Cantos 13 and 14.] [Footnote 16: Compare Croker's Irish story of "Master and Man."] [Footnote 17: The Thunder-God.] THE MAN IN THE MOON. Stories of the Man in the Moon are generally common. In Esthonia it is generally the Woman in the Moon, as may be seen in the two beautiful legends of Videvik, and of the Maiden at the Vaskjalla Bridge. The short legend which follows these resembles that in the Prose Edda relative to two children carrying a bucket (Jack and Jill?) who were taken to himself by the Moon. The story of the Moon-Painter might have been inserted here; but it seemed to come in more appropriately in another place. We meet with sons and daughters of the Sun and Moon among the Finns and Lapps, as well as among the Esthonians. VIDEVIK, KOIT, AND ÄMARIK[18] (_Twilight, Dawn, and Evening Twilight_). The Creator had three diligent servants--two fair and lovely maidens, Videvik and Ämarik, and the slender youth Koit. They fulfilled his orders and looked after his affairs. One evening at sunset, Videvik, the eldest, came back from ploughing with her oxen, and led them to the river to drink. But maidens are always accustomed to think first of their own bright faces, and so was it with the charming Videvik. She thought no more of the oxen, but stepped to the water's edge and looked down. And behold, her brown eyes and red cheeks looked back upon her from the surface of the stream, and her heart beat with pleasure. But the Moon, whom the Creator had ordered to take the place of the setting sun to enlighten the world, forgot his duty, and hurried down to the earth to the bed of the stream. Here he stayed with Videvik, mouth to mouth and lip to lip. But while the Moon thus forgot his duty, his light became extinguished, and thick darkness covered the land as he lay on Videvik's heart. And now a great misfortune happened. The wolf, the wild beast of the forest, who could work mischief when no eye could see him, attacked one of Videvik's oxen and tore him to pieces. The nightingale sang loudly through the dark thicket, "Idle maid, idle maid, long is the night. Black stripes to the yoke, to the yoke! Bring the whip, bring the whip, whip, whip, whip." But Videvik heard nothing. She had forgotten everything but her love. Early in the morning, when Koit rose from his couch, Videvik awakened at last from her dream of love. When she saw the evil deed that the wolf had wrought, she began to weep bitterly. But the tears of her innocent affliction were not hidden from the Creator. He descended from his heaven to punish the evil-doer and to bring the criminal to justice. He dealt out severe punishment to the wolf, and yoked him high in heaven with the ox, to draw water for ever, driven by the iron rod of the pole-star.[19] But to Videvik he said, "As the Moon has touched thee with the light of his beauty and has wooed thee, I will forgive thee, and if thou lovest him from thy heart, I will not hinder you, and you shall be wedded. But from thee, Videvik, I look for faithful watch and vigilance that the Moon begins his course at the right time, and that deep darkness falls no more on earth at night, when the evil powers can work mischief at their pleasure. Rule over the night, and take care that a happy peace prevails in its course." Thus the moon received Videvik as his wife. Her friendly countenance still smiles down upon us, and is reflected in the mirror of the brook, where she first enjoyed the love of her consort. Then the Creator summoned Koit and Ämarik to his presence, and said, "I will guard against any further negligence respecting the light of the world, lest darkness should again get the upper hand, and I will appoint two watchers under whose care all shall run its course. The Moon and Videvik shall illumine the night with their radiance at the appointed time. Koit and Ämarik, to your watch and ward I intrust the light of day beneath the firmament. Fulfil your duty with diligence. To thy care, my daughter Ämarik, I entrust the sinking sun. Receive him on the horizon, and carefully extinguish all the sparks every evening, lest any harm should ensue, and lead him to his setting. Koit, my active son, let it be thy care to receive the sun from the hands of Ämarik when he is ready to begin his course, and to kindle new light, that there may never be any deficiency." The two servants of the sun did their duty with diligence, so that the sun was never absent from the sky for a day. Then began the long summer nights when Koit and Ämarik join their hands, when their hearts beat and their lips meet in a kiss, while the birds in the woods sing sweet songs each according to his note, when flowers blossom, the trees flourish, and all the world rejoices. At this time the Creator descended from his golden throne to earth to celebrate the festival of Lijon.[20] He found all his works and affairs in good order, and rejoiced in his creation, and said to Koit and Ämarik, "I am well pleased with your management, and desire your lasting happiness. From henceforth be husband and wife." But the two exclaimed with one voice, "Father, let us enjoy our happiness undisturbed. We are content with our lot, and will remain lover and beloved, for thus we enjoy a happiness which is ever young and new." Then the Creator granted them their desire, and returned to his golden heaven. * * * * * The versions given by Boecler and Jannsen differ slightly. [Footnote 18: This story has been already printed in English, (Jones and Kropf, _Folk-Tales of the Magyars_, pp. 326-328), but I was unwilling to omit it.] [Footnote 19: The constellation of the Great Bear is of course intended.] [Footnote 20: The dictionary gives no further explanation than "Name of a mythical personage."] THE MAIDEN AT THE VASKJALA BRIDGE. (KREUTZWALD.) On a beautiful and quiet summer evening many years ago, a pious maiden went to the Vaskjala[21] Bridge to bathe and refresh herself after the heat of the day. The sky was clear, and the song of the nightingale re-echoed from the neighbouring alder thicket. The Moon ascended to his heavenly pavilion, and gazed down with friendly eyes on the wreath of the maiden with the golden hair and rosy cheeks. The maiden's heart was pure and innocent, and modest and clear as the waters of the spring to its very depths. Suddenly she felt her heart beat faster, and a strange longing seized her, and she could no longer turn her eyes away from the face of the Moon. For because she was so good and pure and innocent, she had won the love of the Moon, who desired to fulfil her secret longings and the wish of her heart. But the pious maiden cherished but one wish in her heart, which she could not venture to express or to ask the Moon to fulfil, for she longed to depart from this world and to dwell for ever beneath the sky with the Moon, but the Moon knew the unexpressed thoughts of her heart. It was again a lovely evening. The air was calm and peaceful, and again the song of the nightingale resounded through the night. The Moon gazed down once more into the depths at the bottom of the river near the Vaskjala Bridge, but no longer alone as before. The fair face of the maiden gazed down with him into the depths, and has ever since been visible in the Moon. Above in the far sky she lives in joy and contentment, and only desires that other maidens might share her happiness. So on moonlight nights her friendly eyes gaze down on her mortal sisters, and she seeks to invite them as her guests. But none among them is so pure and modest and innocent as herself, and therefore none is worthy to ascend to her in the Moon. Sometimes this troubles the maiden in the Moon, and she hides her face sorrowfully in a black veil. Yet she does not abandon all hope, but trusts that on some future day one of her earthly sisters may be found sufficiently pious and pure and innocent for the Moon to call her to share this blessed life. So from time to time the Moon-maiden gazes down on the earth with increasing hope and laughing eyes, with her face unveiled, as on the happy evening when she first looked down from heaven on the Vaskjala Bridge. But the best and most intelligent of the daughters of earth fall into error and wander into by-paths, and none among them is pious and innocent enough to become the Moon's companion. This makes the heart of the pious Moon-maiden sorrowful again, and she turns her face from us once more, and hides it under her black veil. [Footnote 21: According to Jannsen, the forest which once surrounded the river Vaskia, which flows through a village of the same name near Revel, was formerly sacred to a goddess named Vaskia.] THE WOMAN IN THE MOON. (JANNSEN.) One Saturday evening a woman went very late to the river to fetch water. The Moon shone brightly in the heavens, and she said to him, "Why do you stand gaping up there? You'd better come and help me carry water. I must work here, and you dawdle about above!" Suddenly the Moon came down from above, but he seized the woman and took her with him into the sky. There she still stands with her two pails as a warning to everybody not to work too late in the evening on holidays. But the Moon knows no rest, and can never dawdle about, for he must wander from land to land, and everywhere illumine the darkness of night with his light.[22] [Footnote 22: Compare the _Kalevipoeg_, Canto 1.] POLYPHEMUS. (JANNSEN.) In the Esthonian version the Devil visits a locksmith, who promises to cast him new eyes. When the Devil calls for them, he binds him to a bench on his back, telling him that his name is Myself. He then pours molten tin into his eyes, and the Devil jumps up with the pain, and rushes out with the bench on his back, telling his companions that "Myself" has done it. He dies miserably, and the dog, fox, rat, and wolf bury him under the dung of a white mare. "Since this," adds the narrator, "there has been no devil more." There is a very similar story from Swedish Lappmark, in which the man who outwits and blinds a giant tells him that his own name is "Nobody."[23] [Footnote 23: Poestion, _Lappländische Märchen_, p. 122. Another Lapp version, almost identical with Homer's, is given by Latham, _Nationalities of Europe_, i. p. 237.] RED RIDING-HOOD. One of the most fantastic stories of this series is "The Devil's Visit" (Jannsen: Veckenstedt), which, notwithstanding its subject, has an absurd resemblance in some of its details to "Little Red Riding-Hood." Two men and their wives lived together in a cottage; one couple had three children, the others were childless. One day, both husbands were absent, and the Devil and his son knocked at the door in their semblance, and sat down to supper. But the eldest child said secretly, "Mother, mother, father's got long claws!" The second said, "Mother, mother, he's got a tail too!" And the youngest added, "Mother, mother, he's got iron teeth in his mouth." The woman comforted the children, and while the childless woman went with one of the devils, the mother put the children to bed on the stove, laid juniper twigs in front, and made the sign of the cross over them. She then gave the Devil the end of her girdle to hold, by which to draw her to him, but she fastened the other end to a log of wood, and climbed on the roof for safety, taking with her a three-pronged fork. As soon as the devils began to devour the supposed women,[24] the elder discovered that he had been deceived; and his son advised him to devour the children; but he could not get at them. Then his son advised him to look for the mother; and he tried to climb on the roof, but the woman struck him back with the fork, and he called to his son for help. The son immediately rushed out of the cottage to get his share of the prey, when a red cock crew, and the Devil cried out, "He's my half-brother," and tried again to get on the roof. Then crowed a white cock, and the Devil cried out, "He's my godfather," and scrambled on the corner of the gable. Then crowed a black cock, when the Devil cried out, "He's my murderer!" and both devils vanished, as if they had sunk into the ground. [Footnote 24: It must be said, to the credit of the Esthonian devils, that they only appear occasionally in the light of ogres. In many tales they are harmless, and sometimes amiable.] SNOWWHITE, THE GLASS MOUNTAIN, AND THE DESPISED YOUNGEST SON. We have these tales combined in the story of the "Princess who slept for seven years" (Kreutzwald). A princess falls into a deep sleep, and is placed by a magician in a glass coffin. A glass mountain is prepared, on which the coffin is fixed. Up the glass mountain the successful suitor must ride when seven years and seven days have expired, when the princess will awake and give him a ring. Meanwhile an old peasant dies, leaving his house and property to his two elder sons, and charging them to take care of the third, who is considered rather lazy and stupid, but who has a good heart.[25] He charges his three sons to watch, one each night, by his grave; but the elder ones excuse themselves, leaving the duty to the youngest son. The eldest brother proposes to turn the youngest out of the house, but is dissuaded by the other, who thinks it would look too bad. When the king promises his daughter to whoever can climb the glass mountain,[26] the two elder brothers dress themselves in fine clothes, and set off, leaving the youngest at home, lest he should disgrace them by his shabby appearance. But he receives from his father a bronze horse and bronze armour, and rides a third of the way up the mountain. On the second day he receives a silver steed and silver armour, and rides more than half-way up; and on the third day he receives a golden steed and golden armour, and rides to the summit. Then the lid of the glass case flies open, the maiden raises herself and gives the knight a ring, and he rides down with her to her father. Next day it is proclaimed that whoever can produce the ring shall marry the princess; and, to the astonishment of the two elder brothers, the youngest claims the prize. The magician explains to the king that the young man is in reality the son of a powerful monarch, but was stolen away in infancy and brought up as a peasant, and the king accepts him as his son-in-law. His indolence was not an inherent defect, but had been imposed upon him by the witch who had stolen him. On Sunday he appeared before the people in his golden armour and mounted on his golden horse, but his reputed brothers died of rage and envy. [Footnote 25: There are several very similar stories in Finnish.] [Footnote 26: Compare the story of "Princess Helena the Fair" (Ralston's _Russian Folk-Tales_, p. 256).] THE THREE SISTERS.[27] (JANNSEN.) This is the familiar story of an ill-used younger sister. A countryman was taking game to market, and his two elder daughters asked him to bring them fine clothes, but the youngest asked him to bring her anything he got gratis. A shopkeeper offered him a kitten, which he brought to the youngest girl, who treated it kindly. On the two following Sundays, the elder sisters went to church to show off their fine clothes, leaving the younger one at home. She went into the garden, and a pied magpie settled on the fence, which the cat pursued, and on the first Sunday it dropped a gold brooch, and on the second two gold rings. As the third Sunday was wet, the two elder sisters stayed at home, but sent the youngest to church; so she adorned herself with her finery and set out, and at church she attracted general attention. When her sisters heard of it, they insisted on knowing her secret; and they carried the kitten into the garden several times, to no purpose, for as they had always ill-treated it before, it only bit and scratched them. At last they killed it, and threw it among the rushes by the side of the lake. When the youngest sister missed the kitten, she went out weeping into the wood. Her sisters followed her, murdered her, and buried her under a heap of sand, covering the grave with reeds, and when they went home they told their father that she had been carried away by gipsies. A shepherd, passing that way made himself a flute, and it sang the maiden's sorrowful end. When this reached the ears of the prince, he ordered the body to be exhumed and carried to his castle, and by direction of the flute, it was reanimated with water from the healing well in the prince's courtyard. The maiden immediately begged the life of her sisters, who were released. Her hand was then sought for in marriage by a young nobleman, whom she accepted. After this, she begged the prince to restore her kitten to life too with the healing water, and the two sisters were sent to fetch it; but the reed-bed by the lake gave way under their feet, and they both perished miserably; for neither they nor the kitten were ever seen again. But the descendants of the youngest sister still bear a cat on their escutcheon. [Footnote 27: The commencement of this story reminds us of "Beauty and the Beast;" the second part is that of the "Magic Flute."] THE THREE WISHES. This well-known story appears in one of its commonest forms in the tale of "Loppi and Lappi" (Kreutzwald), a quarrelsome couple who are granted three wishes by a fairy. At supper-time the wife wishes for a sausage, which is wished on and off her nose, and the couple remain as poor as before. THE WITCH-BRIDE. Versions of this story are common in Finland as well as in Esthonia. One of the latter is "Rõugutaja's Daughter" (Kreutzwald). Old Rõugutaja[28] lived with his wife and daughter in a wood. The daughter had a beautiful face, but it was reported that her skin was of bark, and she could find no suitors. At last the mother contrived to inveigle a youth into marrying her daughter by means of a love-philtre, but on the first night he ran away, and shortly afterwards married another bride. On the birth of a child, the witch-mother transforms the young mother into a wolf, and substitutes her own daughter. The nurse is ordered to take the crying child for a walk; she meets the wolf; the deceit is discovered, and the husband inveigles the witch-mother and daughter into the bathhouse, and burns it down. There is little in this story except the bark-skin of the witch-bride to distinguish it from the numerous variants among other peoples. * * * * * Another story belonging to the class of the witch-bride is [Footnote 28: See vol. i. p. 22.] THE STEPMOTHER. (KREUTZWALD.) Here the two girls are half-sisters, not step-sisters; and the younger one is dressed up, and married, veiled, to the suitor of the other. When the husband discovers the deception, he throws the false bride under the ice of a river on the way, and takes his own bride instead. Next year, the mother, on her way to visit her supposed daughter and her child, gathers a water-lily, which tells her that it is her own daughter. Then the mother and daughter are transformed into a black dog and a black cat, with the aid of a magician; but their attempts at revenge are frustrated by a sorceress, who had previously befriended the young mother. SECTION IV _FAMILIAR STORIES OF NORTHERN EUROPE_ Under this heading we include variants of well-known but not cosmopolitan tales, some of which are of considerable interest. Among them is a variant of "Melusina," close in some points, but presenting many features of difference. THE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE. Kreutzwald's story of "The Powerful Crayfish and the Insatiable Wife" is almost identical with that of Grimm. At last the woman wishes to be God, and the crayfish sends the foolish couple back to their poverty. THE MERMAID.[29] (KREUTZWALD.) In the happy days of old, better men lived on earth than now, and the Heavenly Father revealed many wonders to them which are now quite concealed, or but rarely manifested to a child of fortune. It is true that the birds sing and the beasts converse as of old, but unhappily we no longer comprehend their speech, and what they say brings us neither profit nor wisdom. In old days a fair mermaid dwelt on the shores of the province of Lääne. She often appeared to the people, and my grandfather's father, who was reared in the neighbourhood, sometimes saw her sitting on a rock, but the little fellow did not venture to approach her. The maiden appeared in various forms, sometimes as a foal or a calf, and sometimes under the form of some other animal. In the evening she often came among the children, and let them play with her, until some little boy mounted her back, when she would vanish as suddenly as if she had sunk into the ground. At that time old people said that in former days the maiden was to be seen on the borders of the sea almost every fine evening in the summer, sitting on a rock, and combing her long fair hair with a golden comb, and she sang such beautiful songs that it melted the hearts of her listeners. But she could not endure the gaze of men, and vanished from their sight or fled into the sea, where she rocked on the waves like a swan. We will now relate the cause of her flying from men, and no longer meeting them with her former confidence. In old times, long before the invasion of the Swedes, a rich farmer lived on the coast of Lääne with his wife and four sons. They obtained their food more from the sea than from the land, for fishing was a very productive industry in their days. The youngest son was very different from his brothers, even from a child. He avoided the companionship of men, and wandered about on the sea-shore and in the forest. He talked much to himself and to the birds, or to the winds and waves, but when he was in the company of others he hardly opened his mouth, but stood like one dreaming. When the storms raged over the sea in autumn, and the waves swelled up as high as a house and broke foaming on the beach, the boy could not contain himself in the house, but ran like one possessed, and often half-naked, to the shore. Neither wind nor weather harmed his robust body. He sprang into his boat, seized the oars, and drove like a wild goose over the crest of the raging billows far out to sea, without incurring any harm by his rashness. In the morning, when the storm had spent its fury, he was found sound asleep on the beach. If he was sent anywhere on an errand, to herd cattle in summer, or to do any other easy employment, he gave his parents only trouble. He lay down under the shadow of a bush without minding the animals, and they strayed away or trampled down the meadows and cornfields, and his brothers had often to work for hours before they could find the lost animals. The father often let the boy feel the rod severely enough, but it had no more effect than water poured on the back of a goose. When the boy grew up into a youth, he did not mend his ways. No work prospered in his negligent hands; he hacked and broke the tools, wearied out the draught cattle, and yet never did anything right. His father sent him to neighbouring farmers to work, hoping that a stranger's whip might improve the sloven, but whoever had the fellow for one week on trial sent him back again on the next. His parents rated him for a sluggard, and his brothers dubbed him "Sleepy Tony." This soon became his nickname with everybody, though he had been christened Jüri.[30] Sleepy Tony brought no one any good, but was only a nuisance to his parents and relatives, so that they would gladly have given a sum of money if anybody would have rid them of the lazy fellow. As nobody would put up with him any longer, his father engaged him as servant to a foreign captain, because he could not run away at sea, and because he had always been so fond of the water from a child. However, after a few weeks, nobody knows how, he escaped from the ship, and again set his lazy feet on his native soil. But he was ashamed to enter his father's house, where he could not expect to meet with a friendly reception, so he wandered about from one place to another, and sought to get his living as he could, without working. He was a strong handsome fellow, and could talk very agreeably if he liked, although he had never been accustomed to talk much in his father's house. He was now obliged to use his handsome appearance and fine tongue to ingratiate himself with the women and girls. One fine summer evening after sunset it happened that he was wandering alone on the beach when the clear song of the mermaid reached his ears. Sleepy Tony thought to himself, "She is a woman, at any rate, and won't do me any harm." He did not hesitate to approach nearer, to take a view of the beautiful bird. He climbed the highest hill, and saw the mermaid some distance off, sitting on a rock, combing her hair with a golden comb, and singing a ravishing song. The youth would have wished for more ears to listen to her song, which pierced his heart like a flame, but when he drew nearer he saw that he would have needed just as many eyes to take in the beauty of the maiden. The mermaid must have seen him coming, but she did not fly from him, as she was always wont to do when men approached. Sleepy Tony advanced to within ten paces of her, and then stopped, undecided whether to go nearer. And oh, wonderful! the mermaid rose from the stone and came to meet him with a friendly air. She gave him her hand in greeting, and said, "I have expected you for many days, for a fateful dream warned me of your arrival. You have neither house nor home among those of your own race. Why should you be dependent upon strangers when your parents refuse to receive you into their house? I have known you from a child, and better than men have known you, for I have often watched over and protected you when your rashness would otherwise have destroyed you. I have often guarded the rocking boat with my hands, when it would otherwise have sunk in the depths. Come with me, and you shall enjoy every happiness which your heart can desire, and you shall want for nothing. I will watch over and protect you as the apple of my eye, so that neither wind nor rain nor frost shall touch you." Sleepy Tony stood for a time uncertain what to answer, though every word of the maiden was like a flaming arrow in his heart. At last he stammered out an inquiry as to whether her home was very far away. "We can reach it with the speed of the wind, if you have confidence in me," answered the mermaid. Then Sleepy Tony remembered many sayings which he had heard about the mermaid, and his heart failed him, and he asked for three days to make up his mind. "I will agree to your wish," said the mermaid, "but lest you should again be doubtful, I will put my gold ring on your finger before we part, that you may not forget to return. When we are better acquainted, this pledge may serve as an engagement ring." She then drew off the ring, placed it on the youth's little finger, and vanished as if she had melted into air. Sleepy Tony stood staring with wide-open eyes, and would have supposed it was all a dream, if the sparkling ring on his finger had not been proof to the contrary. But the ring seemed like a strange spirit, which left him no peace or rest anywhere. He wandered aimlessly about the shore all night, and always returned to the rock on which the maiden had been sitting; but the stone was cold and vacant. In the morning he lay down for a short time, but uneasy dreams disturbed his sleep. When he awoke, he felt neither hunger nor thirst, and all his thoughts were directed towards the evening, when he hoped to see the mermaid again. The day waned at last, and evening approached, the wind sank, the birds in the alder-bushes left off singing and tucked their tired heads under their wings, but that evening he saw the mermaid nowhere. He wept bitter tears of sorrow and trouble, and reflected bitterly on his folly in having hesitated to seize the good fortune offered to him the evening before, when a cleverer fellow would have grasped at it with both hands. But regret and complaint were useless now. The night and the day which followed were equally painful to him, and his trouble weighed upon him so much that he never felt hunger. Towards sunset he sat down with an aching heart on the rock where the mermaid had sat two evenings ago. He began to weep bitterly, and exclaimed, sobbing, "If she does not come back to me, I will live no longer, but either die of hunger on this rock, or cast myself headlong into the waves, and end my miserable life in the depths of the sea." I know not how long he sat thus on the rock in his distress, but at last he felt a soft warm hand laid upon his forehead. When he looked up, he saw the maiden before him, and she said tenderly, "I have seen your bitter suffering and heard your longing sighs, and could not withdraw myself longer, though the time does not expire till to-morrow night." "Forgive me, forgive me, dear maiden," stammered Sleepy Tony. "Forgive me; I was a mad fool not to accept the proffered happiness. The devil only knows what folly came into my head two nights ago. Carry me whither you please. I will oppose you no longer, and would joyfully give up my very life for your sake." The mermaid answered smiling, "I do not desire your death, but I will take you living as my dear companion." She took the youth by the hand, led him a few paces nearer to the sea, and bound a silk handkerchief over his eyes. Immediately Sleepy Tony felt himself embraced by two strong arms, which raised him up as if in flight, and then plunged headlong into the sea. The moment the cold water touched his body, he lost all consciousness, and knew nothing more of what was happening around him; nor was he afterwards able to tell how long this insensibility lasted. When he awoke, he was to experience something stranger still. He found himself lying on soft cushions in a silken bed, which stood in a beautiful chamber, with walls of glass covered on the inside with curtains of red satin, lest the glaring light should wake the sleeper. Some time passed before he could make out whether he was still alive, or whether he was in some unknown region of the dead. He rocked his limbs to and fro, took the end of his nose between his fingers, and behold, he was quite unchanged. He was dressed in a white shirt, and handsome clothes lay in a chair in front of his bed. After lying in bed for some time, and feeling himself all over to make sure that he was really alive, he got up and dressed himself. Presently he coughed, when two maids entered, who greeted him as "his lordship," and wished to know what he would like for breakfast. One laid the table, and the other went to prepare the food. In a short time the table was loaded with dishes of pork, sausage, black puddings, and honey, with jugs of beer and mead, just the same as at a grand wedding-feast. Sleepy Tony, who had eaten nothing for several days before, now set to work in earnest, and ate his fill, after which he laid down on the bed to digest it. When he got up again, the waiting-maids came back, and invited his lordship to take a walk in the garden while her ladyship was dressing. He heard himself called "your lordship" so often, that he already began to feel himself such in reality, and forgot his former station. In the garden he met with beauty and elegance at every step; gold and silver apples glittered among the green leaves, and even the fir and pine cones were of gold, while birds of golden plumage hopped among the twigs and branches. Two maids came from behind a bush, who were commissioned to show his lordship round the garden, and to point out all its beauties. They went farther, and reached the edge of a pond where silver-feathered geese and swans were swimming. A rosy flush as of dawn filled all the sky, but the sun was not visible. The bushes were covered with flowers which exhaled a delicious odour, and bees as large as hornets flew among the flowers. All the flowers and shrubs which our friend beheld here were far more beautiful than he had ever seen before. Presently two elegantly dressed girls appeared, who invited his lordship to meet her ladyship, who was expecting him. But first they threw a blue silken shawl over his shoulders. Who would have recognised the former Sleepy Tony in such a guise? In a beautiful hall, as large as a church, and built of glass like the bedroom, sat twelve fair maidens on silver chairs.[31] Against the wall behind them was a daïs on which two golden thrones were placed. On one throne sat the august queen, and the other was unoccupied. When Sleepy Tony crossed the threshold, all the maidens rose from their seats and saluted him respectfully, and did not sit down again until desired to do so. The lady herself remained seated, bent her head to the youth in salutation, and signed with her finger, upon which Sleepy Tony's attendants took him between them, and conducted him to their mistress. The youth advanced with faltering steps, and did not venture to lift his eyes, for he was dazzled with all the unaccustomed splendour and magnificence. He was shown to his place on the golden throne next to the lady, and she said, "This young man is my beloved bridegroom, to whom I have plighted myself, and whom I have accepted as my consort. You must show him every respect, and obey him as you obey me. Whenever I leave the house, you must amuse him and look after him and guard him as the apple of my eye. You will be severely punished if you neglect to carry out my orders exactly." Sleepy Tony looked round him like one dazed, for he did not know what to make of the adventures of the night, which were more wonderful than wonder itself. He continually turned the question over in his mind as to whether he was awake or dreaming. The lady noticed his confusion, and rose from her throne, took him by the hand, and led him from one room to another, all of which were untenanted. At last they arrived at the twelfth chamber, which was rather smaller, but handsomer than the others. Here the lady took her crown from her head, cast aside the gold-embroidered mantle, and when Sleepy Tony ventured to raise his eyes, he recognised that it was the mermaid at his side, and no strange lady. Oh, how quickly his courage rose and his hopes revived! He cried out joyfully, "O dear mermaid!"--but the maiden laid her hand on his mouth, and spoke very earnestly, "If you have any regard for your own happiness or for mine, never call me by that name, which has only been given to me in mockery. I am one of the daughters of the Water-Mother. There are many sisters of us, but we all live apart, each in her own place, in the sea, or in lakes and rivers, and we only see each other occasionally by some fortunate chance." She then explained to him that she had hitherto remained unmarried, but now that she was an established ruler, she must assume the dignity of a royal matron. Sleepy Tony was so bewildered with this unimagined good fortune that he did not know how to express his happiness. His tongue seemed paralysed, and he could not manage to say more than Yes or No. But while he was enjoying a capital dinner and delicious beverages, his tongue was loosened, and he was not only able to talk as well as before, but to indulge in many pleasant jests. This agreeable life was continued on the next and on the third day, and Sleepy Tony thought he had been exalted to heaven in his living body. But before retiring to rest the mermaid said to him, "To-morrow will be Thursday, and every week I am bound by a vow to fast, and to remain apart from every one. You cannot see me at all on Thursdays until the cock has crowed thrice in the evening. My attendants will sing to you to pass the time away, and will see that you want for nothing." Next morning Sleepy Tony could not find his consort anywhere. He remembered what she had told him the evening before, that he must pass this and all future Thursdays without her. The waiting-maids exerted themselves to amuse him in every possible manner; they sang, played, and performed elegant dances, and then set before him such food and drink that no prince by birthright could have enjoyed better, and the day passed quicker than he had expected. After supper he laid himself to rest, and when the cock had crowed three times, the fair one returned to him. The same thing happened on every following Thursday. He often implored his beloved to allow him to fast with her on Thursdays, but all to no purpose. He troubled his consort again on a Wednesday with this request, and allowed her no rest; but the mermaid said, with tears in her eyes, "Take my life, if you please; I would lay it down cheerfully; but I cannot and dare not yield to your wish to take you with me on my fast-days." A year or more might have passed in this manner, when doubts arose in the mind of Sleepy Tony, which became always more tormenting, and allowed him no peace. His food became distasteful to him and his sleep refreshed him not. He feared lest the mermaid might have some other lover in secret besides himself, in whose arms she passed every Thursday, while he was obliged to pass his time with the waiting-maids. He had long ago discovered the room in which the mermaid hid herself on Thursdays, but how did that help him? The door was always locked, and the windows were so closely hung with double curtains on the inside that there was not an opening left as large as a needle's eye through which a sunbeam, much less a human eye, could penetrate. But the more impossible it seemed to penetrate this secret, the more eager grew his longing to get to the very bottom of it. Although he never breathed a word of the weight upon his mind to the mermaid, she could see from his altered manner that all was not as it should be. Again and again she implored him with tears in her eyes not to torment both himself and her with evil thoughts. "I am free from every fault against you," she declared, "and I have no secret love nor any other sin against you on my conscience. But your false suspicion makes us both miserable, and will destroy the peace of our hearts. I would gladly give up every moment of my life to you if you wished it, but I cannot allow you to come near me on my fast-days. It cannot be, for it would put an end to our love and happiness for ever. We are able to live quietly and happily together for six days in the week, and how should the separation of one day be so heavy that you cannot bear it?" She talked in this sensible way for six days, but when the following Thursday came, and the mermaid did not show herself, Sleepy Tony lost his wits, and behaved as if he was half-mad. He knew no peace, and at last one Thursday he refused to have any one with him. He ordered the waiting-maids to bring him his food and drink, and then to leave him directly, so that he remained alone like a spectre. This great alteration in his conduct astonished everybody, and when the mermaid heard of the matter, she almost wept her eyes out of her head, though she only gave way to her grief when no one was present. Sleepy Tony hoped that when he was alone he might have a better opportunity of inspecting the secret fasting chamber, and perhaps he might find some crack through which he could spy upon what was going on. The more he tormented himself, the more depressed became the mermaid, and although she still maintained a cheerful countenance, her friendliness no longer came from the heart as before. Some weeks passed by, and matters remained at a standstill, neither worse nor better, when one Thursday Sleepy Tony found a small space near the window where the curtains had slightly shifted, so that he could look into the chamber. The secret chamber had no floor, but looked like a great square tank, filled with water many feet deep. Herein swam his much-loved mermaid. From her head to her middle she was a beautiful woman, but from the navel downwards she was wholly a fish, covered with scales and provided with fins. Sometimes she threshed the water with her broad fish's tail and it dashed high up. The spy shrunk back confounded and made his way home very sorrowfully. What would he not have given to have blotted the sight from his memory! He thought of one thing and another, but could not decide on what to do. In the evening the cock crowed three times as usual, but the mermaid did not come back to him. He lay awake all night, but the fair one never came. She did not return till morning, when she was clad in black mourning garments and her face was covered with a thin silk handkerchief. Then she said, weeping, "O thou unhappy one! to have brought our happy life to an end by thy folly! Thou seest me to-day for the last time, and must return to thy former condition, and this thou hast brought upon thyself. Farewell, for the last time." There was a sudden crash and a tremendous noise, as if the floor was giving way beneath his feet, and Sleepy Tony was hurled down stunned, and could not perceive what was happening to himself or about him. No one knows how long afterwards it may have been when he recovered from his swoon, and found himself on the sea-shore close to the rock on which the fair mermaid had sat when she entered into the bond of friendship with him. Instead of the magnificent robes which he had worn every day in the dwelling of the mermaid, he found himself dressed in his old clothes, which were now much older and more ragged than he could possibly have supposed. Our friend's happy days were over, and no remorse, however bitter, could bring them back. He walked on till he reached the first houses of his village. They were standing in the same places, but yet looked different. But what appeared to him much more wonderful when he looked round, was that the people were all strangers, and he did not meet a single face which he knew. The people all looked strangely at him, too, as though he was a monster. Sleepy Tony went on to the farm of his parents, but here too he encountered only strangers, who knew him not, and whom he did not know. He asked in amazement for his father and brothers, but no one could tell him anything about them. At length an infirm old man came up, leaning on a stick, and said, "Peasant, the farmer whom you ask after has been sleeping in the ground for more than thirty years, and his sons must be dead too. How comes it, my good old man, that you ask after people who have been so long forgotten?" The words "old man" took Sleepy Tony so much aback that he was unable to ask another question. He felt his limbs trembling, turned his back on the strange people, and went out at the gate. The expression "old man" left him no peace; it fell upon him with a crushing weight, and his feet refused him their office. He hurried to the nearest spring and gazed in the water. The pale sunken cheeks, the hollow eyes, the long grey beard and grey hair, confirmed what he had heard. This worn-out, withered form no longer bore the slightest resemblance to the youth whom the mermaid had chosen as her consort. Now he fully realised his misery for the first time, and knew that the few years that he appeared to have been absent had comprised the greater part of his life, for he had entered the mermaid's house as a vigorous youth, and had returned as a spectre-like old man. There he had felt nothing of the course of time or of the wasting of his body, and he could not comprehend how the burden of old age had fallen upon him so suddenly, like the passing of a bird's wing. What could he do now, when he was a grey stranger among strangers? He wandered about on the beach for a few days, from one farm to another, and good people gave him a piece of bread out of charity. He chanced to meet with a friendly young fellow, to whom he related all the adventures of his life, but the same night he disappeared. A few days afterwards the waves cast up his body on the shore. It is not known whether he threw himself into the sea, or was drowned by accident. After this the behaviour of the mermaid towards mankind entirely changed. She sometimes appears to children only, most often in another form, but she does not permit grown-up people to approach her, but shuns them like fire. * * * * * Other stories relative to the Water-Mother, mermaids, and other beings of the water will be found in a later section. [Footnote 29: Schiefner considers the name of this story (_Näki Neitsi_) to indicate a Swedish origin; but this seems to be very doubtful evidence, and the incidental allusion to the Swedes in the course of the narrative seems opposed to such an idea.] [Footnote 30: George.] [Footnote 31: Compare the story of the "Twelve Daughters."] HOW THE SEA BECAME SALT. (JANNSEN.) This is an interesting variant of a story known from Iceland to Finland. There were two brothers, one rich and one poor. One Christmas the rich brother gave the other a ham, on condition that he should go to Põrgu. On his way, he met an old man who told him that ham was a rarity there, but he must not sell it for money, but only for what was behind the door, which proved to be a wishing-mill. The rich brother bought it for a high price, and set it to grind herrings and milk-soup; but he was soon forced to give his brother another great sum to induce him to take it back, and to save him and his wife, and indeed the whole village, from being overwhelmed by the torrents of herrings and soup. Afterwards it was sold to a sea-captain, who set it to grind salt, and it ground on till the ship sank, and it now lies at the bottom of the sea, grinding salt for ever.[32] The next story, which belongs to the same class as Grimm's "Devil with the Three Golden Hairs," introduces us to the personified Frost, who is here a much less malevolent being than in the _Kalevala_, Runo xxx. It also combines two familiar classes of tales: those in which a man receives gifts which are stolen from him, and which he afterwards recovers by means of another, often a magic cudgel; and those in which a man visiting the house of a giant or devil in his absence is concealed by the old mother in order to listen to the secrets revealed by her son when he comes home. [Footnote 32: It will be remembered that the Sampo, the magic mill in the _Kalevala_, ground salt as well as corn and money, and was ultimately broken to pieces and sunk in the sea. The Grôtta-Söngr in the Edda of Sæmund is better known; and many other variants might be cited. The story in the text much resembles that of "Silly Nicholas," which I remember reading in one of Chambers's publications many years ago.] THE TWO BROTHERS AND THE FROST. (JANNSEN.) Once upon a time there were two brothers, one of whom was rich and the other poor. The rich brother had much cornland and many cattle, but the poor one had only a little corner of a field, in which he sowed rye. Then came the Frost and destroyed even this poor crop. Nothing was left to the poor brother, so he set out in search of the Frost. When he had gone some distance, he arrived at a small house and went in. He found an old woman sitting there, who asked what he wanted. The man answered, "I had tilled a small field, and the Frost came and took away even the little that I had. So I set out in search of him, to ask why he has done me this mischief." The old woman answered, "The Frosts are my sons, and they destroy everything; but just now they are not at home. If they came home and found you here, they would destroy you likewise. Get up on the stove, and wait there." The man crept up, and just then the Frost came in. "Son," said the old woman, "why did you spoil the field of a poor man who was sufficiently pinched without this?" "Oh," said the Frost, "I was only trying whether my cold would bite." Then said the poor man on the stove, "Only give me so much back that I can just scrape through, or I must soon die of hunger, for I have nothing to break and bite." The Frost said, "We will give him enough to last him all his life." Then he gave him a knapsack, saying, "When you are hungry, you have only to say, 'Open, sack,' and you will have food and drink in abundance. But when you have had enough, say, 'Sack, shut,' and all will immediately return into the knapsack, and it will shut of itself." The man thanked him heartily for his gift, and went his way. When he had gone some distance, he said, "Open, sack," and immediately the knapsack opened of itself, and supplied him with food in plenty. When he had had enough, he said, "Sack, shut," and the food sprang into the knapsack, which closed of itself. When he got home, he continued to use it as the Frost directed. When he and his wife had lived comfortably thus for some time, the rich brother began to covet the knapsack, and wanted to buy it. He gave his poor brother a hundred oxen and cows, and as many horses and sheep. Thus the poor brother became rich, but he was not much better off, for he had to feed the animals. They all gathered round him, and he was now as poor as before. He did not know what to do, except to go back to the Frost and ask for a new sack. The Frost said, "Why were you so thoughtless as to give away such a knapsack? You are now just as poor as before." But at length he gave him a new knapsack, much handsomer than the first. The poor brother thanked him heartily, and went away joyful, for he thought he had got a knapsack like the first. When he felt hungry, he said as before, "Open, sack." Immediately the knapsack opened, and two fellows sprang out with thick cudgels in their hands, who beat him as if it was a fine art. The man was so overwhelmed that he could hardly utter the words, "Sack, shut!" Then the two retired and the knapsack shut. The man thought to himself, "Have patience! I'll exchange this with my brother." When he got home, his brother noticed what a fine knapsack he had, and wanted to exchange. The other had no objection, and the exchange was soon effected. Then the rich brother invited all his relatives and the distinguished people of the neighbourhood, for he thought to use the knapsack first to provide a grand feast. As soon as all these people were assembled, the host cried out, "Open, sack!" Then the knapsack indeed opened, but the men with the cudgels leaped out among the people, and belaboured them so lustily that they all fled in different directions, and some barely escaped with their lives. They all caught it hot, both the host and his guests. When at length the host cried out in his distress, "Sack, shut!" the men sprang back, and the sack closed. But now the bolder guests themselves gave the host a good beating before they left. After this, things went as badly with the rich brother as with the poor one before. He kept the handsome knapsack, but the men with the cudgels were in it, and if he only thought of opening it, they laid them on his back. But the poor brother had enough for himself and his wife from the first knapsack as long as he lived. * * * * * Versions of this story are current throughout Europe; but in general, the magical properties (of which there are usually two or three) are stolen or exchanged by a designing innkeeper, or other person, without the knowledge of the owner. * * * * * The next story, that of the Devil being pounded in a sack, is current in various forms throughout Northern Europe. THE SOLDIER AND THE DEVIL. (JANNSEN.) The Devil encountered a soldier outside the town, and said to him, "Good friend, please help me to get through the town. I can't go alone, though I should be very glad to do so, for the two-eyed dogs[33] would surround me in every street. They attack me as soon as I enter the town." "I'd be glad to help you," said the soldier, "but one can't do any business without money." "What do you want then?" said the Devil. "Not a great deal," returned the soldier, "for you've plenty of money. If you'll fill my gauntlet, I shall be quite satisfied." "I've as much as that in my pocket," said the Devil, and filled the glove to the brim. The soldier reflected, and said, "I really don't know where to put you. Stop! just creep into my knapsack; you'll be safer there than anywhere." "That'll do! But your knapsack has three straps. Don't buckle the third, or it might be bad for me."[34] "All right! Squeeze in." So the Devil crept into the knapsack. But the soldier was one of those people who don't keep their word as they ought. As soon as the devil was in the knapsack, he buckled all three straps tight, saying, "A soldier mustn't go through the town with loose straps. Do you think that the corporal would excuse me on your account if he saw me so untidy?" But the soldier had a friend on the other side of the town who was a smith. He marched straight off to him with the Devil in his knapsack, and said, "Old friend, please beat my knapsack soft on your anvil. The corporal always scolds me because he says that my knapsack is as hard and angular as a dry bast shoe." "Pitch it on the anvil," said the smith. And he hammered away at the knapsack till the wool flew from the hide. "Won't that do?" asked he after a while. "No," said the soldier, "harder still." And again the blows hailed on the knapsack. "That's enough," said the soldier at last. "I'll come to you again, if it's necessary." Then he took the knapsack on his shoulder, and went back to the town, where he pitched the Devil out of the knapsack in the middle of the street. The Devil was crushed as flat as a mushroom. He could hardly stand on his legs. It had never gone so ill with him before; but the soldier had money enough and to spare, and there was some left over for his heirs. When he died and arrived in the other world, he went to hell and knocked at the door. The Devil peeped through the door to see who it was, and yelled out, "No, no, you scamp, you're not wanted here; you may go wherever you like, but you won't get in here." So the soldier went to the Old God, and told him how it had fared with him. He replied, "Stay here now; there's plenty of room for soldiers." Since that time the Devil has admitted no more soldiers into hell. [Footnote 33: Odd stories are told in many countries about the relations between various animals and the Devil. In Esthonia the wolf and the dog are peculiarly hostile to the Devil. In the East it is the ass, concerning which Lane quotes the following amusing explanation in a note to the story of the "Peacock and Peahen," &c. (_Thousand and One Nights_, notes to Chap. ix. of Lane's translation):--"The last animal that entered with Noah into the ark was the ass, and Iblees (whom God curse!) clung to his tail. The ass had just entered the ark, and began to be agitated, and could not enter further into the ark, whereupon Noah said to him, 'Enter, woe to thee!' But the ass was still agitated, and was unable to advance. So Noah said, 'Enter, though the Devil be with thee!' And the ass entered, and Iblees (whom God curse!) entered with him. And Noah said, 'O enemy of God, who introduced thee into the ark?' He answered, 'Thou; thou saidst unto the ass, "Enter, though the Devil be with thee."' So it is said that this is the reason why the ass when he seeth the Devil brayeth."] [Footnote 34: Jannsen remarks that the _third_ strap would form a cross, and that the _three_ straps might be an allusion to the Trinity.] SECTION V _STORIES OF THE GODS, AND SPIRITS OF THE ELEMENTS_ Vanemuine appears in the _Kalevala_, under his Finnish name of Väinämöinen, as a culture-hero, though in the first recension of the poem, as well as in most of the creation-myths of the Finns, the creation is ascribed to him, and not to his mother, Ilmatar. He is, however, always a great musician, and in Esthonian tales usually appears rather in the character of a god than of a patriarch. We read much of Väinämöinen's playing and singing in the _Kalevala_, especially in Runo 46, where he charms all nature by his playing and singing, like Orpheus. In Runo 50 he is described as leaving Finland on account of his authority departing at the coming of Christ; though it is said by an old writer that the favourite deities of the Finns in his time were Väinämöinen and the Virgin Mary. THE SONG-GOD'S DEPARTURE. (JANNSEN.) All living beings gathered round Vanemuine on the Hill of Taara, and each received his language, according to what he could comprehend and retain of the song of the god. The sacred stream Ema had chosen for her language the rustling of his garments, but the trees of the forest chose the rushing of his robes as he descended to the earth. Therefore do we feel the presence of Vanemuine most nearly in the woods and on the banks of the murmuring brooks, and then are we filled with the spirit of his lays. The loudest tones are heard in the wind. Some creatures preferred the deep tones of the god's harp, and others the melody of the strings. The singing birds, especially the nightingale and the lark, deemed the holy songs and melodies of the god to be the most beautiful. But it fared very badly with the fishes. They stretched their heads out of the water to the eyes, but kept their ears under. So they saw well how Vanemuine moved his lips, and they imitated him, but they remained dumb. Only man could learn all notes and understand everything; therefore his song moves the soul most deeply, and lifts it towards the throne of God. Vanemuine sang of the grandeur of heaven and the beauty of earth, of the banks of the Ema and her beauty, and of the joy and sorrow of the children of men. And his song was so moving that he himself began to weep bitterly, and the tears sank through his sixfold robe and his sevenfold vest. Then he rose again on the wings of the wind, and went to the abode of God to sing and play. Long did his divine song linger in the mouths of the sons and daughters of Esthonia. When they wandered in the leafy shades of the holy forest, they comprehended the gentle rustling of the trees, and the rippling of the brooks filled them with joyous thoughts. The song of the nightingale melted their hearts, and the whistling of the larks lifted their minds to the abodes of God. Then it seemed to them as if Vanemuine himself wandered through the creation with his harp. And thus he did; and when the bards of the whole country assembled together to sing, Vanemuine was always among them, though they did not know him, and he ever kindled afresh in their bosoms the true fire of song. It came to pass, at one of these festivals, that a strange old maid took her place among the singers. Her face was full of wrinkles, her chin trembled, and one foot was supported by crutches. The old woman began her song in a grating voice. She sang of her beautiful youth, the happy days in the house of her parents, and the pitiful ways of the present, when all joy had vanished. Then she sang of her lovers, who came in hosts to woo her, and how she had repulsed them all. She concluded her song with the words-- "Sulev's son came here from Southland, Further Kalev's son had wandered; Sulev's son would fain have kissed me, Kalev's son my hand had taken; But I smote the son of Sulev, And in scorn the son of Kalev, I the fairest of the maidens." Scarcely had the old woman finished her song, when there arose a loud shout of laughter among the people, which sounded far over the plain and was echoed back from the forest. The people sang the old woman's last words in derision, and their laughter was unceasing till the eldest of the company stopped it with stern interference. All was still around. Then an old man on a decorated seat began a magnificent song, which filled all around with holy joy. But suddenly they heard a voice behind him, which took up the witch's song afresh. Laughter again arose among the ranks of people. Again the elder sternly commanded silence, and those who were gathered round the old man and had heard his song likewise commanded silence. Then the people were quiet once more. The old man on the throne of song now raised his voice, and the people listened to him with delight. It was a genuine song, for it met with a response in all hearts, and moved their nobler being to heavenly thoughts. But again a loud voice rose in the throng, which took up the ugly chant of the old woman, and again loud laughter echoed through the assembly. Then the old man on the throne grew angry, gazed wrathfully down on the foolish throng, and immediately vanished from their eyes. Only a mighty rushing and clanging was heard, so that all trembled, and their blood froze in their veins. Who was the hoary singer? Was it not Vanemuine himself? Where had he vanished to? They talked and asked each other. But the singer remained invisible, and no one saw him again. This was Vanemuine's last farewell to the Esthonian people. Only a few minstrels now enjoy the happiness of listening to his singing and playing in the far distance, and such minstrels only are able to move their brothers with the divine voice of song. * * * * * In the _Kalevala_, Väinämöinen has neither wife nor child, but the Esthonians ascribe to him a foster-daughter, of whom the following story is related. JUTTA. (JANNSEN.)[35] Once upon a time the God of Song wandered musing by the banks of Lake Endla, and his harp clanged in unison with the thoughts which moved his heart. There he saw a little child lying near him in the grass, which stretched out its hands to him. He looked round everywhere for the child's mother, but she was nowhere to be seen. So he lifted up the beautiful little girl, and went to Taara, and begged him to give him the child as his own. Ukko consented, and as he gazed graciously at his daughter, her eyes shone like stars, and her hair glittered like bright gold. Under the divine protection the child grew up from the tender infant to the maiden Jutta. The God of Song taught her the sweet art of speech, and Ilmarine wrought the girl a veil, wondrously woven of silver threads. He who gazed through her veil saw everything of which the maiden spoke as if it were passing before his eyes. She is said to have dwelt by the Lake of Endla, where she was often seen, planning the flights of the birds of passage, and showing them the way; and also when she wandered by the shores of the lake, and wept for the death of Endla,[36] her beloved. But she took the wonderful veil, and gazed upon the happy past, and then was she happy, for she thought she possessed what her eyes saw. She has also lent her veil to mortal men, and then it is that the songs and legends of the past become living to us. * * * * * We will now proceed to stories relative to the nature-spirits, commencing with those of the water, who are both numerous and powerful among the Finns and Esthonians. Other stories concerning them will be found in different parts of the book. [Footnote 35: This story is also related, more briefly, by Blumberg, who states that Lake Endla lies in an impassable swamp in the district of Vaimastfer, and is visible from the hill near Kardis. The fish and birds are under the protection of Jutta, and there is no place in the country where birds congregate to such an extent, and birds of passage remain so long. Jutta is perhaps the same as Lindu (vol. ii. p. 147). Near Heidelberg is a spring called the "Wolfsbrunnen," where a beautiful enchantress named Jutta, the priestess of Hertha, is said to have had an assignation with her lover; but he found she had been killed by a wolf, the messenger of the offended goddess. Whether there is any connection between the German and Esthonian Jutta I do not know.] [Footnote 36: Or Endel, the son of Ilmarine. Blumberg writes "Wanemuinen" and "Ilmarinen" in his account of the legend, which nearly approach the Finnish forms of the names.] THE TWELVE DAUGHTERS. (KREUTZWALD.) Once upon a time there lived a poor labourer who had twelve daughters, among whom were two pairs of twins. They were all charming girls, healthy, ruddy, and well made. The parents were very poor, and the neighbours could not understand how they managed to feed and clothe so many children. Every day the children were washed and their hair combed, and they always wore clean clothes, like Saxon children. Some thought that the labourer had a treasure-bringer, who brought him whatever he wanted;[37] others said that he was a sorcerer, and others thought he was a wizard who knew how to discover hidden treasures in the whirlwind. But the real explanation was very different. The labourer's wife had a secret benefactress who fed and washed and combed the children. When the mother was a girl, she lived in service at a farmhouse, where she dreamed for three nights running that a noble lady came towards her, and desired her to go to the village spring on St. John's Eve. Perhaps she would have forgotten all about the dream; but on St. John's Eve she heard a small voice like the buzzing of a gnat always singing in her ear, "Go to the spring, go to the spring, whence trickle the watery streams of your good fortune!" Although she could not listen to this secret summons without a shudder, yet she fortified her heart at length, and leaving the other maidens, who were amusing themselves with the swing and round the fire, she went to the spring. The nearer she came, the more her heart failed her, and she would have turned back if the gnat-like voice had allowed her any rest; but it drove her unwillingly onwards. When she reached the spot, she saw a lady in white robes sitting on a stone by the spring. When the lady perceived the girl's alarm, she advanced a few steps to meet her, and offered her her hand, saying, "Fear nothing, dear child; I will do you no harm. Give good heed to what I tell you, and remember it. In the autumn you will be sought in marriage. Your bridegroom will be as poor as yourself; but do not concern yourself about this, and accept his offered brandy.[38] As you are both good people, I will bring you happiness, and help you to get on; but do not neglect thrift and labour, without which no happiness is lasting. Take this bag, and put it in your pocket; there is nothing in it but a few milk-can pebbles.[39] When you have given birth to your first child, throw a pebble into the well, and I will come to see you. When the child is baptized, I will be the sponsor. Let no one know of our nocturnal meeting. For the present I say farewell." At these words the wonderful stranger vanished from the girl's eyes as suddenly as if she had sunk into the ground. Very likely the girl might have thought that this adventure was a dream too, if the bag in her hand had not testified to its reality: it contained twelve stones. The prediction was fulfilled, and the girl was married in the autumn to a poor labourer. Next year the young wife gave birth to her first child, and remembering what had happened to her on St. John's Eve, she rose secretly from her bed, and threw a pebble into the well. It splashed into the water, and immediately the friendly white-robed lady stood before her, and said, "I thank you for not forgetting me. Take the child to be baptized on Sunday fortnight, and I will come to church too, and stand sponsor." When the child was brought into church on the appointed day, an unknown lady entered, who took it on her lap and had it baptized. When this was done, she tied a silver rouble in the child's swaddling clothes, and gave it back to the mother. The same thing happened at the birth of each successive child, until there were twelve. On the birth of the last child, the lady said to the mother, "Henceforward you will see me no more, though I shall invisibly watch over you and your children daily. The water of the well will benefit the children more than the best food. When the time comes for your daughters to marry, you must give each the rouble which I brought as their godmother's gift. Until then, do not let them dress finely, but let them wear clean dresses and clean linen both on week-days and Sundays." The children grew and throve so well that it was a delight to see them. There was plenty of bread in the house, though sometimes little else, but both parents and children seemed to be chiefly strengthened by the water of the well. In due time the eldest daughter was married to the son of a prosperous innkeeper. Although she brought him nothing beyond her most needful clothing, yet a bridal chest was made, and her clothes and her godmother's rouble put into it. But when the men lifted the chest into the cart, they found it so heavy that they thought it must be full of stones, for the poor labourer could not have given his daughter anything of value. But great was the young bride's amazement when she opened the chest in her husband's house and found it filled with pieces of linen, and at the bottom a leathern purse containing a hundred silver roubles. The same thing happened after every fresh marriage, and the daughters were soon all betrothed when it became known that each received such a bridal portion. One of the sons-in-law was a very avaricious man, and was not satisfied with his wife's bridal portion. He thought that the parents themselves must be possessed of great riches, if they could bestow so much on each daughter. So he went one day to his father-in-law, and began to pester him about his supposed treasure. The labourer told him the exact truth. "I have nothing but my body and soul, and could not give my daughters anything but the chests. I have nothing to do with what each found in her chest. It is the gift of the godmother, who gave each of the children a rouble at her christening, and this has multiplied itself in the chests." The avaricious son-in-law would not believe him, and threatened to denounce the old man as a wizard and wind-sorcerer, who had amassed a large treasure in this manner. But as the labourer had a clear conscience, he did not fear his son-in-law's threats. The latter, however, actually made his complaint to the authorities, and the court sent for the other sons-in-law of the labourer, and inquired whether each of their brides had received the same portion. The men declared that each had received a chest of linen and a hundred silver roubles. This caused great surprise, for the whole neighbourhood knew that the labourer was a poor man, and had no other treasure but his twelve pretty daughters. The people knew that the daughters had always worn clean white linen from their earliest years, but nobody had seen them wear any other ornaments, neither brooches nor coloured neckerchiefs. The judge now determined to investigate this wonderful affair more closely, and to find out whether the old man was really a sorcerer. One day the judge left the town, attended by his police. They wished to surround the labourer's house with guards, so that no one could get out and carry away the treasure. The avaricious son-in-law accompanied them as guide. When they reached the wood in which the labourer's house stood, guards were posted on all sides, with strict orders not to allow any one to pass till the matter had been fully investigated. The rest left their horses behind, and followed the footpath to the cottage. The son-in-law warned them to advance slowly and silently, for fear the sorcerer might see them coming and escape on the wings of the wind. They had already nearly reached the cottage, when they were suddenly dazzled by the wonderful splendour which shone through the trees. As they advanced, a large and splendid palace became visible. It was entirely built of glass, and illuminated by hundreds of tapers, although the sun shone, and the day was perfectly light. Two sentries stood at the door, wholly cased in brazen armour, and holding long drawn swords in their hands. The officials did not know what to make of it, and everything looked more like a dream than reality. Then the door opened, and a young man gaily attired in silken garments, came forth and said, "Our queen has commanded that the chief-justice shall appear before her." Although the judge felt some alarm, he decided to follow the young man into the house. Who can describe the splendour which he beheld! In a magnificent hall as large as a church sat a lady enthroned, robed in silk, satin, and gold. Some feet lower sat twelve beautiful princesses on smaller golden seats. They were dressed as magnificently as the queen, except that they wore no golden crowns. On both sides stood numerous attendants, all in bright silken attire and with golden necklaces. When the chief judge came forward bowing, the queen demanded, "Why have you come out to-day with a host of police, as if you were about to arrest criminals?" The judge was about to answer, but terror stopped his utterance and he could not speak a word. "I know the base lying charges," continued the queen, "for nothing is concealed from my eyes. Let the false accuser enter, but chain him hand and foot, and I will pronounce just sentence. Let the other judges and attendants enter too, that the matter may be done publicly, and that they may bear witness that no one suffers injustice here." One of the servants hastened out to fulfil the order, and after some time the accuser was led in, chained hand and foot, and guarded by six soldiers in armour. The remaining judges and attendants followed. Then the queen addressed the assembly. "Before I pronounce the well-deserved sentence on the offender, I must briefly explain the real state of the case. I am the most powerful Lady of the Waters, and all the springs of water which rise from the earth are subject to my authority.[40] The eldest son of the King of the Winds was my lover, but as his father would not allow him to take a wife, we were obliged to keep our marriage secret as long as his father lived.[41] As I could not venture to bring up my children at home, I exchanged them with the children of the labourer's wife, as often as she was confined. The labourer's children were reared as foster-children by my aunt, and whenever one of the labourer's daughters was about to marry, another change was effected. "Each time, on the night before the wedding, I had my daughter carried away, and that of the labourer substituted. The old King of the Winds had been lying ill for a long time, and knew nothing of our proceedings. On the christening-day I gave each child a silver rouble to form the marriage portion in her bridal chest. All the sons-in-law were satisfied with their young wives and with what they brought them, except this avaricious scoundrel whom you see before you in chains, who dared to bring false accusations against his father-in-law, in hopes of enriching himself thereby. The old King of the Winds died a fortnight ago, and my consort succeeded to the throne. It is no longer necessary for us to conceal our marriage and our children. Here sit my twelve daughters, and their foster-parents, the labourer and his wife, shall dwell with me as my pensioners till their death. But you, worthless scamp, whom I have put in chains, shall also receive your just reward. You shall sit chained in a mountain of gold, so that your greedy eyes shall ever behold the gold without your being able to touch a particle. For seven hundred years you shall endure this torment before death shall have power to bring you rest. This is my decree." When the queen had finished speaking, a noise was heard like a violent clap of thunder; the earth quaked, and the magistrates and their servants fell down stunned. When they recovered their senses, they found themselves in the wood to which their guide had led them, but on the spot where the palace of glass had stood in all its splendour, clear cold water now gushed forth from a small spring. Nothing more was ever heard of the labourer, his wife, or his avaricious son-in-law. The widow of the latter married another husband in the autumn, and lived happily with him for the rest of her life. [Footnote 37: Compare the story of the "Treasure-Bringer," in a later section of the volume.] [Footnote 38: Brandy is offered by a lover in Esthonia, and accepted by the girl if she favours him.] [Footnote 39: Small stones are used for cleaning milk-cans.] [Footnote 40: Jannsen remarks that her authority seems to have been limited to these, and also that she cannot have been the supreme Water-Goddess, whose husband is Ahti, the God of the Sea.] [Footnote 41: These long-lived, but mortal Elemental Powers seem to correspond to some classes of the Arabian Jinn, as for instance, the Diving Jinn in such tales as "Jullanar of the Sea" (_Thousand and One Nights_). They may also be compared with the Elemental Spirits of the Rosicrucians, who are long-lived, but likewise mortal.] THE FOUR GIFTS OF THE WATER-SPRITE. (JANNSEN.) Four boys were playing one Sunday on the banks of Lake Peipus, when the water-spirit appeared to them in the form of an old man with long grey hair and beard, and gave each of them a present--a boat, a hammer, a ploughshare, and a little book. As they grew up, one became a smith, another a fisherman, another a farmer, and the last a great king, who conquered the Danes and Swedes. * * * * * After this story, of which we have only given a brief abstract, we place another, descriptive of the dwellings of the lake-spirits. THE LAKE-DWELLERS.[42] (JANNSEN.) Many years ago a man was driving over a lake with his little son before the ice was properly formed. It broke, and they all sank in the water, when an old man with silver-grey hair came up, and upbraided them for breaking through the winter roof of his palace. He told the man that he must stay with him, but he would give him a grey horse and a sledge with golden runners, that he might drive about under the ice in autumn, and make a noise to warn others that it was unsafe until Father Taara had strengthened it sufficiently. But he would help the boy and the horse above the ice, for they were not to blame. When the water-god had brought them from under the ice, he told the boy to go home, and not to mourn for his father, who would be very happy under the water, and to be careful not to drop anything out of the sledge. On reaching home, he found two lumps of ice in the sledge, and threw them out, but when they struck against a stone and did not break, he discovered that they were lumps of pure silver. He had now plenty to live upon comfortably; but every autumn when the lake was covered with young ice, he went to it, hoping to see or hear something of his father. The ice often cracked and heaved just before his footsteps, as if his father was trying to speak to him, but there was no other sign. Many years passed by, and the son grew old and grey. One day he went to the lake as usual, and sat down sorrowfully on a stone, just where the river falls into it, and great tears rolled down his cheeks. Suddenly he saw, on raising his eyes, a great door of silver with golden lattice-work close to the mouth of the river. He rose up and went to it, and he had scarcely touched it when it sprang open. He hesitated a moment and then entered, and found himself in a gloomy gallery of bronze. He went some distance, and presently reached a second door like the former, but much higher. Before it stood a dwarf with a broad stone hat on his head and bronze armour. He wore a copper girdle round his waist, and held in his hand a copper halbert about six feet long. "I suppose you have come to see your father?" he said in a friendly manner. "Yes, indeed, my good man," answered the other. "Can you not help me to see him or meet him? I am already an old man myself, and my life grows ever more lonely." "I must not make any promises," said the dwarf, "and it is about time for your father to fulfil his office. Hark, he is just driving off in his golden sledge with the grey horse, to warn mortals against treading incautiously on our delicate silver roof. But as you have once before been our guest, and have ventured to come again, I will show you the house and grounds of the water-world. None of our people are at home to-day, neither the gentry nor the household, so that we can go through the rooms without interference." As he spoke he touched the door, and the old man and his guide entered a vast and splendid palace of crystal. There they saw a great crowd of men, women, and children walking about, or sitting talking, or amusing themselves; but none of them noticed or addressed the newcomers. Presently the dwarf led the old man farther into the hall. All the fittings were of bright gold and silver, and the floor was of copper, and the farther they advanced the brighter everything shone, without any apparent end. At last the old man asked to turn back, and the dwarf said, "It is well that you mentioned it, for a little farther on the gold shines so brilliantly that the eyes of mortal men cannot endure it. And there dwells our good and mighty king, with his noble consort, surrounded by the bold heroes and lovely dames of our realm." "You told me the gentry and dependants were not at home," said the old man, "but who were all the people who were talking and laughing near the door, and the children who were playing with all manner of costly toys of gold and silver? Don't they belong to your people?" "Half-way indeed, but not quite," said the dwarf. "They are, if I may be permitted to tell you, people from your world, who all sank into our kingdom, sooner or later. But they live a very pleasant life here, and have no wish to return to your world, even if they were permitted. For whoever comes to our kingdom must stay with us." "Must I stay here too?" asked the old man startled, not knowing what preparations he had to make for the life below. "Do you find our home so bad?" asked the dwarf. "But fear nothing, and don't alarm yourself. This day you can go or stay, as you please. I led you in freely, and will lead you out freely. But this is the first time that a mortal man has been permitted to leave our abode." Then the old man asked, "Shall I never see my father again?" and tears stood in his eyes once more. The dwarf answered, "You would not see him again till after three weeks, when the ice has become strong and firm. Your father will then have finished his work for the year, and can pass his time pleasantly with us till another year has passed, and he must again perform his office for a month." "Must he then do this work for ever, and remember his misfortune every year?" asked the old man sadly. The dwarf answered, "He must perform this duty till another mortal accidentally damages our roof and sinks down himself. Then is the first man released from his journeying under the young ice, and the other must henceforth take the work upon himself." As they were thus conversing, the old man and his guide reached the gate. Then they looked in each other's faces, and the dwarf gave the old man two rods of copper with a friendly smile, and said, "If you ever come to this gate, and don't find me on guard, but some one whom you don't know, strike these rods together, and I will do what you wish, as far as I can." Then he led his guest through the lofty gate, and accompanied him through the bronze passage to the outer gate, and opened it. Then the old man found himself standing again on the banks of the lake near the mouth of the river, as if he had fallen from the clouds. The door had vanished, but the rods in his hand showed him that what he had seen was a reality. He put them in his pocket, and wandered home sunk in deep thought, and dazed like a drunken man. But here he found no rest or pleasure in anything. He went to the mouth of the river on the lake daily for three weeks, and sat on the rock as if in a dream; and at last he disappeared, and never came home again. * * * * * Kreutzwald relates that every autumn a little grey man, who lives in the Ülemiste järv, rises from it to see if the new buildings are sufficiently decorated. When he has finished his inspection, he returns to the lake; but if he was so dissatisfied as to turn his head in the opposite direction, evil would come on Tallin (Revel), for the low-lying country would be inundated, and the town would be destroyed. * * * * * The following tales relate to beings inhabiting the sea. [Footnote 42: These beings who dwell beneath the sea or lakes are often called "underground people" in Esthonian and Lappish stories.] THE FAITHLESS FISHERMAN. (JANNSEN.) A fisherman was sleeping on the sand, by the Baltic, when a stranger roused him, telling him that the sea was full of fish. They fished together all day, when the boat was filled, and the stranger sent the fisherman to sell the fish, insisting that he should bring him half the profits, and give the other half to his own wife. Next day they would go fishing again. This went on day after day, and the stranger regularly received half the proceeds of the work, giving back a trifle to the fisherman in return for the use of the boat and tackle. When everything was arranged, he used to disappear behind a large stone. Thus the fisherman became rich. He built himself a cottage, and bought a new boat, and sometimes he indulged in a glass to quench his thirst. One day it occurred to him to give his partner less than his due; but next day the results of their fishing were much smaller, and the stranger looked at him sorrowfully. In the evening the fisherman went to sell the fish, but gave his partner still less than the day before. Next day, when they cast the nets, they did not take a single fish, and the stranger said, "You have cheated me two days running, and now you must die." He then threw the fisherman overboard, and two days afterwards his body was found on the beach and buried. As his wife stood weeping by his grave, a tall, strong man approached, who told her to dry her tears; for if he had not drowned her husband, he would have died on the gallows. He then gave her a bag of money, telling her that her husband had gained it honestly, and that he was the water-sprite. Then he disappeared, leaving the money, and the widow went home and lived happily with her children. * * * * * Another curious story relative to water-sprites is that of the mermaid and the lord of Pahlen (Kreutzwald). The latter found the maiden sitting on a stone by the sea-shore, and lamenting because her father, the king of the sea, compelled her to raise storms, in which many people perished, in order to please the Mother of the Winds. The nobleman freed her from her trouble by breaking the ring with which she raised the storms with his teeth, and she rewarded him with two large barrels of gold. * * * * * The following short stories relate to different classes of spirits of the air. THE SPIRITS OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS. (JANNSEN.)[43] A certain nobleman was in the habit of driving away from his mansion every Thursday during hard winters, and not returning till towards morning. But he had strictly forbidden all his people to accompany him, or to receive him on his return. He himself harnessed the horse to the sledge, and unharnessed him when he returned. But no one was permitted to see the horse and carriage, and he threatened every one with death who should venture into his secret stable in the evening. During the day he carried the stable key in his bosom, and at night he hid it under his pillow. But the nobleman's coachman heeded not the strict prohibition of his master, for he was much too anxious to know where his master went every Thursday, and what the horse and carriage were like. So he contrived one Thursday to get into the stable, and he hid himself in a dark corner near the door. He had not long to wait before his master came and opened the door. All at once it became as light as if many candles had been kindled in the great stable. The coachman crouched together in his corner like a hedgehog, for if his master had seen him, he would certainly have suffered the threatened punishment. Then the master pushed the sledge forward, and it shone like a red-hot anvil. But while the master went to fetch the horse, the coachman crept under the sledge. The nobleman harnessed the horse, and threw cloths over the horse and the sledge, that the people about the yard should not see the wonderful radiance. Then the coachman crept quietly from under the sledge, and hid himself behind on the runners, where by good luck his master did not notice him. When all was ready, the nobleman sprang into the sledge, and they went off so rapidly that the runners of the sledge resounded, always due north. After some hours, the coachman saw that the cloths were gone from the horse and sledge, which shone again like fire. Now, too, he perceived that ladies and gentlemen were driving up from all directions with similar sledges and horses. That was a rush and rattle! The drivers rushed past each other as though it was for a very heavy wager, or as if they were on their wedding journey. At last the coachman perceived that their course lay above the clouds, which stretched below them like smooth lakes. After a time, the racers fell more and more behind, and the coachman's master said to his nearest companion, "Brother, the other spirits of the Northern Lights are departing. Let us go too!" Then the master and coachman drove fast home. Next day people said they had never seen the Northern Lights so bright as the night before. The coachman held his tongue, and trusted no one with the story of his nocturnal journey. But when he was old and grey he told the story to his grandson, and so it became known to the people. And it was said that such spirits still exist, and that when the Northern Lights flame in the heavens in winter they hold a wedding in the sky. [Footnote 43: In Canto xvi. of the _Kalevipoeg_, the spirits of the Northern Lights are described as carrying on mimic combats in the air.] THE SPIRIT OF THE WHIRLWIND. (JANNSEN.) Two men were walking together when they saw a haystack carried away by the wind. The elder man said it was the Spirit of the Whirlwind; but the other would not believe him till they saw a cloud of dust, when they turned their backs to it, and the young man repeated a spell after the old one. When they turned round, they saw an old grey man with a long white beard, a broad flapping coat, and streaming hair, devastating the woods. He took no notice of them, but the elder one cautioned the other not to forget to repeat the spell whenever he saw him. However, he forgot it, and the whirlwind in a fury carried him many miles from home, and ever afterwards persecuted him till he went to his friend and learned the spell again. Next time he saw the whirlwind he was fishing; and on his repeating the spell, the spirit passed him angrily, and a great wave surged up from the river, and wetted the man to the skin. But after that the spirit never reappeared to him, and left him in peace. THE WILL O' THE WISPS. (JANNSEN.) A farmer was driving home one winter evening from Fellin across the Parika heath, when he suddenly saw a little blue flame on one side, and his horse stopped short and would not move. It was as if he had been stopped by a ditch. He dismounted, and found not a ditch, but an open pit; and he could not drive round it, because there was deep water on all sides. Presently he saw a light flare up like a torch, and then another, till many of them were flitting about everywhere. In consternation, the farmer cried out, "Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, what's going on here tonight?" The horse sprang forward, as if somebody had stuck a pin into him, and the farmer had only just time to tumble on the sledge, when they went off at full gallop; and the farmer could say that the name of God had occurred to him just at the right time. THE FOUNDLING. (JANNSEN.)[44] One evening a little boy was sleeping restlessly in a village on the island of Dagö. His father saw a small hole which had been bored in the wall, and thinking that the draught disturbed the child, he stopped it up. He then saw a beautiful little girl playing with the boy, and preventing him from sleeping quietly. As she could not get away again, she remained in the house; and when the children grew up, they married, and had two children. One Sunday they went to church, and the wife laughed; but when her husband asked why, she replied that she would tell him if he told her how she came into his house. Thinking no harm, he promised to tell her, as he had heard the story from his father. Then she told him that she saw a great horse-skin spread on the wall of the church, on which the devil wrote the names of all the people who slept or talked in church instead of attending to the word of God. When it was full, he tried to stretch it with his teeth, but in doing so, he knocked his head against the wall and made a wry face, and she laughed. When they got home, he took the wooden plug from the hole, and showed it to his wife, but she instantly disappeared through it and never returned. The man wept himself blind, but the children grew up and prospered all their lives. People said their mother visited them secretly and brought treasures to the house. * * * * * The next story introduces us to the Gnomes, who appear to come more frequently into contact with human beings than any of the other nature-spirits, perhaps because their nature may be more akin to that of man. They are seen with more or less similar characteristics in all the mining countries of Northern Europe, whether Celtic, as Ireland and the Isle of Man; Teutonic, as England, Germany, and Scandinavia; or Finnish-Ugrian. They were well known to the old Norsemen as the Dvergar. [Footnote 44: Latham (_Nationalities of Europe_, i. p. 34) relates a very similar Lithuanian story of a Lauma or Nightmare.] THE CAVE-DWELLERS. (KREUTZWALD.) Once upon a time a man lost his way on a stormy night between Christmas and New Year. He wore out his strength plunging through the deep snowdrifts, until, by good luck, he found some protection from the wind under a thick juniper bush. Here he resolved to pass the night, hoping to find his way easier by the clear light of the morning. He rolled himself together like a hedgehog in his warm fur-cloak and fell asleep. I don't know how long he lay there before he was roused by somebody shaking him, and a stranger's voice said in his ear, "Get up, farmer, or the snow will bury you, and you will never get out again." The sleeper pushed his head out of his fur, and opened his sleepy eyes wide. He saw a tall thin man before him, who carried a young fir-tree, twice as high as himself, as his staff. "Come with me," said the man; "we have made a fire under the trees, where you can rest better than in this open field." The traveller could not refuse such a friendly invitation, so he got up directly, and walked on quickly with the stranger. The snowstorm raged so furiously that they could not see a step before them, but when the stranger lifted his fir staff and cried with a loud voice, "Ho there, mother of the snowstorm, make way!" a broad pathway appeared before them, on which no snowflakes fell. A dreadful snowstorm raged on either side of the wanderers and behind them, but it did not touch them. It appeared as if an invisible wall held back the storm on either hand. The men soon reached the wood, and they had already seen the light of the fire from afar off. "What is your name?" asked the man with the fir staff, and the peasant answered, "Hans, the son of tall Hans." Three men sat at the fire, clothed in white linen garments, as if it had been midsummer. For thirty paces or more around them, everything looked like summer; the moss was dry, the herbage was green, and the grass swarmed with ants and small beetles; but afar off Hans heard the blasts of wind and the raging of the storm. Still stranger seemed the burning fire, which spread a bright light around, but threw up no smoke. "What think you, tall Hans' son? isn't this a better resting-place for the night than under the juniper bush in the open field?" Hans assented, and thanked the stranger for bringing him there. Then he took off his fur-cloak, rolled it up as a pillow for his head, and lay down in the glow of the fire. The man with the fir staff took his flask from under a bush and offered Hans a drink, which tasted most excellent, and warmed his heart. He then lay down too, and began conversing with his companions in a foreign language, of which Hans could not understand a word; and Hans presently fell asleep. When he awoke, he found himself lying in a strange place, where was neither wood nor fire. He rubbed his eyes, and tried to recollect what had happened to him the night before, and thought he must have been dreaming, but he could not understand how he came to be lying in quite a strange place. A great noise resounded from a distance, and he felt the ground under his feet tremble. Hans listened for some time to find out where the noise came from, and then determined to follow it, hoping to find some people. Presently he reached the entrance to a cavern, from which the noise proceeded, and where a fire was shining. When he entered, he found a huge smithy filled with bellows and anvils, and seven workmen stood round each anvil. But stranger smiths were not to be found in the world. They were not higher than the knee of an ordinary man, and their heads were larger than their own bodies, and they wielded hammers more than twice as large as themselves. But they smote on the anvil so lustily with these huge iron hammers that the strongest man could not have struck harder. The little smiths were clad in leathern aprons which reached from the neck to the feet; but at the back their bodies were as naked as God had made them. In the background a high bench stood against the wall, on which sat Hans' friend with the fir staff, and looked sharply after the work of the little journeymen. A large can stood at his feet, from which the workmen took a drink now and then. The master of the smithy was no longer dressed in white, as on the previous day, but wore a black sooty coat, and round his waist a leathern belt with a great buckle. Now and then he made a sign to the workmen with his fir staff, for the noise was so great that no human voice could have been heard. Hans was uncertain whether any one had noticed him, for both master and men continued their work without paying any attention to the stranger. After some hours, the little smiths were allowed to rest; the bellows were stopped, and the heavy hammers thrown on the ground. When the workmen had left, the master rose from the bench, and called to Hans to approach. Oh, what riches and treasure Hans beheld there! All sorts of gold and silver lay about everywhere, and glittered and gleamed before his eyes. Hans amused himself by counting the bars of gold in a single heap, and had just counted up to five hundred and seventy, when the master turned round and said, smiling, "You'd better leave off, for it will take up too much time. You would do better to take some bars from the heap, for I will give you them as a remembrance." Of course Hans needed no second invitation. He grasped one of the bars of gold with both hands, but could not even move it, much less lift it from its place. The master laughed, and said, "Poor delicate flea! you cannot carry off even the least of my treasures, so you must feast your eyes on them instead." He then led Hans into another room, and through a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth of these treasure-caverns, till they reached the seventh, which was as big as a large church, and, like the others, was crammed with heaps of gold and silver from floor to ceiling. Hans marvelled at these immeasurable riches, which could easily have bought up all the kingdoms in the world, but which were now lying useless underground. So he asked the master, "Why do you store up these vast treasures here, where no human being can derive any benefit from the gold and silver? If these treasures came into the hands of men, they would all be rich, and nobody would have to work or suffer distress." "It is for this very reason," answered the master, "that I cannot hand over these treasures to mankind. The whole world would perish from sloth, if no one needed longer to work for his daily bread. Man is created to sustain himself by toil and thrift." But Hans did not like this view of the matter, and disputed energetically with the master. At last he asked him to explain how it was that all this gold and silver was the property of one man and was left to rust, and why the master of the treasure incessantly laboured to increase it when he had already such an amazing superfluity of riches. The master answered, "I am not a man, although I have the form and appearance of one. I belong to a nobler race, which was formed by the decree of the Creator to rule the world.[45] By his decree, I must work constantly with my little companions to prepare gold and silver under the earth, and every year a small portion is assigned to the use of men, but not more than just sufficient for their necessities. No one is allowed to receive the gift without trouble. So we are obliged to pound up the gold first, and mix the grains with earth, clay, and sand, and they are afterwards found by chance in this mass, and must be diligently sought for. But, my friend, we must break off our conversation, for it is almost noon. If you would like to look at my treasures longer, stay here, and rejoice your heart with the glitter of gold till I come to call you to dinner." Thereupon he left Hans alone. Hans wandered about again from one treasure-chamber to another, and now and then he attempted to lift one of the smaller pieces of gold, but found it quite impossible. In former times, he had often heard clever people say how heavy gold was, but he would never believe it. Now, however, he learned it from his own experience. After a time the master returned, but he was so much altered that Hans did not recognise him at first sight. He wore red flame-coloured silken robes, richly decorated with golden lace and golden fringes. He wore a broad gold belt round his waist, and a gold crown adorned his head, sparkling with jewels like stars on a clear winter's night. Instead of the fir staff, he now held a small gold sceptre in his hand, which branched in such a way that it looked like a shoot of the great fir staff. After the royal master of the treasure had locked the doors of the treasure-chambers and put the key in his pocket, he took Hans by the hand and led him from the smithy to another room where dinner was set out. The seats and tables were of silver, and in the midst of the room stood a beautiful dinner-table, with a silver chair on each side. All the utensils, such as cups, dishes, plates, jugs, and mugs, were of gold. When the master and his guest had seated themselves at the table, twelve dishes were presented in succession. The waiters were just like the little men in the smithy, only that they were not naked, but wore clean white clothes. Their quickness and dexterity was very remarkable, for although they did not appear to be provided with wings, they moved about as lightly as birds. They were not tall enough to reach the table, and were obliged to skip up to it like fleas. Meantime they held the great dishes and tureens in their hands, and were so skilful that they did not spill a drop of the contents. During dinner the little waiters poured mead and delicate wines into the mugs, and handed them to the company. The master carried on a friendly conversation, and explained many mysteries to Hans. Thus, when they came to talk over his nocturnal meeting with Hans, he said, "Between Christmas and New Year I am accustomed to amuse myself by wandering about the world, to watch the doings of men, and to make myself acquainted with some of them. I cannot say anything very remarkable about those whom I have seen and talked to. Most men live only to injure and plague each other. Everybody complains more or less of others. Nobody regards his own faults and failings, but lays the blame on others for what he has done himself." Hans tried his best to dispute the truth of these words, but his friendly host made the waiters fill his glass so heedfully that his tongue became too heavy at last to utter another word, and he was equally unable to understand what his host said. Presently he fell asleep in his chair, and knew nothing more of what happened. While he slept, he had wonderfully vivid dreams, in which the gold bars constantly floated before him. As he felt much stronger in his dreams, he took a few gold bars on his back, and easily carried them away. But at last his strength failed under the heavy burden, and he was obliged to sit down and take breath. Then he heard loud voices, which he took to be the singing of the little smiths, and the bright fire from their forges shone in his eyes. When he looked up, blinking, he saw the green wood around him. He was lying on the flowery herbage, and it was not the forge fires, but the sun-rays which shone cheerfully on his face. He shook off his drowsiness, but it was some time before he could fully recall what had happened to him. At last, when he had fully recovered his recollection, everything seemed so strange and wonderful to him that he could not reconcile it with the ordinary course of events. Hans reflected how he had wandered from the path during a stormy winter night between Christmas and New Year, and what had happened to him afterwards came back to his recollection. He had slept by a fire with a stranger, and next day the stranger, who carried a fir staff, had received him as his guest. He had dined with him and had drunk a good deal; in short, he had spent a few days in jollity and carousal. But now it was the height of summer all around him; there must be magic in it all. When he stood up, he found that he was close by the ashes of an extinguished fire, which shone wonderfully in the sun. But when he examined the place more carefully, he saw that the supposed heap of ashes was fine silver dust, and the remaining sticks were bright gold. Oh, what luck! where could he find a bag in which to carry the treasure home? Necessity is the mother of invention. Hans pulled off his winter fur coat, swept the silver ashes together, so that not a particle was left, put the gold faggots and silver ashes into the fur, and tied it together with his belt like a bag, so that nothing could fall out. Although it was not a large bundle, he found it awfully heavy, so that he had to drag it manfully before he could find a suitable place to hide his treasure. Thus Hans became suddenly enriched by an unexpected stroke of good fortune, and might have bought himself an estate. But after taking counsel with himself, he decided that it was better for him to leave his old dwelling-place, and to look for a fresh one at some distance, where the people did not know him. There he bought himself a nice piece of land, and he had still a good stock of money left over. Then he took to himself a wife, and lived happily like a rich man to the end of his days. Before his death he told his children his secret, and how he had visited the master of the underground treasures, who had made him rich. The story was spread about by his children and grandchildren. * * * * * Leaving the gnomes, we will now proceed to the wood-spirits, who may properly be classed among the nature-spirits, though they are not exactly spirits of the elements. [Footnote 45: Jannsen regards this master-smith as Ilmarine.] THE COMPASSIONATE WOODCUTTER. (JANNSEN.) This is a story of a man who went into the forest to fell wood, but each tree begged for mercy in a human voice, and he desisted. Afterwards an old man emerged from the thicket. He had a long grey beard, a shirt of birch-bark, and a coat of pine-bark, and he thanked the woodcutter for sparing his children, and gave him a golden rod, which would fulfil all wishes that were not so extravagant as to be impossible. If he wanted a building erected, he was to bend the rod down three times towards an ant-hill, but not to strike it, for fear of hurting the ants. If he wanted food, he must ask the kettle to prepare what he wanted; and if he wanted honey, he must show the rod to the bees, who would bring him more than he needed, and the trees should yield sap, milk, and salve. If he needed fabrics, the loom would prepare all he needed. Then the old man declared himself to be the wood-god and disappeared. But the man found a quarrelsome wife at home, who abused him for bringing no wood, and wished that all the birch twigs in the forest would turn to rods for the lazy hide. "Let it be so," said the man to the rod, and his wife got a sound birching. Then he ordered the ants to build him a new storehouse in the enclosure, and next morning it was finished. He now lived a happy life, and left the rod to his children; but in the third generation it fell to a foolish man, who began to demand all sorts of absurd and impossible things. At length he ordered the rod to fetch the sun and stars from heaven to warm his back. But although the sun did not move, God sent down such hot rays from it, that the offender and all his house and goods were burned up, so that no trace of them was left. What became of the rod is unknown, but it is thought that the trees in the wood were so terrified by the fire that they have never spoken a word since. * * * * * There is a short Christian variant of this story (Jannsen: Veckenstedt), in which the woodcutter meets not Tapio, but Jesus, who deprives the trees of speech. But a gentle sighing and rustling of leaves is still to be heard in the woods when the trees whisper together. When the first fir-tree was felled, she shed bitter tears, which hardened into resin. But her children, the fir cones, vowed to avenge her wrongs on men, so they transformed themselves into bugs, which crept into men's houses, and still plague and torment them. * * * * * Our next story is a very odd one about a hat. THE GOOD DEED REWARDED. (KREUTZWALD.) Once upon a time a young countryman was busy raking up his hay in the meadow, when a threatening thundercloud which arose on the horizon caused him to hasten with his work. He was lucky enough to complete it before the rain began, and he then turned his steps homewards. On his way he perceived a stranger asleep under a tree. "He'll get his hide pretty well soaked if I leave him asleep here," thought the countryman, so he went to the stranger, and shook him till he roused him from a sound sleep. The stranger stood up, and turned pale when he saw the advancing thundercloud. He felt in his pocket, intending to give something to the man who had roused him, but unfortunately he found it empty. So he said hurriedly, "For the present I must remain your debtor, but a day will come when I shall be able to show you my gratitude for your kindness. Do not forget what I tell you. You will become a soldier. After you have been parted from your friends for years, a day will come when you will be seized with home-sickness in a foreign country. When you look up, you will see a crooked birch-tree a few steps before you. Go to this tree, knock on the trunk three times, and say, 'Is the Humpback at home?' Then the rest will follow." As soon as he had finished speaking, the stranger hurried away and disappeared in an instant. The countryman went home too, and soon forgot his meeting with the sleeper on the road. Some time afterwards the first part of the prophecy was fulfilled, for the countryman became a soldier, without his remembering anything of his adventure in the wood. He had already worn the uniform of a cavalry regiment for four years, when he was stationed with his regiment in North Finland. It fell to the turn of our friend to bring home the horses on a Whitsunday, while his jolly comrades off duty went singing to enjoy themselves at the inns. Suddenly the solitary groom was seized with such a fit of home-sickness as he had never known before. Tears filled his eyes, and charming pictures of home floated before his vision. Now, too, he remembered his sleeping friend in the wood, and his speech. Everything came before him as plainly and distinctly as if it had happened only yesterday. He looked up, and saw before him, oddly enough, an old crooked birch-tree. More in jest than expecting any result, he went up to the tree, and did what he had been instructed. But the question, "Is the Humpback at home?" had scarcely passed his lips, when the stranger stood before him, and said, "My friend, it is good that you have come, for I was afraid that you had quite forgotten me. Isn't it true that you would be glad to be at home?" The cavalry soldier sobbed out, "Yes." Then the Humpback called into the tree, "Boys, which of you can run fastest?" A voice answered from the birch, "Father, I can run as fast as a grouse can fly."--"Very well, I want a quicker messenger to-day." A second voice answered, "I can run like the wind."--"I want a quicker messenger still," replied the father. Then a third voice answered, "I can run as fast as the thoughts of men."--"You are just to my mind. I want you now. Fill a four-hundredweight sack with money, and carry it home with my friend and benefactor." Then he seized hold of the soldier's hat and cried out, "Let the hat become a man, and let the man and the sack go home!" The soldier felt his hat fly off his head. He turned round to look for it, and found himself in his own father's room, dressed like a countryman as before, and the great sack of money by his side.[46] At first he thought it was a dream, till he found that his good luck was real. As nobody made any inquiries after the deserter, he began to think at last that his lost hat had remained behind to do soldier's service in his stead. He related the wonderful story to his children before his death, and as the money had brought him happiness and prosperity, he could not suppose that it had been the gift of an evil spirit. [Footnote 46: The hat reminds us of the doll in the story of the Tontla Wood. In the original the stranger is simply called "Köwer." Jannsen interprets the name to mean "Köwer-silm" (Crooked-eye), and thinks the stranger might have been Tapio himself. But it appears to me from the whole context that he was simply the indwelling spirit of one particular crooked birch-tree, whom we find at the beginning of the story wandering at a distance from home.] SECTION VI _HEATH LEGENDS._ (JANNSEN.) Jannsen gives the following account of heath-spirits, &c. Abstracts of stories not included under other headings we have appended to his general observations. In former days, when trees and bushes talked, animals and birds understood a wonderful language, and the Old Boy wandered about openly and unabashed, and wonderful things often happened on the heaths. He who wished to cross a heath must keep his eyes open day and night. In the daytime, indeed, no spectre dared to appear; but it often happened at night that people were teased and frightened on the heath. If any one was on the heath on a summer or autumn evening, he often heard a rustling and tapping in the bushes, and perhaps water suddenly spurted out under his feet. On winter evenings, or at midnight, he saw little flames dancing on the moor, and if he went towards them, they disappeared suddenly, and danced up again in the distance. But if a man was on the moor at night-time, he could not escape from it till cockcrow. If a man had to fetch anything from the heath during hay-harvest, he heard strange voices, or heard a bird singing with a human voice; and whoever drove across the moor in winter with a light sledge must have heard an invisible hand striking against the tree-trunks or the ice. Then you whip up your horse, and hasten across the moor, if you can. Jannsen also relates a story of a herd-boy who was scolding at some girls who were gathering berries on the heath, and defying the devil; when he was suddenly seized by the feet and dragged down into the ground, crying for help. THE WONDERFUL HAYCOCK. (JANNSEN.) One autumn evening a girl was going home across a frozen heath, but though she walked fast, she shivered. Presently she was pestered by a moving haycock without a band, which pressed upon her so closely that the hay pricked her face. This continued till midnight; but when a cock crew in the village, the haycock vanished, and the girl made her way home exhausted, and died within a week. Since then, the people say that cries for help have been heard from the heath by night. But they are very particular that every haycock shall be tied with a band. If thus secured, no evil spirit can interfere with it. THE MAGIC EGG. (JANNSEN.) In former days, people used to find bits of leather, and fragments of old gloves, shoes, and hats on the moor; but if anybody took them home, some misfortune befell him. One day a man found what he thought was a duck's egg, and boiled and ate it; but the more he ate, the more there seemed to be, and he could not finish it. Next morning the portion left proved to be not an egg, but half his neighbour's cat. SECTION VII _LAKE LEGENDS._ Although Esthonia is not so distinctly a lake-country as Finland,[47] which is often called "The Land of Ten Thousand Lakes," yet it is a low swampy country, with many small lakes besides the great Lake Peipus, on the south-east, and lake stories of various kinds are numerous in Esthonian tales. Jannsen relates that Lake Korküll or Oiso, in the district of Fellin in Livonia, stands on the site of a castle, the lord of which insisted on marrying his sister. He bribed a priest to perform the ceremony, but the castle sank into the ground with all present, and a lake arose in its stead. We add a selection of Esthonian lake-stories. [Footnote 47: Finland itself means Fenland, and is only a translation of the native name Suomi.] LAKE PEIPUS. (JANNSEN.) In former ages, a great and famous king named Karkus ruled over Esthonia. In his days, fierce bears and bison lurked in the thick forests, and elk and wild horses careered swiftly through the bushes. No merchants had yet arrived in ships from foreign parts, nor invading hosts with sharp swords, to set up the cross of the Christian God, and the people still lived in perfect freedom. The palace of King Karkus was built of costly sparkling stones, and shone far off in the sun like gold. The palace lay near the holy forest, where dwelt three good white gods and three black evil ones. There dwelt the king and his court. His enemies feared him greatly, but his people loved him as a father. Although the king had gold and honour in abundance, yet one thing was wanting to complete his happiness, for his wife had brought him no child. He promised immense gifts to the white gods if they would only listen to his prayer and grant his wish. And behold, after seven years his prayer was answered, for the queen gave birth to twins. One was a boy, as bold and impetuous as his father, and one was a girl, with golden hair and eyes like blue harebells, which already smiled from the cradle on her mother. The king was full of joy, and made great offerings to the white gods, as he had vowed. But the black gods, who deemed themselves worthy of equal honour, were greatly offended at being despised by the king. So they went to the God of Death, and urged him to gaze on the king's son with his evil countenance and to destroy him. Meantime the boy grew rapidly, and became the delight of his parents. But when he came to lisp the first word, he was struck by the evil glance of Death. From this hour he pined away, and at length died. But his sister, who was named Rannapuura, lived and flourished like a rose, as the only joy of her parents. But the hatred of the evil powers was not appeased by the partial revenge which they had taken. So they contrived that when the king's daughter was seven years old, she fell into the power of the wicked witch Peipa. The witch carried Rannapuura away to her horrible abode, which was in a rock beneath a lofty mountain ridge in Ingermanland. Here the poor child was compelled to pass ten years of her life. But notwithstanding her hard servitude to the witch, she grew up to maidenhood, and no maiden in the whole world was so fair as she. As the dawn shines ruddy on the borders of the horizon at daybreak and promises fine weather, so shone her gentle face in quiet restfulness, and her eyes proclaimed the angel heart in her bosom. The king knew where his daughter was imprisoned, for a good spirit had informed him, but, mighty as he was, he could accomplish nothing against the craft and malice of the witch. So he abandoned all hope of rescuing his daughter from this place of suffering. At length the white gods took pity on the king's daughter and her parents; for the king sought their aid continually, and made them rich offerings. But even the gods did not venture to contend openly with the mighty Peipa; so they sought to effect their purpose by stratagem. They secretly sent a dove to Rannapuura with a silver comb, a carder, a golden apple, and a snow-white linen robe, and sent her this message: "Take the gifts of the white gods, and flee from your prison as soon as you can. If Peipa pursues you, call on the white gods, and first cast the comb behind you; but if this is of no effect, drop the carder; but if this does not detain her, and she still follows on your heels, then throw the apple, and lastly the robe behind you. But be very careful not to make a mistake, and throw down the gifts in the right order." Rannapuura promised the dove to obey her instructions exactly, thanked the white gods for their favours, and sent the dove home. On the first Tuesday after the new moon, Peipa jumped upon an old broom at midnight, as the witches are accustomed to do, both here and in Ingermanland, every year, on the third, sixth, ninth, and twelfth new moon, and thus flew away from the house. The maiden stole softly from her room long before dawn, and took the four gifts of the gods with her on her way. She ran straight towards her father's castle, as swiftly as she could. At mid-day, when she had already gone a good part of the way, she chanced to look round, and saw to her horror that the witch Peipa was pursuing her. In her right hand she swung a formidable bar of iron, and she was mounted on a huge cock, who was close behind the princess. Then she cried aloud on the white gods, and cast the silver comb behind her. Instantly the comb became a rushing river, deep and broad and many miles long. Peipa gazed furiously after the fugitive, who was running swiftly on the opposite bank of the stream, and soon left her far behind. But after a time, the witch found a ford through the water, hurried across, and was soon close behind the maiden again. Now Rannapuura dropped the carder, and behold, a forest sprang up from it so thick and lofty that the witch and her hellish steed could not penetrate it, and she was forced to ride round it for a whole day. The unfortunate princess had now been wandering for two nights and a day, without tasting a morsel of bread or daring to sleep an instant. Then her strength failed her, and on the second day the witch was again close on her heels, when she threw down the apple in her need; and this became a lofty mountain of granite. A narrow path, as if traced by a snake, wound up to the summit, and showed the witch her way. Before she could overcome this obstacle, another day had passed; but the princess had only gone a short distance farther, for sleep had closed her weary eyes, and when she awoke, and could see her father's castle in the distance at last, the witch was so close upon her that she never hoped to escape. In great terror she flung the linen robe on the ground behind her. It fell broadside, and soon rushed forth into a vast lake, whose foaming waves raged wildly round the witch. A howling storm flung water and spray into the witch's face; her wickedness could not save her, nor could her steed, the hellish cock, escape. He raised his neck above the water, thrust up his beak, and beat the water with his wings, but it was all to no purpose, and he was miserably drowned. Peipa called on all the spirits of hell to aid her, with curses, but none of them appeared, and she sank into the depths howling. There she lies to this day in pain and torment. The pikes and other horrible creatures of the depths gnaw upon her and torture her incessantly. She strikes about her with her hands and feet, and twists and stretches her limbs in her great distress. Thence comes it that the lake, which is named Peipus after her, always rises in billows and stormy waves. Rannapuura reached her father's castle in safety, and soon became the bride of a prince. But the king's name is still perpetuated in that of the church at Karkus, and the estate of Rannapungern, which lies north of Peipus, on the boundary between Livonia and Esthonia, is named after Rannapuura. The river which rose from the silver comb is the river Pliha, with its shining waters. He who knows it now may understand its origin. It cannot run straight, but twists right and left like the teeth of a double comb, unites with the Narova, and falls with that river into the sea. The forest, too, remained until two hundred years ago, when the Swedes and Poles brought war into the land. The Poles concealed themselves in the forest, but the Swedes set fire to it and burned it down. The mountain formed by the apple of the princess is likewise standing, but its granite has become changed to sandstone. THE LAKE AT EUSEKÜLL. (JANNSEN.) In former times there was no lake at Euseküll, for it was carried there from the district of Oiso in Esthonia. One day a great black cloud like a sack rolled up from the north, and drew up all the water from the lake of Oiso. Before the cloud ran a black bull bellowing angrily, and above in the cloud flew an old man crying incessantly, "Lake, go to Euseküll!" When the bull came to Euseküll, where the tavern now stands, he dug his horns into the ground, and formed two deep trenches, which any one may still see to the right of the path which leads to the tavern at Kersel. Then the cloud rolled on farther, till it reached the district of Euseküll. All the people were making hay in the meadow, and when they saw the black cloud, they hastened with their work, to bring the hay under cover. Presently the cloud stood above them. First a great knife with a wooden handle fell down, and next all kinds of fish, and then it began to rain heavily. The people hurried from the field to take shelter. But one girl who had left her string of beads on a haycock, and wanted to save it, neglected to escape. Suddenly the waves of the lake fell from above, and buried her beneath them. Since that time the lake at Euseküll has been inhabited by a water-nymph, who requires the offering of a human life every year. * * * * * There are several other Esthonian tales of lakes moving from one spot to another. EMMU LAKE AND VIRTS LAKE. (KREUTZWALD.) Soon after the Creation, Vanaisa[48] formed a beautiful lake, called the Emmu Lake, which was intended to furnish men with refreshing water at all times, but owing to the wickedness of men, he caused all the water to be absorbed by a waterspout. Now men had nothing but rain-water, and although rain-water and melted snow sometimes filled the old Emmu Lake, it was dirty and unrefreshing, and people called it the Virts Lake. But at length Vanaisa, took pity on the people, who had somewhat improved, and formed narrow channels in the earth, through which the waters of the old Emmu lake flow as springs. But to prevent their being too warm in summer and too cold in winter, a cold stone is put into the springs in spring, and replaced by a warm one in autumn. [Footnote 48: God is frequently called Vanaisa, the Old Father, just as the Devil is frequently called Vanapois, the Old Boy.] THE BLUE SPRING. (JANNSEN.) At the foot of the Villina hill, near the church of Lais,[49] is a swamp where rises a spring of water, called from its colour the Blue Spring. It is said that the spring can produce rain or drought, and thus cause dearth or plenty. In time of drought three widows of the same name must go to the spring on a Sunday during service-time, to clean it out and to enlarge the opening. Each must take a spade, hoe, rake, a cake of bread, and a hymn-book with her. But if too much rain falls, the spring must be closed up to a mere crevice, and this is at once efficacious. One day three widows named Anna opened the spring too wide, when a dreadful rain spread over the country. Sometimes it has happened that women who were about to clean the spring have failed to finish the work during church-time, and it has been fruitless. Another time the people wished to find out how deep was the spring. They let down a stone with a long cord, but drew the cord up without the stone. They then let down a kettle filled with stones, but, to their horror, they drew up a bleeding human head instead. They were about to make another trial, when a voice cried from the depths, "If you attempt this again, you will all sink!" So the depth of the Blue Spring is still unknown. [Footnote 49: In the neighbourhood of Dorpat.] THE BLACK POOL. (JANNSEN.) In time of war, a rich lord tried to escape from the country with his family and goods in a coach drawn by six horses. In their haste, the horses swerved from the path, and all were lost in a deep lake of black water. Since that time it has been haunted, and sometimes a black dog tries to entice boys in, or cats and birds are seen about it. One day a man was walking by the pool when his leg was seized, and he was dragged down, but he contrived to seize a bush of juniper, and saved himself.[50] Then he saw some maidens sporting in the water like white swans; but presently they vanished. One day a fisherman caught a black tail-less pike, when the voice of the old nobleman was heard asking, "Are all the swine safe?" And another voice answered, "The old tail-less boar is missing." Many people, too, have seen a great hoop from a coach-wheel, as sharp as the edge of an axe, rise from the water. [Footnote 50: Dreadful stories are told in many countries of the fiends inhabiting the undrained swamps. Monsters as terrible as those described in "Beowulf" are popularly believed to have haunted the English fens almost to the present day. Aino, in the _Kalevala_ (Runo 4), was lured into a lake by the sight of some maidens bathing; and it is said that it is unsafe for sensitive people to venture near the banks of some of the Irish lakes in the evening, lest they should be lured into the water by the singing of the water-nymphs. In this connection, we may refer to the oft-quoted passage from the notes to Heywood's _Hierarchies of the Blessed Angels_ (1635): "In Finland there is a castle, which is called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unsounded depth, the water black, and the fish therein very distasteful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, which foreshow either the death of the Governor, or of some prime officer belonging to the place; and most often it appeareth in the shape of a harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under the water."--See Southey's _Donica_.] SECTION VIII _STORIES OF THE DEVIL AND OF BLACK MAGIC._ Stories relating to the Devil are very frequent in Esthonian literature, and notwithstanding the universal notion that you sell yourself to him by giving him three drops of your blood, or by signing a compact with your blood, yet many stories of this class are evidently pre-Christian. He is generally represented as a buffoon, and easily outwitted. Further particulars respecting him will be found in the Introduction. The stories incidentally referred to in this section of our work are mostly related by Jannsen. As regards sorcery, the Esthonians appear to have regarded the Finns, and the Finns the Lapps, as proficient in magic, each people attributing most skill to those living north of themselves. However, it should be mentioned that there is a ballad in the Finnish _Kanteletar_ in which the sun and moon are represented as stolen by German and Esthonian sorcerers. In the _Kalevala_ they are stolen by Louhi, the witch-queen of Lapland. The first story of this series, "The Son of the Thunder-God," represents this demigod as actually selling his soul to the Devil, and tricking the Devil out of it. The Thunder-God is here called Paristaja, and also Vana Kõu; but in other tales he is usually called Pikne, and is no doubt identical with the Perkunas of the Lithuanians. In this story the Devil is called Kurat, the Evil One; and also Vanapois (the Old Boy), as in other tales. The primitive manner in which the undutiful son tickles the nose of his august father is amusing. Vana (old) seems to be a term of respect applied to gods and devils alike. THE SON OF THE THUNDER-GOD.[51] (KREUTZWALD.) Once upon a time the son of the Thunder-God made a compact with the Devil. It was agreed that the Devil was to serve him faithfully for seven years, and to do everything which his master required of him, after which he was to receive his master's soul as a reward. The Devil fulfilled his part of the bargain faithfully. He never shirked the hardest labour nor grumbled at poor living, for he knew the reward he had to expect. Six years had already passed by, and the seventh had begun; but the Thunderer's son had no particular inclination to part with his soul so easily, and looked about for some trick by which he could escape the necessity of fulfilling his share of the bargain. He had already tricked the Devil when the compact was signed, for instead of signing it with his own blood, he had signed it with cock's blood, and his short-sighted adversary had not noticed the difference. Thus the bond which the Devil thought perfectly secure was really a very doubtful one. The end of the time was approaching, and the Thunderer's son had not yet attempted to regain his freedom, when it happened one day that a black cloud arose in the sky, which foreboded a violent thunderstorm. The Devil immediately crept down underground, having made himself a hiding-place under a stone for that purpose. "Come, brother," said he to his master, "and keep me company till the tempest is over." "What will you promise me if I fulfil your request?" said the Thunderer's son. The Devil thought they might settle this down below, for he did not like to talk over matters of business just then, when the storm was threatening to break over them at any moment. The Thunderer's son thought, "The Old Boy seems quite dazed with terror to-day, and who knows whether I may not be able to get rid of him after all?" So he followed him into the cave. The tempest lasted a long time, and one crash of thunder followed another, till the earth quaked and the rocks trembled. At every peal the Old Boy pushed his fists into his ears and screwed up his eyes tight; a cold sweat covered his shaking limbs, and he was unable to utter a word. In the evening, when the storm was over, he said to the Thunderer's son, "If your old dad did not make such a noise and clatter now and then, I could get along with him very well, for his arrows could not hurt me underground. But this horrible clamour upsets me so much that I am ready to lose my senses, and hardly know what I am about. I should be willing to offer a great reward to any one who would release me from this annoyance." The Thunderer's son answered, "The best plan would be to steal the thunder-weapon from my old dad."[52] "I'd do it if it were possible," answered the Devil, "but old Kõu is always on the alert. He keeps watch on the thunder-weapon day and night; and how is it possible to steal it?" But the Thunderer's son still maintained that the feat was possible. "Ay, if you would help me," cried the Devil, "we might perhaps succeed, but I can't manage it by myself." The Thunderer's son promised to help him, but demanded no less a reward than that the Devil should abandon his claim to his soul. "You may keep the soul with all my heart," cried the Devil delighted, "if you will only release me from this shocking worry and anxiety." Then the Thunderer's son began to explain how he thought the business might be managed, if they both worked well together. "But," he added, "we must wait till my old dad again tires himself out so much as to fall into a sound sleep, for he generally sleeps with open eyes, like the hares." Some time after this conversation, another violent thunderstorm broke out, which lasted a great while. The Devil and the Thunderer's son again retreated to their hiding-place under the stone. Terror had so stupefied the Old Boy, that he could not hear a word of what his companion said. In the evening they both climbed a high mountain, when the Old Boy took the Thunderer's son on his shoulders, and began to stretch himself out by his magic power higher and higher, singing-- "Higher, brother, higher, To the Cloudland nigher," till he had grown up to the edge of the clouds. When the Thunderer's son peeped over the edge of the clouds, he saw his father Kõu sleeping quietly, with his head resting on a pillow of clouds, but with his right hand resting across the thunder-instrument. He could not seize the weapon, for he would have roused the sleeper by touching his hand. The Thunderer's son now crept from the Devil's shoulder along the clouds as stealthily as a cat, and taking a louse from behind his own ear, he set it on his father's nose. The old man raised his hand to scratch his nose, when his son grasped the thunder-weapon, and jumped from the clouds on to the back of the Devil, who ran down the mountain as if fire was burning behind him, and he did not stop till he reached Põrgu. Here he hid the stolen property in an iron chamber secured by seven locks,[53] thanked the Thunderer's son for his friendly aid, and relinquished all claims upon his soul. But now a misfortune fell upon the world and men which the Thunderer's son had not foreseen, for the clouds no longer shed a drop of moisture, and everything withered away with drought.[54] "If I have thoughtlessly brought this unexpected misery on the people," thought he, "I must try to repair the mischief as best I can." So he travelled north to the frontiers of Finland, where a noted sorcerer lived, and told him the whole story, and where the thunder-weapon was now hidden. Then said the sorcerer, "First of all, you must tell your old father Kõu where the thunder-weapon is hidden, and he will be able to find means for recovering his property himself." And he sent the Eagle of the North to carry the tidings to the old Father of the Clouds. Next morning Kõu himself called upon the sorcerer to thank him for having put him on the track of the stolen property. Then the Thunderer changed himself into a boy, and offered himself to a fisherman as a summer workman. He knew that the Devil often came to the lake to catch fish, and he hoped to encounter him there. Although the boy Pikker watched the net day and night, it was some time before he caught sight of his enemy. It often happened to the fisherman that when he left his nets in the lake at night, they had been emptied before the morning, but he could not discover the cause. The boy knew very well who stole the fish, but he would not say anything about it till he could show his master the thief. One moonlight night, when the fisherman and the boy came to the lake to examine the nets, they found the thief at work. When they looked into the water over the side of their boat, they saw the Old Boy taking the fishes from the meshes of the net and putting them into a bag over his shoulder. Next day the fisherman went to a celebrated sorcerer and asked him to use his magic to cause the thief to fall into the net, and to enchant him so that he could not escape without the owner's consent. This was arranged just as the fisherman wished. Next day, when the net was drawn up, they drew up the Devil to the surface and brought him ashore. And what a drubbing he received from the fisherman and his boy; for he could not escape from the net without the consent of the sorcerer. The fisherman gave him a ton's weight of blows on the body, without caring where they fell. The Devil soon presented a piteous sight, but the fisherman and his boy felt no pity for him, but only rested awhile, and then began their work afresh. Entreaties were useless, and at last the Devil promised the fisherman the half of all his goods if he would only release him from the spell. But the enraged fisherman would listen to nothing till his own strength failed so completely that he could no longer move his stick. At length, after a long discussion, it was arranged that the Old Boy should be released from the net with the sorcerer's aid, and that the fisherman and his boy should accompany the Devil to receive his ransom. No doubt he hoped to get the better of them by some stratagem. A grand feast was prepared for the guests in the hall of Põrgu, which lasted for a whole week, and there was plenty of everything. The aged host exhibited his treasures and precious hoards to his visitors, and made his players perform before the fisherman in their very best style. One morning the boy Pikker said to the fisherman, "If you are again feasted and fêted to-day, ask for the instrument which is in the iron chamber behind seven locks." The fisherman took the hint, and in the middle of the feast, when everybody was half-seas over, he asked to see the instrument in the secret chamber. The Devil was quite willing, and he fetched the instrument, and tried to play upon it himself. But although he blew into it with all his strength, and shifted his fingers up and down the pipe, he was not able to bring a better tone from it than the cry of a cat when she is seized by the tail, or the squeaking of a decoy-pig at a wolf-hunt. The fisherman laughed, and said, "Don't give yourself so much trouble for nothing. I see well enough that you'll never make a piper. My boy can manage it much better." "Oho," said the Devil, "you seem to think that playing this instrument is like playing the flageolet, and that it is mere child's play. Come, friend, try it; but if either you or your boy can bring anything like a tune out of the instrument, I won't be prince of hell any longer. Only just try it," said he, handing the instrument to the boy. The boy Pikker took the instrument, but when he put it to his mouth and blew into it, the walls of hell shook, and the Devil and his company fell senseless to the ground and lay as if dead. In place of the boy the old Thunder-god himself stood by the fisherman, and thanked him for his aid, saying, "In future, whenever my instrument is heard in the clouds, your nets will be well filled with fish." Then he hastened home again. On the way his son met him, and fell on his knees, confessing his fault, and humbly asking pardon. Then said Father Kõu, "The frivolity of man often wars against the wisdom of heaven, but you may thank your stars, my son, that I have recovered the power to annihilate the traces of the suffering which your folly has brought on the people." As he spoke, he sat down on a stone, and blew into the thunder-instrument till the rain-gates were opened, and the thirsty earth could drink her fill. Old Kõu took his son into his service, and they live together still. * * * * * In our next story we shall see the Devil and his companions overreaching themselves in a manner worthy of the _Ingoldsby Legends_, while in the Polyphemus story already referred to under Cosmopolitan Tales we find the Devil blinded and perishing miserably. [Footnote 51: There is a variant of this story (Pikne's Trumpet: Kreutzwald) in which Tühi himself steals the trumpet while Pikne is asleep. Pikne is afraid to apply for aid to the Old Father, for fear of being punished for losing it, but recovers it by an artifice similar to that employed in the present story. This is interesting as showing Pikne to be only a subordinate deity. Löwe considers the Thunderer's musical instrument to be a bagpipe.] [Footnote 52: He does not call his father Vanaisa, which would identify him with the Supreme God, but uses another term, _Vana taat_.] [Footnote 53: As Louhi, in the _Kalevala_, secures the magic mill, the Sampo.] [Footnote 54: This story is probably connected with the Finnish and Esthonian legends of the theft of the sun and moon by sorcerers.] THE MOON-PAINTER. (JANNSEN.) When the Lord God had created the whole world, the work did not turn out so complete as it ought to have done, for there was an insufficiency of light. In the daytime the sun pursued his course through the firmament, but when he sank at evening, when the evening glow faded into twilight, and all grew dark, thick darkness covered heaven and earth, until the morning redness took the dawn from the hand of the evening glow and heralded a new day. There was neither moonlight nor starlight, but darkness from sunset to sunrise. The Creator soon perceived the deficiency, and sought to remedy it. So he ordered Ilmarine[55] to see that it should be light on earth by night as well as by day. Ilmarine listened to the command, and went to his forge, where he had already forged the firmament. He threw in silver, and cast it into a large round ball. He covered it with thick gold, lighted a bright fire inside, and ordered it to proceed on its course across the sky. Then he forged innumerable stars, covered them thinly with gold, and fixed each in its place in the firmament. Now began a new life for the earth. The sun had hardly set, and was borne away by the evening glow, when the golden moon arose from the borders of the sky, set out on his blue path, and illuminated the darkness of night just as the sun illumines the day. Around him twinkled the innumerable host of stars, and accompanied him like a king, until at length he reached the other side of the heavens. Then the stars retired to rest, the moon quitted the firmament, and the sun was conducted by the morning redness to his place, in order that he should give light to the world. After this, ample light shone upon the earth from above both by day and by night; for the face of the moon was just as clear and bright as that of the sun, and his rays diffused equal warmth. But the sun often shone so fiercely by day that no one was able to work. Thus they preferred to work under the light of the nocturnal keeper of the heavens, and all men rejoiced in the gift of the moon. But the Devil was very much annoyed at the moon, because he could not carry on his evil practices in his bright light. Whenever he went out in search of prey, he was recognised a long way off, and was driven back home in disgrace. Thus it came about that during all this time he only succeeded in bagging two souls. So he sat still day and night pondering on what he could do to better his prospects. At last he summoned two of his companions, but they could not give him any good advice. So the three of them consulted together in care and trouble, but nothing feasible occurred to them. On the seventh day they had nothing left to eat, and they sat there sighing, rubbing their empty stomachs, and racking their brains with thought. At last a lucky idea occurred to the Devil himself. "Comrades," he exclaimed, "I know what we can do. We must get rid of the moon, if we want to save ourselves. If there's no moon in the sky, we shall be just as valiant heroes as before. We can carry out our great undertakings by the dim starlight." "Shall we pull down the moon from heaven?" asked his servants. "No," said the Devil, "he is fixed too tight, and we can't get him down. We must do something more likely to succeed. The best we can do is to take tar and smear him with it till he's black. He may then run about the sky as he pleases, but he can't give us any more trouble. The victory then rests with us, and rich booty awaits us." The fiendish company approved of the plan of their chief, and were all anxious to get to work. But it was too late at the time, for the moon was just about to set, and the sun was rising. But they worked zealously at their preparations all day till late in the evening. The Devil went out and stole a barrel of tar, which he carried to his accomplices in the wood. Meantime, they had been engaged in making a long ladder in seven pieces, each piece of which measured seven fathoms. Then they procured a great bucket, and made a mop of lime-tree bast, which they fastened to a long handle. Then they waited for night, and as soon as the moon rose, the Devil took the ladder and the barrel on his shoulder and ordered his two servants to follow him with the bucket and the mop. When they reached a suitable spot, they filled the bucket with tar, threw a quantity of ashes into it, and dipped in the mop. Just at this moment the moon rose from behind the wood. They hastily raised the ladder, and the Devil put the bucket into the hand of one of his servants, and told him to make haste and climb up, while he stationed the other under the ladder. Now the Devil and his servant were standing under the ladder to hold it, but the servant could not bear the weight, and it began to shake. The other servant who had climbed up missed his footing on a rung of the ladder, and fell with the bucket on the Devil's neck. The Devil began to pant and shake himself like a bear, and swore frightfully. He paid no more attention to the ladder, and let it go, so it fell on the ground with a thundering crash, and broke into a thousand pieces. When the Devil found that his work had prospered so ill, and that he had tarred himself all over instead of the moon, he grew mad with rage and fury. He washed and scoured and scraped himself, but the tar and soot stuck to him so tight that he keeps his black colour to the present day. But although the first experiment had failed, the Devil would not give up his plan. Next day he stole seven more ladders, bound them firmly together, and carried them to the edge of the wood where the moon stands lowest. In the evening, when the moon rose, the Devil planted the ladder firmly on the ground, steadied it with both hands, and sent the other servant up to the moon, cautioning him to hold very tight and beware of slipping. The servant climbed up as quickly as possible with the bucket, and arrived safely at the last rung of the ladder. Just then the moon rose from behind the wood in regal splendour. Then the Devil lifted up the whole ladder, and carried it hastily to the moon. What a great piece of luck! It was really just so long that its end reached the moon. Then the Devil's servant set to work in earnest. But it's not an easy task to stand on the top of such a ladder and to tar the moon's face over with a mop. Besides, the moon didn't stand still at one place, but went on his appointed course steadily. So the servant tied himself to the moon with a rope, and being thus secure from falling, he took the mop from the bucket, and began to blacken the moon first on the back. But the thick gilding of the pure moon would not suffer any stain. The servant painted and smeared, till the sweat ran from his forehead, until he succeeded at last, with much toil, in covering the back of the moon with tar. The Devil below gazed up at the work with his mouth open, and when he saw the work half finished he danced with joy, first on one foot, and then on the other. When the servant had blackened the back of the moon, he worked himself round to the front with difficulty, so as to destroy the lustre of the guardian of the heavens on that side also. He stood there at last, panted a little, and thought, when he began, that he would find the front easier to manage than the other side. But no better plan occurred to him, and he had to work in the same way as before. Just as he was beginning his work again, the Creator woke up from a little nap. He was astonished to see that the world had become half black, though there was not a cloud in the sky. But, when he looked more sharply into the cause of the darkness, he saw the Devil's servant perched on the moon, and just dipping his mop into the bucket in order to make the front of the moon as black as the back. Meantime the Devil was capering for joy below the ladder, just like a he-goat. "Those are the sort of tricks you are up to behind my back!" cried the Creator angrily. "Let the evil-doers receive the fitting reward of their offences. You are on the moon, and there you shall stay with your bucket for ever, as a warning to all who would rob the earth of its light. My light must prevail over the darkness, and the darkness must flee before it. And though you should strive against it with all your strength, you would not be able to conquer the light. This shall be made manifest to all who gaze on the moon at night, when they see the black spoiler of the moon with his utensils." The Creator's words were fulfilled. The Devil's servant still stands in the moon to this day with his bucket of tar, and for this reason the moon does not shine so brightly as formerly. He often descends into the sea to bathe, and would like to cleanse himself from his stains, but they remain with him eternally. However bright and clear he shines, his light cannot dispel the shadows which he bears, nor pierce through the black covering on his back. When he sometimes turns his back to us, we see him only as a dull opaque creature, devoid of light and lustre. But he cannot bear to show us his dark side long. He soon turns his shining face to the earth again, and sheds down his bright silvery light from above; but the more he waxes, the more distinct becomes the form of his spoiler, and reminds us that light must always triumph over darkness. * * * * * In the following narrative we have a horrible story of black magic, which, however, is extremely interesting as showing the prevalence of fetishism, which probably preceded the worship of the powers of nature among the Finns and Esthonians. The Kratt seems originally to have been nothing worse than Tont, the house-spirit, who robbed the neighbours for the benefit of his patrons, and it is probably only after the introduction of Christianity that he assumed the diabolical character attributed to him in the present story. [Footnote 55: Ilmarine or Ilmarinen is the Vulcan of the Finnish and Esthonian legends. He is represented in the _Kalevala_ as a young and handsome hero, but deficient in courage. In Esthonian tales he generally appears as a demigod. In the _Kalevala_ he plays a part second only to that of Väinämöinen himself, but fails in many of his undertakings; for though he is said to have forged the sky, he cannot confer speech or warmth on the bride of gold and silver whom he forges for himself after his first wife has been given to the wolves and bears by Kullervo; and when he forges a new sun and moon, after the old ones have been stolen by Louhi, they turn out miserable failures.] THE TREASURE-BRINGER. (JANNSEN.) Once upon a time there lived a young farmer whose crops had totally failed. His harvest had been spoiled, his hay parched up, and all his cattle died, so that he was unable to perform his lawful obligations to his feudal superior. One Sunday he was sitting at his door in great trouble, just as the people were going to church. Presently Michel, an old fellow who used to wander about the country, came up. He had a bad reputation; people said that he was a wizard, and that he used to suck the milk from the cows, to bring storms and hail upon the crops, and diseases upon the people. So he was never allowed to depart without alms when he visited a farm. "Good day, farmer," said Michel, advancing. "God bless you," answered the other. "What ails you?" said the old man. "You are looking very miserable." "Alas! everything is going with me badly enough. But it is a good thing that you have come. People say that you have power to do much evil, but that you are a clever fellow. Perhaps you can help me." "People talk evil of others because they themselves are evil," answered the old man. "But what is to be done?" The farmer told him all his misfortunes, and Michel said, "Would you like to escape from all your troubles, and to become a rich man all at once?" "With all my heart!" cried the other. Old Michel answered, with a smile, "If I were as young and strong as you, and if I had sufficient courage to face the darkness of night, and knew how to hold my tongue, I know what I'd do." "Only tell me what you know. I will do anything if I can only become rich, for I am weary of my life at present." Then the old man looked cautiously round on all sides, and then said in a whisper, "Do you know what a Kratt is?" The farmer was startled, and answered, "I don't know exactly, but I have heard dreadful tales about it." "I'll tell you," said the old man. "Mark you, it is a creature that anybody can make for himself, but it must be done so secretly that no human eye sees it. Its body is a broomstick, its head a broken jug, its nose a piece of glass, and its arms two reels which have been used by an old crone of a hundred years. All these things are easy to procure. You must set up this creature on three Thursday evenings at a cross-road, and animate it with the words which I will teach you. On the third Thursday the creature will come to life." "God preserve us from the evil one!" cried the farmer. "What! you are frightened? Have I told you too much already?" "No, I'm not frightened at all. Go on." The old man continued, "This creature is then your servant, for you have brought him to life at a cross-road. Nobody can see him but his master. He will bring him all kinds of money, corn, and hay, as often as he likes, but not more at once than a man's burden." "But, old man, if you knew all this, why haven't you yourself made such a useful treasure-carrier, instead of which you have remained poor all your life?" "I have been about to do it a hundred times, and have made a beginning a hundred times, but my courage always failed me. I had a friend who possessed such a treasure-carrier, and often told me about it, but I could not screw up courage to follow his example. My friend died, and the creature, left without a master, lived in the village for a long time, and wrought all manner of tricks among the people. He once tore all a woman's yarn to pieces; but when it was discovered, and they were going to remove it, they found a heap of money underneath. After this no more was seen of the creature. At that time I should have been glad enough to have a treasure-bringer, but I am now old and grey, and think no more of it." "I've plenty of courage," said the farmer; "but wouldn't it be better for me to consult the parson about it?" "No; you mustn't mention it to anybody, but least of all to the parson; for if you call the creature to life, you sell your soul to the devil." The farmer started back in horror. "Don't be frightened," said the old man. "You are sure of a long life in exchange, and of all your heart desires. And if you feel that your last hour is approaching, you can always escape from the clutches of the evil one, if you are clever enough to get rid of your familiar."[56] "But how can this be done?" "If you give him a task which he is unable to perform, you are rid of him for the future. But you must set about it very circumspectly, for he is not easy to outwit. The peasant of whom I told you wanted to get rid of his familiar, and ordered him to fill a barrel of water with a sieve. But the creature fetched and spilled water, and did not rest till the barrel was filled with the drops which hung on the sieve." "So he died, without getting rid of the creature?" "Yes; why didn't he manage the affair better? But I have something more to tell you. The creature must be well fed, if he is to be kept in good-humour. A peasant once put a dish of broth under the roof for his familiar, as he was in the habit of doing. But a labourer saw it, so he ate the broth, and filled the dish with sand. The familiar came that night, and beat the farmer unmercifully, and continued to do so every night till he discovered the reason, and put a fresh dish of broth under the roof. After this he let him alone. And now you know all," said the old man. The farmer sat silent, and at last replied, "There is much about it that is unpleasant, Michel." "You asked for my advice," answered the old man, "and I have given it you. You must make your own choice. Want and misery have come upon you. This is the only way in which you can save yourself and become a rich man; and if you are only a little prudent, you will cheat the devil out of your soul into the bargain." After some reflection, the farmer answered, "Tell me the words which I am to repeat on the Thursdays." "What will you give me, then?" said the old man. "When I have the treasure-bringer, you shall live the life of a gentleman." "Come, then," said the old man, and they entered the house together. After this Sunday the young farmer was seen no more in the village. He neglected his work in the fields, and left what little was left there to waste, and his household management went all astray. His man loafed about the public-houses, and his maid-servant slept at home, for her master himself never looked after anything. In the meantime the farmer sat in his smoky room. He kept the door locked, and the windows closely curtained. Here he worked hard day and night at the creature in a dark corner by the light of a pine-splinter. He had procured everything necessary, even the reels on which a crone of a hundred years old had spun. He put all the parts together carefully, fixed the old pot on the broomstick, made the nose of a bit of glass, and painted in the eyes and mouth red. He wrapped the body in coloured rags, according to his instructions, and all the time he thought with a shudder that it was now in his power to bring this uncanny creature to life, and that he must remain with him till his end. But when he thought of the riches and treasures, all his horror vanished. At length the creature was finished, and on the following Thursday the farmer carried it after nightfall to the cross-roads in the wood. There he put down the creature, seated himself on a stone, and waited. But every time he looked at the creature he nearly fell to the ground with terror. If only a breeze sprung up, it went through the marrow of his bones, and if only the screech-owl cried afar off, he thought he heard the croaking of the creature, and the blood froze in his veins. Morning came at last, and he seized the creature, and slunk away cautiously home. On the second Thursday it was just the same. At length the night of the third Thursday came, and now he was to complete the charm. There was a howling wind, and the moon was covered with thick dark clouds, when the farmer brought the creature to the cross-roads at dead of night. Then he set it up as before, but he thought, "If I was now to smash it into a thousand pieces, and then go home and set hard at work, I need not then do anything wicked." Presently, however, he reflected: "But I am so miserably poor, and this will make me rich. Let it go as it may, I can't be worse off than I am now." He looked fearfully round him, turned towards the creature trembling, let three drops of blood fall on it from his finger, and repeated the magic words which the old man had taught him. Suddenly the moon emerged from the clouds and shone upon the place where the farmer was standing before the figure. But the farmer stood petrified with terror when he saw the creature come to life. The spectre rolled his eyes horribly, turned slowly round, and when he saw his master again, he asked in a grating voice, "What do you want of me?" But the farmer was almost beside himself with fear, and could not answer. He rushed away in deadly terror, not caring whither. But the creature ran after him, clattering and puffing, crying out all the time, "Why did you bring me to life if you desert me now?" But the farmer ran on, without daring to look round. Then the creature grasped his shoulder from behind with his wooden hand, and screamed out, "You have broken your compact by running away. You have sold your soul to the devil without gaining the least advantage for yourself. You have set me free. I am no longer your servant, but will be your tormenting demon, and will persecute you to your dying hour." The farmer rushed madly to his house, but the creature followed him, invisible to every one else. From this hour everything went wrong with the farmer which he undertook. His land produced nothing but weeds, his cattle all died, his sheds fell in, and if he took anything up, it broke in his hand. Neither man nor maid would work in his house, and at last all the people held aloof from him, as from an evil spirit who brought misfortune wherever he appeared. Autumn came, and the farmer looked like a shadow, when one day he met old Michel, who saluted him, and looked scoffingly in his face. "Oh, it's you," cried the farmer angrily. "It is good that I have met you, you hell-hound. Where are all your fine promises of wealth and good luck? I have sold myself to the devil, and I find a hell on earth already. But all this is your doing!" "Quiet, quiet!" said the old man. "Who told you to meddle with evil things if you had not courage? I gave you fair warning. But you showed yourself a coward at the last moment, and released the creature from your service. If you had not done this, you might have become a rich and prosperous man, as I promised you." "But you never saw the horrible face of the creature when he came to life," said the farmer in anguish. "Oh, what a fool I was to allow myself to be tempted by you!" "I did not tempt you; I only told you what I knew." "Help me now." "Help yourself, for I can't. Haven't I more reason to complain of you than you of me? I have not deceived you; but where is my reward, and the fine life you promised me? You are the deceiver." "All right! all right! Only tell me how I can save myself, and advise me what to do. I will perform everything." "No," said the old man, "I have no further advice to give you. I am still a beggar, and it is all your fault;" and he turned round and left him. "Curse upon you!" cried the farmer, whose last hope had vanished. "But can't I save myself in any way?" said he to himself. "This creature who sits with the Devil on my neck is after all nothing but my own work, a thing of wood and potsherds. I must needs be able to destroy him, if I set about it right." He ran to his house, where he now lived quite alone. There stood the creature in a corner, grinning, and asking, "Where's my dinner?" "What shall I give you to get rid of you?" "Where's my dinner? Get my dinner, quick. I'm hungry." "Wait a little; you shall have it presently." Then the farmer took up a pine-faggot which was burning in the stove, as if pondering and then ran out, and locked all the doors on the outside. It was a cold autumn night. The wind whistled through the neighbouring pine forest with a strange sighing sound. "Now you may burn and roast, you spirit of hell!" cried the farmer, and cast the fire on the thatch. Presently the whole house was wrapped in bright flames. Then the farmer laughed madly, and kept on calling out, "Burn and roast!" The light of the fire roused the people of the village, and they crowded round the ill-starred spot. They wished to put out the fire and save the house, but the farmer pushed them back, saying, "Let it be. What does the house matter, if he only perishes? He has tormented me long enough, and I will plague him now, and all may yet be well with me." The people stared at him in amazement as he spoke. But now the house fell in crashing, and the farmer shouted, "Now he's burnt!" At this moment the creature, visible only to the farmer, rose unhurt from the smoking ruins with a threatening gesture. As soon as the farmer saw him, he fell on the ground with a loud shriek. "What do you see?" asked old Michel, who had just arrived on the scene, and stood by smiling. But the farmer returned no answer. He had died of terror. [Footnote 56: One of Michael Scot's familiars was a devil of this kind, whom he got rid of ultimately by setting him to spin ropes of sea-sand.] THE WOODEN MAN AND THE BIRCH-BARK MAID. (KREUTZWALD.) This is another story which relates how a stingy farmer starved all his servants, till no one would live with him. He applied to a sorcerer, who directed him to take a black hare in a bag to a cross-road for three Thursdays running, just before midnight, and whistle for the Devil. The farmer took a black cat instead, and on the third Thursday agreed with the Devil to receive a man-servant and a maid, who should work for him for twice seven years, and who would require no food, nothing but a little water. To ratify the bargain, the farmer gave the Devil three drops of blood from his index-finger. At the end of the time the servants disappeared, and the farmer could only find a rotten stump and a heap of birch-bark, as their names signified (Puuläne and Tohtläne). Then the Devil seized the farmer by the throat and strangled him, and his wife could find no trace of him but three drops of blood, while all the corn-bins were empty, and the money-chest contained only withered birch-leaves. * * * * * A farmer who had unthinkingly devoted his lazy horse to the Devil, was much annoyed by three, who appeared successively, and demanded it. At last he was obliged to invite them to his Christmas-dinner, and to promise to feed them on blood, flesh, and corn. But a Finnish sorcerer taught him a charm by which he transformed them respectively into a bug, a wolf, and a rat. * * * * * Another story, in which the Devil gets the worst of it, is THE COMPASSIONATE SHOEMAKER. (JANNSEN.) Once upon a time, when God himself was still on earth, it happened that he went to a farm-house disguised as a beggar,[57] while a christening was going forward, and asked for a lodging. But the people did not receive him, and declared that he might easily be trodden under the feet of the guests in the confusion. The poor man offered to creep under the stove, and lie still there; but they would not heed his prayer, and showed him the door, telling him he might go to the mud hovel, or where-ever he liked. In the hovel lived a shoemaker, who was always very compassionate towards the poor and needy, and would rather suffer hunger himself than allow a poor man to leave his threshold unrelieved. God went to him, and begged for a night's lodging. The shoemaker gave him a friendly reception and something to eat, and offered him his own bed, while he himself lay on straw. Next morning, when God took his departure, he thanked his host, and said, "I am he who has power to fulfil whatsoever the heart can desire. You have given me a friendly and most hospitable reception and I am grateful to you from my heart, and will reward you. Speak a wish, and it shall be fulfilled." The shoemaker answered, "Then I will wish that whenever a poor man comes to ask my aid, I may be able to give him what he most requires, and that I myself may never want for daily bread as long as I live." "Let it be so!" answered God, who took leave of him and departed. Meantime the people in the farmhouse were feasting and drinking, not remembering the proverbs, "A large piece strains the mouth," and "The mouth is the measure of the stomach." They set the house on fire by their recklessness, and only escaped with bare life. All their goods and chattels were reduced to ashes, and they were left without a roof to shelter them. The guests hastened home, but the farmer and his people were forced to take refuge in the shoemaker's hut. He received them in the most friendly way, and gave them clothes and shoes, and food and drink, and saw to it that they wanted for nothing till they could again provide themselves with shelter. Besides this, needy people came every day to the shoemaker, and each received an abundant allowance. As he thus doled out everything, and refused no one relief, low people jeered at him, saying, "What is your object in giving everything away? You cannot make the world warm." He answered, "We should love our neighbours as ourselves." At length the shoemaker felt that his last hour had come. So he dressed himself neatly, took with him a staff of juniper, and set off on the way to hell. The warden trembled when he saw him, and cried out, "Throw down the staff! No one may bring such a weapon to hell." The shoemaker took no heed of this speech, but pressed on his way. At length the Prince of Hell himself met him, and cried out, "Throw down your staff and let us wrestle. If you overcome me, I will be your slave; but if I should overcome you, then you must serve me." This did not please the shoemaker, who answered, "I will not wrestle with you, for you have such very clumsy hands, but come against me with a spear." As the Devil continued talking, and again advised him to throw away the staff, the shoemaker struck him a heavy blow with it behind the ear. Upon this, all hell shook, and the Devil and his companions vanished suddenly, as lead sinks in water. Then the shoemaker proceeded farther, and cautiously explored the interior of the underworld. In one hall lay a great book, in which the souls of all children who died unbaptized were recorded. Near the book lay many keys, which opened the rooms in which the children's souls were imprisoned. So he took the keys, released the innocent captive souls, and went with them to heaven, where he was received with honour, and a thanksgiving feast was instituted in remembrance of his good deed. * * * * * Among other stories of devils is one of a forester who gave the Devil three drops of blood for a magic powder which would heal all wounds. But when he died, his corpse rushed out at the door, and was never seen again. Another time, a dull schoolboy, who was always beaten by his master, met the Devil, who drew blood from three punctures, and wrote a compact with it; but the boy was rescued by a clever student, who afterwards died from the bursting of the "blood-vessel of wisdom," as was ascertained by autopsy. The Devil is sometimes represented as driving about in a coach drawn by twelve black stallions, and annoying the neighbourhood. Another time, a charitable orphan-girl stayed late one Saturday evening in the bath-house,[58] after washing the poor and helpless, when the Devil and his mother and three sons drove up in a coach drawn by four black stallions, with harness adorned with gold and silver, and asked her hand for one of his sons. But the maiden fled back into the bath-house, after making the sign of the cross on the threshold, and replied that she was not ready, as she had no shoes nor dress. The Devil desired her to ask for whatever she wanted; but a mouse called to her to ask for each article separately. One of the sons fetched each article as it was asked for; and the maiden was at last fully attired, when the cock crew, and everything vanished. Next day the girl's mistress and her daughter were envious of her fine clothes and ornaments; and next Saturday evening the daughter went to the bath-house. But she despised the warning of the mouse, and asked for everything at once, when she was taken into the coach and carried away. Tales of minor dealings with the Devil are common. A farmer taking flax to market, invoked the Devil to enable him to sell it well. The Devil did so, and rode home with him from market, made him drunk, and tempted him to commit a burglary at the house of a rich man in the neighbourhood. He put his hat on the farmer's head, which made him invisible, and broke open the iron bars of the door with his teeth. On the way home, the farmer cried out, while crossing the ford where he had first met the Devil, "Good God! how much money I've got!" The Devil vanished, and all the treasure fell into the stream, and was lost. On another occasion, a labourer devoted his horse to the Devil, at a time when an old Devil and his son overheard him. The son wanted to lay claim to it, but his father warned him that it was no use, for such people did not mean what they said, and did not keep their word. Nevertheless, the imp went to unharness it, and the peasant in terror invoked the Trinity, when the imp ran away, and his father laughed at him. The stories which follow, like several of the preceding, are mostly told by Jannsen, and deal with various forms of black magic. The first is an instance of something very like Vampyrism. [Footnote 57: This disguise is often assumed by God in the stories of Eastern Europe, when he wishes to be incognito; nor is it always clear whether God or Christ is intended. I remember once reading a Lithuanian story in which God and St. Peter are represented as descending to earth disguised as beggars, for fear they might be recognised, to inquire into the wickedness of mankind before the Flood.] [Footnote 58: The bath is a special place of resort for devils in Mohammedan folk-lore.] MARTIN AND HIS DEAD MASTER. Martin was a young fellow who was very fond of amusing himself with the girls, and often sat up talking and joking with them till very late in the evening. One Sunday, when he had slept very little the night before, he went to church, and there he fell asleep and did not awake till dark night. He rubbed his eyes, and could not imagine where he was, for the church was full of people, and they were all fine gentlemen. Martin looked about, and recognised among them his former master, who had been buried three months before. He also knew him, and asked, "Well, Martin, when did you die?" "Three months after you were buried," answered Martin. "Oh, indeed," said the gentleman; "but what do you think? Shouldn't we go home now for a short visit? Won't you accompany me?" "I'm ready," said Martin, and he rose and followed his master. On the way he found a frozen glove, which he put in his pocket. They came to the mansion, and the master went first to the stable, for he intended to torment the horses, and thought Martin would help him. When the gentleman entered, the horses made no sound, but when Martin came in, they neighed. The master turned round and said, "Listen, Martin! you can't be really dead. Give me your hand to feel." Martin thrust his hand into the frozen glove which he had found on the road, and extended it to his master, who said, "Yes, you are really dead; your hand is shockingly cold." Then he tormented the horses till they were covered with white foam. Martin was sorry, but could do nothing but stand and look on. At last the master ceased his spiteful work, and said, "Let us go into the house. Go you into the kitchen and frighten the maids, and I will torment the lady. When it is time to depart, I will come for you." The lady screamed and sobbed with terror as if she was mad, and the maids screamed too, but with fun and frolic. After a long time, the master came to the kitchen, and said, "Come, Martin, let us make haste, for the cocks will soon crow." He would have liked to have run away, but he was too much afraid, so he went with his master. On the way his master talked a great deal to him about how his wife had searched everywhere for the treasure which he had hidden before his death, and what she had done to banish the nightly hauntings, but everything was useless. "Yes," said Martin, "it must be a great sorcerer who can lay spectres and discover treasures in the ground. Perhaps she will never meet with one." "Ha! ha!" laughed the gentleman, "no great cleverness is needed. If a living person was to stamp three times on my grave with his left heel, and say each time, 'Here shall you lie,' I couldn't get out again. But the money which I hid in my lifetime is under the floor of my bedroom, near the stove." Martin was delighted to hear this, and would have shouted for joy, but he thought it too dangerous. They now came to the churchyard, and the gentleman asked Martin to show him his grave. But Martin said, "We shall have another opportunity, I'm afraid the cocks are just about to crow." The gentleman slipped quickly into his grave, when Martin stamped three times with his left heel on the mound, and said three times, "Here shall you lie." "Oh, you liar and scoundrel!" cried the dead man from the grave; "if I had known that you were still alive, I should have crushed and mangled you. Now I can do nothing more to you." Then Martin returned home full of joy, and told the lady all that he had seen and heard and done. The lady did not know how to thank him enough. She took him as her husband, and they lived together happily and honourably; and if they could have got on as well with Death as with the nocturnal spectre, they might be living still. * * * * * Free-shooters, so well known in Germany, are not unknown in Esthonia. In the story of the "Hunter's Lost Luck" (Kreutzwald), we find a hunter whose usual skill had deserted him selling himself to the Devil with three drops of blood for a magic bullet which should kill the author of his bad luck. His good luck depended on his not shooting at the leader of a flock or herd; but one evening, having drunk too much, he fired at the leader of a troop of foxes, and fell down dead. The villagers took his body home; but when he was put into the coffin, a great black cat, which was supposed to be the Old Boy himself, carried him away. * * * * * The story of "The Coiners of Leal" relates to the ruins of an old castle, which was said to be haunted by a hell-hound.[59] One night a young nobleman set out to explore it, and was warned off by a tall man in black clothes, but, on advancing, sank into the vaults, where he found a number of men coining gold and silver. They bound him by an oath of secrecy as to their proceedings, warning him that if he broke it, their master, the dog, would fetch him, and make him coin gold and silver for ever with them; and he received a sackful of treasure to remind him of his oath. Some years after, he drank too much at a feast, told his story, and immediately disappeared, and was never seen again. [Footnote 59: The Manx story will occur to the reader. Compare also the story of the "Courageous Barn-keeper" in the following section of our work.] THE BEWITCHED HORSE. A farmer's old horse had died, so he skinned it, and threw it behind the threshing-floor, intending to bury it next day. He saw a great toad creep under it as he went away. At night he went into the barn to sleep, and hearing a noise outside, kept watch for thieves; but, to his horror, he saw the door slowly open, and his dead horse enter. The horse came in snuffling and snorting, and broke down several of the posts that supported the loft where his master had been sleeping; but the farmer contrived to scramble into the rafters. At last the cock crew, when the horse fell down like a lump of meat, and the farmer too lost his hold and fell upon him. Next morning the farmer buried the horse, and stamped three times with his left heel on the grave; so the horse remained quiet. But it was a sorcerer who had a grudge against the farmer who had sent the toad into the carcass of the horse. SECTION IX _HIDDEN TREASURES_ In Esthonia, as elsewhere, we meet with many stories of hidden treasures, frequently in connection with devils, and hence we place this section next to the Devil-stories. The stories of "The Courageous Barn-keeper" and of the "Gallows Dwarfs" are curious and interesting; those which follow are given here only in abstract. In all countries which have been devastated by war, traditions of hidden treasure are common. I remember once reading a story in a newspaper (but I do not know if the report was true) of a quantity of coins of Edward the Confessor and Harold being dug up in a field respecting which there was a tradition in the neighbourhood that a great treasure was concealed in it. In Esthonian as well as in Oriental tales, hidden treasures are usually under the care of non-human guardians, even when it is not said that they were specially placed under their protection. This notion probably persists in many countries to the present day. It is said that when Kidd, the famous pirate, buried a hoard of treasure, he used to slaughter a negro at the place, that the ghost might guard it. Stories of his hidden treasure (more or less probable) are still rife in America. THE COURAGEOUS BARN-KEEPER. (KREUTZWALD.) Once upon a time there lived a barn-keeper who had few to equal him in courage. The Old Boy himself admitted that a bolder man had never yet appeared on earth. In the evening, when the threshers were no longer at work in the barn, he often paid a visit to the barn-keeper, and never tired of talking with him. He was under the impression that the barn-keeper did not recognise him, and supposed him to be only an ordinary peasant; but his host knew him well enough, though he pretended not, and had made up his mind to box Old Hornie's ears if he could. One evening the Old Boy began to complain of the hard life of a bachelor, and how he had nobody to knit him a pair of stockings or to hem a handkerchief. The barn-keeper answered, "Why don't you go a-wooing, my brother?" The Old Boy returned, "I've tried my luck often enough, but the girls won't have me. The younger and prettier they are, the more they laugh at me." The barn-keeper advised him to court old maids or widows, who would be much easier to win, and who would not be so likely to despise a suitor. The Old Boy took his advice, and some weeks afterwards married an old maid; but it was not long before he came back to the barn-keeper to complain of his troubles. His newly-married wife was full of tricks; she left him no rest night or day, and tormented him continually. "What sort of a man are you," laughed the barn-keeper, "to allow your wife to wear the trousers? If you marry a wife, you must take care to be master." The Old Boy answered, "I couldn't manage her. If she chose to bring anybody else into the house, I couldn't venture to set foot in it." The barn-keeper sought to comfort him, and advised him to try his luck elsewhere; but the Old Boy thought that the first trial was enough, and had no inclination to put his neck under a woman's yoke again. In the autumn of the following year, when threshing had begun again, the old acquaintance of the barn-keeper paid him another visit. The latter saw that the peasant had something on his mind, but he asked no questions, thinking it best to wait till the other broached the matter himself. He had not long to wait before he heard all the old fellow's misfortunes. During the summer he had made the acquaintance of a young widow who cooed like a dove, so that the little man again thought of courtship. In short, he married her, but discovered afterwards that she was a shocking scold at home, who would gladly have scratched his eyes out of his head, and he had cause to thank his stars that he had escaped from her hands. The barn-keeper remarked, "I see you're good for nothing as a husband, for you are chicken-hearted, and don't know how to manage a wife." The Old Boy was forced to acknowledge that it was true. After they had talked awhile about women and marriage, the Old Boy said, "If you are really such a bold man as you pretend, and could tame the most hellish[60] woman that exists, I will show you a way by which you can turn your courage to better account than by subduing a violent woman. Do you know the ruins of the old castle on the mountain? A great treasure lies there since ancient times, which no one has been able to get at, just because nobody has had enough courage to dig it up." The barn-keeper said, smiling, "If nothing more is needed than courage, the treasure is already as good as in my pocket." Then the Old Boy told him that he must go to dig up the treasure next Thursday night, when the moon would be full; but added, "Take good care that you are not a bit afraid, for if your heart fails you, or if only a muscle of your body trembles, you will not only lose the expected treasure, but may even lose your life, like many others who have tried their luck before you. If you don't believe me, you may go into any farmhouse, and the people will tell you what they have heard about the walls of the old castle. Many people even profess to have seen something with their own eyes. But once more, if you value your life, and wish to possess the treasure, beware of all fear." On the morning of the appointed Thursday, the barn-keeper set out, and although he did not feel the slightest fear, he turned into the village inn, hoping to find somebody there who could give him some kind of information about the ruins of the old castle. He asked the landlord what the old ruins on the hill were, and whether people knew anything about who built them, and who destroyed them. An old farmer, who overheard the question, gave him the following information: "The report goes that a very rich squire lived there many centuries ago, who was lord over vast territories and a great population. This lord ruled with an iron hand, and treated his subjects with great severity, but he had amassed vast wealth by their sweat and blood, and gold and silver poured into his castle on all sides in hogsheads. Here he stored his wealth in deep cellars, where it was secure from thieves and robbers. No one knows how the wealthy miscreant came to his end. One morning the attendants found his bed empty and three drops of blood on the floor. A great black cat, which was never seen before or afterwards, was sitting on the canopy of the bed. It is supposed that this cat was the Evil Spirit[61] himself, who had strangled the squire in his bed in this form, and had then carried him off to Põrgu to expiate his crimes. As soon as the relatives of the squire heard of his death, they wished to secure his treasures, but not a single copeck was to be found. It was at first thought that the servants had stolen it, and they were brought to trial; but as they knew that they were innocent, nothing could be extracted from them, even under the torture. In the meantime, many people heard a chinking like money deep under ground at night, and informed the authorities; and as this was investigated and the report confirmed, the servants were set at liberty. The strange nocturnal chinking was often heard afterwards, and many people dug for the treasure, but nothing was discovered, and no one returned from the caverns under the castle, for they were doubtless seized upon by the same power which had brought the owner of the money to such a dreadful end. Every one saw that there was something uncanny about it, and no one dared to live in the old castle. At length the roof and walls fell in from long exposure to rain and wind, and nothing was left but an old ruin. No one dares to spend the night near it, and still less would any one be rash enough to seek for the ancient treasure there." So said the old farmer. When the barn-keeper had heard the story, he said, half joking, "I should like to try my luck. Who'll go with me to-morrow night?" The men made the sign of the cross, and declared that their lives were more to them than all the treasures in the world, and that no one could reach these treasures without losing his soul. Then they begged the stranger to recall his words, and not to pledge himself to the Evil One. But the bold barn-keeper gave no heed to their entreaties and expostulations, and resolved to attempt the adventure alone. In the evening he asked the host for a bundle of pine-splinters, that he might not be in the dark, and then inquired the nearest way to the ruins. One of the peasants, who seemed to be a little bolder than the others, went with him for some distance as his guide with a lighted lantern. As the sky was cloudy, and it was quite dark, the barn-keeper was obliged to grope his way. The whistling of the wind and the screeching of the owls were terrible to hear, but could not frighten his bold heart. As soon as he was able to strike a light under the shelter of the masonry, he lit a splinter and looked about for a door or an opening through which he could get down underground. After looking about fruitlessly for some time, at last he discovered a hole at the foot of the wall, which seemed to lead downwards. He put the burning splinter in a crack in the wall, and cleared out so much earth and rubbish with his hands that he could creep through. After he had gone some distance, he came to a flight of stone stairs, and there was now room enough for him to stand upright. He descended the stairs with his bundle of splinters on his shoulder and one burning in his hand, and at last reached an iron door, which was not locked. He pushed the heavy door open, and was about to enter, when a large black cat with fiery eyes dashed through the door like the wind and rushed up the stairs. The barn-keeper thought, "That must be what strangled the lord of the castle;" so he pushed the door to, threw down the bundle of splinters, and then examined the place more carefully. It was a great wide hall, with doors everywhere in the walls; he counted twelve, and considered which he should try first. "Seven's a lucky number," said he, so he counted till he came to the seventh door, but it was locked, and would not yield. But when he pushed at the door with all his strength, the rusty lock gave way and the door flew open. When the barn-keeper entered, he found a room of moderate size; on one side stood a table and bench, and at the opposite wall was a stove, with a bundle of faggots lying on the ground near the hearth. The inspector then lit a fire, and by its light he found a small pot and a cup of flour standing on the stove, and some salt in a salt-cellar. "Look here!" cried the barn-keeper. "Here I find something to eat unexpectedly; I have some water with me in my flask, and can cook some warm porridge." So he set the pot on the fire, put some flour and water into it, added some salt, stirred it with a splinter of wood, and boiled his porridge well, after which he poured it into the cup, and set it on the table. The bright fire lit up the room, and he did not need to light a splinter. The bold barn-keeper seated himself at the table, took the spoon, and began to eat the warm porridge. All at once he looked up and saw the black cat with the fiery eyes sitting on the stove. He could not comprehend how the beast had come there, as he had seen it running up the stairs with his own eyes. After this, three loud knocks were struck on the door, till the walls and floor shook. The barn-keeper did not lose his presence of mind, but cried out loudly, "Let anybody enter who has a head on his shoulders!" Immediately the door flew wide open, and the black cat sprang from the stove and darted through, while sparks of fire flew from its eyes and mouth. As soon as the cat had disappeared, four tall men entered, clad in long white coats, and wearing caps of flame-colour, which shone so brightly that the room became as bright as day. The men carried a bier on their shoulders, and a coffin stood upon it, but still the bold barn-keeper did not feel the least bit afraid. The men set the coffin on the ground without speaking a word, and then one after another went out at the door, and closed it behind them. The cat whined and scratched at the door, as if it wanted to get in, but the barn-keeper did not concern himself, and only ate his warm porridge. When he had eaten enough, he stood up, and looked at the coffin. He broke open the lid, and beneath it he beheld a little man with a long white beard. The barn-keeper lifted him out, and carried him to the fire to warm him. It was not long before the little old man began to revive, and to move his hands and feet. The bold barn-keeper was not a bit afraid; he took the porridge-pot and the spoon from the table, and began to feed the old man. The latter said presently, "Thank you, my son, for taking pity on such a poor creature as I am, and reviving my body, which was stiff with cold and hunger. I will give you such a princely reward for your good deed that you shall not forget me as long as you live. Behind the stove you will find some pitch-torches, light one and come with me. But first make the door securely fast, that the furious cat may not get in to break your neck. We will afterwards make it so tame that it cannot hurt anybody again." As he spoke, the old man raised a square trap-door about three feet broad from the floor, and it was plain that the stone covered the entrance to a cellar. The old man went down the steps first, and the barn-keeper followed him with the torch till they reached a terribly deep cavern. In this great cellar-like arched cavern lay an enormous heap of money, as big as the largest haycock, half silver and half gold. The little old man took from a cupboard in the wall a handful of wax-candles, three bottles of wine, a smoked ham, and a loaf of bread. Then he said to the barn-keeper, "I give you three days' time to count and sort this heap. You must divide the heap into two equal parts, exactly alike, and so that nothing remains over. While you are busy with this, I will lie down by the wall to sleep, but take care not to make the least mistake or I'll strangle you." The barn-keeper at once set to work, and the old man lay down. In order to guard against any mistake, the barn-keeper always took two similar coins to divide, whether thalers or roubles, gold or silver, and he laid one on his right, and the other on his left, to form two heaps. When he found his strength failing, he took a pull at one of the bottles, ate some bread and meat, and then set to work with renewed strength. As he only allowed himself a short sleep at night, in order to get on with his work, he had already finished the sorting on the evening of the second day, but one small piece of silver remained over. What was to be done? This did not trouble the bold barn-keeper; he drew his knife from his pocket, laid the blade on the middle of the coin, and struck the back of the knife so hard with a stone that the coin was split in two halves. One half he laid to the right heap, and the other to the left, after which he roused up the old man, and asked him to inspect the work. When the old man saw the two halves of the last coin lying on the heap to the right and left, he uttered a cry of joy, and fell on the neck of the barn-keeper, stroked his cheeks, and at last exclaimed, "A thousand and again a thousand thanks to you, brave youth, for releasing me from my long, long captivity. I have been obliged to watch over my treasure here for many hundred years, because there was no one who had sufficient courage or sense to divide the money so that nothing was left over. I was therefore forced by a binding oath to strangle one after another, and as no one returned, for the last two hundred years no one has dared to come here, though there was not a night which I allowed to pass without jingling the money. But it was destined for you, O child of good luck! to become my deliverer, after I had almost abandoned all hope, and fancied myself doomed to eternal imprisonment. Thanks, a thousand thanks, for your good deed! Take now one of these heaps of money as the reward for your trouble, but the other you must divide among the poor, as an atonement for my grievous sins; for when I lived on earth in this castle I was a great libertine and scoundrel. You have still to accomplish one task for my benefit, and for your own. When you go upstairs again, and you meet the great black cat on the stairs, seize it and hang it up. Here is a noose from which it cannot escape again." Hereupon he took from his bosom a chain woven of fine gold thread, as thick as a shoe-string, which he handed to the barn-keeper, and then vanished, as if he had sunk into the ground. A tremendous crash followed, as if the earth had cloven asunder beneath the barn-keeper's feet. The light went out, and he found himself in thick darkness, but even this unexpected event did not shake his courage. He contrived to grope his way till he came to the stairs, which he ascended till he reached the first room, where he had boiled his porridge. The fire in the hearth had long been extinguished, but he found some sparks among the ashes, which he succeeded in blowing into a flame. The coffin was still standing on the ground, but instead of the old man, the great black cat was sleeping in it. The barn-keeper seized it by the head, slipped the gold chain round its neck, hung it on a strong iron nail in the wall, and then laid down on the floor to rest. Next morning he made his way out of the ruins, and took the nearest path to the inn from whence he had started. When the host saw that the stranger had escaped unhurt, his joy and astonishment knew no bounds. But the barn-keeper said, "Get me a few dozen sacks to hold a ton, for which I will pay well, and hire horses, so that I can fetch away my treasure." Then the host perceived that the stranger's expedition had not been fruitless, and he immediately fulfilled the rich man's orders. When the barn-keeper learned from the people what part of the old man's domains was formerly under the authority of the lord of the castle, he assigned one-third of the money destined for the poor to this district, handed over the remaining two-thirds to the local authorities for distribution, and settled himself with his own money in a distant country, where nobody knew him. His descendants live there as rich people to this day, and extol the bravery of their ancestor, who carried off the treasure. [Footnote 60: _Põrgulise_ is the actual word used here.] [Footnote 61: This term, _kuri vaim_, is explicitly used here, not _Vana pois_, as we find in the earlier part of the story; and seems to indicate a different and much more malevolent being than the simpleton who visited the barn-keeper, though the term _Vana pois_ sometimes occurs in stories like "The Wooden Man and Birch-bark Maid," in which souls are actually sold to the Devil.] THE GALLOWS-DWARFS. (KREUTZWALD.) Once upon a time a parson was looking out for a servant who would undertake to toll the church bell at midnight in addition to his other duties. Many men had already made the attempt, but whenever they went to toll the bell at night, they disappeared as suddenly as if they had sunk into the ground, for the bell was not heard to toll, and the bell-ringer never came back. The parson kept the matter as quiet as possible, but the sudden disappearance of so many men could not be concealed, and he could no longer find anybody willing to enter his service. The more the matter was talked about, the more seriously it was discussed, and there were even malicious tongues to whisper that the parson himself murdered his servants. Every Sunday the parson proclaimed from the pulpit after the sermon, "I am in want of a good servant, and offer double wages, good keep," &c.; but for many months no one applied for the post. However, one day the crafty Hans[62] offered his services. He had been last in the employment of a stingy master, and the offer of good keep was therefore very attractive to him, and he was quite ready to enter on his duties at once. "Very well, my son," said the parson, "if you are armed with courage and trust in God, you may make your first trial to-night, and we will conclude our bargain to-morrow." Hans was quite content, and went into the servants' room without troubling his head about his new employment. The parson was a miser, and was always vexed when his servants ate too much, and generally came into the room during their meals, hoping that they would eat less in his presence. He also encouraged them to drink as much as possible, thinking that the more they drank, the less they would be able to eat. But Hans was more cunning than his master, for he emptied the jug at one draught, saying, "That makes twice as much room for the food." The parson thought this was really the case, and no longer urged his people to drink, while Hans laughed in his sleeve at the success of his trick. It was about eleven o'clock at night when Hans entered the church. He found the interior lighted up, and was rather surprised when he saw a numerous company, who were not assembled for purposes of devotion. The people were sitting at a long table playing cards. But Hans was not a bit frightened, or, if he secretly felt a little alarm, he was cunning enough to show nothing of it. He went straight to the table and sat down with the players. One of them noticed him, and said, "Friend, what business have you here?" Hans gave him a good stare, and presently answered, "It would be better for a meddler like you to hold his tongue. If anybody here has a right to ask questions, I think I'm the man. But if I don't care to avail myself of my right, I certainly think it would be more polite of you to hold your jaw." Hans then took up the cards, and began to play with the strangers as if they were his best friends. He had good luck, for he doubled his stakes, and emptied the pockets of many of the other players. Presently the cock crew. Midnight must have come; and in a moment the lights were extinguished, and the players, with their table and benches, vanished. Hans groped about in the dark church for some time before he could find the door which led to the belfry. When Hans had nearly reached the top of the first flight, he saw a little man without a head sitting on the top step. "Oho, my little fellow! what do you want here?" cried Hans, and, without waiting for an answer, he gave him a good kick and sent him rolling down the long flight of stairs. He found the same kind of little sentinel posted on the top stair of the second, third, and fourth flights, and pitched them down one after another, so that all the bones in their bodies rattled. At last Hans reached the bell without further hindrance. When he looked up, to make sure that all was right, he saw another headless little man sitting crouched together in the bell. He had loosened the clapper, and seemed to be waiting for Hans to pull the bell-rope, to drop the heavy clapper on his head, which would certainly have killed him. "Wait a while, my little friend," cried Hans; "we haven't bargained for this. You may have seen how I rolled your little comrades downstairs without tiring their own legs! You yourself shall follow them. But because you sit the highest, you shall make the proudest journey. I'll pitch you out of the loophole, so that you'll have no wish to come back again." As he spoke, he raised the ladder, intending to drag the little man out of the bell and fulfil his threat. The dwarf saw his danger, and began to beg, "Dear brother, spare my wretched life, and I promise that neither my brothers nor I will again interfere with the bellringer at night. I may seem small and contemptible, but who knows whether I may not some day be able to do more for your welfare than offer you a beggar's thanks?" "Poor little fellow!" laughed Hans. "Your ransom wouldn't be worth a gnat. But as I'm in a good humour just now, I'm willing to spare your life. But take care not to come in my way again, for I might not be inclined to trifle with you another time." The headless dwarf gave him his humble thanks, clambered down the bell-rope like a squirrel, and bolted down the belfry-stairs as if he was on fire, while Hans tolled the bell to his heart's content. When the parson heard the bell tolling at midnight he was surprised and pleased at having at last found a servant who had withstood the ordeal. After Hans had finished his work he went into the hayloft, and lay down to sleep. The parson was in the habit of getting up early in the morning, and going to see whether his people were about their work. All were in their places except the new servant, and nobody had seen anything of him. When eleven o'clock came, and Hans still made no appearance, the parson became anxious, and began to fear that the bell-ringer had met his death like those before him. But when the rattle was used to call the workmen to dinner, Hans likewise appeared among them. "Where have you been all morning?" asked the parson. "I've been asleep," answered Hans, yawning. "Asleep?" cried the parson in amazement. "You don't mean that you sleep every day till this hour?" "I think," answered Hans, "it's as clear as spring-water. Nobody can serve two masters. He who works at night must sleep during the day, for night was meant for labourers to rest. If you relieve me from tolling the bell at night, I'm quite ready to set to work at daybreak. But if I have to toll the bell at night, I must sleep in the daytime, at any rate till mid-day." After disputing over the matter for some time, they finally agreed on the following conditions:--Hans was to be relieved of his nocturnal duties, and was to work from sunrise to sunset. He was to be allowed to sleep for half-an-hour after nine o'clock in the morning, and for a whole hour after dinner, and was to have the whole of Sunday free. "But," said the parson, "you might sometimes help with odd jobs at other times, especially in winter, when the days are short, and the work would then last longer." "Not at all," cried Hans, "for that's why the days are longer in summer. I won't do any more than work from sunrise to sunset on week-days, as I promised." Some time afterwards the parson was asked to attend a grand christening in town. The town was only a few hours from the parsonage, but Hans took a bag of provisions with him. "What's that for?" said the parson. "We shall get to town before evening." But Hans answered, "Who can foresee everything? Many things may happen on the road to interfere with our journey, and you know that our bargain was that I am only obliged to serve you till sunset. If the sun sets before we reach town, you'll have to finish your journey alone." They were in the middle of the forest when the sun set. Hans stopped the horses, took up his provision-bag, and jumped out of the sledge. "What are you doing, Hans? Are you mad?" asked the pastor of souls. But Hans answered quietly, "I'm going to sleep here; for the sun has set, and my time of work is over." His master did his utmost to move him with alternate threats and entreaties, but it was all of no use, and at last he promised him a good present and an increase in his wages. "Are you not ashamed, Mr. Parson?" said Hans. "Would you tempt me to stray from the right way and break my agreement? All the treasures of the earth would not induce me, for you hold a man by his word, and an ox by his horns. If you want to go to town to-night, travel on alone, in God's name; for I can't go any farther with you, now that my hours of service have expired." "But, my good Hans, my dear fellow," said the parson, "I really can't leave you here all alone by yourself. Don't you see the gallows close by, with two evil-doers hanging on it, whose souls are now burning in hell? Surely you wouldn't venture to pass the night in the neighbourhood of such company?" "Why not?" said Hans. "These gallows-birds are hanging up in the air, and I shall sleep on the ground below, so we can't interfere with each other." As he spoke he turned his back to his master and went off with his provision-bag. If the parson would not miss the christening, it was necessary for him to go to town alone. The people were much astonished to see him arrive without a coachman; but when he had related his astonishing altercation with Hans, they could not make up their minds whether the master or the servant was the biggest fool of the two. Hans cared nothing about what the people thought or said of him. He ate his supper, lit himself a pipe to warm his nose, made himself a bed under a great branching pine-tree, wrapped himself in his warm rug, and went to sleep. He might have slept for some hours when he was roused by a sudden noise. It was a bright moonlight night, and close by stood two headless dwarfs under the pine-tree exchanging angry words. Hans raised himself to look at them better, when they both cried out at once, "It is he! it is he!" One of them drew nearer to Hans' sleeping place and said, "Old friend, we have met again by a lucky chance. My bones still ache from the steps in the church tower, and I dare say you haven't forgotten the story. We'll deal with your bones now in such a fashion that you won't forget our meeting for weeks. Hi! there, comrades; come on and set to work!" Upon this a crowd of the headless dwarfs rushed together from all sides like a swarm of gnats. They were all armed with thick cudgels, bigger than themselves. The number of these little enemies threatened danger, for they struck as hard as any strong man could have done. Hans thought his last hour was come, for he could not make any defence against such a host of enemies. But by good luck another dwarf made his appearance, just as the blows were falling fastest. "Stop, stop, comrades!" he exclaimed. "This man has been my benefactor, and I owe him a debt of gratitude. He gave me my life when I was in his power. Although he pitched some of you downstairs, he didn't cripple any of you. The warm bath cured your broken limbs long ago, and you had better forgive him and go home." The headless dwarfs were easily persuaded by their comrade, and went quietly away. Hans now recognised his deliverer as the apparition who had sat in the church-bell at night. The dwarf sat down with Hans under the pine-tree, and said, "You laughed at me once when I said that a time might come in which I might be useful to you. That time has now arrived, and let it teach you not to despise even the smallest creature in the world." "I thank you with all my heart," returned Hans. "My bones are almost pulverised with their blows, and I should hardly have escaped with life if you had not arrived in the very nick of time." The headless dwarf continued, "My debt is now paid, but I will do more, and give you something to indemnify you for your thrashing. You need no longer toil in the service of a stingy parson. When you reach home to-morrow go straight to the north corner of the church, where you will find a great stone fixed in the wall, which is not secured with mortar like the others. It is full moon on the night of the day after to-morrow. Go at midnight, and take this stone out of the wall with a lever. Under the stone you will find an inestimable treasure, which many generations have heaped together; there are gold and silver church plate, and a large amount of money, which was once concealed in time of war. Those who hid the treasure have all died more than a hundred years ago, and not a living soul knows anything about the matter. You must divide one-third of the money among the poor of the parish, and all the rest is yours, to do what you like with." At this moment a cock crew in a distant village, and the headless dwarf vanished as if he had been wiped out. Hans could not sleep for a long time for the pain in his limbs, and thought much of the hidden treasure, but he dropped asleep at last towards morning. The sun was high in the heavens when his master returned from town. "Hans," said the parson, "you were a great fool not to go with me yesterday. Look here! I've had plenty to eat and drink, and got money in my pocket into the bargain." Meantime he jingled the money to vex him more. But Hans answered quietly, "Worthy Mister Parson, you have had to keep awake all night for that bit of money, but I've earned a hundred times as much in my sleep." "Show me what you earned," cried the parson. But Hans answered, "Fools jingle their copecks, but wise men hide their roubles." When they reached home, Hans did his duty zealously, unharnessed and fed the horses, and then walked round the church till he found the stone in the wall that was not mortared. On the first night after the full moon, when everybody else was asleep, Hans crept quietly out of the house with a pickaxe, wrenched out the stone with much difficulty, and actually found the hole with the money, just as the dwarf had described it to him. Next Sunday he divided the third part among the poor of the parish, and gave notice to the parson that he was about to quit his service, and as he asked no wages for so short a time, he got his discharge without any demur. But Hans travelled a long way off, bought himself a nice farm-house, married a young wife, and lived quietly and comfortably for many years. At the time when my grandfather was a shepherd-boy, there were many old people living in our village who had known Hans, and who bore witness to the truth of this story. [Footnote 62: Hans is a generic term in Esthonia for the cunning fellow who always contrives to outwit the Devil, &c.] THE TREASURE AT KERTELL. (JANNSEN.) During a great war, the people of Kertell, in the island of Dagö, caused a great iron chest to be made, wherein they stored all their gold and silver, and sunk it in the river near the old bridge. But they all perished without recovering it. Many years afterwards, a man who was passing by in the evening saw a small flame flickering in the air. He laid his pipe on a stone and followed the flame; but it disappeared, and on going to pick up his pipe, he found it gone, and money lying on the stone. But afterwards, whenever he passed the stone, he found money. His companions advised him to consult a magician with respect to raising the treasure, of which the tradition had persisted; and the magician directed him to go to the place where he had seen the flame on three successive Thursdays, and sacrifice a cock, but not to speak of it to any one.[63] On the third Thursday, he took some companions with him; and when the cock was sacrificed, the treasure-chest appeared above water, and they dragged it to shore with great labour. But one of the party looked towards the bridge, and saw a little boy mounted on a pig riding over it. He exclaimed to his companions, when the figures disappeared, the stakes and ropes gave way, and the treasure fell back into the river, and was irrecoverably lost to them. [Footnote 63: This seems to be an error in the story; for the context shows that the prohibition was not to speak a word during the ceremony.] THE GOLDEN SNAKES. (JANNSEN.) Two woodcutters found a number of snakes in the wood, and one of the men killed some, and he and his comrade followed them up till they came to a vast mass of snakes, among which was one with a golden crown. They fled, but were pursued by the snake-king, when one of them turned round and hit him on the head with an axe, when he changed into a heap of gold. They then returned to the cluster of snakes, but they had all disappeared, and they found only another heap of gold. They divided the money, and with half of it they built a church. * * * * * The previous story is Lithuanian rather than Esthonian in character. The next has a more diabolical character than any of the preceding. THE DEVIL'S TREASURE. (JANNSEN.) A travelling Swedish shoemaker saw a fire burning one night on the Sand Mountain, and on reaching the spot, found an iron chest, which he opened, and finding it to contain a pot of gold, helped himself to a good supply. He then left his situation, and wandered about till he came to Ringen, where he was appointed shoemaker to the castle. One evening he was alone in his room when he heard a horn blown twice, but each time he went out and found nothing. He then took his prayerbook in his hand, ate his supper, and went to bed, but was awakened by a tremendous noise in the castle. On opening his eyes, he saw that his room was lit up with tapers, and two women, one in a red and the other in a green dress, stood by his bed, who invited him to dance. Half asleep, he cried out, "To hell with you! Is this a time to dance?" They reminded him of the money which he had taken, left the room, and banged the door after them, so that the whole castle shook. The lights went out, and the shoemaker turned over and went to sleep again. Next morning he found himself lying terribly bruised, with his head and body in the hall, and his legs in the room. On his breast were the impress of two hands, showing prints of all the fingers. Shortly afterwards he died, having confessed to the priest, and left all his money for a church-bell. The chest was found empty, the demons having carried off their treasure again; but the shoemaker was buried under the pulpit in the church at Ringen. * * * * * We may end this section with the story of a man who failed to raise a treasure through fear. THE NOCTURNAL CHURCH-GOERS. (KREUTZWALD.) One Christmas Eve the people at a farm-house a couple of versts from a church went to bed early, intending to go to early morning service by candle-light. The farmer woke up, and on going out to see how the weather was, he saw the church lit up, and thinking he had overslept himself, called his people and they set out. They found the church lit up and full of people, but the singing sounded rather strange. When they reached the open door, the lights and people disappeared, and a stranger came out, who told them to return, saying, "This is our service; yours begins to-morrow." But he took one youth of the party aside, and told him to come again at midnight three days before St. John's Eve and he would make his fortune, but he warned him to keep it secret. As the party returned to the farm-house, the sky cleared, and they saw from the position of the stars that it was midnight. When the matter came to the pastor's ears, he tried to persuade the people that it was only a dream; but the matter could not be hushed up. The youth who had received an invitation from the stranger felt very doubtful about keeping the appointment, especially as he had been commanded to keep it secret; but a fortnight before the time, he was going home one evening after sunset, when he saw an old woman sitting by the roadside, who asked him what he was thinking about so deeply. He made no answer, and then she asked to see his hand to tell his fortune, assuring him that she meant him well. She put on her spectacles, and after examining his hand for some time, promised him great good fortune, and told him to go with the stranger without fear. But if he wished to take a wife, let him not do so without great consideration, or he might fall into misfortune. She refused any payment, and hurried away as lightly as a young girl. Three days before St. John's Eve, the youth set out a little before midnight. A voice cried in his ear, "You are not going right!" and he was about to turn back when he heard voices singing in the air, which urged him not to throw away his good fortune, and encouraged him to proceed. He found the church-door closed, but the stranger came from behind the left side of the church. He told the youth he feared he might not have come; and that the church service was held at Christmas only once in seven years, at a time when men are all asleep. The stranger then told the youth that there was a grave mound in a certain meadow on which grew three junipers, and under the middle one a great treasure was buried. In order to propitiate the guardians of the treasure, it was needful to slaughter three black animals, one feathered and two hairy, and to take care that not a drop of the sacrificial blood was lost, but all offered to the guardians. A bit of silver was to be scraped from the youth's buckle that the gleam of the costly silver might lead him to that which was buried. "Then cut a stick from the juniper three spans long, turn the point three times toward the grass where you have offered the blood, and walk nine times round the juniper bush from west to east. But at every round strike the grass under the bush three times with the stick, and at every blow say 'Igrek!'[64] At the eighth round you will perceive a subterranean jingling of money, and after the ninth round you will see the gleam of silver. Then fall on your knees, bend your face to the ground, and cry out nine times 'Igrek,' when the treasure will rise." The seeker must wait patiently till the treasure has risen, and not allow himself to be frightened by the spectres which would appear, for they were only soulless phantoms,[65] to try the seeker's courage. If it failed, he would return home with empty hands. The seeker must go to the hill on St. John's Eve, when the bonfires were burning and the people merrymaking. A third of the treasure was to be given to the poor; the rest belonged to the finder. The stranger repeated his directions three times word for word that the youth should not forget them, when the sexton's cock crew and the stranger vanished suddenly. Next day the youth obtained a black cock and a black dog from some neighbours, and next night he caught a mole. On St. John's Eve he took the three animals, and carried out his instructions at midnight, slaughtering first the cock, then the mole, and lastly the dog, taking care that every drop of blood should fall on the appointed spot. But when he had called "Igrek!" at the conclusion of the ceremony, a fiery-red cock rose suddenly under the juniper, flapped his wings, crowed and flew away. A shovelful of silver was then cast up at the youth's feet. Next a fiery-red cat with long golden claws rose from under the juniper, mewed, and darted away, when the earth opened and threw up another shovelful of silver. Next appeared a great fiery-red dog, with a golden head and tail, who barked, and ran away, when a shovelful of roubles was cast up at the youth's feet. This was followed by a red fox with a golden tail, a red wolf with two golden heads, and a red bear with three golden heads; and behind each animal money was thrown out in the grass, but behind the bear there came about a ton of silver, and the entire heap rose to the height of a haycock. When the bear had disappeared, there was a rushing and roaring under the juniper as if fifty smiths were blowing the bellows at once. Then appeared from the juniper a huge head, half man, half beast, with golden horns nine feet long, and with golden tusks two ells long. Still more dreadful were the flames which shot from mouth and nostrils, and which caused the rushing and roaring. The youth was now beside himself with terror, and rushed away, fancying himself closely pursued by the spectre, and at last he fell down in his own farmyard and fainted. In the morning the sunbeams roused him; and when he came to himself, he took six sacks with him from the barn to carry off the treasure. He found the hill with the three junipers, the slaughtered animals, and the wand; but the earth showed no signs of having been disturbed, and the treasure had vanished. Probably it still rests beneath the hill, waiting for a bolder man to raise it. The grandson of the unlucky treasure-seeker, who relates this story, could not say if his grandfather had been equally unfortunate in his marriage, as he never alluded to the subject. [Footnote 64: _Kergi_ (rise up), spelt backwards.] [Footnote 65: As in the story of Joodar (_Thousand and One Nights_).] SECTION X _ORIENTAL TALES_ Under this heading I propose to notice two stories only. The first of these is called the "Maidens who Bathed in the Moonlight" (Kreutzwald), and is peculiarly tame and inconsequential, but yet exhibits one or two features of special interest which forbid its being passed over altogether. A young man who had already learned the language of birds and other mysteries, and was still desirous to peer into all sorts of secret knowledge, applied to a famous necromancer[66] to initiate him into the secrets hidden under the veil of night. The Finnish sorcerer endeavoured to dissuade him from his purpose; but as he persisted, he told him that on the evening of St. Mark's Day, which was not far off, the king of the serpents would hold his court at a place which he indicated, as was the custom every seven years. There would be a dish of heavenly goat's-milk before the king, and if the young man could dip a bit of bread in it, and put it in his mouth before taking to flight, he would gain the secret knowledge which he desired. At the appointed time, the young man went at dusk to a wide moor, where he could see nothing but a number of hillocks. At midnight a bright light shone from one of the hillocks; it was the king's signal, and all the other snakes, which had been lying like motionless hillocks, uncoiled themselves, and began to move in that direction[67]. At last they gathered themselves into a great heap as large as a haycock. The youth at first feared to approach, but at last crept up on tiptoe, when he saw thousands of snakes clustered round a huge serpent with a gold crown on his head. The youth's blood froze in his veins and his hair stood on end, but he sprang over the heap of hissing serpents, who opened their jaws as he passed, but could not disengage themselves quickly enough to strike him. He secured his prize and fled, pursued by the hissing serpents, till he fell senseless; but at the first rays of the sun he woke up, having left the moor four or five miles behind him, and all danger was now over. He slept through the day, to recover himself from the fatigue and fright, and went into the woods in the following night, where he saw golden bathing benches arranged, with silver bath whisks[68] and silver basins. Presently the loveliest naked maidens assembled from all quarters, and began to wash themselves in the bright moonlight, while the youth stood behind a bush looking on. They were the wood-nymphs, and the daughters of the Meadow-Queen.[69] Towards morning they disappeared suddenly from his sight, and though he visited the woods again night after night, he never again saw either the bathing utensils or the maidens, and pined away in hopeless longing. * * * * * The next story is extremely interesting, and it contains a more elaborate description of the Seal of Solomon (which we should hardly expect to be known in the legends of a country like Esthonia) than any other which I have seen, except that given by Weil in his _Biblische Legenden der Muselmänner_. Weil, however, represents it as a cluster of stones, possessing different virtues, and not as a single stone. The symbol called the Seal of Solomon by the Freemasons, &c., consists of two equilateral triangles intersecting each other within a circle, and is regarded by mystics of every class as one of the most sacred of all symbols. In Eastern legends the mystical name of God is said to have been inscribed on the Seal. Arabian writers say that the embalmed body of Solomon, with the ring on his finger, sits enthroned on one of the islands of the Circumambient Ocean. Cf. the story "Bulookiya" (_Thousand and One Nights_), and Kirby's poem of _Ed-Dimiryaht_. [Footnote 66: There has been some discussion as to the right meaning to be put upon the words, _Mana tark_ (Death-magician), but it appears to me that necromancer is simply a literal rendering.] [Footnote 67: This serpent-gathering so much resembles those described in the first book of the _Maha-Bharata_, and in the story of Hasib (or Jamasp) in the _Thousand and One Nights_, that I have referred the present story to the class of tales of Oriental origin.] [Footnote 68: In Finland and Esthonia they use dried birch-twigs with the leaves attached to whisk themselves with when bathing.] [Footnote 69: See vol. i. p. 13.] THE NORTHERN FROG[70]. (KREUTZWALD). Once upon a time, as old people relate, there existed a horrible monster which came from the north. It exterminated men and animals from large districts, and if nobody had been able to arrest its progress, it might gradually have swept all living things from the earth. It had a body like an ox and legs like a frog; that is to say, two short ones in front, and two long ones behind. Its tail was ten fathoms long. It moved like a frog, but cleared two miles at every bound. Fortunately it used to remain on the spot where it had once alighted for several years, and did not advance farther till it had eaten the whole neighbourhood bare. Its body was entirely encased in scales harder than stone or bronze, so that nothing could injure it. Its two large eyes shone like the brightest tapers both by day and night, and whoever had the misfortune to meet their glare became as one bewitched, and was forced to throw himself into the jaws of the monster. So it happened that men and animals offered themselves to be devoured, without any necessity for it to move from its place. The neighbouring kings offered magnificent rewards to any one who could destroy the monster by magic or otherwise, and many people had tried their fortune, but their efforts were all futile. On one occasion, a large wood in which the monster was skulking was set on fire. The wood was destroyed, but the noxious animal was not harmed in the slightest degree. However, it was reported among old people that nobody could overcome the monster except with the help of King Solomon's Seal, on which a secret inscription was engraved, from which it could be discovered how the monster might be destroyed. But nobody could tell where the seal was now concealed, nor where to find a sorcerer who could read the inscription. At length a young man whose head and heart were in the right place determined to set out in search of the seal-ring, trusting in his good fortune. He started in the direction of the East, where it is supposed that the wisdom of the ancients is to be sought for. After some years he met with a celebrated magician of the East, and asked him for advice. The sorcerer answered, "Men have but little wisdom, and here it can avail you nothing, but God's birds will be your best guides under heaven, if you will learn their language. I can help you with it if you will stay with me for a few days." The young man thankfully accepted this friendly offer, and replied, "I am unable at present to make you any return for your kindness, but if I should succeed in my enterprise, I will richly reward you for your trouble." Then the sorcerer prepared a powerful charm, by boiling nine kinds of magic herbs which he had gathered secretly by moonlight.[71] He made the young man drink a spoonful every day, and it had the effect of making the language of birds intelligible to him. When he departed, the sorcerer said, "If you should have the good luck to find and get possession of Solomon's Seal, come back to me, that I may read you the inscription on the ring, for there is no one else now living who can do so." On the very next day the young man found the world quite transformed. He no longer went anywhere alone, but found company everywhere, for he now understood the language of birds, and thus many secrets were revealed to him which human wisdom would have been unable to discover. Nevertheless, some time passed before he could learn anything about the ring. At length one evening, when he was exhausted with heat and fatigue, he lay down under a tree in a wood to eat his supper, when he heard two strange birds with bright coloured plumage talking about him in the branches. One of them said, "I know the silly wanderer under the tree, who has already wandered about so much without finding a trace of what he wants. He is searching for the lost ring of King Solomon." The other bird replied, "I think he must seek the help of the Hell-Maiden,[72] who would certainly be able to help him to find it. Even if she herself does not possess the ring, she must know well enough who owns it now." The first bird returned, "It may be as you say, but where can he find the Hell-Maiden, who has no fixed abode, and is here to-day and there to-morrow? He might as well try to fetter the wind." "I can't say exactly where she is at present," said the other bird, "but in three days' time she will come to the spring to wash her face, as is her custom every month on the night of the full moon, so that the bloom of youth never disappears from her cheeks, and her face never wrinkles with age." The first bird responded, "Well, the spring is not far off; shall we amuse ourselves by watching her proceedings?" "Willingly," said the other. The young man resolved at once to follow the birds and visit the spring; but two difficulties troubled him. In the first place, he feared he might be asleep when the birds set out; and secondly, he had no wings, with which he could follow close behind them. He was too weary to lie awake all night, for he could not keep his eyes open, but his anxiety prevented him from sleeping quietly, and he often woke up for fear of missing the departure of the birds. Consequently he was very glad when he looked up in the tree at sunrise, and saw the bright-coloured birds sitting motionless with their heads under their wings. He swallowed his breakfast, and then waited for the birds to wake up. But they did not seem disposed to go anywhere that morning; but fluttered about as if to amuse themselves, in search of food, and flew from one tree-top to another till evening, when they returned to roost at their old quarters. On the second day it was just the same. However, on the third morning one bird said to the other, "We must go to the spring to-day, to see the Hell-Maiden washing her face." They waited till noon, and then flew away direct towards the south. The young man's heart beat with fear lest he should lose sight of his guides. But the birds did not fly farther than he could see, and perched on the summit of a tree. The young man ran after them till he was all in a sweat and quite out of breath. After resting three times, the birds reached a small open glade, and perched on a high tree at its edge. When the young man arrived, he perceived a spring in the midst of the opening, and sat down under the tree on which the birds were perched. Then he pricked up his ears, and listened to the talk of the feathered creatures. "The sun has not set," said one bird, "and we must wait till the moon rises and the maiden comes to the well. We will see whether she notices the young man under the tree." The other bird replied, "Nothing escapes her eyes which concerns a young man. Will this one be clever enough to escape falling into her net?" "We will see what passes between them," returned the first bird. Evening came, and the full moon had already risen high above the wood, when the young man heard a slight rustling, and in a few moments a maiden emerged from the trees, and sped across the grass to the spring so lightly that her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. The young man perceived in an instant that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, and he could not take his eyes from her. She went straight to the well, without taking any heed of him, raised her eyes to the moon, and then fell on her knees and washed her face nine times in the spring. Every time she looked up at the moon, and cried out, "Fair and round-cheeked, as now thou art, may my beauty likewise endure imperishably." Then she walked nine times round the spring, and each time she sang-- "Let the maiden's face not wrinkle, Nor her red cheeks lose their beauty; Though the moon should wane and dwindle, May my beauty grow for ever, And my joy bloom on for ever!" Then she dried her face with her long hair, and was about to depart, when her eyes suddenly fell upon the young man who was sitting under the tree, and she turned towards him immediately. The young man rose up to await her approach. The fair maiden drew nearer, and said to him, "You have exposed yourself to severe punishment for spying on the private affairs of a maiden in the moonlight, but as you are a stranger, and came here by accident, I will forgive you. But you must inform me truly who you are, and how you came here, where no mortal has ever before set foot." The youth answered with much politeness, "Forgive me, fair lady, for having offended you without my knowledge or intention. When I arrived here, after long wanderings, I found this nice place under the tree, and prepared to camp here for the night. Your arrival interrupted me, and I remained sitting here, thinking that I should not disturb you if I looked on quietly." The maiden answered in the most friendly manner, "Come to our house to-night. It is better to rest on cushions than on the cold moss." The young man hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether he ought to accept her friendly invitation or to decline it. One of the birds in the tree remarked to the other, "He would be a fool if he did not accept her offer." Perhaps the maiden did not know the language of birds, for she added, "Fear nothing, my friend. I have not invited you with any ill intention, but wish you well with all my heart." The birds responded, "Go where you are asked, but beware of giving any blood, lest you should sell your soul." Then the youth went with her. Not far from the spring they arrived at a beautiful garden, in which stood a magnificent mansion, which shone in the moonlight as if the roof and walls were made of gold and silver. When the youth entered, he passed through very splendid apartments, each grander than the last; hundreds of tapers were burning in gold chandeliers, and everywhere diffused a light like that of day. At length they reached a room where an elegant supper was laid out, and two chairs stood at the table, one of silver and the other of gold. The maiden sat down on the golden chair, and invited the youth to take the other. White-robed damsels served up and removed the dishes, but they spoke no word, and trod as softly as if on cats' feet. After supper the youth remained alone with the royal maiden, and they kept up a lively conversation, till a woman in red garments appeared to remind them that it was bedtime. Then the maiden showed the young man to another room, where stood a silken bed with cushions of down, after which she retired. He thought he must have gone to heaven with his living body, for he never expected to find such luxuries on earth. But he could never afterwards tell whether it was the delusion of dreams or whether he actually heard voices round his bed crying out words which chilled his heart--"Give no blood!" Next morning the maiden asked him whether he would not like to stay here, where the whole week was one long holiday. And as the youth did not answer immediately, she added, "I am young and fair, as you see yourself, and I am under no one's authority, and can do what I like. Until now, it never entered my head to marry, but from the moment when I saw you, other thoughts came suddenly into my mind, for you please me. If we should both be of one mind, let us wed without delay. I possess endless wealth and goods, as you may easily convince yourself at every step, and thus I can live in royal state day by day. Whatever your heart desires, that can I provide for you." The cajoleries of the fair maid might well have turned the youth's head, but by good fortune he remembered that the birds had called her the Hell-Maiden, and had warned him to give her no blood, and that he had received the same warning at night, though whether sleeping or waking he knew not. He therefore replied, "Dear lady, do not be angry with me if I tell you candidly that marriage should not be rushed upon at racehorse speed, but requires longer consideration. Pray therefore allow me a few days for reflection, until we are better acquainted." "Why not?" answered the fair maid. "I am quite content that you should think on the matter for a few weeks, and set your mind at rest." Lest the youth might feel dull, the maiden led him from one part of the magnificent house to another, and showed him all the rich storehouses and treasure-chambers, thinking that it might soften his heart. All these treasures were the result of magic, for the maiden could have built such a palace with all its contents on any day and at any place with the aid of Solomon's Seal. But everything was unsubstantial, for it was woven of wind, and dissolved again into the wind, without leaving a trace behind. But the youth was not aware of this, and looked upon all the glamour as reality. One day the maiden led him into a secret chamber, where a gold casket stood on a silver table. This she showed him, and then said, "Here is the most precious of all my possessions, the like of which is not to be found in the whole world. It is a costly golden ring. If you will marry me, I will give it you for a keepsake, and it will make you the happiest of all mankind. But in order that the bond of our love should last for ever, you must give me three drops of blood from the little finger of your left hand in exchange for the ring." The youth turned cold when he heard her ask for blood, for he remembered that his soul was at stake. But he was crafty enough not to let her notice his emotion, and not to refuse her, but asked carelessly what were the properties of the ring. The maiden answered, "No one living has been able to fathom the whole power of this ring, and no one can completely explain the secret signs engraved upon it. But, even with the imperfect knowledge of its properties which I possess, I can perform many wonders which no other creature can accomplish. If I put the ring on the little finger of my left hand, I can rise in the air like a bird and fly whithersoever I will. If I place the ring on the ring-finger of my left hand, I become invisible to all eyes, while I myself can see everything that passes around me. If I put the ring on the middle finger of my left hand, I become invulnerable to all weapons, and neither water nor fire can hurt me. If I place it on the index finger of my left hand, I can create all things which I desire with its aid; I can build houses in a moment, or produce other objects. As long as I wear it on the thumb of my left hand, my hand remains strong enough to break down rocks and walls. Moreover, the ring bears other secret inscriptions which, as I said before, no one has yet been able to explain; but it may readily be supposed that they contain many important secrets. In ancient times, the ring belonged to King Solomon, the wisest of kings, and in whose reign lived the wisest of men. At the present day it is unknown whether the ring was formed by divine power or by human hands; but it is supposed that an angel presented the ring to the wise king." When the youth heard the fair one speak in this way, he determined immediately to endeavour to possess himself of the ring by craft, and therefore pretended that he could not believe what he had heard. He hoped by this means to induce the maiden to take the ring out of the casket to show him, when he might have an opportunity of possessing himself of the talisman. But he did not venture to ask her plainly to show him the ring. He flattered and cajoled her, but the only thought in his mind was to get possession of the ring. Presently the maiden took the key of the casket from her bosom as if to unlock it; but she changed her mind, and replaced it, saying, "There's plenty of time for that afterwards." A few days later, their conversation reverted to the magic ring, and the youth said, "In my opinion, the things which you tell me of the power of your ring are quite incredible." Then the maiden opened the casket and took out the ring, which shone through her fingers like the brightest sun-ray. Then she placed it in jest on the middle finger of her left hand, and told the youth to take a knife and stab her with it wherever he liked, for it would not hurt her. The youth protested against the proposed experiment; but, as she insisted, he was obliged to humour her. At first he began in play, and then in earnest to try to strike the maiden with the knife; but it seemed as if there was an invisible wall of iron between them. The blade would not pierce it, and the maiden stood before him unhurt and smiling. Then she moved the ring to her ring-finger, and in an instant she vanished from the eyes of the youth, and he could not imagine what had become of her. Presently she stood before him smiling, in the same place as before, holding the ring between her fingers. "Let me try," said he, "whether I can also do these strange things with the ring." The maiden suspected no deceit, and gave it to him. The youth pretended he did not quite know what to do with it and asked, "On which finger must I place the ring to become invulnerable to sharp weapons?" "On the ring-finger of the left hand," said the maiden, smiling. She then took the knife herself and tried to strike him, but could not do him any harm. Then the youth took the knife from her and tried to wound himself, but he found that this too was impossible. Then he asked the maiden how he could cleave stones and rocks with the ring. She took him to the enclosure where stood a block of granite a fathom high. "Now place the ring," said the maiden, "on the thumb of your left hand, and then strike the stone with your fist, and you will see the strength of your hand." The youth did so, and to his amazement he saw the stone shiver into a thousand pieces under the blow. Then he thought, "He who does not seize good fortune by the horns is a fool, for when it has once flown, it never returns." While he was still jesting about the destruction of the stone, he played with the ring, and slipped it suddenly on the ring-finger of his left hand. Then cried the maiden, "You will remain invisible to me until you take off the ring again." But this was far from the young man's thoughts. He hurried forwards a few paces, and then moved the ring to the little finger of his left hand, and soared into the air like a bird. When the maiden saw him flying away, she thought at first that this experiment too was only in jest, and cried out, "Come back, my friend. You see now that I have told you the truth." But he who did not return was the youth, and when the maiden realised his treachery, she broke out into bitter lamentations over her misfortune. The youth did not cease his flight till he arrived, some days later, at the house of the famous sorcerer who had taught him the language of birds. The sorcerer was greatly delighted to find that his pupil's journey had turned out so successfully. He set to work at once to read the secret inscriptions on the ring, but he spent seven weeks before he could accomplish it. He then gave the young man the following instructions how to destroy the Northern Frog:--"You must have a great iron horse cast, with small wheels under each foot, so that it can be moved backwards and forwards. You must mount this, and arm yourself with an iron spear two fathoms long, which you will only be able to wield when you wear the magic ring on the thumb of your left hand. The spear must be as thick as a great birch-tree in the middle, and both ends must be sharpened to a point. You must fasten two strong chains, ten fathoms long, to the middle of the spear, strong enough to hold the frog. As soon as the frog has bitten hard on the spear, and it has pierced his jaws, you must spring like the wind from the iron horse to avoid falling into the monster's throat, and must fix the ends of the chains into the ground with iron posts so firmly that no force can drag them out again. In three or four days' time the strength of the frog will be so far exhausted that you can venture to approach it. Then place Solomon's ring on the thumb of your left hand, and beat the frog to death. But till you reach it, you must keep the ring constantly on the ring-finger of your left hand, that the monster cannot see you, or it would strike you dead with its long tail. But when you have accomplished all this, take great care not to lose the ring, nor to allow anybody to deprive you of it by a trick." Our friend thanked the sorcerer for his advice, and promised to reward him for his trouble afterwards. But the sorcerer answered, "I have learned so much magic wisdom by deciphering the secret inscriptions on the ring, that I need no other profit for myself." Then they parted, and the young man hastened home, which was no longer difficult to him, as he could fly like a bird wherever he wished. He reached home in a few weeks, and heard from the people that the horrible Northern Frog was already in the neighbourhood, and might be expected to cross the frontier any day. The king caused it to be proclaimed everywhere that if any one could destroy the frog, he would not only give him part of his kingdom, but his daughter in marriage likewise. A few days later, the young man came before the king, and declared that he hoped to destroy the monster, if the king would provide him with what was necessary; and the king joyfully consented. All the most skilful craftsmen of the neighbourhood were called together to construct first the iron horse, next the great spear, and lastly the iron chains, the links of which were two inches thick. But when all was ready, it was found that the iron horse was so heavy that a hundred men could not move it from its place. The youth was therefore obliged to move the horse away alone, with the help of his ring. The frog was now hardly four miles away, so that a couple of bounds might carry it across the frontier. The young man now reflected how he could best deal with the monster alone, for, as he was obliged to push the heavy iron horse from below, he could not mount it, as the sorcerer had directed him. But he unexpectedly received advice from the beak of a raven, "Mount upon the iron horse, and set the spear against the ground, and you can then push yourself along as you would push a boat from the shore." The young man did so, and found that he was able to proceed in this way. The monster at once opened its jaws afar off, ready to receive the expected prey. A few fathoms more, and the man and the iron horse were in the monster's jaws. The young man shook with horror, and his heart froze to ice, but he kept his wits about him, and thrust with all his might, so that the iron spear which he held upright in his hand, pierced the jaws of the monster. Then he leaped from the iron horse, and sprang away like lightning as the monster clashed his jaws together. A hideous roar, which was heard for many miles, announced that the Northern Frog had bitten the spear fast. When the youth turned round, he saw one point of the spear projecting a foot above the upper jaw, and concluded that the other was firmly fixed in the lower one; but the frog had crushed the iron horse between his teeth. The young man now hastened to fasten the chains in the ground, for which strong iron posts several fathoms long had been prepared. The death-struggles of the monster lasted for three days and three nights, and when it reared itself, it struck the ground so violently with its tail, that the earth was shaken for fifty miles round. At length, when it was too weak to move its tail any longer, the young man lifted a stone with the help of his ring, which twenty men could not have moved, and beat the monster about the head with it until no further sign of life was visible. Immeasurable was the rejoicing when the news arrived that the terrible monster was actually dead. The victor was brought to the capital with all possible respect, as if he had been a powerful king. The old king did not need to force his daughter to the marriage, for she herself desired to marry the strong man who had alone successfully accomplished what others had not been able to effect with the aid of a whole army. After some days, a magnificent wedding was prepared. The festivities lasted a whole month, and all the kings of the neighbouring countries assembled to thank the man who had rid the world of its worst enemy. But amid the marriage festival and the general rejoicings it was forgotten that the monster's carcass had been left unburied, and as it was now decaying, it occasioned such a stench that no one could approach it. This gave rise to diseases of which many people died. Then the king's son-in-law determined to seek help from the sorcerer of the East. This did not seem difficult to him with the aid of his ring, with which he could fly in the air like a bird. But the proverb says that injustice never prospers, and that as we sow we reap. The king's son-in-law was doomed to realise the truth of this adage with his stolen ring. The Hell-Maiden left no stone unturned, night or day, to discover the whereabouts of her lost ring. When she learned through her magic arts that the king's son-in-law had set out in the form of a bird to visit the sorcerer, she changed herself into an eagle, and circled about in the air till the bird for which she was waiting came in sight. She recognised him at once by the ring, which he carried on a riband round his neck. Then the eagle swooped upon the bird, and at the moment that she seized him in her claws she tore the ring from his neck with her beak, before he could do anything to prevent her. Then the eagle descended to the earth with her prey, and they both stood together in their former human shapes. "Now you have fallen into my hands, you rascal," cried the Hell-Maiden. "I accepted you as my lover, and you practised deceit and theft against me: is that my reward? You robbed me of my most precious jewel by fraud, and you hoped to pass a happy life as the king's son-in-law; but now we have turned over a new leaf. You are in my power, and you shall atone to me for all your villainy." "Forgive me, forgive me," said the king's son-in-law. "I know well that I have treated you very badly, but I heartily repent of my fault." But the maiden answered, "Your pleadings and your repentance come too late, and nothing can help you more. I dare not overlook your offence, for that would bring me disgrace, and make me a byword among the people. Twice have you sinned against me: for, firstly, you have despised my love; and, secondly, you have stolen my ring; and now you must suffer your punishment." As she spoke, she placed the ring on the thumb of her left hand, took the man on her arm like a doll, and carried him away. This time she did not take him to a magnificent palace, but to a cavern in the rocks where chains were hanging on the walls. The maiden grasped the ends of the chains and fettered the man hand and foot, so that it was impossible for him to escape, and she said in anger, "Here shall you remain a prisoner till your end. I will send you so much food every day, that you shall not die of hunger, but you need never expect to escape." Then she left him. The king and his daughter endured a time of terrible anxiety as weeks and weeks passed by, and the traveller neither returned nor sent any tidings. The king's daughter often dreamed that her consort was in great distress, and therefore she begged her father to assemble the sorcerers from all parts, in hopes that they might perhaps be able to give some information respecting what had happened to him, and how he could be rescued. All the sorcerers could say was that he was still alive, but in great distress, and they could neither discover where he was, nor how he could be found. At length a famous sorcerer from Finland was brought to the king, who was able to inform him that his son-in-law was kept in captivity in the East, not by a human being, but by a more powerful creature. Then the king sent messengers to the East to seek for his lost son-in-law. Fortunately they met with the old sorcerer who had read the inscriptions on Solomon's Seal, and had thus learned wisdom which was hidden from all others. The sorcerer soon discovered what he wished to know, and said, "The man is kept prisoner by magic art in such and such a place, but you cannot release him without my help, so I must go with you myself." They set out accordingly, and in a few days, led by the birds, they reached the cavern in the rock where the king's son-in-law had already languished for seven years in captivity. He recognised the sorcerer immediately, but the latter did not know him, he was so much worn and wasted. The sorcerer loosed his chains by his magic art, took him home, and nursed and tended him till he had recovered sufficient strength to set out on his journey. He reached his destination on the very day that the old king died, and was chosen king. Then came days of joy after long days of suffering; and he lived happily till his end, but he never recovered the magic ring, nor has it ever since been seen by human eyes. * * * * * The succeeding prose sections are short, and chiefly contain stories from Jannsen's collections, of many of which I have given only a brief outline. [Footnote 70: Löwe translates the word _kon_, "dragon," but it primarily means a frog or toad; and "dragon" is not among the other meanings which I find in the dictionaries. Besides, the creature is described as resembling a frog in many respects.] [Footnote 71: Compare vol. i. p. 223.] [Footnote 72: _Põrgu neitsi_. Who she was is not clearly explained.] SECTION XI _CHURCH-STORIES_ Several of these, given by Jannsen, may be briefly narrated. THE CHURCH AT REVEL. Revel was formerly an unimportant place, and the inhabitants wished to make it famous by building a church. They contracted with the great architect Olaf[73] to erect it; and when it was completed, and he was about to fix the cross on the summit, his wife cried out joyfully, "Olaf will come home to-day with a thousand barrels of gold."[74] But scarcely had Olaf fixed the cross in its place, when he slipped and fell to the ground, and a toad and a snake sprang out of his mouth. The Devil wished to destroy the church, but could not get near it; so he made a sling at Pernau, and hurled a great rock at it. But the sling broke, and the rock fell half-way between Pernau and Revel, where it now remains. (Similar tales are related of the Devil in many countries, but are perhaps commonest in Scandinavia.) [Footnote 73: Doubtless Olev of the _Kalevipoeg_; possibly St. Olaf may also be intended.] [Footnote 74: This incident reminds us of the story of St. Olaf and the giant Wind and Weather (see Keightley's _Fairy Mythology_, Bohn's edition, 1860, p. 117), though here it is the giant church-builder who falls. According to one of the legends of Cologne Cathedral, the architect was hurled from the top of the unfinished building by the Devil. The calling of a person by name was often regarded by the Scandinavians as a death-omen.] THE CHURCH AT PÜHALEPP. Before Christian times there was a great alder forest in the island of Dagö, where the people used to make sacrifices and hold festivals. Afterwards the forest was hewn down, all but one tree, under which the people wished to build a church. But the missionaries would not consent, till a man advised them to yoke two oxen to the cart in which the building materials should be loaded, and then let them wander at will. Where they halted, the church should be built. So the oxen were driven to the alder forest, where there was plenty of grass, and after being allowed to graze awhile they were brought back and yoked to the cart. They returned to the heath and began to feed, and the church was erected on that spot and named the Church of Pühalepp. The Devil thought to destroy it by hurling two great rocks at it at night from a hill, after having carefully noted its position in the daytime. He missed his aim in the darkness, but mounted his mare and rode to see what damage was done. Just as he reached the church the cock crew, and he was forced to turn round and ride back to hell. But the marks of the mare's hoofs are still to be seen where he heard the cock crow. Another story relates how the Devil pulled down a church which was in course of erection, and tore up the very foundations. But a wise man told the people to take two white calves, dropped on that night, harness them to a cart, and build the church where they stopped, which was accordingly done. THE CHURCH OF THE HOLY CROSS. A blind nobleman of Vastemois, near Fellin, was driving out one day, when his coachman saw a splendid golden cross. His master ordered him to drive up to it; and on touching it, he recovered his sight. In gratitude, he built a church on the spot, which was afterwards destroyed in war-time, and only the walls left standing. The people were too poor to rebuild it, but from the ruins grew a tree which all regarded as holy. The then over-lord commanded them to fell it, and as they refused, he did so himself, but was immediately struck blind. THE CHURCH AT FELLIN. In former days, the church of Fellin did not stand where it stands at present, but close to the lake. It was prophesied that it should stand till seven brothers should be present in it together. When this happened by chance, the church began to sink. The congregation escaped, except the seven brothers, who remained in it, but it sunk till even the summit of the spire had disappeared. The site is now a marshy meadow, but if any one is there near midnight on New Year's Eve, he hears entrancing voices, and cannot move from the spot till the church clock beneath the ground has struck the last stroke of twelve. SECTION XII _UNNATURAL BROTHERS_ The story of the wicked rich brother who oppresses the poor one is not unknown in Esthonia. There is a hideous story of such a pair, relating how when the poor brother died his widow begged grave-clothing from the wife of the rich one. When the rich brother returned, he scolded his wife, and rushed off, cursing and swearing, to strip the body of his dead brother, even in his coffin, crying, "That's mine! that's mine!" But when he would have laid the naked corpse back in the coffin, it clung round his neck, and he was compelled to carry it about with him for the rest of his life. THE RICH BROTHER AND THE POOR ONE. Once upon a time there were two brothers, one of whom had abundance, but the other was very poor. As is the way of the world, riches do not heed poverty, and thus it was with the two brothers. The rich one would not give the poor one even a spoonful of soup. One day the rich brother gave a great feast. The poor brother expected to have been invited, but his hopes were vain. All at once a bright idea struck him, and he went to the river and caught three large pike. "I'll carry these to my brother," said he, "and perhaps they will bring me a blessing." He took the fish to his brother, and addressed him humbly, like a rich lord. But it made no difference. His brother only said, "Many thanks," turned his back, and went off. What could the poor brother do? He also turned round, and went his way, sorrowfully reflecting, "He is my brother in name indeed, but he's worse than an entire stranger!" All at once he saw an old man sitting by the road, who rose up quickly and went towards him, saying, "Friend, why do you look so sorrowfully on the world?" "Sorrowful or not," said the poor brother, "it goes well enough with me! I brought my rich brother three fish for a present, and he didn't even give me a drink in return!" "But you perhaps got something else?" asked the old man. "Oh, yes, 'many thanks,'" said he; "that's your something else!" The old man answered, "Give me your 'many thanks,' and you shall become a rich man." "Take it, and welcome," said the poor brother. Then the old man instructed him as follows:--"Go home, look for Poverty under the stove, and throw it into the river, and you shall see how it will fare with you." Then he went his way, and the poor brother returned home. He found Poverty under the stove, seized it, and flung it into the river. After this, everything which he undertook succeeded with the poor brother, and it was a real marvel to see how he got on. His fields grew fine harvests, and his barns and stables were soon more imposing than his rich brother's. When the rich brother saw it, he grew envious, and wanted to know how the other had got wealthy. He was always teasing him to know how it was, and at last the other got tired of it, and said, "How did I get rich? I dragged Poverty out from under the stove, and threw it in the water. That's how it was!" "That's how it was," cried the rich brother. "Wait a bit! your sort shan't outdo me!" So he went to the river and fished for Poverty, from whom he supposed that his poor brother had received everything. He fished and fished, and would do nothing else, till at length he held Poverty fast. While he inspected and examined it at home, it slipped through his fingers and hid under his stove, and nobody could get it out again. After this everything went worse and worse with the rich brother, till he became at last quite poor, and remained so. * * * * * This story, which I have not abridged, is a well-known Sclavonic legend. It is probably connected with the story of the three apes which forms the introduction to that of "Khaleefeh the Fisherman," in the _Thousand and One Nights_. SECTION XIII _PLAGUE-LEGENDS_ The plague continued to rage in Eastern Europe long after it had disappeared from the West, and down to a very recent period. Consequently we find plague-legends, which have almost died out in the British Islands, except in Scotland, rife among all the Eastern nations. The Plague-demon is usually represented as female, but in the Esthonian legends it is masculine. The Plague once seated himself in a boat which was returning to the Island of Rogö,[75] which had hitherto escaped his ravages, in the shape of a tall black man with a great scythe in his hand. He arrived among the dead crew, and at once sprang on shore and began to destroy the inhabitants. Some saw the Plague himself, and others not. If any one saw him, his heart froze with terror before he could speak a word.[76] One night during a violent storm, an old woman saw him enter her cottage as she was sitting alone spinning; but she gathered courage to cry out, "Welcome, in God's name." He stopped short, muttering, "That's enough," returned to the boat in which he had come, and went out to sea. The storm ceased as he departed, and since then he has never reappeared. In the Island of Nuckö he appeared as an old grey man, with a taper in one hand and a staff in the other, a book under his arm, and a three-cornered hat on his head. As he went from house to house, he looked up the names of his victims in his book, let his taper shine on their faces to make sure that he had made no mistake, and touched the doomed with his staff. A peasant once saw him enter his cottage, and touch all with his staff, except himself and the infant in the cradle. All the others died before cockcrow.[77] Another time the Plague was driving down a steep path which led to a village, when he upset his vehicle and broke the axle. A passing peasant helped him to bind it up, and directed him to the smithy; but he declared that he was the Plague, and for the good deed that had been done him all the village should be spared. So he turned his horse, drove back up the hill, and vanished like a cloud. When the news was brought to the village, bonfires of rejoicing were lighted, and kept up for many days. [Footnote 75: There is a similar tale told of the arrival of the Cholera in one of the Greek islands.] [Footnote 76: Speaking of the Vad Velen, the Yellow Plague, in Britain, we are told in the _Mabinogion_ that all who saw him were doomed to die.] [Footnote 77: This story somewhat resembles that of the old hag seen by Lord Seaforth when lying ill of scarlet fever with several of his schoolfellows. The narrative has been reprinted several times, and is included in Stead's _More Ghost Stories_, p. 37.] SECTION XIV _BEAST-STORIES_ I commence with wolf-stories, which are rather numerous in Esthonia. One of them relates the creation of the wolf. When God had created the world, he asked the Devil what he thought of his work; and the Devil objected that there was no animal to scare away mischievous boys from the woods when the bear and the snake were sunk in their winter sleep. Thereupon God gave leave to the Devil to make such an animal as he wished, and to give it life by the formula, "Stand up and devour the Devil." Then the Devil made the wolf's back of a strong hedge-pole, the head of a tree-stump, the breast of twigs and leather, and the loins of bricks.[78] He made the tail of a fern-frond, and the feet of alder-stumps, but he put a stone into its breast for the heart. He clothed the body with moss, burning coals formed the eyes, and iron nails were used for the teeth and claws. He then named the creature Wolf, and pronounced the spell as far as "devour," when the creature raised his head and snorted. The Devil was too much frightened to finish, but afterwards plucked up courage, and repeated the spell, substituting God's name for his own. But the wolf took no notice, and when the Devil appealed to God, he was only told to use the same spell; so he stood a long way off and pronounced it. Then the wolf rushed at the Devil, who was forced to hide under a stone to save himself. Since then the wolf has been the Devil's worst enemy, and pursues him everywhere. Another story relates how God forbade the wolf to eat the flocks and the dogs, but to receive his share when the farmers baked. But one day a farmer's wife threw the wolf a red-hot stone instead of bread, and he burnt his muzzle, which has been black ever since. Since then he devours whatever falls in his way. A farmer, hemmed in by a herd of wolves, succeeded in driving them away, but was followed home by one of them. When he took his provisions out of the sledge, he laid his hand on a square object like a whetstone. He then remembered hearing that the wolves sometimes receive food from heaven, and thought this might be their portion. So he flung it to the wolf, saying, "Take it if it's yours;" and the wolf seized it and disappeared. There is an odd story of a young woman who was carrying an apron full of eggs to her mother. She was overtaken by a violent thunderstorm, and sheltered under a fir-tree. She felt something moving among the eggs, and was frightened; but presently she was still more terrified when she found a great wolf tugging at her apron. She dropped it in her fright, and a black cat jumped out and darted away, pursued by the wolf. When she reached the village, her mother told her that the black cat was the Devil, who had taken that form in order to play her a trick or do her some injury, but had been scared away by the wolf. Have we here an inverted and distorted echo of "Little Red Riding Hood?" A peasant who was broiling fish in the forest at nightfall met with a still more alarming adventure. A black man appeared to him, and commanded him to fetch him a spit, for he wanted to broil fish too. But the spit which he wanted was a long sharp stake, and the peasant himself was to be the fish. In his terror the peasant called "St. George's Dogs" to his aid, and a pack of wolves rushed out, and chased the Devil away, while the peasant drew out the axle from his cart-wheel, and supplied its place with a pole of rowan-wood. Another story relates how an unfortunate wolf missed getting his usual rations from God, and set out to forage for himself. After sparing some whom he met, and allowing others to escape, he fell into the hands of a young peasant, who gave him a sound beating and then took refuge in a tree. The wolf's relatives, seeking revenge, climbed on each other's back till they nearly reached the peasant, who upset them by a stratagem, and they fell, many breaking their limbs. Since then a wolf always runs away when he sees a man. Were-wolves are sometimes alluded to in Esthonian tales. * * * * * The following stories are of a more miscellaneous character, and some of them are sufficiently interesting to be given with little or no abridgment. [Footnote 78: Such origins are common in Esthonian and Finnish folk-literature, and I regard them as relics of fetishism.] THE MAN WITH THE BAST SHOES. Once upon a time a traveller came to a village and asked for a night's lodging. He was handsomely dressed, but he had coarse bast shoes on his feet. A friendly farmer received the stranger hospitably, and offered him accommodation. At night the man asked his host, "Farmer, where shall I put my bast shoes?" The farmer showed him the place, but he added, "No, my shoes must spend the night among the feathered people, for that is what they are used to. So I would rather hang them on the perch in the hen-house." The farmer laughed at the joke, and permitted him to do so. As soon as all were in their first sleep, the owner of the bast shoes rose from his bed, slipped into the hen-house, tore the shoes to pieces, and scattered the coarse plaits among the fowls. Next morning he went to the master of the house and complained, "Farmer, my property was badly damaged last night." Said the farmer, "Well, let whoever has done the mischief make it good." This was just what the stranger wanted, and he immediately caught the dappled cock, and put him into his knapsack, "for," said he, "he's the culprit; last night he pecked at my shoes till he spoiled them." Then he proceeded on his journey with the cock. On the evening of the same day he arrived at a neighbouring village, and asked again for accommodation. At night he put the cock in the farmer's sheep-pen, and excused himself by saying, "My cock has not been used to anything else since he was a chicken." But at night he strangled the bird, and then complained, "The sheep have killed my cock." He indemnified himself by taking a fat ram from the flock, for he held by the farmer's adage, "He who has done the mischief must pay for it." By a similar stratagem he exchanged the ram at the third village for an ox, and at last the ox for a horse. He soon contrived to get a sledge too, and drove merrily over hill and dale, till the stones flew behind him, while he contrived new schemes and stratagems. On the way, he encountered Master Reynard, who persuaded him by entreaties and cajoleries to take him into his sledge. After a while, the wolf and bear joined them, and likewise found a place in the sledge; but this made the load too heavy, and when they came to a curve in the road, the side-poles of the sledge gave way. Then the man sent his companions to fetch wood to make a new pole. But none of the three brought a proper one back. The fox and wolf brought thin sticks in their mouths, and the bear brought a whole pine-tree, roots and all. Then the man went himself, and soon found the wood which he wanted. Meantime, the wild beasts availed themselves of the opportunity, and sprang upon the horse and devoured it. But they stuffed the skin nicely with straw, and set it carefully up, so that it stood again on its four legs as if it was alive. When the man came back with the pole, he mended the sledge and harnessed the horse again. "Oho! now we'll drive on." But alas! the horse would not move. Then the man looked at the red scamp, the grey rascal, and the brown villain, and said angrily, "Give me my horse back." But the wild beasts answered, "You killed it yourself, while we were running about looking for wood by your orders." Thus they stood quarrelling and disputing, till Reynard considered how he could best put an end to the dispute and save his own skin. He knew of a pit in the neighbourhood which the hunter had dug for a wolf-trap, and covered loosely with thin twigs. "The matter won't be settled by quarrelsome and angry words," cried he; "but come, let the four of us go to the wolf-pit; we will all tread on it at once, and whoever falls in shall be adjudged guilty." The rest agreed, and when they stood on the twigs, they broke under their weight, and precipitated them into the pit, and even Reynard was unable to escape. He had trusted too much to the lightness of his tread, and had trodden on the twigs without consideration. Now they were all in the trap together, and none of them could hope to escape. The time seemed long to them, and their hunger soon became too great to bear. First of all, the wild beasts attacked the man of the bast shoes and devoured him, and then Reynard had to resign his life. Last of all the bear throttled the wolf. Then came the hunter and gave the bear his quietus. Thus all the four rascals experienced the truth of the proverb, "As the deed, so the reward." WHY THE DOG AND CAT AND THE CAT AND MOUSE ARE ENEMIES. In former days all animals dwelt together in peace; but then it befell that the dogs killed and devoured hares and other game in the open fields. The other animals complained, and when God called the dogs to account, they objected that they had nothing to eat. Their plea was admitted, and leave was granted them to eat fallen animals. The dogs requested and received a written license to that effect, which was intrusted to the sheep-dog, as the largest and most reliable among them. But in autumn the sheep-dog was very busy, and could neither carry it about with him nor find a dry place for it, so he intrusted it to the care of his friend the tom-cat, who had always a safe room, or sat on the stove. The cat arched his back, and rubbed it against his friend's foot, as a promise of fidelity, and the document was laid on the stove, where it was supposed to be safe. One day the dogs found a pony in the wood which had fallen, so they fell upon it, and killed and devoured it. The animals complained again, and the dogs were pronounced guilty; but they appealed to the license, in which it was not stated whether the fallen animals should be dead or alive. When the sheep-dog and the cat sought for the document, they could not find it, for the mice had nibbled it away. The cats were so angry with the mice that they began to kill and eat them, and have done so ever since; but the dogs likewise became enemies of the cats, as they are at present. The sheep-dog did not venture to return to his fellows without the license. They waited for him in vain, and at last followed him, and sought for him everywhere, but could not find him. So whenever a dog sees another he runs to ask him whether he has not got the missing document with him. THE ORIGIN OF THE SWALLOW. The wife of a drunkard was sitting weaving with her child on her lap. She wore a black cloth on her head, a red neckerchief, a white shift, and a coal-black petticoat. When her husband came home, he pushed his wife away, and destroyed the loom with an axe. Then he killed the child with a blow of his fist, and beat his wife till she fell senseless. But Ukko took pity on her, and changed her into a swallow. As she was trying to escape, the man struck at her with a knife, but only cleft her tail. Since that time she flies about twittering her misfortunes, and does not shun men like other birds, but builds her nest against their houses. THE SPIDER AND THE HORNET. Once upon a time some boys burned a hornet's nest because the hornet stung them so badly. Then the hornet went to God to complain that the boys despised His gifts, and scattered broken victuals about in the fields. But God objected that she had no witnesses. So she went to the king of the spiders, and made him return with her to God, who asked if he had seen the boys scatter food about the fields. But the spider said that it was not their fault, for they had no table to put their bread on. Then God praised the spider for speaking the truth, and condemned the hornet for telling lies and hating her neighbours without a cause. He then struck her on the back with his staff, and cast her down from heaven to earth, so that she broke in two with the fall. But he let the spider down with a cord, because he had spoken the truth. Since then the spider has had a net and a web, by which he can climb up and down as he likes, as on a cord; but the hornet still retains the pinched-in body which she got when falling from heaven, but is fat enough at both ends. THE OFFICIOUS FLIES. A few dozen flies once attacked a cart-horse who was feeding quietly in a thicket, and lamented that they were not more numerous, that they might make him lie down. Presently his skin began to itch, when he lay down, rolled first on once side and then on the other, and crushed them all. PART III Esthonian Ballads, &c. For reasons stated in the Preface, only a few specimens are here given. THE HERALD OF WAR[79] To the Finnish Bridge when driving On the west wind's path of copper, On the pathway of the rainbow, With the king's note in my wallet, And his mandate in my bosom, And upon my tongue defiance, What was that which came to meet me, And what horror to confound me? Nothing but an ancient corbie, Aged crow, a wretched creature; With his beak he sniffed around him, And his nostrils snuffed the vapour; He had smelt the war already, When his nostrils snuffed the vapour, That he might discern the message Which I carried in my pocket; He had smelt the war already, And the scent of blood allured him. To the Finnish Bridge when driving On the west wind's path of copper, On the pathway of the rainbow, Swift I hastened as an envoy, With the king's note in my wallet, And his mandate in my bosom, In my charge the leader's orders, And upon my tongue the secret That the flags in breeze should flutter, And the lance-points smite in battle, And the swords should do their duty. What was that which came to meet me, And what horror to confound me? 'Twas an eagle came to meet me, Eagle fierce with beak hooked sharply; With his beak he sniffed around him, Through the mist he pushed his nostrils, By the scent he sought to fathom What was in the envoy's message. He had smelt the war already, And the scent of blood had reached him, And he went to call his comrades. To the Finnish Bridge when driving On the west wind's path of copper, On the pathway of the rainbow, Swift I hastened on as envoy, With the king's note in my wallet, And his mandate in my bosom, And upon my tongue the secret And the leader's secret orders That the flags should now be waving, And the spear-points should be sharpened, What was it I there encountered, And what met me there to vex me? 'Twas the raven's son that met me, 'Twas a carrion-bird that met me; With his beak he sniffed around him, And his nostrils snuffed the vapour, That the meaning of my message With his nose he thus might fathom. He had smelt the war already, And the scent of blood had reached him, And he went to call his comrades. To the Finnish Bridge when driving On the west wind's path of copper, On the pathway of the rainbow, While I hastened as an envoy, With the king's note in my wallet, And his mandate in my bosom, And upon my tongue the secret, And the leader's secret orders, What was that which came to meet me, And what horror to confound me? 'Twas a little wolf that met me, And a bear that followed closely; With their snouts they sniffed around them, Through the mist they pushed their nostrils, Seeking thus to probe the secret, And the letter to discover; They had smelt the war already, And the scent of blood had reached them, And they ran to spread the tidings. To the Finnish Bridge when driving On the west wind's path of copper, On the pathway of the rainbow, While I hastened as an envoy, With the king's note in my wallet, And his mandate in my bosom, And upon my tongue defiance, With the leader's secret orders That the flags unfurled should flutter, And the spear-points do their duty, And the axes should be lifted, And the swords should flash in sunlight, What was that which came to meet me, And what horror to confound me? It was Famine met me tottering, Tottering Famine, chewing garbage; With her nose she sniffed around her, That the meaning of my message With her nose she thus might fathom; For she smelt the war already, And the scent of blood had reached her, And she went to call her comrades. To the Finnish Bridge while driving On the west wind's path of copper, On the pathway of the rainbow, While I hastened as an envoy, With the king's note in my wallet, And his mandate in my bosom, On my tongue the secret orders That the flags unfurled should flutter, And the spear-points do their duty, And the axes and the fish-spears All should do the work before them, What was that which came to meet me, What unlooked-for horror met me? 'Twas the Plague I there encountered, Crafty Plague, the people's murderer, Of the sevenfold war-plagues direst; With his nose he sniffed around him, And his nostrils snuffed the vapour, Seeking thus to probe the matter, And the letter to discover; He had smelt the war already, And the scent of blood had lured him And he went to call his comrades. After this my horse I halted, Yoked him with a yoke of iron, Fettered him with Kalev's fetters, That he stood as rooted firmly, From the spot to move unable, While I pondered and considered, Deeply in my heart reflecting If the profit of my journey Were not lost in greater evil For the war brings wounds and bloodshed, And the war has throat of serpent. Wherefore then should I the battle, Whence springs only pain and murder, Forth to peaceful homesteads carry? Let a message so accursed In the ocean-depths be sunken, There to sleep in endless slumber, Lost among the spawn of fishes, There to rest in deepest caverns, Rather than that I should take it, Till it spreads among the hamlets. Thereupon I took the mandate Which I carried in my wallet, And amid the depths I sunk it, Underneath the waves of ocean, Till the waves to foam had torn it, And to mud had quite reduced it, While the fishes fled before it. Thus was hushed the sound of warfare, Thus was lost the news of battle. [Footnote 79: _Kalevipoeg_, Canto 9, lines 769-925. Neus, _Ehstnische Volkslieder_, pp. 305-311. The manner in which the gathering symbols of the horrors of war, each more terrible than the last, are successively brought upon the scene in this poem is very fine.] THE BLUE BIRD[80] (I.). Siuru, bird and Taara's daughter, Siuru, bird of azure plumage, With the shining silken feathers, Was not reared by care of father, Nor the nursing of her mother, Nor affection of her sisters, Nor protection of her brothers; For the bird was wholly nestless, Like a swallow needing shelter, Where her down could grow to feathers And her wing-plumes could develop; Yet did Ukko wisely order, And the aged Father's wisdom Gave his daughter wind-like pinions, Wings of wind and cloudy pinions, That his child might float upon them, Far into the distance soaring. Siuru, bird and Taara's daughter, Siuru, bird of azure plumage, Sailed afar into the distance, And she winged her way to southward, Then she turned again to northward, And above three worlds went sailing. One of these the world of maidens, One where dwell the curly-headed, One the home of prattling children, Where the little ones are tended. Siuru bird outspread her pinions, Wide her silken plumes expanding, Soaring far aloft to heaven. To the fortress of the sunlight, To the lighter halls of moonlight, To the little gate of copper. Siuru bird outspread her pinions, Wide her silken plumes expanding, Soaring far into the distance, Till she reached her home at evening; And her father asked his daughter, "Whither have thy pinions borne thee? Whither didst thou take thy journey? Tell me what thine eyes have witnessed." Siuru heard and comprehended, And without alarm she answered, "Where my pinions have conveyed me, There I scattered feathers from me; Where I sailed above the country, There I scattered silken feathers; Where I shook and flapped my pinions, From my tail I dropped the feathers: What I saw with marten keenness, Might be told in seven narrations, Or in eight tales be recounted. Long I flew on path of thunder, On the roadway of the rainbow, And the hailstone's toilsome pathway; Onwards thus I sailed light-hearted, Heedless, far into the distance, And at length three worlds discovered, One the country of the maidens, One where dwell the curly-headed, One the world of prattling children, Where the little ones are tended; There it is they rear the fair ones, Slender-grown and silky-headed." "What thou heardest? speak and tell me; What thou sawest, let us hear it." "What then heard I, sire beloved, What beheld, O dearest father? There I heard the sport of maidens, There I heard their mirth and sadness, Jesting from the curly-headed, From the little infants wailing. Wherefore, said the maidens, jesting, Do the curly-headed children Dwell in solitude and lonely, Living thus apart from nurses? And they asked in every quarter, Are no youths in starry regions, Youths of starry birth or other, Who might dwell among the maidens, And amuse the curly-headed?" Ukko heard her words, and answered, "Soar away, my dearest daughter, Steer thy flight again to southward, Sailing far away till evening, Turning then unto the northward, Come before the doors of Ukko, To the western mother's threshold, To the northern mother's region; Seek thou there the youths to woo them, Youths that may release the maidens." [Footnote 80: _Kalevipoeg_, xix. 493-583.] THE BLUE BIRD (II.). This totally different ballad is from Neus, _Ehstnische Volkslieder_, p. 42. Neus quotes Ganander as saying that one of the names of the Finnish Wood-goddess (the spouse of Tapio) is Blue Bird. The present poem is _possibly_ a fragment of a creation-myth. Lo, the bird with azure plumage, Feathers blue and eyes all lustrous, Took her flight, and hovered, soaring, Over forests four in number, Over four woods in succession; One a wood of golden pine-trees, One a wood of beauteous apples, One a wood of silver birch-trees, One a swampy wood of lime-trees. Lo, the bird with azure plumage, Feathers blue and eyes all lustrous, Took her flight, and hovered, soaring, Over lakelets three in number; Three the lakes all close together, And the first with wine was brimming, And with ale the second foaming, And the third with mead was frothing. Lo, the bird with azure plumage, Feathers blue and eyes all lustrous, Took her flight, and hovered, soaring, Over three fields in succession, Over three fields close together; In the first the oats were growing, In the second rye was waving, In the third the wheat was springing. And the wood of golden pine-trees Was a wood of youthful striplings, And the wood of beauteous apples Was a wood of youthful maidens, And the wood of silver birch-trees Was a wood of youthful matrons, And the swampy wood of lime-trees Was a wood of men all aged. And the lake with wine o'erbrimming Was the lake of youthful striplings, And the lake with ale up-foaming Was the lake of youthful matrons, And the lake where mead was frothing Was the lake of youthful maidens. And the field where oats were growing Was the field of youthful striplings, And the field where rye was waving Was the field of youthful matrons, And the field where wheat was springing Was the share of youthful maidens. CHARM AGAINST SNAKE-BITE.[81] Thou beneath the bridge, the smooth wood Under juniper the rough wood, Thou the arrow in the willows, O thou challenged gold-adorned one, Earthy-coloured, liver-coloured, Rainy-hued and hazel-coloured, Firebrand hued and cherry-coloured, Do not thou in secret bite me, Nor attack me unsuspecting, Do not bite me when I heed not. [Footnote 81: Kreutzwald and Neus, _Mythische und magische Lieder_, p. 7. Charms of this kind are very common in Finland and Esthonia, and a whole volume has been published by the Finnish Literary Society under the name of _Loitsurunoja_, selections from which have been recently published in "Folklore" by the Hon. John Abercromby.] BIBLIOGRAPHY The present list contains only books and papers which have been used or specially consulted in the preparation of this work, or which have been published in England on Esthonian tales and poems. Other books quoted are referred to in the Index and Glossary. BLUMBERG, G. _Quellen und Realien des Kalewipoeg, nebst Varianten und Ergänzungen_. Dorpat, 1869. An important work, including a map, from which we have borrowed some particulars. BOECLER, J.M. _Der Ehsten abergläubische Gebräuche, Weisen, und Gewohnheiten, von Johann Wolfgang Boecler, weiland Pastor zu Kusal in Ehstland und des Consistorii in Reval Assessor. Mit auf die Gegenwart bezüglichen Anmerkungen beleuchtet von Dr. F. R. Kreutzwald_. St. Petersburg, 1854. BOUQUET _from the Baltic_. _All the Year Round_, IV. pp. 80-83 (Nov. 3, 1860). Relates to some of the legends of Vanemuine, the _Kalevipoeg_, and Koit and Aemmerik. DIDO, A. _Littérature orale des Estoniens_. _Bibliographie des principale Publications de l'Estonie, et en particulier celle du Dr. Frédéric Reinhold Kreutzwald_, 1804-1882. _Revue des Traditions Populaires_, VIII. pp. 353-365, 424-428, 485-495 (1893). Contains an account, more or less detailed, of the longer tales in Kreutzwald's collection, a few being fully translated. DIDO, A. _Kalewipoeg, Épopée nationale Estonienne_. Op. cit. IX. pp. 137-155 (1894). Contains an analysis of the poem. DONNER, A. _Kalevipoeg jumalaistarulliselta ja historialliselta kannalta katsottuna_. _Suomi_, ser. 2, vol. 5 (1866). Discusses the mythological and historical character of the _Kalevipoeg_, and its relations to the _Kalevala_, especially as regards the episode of Kullervo. ESTHONIA. _Encyclopædia Britannica_ (ed. IX.), vol. viii. pp. 561-563 (1878). GOULD, S.B. _The Kalevipoeg_. _Fraser's Magazine_, vol. 78, pp. 534-544 (Oct. 1868). A fragmentary account of the poem, containing some curious errors, such as "Sarwik" being translated "Hell;" but with useful comments, especially on the Kalevide's voyage to the North Pole. We cannot see, however, that the Esthonian writings exhibit the melancholy character of a depressed nation, as Mr. Baring-Gould imagines. GROSSE, JULIUS. _Die Abenteuer des Kalewiden: Esthnisches Volksmärchen_. Leipzig, 1875. An abstract of the story in hexameters. ISRAEL, C. CHR. _Kalewipoeg, oder die Abenteuer des Kalewiden, Eine estnische Sage frei nach dem Estnischen bearbeitet_. Frankfort-on-Main, 1873. A good prose abstract of the poem, somewhat rearranged. JANNSEN, HARRY. _Märchen und Sagen des estnischen Volkes_. Two Parts. Dorpat, 1881, and Riga, 1888. A selection of tales from various sources, some few being from Kreutzwald's collection. Valuable notes are appended to Part ii. ----. _Esthnische Märchen_. _Veckenstedt's Zeitschrift für Volkskunde_, i. pp. 314-317 (1889). Contains three stories: "The Devil's Visit," "The Talking Trees" (Christian variant), and "The Officious Flies." Jannsen states that the first has already been printed in the original, and that the other two are from his own collections. KALEWIPOEG, _Üks ennemuistene Eesti jut_. Kuopio, 1862. An earlier edition was published at Dorpat with the German translation; but this is the one which I have consulted in the preparation of this work. KALEWIPOEG, _eine estnische Sage, zusammengestellt von F.R. Kreutzwald, verdeutscht von C. Reinthal und Dr. Bertram_. Dorpat, 1857-61. KIRBY, W.F. _On the Progress of Folk-lore Collections in Esthonia, with special reference to the work of Pastor Jacob Hurt_. _Papers and Transactions of International Folk-lore Congress_, 1892, pp. 427-429. Based on information published by, or received from, Prof. Kaarle Krohn of Helsingfors. KREUTZWALD, F.R. _Eestirahwa ennemuisted jutud. Rahwa suust korjanud ja üleskirjutanud_. Helsingfors, 1866. One of the first and best collections of Esthonian tales, but without notes. I believe that several later editions have been published at Dorpat. ---- _Ehstnische Märchen, aufgezeichnet von Friedrich Kreutzwald_. _Aus dem Ehstnischen übersetzt von F. Löwe, ehem. Bibliothekar a. d. Petersb. Akad. d. Wissenschaften_. _Nebst einem Vorwort von Anton Schiefner, und Anmerkungen von Reinhold Köhler und Anton Schiefner_. Halle, 1869. Includes a very close translation of most of the longer tales in Kreutzwald's collection. The notes, too, are valuable. KREUTZWALD, Fr., und NEUS, H. _Mythische und Magische Lieder der Ehsten_. St. Petersburg, 1854. In Esthonian and German. KROHN, KAARLE. _Die geographische Verbreitung Estnischer Lieder_. Kuopio, 1892. This paper is noted in "Folk-Lore," IV. p. 19 (March, 1893). LATHAM, R. _Nationalities of Europe_. 2 vols. London, 1863. Vol. i. includes translations of fourteen of the principal poems from Neus' _Ehstnische Volkslieder_. LÖWE, F. _See_ KREUTZWALD. NEUS, H. _Ehstnische Volkslieder. Urschrift und Uebersetzung_. Reval, 1850-52. A collection of 119 poems in Esthonian and German, with notes. OXENFORD, JOHN. _The Esthonian Hercules_. _Macmillan's Magazine_, vol. 30, pp. 263-272 (July 1874). An outline of the story of the _Kalevipoeg_, based on Israel's little book. POPULAR POETRY _of the Esthonians_. Varieties of Literature from Foreign Literary Journals and Original MSS., now first published. London, 1795, pp. 22-44 (reprinted in "Folk-Lore Journal," iii. pp. 156-169, 1885). Contains twelve specimens of lyric poetry, undoubtedly based on some German publication. The anonymous compiler makes the strange mistake of regarding the Esthonians as "Sclavonians." SCHIEFNER, A. _Ueber die ehstnische Sage vom Kalewipoeg_. _Bulletin de l'Académie Imperiale des Sciences de St. Petersburg_, ii. pp. 273-297 (1860). Contains an analysis of the first thirteen cantos of the _Kalevipoeg_, with reference to Finnish, Scandinavian, and Classical parallels. SCHOTT. _Ueber finnische und estnische Heldensagen, Monatsbericht d. k.k. Akademie der Wissenschaft zu Berlin_, 1866, pp. 249-260. * * * * * I am indebted to Mr. Sydney Hartland for kindly calling my attention to one or two papers which I might otherwise have overlooked. INDEX AND GLOSSARY Abercromby, Hon. J., specimens of Finnish charms, ii. 298 note. Adam and Eve, i. 252 note. Aennchen, Cinderella sometimes called in German, ii. 4. Äike, one of the names of the Thunder-God, i. xxviii., 24. Ämarik (Evening-Glow), ii. 30, 299. Ahti, in Esthonian, the God of the Waters; in Finnish, one of the names of the hero Lemminkainen, i. xxviii., 221; ii. 95 note. Ahto, Finnish name of the God of the Waters, i. xxviii. Aino, a heroine of the "Kalevala," who was drowned in a lake, i. 34 note; ii. 147 note. Air-Maiden, the daughter of the Thunder-God, i. xxviii., 4, 71. Alder-beetle, divination by, i. 19. Alev, ancestor of a race of heroes, probably a brother of Kalev, i. xxii., 2 note. Alevide or Alevipoeg, a hero of the race of Alev, the chief friend and companion of his cousin, the Kalevipoeg, i. xxii., 4, 5, 6. Alevide and water-demon, i. 64. Alevide, death of the, i. 138. Ali Shar and Zumurrud, a story of the "Thousand and One Nights," i. 187 note. Alutaga, a district north of Lake Peipus, i. 237. Angantyr, a famous Berserk in the Hervarar Saga, i. 60 note. Anna, widows named, ii. 145. Apes and Khaleefeh the fisherman, in the "Thousand and One Nights," ii. 270. Apples, golden, ii. 14. Argument of "Kalevipoeg," i. 2. Ariel's song, i. 21 note. Arju or Harju (German, Harrien), a province of Esthonia, i. xiv., 14 note. Arjuna, one of the heroes of the Indian Epic, the Maha-Bharata, ii. 23 note. Ark, ass entering, ii. 76 note. Armageddon, i. 135. Armi, name of dog, i. 25 note. Arthur, King, i. xxxii. Aschenputtel, German name for Cinderella, ii. 4. Ash-Katie (Tuhka-Triinu, Cinderella), ii. 4. Ass and Devil, ii. 76 note. Bagpipe, i. 304 note; ii. 150. Ballads and other short poems, i. xxiii.; ii. 287. Baltic, Bouquet from the, ii. 299. Baltic Provinces of Russia, i. xiii. Banyan-tree, i. 39 note. Barbarossa, i. xxxii. Baring-Gould. _See_ Gould. Barnkeeper, courageous, ii. 195. Bast shoes, magic, ii. 25. Bast shoes, man with the, ii. 278. Bathhouse visited by devils, ii. 186 Bathroom employed for accouchements, i. 21. Bath-whisks, i. 98; ii. 235 Battles of the Kalevide, i. 119, 136, 137. Bear, i. 52, 97; ii. 279, 290. Beast-stories, ii. 274. Beauty and the Beast, ii. 43 note. Beer in Hades, i. xxxi., 173, 198. Beetle as coachman, ii. 5. Beetle and brooch, divination by, i. 19. Beggar, God disguised as, ii. 182. Bell, magic, i. 197. Bell of Sarvik, i. 121, 126. Beowulf, hero of an Anglo-Saxon poem of the same name, ii. 147 note. Berserk, a Viking mad with battle-frenzy (the nearest modern parallel is the Malay custom of running amok), i. 39 note, 60 note. Berserk, Angantyr the, i. 60 note. Berserk, Kalevipoeg a, i. 39 note. Bertram, Dr., part translator of the "Kalevipoeg," i. xix.; ii. 301. Bewitched horse, ii. 193. Bhima, one of the heroes of the Indian Epic, the Maha-Bharata. i. 25 note; ii. 23 note. Bibliography, ii. 299. Birch-bark maid, ii. 180. Birch-tree, crooked, ii. 189. Birch-twigs for bath-whisks, ii. 235. Birds, language of, i. 215, 223; ii. 239. Bitch, Devil's mother in form of, i. xxxi., 68. Black Gods, ii. 136. Black magic, stories of, ii. 148, 167, 188. Black pool, ii. 146. Blood, souls sold by, ii. 150, 175, 181, 245. Blood, spells to stay flow of, i. 136. Blood used in magical practices, i. 248; ii. 229. Blood-vessel of Wisdom, ii. 186. Bluebeard, ii. 1. Blue bird, i. xxviii.; ii. 292, 296. Blue spring, ii. 145. Blumberg on the "Kalevipoeg," ii. 299. Blumberg's account of Lake Endla, ii. 85 note. Boecler on Esthonian customs, beliefs, &c., ii. 299. Bouquet from the Baltic, ii. 299. Brandy offered by lovers, i. 10; ii. 89. Break-Iron, name of dog, ii. 6. Breslau edition of the "Thousand and One Nights," i. 72 note. Bridge-builder or wishing-rod, i. 91, 105, 108, 198. Bridge, Finnish, i. 4, 48; ii. 287. Brobdingnagians, Gulliver's remark respecting, i. 116 note. Brooch and beetle, divination by, i. 19. Brothers, friendly, i. 3, 49; ii. 23. Brothers, gifted, ii. 12. Brothers, parting of, i. 55. Brothers, unnatural, ii. 41, 70, 71, 267. Brothers of the Kalevipoeg, i. 18, 25, 51, 55. Brothers, two, and the Frost, ii. 71. "Brynhilda," poem by W. Herbert, i. 60. Bug, Devil changed into, ii. 181. Bugs, origin of, ii. 127, 181. Boys, orphan, i. 4, 85, 261. Bulookiya, story of, in the "Thousand and One Nights," ii. 236. Cat, Devil in form of black, ii. 192, 199, 202, 276. Cat, dog, and mouse, ii. 282. Cat, pet, ii. 43. Cave-dwellers, ii. 114. Chamisso's Alsatian legend, "Das Riesenspielzeug," the "Giant's Toy," or the "Giant's Daughter and the Peasant," i. 116 note. Chamois-hunter's inexhaustible cheese, i. 265 note. Charlemagne, i. xxxii. Charm against snake-bite, ii. 298. Charms to stanch blood, i. 136. Chase of Slieve Cullin, Irish legend, i. 71. Cholera, arrival of, in a Greek island, ii. 271 note. Christ, Väinämöinen quitting Finland on the coming of, ii. 60. Church stories, ii. 282. Church, Devil in, ii. 112. Church at Fellin, ii. 265. Church of the Holy Cross, ii. 265. Church of Lais, ii. 145. Church at Pühalepp, ii. 263. Church at Revel, ii. 262. Chuvash of Kasan call God Tora, i. 6 note. Cinderella, i. 273; ii. 4. Clever countrywoman, i. 186. Coach, Devil's, ii. 186. Cock-crowing, i. 250; ii. 40, 251, 291. Cock, red, euphemism for burning a house, i. 108, 234. Cock, witch riding on, ii. 140. Cockchafer, spinning, i. 19 note. Coiners of Leal, ii. 192. Coins, discovery of English, ii. 194. Cologne Cathedral, legend of, ii. 261 note. Compassionate shoemaker, ii. 182. Compassionate woodcutter, ii. 124. Contest of brothers, i. 55. Copper, man of, i. 3, 35. Courageous barn-keeper, ii. 195. Courland, Province of, i. xiii.; ii. 25. Cox, Marian Roalfe, "Cinderella, Three Hundred and Forty-five Variants of Cinderella, Catskin, and Cap o' Rushes, abstracted and tabulated, with a discussion of mediæval analogues and notes, with an introduction by Andrew Lang, M.A.," London, 1893, ii. 4. Crafty Hans, ii. 115, 211. Crayfish, i. 85, 139, 140, 190. Crayfish, powerful, ii. 48. Creation-myths of Finns, ii. 60. Cross, Church of Holy, ii. 285. Cross-dance, i. 14. Crow, slave-girl born from, i. 2, 10. Cruel stepmothers, i. 85 note, 276, 280; ii. 4, 46. Cuckoo, i. 82. Cudgel, magic, ii. 25, 74. Cup-bearer of Kalevide, i. 4, 66. Cup-bearer visits Põrgu, i. 66. Cup-bearer, disappearance of, i. 115. Dagö, Island of, i. xiii.; ii. 112, 222, 283. Damocles, sword of, ii. 8. Danish ballads, Prior's, i. 115 note. Daughters, Twelve, ii. 59, 87. Dawn, story of, ii. 30. Death-sorcerer, i. xxxi. Demon cookery, i. 4, 88. Despised younger son, ii. 40. Devil, names and attributes of, i. xxx. Devil, stories of, ii. 38, 78, 148. Devil, animals hostile to, ii. 76. Devil called Old Boy, i. xxx., 153. Devil creates the wolf, ii. 274. Devil in church, ii. 112. Devil provides horses for the Kalevipoeg, i. 142. Devil steals fish, ii. 155. Devil tries to destroy churches, ii. 263. Devil with the three golden hairs, ii. 71. Devil and Soldier, ii. 76. Devil's mother or grandmother, i. 58 note, 66, 99, 142 note, 165. Devil's Treasure, ii. 225. Devil's Visit, ii. 38, 301. Dido on Esthonian tales and the "Kalevipoeg," i. xxii., 133 note; ii. 299, 300. "Die gelehrte Ehstnische Gesellschaft," i. xvii. Divination by brooch and beetle, i. 19. Diving Jinn, ii. 96 note. Dog and cat, ii. 282. Dog and Devil, ii. 76. Dog-men, i. 5, 117. "Donica," poem by Southey, ii. 147 note. Donner on the "Kalevipoeg" and "Kalevala," ii. 300. Dragon-slayer, ii. 6. Dragons as saurians, ii. 7. Draupadi, the heroine of the Indian Epic, the Maha-Bharata, ii. 23 note. Drinking-bouts, i. 3, 45, 131. Dvergar (dwarfs), Old Norse name for the Gnomes, ii. 113. Dorpat, i. 56 note. Ducks with gold and silver plumage, i. xxx., 202. Dwarf and heroes, i. 115. Dwarf's christening, ii. 8. Dwarf's quarrel, ii. 25. Dwarfs, headless, ii. 213. Dwarfs stealing food, i. 121, 187, 207; ii. 26. Eagle of the North, i. 2, 8, 227, 257, 268, 271. East, magician of, ii. 239. Edda (Grandmother), name applied to the two principal collections of Scandinavian mythological and heroic poems and legends, the Poetical Edda, or the Edda of Sæmund, and the Prose Edda, or the Edda of Snore, i. 60 note, 91 note; ii. 29, 71 note. "Ed-Dimiryaht" (a king of the Jinn, and one of the two chief Wezeers of Solomon), poem by Kirby, ii. 236. Egg-born princess, i. 273. Egg, Linda born from, i. 2, 9. Egg, Suometar born from, i. 10 note. Egg, magic, ii. 234. Elemental spirits, ii. 96 note. Elements, stories of spirits of, ii. 60. Elsie, i. 240. Elves, Tieck's story of, i. 236. Emmu Lake and Virts Lake, ii. 144. Endel or Endla, son of Ilmarine, ii. 87. Endla, Lake, i. 88; ii. 85. "Encyclopædia Britannica," article on Esthonia in, ii. 300. Envious sisters, story of, in the "Thousand and One Nights," ii. 9. Epic of Esthonia, the "Kalevipoeg," i. 1. Epic of Finland, the "Kalevala," i. 1. Esau and Jacob, i. 19. Esquimaux, i. 117 note. Esthonia, article in "Encyclopædia Britannica," ii. 300. Esthonia, Epic of, the "Kalevipoeg," i. 1. Esthonia, hero of, the "Kalevipoeg," i. 1. Esthonia, language of, i. xv., xvi. Esthonia, province of, i. xiii. Esthonian ballads, &c., ii. 287. Esthonian dances, i. 14. Esthonian folk-tales, i. 145; ii. 1. Esthonian Hercules, ii. 302. Euseküll, Lake at, ii. 142. Fählmann, Dr., work of, i. xviii. Faithless fisherman, ii. 104. Familiar stories of Northern Europe, ii. 48. Famine personified, ii. 290. Fate of Linda, i. 24. "Faust," Goethe's, i. xxi., 214. Feasts, public, i. 3, 6, 45, 131, 187, 195. Feathers transformed to birds and warriors, i. 40. Fellin, a town in Livonia, ii. 111, 135. Fellin, church at, ii. 285. Fenland or Finland, ii. 135 note. "Festus," poem by Bailey, i. xxi. Fetishism in Esthonia and Finland, i. xxvi.; ii. 167, 274 note. Fight with the sorcerer's sons, i. 80. Finland, Epic of, the "Kalevala," i. 1. Finland, Gulf of, i. xiii. Finland, Kalevide's journey to, i. 3, 5, 32, 38, 112. Finland, names of, ii. 135 note. Finn, the Irish hero, i. xxxii., 71. Finnish Bridge, i. 4, 43; ii. 287. Finnish Literary Society's publications, i. xxii. Finnish magicians and sorcerers, i. 2, 3, 23, 26, 38, 41, 111, 220, 226, 260, 299; ii. 181, 260. Finnish sorcerer seeks the hand of Linda, i. 2, 23. Finnish sorcerer carries off Linda, i. 2, 26. Finnish sorcerer and the Kalevide, i. 3, 38. Finnish sorcerer slain by the Kalevide, i. 3, 41. Finnish stories, ii. 29, 41, 60. Finnish sword-smiths, i. 3, 42, 84. Finnish-Ugrian race, i. xv. Fire Island (Iceland), i. 5, 113, 114. Fish, Devil stealing, ii. 155. Fisherman, faithless, ii. 104. Fisherman and his Wife, ii. 148. Flies, Officious, ii. 285, 301. Flood, ii. 182 note. Floods, magic, i. 105, 107, 108. Flute, story of magic, ii. 43 note. Flute-player, Tiidu the, i. 303. "Folk-lore," organ of the English Folk-lore Society, ii. 298 note. Folk-tales in prose, Esthonian, i. xxii., 145; ii. 1. Foot, stamping with, to open hidden door or to lay a ghost, i. 110, 124, 158; ii. 190, 193. Forests in fairy tales, i. 211. Foundling, i. 321; ii. 112. Four gifts of the water-sprite, ii. 98. Freemasons, ii. 236. Free-shooters, ii. 191. Frog, Northern, ii. 237. Frost, two brothers and the, ii. 71. Galland's "Thousand and One Nights," ii. 9. Gallows dwarfs, ii. 211. Ganander, a writer on Finnish mythology in the last century, ii. 296. Garm, the dog which guards Helheim, in the Scandinavian mythology, i. 261. Geese with gold and silver feathers, i. xxx., 202. German Knights of the Sword, i. xiv., 194. Germans in Esthonia, i. xv., 246, 248, 284. Giallar Horn, the horn of Heimdall in the Scandinavian mythology, which he is to blow to summon the gods to battle at Ragnarök, i. 136 note. "Giant's Daughter," and poem by Chamisso, i. 115, 116 note. Gifted brothers, ii. 22. Gifted servants, ii. 24. Gifts of water-sprite, ii. 98. Glass mountain, ii. 40. Gnomes, ii. 113. God disguised as beggar, ii. 182. God, name of, engraved on Solomon's seal, ii. 236. God, names of, i. xxvii. God-daughter of the Rock-maidens, i. 321. Gods, Esthonian and Finnish, i. xxvii. Gods, stories of the, ii. 60. Gods, white and black, ii. 136, 137. "Goethe," poem by Kenealy, i. xx. Goethe's "Faust," i. xxi., 214. Gold king, i. 52. Gold mountain, i. 19. Gold shoes of Tuhka Triinu, ii. 6. Golden, an epithet of endearment, i. 92. Golden apples, ii. 14. Golden land, i. 152. Gold snakes, ii. 224. Gold-spinners, i. 208. Goldsmith's "Goody Two-Shoes," i. 249 note. Gomme, Alice Bertha, "The Traditional Games of England, Scotland, and Ireland," vol. i. 1894, i. 91 note. Good deed rewarded, ii, 128. "Goody Two-Shoes," i. 249 note. Goose-Tony, ii. 2. Gottland, island of, identified with Kungla, i. 15 note. Gould, S. Baring, on the "Kalevipoeg," i. 112 note, 117 note; ii. 300. Grass-mother, i. xxix., 13 note. Grateful prince, i. 152. Grave of Kalev, i. 3, 21, 30, 54, 134. Grave, visits to father's, ii. 41. Greenland, i. 117 note. Grey women in "Faust," i. 214 note. Grimm's "Kinder und Hausmärchen," ii. 48, 71. Grosse's German version of the "Kalevipoeg," i. xix.; ii. 300. Grôtta-Söngr, the Mill-Song, one of the poems in the Edda of Sæmund, ii. 71 note. Gulliver's remark respecting the Brobdingnagians, i. 115. Hades (Põrgu), i. xxxi. Hades, Kalevide's first journey to, i. 87. Hair, beliefs connected with, ii. 19. Hand grasped by magician or giant, i. 176; ii. 22, 189. Hans, crafty, ii. 115, 211. Harju or Arju, province of Esthonia, i. xiv., 14 note. Harrien, German name of province of Harju, i. 14. Hasan of El Basrah, story in the "Thousand and One Nights," ii. 25. Hasib, story in the "Thousand and One Nights," ii. 234 note. Hat of nail-parings, i. 91, 103; ii. 25. Hat, soldier's, ii. 130. Haycock, wonderful, ii. 133. Headless dwarfs, ii. 213. Heath legends, ii. 111, 132. Hedgehog, Kalevide's meeting with, i. 4, 81. Heidelberg, Wolfsbrunnen, near, ii. 86 note. Heimdall, horn of, in Scandinavian mythology, i. 126 note. Helena the Fair, Princess, Russian story, ii. 41 note. "Helga," poem by W. Herbert, i. 60. Helheim, the Scandinavian Hades, i. 261 note. Hell (Põrgu), i. xxxi. Hell-hounds, i. 261; ii. 192. Hell-Maiden, ii. 242. Hemlock used to poison witch, i. 233. Hen, Salme born from, i. 2, 9. Heracles and Hylas, i. 115 note. Herald, voyage of, i. 139 note. Herald of War, i. 63; ii. 287. Herbert, William, "Helga, a poem in eight cantos," London, 1815, i. 60 note. Hercules of Esthonia, ii. 302. Herd-boy, royal, i. 279. Herd-boy, sinking in heath, ii. 133. Herd-boys, i. 84. Hero of Esthonia, the Kalevipoeg, i. 1. Heroes and dwarf, i. 115. Heroes and water-demon, i. 64. Heroes carried by eagles, i. 2, 8. Heroes, last feast of, i. 129. Heywood, Thomas, "Hierarchies of the Blessed Angels," London, 1635, ii. 147 note. Hialmar, hero of the Hervarar Saga, i. 60 note. "Hiawatha," poem by Longfellow, i. xx., 81 note. Hidden treasures, i. 135; ii. 194. Holger or Olger, Danish hero expected to return, i. xxxii. Holy Cross, Church of, ii. 285. Hornet and spider, ii. 284. Horse, bewitched, ii. 193. Horse of Kalevide, i. 3, 58, 128, 130. Horse of the tempest, i. 15. Horses devoted to the Devil, ii. 181, 187. Horses, white, i. 59, 142, 260. House-spirit, i. xxxi. 207; ii. 167. How the sea became salt, ii. 70. How seven tailors went to war in Turkey, i. xxiii. Hunter's lost luck, ii. 191. Hurt, Pastor, collection of Esthonian folk-lore, i. xxiv.; ii. 301, 302. Hylas and Heracles, i. 115 note. Iblees (Satan), entering ark with ass, ii. 76 note. Iceland (Fire Island), i. 114 note. Idiot's luck, ii. 14. Iliad, origin of, i. xi. Ilma, Lake, i. 87, 110. Ilmarine or Ilmarinen, the Vulcan of Esthonia and Finland, i. xxi., xxx., 4, 83; ii. 120, 159. Ilmarine, wife of, i. 291 note. Ilmatar, the Daughter of the Air, the mother of Väinämöinen, and the creatrix of the world in the first Runo of the "Kalevala," where she apparently represents the Spirit of God floating on the surface of the waters, i. 71 note; ii. 60. Inexhaustible wallets, &c., i. 265. Ingoldsby Legends, ii. 159. Insatiable wife, ii. 48. Invasions, i. 129, 132. Irish lakes, water-nymphs in, ii. 147 note. Irmi, name of dog, i. 25 note. Iru, Mount, i. 27, 51. Island of Dagö, i. xiii.; ii. 222, 283. Island of Fire (Iceland), i. 5, 114. Island of Oesel, i. xiii. Island Maiden, i. 3, 32, 50. Israel's work on the "Kalevipoeg," i. xix.; ii. 300. Jacob and Esau, i. 18 note. Jacobs on "junior right," i. 18 note. Jalopeura, Finnish name for lion and lynx, i. 89 note. Jamasp, story of, in the "Thousand and One Nights," ii. 234 note. Jann = Jinn, i. 72 note. Jannsen, Harry, "Esthonian Tales," i. xxii.; ii. 300. Järva (the Lake District), province of Esthonia, i. xiv. Jephthah, i. 152 note. Jerwen, German name of province of Järva, i. xiv. Jews, Passover of, i. 265 note. Jews, persecution of, i. 155. Jinn of Arabia, ii. 96 note. Jinn, oblique eyes of, i. 72 note. Jones, W.H., and Kropf, L.L., "The Folk-Tales of the Magyars," London, 1889, ii. 30 note. Joodar, story in the "Thousand and One Nights," i. 199 note, 265 note; ii. 229. Joyce, P.W., "Old Celtic Romances," 2nd edition, London, 1894, i. 71. Jullanar of the Sea, story in the "Thousand and One Nights," ii. 96 note. Jumal or Jumala, name of God, i. xxiii., 8. Junior right, i. 18 note. Jutta, foster-daughter of Vanemuine, and Queen of the Birds, i. xxviii., 85. Jutta, priestess of Hertha, i. 86 note. Käpä, a brook flowing into Lake Peipus, in which the Kalevide's sword was sunk, i. 4, 6, 75, 140. Kalev, Kallev, or Kaleva, a mythical giant-king of Esthonia, the father of the Kalevipoeg, i. 1. Kalev, arrival in Esthonia, i. 2, 8. Kalev, wooing of Linda, i. 16. Kalev, marriage of, i. 2, 16, 17. Kalev, children of, i. 2, 18, 22. Kalev, death of, i. 2, 18. Kalev, burial of, i. 2, 21. Kalev, visits to grave of, i. 2, 21, 30, 54, 134. Kalevala, the country of Kaleva, i. 1. Kalevala, name chosen by Lönnrot for the great Finnish Epic, first issued by the Finnish Literary Society in thirty-two Runos or Cantos in 1835, and subsequently enlarged and recast, and published in 1849 in fifty Runos, since when it has been reprinted several times, the best edition of the text being that issued by the above-mentioned Society in 1887. More or less complete translations have appeared in English, French, German, Swedish, Magyar, and Russian, besides specimens in Danish and Italian. Of these versions, the most elegant appear to me to be the abridged Swedish translations of Herzberg, in prose and verse. The recent German translation of Paul is most esteemed in Finland; though it was that of Schiefner, published in 1852, which inspired Longfellow to write his "Hiawatha." The "Kalevala" commences with creation-myths, and the birth of the patriarch-minstrel and culture-hero Väinämöinen; proceeds with Väinämöinen's unsuccessful wooing of the Lapp girl Aino; and the rest of the poem is mainly occupied with the negotiations and wars of the three heroes, Väinämöinen, Ilmarinen, and Lemminkainen, with Louhi, the witch-queen of Lapland. The adventures of Kullervo, the morose and wicked slave, who corresponds to the Kalevipoeg in so many particulars, that he was certainly originally the same character, form a long episode, extending from Runos 31-35 inclusive. The last Runo contains a strange confused story of the Nativity, and ends with the consequent departure of Väinämöinen from Finland. Many episodes and parallels of the "Kalevala" reappear in the "Kalevipoeg," i. xi., xviii., xxi., xxx., 1, 7, 8, 10, 33 note, 34 note, 35 note, 39 note, 40 note, 71 note, 85 note, 88 note, 93 note, 291 note; ii. 81, 147 note, 149, 154, 160 note, 160. Kalevide, a hero of the race of Kalev, the usual title of the Kalevipoeg, i. xviii., 1. Kalevide, birth of, i. 2, 22. Kalevide, childhood of, i. 2, 22. Kalevide, hunting of, i. 2, 25. Kalevide swims to Finland, i. 3, 32. Kalevide, meeting with the Island Maiden, i. 3, 32. Kalevide and Finnish sorcerer, i. 3, 38. Kalevide and sword-smiths, i. 3, 42. Kalevide, return of, i. 3, 49. Kalevide visits his father's grave, i. 3, 21, 30, 54, 134. Kalevide ploughing, i. 3, 58. Kalevide wades through Lake Peipus, i. 4, 72, 122, 142. Kalevide, journeys to Põrgu, i. 5, 87, 124, 142. Kalevide, voyage of, i. 5, 110. Kalevide, death of, i. 6, 141. Kalevide, a Berserk, i. 39 note. Kalevipoeg, the son of Kalev, a mythical giant-hero and king of Esthonia, whose adventures are related in the poem of the same name. _See_ Kalevide. "Kalevipoeg," the national Epic of Esthonia, i. xviii., 1. "Kalevipoeg," origin of poem, i. xviii. "Kalevipoeg," bibliography, ii. 299. "Kalevipoeg," editions of, ii. 301. "Kalevipoeg," tales illustrative of, i. 147. "Kanteletar," the "Daughter of the Harp," the name applied to the great collection of Finnish songs and ballads compiled by Lönnrot, and published by the Finnish Literary Society, i. 10 note, 20. Karkus, name of a mythical king, ii. 136. Katrina finds egg which produces Suometar, i. 10. Katrina, name of Cinderella, ii. 4. Keightley, Thomas, "The Fairy Mythology, illustrative of the Romance and Superstition of various Countries," new edition, London (Bohn), 1860, ii. 282 note. Kenealy, Edward Vaughan, "Goethe, a New Pantomime," London, 1850, i. xx. Kenealy, "A New Pantomime," London, 1863, i. xx. Kenealy, "Poems and Translations," London, 1864, i. 76. Kertell, treasure at, ii. 224. Khaleefeh the fisherman, story of, in the "Thousand and One Nights," ii. 270. Kidd the Pirate, ii. 195. Kiisike (Pussy), a fairy child, i. 245. Kikerpärä, swamp of, i. 64. King of Esthonia, Kalev becomes, i. 2, 9. King, Kalevide chosen, i. 3, 58. King Karkus, ii. 136. King of the Misty Hill, i. 259. King's Wood, i. 27. Kirby, W.F., "Ed-Dimiryaht, an Oriental Romance, and other Poems," London, 1867, ii. 236. Kirby and Kaarle Krohn on Pastor Hurt's collections of Esthonian folk-lore, i. xxiv.; ii. 301, 302. Knapsack, magic, ii. 72. Knights of the Sword, i. xiv., 134. Köhler, R., notes on Kreutzwald's Tales, ii. 301. Kõu, one of the names of the Thunder-God, i. xxviii.; ii. 158. Kõver or Kõwer, Crooked, ii. 131 note. Koit (Dawn) and Ämarik (Evening Glow), ii. 30, 299. Koiva, River, i. 139. Kon, a frog or toad, ii. 237 note. Korküll, Lake, ii. 135. Kratt, one of the names of the house-spirit, i. xxxi.; ii. 167, 169. Kreutzwald, Dr., and his works, i. xix., xxii., xxiii., 39 note; ii. 301. Kristina, Cinderella called in Finnish, ii. 4 note. Krohn, Kaarle, on Pastor Hurt's Esthonian Folk-lore collections, i. xxiv.; ii. 301, 302. Krohn, on distribution of Esthonian legends, i. xxv., 301. Kullervo, a hero of the "Kalevala," who, though the slave of Ilmarinen, corresponds to the Kalevipoeg; he ultimately commits suicide by falling on his own sword, i. xxi., 1, 8 note, 22 note, 33 note, 42 note, 85 note, 291 note; ii. 160 note. Kungla, a country of fabulous wealth, possibly the island of Gottland, i. 15, 28, 182, 187, 304. Kurat, the Evil One, one of the names of the Devil, i. xxx. Kuri vaim, evil spirit, ii. 199. Kylliki, a heroine of the "Kalevala," who refused the hand of the Sun and Moon, but was afterwards carried off by Lemminkainen, i. 10 note. Lääne, the West Country, a province of Esthonia, i. xiv., 8; ii. 49. Lady-bird, i. 19 note. Lady of the Waters, ii. 95. Lais, church of, ii. 145. Lake-dwellers, ii. 98. Lake legends, ii. 135. Lake Emmu, ii. 144. Lake Endla, i. 88; ii. 85. Lake at Euseküll, ii. 142. Lake Korküll or Oiso, ii. 135. Lake Peipus, i. xiv., 4, 72, 122, 142; ii. 136. Lake Virts, i. xiv.; ii. 144. Lalli, a port near Lindanisa, i. 118. Land of Ten Thousand Lakes (Finland), ii. 135. Lane's "Thousand and One Nights," ii. 76 note. Lapland, Louhi, witch-queen of, in the "Kalevala," ii. 149. Lapland, Kalevide's voyage to, i. 5, 112. Lapland stories, i. xvi.; ii. 29, 38. Last feast of the heroes, i. 129, 131. Latham, R.G., "Nationalities of Europe," 2 vols, London, 1863, i. xxiii., xxvii., 9 note, 33; ii. 38 note, 112 note, 302. Lauma, Lithuanian Nightmare, ii. 112 note. Leal, coiners of, ii. 192. Lemminkainen, one of the heroes of the "Kalevala," i. xxix., 34 note, 40 note. Lennuk, the Flyer, the Kalevide's ship, i. 5, 112. Letts, demons compared to, i. 67, 69. Letts, war with, i. 137. "Light Princess," story by George Macdonald, i. 211 note. Lijon, festival of, ii. 33. Lind or Lindu, a bird, i. 10. Linda, the wife of Kalev and the mother of the Kalevipoeg, born from an egg, i. xxviii., 2, 10; ii. 85 note. Linda, marriage of, i. 2, 16, 17. Linda, mourning of, i. 2, 20. Linda, children of, i. 2, 18, 22. Linda, carried off by Finnish sorcerer, i. 2, 26. Linda, transformed to a rock, i. 2, 27. Linda, fate of, i. 24. Linda, shade of, in Põrgu, i. 127, 129. Lindanisa, "Linda's Bosom," the Kalevide's capital, now called Tallin, Revel, or Reval, i. 6, 118, 119, 131. Lindu, the daughter of Uko, the queen of the birds, i. xxviii., 9 note, 10 note, 147. Lion, Kalevide compared to, i. 89. Lithuanian tales, ii. 112 note, 182 note, 224. Lithuanian Thunder-God. _See_ Perkunas. Little Red Riding Hood, ii. 39, 276. Livonia, province of, i. xiii. Longfellow's "Hiawatha," i. xx., 81 note. Loss of the Kalevide's sword, i. 72. Lots cast for princess, ii. 23. Louhi, witch-queen of Lapland, in the "Kalevala" (may not this name, though feminine, be connected with Loki?), ii. 149, 154. Löwe's translation of Kreutzwald's Tales, i. xxii.; ii. 301. Lucky egg, i. 308. Lucky rouble, i. 25 note; ii. 6. Maasika (Strawberry), i. 321. "Mabinogion," old Welsh romances, translated by Lady Guest, ii. 272 note. Macdonald, George, story of the Light Princess, i. 211. Macgillivray's adventure in the Solomon Islands, i. 139. Maelström, i. 114 note. Magic cudgel, ii. 25, 74. Magic egg, ii. 234. Magic flute, ii. 43 note. Magic hat, i. 91, 103; ii. 25. Magic knapsack, i. 265; ii. 72. Magic reel, i. 177. Magic saddlebags, i. 265, note. Magic shoes, ii. 25. Magic, skill of Lapps, Finns, and Esthonians in, i. 20 note. Magic sword, i. 198. Magician in the pocket, i. 321. Magician's heirs, ii. 24. Magpie speaking, ii. 4. Magyar Folk-tales, ii. 30 note. Maha-Bharata, Indian Epic, i. 25 note; ii. 25, 234 note. Maiden of Island, i. 3, 32. Maiden at the Vaskjala Bridge, ii. 34. Maiden's Wood, i. 27. Maidens who bathed in the moonlight, ii. 233. Maidens in Sarvik's palace, i. 5, 90. Maidens spinning, i. 5, 90, 209. Mail-clad warriors, i. 134. Man in the moon, ii. 29, 164. Man with the bast shoes, ii. 278. Mana, God of Death, i. 143; ii. 17. Mana tark = necromancer, ii. 223 note. Manx dog, ii. 192 note. Mare, white, i. xxvi., 99, 142. Martin and his dead master, i. xxxii.; ii. 188. Marya, Cinderella called, in Slavonic tales, ii. 4 note. Meadow Queen, or Grass-Mother (Muru eit), the goddess of the meadows and of the home-field, i. xxix., 11, 188, 235, 259. Megissogwon, a magician slain by Hiawatha, i. 81 note. Melusina, ii. 48. Mermaid, ii. 49. Mermaid and Lord of Pahlen, ii. 106. Michael Scot, ii. 172 note. Michel the Beggar, ii. 168. Milk-cans cleaned with pebbles, ii. 89. Milky Way, i. 9 note, 147. Misty Hill, King of the, i. 259. Moon, man in, ii. 29, 164. Moon-painter, ii. 29, 159. Moon seeking the hand of maidens, i. 10, 11, 148. Moon, sons and daughters of, ii. 29. Moon stolen by sorcerers, i. 20 note; ii. 148, 154 note, 160 note. Moon-stories, ii. 29, 159. Moon, woman in, ii. 29, 37. Moon-dwellers, i. 186. Morality of Esthonian folk-tales, i. 155. Moth, sorcerer in form of, ii. 16. Mother of the Grass. _See_ Meadow Queen. Mother of the Waters, i. xxix. Mother of the Wind, i. xxix., 218; ii. 106. Mouse speaking, i. 125; ii. 186. Mouse and cat, ii. 282. Mundane egg, i. 8 note. Muru eit = Grass-Mother. _See_ Meadow Queen. Mussel-shells as boats, i. 202. Mustapall, i. 64. Mustukene (Blackie), name of dog, i. 25 note. Mythology, Esthonian, i. xxvi. Naglfar, nail-ship in Scandinavian Mythology, i. 91 note. Näki neitsi, mermaid, ii. 49. Nail-parings, hat of, i. 91, 103; ii. 25. Nakula, one of the heroes of the Indian Epic, the Maha-Bharata, ii. 23 note. Name, calling by, an omen of death, ii. 262. Narova, river flowing from Lake Peipus to Narva, ii. 141. Narva, a port-town on the east frontier of Esthonia, i. 304. "Nationalities of Europe." _See_ Latham. Nativity, travesty of, in "Kalevala," i. xxvii. Nature-worship among Esthonians and Finns, i. xxvii. Necromancers, i. xxx., 20; ii. 233 note. Neus, works of, i. xxiii., 9 note, 33, 39 note; ii. 302. Nicholas, story of Silly, ii. 71 note. Nicodemus, i. 146, 192, 200. Nightmare, Lauma, or Lithuanian, ii. 112 note. Noah and the Ark, ii. 76 note. Nocturnal church-goers, ii. 226. Noor Ed-Deen and Shems Ed-Deen, story of, in the "Thousand and One Nights," i. 86 note. North Cape, i. 112 note. Northern Frog, ii. 237. Northern Lights, spirits of, i. xxxi., 5, 111, 117, 149; ii. 107. Nose-tree, i. 203, 306. Nuckö, Plague in island of, ii. 272. Oak sacred to Taara, i. xxvii. Oak forest of Taara, i. 8, 56. Oak-tree, great, i. xxvii., 3, 34, 39, 47, 111. Odyssey, origin of, i. xi. Oesel, Island of, i. xiii. Officious flies, ii. 285, 300. Oiso, district and lake of, ii. 135, 142. Olaf the architect, i. 282. Olaf, St., and the giant Wind-and-Weather, ii. 282 note. Old Boy (Vana pois), usual Esthonian euphemism for the Devil, i. xxx., 153; ii. 10, 132, 144, 151, 192. Old Father (Vana isa), frequent epithet for God in Esthonian, i. xxvii., xxx.; ii. 144, 150 note. "Old Harp" (Vana kannel), Pastor Hurt's collection of Esthonian songs and ballads, i. xxiv. Old Hornie (Vana Sarvik), one of the names of the Devil, i. xxxi., 89 note; ii. 195. Olev the master-builder, possibly a brother of Kalev, i. xxii., 2, 108, 111, 118, 119, 139; ii. 282 note. Olevide, a hero of the race of Olev; the term is often applied to his son, the Olevipoeg, the companion, and perhaps the cousin, of the Kalevide. The Olevide is, however, frequently called by his father's name, Olev, i. xxii., 6, 108. Olevide meets the Kalevide, i. 108. Olevide builds ships, i. 111. Olevide builds Lindanisa, i. 119. Olevide appointed successor to the throne, i. 139. Olger or Holger, a famous Danish hero, one of Charlemagne's Paladins (Ogier le Danois), who is expected to return, i. xxxii. Oriental tales, ii. 233. Origin of bugs, ii. 127, 181. Origin of the swallow, ii. 283. Origin of the wolf, ii. 274. Orphan and foundling stories, i. 84, 236. Orphan-boy and the Hell-hounds, i. 261. Orphan-boys, i. 4, 85, 261. Orphan's hand-mill, i. 260. Orphan's Wood, i. 27. Orpheus, ii. 60. Othin, i. 261 note. Ox, great, i. xxvi., 88, 130. Ox of Videvik, ii. 30. Ox, strange tale of an, ii. 24. Oxenford, John, on the "Kalevipoeg," ii. 302. Oxen of Ukraine, i. 270. Pärtel = Bartholomew, i. 310. Pahlen, Lord of, and mermaid, ii. 106. Palace of Sarvik, i. 4, 5, 94, 127. Palmerin, a legendary Emperor of Constantinople, whose adventures and those of his family are contained in a series of three romances of chivalry, the last and most celebrated of which relates to his grandson and namesake, Palmerin of England, i. xxxii. Pandavas, five princes, the reputed sons of Pandu, the heroes of the Indian Epic, the Maha-Bharata; their names were Yudhishthira, Bhima, Arjuna, Nakula, and Sahadeva, ii. 23 note. Parika Heath, ii. 111. Paristaja, one of the names of the Thunder-God (? = Sanscrit, Parjanya), i. xxviii. Parting of brothers, i. 55. Passover, Jews', i. 265 note. Pastor Hurt's collections of Esthonian Folk-lore, i. xxiv.; ii. 301. Peacock and Peahen, story in the "Thousand and One Nights," ii. 76 note. Peas given to the watchers of the dead, i. 157, 256. Peipa the witch, ii. 137. Peipus or Peipse, Lake, i. xiv., 4, 6, 44, 71, 72, 237; ii. 98. Perkunas, Lithuanian and Lettish Thunder-God (the Slavonians called him Perun; the Finnish word Piru (Devil) may be connected with this), i. xxviii., 24 note. Perm, identified with Kungla, i. 15 note. Pernau, ii. 283. Peter, i. 25 note; ii. 6. Peter, St., disguised as beggar, ii. 182 note. Pihgast, Pleskau, or Pskov, lake, district, and town of, i. xiv. Piirisilla, the sorcerer, ii. 19. Piker, one of the names of the Thunder-God, i. xxviii. Pikker, one of the names of the Thunder-God, i. xxviii., 24, 26; ii. 155. Pikne, one of the names of the Thunder-God, i. xxviii., 24; ii. 28. Pikne's trumpet, ii. 149 note. Plague legends, ii. 271, 291. Plantain-leaf as boat, i. 265. Plate, gold and silver, in Põrgu, i. xxx., 66, 93, 95, 203. Pleskau, Pihgast, or Pskov, district, lake, and town of, i. xiv., 73, 173. Pliha, River, ii. 142. Poestion, J. C, "Lapplandishe Märchen, Volksagen, Rathsel und Sprichwörter. Nach lappländischen, norwegischen, und schwedischen Quellen. Mit Beiträgen von Felix Liebrecht," Vienna, 1886, ii. 38. Pohjola, the North Country, Finnish name for Lapland, i. 8 note, 40 note. Poles, invasion of, i. 132, 137; ii. 142. Polyphemus, ii. 38, 159. Poor brother and the rich one, ii. 267. Popular Poetry of Esthonians, ii. 302. Põrgu, Hell or Hades, i xxxi., 4, 5, 6, 66, 110, 124, 142, 164; ii. 154. Põrgu neitsi, the Hell-Maiden, ii. 242. Pouka, the Irish, i. xxxi. Poverty, personified, ii. 269. Powerful crayfish and the insatiable wife, ii. 48. Prince Ahmed, story of, in the "Thousand and One Nights," i. 246 note. Prince, Grateful, i. 152. Prince who rescued his brothers, ii. 10. Princess, Egg-born, i. 273. Princess Helena the Fair, Russian story of, ii. 41 note. Princess, lots cast for, ii. 23. Princess Rannapuura, ii. 37. Princess who slept for seven years, ii. 44. Prince, L.C. Alexander, "Ancient Danish Ballads, translated from the originals," 3 vols., London, 1860, i. 115 note. Pskov, Pihgast, or Pleskau, district, lake, and town of, i. xiv. Puck, i. xxxi. Pühalepp, church at, ii. 283. Puuk, one of the names of the house-spirit, i. xxxi. Puuläne ja Tohtläne (wooden man and birch-bark maid), ii. 181. Ragnarök, the Twilight of the Gods, the end of the world in the Scandinavian mythology, when the evil powers will break loose, and fight with the gods, to the mutual destruction of most of the combatants, after which the earth will be destroyed by fire and water and regenerated, i. 90 note, 108 note, 261 note. Ralston, W.R.S., "Russian Folk-Tales," London, 1873, ii. 41 note. Rannapungern, estate of, ii. 142. Rannapuura, Princess, ii. 137. Rat, Devil transformed into, ii. 181. Raven speaking, i. 110, 215. Rebuliina, Princess, i. 275. Red cock, symbolic of fire, i. 108, 234. Red Riding-Hood, ii. 38, 276. Reel, magic, i. 177. Reindeer, swift, ii. 21. Reinthal's translation of the "Kalevipoeg," i. xix., 301. Return of the Kalevide, i. 49. Revel, Reval, or Tallin, Cathedral of, i. 21. Revel, church at, ii. 282. Revel, town of, ii. 104. "Revue des Traditions Populaires," ii. 133 note, 299, 300. Rich brother and the poor one, ii. 267. Riddles, i. 115. "Riesenspielzeug," the "Giant's Toy," poem by Chamisso, i. 116 note. Riga, Gulf of, i. xiii. Ring of dwarf, i. 194. Ringen, castle and church at, ii. 225. River Koiva, i. 139. River Narova, ii. 142. River Pliha, ii. 142. River Vöhandu, i. 137. Rock-Maidens, god-daughter of the, i. 321. Rogö, arrival of Plague in island of, ii. 271. Roland, horn of, i. 136 note. Rose-bush, maiden transformed to, i. 181, 302. Rosicrucians, ii. 96 note. Rõugutaja, an Esthonian god, i. xxviii., xxix., 22. Rõugutaja's Daughter, ii. 45. Rowan-tree, i. 228; ii. 4. Rumours of War, i. 61. Run-for-food (name of dog), ii. 6. Russian tales, ii. 41 note. Saad Järv, a lake north of Dorpat, i. 56. Saari, a place mentioned in the "Kalevala," i. 10 note. Sack, Devil pounded in, ii. 15. Sahadeva, one of the heroes of the Indian Epic, the Maha-Bharata, ii. 23 note. St. George's Dogs (wolves), ii. 277. St. Olaf and the giant Wind-and-Weather, ii. 282 note. St. Peter disguised as beggar, ii. 182 note. St. Petersburg, Government of, i. xiii. Salme, a maiden sprung from a hen, who married the Youth of the Stars, i. 2, 7. Sampo, a magic mill constructed by Ilmarinen in the "Kalevala," ii. 71 note, 154 note. Sand Mountain, i. 228. Sarvik, the Prince of Põrgu (Hades), usually called Vana Sarvik or Old Hornie, i. xxx., 5, 89, 97, 126, 142. Sarvik, palace of, i. 94, 127. Saurians as dragons, ii. 7. Saxon, term for everything above the common in Esthonia, i. 146. Schaibar in the "Thousand and One Nights," i. 246 note. Schiefner on the "Kalevipoeg," and Esthonian tales, ii. 301, 302. Schoolboy sold to Devil, ii. 146. Schott on the "Kalevipoeg," ii. 302. Seaforth, hag seen by Lord, ii. 272 note. Seal of Solomon, ii. 236. Serpents, king of, i. 321; ii. 233. Servants, gifted, ii. 24. Shoemaker, compassionate, ii. 182. Shoes, magic, ii. 25. Shoes, man with the bast, ii. 278. Shooting feats, ii. 23, 191. Silly Nicholas, story of, ii. 71 note. Sisters, Three, ii. 43. Siuru, a mythical blue bird, the daughter of Taara, i. xxviii., 10 note, 96, 131; ii. 292. Slave-girl born from a crow, i. 2, 10. Sleep of the Kalevide, i. 4, 39, 61, 74, 82, 131. Sleepy Tony, ii. 50. Slyboots, i. 187. Smiths, Finnish, i. 42. Smith's son, murder of, i. 46, 84. Smithy of Ilmarine, i. xxx., 4, 83. Smithy, underground, ii. 83, 116. Snake animating a clay image, i. 247 Snake, maiden transformed to white, i. 312. Snake-bite, charm against, ii. 298. Snakes, golden, ii. 224. Snow-white, the Glass Mountain, and the Despised Youngest Son, ii. 40. Sohni, name of the Kalevipoeg, i. 18. Soldier and the Devil, ii. 76. Soldier's hat, ii. 130. Solomon, Seal of, ii. 236. Solomon Islands, Macgillivray's adventure in, i. 139 note. Son, of the Thunder-God, ii. 149. Song-God's departure, ii. 81. "Song of Vala," a poem by W. Herbert, appended to his "Helga," an abridged paraphrase of the "Völuspa," one of the poems in the Edda of Sæmund, i. 60 note. Soothsayers, i. xxxi., 19, 20. Sorcerer in form of moth, ii. 16. Sorcerer, Finnish. _See_ Finnish Sorcerer. Sorcerer's sons, fight with the, i. 4, 80. Sorcerers, i. xxxi. Sorcerers of Lake Peipus, i. 4, 72, 82. Sorcerers stealing sun and moon, ii. 148, 154 note, 160 note. Sorcery in Esthonia, Finland, and Lapland, ii. 148. Southey's poem of "Donica," ii. 147 note. Spider and hornet, ii. 284. Spiders, magic, ii. 17. Spirit of the Whirlwind, ii. 110. Spirits of the Northern Lights, i. xxxi., 5, 111, 117, 149; ii. 107. Spirits of the Elements, stories of, ii. 60. Stamping with heel or foot. _See_ Foot. Stars seeking the hand of maidens, i. 12; ii. 10, 148. Stead, W.T., "More Ghost Stories," London, 1892, ii. 273 note. Stepmothers, i. 85 note, 276, 280; ii. 5, 46. Stick, magic, ii. 25. Stones for cleaning milk-cans, ii. 89. Stories of the Gods and Spirits of the Elements, ii. 60. Stories of Northern Europe, ii. 48. Strange tale of an ox, ii. 24. Sulev or Sullev, ancestor of a race of heroes, apparently a brother of Kalev, i. xxxii., 2, 33 note. Sulevide, a hero of the race of Sulev, usually applied to the Kalevide's companion and cousin, i. xxii., 6. Sulevide visits the Fire Island, i. 114. Sulevide wounded, i. 136. Sulevide, death of, i. 138. Sun seeking the hand of maidens, i. 10, 11, 148. Sun, sons and daughters of, ii. 29. Sun stolen by sorcerers, i. 20 note; ii. 148, 154 note, 160 note. Suometar, Finland's daughter, born from an egg, i. 10 note. Suomi = Finland, also the name of the journal issued by the Finnish Literary Society, ii. 135 note, 300. Surtur, the leader of the Sons of Fire, at Ragnarök, in the Scandinavian mythology, i. 108 note. Swallow, origin of, ii. 284. Swan-maiden stories in Lapland, i. xvi. Swedes, ii. 23, 50, 142. Swiftfoot, Quickhand, and Sharpeye, ii. 12. Swift-footed Princess, ii. 23. Sword of Damocles, ii. 8. Sword of the Kalevide, i. 3, 41, 44, 70, 72, 74, 83, 140. Sword-smiths, the Kalevide and the, i. 42, 84. Taara or Ukko, principal God of the Esthonians, i. xxvii., 4, 6. Taara, daughters of, i. xxvii., 9 note, 10 note; ii. 86, 292. Taara, halls of, i. 141. Taara, oak forest of, i. 8, 56. Taara, race of, i. 7. Taara, Vanemuine at hill of, ii. 81. Tailors, how seven, went to war in Turkey, i. xxiii. Talking trees, ii. 125, 301. Tallin, one of the names of the town of Revel, ii. 104. Tapio, the Finnish God of the Forests, ii. 127, 131 note, 296. Tartar, Devil compared to a, i. 156. Tartars, invasion of, i. 137. Tear-down (name of dog), ii. 6. Third Calendar's Story ("Thousand and One Nights"), i. 35 note. Thor, Scandinavian Thunder-God. Notwithstanding the name of Taara, and the fact that Thursday is sacred to him, it is worth noting that Taara and Thor have no attributes in common; Thor corresponding to the Esthonian Äike, i. xxvii., 24 note, 107 note. "Thousand and One Nights." The various stories quoted, and which are also referred to under their separate headings, will be found in the versions of Galland, Lane, and Burton; but chiefly the two latter, i. 35, 72 note, 86 note, 187, 199 note, 246 note, 265 note; ii. 9, 25, 76 note, 229, 234 note, 270. Three Sisters, ii. 43. Three Wishes, ii. 45. Thunder-God, i. xxviii., xxxi., 24; ii. 20. Thunder-God, daughter of, i. xxviii., 71. Thunder-God, son of, i. xxviii.; ii. 149. Thursday, sacred to Taara, i. xxvii. Tieck's German story of the Elves, i. 236. Tiidu the Flute-player, i. 303. Time, lapse of, in other worlds, i. 184. Tohfat El Kulub, story of, in the "Thousand and One Nights," i. 72 note. Tohtläne, birch-bark maid, ii. 181. Tont, or house-spirit, i. xxxi., 236; ii. 167. Tontla, Wood of, ii. 237. Tony, Goose, ii. 2. Tony, Sleepy, ii. 52. Tora, name of God among the Chuvash of Kasan, i. 6. Treasure at Kertell, ii. 224. Treasure-bringer, ii. xxxii., 88, 168. Trees, bleeding, i. 238. Trees for birds to rest on, ii. 4. Trees, talking, i. 238; ii. 125, 300. Trumpet, Pikne's, ii. 149 note. Tühi, the Empty One, or rather, perhaps, the Contemptible One, name of one of the principal demons, or of the Devil. In the "Kalevipoeg" he is represented as Sarvik's brother-in-law, i. xxx., 5, 99, 105; ii. 149 note. Tühja = Tühi, i. xxx., 84. Tuhka-Triinu, Ash-Katie, Cinderella, ii. 4. Turkey, how seven tailors went to war in, i. xxiii. Turkey-disease, i. 307. Twelve daughters, ii. 59, note, 87. Twilight, story of, ii. 30. Two brothers and the frost, ii. 71. Ukko or Uko, principal God of Finns and Esthonians, often called Taara by the latter, i. xxvii., 6, 22, 62; ii. 86, 284. Ülemiste järv, Upper Lake, near Revel, formed of Linda's tears for the death of Kalev, i. 21; ii. 104. Underground people, ii. 98 note. Underground smithy, ii. 116. Unnatural brothers, i. 189; ii. 41, 70, 207. Unnatural sisters, ii. 43. Vad Velen, the Yellow Plague in Britain, ii. 272 note. Väinämöinen, a patriarch and culture-hero, the principal character in the "Kalevala," identical with the Esthonian Vanemuine, i. xxi., xxvii., xxix., 7; ii. 60. Väinämöinen worshipped by Finns, i. xxvii.; ii. 81. Valkyrior, the maidens of Othin in the Scandinavian mythology, who choose the heroes destined to fall in battle, i. 60 note. Vampyrism (this is said to be still prevalent in Eastern Europe, though it has disappeared from Western Europe along with witchcraft. The best preventative or cure is cremation), i. xxxii.; ii. 188. Vana, Old, term of respect applied to gods and devils, ii. 144 note. Vana isa. _See_ Old Father. Vana kannel, "Old Harp," i. xxiv. Vana mees, "Old Man," one of the epithets for the Devil, ii. 181. Vana pois. _See_ Old Boy. Vana Sarvik, "Old Hornie." _See_ Sarvik. Vanemuine, God of Music among the Esthonians, identical with the Finnish Väinämöinen, i. xxi., xxix., 7; ii. 60, 81, 299. Vanemuine, farewell to Esthonia, ii. 85. Varrak, a wise Laplander, i. 5, 113, 132. Vaskjala bridge, Maiden of the, ii. 34. Videvik (Twilight), Koit, and Ämarik, ii. 30. Villein, Prince, i. 275. Villina Hills, ii. 145. Virgilius the Enchanter, ii. 20 note. Virgin Mary worshipped by Finns, i. xxvii.; ii. 81. Virts, Lake, i. xiv. Virts Lake and Emmu Lake, ii. 144. Viru, native name for Esthonia proper, i. xiv., 8. Vladinin, Prince of Kief, the suzerain of the mythical Russian heroes, i. xxxii. Vöhandu River, i. 137. Voyage of the Kalevide, i. 110. War, Herald of, i. 63; ii. 287. War, rumours of, i. 61. Water-lily, girls transformed to, i. 225; ii. 46. Water-mother, i. xxiv., ii. 61. Water-nymphs of Irish lakes, ii. 147 note. Water-sprite, gifts of, ii. 98. Water of strength and weakness (this is perhaps connected with the Russian Water of Death and Life, the first of which heals the wounds of a dead body, and the second restores it to life), i. 90, 100, 127. Waters, Lord of, seeks the hand of Linda, i. 15. Waters, Lady of the, ii. 95. Were-wolves, ii. 277. Weil, G., "Biblische Legenden der Muselmänner aus arabischen Quellen, zusammengetragen und mit jüdischen Sagen verglichen," Frankfort-on-Main, 1845, ii. 236. Whirlwind, spirit of the, i. xxxi.; ii. 110. White Horse. _See_ Horses. (I have forgotten to notice elsewhere that the White Horse is a universally sacred emblem. It occurs more than once in the Apocalypse (Rev. vi. 2, xix. 11, 14)). White Mare. _See_ Mare. Why the dog and cat and cat and mouse are enemies, ii. 282. Wicked farmer's wife devoured by wolves, i. 291. Widow of Lääne, i. 2, 9. Widows at magic well, ii. 145. Wiek, German name for the province of Lääne, i. xiv., 8 note. Wierland, German name for the province of Viru, or Esthonia proper, i. xiv. Wife, insatiable, ii. 48. Wife-murderer (Bluebeard), ii. 1. Will o' the Wisps, ii. 111. William Tell expected to return, i. xxxii. Wind seeks the hand of Linda, i. 15. Wind magician, i. 19, 20. Wind-mother, i. xxiv, 218; ii. 106. Wind sorcerers, i. xxix., xxxi. Wind-and-Weather, name of a giant, ii. 282 note. Winds, King of, ii. 95. Wishes, Three, ii. 45. Wishing-rod, i. 91, 105, 108, 198. Witch-Bride, ii. 45. Witch Peipa, ii. 137. Witch poisoned with hemlock-roots, i. 233. Witch riding on cock, ii. 140. Witch's coil, i. 218. Wolf, i. 52, 84, 97, 171; ii. 31. Wolf, creation of, ii. 274. Wolf, Devil changed into, ii. 181. Wolf stories, ii. 274. Wolf and Devil, i. xxxi.; ii. 76 note, 274. Wolfsbrunnen, near Heidelberg, ii. 86 note. Woman in the Moon, ii. 29, 37. Wonderful Haycock, ii. 133. Wood of Tontla, ii. 237. Wood-goddess, ii. 196. Woodcutter, compassionate, ii. 124. Wooden man and birch-bark maid, ii. 180. Woodpecker and Iliawatha, i. 81 note. Word-sorcerers, i. xxxi. Yellow Plague in Britain, ii. 272 note. Yggdrasil (properly Yggthrasil), the sacred ash-tree of Scandinavian mythology, i. 39 note. Ymir, giant from whose body the earth was formed, in the Scandinavian mythology, i. 60 note. Youngest son, despised, ii. 44. Yudhishthira, one of the heroes of the Indian Epic, the Maha-Bharata, i. 25 note; ii. 23 note. THE END VOL. II. _Printed by_ BALLANTVNE, HANSON & CO. _Edinburgh and London_ 
32202	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations and illuminations. See 32202-h.htm or 32202-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32202/32202-h/32202-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/32202/32202-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://www.archive.org/details/irishfairybook00gravrich THE IRISH FAIRY BOOK by ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES Illustrated by George Denham London·T·FisherUnwin· All rights reserved. A Faery Song Sung by the people of faery over Diarmuid and Grania, who lay in their bridal sleep under a Cromlech. We who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of years, If all were told: Give to these children, new from the world, Silence and love; And the long dew-dropping hours of the night, And the stars above: Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then: Us who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of years, If all were told. W. B. YEATS. Contents THE COMING OF FINN _Standish James O'Grady_ 1 THE THREE CROWNS _Patrick Kennedy_ 12 THE GRATEFUL BEASTS _Patrick Kennedy_ 25 THE LEPRACAUN _William Allingham_ 31 DANIEL O'ROURKE _T. Crofton Croker_ 35 CUCHULAIN OF MUIRTHEMNE _Lady Gregory_ 45 THE BOYHOOD OF CUCHULAIN _Standish James O'Grady_ 52 THE LEGEND OF KNOCKGRAFTON _T. Crofton Croker_ 60 THE STOLEN CHILD _W. B. Yeats_ 67 THE LAND OF YOUTH _Bryan O'Looney_ 71 Edited by John O'Daly THE ADVENTURES OF GILLA NA CHRECK _Patrick Kennedy_ 85 THE HILL-MAN AND THE HOUSE-WIFE _Mrs. Ewing_ 96 THE GIANT WALKER _Sir Samuel Ferguson_ 99 THE PURSUIT OF THE GILLA DACKER _Patrick W. Joyce_ 102 JAMIE FREEL AND THE YOUNG LADY _Letitia McClintock_ 123 A LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY _William Carleton_ 133 THE NINEPENNY FIDIL _Joseph Campbell_ 149 FESTIVITIES AT THE HOUSE OF CONAN _Nicholas O'Kearney_ 151 THE WHITE TROUT _Samuel Lover_ 160 THE WONDERFUL CAKE _Patrick Kennedy_ 164 THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE WEAVER _Samuel Lover_ 167 MOR OF CLOYNE _Alfred Perceval Graves_ 180 LAWN DYARRIG _Jeremiah Curtin_[1] 181 THE HORNED WOMEN _Lady Wilde_ 198 THE QUARE GANDER _Joseph Sheridan Le Fann_ 202 THE FAIRIES' PASSAGE _James Clarence Mangan_ 214 THE KING OF THE BLACK DESERT _Douglas Hyde_ 218 THE PIPER AND THE PUCA _Douglas Hyde_ 236 THE FAIRY CHANGELING _Dora Sigerson_ 241 THE TALKING HEAD OF DONN-BO _Eleanor Hull_ 243 THE BRACKET BULL _Douglas Hyde_ 246 THE DEMON CAT _Lady Wilde_ 262 THE ABBOT OF INISFALEN _William Allingham_ 265 MORRAHA _W. Larminie_ 269 THE KILDARE POOKA _Patrick Kennedy_ 286 THE KING'S SON _Thomas Boyd_ 290 MURTOUGH AND THE WITCH-WOMAN _Eleanor Hull_ 293 THE RED PONY _W. Larminie_ 307 KING O'TOOLE AND ST. KEVIN _Samuel Lover_ 314 LAMENT OF THE LAST LEPRECHAUN _Nora Hopper_ 322 THE CORPSE WATCHERS _Patrick Kennedy_ 324 THE MAD PUDDING _William Carleton_ 329 THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE _Alfred Tennyson_ 346 Preface Irish Fairy Lore has well been called by Mr. Alfred Nutt, one of the leading authorities on the subject, "As fair and bounteous a harvest of myth and romance as ever flourished among any race," and Dr. Joyce, the well-known Irish scholar and historian, states: "that it is very probable that the belief in the existence of fairies came in with the earliest colonists that entered Ireland, and that this belief is recorded in the oldest of native Irish writings in a way that proves it to have been, at the time treated of, long established and universally received." Colgan himself supplies us with the name and derivation of the Irish word for fairy, Sidh (shee), still used throughout the country. "Fantastical spirits," he writes, "are by the Irish called men of the Sidh, because they are seen, as it were, to come out of the beautiful hills to infest men, and hence the vulgar belief that they reside in certain subterranean habitations; and sometimes the hills themselves are called by the Irish Sidhe or Siodha." In Colgan's time, then, the fairy superstition had passed from the upper classes, gradually disenthralled of it by the influence of Christianity to the common people, among whom it is still rife. But it is clear that in the time of St. Patrick a belief in a world of fairies existed even in the King's household, for it is recorded that "when the two daughters of King Leary of Ireland, Ethnea the fair and Fedelma the ruddy, came early one morning to the well of Clebach to wash, they found there a synod of holy bishops with Patrick. And they knew not whence they came, or in what form, or from what people, or from what country; but they supposed them to be Duine Sidh, or gods of the earth, or a phantasm." As suggested, the belief of the Princesses obtains to this very day amongst the peasantry of remote districts in Ireland, who still maintain that the fairies inhabit the Sidhe, or hills, and record instances of relations and friends being transported into their underground palaces. The truth is that the Gaelic peasant, Scotch and Irish, is a mystic, and believes not only in this world, and the world to come, but in that other world which is the world of Faery, and which exercises an extraordinary influence upon many actions of his life. We see in the well-known dialogue between Oisin (Ossian) and St. Patrick, and in other early Irish writers, how potent an influence Druidism, with its powers of concealing and changing, of paralysing and cursing, had been held to be in the days when the Irish worshipped no hideous idols, but adored Beal and Dagdae, the Great or the Good God, and afterwards Aine, the Moon, Goddess of the Water and of Wisdom, and when their minor Deities were Mananan Mac Lir, the Irish Neptune, whose name is still to be found in the Isle of _Man_; Crom, who corresponded to Ceres; Iphinn, the benevolent, whose relations to the Irish Oirfidh resembled those of Apollo towards Orpheus. The ancient Irish owed allegiance also to the Elements, to the Wind, and to the Stars. Besides these Pagan Divinities, however, and quite apart from them, the early Irish believed in a hierarchy of fairy beings, closely analagous to us "humans," supposed to people hill and valley, old road and old earth-mound, lakes and rivers, and there to exercise a constant, if occult, influence upon mankind. Various theories have been advanced to account for their origin. Some call these fairies angels outcast from heaven for their unworthiness, yet not evil enough for hell, and who, therefore, occupy intermediate space. Others suggest that they are the spirits of that mysterious early Irish race, the Tuatha da Danann, who were driven by their conquerors, the Milesians, to become "men of the hills," if not "cave" and "lake dwellers," in order to avoid the extermination that ultimately awaited them. Their artistic skill and superior knowledge evidenced to this day by remarkable sepulchral mounds, stone-inscribed spiral ornamentation, and beautiful bronze spear-heads, led them to be accounted magicians, and Mr. Yeats and others of his school favour the idea that the minor deities of the early Irish above referred to were the earliest members of the Tuatha da Danann dynasty, and that we here have a form of that ancestor worship now met with amongst the Chinese and Japanese. Dr. Joyce does not hold, however, that the subjugation of the Tuatha da Dananns, with the subsequent belief regarding them, was the origin of Irish fairy mythology. "The superstition, no doubt, existed long previously; and this mysterious race, having undergone a gradual deification, became confounded and identified with the original local gods, and ultimately superseded them altogether." But whatever their origin, supernatural powers evil and beneficent were supposed to attach to them such as the power of spiriting away young married women to act as fairy nurses, and their infants to replace fairy weaklings, or again the power of conferring wealth, health, and prosperity where a certain ritual due to them had been performed by their human allies. The injurious powers of malevolently disposed fairies can only be met, according to popular belief, by wizards and wise women, who still exercise their arts in remote districts of Gaelic-speaking Ireland and Scotland. These fairies are supposed to be life-sized, but there was another class of diminutive preternatural beings who came into close touch with man. Amongst these were the Luchryman (Leith-phrogan) or _brogue_ (shoe) maker, otherwise known as Lepracaun. He is always found mending or making a shoe, and if grasped firmly and kept constantly in view will disclose hid treasure to you or render up his _sporan na sgillinge_ or purse of the (inexhaustible) shilling. He could only be bound by a plough chain or woollen thread. He is the type of industry which, if steadily faced, leads to fortune, but, if lost sight of, is followed by its forfeiture. Love in idleness is personified by another pigmy, the _Gean-canach_ (love-talker). He does not appear like the Luchryman, with a purse in one of his pockets but with his hands in both of them and a DUDEEN (ancient Irish pipe) in his mouth as he lazily strolls through lonely valleys making love to the foolish country lasses and "gostering" with the idle "boys." To meet him meant bad luck, and whoever was ruined by ill-judged love was said to have been with the Gean-canach. Another evil sprite was the _Clobher-ceann_, "a jolly, red-faced drunken little fellow," always "found astride on a wine-butt" and drinking and singing from a full tankard in a hard drinker's cellar, and bound by his appearance to bring its owner to speedy ruin. Then there were the Leannan-sighe, or native Muses, to be found in every place of note to inspire the local bard, and the _Beansighes_ (Banshees, fairy women) attached to each of the old Irish families and giving warning of the death of one of its members with piteous lamentations. Black Joanna of the Boyne (_Siubhan Dubh na Boinne_) appeared on Hallowe'en in the shape of a great black fowl, bringing luck to the house whose _Vanithee_ (woman of the house) kept it constantly clean and neat. The Pooka, who appeared in the shape of a horse, and whom Shakespeare has adapted as "Puck," was a goblin who combined "horse-play" with viciousness. The _dullaghan_ was a churchyard demon whose head was of a movable kind, and Dr. Joyce writes: "You generally meet him with his head in his pocket, under his arm, or absent altogether; or if you have the fortune to light upon a number of _dullaghans_, you may see them amusing themselves by flinging their heads at one another or kicking them for footballs." An even more terrible churchyard demon is the beautiful phantom that waylays the widower at his wife's very tomb and poisons him by her kiss when he has yielded to her blandishments. Of monsters the Irish had, and still believe in, the _Piast_ (Latin _bestia_), a huge dragon or serpent confined to lakes by St. Patrick till the day of judgment, but still occasionally seen in their waters. In Fenian times the days of Finn and his companion knights, the Piast, however, roamed the country, devouring men and women and cattle in large numbers, and some of the early heroes are recorded to have been swallowed alive by them and then to have hewed their way out of their entrails. The Merrow, or Mermaid, is also still believed in, and many Folk Tales exist describing their intermarriage with mortals. According to Nicholas O'Kearney--"It is the general opinion of many old persons versed in native traditional lore, that, before the introduction of Christianity, all animals possessed the faculties of human reason and speech; and old story-tellers will gravely inform you that every beast could speak before the arrival of St. Patrick, but that the Saint having expelled the demons from the land by the sound of his bell, all the animals that, before that time, had possessed the power of foretelling future events, such as the Black Steed of Binn-each-labhra, the Royal Cat of Clough-magh-righ-cat (Clough), and others, became mute; and many of them fled to Egypt and other foreign countries." Cats are said to have been appointed to guard hidden treasures; and there are few who have not heard old Irish peasants tell about a strange meeting of cats and a violent battle fought by them in his neighbourhood. "It was believed," adds O'Kearney, "that an evil spirit in the shape of a cat assumed command over these animals in various districts, and that when those wicked beings pleased they could compel all the cats belonging to their division to attack those of some other district. The same was said of rats; and rat-expellers, when commanding a colony of those troublesome and destructive animals to emigrate to some other place, used to address their 'billet' to the infernal rat supposed to hold command over the rest. In a curious pamphlet on the power of bardic compositions to charm and expel rats, lately published, Mr. Eugene Curry states that a degraded priest, who was descended from an ancient family of hereditary bards, was enabled to expel a colony of rats by the force of satire!" Hence, of course, Shakespeare's reference to rhyming Irish rats to death. A few words upon the writers in this collection. Of Folk Tale collectors the palm must be given to Dr. Douglas Hyde, whose great knowledge of Irish, combined with a fine literary faculty, has enabled him to present the stories he has generously granted me the use of, in a manner which combines complete fidelity to his original, with true artistic feeling. Dr. Joyce has not only granted the use of his fine Heroic Tale of the Pursuit of the Gilla Dacker, but had the honour of supplying Alfred, Lord Tennyson, the late Poet Laureate, with the subject of his "Voyage of Maeldune" in a story of that name, adapted into English in his "Old Celtic Romances." The Laureate acted on my suggestion that he should found a poem upon one of the romances in that book; and to that circumstance I owe the kind permission by his son and Messrs. Macmillan to republish it at length in this volume. Besides Dr. Hyde and Dr. Joyce I have been enabled, through the friendly leave of Messrs. Macmillan and Elliot and Stock, to use Mr. Jeremiah Curtin's and Mr. Larminie's excellently told Irish Fairy Tales. These two latter Folk Tale collectors have worked upon Dr. Hyde's plan of taking down their tales from the lips of the peasants, and reproducing them, whether from their Irish or Hiberno-Irish, as clearly as they were able to do so. The recent death of both of these writers is a serious loss to Irish Folk Lore. Obligations are due to Miss Hull for two hitherto unpublished and fine Folk Tales, to Lady Gregory for the use of her "Birth of Cuchulain," to Standish James O'Grady for his "Boyish Exploits of Cuchulain and The Coming of Finn," to the late Mrs. Ewing for "The Hill-man and the House-wife," to Mrs. William Allingham for the use of two of her husband's poems, to Mr. D. J. Donoghue for a poem by Mr. Thomas Boyd, and Mr. Chesson for one of his wife's (Nora Hopper), to Mrs. Shorter (Dora Sigerson) for a poem, and to Mr. Joseph Campbell for another, and finally to Mr. W. B. Yeats for his two charming Fairy Poems, "The Stolen Child" and "Faery Song." ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES. _Erinfa, Harlech, N. Wales, July 12, 1909._ The Coming of Finn It was the Eve of Samhain, which we Christians call All Hallows' Eve. The King of Ireland, Conn, the Hundred-Fighter, sat at supper in his palace at Tara. All his chiefs and mighty men were with him. On his right hand was his only son, Art the Solitary, so called because he had no brothers. The sons of Morna, who kept the boy Finn out of his rights and were at the time trying to kill him if they could, were here too. Chief amongst them was Gaul mac Morna, a huge and strong warrior, and Captain of all the Fians ever since that battle in which Finn's father had been killed. And Gaul's men were with him. The great long table was spread for supper. A thousand wax candles shed their light through the chamber, and caused the vessels of gold, silver, and bronze to shine. Yet, though it was a great feast, none of these warriors seemed to care about eating or drinking; every face was sad, and there was little conversation, and no music. It seemed as if they were expecting some calamity. Conn's sceptre, which was a plain staff of silver, lay beside him on the table, and there was a canopy of bright bronze over his head. Gaul mac Morna, Captain of the Fians, sat at the other end of the long table. Every warrior wore a bright banqueting mantle of silk or satin, scarlet or crimson, blue, green, or purple, fastened on the breast either with a great brooch or with a pin of gold or silver. Yet, though their raiment was bright and gay, and though all the usual instruments of festivity were there, and a thousand tall candles shed their light over the scene, no one looked happy. Then was heard a low sound like thunder, and the earth seemed to tremble, and after that they distinctly heard a footfall like the slow, deliberate tread of a giant. These footfalls sent a chill into every heart, and every face, gloomy before, was now pale. The King leaned past his son Art the Solitary, and said to a certain Druid who sat beside Art, "Is this the son of Midna come before his time?" "It is not," said the Druid, "but it is the man who is to conquer Midna. One is coming to Tara this night before whose glory all other glory shall wax dim." Shortly after that they heard the voices of the doorkeepers raised in contention, as if they would repel from the hall someone who wished to enter, then a slight scuffle, and after that a strange figure entered the chamber. He was dressed in the skins of wild beasts, and wore over his shoulders a huge thick cloak of wild boars' skins, fastened on the breast with a white tusk of the same animal. He wore a shield and two spears. Though of huge stature his face was that of a boy, smooth on the cheeks and lips. It was white and ruddy, and very handsome. His hair was like refined gold. A light seemed to go out from him, before which the candles burned dim. It was Finn. He stood in the doorway, and cried out in a strong and sonorous, but musical, voice: "O Conn the Hundred-Fighter, son of Felimy, the righteous son of Tuthal the legitimate, O King of the Kings of Erin, a wronged and disinherited youth, possessing nowhere one rood of his patrimony, a wanderer and an outlaw, a hunter of the wildernesses and mountains, claims hospitality of thee, illustrious prince, on the eve of the great festival of Samhain." "Thou art welcome whoever thou art," answered the King, "and doubly welcome because thou art unfortunate. I think, such is thy face and form, that thou art the son of some mighty king on whom disaster has fallen undeserved. The high gods of Erin grant thee speedy restoration and strong vengeance of thy many wrongs. Sit here, O noble youth, between me and my only son, Art, heir to my kingdom." An attendant took his weapons from the youth and hung them on the wall with the rest, and Finn sat down between the King of Ireland and his only son. Choice food was set before him, which he ate, and old ale, which he drank. From the moment he entered no one thought of anything but of him. When Finn had made an end of eating and drinking, he said to the King: "O illustrious prince, though it is not right for a guest to even seem to observe aught that may be awry, or not as it should be, in the hall of his entertainer, yet the sorrow of a kindly host is a sorrow, too, to his guest, and sometimes unawares the man of the house finds succour and help in the stranger. There is sorrow in this chamber of festivity. If anyone who is dear to thee and thy people happens to be dead, I can do nothing. But I say it, and it is not a vain boast, that even if a person is at the point of death, I can restore him to life and health, for there are marvellous powers of life-giving in my two hands." Conn the Hundred-Fighter answered, "Our grief is not such as you suppose; and why should I not tell a cause of shame, which is known far and wide? This, then, is the reason of our being together, and the gloom which is over us. There is a mighty enchanter whose dwelling is in the haunted mountains of Slieve Gullion in the north. His name is Allen, son of Midna, and his enmity to me is as great as his power. Once every year, at this season, it is his pleasure to burn Tara. Descending out of his wizard haunts, he standeth over against the city and shoots balls of fire out of his mouth against it, till it is consumed. Then he goes away mocking and triumphant. This annual building of Tara, only to be annually consumed, is a shame to me, and till this enchanter declared war against me, I have lived without reproach." "But," said Finn, "how is it that thy young warriors, valiant and swift, do not repel him, or kill him?" "Alas!" said Conn, "all our valour is in vain against this man. Our hosts encompass Tara on all sides, keeping watch and ward when the fatal night comes. Then the son of Midna plays on his Druidic instrument of music, on his magic pipe and his magic lyre, and as the fairy music falls on our ears, our eyelids grow heavy, and soon all subside upon the grass in deep slumber. So comes this man against the city and shoots his fire-balls against it, and utterly consumes it. Nine years he has burnt Tara in that manner, and this is the tenth. At midnight to-night he will come and do the same. Last year (though it was a shame to me that I, who am the high King over all Ireland, should not be able myself to defend Tara) I summoned Gaul mac Morna and all the Fians to my assistance. They came, but the pipe and lyre of the son of Midna prevailed over them too, so that Tara was burned as at other times. Nor have we any reason to believe that the son of Midna will not burn the city again to-night, as he did last year. All the women and children have been sent out of Tara this day. We are only men of war here, waiting for the time. That, O noble youth, is why we are sad. The 'Pillars of Tara' are broken, and the might of the Fians is as nought before the power of this man." "What shall be my reward if I kill this man and save Tara?" asked Finn. "Thy inheritance," answered the King, "be it great or small, and whether it lies in Ireland or beyond Ireland; and for securities I give you my son Art and Gaul mac Morna and the Chief of the Fians." Gaul and the captains of the Fianna consented to that arrangement, though reluctantly, for their minds misgave them as to who the great youth might be. After that all arose and armed themselves and ringed Tara round with horse and foot, and thrice Conn the Hundred-Fighter raised his awful regal voice, enjoining vigilance upon his people, and thrice Gaul mac Morna did the same, addressing the Fians, and after that they filled their ears with wax and wool, and kept a stern and fierce watch, and many of them thrust the points of their swords into their flesh. Now Finn was alone in the banqueting chamber after the rest had gone out, and he washed his face and his hands in pure water, and he took from the bag that was at his girdle the instruments of divination and magic, which had been his father's, and what use he made of them is not known; but ere long a man stood before him, holding a spear in one hand and a blue mantle in the other. There were twenty nails of gold of Arabia in the spear. The nails glittered like stars, and twinkled with live light as stars do in a frosty night, and the blade of it quivered like a tongue of white fire. From haft to blade-point that spear was alive. There were voices in it too, and the war-tunes of the enchanted races of Erin, whom they called the Tuatha De Danan, sounded from it. The mantle, too, was a wonder, for innumerable stars twinkled in the blue, and the likeness of clouds passed through it. The man gave these things to Finn, and when he had instructed him in their use, he was not seen. Then Finn arose and armed himself, and took the magic spear and mantle and went out. There was a ring of flame round Tara that night, for the Fians and the warriors of Conn had torches in their hands, and all the royal buildings of Tara showed clear in the light, and also the dark serpentine course of the Boyne, which flowed past Tara on the north; and there, standing silent and alert, were the innumerable warriors of all Erin, with spear and shield, keeping watch and ward against the son of Midna, also the Four Pillars of Tara in four dense divisions around the high King, even Conn the Hundred-Fighter. Finn stood with his back to the palace, which was called the House-of-the-going-round-of-Mead, between the palace and Conn, and he grasped the magic spear strongly with one hand and the mantle with the other. As midnight drew nigh, he heard far away in the north, out of the mountains of Slieve Gullion, a fairy tune played, soft, low, and slow, as if on a silver flute; and at the same time the roar of Conn the Hundred-Fighter, and the voice of Gaul like thunder, and the responsive shouts of the captains, and the clamour of the host, for the host shouted all together, and clashed their swords against their shields in fierce defiance, when in spite of all obstructions the fairy music of the enchanter began to steal into their souls. That shout was heard all over Ireland, echoing from sea to sea, and the hollow buildings of Tara reverberated to the uproar. Yet through it all could be heard the low, slow, delicious music that came from Slieve Gullion. Finn put the point of the spear to his forehead. It burned him like fire, yet his stout heart did not fail. Then the roar of the host slowly faded away as in a dream, though the captains were still shouting, and two-thirds of the torches fell to the ground. And now, succeeding the flute music, sounded the music of a stringed instrument exceedingly sweet. Finn pressed the cruel spear-head closer to his forehead, and saw every torch fall, save one which wavered as if held by a drunken man, and beneath it a giant figure that reeled and tottered and strove in vain to keep its feet. It was Conn the Hundred-Fighter. As he fell there was a roar as of many waters; it was the ocean mourning for the high King's fall. Finn passed through the fallen men and stood alone on the dark hill-side. He heard the feet of the enchanter splashing through the Boyne, and saw his huge form ascending the slopes of Tara. When the enchanter saw that all was silent and dark there he laughed and from his mouth blew a red fire-ball at the Teck-Midcuarta, which he was accustomed first to set in flames. Finn caught the fire-ball in the magic mantle. The enchanter blew a second and a third, and Finn caught them both. The man saw that his power over Tara was at an end, and that his magic arts had been defeated. On the third occasion he saw Finn's face, and recognised his conqueror. He turned to flee, and though slow was his coming, swifter than the wind was his going, that he might recover the protection of his enchanted palace before the "fair-faced youth clad in skins" should overtake him. Finn let fall the mantle as he had been instructed, and pursued him, but in vain. Soon he perceived that he could not possibly overtake the swift enchanter. Then he was aware that the magic spear struggled in his hand like a hound in a leash. "Go, then, if thou wilt," he said, and, poising, cast the spear from him. It shot through the dark night hissing and screaming. There was a track of fire behind it. Finn followed, and on the threshold of the enchanted palace he found the body of Midna. He was quite dead, with the blood pouring through a wound in the middle of his back; but the spear was gone. Finn drew his sword and cut off the enchanter's head, and returned with it to Tara. When he came to the spot where he had dropped the mantle it was not seen, but smoke and flame issued there from a hole in the ground. That hole was twenty feet deep in the earth, and at the bottom of it there was a fire always from that night, and it was never extinguished. It was called the fire of the son of Midna. It was in a depression on the north side of the hill of Tara, called the Glen of the Mantle, Glen-a-Brat. Finn, bearing the head, passed through the sleepers into the palace and spiked the head on his own spear, and drove the spear-end into the ground at Conn's end of the great hall. Then the sickness and faintness of death came upon Finn, also a great horror and despair overshadowed him, so that he was about to give himself up for utterly lost. Yet he recalled one of his marvellous attributes, and approaching a silver vessel, into which pure water ever flowed and which was always full, he made a cup with his two hands and, lifting it to his mouth, drank, and the blood began to circulate in his veins, and strength returned to his limbs, and the cheerful hue of rosy health to his cheeks. Having rested himself sufficiently he went forth and shouted to the sleeping host, and called the captains by their names, beginning with Conn. They awoke and rose up, though dazed and stupid, for it was difficult for any man, no matter how he had stopped his ears, to avoid hearing Finn when he sent forth his voice of power. They were astonished to find that Tara was still standing, for though the night was dark, the palaces and temples, all of hewn timber, were brilliantly coloured and of many hues, for in those days men delighted in splendid colours. When the captains came together Finn said, "I have slain Midna." "Where is his head?" they asked, not because they disbelieved him, but because the heads of men slain in battle were always brought away for trophies. "Come and see," answered Finn. Conn and his only son and Gaul mac Morna followed the young hero into the Teck-Midcuarta, where the spear-long waxen candles were still burning, and when they saw the head of Midna impaled there at the end of the hall, the head of the man whom they believed to be immortal and not to be wounded or conquered, they were filled with great joy, and praised their deliverer and paid him many compliments. "Who art thou, O brave youth?" said Conn. "Surely thou art the son of some great king or champion, for heroic feats like thine are not performed by the sons of inconsiderable and unknown men." Then Finn flung back his cloak of wild boars' skins, and holding his father's treasure-bag in his hand before them all, cried in a loud voice: "I am Finn, the son of Cool, the son of Trenmor, the son of Basna; I am he whom the sons of Morna have been seeking to destroy from the time that I was born; and here to-night, O King of the Kings of Erin, I claim the fulfilment of thy promise, and the restoration of my inheritance, which is the Fian leadership of Fail." Thereupon Gaul mac Morna put his right hand into Finn's, and became his man. Then his brothers and his sons, and the sons of his brothers, did so in succession, and after that all the chief men of the Fians did the same, and that night Finn was solemnly and surely installed in the Fian leadership of Erin, and put in possession of all the woods and forests and waste places, and all the hills and mountains and promontories, and all the streams and rivers of Erin, and the harbours and estuaries and the harbour-dues of the merchants, and all ships and boats and galleys with their mariners, and all that pertained of old time to the Fian leadership of Fail. STANDISH JAMES O'GRADY. The Three Crowns (_Told in the Wexford Peasant Dialect._) There was once a king, some place or other, and he had three daughters. The two eldest were very proud and uncharitable, but the youngest was as good as they were bad. Well, three princes came to court them, and two of them were the _moral_ of the two eldest ladies, and one was just as lovable as the youngest. They were all walking down to a lake one day that lay at the bottom of the lawn, just like the one at Castleboro', and they met a poor beggar. The King wouldn't give him anything, and the eldest princes wouldn't give him anything, nor their sweethearts; but the youngest daughter and her true love did give him something, and kind words along with it, and that was better _nor_ all. When they got to the edge of the lake, what did they find but the beautifulest boat you ever saw in your life; and says the eldest, "I'll take a sail in this fine boat;" and says the second eldest, "I'll take a sail in this fine boat;" and says the youngest, "I won't take a sail in that fine boat, for I'm afraid it's an enchanted one." But the others overpersuaded her to go in, and her father was just going in after her, when up sprung on the deck a little man only seven inches high, and he ordered him to stand back. Well, all the men put their hands to their _soords_; and if the same soords were only thraneens they weren't able to draw them, for all _sthrenth_ was left their arms. _Seven Inches_ loosened the silver chain that fastened the boat and pushed away; and after grinning at the four men, says he to them: "Bid your daughters and your brides farewell for awhile. That wouldn't have happened you three, only for your want of charity. You," says he to the youngest, "needn't fear; you'll recover your princess all in good time, and you and she will be as happy as the day is long. Bad people, if they were rolling stark naked in gold, would not be rich. _Banacht lath!_" Away they sailed, and the ladies stretched out their hands, but weren't able to say a word. Well, they were crossin' the lake while a cat'd be lickin' her ear, and the poor men couldn't stir hand nor foot to follow them. They saw _Seven Inches_ handing the three princesses out of the boat, and letting them down by a nice basket and _winglas_ into a draw-well that was convenient, but king nor princes never saw an opening before in the same place. When the last lady was out of sight the men found the strength in their arms and legs again. Round the lake they ran, and never drew rein till they came to the well and windlass, and there was the silk rope rolled on the axle, and the nice white basket hanging to it. "Let me down," says the youngest prince; "I'll die or recover them again." "No," says the second daughter's sweetheart, "I'm entitled to my turn before you." "And," says the other, "I must get first turn, in right of my bride." So they gave way to him, and in he got into the basket, and down they let him. First they lost sight of him, and then, after winding off a hundred perches of the silk rope, it slackened, and they stopped turning. They waited two hours, and then they went to dinner, because there was no chuck made at the rope. Guards were set till morning, and then down went the second prince, and, sure enough, the youngest of all got himself let down on the third day. He went down perches and perches, while it was as dark about him as if he was in a big pot with the cover on. At last he saw a glimmer far down, and in a short time he felt the ground. Out he came from the big lime-kiln, and lo and behold you, there was a wood and green fields, and a castle in a lawn, and a bright sky over all. "It's in Tir-na-n Oge I am," says he. "Let's see what sort of people are in the castle." On he walked across fields and lawn, and no one was there to keep him out or let him into the castle; but the big hall door was wide open. He went from one fine room to another that was finer, and at last he reached the handsomest of all, with a table in the middle; and such a dinner as was laid upon it! The prince was hungry enough, but he was too mannerly to go eat without being invited. So he sat by the fire, and he did not wait long till he heard steps, and in came _Seven Inches_ and the youngest sister by the hand. Well, prince and princess flew into one another's arms, and says the little man, says he, "Why aren't you eating?" "I think, sir," says he, "it was only good manners to wait to be asked." "The other princes didn't think so," says he. "Each of them fell to without leave nor license, and only gave me the rough side o' his tongue when I told them they were making more free than welcome. Well, I don't think they feel much hunger now. There they are, good _marvel_ instead of flesh and blood," says he, pointing to two statues, one in one corner and the other in the other corner of the room. The prince was frightened, but he was afraid to say anything, and _Seven Inches_ made him sit down to dinner between himself and his bride, and he'd be as happy as the day is long, only for the sight of the stone men in the corner. Well, that day went by, and when the next came, says _Seven Inches_ to him, "Now, you'll have to set out that way," pointing to the sun, "and you'll find the second princess in a giant's castle this evening, when you'll be tired and hungry, and the eldest princess to-morrow evening; and you may as well bring them here with you. You need not ask leave of their masters; they're only housekeepers with the big fellows. I suppose, if they ever get home, they'll look on poor people as if they were flesh and blood like themselves." Away went the prince, and bedad it's tired and hungry he was when he reached the first castle at sunset. Oh, wasn't the second princess glad to see him! And if she didn't give him a good supper it's a wonder. But she heard the giant at the gate, and she hid the prince in a closet. Well, when he came in, he snuffed, and he snuffed, an' says he, "_Be_ (by) the life, I smell fresh mate." "Oh," says the princess, "it's only the calf I got killed to-day." "Ay, ay," says he, "is supper ready?" "It is," says she; and before he ruz from the table he hid three-quarters of the calf and a kag of wine. "I think," says he, when all was done, "I smell fresh mate still." "It's sleepy you are," says she; "go to bed." "When will you marry me?" says the giant; "you're puttin' me off too long." "St. Tibb's Eve," says she. "I wish I knew how far off that is," says he; and he fell asleep with his head in the dish. Next day he went out after breakfast, and she sent the prince to the castle where the eldest sister was. The same thing happened there; but when the giant was snoring, the princess wakened up the prince, and they saddled two steeds in the stables, and _magh go bragh_ (the field for ever) with them. But the horses' heels struck the stones outside the gate, and up got the giant, and after them he made. He roared, and he shouted, and the more he shouted the faster ran the horses; and just as the day was breaking he was only twenty perches behind. But the prince didn't leave the Castle of _Seven Inches_ without being provided with something good. He reined in his steed, and flung a short, sharp knife over his shoulder, and up sprung a thick wood between the giant and themselves. They caught the wind that blew before them, and the wind that blew behind them did not catch them. At last they were near the castle where the other sister lived; and there she was, waiting for them under a high hedge, and a fine steed under her. But the giant was now in sight, roaring like a hundred lions, and the other giant was out in a moment, and the chase kept on. For every two springs the horses gave the giants gave three, and at last they were only seventy perches off. Then the prince stopped again and flung the second skian behind him. Down went all the flat field, till there was a quarry between them a quarter of a mile deep, and the bottom filled with black water; and before the giants could get round it the prince and princesses were inside the domain of the great magician, where the high thorny hedge opened of itself to everyone that he chose to let in. Well, to be sure, there was joy enough between the three sisters till the two eldest saw their lovers turned into stone. But while they were shedding tears for them _Seven Inches_ came in and touched them with his rod. So they were flesh and blood and life once more, and there was great hugging and kissing, and all sat down to a nice breakfast, and _Seven Inches_ sat at the head of the table. When breakfast was over he took them into another room, where there was nothing but heaps of gold and silver and diamonds, and silks and satins; and on a table there was lying three sets of crowns: a gold crown was in a silver crown, and that was lying in a copper crown. He took up one set of crowns and gave it to the eldest princess; and another set, and gave it to the second princess; and another set, and gave it to the youngest princess of all; and says he, "Now you may all go to the bottom of the pit, and you have nothing to do but stir the basket, and the people that are watching above will draw you up, princesses first, princes after. But remember, ladies, you are to keep your crowns safe, and be married in them all the same day. If you be married separately, or if you be married without your crowns, a curse will follow--mind what I say." So they took leave of him with great respect, and walked arm-in-arm to the bottom of the draw-well. There was a sky and a sun over them and a great high wall, and the bottom of the draw-well was inside the arch. The youngest pair went last, and says the princess to the prince, "I'm sure the two princes don't mean any good to you. Keep these crowns under your cloak, and if you are obliged to stay last, don't get into the basket, but put a big stone, or any heavy thing, inside, and see what will happen." So when they were inside the dark cave they put in the eldest princess first, and she stirred the basket and up she went, but first she gave a little scream. Then the basket was let down again, and up went the second princess, and then up went the youngest; but first she put her arms round her prince's neck and kissed him, and cried a little. At last it came to the turn of the youngest prince, and well became him--instead of going into the basket he put in a big stone. He drew on one side and listened, and after the basket was drawn up about twenty perch down came itself and the stone like thunder, and the stone was made _brishe_ of on the flags. Well, my poor prince had nothing for it but to walk back to the castle; and through it and round it he walked, and the finest of eating and drinking he got, and a bed of bog-down to sleep on, and fine walks he took through gardens and lawns, but not a sight could he get, high or low, of _Seven Inches_. Well, I don't think any of _us_ would be tired of this way of living for ever! Maybe we would. Anyhow, the prince got tired of it before a week, he was so lonesome for his true love; and at the end of a month he didn't know what to do with himself. One morning he went into the treasure room and took notice of a beautiful snuff-box on the table that he didn't remember seeing there before. He took it in his hands and opened it, and out _Seven Inches_ walked on the table. "I think, prince," says he, "you're getting a little tired of my castle?" "Ah!" says the other, "if I had my princess here, and could see you now and then, I'd never see a dismal day." "Well, you're long enough here now, and you're wanting there above. Keep your bride's crowns safe, and whenever you want my help open this snuff-box. Now take a walk down the garden, and come back when you're tired." Well, the prince was going down a gravel walk with a quick-set hedge on each side and his eyes on the ground, and he thinking on one thing and another. At last he lifted his eyes, and there he was outside of a smith's bawn gate that he had often passed before, about a mile away from the palace of his betrothed princess. The clothes he had on him were as ragged as you please, but he had his crowns safe under his old cloak. So the smith came out, and says he, "It's a shame for a strong big fellow like you to be on the _sthra_, and so much work to be done. Are you any good with hammer and tongs? Come in and bear a hand, and I'll give you diet and lodging and a few thirteens when you earn them." "Never say't twice," says the prince; "I want nothing but to be employed." So he took the sledge and pounded away at the red-hot bar that the smith was turning on the anvil to make into a set of horse-shoes. Well, they weren't long powdhering away, when a _stronshuch_ (idler) of a tailor came in; and when the smith asked him what news he had, he got the handle of the bellows and began to blow to let out all he had heard for the last two days. There were so many questions and answers at first that, if I told them all, it would be bed-time before I'd be done. So here is the substance of the discourse; and before he got far into it the forge was half filled with women knitting stockings and men smoking. Yous all heard how the two princesses were unwilling to be married till the youngest would be ready with her crowns and her sweetheart. But after the windlass loosened _accidentally_ when they were pulling up her bridegroom that was to be, there was no more sign of a well or a rope or a windlass than there is on the palm of your hand. So the buckeens that were coortin' the eldest ladies wouldn't give peace nor ease to their lovers nor the King till they got consent to the marriage, and it was to take place this morning. Myself went down out of curiosity; and to be sure I was delighted with the grand dresses of the two brides and the three crowns on their heads--gold, silver, and copper--one inside the other. The youngest was standing by, mournful enough, in white, and all was ready. The two bridegrooms came walking in as proud and grand as you please, and up they were walking to the altar rails when, my dear, the boards opened two yards wide under their feet, and down they went among the dead men and the coffins in the vaults. Oh, such screeching as the ladies gave! and such running and racing and peeping down as there was; but the clerk soon opened the door of the vault, and up came the two heroes, and their fine clothes covered an inch thick with cobwebs and mould. So the King said they should put off the marriage, "For," says he, "I see there is no use in thinking of it till my youngest gets her three crowns and is married along with the others. I'll give my youngest daughter for a wife to whoever brings three crowns to me like the others; and if he doesn't care to be married, some other one will, and I'll make his fortune." "I wish," says the smith, "I could do it; but I was looking at the crowns after the princesses got home, and I don't think there's a black or a white smith on the face of the earth could imitate them." "Faint heart never won fair lady," says the prince. "Go to the palace, and ask for a quarter of a pound of gold, a quarter of a pound of silver, and a quarter of a pound of copper. Get one crown for a pattern, and my head for a pledge, and I'll give you out the very things that are wanted in the morning." "Ubbabow," says the smith, "are you in earnest?" "Faith, I am so," says he. "Go! Worse than lose you can't." To make a long story short, the smith got the quarter of a pound of gold, and the quarter of a pound of silver, and the quarter of a pound of copper, and gave them and the pattern crown to the prince. He shut the forge door at nightfall, and the neighbours all gathered in the bawn, and they heard him hammering, hammering, hammering, from that to daybreak, and every now and then he'd pitch out through the window bits of gold, silver, or copper; and the idlers scrambled for them, and cursed one another, and prayed for the good luck of the workman. Well, just as the sun was thinking to rise he opened the door and brought the three crowns he got from his true love, and such shouting and huzzaing as there was! The smith asked him to go along with him to the palace, but he refused; so off set the smith, and the whole townland with him; and wasn't the King rejoiced when he saw the crowns! "Well," says he to the smith, "you're a married man, and what's to be done?" "Faith, your majesty, I didn't make them crowns at all; it was a big shuler (vagrant) of a fellow that took employment with me yesterday." "Well, daughter, will you marry the fellow that made these crowns?" "Let me see them first, father." So when she examined them she knew them right well, and guessed it was her true love that had sent them. "I will marry the man that these crowns came from," says she. "Well," said the King to the eldest of the two princes, "go up to the smith's forge, take my best coach, and bring home the bridegroom." He was very unwilling to do this, he was so proud, but he did not wish to refuse. When he came to the forge he saw the prince standing at the door, and beckoned him over to the coach. "Are you the fellow," says he, "that made them crowns?" "Yes," says the other. "Then," says he, "maybe you'd give yourself a brushing, and get into that coach; the King wants to see you. I pity the princess." The young prince got into the carriage, and while they were on the way he opened the snuff-box, and out walked _Seven Inches_, and stood on his thigh. "Well," says he, "what trouble is on you now?" "Master," says the other, "please to let me back in my forge, and let this carriage be filled with paving-stones." No sooner said than done. The prince was sitting in his forge, and the horses wondered what was after happening to the carriage. When they came to the palace yard the King himself opened the carriage door to pay respect to the new son-in-law. As soon as he turned the handle a shower of stones fell on his powdered wig and his silk coat, and down he fell under them. There was great fright, and some tittering, and the King, after he wiped the blood from his forehead, looked very cross at the eldest prince. "My liege," says he, "I'm very sorry for this _accidence_, but I'm not to blame. I saw the young smith get into the carriage, and we never stopped a minute since." "It's uncivil you were to him. Go," says he to the other prince, "and bring the young prince here, and be polite." "Never fear," says he. But there's some people that couldn't be good-natured if they were to be made heirs of Damer's estate. Not a bit civiller was the new messenger than the old, and when the King opened the carriage door a second time it's a shower of mud that came down on him; and if he didn't fume and splutter and shake himself it's no matter. "There's no use," says he, "going on this way. The fox never got a better messenger than himself." So he changed his clothes and washed himself, and out he set to the smith's forge. Maybe he wasn't polite to the young prince, and asked him to sit along with himself. The prince begged to be allowed to sit in the other carriage, and when they were half-way he opened his snuff-box. "Master," says he, "I'd wished to be dressed now according to my rank." "You shall be that," says _Seven Inches_. "And now I'll bid you farewell. Continue as good and kind as you always were; love your wife, and that's all the advice I'll give you." So _Seven Inches_ vanished; and when the carriage door was opened in the yard, out walks the prince, as fine as hands and pins could make him, and the first thing he did was to run over to his bride and embrace her very heartily. Everyone had great joy but the two other princes. There was not much delay about the marriages that were all celebrated on the same day, and the youngest prince and princess were the happiest married couple you ever heard of in a story. PATRICK KENNEDY. The Grateful Beasts There was once a young man on his way to a fair with five shillings in his pocket. As he went he saw some little boys beating a poor mouse they had just caught. "Come, boys," says he, "do not be so cruel. Sell me your mouse for sixpence, and go off and buy some sweets." They gave him the mouse, and he let the poor little beast go. He had not gone far when he met a fresh set of boys teasing the life out of a poor weasel. Well, he bought him off for a shilling and let him go. The third creature he saved, from a crowd of cruel young men, was an ass, but he had to give a whole half-crown to get him off. "Now," says poor Neddy, "you may as well take me with you. I'll be of some use, I think, for when you are tired you can get up on my back." "With all my heart," said Jack, for that was the young man's name. The day was very hot, and the boy sat under a tree to enjoy the shade. As soon as he did he fell asleep, but he was soon awakened by a wicked-looking giant and his two servants. "How dare you let your ass trespass in my field," cried he, "and do such mischief." "I had no notion that he had done anything of the kind." "No notion? I'll notion you, then. Bring out that chest," said he to one of his servants, and before you could wink they had tied the poor boy, hand and foot, with a stout rope, thrown him into the chest, and tossed the chest into the river. Then they all went away but poor Neddy, till who should come up but the weasel and the mouse, and they asked him what was the matter. So the ass told them his story. "Oh," said the weasel, "he must be the same boy that saved the mouse and myself. Had he a brown patch in the arm of his coat?" "The very same." "Come, then," said the weasel, "and let us try and get him out of the river." "By all means," said the others. So the weasel got on the ass's back and the mouse got into his ear, and away they went. They had not gone far when they saw the chest, which had been stopped among the rushes at the end of a little island. In they went, and the weasel and the mouse gnawed the rope till they had set their master free. Well, they were all very glad, and were having a great talk about the giant and his men, when what should the weasel spy but an egg, with the most lovely colours on the shell, lying down in the shallow water. It was not long before he had fished it out, and Jack kept turning it round and round and praising it. "Oh, my dear friends," said he to the ass, the mouse, and the weasel, "how I wish it was in my power to thank you as I should like. How I wish I had a fine house and grounds to take you to where you could live in peace and plenty." The words were hardly out of his mouth when he and the beasts found themselves standing on the steps of a grand castle, with the finest lawn before it that you ever saw. There was no one inside or outside it to keep it from them, so in they went, and there they lived as happy as kings. Jack was standing at his gate one day as three merchants were passing by with their goods packed on the backs of horses and mules. "Bless our eyes," cried they, "what does this mean? There was no castle or lawn here when we went by last time." "That is true," cried Jack, "but you shall not be the worse for it. Take your beasts into the yard at the back of the house and give them a good feed, and if you can spare the time stay and take a bit of dinner with me." They were only too glad to do so; but after dinner Jack was so foolish as to show them his painted egg, and to tell them that you had only to wish for a thing when you had it in your hand and your wish was granted. He proved it to be so. Then one of his guests put a powder into Jack's next glass of wine, and when he awoke he found himself in the island again, with his patched coat on him, and his three friends in front of him, all looking very downhearted. "Ah, Master," said the weasel, "you will never be wise enough for the tricky people that are in the world." "Where did these thieves say they lived, and what names did they say they were called by?" Jack scratched his head, and after a while was able to tell them. "Come, Neddy," says the weasel, "let us be jogging. It would not be safe for the master to go with us; but if we have luck we will bring him the egg back after all." So the weasel got on the ass's back and the mouse got into his ear, and away they went till they reached the house of the head rogue. The mouse went in, and the ass and the weasel hid themselves in a copse outside. The mouse soon came back to them. "Well, what news?" said they. "Dull news enough; he has the egg in a low chest in his bedroom, and the door is strongly locked and bolted, and a pair of cats with fiery eyes are chained to the chest watching it night and day." "Let us go back," said the ass; "we can do nothing." "Wait!" said the weasel. When bedtime came, said the weasel to the mouse: "Go in at the keyhole and get behind the rogue's head, and stay there two or three hours sucking his hair." "What good would there be in that?" asked the ass. "Wait, and you'll know!" said the weasel. Next morning the merchant was quite mad to find the state his hair was in. "But I'll be a match for you to-night, my fine mouse," said he. So he unchained the cats next night and made them sit by his bedside and watch. Just as he was dropping asleep the weasel and the mouse were outside the door, and gnawing away till they had scooped out a hole in the bottom of it. In went the mouse, and it was not long before he had the egg quite safe. They were soon on the road again; the mouse in the ass's ear, the weasel on his back, and the egg in the weasel's mouth. When they came to the river, and were swimming across, the ass began to bray. "Hee-haw, hee-haw," cried he. "Is there anyone like me in all the world? I am carrying the mouse and the weasel and the great enchanted egg that can do anything. Why do you not praise me?" But the mouse was asleep, and the weasel dared not open his mouth for fear of dropping the egg. "I'll shake you all off, you thankless pack, if you won't praise me," cried the ass, and the poor weasel forgot the egg, and cried out: "Oh, don't, don't!" when down went the egg into the deepest pool in the river. "Now you have done it," said the weasel, and you may be sure the ass looked very foolish. "Oh, what are we to do?" groaned he. "Keep a good heart," said the weasel. Then looking down into the deep water, he cried: "Hear! all you frogs and fish. There is a great army of storks and cranes coming to take you all out and eat you up red-raw. Make haste! Make haste!" "Oh, and what can we do?" cried they, coming up to the top. "Gather up the stones from below and hand them to us, and we'll build a big wall on the bank to defend you." So the fish and frogs fell to work like mad, and were at it hard and fast, reaching up all the stones and pebbles they found at the bottom of the pool. At last a big frog came up with the egg in his mouth, and when the weasel had hold of it he climbed into a tree and cried out, "That will do; the army has got a great fright at our walls, and they are all running away." So the poor things were greatly relieved. You may be sure that Jack jumped for joy to see his friends and the egg again. They were soon back in their castle, and when Jack began to feel lonely he did not find it hard to find a pretty lady to marry him, and then they two and the three grateful beasts were as happy as the days were long. PATRICK KENNEDY. The Lepracaun or Fairy Shoemaker I. Little Cowboy, what have you heard, Up on the lonely rath's green mound? Only the plaintive yellow bird Sighing in sultry fields around, Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee!-- Only the grasshopper and the bee?-- "Tip-tap, rip-rap, Tick-a-tack-too! Scarlet leather, sewn together, This will make a shoe. Left, right, pull it tight; Summer days are warm; Underground in winter, Laughing at the storm!" Lay your ear close to the hill. Do you not catch the tiny clamour, Busy click of an elfin hammer, Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill As he merrily plies his trade? He's a span And a quarter in height. Get him in sight, hold him tight, And you're a made Man! II. You watch your cattle the summer day, Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay; How would you like to roll in your carriage, Look for a Duchess's daughter in marriage? Seize the Shoemaker--then you may! "Big boots a-hunting, Sandals in the hall, White for a wedding-feast, Pink for a ball. This way, that way, So we make a shoe; Getting rich every stitch, Tick-tack-too!" Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocks This keen miser-fairy hath, Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks, Ruin and round-tow'r, cave and rath, And where the cormorants build; From times of old Guarded by him; Each of them fill'd Full to the brim With gold! III. I caught him at work one day, myself, In the castle-ditch, where foxglove grows-- A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded Elf, Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose, Silver buckles to his hose, Leather apron--shoe in his lap-- "Rip-rap, tip-tap, Tick-tack-too! (A grasshopper on my cap! Away the moth flew!) Buskins for a fairy prince, Brogues for his son-- Pay me well, pay me well, When the job is done!" The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt. I stared at him; he stared at me; "Servant, Sir!" "Humph!" says he, And pulled a snuff-box out. He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased, The queer little Lepracaun; Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace-- Pouf! he flung the dust in my face, And, while I sneezed, Was gone! WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. Daniel O'Rourke People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O'Rourke, but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls of the Pooka's Tower. I knew the man well. He lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right-hand side of the road as you go towards Bantry. An old man was he at the time he told me the story, with grey hair and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June, 1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the morning at Glengariff. "I am often axed to tell it, sir," said he, "so that this is not the first time. The master's son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go before Buonaparte or any such was heard of; and, sure enough, there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low, rich and poor. The _ould_ gentlemen were the gentlemen, after all, saving your honour's presence. They'd swear at a body a little, to be sure, and, maybe, give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end; and they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes; and there was no grinding for rent, and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did not taste of his landlord's bounty often and often in a year; but now it's another thing. No matter for that, sir, for I'd better be telling you my story. "Well, we had everything of the best, and plenty of it; and we ate, and we drank, and we danced, and the young master, by the same token, danced with Peggy Barry, from the Bohereen--a lovely young couple they were, though they are both low enough now. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost, for I can't remember, ever at all, no ways, how it was I left the place; only I did leave it, that's certain. Well, I thought, for all that, in myself, I'd just step to Molly Cronohan's, the fairy woman, to speak a word about the bracket heifer that was bewitched; and so, as I was crossing the stepping-stones of the ford of Ballyashenogh, and was looking up at the stars, and blessing myself--for why? it was Lady-day--I missed my foot, and souse I fell into the water. 'Death alive!' thought I, 'I'll be drowned now!' However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of me can tell how, upon a _dissolute_ island. "I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as day, or your fair lady's eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning her), and I looked east and west, north and south, and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog. I could never find out how I got into it; and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure and certain I was that it would be my _berrin'_ place. So I sat upon a stone, which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I began to scratch my head, and sing the ULLAGONE--when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked up and saw something for all the world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and what was it but an eagle?--as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom of Kerry! So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, 'Daniel O'Rourke,' says he, 'how do you do?' 'Very well, I thank you, sir,' says I; 'I hope you're well'; wondering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. 'What brings you here, Dan?' says he. 'Nothing at all, sir,' says I, 'only I wish I was safe home again.' 'Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan?' says he. ''Tis, sir,' says I; so I up and told him how I had taken a drop too much, and fell into the water; how I swam to the island; and how I got into the bog and did not know my way out of it. 'Dan,' says he, after a minute's thought, 'though it is very improper of you to get drunk on a Lady-day, yet, as you are a decent sober man, who 'tends mass well, and never fling stones at me or mine, nor cries out after one in the field, my life for yours,' says he; 'so get up on my back, and grip me well for fear you'd fall off, and I'll fly you out of the bog.' 'I am afraid,' says I, 'your honour's making game of me; for whoever heard of riding a-horseback on an eagle before?' ''Pon the honour of a gentleman,' says he, putting his right foot on his breast, 'I am quite in earnest; and so now either take my offer or starve in the bog--besides I see that your weight is sinking the stone.' "It was true enough, as he said, for I found the stone every minute going from under me. I had no choice; so, thinks I to myself, faint heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance. 'I thank your honour,' says I, 'for the loan of your civility; and I'll take your kind offer.' I therefore mounted on the back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up, up, up--God knows how far he flew. 'Why, then,' said I to him--thinking he did not know the right road home--very civilly, because why? I was in his power entirely; 'sir,' says I, 'please your honour's glory, and with humble submission to your better judgment, if you'd fly down a bit, you're now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many thanks to your worship.' "'_Arrah_, Dan,' says he, 'do you think me a fool? Look down in the next field, and don't you see two men and a gun? By my word, it would be no joke to shoot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked up off a _could_ stone in a bog.' 'Bother you,' says I to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he kept flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use. 'Where in the world are you going, sir?' says I to him. 'Hold your tongue, Dan,' says he, 'and mind your own business, and don't be interfering with the business of other people.' 'Faith, this is my business, I think,' says I. 'Be quiet, Dan!' says he: so I said no more. "At last, where should we come to but to the moon itself. Now, you can't see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way (drawing the figure thus on the ground with the end of his stick). "'Dan,' says the eagle, 'I'm tired with this long fly; I had no notion 'twas so far.' 'And my lord, sir,' says I, 'who in the world _axed_ you to fly so far--was it I? Did not I beg and pray and beseech you to stop half an hour ago?' 'There's no use talking, Dan,' said he; 'I'm tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest myself.' 'Is it sit down on the moon?' said I; 'is it upon that little round thing, then? Why, then, sure, I'd fall off in a minute, and be _kilt_ and spilt, and smashed all to bits; you are a vile deceiver--so you are.' 'Not at all, Dan,' says he; 'you can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that's sticking out of the side of the moon, and 'twill keep you up.' 'I won't, then,' said I. 'Maybe not,' said he, quite quiet. 'If you don't, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.' 'Why, then, I'm in a fine way,' said I to myself, 'ever to have come along with the likes of you'; and so, giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he'd know what I said, I got off his back with a heavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook and sat down upon the moon, and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that. "When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, 'Good morning to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he; 'I think I've nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year' ('twas true enough for him, but how he found it out is hard enough to say), 'and in return you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow.' "'Is that all, and is this how you leave me, you brute, you,' says I. 'You ugly unnatural _baste_, and is this the way you serve me at last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hook'd nose, and to all your breed, you blackguard.' 'Twas all to no manner of use; he spread out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to this--sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month before--I suppose they never thought of greasing them--and out there walks--who do you think but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by his bush. "'Good morrow to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' says he, 'how do you do?' 'Very well, thank your honour,' says I. 'I hope your honour's well.' 'What brought you here, Dan?' said he. So I told him how I was a little overtaken in liquor at the master's, and how I was cast on a _dissolute_ island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and the thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how, instead of that, he had fled me up to the moon. "'Dan,' said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff, when I was done, 'you must not stay here.' 'Indeed, sir,' says I, ''tis much against my will that I'm here at all; but how am I to go back?' 'That's your business,' said he; 'Dan, mine is to tell you that you must not stay, so be off in less than no time.' 'I'm doing no harm,' said I, 'only holding on hard by the reaping-hook lest I fall off.' 'That's what you must not do, Dan,' says he. 'Pray, sir,' says I, 'may I ask how many you are in family that you would not give a poor traveller lodging? I'm sure 'tis not often you're troubled with strangers coming to see you, for 'tis a long way.' 'I'm by myself, Dan,' says he, 'but you'd better let go the reaping-hook.' 'Faith, and with your leave,' says I, 'I'll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me the more I won't let go--so I will.' 'You had better, Dan,' says he again. 'Why, then, my little fellow,' says I, taking the whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, 'there are two words to that bargain; and I'll not budge--you may, if you like.' 'We'll see how that is to be,' says he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him (for it was plain he was huffed), that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it. "Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a word he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was holding me up, and _whap_ it came in two. 'Good morning to you, Dan,' says the spiteful little blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand; 'I thank you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.' I had no time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and rolling, at the rate of a fox-hunt. 'God help me!' says I, 'but this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of the night. I am now sold fairly.' The word was not out of my mouth, when, whiz! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese, all the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenagh, else how should they know _me_? The _ould_ gander, who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, 'Is that you, Dan?' 'The same,' said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of _bedivilment_, and, besides, I knew him of _ould_. 'Good morrow to you,' says he, 'Daniel O'Rourke; how are you in health this morning?' 'Very well, sir,' says I, 'thank you kindly,' drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some, 'I hope your honour's the same.' 'I think 'tis falling you are, Daniel,' says he. 'You may say that, sir,' says I. 'And where are you going all the way so fast?' said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me out. 'Dan,' said he, 'I'll save you; put out your hand and catch me by the leg, and I'll fly you home.' 'Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,' says I, though all the time I thought within myself that I don't much trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as fast as hops. "We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking up out of the water. 'Ah, my lord,' said I to the goose, for I thought it best to keep a civil tongue in my head anyway, 'fly to land, if you please.' 'It is impossible, you see, Dan,' said he, 'for a while, because, you see, we are going to Arabia.' 'To Arabia!' said I, 'that's surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose, why, then, to be sure, I'm a man to be pitied among you.' "'Whist, whist, you fool,' said he, 'hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only there is a little more sand there.' "Just as we were talking a ship hove in sight, sailing so beautiful before the wind. 'Ah, then, sir,' said I, 'will you drop me on the ship, if you please?' 'We are not fair over it,' said he; 'if I dropped you now you would go splash into the sea.' 'I would not,' says I, 'I know better than that, for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.' "'If you must, you must,' said he; 'there, take your own way'; and he opened his claw, and, faith, he was right--sure enough, I came down plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up, then, for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching himself after his night's sleep, and looked me full in the face, and never the word did he say, but, lifting up his tail, he splashed me all over again with the cold salt water till there wasn't a dry stitch upon my whole carcass! And I heard somebody saying--'twas a voice I knew too--'Get up, you drunken brute, off o' that'; and with that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing all over me--for, rest her soul, though she was a good wife, she could never bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own. "'Get up,' said she again; 'and of all places in the parish, would no place _sarve_ your turn to lie down upon but under the _ould_ walls of Carrigapooka? An uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.' And, sure enough, I had, for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales, driving me through bogs and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I'd lie down in the same spot again, I know that!" T. CROFTON CROKER. Cuchulain of Muirthemne (The Birth of Cuchulain.) In the long time ago, Conchubar, son of Ness, was King of Ulster, and he held his court in the palace of Emain Macha. And this is the way he came to be King. He was but a young lad, and his father was not living, and Fergus, son of Rogh, who was at that time King of Ulster, asked his mother Ness in marriage. Now Ness, that was at one time the quietest and kindest of the women of Ireland, had got to be unkind and treacherous because of an unkindness that had been done to her, and she planned to get the kingdom away from Fergus for her own son. So she said to Fergus, "Let Conchubar hold the kingdom for a year, so that his children after him may be called the children of a king; and that is the marriage portion I will ask of you." "You may do that," the men of Ulster said to him; "for even though Conchubar gets the name of being king, it is yourself that will be our King all the time." So Fergus agreed to it, and he took Ness as his wife, and her son Conchubar was made King in his place. But all through the year Ness was working to keep the kingdom for him, and she gave great presents to the chief men of Ulster to get them on her side. And though Conchubar was but a young lad at the time, he was wise in his judgments and brave in battle, and good in shape and in form, and they liked him well. And at the end of the year, when Fergus asked to have the kingship back again, they consulted together; and it is what they agreed, that Conchubar was to keep it. And they said, "It is little Fergus thinks about us, when he was so ready to give up his rule over us for a year; and let Conchubar keep the kingship," they said, "and let Fergus keep the wife he has got." Now, it happened one day that Conchubar was making a feast at Emain Macha for the marriage of his sister Dechtire with Sualtim, son of Roig. And at the feast Dechtire was thirsty, and they gave her a cup of wine, and as she was drinking it a mayfly flew into the cup, and she drank it down with the wine. And presently she went into her sunny parlour, and her fifty maidens along with her, and she fell into a deep sleep. And in her sleep Lugh of the Long Hand appeared to her, and he said, "It is I myself was the mayfly that came to you in the cup, and it is with me you must come away now, and your fifty maidens along with you." And he put on them the appearance of a flock of birds, and they went with him southward till they came to Brugh na Boinne, the dwelling-place of the Sidhe. And no one at Emain Macha could get tale or tidings of them, or know where they had gone, or what had happened them. It was about a year after that time there was another feast in Emain, and Conchubar and his chief men were sitting at the feast. And suddenly they saw from the window a great flock of birds, that lit on the ground and began to eat up everything before them, so that not so much as a blade of grass was left. The men of Ulster were vexed when they saw the birds destroying all before them, and they yoked nine of their chariots to follow after them. Conchubar was in his own chariot, and there were following with him Fergus, son of Rogh, and Laegaire Buadach the Battle-Winner, and Celthair, son of Uithecar, and many others, and Bricriu of the bitter tongue was along with them. They followed after the birds across the whole country southward, across Slieve Fuad, by Ath Lethan, by Ath Garach and Magh Gossa, between Fir Rois and Fir Ardae; and the birds before them always. They were the most beautiful that had ever been seen; nine flocks of them there were, linked together two-and-two with a chain of silver, and at the head of every flock there were two birds of different colours, linked together with a chain of gold; and there were three birds that flew by themselves, and they all went before the chariots to the far end of the country, until the fall of night, and then there was no more seen of them. And when the dark night was coming on, Conchubar said to his people, "It is best for us to unyoke the chariots now, and to look for some place where we can spend the night." Then Fergus went forward to look for some place, and what he came to was a very small poor-looking house. A man and a woman were in it, and when they saw him they said, "Bring your companions here along with you, and they will be welcome." Fergus went back to his companions and told them what he had seen. But Bricriu said: "Where is the use of going into a house like that, with neither room nor provisions nor coverings in it; it is not worth our while to be going there." Then Bricriu went on himself to the place where the house was. But when he came to it, what he saw was a grand, new, well-lighted house; and at the door there was a young man wearing armour, very tall and handsome and shining. And he said, "Come into the house, Bricriu; why are you looking about you?" And there was a young woman beside him, fine and noble, and with curled hair, and she said, "Surely there is a welcome before you from me." "Why does she welcome me?" said Bricriu. "It is on account of her that I myself welcome you," said the young man. "And is there no one missing from you at Emain?" he said. "There is, surely," said Bricriu. "We are missing fifty young girls for the length of a year." "Would you know them again if you saw them?" said the young man. "If I would not know them," said Bricriu, "it is because a year might make a change in them, so that I would not be sure." "Try and know them again," said the man, "for the fifty young girls are in this house, and this woman beside me is their mistress, Dechtire. It was they themselves, changed into birds, that went to Emain Macha to bring you here." Then Dechtire gave Bricriu a purple cloak with gold fringes; and he went back to find his companions. But while he was going he thought to himself, "Conchubar would give great treasure to find these fifty young girls again, and his sister along with them. I will not tell him I have found them. I will only say I have found a house with beautiful women in it, and no more than that." When Conchubar saw Bricriu he asked news of him. "What news do you bring back with you, Bricriu?" he said. "I came to a fine well-lighted house," said Bricriu; "I saw a queen, noble, kind, with royal looks, with curled hair; I saw a troop of women, beautiful, well dressed; I saw the man of the house, tall and open-handed and shining." "Let us go there for the night," said Conchubar. So they brought their chariots and their horses and their arms; and they were hardly in the house when every sort of food and of drink, some they knew and some they did not know, was put before them, so that they never spent a better night. And when they had eaten and drunk and began to be satisfied, Conchubar said to the young man, "Where is the mistress of the house that she does not come to bid us welcome?" "You cannot see her to-night," said he, "for she is in the pains of childbirth." So they rested there that night, and in the morning Conchubar was the first to rise up; but he saw no more of the man of the house, and what he heard was the cry of a child. And he went to the room it came from, and there he saw Dechtire, and her maidens about her, and a young child beside her. And she bade Conchubar welcome, and she told him all that had happened her, and that she had called him there to bring herself and the child back to Emain Macha. And Conchubar said, "It is well you have done by me, Dechtire; you gave shelter to me and to my chariots; you kept the cold from my horses; you gave food to me and my people, and now you have given us this good gift. And let our sister, Finchoem, bring up the child," he said. "No, it is not for her to bring him up, it is for me," said Sencha, son of Ailell, chief judge and chief poet of Ulster. "For I am skilled; I am good in disputes; I am not forgetful; I speak before anyone at all in the presence of the King; I watch over what he says; I give judgment in the quarrels of kings; I am judge of the men of Ulster; no one has a right to dispute my claim, but only Conchubar." "If the child is given to me to bring up," said Blai, the distributor, "he will not suffer from want of care or from forgetfulness. It is my messages that do the will of Conchubar; I call up the fighting men from all Ireland; I am well able to provide for them for a week, or even for ten days; I settle their business and their disputes; I support their honour; I get satisfaction for their insults." "You think too much of yourself," said Fergus. "It is I that will bring up the child; I am strong; I have knowledge; I am the King's messenger; no one can stand up against me in honour or riches; I am hardened to war and battles; I am a good craftsman; I am worthy to bring up the child. I am the protector of all the unhappy; the strong are afraid of me; I am the helper of the weak." "If you will listen to me at last, now you are quiet," said Amergin, "I am able to bring up a child like a king. The people praise my honour, my bravery, my courage, my wisdom; they praise my good luck, my age, my speaking, my name, my courage, and my race. Though I am a fighter, I am a poet; I am worthy of the King's favour; I overcome all the men who fight from their chariots; I owe thanks to no one except Conchubar; I obey no one but the King." Then Sencha said, "Let Finchoem keep the child until we come to Emain, and Morann, the judge, will settle the question when we are there." So the men of Ulster set out for Emain, Finchoem having the child with her. And when they came there Morann gave his judgment. "It is for Conchubar," he said, "to help the child to a good name, for he is next of kin to him; let Sencha teach him words and speaking; let Fergus hold him on his knees; let Amergin be his tutor." And he said, "This child will be praised by all, by chariot drivers and fighters, by kings and by wise men; he shall be loved by many men; he will avenge all your wrongs; he will defend your fords; he will fight all your battles." And so it was settled. And the child was left until he should come to sensible years with his mother Dechtire and with her husband Sualtim. And they brought him up upon the plain of Muirthemne, and the name he was known by was Setanta, son of Sualtim. The Boyhood of Cuchulain Dectera, one of the sisters of Conchubar Mac Nessa, married a prince whose patrimony lay along the shores of the Muirnict, and whose capital was Dun Dalgan. They had one child, a boy, whom they named Setanta. As soon as Setanta was able to understand the stories and conversation of those around him, he evinced a passion for arms and the martial life, which was so premature and violent as to surprise all who knew him. His thoughts for ever ran on the wars and achievements of the Red Branch. He knew all the knights by name, the appearance and bearing of each, and what deeds of valour they had severally performed. Emain Macha, the capital of the Clanna Rury, was never out of his mind. He saw for ever before his mind its moats and ramparts, its gates and bridges, its streets filled with martial men, its high-raised Duns and Raths, its branching roads, over which came the tributes of wide Ulla to the High King. He had seen his father's tribute driven thither, and had even longed to be one of the four-footed beasts that he beheld wending their way to the wondrous city. But, above all, he delighted to be told of the great school where the young nobles of Ulster were taught martial exercises and the military art, under the superintendence of chosen knights and of the High King himself. Of the several knights he had his own opinion, and had already resolved to accept no one as his instructor save Fergus Mac Roy, tanist of Ulster. Of his father he saw little. His mind had become impaired, and he was confined in a secluded part of the Dun. But whenever he spoke to Dectera of what was nearest his heart, and his desire to enter the military school at Emain Macha, she laughed, and said that he was not yet old enough to endure that rough life. But secretly she was alarmed, and formed plans to detain him at home altogether. Then Setanta concealed his desire, but enquired narrowly concerning the partings of the roads on the way to Emania. At last, when he was ten years old, selecting a favourable night, Setanta stole away from his father's Dun, and before morning had crossed the frontier. He then lay down to rest and sleep in a wood. After this he set out again, travelling quickly, lest he should be met by any of his father's people. On his back was strapped his little wooden shield, and by his side hung a sword of lath. He had brought his ball and hurle of red-bronze with him, and ran swiftly along the road, driving the ball before him, or throwing up his javelin into the air, and running to meet it ere it fell. In the afternoon of that day Fergus Mac Roy and the King sat together in the part that surrounded the King's palace. A chessboard was between them, and their attention was fixed on the game. At a distance the young nobles were at their sports, and the shouts of the boys and the clash of the metal hurles resounded in the evening air. Suddenly, the noise ceased, and Fergus and the King looked up. They saw a strange boy rushing backwards and forwards through the crowd of young nobles, urging the ball in any direction that he pleased, as if in mockery, till none but the very best players attempted to stop him, while the rest stood about the ground in groups. Fergus and the King looked at each other for a moment in silence. After this the boys came together into a group and held a council. Then commenced what seemed to be an attempt to force him out of the ground, followed by a furious fight. The strange boy seemed to be a very demon of war; with his little hurle grasped, like a war-mace, in both hands, he laid about him on every side, and the boys were tumbling fast. He sprang at tall youths, like a hound at a stag's throat. He rushed through crowds of his enemies like a hawk through a flock of birds. The boys, seized with a panic, cried out that it was one of the Tuatha from the fairy hills of the Boyne, and fled right and left to gain the shelter of the trees. Some of them, pursued by the stranger, ran round Conchubar Mac Nessa and his knight. The boy, however, running straight, sprang over the chess table; but Conchubar seized him deftly by the wrist and brought him to a stand, but with dilated eyes and panting. "Why are you so enraged, my boy?" said the King, "and why do you so maltreat my nobles?" "Because they have not treated me with the respect due to a stranger," replied the boy. "Who are you yourself?" said Conchubar. "I am Setanta, the son of Sualtim, and Dectera, your own sister, is my mother; and it is not before my uncle's palace that I should be insulted and dishonoured." This was the début and first martial exploit of the great Cuculain, type of Irish chivalry and courage, in the bardic firmament a bright and particular star of strength, daring, and glory, that will not set nor suffer aught but transient obscuration till the extinction of the Irish race; Cuculain, bravest of the brave, whose glory affected even the temperate-minded Tierna, so that his sober pen has inscribed, in the annals of ancient Erin, this testimony: "_Cuculain, filius Sualtam fortissimus heros Scotorum_." After this Setanta was regularly received into the military school, where, ere long, he became a favourite both with old and young. He placed himself under the tuition of Fergus Mac Roy, who, each day, grew more and more proud of his pupil, for while still a boy his fame was extending over Ulla. It was not long after this that Setanta received the name by which he is more generally known. Culain was chief of the black country of Ulla, and of a people altogether given up to the making of weapons and armour, where the sound of the hammer and husky bellows were for ever heard. One day Conchubar and some of his knights, passing through the park to partake of an entertainment at the house of the armourer, paused awhile, looking at the boys at play. Then, as all were praising his little nephew, Conchubar called to him, and the boy came up, flushed and shy, for there were with the King the chief warriors of the Red Branch. But Conchubar bade him come with them to the feast, and the knights around him laughed, and enumerated the good things which Culain had prepared for them. But when Setanta's brow fell, Conchubar bade him finish his game, and after that proceed to Culain's house, which was to the west of Emain Macha, and more than a mile distant from the city. Then the King and his knights went on to the feast, and Setanta returned joyfully to his game. Now, when they were seen afar upon the plain the smith left his workshop and put by his implements, and having washed from him the sweat and smoke, made himself ready to receive his guests; but the evening fell as they were coming into the liss, and all his people came in also, and sat at the lower table, and the bridge was drawn up and the door was shut for the night, and the candles were lit in the high chamber. Then said Culain, "Have all thy retinue come in, O Conchubar?" And when the King said that they were all there, Culain bade one of his apprentices go out and let loose the great mastiff that guarded the house. Now, this mastiff was as large as a calf and exceedingly fierce, and he guarded all the smith's property outside the house, and if anyone approached the house without beating on the gong, which was outside the foss and in front of the drawbridge, he was accustomed to rend him. Then the mastiff, having been let loose, careered three times round the liss, baying dreadfully, and after that remained quiet outside his kennel, guarding his master's property. But, inside, they devoted themselves to feasting and merriment, and there were many jests made concerning Culain, for he was wont to cause laughter to Conchubar Mac Nessa and his knights, yet he was good to his own people and faithful to the Crave Rue, and very ardent and skilful in the practice of his art. But as they were amusing themselves in this manner, eating and drinking, a deep growl came from without, as it were a note of warning, and after that one yet more savage; but where he sat in the champion's seat, Fergus Mac Roy struck the table with his hand and rose straightway, crying out, "It is Setanta." But ere the door could be opened they heard the boy's voice raised in anger and the fierce yelling of the dog, and a scuffling in the bawn of the liss. Then they rushed to the door in great fear, for they said that the boy was torn in pieces; but when the bolts were drawn back and they sprang forth, eager to save the boy's life, they found the dog dead, and Setanta standing over him with his hurle, for he had sprung over the foss, not fearing the dog. Forthwith, then, his tutor, Fergus Mac Roy, snatched him up on his shoulder, and returned with great joy into the banquet hall, where all were well pleased at the preservation of the boy, except Culain himself, who began to lament over the death of his dog and to enumerate all the services which he rendered to him. "Do not grieve for thy dog, O Culain," said Setanta, from the shoulder of Fergus, "for I will perform those services for you myself until a dog equally good is procured to take the place of him I slew." Then one jesting, said, "Cu-culain!" (Hound of Culain) and thenceforward he went by this name. STANDISH O'GRADY. The Legend of Knockgrafton There was once a poor man who lived in the fertile glen of Aherlow, at the foot of the gloomy Galtee mountains, and he had a great hump on his back; he looked just as if his body had been rolled up and placed upon his shoulders; and his head was pressed down with the weight so much that his chin, when he was sitting, used to rest upon his knees for support. The country people were rather shy of meeting him in any lonesome place, for though, poor creature, he was as harmless and as inoffensive as a new-born infant, yet his deformity was so great that he scarcely appeared to be a human creature, and some ill-minded persons had set strange stories about him afloat. He was said to have a great knowledge of herbs and charms; but certain it was that he had a mighty skilful hand in plaiting straws and rushes into hats and baskets, which was the way he made his livelihood. Lusmore, for that was the nickname put upon him, by reason of his always wearing a sprig of the fairy cap, or lusmore (the foxglove), in his little straw hat, would ever get a higher penny for his plaited work than anyone else, and perhaps that was the reason why someone, out of envy, had circulated the strange stories about him. Be that as it may, it happened that he was returning one evening from the pretty town of Cahir towards Cappagh, and as little Lusmore walked very slowly, on account of the great hump upon his back, it was quite dark when he came to the old moat of Knockgrafton, which stood on the right-hand side of the road. Tired and weary was he, and no ways comfortable in his own mind at thinking how much farther he had to travel, and that he should be walking all the night; so he sat down under the moat to rest himself, and began looking mournfully enough upon the moon, which-- Rising in clouded majesty at length Apparent Queen, unveil'd her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. Presently there arose a wild strain of unearthly melody upon the ear of little Lusmore. He listened, and he thought that he had never heard such ravishing music before. It was like the sound of many voices, each mingling and blending with the others so strangely that they seemed to be one, though all singing different strains, and the words of the songs were these: Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort; when there would be a moment's pause, and then the round of melody went on again. Lusmore listened attentively, scarcely drawing his breath, lest he might lose the slightest note. He now plainly perceived that the singing was within the moat; and though at first it had charmed him much, he began to get tired of hearing the same round sung over and over so often without any change; so, availing himself of the pause when Da Luan, Da Mort, had been sung three times, he took up the tune, and raised it with the words augus Da Dardeen, and then went on singing with the voices inside of the moat, Da Luan, Da Mort, finishing the melody, when the pause came again, with augus Da Dardeen. The fairies within Knockgrafton, for the song was a fairy melody, when they heard this addition to the tune, were so much delighted that with instant resolve it was determined to bring the mortal among them whose musical skill so far exceeded theirs, and little Lusmore was conveyed into their company with the eddying speed of a whirlwind. Glorious to behold was the sight that burst upon him as he came down through the moat, twirling round and round, with the lightness of a straw, to the sweetest music, that kept time to his motion. The greatest honour was then paid him, for he was put above all the musicians, and he had servants tending upon him and everything to his heart's content, and a hearty welcome to all; and, in short, he was made as much of as if he had been the first man in the land. Presently Lusmore saw a great consultation going on among the fairies, and, notwithstanding all their civility, he felt very much frightened, until one, stepping out from the rest, came up to him and said: Lusmore! Lusmore! Doubt not, nor deplore, For the hump which you bore On your back is no more; Look down on the floor, And view it, Lusmore! When these words were said, poor little Lusmore felt himself so light and so happy that he thought he could have bounded at one jump over the moon, like the cow in the history of the cat and the fiddle; and he saw, with inexpressible pleasure, his hump tumble down upon the ground from his shoulders. He then tried to lift up his head, and did so with becoming caution, fearing that he might knock it against the ceiling of the great hall where he was. He looked round and round again with the greatest wonder and delight upon everything, which appeared more and more beautiful; and, overpowered at beholding such a resplendent scene, his head grew dizzy and his eyesight grew dim. At last he fell into a sound sleep, and when he awoke he found that it was broad daylight, the sun shining brightly, and the birds singing sweetly, and that he was lying just at the foot of Knockgrafton, with the cows and sheep grazing peaceably about him. The first thing Lusmore did, after saying his prayers, was to put his hand behind to feel for his hump, but no sign of one was there on his back, and he looked at himself with great pride, for he had now become a well-shaped, dapper little fellow, and, more than that, found himself in a full suit of new clothes, which he concluded the fairies had made for him. Towards Cappagh he went, stepping out as lightly and springing up at every step as if he had been all his life a dancing-master. Not a creature who met Lusmore knew him without his hump, and he had a great work to persuade everyone that he was the same man--in truth he was not as far as the outward appearance went. Of course it was not long before the story of Lusmore's hump got about, and a great wonder was made of it. Through the country for miles round it was the talk of everyone, high and low. One morning, as Lusmore was sitting, contented enough, at his cabin door, up came an old woman to him, and asked him if he could direct her to Cappagh. "I need give you no directions, my good woman," said Lusmore, "for this is Cappagh. And whom may you want here?" "I have come," said the woman, "out of Decies country, in the county of Waterford, looking after one Lusmore, who, I have heard tell, had his hump taken off by the fairies; for there is a son of a gossip of mine who has got a hump on him that will be his death; and, maybe, if he could use the same charm as Lusmore the hump may be taken off him. And now I have told you the reason of my coming so far; 'tis to find out about this charm if I can." Lusmore, who was ever a good-natured little fellow, told the woman all the particulars, how he had raised the tune for the fairies at Knockgrafton, how his hump had been removed from his shoulders, and how he had got a new suit of clothes into the bargain. The woman thanked him very much and then went away, quite happy and easy in her own mind. When she came back to her gossip's house, in the county of Waterford, she told her everything that Lusmore had said, and they put the little hump-backed man, who was a peevish and cunning creature from his birth, upon a car, and took him all the way across the country. It was a long journey, but they did not care for that, so the hump was taken from off him; so they brought him just at nightfall, and left him under the old moat of Knockgrafton. Jack Madden, for that was the humpy man's name, had not been sitting there long when he heard the tune going on within the moat much sweeter than before; for the fairies were singing it the way Lusmore had settled their music for them, and the song was going on, Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, augus Da Dardeen, without ever stopping. Jack Madden, who was in a great hurry to get quit of his hump, never thought of waiting till the fairies had done, or watching for a fit opportunity to raise the tune higher than Lusmore had; so, having heard them sing it over seven times without stopping, out he bawls, never minding the time or the humour of the tune, or how he could bring his words in properly, augus Da Dardeen, augus Da Hena, thinking that if one day was good two were better, and that, if Lusmore had one suit of clothes given him, he should have two. No sooner had the words passed his lips than he was taken up and whisked into the moat with prodigious force, and the fairies came crowding round about him with great anger, screeching and screaming, and roaring out, "Who spoiled our tune? Who spoiled our tune?" And one stepped up to him above all the rest and said: Jack Madden! Jack Madden! Your words came so bad in The tune we felt glad in;-- This castle you're had in, That your life we may sadden; Here's two humps for Jack Madden! And twenty of the strongest fairies brought Lusmore's hump and put it down upon poor Jack's back, over his own, where it became fixed as firmly as if it was nailed on with twelvepenny nails by the best carpenter that ever drove one. Out of their castle they then kicked him; and in the morning, when Jack Madden's mother and her gossip came to look after their little man, they found him half dead, lying at the foot of the moat, with the other hump upon his back. Well, to be sure, how they did look at each other, but they were afraid to say anything lest a hump might be put upon their shoulders. Home they brought the unlucky Jack Madden with them, as downcast in their hearts and their looks as ever two gossips were; and what through the weight of his other hump and the long journey he died soon after, leaving, they say, his heavy curse to anyone who would go to listen to fairy tunes again. T. CROFTON CROKER. The Stolen Child There dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island, Where flapping herons wake The drowsy water rats; There we've hid our faery vats, Full of berries, And of reddest stolen cherries. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim gray sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances, Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wandering water gushes From the hills above Glen-Car, In pools among the rushes That scarce could bathe a star, We seek for slumbering trout, And whispering in their ears Give them unquiet dreams; Leaning softly out From ferns that drop their tears Over the young streams. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Away with us he's going, The solemn-eyed: He'll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside; Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal-chest. For he comes, the human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, From a world more full of weeping than he can understand. W. B. YEATS. Lay of Oisin on the Land of Youth One day we, the Fianna, were all assembled, generous Fionn and all of us that lived were there; we were hunting on a misty morning nigh the bordering shores of Loch Lein, where through fragrant trees of sweetest blossoms, and the mellow music of birds at all times, we aroused the hornless deer of the best bounding, course, and agility; our hounds and all our dogs were close after in full chase. 'Twas not long till we saw, westwards, a fleet rider advancing towards us, a young maiden of most beautiful appearance, on a slender white steed of swiftest power. We all ceased from the chase on seeing the form of the royal maid; 'twas a surprise to Fionn and the Fianns, they never beheld a woman equal in beauty. A royal crown was on her head, and a brown mantle of precious silk, spangled with stars of red gold, covering her shoes down to the grass. A gold ring was hanging down from each yellow curl of her golden hair; her eyes were blue, clear, and cloudless, like a dewdrop on the top of the grass. Redder were her cheeks than the rose, fairer was her visage than the swan upon the wave, and more sweet was the taste of her balsam lips than honey mingled through red wine. A garment, wide, long, and smooth, covered the white steed; there was a comely saddle of red gold, and her right hand held a bridle with a golden bit. Four shoes, well shaped, were under him, of the yellow gold of the purest quality; a silver wreath was on the back of his head, and there was not in the world a steed better. She came to the presence of Fionn, and spoke with a voice sweet and gentle, and she said, "O King of the Fianna, long and distant is my journey now." "Who art thou thyself, O youthful princess! of fairest form, beauty, and countenance? Relate to us the cause of thy story, thine own name and thy country." "Golden-headed Niamh is my name, O sage Fionn of the great hosts. Beyond the women of the world I have won esteem; I am the fair daughter of the King of Youth." "Relate to us, O amiable princess, what caused thee to come afar across the sea--is it thy consort has forsaken thee, or what is the affliction that is on thyself?" "'Tis not my husband that went from me; and as yet I have not been spoken of with any man, O King of the Fianna of highest repute; but affection and love I have given to thy son." "Which of my children is he, O blooming daughter, to whom thou hast given love, or yet affection? Do not conceal from us now the cause, and relate to us thy case, O woman." "I will tell thee that, O Fionn! Thy noble son of the well-tempered arms, high-spirited Oisin of the powerful hands, is the champion that I am now speaking of." "What is the reason that thou gavest love, O beautiful daughter of the glossy hair, to my own son beyond all, and multitudes of high lords under the sun?" "'Tis not without cause, O King of the Fianna! I came afar for him--but reports I heard of his prowess, the goodness of his person and his mien. "Many a son of a king and a high chief gave me affection and perpetual love; I never consented to any man till I gave love to noble Oisin." "By that hand on thee, O Patrick, though it is not shameful to me as a story, there was not a limb of me but was in love with the beautiful daughter of the glossy hair." I, Oisin, took her hand in mine, and said in speech of sweetest tone, "A true, gentle welcome before thee, O young princess, to this country! 'Tis thou art the brightest and the fairest of form, 'tis thee I prefer as wife, thou art my choice beyond the women of the world, O mild star of loveliest countenance!" "Obligations unresisted by true heroes, O generous Oisin, I put upon thee to come with myself now upon my steed till we arrive at the 'Land of Youth.' It is the most delightful country to be found, of greatest repute under the sun, trees drooping with fruit, and blossom and foliage growing on the tops of boughs. Abundant, there, are honey and wine and everything that eye has beheld; there will not come decline on thee with lapse of time; death or decay thou wilt not see. Thou wilt get feasts, playing, and drink; thou wilt get melodious music on the harp strings; thou wilt get silver and gold; thou wilt get also many jewels. Thou wilt get the royal diadem of the 'King of Youth,' which he never yet gave to any person under the sun; 'twill protect thee both night and day, in battle, in tumult, and in rough conflict. Thou wilt get a fitting coat of protecting mail, and a gold-headed sword apt for strokes, from which no person ever escaped alive who once saw the sharp weapon. Thou wilt get everything I promised thee, and delights, also, which I may not mention; thou wilt get beauty, strength, and power, and I myself will be thy wife." "No refusal will I give from me," said I, "O charming queen of the golden curls! Thou art my choice above the women of the world, and I will go with willingness to the 'Land of Youth.'" On the back of the steed we went together. Before me sat the virgin; she said, "Oisin, let us remain quiet till we reach the mouth of the great sea." Then arose the steed swiftly; when we arrived on the borders of the strand he shook himself then to pace forward, and neighed three times aloud. When Fionn and the Fianna saw the steed travelling swiftly, facing the great tide, they raised three shouts of mourning and grief. "O Oisin!" said Fionn slowly and sorrowfully, "woe it is to me that thou art going from me; I have not a hope that thou wilt ever again come back to me victorious." His form and beauty changed, and showers of tears flowed down, till they wet his breast and his bright visage, and he said, "My woe art thou, O Oisin, in going from me!" O Patrick, 'twas a melancholy story our parting from each other in that place, the parting of the father from his own son--'tis mournful, weak, and faint to be relating it! I kissed my father sweetly and gently, and the same affection I got from him. I bade adieu to all the Fianna, and the tears flowed down my cheeks. We turned our backs to the land and our faces directly due west; the smooth sea ebbed before us and filled in billows after us. We saw wonders in our travels, cities, courts, and castles, lime-white mansions and fortresses, brilliant summer-houses and palaces. We also saw, by our sides, a hornless fawn leaping nimbly, and a red-eared white dog, urging it boldly in the chase. We beheld also, without fiction, a young maid on a brown steed, a golden apple in her right hand, and she going on the top of the waves. We saw after her a young rider on a white steed, under a purple, crimson mantle of satin, and a gold-headed sword in his right hand. "Who are yon two whom I see, O gentle princess? Tell me the meaning, of that woman of most beautiful countenance and the comely rider of the white steed." "Heed not what thou wilt see, O gentle Oisin, nor what thou hast yet seen; there is in them but nothing, till we reach the land of the 'King of Youth.'" We saw from us afar a sunny palace of beautiful front; its form and appearance were the most beauteous that were to be found in the world. "What exceeding fine royal mansion, and also the best that eye hath seen, is this that we are travelling near to, or who is high chief of that place?" "The daughter of the King of the 'Land of Life' is Queen, yet in that fortress she was taken by Fomhor Builleach, of Dromloghach, with violent strength of arms and activity. Obligation she put upon the brave never to make her a wife till she got a champion or true hero to stand battle with him hand to hand." "Take success and blessings, O golden-headed Niamh. I have never heard better music than the gentle voice of thy sweet mouth; great grief to us is a woman of her condition. I will go now to visit her to the fortress, and it may be for us it is fated that that great hero should fall by me, in feats of activity as is wont to me." We went then into the fortress. To us came the youthful Queen. Equal in splendour was she to the sun, and she bade us a hundred welcomes. There was apparel of yellow silk on the Queen of excellent beauty. Her chalk-white skin was like the swan on the wave, and her cheeks were of the colour of the rose. Her hair was of a golden hue, her blue eyes clear and cloudless; her honey lips of the colour of the berries, and her slender brows of loveliest form. Then we there sat down, each of us on a chair of gold. There was laid out for us abundance of food and drinking-horns filled with beer. When we had taken a sufficiency of food and much sweet drinking wines, then spoke the mild young princess, and thus said she, "Hearken to me awhile." She told us the knowledge and cause of her tale, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. She said, "My return is not to my own country whilst the great giant shall be alive." "Be silent, O young princess! Give o'er thy grief and do not mourn, and I give to thee my hand that the giant of slaughter shall fall by me!" "There's not a champion now to be found of greatest repute under the sun to give battle hand to hand to the bold giant of the hard blows." "I tell to thee, O gentle queen, I am not daunted at his coming to meet me. Unless he fall by me, by the strength of my arms, I will fall myself in thy defence." 'Twas not long till we saw approaching the powerful giant that was most repulsive. A load was on him of the skins of deer, and an iron bar in his hand. He did not salute or bow to us, but looked into the countenance of the young maiden, proclaimed battle and great conflict, and I myself went to meet him. During three nights and three days we were in the great contest; though powerful was he, the valiant giant, I beheaded him without delay. When the two young maidens saw the great giant lying motionless, weak and low, they uttered three joyful cries, with great boasting and merriment. We then went to the fortress, and I was bruised, weak, and feeble, shedding blood in great abundance coming closely out of my wounds. The daughter of the "King of the Living" came in truth to relieve myself. She put balm and balsam in my wounds, and I was whole after her. We consumed our feast with pleasure, and then we were merry after. In the fortress were prepared for us warm beds of the down of birds. We buried the great man in a deep sod-grave, wide and clear. I raised his flag and monument, and I wrote his name in Ogham Craobh. On the morrow, at the appearance of day, we awoke out of our slumbers. "It is time for us," said the daughter of the King, "to go without delay to our own land." We prepared ourselves without a stay, and we took our leave of the virgin. We were sorrowful and sad after her, and not less after us was the refulgent maid. We turned our backs on the fortress, and our horse under us in full speed, and swifter was the white steed than March wind on the mountain summit. Ere long the sky darkened and the wind arose in every point, the great sea lit up strongly, and sight of the sun was not to be found. We gazed awhile on the clouds and on the stars that were under gloom. The tempest abated and the wind, and Phoebus brightened o'er our heads. We beheld by our side a most delightful country, under full bloom, and plains, beautiful, smooth, and fine, and a royal fortress of surpassing beauty. Not a colour that eye has beheld of rich blue, green, and white, or purple, crimson, and of yellow, but was in this royal mansion that I am describing. There were at the other side of the fortress radiant summer-houses and palaces made, all of precious stones, by the hands of skilful men and great artists. Ere long we saw approaching from the fortress to meet us three fifties of champions of best agility, appearance, fame, and of highest repute. "What beauteous country is that, O gentle daughter of the golden locks? Of best aspect that the eye has seen; or is it the 'Land of Youth'?" "It is, truly, O generous Oisin! I have not told you a lie concerning it; there is nothing I promised thyself but is manifest to thee for ever." To us came after that a hundred maids of exquisite beauty, under-garments of silk filled with gold, welcoming me to their own country. We saw again approaching a multitude of glittering bright hosts, and a noble, great, and powerful King of matchless grace, form, and countenance. There was a yellow shirt of silken satin and a bright golden garment over it; there was a sparkling crown of gold, radiant and shining, upon his head. We saw coming after him the young Queen of highest repute, and fifty virgins sweet and mild, of most beautiful form, in her company. When all arrived in one spot, then courteously spoke the "King of Youth," and said, "This is Oisin, the son of Fionn, the gentle consort of 'Golden-headed Niamh'!" He took me then by the hand and said aloud to the hearing of the host, "O brave Oisin! O son of the King! A hundred thousand welcomes to you! This country into which thou comest, I'll not conceal its tidings from you, in truth, long and durable is your life, and thou thyself shalt be ever young. There's not a delight on which the heart hath mused but is in this land awaiting thee. O Oisin! believe me in truth, for I am King of the 'Land of Youth'! This is the gentle Queen and my own daughter, the Golden-headed Niamh, who went over the smooth seas for thee to be her consort for ever." I gave thanks to the King and I bowed down to the gentle Queen; nor stayed we there, but proceeded soon, till we reached the royal mansion of the "King of Youth." There came the nobles of the fine fortress, both men and women, to meet us; there was a feast and banquet continuously there for ten nights and ten days. I espoused "Golden-headed Niamh," O Patrick from Rome of white croziers! That is how I went to the "Land of Youth," tho' woeful and grievous to me to relate. I had, by Golden-headed Niamh, of children of surpassing beauty and bloom, of best form, shape, and countenance, two young sons and a gentle daughter. I spent a time protracted in length, three hundred years and more, until I thought 'twould be my desire to see Fionn and the Fianna alive. I asked leave of the King and of my kind spouse, Golden-headed Niamh, to go to Erin back again to see Fionn and his great host. "Thou wilt get leave from me," said the gentle daughter, "though 'tis a sorrowful tale to me to hear you mention it, lest thou mayest not come again in your life to my own land, O victorious Oisin!" "What do we dread, O blooming Queen? Whilst the white steed is at my service he will teach me the way with ease, and will return safe back to thyself." "Remember, O Oisin! what I am saying. If thou layest foot on level ground thou shalt not come again for ever to this fine land in which I am myself. I say to thee again without guile, if thou alightest once off the white steed thou wilt never more come to the 'Land of Youth,' O golden Oisin of the warlike arms! I say to thee for the third time, if thou alightest off the steed thyself thou wilt be an old man, withered and blind, without activity, without pleasure, without run, without leap. 'Tis a woe to me, O loving Oisin, that thou ever goest to green Erin; 'tis not now as it has been; and thou never shalt see Fionn of the hosts. There is not now in all Erin but a father of orders and hosts of saints. O loving Oisin, here is my kiss; thou wilt never return to the 'Land of Youth'!" I looked up into her countenance with compassion, and streams of tears ran from my eyes. O Patrick! thou wouldst have pitied her tearing the hair off the golden head. She put me under strict injunctions to go and come without touching the lea, and said to me, by virtue of their power, if I broke them that I'd never return safe. I promised her each thing, without a lie, that I would fulfil what she said to me. I went on the back of the white steed and bade farewell to the people of the fortress. I kissed my gentle consort, and sorrowful was I in parting from her; my two sons and my young daughter were under grief, shedding tears. I prepared myself for travelling, and I turned my back on the "Land of Youth." The steed ran swiftly under me, as he had done with me and "Golden-headed Niamh." On my coming, then, into the country, I looked closely in every direction. I thought then, in truth, that the tidings of Fionn were not to be found. 'Twas not long for me, nor tedious, till I saw from the west approaching me a great troop of mounted men and women, and they came into my presence. They saluted me kindly and courteously, and surprise seized every one of them on seeing the bulk of my own person, my form, my appearance, and my countenance. I myself asked then of them, did they hear if Fionn was alive, or did anyone else of the Fianna live, or what disaster had swept them away? "We have heard tell of Fionn, for strength, for activity, and for prowess, that there never was an equal for him in person, in character, and in mien. There is many a book written down by the melodious sweet sages of the Gaels which we, in truth, are unable to relate to thee, of the deeds of Fionn and of the Fianna. We heard that Fionn had a son of brightest beauty and form; that there came a young maiden for him, and that he went with her to the 'Land of Youth.'" When I myself heard that announcement that Fionn did not live, or any of the Fianna, I was seized with weariness and great sorrow, and I was full of melancholy after them! I did not stop on my course, quick and smart without any delay, till I set my face straightforward to Almhuin of great exploits in broad Leinster. Great was my surprise there that I did not see the court of Fionn of the hosts; there was not in its place, in truth, but weeds, chick-weeds, and nettles. Alas, O Patrick! and alas, my grief! A miserable journey it was to me, without the tidings of Fionn or the Fianna; it left me through life under pain. After I left Almhuin of Leinster, there was not a residence where the Fianna had been, but I searched accurately without any delay. On my passing through the Glen of the Thrushes I saw a great assembly there, three hundred men and more were before me in the glen. One of the assembly spoke, and he said with a loud voice, "Come to our relief, O kingly champion, and deliver us from difficulty!" I then came forward, and the host had a large flag of marble; the weight of the flag was down on them, and to uphold it they were unable! Those that were under the flag below were being oppressed, weakly; by the weight of the great load many of them lost their senses. One of the stewards spoke and said, "O princely young hero, forthwith relieve my host, or not one of them will be alive!" 'Tis a shameful deed that it should now be said, and the number of men that is there, that the strength of the host is unable to lift the flag with great power. If Oscur, the son of Oisin, lived, he would take this flag in his right hand; he would fling it in a throw over the host. It is not my custom to speak falsehood. I lay upon my right breast and I took the flag in my hand; with the strength and activity of my limbs I sent it seven perches from its place! With the force of the very large flag the golden girth broke on the white steed; I came down full suddenly on the soles of my two feet on the lea. No sooner did I come down than the white steed took fright. He went then on his way, and I stood in sorrow, both weak and feeble. I lost the sight of my eyes, my form, my countenance, and my vigour; I was an old man, poor and blind, without strength, understanding, or esteem. Patrick! there is to thee my story, as it occurred to myself, without a lie, my going and my adventures in certain, and my returning from the "Land of Youth." _From "Ossianic Poems."_ _Edited by_ JOHN O'DALY. Adventures of Gilla na Chreck an Gour _(Told in the Wexford Peasant Dialect.)_ Long ago a poor widow woman lived down by the iron forge near Enniscorthy, and she was so poor, she had no clothes to put on her son; so she used to fix him in the ash-hole, near the fire, and pile the warm ashes about him; and, accordingly, as he grew up, she sunk the pit deeper. At last, by hook or by crook, she got a goat-skin, and fastened it round his waist, and he felt quite grand, and took a walk down the street. So says she to him next morning, "Tom, you thief, you never done any good yet, and six-foot high, and past nineteen: take that rope and bring me a _bresna_ from the wood." "Never say't twice, mother," says Tom; "here goes." When he had it gathered and tied, what should come up but a big _joiant_, nine-foot high, and made a lick of a club at him. Well become Tom, he jumped a-one side and picked up a ram-pike; and the first crack he gave the big fellow he made him kiss the clod. "If you have e'er a prayer," says Tom, "now's the time to say it, before I make _brishe_ of you." "I have no prayers," says the giant, "but if you spare my life I'll give you that club; and as long as you keep from sin you'll win every battle you ever fight with it." Tom made no bones about letting him off; and as soon as he got the club in his hands he sat down on the bresna and gave it a tap with the kippeen, and says, "Bresna, I had a great trouble gathering you, and run the risk of my life for you; the least you can do is to carry me home." And, sure enough, the wind of the word was all it wanted. It went off through the wood, groaning and cracking till it came to the widow's door. Well, when the sticks were all burned Tom was sent off again to pick more; and this time he had to fight with a giant with two heads on him. Tom had a little more trouble with him--that's all; and the prayers _he_ said was to give Tom a fife that nobody could help dancing when he was playing it. _Begonies_, he made the big faggot dance home, with himself sitting on it. Well, if you were to count all the steps from this to Dublin, dickens a bit you'd ever arrive there. The next giant was a beautiful boy with three heads on him. He had neither prayers nor catechism no more _nor_ the others; and so he gave Tom a bottle of green ointment that wouldn't let you be burned, nor scalded, nor wounded. "And now," says he, "there's no more of us. You may come and gather sticks here till little _Lunacy Day_ in harvest without giant or fairy man to disturb you." Well, now, Tom was prouder nor ten paycocks, and used to take a walk down street in the heel of the evening; but some of the little boys had no more manners nor if they were Dublin jackeens, and put out their tongues at Tom's club and Tom's goat-skin. He didn't like that at all, and it would be mean to give one of them a clout. At last, what should come through the town but a kind of bellman, only it's a big bugle he had, and a huntsman's cap on his head, and a kind of painted shirt. So this--he wasn't a bellman, and I don't know what to call him--bugleman, maybe--proclaimed that the King of Dublin's daughter was so melancholy that she didn't give a laugh for seven years, and that her father would grant her in marriage to whoever would make her laugh three times. "That's the very thing for me to try," says Tom; and so, without burning any more daylight, he kissed his mother, curled his club at the little boys, and he set off along the yalla highroad to the town of Dublin. At last Tom came to one of the city gates, and the guards laughed and cursed at him instead of letting him through. Tom stood it all for a little time, but at last one of them--out of fun, as he said--drove his _bagnet_ half an inch or so into his side. Tom did nothing but take the fellow by the scruff of his neck and the waistband of his corduroys and fling him into the canal. Some ran to pull the fellow out, and others to let manners into the vulgarian with their swords and daggers; but a tap from his club sent them headlong into the moat or down on the stones, and they were soon begging him to stay his hands. So at last one of them was glad enough to show Tom the way to the palace yard; and there was the King and the Queen, and the princess in a gallery, looking at all sorts of wrestling and sword-playing, and _rinka-fadhas_ (long dances) and mumming, all to please the princess; but not a smile came over her handsome face. Well, they all stopped when they seen the young giant, with his boy's face and long black hair, and his short curly beard--for his poor mother couldn't afford to buy _razhurs_--and his great strong arms and bare legs, and no covering but the goat-skin that reached from his waist to his knees. But an envious wizened _basthard_ of a fellow, with a red head, that wished to be married to the princess, and didn't like how she opened her eyes at Tom, came forward, and asked his business very snappishly. "My business," says Tom, says he, "is to make the beautiful princess, God bless her, laugh three times." "Do you see all them merry fellows and skilful swordsmen," says the other, "that could eat you up with a grain of salt, and not a mother's soul of 'em ever got a laugh from her these seven years?" So the fellows gathered round Tom, and the bad man aggravated him till he told them he didn't care a pinch of snuff for the whole bilin' of 'em; let 'em come on, six at a time, and try what they could do. The King, that was too far off to hear what they were saying, asked what did the stranger want. "He wants," says the red-headed fellow, "to make hares of your best men." "Oh!" says the King, "if that's the way, let one of 'em turn out and try his mettle." So one stood forward, with _soord_ and pot-lid, and made a cut at Tom. He struck the fellow's elbow with the club, and up over their heads flew the sword, and down went the owner of it on the gravel from a thump he got on the helmet. Another took his place, and another, and another, and then half a dozen at once, and Tom sent swords, helmets, shields, and bodies rolling over and over, and themselves bawling out that they were kilt, and disabled, and damaged, and rubbing their poor elbows and hips, and limping away. Tom contrived not to kill anyone; and the princess was so amused that she let a great sweet laugh out of her that was heard all over the yard. "King of Dublin," says Tom, "I've quarter of your daughter." And the King didn't know whether he was glad or sorry, and all the blood in the princess's heart run into her cheeks. So there was no more fighting that day, and Tom was invited to dine with the royal family. Next day Redhead told Tom of a wolf, the size of a yearling heifer, that used to be _serenading_ (sauntering) about the walls, and eating people and cattle; and said what a pleasure it would give the King to have it killed. "With all my heart," says Tom. "Send a jackeen to show me where he lives, and we'll see how he behaves to a stranger." The princess was not well pleased, for Tom looked a different person with fine clothes and a nice green _birredh_ over his long, curly hair; and besides, he'd got one laugh out of her. However, the King gave his consent; and in an hour and a half the horrible wolf was walking in the palace yard, and Tom a step or two behind, with his club on his shoulder, just as a shepherd would be walking after a pet lamb. The King and Queen and princess were safe up in their gallery, but the officers and people of the court that were _padrowling_ about the great bawn, when they saw the big baste coming in gave themselves up, and began to make for doors and gates; and the wolf licked his chops, as if he was saying, "Wouldn't I enjoy a breakfast off a couple of yez!" The King shouted out, "O Gilla na Chreck an Gour, take away that terrible wolf, and you must have all my daughter." But Tom didn't mind him a bit. He pulled out his flute and began to play like vengeance; and dickens a man or boy in the yard but began shovelling away heel and toe, and the wolf himself was obliged to get on his hind legs and dance _Tatther Jack Walsh_ along with the rest. A good deal of the people got inside and shut the doors, the way the hairy fellow wouldn't pin them; but Tom kept playing, and the outsiders kept shouting and dancing, and the wolf kept dancing and roaring with the pain his legs were giving him: and all the time he had his eyes on Redhead, who was shut out along with the rest. Wherever Redhead went the wolf followed, and kept one eye on him and the other on Tom, to see if he would give him leave to eat him. But Tom shook his head, and never stopped the tune, and Redhead never stopped dancing and bawling and the wolf dancing and roaring, one leg up and the other down, and he ready to drop out of his standing from fair tiresomeness. When the princess seen that there was no fear of anyone being kilt she was so divarted by the stew that Redhead was in that she gave another great laugh; and well become Tom, out he cried, "King of Dublin, I have two quarters of your daughter." "Oh, quarters or alls," says the King, "put away that divel of a wolf and we'll see about it." So Gilla put his flute in his pocket, and says he to the baste that was sittin' on his currabingo ready to faint, "Walk off to your mountains, my fine fellow, and live like a respectable baste; and if ever I find you come within seven miles of any town----" He said no more, but spit in his fist, and gave a flourish of his club. It was all the poor divel wanted: he put his tail between his legs and took to his pumps without looking at man nor mortial, and neither sun, moon, nor stars ever saw him in sight of Dublin again. At dinner everyone laughed but the foxy fellow; and, sure enough, he was laying out how he'd settle poor Tom next day. "Well, to be sure!" says he, "King of Dublin, you are in luck. There's the Danes moidhering us to no end. D---- run to Lusk wid 'em! and if anyone can save us from 'em it is this gentleman with the goat-skin. There is a flail hangin' on the collar-beam in Hell, and neither Dane nor Devil can stand before it." "So," says Tom to the King, "will you let me have the other half of the princess if I bring you the flail?" "No, no," says the princess, "I'd rather never be your wife than see you in that danger." But Redhead whispered and nudged Tom about how shabby it would look to reneague the adventure. So he asked him which way he was to go, and Redhead directed him through a street where a great many bad women lived, and a great many shibbeen houses were open, and away he set. Well, he travelled and travelled till he came in sight of the walls of Hell; and, bedad, before he knocked at the gates, he rubbed himself over with the greenish ointment. When he knocked a hundred little imps popped their heads out through the bars, and axed him what he wanted. "I want to speak to the big divel of all," says Tom: "open the gate." It wasn't long till the gate was _thrune_ open, and the Ould Boy received Tom with bows and scrapes, and axed his business. "My business isn't much," says Tom. "I only came for the loan of that flail that I see hanging on the collar-beam for the King of Dublin to give a thrashing to the Danes." "Well," says the other, "the Danes is much better customers to me; but, since you walked so far, I won't refuse. Hand that flail," says he to a young imp; and he winked the far-off eye at the same time. So while some were barring the gates, the young devil climbed up and took down the iron flail that had the handstaff and booltheen both made out of red-hot iron. The little vagabond was grinning to think how it would burn the hands off of Tom, but the dickens a burn it made on him, no more nor if it was a good oak sapling. "Thankee," says Tom; "now would you open the gate for a body and I'll give you no more trouble." "Oh, tramp!" says Ould Nick, "is that the way? It is easier getting inside them gates than getting out again. Take that tool from him, and give him a dose of the oil of stirrup." So one fellow put out his claws to seize on the flail, but Tom gave him such a welt of it on the side of his head that he broke off one of his horns, and made him roar like a divel as he was. Well, they rushed at Tom, but he gave them, little and big, such a thrashing as they didn't forget for a while. At last says the ould thief of all, rubbing his elbows, "Let the fool out; and woe to whoever lets him in again, great or small." So out marched Tom and away with him, without minding the shouting and cursing they kept up at him from the tops of the walls. And when he got home to the big bawn of the palace, there never was such running and racing as to see himself and the flail. When he had his story told he laid down the flail on the stone steps, and bid no one for their lives to touch it. If the King and Queen and princess made much of him before they made ten times as much of him now; but Redhead, the mean scruff-hound, stole over, and thought to catch hold of the flail to make an end of him. His fingers hardly touched it, when he let a roar out of him as if heaven and earth were coming together, and kept flinging his arms about and dancing that it was pitiful to look at him. Tom run at him as soon as he could rise, caught his hands in his own two, and rubbed them this way and that, and the burning pain left them before you could reckon one. Well, the poor fellow, between the pain that was only just gone, and the comfort he was in, had the comicalest face that ever you see; it was such a mixerum-gatherum of laughing and crying. Everyone burst out a laughing--the princess could not stop no more than the rest--and then says Gilla, or Tom, "Now, ma'am, if there were fifty halves of you I hope you'll give me them all." Well, the princess had no mock modesty about her. She looked at her father, and, by my word, she came over to Gilla and put her two delicate hands into his two rough ones, and I wish it was myself was in his shoes that day! Tom would not bring the flail into the palace. You may be sure no other body went near it; and when the early risers were passing next morning they found two long clefts in the stone where it was, after burning itself an opening downwards, nobody could tell how far. But a messenger came in at noon and said that the Danes were so frightened when they heard of the flail coming into Dublin that they got into their ships and sailed away. Well, I suppose before they were married Gilla got some man like Pat Mara of Tomenine to larn him the "principles of politeness," fluxions, gunnery, and fortifications, decimal fractions, practice, and the rule-of-three direct, the way he'd be able to keep up a conversation with the royal family. Whether he ever lost his time larning them sciences, I'm not sure, but it's as sure as fate that his mother never more saw any want till the end of her days. PATRICK KENNEDY. The Hill-man and the House-wife It is well known that the good people cannot stand mean ways. Now, there once lived a house-wife who had a sharp eye to her own good in this world, and gave alms of what she had no use, for the good of her soul. One day a hill-man knocked at her door. "Can you lend us a saucepan, good mother?" said he. "There's a wedding in the hill, and all the pots are in use." "Is he to have one?" asked the servant girl who opened the door. "Ay, to be sure," said the house-wife. But when the maid was taking a saucepan from the shelf, she pinched her arm and whispered sharply, "Not that, you stupid; get the old one out of the cupboard. It leaks, and the hill-men are so neat and such nimble workers that they are sure to mend it before they send it home. So one does a good turn to the good people and saves sixpence from the tinker." The maid fetched the saucepan, which had been laid by till the tinker's next visit, and gave it to the dwarf, who thanked her and went away. The saucepan was soon returned neatly mended and ready for use. At supper time the maid filled the pan with milk and set it on the fire for the children's supper, but in a few minutes the milk was so burnt and smoked that no one could touch it, and even the pigs would not drink the wash into which it was thrown. "Ah, you good-for-nothing slut!" cried the house-wife, as she this time filled the pan herself. "You would ruin the richest, with your careless ways; there's a whole quart of good milk spoilt at once." "And that's twopence," cried a voice from the chimney, a queer whining voice like some old body who was always grumbling over something. The house-wife had not left the saucepan for two minutes when the milk boiled over, and it was all burnt and smoked as before. "The pan must be dirty," cried the house-wife in a rage; "and there are two full quarts of milk as good as thrown to the dogs." "_And that's fourpence_," said the voice in the chimney. After a long scrubbing the saucepan was once more filled and set on the fire, but it was not the least use, the milk was burnt and smoked again, and the house-wife burst into tears at the waste, crying out, "Never before did such a thing happen to me since I kept house! Three quarts of milk burnt for one meal!" "_And that's sixpence,_" cried the voice from the chimney. "You didn't save the tinker after all," with which the hill-man himself came tumbling down the chimney, and went off laughing through the door. But from that time the saucepan was as good as any other. JULIANA HORATIA EWING. The Giant Walker Now, all the night around their echoing camp Was heard continuous from the hills a sound as of the tramp Of giant footsteps; but, so thick the white mist lay around, None saw the Walker, save the King. He, starting at the sound, Called to his foot his fierce red hound; athwart his shoulders cast A shaggy mantle, grasped his spear, and through the moonlight passed Alone up dark Ben-Boli's heights, towards which, above the woods, With sound as when at close of eve the noise of falling floods Is borne to shepherd's ear remote on stilly upland lawn, The steps along the mountain-side with hollow fall came on. Fast beat the hero's heart; and close down-crouching by his knee Trembled the hound, while, through the haze, huge as through mists at sea, The week-long sleepless mariner descries some mountain cape, Wreck-infamous, rise on his lee, appeared a monstrous Shape, Striding impatient, like a man much grieved, who walks alone, Considering of a cruel wrong; down from his shoulders thrown A mantle, skirted stiff with soil splashed from the miry ground, At every stride against his calves struck with as loud rebound As makes the main-sail of a ship brought up along the blast, When with the coil of all its ropes it beats the sounding mast. So, striding vast, the giant passed; the King held fast his breath-- Motionless, save his throbbing heart; and chill and still as death Stood listening while, a second time, the giant took the round Of all the camp; but, when at length, for the third time, the sound Came up, and through the parting haze a third time huge and dim Rose out the Shape, the valiant hound sprang forth and challenged him. And forth, disdaining that a dog should put him so to shame, Sprang Congal, and essayed to speak: "Dread Shadow, stand! Proclaim What wouldst thou that thou thus all night around my camp shouldst keep Thy troublous vigil banishing the wholesome gift of sleep From all our eyes, who, though inured to dreadful sounds and sights By land and sea, have never yet, in all our perilous nights, Lain in the ward of such a guard." The Shape made answer none, But with stern wafture of its hand went angrier striding on, Shaking the earth with heavier steps. Then Congal on his track Sprang fearless. "Answer me, thou churl!" he cried, "I bid thee back!" But while he spoke, the giant's cloak around his shoulders grew Like to a black-bulged thunder-cloud, and sudden, out there flew From all its angry swelling folds, with uproar unconfined, Direct against the King's pursuit, a mighty blast of wind. Loud flapped the mantle, tempest-lined, while, fluttering down the gale, As leaves in autumn, man and hound were swept into the vale; And, heard o'er all the huge uproar, through startled Dalaray The giant went, with stamp and clash, departing south away. SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. The Pursuit of the Gilla Dacker Now, it chanced at one time during the chase, while they were hunting over the plain of Cliach, that Finn went to rest on the hill of Collkilla, which is now called Knockainy; and he had his hunting-tents pitched on a level spot near the summit, and some of his chief heroes tarried with him. When the King and his companions had taken their places on the hill, the Feni unleashed their gracefully shaped, sweet-voiced hounds through the woods and sloping glens. And it was sweet music to Finn's ear, the cry of the long-snouted dogs, as they routed the deer from their covers and the badgers from their dens; the pleasant, emulating shouts of the youths; the whistling and signalling of the huntsmen; and the encouraging cheers of the mighty heroes, as they spread themselves through the glens and woods, and over the broad green plain of Cliach. Then did Finn ask who of all his companions would go to the highest point of the hill directly over them to keep watch and ward and to report how the chase went on. For, he said, the Dedannans were ever on the watch to work the Feni mischief by their druidical spells, and more so during the chase than at other times. Finn Ban Mac Bresal stood forward and offered to go; and, grasping his broad spears, he went to the top, and sat viewing the plain to the four points of the sky. And the King and his companions brought forth the chess-board and chess-men and sat them down to a game. Finn Ban Mac Bresal had been watching only a little time when he saw on a plain to the east a Fomor of vast size coming towards the hill, leading a horse. As he came nearer Finn Ban observed that he was the ugliest-looking giant his eyes ever lighted on. He had a large, thick body, bloated and swollen out to a great size; clumsy, crooked legs; and broad, flat feet turned inwards. His hands and arms and shoulders were bony and thick and very strong-looking; his neck was long and thin; and while his head was poked forward, his face was turned up, as he stared straight at Finn Mac Bresal. He had thick lips, and long, crooked teeth; and his face was covered all over with bushy hair. He was fully armed; but all his weapons were rusty and soiled and slovenly looking. A broad shield of a dirty, sooty colour, rough and battered, hung over his back; he had a long, heavy, straight sword at his left hip; and he held in his left hand two thick-handled, broad-headed spears, old and rusty, and seeming as if they had not been handled for years. In his right hand he held an iron club, which he dragged after him with its end on the ground; and, as it trailed along, it tore up a track as deep as the furrow a farmer ploughs with a team of oxen. The horse he led was even larger in proportion than the giant himself, and quite as ugly. His great carcass was covered all over with tangled scraggy hair, of a sooty black; you could count his ribs and all the points of his big bones through his hide; his legs were crooked and knotty; his neck was twisted; and as for his jaws, they were so long and heavy that they made his head look twice too large for his body. The giant held him by a thick halter, and seemed to be dragging him forward by main force, the animal was so lazy and so hard to move. Every now and then, when the beast tried to stand still, the giant would give him a blow on the ribs with his big iron club, which sounded as loud as the thundering of a great billow against the rough-headed rocks of the coast. When he gave him a pull forward by the halter, the wonder was that he did not drag the animal's head away from his body; and, on the other hand, the horse often gave the halter such a tremendous tug backwards that it was equally wonderful how the arm of the giant was not torn away from his shoulder. When at last he had come up he bowed his head and bended his knee, and saluted the King with great respect. Finn addressed him; and after having given him leave to speak he asked him who he was, and what was his name, and whether he belonged to one of the noble or ignoble races; also what was his profession or craft, and why he had no servant to attend to his horse. The big man made answer and said, "King of the Feni, whether I come of a noble or of an ignoble race, that, indeed, I cannot tell, for I know not who my father and mother were. As to where I came from, I am a Fomor of Lochlann in the north; but I have no particular dwelling-place, for I am continually travelling about from one country to another, serving the great lords and nobles of the world, and receiving wages for my service. "In the course of my wanderings I have often heard of you, O King, and of your greatness and splendour and royal bounty; and I have come now to ask you to take me into your service for one year; and at the end of that time I shall fix my own wages, according to my custom. "You ask me also why I have no servant for this great horse of mine. The reason of that is this: at every meal I eat my master must give me as much food and drink as would be enough for a hundred men; and whosoever the lord or chief may be that takes me into his service, it is quite enough for him to have to provide for me, without having also to feed my servant. "Moreover, I am so very heavy and lazy that I should never be able to keep up with a company on march if I had to walk; and this is my reason for keeping a horse at all. "My name is the Gilla Dacker, and it is not without good reason that I am so called. For there never was a lazier or worse servant than I am, or one that grumbles more at doing a day's work for his master. And I am the hardest person in the world to deal with; for, no matter how good or noble I may think my master, or how kindly he may treat me, it is hard words and foul reproaches I am likely to give him for thanks in the end. "This, O Finn, is the account I have to give of myself, and these are my answers to your questions." "Well," answered Finn, "according to your own account you are not a very pleasant fellow to have anything to do with; and of a truth there is not much to praise in your appearance. But things may not be so bad as you say; and, anyhow, as I have never yet refused any man service and wages, I will not now refuse you." Whereupon Finn and the Gilla Dacker made covenants, and the Gilla Dacker was taken into service for a year. "And now," said the Gilla Dacker, "as to this same horse of mine, I find I must attend to him myself, as I see no one here worthy of putting a hand near him. So I will lead him to the nearest stud, as I am wont to do, and let him graze among your horses. I value him greatly, however, and it would grieve me very much if any harm were to befall him; so," continued he, turning to the King, "I put him under your protection, O King, and under the protection of all the Feni that are here present." At this speech the Feni all burst out laughing to see the Gilla Dacker showing such concern for his miserable, worthless old skeleton of a horse. Howbeit, the big man, giving not the least heed to their merriment, took the halter off the horse's head and turned him loose among the horses of the Feni. But now, this same wretched-looking old animal, instead of beginning to graze, as everyone thought he would, ran in among the horses of the Feni, and began straightway to work all sorts of mischief. He cocked his long, hard, switchy tail straight out like a rod, and, throwing up his hind legs, he kicked about on this side and on that, maiming and disabling several of the horses. Sometimes he went tearing through the thickest of the herd, butting at them with his hard, bony forehead; and he opened out his lips with a vicious grin and tore all he could lay hold on with his sharp, crooked teeth, so that none were safe that came in his way either before or behind. At last he left them, and was making straight across to a small field where Conan Mail's horses were grazing by themselves, intending to play the same tricks among them. But Conan, seeing this, shouted in great alarm to the Gilla Dacker to bring away his horse, and not let him work any more mischief; and threatening, if he did not do so at once, to go himself and knock the brains out of the vicious old brute on the spot. But the Gilla Dacker told Conan that he saw no way of preventing his horse from joining the others, except someone put the halter on him. "And," said he to Conan, "there is the halter; and if you are in any fear for your own animals, you may go yourself and bring him away from the field." Conan was in a mighty rage when he heard this; and as he saw the big horse just about to cross the fence, he snatched up the halter, and, running forward with long strides, he threw it over the animal's head and thought to lead him back. But in a moment the horse stood stock still, and his body and legs became as stiff as if they were made of wood; and though Conan pulled and tugged with might and main, he was not able to stir him an inch from his place. At last Fergus Finnvel, the poet, spoke to Conan and said, "I never would have believed, Conan Mail, that you could be brought to do horse-service for any knight or noble in the whole world; but now, indeed, I see that you have made yourself a horse-boy to an ugly foreign giant, so hateful-looking and low-born that not a man of the Feni would have anything to say to him. As you have, however, to mind this old horse in order to save your own, would it not be better for you to mount him and revenge yourself for all the trouble he is giving you, by riding him across the country, over the hill-tops, and down into the deep glens and valleys, and through stones and bogs and all sorts of rough places, till you have broken the heart in his big ugly body?" Conan, stung by the cutting words of the poet and by the jeers of his companions, jumped upon the horse's back, and began to beat him mightily with his heels and with his two big heavy fists to make him go; but the horse seemed not to take the least notice, and never stirred. "I know the reason he does not go," said Fergus Finnvel; "he has been accustomed to carry a horseman far heavier than you--that is to say, the Gilla Dacker; and he will not move till he has the same weight on his back." At this Conan Mail called out to his companions, and asked which of them would mount with him and help to avenge the damage done to their horses. "I will go," said Coil Croda the Battle Victor, son of Criffan; and up he went. But the horse never moved. Dara Donn Mac Morna next offered to go, and mounted behind the others; and after him Angus Mac Art Mac Morna. And the end of it was that fourteen men of the Clann Baskin and Clann Morna got up along with Conan; and all began to thrash the horse together with might and main. But they were none the better for it, for he remained standing stiff and immovable as before. They found, moreover, that their seat was not at all an easy one--the animal's back was so sharp and bony. When the Gilla Dacker saw the Feni beating his horse at such a rate he seemed very angry, and addressed the King in these words: "King of the Feni, I now see plainly that all the fine accounts I heard about you and the Feni are false, and I will not stay in your service--no, not another hour. You can see for yourself the ill usage these men are giving my horse without cause; and I leave you to judge whether anyone could put up with it--anyone who had the least regard for his horse. The time is, indeed, short since I entered your service, but I now think it a great deal too long; so pay me my wages and let me go my ways." But Finn said, "I do not wish you to go; stay on till the end of your year, and then I will pay you all I promised you." "I swear," answered the Gilla Dacker, "that if this were the very last day of my year, I would not wait till morning for my wages after this insult. So, wages or no wages, I will now seek another master; but from this time forth I shall know what to think of Finn Mac Cumal and his Feni!" With that the Gilla Dacker stood up as straight as a pillar, and, turning his face towards the south-west, he walked slowly away. When the horse saw his master leaving the hill he stirred himself at once and walked quietly after him, bringing the fifteen men away on his back. And when the Feni saw this they raised a loud shout of laughter, mocking them. The Gilla Dacker, after he had walked some little way, looked back, and, seeing that his horse was following, he stood for a moment to tuck up his skirts. Then, all at once changing his pace, he set out with long, active strides; and if you know what the speed of a swallow is flying across a mountain-side, or the dry fairy wind of a March day sweeping over the plains, then you can understand the swiftness of the Gilla Dacker as he ran down the hill-side towards the south-west. Neither was the horse behindhand in the race; for though he carried a heavy load, he galloped like the wind after his master, plunging and bounding forward with as much freedom as if he had nothing at all on his back. The men now tried to throw themselves off; but this, indeed, they were not able to do, for the good reason that they found themselves fastened firmly, hands and feet and all, to the horse's back. And now Conan, looking round, raised his big voice and shouted to Finn and the Feni, asking them were they content to let their friends be carried off in that manner by such a horrible, foul-looking old spectre of a horse. Finn and the others, hearing this, seized their arms and started off in pursuit. Now, the way the Gilla Dacker and his horse took was first through Fermore, which is at the present day called Hy Conall Gavra; next over the wide, heathy summit of Slieve Lougher; from that to Corca Divna; and they ran along by Slieve Mish till they reached Cloghan Kincat, near the deep green sea. And so the great horse continued his course without stop or stay, bringing the sixteen Feni with him through the sea. Now, this is how they fared in the sea while the horse was rushing farther and farther to the west: they had always a dry, firm strand under them, for the waters retired before the horse; while behind them was a wild, raging sea, which followed close after and seemed ready every moment to topple over their heads. But, though the billows were tumbling and roaring all round, neither horse nor riders were wetted by as much as a drop of brine or a dash of spray. Then Finn spoke and asked the chiefs what they thought best to be done; and they told him they would follow whatsoever counsel he and Fergus Finnvel, the poet, gave them. Then Finn told Fergus to speak his mind; and Fergus said: "My counsel is that we go straightway to Ben Edar, where we shall find a ship ready to sail. For our forefathers, when they wrested the land from the gifted, bright-complexioned Dedannans, bound them by covenant to maintain this ship for ever, fitted with all things needful for a voyage, even to the smallest article, as one of the privileges of Ben Edar; so that if at any time one of the noble sons of Gael Glas wished to sail to distant lands from Erin, he should have a ship lying at hand in the harbour ready to begin his voyage." They agreed to this counsel, and turned their steps without delay northwards towards Ben Edar. They had not gone far when they met two noble-looking youths, fully armed, and wearing over their armour beautiful mantles of scarlet silk, fastened by brooches of gold. The strangers saluted the King with much respect; and the King saluted them in return. Then, having given them leave to converse, he asked them who they were, whither they had come, and who the prince or chief was that they served. And the elder answered: "My name is Feradach, and my brother's name is Foltlebar; and we are the two sons of the King of Innia. Each of us professes an art; and it has long been a point of dispute between us which art is the better, my brother's or mine. Hearing that there is not in the world a wiser or more far-seeing man than thou art, O King, we have come to ask thee to take us into thy service among thy household troops for a year, and at the end of that time to give judgment between us in this matter." Finn asked them what were the two arts they professed. "My art," answered Feradach, "is this. If at any time a company of warriors need a ship, give me only my joiner's axe and my crann-tavall, and I am able to provide a ship for them without delay. The only think I ask them to do is this--to cover their heads close, and keep them covered, while I give the crann-tavall three blows of my axe. Then I tell them to uncover their heads; and lo, there lies the ship in harbour ready to sail!" Then Foltlebar spoke and said, "This, O King, is the art I profess. On land I can track the wild duck over nine ridges and nine glens, and follow her without being once thrown out till I drop upon her in her nest. And I can follow up a track on sea quite as well as on land if I have a good ship and crew." Finn replied, "You are the very men I want; and I now take you both into my service. At this moment I need a good ship and a skilful pilot more than any two things in the whole world." Whereupon Finn told them the whole story of the Gilla Dacker's doings from beginning to end. "And we are now," said he, "on our way to Ben Edar to seek a ship that we may follow this giant and his horse and rescue our companions." Then Feradach said, "I will get you a ship--a ship that will sail as swiftly as a swallow can fly!" And Foltlebar said, "I will guide your ship in the track of the Gilla Dacker till ye lay hands on him, in whatsoever quarter of the world he may have hidden himself!" And so they turned back to Cloghan Kincat. And when they had come to the beach Feradach told them to cover their heads, and they did so. Then he struck three blows of his axe on the crann-tavall; after which he made them look. And lo, they saw a ship fully fitted out with oars and sails and with all things needed for a long voyage riding before them in the harbour! Then they went on board and launched their ship on the cold, bright sea; and Foltlebar was their pilot and steersman. And they set their sail and plied their slender oars, and the ship moved swiftly westward till they lost sight of the shores of Erin; and they saw nothing all round them but a wide girdle of sea. After some days' sailing a great storm came from the west, and the black waves rose up against them so that they had much ado to keep their vessel from sinking. But through all the roaring of the tempest, through the rain and blinding spray, Foltlebar never stirred from the helm or changed his course, but still kept close on the track of the Gilla Dacker. At length the storm abated and the sea grew calm. And when the darkness had cleared away they saw to the west, a little way off, a vast rocky cliff towering over their heads to such a height that its head seemed hidden among the clouds. It rose up sheer from the very water, and looked at that distance as smooth as glass, so that at first sight there seemed no way to reach the top. Foltlebar, after examining to the four points of the sky, found the track of the Gilla Dacker as far as the cliff, but no farther. And he accordingly told the heroes that he thought it was on the top of that rock the giant lived; and that, anyhow, the horse must have made his way up the face of the cliff with their companions. When the heroes heard this they were greatly cast down and puzzled what to do; for they saw no way of reaching the top of the rock; and they feared they should have to give up the quest and return without their companions. And they sat down and looked up at the cliff with sorrow and vexation in their hearts. Fergus Finnvel, the poet, then challenged the hero Dermat O'Dyna to climb the rock in pursuit of the Gilla Dacker, and he did so, and on reaching the summit found himself in a beautiful fairy plain. He fared across it and came to a great tree laden with fruit beside a well as clear as crystal. Hard by, on the brink of the well, stood a tall pillar stone, and on its top lay a golden-chased drinking horn. He filled the horn from the well and drank, but had scarcely taken it from his lips when he saw a fully armed wizard champion advancing to meet him with looks and gestures of angry menace. The wizard upbraided him for entering his territory without leave and for drinking out of his well from his drinking horn, and thereupon challenged him to fight. For four days long they fought, the wizard escaping from Dermat every even-fall by leaping into the well and disappearing down through it. But on the fourth evening Dermat closed with the wizard when about to spring into the water, and fell with him into the well. On reaching the bottom the wizard wrested himself away and started running, and Dermat found himself in a strangely beautiful country with a royal palace hard by, in front of which armed knights were engaged in warlike exercises. Through them the wizard ran, but, when Dermat attempted to follow, his way was barred by their threatening weapons. Nothing daunted, he fell upon them in all his battle fury, and routed them so entirely that they fled and shut themselves up in the castle or took refuge in distant woods. Overcome with his battle toil (and smarting all over with wounds) Dermat fell into a dead sleep, from which he was wakened by a friendly blow from the flat of a sword held by a young, golden-haired hero, who proved to be the brother of the Knight of Valour, King of that country of Tir-fa-tonn, whom in the guise of the Knight of the Fountain, Dermat had fought and chased away. A part of the kingdom belonging to him had been seized by his wizard brother, and he now seeks and obtains Dermat's aid to win it back for him. When Dermat at last meets Finn and the other Feni who had gone in pursuit of him into the Kingdom of Sorca, at the summit of the great rock, he is able to relate how he headed the men of the Knight of Valour against the Wizard King, and slew him and defeated his army. "And now," continued he, bringing forth the Knight of Valour from among the strange host, "this is he who was formerly called the Knight of Valour, but who is now the King of Tir-fa-tonn. Moreover, this King has told me, having himself found it out by his druidical art, that it was Avarta the Dedannan (the son of Illahan of the Many-coloured Raiment) who took the form of the Gilla Dacker, and who brought the sixteen Feni away to the Land of Promise, where he now holds them in bondage." Then Foltlebar at once found the tracks of the Gilla Dacker and his horse. He traced them from the very edge of the rock across the plain to the sea at the other side; and they brought round their ship and began their voyage. But this time Foltlebar found it very hard to keep on the track; for the Gilla Dacker, knowing that there were not in the world men more skilled in following up a quest than the Feni, took great pains to hide all traces of the flight of himself and his horse; so that Foltlebar was often thrown out; but he always recovered the track after a little time. And so they sailed from island to island and from bay to bay, over many seas and by many shores, ever following the track, till at length they arrived at the Land of Promise. And when they had made the land, and knew for a certainty that this was indeed the Land of Promise, they rejoiced greatly; for in this land Dermat O'Dyna had been nurtured by Mannanan Mac Lir of the Yellow Hair. Then they held council as to what was best to be done; and Finn's advice was that they should burn and spoil the country in revenge of the outrage that had been done to his people. Dermat, however, would not hear of this. And he said: "Not so, O King. The people of this land are of all men the most skilled in druidic art; and it is not well that they should be at feud with us. Let us rather send to Avarta a trusty herald to demand that he should set our companions at liberty. If he does so, then we shall be at peace; if he refuse, then shall we proclaim war against him and his people, and waste this land with fire and sword till he be forced, even by his own people, to give us back our friends." This advice was approved by all. And then Finn said: "But how shall heralds reach the dwelling of this enchanter; for the ways are not open and straight, as in other lands, but crooked and made for concealment, and the valleys and plains are dim and shadowy and hard to be traversed?" But Foltlebar, nothing daunted by the dangers and the obscurity of the way, offered to go with a single trusty companion; and they took up the track and followed it without being once thrown out, till they reached the mansion of Avarta. There they found their friends amusing themselves on the green outside the palace walls; for, though kept captive in the island, yet were they in no wise restrained, but were treated by Avarta with much kindness. When they saw the heralds coming towards them their joy knew no bounds; they crowded round to embrace them, and asked them many questions regarding their home and their friends. At last Avarta himself came forth and asked who these strangers were; and Foltlebar replied: "We are of the people of Finn Mac Cumal, who has sent us as heralds to thee. He and his heroes have landed on this island guided hither by me; and he bade us tell thee that he has come to wage war and to waste this land with fire and sword as a punishment for that thou hast brought away his people by foul spells, and even now keepest them in bondage." When Avarta heard this he made no reply, but called a council of his chief men to consider whether they should send back to Finn an answer of war or of peace. And they, having much fear of the Feni, were minded to restore Finn's people and to give him his own award in satisfaction for the injury done to him; and to invite Finn himself and those who had come with him to a feast of joy and friendship in the house of Avarta. Avarta himself went with Foltlebar to give this message. And after he and Finn had exchanged friendly greetings, he told them what the council had resolved; and Finn and Dermat and the others were glad at heart. And Finn and Avarta put hand in hand and made a league of friendship. So they went with Avarta to his house, where they found their lost friends; and, being full of gladness, they saluted and embraced each other. Then a feast was prepared; and they were feasted for three days, and they ate and drank and made merry. On the fourth day a meeting was called on the green to hear the award. Now, it was resolved to make amends on the one hand to Finn, as King of the Feni, and on the other to those who had been brought away by the Gilla Dacker. And when all were gathered together Finn was first asked to name his award; and this is what he said: "I shall not name an award, O Avarta; neither shall I accept an eric from thee. But the wages I promised thee when we made our covenant at Knockainy, that I will give thee. For I am thankful for the welcome thou hast given us here; and I wish that there should be peace and friendship between us for ever." But Conan, on his part, was not so easily satisfied; and he said to Finn: "Little hast thou endured, O Finn, in this matter; and thou mayst well waive thy award. But hadst thou, like us, suffered from the sharp bones and the rough carcass of the Gilla Dacker's monstrous horse in a long journey from Erin to the Land of Promise, across wide seas, through tangled woods, and over rough-headed rocks, thou wouldst then, methinks, name an award." At this, Avarta and the others who had seen Conan and his companions carried off on the back of the big horse could scarce keep from laughing; and Avarta said to Conan: "Name thy award, and I will fulfil it every jot; for I have heard of thee, Conan, and I dread to bring the gibes and taunts of thy foul tongue on myself and my people." "Well, then," said Conan, "my award is this: that you choose fifteen of the best and noblest men in the Land of Promise, among whom are to be your own best beloved friends; and that you cause them to mount on the back of the big horse, and that you yourself take hold of his tail. In this manner you shall fare to Erin, back again by the self-same track the horse took when he brought us hither--through the same surging seas, through the same thick thorny woods, and over the same islands and rough rocks and dark glens. And this, Avarta, is my award," said Conan. Now, Finn and his people were rejoiced exceedingly when they heard Conan's award--that he asked from Avarta nothing more than like for like. For they feared much that he might claim treasure of gold and silver, and thus bring reproach on the Feni. Avarta promised that everything required by Conan should be done, binding himself in solemn pledges. Then the heroes took their leave; and having launched their ship on the broad, green sea, they sailed back by the same course to Erin. And they marched to their camping-place at Knockainy, where they rested in their tents. Avarta then chose his men. And he placed them on the horse's back, and he himself caught hold of the tail; and it is not told how they fared till they made harbour and landing-place at Cloghan Kincat. They delayed not, but straightway journeyed over the self-same track as before till they reached Knockainy. Finn and his people saw them afar off coming towards the hill with great speed; the Gilla Dacker, quite as large and as ugly as ever, running before the horse; for he had let go the tail at Cloghan Kincat. And the Feni could not help laughing heartily when they saw the plight of the fifteen chiefs on the great horse's back; and they said with one voice that Conan had made a good award that time. When the horse reached the spot from which he had at first set out the men began to dismount. Then the Gilla Dacker, suddenly stepping forward, held up his arm and pointed earnestly over the heads of the Feni towards the field where the horses were standing; so that the heroes were startled, and turned round every man to look. But nothing was to be seen except the horses grazing quietly inside the fence. Finn and the others now turned round again with intent to speak to the Gilla Dacker and bring him and his people into the tents; but much did they marvel to find them all gone. The Gilla Dacker and his great horse and fifteen nobles of the Land of Promise had disappeared in an instant; and neither Finn himself nor any of his chiefs ever saw them afterwards. PATRICK WESTON JOYCE. Jamie Freel and the Young Lady (_Ulster Irish._) Down in Fannet, in times gone by, lived Jamie Freel and his mother. Jamie was the widow's sole support; his strong arm worked for her untiringly, and as each Saturday night came round he poured his wages into her lap, thanking her dutifully for the halfpence which she returned him for tobacco. He was extolled by his neighbours as the best son ever known or heard of. But he had neighbours of whose opinions he was ignorant--neighbours who lived pretty close to him, whom he had never seen, who are, indeed, rarely seen by mortals, except on May Eves or Halloweens. An old ruined castle, about a quarter of a mile from his cabin, was said to be the abode of the "wee folk." Every Halloween were the ancient windows lighted up, and passersby saw little figures flitting to and fro inside the building, while they heard the music of flutes and pipes. It was well known that fairy revels took place; but nobody had the courage to intrude on them. Jamie had often watched the little figures from a distance, and listened to the charming music, wondering what the inside of the castle was like; but one Halloween he got up, and took his cap, saying to his mother, "I'm awa to the castle to seek my fortune." "What!" cried she. "Would you venture there--you that's the widow's only son? Dinna be sae venturesome and foolitch, Jamie! They'll kill you, an' then what'll come o' me?" "Never fear, mother; nae harm'll happen me, but I maun gae." He set out, and, as he crossed the potato field, came in sight of the castle, whose windows were ablaze with light that seemed to turn the russet leaves, still clinging to the crab-tree branches, into gold. Halting in the grove at one side of the ruin, he listened to the elfin revelry, and the laughter and singing made him all the more determined to proceed. Numbers of little people, the largest about the size of a child of five years old, were dancing to the music of flutes and fiddles, while others drank and feasted. "Welcome, Jamie Freel! Welcome, welcome, Jamie!" cried the company, perceiving their visitor. The word "Welcome" was caught up and repeated by every voice in the castle. Time flew, and Jamie was enjoying himself very much, when his hosts said, "We're going to ride to Dublin to-night to steal a young lady. Will you come, too, Jamie Freel?" "Ay, that I will," cried the rash youth, thirsting for adventure. A troop of horses stood at the door. Jamie mounted, and his steed rose with him into the air. He was presently flying over his mother's cottage, surrounded by the elfin troop, and on and on they went, over bold mountains, over little hills, over the deep Lough Swilley, over towns and cottages, where people were burning nuts and eating apples and keeping merry Halloween. It seemed to Jamie that they flew all round Ireland before they got to Dublin. "This is Derry," said the fairies, flying over the cathedral spire; and what was said by one voice was repeated by all the rest, till fifty little voices were crying out, "Derry! Derry! Derry!" In like manner was Jamie informed as they passed over each town on the route, and at length he heard the silvery voices cry, "Dublin! Dublin!" It was no mean dwelling that was to be honoured by the fairy visit, but one of the finest houses in Stephen's Green. The troop dismounted near a window, and Jamie saw a beautiful face on a pillow in a splendid bed. He saw the young lady lifted and carried away, while the stick which was dropped in her place on the bed took her exact form. The lady was placed before one rider and carried a short way, then given another, and the names of the towns were cried as before. They were approaching home. Jamie heard "Rathmullan," "Milford," "Tamney," and then he knew they were near his own house. "You've all had your turn at carrying the young lady," said he. "Why wouldn't I get her for a wee piece?" "Ay, Jamie," replied they pleasantly, "you may take your turn at carrying her, to be sure." Holding his prize very tightly he dropped down near his mother's door. "Jamie Freel! Jamie Freel! is that the way you treat us?" cried they, and they, too, dropped down near the door. Jamie held fast, though he knew not what he was holding, for the little folk turned the lady into all sorts of strange shapes. At one moment she was a black dog, barking and trying to bite; at another a glowing bar of iron, which yet had no heat; then again a sack of wool. But still Jamie held her, and the baffled elves were turning away when a tiny woman, the smallest of the party, exclaimed, "Jamie Freel has her awa frae us, but he sall nae hae gude of her, for I'll mak' her deaf and dumb," and she threw something over the young girl. While they rode off, disappointed, Jamie Freel lifted the latch and went in. "Jamie man!" cried his mother, "you've been awa all night. What have they done on you?" "Naething bad, mother; I hae the very best o' gude luck. Here's a beautiful young lady I hae brought you for company." "Bless us and save us!" exclaimed his mother; and for some minutes she was so astonished she could not think of anything else to say. Jamie told the story of the night's adventure, ending by saying, "Surely you wouldna have allowed me to let her gang with them to be lost for ever?" "But a _lady_, Jamie! How can a lady eat we'er (our) poor diet and live in we'er poor way? I ax you that, you foolitch fellow!" "Well, mother, sure it's better for her to be over here nor yonder," and he pointed in the direction of the castle. Meanwhile the deaf and dumb girl shivered in her light clothing, stepping close to the humble turf fire. "Poor crathur, she's quare and handsome! Nae wonder they set their hearts on her," said the old woman, gazing at their guest with pity and admiration. "We maun dress her first; but what in the name o' fortune hae I fit for the likes of her to wear?" She went to her press in "the room" and took out her Sunday gown of brown drugget. She then opened a drawer and drew forth a pair of white stockings, a long snowy garment of fine linen, and a cap, her "dead dress," as she called it. These articles of attire had long been ready for a certain triste ceremony, in which she would some day fill the chief part, and only saw the light occasionally when they were hung out to air; but she was willing to give even these to the fair trembling visitor, who was turning in dumb sorrow and wonder from her to Jamie, and from Jamie back to her. The poor girl suffered herself to be dressed, and then sat down on a "creepie" in the chimney corner and buried her face in her hands. "What'll we do to keep up a lady like thou?" cried the old woman. "I'll work for you both, mother," replied the son. "An' how could a lady live on we'er poor diet?" she repeated. "I'll work for her," was all Jamie's answer. He kept his word. The young lady was very sad for a long time, and tears stole down her cheeks many an evening, while the old woman span by the fire and Jamie made salmon nets, an accomplishment acquired by him in hopes of adding to the comfort of their guest. But she was always gentle, and tried to smile when she perceived them looking at her; and by degrees she adapted herself to their ways and mode of life. It was not very long before she began to feed the pig, mash potatoes and meal for the fowls, and knit blue worsted socks. So a year passed and Halloween came round again. "Mother," said Jamie, taking down his cap, "I'm off to the ould castle to seek my fortune." "Are you mad, Jamie?" cried his mother in terror; "sure they'll kill you this time for what you done on them last year." Jamie made light of her fears and went his way. As he reached the crab-tree grove he saw bright lights in the castle windows as before, and heard loud talking. Creeping under the window he heard the wee folk say, "That was a poor trick Jamie Freel played us this night last year, when he stole the young lady from us." "Ay," said the tiny woman, "an' I punished him for it, for there she sits a dumb image by the hearth, but he does na' know that three drops out o' this glass that I hold in my hand wad gie her her hearing and speech back again." Jamie's heart beat fast as he entered the hall. Again he was greeted by a chorus of welcomes from the company--"Here comes Jamie Freel! Welcome, welcome, Jamie!" As soon as the tumult subsided the little woman said, "You be to drink our health, Jamie, out o' this glass in my hand." Jamie snatched the glass from her and darted to the door. He never knew how he reached his cabin, but he arrived there breathless and sank on a stove by the fire. "You're kilt, surely, this time, my poor boy," said his mother. "No, indeed, better luck than ever this time!" and he gave the lady three drops of the liquid that still remained at the bottom of the glass, notwithstanding his mad race over the potato field. The lady began to speak, and her first words were words of thanks to Jamie. The three inmates of the cabin had so much to say to one another that, long after cock-crow, when the fairy music had quite ceased, they were talking round the fire. "Jamie," said the lady, "be pleased to get me paper and pen and ink that I may write to my father and tell him what has become of me." She wrote, but weeks passed and she received no answer. Again and again she wrote, and still no answer. At length she said, "You must come with me to Dublin, Jamie, to find my father." "I hae no money to hire a car for you," he answered; "an' how can you travel to Dublin on your foot?" But she implored him so much that he consented to set out with her and walk all the way from Fannet to Dublin. It was not as easy as the fairy journey; but at last they rang the bell at the door of the house in Stephen's Green. "Tell my father that his daughter is here," said she to the servant who opened the door. "The gentleman that lives here has no daughter, my girl. He had one, but she died better nor a year ago." "Do you not know me, Sullivan?" "No, poor girl, I do not." "Let me see the gentleman. I only ask to see him." "Well, that's not much to ax. We'll see what can be done." In a few moments the lady's father came to the door. "How dare you call me your father?" cried the old gentleman angrily. "You are an impostor. I have no daughter." "Look in my face, father, and surely you'll remember me." "My daughter is dead and buried. She died a long, long time ago." The old gentleman's voice changed from anger to sorrow. "You can go," he concluded. "Stop, dear father, till you look at this ring on my finger. Look at your name and mine engraved on it." "It certainly is my daughter's ring, but I do not know how you came by it. I fear in no honest way." "Call my mother--_she_ will be sure to know me," said the poor girl, who by this time was weeping bitterly. "My poor wife is beginning to forget her sorrow. She seldom speaks of her daughter now. Why should I renew her grief by reminding her of her loss?" But the young lady persevered till at last the mother was sent for. "Mother," she began, when the old lady came to the door, "don't _you_ know your daughter?" "I have no daughter. My daughter died, and was buried a long, long time ago." "Only look in my face and surely you'll know me." The old lady shook her head. "You have all forgotten me; but look at this mole on my neck. Surely, mother, you know me now?" "Yes, yes," said her mother, "my Gracie had a mole on her neck like that; but then I saw her in the coffin, and saw the lid shut down upon her." It became Jamie's turn to speak, and he gave the history of the fairy journey, of the theft of the young lady, of the figure he had seen laid in its place, of her life with his mother in Fannet, of last Halloween, and of the three drops that had released her from her enchantments. She took up the story when he paused and told how kind the mother and son had been to her. The parents could not make enough of Jamie. They treated him with every distinction, and when he expressed his wish to return to Fannet, said they did not know what to do to express their gratitude. But an awkward complication arose. The daughter would not let him go without her. "If Jamie goes, I'll go, too," she said. "He saved me from the fairies, and has worked for me ever since. If it had not been for him, dear father and mother, you would never have seen me again. If he goes, I'll go, too." This being her resolution, the old gentleman said that Jamie should become his son-in-law. The mother was brought from Fannet in a coach-and-four, and there was a splendid wedding. They all lived together in the grand Dublin house, and Jamie was heir to untold wealth at his father-in-law's death. LETITIA MACLINTOCK. A Legend of Knockmany It so happened that Finn and his gigantic relatives were all working at the Giant's Causeway in order to make a bridge, or, what was still better, a good stout pad-road across to Scotland, when Finn, who was very fond of his wife, Oonagh, took it into his head that he would go home and see how the poor woman got on in his absence. So accordingly he pulled up a fir-tree, and after lopping off the roots and branches, made a walking-stick of it and set out on his way to Oonagh. Finn lived at this time on Knockmany Hill, which faces Cullamore, that rises up, half hill, half mountain, on the opposite side. The truth is that honest Finn's affection for his wife was by no manner of means the whole cause of his journey home. There was at that time another giant, named Far Rua--some say he was Irish and some say he was Scotch--but whether Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubt of it but he was a _targer_. No other giant of the day could stand before him; and such was his strength that, when well vexed, he could give a stamp that shook the country about him. The fame and name of him went far and near, and nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had any chance with him in a fight. Whether the story is true or not I cannot say, but the report went that by one blow of his fist he flattened a thunderbolt, and kept it in his pocket in the shape of a pancake to show to all his enemies when they were about to fight him. Undoubtedly he had given every giant in Ireland a considerable beating, barring Finn M'Coul himself; and he swore that he would never rest night or day, winter or summer, till he could serve Finn with the same sauce, if he could catch him. Finn, however, had a strong disinclination to meet a giant who could make a young earthquake or flatten a thunderbolt when he was angry, so accordingly he kept dodging about from place to place--not much to his credit as a Trojan, to be sure--whenever he happened to get the hard word that Far Rua was on the scent of him. And the long and the short of it was that he heard Far Rua was coming to the Causeway to have a trial of strength with him; and he was, naturally enough, seized in consequence with a very warm and sudden fit of affection for his wife, who was delicate in her health, poor woman, and leading, besides, a very lonely, uncomfortable life of it in his absence. "God save all here," said Finn good-humouredly, putting his honest face into his own door. "Musha, Finn, avick, an' you're welcome to your own Oonagh, you darlin' bully." Here followed a smack that it is said to have made the waters of the lake curl, as it were, with kindness and sympathy. "Faith," said Finn, "beautiful; and how are you, Oonagh--and how did you sport your figure during my absence, my bilberry?" "Never a merrier--as bouncing a grass widow as ever there was in sweet 'Tyrone among the bushes.'" Finn gave a short, good-humoured cough, and laughed most heartily to show her how much he was delighted that she made herself happy in his absence. "An' what brought you home so soon, Finn?" said she. "Why, avourneen," said Finn, putting in his answer in the proper way, "never the thing but the purest of love and affection for yourself. Sure, you know that's truth, anyhow, Oonagh." Finn spent two or three happy days with Oonagh, and felt himself very comfortable considering the dread he had of Far Rua. This, however, grew upon him so much that his wife could not but perceive something lay on his mind which he kept altogether to himself. Let a woman alone in the meantime for ferreting or wheedling a secret out of her good man when she wishes. Finn was a proof of this. "It's this Far Rua," said he, "that's troublin' me. When the fellow gets angry and begins to stamp he'll shake you a whole townland, and it's well known that he can stop a thunderbolt, for he always carries one about with him in the shape of a pancake to show to anyone that might misdoubt it." As he spoke he clapped his thumb in his mouth, as he always did when he wanted to prophesy or to know anything. "He's coming," said Finn; "I see him below at Dungannon." "An' who is it, avick?" "Far Rua," replied Finn, "and how to manage I don't know. If I run away I am disgraced, and I know that sooner or later I must meet him, for my thumb tells me so." "When will he be here?" says she. "To-morrow, about two o'clock," replied Finn with a groan. "Don't be cast down," said Oonagh; "depend on me, and, maybe, I'll bring you out of this scrape better than ever you could bring yourself." This quieted Finn's heart very much, for he knew that Oonagh was hand-and-glove with the fairies; and, indeed, to tell the truth, she was supposed to be a fairy herself. If she was, however, she must have been a kind-hearted one, for by all accounts she never did anything but good in the neighbourhood. Now, it so happened that Oonagh had a sister named Granua living opposite to them, on the very top of Cullamore, which I have mentioned already, and this Granua was quite as powerful as herself. The beautiful valley that lies between the Granlisses is not more than three or four miles broad, so that of a summer evening Granua and Oonagh were able to hold many an agreeable conversation across it, from one hill-top to the other. Upon this occasion Oonagh resolved to consult her sister as to what was best to be done in the difficulty that surrounded them. "Granua," said she, "are you at home?" "No," said the other, "I'm picking bilberries at Althadhawan" (the Devil's Glen). "Well," said Oonagh, "go up to the top of Cullamore, look about you, and then tell us what you see." "Very well," replied Granua, after a few minutes; "I am there now." "What do you see?" asked the other. "Goodness be about us!" exclaimed Granua, "I see the biggest giant that ever was known coming up from Dungannon." "Ay," said Oonagh, "there's our difficulty. That's Far Rua, and he's comin' up now to leather Finn. What's to be done?" "I'll call to him," she replied, "to come up to Cullamore and refresh himself, and maybe that will give you and Finn time to think of some plan to get yourselves out of the scrape. But," she proceeded, "I'm short of butter, having in the house only half a dozen firkins, and as I'm to have a few giants and giantesses to spend the evenin' with me I'd feel thankful, Oonagh, if you'd throw me up fifteen or sixteen tubs, or the largest miscaun you've got, and you'll oblige me very much." "I'll do that with a heart and a half," replied Oonagh; "and, indeed, Granua, I feel myself under great obligations to you for your kindness in keeping him off us till we see what can be done; for what would become of us all if anything happened to Finn, poor man!" She accordingly got the largest miscaun of butter she had--which might be about the weight of a couple of dozen millstones, so that you can easily judge of its size--and calling up her sister, "Granua," says she, "are you ready? I'm going to throw you up a miscaun, so be prepared to catch it." "I will," said the other. "A good throw, now, and take care it does not fall short." Oonagh threw it, but in consequence of her anxiety about Finn and Far Rua she forgot to say the charm that was to send it up, so that instead of reaching Cullamore, as she expected, it fell about half-way between the two hills at the edge of the Broad Bog, near Augher. "My curse upon you!" she exclaimed, "you've disgraced me. I now change you into a grey stone. Lie there as a testimony of what has happened, and may evil betide the first living man that will ever attempt to move or injure you!" And, sure enough, there it lies to this day, with the mark of the four fingers and thumb imprinted on it, exactly as it came out of her hand. "Never mind," said Granua, "I must only do the best I can with Far Rua. If all fail, I'll give him a cast of heather broth, or a panada of oak bark. But, above all things, think of some plan to get Finn out of the scrape he's in, or he's a lost man. You know you used to be sharp and ready-witted; and my own opinion is, Oonagh, that it will go hard with you, or you'll outdo Far Rua yet." She then made a high smoke on the top of the hill, after which she put her finger in her mouth and gave three whistles, and by that Far Rua knew that he was invited to the top of Cullamore--for this was the way that the Irish long ago gave a sign to all strangers and travellers to let them know they are welcome to come and take share of whatever was going. In the meantime Finn was very melancholy, and did not know what to do, or how to act at all. Far Rua was an ugly customer, no doubt, to meet with; and, moreover, the idea of the confounded "cake" aforesaid flattened the very heart within him. What chance could he have, strong and brave as he was, with a man who could, when put in a passion, walk the country into earthquakes and knock thunderbolts into pancakes? The thing was impossible, and Finn knew not on what hand to turn him. Right or left, backward or forward, where to go he could form no guess whatever. "Oonagh," said he, "can you do anything for me? Where's all your invention? Am I to be skivered like a rabbit before your eyes and to have my name disgraced for ever in the sight of all my tribe, and me the best man among them? How am I to fight this man-mountain--this huge cross between an earthquake and a thunderbolt--with a pancake in his pocket that was once----?" "Be aisy, Finn," replied Oonagh. "Troth, I'm ashamed of you. Keep your toe in your pump, will you? Talking of pancakes, maybe we'll give him as good as any he brings with him--thunderbolts or otherwise. If I don't treat him to as smart feeding as he's got this many a day, don't trust Oonagh again. Leave him to me, and do just as I bid you." This relieved Finn very much, for, after all, he had great confidence in his wife, knowing, as he did, that she had got him out of many a quandary before. The present, however, was the greatest of all; but, still, he began to get courage and to eat his victuals as usual. Oonagh then drew the nine woollen threads of different colours, which she always did to find out the best way of succeeding in anything of importance she went about. She then plaited them into three plaits, with three colours in each, putting one on her right arm, one round her heart, and the third round her right ankle, for then she knew that nothing could fail her that she undertook. Having everything now prepared, she sent round to the neighbours and borrowed one-and-twenty iron griddles, which she took and kneaded into the hearts of one-and-twenty cakes of bread, and these she baked on the fire in the usual way, setting them aside in the cupboard according as they were done. She then put down a large pot of new milk, which she made into curds and whey, and gave Finn due instructions how to use the curds when Far Rua should come. Having done all this, she sat down quite contented waiting for his arrival on the next day about two o'clock, that being the hour at which he was expected--for Finn knew as much by the sucking of his thumb. Now, this was a curious property that Finn's thumb had; but notwithstanding all the wisdom and logic he used to suck out of it, it could never have stood to him here were it not for the wit of his wife. In this very thing, moreover, he was very much resembled by his great foe, Far Rua; for it was well known that the huge strength that he possessed all lay in the middle finger of his right hand, and that if he happened by any chance to lose it, he was no more, notwithstanding his bulk, than a common man. At length the next day he was seen coming across the valley, and Oonagh knew that it was time to commence operations. She immediately made the cradle, and desired Finn to lie down in it and cover himself up with the clothes. "You must pass for your own child," said she, "so just lie there snug and say nothing, but be guided by me." This, to be sure, was wormwood to Finn--I mean going into the cradle in such a cowardly manner--but he knew Oonagh very well; and finding that he had nothing else for it, with a very rueful face he gathered himself into it and lay snug, as she had desired him. About two o'clock, as he had been expected, Far Rua came in. "God save all here!" said he. "Is this where the great Finn M'Coul lives?" "Indeed it is, honest man," replied Oonagh. "God save you kindly--won't you be sitting?" "Thank you, ma'am," says he, sitting down. "You're Mrs. M'Coul, I suppose?" "I am," says she, "and I have no reason, I hope, to be ashamed of my husband." "No," said the other; "he has the name of being the strongest and bravest man in Ireland. But, for all that, there's a man not far from you that's very anxious of taking a shake with him. Is he at home?" "Why, no, then," she replied; "and if ever a man left in a fury he did. It appears that someone told him of a big bosthoon of a giant called Far Rua being down at the Causeway to look for him, and so he set out there to try if he could catch him. Troth, I hope, for the poor giant's sake, he won't meet with him, for if he does Finn will make paste of him at once." "Well," said the other, "I am Far Rua, and I have been seeking him these twelve minths, but he always kept clear of me; and I will never rest day or night till I lay my hands on him." At this Oonagh set up a loud laugh of great contempt, by the way, and looked at him as if he were only a mere handful of a man. "Did you ever see Finn?" said she, changing her manner all at once. "How could I?" said he. "He always took care to keep his distance." "I thought so," she replied. "I judged as much; and if you take my advice, you poor-looking creature, you'll pray night and day that you may never see him, for I tell you it will be a black day for you when you do. But, in the meantime, you perceive that the wind's on the door, and as Finn himself is far from home, maybe you'd be civil enough to turn the house, for it's always what Finn does when he's here." This was a startler, even to Far Rua; but he got up, however, and after pulling the middle finger of his right hand until it cracked three times, he went outside, and getting his arms about the house, completely turned it as she had wished. When Finn saw this he felt a certain description of moisture, which shall be nameless, oozing out through every pore of his skin; but Oonagh, depending upon her woman's wit, felt not a whit daunted. "Arrah, then," said she, "as you're so civil, maybe you'd do another obliging turn for us, as Finn's not here to do it himself. You see, after this long stretch of dry weather that we've had, we feel very badly off for want of water. Now, Finn says there's a fine spring well somewhere under the rocks behind the hill there below, and it was his intention to pull them asunder; but having heard of you he left the place in such a fury that he never thought of it. Now, if you try to find it, troth, I'd feel it a kindness." She then brought Far Rua down to see the place, which was then all one solid rock; and after looking at it for some time, he cracked his right middle finger nine times, and, stooping down, tore a cleft about four hundred feet deep and a quarter of a mile in length, which has since been christened by the name of Lumford's Glen. This feat nearly threw Oonagh herself off her guard; but what won't a woman's sagacity and presence of mind accomplish? "You'll now come in," said she, "and eat a bit of such humble fare as we can give. Finn, even though you and he were enemies, would scorn not to treat you kindly in his own house; and, indeed, if I didn't do it even in his absence, he would not be pleased with me." She accordingly brought him in, and placing half a dozen of the cakes we spoke of before him, together with a can or two of butter, a side of boiled bacon, and a stack of cabbage, she desired him to help himself--for this, be it known, was long before the invention of potatoes. Far Rua, who, by the way, was a glutton as well as a hero, put one of the cakes in his mouth to take a huge whack out of it, when both Finn and Oonagh were stunned with a noise that resembled something between a growl and a yell. "Blood and fury!" he shouted out. "How is this? Here are two of my teeth out! What kind of bread is this you gave me?" "What's the matter?" said Oonagh coolly. "Matter!" shouted the other. "Why, here are two of the best teeth in my head gone." "Why," said she, "that's Finn's bread--the only bread he ever eats when at home; but, indeed, I forgot to tell you that nobody can eat it but himself and that child in the cradle there. I thought, however, that as you were reported to be rather a stout little fellow of your size you might be able to manage it, and I did not wish to affront a man that thinks himself able to fight Finn. Here's another cake--maybe it's not so hard as that." Far Rua, at the moment, was not only hungry, but ravenous, so he accordingly made a fresh set at the second cake, and immediately another yell was heard twice as loud as the first. "Thunder and giblets!" he roared, "take your bread out of this, or I will not have a tooth in my head; there's another pair of them gone." "Well, honest man," replied Oonagh, "if you're not able to eat the bread say so quietly, and don't be awakening the child in the cradle there. There, now, he's awake upon me!" Finn now gave a skirl that frightened the giant, as coming from such a youngster as he was represented to be. "Mother," said he, "I'm hungry--get me something to eat." Oonagh went over, and putting into his hand a cake _that had no griddle in it_--Finn, whose appetite in the meantime was sharpened by what he saw going forward, soon made it disappear. Far Rua was thunderstruck, and secretly thanked his stars that he had the good fortune to miss meeting Finn, for, as he said to himself, I'd have no chance with a man who could eat such bread as that, which even his son that's in the cradle can munch before my eyes. "I'd like to take a glimpse at the lad in the cradle," said he to Oonagh, "for I can tell you that the infant who can manage that nutriment is no joke to look at or to feed of a scarce summer." "With all the veins of my heart," replied Oonagh. "Get up, acushla, and show this decent little man something that won't be unworthy of your father, Finn M'Coul." Finn, who was dressed for the occasion as much like a boy as possible, got up, and bringing Far Rua out, "Are you strong?" said he. "Thunder and ounze!" exclaimed the other, "what a voice in so small a chap!" "Are you strong?" said Finn again. "Are you able to squeeze water out of that white stone?" he asked, putting one into Far Rua's hand. The latter squeezed and squeezed the stone, but to no purpose; he might pull the rocks of Lumford's Glen asunder, and flatten a thunderbolt, but to squeeze water out of a white stone was beyond his strength. Finn eyed him with great contempt as he kept straining and squeezing and squeezing and straining till he got black in the face with the efforts. "Ah, you're a poor creature," said Finn. "You a giant! Give me the stone here, and when I'll show what Finn's little son can do you may then judge of what my daddy himself is." Finn then took the stone, and then, slyly exchanging it for the curds, he squeezed the latter until the whey, as clear as water, oozed out in a little shower from his hand. "I'll now go in," said he, "to my cradle; for I scorn to lose my time with anyone that's not able to eat my daddy's bread, or squeeze water out of a stone. Bedad, you had better be off out of this before he comes back, for if he catches you, it's in flummery he'd have you in two minutes." Far Rua, seeing what he had seen, was of the same opinion himself; his knees knocked together with the terror of Finn's return, and he accordingly hastened in to bid Oonagh farewell, and to assure her that, from that day out, he never wished to hear of, much less to see, her husband. "I admit fairly that I'm not a match for him," said he, "strong as I am. Tell him I will avoid him as I would the plague, and that I will make myself scarce in this part of the country while I live." Finn, in the meantime, had gone into the cradle, where he lay very quietly, his heart in his mouth with delight that Far Rua was about to take his departure without discovering the tricks that been played off on him. "It's well for you," said Oonagh, "that he doesn't happen to be here, for it's nothing but hawk's meat he'd make of you." "I know that," said Far Rua, "divel a thing else he'd make of me; but, before I go, will you let me feel what kind of teeth they are that can eat griddle-cakes like _that_?" and he pointed to it as he spoke. "With all the pleasure in life," says she; "only as they're far back in his head you must put your finger a good way in." Far Rua was surprised to find so powerful a set of grinders in one so young; but he was still much more so on finding, when he took his hand from Finn's mouth, that he had left the very finger upon which his whole strength depended behind him. He gave one loud groan and fell down at once with terror and weakness. This was all Finn wanted, who now knew that his most powerful and bitterest enemy was completely at his mercy. He instantly started out of the cradle, and in a few minutes the great Far Rua, that was for such a length of time the terror of him and all his followers, was no more. WILLIAM CARLETON. The Ninepenny Fidil My father and mother were Irish And I am Irish too; I bought a wee fidil for ninepence And that is Irish too; I'm up in the morning early To meet the break of day, And to the lintwhite's piping The many's the tunes I play! One pleasant eve in June-time I met a lochrie man, His face and hands were weazen, His height was not a span. He boor'd me for my fidil-- "You know," says he, "like you, "My father and mother were Irish, "And I am Irish too!" He took my wee red fidil, And such a tune he turned, The Glaisé in it whispered The Lionan in it m'urned; Says he, "My lad, you're lucky, "I wisht I was like you, "You're lucky in your birth-star, "And in your fidil too!" He gave me back my fidil, My fidil-stick also, And stepping like a May-boy, He jumped the Lear-gaidh-knowe. I never saw him after, Nor met his gentle kind, But whiles I think I hear him, A-wheening in the wind! JOSEPH CAMPBELL. The Festivities at the House of Conan of Ceann Sleibhe "Win victory and blessings, O Fionn," said Conan, "and tell me who was the man that, having only one leg, one arm, and one eye, escaped from you in consequence of his swiftness, and outstripped the Fenians of Eire, and why is this proverb used, 'As Roc came to the house of Fionn'?" "I will tell you that," said Fionn. "One day the chief of the Fenians and I went to Teamhair Luachra, and we took nothing in the chase that same day but one fawn. When it had been cooked it was fetched to me for the purpose of dividing it. I gave a portion of it to each of the Fenian chiefs, and there remained none for my own share but a haunch bone. Gobha Gaoithe, son of Ronan, presented himself, and requested me to give him the haunch. I accordingly gave it to him. He then declared that I gave him that portion on account of his swiftness of foot: and he went out on the plain, but he had only gone a short distance when Caoilte, son of Ronan, his own brother, overtook him, and brought the haunch back again to me, and we had no further dispute about the matter. We had not been long so when we saw a huge, obnoxious, massy-boned, black, detestable giant, having only one eye, one arm, and one leg, hop forward towards us. He saluted us. I returned the salutation, and asked him whence he came. 'I am come by the powers of the agility of my arm and leg,' responded he, 'having heard there is not one man in the world more liberal in bestowing gifts than you, O Fionn; therefore, I am come to solicit wealth and valuable gifts from you.' I replied that were all the wealth of the world mine I would give him neither little nor much. He then declared 'they were all liars who asserted that I never gave a refusal to any person.' I replied that if he were a man I would not give him a refusal. 'Well, then,' said the giant, 'let me have that haunch you have in your hand, and I will say good-bye to the Fenians, provided that you allow me the length of the haunch as a distance, and that I am not seized upon until I make my first hop.' Upon hearing this I gave the haunch into the giant's hand, and he hopped over the lofty stockades of the town; he then made use of the utmost swiftness of his one leg to outstrip all the rest of the Fenians. When the Fenian chiefs saw that, they started in pursuit of the giant, while I and the band of minstrels of the town went to the top of the dun to watch their proceedings. When I saw that the giant had outstripped them a considerable distance, I put on my running habiliments, and, taking no weapon but Mac an Loin in my hand, I started after the others. I overtook the hindmost division on Sliabh an Righ, the middle (next) division at Limerick, and the chiefs of the Fenians at Ath Bo, which is called Ath-Luain (Athlone), and those first in the pursuit at Rinn-an-Ruaigh, to the right-hand side of Cruachan of Connacht, where he (the giant) was distant less than a javelin's cast from me. The giant passed on before me and crossed Eas Roe (now Ballyshannon), of the son of Modhuirn, without wetting his foot. I leaped over it after him. He then directed his course towards the estuary of Binn-Edair, keeping the circuit of Eire to his right hand. The giant leaped over the estuary, and it was a leap similar to flight over the sea. I sprang after him, and having caught him by the small of the back, laid him prostrate on the earth. 'You have dealt unjustly by me, O Fionn,' cried the giant; 'for it was not with you I arranged the combat, but with the Fenians.' I replied that the Fenians were not perfect, except I myself were with them. We had not remained long thus when Liagan Luaimneach, from Luachar Deaghaidh, came to us. He was followed by Caoilte Mac Ronan, together with the swiftest of the Fenians. Each of them couched his javelin, intending to drive it through the giant and kill him in my arms, but I protected him from their attacks. Soon after this the main body of the Fenians arrived; they enquired what was the cause of the delay that the giant had not been slain. 'That is bad counsel,' said the giant, 'for a better man than I am would be slain in my eric.' We bound the giant strongly on that occasion; and soon after Bran Beag O'Buadhchan came to invite me to a feast, and all the Fenians of Eire, who had been present, accompanied him to his house. The banqueting hall had been prepared for our reception at that time, and the giant was dragged into the middle of the house, and was there placed in the sight of all present. They asked him who he was. 'Roc, son of Diocan, is my name,' replied he, 'that is, I am son to the Legislator of Aengus of the Brugh in the south. My betrothed poured a current of surprising affection and a torrent of deep love upon Sgiath Breac, son of Dathcaoin yonder, who is your foster son, O Fionn; it hurt my feelings severely to hear her boast of the swiftness and bravery of her lover in particular, and of the Fenians in general, and I declared that I would challenge him and all the Fenians of Eire to run a race with me; but she sneered at me. I then went to my beloved friend, Aengus of the Brugh, to bemoan my fate; and he metamorphosed me thus, and bestowed on me the swiftness of a druidical wind, as you have seen. This is my history for you; and you ought to be well satisfied with all the hurt and injury you have inflicted upon me already.' "Then I repented me of the indignity put upon the giant, and I released him from his bonds and I bade Liagan Luaimneach companion him to the presence of his betrothed one and testify to her on my behalf of his prowess in the race, wherein he had outstripped all the Fenians of Eire, save only myself. So the two went forth together in friendly amity, and Roc, for the champion feat reported of him by Liagan Luaimneach, recovered the affection of his betrothed, and straightway took her to wife. From that adventure, indeed, arose the proverb, 'As Roc came to the House of Fionn,' and so that is the answer to your question, O Conan," said Fionn. "Win victory and blessings, O Fenian King," said Conan; "it is with clear memory and sweet words you relate these things. Tell me now the meaning of the byword, 'The hospitality of Fionn in the house of Cuanna.'" "I will tell you the truth concerning that, O Conan," said Fionn. "Oisin, Caoilte, Mac Lughaidh, Diarmuid O'Duibhne, and myself happened one day, above all other days, to be on the summit of Cairn Feargall. We were accompanied by our five hounds, namely, Bran, Sceoluing, Sear Dubh, Luath Luachar, and Anuaill. We had not long been there when we perceived a rough, tall, huge giant approaching us. He carried an iron fork upon his back, and a grunting hog was placed between the prongs of the fork; a young girl of mature age followed and forced the giant on his way before her. 'Let someone go forward and accost those people,' said I. Diarmuid O'Duibhne followed, but did not overtake them. The other three and I started up, and followed Diarmuid and the giant. We overtook Diarmuid, but did not come up with the giant or the girl; for a dark, gloomy, druidical mist showered down between us and them, so that we could not discern what road they took. When the mist cleared away we looked around us, and discovered a light-roofed, comfortable-looking house at the edge of the ford near at hand. We proceeded to the house, before which spread a lawn upon which were two fountains. At the brink of one fountain lay a rude iron vessel, and a vessel of bronze at the brink of the other. Those we met in the house were an aged, hoary-headed man standing by the door jamb to the right hand, and a beautiful maid sitting before him; a rough, rude, huge giant before the fire busily cooking a hog; and an old man at the other side of the fire, having an iron-grey head of hair and twelve eyes in his head, while the twelve sons (germs) of discord beamed in each eye. There was also in the house a ram with a white belly, a jet-black head, dark-green horns, and green feet; and there was in the end of the house a hag covered with a dark ash-coloured garment. There were no persons in the house except these. The man at the door-post welcomed us; and we five, having our five hounds with us, sat on the floor of the bruighean. 'Let submissive homage be done to Fionn Mac Cumhaill and his people,' said the man at the door-post. 'My case is that of a man begging a request, but obtaining neither the smaller nor the greater part of it,' said the giant. Nevertheless, he rose up and did respectful homage to us. After a while I became suddenly thirsty, and no person present perceived it but Caoilte, who began to complain bitterly on that account. 'You have no cause to complain, Caoilte,' said the man of the door-post, 'but only to step outside and fetch a drink for Fionn from whichever of the fountains you please.' Caoilte did so, and fetched the bronze vessel brimful to me and gave me to drink. I took a drink from it, and the water tasted like honey while I was drinking, but bitter as gall when I put the vessel from my lips; so that darting pains and symptoms of death seized me and agonising pangs from the poisonous draught. I could be but with difficulty recognised; and the lamentation of Caoilte on account of my being in that condition was greater than that he had before given vent to on account of my thirst. The man at the door-post desired Caoilte to go out and bring me a drink from the other fountain. Caoilte obeyed, and brought me the iron vessel brimful. I never underwent so much hardship in battle or conflict as I then suffered while drinking, in consequence of the bitterness of the draught; but as soon as I put the vessel from my lips I recovered my own colour and appearance, and that gave joy and happiness to my people. "The man then asked if the hog which was in the boiler was yet cooked. 'It is cooked,' replied the giant, 'and allow me to divide it.' 'How will you divide it?' said the man of the house. 'I will give one hindquarter to Fionn and his hounds; the other hindquarter to Fionn's four men; the forepart to myself; the chine and rump to the old man who sits at the opposite side of the fire and to the hag in yonder corner; and the giblets to you and the young woman who is opposite to you.' 'I pledge my word,' said the man of the house, 'you have divided it very fairly.' 'I pledge my word,' exclaimed the ram, 'that the division is very unfair so far as I am concerned, for I have been altogether forgotten.' And so saying, he immediately snatched the quarter that lay before my four men, and carried it away into a corner, where he began to devour it. The four men instantly attacked the ram all at once with their swords, but though they laid on violently, it did not affect him in the least, and the blows fell away as from a stone or rock, so that they were forced to resume their seats. 'Upon my veracity, he is doomed for evil who owns as companions such four fellows as you are, who tamely suffer one single sheep to carry away your food and devour it before your faces,' exclaimed the man with the twelve eyes; and at the same time going up to the ram, he caught him by the feet and gave him a violent pitch out of the door, so that he fell on his back on the ground; and from that time we saw him no more. Soon after this the hag started up, and having thrown her ashy-grey coverlet over my four men, metamorphosed them into four withered, drooping-headed old men. When I saw that I was seized with great fear and alarm; and when the man at the door-post perceived this, he desired me to come over to him, place my head on his bosom, and sleep. I did so; and the hag got up and took her coverlet off my four men; and when I awoke I found them restored to their own shape, and that was a great happiness to me. 'O Fionn,' asked the man of the door-post, 'do you feel surprised at the appearance and arrangements of this house?' I assured him that I never saw anything which surprised me more. 'Well, then, I will explain the meaning of all these things to you,' said the man. 'The giant carrying the grunting hog between the prongs of the iron fork, whom you first saw, is he who is yonder, and his name is SLOTH. She who is close to me is the young woman who had been forcing him along, that is ENERGY; and ENERGY compels SLOTH forward with her; for ENERGY moves, in the twinkling of the eye, a greater distance than the foot can travel in a year. The old man of the bright eyes yonder signifies the WORLD; and he is more powerful than anyone, which has been proved by his rendering the ram powerless. That ram which you saw signifies the CRIMES of the man. That hag there beyond is withering OLD AGE, and her clothing has withered your four men. The two wells from which you drank the two draughts mean FALSEHOOD and TRUTH; for while telling a lie one finds it sweet, but it becomes bitter at the last. Cuanna from Innistuil is my own name. I do not reside here, but having conceived a wonderful love for you, O Fionn, on account of your superiority in wisdom and general celebrity, I therefore put those things into the way before you in order that I might see you. And this story shall be called, to the end of the world, the Hospitality of Cuanna's House to Fionn. Let you and your men come together, and do ye five sleep until morning.' Accordingly we did so, and when we awoke in the morning we found ourselves on the summit of Cairn Feargaill, with our hounds and arms by us. So there is the meaning of the byword, 'The hospitality of Fionn in the house of Cuanna,' O Conan," said Fionn. (_Translated from the Irish by Nicholas O'Kearney._) The White Trout (_A Legend of Cong._) "There was wanst upon a time, long ago, a beautiful young lady that lived in a castle up by the lake beyant, and they say she was promised to a king's son, and they wor to be married, when, all of a suddent, he was murthered, the crathur (Lord help us!) and threwn in the lake abou, and so, of coorse, he couldn't keep his promise to the fair lady--and more's the pity. "Well, the story goes that she went out iv her mind, bekase of loosin' the king's son--for she was tindher-hearted, God help her! like the rest iv us--and pined away after him, until at last no one about seen her, good or bad; and the story wint that the fairies took her away. "Well, sir, in coorse o' time the white throut, God bless it! was seen in the sthrame beyant; and sure the people didn't know what to think of the crathur, seein' as how a _white_ brown throut was never heerd av afore nor sence; and years upon years the throut was there, just where you seen it this blessed minit, longer nor I can tell--aye, throth, and beyant the memory o' th' ouldest in the village. "At last the people began to think it must be a fairy; for what else could it be?--and no hurt nor harm was iver put an the throut, until some wicked sinners of sojers kem to these parts, and laughed at all the people, and gibed and jeered them for thinkin' o' the likes; and one o' them in partic'lar (bad luck to him--God forgi' me for sayin' it!) swore he'd catch the throut and ate it for his dinner--the blackguard! "Well, what would you think o' the villiany of the sojer?--sure enough he cotch the throut, and away wid him home, and puts an the fryin' pan, and into it he pitches the purty little thing. The throut squeeled all as one as a Christian crathur, and, my dear, you'd think the sojer id split his sides laughin'--for he was a harden'd villian; and when he thought one side was done, he turns it over to fry the other; and what would you think? but the divil a taste of a burn was an it at all at all; and sure the sojer thought it was a _quare_ throut that couldn't be briled; 'but,' says he, 'I'll give it another turn by and by'--little thinkin' what was in store for him, the haythen! "Well, when he thought that side was done he turns it again--and lo and behould you, the divil a taste more done that side was nor the other. 'Bad luck to me,' says the sojer, 'but that bates the world,' says he; 'but I'll thry you agin, my darlint,' says he, 'as cunnin' as you think yourself'--and so with that he turns it over and over, but not a sign av the fire was an the purty throut. 'Well,' says the desperate villian--(for sure, sir, only he was a desperate villian _entirely_; he might know he was doin' a wrong thing, seein' that all his endayvours was no good)--'well,' says he, 'my jolly little throut, maybe you're fried enough, though you don't seem over well dress'd; but you may be better than you look, like a singed cat, and a tit-bit, afther all,' says he; and with that he ups with his knife and fork to taste a piece o' the throut--but, my jew'l, the minit he puts his knife into the fish there was a murtherin' screech, that you'd think the life id lave you if you heerd it, and away jumps the throut out av the fryin' pan into the middle o' the flure; and an the spot where it fell up riz a lovely lady--the beautifullest young crathur that eyes ever seen, dressed in white, and a band o' goold in her hair, and a sthrame o' blood runnin' down her arm. "'Look where you cut me, you villian,' says she, and she held out her arm to him--and, my dear, he thought the sight id lave his eyes. "'Couldn't you lave me cool and comfortable in the river where you snared me, and not disturb me in my duty?' says she. "Well, he thrimbled like a dog in a wet sack, and at last he stammered out somethin', and begged for his life, and ax'd her ladyship's pardin, and said he didn't know she was an duty, or he was too good a sojer not to know betther nor to meddle with her. "'I _was_ on duty then,' says the lady; 'I was watchin' for my thrue love that is comin' by wather to me,' says she; 'an' if he comes while I am away, an' that I miss iv him, I'll turn you into a pinkeen, and I'll hunt you up and down for evermore, while grass grows or wather runs.' "Well, the sojer thought the life id lave him at the thoughts iv his bein' turned into a pinkeen, and begged for marcy; and, with that, says the lady: "'Renounce your evil coorses,' says she, 'you villian, or you'll repint it too late. Be a good man for the futhur, and go to your duty reg'lar. And now,' says she, 'take me back and put me into the river agin, where you found me.' "'Oh, my lady,' says the sojer, 'how could I have the heart to drownd a beautiful lady like you?' "But before he could say another word the lady was vanished, and there he saw the little throut an the ground. Well, he put it in a clane plate, and away he run for the bare life, for fear her lover would come while she was away; and he run, and he run, ever till he came to the cave agin, and threw the throut into the river. The minit he did, the wather was as red as blood until the sthrame washed the stain away; and to this day there's a little red mark an the throut's side where it was cut. "Well, sir, from that day out the sojer was an althered man, and reformed his ways, and wint to his duty reg'lar, and fasted three times a week--though it was never fish he tuk an fastin' days; for afther the fright he got fish id never rest an his stomach--savin' your presence. But, anyhow, he was an althered man, as I said before; and in coorse o' time he left the army, and turned hermit at last; and they say he _used to pray evermore for the sowl of the White Throut_." SAMUEL LOVER. The Wonderful Cake A mouse, a rat, and a little red hen once lived together in the same cottage, and one day the little red hen said, "Let us bake a cake and have a feast." "Let us," says the mouse, and "let us," says the rat. "Who'll go and get the wheat ground?" says the hen. "I won't," says the mouse; "I won't," says the rat. "I will myself," says the little red hen. "Who'll make the cake?" "I won't," says the mouse; "I will," says the rat. "Indeed, you shall not," says the little red hen. Well, while the hen was stretching her hand out for it--"Hey Presto!" out rolled the cake from the cottage, and after it ran the mouse, the rat, and the little red hen. When it was running away it went by a barn full of threshers, and they asked it where it was running. "Oh," says it, "I'm running away from the mouse, the rat, and the little red hen, and from you, too, if I can." So they rushed away after it with their flails, and it ran, and it ran till it came to a ditch full of ditchers, and they asked it where it was running. "Oh, I am running away from the mouse, the rat, and the little red hen, and from a barn full of threshers, and from you, too, if I can." Well, they all ran after it along with the rest, till it came to a well full of washers, and they asked the same question, and it returned the same answer, and after it they went. At last it came to a ford where it met with a fox, and he asked where it was running. "Oh, I'm running away from the mouse, the rat, and the little red hen, from a barn full of threshers, a ditch full of ditchers, a well full of washers, and from you, too, if I can." "But you can't cross the ford," says the fox. "And can't you carry me over?" says the cake. "What'll you give me?" says the fox. "A kiss at Christmas and an egg at Easter," says the cake. "Very well," says the fox--"up with you." So he sat on his haunches with his nose in the air, and the cake got up by his tail till it sat on his crupper. "Now, over with you," says the cake. "You're not high enough," says the fox. Then it scrambled up on his shoulder. "Up higher still," says he; "you wouldn't be safe there." "Am I right now?" says he. "You'll be safer on the ridge pole of my nose." "Well," says the cake, "I think I can go no further." "Oh, yes," says he, and he shot it up in the air, caught it in his mouth, and sent it down the Red Lane. And that was the end of the cake. The Legend of the Little Weaver of Duleek Gate (_A Tale of Chivalry._) You see, there was a waiver lived wanst upon a time in Duleek here, hard by the gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was by all accounts. Well, it was one mornin' that his housekeeper called to him, and he sitting very busy throwin' the shuttle; and says she, "Your brekquest is ready!" "Lave me alone," says he; "I'm busy with a patthern here that is brakin' my heart, and until I complate and masther it intirely I won't quit." "Oh, think o' the iligant stirabout that'll be spylte intirely." "To the divil with the stirabout!" says he. "God forgive you," says she, "for cursin' your good brekquest." Well, he left the loom at last and wint over to the stirabout, and what would you think, but whin he looked at it, it was as black as a crow; for, you see, it was in the hoighth o' summer, and the flies lit upon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered with them. "Why, thin, bad luck to your impidence," says the waiver; "would no place sarve you but that? And is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you dirty bastes?" And with that, bein' altogether cruked tempered at the time, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o' stirabout and killed no less than three score and tin flies at the one blow. It was three score and tin exactly, for he counted the carcasses one by one, and laid them out on a clane plate for to view them. Well, he felt a powerful sperit risin' in him when he seen the slaughter he done at one blow, and with that he got as consaited as the very dickens, and not a sthroke more work he'd do that day, but out he wint, and was fractious and impident to everyone he met, and was squarein' up into their faces and sayin', "Look at that fist! That's the fist that killed three score and tin at one blow. Whoo! It is throwin' away my time I have been all my life," says he, "stuck to my loom, nothin' but a poor waiver, when it is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two of the sivin champions o' Christendom. I'm detarmined on it, and I'll set off immediately and be a knight arriant." Well, sure enough, he wint about among his neighbours the next day, and he got an owld kittle from one and a saucepan from another, and he took them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a shuit o' tin clothes like any knight arriant, and he borrowed a pot lid, and _that_ he was very partic'lar about, bekase it was his shield, and he wint to a friend o' his, a painther and glaizier, and made him paint an his shield in big letthers: "I'M THE MAN OF ALL MIN, THAT KILL'D THREE SCORE AND TIN AT A BLOW." "When the people sees that," says the waiver to himself, "the sorra one will dar for to come near me." And with that he towld the housekeeper to scour out the small iron pot for him, "for," says he, "it will make an iligant helmet." And when it was done he put it an his head, and says she, "Is it puttin' a great heavy iron pot an your head you are by way iv a hat?" "Sartinly," says he, "for a knight arriant should always have a woight an his brain." "But," says she, "there's a hole in it, and it can't keep out the weather." "It will be the cooler," says he, puttin' it an him; "besides, if I don't like it, it is aisy to stop it with a wisp o' sthraw, or the like o' that." "The three legs of it looks mighty quare stickin' up," says she. "Every helmet has a spike stickin' out o' the top of it," says the waiver, "and if mine has three, it's only the grandher it is." "Well," says the housekeeper, getting bitther at last, "all I can say is, it isn't the first sheep's head was dhress'd in it." "Your sarvint, ma'am," says he; and off he set. Well, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a field hard by where the miller's horse was grazin' that used to carry the ground corn round the counthry. "This is the idintical horse for me," says the waiver. "He is used to carryin' flour and male; and what am I but the flower o' shovelry in a coat o' mail; so that the horse won't be put out iv his way in the laste." But as he was ridin' him out o' the field, who should see him but the miller. "Is it stalin' my horse you are, honest man?" says the miller. "No," says the waiver; "I'm only goin' to axercise him," says he, "in the cool o' the evenin'; it will be good for his health." "Thank you kindly," says the miller, "but lave him where he is, and you'll obleege me." "I can't afford it," says the waiver, runnin' the horse at the ditch. "Bad luck to your impidence," says the miller; "you've as much tin about you as a thravellin' tinker, but you've more brass. Come back here, you vagabone," says he. But he was too late--away galloped the waiver, and took the road to Dublin, for he thought the best thing he could do was to go to the King o' Dublin (for Dublin was a grate place thin, and had a king iv its own), and he thought maybe the King o' Dublin would give him work. Well, he was four days goin' to Dublin, for the baste was not the best, and the roads worse, not all as one as now; but there was no turnpikes then, glory be to God! Whin he got to Dublin he wint sthrait to the palace, and whin he got into the coortyard he let his horse go and graze about the place, for the grass was growin' out betune the stones; everything was flourishin' thin in Dublin, you see. Well, the King was lookin' out of his dhrawin'-room windy for divarshin, whin the waiver kem in; but the waiver pretended not to see him, and he wint over to a stone sate undher the windy--for, you see, there was stone sates all around about the place for the accommodation o' the people--for the King was a dacent, obleegin' man. Well, as I said, the waiver wint over and lay down an one o' the sates, just undher the King's windy, and purtended to go asleep; but he took care to turn out the front of his shield that had the letthers an it. Well, my dear, with that the King calls out to one of the lords of his coort that was standin' behind him howldin' up the skirt of his coat, according to rayson, and says he, "Look here," says he, "what do you think of a vagabone like that comin' undher my very nose to go sleep? It is thrue I'm a good King," says he, "and I 'commodate the people by havin' sates for them to sit down and enjoy the raycreation and contimplation of seein' me here lookin' out o' my dhrawin'-room windy for divarshin; but that is no rayson they are to make a hotel o' the place and come and sleep here. Who is it at all?" says the King. "Not a one o' me knows, plaze your majesty." "I think he must be a furriner," says the King, "bekase his dhress is outlandish." "And doesn't know manners, more betoken," says the lord. "I'll go down and circumspect him myself," says the King. "Folly me," says he to the lord, wavin' his hand at the same time in the most dignacious manner. Down he wint accordingly, followed by the lord; and whin he wint over to where the waiver was lying, sure, the first thing he seen was his shield with the big letthers an it, and with that, says he to the lord, "By dad," says he, "this is the very man I want." "For what, plaze your majesty?" says the lord. "To kill that vagabone dhraggin, to be sure," says the King. "Sure, do you think he could kill him," says the lord, "whin all the stoutest knights in the land wasn't aiquil to it, but never kem back, and was ate up alive by the cruel desaiver." "Sure, don't you see there," says the King, pointin' at the shield, "that he killed three score and tin at one blow; and the man that done that, I think, is a match for anything." So, with that, he wint over to the waiver and shuck him by the shouldher for to wake him, and the waiver rubbed his eyes as if just wakened, and the King says to him, "God save you!" said he. "God save you kindly!" says the waiver, purtendin' he was quite onknowst who he was spakin' to. "Do you know who I am," says the King, "that you make so free, good man?" "No, indeed," says the waiver; "you have the advantage o' me." "To be sure I have," says the King, moighty high; "sure, ain't I the King o' Dublin?" says he. The waiver dhropped down on his two knees forninst the King, and says he, "I beg God's pardon and yours for the liberty I tuk; plaze your holiness, I hope you'll excuse it." "No offince," says the King; "get up, good man. And what brings you here?" says he. "I'm in want o' work, plaze your riverence," says the waiver. "Well, suppose I give you work?" says the King. "I'll be proud to sarve you, my lord," says the waiver. "Very well," says the King. "You killed three score and tin at one blow, I understan'," says the King. "Yis," says the waiver; "that was the last thrifle o' work I done, and I'm afeared my hand 'ill go out o' practice if I don't get some job to do at wanst." "You shall have a job immediantly," says the King. "It is not three score and tin, or any fine thing like that; it is only a blaguard dhraggin that is disturbin' the counthry and ruinatin' my tinanthry wid aitin' their powlthry, and I'm lost for want of eggs," says the King. "Throth, thin, plaze your worship," says the waiver, "you look as yellow as if you swallowed twelve yolks this minit." "Well, I want this dhraggin to be killed," says the King. "It will be no throuble in life to you; and I'm only sorry that it isn't betther worth your while, for he isn't worth fearin' at all; only I must tell you that he lives in the county Galway, in the middle of a bog, and he has an advantage in that." "Oh, I don't value it in the laste," says the waiver; "for the last three score and tin I killed was in a soft place." "When will you undhertake the job then?" says the King. "Let me at him at wanst," says the waiver. "That's what I like," says the King; "you're the very man for my money," says he. "Talkin' of money," says the waiver, "by the same token, I'll want a thrifle o' change from you for my thravellin' charges." "As much as you plaze," says the King; and with the word he brought him into his closet, where there was an owld stockin' in an oak chest burstin' wid goolden guineas. "Take as many as you plaze," says the King; and sure enough, my dear, the little waiver stuffed his tin clothes as full as they could howld with them. "Now, I'm ready for the road," says the waiver. "Very well," says the King; "but you must have a fresh horse," says he. "With all my heart," says the waiver, who thought he might as well exchange the miller's owld garron for a betther. And, maybe, it's wondherin' you are that the waiver would think of goin' to fight the dhraggin afther what he heerd about him when he was purtendin' to be asleep. But he had no sitch notion: all he intended was--to fob the goold and ride back again to Duleek with his gains and a good horse. But, you see, cute as the waiver was, the King was cuter still; for these high quolity, you see, is great desaivers; and so the horse the waiver was put an was learned an purpose; and, sure, the minit he was mounted away powdhered the horse, and the divil a toe he'd go but right down to Galway. Well, for four days he was goin' evermore, until at last the waiver seen a crowd o' people runnin' as if Owld Nick was at their heels, and they shoutin' a thousand murdhers and cryin', "The dhraggin, the dhraggin!" and he couldn't stop the horse nor make him turn back, but away he pelted right forinst the terrible baste that was comin' up to him, and there was the most nefarious smell o' sulphur, savin' your presence, enough to knock you down; and, faith, the waiver seen he had no time to lose, and so he threwn himself off the horse and made to a three that was growin' nigh hand, and away he clambered up into it as nimble as a cat; and not a minit had he to spare, for the dhraggin kem up in a powerful rage, and he devoured the horse, body and bones, in less than no time; and then he began to sniffle and scent about for the waiver, and at last he clapt his eye an him where he was up in the three, and says he, "In throth, you might as well come down out o' that," says he, "for I'll have you as sure as eggs is mate." "Divil a fut I'll go down," says the waiver. "Sorra care I care," says the dhraggin, "for you're as good as ready money in my pocket this minit, for I'll lie undher this three," says he, "and sooner or later you must fall to my share"; and, sure enough, he sot down and began to pick his teeth with his tail afther the heavy brekquest he made that mornin' (for he ate a whole village, let alone the horse), and he got dhrowsy at last and fell asleep; but before he wint to sleep he wound himself all round the three, all as one as a lady windin' ribbon round her finger, so that the waiver could not escape. Well, as soon as the waiver knew he was dead asleep by the snorin' of him--and every snore he let out of him was like a clap o' thunder---- The minit, the waiver began to creep down the three as cautious as a fox; and he was very nigh hand the bottom when, bad cess to it, a thievin' branch he was dipindin' an bruk, and down he fell right atop o' the dhraggin. But if he did, good luck was an his side, for where should he fall but with his two legs right acrass the dhraggin's neck, and, my jew'l, he laid howlt o' the baste's ears, and there he kept his grip, for the dhraggin wakened and endayvoured for to bite him; but, you see, by rayson the waiver was behind his ears he could not come at him, and, with that, he endayvoured for to shake him off; but the divil of a stir could he stir the waiver; and though he shuk all the scales an his body he could not turn the scale again the waiver. "By the hokey, this is too bad intirely," says the dhraggin; "but if you won't let go," says he, "by the powers o' wildfire, I'll give you a ride that 'ill astonish your siven small sinses, my boy"; and with that away he flew like mad; and where do you think he did fly? By dad, he flew sthraight for Dublin--divil a less. But the waiver bein' an his neck was a great disthress to him, and he would rather have made him an inside _passenger_; but, anyway, he flew and he flew till he kem slap up agin the palace o' the King; for, bein' blind with the rage, he never seen it, and he knocked his brains out--that is, the small thrifle he had, and down he fell spacheless. An', you see, good luck would have it that the King o' Dublin was lookin' out iv his dhrawin'-room windy for divarshin that day also, and whin he seen the waiver ridin' and the fiery dhraggin (for he was blazin' like a tar barrel), he called out to his coortyers to come and see the show. "By the powdhers o' war, here comes the knight arriant," says the King, "ridin' the dhraggin that's all afire, and if he gets into the palace, yiz must be ready wid the fire ingines," says he, "for to put him out." But when they seen the dhraggin fall outside they all run downstairs and scampered into the palace yard for to circumspect the curiosity; and by the time they got down the waiver had got off o' the dhraggin's neck, and runnin' up to the King, says he, "Plaze your holiness," says he, "I did not think myself worthy of killin' this facetious baste, so I brought him to yourself for to do him the honour of decripitation by your own royal five fingers. But I tamed him first before I allowed him the liberty for to dar' to appear in your royal prisince, and you'll oblige me if you just make your mark with your own hand upon the onruly baste's neck." And with that the King, sure enough, dhrew out his swoord and took the head aff the dirty brute as clane as a new pin. Well, there was great rejoicin' in the coort that the dhraggin was killed; and says the King to the little waiver, says he, "You are a knight arriant as it is, and so it would be no use for to knight you over agin; but I will make you a lord," says he. "Oh, Lord!" says the waiver, thunderstruck like at his own good luck. "I will," says the King; "and as you are the first man I ever heerd tell of that rode a dhraggin, you shall be called Lord Mount Dhraggin," says he. "But that is not all I'll do for you," says the King; "I'll give you my daughter, too, in marriage," says he. Now, you see, that was nothing more than what he promised the waiver in his first promise; for by all accounts the King's daughter was the greatest dhraggin ever was seen, and had the divil's own tongue, and a beard a yard long, which she purtended was put an her, by way of a penance, by Father Mulcahy, her confissor; but it was well known it was in the family for ages, and no wondher it was so long by rayson of that same. SAMUEL LOVER. Mor of Cloyne _Mor of Cloyne, a Munster Princess, is singing at the door of a Fairy Rath to her sister, a captive within it, the magic tune by which she once escaped from a like captivity._ Little Sister, whom the Fay Hides away within his doon, Deep below yon seeding fern, Oh, list and learn my magic tune. Long ago, when snared like thee By the Shee, my harp and I O'er them wove the slumber spell, Warbling well its lullaby. Till with dreamy smiles they sank, Rank on rank, before the strain; And I rose from out the rath, And found my path to earth again. Little Sister, to my woe Hid below among the Shee, List and learn the magic tune, That it full soon may succour thee. ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES. Lawn Dyarrig and the Knight of Terrible Valley (_As told by an Irish Peasant._) There was a King in his own time in Erin, and he went hunting one day. The King met a man whose head was out through his cap, whose elbows and knees were out through his clothing, and whose toes were out through his shoes. The man went up to the King, gave him a blow on the face, and drove three teeth from his mouth. The same blow put the King's head in the dirt. When he rose from the earth, the King went back to his castle, and lay down sick and sorrowful. The King had three sons, and their names were Ur, Arthur, and Lawn Dyarrig. The three were at school that day, and came home in the evening. The father sighed when the sons were coming in. "What is wrong with our father?" asked the eldest. "Your father is sick on his bed," said the mother. The three sons went to their father and asked what was on him. "A strong man that I met to-day gave me a blow in the face, put my head in the dirt, and knocked three teeth from my mouth. What would you do to him if you met him?" asked the father of the eldest son. "If I met that man," replied Ur, "I would make four parts of him between four horses." "You are my son," said the King. "What would you do if you met him?" asked he then as he turned to the second son. "If I had a grip on that man I would burn him between four fires." "You, too, are my son. What would you do?" asked the King of Lawn Dyarrig. "If I met that man, I would do my best against him, and he might not stand long before me." "You are not my son. I would not lose lands or property on you," said the father. "You must go from me, and leave this to-morrow." On the following morning the three brothers rose with the dawn; the order was given Lawn Dyarrig to leave the castle and make his own way for himself. The other two brothers were going to travel the world to know could they find the man who had injured their father. Lawn Dyarrig lingered outside till he saw the two, and they going off by themselves. "It is a strange thing," said he, "for two men of high degree to go travelling without a servant." "We need no one," said Ur. "Company wouldn't harm us," said Arthur. The two let Lawn Dyarrig go with them as a serving-boy, and set out to find the man who had struck down their father. They spent all that day walking, and came late to a house where one woman was living. She shook hands with Ur and Arthur, and greeted them. Lawn Dyarrig she kissed and welcomed; called him son of the King of Erin. "It is a strange thing to shake hands with the elder, and kiss the younger," said Ur. "This is a story to tell," said the woman, "the same as if your death were in it." They made three parts of that night. The first part they spent in conversation, the second in telling tales, the third in eating and drinking, with sound sleep and sweet slumber. As early as the day dawned next morning the old woman was up, and had food for the young men. When the three had eaten, she spoke to Ur, and this is what she asked of him: "What was it that drove you from home, and what brought you to this place?" "A champion met my father, and took three teeth from him and put his head in the dirt. I am looking for that man, to find him alive or dead." "That was the Green Knight from Terrible Valley. He is the man who took the three teeth from your father. I am three hundred years living in this place, and there is not a year of the three hundred in which three hundred heroes, fresh, young, and noble, have not passed on the way to Terrible Valley, and never have I seen one coming back, and each of them had the look of a man better than you. And now where are you going, Arthur?" "I am on the same journey with my brother." "Where are you going, Lawn Dyarrig?" "I am going with these as a servant," said Lawn Dyarrig. "God's help to you, it's bad clothing that's on your body," said the woman. "And now I will speak to Ur. A day and a year since a champion passed this way. He wore a suit as good as was ever above ground. I had a daughter sewing there in the open window. He came outside, put a finger under her girdle, and took her with him. Her father followed straightway to save her, but I have never seen daughter nor father from that day to this. That man was the Green Knight of Terrible Valley. He is better than all the men that could stand on a field a mile in length and a mile in breadth. If you take my advice you'll turn back and go home to your father." 'Tis how she vexed Ur with this talk, and he made a vow to himself to go on. When Ur did not agree to turn home, the woman said to Lawn Dyarrig, "Go back to my chamber; you'll find in it the apparel of a hero." He went back, and there was not a bit of the apparel he did not go into with a spring. "You may be able to do something now," said the woman, when Lawn Dyarrig came to the front. "Go back to my chamber and search through all the old swords. You will find one at the bottom. Take that." He found the old sword, and at the first shake that he gave he knocked seven barrels of rust out of it; after the second shake it was as bright as when made. "You may be able to do well with that," said the woman. "Go out, now, to that stable abroad, and take the slim white steed that is in it. That one will never stop nor halt in any place till he brings you to the Eastern World. If you like, take these two men behind you; if not, let them walk. But I think it is useless for you to have them at all with you." Lawn Dyarrig went out to the stable, took the slim white steed, mounted, rode to the front, and catching the two brothers, planted them on the horse behind him. "Now, Lawn Dyarrig," said the woman, "this horse will never stop till he stands on the little white meadow in the Eastern World. When he stops, you'll come down, and cut the turf under his beautiful right front foot." The horse started from the door, and at every leap he crossed seven hills and valleys, seven castles with villages, acres, roods, and odd perches. He could overtake the whirlwind before him seven hundred times before the whirlwind behind him could overtake him once. Early in the afternoon of the next day he was in the Eastern World. When he dismounted, Lawn Dyarrig cut the sod from under the foot of the slim white steed, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and Terrible Valley was down under him there. What he did next was to tighten the reins on the neck of the steed and let him go home. "Now," said Lawn Dyarrig to his brothers, "which would you rather be doing--making a basket or twisting gads (withes)?" "We would rather be making a basket; our help is among ourselves," answered they. Ur and Arthur went at the basket and Lawn Dyarrig at twisting the gads. When Lawn Dyarrig came to the opening with the gads all twisted and made into one, they hadn't the ribs of the basket in the ground yet. "Oh, then, haven't ye anything done but that?" "Stop your mouth," said Ur, "or we'll make a mortar of your head on the next stone." "To be kind to one another is the best for us," said Lawn Dyarrig. "I'll make the basket." While they'd be putting one rod in the basket he had the basket finished. "Oh, brother," said they, "you are a quick workman." They had not called him brother since they left home till that moment. "Who will go in the basket now?" said Lawn Dyarrig when it was finished and the gad tied to it. "Who but me?" said Ur. "I am sure, brothers, if I see anything to frighten me you'll draw me up." "We will," said the other two. He went in, but had not gone far when he cried to pull him up again. "By my father, and the tooth of my father, and by all that is in Erin, dead or alive, I would not give one other sight on Terrible Valley!" he cried, when he stepped out of the basket. "Who will go now?" said Lawn Dyarrig. "Who will go but me?" answered Arthur. Whatever length Ur went, Arthur didn't go the half of it. "By my father, and the tooth of my father, I wouldn't give another look at Terrible Valley for all that's in Erin, dead or alive!" "I will go now," said Lawn Dyarrig, "and as I put no foul play on you, I hope ye'll not put foul play on me." "We will not, indeed," said they. Whatever length the other two went, Lawn Dyarrig didn't go the half of it, till he stepped out of the basket and went down on his own feet. It was not far he had travelled in Terrible Valley when he met seven hundred heroes guarding the country. "In what place here has the Green King his castle?" asked he of the seven hundred. "What sort of a sprisawn goat or sheep from Erin are you?" asked they. "If we had a hold of you, the two arms of me, that's a question you would not put a second time; but if we haven't you, we'll not be so long." They faced Lawn Dyarrig then and attacked him; but he went through them like a hawk or a raven through small birds. He made a heap of their feet, a heap of their heads, and a castle of their arms. After that he went his way walking, and had not gone far when he came to a spring. "I'll have a drink before I go further," thought he. With that he stooped down and took a drink of the water. When he had drunk he lay on the ground and fell asleep. Now, there wasn't a morning that the lady in the Green Knight's castle didn't wash in the water of that spring, and she sent a maid for the water each time. Whatever part of the day it was when Lawn Dyarrig fell asleep, he was sleeping in the morning when the girl came. She thought it was dead the man was, and she was so in dread of him that she would not come near the spring for a long time. At last she saw he was asleep, and then she took the water. Her mistress was complaining of her for being so long. "Do not blame me," said the maid. "I am sure that if it was yourself that was in my place you'd not come back so soon." "How so?" asked the lady. "The finest hero that ever a woman laid eyes on is sleeping at the spring." "That's a thing that cannot be till Lawn Dyarrig comes to the age of a hero. When that time comes he'll be sleeping at the spring." "He is in it now," said the girl. The lady did not stop to get any drop of the water on herself, but ran quickly from the castle. When she came to the spring she roused Lawn Dyarrig. If she found him lying, she left him standing. She smothered him with kisses, drowned him with tears, dried him with garments of fine silk and with her own hair. Herself and himself locked arms and walked into the castle of the Green Knight. After that they were inviting each other with the best food and entertainment till the middle of the following day. Then the lady said: "When the Green Knight bore me away from my father and mother he brought me straight to this castle, but I put him under bonds not to marry me for seven years and a day, and he cannot; still, I must serve him. When he goes fowling he spends three days away and the next three days at home. This is the day for him to come back, and for me to prepare his dinner. There is no stir that you or I have made here to-day but that brass head beyond there will tell of it." "It is equal to you what it tells," said Lawn Dyarrig, "only make ready a clean long chamber for me." She did so, and he went back into it. Herself rose up then to prepare dinner for the Green Knight. When he came, she welcomed him as every day. She left down his food before him, and he sat to take his dinner. He was sitting with knife and fork in hand when the brass head spoke. "I thought when I saw you taking food and drink with your wife that you had the blood of a man in you. If you could see that sprisawn of a goat or sheep out of Erin taking meat and drink with her all day, what would you do?" "Oh, my suffering and sorrow!" cried the knight. "I'll never take another bite or sup till I eat some of his liver and heart. Let three hundred heroes, fresh and young, go back and bring his heart to me, with the liver and lights, till I eat them." The three hundred heroes went, and hardly were they behind in the chamber when Lawn Dyarrig had them all dead in one heap. "He must have some exercise to delay my men, they are so long away," said the knight. "Let three hundred more heroes go for his heart, with the liver and lights, and bring them here to me." The second three hundred went, and as they were entering the chamber Lawn Dyarrig was making a heap of them, till the last one was inside, where there were two heaps. "He has some way of coaxing my men to delay," said the knight. "Do you go now, three hundred of my savage hirelings, and bring him." The three hundred savage hirelings went, and Lawn Dyarrig let every man of them enter before he raised a hand, then he caught the bulkiest of them all by the two ankles, and began to wallop the others with him, and he walloped them till he drove the life out of the two hundred and ninety-nine. The bulkiest one was worn to the shin-bones that Lawn Dyarrig held in his two hands. The Green Knight, who thought Lawn Dyarrig was coaxing the men, called out then, "Come down, my men, and take dinner." "I'll be with you," said Lawn Dyarrig, "and have the best food in the house, and I'll have the best bed in the house. God not be good to you for it, either." He went down to the Green Knight, and took the food from before him and put it before himself. Then he took the lady, set her on his own knee, and he and she went on eating. After dinner he put his finger under her girdle, took her to the best chamber in the castle, and stood on guard upon it till morning. Before dawn the lady said to Lawn Dyarrig: "If the Green Knight strikes the pole of combat first, he'll win the day; if you strike first, you'll win if you do what I tell you. The Green Knight has so much enchantment that if he sees it is going against him the battle is, he'll rise like a fog in the air, come down in the same form, strike you, and make a green stone of you. When yourself and himself are going out to fight in the morning, cut a sod a perch long, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; you'll leave the sod on the next little hillock you meet. When the Green Knight is coming down and is ready to strike, give him a blow with the sod. You'll make a green stone of him." As early as the dawn Lawn Dyarrig rose and struck the pole of combat. The blow that he gave did not leave calf, foal, lamb, kid, or child waiting for birth, without turning them five times to the left and five times to the right. "What do you want?" asked the knight. "All that's in your kingdom to be against me the first quarter of the day, and yourself the second quarter. "You have not left in the kingdom now but myself, and it is early enough for you that I'll be at you." The knight faced him, and they went at each other, and fought till late in the day. The battle was strong against Lawn Dyarrig, when the lady stood in the door of the castle. "Increase on your blows and increase on your courage," cried she. "There is no woman here but myself to wail over you, or to stretch you before burial." When the knight heard the voice he rose in the air like a lump of fog. As he was coming down Lawn Dyarrig struck him with the sod on the right side of his breast, and made a green stone of him. The lady rushed out then, and whatever welcome she had for Lawn Dyarrig the first time, she had twice as much now. Herself and himself went into the castle, and spent that night very comfortably. In the morning they rose early, and collected all the gold, utensils, and treasures. Lawn Dyarrig found the three teeth of his father in a pocket of the Green Knight, and took them. He and the lady brought all the riches to where the basket was. "If I send up this beautiful lady," thought Lawn Dyarrig, "she may be taken from me by my brothers; if I remain below with her, she may be taken from me by people here." He put her in the basket, and she gave him a ring so that they might know each other if they met. He shook the gad, and she rose in the basket. When Ur saw the basket, he thought, "What's above let it be above, and what's below let it stay where it is." "I'll have you as wife for ever for myself," said he to the lady. "I put you under bonds," says she, "not to lay a hand on me for a day and three years." "That itself would not be long even if twice the time," said Ur. The two brothers started home with the lady; on the way Ur found the head of an old horse with teeth in it, and took them, saying, "These will be my father's three teeth." They travelled on, and reached home at last. Ur would not have left a tooth in his father's mouth, trying to put in the three that he had brought; but the father stopped him. Lawn Dyarrig, left in Terrible Valley, began to walk around for himself. He had been walking but one day when whom should he meet but the lad Short-clothes, and he saluted him. "By what way can I leave Terrible Valley?" asked Lawn Dyarrig. "If I had a grip on you that's what you wouldn't ask me a second time," said Short-clothes. "If you haven't touched me, you will before you are much older." "If you do, you will not treat me as you did all my people and my master." "I'll do worse to you than I did to them," said Lawn Dyarrig. They caught each other then, one grip under the arm and one on the shoulder. 'Tis not long they were wrestling when Lawn Dyarrig had Short-clothes on the earth, and he gave him the five thin tyings dear and tight. "You are the best hero I have ever met," said Short-clothes; "give me quarter for my soul--spare me. When I did not tell you of my own will, I must tell in spite of myself." "It is as easy for me to loosen you as to tie you," said Lawn Dyarrig, and he freed him. "Since you are not dead now," said Short-clothes, "there is no death allotted to you. I'll find a way for you to leave Terrible Valley. Go and take that old bridle hanging there beyond and shake it; whatever beast comes and puts its head into the bridle will carry you." Lawn Dyarrig shook the bridle, and a dirty, shaggy little foal came and put its head in the bridle. Lawn Dyarrig mounted, dropped the reins on the foal's neck, and let him take his own choice of roads. The foal brought Lawn Dyarrig out by another way to the upper world, and took him to Erin. Lawn Dyarrig stopped some distance from his father's castle, and knocked at the house of an old weaver. "Who are you?" asked the old man. "I am a weaver," said Lawn Dyarrig. "What can you do?" "I can spin for twelve and twist for twelve." "This is a very good man," said the old weaver to his sons, "let us try him." The work they had been doing for a year he had done in one hour. When dinner was over the old man began to wash and shave, and his two sons began to do the same. "Why is this?" asked Lawn Dyarrig. "Haven't you heard that Ur, son of the King, is to marry to-night the woman that he took from the Green Knight of Terrible Valley?" "I have not," said Lawn Dyarrig; "as all are going to the wedding, I suppose I may go without offence?" "Oh, you may," said the weaver; "there will be a hundred thousand welcomes before you." "Are there any linen sheets within?" "There are," said the weaver. "It is well to have bags ready for yourself and two sons." The weaver made bags for the three very quickly. They went to the wedding. Lawn Dyarrig put what dinner was on the first table into the weaver's bag, and sent the old man home with it. The food of the second table he put in the eldest son's bag, filled the second son's bag from the third table, and sent the two home. The complaint went to Ur that an impudent stranger was taking all the food. "It is not right to turn any man away," said the bridegroom, "but if that stranger does not mind he will be thrown out of the castle." "Let me look at the face of the disturber," said the bride. "Go and bring the fellow who is troubling the guests," said Ur to the servants. Lawn Dyarrig was brought right away, and stood before the bride, who filled a glass with wine and gave it to him. Lawn Dyarrig drank half the wine, and dropped in the ring which the lady had given him in Terrible Valley. When the bride took the glass again the ring went of itself with one leap on to her finger. She knew then who was standing before her. "This is the man who conquered the Green Knight and saved me from Terrible Valley," said she to the King of Erin; "this is Lawn Dyarrig, your son." Lawn Dyarrig took out the three teeth and put them in his father's mouth. They fitted there perfectly, and grew into their old place. The King was satisfied, and as the lady would marry no man but Lawn Dyarrig, he was the bridegroom. "I must give you a present," said the bride to the Queen. "Here is a beautiful scarf which you are to wear as a girdle this evening." The Queen put the scarf round her waist. "Tell me now," said the bride to the Queen, "who was Ur's father." "What father could he have but his own father, the King of Erin?" "Tighten, scarf," said the bride. That moment the Queen thought that her head was in the sky and the lower half of her body down deep in the earth. "Oh, my grief and my woe!" cried the Queen. "Answer my question in truth, and the scarf will stop squeezing you. Who was Ur's father?" "The gardener," said the Queen. "Whose son is Arthur?" "The King's son." "Tighten, scarf," said the bride. If the Queen suffered before, she suffered twice as much this time, and screamed for help. "Answer me truly, and you'll be without pain; if not, death will be on you this minute. Whose son is Arthur?" "The swineherd's." "Who is the King's son?" "The King has no son but Lawn Dyarrig." "Tighten, scarf." The scarf did not tighten, and if the Queen had been commanding it a day and a year it would not have tightened, for the Queen told the truth that time. When the wedding was over, the King gave Lawn Dyarrig half his kingdom, and made Ur and Arthur his servants. JEREMIAH CURTIN. The Horned Women A rich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool while all the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the door, and a voice called out, "Open! Open!" "Who is there?" said the woman of the house. "I am the Witch of the One Horn," was answered. The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had called and required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her hand a pair of wool carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud, "Where are the women; they delay too long?" Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before, "Open! Open!" The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call, and immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool. "Give me place," she said; "I am the Witch of the Two Horns"; and she began to spin as quick as lightning. And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard and the witches entered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire--the first with one horn, the last with twelve horns. And they carded the thread and turned their spinning-wheels, and wound and wove. All singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear and frightful to look upon were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and the mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry, for the spell of the witches was upon her. Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said, "Rise, woman, and make us a cake." Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water from the well that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find none. And they said to her, "Take a sieve, and bring water in it." And she took the sieve, and went to the well; but the water poured from it, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and wept. Then came a voice by her, and said, "Take yellow clay and moss and bind them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold." This she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake; and the voice said again: "Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house cry aloud three times, and say, 'The mountain of the Fenian women and the sky over it is all on fire.'" And she did so. When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon, where was their chief abode. But the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches, if they returned again. And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she had washed her child's feet (the feet-water) outside the door on the threshold; secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in her absence, of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they had woven, and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock; and, lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam fastened in the jambs, so that they could not enter, and having done these things she waited. Not long were the witches in coming, and they raged and called for vengeance. "Open! Open!" they screamed. "Open, feet-water!" "I cannot," said the feet-water; "I am scattered on the ground, and my path is down to the Lough." "Open, open, wood and trees and beam!" they cried to the door. "I cannot," said the door, "for the beam is fixed in the jambs, and I have no power to move." "Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!" they cried again. "I cannot," said the cake, "for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is on the lips of the sleeping children." Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the Well, who had wished their ruin. But the woman and the house were left in peace, and a mantle dropped by one of the witches was kept hung up by the mistress as a sign of the night's awful contest; and this mantle was in possession of the same family from generation to generation for five hundred years after. LADY WILDE. The Quare Gander "Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well to do; an' he rinted the biggest farm on this side iv the Galties; an' bein' mighty cute an' a sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest. But, unluckily, he was blessed with an ilegant large family iv daughters, an' iv coorse, his heart was allamost bruck, striving to make up fortunes for the whole of them. An' there wasn't a conthrivance iv any soart or description for makin' money out iv the farm but he was up to. "Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin' up in the world he always kep a power iv turkeys, and all soarts iv poultrey; an' he was out iv all rason partial to geese--an' small blame to him for that same--for twice't a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand--an' get a fine price for the feathers, an' plenty of rale sizable eggs--an' when they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an' sell them to the gintlemen for goslings, d'ye see, let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is out. "Well, it happened in the coorse iv time that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin' to Terence, an' divil a place he could go serenadin' about the farm, or lookin' afther the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an' rubbin' himself agin his legs, an' lookin' up in his face jist like any other Christian id do; an', begorra, the likes iv it was never seen--Terence Mooney an' the gandher wor so great. "An' at last the bird was so engagin' that Terence would not allow it to be plucked any more, an' kep it from that time out for love an' affection--just all as one like one iv his childer. "But happiness in perfection never lasts long, an' the neighbours begin'd to suspect the nathur an' intentions iv the gandher, an' some iv them said it was the divil, an' more iv them that it was a fairy. "Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin', an' you may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an' from one day to another he was gettin' more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor, in Garryowen, an' it's he was the illigant hand at the business, an' divil a sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest. An', moreover, he was very great wid ould Terence Mooney--this man's father that was. "So without more about it he was sint for, an', sure enough, the divil a long he was about it, for he kem back that very evenin' along wid the boy that was sint for him, an' as soon as he was there, an' tuck his supper, an' was done talkin' for a while, he begin'd, of coorse, to look into the gandher. "Well, he turned it this away an' that away, to the right an' to the left, an' straight-ways an' upside-down, an' when he was tired handlin' it, says he to Terence Mooney: "'Terence,' says he, 'you must remove the bird into the next room,' says he, 'an' put a petticoat,' says he, 'or anny other convaynience round his head,' says he. "'An' why so?' says Terence. "'Becase,' says Jer, says he. "'Becase what?' says Terence. "'Becase,' says Jer, 'if it isn't done you'll never be asy agin,' says he, 'or pusillanimous in your mind,' says he; 'so ax no more questions, but do my biddin',' says he. "'Well,' says Terence, 'have your own way,' says he. "An' wid that he tuck the ould gandher an' giv' it to one iv the gossoons. "'An' take care,' says he, 'don't smother the crathur,' says he. "Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he: "'Do you know what that old gandher _is_, Terence Mooney?' "'Divil a taste,' says Terence. "'Well, then,' says Jer, 'the gandher is your own father,' says he. "'It's jokin' you are,' says Terence, turnin' mighty pale; 'how can an ould gandher be my father?' says he. "'I'm not funnin' you at all,' says Jer; 'it's thrue what I tell you, it's your father's wandhrin' sowl,' says he, 'that's naturally tuck pissession iv the ould gandher's body,' says he. 'I know him many ways, and I wondher,' says he, 'you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,' says he. "'Oh, blur an' ages!' says Terence, 'what the divil will I ever do at all at all,' says he; 'it's all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,' says he. "'That can't be helped now,' says Jer; 'it was a sevare act, surely,' says he, 'but it's too late to lamint for it now,' says he; 'the only way to prevint what's past,' says he, 'is to put a stop to it before it happens,' says he. "'Thrue for you,' says Terence, 'but how the divil did you come to the knowledge iv my father's sowl,' says he, 'bein' in the ould gandher,' says he. "'If I tould you,' says Jer, 'you would not undherstand me,' says he, 'without book-larnin' an' gasthronomy,' says he; 'so ax me no questions,' says he, 'an' I'll tell you no lies. But b'lieve me in this much,' says he, 'it's your father that's in it,' says he; 'an' if I don't make him spake to-morrow mornin',' says he, 'I'll give you lave to call me a fool,' says he. "'Say no more,' says Terence; 'that settles the business,' says he; 'an' oh, blur and ages! is it not a quare thing,' says he, 'for a dacent, respictable man,' says he, 'to be walkin' about the counthry in the shape iv an ould gandher,' says he; 'and oh, murdher, murdher! is not it often I plucked him,' says he, 'an' tundher and ouns! might not I have ate him?' says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin' your prisince, an' on the pint iv faintin' wid the bare notions iv it. "Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry to him, quite an' asy: "'Terence,' says he, 'don't be aggravatin' yourself,' says he; 'for I have a plan composed that 'ill make him spake out,' says he, 'an' tell what it is in the world he's wantin',' says he; 'an' mind an' don't be comin' in wid your gosther, an' to say agin anything I tell you,' says he, 'but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back,' says he, 'how that we're goin' to sind him to-morrow mornin' to market,' says he. 'An' if he don't spake to-night,' says he, 'or gother himself out iv the place,' says he, 'put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart,' says he, 'straight to Tipperary, to be sould for ating,' says he, 'along wid the two gossoons,' says he, 'an' my name isn't Jer Garvan,' says he, 'if he doesn't spake out before he's half-way,' says he. 'An' mind,' says he, 'as soon as iver he says the first word,' says he, 'that very minute bring him aff to Father Crotty,' says he; 'an' if his raverince doesn't make him ratire,' says he, 'like the rest iv his parishioners, glory be to God,' says he, 'into the siclusion iv the flames iv purgathory,' says he, 'there's no vartue in my charums,' says he. "Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an' they all begin'd to talk iv sindin' him the nixt mornin' to be sould for roastin' in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled. But divil a notice the gandher tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord-Liftinant; an' Terence desired the boys to get ready the kish for the poulthry, an' to 'settle it out wid hay soft an' shnug,' says he, 'for it's the last jauntin' the poor ould gandher 'ill get in this world,' says he. "Well, as the night was gettin' late, Terence was growin' mighty sorrowful an' down-hearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what was goin' to happen. An' as soon as the wife an' the crathurs wor fairly in bed, he brought out some illigint potteen, an' himself an' Jer Garvan sot down to it; an', begorra, the more anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them. It wasn't an imparial, though, an' more's the pity, for them wasn't anvinted antil short since; but divil a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew--the Lord purloin his raverince--begin'd to give the pledge, an' wid the blessin' iv timperance to deginerate Ireland. "An', begorra, I have the medle myself; an' it's proud I am iv that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it's mighty dhry. "Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop; 'for enough is as good as a faste,' says he; 'an' I pity the vagabond,' says he, 'that is not able to conthroul his licquor,' says he, 'an' to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure,' says he; an' wid that he wished Jer Garvan a good night an' walked out iv the room. "But he wint out the wrong door, bein' a thrifle hearty in himself an' not rightly knowin' whether he was standin' on his head or his heels, or both iv them at the same time, an' in place iv gettin' into bed, where did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper that the boys had settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin'. An', sure enough, he sunk down soft an' complate through the hay to the bottom; an' wid the turnin' and roulin' about in the night, the divil a bit iv him but was covered up as shnug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin'. "So wid the first light, up gets the two boys that wor to take the sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an' they cotched the ould gandher an' put him in the hamper, an' clapped a good wisp iv hay an the top iv him, an' tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, an' med the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an' put the hamper up an the car, wontherin' all the while what in the world was makin' the ould bird so surprisin' heavy. "Well, they wint along quite anasy towards Tipperary, wishin' every minute that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall in with them, for they didn't half like the notions iv havin' no company but the bewitched gandher, an' small blame to them for that same. "But although they wor shaking in their skhins in dhread iv the ould bird beginnin' to convarse them every minute, they did not let an to one another, but kep singin' an' whistlin' like mad to keep the dread out iv their hearts. "Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half an hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father Crotty's, an' there was one divil of a rut three feet deep at the laste; an' the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin' through it that it wakened Terence widin in the basket. "'Bad luck to ye,' says he, 'my bones is bruck wid yer thricks; what the divil are ye doin' wid me?' "'Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?' says the boy that was next to the car, turnin' as white as the top iv a mushroom; 'did ye hear anything quare soundin' out iv the hamper?' says he. "'No, nor you,' says Thady, turnin' as pale as himself. 'It's the ould gandher that's gruntin' wid the shakin' he's gettin',' says he. "'Where the divil have ye put me into?' says Terence inside. 'Bad luck to your sowls,' says he; 'let me out, or I'll be smothered this minute,' says he. "'There's no use in purtending,' says the boy; 'the gandher's spakin', glory be to God,' says he. "'Let me out, you murdherers,' says Terence. "'In the name iv the blessed Vargin,' says Thady, 'an' iv all the holy saints, hould yer tongue, you unnatheral gandher,' says he. "'Who's that, that dar to call me nicknames?' says Terence inside, roaring wid the fair passion. 'Let me out, you blasphamious infiddles,' says he, 'or by this crass I'll stretch ye,' says he. "'In the name iv all the blessed saints in heaven,' says Thady, 'who the divil are ye?' "'Who the divil would I be, but Terence Mooney,' says he. 'It's myself that's in it, you unmerciful bliggards,' says he. 'Let me out, or, by the holy, I'll get out in spite iv yes,' says he, 'an', by jaburs, I'll wallop yes in arnest,' says he. "'It's ould Terence, sure enough,' says Thady. 'Isn't it cute the fairy docthor found him out?' says he. "'I'm an the pint of snuffication,' says Terence. 'Let me out, I tell you, an' wait till I get at ye,' says he, 'for, begorra, the divil a bone in your body but I'll powdher,' says he. "An' wid that he beginned kickin' and flingin' inside in the hamper, and dhrivin' his legs agin the sides iv it, that it was a wonder he did not knock it to pieces. "Well, as soon as the boys seen that they skelped the ould horse into a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest's house, through the ruts, an' over the stones; an' you'd see the hamper fairly flyin' three feet up in the air with the joultin'; glory be to God. "So it was small wondher, by the time they got to his raverince's door, the breath was fairly knocked out of poor Terence, so that he was lyin' speechless in the bottom iv the hamper. "Well, whin his raverince kem down, they up an' they tould him all that happened, an' how they put the gandher in the hamper, an' how he beginned to spake, an' how he confissed that he was ould Terence Mooney; an' they axed his honour to advise them how to get rid iv the sperit for good an' all. "So says his raverince, says he: "'I'll take my booke,' says he, 'an' I'll read some rale sthrong holy bits out iv it,' says he, 'an' do you get a rope and put it round the hamper,' says he, 'an' let it swing over the runnin' wather at the bridge,' says he, 'an' it's no matther if I don't make the sperit come out iv it,' says he. "Well, wid that the priest got his horse, and tuck his booke in undher his arm, an' the boys follied his raverince, ladin' the horse down to the bridge, an' divil a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen it was no use spakin', an' he was afeard if he med any noise they might thrait him to another gallop an' finish him intirely. "Well, as soon as they wor all come to the bridge, the boys tuck the rope they had wid them an' med it fast to the top iv the hamper, an' swung it fairly over the bridge, lettin' it hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the wather. "And his raverince rode down to the bank of the river close by, an' beginned to read mighty loud and bould intirely. "An' whin he was goin' on about five minutes, all at onst the bottom iv the hamper kem out, an' down wint Terence, falling splash into the wather, an' the ould gandher a-top iv him. Down they both wint to the bottom, wid a souse you'd hear half a mile off. "An' before they had time to rise agin, his raverince, wid the fair astonishment, giv his horse one dig iv the spurs, an' before he knew where he was, in he wint, horse an' all, a-top iv them, an' down to the bottom. "Up they all kem agin together, gaspin' and puffin', an' off down wid the current wid them, like shot in under the arch iv the bridge till they kem to the shallow wather. "The ould gandher was the first out, and the priest and Terence kem next, pantin' an' blowin' an' more than half dhrounded, an' his raverince was so freckened wid the dhroundin' he got and wid the sight iv the sperit, as he consaved, that he wasn't the better of it for a month. "An' as soon as Terence could spake he swore he'd have the life of the two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his will. An' as soon as he was got quiter they all endivoured to explain it; but Terence consaved he went raly to bed the night before, an' his wife said the same to shilter him from the suspision for havin' th' dhrop taken. An' his raverince said it was a mysthery, an' swore if he cotched anyone laughin' at the accident he'd lay the horsewhip across their shoulders. "An' Terence grew fonder an' fonder iv the gandher every day, until at last he died in a wondherful old age, lavin' the gandher afther him an' a large family iv childher. "An' to this day the farm is rinted by one iv Terence Mooney's lenial and legitimate postariors." JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANN. The Fairies' Passage Tap, tap, rap, rap! "Get up, gaffer Ferryman." "Eh! Who is there?" The clock strikes three. "Get up, do, gaffer! You are the very man We have been long, long, longing to see." The ferryman rises, growling and grumbling, And goes fum-fumbling, and stumbling, and tumbling Over the wares on his way to the door. But he sees no more Than he saw before, Till a voice is heard: "O Ferryman, dear! Here we are waiting, all of us, here. We are a wee, wee colony, we; Some two hundred in all, or three. Ferry us over the River Lee Ere dawn of day, And we will pay The most we may In our own wee way!" "Who are you? Whence came you? What place are you going to?" "Oh, we have dwelt over-long in this land: The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too! Nothing at all but they now understand. We are daily vanishing under the thunder Of some huge engine or iron wonder; That iron--ah! it has entered our souls." "Your souls? O gholes! You queer little drolls, Do you mean ----?" "Good gaffer, do aid us with speed, For our time, like our stature, is short indeed! And a very long way we have to go: Eight or ten thousand miles or so, Hither and thither, and to and fro, With our pots and pans And little gold cans; But our light caravans Run swifter than man's." "Well, well, you may come," said the ferryman affably; "Patrick, turn out, and get ready the barge." Then again to the little folk: "Tho' you seem laughably Small, I don't mind, if your coppers be large." Oh, dear! what a rushing, what pushing, what crushing (The watermen making vain efforts at hushing The hubbub the while), there followed these words! What clapping of boards, What strapping of cords, What stowing away of children and wives, And platters, and mugs, and spoons, and knives! Till all had safely got into the boat, And the ferryman, clad in his tip-top coat, And his wee little fairies were safely afloat; Then ding, ding, ding, And kling, kling, kling, How the coppers did ring In the tin pitcherling! Off, then, went the boat, at first very pleasantly, Smoothly, and so forth; but after a while It swayed and it swagged this and that way, and presently Chest after chest, and pile after pile Of the little folk's goods began tossing and rolling, And pitching like fun, beyond fairy controlling. O Mab! if the hubbub were great before, It was now some two or three million times more. Crash! went the wee crocks and the clocks; and the locks Of each little wee box were stove in by hard knocks; And then there were oaths, and prayers, and cries: "Take care!"--"See there!"--"Oh, dear, my eyes!"-- "I am killed!"--"I am drowned!"--with groans and sighs, Till to land they drew. "Yeo-ho! Pull to! Tiller-rope, thro' and thro'!" And all's right anew. "Now jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities. (Eh, what is this?... Where are they, at all? Where are they, and where are their tiny commodities? Well, as I live!"....) He looks blank as a wall, Poor ferryman! Round him and round him he gazes, But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes Of utter bewilderment. All, all are gone, And he stands alone, Like a statue of stone, In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer, And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear, With other odd sounds: "Ha, ha, ha, ha! Fol lol! zidzizzle! quee, quee! bah, bah! Fizzigigiggidy! pshee! sha, sha!" "O ye thieves, ye thieves, ye rascally thieves!" The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher, And there, alas, to his horror perceives That the little folk's mode of making him richer Has been to pay him with withered leaves! JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. The King of the Black Desert This story was told by one Laurence O'Flynn from near Swinford, in the County Mayo, to my friend, the late F. O'Conor, of Athlone, from whom I got it in Irish. It is the eleventh story in the "Sgeuluidhe Gaodhalach," and is here for the first time literally translated into English. AN CHRAOIBHIN AOIBHINN. When O'Conor was King over Ireland he was living in Rathcroghan, of Connacht. He had one son, but he, when he grew up, was wild, and the King could not control him, because he would have his own will in everything. One morning he went out-- His hound at his foot, And his hawk on his hand, And his fine black horse to bear him-- and he went forward, singing a verse of a song to himself, until he came as far as a big bush that was growing on the brink of a glen. There was a grey old man sitting at the foot of the bush, and he said, "King's son, if you are able to play as well as you are able to sing songs, I would like to play a game with you." The King's son thought that it was a silly old man that was in it, and he alighted, threw bridle over branch, and sat down by the side of the grey old man. The old man drew out a pack of cards and asked, "Can you play these?" "I can," said the King's son. "What shall we play for?" said the grey old man. "Anything you wish," says the King's son. "All right; if I win you must do for me anything I shall ask of you, and if you win I must do for you anything you ask of me," says the grey old man. "I'm satisfied," says the King's son. They played the game, and the King's son beat the grey old man. Then he said, "What would you like me to do for you, King's son?" "I won't ask you to do anything for me," says the King's son. "I think that you are not able to do much." "Don't mind that," said the old man. "You must ask me to do something. I never lost a bet yet that I wasn't able to pay it." As I said, the King's son thought that it was a silly old man that was in it, and to satisfy him he said to him, "Take the head off my stepmother and put a goat's head on her for a week." "I'll do that for you," said the grey old man. The King's son went a-riding on his horse-- His hound at his foot, His hawk on his hand-- and he faced for another place, and never thought more about the grey old man until he came home. He found a cry and great grief in the castle. The servants told him that an enchanter had come into the room where the Queen was, and had put a goat's head on her in place of her own head. "By my hand, but that's a wonderful thing," says the King's son. "If I had been at home I'd have whipt the head off him with my sword." There was great grief on the King, and he sent for a wise councillor, and asked him did he know how the thing happened to the Queen. "Indeed, I cannot tell you that," said he; "it's a work of enchantment." The King's son did not let on that he had any knowledge of the matter, but on the morrow morning he went out-- His hound at his foot, His hawk on his hand, And his fine black horse to bear him-- and he never drew rein until he came as far as the big bush on the brink of the glen. The grey old man was sitting there under the bush, and said, "King's son, will you have a game to-day?" The King's son got down and said, "I will." With that he threw bridle over branch and sat down by the side of the old man. He drew out the cards and asked the King's son did he get the thing he had won yesterday. "That's all right," said the King's son. "We'll play for the same bet to-day," says the grey old man. "I'm satisfied," said the King's son. They played--the King's son won. "What would you like me to do for you this time?" says the grey old man. The King's son thought and said to himself, "I'll give him a hard job this time." Then he said, "There's a field of seven acres at the back of my father's castle; let it be filled to-morrow morning with cows, and no two of them to be of one colour, or one height, or one age." "That shall be done," says the grey old man. The King's son went riding on his horse-- His hound at his foot, His hawk on his hand-- and faced for home. The King was sorrowful about the Queen; there were doctors out of every place in Ireland, but they could not do her any good. On the morning of the next day the King's herd went out early, and he saw the field at the back of the castle filled with cows, and no two of them of the same colour, the same age, or the same height. He went in and told the King the wonderful news. "Go and drive them out," says the King. The herd got men, and went with them driving out the cows, but no sooner would he put them out on one side than they would come in on the other. The herd went to the King again, and told him that all the men that were in Ireland would not be able to put out these cows that were in the field. "They're enchanted cows," said the King. When the King's son saw the cows, he said to himself, "I'll have another game with the grey old man to-day!" That morning he went out-- His hound at his foot, His hawk on his hand, And his fine black horse to bear him-- and he never drew rein till he came as far as the big bush on the brink of the glen. The grey old man was there before him, and asked him would he have a game of cards. "I will," says the King's son; "but you know well that I can beat you playing cards." "We'll have another game, then," says the grey old man. "Did you ever play ball?" "I did, indeed," said the King's son; "but I think that you are too old to play ball, and, besides that, we have no place here to play it." "If you're contented to play, I'll find a place," says the grey old man. "I'm contented," says the King's son. "Follow me," says the grey old man. The King's son followed him through the glen until he came to a fine green hill. There he drew out a little enchanted rod, spoke some words which the King's son did not understand, and after a moment the hill opened and the two went in, and they passed through a number of splendid halls until they came out into a garden. There was everything finer than another in that garden, and at the bottom of the garden there was a place for playing ball. They threw up a piece of silver to see who would have hand-in, and the grey old man got it. They began then, and the grey old man never stopped until he won out the game. The King's son did not know what he would do. At last he asked the old man what would he desire him to do for him. "I am King over the Black Desert, and you must find out myself and my dwelling-place within a year and a day, or I shall find you out and you shall lose your head." Then he brought the King's son out the same way by which he went in. The green hill closed behind them, and the grey old man disappeared out of sight. The King's son went home, riding on his horse-- His hound at his foot, His hawk on his hand-- and he sorrowful enough. That evening the King observed that there was grief and great trouble on his young son, and when he went to sleep the King and every person that was in the castle heard heavy sighings and ravings from him. The King was in grief--a goat's head to be on the Queen--but he was seven times worse when they told him the (whole) story how it happened from beginning to end. He sent for a wise councillor, and asked him did he know where the King of the Black Desert was living. "I do not, indeed," said he; "but as sure as there's a tail on the cat, unless the young heir finds out that enchanter he will lose his head." There was great grief that day in the castle of the King. There was a goat's head on the Queen, and the King's son was going searching for an enchanter, without knowing whether he would ever come back. After a week the goat's head was taken off the Queen, and her own head was put upon her. When she heard of how the goat's head was put upon her, a great hate came upon her against the King's son, and she said "that he may never come back, alive or dead." Of a Monday morning he left his blessing with his father and his kindred; his travelling bag was bound upon his shoulder, and he went-- His hound at his foot, His hawk on his hand, And his fine black horse to bear him. He walked that day until the sun was gone beneath the shadow of the hills and till the darkness of the night was coming, without knowing where he could get lodgings. He noticed a large wood on his left-hand side, and he drew towards it as quickly as he could, hoping to spend the night under the shelter of the trees. He sat down at the foot of a large oak tree, and opened his travelling bag to take some food and drink, when he saw a great eagle coming towards him. "Do not be afraid of me, King's son; I know you--you are the son of O'Conor, King of Ireland. I am a friend, and if you give me your horse to give to eat to four hungry birds that I have, I shall bear you farther than your horse would bear you, and, perhaps, I would put you on the track of him you are looking for." "You can have the horse, and welcome," says the King's son, "although I'm sorrowful at parting from him." "All right, I shall be here to-morrow at sunrise." With that she opened her great gob, caught hold of the horse, struck in his two sides against one another, took wing, and disappeared out of sight. The King's son ate and drank his enough, put his travelling bag under his head, and it was not long till he was asleep, and he never awoke till the eagle came and said, "It is time for us to be going; there is a long journey before us. Take hold of your bag and leap up upon my back." "But to my grief," says he, "I must part from my hound and my hawk." "Do not be grieved," says she; "they will be here before you when you come back." Then he leaped up on her back. She took wing, and off and away with her through the air. She brought him across hills and hollows, over a great sea, and over woods, till he thought that he was at the end of the world. When the sun was going under the shadow of the hills, she came to earth in the midst of a great desert, and said to him, "Follow the path on your right-hand side, and it will bring you to the house of a friend. I must return again to provide for my birds." He followed the path, and it was not long till he came to the house, and he went in. There was a grey old man sitting in the corner. He rose and said, "A hundred thousand welcomes to you, King's son, from Rathcroghan of Connacht." "I have no knowledge of you," said the King's son. "I was acquainted with your grandfather," said the grey old man. "Sit down; no doubt there is hunger and thirst on you." "I'm not free from them," said the King's son. The old man then smote his two palms against one another, and two servants came and laid a board with beef, mutton, pork, and plenty of bread before the King's son, and the old man said to him: "Eat and drink your enough. Perhaps it may be a long time before you get the like again." He ate and drank as much as he desired, and thanked him for it. Then the old man said, "You are going seeking for the King of the Black Desert. Go to sleep now, and I will go through my books to see if I can find out the dwelling-place of that King." Then he smote his palms together, and a servant came, and he told him, "Take the King's son to his chamber." He took him to a fine chamber, and it was not long till he fell asleep. On the morning of the next day the old man came and said: "Rise up, there is a long journey before you. You must do five hundred miles before midday." "I could not do it," said the King's son. "If you are a good rider I will give you a horse that will bring you over the journey." "I will do as you say," said the King's son. The old man gave him plenty to eat and to drink, and, when he was satisfied, he gave him a little white garron, and said, "Give the garron his head, and when he stops look up into the air, and you will see three swans as white as snow. Those are the three daughters of the King of the Black Desert. There will be a green napkin in the mouth of one of them: that is the youngest daughter, and there is not anyone alive except her who could bring you to the house of the King of the Black Desert. When the garron stops you will be near a lake. The three swans will come to land on the brink of that lake, and they will make three young women of themselves, and they will go into the lake swimming and dancing. Keep your eye on the green napkin, and when you get the young women in the lake, go and get the napkin, and do not part with it. Go into hiding under a tree, and when the young women will come out, two of them will make swans of themselves, and will go away in the air. Then the youngest daughter will say, "I will do anything for him who will give me my napkin." Come forward then and give her the napkin, and say there is nothing you want but to bring you to her father's house, and tell her you are a king's son from a powerful country." The King's son did everything as the old man desired him, and when he gave the napkin to the daughter of the King of the Black Desert, he said, "I am the son of O'Conor, King of Connaught. Bring me to your father. Long am I seeking him." "Would not it be better for me to do something else for you?" said she. "I do not want anything else," said he. "If I show you the house will you not be satisfied?" said she. "I will be satisfied," said he. "Now," said she, "upon your life do not tell my father that it was I who brought you to his house, and I shall be a good friend to you; but let on," said she, "that you have great powers of enchantment." "I will do as you say," says he. Then she made a swan of herself, and said, "Leap up on my back and put your hands under my neck, and keep a hard hold." He did so, and she shook her wings, and off and away with her over hills and over glens, over sea and over mountains, until she came to earth as the sun was going under. Then she said to him, "Do you see that great house yonder? That is my father's house. Farewell. Any time that you are in danger I shall be at your side." Then she went from him. The King's son went to the house and went in, and who should he see sitting in a golden chair but the grey old man who had played the cards and the ball with him. "King's son," said he, "I see that you have found me out before the day and the year. How long since you left home?" "This morning, when I was rising out of my bed, I saw a rainbow. I gave a leap, spread my two legs on it, and slid as far as this." "By my hand, it was a great feat you performed," said the old King. "I could do a more wonderful thing than that if I chose," said the King's son. "I have three things for you to do," says the old King, "and if you are able to do them, you shall have the choice of my three daughters for wife, and unless you are able to do them, you shall lose your head, as a good many other young men have lost it before you." "Then," he said, "there be's neither eating nor drinking in my house except once in the week, and we had it this morning." "It's all one to me," said the King's son. "I could fast for a month if I were on a pinch." "No doubt you can go without sleep also," says the old King. "I can, without doubt," said the King's son. "You shall have a hard bed to-night, then," says the old King. "Come with me till I show it to you." He brought him out then and showed him a great tree with a fork in it, and said, "Get up there and sleep in the fork, and be ready with the rise of the sun." He went up into the fork, but as soon as the old King was asleep the young daughter came and brought him into a fine room, and kept him there until the old King was about to rise. Then she put him out again into the fork of the tree. With the rise of the sun the old King came to him, and said, "Come down now and come with me until I show you the thing that you have to do to-day." He brought the King's son to the brink of a lake and showed him an old castle, and said to him, "Throw every stone in that castle out into the loch, and let you have it done before the sun goes down in the evening." He went away from him then. The King's son began working, but the stones were stuck to one another so fast that he was not able to raise one of them, and if he were to be working until this day, there would not be one stone out of the castle. He sat down then, thinking what he ought to do, and it was not long until the daughter of the old King came to him and said, "What is the cause of your grief?" He told her the work which he had to do. "Let that put no grief on you; I will do it," said she. Then she gave him bread, meat, and wine, pulled out a little enchanted rod, struck a blow on the old castle, and in a moment every stone of it was at the bottom of the lake. "Now," said she, "do not tell my father that it was I who did the work for you." When the sun was going down in the evening, the old King came and said, "I see that you have your day's work done." "I have," said the King's son; "I can do any work at all." The old King thought now that the King's son had great powers of enchantment, and he said to him, "Your day's work for to-morrow is to lift the stones out of the loch, and to set up the castle again as it was before." He brought the King's son home, and said to him, "Go to sleep in the place where you were last night." When the old King went to sleep the young daughter came and brought him into the fine chamber, and kept him there till the old King was about to rise in the morning. Then she put him out again in the fork of the tree. At sunrise the old King came and said, "It's time for you to get to work." "There's no hurry on me at all," says the King's son, "because I know I can readily do my day's work." He then went to the brink of the lake, but he was not able to see a stone, the water was that black. He sat down on a rock, and it was not long until Finnuala--that was the name of the old King's daughter--came to him and said, "What have you to do to-day?" He told her, and she said, "Let there be no grief on you. I can do that work for you." Then she gave him bread, beef, mutton, and wine. After that she drew out the little enchanted rod, smote the water of the lake with it, and in a moment the old castle was set up as it had been the day before. Then she said to him, "On your life, don't tell my father that I did this work for you, or that you have any knowledge of me at all." On the evening of that day the old King came and said, "I see that you have the day's work done." "I have," said the King's son; "that was an easy-done job." Then the old King thought that the King's son had more power of enchantment than he had himself, and he said, "You have only one other thing to do." He brought him home then, and put him to sleep in the fork of the tree, but Finnuala came and put him into the fine chamber, and in the morning she sent him out again into the tree. At sunrise the old King came to him, and said, "Come with me till I show you your day's work." He brought the King's son to a great glen, and showed him a well, and said, "My grandmother lost a ring in that well, and do you get it for me before the sun goes under this morning." Now, this well was one hundred feet deep and twenty feet round about, and it was filled with water, and there was an army out of hell watching the ring. When the old King went away Finnuala came and asked, "What have you to do to-day?" He told her, and she said, "That is a difficult task, but I shall do my best to save your life." Then she gave him beef, bread, and wine. Then she made a diver of herself, and went down into the well. It was not long till he saw smoke and lightning coming up out of the well, and he heard a sound like thunder, and anyone who would be listening to that noise, he would think that the army of hell was fighting. At the end of a while the smoke went away, the lightning and thunder ceased, and Finnuala came up with the ring. She handed the ring to the King's son, and said, "I won the battle, and your life is saved. But, look, the little finger of my right hand is broken. But perhaps it's a lucky thing that it was broken. When my father comes do not give him the ring, but threaten him stoutly. He will bring you, then, to choose your wife, and this is how you shall make your choice. I and my sisters will be in a room; there will be a hole in the door, and we shall all put our hands out in a cluster. You will put your hand through the hole, and the hand that you will keep hold of when my father will open the door, that is the hand of her you shall have for wife. You can know me by my broken little finger." "I can; and the love of my heart you are, Finnuala," says the King's son. On the evening of that day the old King came and asked, "Did you get my grandmother's ring?" "I did, indeed," says the King's son. "There was an army out of hell guarding it, but I beat them; and I would beat seven times as many. Don't you know I'm a Connachtman?" "Give me the ring," says the old King. "Indeed, I won't give it," says he. "I fought hard for it. But do you give me my wife; I want to be going." The old King brought him in, and said, "My three daughters are in that room before you. The hand of each of them is stretched out, and she on whom you will keep your hold until I open the door, that one is your wife." The King's son thrust his hand through the hole that was in the door, and caught hold of the hand with the broken little finger, and kept a tight hold of it until the old King opened the door of the room. "This is my wife," said the King's son. "Give me now your daughter's fortune." "She has no fortune to get, but the brown slender steed to bring you home, and that ye may never come back, alive or dead!" The King's son and Finnuala went riding on the brown slender steed, and it was not long till they came to the wood where the King's son left his hound and his hawk. They were there before him, together with his fine black horse. He sent the brown slender steed back then. He set Finnuala riding on his horse, and leaped up himself-- His hound at his heel, His hawk on his hand-- and he never stopped till he came to Rathcroghan. There was great welcome before him there, and it was not long till himself and Finnuala were married. They spent a long, prosperous life. But it is scarcely that even the track of this old castle is to be found to-day in Rathcroghan of Connacht. DOUGLAS HYDE. The Piper and the Púca In the old times there was a half fool living in Dunmore, in the county Galway, and though he was excessively fond of music, he was unable to learn more than one tune, and that was the "Black Rogue." He used to get a good deal of money from the gentlemen, for they used to get sport out of him. One night the Piper was coming home from a house where there had been a dance, and he half drunk. When he came up to a little bridge that was by his mother's house, he squeezed the pipes on, and began playing the "Black Rogue." The Púca came behind him, and flung him on his own back. There were long horns on the Púca, and the Piper got a good grip of them, and then he said: "Destruction on you, you nasty beast; let me home. I have a tenpenny-piece in my pocket for my mother, and she wants snuff." "Never mind your mother," said the Púca, "but keep your hold. If you fall, you will break your neck and your pipes." Then the Púca said to him, "Play up for me the 'Shan Van Vocht.'" "I don't know it," said the Piper. "Never mind whether you do or you don't," said the Púca. "Play up, and I'll make you know." The Piper put wind in his bag, and he played such music as made himself wonder. "Upon my word, you're a fine music-master," says the Piper, then; "but tell me where you're for bringing me." "There's a great feast in the house of the Banshee, on the top of Croagh Patric, to-night," says the Púca, "and I'm for bringing you there to play music, and, take my word, you'll get the price of your trouble." "By my word, you'll save me a journey, then," says the Piper, "for Father William put a journey to Croagh Patric on me because I stole the white gander from him last Martinmas." The Púca rushed him across hills and bogs and rough places, till he brought him to the top of Croagh Patric. Then the Púca struck three blows with his foot, and a great door opened and they passed in together into a fine room. The Piper saw a golden table in the middle of the room, and hundreds of old women sitting round about it. The old women rose up, and said, "A hundred thousand welcomes to you, you Púca of November. Who is this you have with you?" "The best Piper in Ireland," says the Púca. One of the old women struck a blow on the ground, and a door opened in the side of the wall, and what should the Piper see coming out but the white gander which he had stolen from Father William. "By my conscience, then," says the Piper, "myself and my mother ate every taste of that gander, only one wing, and I gave that to Red Mary, and it's she told the priest I stole his gander." The gander cleaned the table, and carried it away, and the Púca said, "Play up music for these ladies." The Piper played up, and the old women began dancing, and they were dancing till they were tired. Then the Púca said to pay the Piper, and every old woman drew out a gold piece and gave it to him. "By the tooth of Patric," says he, "I'm as rich as the son of a lord." "Come with me," says the Púca, "and I'll bring you home." They went out then, and just as he was going to ride on the Púca, the gander came up to him and gave him a new set of pipes. The Púca was not long until he brought him to Dunmore, and he threw the Piper off at the little bridge, and then he told him to go home, and says to him, "You have two things now that you never had before--you have sense and music." The Piper went home, and he knocked at his mother's door, saying, "Let me in, I'm as rich as a lord, and I'm the best Piper in Ireland." "You're drunk," says the mother. "No, indeed," says the Piper, "I haven't drunk a drop." The mother let him in, and he gave her the gold pieces, and, "Wait now," says he, "till you hear the music I'll play." He buckled on the pipes, but instead of music there came a sound as if all the geese and ganders in Ireland were screeching together. He wakened the neighbours, and they were all mocking him, until he put on the old pipes, and then he played melodious music for them; and after that he told them all he had gone through that night. The next morning, when his mother went to look at the gold pieces, there was nothing there but the leaves of a plant. The piper went to the priest and told him his story, but the priest would not believe a word from him, until he put the pipes on him, and then the screeching of the ganders and the geese began. "Leave my sight, you thief," says the priest. But nothing would do the Piper till he put the old pipes on him to show the priest that his story was true. He buckled on the old pipes, and he played melodious music, and from that day till the day of his death there was never a Piper in the county Galway was as good as he was. DOUGLAS HYDE. The Fairy Changeling Dermod O'Byrne of Omah town In his garden strode up and down; He pulled his beard, and he beat his breast; And this is his trouble and woe confessed: "The good-folk came in the night, and they Have stolen my bonny wean away; Have put in his place a changeling, A weashy, weakly, wizen thing! "From the speckled hen nine eggs I stole, And lighting a fire of a glowing coal, I fried the shells, and I spilt the yolk; But never a word the stranger spoke. "A bar of metal I heated red To frighten the fairy from its bed, To put in the place of this fretting wean My own bright beautiful boy again. "But my wife had hidden it in her arms, And cried, 'For shame!' on my fairy charms; She sobs, with the strange child on her breast, 'I love the weak, wee babe the best!'" To Dermod O'Byrne's, the tale to hear, The neighbours came from far and near; Outside his gate, in the long boreen, They crossed themselves, and said between Their muttered prayers, "He has no luck! For sure the woman is fairy-struck, To leave her child a fairy guest, And love the weak, wee wean the best!" DORA SIGERSON. The Talking Head of Donn-bo There is an old tale told in Erin of a lovable and bright and handsome youth named Donn-bo, who was the best singer of "Songs of Idleness" and the best teller of "King Stories" in the world. He could tell a tale of each king who reigned in Erin, from the "Tale of the Destruction of Dind Righ," when Cova Coelbre was killed, down to the kings who reigned in his own time. On a night before a battle, the warriors said, "Make minstrelsy to-night for us, Donn-bo." But Donn-bo answered, "No word at all will come on my lips to-night; therefore, for this night let the King-buffoon of Ireland amuse you. But to-morrow, at this hour, in whatsoever place they and I shall be, I will make minstrelsy for the fighting men." For the warriors had said that unless Donn-bo would go with them on that hosting, not one of them would go. The battle was past, and on the evening of the morrow at that same hour Donn-bo lay dead, his fair young body stretched across the body of the King of Ireland, for he had died in defending his chief. But his head had rolled away among a wisp of growing rushes by the waterside. At the feasting of the army on that night a warrior said, "Where is Donn-bo, that he may make minstrelsy for us, as he promised us at this hour yesternight, and that he may tell us the 'King Stories of Erin'?" A valiant champion of the men of Munster answered, "I will go over the battle-field and seek for him." He enquired among the living for Donn-bo, but he found him not, and then he searched hither and thither among the dead. At last he came where the body of the King of Erin lay, and a young, fair corpse beside it. In all the air about there was the sound of minstrelsy, low and very sweet; dead bards and poets reciting in faint whispers old tales and poems to dead chiefs. The wild, clear note of the battle-march, the _dord fiansa_, played by the drooping hands of slain warriors upon the points of broken spears, low like the echo of an echo, sounded in the clump of rushes hard by; and, above them all, a voice, faint and very still, that sang a song that was sweeter than the tunes of the whole world beside. The voice that sang was the voice of the head of Donn-bo. The warrior stooped to pick up the head. "Do not touch me," said the head, "for we are commanded by the King of the Plains of Heaven to make music to-night for our lord, the King of Erin, the shining one who lies dead beside us; and though all of us are lying dead likewise, no faintness or feebleness shall prevent us from obeying that command. Disturb me not." "The hosts of Leinster are asking thee to make minstrelsy for them, as thou didst promise yesternight," said the messenger. "When my minstrelsy here is done, I will go with thee," saith the head; "but only if Christ, the Son of God, in whose presence I now am, go with me, and if thou takest me to my body again." "That shall be done, indeed," saith the messenger, and when it had ceased chanting for the King of Erin he carried away the head. When the messenger came again amongst the warriors they stopped their feasting and gathered round him. "Hast thou brought anything from the battle-field?" they cried. "I have brought the head of Donn-bo," said the man. "Set it upon a pillar that we may see and hear it," cried they all; and they said, "It is no luck for thee to be like that, Donn-bo, and thou the most beautiful minstrel and the best in Erin. Make music, for the love of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Amuse the Leinster men to-night as thou didst amuse thy lord a while ago." Then Donn-bo turned his face to the wall, that the darkness might be around him, and he raised his melody in the quiet night; and the sound of that minstrelsy was so piteous and sad that the hosts sat weeping at the sound of it. Then was the head taken to his body, and the neck joined itself to the shoulders again, and Donn-bo was at rest. This is the story of the "Talking Head of Donn-bo." ELEANOR HULL. The Bracket Bull I wrote this story carefully down, word for word, from the telling of two men--the first, Shawn Cunningham, of Ballinphuil, and the second, Martin Brennan of Ballinlocha, in the barony of Frenchpark. They each told the same story, but Martin Brennan repeated the end of it at greater length than the other. The first half is written down word for word from the mouth of Cunningham, the second half from that of Brennan. AN CHRAOIBHIN AOIBHINN. There was a man in it long ago, and long ago it was, and if he was in it then he would not be in it now. He was married, and his wife was lost (i.e., died), and he had only one son by the first wife. Then he married the second wife. This second wife had not much regard for the son, and he was obliged to go out on the mountain, far from the house, to take care of the cattle. There was a bracket (speckled) bull amongst the cows out on the mountain, and of a day that there was great hunger on the lad, the bracket bull heard him complaining and wringing his two hands, and he moved over to him and said to him, "You are hungry, but take the horn off me and lay it on the ground; put your hand into the place where the horn was and you will find food." When he heard that he went over to the bull, took hold of the horn, twisted it, and it came away with him in his hand. He laid it on the ground, put in his hand, and drew out food and drink and a table-cloth. He spread the table-cloth on the ground, set the food and drink on it, and then he ate and drank his enough. When he had his enough eaten and drunk, he put the table-cloth back again, and left the horn back in the place where it was before. When he came home that evening he did not eat a bit of his supper, and his stepmother said to herself that he (must have) got something to eat out on the mountain since he was not eating any of his supper. When he went out with his cattle the next day his stepmother sent her own daughter out after him, and told her to be watching him till she should see where he was getting the food. The daughter went and put herself in hiding, and she was watching him until the heat of the day came: but when the middle of the day was come she heard every music more excellent than another, and she was put to sleep by that truly melodious music. The bull came then, and the lad twisted the horn off him and drew out the table-cloth, the food, and the drink, and ate and drunk his enough. He put back the horn again then. The music was stopped and the daughter woke up, and was watching him until the evening came, and he drove the cows home then. The mother asked her did she see anything in the field, and she said that she did not. The lad did not eat two bites of his supper, and there was wonder on the stepmother. The next day when he drove out the cows the stepmother told the second daughter to follow him, and to be watching him till she would see where he was getting things to eat. The daughter followed him and put herself in hiding, but when the heat of the day came the music began and she fell asleep. The lad took the horn off the bull, drew out the table-cloth, the food, and drink, ate and drank his enough, and put back the horn again. The girl woke then, and was watching him until the evening. When the evening came he drove the cows home, and he was not able to eat his supper any more than the two evenings before. The stepmother asked the daughter did she see anything, and she said she did not. There was wonder on the stepmother. The next day, when the lad went out herding the cows, the stepmother sent the third daughter out after him, and threatened her not to fall asleep, but to have a good watch. The daughter followed the lad, and went into hiding. This daughter had three eyes, for she had an eye in the back of her head. When the bracket bull began playing every music more excellent than another, he put the other eyes to sleep, but he was not able to put the third eye to sleep. When the heat of the day came she saw the bracket bull coming to the boy, and the boy taking the horn off him and eating. She ran home then, and said to her mother that there wasn't such a dinner in the world as was being set before the boy out of the horn of the bracket bull. Then the mother let on that she was sick, and she killed a cock, and she let down its blood into her bed, and she put up a sup of the blood into her mouth, and she sent for her husband, saying that she was finding death (dying). Her husband came in, and he saw the blood, and he said, "Anything that is in the world that would save her that she must get it." She said that there wasn't a thing in the world that would save her but a piece of the bracket bull that was on the mountain. "You must get that," said he. The bracket bull used to be the first one of the cattle that used to come in every night, and the stepmother sent for two butchers, and she set them on each side of the gate to kill the bracket bull when he would come. The bracket bull said to the boy, "I'll be swept (done for) to-night, unless another cow goes before me." He put another cow out before him, and the two butchers were standing on each side of the gate to kill the first one that would come in. The bull sent the cow out before him, going through the gate, and they killed her: and then the stepmother got a piece of her to eat, and she thought that it was the bracket bull that she was eating, and she got better then. The next night, when the lad came home with the cattle, he ate no more of his supper than any other night, and there was wonder on the stepmother. She heard after this that the bracket bull was in it (i.e., alive) all through, and that he was not killed at that time. When she heard that she killed a cock, and she let down some of its blood into her bed, and she put a sup of the blood into her mouth, and she played the same trick over again, and said that there was nothing at all to cure her but a piece of the bracket bull. The butchers were sent for, and they were ready to kill the bracket bull as soon as he came in. The bracket bull sent another one of the cattle in before himself, and the butchers killed it. The woman got part of its flesh, and she thought it was part of the bracket bull she was eating, and she got better. She found out afterwards that it was not the bracket bull that was dead, and she said, "Never mind; I'll kill the bracket bull yet!" The next day, when the lad was herding the cows on the mountain, the bracket bull came and said to him, "Take the horn off me and eat your enough now. That's the last time for you. They are waiting to kill me to-night, but don't you be afraid. It is not they who shall kill me, but another bull shall kill me. Get up on my back now." The lad got up on his back then and they went home. The two butchers were on each side of the gate waiting for him. The bracket bull struck a horn on each side of him, and he killed the two butchers. Out with him then, and the lad on his back. He went into a wild wood, and he himself and the lad spent the night in that wood. He was to fight with the other bull on the next day. When the day came, the bracket bull said, "Take the horn off me and eat your enough--that's the last luck you have. I am to fight with the other bull immediately, and I shall escape from him to-day, but he will have me dead to-morrow by twelve o'clock." Himself and the other bull fought that day, and the bracket bull came back in the evening, and he himself and the lad passed that night in the wood. When the next day came, the bracket bull said to him, "Twist the horn off me and eat your enough--that's the last luck you'll have. Listen now to the thing that I'm telling you. When you'll see me dead, go and cut a strip of skin of the back and a strip of the stomach off me, and make a belt of it, and at any time at all there will be any hard pinch on you, you shall have my power." The bracket bull went then to fight with the other bull, and the other bull killed him. The other bull went away then. The lad came to the bracket bull where he was lying on the ground, and he was not dead, out-and-out. When he saw the boy coming he said, "Oh," said he, "make haste as well as you can in the world, and take out your knife and cut that strip off me, or you will be killed as well as myself." There was a trembling in the poor creature's hand, and he was not able to cut a piece at all off the bull, after his feeding him for so long, and after the kindness he had got from him. The bracket bull spoke again, and told him to cut the strip off him on the instant, and that it would assist him as long as he would be alive. He cut a strip off the back then, and another strip off the belly, and he went away. There was plenty of trouble and of grief on him, going of him, and he ought to have that on him too, and he departing without any knowledge of where he was making for, or where he would go. A gentleman met him on the road, and asked him where he was going. The lad said that he did not himself know where he was going, but that he was going looking for work. "What are you able to do?" says the gentleman. "I'm as good a herd as ever you saw, but I'll not tell you a lie--I can do nothing but herding; but, indeed, I'll do that as well as any man that ever you saw." "It's you I want," says the gentleman. "There are three giants up by my land, on the one mearing with me, and anything that will go in on their land they will keep it, and I cannot take it off them again. That's all they're asking--my cattle to go in across the mearing to them." "Never mind them. I'll go bail that I'll take good heed of them, and that I'll not let anything in to them." The gentleman brought him home then, and he went herding for him. When the grass was getting scarce, he was driving the cows further out. There was a big stone wall between the land of the giants and his master's land. There was fine grass on the other side of the wall. When he saw that, he threw down a gap in the wall and let in the pigs and the cows. He went up into a tree then, and was throwing down apples and all sorts (of fruit) to the pigs. A giant came out, and when he saw the lad up on the tree throwing down the apples to the pigs, the head rose on him (i.e., he got furious). He came to the tree. "Get down out of that," says he. "I think you big for one bite and small for two bites; come down till I draw you under my long cold teeth." "Arrah, take yourself easy," says the boy; "perhaps it's too quick I'd come down to you." "I won't be talking to you any longer," says the giant. He got a leverage on the tree and drew it up out of the roots. "Go down, black thong, and squeeze that fellow," says the lad, for he remembered the advice of the bracket bull. On the instant the black thong leaped out of his hand, and squeezed the giant so hard that the two eyes were going out on his head, for stronger was the power of the bull than the power of the giant. The giant was not able to put a stir out of himself, and he promised anything at all--only to save his life for him. "Anything at all you want," says he to the lad, "you must get it from me." "I'm not asking anything at all except the loan of the sword that's under your bed," says he. "I give it to you, and welcome," says the giant. He went in, and brought out the sword with him. "Try it on the three biggest trees that are in the wood, and you won't feel it in your hand going through them," says the giant. "I don't see any tree in the wood bigger or uglier than yourself," says he, drawing the sword and whipping the head off him, so that he sent it seven furrows and seven ridges with that stroke. "If I were to get on the body again," said the head, and it talking, "and the men of the world wouldn't get me off the trunk again." "I'll take good care myself of that," says the lad. When he drove the cows home in the evening, they had that much milk that they had not half enough of vessels, and two coopers were obliged to make new vessels to hold the quantity of milk they had. "You're the best lad that ever I met," says the gentleman, and he was thankful to him. The giants used to put--each man of them--a shout of him every evening. The people only heard two shouts that evening. "There's some change in the caher[2] to-night," said the gentleman, when he heard the two shouts. "Oh," says the lad, "I saw one of them going away by himself to-day, and he did not come home yet." On the next day the lad drove out his cattle until he came to the big stone wall, and he threw a gap in it, and let the cattle into the same place. He went up into a tree and began throwing down the apples. The second giant came running, and said, "What's the meaning of throwing my wall and letting in your cattle on my estate? Get down out of that at once. You killed my brother yesterday." "Go down, black thong, and bind that one," says the lad. The thong squeezed him so that he was not able to put a stir out of himself, and he promised the lad anything at all--only to spare his life. "I am asking nothing of you but the loan of the old sword that is under your bed." "I'll give you that, and welcome." He went in, and brought out the sword with him. Each man of them had a sword, and every sword better than another. "Try that sword on the six biggest trees that are in the wood, and it will go through them without turning the edge." "I don't see any tree in the wood bigger or uglier than yourself," says he, drawing the sword and whipping the head off him, so that he sent it seven furrows and seven ridges from the body. "Oh," said the head, "if I were to get going on the body again, and the men of the world wouldn't get me off it again." "Oh, I'll take care of that myself," says the boy. When he drove the cows home that night there was wonder on the people when they saw the quantity of milk they had. The gentleman said that there was another change in the caher that day again, as he did not hear but only one shout, but the lad said that he saw another one going away that day, and that it was likely that he did not come back yet. On the next day he went out, and drove the pigs and the cows up to the hall door, and was throwing down the apples to them. The third giant came out--the eldest man of them--and he was full mad after his two brothers being dead, and the teeth that were in his head were making a hand-stick for him. He told the boy to come down; that he did not know what he would do to him after his having killed his two brothers. "Come down," says he, "till I draw you under my long, cold teeth"; and it was on him the long, cold teeth were, and no lie. "Go down, black thong, and bind that one till the eyes will be going out on his head with the power of the squeezing that you'll give him." The black thong leaped from him, and it bound the giant until the two eyes were going out on his head with the squeezing and with the tightening it gave him, and the giant promised to give him anything at all; "but spare my life," says he. "I'm only asking the loan of the old sword that's under your bed," said the lad. "Have it, and welcome," says the giant. He went in, and brought out the sword with him. "Now," says the giant, "strike the two ugliest stumps in the wood, and the sword will cut them without getting a bent edge." "Musha, then, by Mary," says the boy, "I don't see any stump in the wood uglier than yourself," and he struck him so that he sent his head seven furrows and seven ridges from the body. "Ochone for ever!" says the head. "If I were to get going on the body again, the men of the world--they wouldn't get me off the body again." "I'll take care of that myself," says the boy. When he came home that night the coopers were not able to make enough of vessels for them to hold the quantity of milk that the cows had, and the pigs were not able to eat with the quantity of apples that they had eaten before that. He was a while in that way herding the cows and everything that was in the castle, he had it. There was no one at all going near the castle, for there was fear on them. There was a fiery dragon in that country, and he used to come every seven years, and unless there would be a young woman ready bound before him he would drive the sea through the land, and he would destroy the people. The day came when the dragon was to come, and the lad asked his master to let him go to the place where the dragon was coming. "What's the business you have there?" says the master. "There will be horsemen and coaches and great people there, and the crowds will be gathered together in it out of every place. The horses would rise up on top of you, and you would be crushed under their feet; and it's better for you to stop at home." "I'll stop," said the lad. But when he got them all gone he went to the castle of the three giants, and he put a saddle on the best steed they had, and a fine suit on himself, and he took the first giant's sword in his hand, and he went to where the dragon was. It was like a fair there, with the number of riders and coaches and horses and people that were gathered in it. There was a young lady bound to a post on the brink of the sea, and she waiting for the dragon to come to swallow her. It was the King's daughter that was in it, for the dragon would not take any other woman. When the dragon came out of the sea the lad went against him, and they fought with one another, and were fighting till the evening, until the dragon was frothing at the mouth, and till the sea was red with its blood. He turned the dragon out into the sea at last. He went away then, and said that he would return the next day. He left the steed again in the place where he found it, and he took the fine suit off him, and when the other people returned he was before them. When the people came home that night they were all talking and saying that some champion came to fight with the dragon and turned him out into the sea again. That was the story that every person had, but they did not know who was the champion who did it. The next day, when his master and the other people were gone, he went to the castle of the three giants again, and he took out another steed and another suit of valour (i.e., armour), and he brought with him the second giant's sword, and he went to the place where the dragon was to come. The King's daughter was bound to a post on the shore, waiting for him, and the eyes going out on her head looking would she see the champion coming who fought the dragon the day before. There were twice as many people in it as there were on the first day, and they were all waiting till they would see the champion coming. When the dragon came the lad went in face of him, and the dragon was half confused and sickened after the fight that he had made the day before. They were beating one another till the evening, and then he drove away the dragon. The people tried to keep him, but they were not able. He went from them. When his master came home that evening the lad was in the house before him. The master told him that another champion came that day, and that he had turned the dragon into the sea. But no doubt the lad knew the story better himself than he did. On the next day, when the gentleman was gone, he went to the caher of the giants, and he took with him another steed and another suit and the sword of the third giant, and when he came to fight with the dragon the people thought it was another champion who was in it. He himself and the dragon were beating each other, then, and the sorra such a fight you ever saw. There were wings on the dragon, and when he was getting it tight he rose up in the air, and he was thrusting and beating the boy in his skull till he was nearly destroyed. He remembered the black thong then, and said, "Black thong, bind that one so hard that they'll be listening to his screeching in the two divisions of the world with the squeezing that you'll give him." The black thong leapt away, and she bound him, and then the lad took the head off him, and the sea was red with his blood, and the waves of blood were going on the top of the water. The lad came to the land, then, and they tried to keep him; but he went from them, and as he was riding by the lady snatched the shoe off him. He went away, then, and he left the horse and the sword and the suit of armour in the place where he found them, and when the gentleman and the other people came home he was sitting before them at the fire. He asked them how the fight went, and they told him that the champion killed the fiery dragon, but that he was gone away, and that no one at all knew who he was. When the King's daughter came home she said that she would never marry a man but the man whom that shoe would fit. There were sons of kings, and great people among them, and they saying that it was themselves who killed the dragon; but she said it was not they, unless the shoe would fit them. Some of them were cutting the toes off their feet, and some of them taking off a piece of the heel, and more of them cutting the big toe off themselves, trying would the shoe fit them. There was no good for them in it. The King's daughter said that she would not marry one man of them. She sent out soldiers, then, and the shoe with them, to try would it fit anyone at all. Every person, poor and rich, no matter where he was from, must try the shoe on him. The lad was stretched out lying on the grass when the soldiers came, and when they saw him they said to him, "Show your foot." "Oh, don't be humbugging me," says he. "We have orders," said they, "and we cannot return without trying the shoe on everyone, poor and rich, so stretch out your foot." He did that, and the shoe went in on his foot on the moment. They said to him that he must come with them. "Oh, listen to me" (i.e., give me time), said he, "till I dress myself." He went to the caher of the giants, and he got a fine new suit on him, and he went with them then. That's where the welcome was for him, and he as dressed up as e'er a man of them. They had a wedding for three days and three nights. They got the pond and I the lakelet. They were drowned, and I came through. And as I have it (i.e., the story) to-night, that ye may not have it to-morrow night, or if ye have it itself, that ye may only lose the back teeth by it! DOUGLAS HYDE. The Demon Cat There was a woman in Connemara, the wife of a fisherman; as he had always good luck, she had plenty of fish at all times stored away in the house ready for market. But, to her great annoyance, she found that a great cat used to come in at night and devour all the best and finest fish. So she kept a big stick by her, and determined to watch. One day, as she and a woman were spinning together, the house suddenly became quite dark; and the door was burst open as if by the blast of the tempest, when in walked a huge black cat, who went straight up to the fire, then turned round and growled at them. "Why, surely this is the devil," said a young girl who was by, sorting fish. "I'll teach you to call me names," said the cat; and, jumping at her, he scratched her arm till the blood came. "There, now," he said, "you will be more civil another time when a gentleman comes to see you." And, with that, he walked over to the door, and shut it close to prevent any of them going out, for the poor young girl, while crying loudly from fright and pain, had made a desperate rush to get away. Just then a man was going by, and, hearing the cries, he pushed open the door, and tried to get in; but the cat stood on the threshold and would let no one pass. On this the man attacked him with a stick, and gave him a sound blow; the cat, however, was more than a match in the fight, for it flew at him, and tore his face and hands so badly that the man at last took to his heels, and ran away as fast as he could. "Now, it's time for my dinner," said the cat, going up to examine the fish that was laid out on the tables. "I hope the fish is good to-day. Now, don't disturb me, or make a fuss; I can help myself." With that, he jumped up, and began to devour all the best fish, while he growled at the woman. "Away out of this, you wicked beast!" she cried, giving it a blow with the tongs that would have broken its back, only it was a devil; "out of this; no fish shall you have to-day!" But the cat only grinned at her, and went on tearing and despoiling and devouring the fish, evidently not a bit the worse for the blows. On this both the women attacked it with sticks, and struck hard blows enough to kill it, on which the cat glared at them and spit fire; then, making a leap, it tore their heads and arms till the blood came, and the frightened women rushed shrieking from the house. But presently the mistress of the house returned, carrying with her a bottle of holy water; and, looking in, she saw the cat still devouring the fish, and not minding. So she crept over quietly, and threw holy water on it without a word. No sooner was this done than a dense, black smoke filled the place, through which nothing was seen but the two red eyes of the cat burning like coals of fire. Then the smoke gradually cleared away, and she saw the body of the creature burning slowly, till it became shrivelled and black like a cinder, and finally disappeared. And from that time the fish remained untouched and safe from harm, for the power of the Evil One was broken, and the Demon Cat was seen no more. LADY WILDE. The Abbot of Inisfalen (_A Legend of Killarney._) I. The Abbot of Inisfalen awoke ere dawn of day; Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray, The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep, And wrapt in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac when the dawn was dim and gray; The prayers of his holy office he faithfully 'gan to say. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac while the dawn was waxing red; And for his sins' forgiveness a solemn prayer he said; Low kneel'd that holy Abbot while the dawn was waxing clear; And he pray'd with loving-kindness for his convent-brethren dear. Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot while the dawn was waxing bright; He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, he pray'd with all his might. Low kneel'd that good old Father while the sun began to dart; He pray'd a prayer for all men, he pray'd it from his heart. His blissful soul was in Heaven, tho' a breathing man was he; He was out of Time's dominion, so far as the living may be. II. The Abbot of Inisfalen arose upon his feet; He heard a small bird singing, and O but it sung sweet! It sung upon a holly-bush, this little snow-white bird; A song so full of gladness he never before had heard. It sung upon a hazel, it sung upon a thorn; He had never heard such music since the hour that he was born. It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar; To follow the song and hearken this Abbot could never tire. Till at last he well bethought him; he might no longer stay; So he blessed the little white singing-bird, and gladly went his way. III. But, when he came to his Abbey, he found a wondrous change; He saw no friendly faces there, for every face was strange. The strange men spoke unto him; and he heard from all and each The foreign tongue of the Sassenach, not wholesome Irish speech. Then the oldest monk came forward, in Irish tongue spake he: "Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, and who hath given it to thee?" "I wear the holy Augustine's dress, and Cormac is my name, The Abbot of this good Abbey by grace of God I am. I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; and when my prayers were said, I hearken'd awhile to a little bird that sung above my head." The monks to him made answer, "Two hundred years have gone o'er, Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, and never was heard of more. Matthias now is our Abbot, and twenty have pass'd away. The stranger is lord of Ireland; we live in an evil day." "Days will come and go," he said, "and the world will pass away, In Heaven a day is a thousand years, a thousand years are a day." IV. "Now, give me absolution; for my time is come," said he. And they gave him absolution as speedily as might be. Then, close outside the window, the sweetest song they heard That ever yet since the world began was utter'd by any bird. The monks look'd out and saw the bird, its feathers all white and clean; And there in a moment, beside it, another white bird was seen. Those two they sang together, waved their white wings, and fled; Flew aloft, and vanished; but the good old man was dead. They buried his blessed body where lake and greensward meet; A carven cross above his head, a holly-bush at his feet; Where spreads the beautiful water to gay or cloudy skies, And the purple peaks of Killarney from ancient woods arise. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. Morraha (_As told by an Irish Peasant._) Morraha rose in the morning, and washed his hands and face, and said his prayers, and ate his food; and he asked God to prosper the day for him; and he went down to the brink of the sea, and he saw a currach, short and green, coming towards him; and in it there was but one youthful champion, and he playing hurly from prow to stern of the currach. He had a hurl of gold and a ball of silver; and he stopped not until the currach was in on the shore; and he drew her up on the green grass, and put fastening on her for a day and a year, whether he should be there all that time, or should only be on land for an hour by the clock. And Morraha saluted the young man in words intelligent, intelligible, such as were spoken at that time; and the other saluted him in the same fashion, and asked him would he play a game of cards with him; and Morraha said he had not the wherewithal; and the other answered that he was never without a candle or the making of it; and he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a table and two chairs and a pack of cards, and they sat down on the chairs and went to the card-playing. The first game Morraha won, and the slender red champion bade him make his claim; and he said that the land above him should be filled with stock of sheep in the morning. It was well, and he played no second game, but home he went. The next day Morraha went to the brink of the sea, and the young man came in the currach and asked him would he play cards; and they played, and Morraha won. And the young man bade him make his claim; and he said that the land above should be filled with cattle in the morning. It was well, and he played no other game, but went home. And on the third morning Morraha went to the brink of the sea, and he saw the young man coming. And he drew up his boat on the shore, and asked him would he play cards. And they played, and Morraha won the game; and the young man bade him give his claim. And he said he should have a castle, and of women the finest and fairest; and they were his. It was well, and the young man went away. On the fourth day the woman asked him how he had found himself, and he told her. "And I am going out," said he, "to play again to-day." "I cross (forbid) you go again to him. If you have won so much, you will lose more; and have no more to do with him." But he went against her will, and he saw the currach coming, and the young man was driving his balls from end to end of the currach. He had balls of silver and a hurl of gold, and he stopped not till he drew his boat on the shore, and made her fast for a year and a day. And Morraha and he saluted each other; and he asked Morraha if he would play a game of cards, and they played and he won. And Morraha said to him, "Give your claim, now." Said he, "You will hear it too soon. I lay on you the bonds of the art of the Druid not to sleep two nights in one house, nor finish a second meal at the one table, till you bring me the sword of light and news of the death of Anshgayliacht." He went down to his wife, and sat down in a chair, and gave a groan, and the chair broke in pieces. "It is the son of a king under spells you are," said his wife; "and you had better have taken my counsel than that the spells should be on you." He said to her to bring news of the death of Anshgayliacht and the sword of light to the slender red champion. "Go out," said she, "in the morning of the morrow, and take the bridle in the window and shake it; and whatever beast, handsome or ugly, puts the head in it, take that one with you. Do not speak a word to her till she speaks to you; and take with you three pint bottles of ale and three sixpenny loaves, and do the thing she tells you; and when she runs to my father's land, on a height above the court, she will shake herself, and the bells will ring, and my father will say Brown Allree is in the land. And if the son of a king or queen is there, bring him to me on your shoulders; but if it is the son of a poor man, let him come no further." He rose in the morning, and took the bridle that was in the window and went out and shook it, and Brown Allree came and put her head in it. And he took the three loaves and three bottles of ale, and went riding; and when he was riding, she bent her head down to take hold of her feet with her mouth, in hopes he would speak in ignorance; but he spoke not a word during the time, and the mare at last spoke to him, and said to him to dismount and give her her dinner. He gave her the sixpenny loaf toasted and a bottle of ale to drink. "Sit up, now, riding and take good heed of yourself: there are three miles of fire I have to clear at a leap." She cleared the three miles of fire at a leap, and asked if he were riding, and he said he was. They went on then, and she told him to dismount and give her a meal; and he did so, and gave her a sixpenny loaf and a bottle; and she consumed them, and said to him there were before them three miles of hill covered with steel thistles, and that she must clear it. And she cleared the hill with a leap, and she asked him if he were still riding, and he said he was. They went on, and she went not far before she told him to give her a meal, and he gave her the bread and the bottleful. And she went over three miles of sea with a leap, and she came then to the land of the King of France; and she went up on a height above the castle, and she shook herself and neighed, and the bells rang; and the King said that it was Brown Allree was in the land. "Go out," said he, "and if it is the son of a king or queen, carry him in on your shoulders; if it is not, leave him there." They went out, and the stars of the son of a king were on his breast; and they lifted him high on their shoulders and bore him in to the King. And they passed the night cheerfully with playing and with drinking, with sport and with diversion, till the whiteness of the day came upon the morrow morning. Then the young King told the cause of his journey, and he asked of the Queen her counsel and consent, and to give him counsel and good luck, and the woman told him everything she advised him to do. "Go now," said she, "and take with you the best mare in the stable, and go to the door of Rough Niall of the speckled rock, and knock, and call on him to give you news of the death of Anshgayliacht and the sword of light; and let the horse's back be to the door, and apply the spurs, and away with you!" And in the morning he did so, and he took the best horse from the stable and rode to the door of Niall, and turned the horse's back to the door, and demanded news of the death of Anshgayliacht, and the sword of light; and he applied the spurs, and away with him. And Niall followed him, and as he was passing the gate cut the horse in two. And the mother was there with a dish of puddings and flesh, and she threw it in his eyes and blinded him, and said, "Fool, whatever kind of man it is that's mocking you, isn't that a fine condition you have got into on your father's horse?" On the morning of the next day Morraha rose and took another horse from the stable, and went again to the door of Niall, and knocked and demanded news of the death of Anshgayliacht, and the sword of light, and applied the spurs to the horse, and away with him. And Niall followed, and as he was passing the gate cut the horse in two, and took half the saddle with him, and his mother met him, and threw the flesh in his eyes and blinded him. And on the third day Morraha went also to the door of Niall; and Niall followed him, and as he was passing the gate cut away the saddle from under him and the clothes from his back. Then his mother said to Niall: "Whatever fool it is that's mocking you, he is out yonder in the little currach, going home; and take good heed to yourself, and don't sleep one wink for three days." And for three days the little currach was there before him, and then his mother came to him and said: "Sleep as much as you want now. He is gone." And he went to sleep, and there was heavy sleep on him, and Morraha went in and took hold of the sword that was on the bed at his head. And the sword thought to draw itself out of the hand of Morraha, but it failed. And then it gave a cry, and it wakened Niall, and Niall said it was a rude and rough thing to come into his house like that; and Morraha said to him: "Leave your much talking, or I will cut the head off you. Tell me the news of the death of Anshgayliacht." "Oh, you can have my head." "But your head is no good to me. Tell me the story." "Oh," said Niall's wife, "you must get the story." "Oh," said Morraha, "is the woman your wife?" "Oh," said the man, "is it not you that have the story?" "Oh," said she, "you will tell it to us." "Well," said the man, "let us sit down together till I tell the story. I thought no one would ever get it, but now it will be heard by all." When I was growing up my mother taught me the language of the birds, and when I got married I used to be listening to their conversation; and I would be laughing; and my wife would be asking me what was the reason of my laughing, but I did not like to tell her, as women are always asking questions. We went out walking one fine morning, and the birds were arguing with one another. One of them said to another: "Why should you be making comparison with me, when there is not a king nor knight that does not come to look at my tree?" "Oh, what advantage has your tree over mine, on which there are three rods of magic and mastery growing?" When I heard them arguing, and knew that the rods were there, I began to laugh. "Oh," said my wife, "why are you always laughing? I believe it is at myself you are jesting, and I'll walk with you no more." "Oh, it is not about you I am laughing. It is because I understand the language of the birds." Then I had to tell her what the birds were saying to one another; and she was greatly delighted, and she asked me to go home, and she gave orders to the cook to have breakfast ready at six o'clock in the morning. I did not know why she was going out early, and breakfast was ready in the morning at the hour she appointed. She asked me to go out walking. I went with her. She went to the tree, and asked me to cut a rod for her. "Oh, I will not cut it. Are we not better without it?" "I will not leave this till I get the rod, to see if there is any good in it." I cut the rod, and gave it to her. She turned from me, and struck a blow on a stone and changed it; and she struck a second blow on me, and made of me a black raven, and she went home, and left me after her. I thought she would come back; she did not come, and I had to go into a tree till morning. In the morning, at six o'clock, there was a bellman out, proclaiming that everyone who killed a raven would get a fourpenny bit. At last you would not find man or boy without a gun, nor, if you were to walk three miles, a raven that was not killed. I had to make a nest in the top of the parlour chimney, and hide myself all day till night came, and go out to pick up a bit to support me, till I spent a month. Here she is herself (to say) if it is a lie I am telling. "It is not," said she. Then I saw her out walking. I went up to her, and I thought she would turn me back to my own shape, and she struck me with the rod and made of me an old white horse, and she ordered me to be put to a cart with a man to draw stones from morning till night. I was worse off then. She spread abroad a report that I had died suddenly in my bed, and prepared a coffin, and waked me, and buried me. Then she had no trouble. But when I got tired, I began to kill everyone who came near me, and I used to go into the haggard every night and destroy the stacks of corn; and when a man came near me in the morning, I would follow him till I broke his bones. Everyone got afraid of me. When she saw I was doing mischief, she came to meet me, and I thought she would change me. And she did change me, and made a fox of me. When I saw she was doing me every sort of damage, I went away from her. I knew there was a badger's hole in the garden, and I went there till night came, and I made great slaughter among the ducks and geese. There she is herself to say if I am telling a lie. "Oh, you are telling nothing but the truth, only less than the truth." When she had enough of my killing the fowl, she came out into the garden, for she knew I was in the badger's hole. She came to me, and made me a wolf. I had to be off, and go to an island, where no one at all would see me, and now and then I used to be killing sheep, for there were not many of them, and I was afraid of being seen and hunted; and so I passed a year, till a shepherd saw me among the sheep, and a pursuit was made after me. And when the dogs came near me, there was no place for me to escape to from them; but I recognised the sign of the King among the men, and I made for him, and the King cried out to stop the hounds. I took a leap upon the front of the King's saddle, and the woman behind cried out, "My King and my lord, kill him, or he will kill you." "Oh, he will not kill me. He knew me; and must be pardoned." And the King took me home with him, and gave orders that I should be well cared for. I was so wise when I got food I would not eat one morsel until I got a knife and fork. The man told the King, and the King came to see if it was true, and I got a knife and fork, and I took the knife in one paw and the fork in the other, and I bowed to the King. The King gave orders to bring him drink, and it came; and the King filled a glass of wine, and gave it to me. I took hold of it in my paw, and drank it, and thanked the King. "Oh, on my honour, it is some king that has lost him when he came on the island; and I will keep him, as he is trained; and perhaps he will serve us yet." And this is the sort of King he was--a King who had not a child living. Eight sons were born to him and three daughters, and they were stolen the same night they were born. No matter what guard was placed over them, the child would be gone in the morning. The Queen was now carrying the twelfth child, and when she was lying-in, the King took me with him to watch the baby. The women were not satisfied with me. "Oh," said the King, "what was all your watching ever? One that was born to me I have not; and I will leave this one in the dog's care, and he will not let it go." A coupling was put between me and the cradle, and when everyone went to sleep I was watching till the person woke who attended in the daytime; but I was there only two nights when, it was near the day, I saw the hand coming down through the chimney, and the hand was so big that it took round the child altogether, and thought to take him away. I caught hold of the hand above the wrist, and, as I was fastened to the cradle, I did not let go my hold till I cut the hand from the wrist, and there was a howl from the person without. I laid the hand in the cradle with the child, and, as I was tired, I fell asleep; and when I awoke I had neither child nor hand; and I began to howl, and the King heard me, and he cried out that something was wrong with me, and he sent servants to see what was the matter with me, and when the messenger came he saw me covered with blood, and he could not see the child; and he went to the King, and told him the child was not to be got. The King came, and saw the cradle coloured with the blood, and he cried out, "Where was the child gone?" and everyone said it was the dog had eaten it. The King said, "It is not: loose him, and he will get the pursuit himself." When I was loosed, I found the scent of the blood till I came to a door of the room in which the child was. I went to the King, and took hold of him, and went back again, and began to tear at the door. The King followed me, and asked for the key. The servant said it was in the room of the stranger woman. The King caused search to be made for her, and she was not to be found. "I will break the door," said the King, "as I can't get the key." The King broke the door, and I went in, and went to the trunk, and the King asked for a key to unlock it. He got no key, and he broke the lock. When he opened the trunk the child and the hand were stretched side by side, and the child was asleep. The King took the hand, and ordered a woman to come for the child, and he showed the hand to everyone in the house. But the stranger woman was gone, and she did not see the King; and here she is herself to say if I am telling lies of her. "Oh, it's nothing but the truth you have." The King did not allow me to be tied any more. He said there was nothing so much to wonder at as that I cut the hand off, and I tied. The child was growing till he was a year old, and he was beginning to walk, and there was no one caring for him more than I was. He was growing till he was three, and he was running out every minute; so the King ordered a silver chain to be put between me and the child, so that he might not go away from me. I was out with him in the garden every day, and the King was as proud as the world of the child. He would be watching him every place we went, till the child grew so wise that he would loose the chain and get off. But one day that he loosed it I failed to find him; and I ran into the house and searched the house, but there was no getting him for me. The King cried to go out and find the child, that he had got loose from the dog. They went searching for him, but they could not find him. When they failed altogether to find him, there remained no more favour with the King towards me, and everyone disliked me, and I grew weak, for I did not get a morsel to eat half the time. When summer came I said I would try and go home to my own country. I went away one fine morning, and I went swimming, and God helped me till I came home. I went into the garden, for I knew there was a place in the garden where I could hide myself, for fear she should see me. In the morning I saw my wife out walking, and my child with her, held by the hand. I pushed out to see the child, and, as he was looking about him everywhere, he saw me, and called out, "I see my shaggy papa. Oh," said he; "oh, my heart's love, my shaggy papa, come here till I see you." I was afraid the woman would see me, as she was asking the child where he saw me, and he said I was up in a tree; and the more the child called me, the more I hid myself. The woman took the child home with her, but I knew he would be up early in the morning. I went to the parlour window, and the child was within, and he playing. When he saw me, he cried out, "Oh, my heart's love, come here till I see you, shaggy papa." I broke the window, and went in, and he began to kiss me. I saw the rod in front of the chimney, and I jumped up at the rod and knocked it down. "Oh, my heart's love, no one would give me the pretty rod." I thought he would strike me with the rod, but he did not. When I saw the time was short, I raised my paw, and I gave him a scratch below the knee. "Oh, you naughty, dirty, shaggy papa; you have hurt me so much--I'll give yourself a blow of the rod." He struck me a light blow, and as there was no sin on him, I came back to my own shape again. When he saw a man standing before him he gave a cry, and I took him up in my arms. The servants heard the child. A maid came in to see what was the matter with him. When she saw me she gave a cry out of her, and she said, "Oh, my soul to God, if the master isn't come to life again." Another came in, and said it was he, really. And when the mistress heard of it, she came to see with her own eyes, for she would not believe I was there; and when she saw me she said she'd drown herself. And I said to her, "If you yourself will keep the secret, no living man will ever get the story from me until I lose my head." Many's the man has come asking for the story, and I never let one return; but now everyone will know it, but she is as much to blame as I. I gave you my head on the spot, and a thousand welcomes, and she cannot say I have been telling anything but the truth. "Oh, surely, nor are you now." When I saw I was in a man's shape I said I would take the child back to his father and mother, as I knew the grief they were in after him. I got a ship, and took the child with me; and when I was journeying I came to land on an island, and I saw not a living soul on it, only a court, dark and gloomy. I went in to see was there anyone in it. There was no one but an old hag, tall and frightful, and she asked me, "What sort of person are you?" I heard someone groaning in another room, and I said I was a doctor, and I asked her what ailed the person who was groaning. "Oh," said she, "it is my son, whose hand has been bitten from his wrist by a dog." I knew then it was the boy who was taking the child from me, and I said I would cure him if I got a good reward. "I have nothing, but there are eight young lads and three young women, as handsome as anyone laid eyes on, and if you cure him I will give you them." "But tell me in what place his hand was cut from." "Oh, it was out in another country twelve years ago." "Show me the way, that I may see him." She brought me into a room, so that I saw him, and his arm was swelled up to the shoulder. He asked if I would cure him; and I said I could cure him if he would give me the reward his mother promised. "Oh, I will give it, but cure me." "Well, bring them out to me." The hag brought them out of the room. I said I would burn the flesh that was on his arm. When I looked on him he was howling with pain. I said that I would not leave him in pain long. The thief had only one eye in his forehead. I took a bar of iron, and put it in the fire till it was red, and I said to the hag, "He will be howling at first, but will fall asleep presently, and do not wake him until he has slept as much as he wants. I will close the door when I am going out." I took the bar with me, and I stood over him, and I turned it across through his eye as far as I could. He began to bellow, and tried to catch me, but I was out and away, having closed the door. The hag asked me, "Why is he bellowing?" "Oh, he will be quiet presently, and will sleep for a good while, and I'll come again to have a look at him; but bring me out the young men and the young women." I took them with me, and I said to her, "Tell me where you got them." "Oh, my son brought them with him, and they are the offspring of the one King." I was well satisfied, and I had no liking for delay to get myself free from the hag, and I took them on board the ship, and the child I had myself. I thought the King might leave me the child I nursed myself; but when I came to land, and all those young people with me, the King and Queen were out walking. The King was very aged, and the Queen aged likewise. When I came to converse with them, and the twelve with me, the King and Queen began to cry. I asked, "Why are you crying?" "Oh, it is for good cause I am crying. As many children as these I should have, and now I am withered, grey, at the end of my life, and I have not one at all." "Oh, belike, you will yet have plenty." I told him all I went through, and I gave him the child in his hand, and: "These are your other children who were stolen from you, whom I am giving to you safe. They are gently reared." When the King heard who they were, he smothered them with kisses and drowned them with tears, and dried them with fine cloths, silken, and the hairs of his own head, and so also did their mother, and great was his welcome for me, as it was I who found them all. And the King said to me, "I will give you your own child, as it is you who have earned him best; but you must come to my court every year, and the child with you, and I will share with you my possessions." "Oh, I have enough of my own, and after my death I will leave it to the child." I spent a time till my visit was over, and I told the King all the troubles I went through, only I said nothing about my wife. And now you have the story of the death of Anshgayliacht, the hag's son. And Morraha thanked Rough Niall for the story, and he struck the ground with the Sword of Light, and Brown Allree was beside of him and she said to him, "Sit up, now, riding, and take good heed of yourself," and at one leap she cleared the sea and at the next the three miles of hill covered with steel thistles and at the third the three miles of fire, and then he was home and he told the tale of the death of Anshgayliacht to the Slender Red Champion and gave him the Sword of Light, and he was well pleased to get them, and he took the spells of Morraha, and he had his wife and his castle back again, and by-and-by the five children; but he never put his hand to card-playing with strangers again. W. LARMINIE. (_From "West Irish Folk Tales."_) The Kildare Pooka Mr. H---- R----, when he was alive, used to live a good deal in Dublin, and he was once a great while out of the country on account of the "ninety-eight" business. But the servants kept on in the big house at Rath---- all the same as if the family was at home. Well, they used to be frightened out of their lives, after going to their beds, with the banging of the kitchen door and the clattering of fire-irons and the pots and plates and dishes. One evening they sat up ever so long keeping one another in heart with stories about ghosts and that, when--what would you have of it?--the little scullery boy that used to be sleeping over the horses, and could not get room at the fire, crept into the hot hearth, and when he got tired listening to the stories, sorra fear him, but he fell dead asleep. Well and good. After they were all gone, and the kitchen raked up, he was woke with the noise of the kitchen door opening, and the trampling of an ass on the kitchen floor. He peeped out, and what should he see but a big ass, sure enough, sitting on his curabingo and yawning before the fire. After a little he looked about him, and began scratching his ears as if he was quite tired, and says he, "I may as well begin first as last." The poor boy's teeth began to chatter in his head, for, says he, "Now he's going to ate me"; but the fellow with the long ears and tail on him had something else to do. He stirred the fire, and then he brought in a pail of water from the pump, and filled a big pot that he put on the fire before he went out. He then put in his hand--foot, I mean--into the hot hearth, and pulled out the little boy. He let a roar out of him with the fright; but the pooka only looked at him, and thrust out his lower lip to show how little he valued him, and then he pitched him into his pew again. Well, he then lay down before the fire till he heard the boil coming on the water, and maybe there wasn't a plate, or a dish, or a spoon on the dresser that he didn't fetch and put in the pot, and wash and dry the whole bilin' of 'em as well as e'er a kitchen maid from that to Dublin town. He then put all of them up on their places on the shelves; and if he didn't give a good sweepin' to the kitchen, leave it till again. Then he comes and sits fornent the boy, let down one of his ears, and cocked up the other, and gave a grin. The poor fellow strove to roar out, but not a dheeg 'ud come out of his throat. The last thing the pooka done was to rake up the fire and walk out, giving such a slap o' the door that the boy thought the house couldn't help tumbling down. Well, to be sure, if there wasn't a hullabuloo next morning when the poor fellow told his story! They could talk of nothing else the whole day. One said one thing, another said another, but a fat, lazy scullery girl said the wittiest thing of all. "Musha!" says she, "if the pooka does be cleaning up everything that way when we are asleep, what should we be slaving ourselves for doing his work?" "_Sha gu dheine_," says another, "them's the wisest words you ever said, Kauth; it's meeself won't contradict you." So said, so done. Not a bit of a plate or dish saw a drop of water that evening, and not a besom was laid on the floor, and everyone went to bed soon after sundown. Next morning everything was as fine as fine in the kitchen, and the lord mayor might eat his dinner off the flags. It was great ease to the lazy servants, you may depend, and everything went on well till a foolhardy gag of a boy said he would stay up one night and have a chat with the pooka. He was a little daunted when the door was thrown open and the ass marched up to the fire. "And then, sir," says he at last, picking up courage, "if it isn't taking a liberty, might I ax who you are, and why you are so kind as to do half of the day's work for the girls every night?" "No liberty at all," says the pooka, says he: "I'll tell you, and welcome. I was a servant in the time of Squire R----'s father, and was the laziest rogue that ever was clothed and fed, and done nothing for it. When my time came for the other world, this is the punishment was laid on me to come here and do all this labour every night, and then go out in the cold. It isn't so bad in the fine weather; but if you only knew what it is to stand with your head between your legs, facing the storm from midnight to sunrise, on a bleak winter night." "And could we do anything for your comfort, my poor fellow?" says the boy. "Musha, I don't know," says the pooka; "but I think a good quilted frieze coat would help me to keep the life in me them long nights." "Why, then, in troth, we'd be the ungratefullest of people if we didn't feel for you." To make a long story short, the next night the boy was there again; and if he didn't delight the poor pooka, holding a fine warm coat before him, it's no mather! Betune the pooka and the man, his legs was got into the four arms of it, and it was buttoned down the breast and the belly, and he was so pleased he walked up to the glass to see how it looked. "Well," says he, "it's a long lane that has no turning. I am much obliged to you and your fellow-servants. You have made me happy at last. Good night to you." So he was walking out, but the other cried, "Och! sure you're going too soon. What about the washing and sweeping?" "Ah, you may tell the girls that they must now get their turn. My punishment was to last till I was thought worthy of a reward for the way I done my duty. You'll see me no more." And no more they did, and right sorry they were for having been in such a hurry to reward the ungrateful pooka. PATRICK KENNEDY. The King's Son Who rideth through the driving rain At such a headlong speed? Naked and pale he rides amain Upon a naked steed. Nor hollow nor height his going bars, His wet steed shines like silk, His head is golden to the stars And his limbs are white as milk. But, lo, he dwindles as the light That lifts from a black mere, And, as the fair youth wanes from sight, The steed grows mightier. What wizard by yon holy tree Mutters unto the sky Where Macha's flame-tongued horses flee On hoofs of thunder by? Ah, 'tis not holy so to ban The youth of kingly seed: Ah! woe, the wasting of a man Who changes to a steed. Nightly upon the Plain of Kings, When Macha's day is nigh, He gallops; and the dark wind brings His lonely human cry. THOMAS BOYD. Murtough and the Witch Woman In the days when Murtough Mac Erca was in the High Kingship of Ireland, the country was divided between the old beliefs of paganism and the new doctrines of the Christian teaching. Part held with the old creed and part with the new, and the thought of the people was troubled between them, for they knew not which way to follow and which to forsake. The faith of their forefathers clung close around them, holding them by many fine and tender threads of memory and custom and tradition; yet still the new faith was making its way, and every day it spread wider and wider through the land. The family of Murtough had joined itself to the Christian faith, and his three brothers were bishops and abbots of the Church, but Murtough himself remained a pagan, for he was a wild and lawless prince, and the peaceful teachings of the Christian doctrine, with its forgiveness of enemies, pleased him not at all. Fierce and cruel was his life, filled with dark deeds and bloody wars, and savage and tragic was his death, as we shall hear. Now Murtough was in the sunny summer palace of Cletty, which Cormac, son of Art, had built for a pleasure house on the brink of the slow-flowing Boyne, near the Fairy Brugh of Angus the Ever Young, the God of Youth and Beauty. A day of summer was that day, and the King came forth to hunt on the borders of the Brugh, with all his boon companions around him. But when the high-noon came the sun grew hot, and the King sat down to rest upon the fairy mound, and the hunt passed on beyond him, and he was left alone. There was a witch woman in that country whose name was "Sigh, Sough, Storm, Rough Wind, Winter Night, Cry, Wail, and Groan." Star-bright and beautiful was she in face and form, but inwardly she was cruel as her names. And she hated Murtough because he had scattered and destroyed the Ancient Peoples of the Fairy Tribes of Erin, her country and her fatherland, and because in the battle which he fought at Cerb on the Boyne her father and her mother and her sister had been slain. For in those days women went to battle side by side with men. She knew, too, that with the coming of the new faith trouble would come upon the fairy folk, and their power and their great majesty would depart from them, and men would call them demons, and would drive them out with psalm-singing and with the saying of prayers, and with the sound of little tinkling bells. So trouble and anger wrought in the witch woman, and she waited the day to be revenged on Murtough, for he being yet a pagan, was still within her power to harm. So when Sheen (for Sheen or "Storm" was the name men gave to her) saw the King seated on the fairy mound and all his comrades parted from him, she arose softly, and combed her hair with her comb of silver adorned with little ribs of gold, and she washed her hands in a silver basin wherein were four golden birds sitting on the rim of the bowl, and little bright gems of carbuncle set round about the rim. And she donned her fairy mantle of flowing green, and her cloak, wide and hooded, with silvery fringes, and a brooch of fairest gold. On her head were tresses yellow like to gold, plaited in four locks, with a golden drop at the end of each long tress. The hue of her hair was like the flower of the iris in summer or like red gold after the burnishing thereof. And she wore on her breasts and at her shoulders marvellous clasps of gold, finely worked with the tracery of the skilled craftsman, and a golden twisted torque around her throat. And when she was decked she went softly and sat down beside Murtough on the turfy hunting mound. And after a space Murtough perceived her sitting there, and the sun shining upon her, so that the glittering of the gold and of her golden hair and the bright shining of the green silk of her garments, was like the yellow iris-beds upon the lake on a sunny summer's day. Wonder and terror seized on Murtough at her beauty, and he knew not if he loved her or if he hated her the most; for at one moment all his nature was filled with longing and with love of her, so that it seemed to him that he would give the whole of Ireland for the loan of one hour's space of dalliance with her; but after that he felt a dread of her, because he knew his fate was in her hands, and that she had come to work him ill. But he welcomed her as if she were known to him and he asked her wherefore she was come. "I am come," she said, "because I am beloved of Murtough, son of Erc, King of Erin, and I come to seek him here." Then Murtough was glad, and he said, "Dost thou not know me, maiden?" "I do," she answered, "for all secret and mysterious things are known to me and thou and all the men of Erin are well known." After he had conversed with her awhile, she appeared to him so fair that the King was ready to promise her anything in life she wished, so long as she would go with him to Cletty of the Boyne. "My wish," she said, "is that you take me to your house, and that you put out from it your wife and your children because they are of the new faith, and all the clerics that are in your house, and that neither your wife nor any cleric be permitted to enter the house while I am there." "I will give you," said the King, "a hundred head of every herd of cattle that is within my kingdom, and a hundred drinking horns, and a hundred cups, and a hundred rings of gold, and a feast every other night in the summer palace of Cletty. But I pledge thee my word, oh, maiden, it were easier for me to give thee half of Ireland than to do this thing that thou hast asked." For Murtough feared that when those that were of the Christian faith were put out of his house, she would work her spells upon him, and no power would be left with him to resist those spells. "I will not take thy gifts," said the damsel, "but only those things that I have asked; moreover, it is thus, that my name must never be uttered by thee, nor must any man or woman learn it." "What is thy name," said Murtough, "that it may not come upon my lips to utter it?" And she said, "Sigh, Sough, Storm, Rough Wind, Winter Night, Cry, Wail, Groan, this is my name, but men call me Sheen, for 'Storm' or Sheen is my chief name, and storms are with me where I come." Nevertheless, Murtough was so fascinated by her that he brought her to his home, and drove out the clerics that were there, with his wife and children along with them, and drove out also the nobles of his own clan, the children of Niall, two great and gallant battalions. And Duivsech, his wife, went crying along the road with her children around her to seek Bishop Cairnech, the half-brother of her husband, and her own soul-friend, that she might obtain help and shelter from him. But Sheen went gladly and light-heartedly into the House of Cletty, and when she saw the lovely lightsome house and the goodly nobles of the clan of Niall, and the feasting and banqueting and the playing of the minstrels and all the joyous noise of that kingly dwelling, her heart was lifted within her, and "Fair as a fairy palace is this house of Cletty," said she. "Fair, indeed, it is," replied the King; "for neither the Kings of Leinster nor the Kings of mighty Ulster, nor the lords of the clans of Owen or of Niall, have such a house as this; nay, in Tara of the Kings itself, no house to equal this house of mine is found." And that night the King robed himself in all the splendour of his royal dignity, and on his right hand he seated Sheen, and a great banquet was made before them, and men said that never on earth was to be seen a woman more goodly of appearance than she. And the King was astonished at her, and he began to ask her questions, for it seemed to him that the power of a great goddess of the ancient time was in her; and he asked her whence she came, and what manner was the power that he saw in her. He asked her, too, did she believe in the God of the clerics, or was she herself some goddess of the older world? For he feared her, feeling that his fate was in her hands. She laughed a careless and a cruel laugh, for she knew that the King was in their power, now that she was there alone with him, and the clerics and the Christian teachers gone. "Fear me not, O Murtough," she cried; "I am, like thee, a daughter of the race of men of the ancient family of Adam and of Eve; fit and meet my comradeship with thee; therefore, fear not nor regret. And as to that true God of thine, worker of miracles and helper of His people, no miracle in all the world is there that I, by mine own unaided power, cannot work the like. I can create a sun and moon; the heavens I can sprinkle with radiant stars of night. I can call up to life men fiercely fighting in conflict, slaughtering one another. Wine I could make of the cold water of the Boyne, and sheep of lifeless stones, and swine of ferns. In the presence of the hosts I can make gold and silver, plenty and to spare; and hosts of famous fighting men I can produce from naught. Now, tell me, can thy God work the like?" "Work for us," says the King, "some of these great wonders." Then Sheen went forth out of the house, and she set herself to work spells on Murtough, so that he knew not whether he was in his right mind or no. She took of the water of the Boyne and made a magic wine thereout, and she took ferns and spiked thistles and light puff-balls of the woods, and out of them she fashioned magic swine and sheep and goats, and with these she fed Murtough and the hosts. And when they had eaten, all their strength went from them, and the magic wine sent them into an uneasy sleep and restless slumbers. And out of stones and sods of earth she fashioned three battalions, and one of the battalions she placed at one side of the house, and the other at the further side beyond it, and one encircling the rest southward along the hollow windings of the glen. And thus were these battalions, one of them all made of men stark-naked and their colour blue, and the second with heads of goats with shaggy beards and horned; but the third, more terrible than they, for these were headless men, fighting like human beings, yet finished at the neck; and the sound of heavy shouting as of hosts and multitudes came from the first and the second battalion, but from the third no sound save only that they waved their arms and struck their weapons together, and smote the ground with their feet impatiently. And though terrible was the shout of the blue men and the bleating of the goats with human limbs, more horrible yet was the stamping and the rage of those headless men, finished at the neck. And Murtough, in his sleep and in his dreams, heard the battle-shout, and he rose impetuously from off his bed, but the wine overcame him, and his strength departed from him, and he fell helplessly upon the floor. Then he heard the challenge a second time, and the stamping of the feet without, and he rose again, and madly, fiercely, he set on them, charging the hosts and scattering them before him, as he thought, as far as the fairy palace of the Brugh. But all his strength was lost in fighting phantoms, for they were but stones and sods and withered leaves of the forest that he took for fighting men. Now Duivsech, Murtough's wife, knew what was going on. She called upon Cairnech to arise and to gather together the clans of the children of his people, the men of Owen and of Niall, and together they went to the fort; but Sheen guarded it well, so that they could by no means find an entrance. Then Cairnech was angry, and he cursed the place, and he dug a grave before the door, and he stood up upon the mound of the grave, and rang his bells and cursed the King and his house, and prophesied his downfall. But he blessed the clans of Owen and of Niall, and they returned to their own country. Then Cairnech sent messengers to seek Murtough and to draw him away from the witch woman who sought his destruction, but because she was so lovely the King would believe no evil of her; and whenever he made any sign to go to Cairnech, she threw her spell upon the King, so that he could not break away. When he was so weak and faint that he had no power left, she cast a sleep upon him, and she went round the house, putting everything in readiness. She called upon her magic host of warriors, and set them round the fortress, with their spears and javelins pointed inwards towards the house, so that the King would not dare to go out amongst them. And that night was a night of Samhain-tide, the eve of Wednesday after All Souls' Day. Then she went everywhere throughout the house, and took lighted brands and burning torches, and scattered them in every part of the dwelling. And she returned into the room wherein Murtough slept, and lay down by his side. And she caused a great wind to spring up, and it came soughing through the house from the north-west; and the King said, "This is the sigh of the winter night." And Sheen smiled, because, unwittingly, the King had spoken her name, for she knew by that that the hour of her revenge had come. "'Tis I myself that am Sigh and Winter Night," she said, "and I am Rough Wind and Storm, a daughter of fair nobles; and I am Cry and Wail, the maid of elfin birth, who brings ill-luck to men." After that she caused a great snowstorm to come round the house; and like the noise of troops and the rage of battle was the storm, beating and pouring in on every side, so that drifts of deep snow were piled against the walls, blocking the doors and chilling the folk that were feasting within the house. But the King was lying in a heavy, unresting sleep, and Sheen was at his side. Suddenly he screamed out of his sleep and stirred himself, for he heard the crash of falling timbers and the noise of the magic hosts, and he smelled the strong smell of fire in the palace. He sprang up. "It seems to me," he cried, "that hosts of demons are around the house, and that they are slaughtering my people, and that the house of Cletty is on fire." "It was but a dream," the witch maiden said. Then he slept again, and he saw a vision, to wit, that he was tossing in a ship at sea, and the ship floundered, and above his head a griffin, with sharp beak and talons, sailed, her wings outspread and covering all the sun, so that it was dark as middle-night; and lo! as she rose on high, her plumes quivered for a moment in the air; then down she swooped and picked him from the waves, carrying him to her eyrie on the dismal cliff outhanging o'er the ocean; and the griffin began to pierce him and to prod him with her talons, and to pick out pieces of his flesh with her beak; and this went on awhile, and then a flame, that came he knew not whence, rose from the nest, and he and the griffin were enveloped in the flame. Then in her beak the griffin picked him up, and together they fell downward over the cliff's edge into the seething ocean; so that, half by fire and half by water, he died a miserable death. When the King saw that vision, he rose screaming from his sleep, and donned his arms; and he made one plunge forward seeking for the magic hosts, but he found no man to answer him. The damsel went forth from the house, and Murtough made to follow her, but as he turned the flames leaped out, and all between him and the door was one vast sheet of flame. He saw no way of escape, save the vat of wine that stood in the banqueting hall, and into that he got; but the burning timbers of the roof fell upon his head and the hails of fiery sparks rained on him, so that half of him was burned and half was drowned, as he had seen in his dream. The next day, amid the embers, the clerics found his corpse, and they took it up and washed it in the Boyne, and carried it to Tuilen to bury it. And they said, "Alas! that Mac Erca, High King of Erin, of the noble race of Conn and of the descendants of Ugaine the Great, should die fighting with sods and stones! Alas! that the Cross of Christ was not signed upon his face that he might have known the witchdoms of the maiden what they were." As they went thus, bewailing the death of Murtough and bearing him to his grave, Duivsech, wife of Murtough, met them, and when she found her husband dead, she struck her hands together and she made a great and mournful lamentation; and because weakness came upon her she leaned her back against the ancient tree that is in Aenech Reil; and a burst of blood broke from her heart, and there she died, grieving for her husband. And the grave of Murtough was made wide and deep, and there they laid the Queen beside him, two in the one grave, near the north side of the little church that is in Tuilen. Now, when the burial was finished, and the clerics were reciting over his grave the deeds of the King, and were making prayers for Murtough's soul that it might be brought out of hell, for Cairnech showed great care for this, they saw coming towards them across the sward a lonely woman, star-bright and beautiful, and a kirtle of priceless silk upon her, and a green mantle with its fringes of silver thread flowing to the ground. She reached the place where the clerics were, and saluted them, and they saluted her. And they marvelled at her beauty, but they perceived on her an appearance of sadness and of heavy grief. They asked of her, "Who art thou, maiden, and wherefore art thou come to the house of mourning? For a king lies buried here." "A king lies buried here, indeed," said she, "and I it was who slew him, Murtough of the many deeds, of the race of Conn and Niall, High King of Ireland and of the West. And though it was I who wrought his death, I myself will die for grief of him." And they said, "Tell us, maiden, why you brought him to his death, if so be that he was dear to thee?" And she said, "Murtough was dear to me, indeed, dearest of the men of the whole world; for I am Sheen, the daughter of Sige, the son of Dian, from whom Ath Sigi or the 'Ford of Sige' is called to-day. But Murtough slew my father, and my mother and sister were slain along with him, in the battle of Cerb upon the Boyne, and there was none of my house to avenge their death, save myself alone. Moreover, in his time the Ancient Peoples of the Fairy Tribes of Erin were scattered and destroyed, the folk of the underworld and of my fatherland; and to avenge the wrong and loss he wrought on them I slew the man I loved. I made poison for him; alas! I made for him magic drink and food which took his strength away, and out of the sods of earth and puff-balls that float down the wind, I wrought men and armies of headless, hideous folk, till all his senses were distraught. And, now, take me to thee, O Cairnech, in fervent and true repentance, and sign the Cross of Christ upon my brow, for the time of my death is come." Then she made penitence for the sin that she had sinned, and she died there upon the grave of grief and of sorrow after the King. And they digged a grave lengthways across the foot of the wide grave of Murtough and his spouse, and there they laid the maiden who had wrought them woe. And the clerics wondered at those things, and they wrote them and revised them in a book. ELEANOR HULL. The Red Pony (_As told by an Irish Peasant._) There was a poor man there. He had a great family of sons. He had no means to put them forward. He had them at school. One day, when they were coming from school, he thought that whichever of them was last at the door he would keep him out. It was the youngest of the family that was last at the door. The father shut the door. He would not let him in. The boy went weeping. He would not let him in till night came. The father said he would never let him in--that he had boys enough. The lad went away. He was walking till night. He came to a house on the rugged side of a hill on a height, one feather giving it shelter and support. He went in. He got a place till morning. When he made his breakfast in the morning he was going. The man of the house made him a present of a red pony, a saddle, and bridle. He went riding on the pony. He went away with himself. "Now," said the pony, "whatever thing you may see before you, don't touch it." They went on with themselves. He saw a light before him on the high road. When he came as far as the light, there was an open box on the road, and a light coming out of it. He took up the box. There was a lock of hair in it. "Are you going to take up the box?" said the pony. "I am. I cannot go past it." "It's better for you to leave it," said the pony. He took up the box. He put it in his pocket. He was going with himself. A gentleman met him. "Pretty is your little beast. Where are you going?" "I am looking for service." "I am in want of one like you among the stable-boys." He hired the lad. The lad said he must get room for the little beast in the stable. The gentleman said he would get it. They went home then. He had eleven boys. When they were going out into the stable at ten o'clock each of them took a light with him but he. He took no candle at all with him. Each of them went into his own stable. When he went into his stable, he opened the box. He left it in a hole in the wall. The light was great. It was twice as much as in the other stables. There was wonder on the boys--what was the reason of the light being so great, and he without a candle with him at all. They told the master they did not know what was the cause of the light with the last boy. They had given him no candle, and he had twice as much light as they had. "Watch to-morrow night what kind of light he has," said the master. They watched the night of the morrow. They saw the box in the hole that was in the wall, and the light coming out of the box. They told the master. When the boys came to the house, the King asked him what was the reason why he did not take a candle with him to the stable, as well as the other boys. The lad said he had a candle. The King said he had not. He asked him how he got the box from which the light came. He said he had no box. The King said he had, and that he must give it to him; that he would not keep him, unless he gave him the box. The boy gave it to him. The King opened it. He drew out the lock of hair, in which was the light. "You must go," said the King, "and bring me the woman to whom the hair belongs." The lad was troubled. He went out. He told the red pony. "I told you not to take up the box. You will get more than that on account of the box. When you have made your breakfast to-morrow, put the saddle and bridle on me." When he made his breakfast on the morning of the morrow, he put saddle and bridle on the pony. He went till they came to three miles of sea. "Keep a good hold now. I am going to give a jump over the sea. When I arrive yonder, there is a fair on the strand. Everyone will be coming up to you to ask for a ride, because I am such a pretty little beast. Give no one a ride. You will see a beautiful woman drawing near you, her in whose hair was the wonderful light. She will come up to you. She will ask you to let her ride for a while. Say you will, and welcome. When she comes riding, I will be off." When she came to the sea, she cleared the three miles at a jump. She came upon the land opposite, and everyone was asking for a ride upon the beast, she was that pretty. He was giving a ride to no one. He saw that woman in the midst of the people. She was drawing near. She asked him would he give her a little riding. He said he would give it, and a thousand welcomes. She went riding. She went quietly, till she got out of the crowd. When the pony came to the sea, she made the three-mile jump again, the beautiful woman along with her. She took her home to the King. There was great joy on the King to see her. He took her into the parlour. She said to him she would not marry anyone until he would get the bottle of healing water that was in the eastern world. The King said to the lad he must go and bring the bottle of healing water that was in the eastern world to the lady. The lad was troubled. He went to the pony. He told the pony he must go to the eastern world for the bottle of healing water that was in it, and bring it to the lady. "My advice was good," said the pony, "on the day you took the box up. Put saddle and bridle on me." He went riding on her. They were going till they came to the sea. She stood then. "You must kill me," said the pony. "That, or I must kill you!" "It is hard to me to kill you," said the boy. "If I kill you, there will be no way to myself." He cut her down. He opened her up. She was not long opened when there came two black ravens and one small one. The two ravens went into the body. They drank their fill of the blood. When they came out, the little raven went in. He closed up the pony. He would not let the little bird come out till he got the bottle of healing water that was in the eastern world. The ravens were very troubled. They were begging him to let the little bird out. He said he would not let it out till they brought him the bottle. They went to seek the bottle. They came back, and there was no bottle with them. They were entreating him to let the bird out to them. He would not let out the bird till he got the bottle. They went away again for the bottle. They came again at evening. They were tossed and scorched, and they had the bottle. They came to the place where the pony was. They gave the bottle to the boy. He rubbed the healing water to every place where they were burned. Then he let out the little bird. There was great joy on them to see him. He rubbed some of the healing water to the place where he cut the pony. He spilt a drop into her ear. She arose as well as she ever was. He had a little bottle in his pocket. He put some of the healing water into it. They went home. When the King perceived the pony coming, he rose out. He took hold of her with his two hands. He took her in. He smothered her with kisses, and drowned her with tears; he dried her with finest cloths of silk and satin. This is what the lady was doing while they were away. She boiled pitch, and filled a barrel, and that boiling. Now she went beside it. She rubbed the healing water to herself. She came out; she went to the barrel. She gave a jump in and out of the barrel. Three times she went in and out. She said she would never marry anyone who could not do the same. The young King came. He went to the barrel. He fell half in, half out. He was all boiled and burned. Another gentleman came. He gave a jump into the barrel. He was burned. He came not out till he died. After that there was no one going in or out. The barrel was there, and no one at all was going near it. The lad went up to it. He rubbed the healing water on himself. He came to the barrel. He jumped in and out three times. He was watching her. She came out. She said she would never marry anyone but him. Came the priest of the pattens, and the clerk of the bells. The pair were married. The wedding lasted three days and three nights. When it was over, the lad went to look at the place where the pony was. He never remembered to go and see the pony during the wedding. He found nothing but a heap of bones. There were two champions and two girls playing cards. The lad went crying when he saw the bones of the pony. One of the girls asked what was the matter with him. He said it was all one to her--that she cared nothing for his troubles. "I would like to get knowledge of the cause why you are crying." "It was my pony who was here. I never remembered to see her during the wedding. I have nothing now but her bones. I don't know what I shall do after her. It was she who did all that I accomplished." The girl went laughing. "Would you know your pony if you saw her?" "I would know," said he. She laid aside the cards. She stood up. "Isn't that your pony?" said she. "It is," said he. "I was the pony," said the girl, "and the two ravens who went in to drink my blood my two brothers. When the ravens came out, a little bird went in. You closed the pony. You would not let the little bird out till they brought the bottle of healing water that was in the eastern world. They brought the bottle to you. The little bird was my sister. It was my brothers were the ravens. We were all under enchantments. It is my sister who is married to you. The enchantments are gone from us since she was married." W. LARMINIE. (_From "West Irish Folk Tales."_) King O'Toole and St Kevin (_A Legend of Glendalough._) There was wanst a king, called King O'Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it was him that owned the Churches in the airly days. "Surely," said I, "the Churches were not in King O'Toole's time?" "Oh, by no manes, your honor--throth, it's yourself that's right enough there; but you know the place is called 'The Churches' bekase they wor built _afther_ by St. Kavin, and wint by the name o' the Churches iver more; and, therefore, av coorse, the place bein' so called, I say that the King owned the Churches--and why not, sir, seein' 'twas his birthright, time out o' mind, beyant the flood? Well, the King (you see) was the right sort--he was the _rale_ boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin' in partic'lar; and from the risin' o' the sun up he got, and away he wint over the mountains beyant afther the deer: and the fine times them wor; for the deer was as plinty thin, aye throth, far plintyer than the sheep is now; and that's the way it was with the King, from the crow o' the cock to the song o' the redbreast. Well, it was all mighty good as long as the King had his health; but, you see, in coorse o' time, the King grewn ould, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got sthricken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost intirely for want o' divarshin, bekase he couldn't go a huntin' no longer; and, by dad, the poor King was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him. You see, the goose used for to swim acrass the lake, and go down divin' for throut (and not finer throut in all Ireland than the same throut) and cotch fish on a Friday for the King, and flew every other day round about the lake divartin' the poor King that you'd think he'd break his sides laughin' at the frolicksome tricks av his goose; so, in coorse o' time, the goose was the greatest pet in the counthry, and the biggest rogue, and divarted the King to no end, and the poor King was as happy as the day was long. So that's the way it was; and all wint on mighty well antil, by dad, the goose got sthricken in years, as well as the King, and grew stiff in the limbs, like her masther, and couldn't divart him no longer; and then it was that the poor King was lost complate, and didn't know what in the wide world to do, seein' he was gone out of all divarshin by raison that the goose was no more in the flower of her blume. "Well, the King was nigh broken-hearted and melancholy intirely, and was walkin' one mornin' by the edge of the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate, an' thinkin' o' drownin' himself, that could get no divarshin in life, when all of a suddint, turnin' round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young man comin' up to him. "'God save you,' says the King (for the King was a civil-spoken gintleman, by all accounts), 'God save you,' says he to the young man. "'God save you kindly,' says the young man to him back again; 'God save you, King O'Toole.' "'Thrue for you,' says the King, 'I am King O'Toole,' says he, 'prince and plennypennytinchery o' these parts,' says he; 'but how kem ye to know that?' says he. "'Oh, never mind,' says Saint Kavin (for 'twas he that was in it). 'And now, may I make bowld to ax, how is your goose, King O'Toole?' says he. "'Blur-an-agers, how kem you to know about my goose?' says the King. "'Oh, no matther; I was given to understand it,' says Saint Kavin. "'Oh, that's a folly to talk,' says the King, 'bekase myself and my goose is private friends,' says he, 'and no one could tell you,' says he, 'barrin' the fairies.' "'Oh, thin, it wasn't the fairies,' says Saint Kavin; 'for I'd have you know,' says he, 'that I don't keep the likes o' sich company.' "'You might do worse, then, my gay fellow,' says the King; 'for it's _they_ could show you a crock o' money as aisy as kiss hand; and that's not to be sneezed at,' says the King, 'by a poor man,' says he. "'Maybe I've a betther way of making money myself,' says the saint. "'By gor,' says the King, 'barrin' you're a coiner,' says he, 'that's impossible!' "'I'd scorn to be the like, my lord!' says Saint Kavin, mighty high, 'I'd scorn to be the like,' says he. "'Then, what are you?' says the King, 'that makes money so aisy, by your own account.' "'I'm an honest man,' says Saint Kavin. "'Well, honest man,' says the King, 'and how is it you make your money so aisy?' "'By makin' ould things as good as new,' says Saint Kavin. "'Is it a tinker you are?' says the King. "'No,' says the saint; 'I'm no tinker by thrade, King O'Toole; I've a betther thrade than a tinker,' says he. 'What would you say,' says he, 'if I made your ould goose as good as new?' "My dear, at the word o' making his goose as good as new, you'd think the poor ould King's eyes was ready to jump out iv his head, 'and,' says he--'throth, thin, I'd give you more money nor you could count,' says he, 'if you did the like, and I'd be behoulden to you in the bargain.' "'I scorn your dirty money,' says Saint Kavin. "'Faith, thin, I'm thinkin' a thrifle o' change would do you no harm,' says the King, lookin' up sly at the ould _caubeen_ that Saint Kavin had on him. "'I have a vow agin it,' says the saint; 'and I am book sworn,' says he, 'never to have goold, silver, or brass in my company.' "'Barrin' the thrifle you can't help,' says the King, mighty cute, and looking him straight in the face. "'You just hot it,' says Saint Kavin; 'but though I can't take money,' says he, 'I could take a few acres o' land, if you'd give them to me.' "'With all the veins o' my heart,' says the King, 'if you can do what you say.' "'Thry me!' says Saint Kavin. 'Call down your goose here,' says he, 'and I'll see what I can do for her.' "With that the King whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound, waddlin' up to the poor ould cripple, her masther, and as like him as two pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, 'I'll do the job for you,' says he, 'King O'Toole!' "'By _Jaminee_,' says King O'Toole, 'if you do, but I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.' "'Oh, by dad,' says Saint Kavin, 'you must say more nor that--my horn's not so soft all out,' says he, 'as to repair your ould goose for nothin'; what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you?--that's the chat,' says Saint Kavin. "'I'll give you whatever you ax,' says the King; 'isn't that fair?' "'Divil a fairer,' says the saint; 'that's the way to do business. Now,' says he, 'this is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole: will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, afther I make her as good as new?' "'I will,' says the King. "'You won't go back o' your word?' says Saint Kavin. "'Honor bright!' says King O'Toole, howldin' out his fist. "'Honor bright,' says Saint Kavin back again, 'it's a bargain,' says he. 'Come here!' says he to the poor ould goose--'come here, you unfort'nate ould cripple,' says he, 'and it's I that'll make you the sportin' bird.' "With that, my dear, he tuk up the goose by the two wings--'criss o' my crass an you,' says he, markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute--and throwin' her up in the air, 'whew!' says he, jist givin' her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk to her heels, flyin' like one o' the aigles themselves, and cuttin' as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain. Away she wint down there, right forninst you, along the side o' the clift, and flew over Saint Kavin's bed (that is, where Saint Kavin's bed is _now_, but was not _thin_, by raison it wasn't made, but was conthrived afther by Saint Kavin himself, that the women might lave him alone), and on with her undher Lugduff, and round the ind av the lake there, far beyant where you see the watherfall--and on with her thin right over the lead mines o' Luganure (that is, where the lead mines is _now_, but was not _thin_, by raison they worn't discovered, _but was all goold in Saint Kavin's time_). Well, over the ind o' Luganure she flew, stout and studdy, and round the other ind av the _little_ lake, by the Churches (that is, _av coorse_, where the Churches is _now_, but was not _thin_, by raison they wor not built, but aftherwards by Saint Kavin), and over the big hill here over your head, where you see the big clift--(and that clift in the mountain was made by _Finn Ma Cool_, where he cut it acrass with a big swoord that he got made a purpose by a blacksmith out o' Rathdrum, a cousin av his own, for to fight a joyant (giant) that darr'd him an' the Curragh o' Kildare; and he thried the swoord first an the mountain, and cut it down into a gap, as is plain to this day; and faith, sure enough, it's the same sauce he sarv'd the joyant, soon and suddint, and chopped him in two like a pratie, for the glory of his sowl and ould Ireland)--well, down she flew over the clift, and fluttherin' over the wood there at Poulanass. Well--as I said--afther fluttherin' over the wood a little bit, to _plaze_ herself, the goose flew down, and bit at the fut o' the King, as fresh as a daisy, afther flyin' roun' his dominions, jist as if she hadn't flew three perch. "Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the King standin' with his mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose flyin' as light as a lark, and betther nor ever she was; and when she lit at his fut he patted her an the head, and '_ma vourneen_,' says he, 'but you are the _darlint_ o' the world.' "'And what do you say to me,' says Saint Kavin, 'for makin' her the like?' "'By gor,' says the King, 'I say nothin' bates the art o' men, 'barrin' the bees.' "'And do you say no more nor that?' says Saint Kavin. "'And that I'm behoulden to you,' says the King. "'But will you gi' me all the ground the goose flewn over?' says Saint Kavin. "'I will,' says King O'Toole, 'and you're welkim to it,' says he, 'though it's the last acre I have to give.' "'But you'll keep your word thrue?' says the saint. "'As thrue as the sun,' says the King. "'It's well for you,' says Saint Kavin, mighty sharp--'it's well for you, King O'Toole, that you said that word,' says he; 'for if you didn't say that word, _the divil receave the bit o' your goose id iver fly agin_,' says Saint Kavin. "'Oh, you needn't laugh,' said old Joe, 'for it's thruth I'm telling you.' "Well, whin the King was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was _plazed_ with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the King. "Well, my dear, that's the way that the place kem, all at wanst, into the hands of Saint Kavin; for the goose flew round every individyial acre o' King O'Toole's property, you see, _bein' let into the saycret_ by Saint Kavin, who was mighty _cute_; and so, when he _done_ the ould King out iv his property for the glory of God, he was _plazed_ with him, and he and the King was the best o' friends iver more afther (for the poor ould King was _doatin'_, you see), and the King had his goose as good as new to divart him as long as he lived; and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as I tould you, until the day iv his death--and that was soon afther; for the poor goose thought he was ketchin' a throut one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made--and instead of a throut, it was a thievin' horse-eel! and, by gor, instead iv the goose killin' a throut for the King's supper--by dad, the eel killed the King's goose--and small blame to him; but he didn't ate her, bekase he darn't ate what Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on." SAMUEL LOVER. Lament of the Last Leprechaun For the red shoon of the Shee, For the falling o' the leaf, For the wind among the reeds, My grief. For the sorrow of the sea, For the song's unquickened seeds, For the sleeping of the Shee, My grief. For dishonoured whitethorn-tree, For the runes that no man reads Where the grey stones face the sea, My grief. Lissakeole, that used to be Filled with music night and noon, For their ancient revelry, My grief. For the empty fairy shoon, Hollow rath and yellow leaf, Hands unkissed to sun or moon, My grief--my grief! NORA HOPPER. The Corpse Watchers There was once a poor woman that had three daughters, and one day the eldest said, "Mother, bake my cake and kill my cock till I go seek my fortune." So she did, and when all was ready, says her mother to her, "Which will you have--half of these with my blessing, or the whole with my curse?" "Curse or no curse," says she, "the whole is little enough." So away she set, and if the mother didn't give her her curse, she didn't give her her blessing. She walked, and she walked, till she was tired and hungry, and then she sat down to take her dinner. While she was eating it a poor woman came up, and asked for a bit. "The dickens a bit you'll get from me," says she; "it's all too little for myself." And the poor woman walked away very sorrowful. At nightfall she got lodging at a farmer's, and the woman of the house told her that she'd give her a spadeful of gold and a shovelful of silver if she'd only sit up and watch her son's corpse that was waking in the next room. She said she'd do that, and so, when the family were in their bed, she sat by the fire, and cast an eye from time to time on the corpse that was lying under the table. All at once the dead man got up in his shroud, and stood before her, and said, "All alone, fair maid?" She gave him no answer; when he had said it the third time he struck her with a switch, and she became a grey flag. About a week after, the second daughter went to seek her fortune, and she didn't care for her mother's blessing no more _nor_ her sister, and the very same thing happened to her. She was left a grey flag by the side of the other. At last the youngest went off in search of the other two, and she took care to carry her mother's blessing with her. She shared her dinner with the poor woman on the road, and _she_ told her that she would watch over her. Well, she got lodging in the same place as the others, and agreed to mind the corpse. She sat up by the fire, with the dog and cat, and amused herself with some apples and nuts the mistress had given her. She thought it a pity that the man under the table was a corpse, he was so handsome. But at last he got up, and, says he, "All alone, fair maid?" and she wasn't long about an answer: All alone I am not, I've little dog Douse, and Pussy, my cat; I've apples to roast and nuts to crack, And all alone I am not. "Ho, ho!" says he, "you're a girl of courage, though you wouldn't have enough to follow me. I am now going to cross the quaking bog, and go through the burning forest. I must then enter the cave of terror and climb the hill of glass, and drop from the top of it into the Dead Sea." "I'll follow you," says she, "for I engaged to mind you." He thought to prevent her, but she was stiff as he was stout. Out he sprang through the window, and she followed him, till they came to the "Green Hills," and then says he: "Open, open, Green Hills and let the light of the Green Hills through." "Aye," says the girl, "and let the fair maid too." They opened, and the man and woman passed through, and there they were on the edge of a bog. He trod lightly over the shaky bits of moss and sod; and while she was thinking of how she'd get across, the old beggar appeared to her, but much nicer dressed, touched her shoes with a stick, and the soles spread a foot on each side. So she easily got over the shaky marsh. The burning wood was at the edge of the bog, and there the good fairy flung a damp, thick cloak over her, and through the flames she went, and a hair of her head was not singed. Then they passed through the dark cavern of horrors, when she'd have heard the most horrible yells, only that the fairy stopped her ears with wax. She saw frightful things, with blue vapours round them, and felt the sharp rocks and the slimy backs of frogs and snakes. When they got out of the cavern, they were at the mountain of glass; and then the fairy made her slippers so sticky with a tap of her rod that she followed the young corpse quite easily to the top. There was the deep sea a quarter of a mile under them, and so the corpse said to her, "Go home to my mother, and tell her how far you came to do her bidding. Farewell!" He sprung head-foremost down into the sea, and after him she plunged, without stopping a moment to think about it. She was stupefied at first, but when they reached the waters she recovered her thoughts. After piercing down a great depth, they saw a green light towards the bottom. At last they were below the sea, that seemed a green sky above them; and, sitting in a beautiful meadow, she half-asleep, and her head resting against his side. She couldn't keep her eyes open, and she couldn't tell how long she slept; but when she woke, she was in bed at his house, and he and his mother sitting by her bedside, and watching her. It was a witch that had a spite to the young man because he wouldn't marry her, and so she got power to keep him in a state between life and death till a young woman would rescue him by doing what she had done. So, at her request, her sisters got their own shapes again, and were sent back to their mother, with their spades of gold and shovels of silver. Maybe they were better after that, but I doubt it much. The youngest got the young gentleman for her husband. I'm sure she lived happy, and, if they didn't live happy--_that we may_! PATRICK KENNEDY. The Mad Pudding of Ballyboulteen "Moll Roe Rafferty, the daughter of ould Jack Rafferty, was a fine young bouncin' girl, large an' lavish, wid a purty head of hair on her like scarlet, that bein' one of the raisons why she was called _Roe_ or red; her arms and cheeks were much the colour of the hair, an' her saddle nose was the purtiest thing of its kind that ever was on a face. "Well, anyhow, it was Moll Rafferty that was the _dilsy_. It happened that there was a nate vagabone in the neighbourhood, just as much overburdened wid beauty as herself, and he was named Gusty Gillespie. Gusty was what they call a black-mouth Prosbytarian, and wouldn't keep Christmas day, except what they call 'ould style.' Gusty was rather good-lookin', when seen in the dark, as well as Moll herself; anyhow, they got attached to each other, and in the end everything was arranged for their marriage. "Now this was the first marriage that had happened for a long time in the neighbourhood between a Prodestant and a Catholic, and faix, there was one of the bride's uncles, ould Harry Connolly, a fairyman, who could cure all complaints wid a secret he had, and as he didn't wish to see his niece married on sich a fellow, he fought bittherly against the match. All Moll's friends, however, stood up for the marriage, barrin' him, and, of coorse, the Sunday was appointed, as I said, that they were to be dove-tailed together. "Well, the day arrived, and Moll, as became her, went to mass, and Gusty to meeting, afther which they were to join one another in Jack Rafferty's, where the priest, Father Mc. Sorley, was to slip up afther mass to take his dinner wid them, and to keep Misther Mc. Shuttle, who was to marry them, company. Nobody remained at home but ould Jack Rafferty an' his wife, who stopped to dress the dinner, for, to tell the truth, it was to be a great let-out entirely. Maybe, if all was known, too, Father Mc. Sorley was to give them a cast of his office over and above the ministher, in regard that Moll's friends were not altogether satisfied at the kind of marriage which Mc. Shuttle could give them. The sorrow may care about that--splice here, splice there--all I can say is that when Mrs. Rafferty was goin' to tie up a big bag pudden, in walks Harry Connolly, the fairyman, in a rage, and shouts out, 'Blood and blunderbushes, what are yez here for?' "'Arrah, why, Harry? Why, avick?' "'Why, the sun's in the suds, and the moon in the high Horricks; there's a clip-stick comin' on, and there you're both as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mether. Go out, an' cross yourselves three times in the name o' the four Mandromarvins, for as prophecy says:--"Fill the pot, Eddy, supernaculum--a blazing star's a rare spectaculum." Go out, both of you, an' look at the sun, I say, an' ye'll see the condition he's in--off!' "Begad, sure enough, Jack gave a bounce to the door, and his wife leaped like a two-year-ould, till they were both got on a stile beside the house to see what was wrong in the sky. "'Arrah, what is it, Jack?' says she, 'can you see anything?' "'No,' says he, 'sorra the full of my eye of anything I can spy, barrin' the sun himself, that's not visible, in regard of the clouds. God guard us! I doubt there's something to happen.' "'If there wasn't Jack, what'd put Harry, that knows so much, in the state he's in?' "'I doubt it's this marriage,' says Jack. 'Betune ourselves, it's not over an' above religious of Moll to marry a black-mouth, an' only for--; but, it can't be helped now, though you see it's not a taste o' the sun is willin' to show his face upon it.' "'As to that,' says his wife, winkin' with both her eyes, 'if Gusty's satisfied wid Moll, it's enough. I know who'll carry the whip hand, anyhow; but in the manetime let us ax Harry within what ails the sun?' "Well, they accordianly went in, and put this question to him, 'Harry, what's wrong, ahagur? What is it now, for if anybody alive knows 'tis yourself?' "'Ah,' said Harry, screwin' his mouth wid a kind of a dry smile, 'the sun has a hard twist o' the colic; but never mind that, I tell you, you'll have a merrier weddin' than you think, that's all'; and havin' said this, he put on his hat and left the house. "Now, Harry's answer relieved them very much, and so, afther callin' to him to be back for dinner, Jack sat down to take a shough o' the pipe, and the wife lost no time in tying up the pudden, and puttin' it in the pot to be boiled. "In this way things went on well enough for a while, Jack smokin' away, an' the wife cookin' an' dhressin' at the rate of a hunt. At last, Jack, while sittin', as I said, contentedly at the fire, thought he could persave an odd dancin' kind of motion in the pot that puzzled him a good deal. "'Katty,' says he, 'what the dickens is in this pot on the fire?' "'Nerra thing but the big pudden. Why do you ax?' says she. "'Why,' says he, 'if ever a pot tuck it into its head to dance a jig, and this did. Thundher and sparbles, look at it!' "Begad, and it was thrue enough; there was the pot bobbin' up an' down, and from side to side, jiggin' it away as merry as a grig; an' it was quite aisy to see that it wasn't the pot itself, but what was inside of it, that brought about the hornpipe. "'Be the hole o' my coat,' shouted Jack, 'there's somethin' alive in it, or it would niver cut sich capers!' "'Begorra, there is, Jack; somethin' sthrange entirely has got into it. Wirra, man alive, what's to be done?' "Jist as she spoke the pot seemed to cut the buckle in prime style, and afther a spring that'd shame a dancin' masther, off flew the lid, and out bounced the pudden itself, hoppin' as nimble as a pea on a drum-head about the floor. Jack blessed himself, and Katty crossed herself. Jack shouted, and Katty screamed. 'In the name of goodness, keep your distance; no one here injured you!' "The pudden, however, made a set at him, and Jack lepped first on a chair, and then on the kitchen table, to avoid it. It then danced towards Katty, who was repatin' her prayers at the top of her voice, while the cunnin' thief of a pudden was hoppin' an' jiggin' it around her as if it was amused at her distress. "'If I could get the pitchfork,' says Jack, 'I'd dale wid it--by goxty, I'd thry its mettle.' "'No, no,' shouted Katty, thinking there was a fairy in it; 'let us spake it fair. Who knows what harm it might do? Aisy, now,' says she to the pudden, 'aisy, dear; don't harm honest people that never meant to offend you. It wasn't us--no, in troth, it was ould Harry Connolly that bewitched you; pursue _him_, if you wish, but spare a woman like me!' "The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word, and danced away from her towards Jack, who, like the wife, believin' there was a fairy in it, an' that spakin' it fair was the best plan, thought he would give it a soft word as well as her. "'Plase your honour,' said Jack, 'she only spaiks the truth, an' upon my voracity, we both feels much oblaiged to you for your quietness. Faith, it's quite clear that if you weren't a gentlemanly pudden, all out, you'd act otherwise. Ould Harry, the rogue, is your mark; he's jist gone down the road there, and if you go fast you'll overtake him. Be my song, your dancin'-masther did his duty, anyway. Thank your honour! God speed you, and may you niver meet wid a parson or alderman in your thravels.' "Jist as Jack spoke, the pudden appeared to take the hint, for it quietly hopped out, and as the house was directly on the roadside, turned down towards the bridge, the very way that ould Harry went. It was very natural, of coorse, that Jack and Katty should go out to see how it intended to thravel, and as the day was Sunday, it was but natural, too, that a greater number of people than usual were passin' the road. This was a fact; and when Jack and his wife were seen followin' the pudden, the whole neighbourhood was soon up and afther it. "'Jack Rafferty, what is it? Katty, ahagur, will you tell us what it manes?' "'Why,' replied Katty, 'it's my big pudden that's bewitched, an' it's out hot foot pursuin''--here she stopped, not wishin' to mention her brother's name--'_someone_ or other that surely put _pishrogues_[3] an it.' "This was enough; Jack, now seein' that he had assistance, found his courage comin' back to him; so says he to Katty, 'Go home,' says he, 'an' lose no time in makin' another pudden as good, an' here's Paddy Scanlan's wife, Bridget, says she'll let you boil it on her fire, as you'll want our own to dress the rest of the dinner; and Paddy himself will lend me a pitchfork for purshuin' to the morsel of that same pudden will escape, till I let the wind out of it, now that I've the neighbours to back an' support me,' says Jack. "This was agreed to, an' Katty went back to prepare a fresh pudden, while Jack an' half the townland pursued the other wid spades, graips, pitchforks, scythes, flails, and all possible description of instruments. On the pudden went, however, at the rate of about six Irish miles an hour, an' sich a chase was never seen. Catholics, Prodestants, and Prosbytarians were all afther it, armed, as I said, an' bad end to the thing, but its own activity could save it. Here it made a hop, there a prod was made at it; but off it went, and someone, as eager to get a slice at it on the other side, got the prod instead of the pudden. Big Frank Farrell, the miller, of Ballyboulteen, got a prod backwards that brought a hullabulloo out of him that you might hear at the other end of the parish. One got a slice of a scythe, another a whack of a flail, a third a rap of a spade, that made him look nine ways at wanst. "'Where is it goin'?' asked one. 'My life for you, it's on its way to Meeting. Three cheers for it, if it turns to Carntaul!' 'Prod the sowl out of it if it's a Prodestan'' shouted the others; 'if it turns to the left, slice it into pancakes. We'll have no Prodestan' puddens here.' "Begad, by this time the people were on the point of beginnin' to have a regular fight about it, when, very fortunately, it took a short turn down a little by-lane that led towards the Methodist praychin'-house, an' in an instant all parties were in an uproar against it as a Methodist pudden. 'It's a Wesleyan,' shouted several voices; 'an' by this an' by that, into a Methodist chapel it won't put a foot to-day, or we'll lose a fall. Let the wind out of it. Come, boys, where's your pitchforks?' "The divle purshuin' to the one of them, however, ever could touch the pudden, and jist when they thought they had it up against the gavel of the Methodist chapel, begad, it gave them the slip, and hops over to the left, clane into the river, and sails away before their eyes as light as an egg-shell. "Now, it so happened that a little below this place the desmesne wall of Colonel Bragshaw was built up to the very edge of the river on each side of its banks; and so, findin' there was a stop put to their pursuit of it, they went home again, every man, woman, and child of them, puzzled to think what the pudden was at all, what it meant, or where it was goin'! Had Jack Rafferty an' his wife been willin' to let out the opinion they held about Henry Connolly bewitchin' it, there is no doubt of it but poor Harry might be badly trated by the crowd, when their blood was up. They had sense enough, howaniver, to keep that to themselves, for Harry bein' an ould bachelor, was a kind friend to the Raffertys. So, of coorse, there was all kinds of talk about it--some guessin' this, an' some guessin' that--one party sayin' the pudden was of their side, and another denyin' it, an' insisting it belonged to them, an' so on. "In the meantime, Katty Rafferty, for 'fraid the dinner might come short, went home and made another pudden much about the same size as the one that had escaped, an' bringin' it over to their next neighbour, Paddy Scanlan's, it was put into a pot, and placed on the fire to boil, hopin' that it might be done in time, espishilly as they were to have the ministher, who loved a warm slice of a good pudden as well as e'er a gentleman in Europe. "Anyhow, the day passed; Moll and Gusty were made man an' wife, an' no two could be more lovin'. Their friends that had been asked to the weddin' were saunterin' about in pleasant little groups till dinner-time, chattin' an' laughin'; but above all things, sthrivin' to account for the figaries of the pudden; for, to tell the truth, its adventures had now gone through the whole parish. "Well, at any rate, dinner-time was drawin' near, and Paddy Scanlan was sittin' comfortably wid his wife at the fire, the pudden boilin' before their eyes, when in walks Harry Connolly in a flutter, shoutin', 'Blood and blunderbushes, what are yez here for?' "'Arrah, why, Harry--why, avick?' said Mrs. Scanlan. "'Why,' said Harry, 'the sun's in the suds, an' the moon in the high Horricks! Here's a clipstick comin' on, an' there you sit as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mether! Go out, both of you, an' look at the sun, I say, an' ye'll see the condition he's in--off!' "'Ay, but, Harry, what's that rowled up in the tail of your cothamore (big coat)?' "'Out wid yez,' says Harry, 'an' pray aginst the clipstick--the sky's fallin'!' "Begad, it was hard to say whether Paddy or the wife got out first, they were so much alarmed by Harry's wild, thin face and piercin' eyes; so out they went to see what was wonderful in the sky, an' kep lookin' an' lookin' in every direction, but not a thing was to be seen, barrin' the sun shinin' down wid great good-humour, an' not a single cloud in the sky. "Paddy an' the wife now came in laughin' to scould Harry, who no doubt was a great wag in his way when he wished. 'Musha, bad scran to you, Harry----' and they had time to say no more, howandiver, for, as they were goin' into the door, they met him comin' out of it, wid a reek of smoke out of his tail like a lime-kiln. "'Harry,' shouted Bridget, 'my sowl to glory, but the tail of your cothamore's afire--you'll be burned. Don't you see the smoke that's out of it?' "'Cross yourselves three times,' said Harry, widout stoppin' or even lookin' behind him, 'for, as the prophecy says, Fill the pot, Eddy----' They could hear no more, for Harry appeared to feel like a man that carried something a great deal hotter than he wished, as anyone might see by the liveliness of his motions, and the quare faces he was forced to make as he went along. "'What the dickens is he carryin' in the skirts of his big coat?' asked Paddy. "'My sowl to happiness, but maybe he has stolen the pudden,' said Bridget, 'for it's known that many a sthrange thing he does.' "They immediately examined the pot, but found that the pudden was there, as safe as tuppence, an' this puzzled them the more to think what it was he could be carryin' about with him in the manner he did. But little they knew what he had done while they were sky-gazin'! "Well, anyhow, the day passed, and the dinner was ready, an' no doubt but a fine gatherin' there was to partake of it. The Prosbytarian ministher met the Methodist praycher--a divilish stretcher of an appetite he had, in throth--on their way to Jack Rafferty's, an' as he knew he could take the liberty, why, he insisted on his dinin' wid him; for, afther all, in thim days, the clargy of all descriptions lived upon the best footin' among one another, not all at one as now--but no matther. Well, they had nearly finished their dinner, when Jack Rafferty himself axed Katty for the pudden; but, jist as he spoke, in it came, as big as a mess-pot. "'Gintlemen,' said he, 'I hope none of you will refuse tastin' a bit of Katty's pudden; I don't mane the dancin' one that took to its thravels to-day, but a good solid fellow that she med since.' "'To be sure we won't,' replied the priest. 'So, Jack, put a thrifle on them three plates at your right hand, and send them over here to the clargy, an' maybe,' he said, laughin'--for he was a droll, good-humoured man--'maybe, Jack, we won't set you a proper example.' "'Wid a heart an' a half, your riverence an' gintlemen; in throth, it's not a bad example ever any of you set us at the likes, or ever will set us, I'll go bail. An' sure, I only wish it was betther fare I had for you; but we're humble people, gintlemen, an' so you can't expect to meet here what you would in higher places.' "'Betther a male of herbs,' said the Methodist praycher, 'where pace is----' He had time to get no further, however; for much to his amazement, the priest an' the ministher started up from the table, jist as he was goin' to swallow the first mouthful of the pudden, and, before you could say Jack Robinson, started away at a lively jig down the floor. "At this moment a neighbour's son came runnin' in, and tould them that the parson was comin' to see the new-married couple, an' wish them all happiness; an' the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he made his appearance. What to think, he knew not, when he saw the ministher footin' it away at the rate of a weddin'. He had very little time, however, to think; for, before he could sit down, up starts the Methodist praycher, an', clappin' his fists in his sides, chimes in in great style along wid him. "'Jack Rafferty,' says he, and, by the way, Jack was his tenant, 'what the dickens does all this mane?' says he; 'I'm amazed!' "'The not a particle o' me can tell you,' says Jack; 'but will your reverence jist taste a morsel o' pudden, merely that the young couple may boast that you ait at their weddin'; for, sure, if _you_ wouldn't, who _would_?' "'Well,' says he, 'to gratify them, I will; so, just a morsel. But, Jack, this bates Bannagher,' says he again, puttin' the spoonful of pudden into his mouth; 'has there been drink here?' "'Oh, the divle a spudh,' says Jack, 'for although there's plenty in the house, faith, it appears the gintlemen wouldn't wait for it. Unless they tuck it elsewhere, I can make nothin' o' this.' "He had scarcely spoken when the parson, who was an active man, cut a caper a yard high, an' before you could bless yourself, the three clargy were hard at work dancin', as if for a wager. Begad, it would be unpossible for me to tell you the state the whole meetin' was in when they see this. Some were hoarse wid laughin'; some turned up their eyes wid wondher; many thought them mad; and others thought they had turned up their little fingers a thrifle too often. "'Be goxty, it's a burnin' shame,' said one, 'to see three black-mouth clargy in sich a state at this early hour!' 'Thundher an' ounze, what's over them at all?' says others; 'why, one would think they were bewitched. Holy Moses, look at the caper the Methodist cuts! An' as for the Recthor, who would think he could handle his feet at sich a rate! Be this, an' be that, he cuts the buckle, an' does the threblin' step aiquil to Paddy Horaghan, the dancin'-masther himself! An' see! Bad cess to the morsel of the parson that's not too hard at _Peace upon a trancher_, and it upon a Sunday, too! Whirroo, gintlemen, the fun's in yez, afther all--whish! more power to yez!' "The sorra's own fun they had, an' no wondher; but judge of what they felt when all at once they saw ould Jack Rafferty himself bouncin' in among them, an' footin' it away like the best of them. Bedad, no play could come up to it, an' nothin' could be heard but laughin', shouts of encouragement, an' clappin' of hands like mad. Now, the minute Jack Rafferty left the chair, where he had been carvin' the pudden, ould Harry Connolly come over and claps himself down in his place, in ordher to sent it round, of coorse; an' he was scarcely sated when who should make his appearance but Barney Hartigan, the piper. Barney, by the way, had been sent for early in the day, but bein' from home when the message for him went, he couldn't come any sooner. "'Begorra,' says Barney, 'you're airly at the work gintlemen! But what does this mane? But divle may care, yez shan't want the music, while there's a blast in the pipes, anyhow!' So sayin' he gave them _Jig Polthogue_, and afther that, _Kiss My Lady_, in his best style. "In the manetime the fun went on thick and threefold, for it must be remembered that Harry, the ould knave, was at the pudden; an' maybe, he didn't sarve it about in double-quick time, too! The first he helped was the bride, and before you could say chopstick she was at it hard and fast, before the Methodist praycher, who gave a jolly spring before her that threw them into convulsions. Harry liked this, and made up his mind soon to find partners for the rest; so he accordianly sent the pudden about like lightnin'; an', to make a long story short, barrin' the piper an' himself, there wasn't a pair of heels in the house but was as busy at the dancin' as if their lives depended on it. "'Barney,' says Harry, 'jist taste a morsel o' this pudden; divle the sich a bully of a pudden ever you ett. Here, your sowl! thry a snig of it--it's beautiful!' "'To be sure I will,' says Barney. 'I'm not the boy to refuse a good thing. But, Harry, be quick, for you know my hands is engaged, an' it would be a thousand pities not to keep them in music, an' they so well inclined. Thank you, Harry. Begad, that is a fine pudden. But, blood an' turnips! what's this for?' "The word was scarcely out of his mouth when he bounced up, pipes an' all, and dashed into the middle of the party. 'Hurroo! your sowls, let us make a night of it! The Ballyboulteen boys for ever! Go it, your reverence!--turn your partner--heel an' toe, ministher. Good! Well done, again! Whish! Hurroo! Here's for Ballyboulteen, an' the sky over it!' "Bad luck to sich a set ever was seen together in this world, or will again, I suppose. The worst, however, wasn't come yet, for jist as they were in the very heat an' fury of the dance, what do you think comes hoppin' in among them but another pudden, as nimble an' merry as the first! That was enough; they had all heard of it--the ministhers among the rest--an' most of them had seen the other pudden, an' knew that there must be a fairy in it, sure enough. Well, as I said, in it comes to the thick o' them; but the very appearance of it was enough. Off the three clargy danced, and off the whole weddiners danced afther them, everyone makin' the best of their way home; but not a sowl of them able to break out of the step, if they were to be hanged for it. Throth, it wouldn't lave a laff in you to see the parson dancin' down the road on his way home, and the ministher and Methodist praycher cuttin' the buckle as they went along in the opposite direction. To make short work of it, they all danced home at last wid scarce a puff of wind in them; the bride an' bridegroom danced away to bed; an' now, boys, come an' let us dance the _Horo Lheig_ in the barn widout. But, you see, boys, before we go, and in order to make everything plain, I had as good tell you that Harry, in crossin' the bridge of Ballyboulteen, a couple o' miles between Squire Bragshaw's demesne wall, saw the pudden floatin' down the river--the truth is, he was waitin' for it; but, be this as it may, he took it out, for the wather had made it as clane as a new pin, an' tuckin' it up in the tail of his big coat, contrived to bewitch it in the same manner by gettin' a fairy to get into it, for, indeed, it was purty well known that the same Harry was hand an' glove wid the _good people_. Others will tell you that it was half a pound of quicksilver he put into it, but that doesn't stand to raison. At any rate, boys, I have tould you the adventures of the Mad Pudden of Ballyboulteen; but I don't wish to tell you many other things about it that happened--_for 'fraid I'd tell a lie_!" WILLIAM CARLETON. The Voyage of Maeldune I was the chief of the race--he had stricken my father dead-- But I gathered my fellows together; I swore I would strike off his head. Each of them looked like a king, and was noble in birth as in worth, And each of them boasted he sprang from the oldest race upon earth. Each was as brave in the fight as the bravest hero of song, And each of them liefer had died than have done one another a wrong. _He_ lived on an isle in the ocean--we sail'd on a Friday morn-- He that had slain my father the day before I was born. And we came to the isle in the ocean, and there on the shore was he. But a sudden blast blew us out and away through a boundless sea. And we came to the Silent Isle that we never had touched before, Where a silent ocean always broke on a silent shore, And the brooks glittered on in the light without sound, and the long waterfalls Poured in a thunderless plunge to the base of the mountain walls, And the poplar and cypress unshaken by storm flourished up beyond sight And the pine shot aloft from the crag to an unbelievable height, And high in the heaven above it there flickered a songless lark, And the cock couldn't crow, and the bull couldn't low, and the dog couldn't bark. And round it we went, and thro' it, but never a murmur, a breath, It was all of it fair as life, it was all of it quiet as death, And we hated the beautiful Isle, for whenever we strove to speak Our voices were thinner and fainter than any flittermouse shriek; And the men that were mighty of tongue, and could raise such a battle-cry That a hundred who heard it would rush on a thousand lances and die-- Oh, they to be dumb'd by the charm!--so fluster'd with anger were they They almost fell on each other; but, after, we sailed away. And we came to the Isle of Shouting, we landed, a score of wild birds Cried from the topmost summit with human voices and words; Once in an hour they cried, and whenever their voices peal'd The steer fell down at the plough and the harvest died from the field, And the men dropt dead in the valleys and half of the cattle went lame, And the roof sank in on the hearth, and the dwelling broke into flame; And the shouting of these wild birds ran into the hearts of my crew, Till they shouted along with the shouting, and seized one another and slew; But I drew them the one from the other; I saw that we could not stay, And we left the dead to the birds and we sail'd with our wounded away. And we came to the Isle of Flowers, their breath met us out on the seas, For the Spring and the middle Summer sat each on the lap of the breeze; And the red passion-flower to the cliffs, and the dark-blue clematis clung And starr'd with a myriad blossom, the long convolvulus hung; And the topmost spire of the mountain was lilies in lieu of snow, And the lilies like glaciers winded down, running out below Thro' the fire of the tulip and poppy, the blaze of gorse, and the blush Of millions of roses that sprang without leaf or thorn from the bush; And the whole isle-side flashing down from the peak without ever a tree Swept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the blue of the sea; And we roll'd upon capes of crocus and vaunted our kith and kin, And we wallowed in beds of lilies, and chanted the triumph of Finn, Till each like a golden image was pollen'd from head to feet And each was as dry as a cricket, with thirst in the middle-day heat. Blossom, and blossom, and promise of blossom, but never a fruit! And we hated the Flowering Isle, as we hated the isle that was mute, And we tore up the flowers by the million and flung them in bight and bay. And we left but a naked rock, and in anger we sail'd away. And we came to the Isle of Fruits: all round from the cliffs and the capes, Purple or amber dangled a hundred fathom of grapes, And the warm melon lay, like a little sun, on the tawny sand, And the fig ran up from the beach, and rioted over the land, And the mountain arose, like a jewelled throne thro' the fragrant air, Glowing with all-coloured plums, and with golden masses of pear, And the crimson and scarlet of berries that flamed upon bine and vine, But in every berry and fruit was the poisonous pleasure of wine: And the peak of the mountain was apples, the hugest that ever were seen, And they prest, as they grew, on each other, with hardly a leaflet between. And all of them redder than rosiest health, or than utterest shame, And setting, when Even descended, the very sunset aflame. And we stay'd three days, and we gorged and we madden'd till everyone drew His sword on his fellow to slay him, and ever they struck and they slew; And myself I had eaten but sparsely, and fought till I sunder'd the fray, Then I bade them remember my father's death, and we sail'd away. And we came to the Isle of Fire: we were lured by the light from afar, For the peak sent up one league of fire to the Northern Star; Lured by the glare and the blare, but scarcely could stand upright, For the whole isle shudder'd and shook, like a man in a mortal affright; We were giddy, besides, with the fruits we had gorged, and so crazed that at last, There were some leap'd into the fire; and away we sail'd, and we past Over that undersea isle, where the water is clearer than air: Down we look'd: what a garden! Oh, bliss, what a Paradise there! Towers of a happier time, low down in a rainbow deep Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal sleep! And three of the gentlest and best of my people, whate'er I could say, Plunged head down in the sea, and the Paradise trembled away. And we came to the Bounteous Isle, where the heavens lean low on the land, And ever at dawn from the cloud glitter'd o'er us a sun-bright hand, Then it opened, and dropped at the side of each man, as he rose from his rest, Bread enough for his need till the labourless day dipt under the West; And we wandered about it, and thro' it. Oh, never was time so good! And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, and the boast of our ancient blood, And we gazed at the wandering wave, as we sat by the gurgle of springs, And we chanted the songs of the Bards and the glories of fairy kings; But at length we began to be weary, to sigh, and to stretch and yawn, Till we hated the Bounteous Isle, and the sun-bright hand of the dawn, For there was not an enemy near, but the whole green isle was our own, And we took to playing at ball, and we took to throwing the stone, And we took to playing at battle, but that was a perilous play, For the passion of battle was in us, we slew and we sail'd away. And we passed to the Isle of Witches, and heard their musical cry-- "Come to us, Oh, come, come," in the stormy red of a sky Dashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the beautiful shapes, For a wild witch, naked as heaven, stood on each of the loftiest capes, And a hundred ranged on the rocks, like white sea-birds in a row, And a hundred gambled and pranced on the wrecks in the sand below, And a hundred splashed from the ledges, and bosomed the burst of the spray. But I knew we should fall on each other, and hastily sail'd away. And we came in an evil time to the Isle of the Double Towers, One was of smooth-cut stone, one carved all over with flowers, But an earthquake always moved in the hollows under the dells, And they shock'd on each other and butted each other with clashing of bells, And the daws flew out of the Towers, and jangled and wrangled in vain, And the clash and boom of the bells rang into the heart and brain, Till the passion of battle was on us, and all took sides with the Towers, There were some for the clean-cut stone, there were more for the carven flowers, And the wrathful thunder of God peal'd over us all the day, For the one half slew the other, and, after, we sail'd away. And we came to the Isle of a Saint, who had sail'd with St. Brendan of yore, He had lived ever since on the isle, and his winters were fifteen score, And his voice was low as from other worlds, and his eyes were sweet, And his white hair sank to his heels, and his white beard fell to his feet, And he spake to me, "Oh, Maeldune, let be this purpose of thine! Remember the words of the Lord, when He told us 'Vengeance is Mine!' His fathers have slain thy fathers, in war or in single strife, Thy fathers have slain his fathers, each taken a life for a life, Thy father had slain his father, how long shall the murder last? Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer the Past to be Past." And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard, and we pray'd as we heard him pray, And the Holy Man he assoil'd us, and sadly we sail'd away. And we came to the Isle we were blown from, and there on the shore was he, The man that had slain my father. I saw him, and let him be. Oh, weary was I of the travel, the trouble, the strife, and the sin, When I landed again with a tithe of my men on the Island of Finn. ALFRED TENNYSON. LEICESTER: WALTER WATTS & CO., LTD., PRINTERS. Footnotes: [1] From "Hero Tales of Ireland." [2] Stone fort or rampart or castle. [3] Put it under Fairy influence. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: The following printing errors have been corrected: "Sentata" corrected to "Setanta" (page 52) "srtength" corrected to "strength" (page 74) "he" corrected to "she" (page 77) missing "to" added (page 137) "for what would become of us all if anything happened Finn" "dragghin" corrected to "dhraggin" (page 176) "Finnula" corrected to "Finnuala" (page 233) "did did" corrected to "did" (page 247) "bentedge" corrected to "bent edge" (page 256) "I ish" corrected to "Irish" (page 267) ' corrected to ) (page 320) The numerous decorative illustrations in the original text are not represented in this text document. 
35557	----	OUTA KAREL'S STORIES South African Folk-Lore Tales By SANNI METELERKAMP With illustrations by Constance Penstone Macmillan and Co., Limited St. Martin's Street, London 1914 To all children young and old who love a folk-lore story FOREWORD. My thanks are due to Dr. Maitland Park, Editor of The Cape Times, and Adv. B. K. Long, M.L.A., Editor of The State, for their kind permission to republish such of these tales as have appeared in their papers. For the leading idea in "The Sun" and "The Stars and the Stars' Road," I gladly acknowledge my indebtedness to that monument of patient labour and research, "Specimens of Bushman Folk-lore," by the late Dr. Bleek and Miss Lucy Lloyd. Further, I lay no claim to originality for any of the stories in this collection--at best a very small proportion of a vast store from which the story-teller of the future may draw, embodying the superstitions, the crude conceptions, the childish ideas of a primitive and rapidly disappearing people. They are known in some form or other wherever the negro has set foot, and are the common property of every country child in South Africa. I greatly regret that they appear here in what is, to them, a foreign tongue. No one who has not heard them in the Taal--that quaint, expressive language of the people--can have any idea of what they lose through translation, but, having been written in the first instance for English publications, the original medium was out of the question. Clear cold evenings, with a pleasant tang of frost in the air, figure here and there in these pages, but as I write other scenes, too, flit across the lighted screen of Memory--noontides of tropic heat with all the world sunk in a languorous slumber, glowing sunsets, throbbing summer nights when the stars seemed to tremble almost within one's reach, moonlit spaces filled with soft mystery and the thousand seductive voices of the pulsing southern night. And always, part and parcel of the passing panorama, the quaint figure of the old Native with his little masters.... It is nearly three years now since "Old Friend Death" took him gently by the hand and led him away to that far, far country of which he had such vague ideas, so he tells no more stories by the firelight in the gloaming; and his little masters--children no longer--are claimed by graver tasks and wider interests. But in the hope that others, both little ones and children of a larger growth, may find the same pleasure in these tales of a childlike race, they are sent out to find their own level and take their chance in the workaday world. S. M. Cape Town, January, 1914. CONTENTS. Page I. The Place and the People 1 II. How Jakhals Fed Oom Leeuw 12 III. Who was King? 29 IV. Why the Hyena is Lame 43 V. Who was the Thief? 47 VI. The Sun 54 VII. The Stars and the Stars' Road 63 VIII. Why the Hare's Nose is Slit 70 IX. How the Jackal got his Stripe 78 X. The Animals' Dam 88 XI. Saved by his Tail 101 XII. The Flying Lion 108 XIII. Why the Heron has a Crooked Neck 118 XIV. The Little Red Tortoise 128 XV. The Ostrich Hunt 139 ILLUSTRATIONS. Page Outa Karel and Little Jan--The Little Red Tortoise Frontispiece "The Stars' Road" 64 "The women with their babies on their backs, flew" 81 The punishment of Broer Babiaan 99 "'Do you know, little Red Tortoise, in one moment I could swallow you.'" 136 "The Ostriches ran faster and faster" 144 GLOSSARY. Awa-skin, skin slung across the back to carry babies in. Askoekies, cakes baked in the ash. Baas, master. Baasje (pronounced Baasie), little master. Babiaan, baboon. Berg schilpad, mountain tortoise. Biltong, strips of sun-dried meat. Bolmakissie, head over heels. Bossies, bushes. Broer, brother. Buchu, an aromatic veld herb. Carbonaatje, grilled chop. Dassie, rock-rabbit. Eintje, an edible veld root. Gezondheid! Your health! Haasje, little hare. Hamel, wether. Jakhals draaie, tricky turns. Kaross, skin rug. Kierie, a thick stick. Klein koning, little king. Kneehaltered, hobbled. Kopdoek, turban. Kopje, hill. Krantz, precipice. Kraal, enclosure. Lammervanger, eagle. Leeuw, lion. Maanhaar, mane. Mensevreter, cannibal. Neef, nephew. Nooi, lady or mistress. Nonnie, young lady, miss. Oom, uncle. Outa, old man, prefix to the name of old natives. Pronk, show off. Reijer, heron. Riem, leathern thong. Rustband, couch. Sassaby or Sessebe, a South African antelope. Schelm, rogue; sly. Schilpad, tortoise. Sjambok, whip of rhino or hippo hide. Skraal windje, fine cutting wind. Skrik, to be startled; also fright. Slim, cunningly clever. Smouse, pedlar. Soopje, tot. Taai, tough. Tante, aunt. Tarentaal, Guinea fowl. Tover, toverij, witchcraft. Vaabond, vagabond. Vlakte, plain. Voertsed, jumping aside suddenly and violently. Volk, coloured farm labourers. Volstruis, ostrich. Vrouw, wife. Vrouwmens, woman. Zandkruiper, sand-crawler. I. THE PLACE AND THE PEOPLE. It was winter in the Great Karroo. The evening air was so crisp and cutting that one seemed to hear the crick-crack of the frost, as it formed on the scant vegetation. A skraal windje blew from the distant mountains, bringing with it a mingled odour of karroo-bush, sheep-kraals, and smoke from the Kafir huts--none, perhaps, desirable in itself, but all so blent and purified in that rare, clear atmosphere, and so subservient to the exhilarating freshness, that Pietie van der Merwe took several sniffs of pleasure as he peered into the pale moonlight over the lower half of the divided door. Then, with a little involuntary shiver, he closed the upper portion and turned to the ruddy warmth of the purring fire, which Willem was feeding with mealie-cobs from the basket beside him. Little Jan sat in the corner of the wide, old-fashioned rustbank, his large grey eyes gazing wistfully into the red heart of the fire, while his hand absently stroked Torry, the fox terrier, curled up beside him. Mother, in her big Madeira chair at the side table, yawned a little over her book; for, winter or summer, the mistress of a karroo farm leads a busy life, and the end of the day finds her ready for a well-earned rest. Pietie held his hands towards the blaze, turning his head now and again towards the door at the far end of the room. Presently this opened and father appeared, comfortably and leisurely, as if such things as shearing, dipping, and ploughing were no part of his day's work. Only the healthy tan, the broad shoulders, the whole well-developed physique proclaimed his strenuous, open-air life. His eye rested with pleasure on the scene before him--the bright fire, throwing gleam and shadow on painted wall and polished woodwork, and giving a general air of cosiness to everything; the table spread for the evening meal; the group at the fireside; and his dear helpmate who was responsible for the comfort and happiness of his well-appointed home. He was followed in a moment by Cousin Minnie, the bright-faced young governess. Their coming caused a stir among the children. Little Jan slowly withdrew his gaze from the fire, and, with more energy than might have been expected from his dreamy look, pushed and prodded the sleeping terrier along the rustbank so as to make room for Cousin Minnie. Pietie sprang to his father's side. "Now may I go and call Outa Karel?" he asked eagerly, and at an acquiescent "Yes, my boy," away he sped. It was a strange figure that came at his bidding, shuffling, stooping, halting, and finally emerging into the firelight. A stranger might have been forgiven for fleeing in terror, for the new arrival looked like nothing so much as an ancient and muscular gorilla in man's clothes, and walking uncertainly on its hind legs. He was not quite four feet in height, with shoulders and hips disproportionately broad, and long arms, the hands of which reached midway between knee and ankle. His lower limbs were clothed in nondescript garments fashioned from wildcat and dassie skins; a faded brown coat, which from its size had evidently once belonged to his master, hung nearly to his knees; while, when he removed his shapeless felt hat, a red kopdoek was seen to be wound tightly round his head. No one had ever seen Outa Karel without his kopdoek, but it was reported that the head it covered was as smooth and devoid of hair as an ostrich egg. His yellow-brown face was a network of wrinkles, across which his flat nose sprawled broadly between high cheekbones; his eyes, sunk far back into his head, glittered dark and beady like the little wicked eyes of a snake peeping from the shadow of a hole in the rocks. His wide mouth twisted itself into an engaging grin, which extended from ear to ear, as, winking and blinking his bright little eyes, he twirled his old hat in his claw-like hands and tried to make obeisance to his master and mistress. The attempt was unsuccessful on account of the stiffness of his joints, but it never failed to amuse those who, times without number, had seen it repeated. To those who witnessed it for the first time it was something to be remembered--the grotesque, disproportionate form; the ape-like face, that yet was so curiously human; the humour and kindness that gleamed from the cavernous eyes, which seemed designed to express only malevolence and cunning; the long waving arms and crooked fingers; the yellow skin for all the world like a crumpled sheet of india-rubber pulled in a dozen different directions. That he was a consummate actor, and, not to put too fine a point on it, an old humbug of the first water, goes without saying, for these characteristics are inherent in the native nature. But in spite of this, and the uncanniness of his appearance, there was something about Outa Karel that drew one to him. Of his real devotion to his master and the "beautiful family Van der Merwe," there could be no question; while, above everything, was the feeling that here was one of an outcast race, one of the few of the original inhabitants who had survived the submerging tide of civilization; who, knowing no law but that of possession, had been scared and chased from their happy hunting grounds, first by the Hottentots, then by the powerful Bantu, and later by the still more terrifying palefaced tribes from over the seas. Though the origin of the Bushman is lost in the mists of antiquity, the Hottentot conquest of him is a matter of history, and it is well known that the victors were in the habit, while killing off the men, to take unto themselves wives from among the women of the vanquished race. Hence the fact that a perfect specimen of a Bushman is a rara avis, even in the localities where the last remnants are known to linger. Outa Karel could hardly be called a perfect specimen of the original race, for, though he always spoke of himself as wholly Bushman, there was a strong strain of the Hottentot about him, chiefly noticeable in his build. He spoke in Dutch, in the curiously expressive voice belonging to these people, just now honey-sweet with the deference he felt for his superiors. "Ach toch! Night, Baas. Night, Nooi. Night, Nonnie and my little baasjes. Excuse that this old Bushman does not bend to greet you; the will is there, but his knees are too stiff. Thank you, thank you, my baasje," as Pietie dragged a low stool, covered with springbok skin, from under the desk in the recess and pushed it towards him. He settled himself on it slowly and carefully, with much creaking of joints and many strange native ejaculations. The little group had arranged itself anew. Cousin Minnie was in the cosy corner of the rustbank near the wall, little Jan next her with his head against her, and Torry's head on his lap--this attention to make up for his late seeming unkindness in pushing him away. Pappa, with his magazine, was at the other end of the rustbank where he could, if he chose, speak to Mamma in a low tone, or peep over to see how her book was getting on. Willem had pushed the basket away so as to settle himself more comfortably against Cousin Minnie's knee as he sat on the floor, and Pietie was on a small chair just in front of the fire. The centre of attention was the quaint old native, who, having relegated his duties to his children and grandchildren, lived as a privileged pensioner in the van der Merwe family he had served so faithfully for three generations. The firelight played over his quaint figure with the weirdest effect, lighting up now one portion of it, now another, showing up his astonishingly small hands and crooked fingers, as he pointed and gesticulated incessantly--for these people speak as much by gesture as by sound--and throwing exaggerated shadows on the wall. This was the hour beloved by the children, when the short wintry day had ended, and, in the interval between the coming of darkness and the evening meal, their dear Outa Karel was allowed in to tell them stories. And weird and wonderful stories they were--tales of spooks and giants, of good and bad spirits, of animals that talked, of birds, beasts and insects that exercised marvellous influence over the destinies of unsuspecting mankind. But most thrilling of all, perhaps, were Outa Karel's personal experiences--adventures by veld and krantz with lion, tiger, jackal and crocodile, such as no longer fall to the lot of mortal man. The children would listen, wide-eyed and breathless, and even their elders, sparing a moment's attention from book or writing, would feel a tremor of excitement, unable to determine where reality ended and fiction began, so inextricably were they intermingled as this old Iago of the desert wove his romances. "Now, Outa, tell us a nice story, the nicest you know," said little Jan, nestling closer to Cousin Minnie, and issuing his command as the autocrat of the "One Thousand and One Nights" might have done. "Ach! but klein baas, this stupid old black one knows no new stories, only the old ones of Jakhals and Leeuw, and how can he tell even those when his throat is dry--ach, so dry with the dust from the kraals?" He forced a gurgling cough, and his small eyes glittered expectantly. Then suddenly he started with well-feigned surprise and beamed on Pietie, who stood beside him with a soopje in the glass kept for his especial use. This was a nightly performance. The lubrication was never forgotten, but it was often purposely delayed in order to see what pretext Outa would use to call attention to the fact of its not having been offered. Sore throat, headache, stomach-ache, cold, heat, rheumatism, old age, a birthday (invented for the occasion), the killing of a snake or the breaking-in of a young horse--anything served as an excuse for what was a time-honoured custom. "Thank you, thank you, mij klein koning. Gezondheid to Baas, Nooi, Nonnie, and the beautiful family van der Merwe." He lifted the glass, gulped down the contents, and smacked his lips approvingly. "Ach! if a Bushman only had a neck like an ostrich! How good would the soopje taste all the way down! Now I am strong again; now I am ready to tell the story of Jakhals and Oom Leeuw." "About Oom Leeuw carrying Jakhals on his back?" asked Willem. "No, baasje. This is quite a different one." And with many strange gesticulations, imitating every action and changing his voice to suit the various characters, the old man began: II. HOW JAKHALS FED OOM LEEUW. "One day in the early morning, before any people were awake, Jakhals was prowling round and prowling round, looking for something to eat. Jakhals is not fond of hunting for himself. Oh, no! he likes to wait till the hunt is over, so that he can share in the feast without having had any of the work. He had just dragged himself quietly to the top of a kopje--so, my baasjes, so--with his stomach close to the ground, and his ears moving backwards and forwards"--Outa's little hands, on either side of the kopdoek, suited the action to the word--"to hear the least sound. Then he looked here, he looked there, he looked all around, and yes, truly! whom do you think he saw in the kloof below? No other than Oom Leeuw himself, clawing a nice big hamel he had just killed--a Boer hamel, baasjes, with a beautiful fat tail. Oh yes, Oom Leeuw had picked out a good one. "'Arré!' thought Jakhals, 'this is luck,' and he sat still for a minute, wondering how he could get some of the nice meat for himself. He soon made a plan. A white thing fluttered in a little bush near him. It was a piece of paper. He picked it up and folded it--so--and so--and so--" the crooked fingers were very busy--"till it looked like a letter. Then he ran down the kopje in a great hurry and called out, 'Good morning, Oom.' "'Morning, Neef.' "'I see Oom has killed a Boer hamel.' "'Yes, Neef, a big fat one.' "'Well, here is a letter from Tante,' said Jakhals, giving the piece of paper to Leeuw. 'As I was passing she asked me to give it to Oom.' "Leeuw took it and turned it this way, that way. He held it far from him, he held it close to his eyes, but he couldn't make it out at all. See, baasjes, Leeuw was one of the old-fashioned sort. He grew up before there were so many schools and good teachers"--here Outa's bright eyes winked and blinked flatteringly on Cousin Minnie and her pupils--"he was not clever; he could not read. But he didn't want anyone to know it, so he said: "'Jakhals, Oom has forgotten his spectacles; you had better read it out." "'Hm, hm, hm,' said Jakhals, pretending to read. 'Tante says Oom must kill a nice fat Boer hamel and send it home at once by me. She and the children are hungry.' "'Well, that's all right. Here is the very thing. Tante is not very well. The Jew smouse's donkey she ate the other day disagreed with her, so we must coax her a little. I don't want to say anything, but you know a vrouwmens is a dangerous thing when she is in a temper. So you had better take this hamel to her at once, and then you can have the offal for your trouble." "'Thank you, noble Oom, King of Beasts,' said Jakhals in a fawning voice, promising himself at the same time that he would have something more than the offal. 'How fortunate am I, poor humble creature, to have the King for my uncle,' and off he trotted with the sheep. "Leeuw prowled further up the kloof, waving his tail from side to side." Had Outa had a tail he would have wagged it, but, as he had not, his right arm was slowly flourished to and fro to give point to his description. "Here comes a little Steenbokje on its way to a veld dam for water. Ach! but it is pretty! It looks here, it looks there, with its large soft eyes. One little front foot is in the air; now it is down; the other goes up; down again. On it comes, slowly, slowly"--Outa's hands, bunched up to resemble the buck's feet, illustrated each step, the children following his movements with breathless interest. "Now it stops to listen." Outa was rigid as he bent forward to catch the least sound. Suddenly he started violently, and the children involuntarily did the same. "Hark! what was that? What is coming? Ach! how Steenbokje skriks and shivers! A terrible form blocks the way! Great eyes--cruel eyes burn him with their fire. Now he knows. It is Leeuw!--Leeuw who stands in the path! He growls and glares at Steenbokje. Steenbokje cannot turn away. They stare at each other--so--just so--" Outa glares at each fascinated child in turn. "Steenbokje cannot look away, cannot move. He is stiff with fright. His blood is cold. His eyes are starting out of his head. And then--voops!"--the listeners jump as Outa's long arms suddenly swoop towards them--"one spring and Leeuw is on him. Steenbokje blares--meh, meh, meh--but it is no good. Leeuw tears him and claws him. Tip, tip, tip, the red blood drips down; s-s-s-s-s, it runs out like a stream, and Leeuw licks it up. There lies pretty little Steenbokje, dead, dead." Outa's voice trails away faintly. The children heave big sighs. Little Jan's grey eyes are full of tears. The old native's graphic description has made them feel as though they had been watching round a death-bed. "Yes, baasjes, Leeuw killed Steenbokje there in the kloof. He tore the skin off--skr-r-r-r--and bit through the bones--skrnch, skrnch, skrnch--and ate little Steenbokje for his breakfast. Then he went to the krantzes to sleep, for the day was coming and the light began to hurt his eyes. "When he awoke it was evening, and he felt refreshed and rather hungry. My baasjes know a steenbokje is nothing for a meal for Oom Leeuw. But before hunting again he thought he would go home and see how Tante and the children were getting on, and whether they had feasted well on the nice fat hamel. "But, dear land! What did poor Oom Leeuw find? The children crying, Tante spluttering and scratching with rage, everything upside down, and not even the bones of the hamel to be seen. "'Ohé! ohé! ohé!' cried Tante. 'The bad, wicked Jakhals! Ach, the low, veld dog!' "'But what is the matter?' asked Leeuw. 'Where is Jakhals?' "'Where is he? How should I know? He has run off with the nice fat hamel, and me--yes, me, the King's wife--has he beaten with the entrails! Ohé! ohé!' "'And boxed my ears!' cried one of the cubs. 'Wah! wah! wah!' "'And pinched my tail,' roared the other. 'Weh! weh! weh!' "'And left us nothing but the offal. Oh, the cunning, smooth-tongued vagabond!' "And all three fell to weeping and wailing, while Leeuw roared aloud in his anger. "'Wait a bit, I'll get him,' he said. 'Before the world wakes to-morrow he'll see who's baas.' "He waved his tail to and fro and stuck out his strong claws. His eyes glared like fire in a dark kloof when there is no moon, and when he brulled it was very terrible to hear--hoor-r-r-r-r, hoor-r-r-r-r," and Outa gave vent to several deep, blood-curdling roars. "Very early the next morning, when only a little grey in the sky shewed that the night was rolling round to the other side of the world, Leeuw took his strongest sjambok and started off to look for Jakhals. He spied him at last on the top of a krantz sitting by a fire with his wife and children. "'Ah! there you are, my fine fellow,' he thought. 'Well and happy are you? But wait, I'll soon show you!' "He began at once to try and climb the krantz, but it was very steep and high, and so smooth that there was nothing for him to hold to. Every time he got up a little way, his claws just scratched along the hard rock and he came sailing down again. At last he thought, 'Well, as I can't climb up, I'll pretend to be nice and friendly, and then perhaps Jakhals will come down. I'll ask him to go hunting with me.'" Here Outa's beady little eyes danced mischievously. "Baasjes know, the only way to get the better of a schelm is to be schelm, too. When anyone cheats, you must cheat more, or you will never be baas. Ach, yes! that is the only way." (Cousin Minnie would not disturb the course of the tale, but she mentally prescribed and stored up for future use an antidote to this pagan and wordly-wise piece of advice to her pupils.) "So Leeuw stood at the foot of the krantz and called out quite friendly and kind, 'Good morning, Neef Jakhals.' "'Morning, Oom.' "'I thought you might like to go hunting with me, but I see you are busy.' "At any other time Jakhals would have skipped with delight, for it was very seldom he had the honour of such an invitation, but now he was blown up with conceit at having cheated Oom and Tante Leeuw so nicely. "'Thank you, Oom, but I am not in want of meat just now. I'm busy grilling some nice fat mutton chops for breakfast. Won't you come and have some, too?' "'Certainly, with pleasure, but this krantz is so steep--how can I get up?' "'Ach! that's quite easy, Oom. I'll pull you up in an eye-wink. Here, vrouw, give me a nice thick riem. That old rotten one that is nearly rubbed through,' he said in a whisper to his wife. "So Mrs. Jakhals, who was as slim as her husband, brought the bad riem, and they set to work to pull Oom Leeuw up. 'Hoo-ha! hoo-ha!' they sang as they slowly hauled away. "When he was about ten feet from the ground, Jakhals called out, 'Arré! but Oom is heavy,' and he pulled the riem this way and that way along the sharp edge of the krantz"--Outa vigorously demonstrated--"till it broke right through and--kabloops!--down fell Oom Leeuw to the hard ground below. "'Oh! my goodness! What a terrible fall! I hope Oom is not hurt. How stupid can a vrouwmens be! To give me an old riem when I called for the best! Now, here is a strong one. Oom can try again.' "So Leeuw tried again, and again, and again, many times over, but each time the rope broke and each time his fall was greater, because Jakhals always pulled him up a little higher, and a little higher. At last he called out: "'It's very kind of you, Jakhals, but I must give it up.' "'Ach! but that's a shame!' said Jakhals, pretending to be sorry. 'The carbonaatjes are done to a turn, and the smell--alle wereld! it's fine! Shall I throw Oom down a piece of the meat?' "'Yes please, Jakhals,' said Leeuw eagerly, licking his lips. 'I have a big hole inside me and some carbonaatjes will fill it nicely.' "Ach! my baasjes, what did cunning Jakhals do? He carefully raked a red-hot stone out of the fire and wrapped a big piece of fat round it. Then he peered over the edge of the krantz and saw Leeuw waiting impatiently. "'Now Oom,' he called, 'open your mouth wide and I'll drop this in. It's such a nice big one, I bet you won't want another.' "And when he said this, Jakhals chuckled, while Mrs. Jakhals and the little ones doubled up with silent laughter at the great joke. "'Are you ready, Oom?' "'Grr-r-r-r-r!' gurgled Leeuw. He had his mouth wide open to catch the carbonaatje, and he would not speak for fear of missing it. "Jakhals leaned over and took aim. Down fell the tit-bit and--sluk! sluk!--Leeuw had swallowed it. "And then, my baasjes, there arose such a roaring and raving and groaning as had not been heard since the hills were made. The dassies crept along the rocky ledges far above, and peeped timidly down; the circling eagles swooped nearer to find out the cause; the meerkats and ant-bears, the porcupines and spring-hares snuggled further into their holes; while the frightened springboks and elands fled swiftly over the plain to seek safety in some other veld. "Only wicked Jakhals and his family rejoiced. With their bushy tails waving and their pointed ears standing up, they danced round the fire, holding hands and singing over and over: "'Arré! who is stronger than the King of Beastland? Arré! who sees further than the King of Birdland? Who but thick-tailed Jakhals, but the Silver-maned One? He, the small but sly one; he, the wise Planmaker. King of Beasts would catch him; catch him, claw him, kill him! Ha! ha! ha! would catch him! Ha! ha! ha! would kill him! But he finds a way out; grills the fat-tailed hamel, Feeds the King of Beastland with the juicy tit-bits; Eats the fat-tailed hamel while the King lies dying; Ha! ha! ha! lies dying! Ha! ha! ha! lies dead now!'" Outa crooned the Jakhals' triumph song in a weird monotone, and on the last words his voice quavered out, leaving a momentary silence among the small folk. Pietie blinked as though the firelight were too much for his eyes. Little Jan sighed tumultuously. Willem cleared his throat. "But how did Jakhals know that Oom Leeuw was dead?" he asked suddenly. "He peeped over the krantz every time between the dancing and singing--like this, baasje, just like this." Outa's eyes, head and hands were at work. "The first time he looked, he saw Oom Leeuw rolling over and over; the next time Leeuw was scratching, scratching at the rocky krantz; then he was digging into the ground with his claws; then he was only blowing himself out--so--with long slow breaths; but the last time he was lying quite still, and then Jakhals knew." "Oh! I didn't want poor Steenbokje to die," said little Jan. "He was such a pretty little thing. Outa, this is not one of your nicest stories." "It's all about killing," said Pietie. "First Leeuw killed poor Steenbokje, who never did him any harm, and then Jakhals killed Oom Leeuw, who never did him any harm. It was very cruel and wicked." "Ach yes, baasjes," explained Outa, apologetically, "we don't know why, but it is so. Sometimes the good ones are killed and the bad ones grow fat. In this old world it goes not always so's it must go; it just go so's it goes." "But," persisted Pietie, "you oughtn't to have let Jakhals kill Oom Leeuw. Oom Leeuw was much stronger, so he ought to have killed naughty Jakhals." Outa's eyes gleamed pityingly. These young things! What did they know of the ups and downs of a hard world where the battle is not always to the strong, nor the race to the swift? "But, my baasje, Outa did not make up the story. He only put in little bits, like the newspaper and the spectacles and the Jew smouse, that are things of to-day. But the real story was made long, long ago, perhaps when baasje's people went about in skins like the Rooi Kafirs, and Outa's people were still monkeys in the bushveld. It has always been so, and it will always be so--in the story and in the old wicked world. It is the head, my baasjes, the head," he tapped his own, "and not the strong arms and legs and teeth, that makes one animal master over another. Ach yes! if the Bushman's head had been the same as the white man's, arré! what a fight there would have been between them!" And lost in the astonishing train of thought called up by this idea, he sat gazing out before him with eyes which saw many strange things. Then, rousing himself, with a quick change of voice and manner, "Ach! please, Nooi!" he said in a wheedling tone, "a span of tobacco--just one little span for to-night and to-morrow." His mistress laughed indulgently, and, unhooking the bunch of keys from her belt, handed them to Cousin Minnie. "The old sinner!" she said. "We all spoil him, and yet who could begin to be strict with him now? Only a small piece, Minnie." "Thank you, thank you, my Nonnie," said the old man, holding out both hands, and receiving the coveted span as if it were something very precious. "That's my young lady! Nonnie can have Outa's skeleton when he is dead. Yes, it will be a fine skeleton for Nonnie to send far across the blue water, where she sent the old long-dead Bushman's bones. Ach foei! all of him went into a little soap boxie--just to think of it! a soap boxie!" He started as a young coloured girl made her appearance. "O mij lieve! here is Lys already. How the time goes when a person is with the baasjes and the noois! Night, Baas; night, Nooi; night, Nonnie and little masters. Sleep well! Ach! the beautiful family Van der Merwe!" His thanks, farewells and flatteries grew fainter and fainter, and finally died away in the distance, as his granddaughter led him away. III. WHO WAS KING? "Once upon a time," began Outa Karel, and his audience of three looked up expectantly. "Once upon a time, Oom Leeuw roared and the forest shook with the dreadful sound. Then, from far away over the vlakte, floated another roar, and the little lion cubs jumped about and stood on their heads, tumbling over each other in their merriment. "'Hear,' they said, 'it is Volstruis, old Three Sticks. He tries to imitate the King, our father. He roars well. Truly there is no difference.' "When Leeuw heard this he was very angry, so he roared again, louder than ever. Again came back the sound over the veld, as if it had been an echo. "'Ach, no! this will never do,' thought Leeuw. 'I must put a stop to this impudence. I alone am King here, and imitators--I want none.' "So he went forth and roamed over the vlakte till he met old Three Sticks, the Ostrich. They stood glaring at each other. "Leeuw's eyes flamed, his mane rose in a huge mass and he lashed his tail angrily. Volstruis spread out his beautiful wings and swayed from side to side, his beak open and his neck twisting like a whip-snake. Ach! it was pretty, but if baasjes could have seen his eyes! Baasjes know, Volstruis's eyes are very soft and beautiful--like Nonnie's when she tells the Bible stories; but now there was only fierceness in them, and yellow lights that looked like fire. "But there was no fight--yet. It was only their way of meeting. Leeuw came a step nearer and said, 'We must see who is baas. You, Volstruis, please to roar a little.' "So Volstruis roared, blowing out his throat, so, 'Hoo-hoo-hoor-r-r-r!' It was a fearsome sound--the sort of sound that makes you feel streams of cold water running down your back when you hear it suddenly and don't know what it is. Yes, baasjes, if you are in bed you curl up and pull the blankets over your head, and if you are outside you run in and get close to the Nooi or Nonnie." A slight movement, indicative of contradiction, passed from one to another of his small hearers, but--unless it was a free and easy, conversational evening--they made it a point of honour never to interrupt Outa in full career. This, like other things, could await the finish of the story. "Then Leeuw roared, and truly the voices were the same. No one could say, 'This is a bigger voice,' or 'That is a more terrifying voice.' No, they were just equal. "So Leeuw said to Volstruis, 'Our voices are alike. You are my equal in roaring. Let it then be so. You will be King of the Birds as I am King of the Beasts. Now let us go hunting and see who is baas there.' "Out in the vlakte some sassaby [1] were feeding, big fat ones, a nice klompje; so Leeuw started off in one direction and Volstruis in the other, but both kept away from the side the wind came from. Wild bucks can smell--ach toch! so good. Just one little puff when a hunter is creeping up to them, and at once all the heads are in the air--sniff, sniff, sniff--and they are off like the wind. Dust is all you see, and when that has blown away--ach no! there are no bucks; the whole veld is empty, empty!" Outa stretched out his arms and waved them from side to side with an exaggerated expression of finding nothing but empty space, his voice mournful with a sense of irreparable loss. "But"--he took up his tale with renewed energy--"Leeuw and Volstruis were old hunters. They knew how to get nearer and nearer without letting the bucks know. Leeuw trailed himself along slowly, slowly, close to the ground, and only when he was moving could you see which was Leeuw and which was sand: the colour was just the same. "He picked out a big buck, well-grown and fat, but not too old to be juicy, and when he got near enough he hunched himself up very quietly--so, my little masters, just so--ready to spring, and then before you could whistle, he shot through the air like a stone from a catapult, and fell, fair and square, on to the sassaby's back, his great tearing claws fastened on its shoulders and his wicked teeth meeting in the poor thing's neck. "Ach! the beautiful big buck! Never again would his pointed horns tear open his enemies! Never again would he lead the herd, or pronk in the veld in mating time! Never again would his soft nostrils scent danger in the distance, nor his quick hoofs give the signal for the stampede! No, it was really all up with him this time! When Oom Leeuw gets hold of a thing, he doesn't let go till it is dead. "The rest of the herd--ach, but they ran! Soon they were far away, only specks in the distance; all except those that Volstruis had killed. Truly Volstruis was clever! Baasjes know, he can run fast--faster even than the sassaby. So when he saw Leeuw getting ready to spring, he raced up-wind as hard as he could, knowing that was what the herd would do. So there he was waiting for them, and didn't he play with them! See, baasjes, he stood just so"--in his excitement Outa rose and struck an attitude--"and when they streaked past him he jumped like this, striking at them with the hard, sharp claws on his old two toes." Outa hopped about like a fighting bantam, while the children hugged themselves in silent delight. "Voerts! there was one dead!"--Outa kicked to the right. "Voerts! there was another!"--he kicked to the left--"till there was a klomp of bucks lying about the veld giving their last blare. Yes, old Two Toes did his work well that day. "When Leeuw came up and saw that Volstruis had killed more than he had, he was not very pleased, but Volstruis soon made it all right. "Leeuw said, 'You have killed most, so you rip open and begin to eat.' "'Oh no!' said Volstruis, 'you have cubs to share the food with, so you rip open and eat. I shall only drink the blood.' "This put Leeuw in a good humour; he thought Volstruis a noble, unselfish creature. But truly, as I said before, Volstruis was clever. Baasjes see, he couldn't eat meat; he had no teeth. But he didn't want Leeuw to know. Therefore he said, 'You eat; I will only drink the blood.' "So Leeuw ripped open--sk-r-r-r-r, sk-r-r-r-r--and called the cubs, and they all ate till they were satisfied. Then Volstruis came along in a careless fashion, pecking, pecking as he walked, and drank the blood. Then he and Leeuw lay down in the shade of some trees and went to sleep. "The cubs played about, rolling and tumbling over each other. As they played they came to the place where Volstruis lay. "'Aha!' said one, 'he sleeps with his mouth open.' "He peeped into Volstruis's mouth. 'Aha!' he said again, 'I see something.' "Another cub came and peeped. "'Alle kracht!' he said, 'I see something too. Let us go and tell our father.' "So they ran off in great excitement and woke Leeuw. 'Come, come quickly,' they said. 'Volstruis insults you by saying he is your equal. He lies sleeping under the trees with his mouth wide open, and we have peeped into it, and behold, he has no teeth! Come and see for yourself.' "Leeuw bounded off quick-quick with the cubs at his tail. "'Nier-r-r-r,' he growled, waking Volstruis, 'nier-r-r-r. What is the meaning of this? You pretend you are my equal, and you haven't even got teeth.' "'Teeth or no teeth,' said Volstruis, standing up wide awake, 'I killed more bucks than you did to-day. Teeth or no teeth, I'll fight you to show who's baas.' "'Come on,' said Leeuw. 'Who's afraid? I'm just ready for you. Come on!' "'No, wait a little,' said Volstruis. 'I've got a plan. You see that ant-heap over there? Well, you stand on one side of it, and I'll stand on the other side, and we'll see who can push it over first. After that we'll come out into the open and fight.' "'That seems an all-right plan,' said Leeuw; and he thought to himself, 'I'm heavier and stronger; I can easily send the ant-heap flying on to old Three Sticks, and then spring over and kill him.' "But wait a bit! It was not as easy as he thought. Every time he sprang at the ant-heap he clung to it as he was accustomed to cling to his prey. He had no other way of doing things. And then Volstruis would take the opportunity of kicking high into the air, sending the sand and stones into Leeuw's face, and making him howl and splutter with rage. "Sometimes he would stand still and roar, and Volstruis would send a roar back from the other side. "So they went on till the top of the ant-heap was quite loosened by the kicks and blows. Leeuw was getting angrier and angrier, and he could hardly see--his eyes were so full of dust. He gathered himself together for a tremendous spring, but, before he could make it, Volstruis bounded into the air and kicked the whole top off the ant-heap. Arré, but the dust was thick! "When it cleared away, there lay Leeuw, groaning and coughing, with the great heap of earth and stones on top of him. "'Ohé! ohé!' wailed the cubs, 'get up, my father. Here he comes, the Toothless One! He who has teeth only on his feet! Get up and slay him.' "Leeuw shook himself free of the earth and sprang at Volstruis, but his eyes were full of sand; he could not see properly, so he missed. As he came down heavily, Volstruis shot out his strong right leg and caught Leeuw in the side. Sk-r-r-r-r! went the skin, and goops! goops! over fell poor Oom Leeuw, with Volstruis's terrible claws--the teeth of old Two Toes--fastened into him. "Volstruis danced on him, flapping and waving his beautiful black and white wings, and tearing the life out of Oom Leeuw. "When it was all over, he cleaned his claws in the sand and waltzed away slowly over the veld to where his mate sat on the nest. "Only the cubs were left wailing over the dead King of the Forest." The usual babel of question and comment broke out at the close of the story, till at last Pietie's decided young voice detached itself from the general chatter. "Outa, what made you say that about pulling the blankets over one's head and running to get near Mammie if one heard Volstruis bellowing at night? You know quite well that none of us would ever do it." "Yes, yes, my baasje, I know," said Outa, soothingly. "I never meant anyone who belongs to the land of Volstruise. But other little masters, who did not know the voice of old Three Sticks--they would run to their mam-mas if they heard him." "Oh, I see," said Pietie, accepting the apology graciously. "I was sure you could not mean a karroo farm boy." "Is your story a parable, Outa?" asked little Jan, who had been doing some hard thinking for the last minute. "Ach! and what is that, my little master?" "A kind of fable, Outa." "Yes, that's what it is, baasje," said Outa, gladly seizing on the word he understood, "a fable, a sort of nice little fable." "But a parable is an earthly story with a heavenly meaning, and when Cousin Minnie tells us parables she always finds the meaning for us. What is the heavenly meaning of this, Outa?" Little Jan's innocent grey eyes were earnestly fixed on Outa's face, as though to read from it the explanation he sought. For once the old native was nonplussed. He rubbed his red kopdoek, laid a crooked finger thoughtfully against his flat nose, scratched his sides, monkey-fashion, and finally had recourse once more to the kopdoek. But all these expedients failed to inspire him with the heavenly meaning of the story he had just told. Ach! these dear little ones, to think of such strange things! There they all were, waiting for his next words. He must get out of it somehow. "Baasjes," he began, smoothly, "there is a beautiful meaning to the story, but Outa hasn't got time to tell it now. Another time----" "Outa," broke in Willem, reprovingly, "you know you only want to get away so that you can go to the old tramp-floor, where the volk are dancing to-night." "No, my baasje, truly no!" "And I wouldn't be surprised to hear that you had danced, too, after the way you have been jumping about here." "Yes, that was fine," said Pietie, with relish. "'Voerts! there is one dead! Voerts! there is another!' Outa, you always say you are so stiff, but you can still kick well." "Aja, baasje," returned Outa, modestly; "in my day I was a great dancer. No one could do the Vastrap better--and the Hondekrap--and the Valsrivier. Arré, those were the times!" He gave a little hop at the remembrance of those mad and merry days, and yet another and another, always towards the passage leading to the kitchen. "But the meaning, Outa, the heavenly meaning!" cried little Jan. "You haven't told us." "No, my little baas, not to-night. Ask the Nonnie; she will tell you. Here she comes." And as Cousin Minnie entered the room, the wily old native, with an agility not to be expected from his cramped and crooked limbs, skipped away, leaving her to bear the brunt of his inability to explain his own story. IV. WHY THE HYENA IS LAME. "It was Tante Hyena that Jakhals cheated more than anyone," said Outa. "She always forgot about the last time he had played a trick on her, so she was quite ready to believe him when he came along with another story. Some people are so, my baasjes. P'raps it's kindness, p'raps it's only stupidness; Outa doesn't know. "One day Jakhals and Hyena were out walking together when a white cloud came up behind the kopjes and floated over the veld quite close to them. It was a nice thick cloud, just like white fat, and Jakhals climbed on to it and sat looking down over the edge. Then he bit pieces out of it, and ate them. "'Arré! but this white fat is nice,' he said. 'N-yum, n-yum, n-yum,' and he chewed round the cloud like a caterpillar chews a leaf. "Hyena licked her lips and looked up at him. "'Throw me down some, please,' she said. "'Ach! my Brown Sister, will I then be so greedy as to throw you down little bits? Wait till I get down, and then I'll help you up to eat for yourself. But come a little nearer so that you can catch me when I jump.' "So Hyena stood ready, and Jakhals jumped in such a way that he knocked her into the sand. He fell soft, because he was on top, but foei! poor Hyena had all the breath knocked out of her and she was covered with dust. "'Ach! but I am clumsy!' said Jakhals; 'but never mind, now I'll help you.' "So when she had got up and dusted herself, he helped her to climb on to the cloud. There she sat, biting pieces off and eating them, 'N-yum, n-yum, n-yum, it's just like white fat!' "After a time she called out, 'Grey Brother, I've had enough. I want to come down. Please catch me when I jump.' "'Ach, certainly Brown Sister, come on. Just see how nicely I'll catch you. So-o-o.' "He held out his arms, but just as Hyena jumped he sprang to one side, calling out, 'Ola! Ola! a thorn has pricked me. What shall I do? what shall I do?' and he hopped about holding one leg up. "Woops! Down fell Brown Sister, and as she fell she put out her left leg to save herself, but it doubled up under her and was nearly broken. She lay in a bundle in the sand, crying, 'My leg is cracked! my leg is cracked!' "Jakhals came along very slowly--jump, jump, on three legs. Surely the thorn, that wasn't there, was hurting him very much! "'Oo! oo!' cried Hyena, 'help me up, Grey Brother. My leg is broken.' "'And mine has a thorn in it. Foei toch, my poor sister! How can the sick help the sick? The only plan is for us to get home in the best way we can. Good-bye, and I will visit you to-morrow to see if you are all right.' "And off he went--jump, jump, on three legs--very slowly; but as soon as Old Brown Sister could not see him, he put down the other one and--sh-h-h-h--he shot over the veld and got home just in time to have a nice supper of young ducks that Mrs. Jakhals and the children had caught at Oubaas van Niekerk's dam. "But poor Brown Sister lay in the sand crying over her sore places, and from that day she walks lame, because her left hind foot is smaller than the right one." [2] V. WHO WAS THE THIEF? "Yes, my baasjes, so was Oom Jakhals: he always made as if he forgot all about what he had done, and he made as if he thought all the others forgot too, quick-quick. He is maar so schelm." Here Outa took full advantage of the pinch of snuff he held between his right forefinger and thumb, sneezed with evident enjoyment two or three times, and continued: "When Jakhals thought Hyena was quite well, he went to visit her. "'It's very dull here in the veld,' he said, 'and food is so scarce, so I'm going to hire myself to a farmer. He'll give me lots to eat and drink, and when I'm nice and fat I'll come home again. Would you like to go too, Brown Sister?' "Hyena smacked her lips when she heard about the nice things to eat. She thought it a very good plan. So they went to a farm, and Jakhals talked so nicely that the farmer hired them both to work for him. "Ach! it was a beautiful place; lots of chickens and little ducks, and Afrikander sheep with large fat tails that could be melted out for soap and candles, and eggs, and doves and pigeons--all things that Jakhals liked. He just felt in his stomach that he was going to have a jolly life. "During the day Jakhals peeped all about, in this corner, in that corner, and he found out where the farmer kept the nice fat that was melted out of the sheep's tails. In the middle of the night, when all the people were fast asleep, he got up and went quietly, my baasjes, quietly, like a shadow on the ground, to the place where the fat was. He took a big lump and smeared it all over Brown Sister's tail while she was asleep. Then he ate all that was left--n-yum, n-yum, n-yum--and went to sleep in the waggon-house. "Early in the morning, when the farmer went out to milk the cows, he missed the fat. "'Lieve land! Where is all my fat?' he said. 'It must be that vagabond Jakhals. But wait, I'll get him!' "He took a thick riem and his sjambok, and went to the waggon-house to catch Jakhals and give him a beating. But when he asked about the fat, Jakhals spoke in a little, little voice. "'Ach no, Baas! Would I then do such an ugly thing? And look at my tail. There's no fat on it. The one whose tail is full of fat is the thief.' "He turned round and waved his tail in the farmer's face, and anyone could easily see that there was no fat on it. "'But the fat is gone,' said the farmer, 'someone must have stolen it,' and he went on hunting, hunting in the waggon-house. "At last he came to where Hyena was sleeping, just like a baby, baasjes, so nicely, and snoring a little: not the loud snoring like sawing planks--gorr-korrr, gorr-korr--but nice soft snoring like people do when they sleep very fast--see-uw, see-uw. It is the deepest sleep when a person snores see-uw, see-uw. Hyena's head was on some chaff, and her tail was sticking out behind her, stiff with fat! "'Aha! here is the thief,' said the farmer, and he began to tie the riem round her. "Old Brown Sister sat up and rubbed her eyes. 'What's the matter?' she asked. 'I had a beautiful dream. I dreamt I was eating fat the whole night, and----' "'And so you were--my fat,' said the farmer, and he pulled the rope tighter. 'And now I'm going to teach you not to steal again.' "Poor old Brown Sister jumped about when she found out what he was going to do; she ran round and round the waggon-house trying to get away; she called out, and she called out that she did not know about the fat, that she had never tasted it, and had never even seen it. But it was no good. "'Look at your tail,' said the farmer. 'Will you tell me that your tail went by itself and rubbed itself in the fat?' "So he tied her to the waggon wheel and beat her, and beat her--ach! she was quite sore--and she screamed and screamed, and at last he drove her away from the farm. "Poor old Brown Sister! She didn't even have the fat from her tail to eat, because, baasjes see, with the running round and the beating, it was all rubbed off. But she never went to live on a farm again; the veld was quite good enough for her." "Is that the end, Outa?" asked Willem. "Yes, my baasje. It's a bad end, but Outa can't help it. It does maar end so." "And where was Jakhals all the time?" enquired Pietie, severely. "Jakhals, my baasje, was sitting on the waggon saying his prayers--so, my baasjes." Outa put his crooked hands together and cast his twinkling eyes upwards till only the yellows showed. "'Bezie, bezie, brame, Hou jouw handjes same.' [3] "And every time Hyena screamed, Jakhals begged her not to steal again, but to try and behave like a good Christian." "But Jakhals was the thief," said little Jan, indignantly. "He was always the wicked one, and he was never punished. How was that, Outa?" A whimsical smile played over the old man's face, and though his eyes danced as wickedly as ever, his voice was sober as he answered. "Ach! my little master, how can Outa tell? It is maar so in this old world. It's like the funny thing Baas Willem saw in the Kaap, [4] that runs down a place so quickly that it just runs up on the other side, and then it can't stop, but it has to run down again, and so it keeps on--up and down, up and down." "You mean the switchback?" asked Willem. "Ach, yes! baasje, Outa means so. And in the world it is the same--up and down, up and down. And often the good ones are down and the bad ones are up. But the thing--Outa can't get the name right--goes on, and it goes on, and by-and-by the good ones are up and the bad ones are down." "But Jakhals seemed always to be up," remarked Willem. "Yes, my baasje," said the old man, soberly. "Jakhals seemed always to be up. It goes so sometimes, it goes so," but his eyes suddenly had a far-away look, and one could not be certain that he was thinking of Jakhals. VI. THE SUN. A BUSHMAN LEGEND. Outa, having disposed of his nightly tot, held his crooked hands towards the cheerful blaze and turned his engaging smile alternately on it and his little masters. "Ach! what it is to keep a bit of the Sun even when the Sun is gone! Long ago Outa's people, the Bushmen, did not know about fire. No, my baasjes, when the Big Fire, that makes the world warm and bright, walked across the sky, they were happy. They hunted, and danced, and feasted. They shot the fine big bucks with their little poisoned arrows, and they tore pieces off and ate the flesh with the red blood dripping from it: they had no fire to make it dry up. And the roots and eintjes that they dug out with their sharp stones--those, too, they ate just as they were. They did not cook, for they did not know how to make fire. But when the white man came, then they learnt. Baasjes see, Outa's head is big--bigger than the Baas's head--but that does not help. It's the inside that matters, and the white man's head inside here"--Outa tapped his wrinkled forehead--"Alla! but it can hold a lot! "In the olden days, when Outa's people were cold they crept into caves and covered themselves with skins, for they had no fire to sit by. Yes, they were sorry when the Old Man in the sky put down his arms and lay down to sleep." "What Old Man?" asked Pietie. "Do you mean the Sun?" "Aja! Don't baasjes then know that the Sun was once a man? It was long, long ago, before Outa's people lived in the world: perhaps in the days of the Early Race that were before even the Flat Bushmen, who were the first people we really know anything about. In those days at a certain place lived a man, from whose armpits brightness streamed. When he lifted one arm, the place on that side of him was light; when he lifted the other arm, the place on that side of him was light; but when he lifted both arms, the light shone all around about him. But it only shone around the place where he lived; it did not reach to other places. "Sometimes the people asked him to stand on a stone, so that his light could go farther; and sometimes he climbed on a kopje and lifted up his arms: ach! then the light streamed out far, far, and lighted up the veld for miles and miles. For the higher he went, the farther the light shone. "Then the people said: 'We see now, the higher he goes the farther his light shines. If only we could put him very high, his light would go out over the whole world.' "So they tried to make a plan, and at last a wise old woman called the young people together and said: 'You must go to this man from whose armpits the light streams. When he is asleep, you must go; and the strongest of you must take him under the armpits, and lift him up, and swing him to and fro--so--so--and throw him as high as you can into the sky, so that he may be above the kopjes, lifting his arms to let the light stream down to warm the earth and make green things to grow in summer.' "So the young men went to the place where the man lay sleeping. Quietly they went, my baasjes, creeping along in the red sand so as not to wake him. He was in a deep sleep, and before he could wake the strong young men took him under the armpits and swung him to and fro, as the wise old woman had told them. Then, as they swung him, they threw him into the air, high, high, and there he stuck. "The next morning, when he awoke and stretched himself, lifting up his arms, the light streamed out from under them and brightened all the world, warming the earth, and making the green things grow. And so it went on day after day. When he put up his arms, it was bright, it was day. When he put down one arm, it was cloudy, the weather was not clear. And when he put down both arms and turned over to go to sleep, there was no light at all: it was dark; it was night. But when he awoke and lifted his arms, the day came again and the world was warm and bright. "Sometimes he is far away from the earth. Then it is cold: it is winter. But when he comes near, the earth gets warm again; the green things grow and the fruit ripens: it is summer. And so it goes on to this day, my baasjes: the day and night, summer and winter, and all because the Old Man with the bright armpits was thrown into the sky." "But the Sun is not a man, Outa," said downright Willem, "and he hasn't any arms." "No, my baasje, not now. He is not a man any more. But baasjes must remember how long he has been up in the sky--spans, and spans, and spans of years, always rolling round, and rolling round, from the time he wakes in the morning till he lies down to sleep at the other side of the world. And with the rolling, baasjes, he has got all rounder and rounder, and the light that at first came only from under his arms has been rolled right round him, till now he is a big ball of light, rolling from one side of the sky to the other." Cousin Minnie, who had been listening in a desultory way to the fireside chatter, as she wrote at the side-table, started and leant toward the little group; but a single glance was enough to show that so interested were the children in the personal aspect of the tale that there was no fear of confusion arising in their minds from Outa's decided subversion of an elementary fact which she had been at some pains to get them to understand and accept. "And his arms, Outa," inquired little Jan, in his earnest way, "do they never come out now?" Outa beamed upon him proudly. "Ach! that is my little master! Always to ask a big thing! Yes, baasje, sometimes they come out. When it is a dark day, then he has put his arms out. He is holding them down, and spreading his hands before the light, so that it can't shine on the world. And sometimes, just before he gets up in the morning, and before he goes to sleep at night, haven't baasjes seen long bright stripes coming from the round ball of light?" "Yes, yes," assented his little listeners, eagerly. "Those are the long fingers of the Sun. His arms are rolled up inside the fiery ball, but he sticks his long fingers out and they make bright roads into the sky, spreading out all round him. The Old Man is peeping at the earth through his fingers. Baasjes must count them next time he sticks them out, and see if they are all there--eight long ones, those are the fingers; and two short ones for the thumbs." Outa's knowledge of arithmetic was limited to the number of his crooked digits, and the smile with which he announced the extent of his mathematical attainments was a ludicrous cross between proud triumph and modest reluctance. "When he lies down, he pulls them in. Then all the world grows dark and the people go to sleep." "But, Outa, it isn't always dark at night," Pietie reminded him. "There are the Stars and the Moon, you know." "Ach, yes! The little Stars and the Lady Moon. Outa will tell the baasjes about them another night, but now he must go quick--quick and let Lys rub his back with buchu. When friend Old Age comes the back bends and the bones get stiff, and the rheumatism--foei! but it can pinch! Therefore, my baasjes, Outa cooks bossies from the veld to rub on--buchu and kookamakranka and karroo bossies. They are all good, but buchu is the best. Yes, buchu for the outside, and the Baas's fire-water for the inside!" He looked longingly at the cupboard, but wood and glass are unresponsive until acted on by human agency; so, possessing no "Open, Sesame" for that unyielding lock, Outa contented himself by smacking his lips as he toddled away. VII. THE STARS AND THE STARS' ROAD. Darkly-blue and illimitable, the arc of the sky hung over the great Karroo like a canopy of softest velvet, making a deep, mysterious background for the myriad stars, which twinkled brightly at a frosty world. The three little boys, gathered at the window, pointed out to each other the constellations with which Cousin Minnie had made them familiar, and were deep in a discussion as to the nature and number of the stars composing the Milky Way when Outa shuffled in. "Outa, do you think there are a billion stars up there in the Milky Way?" asked Willem. "A billion, you know," explained Pietie, "is a thousand million, and it would take months to count even one million." "Aja, baasje," said the old man readily, seizing, with native adroitness, the unknown word and making it his own, "then there will surely be a billion stars up there. Perhaps," he added, judicially considering the matter, "two billion, but no one knows, because no one can ever count them. They are too many. And to think that that bright road in the sky is made of wood ashes, after all." He settled himself on his stool, and his little audience came to attention. "Yes, my baasjes," he went on, "long, long ago, the sky was dark at night when the Old Man with the bright armpits lay down to sleep, but people learned in time to make fires to light up the darkness; and one night a girl, who sat warming herself by a wood fire, played with the ashes. She took the ashes in her hands and threw them up to see how pretty they were when they floated in the air. And as they floated away she put green bushes on the fire and stirred it with a stick. Bright sparks flew out and went high, high, mixing with the silver ashes, and they all hung in the air and made a bright road across the sky. And there it is to this day. Baasjes call it the Milky Way, but Outa calls it the Stars' Road. "Ai! but the girl was pleased! She clapped her hands and danced, shaking herself like Outa's people do when they are happy, and singing:-- 'The little stars! The tiny stars! They make a road for other stars. Ash of wood-fire! Dust of the Sun! They call the Dawn when Night is done!' "Then she took some of the roots she had been eating and threw them into the sky, and there they hung and turned into large stars. The old roots turned into stars that gave a red light, and the young roots turned into stars that gave a golden light. There they all hung, winking and twinkling and singing. Yes, singing, my baasjes, and this is what they sang:-- 'We are children of the Sun! It's so! It's so! It's so! Him we call when Night is done! It's so! It's so! It's so! Bright we sail across the sky By the Stars' Road, high, so high; And we, twinkling, smile at you, As we sail across the blue! It's so! It's so! It's so!' "Baasjes know, when the stars twinkle up there in the sky they are like little children nodding their heads and saying, 'It's so! It's so! It's so!'" At each repetition Outa nodded and winked, and the children, with antics of approval, followed suit. "Baasjes have sometimes seen a star fall?" Three little heads nodded in concert. "When a star falls," said the old man impressively, "it tells us someone has died. For the star knows when a person's heart fails and the person dies, and it falls from the sky to tell those at a distance that someone they know has died. [5] "One star grew and grew till he was much larger than the others. He was the Great Star, and, singing, he named the other stars. He called each one by name, till they all had their names, and in this way they knew that he was the Great Star. No other could have done so. Then when he had finished, they all sang together and praised the Great Star, who had named them. [6] "Now, when the day is done, they walk across the sky on each side of the Stars' Road. It shows them the way. And when Night is over, they turn back and sail again by the Stars' Road to call the Daybreak, that goes before the Sun. The Star that leads the way is a big bright star. He is called the Dawn's-Heart Star, and in the dark, dark hour, before the Stars have called the Dawn, he shines--ach! baasjes, he is beautiful to behold! The wife and the child of the Dawn's-Heart Star are pretty, too, but not so big and bright as he. They sail on in front, and then they wait--wait for the other Stars to turn back and sail along the Stars' Road, calling, calling the Dawn, and for the Sun to come up from under the world, where he has been lying asleep. "They call and sing, twinkling as they sing:-- 'We call across the sky, Dawn! Come, Dawn! You, that are like a young maid newly risen, Rubbing the sleep from your eyes! You, that come stretching bright hands to the sky, Pointing the way for the Sun! Before whose smile the Stars faint and grow pale, And the Stars' Road melts away. Dawn! Come Dawn! We call across the sky, And the Dawn's-Heart Star is waiting. It's so! It's so! It's so!' "So they sing, baasjes, because they know they are soon going out. "Then slowly the Dawn comes, rubbing her eyes, smiling, stretching out bright fingers, chasing the darkness away. The Stars grow faint and the Stars' Road fades, while the Dawn makes a bright pathway for the Sun. At last he comes with both arms lifted high, and the brightness, streaming from under them, makes day for the world, and wakes people to their work and play. "But the little Stars wait till he sleeps again before they begin their singing. Summer is the time when they sing best, but even now, if baasjes look out of the window they will see the Stars, twinkling and singing." The children ran to the window and gazed out into the starlit heavens. The last sight Outa had, as he drained the soopje glass the Baas was just in time to hand him, was of three little heads bobbing up and down in time to the immemorial music of the Stars, while little Jan's excited treble rang out: "Yes, it's quite true, Outa. They do say, 'It's so! It's so! It's so!'" VIII. WHY THE HARE'S NOSE IS SLIT. The curtains had not yet been drawn nor the shutters closed, and little Jan looked with wide serious eyes at the full moon sailing serenely in the cold sky. Then he sighed as though thoughts too big for expression stirred within him, and turned absently towards the purring fire. "And why does the big man make such a sighing?" asked Outa Karel. "It is like the wind in the mealie land at sun-under." Little Jan's eyes slowly withdrew their gaze from some inward vision and became conscious of the old native. "Outa," he said, "why is the moon so far away, and so beautiful, and so golden?" "Ach! to hear him now! How can Outa tell? It is maar so. Just like grass is green and fire is hot, so the Moon is far away and beautiful and golden. But she is a cruel lady sometimes, too, and it is through her that the poor Little Hare runs about with a slit in his nose to-day." "Tell us, Outa." Little Jan dropped on to the rug beside the basket of mealie-cobs, and the others edged nearer. "And why do you call the Moon a lady?" asked Pietie of the inquiring mind. "But doesn't baasje know that the Moon is a lady? O yes, and for all her beauty she can be cross and cruel sometimes like other ladies, as you will hear." "Long, long ago, when the world was quite young, the Lady Moon wanted someone to take a message to Men. She tried first one creature and then another, but no! they were all too busy, they couldn't go. At last she called the Crocodile. He is very slow and not much good, but the Lady Moon thought she would pinch his tail and make him go quickly. So she said to him: 'Go down to Men at once and give them this message: "As I die and, dying, live, so also shall you die, and, dying, live."' "Baasjes know how the Moon is sometimes big and round----so"--and Outa's diminutive hands described a wide circle and remained suspended in the air--"like she is now in the sky. Then every night she gets smaller and smaller, so--so--so--so--so----till----clap!"--the crooked fingers come together with a bang--"there's no more Moon: she is dead. Then one night a silver horn hangs in the sky--thin, very thin. It is the new Moon that grows, and grows, and gets beautiful and golden." By the aid of the small claw-like hands the moon grew to the full before the children's interested eyes. "And so it goes on, always living, and growing, and dying, and living again. "So the Lady Moon pinched old Oom Crocodile's tail, and he gave one jump and off he started with the message. He went quickly while the Moon watched him, but soon he came to a bend in the road. Round he went with a great turn, for a Crocodile's back is stiff like a plank, he can't bend it; and then, when he thought he was out of sight, he went slower and slower--drif-draf-drippity-drif-draf, drif-draf-drippity-drif-draf, like a knee-haltered horse. He was toch too lazy. "All of a sudden there was a noise--sh-h-h-h-h--and there was the Little Hare. 'Ha! ha! ha!' he laughed, 'what is the meaning of this drif-draf-drippity-drif-draf? Where are you going in such a hurry, Oom Crocodile?' "'I can't stop to speak to you, Neef Haasje,' said Oom Crocodile, trying to look busy and to hurry up. 'The Lady Moon has sent me with a message to Men.' "'And what is the message, Oom Crocodile?' "'It's a very important one: "As I die and, dying, live, so also shall you die and, dying, live."' "'Ach, but that is a stupid message. And you can't ever run, Oom, you are so slow. You can only go drif-draf-drippity-drif-draf like a knee-haltered horse, but I go sh-h-h-h-h like the wind. Give the message to me and I will take it.' "'Very well,' said the lazy Crocodile, 'but you must say it over first and get it right.' "So Neef Haasje said the message over and over, and then--sh-h-h-h-h--he was off like the wind. Here he was! there he was! and you could only see the white of his tail and his little behind legs getting small in the distance. "At last he came to Men, and he called them together and said: 'Listen, Sons of the Baboon, a wise man comes with a message. By the Lady Moon I am sent to tell you: "As I die and, dying, perish, so shall you also die and come wholly to an end."' "Then Men looked at each other and shivered. All of a sudden the flesh on their arms was like goose-flesh. 'What shall we do? What is this message that the Lady Moon has sent? "As I die and, dying, perish, so shall you also die and come wholly to an end."' "They shivered again, and the goose-flesh crept right up their backs and into their hair, and their hair began to rise up on their heads just like--ach no, but Outa forgets, these baasjes don't know how it is to feel so." And the wide smile which accompanied these words hid the expression of sly teasing which sparkled in Outa's dancing black eyes, for he knew what it was to be taken to task for impugning the courage of his young listeners. "But Neef Haasje did not care. He danced away on his behind legs, and laughed and laughed to think how he had cheated Men. "Then he returned again to the Moon, and she asked: 'What have you said to Men?' "'O, Lady Moon, I have given them your message: "Like as I die and, dying, perish, so also shall you die and come wholly to an end," and they are all stiff with fright. Ha! ha! ha!' Haasje laughed at the thought of it. "'What! cried the Lady Moon, 'what! did you tell them that? Child of the devil's donkey! [7] you must be punished.' "Ach, but the Lady Moon was very angry. She took a big stick, a kierie--much bigger than the one Outa used to kill lions with when he was young--and if she could have hit him, then"--Outa shook his head hopelessly--"there would have been no more Little Hare: his head would have been cracked right through. But he is a slim kerel. When he saw the big stick coming near, one, two, three, he ducked and slipped away, and it caught him only on the nose. "Foei! but it was sore! Neef Haasje forgot that the Moon was a Lady. He yelled and screamed; he jumped high into the air; he jumped with all his four feet at once; and--scratch, scratch, scratch, he was kicking, and hitting and clawing the Moon's face till the pieces flew. "Then he felt better and ran away as hard as he could, holding his broken nose with both hands. "And that is why to-day he goes about with a split nose, and the golden face of the Lady Moon has long dark scars. "Yes, baasjes, fighting is a miserable thing. It does not end when the fight is over. Afterwards there is a sore place--ach, for so long!--and even when it is well, the ugly marks remain to show what has happened. The best, my little masters, is not to fight at all." IX. HOW THE JACKAL GOT HIS STRIPE. "The Sun was a strange little child," said Outa. "He never had any Pap-pa or Mam-ma. No one knew where he came from. He was just found by the roadside. "In the olden days when the men of the Ancient Race--the old, old people that lived so long ago--were trekking in search of game, they heard a little voice calling, calling. It was not a springbokkie, it was not a tarentaal, it was not a little ostrich. They couldn't think what it was. But it kept on, it kept on." Outa's head nodded in time to his repetitions. "Why didn't they go and look?" asked Willem. "They did, my baasje. They hunted about amongst the milk-bushes by the roadside, and at last under one of them they found a nice brown baby. He was lying quite still looking about him, not like a baby, baasjes, but like an old child, and sparks of light, as bright as the sparks from Outa's tinderbox, seemed to fly out of his eyes. When he saw the men, he began calling again. "'Carry me, carry me! Pick me up and carry me!' "'Arré! he can talk,' said the man. 'What a fine little child! Where have your people gone? and why did they leave you here?' "But the little Sun wouldn't answer them. All he said was, 'Put me in your awa-skin. I'm tired; I can't walk.' "One of the men went to take him up, but when he got near he said, 'Soe! but he's hot; the heat comes out of him. I won't take him.' "'How can you be so silly?' said another man. 'I'll carry him.' "But when he got near, he started back. 'Alla! what eyes! Fire comes out of them.' And he, too, turned away. "Then a third man went. 'He is very small,' he said; 'I can easily put him in my awa-skin.' He stooped and took the little Sun under his arms. "'Ohé! ohé! ohé!' he cried, dropping the baby on to the red sand. 'What is this for toverij! It is like fire under his arms. He burns me when I take him up.' "The others all came round to see. They didn't come too near, my baasjes, because they were frightened, but they wanted to see the strange brown baby that could talk, and that burned like a fire. "All on a sudden he stretched himself; he turned his head and put up his little arms. Bright sparks flew from his eyes, and yellow light streamed from under his arms, and--hierr, skierr--the Men of the Early Race fell over each other as they ran through the milk-bushes back to the road. My! but they were frightened! "The women were sitting there with their babies on their backs, waiting for their husbands. "'Come along! Hurry! hurry! See that you get away from here,' said the men, without stopping. "The women began to run, too. "'What was it? What did you find?' "'A terrible something,' said the men, still running. 'It pretends to be a baby, but we know it is a mensevreter. There it lies in the sand, begging one of us to pick it up and put it in his awa-skin, but as soon as we go near, it tries to burn us; and if we don't make haste and get away from here, it will certainly catch us.' "Then they ran faster than ever. Baasjes know--ach no!" corrected Outa, with a sly smile; "Outa means baasjes don't know--how frightenness makes wings grow on people's feet, so that they seem to fly. So the Men of the Early Race, and the women with their babies on their backs, flew, and very soon they were far from the place where the little Sun was lying. "But someone had been watching, my baasjes, watching from a bush near by. It was Jakhals, with his bright eyes and his sharp nose, and his stomach close to the ground. When the people had gone, he crept out to see what had made them run. Hardly a leaf stirred, not a sound was heard, so softly he crept along under the milk-bushes to where the little Sun lay. "'Ach, what a fine little child has been left behind by the men!' he said. 'Now that is really a shame--that none of them would put it into his awa-skin.' "'Carry me, carry me! Put me in your awa-skin,' said the little Sun. "'I haven't got an awa-skin, baasje,' said Jakhals, 'but if you can hold on, I'll carry you on my back.' "So Jakhals lay flat on his stomach, and the little Sun caught hold of his maanhaar, and rolled round on his back. "'Where do you want to go?' asked Jakhals. "'There, where it far is,' said the baby, sleepily. "Jakhals trotted off with his nose to the ground and a sly look in his eye. He didn't care where the baby wanted to go; he was just going to carry him off to the krantz where Tante and the young Jakhalses lived. If baasjes could have seen his face! Alle wereld! he was smiling, and when Oom Jakhals smiles, it is the wickedest sight in the world. He was very pleased to think what he was taking home; fat brown babies are as nice as fat sheep-tails, so he went along quite jolly. "But only at first. Soon his back began to burn where the baby's arms went round it. The heat got worse and worse, until he couldn't hold it out any longer. "'Soe! Soe! Baasje burns me,' he cried. 'Sail down a little further, baasje, so that my neck can get cool.' "The little Sun slipped further down and held fast again, and Jakhals trotted on. "But soon he called out again, 'Soe! Soe! Now the middle of my back burns. Sail down still a little further.' "The little Sun went further down and held fast again. And so it went on. Every time Jakhals called out that he was burning, the baby slipped a little further, and a little further, till at last he had hold of Jakhals by the tail, and then he wouldn't let go. Even when Jakhals called out, he held on, and Jakhals's tail burnt and burnt. My! it was quite black! "'Help! help!' he screamed! 'Ach, you devil's child! Get off! Let go! I'll punish you for this! I'll bite you! I'll gobble you up! My tail is burning! Help! Help!' And he jumped, and bucked, and rushed about the veld, till at last the baby had to let go. "Then Jakhals voertsed [8] round, and ran at the little Sun to bite him and gobble him up. But when he got near, a funny thing happened, my baasjes. Yes truly, just when he was going to bite, he stopped halfway, and shivered back as if someone had beaten him. At first he had growled with crossness, but now he began to whine from frightenness. "And why was it, my baasjes? Because from under the baby's arms streamed brightness and hotness, and out of the baby's eyes came streaks of fire, so that Jakhals winked and blinked, and tried to make himself small in the sand. Every time he opened his eyes a little, just like slits, there was the baby sitting straight in front of him, staring at him so that he had to shut them again quick, quick. "'Come and punish me,' said the baby. "'No, baasje, ach no!' said Jakhals in a small, little voice, 'why should I punish you?' "'Come and bite me,' said the baby. "'No, baasje, no, I could never think of it.' Jakhals made himself still a little smaller in the sand. "'Come and gobble me up,' said the baby. "Then Jakhals gave a yell and tried to crawl further back. "'Such a fine little child,' he said, trying to make his voice sweet, 'who would ever do such a wicked thing?' "'You would,' said the little Sun. 'When you had carried me safely to your krantz, you would have gobbled me up. You are toch so clever, Jakhals, but sometimes you will meet your match. Now, look at me well.' "Jakhals didn't want to look, my baasjes, but it was just as if something made his eyes go open, and he lay there staring at the baby, and the baby stared at him--so, my baasjes, just so"--Outa stretched his eyes to their utmost and held each fascinated child in turn. "'You'll know me again when you see me,' said the baby, 'but never, never again will you be able to look me in the face. And now you can go.' "Fierce light shot from his eyes, and he blew at Jakhals with all his might; his breath was like a burning flame, and Jakhals, half dead with frightenness, gave a great howl and fled away over the vlakte. "From that day, my baasjes, he has a black stripe right down his back to the tip of his tail. And he cannot bear the Sun, but hides away all day with shut eyes, and only at night when the Old Man with the bright armpits has gone to sleep, does he come out to hunt and look for food, and play tricks on the other animals." X. THE ANIMALS' DAM. "Ach! it was dry," said Outa, "as dry as last year's springbok biltong. For a long time the Old Man in the sky shot down strong light and sucked all the water out of the veld. From morning to night he poured down hotness on the world, and when he rolled round to sleep, a hot wind blew--and blew--and blew--till he woke to shine again. The karroo bushes dried up, the rivers had no water, and the poor animals began to die from thirst. It was such a drought, my little masters, as you have never seen. "At last Oom Leeuw called the animals together to make a plan. "The Sun had gone under, and the Lady Moon was sailing in the sky--beautiful, as she always is, and looking down on the hot world. Oom Leeuw sat under a krantz on the morning side of a kopje, where it was a little cool, and the others sat round him like a watermelon slice. Leopard, Hyena, Babiaan, Jakhals, Hare and Tortoise were in front; they were the chief ones. The smaller ones, like Dassie, Mierkat, and Hedgehog, were at the sides; and Zebra, Springbok, Ostrich and Giraffe waited in the veld to hear the news. They pretended to be eating, but all the time their ears went backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards--so, my baasjes,--to catch every little sound, and they were ready at the first sign of danger to race away, kicking up the dust so that Oom Leeuw would not be able to see them. "But they needn't have been afraid. Oom Leeuw was too hot and tired and weak to catch anything. He just sat against the krantz with his dry tongue hanging out, and the others just lay round about in the watermelon slice with their dry tongues hanging out, and every time they looked at the sky to see if any clouds were coming up. But no! The sky was just like a big, hot soap-pot turned over above their heads, with the Lady Moon making a silver road across it, and the little stars shining like bits broken off the big, hot Sun. There was nothing that even looked like a cloud. "At last Oom Leeuw pulled in his tongue and rolled it about in his mouth to get the dryness off. When it stopped rattling, he began to talk. "'Friends and brothers and nephews,' he said--yes, just like that Oom Leeuw began; he was so miserable that he felt friendly with them all. 'Friends and brothers and nephews, it is time to make a plan. You know how it is with a drought; when it is at its worst, the bottom of the clouds falls out, and the water runs away fast, fast, to the sea, where there is too much water already, and the poor karroo is left again without any. Even if a land-rain comes, it just sinks in, because the ground is too loose and dry to hold it, so we must make a plan to keep the water, and my plan is to dig a dam. But it's no use for one or two to work; everyone must help. What do you say?' "'Certainly,' said Leopard. "'Certainly,' said Hyena. "'Certainly,' said Ant-bear. "'Certainly,' said Jakhals, but he winked his eye at the Lady Moon, and then put his nose into the warm sand so that no one could see his sly smile. "All the other animals said 'Certainly,' and then they began to talk about the dam. Dear land! A person would never have said their throats were dry. Each one had a different plan, and each one talked without listening to the other. It was like a Church bazaar--yes, baasjes, long ago when Outa was young he was on a bazaar in the village, but he was glad, my baasjes, when he could creep into the veld again and get the noise out of his ears. "At last the Water Tortoise--he with the wise little head under his patchwork shell--said, 'Let us go now while it is cool, and look for a place for the dam.' "So they hunted about and found a nice place, and soon they began to make the dam. Baasjes, but those animals worked! They scratched, they dug, they poked, they bored, they pushed and they rolled; and they all did their best, so that the dam could be ready when the rain came. Only lazy Jakhals did not work. He just roamed round saying to the others, 'Why don't you do this?' 'Why don't you do that?' till at last they asked, 'Why don't you do it yourself?' "But Jakhals only laughed at them. 'And why should I be so foolish as to scratch my nails off for your old dam?' he said. "'But you said "Certainly," too, when Oom asked us, didn't you?' they asked. "Then Jakhals laughed more than ever. 'Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha! Am I then a slave of my word? That was last night. Don't you know yet that a thing is one colour by moonlight, and quite another colour when the sun shines on it? Ha! ha! ha!' "So he went about bothering the poor animals that were working so hard, and laughing at them when they got hot and tired. "'What's the use of working so hard? Those who do not work will also drink.' "'How do you know?' they asked. "'Wait a bit, you'll see,' said sly Jakhals, winking his eye again. "At last the dam was finished, and that very night the rain began. It kept on and on, till the dam was quite full and the water began to run away over the veld, down to the great big dam called the Sea, that is the Mother of all water, and so broad, my baasjes, that truly you can't see the wall at the other side, even when you stand on a high kopje. Yes, so Outa has heard from truth-telling people. The milk-bushes and karroo-bushes grew green again, and the little veld flowers burst out of the hard ground, and opened their white, and blue, and pink, and purple eyes to look at the Sun. They were like variegated karosses spread out on the veld, and the Old Man in the sky was not so fierce any more; he did not burn them with his hotness, but looked at them kindly. "And the animals were toch so glad for the water! From far and near they came to the dam to drink. "But Jakhals was before them all. Soon after the Sun went down--baasjes know, the wild animals sleep in the daytime and hunt in the night--he went to the dam and drank as much water as he wanted, and filled his clay pot with some to take home. Then he swam round and round to get cool, making the water muddy and dirty, and when the other animals came to drink, he slipped over the dam wall and was lost in the veld as if he had been a large pin. "My! but Oom Leeuw was very angry! "'Hoorr-rr-rr,' he roared, 'hoorr-rr-rr! What is this for a thing? Does the lazy one think he can share with the workers? Who ever heard of such a thing? Hoorr-rr-rr! Here, Broer Babiaan, take this big kierie and hide yourself by the dam to-night, so that you can catch this Vagabond, this Water-stealer.' "Early that night, there was Jakhals again. He peeped this way and that way--so, my baasjes,--and, yes truly, there was old Broer Babiaan lying amongst the bushes. But Jakhals was too schelm for him. He made as if he didn't see him. He danced along on his hind legs, all in the round, all in the round, at the edge of the dam, singing:-- 'Hing-ting-ting! Honna-mak-a-ding! My sweet, sweet water!' "He sang this over and over, and every time he came to the end of a line, he dipped his fingers into his clay pot and sucked them. "'Aha! but my honey is nice,' he said, licking his lips. 'What do I want with their old dirty water, when I have a whole potful of nice sweet water!' "Baasjes know, baboons will do anything for honey, and when old Broer Babiaan heard Jakhals he forgot he was there to guard the dam. He crept out from his hiding-place, a little nearer, and a little nearer, and at last he couldn't keep quiet any longer. When Jakhals came dancing along again, he called out in a great hurry, 'Good evening, Jakhals! Please give me a little of your sweet water, too!' "'Arré!' said Jakhals, jumping to one side and pretending to be startled. 'What a schrik you gave me! What are you doing here, Broer Babiaan?' "'Ach no! Jakhals, I'm just taking a little walk. It's such a fine night.' "'But why have you got that big kierie?' "'Only to dig out eintjes.' "'Do you really want some of my sweet water?' "'Yes, please, Jakhals,' said Broer Babiaan, licking his lips. "'And what will you give me for it?' "'I'll let you fill your pot with water from the dam.' "'Ach! I don't want any of that dirty old dam water, but I know how fond you are of this sweet water, Broer, so I'll let you drink some. Here, I'll hold your kierie while you drink.' "Boer Babiaan was in such a hurry to get to the honey that he just threw the kierie to Jakhals, but just as he was going to put his fingers into the pot, Jakhals pulled it away. "'No, wait a bit, Broer,' he said. 'I'll show you a better way. It will taste much nicer if you lie down.' "'Ach no! really, Jakhals?' "'Yes, really,' said Jakhals. 'And if you don't lie down at once, you won't get a drop of my sweet water.' "He spoke quite crossly, and Babiaan was so tame by this time that he was ready to believe anything, so he lay down, and Jakhals stood over him with his knapsack riem. "'Now, Brother, first I'll tie you with my riem, and then I'll feed you with the honey.' "'Yes, yes,' said Broer Babiaan quickly. "His mouth was watering for the honey; he couldn't think of anything else, and he had long ago forgotten all about looking after the dam. It goes so, my baasjes, when a person thinks only of what he wants and not of what he must. So he let Jakhals tie his hands and feet, and even his tail, and then he opened his mouth wide. "But Jakhals only danced round and round, sticking his fingers into the pot and licking them, and singing: 'Hing-ting-ting! Honna-mak-a-ding! My sweet, sweet water!' "'Where's mine?' called Broer Babiaan. 'You said you would feed me. Where's my sweet water?' "'Here's all the sweet water you'll get from me,' said Jakhals, and--kraaks--he gave poor Broer Babiaan a hard hit with the kierie. "'Borgom! Borgom! Help!' screamed Broer Babiaan, and tried to roll away. But there was no one to help him, so he could only scream and roll over, and each time he rolled over, Jakhals hit him again--kraaks! "At last he squeezed the clay pot--and baasjes can believe me it had never had any honey in it at all--over Broer Babiaan's head, while he ran off and drank as much water as he wanted, and swam, and stirred up the mud. Then he took the clay pot off Broer Babiaan's head, filled it with water, and danced off, singing: 'Hing-ting-ting! Honna-mak-a-ding! My sweet, sweet water!' "'Good-bye, Brother,' he called out. 'I hope you'll enjoy the sweet water you'll get from Oom Leeuw when he sees how well you have looked after the dam.' "Poor Old Broer Babiaan was, ach! so miserable, but he was even more unhappy after Oom Leeuw had punished him and set him on a large stone for the other animals to mock at. Baasjes, it was sad! They came in a long string, big ones and little ones, and each one stopped in front of the big stone and stuck out his tongue, then turned round and stuck out his tail--yes, so rude they were to Broer Babiaan, till the poor old animal got ashameder and ashameder, and sat all in a heap, hanging down his head and trying not to see how they were mocking at him. "When all the animals had passed on and drunk water, Oom Leeuw untied Broer Babiaan and let him go, and off he went to the krantzes as fast as he could, with his tail between his legs. "And that is all for to-night, my baasjes. It is too long to finish now. See, here comes Lys with the baasjes' supper, and Outa can smell that his askoekies are burning by the hut." Evading the children's detaining hands, Outa sidled away, turning in the passage doorway to paw the air with his crooked fingers in token of a final farewell. XI. SAVED BY HIS TAIL. "The end, Outa, please," said little Jan, "the end of The Animals' Dam. You said it was too long to finish last night." "Aja, my baasje, it's full of jakhals draaie, and that's why it is so long, but it's near the end now. "The night was old by the time the animals had finished with old Broer Babiaan, and the stars were going out. Only the Big Star, that lasts the longest, was travelling quickly by the Stars' Road to call the Dawn. It began to get light already at the place where the shining Old Man gets up every day, and that meant it was time for the animals to fade away to their sleeping-places. "Oom Leeuw looked round on them. 'Who will look after the dam to-night?' he asked. "'I will,' said a little voice, quickly. 'Peep! peep!' "'And who is this that speaks from the ground?' asked Oom. 'Let us find this brave one.' "They looked about in the sand, and there, under a milk-bush near the dam, sat the Water Tortoise. He was nice and big, baasjes, as big as the lid of the soap-pot, and his skinny legs were very strong. He stretched out his skinny neck and twinkled his little black eyes. "'I'll look after the dam, Oom, and I'll catch the Water-Spoiler for you.' "'Ha! ha! ha! How will you do that?' asked Oom Leeuw. "'If Oom will just let someone rub my back with the sticky black stuff from the floor of the hives, then Oom will see what will happen.' "'This is a wise little man,' said Oom Leeuw, and he ordered Old Brown Sister Hyena--she with the limp in the left hind leg--to rub the Water Tortoise with the sticky stuff. "That night, my baasjes, when Jakhals went to the dam to drink, he peeped about, but no! there was no one to guard the dam; only a large black stone lay near the edge of the water. "'Arré! this is lucky,' said Jakhals. 'Such a nice large stone! I'll stand on it while I drink.' "He didn't know that the stone had a strong skinny neck, and, on the end of the neck, a head with little bright eyes that could see everything that was going on. So he gave a jump, and--woops!--down he came on to the stone with his two front feet, and there they stuck fast to the sticky black stuff, and he could not move them. He tried, and he tried, but it was no use. "'Toever!' he screamed, 'toever! Let me go!' "'Peep! peep!' said a little voice, 'don't be frightened.' "'Who says I'm frightened, you old toever stone?' asked Jakhals. 'Though my front feet are fast, I can still kick with my hind feet.' "'Kick, kick, kick, and stick fast,' said the little voice. "So Jakhals kicked and kicked, and his hind feet stuck fast. "There was a funny sound under the water, like water bubbling through a reed. It was the Water Tortoise laughing. "'Nier-r-r! nier-r-r!' said Jakhals, getting very cross; 'I've still got a tail, and I'll beat you with it.' "'Beat, beat, beat, and stick fast,' said the little voice. "So Jakhals beat and beat, and his tail stuck fast. "'Nier-r-r!' he said again, very angry; 'I've still got a mouth, and I'll bite you with it.' "'Bite, bite, bite, and stick fast,' said the little voice. "Jakhals opened his mouth, and bit and bit, and his mouth stuck fast. There he was, all in a bundle, sticking altogether fast to the black stone, and the more he tried to get free, the more he stuck fast. "'Peep, peep!' said the Water Tortoise, poking up his head and laughing. Then he marched to the top of the dam-wall where everyone could see the strange sight, and there he sat, all quiet and good, till the other animals came. "'Arré! they were glad when they saw Jakhals sticking to the Water Tortoise. They held a Council and ordered him to be killed, and Broer Hyena--old Brown Sister's husband--was to be the killer. "They loosened Jakhal's mouth from the sticky stuff, so that he could talk for the last time. He was very sorry for himself. His voice was thick with sorriness, and he could hardly get the words out. "'Thank you, Oom,' he said. 'I know I'm a wicked creature. It's better for me to die than to live and trouble everyone so much.' "Oom Leeuw and the other animals were wondering what kind of death the Water-stealer should die. "'Chop my head off,' said Jakhals; 'throw me in the fountain, but please, ach! please don't shave my tail and hit me on the big stone.' "Oom Leeuw and the others were still putting their heads together. "'Beat me with kieries, drown me in the dam,' said Jakhals, 'but don't, ach! please don't smear my tail with fat and hit me on the big stone.' "Oom Leeuw and the others made as if they were taking no notice of him. "'Chop me in little pieces, beat me with thorn branches,' said Jakhals, 'but please, ach! please don't take me by the tail and hit me on the big stone.' "At last Oom Leeuw turned round. "'Just as you say, it shall be done. Shave his tail,' he said to the others, 'smear it with fat, and hit his head on the big stone. Let it be done.' "So it was done, and Jakhals stood very still and sad while his tail was being shaved and smeared. But when Hyena swung him round--one, two, three, pht!--away he slipped and ran over the veld as fast as he could. All the others ran after him, but they were only running to catch and he was running to live, so he went like the wind, and soon they were left far behind. "He never stopped till he came to a mountain where a krantz hung over and made a kind of cave, and in he crept. The first to come after him was Oom Leeuw, who had run faster than the others. Jakhals watched Oom crawling in, and when Oom's head touched the top of the cave, he ran out, calling: "'Oom, Oom, the krantz is falling. If you don't hold it up, you'll be crushed to death. I'll run and get a pole to prop it up, but Oom must please wait till I come back.' "He left Oom plastering his head against the krantz to hold it up, while--pht!--he shot away, and never stopped till he got safe home, where he rolled bolmakissie over and over, laughing to think how he had cheated all the animals again." XII. THE FLYING LION. "Once upon a time," remarked Outa, thoughtfully, "Oom Leeuw used to fly." "O-o-o-oh!" said the children all together, and their eyes widened with terror at the picture called up by Outa's words. "Yes, my baasjes, and then nothing could live before him. His wings were not covered with feathers: they were like the wings of Brother Bat, all skin and ribs; but they were very big, and very thick, and very strong, and when he wasn't flying they were folded flat against his sides. When he was angry he let the points down to the ground--tr-r-r-r--like Oubaas Turkey when he gobble-gobble-gobbles and struts before his wives--tr-r-r-r, and when he wanted to rise from the ground he spread them out and flapped them up and down slowly at first--so, my baasjes; then faster and faster--so, so, so--till he made a big wind with them and sailed away into the air." Outa, flapping his crooked arms and puffing out his disproportionate chest, seemed about to follow suit, but suddenly subsided again on to his stool. "Ach, but it was a terrible sight! Then, when he was high above the earth, he would look down for something to kill. If he saw a herd of springbokke he would fly along till he was just over them, and pick out a nice fat one; then he would stretch out his iron claws, fold his wings and--woops!--down he would fall on the poor bokkie before it had time to jump away. Yes, that was the way Oom Leeuw hunted in the olden times. "There was only one thing he was afraid of, and that was that the bones of the animals he caught and ate would be broken to pieces. No one knew why, and everyone was too frightened of Oom Leeuw to try and find out. He used to keep them all at his home in the krantzes, and he had crows to look after them, two at a time--not like the ugly black crows that build in the willow-trees near the dam, but White Crows, the kind that come only once in many years. As soon as a white crow baby was found it was taken to Oom Leeuw--that was his order; then he kept it in the krantzes of the mountains and let it grow big; and when the old White Crows died the next eldest became watchmen, and so there were always White Crows to watch the bones when Oom Leeuw went hunting. "But one day while he was away Brother Big Bullfrog came along, hop-hop-hoppity-hop, hop-hop-hoppity-hop, and said: 'Why do you sit here all day, you Whitehead Crows?' "And the White Crows said: 'We sit here to look after the bones for Oom Leeuw.' "'Ach, but you must be tired of sitting!' said Brother Big Bullfrog, 'You fly away a little and stretch your wings. I will sit here and look after the bones.' "The White Crows looked this way and that way, up and down and all round, but no! they couldn't see Oom Leeuw, and they thought: 'Now is our chance to get away for a fly.' "So they said 'Cr-r-raw, cr-r-raw!' and stretched out their wings and flew away. "Brother Big Bullfrog called out after them: 'Don't hurry back. Stay as long as you like. I will take care of the bones.' "But as soon as they were gone he said: 'Now I shall find out why Oom Leeuw keeps the bones from being broken. Now I shall see why men and animals can live no longer.' And he went from one end to the other of Oom Leeuw's house at the bottom of the krantz, breaking all the bones he could find. "Ach, but he worked quickly! Crack! crack, crack, crack! Wherever he went he broke bones. Then when he had finished he hopped away, hop-hop-hoppity-hop, hop-hop-hoppity-hop, as fast as he could. When he had nearly reached his dam in the veld, the White Crows overtook him. They had been to the krantz and, foei! they were frightened when they saw all the broken bones. "'Craw, craw!' they said, 'Brother Big Bullfrog, why are you so wicked? Oom Leeuw will be so angry. He will bite off our nice white heads--craw, craw!--and without a head, who can live?' "But Brother Big Bullfrog pretended he didn't hear. He just hopped on as fast as he could, and the White Crows went after him. "'It's no good hopping away, Brother Bullfrog,' they said. 'Oom Leeuw will find you wherever you are, and with one blow of his iron claws he will kill you.' "But old Brother Big Bullfrog didn't take any notice. He just hopped on, and when he came to his dam he sat back at the edge of the water and blinked the beautiful eyes in his ugly old head, and said: 'When Oom Leeuw comes tell him I am the man who broke the bones. Tell him I live in this dam, and if he wants to see me he must come here.' "The White Crows were very cross. They flew down quickly to peck Brother Big Bullfrog, but they only dug their beaks into the soft mud, because Brother Big Bullfrog wasn't sitting there any longer. Kabloops! he had dived into the dam, and the White Crows could only see the rings round the place where he had made a hole in the water. "Oom Leeuw was far away in the veld, waiting for food, waiting for food. At last he saw a herd of zebras--the little striped horses that he is very fond of--and he tried to fly up so that he could fall on one of them, but he couldn't. He tried again, but no, he couldn't. He spread out his wings and flapped them, but they were quite weak, like baasjes' umbrella when the ribs are broken. "Then Oom Leeuw knew there must be something wrong at his house, and he was toch too angry. He struck his iron claws into the ground and roared and roared. Softly he began, like thunder far away rolling through the kloofs, then louder and louder, till--hoor-rr-rr-rr, hoor-rr-rr-rr--the earth beneath him seemed to shake. It was a terrible noise. "But all his roaring did not help him, he couldn't fly, and at last he had to get up and walk home. He found the poor White Crows nearly dead with fright, but they soon found out that he could no longer fly, so they were not afraid of him. "'Hoor-rr-rr-rr, hoor-rr-rr-rr!' he roared. 'What have you done to make my wings so weak?' "And they said: 'While Oom was away someone came and broke all the bones.' "And Oom Leeuw said: 'You were put here to watch them. It is your fault that they are broken, and to punish you I am going to bite your stupid white heads off. Hoor-rr-rr-rr!' "He sprang towards them, but now that they knew he couldn't fly they were not afraid of him. They flew away and sailed round in the air over his head, just too high for him to reach, and they called out: 'Ha! ha! ha! Oom cannot catch us! The bones are broken, and his wings are useless. Now men and animals can live again. We will fly away and tell them the good news.' "Oom Leeuw sprang into the air, first to one side and then to the other, striking at them, but he couldn't reach them, and when he found all his efforts were in vain, he rolled on the ground and roared louder than ever. "The White Crows flew round him in rings, and called out: 'Ha! ha! ha! he can no longer fly! He only rolls and roars! The man who broke the bones said: "If Oom Leeuw wants me he can come and look for me at the dam." Craw, craw,' and away they flew. "Then Oom Leeuw thought: 'Wait, I'll get hold of the one who broke the bones. I'll get him.' So he went to the dam, and there was old Brother Bullfrog sitting in the sun at the water's edge. Oom Leeuw crept up slowly, quietly, like a skelm, behind Brother Bullfrog. "'Ha! now I've got him,' he thought, and made a spring, but Brother Bullfrog said, 'Ho!' and dived in--kabloops!--and came up at the other side of the dam, and sat there blinking in the sun. "Oom Leeuw ran round as hard as he could, and was just going to spring, when--kabloops!--Brother Bullfrog dived in again and came up at the other side of the dam. "And so it went on. Each time, just when Oom Leeuw had nearly caught him, Brother Bullfrog dived in--kabloops!--and called out 'Ho!' from the other side of the dam. "Then at last Oom Leeuw saw it was no use trying to catch Brother Bullfrog, so he went home to see if he could mend the broken bones. But he could not, and from that day he could no longer fly, only walk upon his iron claws. Also, from that day he learned to creep quietly like a skelm after his game, and though he still catches them and eats them, he is not as dangerous as he was when he could fly. "And the White Crows can no longer speak. They can only say, 'Craw, craw.' "But old Brother Big Bullfrog still goes hop-hop-hoppity-hop round about the dam, and whenever he sees Oom Leeuw he just says 'Ho!' and dives into the water--kabloops!--as fast as he can, and sits there laughing when he hears Oom Leeuw roar with anger." XIII. WHY THE HERON HAS A CROOKED NECK. The flames leapt gaily upward in the wide fireplace, throwing strange shadows on the painted walls and gleaming on the polished wood of floor and beam and cupboard. Little Jan basked contentedly in the warmth, almost dozing--now absently stroking the terrier curled up beside him, now running his fingers through the softer fur of the rug on which he lay. It was made of silver-jackal skins--a dozen of them, to judge from the six bushy tails spread out on either side; and as Outa Karel's gaze rested on them, he remarked reminiscently-- "Arré! but Oom Jakhals was a slim kerel! No one ever got the better of him without paying for it." In an instant little Jan was sitting bolt upright, every symptom of sleep banished from his face; the book from which Willem had been laboriously trying to gain some idea of the physical features of Russia was flung to the far end of the rustbank; while Pietie, suspending for a brief moment his whittling of a catapult stick, slid along the floor to get within better sight and sound of the story-teller. "Yes, my little masters, sometimes it was Oom Leeuw he cheated, sometimes it was Oubaas Babiaan or Oom Wolf, and once it was the poor little Dove, and that is what made me think of how he was cheated himself." "Did the little Dove cheat him?" asked Pietie eagerly. "No, baasje, the Dove is too frightened--not stupid, baasje, but like people are when they are too gentle and kind and believe everything other people tell them. She was sitting on her nest one day singing to her little children, 'Coo-oo, coo-oo coo-oo,' when Oom Jakhals prowled along under the tree and heard her. "'Alla wereld! Now I'll have a nice breakfast,' he thought, and he called out, 'Good morning, Tante. I hear you have such pretty little children. Please bring them down for me to see.' "But the Tante was frightened of Jakhals, and said, 'I'm sorry, Oom, they are not well to-day, and I must keep them at home.' "Then Jakhals lost his temper, and called out, 'Nonsense, I'm hungry and want something to eat, so throw down one of your little children at once.' "Baasjes know, sometimes crossness drives away frightenness; and Tante was so cross with Oom Jakhals for wanting to eat one of her little children that she called out, 'No, no, you bad Jakhals, I shall do nothing of the sort. Go away and look for other food.' "'If you don't, I'll fly up and eat them all,' said Jakhals. 'Throw one down at once.' And he stamped about and made such a horrible noise that the poor Tante thought he was really flying up. She looked at her babies: there wasn't one she wanted to give, but it was better to lose one than have them all eaten; so she shut her eyes and fluttered about the nest till one of them fell out, and Jakhals caught it in his mouth and carried it off to his hole to eat. "Ach! but the poor Tante was sad! She spread her wings over her other children and never slept all night, but looked about this way and that way with her soft eyes, thinking every little noise she heard was Oom Jakhals trying to fly up to her nest to gobble up all her babies. "The next morning there was Oom Jakhals again. 'Tante, your child was a nice, juicy mouthful. Throw me down another. And make haste, do you hear? or I'll fly up and eat you all.' "'Coo-oo, coo-oo, coo-oo,' said Tante, crying, 'no, I won't give you one.' But it was no use, and in the end she did what she had done before--just shut her eyes and fluttered round and round till a baby fell out of the nest. She thought there was no help for it, and, like some people are, she thought what the eye didn't see the heart wouldn't feel; but her heart was very sore, and she cried more sadly than ever, and this time she said, 'Oo-oo, oo-oo, oo-oo!' It was very sad and sorrowful to listen to 'Oo-oo, oo-oo, oo-oo!' "Here came old Oom Reijer. He is a kind old bird, though he holds his neck so crooked and looks like there was nothing to smile at in the whole wide world. "'Ach! why do you cry so sadly, Tante? It nearly gives me a stitch in my side.' "'Oo-oo! I'm very miserable. Oom Jakhals has eaten two of my little children, and to-morrow he will come for another, and soon I shall have none left.' "'But why did you let him eat them?' "'Because he said if I didn't give him one he would fly up and eat them all. Oo-oo-oo!' "Then Oom Reijer was very angry. He flapped his wings, and stretched out his long neck--so, my baasjes, just so" (the children hugged themselves in silent delight at Outa's fine acting)--"and he opened and shut his long beak to show how he would like to peck out Oom Jakhals's wicked eyes if he could only catch him. "'That vervlakste Jakhals!' he said. 'To tell such lies! But, Tante, you are stupid. Don't you know Oom Jakhals can't fly? Now listen to me. When he comes again, tell him you know he can't fly, and that you won't give him any more of your children.' "The next day there came Oom Jakhals again with his old story, but Tante just laughed at him. "'Ach, no! you story-telling Bushytail!' she said, 'I won't give you any more of my little children, and you needn't say you'll fly up and eat them, because I know you can't.' "'Nier-r-r, nier-r-r!' said Oom Jakhals, growling, 'how do you know that?' "'Oom Reijer told me, so there!' said Tante. 'And you can just go to your mother!' "My! but Tante was getting brave now that she knew she and her little children were safe. That was the worst insult you can ever give a grown-up jakhals, and Oom Jakhals growled more than ever. "'Never mind,' he said at last, 'Tante is only a vrouwmens; I won't bother with her any more. But wait till I catch Oom Reijer. He'll be sorry he poked his long nose into my business, the old meddler,' and he trotted off to look for him. "He hunted and hunted, and at last he found him standing on one leg at the side of the river, with his long neck drawn in and his head resting on his shoulders. "'Good day, Oom Reijer,' he said politely. 'How is Oom to-day?' "'I'm all right,' answered Oom Reijer shortly, without moving an inch. "Jakhals spoke in a little small voice--ach! toch so humble. 'Oom, please come this way a little: I'm so stupid, but you are so wise and clever, and I want to ask your advice about something.' "Oom Reijer began to listen. It is maar so when people hear about themselves. He put down his other leg, stretched out his neck, and asked over his shoulder, 'What did you say, eh?' "'Come toch this way a little; the mud over there is too soft for me to stand on. I want your valuable advice about the wind. The other people all say I must ask you, because no one is as wise as you.' "Truly Jakhals was a slim kerel! He knew how to stroke Oom Reijer's feathers the right way. "Oom Reijer came slowly over the mud--a person mustn't show he is too pleased: he even stopped to swallow a little frog on the way, and then he said, carelesslike, 'Yes, I can tell you all about the wind and weather. Ask what you like, Jakhals.' His long neck twisted about with pride. "Oom, when the wind is from the west, how must one hold one's head?' "'Is that all?' said Oom Reijer. 'Just so.' And he turned his head to the east. "'Thank you, Oom. And when the wind is from the east?' "'So.' Oom Reijer bent his neck the other way. "'Thank you, Oom,' said the little small voice, so grateful and humble. 'But when there is a storm and the rain beats down, how then?' "'So!' said Oom Reijer, and he bent his neck down till his head nearly touched his toes. "My little masters, just as quickly as a whip-snake shoots into his hole, so Jakhals shot out his arm and caught Oom Reijer on the bend of his neck--crack!--and in a minute the poor old bird was rolling in the mud with his neck nearly broken, and so weak that he couldn't even lift his beak to peck at the false wicked eyes that were staring at him. "O! how glad was cruel Jakhals! He laughed till he couldn't any more. He screamed and danced with pleasure. He waved his bushy tail, and the silver mane on his back bristled as he jumped about. "'Ha! ha! ha! Oom thought to do me a bad turn, but I'll teach people not to interfere with me. Ha! ha! ha! No one is as wise as Oom Reijer, eh? Then he will soon find out how to mend his broken neck. Ha! ha! ha!' "Jakhals gave one last spring right over poor Oom Reijer, and danced off to his den in the kopjes to tell Tante Jakhals and the little Jakhalsjes how he had cheated Oom Reijer. "And from that day, baasjes, Oom Reijer's neck is crooked: he can't hold it straight; and it's all through trying to interfere with Jakhals. That is why I said Jakhals is a slim kerel. Whether he walks on four legs or on two, the best is maar to leave him alone because he can always make a plan, and no one ever gets the better of him without paying for it in the end." XIV. THE LITTLE RED TORTOISE. "No Jakhals story to-night, please, Outa," said little Jan, as they gathered round the fire. "We all think Jakhals was a cruel horrid creature, eating the poor little Doves and cracking the good Heron's neck." "Yes," chimed in Pietie, "he was always playing wicked tricks, so no more Jakhals for us. What will you tell us to-night, Outa?" "Something really nice," suggested Willem, "and not unkind." Outa's beady black eyes twinkled from one to another of his little masters, while an affectionate smile spread over his yellow face, accentuating the wrinkles which criss-crossed it in every direction. "Ach! the soft young hearts! Outa's heart was like that once, too, but"--he shook his head--"if the heart doesn't get a little taai like a biltong, it is of no use to a person in this old hard world." He deposited his shapeless hat on the floor, tapped his red kopdoek with a clawlike forefinger, and waited for an inspiration. It came from an unexpected quarter, for suddenly there was a commotion at the end of his old coat, the tails of which hung down nearly to the floor, and, diving into his pocket, the old man triumphantly produced a squirming tortoise. "See what Outa caught for the baasjes near the Klip Kop this afternoon--a nice little berg schilpad. [9] Now Baas Willem can put it in his kraal with the others and let it lay eggs. It is still young, but it will grow--yes, so big." A cart-wheel might have been comfortably contained in the circle described by Outa's arms. It was a knobbly, darkly-marked tortoise, quite unlike those the little boys generally found in the veld near the house, and they took possession of it with delight and suggestions as to a name. After discussion, honours were equally in favour of "Piet Retief" and "Mrs. Van Riebeeck," and it was decided that the casting vote should be left to Cousin Minnie, the children's governess. For a long time they had kept tortoises of all sorts and sizes in their schilpad-kraal, and so tame and intelligent had some of these creatures grown that they would come when called, and big old "Woltemade" roamed about at will, often disappearing for a time, and returning to his companions after a few days in the veld. Outa turned the new acquisition on its back on the jackalskin rug, where it lay wriggling and going through the strangest contortions. "Ach! the wise little man. Is it there its mother sprinkled it with buchu, [10] there, just under its arm?" He touched the skinny under-side of one of its forelegs. "Here, Baas Willem, put it in the soap-boxie till to-morrow. Ach! if only it had been a red tortoise, how glad Outa would have been!" "A red tortoise!" echoed Pietie and little Jan, while Willem hurried back from the passage to hear all about it. "And have the baasjes then never heard of a red tortoise? Yes, certainly, sometimes a red one is born, but not often--only once in a thousand years; and when this happens the news is sent round, because it is such a wonderful thing; and the whole nation of Schilpads--those frogs with bony shields and hard beaks--are glad because they know the little red one has come to help them against their enemies. "Once a long, long time ago a mother Schilpad laid an egg in a shallow hole in the sand, just where the sun could warm it all the day, and she scraped a little sand over it, so that no one could see it. See baasjes, she was afraid of thieves. It was white and round, and so large that she felt very proud of it, and she often went to see how it was getting on. One day, as she got near the place she heard a little voice: 'Peep! Peep! Mam-ma, mam-ma, come and find me.' "So she called out, 'Kindje, kindje, here's your mam-ma.' My! but she walked fast! Her short legs just went so"--Outa's arms worked vigorously--"and when she got to the karroo-bush where she had put the egg the shell was broken and a little Red Tortoise was sitting alongside of it! "His shell was soft, and you could see everything inside of him, and how the blood went this way and that way: but never mind, it is maar so with little tortoises. He was fine and healthy, and everything about him was quite red. Alle wereld! old Mam-ma was proud! She went and told all her friends, and they came from all sides to see the little Red Tortoise. There were berg tortoises, and vlakte tortoises, and zand-kruipers, and even water tortoises, young and old, and they all sat round and praised him and gave him good advice and nice things to eat. "He listened to everything and ate all the nice things, and grew bigger and redder and harder, but he didn't talk much, and the Old Ones nodded to each other and said, 'Ach, but he is sensible!' But the Young Ones said, 'Ach, but he is stuck-up!' and they went away and crawled in the red clay to make themselves red. But it was no good. In a little while it all rubbed off. "At last all the visitor Schilpads went home again. But the little Red Tortoise stayed with his Mam-ma, and went on growing bigger and redder and harder, and his Mam-ma was toch so proud of him! "When he walked in the veld and the other young tortoises said to him, 'Come, we'll show you the way to do things; you must do so, and you must do so,' he said, 'You can do so if you like, but I'll do things my own way!' And they said 'Stuck-up Red Thing! Wait, Oubaas Giraffe will get you!' But they left him alone, and although they all wished they were red, they did not crawl in the clay any more: they knew it was no good. It was only from outside, so it soon rubbed off, but the little Red One's redness was from inside; and baasjes know, for a thing to be any good it must be on the inside." He glanced involuntarily at the wall-cupboard where his soopje was safely locked up: it would certainly not be any good, in his opinion, till it was on the inside of him. "But when the Old Tortoises gave him advice, the little Red Tortoise listened and thanked them. He was a wise little man. He knew when to speak and when to hold his tongue. "At that time, my baasjes, the whole Tortoise nation was having a hard time with Oubaas Giraffe--that old horse with the long neck and the unequal legs, who is all white and black like a burnt thornbush [11] with crows sitting on it. He gives blue ashes when he is burnt, therefore is he called the Blue One. "He had taken to eating tortoises. They didn't know what to do. They tried to make a plan, but no! they could find no remedy. Whenever Oubaas Giraffe saw a nice young tortoise that he could easily swallow, he picked it up in his mouth, and from fright it pulled its head and all its feet into its shell, and--goops!--one swallow and it had sailed down the Blue One's long throat, just like baasjes sail down the plank at the side of the skeer-kraal. "The little Red Tortoise listened to the plans that were made, and at last he thought of a plan. He was not sure how it would go, but he was a brave little one, and he thought by himself, 'If it goes wrong, there will be no more little Red Tortoise: but if it goes right, then the whole Tortoise nation will be able to live again.' "So what did he do, my baasjes? He crawled out far in the veld and sat in the path where the Old Blue One liked to walk. Soon he heard goof, goof, goof, coming nearer and nearer. Then the noise stopped. The little Red One peeped from under his shell. Yes, there was the great Blue One, standing over him and looking very fierce. "Do you know, little Red Tortoise, in one moment I could trample you to death?' "The little Red One was very frightened, for this was not his plan, but he said nothing. "'Do you know, little Red Tortoise, in one moment I could swallow you?' "Ach! how glad was the little Red Tortoise! But he only said in a small little voice, 'Yes, noble Blue One, I belong to the nation whom it is the custom to swallow. Please swallow me!' "Oubaas Giraffe picked him up and gave a little gulp, and the little Red Tortoise slipped half-way down his long throat. But ojé! here a strange thing happened. The little Red One would go no further. Instead of drawing in his head and legs and slipping down like a stone, like all the other tortoises had done, he wanted to see where he was going, so he stuck out his head, and fastened his sharp little nails into Oubaas Giraffe's gullet, and there he hung like a bat on a wall. "'Go down, go down, little Tortoise! You choke me!' The Old Blue One could hardly speak; his throat was so full of tortoise. "'Peep! peep!' said the little Red One, and held on more tightly than ever. "'Come up, come up, little Tortoise! You kill me!' The Old Blue One was stamping and gurgling now. "'Peep! peep!' said the little Red One, and hung on with his hard bent beak as well. He thought, 'No! too many of my nation have sailed down this red sloot. I won't let go.' "I tell you, baasjes, Oubaas Giraffe danced and pranced over the veld; he screamed and bellowed; he gurgled and swallowed; he tried to get the little Red Tortoise down, and he tried to get him up; but it was no use. The little Red One clung fast to him till he was quite choked, and sank down in the sand and died. "Then the little Red Tortoise crawled out, and went home to tell his Mam-ma that he had killed Oubaas Giraffe and that his nation could have peace again. Ach! but she was proud of him! "'It's not for nothing you were born red,' she said. 'Come here, my little Crab, that I may put buchu under your arm. Come, my crooked-legged little one, let your mother sprinkle you with buchu!' "When she had sprinkled him with buchu, they went and told their friends, and all the Tortoise nation rejoiced and went and had a great feast off Oubaas Giraffe as he lay dead in the veld. "And they thought more of the little Red Tortoise than ever. Even the Young Ones, who had been angry with him, said, 'He is wiser than we are. We will listen to what he says. P'r'aps, after all, there is something in being born a certain colour.'" XV. THE OSTRICH HUNT. The next day all the time that was not given to lessons and meals was spent by the little boys in scouring the veld for a red tortoise. Disappointment at their fruitless search found vent in no measured terms when Outa Karel appeared in the dining-room at his usual hour. "Ach, to hear them now!" he said, regarding them with his wide-mouthed smile of amused tolerance. "Does it then rain red tortoises? And how can the baasjes think they will find at the first shot a thing that only comes once in a thousand years?" "Well," said Willem, stoutly, "it might just have been the time for one. How were we to know?" "Outa," asked little Jan, earnestly, "do you know when it will be red tortoise time again?" "Aja, baasjes," said Outa readily, "it won't be long now. Let Outa think." He performed a tattoo on the red kopdoek--a sure sign that he was in the thick of mental gymnastics. "What comes just before a thousand, my baasjes?" "Nine hundred and ninety-nine," answered Pietie, who was good at arithmetic. "Now, yes," said Outa, triumphantly, "I knew it must be nearly time. It is nine hundred and ninety-nine years since there was a red tortoise, so next year this time baasjes can begin to look for one. Only begin, my baasjes, because it will only be creeping out of the egg then. And p'r'aps it won't be in this veld. It might be far, far away where people don't know about a red tortoise, and so no one will look for him. Must Outa tell another story about him?" The sly old man had taken the best way of escaping more questions. The little boys gathered round and listened wide-eyed as he told the story of the Tortoises hunting the Ostriches. "After Oubaas Giraffe was dead, the Tortoises had a nice life for a long time, and then there came into their veld Old Three Sticks, the Ostrich, with his mam-ma and pap-pa, and his wives, and uncles, and aunties, and children, and friends. Alla! there were a lot of Ostriches! The whole veld was full of them, and they all began eating tortoises wherever they could find them. It was just the same like when Oubaas Giraffe used to go about. And the tortoises thought and thought, and they talked and talked, but they couldn't make a plan that would drive the Ostriches away. "The little Red Tortoise was thinking, too, but he didn't talk till he had his plan ready. Then he called all the Tortoises together. The Old Ones came because they wanted to hear what the wise little Red One had to say, and the Young Ones came because ever since he had killed Oubaas Giraffe they had listened to him. When they were all together he said, 'It now goes on too long, this hunting of the Tortoises by Old Three Sticks and his friends. Let us change places and let us, the Tortoise people, go and hunt Ostriches.' "'Peep! peep!' cried all the young Tortoises: they were quite ready. But the Old Ones said, 'Is this the wise little Red One? How is it possible for us to hunt Ostriches?' "'It is possible, because Ostriches never run straight, but always a little in the round, and a little in the round, so that in the end if they run long enough they come again to the place they began from. Now yes, on a certain day let us then go into the veld where the Ostriches like to hunt, and let us make two long rows, not straight out but always in the round; one ring, very large, outside, and the other, smaller, inside. Then when Old Three Sticks and his friends come we will call one to the other and drive them on, and they will flee through the midst of us, round and round and round till they can flee no longer.' "'Peep! peep!' said the young Tortoises, and the Old Ones joined in. They saw that it was a good plan, so they all went to the hunting veld of Old Three Sticks and his friends and spread themselves out, as the little Red Tortoise had said. "Soon the Ostriches came, pecking, pecking, as they walked. "The Tortoises sat very still, waiting, my baasjes, just waiting, till the Ostriches were right in the middle of the two rings. Then the little Red Tortoise gave the signal, 'Peep! Peep!' and at once the calling began. "'Are you there?' called the first Tortoise. "'I am here,' said the next, and so it went on all round the circle, one calling to the other. "'What are you doing?' called the first one. "Hunting Ostriches,' said the next, and so it went on all round the circle again, one calling to the other. "The Ostriches could see nothing. They could only hear voices calling. They looked at each other and said, 'What are these voices? It is surely a great army come to hunt us. Let us get away.' "They were very frightened and began to run, and as far as they ran they heard:-- "'Are you there?' "'I am here.' "'What are you doing?' "'Hunting Ostriches.' "So it went on, over and over again. The Tortoises never moved, only kept calling out. And the Ostriches ran faster and faster, all in the round, till at last they were so tired they couldn't run any more. First one fell, and then another, and another, and another, till there were heaps of them lying about, and just where they fell they lay quite still. They were too tired to move. "Then the Tortoises gathered together--they were very many--and they bit Old Three Sticks and all his family and friends on their long necks and killed them. "Since then the Tortoises have had peace from the Long-necked People--Oubaas Giraffe and old Three Sticks. It is only the Things of the Air, like Crows and Lammervangers, that still hunt them, and baasjes know how they do? They catch a poor Tortoise in their claws and fly away with him, high up over a kopje, and then they drop him on the stones--kabloops!--and there he lies with his shell all broken, and without a shell how can a Tortoise live? And then the Thing of the Air comes and eats him up, and that is the end of the poor Tortoise. But a Red Tortoise they never touch. It is his colour, baasjes, that frightens them. So the Young Tortoises were right when they said, 'There is something, after all, in being born a certain colour.' "After the Ostrich hunt, the little Red Tortoise was sprinkled with buchu under both arms, and his Mam-ma sang him this song:-- The little crook-legged one! I could sprinkle it, Sprinkle it with buchu under its arms. The little red crab! The little Wise One! I sprinkle the buchu under both arms. For the Long-necks, they that ate us, It has found a way to kill them; So we sprinkle it, the little Red One, Sprinkle the buchu under both arms." The usual discussion took place when Outa had finished, and at last Pietie said, "If I had to be a Tortoise, I'd be a red one." "Why, my little master?" "Because the Crows and Lammervangers don't catch it. To be swallowed by an ostrich or stick in a giraffe's throat would not be so bad, but I'd hate to be broken on the stones." "Ach! my baasje, no matter how Old Friend Death comes, we are never ready for him. When Outa was young he was nearly killed by a troop of springbucks, and he thought, 'No, not toch trampled to death; to be carried down the river is better.' But when the flood came and the river carried Outa away, he fought for his life just as hard as when the springbucks were on him. It was the same when the hut was burnt, and when the mad bull chased Outa across the veld. Over and over again the same. Always another sort of death seems better. Always Old Friend Death finds a man not quite ready for him." "And now how would you like him to find you, Outa?" asked Willem with much interest. A whimsical smile spread over the old man's face. "Ach! to hear him! Just sitting in the sun, my baasje, by the skeer-kraal wall, where I have sat for so many, many years. When he comes I will say, 'Morning, Old Friend, you have been a long time on the road--ach! so long, that I am tired of waiting. Let us go at once.' A person needn't pack up for that trek, baasjes. I'll just drop my old sheepskin kaross, and take Old Friend Death's hand and let him show me the way. It is far, my baasjes, far to that land, and no one ever comes back from it. Then someone else will tell the stories by the fire: there will be no Outa any more to talk to the little masters." His voice had dropped to a musing tone. "Don't! Don't!" cried Pietie in a choked voice. "Outa, you mustn't say such things," said Willem, and they each seized one of Outa's crooked hands, while little Jan clung to his old coat as though he would never let it go. "I want my Outa," he cried. "He mustn't go away. I want my Outa Karel!" The old man's eyes glistened with a moisture not often seen in them. "Still! still! my little baasjes," he said, stroking first one and then another. "Outa doesn't want to make them sad. He is not going yet. He will sit here and tell his foolish stories for many nights yet." A caressing smile broke over his grotesque face. "And do they then want to keep their Outa? Ach! to think of it! The kind little hearts! But what will the Nooi say if the eyes are juicy? No, Outa only said about the skeer-kraal and sitting in the sun because it sounds so nice and friendly. Look how lively and well Outa is--like a young bull-calf!" He pretended playfully to toss them. "That's right, my children, now you laugh again. But young bull-calves must also go in the kraal, and the hut is calling Outa. Night, my baasjes, night, night. Sleep well. To-morrow Outa will tell them another beautiful story. Ach, the dear little ones! So good to their ugly Outa!" Followed by a chorus of "good-nights" from the children; the old man shuffled away, not knowing that he had spoken with prophetic voice, and that Friend Death would find him, even as he wished, sitting in the sun by the skeer-kraal. But that was not yet awhile, and he told many stories before setting out on the Great Trek for the Unknown Veld whence no traveller returns. Glasgow: Printed at the University Press by Robert Maclehose and Co. Ltd. NOTES [1] Sassaby (also spelt Sesseby) or Bastard Hartebeest are much smaller than the Hartebeest proper, and are found in open veld near forest country. [2] The Hyena, on first starting, appears lame in the hind legs--a fact accounted for by the Hottentots in the foregoing fable. [3] "Berry, berry, blackberry, Hold your hands together." [4] The Kaap--Cape Town. [5] It is both curious and interesting to find the identical belief obtaining amongst races so widely different as the Scandinavians of Northern Europe and the Bushmen of South Africa.--See Hans Andersen's Little Match Girl: "Her Grandmother had told her that when a star fell down a soul mounted up to God." [6] "When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."--Job xxxviii. 7. [7] According to a Hottentot legend, the hare is related to the donkey. [8] Voertsed.--Evidently a word of Outa's coining, meaning to jump round suddenly and violently. [9] Mountain tortoise. [10] An aromatic veld herb, from which a decoction is made. Sprinkling buchu under the arm is a Hottentot custom in token of approval. [11] The Mimosa, which is white when burnt by the sun. OTHER FOLK-LORE TALES FAIRY TALES FROM SOUTH AFRICA. Collected and arranged by Mrs. E. J. Bourhill and Mrs. J. B. Drake. Illustrated by W. Herbert Holloway. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. ATHENAEUM.--"A charming collection of stories which would make a capital gift-book for children.... The illustrations by Mr. W. H. Holloway are exceedingly good." OUTLOOK.--"Not only are the stories admirably related and of absorbing interest, as true folk-tales should be, but they are materially aided by Mr. Holloway's splendid black-and-whites." THE CROCK OF GOLD. By James Stephens. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. EVENING STANDARD.--"A delicate fairy extravaganza, difficult to class with any other book. It has extraordinary flashes of beauty, any amount of whimsical humour, and ends in an ecstasy that has about it a touch of Borrow and a note from the very flute of Pan." PUNCH.--"A fairy fantasy, elvish, grotesque, realistic, allegorical, humorous, satirical, idealistic, and poetical by turns ... and very beautiful." FOLK TALES OF BREFFNY. By B. Hunt. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. SPECTATOR.--"Wholly delightful volume.... These folk-tales are rich in the qualities of poetry, wit, and intelligence, and though the part which Miss Hunt has played is not that of a creator, her versions are marked by such unfailing charm, such happy and characteristic turns of phrase, that she deserves to rank with those musicians like Francis Korbay, who have lent fresh lustre to folk tunes by the beauty and picturesqueness of their settings." FOLK TALES OF BENGAL. By the Rev. Lal Behari Day. Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. Also with 32 Illustrations in Colour by Warwick Goble. Crown 4to. 15s. net. Edition de Luxe. Demy 4to. 42s. net. MORNING POST.--"As a faithful mirror of Bengali beliefs by no means extinct, they can be cordially recommended to lovers of supernatural romance. Mr. Warwick Goble has provided them also with charming illustrations, in which the lines and folds of Eastern drapery, the blues and greens of forests and skies, together with the dignity and simplicity of the figures, make up an enchantment which few will be able to resist." PAPUAN FAIRY TALES. By Annie Ker. Illustrated. Extra Crown 8vo. 5s. net. WESTMINSTER GAZETTE.--"Some of the charm of the stories is without a doubt due to the charm of Miss Ker's manner of retelling the tales; but she had fair material to work upon, and the volume, with its photographic illustrations of native life, is quite delightful, and will interest general readers as well as specialists in folk-lore." TALES OF OLD JAPAN. By Lord Redesdale. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. Globe 8vo. 1s. net. NOTES AND QUERIES.--"By far the most striking, instructive, and authentic book upon Japan and the Japanese which has ever been laid before the English reader." CHINESE FOLK-LORE TALES. By Rev. J. Macgowan, D.D. Crown 8vo. 3s. net. DAILY NEWS.--"This is a most interesting volume of stories.... A book which has given us great pleasure." LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd. 
34263	----	http://www.archive.org/details/banshee_00odon THE BANSHEE by ELLIOT O'DONNELL Author of "Haunted Places in England," "The Irish Abroad," "Twenty Years Experiences As a Ghost Hunter," Etc., Etc. London and Edinburgh Sands & Company CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. THE DEFINITION AND ORIGIN OF BANSHEES 9 II. SOME HISTORICAL BANSHEES 20 III. THE MALEVOLENT BANSHEE 35 IV. THE BANSHEE ABROAD 51 V. CASES OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY 62 VI. DUAL AND TRIPLE BANSHEE HAUNTINGS 80 VII. A SIMILAR CASE FROM SPAIN 98 VIII. THE BANSHEE ON THE BATTLE-FIELD 124 IX. THE BANSHEE AT SEA 136 X. ALLEGED COUNTERPARTS OF THE BANSHEE 149 XI. THE BANSHEE IN POETRY AND PROSE 176 XII. THE BANSHEE IN SCOTLAND 196 XIII. MY OWN EXPERIENCES WITH THE BANSHEE 232 ADDENDA 247 THE BANSHEE CHAPTER I THE DEFINITION AND ORIGIN OF BANSHEES In a country, such as Ireland, that is characterised by an arrestive and wildly beautiful scenery, it is not at all surprising to find something in the nature of a ghost harmonising with the general atmosphere and surroundings, and that something, apparently so natural to Ireland, is the Banshee. The name Banshee seems to be a contraction of the Irish Bean Sidhe, which is interpreted by some writers on the subject "A Woman of the Faire Race," whilst by various other writers it is said to signify "The Lady of Death," "The Woman of Sorrow," "The Spirit of the Air," and "The Woman of the Barrow." It is strictly a family ghost, and most authorities agree that it only haunts families of very ancient Irish lineage. Mr McAnnaly, for instance, remarks (in the chapter on Banshees in his "Irish Wonders"): "The Banshee attends only the old families, and though their descendants, through misfortune, may be brought down from high estate to ranks of peasant farmers, she never leaves nor forgets them till the last member has been gathered to his fathers in the churchyard." A writer in the _Journal of the Cork Historical and Archæological Society_ (Vol. V., No. 44, pp. 227-229) quotes an extract from a work entitled "Kerry Records," in which the following passage, relating to an elegiac poem written by Pierse Ferriter on Maurice Fitzgerald, occurs: "Aina, the Banshee who never wailed for any families who were not of Milesian blood, except the Geraldines, who became 'more Irish than the Irish themselves'; and in a footnote (see p. 229) it is only 'blood' that can have a Banshee. Business men nowadays have something as good as 'blood'--they have 'brains and brass,' by which they can compete with and enter into the oldest families in England and Ireland. Nothing, however, in an Irishman's estimation, can replace 'blue blood.'" Sir Walter Scott, too, emphasises this point, and is even more specific and arbitrary. He confines the Banshee to families of pure Milesian stock, and declares it is never to be found attached to the descendants of the multitudinous English and Scotch settlers who have, from time to time, migrated to Ireland; nor even to the descendants of the Norman adventurers who accompanied Strongbow to the Green Isle in the twelfth century. Lady Wilde[1] goes to the other extreme and allows considerable latitude. She affirms that the Banshee attaches itself not only to certain families of historic lineage, but also to persons gifted with song and music. For my own part I am inclined to adopt a middle course; I do not believe that the Banshee would be deterred from haunting a family of historical fame and Milesian descent--such as the O'Neills or O'Donnells--simply because in that family was an occasional strain of Saxon or Norman blood, but, on the other hand, I do not think the Banshee would ever haunt a family that was not originally at least Celtic Irish--such, for instance, as the Fitz-Williams or Fitz-Warrens--although in that family there might happen to be periodic infusions of Milesian blood. I disagree, _in toto_, with Lady Wilde's theory that, occasionally, the Banshee haunts a person who is extremely poetical and musical, simply because he happens to be thus talented. In my opinion, to be haunted by the Banshee one must belong to an Irish family that is, at least, a thousand years old; were it not so, we should assuredly find the Banshee haunting certain of the musical and poetical geniuses of every race all over the world--black and yellow, perhaps, no less than white--which certainly is not the case. The Banshee, however, as Mr McAnnaly says, does, sometimes, travel; it travels when, and only when, it accompanies abroad one of the most ancient of the Irish families; otherwise it stays in Ireland, where, owing to the fact that there are few of the really old Irish families left, its demonstrations are becoming more and more rare. It may, perhaps, be said that in Dublin, Cork, and other of the Irish towns one may still come across a very fair percentage of O's and Macs. That, undoubtedly, is true, but, at the same time, it must be borne in mind that these prefixes do not invariably denote the true Irishman, since many families yclept Thompson, Walker, and Smith, merely on the strength of having lived in Ireland for two or three generations, have adopted an Irish--and in some cases, even, a Celtic Irish name, relying upon their knowledge of a few Celtic words picked up from books, or from attending some of the numerous classes now being held in nearly all the big towns, and which are presided over by teachers who are also, for the most part, merely pseudo-Irish--to give colour to their claim. Such a pretence, however, does not deceive those who are really Irish, neither does it deceive the Banshee, and the latter, I am quite sure, would never be persuaded to follow the fortunes of any Anglo-Saxon, or Scotch, Dick, Tom, or Harry, no matter how clever and convincing their camouflage might be. Once again, then, the Banshee confines itself solely to families of _bona-fide_ ancient Irish descent. As to its origin, in spite of arbitrary assertions made by certain people, none of whom, by the way, are of Irish extraction--that no one knows. As a matter of fact the Banshee has a number of origins, for there is not one Banshee only--as so many people seem to think--but many; each clan possessing a Banshee of its own. The O'Donnell Banshee, for example, that is to say the Banshee attached to our branch of the clan, and to which I can testify from personal experience, is, I believe, very different in appearance, and in its manner of making itself known, from the Banshee of the O'Reardons, as described by Mr McAnnaly; whilst the Banshee of a certain branch of the O'Flahertys, according to this same authority, differs essentially from that of a branch of the O'Neills. Mr McAnnaly says the Banshee "is really a disembodied soul, that of one who, in life, was strongly attached to the family, or who had good reason to hate all its members." This definition, of course, may apply in some cases, but it certainly does not apply in all, and it is absurd to be dogmatic on a subject, concerning which it is quite impossible to obtain a very great deal of information. At the most, Mr McAnnaly can only speak with certainty of the comparatively few cases of Banshees that have come under his observation; there are, I think, scores of which he has never even heard. I myself know of several Banshee hauntings in which the phantom certainly cannot be that of any member of the human race; its features and proportions absolutely negative such a possibility, and I should have no hesitation in affirming that, in these cases, the phantom is what is commonly known as an elemental, or what I have termed in previous of my works, a neutrarian, that is a spirit that has never inhabited any material body, and which belongs to a species entirely distinct from man. On the other hand, several cases of Banshee hauntings I have come across undoubtedly admit the possibility of the phantom being that of a woman belonging to the human race, albeit to a very ancient and long since obsolete section of it; whilst a few, only, allow of the probability of the phantom being that of a woman, also human, but belonging to a very much later date. Certainly, as Mr McAnnaly stated, Banshees may be divided into two main classes, the Friendly Banshees and the Hateful Banshees; the former exhibiting sorrow on their advent, and the latter, exultation. But these classes are capable of almost endless sub-division; the only feature they possess in common being a vague something that strongly suggests the feminine sex. In most cases the cause of the hauntings can only be a matter of conjecture. Affection or crime may account for some, but, for the origin of others, I believe one must look in a totally different direction. For instance, one might, perhaps, see some solution in sorcery and witchcraft, since there must be many families, who, in bygone days, dabbled in those pursuits, that are now Banshee ridden. Or, again, granted there is some truth in the theory of Atlantis, the theory that a whole continent was submerged owing to the wickedness of its inhabitants, who were all more or less adepts in necromancy--the most ancient of the Irish, the so-called Milesian clans who are known to have practised sorcery, might well be identical with the survivors of that great cataclysm, and have brought with them to the Green Island spirits which have stuck to their descendants ever since. I think one may dismiss Mr C. W. Leadbeater's[2] and other writers' (of the same would-be authoritative order) assertion that family ghosts may be either a thought-form or an unusually vivid impression in the astral light, as absurd. Spiritualists and others, who blindly reverence highfalutin phraseology, however empty it may be, might be satisfied with such an explanation, but not so those who have had actual experience with the ghost in question. Whatever else the Banshee may, or may not be, it is most certainly a denizen of a world quite distinct from ours; it is, besides, a being that has prophetic powers (which would not be the case if it were a mere thought-form or impression), and it is by no means a mere automaton. Some Banshees represent very beautiful women--women with long, luxuriant tresses, either of raven black, or burnished copper, or brilliant gold, and whose star-like eyes, full of tender pity, are either dark and tearful, or of the most exquisite blue or grey; some, again, are haggish, wild, dishevelled-looking creatures, whose appearance suggests the utmost squalor, foulness, and despair; whilst a few, fortunately, I think, only a few, take the form of something that is wholly diabolical, and frightful, and terrifying in the extreme. As a rule, however, the Banshee is not seen, it is only heard, and it announces its advent in a variety of ways; sometimes by groaning, sometimes by wailing, and sometimes by uttering the most blood-curdling of screams, which I can only liken to the screams a woman might make if she were being done to death in a very cruel and violent manner. Occasionally I have heard of Banshees clapping their hands, and tapping and scratching at walls and window-panes, and, not infrequently, I have heard of them signalling their arrival by terrific crashes and thumps. Also, I have met with the Banshee that simply chuckles--a low, short, but terribly expressive chuckle, that makes ten times more impression on the mind of the hearer than any other ghostly sound he has heard, and which no lapse of time is ever able to efface from his memory. I, for one, have heard the sound, and as I sit here penning these lines, I fancy I can hear it again--a Satanic chuckle, a chuckle full of mockery, as if made by one who was in the full knowledge of coming events, of events that would present an extremely unpleasant surprise. And, in my case, the unpleasant surprise came. I have always been a believer in a spirit world--in the unknown--but had I been ever so sceptical previously, after hearing that chuckle, I am quite sure I should have been converted. In concluding this chapter I must refer once again to Mr McAnnaly, who, in his "Irish Wonders," records a very remarkable instance of a number of Banshees manifesting themselves simultaneously. He says that the demonstrations occurred before the death of a member of the Galway O'Flahertys "some years ago."[3] The doomed one, he states, was a lady of the most unusual piety, who, though ill at the time, was not thought to be seriously ill. Indeed, she got so much better that several of her acquaintances came to her room to enliven her convalescence, and it was when they were there, all talking together merrily, that singing was suddenly heard, apparently outside the window. They listened, and could distinctly hear a choir of very sweet voices singing some extraordinarily plaintive air, which made them turn pale and look at one another apprehensively, for they all felt intuitively it was a chorus of Banshees. Nor were their surmises incorrect, for the patient unexpectedly developed pleurisy, and died within a few days, the same choir of spirit voices being again heard at the moment of physical dissolution. But as Mr McAnnaly states, the ill-fated lady was of singular purity, which doubtless explains the reason why, in my researches, I have never come across a parallel case. CHAPTER II SOME HISTORICAL BANSHEES Amongst the most popular cases of Banshee haunting both published and unpublished is that related by Ann, Lady Fanshawe, in her Memoirs. It seems that Lady Fanshawe experienced this haunting when on a visit to Lady Honora O'Brien, daughter of Henry, fifth Earl of Thomond,[4] who was then, in all probability, residing at the ancient castle of Lemaneagh, near Lake Inchiquin, about thirty miles north-west of Limerick. Retiring to rest somewhat early the first night of her sojourn there, she was awakened at about one o'clock by the sound of a voice, and, drawing aside the hangings of the bed, she perceived, looking in through the window at her, the face of a woman. The moonlight being very strong and fully focussed on it, she could see every feature with startling distinctness; but at the same time her attention was apparently riveted on the extraordinary pallor of the cheeks and the intense redness of the hair. Then, to quote her own words, the apparition "spake loud, and in a tone I never heard, thrice 'Ahone,' and then with a sigh, more like wind than breath, she vanished, and to me her body looked more like a thick cloud than substance. "I was so much affrighted that my hair stood on end, and my night clothes fell off. I pulled and pinched your father, who never awaked during this disorder I was in, but at last was much surprised to find me in this fright, and more when I related the story and showed him the window opened; but he entertained me with telling how much more these apparitions were usual in that country than in England." The following morning Lady Honora, who did not appear to have been to bed, informed Lady Fanshawe that a cousin of hers had died in the house at about two o'clock in the morning; and expressed a hope that Lady Fanshawe had not been subjected to any disturbances. "When any die of this family," she said by way of explanation, "there is the shape of a woman appears in this window every night until they be dead." She went on to add that the apparition was believed to be that of a woman who, centuries before, had been seduced by the owner of the castle and murdered, her body being buried under the window of the room in which Lady Fanshawe had slept. "But truly," she remarked, by way of apology, "I thought not of it when I lodged you here." Another well-known case of the Banshee is that relating to the O'Flahertys of Galway, reference being made to the case by Mr McAnnaly in his work entitled "Irish Wonders." In the days of much inter-clan fighting in Ireland, when the O'Neills frequently embarked on crusades against their alternate friends and enemies the O'Donnells, and the O'Rourks[5] embarked on similar crusades against the O'Donovans, it so happened that one night the chief of the O'Flahertys, arrayed in all the brilliance of a new suit of armour, and feeling more than usually cheerful and fit, marched out of his castle at the head of a numerous body of his retainers, who were all, like their chief, in good spirits, and talking and singing gaily. They had not proceeded far, however, when a sudden and quite inexplicable silence ensued--a silence that was abruptly broken by a series of agonising screams, that seemed to come from just over their heads. Instantly everyone was sobered, and naturally looked up, expecting to see something that would explain the extraordinary and terrifying disturbance; nothing, however, was to be seen, nothing but a vast expanse of cloudless sky, innumerable scintillating stars, and the moon which was shining forth in all the serene majesty of its zenith. Yet, despite the fact that nothing was visible, everyone felt a presence that was at once sorrowful and weird, and which one and all instinctively knew was the Banshee, the attendant spirit of the O'Flahertys, come to warn them of some approaching catastrophe. The next night, when the chieftain and his followers were again sallying forth, the same thing happened, but, after that, nothing of a similar nature occurred for about a month. Then the wife of the O'Flaherty, during the absence of her husband on one of these foraging expeditions, had an experience. She had gone to bed one night and was restlessly tossing about, for, try how she would, she could not sleep, when she was suddenly terrified by a succession of the most awful shrieks, coming, apparently, from just beneath her window, and which sounded like the cries of some woman in the direst trouble or pain. She looked, but as she instinctively felt would be the case, she could see no one. She then knew that she had heard the Banshee; and on the morrow her forebodings were only too fully realised. With a fearful knowledge of its meaning, she saw a cavalcade, bearing in its midst a bier, slowly and sorrowfully wending its way towards the castle; and, needless to say, she did not require to be told that the foraging party had returned, and that the surviving warriors had brought back with them the lifeless and mutilated body of her husband. The Kenealy Banshee furnishes yet another instance of this extremely fascinating and, up to the present, wholly enigmatical type of haunting. Dr Kenealy, the well-known Irish poet and author, resided in his earlier years in a wildly romantic and picturesque part of Ireland. Among his brothers was one, a mere child, whose sweet and gentle nature rendered him beloved by all, and it was a matter of the most excessive grief to the entire household, and, indeed, the whole neighbourhood, when this boy fell into a decline and his life was despaired of by the physicians. As time went on he grew weaker and weaker, until the moment at length arrived, when it was obvious that he could not possibly survive another twenty-four hours. At about noon, the room in which the patient lay was flooded with a stream of sunlight, which came pouring through the windows from the cloudless expanse of sky overhead. The weather, indeed, was so gorgeous that it seemed almost incredible that death could be hovering quite so near the house. One by one, members of the family stole into the chamber to take what each one felt might be a last look at the sick boy, whilst he was still alive. Presently the doctor arrived, and, as they were all discussing in hushed tones the condition of the poor wasted and doomed child, they one and all heard someone singing, apparently in the grounds, immediately beneath the window. The voice seemed to be that of a woman, but not a woman of this world. It was divinely soft and sweet, and charged with a pity and sorrow that no earthly being could ever have portrayed; and now loud, and now hushed, it continued for some minutes, and then seemed to die away gradually, like the ripple of a wavelet on some golden, sun-kissed strand, or the whispering of the wind, as it gently rustles its way through field after field of yellow, nodding corn. "What a glorious voice!" one of the listeners exclaimed. "I've never heard anything to equal it." "Very likely not," someone else whispered, "it's the Banshee!" And so enthralled were they all by the singing, that it was only when the final note of the plaintive ditty had quite ceased, that they became aware that their beloved patient, unnoticed by them, had passed out. Indeed, it seemed as if the boy's soul, with the last whispering notes of the dirge, had joined the beautiful, pitying Banshee, to be escorted by it into the realms of the all-fearful, all-impatient Unknown. Dr Kenealy has commemorated this event in one of his poems. The story of another haunting by the friendly Banshee is told in Kerry, in connection with a certain family that used to live there. According to my source of information the family consisted of a man (a gentleman farmer), his wife, their son, Terence, and a daughter, Norah. Norah, an Irish beauty of the dark type, had black hair and blue eyes; and possessing numerous admirers, favoured none of them so much as a certain Michael O'Lernahan. Now Michael did not stand very well in the graces of either of Norah's parents, but Terence liked him, and he was reputed to be rich--that is to say rich for that part of Ireland. Accordingly, he was invited pretty freely to the farm, and no obstacles were placed in his way. On the contrary, he was given more than a fair amount of encouragement. At last, as had been long anticipated, he proposed and Norah accepted him; but no sooner was her troth plighted than they both heard, just over their heads, a low, despairing wail, as of a woman in the very greatest distress and anguish. Though they were much alarmed at the time, being positive that the sounds proceeded from no human being, neither of them seems to have regarded the phenomenon in the shape of a warning, and both continued their love-making as if the incident had never occurred. A few weeks later, however, Norah noticed a sudden change in her lover; he was colder and more distant, and, whilst he was with her, she invariably found him preoccupied. At last the blow fell. He failed to present himself at the house one evening, though he was expected as usual, and, as no explanation was forthcoming the following morning, nor on any of the succeeding days, inquiries were made by the parents, which elicited the fact that he had become engaged to another girl, and that the girl's home was but a few minutes' walk from the farm. This proved too much for Norah; although, apparently, neither unusually sensitive nor particularly highly strung, she fell ill, and shortly afterwards died of a broken heart. It was not until the night before she died, however, that the Banshee paid her a second visit. She was lying on a couch in the parlour of the farmhouse, with her mother sitting beside her, when a noise was heard that sounded like leaves beating gently against the window-frames, and, almost directly afterwards, came the sound of singing, loud, and full of intense sorrow and compassion; and, obviously, that of a woman. "'Tis the Banshee," the mother whispered, immediately crossing herself, and, at the same time, bursting into tears. "The Banshee," Norah repeated. "Sure I hear nothing but that tapping at the window and the wind which seems all of a sudden to have risen." But the mother made no response. She only sat with her face buried in her hands, sobbing bitterly and muttering to herself, "Banshee! Banshee!" Presently, the singing having ceased, the old woman got up and dried her tears. Her anxiety, however, was not allayed; all through the night she could still be heard, every now and again, crying quietly and whispering to herself "'Twas the Banshee! Banshee!"; and in the morning Norah, suddenly growing alarmingly ill, passed away before medical assistance could be summoned. A case of Banshee haunting that is somewhat unusually pathetic was once related to me in connection with a Dublin branch of the once powerful clan of McGrath. It took place in the fifties, and the family, consisting of a young widow and two children, Isa and David, at that time occupied an old, rambling house, not five minutes' walk from Stephen's Green. Isa seems to have been the mother's favourite--she was undoubtedly a very pretty and attractive child--and David, possibly on account of his pronounced likeness to his father, with whom it was an open secret that Mrs McGrath had never got on at all well, to have received rather more than his fair share of scolding. This, of course, may or may not have been true. It is certain that he was left very much to himself, and, all alone, in a big, empty room at the top of the house, was forced to amuse himself as he best could. Occasionally one of the servants, inspired by a fellow-feeling--for the lot of servants in those days, especially when serving under such severe and exacting mistresses as Mrs McGrath, was none too rosy--used to look in to see how he was getting on and bring him a toy, bought out of her own meagre savings; and, once now and again, Isa, clad in some costly new frock, just popped her head in at the door, either to bring him some message from her mother, or merely to call out "Hullo!" Otherwise he saw no one; at least no one belonging to this earth; he only saw, he affirmed, at times, strange-looking people who simply stood and stared at him without speaking, people who the servants--girls from Limerick and the west country--assured him were either fairies or ghosts. One day Isa, who had been sent upstairs to tell David to go to his bedroom to tidy himself, as he was wanted immediately in the drawing-room, found him in a great state of excitement. "I've seen such a beautiful lady,"[6] he exclaimed, "and she wasn't a bit cross. She came and stood by the window and looked as if she wanted to play with me, only I daren't ask her. Do you think she will come again?" "How can I tell? I expect you've been dreaming as usual," Isa laughed. "What was she like?" "Oh, tall, much taller than mother," David replied, "with very, very blue eyes and kind of reddish-gold hair that wasn't all screwed up on her head, but was hanging in curls on her shoulders. She had very white hands which were clasped in front of her, and a bright green dress. I didn't see her come or go, but she was here for a long time, quite ten minutes." "It's another of your fancies, David," Isa laughed again. "But come along, make haste, or mother will be angry." A few minutes later, David, looking very shy and awkward, was in the drawing-room being introduced to a gentleman who, he was informed, was his future papa. David seems to have taken a strong dislike to him from the very first, and to have foreseen in the coming alliance nothing but trouble and misery for himself. Nor were his apprehensions without foundation, for, directly after the marriage took place, he became subjected to the very strictest discipline. Morning and afternoon alike he was kept hard at his books, and any slowness or inability to master a lesson was treated as idleness and punished accordingly. The moments he had to himself in his beloved nursery now became few and far between, for, directly he had finished his evening preparation, he was given his supper and packed off to bed. The one or two servants who had befriended him, unable to tolerate the new regime, gave notice and left, and there was soon no one in the house who showed any compassion whatever for the poor lonely boy. Things went on in this fashion for some weeks, and then a day came, when he really felt it impossible to go on living any longer. He had been generally run down for some weeks, and this, coupled with the fact that he was utterly broken in spirit, rendered his task of learning a wellnigh impossibility. It was in vain he pleaded, however; his entreaties were only taken for excuses; and, when, in an unguarded moment, he let slip some sort of reference to unkind treatment, he was at once accused of rudeness by his mother and, at her request, summarily castigated. The limit of his tribulation had been reached. That night he was sent to bed, as usual, immediately after supper, and Isa, who happened to pass by his room an hour or so afterwards, was greatly astonished at hearing him seemingly engaged in conversation. Peeping slyly in at the door, in order to find out with whom he was talking, she saw him sitting up in bed, apparently addressing space, or the moonbeams, which, pouring in at the window, fell directly on him. "What are you doing?" she asked, "and why aren't you asleep?" The moment she spoke he looked round and, in tones of the greatest disappointment, said: "Oh, dear, she's gone. You've frightened her away." "Frightened her away! Why, what rubbish!" Isa exclaimed. "Lie down at once or I'll go and fetch mamma." "It was my green lady," David went on, breathlessly, far too excited to pay any serious heed to Isa's threat. "My green lady, and she told me I should be no more lonely, that she was coming to fetch me some time to-night." Isa laughed, and, telling him not to be so silly, but to go to sleep at once, she speedily withdrew and went downstairs to join her parents in the drawing-room. That night, at about twelve, Isa was awakened by singing, loud and plaintive singing, in a woman's voice, apparently proceeding from the hall. Greatly alarmed she got up, and, on opening her door, perceived her parents and the servants, all in their night attire, huddled together on the landing, listening. "Sure 'tis the Banshee," the cook at length whispered. "I heard my father spake about it when I was a child. She sings, says he, more beautifully than any grand lady, but sorrowful like, and only before a death." "Before a death," Isa's mother stammered. "But who's going to die here? Why, we are all of us perfectly sound and well." As she spoke the singing ceased, there was an abrupt silence, and all slowly retired to their rooms. Nothing further was heard during the night, but in the morning, when breakfast time came, there was no David; and a hue and cry being raised and a thorough search made, he was eventually discovered, drowned in a cistern in the roof. CHAPTER III THE MALEVOLENT BANSHEE The Banshees dealt with in the last chapter may all be described as sympathetic or friendly Banshees. I will now present to the reader a few equally authentic accounts of malevolent or unfriendly Banshees. Before doing so, however, I would like to call attention to the fact that, once when I was reading a paper on Banshees before the Irish Literary Society, in Hanover Square, a lady got up and, challenging my remark that not all Banshees were alike, tried to prove that I was wrong, on the assumption that all Banshees must be sad and beautiful because the Banshee in her family happened to be sad and beautiful, an argument, if argument it can be called, which, although it is a fairly common one, cannot, of course, be taken seriously. Moreover, as I have already stated, there is abundant evidence to show that Banshees are of many and diverse kinds; and that no two appear to be exactly alike or to act in precisely the same fashion. According to Mr McAnnaly, the malevolent Banshee is invariably "a horrible hag with ugly, distorted features; maledictions are written in every line of her wrinkled face, and her outstretched arms call down curses on the doomed member of the hated race." Other writers, too, would seem more or less to encourage the idea that all malignant Banshees are cast in one mould and all beautiful Banshees in another, whereas from my own personal experiences I should say that Banshees, whether good or bad, are just as individual as any member of the family they haunt. It is related of a certain ancient Mayo family that a chief of the race once made love to a very beautiful girl whom he betrayed and subsequently murdered. With her dying breath the girl cursed her murderer and swore she would haunt him and his for ever. Years rolled by; the cruel deceiver married, and, with the passing away of all who knew him in his youth, he came to be regarded as a model of absolute propriety and rectitude. Hence it was in these circumstances that he was sitting one night before a big blazing fire in the hall of his castle, outwardly happy enough and surrounded by his sons and daughters, when loud shrieks of exultation were heard coming, it seemed, from someone who was standing on the path close to the castle walls. All rushed out to see who it was, but no one was there, and the grounds, as far as the eye could reach, were absolutely deserted. Later on, however, some little time after the household had retired to rest, the same demoniacal disturbances took place; peal after peal of wild, malicious laughter rang out, followed by a discordant moaning and screaming. This time the aged chieftain did not accompany the rest of the household in their search for the originator of the disturbances. Possibly, in that discordant moaning and screaming he fancied he could detect the voice of the murdered girl; and, possibly, accepting the manifestation as a death-warning, he was not surprised on the following day, when he was waylaid out of doors and brutally done to death by one of his followers. Needless to say, perhaps, the haunting of this Banshee still continues, the same phenomena occurring at least once to every generation of the family, before the death of one of its members. Happily, however, the haunting now does not necessarily precede a violent death, and in this respect, though in this respect only, differs from the original. Another haunting by this same species of Banshee was brought to my notice the last time I was in Ireland. I happened to be visiting a certain relative of mine, at that date residing in Black Rock, and from her I learned the following, which now appears in print for the first time. About the middle of the last century, when my relative was in her teens, some friends of hers, the O'D.'s, were living in a big old-fashioned country house, somewhere between Ballinanty and Hospital in the County of Limerick. The family consisted of Mr O'D., who had been something in India in his youth and was now very much of a recluse, though much esteemed locally on account of his extreme piety and good-heartedness; Mrs O'D., who, despite her grey hair and wrinkled countenance, still retained traces of more than ordinary good looks; Wilfred, a handsome but decidedly headstrong young man of between twenty-five and thirty; and Ellen, a blue-eyed, golden-haired girl of the true Milesian type of Irish beauty. My relative was on terms of the greatest intimacy with the whole family, but especially with the two younger folk, and it was generally expected that she and Wilfred would make what is vulgarly termed a "match of it." Indeed, the first of the ghostly happenings that she experienced in connection with the O'D.'s actually occurred the very day Wilfred took the long-anticipated step and proposed to her. It seems that my relative was out for a walk one afternoon with Ellen and Wilfred, when the latter, taking advantage of his sister's sudden fancy for going on ahead to look for dog-roses, passionately declared his love, and, apparently, did not declare it in vain. The trio, then, in more or less exalted spirits--for my relative had of course let Ellen into the secret--walked home together, and as they were passing through a big wooden gateway into the garden at the rear of the O'D.'s house, they perceived a tall, spare woman, with her back towards them, digging away furiously. "Hullo," Wilfred exclaimed, "who's that?" "I don't know," Ellen replied. "It's certainly not Mary" (Mary was the old cook who, like many of the servants of that period, did not confine her labour to the culinary art, but performed all kinds of odd jobs as well), "nor anyone from the farm. But what on earth does she think she's doing? Hey, there!" and Ellen, raising her naturally sweet and musical voice, gave a little shout. The woman instantly turned round, and the trio received a most violent shock. The light was fading, for it was late in the afternoon, but what little there was seemed to be entirely concentrated on the visage before them, making it appear luminous. It was a broad face with very pronounced cheek-bones; a large mouth, the thin lips of which were fixed in a dreadful and mocking leer; and very pale, obliquely set eyes that glowed banefully as they met the gaze of the three now appalled spectators. For some seconds the evil-looking creature stood in dead silence, apparently gloating over the discomposure her appearance had produced, and, then, suddenly shouldering her spade, she walked slowly away, turning round every now and again to cast the same malevolent gleeful look at them, until she came to the hedge that separated the garden from a long disused stone quarry, when she seemed suddenly to fade away in the now very uncertain twilight, and disappear. For some moments no one spoke or stirred, but continued gazing after her in a kind of paralysed astonishment. Wilfred was the first to break the silence. "What an awful looking hag," he exclaimed. "Where's she gone?" Ellen whistled. "Ask another," she said. "There's nowhere she could have gone excepting into the quarry, and my only hope is that she is lying at the bottom of it with a broken neck, for I certainly never wish to see her again. But come, let's be moving on, I'm chilly." They started off, but had only proceeded a few yards, when, apparently from the direction of the quarry, came a peal of laughter, so mocking and malignant and altogether evil, that all three involuntarily quickened their steps, and, at the same time, refrained from speaking, until they had reached the house, which they hastily entered, securely closing the door behind them. They then went straight to Mr O'D. and asked him who the old woman was whom they had just seen. "What was she like?" he queried. "I haven't authorised anyone but Mary to go into the garden." "It certainly wasn't Mary," Ellen responded quickly. "It was some hideous old crone who was digging away like anything. On our approach she left off and gave us the most diabolical look I have ever seen. Then she went away and seemed to vanish in the hedge by the quarry. We afterwards heard her give the most appalling and intensely evil laugh that you can imagine. Whoever is she?" "I can't think," Mr O'D. replied, looking somewhat unusually pale. "It is no one whom I know. Very possibly she was a tramp or gipsy. We must take care to keep all the doors locked. Whatever you do, don't mention a word about her to your mother or to Mary--they are both nervous and very easily frightened." All three promised, and the matter was then allowed to drop, but my relative, who returned home before it got quite dark, subsequently learned that that night, some time after the O'D. household had all retired to rest, peal after peal of the same infernal mocking laughter was heard, just under the windows, first of all in the front of the house, and then in the rear; and that, on the morrow, came the news that the business concern in which most of Mr O'D.'s money was invested had gone smash and the family were practically penniless. The house now was in imminent danger of being sold, and many people thought that it was merely to avert this catastrophe and to enable her parents to keep a roof over their heads that Ellen accepted the attentions of a very vulgar parvenu (an Englishman) in Limerick, and eventually married him. Where there is no love, however, there is never any happiness, and where there is not even "liking," there is very often hate; and in Ellen's case hate there was without any doubt. Barely able, even from the first, to tolerate her husband (his favourite trick was to make love to her in public and almost in the same breath bully her--also in public), she eventually grew to loathe him, and at last, unable to endure his hated presence any longer, she eloped with an officer who was stationed in the neighbourhood. The night before Ellen took this step, my relative and Wilfred (the latter was escorting his fiancée home after a pleasant evening spent in her company) again heard the malevolent laughter, which (although they could see no one) pursued them for some distance along the moonlit lanes and across the common leading to the spot where my relative lived. After this the laughter was not heard again for two years, but at the end of that period my relative had another experience of the phenomena. She was again spending the evening with the O'D.'s, and, on this occasion, she was discussing with Mr and Mrs O'D. the advent of Wilfred, who was expected to arrive home from the West Indies any time within the next few days. My relative was not unnaturally interested, as it had been arranged that she and Wilfred should marry, as soon as possible after his arrival in Ireland. They were all three--Mr and Mrs O'D. and my relative--engaged in animated conversation (the old people had unexpectedly come into a little money, and that, too, had considerably contributed to their cheerfulness), when Mrs O'D., fancying she heard someone calling to her from the garden, got up and went to the window. "Harry," she exclaimed, still looking out and apparently unable to remove her gaze, "do come. There's the most awful old woman in the garden, staring hard at me. Quick, both of you. She's perfectly horrible; she frightens me." My relative and Mr O'D. at once sprang up and hastened to her side, and, there, they saw, gazing up at them, the pallor of its cheeks intensified by a stray moonbeam which seemed to be concentrated solely on it, a face which my relative recognised immediately as that of the woman she had seen, two years ago, digging in the garden. The old hag seemed to remember my relative, too, for, as their glances met, a gleam of recognition crept into her light eyes, and, a moment later, gave way to an expression of such diabolical hate that my relative involuntarily caught hold of Mr O'D. for protection. Evidently noting this action the creature leered horribly, and then, drawing a kind of shawl or hood tightly over its head, moved away with a kind of gliding motion, vanishing round an angle of the wall. Mr O'D. at once went out into the garden, but, after a few minutes, returned, declaring that, although he had searched in every direction, not a trace of their sinister-looking visitor could he see anywhere. He had hardly, however, finished speaking, when, apparently from close to the house, came several peals of the most hellish laughter, that terminated in one loud, prolonged wail, unmistakably ominous and menacing. "Oh, Harry," Mrs O'D. exclaimed, on the verge of fainting, "what can be the meaning of it? That was surely no living woman." "No," Mr O'D. replied slowly, "it was the Banshee. As you know, the O'D. Banshee, for some reason or another, possesses an inveterate hatred of my family, and we must prepare again for some evil tidings. But," he went on, steadying his voice with an effort, "with God's grace we must face it, for whatever happens it is His Divine will." A few days later my relative, as may be imagined, was immeasurably shocked to hear that Mr O'D. had been sent word that Wilfred was dead. He had, it appeared, been stricken down with fever, supposed to have been caught from one of his fellow-passengers, and had died on the very day that he should have landed, on the very day, in fact (as it was afterwards ascertained from a comparison of dates), upon which his parents and fiancée, together, had heard and seen the Banshee. Soon after this unhappy event my relative left the neighbourhood and went to live with some friends near Dublin, and though, from time to time, she corresponded with the O'D.'s, she never again heard anything of their Banshee. This same relative of mine, whom I will now call Miss S---- (she never married), was acquainted with two old maiden ladies named O'Rorke who, many years ago, lived in a semi-detached house close to Lower Merrion Street. Miss S---- did not know to what branch of the O'Rorkes they belonged, for they were very reticent with regard to their family history, but she believed they originally came from the south-west and were distantly connected with some of her own people. With regard to their house, there certainly was something peculiar, since in it was one room that was invariably kept locked, and in connection with this room it was said there existed a mystery of the most frightful and harrowing description. My relative often had it on the tip of her tongue to refer to the room, just to see what effect it would have on the two old ladies, but she could never quite sum up the courage to do so. One afternoon, however, when she was calling on them, the subject was brought to their notice in a very startling manner. The elder of the two sisters, Miss Georgina, who was presiding at the tea table, had just handed Miss S---- a cup of tea and was about to pour out another for herself, when into the room, with her cap all awry and her eyes bulging, rushed one of the servants. "Good gracious!" Miss Georgina exclaimed, "whatever's the matter, Bridget?" "Matter!" Bridget retorted, in a brogue which I will not attempt to imitate. "Why, someone's got into that room you always keep locked and is making the devil of a noise, enough to raise all the Saints in Heaven. Norah" (Norah was the cook) "and I both heard it--a groaning, and a chuckling, and a scratching, as if the cratur was tearing up the boards and breaking all the furniture, and all the while keening and laughing. For the love of Heaven, ladies, come and hear it for yourselves. Such goings on! Ochone! Ochone!" Both ladies, Miss S---- said, turned deadly pale, and Miss Harriet, the younger sister, was on the brink of tears. "Where is cook?" Miss Georgina, who was by far the stronger minded of the two, suddenly said, addressing Bridget. "If she is upstairs, tell her to come down at once. Miss Harriet and I will go and see what the noise is that you complain about upstairs. There really is no need to make all this disturbance"--here she assumed an air of the utmost severity--"it's sure to be either mice or rats." "Mice or rats!" Bridget echoed. "I'm sorry for the mice and rats as make all those noises. 'Tis some evil spirit, sure, and Norah is of the same mind," and with those parting words she slammed the door behind her. The sisters, then, begging to be excused for a few minutes, left the room, and returned shortly afterwards looking terribly white and distressed. "I am sure you must think all this very odd," Miss Georgina observed with as great a degree of unconcern as she could assume, "and I feel we owe you an explanation, but I must beg you will not repeat a word of what we tell you to anyone else." Miss S---- promised she would not, and then composed herself to listen. "We have in our family," Miss O'Rorke began, "a most unpleasant attachment; in other words, a most unpleasant Banshee. Being Irish, you will not laugh, of course, as many English people do, at what I say. You know as well as I do, perhaps, that many of the really ancient Irish families possess Banshees." Miss S---- nodded. "We have one ourselves," she remarked, "but pray go on. I am intensely interested." "Well, unlike most of the Banshees," Miss Georgina continued, "ours is appallingly ugly and malevolent; so frightful, indeed, that to see it, even, is sometimes fatal. One of our great-great-uncles, for instance, to whom it once appeared, is reported to have died from shock; a similar fate overtaking another of our ancestors, who also saw it. Fortunately, it seems to have a strong attraction in the shape of an old gold ring which has been in the possession of the family from time immemorial. Both ancestors I have referred to are alleged to have been wearing this ring at the time the Banshee appeared to them, and it is said to strictly confine its manifestations to the immediate vicinity of that article. That is why our parents always kept the ring strictly isolated, in a locked room, the key of which was never, for a moment, allowed to be out of their possession. And we have strenuously followed their example. That is the explanation of the mystery you have doubtless heard about, for I believe--thanks to the servants--it has become the gossip of half Dublin." "And the noise Bridget referred to," Miss S---- ventured to remark, somewhat timidly, "was that the Banshee?" Miss Georgina nodded. "I fear it was," she observed solemnly, "and that we shall shortly hear of a relative's death or grave catastrophe to some member of the family; probably, a cousin of ours in County Galway, who has been ill for some weeks, is dying." She was partly right, although the latter surmise was not correct. Within a few days of the Banshee's visit a member of the family died, but it was not the sick cousin, it was Miss Georgina's own sister, Harriet! CHAPTER IV THE BANSHEE ABROAD As I have remarked in a previous chapter, the Banshee to-day is heard more often abroad than in Ireland. It follows the fortunes of the true old Milesian Irishman--the real O and Mc, none of your adulterated O'Walters or O'Cassons--everywhere, even to the Poles. Lady Wilde, in her "Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms and Superstitions of Ireland," quotes the case of a Banshee haunting that was experienced by a branch of the Clan O'Grady that had settled in Canada. The spot chosen by this family for their residence was singularly wild and isolated, and one night at two o'clock, when they were all in bed, they were aroused by a loud cry, coming, apparently, from just outside the house. Nothing intelligible was uttered, only a sound indicative of the greatest bitterness and sorrow, such as one might imagine a woman would give vent to, but only when in an agony of mind, almost beyond human understanding. The effect produced by it was one of sublime terror, and all seemed to feel instinctively that the source from which it emanated was apart from this world and belonged wholly and solely to the Unknown. Nevertheless, from what Lady Wilde says, we are led to infer that an exhaustive search of the premises was made, resulting, as was expected, in complete failure to find any physical agency that could in any way account for the cry. The following day the head of the household and his eldest son went boating on a lake near the house, and, although it was their intention to do so, did not return to dinner. Various members of the family were sent to look for them, but no trace of them was to be seen anywhere, and no solution to the mystery as to what had happened to them was forthcoming, till two o'clock that night, when, exactly twenty-four hours after the cry had been heard, some of the searchers returned, bearing with them the wet, bedraggled, and lifeless bodies of both father and son. Then, once again, the weird and ominous sound that had so startled them on the previous night was heard, and the sorrow-stricken family--that is to say, those who were left of it--agreeing now that the Banshee had indeed visited them, remembered that their beloved father, whom they had just lost, had often spoken of the Banshee, as having haunted their branch of the clan for countless generations. Another case of Banshee haunting, that I have in mind, relates to a branch of the southern O'Neills that settled in Italy a good many years ago. It was told me in Paris by a Mrs Dempsey, who assured me she had been an eye-witness of the phenomena, and I now record it in print for the first time. Mrs Dempsey, when staying once at an hotel in the north of Italy, noticed among the guests an elderly man, whose very marked features and intensely sad expression quickly attracted her attention. She observed that he kept entirely aloof from his fellow-guests, and that, every evening after dinner, he retired from the drawing-room, as soon as coffee had been handed round, and went outside and stood on the veranda overlooking the shore of the Adriatic. She made inquiries as to his name and history, and was told that he was Count Fernando Asioli, a wealthy Florentine citizen, who, having but recently lost his wife, to whom he was devoted, naturally did not wish to join in the general conversation. Upon hearing this Mrs Dempsey was more than ever interested. It was not so very long since she, too, had lost her partner--a husband to whom she was much attached--and, consequently, it was in sympathetic mood that, seeing the Count go out, as usual, one evening, on to the veranda, she resolved to follow him, to try, if possible, to get into conversation with him. With this end in view she was about to cross the threshold of the veranda, when, to her astonishment, she perceived the Count was not there alone. Standing by his side, with one hand laid caressingly on his shoulder, was a tall, slim girl, with masses of the most gorgeous red gold hair hanging loose and reaching to her waist. She was wearing an emerald green dress of some very filmy substance; but her arms and feet were bare, and stood out so clearly in the soft radiance of the moonbeams, that Mrs Dempsey, who was an artist and had studied on the Continent, noticed with a thrill that they equalled, if, indeed, they did not surpass in beauty, any she had ever come across either in Greek or Florentine sculpture. Much perplexed as to who such a queerly attired visitor on such friendly terms with the Count could be, Mrs Dempsey remained for a second or two watching, and then, afraid lest she should attract their attention and so be caught, seemingly, in the act of spying, she withdrew. The moment she got back again into the drawing-room, however, she made somewhat indignant inquiries of a lady who generally sat next to her at meals, as to the identity of the girl she had just seen standing beside the, said to be, heart-broken Count in an attitude of such close intimacy. "A woman with the Count!" was the reply. "Surely not! Who can she be, and what was she like?" Mrs Dempsey described the stranger in detail, but her friend, shaking her head, could only suggest that she was some new-comer, some guest who had arrived at the hotel, and gone on the veranda whilst they were at dinner. Feeling a little curious, however, Mrs Dempsey's friend walked towards the veranda, and, in a very short time, returned, looking somewhat puzzled. "You must have been mistaken," she whispered, "there is no one with Count Asioli now, and, if anyone had come away, we should have seen them." "I am quite sure I did see a woman there," Mrs Dempsey replied, "and only a minute or two ago; she must have got out somehow, although there is, apparently, no other way than through this room." At this moment, the Count, entering the room, took a seat beside them; and the subject, of course, had to be dropped. The next night, however, the events of the preceding night were repeated. Mrs Dempsey followed the Count on to the veranda, saw the girl in green standing with her hand on his shoulder, came back and told her neighbour at meals, and the latter, on hastening to the veranda to look, once more returned declaring that the Count was alone. After this, a slight altercation took place between the two ladies, the one declaring her belief that it was all an optical illusion on the part of the other, and the other emphatically sticking to her story that she had actually seen the girl she had described. They parted that night, both a little ruffled, though neither would admit it, and the following night, Mrs Dempsey, as soon as she saw the Count go on to the veranda, fetched her friend. "Now," she said, "come with me and see for yourself." The two ladies, accordingly, went to the veranda and, opening the door gently, peeped in. "There she is," Mrs Dempsey whispered, "standing in just the same position." The sound of her voice, though so low as to be scarcely heard even by the lady standing beside her, seemingly attracted the attention of both the girl and the Count, for they turned round simultaneously. Then Mrs Dempsey, whose gaze was solely concentrated on the girl, saw a face of almost indescribable beauty--possessing neatly chiselled, but by no means coldly classical features, long eyes of a marvellous blue, a smooth broad brow, and delicately and subtly moulded mouth; it was the face of a young girl, barely out of her teens, and it was filled with an expression of infinite sorrow and affection. Mrs Dempsey was so enraptured that, to quote her own words, she "stood gazing at it in speechless awe and amazement," and might, perhaps, have been gazing at it still, had not the voice of the Count called her back to earth. "I hope, ladies," he was saying, "that you do not see anything unusually disturbing in my appearance to-night, for I undoubtedly seem to be the object of your solicitude. May I ask why?" Though he spoke quite politely, even the dullest could have seen that he was more than a little annoyed. Mrs Dempsey therefore hastened to reply. "It is not you," she stammered out, "it is the lady--the lady you have with you. I--I fancied I knew her." "The lady I have with me," the Count exclaimed, in accents of cold surprise. "Kindly explain what you mean?" "Why the lady----" Mrs Dempsey began, and then she glanced round. The Count was standing in front of her--but he was quite alone. There was no vestige of a girl in green, nor of any other person on the veranda saving themselves, and immediately beneath it, at a distance of at least thirty feet, glimmered the white shingles of the silent and deserted--utterly deserted--seashore. "She's gone," Mrs Dempsey cried, "but I'm positive I saw her--a lady in green standing beside you." Then, for the first time, she felt afraid, and trembled. The Count, who had been observing her very closely, now advanced a step or two towards her, and in a very different tone said: "Will you please describe the lady? Was she old or young, dark or fair?" "Young and fair, very fair," Mrs Dempsey exclaimed. "But please come inside, for I've received something of a shock, and can, perhaps, talk to you better in the gaslight, with people near at hand whom I know are human beings." He did as she requested, and became more and more interested as she proceeded with her description, interrupting her every now and again with questions. Was she sure the girl had blue eyes, he asked, and how could she tell what colour the eyes were by the light of the moon only; Mrs Dempsey's reply to which being that the girl's whole body seemed to be illuminated from within, in such a manner that every detail could be seen, almost, if not quite, as clearly as if she had been standing in the full glare of an electric light. At the conclusion of her narrative Mrs Dempsey was further questioned by the Count. "Had she," he inquired, "ever been told that he was partly Irish, because," he added, on receiving a negative reply, "I am, and my real name is O'Neill, my great-great-grandfather having assumed the name of Asioli in order to come into some property when the family, which came from the south of Ireland, settled in Italy, many, many years ago. But what will, I am sure, be of considerable interest to you is the fact that this branch of the O'Neills, the branch to which I belong, is haunted by a Banshee, and that that Banshee has, I believe--since the description of it given me by various members of my family tallies with the description you have given me of the girl you saw standing by me--appeared to you. I would add that it never reveals itself, excepting when an O'Neill is about to die, and as I am quite the last of my line, I cannot conceive any reason for its having thus appeared three nights in succession, unless, of course, it is to predict my own end." Mrs Dempsey was not long left in doubt. On the morrow the Count was summoned to Venice on urgent business, and on his way to the railway depôt he suddenly dropped down dead, the excitement and exertion having, so it was supposed, proved too much for his heart, which was known to be weak. Said to be descended from the younger of the two sons of King Milesius, it certainly is not surprising that the O'Neills[7] should possess a Banshee--indeed, it would be surprising if they did not--but I have found it somewhat difficult to trace. However, according to Lady Wilde in her "Irish Wonders," p. 112, there is a room at Shane Castle which is strictly set aside for it. The Banshee, Lady Wilde says, is very often seen in this apartment, sometimes appearing shrouded in a dark, mist-like mantle; and at other times as a very lovely young girl with long, red-gold hair, clad in a scarlet cloak and green kirtle, adorned with gold. Lady Wilde goes on to tell us no harm ever comes of the Banshee's visit, unless she is seen in the act of crying, when her wails may be taken as a certain sign that some member of the family will shortly die. Mr McAnnaly corroborates this by stating that on one occasion one of the O'Neills of Shane Castle heard the Banshee crying, just as he was about to set out on a journey, and perished soon afterwards, which is somewhat unusual, because in the majority of cases I have come across the Banshee does not manifest itself at all to the person whose death it predicts. A very old, probably the oldest, branch of the O'Neills now resides in Portugal, but up to the present I have not succeeded in obtaining any evidence to warrant the assumption that the Banshee haunting has been experienced in that country. Indeed, the Banshee seems to be just as erratic and wayward as any daughter of Eve, for there is no consistency whatever in her movements. The very families one thinks she would haunt, she often studiously avoids, and not infrequently she concentrates her attention on those who are utterly obscure, albeit, always of _bona fide_ Irish extraction. CHAPTER V CASES OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY In previous chapters I have dealt exclusively with cases that are, without doubt, those of genuine Banshee haunting. I now propose to narrate a few cases which I will term cases of doubtful Banshee haunting--that is to say, cases of haunting which, although said to be Banshee, cannot, in view of the phenomena and circumstances, be thus designated with any degree of certainty. To begin with I will recall the case relating to the R----s, a family living in Canada. Their house, a long, low, two-storied building, stood on a lonely spot on the road leading to Montreal, and a young lady, whom I will designate Miss Delane, was visiting them when the incidents I am about to narrate took place. The weather had been more than commonly fine for that time of year, but at last the inevitable and unmistakable signs of a break had set in, and one evening black clouds gathered in the sky, the wind whistled ominously in the chimneys and savagely shook the many-coloured maple leaves, while, after a time, the moon, which had been hanging like a great red globe over the St Lawrence, became suddenly obscured, and big drops of rain came spluttering against the windows. Miss Delane, who had been seized with a strange restlessness which she could not shake off, then went into the hall, and was about to speak to one of Major R----'s nieces, who was also on a visit there, when her attention was arrested by the sound of a heavy carriage lumbering along the high road, from the direction of Montreal, at a very great rate. It being now nearly ten o'clock, an hour when there was usually very little traffic, she was somewhat surprised, her astonishment increasing by leaps and bounds when she heard the wheels crunching on the gravel drive, and the carriage rapidly approaching the house. "Surely, it is too late----" she began, but was cut short by the Major, who, abruptly pushing past her to the front door, just as the carriage drew up, swung it to, and, in trembling haste, locked, and barred, and bolted it. Footsteps were then heard hurriedly ascending the steps to the front door, and immediately afterwards a series of loud rat-tat-tats, although, as everyone instantly remembered, there was no knocker on the door, the Major having had it removed many years ago, for a reason he either could not or would not explain. Startled almost out of their senses by the noise, the whole household had in a few seconds assembled in the hall, and they now knelt, huddled together, whilst the Major in a voice which, despite the fact that it was raised to its highest pitch, could barely be heard above the furious and frenzied knocking, besought the Almighty to protect them. As he continued praying the rat-tats gradually grew feebler and feebler, until they finally ceased, after which the footsteps were once again heard on the stone steps, this time descending, and the carriage drove away. It was not, however, until the reverberations of the wheels could no longer be heard that the Major rose from his knees. Then, bidding his household do likewise, he insisted that they should at once retire, without speaking a word, to their rooms; and forbade them ever to mention the matter to him again. As soon as Miss Delane and the Major's nieces were in their bedroom--they shared a room between them--they ran to the window and looked out. The sky was quite clear now, and the moon was shining forth in all the splendour of its calm cold majesty; but the grounds and road beyond were quite deserted; not a vestige of any person or carriage could be seen anywhere, and, on the morrow, when they hastened downstairs and examined the gravel, there were no indications whatever of any wheels. The day passed quite uneventfully, and once again it was night-time; the Major had read prayers as usual at about ten, and the household, also as usual, had retired to rest. Miss Delane, who was used to much later hours, found it difficult to compose herself to sleep so soon, but she had just managed to doze off, when she was aroused by her friend Ellen, the elder of the Major's two nieces, pulling violently at her bedclothes, and, on looking up, she perceived a tall figure, clad in what looked like nun's garments, walking across the room with long, stealthy strides. As she gazed at it in breathless astonishment, it suddenly paused and, turning its hooded head round, stared fixedly at Ellen, and then, moving on, seemed to melt into the wall. At all events, it had vanished, and there was nothing where it had been standing, saving moonlight. For some minutes Ellen was too terrified to speak, but she at last called out to Miss Delane and implored her to come and get into her bed, as she no longer dared lie there by herself. "Did you see the way it looked at me," she whispered, clutching hold of Miss Delane, and shuddering violently. "I don't think I shall ever get over it. We must leave here to-morrow. We must, we must," and she burst out crying. As may be imagined, there was little sleep for either of the girls again that night, and it seemed to them as if the morning would never come; but, when at last it did come, they told Major R---- what had happened, and declared they really dared not spend another night in the house. Though obviously distressed on hearing what they had to say, the Major did not press them to alter their decision and stay, but told them that to go, he thought, under the circumstances, was far the wisest and safest thing for them to do. An hour or so later, having finished their packing, they were all three taking a final stroll together in the garden, when they fancied they heard someone running after them down one of the sidewalks, and, turning round, they saw the figure that had disturbed them in the night, standing close behind them. The sunlight falling directly on it revealed features now only too easily distinguishable of someone long since dead, but animated by a spirit that was wholly antagonistic and malicious, and as they shrank back terror-stricken, it stretched forth one of its long, bony arms and touched first Ellen and then her sister on the shoulder. It then veered round, and, moving away with the same peculiarly long and surreptitious strides, seemed suddenly to amalgamate with the shadows from the trees and disappear. For some moments the girls were far too paralysed with fear to do other than remain where they were, trembling; but their faculties at length reasserting themselves, they made a sudden dash for the house, and ran at top speed till they reached it. It was some weeks afterwards, however, and not till then, that Miss Delane, who was back again in her home in Ireland, received any explanation of the phenomena she had witnessed. It was given her by a friend of the R----s who happened to be visiting one of Miss Delane's relatives in Dublin. "What you saw," this friend of the R----s said to Miss Delane, "was, I believe, the Banshee, which always manifests itself before the death of any member of the family. Sometimes it shrieks, like the shrieking of a woman who is being cruelly done to death, and sometimes it merely stares at or touches its victim on the shoulder with its skeleton hand. In either case its advent is fatal. Only," she added, "let me implore you never to breathe a word of this to the R----s, as they never mention their ghost to anyone." Miss Delane, of course, promised, at the same time expressing a devout hope that the phenomena she had witnessed did not point to the illness or death of either of her friends; but in this she was doomed to the deepest disappointment, for within a few weeks of the date upon which the Banshee--if Banshee it really were--had appeared, she received tidings of the deaths of both Ellen and her sister (the former succumbing to an attack of some malignant fever, and the latter to an accident), and in addition heard that Major R---- had died also. As Major R---- would never discuss the subject of his family ghost with anyone at all, it is impossible to say whether he believed the haunting to be a Banshee haunting or not; but many, apparently, did believe it to be this type of haunting, and I must say I think they were wrong. To begin with, the R----s were Anglo-Irish. Their connection with Ireland may have dated back a century or so, but they were certainly not of Milesian nor even Celtic Irish descent; and, for this reason alone, could not have acquired a Banshee haunting. Besides, the Banshee that we know does not appear, as the R----'s ghost appeared, attired in the vestments of a religious order; and the coach or hearse phantasm (which in the R----'s case preceded the manifestation of the supposed Banshee) is by no means an uncommon haunting;[8] and since it is more often than not accompanied by phenomena of the sepulchral type (the type witnessed by Miss Delane and the Major's nieces), it may be said to constitute in itself a peculiar form of family haunting which is not, of course, exclusively confined to the Irish. Hence I entirely dismiss the theory that the notorious R----'s ghost had anything at all to do with the Banshee. À propos of coaches, I am reminded of an incident related by that past master of the weird, J. Sheridan Le Fanu, in a short story entitled "A Chapter in the History of a Tyrone Family." As it relates to that type of phantasm that is so often foolishly confused with the Banshee, I think I cannot do better than give a brief sketch of it. Miss Richardson, a young Anglo-Irish girl, resided with her parents at Ashtown, Tyrone, and her elder sister, who had recently married a Mr Carew of Dublin, being expected with her husband on a visit, great preparations were on foot for their reception. They were leaving Dublin by coach on the Monday morning, they had written to say, and hoped to arrive at Ashtown some time the following day. The morning and afternoon passed, however, without any sign of the Carews, and when it got dark, and still they did not come, the Richardson family began to feel a trifle uneasy. The night was fine, the sky cloudless, and the moon, when it at length rose, could not have been more brilliant. It was a still night, too, so still that not a leaf stirred, and so still that those on the qui vive, who were straining their ears to the utmost, must have caught the sound of an approaching vehicle on the high road, had there been one, when it was still at a distance of several miles. But no sound came, and when suppertime arrived, Mr Richardson, as was his wont, made a tour of the house, and carefully fastened the shutters and locked the doors. Still the family listened, and still they could hear nothing, nothing, either near to, or far away. It was now midnight, but no one went to bed, for all were buoyed up with the desperate hope that something must at last happen--either, the Carews themselves would suddenly turn up, or a messenger with a letter explaining the delay. Neither eventuality, however, came to pass, and nothing occurred until Miss Richardson, who had, for the moment, allowed her mind to dwell on an entirely different topic, gave a start. Her heart beat loud, and she held her breath! She heard carriage wheels. Yes, without a doubt, she heard wheels--the wheels of a coach or carriage, and they were getting more and more distinct. But she remained silent. She had been rebuked once or twice for giving a false alarm--she would now let someone else speak first. In the meantime, on and on came the wheels, stopping for a moment whilst the iron gate at the entrance to the drive was swung open on its rusty hinges; then on and on again, louder, louder and louder, till all could distinguish, amid the barking of the dogs, the sound of scattered gravel and the crackling and swishing of the whip. There was no doubt about it now, and with joyous cries of "It is them! They have come at last," a regular stampede was made for the hall door, parents and sister, servants and dogs, vying with one another to see who could get there first. But, lo and behold, when the door was opened, and they stepped out, there was no sign of a coach or carriage anywhere; nothing was to be seen but the broad gravel drive and lawn beyond, alight with moonbeams and peopled with queer shadows, but absolutely silent, with a silence that suggested a churchyard. The whole household now looked at one another with white and puzzled faces; they began to be afraid; whilst the dogs, running about, and sniffing, and whining, were obviously ill at ease and afraid, too. At last a kind of panic set in, and all made a rush for the house, taking care, when once inside, to shut the door with even greater haste than they had displayed in opening it. The family then retired to rest, but not to sleep, and early the next morning they received news that fully confirmed their suspicions. Mrs Carew had been taken ill with fever on Monday, while preparations for the departure were being made, and had passed away, probably at the very moment when the Richardsons, hearing the phantom coach and mistaking it for a real one, had opened their hall door to welcome her. That is the gist of the incident as related by Mr Le Fanu, and I have quoted it merely to show how a case of this kind, especially when it happens in Ireland, and to a family that has for some time been associated with Ireland, may sometimes be mistaken for a genuine Banshee haunting, although, of course, there is no reason whatever to suppose that Mr Le Fanu himself laboured under any delusion with regard to it, or intended to convey to his readers an impression of the haunting that the circumstances did not warrant. He merely states it as a case of the supernatural without attempting to consign it to any special category. Lady Wilde in her "Ancient Cures, Charms and Usages of Ireland," pp. 163, 164, quotes another case of coach haunting in Ireland, a very terrible one; while in a book entitled "Rambles in Northumberland," by the same author, we are informed, "when the death-hearse, drawn by headless horses and driven by a headless driver, is seen about midnight proceeding rapidly, but without noise, towards the churchyard, the death of some considerable personage in the parish is sure to happen at no distant period." Also, there is a phantom of this description that is occasionally seen on the road near Langley in Durham, and my relatives, the Vizes[9] of Limerick--at least, so my grandmother, _née_ Sally Vize, used to say--are haunted by a phantom coach too; indeed, there seems to be no end to this kind of haunting, which is always either very picturesque or very terrifying, and sometimes both picturesque and terrifying. At the same time, although intensely interesting, no doubt, the phantom coach is not essentially Irish, and not in any way connected with the Banshee. As an example of the extreme anxiety of some people to be thought to be of ancient Irish extraction and to have a Banshee, I might refer to an incident in connection with Mrs Elizabeth Sheridan, which is recorded in footnotes on pages 32 and 33 of "The Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Mrs Frances Sheridan," compiled by her granddaughter, Miss Alicia Lefanu, and published in 1824, and quote from it the following: "Like many Irish ladies who resided during the early part of life in the country, Miss Elizabeth Sheridan was a firm believer in the Banshi, a female dæmon, attached to ancient Irish families. She seriously maintained that the Banshi of the Sheridan family was heard wailing beneath the windows of Quilca before the news arrived of Mrs Frances Sheridan's death at Blois, thus affording them a preternatural intimation of the impending melancholy event. A niece of Miss Sheridan's made her very angry by observing that as Miss Frances Sheridan was by birth a Chamberlaine, a family of English extraction, she had no right to the guardianship of an Irish fairy, and that, therefore, the Banshi must have made a mistake." Now I certainly agree with Miss Sheridan's niece in doubting that the cry heard before Mrs Frances Sheridan's death was that of the real Banshee; but I do not doubt it because Mrs Frances Sheridan was of English extraction, for the Banshee has frequently been heard before the death of a wife whose husband was one of an ancient Irish clan--even though the wife had no Irish blood in her at all, but I doubt it because the husband of Mrs Frances Sheridan was one of a family who, not being of really ancient Irish descent, does not, in my opinion, possess a Banshee. In "Personal Sketches of his Own Times," by Sir Jonah Barrington, we find (pp. 152-154, Vol. II.) the account of a ghostly experience of the author and his wife, which experience the writer of the paragraph, referring to this work in the notes to T. C. Croker's Banshee Stories, evidently considered was closely associated with the Banshee. At the time of the incident, Lord Rossmore was Commander-in-Chief of the Forces in Ireland. He was a Scot by birth, but had come over to Ireland when very young, and had obtained the post of page to the Lord-Lieutenant. Fortune had favoured him at every turn. Not only had he been eminently successful in the vocation he finally selected, but he had been equally fortunate both with regard to love and money. The lady with whom he fell in love returned his affections, and, on their marriage, brought him a rich dowry. It was partly with her money that he purchased the estate of Mount Kennedy, and built on it one of the noblest mansions in Wicklow. Not very far from Mount Kennedy, and in the centre of what is termed the golden belt of Ireland, stood Dunran, the residence of the Barringtons; so that Lord Rossmore and the Barringtons were practically neighbours. One afternoon at the drawing-room at Dublin Castle, during the Vice-royalty of Earl Hardwick, Lord Rossmore met Lady Barrington, and gave her a most pressing invitation to come to his house-party at Mount Kennedy the following day. "My little farmer," said he, addressing her by her pet name, "when you go home, tell Sir Jonah that no business is to prevent him from bringing you down to dine with me to-morrow. I will have no ifs in the matter--so tell him that come he MUST." Lady Barrington promised, and the following day saw her and Sir Jonah at Mount Kennedy. That night, at about twelve, they retired to rest, and towards two in the morning Sir Jonah was awakened by a sound of a very extraordinary nature. It occurred first at short intervals and resembled neither a voice nor an instrument, for it was softer than any voice, and wilder than any music, and seemed to float about in mid-air, now in one spot and now in another. To quote Sir Jonah's own language: "I don't know wherefore, but my heart beat forcibly; the sound became still more plaintive, till it almost died in the air; when a sudden change, as if excited by a pang, changed its tone; it seemed descending. I felt every nerve tremble: it was not a natural sound, nor could I make out the point from whence it came. At length I awakened Lady Barrington, who heard it as well as myself. She suggested that it might be an Æolian harp; but to that instrument it bore no resemblance--it was altogether a different character of sound. My wife at first appeared less affected than I; but subsequently she was more so. We now went to a large window in our bedroom, which looked directly upon a small garden underneath. The sound seemed then, obviously, to ascend from a grass plot immediately below our window. It continued. Lady Barrington requested I would call up her maid, which I did, and she was evidently more affected than either of us. The sounds lasted for more than half an hour. At last a deep, heavy, throbbing sigh seemed to come from the spot, and was shortly succeeded by a sharp, low cry, and by the distinct exclamation, thrice repeated, of 'Rossmore!--Rossmore!--Rossmore!' I will not attempt to describe my own feelings," Sir Jonah goes on. "The maid fled in terror from the window, and it was with difficulty I prevailed on Lady Barrington to return to bed; in about a minute after the sound died gradually away until all was still." Sir Jonah adds that Lady Barrington, who was not so superstitious as himself, made him promise he would not mention the incident to anyone next day, lest they should be the laughing stock of the place. At about seven in the morning, Sir Jonah's servant, Lawler, rapped at the bedroom door and began, "Oh, Lord, sir!", in such agitated tones, that Sir Jonah at once cried out: "What's the matter?" "Oh, sir," Lawler ejaculated, "Lord Rossmore's footman was running past my door in great haste, and told me in passing that my lord, after coming from the Castle, had gone to bed in perfect health (Lord Rossmore, though advanced in years, had always appeared to be singularly robust, and Sir Jonah had never once heard him complain he was unwell), but that about two-thirty this morning his own man, hearing a noise in his master's bed (he slept in the same room), went to him, and found him in the agonies of death; and before he could alarm the other servants, all was over." Sir Jonah remarks that Lord Rossmore was actually dying at the moment Lady Barrington and he (Sir Jonah) heard his lordship's name pronounced; and he adds that he is totally unequal to the task of accounting for the sounds by any natural causes. The question that most concerns me is whether they were due to the Banshee or not, and as Lord Rossmore was not apparently of ancient Irish lineage, I am inclined to think the phenomena owed its origin to some other class of phantasm; perhaps to one that had been attached to Lord Rossmore's family in Scotland. Moreover, I have never heard of the Banshee speaking as the invisible presence spoke on that occasion; the phenomena certainly seems to me to be much more Scottish than Irish. CHAPTER VI DUAL AND TRIPLE BANSHEE HAUNTINGS It is a somewhat curious, and, perhaps, a not very well-known fact, that some families possess two Banshees, a friendly and an unfriendly one; whilst a few, though a few only, possess three--a friendly, an unfriendly, and a neutral one. A case of the two Banshees resulting in a dual Banshee haunting was told me quite recently by a man whom I met in Paris at Henriette's in Montparnasse. He was a Scot, a journalist, of the name of Menzies, and his story concerned an Irish friend of his, also a journalist, whom I will call O'Hara. From what I could gather, these two men were of an absolutely opposite nature. O'Hara--warm-hearted, impulsive, and generous to a degree; Menzies--somewhat cold, careful with regard to money, and extremely cautious; and yet, apart from their vocation which was the apparent link between them, they possessed one characteristic in common--they both adored pretty women. The high brow and extreme feminist with her stolid features and intensely supercilious smile was a nightmare to them; they sought always something pleasing, and dainty, and free from academic conceits; and they found it in Paris--at Henriette's. It so happened one day that, unable to get a table at Henriette's, the place being crowded, they wandered along the Boulevard Montparnasse, and turned into a new restaurant close to the Boulevard Raspail. This place, too, was very full, but there was one small table, at which sat alone a young girl, and, at O'Hara's suggestion, they at once made for it. "You sly fellow," Menzies whispered to his friend, after they had been seated a few minutes, "I know why you were so anxious to come here." "Well, wasn't I right," O'Hara, whose eyes had never once left the girl's face, responded. "She's the prettiest I've seen for many a day." "Not bad!" Menzies answered, somewhat critically. "But I don't like her mouth, it's wolfish." O'Hara, however, could see no fault in her; the longer he gazed at her, the deeper and deeper he fell in love; not that there was anything very unusual in that, because O'Hara was no sooner off with one flame than he was on with another; and he averaged at least two or three love cases a year. But to Menzies this latest affair was annoying; he knew that when O'Hara lost his heart he generally lost his head too, and could never talk or think on any topic but the eyes, hair, mouth and finger-nails--for, like most Irishmen, O'Hara had a passion for well-kept, well-formed hands--of his new divinity, and on this occasion he did want O'Hara to remain sane a little longer. It was, then, for this reason chiefly, that Menzies did not get a little excited over the new discovery, too; for he was bound to admit that, in spite of the lupine expression about the mouth, there was some excuse this time for his friend's enthusiasm. The girl was pretty, an almost perfect blonde, with daintily shaped hands, and dressed as only a young Paris beauty can dress, who has money and leisure at her command. Yes, there was excuse; and yet it was the height of folly. Girls mean expenditure in one way or another, and just now neither he nor O'Hara had anything to spend. While he was thinking, however, O'Hara was acting. He offered the girl a cigarette, she smilingly rejected it; but the ice was broken, and the conversation begun. There is no need to go into any particulars as to what followed--it was what always did follow in a case of this description--blind infatuation that invariably ended with a startling abruptness; only in this instance the infatuation was blinder than ever, and the ending, though sudden, was not usual. O'Hara asked the girl to dinner with him that night. She accepted, and he took her out again the following evening. From that moment all reason left him, and he gave himself up to the maddest of mad passions. Menzies saw little of him, but when they did by chance happen to meet it was always the same old tale--Gabrielle! Gabrielle Delacourt. Her star-like eyes, gorgeous hair, and so forth. Then came a night when Menzies, tired of his own company, wandered off to Montmartre, and met a fellow-countryman of his, by name Douglas. "I say, old fellow," the latter remarked, as they lolled over a little marble-topped table and watched the evolutions of a more than usually daring vaudeville artiste, "I say, how about that Irish pal of yours, 'O' something or other. I saw him here the other night with Marie Diblanc." "Marie Diblanc!" Menzies articulated. "I have never heard of her." "Not heard of Marie Diblanc!" Douglas exclaimed. "Why I thought every journalist in Paris knew of her, but perhaps she was before your time, for she's had a pretty long spell of prison--at least five or six years, which as you know is pretty stiff nowadays for a woman--and has only recently come out. She was quite a kiddie when they bagged her, but a kiddie with a mind as old as Brinvillier's in crime and vice--she robbed and all but murdered her own mother for a few louis, besides forging cheques and stealing wholesale from shops and hotels. They say she was in with all the worst crooks in Europe, and surpassed them all in subtlety and daring. When I saw her the other night her hair was dyed, and she was wearing the most saint-like expression; but I knew her all the same. She couldn't disguise her mouth or her hands, and it is those features that I notice in a woman more than anything else." "Describe her to me," Menzies said. "A brunette originally," Douglas replied, "but now a blonde--masses of very elaborately waved golden hair; peculiarly long eyes--rather too intensely blue and far apart for my liking--a well-moulded mouth, though the lips are far too thin, and give her away at once." "That's the girl," Menzies exclaimed emphatically. "That's the girl he calls Gabrielle Delacourt. I was with him the day he first met her--over in Montparnasse." Douglas nodded. "That's right," he said. "That's the name he introduced her to me by. But, I'm quite positive she's Marie Diblanc; and I think you ought to give him the tip. If he's seen about with her he'll be suspected by the police. Besides, she is sure to commit some crime--for a girl with that kind of face and history never reforms, she goes on being right down bad to the bitter end--and get him implicated. Only, possibly, she will use him as her tool." "I'll see him and warn him," Menzies said. "I'll call at his place to-night, though there's no knowing when he'll turn up, for he's the most erratic creature under the sun." True to his word, Menzies, after a few more minutes' conversation, got up and retraced his steps to Montparnasse. O'Hara lived in the Rue Campagne Première, close to the famous "rabbit warren." His door, as not infrequently happened, was unlocked, but he was out. Menzies went in, and, entering the little room which served as a parlour, dining-room, and study combined, threw himself into an armchair and lit a cigarette. He did not bother to light up as it was a moonlight night, and the darkness suited his present mood. After a while, however, feeling a little chilly, he turned on the gas fire, and then, glancing at the clock over the mantel-shelf, perceived it was close on twelve. At that instant there was a noise outside, and, thinking it was O'Hara, he called out, "Hulloa, Bob, is that you?" As there was no response he called again, and this time there was a laugh--an ugly, malevolent kind of chuckle that made Menzies jump up at once and angrily demand who was there. No one replying, he went to the room door, and, opening it wide, saw a few yards from him a tall dark figure enveloped in what appeared to be a cloak and gown. "Hulloa!" he cried. "Who are you, and what the ---- do you want here?" Whereupon the figure drew aside its covering and revealed a face that caused Menzies to utter an exclamation of terror and spring back. It was the face of an old woman with very high cheek-bones, tightly drawn shrivelled skin, and obliquely set pale eyes that gleamed banefully as they met Menzies' horrified stare. A disordered mass of matted yellow hair crowned her head and descended half-way to her shoulders, revealing, however, her ears, which stood out prominently from her head, huge and pointed, like those of an enormous wolf. A leadenish white glow seemed to emanate from within her and to intensify the general horror of her appearance. Though Menzies had never believed in ghosts before, he felt certain now that he was looking at something which did not belong to this world. It was, he affirmed, so absolutely hellish that he would have uttered a prayer and bid it begone, had not his words died in his throat so that he could not articulate a sound. He then tried to raise a hand to cross himself, but this, also, he was unable to do; and the only thing he found he could do, was to stare at it in dumb, open-mouthed horror and wonder. How long this state of affairs might have gone on it is impossible to say; but at the sound of heavy and unmistakably human footsteps, first in the lower part of the building, and then ascending the stone staircase leading to this flat, the old woman disappeared, apparently amalgamating with the somewhat artistic hangings on the wall behind her. Menzies was still rubbing his eyes and looking when O'Hara burst in upon him. "Hulloa, Donald, is that you?" he began. "I've done it." "Done what?" Menzies stuttered, his nerves all anyhow. "Why, proposed to Gabrielle, of course," O'Hara went on excitedly, "and she's accepted me. She, the prettiest, sweetest, finest little colleen I've ever come across, has told me she will marry me. Ye gods, I shall go off my head with joy; go stark, staring mad, I tell you." And crossing the floor of the study he tumbled into the chair Menzies himself had just occupied. "I say, old fellow, why don't you congratulate me?" he continued. "I do congratulate you," Menzies observed, taking another seat. "Of course I congratulate you, but are you sure she is the sort of girl you will always care about or who will always care about you. You haven't known her very long, and most women cost a deuced lot of money, especially French ones. Don't take the irrevocable steps before contemplating them well first." "I have," O'Hara retorted, "so it's no use sermonising. I have made up my mind to marry Gabrielle, and nothing on earth will deter me." "Do you know her people, or anything about them?" Menzies ventured. O'Hara laughed. "No," he said, "but that doesn't bother me in the slightest. I shouldn't care whether her father was a navvy or a publican, or whether her mother took in washing and pinched a few odd shirts and socks now and again, only as it happens, they don't affect the question at all, because they are both dead. Gabrielle is an orphan--quite on her own--so I am perfectly safe as far as that goes. No pompous papa to consult, no cantankerous old mother-in-law to dread. Gabrielle was educated at a convent school, and, though you may laugh, knows next to nothing of the world. She's as innocent as a butterfly. We are to be married next month." Finding that it was no earthly use to say any more on the subject, just then at all events, Menzies changed the conversation and referred to the incident of the old woman. O'Hara at once became interested. "Why," he said, "from your description she must have been one of the Banshees that is supposed to haunt our family, and which my mother always declared she saw shortly before my father's death. A hideous hag with a shock head of tow-coloured hair, who stood on the staircase laughing devilishly, and then, all at once, vanished. She is known as the bad Banshee to distinguish her from the good one, which is, so I have always been led to understand, very beautiful, but which never manifests itself, saving when anything especially dreadful is going to happen to an O'Hara." Feeling very uneasy in his mind, Menzies now bid his friend good night, and went home. After that days passed and Menzies saw nothing of O'Hara, until one evening, when he was thinking it must be about now that the marriage was to take place, O'Hara turned up at his flat, and proposed that they should go for a stroll in the direction of the fortifications near Montsouris. But O'Hara was not in his usual good spirits; he seemed very glum and depressed, and Menzies gathered that there had been occasional differences of opinion between his friend and Gabrielle, and that the affair was not running quite as smoothly as it might. Gabrielle had a great many admirers, one of them very rich, and O'Hara was obviously very much annoyed at the attentions they had been bestowing on his fiancée, and at the manner in which she had received them. But there was something else, too; something he could see in his friend's face and manner, but which O'Hara would not so much as hint at. Menzies was, of course, pleased, for there now seemed to be a glimmer of hope that these frictions would materialise into something stronger and more definite, and lead to a rupture that would be final. He was so engrossed in speculations of this nature that he forgot all about the time or where they were, and was only brought back to earth by the whistle and shriek of a train, which made him at once realise they had left Montsouris and were several miles without the fortifications. It was also getting very dusk, and, as he had to be up unusually early in the morning, he suggested to O'Hara they had better turn back. They were then close beside a clump of bushes and a very lofty pine tree that was bending to and fro in such a peculiar manner that Menzies' attention was at once directed to it. "What's wrong with that tree?" he remarked, pointing at it with his stick. "What's wrong with the tree?" O'Hara laughed. "Why, it's not the tree there's anything the matter with--the tree's all right, quite all right--it's you. What on earth are you staring at it for in that ridiculous fashion? Have you suddenly gone mad?" Menzies made no reply, but went up to the tree and examined it. As he was doing so, a slight disturbance in the bushes made him glance around, and he saw, a few feet from him, the tall figure of a girl, clad in a kind of long flowing mantle, but with bare head and feet. The moonlight was on her face, and Menzies, hard and difficult though he was, as a rule, to please, realised it was lovely, far more lovely, so he declared afterwards, than any woman's face he had ever gazed upon. The eyes particularly impressed him, for, although in the darkness he could not tell their colour, he could see that they were of an extremely beautiful shape and setting, and seemed to be filled with a sorrow that was almost more than her heart could bear. Indeed, so poignant was this sorrow of hers, that Menzies, infected by it, too, could not keep back the tears from his own eyes; and, dour and unemotional as he was by nature, his whole being suddenly became literally steeped in sadness and pity. The girl looked straight at him, but only for a few seconds; she then turned towards O'Hara, and seemed to concentrate her whole attention upon him. There was now, Menzies thought, a certain indistinctness and a something shadowy about her that he had not at first noticed, and he was thinking how he could test her to see if she were really a substance or merely an optical illusion, when O'Hara, who was getting tired at his long absence, called out, whereupon the girl at once vanished, uttering, as she melted away in the background, in the same inexplicable manner as the old woman had done, such an awful, harrowing, wailing shriek, that it seemed to fill the whole air, and to linger on for an eternity. Thoroughly terrified, Menzies, as soon as his scattered senses could collect themselves, fled from the spot, and didn't cease running till O'Hara's angry shout brought him to a standstill. To his astonishment O'Hara hadn't heard anything, and was only annoyed at his seemingly mad behaviour. In answer to his description of the girl, however, and the wailing, O'Hara at once declared it was the Banshee, and the one he had always been so particularly anxious to see. "Unless you are having a joke at my expense," he said, "and you look too genuinely scared for that, you have actually seen her--a very beautiful girl, dressed after some old-time Irish custom, in a loose flowing green mantle--only of course you couldn't see the colour--with head and feet bare. But it's odd about that wail. The good Banshee in a family is always supposed to make it, but why didn't I hear her? Why should it only be you? You're Scotch, not Irish." "For which I'm truly thankful," Menzies said with warmth. "I've lived without ever seeing or hearing a ghost or anything approaching one for thirty-eight years, and now I've seen and heard two, within the short space of three weeks, and all because of you, because you're Irish. No thanks. None of your Banshees for me. I'd rather, ten thousand times rather, be just an ordinary laddie from the Highlands, and dispense with your highly aristocratic and fastidious family ghost." "Come, now," O'Hara said good-humouredly, "we won't quarrel about so unsubstantial a thing as the Banshee. Let's hurry up and have a bottle of cognac to make us think of something rather more cheerful." Menzies often thought of those words, for it is not infrequently the most trifling words and actions that haunt our memory to the greatest extent in after days. The rest of the evening passed quite uneventfully, and, after they had "toasted" each other, the two friends separated for the night. Two days later O'Hara's body lay in the Morque, whither it had been taken from the Seine. Though there were some doubts expressed as to the exact manner in which he had met his death, it was officially recorded "death from misadventure," and it was not till several years later Menzies learned the truth. He was then in Mexico, in a little town not twenty miles from San Blas, on the Western Coast, doing some newspaper work for a South American paper. A storekeeper and his wife were murdered; done to death in a singularly cruel manner, even for those parts, and one of the assassins was caught red-handed. The other, a woman, succeeded in escaping. As there had been so many murders lately in that neighbourhood, the townspeople declared they would make a very severe example of the culprit, and hang him, right away, on the scene of his diabolical outrage. Menzies, who had never witnessed anything of the kind before, and was, of course, anxious for copy, took good care to be present. He stood quite close to the handcuffed man, and caught every word of the confession he made to the local padre. He gave his name as André Fécamps, his age as twenty-five, and his nationality as French. He asserted that he was first induced to take to crime through falling in love with a notorious French criminal of the name of Marie Diblanc, who accepted him as her lover, conditionally on his joining the band of Apaches of which she was the recognised leader. He did so, and forthwith plunged into every kind of wickedness imaginable. Among other crimes in which he was implicated he mentioned that of the murder of an Irishman of the name of O'Hara, who was supposed to have met with an accidental death from drowning in the Seine. What really happened, so the young desperado said, was this. M. O'Hara was madly in love with Marie Diblanc, who was posing to him as Gabrielle Delacourt, an innocent young girl from the country, when she was already very much married, and was being searched for high and low, at that very time, by certainly more than one desperate husband. Well, one day she persuaded M. O'Hara to take her to a dance given by some very wealthy friends of his. He did so, and she contrived, unknown to him of course, to smuggle me in, and between us we walked off with something like ten thousand pounds of jewellery. M. O'Hara came to suspect her--how I don't know, unless he overheard some stray conversation between her and some other member of our gang at one of the restaurants they used to dine at. Anyhow, she got to know of it, and at once resolved to have him put out of the way. It was arranged that she should bring him to a house in Montmartre, where several of us were in hiding, and that we should both kill and bury him there. Well, he came, and, on perceiving that he had fallen into a trap, besought her, if his life must be forfeited--and, anyhow, now he knew she was a thief he wouldn't have it otherwise--to take it herself. This she eventually agreed to do, and, lying in her arms, he allowed her to press a poison-bag over his mouth, and so put him to death. His body was taken to the Seine that night in a fiacre and dropped in. Fécamps added that it was the only occasion upon which he had seen Marie Diblanc really moved, and he believed she was a trifle fond of the Irishman, that is to say, if she could be genuinely fond of anyone. Menzies, who was of course deeply interested, extracted every particle of information he could out of the man, but nothing would make the latter admit a word as to what had become of Diblanc. "If I go to hell," he said, "she is certain to go there, too; for bad as I am, I believe her to be infinitely worse; worse, a hundred times worse than any Apache man I have ever met. And yet, depraved and evil as she is, I love her, and shall never know a second's happiness till she joins me." The man died; and Menzies, as he made a sketch of his swinging body, felt thoroughly satisfied at last that the ghost he had seen outside the fortifications of Monsouris was the good and beautiful Banshee, the Banshee that only manifested itself when some unusually dreadful fate was about to overtake an O'Hara. CHAPTER VII A SIMILAR CASE FROM SPAIN Another case of dual Banshee haunting that occurs to me, took place in Spain, where so many of the oldest Irish families have settled, and was related to me by a distant connection of mine--an O'Donnell. He well remembered, he said, many years ago, when he was a boy, his father, who was an officer in the Carlist Army, telling him of an adventure that happened to him during the first outbreak of the Civil War. His father and another young man, Dick O'Flanagan, were subalterns in a cavalry regiment that took a prominent part in a desperate engagement with the Queen's Army. The Carlists were being driven back, when, as a last desperate resource, their bare handful of cavalry charged and immediately turned the fortunes of the day. In the heat of the affray, however, Ralph O'Donnell and Dick O'Flanagan, carried away by their enthusiasm, got separated from the rest of the corps, and were, consequently, overpowered by sheer numbers and taken prisoners. In those days much brutality was shown on either side, and our two heroes, beaten, and bruised, and starving, were dragged along in a half-fainting condition, amid the taunts and gibings of their captors, till they were finally lodged in the filthy dungeon of an old mountain castle, where they were informed they would be kept till the hour appointed for their execution. The moment they were alone, they made the most strenuous efforts to unloosen the thongs of tough cowhide with which their hands and feet were so cruelly bound together, and, after many frantic endeavours, they at last succeeded. O'Flanagan was the first to get free, and as soon as his numbed limbs allowed him to do so, he crawled to the side of his friend and liberated him, too. They then examined the room as best they could in the dark, and decided their only hope of escape lay in the chimney, which, luckily for them, was one of those old-fashioned structures, wide enough to admit the passage of a full-grown person. Ralph began the ascent first, and, after several fruitless efforts, during which he bumped and bruised himself and made such a noise that O'Flanagan feared he would be heard by the guard outside, he eventually managed to obtain a foothold and make sufficient progress for O'Flanagan to follow in his wake. In everything they did that night luck favoured them. On emerging from the chimney on to the roof of the castle, they were rejoiced to find a tree growing so near to one of the walls that they had little difficulty in gripping hold of one of its branches and so descending in safety to the ground. The guards apparently were asleep, at least none were to be seen anywhere, and so, feeling their way cautiously in and out a thick growth of trees and bushes, they soon got altogether clear of the premises, and found themselves once again free, but in a part of the country with which they were totally unacquainted. Two hours tramping along a tortuous, hilly high road, or to give it a more appropriate name, track, for it was nothing more, at last brought them to a wayside inn where, in spite of the advanced hour--for it was between one and two o'clock in the morning--they determined to risk inquiry for a night's shelter. I say "risk" because there was a strong spirit of partisanship abroad, and it was quite as likely as not that the inn people were adherents of the Queen. Ralph knocked repeatedly, and the door was at length opened by a young girl who, holding a candlestick in one hand, sleepily rubbed her eyes with the other and, in rather petulant tones, asked what the gentlemen meant by coming to the house at such an unearthly hour and waking everyone up. Ralph and O'Flanagan were so struck by her appearance that for some seconds they could only stand gaping at her, deprived of all power of speech. Such a vision of loveliness neither of them had seen for many a long day, and both were more than ordinarily susceptible where the fair sex was concerned. Dark, like most of the girls are in Spain, she was not swarthy, but had, on the other hand, a most singularly fair complexion, devoid of that tendency to hairiness which is apparent in so many of the women of that country. Her features were, perhaps, a trifle too bold, but in strict proportion, and her eyes a wee bit hard, though the shape and colour of them--by candlelight an almost purplish grey--were singularly beautiful. She had very white teeth, too, though there was a something about her mouth, in the setting of the lips when they were closed for instance, and in the general expression, that puzzled Ralph, and which was destined to return to his mind many times afterwards. Ralph noticed, too, that her hands were not those of a peasant class, of a class that has to do much rough and hard work, but that they were white and well-kept, the fingers tapering and the nails long and almond shaped. She wore several rings and bracelets, and seemed altogether different from the type of girl one would have expected to find in such a very unpretentious kind of building, situated, too, in such a very remote spot. Ralph was not quite as impulsive as his friend, and although, as I have said, very susceptible, was not so far led away by his feelings as to be altogether incapable of observation. His first impressions of the girl were that, although she was extraordinarily pretty, there was something--apart even from her mouth--that he could not fathom, and which caused him a vague uneasiness; he noticed it particularly when her glance wandered to their travel-stained uniforms, and momentarily alighted on O'Flanagan's solitary ring, which contained a ruby and was a kind of family mascot, akin to the famous cathach of Count Daniel O'Donnell of Tirconnell; and she muttered something which Ralph fancied had reference to the word "Carlists," and then, as if conscious he was watching her, she raised her eyes quickly and, in tones of sleepy indifference this time, asked what the gentlemen wanted. Ralph immediately replied that they required a bed with breakfast, not too early, and, perhaps, later on--luncheon. He added that if the inn was full they wouldn't in the least mind sleeping in a barn or stable. "All we want," he said, "is to lie down somewhere with a roof over our heads, for we are terribly tired." At the mention of a stable the girl smiled, saying she could offer them something rather better than that; and, bidding both follow her upstairs, with as little noise as possible, she conducted them to a large room with a very low ceiling, and, having deposited the candlestick on a chest of drawers, she wished them good night and noiselessly withdrew. "Rather better than our late quarters in the prison," Ralph exclaimed, taking a survey of the apartment, "but a wee bit gloomy." "Nonsense!" O'Flanagan retorted. "The only gloomy things here are your own thoughts. I want to stay here always, for I never saw a prettier girl or a cosier-looking bed." He began to undress as he spoke, and in a few minutes both young men were stretched out at full length fast asleep. About two hours later Ralph awoke with a violent start to hear distinct sounds of footsteps tiptoeing their way softly along the passage outside towards their room door. In an instant all his faculties were on the alert, and he sat up in bed and listened. Then something stirred in the corner by the window, and, glancing in that direction, he saw to his astonishment the figure of a tall slim girl, in a long, loose, flowing gown of some dark material, with a very pale face, beautifully chiselled, though by no means strictly classical features, and masses of shining golden hair that fell in rippling confusion on to her neck and shoulders. The idea that she was the Banshee instantly occurred to him. From his father's description of her, for his father had often spoken to him about her, she and the beautiful woman, whom he was now looking at, were certainly very much alike; besides, as the Banshee, when his father saw her, was crying, and this woman was crying--crying most bitterly, her whole body swaying to and fro as if racked with the most poignant sorrow--he could not help thinking that the identity between them was established, and that they were, in fact, one and the same person. As he was still gazing at her with the most profound pity and admiration, his attention was suddenly directed, by an odd scratching sound, to the window, where he saw, pressed against the glass, and looking straight in at him, a face which in every detail presented the most startling contrast to that upon which his eyes had, but a second ago, been feasting. It was so evil that he felt sure it could only emanate from the lowest Inferno, and it leered at him with such appalling malignancy that, brave man as he had proved himself on the field of battle, he now completely lost his nerve, and would have called out, had not both figures suddenly vanished, their disappearance being immediately followed by the most agonising, heart-rending screams, intermingled with loud laughter and diabolical chuckling, which, for the moment, completely paralysed him. The screams continued for some seconds, during which time every atom of blood in Ralph's veins seemed to freeze, and then there was silence--deep and sepulchral silence. Afraid to be any longer in the dark, Ralph jumped out of bed and lit the candle, and, as he did so, he distinctly heard footsteps move hurriedly away from the door and go stealthily tiptoeing down the passage. As may be imagined, he did not sleep again for some time, not, indeed, until daylight, when he gradually fell into a doze, from which he was eventually aroused by loud thumps on the door, and the voice of the pretty inn maiden announcing that it was time to get up. After breakfast he narrated his experience in the night to O'Flanagan, who, somewhat to his astonishment, did not laugh, but exclaimed quite seriously: "Why, you have seen our Banshee. At least, the girl in green is our Banshee. I saw her before the death of a cousin of mine, and she appeared to my mother the night before my father died. I don't know what the other apparition could have been, unless it was what my father used to term the 'hateful Banshee,' which he said was only supposed to appear before some very dreadful catastrophe, worse even than death, if anything could be worse." "You haven't the monopoly of Banshees," Ralph laughed. "We have one too, and I am positive the woman I saw--the beautiful woman I mean--was the O'Donnell Banshee. I would have you know that the Limerick O'Donnells, with whom I am connected, are quite as old a family as the O'Flanagans; they are, indeed, directly descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages." "So are we," O'Flanagan answered hotly, then he burst out laughing. "Well, well," he said, "fancy quarrelling about anything as immaterial as a Banshee. But, anyhow, if they were Banshees that you saw last night, they're a bit out in their calculations. They should have come before that skirmish, not after it; unless it's the death of some relative of one of us they're prophesying. I hope it's not my sister." "I don't imagine it has anything to do with you," Ralph replied. "They were both looking at me." He was about to say something further, when O'Flanagan, seeing the young girl come into the room to clear away the breakfast things, at once began talking to her; and as it was only too evident that he wanted the field to himself, for he was obviously head over ears in love, Ralph got up and announced his intention of taking a walk round the premises. "Don't go in the wood, Señor, whatever you do," the girl observed, "for it is infested with brigands. They do not interfere with us because we were once good to one of their sick folk--and the Spaniard, brigand though he may be, never forgets a kindness--but they attack strangers, and you will be well advised to keep to the high road." "Which is the nearest town?" Ralph demanded. "Trijello," the girl answered, the same curious expression creeping into her eyes that had puzzled Ralph so much before, and which he found impossible to analyse. "It is about eight miles from here. Don Hervado, the Governor, is a Carlist, and was entertaining some Carlist soldiers there yesterday." "Good!" Ralph exclaimed. "I will walk there. Will you come with me, Dick, or will you wait here till I return. I don't suppose I shall be back much before the evening." "Oh, don't hurry," O'Flanagan laughed, eyeing the girl rapturously, "I am perfectly happy here, and want a rest badly. Don't, whatever you do, let on to anyone connected with headquarters where we are. Let them go on imagining, for a while, we are dead." "The Señors have been in a battle, yes?" the girl interrupted, shyly. "A battle," O'Flanagan laughed, "not half one. Why, we were taken prisoners and only escaped hanging through my unparalleled wits and perseverance. However, I don't in the least bemoan the perils and hardships we have undergone, for, had events turned out otherwise, we should never have had the joy of seeing you, Señora," and catching hold of her hand, before she could prevent him, he pressed it fervently to his lips, smothering it with kisses. Thinking it was high time to be off, Ralph now took his departure. A couple of hours' walking brought him to Trijello, where, but for a lucky incident, he might have found himself landed in a quandary. As he was entering the outskirts of the town he met an old peasant, staggering under a sack of onions, and no sooner did the latter catch sight of his uniform than he at once called out: "Señor, if you value your liberty, you won't enter Trijello in that costume. The Governor is the sworn enemy of all Carlists, and has given strict orders that, anyone with leanings towards that party shall be put under arrest at once." "Are you sure?" Ralph exclaimed. "Why, I was told it was just the other way about, and that he was a strong adherent of our cause." "Whoever told you that, lied," the old man responded, "for he had a nephew of mine shot only yesterday morning for saying in public he hoped that wretched weakling of a woman would soon be put off the throne and we should have someone who was fit to govern--meaning Don Carlos--in her place. Take my advice, Señor, and either change those clothes at once or give Trijello as wide a berth as possible." Ralph then asked him if there was any place near at hand where he could purchase a civilian suit, and, on being informed that there was a Jew's shop within a few minutes' walk, he thanked the old man most cordially for giving him so friendly a warning, and at once proceeded there. To cut a long story short he bought the clothes and, thus disguised, went on into the town, and, with the object of picking up any information he could with regard to the enemy's forces, he dined at the principal hotel, and listened attentively to the conversation that was taking place all around him. Later on in the day some Christino soldiers arrived, officers on the staff of one of the Royalist generals, and Ralph decided to remain in the hotel for the night and see if he could get hold of some really definite news that might be of value to his own headquarters. Learning that someone would be leaving the hotel shortly and passing by the inn where O'Flanagan was staying, he gave them a note to give to his friend, stating that he could not be back till the following day, perhaps about noon. He then took up his seat before the parlour fire, apparently absorbed in reading the latest bulletin from Madrid, but in reality keeping his ears well open for any conversation that might be worth transcribing in his pocket-book. Nor was he disappointed, for the Christino soldiers waxed very talkative over some of mine host's best port, and disclosed many secrets concerning the movements of the Queen's forces, that would have most certainly entailed a court martial, had it but come to the notice of their general. That night, though the room he was given was quite bright and cheerful, and very different from the one he had occupied the night before, his mind was so full of grim apprehension that he found it quite impossible to sleep. He kept thinking of the vision he had seen--that lovely, fairy face of the girl with the golden hair, her adorable eyes, her heavenly, albeit very human mouth; she was so perfect, so angelic, so full of delicious sympathy and pity; so unlike any earthly woman he had ever met; and then that other face--those intensely evil, pale green eyes, that sinister mocking mouth, that dreadfully disordered mass of matted, tow-coloured hair. It was too hellish--too inconceivably foul and baneful to dare think about, and seized with a fit of shuddering, he thrust his head under the bedclothes, lest he should see it again appearing before him. What, he wondered, did they portend? Not some horrible happening to Dick. He had always understood that the one who neither sees nor hears the Banshee during its manifestations is the one that is doomed to die. And yet Dick was assuredly as safe in that inn as he was here--here, surrounded on all sides by his enemies. Once or twice he fancied he heard his name called, and so realistic was it, that, forgetful of his dread of seeing something satanic in the room, he at last sat up in bed and listened. All was still, however; there were no sounds at all; none whatever, saving the gentle whispering of the wind, as it swept softly past the window, and the far-away hooting of a night bird. Then he lay down again, and once more there seemed to come to him from somewhere very close at hand a voice that articulated very clearly and plaintively his name--Ralph, Ralph, Ralph!--three times in quick succession, and then ceased. Nor did he hear it again. Tired and unrested, he got up early and, paying his bill, set off with long, rapid strides in the direction of the wayside inn. There was an air of delightful peace and tranquillity about the place when he arrived. All the sunbeams seemed to have congregated in just that one spot, and to have converted the walls and window-panes of the little old-fashioned building into sheets of burnished gold. Birds twittered merrily on the tree-tops and under the eaves of the roof, and the most delicious smell of honeysuckle and roses permeated the whole atmosphere. Ralph was enchanted, and all his grim forebodings of the night before were instantly dissipated. The abode was truly named "The Travellers' Rest"; it might even have been styled "The Travellers' Paradise," for all seemed so calm and serene--so truly heavenly. He rapped at the door, and, after some moments, rapped again. He then heard footsteps, which somehow seemed strangely familiar, cautiously come along the stone passage and pause at the other side of the door, as if their owner were in doubt whether to open it or not. Again he rapped, and this time the door was opened, and the young girl appeared. She looked rather pale, but was very much sprucer and smarter than she had been when Ralph last saw her. She wore a very bewitching kind of gipsy frock of red velvet--the skirt very short and the bodice adorned with masses of shining silver coins, whilst her feet were clad in very smart, dainty shoes, also red, with big silver buckles. "Your friend's gone," she said. "He seemed very upset at your not turning up last night, and went away directly after breakfast." "But didn't he get my note?" Ralph exclaimed, "and didn't he leave any message?" "No, Señor," the girl replied. "No note came for him, but he said he would try and call in here again to-morrow morning, to see if you had arrived." "And he didn't say where he had gone?" "No." Ralph eyed her quizzically. She certainly was wonderfully pretty, and, marvellous to relate, did not smell of garlic. Yes, he would stay, and try and come under the fascination of her beauty as Dick had done. And yet, why had Dick gone off in such a hurry? What had this starry-eyed creature done to offend him? Ralph knew O'Flanagan was at times apt to be over-impulsive and hasty in his love-makings. Had he got on a bit too rapidly? Spanish girls are very easily upset, and perhaps this one had a lover in the background. Perhaps she was married. That seemed to him the most feasible explanation for Dick's absence. To be offended at his not turning up last night was all nonsense. Ralph knew his friend far too well for that. Anyhow, he decided to stay, and the girl offered him the room he and Dick had previously occupied. Only, she explained, he must not go in it till later on in the day, as it was going to be cleaned. After luncheon, which he sat down to alone, as the girl, despite his pressing invitation, refused to partake of the meal with him, on the plea that she had many things to attend to, he went a little way up the hillside at the back of the premises, and enjoyed a quiet siesta under the shadow of the trees. Indeed, he slept so long that the twilight had well set in before he awoke and once again made tracks for the inn. This time he entered by a doorway in the rear of the house, and, in a small paved courtyard, saw the girl, habited in a rather more workaday attire, but with her hair still very coquettishly decorated with ribbons, sharpening a long glistening knife on a big grinding stone, which she was turning round and round with the skill of a past mistress of the art. "Hulloa!" he exclaimed. "What are you up to? Not sharpening that blade to stick me with, I hope." "The Señor has heard of pigs," the girl replied, showing her beautiful teeth in a smile, almost amounting to a grin. "Well, I'm going to kill one to-night." "Good heavens!" Ralph ejaculated, glancing incredulously at the white, rounded arms and the long, slim, tapering fingers. "You kill a pig! Do you do all the work of this house? Is there no one else here to help you?" "Oh, yes, Señor," the girl laughed. "There is Isabella, an old woman who comes here every day to do all the hard rough work, and my aunt, but there are certain jobs they can't do because their eyesight is not very good, and their hands lack the skill. The gentleman looks shocked, but is there anything so very dreadful in killing a pig? One slash and it is quickly done--very quickly. We have to live somehow, and, after all, the Señor is a soldier--he follows the vocation of killing!" "Oh, yes, it is all very well for big, rough men. One somehow associates them with deeds of violence and bloodshed. But with beautiful, dainty girls like you it is different. You should shudder at the very thought of blood, and be all pity and compassion." "But not for pigs," the girl laughed, "nor for Señors. Now please go in and sit in the parlour, or my aunt will hear me talking to you and accuse me of wasting my time." Ralph reluctantly obeyed, and drawing his chair close up to the parlour fire--for the summer evenings in Spain are often very chilly--was soon deeply absorbed in plans and speculations as to the future. After supper, when the young girl came into the room to clear the table, Ralph noticed that she was once again wearing the gay apparel she had worn earlier in the day; and all in red, even to the ribbons in her hair, she seemed to be dressed more coquettishly than ever. She was also inclined to be more communicative, and in response to Ralph's invitation to partake of a glass of wine with him, she fetched an armchair and came and planted it close beside him. Pretty as he had thought her before, she now appeared to him to be indescribably lovely, and the longer he stared at her, stared into the depths of her large, beautifully shaped purplish grey eyes, the more and more hopelessly enslaved did he become, till, in the end, he realised she had him completely at her mercy, and that he was most madly and desperately in love with her. They drank together, and so absorbed was he in gazing at her eyes--indeed he never ceased gazing at them--that he did not observe what he was drinking or how many times she filled up his glass. If she had given him a poisoned goblet, it would have been all the same, he would have drained it off and kissed her hands and feet with his dying breath. "Now, Señor," she said at length, after he had held her hand to his lips and literally smothered it in kisses, "now, Señor, it is time for you to go to bed. We do not keep late hours here, and to-morrow, Señor, if he is still in the same state of mind, will have plenty of time for repeating to me his sentiments." "To-morrow," Ralph stuttered. "To-morrow, that is a tremendous way off, and isn't it to-morrow that that fellow O'Flanagan is coming?" The girl laughed. "Yes," she said saucily, "there will be two of you to-morrow, the one as bad as the other, and I did think, Señor, you were the steadier of the two. Well, well, you are both soldiers, and soldiers were ever gay dogs; but you must be careful, Señor, you and your friend do not quarrel, for, as you know, more than one friendship has been terminated through the witching glance of a lady's eyes, and you both seem to like looking into mine." "What!" Ralph stuttered angrily. "Did that fellow Dick look at you? Did he dare to look at you? Damn----" but before he could utter another syllable, the girl put her soft little hand over his mouth and pushed him gently to the door. Alternately making wild love to her and passionately denouncing Dick, Ralph then allowed himself to be got upstairs to his room by pushes and coaxings, and, as he made a last frantic effort to kiss and fondle her, the door slammed in his face and he found himself--alone. For some moments he stood tugging and twisting at the door handle, and then, finding that his efforts had no effect, he was staggering off to the bed with the intention of getting into it just as he was, when he caught his foot on something and fell with a crash to the floor, striking his face smartly on the edge of a chair. For a moment or so he was partially stunned, but, the flow of blood from his nose relieving him, he gradually came to his senses, all trace of his drunkenness having completely vanished. The first thing he did then was to look at the carpet which, by a stroke of luck, was crimson, a most pronounced, virulent crimson, exactly the colour of his blood. The spot where he had fallen was close to the bed, and, as his eyes wandered along the carpet by the side of the bed, he fancied he saw another damp patch. He at once fetched the candle and had a closer look. Yes, there was a great splash of moisture on the floor, near the head of the bed, just about in a line with the pillow. He applied his finger to the patch and then held it to the light--it was wet with blood. Filled with a sickening sense of apprehension, Ralph now proceeded to make a careful examination of the room, and, lifting the lid of a huge oak chest that stood in one corner, he was horrified to perceive the naked body of a man lying at the bottom of it, all huddled up. Gently raising the body and bending down to examine it, Ralph received a second shock. The face that looked up at him with such utter lack of expression in its big, bulging, glassy eyes was that of the once gay and humorous Dick O'Flanagan. The manner of his death was only too obvious. His throat had been cut, not cleanly as a man would have done it, but with repeated hacks and slashes, that pointed all too clearly to a woman's handiwork. This then explained it all, explained the curious something in the girl's eyes and mouth he had noticed when he first saw her; explained, too, the stealthy, tiptoeing footsteps in the passage that night, the reason for the appearance of the Banshees, the eagerness with which the girl had plied him with wine, her red dress--and--the red carpet. But why had she done it--for mere sordid robbery, or because they were Carlists. Then recollecting the look she had fixed on the ruby in Dick's ring, the answer seemed clear. It was, of course, robbery. Snake-like, she used those beautiful eyes of hers to fascinate her victims--to lull them into a false sense of security; and then, when they had wholly succumbed to love and wine, of which she gave them their fill, she butchered them. Murders in Spanish inns were by no means uncommon about that time, and even at a much later date, and had this murder been committed by some old and ugly and cross-grained "host," Ralph would not have been surprised, but for this girl to have done it--this girl so young and enchanting, why it was almost inconceivable, and he would not have believed it, had not the grim proofs of it lain so close at hand. What was he to do? Of course, now that he was sober and in the full possession of his faculties, it was ridiculous for him to be afraid of a girl, even though she were armed; but supposing she had confederates, and it was scarcely likely she would be alone in the house. No, he must try and escape; but how! He examined the window, it was heavily barred; he tried the door, it was locked on the outside; he looked up the chimney, it was far too narrow to admit the passage of anyone even half his size. He was done, and the only thing he could do was to wait. To wait till the girl tiptoed into the room to kill, and then--he couldn't bear the idea of fighting with her, even though she had so cruelly murdered poor Dick--make his escape. With this end in view he blew out the candle, and, lying on the bed, pretended to be fast asleep. In about an hour's time he heard steps, soft, cautious footsteps, ascend the staircase and come stealing surreptitiously towards his door. Then they paused, and he instinctively knew she was listening. He breathed heavily, just as a man would do who had drunk not wisely but too well, and had consequently fallen into a deep sleep. Presently, there was a slight movement of the door handle. He continued breathing, and the movement was repeated. Still more stentorian breaths, and the handle this time was completely turned. Very gently he crept off the bed to the door, and, as it slowly opened and a figure in red, looking terribly ghostly and sinister, slipped in, so he suddenly shot past and made a bolt for the passage. There was a wild shriek, something whizzed past his head and fell with a loud clatter on the floor, and all the doors in the house downstairs seemed to open simultaneously. Reaching the head of the stairs in a few bounds, he was down them in a trice. A hideous old hag rushed at him with a hatchet, whilst another aged creature, whose sex he could not determine, aimed a wild blow at him with some other instrument, but Ralph avoided them both, and, reaching the front door, which providentially for him was merely locked, not bolted, he was speedily out of the house and into the broad highway. The screams of the women producing answering echoes from the wood in the hoarser shouts of men, Ralph took to his heels, nor did he stop running until he was well on his way to Trijello. He did not, however, go to the latter town, fearing that the inn people might follow him there and get him arrested as a Carlist; instead, he struck off the high road along a side path, and, luckily for him, about noon fell in with an advanced guard of the Carlist Army. His troubles then, for a time at least, ceased; but to his lasting regret he was never able to avenge Dick's death; for when the war was at last over and he had succeeded in persuading the local authorities to take the matter in hand, the inn was found to be empty and deserted. Nor was the pretty murderess ever seen or heard of again in that neighbourhood. CHAPTER VIII THE BANSHEE ON THE BATTLE-FIELD Although the Banshee haunting referred to in my last chapter occurred during a war, the manifestations did not take place on the battle-field; nor were they actually due to the fighting. At the same time it cannot be denied that they were the outcome of it, for had our two lieutenants not been fighting desperately in a skirmish and got separated from the main body of the Army, in all probability they never would have visited the wayside inn, and the Banshee manifestations there would never have occurred. There are, however, many instances on record of Banshee manifestations occurring on the battle-field, either immediately before or after, or even whilst the fighting was actually taking place. Mr McAnnaly, in his "Irish Wonders," p. 117, says: "Before the Battle of the Boyne, Banshees were heard singing in the air over the Irish camp, the truth of the prophecy being verified by the death roll of the next morning." Now several of my own immediate ancestors took part in the Battle of the Boyne,[10] and according to a family tradition one of them both saw and heard the Banshee. He was sitting in the camp, the night prior to the fighting, conversing with several other officers, including his brother Daniel, when, feeling an icy wind coming from behind and blowing down his back, he turned round to look for his cloak which he had discarded a short time before, owing to the heat from a fire close beside them. The cloak was not there, and, as he turned round still further to look for it, he perceived to his astonishment the figure of a woman, swathed from head to foot in a mantle of some dark flowing material, standing a few feet behind him. Wondering who on earth she could be, but supposing she must be a relative or friend of one of the officers, for her mantle looked costly, and her hair--of a marvellous golden hue--though hanging loose on her shoulders, was evidently well cared for, he continued to gaze at her with curiosity. Then he gradually perceived that she was shaking--shaking all over, with what he at first imagined must be laughter; but from the constant clenching of her hands and heaving of her bosom, he finally realised that she was weeping, and he was further assured on this point, when a sudden gust of wind, blowing back her mantle, he caught a full view of her face. Its beauty electrified him. Her cheeks were as white as marble, but her features were perfect, and her eyes the most lovely he had ever seen. He was about to address her, to inquire if he could be of any service to her, when, someone calling out and asking him what on earth he was doing, she at once began to melt away, and, amalgamating with the soft background of grey mist that was creeping towards them from the river, finally disappeared. He thought of her, however, some hours later, when they were all lying down, endeavouring to snatch a few hours' sleep, and presently fancied he saw, in dim, shadowy outline, her fair face and figure, her big, sorrowful eyes, gazing pitifully first at one and then at another of his companions, but particularly at one, a mere boy, who was lying wrapped in his military cloak, close beside the smouldering embers of the fire. He fancied that she approached this youths and, bending over him, stroked his short, curly hair with her delicate fingers. Thinking that possibly he might be asleep and dreaming, he rubbed his eyes vigorously, but the outlines were still there, momentarily becoming stronger and stronger, more and more distinct, until he realised with a great thrill that she actually was there, just as certainly as she had been when he had first seen her. He was so intent watching her and wishing she would leave the youth and come to him, that he did not notice that one of his comrades had seen her, too, until the latter, who had raised himself into a half-sitting posture, spoke; then, just as before, the figure of the girl melted away, and seemed to become absorbed in the dark and shadowy background. A moment later, he heard, just over his head, a loud moaning and wailing that lasted for several seconds and then died away in one long, protracted sob that suggested mental anguish of an indescribably forlorn and hopeless nature. The deaths of most of his companions of the night, including that of the curly haired boy, occurred on the following day. But the Banshee, although of course appearing to soldiers of Irish birth only, does not confine its attentions to those who are fighting on their native soil; it has been stated that she frequently manifested herself to Irishmen engaged on active service abroad during the Napoleonic Wars, and also to those serving in America during the Civil War. With regard to the Banshee demonstrations in connection with the Napoleonic campaigns, I have not been able to acquire any written record; but as the result of numerous letters sent out by me broadcast in quest of information, I was asked by several people to call either at their houses or clubs, and, gladly accepting their invitations, I learned from them the incidents which, with their permission, I am now about to relate. Miss O'Higgins, an aged lady, residing, prior to the late war, close to Fifth Avenue, New York, and visiting, when I met her, a friend in the Rue Campagne Première, Paris, told me that she well remembered her grandfather telling her when she was a child that he heard the Banshee at Talavera, a day or two prior to the great battle. He was serving with the Spanish Army, having married the daughter of a Spanish officer, and had no idea at the time that there were any men of Irish extraction in his corps. Bivouacking with about a hundred other soldiers in a valley, and happening to awake in the night with an ungovernable thirst, he made his way down to the banks of the river that flowed near by, drank his fill, and was in the act of returning, when he was startled to hear a most agonising scream, quickly followed by another, and then another, all proceeding apparently from the camp, whither he was wending his steps. Wondering what on earth could have happened, and inclining to the belief that it must be in some way connected with one of those women thieves who prowled about everywhere at night, robbing and murdering, with equal impunity, wherever they saw a chance, he quickened his pace, only to find, on his arrival at the camp, no sign whatever of the presence of any woman, although the screaming was going on as vigorously as ever. The sounds seemed to come first from one part of the camp, and then from another, but to be always overhead, as if uttered by invisible beings, hovering at a height of some six or seven feet, or, perhaps, more, above the ground, and although Lieutenant O'Higgins had at first attributed these sounds to one person only, on listening attentively he fancied he could detect several different voices--all women's--and he eventually came to the conclusion that at least three or four phantasms must have been present. As he stood there listening, not knowing what else to do, the wailing and sobbing seemed to grow more and more harrowing, until it affected him so much that, hardened as he had become to all kinds of misery and violence, he, too, felt like weeping, out of sheer sympathy. However, this state of affairs did not last long, for at the sound of a musket shot (that of a sentry, as Lieutenant O'Higgins afterwards ascertained, giving a false alarm in some distant part of the camp) the wailing and sobbing abruptly and completely ceased, and was never, the Lieutenant declared, heard by him again. On mentioning the matter to one of his brother officers in the morning, the latter, no little interested and surprised, at once said: "You have undoubtedly heard the Banshee. Poor D----, who fell at Corunna, often used to tell me about it, and, you may depend upon it, there are some Irishmen in camp now, and it was their funeral dirge that you listened to." What he said proved to be quite correct, for, on inquiring, Lieutenant O'Higgins discovered three of the soldiers who had been sleeping around him that evening had Irish names, and were, unquestionably, of ancient Irish origin; and all of them perished on the bloody field of Talavera, twenty-four hours later. A story relating to an O'Farrell, who was with the Spanish in the same war, was also told me by Miss O'Higgins; but whether this O'Farrell was the famous general of that name or not I do not know. The story ran as follows:[11] It was the day prior to the fall of Badajoz, and O'Farrell, who was in Badajoz at the time, a prisoner of the French, was invited to partake of supper with some Spanish-Irish friends of his of the name of McMahon. The French, it may be observed, were, as a rule, rather more lenient to their Irish prisoners than to their English, and O'Farrell was allowed to ramble about Badajoz in perfect freedom, a mere pledge being extracted from him that he wouldn't stroll outside the boundaries of the town without special permission. On the night in question O'Farrell left his quarters in high spirits. He liked the McMahons, especially the youngest daughter Katherine, with whom he was very much in love. He deemed his case hopeless, however, as Mr McMahon, who was poor, had often said none of his daughters should marry, unless it were someone who was wealthy enough to ensure them being well provided for, should they be left a widow; and as O'Farrell had nothing but his pay, which was meagre enough in all conscience, he saw no prospect of his ever being able to propose to the object of his affections. Had he been strong-minded enough, he told himself, he would have at once said good-bye to Katherine, and never have allowed himself to see or even think of her again; but, poor weakling that he was, he could not bear the idea of taking a final peep into her eyes--the eyes that he had idealised into his heaven and everything that made life worth living for--and so he kept accepting invitations to their house and throwing himself across her path, whenever the slightest opportunity presented itself. And now he found himself once more speeding to meet her, telling himself repeatedly that it should be the last time, but at the same time making up his mind that it should be nothing of the sort. He arrived at the house far too early, of course--he always did--and was shown into a room to wait there till the family had finished their evening toilets. Large glass doors opened out of the room on to a veranda, and O'Farrell, stepping out on to the latter, leaned over the iron railings, and gazed into the semi-courtyard, semi-garden below, in the centre of which was a fountain surmounted by the marble statue of a very beautiful maiden, that his instinct told him was an exact image of his beloved Katherine. He was gazing at it, revelling in the delightful anticipation of meeting the flesh and blood counterpart of it in a very short time, when sounds of music, of someone playing a very, very sad and plaintive air on the harp, came to him through the open doorway. Much surprised, for none of the family as far as he knew were harpists, nor had he, indeed, ever seen a harp in the house, he turned round; but, to add to his astonishment, no one was there. The room was apparently just as empty as when he had been ushered into it, and yet the music unquestionably emanated from it. Considerably mystified, for every now and then there was a peculiar far-offness in the sounds which he could liken to nothing he had ever heard before, he remained on the veranda, prevented by a strange feeling of awe, and something very akin to dread, from venturing into the room. He was thus occupied, half standing and half leaning against the framework of the glass door, when the harping abruptly ceased, and he heard moanings and sobbings as of a woman suffering from paroxysms of the most intense and violent grief. Combatting with a great fear that now began to seize him, he summed up the resolution to peep once more into the room, but though his eyes took in the whole range of the room, he could perceive no spot where anyone could possibly be in hiding, and nothing that would in any way account for the sounds. There was nothing in front of him but walls, furniture, and--space. Not a living creature. What then caused those sounds? He was asking himself this question, when the door opened, and Mr McMahon, followed by Katherine and all of the other girls, came into the apartment; and, with their entry, the strange sounds at once ceased. "Why, what's the matter, Mr O'Farrell," the girls said, laughingly. "You are as white as a sheet and trembling all over. You haven't seen a ghost, have you?" "I haven't seen anything," O'Farrell retorted, a trifle nettled at their gaiety, "but I've heard some rather extraordinary sounds." "Extraordinary sounds," Katherine laughed. "What on earth do you mean?" "Just what I say," O'Farrell remarked. "When I was on the veranda just now I distinctly heard the sound of a harp in this room, and shortly afterwards I heard a woman weeping." "It must have been someone outside in the street," Mr McMahon observed hastily, at the same time giving O'Farrell a warning glance from his dark and penetrating eyes. "We do occasionally receive visits from street musicians. I have something to say to you about the English and their rumoured new attack on the town," and drawing O'Farrell aside he whispered to him: "On no account refer to that music again. It was undoubtedly the Banshee, the ghost that my forefathers brought over from Ireland, and it is only heard before some very dreadful catastrophe to the family." The following day Badajoz was stormed and entered by the English, and in the wild scenes that ensued, scenes in which the drunken English soldiery got completely out of hands, many Spanish--Spanish men and women--perished, as well as French, and among the casualties were the entire McMahon family. CHAPTER IX THE BANSHEE AT SEA Talking of phantom music, there is a widespread belief among Celtic races that whenever it is heard proceeding from the sea, either a death or some other great calamity is prognosticated. Such a belief is very prevalent along the coasts of Scotland, Wales, and Cornwall, and Mr Dyer, in his "Ghost World," p. 413, refers to it in Ireland. "Sometimes," he says, "music is heard at sea, and it is believed in Ireland that, when a friend or relative dies, a warning voice is discernible." To what extent this music is connected with Banshee hauntings it is, of course, impossible to say; but I have known cases in which it has owed its origin to the Banshee and to the Banshee only. During the Civil War in America, for example, a transport of Confederate soldiers was making for Charlestown one evening, when a young Irish officer, who was leaning over the bulwarks and gazing pensively into the sea, was astonished to hear the very sweetest sounds of music coming from, so it seemed to him, the very depths of the blue waters. Thinking he must be dreaming, he called a brother officer to his side and asked him if he could hear anything. "Yes," the latter responded, "music, and what is more, singing. It is a woman, and she is singing some very tender and plaintive air. How the deuce do you account for it?" "I don't know," the young Irishman replied, "unless it is the Banshee, and it sounds very like the description of it that my mother used to give me. I only hope it does not predict the death of any one of my very near relatives." It did not do that, but oddly enough, and unknown to him at the time, a namesake of his, whom he subsequently discovered was a second cousin, stood not ten yards from him at the very moment he was listening to the music, and was killed in action in a sortie from Charlestown on the following day. A story of a similar nature was told me in Oregon by an old Irish Federal soldier, who was in the temporary employ of an apple merchant at Medford, Jackson County. I don't in any way vouch for its truth, but give it just as it was related to me. "You ask me if I have ever come across any ghosts in America. Well, I guess I have, several, and amongst others the Banshee. Oh, yes, I am Irish, although I speak with the nasal twang of the regular Yank. Everyone does who has lived in the Eastern States for any length of time. It's the climate. My name, however, is O'Hagan, and I was born in County Clare; and though my father was only a peasant, I'm a darned sight more Irish than half the people who possess titles and big estates in the old country to-day. "I emigrated from Ireland with my parents, when I was only a few weeks old, and we settled in New York, where I was working as a porter on the quays when the Civil War broke out. Like me, the majority of Irishmen who, as you know, are always ready to go wherever there's the chance of doing a bit of fighting, I at once enlisted in the Marines, for I was passionately fond of the sea, and in due course of time was transferred to a gunboat that patrolled the Carolina Coast on the lookout for Confederate blockade runners. Well, one night, shortly after I had turned in and was lying in my hammock, trying to get to sleep, which was none too easy, for one of my mates, an ex-actor, was snoring loud enough to wake the whole ship, I suddenly heard a tapping on the porthole close beside me. 'Hello,' says I to myself, 'that's an odd noise. It can't be the water, nor yet the wind; maybe it's a bird, a gull or albatross,' and I listened very attentively. The sound went on, but it had none of that hardness and sharpness about it that is occasioned by a beak, it was softer and more lingering, more like the tapping of fingers. Every now and then it left off, to go on again, tap, tap, tap, until, at last, it unnerved me to such an extent that I jumped out of my hammock and had a peep to see what it was. To my astonishment I saw a very white face pressed against the porthole, looking in at me. It was the face of a woman with raven black hair that fell in long ringlets about her neck and shoulders. She had big golden rings in her ears, that shone like anything as the moonbeams caught them, as did her teeth, too, which were the loveliest bits of ivory I have ever seen, absolutely even and without the slightest mar. "But it was her eyes that fascinated me most. They were large, not too large, however, but in strict proportion to the rest of her face, and as far as I could judge in the moonlight, either blue or grey, but indescribably beautiful, and, at the same time, indescribably sad. As I drew nearer, she shrank back, and pointed with a white and slender hand at a spot on the sea, and then suddenly I heard music, the far-away sound of a harp, proceeding, so it seemed to me, from about the place she had indicated. It was a very still night, and the sounds came to me very distinctly, above the soft lap, lap of the water against the vessel's side, and the mechanical squish, squish made by the bows each time they rose and fell, as the ship gently ploughed her way onwards. I was so intent on listening that I quite forgot the figure of the woman with the beautiful face, and when I turned to look at her again, she had gone, and there was nothing in front of me but an endless expanse of heaving, tossing, moonlit water. Then the music ceased, too, and all was still again, wondrously still, and feeling unaccountably sad and lonely--for I had taken a great fancy to that woman's face, the only what you might term really lovely woman's face that had ever looked kindly on me--I got back again into my hammock, and was soon fast asleep. On my touching at port, the first letter I received from home informed me of the death of my father, who had died the same night and just about the same time I had seen that fairy vision and heard that fairy music. "When I told my mother about it, some long time afterwards, she said it was the Banshee, and that it had haunted the O'Hagan family for hundreds and hundreds of years." This, as I have already said, is merely a trooper's story, unconfirmed by anyone else's evidence, and, of course, not up to the standard of S.P.R. authority. Yet, I believe, it was related to me in perfect sincerity, and the narrator had nothing whatever to gain through making it up. I did not even offer him a chew of tobacco, for at that moment I was pretty nearly, if not, indeed, quite as hard up as he was himself. And now, before I finish altogether with Banshee hauntings that are associated with war, I feel I must refer to a statement in Mr McAnnaly's book, "Irish Wonders," to the effect that when the Duke of Wellington died, the Banshee was heard wailing round the house of his ancestors. This statement does not, in my opinion, bear inspection. I am quite ready to grant that some kind of apparition--perhaps a family ghost he had inherited from one or other of his Anglo-Irish ancestry--was heard lamenting outside the domain in question; but as the family to whom the Duke belonged could not be said to be of even anything approaching ancient Irish extraction, I cannot conceive it possible that the disturbances experienced were in any way due to the genuine Banshee. To revert to the sea, and Banshee haunting. On the coast of Donegal there is an estuary called "The Rosses," and this at one time was said to be haunted by several kinds of phantoms, including the Banshee, which was reported to have manifested itself on quite a number of occasions. Under the heading of "An Irish Water-fiend," Bourke, in his "Anecdotes of the Aristocracy" (i. 329), relates the following case of a ghostly happening there, which, although not due to a Banshee, is so characteristic of Irish supernatural phenomena that I cannot refrain from quoting it. In the autumn of 1777 the Rev. James Crawford, rector of the parish of Killina, County Leitrim, was riding on horseback with his sister-in-law, Miss Hannah Wilson, on a pillion behind him, along the road leading to the "The Rosses," and, on reaching the estuary, he at once proceeded to cross it. After they had gone some distance, Miss Wilson, noticing that the water touched the saddle laps, became so alarmed that she cried out and besought Mr Crawford to turn the horse round and get back to land as quickly as possible. "I do not think there can be danger," Mr Crawford answered, "for I see a horseman crossing the ford not twenty yards before us." To this Miss Wilson, who also saw the horseman, replied: "You had better hail him and inquire the depth of the intervening water." Mr Crawford at once did so, whereupon the horseman stopped and, turning round, revealed a face distorted by the most hideous grin conceivable, and so frightfully white and evil that the luckless clergyman promptly beat a retreat, and made no attempt to check the mad haste of his panicked steed till he had left the estuary many miles behind him. On arriving home he narrated the incident to his wife and family, and subsequently learned that the estuary was well known to be haunted by several phantoms, whose mission was invariably the same, either to foretell the doom by drowning of the person to whom they appeared, or else to actually bring about the death of that person by luring them on and on, until they got out of their depth, and so perished. One would have thought that Mr Crawford, after the experience just narrated, would have given the estuary a very wide berth in future; but no such thing. He again attempted to cross the ford of "The Rosses" on 27th September, 1777, and was drowned in the endeavour. Among many thrilling and (so it struck me at the time) authentic stories told me in my youth by a Mrs Broderick, a well-known vendor of oranges and chocolate in Bristol, were several stirring accounts of the Banshee. I was at the time a day boy at Clifton College, residing not very far from the school, and Mrs Broderick, who used to visit our house every week with her wares, took a particular interest in me because I was Irish--one of "the real old O'Donnells." She was a native of Cork, and had, I believe, migrated from that city in the _Juno_, an old cattle boat, that for more than twenty years plied regularly every week between Cork and Bristol carrying a handful of passengers, who, for the cheapness of the fare, made the best of the rolling and tossing and extremely limited space allotted for their accommodation. In later years I often travelled to and from Dublin and Bristol in the _Argo_, the _Juno's_ sister ship, so I speak feelingly and from experience. But to proceed with Mrs Broderick's Banshee stories. The one containing an account of a Banshee haunting on the sea I will narrate in this chapter, and the other, which has no connection with either sea or river, I will deal with later on. Before I commence either story, however, I would like to say that though Mrs Broderick spoke with a rich brogue and was really Irish, she used few, if any, of those words and expressions that certain professors of the Dublin Academic School apparently consider inseparable from the speech of the Irish peasant class. I cannot, for example, remember her ever saying Musha, or Arrah, or Oro; and, as for Erse, I am quite certain she did not know a word of it. Yet, as I have said, she was Irish, and far more Irish than many of the Gaelic scholars of to-day who, insufferably proud of their knowledge of the Celtic tongue, bore one stiff by their feeble and futile attempts to acquire something of the real Irish wit and proverbial humour. Mrs Broderick did not often speak of her parents; they were, I fancy, peasants, or, perhaps, what we should term "small farmers," and from what I could gather they lived, at one time, in a little village just outside Cork; but Mrs Broderick was, she told me, very fond of the sea, and often, when a girl, walked into Cork and went out boating with her young friends in Queenstown harbour. On one occasion, she and another girl and two young men went for a sail with an old fisherman they knew, who took them some distance up the coast in the direction of Kinsale. There had been a slight breeze when they started, but it dropped suddenly as they were tacking to come back home, and since the sails had to be taken down and oars used, both the young men volunteered to row. Their offer being accepted by the old fisherman, they pulled away steadily till they espied an old ship, so battered and worn away as to be little more than a mere shell, lying half in and half out of the water in a tiny cove. Then, as the weather was beautifully fine and no one was in a hurry to get home, it was proposed that they pull up to the wreck and examine it. The old fisherman demurred, but he was soon won over, and the two young men and Mrs Broderick's girl friend boarded the old hulk, leaving Mrs Broderick and the old fisherman in the boat. The shadows from the trees and rocks had already manifested themselves on the glistening shingles of the beach, and a glow, emanating from the rapidly rising moon and myriads of scintillating stars that every moment shone forth with increased brilliancy, showed up every object around them with startling distinctness. Always in her element in scenes of this description, Mrs Broderick was enjoying herself to the utmost. Leaning on the side of the boat and trailing one hand in the water, she drank in the fresh night air, redolent with the scent of flowers and ozone. She could hear her friends talking and laughing as they tried to steady themselves on the sloping boards of the old hulk; and presently, one of them, O'Connell, proposed that they should descend below deck and explore the cabins. Then their voices gradually grew fainter and fainter, until eventually all was still, save for the lapping of the sea against the sides of the boat, and the gentle ripple of the wavelets as they broke on the beach, and the occasional far-away barkings of a dog--noises that somehow seem to belong to summer more than to any other period of the year. Mrs Broderick's memory, awakened by these sounds, travelled back to past seasons, and she was depicting some of the old scenes over again, when all at once, from the wreck, from that side of it, so it seemed to her, that was partly under water, there rang out a series of the most appalling screams, just like the screams of a woman who had been suddenly pounced upon and either stabbed, or treated in some equally savage and violent manner. Mrs Broderick, of course, at once thought of her friend, Mary Rooney, and, clutching the boatman by the arm, she exclaimed: "The Saints above, it's Mary. They're murdering her." "'Tis no woman, that," the old boatman said hoarsely. "'Tis the Banshee, and I would not have had this have happened for the whole blessed world. I with my mother so ill in bed with the rheumatism and a cold she got all through her with sitting out on the wet grass the night before last." "Are you sure?" Mrs Broderick whispered, clutching him tighter, whilst her teeth chattered. "Are you sure it isn't Mary, and they are not killing her?" "Sure," replied the boatman, "that's the way the Banshee always screams--'tis her, right enough, 'tis no human woman," and like the good Catholic that he was, he crossed himself, and, dipping the oars gently into the water, he began to pull slowly and quietly away. By and by the screaming ceased, and a moment later the three explorers came trooping on to the deck, showing no signs whatever of alarm, and when questioned as to whether they had heard anything, laughingly replied in the negative. "Only," O'Connell added facetiously, "the kiss Mike Power stole from Mary. That was all." But for O'Connell that was not all. When he arrived home he found that during his absence his mother had died suddenly, and, in all probability, at the very moment when Mrs Broderick and the boatman had heard the Banshee. CHAPTER X ALLEGED COUNTERPARTS OF THE BANSHEE No country besides Ireland possesses a Banshee, though some countries possess a family or national ghost somewhat resembling it. In Germany, for example, popular tradition is full of rumours of white ladies who haunt castles, woods, rivers, and mountains, where they may be seen combing their yellow hair, or playing on harps or spinning. They usually, as their name would suggest, wear white dresses, and not infrequently yellow or green shoes of a most dainty and artistic design. Sometimes they are sad, sometimes gay; sometimes they warn people of approaching death or disaster, and sometimes, by their beauty, they blind men to an impending peril, and thus lure them on to their death. When beautiful, they are often very beautiful, though nearly always of the same type--golden hair and long blue eyes; they are rarely dark, and their hair is never of that peculiar copper and golden hue that is so common among Banshees. When ugly, they are generally ugly indeed--either repulsive old crones, not unlike the witches in Grimm's Fairy Tales, or death-heads mockingly arrayed in the paraphernalia of the young; but their ugliness does not seem to embrace that ghastly satanic mockery, that diabolical malevolence that is inseparable from the malignant form of Banshee, and which inspires in the beholders such a peculiar and unparalleled horror. It is not my intention in this work to do more than briefly refer to a few of the most famous of the German hauntings in their relation to the Banshee; and, since it is the best known, I would first of all call attention to the White Lady, that restricts its unwelcome attentions to Royalty, and more especially, perhaps, to that branch of it known as the House of Hohenzollern. Between this White Lady family phantasm and the Banshee there is undoubtedly something in common. They are both exclusively associated with families of really ancient lineage, which they follow about from town to town, province to province, and country to country; and the purpose of their respective missions is generally the same, namely, to give warning of some approaching death or calamity, which in the case of the White Lady is usually of a national order. Occasionally, too, the German family ghost, like the Banshee, is heard playing on a harp, but here I think the likeness ends. There are no very striking characteristics in the appearance of the White Lady of the Hohenzollerns, she would seem to be neither very beautiful nor the reverse; nor does she convey the impression of belonging to any very remote age; on the contrary, she might well be the earth-bound spirit of someone who died in the Middle Ages or even later. In December, 1628, she was seen in the Royal Palace in Berlin, and was heard to say, "_Veni, judica vivos et mortuos; judicum mihi adhuc superest_"--that is to say, "Come judge the quick and the dead--I wait for judgment." She also manifested herself to one of the Fredericks of Prussia, who regarded her advent as a sure sign of his approaching death, which it was, for he died shortly afterwards. We next read of her appearing in Bohemia at the Castle of Neuhaus. One of the princesses of the royal house was trying on a new head-gear before a mirror, and, thinking her waiting-maid was near at hand, she inquired of her the time. To the Princess's horror, however, instead of the maid answering her, a strange figure all in white, which her instincts told her was the famous national ghost, stepped out from behind a screen and exclaimed, "_Zehn uhr ist es irh Liebden!_" "It is ten o'clock, your love"; the last two words being the mode of address usually adopted in Germany and Austria by Royalties when speaking to one another. The Princess was soon afterwards taken ill and died. A faithful account of the appearance of the White Lady was published in _The Iris_, a Frankfort journal, in 1829, and was vouched for by the editor, George Doring. Doring's mother, who was companion to one of the ladies at the Prussian Court, had two daughters, aged fourteen and fifteen, who were in the habit of visiting her at the Palace. On one occasion, when the two girls were alone in their mother's sitting-room, doing some needlework, they were immeasurably surprised to hear the sounds of music, proceeding, so it seemed to them, from behind a big stove that occupied one corner of the apartment. One girl got up, and, taking a yard measure, struck the spot where she fancied the music was coming from; whereupon the measure was instantly snatched from her hand, the music, at the same time, ceasing. She was so badly frightened that she ran out of the room and took refuge in someone else's apartment. On her return some minutes later, she found her sister lying on the floor in a dead faint. On coming to, this sister stated that directly the other had quitted the apartment, the music had begun again and, not only that, but the figure of a woman, all in white, had suddenly risen from behind the stove and began to advance towards her, causing her instantly to faint with fright. The lady in whose house the occurrence took place, on being acquainted with what had happened, had the flooring near the stove taken up; but, instead of discovering the treasure which she had hoped might be there, a quantity of quick-lime only was found; and the affair eventually getting to the King's ears, he displayed no surprise, but merely expressed his belief that the apparition the girl had seen was that of the Countess Agnes of Orlamunde, who had been bricked up alive in that room. She had been the mistress of a former Margrave of Brandenburg, by whom she had had two children, and when the Margrave's legitimate wife died the Countess hoped he would marry her. This, however, he declined to do on the plea that her offspring, at his death, would very probably dispute the heirship to the property with the children of his lawful marriage. The Countess then, in order to remove this obstacle to her union, poisoned her two children, which act so disgusted the Margrave that he had her walled up alive in the room where she had committed the crimes. The King went on to explain that the phantasm appeared about every seven years, but more often to children, to whom it was believed to be very much attached, than to adults. Against this explanation, however, is the more recent one that the White Lady is Princess Bertha or Perchta von Rosenberg. This theory is founded on the discovery of a portrait of Princess Bertha, which was identified by someone as the portrait of the White Lady whom they had just seen. In support of this theory it was pointed out that once when certain charities which the Princess had stated in her will should be doled out annually to the poor were neglected, not only was the White Lady seen, but music and all kinds of other sounds were heard in the house where the Princess had died. Very possibly, however, in neither of these theories is there any truth, and the secret of the White Lady's activity lies in some subtle and, perhaps, entirely unsuspected fact. It is, I think, quite conceivable that she is no earth-bound soul, but some impersonating elemental, which--like the Banshee--has, for some strange and wholly inexplicable reason, attached itself to the unfortunate Hohenzollerns, and their relatives and kinsmen. Ballinus and Erasmus Francisci, in their published works, give numerous accounts of the appearance of this same apparition; whilst Mrs Crowe asserts that it was seen shortly before the publication of her "Night Side of Nature." It would be interesting to know whether it appeared to the ex-Kaiser Wilhelm, or to any of his family, before this last greatest and most signally disastrous of all wars. William Brereton in his "Travels" (i. 33) gives rather a different description of this ghost. He says that the Queen of Bohemia told him "that at Berlin--the Elector of Brandenberg's house--before the death of anyone related in blood to that house, there appears and walks up and down that house like unto a ghost in a white sheet, which walks during the time of their sickness until their death." In this account it will be noticed that there is no mention of sex, so that the reader can only speculate as to whether the apparition was the ghost of a man or a woman. Its appearance, however, according to this account, strongly suggests a ghost of the sepulchral and death-head type--an ordinary species of elemental--which suggestion is not apparent in any other description of it that we have hitherto come across. Other ancient German and Austrian families, besides those of the ruling houses, possess their family ghosts, and here again, as in the parallel case of the Irish and their Banshee, the family ghost of the Germans or Austrians is by no means confined to the "White Lady." In some cases of German family haunting, for example, the phenomenon is a roaring lion, in others a howling dog; and in others a bell or gong, or sepulchral toned clock striking at some unusual hour, and generally thirteen times. In all instances, however, no matter whether the family ghost be German, Irish, or Austrian, the purpose of its manifestations is the same--to predict death or some very grave calamity.[12] In the notes to the 1844 edition of Thomas Crofton Croker's "Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland," we find this paragraph taken from the works of the Brothers Grimm and manuscript communications from Dr Wilhelm Grimm: "In the Tyrol they believe in a spirit which looks in at the window of a house in which a person is to die (Deutsche Sagen, No. 266), the White Woman with a veil over her head answers to the Banshee, but the tradition of the Klage-weib (mourning woman) in the Lünchurger Heath (Spiels Archiv. ii. 297) resembles it more. On stormy nights, when the moon shines faintly through the fleeting clouds, she stalks of gigantic stature with death-like aspect, and black, hollow eyes, wrapt in grave clothes which float in the wind, and stretches her immense arm over the solitary hut, uttering lamentable cries in the tempestuous darkness. Beneath the roof over which the Klage-weib has leaned, one of the inmates must die in the course of a month." In Italy there are several families of distinction possessing a family ghost that somewhat resembles the Banshee. According to Cardau and Henningius Grosius the ancient Venetian family of Donati possess a ghost in the form of a man's head, which is seen looking through a doorway whenever any member of the family is doomed to die. The following extract from their joint work serves as an illustration of it: "Jacopo Donati, one of the most important families in Venice, had a child, the heir to the family, very ill. At night, when in bed, Donati saw the door of his chamber opened and the head of a man thrust in. Knowing that it was not one of his servants, he roused the house, drew his sword, went over the whole palace, all the servants declaring that they had seen such a head thrust in at the doors of their several chambers at the same hour; the fastenings were found all secure, so that no one could have come in from without. The next day the child died." Other families in Italy, a branch of the Paoli, for example, is haunted by very sweet music, the voice of a woman singing to the accompaniment of a harp or guitar, and invariably before a death. Of the family ghost in Spain I have been able to gather but little information. There, too, some of the oldest families seem to possess ghosts that follow the fortunes, both at home and abroad, of the families to which they are attached, but with the exception of this one point of resemblance there seems to be in them little similarity to the Banshee. In Denmark and Sweden the likeness between the family ghost and the Banshee is decidedly pronounced. Quite a number of old Scandinavian families possess attendant spirits very much after the style of the Banshee; some very beautiful and sympathetic, and some quite the reverse; the most notable difference being that in the Scandinavian apparition there is none of that ghastly mixture of the grave, antiquity, and hell that is so characteristic of the baleful type of Banshee, and which would seem to distinguish it from the ghosts of all other countries. The beautiful Scandinavian phantasms more closely resemble fairies or angels than any women of this earth, whilst the hideous ones have all the grotesqueness and crude horror of the witches of Andersen or Grimm. There is nothing about them, as there so often is in the Banshee, to make one wonder if they can be the phantasms of any long extinct race, or people, for example, that might have hailed from the missing continent of Atlantis, or have been in Ireland prior to the coming of the Celts. The Scandinavian family ghosts are frankly either elementals or the earth-bound spirits of the much more recent dead. Yet, as I have said, they have certain points in common with the Banshee. They prognosticate death or disaster; they scream and wail like women in the throes of some great mental or physical agony; they sob or laugh; they occasionally tap on the window-panes, or play on the harp; they sometimes haunt in pairs, a kind spirit and an evilly disposed one attending the fortunes of the same family; and they keep exclusively to the very oldest families. Oddly enough at times the Finnish family ghost assumes the guise of a man. Burton, for example, in his "Anatomy of Melancholy," tells us "that near Rufus Nova, in Finland, there is a lake in which, when the governor of the castle dies, a spectrum is seen in the habit of Orion, with a harp, and makes excellent music, like those clocks in Cheshire which (they say) presage death to the masters of the family; or that oak in Lanthadran Park in Cornwall, which foreshadows so much." I will not dwell any longer, however, on Scandinavian ghosts, as I purpose later on to publish a volume on the same, but will pass on to the family apparitions of Scotland, England, and Wales. Beginning with Scotland, Sir Walter Scott was strong in his belief in the Banshee, which he described as one of the most beautiful superstitions of Europe. In his "Letters on Demonology" he says: "Several families of the Highlands of Scotland anciently laid claim to the distinction of an attendant spirit, who performed the office of the Irish Banshee," and he particularly referred to the ghostly cries and lamentations which foreboded death to members of the Clan of MacLean of Lochbery. But though many of the Highland families do possess such a ghost, unlike the Banshee, it is not restricted to the feminine sex, nor does its origin, as a rule, date back to anything like such remote times. It would seem, indeed, to belong to a much more ordinary species of phantasm, a species which is seldom accompanied by music or any other sound, and which by no means always prognosticates death, although on many occasions it has done so. In addition to the MacLean, some of the best known cases of Scottish family ghosts are as follows: The Bodach au Dun, or Ghost of the Hills, which haunts the family of Grant Rothiemurcus, and the Llam-dearg, or spectre of the Bloody Hand, which pursues the fortunes of the Clan Kinchardine. According to Sir Walter Scott in the Macfarlane MSS. this spirit was chiefly to be seen in the Glenmore, where it took the form of a soldier with one hand perpetually dripping with blood. At one time it invariably signalled its advent in the manner which, I think, has no parallel among ghosts--it challenged members of the Kinchardine Clan to fight a duel with it, and whether they accepted or not they always died soon afterwards. As lately as 1669, says Sir Walter Scott, it fought with three brothers, one after another, who immediately died therefrom. Then there is the Clan of Gurlinbeg which is haunted by Garlin Bodacher; the Turloch Gorms who, according to Scott, are haunted by Mary Moulach, or the girl with the hairy left hand;[13] and the Airlie family, whose seat at Cortachy is haunted by the famous drummer, whose ghostly tattoos must be taken as a sure sign that a member of the Ogilvie Clan--of which the Earl of Airlie is the recognised head--will die very shortly. Mr Ingram, in his "Haunted Houses and Family Legends," quotes several well authenticated instances of manifestations by this apparition, the last occurring, according to him, in the year 1899, though I have heard from other reliable sources that it has been heard at a much more recent date. The origin of this haunting is generally thought to be comparatively modern, and not to date further back than two or three hundred years, if as far, which, of course, puts it on quite a different category from that of the Banshee, though its mission is, without doubt, the same. According to Mr Ingram, a former Lord Airlie, becoming jealous of one of his retainers or emissaries who was a drummer, had him thrust in his drum and hurled from a top window of the castle into the courtyard beneath, where he was dashed to pieces. With his dying breath the drummer cursed not only Lord Airlie, but his descendants, too, and ever since that event his apparition has persistently haunted the family. Other Highland families that possess special ghosts are a branch of the Macdonnells, that have a phantom piper, whose mournful piping invariably means that some member or other of the clan is shortly doomed to die; and the Stanleys who have a female apparition that signalises her advent by shrieking, weeping, and moaning before the death of any of the family. Perhaps of all Scottish ghosts this last one most closely resembles the Banshee, though there are distinct differences, chiefly with regard to the appearance of the phantoms--the Scottish one differing essentially in her looks and attire from the Irish ghost--and their respective origins, that of the Stanley apparition being, in all probability, of much later date than the Banshee. Then, again, there is the Bodach Glas, or dark grey man, in reference to which Mr Henderson, in his "Folk-lore of Northern Countries," p. 344, says: "Its appearance foretold death in the Clan of ----, and I have been informed on the most credible testimony of its appearance in our own day. The Earl of E----, a nobleman alike beloved and respected in Scotland, was playing on the day of his decease on the links of St Andrew's at golf. Suddenly he stopped in the middle of the game, saying, 'I can play no longer, there is the Bodach Glas. I have seen it for the third time; something fearful is going to befall me.' That night he fell down dead as he was giving a lady her candlestick on her way up to bed." Another instance, still, of a Scottish family ghost is that of the willow tree at Gordon Castle, which is referred to by Sir Bernard Bourke in his "Anecdotes of the Aristocracy." Sir Bernard asserts that whenever any accident happens to this tree, if, for example, a branch is blown down in a storm, or any part of it is struck by lightning, then some dire misfortune is sure to happen to some member of the family. There are other old Scottish family ghosts, all very distinct from the Banshee, though a few bear some slight resemblance to it, but as my space is restricted, I will pass on to family ghosts of a more or less similar type that are to be met with in England. To begin with, the Oxenhams of Devonshire the heiress of Sir James Oxenham, and the bride that is invariably seen before the death of any member of the family. According to a well-known Devonshire ballad, a bird answering to this description flew over the guests at the wedding of the heiress of Sir James Oxenham, and the bride was killed the following day by a suitor she had unceremoniously jilted. The Arundels of Wardour have a ghost in the form of two white owls, it being alleged that whenever two birds of this species are seen perched on the house where any of this family are living, some one member of them is doomed to die very shortly. Equally famous is the ghost of the Cliftons of Nottinghamshire, which takes the shape of a sturgeon that is seen swimming in the river Trent, opposite Clifton Hall, the chief seat of the family, whenever one of the Cliftons is on the eve of dying. Then, again, there is the white hand of the Squires of Worcestershire, a family that is now practically extinct. According to local tradition this family was for many generations haunted by the very beautiful hand of a woman, that was always seen protruding through the wall of the room containing that member of the family who was fated to die soon. Most ghost hands are said to be grey and filmy, but this one, according to some eye-witnesses, appears to have borne an extraordinary resemblance to that of a living person. It was slender and perfectly proportioned, with very tapering fingers and very long and beautifully kept filbert nails--the sort of hand one sees in portraits of women of bygone ages, but which one very rarely meets with in the present generation. Other families that possess ghosts are the Yorkshire Middletons, who are always apprised of the death of one of their members by the appearance of a nun; and the Byrons of Newstead Abbey, who, according to the great poet of that name, were haunted by a black Friar that used to be seen wandering about the cloisters and other parts of the monasterial building before the death of any member of the family. In England, there seems to be quite a number of White Lady phantoms, most of them, however, haunting houses and not families, and none of them bearing any resemblance to the Banshee. Indeed, there is a far greater dissimilarity between the English and Irish types of family ghosts than there is between the Irish and those of any of the nations I have hitherto discussed. Lastly, with regard to the Welsh family ghosts, Mr Wirt Sikes, in his "British Goblins," quite erroneously, I think, likens the Banshee in appearance to the Gwrach y Rhibyn, or Hag of the Dribble, which he describes as hideous, with long, black teeth, long, lank, withered arms, leathern wings, and cadaverous cheeks, a description that is certainly not in the least degree like that of any Banshee I have ever heard of. He goes on to add that it comes in the stillness of the night, utters a blood-curdling howl, and calls on the person doomed to die thus: "Da-a-a-vy! De-i-i-o-o-ba-a-a-ch." If it is in the guise of a male it says, in addition, "Fy mlentyn, fy mlentyn bach!" which rendered into English is, "My child, my little child"; but if in the form of a woman, "Oh! Oh! fy ngwr, fy ngwr"--"My husband! my husband!" As a rule it flaps its wings against the window of the room in which the person who is doomed is sleeping, whilst occasionally it appears either to the ill-fated one himself or to some member of his family in a mist on the mountainside. Mr Sikes gives a very graphic description of the appearance of this apparition to a peasant farmer near Cardiff, a little over forty years ago. To be precise, it was on the evening of the 14th November, 1877. The farmer was on a visit to an old friend at the time, and was awakened at midnight by the most ghastly screaming and a violent shaking of the window-frame. The noise continued for some seconds, and then terminated in one final screech that far surpassed all the others in intensity and sheer horror. Greatly excited--though Mr Sikes affirms he was not frightened--the old man leaped out of bed, and, throwing open the window, saw a figure like a frightful old woman, with long, dishevelled, red hair, and tusk-like teeth, and a startling white complexion, floating in mid-air. She was enveloped in a long, loose, flowing kind of black robe that entirely concealed her body. As he gazed at her, completely dumbfounded with astonishment, she peered down at him and, throwing back her dreadful head, emitted another of the very wildest and most harrowing of screams. He then heard her flap her wings against a window immediately underneath his, after which he saw her fly over to an inn almost directly opposite him, called the "Cow and Snuffers," and pass right through the closed doorway. After waiting some minutes to see if she came out again, he at length got back into bed, and on the morrow learned that Mr Llewellyn, the landlord of the "Cow and Snuffers," had died in the night about the same time as the apparition, which he, the old farmer, now concluded must have been the Gwrach y Rhibyn, had appeared. There is, of course, this much in common between the Gwrach y Rhibyn and the Banshee: both are harbingers of death; both signalise their advent by shrieks, and both confine their hauntings to really ancient Celtic families; but here, it seems to me, the likeness ends. The Gwrach y Rhibyn is more grotesque than horrible, and would seem to belong rather to the order of witches in fairy lore than to the denizens of the ghost world. Another ghostly phenomenon of the death-warning type that is, I believe, to be met with in Wales, is the Canhywllah Cyrth, or corpse candle, so called because the apparition resembles a material candlelight, saving for the fact that it vanishes directly it is approached, and reforms speedily again afterwards. The following descriptions of the Canhywllah Cyrth are taken from Mr T. C. Charley's "News from the Invisible World," pp. 121-4. The first extract is the account of the corpse candles given by the Rev. Mr Davis. "If it be a little candle," he writes, "pale or bluish, then follows the corpse either of an abortive, or some infant; if a big one, then the corpse either of someone come of age; if there be seen two or three or more, some big, some small, together, then so many such corpses together. If two candles come from divers places, and be seen to meet, the corpses will do the like; if any of these candles be seen to turn, sometimes a little out of the way that leadeth unto the church, the following corpse will be found to turn into that very place, for the avoiding of some dirty lane, etc. When I was about fifteen years of age, dwelling at Llanglar, late at night, some neighbours saw one of these candles hovering up and down along the bank of the river, until they were weary in beholding; at last they left it so, and went to bed. A few weeks after, a damsel from Montgomeryshire came to see her friends, who dwelt on the other side of the Istwyth, and thought to ford it at the place where the light was seen; but being dissuaded by some lookers-on (by reason of a flood) she walked up and down along the bank, where the aforesaid candle did, waiting for the falling of the waters, which at last she took, and was drowned therein." Continuing, he says: "Of late, my sexton's wife, an aged understanding woman, saw from her bed a little bluish candle upon her table; within two or three days after comes a fellow in, inquiring for her husband, and taking something from under his cloak, clapped it down directly upon the table end, where she had seen the candle; and what was it but a dead-born child?" In another case the same gentleman relates a number of these candles were seen together. "About thirty-four or thirty-five years since," he says, "one Jane Wyat, my wife's sister, being nurse to Baronet Reid's three eldest children, and (the lady being deceased) the lady controller of that house, going late into a chamber where the maidservants lay, saw there no less than five of these lights together. It happened a while after, the chamber being newly plastered and a great grate of coal-fire thereon kindled to hasten the drying up of the plastering, that five of the maidservants went there to bed, as they were wont, but in the morning they were all dead, being suffocated in their sleep with the steam of the newly tempered lime and coal. This was at Llangathen in Carmarthenshire." Occasionally a figure is seen with the lights, but nearly always that of a woman. À propos of this the same writer says: "William John of the County of Carmarthen, a smith, on going home one night, saw one of the corpse candles; he went out of his way to meet with it, and when he came near it, he saw it was a burying; and the corpse upon the bier, the perfect resemblance of a woman in the neighbourhood whom he knew, holding the candle between her forefingers, who dreadfully grinned at him, and presently he was struck down from his horse, where he remained a while, and was ill a long time after before he recovered. This was before the real burying of the woman. His fault, and therefore his danger, was his coming presumptuously against the candle." Lastly, an account of these death candles appeared some years ago in _Fraser's Magazine_. It ran as follows: "In a wild and retired district in North Wales, the following occurrence took place to the great astonishment of the mountaineers. We can vouch for the truth of the statement, as many members of our own teutu, or clan, were witnesses of the fact. On a dark evening, a few winters ago, some persons, with whom we are well acquainted, were returning to Barmouth, on the south or opposite side of the river. As they approached the ferryhouse at Penthryn, which is directly opposite Barmouth, they observed a light near the house, which they conjectured to be produced by a bonfire, and greatly puzzled they were to discover the reason why it should have been lighted. As they came nearer, however, it vanished; and when they inquired at the house respecting it, they were surprised to learn that not only had the people there displayed no light, but they had not even seen one; nor could they perceive any signs of it on the sands. On reaching Barmouth, the circumstance was mentioned, and the fact corroborated by some of the people there, who had also plainly and distinctly seen the light. It was settled, therefore, by some of the old fisherman, that this was a "death-token"; and, sure enough, the man who kept the ferry at that time was drowned at high-water a few nights afterwards, on the very spot where the light was seen. He was landing from the boat, when he fell into the water, and so perished." "The same winter the Barmouth people, as well as the inhabitants of the opposite banks, were struck by the appearance of a number of small lights which were seen dancing in the air at a place called Borthwyn, about half a mile from the town. A great number of people came out to see these lights; and after a while they all but one disappeared, and this one proceeded slowly towards the water's edge, to a small bay where some boats were moored. The men in a sloop which was anchored near the spot saw the light advancing--they saw it also hover for a few seconds over one particular boat, and then totally disappear. Two or three days afterwards, the man to whom that particular boat belonged was drowned in the river, where he was sailing about Barmouth harbour in that very boat. We have narrated these facts just as they occurred." Another well-known Welsh haunting that may be relegated to the same class of phenomena as the corpse candles is that of the Stradling Ghost. This phantasm, which is supposed to be that of a former Lady Stradling, who was murdered by one of her own relatives, haunts St Donart's Castle, on the southern coast of Glamorganshire, appearing whenever a death or some very grievous calamity is about to overtake a member of the family. Writing of her, Mr Wirt Sikes, in his "British Goblins," p. 143-4, says: "She appears when any mishap is about to befall a member of the house of Stradling, the direct line, however, of which is extinct. She wears high-heeled shoes, and a long trailing gown of the finest silk." According to local reports, her advent is always known in the neighbourhood by the behaviour of the dogs, which, taking their cue from their canine representatives in the Castle, begin to howl and whine, and keep on making a noise and showing every indication of terror and resentment so long as the earth-bound spirit of the lady continues to roam about. Of course the Stradling Ghost cannot be said to be characteristically Welsh, because its prototype is to be found in so many other countries, but it at least comes under the category of family apparitions. The Gwyllgi, or dog of darkness, which Mr Wirt Sikes asserts has often inspired terror among the Welsh peasants, does not appear to be confined to any one family, any more than do the corpse candles, though, like the latter, it would seem to manifest itself principally to really Welsh people. Its advent is not, however, predicative of any special happening. The Cwn Annwn, or dogs of hell, that are chiefly to be met with in the south of Wales, on the contrary, rarely, if ever, appear, saving to warn those who see them of some approaching death or disaster. Neither they, nor the Gwyllgi, nor the corpse candles, since they do not haunt one family exclusively, can be called family ghosts. And only inasmuch as they are racial have they anything in common with the Banshee. Indeed, there is a world of difference between the Banshee and even its nearest counterpart in other countries, and the difference is, perhaps, one which only those who have actually experienced it could ever understand. CHAPTER XI THE BANSHEE IN POETRY AND PROSE "'Twas the Banshee's lonely wailing, Well I knew the voice of death, On the night wind slowly sailing O'er the bleak and gloomy heath." These are the dramatic lines Thomas Crofton Croker, in his inimitable "Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland," puts in the mouth of the widow MacCarthy, as she is lamenting over the body of her son, Charles, whose death had been predicted by the Banshee; not the beautiful and dainty Banshee of the O'Briens, but a wild, unkempt, haggish creature that seemed in perfect harmony with the drear and desolate moorland from whence it sprang. Mr Croker, indeed, almost invariably associates the Banshee with the heath and bogland, for at the commencement of his Tales of the Banshee in the same volume, we find these well-known lines: "Who sits upon the heath forlorn, With robe so free and tresses worn, Anon she pours a harrowing strain, And then she sits all mute again! Now peals the wild funereal cry, And now--it sinks into a sigh." Very different from this grim and repellent portrayal of the Banshee given by Mr Croker is the very pleasing and attractive description of it presented to us by Dr Kenealy, whose account of it in prose appears in an earlier chapter of this book. Referring to the death of his brother, Dr Kenealy says: "Here the Banshee, that phantom bright who weeps Over the dying of her own loved line, Floated in moonlight; in her streaming locks Gleamed starshine; when she looked on me, she knew And smiled." And again: "The wish has but Escaped my lips--and lo! once more it streams In liquid lapse upon the fairy winds That guard each slightest note with jealous care, And bring them hither, even as angels might To the beloved to whom they minister." In reference to phantom music heard at sea, Mr Dyer, in his "Ghost World," p. 413, quotes the following lines: "A low sound of song from the distance I hear, In the silence of night, breathing sad on my ear, Whence comes it? I know not--unearthly the note, Yet it sounds like the lay that my mother once sung, As o'er her first-born in his cradle she hung." As I have already stated, the Banshee is not infrequently heard at sea, either singing or weeping, hence, in all probability, the author of these lines, whose name, by the way, Mr Dyer does not divulge, had the Banshee in mind when he wrote them. But, perhaps, the best known, as well as the most direct reference to this ghost in verse is that made by Ireland's popular poet, Thomas Moore, in one of the most famous of his "Irish Melodies." I append the poem, not only for the reference it contains, but also on account of its general beauty. "How oft has the Banshee cried! How oft has death untied Bright bonds that glory wove Sweet bonds entwin'd by love. Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth! Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth! Long may the fair and brave Sigh o'er the hero's grave. We're fallen upon gloomy days, Star after star decays, Every bright name, that shed Light o'er the land, is fled. Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth Lost joy, a hope that ne'er returneth, But brightly flows the tear Wept o'er the hero's bier. Oh, quenched are our beacon lights Thou, of the hundred fights! Thou, on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung! Both mute, but long as valour shineth Or Mercy's soul at war refineth So long shall Erin's pride Tell how they lived and died." With the following extracts from the translation of an elegy written by Pierse Ferriter, the Irish poet soldier, who fought bravely in the Cromwellian wars, I must now terminate these references to the Banshee in poetry: "When I heard lamentations And sad, warning cries From the Banshees of many Broad districts arise. Aina from her closely hid Nest did awake The woman of wailing From Gur's voicy lake; From Glen Fogradh of words Came a mournful whine, And all Kerry's Banshees Wept the lost Geraldine.[14] The Banshees of Youghal And of stately Mo-geely Were joined in their grief By wide Imokilly. Carah Mona in gloom Of deep sorrow appears, And all Kinalmeaky's Absorbed into tears. * * * * The Banshee of Dunquin In sweet song did implore To the spirit that watches O'er dark Dun-an-oir, And Ennismare's maid By the dark, gloomy wave With her clear voice did mourn The fall of the brave. On stormy Slieve Mish Spread the cry far and wide, From steeply Finnaleun The wild eagle replied. 'Mong the Reeks, like the Thunder peal's echoing rout, It burst--and deep moaning Bright Brandon gives out, Oh Chief! whose example On soft-minded youth Like the signet impressed Honour, glory, and truth. The youth who once grieved If unnoticed passed by, Now deplore thee in silence With sorrow-dimmed eye, O! woman of tears, Who, with musical hands, From your bright golden hair Hath combed out the long bands, Let those golden strings loose, Speak your thoughts--let your mind Fling abroad its full light, Like a torch to the wind." In fiction no writer has, I think, dealt more freely with the subject of the Banshee than Thomas Crofton Croker, the translator of the abovementioned elegy. In his "Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland," he gives the most inimitable accounts of it; and for the benefit of those of my readers who are unacquainted with his works, as well as for the purpose of presenting the Banshee as seen by such an unrivalled portrayer of Irish ghost and fairy lore, I will give a brief résumé of two of his stories. The one I will take first relates to the Rev. Charles Bunworth, who about the middle of the eighteenth century was rector of Buttevant, County Cork. Mr Bunworth was greatly beloved and esteemed, not only on account of his piety--for pious people are by no means always popular--but also on account of his charity. He used to give pecuniary aid, often when he could ill afford it, to all and any, no matter to what faith they belonged, whom he really believed were in need; and being particularly fond of music, especially the harp, he entertained, in a most generous and hospitable manner, all the poor Irish harpers that came to his house. At the time of his death, no fewer than fifteen harps were found in the loft of his granary, presents, one is led to infer, from strolling harpers, in token of their gratitude for his repeated acts of kindness to them. About a week prior to his decease, and at an early hour in the evening, several of the occupants of his house heard a strange noise outside the hall door, which they could only liken to the shearing of sheep. No very serious attention, however, was paid to it, and it was not until some time afterwards, when other queer things happened, that it was recalled and associated with the supernatural. Later on, at about seven o'clock in the evening, Kavanagh, the herdman, returned from Mallow, whither he had been dispatched for some medicine. He appeared greatly agitated, and, in response to Miss Bunworth's questions as to what was the matter, could only ejaculate: "The master, Miss, the master! He is going from us." Miss Bunworth, thinking he had been drinking, sternly reproved him, whereupon he responded: "Miss, as I hope mercy hereafter, neither bite nor sup has passed my lips since I left this house; but the master----" Here he broke down, only adding with an effort, "We will lose him--the master." He then began to weep and wring his hands. Miss Bunworth, who, during this strange recital, was growing more and more bewildered, now exclaimed impatiently: "What _is_ it you mean? Do explain yourself." Kavanagh was silent, but, as she persisted, commanding him to speak, he at length said: "The Banshee has come for him, Miss; and 'tis not I alone who have heard her." But Miss Bunworth only laughed and rebuked him for being superstitious. "Maybe I am superstitious," he retorted, "but as I came through the glen of Ballybeg she was along with me, keening, and screeching, and clapping her hands by my side, every step of the way, with her long white hair falling about her shoulders, and I could hear her repeat the master's name every now and then, as plain as ever I hear it. When I came to Old Abby, she parted from me there, and turned into pigeon field next the berrin'-ground, and, folding her cloak about her, down she sat under the tree that was struck by lightning, and began keening so bitterly that it went through one's heart to hear it." Miss Bunworth listened more attentively now, but told Kavanagh that she was sure he was mistaken, as her father was very much better and quite out of danger. However, she spoke too soon, for that very night her father had a relapse and was soon in a very critical condition. His daughters nursed him with the utmost devotion, but at length, overcome with the strain of many hours of sleepless watchfulness, they were obliged to take a rest and allow a certain old friend of theirs, temporarily, to take their place. It was night; without the house everything was still and calm; within the aged watcher was seated close beside the sick man's bed, the head of which had been placed near the window, so that the sufferer could, in the daylight, steal a glimpse at the fields and trees he loved so much. In an adjoining room, and in the kitchen, were a number of friends and dependents who had come from afar to inquire after the condition of the patient. Their conversation had been carried on for some time in whispers, and then, as if infected by the intense hush outside, they had gradually ceased talking, and all had become absolutely hushed. Suddenly the aged watcher heard a sound outside the window. She looked, but though there was a brilliant moonlight, which rendered every object far and near strikingly conspicuous, she could perceive nothing--nothing at least that could account for the disturbance. Presently the noise was repeated; a rose tree near the window rustled and seemed to be pulled violently aside. Then there was the sound like the clapping of hands and of breathing and blowing close to the window-panes. At this, the old watcher, who was now getting nervous, arose and went into the next room, and asked those assembled there if they had heard anything. Apparently, they had not, but they all went out and searched the grounds, particularly in the vicinity of the rose tree, but could discover no clue as to the cause of the noises, and although the ground was soft with recent rain, there were no footprints to be seen anywhere. After they had made an exhaustive examination, and had settled down again indoors, the clapping at once recommenced, and was accompanied this time by moanings, which the whole party of investigators now heard. The sounds went on for some time, apparently till close to dawn, when the reverend gentleman died. The other story concerns the MacCarthys, of whom Mr Croker remarks, "being an old, and especially an old Catholic family, they have, of course, a Banshee." Charles MacCarthy in 1749 was the only surviving son of a very numerous family. His father died when he was twenty, leaving him his estate, and being very gay, handsome, and thoughtless, he soon got into bad company and made an unenviable reputation for himself. Going from one excess to another he at length fell ill, and was soon in such a condition that his life was finally despaired of by the doctor. His mother never left him. Always at his bedside, ready to administer to his slightest want, she showed how truly devoted she was to him, although she was by no means blind to his faults. Indeed, so acutely did she realise the danger in which his soul stood, that she prayed most earnestly that should he die, he should at least be spared long enough to be able to recover sufficiently to see the enormity of his offences, and repent accordingly. To her utmost sorrow, however, instead of his mind clearing a little, as so often happens after delirium and before death, he gradually fell into a state of coma, and presented every appearance of being actually dead. The doctor was sent for, and the house and grounds were speedily filled with a crowd of people, friends, tenants, fosterers, and poor relatives; one and all anxious to learn the exact condition of the sick man. With tremendous excitement they awaited the exit of the doctor from the house, and, when he at length emerged, they clustered round him and listened for his verdict. "It's all over, James," he said to the man who was holding his steed, and with those few brief words he climbed into his saddle and rode away. Then the women who were standing by gave a shrill cry, which developed into a continuous, plaintive and discordant groaning, interrupted every now and again by the deep sobbing and groaning, and clapping of hands of Charles' foster-brother, who was moving in and out the crowd, distracted with grief. All the time Mrs MacCarthy was sitting by the body of her son, the tears streaming from her eyes. Presently some women entered the room and inquired about directions for the ceremony of waking, and providing the refreshments necessary for the occasion. Mournfully the widow gives them the instructions they need, and then continues her solitary vigil, crying with all her soul, and yet quite unaware of the tears that kept pouring from her eyes. So, on and on, with brief intervals only, all through the loud and boisterous lamentations of the visitors over her beloved one, far into the stillness of the night. In one of the interludes, in which she has removed into an inner room to pray, she suddenly hears a low murmuring, which is speedily succeeded by a wild cry of horror, and then, out from the room in which the deceased lies, pour, like some panic-stricken sheep, the entire crowd of those that have participated in the Wake. Nothing daunted, Mrs MacCarthy rushes into the apartment they have quitted, and sees, sitting up on the bed, the light from the candles casting a most unearthly glare on his features, the body of her son. Falling on her knees before it and clasping her hands she at once commences praying; but hearing the word "mother," she springs forward, and, clutching the figure by the arm, shrieks out: "Speak, in the name of God and His Saints, speak! Are you alive?" The pale lips move, and finally exclaim: "Yes, my mother, alive, but sit down and collect yourself." And then, to the startled and bewildered mother he, whom she had been mourning all this time as dead, unfolded the following remarkable tale. He declared he remembered nothing of the preliminary stages of his illness, all of which was a blank, and was only cognisant of what was happening when he found himself in another world, standing in the presence of his Creator, Who had summoned him for judgment. "The dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence," he dramatically stated, "was printed on his brain in characters indelible." What would have happened he dreaded to think, had it not been for his guardian saint, that holy spirit his mother had always taught him to pray to, who was standing by his side, and who pleaded with Him "that one year and one month might be given him on the earth again, in which he should have the opportunity of doing penance and atonement." After a terribly anxious wait, in which his whole fate--his fate for eternity--hung in the balance, the progress of his kindly intercessor succeeded, and the Great and Awful Judge pronounced these words: "Return to that world in which thou hast lived but to outrage the laws of Him Who made that world and thee. Three years are given thee for repentance; when these are ended thou shalt again stand here, to be saved or lost for ever." Charles saw and heard no more; everything became a void, until he suddenly became once again conscious of light and found himself lying on the bed. He told this experience as if it were no dream, but, as he really believed it to be, an actual reality, and, on his gradually regaining health and strength, he showed the effect it had had on him by completely changing his mode of life. Though not altogether shunning his former companions in folly, he never went to any excess with them, but, on the contrary, often exercised a restraining influence over them, and so, by degrees, came to be looked upon as a person of eminent prudence and wisdom. The years passed by till at last the third anniversary of the wonderful recovery drew near. As Charles still adhered to his belief that what he had experienced had been no mere dream or wandering of the mind, but an actual visit to spirit land, so nervous did his mother become, as the time drew near for the expiration of the lease of life he declared had been allotted to him, that she wrote to Mrs Barry, a friend of hers, begging her to come with her two girls and stay with her for a few days, until, in fact, the actual day of the third anniversary should have passed. Unfortunately, Mrs Barry, instead of getting to Spring House, where Mrs MacCarthy lived, on the Wednesday, the day specified in the invitation, was not able to commence the journey till the following Friday, and she then had to leave her eldest daughter behind and bring only the younger one. What ultimately happened is very graphically described in a letter from the younger girl to the elder. In brief it was this: She and her mother set out in a jaunting-car driven by their man Leary. The recent rains made the road so heavy that they found it impossible to make other than very slow progress, and had to put up for the first night at the house of a Mr Bourke, a friend of theirs, who kept them until late the following day. Indeed, it was evening when they left his premises, with a good fifteen miles to cover before they arrived at Spring House. The weather was variable, at times the moon shone clear and bright, whilst at others it was covered with thick, black, fast-scudding clouds. The farther they progressed, the more ominous did the elements become, the clouds collected in vast masses, the wind grew stronger and stronger, and presently the rain began to fall. Slow as their progress had been before, it now became slower; at every step the wheels of their car either plunged into a deep slough, or sank almost up to the axle in thick mud. At last, so impossible did it become, that Mrs Barry inquired of Leary how far they were from Mr Bourke's, the house they had recently left. "'Tis about ten spades from this to the cross," was the reply, "and we have then only to turn to the left into the avenue, ma'am." "Very well, then," answered Mrs Barry, "turn up to Mr Bourke's as soon as you reach the crossroads." Mrs Barry had scarcely uttered these words when a shriek, that thrilled the hearers to the very core of their hearts, burst from the hedge to their right. It resembled the cry of a female--if it resembled anything earthly at all--struck by a sudden and mortal blow, and giving out life in one long, deep pang of agony. "Heaven defend us!" exclaimed Mrs Barry. "Go you over the hedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead." "Woman!" said Leary, beating the horse violently, while his voice trembled. "That's no woman; the sooner we get on, ma'am, the better," and he urged the horse forward. There was now a heavy spell of darkness as the moon was once again hidden by the clouds, but, though they could see nothing, they heard screams of despair and anguish, accompanied by a loud clapping of the hands, just as if some person on the other side of the hedge was running along in a line with their horse's head, and keeping pace with them. When they came to within ten yards of the spot where the avenue branched off to Mr Bourke's on the left, and the road to Spring House led away to the right, the moon suddenly reappeared, and they saw, with startling distinctness, the figure of a tall, thin woman, with uncovered head, and long hair floating round her shoulders, attired in a kind of cloak or sheet, standing at the corner of the hedge, just where the road along which they were driving met that which led to Spring House. She had her face turned towards them, and, whilst pointing with her left hand in the direction of Spring House, with her right was beckoning them to hurry. As they advanced she became more and more agitated, until finally, leaping into the road in front of them, and still pointing with outstretched arm in the direction of Spring House, she took up her stand at the entrance to the Avenue, as if to bar their way, and glared defiantly at them. "Go on, Leary, in God's name!" exclaimed Mrs Barry. "'Tis the Banshee," said Leary, "and I could not, for what my life is worth, go anywhere this blessed night but to Spring House. But I'm afraid there's something bad going forward, or she would not send us there." He pressed on towards Spring House, and almost directly afterwards clouds covered the moon, and the Banshee disappeared; the sound of her clapping, though continuing for some time, gradually becoming fainter and fainter, until it finally ceased altogether. On their arrival at Spring House they learnt that a dreadful tragedy had just taken place. A lady, Miss Jane Osborn, who was Charles MacCarthy's ward, was to have been married to one James Ryan, and on the day preceding the marriage, as Ryan and Charles MacCarthy were walking together in the grounds of the latter's house, a strange young woman, hiding in the shrubbery, shot Charles in mistake for Ryan, who, it seems, had seduced and deserted her. The wound, which at first appeared trivial, suddenly developed serious symptoms, and before the sun had gone down on the third anniversary of his memorable experience with the Unknown, Charles MacCarthy was again ushered into the presence of his Maker, there to render of himself a second and a final account. CHAPTER XII THE BANSHEE IN SCOTLAND There is, I believe, one version of a famous Scottish haunting in which there figures a Banshee of the more or less orthodox order. I heard it many years ago, and it was told me in good faith, but I cannot, of course, vouch for its authenticity. Since, however, it introduces the Banshee, and, therefore, may be of interest to the readers of this book, I publish it now for the first time, embodied in the following narrative: "Well, Ronan, you will be glad to hear that I consent to your marrying Ione, provided you can assure me there is nothing wrong with your family history. No hereditary tendencies to drink, disease, or madness. You know I am a great believer in heredity. Your prospects seem good--all the inquiries I have made as to your character have proved satisfactory, and I shall put no obstacles in your way if you can satisfy me on this point. Can you?" The speaker was Captain Horatio Wynne Pettigrew, R.N., late in command of His Majesty's Frigate _Prometheus_, and now living on retired pay in the small but aristocratic suburb of Birkenhead; the young man he addressed--Ronan Malachy, chief clerk and prospective junior partner in the big business firm of Lowndes, Half & Company, Dublin; and the subject of their conversation--Ione, youngest daughter of the said captain, generally and, perhaps, justly designated the bonniest damsel in all the land between the Dee and the far distant Tweed. The look of intense suspense and anxiety which had almost contorted Ronan's face while he was waiting for the Captain's reply, now gave way to an expression of the most marked relief. "I think I have often told you, sir," he replied, "that I have no recollection of my parents, as they both died when I was a baby; but I have never heard either of them spoken of in any other terms than those of the greatest affection and respect. I have always understood my father was lost at sea on a journey either to or from New York, and that my mother, who had a weak heart, died from the effects of the shock. My grandparents on both sides lived together happily, I believe, and died from natural causes at quite a respectable old age. If there had been any hereditary tendencies of an unpleasant nature such as those you name, or any particular family disease, I feel sure I should have heard of it from one or other of my relatives, but I can assure you I have not." "Very well then," Captain Pettigrew remarked genially, "if your uncle, who is, I understand, your guardian, and whom I know well by reputation, will do me the courtesy to corroborate what you say, I will at once sanction your engagement. But now I must ask you to excuse me, as I have promised to have supper with General Maitland to-night, and before I go have several matters to attend to." He held out his hand as he spoke, and Ronan, who had been secretly hoping that he would be asked to spend the evening, was reluctantly compelled to withdraw. Outside in the hall, Ione, of course, was waiting, almost beside herself with anxiety, to hear the result of the interview, but Ronan had only time to whisper that it was quite all right, and that her father had been far more amenable than either of them had supposed, before the door of the room he had just left opened, and the Captain appeared. There was no help for it then, he was obliged to say good-bye, and, having done so, he hurried out into the night. At the time of which I am writing there were neither motors nor trains, so that Ronan, who, owing to an accident to his horse, had to walk, did not reach home, a distance of some four or five miles, till the evening was well advanced. On his arrival, burning with impatience to settle the momentous question, he at once broached the subject of his interview with Captain Pettigrew to his uncle, remarking that his fate now rested with him. "With me!" Mr Malachy exclaimed, placing his paper on an empty chair beside him, and staring at Ronan with a look of sudden bewilderment in his big, short-sighted but extremely benevolent eyes. "Why, you know, my boy, that you have my hearty approval. From all you tell me, Miss Ione must be a very charming young lady; she has aristocratic connections, and will not, I take it, be altogether penniless. Yes, certainly, you have my approval. You have known that all along." "I have, uncle," Ronan retorted, "and no one is more grateful to you than I. But Captain Pettigrew has very strong ideas about heredity. He believes the tendency to drink, insanity, and sexual lust haunts families, and that, even if it lies dormant for one generation, it is almost bound to manifest itself in another. I told him I was quite sure I was all right in this respect, but he says he wants your corroboration, and that if you will affirm it by letter, he will at once give his consent to my engagement to Ione. I know letter-writing is a confounded nuisance to you, uncle, but do please assure Captain Pettigrew at once that we have no family predisposition of the kind he fears." Mr Malachy leaned back in his chair and gazed into the long gilt mirror over the mantel-shelf. "Drink and gambling," he said. "And suicide," Ronan added. "You can at any rate swear to the absence of that in our family----" but, happening to glance at the mirror as he spoke, he caught in it a reflection of his uncle's face, that at once made him turn round. "Uncle!" he cried. "Tell me! What is it? Why do you look like that?" Mr Malachy was silent. "You're hiding something," Ronan exclaimed sharply. "Tell me what it is. Tell me, I say, and for God's sake put an end to my suspense." "You are right, Ronan," his uncle responded slowly. "I am hiding something, something I ought perhaps to have told you long ago. It's about your father." "My father!" "Yes, your father. I have always told you he was lost at sea. Well, so he was, but in circumstances that were undoubtedly mysterious. He was last seen alive on the wharf at Annan, where he was apparently waiting for a boat to take him to the opposite coast. Someone said they saw him suddenly leap in the water, and some days later a body, declared to be his, was picked up in the Solway Firth." "Then it was suicide," Ronan gasped. "My God, how awful! Was anyone with him at the time?" "I don't think I need tell you any more." "Yes, tell me everything," Ronan answered bitterly. "Nothing makes any difference now. Let me hear all, I insist." In a voice that shook to such an extent that Ronan looked at him in horror, Mr Malachy continued: "Ronan," he said, "remember that I tell you against my will, and that you are forcing me to speak. They did say at the time that there was a woman with your father--a woman who had travelled with him all the way from Lockerbie--that they quarrelled, that he--he----" "Yes--go on! For God's sake go on." "Pushed her in the water--in a rage, mind you, in a rage, I say; and then, apparently appalled at what he had done, jumped in, too." "Were they both drowned then?" "Yes." "And no one tried to save them?" "No one was near enough. The tide was running strong at the time, and they were both carried out to sea. The woman's body was never found; and your father's, when it was recovered several days afterwards, was so disfigured that it could only be identified by the clothes." "And they were sure it was my father?" "I am afraid there is little doubt on that score. Your Aunt Bridget, who, being the last of the family to see him alive, was called upon to identify the body, always declared there was a mistake; she identified the clothes, but mentioned that the body was that of a person whom she had never seen before." "Then there is a slight hope!" "I hardly think so, but--but go and see her--it is your only hope, and I will defer writing to Captain Pettigrew until your return." * * * * * Early next morning Ronan was well on his way to Lockerbie. In his present state of mind, every inch was a mile, every second an eternity. If his aunt could only furnish him with some absolute proof that it was not his father who had pushed the woman into the water and afterwards jumped in himself, then he might yet marry the object of his devotion, but, if she could not, he swore with a bitter oath that the water that had claimed his parent, should also claim him; and in the very same spot where the unlucky man who had proved his ruin had perished, he would perish too. It was Ione or obliteration. His whole being concentrated on such thoughts as these, he pressed forward, taking neither rest nor refreshments, till he reached Silloth, where he was compelled to wait several hours, until a fisherman could be prevailed upon to take him across the Solway Firth to Annan. So far luck had favoured him. The weather had kept fine, and, despite the dangerous condition of the roads, which were notoriously full of footpads, and in the most sorry need of repair, he had covered the distance without mishap. After leaving Annan, however, disaster at once overtook him. The coach had only proceeded some seven or eight miles along the road to Lockerbie, when a serious accident, through the loss of a wheel, was but narrowly escaped, and, as there seemed little chance of getting the necessary repairs executed that night, the driver suggested that his fares should walk back to Annan and put up at the "Red Star and Garter," till he was able to call for them in the morning. To this all agreed excepting Ronan, who, scorning the proposal to turn back, declared that he would continue his journey to Lockerbie on foot. "It's a wild, uncanny bit of country you'll have to go through, mon," the driver remonstrated, "and I'm nae sure but what you may come across some of them smuggler laddies from away across the borders of Kirkcudbright. They are fair sore just noo at the way in which the Custom House officials are treating them, and are downright suspicious of everyone they meet. You'll be weel guided to return to the coast with us." To this well-intentioned advice Ronan did not even condescend a reply, but, bidding his fellow-passengers good night, he buttoned his overcoat tightly round his chest, and stepped resolutely forward into the darkness. The driver had not exaggerated. It was a wild, uncouth bit of country. The road itself was a mere track, all ruts and furrows, with nothing to denote its boundaries saving ditches, or black tarns that gleamed fitfully whenever the moonbeams, emerging from behind black masses of clouds, fell on them. Beyond the road, on one side, was a wide stretch of barren moorland, terminating at the foot of a long line of rather low and singularly funereal-looking hills; and, on the other, a black, thickly wooded chasm, at the bottom of which thundered a river. In every fitful outburst of lunar splendour each detail in the landscape stood out with almost microscopic clearness, but otherwise all lay heavily shrouded in an almost impenetrable mantle of gloom, from which there seemed to emanate strange, indefinable shadows, that, as far as Ronan could see, had no material counterparts. Naturally stout of heart and afraid of nothing, Ronan was, at the same time, a Celt, and possessed, in no small degree, all the Celtic awe and respect for anything associated with the supernatural. Hence, though he pushed steadily on and kept picturing to himself the face and form of his lady love, to win whom he was fully prepared to go to any extremity, he could not prevent himself from occasionally glancing with misgiving at some more than usually perplexing shadow, or, from time to time, prevent his heart from beating louder at the rustle of a gorse-bush, or the dismal hooting of an owl. In some mysterious fashion the night seemed to have suddenly changed everything, and to have vested every object and every trifling--or what in the daytime would have been trifling--sound with a significance that was truly enigmatical and startling. The air, however, with its blending of scents from the pines, and gorse, and heather, with ozone from the not far distant Solway Firth, was so delicious that Ronan kept throwing back his head to inhale great draughts of it; and it was whilst he thus stood a second, with his nostrils and forehead upturned, that he first became aware of an impending storm. At first a few big splashes, and the low moaning of the wind as it swept towards and past him from the far distant hill-tops; then more splashes, and then a downpour. Ronan, who was now walking abreast a low white wall, beyond which he could see one of those shelters that in Scotland are erected everywhere for the protection of both cattle and sheep from the terrible blizzards that nearly every winter devastate the country, perceiving the futility and danger of trying to face the storm, made for the wall and, climbing it, dropped over on the other side. As bad luck would have it, however, he alighted on a boulder and, unable to retain his foothold, slipped off it, striking his head a severe blow on the ground. For some seconds he lay unconscious, then, his senses gradually returning, he picked himself up and made for the shelter. Stumbling blindly forward towards the entrance of the building, he collided with a figure that suddenly seemed to rise from the ground, and for a moment his heart stood still, but his fears were quickly dissipated by the unmistakable sound of a human voice. "Who is that?" someone inquired in tremulous tones. "Oh, sir, are you one of the revellers?" "One of the revellers?" Ronan replied. "It's an ill night for any revelling. What do you mean?" "I mean, are you one of the young men going to the fancy dress dance at the Spelkin Towers," the voice responded. "But your accent tells me you are not; you don't belong to these parts. You are Irish." "That is truly said," Ronan answered. "My home is in Dublin, and it's the first time I have set foot on Dumfries soil, and I'll stake every penny in my purse it will be the last. I'm bound for Lockerbie, but I'm thinking it will be the early hours of the morning before I get there." "For Lockerbie," the voice replied. "Why that's a distance of about twenty miles. It's a straight road, however, and you pass the Spelkin Towers on the way. It stands in a clump of trees about a hundred yards back from the road, on this side of it, about three miles from here. If there were a moon you would easily recognise the place by the big white gate leading directly to it." "So I might, but why waste my time and your breath. The Spelkins, or whatever you call it, has naught to do with me. I'm bound for Lockerbie, I tell you, and as the rain seems to be abating I intend moving on again." "Sir," the woman pleaded, "I pray you stay a few moments and listen to what I have to say. A gentleman is going to the revels to-night for whom I have a letter of the utmost importance. His name is Dunloe--Mr Robert Dunloe of Annan. He is due at the Towers at eight o'clock, and should surely be passing here almost at this very moment. But, sir, I durst not wait for him any longer, as I have an aged mother at home who has been taken suddenly and violently ill. For mercy's sake I beg of you to wait and give him the letter in my stead." "Give him the letter in your stead!" Ronan ejaculated. "Why, I may never see him--indeed, the odds are a thousand to one I never shall. I'm in a hurry, too. I can't stay hanging around here all night. Besides, how should I know him?" "He's dressed as a jester," the woman answered, "and if the wind is not blowing too strong you'll hear the sound of his bells. He's sure to be coming by very soon. Oh, sir, do me this favour, I pray you." As she spoke the rain ceased and the moon, suddenly appearing from behind a bank of clouds, revealed her face. It was startlingly white, and in a strange, elfish kind of way, beautiful. Ronan gazed at it in astonishment, it was altogether so different from the face he had pictured from the voice, and as he stared down into the big, black eyes raised pleadingly to his, he felt curiously fascinated, and all idea of resistance at once departed. "All right," he said slowly, "I will do as you wish. A man in Court-jester's costume, with jingling bells, answering to the name of Robert Dunloe. Hand me the letter, and I will wait in the road till he passes." She obeyed, and, taking from her bosom an envelope, handed it to him. "Oh, sir," she said softly, "I can't tell you how grateful I am. It is most kind of you--most chivalrous, and I am sure you will one day be rewarded. Hark! footsteps. A number of them. It must be some of the revellers. I must remain here till they pass, for I would not for the world have them see me; they are rude, boisterous fellows, and have little respect for a maiden when they meet her alone on the highway. There have been some dreadful doings of late around here." She laid one of her little white hands on Ronan's arm as she spoke, and, with the forefinger of the other placed on her lips, enjoined silence. Then as the footsteps and voices, which had been drawing nearer and nearer, passed close to them and died gradually away in the distance, she hurriedly bade Ronan farewell, and darted nimbly away in the darkness. Ronan stood for some minutes where she had left him, half expecting she would reappear, but at last, convinced that she had really taken her departure, he climbed the wall, back again into the road, and waited. Had it not been for the envelope, which certainly felt material enough, Ronan would have been inclined to attribute it all to some curious kind of hallucination--the girl was so different--albeit so subtly and inexplicably different--from anyone he had ever seen before. But that envelope with the name "Robert Dunloe, Esquire," so clearly and beautifully superscribed on it, was a proof of her reality, and, as he stood fingering the missive and pondering the subject over in his mind, he once again heard the sound of footsteps. This time they were the footsteps of one person only, and, as he had been led to expect, they were accompanied by the faint jingle, jingle of bells. The moon, now quite free from clouds, rendered every object so clearly visible that Ronan, looking in the direction from which the sounds came, soon detected a tall, oddly attired figure, whilst still a long way off, advancing towards him with big, swinging strides. Had he not been prepared for someone in fancy costume, Ronan might have felt somewhat alarmed, for a Scotch moor in the dead of winter is hardly the place where one would expect to encounter a masquerader in jester's costume. Moreover, though the magnifying action of the moon's rays were probably accountable for it, there seemed to be something singularly bizarre about the figure, apart from its clothes; its head seemed abnormally round and small, its limbs abnormally long and emaciated, and its movements remarkably automatic and at the same time spiderlike. Ronan gripped the envelope in his hand--it was solid enough; therefore, the queer, fantastic-looking thing, stalking so grotesquely towards him, must be solid too--a mere man--and Ronan forced a laugh. Another moment, and he had stepped out from under cover of the wall. "Are you Mr Robert Dunloe?" he asked, "because, if so, I have a letter for you." The figure halted, and the white, parchment-like face with two very light green, cat-like eyes, bent down and favoured Ronan with a half-frightened, but penetrating gaze. "Yes," came the reply, "I am Mr Dunloe. But how came you with a letter for me? Give it to me at once." And before Ronan could prevent him, he had snatched the envelope from his grasp, and, having broken open the seal, was reading the contents. "Ah!" he ejaculated. "What a fool! I might have known so all along, but it's not too late." Then he folded the letter in his hand and stood holding it, apparently buried in thought. Ronan, whose hot Irish temper had been roused by the rude manner in which the stranger had obtained possession of the missive, would have moved on and left him, had he not felt restrained by the same peculiar fascination he had experienced when talking to the girl. "I trust," he at length remarked, "that your letter contains no ill news. The lady who requested me to give it you mentioned the fact that a relative of hers had been taken very ill." "When and where did you see her?" the stranger queried, his eyes once again seeking Ronan's face with the same fixed, penetrating stare. "In that shelter over there," Ronan answered, pointing to it. "We were strangers to one another, and I was sheltering from the storm. I explained to her that I was on my way to Lockerbie, and in no little hurry to get there, but she begged me so earnestly to await your arrival, so that I might hand you the letter, that she might be free to return home at once, that I consented. That is all that passed between us." "She went?" "Yes, she slipped away suddenly in the darkness, where I don't know." The stranger mused for a few moments, stroking his chin with long, lean fingers. Then he suddenly seemed to wake up, and spoke again, but this time in a far more courteous fashion. "Young man," he said, "I believe you. You have a candid expression in your eyes, and an honest ring in your voice. Men that speak in such tones seldom lie. You are kind-hearted, too, and I am going to ask of you a favour. Yesterday morning, in Annan, two of the leading townsfolk laid me a wager that I would not attend a ball to-night at the Spelkin Towers, and, attired as a Court jester, walk all the way to and fro, no matter how inclement the weather. I accepted the challenge, and now, having progressed so far, I should aim at completing my task, but for this letter, which fully corroborates what the young lady told you, and informs me that a very old and dear friend of mine is dying, and would at all costs see me at once, as she has an important statement to make for my ears only. Now, sir, I cannot possibly go to her in these outlandish clothes, lest the shock of seeing me so attired should prove too much for her in her present serious condition. Can I prevail upon your charity and chivalry--for once again it is on behalf of a woman--and good Christian spirit--for I doubt not, from your demeanour, that you have been brought up in a truly God-fearing and pious manner--to persuade you to change costumes with me over yonder in that shed. I would then be able to appear before my poor, dying friend in suitable, sober garments, whilst you would be free to go to the ball, and, by posing as Mr Robert Dunloe, share the proceeds of my wager with me." Then, noting the expression that came over Ronan's face, he added quickly: "You will incur no risks. I am a comparative stranger in these parts--none of the revellers know me by sight. All you will have to do on your arrival at the Towers will be to explain to your host, Sir Hector McBlane, the nature of the wager, and ask him to give you some record of your attendance that I can subsequently show to my two friends. Remember, sir, that it is not only for the sake of gratifying a dying woman's wish that I am asking this favour of you, but it is also to make sure that the young lady who gave you the letter shall not be jeopardised." Ronan hesitated. Had such a mystifying proposition been made to him on any other occasion he would, perhaps, have rejected it at once as the sheerest lunacy; but there was something about this night--the wild grandeur of the silent moonlit scenery, the intoxicating sweetness of the subtly scented air, to say nothing of the maiden whose elfish appearance had seemed in such absolute harmony both with the soft, silvery starlight and the black granite boulders--that was wholly different from anything Ronan had ever experienced before, and his deeply emotional and easily excited temperament, rising in hot rebellion against his reason, urged him to embark upon what he persuaded himself might prove a vastly entertaining adventure. He consequently agreed to do as the stranger suggested, and, accompanying him into the shelter, he exchanged clothes with him. After arranging to meet in the same spot at four o'clock in the morning, the two men parted, the stranger making off across the moors, and Ronan continuing along the high road. Nothing of moment occurred again till Ronan caught sight of the clump of pines, from the centre of which rose the Spelkin Towers, and a few yards farther on perceived the white wooden gate that the elfish maiden had described to him. On his approach, several figures, in fancy dress and wearing dominoes, advanced to meet him, and one, with a low bow, inquired if he had the honour of addressing Mr Robert Dunloe. "Why, yes," Ronan responded, with some astonishment, "but I did not think anyone knew I was coming here to-night saving our host, Sir Hector McBlane." "That is because you are so modest," was the reply. "I can assure you, Mr Dunloe, your fame has preceded you, and everyone present here to-night will be eagerly looking forward to the moment of your arrival. Let me introduce you to my friends. Sir Frederick Clanstradie, Sir Austin Maltravers, Lord Henry Baxter, Mr Leslie de Vaux." Each of the guests bowed in turn as their names were pronounced, and then, at a signal from the spokesman, who informed Ronan he was Sir Philip McBlane, cousin to their host, they proceeded in a body to the queerly constructed mansion. Inside Ronan could see no sign whatever of any festivity, but on being told that Sir Hector was awaiting him in the ball-room, he allowed himself to be conducted along a bare, gloomy passage and down a narrow flight of steep stone steps into a large dungeon-like chamber, piled up in places with strange-looking lumber, and in one corner of which he perceived a tall figure, draped from head to foot in the hideous black garments of a Spanish inquisitor, standing in the immediate vicinity of a heap of loose bricks and freshly made mortar, and bending over a cauldron full of what looked like simmering tar. The whole aspect of the room was indeed so grim and forbidding, that Ronan drew back in dismay and turned to Sir Philip and his comrades for an explanation. Before, however, anyone could speak, the figure in the inquisitorial robes advanced, and, bidding Ronan welcome, declared that he considered it both an honour and a privilege to entertain so illustrious a guest. Not knowing how to reply to a greeting that seemed so absurdly exaggerated, Ronan merely mumbled out something to the effect that he was delighted to come, and then lapsed into an awkward and embarrassed silence, during which he could feel the eyes of everyone fixed on him with an expression he could not for the life of him make out. Finally, the inquisitor, whom Ronan now divined was Sir Hector McBlane, after expressing a hope that the ladies would soon make their appearance, invited the gentlemen to partake of some refreshments. Bottles scattered in untidy profusion upon a plain deal table were then uncorked, and the sinisterly clad host proposed they should all drink a toast of welcome to their distinguished guest, Mr Robert Dunloe. Up to the present Ronan had only been conscious of what seemed to him courtesy and cordiality in the voices of his fellow-guests, but now, as one and all clinked glasses and shouted in unison, "For he's a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us," he fancied he could detect something rather different; what it was he could not say, but it gave him the same feeling of doubt and uncertainty as had the expression in their faces immediately after his introduction to Sir Hector. Again there was an embarrassed silence, which was eventually broken by Ronan, who, perceiving that something was expected from him, at length stood up and responded to the toast. His speech was of very short duration, but it was hardly over, before a loud rapping of high-heeled shoes sounded on the stone steps, and a number of women, dressed in every conceivable fashion, from the quaintly picturesque costume of the Middle Ages to the still fondly remembered and popular Empire gown, came trooping into the room. Their curiously clumsy movements caused Ronan to scrutinise them somewhat closely, but it was not until, in response to a wild outburst on wheezy flutes and derelict bagpipes, the assembly commenced dancing, that he awoke to the fact which now seemed obvious enough, that these weird-looking women were not women at all, but merely men mummers. For the next few minutes the noise and confusion were such that Ronan, whose temples had been set on fire by the wine, hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his feet. First one of the pretended women, and then another, solicited the honour of dancing with him, until at last, through sheer fatigue and giddiness, he was constrained to stop and lean for support against the walls of the building. He was still in this attitude, when the music, if such one could style it, suddenly ceased, and the whole company, as if by a preconcerted signal, suddenly stood at attention, as still and silent as statues. Sir Hector McBlane then approached Ronan with a bow, and informing him that his bride awaited him in the bridal chamber, declared that the time had now arrived for his introduction to her. This announcement was so unexpected and extraordinary that Ronan lost all power of speech, and, before he could realise what was taking place, he found himself being conducted by his host to a dimly lighted corner of the room, where he perceived, for the first time, a recess or kind of cell, measuring not more than four feet in depth, and three feet across, but reaching upwards to the same height as the ceiling. Exactly in the centre of it was a tall figure, absolutely stiff and motionless, and clad in long, flowing, white garments. Still too bewildered and astonished to protest or remonstrate, Ronan permitted himself to be led right up to the figure, which a sudden flare from a torch held by one of the revellers, enabled him to perceive was merely a huge rag doll, decked out in sham jewellery, with a painted, leering face and a mass of tow hair, a clever but ridiculous caricature of a woman. He was about to demand an angry explanation of the foolery, when he was pushed violently forward, and, before he could recover his equilibrium, a rope was wound several times round his body, and he was strapped tightly to the doll, which was securely attached to an iron stake fixed perpendicularly in the ground. Loud shouts of laughter now echoed from one end of the chamber to the other, the merriment being further increased when Sir Hector, with an assumed gravity, presented his humblest respects to the bride and bridegroom, and hoped that they would enjoy a long and very happy honeymoon. Ronan, whose indignation was by this time raised to boiling pitch, furiously demanded to be released, but the more angry he became, the more his tormentors mocked, until at length even walls, floor, and ceiling seemed to become infected and to shake with an uncontrollable and devilish mirth. Finally, however, when things had gone on in this fashion for some time, Sir Hector again spoke, and this time announced in loud tones that, as he was quite sure the bride and bridegroom must now be wishing for nothing better than to be left to themselves, he and his guests would now proceed to seal up the bridal chamber. A general bustle and subsequent clinking of metal on the stone floor, immediately following this speech, left Ronan in no doubt whatever as to what was happening. He was, of course, being bricked up. Now although he felt assured that it was all a joke, he also felt it was a joke that had gone on quite long enough. It was only too clear to him that, for some reason or another, Mr Robert Dunloe was very far from popular with these masqueraders, and he began to wonder if Mr Dunloe's explanation of his desire to exchange clothes was the correct one, whether, in fact, Mr Dunloe had not got an inkling of what was going to happen to him from the elfish girl's letter, and whether he had not merely trumped up the story of the sick woman and the wager for the occasion. In any case Ronan felt that he had been let down badly, and since he did not see why he should still pretend to be the man who had taken such advantage of him, he called out: "Look here, I've a confession to make. You think I'm Mr Robert Dunloe, but I'm not. My name is Ronan Malachy. I'm staying with my uncle, Mr Hugh Malachy, near Birkenhead, and anyone there would confirm my identity. I was bound to-night for Lockerbie, when I met a girl who begged me to wait in the road and deliver a letter for her to an individual dressed as a Court jester, and styling himself Robert Dunloe, who would presently pass by. Not liking to refuse a lady, I agreed, and when I had given the man the letter, and he had read it, he told me that it was a summons to attend the death-bed of a very dear friend and urged me to exchange clothes with him, in order that he might go suitably attired. To this I naturally assented, and he then begged me to impersonate him here, as he had laid a big wager that he would be present at this ball and would walk all the way from Annan in this costume." Ronan was about to add more, when Sir Hector McBlane approached the mound of bricks, which was already breast high, and, looking straight at him, exclaimed: "Robert Dunloe, it is useless to try and hoodwink us. We know all about you. We know that you were once arrested for highway robbery and murder, but got off through turning King's evidence against your mate, 'Hal of the seventeen strings,' who was hanged at Lancaster; that you then, took up Government spying as a trade, and got a score of the best fellows who ever breathed life sentences at Morecombe for smuggling a few casks of brandy. A month ago we heard that you were coming to Annan to try and place a rope round some of our necks for the same so-called felony, and we determined that we would be first in the field and teach you a lesson. We are now going to seal you up and leave you to soliloquise over the rope which is round you, and which is, doubtless, of the same hue and texture as that which has hanged the many that have been sentenced through your treachery. Adieu." It was in vain, when Sir Hector had finished speaking, that Ronan alternately pleaded and swore; he could get no further reply. The layers of bricks rose, till only one was left to render the task complete; and already the air within was becoming fetid and oppressive. A terrible sense of utter and hopeless isolation now surged through Ronan, and forced him once again to call out: "For the love of God," he said, "set me free. For the LOVE OF GOD." He had barely uttered these words, when the whole assembly looked at one another with startled faces. "Hark!" exclaimed one. "Do you hear that screaming and clapping? What in the world is it?" "I should say," said another, "that it was some puir bairn being done to death were it not for the clapping, but that gets over me. Whatever can it mean?" At that moment steps were heard descending the stairs in a great hurry, and a young man, with bright red hair, and dressed strictly in accordance with the fashion prevailing at that time, burst into the room. "Boys," he exclaimed, his voice shaking with emotion, "I have just seen the Banshee. She was in the road outside the gates of this house, running backwards and forwards, just as I saw her five years ago in Kerry, and, as I tried to pass her by to get on my way to Dumfries, she waved me back, shaking her fist and screaming at the same time. Then she signalled to me to come here, and ran on ahead of me, crying, and groaning, and clapping her hands. And as I knew it would be as much as my life is worth to disobey her, I followed. You can still hear her outside, keening and screeching. But what are all these bricks for, and this mortar?" "The informer, Robert Dunloe," exclaimed one of the revellers. "We have been bricking him up for a lark, and intend keeping him here till the morning." "It's a lie," Ronan shouted. "I'm no more Dunloe than any of you. I'm Ronan Malachy, I tell you, and my home is in Dublin. I heard an Irish voice just now, surely he can tell I'm Irish, too." "Arrah, I believe you," said the new-comer. "It's the real brogue you've got, and none other, though it's not so pronounced as is my own; but may be you've lived longer in this country than I. Pull down those bricks, boys, and let me have a look at him." "No, no," cried several voices, angrily. "Anybody could take you in, Pat. He's Dunloe right enough; and now we've got him, we intend to keep him." In the altercation that now ensued, some sided with the Irishman, and some against him; but over and above all the clamour and confusion the voice of the Banshee could still be heard shrieking, and wailing, and clapping her hands. At last someone struck a blow, and in an instant swords were drawn, sticks and cudgels were used, furniture was flung about freely, and table, brazier, and cauldron were overturned; and the blazing pitch and red hot coals, coming in contact with piled up articles of all kinds--casks, chests, boxes, musty old books, paper and logs--it was not long before the whole chamber became a mass of flames. One or two of the calmer and more sober revellers attempted to get to the recess and batter down the bricks, which were merely placed together without cement, but the fury of the flames drove them back, and the hapless Ronan was, in the end, abandoned to his fate. Hideously aware of what was going on, he struggled desperately to free himself, and, at last succeeding, made a frantic attempt to reach a small window, placed at a height of some seven or eight feet from the floor. After several fruitless efforts he triumphed, only to discover, however, that the aperture was just too small for his body to pass through. The flames had, by this time, reached the entrance to the recess, and the heat from them was so stupendous that Ronan, weak and exhausted after his long fast and all the harrowing and exciting moments he had passed through, let go his hold, and, falling backwards, struck his head a terrific crash on the floor. * * * * * Much to his amazement, on recovering his faculties, Ronan found himself lying out of doors. Above him was no abysmal darkness, only the heavens brilliantly lighted by moon and stars, whilst as far as his sight could travel was free and open space, a countryside dotted here and there with gorse bushes and the silvery shimmering surface of moorland tarns. He turned round, and close beside him was a big boulder of rock that he now remembered slipping from when he had dropped over the wall to take cover from the storm. And there, sure enough, was the shelter. He got up and went towards it. It was quite deserted, no one was there, not even a cow, and the silence that came to him was just the ordinary silence of the night, with nothing in it weirder or more arrestive than the rushing of distant water and the occasional croaking of a toad. Considerably mystified, and unable to decide in his mind whether all he had gone through had been a dream or not, he now clambered back into the road and pursued his way, according to his original intention, towards Lockerbie. On reaching the spot where he had in his dream, or whatever it was, first sighted the Spelkin Towers, he perceived, to his amazement, the very same building, apparently exact in every detail. On approaching nearer he found the white gate, but whereas when he had beheld the Towers only such a short time ago, there had been a feeble flicker of artificial light in some of the slit-like windows, all was now gloomy and deserted, and, still further to his amazement, he perceived, on opening the gate and entering, that the building was, to some extent, in ruins, and that the charred timber and blackened walls gave every indication of its having been partially destroyed by fire. Totally unable to account for his experience, but convinced in his own mind that it was not all a dream, he now hurried on, and reached his aunt's house in Lockerbie, just in time to wash and tidy himself for breakfast. After the meal, and when he was sitting with his aunt by the fire in the drawing-room, Ronan not only announced to her the purpose of his visit, but gave her a detailed account of his journey and adventures on the way, asking her in conclusion what she thought of his experience, whether she believed it to be merely a dream or, in very truth, an encounter with the denizens of ghostland. Miss Bridget Malachy, who during Ronan's recitation obviously had found it extremely difficult to maintain silence, now gave vent to her feelings. "I cannot tell you," she said excitedly, "how immensely interested I am in all you have told me. Last night was the anniversary of your father's strange disappearance. I had only been living here a few weeks, when I received a letter from him, saying he had business to transact in the North of England, and would like to spend two or three days with me. He gave me the exact route he intended to travel by from Dublin, and the exact hour he expected to arrive. Your father was the most precise man I ever met. "Well, on the night before the day he was due to arrive, as I was sitting in this very room, writing, I suddenly heard a tapping at the window, as if produced by the beak and claws of some bird, or very long finger nails. Wondering what it could be, I got up, and, pulling aside the blind, received the most violent shock. There, looking directly in at me, with an expression of the most intense sorrow and pity in its eyes, was the face of a woman. The cheeks shone with a strange, startling whiteness, and the long, straggling hair fell in a disordered mass low over her neck and shoulders. As her gaze met mine she tapped the window with her long, white fingers and, throwing back her head, uttered the most harrowing, heart-rending scream. Convinced now that she was the Banshee, which I had often had described to me by my friends, I was not so much frightened as interested, and I was about to address her and ask her what in God's name she wanted, when she abruptly vanished, and I found myself staring into space. "A week later, I received tidings that a body, believed to be your father's, had just been recovered from the Solway Firth, and I was asked to go at once and identify it. I went, and though it had remained in the water too long, perhaps, to be easily recognisable, I was absolutely certain my surmises were correct, and that the body was that of a stranger. It was that of a man somewhat taller than your father, and the tips of his fingers, moreover, were spatulate, whereas, like all the rest of our family's, your father's fingers were pointed. From what you have told me I am now convinced that I really was right, and that your father, falling into the hands of the smugglers, who, at that time, infested the whole of this neighbourhood, did actually meet with foul play. I recollect perfectly well the fire at the Spelkin Towers the night your father disappeared, but, until now, I never in any way associated the event with him. Do, I beseech you, make a thorough search of the ruins and see if you can find anything that will help to substantiate your story and prove that your experience was of a nature very different from that of an ordinary dream." Ronan needed no further bidding. Accompanied by his aunt's gardener and two or three villagers--for the gardener would not venture there without a formidable escort; the place, he said, bore a most evil and sinister reputation--he at once proceeded to the Towers, and, in one of the cellars, bricked up in a recess, they found a skeleton--the skeleton of a man, on one of whose fingers was a signet-ring, which Miss Bridget Malachy at once identified as having belonged to her missing brother. Moreover, with the remains were a few tattered shreds--all that was left of the clothes--and, though blackened and rusty, a number of tiny bells, such as might have once adorned the cap of a Court jester. * * * * * The Spelkin Towers is still haunted, for it has ghosts of its own, but never, I believe, since that memorable experience of Ronan's within its grey and lichen-covered walls, has it again been visited by the Banshee. CHAPTER XIII MY OWN EXPERIENCES WITH THE BANSHEE In order definitely to establish my claim to the Banshee, I am obliged to state here that the family to which I belong is the oldest branch of the O'Donnells, and dates back in direct unbroken line to Niall of the Nine Hostages. I am therefore genuinely Celtic Irish, but, in addition to that, I have in my veins strains both of the blood of the O'Briens of Thomond (whose Banshee visited Lady Fanshawe), and of the O'Rourkes, Princes of Brefni; for my ancestor, Edmund O'Donnell, married Bridget, daughter of O'Rourk of the house of Brefni, and his mother was the daughter of Donat O'Brien of the house of Thomond. All of which, and more, may be ascertained by a reference to the Records of the Truagh O'Donnells.[15] Possibly my first experience of the Banshee occurred before I was old enough to take note of it. I lost my father when I was a baby. He left home with the intention of going on a brief visit to Palestine, but, meeting on the way an ex-officer of the Anglo-Indian army, who had been engaged by the King of Abyssinia to help in the work of remodelling the Abyssinian army, he abandoned his idea of visiting the Holy Land, and decided to go to Abyssinia instead. What actually happened then will probably never be known. His death was reported to have taken place at Arkiko, a small village some two hours walking distance from Massowah, and from the letters[16] subsequently received from the French Consul at Massowah and several other people, as well as from the entries in his diary (the latter being recovered with other of his personal effects and sent home with them), there seems to have been little, if any, doubt that he was trapped and murdered, the object being robbery. The case created quite a sensation at the time, and is referred to in a work entitled "The Oriental Zig-zag," by Charles Hamilton, who, I believe, stayed some few years later at the house at Massowah, where my father lodged, and was stated to have shared his fate. With regard to the supernatural happenings in connection with the event. The house that my father had occupied before setting out for the East was semi-detached, the first house in a row, which at that time was not completed. It was situated in a distinctly lonely spot. On the one side of it, and to the rear, were gardens, bounded by fields, and people rarely visited the place after nightfall. On the night preceding my father's death, my mother was sitting in the dining-room, which overlooked the back garden, reading. It was a windy but fine night, and, save for the rustling of the leaves, and an occasional creaking of the shutters, absolutely still. Suddenly, from apparently just under the window, there rang out a series of the most harrowing screams. Immeasurably startled, and fearing, at first, that it was some woman being murdered in the garden, my mother summoned the servants, and they all listened. The sounds went on, every moment increasing in vehemence, and there was an intensity and eeriness about them that speedily convinced the hearers that they could be due to no earthly agency. After lasting several minutes they finally died away in a long, protracted wail, full of such agony and despair, that my mother and her companions were distressed beyond words. As soon as they could summon up the courage they went out and scoured the gardens, but though they looked everywhere, and there was little cover for anyone to hide, they could discover nothing that could in any way account for the noises. A dreadful fear then seized my mother. She believed that she had heard the Banshee which my father had often spoken about to her, and she was little surprised, when, in a few days time, the news reached her that my father was dead. He had died about dawn, the day after my mother and the servants had heard the screaming. I sent an account of the incident, together with other phenomena that happened about the same time, signed by two of the people who experienced them, to the Society for Psychical Research, who published it in their journal in the autumn of 1899. I have vivid recollections of my mother telling me about it when I was a little boy, and I remember that every time I heard the shutters in the room where we sat rattle, and the wind moan and sigh in the chimney, I fully expected to hear terrible shrieks ring out, and to see some white and ghastly face pressed against the window-panes, peering in at me. After these recitations I was terrified at the darkness, and endured, when alone in my bedroom, agonies of mind that no grown-up person, perhaps, could ever realise. The house and garden, so very bright and cheerful, and in every way ordinary, in the daytime, when the sun was out, seemed to be entirely metamorphosed directly it was dusk. Shadows assuredly stranger than any other shadows--for as far as I could see they had no material counterpart--used to congregate on the stairs, and darken the paths and lawn. There were always certain spots that frightened me more than others, a bend in one of the staircases, for example, the banisters on the top landing, a passage in the basement of the house, and the path leading from the gate to the front door. Even in the daytime, occasionally, I was chary about passing these places. I felt by instinct something uncanny was there; something that was grotesque and sinister, and which had specially malevolent designs toward me. When I was alone I hurried past, often with my eyes shut; and at night time, I am not ashamed to admit, I often ran. Yet, at that time I had no knowledge that others beside myself thought these things and had these experiences. I did not know, for instance, that once, when my youngest sister, who was a little older than I, was passing along that passage I so much dreaded, she heard, close beside her, a short, sharp laugh, or chuckle, and so expressive of hatred and derision, that the sound of it haunted her memory ever after. I also did not know then that one evening, immediately prior to my father's death, when another of my sisters was running up the stairs, she saw, peering down at her from over the banisters on that top landing I so much dreaded, a face which literally froze her with horror. Crowned with a mass of disordered tow-coloured hair, the skin tightly drawn over the bones like a mummy, it looked as if it had been buried for several months and then resurrected. The light, obliquely set eyes, suffused with baleful glee, stared straight at her, while the mouth, just such a mouth as might have made that chuckle, leered. It did not seem to her to be the face of anyone that had ever lived, but to belong to an entirely different species, and to be the creation of something wholly evil. She looked at it for some seconds, too petrified to move or cry out, until, her faculties gradually reassuring themselves, she turned round from the spot and flew downstairs. Some years later, just before the death of my mother, at about the same time of day and in precisely the same place, the head was again seen, this time by my younger sister, the one who had heard the ghostly chuckle. I think, without doubt, that the chuckle, no less than the head, must be attributed to the malignant Banshee. I may add, perhaps, without digressing too much, that supernatural happenings, apart from the Banshee, were associated with both my parents' deaths. On the night following my father's murder, and on every subsequent night for a period of six weeks, my mother and the servants were aroused regularly at twelve o'clock by a sound, as of someone hammering down the lids of packing-cases, issuing from the room in the basement of the house, which my father had always used as a study. They then heard footsteps ascending the stairs and pausing outside each bedroom in turn, which they all recognised as my father's, and, occasionally, my old nurse used to see the door of the night nursery open, and a light, like the light of a candle outside, whilst at the same time she would hear, proceeding from the landing, a quick jabber, jabber, jabber, as of someone talking very fast, and trying very hard to say something intelligible. No one was ever seen when this voice and the footsteps, said to be my father's, were heard, but this circumstance may be accounted for by the fact that my father, just before leaving Ireland, had remarked to my mother that, should anything happen to him abroad, he would in his spirit appear to her; and she, growing pale at the mere thought, begged him to do no such thing, whereupon he had laughingly replied: "Very well then, I will find some other means of communicating with you." Many manifestations of a similar nature to the foregoing, and also, like the foregoing, having nothing to do with the Banshee, occurred immediately after the death of my mother, but of these I must give an account on some future occasion. Years passed, and nothing more was seen or heard of the Banshee till I was grown up. After leaving school I went to Dublin to read with Dr Chetwode Crawley, in Ely Place, for the Royal Irish Constabulary, and I might, I think, have passed into that Force, had it not been for the fact that at the preliminary medical examination some never-to-be-forgotten and, as I thought then, intensely ill-natured doctor, rejected me. Accordingly, I never entered for the literary, but returned home thoroughly dispirited, and faced with the urgent necessity of at once looking around for something to do. However, in a very short time I had practically settled on going to America to a ranch out West (a most disastrous venture as it subsequently proved to be), and it was immediately after I had reached this decision that my first actual experience with what I believe to have been the malevolent family Banshee occurred. It happened in the same house in which the other supernatural occurrences had taken place. All the family, saving myself, were away at the time, and I was the sole occupant of one of the landings, the servants being all together on another floor. I had gone to bed early, and had been sleeping for some time, when I was awakened about two o'clock by a loud noise, for which I could not account, and which reverberated in my ears for fully half a minute. I was sitting up, still wondering what on earth could have produced it, when, immediately over my head, I heard a laugh, an abrupt kind of chuckle, that was so malicious and evil that I could not possibly attribute it to any human agency, but rather to some entity of wholly satanic origin, and which my instinct told me was one of our attendant Banshees. I got out of bed, struck a light, and made a thorough investigation, not only of the room, but the landing outside. There was no one there, nothing, as far as I could see, that could in any way explain the occurrence. I threw open the bedroom window and looked out. The night was beautiful--the sky brilliantly illuminated with moon and stars--and everything perfectly still, excepting for the very faintest rustling of the leaves as the soft night breeze swept through the branches and set them in motion. I listened for some time, but, the hush continuing, I at last got back again into bed, and eventually fell asleep. I mentioned the incident in the morning to the servants, and they, too, had heard it. A short time afterwards I went to the United States, and had the most unhappy and calamitous experience in my whole career. My next experience of the Banshee happened two or three years later, when, having returned from America, I was living in Cornwall, running a small preparatory school, principally for delicate boys. The house I occupied was quite new, in fact I was the first tenant, and had watched it being built. It was the last house in a terrace, and facing it was a cliff, at the foot of which ran a steep path leading to the beach. At this particular time there was no one in the house but my aged housekeeper, by name Mrs Bolitho, and myself, and whilst Mrs Bolitho slept in a room on the first floor, I was the sole occupant of the floor immediately above it. One night I had been sitting up writing, rather later than usual, and, being very tired, had dropped off to sleep, almost immediately after getting into bed. I woke about two o'clock hearing a curious kind of tapping noise coming along the passage that ran parallel with my bed. Wondering what it could be, I sat up and listened. There were only bare boards outside, and the noise was very clear and resonant, but difficult to analyse. It might have been produced by the very high heels of a lady's boot or shoe, or the bony foot of a skeleton. I could compare it with nothing else. On it came, tap, tap, tap, till it finally seemed to halt outside my door. There was then a pause, during which I could feel somebody or something was listening most earnestly, making sure, I thought, whether I was awake or not, and then a terrific crash on one of the top panels of the door. After this there was silence. I got up, and, somewhat timidly opening the door, for I more than half expected to find myself confronted with something peculiarly dreadful and uncanny, peeped cautiously out. There was nothing to be seen, however; nothing but the cold splendour of the moon, which, shining through a window nearly opposite me, filled the entire passage with its beams. I went into each of the rooms on the landing in turn, but they were all empty, and there was nothing anywhere that could in any way account for what I had heard. In the morning I questioned Mrs Bolitho, but she had heard nothing. "For a wonder," she said, "I slept very soundly all through the night, and only awoke when it was time to get up." Two days later I received tidings of the death of my uncle, Colonel John Vize O'Donnell of Trough.[17] He had died almost suddenly, his death occurring a few hours after I had heard the footsteps and the knock. Three years after this experience I had moved into another house in the same town--also a new house, and also the last in a terrace. At the rear, and on one side of it, was a garden, flanked by a hedge, beyond which were fields that led in almost unbroken succession to the coast. It could not be altogether described as occupying a lonely position, although the fields were little frequented after dusk. Well, one night my wife and I were awakened about midnight by a series of the most agonising and heart-rending screams, which, if like anything earthly at all, seemed to us to be more like the screams of a woman in the very direst distress. The cries were so terrible and sounded so near to us, almost, in fact, in the room, that we were both horribly alarmed, and hardly knew what to say or think. "Whatever is happening?" my wife whispered, catching hold of me by the arm, "and what is it?" "I don't know," was my reply, "unless it is the Banshee, for there is nobody else that could make such a noise." The screams continued for some seconds, and then died away in one long-drawn-out wail or sob. I waited for some minutes to see if there was a repetition of the sounds, and, there being none, I at length got up, and not, I confess, without considerable apprehensions, went out on to the landing, where I found several of the other inmates of the house collected together discussing with scared faces the screams which they, too, had heard. An examination of the house and grounds was at once made, but nothing was discerned that could in any way account for the sounds, and I adhered to my opinion that it must have been the Banshee; which opinion was very considerably strengthened, when, a few days later, I received the news that an aunt of mine, an O'Donnell, in County Kerry, had passed away within twenty-four hours of the time the screaming had occurred. It is, perhaps, a dozen years or so since we left Cornwall, and my latest experience of the Banshee took place in the house in which we are now living near the Crystal Palace. The experience occurred in connection with the death of my youngest sister. On the night preceding her decease I dreamed most vividly that I saw the figure of a female dressed in some loose-flowing, fantastic garment come up the path leading to the house, and knock very loudly several times, in quick succession, at the back door. I was going to answer, when a sudden terror held me back. "It's the Banshee," a voice whispered in my ear, "the Banshee. Don't let her in, she's coming for one of you." This so startled me that I awoke. I then found that my wife was awake also, trembling all over, and in a great state of excitement. "Did you hear that tremendous knock?" she whispered. "What!" I replied. "You don't mean to say there really was a knock? Why, I fancied it was only in my dream." "You may have dreamt it," she said, "but I didn't--I heard it; it was at this door, not at the front door. I say knock, but it was really a crash--a terrific crash on the top panel of the door." We anxiously waited to see if there would be a repetition, but, nothing happening, we lay down again, and eventually went to sleep. On the following day we received a telegram informing us that at ten o'clock that morning my sister had passed away. Since then, I am glad to relate I have not again come in contact with the Banshee. At the same time, however, there are occasions when I feel very acutely that she is not far away, and I am seldom, if ever, perhaps, absolutely free from an impression that she hovers near at hand, ready to manifest herself the moment either death or disaster threaten any member of my family. Moreover, that she takes a peculiar interest in my personal affairs, I have, alas, only too little reason to doubt. ADDENDA In reply to a letter of mine asking for particulars of the Banshee alleged to be attached to the Inchiquin family, I received the following: "I think the name (of the Banshee) was OBENHEIM, but I am not sure. Two or three people have told me that she appeared before my grandfather's death, but none of them either saw or heard her, but they had met people who did say they had heard her." Writing also for particulars of the Banshee to a cousin of the head of one of the oldest Irish clans, I received a long letter, from which I will quote the following: "I have heard 'the Banshee' cry. It is simply like a woman wailing in the most unearthly fashion. At the time an O'Neill was in this house, and she subsequently heard that her eldest brother had died on that night between twelve a.m. and three a.m., when we all of us heard the Banshee wailing. I heard her also at my mother's death, and at the death of my husband's eldest sister. The cry is not always quite the same. When my dear mother died, it was a very low wail which seemed to go round and round the house. "At the death of one of the great O'Neill family, we located the cry at one end of the house. When my sister-in-law died I was wakened up by a loud scream in my room in the middle of the night. She had died at that instant. I heard the Banshee one day, driving in the country, at a distance. Sometimes the Banshee, who follows old families, is heard by the whole village. Some people say she is red-haired and wears a long flowing white dress. She is supposed to wring her long thick hair. Others say she appears as a small woman dressed in black. "Such an apparition did appear to me in the daytime before my mother-in-law died." The writer of this letter has asked me not to publish her name, but I have it by me in case corroboration is needed. In reference to the O'Donnell Banshee, Chapter XIII., my sister, Petronella O'Donnell, writes: "I remember vividly my first experience of our Banshee. I had never heard of it at the time, and in fact I have only heard of it in recent years. "It happened one day that I went into the hall, in the daytime, I forget the exact hour, and as I climbed the stairway, being yet a small child, I happened to look up. There, looking over the rails at the top of the stairway, was an object so horrible that I shudder when I think of it even now. In a greenish halo of light the most terrible head imagination could paint--only this was no imagination, I knew it was a real object--was looking at me with apparently fiendish fire in its light and leering eyes. The head was neither man nor woman's; it was ages old; it might have been buried and dug up again, it was so skull-like and shrunken; its pallor was horrible, grey and mildewy; its hair was long. Its mouth leered, and its light and cruel eyes seemed determined to hurt me to the utmost, with the terror it inspired. I remember how my childish heart rebelled against its cowardice in trying to hurt and frighten so small a child. Gazing back at it in petrified horror, I slowly returned to the room I had come from. I resolved never to tell anyone about it, I was so proud and reserved by nature. "I had then two secret terrors hidden in my Irish heart. The first one I have never till recently spoken of to anyone; it happened before I saw this awful head. I was asleep, but yet I knew I was _not_ asleep. Suddenly, down the road that led to our home in Ireland came an object so terrible that for years after my child's heart used to stand still at the memory of it. The object I saw coming down to our house was a procession--there were several pairs of horses being led by grooms in livery, pulling an old coach with them. It was a large and awful looking old coach! The horses were headless, and the men who led them were headless, and even now as I write, the awful terror of it all comes over me, it was a terror beyond words. I _knew_, I felt certain they had come to cut off my head! This procession of headless things stopped at our door, the men entered the house, chased me up to the very top of it, and then cut off my head! I can remember saying to myself, 'Now I am dead, I am dead, I can suffer no more.' "They then went back to the coach, and the procession moved away and was lost to view. "Night after night I lay shivering with terror, for months, for years, there was such a _lurid_ horror about this headless procession. "Some weeks after I saw the head, we heard that our father had been killed about that time in Egypt, murdered it was supposed. My mother died some years afterwards. "One evening, when I was grown up, we were sitting round the fire with friends, and someone said: "'I don't believe in ghosts. Have you ever met anyone who has seen one? I have not!' "A sudden impulse came over me--never to that moment had I ever mentioned the head--and, leaning forward, I said: "'I have seen a ghost; I saw the most terrible head when I was a child, looking over the staircase.' "To my astonishment my sister, who was sitting near me, said: "'I saw a most terrible head, too, looking over the staircase.' "I said: "'When did you see it? I saw it when our father died.' "And she said: "'And, _I_ saw it when our mother died.' "In describing it, we found all the details agreed, and learned not long after that it was without doubt our own Banshee we had seen. "People have said to me that Banshees are heard, not seen. This is not correct, it all depends if one is clairvoyant or clairaudient. "I remember when my mother was alive, how I came in from a walk one evening and found the whole house in a ferment, the most terrible screaming and crying had been heard pass over the house. Our mother said it must be the Banshee. Sure enough we heard of the death of a very near relation directly after. If I had been present, no doubt I should not only have heard the screams but I should have seen something as well. "A few years ago in Ireland I was talking about these things, and a relation I had not met before was present. He said to me: "'But as well as the Banshee do you know that we have a _headless coach_ attached to our family; it is proceeded by men, who lead the horses, and none of them have heads.' "Like a flash came that never-to-be-forgotten vision of that awful procession I had seen as a child, and of which I had never made any mention till then. I remember now that after I saw the headless coach we heard that our grandmother was dead. I believe that the headless coach belongs to her family. "PETRONELLA O'DONNELL." The headless coach referred to in the foregoing account comes to us, I believe, from the Vize family. My grandmother before her marriage was Sarah Vize, daughter of John Vize of Donegal, Glenagad and Limerick. Her sister Frances married her cousin, David Roche of Carass (see Burke's "Landed Gentry of Ireland," under Maunsell family, and Burke's "Peerage under Roche"), their son being Sir David Roche, Bart. The great-great-grandmother of Sarah Vize was Mary, daughter of Butler of the house of the Earl Glengall Cahir. Sarah Vize's mother, my great-grandmother, before her marriage was Sarah Maunsell, granddaughter of William Maunsell of Ballinamona, County Cork, the fifth son of Colonel Thomas Maunsell of Mocollop. In the accompanying genealogical tree, tracing the descent of the O'Donnells of Trough from Niall of the Nine Hostages, the O'Briens of Thomond and the O'Rourkes of Brefui, may be found the basis upon which my family's claim to the dual Banshee rests. The original may be seen in the office of the King of Arms, Dublin. The following is merely an extract: Niall of the Nine Hostages. King of Ireland | Conall Gulban | Feargus | Leadna, Prince of Tirconnell | Feargus | Lughaidb, and from him, in direct descent, to Foirdhealbhach an Fhiona O'Donnhnaill, who had two sons, the elder, Shane Luirg and the younger, Niall Garbh. From Niall Garbh the illustrious Red Hugh and his brother Rory, Earl of Tirconnell, were descended, from Shane Luirg, whose rank as "The O'Donnell" was taken by his younger brother, presumably the stronger man of the two, the Trough O'Donnells are descended. The line goes on thus: Shane Luirg | Art O'Donnhnail | (ob. circa 1490) | Niall O'Donnhnaill | (ob. circa 1525) | Foirdheal bhach O'Donnhnaill _m._ Julia Maguire | (ob. 1552) | Shane _m._ Rosa, d. of Hugh O'Donnell | (ob. 1581) | Hugh O'Donnell of Limerick _m._ Maria, d. of Donat O'Brien of the | House of Thomond (ob. 1610) | Edmund, of Limerick _m._ Bridget, d. of O'Rourk of the (ob. 1651) | House of Brefui | James, of Limerick _m._ Helena, d. of James Sarsfield, (ob. 1680) | great-uncle of Patrick | Sarsfeld, Earl of Lucan | John _m._ Margaret, d. of Thomas Creagh | of Limerick | James _m._ Christiana, d. of William | Stritch of Limerick | John _m._ Deborah, d. of William Anderson (ob. 1780) | of Tipperary | +--------------------------------------------+ | | [18]John, of Limerick _m._ Sarah Elliot Henry Anderson _m._ Domina Jan, and Baltimore, | of Baltimore, O'Donnell | daughter of U.S.A (ob. 1805) | U.S.A. (ob. 1840) | nephew of | | Shah of | | Persia | | Elliot, of Limerick _m._ Sarah Vize, Gen. Sir C. R. _m._ Catherine (ob. 1836) | of Limerick O'Donnell, Anne, d. | K.C.B., and of Gen. P. | Member of the Murray, | Irish Academy nephew of | (ob. 1870) the Earl | of Elibank Rev. Henry O'Donnell | Elliot (youngest son) For particulars of the pedigree see Vol. X., p. 327, Genealogias, in the Office of Ulster King of Arms, Dublin. From Niall to Shane Luirg, see Register XV., p. 5; from Shane to my grandfather, Elliot, see Register XXIII., p. 286; and down to myself, see "Sheridan," p. 323. Referring to the Banshee prior to my aunt's death (see Chapter XIII.) my wife writes: "I certainly remember, one night, when we were living in Cornwall, hearing a most awful scream, a scream that rose and fell, and ended in a long-drawn-out wail of agony. I have never heard any other sound at all like it, and therefore cannot think that it could have been anything earthly. At the time, however, I did think that possibly the scream was that of a woman being murdered, and did not rest until my husband, with other inmates of our house, had made a thorough search of the garden and premises. "Shortly after we had had this experience, we heard of the death, in Ireland, of one of my husband's aunts. "I also recollect that one night, shortly before we received the news of my sister-in-law's death, I heard a crash on our bedroom door. It was so loud that it quite shook the room, and my husband, apparently wakened by it, told me he had dreamed that the Banshee had come and was knocking for admittance. This happened not very long ago, when we were living in Norwood. "ADA O'DONNELL." PRINTED AT THE NORTHUMBERLAND PRESS, WATERLOO HOUSE, THORNTON STREET, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE Footnotes: [1] "Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms and Superstitions of Ireland," by Lady Wilde. [2] "The Astral Plane," p. 106. [3] This book was published in 1888. [4] In the Addenda at end of this volume will be found a genealogical tree showing descent of author from the Thomond O'Briens. [5] In Addenda see tree showing descent of author from O'Rourks of Brefni. [6] As a rule the Banshee is neither heard nor seen by the person whose death it predicts. There are, however, some notable exceptions. [7] For further reference to the Banshee of the O'Neills see Addenda. [8] See Addenda. [9] See Addenda. [10] It may be recorded here as a matter of interest that my ancestress, Helena Sarsfield, was a daughter of James Sarsfield, great-uncle of Patrick Sarsfield, Earl of Lucan and the defender of Limerick against the English. [11] Neither of her stories have appeared in print before. [12] See "The Ghost World," by T. F. T. Dyer, p. 227. [13] See Sir Walter Scott's Poetical Works, 1853, VIII., p. 126. [14] These extracts are taken from quotations of the poem in Chapter II. of a work entitled "Ancient History of the Kingdom of Kerry" by Friar O'Sullivan of Muckross Abbey, published in the Journal of the Cork Historical and Archæological Society (Vol. V., No. 44); and Friar O'Sullivan, in commenting upon these passages relating to the Banshees, writes (quoting from "Kerry Records"): "It seems that at this time it was the universal opinion that every district belonging to the Geraldines had its own attendant Banshee" (see _Archæological Journal_, 1852, on "Folk Lore" by N. Kearney). [15] See Records of the Truagh O'Donnells in the Office of the King of Arms, Dublin. Refs.: Genealogias, Vol. XI., p. 327; Register XV., p. 5; Register XXII., p. 286; and Sheridan, p. 323. [16] The originals are still in existence. The diary was kept right up to the night preceding his death. [17] Also spelt Truagh. [18] John O'Donnell of Baltimore's eldest son, Columbus, had a daughter, Eleanora, who married Adrian Iselin of New York, and their grand-daughter, Norah, is the present Princess Coleredo Mansfeldt. * * * * Transcriber's note: Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). The following misprints have been corrected: "know" corrected to "known" (page 14) "sometime" corrected to "sometimes" (page 17) "heartrending" standardized to "heart-rending" (page 243) Other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. 
35564	----	TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE The Contents are placed after the Introduction, as in the original. Italic type is marked with _underlines_ and bold with *asterisks*. Footnote references are marked with [brackets] and the texts have been placed at the end of each story. Changes to the original publication (possible typographic errors or inconsistencies) are listed at the end. Laos Folk-Lore of Farther India [Illustration: A Group of Laos Girls.] Laos Folk-Lore of Farther India BY Katherine Neville Fleeson With Illustrations from Photographs taken by W. A. Briggs, M. D. NEW YORK CHICAGO TORONTO Fleming H. Revell Company Publishers of Evangelical Literature Copyright, 1899 by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY Introduction These Folk-Tales from the Laos country, a part of the kingdom of Siam, in addition to their intrinsic merit have the charm of complete novelty. Until the translator of this volume collected these stories, they were even unwritten, with a single exception which was found in a Laos manuscript. They are orally preserved in the provinces which constitute the Laos country, just as they have been handed down from generations of ancestors, with slight variations in words or incidents. The elders among the people tell the stories at their merrymakings around the camp-fires and within their primitive houses, to amuse and instruct the youth and children. Living among the Laos in the friendly and intimate relation of a missionary, the translator has had the advantage of long residence and unrivalled opportunity for understanding the history, customs, religious ideas and aspirations of this interesting people. Aptness in use of their colloquial speech gave her special facility for gathering the stories with exactness, as they fell from the lips of the narrators in her hearing; and for the delicate additional task of translating them into English. The scholar, who is a student of the world's Folk-Lore, may be assured that he has here, the Laos tales unobscured, just as they are told to-day. Reflecting, as they do, thoughts, desires and hopes common to our humanity, these stories at the same time exhibit, in a pathetic way, the need in Laos of the uplifting and transforming power of the Christian religion. Willis G. Craig. McCormick Theological Seminary, Chicago. Contents PAGE I. Tales of the Jungle 13 1 A Child of the Woods 15 2 The Enchanted Mountain 17 3 The Spirit-Guarded Cave 20 4 The Mountain Spirits and the Stone Mortars 23 II. Fables from the Forest 25 1 Right and Might 27 2 Why the Lip of the Elephant Droops 29 3 How a Dead Tiger Killed the Princess 32 4 The Monkeys and the Crabs 33 III. Nature's Riddles and their Answers 35 1 The Man in the Moon 37 2 The Origin of Lightning 38 3 Why the Parrot and the Minor Bird but Echo the Words of Man 41 4 The Fatherless Birds 44 IV. Romance and Tragedy 47 1 The Lovers' Leap 49 2 The Faithful Husband 51 3 The Faithful Wife 57 4 An Unexpected Issue 60 V. Temples and Priests 63 1 The Giants' Mountain and the Temple 65 2 Cheating the Priest 67 3 The Disappointed Priest 69 4 The Greedy Priest 71 5 The Ambitious Priest 73 VI. Moderation and Greed 75 1 The Wizard and the Beggar 77 2 A Covetous Neighbor 80 3 A Lazy Man's Plot 83 4 The Ungrateful Fisherman 84 5 The Legend of the Rice 85 VII. Parables and Proverbs 87 1 "One Woman, in Deceit and Craft, is More than a Match for Eight Men" 89 2 "The Wisest Man of a Small Village is Not Equal in Wisdom to a Boy of the City Streets" 93 3 "To Aid Beast is Merit; to Aid Man is But Vanity" 95 VIII. The Gods Know and the Gods Reward 99 1 Love's Secrets 101 2 Poison-Mouth 103 3 Strife and Peace 105 4 The Widow's Punishment 107 5 Honesty Rewarded 109 6 The Justice of In Ta Pome 111 IX. Wonders of Wisdom 113 1 The Words of Untold Value 115 2 A Wise Philosopher 119 3 The Boys Who Were Not Appreciated 122 4 The Magic Well 126 X. Strange Fortunes of Strange People 129 1 The Fortunes of Ai Powlo 131 2 The Fortunes of a Lazy Beggar 135 3 The Misfortunes of Paw Yan 139 4 An Unfortunate Shot 141 XI. Stories Gone Astray 143 1 The Blind Man 145 2 "Heads, I Win. Tails, You Lose" 148 3 The Great Boaster 149 4 A Clever Thief 151 5 Eyeless-Needle, Rotten-Egg, Rotten-Banana, Old-Fish and Broken-Pestle 152 List of Illustrations. A Group of Laos Girls _Frontispiece_ Types of the Laos People _Facing page_ 15 A Laos Forest-stream " " 28 The Laos Governor's Wife at her Embroidery Frame " " 57 A Group of Buddhist Priests } The Interior of a Buddhist Temple } " " 66 Monastery Grounds at Chieng Tung, Laos " " 72 At Work in the Rice Fields " " 86 The "Chow" and his Palace " " 96 Laos Feast } A Street in a Laos Town } " " 136 I Tales of the Jungle [Illustration: Types of the Laos People] A Child of The Woods Deep in the forest of the North there is a large village of jungle people, and, among them is one old woman, who is held in reverence by all. The stranger who asks why she is honored as a princess is thus answered by her: "Verily, I have much _boon_,[1] for I am but a child of nature. When I was a young maiden, it fell upon a day that my heart grew hot with anger. For many days the anger grew until it filled my whole heart, also were my eyes so red that I could see but dimly, and no longer could I live in the village or among my own people, for I hated all men and I felt that the beasts of the forest were more to me than my kindred. Therefore, I fled from the face of man into the jungle where no human foot had ever gone. All day I journeyed, running as though my feet would never weary and feeling no pangs of hunger. When the darkness closed about me, I was not afraid, but lay down under the shelter of a tree, and, for a time, slept peacefully, as peacefully as though in my own home. At length, I was awakened by the breath of an animal, and, in the clear light of the moon, I saw a large tiger before me. It smelled of my face, my hands and my feet, then seated itself by my head and watched me through the night, and I lay there unafraid. In the early morning, the tiger departed and I continued my journey. Quieter was my heart. Still, I disliked my own people but had no fear of the beasts or the reptiles of the forest. During the day I ate of the fruit which grew wild in abundance, and at night I slept 'neath a tree, protected and guarded by fierce, wild beasts which molested not my sleep. For many days I wandered thus, and the nights were secure; for the wild beasts watched over and protected me. Thus my heart grew cool in my bosom, and I no longer hated my people; and, after one moon had gone, I found myself near a village. The people wondered to see me approach from the jungle, dreaded as being the jungle of the man-eating tiger. When I related my story, the people were filled with wonder and brought rich gifts to me. For a year and a day I abode there, and no more the wild beasts molested their cattle. But my heart yearned to see the face of my kindred again, so, laden with silver, gold and rich garments and seated in the howdah[2] of an elephant, the people escorted me to my own village, and here have I abode in content these one hundred years. 1: Merit. 2: The car placed on the back of elephants. The Enchanted Mountain The hunters who are continually going about from place to place, climbing up high hills, descending into deep ravines and making ways through jungles in search of the wild bison and other game, tell strange tales of an enchanted place away on the top of a lofty mountain. There, is a beautiful lake, which is as bright and clear as a drop of morning dew hanging on the petal of the white water-lily, and, when you drink of it, you are no longer aweary; new life has come into you, and your body is more vigorous than ever before. The flowers on the margin of this enchanted lake are more beautiful than those that grow in any other spot, and, such is the love of the cherishing spirits for it, that they care for it as for no other place in this world. Bananas of a larger growth than can be found in the gardens of man, and oranges, sweeter to the taste than those we ever eat, are there. The fruits of all trees, more beautiful to the eye and richer than man can produce, are there, free to those who can find them. All the fowls usually nurtured by man and flocking about his door are there, and they are not affrighted by the presence of the hunter but come at his call. Should the hunter wish to kill them, his arrow cannot pierce their charmed bodies to deprive them of life, but the arrow falls harmless to the ground, because the spirits protect them and their lives are sacred. Great fields of rice are about this place, and the hunter marvels at the size of the grains and at the strength of the stalks. No field cared for by man has seen grain like that which the spirits nourish. Many men, on hearing of this wonderful mountain-top, have sought it, but all have returned unsuccessful to their homes, saying, no such place is on this earth. Only the hunter, who has chased the game through the jungle, o'er the streams and up the steep mountain-sides, when tired and discouraged because the coveted prize has gone far beyond his reach, is rewarded for all his labor, when he finds himself in the garden of fruit, or on the margin of the enchanted lake, whose waters give renewed vigor to his wearied body. Often, when the hunter desires to eat of the flesh of the fowls, he endeavors to kill the fowls, but no effort of his can take their life, as the spirits hold them in their care. No mortal can harm them. Nor can the hunter take any of the fruit away, for, as he leaves the spot, no matter how he may hold it, it vanishes from his hand. Thus, no man, who has not seen the place, has eaten of the fruit nor drank of the water; so, many doubt their existence, for such is the heart of man that he must touch with his hands, see with his eyes, or taste with his tongue, ere he can believe. Nevertheless, on the top of the lofty mountain there is the lake with the cool waters, clear and beautiful, where the fowls swim on its surface, or drink from its margin, and the grain and the fruit ripen for those who are loved of the spirits, and are led by them to this cherished spot where they may rest and be refreshed, and then return to their wives and children and tell them of the care of the spirits. The little ones, who have hearts free from guile, believe. The Spirit-Guarded Cave When the people of the far north[3] were molested by their foes and were in continual fear, they consulted together, saying, "Our lives are spent in trying to escape from our enemies and no joy can be ours. Let us flee to the south country[4] where, if the people make slaves of us, we can, at least, know that our lives will be spared, and life, even in slavery, is better than this constant fear of our enemies destroying both ourselves and our dwelling-places and taking our cattle for their own." Therefore, they gathered together all their household goods, secreted their money and jewels about their persons, and, loading their cattle with rice, they commenced their toilsome journey through the narrow jungle paths and across the high mountains on their way to the south, where they hoped for peace and safety. The way was long and difficult, and the rice was all eaten and the cattle killed and consumed before they had nearly reached their journey's end. Then the fugitives commenced to use their money to buy food that they might have strength for the journey, and they whispered one to another that the people looked with covetous eyes on their hoard of money and jewels, and they feared they would be slain because of the greed of the people. One man, wiser than the others, said, "Why do we endanger our lives for our possessions? Can we not find some secret place in which to leave our money and jewels, and when brighter days come to us we can return and find them even as we left them?" All the people cried, "Your words are wise. Let us do accordingly," and as these people were loved of the spirits, they were led to a deep cave in the midst of a wood where man seldom came, and there they left their possessions in the care of the spirits who promised to guard them until in the days, when life being brighter and more secure, the owners would come and claim them. The people journeyed on to the south country, and there lived as slaves. Many generations of them lived and died, but they could not escape nor come to claim the vast wealth and jewels which they had left in care of the spirits of the cave. The story became known, and the inhabitants of all the surrounding countries went to the cave and sought to secure the treasure. But such was the care of the spirits that no man with safety could enter the cave. A light was instantly extinguished, if let down into the deep pit leading into the chamber where the treasure was, for the spirits blew their breath upon it and it was no more. All devices were tried to obtain the treasure, and from all parts of the country the people came to try to overcome the charm which the spirits had placed upon the cave, but no one was able to break it. One man went even into the treasure chamber and filled his hands with the precious stones, but he was overcome by a deadly sickness and was forced to replace the jewels in the treasure chest and flee for his life so as to escape the wrath of the guarding spirits. Even the white, foreign strangers, who have come into the land and placed their strong hands on the elephants and the trees[5] of the forest and claimed them for their use, were baffled and driven back by the faithful spirits when they endeavored to enter the treasure chamber, and for all time this treasure shall remain there, for, if the white foreigner, by his wisdom, or by his craft, fails to obtain it, verily it will remain untouched forever. 3: In China. 4: Siam. 5: Teak-wood. The Mountain Spirits and the Stone Mortars The spirits, who lived in the mountains near a large city, upon a time wanted money for some purpose, and they brought down to the people of the city a number of large and heavy stone mortars which they commanded them to buy at an exorbitant price. The men of the city said, "The price you ask is too great; moreover, we have no need of your mortars, as they are too large for us to use in pounding out our rice, or for any other purpose. Therefore, we do not wish to buy them." The spirits were very angry because they did not cheerfully agree to pay the money, and answered, "If you will not buy these mortars which we have brought for your use, you shall carry them up to our home on the top of the mountain, for the labor of bringing them down has wearied us." Not daring to incur the wrath of the spirits, and yet being utterly unable to carry the huge mortars to the high mountain, they paid the price, for, they reasoned, "Is any price too great to risk our falling under the displeasure of the evil spirits?" The spirits departed with the money, and to this day, the stone mortars are scattered about the streets of that city, and, when strangers ask why they are there and what use is made of them, this story will be told, and all people say it is verily the truth, for do you not see them with your eyes, and how else could they have come here, had not the spirits brought them? II Fables From the Forest Right and Might While a deer was eating wild fruit, he heard an owl call, "Haak, haak,"[6] and a cricket cry, "Wat,"[7] and, frightened, he fled. In his flight he ran through the trees up into the mountains and into streams. In one of the streams the deer stepped upon a small fish and crushed it almost to death. Then the fish complained to the court, and the deer, owl, cricket and fish had a lawsuit. In the trial came out this evidence: As the deer fled, he ran into some dry grass, and the seed fell into the eye of a wild chicken, and the pain of the seed in the eye of the chicken caused it to fly up against a nest of red ants. Alarmed, the red ants flew out to do battle, and in their haste, bit a mon-goose. The mon-goose ran into a vine of wild fruit and shook several pieces of it on the head of a hermit, who sat thinking under a tree. "Why didst thou, O fruit, fall on my head," cried the hermit. The fruit answered: "We did not wish to fall; a mon-goose ran against our vine and threw us down." And the hermit asked, "O mon-goose, why didst thou throw the fruit?" The mon-goose answered: "I did not wish to throw down the fruit, but the red ants bit me and I ran against the vine." The hermit asked, "O ants, why did ye bite the mon-goose?" The red ants replied: "The hen flew against our nest and angered us." The hermit asked, "O hen, why didst thou fly against the red ants' nest?" And the hen replied: "The seed fell into my eyes and hurt me." And the hermit asked, "O seed, why didst thou fall into the hen's eyes?" And the seed replied: "The deer shook me down." The hermit said unto the deer, "O deer, why didst thou shake down the seed?" The deer answered: "I did not wish to do it, but the owl called, frightening me and I ran." "O owl," asked the hermit, "why didst thou frighten the deer?" The owl replied: "I called but as I am accustomed to call--the cricket, too, called." Having heard the evidence, the judge said, "The cricket must replace the crushed parts of the fish and make it well," as he, the cricket, had called and frightened the deer. * * * * * The cricket was smaller and weaker than the owl or the deer, therefore had to bear the penalty. 6: Haak--a spear. 7: Wat--surrounded. [Illustration: A Laos Forest-stream.] Why the Lip of the Elephant Droops In the days when the earth was young lived a poor man and his wife who had twelve daughters, whom they no longer loved and no longer desired. Day after day the father and mother planned to be free of them, and upon a day, the father made ready a basket; in the bottom he placed ashes, but on the top he spread rice. Taking this basket with him, he called his daughters to come go to the jungle to hunt for game. When the heat of the day had come, they all sat down to eat, and, after they had eaten, the father gave each daughter a bamboo joint, and bade her get water for him. The joints were so made that they would not hold water, and while the maidens endeavored to make them so they would, the father returned home. In vain did the maidens try to make the joints hold the water and after a time they sought their father, but, lo, the father was gone and only the basket remained! Examining the basket, they found rice but on the top, and on the bottom filled with ashes, so they knew their parents sought to be free of them by leaving them in the trackless jungle. Unable to find their way out, there they slept peacefully, for the wild beasts molest not those who fearlessly stay with them. As the eye of day opened in the East, the forlorn maidens beheld, as they awakened, a beautiful woman standing near, and of her they sought help. "Come with me and be companions to my little daughter. Often am I away from home and she is lonely. Come home with me, play with my daughter, and, in exchange I will give you a home," said the beautiful woman. Gladly the maidens consented and went with the woman to her home far in the jungle. All places save one small garden were they free to enter. And upon a day, the fair woman said, "I go to the jungle and will not return until the eye of day has closed. Do not play in the small garden." Scarcely had she gone ere she returned, but the maidens had not sought the garden. Again, upon a day, the fair woman said, "I go to the jungle but for a short time. Go not to play in the small garden." Thinking she would this time be gone all day, the maidens sought the small garden, and lo, it was strewn with human bones! Then they knew the fair woman was a cannibal. Full of fear, they fled, and, as they fled they met a cow. "Protect us," they cried. The cow opened its mouth and the maidens jumped in. Thus they journeyed from the cannibal's home. As the cow returned, it met the fair woman seeking the maidens. "Have you seen twelve maidens pass this way?" asked she. "No," answered the cow. "If you do not speak the truth, I'll kill and eat you," cried she. "I saw them as they made haste in that way," replied the cow. The cannibal woman pursued that way. After the cow left them, the maidens hastened on and as they hastened they met an elephant and begged it to save them from the cannibal. The elephant opened its mouth and the maidens jumped in, but so slowly did one jump that an edge of her garment hung out of the mouth. As they journeyed the cannibal overtook them. "Did you see twelve maidens hastening toward the city?" asked the cannibal. "No," answered the elephant. "From this time forth forever the lip of thy mouth shall hang down as a garment," cursed the cannibal, for she had seen the edge of the maiden's garment hanging out of the elephant's mouth and knew it was protecting the twelve maidens. And to this day doth the lip of the elephant hang down like a garment. How a Dead Tiger Killed the Princess There was once a king who had a daughter at whose birth a wise man foretold that she would be killed by a tiger when she was a maiden grown. In order that no animal might approach her, the king built her a house set upon one huge pillar, and there she and her attendants ever dwelt. And it fell upon a day, when the daughter was well grown, that one of the hunters, whose labor it was to kill the tigers of the country, brought a dead one to the palace of the king. The princess, seeing her dead enemy, came down from her tower and plucked a whisker from the tiger, and, as she blew her breath on it, she cried, "I do not fear thee, O my enemy, for thou art dead!" But the poison, which is in the whiskers of a tiger, entered into the blood of the princess, and she died. Then did the king make a proclamation, and sent messengers throughout all his realm, commanding that, when a tiger was killed, all his whiskers be immediately pulled out and burned, that a tiger may not be able to slay when dead; and until this day, the people obey the command of the king. The Monkeys and the Crabs All the monkeys which live in the forests near the great sea in the south, watch the tide running out, hoping to catch the sea-crabs which are left in the soft earth. If they can find a crab above the ground, they immediately catch and eat it. Sometimes, the crabs bury themselves in the mud, and the monkeys, seeing the tunnels they have made, reach down into them with their long tails, and torment the crabs until they, in anger, seizing the tormenting tail, are drawn out and devoured by their cunning foes. But, sometimes, alas, the crab fails to come out! No matter with what strength the monkey pulls and tugs, the crabs do not appear, and the poor monkey is held fast, while the tide comes in and drowns it. When the tide goes out again, leaving the luckless monkey on the beach, the crabs come out from their strongholds and feast on the dead enemy. III Nature's Riddles and Their Answers The Man in the Moon There was a blacksmith once, who complained: "I am not well, and my work is too warm. I want to be a stone on the mountain. There it must be cool, for the wind blows and the trees give a shade." A wise man, who had power over all things, replied, "Go thou, be a stone." And he was a stone, high up on the mountain-side. It happened a stone-cutter came that way for stone, and, when he saw the one that had been the blacksmith, he knew it was what he sought and he began to cut it. The stone cried out: "This hurts. I no longer want to be a stone. A stone-cutter I want to be. That would be pleasant." The wise man, humoring him, said, "Be a cutter." Thus he became a stone-cutter and, as he went seeking suitable stone, he grew tired, and his feet were sore. He whimpered, "I no longer want to cut stone. I would be the sun, that would be pleasant." The wise man commanded, "Be the sun." And he was the sun. But the sun was warmer than the blacksmith, than a stone, than a stone-cutter, and he complained, "I do not like this. I would be the moon. It looks cool." The wise man spake yet again, "Be the moon." And he was the moon. "This is warmer than being the sun," murmured he, "for the light from the sun shines on me ever. I do not want to be the moon. I would be a smith again. That, verily, is the best life." But the wise man replied, "I am weary of your changing. You wanted to be the moon; the moon you are, and it you will remain." And in yon high heaven lives he to this day. The Origin of Lightning There was once a great chief who desired above all things to be happy in the future life, therefore he continually made feasts for the priests and the poor; spending much money in making merit. He had ten wives, nine of whom helped him in all the merit-makings, but the head wife, his favorite, would never take part. Laughing, and making herself beautiful in soft garments and jewels, she gave naught to the priests. And on a day, when the great chief and his nine merit-making wives were no more, but had gone to live in the sky on account of their merit-making, the great chief longed for his favorite, and taking a glass, he looked down on the earth to see her. After many days, he beheld her as a crane hunting for food on the border of a lake. The great chief, to try her heart and to see if she had repented, came down from his home in the sky in the form of a fish, and swam to the crane. Seeing the fish, the crane pecked at it, but the fish sprang out of the water, and when the crane saw it was alive, she would not touch it. Again the fish floated near the crane and she pecked at it, but on finding it was alive let it escape. Then was the heart of the great chief glad, for he saw that his favorite wife would not destroy life even to satisfy her hunger, and he knew that her merit was such she could be born in the form of a woman again. It happened on a day that the crane died, and, when again born, had the form of a gardener's child. As the child grew in years and stature, she was fairer than any other in the land, and, when a maiden, the father and mother made a feast, inviting all the people to come. During the feast, they gave a wreath of beautiful flowers to their daughter and said, "Throw this into the air, and on whosesoever head it falls, that one will be to thee a husband." The great chief, her husband of old, seeking her, came down to the earth in the form of an old man, and, when the maiden cast the wreath into the air, it fell on the head of this old man. Great sport was made of him, and tauntingly the people cried, "Does this bent stick think he is mate for our lotus flower?" But the fair maiden placed her hand in the old man's hand, and, together they rose into the air. In vain they sought to detain them--the father even shot at the old man, but they were soon lost to sight, and to this day, when the people see the chain lightning in the sky, they say it is the wreath of the beautiful maiden; when the lightning strikes, they say it is the gardener shooting at the old man, and, when the heat lightning flashes, they say it is the great chief flashing his glass over the earth in search of his favorite and beautiful wife. Why the Parrot and the Minor Bird but Echo the Words of Man Long ago people caught and nourished the sao bird, because it learned the language of man more readily than either the parrot or minor bird. While they had to be taught with much care, the sao bird had but to hear a word and it could readily utter it; moreover, the sao bird could utter its own thoughts. Upon a time a man of the north country, owning a sao bird, stole a buffalo from his neighbor and killed it. Part of the buffalo the man cooked and ate; the rest he hid either in the rice bin or over the rice house. Seeking the buffalo, next day, the neighbor asked the man if he had seen it. The man replied, "No." The sao bird, however, cried out, "He killed it; part he hid in the rice bin, part over the rice house." The neighbor searched in both of these places and found the parts just as the sao bird had said. "I did not steal the buffalo," insisted the man. But the bird ever called, "He killed it and put part into the rice bin, and part over the rice house." Unable to decide between the words of the man and the words of the bird, the neighbor appealed to the court. And, it happened, the night before the trial, that the man took the sao bird, placed it in a jar, covered the jar and poured water over the cloth and beat on the outside of the jar. The noise of the beating was low and rumbling. All that night was the bird kept in the jar, and not once did it see the bright moonlight, which was almost as bright as day, for it was in the midst of the dry season and full moon. When the eye of day opened, the man removed the bird from the jar and placed it in its cage, and then took it to the court as a witness. When the bird was called, it said, as before, "He killed it; part he put in the rice bin, and part over the rice house." All people believed the bird. "Ask it another question. Ask it what manner of night it was last night. Will you condemn me to death on the word of a bird?" cried the man. The question was put to the bird, but, remembering its fear, during the night, of the rumbling noise and the sound of running water, it answered, "Last night the sky called and the rain fell." Then the people cried, "Of a truth, the bird cannot be believed. Because it has imperilled the life of an innocent man, from this time forth, the sao bird must not be cherished by man." The thief was set free because there were but the words of the bird to condemn him. No longer is the sao bird nourished by man, but lives in the forest. Those who are full of fear, when they hear them talking in the forest, say, "it is the spirits." When the sao bird saw the bright plumage of the parrot, and the black and gold of the minor bird, it knew they were strangers who had come to dwell in the north, and it asked the crow and the owl what manner of birds they were. "Beautiful in plumage, as thou canst readily see," answered they. "Moreover, they speak the words of man." "Speak the words of man," echoed the sao bird. "I'll warn them. Come, let us greet them." And they went forth to meet the beautiful strangers. And upon a day, as they all came together in one place, the sao bird cried out, "We, the chief birds of the north land, come to greet you and to give you of our wisdom, as you are but strangers in our land. It is told me you speak as does man; even so can I. Nourished by the hand of man many years, I did see with my eyes and hear with my ears, and my tongue uttered not only the things I beheld and heard, but things displeasing to my masters. At one time, all men spoke well of me, but afterward was I cruelly punished and driven from the homes of men. Therefore come I this day unto you to warn you that, if man learns of your speaking tongue, he will capture you and nourish you in his home. Yet, should you speak other than he teaches you, you will be punished and driven from the homes of men, for man loves only to hear _his_ thoughts repeated and loves not even a bird that has wisdom or truth greater than his own." * * * * * Fearful of uttering their thoughts, lest man resent it, the parrot and minor bird but echo the words of man. The Fatherless Birds A mother bird sat brooding on her nest. Her heart was sad, for her mate had flown away in the morning and had not returned. When the little ones stirred and clamored for food, with drooping wings she flew in quest of it that they might not hunger. Day after day her heart grew sadder, for her mate came not, and alone she struggled to provide for her fledglings. When the little birds had grown strong and were able to fly, sorrow and heart hunger had so weakened the mother bird that she lay dying. The little birds crowded about her asking what they could do to aid her, and with her dying breath she cried, "Call, oh, call your father." The little birds, flying low over the plains, cried, "Paw hüey, paw hüey," and children, left alone in their homes, while their parents labor in the rice fields, hearing the wail of the birds, wept, crying too, "Paw hüey, maa hüey."[8] Never has the father bird been found, and, to this day, flying low over the plains, the little birds cry, in their plaintive voices, "Paw hüey, paw hüey," and lonely children echo, "Paw hüey, maa hüey." 8: Paw hüey--Oh, father! Maa hüey--Oh, mother! IV Romance and Tragedy The Lovers' Leap Many, many years ago there lived, on the mountains among the rapids of the Maa Ping, a young man who loved a maiden and the maiden loved him truly, but her father refused his consent to their union and commanded that his daughter see her lover no more, nor hold communication with him. At all times and in all ways the father of the maiden endeavored to overcome her regard for her lover, but she would think of no other, although many came to woo her. Often did the young lovers seek to meet, but so constantly were they watched it was impossible and they could only wait patiently. Each knew the other was true and each heart rested in this assurance. And upon a time the father of the maiden thought she had forgotten her lover, and, greatly rejoiced, he made a feast and invited all the people of the province to come and make merry with him, and he reasoned, "Now that she has forgotten her former lover, will she not consent to marry a man I choose for her?" While they were feasting the maiden wandered out to think of the one she had not seen for so long and weary a time, and, suddenly, the dark evening became to her as the bright noonday, for her lover was before her. He entreated her to come with him and to be his wife. Thinking of the dreary days she had passed and the more dreary ones to come, should she see her heart's choice no more, she consented. As they were mounting his strong, young horse, a servant saw them and ran to the house and gave the alarm. Soon the father and all the men were in pursuit of the lovers. For a time the young horse kept far ahead of its pursuers, but, wearying of its double burden, it began to lag just as it reached the top of a lofty hill overhanging a rushing torrent of the river far below. Nearer and nearer came the father and all the men. The only escape, and a most desperate venture was it, was to leap across the rushing torrent to the hill on the other side. Looking into each other's eyes, then back at their approaching pursuers, and then at the wide chasm, they chose death together rather than life apart, and, urging their jaded horse to the leap, they missed the opposite cliff and were dashed to pieces on the rocks of the rapids below. The Faithful Husband[9] Upon a day in years long since gone by, Chow[10] Soo Tome, wearied of the talking of his slaves, wandered into the forest. As he walked in an unfrequented path, he came to a lake where seven beautiful winged nymphs were disporting themselves in the water. One, Chow Soo Tome readily saw was more beautiful than the others, and he loved her and desired her for his wife. On seeing the Chow, however, they all fled, but the most beautiful one permitted herself to be overtaken. "When I saw thee, my heart was filled with love for thee. If thou dost not consent to be my wife, of sorrow will I die," cried Chow Soo Tome. "Easily could I have escaped, had not love for thee made me loath to leave thee," replied the nymph. And in great joy they returned to the Chow's home. "My son, let me take the wings of thy wife, lest she fly and leave thee in sorrow," urged the Chow's mother, and, readily did the nymph wife lay aside her wings. But it happened that the head chow heard of the beauty of the wife of Chow Soo Tome, and he coveted her, and seeking to do away with Chow Soo Tome, he sent him to war, and commanded that he lead the battle. The young nymph wife knew the design of the head chow, and, as soon as her husband had gone, she sought her mother-in-law and begged that she give her back her wings. "I am filled with sorrow. Without Soo Tome I cannot remain in the house. Give me my wings that I may fly in the air and be comforted," pled the wife. "Consent that I tie a rope to thy feet. Then, I will give thee the wings," answered Soo Tome's mother. The young wife consented, but, having donned her wings and flown up in the air, she cut the rope fastened to her feet and was safe from the head chow's pursuit. Her freedom made her think of the home of her father in the kingdom of Chom Kow Kilat,[11] and thither she flew. Chow Soo Tome, unhurt and victorious, returned from the war and found his home desolate without his nymph wife, and would not be comforted but determined to seek her. "Now, I will go seek her in her father's kingdom, Chom Kow Kilat, though seven years, seven months and seven days be required for the journey." Through forest, over mountains and across plains toiled Chow Soo Tome patiently. And, as he journeyed, upon a day, he met an ape. "My friend, where do you go?" asked the ape. "To a land far away, where the love of my heart abides, in the kingdom of Chom Kow Kilat. The way I do not know, but my heart guides me," answered Chow Soo Tome. The ape pitied him and sought to aid him, and what food he had or found he shared with Chow Soo Tome gladly. Together they travelled many days until they reached the sea. They had no means of crossing, and when the ape realized he could no longer aid Chow Soo Tome, he cried bitterly, saying, "No longer can I aid thee, now; therefore is my sorrow greater than I can bear," and, lo, he died! For three days did Chow Soo Tome mourn this kind friend, and, as he mourned, a fly came to eat of the ape. "I am but alive and fear I will die if I do not have food at once," said the fly. "The ape is dead and can feel no pain. I am alive and hunger, thou art in trouble and need aid. If thou wilt give me to eat of the flesh of the dead ape, whenever thou needst me, think on me and I will come to thee," added the fly. "Eat," said Chow Soo Tome, and then he went on his way, but shortly after, sat down under a tree. While there, he saw two eagles alight on the tree. "When we are rested, we will fly across the sea and eat of the feast which the king of Chom Kow Kilat gives in honor of the return of his beautiful daughter," said one of the eagles to its mate. Hearing these words, Chow Soo Tome cautiously climbed into the tree and crept under the wing of the larger eagle, who shortly after said to its mate: "Before we fly hence, I must rid myself of an insect which is under my wing and annoys me." "This is a sacred day, and, for some punishment has the insect come under your wing; let it remain," counselled the other eagle, and then they flew over the sea. When they rested in a tree on the other shore, Chow Soo Tome crept from under the wing and climbed down the tree. After a time he reached a _sala_[12] near a large city. Near the sala was a well, and, as Chow Soo Tome rested, seven slaves of the king of Chom Kow Kilat came from the city for water. "Why dost thou draw of the water?" asked Chow Soo Tome of a slave. "We are this day glad, for the most beautiful daughter of the king of Chom Kow Kilat hath returned from the land of men and the water will be poured over her head," said the slave addressed. Approaching the seventh slave, Chow Soo Tome asked that he might place a ring in her water jar. Now, the ring was one which he had received from his nymph wife, and he sought thus to turn her thoughts to him again. "Pour your water in such a manner that, when it falls, the ring will fall upon the hands of the princess," directed Chow Soo Tome. The slave did as directed, and, as the ring fell on the hands of the young princess, she knew her husband was near, and she asked the slave who was at the well when she drew the water. "A chow of a far country," said the slave, "who rests in the sala by the sacred well outside the city gate." In great haste and joy, did the young princess seek her father. "Outside the city gate, in the sala by the sacred well, doth my husband await me. Let me go to him, father," she pleaded. "I must first prove that he be thy husband. Let all my daughters make ready a table spread with the best of the feast, and hide themselves. The man shall be called, and, if he selects thy table, he is thy husband, but, if he knows not thy table, he shall die," replied the king. The tables were made ready, Chow Soo Tome was summoned and commanded to select the table prepared by the princess whom he claimed as his wife. Sore perplexed, Chow Soo Tome bethought himself of the fly's promise, and he called it to his aid. Immediately the fly appeared and sat on the table prepared by the wife of Chow Soo Tome, and there Chow Soo Tome sat down. "Yet another test," said the king. "Make ready seven curtains and place my daughters behind the seven curtains, allowing but one finger of each princess to be seen. Then, from among the fingers, select that of thy wife." Immediately did the grateful fly rest upon the curtain where lay the finger of the young wife, and unhesitatingly Chow Soo Tome walked up to the curtain and clasped the right finger. "It is enough. She is thy wife," declared the king, and so pleased was he that he made Chow Soo Tome second in power in the kingdom of Chom Kow Kilat. 9: This represents a very well-known märrchen. 10: Chow--a prince or high official. 11: A fabulous city. 12: A rest-house for guests. [Illustration: The Laos Governor's Wife at her Embroidery Frame.] The Faithful Wife The young and beautiful son of a head chow sought of a wise man what manner of wife should be his. "As you walked by the way, whom did you meet?" asked the wizard. "No one," replied the young man. "Nay, my son, you saw a slave of your father's, cutting grass in a garden. She is to be your wife." Distressed that such a woman should be his wife, the young man fled from his own country. And it came to pass, that the chow saw the slave girl that she was kind, noble, and beautiful, and he took her to his house as a daughter, and she became more kind, more noble, and more beautiful. Years had gone by, and, upon a day the son returned, and, seeing in the one-time slave a most lovable and lovely woman, sought and gained her as his wife. Word reached the young man then that this was but a slave, and, on learning the truth, he begged that he might be released to go on a long journey. The young wife consented. A boat was made ready, and the chow's son had it in his heart never to return. So, secretly, the chow had a gold image hidden in the bottom of the boat. When the day of departure had come, the chow in haste sent his servants to inquire of his son what he had in the boat. "I have but my possessions," replied the son. "Nay, you have the image of gold, which is the possession of my master, the chow," insisted the servants. "If we find it in the boat, what will you do?" they asked. "Return with you as a slave to my father!" exclaimed the son. All the goods were removed from the boat and the image was found. Then the son returned as a slave to his father and was made keeper of the elephants. Upon a day, the young wife of the son came to the chow and sought permission to go to the forest to find her husband. Willingly did the chow say, "Go, my child," and forthwith he had a boat put in readiness for her and sent with her many of his servants. One servant was called, "Eye That Sees Well," another, "Ear That Hears Well." Sailing down the river, they reached the province where the young man was searching for elephants, and there they remained. The chow of the province sent a servant secretly to hide a golden image in the boat. But the "Ear That Hears Well" heard and the "Eye That Sees Well" saw, and together they took the image from the boat and hid it in the sand. The following day, the chow sent a messenger asking why the princess had taken the image. "I have not seen it," were the words of the princess. "If it is found in your boat, what will you promise?" asked the chow's messenger. "I and my servants will be slaves to him, if the image be found in my boat," replied the princess, "but, should the image not be found there, what will your master promise?" "All his goods and his province, if the image be not found," readily answered the messenger. A diligent search failed to discover the image of gold, and, true to his word, the chow gave of his goods and his province to the princess. Rejoicing, and hoping thus to discover her husband, the princess gave a large feast, and bade all the people. While all were feasting, lo, a man, in soiled garments and carrying a heavy tusk of an elephant, came towards them, and immediately did the princess recognize her husband, and the husband, realizing after what manner his wife loved him, grew to love her, and together they lived in her province for many, many years. An Unexpected Issue Far away from other men, on the side of a lonely mountain, a man and his wife were preparing their ground that they might plant the hill rice. Their work was hard, and they saw no one from day to day, and, upon a time, when tired of their labor, the husband said, "Let us play that we are young and unmarried, and that I am coming to visit you to try to gain you for a wife." The wife dressed herself as a young maiden, with flowers in her hair, and sat at the spinning-wheel. The husband came as though from a distance, and in his hand he carried the stem of a banana leaf, which he pretended was a musical instrument. Playfully, he drew his fingers over it, singing, "It is pleasant to be here. Where you are, I am happy. Where you are not, I am but of little heart and sad." He drew near, and, as he was not forbidden, he walked up into the house and sat down by the maiden. Bowing himself to the ground, he spoke, saying, "O fair princess, I come but as your servant! May I sit here near you?" Smilingly she answered, "To sit there is but a waste of time." "I am not sitting where another has sat. Tell me, do I talk to one who has another lover?" "I fear that the one who loves you, and whom you loved ere you came to me, will be angry with me and curse me," she coyly answered. Then he feigned anger, and moved away quickly. In his haste he did not see where he was going, and he fell down the steps of the house, upon a stone. Though he lay there groaning, and called, "O, help me!" his wife thought him still in sport and sat quietly at her wheel. Having waited some time, she arose and went to him, and, lo, he lay there dead! "Had we worked and not played as children, my husband would be yet alive," lamented the wife. V Temples and Priests The Giants' Mountain and the Temple In the time long since gone by, when the world was young, the men of a large province desired to build a temple, a temple which might be seen by men from afar. Their ground, however, was low, and there was no lofty mountain on which they might rear it, and it was deemed wise by all to entreat the giants, who lived in the far East, to help them bring the earth together in one place for a mound. Willingly did the giants consent to aid them, but asked, "Why labor to dig the earth and pile it into a mound? Behold the high hills are ours, with our strong arms we can remove the top from one of them and bring it to you and you may rear your beautiful temple thereon, and all men can see it. Go, therefore, and make ready your bricks and mortar, bringing to one place all the materials which you will require, whilst we carry one of our mountains to you for your use." The giants went their way to bring a mountain-top from the far East to the plains near the city. Day after day they labored and moved the mountain top a great distance, but the people neither helped them nor did they even commence to prepare the materials for the temple. As the giants toiled, word was brought them that the people were sitting in idleness on the ground. "Come help us, or gather the materials together," the giants sent word. "You, yourselves, offered to carry the mountain-top to us. Your words are stronger than your deeds. You say you will aid us, then ask us to help you," the people replied. This they said, thinking to goad the giants on to the labor of bringing the mountain-top to the desired place. "We offered to aid you," retorted the giants, "but you sit and watch while we do all. Had you done your part, we would have done ours. Now, you shall labor, and we, from our high mountain, will laugh at you." Thereupon they left the work and sought their homes, and wearily did the men of the plains dig the earth, carrying it in small loads into one place to build the mound, and sadly did they look toward the East, where they could see the mountain-top the giants had carried such a distance to them, and most bitterly did they repent not having done their share. The temple is builded now, and from afar the people can see the gleam of the spire when the eye of day first opens in the East, or closes in the West, and, to this day the mountain-top lies there far distant from the mountain range and equally far distant from the city of the plains, and the people point it out to strangers, saying, "If you ask aid from others, it is well to put your own heart into the work." [Illustration: A Group of Buddhist Priests.] [Illustration: The Interior of a Buddhist Temple.] Cheating the Priest Upon a time a man and his wife went a day's journey from their village to the bazaar to sell their wares, and it fell upon the day of their return that it rained heavily, and as they hurried along the highway, they sought shelter from the head priest of a temple. He, however, would not even let them enter. They begged to be permitted to sleep in the sheltered place at the head of the stairs, but this also the priest refused. Angered, they went under the temple and there rested. When the priest had lain down on his mat in the room just over the place where the man and his wife were hidden, he heard the man say to his wife, "It will be good to be again with our young and beautiful daughter. I trust all is well with her." Having heard these words, the priest arose hastily and called, "Come up, good people, and sleep in the temple. Here, too, are mats to rest upon." And, as they talked of their beautiful daughter, the priest asked, "When I am out of the temple, released from my vows, will you give me your daughter to wife?" Looking at his wife, the husband replied, "It is good in our sight." When the morning came and they wished to steam some rice for their breakfast, they had no pot, but the priest freely offered the use of his pot and insisted upon their using of the sacred wood for their fire, the wood which was used in propping the branches of the Po tree.[13] Being ready to go on their way, the priest presented them with gifts of food, silver and gold, saying, "I will soon leave the priesthood and come to marry your beautiful daughter." But three days had passed, when the man and his wife came again to the temple and told the priest that their daughter was dead, and a long time they all mourned together. "I will ever remain true to my love for your daughter. Never will I leave the priesthood," vowed the priest, while the man and his wife returned to their home, spent the silver and gold the priest had given them, and cheerfully laughed at him, for never had they had a daughter! 13: The sacred tree of Buddhists. The Disappointed Priest In a temple of the north lived a priest who had great greed for the betel nut.[14] One day, compelled by his appetite, he inquired of a boy-priest if no one had died that day, but the boy replied he had heard of no death. A man, while worshipping in the temple, overheard the priest's words, and on his return to his home, said, "The priest wants some one to die so he can have betel to eat. Let us punish him, because he loves the betel nut better than the life of a man. Make me ready for the grave, then wail with a loud voice and the priest will come." When all was ready, they wailed with a loud voice and the priest, filled with cheerful thoughts of satisfying his appetite, came quickly. The people all said, "We must hasten to the grave with our dead brother. As it is already evening, we will not have the feast until we return." All hastened to the place of burning, and, upon reaching it, they took one end of the cloth covering the body and placed it in the hands of the priest, while the other end they left on the body of the supposed dead man. "While you ask blessings on our dead brother, we will go prepare wood for the burning," said the people, and, leaving the priest praying, they returned as they had come, cut thorns and briars and placed them on and about the path, so the priest could not escape unhurt. Then they hid themselves. As the darkness closed about him, the priest prayed fast and loud. Lo! the man stirred and groaned, and the priest cried, "O, my father, I am asking blessings on thee! Why movest thou?" Again the man rose up and groaned even louder, and the priest, terrified, ran away towards the temple. Caught by the briars, he fell headlong, cut and bleeding. With great effort, he at last reached the temple, and with much pain had his wounds dressed by the boy-priest. Not until he had rested, did he inquire of the boy if the people of the dead man had brought any betel to the temple in his absence. "No," said the boy-priest. "Go to the house of the dead man and eat with them." But the priest most vehemently said, "If ten or twenty men die, I will not go again. Die like that man! I shall never go again." 14: Areca nut. Chewing this nut is a habit common among all the peoples of Farther India and Malaysia. The Greedy Priest In the compound of a temple in the south there was a large fruit tree, the fruit of which was coveted by all, as they passed, but the head priest would permit no one to eat of it, because he was greedy and selfish and wished but to satisfy his own appetite. Two men, talking together, said they would obtain fruit from the priest, and they would have it without price. One came and asked for the fruit. The priest refused him gruffly, saying, "I need it for my own use." The man replied, "I desired it to eat with my venison curry, of which I have so much that I want you to come and eat with me." On hearing this the priest said, "Take what you want." Filling his scarf with the coveted fruit, the man left the priest, saying, "I will call for you as the eye of day closes." Shortly after, the second man came and begged for fruit and likewise was refused, until he said he wished it to eat with his pork curry, and, that as the eye of day closed, he would come for the priest to eat with him, when the priest said, "All you desire, take." And the man filled a large basket with the coveted fruit. As the eye of day closed, the two men called together for the priest. When they reached a fork in the road, one laid hold on the arm of the priest, and said, "Come with me first, my house is down this way." "Come with me first," said the other, "my family will already be eating." Thus they disputed, drawing the greedy old priest this way and that until he was bruised and tired, when he said, "It is enough. I will neither eat of the venison, nor of the pork." And the men went home and laughed, for neither had the one venison nor the other pork. [Illustration: Monastery Grounds at Chieng Tung, Laos.] The Ambitious Priest There is a tale of an old priest who prayed each day that the gods would give him a jewel of great price--one that had the power to make him fly as a bird. A young priest in the temple hearing his prayer, secured the eye of a fish and hid it in his room, and when again the old priest prayed for the jewel, the young priest brought the eye of the fish and gave it to him. Then was the old priest glad, "Now can I rise up as though on wings and fly from this earth," said he. Selecting two large palm leaves, thinking "I must have wings first," he tried to fly, but could not. The young priest said, "From here you cannot fly; it is not high enough. Go up to the roof of the temple and fly from there." Acting on this suggestion, the old priest went up to the roof, but fell from his high place, and, lo, when they came to him, he was dead! VI Moderation and Greed The Wizard and the Beggar Once upon a time there was a poor man who ever begged for food, and, as he walked along the road he thought, "If any one will give me to eat until I am satisfied, never will I forget the grace or merit of that person." Chanting these words as he walked slowly along, he met a wizard. "What do you say as you walk along, my son?" asked the wizard. "If any one will give me to eat all I crave, I will never forget the grace or merit of that person," said the poor man. "My son, the people of this day are ever careless and ungrateful. They forget benefits," replied the wizard. "I will not forget," vowed the poor man. "Go on, my son," said the wizard. Chanting as before, the poor man went on his way, and as he walked he met a dog. "What do you say as you go along, my son?" asked the dog. "Whosoever will give me to eat to my satisfaction, the grace or merit of that person will I never forget," replied the poor man. "Men are prone to forget. None remember favors. When I was young and strong, I guarded my master's house and grounds; now, when I am old, he will not permit me to enter his gate, but curses and beats me and gives me no food. By him are all my services forgotten," said the dog. Ever chanting, the poor man walked on, and as he walked he met a buffalo. "What do you say as you walk along, my son?" asked the buffalo. And the poor man repeated what he had told the wizard and the dog. "Man is ever ungrateful. When I was young and strong, I plowed the fields so my master could have rice and my master was grateful to me. Now that I cannot work, I am driven out to die," said the buffalo. And the poor man, discouraged, sought the wizard again. "My son, will you ever remember benefits?" asked the wizard. "Never would I forget a benefit," vowed the poor man, vehemently. "Then here are two jewels; one, if held in your mouth, will enable you to fly as a bird; the other, if held in the mouth, will give you your desires, and this second one I now give to you," said the wizard, and he handed the second jewel to the poor man. "Your grace and merit will ever be remembered by me. More than tongue can utter, do I thank you. Ever will I wish you health and happiness and pray for blessings on your head," declared the poor man. Having thus spoken, the once poor man sought his home and, through the virtue of the wishing jewel he had every wish for wealth gratified. "How do you secure your desires?" asked the neighbors of the once poor, begging man. "A wizard gave me a wishing-jewel and, by simply placing it in my mouth, all I wish to possess is mine," answered he. "Listen to me," he continued, "the wizard has yet another jewel, which, if placed in the mouth, will enable one to fly as a bird. Come, let us go and kill him that we may all possess it together." With one accord they agreed, and, as they approached the home of the wizard, the wizard, espying the man he had so benefited, called to him, "Why have you not visited me, my son?" "There was no time, much work have I had to do," replied the ungrateful man. Now the wizard of course knew the intent of the wicked fellow, that he, with his neighbors, had come to secure the second jewel, and he asked, "Why do you desire to kill me?" "Give to me the jewel you have, else I shall kill you, you old wizard," cried the ungrateful fellow. "Have you the wishing-jewel with you? If so, show it to me first," said the wizard. Eagerly did the greedy fellow thrust it toward the old wizard, but he, having already placed the flying-jewel in his mouth, seized the wishing-jewel and instead of giving the rascal the flying-jewel, flew away, leaving both the man and his neighbors without either. A Covetous Neighbor There was a poor and lonely man who had but a few melon seeds and grains of corn which he planted; tenderly did he care for them, as the garden would furnish his only means of a living. And it came to pass that the melons and corn grew luxuriantly, and the apes and the monkeys from the neighboring wilderness, seeing them, came daily to eat of them, and, as they talked of the owner of the garden, wondered just what manner of man he might be that he permitted them unmolested to eat of his melons. But the poor man, through his sufferings, had much merit, and charitably and willingly shared his abundant fruit with them. And upon a day, the man lay down in the garden and feigned death. As the monkeys and apes drew near, seeing him so still, his scarf lying about his head, with one accord they cried, "He is already dead! Lo, these many days have we eaten of his fruit, therefore it is but just that we should bury him in as choice a place as we can find." Lifting the man, they carried him until they came to a place where two ways met, when one of the monkeys said, "Let us take him to the cave of silver." Another said, "No, the cave of gold would be better." "Go to the cave of gold," commanded the head monkey. There they carried him and laid him to rest. Finding himself thus alone, the man arose, gathered all the gold he could carry and returned to his old home, and, with the gold thus easily gained, he built a beautiful house. "How did you, who are but a gardener, gain all this gold?" asked a neighbor, and freely the man told all that had befallen him. "If you did it, I, too, can do it," said the neighbor, and forthwith, he hastened home, made a garden, and waited for the monkeys to feast in it. All came to pass as the neighbor hoped; when the melons were ripe great numbers of monkeys and apes came to the garden and feasted. And upon a day, they found the owner lying as one dead in the garden. Prompted by gratitude, the monkeys made ready to bury him, and while carrying him to the place of burial, they came to the place in the way where the two roads met. Here they disputed as to whether they should place the man in the cave of silver, or the cave of gold. Meanwhile, the man was thinking thus, "I'll gather gold all day. When I have more than I can carry in my arms, I'll draw some behind me in a basket I can readily make from bamboo," and, when the head monkey said, "Put him in the cave of silver," he unguardedly cried out, "No, put me in the cave of gold." Frightened, the monkeys dropped the man and fled, whilst he, scratched and bleeding, crept painfully home. A Lazy Man's Plot[15] Upon a day a beggar, who was too lazy to work, but ever lived on the bounty of the people, received a great quantity of rice. He put it in a large jar and placed the jar at the foot of his bed, then he lay down on the bed and thus reasoned: "If there come a famine, I will sell the rice, and with the money, buy me a pair of cows, and when the cows have a calf, I'll buy a pair of buffaloes. Then, when they have a calf, I'll sell them, and with that money, I'll make a wedding and take me a wife. And, when we have a child large enough to sit alone, I'll take care of it, while my wife works the rice fields. Should she say, 'I will not work,' I'll kick her after this manner," and he struck out his foot, knocking the jar over, and broke it. The rice ran through the slats of the floor, and the neighbors' pigs ate it, leaving the lazy plotter but the broken jar. 15: The motive corresponds to that of the venerable story of the Milkmaid. The Ungrateful Fisherman It happened on a time that a poor fisherman had caught nothing for many days, and while he was sitting thinking sadly of his miserable fortune, Punya In, the god of wisdom, came from his high home in heaven in the form of a crow, and asked him, "Do you desire to escape from this life of a fisherman, and live in ease?" And the fisherman replied, "Greatly do I desire to escape from this miserable life." Beckoning him to come to him and listen, the crow told him of a far distant province, whose chow lay dead. "Both the province and all the chow's former possessions will I give thee, if thou wilt promise ever to remember the benefits I bestow," said the crow. Readily did the fisherman promise, "Never, never will I forget." Immediately the crow took the fisherman on his back and flew to the far distant province. Leaving the fisherman just outside the city gate, the crow entered the city, went to the chow's home, and took the body of the chow away, and, in the place put the fisherman. When the fisherman moved, the watchers heard, and rejoicing, they all cried, "Our chow is again alive." Great was the joy of the people, and, for many years, the fisherman ruled in the province and enjoyed the possessions of the former chow. But, as time went by, the fisherman forgot the crow had been the author of all his good fortune, that all were the gifts of a crow, and he drove all crows from the rice fields. Even did he attempt to banish them from the province. Perceiving this, the god of wisdom again assumed the form of a crow and came down and sat near the one-time fisherman. "O, chow, wouldst thou desire to go where all is pleasure and delight?" asked the crow. "Let me go," replied the chow. And the crow took him on his back and flew with him to the house where, as a fisherman he had lived in poverty and squalor, and ever had he to remain there. The Legend of the Rice In the days when the earth was young and all things were better than they now are, when men and women were stronger and of greater beauty, and the fruit of the trees was larger and sweeter than that which we now eat, rice, the food of the people, was of larger grain. One grain was all a man could eat, and in those early days, such, too, was the merit of the people, they never had to toil gathering the rice, for, when ripe, it fell from the stalks and rolled into the villages, even unto the granaries. And upon a year, when the rice was larger and more plentiful than ever before, a widow said to her daughter, "Our granaries are too small. We will pull them down and build larger." When the old granaries were pulled down and the new one not yet ready for use, the rice was ripe in the fields. Great haste was made, but the rice came rolling in where the work was going on, and the widow, angered, struck a grain and cried, "Could you not wait in the fields until we were ready? You should not bother us now when you are not wanted." The rice broke into thousands of pieces and said, "From this time forth, we will wait in the fields until we are wanted," and, from that time the rice has been of small grain, and the people of the earth must gather it into the granary from the fields. [Illustration: At Work in the Rice Fields.] VII Parables and Proverbs "One Woman in Deceit and Craft is More Than a Match for Eight Men" Chum Paw was a maiden of the south country. Many suitors had she, but, by her craft and devices, each suitor thought himself the only one. Constantly did each seek her in marriage, and, upon a day as one pressed her to name the time of their nuptials, she said, "Build me a house, and I'll marry you when all is in readiness." To the others, did she speak the same words. Each man sought the jungle for bamboo for a house, and, it happened, while they were in the jungle that they all met. "What seekest thou?" they asked one another. "What seekest thou?" The one answer was, "I have come to fell wood for my house." And, as they ate their midday meal together, each had a bamboo stick, filled with chicken and rice. Now, it happened that Chum Paw had given the bamboo sticks to the men, and, lo, on investigation, they found the pieces in their various sticks were the parts of one chicken, and with one accord, they cried, "Chum Paw has deceived us. Come, let us kill her. Each has she promised to marry; each has she deceived." All were exceedingly angry and vowed they would kill the deceitful woman. Chum Paw, seeing the men return together, knew her duplicity was known and realized they sought to kill her. "I entreat that you spare my life, but take and sell me as a slave to the captain of the ship lying at the mouth of the river." Relenting, the suitors took her to the captain. She, however, running on before, privately told the captain she had seven young men, her slaves, whom she would sell him for seven hundred pieces of silver. Seeing the young men were desirable, the captain gave Chum Paw the silver, and she fled while the seven lovers were placed in irons. Chum Paw fled to the jungle, but, frightened by the wild beasts, she sought refuge in a tree. And it came to pass that the suitors escaped from the ship and they, too, sought refuge in the jungle. Unable to sleep and also frightened, one of them climbed a tree that he might be safe from the wild beasts, and, lo, it was the same tree in which Chum Paw had taken refuge. "Be silent, make no noise, lest the others hear us," whispered Chum Paw. "I love you and knew you were wise and would escape from the ship. I only desired the silver for us to spend together." The unfortunate man believed, and sought to embrace her, but, as he threw up his arms, Chum Paw threw him down, hoping thus to kill him. The others, hearing the commotion, feared a large bear was in the tree and hastily fled. Uninjured the suitor, whom Chum Paw had thrown from the tree, fled with them. Chum Paw seeing that they all fled ran behind, as she knew no beast would attack her while there was so great a commotion. As the suitors looked back, they saw her, but mistook her for a bear and ran but the faster, and finally, they all, the seven suitors and Chum Paw reached their homes. Knowing the suitors would again seek her life, Chum Paw made a feast of all things they most liked and bade the young men to come. (All the food was prepared by Chum Paw and poisoned.) "I want but to make me _boon_ before I die, so I beg you eat of my food and forgive me, for I merit death," said the maiden, as they sat in her house. All ate; and all died. Chum Paw carried six bodies into the inner part of the house, and one she prepared for the grave. Weeping and wailing, she ran to the nearest neighbor, crying, "I want a man to come bury my husband. He died last night. As he had smallpox, fifty pieces of silver will I give to the one who buries him." A man who loved money said, "I will bury him." When he came to the house, Chum Paw said, "Many times has he died and come back to life. If he comes back again, no money shall you have." The man took the body, made a deep grave, buried the man and returned for his silver. Lo, on the mat lay the body! He made a deeper grave and again buried it. Six times he buried, as he supposed, the body, and, on returning and finding it a seventh time, he angrily cried, "You shall never return again." Taking the body with him, he built a fire, placed the body on it, and, while it burned, went to the stream for water. When he returned, lo, a charcoal man was standing there, black from his work. Filled with wrath, the man ran up to him crying, "You will come back again, will you? will cause me this trouble again, will you?" The charcoal burner replied, "I do not understand." Not a word would the man hear, but fought the burner, and as they struggled, they both fell into the fire and were burned to death. Chum Paw built a beautiful home and spent the silver as she willed. "The Wisest Man of a Small Village is Not Equal in Wisdom to a Boy of the City Streets" Once a boy of the city, watching a buffalo outside the gate of the largest city in the province, saw three men approaching. Each was the wisest man of the village from whence he came. The boy called to them, "Where go ye, old men?" The men angrily replied, "Wherefore dost thou, who art but a child, speak thus to us who are old and the judges of the villages from whence we come?" The boy replied, "There is no cause for anger. How was I to know ye were wise men? To me, ye seem but as other men from a country place,--the wisest of whom are but fools." The three men were very angry, caught the boy and said, "We will not enter into the city, but will go to another province and sell this insolent boy, because he neither reverences age nor wisdom." The boy refused to walk, so they carried him. All day they walked along the road, carrying the boy, and at night they slept by the roadside. In the morning, when they craved water and bade the boy go to a brook, he refused, saying, "If I go, ye will run and leave me. I will not go." Thirst drove one of the wise men for the water, and the boy drank of it freely. Several days' journey brought them to a wall of a large city, and night was spent at a _sala_ near the wall. Seeking to rid themselves of the boy, they bade him go to the city for fire to cook food. Realizing their motive, he answered, "Should I go, ye will leave me. I will not go, though, if ye let me tie ye to the posts of the _sala_, then will I go." With one accord they agreed, saying, "Do thou even so. We are weary carrying thee and cannot go for the fire." Tying them all, the boy ran to the city, where he met a man whom he asked, "Dost thou wish to purchase three slaves? Come with me." The man returned with the boy, saw the men, and gave him full value for each. Having thus disposed of his captors, the cunning little fellow joined some men going to his native city, and as he walked along, he thought, "I was ever wanting to see other places, and now I have been carried a long journey, and have silver to last me many days ... surely, I have much _boon_."[16] 16: Merit. "To Aid Beast is Merit; To Aid Man is but Vanity"[17] A hunter, walking through a jungle, saw a man in a pit unable to escape. The man called to him, "If thou wilt aid me to escape from this snare, always will I remember thy grace and merit." The hunter drew him out of the pit, and the man said, "I am goldsmith to the head chow, and dwell by the city's gate. Shouldst thou ever want any benefit, come to me, and gladly will I aid thee." As the hunter travelled, he met a tiger caught in a snare set for an elephant, and the tiger cried, "If thy heart prompts thee to set me free, thy aid will ever be remembered by me." He helped the tiger from the snare, and it said, "If ever thou needest aid, call and I will come to thee." Then again the hunter went on his way, and came to a place where a snake had fallen into a well and could not get out, and the snake cried, "If thou wilt aid me, I can aid thee also in the time soon to come," and he assisted the snake. "When the time comes that thou needest me, think of me, and I will come to thee with haste," said the snake. Now, it had happened that on the day that the hunter had rescued the tiger it had killed the chow's child, but of this the hunter knew nothing. And it came to pass that three days after, the hunter desiring to test the words of the tiger, went to the forest. Upon calling it, the tiger came to him immediately and brought with him a long golden chain, which he gave to the hunter. The hunter took the chain home, and, wishing to sell it, sought the goldsmith whom he had befriended. But the goldsmith, seeing it, said, "You are the man who has killed the chow's child." And he had his men bind the hunter with strong cords and took him to the chow in the hope of gaining the reward offered to any who might find him who had killed the child. The chow put the hunter in chains and commanded he die on the morrow. The hunter begged for seven days' respite, and it was granted him. In the night he thought of the snake he had helped, and immediately the snake came, bringing with him a medicine to cure blindness. While the household of the chow slept, the snake entered and cast of its venom in the eyes of the chow's wife, and she was blind. Throughout all the province the chow sought for some one to restore the eyes of his afflicted wife, but no one was found. It happened on a day, that word came to the chow's ears that the hunter he had in chains for the death of his child, was a man of wisdom and knew the merit of all the herbs of the field, therefore he sent for him. When the hunter came into the presence of the chow unto where the wife sat, he put the medicine which the snake had brought him into the eyes of the princess, and sight, even like unto that of a young maiden, was restored unto her. Then the chow desired to reward the hunter, and the hunter told him how he had come into possession of the golden chain, of the medicine which the serpent had given him because he had aided it in its time of trouble, and of the goldsmith, who had not only forgotten benefits received, but had accused him so he might gain a reward. And when the chow learned the truth, he had the ungrateful goldsmith put to death, but to the hunter did he give half of his province, for had he not restored the sight of the princess? 17: This only of the Folk Tales has been written before. It is taken from an ancient temple book and is well-known in all the Laos country. [Illustration: The "Chow" and his Palace.] VIII The Gods Know and the Gods Reward Love's Secrets There was once a poor woodsman, who went to the jungle to cut wood, so he might sell it and buy food for his wife and child. And upon a day, when the cool evening had come, wearied, the man lay down to rest and fell into a deep sleep. From his home in the sky, the god who looks after the destiny of man was hot-hearted[18] when he saw the man did not move, and he came down to see if he were dead. When he spake in the wood-cutter's ear, he awoke and arose, and the fostering god led him home. As they came near the gate, the god said, "Stand here, whilst I go and see to the welfare of thy wife." Listening without, the god heard the fond wife say to the little child, "I fear some evil hath befallen thy kind father. Ever doth he return as it darkens about us." The god knew from her words that the wife was good, and taught the child love and reverence for its father, therefore was he pleased, and returning to the woodsman, sent him in haste to his home, and said, "I, myself, will lay the wood in its place." The next morning, when the eye of day opened, the fond wife went for wood to build a fire that her husband might eat of hot food ere he went to his daily labor, and, lo, when she saw the wood which her husband had brought home, all was turned into gold! Thus had the cherishing god rewarded a husband faithful in his work, and a wife loving and thoughtful. Leaving the house of the worthy woodsman, the god met a man tardily wending his way home with a small, poorly-made bundle of sticks. Approaching him, the god said, "Wait at the steps. I will go first and see how it is with thy wife." And the god went up unseen, and heard the wife say to her son, "Ever is it thus. Thy father thinks naught of us; he stays away so he need be with us but little." Sadly the god returned to the laggard, took the bundle from him, and bade him go to his wife and child, saying he would put the wood in its place. Late the following day, long after the husband had gone to his work, the wife went for some wood, and, lo, found all the wood had turned to venomous snakes! Then was she afraid, and she grew kinder of heart and strove to make her husband better and happy. 18: Anxious. Poison-Mouth There was once a poor father and mother who had a little daughter, called "Poison-Mouth." And it happened on a day that a great number of cows came into the garden, and when the mother saw them she cried angrily, "You but destroy our garden. I would you were all dead." "Poison-Mouth" hearing her mother's angry words, called out, "Die, all of you, for you are destroying our garden." And immediately all the cattle dropped dead. Upon another day, the bees were swarming and great companies flew over the house, and the mother said complainingly, "Why do you never come to us that we may have honey?" Little "Poison-Mouth" called: "Come to us that we may have honey." And, lo, before the eye of day had closed, the house was filled with bees and the poor people had more honey than they could use. Word of "Poison-Mouth" reached a great chow, and, prompted by the god of love to sweeten the poisoned mouth, he sent ten men with this message to the child's parents: "Take good care of your child; let her hear no evil, and when she is old enough, I will take her to wife." When the men approached the home of "Poison-Mouth" they said, "O, poor people," but the mother would not permit them to finish, as their words angered her, and she exclaimed, "You are bad dogs!" And the men were no longer men, but dogs, snapping and snarling, for little "Poison-Mouth" had also cried, "Bad dogs are you." Though greatly distressed, the chow sent yet again twenty men with his message. And again, when the mother beheld these men, she exclaimed, "See, the dogs coming yonder!" "Poison-Mouth" echoed, "Yes, twenty dogs are coming now," and they also changed into dogs, fighting on the streets. "Who can help me?" cried the chow, distressed though not despairing. An old man answered, "I will help you. I will go to the child." And, while the mother was absent, he sought the little one, and thus softly said, "My child, thy tongue is given thee to bless with, and not to curse. Come with me, and learn only that which is good." The little one answered, "I will come," and the old man took her to the chow, who, from that time forth, spoke no evil, and, little "Poison-Mouth," hearing none but beautiful and good words, grew beautiful and good, and her words brought blessings ever. Strife and Peace There was once a husband and wife who ever quarrelled. Never were they pleasant with each other. A wealthy man sought to see if they could spend but a day in peace, so he sent two men with one hundred pieces of silver to them, saying, "If this day be spent without strife, this silver shall be yours." Then the two men hid themselves near the house to watch after what fashion they spent the day. "If we are to earn the reward, it were better thou shouldst hold thy tongue with thy hand, else thou canst not endure throughout the day," said the husband. "Ever am I quiet. It is well known of all the neighbors that thou, and thou alone, art ever quarrelsome," retorted the wife. And thus they disputed until both grew angry, and the quarrel was so loud that all the people living near heard it. Thereupon the two men came forth from their hiding-place, and said, "The silver does not belong to you, of a certainty." * * * * * Determined to find virtue, the rich man sent the two men with the silver to a husband and wife who never quarrelled, and bade them say, "If this day, you will strive one with the other, these one hundred pieces of silver shall be yours." The husband greatly desired the money and sought to anger his wife. He wrought a basket which she wanted to use in sunning the cotton, with the strands of bamboo so wide apart that the least wind would blow all the cotton out of the basket. Yet, when he handed it to his wife, she pleasantly said, "This is just the right kind of a basket. The sun can come in all about the cotton, as though it were not in a basket at all." Again, the husband made a basket so narrow at the top that it was difficult to put anything into it, and also the mouth was of rough material so that the hand would be scratched in putting in or taking out the cotton. "Surely, this will anger her," thought the husband. Turning it from side to side, the wife said, "Now, this, too, is just right, for when the wind blows, the cotton will be caught on the rough wood at the mouth and cannot blow away." The two men in hiding all day heard nothing but gentle words, so, in the evening, they returned to the rich man, saying, for they knew not the efforts of the husband to provoke his wife, "Those two know not how to quarrel." Gladdened, the seeker for virtue commanded them to be given the silver, for they loved peace. The Widow's Punishment Once there lived a woman who had a son and a nephew living with her. And upon a day they came to her desiring money that they might go and trade in the bazaar. She gave each a piece of silver of equal value, and bade them so to trade and cheat that they might bring home much money. At the bazaar, one bought a large fish, the other, the head and horns of a buffalo, and, as they rested by the roadside on their way home, they tied the large, living fish and the buffalo head together, and threw them in a muddy stream. When they threw the stones at the fish, it jumped, thus causing the buffalo head to move as though it were alive. A man saw the head in the water and desired to buy the buffalo. The boys named the price of a live animal, and, having received it, they fled. As they went along, not long after, they found a deer which a wild dog had killed, but had not eaten of it. It they took with them, and, a drover, seeing it, asked where they had found it. "Our dog," said the boys, "is so trained, it goes to the jungle and catches the wild animals for our food." The drover desired to buy the dog. "No," said the boys, "we will not sell it." Their words but made the drover more eager to possess the dog, and he offered ten of his best cattle in exchange. The exchange pleased the boys, and, having received the cattle for their useless dog, they hastened to a large city, where they sold them for much money and returned home. On reaching it, they divided the money equally, but the mother was dissatisfied and desired that her son have the larger portion, therefore she insisted that they make an offering to the spirit in the hollow tree near by, before the money could be rightly divided. While the boys were preparing the offering, the mother ran and hid in the hollow tree, and when they had made their offering and asked the spirit, "What division must we make of the money?" a voice replied, "Unto the son of the widow, give two portions--unto the nephew of the widow, give one portion." Greatly angered, the nephew put wood all about the tree and set fire to it. Though he heard the voice of his aunt, saying, "I beg that thou have mercy on me and set me free," he would not recognize it, and the widow and the tree perished. Thus, she who had taught him to cheat, by her own pupil was destroyed. Honesty Rewarded In the far north country there lived a father, mother, and son. So poor and desolate were they that their only possession was an old ax. Each morning, as the eye of day opened on the earth, they went to the woods and there remained until the evening, cutting the wood, which, when sold, furnished their only source of a living. Upon a day, when the cutting was done, they placed the ax near the wood and went deeper into the jungle for vines to bind the wood. It happened the chow of the province came that way with twelve of his men; one of whom bore an ax of gold, another bore an ax of silver and both belonged to the chow. Yet, when the chow saw the old, wooden-handled ax lying near the wood, he commanded that it be taken home with them. The family returning found their ax gone. Deeply distressed, they sat down and wept, and thus in trouble, did the chow and his men find them as they came that way again. "Why are your hearts thus troubled?" inquired the chow. They answered: "O chow, we had but one ax and it is gone and no other means of earning food have we!" The chow replied: "I found your ax. Here it is." And he commanded they be given the ax of silver, whose handle even was silver. "That is not ours," they cried, "not ours." The chow commanded the ax of gold be given them. Yet they wept but the more, saying, "The golden ax is not ours. Ours was old, 'twas but of steel and the handle of wood, but 'twas all we had." Their honesty gladdened the heart of the chow and he commanded that not only their own ax be returned, but the ax of gold, the ax of silver, and even a pun[19] of gold be given them. Thus was merit rewarded. 19: About 3 lbs. avoir. The Justice of In Ta Pome Men of three countries wanted a chemical to change stones and metals into gold, and they all came together to worship In Ta Pome, one of the gods. One man was from China, one from India, and one from Siam. They all worshipped at the feet of In Ta Pome, saying, "We beg thee, O In Ta Pome, give unto us the chemical which will change all stones and metals into gold." In Ta Pome replied, "Each of you kill one of your children, cut him into pieces and put him into a jar. Cover this with a new, clean cloth, and bring it unto me." The Chinaman feared to kill his child, so killed a pig, cut it up and placed it in a jar, over which he tied a close cover. The Siamese did the same with a dog, but the Indiaman believed in In Ta Pome, and killed his only son, put him into a jar, and covered it. All returned to the god with their several jars. In Ta Pome sprinkled the jar of the Chinaman first, saying, "Whatsoever is silver, let it be silver; whatsoever is gold, let it be gold," but the pig grunted, as pigs do, and In Ta Pome said, "From this time forth, you shall take care of pigs and kill them to gain gold." Sprinkling the jar of the Siamese, the god again said, "Whatsoever is silver, let it be silver; whatsoever is gold, let it be gold," but the dog barked, as dogs do, and In Ta Pome said, "You must plow the earth, and only by the sweat of your brow shall you have enough to keep you in food." Taking the jar of the Indiaman, and having sprinkled it, In Ta Pome cried, "Whatsoever is silver, let it be silver, and whatsoever is gold, let it be gold," and lo, the child came to life! And to the Indiaman did In Ta Pome give the chemical that changes all stones and metals into gold, because he had believed, and had not tried to mock and deceive the gods. IX Wonders of Wisdom The Words of Untold Value In the days long since gone by, a young man, a son of a poor widow, desired to go with two of his friends to Tuck Kasula,[20] the country where one could learn the wisdom of all the world, but he had no gold with which to buy the wisdom, for does not every one know that wisdom is difficult to obtain, and is therefore of great price. Now, the two young friends had each two puns[21] of gold, but the widow's son had but two hairs of his mother's, which, when he wept because he had no money, the widow had given him, saying, "I have naught but these two fine hairs to give thee, my son, but go with thy friends, each hair will be to thee as a pun of gold." Then the son placed the two hairs in a package with his clothing, and sealed the package with wax, and set out with his friends to visit Tuck Kasula. After they had travelled some time, they grew hungry, and on arriving in a village, they entered a house for food. The widow's son left his package and his other goods on the veranda. While he was within the house a hen ran away with the package and lost it. The owners of the hen offered the son anything they had either of food or clothing to replace his loss, but he would be content with nothing but the hen, and they gave it to him. And again when they entered another house for food, the widow's son tied the hen to a small bush in the compound, and, lo, an elephant stepped upon it and killed it! The people offered the young man many things to make good his loss, but he would be content with nothing but the elephant, and they gave him the elephant. At last they reached Tuck Kasula, and while his two friends, with their gold, sought the house of the teachers, the widow's son stayed under a tree where he could hear the teachers instructing their disciples. "If you wish to know others, sleep. If you wish to see, go and look," said a wise man. "These words are of untold value, but, for only two puns of gold will I give them unto you," he added. The widow's son knew he had heard without price the wisdom for which his two friends would each have to pay two puns of gold, so he quietly turned the elephant and returned home. "I will buy your words of wisdom, if you will sell them," said the judge to the widow's son. "For two puns of gold I will sell them," answered the widow's son. "Two puns of gold will I give thee," said the judge. "'If you wish to know others, sleep. If you wish to see, go and look,'" said the widow's son, when he had in his possession the two puns of gold. The judge, desiring to test the truth of the words, as he understood them, called unto him his four wives, and said, "I am not well. Give me water to drink, and fan me." Soon he seemed to be asleep, and his wives talked thus together in low voices: "It is not pleasant to be the wife of this foolish man," said the first. "I like another man better," said the second. "I wish I could steal his goods and flee while he sleeps," said the third. "I would like to make him a savory dish with poison in it to kill him," said the fourth. Then the judge sprang up and cruelly punished his wives and put them in chains. And upon another day, the judge arose early and went out to see how his slaves worked. Under the house, hunting for something, he saw a man. "What do you seek?" asked the judge. "I have just stolen from the judge all of his silver, and, in trying to get it through a small opening, I broke my finger-nail. If I do not find it, the judge will die and all his possessions will be destroyed, for, as thou knowest, ever is it thus, if a finger-nail falls near a house." When the man had found the broken nail, the judge said, "I, who stand here, am the judge. I will but take from you the silver which you have stolen and no punishment shall be yours, because of the truth which you have told." Then the judge said to himself, "The two puns of gold was a small price to pay for the wisdom which I have obtained." 20: A fabulous "City of Wisdom." 21: A pun--about 3 lbs. avoir. A Wise Philosopher As a rich trader journeyed to another province, he rested by the road under a tree, and, as he sat there, a poor young man approached and asked that he might accompany him. "Come," said the trader, and, as they journeyed, they came to a place where there were many stones, indeed there was naught else to be seen. "Here are there no stones," said the poor young man. "You are right, here are no stones," replied the trader. Soon they reached the shade of a large forest, and the young man said, "Here are no trees." "You are right, here are no trees," the trader assented. When they reached a large village, the poor young man said, "Here are no people." "You are right," spake the trader, but he wondered what manner of man might he be who knows nothing and has neither eyes nor ears. However, as he returned home and the poor young man begged to accompany him, he agreed and took him with him. And, as they approached the trader's home his daughter called, "O father, what have you brought?" "Nothing but this foolish young man," answered the trader. "Why do you call him a fool?" asked the daughter. "By his appearance and manner I would judge he were the god of wisdom come down in man's form." "I can see no wisdom in one who, when he can see but stones, says, 'There are no stones here,' or, when he is in the forest, says, 'Here are no trees,' or, when in the midst of a populous village, says, 'There is no man here,'" replied the trader. "He meant, where the stones were all about, that none were precious; where the forest was, that there was no teak, no wood good for man's use; and, where the village was, there were no people, as the people had all fallen away from the religion of Buddha, living but as beasts and making no merit for the future life," argued the daughter. "If you esteem him so highly, take him for your husband," said the trader. "If your daughter will have me as her husband, ever will I endeavor to make the path on which she treads smooth and beautiful for her feet," cried the poor young man. They were married and lived happily, and, upon a time, the head chow summoned the trader to come watch his house during the night. Greatly was the trader troubled. "I shall die this night," cried the trader. "Why shall you die, my father?" asked the son-in-law, in great concern. "The chow has called me to watch this night and for some time past he has killed all who have watched for him; an evil spirit has possessed him and he loves to punish with death the watchmen, for, he falsely says they sleep and he has them killed but to satisfy the spirit in him," answered the trader. "I will watch in thy stead," said the son-in-law. And fearlessly did he go to the chow's, and, when midnight was come and the chow descended secretly to see if the watchman slept, lo, the young man prayed aloud for the god of wisdom to come teach him what to do. The chow, hearing the sound of voices, listened, and heard one voice say, "The brave and the strong govern themselves, then have they the power to govern others. The wise make themselves loved because they are good and true, and are served by others through love and not through fear," and another voice steadily repeated the words. Three times during the night came the chow. Each time the voice was speaking and being answered, and, lo, when the eye of day opened in the East, the chow was found possessed of a kind and loving spirit and no longer desired to destroy his people. The young son-in-law of the trader was made a leader of the people, for the chow declared unto all that the spirit of the god of wisdom dwelt in the young man's heart, and, it came to pass that the whole land was blessed because one young man had learned of the god of wisdom. The Boys Who Were Not Appreciated Once there were two brothers. The elder watched and tended the younger during the day, while their mother went to labor for food. It had happened that the father had died, and the mother had taken another husband who ever sought to teach the mother to dislike and neglect the brothers. And it fell upon a day that the children waited and watched for their mother's return until they were hungry, for all day had they had no food. When the eye of day closed, they sought food and found some green fruit. This they ate and then lay down to sleep. Long after darkness had settled, came the mother and her husband home, and the mother cooked rice which they sat down to eat. Awakened by the odor of the rice, the children heard the talking, and the elder led his younger brother to his mother and begged food, but the husband said, "Do not give them of our food," and the mother beat them and drove them from home. The elder brother carried his little brother back to sleep under the house, but even thence were they driven. At last they sought and found shelter with a neighboring widow, who gave them mats to sleep on. As the eye of day opened, the two children set out to find a new home. For many days did they walk, and upon an evening they found a _sala_ near the chief city of another province. There they slept. In the morning the elder boy sought food, and behold, he saw two snakes wrestling under the _sala_. Both were wounded. One, however, killed the other and then left it and ate some grass growing near, and, lo, immediately the snake was whole as before. Waiting only until the restored snake had gone, the boy gathered some of the grass, and put it in the mouth of the dead snake, and forthwith it came to life and blessed the boy. Gathering more of the grass, the boy returned to his brother and they both ate of it and were strengthened. Not long after, a servant of the chow of the neighboring province came to the _sala_, and the boys asked, "For whom is the mourning in the city?" The servant replied, "The young daughter of the chow; and the chow mourns. If any one will restore her unto life, the chow declares, unto him will he give half of his province and goods." Eager to try the wonderful grass, the boy carried his young brother and some of the grass even unto the chow's house, where he sought permission to restore the child with the grass. Gladly the chow consented. The boy placed the magic grass in the maiden's mouth, and immediately she came to life. Full of joy, the chow shared his province and goods with him and even gave his daughter in marriage, as promised. And upon a day after they had lived happily a long time in that province and had grown wise and strong, the two young men thought of their mother, and said, "We will go and visit her and her husband." They made ready joints of bamboo and closed them, after having filled them with gold, in such a way that no one could see the gold. When all was ready, with a great number of elephants and servants, they returned to their native province. On reaching their home, they gave of the bamboo joints to their friends and relatives, one each, but to their mother and her husband, gave they five of the largest joints, and two of the largest gave they to the kind widow. "The bamboo makes fine firewood," they said to their mother. "Cut it up and burn it." The mother and her husband were angry and would not speak to the sons who had brought but wood as a gift, and sorrowfully they returned to the other province. Upon a day the widow visited the mother and urged that she cut the bamboo joints. "Your sons say that the bamboo makes a good firewood. Where is yours?" the widow asked. The mother replied, "It is outside. Our children came from a great distance and brought to us but this firewood. We shall never touch it." But the widow urged, "I would believe and trust the love of my children. I beg that you cut up the wood." At last they did so, and when the husband cut into the joints, lo, he found them all gold. Then ran they both to find the sons to thank them, but they were already too far distant. Unable to endure their remorse, there the mother and her husband died on the wayside. The Magic Well The chow of a large province lay ill. All the doctors of many provinces were summoned, but none could aid him, nor could any understand his malady. Lying in his house one day, an old man begged he might see him, saying he had a message from the spirits. Brought into the presence of the chow, the old man said, "Last night, as I lay on my bed, I had this vision. A spirit came to me and touched me and led me to the river's brink. There I saw a boat prepared for my use. I entered the boat and it was rowed swiftly by unseen hands down the stream. After a little time, it stopped at the foot of a tall mountain. Up this the spirit led me, and through which was no path. We journeyed until we reached the mountain's top. On its summit were two great walls of rock, and between the walls was a gate, looking like a gate which led into a city. Leading me to the other side of the mountain, the spirit bade me ascend the rock where the foot of man had never before trod, and, far up in the face of the rock, I saw a small opening, like the mouth of a well. I lay down and stretched my arm to its full length, but failed to reach the bottom of the opening. By the side of this opening, on looking more closely, I beheld a cup tied to the end of a staff. With the cup I dipped pure water from the well. About to drink of the water, the spirit restrained me and commanded I should come to thee and tell thee this water, and this water alone, would heal thee. Therefore have I come, O prince, to lead thee unto this place." The prince did not doubt him, but commanded the boats be prepared for his use. Taking with him a large retinue of servants, and guided by the aged man, they departed in search of the health-restoring well. After just such a journey as the man had described, at his bidding, the boats landed at the foot of a tall mountain, where he led them unerringly upward, although no path could be seen; the chow, leaning on the arms of two strong men, followed. There indeed were the walls of rock and the gateway, as the guide had described, and, after a long and weary climb, they reached the opening in the rock. Taking the staff of the chow and binding his golden drinking-cup thereto, the aged man dipped from the well and gave it to the prince to drink. Having drank of the water, and having poured it on his head and hands, the chow was healed of his sickness, and was as a new man. And to this day, the water is used for the healing of the people. X Strange Fortunes of Strange People The Fortunes of Ai Powlo Once upon a time a father and mother had a wicked son whose name was Ai Powlo. One day, while in the rice fields together, the father sent the son to his mother with a message. Instead, however, of delivering the message, Ai Powlo said his father had been eaten by a tiger. Leaving his mother in great distress, he returned to the rice fields and told his father that both his mother and the house were burned, and, for three days, did the father mourn for his wife, as he lay in the watchhouse. While the father was mourning, Ai Powlo moved his mother and the house to a new place and then sought his father, saying, "I saw a woman in a new house by the stream who resembles my mother. Would you like her for a wife?" "If my son seeks her for me, I would be thankful," replied the father. Going to his mother, Ai Powlo said, "I have a man who would make thee a good husband. He would work in the rice fields. Will you take him for a husband?" Thinking of the work, the mother said, "I will. Go, bring him to me, my son." Lo, when the father and mother met, they recognized one another, and they knew their crafty son had deceived them! As Ai Powlo fled from the wrath of his mother and father, he journeyed many days, and, upon a day it happened he stole some pork from a Chinaman. Taking the pork, he sought the rice fields and there he saw an old man at work. Running up to him, he called, "Father, do you not hunger for some pork? I have some to share with you." "I do, my son," replied the old man. Together they went to the watchhouse to cook the pork, but found no pot there. "Whilst I make a fire, go thou, my son, to my house and ask my wife for a pot." "Your husband wants you to give me all the money in the house, as he has heard of an elephant which he can buy now," said Ai Powlo to the wife. The wife refused to give it to him and Ai Powlo called to the husband, who sat by the watchhouse waiting for the pot, "She will not give it to me." The old man called back, as he was hungry for the pork, "Give it to him. Make haste," and receiving all their store, Ai Powlo fled into another province. Upon a day, as Ai Powlo walked by the highway, he saw four bald-headed men pouring water on their heads to cool themselves. Running up to them, he said, "I know a medicine which will make the hair grow. Rub your heads until the skin is broken, whilst I make the medicine." Taking some red peppers, he pounded them to a soft paste, put some salt in it, and then handed it to the four simple-minded old men, who had already rubbed their heads until they bled. Having used the medicine, they suffered great pain and would have killed Ai Powlo, but he fled and took refuge with the chow, to whom he said, "I saw four old men on the way, who butted their heads together, trying to see which could overcome the other. All have much strength, and their heads are scratched and bleeding." Even as Ai Powlo spoke to the chow, the chow espied the men, and, when they came up, he commanded them, saying, "If you are able thus to wrestle for your own pleasure, you can wrestle for my pleasure." Not daring to disobey the command of the chow, the men painfully wrestled. While they struggled, Ai Powlo, fearing their wrath, fled, and as he fled, he fell into a deep stream and was drowned. * * * * * Many years after, two fishermen were fishing in the stream, and as they drew in the net, they found not a fish, but a skull, and lo, the skull both laughed and mocked! As the fishermen talked together of the curious skull, a man with a boat-load of goods approached, and they called to him, asking, "Did you ever see a skull which laughed and mocked?" "Never did I see such a skull, nor ever will I believe there is such a thing," replied the man. "If we show you such a skull, what will you give unto us?" asked the fishermen. "All the goods in my boat," laughingly answered the man. On beholding the skull, which, of a truth did both laugh and mock him, the boatman forfeited his goods, but, in his anger, he cut the skull and broke it into pieces, and, of these pieces he made dice with which to gamble, and was it not fitting, as Ai Powlo, whose skull it was, in life had but deceived, and ever done evil? The Fortunes of a Lazy Beggar Once upon a time a man lived who was never known to work. When the neighbors grew weary supplying him with food, he sought the forest, and lay down under a fig-tree so the ripe fruit might drop into his mouth. Often, when the food fell out of his reach, he would suffer hunger, rather than make an effort. It fell upon a day that a stranger passed that way, and the lazy man asked him to please gather some fruit and put it into his mouth, as he hungered. The wily stranger gathered a handful of earth and put it into his mouth, as he lay there with his eyes even closed. Tasting the earth, the lazy man was angry, and he threw figs after the retreating impostor, who ran away mocking him. Days after, a ripe fig fell into a stream near by and, floating down the stream, was seen and eaten by the daughter of a chow. Delicious to the taste, she grew dissatisfied with all other fruit and vowed that, from henceforth, she would eat of no other fruit, and that the man who had thrown the one beautiful fig should be her husband. Angered by such a caprice, her father urged her to be guided by his judgment. Unable to restrain her, and, hoping to turn her desire elsewhere, the chow made an elaborate feast and bade all the people of the province to it. But, among all was not the one who had thrown the fig into the stream. "Is there not yet a man who has not come to the feast?" asked the chow. "None save the lazy beggar who lies at the fig-tree," they said. "Bring him hither," commanded the chow, determined to have his daughter see what manner of man she was selecting as her husband. Too lazy to walk, the lazy man was carried into the presence of the chow and his guests. Ashamed that his daughter sought such as her husband, and would have no other, as it was supposed that the lazy man alone had thrown the fig into the stream, and he was too lazy to deny it, the chow had a boat built for their use and commanded that they be floated down the stream to the sea. This he did, hoping his obstinate daughter and her lazy husband might be lost to the world forever. All day long the boat drifted; all day long spake the princess not one word to her husband, nor would she have aught to eat. Fearing she would not live, if she did not eat, the beggar made a fire to cook some rice for her. Lazy as ever, he put but two stones under the kettle, and it tottered. "I cannot endure your lazy ways. Put three stones under the kettle," cried his wife. The husband did so, glad she had spoken to him. And when the boat had drifted many days, it came to a place where once there had been a large rice field and there it remained. While the princess stayed in the boat, the once indolent beggar labored day after day in the rice fields that they might live; moreover, he had learned to love his princess wife. When the god, who looks to men's deeds, from his home in the sky saw the man no longer loved his ease more than all else, but would toil for his wife, he said within himself, "the man deserves reward." So he called to him six wild monkeys from his woods, and gave into their care six magic gongs, telling them to go beat them in the rice fields where the husband toiled. The husband heard the monkeys and the clanging of the gongs, but, at last, unable to endure the noise, finally caught the monkeys and secured the gongs. He then threatened to kill the monkeys, but they plead that they were sent, by the god who looks to men's deeds, with the gongs as a reward for his merit. "Having seen your efforts to provide for your wife, who loves not you, he sends you these gongs. If you strike this one, you will grow beautiful; that one, you will have wisdom. Another gives you lands and servants, and, another, if struck while holding it in your hands, will cause people to do you reverence as though you were a god," they told the man. Having permitted the monkeys to go, he beat the gong of beauty, and his body grew straight and tall, also his face became most pleasant to look upon. Beating the gong of power, and taking the others with him, he sought his wife. She did not recognize him, and would have done him reverence, but he said, "Do me no reverence. I am thy husband," and he told her of the god's reward. When she heard of the magic gongs, she entreated him to return to her father that he might forgive her for not having heeded his counsel. Through the magic gongs, had they wealth, power and all benefits the gods could bestow, and the father loved them, and indeed gave his son-in-law power above all the princes in his province. And the once lazy man thought within himself: "In former times the people derided me as a lazy man, because I would not work, now that I am possessed of wealth, they do me reverence; yet behold I am as lazy as ever, for I open my mouth and food is ready for my use. Thus it is, that when a poor man does not work, he is called a lazy beggar, but when a prince, or rich man, does not work, he has power, and people do him reverence." [Illustration: A Laos Feast.] [Illustration: Street in a Laos Town.] The Misfortunes of Paw Yan Upon a day, Paw Yan[22] said to his wife, "Today I shall build a watch-tower in the rice fields." "You will need four posts about the size of our children here," replied the wife. Taking the four children with him to the rice fields, Paw Yan dug four post holes and made the children stand in them. Then he packed the earth about their feet to make them firm, took the beams and laid them on their shoulders, tied them in place, and went for more bamboo to finish the watch-tower. The eye of day had closed in the West, yet the husband and the children returned not, so the wife, in distress, sought them in the fields, and, lo, when she reached them, there stood the four children as posts for the watch-tower. "Know you not anything? I said take four posts the size of our children," cried the wife. And upon another day did Paw Yan attempt to build the tower, but so utterly did he fail that his wife said, "While I build the watch-tower you gather the food for the pigs, and, when the eye of day closes, give it to them." Paw Yan watched until the eye of day was about to close, but forgot to gather the food for the pigs, so he took all the rice, which was the food for the family, and went out to the pigs. He called, "Ow, ow, ow,"[23] and the pigs ran about trying to find the food, but Paw Yan forgot to throw it to them, for, while he stood there, he saw ants running down the trunk of a tree, and he could think of nothing else. "That's an easy way to get down a tree," thought Paw Yan. "I'll try it," and, throwing the rice aside, he climbed the tree, and, head first, started down, but fell to the ground and broke his neck! 22: Paw Yan--a blunderer. 23: Ow--take. An Unfortunate Shot There was once a poor man too ill to work, and he had no one to give him food. The chow of the province heard of him and sent for him to come to his house. When the man reached the house of the chow, the chow gave him a bow and arrow, saying, "Shoot upward toward the sky. When the arrow falls to the earth, if it fall making a hole in the earth, I will weigh the earth which the arrow digs up, and give thee the weight of it in gold. On whatsoever thy arrow falls, that will I weigh and give its weight unto thee in gold. If, in its fall, the arrow should make a hole in the ground six feet long and six feet deep, that earth will I weigh, and gold according to the weight thereof shall be thine." The poor man was indeed glad, and, shooting with all his strength into the air, the arrow pierced a pomegranate seed, therefore the chow gave unto him gold but the weight of the seed! XI Stories Gone Astray The Blind Man A man and a woman had a daughter to whom they ever taught, in selecting a husband, to take none but a man with rough hands, as then she might know he would work. Overhearing this advice, and desiring a wife, a blind man took some rice, pounded it, and having rubbed it over his hands, came to woo the maiden. Though utterly blind, the eyes of the blind man appeared even as the eyes of those who see, and the maiden loved him and gave herself to him in marriage. Never did she suspect the truth. Many days they lived happily, but upon a time the wife made curry of many kinds of meat, and her husband ate but of one kind. When she asked him why he ate but of the one kind, the husband replied, "If a man eat from a dish, that dish should he wash. If I eat but from one, I need wash but one." Again, upon a day, as the husband plowed the rice field, he plowed up the ridges between the fields. "Why dost thou work after that fashion?" asked the wife. "The places for planting the rice are small and narrow. I wish to make them larger," replied the husband. When the rice had grown, the man went into the fields with his wife, and, as they walked, he fell over the ridges, in among the rice. "Why dost thou fall upon the rice?" asked the wife. "I do but measure the distance between the plants. If the rice be good this year, I will then know just how far apart to plant it next year," he answered. And upon a time it happened the house was burning, and, as the wife fled, she saw her husband lingering and unable to find the door. "Come this way, the door is here," cried the wife. "I know, I know. I but measure the house that we may build another of its size," retorted the husband. Lo, as the husband left the burning house and was running, he fell into a well. His wife placed a ladder for him to climb out, but, behold, he climbed far above the mouth of the well. "Come down. Here is the ground," called the wife. "I know, I know. I am up here to see if the fire is out," called down the husband. Long had the father of the wife suspected the husband was blind, and, upon a day, he came to test his eyes. Carrying a bell, such as a buffalo wears, the father hid in the bushes and rang the bell. "Go, bring the buffalo into the compound,"[24] directed the wife. Suspecting naught, the husband went to the bushes, and cried, "Yoo, yoo!"[25] The father struck him, but he freed himself and returned to the house and told his wife that the buffalo had been dangerous and had horned him. But the father, convinced the husband had deceived them all, drove him from the house. As the blind man walked, he met a man with palsied feet. "If thou wilt be eyes to me, I will be feet to thee," called the blind man, and, forthwith, he put the palsied man on his back. As they journeyed, they met a wizard, who said, "Would you prosper, that which you grasp hold with a secure hand." And upon a day, the man with the palsy saw a bird's nest; thinking there would be eggs therein, he bade the blind man go up the tree and bring them. When the blind man grasped the nest, the head of a venomous snake appeared, but his companion called, "Grasp it tightly," and, as he held it, the snake cast of its venom in his eyes, and he saw all things. Just lingering to place the snake on his afflicted friend, and seeing him, too, restored, the husband hastened home to his wife, but as he ran, he beheld her coming out to him. With these kind words did she greet him, "O, my husband, come I will work for thee. I have ever loved thee!" but, when she beheld that his eyesight was restored, she was exceeding glad, and greatly did she rejoice. 24: Enclosed grounds or yard--generally a place of residence. 25: Yoo, yoo--stand still, be quiet. Heads I Win, Tails You Lose A man once asked his newly-married son-in-law, "You will help me in the work that the chow gives me to do, now that you are one of us, will you not?" And the son-in-law replied, "I will promise this. Whenever you go, I will stay at home, and when I stay at home, you will go and work." Pleased with the ready promise, the father said, "I thank you, my son." When the chow called the father, the son said, "This time you go, and I will stay at home," and the father went. And when the chow again called, the son said, "Now, I will stay at home, whilst you go." Then the father understood the promise of his son, and he did his government work alone until the day of his death. The Great Boaster There lived in the south a man who so continually boasted of his strength and endurance that all the people called him, "Kee-oo-yai"--the great boaster. Never entered into his ear a tale of danger, but his mouth opened to speak of a greater one which had been his; never a feat of strength but he could tell of one requiring greater strength which he had done, so, when the men of the village talked together and saw him drawing near, they would derisively say, "There is the great boaster coming. We must flee from his face for, is not he as strong and brave as the elephant? And we, compared to him are but as the dogs, or as the pigs." And the company would separate, so when the boaster reached the place no one would be there. Once, a young boy came from a distant province, and, hearing of the boaster, said, "Verily, I can bring him to have a face of shame before his neighbors, for, in one thing I can excel any man almost. I can run for a short distance and my heart does not beat faster, neither can any man say that my heart is quicker than when I am but seated, doing no labor. I will challenge the boaster to run up a hill with me, breathing but four times until the top is reached." The next day, the boy met and challenged the boaster to run to the top of a small hill, drawing breath but four times on the way. "If you can run and draw breath but four times, I can run the same distance and draw breath but twice," the boaster said. When the race was run, many men ran along to see that neither of the runners deceived the other. The boaster ran but a short distance, when he shouted in pain and shame, "Had we been running down-hill, I am sure that I could have done more than you." Then all the men mocked the boaster, saying, "Your words are truly large, but your works are but small. Never again will we listen to you, for a young lad has overcome one who says that he is stronger than the strongest." From that time never were they troubled, for, "Kee-oo-yai,"--the great boaster, was never heard to boast again. A Clever Thief Once a man went into the field of a gardener and stole a melon. Before he had had time to eat it the gardener discovered him, took the melon and tied it to the neck of the thief, and led him to the home of the head man of the village. As they walked along, the thief took his scarf and covered his head and shoulders, and, as he was in front, he ate the melon without the gardener's seeing him. When they reached the home of the head man, the gardener said, "This man stole a melon from me. It is tied to his neck under the cloth which covers his head and shoulders." "I thought this man but walked along. I did not know he would accuse me of such a sin. If I stole a melon, where is it?" asked the thief. He removed the scarf, and, lo, there was nothing to prove his guilt, and the head man said, "I see no sign of guilt in this man. Do not again falsely accuse one, or you will be punished." Eyeless-Needle, Rotten-Egg, Rotten-Banana, Old-Fish and Broken-Pestle. Once upon a time there were five men so lazy and wicked that no one would speak to them nor have anything to do with them. No one of their native province would speak to them at all, and, to show their contempt for them, the people had christened them by odious names. One was called, "Eyeless-Needle"; one, "Rotten-Egg"; one, "Rotten-Banana"; one, "Old-Fish," and the fifth, "Broken-Pestle." As there was neither shelter nor food for them in the village, they went to live in the woods, and one day they saw a cannibal building a fire. He had both a fine house and much goods, so one of the men said, "Let us go kill him, and take his goods." "Eyeless-needle" said, "No, we must not kill him now. When he sleeps we will kill him. I have planned just how it shall be done. You, 'Rotten-Egg,' go to the fireplace. You, 'Old-Fish,' jump into the water jar. 'Rotten-Banana,' lie down at the top of the stairs, and, you, 'Broken-Pestle,' lie at the foot." As the eye of day had closed and the cannibal slept, "Eyeless-Needle," from under the bed, pricked him. The cannibal thought insects were biting him, and, unable to sleep, he arose to build a fire. When he stooped to blow the flame, "Rotten-Egg" broke and flew up into his face; when he sought the water jar to wash his face, "Old-Fish" jumped and broke the jar and all the water was lost. Taking the dipper to go to the well for water, the cannibal slipped on "Rotten-Banana" and fell downstairs, where "Broken-Pestle" struck him on the head and killed him. Then, taking much goods, "Eyeless-Needle," "Rotten-Banana," "Rotten-Egg," "Old-Fish," and "Broken-Pestle" fled, and to this day, has no one either seen or heard of them. For Work Among Children *Practical Primary Plans.* For Sabbath School Teachers. By Israel P. Black. Illustrated with diagrams. 16mo, cloth, $1.00. *Object Lessons for Junior Work.* Practical Suggestions, Object Lessons, and Picture Stories. By Ella N. Wood. 16mo, cloth, with designs and illustrations, 50 cents. *The Children's Prayer.* By Rev. James Wells, D.D. Addresses to the Young on the Lord's Prayer. 16mo, cloth, 75 cents. *Bible Stories Without Names.* By Rev. Harry Smith, M.A. With questions at the end of each chapter and the answers in a separate booklet. 16mo, cloth, 75 cents. *Object Lessons for Children*; or, Hooks and Eyes, Truth Linked to Sight. Illustrated. By Rev. C. H. Tyndall, Ph.D., A.M. _2d edition._ 12mo, cloth, $1.25. *Attractive Truths in Lesson and Story.* By Mrs. A. M. Scudder. 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List of changes from the printed edition (in parentheses the original text): p. 72: "venison" for "vension" (I will neither eat of the vension, nor of the pork) p. 80: "flying-jewel" for "flying jewel" (and instead of giving the rascal the flying jewel, flew away) p. 155: ";" for "." (Cloth, 75 cents. paper cover, 30 cents) 
36039	----	THE GIANT CRAB And Other Tales from Old India Retold by W. H. D. ROUSE Illustrated by W. Robinson London David Nutt, 270-271, Strand 1897 WARNING To the Studious or Scientific Reader I hope no one will imagine this to be a scientific book. It is meant to amuse children; and if it succeeds in this, its aim will be hit. Thus the stories here given, although grounded upon the great Buddhist collection named below, have been ruthlessly altered wherever this would better suit them for the purpose in view; and probably some of them Buddha himself would fail to recognise. My thanks are due to the Syndics of the Cambridge University Press for permitting the use of their translation of the Jataka Book; [1] from which comes the groundwork of the stories, and occasionally a phrase or a versicle is borrowed. To this work I refer all scholars, folk-lorists and scientific persons generally: warning them that if they plunge deeper into these pages, they will be horribly shocked. CONTENTS   Page The Giant Crab 1 The Hypocritical Cat 6 The Crocodile and the Monkey 9 The Axe, the Drum, the Bowl, and the Diamond 14 The Wise Parrot and the Foolish Parrot 26 The Dishonest Friend 30 The Mouse and the Farmer 34 The Talkative Tortoise 38 The Monkeys and the Gardener 41 The Goblin and the Sneeze 45 The Grateful Beasts and the Ungrateful Prince 49 The Goblin in the Pool 56 The Foolish Farmer and the King 59 The Pious Wolf 62 Birds of a Feather 64 Spend a Pound to Win a Penny 68 The Cunning Crane and the Crab 70 Union is Strength 77 Silence is Golden 80 The Great Yellow King and his Porter 82 The Quail and the Falcon 86 Pride Must Have a Fall 88 The Bold Beggar 95 The Jackal Would A-Wooing Go 97 The Lion and the Boar 102 The Goblin City 106 Lacknose 111 The King's Lesson 114 THE GIANT CRAB Once upon a time there was a lake in the mountains, and in that lake lived a huge Crab. I daresay you have often seen crabs boiled, and put on a dish for you to eat; and perhaps at the seaside you have watched them sidling away at the bottom of a pool. Sometimes a boy or girl bathing in the sea gets a nip from a crab, and then there is squeaking and squealing. But our Crab was much larger than these; he was the largest Crab ever heard of; he was bigger than a dining-room table, and his claws were as big as an armchair. Fancy what it must be to have a nip from such claws as those! Well, this huge Crab lived all alone in the lake. Now the different animals that lived in the wild mountains used to come to that lake to drink; deer and antelopes, foxes and wolves, lions and tigers and elephants. And whenever they came into the water to drink, the great Crab was on the watch; and one of them at least never went up out of the water again. The Crab used to nip it with one of his huge claws and pull it under, and then the poor beast was drowned, and made a fine dinner for the big Crab. This went on for a long time, and the Crab grew bigger and bigger every day, fattening on the animals that came there to drink. So at last all the animals were afraid to go near that lake. This was a pity, because there was very little water in the mountains, and the creatures did not know what to do when they were thirsty. At last a great Elephant made up his mind to put an end to the Crab and his doings. So he and his wife agreed that they would lead a herd of elephants there to drink, and while the other elephants were drinking, they would look out for the Crab. They did as they arranged. When the herd of elephants got to the lake, these two went in first, and kept farthest out in the water, watching for the Crab; and the others drank, and trumpeted, and washed themselves close inshore. Soon they had had enough, and began to go out of the water; and then, sure enough, the Elephant felt a tremendous nip on the leg. The Crab had crawled up under the water and got him fast. He nodded to his wife, who bravely stayed by his side; and then she began: "Dear Mr. Crab!" she said, "please let my husband go!" The Crab poked his eyes out of the water. You know a crab's eyes grow on a kind of little stalk; and this Crab was so big, that his eyes looked like two thick tree-trunks, with a cannon-ball on the top of each. Now this Crab was a great flirt, or rather he used to be a great flirt, but lately he had nobody to flirt with, because he had eaten up all the creatures that came near him. And Mrs. Elephant was a beautiful elephant, with a shiny brown skin, and elegant flapping ears, and a curly trunk, and two white tusks that twinkled when she smiled. So when the big Crab saw this beautiful elephant, he thought he would like to have a kiss; and he said in a wheedling tone: "Dear little Elephant! Will you give me a kiss?" Then Mrs. Elephant pretended to be very pleased, and put her head on one side, and flapped her tail; and she looked so sweet and so tempting, that the Crab let go the other elephant, and began to crawl slowly towards her, waving his eyes about as he went. All this while Mr. Elephant had been in great pain from the nip of the Crab's claw, but he had said nothing, for he was a very brave Elephant. But he did not mean to let his wife come to any harm; not he! It was all part of their trick. And as soon as he felt his leg free, he trumpeted loud and long, and jumped right upon the Crab's back! Crack, crack! went the Crab's shell; for, big as he was, an elephant was too heavy for him to carry. Crack, crack, crack! The Elephant jumped up and down on his back, and in a very short time the Crab was crushed to mincemeat. What rejoicing there was among the animals when they saw the Crab crushed to death! From far and near they came, and passed a vote of thanks to the Elephant and his wife, and made them King and Queen of all the animals in the mountains. As for the Crab, there was nothing left of him but his claws, which were so hard that nothing could even crack them; so they were left in the pool. And in the autumn there came a great flood, and carried the claws down into the river; and the river carried them hundreds of miles away, to a great city; where the King's sons found them, and made out of them two immense drums, which they always beat when they go to war; and the very sound of these drums is enough to frighten the enemy away. THE HYPOCRITICAL CAT Once upon a time there was a troop of Rats that used to live in holes by a river side. A certain Cat often saw them going to and fro, and longed to have them to eat. But he was not strong enough to attack them all together; besides, that would not have suited his purpose, because most of them would have run away. So he used to stand early in the morning, not far from their holes, with his face towards the sun, snuffing up the air, and standing on one leg. The Rats wondered why he did that, so one day they all trooped up to him in a body, and asked the reason. "What is your name, sir?" they began. "Holy is my name," said the Cat. "Why do you stand on one leg?" "Because if I stood on all four, the earth could not bear my weight." "And why do you keep your mouth open?" "Because I feed on the air, and never eat anything else." "And why do you face the sun?" "Because I worship the sun." "What a pious Cat!" the Rats all thought. Ever after that, when they started out in the morning, they did not fail first to make their bow to the Cat one by one, and to show thus their respect for his piety. This was just what our Cat wanted. Every day, as they filed past, he waited till the tail of the string came up; then like lightning pounced upon the hindmost, and gobbled him up in a trice; after which he stood on one leg as before, licking his lips greedily. For a while all went well for the Cat's plan; but at last the Chief of the Rats noticed that the troop seemed to grow smaller. Here and there he missed some familiar face. He could not make it out; but at last a thought came into his mind, that perhaps the pious Cat might know more about it than he chose to tell. Next day accordingly, he posted himself at the tail of the troop, where he could see everything that went on; and as the Rats one by one bowed before the Cat, he watched the Cat out of the end of his eye. As he came up, the Cat prepared for his pounce. But our Rat was ready for him, and dodged out of the way. "Aha!" says the Rat, "so that is your piety! Feeds on the air, does he! and worships the sun--eh? What a humbug!" And with one spring he was at the Cat's throat, and his sharp teeth fast. The other Rats heard the scuffle, and came trooping back; and it was crunch and munch, till not a vestige remained of the hypocritical Cat. Those who came first had cat to eat, and those who came last went sniffing about at the mouths of their friends, and asking what was the taste of catsmeat. And ever after the Rats lived in peace and happiness. THE CROCODILE AND THE MONKEY Once upon a time there was a deep and wide river, and in this river lived a crocodile. I do not know whether you have ever seen a crocodile; but if you did see one, I am sure you would be frightened. They are very long, twice as long as your bed; and they are covered with hard green or yellow scales; and they have a wide flat snout, and a huge jaw with hundreds of sharp teeth, so big that it could hold you all at once inside it. This crocodile used to lie all day in the mud, half under water, basking in the sun, and never moving; but if any little animal came near, he would jump up, and open his big jaws, and snap it up as a dog snaps up a fly. And if you had gone near him, he would have snapped you up too, just as easily. On the bank of this river lived a monkey. He spent the day climbing about the trees, and eating nuts or wild fruit; but he had been there so long, that there was hardly any fruit left upon the trees. Now it so happened that the crocodile's wife cast a longing eye on this Monkey. She was very dainty in her eating, was Mrs. Crocodile, and she liked the tit-bits. So one morning she began to cry. Crocodile's tears are very big, and as her tears dropped into the water, splash, splash, splash, Mr. Crocodile woke up from his snooze, and looked round to see what was the matter. "Why, wife," said he, "what are you crying about?" "I'm hungry!" whimpered Mrs. Crocodile. "All right," said he, "wait a while. I'll soon catch you something." "But I want that Monkey's heart!" said Mrs. Crocodile. Splash, splash, splash, went her tears again. "Come, come, cheer up," said Mr. Crocodile. He was very fond of his wife, and he would have wiped away her tears, only he had no pocket-handkerchief. "Cheer up!" said he; "I'll see what I can do." His wife dried her tears, and Mr. Crocodile lay down again on the mud, thinking. He thought for a whole hour. You see, though he was very big, he was very stupid. At last he heaved a sigh of relief, for he thought he had hit upon a clever plan. He wallowed along the bank to a place just underneath a big tree. Up on the tree our Monkey was swinging by his tail, and chattering to himself. "Monkey!" he called out, in the softest voice he could manage. It was not very soft, something like a policeman's rattle; but it was the best he could do, with all those sharp teeth. The Monkey stopped swinging, and looked down. The Crocodile had never spoken to him before, and he felt rather surprised. "Monkey, dear!" called the Crocodile, again. "Well, what is it?" asked the Monkey. "I'm sure you must be hungry," said Mr. Crocodile. "I see you have eaten all the fruit on these trees; but why don't you try the trees on the other side of the river? Just look, apples, pears, quinces, plums, anything you could wish for! And heaps of them!" "That is all very well," said the Monkey. "But how can I get across a wide river like this?" "Oh!" said the cunning Crocodile, "that is easily managed. I like your looks, and I want to do you a good turn. Jump on my back, and I'll swim across; then you can enjoy yourself!" Never had the Monkey had an offer so tempting. He swung round a branch three times in his joy; his eyes glistened, and without thinking a moment, down he jumped on the Crocodile's back. The Crocodile began to swim slowly across. The Monkey fixed his eyes on the opposite bank with its glorious fruit trees, and danced for joy. Suddenly he felt the water about his feet! It rose to his legs, it rose to his middle. The Crocodile was sinking! "Mr. Crocodile! Mr. Crocodile! take care!" said he. "You'll drown me!" "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Crocodile, snapping his great jaws. "So you thought I was taking you across out of pure good nature! You are a green monkey, to be sure. The truth is, my wife has taken a fancy to you, and wants your heart to eat! If you had seen her crying this morning, I am sure you would have pitied her." "What a good thing you told me!" said the Monkey. (He was a very clever Monkey, and had his wits about him.) "Wait a bit, and I'll tell you why. My heart, I think you said? Why, I never carry my heart inside me; that would be too dangerous. If we Monkeys went jumping about the trees with our hearts inside, we should knock them to bits in no time." The Crocodile rose up to the surface again. He felt very glad he had not drowned the Monkey, because, as I said, he was a stupid creature, and did not see that the Monkey was playing him a trick. "Oh," said he, "where is your heart, then?" "Do you see that cluster of round things up in the tree there, on the further bank? Those are our hearts, all in a bunch; and pretty safe too, at that height, I should hope!" It was really a fig-tree, and certainly the figs did look very much like a bunch of hearts. "Just you take me across," he went on, "and I'll climb up and drop my heart down; I can do very well without it." "You excellent creature!" said the Crocodile, "so I will!" And he swam across the river. The Monkey leapt lightly off the Crocodile's back, and swung himself up the fig-tree. Then he sat down on a branch, and began to eat the figs with great enjoyment. "Your heart, please!" called out the Crocodile. "Can't you see I'm waiting?" "Well, wait as long as you like!" said the Monkey. "Are you such a fool as to think that any creature keeps its heart in a tree? Your body is big, but your wit is little. No, no; here I am, and here I mean to stay. Many thanks for bringing me over!" The Crocodile snapped his jaws in disgust, and went back to his wife, feeling very foolish, as he was; and the Monkey had such a feast in the fig-tree as he never had in his life before. THE AXE, THE DRUM, THE BOWL, AND THE DIAMOND Once upon a time there was a poor young man who went out into the world to seek his fortune. He went aboard a ship sailing across the ocean; and after they had sailed for a year and a day, suddenly a great storm arose. The rain descended, and the wind blew, and it blew so hard and so wild, that the ship went miles out of her course, and the skipper could not tell where they were. And then, in the middle of the night, a great crash came, and the ship was dashed upon a reef. The waves beat and battered it, and turned it topsy-turvy, and the end of it was that every soul was drowned except the poor young man. The waves washed him ashore, more dead than alive, and on the shore he lay till next morning, when the sun warmed him and woke him up from his faint. He got up and looked about him, and wandered over the place, which he found was an island. It did not take him long to walk round it; and then he saw that it was a small island, and far as the eye could reach not another speck of land was to be seen. There were plenty of trees growing in the island, with fruit and flowers, bananas and cocoanuts, and springs of water; but on the trees were no birds, and no animals ran about on the ground. So he lived on the fruits and roots, and did the best he could. One day, to his great surprise, he saw a black thing in the sky; and, still more surprising, the black thing had no wings. Yet it was flying, and flew nearer and nearer, until he saw that it was a large wild pig. How could a pig fly through the air? He rubbed his eyes and looked again; yes, a pig it was beyond all doubt; and it flew closer and closer until it came to the island. He hid behind a bush, and saw the pig sink slowly to the ground and lie down under a tree. Soon the pig was fast asleep and snoring. He went up close, and, to his amazement, by the pig's side, was the most magnificent diamond he ever saw. It blazed and sparkled in the sun and looked like a ball of fire. He stepped gingerly up to the pig, and took hold of the diamond; the pig was very sleepy and snored away heartily. As he turned the diamond about in his hand and saw it flash, he suddenly thought to himself, "What if the pig should wake? He looks fierce, he has great sharp tusks, and I have nothing to defend myself with. If I were only up in that tree, now----" But what on earth had happened? As the thought came into his mind, he found himself perched in the tree-top. For a little while he was quite dazed and dizzy. Then he began to wonder if it could be the diamond which had done this miracle. So just to try, he wished himself down again; and there he was, without knowing how! He began to understand that this was a magic diamond, and something which he must take great care of. Then he wished himself up in the tree again. When he was in the tree once more, he picked off a nut that was growing on the tree, and dropped it upon the pig's nose. The pig woke up, raised his head, and looked round for the diamond; he was a very intelligent pig, indeed he was really not a pig at all, but a great magician, who used to fly about in the shape of a pig because he was as wicked as could be, and preferred being a pig rather than a man. There are really a great many people like that, only we see them in the shape of men and do not know the difference. Now when this pig saw that his diamond was gone, he fell in a fury; for all his power lay in the diamond, and without it he was nothing more than any other pig. So he glared and snorted, and looked all round, and down, and up--and then he saw the man who had dropped the nut upon his snout! Then his fury knew no bounds; he foamed at the mouth, and ran raging round and round the tree; but the man only laughed, and dropped more nuts on him. This made him mad indeed, for pigs cannot climb trees, and he saw that his diamond was lost, and with it all his magical power; so in his madness he charged straight at the tree, and ran his tusks right into the trunk. There they stuck, and tug as he would, he could not get them out. The man wished himself down from the tree, and looked about for a large stone, with which he battered the pig's skull till it was dead. Then he held the diamond over the pig, so that the sun's rays shone down and were reflected through it; and so fine and strong was the diamond, that in a very short time a delicious smell of roast pork rose to his nostrils, and the whole pig was done to a turn, with rich crisp crackling. Then he took a sharp shell which he found lying on the beach, and carved off slices of the pork, which he ate. It was very nice indeed, and he had the best meal he had enjoyed since the ship had been wrecked on the reef, and he had been cast ashore on that island. By-and-by, when he had finished his dinner, it occurred to him that as the pig had flown there through the air, so he might fly away. So holding his diamond in his hand, he wished to fly through the air to the nearest land. Then he felt himself rising, and he was carried swiftly through the air, and away, away over the sea; the island grew smaller, it became a black patch, it dwindled to a speck in the distance. The sun shone warm upon him, the waves sparkled underneath; porpoises gambolled about, playing leap-frog in the sea; flying-fish came out of the water in a flash of light, and dropped into the water again; still he went on, till, as the sun was setting, he came close to a sandy beach; and there before long he stood, wondering what he should do next. He looked round, and not far off, behind a clump of bushes, rose a thin column of smoke. He put the diamond in his pocket, and walked towards the smoke. Soon he saw a queer little hut, and at the door, upon the ground, sat a man without any legs. Whether a shark had bitten off his legs, or whether he never had any, I cannot tell you, for he never told me; but there he sat, like a chessman. He had a fur cap, and a fur coat; he did not need any trousers, for he had no legs to put them on, as I have told you. In front of him was a fire, and over the fire was a spit, and on the spit was a young kid roasting. "Good evening, sir," said the young man. "Good evening," said the other. "Can you give me a night's shelter?" the young man asked. "Whatever I have, you may share," said the old man with no legs. So they sat down, and ate a good meal; but the young man was rather frightened to see that the other man ate skin, and bones, and everything. And he did not like the way the old man eyed him. In fact I must tell you, that this old man was another magician, and a friend of the magician who looked like a pig; and when any travellers came that way, he used to eat them. He did not eat this traveller, because the kid was ready roasted; but he meant to do it as soon as he should be hungry again. "How did you get here?" asked the old man. "I flew over the sea," said the young man. "Indeed!" said the old man. "And how did you manage that?" Then the traveller showed his diamond, and told the old man what a wonderful stone it was, and how it gave any one power to fly through the air. "If you will give me your diamond," said the old man, "I will give you my axe. You see I have no legs, so you may wonder how I live. This is the way I live. If I slap this axe on the handle, and say, Wood and fire! away it flies, and cuts wood and kindles a fire. If I slap the steel, and say, Heads! away it flies, and chops off the head of a goat or any animal I want; and then it brings me meat for my dinner. Now I have lived here for a thousand years by the help of my axe, and I am rather tired of being in one place. I should like to see the world before I die, and that is why I want your diamond." "All right," said the young man, "it's a bargain." They exchanged the axe and the diamond; the old man turned it over in his hand, chuckling greedily. As soon as the young man got grip of the axe, he smacked the steel, and says he, "Heads!" In a jiffy the axe sliced through the old man's neck like a turnip, and he had no more head than legs. Then the traveller picked up the diamond, and put it in his pocket. So now he had two magic things instead of one. He blessed his luck, and fell asleep very happily inside the old magician's hut. Next morning, with the diamond in his pocket and the axe on his shoulder, the young man set out on his travels. All day long he walked through the forest, until at evening time he saw before him another hut, like the first, where lived the old man with no legs. Before this hut, too, there was a fire burning, and beside the fire sat an old man without any arms. Whether a tiger had bitten off his arms or whether he never had any, I cannot say, because he never told me; but there he sat like a pair of compasses. He had the stump of a tree to sit on, and before him was another stump, and on this stump was a large bowl of milk, out of which he was drinking. When he saw our friend, he tipped over this bowl with his chin; instantly a deep roaring river surrounded him and his hut, and he sat in the middle, laughing at the young man's surprise. But he did not laugh long, for the young man instantly wished himself over the river, and there he was. Now it was his turn to laugh. "How on earth did you do that?" asked the old man. He was much too astonished to think of saying good-day. "Oh, that's nothing," said the young man, and showed him his diamond. The old man's eyes glistened. He thought how nice it would be to have that diamond. "What do you say to selling me that diamond?" said he. "What will you give me for it?" asked the young man. "I will give you this bowl. It is a wishing bowl. Whenever you are hungry all you have to do is to wish for something in it, and there it is; milk, or soup, or wine; anything that can go in a bowl. And if you turn it over, as you saw me do just now, a rushing, roaring river pours out, and surrounds you, or, if you like, it will flood a whole country and drown every living thing." "Dear me!" said the young man, "that is a wonderful bowl. Well, I agree; I'll give you my diamond for it." So they exchanged the bowl and the diamond. The old man took the diamond in his hand and watched it sparkle; but he did not watch long, for the young man slapped his hatchet and cried, "Heads!" In a jiffy the steel sliced through the old man's neck like a cucumber, and he had no more head than arms. Then the young man picked up his diamond and put it away in his pocket. So now he had three wonderful things instead of two. He blessed his good luck, wished for some delicious wine in his bowl, drank it, and went to sleep happily, in the old man's hut. Next morning the young man was up betimes; and after taking a meal out of his wishing-bowl, he set out once more to walk through the forest. After he had walked for some hours, he heard, far in the distance, a loud rub-a-dub-dub, rub-a-dub-dub, boom, boom, boom. He felt as if he could hardly help running away; still, with a great effort, he began to walk towards the sound, which got louder and louder every minute, till at last it made a tremendous din. Then, suddenly, just as he came upon a little open glade in the forest, he heard a rustle, bustle, jostle, and out of the trees came a great herd of elephants, lions, tigers, wolves, and all sorts of wild animals, their hair bristling with fright, and every one of them tearing along at full speed. They were far too much terrified to notice him, and, scurrying across the glade, they vanished among the trees. By this time the noise had ceased, but it was not long before he came upon another little glade, and at the end of the glade was a hut, and in front of that hut sat a big black giant with a drum. "Good day to you!" roared the giant, in a great voice. "Good day!" said the young man, rather frightened. "Come and have something to eat!" roared the giant. "Thank you," said the young man. They sat down, and the giant offered him some food. But the young man thought it was safer not to take any of the giant's food, so he pulled out his bowl, and wished for some soup, and sipped it. "What is that?" asked the giant. The young man told him it was a wishing bowl, that gave any food he wanted. The giant was very much delighted with the wishing bowl, and thought that if he could get that bowl, he would be able to eat without the trouble of getting things. "I'll buy that bowl!" he roared. "What will you give me for it?" asked the young man. "I will give you this drum," said the giant. "If you beat on one side, everybody that hears it will run away." "Ah, that was why the lions and tigers were running away just now!" said the young man. "Yes," said the giant. "And if you beat on the other side, a splendid army of soldiers and horses will spring up out of the ground and defend you." "All right, here you are," said the young man, and gave him the bowl. The giant took the bowl in great glee, and horrid to tell, wished out loud for a bowlful of blood! He began to drink it, but he did not finish; for as he buried his nose in the bowl, the young man slapped his axe, and said--"Heads!" Down came the axe with a crash on the giant's head, and cut it clean in two! If the young man was glad when he saw the giant's head cleft in two, he was gladder when he went inside the giant's hut. For there, all round the wall, were the bodies of travellers who had passed that way; and they were tied to the uprights of the wall, and their bodies were dry as dust, and shrivelled like a medlar. For this giant used to catch all travellers and tie them up in his house, and then he sucked their blood till they were dry. So when our traveller saw what a narrow escape he had had, he determined no longer to remain in that dreadful place. Picking up the bowl and the drum, and feeling to see that his axe and diamond were safe, he wished himself at the gate of the nearest city. Now the king of this city was a very cruel king. He used to rob and murder even his own subjects; and as for strangers, he had short shrift and no mercy for them. So when the king heard that there was a stranger outside the gates, he made up his mind to have some sport; and sent out a company of soldiers to fetch him in. The young man beat his drum, and they all took to their heels! You may imagine how angry the king was to hear this; he had all their heads chopped off on the spot, and sent a regiment. The same thing happened to the regiment. But this only made the king angrier than ever. He ordered all his army to be marshalled before the gates, and himself riding at their head, led them forward to capture this audacious stranger. Then the young man tipped over his wishing bowl. Out poured a roaring torrent of water that flooded the plain, and drowned every soldier in the army, all except the king, who had galloped back to the city, and got up on the wall. Then the young man slapped his axe, and cried, "Heads! I want the king's head!" Off flew the axe through the air like a boomerang, and sliced off the king's head, and brought it back to its master. The people inside the city began to cheer with joy, when they saw the king with his head off. And when the axe came back, the young man beat upon the other side of his drum; and lo and behold! the earth began to tremble, it seemed full of holes, and from every hole sprouted a warrior fully armed. Surrounded by his army, he marched into the city, where he became king, and lived happily ever after. And I hope that we may be half as happy as he was. THE WISE PARROT AND THE FOOLISH PARROT Once upon a time there was a man who had two pet parrots that could talk very nicely; indeed they had more sense than most people have, and when their master was alone he used to spend the evening chattering with them. They cracked jokes like any Christian, and told the funniest tales. But this man had a thievish maid-servant. He had to lock everything up, and even as it was, never turned his back but she was filching and pilfering. One day the man had to go away on a journey. Before he went he took out the two parrots, and perched one on each fist, and says he to them, "Now, Beaky and Tweaky, I want you to watch the maid while I am gone; and if she steals anything, you are to tell me when I come home again." They blinked at him, their eyelids coming up over their eyes from underneath, as you must have noticed in parrots; looking very solemn as they did so. Then Beaky said, "If she do it She shall rue it!" But Tweaky said nothing at all; only winked again more solemnly than ever. "Good Beaky!" said the man, "naughty Tweaky!" Then he went away. As soon as he was out of sight, the maid began her games. She picked the locks of his cupboards and ate the sugar, she ate the biscuits, she drank the wine. Beaky hopped into the room, stood on one leg, and shrieked, "Naughty maid! Aren't you afraid? Master shall know, And you shall go!" The maid jumped as if she had been shot, and looked round. She thought somebody had caught her unawares; but when she saw it was Beaky she put on a sweet smile, and held out a lump of sugar, saying in a coaxing voice, "Pretty Poll! pretty Beaky! I won't do it again! Come, then, and have a nice lump of sugar." This temptation was too strong for poor Beaky. He wanted very much to do his duty, but he wanted the lump of sugar more. So he put his head on one side and, looking very wise, sidled up to the maid. This was very wrong of Beaky, because he knew the sugar was stolen; and in another minute he was sorry; for as soon as he came within reach and pecked at the sugar, the maid caught him by the neck with the other hand. Then her smile changed, and she sneered, "So Beaky is going to tell, is he? Tell-tale tit! I'll teach Beaky to tell tales!" As she said each word, she plucked out a feather from poor Beaky's head. Beaky shrieked and Beaky struggled, but all in vain; she did not let him go till he was bald as a bullet. Tweaky saw all this, but said nothing, only winked and blinked, and looked more solemn than ever. The maid looked at him, but thought she, "That bird is too stupid to tell, and he isn't worth the trouble of plucking." So she left him alone. By-and-by the master came in. The maid went up to him in a great bustle, and said she had found Beaky stealing sugar, and she had plucked him as a punishment. When the evening came, the master sat in his room with Beaky and Tweaky. Poor Beaky felt ashamed of himself, and had nothing to say; he sat on his perch the picture of misery, with his tail drooping, and his ridiculous bald head. Tweaky said nothing at all. Now it happened that the master had a bald head too, and when he took off his skull-cap, which he generally wore to keep his head warm, Tweaky noticed it. He laughed loud and shrieked out, "Oh-oh-oh! Where's your feathers, Tell-tale tit? Where's your feathers, Tell-tale tit?" Tweaky was only a parrot, you see, and was not always quite correct in his grammar, as you are. "What do you mean?" asked the master. But for a long time Tweaky would say nothing but the same words over and over again, "Where's your feathers, Tell-tale tit?" However, by-and-by they heard the maid going to bed, tramp, tramp, tramp. Then Tweaky grew a little braver; and next time the master asked him what he meant, he replied: "Every parrot has two eyes, Both the foolish and the wise; But the wise can shut them tight When 'tis best to have no sight. Wisdom has the best of it: Where's your feathers, Tell-tale tit?" Then the master understood what had happened, for he was a very clever man; and without any delay he ran upstairs two steps at a time, and woke the maid, and made her dress herself, and turned her out of the house then and there. I wonder why he did not do it before, but that is no business of mine. After that, poor Beaky never had the heart to talk again; but Tweaky, whenever he saw a bald-headed man, or a woman with a high forehead, shrieked out at the top of his voice-- "Ha! ha! ha! Where's your feathers, Tell-tale tit?" THE DISHONEST FRIEND There was once a man who went on a journey, and he asked a friend to take charge of his plough till he should return. The friend promised to take great care of it. But no sooner was the man gone than he sold the plough and put the price in his own pocket. Was not that a mean trick to serve a friend? The man came back, and asked his friend for the plough. "Oh, I am so sorry," the friend replied; "my house is infested with rats, and one night a very big rat came and ate it up." "Ah well," said the man, "what can't be cured must be endured! It must have been a very big rat, though." "It was," said the other, "very big." You must not suppose this man was quite such a fool as he seemed. You will soon see why he did not make a fuss about his plough. Next day he took his friend's son out for a walk. When they had gone some distance he took the boy to another friend's house, and told this friend to keep the boy safe, but not to let him go out of the house till he returned. Then he ran back to the boy's father. "Where is my boy?" asked the father. "Your boy? Oh, I remember--a hawk swooped down and carried him off." "Oh, you liar! oh, you murderer!" said the friend. "Come before the judge, and then we shall see." "As you please," said the man. So they went to the court. "What is your complaint?" asked the judge. "My lord, this man took my son out for a walk with him, and came back alone, and now he says a hawk carried him off. He must have murdered the boy! Justice, my lord, justice!" "What is this?" asked the judge sternly. "Come, my man, tell the truth." "It is the truth, my lord," said the man; "he came with me for a walk, and was carried away by a hawk." "Nonsense!" said the judge. "Who ever heard of a hawk carrying off a boy?" "And who ever heard, my lord, of a rat eating a plough?" "What do you mean?" asked the judge. The man told his story. Then the judge saw that the man who complained had cheated his friend, and understood what was the reason of this little trick. So he said to the man whose son was lost: "If you find the plough that was entrusted to you, perhaps your son may be found too." The man was much annoyed at being found out, but, willy nilly, he had to give the plough back. Then his son was brought back safe to him again. And he began to see that honesty is the best policy. THE MOUSE AND THE FARMER Once upon a time there was a Mouse, who made his hole in a place where there were thousands and thousands of golden sovereigns buried in the ground. Now there was a Farmer who owned the land where this treasure was buried; but he did not know about it, or else of course he would have dug it up. He often noticed the little Mouse sitting with his head peeping out of the hole, but as he was a very kind Farmer, he never hurt the Mouse; and now and then when he was having his own dinner, he would throw the Mouse a bit of cheese. The Mouse was very grateful to the Farmer, and wondered what he could do to show it. At last he thought of the treasure; for this Mouse was sensible enough to know that Farmers are very pleased to get a golden sovereign now and again. So one day, as the Farmer went by the hole, Mousie ran out with a golden sovereign in his mouth, and dropped it at the Farmer's feet. You can imagine how glad the Farmer was to see a golden sovereign. Indeed, it was the first one he had seen since the Corn Laws were abolished. So he thanked the Mouse, and went down to the village, and bought him a beautiful piece of meat. After this the Mouse every day brought the Farmer a golden sovereign, and every day the Farmer gave him a big chunk of meat. Thus in a few weeks Mousie grew quite fat. But the Farmer had a big black cat that used to prowl about watching for mice. It used never to notice the Farmer's own favourite Mouse while the Mouse was thin; but when he grew sleek and fat and shiny, Grimalkin (which was the Cat's name) lay in wait for him one day and pounced upon him. Poor little Mousie was terrified. "Please don't kill me, Mr. Grimalkin!" said Mousie. "Why not? I'm hungry and you are fat!" "But, sir, if you eat me now, you'll be hungry to-morrow, won't you?" "Of course I shall!" said Grimalkin. "Well," said Mousie, who had suddenly thought of a plan; "if you will only let me go, I'll bring you a beautiful juicy piece of meat every day!" This was a tempting offer for Grimalkin, who was a lazy Cat, and liked sitting by the fire, and licking himself all over, better than hunting for mice. "All right," said he; "only if you leave out one day, you're a dead mouse!" Then, with a frightful spit, bristling up all his whiskers and eyebrows, Grimalkin ran away. So next day, when the Farmer gave Mousie his dinner, Mousie carried it off to the black Cat, and the black Cat spat and swore and ate it up, and away ran Mousie trembling. But by degrees Mousie grew thinner and thinner, because Grimalkin always had his dinner; and soon he was nothing but skin and bone. Then the Farmer noticed how thin his Mouse had become, so one day he asked the Mouse whether he was ill. "No," said Mousie, "I'm not ill." "What is the matter, then?" asked the Farmer. "I never get any dinner now," said Mousie, with tears running down over his nose, "because Grimalkin eats it all!" Then he told the Farmer about the bargain he had made with Grimalkin. Now the Farmer had a beautiful piece of glass, with a hole in the middle. I think it was an inkstand, but I am not sure. So he took this piece of glass and put Mousie inside it, and turned it upside down upon the ground in front of Mousie's hole. "Now," said he, "next time Grimalkin comes for your dinner, tell him you have none for him, and see what will happen." So next day up comes Grimalkin for his dinner, spitting and looking very fierce. "Meat! meat!" says he to the Mouse. "Get off, vile thief!" says Mousie, "I've no meat for the likes of you!" At this Grimalkin could hardly believe his ears. He was in a rage, I can tell you; and, without stopping to think, pounced upon Mousie, and swallowed him, inkstand and all. You see, as it was all glass, Grimalkin did not know that there was any inkstand there, because he saw the Mouse through it. Now cats can digest a good deal, but they can't digest a glass inkstand. So Grimalkin, when he had swallowed the Mouse and the inkstand, felt a pain inside; and this got worse and worse, until at last he died. And then Mousie crept out of the inkstand, and crawled up through Grimalkin's throat, and went back to his hole again. And there he lived all his life in happiness, every day bringing a golden sovereign to the Farmer, who gave him every day a beautiful dinner of meat. THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE Once upon a time there was a Tortoise that lived in a pond. He was a most worthy Tortoise, but he had one fault, he would talk in season and out of season; all day long it was chatter, chatter, chatter in that pond, until the fish said that they would rather live on dry land than put up with it any longer. But the Tortoise had two friends, a pair of young Geese, who used to fly about near the pond in search of food. And when they heard that things were getting hot for the Tortoise in that pond, because he talked so much, they flew up to him and cried eagerly: "Oh, Tortoise! do come along with us! We have such a beautiful home away in the mountains, where you may talk all day long, and nobody shall worry you there!" "All very well," grumbled the Tortoise, "but how am I to get there? I can't fly!" "Oh, we'll carry you, if you can only keep your mouth shut for a little while." "Yes, I can do that," says he, "when I like. Let us be off." So the Geese picked up a stout stick, and one Goose took one end in her bill and the other Goose took the other end, and then they told the Tortoise to get hold in the middle; "only be careful," said they, "not to talk." The Tortoise set his teeth fast on the stick, and held on like grim death, while the Geese, flapping their strong wings, rose in the air and flew towards their home. All went well for a time. But it so happened that some boys were looking up in the air, and were highly amused by what they saw. "Look there!" cried one to the rest, "two Geese carrying a Tortoise on a stick!" The Tortoise on hearing this was so angry that he forgot all about his danger, and opened his mouth to cry out: "What's that to you? Mind your own business!" But he got no farther than the first word; for when his mouth opened he loosed the stick, down he dropped, and fell with a crash on the stones. The talkative Tortoise lay dead, with his shell cracked in two. THE MONKEYS AND THE GARDENER Once upon a time there was a beautiful park, full of all manner of trees and shrubs, with beds of flowers set here and there, and no end of fruit-trees. A gardener used to take care of this park; pruning the trees when they made too much wood, and digging the ground, and watering the flowers in dry weather. It happened that there was a fair to be held away in the city, and the gardener very much wanted to go. But who would take care of the park and garden? If his master came in and found all the flowers drooping or dead, what would he say then! It would never do. Meditating thus, and in doubt, he looked up into the branches of the trees, and a bright thought struck him. I must tell you that in this park there were not only herds of deer, and plenty of rabbits and other creatures that usually live in parks, but there were troops of monkeys in the trees, who climbed and chattered and cracked nuts all day long, with no lessons to do. And when the gardener cast up his eyes to the trees, he saw some monkeys that he knew very well indeed. Many a time he had been kind to them; and now he thought they should do the like by him, as one good turn deserves another. So the gardener called out, "Monkeys, I want you!" Down they all clambered, and in a very short time they were sitting beside him on the grass. "Monkeys," said he, "I have been a good friend to you, letting you eat my nuts and apples. And now I want to take a holiday. Will you water my garden while I am away?" "Oh yes, yes, yes!" cried the Monkeys. They thought it a great joke, and leaped for joy. So the gardener handed over his watering-pots to the monkeys, and put on his Sunday clothes, and went away to the fair. Meanwhile,the Monkeys held a solemn council, sitting in a ring round the Monkey chief. "Brothers," said the Monkey chief, "our good friend, the gardener has given us charge of this garden and all there is in it. We must take care not to hurt anything, and, above all, not to waste the water. There is very little water, and I really don't think it will go round." It was in fact a well, very small at the top, but very deep, and at the bottom the water was always running. You might have watered till doomsday out of that well; but monkeys, though they are cunning, are not wise, and these monkeys thought that a little round hole could not hold very much water. "So you see," the Monkey chief went on, "you must give each plant just enough water, and no more; and I think the best way will be, to see how long the roots are." So each Monkey took a watering-pot, and they scattered all over the garden. Every bush and every plant they carefully pulled up, and measured its roots; and then they gave a great deal of water to plants with long roots, and only a little when the roots were short. After that they put the plants and bushes back in the holes they came from. After a day or two, back came the gardener from his fair. But what was his horror to see that nearly all the plants in the garden were drooping, some of them dead and many dying, while the Monkeys were busy in every direction pulling up the rest. "Oh dear, oh dear, what in the world are you doing? My garden is ruined, my garden is ruined!" The poor gardener wept for sorrow. The Chief Monkey was very much surprised. He thought he had been very clever to put water according to the size of the roots, and he said so. "Clever!" said the gardener. "Clever indeed! Fools you are, there is no mistake about it." "Fools they may be," said his master, who had come up behind him without being seen, "but, after all, that is their nature. You ought to have known better than to put monkeys in charge of a garden, and you are a greater fool than they." Then he sent that gardener away and got another. THE GOBLIN AND THE SNEEZE Once upon a time there was a very powerful Goblin, who haunted a little house just outside the gates of a city. Nobody else lived in this house. There was a big black beam that ran across from one side to the other, up in the roof; and there this Goblin perched. For twelve years he had served the King of the Goblins faithfully, and as a reward he was now permitted to gobble up any man who sneezed inside that house; and, indeed, that is why these creatures are called Goblins. But if, when a man sneezed, some one else said, "God bless you!" as people do say, or "May you live a hundred years!" then the man who said it was free; and if the other answered, "The same to you!" he was free too. Everybody but these the Goblin might gobble up for a single sneeze. Now it fell out that one day a father and son were travelling along the road, and they came to the city gates just as the sun went down. I must tell you that in those days the people used to shut the city gates fast at sunset, and nothing would make them open again till the morning--they were horribly afraid of robbers or wild soldiers, who might come and damage them in the night. So when these two wayfarers came up to the gates, and wanted to go in, the porter said no. "Now, do we look like robbers?" asked the father. Certainly they did not, dusty and grimy with their trudge, and a bag of tools over the shoulder. "Robbers or no robbers, orders are orders," said the porter, "and this gate doesn't open for the King himself." "Well, what are we to do?" The poor fellow was in despair. "Oh, there's an empty house outside; there it is among the trees. It is haunted, they say; but I daresay the Goblin won't hurt you." "Goblin!--well, we must take our chance, I suppose." Indeed, there was nothing for it; so to the house they went. They rested, and cooked a meal for themselves on a fire of sticks, and then prepared to go to sleep. The Goblin, however, was not going to let them off so easily; he wanted his dinner too. After waiting a long time, with never a sneeze from one or the other, he raised a cloud of fine dust; that was rather mean of him, but still he was very hungry, and did not stick at trifles. Sure enough, the father nearly sneezed his head off. The Goblin chuckled, and made ready to pounce from his perch and devour the pair of them. But the son happened to see him, and, being a sharp lad, he guessed the truth. "God bless you, father!" says he; "may you live a hundred years!" How the Goblin gnashed his teeth! However, if his pudding was lost, his meat was left; so he stretched out a great claw to clutch the father and tear him to pieces. Just then the father cried, "Thank you, my son, and the same to you!" He was only just in time; the claw was within an inch of his throat; but the Goblin, baffled, flew up to his perch again, and sat mouthing and mumbling there. Then the son began to talk to this Goblin, and showed him the error of his ways, and how cruel he was to eat men; and the end of it was, he persuaded the Goblin to become a vegetarian, and to follow him about, and be his errand-boy. You will think this was a very soft-hearted Goblin. Perhaps no one had ever spoken kindly to him before; anyhow, whatever the reason was, he went out with the two travellers, as tame as a tabby cat; and for all I know, they may be travelling together to this very day. THE GRATEFUL BEASTS AND THE UNGRATEFUL PRINCE Once upon a time there was a King, and he had a son. And this son was so cruel and disagreeable, that he took a delight in hurting people, and never spoke to anybody without an oath or a blow. He was a thorn in the flesh to everybody he came across; he was like grit in the porridge, like a fly in the eye, like a stone in the shoon. And they called him the Wicked Prince. One day the Wicked Prince went down to the river to bathe, along with a number of servants. By-and-by a great storm came on, and the clouds were so thick that it became pitch-dark. However, this Prince was obstinate, and would not give up his bathe; and as he was too lazy even to bathe himself, he swore at his servants, and said: "You lazy beasts! Bathe me, and look sharp about it, or I'll tickle you with a cat-o'-nine-tails!" Now the servants had had enough of this young bully; and thought they, "What if we pitch him into the river, where the current is strong, and just leave him there! We can easily pretend he was carried away where we could not reach him; and if the King finds us out, and puts us to death--anyhow, death is better than his eternal bullying." So they pitched him head over heels into the water, though he screamed and struggled, and then they went home and told the King that he had gone in to bathe, and a flood carried him away. I daresay it was wicked of them to tell such a lie, but it was more the Prince's fault than theirs. Meanwhile the Prince had got hold of a tree that had been torn up by the roots, and climbing upon it, went floating down the river. Now on the banks of this river lived a Snake. This Snake had once been a very rich man, and he had buried a vast treasure on the river bank; and he loved his riches more than he loved his own soul, so when he died, he was born again as a Snake, and had to live for ever close to his buried hoard. And a Rat that lived close by had also been a man once, and buried his money as the Snake had done, instead of using it in doing good; so he was born as a Rat, and made a hole where his money lay. These two creatures were caught by the flood, and it so happened that they saw the tree where the Wicked Prince was, and swimming to it, each got on one end, while the Prince was in the middle. And a young Parrot flying through the air, was beaten down by the rain; for in that country the drops of rain are as big as pigeons' eggs, and no birds can fly through it. Then it so happened that this Parrot dropped down upon the same tree where the Snake was, and the Rat, and the Wicked Prince; and so there were four of them on the tree, floating down the river. As the tree came near to a bend in the river, it was washed close to the bank. And on the bank a man was sitting. He did not mind the rain a bit, because he was a Hermit, who thought the world so wicked that he left it and went to live in the jungle all by himself. He built himself a little hut by the riverside, and, wet or fine, he cared not a jot. This man saw the tree, and managed to catch hold of it and pull it ashore. Then he got the four creatures off it, and took them into his hut, and dried them and warmed them by the fire. But he began with the Parrot, because she looked the most miserable of them all; and then he dried the Rat; and next the Snake; and only attended to the man when he had comforted the other three. This made the Wicked Prince very angry. If he abused even those who made much of him, you may imagine how he cursed and swore in his heart at this man who left him to the last! But he said nothing, because he was afraid that if he did the man might turn him out in the storm again. In a day or two the rain stopped, and the flood went down; and the creatures were all right again as they took their leave of the Hermit. The Snake thanked him for his kindness and said: "You have saved my life, good Hermit! What can I do for you? You seem to be a poor man; I am rich, and if you ever want money just come to my hole and call 'Snake,' and you shall have all my treasure. Good-bye!" The Rat said the same. The Parrot was very sorry to think that she had no money, so she said: "Silver and gold have I none; but if you ever are hungry, and want some rice, come to my tree and call 'Parrot,' and I'll get you as much rice as ever you like." But the Wicked Prince hated this kind Hermit, because he had been left to the last. However, he pretended to be grateful, and said to the Hermit: "I hope you will pay me a visit soon. I am a Prince, and I shall be glad of a chance to repay you for all you have done for me." Then he went away, chuckling to think how he would torment the poor Hermit, if ever he got him into his power. This Hermit had all his wits about him, and he knew that people often promise what they never mean to do; so after a while he thought he would put them all to the test. So first he took his stick, and journeyed to the city where the Wicked Prince lived. The Prince, who was King himself now, saw him coming, and thought to himself: "Aha! here's that rascal that left me to the last. Wants me to pay him for it, I suppose! Well, I'll pay him! I'll pay him out!" So he called to his men: "Hi there, brutes! do you see that fellow? He tried to rob me the other day--just catch him and give him a flogging, and then stick a stake through his body, and leave him to die!" Then the servants caught the Hermit, and flogged him well. But the Hermit did not cry out or grumble, only kept on saying to himself quietly: "The proverb's true, the proverb's true!" "What proverb do you mean?" they asked him. "It's unlucky to save a drowning man," said the Hermit. Then he told them the whole story, and very angry they were when they heard it. They stopped beating the Hermit at once, and seizing the Wicked King, they beat him instead, and stuck a stake through his body, and left him to die. Then they made the Hermit King instead of the Wicked Prince. And the Hermit took them a walk into the country, and when they came to the Snake's hole he called out "Snake!" Out came the Snake, and curled up against his feet, and showed him the hole where his treasure was; and the Hermit gave it all to his servants. And then they went to the Rat's hole, and he called out "Rat!" And the Rat ran up, and rubbed his nose against the King's hand, and gave him all his treasure, which the King gave to his servants as well as the other. And last of all they went to the Parrot's tree, and called "Parrot!" And the Parrot flew up and gave a call, and instantly all the air was black with Parrots. And all the Parrots carried a grain of rice in their beaks, and dropped it on the ground; and there was such a heap of rice, that it was enough to feed all the people for the rest of their lives. So the grateful beasts kept their promise, and the ungrateful Prince was killed, and the Hermit ruled over his people kindly, and they all lived happily until they died. And when they died they all went to heaven; and the Snake and the Rat and the Parrot went there too, because they had at last overcome their love of money, and given it away to show how grateful they were to the Hermit for being kind to them. THE GOBLIN IN THE POOL Animals in the forest have no bottles and glasses to drink out of, so if they are thirsty they have to go down to a pool. Now in a certain great forest there was a pool, in which lived a horrible Goblin. He was big and black, like an immense monkey, with an immense mouth, and four rows of sharp teeth; but he could not come out of the water, because he had no nose, but only gills like a fish. So if any animal came down into the water to get a drink, he pounced upon him at once and gobbled him up; but he could not touch the animals while they remained on the bank. One year there was a great drought, and the sun was so hot that it dried up all the water in that forest for many miles round, except the pool where this Goblin was; but this pool was very deep and cool, under the trees, and therefore it was not dried up. There was a herd of monkeys who had been wandering about for a long time in search of water, but found none, until they came to this pool. But the King of the Monkeys was very clever, and he noticed that there were a great many footprints going down to the water, and none coming away. So he warned his Monkeys not to go near that pool. However, one of them was very thirsty, and ran down into the water; but as soon as he got into the water, and was having a delicious drink--suddenly he disappeared! There were some bubbles, and no more was seen of the Monkey. The other Monkeys watched for a long time, wondering what had become of their friend; and then another, who was so thirsty that he could not help it, stepped quietly into the water and began to drink. In an instant he gave a shriek and threw up his hands, and the others saw him dragged down below the water! A few bubbles came up to the top and burst, but the poor Monkey was gone. What were they to do? They were dying of thirst, and yet they were afraid to drink; the banks were high, and they could not reach the water from the top. So they all sat round the banks, looking at the water, very unhappy. By-and-by a man came down to the side of the pool. He wanted a drink of water, but he had no glass. So he looked round, and then he saw the Monkeys sitting on the bank, very unhappy. "What's the matter?" said he. "Don't go into that pool!" said the King of the Monkeys. "If you do, you will be drowned, like our two poor friends!" Then they told him how their friends had gone into the water to drink, and how they had both been pulled underneath and drowned, none of them could tell how. The man understood at once that it was a Goblin. So he pulled up a long reed that was growing on the bank of the pool and cut off the ends, and then he put down one end of it into the water and sucked at the other end, and the water came up from the pool into his mouth. At this the Monkeys were delighted, and they all pulled up reeds from the bank (for you know a monkey always imitates what he sees men do), and sucked up the water through them, and so quenched their thirst without going into the pool. And the Goblin, finding that no more food was to be got, died of starvation; and a good thing too. THE FOOLISH FARMER AND THE KING Once there was a foolish Farmer, who had a son at court, serving the King. This Farmer was a very poor man, and all he had to plough his fields with was one pair of oxen. Two oxen was all he had, and one of them died. The poor Farmer was in despair. One ox was not enough to draw the plough over the heavy land; and he had no money to buy another. So he sent a message to his son, that he was wanted at home. When the son came, his father told him that one of his oxen was dead, and he had no money to buy another. So he begged his son to ask the King to give him an ox. "No, no," said his son, "I am always asking the King for something. If you want an ox, you must ask him yourself." "I can't do it!" said the poor Farmer. "You know what a muddle-head I am. If I go to ask the King for another ox, I shall end by giving him this one!" "Well, what must be, must be," said his son. "Anyhow, I cannot ask the King: but I'll train you to do it." So he led his father to a place which was dotted all over with clumps of grass. The young courtier tied up a number of bundles of this grass, and arranged them in rows. "Now, look here, father," said he, "this is the King, that is the Prime Minister, that is the General, here are the other grandees," pointing to each bundle as he said the name. "When you come into the King's presence, you must begin by saying: 'Long live the King!' and then ask your boon." To help him to remember, the son made up a little verse for his father to say, and this is the verse: "I had two oxen to my plough, with which my work was done. Now one is dead: O, mighty king, please give me another one!" "Well," said the Farmer, "I think I can say that." And he repeated it over and over, bowing and scraping to the bunch of grass that he called the King. Every day for a whole year the Farmer practised; and how the ploughing got on meanwhile I do not know. Perhaps he lived on the seed-corn, and did not plough at all. At the end of the year he said to his son: "Now I know that little verse of yours! Now I can say it before any man! Take me to the King!" So together father and son trudged away to the King's palace. There on a throne he sat, in gorgeous robes, with his courtiers all around him, the Prime Minister, the General, and all, just as the young man had told his father. But the poor Farmer! his head was beginning to swim already. "Who is this?" said the King to the Farmer's son, who, as you know, was a courtier, so the King knew him. "It is my father, Sire," he answered. "What does he want?" the King asked. All eyes were turned on the Farmer, who by this time was as red as a turkey-cock, and hardly knew whether he stood on head or heels. However, he plucked up courage, and out came the verse, as pat as a pancake: "I had two oxen to my plough, with which my work was done. Now one is dead: O, mighty king, please take the other one!" The King couldn't help laughing; and he saw there must be a mistake somewhere. "Plenty of oxen at home, eh!" said he, keeping up the joke. "If so, Sire," said the Farmer's son with a bow, "you must have given them." The King thought that rather neat. "If I have not given you any so far," said he, smiling, "I will do it now." And when the pair got home, the Farmer in despair at his blunder, lo and behold in his cowhouse were half a dozen of the finest oxen he had ever seen! So the poor old Farmer got his oxen, though he did make a muddle of the verse. THE PIOUS WOLF Once there was a flood, and there was a large rock with a Wolf sleeping on the top. The water came pouring around the rock, and when the Wolf awoke he found himself imprisoned, with no way of getting off, and nothing to eat. "H'm!" said he to himself, "here I am, caught fast sure enough, and here I shall have to stay yet awhile. Nothing to eat, either! Well," he thought, after a pause, "it is Friday to-day, when people say you ought to fast. Suppose I keep a holy fast to-day? A capital idea!" So he crossed his paws, and pretended to pray, and thought himself very good and pious to be fasting. A fairy saw this, and heard what he said; and she thought she would just see how much was real and how much was sham. So she changed herself into the shape of a pretty little Kid, and jumped down out of the air on to the rock. The Wolf opened an eye to see what the noise could be, and there was a tender little Kid, standing on the rock. He forgot his prayers in a minute. "Aha!" said he. "A Kid! I can keep my Friday fast to-morrow. Now for the Kid!" He smacked his lips, and jumped at the Kid. But the Kid jumped away, and, try as he would, he could not come near it. You know it was the fairy, and the fairy did not let herself be caught. After trying to catch the Kid for some time the Wolf lay down again. "After all," said he, "it is Friday; and perhaps I had best keep my fast to-day." "You humbug!" said the fairy, who had gone back to her proper shape; "you are a nice creature to pretend that you are keeping fast! You fast because you can't help it, not because you are really good. As a punishment, you shall stay on this rock till next Friday, and fast for a week!" So saying, she opened her wings and flew far away. BIRDS OF A FEATHER Once upon a time there was a big horse called Chestnut. He was as fierce as a fury, and bit everybody who came near him; his groom always had a broken bone, or a bruise at the least; and, as for the other horses, let Chestnut loose in the herd, and there was a fine to-do: a kick for one, a bite for another; it was hurry, skurry, worry, till they took themselves off and left him alone in the clover. Now the King wanted to buy some horses, and a dealer had driven down a couple of hundred of them for the King to buy. But the King was a skinflint, and wanted to get them cheap; so he dropped a hint to his groom, that it would not be a bad thing if Chestnut made acquaintance with these horses; at the same time, he dropped a gold piece in the groom's hand. So the groom led Chestnut by this new herd, and, all of a sudden, he quietly flicked Chestnut with his whip; Chestnut reared and plunged, the groom shouted, and, pretending to find the horse too strong for him, let go the halter. Off galloped Chestnut, kicking up his heels in the air, roaring and whinnying; and fine fun he had among the new horses! By the time he had done with them, hardly one had a whole skin. The poor dealer was in despair. He would be ruined! And next day, when the King came to see the horses, he turned up his nose. "Pooh! do you suppose I want bruised old hacks like that? Look at that sore! And here is a broken jaw! Why, half of them limp!" In vain the dealer protested that it was Chestnut's fault; the King only laughed, and asked if he expected him to believe that one horse could do all that mischief. (And yet, as you know, it was one horse, and at the King's own bidding too.) However, it was a pity that he should have to take them back again, the King said; so, if he liked, as a favour, he would buy the horses, at half price. The dealer was not taken in by this, but he pretended to be very grateful, and went home again, wondering what he could do. He was afraid to offend the King, and, indeed, very few people were rich enough to buy his splendid horses. So he knew that he would be obliged to take some more down to the King another time. Then he suddenly remembered he had just such another vicious brute at home, named Strongjaw, that nobody could do anything with. "Aha!" said he; "I have it! I'll take Strongjaw down with me next time, and if he does not prove a match for Chestnut I am very much mistaken." He chuckled with glee as he thought what a fine fight there would be between the two. Next time, as he had resolved, he brought Strongjaw with the drove, and as soon as the King's groom came by with Chestnut, and let him go as he did before, the dealer's eyes twinkled, and he let out Strongjaw. Chestnut pricked up his ears, and Strongjaw pricked up his; then, without taking any notice of the rest, they trotted up to each other and rubbed noses, and began to lick each other all over. They did not fight at all, but in a moment they became bosom friends. The dealer could not understand this, neither could the King. However, this time the King had to pay a good price for the horses, and as he saw his little trick was found out, he felt rather ashamed of himself, and so he paid the man for the other horses as well. Still, they kept wondering and wondering what the reason could be that these two horses, each so fierce and wild, were quiet as a pair of kittens together. The King asked the wisest man in all his kingdom to explain it; and the man, who was a minstrel, that is, he used to sing songs to the King about all that had happened or would happen in the world, took up his harp and sang: "If the reason you would know, Like to like will always go; Here's a pair of vicious horses Just the same in all their courses; Both are wild, and bite their tether: Birds of a feather flock together." SPEND A POUND TO WIN A PENNY Some people were steaming peas under a tree, in order to make a meal for their horses. Up in the branches sat a Monkey, who watched with his restless eyes what they were doing. "Aha!" thought the Monkey. "I spy my dinner!" So when they had finished steaming the peas, and turned away for a moment to look after the horses, gently, gently, the Monkey let himself down from the tree. He grabbed at the peas, and stuffed his mouth with them, and both hands as full as they could hold, then he clambered up to his perch as best he could. There he sat, his wizened old face happy and cunning, eating the peas. Suddenly one pea fell. "O dear, O dear! O my pea, my pea!" cried the Monkey, gibbering in distress. The other peas began to fall out of his mouth, but he did not notice them. He wrung his hands in despair, and the peas began to fall out of his hands too, but he took no notice. All he thought of was this, that one pea was gone. So he shinned down the trunk, and scrambled about on the ground, hunting for his lost pea, but he could not find it anywhere. By this time the men had come back, after seeing to their horses. When they saw a monkey meddling with their cooking-pots they all waved their arms, and called out, "Shoo! shoo!" Then they picked up stones, and began to pelt the Monkey with them. This terrified the Monkey so much that he gave one jump to the nearest branch, and swung himself up to the top of the tree. "After all," said he to himself, "it was only one pea." But he ought to have thought of that before, for now like a thunderclap, it came home to him, that somehow or other all the other peas had gone too. That day the Monkey had to content himself with the smell of boiled peas for dinner, and I hope the loss taught him not to be so greedy in future. THE CUNNING CRANE AND THE CRAB Once upon a time a number of fish lived in a little pool. It was all very well while there was rain; but when summer came, and it began to be very hot, the water dried up and got lower and lower, until there was hardly enough to hide the fish. Now not far away there was a beautiful lake, always fresh and cool; for it lay under the shadow of great trees, and it was covered all over with water-lilies. And a Crane lived on the banks of this lake. The Crane used to eat fish, when he could catch any; and one day, coming to the little pool, he saw all the fish gasping in it, and thought of a neat trick to get hold of them without trouble. "Dear Fish," said the Crane, "I am so sorry to see you cooped up in this hole. I know a beautiful lake close by, deep and fresh and cool, and if you like I will carry you there." The Fish did not know what to make of this, because never since the world began had a crane done a good turn to a fish. You see it is just as absurd to suppose that a crane would help fish, as to think that a cat would be kind to a mouse. So they said to the Crane, "We don't believe you; what you want is to eat us." This was just what the Crane did want, but he did not say so. "No, no!" said he; "I'm not so cruel as all that. I have eaten a fish now and then"--he saw it was of no use denying that, because they knew he had--"but I have plenty of other food, and it goes to my heart to see you here. In this hot water you will all be boiled fish before long!" "That's true enough," said the Fish; "the water is hot." Well, the end of it was, they persuaded an old Fish with one eye to go and see. The Crane took the one-eyed Fish in his beak and put him in the lake; and when he had seen that what the Crane said was true so far, he carried the Fish back again to tell the others. The old Fish could not say enough to praise the lake. "It's ever so big," he said, "and deep and cool, just as the Crane said; and there are trees overshadowing it, and water-lilies are growing in the mud; and the whole of it is covered with fine fat flies! Ah, what a feast I have had!" And he rolled up his one eye at the thought of it. Then all the Fish were eager to go. And now it was who should be first; every Fish was anxious to remain no longer in the pool. They came to the top of the water, all begging the Crane to take them to this beautiful lake. "One at a time!" said the Crane. "I have only one beak, you know!" And he smiled to himself, for that beak was made to eat fish, not to carry them. However, it was decided that as the one-eyed Fish had been so brave as to trust himself in the Crane's beak, before he knew what the truth was, he certainly deserved to go first. So the Crane took the one-eyed Fish in his beak, and carried him over to the lake. But this time he did not drop the Fish in; he laid him in the cleft of a tree, and pecked his one eye out with his beak; then he killed him, and ate him up, and dropped his bones at the foot of the tree. By-and-by the Crane came back for another. "Now then, who's next?" asked the Crane. "Old One-eye is swimming about, as happy as a king!" He picked up another fish, and served him like the first, dropping his bones at the foot of the tree. And so it went on, until in a few days the pool was empty. The cunning Crane had eaten every single one of the fish! He stood on the bank, peering into every hole, to see whether there might not be a little one left somewhere. There was one, surely! No, it was a Crab. Never mind, he thought; all's fish that comes to my net! So he invited the Crab to come with him to the lake. "Why, how are you going to carry me?" asked the Crab. "In my beak, to be sure!" replied the Crane. "You might drop me," said the Crab, "and then I should split." "Oh no, I promise I won't drop you!" said the Crane. But the Crab had more sense than all the fish put together, and he did not believe in the Crane's friendship at all. So he still pretended to hesitate, and at last he said: "Well, I'll tell you what. I can hold on tighter with my claws than you can with your beak. I'll come, but you must let me hold on to your neck with my claws. Then I shall feel safe." The Crane was so hungry that, without stopping to think, he agreed; and then the Crab got tight hold of his neck with his claws, and the Crane carried him towards the lake. But after a while the Crab saw that he was being carried somewhere else, indeed to that tree where the Crane used to sit and eat the fish. "Crane dear," said he, "aren't you going to put me in the lake?" "Crane dear, indeed!" said the Crane, "do you suppose I was born to carry crabs about? Not I! Just look at that heap of bones under yon tree! Those are the bones of the fish that used to live in your pool. I ate them, and I'm going to eat you!" "Are you, though!" said the Crab, and gave the Crane's neck a little nip. Then the Crane saw what a fool he had been to let a Crab put a claw round his neck. He knew that the Crab could kill him if he liked, and he was frightened to death at the thought. People who try to deceive others often pay for it themselves; and that is what happened to the Crane. "Dear Crab!" said he, with tears streaming from his eyes, "forgive me! I won't kill you, only let me go!" "Just put me in the lake, then," said the Crab. The Crane stepped down to the lakeside, and laid the Crab upon the mud. And the Crab, as soon as he felt himself safe, nipped off the Crane's head as clean as if it had been cut with a knife. So perished the treacherous Crane, caught by his own trick. And the Crab lived happily in the beautiful lake for the rest of his life. UNION IS STRENGTH There once was a clever Fowler who used to hunt quails. He could imitate the quail's note exactly; and when he had found a hiding-place, he used to sit hidden in it, and call out the quail's note, until a number of quails had come together; then he threw a net over them, and bagged them all. But amongst the quails was one very clever bird, and he hit on the following device: He told the quails, when they felt the net drop over them, that each one should pop his head through one of the meshes of the net, and then at the word, away they should fly together. All fell out as he arranged. Next day the Fowler sounded his imitation of the quail's note, and the birds flocked from far and near; then, when a good many had gathered in a clump within his reach, he cast the net, which fell over them and made them all prisoners. They all did what the wise Quail had told them; each quail put his head through one of the meshes, then at a word they were all away together, bearing the net with them. After some little time they saw a large bush, and dropped upon this bush; then the net was held up by the bush, while all the birds got away underneath. Again and again this happened, until the Fowler began to despair; he came home every night empty-handed, and besides that he had lost ever so many nets. Why did he keep on trying to catch them, then? Because he thought that sooner or later they would begin to quarrel, and then the game would be his. And quarrel they soon did. One Quail happened to tread on another's toe. "What are you doing, clumsy?" said the second Quail angrily. "I'm very sorry," said the first; "I really did not mean to tread on your toe." "You did!" "I tell you I didn't!" "What a lie!" "A lie, is it? Hoity, toity, how high-and-mighty we are, to be sure! I suppose it is you lift up the net, all by yourself, when the man throws it over us!" And so they went on, getting angrier and angrier. And the result was, that next day, when the fowler made his cast, said the first Quail to the second: "Now then, Samson, lift away! They say that last time your feathers all fell off your head!" "Oh, indeed! They say that when you tried to lift, both your wings moulted! Lift away, and let us see if it is true!" But while they were quarrelling, and each telling the other to lift the net, the Fowler lifted it for them, and crammed them all together into his basket, and took them home for supper. SILENCE IS GOLDEN Once upon a time a Lion had a she-jackal for his mate, and they had a young one. This Cub was just like his sire to look at, in shape and colour, mane and claws; but in voice he took after his dam. So you would fancy he was a lion, so long as he held his tongue. This Cub used to play about with the young Lions, and merry times they had to be sure, tumbling head over heels, and trying to knock each other down. One day, in the midst of their game, the mongrel Cub thought he would frighten them; so he opened his mouth wide, intending to roar, and all that came out was a yelp like the yelp of a jackal. The other young Lions were quite shocked; they could not imagine what strange creature this was. One of them went up to the old Lion, who was watching them, and said: "Lion's claws and lion's paws Lion's feet to stand upon; But the bellow of this fellow Sounds not like a lion's son!" "You are right," said the old Lion; "his dam was a Jackal." And then, turning to the poor Cub, who was looking very crestfallen, he said: "All will see what kind you be If you yelp as once before; So don't try it, but keep quiet, Yours is not a lion's roar." The poor Cub slunk away with his tail between his legs, while the other Lions sniffed and turned up their noses at him. Ever after that he took good care to hold his tongue when he was in the company of his betters. THE GREAT YELLOW KING AND HIS PORTER Once upon a time, in a great and rich city, reigned a mighty King, who was called by the title of the Great Yellow King. This King was very cruel to his people, and ground them like grist in the mill; he robbed them of their goods, many he cast into prison, others he ill-treated, cutting off an arm, or a leg, or blinding them, and some he put to death without cause. He was just as bad at home; when he was a boy he did nothing but tease his sisters, pulling their hair and putting spiders down their necks; and now that he was grown up he made life a misery to wife and child. He was like a speck of dust that gets into your eye, or a thorn in the heel, or grit between your teeth. But it is a long lane that has no turning; and at last the Great Yellow King died. When a king or queen dies, people are generally very sorry, and wear mourning for them; but when the Great Yellow King died there was such rejoicing and merriment as had not been known for many a long day. All the shops were shut, and all the schools had a whole holiday; there were raree-shows and merry-go-rounds, and everybody high and low was half daft with joy. But one man was not joyful. On the steps of the palace sat the Yellow King's porter, sighing and sobbing, weeping and wailing. No one could understand it; everybody in the whole town was glad, and here was this porter crying! At last some one asked him why he cried. "What is the matter?" said he. "Was the Great Yellow King so kind to you as all that? I never heard of his being kind to anybody!" "No, it isn't that!" sobbed the man. "Well, what is it then?" The man looked up and rubbed his eyes. "Well," said he, "I'll tell you. When his majesty used to come out of his palace, down the steps, he always gave me a cuff on the head, and another when he came back. What a fist his majesty had, to be sure! Now if he tries that game on with the porter who sits by the gates of Death, I am very much afraid they won't have him there at any price, and then he will come back to us!" But the other man laughed, and said, "Don't be afraid of that, Porter! He's dead and done for, and however much they wish it, they can never send him back to us again." So the Porter was comforted, and wiped his eyes, and went to get a glass of beer. THE QUAIL AND THE FALCON There once was a young Quail that lived on a farm. When the farmer ploughed up the land, Quailie used to hop about over the clods and pick up seeds, or weeds, or worms, or anything that the plough turned up, and he ate these and lived on them. You might think this was very nice for him; he had no trouble to find food, because the ploughman turned it up; he had only to hop along after the plough and peck. Not a bit of it; he must needs better himself, as he said; so one fine day he flew away over the farm, away to the forest which fringed it; and, alighting on the ground just where the forest began, he looked about to see if there was anything good to eat. Up in the air, just above the tree-tops, a Falcon was sailing, poised on outstretched wings; as Quailie searched for worms, so the Falcon was searching for quails; and lo and behold, he spied one! Down he came with a swoop and a whirr, and in an instant the Quail was in his crooked claws. What could poor Quailie do now? He twittered and fluttered, and at last began to cry. "Oh dear, oh dear!" whimpered Quailie, the tears running down his beak, "what a fool I was to poach on other people's preserves! If I had only stayed at home this Falcon could never have caught me, not even if he had come and tried!" "What's that, Quailie?" asked the Falcon. "Do you think I can't catch you anywhere?" "Not on my own ground!" cried the Quail. "What do you mean by that?" "A ploughed field full of clods." "Oh, nonsense, Quailie, clods won't help you. Just try; off you go! I'll follow." The Quail flew off, feeling as happy now as he was miserable a moment gone; and when he got back to his farm he picked out a big clod and perched on the top. "Come on, Falcon!" cried he; "come on!" Down came the Falcon with a swoop like a flash of lightning; but just as he came close the Quail dodged him nimbly and tumbled over the clod to the other side, leaving the Falcon to come full tilt against the clod of earth; and so swift was he, that the shock killed him. So the Quail found out how much better it is for most people to stick to what they are used to; and as for the Falcon, he might have thought, if he had been able to think at all, that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. PRIDE MUST HAVE A FALL Once upon a time there was a beautiful wild Goose that lived in the mountains; he was King of the Geese, and he had a mate and two or three fine young ones. But it had happened once that this Goose, in his travels about the world, fell in with a young lady Crow, who was very pretty; as black as jet, with two eyes like black beads, and she flirted and flouted so enchantingly that he had married her, like the goose he was; so he had two wives, the little black Crow and the Goose. In course of time this Crow laid a beautiful egg, all white with blue spots, and twice as big as an ordinary crow's egg. She was very proud of her egg, and sat on it for a longtime, until one day, pop! went the egg, and out came a funny little chick. The Crow did not know what to make of this chick; he was not black, as she was, and he was not white, like his father, but something betwixt and between, a dingy grey with brown streaks. So she named him Streaky. Be sure that Streaky fancied himself mightily, being so very different from all the Crows he lived with; he was larger, to begin with, and then he had a very loud voice, with several different notes in it; not to mention his brown streaks, which made him a proud bird indeed. And I think the other Crows took him at his own price, as foolish creatures are apt to do, and thought him very wonderful, though he was really only a mongrel. Now the Goose, his father, used to pay a visit to the Crow colony now and again, flying down from the mountains to the dust-heap where they lived, outside the city gate. But he did not stay long, because the Crows used to feed on offal and dead bodies, in fact anything dirty they could find; and King Goose could not get what he liked to eat. Well, once as he was talking to his sons, the young Geese, they asked him why he was always going away for days at a time. "Why," said he, "I go to see a son of mine that lives somewhere else." "Oh, how nice!" said the Geese. "Then he must be our brother. Do let us bring him here on a visit! Do, father!" At first the father Goose would not let them go, for fear of mischief; but after a while he was persuaded, and gave them very careful directions how to fly, and where to go, and how to find the place where Streaky lived, on the top of a tall palm-tree that grew out of a dust-heap at the city gate. So away they flew, and away they flew, till at last they saw the tall palm-tree; and on the very top of it, a big nest; and in the nest, a little black Crow, and our funny friend Streaky. They said "How do you do?" and told their errand; because they meant to go through with it now, although they did not much like the look of this ugly bird Streaky, with his airs and graces. Mrs. Crow was very much pleased, but Streaky looked bored, and said: "Aw, caw, I don't think I can fly all that way. It is really too much trouble. Why did not the Governor come to see me instead, as usual--aw?" This rude bird called his father the Governor; you see, as he had been brought up among carrion crows, his manners were none of the best. The young Geese began to like him less than ever. However, they put a good face on it, and answered him: "Well, Streaky, if you are as weak as all that, we will carry you on a stick." These Geese were very big, strong birds, and they thought nothing of carrying Streaky. So they looked about until they found a strong stick, and then each of them took an end in his mouth, and Streaky perched in the middle. They could not say good-bye to Mrs. Crow, because their mouths were full of the stick, but they made her a nice bow, like polite little Geese, and flew off. As for Streaky, he was far too full of his own importance to say good-bye to his mother, or even so much as "Thank you" to the two birds who were so kindly carrying him. There he sat, on the middle of the stick, as proud as Punch, pluming his feathers, and feeling that now all the world would see what a splendid bird he was. As they flew over the city Streaky looked down, and saw the king of the city, in a beautiful carriage drawn by four white thoroughbreds, driving round the city in great state and grandeur. "Aha!" thought he, "that's as it should be! But I'm every bit as good as he!" and in his joy he began to sing a little song which he made up on the spur of the moment, and here is his song: "As yonder king goes galloping with his milk-white four-in-hand, Streaky has these, his pair of Geese, to carry him over the land!" The Geese were very angry when they heard Streaky sing this song. But they were very well-bred Geese, as you must have seen already; so they said nothing at all to him then, but carried him safely to their home, and then they told their father what Streaky had said, so that he might do as he thought best. Old King Goose was more angry than they were, and was very sorry he had left his son to be brought up by a Crow who knew no manners. So he called Streaky, and this is what he said: "Streaky, you have been very rude to your brothers, who are at least as good as you; and if you think they are like a pair of horses, to be driven about for your pleasure, you make a great mistake. So the best thing you can do is to fly back to your mother; for your manners suit the dust-heap better than the mountains." I don't know whether Streaky was ashamed of what he had said; creatures like Streaky are very thick-skinned, and it takes a great deal to make them ashamed; but anyhow he had to go back, and this time he must fly by himself, for it was hardly likely that his brothers would carry him when he had been so rude. He got back a few days later, tired and hungry, and spent the rest of his days on the dust-heap, eating carrion. What his mother thought of it all I don't know; but King Goose never went to see them any more. THE BOLD BEGGAR There was once a King who was so fond of good eating and drinking that they called him King Dainty. He often spent as much as a thousand pounds on a single dish; which is great wastefulness, when you can dine heartily for a shilling. He thought that if people could not eat things so nice as his, yet they must greatly enjoy seeing him eat them. So he fitted up a beautiful tent outside his own door, and there he took his meals, sitting on a golden throne, under a white silk umbrella. Anybody who liked could see him eat his dinner without charge. This was very generous, wasn't it? A man who had often seen him eat thought he would like a taste of the King's choice food. And this is what he did. He came running towards the crowd who, as usual, were watching the King eat his dinner, and shouted: "News! news! news!" Now at that time there were no newspapers, and no posts, and no telegraphs; so any one who brought news was sure of instant hearing. Accordingly the crowd made way for him at once, and he ran up to the King, looking very much excited, and shouting "News!" Then he fell down before the King, as if he were faint with hunger, and gasped. "Poor fellow!" said the King. "Give him something to eat." So they propped him up on a chair, and the King fed him out of his own dish, and gave him delicious wine to drink. The man made a hearty meal, I can tell you. They thought he never would finish; but he did finish at last, after an hour or two. Then the King said to him: "Now, my good fellow, let us hear your news." "The news is, your Majesty," said the man, "that an hour ago I was hungry, and now I am not!" All the people looked shocked at his impertinence. But the King only laughed, and said: "That news is true of most of us every day of our lives. Well, you are a bold fellow; this time you may go free, but I advise you not to try it again." The man bowed low, and went away happy in the success of his trick. I don't know whether the King spent less money upon his dinner after that, but I am quite sure that no one else got a meal at his table in the same way. THE JACKAL WOULD A-WOOING GO Once upon a time there was a family of Lions that lived in the Himalaya Mountains in a Golden Cave. They were three brothers and one sister. Near by was a silver mountain with a Crystal Cave, and in this Crystal Cave lived a Jackal. The young Lions used to be out all day, hunting, while their sister kept everything neat and tidy at home. When they caught anything they used to keep a bit for her, because they were not greedy Lions, and they thought that if she did the work at home she deserved some of the game they got abroad. Now this Jackal fell violently in love with the young Lioness. She was very beautiful, with soft brown fur, and large soft eyes, and fine whiskers; and he did not stop to think what a mongrel cur a Jackal looks beside a Lion, how small, and sneaking, and snarling; so that it was the height of impertinence even to think of such a thing. He did think of it, and more, he actually proposed to the Lioness! You shall hear how he did it. He had the sense to wait until the three brothers had gone out hunting for food; and then he came and tapped on the rock at the mouth of the Golden Cave. The Lioness looked out, and very much surprised was the Lioness to see the Jackal there. She knew him by sight, of course, as a neighbour; and, indeed, when he was in his Crystal Cave you could always see him, perched up in the air as it might be; for you can see through crystal like glass, and it looked just as if there were nothing there. But they were not on visiting terms, so the Lioness was surprised to see him come tapping at her door. She gave him a distant bow, and waited. "Beautiful Lioness!" said he, "I love you! see how much we are alike! You have four feet, and so have I; clearly we are made for one another. Will you marry me? We shall be so happy together!" This offer so astonished the Lioness that she could say nothing. She hated the vile creature, vilest of all creatures; that he should dare to address himself to a royal lioness! a scavenger to a queen! The very thought of the insult made her furious. She resolved that, after such a thing as that had spoken to her, she might just as well die, either by holding her breath or by starving herself. As these thoughts passed through her mind the Jackal was waiting for his answer; but no answer he got. This seemed a pretty broad hint that he was not wanted there; so he went home again, very woebegone, with his tail between his legs, and lay down in his Crystal Cave in much misery. By-and-by the eldest brother of the Lioness came home again, with a fine fat deer which he had killed. "Here, sister," he called out, "have a bit!" She put on a very gloomy air. "No," she said, "I think I shall have to die." "Why, what on earth is the matter?" asked he. "A nasty, dirty Jackal came, and wanted to marry me!" "The brute!" said her brother. "Where is he?" "Can't you see him, lying up in the sky?" You know the crystal was transparent, and as she had never been there she could not tell he was really in a cave. Off galloped the young Lion, furious with rage, and when he got near the place where the Jackal was lying in his Crystal Cave, he leaped at him, when--crack! went his skull against the wall of crystal, and down fell the Lion--dead! Just as the Lioness was getting anxious about her eldest brother, the second came in. She told him the same tale, though she was beginning to be sorry that she was going to die. He had not hurt her, after all; and how nice the meat smelt! But the second Lion did not give her much time to think; he growled, and off he went, leaped into the air, cracked his crown against the wall of crystal, and fell down dead beside his brother. Now when the third brother came in, the Lioness was quite sure she didn't mean to die. However, she looked as gloomy as ever, and told her brother what had happened; he had better go out and see what was become of the other two. Surely two Lions were a match for any Jackal! Still, there he was, as before, up in the air. "Up in the air?" said the youngest brother, who was cleverer than all the rest put together. "Stuff and nonsense! Now let me think. There must be something for him to lie upon; and yet you can see through it." He scratched his head with one paw and looked wise. "I have it! Crystal, of course, or glass--that's what it is!" So up he jumped, and when he got near the Crystal Cave, there were his two brothers, dead, with their skulls cracked right across like a teacup. He sat down again, and scratched his head with the other paw. "H'm! it looks as though it may be difficult to get at this Jackal. However, I'll try kindness first. Jackie, Jackie dear!" he called out. Now you must know that Lions have a very loud voice, and, if you have heard them talking in the Zoo, you will know that even when they want to coax and purr they are enough to frighten you. And so the poor Jackal, who, after all, was not so bad as the proud Lioness made out, when he heard the Lion coaxing him down, thought "What an awful roar!" His heart was beating very hard before, but this time it gave such a leap that something went snap! And the Jackal was dead too. Then the Lion looked up, and saw that the Jackal was dead. So he buried his brothers, and went and told his sister all about it. You might expect her to be sorry that her two brave brothers were dead, all because she held her nose so high in the air; but not a bit of it; she was quite satisfied so long as one was left to catch food for her. So she lived all the rest of her life in the Golden Cave, but I never heard that any other animal asked her to marry him. THE LION AND THE BOAR Once upon a time there was a Lion who lived in the mountains, and he used to drink water out of a beautiful lake. It so happened that, as he was drinking there one day, he saw a Boar feeding over on the opposite bank. Now he had just eaten a leg of elephant, and was not hungry; but he made a note of that Boar, thinking to himself what a nice meal the Boar would make some other day. So, after drinking his fill, he crawled quietly away through the bushes, hoping that the Boar could not see him. But the Boar had sharp eyes, and did see him. "Hullo!" said he to himself, "yon Lion is afraid of me, that's clear! Ah well, he need not think to get off so easy. If he wants to go, he must fight me first!" He puffed his chest out very big, and rubbed his tusks against a tree, then he called out: "Stay, stay, runaway! Let us have a fight to-day! You have four feet, so have I! If you fail, you can but try!" The Lion could hardly believe his ears. What! a Boar challenge him to fight! He could break a Boar's back with a tap of his paw. Still, he hid his astonishment at this impertinent Boar and only said: "Please, Mr. Boar, let me off to-day, as I'm rather tired; I have just been wrestling with a fox. But, if you like, I will meet you here this day week, and then we can fight it out between us." He said this so humbly that the Boar became haughtier than ever. "Oh, very well," said he, "it shall never be said I took a mean advantage of any one. This day week, then! Good-day to you." When he got home, his friends hardly knew him. Every bristle on his back was standing up straight; his little greedy eyes were gleaming; he ran into the house, knocking over the pots and pans, snarling at his wife, and making himself very disagreeable indeed. At last the other Boars protested, and said they would not stand it any longer. "Oho!" says he, "you defy a Boar that has killed a Lion! Come on, then!" and very fierce indeed he looked. Killed a Lion! They did open their eyes. "Where is the Lion you have killed?" asked a pretty little sow, full of curiosity. "Well, I haven't exactly killed him yet," said the Boar rather unwillingly. "He is coming to be killed this day week." "What on earth do you mean?" his friends asked. He told them the story, but he did not feel quite so bold now as he had felt before. And when he finished, he felt worse than ever; for one and all they set up such a weeping and wailing that the whole forest resounded with it! "Oh dear, oh dear!" they cried, "you'll be the death of us! Kill a Lion? Why, he will crunch you up in a trice, and then he'll come here, and we are all dead Boars!" By this time the poor Boar had lost all his conceit; you see he was an ignorant Boar, and did not know at all what the strength of a Lion is. So his heart was down in his toes, and all he wanted now was some way out of the mischief. Nobody could think of a way, until one very old and wise Boar advised him to roll in the mud till he was very dirty, because Lions are clean beasts and do not like dirt. So every day he rolled and wallowed in the dirtiest places he could find; and by the appointed time he was like a big cake of dirt. So when he came to the lake where he was to meet the Lion, the wind took a whiff of him to the Lion, and the Lion gave a jump, and snuffed, and sneezed, and swished his tail, and cried out, "Get to leeward, get to leeward! Here's a pretty trick! Well, you have saved your life; I would not touch you with a pair of tongs now!" and, in great disgust he went away, saying, as he went, this little rhyme: "Dirty Boar, I want no more, You're saved from being eaten; If you would fight, I yield me quite, And own that I am beaten!" You may be sure that our friend the Boar did not wait any longer, but scampered off home. But when he got there, I am sorry to say he told all his friends he had beaten the Lion, and the Lion had run away! He certainly had beaten the Lion in one way, but not in fair fight, so it was rather mean to pretend he had. However, nobody believed him, and the colony of Boars thought the best thing they could do was to get away from that place as fast as their four legs could carry them. "If he is beaten," said they with a wink, "still, after all, he is a Lion." THE GOBLIN CITY Long, long ago, in the island of Ceylon, there was a large city full of nothing but Goblins. They were all She-goblins, too; and if they wanted husbands, they used to get hold of travellers and force them to marry; and afterwards, when they were tired of their husbands, they gobbled them up. One day a ship was wrecked upon the coast near the goblin city, and five hundred sailors were cast ashore. The She-goblins came down to the seashore, and brought food and dry clothes for the sailors, and invited them to come into the city. There was nobody else there at all; but for fear that the sailors should be frightened away, the Goblins, by their magic power, made shapes of people appear all around, so that there seemed to be men ploughing in the fields, or shepherds tending their sheep, and huntsmen with hounds, and all the sights of the quiet country life. So, when the sailors looked round, and saw everything as usual, they felt quite secure; although, as you know, it was all a sham. The end of it was, that they persuaded the sailors to marry them, telling them that their own husbands had gone to sea in a ship, and had been gone these three years, so that they must be drowned and lost for ever. But really, as you know, they had served others in just the same way, and their last batch of husbands were then in prison, waiting to be eaten. In the middle of the night, when the men were all asleep, the She-goblins rose up, put on their hats, and hurried down to the prison; there they killed a few men, and gnawed their flesh, and ate them up; and after this orgie they went home again. It so happened that the captain of the sailors woke up before his wife came home, and not seeing her there, he watched. By-and-by in she came; he pretended to be asleep, and looked out of the tail of his eye. She was still munching and crunching, and as she munched she muttered: "Man's meat, man's meat, That's what Goblins like to eat!" She said it over and over again, then lay down; and soon she was snoring loudly. The captain was horribly frightened to find he had married a Goblin. What was he to do? They could not fight with Goblins, and they were in the Goblins' power. If they had a ship they might have sailed away, because Goblins hate the water worse than a cat; but their ship was gone. He could think of nothing. However, next morning, he found a chance of telling his mates what he had discovered. Some of them believed him, and some said he must have been dreaming; they were sure their wives would not do such a thing. Those who believed him agreed that they would look out for a chance of escape. But there was a kind fairy who hated those Goblins; and she determined to save the men. So she told her flying horse to go and carry them away. And accordingly, as the men were out for a walk next day, the captain saw in the air a beautiful horse with large white and gold wings. The horse fluttered down, and hovered just above them, crying out, in a human voice: "Who wants to go home? who wants to go home? who wants to go home?" "I do, I do!" called out the sailors. "Climb up, then!" said the horse, dropping within reach. So one climbed up, and then another, and another; and, although the horse looked no bigger than any other horse, there was room for everybody on his back. I think that somehow, when they got up, the fairy made them shrink small, till they were no bigger than so many ants, and thus there was plenty of room for all. When all who wanted to go had got up on his back, away flew the beautiful horse and took them safely home. As for those who remained behind, that very night the Goblins set upon them and mangled them, and munched them to mincemeat. LACKNOSE There was once a Gardener who had no nose, and he had a very nice garden full of beautiful flowers: roses, and pinks, and lilies, and violets, and all the prettiest flowers you can imagine. Three little boys thought they would like a bunch of flowers, but they did not know how to get it. So one of them went into the garden and said: "Good morning, Mr. Lacknose!" "Good morning, boy," said the Gardener. The boy thought the best thing he could do was to flatter the old fellow, so he had made up a verse of poetry that he thought very pretty, and so he said to the Gardener: "Cut, and cut, and cut again, Hair and whiskers grow amain: And your nose will grow like these: Give me a little posy, please!" The Gardener knew very well that his nose would not grow again like his whiskers, and he thought the little boy rather rude to mention it; so he became angry. "Go away!" said he, "and get your posy somewhere else!" The boy went away disappointed; but the second boy thought he would try his luck too. Perhaps the first boy had not spoken nicely; and he had made a verse of poetry too, which he thought would just suit the old Gardener. So in he came with "Good morning, Mr. Lacknose!" "Good morning, boy," said the old man. "And what do you want?" Then the boy put on a coaxing smile, and said: "In the autumn seeds are sown, And ere long they're fully grown; May your nose sprout up like these! Give me a little posy, please!" "There!" he thought, "the old fellow will like that, because he is a Gardener." But not a bit of it! The Gardener saw through his trick, and was angrier than ever. "Be off!" said he, "or I'll be after you with a stick! Plant a nose, indeed! You had better go somewhere and learn manners before you ask for my flowers!" So the second boy went away faster than the first. But the third boy was an honest little boy, and knew that there is nothing like the truth; so he determined to try what truth could do. He walked modestly into the garden and said: "Good morning, sir!" "What, another of 'em!" growled the Gardener to himself. "Another pack of lies, I suppose!" He would hardly look at the boy. But the boy, nothing daunted, repeated his verse: "Babbling fools! to think that they Can get a posy in this way! Say they yes, or say they no, Noses cut no more will grow. See, I ask you honestly: Give a posy, sir, to me!" The Gardener was so pleased to find a straightforward and honest little boy, that he took his scissors and cut a most beautiful bunch of flowers, which he gave the boy with a smile. The boy said, "Thank you, sir, very much!" and went away delighted. THE KING'S LESSON Once upon a time there lived a very good King, whose name was Godfrey. Of course, when a man is King, everybody is ready to call him good; but this King really was good. He used to hold courts of justice for people to come to when they had a quarrel; and he decided all the cases so wisely that nobody durst bring an unjust cause before him. So after a while the result was, that the courts became empty; all the rustle and bustle was quiet, the wigs and gowns were hung up on pegs, and as dusty as dusty could be; and nobody had any quarrels at all. "What a blessing!" thought King Godfrey to himself. "Now we have a little peace. And they say it's all my doing! I wonder if I am really as good as people make me out. Suppose I try to see?" No sooner said than done with this King. He asked one and he asked another; he begged and prayed them to tell him of his faults, so that he might mend them; but no, they said they really could not tell him of his faults, when he had none to tell of. He tried in the palace, he tried in the city; high and low, to and fro, it was just the same: all praise and no blame. "Well, upon my word," thought the King, "I had no idea I was such a good fellow. Still, who knows what they say behind my back? Happy thought! I'll disguise myself, and that will soon show me the truth." So he dressed himself like a traveller, and got a carriage and pair, and drove all over the country, asking everybody what they thought of the King. Wonder of wonders! they said the same behind his back as they did to his face! That must have been a very nice country to live in, but I am sure I cannot tell where it is. Now in such a strange country as that, strange things will happen; and so it turned out that, as our King was driving along, he came to a narrow lane sunk between two steep banks, with only just room for the carriage; and right in the middle of this lane another carriage met him. There they stood, both of them, and neither would budge. Our King did not know who was in that carriage, but I will tell you who it was. This was the King of the next country, who was also a good king as kings go, though not so good as the first; and he had got the same idea into his head, that he would wander about in disguise, and find out what people thought of him. Everybody had a good word for him too, it seems; but if he found no one to pick faults in him before, here was one now, as you shall see. "Get out of the way!" said the driver of the other carriage. "Get out of the way yourself!" said King Godfrey's man. "I have a King inside," said he; you see, he knew who the disguised traveller was, and he thought there was no need to hide it now, when it might save him trouble. "If you have one King, I have another!" said the other man; and imagine how astonished King Godfrey's coachman was to hear that. "Oh dear, oh dear," he said, "what is to be done? Both Kings! How old is your King?" he added suddenly, hoping, you see, that the younger might be willing to give way. "Fifty." "Fifty! So is mine! And how rich is he? " But it turned out they were just the same in that point; and though he cudgelled his brains to find out some difference, there seemed to be none; their kingdoms were exactly the same size, with exactly the same number of people in them, and their ancestors had been just as brave and glorious in peace or war. In fact, they were as like as two peas in a pod. All this time the horses were champing their bits and pawing the ground, as if they would like to jump over each other's heads; and I daresay the Kings were getting impatient too, though they were much too dignified to say anything. And there they might have stayed till doomsday, but that King Godfrey's coachman hit on a fine idea. He suggested that perhaps one of them was a better King than the other; what were his master's virtues, would the other coachman kindly tell him? The other coachman had his answer all ready, in poetry too, and this it was: "Rough to the rough, my mighty King the mild with mildness sways, Masters the good by goodness, and the bad with badness pays: Give place, give place, O driver! such are this monarch's ways!" "H'm," said King Godfrey's driver, "tit for tat is all very well, but I shouldn't call it virtue to pay out a bad man in his own coin." "Oh, well," says the other in a huff, "you can call it vice if you like; and I should be very glad to hear all your King's virtues, if you laugh at mine!" "Certainly," said King Godfrey's coachman; and, not to be beaten, he did his answer into poetry, like the other: "He conquers wrath by mildness, the bad with goodness sways, By gifts the miser vanquishes and lies with truth repays. Give place, give place, O driver! such are this monarch's ways!" Then the other man felt he had met his match. "I can't cap that," said he; "your master is better than mine." And the new King, who had not said a word all this time, thought it was time to be moving; perhaps he had been asleep; anyhow, he was not at all angry with his coachman, but out he got, and they let the horses loose, and pulled the carriage up on the slope to let King Godfrey pass by. But King Godfrey, before he went on, gave the other King a little good advice, which the King promised to take; for in that strange country people used to follow good advice sometimes. And then they said "Good-bye," and both went back home again, and both of them ruled their countries well until they died. The other King, we may be sure, was all the better for that lesson; and I hope Godfrey did not become conceited in that strange country, as he would have been if he lived here with us. FINIS NOTE [1] The Jataka; or Stories of the Buddha's former Births. Translated from the Pali by various hands, under the editorship of Professor E. B. Cowell. Vol. I., translated by R. Chalmers, B.A. (1895). Vol. II., translated by W. H. D. Rouse, M.A. (1895). Vol. III., translated by H. T. Francis, M.A., and R. A. Neil, M.A. (1897). Vol. IV., in preparation. All the stories but two come from the second volume of this work. 
37245	----	THE PISKEY-PURSE Legends and Tales of North Cornwall By ENYS TREGARTHEN Illustrated by J. LEY PETHYBRIDGE London Wells Gardner, Darton & Co., Ltd. 3, Paternoster Buildings, E.C. And 44, Victoria Street, Westminster INTRODUCTION The tales given in this small volume, with one exception, are from North Cornwall, where I have always lived. The scene of 'The Piskey-Purse' is from Polzeath Bay (in maps called Hayle Bay, which is not its local name), in St. Minver parish. This charming spot was once much frequented by the Piskeys and other fairy folk, and many a quaint story used to be told about them by the old people of that place, which some of us still remember. The spot most favoured by the Piskeys for dancing was Pentire Glaze cliffs, where, alas! half a dozen lodging-houses now stand. But the marks of fairy feet are not, they say, all obliterated, and the rings where Piskeys danced may yet be seen on the great headland of Pentire, and tiny paths called 'Piskey Walks' are still there on the edge of some of the cliffs. 'The Magic Pail' is a West Cornwall story, the scene of which is laid on a moorland between Carn Kenidzhek (the Hooting Carn) and Carn Boswavas, and not a great distance from the once-celebrated Ding Dong tin-mine. The ancient town of Padstow provides the 'Witch in the Well'; lovely Harlyn Bay, in the parish of St. Merryn, is the scene of 'Borrowed Eyes and Ears'; and the 'Little White Hare' is from the Vale of Lanherne, at St. Mawgan in Pydar. Readers will gather from these tales that we have several kinds of fairies in Cornwall--the Good Little People, the Merry Little People, and the Bad Little People. To the latter belong the Spriggans, who are spiteful and lovers of money, and who have all the hidden treasures in their keeping. The Merry Little People are the Piskeys and the Nightriders, and are the best known of all the Wee Folk. The Piskeys are always dancing, laughing, and 'carrying on.' Their special delight is in leading the traveller astray, and who is at their mercy till he turns a garment inside out. The Nightriders take horses out of the stable and ride them over the moors and downs when their owners are in bed. There are many quaint accounts as to the origin of the Cornish fairies. According to one tradition they are the Druids, who, because they opposed Christianity when it was first preached in Cornwall, were made to dwindle in size till they became the Little People they now are. The worst opposers of the Christian Faith dwindled to ants! Another tradition says that the Wee Folk are the original inhabitants of Cornwall, who lived here long centuries before the Birth Star of the Babe of Bethlehem was seen in the East. In North Cornwall they are still sometimes called the 'little Ancient People.' Whoever the Cornish fairies are, and whatever their origin, they are not without their interest from the folklore point of view, and we hope that these stories about them will be pleasing, not only to Cornish people themselves, but to those who come to visit 'the land outside England.' I am indebted to my kind publishers for their deep interest in these folklore tales, and to Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge, a Cornishman, for so faithfully depicting many of the scenes referred to. ENYS TREGARTHEN CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The Piskey-Purse 1 II. The Magic Pail 59 III. The Witch in the Well 111 IV. Borrowed Eyes and Ears 168 V. The Little White Hare 191 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE 'The ugly little creature sped away, followed by three wee hares' Frontispiece Polzeath Bay 1 'She opened wide her pinafore so that the tiny Brown Man could take them out' 7 '"That is the wishtest news I've heard"' 22 '"See if they will fit you"' 35 '"Will you help me, dear little Mister Spriggan?"' 37 'The Shoes began to take her over that dreadful bog' 43 'She saw standing out in the semi-darkness a great Tolmên' 47 A Cornish Tin-mine 59 'A tiny old woman with a small costan, or bramble-basket, on her back' 65 '"However did 'ee manage to lift the cheeld on to your lap?"' 73 'It hovered over the uplifted Pail' 82 Carn Kenidzhek 110 '"Fly up!" cackled the old hag' 121 'The little white dog seemed to bend his head in thought' 125 'The stone was on the hearthstone, burning away like a faggot' 145 'Over the moor and across the downs they all went' 161 Tamarisk Lane 168 'She put her shrimping-net under the whirling brightness and caught it' 173 'Bowed like a courtier' 180 'The small White Hare suffered him to stroke its fur' 195 'Took up the Magic Horn and put it to his mouth' 204 'He had not expected to see her half so beautiful' 205 'In the glow of the setting sun' 207 THE PISKEY-PURSE Under a hill, and facing Polzeath Bay, a wild, desolate but magnificent porth on the north coast of Cornwall, stood a small stone cottage, thatched with reed, and with tiny casement windows. It was enclosed by a low hedge, also built of stone, which many generations of orange-coloured lichens, pennycakes and moss, had made pleasant to look at and soft to sit on. The cottage and hedge thus confronting the porth, with its beach of grey-gold sand, commanded the great headland that flanked it on its north side, and leagues and leagues of shining water stretching away to where the sun went down. Three people lived in this cottage--a very old woman called Carnsew, and her two great-grandchildren--Gerna and Gelert. They were a lonely trio, for they were the only people living at the bay at that time. The children had nobody but themselves to play with, and nothing much to do all day long save to pick limpets for their Great-Grannie's ducks, and to help her a bit in the houseplace and in the garden, which grew very little except potatoes, cabbages, herbs, and gillyflowers. They never went to school, for there was no school for them to go to, even if their great-grandmother could have afforded to send them, which she could not; but in spite of that, they were not ignorant children, and although they did not know A from B, they knew a great deal about the Small People, or fairies, of which there were many kinds in the Cornish land. The Great-Grannie having lived ninety odd years in the world, was well up in everything relating to the Small People, or she thought she was, and it was she who told her great-grandchildren about them. Gerna and Gelert cared most to hear about what they called their own dear Wee Folk--the merry little Piskeys--who, Great-Grannie said, lived in one of the googs or caverns down in their bay. Piskey Goog, as their particular cavern was called, was half-way down the beach in Great Pentire itself, and just beyond Pentire Glaze Hawn. On the top of the cliff were large Rings, where the merry Little People held their gammets, or games, and danced in the moonshine. The children often sat on the hedge of their cottage to watch the Piskeys dancing, and, as the hedge was in view of Pentire Glaze cliffs, they could hear the Piskeys laughing, which they did so heartily that sometimes Gerna and Gelert could not help laughing too. They could also see their lights--Piskey-lights they called them--flashing on the turf until they sometimes wondered if a hundred little dinky [1]-fires were burning there. One June evening, when the moon was getting near her full and making everything beautiful, even the dark headland standing grimly out from the soft sky, the Piskeys, as they thought, were again holding their revels on the top of the cliff, and as they danced the Rings seemed one blaze, and their laughter broke more frequently than ever on the quiet of the evening. There was no other sound to be heard save the far-off growl of the sea, for the tide was down. Gerna and her brother were on the hedge as usual, and as they watched the dark moving figures and the flashing of the little fires they longed that they, too, could join the dancers. When the fun seemed to be at its height, the Piskey-lights went suddenly out, and a weird cry, like the cry of a sea-bird proclaiming a storm, broke on the silence, which so startled the children that they gripped each other's hands in trembling amazement. Then they saw in the moonshine hundreds and hundreds of tiny dark figures, all in a line, on the edge of the cliffs from Pentire Glaze Hawn to the cliff above Piskey Goog, some of whom seemed to be bending over the cavern; and then they disappeared. The day following, Great-Grannie sent Gelert up to St. Hinver Churchtown, a village three miles from Polzeath, on an errand, and Gerna down to the bay to pick limpets. The little girl had picked half a basketful when she saw a dozen or more Piskey-purses lying by the side of a rock-pool. Leaving her basket near a seaweed-covered rock, she went to get them. Her Great-Grannie had told her and Gelert that these brown, skin-like things so often found in this bay were used by the Piskeys to keep their gold in, and if they were ever lucky enough to find a Piskey-purse with their coins in it they would be rich as a Spriggan. [2] Gerna and her brother never forgot this: not that the dear little maid loved money, or wanted to be rich, for she certainly did not; but her Great-Grannie did, and so did her brother; and so, for their sakes, whenever Gerna saw a Piskey-purse she stooped and picked it up to see if it contained any golden pieces. But the only gold she had ever found in them were grains of sand! When the little girl had picked up all the brown bags she could see, to look into at her leisure, her soft blue eyes were attracted by a light-brown mottled thing half-hidden under a bunch of wet seaweed. Taking it up, she found it was a Piskey-purse, at least in shape, but it was of a much lighter colour, and all over it were tiny golden rings, with a halo of silver round each, like rays shooting out from a sun. Its skin was not flat like all the other Piskey-purses she had ever seen. It was quite plump, and rather soft, like a half-ripe gooseberry, and closed at both ends, which was also unusual. As she was wondering if it were a Piskey-purse, a tiny voice, no bigger than a wren's, only far sweeter, came out of the purse, which so frightened the child that she nearly dropped it. 'Hide me quickly in your pocket,' it said. 'They are coming out on the bar to look for this purse, but please don't let them find it.' Gerna was too terrified to do other than she was asked, and lifting the skirt of her tinker-blue frock, she dropped the mottled purse into the depths of an unbleached pocket tied under her frock. She had scarcely done so when she saw a tiny kiskey [3] of a man come out of Piskey Goog, followed by a score of others much like himself. They all had on three-cornered hats and knee-breeches, their tiny sticks of legs were encased in black stockings, and on their feet they wore low-heeled buckled shoes. Apparently they did not see Gerna, who was standing on the edge of the pool with her pinafore half-full of brown Piskey-purses. Their little faces, which were not pleasant to look at, for they were brown and withered--much more withered and brown than the Great-Grannie's--were bent on the sand. It was easy to tell, by the way they were turning over every bit of seaweed, that they were searching for something. As one of the wee Dark Men--it was the first who came out of the goog--turned his face seaward, he caught sight of Gerna standing by the pool. Instead of his disappearing into the cavern, as Great-Grannie told her the Small People would do when they saw anybody looking at them, he took off his little three-cornered hat and came towards her, and Gerna, poor little maid, was too frightened to run away. 'May I ask what you have got in your pinny' (pinafore), 'which you are holding so tight?' he asked, with what was meant to be a most fascinating smile, but which only terrified her the more. 'Only Piskey-purses, please, little mister,' she gasped, 'which I was a-going to look into when I've got time.' 'What did you hope to find there, eh?' 'Some of the dear little Piskeys' golden money,' answered the child. 'Did you? You are a nice little girl' (she was a giantess compared with him) 'to want the Small People's gold, and I hope one of the purses has some. May I look into them for you and see?' 'Iss, if you like,' cried Gerna; and, sitting down on the sand, she opened wide her pinafore, so that the tiny Brown Man could take them out, which, however, he did not do. 'The Small People never put anything of value into these common brown things,' he said disdainfully, just glancing at the purses in her lap. 'The bags into which we put our golden money are much prettier, and are painted all over with golden rings, with dashes of white, like this,' making tiny strokes with his finger on the sand. 'If you ever find such a purse you will indeed be a lucky little maid--that is, if you take it into Piskey Goog and put it on a shelf of rock there, which is what I want you to do. We value these ring-marked purses more than I can tell you,' he continued, as Gerna did not speak, 'and are greatly troubled when we lose one of them; we have done so now, and shall never be happy any more until we find it.' 'My dear life!' ejaculated the child. 'In return for your kindness, if you find the bag we have lost and bring it to Piskey Goog, we will give you another something like it, full of gold, and you will be quite rich, and be able to buy anything you want.' 'My dear soul and body!' ejaculated Gerna again. 'I mean what I say,' continued the man, looking up into the little maid's open face with a glitter in his twinkling black eyes, which were no bigger than a robin's eyes, and not nearly so soft. 'But I warn you that if you do find this purse, you must not tell anybody of your great find, but bring it straight to Piskey Goog.' Whilst he was impressing this upon Gerna, who was getting over her fear of the little Brown Man, she remembered the mottled purse in her pocket, and was on the point of telling him, when a great voice roared out over the bay, and, on looking round, she saw a man called Farmer Vivian coming across the bar. The great voice, or Farmer Vivian himself, she did not know which, so frightened the Brown Piskey Man that he took to his heels, and in less than a minute he and all the other Little Men had vanished into their cavern. Gerna was on the point of following him thither, for she was almost certain that the mottled purse she had found was the one they had lost, when a great wave broke over the rock where she was standing, and nearly knocked her down, and she had to run away from the cavern to escape another wave. As she turned to go back to her limpet-picking, she found the limpet rocks were all covered with the incoming tide; her basket, poised high on a breaker and upside down, was fortunately thrown in on the sands at her feet. 'Great-Grannie will be terribly put out,' she told herself as she went home, 'and the poor little ducklings will have to go without supper.' The ancient dame was even more vexed than Gerna thought she would be, and sent her at once to bed, and Gelert had to sit on the hedge alone to watch the Piskeys dancing; but they never appeared on the headland, for all his watching. As Gerna was undressing, the pocket under her frock began to twitch and shake as if it had St. Vitus's dance. As she hastened to untie it, the little voice she had heard in the mottled purse before the Wee Men came out of the cavern spoke to her again. 'Please take me out of your pocket; I want so much to talk to you.' The child, though somewhat afraid, did so, and held the bag carefully in her hand. 'I cannot tell you how thankful I feel that you did not take me to Piskey Goog, as that little Brown Man asked you to do.' 'Did you hear what he said?' asked Gerna, greatly surprised. 'Every word; and I was so afraid you would tell him you had found me. It would have been too dreadful if you had, especially after they dropped me by accident over the cliff, as they did, and haven't been able to find me since.' 'However did you get into this purse?' asked the child. 'Hager, the King of the Spriggans, put me in here and sealed me up, so that I should not get out,' said the little voice. 'Whatever for?' 'Because I wouldn't marry him, and because he was afraid somebody else I loved was going to marry me.' 'He can't be a very nice king,' said Gerna. 'I am glad I didn't take the purse to the cavern, as you are inside. You know, don't you, that the little brown kiskey of a man promised they would give me a bag full of gold if I took this purse to their place. Will they?' 'It all depends,' answered the little voice. 'The Spriggans--all those little Dark Men you saw on the sands were Spriggans--are dreadful storytellers, and they never keep their word unless they are obliged to. If they cannot get this purse without having to pay heavily for it, they will give you what they offered. Do you want to be rich, dear little maid?' it asked anxiously. 'I don't one bit,' returned the child truthfully; 'but my Great-Grannie and my brother Gelert do. If they were to know that the little Brown Man had promised to give me a bag of gold if I take this one to Piskey Goog, Great-Grannie would make me take it. We are very poor--poor as a coot, she says.' As the small voice in the purse was silent: 'If I don't take you to the goog, will you give me some of the dear Little People's golden money?' 'I have no gold to give,' said the voice very sadly. 'And if I had, I would not like to give it you, for it would not bring you real happiness. But if you take me down to the cavern, as the Spriggan suggested, you will break my heart. Hager, [4] who is even crueller than his name, will never let me escape from him any more.' 'But I wasn't going to take you to the goog,' said Gerna. 'I should let you out first, of course.' 'It is very kind of you to say so,' said the little voice, with a tremble in it. 'But you would not be able to open this purse, which, by the way, is not a purse at all, but a prison.' 'I guess I could,' cried the child. 'My hands are ever so strong, and if they can get limpets off the rocks, they can open this tiny little thing, I'm sure. I'll open it now, this very minute.' Her strong young fingers began tugging at the end of the bag, but to her surprise she could not open it. After working for ten minutes or more, she gave up in despair. 'I told you so,' said the tiny voice sadly. 'Much stronger fingers than yours could not open this prison-bag, and no knife, however sharp, could cut its skin.' 'Why could it not?' asked the little maid. 'Because a spell has been worked upon it,' the wee voice answered. 'I don't know what you mean,' said Gerna. 'When Hager put me here,' explained the voice, 'he was so afraid the dear Little People, and those who loved me, would discover where he had put me, and find out a way to release me, that he made it impossible by an evil spell that anybody--even himself--should be able to set me free for ninety-nine years three hundred and sixty-five days, unless a very poor little girl could be found who had no love of gold in her soul, nor any greed for riches, and who, out of the deep pity of a kind little heart, would be willing to carry me for love's sake, in the dead of night, through a great bog haunted by hobgoblins, over a lonely moor to where a Tolmên [5] stands, and pass me three times through the Tolmên's hole before the sun rises, and then lay me on its top, so that the first ray of the rising sun might smite upon the bag. This will break the spell and set me free.' 'What a terrible lot for a little maid to do!' cried Gerna. 'I don't believe one will ever be found to do all that, however kind she is.' 'That is just what Hager believed,' said the voice sadly. 'And yet I was once hopeful that such a dear little child would be found, or rather would find this purse with its helpless prisoner inside, and take compassion on me. But as the long years dragged on, and no such little maiden came to my help, hope died within me, and I was in utter despair, until you discovered me half hidden under some seaweed, picked me up, and brought me hither. And now hope has begun to revive in my heart again.' 'Have you been in this prison-purse a long time?' asked Gerna, who dimly felt that the poor little prisoner was appealing to her pity. 'A very long time,' sighed the little voice--'one hundred years all but a few days.' 'My goodness gracious!' exclaimed the little Cornish maid in great amazement. 'How terrible old you must be--older even than my Great-Grannie, who is ever so much past ninety.' 'I suppose I am old, as you count age,' said the little voice, in which Gerna detected a laugh. 'Have you really been in this bag ninety-nine years?' she asked, not being able to get over her surprise. 'Yes; and I am grieved to say the hour for my release has almost come. Before the birth of the new moon, which is on Friday next, Hager will take me out, if no child before that time carries me over the bog and moor, and passes me through the Tolmên.' 'Was it only 'cause you wouldn't marry that old Spriggan king you got put into this prison?' asked Gerna. 'Yes, that was the only reason,' answered the little voice. 'I happened to be beautiful, you see, and because of my beauty he stole me away from my own dear little True Love, who was just going to marry me. If it ends, as I fear it will, in his getting me into his power again, I and my True Love will break our hearts.' 'But I shouldn't think anybody would want to marry you now, if you are so old as you say you are,' cried Gerna, with all a child's candour, thinking of her shrivelled, toothless old great-grandmother. 'And yet Hager, in spite of my age, is waiting impatiently for the waning of the moon to marry me,' said the little voice, with another sigh. 'I overheard him talking about it to some of his people, and what grand doings they would have then, and how they would send an invitation to all the dear Little People--my own True Love included--to come to the wedding.' 'What a horrid person he must be!' cried Gerna indignantly. 'Why ever didn't your little True Love come and take you away?' 'He can't, because of the spells Hager worked upon this bag.' 'Haven't you seen your little True Love all those long years?' asked the child. 'Not once. But I thought I heard his voice when the little Brown Man was telling you to bring the ring-marked purse to Piskey Goog.' 'There was nobody on the beach except those little Dark Men searching for this purse and Farmer Vivian,' said Gerna. 'Farmer Vivian is a great big man, and lives up at Pentire Glaze Farm. He is very kind, and he do love all the Little People dearly.' 'How do you know he does?' asked the little voice eagerly. 'My Great-Grannie told me he did, and she do know. This little cottage of ours belongs to him, and he al'ays talks to her about the Wee Folk when she goes up to his house to pay the rent. There! Great-Gran is calling up the stairs to ask if I'm in bed. I shall have to put 'ee back into my big pocket now. I hope you won't mind.' 'Not one bit. The only thing I do mind is being given into Hager's power. You won't take me to Piskey Goog, whatever the little Brown Man offers you, will you, dear?' 'Not unless Great-Grannie finds out I've got you an' makes me,' said the child, putting the purse very carefully into the unbleached pocket. 'I hope she won't go looking into it when she comes up to bed.' 'Can't you hide the pocket somewhere?' asked the little voice anxiously. 'I can put it into the big chest here by the window,' said Gerna, looking around the mean little chamber, which was very bare. 'A storm washed it in on the bar last winter, and Great-Gran don't keep nothing in it but her best clothes.' 'Then put me into the chest,' piped the little voice. 'And please come and take me out to-morrow as soon as you can. It cheers me to hear the voice of a friend, and I believe you are a true friend, you dear little maid!' The child dropped the pocket into the great sea-chest very quickly, for the ancient dame again called up the stairs to ask if she were in bed, and then came up to see if she were. Great-Grannie did not get up until quite late the next day, and when she did she sent Gerna to the beach to pick limpets for the ducks, and Gelert to weed the small potato plot at the back of the cottage, a work he hated doing. When the little girl got to the bay the tide was only half-way down, and it was ever so long before she could get near the limpet rocks. But as soon as the tide let her she began her limpet-picking, and never looked round once. Her basket was half full when she heard a sharp little voice behind her. 'Have you found the purse I told you of?' 'I haven't looked yet to-day,' said the child, without glancing round. 'I lost all my limpets yesterday through picking up Piskey-purses, an' my Great-Grannie was ever so cross. She sent me to bed without any supper; an' the poor little ducks had to go without their supper too.' 'I am so sorry,' said the little Brown Man, climbing the rock to be on a level with her face; 'but I would not let such a small matter as that prevent me from looking for that purse with its gold ring markings. Your Great-Grannie will never be vexed with you any more when you have found it, and receive another one full of the Small People's gold in exchange.' 'How did you come to lose your purse?' asked the child, anxious to hear what he would say. 'Unfortunately, I took it with me a night or two ago to the cliff above our dwelling-place, where we have our games, and by a terrible misfortune I dropped it over the cliff. I and my relations have been looking for it ever since. I have come here to-day to renew the offer I made yesterday. You would like to be rich, wouldn't you?' 'We are terrible poor!' said the child evasively--'the poorest people in St. Minver parish, Great-Grannie said.' 'Are you really, you poor things?' said the little Brown Man kindly. 'Then, in that case I will double my reward if you find the purse. I will give you two purses full of the Small People's golden money instead of only one. It must, however, be brought to Piskey Goog before the next new moon, and as the present one is in her last quarter, there is not much time to lose, is there?' 'No,' said the child, still going on with her limpet-picking. 'Won't you go and look for it now?' asked the little Brown Man, with a hint of impatience in his voice. 'The tide will be on the flow again soon, and your chance for to-day will be gone.' 'I must fill my basket with limpets first,' said Gerna; 'Grannie raises ducks to sell to the gentry, and we can't afford for them to lose a meal, she says.' 'You are like a limpet yourself; there is no moving you against your will,' cried the little man, scowling, 'and----' What else he would have said there was no knowing, for Farmer Vivian appeared on the sands at that moment, and shouted across the gray-gold bar, and this caused the little Piskey Man to take to his heels and run into his cavern. Gerna did not stay on the beach after the wee Brown Man had disappeared--she felt afraid somehow--and she went home with only half a basketful of limpets. This so put out Great-Grannie that she vowed she would send her down to the porth again to find more, if one of her precious ducklings hadn't taken it into its head to have a fit, which so bewildered her that she sent Gelert instead! What with the sick duckling to attend to, and other little chores the child had to do for the ancient dame, she had not a minute to steal up to the little chamber. When at last she thought she was free, Gelert rushed into the cottage all excitement. 'What do you think?' he cried, 'the dear little Piskey Men are out on the sands looking for a Piskey-purse. They have lost one, they told me, and whoever finds it and takes it into Piskey Goog shall have a purse full of the Small People's golden money.' 'You don't mean for to say so?' exclaimed the old woman. 'To think of it now! Go along, both of 'ee,' glancing at Gerna, 'an' search for that purse until you do find it.' 'I've searched and searched till I'm tired,' said the boy, 'an' I would have gone on searching if the old sea wasn't tearing in like mad.' 'Oh dear, what a pity!' cried the Great-Grannie. 'We must all go an' look for that purse to-morrow. I wouldn't have us lose our chance of being rich for anything. Now,' turning to Gerna, 'make haste an' get our suppers, for the boy must be as hungry as a hedger after such work.' When the supper was ready, and as they were eating, Gelert remarked: 'I forgot to tell you, Great-Grannie, that the little Brown Men told me it was noised about that Farmer Vivian is going to sell all his land--this little cottage too--and that we are to be turned out.' 'That is the wishtest [6] news I've heard this longful time,' wailed the old woman. 'There isn't another cottage down here, and all the little houses up to Trebetherick an' Churchtown is more rent than I could ever pay.' 'We shall be able to live in a great big house--the biggest house in the parish--when we've found that purse and got the other with the golden pennies, the little Piskey Man told me,' said the boy. 'The money will come just when we most want it--won't it, Great-Gran dear?' 'It will,' chuckled the ancient dame; 'an' we must give ourselves no rest till we find that purse.' 'I feared you had forgotten me,' said the sweet wee voice in the Piskey-bag an hour later, when Gerna had taken it out of the chest. 'I hadn't forgotten you,' said the child a little sadly; 'but I couldn't come before, 'cause----' 'Because what?' asked the little voice anxiously. 'You have not come to give me into the power of the Spriggans, have you?' 'Not now, but I am afraid I shall have to,' said Gerna. And she then told her how the little Brown Man had come to her again, and how he had doubled his offer if she brought the lost purse to the goog. She also told her all the news Gelert had brought up from the beach, and of Farmer Vivian selling his cottage. 'There isn't a word of truth about his selling your cottage,' said the little voice indignantly. 'He is far too kind to turn an old woman and two little children like you out of your home. It is because he is good that the Spriggans are afraid of him and speak of him so unkindly.' 'But if it should be true,' persisted Gerna, 'will you give me a purseful of golden money if I don't take you to the goog?' 'How quickly you forget, child! I told you but yesterday that I had no gold to give you,' said the little voice. 'Surely you do not love money more than you do kindness and pity? And you are going to commit an unkind deed--for it will be an unkind deed if you sell me for gold. Woe is me!' 'But the purse belongs to the Spriggan King,' said Gerna, as if to excuse herself. 'I shall be only giving him what belongs to him.' 'That is quite true. But I do not belong to him; I belong to my Mammie and Daddy and my own little True Love, whom I shall never, never see again if you take me to Piskey Goog. And I shall be dead to them for ever and ever and ever!' 'Then I won't let those nasty little Dark People have 'ee, whatever they do offer,' cried the child. 'I only wish I could take 'ee over that bog an' moor you told me of to the Tolmên.' 'A wish is father to the deed,' said the little voice somewhat more cheerfully. 'If you really desire to do that act of pity,' it added, after a pause, 'you have not much time to lose, for the moon is on the wane, and there are only three clear days to the birth of the new moon.' 'I wish I wasn't afraid of being out alone in the dark,' said the child, shuddering. 'I am a wisht coward when it is dark. So I'm afraid I shall never be brave enough to take 'ee to the Tolmên, though I want to, dreadful. But I'll never let the Spriggans have 'ee, dear,' she added, greatly distressed, as a groan terrible in its despair came out of the bag. 'Don't 'ee make so wisht a sound. It do make me sad to hear 'ee.' 'I can't help it,' said the wee voice, which was as full of tears as ever a voice could be. 'Not even love can keep me from the Spriggans after the moon is born. All power to resist them will be gone, and they can come into this cottage unseen by human eyes and take me away. They suspect where I am now, and are only afraid I have discovered a child who is not only no lover of money, but who is kind enough to take me to the Tolmên.' 'Whatever will 'ee do!' cried Gerna, tears welling to her eyes. 'I don't believe I shall be happy any more if I know those ghastly little Spriggans have 'ee.' 'I don't believe you would, you dear little maid.' 'I tell 'ee what,' cried the child, making a big resolve: 'I will take---- There! Great-Grannie is coming up the stairs. Good-night till to-morrow.' The ancient dame was up with the sun the next day, and made Gerna and Gelert get up too, that no time might be lost in looking for the Piskey-purse. She would hardly give them time to eat their breakfast, so greedy was she to have the Small People's golden money. As she was taking down her sunbonnet, she knocked over a heavy piece of wood, which fell on her big toe, and it hurt her so badly that, much to her vexation, she had to let the children go without her. The tide was in when they got down to the bay, and so smooth and still was it that 'it couldn't wash up anything, even if it wanted to,' said Gelert crossly. He turned over all the seaweed at high-water mark, but saw nothing except sea-fleas. When the tide was far enough down, Gerna went all over the beach with her brother; but as she had already found the lost purse, she picked up shells instead. 'I don't b'lieve you want to find the Piskey-purse, Gerna Carnsew,' growled Gelert, when he saw what she was doing. 'I don't b'lieve you want to have the Small People's golden pieces one little bit.' 'I didn't say I did,' cried Gerna, which made the boy so angry that he went off to the other side of the bar to look for the purse alone. Gerna was stooping to pick up a shell, of which there were many on the sands to-day, when the little Brown Man came up to her, doffed his three-cornered hat, and grinned into her face. 'Have you found our lost purse yet?' he asked. 'The time for finding it is up the day after to-morrow.' 'Whatever do you mean, little mister?' 'What I say, and that your chance of being wealthy will be gone. Are you looking for the precious bag now?' 'My Great-Grannie sent me and Gelert down here to look for it,' said the child evasively. 'Gelert is over there looking,' again sending her glance across the bar, which was particularly beautiful to-day with reflected clouds. 'I know he is, and he seems much more anxious to find the purse than you are. Perhaps our offer, great as it was, is not sufficiently tempting. If it isn't'--looking keenly into the child's sweet face--'we will treble our reward. Three purses full of the Wee Folks' golden money will we give you if you bring us the bag. It will be more than enough to buy all the land in your parish, including your own dear little cottage, should it ever be sold.' 'Will it really?' cried Gerna, deeply impressed, and for the first time in her innocent young life the desire to be rich came into her unselfish little soul. 'Yes; and you will be a very great lady indeed,' said the small Dark Man, with an evil laugh, seeing he had gained a point--'greater even than Lady Sandys, who lives up at St. Minver Churchtown.' He might have said many more things to entice the poor little maid's envy; but just then a great voice above their heads startled them, and, looking up, Gerna saw Farmer Vivian on the top of Tristram, a hill facing Pentire Glaze. The Spriggan took to his heels at once, and there was a helter-skelter amongst all the Little Men, whom she had not seen on the sands until then, and one and all rushed into Piskey Goog, as if a regiment of soldiers were after them. Gelert continued his search for the purse until the sea flowed in again, and Gerna sat on a rock picturing to herself what the Churchtown folk would say to her when she bought all the land in the parish, and became a person of even greater importance than Lady Sandys. As she was enjoying all this wealth in anticipation, it suddenly rushed upon her at what price she would buy her riches--the happiness of a poor little helpless thing in a Spriggan's prison--and she felt so ashamed of herself that the desire for gold died within her, and such pity for her little friend came in its place that she was now quite determined to take the bag over the bog country to the moor where the Tolmên was, cost her what it might. When the children came home, Great-Grannie was all eagerness to know if the purse were found, and when Gelert told her it was not, and that Gerna had been looking for shells instead of the lost Piskey-purse, her anger knew no bounds, and she smacked the poor little maid, and once more sent her supperless to bed. 'I wish all the Spriggans' gold would be swallowed up in the sea,' said poor Gerna, as she went up to the little bed-chamber. 'Great-Grannie was never vexed with me before that Dinky Man wanted to make me rich with his golden pieces. 'Tis better to be poor an' contented, I reckon, than to be rich and be miserable.' The ancient dame, finding her toe getting worse, followed her small great-granddaughter upstairs, and as she did not go down again that night, Gerna had no chance of speaking to the little prisoner. Nor had she the next morning, for she was kept so busy, what with bathing Great-Grannie's injured toe, and all the other odds and ends of things she had to do before going down to the bay, that she had not a minute to herself until bedtime. The old woman, in her desire for gold, no longer considered the voracious appetites of her numerous ducks, and told the children that, as the finding of that lost purse was of such great importance, the limpet-picking must stand over until the purse was found. Gelert was delighted to be relieved of an uncongenial task, and went off to search for the purse with a light heart; but Gerna, not wanting to go to the beach at all, begged to stay at home, which made Great-Grannie so cross that she said she was not to come back until she had found it. Either the clock had gone wrong or the old woman's brain, for it was much later than she thought, and when the children got down to the bay the sea was rushing up the sands at such a terrible speed that the time for searching was very short. It had surrounded the rocks where the limpets clung when they got there, and was almost up to Piskey Goog. Gelert went to the other side of the bay at once, leaving Pentire side to Gerna. But as the little maid knew there was no other purse to find than the one she had found, she began again to pick up shells. There were very lovely shells on the sands to-day, all the colours of the rainbow--in fact, they looked as they lay in the eye of the sun as if they had fallen from the sky. As the child was stooping to pick them up, out of the cavern came a troop of little Brown Men, with the Wee Man who had always spoken to her at the head. He made at once for the child. 'Picking up shells again!' he cried, 'and all those purses of gold awaiting you there in the goog! Why, I am beginning to think you do not want to be rich. Do you?' 'I did issterday, [7] but I don't one little bit now,' said the child, turning her frank gaze full upon the little Dark Man's upturned face. 'What!' he cried, looking as black as a thundercloud, 'you don't mean to tell me that you are going to miss the great chance of having three purses full of the Wee Folks' golden money?' 'Iss, I do,' said the little maid. 'I don't want even one piece of your old golden money, little Mister Spriggan!' If the cliff towering above them had tumbled down upon him the little Dark Man could not have looked more crushed. Then he scowled all over his face, shook his scrap of a fist at her, and yelled: 'I know now that you found the purse we lost, and that the little voice within it--it is nothing more than a voice, remember--has bewitched you as it has others, and that it does not want you to be rich, happy, and great as we do. You will be sorry all your days you have lost your opportunity to be rich, and you will find you cannot even keep the thing which you have found.' There was a heavy ground sea that day, and the waves were so huge that Gerna had to go farther up the beach out of their reach, and when she turned to see what the Dinky Men were doing, she saw them all slinking into Piskey Goog like whipped dogs. Great-Grannie was in no better temper than she had been the previous day at her great-grand-children's failure; and when she asked if Gerna had been looking for the purse, and Gelert said 'No,' she was so vexed and cross, she not only thumped the child, but sent her upstairs to stay the rest of the day. The poor little maid felt so miserable that she did not take out the purse and talk to the prisoner for ever so long; but when she did she told her all she had said to the wee Dark Man. 'Did you really say all that to his face--refuse his gold and call him a Spriggan?' cried the little voice in amazement. 'I did,' said Gerna; 'an' he did look terrible, sure 'nough.' 'I don't wonder! I am sure now you are brave enough to take me through the bog and over the moor to the Tolmên. Will you, dear little maid?' 'I want to, if I can,' said the child. 'But I don't know the way to the Tolmên. There is no Tolmên anywhere near here that I know of.' 'There is one, though nobody seems to know of it, away towards the sunrising, near where a great Tor rises up against the sky,' said the little voice quite cheerfully. 'I do not know the way to it myself, but there is a pair of Shoes which do, and they can take any person on whose feet they are over the worst bog that ever was.' 'What wonderful shoes!' cried Gerna. 'Where are they?' 'Farmer Vivian has them,' said the little prisoner, with something in her voice Gerna did not understand. 'They were given him by one of the Small People. The next time you go down to the beach and see him there, ask him for these shoes, and if they fit you I shall know for certain that you are the little maid who can save me.' 'Hush!' whispered Gerna. 'Great-Gran is clopping up the stairs, an' I must pop into bed afore she comes.' 'Take me into bed with you,' whispered back the little voice, 'and hide me in the folds of your bed-gown.' When Gerna was sound asleep, the ancient dame began to look into every corner of the little chamber, as if she, too, were searching for something. She turned out all the things, even the child's pockets, took everything out of the great sea-chest, muttering to herself as she did so; and then she went to the bed where Gerna slept, and turned her over on her side, and felt under the clothes and the pillow. 'I was wrong; she ent a-got the purse,' she said aloud to herself, 'an' I thought she had. Aw, dear! I'm afraid we shall never have that bag an' the Small People's money.' And then she undressed and got into bed. But the old woman could not sleep a wink that night, and only dozed off when Gerna awoke. The child had only time to drop her little friend into the chest before Great-Grannie was wide awake again and getting up to dress. At the flow of the tide the children were again hurried off to the beach to search for the lost Piskey-purse, the old dame loudly lamenting that she was not able to go with them, owing to the hurt to her toe. The tide was in, and whilst they waited for it to go down, Farmer Vivian came across the bar, and Gelert, seeing him coming towards them, made off. 'How is it you haven't been picking limpets lately?' asked the farmer, with a kindly smile, looking down at Gerna. 'Great-Grannie ordered us to look for a Piskey-purse instead,' said the little maid dolefully. Then she remembered what the little voice had asked her to do if she saw Farmer Vivian. 'Yes,' he said, in answer to her question, 'I have such a pair of Shoes, and, odd to say, I have them in my pocket. What do you want them for?' 'To see if they will fit me, please, sir. May I have them now and try them on?' 'You may, certainly; but I am afraid they are far too small even for your little feet.' He dipped his hand into his coat-pocket, and, taking out a tiny pair of moss-coloured Shoes, he gave them to the child. 'Why, they are dolly's shoes!' she cried; 'only big enough for the Small People's feet. I am terribly disappointed.' 'Are you? Well, never mind; just see if they will fit you.' 'I will, just for fun,' laughed Gerna; and, putting one of them to her bare foot, to her unspeakable amazement it began to stretch, and in a minute it was on! 'Well, I never!' cried Farmer Vivian, and his great voice was so full of delight that it roared out all over the bar, even louder than Giant Tregeagle, whose roar of rage is still sometimes heard on St. Minver sandhills. 'The Shoe has stretching powers, it seems. Try to get on its fellow.' Gerna quickly did so, and was as proud as a hen with a brood of chicks as she stared at her feet. 'You will have to keep them now,' said the farmer, lowering his big voice to such gentleness and sweetness that she would have thought it was her own little friend at home in the sea-chest if she had not known it wasn't. 'A dear little lady gave them to me to keep until I should find somebody they would fit, and I have waited a very long time for that somebody. With the Shoes she gave me a Lantern, which she said must be given with the Shoes;' and once more diving into his pocket, he fished out the tiniest lantern Gerna had ever seen. 'Just big enough,' he said, 'to light home a benighted dumbledory' (bumblebee); and he went away laughing towards the cliffs. Gerna kept on the Shoes till the tide was down to Piskey Goog, when she took them off and put them into her underskirt pocket with the dinky Lantern. The sands were strewn with Piskey-purses to-day instead of shells, and as it gave her something to do, she picked up as many as she could see; and when the tide had gone down to Pentire Hawn, she went near there and sat on a rock. So occupied was she with looking into the purses, and asking herself whether she ever could take the poor little imprisoned fairy across the bog country that night--for she knew it would have to be to-night if she took her at all--that she forgot all about the tide, which by this time had reached its lowest ebb, and was flowing in again. The sea grew rough as it turned, and began to rush up the great beach and beat on the outer rocks with a terrible roar. When Gerna had glanced into the last of her purses she looked about her, and found to her consternation that the sea was a long way up the bar, and the rock on which she sat was almost surrounded by angry water. It was now quite impossible for her to get to the sands, and the only place not cut off by the sea was a tiny cove--a mere gash in the cliff midway between the two hawns, Pentire and Pentire Glaze. As it was, it was her only place of safety--at least, for a time--and she went to it at once, and sat down, white and frightened, under the cliff that towered darkly above her. After a few minutes she stood up and shouted with all her might for someone to come to her help, but her shouts were drowned in the loud thunder of the breakers. She shouted until she was hoarse--for she did not want to be drowned, poor child, and she knew there was no way out of the cove except by the cliff, which it was quite impossible for her to climb--and then she again sat down and wept bitterly. As she was crying and sobbing, a strange noise above her made her look up, and there in a tiny hole in the face of the cliff a few feet above her head she saw the grinning face of a little Dark Man! 'You are caught in a trap,' he said, with a cough, 'and you will surely be drowned if we do not come to your help.' 'Will you help me, dear little Mister Spriggan?' cried Gerna, hope dawning in her eyes. 'Yes, if you will bring back to our goog, when the sea goes out, that precious purse which we know you have found.' 'I cannot do that, 'cause I promised I wouldn't, whatever happened,' said the child, greatly distressed. 'Oh, then in that case we will leave you to the mercy of the sea! Of course, it will drown you, and a good thing too, for it will prevent your doing what the voice asked you to do. We shall have the bag and it in our hands again to-morrow, whilst you will make a dainty dish for the fishes' supper!' and the stone clicked and the ugly little face disappeared. 'Hello! What are you doing down there, and the waves breaking all around you?' cried a voice far up the cliff, and, turning her tearful gaze upwards, Gerna saw kind Farmer Vivian--who looked almost as small as one of the Wee Folk from that great height--looking down upon her. 'A very good thing I gave you those dinky Shoes this morning. Put them on quickly. There is not a moment to lose. In the cliff to your right you will find some steps cut out of the rock. They are very small indeed, but quite large enough for those little green Shoes to climb up on.' Gerna hastened to obey, and she saw on the face of the cliff a tiny winding stairway. She put her feet on the first stair, and found herself going up and up without fear, and she was soon at the top of the cliff, standing by Farmer Vivian's side. 'There you are, as right as the Small People's change!' said he, with a smile in his eyes, which were as blue as the sea itself, and oh! so gentle and kind. 'Don't take off your Shoes until you have passed all the Piskey Rings, or Spriggan Traps, or whatever they are,' he said, as Gerna turned her face towards her cottage. 'Pentire is full of them to-day--all made since last night, and all the colour of your dear little Shoes.' 'You can't step anywhere without putting your feet on a Ring,' Gerna said to herself, as she hurried home over the great headland. On every Ring she stepped she felt she must stop to dance like a Piskey. And she was not sure, but she thought she saw little dark faces grinning horribly at her from every Ring she passed over. Great-Grannie was much upset when she heard what dangers her little great-granddaughter had been exposed to, for Gelert had come home with the news a few minutes before that she was drowned, as he could not see her anywhere! The fright the old woman received showed her how wrong it was to covet the Small People's money, and she gave Gerna a basinful of hot bread-and-milk, and told her she could go to bed if she liked. The child was worn out with all she had gone through, and went upstairs quite early, as she wanted to rest before taking the little prisoner to the Tolmên that night. She did not undress before she had taken the ring-marked purse out of the chest once more, and told her wee friend of all that had happened and what she had gone through. 'I don't believe I should ever have got up that great cliff but for those dinky Shoes,' she added when she had told all; 'nor over Pentire Glaze.' 'I am certain you wouldn't,' said the wee voice. 'The Spriggans were all about the cliffs and headland, but they were powerless to hinder your going with those Shoes on your feet. You won't be afraid to take me over the bog now, will you, dear little maid?' 'No, that I shan't,' said Gerna; 'an' I'm a-going to do it to-night. But I must have a bit of sleep first. I hope I shall wake in time, an' that Great-Grannie won't miss me till I get back.' 'She won't miss you,' assured the little voice. 'The excitement she has suffered lately has exhausted her, and she will sleep until you are back in your own little bed again. Take me into bed with you, and put me close under your chin, and when the time is up for us to start I will tickle until I wake you.' The child was soon in a deep slumber, and it seemed to her she had only just fallen asleep when she felt something tickling her neck. 'Dress quickly!' cried the little voice close to her ear. 'But before you do, let me impress on you once more that I can never repay you for your kindness, and that all you do for me you must do out of the purest pity and love, and for nothing else. So if you have any hankering after the Little People's gold, your journey is sure to end in failure. For the Spriggans, in spite of the Shoes and the Lantern Farmer Vivian gave you, will prevent your reaching the Tolmên, and will make you give me back into their hands, and thrust upon you the golden pieces they have so often offered you, but which will only bring you trouble.' 'I don't want anything for taking you to the place where you are to be set free,' said Gerna simply. 'I am doing it 'cause I love you, an' 'cause I am terribly sorry for you and your little True Love, an' I don't want that wicked Hager to make you marry him.' 'Then let us make haste and go,' said the little voice, trembling with gladness. 'Put the Shoes on your feet before you leave the chamber, and the Lantern and me into the bosom of your frock.' There was no moon, and Gerna had to dress in the dark. It was soon done, and, with the moss-green Shoes on her feet, the ring-printed bag and the wee Lantern close to her heart, she went down the stairs and out into the night. There was not a sound to be heard save a weird cry somewhere away on Pentire, which the little voice coming up from the bosom of her frock said was Hager howling because his subjects were telling him that he must now give up all hope of ever taking to wife his poor little prisoner. 'You must not be afraid of whatever sounds you hear,' continued the little voice. 'Are we going the right way?' asked Gerna. For the Shoes were taking them up a rough, steep road behind their cottage. 'Yes, quite right; the Shoes know the way--trust them for that! Don't worry about anything; only hold me as close as you can to your warm little heart. We shall have to warm each other when we come to the bog country. It is bitterly cold there.' On and on Gerna went with her precious burden, through long lanes, up and down steep hills, over sandy commons and furze-brakes, and so fast that she could not have spoken even if she wanted to! At last she drew near the bog lands, lying flat between two high Tors. 'It's terribly cold here,' she said, when the Shoes stuck in the ground for a minute, 'and ever so dark, except where there are little lights shining out of the dark like cats' eyes!' and she began to shiver with cold and fear. 'Don't be afraid, dear child,' said the sweet little voice, in which there was no sadness now. 'The hobgoblins are out in the bog, and as they are near relations of the Spriggans, they are hand in glove with them. The Spriggans feared you would pass over this bog to-night, and have set their relations to watch. But they are not so clever as they thought themselves. They know you have the Shoes, but they don't dream you possess that wee Lantern too.' 'Is the Lantern any good?' asked Gerna in surprise. 'Farmer Vivian said it was only big enough to light home a benighted dumbledory.' 'It was a joke about the dumbledory,' laughed the little voice. 'It can do much more than that. It has the power of making you invisible, and its light will, if you hold it on the little finger, shine in on your heart and keep it warm.' 'What wonderful things there are nowadays!' exclaimed the child. 'Aren't there?' cried the little voice, with another happy laugh. 'The Lantern will not only give warmth if so held, and cloak you from the hobgoblins and wicked Spriggans, but will also give you courage, which you will need crossing this bog country.' It was well Gerna was told all this before the Shoes began to take her over that dreadful bog. The mists rose thick and cold as she advanced, and crept over her with such chilling power that she felt as cold as a conkerbell, [8] she told herself. And the countless little lights, or eyes, or whatever they were, were horrid, and seemed to glaze [9] at her whichever way she looked. There were groans and sighs, too, which filled her with a nameless terror, and but for the cheerful little voice, which every now and again told her not to be afraid, and the white, clear shining of the tiny Lantern, she would have turned back. By the time the bog was crossed, which she afterwards learned was by a narrow causeway, just wide enough for two small feet to walk on, she was chill to the very bone and terribly tired. It was well on towards the sunrising by this time, and there was yet that wild moor to cross before she reached the Tolmên, and she was afraid she would never be able to reach it in time. She was growing more and more weary every minute, and the Shoes, although they could guide and take her over the most difficult places, did not seem to be able to give her strength. 'Do you think we shall get to the Tolmên before the sun gets up?' asked the little voice anxiously. 'I don't know,' Gerna answered in a low, weary voice. 'The moon is up, I think--all there is left of it, I mean--and I can see another light shining somewhere away in the east.' 'It must be later than I thought,' said the wee voice, and the little creature within the bag began to tremble with apprehension. 'Do make haste, dear little maid! It would be quite too dreadful to be too late after all you have done to free me from Hager's power.' 'I am awfully tired,' was the child's answer. 'If I could only rest a few minutes I could go faster afterwards. Shall I? I am ready to drop.' 'You must not sit down until you have reached the Tolmên. I am certain the Spriggans are following in our wake. They are throwing their Thunder-axes [10] over every moving thing they can see, and over every motionless thing they can touch, and if they should happen to knock against you and throw one over you, they have power to keep you helpless to move until the sun has risen.' 'Why didn't they do that when I was in danger of being drowned?' asked Gerna. 'The Thunder-axes are no good except just before the rising of the sun, or the Spriggans would not be following us to use them now. You won't give up now, whatever it costs, will you, dear?' 'Not if I can help it,' said the child wearily. She kept going on until she reached higher ground, where she saw standing out in the semi-darkness of the early morning a great Tolmên on the brow of the moor, and over it hanging like a hunter's horn the silver curve of the old moon. A cry of gladness broke from Gerna's lips as she saw it, which must have made all the bad little fairies, if any were about, slink away in dismay, and the sight so cheered her that her weariness left her for a time, and she sped on like a hare until she dropped down by the big stone's side. 'We have reached the Tolmên, have we not?' asked the little voice, all a-tremble with joy. 'Yes,' panted the child; 'and the sun isn't up. I am awful glad--aren't you?' 'More glad than I dare say, dear little maid. But I am not out of prison yet. Is there any hint of the sunrise?' 'There is a pinky light over one of the Tors,' answered Gerna. 'Ah! then you must pass me through the Tolmên's hole at once. Three times, remember,' as Gerna put her hand in the bosom of her frock and drew out the tiny bag. The brambles had grown up around the gray stone's hole, and almost blocked the way to it, and it was minutes before she could tear them aside and get into the opening; but she did so at last, and passed the prison-bag three times through the hole as she was bidden. As she did so, the sky in the east grew brighter and brighter, and she knew from that sign that the sun was about to rise. 'Now place the prison and me, its prisoner, on the top of the Tolmên,' cried the little voice--'longways to the east it must lie; and when you have done that, stand by the Holed Stone very quietly, then wait and see what will happen.' Gerna did as she was told, and stood on a high bank of fragrant thyme at the head of the hoary old granite stone, with its great hole, her face towards the sunrising. She herself was very quiet, as was also the little prisoner, but all the great wild moor was now full of music. The linnets were already twittering in the bushes, and many larks were high in the sky, singing to greet another dawn. As they sang, the east grew more and more beautiful, and behind the great Tors the sky was a wonderful rose on a background of delicate gold. Gerna thought the sun would never show himself, and she was too tired to appreciate all the wonder of the sunrise, though she was glad enough to hear the birds singing, for it made her feel she was not so very far from home, after all. At last the sun, red-gold and very large, wheeled up behind the shoulder of a Tor and flung out a great lance of flame across the moorland, which smote the small ring-marked purse lying on the Tolmên. Gerna, whose gaze was now riveted on the purse, saw its ends open like a gasping fish, and then shrivel up, and in its black ashes sat the most beautiful little creature it was possible to conceive. She was so lovely and so dainty that the child could only stare at her open-mouthed with wonder and amazement. 'How can I ever thank you, dear little Gerna, for all you have done for me!' said the radiant creature, looking up into the child's amazed eyes. 'All the Wee Folks' treasures will not be deemed reward enough for the child who preferred to be compassionate than to be made rich with fairies' gold. I should not be sitting here free from that,' pointing to the shrivelled-up blackness which was once a Spriggan's prison, 'but for you, dear. Are you not glad you are the means of setting me free and bringing me unspeakable happiness?' 'Iss,' said Gerna, hardly knowing what she was saying, her eyes still drinking in the beauty of the little fairy. 'Aw!' she exclaimed, 'you are a dear little lovely, sure 'nough--better than all the Small People's golden pieces. You don't look a bit old, nuther.' 'You thought I should look as old as your Great-Grannie, didn't you?' laughed the happy little creature. 'The Small People show their age by looking younger and fairer--at least, the royal fairies do.' She got on her feet as she spoke, and gazed over the great moor, and as she gazed, her face, which had the delicate pink of a cowry-shell, grew more beautiful, and a tender, happy light crept into her speedwell-blue eyes. 'There is a friend of yours crossing the moor,' she said in her sweet voice, which was more than ever like the note of a bird, only sweeter and clearer. 'Why, 'tis Farmer Vivian!' cried the child. 'However did he get here? I do hope he won't want to have you,' glancing at her lovely little friend anxiously. 'I don't know what I shall do to hide 'ee if he should. I couldn't put beautiful little you in my underskirt pocket or into the bosom of my frock.' 'Why not?' asked the dainty little creature, smiling. 'I lay there close to your heart all this night, and a warmer, truer little heart I shall never rest against. But you need not fear Farmer Vivian on my account. He, of all persons, would not hurt any of the Good Small People for a king's crown, much less me.' 'He is getting smaller!' exclaimed Gerna. 'Why, he is a teeny, tiny Farmer Vivian now! Ah, dear! how queer everything is! Everything is queer an' funny since I picked up that purse with the rings 'pon it an' dear little you inside.' 'Cannot you guess who he is?' asked the little fairy, her lovely wee face more tender than the June sky over them. 'No,' returned the wondering child. 'Who is he?' 'My own little True Love!' answered the fairy, her eyes a blue light. 'We are meeting each other after a century of black years. He was my True Love all the time in the form of big Farmer Vivian! For love of poor little me he kept in the neighbourhood of Piskey Goog all that time.' It was all so surprising that Gerna told herself she would never be surprised any more whatever happened. And when the two Wee Lovers, separated by cruel Fate for one hundred years, met and greeted each other in lover fashion, all over the great moor broke the sound of pealing bells, so tiny and so silvery and with such music in their tones the like of which Gerna had never in all her life heard before. And where the bells were rung from she never knew, for there were no steeples or towers anywhere that she could see. As the bells' music rang on, and all the little moorland birds sang more entrancingly than before, she saw hundreds and hundreds of the Small People, all more or less beautiful, come out from behind clumps of Bog-myrtle, and banks of thyme, and beds of sweet-scented orchis, [11] all laughing and singing as they came towards the Tolmên, where the dear Little Lady and her True Love were standing hand in hand, smiling and bowing and looking as happy as ever they could look. The little prisoner, who was now a prisoner no longer, seemed to be a very great personage indeed, the child thought, judging by the way the Wee Men took off their caps and bowed to her, and the little ladies made their curtseys; and in truth she was a real Princess, the eldest daughter of the King and Queen of the Good Little People, as Gerna was soon to learn. There was great rejoicing when the Wee Folk heard how their Princess Royal had been set free, and how much Gerna had done towards it. They could not make enough of her, or do enough for her. They kissed her hands, as if she too were a Royal Princess, instead of being only a poor little Cornish peasant girl! They brought her fairy mead--methéglin they called it--in cups so small yet so exquisite ('like Cornish diamonds, only more lovely,' Gerna said), and gave her food to eat from dishes all iris-hued like the shells that she had picked up on the sands in her own bay, only the Small People's dishes were much thinner and more transparent than any shells she had ever seen. She was never 'treated so handsome before,' she told herself--scores and scores of dear wee creatures to wait on her and to give her more when she wanted! When she could not eat 'a morsel more,' nor drink another cup of the all-sweet mead, her own Little Lady and her True Love, who had been sitting close to her all this time on a bed of yellow trefoil, rose up and took her through a rock-door behind the Tolmên and down into a most beautiful place--much more beautiful than she could ever have pictured in her wildest dreams. It was the country where the Good Little People lived, 'Farmer Vivian' told her. She saw so much that she could take in nothing until they came to the King's Palace, which was the most beautiful palace in fairyland. Here she was taken into room after room--each more beautiful than the last--until she came to a place called the 'Room of the Chair,' which was full of soft voices, fragrant smells, and sweet music. This room was open to the blue dome of the sky, and away at the end of it, on a Chair, sat two Wee People with eyes the colour of her dear Little Lady's. They were not different from the other Small People surrounding the Chair, save that they had 'things on their heads,' as Gerna expressed it (which, of course, were crowns), that shone like the blue of the sea when the sun shines on it, and that they looked even more gracious and more gentle and kind than did her own Little Dear. When the King and Queen of the Good Little People had lovingly welcomed back their long-lost daughter, and complimented their child's betrothed--who was also a very great personage in the Small People's Kingdom--for his constancy and fidelity to their dear daughter, Gerna, in her print sunbonnet and sun-faded tinker-blue frock, was introduced to their gracious Majesties as the dear little Cornish maid who preferred to be kind rather than be made rich with the Small People's gold. Pages could be filled with what the King and Queen said to the child, who never felt so uncomfortable in her life as when they thanked her and praised her for all she had done. 'I haven't done nothing much--nothing worth a thank'ee, I mean,' she kept saying. 'Thou hast done more than thou wilt ever know,' said his tiny Majesty solemnly, 'and we feel we can never repay thee. We could, of course, reward thee with more gold than the Spriggans offered, but we are glad to know thou would'st not value it if we gave it thee. But as we are anxious to show we are not ungrateful, we will give thee the greatest of all gifts--the eye to see all that is good and beautiful in human hearts, and the power to bring it out, which alone will make thee greatly beloved. We will also teach thee to love the lowly grass as we ourselves love it, and the humble herbs, and all the gentle flowers, which make all the common roadways, moors and downs, so fragrant and beautiful. We will reveal to thee all their charms, virtues, and healing properties, so that Gerna, the maid of Polzeath, may be a blessing to her parish. And, moreover, the Good Small People shall love thee as they have never loved a human being before--not only for the sake of our beloved child, the Princess Royal of all the Good Little People, but because thou art kind and good and could not be induced to do an unkind deed even for a purseful of the Spriggans gold.' Gerna had but dim recollections of what followed afterwards: she only knew she was led in great state by 'Dinky Farmer Vivian' on the one side, and her Wee Lady on the other, down a long lane of bowing and curtseying Little Grandees, until she came out into gardens ablaze with flowers. She was then taken through parks, where teeny, tiny deer and cows were grazing, on and on until they came to a tiny door in a cliff, when she felt the soft pressure of kisses on her face and heard the sweet wee voice she knew so well whispering in her ear, 'Good-bye, dear little maid, until we meet again--which shall be soon!' and the next moment she found herself back in Great-Grannie's poor little chamber in her own small bed, and Great-Grannie herself telling her to get up and go down to the bay 'to once' to pick limpets for the ducklings, which were nearly quacking the house down for want of their breakfast. Gerna wondered as she dressed if all that had taken place that night was a dream, and she searched for the ring-marked Piskey-purse to be quite sure it wasn't. As it was nowhere to be found, nor the wee Shoes, nor the dinky Lantern, she came to the conclusion that it must be true. In passing Piskey Goog on her way back from her limpet-picking, she saw a wee Brown Man with a laugh all over his merry little face, which made it delightful to look at. He took off his cap as polite as could be, and spoke to the child with the greatest respect. 'I am a real Piskey,' he said, introducing himself, 'and Farmer Vivian told me it would interest you to know that the Spriggans who lived in this goog were taken prisoners soon after their captive was set free, and that they were at once taken before the Gorsedd (the Little People's judgment-seat), and were tried and condemned to break iron with wooden hammers in a dark cave until they repent, which I am afraid they never will, for they are past all good feeling, poor things, and will gradually grow smaller and smaller until they turn into emmets, as all evil-minded fairies in the Small People's country do.' 'Aw dear! What a terrible punishment!' exclaimed Gerna. 'I must go back into our cavern,' said the Piskey. 'It was always ours until the Spriggans turned us out about a year ago. They can never turn us out any more now, our King says, thanks to a little Cornish maid, who would rather be good than be rich. We are ordered to play no pranks on the people of this parish for her sake, even if they don't turn their coats or stockings inside out, nor to ride any horses in the happy night-time, except the horses of those who have an inordinate love of money.' And the Little Man, who was a real Piskey, went off laughing and disappeared into Piskey Goog. Years passed on. Great-Grannie died, and Gerna grew into womanhood. She was the best-loved person in St. Minver parish, as the King of the Good Little People said she would be. Everybody loved her dearly; they loved her because she saw the good that was in their hearts, and was not slow to tell them of it, and because of her good opinion of them, which although they did not always deserve, they tried their hardest to live up to. They came to her with their heart-wounds as well as the wounds of their bodies, and she, who had the gift of healing with the herbs and flowers of the earth, somehow knew how to salve the sores of the heart too. Gerna never grew rich, and never wanted to, and as she would not take a penny piece or anything greater, she had always plenty of patients. People came to her from far as well as near, and brought, not only themselves, but their poor suffering animals. If the truth be told, she had a deeper compassion for the dumb beasts, who could not tell out their sorrows, than she had for their masters, which is saying a great deal, and she always applied her most soothing and healing ointments to their bodies. It was said that Gerna often saw her Little Lady and her True Love, and that the dear Wee Folk flocked to see her when the moon was up; that they were most kind to her, and even brought her herbs and flowers, wet with fairy dew, for her simples, and helped her to make eye-salves and other healing things, which the poor people declared 'made them such a power for good.' It was also told that the merry little Piskey Men danced on the top of Pentire Glaze cliffs for her special amusement, and that when they knew she was watching them, their laughter rang out clear as bells across the Polzeath beach of grey, gold sand. THE MAGIC PAIL On a lonely moor lying between Carn Kenidzhek [12] and Bosvavas Carn lived one Tom Trebisken and Joan his wife. They had been married up in the teens of years, and had no child, which was a disappointment to them both, especially to Joan, who suffered from rheumatism, which had crippled her feet. Tom had long given up all hope of having a child, but Joan still believed that one would come to them some day, and it cheered her dreary hours, as she sat helpless in her armchair, to think of the advent of the little one, who would gladden their life. Every six days in seven she spent absolutely alone, for Tom worked as surface-man all the year round at Ding Dong, a great tin-mine, or bal, at the other end of their moor, and had to leave for his work early in the morning, and did not return until late in the evening; so it was not surprising that she wanted a child, and that she sometimes cried in her heart: 'Aw that I had a little maid of my own to do things for me an' keep me company when my Tom is away all day at the bal!' The part of the moor where the Trebiskens lived was three miles or more from Ding Dong, and two miles from their nearest neighbour. It was quite out of the beaten track, and a passer by their cottage was as rare as blackberries in December. They would not have lived there at all, but that the cottage was their own--or, rather, Joan's. It had been left to her by will, with the condition that they should live in it themselves. The cottage was not an ordinary one; its walls were built of small blocks of mica and porphyry--much of the porphyry being of that lovely deep-pink kind, with blotchings of black hornblende, all of which a long century or more of weather had polished to the smoothness of glass. Joan said the weather had nothing whatever to do with it, and that it was done by the dear Little People [13] who, she declared, lived in the carn near where the cottage stood. But whoever polished the walls--weather or fairies--the house was a pleasure to look at, particularly when the sun began to sink behind the moors and shone full upon its walls; for then all the richness of the porphyry's rose, all the hornblende's soft blackness, and all the mica's brilliancy, were brought out of the stone, and intensified until a less imaginative person than Joan Trebisken would have believed it was built by enchantment. Even its commonplace roof of brown thatch, which overspread the small casement windows in shaggy raggedness, did not take from the burning wonder of the walls. Perhaps it was because a company of stone-crop had found a dwelling-place there, and that on the ridge of the roof stood out in red distinctness half a dozen Pysgy-pows [14]--curious little round-knobbed tiles placed there by Joan's forebears for the Piskeys to dance on. Joan, poor soul, seldom saw the outside splendour of their cottage, as she was powerless to move from her chair without help, and when her Tom came home, his face was the only thing she wanted to see, she said. Fortunately, however, her doors and windows opened on to the moor, and she could therefore command from where she sat a long stretch of moorland, which, though wild, was none the less beautiful at every season of the year, but especially in the springtime, when the yellow broom and golden gorse were in flower. In spite of its loneliness, Joan loved the moor with all her Celtic nature, and spent most of her day looking out upon it until the days shortened and Nisdhu, the Black Month, which the Cornish of our time call November, drew near. Nobody dreaded that dark month, with its damp clinging cold, its fogs and mists, which often veiled the whole landscape, including the great carns, more than Joan. She said she felt the chill of its breath before it showed its nose over the head of Carn Kenidzhek, and was careful to shut her door and hatch and her small casement-windows before October was half through. She was sorry to do this, and would not have done so but for the pain in her bones, which was always worse when November was on its way; for she shut out, she said, the music of the Small People's voices. Tom told her it wasn't the voices of the Wee Folk she heard, but the trickling of a little stream making its way down by the carn on its way across the moor. But she declared she knew better, and had ears to distinguish between the tinkle of water and the sweet voices of the dear Little People, if he had not, and Tom, like a sensible man, let her hold to her belief. Joan was a great believer in the fairies, and often declared they were very friendly towards her--perhaps because her forebears had put the pysgy-pows on the roof of their cottage for them to dance on. It was her regret that she had never seen any of the dear little creatures; but she lived in hope of seeing them some day; perhaps when the much-cried-for little maid came she should see them then, she said. It was now towards the end of October and exceedingly cold, and her door and window being shut, she felt very wisht; [15] and as the days jogged on to dreary November she became terribly depressed, so much so that Tom dreaded to leave her sitting all alone by the chimney-corner with a face as long as a fiddle. He was one of the kindest husbands in the world, and never went to his work without doing all that lay in his power to make her comfortable while he was away. She was generally very appreciative and grateful for all he did for her; but to-day--the day on which something happened to alter the whole circumstances of her life--she grumbled at everything he did, even when he piled dry peat and furze within her reach, filled the kettle and put it on the brandis, [16] and placed her dinner on a small table by her side. She would not even look at him, or say good-bye, when at last he had to go off to the mine in the dark of the autumnal morning, which made her feel more sad than ever when he was out of her sight. A fog of depression hung over her spirits all that long day, and the weather, as if to share her gloom, was foggy too. She could not see a yard beyond her window most of the day; and when the mist did lift for a little while, it took such fantastic forms she was glad when it again hung down like a curtain. When the hour for Tom's return at last drew near she grew more cheerful. She put on the last of the furze he had placed within reach of her hand, partly to boil the kettle and to light him down the road leading to their cottage, but chiefly to make her kitchen cheery-looking to make up for his cold send-off. She was on the watch now for his step, and her face grew brighter as she listened. The kettle was crooning on the fire and everything was warm in cheerful welcome as a step was heard on the hard road outside, and a hand fumbled at the door-latch. Joan, being all impatience to see her man, cried out: 'What are 'ee so stupid about, an? Give the door a shove, soas! [17] 'Tis sticked by the damp.' She had scarcely said this when the door and its hatch opened gently, and in the doorway stood--not her husband, as she supposed, but the bent figure of a tiny old woman with a small costan, or bramble-basket, on her back. Her slight form was enveloped in a cloak the colour of far-away hills, and her face hidden in the depths of a large bonnet, such as the mine-maidens wear at their work in the mines. Joan was too amazed to see a stranger at her door to ask what she wanted, and before she could get over her surprise, the little old woman had come into the cottage, stepped noiselessly to the hearthplace, unslung the costan, and laid it at her feet, singing as she did so a curious rhyme in a voice so wild and sweet, it reminded Joan, as she listened, which she did as one in a dream, of moor-birds' music and rippling streams, and the voices of the Small People who lived among the carns. The rhyme was as follows: 'I bring thee and leave thee my little mudgeskerry! [18] My dinky, [19] my dear! Till the day of that year When the spells shall be broken-- And this is the token-- By Magic and Pail And the Skavarnak's [20] wail, My ninnie, my dinnie, my little mudgeskerry! 'Then we to the carns will away, my pednpaley [21] My deary, my tweet! Where the Small People's feet Tread out the Birth measure, To give her a treasure From out of the blue, When she shall know too 'Tis better to give than to keep my pednpaley.' The song and its music had hardly died away, when the tiny old woman spread her hands over the bramble-basket, as if in blessing, and then stole out of the cottage as noiselessly and mysteriously as she had come. Joan was all of a tremble quite five minutes after she had gone, and when she had somewhat recovered herself, her glance fell on the costan. At first she was afraid what it contained; but her woman's curiosity got the better of her fears, and, bending over the rough basket, she turned over the bracken, laid in careful order on its top, and saw lying on a bed of dried moss and leaves something that brought a cry of amazement, mingled with horror, to her lips. It was a babe, but so tiny and so ugly that she shuddered as she gazed upon it. It was in a deep sleep, or seemed to be, and its skinny little face, crinkled all over like a poppy just out of its sheath, was resting on its claw-like hand. In all her dreams of a child coming to her home, Joan had never dreamt of anything so uncanny as this babe, and she told herself that the little creature in its costan cradle was sent to punish her for her persistent desire for a child. Tom arrived just then, and soon knew all that his wife could tell of the mysterious coming and going of the little old woman in the bal-bonnet, and of her strange song; and, like Joan, when he looked into the bramble-basket and saw the bit of ugliness within, he gave voice to a cry of horror that anything so uncanny should be left on their hands. In fact, he was so angry that he wanted to take the basket and all it held on to the moor, and let her who brought it come and take it away, for have it in his house he would not--no, not for all the crocks of gold the Little People were said to have in their keeping. The night was bitterly cold, and by little moans and sighs coming from the direction of the Hooting Carn Joan could tell the wind was about to rise, and would perhaps end in a great storm. And though she was so much upset at having such an ugly little creature thrust on them, she was too tender-hearted to wish it to be exposed even for an hour on their moor on such a night. Besides, the child was helpless, whosoever child it was, and therefore demanded compassion, and she begged her husband to allow it to stay in their house until to-morrow. Tom could seldom refuse his crippled wife anything when her heart was set upon it, and, though much against his inclination, he yielded to her entreaties; but he was careful to add that he could only suffer it to stay until he was ready to start for the bal. 'Whatever the weather then, fair or foul, out it shall go on the moor!' he cried. 'It is a changeling,' he added, with a solemn shake of his head, 'and if we was to let it abide along o' we, we should have nothing but bad luck all the rest of our days.' Joan, having got her way, did not care to contradict her husband; for she told herself the song the little old woman had sung pointed to something quite different. Still, she would not keep the babe longer than the morrow if he were against it. When bedtime came, Tom and Joan had quite a dispute as to where the strange cradle and its stranger occupant should be put for the night, and as neither of them could decide, and Tom was against its being taken up into the bed-chamber, Joan declared she would sit up with it all night, and nothing Tom could say should prevent her. So he went off to his bed in a huff, muttering loudly that the cheeld, [22] or 'whatever it was,' had brought misery to them already. Joan kept to her resolve, and sat in her armchair with the bramble-basket at her feet until well on towards the dawn, when Tom came down to see how she was faring, and found, to his surprise, she was as fresh as a rose just gathered. 'An' I ent sleepy nuther!' she cried in triumph. 'I ent felt so well since I was took with the rheumatics, and me hands don't look so twisted, do they?' holding them up. ''Tis my belief 'tis all owing to that little cheeld down there in the costan.' As Tom could not gainsay this, he went off to do his morning's work, and to get Joan's breakfast. By the time he had done this the sun was rising, and the sky, away in the east, was a miracle of purple and rose. The night had been wild, but the storm having exhausted itself, the dawn was all the more beautiful. The babe was still asleep, and had not moved all night, Joan said, and Tom fervently hoped it would not until it was safe out on the moor. But he hoped in vain, for when the sun began to wheel up behind the hills in the east, and sent a beam of rosy light in at the casement window, the little creature shuffled in the costan, and when Joan, willing to give it air, pushed back its covering of bracken, it opened its eyes and smiled, and that smile transformed its whole face. 'Why, Tom, my man,' she cried, 'the little dear isn't ugly one bit; an' the little eyes of it are as soft as moor-pools! Do 'ee come and have a squint at it.' Tom came, and when he had stared at the babe a minute or more, he said slowly, as if weighing his words: 'You be right, Joan; but it do make the mystery all the more queer. A cheeld that can look as ugly as nettles one minute and as pretty as flowers the next ent for we to keep.' 'Don't 'ee betray thy ignorance where babes is concerned!' cried Joan, fearful of what his words implied. 'Some do look terrible plain in their sleep--as this poor dear did--and some do look beautiful. 'Tis as Nature made 'em--bless their hearts!' The babe now turned her eyes on Tom, and was gazing on him as if she wanted to look into his very soul, and then, as if she quite approved of what she saw there, gave him a fascinating smile, which won his heart at once. 'You won't take the cheeld out on the moors to-day, Tom, will 'ee?' asked Joan, who was quick to see the change in her man's face. 'We will keep it till I come home from the bal, at any rate,' he said cautiously. And then the babe, as if to show its gratitude for the concession, held up both its little arms to him to be taken out of its costan cradle, whereupon Tom was so delighted at being preferred before his wife that he could hardly conceal his pride. 'That infant do knaw a thing or two, whatever it be,' said Joan to herself, with a chuckle. 'And 'tis a somebody, I can tell, by her little shift and things, which do look as if they was spun out of spiders' webs by the Small People, so fine an' silky they be!' There was no question now about the little stranger staying; but, all the same, Tom went off to the mine with many misgivings, and he said to himself, as he walked quickly over the moor, that if Joan were too helpless to do for herself, how was she going to tend a babe? And that thought troubled him all the day. But his fears were needless; for when he got home that evening and looked in at the door, he saw a sight which surprised him, yet gladdened his heart. Joan was sitting in her elbow-chair, with a face as bright as a moon in a cloudless sky, cuddling the strange babe, who was babbling to the kind face looking down into it as it lay in her arms. 'However did 'ee manage to lift the cheeld on to your lap, Joan?' he asked, when his wife saw him. 'Aw! we managed somehow or tuther between us,' she answered, with a happy laugh. 'It was as light as a feather, it was,' chirping to the babe, 'an' I do think the Small People gave it a hoist on to Mammie Trebisken's lap! Eh, my handsome?' speaking to the babe. 'An' it haven't a been a mite o' trouble nuther all this blessed day!' And then, looking up at Tom with a look he never forgot: 'An' it have a-lifted the latch of my loneliness, an' I am as happy as a queen!' Tom was thankful to hear all this, and he thought it was no accident that had brought such comfort to his poor lonely wife. He had still greater cause for thankfulness as the days wore on; for as Joan now had her thoughts taken from herself in having a babe--which, by the way, was a maiden babe--to think for and to attend to as far as she was able, she grew better in health, and before winter was over could go about the house-place 'and do all her little chores her own self,' she proudly declared. She even swept and sanded her kitchen floor, and made figgy hoggans [23] for her husband's dinner, which she had not been able to do since the early years of their marriage. There were, however, a few things Joan could not do; but as they were all done for her in some mysterious way, and much better than she herself could have done, it was more a matter for rejoicing than regret. Whenever she put her washing out in the backlet [24] to wait till Tom had time to do it, somebody took it away, and brought it back washed and dried and ironed--all looking as white as May-blossom and smelling as sweet as moor-flowers! She was never certain who did this kindness for her, but in her heart she believed it was either done by the little old woman who brought the babe or the Small People. Several happy years passed away, and the little child--Ninnie-Dinnie, as they called her--so strangely brought to the moorland cottage and so strangely left, was now able to return some of her foster-parents' kindness. This she did by helping in small household duties. Joan, partly because it was right and partly because she feared the rheumatism might some day make her helpless again, had brought her up to be useful. The child did not at all like work, and, but for Joan's insistence, would have been a regular little do-nothing. Perhaps she would have spared the little maid from many a small household duty if the Pail had allowed it! In shaking up the moss and leaves in the bramble-basket the evening the mysterious little woman brought it to the cottage, Tom had found at the feet of the babe a small dark Pail, which he said must have been shaped out of a block of black tin left by the Old Men, or ancient Jews, who, ages before the art of turning black tin into white was discovered, worked the Cornish tin-mines. It was very crude, and had nothing remarkable about it save for its look of age and some curious characters cut under its rim, and which, of course, neither he nor his wife could read. They thought the Pail was put into the bramble-basket for the child to play with, and telling themselves they would give her a better plaything when she was old enough, they set it on the dresser. They were soon to learn that the Pail was something more than a child's toy, and had strange properties of making itself light or dark at will, thrusting its characters out of the metal in strong relief from its surface and withdrawing them again! Tom declared it had in some mysterious way to do with the little creature's welfare, and that it was a kind of conscience--a Small People's conscience, perhaps. But Joan said she believed it was something more than that, if there was any meaning in the words of the song the dinky old woman in the bal-bonnet had sung. But, whoever was right, there was no doubt that the Pail showed its approval or disapproval of whatever Ninnie-Dinnie did! If the little maid was especially helpful and kind, the Pail became a lovely shade of silver and gray, and its letters stood out in glittering distinctness; but if she was lazy, or spoke rudely to her foster-parents, it grew darker than hornblende, and its characters were hardly visible. This strange property of the Pail made Joan feel quite creepy when she first discovered its peculiarity, which she happened to do one day when Ninnie-Dinnie was very fractious and would do nothing she was bidden. She got used to it in time, and was even glad it showed its pleasure, or otherwise, in the manner it did. She often told her husband that, when the little maid was particularly kind to her when he was at the bal, the Pail would laugh all over its sides. Ninnie-Dinnie was now in her eighth year, counting the year she was brought to the cottage, and a dear, useful little maid she was; and no one to beat her anywhere for work, Tom declared, particularly when her size was considered. The child was very small, so small that she could still sleep in the basket cradle she came in--and did too, for the simple reason that she was wakeful all night if she slept anywhere else. Both Tom and Joan were sometimes troubled at her size. For she never seemed to grow bigger or fatter, whatever they gave her to eat, and they feared she would always be a little Go-by-the-ground. [25] Joan, however, consoled herself that perhaps she was an off relation of the dear Little People. Although Ninnie-Dinnie was exceedingly tiny, she was very sharp, and asked more questions in a day than they could answer in a year. She wanted to know the why and wherefore of everything--what the moor-flowers were made of, and who lived inside the great grey carns, and what made Carn Kenidzhek hoot--was it the giant who lived inside it?--and much besides that neither Tom nor Joan could answer, because they did not know themselves. Tom said she was wise beyond her years, and all owing to her being moped in the cottage so much, and that she ought to be out of doors more. Joan quite agreed with him, and suggested that he should take her with him sometimes over the moor, only stipulating that she was not to go as far as the mine-works. Tom considered this a splendid idea; and so, every now and then, when Ninnie-Dinnie was willing, she accompanied him part of the way, and as there was only one road leading back to the cottage, she easily found her way home alone. One day, when the child had reached the place where the miner generally sent her back, she begged to go with him all the way to the bal; and as he was rather weak where his womenfolk were concerned, he willingly consented. When they reached Ding Dong, with its hundreds of busy workers, the little maid grew very frightened, and fled back across the moor, in the direction of home, as fast as her legs could take her. The miner, as he watched her running away, rather reproached himself for bringing her so far; and he wondered, as he put the tin into the furnace to be smelted, whether she got home all right. 'So you did take our Ninnie-Dinnie to the bal?' was his wife's greeting when he got home that evening. 'I've been terribly wisht [26] without her all day.' 'You don't mean to say the little dear haven't come back?' cried Tom. 'That is terrible news, sure 'nough! She didn't stop a minute at the bal, and tore off home like a skainer.' [27] 'I've never clapt eyes on her since she went out with 'ee this morning!' cried Joan, greatly distressed. 'I do hope nothing has happened to her. Perhaps she has been an' gone an' tumbled down into one of the Old Men's workings [28] out there on the moor.' Tom went as white as a sheet at the bare thought of the possibility, and he started off at once to look for the child, leaving his poor wife more troubled than she had ever been since Ninnie-Dinnie came. He was gone a little over an hour, when, to Joan's thankfulness, he returned with the child. He found her, he said, not far from the beaten track, sitting at the foot of a carn waiting for him to come for her. She told him she had lost her way, and that as she was sitting on the griglans, [29] an ugly little man with long ears like a Skavarnak [30] came up to her, and because she was afraid of him and would not go into his little house under the carn, he was very angry. She did not know what would have happened to her if a little old woman in a sunbonnet had not come along just then, and took her to the place where Tom found her. She told her to sit where she was till Daddie Trebisken came to fetch her, which he would be sure to do after sunset. In the mean-time she was to say her own name backwards seven times if the Long-Eared came near her again. She also told her that Ninnie-Dinnie, if she cared to believe it, was her real name spelt backwards with an 'n' left out; and she said she must never go out on the lonely moors without taking the Pail, made out of old Cornish tin, with her. It was ever so long before Joan got over her fright about Ninnie-Dinnie, and for weeks she would not hear of her going out on the moors. But, as time deadens all things, she got over her nervousness, and when April came, and the broom and the gorse were in flower, making the great brown moor yellow-gold, and scenting all the air with peach-like fragrance, she was willing that the little maid should go with her husband once more. And Tom willingly took her. As they were going out of the door, something fell on the Pail standing on the dresser, and the child, remembering the injunction of the little old woman about the Pail, turned back to get it. 'What shall I bring 'ee home, Mammie Trebisken?' she asked, looking at her foster-mother; and Joan, hearing the lark singing faintly in the distance, replied laughingly: 'You shall bring me home a pailful of lark's music, my dear.' 'You do knaw the little maid can't bring 'ee that,' cried Tom impatiently. 'I should think she was all the music you wanted now.' 'So she is, bless her!' said his wife. 'I was only joking.' 'Nevertheless, I will bring you home this Pail full of lark's music,' said Ninnie-Dinnie, with great seriousness; and putting her tiny hand into Tom's big one, they started off, and Joan watched them out of sight. When the miner and the child got about half-way to the mine, scores of larks were up in the blue air singing, and their little dark bodies waving to and fro in the rapture of their song, till it seemed to the miner as if their melody was trickling down all over him, and Ninnie-Dinnie declared it was. As they stood listening, one of the larks began to descend, singing as it came. 'Now is the time if you want to catch the lark's music for Mammie Trebisken,' laughed Tom, watching the bird's descent. 'There it is, just over thy soft little head. Up with thy Pail, my dear!' And Ninnie-Dinnie, with her face as grave as the great boulders lying amongst the golden-blossomed furze and the feathery fronds of the Osmunda, lifted the Pail above her head, and as she did so the strange letters under its rim stood out and glowed like white fire. 'Little lark, little lark, give me thy music!' she chanted in a voice as clear and sweet as linnets' fluting. 'Little lark, little lark, give me thy song!' and the small bird twirled down towards her singing wilder and sweeter as it came, until it hovered over the uplifted Pail. 'The dear little lark has given me its music and its song to make Mammie Trebisken's heart glad,' said the child, as the lark dropped on the thyme-scented turf at her feet. 'Pretending, are 'ee, an?' laughed Tom. 'No!' cried Ninnie-Dinnie. 'Listen!' And the miner, putting his ear close to the Pail, heard, to his unspeakable amazement, a lark singing quite distinctly, yet rather faintly, as it were singing far away. 'Jimmerychry! [31] Can it be believed?' he exclaimed. ''Tis magic, an' I don't half like it. An' I don't think the dear little bird do nuther,' looking down at the lark, who was trailing its wings on the ground in that distressful way birds have when their wee nestlings are in danger. 'Give it back its own, that's a dear little maid.' 'I can't,' said Ninnie-Dinnie. 'Mammie Trebisken can only do that; and I don't think she will want to, for the song in the Pail will make all her heart sing.' She covered the Pail with her pinafore as she spoke, and the little lark disappeared into a brake of flaming gorse. There was no time to bandy words, Tom told himself, as he was late for his work, and he left the child to go back to their cottage without any more protesting. But he did not feel very comfortable as he strode on his way to the mine. It was late in the morning when Ninnie-Dinnie got home, and Joan was beginning to be troubled at her long absence when she came in. 'Have 'ee brought the lark's music along with 'ee?' she asked, as the child set the Pail on the red-painted dresser. 'Yes,' said Ninnie-Dinnie; 'and at sundown you will hear it.' Joan, thinking it was all make-believe, laughed, and said she would keep her ears open to listen. When the shadows of the great grey carns stretched over the heather and the sun sunk over the moor, the Pail began to move slightly on the dresser, and a sound came out like grass moved gently by the wind, which at once drew Joan's attention to it. Then, to her amazement, it shook all over, and there poured forth from it such a gush of melody that almost took her breath away. It was like lark's music, she said, with a strain of sweeter, wilder music added to it, and which, somehow, reminded her of the flute-like voice of the little old woman in the bal-bonnet, who sang that rude rhyme when she brought them their dear little Ninnie-Dinnie. She sat in her elbow-chair entranced, and the queer child sat at her feet, apparently entranced too! The melody, which at first came from the depths of the Pail, or the turfy ground, it was hard to say which, rose higher and higher, until it sounded like a bird singing its heart out in the soft azure of an evening sky. Joan never knew how long she listened to that fetterless song; she only knew she awoke to the fact that the sky's little songster, the Pail, or whatever it was, had stopped singing, that daylight was leaving the moor, and that a small dark shadow was slowly stealing across her window. 'Why, it is a little bird, surely,' she said, speaking to the tiny maid at her feet. 'The light of our fire have attracted it from its sleeping-place--poor little thing!' 'P'r'aps it is the little lark come for its music and its song,' suggested Ninnie-Dinnie, fixing her gaze on the bird, which was now fluttering against the panes and uttering a tiny note of distress. 'I never thought of that,' said Joan. 'I hope it haven't. I couldn't give it back its song and its music for the world!' As she was speaking, the Pail on the dresser was again agitated, and out of it rushed another entrancing melody, until all the cottage was full of music, and Joan said it was raining down upon her head from the oaken beams. But through the melody could be distinctly heard a little voice, which was the lark's voice: 'Give me back my music! Give me back my song!' 'My Aunt Betsy!' cried Joan. 'Whoever heard of a bird talking before?' 'Are you going to give the little lark what it wants?' asked Ninnie-Dinnie, watching the bird, which was still fluttering against the bottle-green pane. 'No!' said Joan decidedly. 'I don't think I ought. It do make my heart young an' happy again.' 'I was hoping you would like to give back the lark its music and its song,' said Ninnie-Dinnie. 'Whatever for, cheeld-vean?' [32] Joan asked. 'Because,' answered the child, 'I have been wondering what the lark's little mate will do if he hasn't his song to sing to her now she is sitting on her pretty eggs out on the grass.' 'Why, make another song, of course, you foolish little knaw-nothing!' cried Joan, laying her pain-twisted fingers on the child's elfin locks. 'It has no music to make a song with; it gave it all to me to take home to my dear Mammie Trebisken,' said the little maid. Once more the lark's song came out of the Pail, and Joan said it was sweeter and wilder and freer than even the second time. As she listened intently she was carried to her courting days, when she and Tom took their Sunday walks through the growing corn and flaming poppies to hear the larks sing. Then as the songster came earthward again and its music died away into the silence of the years, or into the Pail, she was too bewildered to say which, there appeared on the threshold of the door the little lark, which, as she looked at it, trailed its wings and piped: 'Give me back my music! Give me back my song!' and its sad cry went right down into her pitiful heart. 'I was a selfish body to want to keep what didn't belong to me,' she cried, and she told Ninnie-Dinnie to give it back what it wanted. 'I can't give back: you only can do that,' said the little maid. 'I can only bring you what you ask.' The wee bird in the doorway again made itself heard: 'Give me back my music! Give me back my song!' and so distressful was its pleading that she clutched the child's shoulder and went at once to the dresser, and, almost before she knew it, she was standing at the door with the Pail in her hand. 'Take your music and your song, you poor little dear,' she said in her tenderest voice to the bird; 'and go along home to your mate, and make her as happy as you have made my heart this day.' She turned the Pail over on its side as she spoke, and the lark flew into it; and in a minute or less it was out again and away into the semi-darkness, singing its own ecstatic song as it went! Tom came up the road as it flew off; and as she waited there by the door for him to help her back to her chair, the little old woman's rhyme came back to her, the last line of which floated through her brain: 'To give her a treasure From out of the blue. When she shall know too 'Tis better to give than to keep my pednpaley!' A year and four months went by, and Joan was quite helpless again--as helpless as when the babe was brought to her--and but for that babe, now to childhood grown, she did not know what she would have done. Her man was not so young as he was, and had a great deal more to do at the mine, and therefore less time to devote to woman's work. But thanks to Ninnie-Dinnie's careful training, his services in this respect were not required. The little maid now did all the work of the small cottage, and the cooking too--even to making the hoggans for Tom's dinner. Besides which, she waited on her dear Mammie Trebisken hand and foot, and made the poor sufferer's life as happy as possible under the circumstances. Tom wondered how she did it all, 'and such a dinky little soul too--not much bigger than a little pednpaley itself,' he said. Ninnie-Dinnie did not go out on the moor all this time, and nothing Joan could say would make her. But when July came, and the blackberry brambles were in flower, and the great moors began to look beautifully purple with the bloom of the heather, she cast wistful glances out of the window, and one bright morning she asked Tom to take her with him a little way. Her eye caught the darkening look of the Pail as she was putting on her sunbonnet, and she thought the look meant she must take it with her, and she did. 'What shall I bring you home?' she asked, looking over her shoulder at Joan as she and Tom were going out of the door; and the invalid, catching sight of a sunbeamed pool lying high on the heath, said, with a laugh: 'You shall bring me home a pailful of sunbeams from the pool I can see from my chair.' 'A pack of nonsense!' cried Tom. 'As well ask for the moon. I should have thought that our Ninnie-Dinnie,' resting his huge hand on the child's head, 'was all the sunbeam you wanted now.' 'So she is, Tom, when you ent here,' cried the woman, smiling tenderly at both her dears. 'All the same,' said Ninnie-Dinnie, 'I will bring you home a pailful of sunbeams if I can.' When she and Tom reached the pool, they stopped and looked in, or tried to, for they could not see its bottom for sunbeams, which rippled all over its surface in tiny waves of light. 'Now is your chance to get that pailful of sunbeams thy foolish old Mammie Trebisken axed 'ee to get,' said the miner. 'It is,' said Ninnie-Dinnie in her grave old woman's manner; and, leaning over the pool, she held the Pail over the side and cried: 'Little brown pool, give me thy sunbeams! Little brown pool, give me thy light!' and, to Tom's amazement (he ought not to have been astonished at anything by this time), he saw the light leave the pool and flow into the Pail! When the moor-pool had given all its sunbeams, and the water was a darker brown than a sparrow's back, Ninnie-Dinnie stood up and looked into her Pail, and Tom looked too, and saw nothing. 'It is full of emptiness,' said he, laughing. 'It is full of the dear little Pool's sunbeams to make Mammie Trebisken's eyes glad,' insisted the child; and covering the Pail very carefully with her pinafore, she went down towards the cottage, and Tom watched her until she was hidden behind a great boulder of granite, and then he too went on his way. Ninnie-Dinnie did not get home till quite late in the afternoon, and when Joan asked her where she had been so long, she said a little Skavarnak would not let her come before, and that he stood in the path barring the way, till a dinky little woman in a bluish cloak came over the moor, and then he sped away through a hole in a carn. 'What a funny thing!' said Joan; 'hares generally keep out of folks' way. He must be different from other little hares.' 'I am sure he must be,' she said, setting the Pail on the dresser. 'Have 'ee brought the sunbeams?' asked Joan, turning her gaze to the bucket. 'Yes; and by-and-by, when the sun begins to set, you will be able to see them.' Joan, thinking her Ninnie-Dinnie was pretending--for she saw when the child came into the kitchen that the Pail contained nothing--only laughed. When the great round sun dropped down to his setting, the crippled woman, happening to turn her face to the dresser, saw a tongue of white flame rise out of the Pail, and on its tip burnt a ruby star! It startled her almost out of her senses at first; but as it did not grow bigger, but only increased in beauty, she gazed at it with wondering delight. As the evening darkened over the moor, and the Hooting Carn was dim in the distance, the light in the Pail grew exceedingly beautiful, and took all manner of shapes and colours, and made the room where Joan sat as lovely as the dear Small People's Country, Ninnie-Dinnie said--how she knew, it did not occur to her foster-mother to inquire. ''Tis magic!' cried the woman, looking round the room, 'an' I don't understand it one bit.' 'P'r'aps,' said the child softly, 'it is the dear Little People's way of showing how grateful they feel for your kindness to your little Ninnie-Dinnie.' 'I haven't been kinder than I ought,' began Joan; 'and--'tis raining, surely,' she broke off, as a trickle of water fell on her ear. ''Tis queer, too! There's no sign of wet weather in the sky.' The child went to the window and looked out. 'There is a tiny stream of water coming down the road,' she said. 'I believe 'tis the little brown Pool coming for its sunbeams.' 'Don't be silly!' cried Joan. 'It is,' said the little maid, looking out again, 'and it has made itself into a dark ring outside our door.' As she was speaking, a rippling voice broke out: 'Give me back my light! give me back my sunbeams!' 'I won't,' said Joan irritably. 'Why should I, when it is making my little place look handsome? I haven't seen anything like it in all my born days!' 'I was hoping you would give back the poor little brown Pool its shine,' said Ninnie-Dinnie, with a pleading look in her eyes. 'The little flowers that live in the Pool will die without light, and the dear little Sundews will have no silver beads to tip their red spikes.' 'Whatever did 'ee bring me home a pailful of sunbeams for, if you want me to give it away again?' asked the woman still more irritably. 'You asked me to bring you the brown Pool's sunbeams,' said the child gently. 'I did but do what you asked.' The light in the Pail was redder and brighter than the red planet Mars in his rising or the sun in his setting, and all in the room was a lovely crimson glow, and Joan, as she gazed at the Pail again, heard the rippling voice outside her door: 'Give me my light! give me my sunbeams!' and it continued rippling its demand until the woman's kind heart was troubled. 'Poor little Pool!' she said to herself at last. 'I expect it is feeling as wisht without its light as I was before my Ninnie-Dinnie came in the costan. 'Tis wrong to want to keep what will brighten something else. I don't s'pose even a little moor-pool can be happy and bear flowers on its bosom without sunbeams and light,' and she told the child to give back the Pool its own. 'I can't,' said Ninnie-Dinnie. 'Only you can do that. Lean on me,' offering her tiny arm, 'and I'll help you to get the Pail to give the dear little Pool its sunbeams.' Joan was greatly amused that a dinky little maid like her, scarcely bigger than a large doll, could support a great helpless body like herself to walk across the floor; and she laughed, and, as she laughed, the Pool cried again in such a beseeching voice that she unwittingly put her hand on the child's shoulder, and immediately found herself at the door, with the Pail in her hand, before she knew! 'I give 'ee back your brightness, dear little Pool,' she said, 'and much obliged I am to 'ee for letting me have it here in my little room. Now go along home to where you belong, amongst the griglans.' [33] And the little Pool took its shine and left, twisting and twirling its way back to its place, shining and rippling as it went. 'The pool will shine all the more brightly to-morrow for having given you its sunbeams,' said the child, as she helped Joan back to her chair. A few days after Ninnie-Dinnie had brought the pailful of sunbeams, she again asked to go with Tom over the moors, and Tom willingly took her. 'What impossible thing is Mammie Trebisken going to ask you to bring back to-day?' said the miner in joke as the child went to the dresser for the Pail. 'The only thing I should like to have brought home to me to-day is that nasty little Skavarnak which frightened my Ninnie-Dinnie,' said Joan. 'If she do catch un an' bring un home in the Pail, I won't be willing to let him get out of it again in a hurry!' 'Do you really want the Little Long-Eared?' asked the child, with a curious look in her eyes. 'Of course I do. I s'pose he won't be so easy to get into the Pail as the lark's music or the pool's sunbeams.' 'Not nearly so easy,' responded Ninnie-Dinnie. 'And even if I can get him into the Pail, you won't like to keep him, and you must until----' She did not finish what she was going to say, as Tom was in a hurry to be off, and they left the invalid greatly wondering whatever the little maid could mean. The sun was rising when Tom and his little foster-child reached a part of the great moor where a road turned towards Ding Dong, and where they saw a hare sitting on his haunches cleaning his whiskers. 'There is Mister Long-Eared,' whispered Tom. 'Now is your chance to catch him, my dear;' but the hare had heard the whisper, and he vanished under the bracken. 'He will be very difficult to get into the Pail,' sighed Ninnie-Dinnie. 'But he will have to go into it, or the spell won't be broken.' 'What spell?' asked the miner. 'What! have you forgotten the rhyme the dinky woman sang when she brought me to Mammie Trevisken-- 'By magic and Pail, And the Skavarnak's wail'? 'I had clean forgotten,' said Tom. 'But I don't s'pose it meant anything. P'r'aps the little body in the bal-bonnet didn't know what she was singing.' The miner went on his way to Ding Dong, and Ninnie-Dinnie seated herself on a bed of wild thyme close to where the hare had disappeared, and began calling very gently, but with great persistence: 'Skavarnak! Skavarnak! come into the Magic Pail! Long-Eared! Long-Eared! come into my Pail!' But nothing stirred in the bracken. Long the child called--hours it seemed--until at last there was a movement under the great fronds of bracken, and out came a woebegone little hare and went into the Pail! 'You are caught by the magic of the Old Men's Pail at last,' said Ninnie-Dinnie, with a strange look in her eye; and covering the Pail with her pinafore, she set her face homeward. 'Have 'ee got the hare?' was Joan's greeting, as the child appeared in the doorway. 'I have,' she cried, with a ring of triumph in her voice. 'Aw, you poor little thing!' exclaimed Joan, eyeing the hare, who was gazing at her from over the Pail with a most dejected look in his dark eyes. 'Please don't pity him,' said Ninnie-Dinnie. 'He isn't really a hare: he is a dreadful little hobgoblin who has been cruel to all the dear Little People you love so much.' 'Who told 'ee all that, cheeld?' asked Joan, looking at the little maid. 'P'r'aps the Wee Folk whispered it to me as I lay asleep in the costan,' answered the child. When evening came, a most terrible wail came from the dresser, like the cry of a hurt child or an animal caught in a gin, which found its way at once to Joan's feeling heart. 'I can't a-bear to hear that cry,' she said to Ninnie-Dinnie. 'Do set the poor little creature free, that's a dear.' 'I can't, Mammie Trebisken, and I don't think I want you to, either. It is good for him to be kept prisoner in the Magic Pail.' The hare wailed on, and poor Joan had to put her fingers in her ears to shut out the sound. Tom came home just then, and, seeing there was a nice fat hare in the Pail, said he would soon stop his music, and that he would have him put into a hoggan for his dinner--a threat which so frightened the poor creature that there was no wail left in him for all that evening, and, leaning his head on the edge of the Pail, he looked exceedingly miserable, as I am sure he was. The hare was kept prisoner in the Pail all that night and all the next day, and not even Joan gave him a look of pity, for even her heart was hardened against him. When evening came again, he once more lifted up his voice in a loud and prolonged howl, which was almost more than the tender-hearted woman could bear, and she was about to ask Ninnie-Dinnie to give him his liberty, when a soft scamper of tiny feet made her turn her gaze to the open door, and in a minute or less there appeared on the step three small hares, who, when they saw her pitiful glance on them, began to cry: 'Give us back our Daddy Skavarnak! Give us back our Daddy Long-Ears!' 'Hearken to that,' cried Joan, turning to Ninnie-Dinnie, who was preparing Tom's supper. 'I wonder you, of all people, can bear to hear it. Do 'ee give the little Skavarnaks their poor daddy.' 'You know I haven't the power,' said the little maid quietly, 'and I am afraid I shouldn't be very willing if I had.' 'But you wanted me to give the lark his music and his song and the pool its beams,' remonstrated Joan, as Ninnie-Dinnie shook her head. 'Why ever don't 'ee want the hare to be given back to his children?' 'I told you the Long-Eared had been very cruel to the dear Wee Folk. He was terribly cruel to one poor Little Skillywidden [34] in particular, and its mammie, to save it from further cruelty, had to hide it somewhere until he was caught in the Magic Pail. You see,' as Joan lifted up her pain-twisted hands in amazement, 'when he was taken prisoner by the Pail and brought into a good woman's cottage he became powerless to do the dear Little People any more harm, and all the spells that he threw over them became weak as money-spiders' threads.' 'What a wicked little creature he must have been!' cried Joan indignantly, shaking her head at the hare, who looked thoroughly ashamed of himself, and lolled his head over the edge of the Pail. 'But who told 'ee about the wicked Skavarnak an' his doings?' turning to the child, and giving her a searching look. Ninnie-Dinnie did not answer, but a peculiar look came into her eyes and a smile played about her lips. 'I'm beginning to think our Ninnie-Dinnie is one of the Wee Folk her own self,' said Joan to herself, still gazing at the quaint little figure, with its dark, unfathomable eyes, and its elfin locks framing the gentle little face, 'an' that she is the Skillywidden its mammie hid for safety in a cottage. She is a dear little soul, whoever she is, an' I wouldn't part with her now--no, not for a bal full o' diamonds.' As these thoughts travelled through her mind, the three little hares on the doorstep wailed out their entreaty again: 'Give us back our Daddy Skavarnak! Give us back our Daddy Long-Ears!' and the hare in the Magic Pail lifted his head and looked beseechingly at the child, who, however, took no notice of him. The three little hares continued to cry on, and although it worried Joan's kind heart to hear it, she steeled herself against them on account of their daddy's cruelty, but into Ninnie-Dinnie's eyes there stole a wondrous pity. 'Poor little things!' she whispered to herself; and then, looking up at her foster-mother, she said softly: 'You may let the Long-Eared free if you like.' 'But I don't like,' said Joan severely. 'Why should I, when he have a-been so unkind to the dear Little People?' 'I would like you to give him his liberty if he will promise to go away from our moor and never come back any more for five hundred years,' continued the child, who apparently had not noticed the interruption. 'If he does not keep his promise after he is set free, he will run the terrible risk of again being taken prisoner in the Magic Pail and having Daddy Trebisken's threat carried out upon him.' 'What threat?' asked Joan. 'Aw, I remember now--his being put into a hoggan for my Tom's dinner. He is too bad for my good Tom to make a meal of,' shaking her head at the hare in the Pail. 'He will have to be made into a pasty, as a warning to all evil-intending Long-Ears.' The poor animal in the Pail could not have looked more wretched if he was to be made into a pasty there and then, and he cried in his terror, and the three little hares on the doorstep lifted up their small voices in sympathy. The latter's wails were more than Joan's tender heart could stand. 'Poor little things!' she cried, looking first at the small Long-Ears and then at Ninnie-Dinnie. 'If he will promise to do what you want him, I'll set him free. 'Tis hard they should suffer for their wicked old daddy's wrongdoing.' 'It is,' responded the child in her gravest manner. 'And it is for their sakes more than his own that I am willing he should have his liberty. Ask him if he will consent to do all I told you.' Joan, looking at the prisoner, repeated what Ninnie-Dinnie had said, and asked him whether he would have his freedom under those conditions. The Long-Eared muttered something--what, she did not know, but the little maid seemed to understand, and she told her foster-mother that though the conditions were hard, he had promised to keep them if she would set him free from the Magic Pail. 'Then let us do it at once,' cried Joan, for the appealing eyes of those three little hares on the doorstep were more than she could endure. The child came to her side, and offered her shoulder to enable the crippled woman to do her kind deed, and almost before Joan knew it she was at the door, with the Magic Pail gripped firmly in her hand, and found herself saying: 'I command thee, in the name of my little Ninnie-Dinnie an' the Magic Pail, never to come on our moors till the five hundred years are up. Remember, if you do, or try to hurt any of the dear Little People, they will compel thee to come into this here Pail, an' hand 'ee over to somebody who loves the Wee Folk as much as I do, an' who will cut 'ee all to bits, an' put 'ee into a great lashing [35] pasty for a miner's dinner.' [36] The Skavarnak uttered a terrified howl, and Joan, looking down into the Pail, saw, not a hare, but a dreadful little hobgoblin, with ears as long as his ugly little body. She dropped the Pail in her fright, and the ugly little creature sped away into the darkness, followed by the three wee hares, or hobgoblins, as no doubt they were. Ninnie-Dinnie looked very happy when they had gone, and the Pail evidently shared her joy, for it was nearly white, and its embossed characters looked almost as beautiful as the little Pool's sunbeams. The child would not go out on the moor for a long time after the Daddy Long-Ears was set free. She said she must stop at home and look after her Mammie Trebisken. But when October came, and the purple heath-bells had changed to tawny brown, and the bracken's green into orange and bronze, she began once more to give little wistful glances out over the great stretch of moorland. One day--the very day of the same month she was brought to the cottage in the bramble-basket ten years before--Tom, noticing the longing glances, begged her to go with him a little way, and Ninnie-Dinnie, after asking the crippled woman if she could spare her, got ready to go. 'I thought you wouldn't want to take the Pail along with you now the Long-Eared can't hurt 'ee any more,' said Joan, as the child went to the dresser for the Pail. 'And yet I must take it,' she replied. 'What shall I bring you home?' 'Thyself, my beauty!' cried the woman. 'I'm safe, I reckon, in wanting to have only my Ninnie-Dinnie brought back to me. She is better than all the lark's music an' the Pool's shine, isn't she?' appealing to Tom, who nodded his head. 'An' we don't want no Daddy Skavarnak here no more, do we?' 'I should think not,' cried the miner. 'Mammie Trebisken's request was a downright sensible one this time, wasn't it?' he remarked to the little maid as they walked away from the cottage. Ninnie-Dinnie did not answer, which somehow troubled him, and he looked at her curiously. When the miner and the child had reached the place where she had caught the hare, they stopped and looked about them. The sun had risen, and was making everything beautiful on the moor--the little pools and all. It was a perfect morning for so late in the autumn. The dwarf furze, now in blossom, was burning like gorse in springtime round the bases of the great grey carns; the bramble-vines were more beautiful than jewels, as they trailed in all their richness of colour over the boulders, and the gossamers lay thick on the turf and brown heather, and shone softly, as only gossamer can. Everything was very still, and there was not wind enough to stir even the blades of grass, nor was there anything on the wing save a seagull floating along on the blue air, and a few gorgeous Red Admirals hovering over their beloved nettles. For ever so long Tom and the quaint little maid stood still, taking in all the wild, yet soft, beauty of the moors, until the latter broke the silence: 'I must hasten on to the bal now, my dear. You can stay here or go back to Mammie Trebisken, jest as thee hast a mind to.' 'Yes,' she said, with a start. He glanced over his shoulder as he turned to go on his way, and, to his consternation, saw her put the Pail to her feet, and begin to speak in the same flute-like voice she had spoken to the Lark, the Pool, and the Hare, and the words were spoken to herself! 'Ninnie-Dinnie, give me thyself! Ninnie-Dinnie, give me thyself!' and the next minute he saw the little figure disappear into the Pail, which started at a rapid speed down towards his cottage. He was too upset to go on to Ding Ding after that, and trembling like an aspen leaf, he followed in the track of the Pail; but whether he was Piskey-led, or what, he could not get home until dark, and when he got there, he found his wife sitting alone. Three or four hours after Tom and Ninnie-Dinnie had left, Joan heard a little noise outside the cottage, so she told her husband when she related to him this strange story, and, looking up, saw, to her unspeakable amazement, the Pail a-walking down the road all by itself, as if it had legs, to the step of her door; and in another moment it had crossed the threshold and come to the fireplace where she was sitting gazing with all the eyes in her head at it coming! When it reached her feet it stopped, and looking into it she saw a very tiny Ninnie-Dinnie looking up at her with eyes full of love and pleading. 'Please, Mammie Trebisken, give me back myself!' she piped. 'Please, Mammie Trebisken, give me back myself!' and Joan took up the Pail in her crooked hands, and turning it over on its side, she cried: 'Ninnie-Dinnie, I give thee back thyself; an' come out of the Pail at once!' And Ninnie-Dinnie came out and stood before her, looking just as she had looked when she set out with Tom in the dawn. 'Whatever did 'ee let the Pail get hold of 'ee for?' asked Joan, when the child set the Pail in its place. 'Because you asked me to bring me back myself,' she said. 'And now I will sit at your feet and kiss your dear hands straight.' Ninnie-Dinnie was very quiet the rest of the day, and when it drew towards evening and Tom's return, she asked if she might bring the costan to the hearthplace, as she felt so tired and sleepy. Joan said she might, but was afraid it was too heavy for a dinky little maid like her to carry. The child said she would manage to bring it somehow, and she did; and when she had shaken up the moss and leaves in the costan she got into it, lay down, and was soon in a deep slumber. Joan kept very quiet, so as not to disturb the poor little thing, and when she looked into the bramble-basket half an hour later, she saw something lying there that made her rub her eyes to see if she were dreaming. In the place where Ninnie-Dinnie had lain down there was the most beautiful little creature it was possible to conceive. 'Its face,' as Joan afterwards told her husband, 'was ever so much sweeter to look at than a wild-rose, and its hair was softer and more silky than anything she had ever seen, even the head of the tom-tit; and as for its mouth, it was far too tender and lovely even for her kissing. It had different clothes on, too, from what their little dear wore.' Joan said she could not tell what they were, only they were all goldy, like furze blossom. Before she could get over her surprise at this little tiny thing in the bramble-basket, she heard a step outside, and thinking it was Tom come back from the mine, she looked up, and there in the doorway stood the same little bent old woman, her face hidden in a bal-bonnet, who had brought the child ten years before. Before she could ask her what she wanted, the dinky woman had glided like moor-mist over to the hearthplace, and was bending over the basket and singing: 'Give me my Ninnie, my dear little mudgeskerry; The time is now up For sweet-mead and cup, For the Small People's dance And the Nightrider's prance, The flute and the song, The horn and the dong, To welcome my dinnie, my little mudgeskerry! 'Give back my own dinky, my little pednpaley; The music's begun, The frolic and fun, The big stars are alight, The full moon shines bright, The fairy lamps gleam, The Wee Folk all sing, "Come away to the feast, dear little pednpaley."' 'I can't give back my dear little Ninnie-Dinnie!' cried Joan, breaking in on the song, as it suddenly dawned upon her for what purpose the little old woman had come. 'Please don't ask me to do that. I have given back whatever else was asked of me gladly; but I can't--aw, I can't--part with that dear little thing down there in the costan.' The strange little body took no notice of the interruption, but went on singing; and as she sang, the beautiful little creature in the bramble-basket opened its eyes and looked up at Joan with tender entreaty in them. That they were Ninnie-Dinnie's own little eyes looking up at her Joan did not for a moment doubt; and she could but see they grew more wistful as the queer little woman sang on: 'Oh, seek not to hinder my own little Ninnie, For Magic and Pail, And the Long-Eared's wail, The free song of the Lark, And the light in the dark, The dinky herself-- The wee little elf!-- Have broken the spell o'er the dear little Ninnie!' The Ninnie-Dinnie in the bramble-basket gave the crippled woman another look of entreaty as the voice of the singer died away. She understood that look so well, for she had appealed to her heart in that very same way when she had asked her to give back the Lark his music, the Pool its beams, and it made her feel now, as she felt then, that it was exceedingly selfish of her to want to keep what was not really her own, however desirable. And when the child, or whatever it was, met her gaze again she conquered her selfishness and resolved to give her back, whatever it cost her--'even,' she said, 'if it breaks my heart-strings.' And as the odd little woman in the mine-maiden's bonnet paused for a moment as if awaiting her will, in all the impetuosity of her generous nature she cried out: 'I give 'ee back your dinky, your little Mudgeskerry, your little Pednpaley, and whatever else you do call the little dear that you brought me ten years ago. I feel I've no mortal right to keep what don't belong to me, though I thought she did by this time. Take her if you must, an' thank 'ee kindly for the loan of her all these years.' Joan's voice trembled as she uttered the last word, and the eyes of the lovely little Ninnie-Dinnie spoke their sympathy as she kept her gaze on her, and the funny little woman who had the voice of youth and the figure of old age showed hers in her voice, for she sang sweeter than before. It was an unfettered song, as unfettered as a lark's in the golden dawn: 'To the carns we will hasten, my little pednpaley. Then let us away That a birdie may Fly down from th' Sky's Blue Nest Above the shining West, To the heart that's true, To the heart that knew 'Twas better to give than to keep my pednpaley.' As she was singing, Joan saw her glance over her shoulder at the Pail, which was all one shine on the dresser, and which, as she looked, left the dresser and came towards the fireplace and hopped into the costan! As the last words of the song died away into the silence of the fire-lighted room, the little old woman in the bal-bonnet lifted the bramble-basket on to her back and glided out of the cottage as she had entered it; and the crippled woman, as she followed her with her eyes, saw hundreds and hundreds of dear Little People coming down the moor to meet her, singing and dancing as they came, and waving little white lights tipped with red stars, very much like the one that had shone from the Pail. When they came to where she stood they formed a ring around the quaint bent little figure with the costan on her back; and then she disappeared, and Joan saw in the centre of the ring, as the Wee Folk twirled in their dance, two tiny Little People more beautiful than all the rest--one of which she was sure was her Ninnie-Dinnie and the other the fairy who, in the form of a little old woman in a blue-grey cloak and a mine-maiden's bonnet, had brought her to her cottage that never-to-be-forgotten autumn evening. Joan missed Ninnie-Dinnie dreadfully at first; but from the evening she gave her back, the rheumatism left her, and she was as well and strong as she was in the first years of her married life. And when autumn came round again, a dear little soft head of her own came to nestle close to her heart, and to make Tom and herself glad the rest of their days. But dear as this little Ninnie-Dinnie was, lovely as they thought her, they did not love her one bit more than that other Ninnie-Dinnie, the Skillywidden of the dear Little People, who were her friends for ever after. THE WITCH IN THE WELL Once upon a time seven little maids of Padstow Town met together in Beck Lane to play a game called 'The Witch in the Well.' As they stood waiting for the child who was to act the witch, an old woman dressed in a steeple-hat and chintz petticoat came down the lane towards them. 'What are you doing here, my pretty maids?' she asked. 'Waiting for our witch,' answered the children, wondering who this strange-looking, oddly-dressed old woman could be. 'We are going to play "Witch in the Well."' 'Are you?' said the queer old body. 'I used to play that nice game when I was young like you, and should love to play it once again before I die. The little maid who was to have been your witch tumbled down on the cobble-stones in the market-place and hurt herself as she was coming hither,' she added, as they stared at her in amazement, 'and won't be able to play with you to-day. Will you let me be your witch instead of your little friend?' 'If you like, ma'am,' answered one of the children, after a hasty glance at her companions for consent. 'Thank you,' cried the old woman. 'It will be the most exciting game you ever played in all your life;' and, lifting her petticoats as if to display her high-heeled shoes and red stockings, she hobbled across the road to a well under a Gothic arch. When the old crone had taken her seat inside the ancient well--and which was called the Witch's Well--Betty, the child who was to play the Mother in the game, took the other six little maids to a tumble-down cottage opposite the well, and the game began. The Little Mother told her children--who were called after the six working days of the week--that she was going down to Padstow Town to sell her eggs, and that they must not leave the cottage, as the Witch o' the Well was about. 'Mind the old witch doesn't come and carry you away,' the wee maids said one to another when the Little Mother had gone. As they were saying this, the old woman in the chintz petticoat and steeple-hat came to the door, and looked over the hatch. 'May I come in and light my pipe?' she asked. 'Iss, ma'am,' said Tuesday, unfastening the hatch; and when the old crone had come in and lighted her pipe, she crooked her lean old arm round Monday and took her away. 'Where is Monday?' asked the Little Mother when she had come back to her cottage, quick to see that one of her children was gone. 'An old woman came to light her pipe and took her away,' said Tuesday. 'It was the old Witch o' the Well,' cried the Little Mother. 'I'll go and see what she has done with her.' And across the road to the well she went, and, stooping down and looking in, she saw an old woman sitting in the back of the well smoking a pipe. 'Where is my little maid Monday?' she demanded sternly. 'I gave her a piece of thunder-and-lightning [37] and sent her to Chapel Stile to see if the waves were breaking on the Doombar,' answered the witch, knocking the ashes out of her pipe. 'I am off to Chapel Stile to look for Monday,' said the Little Mother, returning to the cottage. 'Be sure you don't let the old witch come in whilst I am away.' Betty's back was no sooner turned than the same old woman came to the door. 'May I come in and light my pipe?' she asked. 'Iss, if you please, ma'am,' said Tuesday, forgetting her mother's injunction. The old crone came in, lighted her pipe, and took away Tuesday! 'Mind the old Witch o' the Well don't come and take you away like she did Monday and Tuesday,' the children were saying to each other when Betty came back from her fruitless search for Monday. 'What! has the bad old witch come and taken away Tuesday?' cried the Little Mother. 'Dear! what ever shall I do now? I can't find Monday, and now my poor little Tuesday is gone!' She rushed across the road to the well where the old witch was sitting, as before, calmly smoking her pipe. 'What have you done with Tuesday?' she demanded. 'I gave her a piece of saffron cake and sent her out to Lelizzick to ask Farmer Chapman to sell me a bag of sheep's wool for spinning,' the witch made answer. 'I am going out to Lelizzick to look for Tuesday,' said the Little Mother, rushing back to her children. 'Be sure you don't let the old witch come in. If you do, she will take you all away, and then what shall I do without my dear little maids?' Betty was scarcely out of sight when a steeple-hat was seen at the window, and a pair of eerie eyes looked in. Before the children could shut the door and its hatch, the old witch had come into the cottage. 'A puff of wind blew out my pipe,' she said. 'May I light it with a twig from your fire?' 'Iss,' answered Wednesday somewhat doubtfully. 'But Mother told us we were not to let you come in, because, if we did, you would take us away as you did Monday and Tuesday.' 'Did she?' cackled the witch, taking a bit of stick from the fire and thrusting it into her pipe. 'Well, I only want one of you now,' and looking round the room, her glance fell on Wednesday, and crooking her arm round her, she carried her off to the well. 'I have been out to Lelizzick and can't find Tuesday,' cried the Little Mother, coming into the cottage as the witch, with Wednesday under her arm, disappeared into the well. 'Oh! where is Wednesday?' looking round the room and seeing another of her children missing. 'The old witch came in before we could shut the door, and took our little sister away,' said the children. 'This is wisht news, sure 'nough,' wailed the Little Mother, and off she rushed to the well, where the witch was sitting smoking. 'What have you been and done with Wednesday?' she asked angrily. 'I gave her a bit of figgy-pudding, and sent her to Place House to ask if Squire Prideaux's housekeeper would kindly give an old body a bottle of their good physic to cure her rheumatics.' 'I'm going up to Place House to see if Wednesday is there,' said the Little Mother, looking in at the window of the cottage. 'If the witch should come to the door whilst I am away, don't let her come in, whatever you do!' When she had gone to Place House, an old mansion standing above Padstow Town, the old witch left the well, and before the children saw her, she had pushed open the door, and stood in the doorway, looking in. 'May I come in and light my pipe?' she asked. 'No,' answered Thursday. But she came in, nevertheless, and having lighted her pipe, she caught up Thursday and took her across to the well. 'What! has the witch been here again, and taken away Thursday?' exclaimed the Little Mother when she came back from Place House without finding Wednesday, discovering that another of her children was gone. 'Iss,' sighed Friday. 'She came over the doorsill before we saw her.' 'This is too dreadful!' cried the poor Little Mother. 'I shall soon have no little maids left to call my own!' and wringing her hands, she went across the lane to the well. 'What have you been and done with Thursday, you bad old witch?' she demanded. 'I gave her a piece of limpet-pie, and sent her to London Churchtown to buy me a steeple-hat and a broom,' the witch made answer, rudely puffing her pipe in Betty's face. 'If you go there in Marrowbone Stage, [38] you will perhaps find her.' 'I am off to London Churchtown in Marrowbone Stage to look for Thursday,' cried the Little Mother, returning to her cottage in great haste and excitement. 'Keep the door and hatch locked and barred till I come back, and then, if you are good children and do as I bid, I will bring you home each a gold ring.' When the Little Mother had driven away in Marrowbone Stage to London Churchtown in search of Thursday, Friday saw the witch leave the well and cross the road to their cottage. 'Shut the door quickly and bar it,' she cried to Little Saturday. And Saturday had but slipped the bolt into its socket when the old hag was at the door, knocking loudly to be let in. 'My pipe has gone out again,' she shrilled through the keyhole. 'May I come in and light it?' 'No!' answered Friday. 'Mother said you would take us away as you did poor Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, if we let you in.' 'I must come in and light my pipe,' insisted the witch. 'And if you don't open the door, I'll come through the keyhole;' and as the children would not open the door, through the keyhole she came! Having lighted her pipe and unbolted the door, she caught up both children and carried them away, and when the tired Little Mother returned from London Churchtown in a fruitless search for Thursday, she found to her dismay not only Friday gone, but dear Little Saturday! She hurried to the well in an agony of despair. 'Where is Friday and Little Saturday?' she cried. 'I gave them each a herby pasty, [39] and sent them to Windmill with grist to grind for to-morrow's baking,' answered the witch, spreading her petticoats over the dark water of the well. 'Tired as I am, I must go to Windmill to look for my dear children,' said the poor Little Mother, with a sigh. 'P'r'aps I shall meet them coming back; and up the lane she went on her way out to Windmill. When she came back to the well the old witch had smoked her pipe, and was sound asleep and snoring. 'I have been all the way out to Windmill, and I could not see Friday and Little Saturday anywhere,' cried the Little Mother, shaking the old hag roughly by the shoulder. 'Where are they, you wicked old witch?' 'Friday and Little Saturday came back soon after you had gone to look for them,' said the witch, opening her eyes and yawning. 'Where are they?' demanded the Little Mother. 'With Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday,' answered the witch, knocking the ashes out of her pipe. 'And where is Monday and the others?' 'Upstairs,' answered the witch. 'Whose stairs?' asked Betty. 'My stairs,' returned the witch. 'Shall I go up your stairs and bring them?' asked the Little Mother eagerly. 'Your shoes are too dirty,' cried the witch. 'I will take off my shoes,' said Betty. 'Your stockings are too dirty,' protested the witch. 'I will take off my stockings.' 'Your feet are too dirty,' protested the old hag. 'I will wash my feet,' said the Little Mother. 'No water would wash them clean enough to climb up my stairs,' cried the witch. 'I'll cut off my feet,' persisted Betty, determined that no excuse should stop her from getting to her children. 'The blood would drop and stain my stairs,' said the witch. 'I'll tie up my stumps,' cried the Little Mother. 'The blood would come through,' howled the witch. 'Then, what shall I do to get up your stairs?' said the Little Mother, with a cry of despair. 'Fly up!' cackled the old hag. 'But I can't fly without wings,' wailed Betty. 'Get wings,' cried the witch, with a sneer. 'How can I?' asked the poor Little Mother helplessly. 'I leave that to your clever wits to find out!' snapped the witch. 'And let me tell you that until you can fly you will never see Monday and your five other children again, nor get them out of my clutches!' And with a 'Ha! ha!' and a 'He! he!' the witch pulled her petticoats round her and disappeared under the dark waters of the well. 'My dear life!' ejaculated Betty, now really frightened. 'I believe that old woman who played the game with us was a real witch, and wasn't pretending at all, and has really and truly taken Monday, Tuesday, and all the others away.' And she sped away down to the quay where she lived with her terrible news. There was a great to-do when the children's friends learned what had happened, and there was bitter woe and lamentation when, after days and days of searching, the poor little souls could not be found. A year went by, and all this time Betty, the child who had acted the 'Mother' in the game, never forgot her six little friends. They were seldom out of her thoughts, and she longed for a pair of wings to fly up the witch's stairs; and the more she wanted wings, the more impossible they seemed to get. One evening in the beginning of June--the very same day, as it happened, that she and her little companions had met together at the Witch's Well to play the game--she was passing the well, when a little white dog ran out of a garden close by, and came and licked her shoes. She was fond of dogs, and, as she patted it, to her amazement it began to talk to her just like a human being, which almost scared her out of her wits. 'Please don't be afraid of me,' he said, wagging his stump of a tail as Betty backed into the hedge. 'I am only a dog in shape. I was a little boy before the dreadful old Witch o' the Well turned me into a dog, or what looks like a dog.' 'Were you really a boy once? And do you know the Witch o' the Well?' asked Betty, trying to get over her fears in her interest in what he told her. 'Alas, I do!' answered the dog. 'She is my mistress, and I have to follow her about all day long, and am never free of her except at night, when she is riding about on her broom. Then I have to haunt certain lanes to make silly superstitious people believe I am a ghost. The old Witch sent me to this lane a few days ago, and very glad I was, because I hoped to see you.' 'Whatever for?' asked Betty, still very much afraid of this strange dog, with his human-like voice. 'Because I know your little friends Monday and the others.' 'Do you really?' cried the child. 'I am glad!--Where are they?' 'In the witch's house, away on a dark moor, in her upstairs chamber,' answered the little white dog, with a wag of his tail, 'and where they will have to stay--so the witch says--until the little maid who played "Mother" in the game is able to fly upstairs after them.' 'Then, I'm afraid they will have to stay there always,' said Betty, her eyes filling with tears. 'Can't you get up the witch's stairs and bring them down?' 'The stairs are almost as steep as a tower,' answered the dog; 'and even if I could climb them, the door of the chamber where they are shut up is locked, and a spell worked upon the lock that nothing can open save a pair of wings and music.' 'What kind of music?' asked Betty. 'I haven't the smallest idea,' answered the dog. 'I only know that it has to do with you.' 'Are my dear little friends happy?' asked Betty, hardly noticing the dog's last remark. 'They are most unhappy,' said the dog. 'They have nothing to cheer them, poor little souls, save the forlorn hope that perhaps one day their dear Little Mother Betty will be able to fly and get them out of the witch's power.' 'If I only knew how to fly, how quickly I would get up those stairs!' said Betty. 'There is nothing I can do, is there, to get a pair of wings?' she asked wistfully. 'Nobody who can help me to get wings?' she added, as the little white dog seemed to bend his head in thought. 'Nobody but the Wise Woman of Bogee Down,' he answered, after considering a few minutes. 'I have heard of that strange old body,' said Betty. 'My mother often told me about her. She is very clever and wise, she said, and used to make simples for sick folks. She is terribly old now--a hundred and twenty, I think she told me.' 'That or more,' said the dog. 'But aged as she is, she is not too aged to work a kindness for anybody that asks her, particularly if it be against the Witch o' the Well.' 'Will she help me to get wings, do you think?' asked Betty eagerly. 'If it is within her power, I am certain she will,' returned the little white dog. 'Why don't you go and see her, and tell her the old Witch o' the Well has shut up six dear little maids, who were unfortunate enough to play the game with her a year ago, and that they cannot be set free until you, who acted the "Mother" in the game, can fly up to their rescue?' ''Tis a long way to Bogee Down,' answered Betty, 'but I'll go there to-morrow, all the same, if I can.' 'That is well,' cried the little white dog. 'You will not seek her help in vain, I am sure, especially if you tell her the witch's little white dog Pincher sent you. Now I must be off, for the old witch is up on her broom, and if she should happen to see us talking together, her horrid old cat would sclow [40] our eyes out. Good-bye, dear little Betty, and give thee favour in the sight of the Wise Woman'; and with another wag of his tail he vanished. Betty hardly slept a wink that night, thinking of her six little friends shut up in the witch's tower, and so ardently did she desire wings to fly up to their help that she got up and dressed before the sun was risen. He was just rising over the golden towans on the east side of the river as she left her mother's house for Bogee Down, a wild, picturesque, but lonely tableland about four miles from the ancient town. It was so early that nobody was up except herself, and the doors of the Crown and Anchor were still closed as she walked over the quay, down the slip, and across the beach to the south quay. The child went out of the town the nearest way to the downs, up through a side road called the Drang, and up Sander's Hill. When she got up to Three Turnings, which commanded a view of the river and Padstow low in the hollow of the hills, she climbed a stile and looked down to see if she could see the quay. The river was now very beautiful with reflections of the dawn, and its pale-blue water was flushed with tenderest rose and gold. There was a flush on the rounded hills, and a gleam of light on the distant tors--Rough Tor and Brown Willy. There was a ship in full sail coming up the harbour, followed by a company of white-breasted gulls, which also caught the light. The sun was high in the sky when Betty reached Bogee Down. Now she had got there she did not know in what part of it the Wise Woman lived. As she sent her glance over the wild down, gorgeous with yellow broom and other down flowers, she thought she saw blue smoke rising from a hedge a short distance up from Music Water, a delightful spot where Sweet-Gales, Butterfly Orchises, Bog-Asphodels grew, and where a clear brown musical stream ran down between the fragrant flowers, which made the place that June morning very beautiful. The child went up over the down where she had seen the smoke rising, and found a hut huddled under a high blackberry hedge. She knocked at the door, which was half open, and a thin cracked voice called out: 'Come in and tell me what has brought thee to this lonely down.' Betty obeyed, but not without fear; and as she pushed the door open, she saw sitting in front of a peat fire on the hearthstone the bent form of an old woman with her back to the door. She was quaintly dressed, after the manner of ancient dames of the sixteenth century, and on her head she wore a cap as white as sloe blossom. The old dame did not look round as Betty entered, but when the child had said all that Pincher the little white dog had told her to say, and had asked if she would kindly help her to get wings to fly up the witch's stairs, she suddenly glanced at her over her shoulder, with the brightest, keenest eyes the girl had ever seen, and which seemed to look into her pure young soul. Evidently Betty's earnest little face pleased her, for she smiled and said kindly: 'Pincher was a wise dog to send you to me. But, let me tell you, you have asked me to do an almost impossible thing. Yet, fortunately for those poor shut-up little maids, it is not quite impossible; but it will depend on yourself, whether your love and pity for your little friends is strong enough to do all that is required of you.' 'I'll do anything if I can only get wings to fly with, and see Monday, Tuesday, and the others again,' broke in Betty, with all a child's eagerness. 'Alas! the will that is strong and eager to do is often weakened by the flesh that is frail,' said the Wise Woman, with a shake of her head; 'but the question now is, Are you willing to live with me, an old woman, in this out-of-the-way place, for a year and a day, if 'tis required, and do all I bid you willingly, without asking a single question?' 'A year and a day is a long time to be away from home,' said Betty honestly. 'Still, I am willing to stay with you all that time and do your bidding if my mother will let me.' 'That is well!' cried the Wise Woman. 'Now go back to Padstow Town and get your mother's consent, and return to me to-morrow about this time.' Betty's mother was very glad to let her little girl go and live with the Wise Woman, for she was very poor, and had twelve children. The next day, when Betty was returning to Bogee Down, which she did by the same road as before, with her clothes done up in a bundle under her arm, who should she see, leaning over a gate, at a place called Uncle Kit's Corner, but the old Witch o' the Well, smoking her pipe! 'Whither away, my little dear?' cried the witch, as the child drew near the gate. 'To get a pair of wings to fly up your stairs to see Monday and the others,' answered Betty promptly. 'Ha! ha! That's too funny!' cried the witch. 'As well try to cut a piece from the blue of yon sky to make yourself a gown as to get wings to fly up my stairs.' And she laughed and laughed until she nearly choked herself. 'The witch may crow like an evil bird now,' cried the Wise Woman when Betty told her what the witch had said; 'but I shall hope to live to hear her screech like a whitnick [41] before that time has passed.' When the little maid had undone her bundle, and put away her small belongings, the old woman told her to go to the settle, which stood by the fireplace, and take out from its seat a little bag of feathers, and separate one from the other and lay them on the table. 'That will be an easy thing to do,' said Betty to herself; and lifting the seat, she found a dinky bag stuffed full of feathers, rainbow-coloured, but so matted together that they were nothing but a soft ball. 'P'r'aps this is to make me a pair of wings,' said Betty; and seating herself on the settle, she set to work with a will. But the feathers were not easily disentangled, as she soon found, and when evening came she had only succeeded in disentangling one tiny feather from the matted mass. The Wise Woman neither looked nor spoke to her until the sun sank down behind the downs, when she told her to return the bag to its place in the settle, and then get her supper and her own and go to bed. 'I have only got one little feather to put on the table,' said poor little Betty, when she had put the bag back into its place. 'You have done better than I feared,' said the Wise Woman quietly. 'It is something to have untangled even one feather from its companions. It is a sign that it is quite possible that you may be able to fly.' When they had had their supper, which consisted of black bread and goat's milk, Betty lay down in a bed made of dried grass and bracken, in the corner of the room, and slept the sleep of well-doing. 'It will take me a whole year to untangle all these feathers,' said the little maid to herself the next day, when she again sat down to her task, which she did when she had got her own and the Wise Woman's breakfast, and had swept and sanded the hut. ''Tis dreary work, sure 'nough!' 'Pity, love, and patience will do wonders,' said the Wise Woman, who seemed to have the gift of thought-reading, and what she said comforted the child not a little. Every day for six long months Betty sat in the settle most of the day separating feather from feather, and it was not until the end of that time that the last feather was laid upon the table, and so bright and beautiful did they look that she said they looked as if they had been dipped in a rainbow. The Wise Woman did not tell her what they were for, but she was sure they were to make her a pair of wings. 'And how beautiful they will be when they are made--brighter than a sunset!' she whispered to herself as she lay down to sleep that night. When Betty awoke the following morning, she looked at the table to see if the feathers were safe, and saw, to her dismay, the Wise Woman sweep them into the skirt of her gown and take them to the door and shake them out on the down. 'Aw, my beautiful feathers!' ejaculated the child, springing up in her bed, when as she did so the ancient dame broke into a chant, and all she could make out of it was that now the spell was broken they must go with all speed to the Queen of the Little People and get her permission to help in the undoing of another spell. When the chant had ceased, Betty, still more amazed, saw a great cloud, that looked more like winged flowers than feathers, float away over the downs towards the sea. 'I don't believe they were feathers at all!' cried Betty to herself. 'And, aw dear! how am I to get my wings now?' She longed to ask the Wise Woman to tell her why she had flung the feathers away, but remembering what the old body had said, that she was to ask no questions, whatever she saw or heard, she kept back the words on her lips. She was very cast down when her work of many days was gone--she knew not whither. When she had had her breakfast and had done all her little chores, the Wise Woman bade her search in the seat of the settle for a black stone, which, she told her, she must rub till it was the colour of life. After much searching, she found the stone of curious shape wrapped in soft leather, which her old friend said she could use to rub the stone with. Betty again set to work with a will, but rub as hard as she could, no rubbing seemed to affect the blackness of the stone, and at the end of a week it seemed blacker than ever. She was much troubled at this, and the Wise Woman, who read her thoughts, told her not to despair, as its blacker blackness was a sign that all would be well, and that she was in a fair way of getting wings to fly up the witch's stairs. 'How?' was on Betty's lips, but a warning look from the Wise Woman's wonderful bright eyes made the question die unspoken. For many a week longer the girl rubbed the sable stone--patiently and quietly most of the time, but there were days when she felt like throwing the stone out of the window and running away home to her mother. But pity for her poor little friends shut up in the witch's chamber made her persevere with her task. One day, when she was almost worn out with rubbing, she saw a faint glow come into the stone, which, as she rubbed harder and quicker than ever, grew brighter and brighter, until it lay in her hand as red as a poppy. 'The stone is all afire!' she cried, taking it to the Wise Woman. 'It is the colour of life at last,' said the ancient dame, gazing at it with her wonderful bright eyes; 'and another spell loosened to the witch's undoing,' she muttered, half to herself. And noticing that Betty was listening with all her ears, she told the child to look in the settle for a box, and when she had found it to put it on the table and lay the stone within it. There was only one box in the settle, which, though small, was most exquisitely carved all over with wings--wing interlacing wing--and as Betty set it on the table and put the stone into it, she thought she had never seen such a lovely box. The next morning, when she awoke, she saw the Wise Woman at the door of the hut with the stone in her hand, and she heard her chanting: 'Go the way thy sisters went--the way of the west wind, and ask the King of the Wee Folk to give thee permission to help in the undoing of an evil wrought by the Witch o' the Well;' and Betty, staring with all her eyes, saw the ancient dame fling the stone out on to the down, along which it rolled at a rapid rate, burning as it went with a rosy splendour. It went the way the feathers had gone. Betty dressed quickly, and busied herself about the hut, to keep herself from asking if the stone was really a stone, for she did not believe it was, and she ached to know. When they had had breakfast, and the hut was cleaned with fresh scouring-sand, the Wise Woman asked her, if she had the chance of being made into a bird, what little bird would she like to be. 'A thrush,' said Betty. 'I should love to be a little thrush, because it sings so sweetly in the dawn.' 'It is a good choice,' cried the Wise Woman--'the best you could have made. Now go down to Trevillador Wood, and every thrush you see in it, ask him to give you a feather for Love's sake.' 'I do not know where Trevillador Wood is,' said the child, 'nor the way thither.' 'It is in a valley in Little Petherick,' returned the Wise Woman. 'It is not a great way from here, and easy to find if you follow a little brown stream from Crackrattle, that runs down through the valley to the wood. Crackrattle is away there, on Trevibban Down,' pointing to the opposite down, which was only separated from Bogee by a narrow road. 'By going up across Trevibban you will soon get to Crackrattle. Now go, my dear, and go quickly.' And Betty went. The child was ever so thankful to be out of doors again, after having been cooped up in the hut for so many months, particularly as it was the birds' singing-time. Birds were singing everywhere on the downs, and their music gushed from furze-brake, from thorn-bush and alder; and when she came to Music Water she heard linnets fluting, and sweet wild notes came from budding willows by the side of the rippling stream. Larks were also singing--lark answering lark with such wonderful melody in the blue upper air that she told herself she had never heard such lovely sounds before. The downs, in spite of all the bird-music, were not so beautiful nor so full of colour as when she came to stay with the Wise Woman. They were now as brown as Piskey-purses, she said, and only lightened here and there by granite boulders, where they caught the rays of the sun, by yellow gorse, and splashes of silver lichen. It did not take the girl very long to cross Music Water's full stream to reach the road that parted the two downs; but it took her some time to get to Crackrattle, as the way up to it was thick with brambles and furze. When she drew near that part of the down which commanded a grand view of the country and sea as far up as Tintagel, she turned her gaze towards Padstow Town, and saw the river twisting in and out of the hills on its way out to the open sea. She also saw the two great headlands, Stepper Point and Pentire, that guarded the entrance to Padstow harbour in that far-away sixteenth century, as they do to-day, and her glimpse of them and the blue river seemed to bring her home quite close to her; and when she reached Crackrattle stream, she followed it down the long, deep valley with a happy heart. When she came to a wood, which she was sure in her mind was Trevillador Wood, she heard the thrushes singing and filling the place with music. Every cock thrush was doing his very best to out-sing his brother thrush. It was mating-time, and each little songster in speckled grey was trying to win a little mate by his song. The first thrush that Betty saw--and he was a master singer and made the wood ring--was on the uppermost branch of a horse-chestnut just beginning to bud, and when he had finished his entrancing song, she lifted up her voice and said: 'Dear little grey thrush, please give me one of your feathers, for Love's sake.' She wondered as she begged if the bird would understand her language; but he did quite well, and, what she thought was still more wonderful, she understood his! 'I will give you a feather gladly,' he piped in his own delicious thrush way. 'It is the beautiful spring-time, and the thrushes' courting-time; and because you beg a feather for Love's sake, I will pluck one that lies over my heart.' And the dear little bird did so, and flung it down into Betty's outstretched hands; and when she had caught it, he burst out into exquisite melody, and he was still singing, as she went down the wood lovely with budding trees. From every thrush she saw she asked a feather for Love's sake, and she was not refused once, and by the time she had gone the length of the wood her apron was full of thrushes' feathers, plucked from breast and wing, tail and back! 'Were the song-thrushes willing to give their feathers?' asked the Wise Woman when Betty got back to the hut. 'Ever so willing!' cried the little maid, opening her apron to show what a lot she had got. 'It is more than enough,' she said. 'Put them into the box where the stone lay.' The following morning when the child awoke there was a mournful sound coming up from the sea, which they could command from the door of the hut, and the Wise Woman said it was a sign that a great storm was being brewed by the Master of the Winds, and that before the day was over he would send the great North-Easter across the land. 'I am sorry,' she said, 'as it will hinder our work, and perhaps I shall die of the cold before we can help you to fly.' Betty wanted terribly to ask the Wise Woman who beside herself would help her to get wings, but she dared not ask a single question, and felt it was very hard she could not. Before the day had closed in, the bitter north wind, which was accompanied by snow, had come. It broke over the downs in great fury, and made the poor old woman shiver over her fire with the misery of it. The next day and the next it blew, and the more it blew, and the faster it snowed, the more the ancient dame shivered and shook; and all day long she kept Betty busy piling up dry furze on the hearth, till there was none left to put. When she realized that all her winter store of peat and firewood was burnt, she moaned, and said she was sure she should die of the cold. 'And if I die,' she added sadly, 'the witch, like the north wind, will have it all her own way, and you will never be able to fly up her terrible stairs.' This distressed the poor little maid very much; for she had become quite fond of the Wise Woman, and wanted her to live for her own sake as well as for Monday's, Tuesday's, and the others'. When the fuel was all burnt, and the Wise Woman too cold even to shiver, Betty said that when it stopped snowing she would go out on the downs and look for something to burn; and when it stopped she went. The downs were many feet deep under the snow, and there was not a furze-brake nor a hillock to be seen anywhere; and the down opposite was as smooth as a sheet spread out on grass to dry. As Betty was searching for wood, and could not find even a stick, a hare came speeding over the snow from Crackrattle. She watched it till it crossed over to Bogee, and saw, to her surprise, that it was making straight for her. When it drew near it stopped, with eyes that made her think of the witch's eyes, and as it gazed, the hare disappeared, and in its place stood the old witch herself, steeple-hat and all! Betty was dreadfully frightened, and before she could rush back to the hut, the witch had come quite close to her, and asked her what she was doing out there in the cold. 'Looking for firewood for the poor old Wise Woman's fire,' answered Betty. 'And I can't see any,' she added sadly. 'Of course you can't,' laughed the witch. 'Sticks under three feet of snow are as difficult to find as a furze-needle in a wainload of hay. It will comfort you to know that you won't find even a stick, and that before the north wind has turned his back on the downs, the Wise Woman will have died of the cold, and you will cry your eyes out for wings to fly up my stairs!' And cackling and jeering, she disappeared, and Betty saw a gray hare running away over the snow down to Music Water, now as silent as the downs themselves. The little maid was returning to the hut with an icicle of despair at her heart, when a white dog ran across her path, and looking down, she saw it was Pincher, the witch's dog. 'Don't let what my bad old mistress said distress you,' he cried, licking Betty's cold little hand. 'She does not want you to look for sticks, and came here on purpose to prevent you. She is quite as anxious that the Wise Woman should die as you and I are for her to live. She is as clever as she is vile, and she knows that a woman over a hundred could not possibly live long in awful weather like this unless she has a good fire to keep her warm.' 'But why does she want the Wise Woman to die?' asked the little maid. 'Because she fears the wisdom of her long years can help you to fly up her stairs. And this fear brought her to Bogee Down to-day. She made me come with her, which is fortunate; for poking about whilst she was talking to you, I discovered a great faggot of wood dry as a bone, and under it a pile of peat.' 'Where?' Betty asked eagerly. 'Close to the hut under a hedge,' answered the dog. 'And if you will allow me I'll come and help you to get it out. The witch is so happy in her belief that she has discouraged you from looking for sticks that she won't miss me yet.' And he led the way to the side of the hut, where, under a tangle of brambles, Betty saw a huge bundle of sticks, dry and brown. They set to work with a will--she with her eager young hands, he with his strong white teeth--and soon got it out from under the hedge and into the hut, where, to their distress, they found the Wise Woman lying face down on the hearthstone, apparently lifeless. Betty, girl-like, began to sob, believing the poor old woman was dead, which made Pincher quite angry, and he told her with a growl to put off her weeping till a more convenient time, and see if she could not kindle a fire with the sticks they had brought, whilst he tried to lick life back into her poor old body. It was just the stimulus the child wanted. She mopped away her tears, and piled wood on the fire and set it alight; and Pincher, the dog, licked the poor old woman's face and hands with his warm, moist tongue. Their efforts were not in vain, and they soon had the joy of seeing her open her eyes and stretch out her hands to the blaze. 'Thank you for all your kindness, dear Pincher,' said Betty, when the dog said he must go. 'If I can ever do you a kindness in return, just ask me and I'll do it if I can.' 'Remember me when you can fly up the witch's stairs,' said the dog, with an appealing look in his eyes that Betty never forgot. 'Then you really believe I shall be able to fly up those stairs some day?' she asked. 'I am almost certain you will, and so is the witch. You cannot live with people for generations without being able to read their faces. The witch's face is an open book to me now, and it tells me that she is not only afraid you will fly, but that it will happen soon. So fearful is she of this that a few days ago she actually wove another spell on the door leading up to the tower where the little maids who played the game are kept.' 'Do you ever get mouth-speech with the poor little dears?' asked Betty wistfully. 'Never. But I sometimes see them at the barred window of their chamber. It isn't often they have time even for that, for the old witch keeps them spinning all day long. Farewell, dear! I must go. If the faggot of sticks is all burnt and the turf before the cold goes, don't go out again in search of more firewood. There is danger abroad. If the Wise Woman is in danger of sinking under the cold, just lay your warm heart against her heart, and all will be well.' The dreadful weather still continued, and when the faggot was all burnt, the dame again began to shiver and shake with cold, and said she should die this time, as there was no warmth left to keep life in her. Betty was once more greatly distressed on her old friend's account, and declared she would go out on the downs to look for firewood in spite of what might happen to herself; but as she was going, the Wise Woman again tumbled, face down, on the fireless hearth. As the girl picked her up (she was not the weight of a witch) and laid her on the settle, she remembered what the dog had advised her to do if the cold overcame the old woman again, and, lying down beside her, she pressed her warm young body against her aged body, and soon she had the joy of knowing that life was creeping back to the feeble old frame. When the Wise Woman opened her eyes and saw the child's face close to hers, and felt her kind young arms about her, she said, with a tremble in her voice: 'Thou art a dear little maid. Thou hast rekindled the feeble flame of my life, proving to me that Good is greater than Evil, and Love stronger than Hate. I shall not die now before thou hast gotten thy wings. Get up, open the door, and call across the snow three times, "Little Prince Fire, come away from the Small People's Country and keep the Wise Woman warm till the cold goes!"' Betty made haste to obey, and when she had opened the hut-door wide she called three times, as she was told, and then waited to see what would happen. In a minute or less there appeared on the edge of the down a bright-red glow like a poppy in the eye of the sun. After burning there a minute or so it came like a flash over the snow towards the hut. As it came close, she saw it was the very same stone that she had rubbed for so many, many weeks. It flashed like a ruby into the hut, and as it did so she thought she saw, through the soft rosy haze that seemed to envelope it, a tiny laughing face. When she turned to see where the stone had gone, behold it was on the hearthstone, burning away like a tiny faggot, and the Wise Woman was sitting beside it with her withered old hands held out to the blaze! It was so remarkable and queer that Betty could not at first believe the evidence of her own eyes, and rubbed them to make sure she was not dreaming. But it was no dream, for the miserable little hut, which a few minutes before was cold as Greenland, was now as warm as a zam [42] oven, and there was a soft glow all over it. She sat down on the settle to enjoy the comfort of this wonderful fire, and she felt so warm and lovely after the terrible cold that it made her drowsy, and in a little while she was in a sound sleep. She never knew how long she slept, she only knew that when she awoke the wind and the snow had all gone, and the down birds were chanting a morning song outside the window. The stone was also gone, and the Wise Woman nowhere to be seen. As she was wondering what had become of the latter, the old woman came into the hut with her apron full of green furze, and seeing the child wide awake, she cried: 'Get up, sleepy-head! The cold has left the downs this longful time, and the thrushes in Trevillador Wood have built their nests and are beginning to lay. Haste to the wood and get a bottleful of bird-music.' 'Where is the bottle?' asked Betty, getting up and looking about her. 'You will find one in the settle made of the Small People's crystal, into which you must ask every thrush you hear singing to his mate to drop a note to make a song with. Ask him to give it you for Gratitude's sake. When the bottle is full to its neck make your way back to the hut, and the first living thing you see after you have left the wood ask it to return with you to the Wise Woman. Ask it also to come for Gratitude's sake.' After the child had eaten some food and had found the bottle, which was ever so tiny, and clear and bright as diamonds, she started for Trevillador Wood. The cold had indeed all gone, as the Wise Woman had said, and the downs were all the better for the great storm that had swept over them. The snow had kept the earth warm, and had been a soft warm blanket to all the downflowers, and now the furze blossom was all manner of lovely shades of gold, and the soft spring air full of its fragrance. Music Water was all alight with marsh-marigolds, and the catkins of the grey-green willows were dusted with gold. The snow had also been kind to the trees in Trevillador Wood (the Thrushes' Wood, Betty called it), and had wrapped all the baby buds and tender leaves in dainty white furs, and when the little maid entered the wood she saw, to her surprise, that most of the trees were dreams of beauty, with glistering leaves, and some of them were almost as brightly coloured as that strange stone, Little Prince Fire, as the Wise Woman had called it. So delighted was she with all she saw that she forgot what she had been sent there for, until a thrush near startled the wood with a burst of melody. He was singing to his mate, for, drawing nearer, she saw, low down in a bush, a little hen thrush on her nest. 'Please, little grey-bird, [43] will you drop a note of your song into this bottle for Gratitude's sake?' she asked, holding up the bottle to the singing thrush. 'Gladly,' piped he, 'especially as you ask it for Gratitude's sake. We have just received our first great blessing, which I may tell you is a tiny blue egg.' 'Give the child two notes,' piped a happy little voice from the nest. 'My heart is brimming over with joy for the warm wee thing under me.' 'Thank you for your kindness,' said Betty. 'But, if you please, little thrushes, the Wise Woman who lives on Bogee Down above Music Water, who sent me to this wood, said I must only ask for one note from each thrush I heard singing.' 'That is right,' chirped the little cock thrush. 'Always obey those older and wiser than yourself.' 'Ask the child what she wants thrushes' notes for,' chirped the voice from the nest. 'She didn't say, did she?' 'I forgot to tell you that,' struck in Betty. 'It is to make a song with.' 'I thought so,' piped the little cock thrush, and flying down, he put one of his most delicious notes into the tiny bottle, and in another second he was up on his bush again, singing deeper and more entrancingly than before, gratitude being the keynote and the chief utterance of his song. Betty went down the wood with that music in her soul, and begged every thrush she heard singing to give her a note of his song. Whether every bird's heart was also full of gladness for the freckled blue eggs in its dear little nest we cannot say, but they all gave willingly of their best, and before the child had gone through Trevillador Wood, the bottle of Small People's crystal was full to the neck with thrush-music. Coming back, she saw two red squirrels sitting on their haunches at the foot of an oak-tree, eating nuts. Said one squirrel to the other squirrel: 'There is a dear little maid from Padstow Town here in the wood collecting music from the thrushes. It is the same child who, unknown to herself, undid a cruel spell which the Witch o' the Well cast over Prince Fire, a near relative of the King of the Little People. She turned him into a black stone, and a stone he had to be till somebody could rub it the colour of flame.' 'You don't mean to say so?' cried the other squirrel. 'This is news.' 'I thought it would be,' said the squirrel that spoke, arching his handsome tail with importance. 'Perhaps it will also be news to you to hear that this same little maid has actually untangled the dear Little Lady Soft Winds from that great Skein of Entanglement into which the wicked old witch tangled them, and from which nobody, not even the Wee Folk themselves, was able to free them.' 'However did she manage to do it?' asked the second squirrel. 'Only the Wise Woman of Bogee Down could answer that question. But the thrushes believe, and so do I, that love and pity for six little maids whom the witch has shut up somewhere gave patience to her fingers to do what the Wise Woman bade her do; and because her heart was full of love for these poor little maids, whom she hoped by her obedience to get out of the witch's power, she unwittingly set free the other poor little prisoners--the Lady Soft Winds and Prince Fire, the King's cousin.' 'And has she got her own little friends out of the power of the witch after all her love and patience?' asked the squirrel. 'Alas! not yet; but we all hope she will soon. The Small People are her friends now, especially those she set free. And it is told that they are going to turn her into a flying creature of some sort. Some say a bird, but nobody knows for certain. We are all on the alert to see what will happen. They say the Lady Soft Winds whispered to the daffodowndillies last evening that Prince Fire had already begun to make a pair of wings for her to fly up the witch's stairs. But it may be only talk. And yet--there! the dear little maid is coming. Not another word, remember. She understands our language, and bird language too. The Wise Woman, it is said, put something on her tongue when she was asleep one day, when Little Prince Fire came from the Wee Folk's country to keep the Wise Woman's hut warm;' and then, catching sight of Betty's eyes bent upon him, he rushed up the trunk of the oak, followed by his companion. 'Well, those little funny things have told news, sure 'nough,' laughed the child to herself when the pretty little squirrels had vanished, 'and have told me all I ached to know without asking a single question. To think that the little feathers were the dear Little People; and that queer black stone was one too, and that they are going to help me fly up to Monday and the rest!' And she danced with delight as she thought of it, and the wonder was she did not dance the thrushes' notes out of the bottle. When she was out of the wood, and walking up to Crackrattle, she remembered what the Wise Woman had told her, that the first thing she saw with wings she must ask it to return with her to the hut; but the only winged creature that she noticed as she went up the valley was a large butterfly--or what she thought was a butterfly--on a great stone. 'The Wise Woman cannot want a butterfly to go back with me to her house,' said Betty to herself. 'But perhaps I had better ask it to come;' and speaking gently, so as not to frighten away the lovely thing on the stone, she said: 'Little butterfly, please will you, for Gratitude's sake, come with me to the Wise Woman's hut?' and to her amazement the tiny creature answered back: 'Gladly will I go with you. But, excuse me, I am not a butterfly. I am one of the Lady Soft Winds whom you freed from the tangle into which the old witch threw us.' It began to rise on its azure wings as it spoke, and as it rose Betty saw it was indeed a fairy. It had the dearest little face she had ever seen, and as for its eyes, they were bluer than its own wings, and its soft, round cheeks were a more delicate pink than the cross-leaved heath that flowered on the downs early in the summer. It flew on beside her, and Betty was so taken up with watching it that she did not notice when she got up to Crackrattle that a dozen other fairy-like creatures were flying over the downs towards her, until they were quite close. 'We are the Lady Soft Wind's sisters,' they said, 'and out of deep gratitude to you we have come to go with you to the Wise Woman's hut.' 'Have you really, you little dears?' was all Betty could find words to say. 'Come along, then.' And they came, and were a rhythm of colour as they flew beside her, or, as the child expressed it, 'a little flying garland of flowers.' Thus accompanied, Betty came to the hut, where, in the doorway, stood the Wise Woman, leaning on her stick, evidently awaiting her and her companions' arrival. 'We have come,' said one of the little creatures. 'I felt certain you would,' said the Wise Woman, making a curtsey, 'and a thousand welcomes. If the child has brought the thrushes' notes everything is ready.' 'She has brought them,' put in another tiny voice, 'and they are impatient to sing.' 'Then please follow me,' said the Wise Woman, going into the hut; and in flew all the lovely little creatures, with gentle fanning of wings, which made a soft breeze as they came. 'Prince Fire is already at work,' said the Wise Woman, pointing to the box, and Betty, who had followed the Little Lady Soft Winds, saw, sitting in the box amongst the thrushes' feathers, a small person dressed in red, busy making wings! He was Little Prince Fire, and a very great person in the Small People's World. 'My dear life! aw, my dear life! What shall I see next?' cried the little Padstow maid to herself; and what more she would have said is not known, for at that moment the Wise Woman took the tiny crystal bottle out of her hand and put it into the box beside the dinky person within. 'The Lady Soft Winds have arrived, your Royal Highness,' she said, 'and Betty, the little Padstow maid, is also here.' 'Good!' piped the tiny man. 'Bid them sing the Making Song.' 'We require no bidding, Prince Fire,' said a little Lady Soft Wind, with gentle dignity, as she and the others alighted on the table. 'Out of gratitude and love we have come from afar to sing this song, knowing well, unless we sang it, you would never complete the wings. We, as well as you, can never repay the little maid of Padstow Town for releasing us from the witch's spell.' The voice had hardly died away when all the radiant fairies began to wave their wings, at first slowly, and then rapidly, in a kind of rhythm, and sang very softly as they waved them. Betty watched them with all her eyes, and whether it was the movement of their wings or the curious song they sang, with its hush-a-by kind of tune, she felt ever so drowsy, just as she had felt when Little Prince Fire blazed away like a faggot on the hearthstone, and sitting down on the settle, she fell asleep with the two first verses of the song in her ears: 'We Wee Folk together With music and feather The gift of the birds-- The little grey-birds-- Do make her a thrush All sweetness and gush. Lallaby! Gallady! 'And the Little Prince Fire Her sweet song will inspire, That she may fly high Where little maids sigh, And undo the spell Of the Witch o' the Well. Lallaby! Gallady!' The next thing she heard was the Wise Woman telling her to rise up and move her wings, and Betty, nothing loth, lifted herself from the settle and found she was all air and lightness, like the Little Lady Soft Winds themselves, and could fly about the hut with the greatest ease; the feeling of flying was altogether delightful! The Lady Soft Winds watched her flight with the deepest interest, and Prince Fire, who was sitting on the edge of the carved box, watched too; that he approved of her flying powers it was plain to see, for his bright eyes never left her wings. 'What am I now?' asked Betty at last, perching on a beam, and looking down sideways bird fashion on the Wise Woman. 'You are a little grey thrush,' said the Wise Woman, her withered face a big smile. 'And now, little grey thrush, away to the east, where the witch's house looms out dark and strong against the gold of the morning sky,' said the Lady Soft Winds, 'and fly up her terrible stairs and set your six little children free, as you did us.' 'Yes; away to Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday,' cried Little Prince Fire. 'And Thursday, Friday, and Little Saturday,' struck in the Wise Woman. 'Away, away, little grey thrush!' cried they all, singing as they cried. 'The sun is rising behind the Tors, and the time is come for our little thrush to fly and sing. Then, away, away!' Their little thrush wanted no further urging, and with one full, clear, melodious note, which filled all the small fairies with delight, it flew out of the hut, followed by the gentle winnowing of the Lady Soft Winds' wings. So glad was Betty, the little grey thrush, at being on her way to see those dear little maids that she flew faster than ever thrush flew before, and the sun was not yet over the Tors when she reached a grim old house standing all alone on a brown and desolate moor, with its back to the golden sunrise. Instinct told the little grey thrush that it was the witch's house, and alighting on a blasted tree, close to its spell-bound door, she began to sing with all her might; and so joyous and so triumphant was her song that it seemed to bring gladness and hope even to that desolate spot. As Betty, in her bird form, sang on, the old witch came round the corner of her house, dragging her unwilling feet as she came. When she lifted her bad old eyes and saw a grey thrush high on the tree, singing with all its cheerful heart, she turned green, and hearing the door of the tower leading up the stairs--where Monday and all the other little maids were shut up--groaning as if in pain, she sank in a heap on the ground, and began to groan and moan too. The bird sang on, and its whole body was one shake with its music, and the more thrilling was its song, the more the witch moaned and groaned. Then, when its last triumphant note rang out, the great door opened, as if pushed back by some magic power, and revealed a flight of very steep stairs. The witch gave a piercing howl when she saw the door open wide, for she knew that the small grey thrush's music had broken her spells, and that she was completely in the power of that little singing bird. When the door of the tower was as wide open as it could go, the thrush gave three flaps of its wings, and then it flew out of the tree, and in through the doorway of the tower, up and up the witch's stairs. And at the top of the stairs was a small room, where six little maids sat spinning. They were so busy, and the hum of the wheels was so loud, that none of them noticed the entrance of the grey-bird until it broke into a song from the window-sill. 'Why, it is a dear little thrush!' cried Friday, who was the first to notice it. 'How ever did it get up here? It must be the bird we heard singing so beautifully outside just now;' and all the children stopped their spinning-wheels to look at it. 'Did it really fly up the witch's stairs?' asked Thursday, resting her sad, soft eyes on the thrush, whose heart was beating so against its speckled breast at the sight of those dear little maids that it couldn't tell them at first who it was. 'It did,' answered Monday, 'and its flying up here makes me think of our Little Mother Betty, who played the game with us. Will she ever be able to fly up the witch's stairs, I wonder?' 'I am afraid not,' said one of the other children, with a sigh. 'I have given up all hope of her ever doing that now.' 'You are wrong, my dears,' cried the thrush, finding its voice at last. 'I am Mother Betty, turned into a dinky bird for your sakes, and have flown up the witch's stairs!' And it flapped its wings, jerked its tail, and behaved altogether in a most extraordinary manner, for the children's faces of amazement and hope nearly sent it mad with joy. And then, as if it must relieve its feelings still more, it burst into a most enchanting song, which was answered outside the tower by a series of joyful barks from Pincher, the witch's dog. 'It must be Little Mother Betty,' said Monday, leaving her spinning-wheel. 'I can hear her own voice in the song.' Then all the other little maids left their wheels to gaze at the bird. 'Are you really Betty who played the "Witch in the Well" with us that terrible day?' they asked. 'Indeed I am,' sang the thrush. 'I have come to take you away from here. Now follow me down the stairs and out of the house.' 'The stairs are so steep,' began Saturday, with frightened eyes. 'Don't be afraid, dear little Saturday,' sang the bird. 'It will be as easy as thinking. Come along, all of you.' The six little maids followed the bird out of the room and down those wall-like stairs, and in a minute or less were outside the witch's house, where they found the old hag in the act of mounting her broom. They were met at the door by Pincher the dog, who welcomed them with joyful barks and wagging of tail; and then, finding his mistress had fled, he looked up at the little grey thrush, who was wheeling round and round the children's heads out of sheer gladness, and begged her to give chase to the witch. 'For,' said he, 'if she goes out of your sight before you have commanded her to do something, you are in danger of having to retain your thrush-shape.' 'I am glad you told me,' said the thrush, and it was about to fly after the witch, when it recalled to mind what the dog had said the day he helped to drag the faggot of wood into the hut: 'Remember me when you have flown up the witch's stairs.' 'I have been up the witch's stairs and down again,' it said, alighting on the ground beside him. 'Is there anything I can do for you, Pincher? I am here to do it if I can.' 'I long to be set free from the power of the witch,' said the little dog, fixing his gentle eyes on the bird, 'and to be restored to my own shape. If you bid the witch do this, though it will be vinegar and gall to her, she is bound to obey you by the merit of your wings and your song. I long exceedingly to be myself again.' 'You shall,' sang the little grey thrush. And then, telling the children to mount Footman's Horse [44] and follow hard after her and the witch, it flapped its wings again, and flew after the old hag on her broom, and Pincher the dog and the six little maids sped after them. Over the moor and across the downs they all went like the wind, the witch keeping well in advance. Uphill and downhill and through the lanes they flew, and never once did they stop till they came to Place Hill, where the great stone gateway of Place House stood greyly out from a background of beech-trees and oaks. Here the six little maids stopped to get breath, but the old hag, though ready to drop from her broom with fatigue, paused not a second, and went on down the hill with little Thrush Betty, and Pincher the dog close behind her. 'The witch is out of sight!' cried Monday, as the old hag and the little grey-bird disappeared round a corner. 'So she is!' said Friday. And they all whipped up their tired little steeds, and away they sped down the steep hill in pursuit of the witch; but they did not overtake her until she got to the well, when they stood watching to see what would happen. The old hag slid off her broom, and, looking cunningly about her, as if in search of the thrush, which was on top of the wall above the well, she made a quick step to the well, and put her foot on its ledge. 'Sing, sing, dear Thrush Betty!' cried the small white dog in great distress, or the witch will disappear into the well before you can command her to do what you said.' And Betty, the little grey-bird, flew into a tree, and began to sing with all its might once more. And as it sang, the old hag crept back from the well, and stood in the middle of the road, with a terrible look on her face. Now, being a witch, and one of the worst of her kind, she could not endure anything so pure and sweet as the small bird's song; every note it sang was an agony to listen to, and, knowing in her wicked soul that its music had crushed all her evil power, she begged permission in a humble voice to be allowed to go into the well. 'You may go,' sang little Thrush Betty; 'with one condition, which is that you turn Pincher back into a boy!' 'Please ask me something less hard!' pleaded the witch, cringing before the little bird. 'Pincher will be mine no longer if I do that, and I cannot do without my faithful little dog. Where I go, he must also go.' 'That he shall not!' sang the thrush. 'I command you, by the merit of my wings and the power of my song, to remove your spell from this poor little boy!' 'To lose my little white dog is worse than having the Lady Soft Winds and Prince Fire set free from my spells!' muttered the witch. 'Worse even than losing the six little maids who played the game with me and did all my spinning.' 'Give him back his own self this very minute,' sang the little grey thrush, 'or else----' If a threat was implied in the sentence, the witch understood it, for, with a howl of rage, she made a pass with her broom over the dog. As she did so, the dog vanished, and in its place stood a young boy, dark and very handsome, dressed in clothes of a bygone age! The six little maids stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment, and as they stared as only little maids can, the witch made for the well. 'Please sing once more, little Thrush Betty,' cried the boy in a voice it knew so well. 'This last song will quite end the power of the bad old witch, and keep her down in the bottom of the Witch's Well until she repents of all she has done.' 'That will be never!' snarled the witch; and with a horrible cry, which even the victorious song of the little grey thrush could not drown, she splashed into the well. And when Monday, Tuesday, and the other little maids could get that cry out of their ears, the well and its quaint old arch were no longer to be seen, and near where it had stood was dear little Betty, their friend, who had played the 'Mother' in the game, looking very little altered, only a few inches taller, and standing beside her, holding her hand, was the boy, who, in his dog-shape, had done so much for them all. 'Now let us go home to our mothers,' cried Friday. 'I have no mother to go to,' said the boy sadly, as he hesitated to go with the happy children. 'Mine died long ago, and I have no home.' 'Our mothers shall be your mother,' cried the little maids, 'and you will never lack anything if you come with us.' So they all came down through Padstow Town, the boy in their midst. Nobody noticed them till they reached Middle Street, a straight cobbled street with quaint houses on either side, when a 'Granfer man' [45] spied them, and shouted the news that the long-lost children had come back, and the whole street rushed out to welcome them. Thursday lived at the bottom of this street, and Betty thought she ought to see her safely home; but the child's mother had already heard of their arrival, and came out to meet them and to clasp her own little maid to her heart. Monday's home was in a narrow street called Lanedwell, and when she was safe within her parents' house and arms, the other five little maids and the handsome boy, accompanied by a great crowd, went on their way to the market, where Saturday lived. As they came out of Lanedwell Street, a house across the market stood full in view. It was one of the quaintest of buildings, of Tudor date, with an outside flight of stone stairs leading up to its side entrance under the eaves. Little Saturday's eyes glistened when she caught sight of this house, for it was her own dear home. Her father happened to be at the top of the stairs looking over the wooden rail as the children drew near, and he nearly fell over into the street below when he saw his own long-lost little maid. Through a narrow passage, called the Blind Entry, the children and crowd of people poured, and they only got through when Saturday's father was down the steps and over to the Entry to greet them. 'There is the "George and the Dragon"!' cried Thursday, pointing to an inn at the bottom of a street as they crossed the market. 'Iss,' said Betty, with a smile; 'and St. George is still slaying the Dragon!' gazing up at the sign hanging above the door. 'Perhaps the Dragon is even more difficult to conquer than the Witch o' the Well,' put in the boy, eyeing with great interest the inn's sign, on which was painted in glowing colours England's patron saint, with uplifted sword to slay the Dragon. 'Ever so much more, I reckon,' responded Betty. Another small street brought them to the quay, where the other four little maids' homes were, as well as Betty's, and to their exceeding joy they saw their fathers and mothers and all their relations and friends coming to meet them. And what a meeting it was, and what a welcome they had! Never since the day when the two ships, which the people of this ancient town sent fully equipped to help in the siege of Calais in Edward III.'s reign, came safely back was there such rejoicing, so the old 'granfer men' said. Every vessel in the harbour hoisted its flag in honour of the children's return and the overcoming of that wicked old witch. The boy, when Betty told how she had got her wings that enabled her to fly up the witch's stairs, was made much of by the people of Padstow Town, and the friends of those seven little maids almost fought who should have him for their own. How it was settled there is no need to tell, save only that he lived on Padstow quay, and that he and Betty were always friends and loved each other dearly; and when they grew up they married, and were as happy as the summer is long. BORROWED EYES AND EARS In a lane where red-stemmed tamarisks grew lived another Wise Woman. She was a nice old body, as many of her kind were, and, like them, was well acquainted with the healing properties of herbs and blossoms--revealed to them, it was said, by the fairies. But this Wise Woman was not at all liked; nobody seemed to know why, except that she could do many wonderful things her neighbours could not, and was, moreover, very ugly. People were even afraid of her, and never went near her cottage unless they wanted to buy her herb physic, ointments, and that sort of thing. But there was one who was not afraid of her at all, and that was a dear little girl called Bessie Jane Rosewarne, the only child of a farmer who lived near Tamarisk Lane. This little maid had a kind heart, especially for those who were lonely or sad; and when she knew how lonely the poor old Wise Woman was, she often went to see her, and took her little presents in the shape of fruit and flowers. Annis, as the old woman was called, soon got to be very fond of the kind-hearted child; and to show how she appreciated her kindness she used to tell her stories about the Small People and the dear little brown, winking Piskeys, whom she seemed to know very intimately. Bessie Jane was always interested in the Wee Folk, particularly the cliff ones and the sea-fairies, and expressed a great desire to see them. Early one afternoon the child brought her old friend a basket of red currants and a cup of cream; and when she had set her gifts on the table, the Wise Woman went to her dresser and took from it a very small shrimping-net, or what looked like a shrimping-net. 'It is a present I have made for you, dear little maid,' she said. 'What is it for?' asked the child, when she had thanked Old Annis for her gift. 'It looks like a shrimping-net, only its meshes are so fine--as fine as gossamer--that I am afraid it will not bear even the weight of a baby-shrimp!' 'It is stronger than it looks,' said the Wise Woman, with a curious look in her sloe-black eyes. 'Its meshes are made out of Piskey-wool, which the Small People spun on their own little spinning-wheels, and which they gave me to mesh into a net. Its hoop and handle I cut from an ash-tree, where the Wee Folk gather to hold their gammets [46] in the moonshine.' 'Did you really?' cried little Bessie Jane. 'How very interesting! I shall go down to Harlyn Bay at once and catch shrimps in the great pool under the shadow of the cliffs there.' 'It will catch something nicer than shrimps, I hope,' said Old Annis, following the child to the door. 'Whatever you catch in it, my dear, don't let it get out of the net until it promises to lend you its eyes and its ears for a night and a day.' 'I don't think I want anyone's eyes and ears but my own,' laughed the little maid as she went down Tamarisk Lane, which led to Harlyn Bay, swinging the shrimping-net as if it were a common net, and not spun from Piskey-wool by the Small People and made by a Wise Woman. The bay, with its great beach of golden sand, its many hillocks--silvery-blue in places with sea-holly, and green with clumps of feathery tamarisk--lay open before her as she came out of the lane. There were many gulls on the wing to-day, white as the waves that broke gently over the rocks and against the sides of the cliffs. She looked about her, as was her wont, when she reached the beach, but there was nobody on the bar save an old man with his donkey, its panniers full of sand, coming up the beach on the way back to Higher Harlyn, where he lived. Bessie Jane made straight for the pool of which she had spoken. It was a very deep pool, full of sea-anemones, shrimps, and lovely seaweed, and in the centre of the pool was a rock, in the shape of an arch, covered with mussels. As the child was about to dip her net into the pool, she saw a streak of silver dancing up and down in the clear water. She watched it for a minute, and then she thought she would try and catch it, and leaning over the pool, she put her shrimping-net under the whirling brightness and caught it. Looking into the net to see if it were a fish, to her great delight she saw it was like one of the tiny sea-fairies Old Annis had told her about. It was a most beautiful little creature; its eyes were the colour of the Cornish sea at its bluest, and its hair, which was a pale shade of gold, was sprinkled all over with sunbeams. It had no clothes on save a little green shift! 'Oh, you dear little darling!' cried Bessie Jane, after gazing at the lovely atom sitting in her shrimping-net. 'I came down here to this bay to catch shrimps, and I do believe I've caught a sea-fairy instead!' 'You have,' piped the little creature in the most silvery of voices; 'and woe is me that I am the first of the sea-fairies to be caught in a net!' 'I hope you don't mind very much,' said Bessie Jane, looking uncomfortable. 'I have never seen a fairy before of any sort, and I have been longing to see a little sea-fairy like you. The Wise Woman who lives in Tamarisk Lane, near our farm, told me about the sea-fairies. It was she who made me the net, which she meshed her own self out of Piskey-wool spun by the dear Little People.' 'That explains my being caught in a net!' cried the little creature, with a sigh of relief. 'I do not mind so much now--that is, if you will put me back into the pool. You will do me that kindness, won't you? I and my little companions were playing Buck and Hide Away here in the bay when the tide was in, and as I was hiding under the rock in the pool where you netted me, the tide went out and left me behind. You see that great bar of sand'--pointing at it with her tiny pink finger, which was even a more delicate pink than the beautiful tamarisk blossom that makes Tamarisk Lane and all the other lanes near Harlyn Bay so pretty in the summer and autumn months--'it is a terrible thing to us little sea-fairies,' as Bessie Jane nodded. 'We have not the power to get over sand-bars. My companions are in a wisht [47] way about me, knowing all the dangers that beset us when we are cut off from the sea.' 'You must not be afraid of me,' Bessie Jane hastened to assure her, thinking the little sea-fairy's words were meant for her. 'I wouldn't hurt a hair of your bright little head. And if I can't do what you ask me, it is because I love you so much, and want to take you home to our farm. We live in such a dear old house! I would be ever so kind to you, and you should be my own dear little sister. It would be lovely to have you to play with!' 'I am sure you are very kind,' said the sea-fairy in a voice that trembled. 'But, dear little maid, I couldn't be happy anywhere away from my relations and friends, and I couldn't live out of the sea very long, and if you were to take me to your house and keep me there I should fade away and vanish with fretting.' 'Would you really?' cried Bessie Jane. 'Then I won't take you to my home. If you like, I'll carry you down the sand and put you back into the sea.' 'Oh, will you, dear little girl?' cried the tiny creature joyfully, her eyes growing as bright as her hair. 'I will be always grateful to you if you will. My little brothers and sisters and crowds of my friends are in the sea close to the shore watching me.' 'I can't see them,' said Bessie Jane, turning her gaze seaward. 'I can only see sun-sparks on the edges of the waves.' 'They are sea-fairies,' said the wee creature. 'You can't see their forms, of course, and you would not have seen me if I had not been caught in a net made out of Piskey-wool spun by the Small People and meshed by a Wise Woman. Will you please take me down to the sea now? It seems ages since the tide cut me off from my dear ones.' 'I will this very minute, if you will lend me your eyes and your ears for a night and a day,' answered Bessie Jane, remembering Old Annis's injunction. 'I will do what you ask gladly,' said the little sea-fairy, 'for I am very grateful for your kindness in offering to take me back to my friends. When you have put me into the sea a wave will bring to your feet a little red ball, which will contain my ears and my eyes, and which you must take to the Wise Woman, who will keep them until sunrise to-morrow.' Bessie Jane carried the little sea-fairy very carefully down the sandy beach in the shrimping-net, and when she had put her into the sea, the water all around her broke into white fire, and a soft, sweet sound, like the coos of young pigeons, filled the air; and then, as the brightness enclosed the tiny creature, she disappeared--ears, eyes, and all! 'Oh, the sea-fairy has forgotten her promise,' cried Bessie Jane, gazing dolefully at the spot where she had sunk. As she was speaking, a wavelet broke at her feet, and looking down, she saw a round ball of airy lightness and brightness lying on the sand. It was red as pools when the sun sets, and the child picked it up and looked at it, and through its almost transparent skin she saw a shadow of ears and a glimmer of something blue; and she took it to the Wise Woman, as the fairy had bidden her. Old Annis smiled when the little girl told her what she had caught in the shrimping-net. 'It was what I had expected,' she said. 'Now, dear little maid, you must get up with the larks to-morrow and come here, and you shall then see what you will see.' Bessie Jane got out of bed the minute she awoke the next day, which was just as the little skybirds were beginning to sing; and when she was dressed she hurried off to Tamarisk Lane. Early though it was, the Wise Woman was also up, and when she saw her little friend coming, she went and opened her door. The first thing the child saw as she came into the cottage were two tiny ears--smaller even than a harvest-mouse's ears--on the table, and near them two round eyeballs, with a sapphire spark in each of them. As her glance rested on the wee eyes and ears, Old Annis called her to her side, and taking up the ears, she dropped them into the child's ears; then she took up the eyes, and putting some Wee Folk's glue on their back, she put them into Bessie Jane's pretty brown ones, and told her to look round her cottage. The child did so, and saw to her amazement that it was full of Small People, including little Brown Piskey-men. They were all amusing themselves in various ways: some were running about the sanded floor; some were looking into the depths of a Toby jug full of milk; and some tickling Old Annis's large grey cat. The Piskeys were astride her fiddle-backed chairs and her settle, and winked at the sweet little maid whenever she turned her gaze their way, and they winked so funnily she could not have helped laughing to save her life. As she was looking at them, the Wise Woman told her if she wished to see the sea-fairies in Harlyn Bay she must go at once. She did not at all want to go, for the Small People were most fascinating, she told the old woman, particularly the little brown winking Piskeys; but she went all the same. As she walked down the lane to the bay, she looked through the tamarisk hedge into the common, and saw that somehow or other it looked different. There was a soft green light hanging over it, and where the sand was only the day before there was a multitude of most beautiful flowers of every colour and shade, the like of which she had never seen before. Amongst the flowers cows were feeding. The cows were ever so small, not bigger than rats. There were teeny tiny goats there, too, and dear little men in queer hats and coats looking after them. The cows and goats belonged to the Wee Folk, she supposed. It was all so delightfully different and odd, and she couldn't think how she had never noticed all this on the common before, till she remembered she was seeing through a sea-fairy's eyes. As she climbed the cliffs overlooking the bay a sound of sweetest music stole upon her borrowed ears, and glancing to where the sound came, she saw that the edge of the low cliff was crowded with Small People, who were singing away like a choir of song-birds. Some of them were sitting on Piskey-stools, [48] some on the edge of the cliff, others were standing. In the background were a score or more of tiny musicians, with reeds, flutes, and other instruments of music in their hands. These last were quaintly dressed in poppy-coloured coats and speedwell-blue breeches, and on their dear little heads were blue three-cornered hats turned up with the same rich colour as their coats. The whole company of Wee Folk were delightful to look at as they were to listen to; and as for the tiny ladies of the party, they were, Bessie Jane told herself, little nosegays of wild-flowers, and if they had not been trilling and piping as she came upon them, she would have mistaken them for cliff-blossoms, so bright they looked in their lovely gowns of trefoil-gold and reds, thrift-pink, squill-blue, and all those exquisite colours that make the Cornish cliffs so beautiful in the late spring and early summer-time. The Small People saw the child, and seemed quite pleased to see her, for they smiled most graciously, and one of the little musicians took off his three-cornered hat and bowed like a courtier, and said he hoped she did not mind their singing, as it was their custom to sing a little impromptu song to their cousins--the sea-fairies--every beautiful morning in May, that being, he told her, the month of flowers and music. Bessie Jane did not mind in the least. Indeed, she was delighted to think she had come in time to hear one of their little songs, only she was far too shy to say so. She sat on the cliff where she could see the Wee Folk and Harlyn Bay at the same time. The sea was coming in, and was already under the cliff where she was sitting; as she looked down into the water she saw it was full of lovely little creatures, who were gazing up at her with all the eyes in their heads. They were sea-fairies, she could tell, by their resemblance to the dear little thing she had caught in her shrimping-net. They all wore little green shifts or shirts, through which their tiny pink bodies glowed like a rose, and all had sun-beamed hair and deep-blue eyes. Some of the sea-fairies were riding on the backs of the waves and tossing tiny spray-balls when she first saw them; others were darting in and out the sea-ripples as quick as sun-flashes, and playing over the inner bay in waves of light. A short distance out were a hundred or more little female sea-fairies dancing, and as they danced and held each other's hands they looked like tiny garlands of sunbeams. They were dancing to a sweet tune of their own, or perhaps to the music of the sea, which was full of lovely sounds to-day, and colour too--that wonderful ethereal blue which is only seen in a summer's dawn. Whilst Bessie Jane was watching the sea-fairies, and wondering if the little friend she had put back into the sea were amongst them, and if she could see her without eyes, the Wee Folk on the cliff suddenly broke into music and song. The song was so wild and free and the music so sweet that the sea-fairies far out in the bay came close under the cliff and listened with the utmost joy, their tiny faces shining with pleasure, and their small bodies swaying in time to the rhythm of the song. As for the child, she thought it was the loveliest music she had ever heard. The song, which was accompanied by lutes, flutes, and reeds, and by the tapping of tiny feet and clapping of hands, was as follows: 'Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! For the dark has fled At the dawn's soft tread; And the moon grows cold In the sun's warm gold. Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! 'Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! For the sky's dear bird O'er the waves is heard; And the linnet's flute Like a fairy's lute. Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! 'Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! For sandpipers play By the pools to-day; And kittiwakes laugh As the light they quaff. Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! 'Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! For gulls are afloat Like a silver boat; And the curlews call As their weird cries fall. Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! 'Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! For the waves clap hands On the yellow sands; And the sea-sprites dance Where the sunbeams glance. Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! 'Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! For each little sprite Is a rhythm of light; And sweet are their lips Like honey-bee's sips! Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! 'Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing! For day has begun, And high is the sun; Now hasten away To your dears and play! Sing, sing, sea-fairies, sing!' Bessie Jane held her breath until the music died away in the silver cadence of the morning sea, and the song was still in her ears, so that she was hardly conscious it was finished until she noticed the Small People had risen from the Piskey-stools and were leaving the cliff. 'You aren't going, are you, dear Little People?' she cried, forgetting her shyness in her dismay at their going so soon. 'Yes,' answered one of them. 'I hope you liked our song.' 'I did a terrible lot,' responded Bessie Jane, flushing to the roots of her pretty brown hair; 'your singing was lovely, and I should like to hear you sing every morning of my life! It was sweeter even than the thrush's song at sunset, I think.' The Wee Folk were delighted at the child's praise; the small musicians beamed upon her, and the tiny ladies made her a deep curtsey, and then they all disappeared into the cliff. She waited ever so long, hoping they would appear again and sing another song, but as they did not, she went down the cliff-path to the beach. At the ending of the song, all the sea-fairies had gone out into the bay to join the merry dancers, who were dancing away like a Bobby Griglan, [49] she told herself as she sent her glance over the sunlit waters to where they were. When she stood close to the waves all these little whirligigs came dancing shorewards, until they stopped only a few feet away and gazed at her curiously. When they found their tongues, which they quickly did, to her great delight they began talking to her. They thanked her for being so kind to their little companion in giving her back to them the day before, and said how glad they were she had repaid the little girl's kindness in lending Bessie Jane her eyes and ears for a night and a day, as they heard she had so much wanted to see the sea-fairies. 'Yes, I did,' replied Bessie Jane, 'and I am awfully grateful to that pretty little dear for the loan of her ears and eyes, but I am afraid it was very selfish of me to get her to lend them.' 'She was very glad to lend them for the time you asked,' the sea-fairies reassured her--'not only because you did her all that kindness, but because you have been so very good to the poor old Wise Woman, who loves all the Little People, sea-fairies and all,' they said. It was a great surprise to Bessie Jane that the fairies should know about her kindness to poor Old Annis; and as she did not like being praised, she turned the conversation, and asked the dear little sea-sprites to tell her all about themselves, and what they did all day long, where they lived, and a hundred and one other questions which the sweet-voiced, sun-beamed little creatures seemed only too pleased to answer. Amongst other interesting things, they told the child about their work. They said their chief happiness was to do good, and that their special work was to seek out all wounded things and take them down to the bottom of the sea, where they had a Place of Healing, and where they tended with gentle care all the poor, hurt creatures they found, until they were all healed and happy again. Another mission of theirs was to sing requiems over the poor drowned human beings, and to plant sea-lilies and other sea-flowers on their graves. They were always busy, they told her, and when there was no special work for them to do they busied themselves with games, singing and dancing, and flashing in and out of the sea to make it beautiful with light. Their special time for merry-making and dancing was at sunset and sunrise, particularly sunset, for then the great sun went down into the sea to shine upon their lovely gardens, parks, and meadows under the sea where they lived, and where dear little fishes sang instead of birds! It would fill pages to tell all those little sea-fairies told Bessie Jane, and which they told in such entrancing way that time flew. The tide came in and went out, and was again coming in, and the entranced child did not even notice it, or that the big white sun was wheeling down towards his setting. A great lane of crimson fire stretched away on the blue-grey water from the outer bay to the horizon, and just as the sea-fairies had finished telling her all the wonders of their life and doings she saw coming towards her down this lane of rich light a tiny carriage in the shape of a scallop-shell, drawn by four little horses, two abreast, and white as sea-spray. As the tiny steeds sped onward and drew near, Bessie Jane saw leaning back in the carriage a sea-fairy with a bandage of red seaweed across her eyes and ears. When the horses stopped, all the sea-fairies formed themselves in a circle round the carriage, and looked intently at the child on the shore. As Bessie Jane noted all this, telling herself what handsome horses they were and what an elegant little carriage, and how beautiful it looked on the sun's pathway, a silvery voice, like the twitter of a baby lark low in its nest amongst the heather, piped from the carriage: 'Please give me back my eyes and my ears.' 'What eyes and ears?' asked the child, bewildered, for she had quite forgotten that she had got the sea-fairy's eyes and ears. 'Why, my own dear little eyes and ears that I lent you for a night and a day,' piped the sweet voice again. 'Must I give them back?' asked Bessie Jane. 'Indeed you must,' said the fairy. 'I have missed them oh so much! No beautiful vision have I seen, no lovely sounds have I heard, since I lent them to you yesterday afternoon. I waited until the sun had put on his flame-coloured robe before coming for them.' 'How can I give you back your eyes and your ears?' asked the child helplessly. 'The Wise Woman put them in, and she isn't here to take them out.' 'Say, "Little Blue Eyes, go back to your homes," and, "Little Pink Ears, return to your places," and they will do as you tell them,' answered the little fairy. Bessie Jane, though very reluctant to give back what had given her so much pleasure, knew she would be dreadfully selfish if she did not do as she was told, and after gazing full five minutes on the wonderful sight--the circle of sea-fairies, the wee white horses, and scallop-shaped carriage, the like of which she might never see again--and letting her last gaze rest on her first friend waiting so patiently for the return of her eyes and ears, her clear young voice rang out: 'Dear Little Blue Eyes, go back to your homes; dear Little Pink Ears, go back to your holes.' As she spoke a blue spark leapt out of her eyes, followed by a whizzing of something pink, and when she opened her eyes again, the radiant circle of sea-fairies round the mother-of-pearl carriage, the dazzling white steeds with flowing manes and tails, were all gone, and she only saw the usual sights of eventide on the beach: the gulls flying over the hillocks and across the sands to their sleeping-places in the cliffs; a man driving the cows up the bay to be milked; the stems of the tamarisk on the hedges, scarlet in the sun-glow; and the vast luminous sky over it all. Beautiful as everything was, it was not nearly so beautiful, Bessie Jane thought, as were those little sea-fairies and horses on the pathway of crimson fire! She stood close to the edge of the water till the line of light was gone, and then she turned away from the sea and went up the beach towards Tamarisk Lane, to tell Old Annis what she had heard and seen. As she was going up, she met the same old man and his donkeys she had seen the day before. He was coming down for his last pannier of sand. He stopped and spoke to her, and asked why she was looking so happy. 'I have seen the Small People,' answered the child, 'and the dear little fairies that live in the sea.' 'You don't mean to say so?' cried the old man. 'You are a lucky little maid to have seen all they little dears!' as Bessie Jane nodded. ''Tis not often folks do see 'em nowadays; but they did backalong, my mother told me. What was 'em like, Miss Bessie Jane?' 'I cannot stop to tell you now,' said the child. 'It is rather late, and I want to go and see the Wise Woman in Tamarisk Lane. You are late getting sand, arn't you?' 'Iss fy, I be. 'Tis for your father--Maister Rosewarne--and I must make haste and get it. My donkey do want his supper, and so do I.' Old Annis was at her cottage gate watching for her little friend's return, and when the child came up she listened with the greatest interest to all she had to tell her, and said how pleased she was that she had seen and heard so much. 'It is a reward,' she added, 'for being so kind to a poor lonely old woman.' Bessie Jane never saw any more of the Little People, and never went shrimping again with the shrimping-net made by a Wise Woman out of Piskey-wool spun by the Small People, for the simple reason she lost the net the day after she saw the dear Wee Folk and the sea-fairies with her borrowed eyes. How she lost it, or where, she did not know, and the Wise Woman, wise as she was, could not tell her. But she was ever afterwards grateful for having seen them, especially the sea-fairies, and she showed her gratitude by being kinder than ever to her poor, lonely old friend. THE LITTLE WHITE HARE When our great-great-grandmothers were young, a small lad called William John Pendarvey went on a visit to his Great-Aunt Ann, a very silent, austere old maid, who lived by herself in the Vale beautiful of Lanherne. Great-Aunt Ann being old and very quiet, was the last person in the world that a tender-hearted, sensitive little chap as William John was should have gone to stay with. The house where she lived was rather small and very gloomy, and had nothing nice about it, but it possessed a large and beautiful orchard, protected from the rough and cutting winds by the escarpment of the downs that rose above it and the valley. But delightful as this orchard was, nobody except Great-Aunt Ann--and she not often--ever went into it, because it was known to be haunted by something, in the shape of a little White Hare which had been seen there from time unknown, wandering like a shadow over the grass, and in and out amongst the trees, or sitting motionless at the foot of a blasted apple-tree. Who or what this apparition was nobody could tell, but not a man, woman or child in the Vale, except Great-Aunt Ann, would have gone into that orchard for all they were worth. Little William John might never have known there was an orchard belonging to the gloomy old house if he had not wandered into a bedroom at the back of the house overlooking the entrance to the orchard and peeped out of the window. He asked to be allowed to go and play there, as it looked so bright and sunny in its open spaces, but Great-Aunt Ann said: 'Not to-day.' It was always 'Not to-day' whenever he asked to go into that orchard, and probably he would never have gone into it at all if the old maid had not occasion one day to go to St. Columb, a small market town three miles from where she lived. She could not take the boy with her, she said, and so she left him at home to take care of the house. Looking after a house was not in little William John's line, and Great-Aunt Ann had not been gone more than an hour before he found himself at the small wicket-gate opening into the orchard, where to his joy he saw a great multitude of golden-headed daffadillies rising out of the lowly grass, and a light that was softer than silver moving mysteriously in and out amongst the trees. The temptation to go into that sun-lighted, fascinating spot was irresistible, and finding the gate unlocked, little William John opened it and went in. It was the spring of the year, and the spring was late, and there were as yet no carmine buds on the apple trees, but their upper branches were misty with the silvery green of budding leaves. And the pear trees were in virgin whiteness, and so were the plum and cherry trees, which made a shining background to all the yellow lilies in blossom there. 'It makes me feel happy only to be here,' whispered little William John to himself; 'and oh! the daffies are making golden dawns under the trees!' He wandered about to his heart's content, staying his young feet now and then to listen to a blackbird's liquid pipe, and to touch with reverent hand a daffadilly's drooping head, or to watch with puzzled eyes that thing of brightness moving on in front of him amongst the trees and blossoms. He lost sight of this wandering light when he had gone the length of the orchard; but he saw it again as he turned across to its top, and when he got close he saw, to his astonishment, it was a little Hare of silvery whiteness. It was sitting on its haunches under the blasted tree, and did not move away as the boy drew near. A thrill of gladness filled William John's kind young heart at so fair and strange a vision, and his delight was even greater when the small White Hare suffered him to stroke its fur. 'Oh, you dear little soft thing!' he cried. 'I am so glad you are not afraid of me; I love all animals, and would not hurt any of them for worlds, nor a hair of your beautiful white coat.' 'I knew you would not,' answered the little White Hare. 'I was sure your heart was gentle and good the moment I saw you.' 'What! Can you talk?' asked little William John in amazement. 'I never knew animals could speak like human beings before. I am so glad you can. It is so nice to have someone to talk to. Nobody hardly ever speaks to me here, and I have felt so lonely.' 'Poor boy!' said the little White Hare; 'I can sympathize with you, for I know what it is to be lonely and have nobody to speak to. You are the first human being who has spoken to me since a wicked Witch turned me into the shape of a hare.' 'What! Are you not really a hare?' asked little William John, more and more amazed. 'No,' answered the little creature sadly; 'I am a maiden in the shape of a hare, and I have had to bear the hare-shape ever since the Witch worked a spell upon me, which was back in the days of the "giants."' 'What a shame!' cried the boy. 'Whatever made her turn you into a hare?' 'She had a spite against me because I would not be wicked like herself.' 'How dreadful of her!' cried little William John indignantly. 'Will you never be able to get back your real shape, you poor little thing?' 'I am afraid not,' said the little White Hare sadly, 'unless somebody who is really sorry for me, and is not afraid of me, can find the Magic Horn--by the blast of which Jack the Giant-Killer overthrew the Giant Galligantus and Hocus-Pocus the Conjurer--and blow over me three strong, clear blasts.' 'Where is the Magic Horn?' asked little William John. 'I do not know the exact spot, but it is buried somewhere in the ruins of an old castle called the Castle of Porthmeor, which is on a cliff above Porthmeor Cove.' 'Why, that old castle is mine, or will be, I am told, when I am of age!' cried little William John. 'It is not a great way from where I live, and often I go there to play. I wish I wasn't only a little boy, and could look for the Magic Horn,' he added, after a moment's silence. 'Age is no barrier to your seeking it,' said the little White Hare. 'All that is needed to loosen the wicked old Witch's spell is what I have now told you.' 'Then I will look for the Magic Horn directly I get home,' cried little William John, 'and if I can find it I'll come back and blow it over you, if you think I can.' 'I am sure you can,' answered the little White Hare. 'You must go now, for your Great-Aunt is coming into the valley. It is not wrong to come into this orchard, since she has not forbidden you; but she knows it is haunted by a little White Hare, and is afraid if you see it it will work you harm. So you must be patient with her.' The Hare vanished as it spoke, and little William John found himself alone with the yellow-headed daffadillies, and the trees and dear little birds, and he soon went back to the house. 'Have you been out anywhere?' asked Great-Aunt Ann, when she had come in and taken off her bonnet. 'Yes, into the orchard,' said the boy truthfully. 'It is a lovely place, full of song-birds and flowers.' 'Was that all you saw there?' she asked anxiously. 'No,' answered little William John again, lifting his clear child-eyes to the stern old maid's. 'I saw trees with snow on them, and a dear little Hare with fur as white as milk.' The old lady shook all over like a wind-tossed leaf when he said that, but she did not scold him or say he ought not to have gone into her orchard, but the next day she sent him home. At the end of three years William John came again to stay with his Great-Aunt Ann--not that she wanted him, but because his guardian thought the balmy air of the lovely Vale would do him good. The spring was very early this year, and when William John arrived the daffadillies had gone, and the pear and cherry trees had scattered all their snow-white blossoms on the grass; but the apple flowers were out in rosy splendour on the gnarled old trees, and where the daffadillies had made 'golden dawns' there were blue-grey periwinkles trying to lift themselves to the heavenly blue shining down upon them. William John was anxious to go out into the orchard directly he came, but Great-Aunt Ann said the grass was too wet. The grass was always 'too wet,' according to the old maid, and the boy was afraid she would not allow him to go into the orchard at all. When he had been there two weeks and a day, Great-Aunt Ann had again occasion to go to St. Columb town, and as there was only room in the gig for the driver and herself, she was obliged to leave him at home. The moment the gig was out of sight William John made his way to the orchard, where he found the grass as green and beautiful as spring grass could be, and his little friend the Hare sitting under the blasted tree, whiter and smaller than ever. 'I began to fear you would never come into this orchard again,' said the White Hare plaintively. 'I began to fear so myself,' responded William John, stroking very gently the little White Hare. 'This is my first opportunity of coming here.' 'Have you found the Magic Horn?' the small creature asked anxiously. 'Not yet, and I have never stopped looking for it since I was last here. I have searched all over the old castle, and every stone has been lifted on the place, and the ground dug up both outside the ruins and inside, and I am afraid the Magic Horn was not hidden away in that old castle, as you said.' 'It was hidden there, and is there now,' insisted the little White Hare, 'and I do hope you aren't going to give up looking for it.' 'I won't, for your sake, you dear little soft thing!' cried the boy, and again he stroked her gently and tenderly; 'and as you are sure it is there somewhere, I'll search until I find it.' 'Have you looked in the cave under the castle?' asked the little White Hare. 'No,' returned William John; 'the entrance to it is not known, and even if it were, the passage leading down to the cave is so foul with bad air, my guardian said, that it would be death to anybody who went through it.' 'If you are not afraid to go down into the cave, I can give you a plant that will purify all the foul air you pass through.' 'I will not be afraid for your sake, dear little White Hare,' said the boy. The Hare vanished, and in a little while became visible again, and in her mouth she held a strange-looking weed, the like of which he had never seen before. 'It is called the little All-Pure,' said the White Hare, as William John took it in his hand. 'Keep it close to your heart until you have discovered the passage to the cave, and when it is foul hold it in your hand until its brightness shines on the Magic Horn.' Again she disappeared, and the boy, after waiting some time to see if she would appear again, went back to the house, where he found his Great-Aunt Ann limping in at the front-door. The old lady had hurt her leg in getting out of the gig, and when he told her he had been in the orchard, she made her slight accident an excuse to send him back to his home, which she did that same day. William John did not have the chance of paying another visit to his Great-Aunt Ann until he was a youth of nineteen, and he would not have come then if he had waited to be invited. The old maid was now terribly old and feeble, and had to keep a servant. Unhappily for William John, the servant was quite as crabbed and silent as her mistress, and even more opposed to his going into the old orchard. She even locked the orchard-gate and kept the key in her pocket. But William John, being now no longer a child, but a handsome youth with a strong will of his own, was determined to get into the orchard with or without permission, for he had found the Magic Horn. He watched his opportunity, and one day when the servant was out he went to the wicket gate and sprang over it, and quickly made his way to the blasted tree, where he found, as he had expected to find, the little White Hare sitting on her haunches under it. She was very white and ever so small--so small, in fact, that she did not look much bigger than a baby hare. 'You have come at last,' she said, as the tall handsome lad knelt on the grass and caressed her. 'Have you found the Magic Horn?' 'I have found it,' he answered gladly. 'When did you find it?' 'Only yesterday,' returned the youth. 'Every day since I last saw you I have searched for the entrance to the cave, and at last, when I was in despair of ever finding it, I came upon it under my bedroom window. I discovered it quite by accident, as I was planting maiden-blush rose-trees. I never knew till then that our house was built on the old castle grounds. The passage opened on to steps, which led down and down till they ended at the door of the cave.' 'Were you not afraid?' asked the little White Hare very softly. 'I was a little bit,' confessed the youth, 'for I did not know where it would lead me. But love and pity for poor little you made me go on. And I had the little All-Pure to cheer me; for it not only made the foul air through which I passed pure and sweet, but gave out a soft clear light. I found the Magic Horn on a slab of stone in the corner of the cave. I took it up quickly and returned the way I came, and started the earliest moment to pay a visit to my Great-Aunt Ann.' 'Have you brought the Magic Horn with you?' asked the little White Hare, with deep anxiety in her voice. 'Yes,' he said, with shining eyes, 'and here it is;' and he laid a black thing in the shape of a horn on the grass beside her. 'It is the Magic Horn!' cried the little White Hare joyfully. 'Will you blow over me three strong, clear blasts, dear William John? If you are as pure-hearted as you are kind-hearted, as I am sure you are, the last blast will break the Witch's spell, and give me back my own shape. The Horn should be blown at sunset.' 'It is sundown now,' said William John, looking westward, where between the trees he could see a splendour of rose and gold painted on the lower sky. 'Then blow it now!' cried the little White Hare; and stiffening herself on her form, she crossed her paws on her breast and waited. William John took up the Magic Horn in his strong young hands and put it to his mouth, and in a minute or less there sounded out through the orchard, all gay with apple-blossom and melody of birds, and over the Vale of Lanherne, a great blast, so rich in sound that the thrushes stopped their singing, and the people in St. Mawgan village came rushing to their doors to know whatever it was. It was quickly followed by two more blasts, richer and louder than the first. When the last blast had died away, William John, looking down at the foot of the blasted tree, saw in the place of the little White Hare the most beautiful maiden he had ever seen. The Magic Horn fell from his hand at so lovely a sight, and he blushed red as the buds clinging in rosy infancy to the apple-trees, and stammered something out that he had not expected to see her half so beautiful. 'I am myself now, thanks to you,' laughed the maiden; and William John thought it was the sweetest laugh he had ever heard in all his life. 'I can never be sufficiently grateful for all you have done for me.' 'Mine is the gratitude for having been allowed to find the Magic Horn and loosen you from the wicked spell,' said the lad, still stammering and blushing. 'You are very good to say so,' said the lovely maid, blushing in her turn as she felt the gaze of the handsome youth upon her. 'Now the evil spell has been undone I must go my way.' 'What way?' asked William John eagerly, drinking in the beauty of her face. 'To a country beyond the sun-setting, where all who love me are,' she said gently. 'If you go, I must also go,' said William John in a masterful way, still keeping his eyes on her face. 'I learnt to love you in your hare-shape, dear, but I love you a thousand times more now I see you as you are. I could not live without you now.' 'If you love me as you say you do, and cannot live without me, you may come,' said the lovely maid, lifting her shy eyes to his. 'You have the right to come with me by the good you have wrought. It is a fair land whither I am going, where there are always buds and blossoms on the trees, where the happy birds are always in song, and where the Foot of Evil dare not enter. It is time I was away. The sun is setting, and his path of glory is narrowing on the sea. Come, if you will. I love you, too, dear.' And giving him her little hand, which he gladly took, they went both of them together out of the old orchard in the glow of the setting sun; and as they climbed a slope above the place of blossoming trees, an old man crossing the downs wondered who that handsome youth and lovely maid were making their way with locked hands and steadfast faces towards the sunset. But he never knew. From that day onwards the little White Hare was never again seen in the old beautiful orchard, and nobody ever knew what had become of William John. NOTES [1] Tiny. [2] Spriggan, a low kind of fairy. [3] Brown, withered like a twig. [4] Hager is Celtic-Cornish for cruel, foul, ugly, etc. [5] A Tolmên, or Holed Stone, is one of the antiquities of Cornwall, and many superstitions have been connected with it, such as passing weakly children through its hole, in the belief they will get stronger. [6] Saddest. [7] Yesterday. [8] Icicle. [9] To stare hard. [10] A stone or metal instrument found in tin-mines, and in barrows of the ancient Celts. [11] Gymnadénia conópæa. [12] Pronounced Kenidjack. [13] Fairies. [14] Ridge-tiles with knobs, which people in West Cornwall put on their houses for the Piskeys to dance on. [15] Sad. [16] An iron stool. [17] A coaxing expression, such as 'Do ee dear.' [18] Mudgeskerry, or skerrymudge, anything grotesque in human shape, such as a doll. [19] Dinky, very small. [20] Skavarnak, long-eared; also a hare. [21] Pednpaley, a blue-tit; also anything very soft and beautiful, such as velvet. Literally, a soft-head. The 'd' in this word is silent. [22] Child. [23] Miners' pasties. [24] Back-kitchen. [25] A very short person. [26] Lonely. [27] One who runs very fast. [28] Disused mines. [29] Heath. [30] A hare. [31] A note of exclamation. [32] Little child. [33] Heath. [34] A fairy's baby. [35] Very large. [36] Once upon a time the Cornish believed that his Dark Majesty was afraid to come into the Cornish land for fear of being put into a pasty. [37] Bread and cream sprinkled with treacle. [38] Legs. [39] A pasty made of herbs. [40] Scratch. [41] Weasel. [42] A hot oven that has been left to cool a little. [43] The song-thrush is called the grey-bird in Cornwall. [44] Their legs. [45] A very old man. [46] Games. [47] Sad. [48] Mushrooms. [49] A fairy. 
34655	----	[Illustration: JU-JU MASK FROM IBO COUNTRY, SOUTHERN NIGERIA] FOLK STORIES FROM SOUTHERN NIGERIA WEST AFRICA BY ELPHINSTONE DAYRELL, F.R.G.S., F.R.A.I. DISTRICT COMMISSIONER, SOUTHERN NIGERIA WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY ANDREW LANG _WITH FRONTISPIECE_ LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA 1910 * * * * * CONTENTS _Frontispiece from a Drawing in Colour by_ Major G. M. DE L. DAYRELL PAGE Introduction vii I. The Tortoise with a Pretty Daughter 1 II. How a Hunter obtained Money from his Friends the Leopard, Goat, Bush Cat, and Cock, and how he got out of repaying them 6 III. The Woman with two Skins 11 IV. The King's Magic Drum 20 V. Ituen and the King's Wife 29 VI. Of the Pretty Stranger who Killed the King 33 VII. Why the Bat flies by Night 36 VIII. The Disobedient Daughter who Married a Skull 38 IX. The King who Married the Cock's Daughter 42 X. Concerning the Woman, the Ape, and the Child 46 XI. The Fish and The Leopard's Wife; or, Why the Fish lives in the Water 49 XII. Why the Bat is Ashamed to be seen in the Daytime 51 XIII. Why the Worms live Underneath the Ground 56 XIV. The Elephant and the Tortoise; or, Why the Worms are Blind and the Elephant has Small Eyes 58 XV. Why a Hawk kills Chickens 62 XVI. Why the Sun and the Moon live in the Sky 64 XVII. Why the Flies Bother the Cows 66 XVIII. Why the Cat kills Rats 68 XIX. The Story of the Lightning and the Thunder 70 XX. Why the Bush Cow and the Elephant are bad Friends 72 XXI. The Cock who caused a Fight between two Towns 76 XXII. The Affair of the Hippopotamus and the Tortoise; or, Why the Hippopotamus lives in the Water 79 XXIII. Why Dead People are Buried 81 XXIV. Of the Fat Woman who Melted Away 83 XXV. Concerning the Leopard, the Squirrel, and the Tortoise 86 XXVI. Why the Moon Waxes and Wanes 91 XXVII. The Story of the Leopard, the Tortoise, and the Bush Rat 93 XXVIII. The King and the Ju Ju Tree 98 XXIX. How the Tortoise overcame the Elephant and the Hippopotamus 104 XXX. Of the Pretty Girl and the Seven Jealous Women 107 XXXI. How the Cannibals drove the People from Insofan Mountain to the Cross River (Ikom) 115 XXXII. The Lucky Fisherman 119 XXXIII. The Orphan Boy and the Magic Stone 121 XXXIV. The Slave Girl who tried to Kill her Mistress 126 XXXV. The King and the 'Nsiat Bird 133 XXXVI. Concerning the Fate of Essido and his Evil Companions 135 XXXVII. Concerning the Hawk and the Owl 142 XXXVIII. The Story of the Drummer and the Alligators 145 XXXIX. The 'Nsasak Bird and the Odudu Bird 153 XL. The Election of the King Bird (the black-and-white Fishing Eagle) 156 * * * * * INTRODUCTION Many years ago a book on the Folk-Tales of the Eskimo was published, and the editor of _The Academy_ (Dr. Appleton) told one of his minions to send it to me for revision. By mischance it was sent to an eminent expert in Political Economy, who, never suspecting any error, took the book for the text of an interesting essay on the economics of "the blameless Hyperboreans." Mr. Dayrell's "Folk Stories from Southern Nigeria" appeal to the anthropologist within me, no less than to the lover of what children and older people call "Fairy Tales." The stories are full of mentions of strange institutions, as well as of rare adventures. I may be permitted to offer some running notes and comments on this mass of African curiosities from the crowded lumber-room of the native mind. I. _The Tortoise with a Pretty Daughter._--The story, like the tales of the dark native tribes of Australia, rises from that state of fancy by which man draws (at least for purposes of fiction) no line between himself and the lower animals. Why should not the fair heroine, Adet, daughter of the tortoise, be the daughter of human parents? The tale would be none the less interesting, and a good deal more credible to the mature intelligence. But the ancient fashion of animal parentage is presented. It may have originated, like the stories of the Australians, at a time when men were totemists, when every person had a bestial or vegetable "family-name," and when, to account for these hereditary names, stories of descent from a supernatural, bestial, primeval race were invented. In the fables of the world, speaking animals, human in all but outward aspect, are the characters. The fashion is universal among savages; it descends to the Buddha's _jataka_, or parables, to Æsop and La Fontaine. There could be no such fashion if fables had originated among civilised human beings. The polity of the people who tell this story seems to be despotic. The king makes a law that any girl prettier than the prince's fifty wives shall be put to death, with her parents. Who is to be the Paris, and give the fatal apple to the most fair? Obviously the prince is the Paris. He falls in love with Miss Tortoise, guided to her as he is by the bird who is "entranced with her beauty." In this tribe, as in Homer's time, the lover offers a bride-price to the father of the girl. In Homer cattle are the current medium; in Nigeria pieces of cloth and brass rods are (or were) the currency. Observe the queen's interest in an affair of true love. Though she knows that her son's life is endangered by his honourable passion, she adds to the bride-price out of her privy purse. It is "a long courting"; four years pass, while pretty Adet is "ower young to marry yet." The king is very angry when the news of this breach of the royal marriage Act first comes to his ears. He summons the whole of his subjects, his throne, a stone, is set out in the market-place, and Adet is brought before him. He sees and is conquered. "It is no wonder," said the king, "This tortoise-girl might be a queen." Though a despot, his Majesty, before cancelling his law, has to consult the eight Egbos, or heads of secret societies, whose magical powers give the sacred sanction to legislation. The Egbo (see p. 4, note) is a mumbo-jumbo man. He answers to the bogey who presides over the rites of initiation in the Australian tribes. When the Egbo is about, women must hide and keep out of the way. The king proclaims the cancelling of the law. The Egbos might resist, for they have all the knives and poisons of the secret societies behind them. But the king, a master of the human heart, acts like Sir Robert Walpole. He buys the Egbo votes "with palm-wine and money," and gives a feast to the women at the marriage dances. But why does the king give half his kingdom to the tortoise? When an adventurer in fairy tales wins the hand of the king's heiress, he usually gets half the kingdom. The tortoise is said to have been "the wisest of all men and animals." Why? He merely did not kill his daughter. But there is no temptation to kill daughters in a country where they are valuable assets, and command high bride-prices. In the Australian tribes, the bride-price is simply another girl. A man swops his sister to another man for the other man's sister, or for any girl of whose hand the other man has the disposal. II. The second story is a very ingenious commercial parable, "Never lend money, you only make a dangerous enemy." The story also explains why bush cats eat poultry. III. _The Woman with Two Skins_ is a peculiar version of the story of the courteous Sir Gawain with his bride, hideous by day, and a pearl of loveliness by night. The Ju Ju man answers to the witch in our fairy tales and to the mother-in-law of the prince, who, by a magical potion, makes him forget his own true love. She, however, is always victorious, and the prince "Prepares another marriage, Their hearts so full of love and glee," and ousts the false bride, like Lord Bateman in the ballad, when Sophia came home. In this case of Lord Bateman, the scholiast (Thackeray, probably) suggests that his Lordship secured the consent of the Church as the king in the tortoise story won that of the Egbos. Our tale then wanders into the fairy tale of the king who is deceived into drowning his children, in European folk-lore, because he is informed that they are puppies. The Water Ju Ju, however, saves these black princes, and brings forward the rightful heir very dramatically at a wrestling match, where the lad overthrows more than he thought, like Orlando in _As You Like It_, and conquers the heart of the jealous queen as well as his athletic opponents. In the conclusion the jealous woman is handed over to the ecclesiastical arm of the Egbos; she is flogged, and, as in the case of Jeanne d'Arc, is burned alive, "and her ashes were thrown into the river." Human nature is much the same everywhere. IV. _The King's Magic Drum._--The drum is the mystic cauldron of ancient Welsh romance, which "always provides plenty of good food and drink." But the drum has its drawback, the food "goes bad" if its owner steps over a stick in the road or a fallen tree, a tabu like the _geisas_ of ancient Irish legends. The tortoise, in this tale, has the _geisas_ power; he can make the king give him anything he chooses to ask. This very queer constraint occurs constantly in the Cuchullain cycle of Irish romances, and in _The Black Thief_. (You can buy it for a penny in Dublin, or read it in Thackeray's _Little Tour in Ireland_.) The King is constrained to part with the drum, but does not tell the tortoise about the tabu and the drawback. The tortoise, though disappointed, at least pays his score off in public, and then the tale wanders into the _Hop o' my Thumb_ formula, and the trail of ashes. Finally the story, like most stories, explains the origin of an animal peculiarity, why tortoises live under prickly tie-tie palms. That explanation was clearly in the author's mind from the first, but to reach his point he adopted the formula of the mystic object, drum or cauldron, which provides endless supplies, and has a counteracting charm attached to it, a tabu. V. _Ituen and the King's Wife._--Some of these tales have this peculiarity, that the characters possess names, as Ituen, Offiong, and Attem. They are thus what people call _sagas_, not mere _Märchen_. All the pseudo-historic legends of the Greek states, of Thebes, Athens, Mycenæ, Pylos, and so on, are folk-tales converted into saga, and adapted and accepted as historical. Some of these Nigerian fairy-tales are in the same cast. The story of Athamas of Iolcos and the sacrifice of any of his descendants who went into the town hall, exactly corresponds to the fate of the family of Ituen (p. 32).[1] The whole Athamas story, in Greece, is a tissue of popular tales found in every part of the world. This Ituen story, as usual, explains the habits of animals, vultures, and dogs, and illustrates the awful cruelties of Egbo law. VI. _The Pretty Stranger_ is a native variant of _Judith and Holofernes_. VII. A "Just So Story," a myth to explain the ways of animals. The cauldron of Medea, which destroyed the wrong old person, and did not rejuvenate him, is introduced. "All the stories have been told," all the world over. VIII. _The Disobedient Daughter who Married a Skull._--This is most original; though all our ballads and tales about the pretty girl who is carried to the land of the dead by her lover's ghost (Bürger's _Lenore_) have the same fundamental idea. Then comes in the common moral, the Reward of Courtesy, as in Perrault's _Les Fées_. But the machinery of the Nigerian romance leads up to the Return of Proserpine from the Dead in a truly fanciful way. IX. _The King who Married the Cock's Daughter_ is Æsop's man who married the woman that had been a cat. As Adia unen pecks at the corn, the other lady caught and ate a mouse. [Footnote 1: See the Platonic dialogue, Minos, 315-6, and Athamas in Roscher's _Lexikon_.] X. _The Woman, the Ape, and the Child._--This tale illustrates Egbo juridicature very powerfully, and is told to account for Nigerian marriage law. XI. _The Fish and the Leopard's Wife._--Another "Just So Story." XII. _The Bat._--Another explanation of the nocturnal habits of the bat. The tortoise appears as the wisest of things, like the hare in North America, Brer Rabbit, the Bushman Mantis insect, and so on. XIII., XIV., XV. All of these are explanatory "Just So Stories." XVI. _Why the Sun and Moon live in the Sky._--Sun and Moon, in savage myth, lived on earth at first, but the Nigerian explanation of their retreat to the sky is, as far as I know, without parallel elsewhere. XVII., XVIII. "Just So Stories." XIX. Quite an original myth of Thunder and Lightning: much below the divine dignity of such myths elsewhere. Thunder is not the Voice of Zeus or of Baiame the Father (Australian), but of an old sheep! The gods have not made the Nigerians poetical. XX. Another "Just So Story." XXI. _The Cock who caused a Fight_ illustrates private war and justice among the natives, and shows the Egbos refusing to admit the principle of a fine in atonement for an offence. XXII. _The Affair of the Hippopotamus and of the Tortoise._--A very curious variant of the _Whuppitie Stoorie_, or Tom-Tit-Tot story, depending on the power conferred by learning the secret name of an opponent. These secret names are conferred at Australian ceremonies. Any amount of the learning about secret names is easily accessible. XXIII. _Why Dead People are Buried._--Here we meet the Creator so common in the religious beliefs of Africans as of most barbarous and savage peoples. "The Creator was a big chief." The Euahlayi Baiame is rendered "Big Man" by Mrs. Langloh Parker (see The _Euahlayi Tribe_). The myth is one of world-wide diffusion, explaining The Origin of Death, usually by the fable of a message, forgotten and misrendered, from the Creator. XXIV. _The Fat Woman who Melted Away._--The revival of this beautiful creature, from all that was left of her, the toe, is an incident very common in folk-tales, i.e. the Scottish _Rashin Coatie_. (The word "dowry" is used throughout where "bride-price" would better express the institution. The Homeric [Greek: ena] is meant.) XXV. _The Leopard, the Squirrel, and the Tortoise._--A "Just So Story." XXVI. _Why the Moon Waxes and Wanes._--A lunar myth; not a poetical though a kindly explanation of the habits of the moon. XXVII. _The Story of the Leopard, the Tortoise, and the Bush Rat._--A "Just So Story." XXVIII. _The King and the JuJu Tree._--This is a fine example of Ju Ju beliefs, and of an extraordinary sacrifice to a Ju Ju power located in a tree. Goats, chickens, and white men are common offerings, but "seven baskets of flies" might propitiate Beelzebub. The "spirit-man" who can succeed when sacrifice fails, chooses the king's daughter as his reward, as is usual in _Märchen_. Compare Melampus and Pero in Greece. The skull in spirit-land here plays a friendly part, in advising the princess, like Proserpine, not to eat among the dead. This caution is found everywhere--in the Greek version of Orpheus and Eurydice, in the _Kalewala_, and in Scott's "Wandering Willie's Tale," in _Redgauntlet_. Like Orpheus, the girl is not to look back while leaving spirit-land. Her successful escape, by obeying the injunctions of the skull, is unusual. XXIX. _How the Tortoise overcame the Elephant and the Hippopotamus._--A "Just So Story," with the tortoise as cunning as Brer Rabbit. XXX. _Of the Pretty Girl and the Seven Jealous Women._--Here the good little bird plays the part of the popinjay who "up and spake" with good effect in the first ballads. The useful Ju Ju man divines by casting lots, a common method among the Zulus. The revenge of the pretty girl's father is certainly adequate. XXXI. _How the Cannibals drove the People from Insofan Mountain to the Cross River (Ikom)._--This professes to be historical, and concerns human sacrifices, "to cool the new yams," and cannibalism. XXXII. is unimportant. In XXXIII. we find the ordeal poison, which destroys fifty witches. XXXIV. _The Slave Girl who tried to Kill her Mistress_ is a form of our common tale of the waiting-maid who usurps the place of her mistress, the Bride. The resurrection of the Bride from the water, at the cry of her little sister, occurs in a remote quarter, among the Samoyeds in Castren's _Samoyedische Märchen_, but there the opening is in the style of _Asterinos and Pulja (Phrixus and Helle)_ in Van Hahn's _Griechische Märchen_. The False Bride story is, in an ancient French _chanson de geste_, part of the legend of the mother of Charlemagne. The story also occurs in Callaway's collection of Zulu fairy tales. In the Nigerian version the manners, customs, and cruelties are all thoroughly West African. XXXV. _The King and the 'Nsiat Bird_ accounts, as usual, for the habits of the bird; and also illustrates the widespread custom of killing twins. XXXVI. reflects the well-known practices of poison and the ordeal by poison. XXXVII. is another "Just So Story." XXXVIII. _The Drummer and the Alligators._--In this grim tale of one of the abominable secret societies the human alligators appear to be regarded as being capable of taking bestial form, like werewolves or the leopards of another African secret society. XXXIX. and XL. are both picturesque "Just So Stories," so common in the folk-lore of all countries. The most striking point in the tales is the combination of good humour and good feeling with horrible cruelties, and the reign of terror of the Egbos and lesser societies. European influences can scarcely do much harm, apart from whisky, in Nigeria. As to religion, we do not learn that the Creator receives any sacrifice: in savage and barbaric countries He usually gets none. Only Ju Jus, whether ghosts or fiends in general, are propitiated. The Other is "too high and too far." I have briefly indicated the stories which have variants in ancient myth and European _Märchen_ or fairy tales. ANDREW LANG. FOLK STORIES FROM SOUTHERN NIGERIA I _The Tortoise with a Pretty Daughter_ There was once a king who was very powerful. He had great influence over the wild beasts and animals. Now the tortoise was looked upon as the wisest of all beasts and men. This king had a son named Ekpenyon, to whom he gave fifty young girls as wives, but the prince did not like any of them. The king was very angry at this, and made a law that if any man had a daughter who was finer than the prince's wives, and who found favour in his son's eyes, the girl herself and her father and mother should be killed. Now about this time the tortoise and his wife had a daughter who was very beautiful. The mother thought it was not safe to keep such a fine child, as the prince might fall in love with her, so she told her husband that her daughter ought to be killed and thrown away into the bush. The tortoise, however, was unwilling, and hid her until she was three years old. One day, when both the tortoise and his wife were away on their farm, the king's son happened to be hunting near their house, and saw a bird perched on the top of the fence round the house. The bird was watching the little girl, and was so entranced with her beauty that he did not notice the prince coming. The prince shot the bird with his bow and arrow, and it dropped inside the fence, so the prince sent his servant to gather it. While the servant was looking for the bird he came across the little girl, and was so struck with her form, that he immediately returned to his master and told him what he had seen. The prince then broke down the fence and found the child, and fell in love with her at once. He stayed and talked with her for a long time, until at last she agreed to become his wife. He then went home, but concealed from his father the fact that he had fallen in love with the beautiful daughter of the tortoise. But the next morning he sent for the treasurer, and got sixty pieces of cloth[2] and three hundred rods,[3] and sent them to the tortoise. Then in the early afternoon he went down to the tortoise's house, and told him that he wished to marry his daughter. The tortoise saw at once that what he had dreaded had come to pass, and that his life was in danger, so he told the prince that if the king knew, he would kill not only himself (the tortoise), but also his wife and daughter. The prince replied that he would be killed himself before he allowed the tortoise and his wife and daughter to be killed. Eventually, after much argument, the tortoise consented, and agreed to hand his daughter to the prince as his wife when she arrived at the proper age. Then the prince went home and told his mother what he had done. She was in great distress at the thought that she would lose her son, of whom she was very proud, as she knew that when the king heard of his son's disobedience he would kill him. However, the queen, although she knew how angry her husband would be, wanted her son to marry the girl he had fallen in love with, so she went to the tortoise and gave him some money, clothes, yams, and palm-oil as further dowry on her son's behalf in order that the tortoise should not give his daughter to another man. For the next five years the prince was constantly with the tortoise's daughter, whose name was Adet, and when she was about to be put in the fatting house,[4] the prince told his father that he was going to take Adet as his wife. On hearing this the king was very angry, and sent word all round his kingdom that all people should come on a certain day to the market-place to hear the palaver. When the appointed day arrived the market-place was quite full of people, and the stones belonging to the king and queen were placed in the middle of the market-place. [Footnote 2: A piece of cloth is generally about 8 yards long by 1 yard broad, and is valued at 5s.] [Footnote 3: A rod is made of brass, and is worth 3d. It is in the shape of a narrow croquet hoop, about 16 inches long and 6 inches across. A rod is native currency on the Cross River.] [Footnote 4: The fatting house is a room where a girl is kept for some weeks previous to her marriage. She is given plenty of food, and made as fat as possible, as fatness is looked upon as a great beauty by the Efik people.] When the king and queen arrived all the people stood up and greeted them, and they then sat down on their stones. The king then told his attendants to bring the girl Adet before him. When she arrived the king was quite astonished at her beauty. He then told the people that he had sent for them to tell them that he was angry with his son for disobeying him and taking Adet as his wife without his knowledge, but that now he had seen her himself he had to acknowledge that she was very beautiful, and that his son had made a good choice. He would therefore forgive his son. When the people saw the girl they agreed that she was very fine and quite worthy of being the prince's wife, and begged the king to cancel the law he had made altogether, and the king agreed; and as the law had been made under the "Egbo" law, he sent for eight Egbos,[5] and told them that the order was cancelled throughout his kingdom, and that for the future no one would be killed who had a daughter more beautiful than the prince's wives, and gave the Egbos palm wine and money to remove the law, and sent them away. Then he declared that the tortoise's daughter, Adet, should marry his son, and he made them marry the same day. A great feast was then given which lasted for fifty days, and the king killed five cows and gave all the people plenty of foo-foo[6] and palm-oil chop, and placed a large number of pots of palm wine in the streets for the people to drink as they liked. The women brought a big play to the king's compound, and there was singing and dancing kept up day and night during the whole time. The prince and his companions also played in the market square. When the feast was over the king gave half of his kingdom to the tortoise to rule over, and three hundred slaves to work on his farm. The prince also gave his father-in-law two hundred women and one hundred girls to work for him, so the tortoise became one of the richest men in the kingdom. The prince and his wife lived together for a good many years until the king died, when the prince ruled in his place. And all this shows that the tortoise is the wisest of all men and animals. [Footnote 5: The Egbo Society has many branches, extending from Calabar up the Cross River as far as the German Cameroons. Formerly this society used to levy blackmail to a certain extent and collect debts for people. The head Ju Ju, or fetish man, of each society is disguised, and frequently wears a hideous mask. There is a bell tied round his waist, hanging behind and concealed by feathers; this bell makes a noise as he runs. When the Egbo is out no women are allowed outside their houses, and even at the present time the women pretend to be very frightened. The Egbo very often carries a whip in his hand, and hits out blindly at any one he comes across. He runs round the town, followed by young men of his society beating drums and firing off guns. There is generally much drinking going on when the Egbo is playing. There is an Egbo House in most towns, the end part of which is screened off for the Egbo to change in. Inside the house are hung human skulls and the skulls of buffalo, or bush cow, as they are called; also heads of the various antelopes, crocodiles, apes, and other animals which have been killed by the members. The skulls of cows and goats killed by the society are also hung up. A fire is always kept in the Egbo House; and in the morning and late afternoon, the members of the society frequently meet there to drink gin and palm wine.] [Footnote 6: Foo-foo=yams boiled and mashed up.] MORAL.--Always have pretty daughters, as no matter how poor they may be, there is always the chance that the king's son may fall in love with them, and they may thus become members of the royal house and obtain much wealth. II _How a Hunter obtained Money from his Friends the Leopard, Goat, Bush Cat, and Cock, and how he got out of repaying them_ Many years ago there was a Calabar hunter called Effiong, who lived in the bush, killed plenty of animals, and made much money. Every one in the country knew him, and one of his best friends was a man called Okun, who lived near him. But Effiong was very extravagant, and spent much money in eating and drinking with every one, until at last he became quite poor, so he had to go out hunting again; but now his good luck seemed to have deserted him, for although he worked hard, and hunted day and night, he could not succeed in killing anything. One day, as he was very hungry, he went to his friend Okun and borrowed two hundred rods from him, and told him to come to his house on a certain day to get his money, and he told him to bring his gun, loaded, with him. Now, some time before this Effiong had made friends with a leopard and a bush cat, whom he had met in the forest whilst on one of his hunting expeditions; and he had also made friends with a goat and a cock at a farm where he had stayed for the night. But though Effiong had borrowed the money from Okun, he could not think how he was to repay it on the day he had promised. At last, however, he thought of a plan, and on the next day he went to his friend the leopard, and asked him to lend him two hundred rods, promising to return the amount to him on the same day as he had promised to pay Okun; and he also told the leopard, that if he were absent when he came for his money, he could kill anything he saw in the house and eat it. The leopard was then to wait until the hunter arrived, when he would pay him the money; and to this the leopard agreed. The hunter then went to his friend the goat, and borrowed two hundred rods from him in the same way. Effiong also went to his friends the bush cat and the cock, and borrowed two hundred rods from each of them on the same conditions, and told each one of them that if he were absent when they arrived, they could kill and eat anything they found about the place. When the appointed day arrived the hunter spread some corn on the ground, and then went away and left the house deserted. Very early in the morning, soon after he had begun to crow, the cock remembered what the hunter had told him, and walked over to the hunter's house, but found no one there. On looking round, however, he saw some corn on the ground, and, being hungry, he commenced to eat. About this time the bush cat also arrived, and not finding the hunter at home, he, too, looked about, and very soon he espied the cock, who was busy picking up the grains of corn. So the bush cat went up very softly behind and pounced on the cock and killed him at once, and began to eat him. By this time the goat had come for his money; but not finding his friend, he walked about until he came upon the bush cat, who was so intent upon his meal off the cock, that he did not notice the goat approaching; and the goat, being in rather a bad temper at not getting his money, at once charged at the bush cat and knocked him over, butting him with his horns. This the bush cat did not like at all, so, as he was not big enough to fight the goat, he picked up the remains of the cock and ran off with it to the bush, and so lost his money, as he did not await the arrival of the hunter. The goat was thus left master of the situation and started bleating, and this noise attracted the attention of the leopard, who was on his way to receive payment from the hunter. As he got nearer the smell of goat became very strong, and being hungry, for he had not eaten anything for some time, he approached the goat very carefully. Not seeing any one about he stalked the goat and got nearer and nearer, until he was within springing distance. The goat, in the meantime, was grazing quietly, quite unsuspicious of any danger, as he was in his friend the hunter's compound. Now and then he would say Ba!! But most of the time he was busy eating the young grass, and picking up the leaves which had fallen from a tree of which he was very fond. Suddenly the leopard sprang at the goat, and with one crunch at the neck brought him down. The goat was dead almost at once, and the leopard started on his meal. It was now about eight o'clock in the morning, and Okun, the hunter's friend, having had his early morning meal, went out with his gun to receive payment of the two hundred rods he had lent to the hunter. When he got close to the house he heard a crunching sound, and, being a hunter himself, he approached very cautiously, and looking over the fence saw the leopard only a few yards off busily engaged eating the goat. He took careful aim at the leopard and fired, whereupon the leopard rolled over dead. The death of the leopard meant that four of the hunter's creditors were now disposed of, as the bush cat had killed the cock, the goat had driven the bush cat away (who thus forfeited his claim), and in his turn the goat had been killed by the leopard, who had just been slain by Okun. This meant a saving of eight hundred rods to Effiong; but he was not content with this, and directly he heard the report of the gun he ran out from where he had been hiding all the time, and found the leopard lying dead with Okun standing over it. Then in very strong language Effiong began to upbraid his friend, and asked him why he had killed his old friend the leopard, that nothing would satisfy him but that he should report the whole matter to the king, who would no doubt deal with him as he thought fit. When Effiong said this Okun was frightened, and begged him not to say anything more about the matter, as the king would be angry; but the hunter was obdurate, and refused to listen to him; and at last Okun said, "If you will allow the whole thing to drop and will say no more about it, I will make you a present of the two hundred rods you borrowed from me." This was just what Effiong wanted, but still he did not give in at once; eventually, however, he agreed, and told Okun he might go, and that he would bury the body of his friend the leopard. Directly Okun had gone, instead of burying the body Effiong dragged it inside the house and skinned it very carefully. The skin he put out to dry in the sun, and covered it with wood ash, and the body he ate. When the skin was well cured the hunter took it to a distant market, where he sold it for much money. And now, whenever a bush cat sees a cock he always kills it, and does so by right, as he takes the cock in part payment of the two hundred rods which the hunter never paid him. MORAL.--Never lend money to people, because if they cannot pay they will try to kill you or get rid of you in some way, either by poison or by setting bad Ju Ju's for you. III _The Woman with Two Skins_ Eyamba I. of Calabar was a very powerful king. He fought and conquered all the surrounding countries, killing all the old men and women, but the able-bodied men and girls he caught and brought back as slaves, and they worked on the farms until they died. This king had two hundred wives, but none of them had borne a son to him. His subjects, seeing that he was becoming an old man, begged him to marry one of the spider's daughters, as they always had plenty of children. But when the king saw the spider's daughter he did not like her, as she was ugly, and the people said it was because her mother had had so many children at the same time. However, in order to please his people he married the ugly girl, and placed her among his other wives, but they all complained because she was so ugly, and said she could not live with them. The king, therefore, built her a separate house for herself, where she was given food and drink the same as the other wives. Every one jeered at her on account of her ugliness; but she was not really ugly, but beautiful, as she was born with two skins, and at her birth her mother was made to promise that she should never remove the ugly skin until a certain time arrived save only during the night, and that she must put it on again before dawn. Now the king's head wife knew this, and was very fearful lest the king should find it out and fall in love with the spider's daughter; so she went to a Ju Ju man and offered him two hundred rods to make a potion that would make the king forget altogether that the spider's daughter was his wife. This the Ju Ju man finally consented to do, after much haggling over the price, for three hundred and fifty rods; and he made up some "medicine," which the head wife mixed with the king's food. For some months this had the effect of making the king forget the spider's daughter, and he used to pass quite close to her without recognising her in any way. When four months had elapsed and the king had not once sent for Adiaha (for that was the name of the spider's daughter), she began to get tired, and went back to her parents. Her father, the spider, then took her to another Ju Ju man, who, by making spells and casting lots, very soon discovered that it was the king's head wife who had made the Ju Ju and had enchanted the king so that he would not look at Adiaha. He therefore told the spider that Adiaha should give the king some medicine which he would prepare, which would make the king remember her. He prepared the medicine, for which the spider had to pay a large sum of money; and that very day Adiaha made a small dish of food, into which she had placed the medicine, and presented it to the king. Directly he had eaten the dish his eyes were opened and he recognised his wife, and told her to come to him that very evening. So in the afternoon, being very joyful, she went down to the river and washed, and when she returned she put on her best cloth and went to the king's palace. Directly it was dark and all the lights were out she pulled off her ugly skin, and the king saw how beautiful she was, and was very pleased with her; but when the cock crowed Adiaha pulled on her ugly skin again, and went back to her own house. This she did for four nights running, always taking the ugly skin off in the dark, and leaving before daylight in the morning. In course of time, to the great surprise of all the people, and particularly of the king's two hundred wives, she gave birth to a son; but what surprised them most of all was that only one son was born, whereas her mother had always had a great many children at a time, generally about fifty. The king's head wife became more jealous than ever when Adiaha had a son; so she went again to the Ju Ju man, and by giving him a large present induced him to give her some medicine which would make the king sick and forget his son. And the medicine would then make the king go to the Ju Ju man, who would tell him that it was his son who had made him sick, as he wanted to reign instead of his father. The Ju Ju man would also tell the king that if he wanted to recover he must throw his son away into the water. And the king, when he had taken the medicine, went to the Ju Ju man, who told him everything as had been arranged with the head wife. But at first the king did not want to destroy his son. Then his chief subjects begged him to throw his son away, and said that perhaps in a year's time he might get another son. So the king at last agreed, and threw his son into the river, at which the mother grieved and cried bitterly. Then the head wife went again to the Ju Ju man and got more medicine, which made the king forget Adiaha for three years, during which time she was in mourning for her son. She then returned to her father, and he got some more medicine from his Ju Ju man, which Adiaha gave to the king. And the king knew her and called her to him again, and she lived with him as before. Now the Ju Ju who had helped Adiaha's father, the spider, was a Water Ju Ju, and he was ready when the king threw his son into the water, and saved his life and took him home and kept him alive. And the boy grew up very strong. After a time Adiaha gave birth to a daughter, and her the jealous wife also persuaded the king to throw away. It took a longer time to persuade him, but at last he agreed, and threw his daughter into the water too, and forgot Adiaha again. But the Water Ju Ju was ready again, and when he had saved the little girl, he thought the time had arrived to punish the action of the jealous wife; so he went about amongst the head young men and persuaded them to hold a wrestling match in the market-place every week. This was done, and the Water Ju Ju told the king's son, who had become very strong, and was very like to his father in appearance, that he should go and wrestle, and that no one would be able to stand up before him. It was then arranged that there should be a grand wrestling match, to which all the strongest men in the country were invited, and the king promised to attend with his head wife. On the day of the match the Water Ju Ju told the king's son that he need not be in the least afraid, and that his Ju Ju was so powerful, that even the strongest and best wrestlers in the country would not be able to stand up against him for even a few minutes. All the people of the country came to see the great contest, to the winner of which the king had promised to present prizes of cloth and money, and all the strongest men came. When they saw the king's son, whom nobody knew, they laughed and said, "Who is this small boy? He can have no chance against us." But when they came to wrestle, they very soon found that they were no match for him. The boy was very strong indeed, beautifully made and good to look upon, and all the people were surprised to see how like he was to the king. After wrestling for the greater part of the day the king's son was declared the winner, having thrown every one who had stood up against him; in fact, some of his opponents had been badly hurt, and had their arms or ribs broken owing to the tremendous strength of the boy. After the match was over the king presented him with cloth and money, and invited him to dine with him in the evening. The boy gladly accepted his father's invitation; and after he had had a good wash in the river, put on his cloth and went up to the palace, where he found the head chiefs of the country and some of the king's most favoured wives. They then sat down to their meal, and the king had his own son, whom he did not know, sitting next to him. On the other side of the boy sat the jealous wife, who had been the cause of all the trouble. All through the dinner this woman did her best to make friends with the boy, with whom she had fallen violently in love on account of his beautiful appearance, his strength, and his being the best wrestler in the country. The woman thought to herself, "I will have this boy as my husband, as my husband is now an old man and will surely soon die." The boy, however, who was as wise as he was strong, was quite aware of everything the jealous woman had done, and although he pretended to be very flattered at the advances of the king's head wife, he did not respond very readily, and went home as soon as he could. When he returned to the Water Ju Ju's house he told him everything that had happened, and the Water Ju Ju said-- "As you are now in high favour with the king, you must go to him to-morrow and beg a favour from him. The favour you will ask is that all the country shall be called together, and that a certain case shall be tried, and that when the case is finished, the man or woman who is found to be in the wrong shall be killed by the Egbos before all the people." So the following morning the boy went to the king, who readily granted his request, and at once sent all round the country appointing a day for all the people to come in and hear the case tried. Then the boy went back to the Water Ju Ju, who told him to go to his mother and tell her who he was, and that when the day of the trial arrived, she was to take off her ugly skin and appear in all her beauty, for the time had come when she need no longer wear it. This the son did. When the day of trial arrived, Adiaha sat in a corner of the square, and nobody recognised the beautiful stranger as the spider's daughter. Her son then sat down next to her, and brought his sister with him. Immediately his mother saw her she said-- "This must be my daughter, whom I have long mourned as dead," and embraced her most affectionately. The king and his head wife then arrived and sat on their stones in the middle of the square, all the people saluting them with the usual greetings. The king then addressed the people, and said that he had called them together to hear a strong palaver at the request of the young man who had been the victor of the wrestling, and who had promised that if the case went against him he would offer up his life to the Egbo. The king also said that if, on the other hand, the case was decided in the boy's favour, then the other party would be killed, even though it were himself or one of his wives; whoever it was would have to take his or her place on the killing-stone and have their heads cut off by the Egbos. To this all the people agreed, and said they would like to hear what the young man had to say. The young man then walked round the square, and bowed to the king and the people, and asked the question, "Am I not worthy to be the son of any chief in the country?" And all the people answered "Yes!" The boy then brought his sister out into the middle, leading her by the hand. She was a beautiful girl and well made. When every one had looked at her he said, "Is not my sister worthy to be any chief's daughter?" And the people replied that she was worthy of being any one's daughter, even the king's. Then he called his mother Adiaha, and she came out, looking very beautiful with her best cloth and beads on, and all the people cheered, as they had never seen a finer woman. The boy then asked them, "Is this woman worthy of being the king's wife?" And a shout went up from every one present that she would be a proper wife for the king, and looked as if she would be the mother of plenty of fine healthy sons. Then the boy pointed out the jealous woman who was sitting next to the king, and told the people his story, how that his mother, who had two skins, was the spider's daughter; how she had married the king, and how the head wife was jealous and had made a bad Ju Ju for the king, which made him forget his wife; how she had persuaded the king to throw himself and his sister into the river, which, as they all knew, had been done, but the Water Ju Ju had saved both of them, and had brought them up. Then the boy said: "I leave the king and all of you people to judge my case. If I have done wrong, let me be killed on the stone by the Egbos; if, on the other hand, the woman has done evil, then let the Egbos deal with her as you may decide." When the king knew that the wrestler was his son he was very glad, and told the Egbos to take the jealous woman away, and punish her in accordance with their laws. The Egbos decided that the woman was a witch; so they took her into the forest and tied her up to a stake, and gave her two hundred lashes with a whip made from hippopotamus hide, and then burnt her alive, so that she should not make any more trouble, and her ashes were thrown into the river. The king then embraced his wife and daughter, and told all the people that she, Adiaha, was his proper wife, and would be the queen for the future. When the palaver was over, Adiaha was dressed in fine clothes and beads, and carried back in state to the palace by the king's servants. That night the king gave a big feast to all his subjects, and told them how glad he was to get back his beautiful wife whom he had never known properly before, also his son who was stronger than all men, and his fine daughter. The feast continued for a hundred and sixty-six days; and the king made a law that if any woman was found out getting medicine against her husband, she should be killed at once. Then the king built three new compounds, and placed many slaves in them, both men and women. One compound he gave to his wife, another to his son, and the third he gave to his daughter. They all lived together quite happily for some years until the king died, when his son came to the throne and ruled in his stead. IV _The King's Magic Drum_ Efriam Duke was an ancient king of Calabar. He was a peaceful man, and did not like war. He had a wonderful drum, the property of which, when it was beaten, was always to provide plenty of good food and drink. So whenever any country declared war against him, he used to call all his enemies together and beat his drum; then to the surprise of every one, instead of fighting the people found tables spread with all sorts of dishes, fish, foo-foo, palm-oil chop, soup, cooked yams and ocros, and plenty of palm wine for everybody. In this way he kept all the country quiet, and sent his enemies away with full stomachs, and in a happy and contented frame of mind. There was only one drawback to possessing the drum, and that was, if the owner of the drum walked over any stick on the road or stept over a fallen tree, all the food would immediately go bad, and three hundred Egbo men would appear with sticks and whips and beat the owner of the drum and all the invited guests very severely. Efriam Duke was a rich man. He had many farms and hundreds of slaves, a large store of kernels on the beach, and many puncheons of palm-oil. He also had fifty wives and many children. The wives were all fine women and healthy; they were also good mothers, and all of them had plenty of children, which was good for the king's house. Every few months the king used to issue invitations to all his subjects to come to a big feast, even the wild animals were invited; the elephants, hippopotami, leopards, bush cows, and antelopes used to come, for in those days there was no trouble, as they were friendly with man, and when they were at the feast they did not kill one another. All the people and the animals as well were envious of the king's drum and wanted to possess it, but the king would not part with it. One morning Ikwor Edem, one of the king's wives, took her little daughter down to the spring to wash her, as she was covered with yaws, which are bad sores all over the body. The tortoise happened to be up a palm tree, just over the spring, cutting nuts for his midday meal; and while he was cutting, one of the nuts fell to the ground, just in front of the child. The little girl, seeing the good food, cried for it, and the mother, not knowing any better, picked up the palm nut and gave it to her daughter. Directly the tortoise saw this he climbed down the tree, and asked the woman where his palm nut was. She replied that she had given it to her child to eat. Then the tortoise, who very much wanted the king's drum, thought he would make plenty palaver over this and force the king to give him the drum, so he said to the mother of the child-- "I am a poor man, and I climbed the tree to get food for myself and my family. Then you took my palm nut and gave it to your child. I shall tell the whole matter to the king, and see what he has to say when he hears that one of his wives has stolen my food," for this, as every one knows, is a very serious crime according to native custom. Ikwor Edem then said to the tortoise-- "I saw your palm nut lying on the ground, and thinking it had fallen from the tree, I gave it to my little girl to eat, but I did not steal it. My husband the king is a rich man, and if you have any complaint to make against me or my child, I will take you before him." So when she had finished washing her daughter at the spring she took the tortoise to her husband, and told him what had taken place. The king then asked the tortoise what he would accept as compensation for the loss of his palm nut, and offered him money, cloth, kernels or palm-oil, all of which things the tortoise refused one after the other. The king then said to the tortoise, "What will you take? You may have anything you like." And the tortoise immediately pointed to the king's drum, and said that it was the only thing he wanted. In order to get rid of the tortoise the king said, "Very well, take the drum," but he never told the tortoise about the bad things that would happen to him if he stept over a fallen tree, or walked over a stick on the road. The tortoise was very glad at this, and carried the drum home in triumph to his wife, and said, "I am now a rich man, and shall do no more work. Whenever I want food, all I have to do is to beat this drum, and food will immediately be brought to me, and plenty to drink." His wife and children were very pleased when they heard this, and asked the tortoise to get food at once, as they were all hungry. This the tortoise was only too pleased to do, as he wished to show off his newly acquired wealth, and was also rather hungry himself, so he beat the drum in the same way as he had seen the king do when he wanted something to eat, and immediately plenty of food appeared, so they all sat down and made a great feast. The tortoise did this for three days, and everything went well; all his children got fat, and had as much as they could possibly eat. He was therefore very proud of his drum, and in order to display his riches he sent invitations to the king and all the people and animals to come to a feast. When the people received their invitations they laughed, as they knew the tortoise was very poor, so very few attended the feast; but the king, knowing about the drum, came, and when the tortoise beat the drum, the food was brought as usual in great profusion, and all the people sat down and enjoyed their meal very much. They were much astonished that the poor tortoise should be able to entertain so many people, and told all their friends what fine dishes had been placed before them, and that they had never had a better dinner. The people who had not gone were very sorry when they heard this, as a good feast, at somebody else's expense, is not provided every day. After the feast all the people looked upon the tortoise as one of the richest men in the kingdom, and he was very much respected in consequence. No one, except the king, could understand how the poor tortoise could suddenly entertain so lavishly, but they all made up their minds that if the tortoise ever gave another feast, they would not refuse again. When the tortoise had been in possession of the drum for a few weeks he became lazy and did no work, but went about the country boasting of his riches, and took to drinking too much. One day after he had been drinking a lot of palm wine at a distant farm, he started home carrying his drum; but having had too much to drink, he did not notice a stick in the path. He walked over the stick, and of course the Ju Ju was broken at once. But he did not know this, as nothing happened at the time, and eventually he arrived at his house very tired, and still not very well from having drunk too much. He threw the drum into a corner and went to sleep. When he woke up in the morning the tortoise began to feel hungry, and as his wife and children were calling out for food, he beat the drum; but instead of food being brought, the house was filled with Egbo men, who beat the tortoise, his wife and children, badly. At this the tortoise was very angry, and said to himself-- "I asked every one to a feast, but only a few came, and they had plenty to eat and drink. Now, when I want food for myself and my family, the Egbos come and beat me. Well, I will let the other people share the same fate, as I do not see why I and my family should be beaten when I have given a feast to all people." He therefore at once sent out invitations to all the men and animals to come to a big dinner the next day at three o'clock in the afternoon. When the time arrived many people came, as they did not wish to lose the chance of a free meal a second time. Even the sick men, the lame, and the blind got their friends to lead them to the feast. When they had all arrived, with the exception of the king and his wives, who sent excuses, the tortoise beat his drum as usual, and then quickly hid himself under a bench, where he could not be seen. His wife and children he had sent away before the feast, as he knew what would surely happen. Directly he had beaten the drum three hundred Egbo men appeared with whips, and started flogging all the guests, who could not escape, as the doors had been fastened. The beating went on for two hours, and the people were so badly punished, that many of them had to be carried home on the backs of their friends. The leopard was the only one who escaped, as directly he saw the Egbo men arrive he knew that things were likely to be unpleasant, so he gave a big spring and jumped right out of the compound. When the tortoise was satisfied with the beating the people had received he crept to the door and opened it. The people then ran away, and when the tortoise gave a certain tap on the drum all the Egbo men vanished. The people who had been beaten were so angry, and made so much palaver with the tortoise, that he made up his mind to return the drum to the king the next day. So in the morning the tortoise went to the king and brought the drum with him. He told the king that he was not satisfied with the drum, and wished to exchange it for something else; he did not mind so much what the king gave him so long as he got full value for the drum, and he was quite willing to accept a certain number of slaves, or a few farms, or their equivalent in cloth or rods. The king, however, refused to do this; but as he was rather sorry for the tortoise, he said he would present him with a magic foo-foo tree, which would provide the tortoise and his family with food, provided he kept a certain condition. This the tortoise gladly consented to do. Now this foo-foo tree only bore fruit once a year, but every day it dropped foo-foo and soup on the ground. And the condition was, that the owner should gather sufficient food for the day, once, and not return again for more. The tortoise, when he had thanked the king for his generosity, went home to his wife and told her to bring her calabashes to the tree. She did so, and they gathered plenty of foo-foo and soup quite sufficient for the whole family for that day, and went back to their house very happy. That night they all feasted and enjoyed themselves. But one of the sons, who was very greedy, thought to himself-- "I wonder where my father gets all this good food from? I must ask him." So in the morning he said to his father-- "Tell me where do you get all this foo-foo and soup from?" But his father refused to tell him, as his wife, who was a cunning woman, said-- "If we let our children know the secret of the foo-foo tree, some day when they are hungry, after we have got our daily supply, one of them may go to the tree and gather more, which will break the Ju Ju." But the envious son, being determined to get plenty of food for himself, decided to track his father to the place where he obtained the food. This was rather difficult to do, as the tortoise always went out alone, and took the greatest care to prevent any one following him. The boy, however, soon thought of a plan, and got a calabash with a long neck and a hole in the end. He filled the calabash with wood ashes, which he obtained from the fire, and then got a bag which his father always carried on his back when he went out to get food. In the bottom of the bag the boy then made a small hole, and inserted the calabash with the neck downwards, so that when his father walked to the foo-foo tree he would leave a small trail of wood ashes behind him. Then when his father, having slung his bag over his back as usual, set out to get the daily supply of food, his greedy son followed the trail of the wood ashes, taking great care to hide himself and not to let his father perceive that he was being followed. At last the tortoise arrived at the tree, and placed his calabashes on the ground and collected the food for the day, the boy watching him from a distance. When his father had finished and went home the boy also returned, and having had a good meal, said nothing to his parents, but went to bed. The next morning he got some of his brothers, and after his father had finished getting the daily supply, they went to the tree and collected much foo-foo and soup, and so broke the Ju Ju. At daylight the tortoise went to the tree as usual, but he could not find it, as during the night the whole bush had grown up, and the foo-foo tree was hidden from sight. There was nothing to be seen but a dense mass of prickly tie-tie palm. Then the tortoise at once knew that some one had broken the Ju Ju, and had gathered foo-foo from the tree twice in the same day; so he returned very sadly to his house, and told his wife. He then called all his family together and told them what had happened, and asked them who had done this evil thing. They all denied having had anything to do with the tree, so the tortoise in despair brought all his family to the place where the foo-foo tree had been, but which was now all prickly tie-tie palm, and said-- "My dear wife and children, I have done all that I can for you, but you have broken my Ju Ju; you must therefore for the future live on the tie-tie palm." So they made their home underneath the prickly tree, and from that day you will always find tortoises living under the prickly tie-tie palm, as they have nowhere else to go to for food. V _Ituen and the King's Wife_ Ituen was a young man of Calabar. He was the only child of his parents, and they were extremely fond of him, as he was of fine proportions and very good to look upon. They were poor people, and when Ituen grew up and became a man, he had very little money indeed, in fact he had so little food, that every day it was his custom to go to the market carrying an empty bag, into which he used to put anything eatable he could find after the market was over. At this time Offiong was king. He was an old man, but he had plenty of wives. One of these women, named Attem, was quite young and very good-looking. She did not like her old husband, but wished for a young and handsome husband. She therefore told her servant to go round the town and the market to try and find such a man and to bring him at night by the side door to her house, and she herself would let him in, and would take care that her husband did not discover him. That day the servant went all round the town, but failed to find any young man good-looking enough. She was just returning to report her ill-success when, on passing through the market-place, she saw Ituen picking up the remains of corn and other things which had been left on the ground. She was immediately struck with his fine appearance and strength, and saw that he was just the man to make a proper lover for her mistress, so she went up to him, and said that the queen had sent for him, as she was so taken with his good looks. At first Ituen was frightened and refused to go, as he knew that if the King discovered him he would be killed. However, after much persuasion he consented, and agreed to go to the queen's side door when it was dark. When night came he went with great fear and trembling, and knocked very softly at the queen's door. The door was opened at once by the queen herself, who was dressed in all her best clothes, and had many necklaces, beads, and anklets on. Directly she saw Ituen she fell in love with him at once, and praised his good looks and his shapely limbs. She then told her servant to bring water and clothes, and after he had had a good wash and put on a clean cloth, he rejoined the queen. She hid him in her house all the night. In the morning when he wished to go she would not let him, but, although it was very dangerous, she hid him in the house, and secretly conveyed food and clothes to him. Ituen stayed there for two weeks, and then he said that it was time for him to go and see his mother, but the queen persuaded him to stay another week, much against his will. When the time came for him to depart, the queen got together fifty carriers with presents for Ituen's mother who, she knew, was a poor woman. Ten slaves carried three hundred rods; the other forty carried yams, pepper, salt, tobacco, and cloth. When all the presents arrived Ituen's mother was very pleased and embraced her son, and noticed with pleasure that he was looking well, and was dressed in much finer clothes than usual; but when she heard that he had attracted the queen's attention she was frightened, as she knew the penalty imposed on any one who attracted the attention of one of the king's wives. Ituen stayed for a month in his parents' house and worked on the farm; but the queen could not be without her lover any longer, so she sent for him to go to her at once. Ituen went again, and, as before, arrived at night, when the queen was delighted to see him again. In the middle of the night some of the king's servants, who had been told the story by the slaves who had carried the presents to Ituen's mother, came into the queen's room and surprised her there with Ituen. They hastened to the king, and told him what they had seen. Ituen was then made a prisoner, and the king sent out to all his people to attend at the palaver house to hear the case tried. He also ordered eight Egbos to attend armed with machetes. When the case was tried Ituen was found guilty, and the king told the eight Egbo men to take him into the bush and deal with him according to native custom. The Egbos then took Ituen into the bush and tied him up to a tree; then with a sharp knife they cut off his lower jaw, and carried it to the king. When the queen heard the fate of her lover she was very sad, and cried for three days. This made the king angry, so he told the Egbos to deal with his wife and her servant according to their law. They took the queen and the servant into the bush, where Ituen was still tied up to the tree dying and in great pain. Then, as the queen had nothing to say in her defence, they tied her and the girl up to different trees, and cut the queen's lower jaw off in the same way as they had her lover's. The Egbos then put out both the eyes of the servant, and left all three to die of starvation. The king then made an Egbo law that for the future no one belonging to Ituen's family was to go into the market on market day, and that no one was to pick up the rubbish in the market. The king made an exception to the law in favour of the vulture and the dog, who were not considered very fine people, and would not be likely to run off with one of the king's wives, and that is why you still find vultures and dogs doing scavenger in the market-places even at the present time. VI _Of the Pretty Stranger who Killed the King_ Mbotu was a very famous king of Old Town, Calabar. He was frequently at war, and was always successful, as he was a most skilful leader. All the prisoners he took were made slaves. He therefore became very rich, but, on the other hand, he had many enemies. The people of Itu in particular were very angry with him and wanted to kill him, but they were not strong enough to beat Mbotu in a pitched battle, so they had to resort to craft. The Itu people had an old woman who was a witch and could turn herself into whatever she pleased, and when she offered to kill Mbotu, the people were very glad, and promised her plenty of money and cloth if she succeeded in ridding them of their worst enemy. The witch then turned herself into a young and pretty girl, and having armed herself with a very sharp knife, which she concealed in her bosom, she went to Old Town, Calabar, to seek the king. It happened that when she arrived there was a big play being held in the town, and all the people from the surrounding country had come in to dance and feast. Oyaikan, the witch, went to the play, and walked about so that every one could see her. Directly she appeared the people all marvelled at her beauty, and said that she was as beautiful as the setting sun when all the sky was red. Word was quickly brought to king Mbotu, who, it was well known, was fond of pretty girls, and he sent for her at once, all the people agreeing that she was quite worthy of being the king's wife. When she appeared before him he fancied her so much, that he told her he would marry her that very day. Oyaikan was very pleased at this, as she had never expected to get her opportunity so quickly. She therefore prepared a dainty meal for the king, into which she placed a strong medicine to make the king sleep, and then went down to the river to wash. When she had finished it was getting dark, so she went to the king's compound, carrying her dish on her head, and was at once shown in to the king, who embraced her affectionately. She then offered him the food, which she said, quite truly, she had prepared with her own hands. The king ate the whole dish, and immediately began to feel very sleepy, as the medicine was strong and took effect quickly. They retired to the king's chamber, and the king went to sleep at once. About midnight, when all the town was quiet, Oyaikan drew her knife from her bosom and cut the king's head off. She put the head in a bag and went out very softly, shutting and barring the door behind her. Then she walked through the town without any one observing her, and went straight to Itu, where she placed king Mbotu's head before her own king. When the people heard that the witch had been successful and that their enemy was dead, there was great rejoicing, and the king of Itu at once made up his mind to attack Old Town, Calabar. He therefore got his fighting men together and took them in canoes by the creeks to Old Town, taking care that no one carried word to Calabar that he was coming. The morning following the murder of Mbotu his people were rather surprised that he did not appear at his usual time, so his head wife knocked at his door. Not receiving any answer she called the household together, and they broke open the door. When they entered the room they found the king lying dead on his bed covered in blood, but his head was missing. At this a great shout went up, and the whole town mourned. Although they missed the pretty stranger, they never connected her in their minds with the death of their king, and were quite unsuspicious of any danger, and were unprepared for fighting. In the middle of the mourning, while they were all dancing, crying, and drinking palm wine, the king of Itu with all his soldiers attacked Old Town, taking them quite by surprise, and as their leader was dead, the Calabar people were very soon defeated, and many killed and taken prisoners. MORAL.--Never marry a stranger, no matter how pretty she may be. VII _Why the Bat flies by Night_ A bush rat called Oyot was a great friend of Emiong, the bat; they always fed together, but the bat was jealous of the bush rat. When the bat cooked the food it was always very good, and the bush rat said, "How is it that when you make the soup it is so tasty?" The bat replied, "I always boil myself in the water, and my flesh is so sweet, that the soup is good." He then told the bush rat that he would show him how it was done; so he got a pot of warm water, which he told the bush rat was boiling water, and jumped into it, and very shortly afterwards came out again. When the soup was brought it was as strong and good as usual, as the bat had prepared it beforehand. The bush rat then went home and told his wife that he was going to make good soup like the bat's. He therefore told her to boil some water, which she did. Then, when his wife was not looking, he jumped into the pot, and was very soon dead. When his wife looked into the pot and saw the dead body of her husband boiling she was very angry, and reported the matter to the king, who gave orders that the bat should be made a prisoner. Every one turned out to catch the bat, but as he expected trouble he flew away into the bush and hid himself. All day long the people tried to catch him, so he had to change his habits, and only came out to feed when it was dark, and that is why you never see a bat in the daytime. VIII _The Disobedient Daughter who Married a Skull_ Effiong Edem was a native of Cobham Town. He had a very fine daughter, whose name was Afiong. All the young men in the country wanted to marry her on account of her beauty; but she refused all offers of marriage in spite of repeated entreaties from her parents, as she was very vain, and said she would only marry the best-looking man in the country, who would have to be young and strong, and capable of loving her properly. Most of the men her parents wanted her to marry, although they were rich, were old men and ugly, so the girl continued to disobey her parents, at which they were very much grieved. The skull who lived in the spirit land heard of the beauty of this Calabar virgin, and thought he would like to possess her; so he went about amongst his friends and borrowed different parts of the body from them, all of the best. From one he got a good head, another lent him a body, a third gave him strong arms, and a fourth lent him a fine pair of legs. At last he was complete, and was a very perfect specimen of manhood. He then left the spirit land and went to Cobham market, where he saw Afiong, and admired her very much. About this time Afiong heard that a very fine man had been seen in the market, who was better-looking than any of the natives. She therefore went to the market at once, and directly she saw the Skull in his borrowed beauty, she fell in love with him, and invited him to her house. The Skull was delighted, and went home with her, and on his arrival was introduced by the girl to her parents, and immediately asked their consent to marry their daughter. At first they refused, as they did not wish her to marry a stranger, but at last they agreed. He lived with Afiong for two days in her parents' house, and then said he wished to take his wife back to his country, which was far off. To this the girl readily agreed, as he was such a fine man, but her parents tried to persuade her not to go. However, being very headstrong, she made up her mind to go, and they started off together. After they had been gone a few days the father consulted his Ju Ju man, who by casting lots very soon discovered that his daughter's husband belonged to the spirit land, and that she would surely be killed. They therefore all mourned her as dead. After walking for several days, Afiong and the Skull crossed the border between the spirit land and the human country. Directly they set foot in the spirit land, first of all one man came to the Skull and demanded his legs, then another his head, and the next his body, and so on, until in a few minutes the skull was left by itself in all its natural ugliness. At this the girl was very frightened, and wanted to return home, but the skull would not allow this, and ordered her to go with him. When they arrived at the skull's house they found his mother, who was a very old woman quite incapable of doing any work, who could only creep about. Afiong tried her best to help her, and cooked her food, and brought water and firewood for the old woman. The old creature was very grateful for these attentions, and soon became quite fond of Afiong. One day the old woman told Afiong that she was very sorry for her, but all the people in the spirit land were cannibals, and when they heard there was a human being in their country, they would come down and kill her and eat her. The skull's mother then hid Afiong, and as she had looked after her so well, she promised she would send her back to her country as soon as possible, providing that she promised for the future to obey her parents. This Afiong readily consented to do. Then the old woman sent for the spider, who was a very clever hairdresser, and made him dress Afiong's hair in the latest fashion. She also presented her with anklets and other things on account of her kindness. She then made a Ju Ju and called the winds to come and convey Afiong to her home. At first a violent tornado came, with thunder, lightning and rain, but the skull's mother sent him away as unsuitable. The next wind to come was a gentle breeze, so she told the breeze to carry Afiong to her mother's house, and said good-bye to her. Very soon afterwards the breeze deposited Afiong outside her home, and left her there. When the parents saw their daughter they were very glad, as they had for some months given her up as lost. The father spread soft animals' skins on the ground from where his daughter was standing all the way to the house, so that her feet should not be soiled. Afiong then walked to the house, and her father called all the young girls who belonged to Afiong's company to come and dance, and the feasting and dancing was kept up for eight days and nights. When the rejoicing was over, the father reported what had happened to the head chief of the town. The chief then passed a law that parents should never allow their daughters to marry strangers who came from a far country. Then the father told his daughter to marry a friend of his, and she willingly consented, and lived with him for many years, and had many children. IX _The King who Married the Cock's Daughter_ King Effiom of Duke Town, Calabar, was very fond of pretty maidens, and whenever he heard of a girl who was unusually good-looking, he always sent for her, and if she took his fancy, he made her one of his wives. This he could afford to do, as he was a rich man, and could pay any dowry which the parents asked, most of his money having been made by buying and selling slaves. Effiom had two hundred and fifty wives, but he was never content, and wanted to have all the finest women in the land. Some of the king's friends, who were always on the look-out for pretty girls, told Effiom that the Cock's daughter was a lovely virgin, and far superior to any of the king's wives. Directly the king heard this he sent for the Cock, and said he intended to have his daughter as one of his wives. The Cock, being a poor man, could not resist the order of the king, so he brought his daughter, who was very good-looking and pleased the king immensely. When the king had paid the Cock a dowry of six puncheons of palm-oil, the Cock told Effiom that if he married his daughter he must not forget that she had the natural instincts of a hen, and that he should not blame Adia unen (his daughter) if she picked up corn whenever she saw it. The king replied that he did not mind what she ate so long as he possessed her. The king then took Adia unen as his wife, and liked her so much, that he neglected all his other wives, and lived entirely with Adia unen, as she suited him exactly and pleased him more than any of his other wives. She also amused the king, and played with him and enticed him in so many different ways that he could not live without her, and always had her with him to the exclusion of his former favourites, whom he would not even speak to or notice in any way when he met them. This so enraged the neglected wives that they met together, and although they all hated one another, they agreed so far that they hated the Cock's daughter more than any one, as now that she had come to the king none of them ever had a chance with him. Formerly the king, although he always had his favourites, used to favour different girls with his attentions when they pleased him particularly. That was very different in their opinion to being excluded from his presence and all his affections being concentrated on one girl, who received all his love and embraces. In consequence of this they were very angry, and determined if possible to disgrace Adia unen. After much discussion, one of the wives, who was the last favourite, and whom the arrival of the Cock's daughter had displaced, said: "This girl, whom we all hate, is, after all, only a Cock's daughter, and we can easily disgrace her in the king's eyes, as I heard her father tell the king that she could not resist corn, no matter how it was thrown about." Very shortly after the king's wives had determined to try and disgrace Adia unen, all the people of the country came to pay homage to the king. This was done three times a year, the people bringing yams, fowls, goats, and new corn as presents, and the king entertained them with a feast of foo-foo, palm-oil chop, and tombo.[7] A big dance was also held, which was usually kept up for several days and nights. Early in the morning the king's head wife told her servant to wash one head of corn, and when all the people were present she was to bring it in a calabash and throw it on the ground and then walk away. The corn was to be thrown in front of Adia unen, so that all the people and chiefs could see. [Footnote 7: Tombo is an intoxicating drink made from the juice which is extracted from the tombo palm, and which ferments very quickly. It is drawn from the tree twice a day--in the morning very early, and again in the afternoon.] About ten o'clock, when all the chiefs and people had assembled, and the king had taken his seat on his big wooden chair, the servant girl came and threw the corn on the ground as she had been ordered. Directly she had done this Adia unen started towards the corn, picked it up, and began to eat. At this all the people laughed, and the king was very angry and ashamed. The king's wives and many people said that they thought the king's finest wife would have learnt better manners than to pick up corn which had been thrown away as refuse. Others said: "What can you expect from a Cock's daughter? She should not be blamed for obeying her natural instincts." But the king was so vexed, that he told one of his servants to pack up Adia unen's things and take them to her father's house. And this was done, and Aida unen returned to her parents. That night the king's third wife, who was a friend of Adia unen's, talked the whole matter over with the king, and explained to him that it was entirely owing to the jealousy of his head wife that Adia unen had been disgraced. She also told him that the whole thing had been arranged beforehand in order that the king should get rid of Adia unen, of whom all the other wives were jealous. When the king heard this he was very angry, and made up his mind to send the jealous woman back to her parents empty-handed, without her clothes and presents. When she arrived at her father's house the parents refused to take her in, as she had been given as a wife to the king, and whenever the parents wanted anything, they could always get it at the palace. It was therefore a great loss to them. She was thus turned into the streets, and walked about very miserable, and after a time died, very poor and starving. The king grieved so much at having been compelled to send his favourite wife Adia unen away, that he died the following year. And when the people saw that their king had died of a broken heart, they passed a law that for the future no one should marry any bird or animal. X _The Woman, the Ape, and the Child_ Okun Archibong was one of King Archibong's slaves, and lived on a farm near Calabar. He was a hunter, and used to kill bush buck and other kinds of antelopes and many monkeys. The skins he used to dry in the sun, and when they were properly cured, he used to sell them in the market; the monkey skins were used for making drums, and the antelope skins were used for sitting mats. The flesh, after it had been well smoked over a wood fire, he also sold, but he did not make much money. Okun Archibong married a slave woman of Duke's house named Nkoyo. He paid a small dowry to the Dukes, took his wife home to his farm, and in the dry season time she had a son. About four months after the birth of the child Nkoyo took him to the farm while her husband was absent hunting. She placed the little boy under a shady tree and went about her work, which was clearing the ground for the yams which would be planted about two months before the rains. Every day while the mother was working a big ape used to come from the forest and play with the little boy; he used to hold him in his arms and carry him up a tree, and when Nkoyo had finished her work, he used to bring the baby back to her. There was a hunter named Edem Effiong who had for a long time been in love with Nkoyo, and had made advances to her, but she would have nothing to do with him, as she was very fond of her husband. When she had her little child Effiong Edem was very jealous, and meeting her one day on the farm without her baby, he said: "Where is your baby?" And she replied that a big ape had taken it up a tree and was looking after it for her. When Effiong Edem saw that the ape was a big one, he made up his mind to tell Nkoyo's husband. The very next day he told Okun Archibong that he had seen his wife in the forest with a big ape. At first Okun would not believe this, but the hunter told him to come with him and he could see it with his own eyes. Okun Archibong therefore made up his mind to kill the ape. The next day he went with the other hunter to the farm and saw the ape up a tree playing with his son, so he took very careful aim and shot the ape, but it was not quite killed. It was so angry, and its strength was so great, that it tore the child limb from limb and threw it to the ground. This so enraged Okun Archibong that seeing his wife standing near he shot her also. He then ran home and told King Archibong what had taken place. This king was very brave and fond of fighting, so as he knew that King Duke would be certain to make war upon him, he immediately called in all his fighting men. When he was quite prepared he sent a messenger to tell King Duke what had happened. Duke was very angry, and sent the messenger back to King Archibong to say that he must send the hunter to him, so that he could kill him in any way he pleased. This Archibong refused to do, and said he would rather fight. Duke then got his men together, and both sides met and fought in the market square. Thirty men were killed of Duke's men, and twenty were killed on Archibong's side; there were also many wounded. On the whole King Archibong had the best of the fighting, and drove King Duke back. When the fighting was at its hottest the other chiefs sent out all the Egbo men with drums and stopped the fight, and the next day the palaver was tried in Egbo house. King Archibong was found guilty, and was ordered to pay six thousand rods to King Duke. He refused to pay this amount to Duke, and said he would rather go on fighting, but he did not mind paying the six thousand rods to the town, as the Egbos had decided the case. They were about to commence fighting again when the whole country rose up and said they would not have any more fighting, as Archibong said to Duke that the woman's death was not really the fault of his slave Okun Archibong, but of Effiong Edem, who made the false report. When Duke heard this he agreed to leave the whole matter to the chiefs to decide, and Effiong Edem was called to take his place on the stone. He was tried and found guilty, and two Egbos came out armed with cutting whips and gave him two hundred lashes on his bare back, and then cut off his head and sent it to Duke, who placed it before his Ju Ju. From that time to the present all apes and monkeys have been frightened of human beings; and even of little children. The Egbos also passed a law that a chief should not allow one of his men slaves to marry a woman slave of another house, as it would probably lead to fighting. XI _The Fish and the Leopard's Wife; or, Why the Fish lives in the Water_ Many years ago, when King Eyo was ruler of Calabar, the fish used to live on the land; he was a great friend of the leopard, and frequently used to go to his house in the bush, where the leopard entertained him. Now the leopard had a very fine wife, with whom the fish fell in love. And after a time, whenever the leopard was absent in the bush, the fish used to go to his house and make love to the leopard's wife, until at last an old woman who lived near informed the leopard what happened whenever he went away. At first the leopard would not believe that the fish, who had been his friend for so long, would play such a low trick, but one night he came back unexpectedly, and found the fish and his wife together; at this the leopard was very angry, and was going to kill the fish, but he thought as the fish had been his friend for so long, he would not deal with him himself, but would report his behaviour to King Eyo. This he did, and the king held a big palaver, at which the leopard stated his case quite shortly, but when the fish was put upon his defence he had nothing to say, so the king addressing his subjects said, "This is a very bad case, as the fish has been the leopard's friend, and has been trusted by him, but the fish has taken advantage of his friend's absence, and has betrayed him." The king, therefore, made an order that for the future the fish should live in the water, and that if he ever came on the land he should die; he also said that all men and animals should kill and eat the fish whenever they could catch him, as a punishment for his behaviour with his friend's wife. XII _Why the Bat is Ashamed to be seen in the Daytime_ There was once an old mother sheep who had seven lambs, and one day the bat, who was about to make a visit to his father-in-law who lived a long day's march away, went to the old sheep and asked her to lend him one of her young lambs to carry his load for him. At first the mother sheep refused, but as the young lamb was anxious to travel and see something of the world, and begged to be allowed to go, at last she reluctantly consented. So in the morning at daylight the bat and the lamb set off together, the lamb carrying the bat's drinking-horn. When they reached half-way, the bat told the lamb to leave the horn underneath a bamboo tree. Directly he arrived at the house, he sent the lamb back to get the horn. When the lamb had gone the bat's father-in-law brought him food, and the bat ate it all, leaving nothing for the lamb. When the lamb returned, the bat said to him, "Hullo! you have arrived at last I see, but you are too late for food; it is all finished." He then sent the lamb back to the tree with the horn, and when the lamb returned again it was late, and he went supperless to bed. The next day, just before it was time for food, the bat sent the lamb off again for the drinking-horn, and when the food arrived the bat, who was very greedy, ate it all up a second time. This mean behaviour on the part of the bat went on for four days, until at last the lamb became quite thin and weak. The bat decided to return home the next day, and it was all the lamb could do to carry his load. When he got home to his mother the lamb complained bitterly of the treatment he had received from the bat, and was baa-ing all night, complaining of pains in his inside. The old mother sheep, who was very fond of her children, determined to be revenged on the bat for the cruel way he had starved her lamb; she therefore decided to consult the tortoise, who, although very poor, was considered by all people to be the wisest of all animals. When the old sheep had told the whole story to the tortoise, he considered for some time, and then told the sheep that she might leave the matter entirely to him, and he would take ample revenge on the bat for his cruel treatment of her son. Very soon after this the bat thought he would again go and see his father-in-law, so he went to the mother sheep again and asked her for one of her sons to carry his load as before. The tortoise, who happened to be present, told the bat that he was going in that direction, and would cheerfully carry his load for him. They set out on their journey the following day, and when they arrived at the half-way halting-place the bat pursued the same tactics that he had on the previous occasion. He told the tortoise to hide his drinking-horn under the same tree as the lamb had hidden it before; this the tortoise did, but when the bat was not looking he picked up the drinking-horn again and hid it in his bag. When they arrived at the house the tortoise hung the horn up out of sight in the back yard, and then sat down in the house. Just before it was time for food the bat sent the tortoise to get the drinking-horn, and the tortoise went outside into the yard, and waited until he heard that the beating of the boiled yams into foo-foo had finished; he then went into the house and gave the drinking-horn to the bat, who was so surprised and angry, that when the food was passed he refused to eat any of it, so the tortoise ate it all; this went on for four days, until at last the bat became as thin as the poor little lamb had been on the previous occasion. At last the bat could stand the pains of his inside no longer, and secretly told his mother-in-law to bring him food when the tortoise was not looking. He said, "I am now going to sleep for a little, but you can wake me up when the food is ready." The tortoise, who had been listening all the time, being hidden in a corner out of sight, waited until the bat was fast asleep, and then carried him very gently into the next room and placed him on his own bed; he then very softly and quietly took off the bat's cloth and covered himself in it, and lay down where the bat had been; very soon the bat's mother-in-law brought the food and placed it next to where the bat was supposed to be sleeping, and having pulled his cloth to wake him, went away. The tortoise then got up and ate all the food; when he had finished he carried the bat back again, and took some of the palm-oil and foo-foo and placed it inside the bat's lips while he was asleep; then the tortoise went to sleep himself. In the morning when he woke up the bat was more hungry than ever, and in a very bad temper, so he sought out his mother-in-law and started scolding her, and asked her why she had not brought his food as he had told her to do. She replied she had brought his food, and that he had eaten it; but this the bat denied, and accused the tortoise of having eaten the food. The woman then said she would call the people in and they should decide the matter; but the tortoise slipped out first and told the people that the best way to find out who had eaten the food was to make both the bat and himself rinse their mouths out with clean water into a basin. This they decided to do, so the tortoise got his tooth-stick which he always used, and having cleaned his teeth properly, washed his mouth out, and returned to the house. When all the people had arrived the woman told them how the bat had abused her, and as he still maintained stoutly that he had had no food for five days, the people said that both he and the tortoise should wash their mouths out with clean water into two clean calabashes; this was done, and at once it could clearly be seen that the bat had been eating, as there were distinct traces of the palm-oil and foo-foo which the tortoise had put inside his lips floating on the water. When the people saw this they decided against the bat, and he was so ashamed that he ran away then and there, and has ever since always hidden himself in the bush during the daytime, so that no one could see him, and only comes out at night to get his food. The next day the tortoise returned to the mother sheep and told her what he had done, and that the bat was for ever disgraced. The old sheep praised him very much, and told all her friends, in consequence of which the reputation of the tortoise for wisdom was greatly increased throughout the whole country. XIII _Why the Worms live Underneath the Ground_ When Eyo III. was ruling over all men and animals, he had a very big palaver house to which he used to invite his subjects at intervals to feast. After the feast had been held and plenty of tombo had been drunk, it was the custom of the people to make speeches. One day after the feast the head driver ant got up and said he and his people were stronger than any one, and that no one, not even the elephant, could stand before him, which was quite true. He was particularly offensive in his allusions to the worms (whom he disliked very much), and said they were poor wriggling things. The worms were very angry and complained, so the king said that the best way to decide the question who was the stronger was for both sides to meet on the road and fight the matter out between themselves to a finish. He appointed the third day from the feast for the contest, and all the people turned out to witness the battle. The driver ants left their nest in the early morning in thousands and millions, and, as is their custom, marched in a line about one inch broad densely packed, so that it was like a dark-brown band moving over the country. In front of the advancing column they had out their scouts, advance guard, and flankers, and the main body followed in their millions close behind. When they came to the battlefield the moving band spread out, and as the thousands upon thousands of ants rolled up, the whole piece of ground was a moving mass of ants and bunches of struggling worms. The fight was over in a very few minutes, as the worms were bitten in pieces by the sharp pincer-like mouths of the driver ants. The few worms who survived squirmed away and buried themselves out of sight. King Eyo decided that the driver ants were easy winners, and ever since the worms have always been afraid and have lived underground; and if they happen to come to the surface after the rain they hide themselves under the ground whenever anything approaches, as they fear all people. XIV _The Elephant and the Tortoise; or, Why the Worms are Blind and Why the Elephant has Small Eyes_ When Ambo was king of Calabar, the elephant was not only a very big animal, but he had eyes in proportion to his immense bulk. In those days men and animals were friends, and all mixed together quite freely. At regular intervals King Ambo used to give a feast, and the elephant used to eat more than any one, although the hippopotamus used to do his best; however, not being as big as the elephant, although he was very fat, he was left a long way behind. As the elephant ate so much at these feasts, the tortoise, who was small but very cunning, made up his mind to put a stop to the elephant eating more than a fair share of the food provided. He therefore placed some dry kernels and shrimps, of which the elephant was very fond, in his bag, and went to the elephant's house to make an afternoon call. When the tortoise arrived the elephant told him to sit down, so he made himself comfortable, and, having shut one eye, took one palm kernel and a shrimp out of his bag, and commenced to eat them with much relish. When the elephant saw the tortoise eating, he said, as he was always hungry himself, "You seem to have some good food there; what are you eating?" The tortoise replied that the food was "sweet too much," but was rather painful to him, as he was eating one of his own eyeballs; and he lifted up his head, showing one eye closed. The elephant then said, "If the food is so good, take out one of my eyes and give me the same food." The tortoise, who was waiting for this, knowing how greedy the elephant was, had brought a sharp knife with him for that very purpose, and said to the elephant, "I cannot reach your eye, as you are so big." The elephant then took the tortoise up in his trunk and lifted him up. As soon as he came near the elephant's eye, with one quick scoop of the sharp knife he had the elephant's right eye out. The elephant trumpeted with pain; but the tortoise gave him some of the dried kernels and shrimps, and they so pleased the elephant's palate that he soon forgot the pain. Very soon the elephant said, "That food is so sweet, I must have some more"; but the tortoise told him that before he could have any the other eye must come out. To this the elephant agreed; so the tortoise quickly got his knife to work, and very soon the elephant's left eye was on the ground, thus leaving the elephant quite blind. The tortoise then slid down the elephant's trunk on to the ground and hid himself. The elephant then began to make a great noise, and started pulling trees down and doing much damage, calling out for the tortoise; but of course he never answered, and the elephant could not find him. The next morning, when the elephant heard the people passing, he asked them what the time was, and the bush buck, who was nearest, shouted out, "The sun is now up, and I am going to market to get some yams and fresh leaves for my food." Then the elephant perceived that the tortoise had deceived him, and began to ask all the passers-by to lend him a pair of eyes, as he could not see, but every one refused, as they wanted their eyes themselves. At last the worm grovelled past, and seeing the big elephant, greeted him in his humble way. He was much surprised when the king of the forest returned his salutation, and very much flattered also. The elephant said, "Look here, worm, I have mislaid my eyes. Will you lend me yours for a few days? I will return them next market-day." The worm was so flattered at being noticed by the elephant that he gladly consented, and took his eyes out--which, as every one knows, were very small--and gave them to the elephant. When the elephant had put the worm's eyes into his own large eye-sockets, the flesh immediately closed round them so tightly that when the market-day arrived it was impossible for the elephant to get them out again to return to the worm; and although the worm repeatedly made applications to the elephant to return his eyes, the elephant always pretended not to hear, and sometimes used to say in a very loud voice, "If there are any worms about, they had better get out of my way, as they are so small I cannot see them, and if I tread on them they will be squashed into a nasty mess." Ever since then the worms have been blind, and for the same reason elephants have such small eyes, quite out of proportion to the size of their huge bodies. XV _Why a Hawk kills Chickens_ In the olden days there was a very fine young hen who lived with her parents in the bush. One day a hawk was hovering round, about eleven o'clock in the morning, as was his custom, making large circles in the air and scarcely moving his wings. His keen eyes were wide open, taking in everything (for nothing moving ever escapes the eyes of a hawk, no matter how small it may be or how high up in the air the hawk may be circling). This hawk saw the pretty hen picking up some corn near her father's house. He therefore closed his wings slightly, and in a second of time was close to the ground; then spreading his wings out to check his flight, he alighted close to the hen and perched himself on the fence, as a hawk does not like to walk on the ground if he can help it. He then greeted the young hen with his most enticing whistle, and offered to marry her. She agreed, so the hawk spoke to the parents, and paid the agreed amount of dowry, which consisted mostly of corn, and the next day took the young hen off to his home. Shortly after this a young cock who lived near the hen's former home found out where she was living, and having been in love with her for some months--in fact, ever since his spurs had grown--determined to try and make her return to her own country. He therefore went at dawn, and, having flapped his wings once or twice, crowed in his best voice to the young hen. When she heard the sweet voice of the cock she could not resist his invitation, so she went out to him, and they walked off together to her parent's house, the young cock strutting in front crowing at intervals. The hawk, who was hovering high up in the sky, quite out of sight of any ordinary eye, saw what had happened, and was very angry. He made up his mind at once that he would obtain justice from the king, and flew off to Calabar, where he told the whole story, and asked for immediate redress. So the king sent for the parents of the hen, and told them they must repay to the hawk the amount of dowry they had received from him on the marriage of their daughter, according to the native custom; but the hen's parents said that they were so poor that they could not possibly afford to pay. So the king told the hawk that he could kill and eat any of the cock's children whenever and wherever he found them as payment of his dowry, and, if the cock made any complaint, the king would not listen to him. From that time until now, whenever a hawk sees a chicken he swoops down and carries it off in part-payment of his dowry. XVI _Why the Sun and the Moon live in the Sky_ Many years ago the sun and water were great friends, and both lived on the earth together. The sun very often used to visit the water, but the water never returned his visits. At last the sun asked the water why it was that he never came to see him in his house, the water replied that the sun's house was not big enough, and that if he came with his people he would drive the sun out. He then said, "If you wish me to visit you, you must build a very large compound; but I warn you that it will have to be a tremendous place, as my people are very numerous, and take up a lot of room." The sun promised to build a very big compound, and soon afterwards he returned home to his wife, the moon, who greeted him with a broad smile when he opened the door. The sun told the moon what he had promised the water, and the next day commenced building a huge compound in which to entertain his friend. When it was completed, he asked the water to come and visit him the next day. When the water arrived, he called out to the sun, and asked him whether it would be safe for him to enter, and the sun answered, "Yes, come in, my friend." The water then began to flow in, accompanied by the fish and all the water animals. Very soon the water was knee-deep, so he asked the sun if it was still safe, and the sun again said, "Yes," so more water came in. When the water was level with the top of a man's head, the water said to the sun, "Do you want more of my people to come?" and the sun and moon both answered, "Yes," not knowing any better, so the water flowed on, until the sun and moon had to perch themselves on the top of the roof. Again the water addressed the sun, but receiving the same answer, and more of his people rushing in, the water very soon overflowed the top of the roof, and the sun and moon were forced to go up into the sky, where they have remained ever since. XVII _Why the Flies Bother the Cows_ When Adiaha Umo was Queen of Calabar, being very rich and hospitable, she used to give big feasts to all the domestic animals, but never invited the wild beasts, as she was afraid of them. At one feast she gave there were three large tables, and she told the cow to sit at the head of the table, as she was the biggest animal present, and share out the food. The cow was quite ready to do this, and the first course was passed, which the cow shared out amongst the people, but forgot the fly, because he was so small. When the fly saw this, he called out to the cow to give him his share, but the cow said: "Be quiet, my friend, you must have patience." When the second course arrived, the fly again called out to the cow, but the cow merely pointed to her eye, and told the fly to look there, and he would get food later. At last all the dishes were finished, and the fly, having been given no food by the cow, went supperless to bed. The next day the fly complained to the queen, who decided that, as the cow had presided at the feast, and had not given the fly his share, but had pointed to her eye, for the future the fly could always get his food from the cow's eyes wherever she went; and even at the present time, wherever the cows are, the flies can always be seen feeding off their eyes in accordance with the queen's orders. XVIII _Why the Cat kills Rats_ Ansa was King of Calabar for fifty years. He had a very faithful cat as a housekeeper, and a rat was his house-boy. The king was an obstinate, headstrong man, but was very fond of the cat, who had been in his store for many years. The rat, who was very poor, fell in love with one of the king's servant girls, but was unable to give her any presents, as he had no money. At last he thought of the king's store, so in the night-time, being quite small, he had little difficulty, having made a hole in the roof, in getting into the store. He then stole corn and native pears, and presented them to his sweetheart. At the end of the month, when the cat had to render her account of the things in the store to the king, it was found that a lot of corn and native pears were missing. The king was very angry at this, and asked the cat for an explanation. But the cat could not account for the loss, until one of her friends told her that the rat had been stealing the corn and giving it to the girl. When the cat told the king, he called the girl before him and had her flogged. The rat he handed over to the cat to deal with, and dismissed them both from his service. The cat was so angry at this that she killed and ate the rat, and ever since that time whenever a cat sees a rat she kills and eats it. XIX _The Story of the Lightning and the Thunder_ In the olden days the thunder and lightning lived on the earth amongst all the other people, but the king made them live at the far end of the town, as far as possible from other people's houses. The thunder was an old mother sheep, and the lightning was her son, a ram. Whenever the ram got angry he used to go about and burn houses and knock down trees; he even did damage on the farms, and sometimes killed people. Whenever the lightning did these things, his mother used to call out to him in a very loud voice to stop and not to do any more damage; but the lightning did not care in the least for what his mother said, and when he was in a bad temper used to do a very large amount of damage. At last the people could not stand it any longer, and complained to the king. So the king made a special order that the sheep (Thunder) and her son, the ram (Lightning), should leave the town and live in the far bush. This did not do much good, as when the ram got angry he still burnt the forest, and the flames sometimes spread to the farms and consumed them. So the people complained again, and the king banished both the lightning and the thunder from the earth and made them live in the sky, where they could not cause so much destruction. Ever since, when the lightning is angry, he commits damage as before, but you can hear his mother, the thunder, rebuking him and telling him to stop. Sometimes, however, when the mother has gone away some distance from her naughty son, you can still see that he is angry and is doing damage, but his mother's voice cannot be heard. XX _Why the Bush Cow and the Elephant are bad Friends_ The bush cow and the elephant were always bad friends, and as they could not settle their disputes between themselves, they agreed to let the head chief decide. The cause of their unfriendliness was that the elephant was always boasting about his strength to all his friends, which made the bush cow ashamed of himself, as he was always a good fighter and feared no man or animal. When the matter was referred to the head chief, he decided that the best way to settle the dispute was for the elephant and bush cow to meet and fight one another in a large open space. He decided that the fight should take place in the market-place on the next market-day, when all the country people could witness the battle. When the market-day arrived, the bush cow went out in the early morning and took up his position some distance from the town on the main road to the market, and started bellowing and tearing up the ground. As the people passed he asked them whether they had seen anything of the "Big, Big one," which was the name of the elephant. A bush buck, who happened to be passing, replied, "I am only a small antelope, and am on my way to the market. How should I know anything of the movements of the 'Big, Big one?'" The bush cow then allowed him to pass. After a little time the bush cow heard the elephant trumpeting, and could hear him as he came nearer breaking down trees and trampling down the small bush. When the elephant came near the bush cow, they both charged one another, and a tremendous fight commenced, in which a lot of damage was done to the surrounding farms, and many of the people were frightened to go to the market, and returned to their houses. At last the monkey, who had been watching the fight from a distance whilst he was jumping from branch to branch high up in the trees, thought he would report what he had seen to the head chief. Although he forgot several times what it was he wanted to do, which is a little way monkeys have, he eventually reached the chief's house, and jumped upon the roof, where he caught and ate a spider. He then climbed to the ground again, and commenced playing with a small stick. But he very soon got tired of this, and then, picking up a stone, he rubbed it backwards and forwards on the ground in an aimless sort of way, whilst looking in the opposite direction. This did not last long, and very soon he was busily engaged in a minute personal inspection. His attention was then attracted by a large praying mantis, which had fluttered into the house, making much clatter with its wings. When it settled, it immediately assumed its usual prayerful attitude. The monkey, after a careful stalk, seized the mantis, and having deliberately pulled the legs off one after the other, he ate the body, and sat down with his head on one side, looking very wise, but in reality thinking of nothing. Just then the chief caught sight of him while he was scratching himself, and shouted out in a loud voice, "Ha, monkey, is that you? What do you want here?" At the chief's voice the monkey gave a jump, and started chattering like anything. After a time he replied very nervously: "Oh yes, of course! Yes, I came to see you." Then he said to himself, "I wonder what on earth it was I came to tell the chief?" but it was no use, everything had gone out of his head. Then the chief told the monkey he might take one of the ripe plantains hanging up in the verandah. The monkey did not want telling twice, as he was very fond of plantains. He soon tore off the skin, and holding the plantain in both hands, took bite after bite from the end of it, looking at it carefully after each bite. Then the chief remarked that the elephant and the bush cow ought to have arrived by that time, as they were going to have a great fight. Directly the monkey heard this he remembered what it was he wanted to tell the chief; so, having swallowed the piece of plantain he had placed in the side of his cheek, he said: "Ah! that reminds me," and then, after much chattering and making all sorts of funny grimaces, finally made the chief understand that the elephant and bush cow, instead of fighting where they had been told, were having it out in the bush on the main road leading to the market, and had thus stopped most of the people coming in. When the chief heard this he was much incensed, and called for his bow and poisoned arrows, and went to the scene of the combat. He then shot both the elephant and the bush cow, and throwing his bow and arrows away, ran and hid himself in the bush. About six hours afterwards both the elephant and bush cow died in great pain. Ever since, when wild animals want to fight between themselves, they always fight in the big bush and not on the public roads; but as the fight was never definitely decided between the elephant and the bush cow, whenever they meet one another in the forest, even to the present time, they always fight. XXI _The Cock who caused a Fight between two Towns_ Ekpo and Etim were half-brothers, that is to say they had the same mother, but different fathers. Their mother first of all had married a chief of Duke Town, when Ekpo was born; but after a time she got tired of him and went to Old Town, where she married Ejuqua and gave birth to Etim. Both of the boys grew up and became very rich. Ekpo had a cock, of which he was very fond, and every day when Ekpo sat down to meals the cock used to fly on to the table and feed also. Ama Ukwa, a native of Old Town, who was rather poor, was jealous of the two brothers, and made up his mind if possible to bring about a quarrel between them, although he pretended to be friends with both. One day Ekpo, the elder brother, gave a big dinner, to which Etim and many other people were invited. Ama Ukwa was also present. A very good dinner was laid for the guests, and plenty of palm wine was provided. When they had commenced to feed, the pet cock flew on to the table and began to feed off Etim's plate. Etim then told one of his servants to seize the cock and tie him up in the house until after the feast. So the servant carried the cock to Etim's house and tied him up for safety. After much eating and drinking, Etim returned home late at night with his friend Ama Ukwa, and just before they went to bed, Ama Ukwa saw Ekpo's cock tied up. So early in the morning he went to Ekpo's house, who received him gladly. About eight o'clock, when it was time for Ekpo to have his early morning meal, he noticed that his pet cock was missing. When he remarked upon its absence, Ama Ukwa told him that his brother had seized the cock the previous evening during the dinner, and was going to kill it, just to see what Ekpo would do. When Ekpo heard this, he was very vexed, and sent Ama Ukwa back to his brother to ask him to return the cock immediately. Instead of delivering the message as he had been instructed, Ama Ukwa told Etim that his elder brother was so angry with him for taking away his friend, the cock, that he would fight him, and had sent Ama Ukwa on purpose to declare war between the two towns. Etim then told Ama Ukwa to return to Ekpo, and say he would be prepared for anything his brother could do. Ama Ukwa then advised Ekpo to call all his people in from their farms, as Etim would attack him, and on his return he advised Etim to do the same. He then arranged a day for the fight to take place between the two brothers and their people. Etim then marched his men to the other side of the creek, and waited for his brother; so Ama Ukwa went to Ekpo and told him that Etim had got all his people together and was waiting to fight. Ekpo then led his men against his brother, and there was a big battle, many men being killed on both sides. The fighting went on all day, until at last, towards evening, the other chiefs of Calabar met and determined to stop it; so they called the Egbo men together and sent them out with their drums, and eventually the fight stopped. Three days later a big palaver was held, when each of the brothers was told to state his case. When they had done so, it was found that Ama Ukwa had caused the quarrel, and the chiefs ordered that he should be killed. His father, who was a rich man, offered to give the Egbos five thousand rods, five cows, and seven slaves to redeem his son, but they decided to refuse his offer. The next day, after being severely flogged, he was left for twenty-four hours tied up to a tree, and the following day his head was cut off. Ekpo was then ordered to kill his pet cock, so that it should not cause any further trouble between himself and his brother, and a law was passed that for the future no one should keep a pet cock or any other tame animal. XXII _The Affair of the Hippopotamus and the Tortoise; or, Why the Hippopotamus lives in the Water_ Many years ago the hippopotamus, whose name was Isantim, was one of the biggest kings on the land; he was second only to the elephant. The hippo had seven large fat wives, of whom he was very fond. Now and then he used to give a big feast to the people, but a curious thing was that, although every one knew the hippo, no one, except his seven wives, knew his name. At one of the feasts, just as the people were about to sit down, the hippo said, "You have come to feed at my table, but none of you know my name. If you cannot tell my name, you shall all of you go away without your dinner." As they could not guess his name, they had to go away and leave all the good food and tombo behind them. But before they left, the tortoise stood up and asked the hippopotamus what he would do if he told him his name at the next feast? So the hippo replied that he would be so ashamed of himself, that he and his whole family would leave the land, and for the future would dwell in the water. Now it was the custom for the hippo and his seven wives to go down every morning and evening to the river to wash and have a drink. Of this custom the tortoise was aware. The hippo used to walk first, and the seven wives followed. One day when they had gone down to the river to bathe, the tortoise made a small hole in the middle of the path, and then waited. When the hippo and his wives returned, two of the wives were some distance behind, so the tortoise came out from where he had been hiding, and half buried himself in the hole he had dug, leaving the greater part of his shell exposed. When the two hippo wives came along, the first one knocked her foot against the tortoise's shell, and immediately called out to her husband, "Oh! Isantim, my husband, I have hurt my foot." At this the tortoise was very glad, and went joyfully home, as he had found out the hippo's name. When the next feast was given by the hippo, he made the same condition about his name; so the tortoise got up and said, "You promise you will not kill me if I tell you your name?" and the hippo promised. The tortoise then shouted as loud as he was able, "Your name is Isantim," at which a cheer went up from all the people, and then they sat down to their dinner. When the feast was over, the hippo, with his seven wives, in accordance with his promise, went down to the river, and they have always lived in the water from that day till now; and although they come on shore to feed at night, you never find a hippo on the land in the daytime. XXIII _Why Dead People are Buried_ In the beginning of the world when the Creator had made men and women and the animals, they all lived together in the creation land. The Creator was a big chief, past all men, and being very kind-hearted, was very sorry whenever any one died. So one day he sent for the dog, who was his head messenger, and told him to go out into the world and give his word to all people that for the future whenever any one died the body was to be placed in the compound, and wood ashes were to be thrown over it; that the dead body was to be left on the ground, and in twenty-four hours it would become alive again. When the dog had travelled for half a day he began to get tired; so as he was near an old woman's house he looked in, and seeing a bone with some meat on it he made a meal off it, and then went to sleep, entirely forgetting the message which had been given him to deliver. After a time, when the dog did not return, the Creator called for a sheep, and sent him out with the same message. But the sheep was a very foolish one, and being hungry, began eating the sweet grasses by the wayside. After a time, however, he remembered that he had a message to deliver, but forgot what it was exactly; so as he went about among the people he told them that the message the Creator had given him to tell the people, was that whenever any one died they should be buried underneath the ground. A little time afterwards the dog remembered his message, so he ran into the town and told the people that they were to place wood ashes on the dead bodies and leave them in the compound, and that they would come to life again after twenty-four hours. But the people would not believe him, and said, "We have already received the word from the Creator by the sheep, that all dead bodies should be buried." In consequence of this the dead bodies are now always buried, and the dog is much disliked and not trusted as a messenger, as if he had not found the bone in the old woman's house and forgotten his message, the dead people might still be alive. XXIV _Of the Fat Woman who Melted Away_ There was once a very fat woman who was made of oil. She was very beautiful, and many young men applied to the parents for permission to marry their daughter, and offered dowry, but the mother always refused, as she said it was impossible for her daughter to work on a farm, as she would melt in the sun. At last a stranger came from a far-distant country and fell in love with the fat woman, and he promised if her mother would hand her to him that he would keep her in the shade. At last the mother agreed, and he took his wife away. When he arrived at his house, his other wife immediately became very jealous, because when there was work to be done, firewood to be collected, or water to be carried, the fat woman stayed at home and never helped, as she was frightened of the heat. One day when the husband was absent, the jealous wife abused the fat woman so much that she finally agreed to go and work on the farm, although her little sister, whom she had brought from home with her, implored her not to go, reminding her that their mother had always told them ever since they were born that she would melt away if she went into the sun. All the way to the farm the fat woman managed to keep in the shade, and when they arrived at the farm the sun was very hot, so the fat woman remained in the shade of a big tree. When the jealous wife saw this she again began abusing her, and asked her why she did not do her share of the work. At last she could stand the nagging no longer, and although her little sister tried very hard to prevent her, the fat woman went out into the sun to work, and immediately began to melt away. There was very soon nothing left of her but one big toe, which had been covered by a leaf. This her little sister observed, and with tears in her eyes she picked up the toe, which was all that remained of the fat woman, and having covered it carefully with leaves, placed it in the bottom of her basket. When she arrived at the house the little sister placed the toe in an earthen pot, filled it with water, and covered the top up with clay. When the husband returned, he said, "Where is my fat wife?" and the little sister, crying bitterly, told him that the jealous woman had made her go out into the sun, and that she had melted away. She then showed him the pot with the remains of her sister, and told him that her sister would come to life again in three months' time quite complete, but he must send away the jealous wife, so that there should be no more trouble; if he refused to do this, the little girl said she would take the pot back to their mother, and when her sister became complete again they would remain at home. The husband then took the jealous wife back to her parents, who sold her as a slave and paid the dowry back to the husband, so that he could get another wife. When he received the money, the husband took it home and kept it until the three months had elapsed, when the little sister opened the pot and the fat woman emerged, quite as fat and beautiful as she had been before. The husband was so delighted that he gave a feast to all his friends and neighbours, and told them the whole story of the bad behaviour of his jealous wife. Ever since that time, whenever a wife behaves very badly the husband returns her to the parents, who sell the woman as a slave, and out of the proceeds of the sale reimburse the husband the amount of dowry which he paid when he married the girl. XXV _Concerning the Leopard, the Squirrel, and the Tortoise_ Many years ago there was a great famine throughout the land, and all the people were starving. The yam crop had failed entirely, the plantains did not bear any fruit, the ground-nuts were all shrivelled up, and the corn never came to a head; even the palm-oil nuts did not ripen, and the peppers and ocros also gave out. The leopard, however, who lived entirely on "beef," did not care for any of these things; and although some of the animals who lived on corn and the growing crops began to get rather skinny, he did not mind very much. In order to save himself trouble, as everybody was complaining of the famine, he called a meeting of all the animals and told them that, as they all knew, he was very powerful and must have food, that the famine did not affect him, as he only lived on flesh, and as there were plenty of animals about he did not intend to starve. He then told all the animals present at the meeting that if they did not wish to be killed themselves they must bring their grandmothers to him for food, and when they were finished he would feed off their mothers. The animals might bring their grandmothers in succession, and he would take them in their turn; so that, as there were many different animals, it would probably be some time before their mothers were eaten, by which time it was possible that the famine would be over. But in any case, he warned them that he was determined to have sufficient food for himself, and that if the grandmothers or mothers were not forthcoming he would turn upon the young people themselves and kill and eat them. This, of course, the young generation, who had attended the meeting, did not appreciate, and in order to save their own skins, agreed to supply the leopard with his daily meal. The first to appear with his aged grandmother was the squirrel. The grandmother was a poor decrepit old thing, with a mangy tail, and the leopard swallowed her at one gulp, and then looked round for more. In an angry voice he growled out: "This is not the proper food for me; I must have more at once." Then a bush cat pushed his old grandmother in front of the leopard, but he snarled at her and said, "Take the nasty old thing away; I want some sweet food." It was then the turn of a bush buck, and after a great deal of hesitation a wretchedly poor and thin old doe tottered and fell in front of the leopard, who immediately despatched her, and although the meal was very unsatisfactory, declared that his appetite was appeased for that day. The next day a few more animals brought their old grandmothers, until at last it became the tortoise's turn; but being very cunning, he produced witnesses to prove that his grandmother was dead, so the leopard excused him. After a few days all the animals' grandmothers were exhausted, and it became the turn of the mothers to supply food for the ravenous leopard. Now although most of the young animals did not mind getting rid of their grandmothers, whom they had scarcely even known, many of them had very strong objections to providing their mothers, of whom they were very fond, as food for the leopard. Amongst the strongest objectors were the squirrel and the tortoise. The tortoise, who had thought the whole thing out, was aware that, as every one knew that his mother was alive (she being rather an amiable old person and friendly with all-comers), the same excuse would not avail him a second time. He therefore told his mother to climb up a palm tree, and that he would provide her with food until the famine was over. He instructed her to let down a basket every day, and said that he would place food in it for her. The tortoise made the basket for his mother, and attached it to a long string of tie-tie. The string was so strong that she could haul her son up whenever he wished to visit her. All went well for some days, as the tortoise used to go at daylight to the bottom of the tree where his mother lived and place her food in the basket; then the old lady would pull the basket up and have her food, and the tortoise would depart on his daily round in his usual leisurely manner. In the meantime the leopard had to have his daily food, and the squirrel's turn came first after the grandmothers had been finished, so he was forced to produce his mother for the leopard to eat, as he was a poor, weak thing and not possessed of any cunning. The squirrel was, however, very fond of his mother, and when she had been eaten he remembered that the tortoise had not produced his grandmother for the leopard's food. He therefore determined to set a watch on the movements of the tortoise. The very next morning, while he was gathering nuts, he saw the tortoise walking very slowly through the bush, and being high up in the trees and able to travel very fast, had no difficulty in keeping the tortoise in sight without being noticed. When the tortoise arrived at the foot of the tree where his mother lived, he placed the food in the basket which his mother had let down already by the tie-tie, and having got into the basket and given a pull at the string to signify that everything was right, was hauled up, and after a time was let down again in the basket. The squirrel was watching all the time, and directly the tortoise had gone, jumped from branch to branch of the trees, and very soon arrived at the place where the leopard was snoozing. When he woke up, the squirrel said: "You have eaten my grandmother and my mother, but the tortoise has not provided any food for you. It is now his turn, and he has hidden his mother away in a tree." At this the leopard was very angry, and told the squirrel to lead him at once to the tree where the tortoise's mother lived. But the squirrel said: "The tortoise only goes at daylight, when his mother lets down a basket; so if you go in the morning early, she will pull you up, and you can then kill her." To this the leopard agreed, and the next morning the squirrel came at cockcrow and led the leopard to the tree where the tortoise's mother was hidden. The old lady had already let down the basket for her daily supply of food, and the leopard got into it and gave the line a pull; but except a few small jerks nothing happened, as the old mother tortoise was not strong enough to pull a heavy leopard off the ground. When the leopard saw that he was not going to be pulled up, being an expert climber, he scrambled up the tree, and when he got to the top he found the poor old tortoise, whose shell was so tough that he thought she was not worth eating, so he threw her down on to the ground in a violent temper, and then came down himself and went home. Shortly after this the tortoise arrived at the tree, and finding the basket on the ground gave his usual tug at it, but there was no answer. He then looked about, and after a little time came upon the broken shell of his poor old mother, who by this time was quite dead. The tortoise knew at once that the leopard had killed his mother, and made up his mind that for the future he would live alone and have nothing to do with the other animals. XXVI _Why the Moon Waxes and Wanes_ There was once an old woman who was very poor, and lived in a small mud hut thatched with mats made from the leaves of the tombo palm in the bush. She was often very hungry, as there was no one to look after her. In the olden days the moon used often to come down to the earth, although she lived most of the time in the sky. The moon was a fat woman with a skin of hide, and she was full of fat meat. She was quite round, and in the night used to give plenty of light. The moon was sorry for the poor starving old woman, so she came to her and said, "You may cut some of my meat away for your food." This the old woman did every evening, and the moon got smaller and smaller until you could scarcely see her at all. Of course this made her give very little light, and all the people began to grumble in consequence, and to ask why it was that the moon was getting so thin. At last the people went to the old woman's house where there happened to be a little girl sleeping. She had been there for some little time, and had seen the moon come down every evening, and the old woman go out with her knife and carve her daily supply of meat out of the moon. As she was very frightened, she told the people all about it, so they determined to set a watch on the movements of the old woman. That very night the moon came down as usual, and the old woman went out with her knife and basket to get her food; but before she could carve any meat all the people rushed out shouting, and the moon was so frightened that she went back again into the sky, and never came down again to the earth. The old woman was left to starve in the bush. Ever since that time the moon has hidden herself most of the day, as she was so frightened, and she still gets very thin once a month, but later on she gets fat again, and when she is quite fat she gives plenty of light all the night; but this does not last very long, and she begins to get thinner and thinner, in the same way as she did when the old woman was carving her meat from her. XXVII _The Story of the Leopard, the Tortoise, and the Bush Rat_ At the time of the great famine all the animals were very thin and weak from want of food; but there was one exception, and that was the tortoise and all his family, who were quite fat, and did not seem to suffer at all. Even the leopard was very thin, in spite of the arrangement he had made with the animals to bring him their old grandmothers and mothers for food. In the early days of the famine (as you will remember) the leopard had killed the mother of the tortoise, in consequence of which the tortoise was very angry with the leopard, and determined if possible to be revenged upon him. The tortoise, who was very clever, had discovered a shallow lake full of fish in the middle of the forest, and every morning he used to go to the lake and, without much trouble, bring back enough food for himself and his family. One day the leopard met the tortoise and noticed how fat he was. As he was very thin himself he decided to watch the tortoise, so the next morning he hid himself in the long grass near the tortoise's house and waited very patiently, until at last the tortoise came along quite slowly, carrying a basket which appeared to be very heavy. Then the leopard sprang out, and said to the tortoise: "What have you got in that basket?" The tortoise, as he did not want to lose his breakfast, replied that he was carrying firewood back to his home. Unfortunately for the tortoise the leopard had a very acute sense of smell, and knew at once that there was fish in the basket, so he said: "I know there is fish in there, and I am going to eat it." The tortoise, not being in a position to refuse, as he was such a poor creature, said: "Very well. Let us sit down under this shady tree, and if you will make a fire I will go to my house and get pepper, oil, and salt, and then we will feed together." To this the leopard agreed, and began to search about for dry wood, and started the fire. In the meantime the tortoise waddled off to his house, and very soon returned with the pepper, salt, and oil; he also brought a long piece of cane tie-tie, which is very strong. This he put on the ground, and began boiling the fish. Then he said to the leopard: "While we are waiting for the fish to cook, let us play at tying one another up to a tree. You may tie me up first, and when I say 'Tighten,' you must loose the rope, and when I say 'Loosen,' you must tighten the rope." The leopard, who was very hungry, thought that this game would make the time pass more quickly until the fish was cooked, so he said he would play. The tortoise then stood with his back to the tree and said, "Loosen the rope," and the leopard, in accordance with the rules of the game, began to tie up the tortoise. Very soon the tortoise shouted out, "Tighten!" and the leopard at once unfastened the tie-tie, and the tortoise was free. The tortoise then said, "Now, leopard, it is your turn;" so the leopard stood up against the tree and called out to the tortoise to loosen the rope, and the tortoise at once very quickly passed the rope several times round the leopard and got him fast to the tree. Then the leopard said, "Tighten the rope;" but instead of playing the game in accordance with the rules he had laid down, the tortoise ran faster and faster with the rope round the leopard, taking great care, however, to keep out of reach of the leopard's claws, and very soon had the leopard so securely fastened that it was quite impossible for him to free himself. All this time the leopard was calling out to the tortoise to let him go, as he was tired of the game; but the tortoise only laughed, and sat down at the fireside and commenced his meal. When he had finished he packed up the remainder of the fish for his family, and prepared to go, but before he started he said to the leopard: "You killed my mother and now you want to take my fish. It is not likely that I am going to the lake to get fish for you, so I shall leave you here to starve." He then threw the remains of the pepper and salt into the leopard's eyes and quietly went on his way, leaving the leopard roaring with pain. All that day and throughout the night the leopard was calling out for some one to release him, and vowing all sorts of vengeance on the tortoise; but no one came, as the people and animals of the forest do not like to hear the leopard's voice. In the morning, when the animals began to go about to get their food, the leopard called out to every one he saw to come and untie him, but they all refused, as they knew that if they did so the leopard would most likely kill them at once and eat them. At last a bush rat came near and saw the leopard tied up to the tree and asked him what was the matter, so the leopard told him that he had been playing a game of "tight" and "loose" with the tortoise, and that he had tied him up and left him there to starve. The leopard then implored the bush rat to cut the ropes with his sharp teeth. The bush rat was very sorry for the leopard; but at the same time he knew that, if he let the leopard go, he would most likely be killed and eaten, so he hesitated, and said that he did not quite see his way to cutting the ropes. But this bush rat, being rather kind-hearted, and having had some experience of traps himself, could sympathise with the leopard in his uncomfortable position. He therefore thought for a time, and then hit upon a plan. He first started to dig a hole under the tree, quite regardless of the leopard's cries. When he had finished the hole he came out and cut one of the ropes, and immediately ran into his hole, and waited there to see what would happen; but although the leopard struggled frantically, he could not get loose, as the tortoise had tied him up so fast. After a time, when he saw that there was no danger, the bush rat crept out again and very carefully bit through another rope, and then retired to his hole as before. Again nothing happened, and he began to feel more confidence, so he bit several strands through one after the other until at last the leopard was free. The leopard, who was ravenous with hunger, instead of being grateful to the bush rat, directly he was free, made a dash at the bush rat with his big paw, but just missed him, as the bush rat had dived for his hole; but he was not quite quick enough to escape altogether, and the leopard's sharp claws scored his back and left marks which he carried to his grave. Ever since then the bush rats have had white spots on their skins, which represent the marks of the leopard's claws. XXVIII _The King and the Ju Ju Tree_ Udo Ubok Udom was a famous king who lived at Itam, which is an inland town, and does not possess a river. The king and his wife therefore used to wash at the spring just behind their house. King Udo had a daughter, of whom he was very fond, and looked after her most carefully, and she grew up into a beautiful woman. For some time the king had been absent from his house, and had not been to the spring for two years. When he went to his old place to wash, he found that the Idem Ju Ju tree had grown up all round the place, and it was impossible for him to use the spring as he had done formerly. He therefore called fifty of his young men to bring their matchets[8] and cut down the tree. They started cutting the tree, but it had no effect, as, directly they made a cut in the tree, it closed up again; so, after working all day, they found they had made no impression on it. [Footnote 8: A matchet is a long sharp knife in general use throughout the country. It has a wooden handle; it is about two feet six inches long and two inches wide.] When they returned at night, they told the king that they had been unable to destroy the tree. He was very angry when he heard this, and went to the spring the following morning, taking his own matchet with him. When the Ju Ju tree saw that the king had come himself and was starting to try to cut his branches, he caused a small splinter of wood to go into the king's eye. This gave the king great pain, so he threw down his matchet and went back to his house. The pain, however, got worse, and he could not eat or sleep for three days. He therefore sent for his witch men, and told them to cast lots to find out why he was in such pain. When they had cast lots, they decided that the reason was that the Ju Ju tree was angry with the king because he wanted to wash at the spring, and had tried to destroy the tree. They then told the king that he must take seven baskets of flies, a white goat, a white chicken, and a piece of white cloth, and make a sacrifice of them in order to satisfy the Ju Ju. The king did this, and the witch men tried their lotions on the king's eye, but it got worse and worse. He then dismissed these witches and got another lot. When they arrived they told the king that, although they could do nothing themselves to relieve his pain, they knew one man who lived in the spirit land who could cure him; so the king told them to send for him at once, and he arrived the next day. Then the spirit man said, "Before I do anything to your eye, what will you give me?" So King Udo said, "I will give you half my town with the people in it, also seven cows and some money." But the spirit man refused to accept the king's offer. As the king was in such pain, he said, "Name your own price, and I will pay you." So the spirit man said the only thing he was willing to accept as payment was the king's daughter. At this the king cried very much, and told the man to go away, as he would rather die than let him have his daughter. That night the pain was worse than ever, and some of his subjects pleaded with the king to send for the spirit man again and give him his daughter, and told him that when he got well he could no doubt have another daughter but that if he died now he would lose everything. The king then sent for the spirit man again, who came very quickly, and in great grief the king handed his daughter to the spirit. The spirit man then went out into the bush, and collected some leaves, which he soaked in water and beat up. The juice he poured into the king's eye, and told him that when he washed his face in the morning he would be able to see what was troubling him in the eye. The king tried to persuade him to stay the night, but the spirit man refused, and departed that same night for the spirit land, taking the king's daughter with him. Before it was light the king rose up and washed his face, and found that the small splinter from the Ju Ju tree, which had been troubling him so much, dropped out of his eye, the pain disappeared, and he was quite well again. When he came to his proper senses he realised that he had sacrificed his daughter for one of his eyes, so he made an order that there should be general mourning throughout his kingdom for three years. For the first two years of the mourning the king's daughter was put in the fatting house by the spirit man, and was given food; but a skull, who was in the house, told her not to eat, as they were fatting her up, not for marriage, but so that they could eat her. She therefore gave all the food which was brought to her to the skull, and lived on chalk herself. Towards the end of the third year the spirit man brought some of his friends to see the king's daughter, and told them he would kill her the next day, and they would have a good feast off her. When she woke up in the morning the spirit man brought her food as usual; but the skull, who wanted to preserve her life, and who had heard what the spirit man had said, called her into the room and told her what was going to happen later in the day. She handed the food to the skull, and he said, "When the spirit man goes to the wood with his friends to prepare for the feast, you must run back to your father." He then gave her some medicine which would make her strong for the journey, and also gave her directions as to the road, telling her that there were two roads but that when she came to the parting of the ways she was to drop some of the medicine on the ground and the two roads would become one. He then told her to leave by the back door, and go through the wood until she came to the end of the town; she would then find the road. If she met people on the road she was to pass them in silence, as if she saluted them they would know that she was a stranger in the spirit land, and might kill her. She was also not to turn round if any one called to her, but was to go straight on till she reached her father's house. Having thanked the skull for his kind advice, the king's daughter started off, and when she reached the end of the town and found the road, she ran for three hours, and at last arrived at the branch roads. There she dropped the medicine, as she had been instructed, and the two roads immediately became one; so she went straight on and never saluted any one or turned back, although several people called to her. About this time the spirit man had returned from the wood, and went to the house, only to find the king's daughter was absent. He asked the skull where she was, and he replied that she had gone out by the back door, but he did not know where she had gone to. Being a spirit, however, he very soon guessed that she had gone home; so he followed as quickly as possible, shouting out all the time. When the girl heard his voice she ran as fast as she could, and at last arrived at her father's house, and told him to take at once a cow, a pig, a sheep, a goat, a dog, a chicken, and seven eggs, and cut them into seven parts as a sacrifice, and leave them on the road, so that when the spirit man saw these things he would stop and not enter the town. This the king did immediately, and made the sacrifice as his daughter had told him. When the spirit man saw the sacrifice on the road, he sat down and at once began to eat. When he had satisfied his appetite, he packed up the remainder and returned to the spirit land, not troubling any more about the king's daughter. When the king saw that the danger was over, he beat his drum, and declared that for the future, when people died and went to the spirit land, they should not come to earth again as spirits to cure sick people. XXIX _How the Tortoise overcame the Elephant and the Hippopotamus_ The elephant and the hippopotamus always used to feed together, and were good friends. One day when they were both dining together, the tortoise appeared and said that although they were both big and strong, neither of them could pull him out of the water with a strong piece of tie-tie, and he offered the elephant ten thousand rods if he could draw him out of the river the next day. The elephant, seeing that the tortoise was very small, said, "If I cannot draw you out of the water, I will give you twenty thousand rods." So on the following morning the tortoise got some very strong tie-tie and made it fast to his leg, and went down to the river. When he got there, as he knew the place well, he made the tie-tie fast round a big rock, and left the other end on the shore for the elephant to pull by, then went down to the bottom of the river and hid himself. The elephant then came down and started pulling, and after a time he smashed the rope. Directly this happened, the tortoise undid the rope from the rock and came to the land, showing all people that the rope was still fast to his leg, but that the elephant had failed to pull him out. The elephant was thus forced to admit that the tortoise was the winner, and paid to him the twenty thousand rods, as agreed. The tortoise then took the rods home to his wife, and they lived together very happily. After three months had passed, the tortoise, seeing that the money was greatly reduced, thought he would make some more by the same trick, so he went to the hippopotamus and made the same bet with him. The hippopotamus said, "I will make the bet, but I shall take the water and you shall take the land; I will then pull you into the water." To this the tortoise agreed, so they went down to the river as before, and having got some strong tie-tie, the tortoise made it fast to the hippopotamus' hind leg, and told him to go into the water. Directly the hippo had turned his back and disappeared, the tortoise took the rope twice round a strong palm-tree which was growing near, and then hid himself at the foot of the tree. When the hippo was tired of pulling, he came up puffing and blowing water into the air from his nostrils. Directly the tortoise saw him coming up, he unwound the rope, and walked down towards the hippopotamus, showing him the tie-tie round his leg. The hippo had to acknowledge that the tortoise was too strong for him, and reluctantly handed over the twenty thousand rods. The elephant and the hippo then agreed that they would take the tortoise as their friend, as he was so very strong; but he was not really so strong as they thought, and had won because he was so cunning. He then told them that he would like to live with both of them, but that, as he could not be in two places at the same time, he said that he would leave his son to live with the elephant on the land, and that he himself would live with the hippopotamus in the water. This explains why there are both tortoises on the land and tortoises who live in the water. The water tortoise is always much the bigger of the two, as there is plenty of fish for him to eat in the river, whereas the land tortoise is often very short of food. XXX _Of the Pretty Girl and the Seven Jealous Women_ There was once a very beautiful girl called Akim. She was a native of Ibibio, and the name was given to her on account of her good looks, as she was born in the spring-time. She was an only daughter, and her parents were extremely fond of her. The people of the town, and more particularly the young girls, were so jealous of Akim's good looks and beautiful form--for she was perfectly made, very strong, and her carriage, bearing, and manners were most graceful--that her parents would not allow her to join the young girls' society in the town, as is customary for all young people to do, both boys and girls belonging to a company according to their age; a company consisting, as a rule, of all the boys or girls born in the same year. Akim's parents were rather poor, but she was a good daughter, and gave them no trouble, so they had a happy home. One day as Akim was on her way to draw water from the spring she met the company of seven girls, to which in an ordinary way she would have belonged, if her parents had not forbidden her. These girls told her that they were going to hold a play in the town in three days' time, and asked her to join them. She said she was very sorry, but that her parents were poor, and only had herself to work for them, she therefore had no time to spare for dancing and plays. She then left them and went home. In the evening the seven girls met together, and as they were very envious of Akim, they discussed how they should be revenged upon her for refusing to join their company, and they talked for a long time as to how they could get Akim into danger or punish her in some way. At last one of the girls suggested that they should all go to Akim's house every day and help her with her work, so that when they had made friends with her they would be able to entice her away and take their revenge upon her for being more beautiful than themselves. Although they went every day and helped Akim and her parents with their work, the parents knew that they were jealous of their daughter, and repeatedly warned her not on any account to go with them, as they were not to be trusted. At the end of the year there was going to be a big play, called the new yam play, to which Akim's parents had been invited. The play was going to be held at a town about two hours' march from where they lived. Akim was very anxious to go and take part in the dance, but her parents gave her plenty of work to do before they started, thinking that this would surely prevent her going, as she was a very obedient daughter, and always did her work properly. On the morning of the play the jealous seven came to Akim and asked her to go with them, but she pointed to all the water-pots she had to fill, and showed them where her parents had told her to polish the walls with a stone and make the floor good; and after that was finished she had to pull up all the weeds round the house and clean up all round. She therefore said it was impossible for her to leave the house until all the work was finished. When the girls heard this they took up the water-pots, went to the spring, and quickly returned with them full; they placed them in a row, and then they got stones, and very soon had the walls polished and the floor made good; after that they did the weeding outside and the cleaning up, and when everything was completed they said to Akim, "Now then, come along; you have no excuse to remain behind, as all the work is done." Akim really wanted to go to the play; so as all the work was done which her parents had told her to do, she finally consented to go. About half-way to the town, where the new yam play was being held, there was a small river, about five feet deep, which had to be crossed by wading, as there was no bridge. In this river there was a powerful Ju Ju, whose law was that whenever any one crossed the river and returned the same way on the return journey, whoever it was, had to give some food to the Ju Ju. If they did not make the proper sacrifice the Ju Ju dragged them down and took them to his home, and kept them there to work for him. The seven jealous girls knew all about this Ju Ju, having often crossed the river before, as they walked about all over the country, and had plenty of friends in the different towns. Akim, however, who was a good girl, and never went anywhere, knew nothing about this Ju Ju, which her companions had found out. When the work was finished they all started off together, and crossed the river without any trouble. When they had gone a small distance on the other side they saw a small bird, perched on a high tree, who admired Akim very much, and sang in praise of her beauty, much to the annoyance of the seven girls; but they walked on without saying anything, and eventually arrived at the town where the play was being held. Akim had not taken the trouble to change her clothes, but when she arrived at the town, although her companions had on all their best beads and their finest clothes, the young men and people admired Akim far more than the other girls, and she was declared to be the finest and most beautiful woman at the dance. They gave her plenty of palm wine, foo-foo, and everything she wanted, so that the seven girls became more angry and jealous than before. The people danced and sang all that night, but Akim managed to keep out of the sight of her parents until the following morning, when they asked her how it was that she had disobeyed them and neglected her work; so Akim told them that the work had all been done by her friends, and they had enticed her to come to the play with them. Her mother then told her to return home at once, and that she was not to remain in the town any longer. When Akim told her friends this they said, "Very well, we are just going to have some small meal, and then we will return with you." They all then sat down together and had their food, but each of the seven jealous girls hid a small quantity of foo-foo and fish in her clothes for the Water Ju Ju. However Akim, who knew nothing about this, as her parents had forgotten to tell her about the Ju Ju, never thinking for one moment that their daughter would cross the river, did not take any food as a sacrifice to the Ju Ju with her. When they arrived at the river Akim saw the girls making their small sacrifices, and begged them to give her a small share so that she could do the same, but they refused, and all walked across the river safely. Then when it was Akim's turn to cross, when she arrived in the middle of the river, the Water Ju Ju caught hold of her and dragged her underneath the water, so that she immediately disappeared from sight. The seven girls had been watching for this, and when they saw that she had gone they went on their way, very pleased at the success of their scheme, and said to one another, "Now Akim is gone for ever, and we shall hear no more about her being better-looking than we are." As there was no one to be seen at the time when Akim disappeared they naturally thought that their cruel action had escaped detection, so they went home rejoicing; but they never noticed the little bird high up in the tree who had sung of Akim's beauty when they were on their way to the play. The little bird was very sorry for Akim, and made up his mind that, when the proper time came, he would tell her parents what he had seen, so that perhaps they would be able to save her. The bird had heard Akim asking for a small portion of the food to make a sacrifice with, and had heard all the girls refusing to give her any. The following morning, when Akim's parents returned home, they were much surprised to find that the door was fastened, and that there was no sign of their daughter anywhere about the place, so they inquired of their neighbours, but no one was able to give them any information about her. They then went to the seven girls, and asked them what had become of Akim. They replied that they did not know what had become of her, but that she had reached their town safely with them, and then said she was going home. The father then went to his Ju Ju man, who, by casting lots, discovered what had happened, and told him that on her way back from the play Akim had crossed the river without making the customary sacrifice to the Water Ju Ju, and that, as the Ju Ju was angry, he had seized Akim and taken her to his home. He therefore told Akim's father to take one goat, one basketful of eggs, and one piece of white cloth to the river in the morning, and to offer them as a sacrifice to the Water Ju Ju; then Akim would be thrown out of the water seven times, but that if her father failed to catch her on the seventh time, she would disappear for ever. Akim's father then returned home, and, when he arrived there, the little bird who had seen Akim taken by the Water Ju Ju, told him everything that had happened, confirming the Ju Ju's words. He also said that it was entirely the fault of the seven girls, who had refused to give Akim any food to make the sacrifice with. Early the following morning the parents went to the river, and made the sacrifice as advised by the Ju Ju. Immediately they had done so, the Water Ju Ju threw Akim up from the middle of the river. Her father caught her at once, and returned home very thankfully. He never told any one, however, that he had recovered his daughter, but made up his mind to punish the seven jealous girls, so he dug a deep pit in the middle of his house, and placed dried palm leaves and sharp stakes in the bottom of the pit. He then covered the top of the pit with new mats, and sent out word for all people to come and hold a play to rejoice with him, as he had recovered his daughter from the spirit land. Many people came, and danced and sang all the day and night, but the seven jealous girls did not appear, as they were frightened. However, as they were told that everything had gone well on the previous day, and that there had been no trouble, they went to the house the following morning and mixed with the dancers; but they were ashamed to look Akim in the face, who was sitting down in the middle of the dancing ring. When Akim's father saw the seven girls he pretended to welcome them as his daughter's friends, and presented each of them with a brass rod, which he placed round their necks. He also gave them tombo to drink. He then picked them out, and told them to go and sit on mats on the other side of the pit he had prepared for them. When they walked over the mats which hid the pit they all fell in, and Akim's father immediately got some red-hot ashes from the fire and threw them in on top of the screaming girls, who were in great pain. At once the dried palm leaves caught fire, killing all the girls at once. When the people heard the cries and saw the smoke, they all ran back to the town. The next day the parents of the dead girls went to the head chief, and complained that Akim's father had killed their daughters, so the chief called him before him, and asked him for an explanation. Akim's father went at once to the chief, taking the Ju Ju man, whom everybody relied upon, and the small bird, as his witnesses. When the chief had heard the whole case, he told Akim's father that he should only have killed one girl to avenge his daughter, and not seven. So he told the father to bring Akim before him. When she arrived, the head chief, seeing how beautiful she was, said that her father was justified in killing all the seven girls on her behalf, so he dismissed the case, and told the parents of the dead girls to go away and mourn for their daughters, who had been wicked and jealous women, and had been properly punished for their cruel behaviour to Akim. MORAL.--Never kill a man or a woman because you are envious of their beauty, as if you do, you will surely be punished. XXXI _How the Cannibals drove the People from Insofan Mountain to the Cross River (Ikom)_ Very many years ago, before the oldest man alive at the present time can remember, the towns of Ikom, Okuni, Abijon, Insofan, Obokum, and all the other Injor towns were situated round and near the Insofan Mountain, and the head chief of the whole country was called Agbor. Abragba and Enfitop also lived there, and were also under King Agbor. The Insofan Mountain is about two days' march inland from the Cross River, and as none of the people there could swim, and knew nothing about canoes, they never went anywhere outside their own country, and were afraid to go down to the big river. The whole country was taken up with yam farms, and was divided amongst the various towns, each town having its own bush. At the end of each year, when it was time to dig the yams, there was a big play held, which was called the New Yam feast. At this festival there was always a big human sacrifice, fifty slaves being killed in one day. These slaves were tied up to trees in a row, and many drums were beaten; then a strong man, armed with a sharp matchet, went from one slave to another and cut their heads off. This was done to cool the new yams, so that they would not hurt the stomachs of the people. Until this sacrifice was made no one in the country would eat a new yam, as they knew, if they did so, they would suffer great pain in their insides. When the feast was held, all the towns brought one hundred yams each as a present to King Agbor. When the slaves were all killed fires were lit, and the dead bodies were placed over the fires to burn the hair off. A number of plantain leaves were then gathered and placed on the ground, and the bodies, having been cut into pieces, were placed on the plantain leaves. When the yams were skinned, they were put into large pots, with water, oil, pepper, and salt. The cut-up bodies were then put in on top, and the pots covered up with other clay pots and left to boil for an hour. The king, having called all the people together, then declared the New Yam feast had commenced, and singing and dancing were kept up for three days and nights, during which time much palm wine was consumed, and all the bodies and yams, which had been provided for them, were eaten by the people. The heads were given to the king for his share, and, when he had finished eating them, the skulls were placed before the Ju Ju with some new yams, so that there should be a good crop the following season. But although these natives ate the dead bodies of the slaves at the New Yam feast, they did not eat human flesh during the rest of the year. This went on for many years, until at last the Okuni people noticed that the graves of the people who had been buried were frequently dug open and the bodies removed. This caused great wonder, and, as they did not like the idea of their dead relations being taken away, they made a complaint to King Agbor. He at once caused a watch to be set on all newly dug graves, and that very night they caught seven men, who were very greedy, and used to come whenever a body was buried, dig it up, and carry it into the bush, where they made a fire, and cooked and ate it. When they were caught, the people made them show where they lived, and where they cooked the bodies. After walking for some hours in the forest, they came to a place where large heaps of human bones and skulls were found. The seven men were then securely fastened up and brought before King Agbor, who held a large palaver of all the towns, and the whole situation was discussed. Agbor said that this bad custom would necessitate all the towns separating, as they could not allow their dead relations to be dug up and eaten by these greedy people, and he could see no other way to prevent it. Agbor then gave one of the men to each of the seven towns, and told some of them to go on the far side of the big river and make their towns there. The others were to go farther down the river on the same side as Insofan Mountain, and when they found suitable places, they were each to kill their man as a sacrifice and then build their town. All the towns then departed, and when they had found good sites, they built their towns there. When they had all gone, after a time Agbor began to feel very lonely, so he left the site of his old town and also went to the Cross River to live, so that he could see his friends. After that the New Yam feast was held in each town, and the people still continued to kill and eat a few slaves at the feast, but the bodies of their relations and friends were kept for a long time above ground until they had become rotten, so that the greedy people should not dig them up and eat them. This is why, even at the present time, the people do not like to bury their dead relations until they have become putrid. XXXII _The Lucky Fisherman_ In the olden days there were no hooks or casting nets, so that when the natives wanted to catch fish they made baskets and set traps at the river side. One man named Akon Obo, who was very poor, began to make baskets and traps out of bamboo palm, and then when the river went down he used to take his traps to a pool and set them baited with palm-nuts. In the night the big fish used to smell the palm-nuts and go into the trap, when at once the door would fall down, and in the morning Akon Obo would go and take the fish out. He was very successful in his fishing, and used to sell the fish in the market for plenty of money. When he could afford to pay the dowry he married a woman named Eyong, a native of Okuni, and had three children by her, but he still continued his fishing. The eldest son was called Odey, the second Yambi, and the third Atuk. These three boys, when they grew up, helped their father with his fishing, and he gradually became wealthy and bought plenty of slaves. At last he joined the Egbo society, and became one of the chiefs of the town. Even after he became a chief, he and his sons still continued to fish. One day, when he was crossing the river in a small dug-out canoe, a tornado came on very suddenly, and the canoe capsized, drowning the chief. When his sons heard of the death of their father, they wanted to go and drown themselves also, but they were persuaded not to by the people. After searching for two days, they found the dead body some distance down the river, and brought it back to the town. They then called their company together to play, dance, and sing for twelve days, in accordance with their native custom, and much palm wine was drunk. When the play was finished, they took their father's body to a hollowed-out cavern, and placed two live slaves with it, one holding a native lamp of palm-oil, and the other holding a matchet. They were both tied up, so that they could not escape, and were left there to keep watch over the dead chief, until they died of starvation. When the cave was covered in, the sons called the chiefs together, and they played Egbo[9] for seven days, which used up a lot of their late father's money. When the play was over, the chiefs were surprised at the amount of money which the sons had been able to spend on the funeral of their father, as they knew how poor he had been as a young man. They therefore called him the lucky fisherman. [Footnote 9: The Egbo society would meet together and would be provided with palm wine and food, as much as they could eat and drink, which frequently cost a lot of money. Dancing and singing would also be kept up and a band would play, consisting of drums made of hollowed-out trunks of trees, beaten with two pieces of soft wood, native made bells and rattles made of basket work, with stones inside, the bottom consisting of hard dried skin, and covered all over with long streamers of fibre. Other drums are also played by hand; these are made out of hollow wood, covered at one end with dried skin, the other end being left open. The drummer usually sits on two of these drums, which have a different note, one being a deep sound, and the other slightly higher.] XXXIII _The Orphan Boy and the Magic Stone_ A chief of Inde named Inkita had a son named Ayong Kita, whose mother had died at his birth. The old chief was a hunter, and used to take his son out with him when he went into the bush. He used to do most of his hunting in the long grass which grows over nearly all the Inde country, and used to kill plenty of bush buck in the dry season. In those days the people had no guns, so the chief had to shoot everything he got with his bow and arrows, which required a lot of skill. When his little son was old enough, he gave him a small bow and some small arrows, and taught him how to shoot. The little boy was very quick at learning, and by continually practising at lizards and small birds, soon became expert in the use of his little bow, and could hit them almost every time he shot at them. When the boy was ten years old his father died, and as he thus became the head of his father's house, and was in authority over all the slaves, they became very discontented, and made plans to kill him, so he ran away into the bush. Having nothing to eat, he lived for several days on the nuts which fell from the palm trees. He was too young to kill any large animals, and only had his small bow and arrows, with which he killed a few squirrels, bush rats, and small birds, and so managed to live. Now once at night, when he was sleeping in the hollow of a tree, he had a dream in which his father appeared, and told him where there was plenty of treasure buried in the earth, but, being a small boy, he was frightened, and did not go to the place. One day, some time after the dream, having walked far and being very thirsty, he went to a lake, and was just going to drink, when he heard a hissing sound, and heard a voice tell him not to drink. Not seeing any one, he was afraid, and ran away without drinking. Early next morning, when he was out with his bow trying to shoot some small animal, he met an old woman with quite long hair. She was so ugly that he thought she must be a witch, so he tried to run, but she told him not to fear, as she wanted to help him and assist him to rule over his late father's house. She also told him that it was she who had called out to him at the lake not to drink, as there was a bad Ju Ju in the water which would have killed him. The old woman then took Ayong to a stream some little distance from the lake, and bending down, took out a small shining stone from the water, which she gave to him, at the same time telling him to go to the place which his father had advised him to visit in his dream. She then said, "When you get there you must dig, and you will find plenty of money; you must then go and buy two strong slaves, and when you have got them, you must take them into the forest, away from the town, and get them to build you a house with several rooms in it. You must then place the stone in one of the rooms, and whenever you want anything, all you have to do is to go into the room and tell the stone what you want, and your wishes will be at once gratified." Ayong did as the old woman told him, and after much difficulty and danger bought the two slaves and built a house in the forest, taking great care of the precious stone, which he placed in an inside room. Then for some time, whenever he wanted anything, he used to go into the room and ask for a sufficient number of rods to buy what he wanted, and they were always brought at once. This went on for many years, and Ayong grew up to be a man, and became very rich, and bought many slaves, having made friends with the Aro men, who in those days used to do a big traffic in slaves. After ten years had passed Ayong had quite a large town and many slaves, but one night the old woman appeared to him in a dream and told him that she thought that he was sufficiently wealthy, and that it was time for him to return the magic stone to the small stream from whence it came. But Ayong, although he was rich, wanted to rule his father's house and be a head chief for all the Inde country, so he sent for all the Ju Ju men in the country and two witch men, and marched with all his slaves to his father's town. Before he started he held a big palaver, and told them to point out any slave who had a bad heart, and who might kill him when he came to rule the country. Then the Ju Ju men consulted together, and pointed out fifty of the slaves who, they said, were witches, and would try to kill Ayong. He at once had them made prisoners, and tried them by the ordeal of Esere bean[10] to see whether they were witches or not. As none of them could vomit the beans they all died, and were declared to be witches. He then had them buried at once. When the remainder of his slaves saw what had happened, they all came to him and begged his pardon, and promised to serve him faithfully. Although the fifty men were buried they could not rest, and troubled Ayong very much, and after a time he became very sick himself, so he sent again for the Ju Ju men, who told him that it was the witch men who, although they were dead and buried, had power to come out at night and used to suck Ayong's blood, which was the cause of his sickness. They then said, "We are only three Ju Ju men; you must get seven more of us, making the magic number of ten." When they came they dug up the bodies of the fifty witches, and found they were quite fresh. Then Ayong had big fires made, and burned them one after the other, and gave the Ju Ju men a big present. He soon after became quite well again, and took possession of his father's property, and ruled over all the country. [Footnote 10: The Esere or Calabar bean is a strong poison, and was formerly much used by the natives. These beans are ground up in a stone mortar, and are then swallowed by the accused person. If the man dies he is considered guilty, but if he lives, he is supposed to have proved his innocence of whatever the charge may have been which was brought against him. Death generally ensues about two hours after the poison is administered. If the accused takes a sufficient amount of the ground-up beans to make him vomit it will probably save his life, otherwise he will die in great pain.] Ever since then, whenever any one is accused of being a witch, they are tried by the ordeal of the poisonous Esere bean, and if they can vomit they do not die, and are declared innocent, but if they cannot do so, they die in great pain. XXXIV _The Slave Girl who tried to Kill her Mistress_ A man called Akpan, who was a native of Oku, a town in the Ibibio country, admired a girl called Emme very much, who lived at Ibibio, and wished to marry her, as she was the finest girl in her company. It was the custom in those days for the parents to demand such a large amount for their daughters as dowry, that if after they were married they failed to get on with their husbands, as they could not redeem themselves, they were sold as slaves. Akpan paid a very large sum as dowry for Emme, and she was put in the fatting-house until the proper time arrived for her to marry. Akpan told the parents that when their daughter was ready they must send her over to him. This they promised to do. Emme's father was a rich man, and after seven years had elapsed, and it became time for her to go to her husband, he saw a very fine girl, who had also just come out of the fatting-house, and whom the parents wished to sell as a slave. Emme's father therefore bought her, and gave her to his daughter as her handmaiden. The next day Emme's little sister, being very anxious to go with her, obtained the consent of her mother, and they started off together, the slave girl carrying a large bundle containing clothes and presents from Emme's father. Akpan's house was a long day's march from where they lived. When they arrived just outside the town they came to a spring, where the people used to get their drinking water from, but no one was allowed to bathe there. Emme, however, knew nothing about this. They took off their clothes to wash close to the spring, and where there was a deep hole which led to the Water Ju Ju's house. The slave girl knew of this Ju Ju, and thought if she could get her mistress to bathe, she would be taken by the Ju Ju, and she would then be able to take her place and marry Akpan. So they went down to bathe, and when they were close to the water the slave girl pushed her mistress in, and she at once disappeared. The little girl then began to cry, but the slave girl said, "If you cry any more I will kill you at once, and throw your body into the hole after your sister." And she told the child that she must never mention what had happened to any one, and particularly not to Akpan, as she was going to represent her sister and marry him, and that if she ever told any one what she had seen, she would be killed at once. She then made the little girl carry her load to Akpan's house. When they arrived, Akpan was very much disappointed at the slave girl's appearance, as she was not nearly as pretty and fine as he had expected her to be; but as he had not seen Emme for seven years, he had no suspicion that the girl was not really Emme, for whom he had paid such a large dowry. He then called all his company together to play and feast, and when they arrived they were much astonished, and said, "Is this the fine woman for whom you paid so much dowry, and whom you told us so much about?" And Akpan could not answer them. The slave girl was then for some time very cruel to Emme's little sister, and wanted her to die, so that her position would be more secure with her husband. She beat the little girl every day, and always made her carry the largest water-pot to the spring; she also made the child place her finger in the fire to use as firewood. When the time came for food, the slave girl went to the fire and got a burning piece of wood and burned the child all over the body with it. When Akpan asked her why she treated the child so badly, she replied that she was a slave that her father had bought for her. When the little girl took the heavy water-pot to the river to fill it there was no one to lift it up for her, so that she could not get it on to her head; she therefore had to remain a long time at the spring, and at last began calling for her sister Emme to come and help her. When Emme heard her little sister crying for her, she begged the Water Ju Ju to allow her to go and help her, so he told her she might go, but that she must return to him again immediately. When the little girl saw her sister she did not want to leave her, and asked to be allowed to go into the hole with her. She then told Emme how very badly she had been treated by the slave girl, and her elder sister told her to have patience and wait, that a day of vengeance would arrive sooner or later. The little girl went back to Akpan's house with a glad heart as she had seen her sister, but when she got to the house, the slave girl said, "Why have you been so long getting the water?" and then took another stick from the fire and burnt the little girl again very badly, and starved her for the rest of the day. This went on for some time, until, one day, when the child went to the river for water, after all the people had gone, she cried out for her sister as usual, but she did not come for a long time, as there was a hunter from Akpan's town hidden near watching the hole, and the Water Ju Ju told Emme that she must not go; but, as the little girl went on crying bitterly, Emme at last persuaded the Ju Ju to let her go, promising to return quickly. When she emerged from the water, she looked very beautiful with the rays of the setting sun shining on her glistening body. She helped her little sister with her water-pot, and then disappeared into the hole again. The hunter was amazed at what he had seen, and when he returned, he told Akpan what a beautiful woman had come out of the water and had helped the little girl with her water-pot. He also told Akpan that he was convinced that the girl he had seen at the spring was his proper wife, Emme, and that the Water Ju Ju must have taken her. Akpan then made up his mind to go out and watch and see what happened, so, in the early morning the hunter came for him, and they both went down to the river, and hid in the forest near the water-hole. When Akpan saw Emme come out of the water, he recognised her at once, and went home and considered how he should get her out of the power of the Water Ju Ju. He was advised by some of his friends to go to an old woman, who frequently made sacrifices to the Water Ju Ju, and consult her as to what was the best thing to do. When he went to her, she told him to bring her one white slave, one white goat, one piece of white cloth, one white chicken, and a basket of eggs. Then, when the great Ju Ju day arrived, she would take them to the Water Ju Ju, and make a sacrifice of them on his behalf. The day after the sacrifice was made, the Water Ju Ju would return the girl to her, and she would bring her to Akpan. Akpan then bought the slave, and took all the other things to the old woman, and, when the day of the sacrifice arrived, he went with his friend the hunter and witnessed the old woman make the sacrifice. The slave was bound up and led to the hole, then the old woman called to the Water Ju Ju and cut the slave's throat with a sharp knife and pushed him into the hole. She then did the same to the goat and chicken, and also threw the eggs and cloth in on top of them. After this had been done, they all returned to their homes. The next morning at dawn the old woman went to the hole, and found Emme standing at the side of the spring, so she told her that she was her friend, and was going to take her to her husband. She then took Emme back to her own home, and hid her in her room, and sent word to Akpan to come to her house, and to take great care that the slave woman knew nothing about the matter. So Akpan left the house secretly by the back door, and arrived at the old woman's house without meeting anybody. When Emme saw Akpan, she asked for her little sister, so he sent his friend, the hunter, for her to the spring, and he met her carrying her water-pot to get the morning supply of water for the house, and brought her to the old woman's house with him. When Emme had embraced her sister, she told her to return to the house and do something to annoy the slave woman, and then she was to run as fast as she could back to the old woman's house, where, no doubt, the slave girl would follow her, and would meet them all inside the house, and see Emme, who she believed she had killed. The little girl did as she was told, and, directly she got into the house, she called out to the slave woman: "Do you know that you are a wicked woman, and have treated me very badly? I know you are only my sister's slave, and you will be properly punished." She then ran as hard as she could to the old woman's house. Directly the slave woman heard what the little girl said, she was quite mad with rage, and seized a burning stick from the fire, and ran after the child; but the little one got to the house first, and ran inside, the slave woman following close upon her heels with the burning stick in her hand. Then Emme came out and confronted the slave woman, and she at once recognised her mistress, whom she thought she had killed, so she stood quite still. Then they all went back to Akpan's house, and when they arrived there, Akpan asked the slave woman what she meant by pretending that she was Emme, and why she had tried to kill her. But, seeing she was found out, the slave woman had nothing to say. Many people were then called to a play to celebrate the recovery of Akpan's wife, and when they had all come, he told them what the slave woman had done. After this, Emme treated the slave girl in the same way as she had treated her little sister. She made her put her fingers in the fire, and burnt her with sticks. She also made her beat foo-foo with her head in a hollowed-out tree, and after a time she was tied up to a tree and starved to death. Ever since that time, when a man marries a girl, he is always present when she comes out of the fatting-house and takes her home himself, so that such evil things as happened to Emme and her sister may not occur again. XXXV _The King and the 'Nsiat Bird_ When 'Ndarake was King of Idu, being young and rich, he was very fond of fine girls, and had plenty of slaves. The 'Nsiat bird was then living at Idu, and had a very pretty daughter, whom 'Ndarake wished to marry. When he spoke to the father about the matter, he replied that of course he had no objection personally, as it would be a great honour for his daughter to marry the king, but, unfortunately, when any of his family had children, they always gave birth to twins, which, as the king knew, was not allowed in the country; the native custom being to kill both the children and throw them into the bush, the mother being driven away and allowed to starve. The king, however, being greatly struck with Adit, the bird's daughter, insisted on marrying her, so the 'Nsiat bird had to agree. A large amount of dowry was paid by the king, and a big play and feast was held. One strong slave was told to carry Adit 'Nsiat during the whole play, and she sat on his shoulders with her legs around his neck; this was done to show what a rich and powerful man the king was. After the marriage, in due course Adit gave birth to twins, as her mother had done before her. The king immediately became very fond of the two babies, but according to the native custom, which was too strong for any one to resist, he had to give them up to be killed. When the 'Nsiat bird heard this, he went to the king and reminded him that he had warned the king before he married what would happen if he married Adit, and rather than that the twins should be killed, he and the whole of his family would leave the earth and dwell in the air, taking the twins with them. As the king was so fond of Adit and the two children, and did not want them to be killed, he gladly consented, and the 'Nsiat bird took the whole of his family, as well as Adit and her two children, away, and left the earth to live and make their home in the trees; but as they had formerly lived in the town with all the people, they did not like to go into the forest, so they made their nests in the trees which grew in the town, and that is why you always see the 'Nsiat birds living and making their nests only in places where human beings are. The black birds are the cocks, and the golden-coloured ones are the hens. It was the beautiful colour of Adit which first attracted the attention of 'Ndarake and caused him to marry her. XXXVI _Concerning the Fate of Essido and his Evil Companions_ Chief Oborri lived at a town called Adiagor, which is on the right bank of the Calabar River. He was a wealthy chief, and belonged to the Egbo Society. He had many large canoes, and plenty of slaves to paddle them. These canoes he used to fill up with new yams--each canoe being under one head slave and containing eight paddles; the canoes were capable of holding three puncheons of palm-oil, and cost eight hundred rods each. When they were full, about ten of them used to start off together and paddle to Rio del Rey. They went through creeks all the way, which run through mangrove swamps, with palm-oil trees here and there. Sometimes in the tornado season it was very dangerous crossing the creeks, as the canoes were so heavily laden, having only a few inches above the water, that quite a small wave would fill the canoe and cause it to sink to the bottom. Although most of the boys could swim, it often happened that some of them were lost, as there are many large alligators in these waters. After four days' hard paddling they would arrive at Rio del Rey, where they had very little difficulty in exchanging their new yams for bags of dried shrimps and sticks with smoked fish on them.[11] [Footnote 11: A stick of fish consisted of two sticks with a big fish in the middle of each and small fish at each end, there being eight fish on each stick, making sixteen in all. These sticks were then tied together, and smoked over wood fires until they were quite dried. One stick of fish would sell at Calabar in the dry season time for from 3s. 6d. to 5s. a stick, and a stick would be got for five large yams which cost Chief Oborri only 1s., so a large profit was made on each canoe load--the canoes carrying about a thousand yams each. A bag of shrimps would be bartered for twenty-five large yams, and the shrimps would be sold for 15s., being a profit of 10s. on each bag. At the present time, however, the same sized bag of shrimps, in the wet season, would sell at Calabar for £3, 10s., and in the dry season for between £1, 10s. and £2.] Chief Oborri had two sons, named Eyo I. and Essido. Their mother having died when they were babies, the children were brought up by their father. As they grew up, they developed entirely different characters. The eldest was very hard-working and led a solitary life; but the younger son was fond of gaiety and was very lazy, in fact, he spent most of his time in the neighbouring towns playing and dancing. When the two boys arrived at the respective ages of eighteen and twenty their father died, and they were left to look after themselves. According to native custom, the elder son, Eyo I., was entitled to the whole of his father's estate; but being very fond of his younger brother, he gave him a large number of rods and some land with a house. Immediately Essido became possessed of the money he became wilder than ever, gave big feasts to his companions, and always had his house full of women, upon whom he spent large sums. Although the amount his brother had given him on his father's death was very large, in the course of a few years Essido had spent it all. He then sold his house and effects, and spent the proceeds on feasting. While he had been living this gay and unprofitable life, Eyo I. had been working harder than ever at his father's old trade, and had made many trips to Rio del Rey himself. Almost every week he had canoes laden with yams going down river and returning after about twelve days with shrimps and fish, which Eyo I. himself disposed of in the neighbouring markets, and he very rapidly became a rich man. At intervals he remonstrated with Essido on his extravagance, but his warnings had no effect; if anything, his brother became worse. At last the time arrived when all his money was spent, so Essido went to his brother and asked him to lend him two thousand rods, but Eyo refused, and told Essido that he would not help him in any way to continue his present life of debauchery, but that if he liked to work on the farm and trade, he would give him a fair share of the profits. This Essido indignantly refused, and went back to the town and consulted some of the very few friends he had left as to what was the best thing to do. The men he spoke to were thoroughly bad men, and had been living upon Essido for a long time. They suggested to him that he should go round the town and borrow money from the people he had entertained, and then they would run away to Akpabryos town, which was about four days' march from Calabar. This Essido did, and managed to borrow a lot of money, although many people refused to lend him anything. Then at night he set off with his evil companions, who carried his money, as they had not been able to borrow any themselves, being so well known. When they arrived at Akpabryos town they found many beautiful women and graceful dancers. They then started the same life again, until after a few weeks most of the money had gone. They then met and consulted together how to get more money, and advised Essido to return to his rich brother, pretending that he was going to work and give up his old life; he should then get poison from a man they knew of, and place it in his brother's food, so that he would die, and then Essido would become possessed of all his brother's wealth, and they would be able to live in the same way as they had formerly. Essido, who had sunk very low, agreed to this plan, and they left Akpabryos town the next morning. After marching for two days, they arrived at a small hut in the bush where a man who was an expert poisoner lived, called Okponesip. He was the head Ju Ju man of the country, and when they had bribed him with eight hundred rods he swore them to secrecy, and gave Essido a small parcel containing a deadly poison which he said would kill his brother in three months. All he had to do was to place the poison in his brother's food. When Essido returned to his brother's house he pretended to be very sorry for his former mode of living, and said that for the future he was going to work. Eyo I. was very glad when he heard this, and at once asked his brother in, and gave him new clothes and plenty to eat. In the evening, when supper was being prepared, Essido went into the kitchen, pretending he wanted to get a light from the fire for his pipe. The cook being absent and no one about, he put the poison in the soup, and then returned to the living-room. He then asked for some tombo, which was brought, and when he had finished it, he said he did not want any supper, and went to sleep. His brother, Eyo I., had supper by himself and consumed all the soup. In a week's time he began to feel very ill, and as the days passed he became worse, so he sent for his Ju Ju man. When Essido saw him coming, he quietly left the house; but the Ju Ju man, by casting lots, very soon discovered that it was Essido who had given poison to his brother. When he told Eyo I. this, he would not believe it, and sent him away. However, when Essido returned, his elder brother told him what the Ju Ju man had said, but that he did not believe him for one moment, and had sent him away. Essido was much relieved when he heard this, but as he was anxious that no suspicion of the crime should be attached to him, he went to the Household Ju Ju,[12] and having first sworn that he had never administered poison to his brother, he drank out of the pot. [Footnote 12: Every compound has a small Ju Ju in the centre, which generally consists of a few curiously shaped stones and a small tree on which the 'Nsiat bird frequently builds. There is sometimes a species of cactus at the foot, an earthenware pot is supported on sticks against the tree, and tied on with tie-tie, or native rope. In this pot there is always a very foul-smelling liquid, with frequently some rotten eggs floating in it. Small sacrifices are made to these Ju Ju's of chickens, &c., and this Ju Ju is frequently appealed to. The liquid is sometimes taken as a specific against sickness or poison. In the dry season the author has often observed large spiders with their webs all over these Ju Ju's, but they are never touched. There is also frequently a roughly carved image of wood, and sometimes an old matchet and some broken earthenware on the ground, with a brass rod or manilla. It is generally a very dirty spot.] Three months after he had taken the poison Eyo I. died, much to the grief of every one who knew him, as he was much respected, not only on account of his great wealth, but because he was also an upright and honest man, who never did harm to any one. Essido kept his brother's funeral according to the usual custom, and there was much playing and dancing, which was kept up for a long time. Then Essido paid off his old creditors in order to make himself popular, and kept open house, entertaining most lavishly, and spending his money in many foolish ways. All the bad women about collected at his house, and his old evil companions went on as they had done before. Things got so bad that none of the respectable people would have anything to do with him, and at last the chiefs of the country, seeing the way Essido was squandering his late brother's estate, assembled together, and eventually came to the conclusion that he was a witch man, and had poisoned his brother in order to acquire his position. The chiefs, who were all friends of the late Eyo, and who were very sorry at the death, as they knew that if he had lived he would have become a great and powerful chief, made up their minds to give Essido the Ekpawor Ju Ju, which is a very strong medicine, and gets into men's heads, so that when they have drunk it they are compelled to speak the truth, and if they have done wrong they die very shortly. Essido was then told to dress himself and attend the meeting at the palaver house, and when he arrived the chiefs charged him with having killed his brother by witchcraft. Essido denied having done so, but the chiefs told him that if he were innocent he must prove it by drinking the bowl of Ekpawor medicine which was placed before him. As he could not refuse to drink, he drank the bowl off in great fear and trembling, and very soon the Ju Ju having got hold of him, he confessed that he had poisoned his brother, but that his friends had advised him to do so. About two hours after drinking the Ekpawor, Essido died in great pain. The friends were then brought to the meeting and tied up to posts, and questioned as to the part they had taken in the death of Eyo. As they were too frightened to answer, the chiefs told them that they knew from Essido that they had induced him to poison his brother. They were then taken to the place where Eyo was buried, the grave having been dug open, and their heads were cut off and fell into the grave, and their bodies were thrown in after them as a sacrifice for the wrong they had done. The grave was then filled up again. Ever since that time, whenever any one is suspected of being a witch, he is tried by the Ekpawor Ju Ju. XXXVII _Concerning the Hawk and the Owl_ In the olden days when Effiong was king of Calabar, it was customary at that time for rulers to give big feasts, to which all the subjects and all the birds of the air and animals of the forest, also the fish and other things that lived in the water, were invited. All the people, birds, animals, and fish, were under the king, and had to obey him. His favourite messenger was the hawk, as he could travel so quickly. The hawk served the king faithfully for several years, and when he wanted to retire, he asked what the king proposed to do for him, as very soon he would be too old to work any more. So the king told the hawk to bring any living creature, bird or animal, to him, and he would allow the hawk for the future to live on that particular species without any trouble. The hawk then flew over a lot of country, and went from forest to forest, until at last he found a young owl which had tumbled out of its nest. This the hawk brought to the king, who told him that for the future he might eat owls. The hawk then carried the owlet away, and told his friends what the king had said. One of the wisest of them said, "Tell me when you seized the young owlet, what did the parents say?" And the hawk replied that the father and mother owls kept quite quiet, and never said anything. The hawk's friend then advised him to return the owlet to his parents, as he could never tell what the owls would do to him in the night-time, and as they had made no noise, they were no doubt plotting in their minds some deep and cruel revenge. The next day the hawk carried the owlet back to his parents and left him near the nest. He then flew about, trying to find some other bird which would do as his food; but as all the birds had heard that the hawk had seized the owlet, they hid themselves, and would not come out when the hawk was near. He therefore could not catch any birds. As he was flying home he saw a lot of fowls near a house, basking in the sun and scratching in the dust. There were also several small chickens running about and chasing insects, or picking up anything they could find to eat, with the old hen following them and clucking and calling to them from time to time. When the hawk saw the chickens, he made up his mind that he would take one, so he swooped down and caught the smallest in his strong claws. Immediately he had seized the chicken the cocks began to make a great noise, and the hen ran after him and tried to make him drop her child, calling loudly, with her feathers fluffed out and making dashes at him. But he carried it off, and all the fowls and chickens at once ran screaming into the houses, some taking shelter under bushes and others trying to hide themselves in the long grass. He then carried the chicken to the king, telling him that he had returned the owlet to his parents, as he did not want him for food; so the king told the hawk that for the future he could always feed on chickens. The hawk then took the chicken home, and his friend who dropped in to see him, asked him what the parents of the chicken had done when they saw their child taken away; so the hawk said-- "They all made a lot of noise, and the old hen chased me, but although there was a great disturbance amongst the fowls, nothing happened." His friend then said as the fowls had made much palaver, he was quite safe to kill and eat the chickens, as the people who made plenty of noise in the daytime would go to sleep at night and not disturb him, or do him any injury; the only people to be afraid of were those who when they were injured, kept quite silent; you might be certain then that they were plotting mischief, and would do harm in the night-time. XXXVIII _The Story of the Drummer and the Alligators_ There was once a woman named Affiong Any who lived at 'Nsidung, a small town to the south of Calabar. She was married to a chief of Hensham Town called Etim Ekeng. They had lived together for several years, but had no children. The chief was very anxious to have a child during his lifetime, and made sacrifices to his Ju Ju, but they had no effect. So he went to a witch man, who told him that the reason he had no children was that he was too rich. The chief then asked the witch man how he should spend his money in order to get a child, and he was told to make friends with everybody, and give big feasts, so that he should get rid of some of his money and become poorer. The chief then went home and told his wife. The next day his wife called all her company together and gave them a big dinner, which cost a lot of money; much food was consumed, and large quantities of tombo were drunk. Then the chief entertained his company, which cost a lot more money. He also wasted a lot of money in the Egbo house. When half of his property was wasted, his wife told him that she had conceived. The chief, being very glad, called a big play for the next day. In those days all the rich chiefs of the country belonged to the Alligator Company, and used to meet in the water. The reason they belonged to the company was, first of all, to protect their canoes when they went trading, and secondly, to destroy the canoes and property of the people who did not belong to their company, and to take their money and kill their slaves. Chief Etim Ekeng was a kind man, and would not join this society, although he was repeatedly urged to do so. After a time a son was born to the chief, and he called him Edet Etim. The chief then called the Egbo society together, and all the doors of the houses in the town were shut, the markets were stopped, and the women were not allowed to go outside their houses while the Egbo was playing. This was kept up for several days, and cost the chief a lot of money. Then he made up his mind that he would divide his property, and give his son half when he became old enough. Unfortunately after three months the chief died, leaving his sorrowing wife to look after their little child. The wife then went into mourning for seven years for her husband, and after that time she became entitled to all his property, as the late chief had no brothers. She looked after the little boy very carefully until he grew up, when he became a very fine, healthy young man, and was much admired by all the pretty girls of the town; but his mother warned him strongly not to go with them, because they would make him become a bad man. Whenever the girls had a play they used to invite Edet Etim, and at last he went to the play, and they made him beat the drum for them to dance to. After much practice he became the best drummer in the town, and whenever the girls had a play they always called him to drum for them. Plenty of the young girls left their husbands, and went to Edet and asked him to marry them. This made all the young men of the town very jealous, and when they met together at night they considered what would be the best way to kill him. At last they decided that when Edet went to bathe they would induce the alligators to take him. So one night, when he was washing, one alligator seized him by the foot, and others came and seized him round the waist. He fought very hard, but at last they dragged him into the deep water, and took him to their home. When his mother heard this, she determined to do her best to recover her son, so she kept quite quiet until the morning. When the young men saw that Edet's mother remained quiet, and did not cry, they thought of the story of the hawk and the owl, and determined to keep Edet alive for a few months. At cockcrow the mother raised a cry, and went to the grave of her dead husband in order to consult his spirit as to what she had better do to recover her lost son. After a time she went down to the beach with small young green branches in her hands, with which she beat the water, and called upon all the Ju Jus of the Calabar River to help her to recover her son. She then went home and got a load of rods, and took them to a Ju Ju man in the farm. His name was Ininen Okon; he was so called because he was very artful, and had plenty of strong Ju Jus. When the young boys heard that Edet's mother had gone to Ininen Okon, they all trembled with fear, and wanted to return Edet, but they could not do so, as it was against the rules of their society. The Ju Ju man having discovered that Edet was still alive, and was being detained in the alligators' house, told the mother to be patient. After three days Ininen himself joined another alligators' society, and went to inspect the young alligators' house. He found a young man whom he knew, left on guard when all the alligators had gone to feed at the ebb of the tide, and came back and told the mother to wait, as he would make a Ju Ju which would cause them all to depart in seven days, and leave no one in the house. He made his Ju Ju, and the young alligators said that, as no one had come for Edet, they would all go at the ebb tide to feed, and leave no one in charge of the house. When they returned they found Edet still there, and everything as they had left it, as Ininen had not gone that day. Three days afterwards they all went away again, and this time went a long way off, and did not return quickly. When Ininen saw that the tide was going down he changed himself into an alligator, and swam to the young alligators' home, where he found Edet chained to a post. He then found an axe and cut the post, releasing the boy. But Edet, having been in the water so long, was deaf and dumb. He then found several loin cloths which had been left behind by the young alligators, so he gathered them together and took them away to show to the king, and Ininen left the place, taking Edet with him. He then called the mother to see her son, but when she came the boy could only look at her, and could not speak. The mother embraced her boy, but he took no notice, as he did not seem capable of understanding anything, but sat down quietly. Then the Ju Ju man told Edet's mother that he would cure her son in a few days, so he made several Ju Jus, and gave her son medicine, and after a time the boy recovered his speech and became sensible again. Then Edet's mother put on a mourning cloth, and pretended that her son was dead, and did not tell the people he had come back to her. When the young alligators returned, they found that Edet was gone, and that some one had taken their loin cloths. They were therefore much afraid, and made inquiries if Edet had been seen, but they could hear nothing about him, as he was hidden in a farm, and the mother continued to wear her mourning cloth in order to deceive them. Nothing happened for six months, and they had quite forgotten all about the matter. Affiong, the mother, then went to the chiefs of the town, and asked them to hold a large meeting of all the people, both young and old, at the palaver house, so that her late husband's property might be divided up in accordance with the native custom, as her son had been killed by the alligators. The next day the chiefs called all the people together, but the mother in the early morning took her son to a small room at the back of the palaver house, and left him there with the seven loin cloths which the Ju Ju man had taken from the alligators' home. When the chiefs and all the people were seated, Affiong stood up and addressed them, saying-- "Chiefs and young men of my town, eight years ago my husband was a fine young man. He married me, and we lived together for many years without having any children. At last I had a son, but my husband died a few months afterwards. I brought my boy up carefully, but as he was a good drummer and dancer the young men were jealous, and had him caught by the alligators. Is there any one present who can tell me what my son would have become if he had lived?" She then asked them what they thought of the alligator society, which had killed so many young men. The chiefs, who had lost a lot of slaves, told her that if she could produce evidence against any members of the society they would destroy it at once. She then called upon Ininen to appear with her son Edet. He came out from the room leading Edet by the hand, and placed the bundle of loin cloths before the chiefs. The young men were very much surprised when they saw Edet, and wanted to leave the palaver house; but when they stood up to go the chiefs told them to sit down at once, or they would receive three hundred lashes. They then sat down, and the Ju Ju man explained how he had gone to the alligators' home, and had brought Edet back to his mother. He also said that he had found the seven loin cloths in the house, but he did not wish to say anything about them, as the owners of some of the cloths were sons of the chiefs. The chiefs, who were anxious to stop the bad society, told him, however, to speak at once and tell them everything. Then he undid the bundle and took the cloths out one by one, at the same time calling upon the owners to come and take them. When they came to take their cloths, they were told to remain where they were; and they were then told to name their company. The seven young men then gave the names of all the members of their society, thirty-two in all. These men were all placed in a line, and the chiefs then passed sentence, which was that they should all be killed the next morning on the beach. So they were then all tied together to posts, and seven men were placed as a guard over them. They made fires and beat drums all the night. Early in the morning, at about 4 A.M., the big wooden drum was placed on the roof of the palaver house, and beaten to celebrate the death of the evildoers, which was the custom in those days. The boys were then unfastened from the posts, and had their hands tied behind their backs, and were marched down to the beach. When they arrived there, the head chief stood up and addressed the people. "This is a small town of which I am chief, and I am determined to stop this bad custom, as so many men have been killed." He then told a man who had a sharp matchet to cut off one man's head. He then told another man who had a sharp knife to skin another young man alive. A third man who had a heavy stick was ordered to beat another to death, and so the chief went on and killed all the thirty-two young men in the most horrible ways he could think of. Some of them were tied to posts in the river, and left there until the tide came up and drowned them. Others were flogged to death. After they had all been killed, for many years no one was killed by alligators, but some little time afterwards on the road between the beach and the town the land fell in, making a very large and deep hole, which was said to be the home of the alligators, and the people have ever since tried to fill it up, but have never yet been able to do so. XXXIX _The 'Nsasak Bird and the Odudu Bird_ A long time ago, in the days of King Adam of Calabar, the king wanted to know if there was any animal or bird which was capable of enduring hunger for a long period. When he found one the king said he would make him a chief of his tribe. The 'Nsasak bird is very small, having a shining breast of green and red; he also has blue and yellow feathers and red round the neck, and his chief food consists of ripe palm nuts. The Odudu bird, on the other hand, is much larger, about the size of a magpie, with plenty of feathers, but a very thin body; he has a long tail, and his colouring is black and brown with a cream-coloured breast. He lives chiefly on grasshoppers, and is also very fond of crickets, which make a noise at night. Both the 'Nsasak bird and the Odudu were great friends, and used to live together. They both made up their minds that they would go before the king and try to be made chiefs, but the Odudu bird was quite confident that he would win, as he was so much bigger than the 'Nsasak bird. He therefore offered to starve for seven days. The king then told them both to build houses which he would inspect, and then he would have them fastened up, and the one who could remain the longest without eating would be made the chief. They both then built their houses, but the 'Nsasak bird, who was very cunning, thought that he could not possibly live for seven days without eating anything. He therefore made a tiny hole in the wall (being very small himself), which he covered up so that the king would not notice it on his inspection. The king then came and looked carefully over both houses, but failed to detect the little hole in the 'Nsasak bird's house, as it had been hidden so carefully. He therefore declared that both houses were safe, and then ordered the two birds to go inside their respective houses, and the doors were carefully fastened on the outside. Every morning at dawn the 'Nsasak bird used to escape through the small opening he had left high up in the wall, and fly away a long distance and enjoy himself all day, taking care, however, that none of the people on the farms should see him. Then when the sun went down he would fly back to his little house and creep through the hole in the wall, closing it carefully after him. When he was safely inside he would call out to his friend the Odudu and ask him if he felt hungry, and told him that he must bear it well if he wanted to win, as he, the 'Nsasak bird, was very fit, and could go on for a long time. For several days this went on, the voice of the Odudu bird growing weaker and weaker every night, until at last he could no longer reply. Then the little bird knew that his friend must be dead. He was very sorry, but could not report the matter, as he was supposed to be confined inside his house. When the seven days had expired the king came and had both the doors of the houses opened. The 'Nsasak bird at once flew out, and, perching on a branch of a tree which grew near, sang most merrily; but the Odudu bird was found to be quite dead, and there was very little left of him, as the ants had eaten most of his body, leaving only the feathers and bones on the floor. The king therefore at once appointed the 'Nsasak bird to be the head chief of all the small birds, and in the Ibibio country even to the present time the small boys who have bows and arrows are presented with a prize, which sometimes takes the shape of a female goat, if they manage to shoot a 'Nsasak bird, as the 'Nsasak bird is the king of the small birds, and most difficult to shoot on account of his wiliness and his small size. XL _The Election of the King Bird (the black-and-white Fishing Eagle)_ Old Town, Calabar, once had a king called Essiya, who, like most of the Calabar kings in the olden days, was rich and powerful; but although he was so wealthy, he did not possess many slaves. He therefore used to call upon the animals and birds to help his people with their work. In order to get the work done quickly and well, he determined to appoint head chiefs of all the different species. The elephant he appointed king of the beasts of the forest, and the hippopotamus king of the water animals, until at last it came to the turn of the birds to have their king elected. Essiya thought for some time which would be the best way to make a good choice, but could not make up his mind, as there were so many different birds who all considered they had claims. There was the hawk with his swift flight, and of hawks there were several species. There were the herons to be considered, and the big spur-winged geese, the hornbill or toucan tribe, and the game birds, such as guinea-fowl, the partridge, and the bustards. Then again, of course, there were all the big crane tribe, who walked about the sandbanks in the dry season, but who disappeared when the river rose, and the big black-and-white fishing eagles. When the king thought of the plover tribe, the sea-birds, including the pelicans, the doves, and the numerous shy birds who live in the forest, all of whom sent in claims, he got so confused, that he decided to have a trial by ordeal of combat, and sent word round the whole country for all the birds to meet the next day and fight it out between themselves, and that the winner should be known as the king bird ever afterwards. The following morning many thousands of birds came, and there was much screeching and flapping of wings. The hawk tribe soon drove all the small birds away, and harassed the big waders so much, that they very shortly disappeared, followed by the geese, who made much noise, and winged away in a straight line, as if they were playing "Follow my leader." The big forest birds who liked to lead a secluded life very soon got tired of all the noise and bustle, and after a few croaks and other weird noises went home. The game birds had no chance and hid in the bush, so that very soon the only birds left were the hawks and the big black-and-white fishing eagle, who was perched on a tree calmly watching everything. The scavenger hawks were too gorged and lazy to take much interest in the proceedings, and were quietly ignored by the fighting tribe, who were very busy circling and swooping on one another, with much whistling going on. Higher and higher they went, until they disappeared out of sight. Then a few would return to earth, some of them badly torn and with many feathers missing. At last the fishing eagle said-- "When you have quite finished with this foolishness please tell me, and if any of you fancy yourselves at all, come to me, and I will settle your chances of being elected head chief once and for all;" but when they saw his terrible beak and cruel claws, knowing his great strength and ferocity, they stopped fighting between themselves, and acknowledged the fishing eagle to be their master. Essiya then declared that Ituen, which was the name of the fishing eagle, was the head chief of all the birds, and should thenceforward be known as the king bird.[13] [Footnote 13: As the king bird is always very difficult to shoot with a bow and arrow, owing to his sharp and keen sight, the young men, when they want his feathers, set traps for him baited with rats, which catch him by the foot in a noose when he seizes them. Except when they are nesting the king birds roost on very high trees, sometimes as many as twenty or thirty on neighbouring trees. They fly many miles from where they get their food, and arrive at their roosting-place just before the sun sets, leaving the next morning at dawn for their favourite haunts. They are very regular in their habits, and you can see them every night at the same time coming from the same direction and flying over the same trees, generally fairly high up in the air. There is a strong belief amongst many natives on the Cross River that the king bird has the power of influencing the luck or the reverse of a canoe. For example, when a trader, having bought a new canoe, is going to market and a king bird crosses the river from right to left, then if he is unlucky at the market that day, whenever the king bird again crosses that particular canoe from right to left he will be unlucky, and the bad luck will stick to the canoe. If, on the other hand, the bird for the first time crosses from left to right, and he is fortunate in his dealings that day at the market, then he will always be lucky in that canoe the day he sees a king bird flying across the river from the left to the right-hand side.] From that time to the present day, whenever the young men of the country go to fight they always wear three of the long black-and-white feathers of the king bird in their hair, one on each side and one in the middle, as they are believed to impart much courage and skill to the wearer; and if a young man is not possessed of any of these feathers when he goes out to fight, he is looked upon as a very small boy indeed. THE END * * * * * BY ANDREW LANG THE SECRET OF THE TOTEM. 8vo, 10s. 6d. net. CUSTOM AND MYTH: Studies of Early Usage and Belief. With 15 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. MYTH, RITUAL, AND RELIGION. 2 vols. Crown 8vo, 7s. MODERN MYTHOLOGY: a Reply to Professor Max Müller. 8vo, 9s. MAGIC AND RELIGION. 8vo, 10s. 6d. THE MAKING OF RELIGION. Crown 8vo, 5s. net. HOMER AND THE EPIC. Crown 8vo, 9s. net. HOMER AND HIS AGE. With 8 Illustrations. 8vo, 12s. 6d. net. COCK LANE AND COMMON SENSE. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. THE BOOK OF DREAMS AND GHOSTS. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. LONDON, NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA * * * * * 
38339	----	SOUTH-AFRICAN FOLK-TALES SOUTH-AFRICAN FOLK-TALES BY James A. Honeÿ, M.D. NEW YORK THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY 1910 COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY Published, November, 1910 THE TROW PRESS, NEW YORK AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO C. F. H. AND F. I. G. CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION 1 ORIGIN OF THE DIFFERENCE IN MODES OF LIFE BETWEEN HOTTENTOTS AND BUSHMEN 8 THE LOST MESSAGE 10 THE MONKEY'S FIDDLE 14 THE TIGER, THE RAM, AND THE JACKAL 19 THE JACKAL AND THE WOLF 22 A JACKAL AND A WOLF 24 THE LION, THE JACKAL, AND THE MAN 25 THE WORLD'S REWARD 28 THE LION AND THE JACKAL 33 TINK-TINKJE 42 THE LION AND JACKAL 45 THE LION AND JACKAL 48 THE HUNT OF LION AND JACKAL 53 THE STORY OF LION AND LITTLE JACKAL 56 THE LIONESS AND THE OSTRICH 62 CROCODILE'S TREASON 64 THE STORY OF A DAM 73 THE DANCE FOR WATER OR RABBITS' TRIUMPH 79 JACKAL AND MONKEY 84 LION'S SHARE 87 JACKAL'S BRIDE 92 THE STORY OF HARE 94 THE WHITE MAN AND SNAKE 101 ANOTHER VERSION OF THE SAME FABLE 103 CLOUD EATING 105 LION'S ILLNESS 107 JACKAL, DOVE, AND HERON 109 COCK AND JACKAL 111 ELEPHANT AND TORTOISE 112 ANOTHER VERSION OF THE SAME FABLE 115 TORTOISE HUNTING OSTRICHES 117 THE JUDGMENT OF BABOON 118 LION AND BABOON 121 THE ZEBRA STALLION 122 WHEN LION COULD FLY 124 LION WHO THOUGHT HIMSELF WISER THAN HIS MOTHER 126 LION WHO TOOK A WOMAN'S SHAPE 129 WHY HAS JACKAL A LONG BLACK STRIPE ON HIS BACK? 137 HORSE CURSED BY SUN 138 LION'S DEFEAT 139 THE ORIGIN OF DEATH 141 ANOTHER VERSION OF THE SAME FABLE 143 A THIRD VERSION OF THE SAME FABLE 144 A FOURTH VERSION OF THE SAME FABLE 146 A ZULU VERSION OF THE LEGEND OF THE "ORIGIN OF DEATH" 147 LITERATURE ON SOUTH-AFRICAN FOLK-LORE 148 SOUTH-AFRICAN FOLK-TALES INTRODUCTION In presenting these stories, which are of deep interest and value to South Africans, I hope they may prove of some value to those Americans who have either an interest in animals or who appreciate the folklore of other countries. Many of these tales have appeared among English collections previous to 1880, others have been translated from the Dutch, and a few have been written from childhood remembrance. Consequently they do not pretend to be original or unique. Care has been taken not to spoil the ethnological value for the sake of form or structure; and in all cases they are as nearly like the original as a translation from one tongue to another will allow. They are all South-African folklore tales and mainly from the Bushmen. Some are perverted types from what were originally Bushmen tales, but have been taken over by Hottentots or Zulus; a few are from the Dutch. Most of these last named will show a European influence, especially French. Some of the animal stories have appeared in American magazines under the author's name, but this is the first time that a complete collection has appeared since Dr. Bleek published his stories in 1864. The object has been to keep the stories apart from those which have a mythological or religious significance, and especially to keep it an animal collection free from those in which man appears to take a part. There will be found several versions of the same story, and as far as possible these will be put in the order of their importance in relation to the original. The author does not pretend to be an authority on South-African folklore, but has only a South-African-born interest in what springs from that country of sunshine. It is a difficult task to attempt to trace the origin of these stories, as there is no country where there have been so many distinct and primitive races dwelling together. The Bushmen seem to trace back to the earliest Egyptian days, when dwarfs were pictured on the tombs of the kings and were a distinct race. From then until now it has been their pride to say that before men were men, they were; or, to put it clearer, before Africa was inhabited by other races, they were there. As represented by some of these stories of the Bushmen, what races have not, then, had their influence on the folklore? According to Stow, they were a wandering primitive race of small men, painters and sculptors, hunters and herdsmen, and withal a race showing traces of wonderful reasoning and adaptability, with a keen sense of justice and a store of pride. Mythological some of their stories are, but whether this is due to the influence of the Hottentots, a later race, it is difficult to say. And, lastly, there are the Kaffirs spread over the whole of South Africa, domineering, but backward. The varied influences which may have affected these stories before they reached us show what enormous possibilities there are for error in tracing the origin of the animal tales here presented. Bleek finds that a greater congeniality exists between the Hottentot and European mind than is found between the latter and any other of the black races of Africa. Whether he means that this indicates a European origin of the fables, I cannot say. There is no doubt in my mind that the Bushmen came from the north and were the primitive race of south and tropical Africa, the dwarfs of Livingstone, Stanley, and other explorers. Considering, then, the great antiquity of this race, it naturally follows that if these stories are not original with the Bushmen, they are at least so modified as to bear no resemblance to Egyptian, Phoenician, or any other ancient race which the Bushmen may have come in contact with. Herodotus described a race on the upper Nile which corresponds with later descriptions of the Bushmen in tropical and southern Africa. I agree with what the _South-African Folklore Journal_ stated twenty years or more ago, that with the "vast strides South Africa is making in the progress of civilization, the native races will either be swept away or so altered as to lose many of their ancient habits, customs, traditions, or at least greatly to modify them." Knowing that by a collection of this kind these stories could best be preserved, and feeling that others had not read them, I began this collection ten years ago. There is so much done now to preserve what is still Bushmen folklore that I feel this small volume is indeed only a small addition to the folklore world. "South-African folklore is," the _South-African Folklore Journal_ says, "in its very nature plain, and primitive in its simplicity; not adorned with the wealth of palaces and precious stones to be met with in the folklore of more civilized nations, but descriptive in great measure of the events of everyday life, among those in a low state of civilization; and with the exception of evidences of moral qualities, and of such imagery as is connected with the phenomena of nature, very little that is grand or magnificent must be looked for in it." Bain gives a story related by a Kaffir which shows "the distribution of animals after the creation." This story could not become typically Kaffir until after the Kaffir came in contact with the European in the last two or three hundred years. However, the story will serve to illustrate the people whose stories appear in this volume and to close the Introduction. Teco, in Kaffir, is the Supreme Being. Teco had every description of stock and property. There were three nations created, viz., the Whites, the Amakosa, or Kaffirs, and the Amalouw, or Hottentots. A day was appointed for them to appear before the Teco to receive whatever he might apportion to each tribe. While they were assembling, a honey bird, or honey guide, came fluttering by, and all the Hottentots ran after it, whistling and making the peculiar noise they generally do while following this wonderful little bird. The Teco remonstrated with them about their behavior, but to no purpose. He thereupon denounced them as a vagrant race that would have to exist on wild roots and honey beer, and possess no stock whatever. When the fine herds of cattle were brought, the Kaffirs became very much excited--the one exclaiming, "That black and white cow is mine!" and another, "That red cow and black bull are mine!" and so on, till at last the Teco, whose patience had been severely taxed by their shouts and unruly behavior, denounced them as a restless people, who would only possess cattle. The Whites patiently waited until they received cattle, horses, sheep, and all sorts of property. Hence, the old Kaffir observed, "You Whites have got everything. We Kaffirs have only cattle, while the Amalouw, or Hottentots, have nothing." James A. Honeÿ. CAMBRIDGE, MASS., June, 1910. ORIGIN OF THE DIFFERENCE IN MODES OF LIFE BETWEEN HOTTENTOTS AND BUSHMEN In the beginning there were two. One was blind, the other was always hunting. This hunter found at last a hole in the earth from which game proceeded and killed the young. The blind man, feeling and smelling them, said, "They are not game, but cattle." The blind man afterwards recovered his sight, and going with the hunter to this hole, saw that they were cows with their calves. He then quickly built a kraal (fence made of thorns) round them, and anointed himself, just as Hottentots (in their native state) are still wont to do. When the other, who now with great trouble had to seek his game, came and saw this, he wanted to anoint himself also. "Look here!" said the other, "you must throw the ointment into the fire, and afterwards use it." He followed this advice, and the flames flaring up into his face, burnt him most miserably; so that he was glad to make his escape. The other, however, called to him: "Here, take the kirri (a knobstick), and run to the hills to hunt there for honey." Hence sprung the race of Bushmen. THE LOST MESSAGE The ant has had from time immemorial many enemies, and because he is small and destructive, there have been a great many slaughters among them. Not only were most of the birds their enemies, but Anteater lived almost wholly from them, and Centipede beset them every time and at all places when he had the chance. So now there were a few among them who thought it would be well to hold council together and see if they could not come to some arrangement whereby they could retreat to some place of safety when attacked by robber birds and animals. But at the gathering their opinions were most discordant, and they could come to no decision. There was Red-ant, Rice-ant, Black-ant, Wagtail-ant, Gray-ant, Shining-ant, and many other varieties. The discussion was a true babel of diversity, which continued for a long time and came to nothing. A part desired that they should all go into a small hole in the ground, and live there; another part wanted to have a large and strong dwelling built on the ground, where nobody could enter but an ant; still another wanted to dwell in trees, so as to get rid of Anteater, forgetting entirely that there they would be the prey of birds; another part seemed inclined to have wings and fly. And, as has already been said, this deliberation amounted to nothing, and each party resolved to go to work in its own way, and on its own responsibility. Greater unity than that which existed in each separate faction could be seen nowhere in the world; each had his appointed task, each did his work regularly and well. And all worked together in the same way. From among them they chose a king--that is to say some of the groups did--and they divided the labor so that all went as smoothly as it possibly could. But each group did it in its own way, and not one of them thought of protecting themselves against the onslaught of birds or Anteater. The Red-ants built their house on the ground and lived under it, but Anteater leveled to the ground in a minute what had cost them many days of precious labor. The Rice-ants lived under the ground, and with them it went no better. For whenever they came out, Anteater visited them and took them out sack and pack. The Wagtail-ants fled to the trees, but there on many occasions sat Centipede waiting for them, or the birds gobbled them up. The Gray-ants had intended to save themselves from extermination by taking to flight, but this also availed them nothing, because the Lizard, the Hunting-spider, and the birds went a great deal faster than they. When the Insect-king heard that they could come to no agreement he sent them the secret of unity, and the message of Work-together. But unfortunately he chose for his messenger the Beetle, and he has never yet arrived at the Ants, so that they are still to-day the embodiment of discord and consequently the prey of enemies. THE MONKEY'S FIDDLE Hunger and want forced Monkey one day to forsake his land and to seek elsewhere among strangers for much-needed work. Bulbs, earth beans, scorpions, insects, and such things were completely exhausted in his own land. But fortunately he received, for the time being, shelter with a great uncle of his, Orang Outang, who lived in another part of the country. When he had worked for quite a while he wanted to return home, and as recompense his great uncle gave him a fiddle and a bow and arrow and told him that with the bow and arrow he could hit and kill anything he desired, and with the fiddle he could force anything to dance. The first he met upon his return to his own land was Brer Wolf. This old fellow told him all the news and also that he had since early morning been attempting to stalk a deer, but all in vain. Then Monkey laid before him all the wonders of the bow and arrow that he carried on his back and assured him if he could but see the deer he would bring it down for him. When Wolf showed him the deer, Monkey was ready and down fell the deer. They made a good meal together, but instead of Wolf being thankful, jealousy overmastered him and he begged for the bow and arrow. When Monkey refused to give it to him, he thereupon began to threaten him with his greater strength, and so when Jackal passed by, Wolf told him that Monkey had stolen his bow and arrow. After Jackal had heard both of them, he declared himself unqualified to settle the case alone, and he proposed that they bring the matter to the court of Lion, Tiger, and the other animals. In the meantime he declared he would take possession of what had been the cause of their quarrel, so that it would be safe, as he said. But he immediately brought to earth all that was eatable, so there was a long time of slaughter before Monkey and Wolf agreed to have the affair in court. Monkey's evidence was weak, and to make it worse, Jackal's testimony was against him. Jackal thought that in this way it would be easier to obtain the bow and arrow from Wolf for himself. And so fell the sentence against Monkey. Theft was looked upon as a great wrong; he must hang. The fiddle was still at his side, and he received as a last favor from the court the right to play a tune on it. He was a master player of his time, and in addition to this came the wonderful power of his charmed fiddle. Thus, when he struck the first note of "Cockcrow" upon it, the court began at once to show an unusual and spontaneous liveliness, and before he came to the first waltzing turn of the old tune the whole court was dancing like a whirlwind. Over and over, quicker and quicker, sounded the tune of "Cockcrow" on the charmed fiddle, until some of the dancers, exhausted, fell down, although still keeping their feet in motion. But Monkey, musician as he was, heard and saw nothing of what had happened around him. With his head placed lovingly against the instrument, and his eyes half closed, he played on, keeping time ever with his foot. Wolf was the first to cry out in pleading tones breathlessly, "Please stop, Cousin Monkey! For love's sake, please stop!" But Monkey did not even hear him. Over and over sounded the resistless waltz of "Cockcrow." After a while Lion showed signs of fatigue, and when he had gone the round once more with his young lion wife, he growled as he passed Monkey, "My whole kingdom is yours, ape, if you just stop playing." "I do not want it," answered Monkey, "but withdraw the sentence and give me my bow and arrow, and you, Wolf, acknowledge that you stole it from me." "I acknowledge, I acknowledge!" cried Wolf, while Lion cried, at the same instant, that he withdrew the sentence. Monkey gave them just a few more turns of the "Cockcrow," gathered up his bow and arrow, and seated himself high up in the nearest camel thorn tree. The court and other animals were so afraid that he might begin again that they hastily disbanded to new parts of the world. THE TIGER, THE RAM, AND THE JACKAL Tiger (leopard) was returning home from hunting on one occasion, when he lighted on the kraal of Ram. Now, Tiger had never seen Ram before, and accordingly, approaching submissively, he said, "Good day, friend! What may your name be?" The other in his gruff voice, and striking his breast with his forefoot, said, "I am Ram. Who are you?" "Tiger," answered the other, more dead than alive, and then, taking leave of Ram, he ran home as fast as he could. Jackal lived at the same place as Tiger did, and the latter going to him, said, "Friend Jackal, I am quite out of breath, and am half dead with fright, for I have just seen a terrible looking fellow, with a large and thick head, and on my asking him what his name was, he answered, 'I am Ram.'" "What a foolish fellow you are," cried Jackal, "to let such a nice piece of flesh stand! Why did you do so? But we shall go to-morrow and eat it together." Next day the two set off for the kraal of Ram, and as they appeared over a hill, Ram, who had turned out to look about him, and was calculating where he should that day crop a tender salad, saw them, and he immediately went to his wife and said, "I fear this is our last day, for Jackal and Tiger are both coming against us. What shall we do?" "Don't be afraid," said the wife, "but take up the child in your arms, go out with it, and pinch it to make it cry as if it were hungry." Ram did so as the confederates came on. No sooner did Tiger cast his eyes on Ram than fear again took possession of him, and he wished to turn back. Jackal had provided against this, and made Tiger fast to himself with a leathern thong, and said, "Come on," when Ram cried in a loud voice, and pinching his child at the same time, "You have done well, Friend Jackal, to have brought us Tiger to eat, for you hear how my child is crying for food." On these dreadful words Tiger, notwithstanding the entreaties of Jackal to let him go, to let him loose, set off in the greatest alarm, dragged Jackal after him over hill and valley, through bushes and over rocks, and never stopped to look behind him till he brought back himself and half-dead Jackal to his place again. And so Ram escaped. THE JACKAL AND THE WOLF Once on a time Jackal, who lived on the borders of the colony, saw a wagon returning from the seaside laden with fish; he tried to get into the wagon from behind, but he could not; he then ran on before and lay in the road as if dead. The wagon came up to him, and the leader cried to the driver, "Here is a fine kaross for your wife!" "Throw it into the wagon," said the driver, and Jackal was thrown in. The wagon traveled on, through a moonlight night, and all the while Jackal was throwing out the fish into the road; he then jumped out himself and secured a great prize. But stupid old Wolf (hyena), coming by, ate more than his share, for which Jackal owed him a grudge, and he said to him, "You can get plenty of fish, too, if you lie in the way of a wagon as I did, and keep quite still whatever happens." "So!" mumbled Wolf. Accordingly, when the next wagon came from the sea, Wolf stretched himself out in the road. "What ugly thing is this?" cried the leader, and kicked Wolf. He then took a stick and thrashed him within an inch of his life. Wolf, according to the directions of Jackal, lay quiet as long as he could; he then got up and hobbled off to tell his misfortune to Jackal, who pretended to comfort him. "What a pity," said Wolf, "I have not got such a handsome skin as you have!" A JACKAL AND A WOLF Jackal and Wolf went and hired themselves to a man to be his servants. In the middle of the night Jackal rose and smeared Wolf's tail with some fat, and then ate all the rest of it in the house. In the morning the man missed the fat, and he immediately accused Jackal of having eaten it. "Look at Wolf's tail," said the rogue, "and you will see who is the thief." The man did so, and then thrashed Wolf till he was nearly dead. THE LION, THE JACKAL, AND THE MAN It so happened one day that Lion and Jackal came together to converse on affairs of land and state. Jackal, let me say, was the most important adviser to the king of the forest, and after they had spoken about these matters for quite a while, the conversation took a more personal turn. Lion began to boast and talk big about his strength. Jackal had, perhaps, given him cause for it, because by nature he was a flatterer. But now that Lion began to assume so many airs, said he, "See here, Lion, I will show you an animal that is still more powerful than you are." They walked along, Jackal leading the way, and met first a little boy. "Is this the strong man?" asked Lion. "No," answered Jackal, "he must still become a man, O king." After a while they found an old man walking with bowed head and supporting his bent figure with a stick. "Is this the wonderful strong man?" asked Lion. "Not yet, O king," was Jackal's answer, "he has been a man." Continuing their walk a short distance farther, they came across a young hunter, in the prime of youth, and accompanied by some of his dogs. "There you have him now, O king," said Jackal. "Pit your strength against his, and if you win, then truly you are the strength of the earth." Then Jackal made tracks to one side toward a little rocky kopje from which he would be able to see the meeting. Growling, growling, Lion strode forward to meet the man, but when he came close the dogs beset him. He, however, paid but little attention to the dogs, pushed and separated them on all sides with a few sweeps of his front paws. They howled aloud, beating a hasty retreat toward the man. Thereupon the man fired a charge of shot, hitting him behind the shoulder, but even to this Lion paid but little attention. Thereupon the hunter pulled out his steel knife, and gave him a few good jabs. Lion retreated, followed by the flying bullets of the hunter. "Well, are you strongest now?" was Jackal's first question when Lion arrived at his side. "No, Jackal," answered Lion, "let that fellow there keep the name and welcome. Such as he I have never before seen. In the first place he had about ten of his bodyguard storm me. I really did not bother myself much about them, but when I attempted to turn him to chaff, he spat and blew fire at me, mostly into my face, that burned just a little but not very badly. And when I again endeavored to pull him to the ground he jerked out from his body one of his ribs with which he gave me some very ugly wounds, so bad that I had to make chips fly, and as a parting he sent some warm bullets after me. No, Jackal, give him the name." THE WORLD'S REWARD Once there was a man that had an old dog, so old that the man desired to put him aside. The dog had served him very faithfully when he was still young, but ingratitude is the world's reward, and the man now wanted to dispose of him. The old dumb creature, however, ferreted out the plan of his master, and so at once resolved to go away of his own accord. After he had walked quite a way he met an old bull in the veldt. "Don't you want to go with me?" asked the dog. "Where?" was the reply. "To the land of the aged," said the dog, "where troubles don't disturb you and thanklessness does not deface the deeds of man." "Good," said the bull, "I am your companion." The two now walked on and found a ram. The dog laid the plan before him, and all moved off together, until they afterwards came successively upon a donkey, a cat, a cock, and a goose. These joined their company, and the seven set out on their journey. Late one night they came to a house and through the open door they saw a table spread with all kinds of nice food, of which some robbers were having their fill. It would help nothing to ask for admittance, and seeing that they were hungry, they must think of something else. Therefore the donkey climbed up on the bull, the ram on the donkey, the dog on the ram, the cat on the dog, the goose on the cat, and the cock on the goose, and with one accord they all let out terrible (threatening) noises (cryings). The bull began to bellow, the donkey to bray, the dog to bark, the ram to bleat, the cat to mew, the goose to giggle gaggle, and the cock to crow, all without cessation. The people in the house were frightened perfectly limp; they glanced out through the front door, and there they stared on the strange sight. Some of them took to the ropes over the back lower door, some disappeared through the window, and in a few counts the house was empty. Then the seven old animals climbed down from one another, stepped into the house, and satisfied themselves with the delicious food. But when they had finished, there still remained a great deal of food, too much to take with them on their remaining journey, and so together they contrived a plan to hold their position until the next day after breakfast. The dog said, "See here, I am accustomed to watch at the front door of my master's house," and thereupon flopped himself down to sleep; the bull said, "I go behind the door," and there he took his position; the ram said, "I will go up on to the loft"; the donkey, "I at the middle door"; the cat, "I in the fireplace"; the goose, "I in the back door"; and the cock said, "I am going to sleep on the bed." The captain of the robbers after a while sent one of his men back to see if these creatures had yet left the house. The man came very cautiously into the neighborhood, listened and listened, but he heard nothing; he peeped through the window, and saw in the grate just two coals still glimmering, and thereupon started to walk through the front door. There the old dog seized him by the leg. He jumped into the house, but the bull was ready, swept him up with his horns, and tossed him on to the loft. Here the ram received him and pushed him off the loft again. Reaching ground, he made for the middle door, but the donkey set up a terrible braying and at the same time gave him a kick that landed him in the fireplace, where the cat flew at him and scratched him nearly to pieces. He then jumped out through the back door, and here the goose got him by the trousers. When he was some distance away the cock crowed. He thereupon ran so that you could hear the stones rattle in the dark. Purple and crimson and out of breath, he came back to his companions. "Frightful, frightful!" was all that they could get from him at first, but after a while he told them. "When I looked through the window I saw in the fireplace two bright coals shining, and when I wanted to go through the front door to go and look, I stepped into an iron trap. I jumped into the house, and there some one seized me with a fork and pitched me up on to the loft, there again some one was ready, and threw me down on all fours. I wanted to fly through the middle door, but there some one blew on a trumpet, and smote me with a sledge hammer so that I did not know where I landed; but coming to very quickly, I found I was in the fireplace, and there another flew at me and scratched the eyes almost out of my head. I thereupon fled out of the back door, and lastly I was attacked on the leg by the sixth with a pair of fire tongs, and when I was still running away, some one shouted out of the house, 'Stop him, stop h--i--m!'" THE LION AND JACKAL Not because he was exactly the most capable or progressive fellow in the neighborhood, but because he always gave that idea--that is why Jackal slowly acquired among the neighbors the name of a "progressive man." The truly well-bred people around him, who did not wish to hurt his feelings, seemed to apply this name to him, instead of, for instance, "cunning scamp," or "all-wise rat-trap," as so many others often dubbed him. He obtained this name of "a progressive man" because he spoke most of the time English, especially if he thought some of them were present who could not understand it, and also because he could always hold his body so much like a judge on public occasions. He had a smooth tongue, could make quite a favorable speech, and especially with good effect could he expatiate on the backwardness of others. Underneath he really was the most unlettered man in the vicinity, but he had perfect control over his inborn cunningness, which allowed him for a long time to go triumphantly through life as a man of great ability. One time, for instance, he lost his tail in an iron trap. He had long attempted to reach the Boer's goose pen, and had framed many good plans, but when he came to his senses, he was sitting in front of the goose pen with his tail in the iron trap, the dogs all the time coming for him. When he realized what it meant, he mustered together all his strength and pulled his tail, which he always thought so much of, clean off. This would immediately have made him the butt of the whole neighborhood had he not thought of a plan. He called together a meeting of the jackals, and made them believe that Lion had issued a proclamation to the effect that all jackals in the future should be tailless, because their beautiful tails were a thorn in the eyes of more unfortunate animals. In his smooth way he told them how he regretted that the king should have the barbaric right to interfere with his subjects. But so it was; and he thought the sooner he paid attention to it the safer. Therefore he had had his tail cut off already and he should advise all his friends to do the same. And so it happened that once all jackals for a long time were without tails. Later on they grew again. It was about the same time that Tiger hired Jackal as a schoolmaster. Tiger was in those days the richest man in the surrounding country, and as he had had to suffer a great deal himself because he was so untutored, he wanted his children to have the best education that could be obtained. It was shortly after a meeting, in which it was shown how important a thing an education was, that Tiger approached Jackal and asked him to come and teach his children. Jackal was very ready to do this. It was not exactly his vocation, he said, but he would do it to pass time and just out of friendship for his neighbor. His and Tiger's farm lands lay next each other. That he did not make teaching his profession and that he possessed no degree was of no account in the eyes of Tiger. "Do not praise my goodness so much, Cousin Jackal," laughed he. "We know your worth well enough. Much rather would I intrust my offspring to you than to the many so-called schoolmasters, for it is especially my wish, as well as that of their mother, to have our children obtain a progressive education, and to make such men and women of them that with the same ability as you have they can take their lawful places in this world." "One condition," said Jackal, "I must state. It will be very inconvenient for me, almost impossible, to come here to your farm and hold school. My own farm would in that case go to pieces, and that I cannot let happen. It would never pay me." Tiger answered that it was not exactly necessary either. In spite of their attachment to the little ones, they saw that it would probably be to their benefit to place them for a while in a stranger's house. Jackal then told of his own bringing up by Wolf. He remembered well how small he was when his father sent him away to study with Wolf. Naturally, since then, he had passed through many schools, Wolf was only his first teacher. And only in his later days did he realize how much good it had done him. "A man must bend the sapling while it is still young," said he. "There is no time that the child is so open to impressions as when he is plastic, about the age that most of your children are at present, and I was just thinking you would be doing a wise thing to send them away for quite a while." He had, fortunately, just then a room in his house that would be suited for a schoolroom, and his wife could easily make some arrangement for their lodging, even if they had to enlarge their dwelling somewhat. It was then and there agreed upon. Tiger's wife was then consulted about one thing and another, and the following day the children were to leave. "I have just thought of one more thing," remarked Jackal, "seven children, besides my little lot, will be quite a care on our hands, so you will have to send over each week a fat lamb, and in order not to disturb their progress, the children will have to relinquish the idea of a vacation spent with you for some time. When I think they have become used to the bit, I will inform you, and then you can come and take them to make you a short visit, but not until then. "It is also better," continued he, "that they do not see you for the first while, but your wife can come and see them every Saturday and I will see to all else." On the following day there was an unearthly howling and wailing when the children were to leave. But Tiger and their mother showed them that it was best and that some day they would see that it was all for their good, and that their parents were doing it out of kindness. Eventually they were gone. The first Saturday dawned, and early that morning Mrs. Tiger was on her way to Jackal's dwelling, because she could not defer the time any longer. She was still a long way off when Jackal caught sight of her. He always observed neighborly customs, and so stepped out to meet her. After they had greeted each other, Mrs. Tiger's first question was: "Well, Cousin Jackal, how goes everything with the small team? Are they still all well and happy, and do they not trouble you, Cousin Jackal, too much?" "Oh, my goodness, no, Mrs. Tiger," answered Jackal enthusiastically, "but don't let us talk so loud, because if they heard you, it certainly would cause them many heartfelt tears and they might also want to go back with you and then all our trouble would have been for nothing." "But I would like to see them, Cousin Jackal," said Mrs. Tiger a little disturbed. "Why certainly, Mrs. Tiger," was his answer, "but I do not think it is wise for them to see you. I will lift them up to the window one by one, and then you can put your mind at rest concerning their health and progress." After Mr. and Mrs. Jackal and Mrs. Tiger had sat together for some time drinking coffee and talking over one thing and another, Jackal took Tiger's wife to a door and told her to look through it, out upon the back yard. There he would show her the children one by one, while they would not be able to see her. Everything was done exactly as Jackal had said, but the sixth little tiger he picked up twice, because the firstborn he had the day before prepared in pickle for their Sunday meal. And so it happened every Saturday until the last little tiger--which was the youngest--had to be lifted up seven times in succession. And when Mrs. Tiger came again the following week all was still as death and everything seemed to have a deserted appearance on the estate. She walked straight to the front door, and there she found a letter in the poll grass near the door, which read thus: "We have gone for a picnic with the children. From there we will ride by Jackalsdance for New Year. This is necessary for the completion of their progressive education." JACKAL. Saturday after Saturday did Mrs. Tiger go and look, but every time Jackal's house seemed to look more deserted; and after a while there was a spider's web over the door and the trail of Snake showed that he, too, had taken up his abode there. TINK-TINKJE The birds wanted a king. Men have a king, so have animals, and why shouldn't they? All had assembled. "The Ostrich, because he is the largest," one called out. "No, he can't fly." "Eagle, on account of his strength." "Not he, he is too ugly." "Vulture, because he can fly the highest." "No, Vulture is too dirty, his odor is terrible." "Peacock, he is so beautiful." "His feet are too ugly, and also his voice." "Owl, because he can see well." "Not Owl, he is ashamed of the light." And so they got no further. Then one shouted aloud, "He who can fly the highest will be king." "Yes, yes," they all screamed, and at a given signal they all ascended straight up into the sky. Vulture flew for three whole days without stopping, straight toward the sun. Then he cried aloud, "I am the highest, I am king." "T-sie, t-sie, t-sie," he heard above him. There Tink-tinkje was flying. He had held fast to one of the great wing feathers of Vulture, and had never been felt, he was so light. "T-sie, t-sie, t-sie, I am the highest, I am king," piped Tink-tinkje. Vulture flew for another day still ascending. "I am highest, I am king." "T-sie, t-sie, t-sie, I am the highest, I am king," Tink-tinkje mocked. There he was again, having crept out from under the wing of Vulture. Vulture flew on the fifth day straight up in the air. "I am the highest, I am king," he called. "T-sie, t-sie, t-sie," piped the little fellow above him. "I am the highest, I am king." Vulture was tired and now flew direct to earth. The other birds were mad through and through. Tink-tinkje must die because he had taken advantage of Vulture's feathers and there hidden himself. All flew after him and he had to take refuge in a mouse hole. But how were they to get him out? Some one must stand guard to seize him the moment he put out his head. "Owl must keep guard; he has the largest eyes; he can see well," they exclaimed. Owl went and took up his position before the hole. The sun was warm and soon Owl became sleepy and presently he was fast asleep. Tink-tinkje peeped, saw that Owl was asleep, and z-zip away he went. Shortly afterwards the other birds came to see if Tink-tinkje were still in the hole. "T-sie, t-sie," they heard in a tree; and there the little vagabond was sitting. White-crow, perfectly disgusted, turned around and exclaimed, "Now I won't say a single word more." And from that day to this White-crow has never spoken. Even though you strike him, he makes no sound, he utters no cry. THE LION AND JACKAL Lion had now caught a large eland which lay dead on the top of a high bank. Lion was thirsty and wanted to go and drink water. "Jackal, look after my eland, I am going to get a drink. Don't you eat any." "Very well, Uncle Lion." Lion went to the river and Jackal quietly removed a stone on which Lion had to step to reach the bank on his return. After that Jackal and his wife ate heartily of the eland. Lion returned, but could not scale the bank. "Jackal, help me," he shouted. "Yes, Uncle Lion, I will let down a rope and then you can climb up." Jackal whispered to his wife, "Give me one of the old, thin hide ropes." And then aloud he added, "Wife, give me one of the strong, buffalo ropes, so Uncle Lion won't fall." His wife gave him an old rotten rope. Jackal and his wife first ate ravenously of the meat, then gradually let the rope down. Lion seized it and struggled up. When he neared the brink Jackal gave the rope a jerk. It broke and down Lion began to roll--rolled the whole way down, and finally lay at the foot near the river. Jackal began to beat a dry hide that lay there as he howled, cried, and shouted: "Wife, why did you give me such a bad rope that caused Uncle Lion to fall?" Lion heard the row and roared, "Jackal, stop beating your wife. I will hurt you if you don't cease. Help me to climb up." "Uncle Lion, I will give you a rope." Whispering again to his wife, "Give me one of the old, thin hide ropes," and shouting aloud again, "Give me a strong, buffalo rope, wife, that will not break again with Lion." Jackal gave out the rope, and when Lion had nearly reached the top, he cut the rope through. Snap! and Lion began to roll to the bottom. Jackal again beat on the hide and shouted, "Wife, why did you give me such a rotten rope? Didn't I tell you to give me a strong one?" Lion roared, "Jackal, stop beating your wife at once. Help me instantly or you will be sorry." "Wife," Jackal said aloud, "give me now the strongest rope you have," and aside to her, "Give me the worst rope of the lot." Jackal again let down a rope, but just as Lion reached the top, Jackal gave a strong tug and broke the rope. Poor old Lion rolled down the side of the hill and lay there roaring from pain. He had been fatally hurt. Jackal inquired, "Uncle Lion, have you hurt yourself? Have you much pain? Wait a while, I am coming directly to help you." Jackal and his wife slowly walked away. LION AND JACKAL The Lion and the Jackal agreed to hunt on shares, for the purpose of laying in a stock of meat for the winter months for their families. As the Lion was by far the more expert hunter of the two, the Jackal suggested that he (himself) should be employed in transporting the game to their dens, and that Mrs. Jackal and the little Jackals should prepare and dry the meat, adding that they would take care that Mrs. Lion and her family should not want. This was agreed to by the Lion, and the hunt commenced. After a very successful hunt, which lasted for some time, the Lion returned to see his family, and also to enjoy, as he thought, a plentiful supply of his spoil; when, to his utter surprise, he found Mrs. Lion and all the young Lions on the point of death from sheer hunger, and in a mangy state. The Jackal, it appeared, had only given them a few entrails of the game, and in such limited quantities as barely to keep them alive; always telling them that they (i. e., the Lion and himself) had been most unsuccessful in their hunting; while his own family was reveling in abundance, and each member of it was sleek and fat. This was too much for the Lion to bear. He immediately started off in a terrible fury, vowing certain death to the Jackal and all his family, wherever he should meet them. The Jackal was more or less prepared for a storm, and had taken the precaution to remove all his belongings to the top of a krantz (i. e., a cliff), accessible only by a most difficult and circuitous path, which he alone knew. When the Lion saw him on the krantz, the Jackal immediately greeted him by calling out, "Good morning, Uncle Lion." "How dare you call me uncle, you impudent scoundrel," roared out the Lion, in a voice of thunder, "after the way in which you have behaved to my family?" "Oh, Uncle! How shall I explain matters? That beast of a wife of mine!" Whack, whack was heard, as he beat with a stick on dry hide, which was a mere pretence for Mrs. Jackal's back; while that lady was preinstructed to scream whenever he operated on the hide, which she did with a vengeance, joined by the little Jackals, who set up a most doleful chorus. "That wretch!" said the Jackal. "It is all her doing. I shall kill her straight off," and away he again belabored the hide, while his wife and children uttered such a dismal howl that the Lion begged of him to leave off flogging his wife. After cooling down a little, he invited Uncle Lion to come up and have something to eat. The Lion, after several ineffectual attempts to scale the precipice, had to give it up. The Jackal, always ready for emergencies, suggested that a reim should be lowered to haul up his uncle. This was agreed to, and when the Lion was drawn about halfway up by the whole family of Jackals, the reim was cleverly cut, and down went the Lion with a tremendous crash which hurt him very much. Upon this, the Jackal again performed upon the hide with tremendous force, for their daring to give him such a rotten reim, and Mrs. Jackal and the little ones responded with some fearful screams and yells. He then called loudly out to his wife for a strong buffalo reim which would support any weight. This again was lowered and fastened to the Lion, when all hands pulled away at their uncle; and, just when he had reached so far that he could look over the precipice into the pots to see all the fat meat cooking, and all the biltongs hanging out to dry, the reim was again cut, and the poor Lion fell with such force that he was fairly stunned for some time. After the Lion had recovered his senses, the Jackal, in a most sympathizing tone, suggested that he was afraid that it was of no use to attempt to haul him up onto the precipice, and recommended, instead, that a nice fat piece of eland's breast be roasted and dropped into the Lion's mouth. The Lion, half famished with hunger, and much bruised, readily accepted the offer, and sat eagerly awaiting the fat morsel. In the mean time, the Jackal had a round stone made red-hot, and wrapped a quantity of inside fat, or suet, round it, to make it appear like a ball of fat. When the Lion saw it held out, he opened his capacious mouth to the utmost extent, and the wily Jackal cleverly dropped the hot ball right into it, which ran through the poor old beast, killing him on the spot. It need hardly be told that there was great rejoicing on the precipice that night. THE HUNT OF LION AND JACKAL Lion and Jackal, it is said, were one day lying in wait for Eland. Lion shot (with a bow) and missed, but Jackal hit and sang out, "Hah! hah!" Lion said, "No, you did not shoot anything. It was I who hit." Jackal answered, "Yea, my father, thou hast hit." Then they went home in order to return when the eland was dead, and cut it up. Jackal, however, turned back, unknown to Lion, hit his nose so that the blood ran on the spoor of the eland, and followed their track thus, in order to cheat Lion. When he had gone some distance, he returned by another way to the dead eland, and creeping into its carcass, cut out all the fat. Meanwhile Lion followed the blood-stained spoor of Jackal, thinking that it was eland blood, and only when he had gone some distance did he find out that he had been deceived. He then returned on Jackal's spoor, and reached the dead eland, where, finding Jackal in its carcass, he seized him by his tail and drew him out with a swing. Lion upbraided Jackal with these words: "Why do you cheat me?" Jackal answered: "No, my father, I do not cheat you; you may know it, I think. I prepared this fat for you, father." Lion said: "Then take the fat and carry it to your mother" (the lioness); and he gave him the lungs to take to his own wife and children. When Jackal arrived, he did not give the fat to Lion's wife, but to his own wife and children; he gave, however, the lungs to Lion's wife, and he pelted Lion's little children with the lungs, saying: "You children of the big-pawed one! You big-pawed ones!" He said to Lioness, "I go to help my father" (the lion); but he went far away with his wife and children. STORY OF LION AND LITTLE JACKAL Little Jackal one day went out hunting, when he met Lion. Lion proposed that they should hunt together, on condition that if a small antelope was killed it was to be Little Jackal's, and if a large one was killed it was to be Lion's. Little Jackal agreed to this. The first animal killed was a large eland. Lion was very glad, and said to Little Jackal: "I will continue hunting while you go to my house and call my children to carry the meat home." Little Jackal replied: "Yes, I agree to that." Lion went away to hunt. When he had gone, Little Jackal went to his own house and called his own children to carry away the meat. He said: "Lion takes me for a fool if he thinks I will call his children while my own are dying with hunger." So Little Jackal's children carried the meat to their home on the top of a high rock, where the only way to get to their house was by means of a rope. Lion caught nothing more, and after a time he went home and asked his wife where the meat was. She told him there was no meat. He said: "Did not Little Jackal bring a message to my children to carry meat?" His wife replied: "No, he was not here. We are still dying with hunger." Lion then went to Little Jackal's house, but he could not get up the rock to it. So he sat down by the water, waiting. After a time Little Jackal went to get some water. He was close to the water when he saw Lion. He at once ran away, and Lion ran after him. He ran into a hole under a tree, but Lion caught his tail before he got far in. He said to him: "That is not my tail you have hold of; it is a root of the tree. If you do not believe me, take a stone and strike it, and see if any blood comes." Lion let go the tail, and went for a stone to prove what it was. While he was gone for the stone, Little Jackal went far into the hole. When Lion returned he could not be found. Lion lay down by the hole and waited. After a long time Little Jackal wanted to come out. He went to the entrance and looked round, but he could not see Lion. To make sure, he said: "Ho, I see you, my master, although you are in hiding." Lion did not move from the place where he lay concealed. Then Little Jackal went out, and Lion pursued him, but he got away. Lion watched for him, and one day, when Little Jackal was out hunting, he came upon him in a place where he could not escape. Lion was just about to spring upon him, when Little Jackal said softly: "Be still, do you not see that bushbuck on the other side of the rock? I am glad you have come to help me. Just remain here while I run round and drive him toward you." Lion did so, and Little Jackal made his escape. At another time there was a meeting of the animals, and Lion was the chief at the meeting. Little Jackal wanted to attend, but there was a law made that no one should be present unless he had horns. So Little Jackal took wax out of a nest of bees, and made horns for himself with it. He fastened the horns on his head, and went to the meeting. Lion did not know him on account of the horns. But he sat near the fire and went to sleep, when the horns melted. Lion looked at him and saw who it was. He immediately tried to catch him, but Little Jackal was quick in springing away. He ran under an overhanging rock and sang out: "Help! help! this rock is falling upon me!" Lion went for a pole to prop up the rock that he might get at Little Jackal. While he was away, Little Jackal escaped. After that they became companions again, and went hunting another time. They killed an ox. Lion said: "I will watch it while you carry the pieces away." Lion gave him the breast, and said: "Take this to my wife." Little Jackal took it to his own wife. When he returned, Lion gave him a shin, and said: "Take this to your wife." Little Jackal took the shin to Lion's house. Lion's wife said: "I cannot take this because it should not come here." Little Jackal thereupon struck Lion's wife in the face, and went back to the place where the ox was killed. Lion gave him a large piece of meat and said: "Take this to my wife." Little Jackal took it to his own wife. This continued till the ox was finished. Then they both went home. When Lion arrived at his house he found there was weeping in his family. His wife said: "Is it you who sent Little Jackal to beat me and my children, and is it you who sent this shin? Did I ever eat a shin?" When Lion heard this he was very angry and at once went to Little Jackal's house. When he reached the rock, Little Jackal looked down and said: "Who are you, and what is your name, and whose son are you, and where are you from, and where are you going to, and whom do you want, and what do you want him for?" Lion replied: "I have merely come to see you. I wish you to let down the rope." Little Jackal let down a rope made of mouse skins, and when Lion climbed a little way up, the rope broke, and he fell and was hurt. He then went home. THE LIONESS AND THE OSTRICH It is said, once a lioness roared, and the ostrich also roared. The lioness went toward the place where the ostrich was. They met. The lioness said to the ostrich, "Please to roar." The ostrich roared. Then the lioness roared. The voices were equal. The lioness said to the ostrich, "You are my match." Then the lioness said to the ostrich, "Let us hunt game together." They saw eland and made toward it. The lioness caught only one; the ostrich killed a great many by striking them with the claw which was on his leg; but the lioness killed only one. When they had met after the hunting they went to the game, and the lioness saw that the ostrich had killed a great deal. Now, the lioness also had young cubs. They went to the shade to rest themselves. The lioness said to the ostrich, "Get up and rip open; let us eat." Said the ostrich, "Go and rip open; I shall eat the blood." The lioness stood up and ripped open, and ate with the cubs. And when she had eaten, the ostrich got up and ate the blood. They went to sleep. The cubs played about. While they were playing, they went to the ostrich, who was asleep. When he went to sleep he also opened his mouth. The young lions saw that the ostrich had no teeth. They went to their mother and said, "This fellow, who says he is your equal, has no teeth; he is insulting you." Then the lioness went to wake the ostrich, and said, "Get up, let us fight"; and they fought. And the ostrich said, "Go to that side of the ant-hill, and I will go to this side of it." The ostrich struck the ant-hill, and sent it toward the lioness. But the second time he struck the lioness in a vulnerable spot, near the liver, and killed her. CROCODILE'S TREASON Crocodile was, in the days when animals still could talk, the acknowledged foreman of all water creatures and if one should judge from appearances one would say that he still is. But in those days it was his especial duty to have a general care of all water animals, and when one year it was exceedingly dry, and the water of the river where they had lived dried up and became scarce, he was forced to make a plan to trek over to another river a short distance from there. He first sent Otter out to spy. He stayed away two days and brought back a report that there was still good water in the other river, real sea-cow holes, that not even a drought of several years could dry up. After he had ascertained this, Crocodile called to his side Tortoise and Alligator. "Look here," said he, "I need you two to-night to carry a report to Lion. So then get ready; the veldt is dry, and you will probably have to travel for a few days without any water. We must make peace with Lion and his subjects, otherwise we utterly perish this year. And he must help us to trek over to the other river, especially past the Boer's farm that lies in between, and to travel unmolested by any of the animals of the veldt, so long as the trek lasts. A fish on land is sometimes a very helpless thing, as you all know." The two had it mighty hard in the burning sun, and on the dry veldt, but eventually they reached Lion and handed him the treaty. "What is going on now?" thought Lion to himself, when he had read it. "I must consult Jackal first," said he. But to the commissioners he gave back an answer that he would be the following evening with his advisers at the appointed place, at the big vaarland willow tree, at the farther end of the hole of water, where Crocodile had his headquarters. When Tortoise and Alligator came back, Crocodile was exceedingly pleased with himself at the turn the case had taken. He allowed Otter and a few others to be present and ordered them on that evening to have ready plenty of fish and other eatables for their guests under the vaarland willow. That evening as it grew dark Lion appeared with Wolf, Jackal, Baboon, and a few other important animals, at the appointed place, and they were received in the most open-hearted manner by Crocodile and the other water creatures. Crocodile was so glad at the meeting of the animals that he now and then let fall a great tear of joy that disappeared into the sand. After the other animals had done well by the fish, Crocodile laid bare to them the condition of affairs and opened up his plan. He wanted only peace among all animals; for they not only destroyed one another, but the Boer, too, would in time destroy them all. The Boer had already stationed at the source of the river no less than three steam pumps to irrigate his land, and the water was becoming scarcer every day. More than this, he took advantage of their unfortunate position by making them sit in the shallow water and then, one after the other, bringing about their death. As Lion was, on this account, inclined to make peace, it was to his glory to take this opportunity and give his hand to these peace-making water creatures, and carry out their part of the contract, namely, escort them from the dried-up water, past the Boer's farm and to the long sea-cow pools. "And what benefit shall we receive from it?" asked Jackal. "Well," answered Crocodile, "the peace made is of great benefit to both sides. We will not exterminate each other. If you desire to come and drink water, you can do so with an easy mind, and not be the least bit nervous that I, or any one of us will seize you by the nose; and so also with all the other animals. And from your side we are to be freed from Elephant, who has the habit, whenever he gets the opportunity, of tossing us with his trunk up into some open and narrow fork of a tree and there allowing us to become biltong." Lion and Jackal stepped aside to consult with one another, and then Lion wanted to know what form of security he would have that Crocodile would keep to his part of the contract. "I stake my word of honor," was the prompt answer from Crocodile, and he let drop a few more long tears of honesty into the sand. Baboon then said it was all square and honest as far as he could see into the case. He thought it was nonsense to attempt to dig pitfalls for one another; because he personally was well aware that his race would benefit somewhat from this contract of peace and friendship. And more than this, they must consider that use must be made of the fast disappearing water, for even in the best of times it was an unpleasant thing to be always carrying your life about in your hands. He would, however, like to suggest to the King that it would be well to have everything put down in writing, so that there would be nothing to regret in case it was needed. Jackal did not want to listen to the agreement. He could not see that it would benefit the animals of the veldt. But Wolf, who had fully satisfied himself with the fish, was in an exceptionally peace-loving mood, and he advised Lion again to close the agreement. After Lion had listened to all his advisers, and also the pleading tones of Crocodile's followers, he held forth in a speech in which he said that he was inclined to enter into the agreement, seeing that it was clear that Crocodile and his subjects were in a very tight place. There and then a document was drawn up, and it was resolved, before midnight, to begin the trek. Crocodile's messengers swam in all directions to summon together the water animals for the trek. Frogs croaked and crickets chirped in the long water grass. It was not long before all the animals had assembled at the vaarland willow. In the meantime Lion had sent out a few despatch riders to his subjects to raise a commando for an escort, and long ere midnight these also were at the vaarland willow in the moonlight. The trek then was regulated by Lion and Jackal. Jackal was to take the lead to act as spy, and when he was able to draw Lion to one side, he said to him: "See here, I do not trust this affair one bit, and I want to tell you straight out, I am going to make tracks! I will spy for you until you reach the sea-cow pool, but I am not going to be the one to await your arrival there." Elephant had to act as advance guard because he could walk so softly and could hear and smell so well. Then came Lion with one division of the animals, then Crocodile's trek with a flank protection of both sides, and Wolf received orders to bring up the rear. Meanwhile, while all this was being arranged, Crocodile was smoothly preparing his treason. He called Yellow Snake to one side and said to him: "It is to our advantage to have these animals, who go among us every day, and who will continue to do so, fall into the hands of the Boer. Listen, now! You remain behind unnoticed, and when you hear me shout you will know that we have arrived safely at the sea-cow pool. Then you must harass the Boer's dogs as much as you can, and the rest will look out for themselves." Thereupon the trek moved on. It was necessary to go very slowly as many of the water animals were not accustomed to the journey on land; but they trekked past the Boer's farm in safety, and toward break of day they were all safely at the sea-cow pool. There most of the water animals disappeared suddenly into the deep water, and Crocodile also began to make preparations to follow their example. With tearful eyes he said to Lion that he was, oh, so thankful for the help, that, from pure relief and joy, he must first give vent to his feelings by a few screams. Thereupon he suited his words to actions so that even the mountains echoed, and then thanked Lion on behalf of his subjects, and purposely continued with a long speech, dwelling on all the benefits both sides would derive from the agreement of peace. Lion was just about to say good day and take his departure, when the first shot fell, and with it Elephant and a few other animals. "I told you all so!" shouted Jackal from the other side of the sea-cow pool. "Why did you allow yourselves to be misled by a few Crocodile tears?" Crocodile had disappeared long ago into the water. All one saw was just a lot of bubbles; and on the banks there was an actual war against the animals. It simply crackled the way the Boers shot them. But most of them, fortunately, came out of it alive. Shortly after, they say, Crocodile received his well-earned reward, when he met a driver with a load of dynamite. And even now when the Elephant gets the chance he pitches them up into the highest forks of the trees. THE STORY OF A DAM There was a great drought in the land; and Lion called together a number of animals so that they might devise a plan for retaining water when the rains fell. The animals which attended at Lion's summons were Baboon, Leopard, Hyena, Jackal, Hare, and Mountain Tortoise. It was agreed that they should scratch a large hole in some suitable place to hold water; and the next day they all began to work, with the exception of Jackal, who continually hovered about in that locality, and was overheard to mutter that he was not going to scratch his nails off in making water holes. When the dam was finished the rains fell, and it was soon filled with water, to the great delight of those who had worked so hard at it. The first one, however, to come and drink there, was Jackal, who not only drank, but filled his clay pot with water, and then proceeded to swim in the rest of the water, making it as muddy and dirty as he could. This was brought to the knowledge of Lion, who was very angry and ordered Baboon to guard the water the next day, armed with a huge knobkirrie. Baboon was concealed in a bush close to the water; but Jackal soon became aware of his presence there, and guessed its cause. Knowing the fondness of baboons for honey, Jackal at once hit upon a plan, and marching to and fro, every now and then dipped his fingers into his clay pot, and licked them with an expression of intense relish, saying, in a low voice to himself, "I don't want any of their dirty water when I have a pot full of delicious honey." This was too much for poor Baboon, whose mouth began to water. He soon began to beg Jackal to give him a little honey, as he had been watching for several hours, and was very hungry and tired. After taking no notice of Baboon at first, Jackal looked round, and said, in a patronizing manner, that he pitied such an unfortunate creature, and would give him some honey on certain conditions, viz., that Baboon should give up his knobkirrie and allow himself to be bound by Jackal. He foolishly agreed; and was soon tied in such a manner that he could not move hand or foot. Jackal now proceeded to drink of the water, to fill his pot, and to swim in the sight of Baboon, from time to time telling him what a foolish fellow he had been to be so easily duped, and that he (Jackal) had no honey or anything else to give him, excepting a good blow on the head every now and then with his own knobkirrie. The animals soon appeared and found poor Baboon in this sorry plight, looking the picture of misery. Lion was so exasperated that he caused Baboon to be severely punished, and to be denounced as a fool. Tortoise hereupon stepped forward, and offered his services for the capture of Jackal. It was at first thought that he was merely joking; but when he explained in what manner he proposed to catch him, his plan was considered so feasible that his offer was accepted. He proposed that a thick coating of "bijenwerk" (a kind of sticky black substance found on beehives) should be spread all over him, and that he should then go and stand at the entrance of the dam, on the water level, so that Jackal might tread upon him and stick fast. This was accordingly done and Tortoise posted there. The next day, when Jackal came, he approached the water very cautiously, and wondered to find no one there. He then ventured to the entrance of the water, and remarked how kind they had been in placing there a large black stepping-stone for him. As soon, however, as he trod upon the supposed stone, he stuck fast, and saw that he had been tricked; for Tortoise now put his head out and began to move. Jackal's hind feet being still free he threatened to smash Tortoise with them if he did not let him go. Tortoise merely answered, "Do as you like." Jackal thereupon made a violent jump, and found, with horror, that his hind feet were now also fast. "Tortoise," said he, "I have still my mouth and teeth left, and will eat you alive if you do not let me go." "Do as you like," Tortoise again replied. Jackal, in his endeavors to free himself, at last made a desperate bite at Tortoise, and found himself fixed, both head and feet. Tortoise, feeling proud of his successful capture, now marched quietly up to the top of the bank with Jackal on his back, so that he could easily be seen by the animals as they came to the water. They were indeed astonished to find how cleverly the crafty Jackal had been caught; and Tortoise was much praised, while the unhappy Baboon was again reminded of his misconduct when set to guard the water. Jackal was at once condemned to death by Lion; and Hyena was to execute the sentence. Jackal pleaded hard for mercy, but finding this useless, he made a last request to Lion (always, as he said, so fair and just in his dealings) that he should not have to suffer a lingering death. Lion inquired of him in what manner he wished to die; and he asked that his tail might be shaved and rubbed with a little fat, and that Hyena might then swing him round twice and dash his brains out upon a stone. This, being considered sufficiently fair by Lion, was ordered by him to be carried out in his presence. When Jackal's tail had been shaved and greased, Hyena caught hold of him with great force, and before he had fairly lifted him from the ground, the cunning Jackal had slipped away from Hyena's grasp, and was running for his life, pursued by all the animals. Lion was the foremost pursuer, and after a great chase Jackal got under an overhanging precipice, and, standing on his hind legs with his shoulders pressed against the rock, called loudly to Lion to help him, as the rock was falling, and would crush them both. Lion put his shoulders to the rock, and exerted himself to the utmost. After some little time Jackal proposed that he should creep slowly out, and fetch a large pole to prop up the rock, so that Lion could get out and save his life. Jackal did creep out, and left Lion there to starve and die. THE DANCE FOR WATER OR RABBIT'S TRIUMPH There was a frightful drought. The rivers after a while dried up and even the springs gave no water. The animals wandered around seeking drink, but to no avail. Nowhere was water to be found. A great gathering of animals was held: Lion, Tiger, Wolf, Jackal, Elephant, all of them came together. What was to be done? That was the question. One had this plan, and another had that; but no plan seemed of value. Finally one of them suggested: "Come, let all of us go to the dry river bed and dance; in that way we can tread out the water." Good! Everyone was satisfied and ready to begin instantly, excepting Rabbit, who said, "I will not go and dance. All of you are mad to attempt to get water from the ground by dancing." The other animals danced and danced, and ultimately danced the water to the surface. How glad they were. Everyone drank as much as he could, but Rabbit did not dance with them. So it was decided that Rabbit should have no water. He laughed at them: "I will nevertheless drink some of your water." That evening he proceeded leisurely to the river bed where the dance had been, and drank as much as he wanted. The following morning the animals saw the footprints of Rabbit in the ground, and Rabbit shouted to them: "Aha! I did have some of the water, and it was most refreshing and tasted fine." Quickly all the animals were called together. What were they to do? How were they to get Rabbit in their hands? All had some means to propose; the one suggested this, and the other that. Finally old Tortoise moved slowly forward, foot by foot: "I will catch Rabbit." "You? How? What do you think of yourself?" shouted the others in unison. "Rub my shell with pitch,[1] and I will go to the edge of the water and lie down. I will then resemble a stone, so that when Rabbit steps on me his feet will stick fast." "Yes! Yes! That's good." And in a one, two, three, Tortoise's shell was covered with pitch, and foot by foot he moved away to the river. At the edge, close to the water, he lay down and drew his head into his shell. Rabbit during the evening came to get a drink. "Ha!" he chuckled sarcastically, "they are, after all, quite decent. Here they have placed a stone, so now I need not unnecessarily wet my feet." Rabbit trod with his left foot on the stone, and there it stuck. Tortoise then put his head out. "Ha! old Tortoise! And it's you, is it, that's holding me. But here I still have another foot. I'll give you a good clout." Rabbit gave Tortoise what he said he would with his right fore foot, hard and straight; and there his foot remained. "I have yet a hind foot, and with it I'll kick you." Rabbit drove his hind foot down. This also rested on Tortoise where it struck. "But still another foot remains, and now I'll tread you." He stamped his foot down, but it stuck like the others. He used his head to hammer Tortoise, and his tail as a whip, but both met the same fate as his feet, so there he was tight and fast down to the pitch. Tortoise now slowly turned himself round and foot by foot started for the other animals, with Rabbit on his back. "Ha! ha! ha! Rabbit! How does it look now? Insolence does not pay after all," shouted the animals. Now advice was sought. What should they do with Rabbit? He certainly must die. But how? One said, "Behead him"; another, "Some severe penalty." "Rabbit, how are we to kill you?" "It does not affect me," Rabbit said. "Only a shameful death please do not pronounce." "And what is that?" they all shouted. "To take me by my tail and dash my head against a stone; that I pray and beseech you don't do." "No, but just so you'll die. That is decided." It was decided Rabbit should die by taking him by his tail and dashing his head to pieces against some stone. But who is to do it? Lion, because he is the most powerful one. Good! Lion should do it. He stood up, walked to the front, and poor Rabbit was brought to him. Rabbit pleaded and beseeched that he couldn't die such a miserable death. Lion took Rabbit firmly by the tail and swung him around. The white skin slipped off from Rabbit, and there Lion stood with the white bit of skin and hair in his paw. Rabbit was free. FOOTNOTES: [1] Black beeswax. JACKAL AND MONKEY Every evening Jackal went to the Boer's kraal. He crept through the sliding door and stole a fat young lamb. This, clever Jackal did several times in succession. Boer set a wip[2] for him at the door. Jackal went again and zip--there he was caught around the body by the noose. He swung and swayed high in the air and couldn't touch ground. The day began to dawn and Jackal became uneasy. On a stone kopje, Monkey sat. When it became light he could see the whole affair, and descended hastily for the purpose of mocking Jackal. He went and sat on the wall. "Ha, ha, good morning. So there you are hanging now, eventually caught." "What? I caught? I am simply swinging for my pleasure; it is enjoyable." "You fibber. You are caught in the wip." "If you but realized how nice it was to swing and sway like this, you wouldn't hesitate. Come, try it a little. You feel so healthy and strong for the day, and you never tire afterwards." "No, I won't. You are caught." After a while Jackal convinced Monkey. He sprang from the kraal wall, and freeing Jackal, adjusted the noose around his own body. Jackal quickly let go and began to laugh, as Monkey was now swinging high in the air. "Ha, ha, ha," he laughed. "Now Monkey is in the wip." "Jackal, free me," he screamed. "There, Boer is coming," shouted Jackal. "Jackal, free me of this, or I'll break your playthings." "No, there Boer is coming with his gun; you rest a while in the noose." "Jackal, quickly make me free." "No, here's Boer already, and he's got his gun. Good morning." And with these parting words he ran away as fast as he could. Boer came and saw Monkey in the wip. "So, so, Monkey, now you are caught. You are the fellow who has been stealing my lambs, hey?" "No, Boer, no," screamed Monkey, "not I, but Jackal." "No, I know you; you aren't too good for that." "No, Boer, no, not I, but Jackal," Monkey stammered. "Oh, I know you. Just wait a little," and Boer, raising his gun, aimed and shot poor Monkey dead. FOOTNOTES: [2] _Wip_: A Dutch word for springle, consisting of a bent green stick, to which a noose is attached at one end; the trap is delicately adjusted by a cross stick, which when trod on releases the bent bough, pulling the noose quickly around the animal and into the air. LION'S SHARE Lion and Jackal went together a-hunting. They shot with arrows. Lion shot first, but his arrow fell short of its aim; but Jackal hit the game, and joyfully cried out, "It has hit." Lion looked at him with his two large eyes; Jackal, however, did not lose his countenance, but said, "No, uncle, I mean to say that you have hit." Then they followed the game, and Jackal passed the arrow of Lion without drawing the latter's attention to it. When they arrived at a crossway, Jackal said: "Dear uncle, you are old and tired; stay here." Jackal went then on a wrong track, beat his nose, and, in returning, let the blood drop from it like traces of game. "I could not find anything," he said, "but I met with traces of blood. You had better go yourself to look for it. In the meantime I shall go this other way." Jackal soon found the killed animal, crept inside of it, and devoured the best portion; but his tail remained outside, and when Lion arrived, he got hold of it, pulled Jackal out, and threw him on the ground with these words: "You rascal!" Jackal rose quickly again, complained of the rough handling, and asked, "What have I now done, dear uncle? I was busy cutting out the best part." "Now let us go and fetch our wives," said Lion, but Jackal entreated his dear uncle to remain at the place because he was old. Jackal then went away, taking with him two portions of the flesh, one for his own wife, but the best part for the wife of Lion. When Jackal arrived with the flesh, the children of Lion, seeing him, began to jump, and clapping their hands, cried out: "There comes cousin with flesh!" Jackal threw, grumbling, the worst portion to them, and said, "There, you brood of the big-eyed one!" Then he went to his own house and told his wife immediately to break up the house, and to go where the killed game was. Lioness wished to do the same, but he forbade her, and said that Lion would himself come to fetch her. When Jackal, with his wife and children, arrived in the neighborhood of the killed animal, he ran into a thorn bush, scratched his face so that it bled, and thus made his appearance before Lion, to whom he said, "Ah! what a wife you have got. Look here, how she scratched my face when I told her that she should come with us. You must fetch her yourself; I cannot bring her." Lion went home very angry. Then Jackal said, "Quick, let us build a tower." They heaped stone upon stone, stone upon stone, stone upon stone; and when it was high enough, everything was carried to the top of it. When Jackal saw Lion approaching with his wife and children, he cried out to him: "Uncle, whilst you were away we have built a tower, in order to be better able to see game." "All right," said Lion; "but let me come up to you." "Certainly, dear uncle; but how will you manage to come up? We must let down a thong for you." Lion tied the thong around his body and Jackal began drawing him up, but when nearly to the top Jackal cried to Lion, "My, uncle, how heavy you are!" Then, unseen by Lion, he cut the thong. Lion fell to the ground, while Jackal began loudly and angrily to scold his wife, and then said, "Go, wife, fetch me a new thong"--"an old one," he said aside to her. Lion again tied himself to the thong, and, just as he was near the top, Jackal cut the thong as before; Lion fell heavily to the bottom, groaning aloud, as he had been seriously hurt. "No," said Jackal, "that will never do: you must, however, manage to come up high enough so that you may get a mouthful at least." Then aloud he ordered his wife to prepare a good piece, but aside he told her to make a stone hot, and to cover it with fat. Then he drew Lion up once more, and complaining how heavy he was to hold, told him to open his mouth, and thereupon threw the hot stone down his throat. Lion fell to the ground and lay there pleading for water, while Jackal climbed down and made his escape. JACKAL'S BRIDE Jackal, it is said, married Hyena, and carried off a cow belonging to the ants, to slaughter her for the wedding; and when he had slaughtered her, he put the cowskin over his bride; and when he had fixed a pole (on which to hang the flesh), he placed on the top of the pole (which was forked) the hearth for the cooking, in order to cook upon it all sorts of delicious food. There came also Lion, and wished to go up. Jackal, therefore, asked his little daughter for a thong with which he could pull Lion up; and he began to pull him up; and when his face came near to the cooking-pot, he cut the thong in two, so that Lion tumbled down. Then Jackal upbraided his little daughter with these words: "Why do you give me such an old thong?" And he added, "Give me a fresh thong." She gave him a new thong, and he pulled Lion up again, and when his face came near the pot, which stood on the fire, he said, "open your mouth." Then he put into his mouth a hot piece of quartz which had been boiled together with the fat, and the stone went down, burning his throat. Thus died Lion. There came also the ants running after the cow, and when Jackal saw them he fled. Then they beat the bride in her brookaross dress. Hyena, believing that it was Jackal, said: "You tawny rogue! have you not played at beating long enough? Have you no more loving game than this?" But when she had bitten a hole through the cowskin, she saw that they were other people; then she fled, falling here and there, yet made her escape. THE STORY OF HARE Once upon a time the animals made a kraal and put some fat in it. They agreed that one of their number should remain to be the keeper of the gate. The first one that was appointed was the coney (imbila). He agreed to take charge, and all the others went away. In a short time the coney fell asleep, when the inkalimeva (a fabulous animal) went in and ate all the fat. After doing this, he threw a little stone at the coney. The coney started up and cried out: "The fat belonging to all the animals has been eaten by the inkalimeva." It repeated this cry several times, calling out very loudly. The animals at a distance heard it, they ran to the kraal, and when they saw that the fat was gone they killed the coney. They put fat in the kraal a second time, and appointed the muishond (ingaga) to keep the gate. The muishond consented, and the animals went away as before. After a little time the inkalimeva came to the kraal, bringing some honey with it. It invited the keeper of the gate to eat honey, and while the muishond was enjoying himself the inkalimeva went in and stole all the fat. It threw a stone at the muishond, which caused him to look up. The muishond cried out: "The fat belonging to all the animals has been eaten by the inkalimeva." As soon as the animals heard the cry, they ran to the kraal and killed the muishond. They put fat in the kraal a third time, and appointed the duiker (impunzi) to be the keeper of the gate. The duiker agreed, and the others went away. In a short time the inkalimeva made its appearance. It proposed to the duiker that they should play hide and look for. The duiker agreed to this. Then the inkalimeva hid itself, and the duiker looked for it till he was so tired that he lay down and went to sleep. When the duiker was asleep, the inkalimeva ate up all the fat. Then it threw a stone at the duiker, which caused him to jump up and cry out: "The fat belonging to all the animals has been eaten by the inkalimeva." The animals, when they heard the cry, ran to the kraal and killed the duiker. They put fat in the kraal the fourth time, and appointed the bluebuck (inputi) to be the keeper of the gate. When the animals went away, the inkalimeva came as before. It said: "What are you doing by yourself?" The bluebuck answered: "I am watching the fat belonging to all the animals." The inkalimeva said: "I will be your companion. Come, let us scratch each other's heads." The bluebuck agreed to this. The inkalimeva sat down and scratched the head of the other till he went to sleep. Then it arose and ate all the fat. When it had finished, it threw a stone at the bluebuck and awakened him. The bluebuck saw what had happened and cried out: "The fat belonging to all the animals has been eaten by the inkalimeva." Then the animals ran up and killed the bluebuck also. They put fat in the kraal the fifth time, and appointed the porcupine (incanda) to be the keeper of the gate. The animals went away, and the inkalimeva came as before. It said to the porcupine, "Let us run a race against each other." It let the porcupine beat in this race. Then it said, "I did not think you could run so fast, but let us try again." They ran again, and it allowed the porcupine to beat the second time. They ran till the porcupine was so tired that he said, "Let us rest now." They sat down to rest, and the porcupine went to sleep. Then the inkalimeva rose up and ate all the fat. When it had finished eating, it threw a stone at the porcupine, which caused him to jump up. He called out with a loud voice, "The fat belonging to all the animals has been eaten by the inkalimeva." Then the animals came running up and put the porcupine to death. They put fat in the kraal the sixth time, and selected the hare (umvundla) to be the keeper of the gate. At first the hare would not consent. He said, "The coney is dead, and the muishond is dead, and the duiker is dead, and the bluebuck is dead, and the porcupine is dead, and you will kill me also." They promised him that they would not kill him, and after a good deal of persuasion he at last agreed to keep the gate. When the animals were gone he laid himself down, but he only pretended to be asleep. In a short time the inkalimeva went in, and was just going to take the fat when the hare cried out: "Let the fat alone." The inkalimeva said, "Please let me have this little bit only." The hare answered, mocking, "Please let me have this little bit only." After that they became companions. The hare proposed that they should fasten each other's tail, and the inkalimeva agreed. The inkalimeva fastened the tail of the hare first. The hare said, "Don't tie my tail so tight." Then the hare fastened the tail of the inkalimeva. The inkalimeva said, "Don't tie my tail so tight," but the hare made no answer. After tying the tail of the inkalimeva very fast, the hare took his club and killed it. The hare took the tail of the inkalimeva and ate it, all except a little piece which he hid in the fence. Then he called out, "The fat belonging to all the animals has been eaten by the inkalimeva." The animals came running back, and when they saw that the inkalimeva was dead they rejoiced greatly. They asked the hare for the tail, which should be kept for the chief. The hare replied, "The one I killed had no tail." They said, "How can an inkalimeva be without a tail?" They began to search, and at length they found a piece of the tail in the fence. They told the chief that the hare had eaten the tail. He said, "Bring him to me!" All the animals ran after the hare, but he fled, and they could not catch him. The hare ran into a hole, at the mouth of which the animals set a snare, and then went away. The hare remained in the hole for many days, but at length he managed to get out without being caught. He went to a place where he found a bushbuck (imbabala) building a hut. There was a pot with meat in it on the fire. He said to the bushbuck, "Can I take this little piece of meat?" The bushbuck answered, "You must not do it." But he took the meat and ate it all. Afterwards he whistled in a particular manner, and there fell a storm of hail which killed the bushbuck. Then he took the skin of the bushbuck, and made for himself a mantle. After this the hare went into the forest to procure some weapons to fight with. While he was cutting a stick the monkeys threw leaves upon him. He called to them to come down and beat him. They came down, but he killed them all with his weapons. THE WHITE MAN AND SNAKE A white man, it is said, met Snake upon whom a large stone had fallen and covered her so that she could not rise. The White Man lifted the stone off Snake, but when he had done so, she wanted to bite him. The White Man said, "Stop! let us both go first to some wise people." They went to Hyena, and the White Man asked him, "Is it right that Snake should want to bite me, when I helped her as she lay under a stone and could not rise?" Hyena (who thought he would get his share of the White Man's body) said, "If you were bitten what would it matter?" Then Snake wanted to bite him, but the White Man said again, "Wait a little, and let us go to other wise people, that I may hear whether this is right." They went and met Jackal. The White Man said to Jackal, "Is it right for Snake to want to bite me, when I lifted up the stone which lay upon her?" Jackal replied, "I do not believe that Snake could be covered by a stone so she could not rise. Unless I saw it with my two eyes, I would not believe it. Therefore, come let us go and see the place where you say it happened whether it can be true." They went, and arrived at the place where it had happened. Jackal said, "Snake, lie down, and let thyself be covered." Snake did so, and the White Man covered her with the stone; but although she exerted herself very much, she could not rise. Then the White Man wanted again to release Snake, but Jackal interfered, and said, "Do not lift the stone. She wanted to bite you, therefore she may rise by herself." Then they both went away and left Snake under the stone. ANOTHER VERSION OF THE SAME FABLE A Dutchman was walking by himself and saw Snake lying under a large stone. Snake implored his help; but when she had become free she said, "Now I shall eat you." The Man answered, "That is not right. Let us first go to Hare." When Hare had heard the affair, he said, "It is right." "No," said the Man, "let us ask Hyena." Hyena declared the same, saying, "It is right." "Now let us ask Jackal," said the Man in his despair. Jackal answered very slowly and considerately, doubting the whole affair, and demanding to see first the place, and whether the Man was able to lift the stone. Snake lay down, and the Man, to prove the truth of his account, put the stone again over her. When she was fast, Jackal said, "Now let her lie there." CLOUD-EATING Jackal and Hyena were together, it is said, when a white cloud rose. Jackal descended upon it, and ate of the cloud as if it were fat. When he wanted to come down, he said to Hyena, "My sister, as I am going to divide with thee, catch me well." So she caught him, and broke his fall. Then she also went up and ate there, high up on the top of the cloud. When she was satisfied, she said, "My greyish brother, now catch me well." The greyish rogue said to his friend, "My sister, I shall catch thee well. Come therefore down." He held up his hands, and she came down from the cloud, and when she was near, Jackal cried out (painfully jumping to one side), "My sister, do not take it ill. Oh me! Oh me! A thorn has pricked me and sticks in me." Thus she fell down from above, and was sadly hurt. Since that day, it is said that Hyena's hind feet have been shorter and smaller than the front ones. LION'S ILLNESS Lion, it is said, was ill, and they all went to see him in his suffering. But Jackal did not go, because the traces of the people who went to see him did not turn back. Thereupon, he was accused by Hyena, who said, "Though I go to look, yet Jackal does not want to come and look at the man's sufferings." Then Lion let Hyena go, in order that she might catch Jackal; and she did so, and brought him. Lion asked Jackal: "Why did you not come here to see me?" Jackal said, "Oh, no! when I heard that my uncle was so very ill, I went to the witch (doctor) to consult him, whether and what medicine would be good for my uncle against the pain. The doctor said to me, 'Go and tell your uncle to take hold of Hyena and draw off her skin, and put it on while it is still warm. Then he will recover.' Hyena is one who does not care for my uncle's sufferings." Lion followed his advice, got hold of Hyena, drew the skin over her ears, whilst she howled with all her might, and put it on. JACKAL, DOVE, AND HERON Jackal, it is said, came once to Dove, who lived on the top of a rock, and said, "Give me one of your little ones." Dove answered, "I shall not do anything of the kind." Jackal said, "Give me it at once! Otherwise, I shall fly up to you." Then she threw one down to him. He came back another day and demanded another little one, and she gave it to him. After Jackal had gone, Heron came, and asked, "Dove, why do you cry?" Dove answered him, "Jackal has taken away my little ones; it is for this that I cry." He asked her, "In what manner did he take them?" She answered him, "When he asked me I refused him; but when he said, 'I shall at once fly up, therefore give me it,' I threw it down to him." Heron said, "Are you such a fool as to give your young ones to Jackal, who cannot fly?" Then, with the admonition to give no more, he went away. Jackal came again, and said, "Dove, give me a little one." Dove refused, and told him that Heron had told her that he could not fly up. Jackal said, "I shall catch him." So when Heron came to the banks of the water, Jackal asked him: "Brother Heron, when the wind comes from this side, how will you stand?" He turned his neck towards him and said, "I stand thus, bending my neck on one side." Jackal asked him again, "When a storm comes and when it rains, how do you stand?" He said to him: "I stand thus, indeed, bending my neck down." Then Jackal beat him on his neck, and broke his neck in the middle. Since that day Heron's neck is bent. COCK AND JACKAL Cock, it is said, was once overtaken by Jackal, and caught. Cock said to Jackal, "Please, pray first (before you kill me), as the white man does." Jackal asked, "In what manner does he pray? Tell me." "He folds his hands in praying," said Cock. Jackal folded his hands and prayed. Then Cock spoke again: "You ought not to look about you as you do. You had better shut your eyes." He did so; and Cock flew away, upbraiding at the same time Jackal with these words, "You rogue! do you also pray?" There sat Jackal, speechless, because he had been outdone. ELEPHANT AND TORTOISE Two powers, Elephant and Rain, had a dispute. Elephant said, "If you say that you nourish me, in what way is it that you say so?" Rain answered, "If you say that I do not nourish you, when I go away, will you not die?" And Rain then departed. Elephant said, "Vulture! cast lots to make rain for me." Vulture said, "I will not cast lots." Then Elephant said to Crow, "Cast lots!" who answered, "Give the things with which I may cast lots." Crow cast lots and rain fell. It rained at the lagoons, but they dried up, and only one lagoon remained. Elephant went a-hunting. There was, however, Tortoise, to whom Elephant said, "Tortoise, remain at the water!" Thus Tortoise was left behind when Elephant went a-hunting. There came Giraffe, and said to Tortoise, "Give me water!" Tortoise answered, "The water belongs to Elephant." There came Zebra, who said to Tortoise, "Give me water!" Tortoise answered, "The water belongs to Elephant." There came Gemsbok, and said to Tortoise, "Give me water!" Tortoise answered, "The water belongs to Elephant." There came Wildebeest, and said, "Give me water!" Tortoise said, "The water belongs to Elephant." There came Roodebok, and said to Tortoise, "Give me water!" Tortoise answered, "The water belongs to Elephant." There came Springbok, and said to Tortoise, "Give me water!" Tortoise said, "The water belongs to Elephant." There came Jackal, and said to Tortoise, "Give me water!" Tortoise said, "The water belongs to Elephant." There came Lion, and said, "Little Tortoise, give me water!" When little Tortoise was about to say something, Lion got hold of him and beat him; Lion drank of the water, and since then the animals drink water. When Elephant came back from the hunting, he said, "Little Tortoise, is there water?" Tortoise answered, "The animals have drunk the water." Elephant asked, "Little Tortoise, shall I chew you or swallow you down?" Little Tortoise said, "Swallow me, if you please!" and Elephant swallowed him whole. After Elephant had swallowed Little Tortoise, and he had entered his body, he tore off his liver, heart, and kidneys. Elephant said, "Little Tortoise, you kill me." So Elephant died; but little Tortoise came out of his dead body, and went wherever he liked. ANOTHER VERSION OF THE SAME FABLE Giraffe and Tortoise, they say, met one day. Giraffe said to Tortoise, "At once I could trample you to death." Tortoise, being afraid, remained silent. Then Giraffe said, "At once I could swallow you." Tortoise said, in answer to this, "Well, I just belong to the family of those whom it has always been customary to swallow." Then Giraffe swallowed Tortoise; but when the latter was being gulped down, he stuck in Giraffe's throat, and as the latter could not get it down, he was choked to death. When Giraffe was dead, Tortoise crawled out and went to Crab (who is considered as the mother of Tortoise), and told her what had happened. Then Crab said: "The little Crab! I could sprinkle it under its arm with Boochoo,[3] The crooked-legged little one, I could sprinkle under its arm." Tortoise answered its mother and said: "Have you not always sprinkled me, That you want to sprinkle me now?" Then they went and fed for a whole year on the remains of Giraffe. FOOTNOTES: [3] (In token of approval, according to a Hottentot custom.) TORTOISES HUNTING OSTRICHES One day, it is said, the Tortoises held a council how they might hunt Ostriches, and they said, "Let us, on both sides, stand in rows near each other, and let one go to hunt the Ostriches, so that they must flee along through the midst of us." They did so, and as they were many, the Ostriches were obliged to run along through the midst of them. During this they did not move, but, remaining always in the same places, called each to the other, "Are you there?" and each one answered, "I am here." The Ostriches hearing this, ran so tremendously that they quite exhausted their strength, and fell down. Then the Tortoises assembled by-and-by at the place where the Ostriches had fallen, and devoured them. THE JUDGMENT OF BABOON One day, it is said, the following story happened: Mouse had torn the clothes of Itkler (the tailor), who then went to Baboon, and accused Mouse with these words: "In this manner I come to thee: Mouse has torn my clothes, but will not know anything of it, and accuses Cat; Cat protests likewise her innocence, and says, 'Dog must have done it'; but Dog denies it also, and declares Wood has done it; and Wood throws the blame on Fire, and says, 'Fire did it'; Fire says, 'I have not, Water did it'; Water says, 'Elephant tore the clothes'; and Elephant says, 'Ant tore them.' Thus a dispute has arisen among them. Therefore, I, Itkler, come to thee with this proposition: Assemble the people and try them in order that I may get satisfaction." Thus he spake, and Baboon assembled them for trial. Then they made the same excuses which had been mentioned by Itkler, each one putting the blame upon the other. So Baboon did not see any other way of punishing them, save through making them punish each other; he therefore said, "Mouse, give Itkler satisfaction." Mouse, however, pleaded not guilty. But Baboon said, "Cat, bite Mouse." She did so. He then put the same question to Cat, and when she exculpated herself, Baboon called to Dog, "Here, bite Cat." In this manner Baboon questioned them all, one after the other, but they each denied the charge. Then he addressed the following words to them, and said, "Wood, beat Dog. Fire, burn Wood. Water, quench Fire. Elephant, drink Water. Ant, bite Elephant in his most tender parts." They did so, and since that day they cannot any longer agree with each other. Ant enters into Elephant's most tender parts and bites him. Elephant swallows Water. Water quenches Fire. Fire consumes Wood. Wood beats Dog. Dog bites Cat. And Cat bites Mouse. Through this judgment Itkler got satisfaction and addressed Baboon in the following manner: "Yes! Now I am content, since I have received satisfaction, and with all my heart I thank thee, Baboon, because thou hast exercised justice on my behalf and given me redress." Then Baboon said, "From to-day I will not any longer be called Jan, but Baboon shall be my name." Since that time Baboon walks on all fours, having probably lost the privilege of walking erect through this foolish judgment. LION AND BABOON Baboon, it is said, once worked bamboos, sitting on the edge of a precipice, and Lion stole upon him. Baboon, however, had fixed some round, glistening, eye-like plates on the back of his head. When, therefore, Lion crept upon him, he thought, when Baboon was looking at him, that he sat with his back towards him, and crept with all his might upon him. When, however, Baboon turned his back towards him, Lion thought that he was seen, and hid himself. Thus, when Baboon looked at him, he crept upon him.[4] When he was near him Baboon looked up, and Lion continued to creep upon him. Baboon said (aside), "Whilst I am looking at him he steals upon me, whilst my hollow eyes are on him." When at last Lion sprung at him, he lay (quickly) down upon his face, and Lion jumped over him, falling down the precipice, and was dashed to pieces. FOOTNOTES: [4] Whilst Baboon did this, Lion came close upon him. THE ZEBRA STALLION The Baboons, it is said, used to disturb the Zebra Mares in drinking. But one of the Mares became the mother of a foal. The others then helped her to suckle (the young stallion), that he might soon grow up. When he was grown up and they were in want of water, he brought them to the water. The Baboons, seeing this, came, as they formerly were used to do, into their way, and kept them from the water. While the Mares stood thus, the Stallion stepped forward, and spoke to one of the Baboons, "Thou gum-eater's child!" The Baboon said to the Stallion, "Please open thy mouth, that I may see what thou livest on." The Stallion opened his mouth, and it was milky. Then the Stallion said to the Baboon, "Please open thy mouth also, that I may see." The Baboon did so, and there was some gum in it. But the Baboon quickly licked some milk off the Stallion's tongue. The Stallion on this became angry, took the Baboon by his shoulders, and pressed him upon a hot, flat rock. Since that day the Baboon has a bald place on his back. The Baboon said, lamenting, "I, my mother's child, I, the gum-eater, am outdone by this milk-eater!" WHEN LION COULD FLY Lion, it is said, used once to fly, and at that time nothing could live before him. As he was unwilling that the bones of what he caught should be broken into pieces, he made a pair of White Crows watch the bones, leaving them behind at the kraal whilst he went a-hunting. But one day Great Frog came there, broke the bones in pieces, and said, "Why can men and animals live no longer?" And he added these words, "When he comes, tell him that I live at yonder pool; if he wishes to see me, he must come there." Lion, lying in wait (for game), wanted to fly up, but found he could not fly. Then he got angry, thinking that at the kraal something was wrong, and returned home. When he arrived he asked, "What have you done that I cannot fly?" Then they answered and said, "Some one came here, broke the bones into pieces, and said, 'If he want me, he may look for me at yonder pool!'" Lion went, and arrived while Frog was sitting at the water's edge, and he tried to creep stealthily upon him. When he was about to get hold of him, Frog said, "Ho!" and, diving, went to the other side of the pool, and sat there. Lion pursued him; but as he could not catch him he returned home. From that day, it is said, Lion walked on his feet, and also began to creep upon (his game); and the White Crows became entirely dumb since the day that they said, "Nothing can be said of that matter." LION WHO THOUGHT HIMSELF WISER THAN HIS MOTHER It is said that when Lion and Gurikhoisip (the Only man), together with Baboon, Buffalo, and other friends, were playing one day at a certain game, there was a thunderstorm and rain at Aroxaams. Lion and Gurikhoisip began to quarrel. "I shall run to the rain-field," said Lion. Gurikhoisip said also, "I shall run to the rain-field." As neither would concede this to the other, they separated (angrily). After they had parted, Lion went to tell his Mother those things which they had both said. His Mother said to him, "My son! that Man whose head is in a line with his shoulders and breast, who has pinching weapons, who keeps white dogs, who goes about wearing the tuft of a tiger's tail, beware of him!" Lion, however, said, "Why need I be on my guard against those whom I know?" Lioness answered, "My Son, take care of him who has pinching weapons!" But Lion would not follow his Mother's advice, and the same morning, when it was still pitch dark, he went to Aroxaams, and laid himself in ambush. Gurikhoisip went also that morning to the same place. When he had arrived he let his dogs drink, and then bathe. After they had finished they wallowed. Then also Man drank; and, when he had done drinking, Lion came out of the bush. Dogs surrounded him as his Mother had foretold, and he was speared by Gurikhoisip. Just as he became aware that he was speared, the Dogs drew him down again. In this manner he grew faint. While he was in this state, Gurikhoisip said to the Dogs, "Let him alone now, that he may go and be taught by his Mother." So the Dogs let him go. They left him, and went home as he lay there. The same night he walked towards home, but whilst he was on the way his strength failed him, and he lamented: "Mother! take me up! Grandmother! take me up! Oh me! Alas!" At the dawn of day his Mother heard his wailing, and said-- "My Son, this is the thing which I have told thee: "'Beware of the one who has pinching weapons, Who wears a tuft of tiger's tail, Of him who has white dogs! Alas! thou son of her who is short-eared, Thou, my short-eared child! Son of her who eats raw flesh, Thou flesh-devourer; Son of her whose nostrils are red from the prey, Thou with blood-stained nostrils! Son of her who drinks pit-water, Thou water-drinker!'" LION WHO TOOK A WOMAN'S SHAPE Some Women, it is said, went out to seek roots and herbs and other wild food. On their way home they sat down and said, "Let us taste the food of the field." Now they found that the food picked by one of them was sweet, while that of the others was bitter. The latter said to each other, "Look here! this Woman's herbs are sweet." Then they said to the owner of the sweet food, "Throw it away and seek for other." So she threw away the food, and went to gather more. When she had collected a sufficient supply, she returned to join the other Women, but could not find them. She went therefore down to the river, where Hare sat lading water, and said to him, "Hare, give me some water that I may drink." But he replied, "This is the cup out of which my uncle (Lion) and I alone may drink." She asked again: "Hare, draw water for me that I may drink." But Hare made the same reply. Then she snatched the cup from him and drank, but he ran home to tell his uncle of the outrage which had been committed. The Woman meanwhile replaced the cup and went away. After she had departed Lion came down, and, seeing her in the distance, pursued her on the road. When she turned round and saw him coming, she sang in the following manner: "My mother, she would not let me seek herbs, Herbs of the field, food from the field. Hoo!" When Lion at last came up with the Woman, they hunted each other round a shrub. She wore many beads and arm-rings, and Lion said, "Let me put them on!" So she lent them to him, but he afterwards refused to return them to her. They then hunted each other again round the shrub, till Lion fell down, and the Woman jumped upon him, and kept him there. Lion (uttering a form of conjuration) said: "My Aunt! it is morning, and time to rise; Pray, rise from me!" She then rose from him, and they hunted again after each other round the shrub, till the Woman fell down, and Lion jumped upon her. She then addressed him: "My Uncle! it is morning, and time to rise; Pray, rise from me!" He rose, of course, and they hunted each other again, till Lion fell a second time. When she jumped upon him he said: "My Aunt! it is morning, and time to rise; Pray, rise from me!" They rose again and hunted after each other. The Woman at last fell down. But this time when she repeated the above conjuration, Lion said: "Hè Kha! Is it morning, and time to rise?" He then ate her, taking care, however, to leave her skin whole, which he put on, together with her dress and ornaments, so that he looked quite like a woman, and then went home to her kraal. When this counterfeit woman arrived, her little sister, crying, said, "My sister, pour some milk out for me." She answered, "I shall not pour you out any." Then the Child addressed their Mother: "Mama, do pour out some for me." The Mother of the kraal said, "Go to your sister, and let her give it to you!" The little Child said again to her sister, "Please, pour out for me!" She, however, repeated her refusal, saying, "I will not do it." Then the Mother of the kraal said to the little One, "I refused to let her (the elder sister) seek herbs in the field, and I do not know what may have happened; go therefore to Hare, and ask him to pour out for you." So then Hare gave her some milk; but her elder sister said, "Come and share it with me." The little Child then went to her sister with her bamboo (cup), and they both sucked the milk out of it. Whilst they were doing this, some milk was spilt on the little one's hand, and the elder sister licked it up with her tongue, the roughness of which drew blood; this, too, the Woman licked up. The little Child complained to her Mother: "Mama, sister pricks holes in me and sucks the blood." The Mother said, "With what Lion's nature your sister went the way that I forbade her, and returned, I do not know." Now the Cows arrived, and the elder sister cleansed the pails in order to milk them. But when she approached the Cows with a thong (in order to tie their fore-legs), they all refused to be milked by her. Hare said, "Why do not you stand before the Cow?" She replied, "Hare, call your brother, and do you two stand before the Cow." Her husband said, "What has come over her that the Cows refuse her? These are the same Cows she always milks." The Mother (of the kraal) said, "What has happened this evening? These are Cows which she always milks without assistance. What can have affected her that she comes home as a woman with a Lion's nature?" The elder daughter then said to her Mother, "I shall not milk the Cows." With these words she sat down. The Mother said therefore to Hare, "Bring me the bamboos, that I may milk. I do not know what has come over the girl." So the Mother herself milked the cows, and when she had done so, Hare brought the bamboos to the young wife's house, where her husband was, but she (the wife) did not give him (her husband) anything to eat. But when at night time she fell asleep, they saw some of the Lion's hair, which was hanging out where he had slipped on the Woman's skin, and they cried, "Verily! this is quite another being. It is for this reason that the Cows refused to be milked." Then the people of the kraal began to break up the hut in which Lion lay asleep. When they took off the mats, they said (conjuring them), "If thou art favourably inclined to me, O Mat, give the sound 'sawa'" (meaning, making no noise). To the poles (on which the hut rested) they said, "If thou art favourably inclined to me, O Pole, thou must give the sound 'gara.'" They addressed also the bamboos and the bed-skins in a similar manner. Thus gradually and noiselessly they removed the hut and all its contents. Then they took bunches of grass, put them over the Lion, and lighting them, said, "If thou art favourably inclined to me, O Fire, thou must flare up, 'boo boo,' before thou comest to the heart." So the Fire flared up when it came towards the heart, and the heart of the Woman jumped upon the ground. The Mother (of the kraal) picked it up, and put it into a calabash. Lion, from his place in the fire, said to the Mother (of the kraal), "How nicely I have eaten your daughter." The Woman answered, "You have also now a comfortable place!" Now the Woman took the first milk of as many Cows as had calves, and put it into the calabash where her daughter's heart was; the calabash increased in size, and in proportion to this the girl grew again inside it. One day, when the Mother (of the kraal) went out to fetch wood, she said to Hare, "By the time that I come back you must have everything nice and clean." But during her Mother's absence, the girl crept out of the calabash, and put the hut in good order, as she had been used to do in former days, and said to Hare, "When Mother comes back and asks, 'Who has done these things?' you must say, 'I, Hare, did them.'" After she had done all, she hid herself on the stage. When the Mother of the kraal came home, she said, "Hare, who has done these things? They look just as they used when my daughter did them." Hare said, "I did the things." But the Mother would not believe it, and looked at the calabash. Seeing it was empty, she searched the stage and found her daughter. Then she embraced and kissed her, and from that day the girl stayed with her Mother, and did everything as she was wont in former times; but she now remained unmarried. WHY HAS JACKAL A LONG BLACK STRIPE ON HIS BACK? The Sun, it is said, was one day on earth, and the men who were travelling saw him sitting by the wayside, but passed him without notice. Jackal, however, who came after them, and saw him also sitting, went to him and said, "Such a fine little child is left behind by the men." He then took Sun up, and put it into his awa-skin (on his back). When it burnt him, he said, "Get down," and shook himself; but Sun stuck fast to his back, and burnt Jackal's back black from that day. HORSE CURSED BY SUN It is said that once Sun was on earth, and caught Horse to ride it. But it was unable to bear his weight, and therefore Ox took the place of Horse, and carried Sun on its back. Since that time Horse is cursed in these words, because it could not carry Sun's weight: "From to-day thou shalt have a (certain) time of dying. This is thy curse, that thou hast a (certain) time of dying. And day and night shalt thou eat, But the desire of thy heart shall not be at rest, Though thou grazest till morning and again until sunset. Behold, this is the judgment which I pass upon thee," said Sun. Since that day Horse's (certain) time of dying commenced. LION'S DEFEAT The wild animals, it is said, were once assembled at Lion's. When Lion was asleep, Jackal persuaded Little Fox to twist a rope of ostrich sinews, in order to play Lion a trick. They took ostrich sinews, twisted them, and fastened the rope to Lion's tail, and the other end of the rope they tied to a shrub. When Lion awoke, and saw that he was tied up, he became angry, and called the animals together. When they had assembled, Lion said (using this form of conjuration)-- "What child of his mother and father's love, Whose mother and father's love has tied me?" Then answered the animal to whom the question was first put-- "I, child of my mother and father's love, I, mother and father's love, I have not done it." All answered the same; but when he asked Little Fox, Little Fox said-- "I, child of my mother and father's love, I, mother and father's love, have tied thee!" Then Lion tore the rope made of sinews, and ran after Little Fox. But Jackal said: "My boy, thou son of lean Mrs. Fox, thou wilt never be caught." Truly Lion was thus beaten in running by Little Fox. THE ORIGIN OF DEATH The Moon, it is said, sent once an Insect to Men, saying, "Go thou to Men, and tell them, 'As I die, and dying live, so ye shall also die, and dying live.'" The Insect started with the message, but whilst on his way was overtaken by the Hare, who asked: "On what errand art thou bound?" The Insect answered: "I am sent by the Moon to Men, to tell them that as she dies, and dying lives, they also shall die, and dying live." The Hare said, "As thou art an awkward runner, let me go" (to take the message). With these words he ran off, and when he reached Men, he said, "I am sent by the Moon to tell you, 'As I die, and dying perish, in the same manner ye shall also die and come wholly to an end.'" Then the Hare returned to the Moon, and told her what he had said to Men. The Moon reproached him angrily, saying, "Darest thou tell the people a thing which I have not said?" With these words she took up a piece of wood, and struck him on the nose. Since that day the Hare's nose is slit. ANOTHER VERSION OF THE SAME FABLE The Moon dies, and rises to life again. The Moon said to the Hare, "Go thou to Men, and tell them, 'Like as I die and rise to life again, so you also shall die and rise to life again.'" The Hare went to the Men, and said, "Like as I die and do not rise to life again, so you shall also die, and not rise to life again." When he returned the Moon asked "What hast thou said?" "I have told them, 'Like as I die and do not rise to life again, so you shall also die and not rise to life again.'" "What," said the Moon, "hast thou said that?" And she took a stick and beat the Hare on his mouth, which was slit by the blow. The Hare fled, and is still fleeing. A THIRD VERSION OF THE SAME FABLE The Moon, on one occasion, sent the Hare to the earth to inform Men that as she (the Moon) died away and rose again, so mankind should die and rise again. Instead, however, of delivering this message as given, the Hare, either out of forgetfulness or malice, told mankind that as the Moon rose and died away, so Man should die and rise no more. The Hare, having returned to the Moon, was questioned as to the message delivered, and the Moon, having heard the true state of the case, became so enraged with him that she took up a hatchet to split his head; falling short, however, of that, the hatchet fell upon the upper lip of the Hare, and cut it severely. Hence it is that we see the "Hare-lip." The Hare, being duly incensed at having received such treatment, raised his claws, and scratched the Moon's face; and the dark spots which we now see on the surface of the Moon are the scars which she received on that occasion. A FOURTH VERSION OF THE SAME FABLE The Moon, they say, wished to send a message to Men, and the Hare said that he would take it. "Run, then," said the Moon, "and tell Men that as I die and am renewed, so shall they also be renewed." But the Hare deceived Men, and said, "As I die and perish, so shall you also." A ZULU VERSION OF THE LEGEND OF THE "ORIGIN OF DEATH" God (Unknlunkuln) arose from beneath (the seat of the spiritual world, according to the Zulu idea), and created in the beginning men, animals, and all things. He then sent for the Chameleon, and said, "Go, Chameleon, and tell Men that they shall not die." The Chameleon went, but it walked slowly, and loitered on the way, eating of a shrub called Bukwebezane. When it had been away some time, God sent the Salamander after it, ordering him to make haste and tell Men that they should die. The Salamander went on his way with this message, outran the Chameleon, and, arriving first where the Men were, told them that they must die. LITERATURE Geschiedenis van Zuid Afrika Geo. McCall Theal Kafir Folk-lore Geo. McCall Theal 1882 African Native Literature S. W. Koelle 1854 South African Folk-lore Journal Hottentot Fables and Tales W. H. I. Bleek 1864 An expedition of Discovery into the Interior of Africa James Alexander 1838 South Africa a Century Ago Anna Barnard 1901 An account of travels into the interior of South Africa John Barrow 1802 Travels in South Africa John Campbell 1816 The Childhood of Man Leo Frobenius 1909 Travels and Adventure in Eastern Africa Nathaniel Isaacs 1836 Narrative of Discovery and Adventure in Africa Jameson, etc. 1830 Voyage dans L'intérieur de l'Afrique F. Le Vaillant 1796 Missionary Travels and Researches in South Africa D. Livingstone 1858 Scenes in Africa Capt. Marryat 1851 Missionary Labors and Scenes in South Africa R. Moffat 1845 A New Gazetteer of the Asia, Africa, etc., Continents J. Morse 1802 South African Native S. A. Native Races Races Committee 1909 Researches into the Physical History of Mankind J. C. Prichard 1841 Memorials of South Africa B. Shaw 1841 Wanderings and Adventures in the Interior of South Africa A. Stedman 1835 Notes on the Bushmen E. & D. Bleek 1909 Africa K. Johnston 1878 A Voyage to the Cape of Good Hope A. Sparrmann 1785 Travels in South Africa Henry Lichtenstein 1800 The Dwarfs of Mount Atlas R. G. Haliburton 1891 The Native Races of South Africa G. W. Stow 1905 Description du Cap de Bonne Esperance Pierre Kolbe 1741 Specimens of Dialects John Clarke 1849 Transcriber's Note: Puncutation has been standardised. Chapter headings in the Contents do not always match the headings in the body of the book. Both Folk-lore and Folklore appear in the text. Page 24 Wolf's tale," said the rogue Wolf's tail," said the rogue Page 38 Paragraph inserted before "It is also better," Page 150 Voyage dans l'Interieur Voyage dans l'Intérieur 
35410	----	[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs=. Italic text is surrounded by _underscores_. Macrons are indicated in brackets with an equal sign, like this: [=u]. Breves are indicated in brackets with a right parenthesis, like this: [)u].] The Folk-Lore Society FOR COLLECTING AND PRINTING RELICS OF POPULAR ANTIQUITIES, &c. ESTABLISHED IN THE YEAR MDCCCLXXVIII. [Illustration: Alter et Idem.] PUBLICATIONS OF THE FOLK-LORE SOCIETY LV. [1904] JAMAICAN SONG AND STORY: _ANNANCY STORIES, DIGGING SINGS, RING TUNES, AND DANCING TUNES_ COLLECTED AND EDITED BY WALTER JEKYLL: _WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY_ ALICE WERNER, _AND APPENDICES ON_ TRACES OF AFRICAN MELODY IN JAMAICA _BY_ C.S. MYERS, _AND ON_ ENGLISH AIRS AND MOTIFS IN JAMAICA _BY_ LUCY E. BROADWOOD. "A few brief years have passed away Since Britain drove her million slaves Beneath the tropic's fiery ray: God willed their freedom; and to-day Life blooms above those island graves!" _Whittier_ Published for the Folk-Lore Society by DAVID NUTT, 57-59 LONG ACRE LONDON 1907 CONTENTS. PAGE INTRODUCTION (ALICE WERNER), xxiii AUTHOR'S PREFACE, liii PART I.: ANNANCY STORIES, 1 1. Annancy and Brother Tiger, 7 2. Yung-Kyum-Pyung, 11 3. King Daniel, 14 4. Tomby, 16 5. How Monkey manage Annancy, 20 6. Blackbird and Woss-woss, 23 7. The Three Sisters, 26 8. William Tell, 29 9. Brother Annancy and Brother Death, 31 10. Mr. Bluebeard, 35 11. Annancy, Puss and Ratta, 38 12. Toad and Donkey, 39 13. Snake the Postman, 43 14. Doba, 46 15. Dry-Bone, 48 16. Annancy and the Old Lady's Field, 51 17. Man-Crow, 54 18. Saylan, 58 19. Annancy and Screech-Owl, 60 20. Annancy and Cow, 63 21. Tacoma and the Old-Witch Girl, 65 22. Devil's Honey-Dram, 68 23. Annancy in Crab Country, 70 24. Gaulin, 73 25. Annancy, Monkey and Tiger, 77 26. The Three Pigs, 79 27. Dummy, 84 28. Annancy and Candlefly, 86 29. Parson Puss and Parson Dog, 91 30. Chicken-Hawk, 94 31. Pretty Poll, 96 32. Annancy and Hog, 98 33. Dry-River, 100 34. Yellow Snake, 102 35. Cow and Annancy, 104 36. Leah and Tiger, 108 37. Timmolimmo, 114 38. Calcutta Monkey and Annancy, 117 39. Open Sesame, 120 40. Sea-Mahmy, 123 41. Crab and his Corn-piece, 126 42. Dry-Grass and Fire, 129 43. John Crow, 132 44. Tiger's Death, 135 45. The Old Lady and the Jar, 137 46. John Crow and Fowl-Hawk, 140 47. Finger Quashy, 143 48. Annancy and his Fish-Pot, 145 49. Hog and Dog, 146 50. Devil and the Princess, 148 51. Wheeler, 152 PART II.: DIGGING SINGS, 157 52. Oh hurrah, boys! 159 53. Ho biddybye, 159 54. Tell Mr. Linky, 160 55. Tell Mr. Bell, 161 56. Bad homan oh! 162 57. Bell a ring a yard oh! 162 58. The one shirt I have, 164 59. Jessie cut him yoke, 164 60. T'ree acre of Cahffee, 165 61. Away, away, 166 62. Wednesday morning before day, 167 63. Oh Samuel oh! 168 64. Oh 'liza oh! 168 65. Aunty Mary oh! 169 66. Oh me yerry news! 170 67. Jes' so me barn, 170 68. Tell Mary say, 171 69. Me tell them gall, 171 70. Gold, amber gold, 172 71. Gee oh mother Mac, 173 72. Leah married a Tuesday, 173 73. Cheer me oh! 173 74. Me cock a crow, 174 75. Oh Selina! 174 76. Sambo Lady, 176 77. John Thomas, 177 78. Whé mumma dé? 178 79. Toady, 179 80. Me know the man, 180 81. Minnie, 181 82. You want to yerry Duppy talk, 182 83. Me know Sarah, 183 84. Me donkey want water, 183 85. A Somerset me barn, 184 86. Timber lay down 'pon pit, 185 87. Me want go home, 187 88. War down a Monkland, 187 PART III.: RING TUNES, 190 89. Little Sally Water, 190 90. Poor Little Zeddy, 191 91. Whé me lover dé? 192 92. Ring a diamond, 194 93. Carry Banana, 195 94. Pass the ball, 196 95. Me los' me gold ring, 197 96. Old mother Phoebe, 197 97. Deggy, 198 98. Me go da Galloway Road, 199 99. Rosybel, 200 100. Bull a pen ho! 201 101. Two man a road, 201 102. Adina Mona, 202 103. Palmer, 203 104. Mother Freeman, 204 105. Me have me goosey a me yard, 205 106. Drill him, Constab! 205 107. If you make him come out, 206 108. Oh me Toad oh! 207 109. There's a Black boy in a ring, 207 110. Johnny, 209 111. Me lover gone a Colon bay, 209 112. Good morning to you, mother, 210 113. Johnny Miller, 211 114. Bahlimbo, 212 115. Oh den Jacky, 214 116. Ha, ha, ha, ha! 214 PART IV.: DANCING TUNES, 216 117. When I go home, 217 118. Guava root a medicine, 218 119. Crahss-lookin' dog up'tairs, 218 120. Goatridge have some set a gal, 219 121. Me carry me akee a Linstead market, 219 122. Since Dora Logan, 220 123. Fire, Mr. Preston, Fire! 221 124. Tief cahffee, 222 125. Fan me, soldierman, 223 126. Manny Clark, 224 127. Bungo Moolatta, 225 128. Bahl, Ada, 225 129. Rise a roof in the morning, 226 130. Oh we went to the river, 227 131. Aunty Jane a call Minnie, 228 132. Marty, Marty, 228 133. What make you shave old Hall? 229 134. Run, Moses, run, 230 135. Whé you da do? 231 136. Mother William, hold back Leah, 232 137. Oh, General Jackson! 233 138. Soldier, da go 'way, 234 139. Don't cry too much, Jamaica gal, 234 140. Dip them, 235 141. Very well, very well, 235 142. Oh trial! 236 143. Father, I goin' to join the confirmation, 237 144. Obeah down dé, 239 145. The other day me waistcoat cut, 240 146. All them gal a ride merry-go-round, 241 147. Merry-go-round a go fall down, 242 148. Try, dear, don't tell a lie, 243 149. Look how you mout', 244 150. Breezy say him no want Brown lady, 244 151. Isaac Park gone a Colon, 245 152. Matilda dé 'pon dyin' bed, 246 153. Mas' Charley, 247 154. Me buggy a sell, 247 155. Oh 'zetta Ford, gal, 248 156. Birdyzeena, 249 157. Me an' Katie no 'gree, 249 158. Down-town gal, 249 159. Sal, you ought to been ashame, 250 160. Good morning, Mr. Harman, 250 161. Hullo me honey! 251 162. When mumma dere, 252 163. Oh Jilly oh! 253 164. James Brown, you mahmy call you, 253 165. When I go home, 254 166. Feather, feather, feather, 254 167. Quaco Sam, 256 168. Anch a bite me, 257 169. Me know one gal a Cross Road, 257 170. Moonshine baby, 258 171. I have a news, 259 172. Once I was a trav'ller, 260 173. Oh me wouldn' bawl at all, 261 174. You take junka 'tick, 262 175. Yellow fever come in, 262 176. Jimmy Rampy, 263 177. Susan, very well why oh! 264 178. Bahss, Bahss, you married you wife, 264 179. Blackbird a eat puppa corn, oh! 265 180. Me da Coolie sleep on Piazza, 265 181. Notty Shaw, 266 182. You worthless Becca Watson, 267 183. Since the waggonette come in, 267 184. Them Gar'n Town people, 268 185. Young gal in Jamaica, take warning, 270 186. Me no min dé a concert, 270 187. Complain, complain, complain, 271 188. I can't walk on the bare road, 271 189. Come go da mountain, 272 190. Amanda Grant, 273 191. Last night I was lying on me number, 273 192. Me lassie, me dundooze, 274 193. Mister Davis bring somet'ing fe we all, 275 194. A whé the use, 275 195. Quattywort' of this! 276 196. Mahngoose a come, 276 APPENDIX: _A._ Traces of African Melody in Jamaica--C.S. Myers, 278 _B._ English Airs and Motifs in Jamaica--L.E. Broadwood, 285 INTRODUCTION. Mr. Jekyll's delightful collection of tales and songs from Jamaica suggests many interesting problems. It presents to us a network of interwoven strands of European and African origin, and when these have been to some extent disentangled we are confronted with the further question, to which of the peoples of the Dark Continent may the African element be attributed? The exact relationship between the "Negro" and Bantu races,--which of them is the original and which the adulterated stock (in other words, whether the adulteration was an improvement or the reverse),--is a subject quite beyond my competence to discuss. It seems certain that the Negro languages (as yet only tentatively classified) are as distinct from the singularly homogeneous and well-defined Bantu family, as Aryan from Semitic. Ibo, at one end of the area, has possible Bantu affinities, which await fuller investigation; the same thing has been conjectured of Bullom and Temne at the other end (Sierra Leone); but these are so slight and as yet so doubtful that they scarcely affect the above estimate. The difference in West Coast and Bantu folk-tales is not so marked as that between the languages; yet here, too, along with a great deal which the two have in common, we can pick out some features peculiar to each. And Mr. Jekyll's tales, so far as they can be supposed to come from Africa at all, are not Bantu. The name of "Annancy" alone is enough to tell us that. _Annancy_, or _Anansi_ is the Tshi (Ashanti)[1] word for "spider"; and the Spider figures largely in the folk-tales of the West Coast (by which we mean, roughly, the coast between Cape Verde and Kamerun), while, with some curious exceptions to be noted later on, he seems to be absent from Bantu folk-lore. His place is there taken by the Hare (Brer Rabbit), and, in some of his aspects, by the Tortoise. [Footnote 1: Fanti is a dialect of this language, which is variously called Twi, Chwi, Otyi, and Ochi.] We find the "Brer Rabbit" stories (best known through _Uncle Remus_) in the Middle and Southern States of America, where a large proportion, at any rate, of the negro slaves were imported from Lower Guinea. Some personal names and other words preserved among them (_e.g._ "goober" = _nguba_, the ground-nut, or "pea-nut") can be traced to the Fiote, or Lower Congo language; and some songs of which I have seen the words,[2] _look_ as if they might be Bantu, but corrupted apparently beyond recognition. [Footnote 2: One is given by Mr. G.W. Cable in the _Century Magazine_, xxx. 820, as a Louisiana Voodoo song: Héron mandé, tigui li papa, Héron mandé, dosé dan godo. Another by Mr. W.E. Burghart Du Bois in _The Souls of Black Folk_, p. 254--apparently a lullaby: Doba na coba gene me, gene me! Ben d' nu li, nu li, nu li, nu li, bend'le. I can make nothing of these. In the latter case, uncertainty as to the phonetic system adopted complicates the puzzle. One might be tempted to connect the last two words with Zulu _endhle_ or _pandhle_ = outside,--but I can find nothing else to support this resemblance, and such stray guesses are unprofitable work.] But the British West Indies would seem to have been chiefly supplied from Upper Guinea, or the "West Coast" proper (it really faces south, while Loango, Congo, etc., are the "South-West Coast"--a point which is sometimes puzzling to the uninitiated). Among the tribes to be found in Jamaica, Mr. Jekyll tells me are the Ibo (Lower Niger), Coromantin (Gold Coast), Hausa, Mandingo, Moko (inland from Calabar), Nago (Yoruba), and Sobo (Lower Niger). Mr. Jekyll furnishes a bit of confirmatory evidence in the list of names (p. 156) given to children according to the day of the week on which they are born. These are immediately recognizable as Tshi. As given in Christaller's _Dictionary of the Asante and Fante Language called Tshi_ (1881), the boys' names are identical or nearly so (allowing for the different systems of spelling) with those in Mr. Jekyll's list. They are: Kwasi, Kwadwo, Kwabena, Kwaku, Kwaw (or Yaw), Kofi, Kwame. (Mr. George Macdonald, in _The Gold Coast Past and Present_, gives Kwamina, instead of Kwame, probably owing to a difference of dialect.) The girls' names are less easily recognizable, but a careful scrutiny reveals the interesting fact that in some cases an older form seems to have been preserved in Jamaica. Moreover, the sound written _w_ by Christaller approaches that of _b_, which seems to be convertible with it under certain conditions, all the girls' names being formed by means of the suffix _ba_ = a child. Conversely, _ekpo_ in the mouth of a West Coast native sounds to a casual ear like _ekwo_. Akosuwa [= Akwasiba] = Quashiba. Adwowa = Jubba. (Cf. dw = dj in "Cudjo"). Abeua = Cubba. Akuwa = Memba. Ya [= Yawa] = Abba. Afuwa = Fibba. Amma [= Amenenewa] = Beniba. The boys' names have "Kwa" (= _akoa_, a man, slave) prefixed to that of the day, or, more correctly speaking, of its presiding genius. These latter are: Ayisi, Adwo, Benã, Wuku, Yaw, Afi, Amin. The names of the days appear to be formed from them by the omission of the initial A (where it exists), and the addition of the suffix _da_, with some irregularities, which no doubt a fuller knowledge of the language would explain: Kwasida, Dwoda, Benada, Wukuda, Yawda, Fida, Memeneda (Meminda). The week of seven days does not seem to be known elsewhere in Africa, except as a result of Moslem or Christian influence. The Congo week of four days is puzzling, till one remembers that it, too, rests on a division of the lunar month: 7 × 4 instead of 4 × 7.[3] [Footnote 3: R.E. Dennett, _Folklore of the Fjort_, p. 8.] The Tshi, Ewe and Yoruba languages are genderless, like the Bantu. (The word _ba_ has come to mean "a daughter" when appropriated as a suffix to feminine names; but, properly, it seems to mean "a child" of either sex.) This fact explains the appearance of such personages as "Brother Cow" (see also Mr. Jekyll's note on p. 107), and the wild confusion of pronouns sometimes observed: "Annancy really want that gal fe marry, but he couldn' catch him."--"When the gal go, him go meet Brother Death,"--etc. The few words given as "African" by Mr. Jekyll seem to be traceable to Tshi. "Massoo" (pp. 12, 13) is _mã so_ = to lift. _Afu_ ("hafoo," "afoo," p. 18) is not in Christaller's _Dictionary_, except as equivalent to "grass," or "herbs"; _fufu_ is a food made from yams or plantains boiled and pounded; perhaps there is some slight confusion. _Nyam_ is not "to eat," but _enãm_ is Tshi for "meat," as _nyama_ (in some form or other) is in every Bantu language. The nonsense-words in the songs may be corrupted from Tshi or some cognate language, but a fuller knowledge of these than I possess would be necessary in order to determine the point. Transplanted African folk-lore has a peculiar interest of its own, and one is very glad to find Mr. Jekyll doing for Jamaica what Mr. Chandler Harris, _e.g._ has done for Georgia. But the African element in the stories before us is far less evident than in "Uncle Remus," and is in many cases overlaid and inextricably mixed up with matter of European origin. At least eleven out of the fifty-one stories before us can be set down as imported, directly or indirectly, from Europe. I say directly or indirectly, because an examination of Chatelain's _Folk-tales of Angola_ and Junod's _Chants et Contes des Baronga_ shows that some tales, at any rate, have passed from Portugal to Africa. Such are _La fille du Roi_ (Ronga), which is identical with Grimm's _The Shoes that were danced to pieces_, and with the Slovak-gypsy story of _The Three Girls_ (Groome, _Gypsy Folk-tales_, p. 141). But in the absence of more detailed and direct evidence than we yet possess, it would be rash to assume that they have passed to America by way of Africa, rather than that they have been independently transmitted. The eleven stories above referred to are: II. Yung-kyum-pyung, III. King Daniel, VI. Blackbird and Woss-woss, X. Mr. Bluebeard, XVII. Man-crow, XVIII. Saylan, XXI. Tacoma and the Old-witch Girl, XXVI. The Three Pigs, XXXI. Pretty Poll (another version of III.), XXXIX. Open Sesame (variant of VI.), VII. The Three Sisters. But some of these, as I hope to show presently, also have genuine African prototypes, and it is a question how far these fading traditions have been amalgamated with fairy-tales told to the slaves by the children of their European masters. The last named is one of a small group of tales (VII., XXIV., XXXIV., L.) which I cannot help referring to a common African original. By far the greater number of the stories in this book, whether, strictly speaking, "Annancy stories" or not, come under the heading of animal-stories, and are of the same type as "Uncle Remus," Junod's "Roman du Lièvre," and numerous examples from various parts of Africa. It will be remembered that, in most of these, the difference between animals and human beings is not very clearly kept in view by the narrators. As M. Junod says, "Toutes les bêtes qui passent et repassent dans ces curieux récits représentent des êtres humains, cela va sans dire. Ils sont personnalisés par un procédé linguistique qui consiste à mettre devant le nom de l'animal un préfixe de la classe des hommes." (This is a point we must come back to later on.) "Ainsi _mpfoundla_, le lièvre ordinaire, devient dans le contes Noua-mpfoundla.... La Rainette, c'est Noua-chinana, l'Eléphant, Noua-ndlopfou.... Leurs caractères physiques particuliers sont présents devant l'imagination du conteur pour autant qu'ils donnent du pittoresque au récit. Mais on les oublie tout aussi aisément dès qu'ils ne sont plus essentiels à la narration." This feature constantly meets one in Bantu folk-lore: the hare and the elephant hire themselves out to hoe a man's garden; the swallow invites the cock to dinner and his wife prepares the food, in the usual native hut with the fireplace in the middle and the _nsanja_ staging over it; the hare's wife goes to the river to draw water, and is caught by a crocodile; the tortoise carries his complaint to the village elders assembled in the smithy, and so on. M. Junod seems to me to overrate the conscious artistic purpose in the narrators of these tales: the native mind is quite ready to assume that animals think and act in much the same way as human beings, and this attitude makes it easy to forget the outward distinctions when they appear as actors in a story. No doubt this haziness of view is increased by the popular conception of metamorphosis as a possible occurrence in everyday life. When, as has more than once been the case, we find men firmly believing, not only that they can, under certain circumstances, turn into animals, but that they actually have done so, we may expect them to think it quite easy for animals to turn into men. The prefix given by the Baronga to animals, when they are, so to speak, personified in tales, may seem a slight point, but it is not without interest. The Yaos in like manner give them the prefix _Che_ (_Che Sungula_, the Rabbit, _Che Likoswe_, the Rat, etc.), which, though usually translated "Mr.," is of common gender and used quite as often in addressing women as men. In Chatelain's Angola stories the animals sometimes (not always) have the honorific prefix _Na_ or _Ngana_, "Mr."; the latter is sometimes translated "Lord." In Luganda folk-lore the elephant (_enjovu_) is called Wa Njovu. In Zulu, Ucakijana (to whom we shall come back presently) is the diminutive form of _i-cakide_, the Weasel, put into the personal class. I do not recall anything similar in Nyanja tales, but cannot help connecting with the above the fact that animals, whatever class their names may belong to, are usually treated as persons in the tales. Not to be unduly technical, I would briefly explain that _njobvu_ (elephant) and _ng'ona_ (crocodile) would naturally take the pronoun _i_, but in the stories (and, I think, sometimes in other cases) they take _a_, which belongs to the first, or personal class. Now, the reader will notice how often the animals in the stories before us are distinguished as "Mr." or "Bro'er" (cf. pp. 20, 23, 31, 86, etc.), though the Jamaica people seem to be less uniformly polite in this respect than Uncle Remus. "Brer Rabbit" is so familiar as to be taken for granted, as a rule, without further question; but, years before he had become a household word in this country, we find a writer in _Lippincott's Magazine_[4] remarking, "The dramatis personæ are honoured with the title _Buh_, which is generally supposed to be an abbreviation of the word 'brother,' but it probably is a title of respect equal to our 'Mr.'" The "but" seems hardly called for, since both assertions are seemingly true. We might also compare the Zulu _u Cakijana_ (1st class), who is human or quasi-human, while _i-cakide_ (2nd class) is the name for the Weasel. [Footnote 4: December, 1877, p. 751. The article is one on "Negro Folk-lore," by W. Owens, and contains several stories, some of these independent versions of "Uncle Remus" tales, while others are not to be found in that collection.] Annancy, then, is the Spider, and as such he is conceived throughout the folk-lore of West Africa. If he seems, as he continually does, to take on a human character, going to Freetown to buy a gun and powder (_Cunnie Rabbit_, p. 282), or applying to a "Mory man" for amulets (_ib._ p. 139), he only behaves like all other animals, as explained above. A Temne authority (_ib._ p. 93) maintains that "Spider was a person" in old times, and did not look the same as he does in these days, "he done turn odder kind of thing now." But this looks like an attempt at rationalising the situation, possibly in response to European inquiries. The change of shape alluded to at the end of the Temne Tar-baby episode is comparatively a minor matter: he was formerly "round lek pusson," but became flattened out through the beating he received while attached to the Wax Girl. In the Gold Coast stories, too, Anansi is quite as much a spider as Brer Rabbit is a rabbit; but in Jamaica, though he still retains traces of his origin, they are somewhat obscured--so much so that Mr. Jekyll speaks (pp. 4-5) of the "metamorphic shape, that of the Spider," which he assumes, as though the human were his real form, the other only an occasional disguise. In "Annancy and Brother Tiger" we find that he has to "run up a house-top" to escape the revenge of the monkeys, which accounts for some of his habits to this day. In "Yung-kyum-pyung" (a version of _Rumpelstilzchen_, or _Tom Tit Tot_), the only hint of his spider character is contained in a mere allusion (quite external to the story) to his "running 'pon him rope." In "Brother Death," Annancy and all his family cling to the rafters, hoping to escape from Death; but it scarcely seems in character that they should be incapable of holding on long. They drop, one after another, Annancy last (p. 33). He is always in danger from Cows (p. 107): "Anywhere Cow see him, he reach him down with his mouth"; and he lives in a banana branch (p. 119) for fear of Calcutta Monkey and his whip. His moral character is consistently bad all through; he is a "clever thief"--greedy, treacherous, and cruel, but intellectually he does not uniformly shine. He has to call in the help of a wizard in his love affairs; "Monkey was too clever for him" on more than one occasion; he has to be extricated from the slaughter-house (p. 23) by Blackbird and his army of Wasps, and in "Man-crow" he is signally discomfited. In other cases his roguery is successful, and he is described as the greatest musician and "the biggest rascal in the world" (p. 62). Much the same is the character given to Mr. Spider in "Cunnie Rabbit." Not one amiable trait is recorded of him. A Gold Coast story,[5] however, shows him arbitrating between a Rat and a Panther in very much the same way as the Yao Che Sungula settles the difficulty between the Man and the Crocodile,[6] making the latter go back into the trap whence he had too confidingly been released, in order to show how it was done. Once having got the ungrateful Panther back into the trap, the Spider advises the Rat to leave him there. [Footnote 5: J.C. Christaller, in Büttner's _Zeitschr. für Afr. Sprachen_. M. Réné Basset says of a similar story included in Col. Monteil's _Contes Soudanais_: "L'Enfant et le caïman est le sujet bien connu de l'ingratitude punie que l'on retrouve dans tous les pays de l'ancien monde, et dont M. Kenneth Mackenzie vient d'étudier les diverses variantes." The idea is one so likely to occur independently that we must not in all cases resort to the hypothesis of borrowing.] [Footnote 6: Duff Macdonald, _Africana_, ii. 346.] As there is a Gold Coast tradition which affirms the human race to be descended from the Spider,[7] it might be expected that he should sometimes appear in a more favourable light, and also that those peoples who had lost this myth, or never possessed it, should concentrate their attention on the darker side of his character. At the same time, even in what may be called his own home, he does not appear as infallible. A very curious story, given by Zimmermann in his _Grammatical Sketch of the Akra or Gâ Language_, shows us the Spider and his son in the character of the two sisters who usually figure in tales of the "Holle" type,[8] and, strangely enough, it is the father who, by his wilfulness and indiscretion, forfeits the advantages which the son has gained. During a time of famine the young spider crawls into a rat-hole in search of a nut which has rolled into it, and there meets with three unkempt and unwashed spirits, who desire him to peel some yams and cook the peelings. He does so, and they are changed into large yams. They give him a large basket of yams to carry home, and teach him a spell which is not to be imparted to any one else. He repeatedly obtains supplies from the same source, but at last is followed by his father, who insists on going in his stead. He derides and disobeys the spirits, loses his yams, and is flogged into the bargain. [Footnote 7: Ellis, _Tshi-speaking Peoples of the Gold Coast_.] [Footnote 8: No. 16 in the _Handbook of Folklore_ (p. 122). It might also be referred to the "Golden Goose" type (51). Stories of this kind are the Ronga "Route du Ciel," and "The Three Women" in Duff Macdonald's _Africana_. But perhaps the tale referred to in the text comes nearer to "The Two Hunchbacks."] We have mentioned the comparative absence of the Spider from Bantu folk-lore. I have been able to discover only two references to him in East Africa, both to be found in Duff Macdonald's _Africana_. The first is in a creation-myth of the Yaos (i. 297), which informs us that when _Mulungu_ was driven from earth by the conduct of mankind, who had set the bush on fire, he went, being unable to climb a tree as the Chameleon had done, to call the Spider. "The spider went on high and returned again, and said, 'I have gone on high nicely,' and he said, 'You now, Mulungu, go on high.' Mulungu then went with the spider on high. And he said, 'When they die, let them come on high here.'" The other is in the story of "The Dead Chief and his Younger Brother" (ii. 322)--also Yao. The dead chief gives his brother four bags to enable him to overcome the obstacles which his enemies put in his way; he opens the first on coming to a large tree in his path--a wood-moth comes out and gnaws a way through. From the second bag comes out a manis (scaly ant-eater), which digs a way under a rock, and from the third (which he opens when he comes to the bank of a river) a spider, which "went to the other side," and, presumably (though this is not expressly stated), made a bridge with its web for him to cross.[9] [Footnote 9: In Mr. Dudley Kidd's _Savage Childhood_ (published since the above was written), I find that Zulu (or Pondo?) boys draw certain omens from spiders, in connection with dreams (p. 105), and that in Gazaland the rainbow is called "the spider's bow" (p. 153).] Mr. R.E. Dennett (_Folklore of the Fjort_, p. 74) gives a Lower Congo story, telling how the Spider brought fire down from Nzambi Mpungu in heaven, and won the daughter of Nzambi (Mother Earth) by so doing. In an Angola story (Heli Chatelain, p. 131) the Spider is mentioned as affording a means of communication between heaven and earth, by which the Sun's maidservants go down to draw water, and his daughter is ultimately let down to be married to the son of Kimanaueze. But the Spider only comes in incidentally; it is the Frog whose resourcefulness makes the marriage possible. The notion of the spider's web as a ladder to heaven is one that might occur independently in any part of the world, and there is no need to suppose these tales to be derivatives of the Hausa one given by Schön.[10] [Footnote 10: _Magana Hausa_, 63.] So far, the appearances of the Spider in Bantu folk-tales are so infrequent as to be almost a negligible quantity. We find him, however, playing a tolerably conspicuous part in the folk-lore of the Duala. These, living in the German territory of the Kamerun, may be considered the north-western outpost of the Bantu race, and their language, unmistakable in its general character, has departed, perhaps more widely than any other, from the normal Bantu standard. Herr Wilhelm Lederbogen, formerly of the Government School, Kamerun, has collected a large number of stories, some of which are published in the _Transactions_ of the Berlin Oriental Seminary (see _Afrikanische Studien_ for 1901-1903). These comprise 67 "_Tierfabeln_" and 18 tales of the ordinary _märchen_ type. The latter (some of them recognizable as variants of tales current in Bantu Africa) introduce animals along with human beings, and the incident of the Spider being consulted as a soothsayer repeatedly occurs. "_Die Spinne tritt immer als Wahrsagerin auf_" says the collector in a note. But the malignant aspect of Anansi seems to be absent. The late W.H.J. Bleek, who supposed the animal-stories which he had collected from Hottentots and Bushmen to be characteristic of and peculiar to these races, had built up a somewhat elaborate theory, scarcely borne out by the facts as known to us to-day, in connection with this point. Briefly, it amounted to this: that a fundamental limitation in the Bantu race, which had prevented, and always would prevent, their advancing beyond a certain point, was denoted by the absence of grammatical gender in their languages, their supposed incapacity for personifying nature, and their worship of ancestors, as opposed to the alleged moon-worship of the Hottentots.[11] The Zulus, he says, believe that the spirits of the dead appear to them in dreams, and also show themselves to the waking eye in the shape of animals, usually serpents. "No personification of the animal takes place, however, such as we find, for instance, in the mythical world of our earliest [Teutonic] literature. The imagination of the ancestor-worshipper does not even, as a rule, show us the animal as possessing the gift of human speech; it is only supposed to perform acts well within its capacity as an animal, though such acts are considered, in the case of individual animals supposed to be possessed by the spirits of deceased persons, as emanating from the spirits." Thus, a serpent, known by various tokens to be an _idhlozi_, may enter a hut and consume the meat left for it, or it may engage in combat with other snakes which must be supposed to represent the enemies of the deceased. Animals thus revered by ancestor-worshippers always have the distinguishing characteristic that they have once been human beings; and spirits, unless they appear as animals, are always invisible. "A personification of the animal world (such as we find in our own fables), or even of other things (as in the mythologies of Europe), is utterly absent from this primitive, prosaic way of looking at things." The poetic impulse implied in such personification can only arise, in Bleek's view, among the speakers of a sex-denoting language. The linguistic argument I cannot here reproduce in detail; its tendency is sufficiently shown by the following quotation, which bears directly on our subject: "The form of a sex-denoting language, by exciting sympathy even for creatures not connected with us by human fellowship, leads in the first instance to the humanization of animals, and thus especially gives rise to the creation of fables. Even on the lowest stage of national development, we find the Hottentot language accompanied by a literature of fables, for which we may vainly seek a parallel in the literatures of the prefix-pronominal languages." [Footnote 11: See _Ursprung der Sprache_ (Weimar, 1868), pp. xix, xxiii (Introduction).] The validity of Bleek's theory was seriously doubted by the late Dr. C.G. Büttner, in 1886, and the masses of fresh material which have come to light during the last forty years, have completely altered the aspect of the question. The Hottentot myth of the Hare and the Moon, to take but one example, which appears among the Zulus as the tale of Unkulunkulu and the Chameleon, is told by the Anyanja (of the Shire Highlands and Lake Nyasa) of the Chameleon. The Duala have the same Chameleon story; and there is a Gold Coast version, in which the two messengers are the Sheep, who linger on the way to graze, and the Goat, who arrives first with the tidings that man shall not return after death. The Kr[=u]men of the Ivory Coast say that _Nemla_ (a small antelope probably representing, if not identical with, the "Cunnie Rabbit" of Sierra Leone), maliciously, not accidentally, rendered inoperative the remedy against death provided by the fetich Blenyiba. Who is responsible for the original version it is perhaps impossible to settle. But there can be no question of _recent_ borrowing; and supposing that the Bantu did derive the myth from their predecessors (now represented by the remnant of the Bushmen, and perhaps the Pygmies), this would surely prove them at least capable of assimilating fresh ideas and thus advancing beyond the line so inexorably traced for them from the beginning. It may be remarked in passing that there seems some probability of the Bantu Anyanja in the Shire district having largely absorbed, instead of exterminating as was elsewhere the case, a smaller-sized race who previously occupied the country. In the same way, the Abatembu of the Cape Colony are the descendants of a Bantu clan amalgamated with the Bushman tribe of the 'Tambuka, and traces of similar fusion could no doubt be discovered elsewhere. But we doubt its being _necessary_ to the introduction of animal-stories into folk-lore,--or, in general, of ideas connected with the personification of nature. The Zulu tales which Bleek had before him present a character very different from that of the Hottentot beast-fables. But a comparative study of Bantu folk-lore suggests at least the possibility that they may have been developed out of animal-stories. Hlakanyana is conceived of as certainly human, and reminds us of Tom Thumb; but some of his adventures are identical with those of the Hare, the Jackal, or Brer Rabbit. Cakijana shows still clearer traces of animal origin. The episode of Hlakanyana's demanding a digging-stick in exchange for the birds he accuses his companion of having eaten, and the sequence of exchanges which culminates in his acquiring a cow,[12] is in substance the same as the story told by the Anyanja about the Hare (_kalulu_) which was given in _Folk-Lore_ for Sept. 29th, 1904. This again reminds us of "The Man who Lived by Overreaching Others" (Dr. Elmslie in _Folk-Lore_, vol. iii.), and of a Sukuma story given by Herrmann,[13] in which a boy gives his grandmother some honey to keep for him, and, coming back after a time, and finding she has eaten it, makes her give him some corn in exchange. The corn is then exchanged for an egg, the egg for sticks, the sticks for a knife, and the knife for a cow's tail, for which, by the same trick as in Dr. Elmslie's story, he obtains a cow. There is no suggestion of trickery in the Nyanja story, whereas it is brought out very strongly both in Hlakanyana and the Sukuma example. [Footnote 12: McCall Theal, _Kaffir Folk-Tales_, pp. 96-98.] [Footnote 13: "Afrikanische Studien," 1898 (_Transactions_ of the Berlin Oriental Seminary, vol. i.) p. 194.] We shall have occasion to refer, later on, to more than one instance where a story is found in two forms, one having animals, the other human beings, as its characters. The animals figuring in folk-tales must necessarily vary with the locality of the tale, and in cases where a story has travelled (or possibly where the same idea has arisen independently in different places) it is interesting to note the changes in its _dramatis personæ_. Thus, the incident of the race between the swift creature and the slow seems to be found in the folk-lore of every country. In Africa the winner is always, so far as I know, the Tortoise, as Brer Terrapin is in "Uncle Remus." The Jamaica version in the volume before us substitutes the Toad, while the defeated party is the Donkey. In a Konde (North Nyasa) variant, the protagonists are the Elephant and the Tortoise, in a Duala one, the _Ngoloñ_ (a large kind of Antelope) and the Tortoise. Another version of the Duala story, contained in _Märchen aus Kamerun_, by the late Frau Elli Meinhof, has the Hare and the Tortoise, but with the explanation that by "hare" is meant "eine kleine Antilopenart, _eseru_ genannt." The curious thing is that Njo Dibone, the native authority for the tales, himself suggested the name of "hare," but added "Hase ist nicht wie hier,[14] sondern hat kleine Hörner." It is not stated whether he had himself seen the European hare, but apparently he thought the two animals so far similar that _Hase_ would be the nearest available rendering for _eseru_. This may throw some light on the question why the _Dorcatherium_ gazelle, or possibly the Royal Antelope, _Neotragus_, is called "Cunnie Rabbit" in Sierra Leone English. [Footnote 14: He had been brought to Europe by a German naval officer in 1885, and remained for some time an inmate of Professor Meinhof's family.] The Tortoise plays a conspicuous part in the folk-lore both of Bantu and West African Negroes. In Yoruba tradition he takes the place of the Spider with the Fantis, all mankind being descended from him. Perhaps this is not strange, when we consider how much there is about him which would appeal to the primitive mind as uncanny and mysterious. A recent writer in the _West African Mail_[15] says on this subject: "The original conception of the tortoise culminated in a belief concerning its attributes that, in the eyes of these [Niger] Delta natives, elevated it to the sovereignty of the beasts of the forest.... Absolutely harmless and inoffensive in himself, the tortoise does not prey on even the smallest of insects, but subsists entirely on the fallen fruits of the forest"--or, in some cases, on fungi. "In the gloomy forests of the Delta there are only two enemies capable of doing him any serious harm. The one is man, who is able to lift him up and carry him bodily away, which, however, he does not do, except in those instances in which the animal is regarded as sacred, and required in connection with certain religious ceremonies. His other and most dangerous enemy is the python, who having first of all crushed him by means of the enormous power of constriction which it can apply, swallows him alive, shell and all. But pythons large enough to do this, unless the tortoise happens to be very young and small, are very scarce, so that he has not much to apprehend in that quarter. To the elephant--herbivorous, like himself--he is too insignificant, for unlike the mosquito or the sand-fly, he has no sting; and although they meet in fable, in real life the hippopotamus and himself are not much thrown together. From the leopard or the bush-cat, he has nothing to fear, for their teeth cannot penetrate his shell, nor can [their] claws do him any damage. Thus it is that ... the tortoise has been practically immune from attack and therefore destruction--a fact that in a great measure explains his longevity." [Footnote 15: May 25, 1906, p. 202.] If we add to this his power of living for a long time without food, his silence, the extreme slowness and caution of his movements, his instinct of keeping out of sight, and the peculiar air of dogged determination with which he sets about overcoming or circumventing obstacles, it is "easy to understand how in process of time the word which stood for tortoise became a synonym for cunning and craft, and a man of exceptional intelligence was in this way known among the Ibo as 'Mbai,' and among the Ibani as 'Ekake,' meaning a tortoise. For although he of the shell-back was slow, he was sure, as the old Greek Aesop tells us.... This sureness, in the native mind, implied doggedness and a fixed determination, while silence and secrecy implied mystery and a veiled purpose behind which it is impossible to get." The tortoise of African folk-lore is sometimes, in fact usually, the land-tortoise (as implied in the above extracts), of which there are several species, living either in forest-country or in deserts like the Kalahari. In Angola, the story of "Man and Turtle" (Chatelain, p. 153--identical with "Mr. Fox tackles Old Man Tarrypin" in "Uncle Remus") refers to a kind which, if not aquatic, is evidently amphibious. We find tortoise stories all over Negro and Bantu Africa; we have Temne, Bullom, and Yoruba examples, besides Duala, Konde (Nyasa), Yao, Nyanja, Herero, Bemba, Congo (Upoto), Angola and Sesuto ones. This does not exhaust the list I have made out, and further research would no doubt bring to light many more. One of these is the well-known "tug-of-war" story, which in "Uncle Remus" has the title "Mr. Terrapin shows his strength." We have two versions of this (agreeing in their main points) from the Kamerun, one told by the Duala, the other by the Yabakalaki-Bakoko tribe. Here it is the Elephant and the Hippopotamus whom the Tortoise induces to pull against each other. The American Negro substitutes the Bear for one of these competitors, and then, apparently at a loss for a wild animal strong enough to take the place of the other, makes "Brer Tarrypin" tie "Miss Meadows's bed-cord" to a root in the bed of the stream. But it is interesting to find two native African versions in which other animals are substituted for the Tortoise. The Temne (_Cunnie Rabbit_, p. 117) gives his part to the Spider, while the Bemba people (North-eastern Rhodesia) make the Hare the hero of the adventure. Col. Monteil gives a Mandingo variant, introducing a different motive for the contest: the Hare has borrowed a slave apiece from the Elephant and the Hippopotamus, and when pressed for payment hands each of his competitors in turn the end of a rope, with the words, "Tu n'as qu'à tirer sur cette corde, le captif est au bout."[16] [Footnote 16: _Contes Soudanais_, p. 49.] Another Temne story collected by Miss Cronise, "Mr. Turtle makes a riding-horse of Mr. Leopard," is paralleled by an Angola one (Chatelain, p. 203) in which it is Mr. Frog who plays the trick on Mr. Elephant. In the New World, it will be remembered that Brer Rabbit has usurped the part. In M. René Basset's _Anthology of African Folk-tales_[17] is included a tale about a monkey and a tortoise from Baissac's _Folklore de l'Ile Maurice_ which recalls a Nyanja one obtained by me at Blantyre and printed in the _Contemporary Review_ for September, 1896. In the latter it is the iguana, not the monkey who robs the Tortoise; but in both, the Tortoise exacts retribution with a cold-blooded relentlessness suggestive of Shylock. A Brazilian negro story is also given, which looks like a variant of one told in Calabar to account for the fact that the Tortoise's shell is composed of separate plates, as though it had been broken to pieces and put together again. [Footnote 17: P. 425. Another Mauritius negro tale from the same source is identical with the Yao one of the Elephant and the Hare (Duff Macdonald, ii. 353)--also found elsewhere in East Africa.] But we look in vain for the tortoise in these stories of Mr. Jekyll's. Even in the race-story, as we have seen, the part which in Africa is so peculiarly his own, is taken by the Toad. Probably this is because the land-tortoise is not found in Jamaica, and the great turtle of the seas is not a creature whose ways would come under the daily observation of the peasantry. In the same way familiar animals have been substituted for unfamiliar ones in a great many cases, though not in all. Mr. Jekyll thinks "Tiger" is a substitute for "Lion," but it seems equally possible that "Leopard" is meant. All over South Africa, leopards are called "tigers" by Dutch, English, and Germans, just as hyenas are called "wolves," and bustards "peacocks" (_paauw_). "Tiger" is used in the same sense in German Kamerun, and probably elsewhere in West Africa. Lion and elephant are known--perhaps by genuine tradition--to Uncle Remus; but they seem to have faded from the recollection of the Jamaica negroes; indeed, the lion is not found in their original homes, being absent from the whole West Coast as far as Sierra Leone. "Brer Rabbit," so characteristic a figure of Bantu folk-lore that his adventures are related from one side of Africa to the other (though in the west he is less frequently met with north of Angola), only appears in two of Mr. Jekyll's stories, in none of which we can recognize anything of his traditional character. In "Annancy and his Fish-pot," he is unscrupulously victimised by Annancy, and subsequently dies of fright and worry; in "Snake the Postman," he escapes from Annancy's machinations, but there is no indication that he could ever be considered a match for "that cravin' fellah." In "John Crow and Fowl-hawk" he is merely alluded to (p. 142, "This company was Rabbit"). In "Dry Bone," he is induced by Guinea-pig to carry the unwelcome load, but succeeds in passing it on, for the time being, to Annancy. Finally, in "Gaulin," he cuts a poor figure as the unsuccessful suitor. A Bantu story by no means complimentary to the Hare's intelligence is given by M. Junod,[18] and seems to have reached Louisiana[19] as "Compair Lapin et Michié Dinde," where the Rabbit gets his head cut off under the belief that the Turkey has removed his when he puts it under his wing to sleep. M. Junod thinks this must refer to a second species of Hare, a by-word for stupidity, as the other is for cuteness; but it is at least worth noting that the same story is told by the Basumbwa (south of Lake Victoria) of the Hen and the Tiger-cat. [Footnote 18: _Chants et Contes_, p. 135, see also the preceding story, and some remarks on p. 86, footnote 2.] [Footnote 19: Alcée Fortier, _Louisiana Folklore_, p. 24.] Besides Annancy himself, and the "Tiger" already mentioned, we have, in these stories, either domestic or quasi-domestic animals: Cow, Hog, Dog, Puss, "Ratta," etc., or creatures indigenous to Jamaica, such as John-Crow, Chicken-Hawk, Sea-Gaulin, Candle-Fly, Crab and Tarpon. Some stories, for which I fail to recall any exact parallel, either in Africa or Europe, may be of purely local origin; this is most likely to be true of those which profess to explain some elementary fact in natural history, such as the inability of two bulls to agree in one pasture ("Timmolimmo"), or the hostility between dogs and cats. Even were this not so, the amount of local colour introduced (as always where tales are transmitted orally) could change them almost beyond recognition. This often has a very quaint effect, as in "Parson Puss and Parson Dog," who are evidently conceived as ministers of some rival Methodist denominations, and in the references to weddings, funerals, and dances possibly ending up with a free fight, as in "Gaulin," "How Monkey manage Annancy," "Doba," etc. Annancy's inviting the animals to his father's funeral and slaughtering them (with the exception of Monkey, who is too clever for him) reminds us of the Temne "Mr. Leopard fools the other animals,"[20] but in this, Leopard himself pretends to die. Cunnie Rabbit's test, "Die pusson nebber blow," is less ingenious than that applied by Brer Rabbit in "Uncle Remus:"[21] "When a man go to see dead folks, dead folks allers raises up der behime leg en hollers _wahoo_!" (In Mr. Owen's version, they "grin and whistle.") In the Sesuto story[22] the Monkey suspects a trick and escapes, when the Hare persuades the Lion to entrap the other animals by shamming death. Perhaps the baptism of the crabs ("Annancy in Crab Country") may be connected with "Mr. Spider initiates the fowls,"[23] where the Temne Spider, assuming for the nonce a quasi-religious character, gathers his victims together to celebrate the Bundo mysteries, and massacres them wholesale. [Footnote 20: _Cunnie Rabbit_, p. 219.] [Footnote 21: "Mr. Wolf makes a failure."] [Footnote 22: Jacottet, p. 19.] [Footnote 23: _Cunnie Rabbit_, p. 133.] "Annancy and Hog" (XXXII.) is a fragmentary story, not very easy to understand as we have it, but something has evidently dropped out. The sentence "An' when Hog think him done up Annancy him done up him own mother" may point to some original similar to the Fiote story given by Mr. Dennett, in which the Leopard's wife is induced to eat her husband's head.[24] But in that case it is difficult to understand the connection with the opening incidents. [Footnote 24: _Folklore of the Fjort_, pp. 82-84.] In "John-Crow and Fowl-hawk" (XLVI.) we _may_ have a reminiscence of the class of stories represented by the Yao "Kalikalanje," in which an unborn child is promised by the mother in return for a service rendered her by some person or animal. The resemblance, however, is not very marked, and the incident is quite lost sight of in the later part of the story. "Annancy and Death" is curious, and, as it stands, not very intelligible. Death, as a person, is introduced into several African stories,[25] and even (in one from the Ivory Coast) together with the Spider, but none of these have anything parallel with the one before us. The last part, however, where Annancy and his children are clinging to the rafters, and Death waiting for them below, recalls the story to be found on pp. 224-226 of _Cunnie Rabbit_. The Spider and his family take refuge in the roof when pursued by the Leopard, and he sits on the ground and catches them as they drop one by one. Last of all, the wife, Nahker, "he say he done tire, en Spider say: 'Yo' wey (= who) big so? Fa' down now, yo' go get de trouble.' Nahker fa' down, Lepped yeat um. Spider he one lef' hang." He escapes, however. [Footnote 25: _Kalunga_ in Angola, _Ko_ by the Né Kru-men. Some curious episodes connected with the latter are given by M. Georges Thomann in his _Essai de Manuel de la langue néonlá_ (Paris: E. Leroux).] In "Dummy," Annancy wins a bet and the hand of the King's daughter by inducing "Peafowl" to make the dumb man talk. This "Peafowl" does by the sweetness of his song; but in a Duala story given by Lederbogen as "Der Tausendfuss und das stumme Kind," the means adopted more nearly resemble the time-honoured recipes for detecting changelings in this country. The Mouse advised the dumb child's parents to consult the Spider, who told them to hang up a centipede over the fireplace, set on a pot of water just underneath it, and leave the child sitting beside the fire. They did so, and went out. As soon as the steam rose from the water, the centipede, feeling the heat, began to struggle, and the dumb child watching it cried out in his excitement, "Father! there is a centipede going to fall into the pot." "William Tell" is puzzling. There is no single point of contact between the owner of the witch-tree and the mythical archer of Europe. It is most probable that the name (a likely one to remain in the memory) had been picked up by some negro story-teller who did not know the tale belonging to it and simply attached it to the first character that came handy. The "sings" by means of which Annancy fells the tree occur frequently in native African stories; we need only mention the incident (found not only in the Xosa "Bird that made Milk," but in a Duala tale, and elsewhere) of the song which made the hoed garden return to grass and weeds, and that of Simbubukwana's sister[26] who sang "Have legs, have arms," and the boy who was without those members immediately grew them. The notion of spells to be sung, however, does not seem to be confined to any country or race. [Footnote 26: McCall Theal, p. 68.] I do not remember any exact parallel to "Dry River" (XXXIII.), but the incident of the river rising is found in Africa with several different sequels. In a Nyanja story which I have in MS., some children go out into the bush to gather wild fruit, and are cut off on their return by the rising of the river. They are helped across by "a big bird, with one wing, one eye and one leg" (one of the "half-beings"[27] whose place in Bantu folk-lore has not yet been fully worked out), and charged not to tell who took them over. One boy tells his mother, and is drowned on the next expedition, his companions getting across in safety. In "The Village Maiden and the Cannibal" (Mrs. Martin's _Basutoland, its Legends and Customs_), the girls cannot cross the swollen stream till they have thrown a large root into the water, and complied with the directions. The last girl, who is reluctant to obey, but finally gives in, is not drowned, but she and her sister have an adventure with cannibals of a not uncommon kind, which may be referred to Mr. Jacobs's "Flight from Witchcraft" type. Two other stories, a Kinga (North-east Nyasa) and a Machame (Kilimanjaro) one, have the same opening incident (in the one case, however, it is a rock and not a river which enlarges itself and blocks the way), but continue in quite a different way--the girls are helped by an animal (in one case a jackal, in another a hyena) who subsequently insists on marrying one of them. The Machame tale, to which we shall have to return presently, as it belongs to the group to which we refer "Yellow Snake" and some others, goes on to relate how the girl escaped from the hyena's village; the Kinga one takes an entirely different course. [Footnote 27: See Junod, _Chants et Contes des Baronga_, p. 197; also a note in Chatelain, _Folk-tales of Angola_, p. 254, and Callaway, _Zulu Tales_, p. 199.] "Leah and Tiger" is one of the stories which can be most unhesitatingly identified as African; and, as it happens, the examples at present known to me are nearly all Bantu. Perhaps the closest parallel is the Suto "Tselane" (Jacottet, p. 69),[28] where, however, the girl, instead of being secluded by her father to avoid the trouble which her refusal to marry threatens to bring upon him, herself insists on staying in the house her parents are leaving. As in the Jamaica version, they bring her food every day, and sing to let her know of their approach. The cannibal on the prowl (represented in Jamaica by the "tiger") imitates the mother's voice, but fails; after swallowing a red-hot hoe, he succeeds at the first trial. He does not eat Tselane, however, and so end the story with a warning against obstinacy; he puts her into a bag to carry her home, and rests on his way at a hut, which proves to be her uncle's. While he is resting inside the hut, leaving his bag outside, the family discover the girl and let her out, substituting a dog and some biting ants. In other versions it is bees and wasps, or snakes and toads; but the result is always the same--the death of the cannibal. The incident of swallowing red-hot iron to soften the voice is found also in "Demane and Demazana" (Theal) and elsewhere. In a curious Masai story, "The Old Man and his Knee" (Hollis, _The Masai: Language and Folklore_, p. 153), the "enemies" (not said to be cannibals) carry off the old man's two children by means of the same stratagem. After failing in the first attempt they consult a medicine-man to find out how they can "make their voices resemble an old man's." He tells them merely to go back, and eat nothing on the road. They eat a lizard and an ant, and their voices do not produce the desired effect. On trying again, and this time complying exactly with the doctor's directions, they deceive the children and get the door opened. This incident is preserved in "Leah," and, like the Masai "enemies," Tiger thinks that such a trifle as the guava and "duckanoo" cannot possibly do any harm. The Masai story concludes with the killing of the old man by making him swallow a hot stone--an incident which crops up in various connections in the Hare stories, but seems out of its place in this one. On the whole (though I do not like to hazard a conjecture) it seems more probable that the Masai had picked up this tale from some of their Bantu neighbours than that the Bantu should have adopted it from them. [Footnote 28: This story is also given by Arbousset.] As regards the imported stories, it seems reasonably clear that "Yung-Kyum-Pyung" is a "Rumpelstiltzchen" story which has accidentally become associated with Annancy. Though the superstition on which these stories are based exists in Africa as well as in other parts of the world, and is one of the factors in the custom of _hlonipa_, I do not remember any tale embodying it in this form, though there are numerous examples of those which turn a _tabu_ of some sort. "King Daniel" is the story of the jealous sister, best known, perhaps, in the ballad of "Binnorie." But it has African prototypes as well, though the resemblance to these is not so close, in which the crime is discovered by the song of a bird--sometimes the metamorphosed heart of the victim. In "Masilo and Masilonyane" and the Kinga "Die Reiherfeder,"[29] one brother (or companion) kills the other; in "Unyengebule" (Callaway) the husband kills the wife, and here it is her feather head-dress which turns into a bird. "Pretty Poll" (XXXI.) is a variant of this story. [Footnote 29: R. Wolff, "Grammatik der Kingasprachen" (_Archiv für das Studium deutschen Kolonialsprachen_, iii.), p. 135.] Another pair of variants, apparently, are "Blackbird and Woss-woss" and "Open Sesame." But the former of these, it seems to me, corresponds much more closely with a Nago story of the Lizard and the Tortoise, given by M. Basset (_Contes populaires d'Afrique_, p. 217); and it should be remembered that the Nagos of Yoruba are one of the tribes represented among the Jamaica negroes. The lizard finds a rock containing a store of yams, and overhearing the words used by the owner "_Stone, open!_" obtains food for himself in time of famine. He imparts the secret to the tortoise, and they go together, but the tortoise lingers behind to load himself with all he can carry, and not knowing the word fails to get out, and is killed when the owner returns. He revives, however, and gets the cockroach to stick his shell together, thus presenting a point of contact with other aetiological myths about the Tortoise. The rescue by the army of wasps I have been unable to match. "Man-crow" is the story, which exists in so many variants, where the hero is robbed of the fruit of his achievement by an impostor stepping in at the last minute. The nearest parallel which occurs to me is "Rombao" (probably obtained from a Portuguese source by the Quilimane natives who related it to Mr. Duff Macdonald), where the hero kills the whale and cuts out its tongue; the captain who finds it dead claims his reward, but is discomfited by Rombao's appearance with the tongue. "The Three Pigs" will be readily recognized as the familiar English story, and corresponds pretty closely to the version in Mr. Jacobs's _English Fairy Tales_. A version current among the negroes of the Southern States is given by Mr. Owens in the paper in _Lippincott's Magazine_ already referred to. This version, entitled "Tiny Pig," omits the two incidents of the apple-tree and the butter-churn; but curiously enough these appear as "Buh Rabbit" episodes in another part of the same paper, the apple-tree having become a pear-tree, and the churn a tin mug which Buh Rabbit puts over his head, while he hangs various articles of tinware about his person. "Sea-Mahmy" introduces several different elements. The mermaid herself is probably of European extraction,[30] and the device by which Blackbird brings Annancy to the feeding-tree _might_ be a far-off echo of the Daedalus and Icarus myth. But Annancy's trick for conveying Trapong to his house and eating him recalls one of the stock incidents of Bantu folk-lore--the one where Hlakanyana, or the Hare, or some other creature, induces his dupe to get burnt or boiled by pretending to undergo the process himself and to escape with impunity. The Suto Hare[31] commends this as a device for attaining immortality--in which there is a faint suggestion of Medea's caldron. I was at first disposed to refer this episode to the "Big Klaas and Little Klaas" (or the "Getting-to-Heaven-in-a-Sack") group; but the inducement to enter the sack, which is so great a point in these, is here wanting. It is found in a Zanzibar story ("Abu Nuwasi na waziri na Sultani") in Dr. Velten's collection,[32] where Abu Nuwas is sewn up into a sack to be thrown into the sea, and induces another man to take his place by saying that he is to be drowned for refusing to marry the Sultan's daughter. This is evidently an Arab tale, though I do not remember it in the _Arabian Nights_. [Footnote 30: One kind of duppy is a mermaid--but I can find no indication that she came from Africa.] [Footnote 31: Jacottet, p. 15.] [Footnote 32: _Suaheli Märchen_, p. 154 (p. 241 in the German translation).] The exotic tales to be found in Bantu Africa come mainly from two sources--Arab and Portuguese. The former is exemplified at Zanzibar and all down the Mozambique coast; the latter in Angola and Mozambique. We have already referred to an example obtained at Delagoa Bay by M. Junod; but "Bonaouaci" (_Chants et Contes_, p. 292), though the names are Portuguese, and the local colouring goes so far as to introduce the Governor of Mozambique in person, is in substance identical with one of the "Abu Nuwas" stories given by Dr. Velten, the incident of the egg-production being nearly the same in both, as well as the two other impossible tasks set the hero--sewing a stone and building a house in the air. I fancy the same is the case with "Djiwao," though the incidents have been a good deal remodelled, and the concluding episode--the boiling of the chief Gwanazi in the pot he had intended for Djiwao, is the purely Bantu one alluded to in the last paragraph--in a somewhat unusual setting. "Les trois vaisseaux,"[33] again, is an _Arabian Nights_ story, of which a curious version has been obtained at Domasi, probably brought from the coast by some member of a Yao trading caravan. Mr. Dennett's No. III., "How the wives restored their husband to life," looks like a much altered and localized form of this. If so it might have reached the Congo through the Portuguese. We also find it on the Ivory Coast[34] where it might have come from an Arab source through Mandingoes or Hausas. [Footnote 33: _Ib._ p. 304.] [Footnote 34: See Thomann, _op. cit._, "Trois maris pour une femme."] The stories of "Fenda Maria" and "Fenda Maria and her elder brother Nga Nzuá"[35] ("The Three Citrons" and "Cinderella"), are good examples of transplanted stories invested with local colour by successive generations of narrators, till, as Mr. Chatelain says, "the fundamental idea of exotic origin has been so perfectly covered with Angola foliage and blossoms, that science alone can detect the imported elements, and no native would believe that [these tales] are not entirely Angolan." [Footnote 35: Chatelain, No. I. and No. II.] A curious stage in the migration of stories is exemplified by the "Taal" (or Cape Dutch) versions of Oriental stories imported into South Africa by the Malays, and existing in a purely traditional form among the coloured people. One of these was printed by Mr. H.N. Müller in _De Gids_ for Jan., 1900, but I think hardly any attempt has been made to collect them. And here I may mention that Herr Seidel's _Lieder und Geschichten der Afrikaner_[36] contains a Nama version of the Lear story, taken down and translated by Herr Olpp, of the Rhenish Mission, who seems quite unaware of its real origin, in spite of the very obvious parallel in Grimm's _Hausmärchen_. He says in a note: "Diese Begebenheit kann sich nur in der Kap-Kolonie ereignet haben zu einer Zeit in welcher Kolonisten sich schon angesiedelt hatten und unter den Eingeborenen wohnten. Der Name der Tochter spricht dafür und enstammt dem Holländischen." Now the youngest daughter's name is "Katje Leiro"--surely, all things considered, not such a very far cry from Cordelia. [Footnote 36: P. 135, "Liebe bis zum Salz."] It is interesting to trace the African elements in these imported tales as distinct from those which are merely derived from West Indian surroundings. Thus Mr. Bluebeard's three-legged horse (compare also the three-legged horse in "Devil and the Princess") is, as explained in the footnote, a "duppy"; and the duppy, whatever the derivation of his name, seems to be West African in origin. Duppies are the souls of the dead, "capable of assuming various forms of men and other animals."[37] Some of these forms are monstrous, as the "three-foot horse" already alluded to, the "long-bubby Susan," and the "rolling calf." The informant who is responsible for these statements also says that "the duppy in human form generally moves along by spinning or walking backwards." Perhaps this may explain the mysterious "Wheeler" (LI.) who has his habitation in a hollow tree, and seizes the hand of any unwary person who puts it into the hole. What he would have done if not requested to "Wheel me mile an' distant," remains obscure; but apparently the persons making the request are whirled through the air and then dropped at the place where Annancy (who has previously passed through the experience unscathed) has prepared a trap for them. The story suggests--though the resemblance is not very close--the episode of "The Stone that wore a Beard" in _Cunnie Rabbit_ (p. 167), where the Spider, having had a narrow escape from the magic powers of the bearded stone (a transformed "devil") utilises them for the destruction of his acquaintances. Those who remark on the peculiarity of the stone are struck down unconscious, and Spider exercises all his ingenuity in inducing his victims to say, "Dah stone get plenty bear'-bear'!" Cunnie Rabbit will not say the words till Spider has himself done so, and has suffered the consequences; both are afterwards rescued by Trorkey (Tortoise). Somewhat similar to "Wheeler" is the magic jar in XLV.--which might, however, be due to a distorted reminiscence of "Bluebeard." Spirits are often believed on the Gold Coast to take up their abode in trees, as well as to assume the form of animals. The usual Tshi name for them appears to be _bonsum_ or _bossum_: the word "duppy" I have been unable to trace. [Footnote 37: See _Folk-Lore_, March, 1904, p. 90.] The method of divination in "Mr. Bluebeard" is one I do not remember to have met with, though it may be akin to the "magic mirror of ink." The magic drum by which Calcutta Monkey (XXXVIII.) finds out Annancy's whereabouts is African. I do not recall any parallel story, but drums are much used by witch-doctors and in ceremonial dances, and in some cases auguries are drawn from their sound. But Monkey first discovers Annancy to be the thief by cutting the cards, which of course is European. Two stories, "Annancy and the Old Lady's Field" (XVI.) and "Devil's Honeydram," introduce the incident of a woman compelled to dance against her will--in one case to dance herself to death. In both cases the music seems to be the compelling power; but it is not clear whether, in "Devil's Honeydram," the knowledge (and use in the song) of the woman's name has anything to do with the spell. If so, the idea is so universal that one can scarcely refer to it as specially African. It is interesting, though perhaps scarcely pertinent to the matter in hand, to note that the Akikuyu believe their images (of which Mr. Scoresby Routledge has brought home specimens) to have the power, if held up before people, of compelling them to dance. The folk-lore of Jamaica, as given in the interesting papers published in _Folk-Lore_, 1904-5, is decidedly of a composite character. The negroes have, as there pointed out (1904, p. 87), "adopted many of the most trivial of English superstitions," while at the same time preserving some reminiscences of their African beliefs. These are especially seen in the notions respecting "duppies," which again are perceptibly influenced by Christian ideas, cf. the efficacy of the name of Christ (p. 90) and the statement that the "rolling calf" is the spirit of a person not good enough for heaven or bad enough for hell, or the recipe of "sitting on a Bible" to get rid of a duppy. The directions for "killing a thief" (p. 92) belong to the system (universal throughout Negro and Bantu Africa) of guarding crops by means of "medicine," or "fetish," or whatever one likes to call it: the technical name in Chinyanja is _chiwindo_. I do not remember any of the particular forms of _chiwindo_ here enumerated; and the silver threepence to be planted with the "guinea yam" is a civilized addition, but the principle is the same. The methods of "finding out the thief," on the other hand, which follow on p. 93, are certainly English--the Bible and key, and the gold ring, hair and tumbler of water. There is a third alternative:--"A curious kind of smoke, which, when it rises, goes to the house of the thief, etc."--but it is too vaguely stated to enable us to pronounce upon it. Among funeral customs we find the following (p. 88): "If a person dies where there are little children, after the body is put into the coffin, they will lift up each little child, and calling him by name, pass him over the dead body." According to a Sierra Leone paper this custom is observed there; but it is not stated by which of the tribes who make up the extremely mixed population. It may even be found on investigation that some of the freed slaves brought the notion back from the New World. The same authority states that it is considered unlucky to whistle, and adds the rationalizing explanation that whistling attracts snakes, lizards, and other undesirable creatures into the house. In Jamaica, you must not "whistle in the nights, for duppies will catch your voice." The proportion of native and acquired, or African and European ideas in these superstitions can only be determined by a much more detailed examination than I can make here, and one based on fuller materials than are yet accessible. In conclusion, I would briefly glance at five stories which I have grouped together as derived from a common African original, and which present several features of interest, though I am unable to examine them as much in detail as I should like to do. These are "The Three Sisters" (VII.), "Gaulin" (XXIV.), "Yellow Snake" (XXXIV.), "John Crow" (XLIII.), and "Devil and the Princess" (LI.). The type to which these may be referred resembles the one registered by Mr. Jacobs as the "Robber-Bridegroom"; but the African prototypes are certainly indigenous, and it might seem as if the stories Mr. Jacobs had in view were late and comparatively civilized versions of the corresponding European and Asiatic ones, the Robber being the equivalent of an earlier wizard or devil, who, in the primitive form of the story, was simply an animal assuming human shape. The main incidents of the type-story are as follows: (1) A girl obstinately refuses all suitors. (2) She is wooed by an animal in human form, and at once accepts him. (3) She is warned (usually by a brother) and disregards the warning. (4) She is about to be killed and eaten, but is saved by the brother whose advice was disregarded. A Nyanja variant of this story, where the bridegroom is a hyena, corresponds very closely with the Temne "Marry the devil, there's the devil to pay" (_Cunnie Rabbit_, p. 178)--even to the little brother who follows the newly-wedded couple, against the wishes of the bride, and who is afflicted--in the one case with "craw-craw," in the other with sore eyes. A translation of the Nyanja story may be found in the _Contemporary Review_ for September, 1896. In Mrs. Dewar's _Chinamwanga Stories_ (p. 41) there is a variant,--"Ngoza,"--where the husband is a lion. In the Machame story, previously alluded to, the hyena, having befriended a girl, marries her, and she escapes with some difficulty from being eaten by his relations. Yet another variant is "Ngomba's Balloon" in Mr. Dennett's _Folklore of the Fjort_. Here the husband is a _Mpunia_ (translated "murderer")--apparently a mere human bad character, and Ngomba escapes by her own ingenuity. In the Jamaican stories it strikes one that the idea of transformation is somewhat obscured. We are told how "Gaulin" (Egret) and "John Crow" provide themselves with clothes and equipages--the latter a carriage and pair, the former the humbler local buggy;--and this seems to constitute the extent of their disguise. Yellow Snake is said to "change and fix up himself"--but the expression is vague. Gaulin, however, can only be deprived of his clothes (and so made to appear in his true shape) by means of a magic song. The "old-witch" brother, who has overheard the song, plays its tune at the wedding and thus exposes the bridegroom, who flies out at the door. "John-Crow" is detected by a Cinderella-like device of keeping him till daylight, and his hurried flight through the window (in which he scraped the feathers off his head on the broken glass) explains a characteristic feature of these useful but unattractive birds. In neither of these is the bride in any danger: but in "Yellow Snake" her brothers save her when already more than half swallowed; in "Devil and the Princess," she escapes by the aid of the Devil's cook, who feeds the watchful cock on corn soaked in rum. In this story, too, it is not the girl's brother, but the "old-witch" servant-boy, who warns her; and, as he is cast into prison for his pains, he has no hand in the release. In two cases ("Gaulin" and "John Crow") Annancy is one of the unsuccessful suitors, and, in the former, "Rabbit" is another. (He, apparently, takes no steps to change his shape, being rejected on the ground that he is "only but a meat," _i.e._, an animal.) In the Nyanja story, Leopard and Hare are mentioned as meeting with refusals, before the Hyena arrives on the scene. "The Three Sisters," while keeping one or two points of the original story, is much altered, and seems to have introduced some rather unintelligible fragments of an English ballad (as to which see Appendix, p. 286). The Snake is never accepted; and the youngest of the sisters, who answers him on behalf of all, would seem to represent the "old-witch" brother who detects his true character. His "turning into a devil" is another alien element--perhaps due to Biblical recollections, and the concluding assertion that he "have chain round his waist until now" seems to refer to something which has dropped out, as there is no previous allusion to a chain in the story as it stands. Of all the five, "Yellow Snake" is, on the whole, the closest to what we may suppose to have been the original; "Devil and the Princess" is in some respects complete, but has acquired several foreign features, and "John Crow" has quite lost the characteristic conclusion. It is to be hoped that we may one day succeed in discovering, if not all the African variants of this story, yet enough to render those we possess more intelligible, and to afford materials for an interesting comparative study. A. WERNER. AUTHOR'S PREFACE. The stories and tunes of this book are taken down from the mouths of men and boys in my employ. The method of procedure has in every case been to sit them down to their recital and make them dictate slowly; so the stories are in their _ipsissima verba_. Here and there, but very rarely indeed, I have made a slight change, and this only because I thought the volume might find its way into the nursery. The following list exhausts the emendations: (1) It was not his fat that Tiger took out when he went bathing, but his viscera; (2) The "Tumpa-toe" of one of the stories is "Stinking-toe"; (3) Dog always swears, his favourite expression being, "There will be hell here to-night," and the first line of one of the dance tunes runs really: "Hell of a dog up'tairs"; (4) "belly" is replaced by a prettier equivalent. The district in which I live is that of the Port Royal Mountains behind Kingston. Other districts have other "Sings," for these depend upon local topics. The Annancy Stories are, so far as I know, more or less alike throughout the island. This title seems to include stories in which Annancy himself does not figure at all, but this is of course an illegitimate use of it. The collection in this book is a mere sample both of stories and tunes. The book as a whole is a tribute to my love for Jamaica and its dusky inhabitants, with their winning ways and their many good qualities, among which is to be reckoned that supreme virtue, _Cheerfulness_. W.J. JAMAICA, _January_, 1906. JAMAICAN SONG AND STORY. PART I. ANNANCY STORIES. When the hoes stop clicking and you hear peals of laughter from the field, you may know that somebody is telling an Annancy story. If you go out, you will find a group of Negroes round the narrator, punctuating all the good points with delighted chuckles. Their sunny faces are beaming, and at the recital of any special piece of knavery on Annancy's part ordinary means of expression fail, and they fling themselves on the ground and wriggle in convulsions of merriment. Annancy is a legendary being whose chief characteristic is trickery. A strong and good workman, he is invariably lazy, and is only to be tempted to honest labour by the offer of a large reward. He prefers to fill the bag which he always carries, by fraud or theft. His appetite is voracious, and nothing comes amiss to him, cooked or raw. No sooner is one gluttonous feast over than he is ready for another, and endless are his shifts and devices to supply himself with food. Sometimes he will thrust himself upon an unwilling neighbour, and eat up all his breakfast. At another time he carries out his bag and brings it home full of flesh or fish obtained by thieving. He is perfectly selfish, and knows no remorse for his many deeds of violence, treachery and cruelty. His only redeeming point is a sort of hail-fellow-well-met-ness, which appeals so much to his associates that they are ready almost, if not quite, to condone his offences. Annancy has a defect of speech owing to a cleft palate, and pronounces his words badly. He speaks somewhat like Punch, through his nose very rapidly, and uses the most countrified form of dialect. He cannot say "brother," and has to leave out the _th_ owing to the failure of the tongue to meet the palate, so he says "bro'er." He even pretends he cannot say "puss," and turns it into "push." Strings of little words he delights in, such as, in the Brother Death story, the often-repeated "no mo so me no yerry," an expressive phrase difficult to render into good English. It means "I must have failed to hear." The words are "no more so me no hear," equivalent to "it must be so (that) I (do) not hear," the "no more" having something of the force of the same words in the colloquial phrases, "no more I do," "no more I will." When, for instance, to the remark, "I thought you didn't like the smell of paint," we make the rejoinder "no more I do," Priscian strives in vain to disentangle the words and reduce them to rule of syntax, but they mean "Well! I do not." Thus "no more me hear" would be "Well! I do not hear." The "so" introduces the hypothetical element and the "no" before "yerry" is a reduplicated negative. Thus far for the sense. Now for the pronunciation. The accent indicates where the stress of the voice falls, and unless the accent is caught, the phrase will not run off the tongue. This is how it goes: n[)o] m[)o] | s[=o] m[)e] n[)o] | yerry. As an illustration of the necessity of right placing of the accent, take the name of that town in Madagascar, which we so often saw in our papers a few years ago, Antananarivo. Most of us just nodded our heads at it, but never tried, or at least only feebly, to articulate it. With all this "an an" it was the same sort of hopeless business as the deciphering of the hieroglyphics of those writers whose words seem to be composed of nothing but _m_'s. And yet how simple, and easy to say, the word is when we catch the accent. First "an"; then stop a little; "tánana," same values as traveller; and finally "rivo." French sounds for the vowels of course, An-tananarivo. This grouping of accents is that which in music is known as rhythm. Rightly grouped they make musical sense, wrongly grouped--and alas! how often we hear it--musical nonsense. See the stuttering hopelessness and helplessness of án-tán-án-á--there might be any number more of "an-an"s to follow, and compare with this the neat satisfying form Antánanarivo. So let no bungler read in the story of Brother Death "no mó so mé no yerry" with halting and panting, but let him reel off as quickly as he can "no mo so me no yerry" with just the accent that he would use in this phrase:--"It is here that I want you." Remember, too, that the _o_'s have the open sound of Italian, and not the close sound of English. So is exactly like _sol_ (the musical note) with the _l_ left out, and not as we pronounce it. And above all, speed. When the stranger lands in Jamaica and hears the rapid rush of words, and the soft, open vowels, he often says: "Why, I thought they talked English here, but it sounds like Spanish or Italian!" The difficulty in understanding a new language lies in the inability to distinguish the point where one word ends and the next begins. The old puzzle sentence, _Caille a haut nid, taupe a bas nid_, shows this very well. The ear catches the sound but fails to differentiate the words, and, their real identity being disguised, the listener has a sort of impression of modern Greek or Italian, writing these fragments in his brain _oni_, _bani_. Just as hopeless is negro English to the newcomer, and the first thing to do is to set about learning it. And well it repays investigation. It is the boast of the English language that it has got rid of so much superfluous grammatical matter in the way of genders, inflections and such-like perplexities. True, it has abolished much that was evil, and enables us to speak and write shortly and to the point. But negro English goes a step further, and its form is still more concise. Compare these expressions: NEGRO. ENGLISH. Corn the horse. Give the horse some corn. Care the child. Take care of the child. Him wife turn fire. His wife became a shrew. You middle hand. The middle of your hand. My bottom foot. The bottom of my foot. Out the lamp. Put out the lamp. The boy too trick. The boy is very tricky. I did him nothing. I did not provoke him. See the 'tar up a 'ky. Look at the star up in the sky. No make him get 'way. Do not let him get away. Me go buy. I am going to buy. A door. Out of doors. Short-mout'ed. Quick at repartee. Bull a broke pen. The bull has broken out of the pen. Bell a ring a yard. The bell is ringing in the yard. Same place him patch. In the place where it was patched. To warm fire. To warm oneself by the fire. You no give. If you do not give. Bring come. Bring it here. A bush. In the bush.[38] [Footnote 38: These idioms are very similar to those of Cape Dutch, especially as spoken by the coloured people, and may help to illustrate its development. Cf. _Jy is te skellum_,--_ek gaan_ (or better, _Corp_) korp, etc. "To warm fire" reminds one of the Bantu _Ku ot a moto_, of which it is almost a literal translation. (A.W.)] These are a few typical sentences out of a host which might be cited to show the neat, short turn they take in the mouth of the Jamaica Negro. The rapidity of utterance natural to all the Blacks is exaggerated by Annancy. He generally affects, too, a falsetto tone as in "Play up the music, play up the music," in Yung-kyum-pyung. He has a metamorphic shape, that of the Spider. At one moment he is a man "tiefing (thieving) cow," the next he is running upon his rope (web). As he is the chief personage in most of the stories in this book, it is well to have a perfectly clear idea of the pronunciation of his name. Unnahncy does not represent it badly, but the first letter has actually the sound of short French _a_ as in _la_. The accent falls strongly on the middle syllable. In "Tacoma" all the syllables are very short. The first has the sound of French _ta_, and takes the accent; _co_ is something between English _cook_ and Italian _con_, and it is impossible to determine whether to write the vowel _o_ or _u_; _ma_ again as in French. The exact relation in which Tacoma stands to Annancy is obscure. In one case he is described as Annancy's son, but, according to most of the stories, he appears to be an independent neighbour. The stories are obviously derived from various sources, the most primitive being no doubt those which are concerned only, or chiefly, with animals. These may be of African origin, but we should have expected to find the Elephant and not the Tiger. I have a suspicion that Tiger was originally Lion, and that he is the Ogre of Jack the Giant-killer, and other fairy stories brought to Jamaica from England. Ogre would easily be corrupted to Tiger, and with the information, which might have been acquired at the same time, that Tiger was a fierce animal which ate men, his name would find its way into stories repeated from mouth to mouth. This is, however, pure conjecture. How much the stories vary may be seen from the two versions of Ali Baba, in one of which the point is so entirely lost that the door is not kept shut upon the intruder. The tunes are in the same case as the stories. What I take to be certainly primitive about them is the little short refrains, like "Carry him go 'long" (Dry Bone) and "Commando" (Annancy and Hog). These suggest tapping on a drum. Again, the same influence that has produced the American Plantation Songs is occasionally visible, as in "Some a we da go to Mount Siney" (Annancy in Crab Country). This kind of patter is just what the Negro likes. Some of the tunes are evidently popular songs of the day, as, for instance, the vulgar "Somebody waiting for Salizon" (Snake the Postman). But others are a puzzle, showing as they do a high order of melodic instinct. Such are the melodies in "The Three Sisters" and "Leah," and the digging-tunes, "Oh, Samuel, Oh!" and "Three Acres of Coffee." These digging-tunes are very pleasant to hear, and the singers are quick at improvising parts. They are an appropriate accompaniment to the joyous labour of this sunny, happy land. One more word with regard to the tunes. They gain a peculiar and almost indescribable lilt from a peculiarity in the time-organisation of the Negro. If you ask him to beat the time with his foot, he does it perfectly regularly, but just where the white man does not do it. We beat _with_ the time; he beats _against_ it. To make my meaning quite plain, take common measure. His first beat in the bar will be exactly midway between our first and second beats. The effect of this peculiarity in their singing is, that there is commonly a feeling of syncopation about it. The Americans call it "rag-time." The men's voices are of extraordinary beauty. To hear a group chatting is a pure pleasure to the ear, quite irrespective of the funny things they say; and their remarks are accompanied with the prettiest little twirks and turns of intonation, sometimes on the words, sometimes mere vocal ejaculations between them. The women's voices have the same fine quality when they speak low, but this they seldom do, and their usual vivacious chatter is anything but melodious. I. ANNANCY AND BROTHER TIGER. One day Annancy an' Bro'er Tiger go a river fe wash'kin. Annancy said to Bro'er Tiger:--"Bro'er Tiger, as you are such a big man, if you go in a de blue hole with your fat you a go drownded, so you fe take out your fat so lef' it here." Tiger said to Bro'er Annancy:--"You must take out fe you too." Annancy say:--"You take out first, an' me me take out after." Tiger first take out. Annancy say:--"Go in a hole, Bro'er Tiger, an' make me see how you swim light." Bro'er Annancy never go in. As Tiger was paying attention to the swimming, Annancy take up his fat an' eat it. Then Annancy was so frightened for Tiger, he leaves the river side an' go to Big Monkey town. Him say:--"Bro'er Monkey, I hear them shing a shing a river side say:-- [Music: "Yeshterday this time me a nyam Tiger fat, Yeshterday this time me a nyam Tiger fat, Yeshterday this time me a nyam Tiger fat, Yeshterday this time me a nyam Tiger fat."] The Big Monkey drive him away, say they don't want to hear no song. So him leave and go to Little Monkey town, an' when him go him said:-- "Bro'er Monkey, I hear one shweet song a river side say:-- "Yeshterday this time me a nyam Tiger fat. Yeshterday this time me a nyam Tiger fat." Then Monkey say:--"You must sing the song, make we hear." Then Annancy commence to sing. Monkey love the song so much that they made a ball a night an' have the same song playing. So when Annancy hear the song was playing, he was glad to go back to Bro'er Tiger. When him go to the river, he saw Tiger was looking for his fat. Tiger said:--"Bro'er Annancy, I can't find me fat at all." Annancy say:--"Ha ha! Biddybye I hear them shing a Little Monkey town say:-- "Yeshterday this time me a nyam Tiger fat. Yeshterday this time me a nyam Tiger fat. "Bro'er Tiger, if you think I lie, come make we go a Little Monkey town." So he and Tiger wented. When them get to the place, Annancy tell Tiger they must hide in a bush. Then the Monkey was dancing an' playing the same tune. Tiger hear. Then Annancy say:--"Bro'er Tiger wha' me tell you? You no yerry me tell you say them a call you name up ya?" An' the Monkey never cease with the tune:-- Yeshterday this time me a nyam Tiger fat. Yeshterday this time me a nyam Tiger fat. Then Tiger go in the ball an' ask Monkey them for his fat. The Monkey say they don't know nothing name so, 'tis Mr. Annancy l'arn them the song. So Tiger could manage the Little Monkey them, an' he want fe fight them. So the Little Monkey send away a bearer to Big Monkey town, an' bring down a lots of soldiers, an' flog Bro'er Tiger an' Annancy. So Bro'er Tiger have fe take bush an' Annancy run up a house-top. From that, Tiger live in the wood until now, an' Annancy in the house-top. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =Go a river fe wash 'kin=, go to the river to wash their skins. Pronounce =fe= like =fit= without the =t=. =in a de=, into the. =A go drownded=, will be drowned. =fe take=, short for =must have fe take=, must take. =so lef'=, and leave. =fe you=, for you, yours. =me me=, I will. Annancy is fond of these reduplications. =in a hole=, in the hole. =make me see=, let me see. =Make= and =let= are always confused. =frighten=, frightened. Past participles are seldom used. =take=, =eat=, =leave=, =go=, takes, eats, leaves, goes. This shortening is always adopted. If a final =s= is used, it is generally in the wrong place. =shing a shing=, sing a song. Annancy's lisp will not always be printed, but in reading, it should be put in even when not indicated. =a river side=, at the river's side. The =v= is pronounced more like a =b=, and the =i= in =river= has the sound of French =u=. =me a nyam=, I was eating, I ate. =Nyam= is one of the few African words which survive in Jamaica. =make we hear=, and let us hear it. =have the same song playing=; the past participle again avoided, and its place supplied by the present participle. Song and tune are interchangeable terms, and, even when there is no singing, the fiddle speaks words to those who are privileged to hear; see "Doba" and other stories. =Biddybye=, by the bye. =a Little Monkey town=, in Little Monkey town. So already in this story we have had _a_ standing for =to=, =in=, =the=, =at=, =will=, besides being interjected, as in =me a nyam= and elsewhere. =make we go=, let us go. =in a bush=, in the bush, in the jungle. =dancing an' playing.= No mention of singing, observe. =a wha' me tell you, etc.= What did I tell you? Did you not hear me tell you they were talking about you up here? A good phrase to illustrate the use of the interjected =say=. =Call you name=, mention your name. =Monkey them=; another common addition. =nothing name so=, nothing called so. =a bearer.= Bearers are important people in the Jamaica hills where post-offices are few. They often bear nothing but a letter, though some carry loads too. =Jack Mantora, etc.= All Annancy stories end with these or similar words. The Jack is a member of the company to whom the story is told, perhaps its principal member; and the narrator addresses him, and says: "I do not pick you out, Jack, or any of your companions, to be flogged as Tiger and Annancy were by the monkeys." Among the African tribes stories we know are often told with an object. The Negro is quick to seize a parable, and the point of a cunningly constructed story directed at an individual obnoxious to the reciter would not miss. So when the stories were merely told for diversion, it may have been thought good manners to say: "This story of mine is not aimed at any one." II. YUNG-KYUM-PYUNG. A King had t'ree daughter, but nobody in the world know their name. All the learned man from all part of the eart' come to guess them name, an' no one could'n guess them. Brother Annancy hear of it an' say:--"Me me I mus' have fe fin' them ya-ya gal name. Not a man can do it abbly no me." So one day the King t'ree gal gone out to bathe, an' Brother Annancy make a pretty basket, an' put it in a the house where he knew they was going to come fe eat them vittle. He leave it there, an' go under the house fe hear the name. When them come, them see the basket, an' it was the prettiest something they ever see in their life. Then the biggest one cry out:-- Yung-kyum-pyung! What a pretty basket! Marg'ret-Powell-Alone! What a pretty basket! And the next one say:-- Margaret-Powell-Alone! What a pretty basket! Eggie-Law! What a pretty basket! And the youngest bahl:-- Eggie-Law! What a pretty basket, eh? Yung-kyum-pyung! What a pretty basket, eh? Brother Annancy hear it all good, an' he glad so till him fly out a the house an' gone. Him go an' make up a band of music with fiddle an' drum, an' give the musicians them a tune to sing the names to. An' after a week him come back. When him get where the King could yerry, him give out:--"Play up the music, play up the music." So they play an' sing:-- [Music: Yung-kyum-pyung Eggie-Law Marg'ret-Powell-Alone.] After six times sing the Queen yerry. She say:--"Who is that calling my daughter name?" Annancy tell them fe play all the better. Then the Queen massoo himself from up'tairs, an' t'row down broke him neck. Dat time de King no yerry, so Annancy harder to play de music still. At last the King yerry, an' him say:--"Who is dat, calling me daughter name?" Annancy let them sing the tune over and over:-- [Music: Yung-kyum-pyung Eggie-Law Marg'ret-Powell-Alone.] An' the King t'row himself off a him t'rone an' lie there 'tiff dead. Then Annancy go up an' take the t'rone, an' marry the youngest daughter an' a reign. Annancy is the wickedest King ever reign. Sometime him dere, sometime him gone run 'pon him rope an tief cow fe him wife. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =Me, me I mus' have, etc.=, I will find out those girls' names. Anybody else would have said:--"Me mus' have fe find them ya (those here) gal name," but Annancy likes to add a few more syllables. His speech is =Bungo talk=. The Jamaican looks down on the Bungo (rhymes with Mungo) who "no 'peak good English." =abbly no me=, except me. =go under the house.= It is no absurdity to the narrator's mind to picture the King's house on the pattern of his own. This is a two-roomed hut, consisting of the hall or dining-room and a bedroom. It is floored with inch-thick cedar boards roughly cut and planed, so that they never lie very close. An air space is left underneath, and anybody who creeps under the hut can hear all that goes on above. =bahl=, bawl. =hear it all good=, hears everything perfectly. =Play up the music.= He almost sings, like this:-- [Music: Play up the music.] =all the better=, all the harder. =massoo himself=, lifts herself up. "Massoo" is an African word. The hall seems to have a sort of gallery. =t'row down, etc.=, throws herself down and breaks her neck. They always say =to broke=. =Dat time de King.= The turning of =th= into a =d= or nearly a =d= is characteristic of negro speech. To avoid the tiresomeness of dialect-printing, and for another reason to be mentioned by and by, this is not always indicated. The change is introduced occasionally to remind readers of the right pronunciation. =let them sing=, makes them sing. =Sometime him dare=, sometimes he is there (at home), sometimes he goes and runs upon his web and steals cows for his wife. Other stories will show Annancy's partiality for beef, or indeed anything eatable. =tief=, thieve. Spiders' webs of any kind are called =Annancy ropes=. III. KING DANIEL. There was two young lady name Miss Wenchy an' Miss Lumpy. The King Daniel was courtening to Miss Wenchy, an' the day when they was to get marry Miss Lumpy carry Miss Wenchy an' show him a flowers in the pond. Miss Wenchy go to pick it, an' Miss Lumpy shub him in the pond. An' she said:--"T'ank God! nobody see me." Now a Parrot sat up on a tree, an' jes' as Miss Lumpy say "T'ank God! nobody see me" the Parrot say:--"I see you dough!" Then Miss Lumpy said to the Parrot:--"Do, my pretty Polly, don't you tell, an' I'll give you a silver door an' a golden cage." And the Parrot sing:-- [Music: No, No, I don't want it, for the same you serve another one you will serve me the same.] "Oh do, my pretty Polly, don't you tell, an' I'll give you a silver door an' a golden cage." But the Parrot wouldn' stay, and he fly from houses to houses singing this tune:-- [Music: I brought, I brought a news to the young King Daniel; Miss Lumpy kill Miss Wenchy loss, on becount of young King Daniel.] At last the Parrot got to the table where the young King Daniel was. An' Miss Lumpy was into a room crying. Many pocket-handkerchief she got wet with tears. An' the Parrot sing the same song:--"I brought, I brought a news to the young King Daniel; Miss Lumpy kill Miss Wenchy loss on becount of young King Daniel." Then Miss Lumpy call out:--"Oh drive away that nasty bird, for Miss Wenchy head hurting her." But King Daniel wouldn' have it so, but said:--"I heard my name call. I would like to know what is it." An' the Parrot fly near upon the King's shoulder an' tell him what become of Miss Wenchy. An' they go an' look in the room an' find her not. An' pretty Polly take them to the pond an' show them where Miss Wenchy is, an' she was drown. Then the King call Miss Lumpy an' head him up into a barrel an' fasten it up with tenpenny nails, an' carry him up to a high hill an' let him go down the gully, an' he drop in the gully pom-galong. An' the Parrot laugh Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =I see you dough.= The first three words are pitched high and the voice falls as low as possible on the =dough= and dwells upon it. =Do, my pretty Polly, etc.= I have heard this story many times, and these words never vary. Obviously it was once a silver cage with a golden door.[39] [Footnote 39: The well-known and lately-current ballad of _May Colvin_, in which this incident occurs (though it is the false lover, not the sister, who is murdered), has a cage of gold with an ivory door. (C.S.B.)] =I brought=; brought for bring, as we had =broke= for break. =loss.= It is doubtful what this word represents. It may be loss or lost. Observe =be=count. =I would like to know what is it=, I should like to know what it is, what the matter is. The perverse misplacing of these words strikes a newcomer to the island. In questions they misplace them again and say "What it is?" =find her not.= The =not= has a heavy accent. =gully=, precipice. =pom-galong= imitates the sound of the barrel as it goes bumping down. The =o='s have the Italian sound. IV. TOMBY. One day there was a gal, an' Annancy really want that gal fe marry, but he couldn' catch him. An' Annancy ask a old-witch man--the name of him was Tomby--an' the old-witch man had a 'mash-up side, an' him was the only man could gotten the gal for Annancy. An' Annancy give the old-witch man a t'reepence to give the gal when him goin' to the market to buy a t'reepence of youricky-yourk. An' the gal take the t'reepence. An' as she walk along the pass to market she meet up one of her friend call Miss Princess Johnson an' she said:--"Good mornin' me love," an' the answer:--"How you do, me dear? Where you a come from now?" An Miss Justina say:--"Me a come from Tomby yard, an' see de t'reepence he give me fe go buy youricky-yourk." "Never you bodder with somet'ing 'tan' so. Gi' ahm back him fuppence because him goin' to turn trouble fe you." "How I manage fe gi' him the fuppence?" "When you go to the market come back tell him you no see no youricky-yourk." "An' what you go go buy, Miss Princess?" "Me go buy me little salt fish an' me little hafoo yam, t'reepence a red peas fe make me soup, quatty 'kellion, gill a garlic to put with me little nick-snack, quatty ripe banana, bit fe Gungo peas, an' me see if me can get quatty beef bone." "Ah! me missis, Cocoanut cheap a market ya." "Yes, me love, make me buy sixpence." An' as they talking they get to market. They buy what they want an' turn back, an' when they reach up Princess yard they tell goodbye an' Justina call in to Tomby. An' Justina bring back the t'reepence an' sing:-- [Music: Me go to market, me look, Tomby; look oh! me look, Tomby, look oh! me look, Tomby, see no youricky-yourk; Me went to Lingo Starban, 'cornful day, me went to Lingo Starban, 'cornful day, me went to Lingo Starban, 'cornful day.] An' Tomby very vex as, being a old witch, he knew all what the gal do already. An' he answer:-- [Music: Hm hm! hm hm! me have me mash-up side gee oh! a him make you say Tatalingo ya you bit oh! 'cornful day.] An' he won't take the t'reepence. Now the rule is that anybody take something from old-witch an' can't give it back, it give him power to catch him. An' so comes it that Tomby catch Justina an' send for Mr. Annancy an' make him a present to be a wife. His name was Miss Sinclair, but she becomes now Mrs. Annancy Sinclair. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =Old-witch=, a person of either sex possessed of supernatural powers, not necessarily old in years, as will be seen in other stories. The name "white witch" applied to men is familiar to dwellers in the West of England. ='mash-up=, smashed up, wounded, lacerated. =youricky-yourk=, a nonsense word for some kind of plaster. =pass=, path. =Miss Princess.= Prince and Princess are common names for boys and girls. =good mornin'.= This broad =o= is always pronounced =ah=. =yard=, a house with its immediate surroundings. =Never you bodder=, don't you bother with something which stands so, with that sort of commission. =ahm=, frequently used for him. =fuppence=, with Italian =u= having a turn towards =o=, fivepence in the old Jamaica coinage, equal to threepence English. Princess advises the return of the fuppence because it is going to get Justina (English =u= and Italian =i=) into trouble, coming as it does from an old-witch. It would not be guessed that the Jamaica coinage is identical with that of England. Such is, nevertheless, the case in spite of these curious names: 3 farthings 1 gill. 2 gills 1 quatty (quarter of sixpence, pronounced quotty). 2 quatties 1 treppence or fuppence (old coinage). 3 quatties 1 bit. 4 quatties 1 sixpence or tenpence (old coinage). 5 quatties, bit-o-fuppence. 7 quatties, bit-o-tenpence. 8 quatties 1 shilling or maccaroni. 10 quatties, mac-o-fuppence. =go go buy.= It is not only Annancy who uses reduplications. The close English =o= is replaced in the Negro's mouth by an Italian open =o=. =hafoo= (pronounced hahfoo, really =afoo=, an African word), a kind of yam. ='kellion=, skellion or scallion, a kind of onion which does not bulb. =Gungo=, Congo. This pea is not only excellent for soup, but the growing plant improves the soil by introducing nitrogen into it. =ya=, do you hear? a common ending to any remark. =tell goodbye.= They =tell= howdy (how do you do?) and goodbye. =Lingo Starban.= This should probably be Lingo's tavern, Lingo's tahvern; =v= and =b= being indistinguishable as in Spanish and Russian. ='cornful day=, a day of scorning or flouting. Justina wishes Tomby to believe that she tried everywhere to get some youricky-yourk, but met only with flouts and jeers. =Hm, hm=, grumbling. =a him=, it is him, it is that which makes you say:--"Tatalingo, here's your bit," your three quatties. She only had a treppence but the Negro is above accuracy as the Emperor Sigismund was above grammar. =Tatalingo.= Lingo's name is now transferred to Tomby. Italian vowels in Tata. In "Finger Quashy" we find Tatafelo as one of the cats' names. =make him a present=, make her (Justina) a present to Annancy. =Mrs. Annancy Sinclair.= They are not particular in the matter of surnames. A remarried widow is constantly called by the surname of her first husband. V. HOW MONKEY MANAGE ANNANCY. One day Mr. Annancy an' his wife sat under a tree an' don't know that Mr. Monkey was on the tree. Mr. Annancy say to his wife:--"You know I really want little fresh." The wife say to Annancy:--"What kind a fresh?" "How you mean, me wife, fe ax me dat question? Any meat at all. Me wife, you know wha' we fe do. Make we get a banana barrel an' lay it on de bed, make him favour one man, so get white sheet an' yap him up from head to foot, an' sen' go call Bro'er Cow, Bro'er Monkey, Bro'er Sheep, Bro'er Goat an' Bro'er Hog. An' when them come we mus' put all the strange friend them inside de house an' den you fe stay inside de room wi' dem." Now Bro'er Annancy send fe all his friend, Sheep, Goat, Hog, Monkey. Cow was the minister. When they come to Annancy yard they met him was crying. Parson Cow say:--"Don't cry so much, my good friend, because it is the all a we road." Annancy say:--"Ah, ah! Bro'er Cow, you no know the feeling me have fe me one puppa. Bro'er Cow, as you is the parson, take you frien' in, you will see de ole man 'pon bed." During this time Mrs. Annancy was inside the room. The Reverend Cow went in to raise up the sheet. Mrs. Annancy say:--"No; me husban' say nobody fe look on the ole man face till in the morning." So Cow don't rist. Mr. Monkey who hear all what Annancy was saying, he an' his wife wouldn' go in the house. Mr. Annancy say:--"Bro'er Monkey, go inside. Go see the last of the ole man." Monkey say:--"No, Bro'er Annancy, me sorry fe you too much. If a go in dere a we cry whole a night." "No, Bro'er Monkey, go in, go keep them other one company for you are me nearest frien'." Monkey never go. He has to left Monkey, for Monkey was too clever for him. An' by that time Mr. Annancy hid his cutlass back of his door well sharpen an' go in the house an' shut the door. It was the only door in the whole house, so he sat back of the door after lock it. An' after, Bro'er Annancy ask Bro'er Cow to say a word of prayer. During the praying Annancy was crying. Hog with an old voice say:--"Keep up Mr. Annancy, keep up Mr. Annancy." He cry much the better. The prayer was finish. Mr. Annancy ask Cow to raise a hymn. The Cow commence with hundred a de hymn, hundred a de page. [Music: Me gullen ho St. John, me gullen ho St. John, me see the last to-day ya, me see the last, puppa gone.] Bro'er Annancy want fe kill Parson Cow, begin with a big confusion, say that him don't like that hymn. During this time his door was well lock, an' same time Bro'er Annancy draw his cutlass an' raise a fight, say that him don't like that hymn. An' the poor friend them didn' have anything to fight. He kill the whole of them. In the morning Monkey laugh, say:--"Bro'er Annancy, If me min come in a you house you would a do me the same." Annancy say "No." Him give Monkey a piece of the meat. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =fresh=, fresh meat. In the country districts the only meat to be had as a rule is ancient salt beef out of a tub. =favour=, look like. In some parts of England the word is still used in this sense. =met him was crying=, found him crying. =all a we.= All of us have to tread the road of death. =one=, own. =who hear=, who had heard previously when he was on the tree. =cutlass.= Every Negro carries one. It is used for every sort of purpose, but seldom murderously as here. =old voice=, voice of simulated grief. =much the better=, all the more. =hundred a de=, hundredth. =me gullen ho=, nonsense words. =confusion=, quarrel. =min=, been. If I had come in you would have done the same to me. VI. BLACKBIRD AND WOSS-WOSS. One day there was a place where they usual to kill plenty of meat. An' Mr. Blackbird has a certain tree, hiding himself. An' every cow them kill Mr. Blackbird see how them kill it. An' going into the house, the house don't lock with no key nor either open with no key. When they want to go in them use a word, say "one--two--t'ree--me no touch liver," an' the door open himself. An' when them want to come out of the house them use the same words "one--two--t'ree--me no touch liver." An' Mr. Blackbird tief them fe true, an' them never find it out. An' one day Mr. Blackbird write his friend Mr. Annancy to take a walk with him, an' him will show him where he is getting all these meat. An' when he is going him tell Mr. Annancy all the rule, that when he go on the tree he must listen, an' him will hear what them say to open the door both going in an' coming out. What Mr. Annancy did; when he see the butcher them passing with the meat, Annancy was trembling an' saying:--"Look a meat,--Look a meat." "Bro'er Annancy hush you mout', you a go make dem shot me." When the butcher them gone, Mr. Blackbird come down, he an' Mr. Annancy, an' go inside the house the very same as the butcher them do, say "one--two--t'ree--me no touch liver." As they go into the house Blackbird tell him that him mustn't take no liver. An' Mr. Annancy took liver an' put in his bag. An' when Blackbird started out with the same word Mr. Annancy left inside was tying his bag. Now Mr. Annancy ready fe come out of the house, count "one--two--t'ree--me no touch liver," and by this time he has the liver in his bag. The door won't open. Blackbird call him "Come on." He say:--"The door won't open." Then he count more than what he was to by get so frighten. He say:--"One--two--t'ree--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--ten--me no touch liver." The door won't open. Mr. Blackbird say:--"Look in your bag, you must be have liver." The fellow so sweet-mout' say in a cross way "No." Blackbird leave him. When Blackbird go home he look an' can't see Mr. Annancy, so him fly a bush an' get up a whole regiment of soldier. Who these soldier was, was Woss-Woss. Mr. Blackbird was the General, march before. When them reach to the place they were just in time, for the butcher were taking Mr. Annancy to go an' tie him on a tree to cut him with hot iron. Word of command was given from Mr. Blackbird, an' by the time the butcher them come to the door with Mr. Annancy the whole world of Woss-Woss come down on them. They have to let go Mr. Annancy. Not one of the butcher could see. Mr. Blackbird soldier gain the battle an' get 'way Mr. Annancy. They take all the butcher meat an' carry home. Then Mr. Blackbird take Mr. Annancy under his wing an' all his soldiers an' fly to his own country. From that day Woss-Woss is a great fighter until now, so bird never do without them to guard their nest. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =Woss-Woss.= The West Indian wasp hangs its paper nest to the twigs of bushes and trees as a rule, though it does not despise the shelter of the verandah. The wasps live in colonies, making many small nests instead of one big one. The nests are shaped like the rose of a watering-pot with the shank turned upwards. This story clearly owes its origin to Ali Baba. The conversion of Sesame, which meant nothing to the negro, into one-two-three, which at least means something, is not unnatural. =fe true=, literally =for true= is an expressive phrase conveying the idea of intensity. =It hot fe true=, it is intensely hot. =He tief fe true=, he steals terribly. =It rain fe true=, it is raining very hard. =He wort'less fe true=, he is a regular scamp. =He sinnicky fe true=, he is a horrid sneak. =His ears hard fe true=, his ears are outrageously hard, said of a boy who will not do as he is told. =He nyam fe true=, he eats immensely. =Lazy fe true=, abominably lazy. =Ugly fe true=, exceedingly ugly. =The water cold fe true=, the water is very cold. =White yam burn fe true=, the white yam is sadly burnt. =Orange bear fe true=, the oranges bear heavily. =Puss catch ratta fe true=, the cat catches any amount of rats. =Him favour tiger fe true=, he looks for all the world like a tiger, said of a man who has a sullen expression. =Me head hurt me fe true=, I have a very bad headache. =Boot burn me fe true=, my boots gall me dreadfully. =by get so frighten=, through fright; literally, owing to his getting so much frightened. =must be have=, must have. =sweet-mout'=, sweet-mouthed, greedy. VII. THE THREE SISTERS. There was t'ree sister living into a house, an' everybody want them fe marry, an' them refuse. An' one day a Snake go an' borrow from his neighbour long coat an' burn-pan hat an' the whole set out of clothing. Then he dress himself, an' him tell his friends that him mus' talk to those young lady. An' what you think the fellow does? He get up a heap a men to carry him to the young lady yard. An' when him got there the door was lock with an iron bar. An' when he come he say:--"Please to open the door, there is a stranger coming in." An' he sing like this:-- [Music: My eldes' sister, will you open the door? My eldes' sister, will you open the door oh? Fair an gandelow steel.] An' the eldest one was going to open the door. An' the last one, who was a old-witch, say to her sister:--"Don't open the door," an' she sing:-- [Music: My door is bar with a scotran bar, My door is bar with a scotran bar oh, Fair an' gandelow steel.] Then the Snake ask again to the same tune:-- My second sister will you open the door? My second sister will you open the door oh? Fair an' gandelow steel. An' the youngest, which was old-witch, sing again:-- My door is bar with an iron bar, My door is bar with an iron bar oh, Fair an' gandelow steel. An' the Snake turn to a Devil, an' the t'ree sister come an' push on the door to keep it from open. An' the Devil ask a third time:-- My youngest sister will you open the door? My youngest sister will you open the door oh? Fair an' gandelow steel. But the last sister won't have it so, an' she said with a very wrath:-- [Music: The Devil roguer than a womankind, The Devil roguer than a womankind oh, Fair an' gandelow steel.] An' the Devil get into a great temper an' say:-- [Music: What is roguer than a womankind? What is roguer than a womankind oh? Fair an' gandelow steel.] Then the Devil fly from the step straight into hell an' have chain round his waist until now. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =Snake= is pronounced with an indefinite short vowel between the =s= and =n=, senake. =burn-pan hat=, the tall hat of civilized towns. The =pan= is the usual cylindrical tin vessel used for cooking. When blackened by fire it is a =burn-pan= or burnt pan. It is pronounced like French _bonne_. =Gandelow, scotran.= The meaning of these words is lost. =roguer.= This word is doubtful. Sometimes it sounds like rowgard, at others like rowgod. It may mean "more roguish." The boy who gave me this story often quotes this line from a hymn: "To break the bonds of cantling sin." One day I asked him to point it out in his hymnbook. It was =conquering=. He can say it perfectly well, but he still goes on with =cantling=. It is not surprising, therefore, that we cannot recover words passed from mouth to mouth for generations. =womankind.= Again it is doubtful whether this is a single word or two words. The article would fix it as the latter in pure English, but in negro speech it goes for nothing. =old-witch=, though she was a young girl: see notes to No. IV. (Tomby). VIII. WILLIAM TELL. Once there was a man who name William Tell, an' him have a lots of cow. An' in the yard there was a tree, an' the tree no man can fall it. Any animal at all go under that tree it kill them, an' the name of the tree is Huyg. An' William Tell wanted the tree to cut down. An' him offer a cow to any man that kill the Huyg. They shall get the cow. An' first of all Tacoma went to cut down the tree, an' him couldn' bear the itch, I mean 'cratch of the tree. An' William Tell made a law that any man come to cut the tree they must not 'cratch their 'kin or else they would lose the cow. An' Mr. Tacoma were very sorry, an' he was to leave the cow just to save his life. An' that great man Mr. Annancy heard about the cow an' him got a very sharp axe. An' when Mr. Annancy come, William Tell show him the cow--Annancy glad when he see the cow--an' after he show Mr. Annancy the tree. Then Mr. Annancy say:--"Ho, me good massa, don't you fret of the tree. If one sing don't send 'way the tree another one must send him 'way." An' the first sing was:-- [Music: Big chip, fly! little chip, fly!] He repeat the word over an' over, but the tree don't fall yet. So him take up another sing again:-- [Music: Me go to Rickylanjo, eye come shine, come show me your motion, eye come shine.] An' Mr. Annancy never cease till him cut down the tree an' receive his reward. NOTES. =Huyg= for Hag, as they say =buyg= for bag. The spelling is awkward but it seems the only convenient one to adopt. The sound will be best understood from the second example. Say =buy= and put a hard =g= after it. The =Huyg= seems to combine the qualities of the Upas and Cow-itch (_Mucuns pruriens_). The last, a common Jamaica weed, looks like a scarlet runner. It bears pods covered with a pretty velvet of hairs which "scratch" or irritate the skin. =sing.= Further on there is a collection of these =sings=. =show me your motion=, let me see you begin to topple. IX. BROTHER ANNANCY AND BROTHER DEATH. One day Brother Annancy sen' gal Annancy fe go a Brother Deat' yard fe go beg fire. When the gal go, him go meet Brother Deat' dis a eat fe him breakfas' enough eggs. Brother Deat' give gal Annancy one. Gal Annancy take the egg an', after eat done, put the shell 'pon him finger. Brother Annancy wait an' wait but can't get the fire, till at last he see the gal a come. When him see the gal with the egg shell 'pon him finger, him run an' bit off the gal finger slap to the hand. Him take 'way the fire, out it, an' go back to Deat' say:--"Bro'er Deat', de fire out." Brother Deat' give him fire an' one egg, tell him fe go home. "Say, Bro'er Deat', I goin' to give you me daughter fe marry to." So Annancy do marry off Deat' an' him daughter the same day. So him lef' them gone for a week, then come back again fe come see him son-in-law. When him come him say:--"Bro'er Deat', me son, me hungry." Brother Deat' no 'peak. So Annancy begin fe talk to himself: "Bro'er Deat' say me fe go make up fire, but no mo so me no yerry." After five minutes him call out:--"Bro'er Deat', me make up de fire." Deat' no 'peak. "Bro'er Deat' say me fe wash de pot, but no mo so me no yerry." When the pot wash done, him call out:--"Pot wash." Deat' no 'peak. "Bro'er Deat' say me fe to put him on, but no mo so me no yerry." Soon him say:--"Bro'er Deat', where de vittle?" Deat' no 'peak. "Him say me fe look somewhé dé me see enough yam, me fe peel dem put dem a fire, but no mo so me no yerry." Annancy cook all Deat' food. When it boil, him take it off. Him say:--"Bro'er Deat', him boil." Deat' no 'peak. "Bro'er Deat' say me fe share, but no mo so me no yerry." Annancy eat fe him share, then turn back say:--"Bro'er Deat', you no come come eat?" Deat' no 'peak. "Bro'er Deat' say him no want none, but no mo so me no yerry." So Annancy eat off all the food him one. Then Deat' get vex in a him heart, and him run into the kitchen. "Bro'er Annancy a whé you mean fe do me, say a come you come fe kill me?" So Deat' catch Annancy an' say:--"Me no a go let you go again, no use, no use." Then, after, Deat' carry Annancy in a him house an' leave him, gone to get his lance to kill him. So, after Annancy sit a time an' about to go away, him say:--"Bro'er Deat' say me fe go take piece a meat, but no mo so me no yerry." When Annancy go to the meat cask, him see the cask full with meat. Him take out two big piece of meat. Then he see fe him daughter hand with the missing finger. Him jump out of the house an' bawl out:--"Bro'er Deat', you b'ute, you b'ute, you kill me daughter." Deat' catch him again an' was going to kill him, but the feller get 'way, run home a fe him yard. Brother Deat' follow him when him go home. Annancy take all him children an' go up a house-top, go hang up on the rafter. Brother Deat' come in a de house, see them up a de house-top. Annancy say to his family--there was two boy an' the mumma--"Bear up! If you drop de man a dirty dé a go nyam you." Here come one of the boy say:--"Puppa, me han' tired." Annancy say:--"Bear up!" The boy cry out fe de better. Annancy say:--"Drop, you b'ute! No see you dada a dirty dé?" Him drop. Deat' take him and put him aside. Five minutes the other one say:--"Puppa, me han' tired." Annancy say again:--"Drop, you b'ute! No see you dada a dirty dé?" Him drop. Deaf take him an' put him aside. Soon the wife get tired, say:--"Me husban', me han' tired." Annancy say:--"Bear up, me good wife!" When she cry she couldn' bear no more, Annancy bawl again:--"Drop you b'ute! No see you husban' a dirty dé?" She drop. Deat' take her. At last Annancy get tired. Das de man, Bro'er Deat' been want. Annancy was so smart, no want fe Deat' catch him, so he say:--"Bro'er Deat', I goin' to drop, an' bein' me so fat, if you no want me fat fe waste, go and fetch somet'ing fe catch me." "What me can take fe catch you?" "Go in a room you will see a barrel of flour an' you fe take it so fe me drop in dé." Deat' never know that this flour was temper lime. Deat' bring the barrel an', just as he fixing it up under where Annancy hanging, Annancy drop on Deat' head PUM, an jam him head in a the temper lime an' blind him. So he an' all him family get 'way. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =dis a eat=, just as he had eaten. =no mo so me no yerry=, I must have failed to hear. See page 3. =Deat' no 'peak=, Death won't speak. The comedy is well sustained. Annancy goes through the various stages of preparation for breakfast, pretending that he is carrying out orders from Death which he fails to hear. =put him on=, put the pot on the fire. =somewhé dé=, somewhere there. The =e='s are like French =é=, and =dé= is said with a strong accent and made very short. =enough yam=, plenty of yams. =say a come you come=, say do you come. =me no a go etc.=, I am not going to let you go again. =no use=, no mistake about it this time. =bawl.= Remember to pronounce it =bahl=. =b'ute=, brute, pronounced byute like the island Bute. =a fe him yard=, to his yard. =a dirty dé, etc.=, on the ground there will eat you. =fe de better=, all the more. =Das=, that's. =temper lime=, tempered lime originally no doubt, but now meaning quick lime. Temper, I am told, means cross. And in further explanation my informant adds: "You can't fingle (finger) temper lime as you have a mind; it cut up your hand." =pum= with the shortest possible vowel represents the thud of Annancy's fall upon Death's head. The Kitchen is outside the house, often at a considerable distance from it. X. MR. BLUEBEARD. There was a man named Mr. Bluebeard. He got his wife in his house an' he general catch people an' lock up into a room, an' he never let him wife see that room. One day he went out to a dinner an' forgot his key on the door. An' his wife open the door an' find many dead people in the room. Those that were not dead said:--"Thanky, Missis; Thanky, Missis." An' as soon as the live ones get away, an' she was to lock the door, the key drop in blood. She take it up an' wash it an' put it in the lock. It drop back into the blood. An' Mr. Bluebeard was a old-witch an' know what was going on at home. An' as he sat at dinner, he called out to get his horse ready at once. An' they said to him:--"Do, Mr. Bluebeard, have something to eat before you go." "No! get my horse ready." So they bring it to him. Now, he doesn't ride a four-footed beast, he ride a t'ree-foot horse. An' he get on his horse an' start off itty-itty-hap, itty-itty-hap, until he get home. Now, Mrs. Bluebeard two brother was a hunter-man in the wood. One of them was old-witch, an' he said:--"Brother, brother, something home wrong with me sister." "Get 'way you little foolish fellah," said the biggest one. But the other say again:--"Brother, brother, something wrong at home. Just get me a white cup and a white saucer, and fill it with water, and put it in the sun, an' you will soon see what do the water." Directly the water turn blood. An' the eldest said:--"Brother, it is truth, make we go." An' Mrs. Bluebeard was afraid, because he knew Mr. Bluebeard was coming fe kill him. An' he was calling continually to the cook, Miss Anne:-- [Music: Sister Anne, Sister Anne, Ah! you see any one is coming? Sister Anne, Sister Anne, Ah! you see any one is coming?] An' Sister Anne answer:-- [Music: Oh no, I see no one is coming, But the dust that makes the grass so green.] An' as she sing done they hear Mr. Bluebeard coming, itty-itty-hap, itty-itty-hap. Him jump straight off a him t'ree-foot beast an' go in a the house, and catch Mrs. Bluebeard by one of him plait-hair an' hold him by it, an' said:--"This is the last day of you." An' Mrs. Bluebeard said:--"Do, Mr. Bluebeard, allow me to say my last prayer." But Mr. Bluebeard still hold him by the hair while he sing:-- Sister Anne, Sister Anne, Ah! you see any one is coming? Sister Anne, Sister Anne, Ah! you see any one is coming? An' Sister Anne answer this time:-- [Music: Oh yes! I see someone is coming, And the dust that makes the grass so green.] Then Mr. Bluebeard took his sword was to cut off him neck, an' his two brother appear, an' the eldest one going to shot after Mr. Bluebeard, an' he was afraid an' begin to run away. But the young one wasn't going to let him go so, an' him shot PUM and kill him 'tiff dead. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =three-foot=, three-legged.[1] =Hand= is used for arm in the same way. =itty-itty-hap=, imitating the halting gait of the three-legged horse. The voice rises on =hap= which is said with a sharp quick accent.[40] [Footnote 40: "The 'three-foot horse' is believed to be a kind of duppy with three legs, hence its name; and is able to gallop faster than any other horse. It goes about in moonlight nights, and if it meet any person it blows upon him and kills him. It will never attack you in the dark. It cannot hurt you on a tree." _Folklore of the Negroes of Jamaica_, in _Folklore_, Vol. XV., p. 91. (C.S.B.).] =fe kill him=, to kill her. The use of masculine for feminine pronouns is bewildering at first. XI. ANNANCY, PUSS, AND RATTA. One day Annancy an' Puss make a dance, an' invite Ratta to the ball. Annancy was the fiddler. The first figure what him play, the tune say:-- [Music: Ying de ying de ying, Ying de ying de ying, take care you go talk oh, min' you tattler tongue ying de ying, min' you tattler tongue ying de ying, min' you tattler tongue ying de ying.] The second tune he say:-- [Music: Bandywichy wich, Bandywichy wich, Bandywichy wich, Timber hang an' fall la la, fall la la, fall la.] Then, as the Ratta dance, the high figure whé him make, him slide in the floor an' him trousies pop. Then the shame he shame, he run into a hole, an' him make Ratta live into a hole up to to-day day. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. This story should be rattled off as quick as possible. =Ratta=, rat or rats. =Ying de ying= imitates the "rubbing" of the fiddle, as they call it. =take care you go talk=, mind you don't talk, mind your tattling tongue. =figure whé him make=, caper that he cuts. =trousies pop=, trousers burst. XII. TOAD AND DONKEY. One day a King made a race and have Toad and Donkey to be the racer. An' Toad tell Donkey that him must win the race, an' Donkey mad when him yerry so. And the race was twenty mile. An' Donkey say:--"How can you run me? I have long tail an' long ear an' a very tall foot too, an' you a little bit a Toad. Let me measure foot an' see which one longer." An' Toad say to Donkey:--"You no mind that man, but I must get the race." An' Donkey get very vex about it. An' Donkey say to the King:--"I ready now to start the race." An' the King made a law that Donkey is to bawl at every miles that he might know where he got. Now that little smart fellah Toad says to the King that he doesn't fix up his business yet, an' will he grant him a little time. An' the King grant him a day, an' say to the two of them:--"Come again to-morrow." An' Donkey wasn't agree, for he know that Toad is a very trickified thing. But the King wouldn' hear, an' say:--"No, to-morrow." Now Toad have twenty picny. An' while Donkey is sleeping, Toad take the twenty picny them along with him on the race-ground, an' to every mile-post Toad leave one of his picny an' tell them that they must listen for Mr. Donkey when he is coming. "An' when you yerry that fellah Mr. Donkey bawl, you must bawl too." An' Toad hide one of his picny behind every mile-post until him end the twenty mile. So the race begin. Donkey was so glad in a him heart that he was going to beat Toad that he say to himself:--"Tche! That little bit a fellah Toad can't manage me, so I must have plenty of time to eat some grass." So him stand by the way, eat grass and poke him head through the fence where he see some potato-slip, an' try a taste of Gungo peas. An' he take more than an hour fe catch up the first mile-post, an' as him get him bawl:-- [Music: Ha! Ha! Ha! me more than Toad.] An' there comes the first picny call out:-- [Music: Jinkororo, Jinkokkokkok.] An' Donkey quite surprise, an' say:--"Tche! How him manage to be before me?" An' he think:--"Me delay too long with that grass, I must quicker next mile." An' him set off with a better speed an' only stop a minute for a drink of water. An' as him get to the next post him bawl:-- [Music: Ha! Ha! Ha! me more than Toad.] An' there come the second picny call out:-- [Music: Jinkororo, Jinkokkokkok.] An' Donkey say:--"Lah! Toad travel fe true. Never mind, we will chance it again." So him 'tart, an' when him reach the third mile-post him bawl:-- [Music: Ha! Ha! Ha! me more than Toad.] An' the third picny behind the post say:-- [Music: Jinkororo, Jinkokkokkok.] Jackass get vex when he hear Toad answer him, an' he go fe 'mash Toad, an' Toad being a little man hide himself in a grass. Then Donkey say:--"Hi! fellah gone ahead; make I see if I can catch up the next mile-post before him." An' he take him tail an' touch it like a horsewhip an' begin fe gallop. An' him get to the fourth mile-post an' bawl:-- [Music: Ha! Ha! Ha! me more than Toad.] An' there comes the fourth picny answer him:-- [Music: Jinkororo, Jinkokkokkok.] When him yerry, him 'tand up same place an' trimble, say:--"My goodness King! a whé me a go do? Make me gallop so I knock off all me hoof self upon the hard hard dirty because I must beat the race." An' he gallop so fast than he ever do before, until when he get to the fifth mile-post he was really tired an' out of breath. But he just have enough to bawl:-- [Music: Ha! Ha! Ha! me more than Toad.] When he hear:-- [Music: Jinkororo, Jinkokkokkok.] This time he really mad, an' race on harder than ever. But always the same story. Each mile-post he catch him bawl:--"Ha! Ha! Ha! me more than Toad." An' always come answer:--"Jinkororo, Jinkokkokkok." An' Donkey begin to get sad in his mind for he see that he lost the race. So through Toad smartness Donkey can never be racer again. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =tall foot=, long leg. A tall bridge is a long one, not one that stands high above the river. =wasn't agree=, didn't agree. Auxiliaries are a snare. =picny.= This is the almost universal form of picaninny in Jamaica, varied occasionally by picany. =Tche!= the Pshaw! of books and the Tush! of the Psalms. There is a world of contempt in this ejaculation, which is accompanied by an upward jerk of the chin. The vowel is that of French =le=. =potato-slip.= The sweet potato (_Ipomoea Batatas_) is cultivated by slips or cuttings. Our kind of potato is called "Irish potato." =Jinkororo, etc.= This is a capital imitation of the Toad's croaking chuckle. The second bar should be made as out of tune as possible and the =kok= is on the lowest note of the voice. It is the repeated k's that make the croak so life-like. =take him tail.= They are fond of this expression. Other examples are:--"The horse take him mout' fe 'cratch him foot," the horse scratches his leg with his mouth. "Me take me owny yeye an' see it," I saw it with my own eyes. =a whé me a go do?= What am I going to do, what shall I do? =dirty=, ground. XIII. SNAKE THE POSTMAN. One day Annancy ask Snake to be his postman. Snake ask him how much he is going to pay him. An' Annancy tell Snake that he know he is a man love blood, an' when him come in the night he will give him a bite off his head. An' Snake did agree. An' the first night he give Annancy a bite in his head, an' Annancy feel it very much. An' the second night when Snake is to come back Annancy invite his friend Mr. Rabbit. An' Annancy usual to sleep out in the hall. An' that night, when his friend Mr. Rabbit did come, he move an' go in the room an' make a very high bed. An' his friend Mr. Rabbit didn' know what Annancy mean to do. So Annancy put him out in the hall, an' tell him that one of his cousin is sleeping in here too, so he will come in later on; an' when him hear him call he must just get up an' open the door an' see who it is. An' when Annancy out lamp Rabbit think it very hard, an' say to himself:--"Bro'er Annancy up to some trick." An' Rabbit wake up an' begun to dig a hole, an' him dig a hole until him get outside the door an' find himself back to his yard. When Snake come in the night to get the other bite from Annancy him call Annancy. Annancy wouldn' give answer as him being put Rabbit outside in the hall, an' Snake continually calling until Annancy give answer. An' when him give answer he begin to wake Rabbit an' thought Rabbit was inside the house. He didn' want was to receive his bite, an' he begun to call Rabbit "Cousin Yabbit," that Rabbit may glad an' give him answer. When him couldn' hear, him say "Godfather Yabbit" An' him call again "Bro'er Yabbit," an' him couldn' hear him. An' he call again "Puppa, Puppa!" an' he couldn' hear. An' him light the lamp an' come out the hall an' begin to s'arch for Rabbit. An' when him look, him see Rabbit dig a heap of dirt an' come out. An' Annancy beguns to cry inside the house an' wouldn' open the door. An' he begin to complain to Snake that the first bite him gi' him he 'mash up the whole a him head. An' Annancy 'tudy a 'cheme, catch up a black pot an' turn it down over him head. An' as he put out him head Snake bite the pot, t'ought it's Annancy him catch. An the whole of Snake mouth was in sore. An' when he get home he send back to Annancy that he sick an' won't manage to come back another night. An' Annancy was very glad an' send go tell him that himself is in bed. An' when the bearer start for home him sing this song:-- [Music: Somebody waiting for Salizon, Somebody waiting for Salizon, Somebody waiting for Salizon, Take up your letter an' go.] An' from that day Snake broke friend with Annancy. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. The house would have two rooms, first the hall and then the inner room or bedroom. From Rabbit's burrowing operations it appears to have no floor. This was a common condition in the old times, but now it gets rarer and rarer. Only Coolie (East Indian) houses are unfloored. =him being put=, he had put. ='tudy a 'cheme=, studies a scheme. It is more usual ='tudy a plan=. This common, vulgar song is evidently of late origin and probably does not really belong to the story. XIV. DOBA. One day Puss make a ball an' invite the whole world of Ratta. All the Ratta dress in long coat an' silk dress. There was t'ousand of them women, an' men. When them come they bring a little boy an' the mother with a young baby. When all the Ratta settle, the door was shut, an' the Puss them have them junka 'tick secretly in a them trousies' foot. They made a bargain between themselves that, when the Ratta deep in dancing, Doba must out the lamp, then the licking-match commence. When the music begin, it sweet Ratta so that they dance till their white shirt-bosom was wet. The fiddler was Dandy Jimmy Flint. An' this is what the fiddle say:-- [Music: Doba, Doba, Doba no make de little one get 'way Ballantony Bap! twee twee, Ballantony Bap! twee twee.] The boy Ratta take notice of what the fiddle say. Him go to him dada an' whisper:--"Puppa, you no yerry what the fiddle say?" [Music: Doba, Doba, Doba no make de little one get 'way Ballantony Bap! twee twee, Ballantony Bap! twee twee.] The father say:--"Get 'way, Sir, you little fellah you! It the worst fe carry any little boy out fe met. Go, off, Sir, you lying fellah!" During this time the boy hear what the music say in truth, went an' dug a hole fe him an' him mumma. When Ratta in hot dancing the gate-man Puss, Mr. Doba, out the lamp. Then the junka 'tick fly round an' all the Ratta was kill. Blood was cover the floor an' all the Puss take their share. Only boy Ratta an' his mumma an' the young baby, get way. If the puppa did take what the boy say him wouldn' dead. Puss ball was flourish with meat. If boy Ratta an' his mumma didn' get 'way we wouldn' have no Ratta in dis ya-ya-world again. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =Ratta=, rats. =Puss them.= These words are closely joined together. =junka 'tick=, short sticks. =trousies' foot=, the legs of their trousers. The Negroes are expert in the art of hiding things about their person. Fighting with sticks is called a =licking-match=. =sweet= (a verb), pleased, delighted. In these stories the fiddle is often made to sing words which some have the gift of hearing. =Bap!= is the knock of the stick, or "lick of the stick" as they say. =twee twee=, the squeak of the rat. =no make=, don't let. =it the worst fe carry, etc.= It is very troublesome to take a little boy out to a meeting. Met, dance, spree, picnic are convertible terms. =Carry= is seldom used as in English. They say:--Carry the mule a pastor (to the pasture). When a man carries you over a river on his back he "crosses you over." =Doba=, long =o= as in Dover. =Blood was cover, etc.=, the floor was covered with blood. =Dis ya-ya=, the vulgar English "this here." =Ya-ya= is said very quickly. It does not come into common speech but is reserved for Annancy stories and is generally found only in Annancy's mouth. XV. DRY-BONE. One day Rabbit invite Guinea-pig to his yard. An' when Guinea-pig go, Rabbit ask Guinea-pig to go an hunting. An' Rabbit meet up Dry-bone. An' when him meet up Dry-bone, him t'row down his gun an' him call to Guinea-pig an' tell him:--"I meet with a luck." An' Guinea-pig tell Rabbit:--"I won't carry none of the Dry-bone, but you must make me carry the birds what we kill." Rabbit wasn't agree to let him carry the birds, but Guinea-pig coax him until Rabbit consent an' they fix up the bargain: Rabbit was to carry Dry-bone, an' Guinea-pig was to carry the birds. So they put Dry-bone into the bag, an' Rabbit ask Guinea-pig to help him up. An' Guinea-pig help him up an' pick up the gun an' carry it. An' they start home to their yard. An' when Rabbit got half part the road he found the load getting heavier an' heavier, an' him ask Guinea-pig to take it for a while. Guinea-pig tell him that he made no promise was to help him with Dry-bone. Rabbit walk on till the load get so heavy him begin to cry, say that him going to t'row down Dry-bone. An' Dry-bone fasten on his head an' begin to talk. He say to Rabbit:--"You take me up you take up trouble." An' that time Guinea-pig was laughing after Rabbit. Just then that cravin' fellah Mr. Annancy was passing an' see Rabbit with his load. He thought that it was something good, an' he ask Rabbit that he will help him carry it. An' Rabbit was very glad to get relief of his trouble. So Annancy take Dry-bone from Rabbit an' put him on his own head. An' when Annancy 'tart, he t'ought that Rabbit was coming. An' Rabbit turn back an' hide a bush an' leave the trouble to Annancy. When Annancy get home to his yard him find that it was Dry-bone, an' it vex him in a him heart. An' Annancy want to leave Dry-bone an' go away. An' Dry-bone find out what Annancy mean to do. Annancy have a cock in the yard. Dry-bone tell him that him must watch Annancy, keep him a yard, an' he will pay him. An' the Cock ask Dry-bone:--"What is your name?" An Dry-bone say:--"'Tis Mr. Winkler." So Dry-bone live in Annancy yard. An' one day Annancy ask him if him don't want to warm sun. Dry-bone say:--"Yes." An' Annancy tell him that to-morrow he will put him out a door. Annancy went away an' make a bargain with Fowl-hawk, that him have a man name of Mr. Dry-bone, him must come to-morrow an' take him up an' carry him an' drop him in the deepest part of the wood. An' so Fowl-hawk did do. When the Cock see Fowl-hawk take up Mr. Winkler him sing out:-- [Music: Mister Winkler, Winkler come give me me pay.] An' Annancy look up a 'ky an' sing:-- [Music: Carry him go 'long, Annancy say so, Carry him go 'long, Me'll pay fe cock, Carry him go 'long, Annancy say so, Carry him go 'long, Me'll pay fe cock, Carry him go 'long.] _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =help him up=, to get the load on to his head. In this story and some others the load once taken up cannot be put down. It sticks to the head of the bearer and, until it reaches its destination, can only be transferred to another head. =cravin'=, craving, greedy, often sounds like craven. A man who is =cravin'= is generally =cubbich=, covetous. This has lost its original meaning of desiring possession of other people's things and is used only in the sense of close-fisted. A =cravin'= man wants to get hold of what others have got, a =cubbich= (ends with the sound of rich) one will not part with what he has. =laughing after=, laughing at. =him must watch.= The Cock must watch Annancy and not let him leave the yard; Dry-bone is helpless, and requires attention. =to warm sun=, to warm himself in the sun. So they have:--"Puss warm fire," the cat warms herself by the fire. =a 'ky=, in the sky. =Me'll pay fe cock=, I will pay the Cock's wages which Dry-bone agreed to give. _We_ pay a person for a thing, but the Negro pays for the person as well. =Walk=, =talk=, =warm=, =hawk=, all have the vowel ah. This story refers to the time of slavery. It is almost indisputable that in certain cases, when a slave was in a weak state owing to incurable illness or old age, he was carried out and left to die. To his pitiful remonstrance, "Massa me no dead yet," the overseer made no reply, but went on with his directions to the bearers, "Carry him go along." This kind of barbarity was not practised by owners living in Jamaica. By them the slaves were well treated and such a thing would have been impossible. But when the masters went away they left the control in the hands of overseers, men of low caste who had neither scruples nor conscience. XVI. ANNANCY AND THE OLD LADY'S FIELD. One day there was a old lady work a very nice field on a rock, an' an old-witch boy is the watchman. An' one day Annancy heard about the old-witch boy, an' Annancy send an' invite him to his yard. An when the old-witch boy come, Annancy ask him what his name. An' he says to Annancy that his name is John-John Fe-We-Hall. An' the boy ask Annancy why him ask him like that. An' Annancy say:--"Don't be afraid my frien', I very love you; that's why I ask whé you name." An' by this time the old lady didn't know that the old-witch boy gone to Annancy yard. An' Annancy have a son is a very clever tief, call Tacoma. An' Annancy made a bargain that, when him see John-John Fe-We-Hall come, he must walk to the back door an' come out, an' go to the old lady ground an' destroy the provision. An' when Tacoma come home, Annancy leave John-John out the hall, an' tell him that he is going to get some breakfast for him. Now the old lady make a law that, if the watchman eat any of his provision, it going to make him sick in a way that he will find out if it is the same watchman tiefing him.[41] [Footnote 41: This is evidently a reminiscence of the "medicine" (Nyanja, _chiwindo_) used in Africa to protect gardens. Sometimes it kills the thief, sometimes makes him ill. (A.W.)] An' being the boy is old-witch, he know that the food Annancy is getting ready is from the old lady field. So when Annancy bring the breakfast he won't eat it. Annancy tell him that he must eat the food, he mustn't be afraid. An' the boy say:--"No." An' Annancy send an' tell the old lady that the man is here clever more than him. An' when the old lady receive the message from Annancy, he sent to the ground to tell the old-witch boy that he must look out for Mr. Annancy, for him receive a chanice from Annancy. An' this time the old lady didn't know that the watchman is at Annancy yard. An' the old-witch boy is a fluter, an' when the old lady want to dance it's the same boy playing for the old lady. An' the old lady have a tune which he is dancing with. An' Annancy ask the boy to play the tune when he is going home, an' Annancy know if the tune play the old lady will dance till she kill herself. When the boy going home, him took up his sing with the flute:-- [Music: Old lady you too love dance, turn dem, Old lady you too love dance, turn dem, Turn dem make dem lay, turn dem, Turn dem make dem lay, turn dem.] An' when the old lady hear the sing she beguns to dance an' wheel until she tumble off the rock an' dead. An' Annancy becomes the master of the field until now. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. A rock would be a bad place for a field. Her house was on a rock probably, and her field or provision-ground elsewhere. For Provision-grounds and their contents see Digging-Sings. =old-witch.= Join these words as closely as possible wherever they occur. =Fe-We-Hall.= Very humble houses are called So-and-so Castle and So-and-so Hall. =Fe we=, for us, our. He was John of our Hall. =destroy=, take away, so that they are lost to the owner and destroyed as far as she is concerned. =out the hall=, out in the hall. =breakfast=, the principal repast of the day at twelve o'clock. =the man is here.= They delight in this enigmatic language. Annancy speaks of himself. He sends word that the man here (himself) is more clever than her (the old lady). Straightforwardness is a quality which the Negro absolutely lacks. If you try to get at the truth of any story he brings, and cross-question him upon it, he will shuffle and change it little by little, and you cannot fix him to any point. Language with him is truly, as the cynic said, the art of disguising thought. =chanice=, more usually =chalice=, challenge. Boys constantly carry their musical instruments about with them. The Flute, a cheap kind of fife, and the Concertina are the favourites. They play as they walk along the road. The tune, which is quick, is sung over and over and gets uproariously and deliriously merry; gasps on an inward breath, which there is no time to take properly, doing duty for some of the notes. The words are fragments of a song referring to fowls and eggs. It runs:-- Mother Bonner me hen a lay, turn dem, Them a lay t'ree time a day, turn dem, Turn dem make dem lay, turn dem. XVII. MAN-CROW.[42] [Footnote 42: Cf. the story of "Rombas" in Duff Macdonald's _Africana_ II., which would seem to have reached Africa through the Portuguese. Rombas kills the whale which has swallowed the girl, and removes the tongue. (A.W.)] Once there was a bird in the wood name Man-crow, an' the world was in darkness because of that bird. So the King offer thousands of pounds to kill him to make the world in light again. An' the King have t'ree daughter, an' he promise that, if anyone kill Man-crow, he will make them a very rich man an' give one of his daughter to marry. So t'ousands of soldiers go in the wood to kill Man-crow. An' they found him on one of the tallest trees in the woods. An' no one could kill him, an' they come home back. So there was a little yawzy fellah call Soliday. An' he say to his grandmother:--"Gran'mother I am very poor. I am going in the wood to see if I can kill Man-crow." An' the grandmother answer:--"Tche, boy, you better go sleep a fireside than you go to the wood fe go dead." "Gran'mother, I goin' to town fe buy six bow an' arrow." So he went to Kingston an' bought them. An' when him return home he ask his grandmother to get six Johnny-cake roast, an' he put it in his namsack, an' he travel in the wood. He s'arch until he find the spot a place where Man-crow is, an' he see Man-crow to the highest part of the tree. An' he call to him with this song:-- [Music: Good marnin' to you, Man-crow, Good marnin' to you, Man-crow, Good marnin' to you, Man-crow, How are you this marnin'?] An' the bird answer:-- [Music: Good marnin' to you, Soliday, Good marnin' to you, Soliday, Good marnin' to you, Soliday, How are you this marnin'?] An' Soliday shot with his arrow at Man-crow an' two of his feather come out. An' Man-crow come down to the second bough. An' Soliday sing again:-- [Music: Good marnin' to you, Man-crow, Good marnin' to you, Man-crow, Good marnin' to you, Man-crow, How are you this marnin'?] An' Man-crow answer as before:-- [Music: Good marnin' to you, Soliday, Good marnin' to you, Soliday, Good marnin' to you, Soliday, How are you this marnin'?] An' he fire after Man-crow an' two more feather fly out. An' so the singing an' shotting go on. At every song Man-crow come down one branch, an' Soliday fire an arrow an' knock out two feather, till five arrows gone. So Brother Annancy was on a tree watching Soliday what he is doing. An' the song sing for the sixth time, an' Man-crow jump down one more branch. An' Soliday put his last arrow in the bow an' took good aim an' shot after Man-crow. So he killed him an' he drop off the tree. An' Soliday go an' pick up the bird an' take out the golden tongue an' the golden teeth, an' shove it in a him pocket, an' Soliday come straight home to his grandmother. An' Annancy come off the tree an' take up the bird, put ahm a him shoulder, cut through bush until he get to the King gate, an' he rakkle at the gate. They ask:--"Who come?" He say:--"Me, Mr. Annancy." An' they say:--"Come in." An' the King said:--"What you want?" "I am the man that kill Man-crow." An' they take him in an' marry him to one of the King daughter an' make a very big table for him an' his family. They put him in the middle of the table, but he refuse from sit there. He sit to the doorway to look when Soliday coming. (The King then do know that that fellah up to trick.) An' directly Annancy see Soliday was coming, he stop eating, ask excuse, "I will soon be back." An' at that same time he gone outside into the kitchen. An' Soliday knock at the gate. An' someone answer him an' ask:--"What you want?" "I am the boy that kill Man-crow." An' they said:--"No, impossible! Mr. Annancy kill Man-crow." An' he take out the golden tongue an' teeth an' show it to the King, an' ask the question:--"How can a bird live without teeth an' tongue?" So they look in the bird mouth an' found it was true. An' they call Annancy. An' Annancy give answer:--"I will soon be there." An' they call him again. An' he shut the kitchen door an' said:--"Me no feel well." All this time Brother Annancy shame, take him own time fe make hole in the shingle get 'way. They call him again, they no yerry him, an' they shove the kitchen door. Annancy lost in the shingle up to to-day. An' the King marry Soliday to his daughter an' make him to be one of the richest man in the world. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =Yawzy.= Yaws is a disease very prevalent among the Negroes. It causes ulcers to form on the soles of the feet. In old slave days every estate had its yaws-house for the accommodation of the sufferers. This complaint does not attack the Whites. =six bow an' arrow=, a bow and six arrows, we suppose. =Johnny-cake=, journey cake made of flour and water fried in lard. =spot a place=, spot of place, exact place. =ask excuse=, asks to be excused. Pronounce the =s= like =z=. =shame, etc.=, was ashamed and was quietly making a hole in the shingle roof so as to get away. XVIII. SAYLAN. There was a man have two daughter. One of the daughter belongs to the wife an' one belongs to the man. An' the wife no love for the man daughter, so they drive her away. An' she get a sitivation at ten shillings a week, an' the work is to look after two horses an' to cut dry grass for them. An' every night she put two bundles of dry grass in the 'table. An' the mother was very grudgeful of the sitivation that she got. An' one night she carry her own daughter to the pastur' an' they cut two bundles of green grass. An' they go secretly to the horse manger an' take out the dry grass an' put the green grass in its place. So the horse eat it, an' in the morning they dead. An' the master of that horse is a sailor. The sailor took the gal who caring the horse to hang her. An' when he get to the 'pot a place to hang her he take this song:-- [Music: Mourn, Saylan, mourn oh! Mourn, Saylan, mourn; I come to town to see you hang, hang, you mus' be hang.] An' the gal cry to her sister an' brother an' lover, an' they give her answer:-- [Music: Sister, you bring me some silver? No, my child, I bring you none. Brother, you bring me some gold? No, my child, I bring you none. Lover, you bring me some silver? Yes, my dear, I bring you some. Lover, you bring me some gold? Yes, my dear, I bring you some. I come to town to see you save, save you mus' be saved.] An' the lover bring a buggy an' carry her off an' save her life at last. An' the mumma say:--"You never better, tuffa." _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. This is quite an unusual form of story, but appears to be of some antiquity in my district, where it ranks as an Annancy story.[43] [Footnote 43: Cf. _The Maid Freed from the Gallows_, F.J. Child, _Ballads_, vol. ii., p. 346. (C.S.B.)] =caring=, taking care of. This is so convenient a word that it is used by everybody. =You never better=, you will never be good for anything. =tuffa=, with Italian =u= imitates spitting, a sign of contempt. XIX. ANNANCY AND SCREECH-OWL. One day Annancy made a dance, an' ask 'creech-owl to be the musician. An' Annancy send an' invite all his friend. An' when they come Ratta was in long coat an' Guinea-pig too, for Ratta tell Guinea-pig they must wear long coat an' they will get all the gal to dance with. An' 'creech-owl is a great player, but the only danger he cannot sing in the day. An' 'creech-owl has a Cock in his yard, an' he sent an' ask Annancy if he can bring a friend along with him. An' Annancy send an' tell him that 'tis no objectin to bring the friend, an' Annancy tell 'creech-owl that he will get a lots of drink. At that time Annancy didn't know the friend as yet. So, as he being hate 'creech-owl, he didn't wish to see no friend of his. So when the friend come the friend was a Cock. An' Annancy was very sorry for he knew that the Cock going to crow when day clean, an' 'creech-owl going to know when day is cleaning an' go away. An' Annancy got some corn, an' get a pint of 'trong rum, an' t'row the rum in the corn, an' let the corn soak in the rum. An' when the Cock call out to 'creech-owl that he is hungry, he says to Mr. Annancy that he must treat his friend Mr. Cock, an' Annancy took some of the corn an' give to the Cock. An' it so being that he love corn, Annancy continually feed him with the corn until he get drunk an' fast asleep. An' Annancy feel very glad in his heart that he is going to kill Brother 'creech-owl for his breakfast. An' when 'creech-owl playing, his mind was on his dear friend Mr. Cock, an' he continually listen to hear him crow, an' he couldn' hear him. An' he ask for him. Mr. Annancy tell him that he is having a rest. An' 'creech-owl play an' play till day catch him. An' Annancy got a kettle of boiled water an' dish it out an' ask his friend them to have some tea. An' 'creech-owl get very sad to see day catch him. An' Annancy didn' know whé make 'creech-owl wouldn' drink the tea. So Annancy begin to raise a confusion over it, say, as he won't drink the tea he must made up him mind to sarve him breakfast. An' 'creech-owl began to cry. An' the same time Annancy (that wicked fellah!) take up 'creech-owl music, an' ask young ladies an' young gentlemen to assist him in a noble song which he is going to kill Mr. 'creech-owl with. An' this the song:-- [Music: There's a blind boy in a ring, tra la la la la, There's a blind boy in a ring, tra la la la la, There's a blind boy in a ring, tra la la la la, He like sugar an' I like plum.] An' when Annancy sing the sing done, he catch up 'creech-owl an' wring off him neck, an' get him cook for his breakfast an' becomes the master of 'creech-owl's band of music. An' from that day Mr. Annancy becomes the greatest player an' the biggest raskil in the world. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =the only danger=, the only danger is. This omission is frequent. At daylight, or soon after, it is the custom to drink tea. This is generally hot water and sugar with, or more often without, milk. Sometimes they make an infusion of the leaves of lime, orange, mint, fever-grass, cinnamon, pimento or search-me-heart. Coffee and chocolate are also occasionally used. These all grow in Jamaica, but, owing to its high price, actual tea is beyond the reach of the peasant. Lime is, of course, not the English tree of that name, but the tropical one which bears that small juicy fruit which is so much better than the coarser lemon. Fever-grass (_Andropogon citratus_) has the exact smell and taste of lemon-scented verbena. Search-me-heart (_Rhytidophyllum tormentosum_) is a pretty wild plant with leaves of green velvet, which on moist days give out a delicious aromatic smell much like _Humea_. =raise a confusion=, get up a quarrel. Annancy resorted to the same artifice when he killed Cow and the other animals at the mock obsequies of his father. =sarve him breakfast=, serve for his breakfast. The song will be found again among the dance tunes. =sing the sing done=, finished the song. ='creech-owl= sounds like creechole. XX. ANNANCY AND COW. One day Annancy tell his family that he is going in the wood. Before he start he get some cane-liquor an' pour it into a big gourdy, an' he tell him wife that "me gone." An' he travel so till he meet three Cow. An' he tell one of the Cow marnin', say:--"Marnin', Bro'er Cow." Cow say:--"Marnin', Brother Annancy." Annancy say:--"Beg you a little water, Bro'er Cow." When Annancy get the water he said:--"The water no sweet not 't all." An' he say to Cow:--"Come taste fe me water." An' he no make Brother Cow know say a cane liquor him got. When Cow taste it him lick him tongue. Annancy say:--"No say fe me water sweeter more than fe you?" Cow said "Yes." Annancy said:--"Bro'er Cow, you want to go home with me becausen me have it dé a run like a river? Bro'er Cow, if you want to go with me you fe make me put one wiss-wiss over you harn. But, Bro'er Cow, me have some picny a me yard, dey so fooyish, when time we most yech, dey ma go say 'Puppa bring Cow.' When them say 'Puppa bring Cow' you mus' say 'A so him do.'" Annancy carry Cow into his yard an' tie him upon a tree, an' tell Cow him goin' to get a yitty breakfus' for him. (Annancy 'tudy trick fe nyam Cow; he was very anxious for his beef.) An' he get into his house and take his tumpa bill coming to Cow force ace fe chop off Cow's neck. He miss the neck an' chop the wiss-wiss, an' Cow take him tail put on him back an' gallop away. Annancy a bawl, a call:--"Say, Bro'er Cow, a fun me a make, me a drive fly, come back." Cow no a yerry but gallop till him get home an' tell him wife an' picny, said Annancy want fe kill him:--"Thank God me get 'way; the whole family must sing we own tune to-day ya":-- [Music: Brother Annancy tie somebody, Me no min know da bad me do, Brother Annancy tie somebody, Me tie, me tie, me tie oh! Brother Annancy tie somebody.] _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =cane liquor=, juice of sugar-cane. =gourdy=, the dried shell of the gourd-like fruit of the Calabash (_Crescentia Cujete_). =wiss-wiss=, withe. There are many kinds of these natural ropes to be found in the bush. =fooyish=, foolish. =most rech=, almost reach, are just getting to the yard. =day ma go say=, they may go and say. =A so him do=, so he does. The reciter imitates lowing here, the voice falling to a deep prolonged note on the last word. =carry=, lead. =yitty=, little. =nyam=, eat. =tumpa=, stumpy, short. =force ace=, post haste. =a fun me a make=, it's fun I am making, I was only pretending. =min=, been, wrong auxiliary for did. I did not know that I had done anything wrong. Substitute the vowel =ah= in water, all, bawl, call. XXI. TACOMA AND THE OLD-WITCH GIRL. One day there was a old-witch gal, an' Tacoma want the gal to marry. An' Tacoma went to the gal yard an' ask the gal to courten to. An' the gal tell Tacoma that he don't want a husband as yet. So Tacoma get very sad in his heart, an' he comes home back to his yard, an' when he come he 'tudy a plan. An' when he 'tudy the plan he fix a day to go back to the gal yard. An' Tacoma get a buggy, an' get Ratta for his Coachman, an' get a pair of brown-coloured mongoose to be the horse. An' when Tacoma was going he sent to notice the gal that he is coming such a day. An' Tacoma went to his friend Annancy an' borrow long boots an' dress himself nicely, an' borrow a gold watch an' chain, an' got a helmet to his head. An' when Tacoma ready he order his coachman to harness up the horses. An' when he start he carry lots of present, an' hitch a grey horse behind the buggy, an' take along with him t'ree pieces of music. An' this time Tacoma didn' know the gal was a old-witch, an' all what Tacoma talk from home the gal really know everything. An' he reach up the yard an' sing:-- [Music: I will make you have a present of a nice gold watch, Just to wear it on your side for to let the people see, If you'll only be my true lover, If you'll only be my true lover.] An' the gal answer:-- [Music: No, no, dear, not for all your gold watch, I will never be yours true lover, I will never be yours true lover.] An' Tacoma have plenty more t'ing is to make a present to the gal. An' he promise to give her a nice silk dress, an' a nice silver bangle, an' a nice gold egg, an' a nice grey horse, an' tell the gal that everyt'ing, which is going to make him a present to, he must wear it along the street to let the people see, if you will only be my true lover. An the gal say to Tacoma:--"No, for I want the best thing which you have." An' Tacoma guess an' guess an' he couldn' find out. An' the gal say if Tacoma find out she will marry Tacoma. An' Tacoma guess an' guess until he made the gal a promise that he will give him the key of his heart. An' then the gal was so glad an' said to Tacoma that I'll ever be yours true lover. An' Tacoma sent for the gal's parents an' his parents an' marry off the gal, an from that day the gal becomes Tacoma wife. NOTES. =mongoose=, see the note to the dance tune "Mahngoose a come." =yours true lover=, always =yours=. Generally it is "you" for "your." They say "this is yours" correctly and then add "and this is mines." =t'ing is=, things. =which is going, etc.=, which he is going to make her a present of. When, commenting on Tacoma's directions, I objected that the girl could not wear the grey horse, the boy who was telling the story saw it at once and said:--"No, he must =carry= it." When the story was done (it is reproduced exactly from his dictation) he sang all the missing verses with the girl's answer to each verse, and instead of his usual "carry" which did not fit he substituted "lead it in the street." The singer will see at once where to make the necessary alterations. The words "silver bangle" want four quavers instead of two crotchets, and it will be worn on the hand as they call the wrist or any part of the arm. "Just to keep it in your hand" follows "gold egg." "The silk dress is worn 'long the street," and after "the key of my heart" comes "just to keep it in your own." I was looking out in this last verse for a change in the words "for to let the people see," but none came. To the last verse the answer is:--"Yes, yes, dear, for the key of your heart I will ever be yours true lover." [Cf. Baring-Gould, _Songs of the West_, No. xxii.; Fuller-Maitland and Broadwood, _English County Songs_; and _Journal of the Folk-Song Society_, Vol. ii., pp. 85-87. (C.S.B.)] XXII. DEVIL'S HONEY-DRAM. One day Devil set his honey-dram near a river side. An' Annancy has a little son name of John Wee-wee, an' when the boy find out Devil honey-dram he continually tiefing all the dram. An' Devil couldn' find out who was doing it. An' Devil put out a reward that if any one can prove who is tiefing his dram he will pay them a good sum. An' one day Annancy miss his son, an' Annancy guess that the little boy must be gone to Devil honey-dram. An' as Annancy being a tief himself he went an' s'arch for the boy. An' when he go he found him drunk an' fast asleep. An' Annancy lift him up an' bring him home. An' when the boy got sober, about three days after, he got so use to the dram an' he went back. An' Devil gone out to hunting. An' when he was going he ask his mother to give a heye upon his dram until he come in. An' the mother went down to the dram an' he found the boy drunk the very same again. An' there was no one know the woman name except Mr. Annancy. An' Annancy went an' look for his son. An' when he go the woman catch the boy already an' carry him to Devil yard. An when the boy go the woman gi' him some corn to beat. An' Annancy went an see his son was beating corn, an' he ask the woman what the boy is doing here. An' the woman tell him that this is the boy was tiefing all Devil honey-dram, an' now him catch him, an' him wouldn' let him go until the master come. An' Annancy ask the woman if he don't have any more corn to beat. The foolish woman say:--"Yes, Brother Annancy, but not all the corn you going to beat you won't get your son till the master come." An' Annancy begin to fret for him know when Devil come he won't have no more son again, for Devil will kill him an' eat him. An' the woman name is Matilda. An' Annancy took the corn an' begun to beat an' he start to sing:-- [Music: Wheel oh! Wheel oh Matilda. Turn the waterwheel oh Matilda! Matilda mahmy los' him gold ring, Turn the waterwheel oh Matilda.] An' the woman begun to dance an' wheel. An she dance an' dance till she get tired an' fall asleep. An' Annancy (the clever fellah) took his son out an' light Devil house with fire. An' when Devil in the bush look an' see his house is burning he t'row down his gun an' 'tart a run to his yard. Until he come the house burn flat to ground. An' Devil couldn' find Matilda his faithful mother, an' Devil take to heart an' dead. An' Annancy take Devil honey-dram for himself an' build up a house in Devil own place, an' from that day Mr. Annancy becomes the smartest man. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =Honey dram.= The ingredients are honey, water, chewstick, ginger and rum. When mixed the dram is put in the sun to ripen. Chewstick (_Gouania domingensis_) is bitter and takes the place of hops. =beating corn=, _i.e._ maize, to separate the grain from the husks, called also =huxing corn= (husking). When an animal is found trespassing it is brought down to the yard, and its owner comes to redeem it by a money payment. John Wee-wee was brought in in the same way and according to custom was given something to do while he waited. =faithful.= A faithful person is one in whom confidence is reposed. XXIII. ANNANCY IN CRAB COUNTRY. One day Annancy form himself as a minister, an' was going out an' preaching about. An' Annancy preach an' preach till he get in Crab country. An' Crab them wouldn' hear Annancy at all. An' Annancy went home back, an' dress himself in a black gown, an' get some red paint an' redden his 'tummy, an' ask a few friend to walk with him. An the friend was Mr. Toad an' Ratta an' Blackbird. An' they all start. An' when Annancy reach to Crab country he beguns to preach. An' he preach an' preach till they wouldn' hear him again. An' Annancy hire a house from Crab to stop in the night. An' Annancy, seeing he couldn' catch them with his preaching, made a drum an' a fiddle an' give Blackbird the fiddle to play. An Ratta was playing the drum. An' Annancy see that the music didn't sufficient. He wait, until the next day he made a flute an' give to Toad. An' when he done he put up the music them an' got in friendship with Crab, an' begun to do the same as Crab them are doing. An' poor Crab didn' know what Mr. Annancy mean. An' Annancy go on go on until they got used to Annancy. An' when they got used to Annancy, Annancy write out plat-card and put it out an' tell his friend Mr. Crab that he is going to have a nice baptism at his house, an' tell them that he will have a bands of music playing in going home, an' how the music will be so sweet they won't tired walking. An' when Annancy start with his three friend he tell Ratta to roll the drum, an' Blackbird is to rub the fiddle 'tring till it catch fire, an' Toad is to blow the flute as hard as he can, an' he will be reading the tune. An' he start like this:-- [Music: The bands a roll, the bands a roll, the bands a roll, a go to Mount Siney. Salem is Zakkilow, Some a we da go to Mount Siney.] An' when Annancy get home he made a bargain with his t'ree friend that he is going to baptize them an' let Crab see. An' when he baptize them, Crab they were very glad to see this treat which Annancy do to his t'ree friend, an' they say that they want Annancy to do them the very same. An' Annancy tell them that they must wait till to-morrow. An' Crab them agree. An' Annancy made a bargain with his t'ree friend an' is going to baptize Brother Crab with boiling water. An' he get a deep barril an' order Crab them that they must go in the barril, an' Crab they do so. At that time Annancy have a good pot of boiling water an' as Crab a settle theirself in the barril Annancy tilt the pot of boiling water on them an' the whole of Crab body get red. An' Annancy was very glad an' said:--"T'ank God I have got some of the clever man them for me breakfus'." An' from that day Annancy was going about an' fool all his friend. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. The black land-crab is a much-esteemed delicacy. Formerly every property had its crabber, whose duty it was to provide crabs for the house. Since the introduction of the mongoose they have become scarcer. =form himself as=, pretends to be. =stop in the night=, stop in for the night. =put up=, put away. =do the same, etc.=, live in the same way as the Crabs. =plat-card=, placard; a rough written advertisement affixed to the trunk of a tree. When there is a public gathering the musicians play as they walk to the place of entertainment and again as they leave it. XXIV. GAULIN. One day there was an India woman who have a daughter, an' when the gal born she born with a gold ring on her finger. An' everybody hear about it but they never see it. An' Mr. Annancy was very crave to got the gal to be his wife. An' Annancy study a plan an' take up his bands of music an' go down to the gal yard, an' when him go down they admit Mr. Annancy. An' when they admit him Annancy beguns to play all different tune just to see if the gal would laugh with him. But the gal was very sad, neither would laugh nor smile, until Annancy see there was no good, an' tell good bye an' go home back. Annancy when him goes home back, met his friend Mr. Rabbit in the road. Rabbit ask him:--"Brother Annancy, where you is comin' from?" An' Annancy begun to tell Rabbit. So Rabbit make a bargain with Annancy that he is going to try his luck. So Annancy say:--"As you being such a clean an' white gentleman I think you will succeed. So if you succeed, when you coming home back you must make me know; then you can take me to be your servant." That time Rabbit didn' know what Annancy study. Annancy mean was to take away the gal from Rabbit. So Rabbit start to the yard, an' when him go they admit him in. An' the mumma ask Rabbit what he come about. Rabbit says he is looking for a courtier. An' the mumma say to Rabbit:--"Oh, my dear Mr. Rabbit, I am very sorry! You is only but a meat,[44] so I can't give you my daughter." [Footnote 44: Cf. the Bantu use of _nyama_ ("meat") for "an animal." (A.W.)] An' Rabbit spend a little time till he tell goodbye. Meanwhile Annancy wouldn' go home. Him sit in the road till Rabbit coming home back. An' him ask Rabbit if him succeed. Rabbit say:--"Oh no!" So they begin to talk. An' by this time Sea-gaulin was passing an' hear what they are saying. An' when Gaulin go home back, him 'tudy between himself that, if him only get a bus an' dress himself tidy an' drive to the gal yard, she'll sure be his wife. An' Sea-gaulin goes down, an' the gal was very glad to see him an' invite him inside the house, an' they begun to arrange to be married. An' there was a old-witch boy which was brother to the gal whisper to her:--"That one is Gaulin." An' the gal say:--"Oh no, it is my dear love." So the boy say to then:--"Never mind, one day you will find out if he is not Mr. Gaulin." So, when Gaulin tell goodbye an' go home to his yard back, the boy follow him an' go to the river side where Gaulin is fishening, an' he climb a tree which hung over the water. An' when Gaulin come down the river he 'tart a singing:-- [Music: My iddy, my iddy Pyang halee, Come go da river go Pyang, me Yahky Yahky Pyang me jewahlee Pyang, me Yahky Yahky Pyang me jewahlee Pyang.] An' that time Gaulin didn' know that the boy was on the tree hearing him. When he first sing his hat fall off. An' he sing again his jacket was off. That time the boy was seeing every bit. An' he sing again an' his shirt was off. Sing an' sing till the trousies drop off. An' as he done he find himself inside the water begun to fishening. An' as him put him head under a stone-hole the boy come down off the tree an' find himself back to his yard. An' next Wednesday when Gaulin come to get married, the boy provide for him to sing that very same tune when they are on the cake table. An the boy say:--"Ladies and gentlemen will you like to hear a song?" An' everybody say "Yes." An' that time the boy was a fiddler, an' he tune up his violin an' beguns to play "My iddy, my iddy Pyang halee." Gaulin say:--"Oh no, my brother, stop that tune. That same very tune kill my grandfather, an' when you sing it you let me remember my old grandfather." An' the boy never stop sing an' play till all Gaulin clothes drop off. An' Gaulin fly out the door mouth an' find himself right up in the air. An' from that day that's what make Gaulin fly so high. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =Gaulin=, the Egret. In stormy weather the egrets leave the seaside and fly up into the country to fish in the streams. They are especially fond of the small crabs which abound in the mountain rivulets. The words of the song have been spelt so as to convey as nearly as possible their right sound. =Halee= rhymes in both syllables to the =stali= of the Venetian gondolier. =Jewahlee= is =Jubilee= with a different middle syllable. =Pyang= with French =a= made as short as possible is the Egret's cry. It should be accented and brought out strongly. =When him goes home back=, as he was going home. =white gentleman.= This counts many points in the estimation of the Negro. =Rabbit spend a little time.= Most characteristic. After the rebuff one would have expected him to go away at once, but that is not the Negro's way. He is never abashed, and after the curtest refusal of any favour he has come to ask, will sit on and talk of other things, finally taking his leave as if nothing had happened. =bus=, the buggies which ply for hire in Kingston are so called. =Wednesday=, the favourite day for weddings. The bridegroom is accompanied to church by a godmother, not the baptismal one but another specially appointed for the occasion.[45] They ride to church, which is usually at some distance from the yard. The bride also rides from her yard, accompanied by a godfather and two bridesmaids between the ages of eight and eleven. The ceremony and signing of the register over, the newly-wedded couple mount and gallop to the wife's yard, the rest of the company following more leisurely. Arrived there, the bride proceeds to put on her wedding-clothes and the guests are received by the godfather and given sugar-water and bread. When the bride has donned her satin gown and veil (she was married in her riding-habit) and with much sorrow pinched her feet into white shoes too small for them, the company sit down to the cake table. This has upon it two cakes, two fantastically fashioned loaves of shewbread, triumphs of the baker's art with their doves and true lovers' knots, and three vases of cut flowers. The bread is not eaten then but is distributed (_distribbled_, as they have it,) to friends on the days following the wedding. One cake is cut. A knife and fork being handed to a bridesmaid she takes off the cake-head, which is a small top tier or addition to the cake proper. This is put aside and afterwards sent to the officiating minister. The godfather then proceeds to the more serious work of cutting up the cake, giving pieces first to the bride and bridegroom and then to the guests. The second cake is left intact. Wine is poured out, and there are speeches and toasts and hymns. Then follows dinner, which is over about five o'clock. They then begin to play _Sally Water_ (see introduction to the Ring tunes) which goes on for an hour or two, and as night falls dancing is started. This goes on all night and does not end, at the earliest, till dusk on the following day, Thursday. It is often kept up until Friday evening or even until Saturday, the dancers and musicians appearing to require no rest. The latter are well supplied with rum and when they get sleepy they beg for an extra tot to rub their eyes, which burns them and keeps them awake. The whole of this time refreshments are supplied to the guests, and as long as these hold out they do not disperse, or as they put it:--"till hungry bite them they no go 'way." [Footnote 45: Is this a survival of the African institution of "sureties" (Yao, _ngoswe_, see Duff Macdonald, I. 118), or "sponsors," who arrange the marriage? I am not sure whether the custom exists among Negro as well as Bantu tribes. (A.W.)] The Sunday after the wedding is 'turn t'anks (return thanks). The married couple and their friends get all the beasts, _i.e._ horses and mules, they can muster, and ride to church dressed in their best. The bride and bridegroom, attended by the godfather and godmother, sit in "couple bench," the rest of the party going to their own pews. After service the whole cavalcade gallops as hard as it can, regardless of the precipices which skirt all Jamaica mountain paths, up hill and down hill to the husband's yard. There wine is provided, and the second cake is cut and eaten. Dinner follows at three, and then _Sally Water_ is again played until midnight, when dancing recommences and goes on till four or five o'clock on Monday afternoon. This is the end of the festivities, which sometimes cost twenty pounds or more. =provide for him=, prepared himself. =door mouth= includes not only the opening, but also the whole space just outside the door. XXV. ANNANCY, MONKEY AND TIGER. One day Annancy an' Tiger get in a rum-shop, drink an' drink, an' then Monkey commence to boast. Monkey was a great boaster. Annancy say:--"You boast well; I wonder if you have sense as how you boast." Monkey say:--"Get 'way you foolish fellah you, can come an' ask me if me have sense. You go t'rough de whole world you never see a man again have the sense I have." Annancy say:--"Bro'er Monkey, how many sense you have, tell me?" Monkey say:--"I have dem so till I can't count dem to you, for dem dé all over me body." Annancy say:--"Me no have much, only two, one fe me an' one fe me friend." One day Monkey was travelling an' was going to pass where Tiger live. Annancy was working on that same road. As Monkey passing, Tiger was into a stone-hole an' jump out on the fellah an' catch him. All his sense was gone, no sense to let him get 'way. Tiger was so glad, have him before him well ready to kill. Here come the clever man Mr. Annancy. When he saw his friend Monkey in the hand of such a wicked man he was frighten, but he is going to use his sense. He said:--"Marnin', Bro'er Tiger, I see you catch dat fellah; I was so glad to see you hold him so close in hand. You must eat him now. But before you eat him take you two hand an' cover you face an' kneel down with you face up to Massa God an' say, 'T'ank God fe what I goin' to receive.'" An' so Tiger do. An' by the time Tiger open his eyes Monkey an' Annancy was gone. When they get to a distant Annancy said to Monkey:--"T'ink you say you have sense all over you 'kin, why you no been get 'way when Bro'er Tiger catch you?" Monkey don't have nothing to say. Annancy say:--"Me no tell you say me have two sense, one fe me an' one fe me friend? Well! a him me use to-day." From that day Tiger hate Annancy up to now. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =can come and ask me=, that can come. The ellipsis is best explained by giving the sentence another turn: "Get away you man who are so foolish that you can come," etc. =into a stone-hole=, in a cave. =Tiger was so glad, etc.=, Tiger was well pleased and held him in his paws all ready for killing. =why you no been=, why didn't you. =a him me use=, that is the one I used. XXVI. THE THREE PIGS. One day a Hog have three Pig an' the three of them was boy. When they were about two month the father died, so the mother grow them up herself. When the Pig them come to big young man the mother said to the first son:--"Me son, a time fe you go an' look you own living." The day come when he was to start. The mother tie up his clothes an' give him, an' said:--"If you get work sen' an' tell me." The Pig start. As he was going he meet a man with a cart of hay. He said:--"Please, sir, you can give me that hay that I may go an' build a house?" The man give him. Pig go an' make up a house with his hay, an' find it very warm an' comfortable. One day Wolf come, call:--"Little Pig, little Pig, let me come in." Pig say:--"No, no, by the hair of my chinnychinchin." Wolf said:--"I will huff an' I will cuff an' blow you house down." Wolf huff an' cuff an' blow down the house, an' go in an' eat Pig. The mother wait an' can't get no letter from the first son. She send the other one, second to the first, an' that one travel until he meet a man with a cart of kindling. He say:--"Please, sir, you can give me that kindling that I may go an' build a house?" The man give him. He make up his house, an' one day Wolf was passing, see that it was pig house, call to him:--"Little Pig, little Pig, let me come in." Pig say:--"No, no, no! by the hair of my chinnychinchin." Wolf say:--"I will huff an' cuff an' will blow you house down." An' he do so an' go in an' eat Pig. The mother wait six months an' don't get no letter. She said:--"Those boy must be get good work an' can't get to write." The last son she said:--"Me own little son, time fe you go look you living." Pig say:--"Yes, mumma me wi' go now." She tie up his bundle give him some money an' kiss him, say:--"You must try write me." The boy start. He travel an' travel till night take him. He has to sleep under a stone-hole. When he was sleeping he get a dream that he see his two brother was in a frying-pan. He was so frighten he wake an' start away the same hour. He travel till day clean. At about nine o'clock he get to a big road. He travel on that road till he meet a man with a cart of brick. He said:--"Please, sir, you can give me that brick that I may go an' build a house?" The man give him. He go an' make up a grand house with the brick. When his house finish Wolf hear, an' come one day, call to Pig:--"Little Pig, little Pig, let me come in." Pig say:--"No, no, no! by the hair of my chinnychinchin." So wolf think that this house was like the rest. He said:--"I will huff an' cuff an' will blow you house down." He try for one whole day an' never succeed, so he lef an' go home an' 'tudy upon Pig. One evening he come an' call Pig an' tell him he know where there is a garden of all sort a t'ing, so Pig must come an' let them take a walk. Pig ask him:--"What time you will be going?" He said:--"A two in the morning." Pig 'tart eleven, go an' come back with all good food. At two Wolf come an' call:--"Little Pig, you ready?" Pig say:.--"You lated; I go an' come back already." Wolf was so vex he go home back. He didn' want nothing but to eat Pig. He said a next day:--"Little Pig, I know where there is a apple tree a Mr. Simmit garden, make we go an' get some." Pig ask:--"What the time?" Wolf say "T'ree." Pig go two. By Pig was on the tree fulling up his basket here come Wolf. Pig was so frighten he was on the tree trimbling. Wolf was quite glad to think he was going to catch Pig. He couldn' stand his ground, but dance about with joy. Pig say:--"The apple is so sweet that I have fe take a good load. Mr. Wolf, you would like to taste one?" Wolf say "Yes." Pig say:--"Let me see if you can run as that apple?" Pig throw one of the apple far an' Wolf run after it. By the time he is come back Pig get down off a the tree, leave him baskit an' everyt'ing, an' run nearly reach home. Wolf was so sorry when he come, left the apple an' gone home. Next night he call to Pig an' tell him that he know where there will be a met, so they must take a walk. Pig say:--"What hour?" Wolf said "T'ree." Pig start twelve an' go dance till two. He was the best dancer an' they give him a butter-churn as a reward. As he walking home he see Wolf at a distant coming. He said:--"My goodness King! What I going to do?" Nevertheless he get in the churn a roll down the hill. Wolf see the thing. He run for his home. The next day he go an' ask Pig if he did go to the ball. Pig said:--"Yes, an' as I was coming home I see you, an' was so frighten I get in me churn an' roll down to see if you don't run. An' so you did run, Ha! Ha!" Wolf get vex. He huff an' cuff all day again to see if he could broke down the building, but all he do he has to lef' it. So one rain night he send his wife with a young baby to see if Pig would take her in by changing her voice. She went an' call:--"Mr. Pig, please Sir, if you can give a night rest, Sir; for rain, an' I am from far." Pig said:--"No, I don't take in no stranger whatever, especially you, Mrs. Wolf. You husban' try an' try an' can't manage, an' now him send you to see if you can kill me." Mrs. Wolf commence to climb the chimley. Pig put a big copper of water on the fire an', by the time she reach the top an' was coming down the chimley, she drop in the water an' dead, she an' the child. Wolf come again an' call Pig. An' Pig take up this song:-- [Music: Wolf, Wolf, Wolf! no use you try fe come in, You wife dere da ready; Ha! Ha! Ha! You wanta try fe come in, Come Wolf, Me will put you both together.] Wolf get worser vex, commence to beat Pig house with all his might an' couldn' get in. He climb up the chimley, an', by he fe get to the top, the pot of boiling water was long time ready waiting for him, an' he going down in a haste make a slip, drop in the water. Pig salt them an' put them in his cask to soak, an' write to invite his mother to help him eat them for he find out it was them eat his two brother.[46] [Footnote 46: Cf. Joseph Jacobs, _English Fairy Tales_, No. xiv., and note, p. 233. (C.S.B.)] _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =Pig them.= Read these words together, not, Pig--them come. =you can give=, can you give. =huff=, scratch with the hoof. =kindling=, small wood to light fires with. =day clean.= Day is clean when you can see to walk. =big road=, one that is what the Italians call _carozzabile_, carriageable. In the hills of Jamaica the roads are for the most part mere mule tracks. =Simmit=, Smith. =make we go=, let us go. =What the time?= at what time? =By Pig=, as Pig. =fulling=, =trimbling=, always so. =when he come, etc.=, when he came back to the tree, that he left the apples and went home. =met=, meeting, ball. =da ready=, already. =by he fe get=, by the time he got. =cask to soak.= Salt meat is kept in a tub of brine. XXVII. DUMMY. There was a man couldn' talk, called Dummy. One day Annancy bet the King he going to make Dummy talk. So the King say:--"If you make Dummy talk I will give you one of my daughter fe marry." Well, Annancy went to Hog, ask him:--"Bro'er Hog if I carry you fe Dummy, whé you wi' say?" Hog say:--"Me wi' say ugh! ugh!" Annancy say:--"You won't do." He went to Goat:--"Bro'er Goat, if I carry you fe Dummy, whé wi' you say?" "Me wi' say Meh--eh--eh!" "You won't do." So he went to fowl. Fowl say:--"Me wi' say Clk! Clk! Clk!" "You won't do." So he went to Bro'er Peafowl an' ask him:--"What you will say if me carry you fe Dummy?" Peafowl say:--"Me wi' say:-- [Music: "Chirryway, Chirryway, Chirryway dem dé, Chirryway, Constan' dead to-day, Chirryway."] Then Annancy say:--"A you me wanty."[47] [Footnote 47: See the story of Tangalomlibo in Torrend, _Comparative Grammar of S. African Bantu Languages_, p. 319, where the cock is chosen as messenger, when the ox and goat are rejected. (A.W.)] So Annancy beg Bro'er Peafowl he must come with him to Dummy. An' when Dummy hear the tune it sweet him so, he commence to shake him head an' hum. So them went to the King yard, Peafowl before, Dummy in the middle, Annancy dé a back. An' as they reach up Annancy say "Wheugh!" being him breat' gone an' him tired, but peafowl never cease with the song. When Annancy got him breat' he say to the King:--"Master me a come, me a go make Dummy talk." Then the King say:--"I will like to hear Dummy talk." An' Peafowl sing an' sing, an' make all sort of figure before Dummy. Dummy commence to shake him head two t'ree time de way de song sweet him. At last Dummy begin to hum. As Peafowl see him commence to hum, Peafowl make a sudden spring, went up to Dummy with a great flourish, an' at last Dummy sing right out the same as Peafowl:-- [Music: Chirryway, Chirryway, Chirryway dem dé, Chirryway, Constan' dead to-day, Chirryway.] An' Annancy get the bet an' the King marry him off. An' Annancy give Peafowl gold all over his body an' six quarts of corn. From that Peafowl cover all over with gold. NOTES. =Whé you wi' say=, what will you say? =sweet him so=, pleased him so much. =Constan'=, Constance. XXVIII. ANNANCY AND CANDLEFLY. One day Annancy go to Brother Candlefly yard fe fire. When him go Candlefly give him fire an' tell him to wait an' he will go give him a few eggs. When Annancy get the eggs he go home with the fire. The next day he go back fe fire an' Candlefly give him more eggs. Annancy go till him get halfway, out the fire an' turn back. When him come him say:--"Bro'er Candlefly, the fire out; give me some more." When Candlefly give him the fire, him wait an' wait to see if him can get more eggs. Candlefly never give him one. Annancy say:--"Bro'er Candlefly, the fire a burn me, please give me one egg make me wet me han', fe make it better." Candlefly give him one an' tell him to come an' he will carry him where any amount of egg da, "But you must not come till close a night." Annancy don't wait till night, go about midday. When him go him get a long bag ready. Every minute him come out of the house an' look on sun. Annancy couldn' tarry but only praying to see if night can come. When night come Candlefly get ready an' tell Annancy to stay aback. Them travel till at last them get. (Annancy going to play out Candlefly.) Every gash Candlefly gash an' see a egg going to pick it up, Annancy say:--"A me first see ahm." Candlefly gash again: Annancy take away every one till him bag full. Candlefly don't get one. So as Annancy such a strong man Candlefly compel was to lef' without say a word. But Annancy going to feel the blow. After Candlefly gone with the light Annancy couldn' find nowhere to put his foot. Annancy say:--"Poor me boy, I mus' try see if I can fin' the way." Annancy start. Him travel till him go an' buck on a house. The way the night was so dark he never see the house, he just buck on it. He don't know whose house it was but him call "Godfather!" The person answer:--"Who is that calling?" Him say:--"Annancy, you godson, bring some eggs fe you." During this time Annancy never know that it was Tiger who him hate so much. When the door open there come Brother Tiger. Annancy say:--"Marnin', Godfather Tiger." Tiger say:--"Come in." Same time Tiger send his wife to go an' put on the copper on the fire. So them boil the whole barrel-bag of eggs. When the eggs boil Tiger ask Annancy if him want any. The frighten in him, him say "No." So Tiger eat the whole bag of eggs, he an' his wife an' children. To find out if Annancy want any of the eggs Tiger tell him wife fe lef two of the good shell. So Tiger get a lobters an' put with the egg shell. When Annancy go in to sleep, Annancy see these two eggs, don't know that it was shell. Tiger know how the fellah love eggs. When lamp out Annancy 'tretch him hand to catch the eggs. Lobters paw give him a good bite. Him jump. Then Tiger know that it was the egg the fellah want. Tiger ask:--"What the matter Mr. Annancy?" "No dog-flea a bit me up so, sir? Me never see place have dog-flea like a you yard." Tiger gone back to sleep. Five minute more Annancy cry out:--"Lahd! me never see place have dog-flea like a you yard." During this time he was trying to get the egg-shell. So he try an' try the whole night an' never get. When day light Tiger say:--"Me son, me sorry to see dog-flea bit you so last night. You is the first man come here a me house say dog-flea bit you." Annancy say:--"Godfather, I don't get a rest from I go to bed till now." Tiger wife get tea an' give him, so he get ready. Tiger say:--"Go a me goat-pen, you see one goat, fetch him ya fe me before you go." Annancy go. When him go he see a big he-goat, him beard was a yard long. Annancy catch the beard, lift him up t'row him a ground, take a big stick begin to beat him, give bup! bup! say:--"You b'ute! a you master nyam all me egg never give me so so one self." Him beat him so till the goat form 'tiff dead. Now this was Tiger all the time. Annancy leave him gone to see if he can get any knife to cut him up. By Annancy come back him don't see no goat, only a big old man standing up. Him put after him. Annancy run back to Tiger yard. The man was after him. Annancy see a gourdy, run right in it. Tiger lost the fellah. Well! Tiger take his gourdy going fe water. Annancy, knowing that Tiger mother was sick, as Tiger get halfway with the gourdy on his head Annancy call out of the gourdy mouth:--"Bro'er Tiger, you mumma dead a house from yeshterday." Tiger stop, him listen, him can't hear. He make a move. Annancy bawl out again:--"Bro'er Tiger, you mumma dead a house from yeshterday." Tiger stop, him listen, him can't hear. He go on again, he hear the voice again. He throw down the gourdy. Annancy get out, said to Tiger:--"You b'ute! if you been broke me foot you wouldn' min' me wife and picny." Tiger hear the voice but never see a soul. Him run gone home to see if his mother dead. When he go his mother was still alive. Annancy go home an' go to Candlefly yard tell him say:--"I never will be cravin' again, ya, Bro'er? you fe carry me again." An' Candlefly say "Yes." Every day Annancy come. Candlefly wife say:--"Him gone long time." Annancy never get to go with Candlefly again, an' he don't know the place. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =Candlefly.= Among the smaller fire-flies which twinkle all the year rushes, in the summer months, the great Candlefly. It makes a roaring sound with its strong, swift flight, and is a strange and splendid object. It has three lights, two looking like eyes, and a larger and much more brilliant one underneath the thorax. When at rest only the eye lights shine, but with the spread of its wings a shutter is drawn back and discloses the abdominal light. The insect, which is the size of a cockchafer but rather longer, is commonly called Big Winky or Peeny. =da=, is pronounced like Italian. =look on sun=, looks at the sun to see if it is sinking. =a back=, behind. =get=, get to the place. =gash=, flash. Lightning is said to gash. As explained above, this gashing of the great light of the Candlefly is continuous while it is in flight, but ceases as soon as it rests. =buck on=, run against. A horse =bucks=, here, when he stumbles. A man =bucks= his toe when he knocks his naked foot against a stone, and women fight (men too for that matter) by =bucking= with their heads. =Marnin'.= Good morning and good evening are used as salutations without reference to the actual time of day. =barrel-bag=, a bag of the capacity of a flour barrel. =the frighten, etc.=, owing to the fright which was in him he said "No." =fe lef'=, to leave. =lobters.= This transposition of letters has a ludicrous effect on the word. =paw=, pronounced =pah= very broadly. Fleas are always called dog-fleas, or rather dahg-fleas. =tea=, the morning sugar-water, is the signal that it is time for the guest to be soon moving on. Generally, however, he is given something to do before he goes. =ya=, here. =so so one self=, even one. =form=, pretended. =Him put after him.= The old man put (ran) after Annancy. =You couldn' mind, etc.= This piece of pleasantry is common. When two men are doing anything that requires care to avoid accident, such as moving a heavy stone, one says to the other:--"No kill me ya, you couldn' min' me wife an' picny," you can't support my wife and children. =ya=, do you hear? Which is also its meaning in the preceding note. Just now =ya= meant 'here.' XXIX. PARSON PUSS AND PARSON DOG. One day Toad was courting for a long time to a very pretty India gal, an' Toad didn' want marry the gal. An' him didn' want the gal was to leave him but to live without married. An' Puss was Toad parson. An' the mother send an' call Puss, an' when Parson Puss come, the mother lay the matter before Parson Puss. An' Parson Puss call Toad one of his lovely member in the church, an' him didn' want Toad was to leave his church. An' Parson Puss talk until Toad agree to married the gal. An' Dog himself was a parson. So Toad send out a invitation to all his countrywoman an' countryman, an' invite Tacoma an' his families, an' likewise invite his friend Mr. Annancy an' his families. An' when him done Toad invite Parson Dog. An' the day when Toad is to married Parson Puss come to married Toad. An' Parson Dog come with his gown was to take away the business from Parson Puss. But Toad say:--"Oh no! he will like to give his Parson the preference." An' Dog say:--"Yes, I must have it. If not will be mossiful fight to-day." Puss wife, was the organ-player, say:--"What a man fe swear!" An' Parson Puss say to Toad mother-in-law:--"You don't mustn't listen what that fellah Parson Dog is saying. He so tief, as soon as they 'tick the hog he will soon forget all this for he has to go an' lick blood, so when he gone I will marry my member Toad." An' so Dog did go away. Until he come back Parson Puss marry off Toad. An' when they eat cake done, then Parson Puss ask the young ladies them to let them go an' play in the ring, an' so they did do. That time Parson Dog didn' know what was doning, but soon he hear this sing:-- [Music: When you see a hugly man, When you see a hugly man, When you see a hugly man, Never make him marry you.] An' as him hear him hold up one of him foot an' listen. An' he come nearer an' hear again:-- [Music: Parson Dog won't married me, Parson Dog won't married me, Parson Dog won't married me, Cut your eye an' pass him.] Then Parson Dog shake him head, run come. An' as he run come he meet Parson Puss was wheeling all the gal. Parson Dog get very vex an' he bear an' bear. But as he hear plain how the sing go, an' see that some of the gal Puss was wheeling began to laugh after him, say:--"No see how him mout' long," Parson Dog get fairly upstarted till him run in the ring an' palm Puss an begin to fight him. An', as Parson Puss feel Parson Dog 'trength more than fe him, him look for a very tall tree an' run right upon it to save his life. An' from that day that why Dog an' Puss can't 'gree until now. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =lovely member.= A certain amount of blarney is supposed to be admissible to keep your sheep from straying to a rival's flock. =to married Toad.= Though they sometimes say =marry= (see the first song) they prefer =married=. The =d= before the =T= of Toad is very awkward to pronounce, yet the reciter, whose normal speech is of the laziest, like that of all his kindred, got it out quite plainly. =mossiful=, unmerciful. Dog really used a bad word here, which is always put in his mouth. He uses the same word in "Finger Quashy." So much does it belong to him that it occurs as a descriptive adjective to the dog in the tune for the third Quadrille figure, which will be found among the dance tunes. The word is not really very bad, but it was not considered appropriate to a book which may find its way into the nursery, so in every case another one is substituted. ='tick=, stick. The pig was killed for the wedding festivities, which were only just beginning. See note on weddings in "Gaulin." =play in the ring=, play Sally Water, see Ring Tunes. =doning=, being done. =never make him marry you=, never let him, etc. =cut your eye=, turn your eye aside. Where we use transitive =cut= they put intransitive =cut eye=. =wheeling=, turning them in the dance. =run come=, came running up. =bear an' bear=, was patient for a while. A picturesque way of describing Dog's self-restraint. He bears it and he bears it again. =no see, etc.=, don't you see how long his mouth is. This is always the joke about Dog. About Puss it is:--"You face too (very) short. Cut off half inch you don't have nose." =upstarted=, angry. =palm=, touch or hold with the hand. =fe him=, his. XXX. CHICKEN-HAWK. Once a lady have t'ree daughter. One of the daughter, the youngest one, born with a gold teet'. The other sisters h'ard of the teet' an' ask their sister to show them the teet', but she never would show them. One day they get Monkey an' Goat to come an' dance to let the sister laugh. They make all sort of mechanic. She never laugh all the dance Monkey an' Goat was dancing. Those other two pay her so much to see the teet'. She won't show them. So the second sister tell the big one say:--"Sister, let we go make bargain with Chicken-hawk to try if we can see the teet'." So they did go an' see Chicken-hawk about it an' pay Chicken-hawk so much. The day come when they fix up to go to the river. Chicken-hawk was on a tree. So they gone to swim for a long time, the big sister them swimming an' laughing in the water for the little one to laugh for them to see the teet', but she never laugh. During that time Chicken-hawk took up all three of them clothes an' gone on a high tree where them can see him. When the sister know that Chicken-hawk took the clothes they came out of the water all t'ree of them. All the clothes was gone. The first sister commence fe sing:-- [Music: Chicken-hahk oh! Chicken-hahk oh! give me me frock. Chicken-hahk oh! Chicken-hahk oh! Chicken-hahk!] An' Chicken-hawk bring come. The next sister do the same an' get her frock. Here comes the youngest one. She shut up her mouth an' was calling from her t'roat:-- [Music: Hm hm hm hm hm hm] Chicken-hawk never give her. When the big sister see that she won't call for them to see the teet' they leave her, an' she become 'fraid an' call out:-- [Music: Chicken-hahk oh! Chicken-hahk oh! give me me frock. Chicken-hahk oh! Chicken-hahk oh! Chicken-hahk.] An' the big sister run come an see the golden teet' an' was so glad. They go home an' tell their mother that we have gain the battle an' have seen the gold teet'. From that day we see gold teet' until now. NOTES. =mechanic=, antics. =so much=, a sum of money. XXXI. PRETTY POLL. Once a Duke have a sarvant. So this sarvant was courting to a young man for a long time. So one day another friend come to see the Duke. So he love the Duke sarvant an' the Duke sarvant love him. So this man ask the Duke for her. The Duke say:--"No, she is courting already." So the friend was sorry. The gal tell the young man say:--"Me love you, an' if you going to marry me I will lef' my lover an' come." The young man say:--"How you will manage that the Duke not going to allow it?" The gal say:--"You look out." So one evening, when the gal lover come home, she ask him to let them go for a walk far away. "I am going to show you a very pretty place." During this time the gal know where a well was, so she is going to shub him into the well. As they reach to the place they see a pretty flowers in the well. So they was looking at the flowers. As she see that her lover was gazing at the flowers she just shub him right in the well an' said:--"T'ank God! me going to get that pretty young man." During this time there was a Parrot on a tree seeing all that was going on, cry out:-- [Music: Ha ha! Ha ha! I have a news to take to the Duke at home; you have your dearest lover an' cast him down to the well.] The gal look up an' see the Parrot. She get frighten, call to Poll:-- [Music: Come, Pretty Poll, come! There is a house of gold an' silver before you sit 'pon tree.] Poll sing:-- [Music: Tree I barn, Tree I must be stay till my time come to die.] An' Poll commence to fly from tree to tree an' she was following him till they get out to a village. Poll was still singing an' she was begging. Poll fly from house to house till he get on the Duke house an' sing. The gal was crying. The Duke hear, send out man an' they listen until them hear what Poll said, an' them catch the gal an' chop off her head. An' Poll get good care. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. This is another version of the "King Daniel" story. =before you sit=, instead of your sitting. =Tree I barn=, etc. On a tree I was born, on a tree I must stay. XXXII. ANNANCY AND HOG. One day Annancy an' him grandmamma go to a ground. Annancy left him fife. When him coming home, he an' his grandmamma, he said:--"Gran'mumma you know I leave my fife at groun'." Him grandmamma say:--"Me son a know you well. You is a very bad boy. Go for it but don't play." When Annancy coming home he play:-- [Music: None a we, none a we commando Sairey gone home commando Yahka Yahky Yak commando, Suck your mother bone commando.] An' as he play he meet Hog. Hog say:--"Brother, a you a play da sweet sweet tune." Annancy say:--"No, Bro'er." Hog say:--"Play, make me hear." Annancy play twee, twee, twee, all wrong note. Hog say:--"Tche! you can't play." Hog gone round short pass. As Hog go round short pass, him buck the boy was playing the tune. Hog say:--"Bro'er Annancy I think a you a play, you beggar, you light fe me dinner, you libber fe me dog." An' Hog carry home Annancy an' goin' to do him up for him dinner. An' when Hog think him done up Annancy him done up him own mother. An' that made Hog nasty feeder up to to-day. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =ground=, a provision ground where yams, etc., are grown. They often pronounce it =grun=, rhyming to run but even shorter. =a leave=, I leave. This tune has a bobbin, see _Digging sings_. Nonsense words of course. =commando=, pronounced common doe. =yah=, with French =a=. =pass=, path. It no doubt should be =gone down short pass=. The paths circle round the steep mountain sides and short cuts connect the loops. =buck=, stumbles on, meet. =you light, etc.= Your lights for my dinner, your liver for my dog. XXXIII. DRY RIVER. Once a man have t'ree daughter. Dem go go pick wacky. When dem a come, dem come to a river having no water. Dem meet a old man beg dem a wacky. The two biggest one give the old man two wacky, one each, an' the little one wouldn' give any. An' the old man sing:-- [Music: You no give me one wacky you can't pass, You no give me one wacky you can't pass, You no give me one wacky you can't pass, Dry River will come an' take you 'way. Draw me nearer, Draw me near, Dry River will come an' take you 'way.] An' the little one won't give. An' the two big sister want to give two more of their wacky to the old man; but the old man say:--"No, the little one must give me one of fe her wacky." An' she won't give. So the old man sing the sing again. An' still the little one won't give, until at last the river come down carry him gone. From that day people drowning. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. In the heavy rains of October and May the rivers rise suddenly, and an insignificant stream or dry river-bed becomes a raging torrent. Travellers are delayed in the Seasons, as these rainy times are called, owing to the fords becoming impassable. This happens now less frequently than formerly, not because the rivers do not 'come down' but because many of them are bridged. =wacky= (French =a= with a turn to =o=, almost "wocky"), guava. This fruit which makes the well-known jelly is wild. It is the size of a small apple, and has a delicious scent when ripe and yellow. Raw, however, it is not a good fruit. The flavour is coarse and the pulp is full of very hard seeds, which must be swallowed whole. =when dem a come=, when they reach the place where the wackies are they come to a river. =old man beg, etc.=, old man who asks them for a wacky. Much of the conciseness of negro speech is due to the suppression of relatives and prepositions. =you no give=, if you do not give. XXXIV. YELLOW SNAKE. Once a woman, name Miss Winky, have four children, three son an' one daughter. The son them was hunter-man and the youngest son was old-witch. This sister never can find her fancy. Everybody come she say: "Lard, this one hugly, me no like him at all!" Till one day she an' the mother an' old-witch boy was at home. Snake was on a journey, get to a rum-shop. Talking an' talking they bring up some talk about this gal, that everybody go for her she refuse. Snake say:--"Is she a pretty gal?" They say:--"Yes, man, she is a beauty to look at." Snake said:--"I bet anything I get that gal." Snake change an' fix up himself an' go to the yard. When he go he said:--"Good day, Miss Winky, I come to ask you for your daughter." The gal, was in the room, run out to see if it is a pretty man. As she come out she said:--"Mamma, this is my love, no one else." So Snake was invite in the house. The mother said:--"Well, as you get your fancy I am going to married you." So the next day they go an' get marry. After dinner Snake get ready, an' the gal mother tie up all her clothes an' they start. They travel the whole night until daylight an' never could get, till about midday they reach the place. It was a big stone-hole. Snake carry her under, put her to sit down. An' after Snake get a good rest he commence to swallow her. On the meantime the old-witch boy, name of Cawly, know all what was going on in the wood, tell his two elder brother to come "an' let us go hunting for I hear the voice of my dear beloved sister crying for me in the wood." The two brother said:--"You always goin' on with your foolishness." He said:--"Never mind, come let us go an' see." So they start an' they walk like beast, till at last they nearly reach where they could hear the sister. They hear a voice:-- [Music: Fe me Cawly Cawly oh! If no hunter-man no come here oh! Yalla Snake will swallow me.] Snake, fe all him mout' full, get to say:--"Me will swallow you till you mumma no fin' piece of you bone." The brother come close to the place, climb upon the stone. They hear the voice plainer, come down off the stone an' see that Snake leave but the head of their sister. They go down on Snake an' kill him an' split him an' take out their sister an' carry her home. From that day she never marry again for she feel the hand of marry. So everybody that pick too much will come off the same way. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =Snake=, pronounced in two syllables, Se-nake with the exact value of vowels in the French words _ce n'est que_, and of course stopping at the _k_ sound of the _q_. =Tie up all her clothes=, in a bundle which she would carry on her head. =get=, get to Snake's home. =beast.= This is the generic name for a beast of burden, horse, mule, or donkey. =fe all=, although. =get to say=, managed to say. =fe me=, my. =feel the hand of marry=, a biblical expression. She felt the hand of matrimony, and behold it was heavy. XXXV. COW AND ANNANCY. One day Annancy was passing Cow pastur', saw the whole of them was cleaning their teeth with chewstick. He was so frighten for Cow, he stay outside the pastur' on a tree an' call to Cow, telling them howdy. Cow never answer him, so he get worser frighten. He said to himself:--"If I give them piece of cane, fool them say it is my chewstick, they might a come friend with me." So Cow them go out in the night to feed. An' when them gone Annancy go an' get his side-bag full with cane as quick as he can. An' when him come Cow them gone away for the whole night, so he climb the tree an' sleep on the tree until daylight. An' when the sun begin to hot the Cow come under the tree fe throw up their food fe eat it back. Same time Cow cleaning him teeth with the chewstick. Presently the papa Cow see a big piece of something drop out of the tree. He look up see Annancy, call to him:--"What you doing dé?" Annancy say:--"Me bring piesh a chewshtick fe you." Cow take up the cane begin to chew. Instead of cleaning teeth he was swallowing both juice an' trash. Cow say:--"Him sweet; you no hab no more dé now?" Annancy say "Yes." Cow call him down from the tree. When he come down he give everybody piece of the cane, tell them that it is fe him chewstick. During this time he have a big bottle of cane-juice, ask Cow if him want a taste. Cow take a taste, he done the whole bottle of it. So they all get in friend with Annancy. An' Annancy invite Cow to go home with him, an' he will show him where he get such good chewstick. Cow say:--"You no have nobody a you yard." Annancy say "Yes." Cow say:--"Me shame fe go." Annancy say:--"Make me go home an' sen' dem 'way." Annancy go home, tell all his friend them must look out, him going to fetch Cow, ya. Them say:--"If you bring Cow you we will never trust you the longest day we live." Annancy say:--"Look out." He take a rope. When he go back he tell Cow that him no see nobody a yard, so Cow must come make dem go. Cow say, "Yes." Them 'tart. Annancy tell Cow that as he is such a coward man him have a piece of rope, Cow must make him put it on his neck, afraid a when him a go the picny them go see him, go make noise, you go turn back. Annancy say: "Bro'er Cow, when you go near me yard, if you yerry them picny a make noise no frighten, fan you tail with strength." When them get to where all the friend an' children could see him, him call to them:--"A da come, no see me frien' a come tell you howdy." He turn to Cow said:--"Fan you tail, no min' dem people." At last them reach the yard. Annancy have a big tree at the front of his house. He tell Cow:--"Bro'er Cow, stay ya, make me go look after the house; me wife no know, say me a bring 'tranger ya, so we can't carry you in so, so you can fan you tail as much." During this time Annancy gone to get all his tool sharpen to kill Cow. He left his biggest son to watch Cow but he can't trust the boy. Every minute he come to look if Cow is there. The first time he come an' look he say to Cow:--"Fan you tail." When the thing them nearly done sharp he come back, see Cow was fanning his tail. He said to Cow:--"You Cow, you no yerry me say 'No fan you tail a me yard?'" Cow fan fe the better. He come with his bill, said to Cow:--"If you no 'top fan you tail either you kill me or me kill you." Cow won't stop. He say to one of the friend:--"Now, now, sir, you see how that man a frighten me picny a me yard, him mout' so hugly." Him come up nearer to Cow say:--"If you no 'top fan you tail somet'ing mus' done." Cow won't stop, seeing the fly a trouble him. Annancy set a run with his bill chop at Cow neck. Cow draw back his head, the bill catch the rope, set Cow free, so he run for his life. Annancy say:--"Come back, Bro'er Cow, a fun me a make wi' you, simple little fun, you run gone home." But Cow was flying for his home an' never stop. Annancy take up this song:-- [Music: Lard! Lard! hasty kill me dead oh! Poor me boy oh! a whé me a go do? Me put me pot a fire fe boil Cow liver, but hasty kill me dead.] From that day Annancy never can go where Cow is. Anywhere Cow see him he reach him down with his mouth. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. We have had this story already in another form (Annancy and Cow, No. 20). =chewstick=, a common climber. A piece of the stem about the thickness of a pencil is cut and makes a sort of soapy froth as it is chewed. It has an agreeable bitter taste and is used to clean the teeth. =howdy=, how do you do? =cane=, sugar-cane. =fool them=, take them in, delude. =side-bag.= Everybody has his side-bag or namsack (knapsack). =papa=, pronunciation something between puppa and poppa, with slight accent on the first syllable. Cows in Jamaica are of both sexes. =dé there=; the _e_ is that of "debt" lengthened. French "est" gives it exactly. Whé has the same _e_. =trash=, the fibre. Trash is any kind of refuse, such as shells of peas, husks of maize, the remains of Cassada after the starch is washed out, withered banana leaves, the outside pulp which encloses the coffee beans, etc., etc. =ya= sometimes means _here_, sometimes _do you hear?_ =rope=, pronounced ro-up. So gate becomes gé-ut (French _é_), goat, go-ut (Italian _o_), much as in some provincial districts in England. =a da come=, I am coming. =carry=, lead. =as much=, as much as you like. =a fun me a make=, I was pretending. A man is said to make fun when he is only pretending to work, what schoolboys call "sugaring." =hasty=, haste, _i.e._ your hurrying away. =hungry kill me= is a common expression meaning "I am very hungry." Here _hasty_ is substituted for _hungry_. Your hasting away will leave me without food, and hunger will kill me. XXXVI. LEAH AND TIGER. There was a man an' his wife got one daughter, only the one picny they got. An' many a people come for her to courten to her, an' she refuse, an' she would stay a world without marry. An' the father said to the wife:--"Them people usual trouble me with my own daughter; we must do something to get her out of them sight." An' the both of them agree to make up a very big house in the wood to lef' the daughter there where nobody wouldn' see him. An' the father said to the wife:--"When the house done you mus' carry him breakfas' every twelve o'clock an' dinner at four." An mumma say:--"Yes, me dear, I think so better." An' they take Leah an' walk with her all night an' lodge her into the house before daylight. An' at the meantime Leah got a very valuable ring on one of her finger, a very pretty young woman too, though me never see him. Mumma tell him that when him going to bed he must always say him prayers. An' she tell her that, when she re'ch the hillside she sing the song, she must know a him honey a come. An' this the song:-- [Music: Leah! Leah! tingaling, You no yerry you honey, tingaling? Honey de a door, tingaling, Sugar de a door, tingaling.] An' this time Tiger was under the house hear all the bargain. An' Tiger lie down very 'teady. (Some days to come he must get meat fe eat a this bush.) Then mumma go away, next day come back with him daughter breakfas', an' 'tart the tune from hillside to the spot of place where the house is. An' the door was double double double latch. An' the tune 'tarted. An' the gal open the door an' mumma come in give her her breakfast, an' make very much of each others, an' eat done an' tell goodbye. When the mumma gone Tiger creep out of the house with a great rolling of voice, can't 'tan' him heel. He go down to see Brother Blacksmit' if he would do a kind favour for him. An' Brother Blacksmit' say:--"What sort of favour I can do for you?" An' Tiger say him see a very nice meat a bush, him want go eat it then, so me want sweet voice fe sing like a him mumma. Then Brother Blacksmit' put the iron a fire, make him red hot, so tell him open him mout'. Blacksmit' poke ahm down his t'roat, heap of smoke come out a him 'tomach. When him finish he tell him mus' sing make him hear. So Tiger sing, an' true him voice sound so good. Then Blacksmit' say:--"Min' mustn' eat no duckanoo nor guava by the way, else you voice turn rough again." Tiger gone making his way fe go eat the gal fe meat. He was very hard on his journey going on. As he get halfway he see guava an' duckanoo, an' being him so thirsty he say:--"Make me nyam ahm, nothing goin' to do me voice." He nyam until he unrestful an' come his voice after was like groun' t'under. "Well," he say, "never min'; by the time me re'ch up me voice will come good." So he lay down under the floor waiting for twelve o'clock when the mother usual come. An' when it nearly come 'pon twelve Tiger creep out under the floor commence to sing:-- [Music: E2] Leah! Leah! tingaling, You no yerry you honey, tingaling? You sugar de a door, tingaling, You honey de a door, tingaling. An' Leah say:--"Hé! Hé! it is not my mother dat." An' Tiger shame, gone under the house back, voice too coarse. Presently his mother is up, sing with a very sweet voice:-- Leah! Leah! tingaling, You no yerry you honey, tingaling? Honey de a door, tingaling, Sugar de a door, tingaling. An' the door open, an' she go in give her daughter him breakfas'. An' her daughter hug her up an' kiss her, an' he commence to tell her mother that him hear a great rolling like groun' shaking while ago outside, an' it make her frighten to deat'. She tell her mumma she would like to go home with her back. The mother refuse from do so, an' lef' an gone home, tell the father what happen with Leah in the bush. An' puppa say:--"What make you lef' me daughter a bush? Go back for him to-night." Mamma say:--"No danger wi' me daughter, me wi' carry him dinner four o'clock, lef' him come back." Next day Tiger 'tart to Blacksmit' fe run iron down him t'roat back. Blacksmit' get vex, tell him he going to lick him down with the iron, for his ears hard. Tiger said:--"Do Bro'er Blacksmit', me yerry all whé you tell me this time." An' Blacksmit' put the iron two hour a fire an' shub him down Tiger t'roat. Tiger can't take him ground, iron too hot. When he done with him he tell him to sing make him hear, an' beg him anything that him see in the way must make him yeye pass it. An' Tiger say:--"Yes, so me going do." Him shut him yeye now, take the whole a road for himself, say:--"Me boy never would a nyam nothing more a pass: sweet, sweet meat like a that so a bush me could a lef' ahm so?" He was very hurry to the house, an' just before twelve o'clock he commence to sing, an' this time his voice sound well. Leah open the door, t'ought it was her mother, an' Tiger jump right in an' eat the whole of Leah, lef' one finger with the ring. Him eat done, half shut the door an' go back a him bed under the house. Leah mumma come fe sing now:-- Leah! Leah! tingaling, Yo no yerry you honey, tingaling? You sugar de a door, tingaling, You honey de a door, tingaling. An' nobody answer her. She sing two time more: nobody answer. An' she shub the door an' go inside to find only one finger of her daughter. An' him put him hand on him head, bahl, then go home to him husband, tell him husband him daughter dead, something eat every bit. Him say:--"Me no min tell you fe bring home me daughter: you will have fe find ahm gi' me. Then if you know whé good fe you just bring him go," catch up one big junka 'tick an' lick down the wife. An' after the wife dead the man take to heart an' dead. That make you see woman ears hard up to to-day. They want mus' man fe carry them anywhere they told fe go. A him make them something a happen a this world up to to-day day. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =usual=, are wont. =when she re'ch=, when she (the mother) reaches the hillside and she sings the song, she (the girl) will know that his (her) honey has come. =tingaling.= Some tellers of this story have it =tindalinda=. ='teady=, steady, with a peculiar vowel like a dull French _eu_. =him daughter breakfas'=, came back with her daughter's breakfast and began to sing when she reached the hillside overlooking the house, and went on singing till she got to the house. =An' the tune 'tarted.= The reciter sings it here. =out of the house=, out from under the house. See note to "Yung-kyum-pyung." =rolling=, roaring. =can't 'tan' him heel=, can't stand on his heel. See, further on, =can't take him ground=. Both mean that Tiger cannot stand still. =a bush=, in the bush. =ahm=, him, it. =true him voice=, really his voice sounds very well. Only, =true= means what it says, =truly=, and does not imply the reservation at which it _really_ hints. Tiger's voice did sound very well. =duckanoo=, a kind of mango. =going to do=; eating the fruit is not going to do my voice any harm. =until he unrestful.= He ate too much. =groun' t'under=, ground thunder. It is often difficult to distinguish between distant thunder and an earthquake. Tiger growls on a low note, and says the words very fast. =Hé! Hé!= French é as in whé and dé. =groun'shaking=, earthquake. =from do so=, refuses to do what she asks. =down him t'roat back=, down his throat again. Blacksmith was vexed because Tiger had eaten fruit on the previous occasion. His ears had been hard, _i.e._ he had acted against orders. =make him yeye pass it=, let his eye run over it without desiring to eat it. =take the whole a road=, staggering along, first to one side and then to the other. =a pass=, in the path, on the journey. =put him hand on him head=, an expressive action indicating horror and bewilderment. =bahl=, bawl, cry out. =me no min tell=, me no been tell, didn't I tell you? =you will have fe find ahm gi' me=; when anything is lost, they say:--You will have to find it and give it to me. =a him, etc.=, it is that (their ears being so hard) that makes this sort of thing happen. XXXVII. TIMMOLIMMO. Once there was a Bull live in a pastur'. He make a law that every young Cow born, if it is a Bull, they must kill it. So the Cow them hear what the master said. The Bull name was Timmolimmo. So one day one of the Cow have baby an' find out that this child was a boy. She take him an' go to a deep bush an' hide her child in a stone-hole, an' feed him till him was growing an' begun to talk. The place where the mother was taking water when she was at the pastur' was a mile from the hiding hole, an' she has nowhere to take water but there. So every day she go an' fetch water to her son. One day when the boy was six months old she carry him to the place where she taking water, an' hide till the master come drink an' gone. Then she give her son water, and after she take him home back. An' when another six month come she take him back to the place an' show him the father footprint, an' commence to tell the son why him have to hide in the bush is because the father would kill you if he see you. The boy said to his mother:--"A so all right, when me come big man I going to go an' have a fight with him." The mumma say:--"No, me son, nobody can't fight him." So the mother take the boy home back till another six months when the boy catch a year an' a half. Then they go again an' the boy ask if he no can fight. The mother say:--"Come, make me measure you foot." When he go put his foot in his father footprint it was about two inch short. He go home. After six month more he come back, he alone, measure his foot in his father one. It want half inch to catch. Him gone home back for six more month. So one day him get up, tell his mumma that I am going to fight me puppa. The mother say "No," but him rist an' go. When him go to the place he measure his foot. It was one inch wider. Him say:--"I am going fe the battle." Him come back, tell his mumma that him going to fight puppa. So him go on till him get where his father can hear him, an' sing out:-- [Music: Timmolimmo, man dere, Timmolimmo, man dere, Come down make we battle, man dere.] One of the Cow call say:--"Master, Master, I hear some one calling your name." "No, no, not a man can call my name." The son give out again:-- "Timmolimmo, man dere, Timmolimmo, man dere, Come down, make we battle, Man dere." Timmolimmo yerry. Him make one jump, him jump half mile. The son make one, him go one mile. So they meet at a cross-pass. As the father come him lift the son with his horn, send him half mile in the air. The son drop on his four leg. The son lift the puppa, send him three quarter mile. As him drop, one foot gone. The puppa stand on the t'ree foot send the son up again in the air. The son drop on four foot. The son send him up again, him come down on two. Him stand on the two, send the son. Him come down on four. The son send him up again, an' him come down on one. The puppa stand on the one foot an' send the son, an' the son come down on four. An' the son send him up, an' him come down on him side an' broke him neck. The son go home to his mother an' tell him that he has gain the battle, so they must come go in the pastur' an' him reign. From that two Bull never 'gree in one pastur'. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =rist=, risks it. =dere=, pronounced day-er, the French vowel quite abandoned. =cross-pass=, cross-path. =foot=, leg. XXXVIII. CALCUTTA MONKEY AND ANNANCY. One day Calcutta Monkey work a very large field of corn, an' when the corn commence to ripe Monkey beguns to miss the corn, an' him couldn' find out who was tiefing the corn, an' the robbing continually going on. Till one day Monkey went to Annancy yard an' suspish upon Annancy. An' Annancy get very short an' ready to fight Calcutta Monkey. An' Monkey say to Annancy he won't fight him but he will soon know who is tiefing the corn. An' same time Annancy say to Monkey:--"I bet it is that big-voice Mr. Tiger." An' Monkey say he won't judge no one again but will find out. An' him went home back to his yard an' cut his card. An' when he cut the card he sees no man on the card but Mr. Annancy, an' Monkey think it very hard to himself that Annancy wouldn' own it. An' the next day he went to the ground an' he find the robbing was going on. An' he met Annancy on the road an' he said to Annancy he well know who tiefing the corn. An' Monkey send a challis to Annancy an' tell him that if him cut the card again an' find him in the card he going to give him a terrible flogging. An' when Annancy hear about the flogging he get a little frighten, an' him stop off the robbing for about two days. The day to make t'ree Annancy couldn' bear no longer an' he beguns again to tief the corn. An' Monkey made up a drum an' got a hunting-whip. An' next day when Monkey go back to the ground an' find the corn tiefing he goes home to his yard, an' take up his drum an' his hunting-whip an' start looking for Annancy. An' when he going he beguns to knock the drum ribbim-bim-bim, "Annancy no dere," ribbim-bim-bim, "Annancy no dere." An' that time Annancy went an' climb a cullabunka tree. Annancy hide himself in the heart, an' as Monkey get to the tree he sound the drum say:--ribbim-bim-bim, "Annancy dere." An' he put down the drum an' wrap the whip round his neck an' climb the tree an' give Annancy a good flogging, an' Annancy run off the tree an' say that he won't do it again. Till a few days after Annancy broke in the corn-piece again, begun to tief the corn like witch. An' Monkey go into the ground an' see the tiefing. An' he went home an' look over his card. He sees no one again but Mr. Annancy, an' he took up his drum an' his whip to look for Annancy again to flog him. An' this time Tiger have a very large banana-walk. Annancy wented there an' look for one very large bunch of banana an' go in the heart of the bunch an' hide himself. An' as Monkey 'tart playing the drum again he get to the banana-walk. An' as he get to the spot he sound the drum say:--ribbim-bim-bim, "Annancy here." But this time Monkey an' Tiger can't agree, an' this banana is for Tiger. Monkey has to leave Annancy an' goes home back. An' Tacoma says to Monkey, if him want to catch Mr. Annancy he can catch him for him. An' Monkey was very glad. An' Tacoma made a dance an' send an' invite Mr. Annancy. An' when Annancy come to the gate Annancy mind tell him that Calcutta Monkey is there, an' he only 'tand to the gate an' wave his hand to the ladies inside, say:--"Good evening, ladies all"; an' he turn right back an' go in the banana heart an' take it for his own dwelling. An' from that day Annancy live in banana bunch up to now. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =suspish upon=, suspect. They also use =suspish= alone, a delightful word. =cut his card.= Monkey is clearly an Obeah-man, a dealer in the black art. =ribbim-bim-bim, etc.=, half sung, with strong even rhythm. =cullabunka=, a kind of Palm. =banana-walk=, technical name for a banana plantation. =is for Tiger=, belongs to Tiger. XXXIX. OPEN SESAME. One day there was a very hard time, an' Annancy an' his family was dying for hungry. An' there was a regiment of soldier find out a silver mine. An' when they find it out they made a very large house. An' they move the money an' put it in the house, an' when they are moving it they t'ought that nobody see them. What that smart fellah Mr. Tacoma does. He hide himself on a tree, seeing them when they passing with the money. An' when they reach to the house, the house work with no key, an' they has a certain word to use when they want the door to open. They say "Open Sesame." An' they go in an' t'row in the money, an' when they coming out of the house they say "Shut Sesame," and the door lock. An' Tacoma hear what they say. An' he go home an' harness up his cart with his mule an' drive to the house. An' when he go him use the same word an' the door open. An' he go in an' load the cart, an' when he load done he drive home. When he come home he want to measure the money an' he couldn' get no quart pot, an' he sent to his neighbour Mr. Annancy an' borrow his quart pot. An' continually so he go an' come back, him still borrowing Annancy quart pot. An' Annancy think it very hard, say:--"Somet'ing Bro'er Tacoma is measuring." An' Annancy want to know what it is. A second day when Tacoma sent for the quart pot again Annancy 'tudy a plan. When Tacoma come him give it to him, an' as Tacoma reach his yard don't begin measure yet, Annancy tell one of his picny that they must go a Bro'er Tacoma yard an' tell him that him really want the quart pot, must make haste make haste send it at once. An' when the picny go he tell him must look an' see what Bro'er Tacoma measuring. An' he couldn' find out. An' a third day him sent to the shop an' buy penny halfpenny white flour, an' when him gone home he make it to paste an' piecen the quart pot bottom inside, an' said to himself:--"Anyt'ing Bro'er Tacoma measure, whether fe rice or gungo or flour, or either money, one must fasten in the flour." An' when Tacoma come back he sent for the quart pot. An' when Tacoma measure done he send it back. An' as he send it a very large two an' sixpence piece fasten in the flour. An' Annancy say:--"T'ank God I find out what Bro'er Tacoma doing with my quart pot." An' same time he goes to Tacoma yard an' begins to cry upon Tacoma that Bro'er Tacoma must carry him an' show him where he get the money. Tacoma didn' agree. Annancy cry an' cry till him tell him that he must get a cart an' a mule to-morrow evening, an' when him passing he will call to him. An' Annancy couldn' wait, an' him harness up his cart from morning an' watching out for Brother Tacoma. An' he watch an' watch till Tacoma come. When Tacoma was coming he lash him whip, an' as he lash, Annancy lash his own too. An' they started. An' when they get to the house Tacoma say "Open Sesame," an' the door open. An' they run the cart up to the door mout' an' load it, an' they come out an' drive home. An' by the time Tacoma get home to his yard Annancy t'row out his money an' turn back again. An' when he go he use the same very word an' the door open. Annancy load his cart an' when him coming home he meet Tacoma on the road an' through his strongy yeye an' his ungratefulness he want to shoot Tacoma cart a gully an' to kill his mule, that him one may be the master of the bank. An' Annancy made a sing when he is coming home:-- [Music: Right t'rough, right t'rough de rocky road, oh Charley Marley call you, Mid a rock, mid a rock, mid a rock, me Charley, Charley Marley call you; Oh de han'some gal are no fe you one; Oh Charley Marley call you.] NOTES. Here is another story founded on Ali Baba, which differs considerably from the previous one of "Blackbird and Woss-woss." The chief peculiarity of this version is that the entrapping through forgetfulness of the password is altogether lost. =Hard time.= This refers to the months of June and July when provisions are scarce. The old yams are done and the new ones are not in yet. Subsistence has to be eked out with a few sweet potatoes and the mangoes, which are abundant in these months, and go on till the October rains bring back a season of plenty. =so he go=, as he goes. =piecen=, a nice word. They use it also in speaking of the patching of old clothes. =lash him whip=, crack his whip as a signal. =strongy yeye=, covetousness. To give the pronunciation a _y_ has to be tacked on to strong. =him one=, he alone. The exact application of the song is doubtful. The end is pretty clear, meaning:--all the good things are not for you alone, Tacoma. It will be observed in this and some other stories that Jack Mantora, etc., is omitted. That is because they have no tragic termination. XL. SEA-MAHMY. One day, height a hungry time, Blackbird have a feedin' tree in a sea. An' every day Blackbird go an' feed. Annancy say unto Blackbird:--"Please, Bro'er Blackbird, please carry me over a you feedin' tree." Blackbird say unto Annancy:--"Bro'er Annancy, you so cravin' you goin' to eat every bit from me." He say:--"No, Bro'er Blackbird I won' do it." Brother Blackbird say unto Annancy:--"A you no have no wing, how you a go?" Well! Blackbird take out two of him tail feather, 'tick upon Annancy. He pick out two of him wing feather, 'tick upon Annancy. He take two feather out of him back again, 'tick upon Annancy; two feather out of him belly feather, 'tick upon Annancy. Well! Blackbird an' Annancy fly in a the sea upon the feedin' tree. Every feedin' Blackbird go fe pick, Annancy say that one a fe him. Blackbird go upon the next limb, Annancy say a fe him. Blackbird go upon the t'ird limb, Annancy say a fe him. Till Annancy eat a good tummy-full. Annancy drop asleep upon the tree. Well! Blackbird take time, pick out all the feather back, an' Blackbird fly away. When Annancy wake out of sleep he say:--"Make me fly." He can't fly. He broke a branch off a the tree, t'row in the sea. The branch swim. Annancy say if the branch swim him will swim, an' he jump off a the tree, drop in the sea an' sink. An' when he go down a sea bottom he meet Sea-mahmy. He said to Sea-mahmy:--"Mumma, mother tell me me have a cousin down a sea bottom, ya." Sea-mahmy say:--"I going to see if me and you are cousin." Sea-mahmy put a pan of sand in the fire for well hot. When him get hot he take it off a the fire, give to Brother Annancy for drink it off. Brother Annancy say:--"Cousin Sea-mahmy, it don' hot enough. Put it out a de sun fe make it hot more." After him put it out a the sun then he say:--"Cousin Sea-mahmy, I think it hot now." An' Sea-mahmy say:--"Well you must drink it off an' make I see if you an' me are cousin." An' Annancy do drink it off. Annancy spend t'ree day down a sea bottom. Well! the next day Sea-mahmy said to him:--"Whé you going to come out." Him said:--"Cousin Sea-mahmy, sen' one of you son fe carry me out a lan'." Sea-mahmy give him one of him son, the name of that son call Trapong. Well! Trapong an' Annancy travel, make middle in a sea. Sea-mahmy call:-- [Music: Trapong, Trapong, fetch back 'tranger man, come back.] An' Trapong say:--"'Top, Brother Annancy, I think I hear my mother calling me back." Annancy say:--"No, make way! War de 'pon sea!" An' Trapong sail with Annancy on him back till they reach shore. When they go to shore he say:--"Bro'er Trapong, take dis bag weigh me, see whé me weigh." Trapong lift him up, say:--"Yes, Brother Annancy you heavy." So Annancy come back out of the bag. He say:--"Bro'er Trapong, you come in make I weigh you see." Trapong went into the bag. He tie Trapong, tie tight. Trapong say:--"Brother Annancy you a tie me too 'trong." He say:--"Me no a tie you fe see if you heavy?" Trapong say to Brother Annancy:--"Me heavy?" Annancy say:--"You heavy oh! You light oh! You heavy enough fe me wife pot." An' for all the bahl Trapong a bahl he gone back to him house an' Annancy eat him. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =height=, in the height of, at the worst of. =Sea-mahmy=, Mermaid. =feedin' tree.= It was a duckanoo mango according to some accounts. Annancy behaves just as he did with Candlefly and the eggs. The connecting =wells= of this story, which take the place of the =ands= and =sos= of other narrators are said with a little upward turn of the voice. =Whé you going.= Whé (what) seems to be doing duty for =how= here. =Trapong=, tarpon, the famous sporting fish of Florida and Santa Catalina, common also in Jamaica. =make middle in a sea=, get to the middle of the sea. =No, make way!= Annancy shouts this out. The outrageous confidence trick which follows necessitates a Jack Mantora. XLI. CRAB AND HIS CORN-PIECE. One day Brother Crab work a lovely field of corn. An' when the corns beguns to ripe Crab begin to lose the corn, an' he couldn' find out who was tiefing it. An' he get Annancy to be a watchman for tief. An' this arrangement make between Annancy. Crab tell him that he will come in the night and see if he is watching. An' Annancy wasn' agree at first. Him stand for a good time an' study: an when he study he tell Crab yes that he can come. An' when Crab gone he sent an' call his friend Mr. Tacoma an' tell him that Bro'er Crab leave him here to watch over the corn, an' say that he is going to come back in the night to see if he is watching. An' as Crab being 'fraid of Tacoma Annancy tell him that he must set a watch in the road for Crab an' catch him. That time Ratta was hearing Annancy bargain which he is making with Tacoma. An' he went home an' tell Crab that he mustn' go to the corn-piece in the night for Tacoma going to catch him. An' so Crab did hear Ratta. An' him send an' discharge Annancy. An' Annancy was very sorry, an' same time he goes to Crab an' he ask Crab what he done. Crab tell him that he mustn' mind, he must leave the work, he is going to get another man to watch. An' Annancy did leave, an' Crab give the job to Ratta. An', as that wicked man Mr. Annancy know that Ratta frighten for Puss, he sent an' tell Puss that he must go in Bro'er Crab corn-piece an' keep a good watch for Ratta an' catch him an' eat him. An' that time Candlefly was hearing Annancy what he is telling Puss to do Ratta, an' he went an' tell Ratta that he must leave the work, an' if he don't leave it he going to lose his life. At that time Ratta get very 'fraid an' send an' give up his discharge to Crab. When Ratta gone Crab couldn' get no one to watch the corn again, an' he consider to himself that he knows two friend very love corn an' the meal likewise. An' the two friend was Mr. Dog an' Mr. Cock. An' he sent an' call them an' they did come. When they come he tell them that he have a piece of corn an' he can't get none, tief is eating out the whole. An' he says to Dog that him know he is a very good watchman, an' same time Cock say to Crab that him watch as any soldier. An' Crab was very glad, say:--"You is the two man that I want." An' they says to Crab that they won't charge no money, but when the corn came in Cock is to get his share of dry corn an' Dog get his share of meal. An' Cock ask Crab to give him a gun. An' Crab didn' have a gun, an' he give Cock a flute an' give Dog a drum, an' tell them that anyone catch a tief they must play an' let him hear. An' Cock tell Crab that he can't sleep on the ground, an' he wants to know if there is any tree in the corn-piece, an' Crab say "Yes." So Cock an' Dog started. An' when they go Cock fly upon the tree an' Dog pick up the corn trash which they cut already an' make a very soft bed an' get into it, an' Dog lie down until he fall asleep. An' Cock sing:-- [Music: Brether Dog oh! Brether Dog oh! Brether Dog asleep oh! Brether Dog oh! Tief come an' gone oh, Brether Dog oh! Tief come an' gone oh, Brether Dog oh!] When the tief come Dog didn' know. An' Cock, as he being a brave soldier, he caught the tief. An' when he catch the tief he start a tune in his flute:-- [Music: You Mister Crab oh! You Mister Crab oh! Da me same one catch de tief oh! Bengaday.] An' as Dog being love sleep an' don't watch to the end he lose his reward. An' Cock by him catch the tief takes the corn. NOTES. =arrangement between Annancy=; no misprint. =Between= may stand for =with=, or there may be an ellipsis of the words =and Crab=. =he mustn' mind.= This is likely to convey a wrong idea. Crab was not trying to soothe his feelings, but was speaking angrily. What he said was:--"Never you mind, etc." XLII. DRY-GRASS AND FIRE. One day Brother Dry-grass an' Fire get in confusion. So Fire tell his frien' Annancy (not knowing that Annancy an' Dry-grass was better friend):--"Brother Annancy I going to burn that fellah Dry-grass to-morrow." Annancy say:--"When you a go you fe call me a yard. I goin' to make one shell. When we nearly get to the place we blow, make the fellah know that man a come." During this time Annancy make bargain with Water that any time he hear the shell blow him must come down like rain. So Fire reach up an' as the shell blow he see rain coming down. So Fire has to go home. Water tell him say that Annancy tell him that you are going to fight Dry-grass, so I must come an' help to see if we can manage you. Fire say:--"A so! That fellah Annancy I going at his yard." So Fire walk at Annancy yard an' tell him:--"Brother Annancy I going to come an' see you next week." Annancy say:--"Yes, Bro'er Fire, with all pleasure." Fire tell him that he must put all his clothes a door to make him find out the yard for I don't want to lost the way. So Fire gone. Annancy wife said:--"Me husband, send go stop Fire from come a you place." Annancy say:--"No, me wife, a me best frien' so him have free come." Just before the time Fire was appoint to come, Annancy go to Brother Tiger, an' as him walk into the house he saw some clothes. An' he pick up the clothes an' say:--"See, Bro'er Tiger, how you clothes damp, you must have fe put dem a sun." So Tiger hang out all his clothes on a line before the door mout'. An' presently Fire was coming like a lion bringing Breeze with him. When Fire see all the clothes he say to Breeze:--"See that fellah Annancy yard." So Breeze blow harder an' come with a speed. An' Fire make a jump till he nearly got to the yard. Tiger hear the speed Fire was coming, call to him:--"Turn back, you red-face fellah, me no want you company." Fire was coming down more and more. Tiger bawl fe Fire a stop, but Fire coming for the better. So Fire get in the yard an' burn all Tiger clothes an' house, an' turn right home back. Annancy laugh, an' sing:-- [Music: Me wife say me no fe invite Fire, Brether Fire bring Breeze oh! Fire de 'pon lan' Fire, Fire de 'pon lan' Fire. He burn up all Tiger yard, ha ha! Brether Fire an' Breeze oh! Fire de 'pon lan' Fire, Fire de 'pon lan' Fire.] _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTE. The shell looks like a very small cowhorn and gives a similar sound when blown. It is used as a signal for a variety of purposes. It summons to work and marks the hour of release. When a train of mules is nearing a sharp turn in the road, the head muleman blows a fanfare to give warning of his approach. The shell is in fact to the mule-track what the whistle is to the railroad. Imitation shells are sometimes made of bamboo. It was perhaps one of these that Annancy made. XLIII. JOHN CROW. One day there was a lady who have but only one daughter, an' Mr. Tacoma hear about the gal an' he went to court the gal. An' when Tacoma go the gal wouldn' receive Tacoma. An' the mother was really vex. As the mother being a old lady, when Tacoma going Tacoma carry a brass mortar to made it a present to the old lady to beat her fee-fee. An' when the old lady see the brass mortar he really want the mortar. But Tacoma said to her if him don't get the gal he not going to leave the mortar. An' the gal 'treat away himself inside the room an' hide. An' Tacoma feel very sorry an' he return home back. When he goes home he tell Annancy about the gal, an' Annancy get a concentina he going to carry down make a present to the gal. An' Annancy say if the gal can only take the concentina from him the gal must be his wife. An' when Annancy go down Annancy was playing. The gal wouldn' receive Annancy in. An' when the mumma hear, the music was so sweet she commence to dance; an' said to the daughter, this is the son-in-law him want, for he can get him own dance any time him ready. Not for all Mr. Annancy playing the gal wouldn' receive Annancy, until Annancy has to go home back. When that ugly fellah Mr. John Crow hear it he study between himself an' get a carriage with his pair of horses an' his coachman, an' the carpet in the carriage was a gold carpet. An' John Crow said between himself when him put on him watch an' chain an' his coat an' shoes, if him don't bring that gal home believe him no Mr. Goldman. An' John Crow drive away. An' when him get to a distant to a look-out, the gal was at his window sitting down, an' as him look, him see Mr. Goldman was driving coming. An' him holloa to him mumma:--"Mumma, mumma, my dear love is coming." An' as John Crow reach the yard the gal was out an' sling Mr. Goldman out the carriage an' escort him right into the house. An' after John Crow introduce himself to the gal that his name is Mr. Goldman. An' when John Crow tell the gal so, the gal have a old-witch brother an' says to his sister that that man is John Crow. An' the gal get vex an' say:--"Oh no, don't use a word like that; it is my dear Mr. Goldman." An' when the mumma come the gal introduce him to Mr. Goldman, an' tell him that his dear love just come now. An' Mr. Goldman fix a time when to come back an' get married, and the mother was agree, an' the gal was very glad too. An', when they settle that, John Crow drive back to his yard. An' when he is coming back the next night he brought a old-witch boy with him an' hide him half part of the road near the yard, an' tell him that as he see day clearing, he must call him that he may got home before day clear. An' he reach the yard an' spend the night in a very joyful dance. So it getting near day an' the boy sing:-- [Music: Mister Goldman oh! Goldman oh! Day da clean oh!] An' when the boy sing out the people them inside the house hear. An' when they hear they say:--"Stop! Stop! Stop! some one is calling Mr. Goldman." An' the dance so sweet Mr. Goldman he wouldn' stop to listen. He only says:--"Oh don't listen to that foolish boy." An' when him use the word him one in the ring wheeling all the gal them. An' that time him hear a sing:-- [Music: Poor mirrybimbim ribbimbybimbim, Goldman a wheel him gal, Goldman a wheel dem.] An' when him wheel all the gal him look outside the door an' see that day catch him; so him cry excuse an' went up'tairs. An' when he go up he take a piece of meat an' look for a broken sash an' 'queeze himself t'rough. An' as him go t'rough, the sash 'crape off the whole of him back head, an' from that day every John Crow born with a peel head. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =fee-fee=, food. ='treat away himself=, retreats, retires. =concentina=, always with this =n=. =him ready=, she is ready for it, wants it. =a look-out=, a place visible from the house. =sling=, hand, with a notion of vigorous action. =an' says=, who says. =a word=, often a sentence of several words. =tell him=, tell her mother. =sweet=, pleased. =when him use the word=, as he said this. =excuse=, to be excused; pronounce the =s= like =z=. John Crow is the vulture-like scavenger bird of Jamaica, and has a peeled (bald) head. XLIV. TIGER'S DEATH. One day Mr. Annancy an' Monkey made a bargain to kill Tiger, an' they didn' know how to make the confusion for Tiger was Monkey godfather. An' being Monkey have more strength than Annancy, Annancy try to keep close Monkey an' wouldn' leave Monkey company at all by he afraid for Tiger. Until one day Annancy went to river an' catch some fish, an' send an' call Brother Monkey to come an' help him enjoy the fish. An' when the breakfast ready, instead of Mr. Monkey come, it was that cravin' man Mr. Tiger who Annancy really hate, an' to every piece of the fish Annancy take up to put in his mouth, Tiger take away every bit an' never cease till him finish the whole. An' when Mr. Annancy friend who he invite come, there was none of the fish to give him. An' as Monkey being love fish he began to cuss his godfather Tiger. An' that time Puss was passing when the confusion occurred. An' they go on an' go on till Puss laugh. An' as Puss laugh Tiger get worser vex an' begun to cuss Puss, an' Puss said to Monkey:--"Come, make we beat him off to deat'." An' Monkey wasn' agree to beat his godfather, but Annancy an' Puss force him. An' Tiger get cross begun to lick, an' the first man him lick was his godson. An' then as him lick him godson Puss catch a fire 'tick, an' Annancy catch up a mortar 'tick, an' they never cease murder Tiger till they kill him. An' they 'kin Tiger an' just going to share. An' there comes a singing from the tree:-- [Music: You long-tail Mister Monkey, Give me piece of de liver, a no you one tummy fe full. A message me bring fe Tiger say buryin' dé a yard; a whé fe do, a whé fe do oh! Tiger dead already.] An' all the look Monkey an' Annancy look, they never find the person that was singing. So they salt Tiger. Then Peafowl come down in the yard say:--"Good evening Mr. Annancy an' Mr. Monkey, I am very hungry. I was on a long journey bring a message to Tiger that him wife dead, but Tiger dead already." So the whole of them stop an' eat of Tiger. Peafowl never go back with no answer to report, for Puss an' Monkey an' Annancy give Peafowl gold not to talk that they kill Tiger. So Peafowl never can be a poor man for he keep the t'ree friend secret. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =confusion=, quarrel, which was to be made the pretext for killing Tiger. =whé fe do=, what to do? what is to be done? To this question the implied answer is "Nothing." So the phrase means:--"It can't be helped." XLV. THE OLD LADY AND THE JAR. A old lady have two son, one name Dory Dunn an' one name Tumpa Toe, an' Tumpa Toe an' Dory Dunn is a hunter-man. Well, they give them mumma enough things an' say:--"Mumma, I am going a wood, don' interfere with that Jar in my room." When them gone old lady say:--"I wonder what my son have in that Jar say me no fe touch." Old lady go an' shub him hand inside in the Jar. The Jar hold old lady. Old Lady say:-- [Music: Tumpa Toe, Lord! Dory Dunn oh, Lord!] An' the Jar say:-- [Music: Mumma longubelo, tum tullalullalum tum.] An' the Jar fire him from the room to the hall. An' when him reach to the hall him say:-- "Tumpa Toe, Lord! Dory Dunn oh, Lord!" Jar say:-- "Mumma longubelo Tum tullalullalum tum." An' all this time the Jar holding him by the hand an' can't let him go. An' the Jar t'row him outside a door. When him get out a door old lady say:-- "Tumpa Toe, Lord! Dory Dunn oh, Lord!" Jar say:-- "Mumma longubelo Tum tullalullalum tum." Jar hold him 'till. Jar fire him to seaside now. An' he got one daughter a seaside. The daughter say:-- [Music: Do my Jar, Do my Jar, will you save, will you save my mother life!] Jar say:-- [Music: Old lady touch me, old lady touch me, you never will see him no more.] The daughter say:-- [Music: Do my Jar, Do my Jar! I will give you some silver fe save my mother life.] Jar say:-- [Music: No, my gal, No, my gal, I got silver already; You never will see him no more.] The Jar fire him in a sea. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =Tumpa=, stump. A man who has lost his arm is called a tumpa-hand man. =enough things=, plenty of things to eat. In these curiously simple tunes, if tunes they can be called, it is most important to mark the time and to pay great attention to the lengths of the notes. To hear them sing, or rather say, "Lord!" is the most laughable thing. The first one begins on a note rather below the =C= of =Toe=, and slides downwards ending with an expiring grunt on a very low note of the voice. The second one is done in the same way, but is, all the way through, a little lower than the first. The point is to let the breath go with the sliding note instead of holding it as in singing. =longubelo.= The first syllable is pronounced as in English, and the rest of the vowels are Italian, the =e= being rather more narrowed, but never quite reaching to the sound of =bale=. =tum tullalullalum tum.= Strong accent on the =tull= and clean neatly cut syllables. Italian vowels. =mumma.= The =u= between Italian =u= and Italian =o=. =fire him=, throws her. Yet not quite "throws," for the Jar never lets her hand go. =Fire 'tone= is the usual expression for throwing stones. The Jar fires her first from the bedroom to the living-room (hall), next from the hall to the yard, then from the yard to the seaside, and all the time it holds her by the hand. XLVI. JOHN CROW AND FOWL-HAWK. One day Fowl-hawk go to John Crow yard an' tell him that him fe come have a walk with me to a country for something promise there to me. "One day I go out an' in my way I pass a river. As I come to the river I meet Fowl. Him ask me to help him up, an' the baby any time him born I must come for it. Well my dear sir, the baby born; an' when I go, Fowl say him never make a promise with me. Look you, sir, if you see the picny, nice fresh fe we mouth, an' a no the one, but him hab more. So you will get a good bag of fresh, but the country danger home." John Crow say:--"Me yerry dat place hab bad name, me no want go." Hawk say:--"You too fool, we a man! we'll get 'way, me son, if them want to catch we. When me go dé the first time me go slam in a Fowl yard. Me an' him stay a whole day a quarrel, an' me no dead. Come, me good friend, make we go." Them start. Them fly an' fly till them get over the country. Hawk say:--"Brother John, we get over the place. Look down yonder, look fresh!" John Crow say:--"Me no go down dé." Hawk say:--"A so! you too fool! Come make we go down little more." Them go down till them pitch on a tree. Hawk say:--"Brother, you see them better. I da go sing make them know say me a come." John Crow say:--"If them yerry you, dem no will kill we!" "No, all time me go down me an' Fowl a good friend, no mo' the little quarrel we have." Hawk call out:--"See me ya me da come, me da come to the bargain, me da come, come; twillinky twing ping ya, me da come." Fowl hear, tell him picny dem fe go hide. So Dog was a gunner man, an' him an' Fowl a good friend, for Fowl always give him good treatment. So Fowl go an' tell Dog say:--"Danger! hawk a come fe me daughter, so me a beg you fe come a yard an' shot him fe me when him come." Dog come, an' him an' Fowl hide. Hawk said to John Crow:--"Come make we go down." John Crow say "No." Hawk say:--"Hungry will burn you back." John Crow say:--"Me no trust, me wi' wait 'pon God leisure." Hawk say:--"All time you wait 'pon God fe give you you will never get; no see me a man no wait 'pon no man? Me go look what me know me want, but me if I get anyt'ing I never give you little piece self, you foolish fellow you! I gone." Hawk start the singing again going down:--"See me ya, me da come, twillinky twing ping ya." By Hawk get down Dog hit him _bam_. Hawk dead. John Crow laugh "Ha ha! let me pull me rusty bosom shirt an' put on me gown an' go down to see what do that fellah." John Crow go down. As him get on Fowl-hawk find that him was dead him say:--"Tank God, ha, ha!" John Crow dig out the two eye and say:--"A this eye the fellah take a see," an' put it in his pocket an' turn on eating. Dog look, an' say to Fowl:--"You finish with that one, so, sister, any time them come you send an' call me. I can't stop, I am very vex. I send out my son yesterday an' Puss meet him on the road an' beat him an' take 'way the money that I give him to give Brother Monkey. Him tell me son say him have a old grudge fe me an' him can't get to beat me, so him will beat all me picny. So, sister, I ha da go home, will be blue fire when I catch Puss." When Dog go to Puss yard an' call him, Dog ask Puss for a drink of water an' a piece of fire. Puss say:--"Go 'way from me gate, I know whé you come about." Dog say:--"Ah, me man, will be blue fire!" Puss gate was lock, for Puss have company the day. This company was Rabbit. Dog say:--"I want to see you." Puss say:--"Go 'way I tell you, you mout' long like a devil fork." Dog broke the gate an' go in. Puss lock up his house, an' stay inside an' cuss Dog till Dog has to go home. An' Monkey say him will get the money from Puss for them is good friend. So Dog go home to his yard an' have a hatred for Puss till death. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =help him up=, with his head-load. =fresh=, fresh meat. =a no the one, etc.=, he has not only one, he has several. =danger home=, is very dangerous. =over the country=, over the place. =see me ya, etc.=, see me here, I am coming. =twillingky twing ping ya=, a good imitation of the Hawk's vengeful shriek. Strong accent on the =ya=. =bam=, French =a=, English =m=, imitating the discharge of the gun. =what do that fellah=, what has befallen that fellow. XLVII. FINGER QUASHY. One day Dog invite four Puss to dinner. They were good friend. One of the Puss name was Tatafelo, one name Finger Quashy, one name Jack-no-me-touch. The last one was Tumpy John because he has no tail. When them come, all the Puss was in long coat an' burn-pan hat. Dog was in trousies an' shirt. An' Dog tell them all howdy very friendly, for he didn' know what Finger Quashy doing him. An' Finger Quashy quite glad fe see how Dog look friendly an' please, an' didn' have no t'ought that him was tiefing fe him pear. So the whole of them sit down, Dog making a complain to them that, so he get a pear an put it to ripe, by the time he ready for it him don't see none. An' Finger Quashy was doing it. An' Finger Quashy jump up tell Dog:--"Mr. Dog, me no tell you all time say you want one watchman? a da' fellow Ratta a tief you pear. Last night me dream say me see you put me fe watchman an' me catch the fellah, so you better put me fe guard you house from that tiefing Mr. Ratta." Dog was quite agree. Dog said:--"After dinner I will tell you better." Quashy said "Yes." So Dog lef' them gone to get dinner. By Dog gone, Quashy come out of the house, go into Dog buttery, see two green pear, take them out go hide them. Ratta see him go over the kitchen cry out:--"Why, why, why! Quashy take you pear; you no yerry? Quashy take ahm gone." By Dog get in the house Quashy was in already sitting down look quite meek an' christianable. Dog lef' them go see if his pear was there. When he go there was none, an' Dog don't like nothing as his pear an' bone, an' he get vex, take all the dinner t'row it 'way, go in the house take down his 'tick. By the time Dog fe lick one of the Puss everybody was on a tree on the far side of Dog yard. Dog swear all sort of bad word fe the one that take him green pear. Everybody say:--"Thank God me no eat green pear." Finger Quashy said:--"Lard! what a man fe swear!" Dog see that he couldn' manage to catch Puss, leave and go away. An' as Dog turn round, his son playing with fire burn his house an' all his clothes. From that day Dog hate Puss till now, for it is Puss cause him to have one suit till him dead. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =Tatafelo=, Italian =a=, the other vowels English. =Pear=, _i.e._ the West Indian pear, a delicious vegetable. =tell you better=, make the final arrangement. =Why, why, why!= squeaked like a rat. =by the time Dog fe lick=, as Dog was going to strike. =everybody=, used also of inanimate objects. They say:--"I going to water cabbage, tomato, everybody." =T'ank God, etc.=, a favourite form of exculpation, which, however, does not necessarily imply innocence. XLVIII. ANNANCY AND HIS FISH-POT. One day Brother Annancy always set him fish-pot in a river ober a fallin' fe catch jonga. Tacoma usual to go an' knock it. An' Annancy set watch into a river corner, an' Tacoma come fe knock it; he didn' know Brother Annancy hide there fe watchin' him. As Tacoma go over de fish-pot Brother Annancy chuck him down, an' Tacoma catch in de fish-pot. Annancy go beg Brother Rabbit say:--"Bro'er Yabbit, me fish-pot catch a big fish, come an' help me knock it, me one can't manage it, Bro'er Yabbit." Brother Annancy an' Brother Rabbit went to the river. Annancy say:--"Bro'er Yabbit, me feel me tummy hurt me dis marnin', no able fe put me foot in de cold water, see if you one can manage fe take out de fish-pot." Brother Rabbit go an' take it out till he nearly make shore with the fish-pot. Annancy say:--"Bery well, you kill Brother Tacoma! Bery well, you kill Brother Tacoma!" Then Brother Rabbit commence to cry now, an' the frettenation in a Rabbit he say he kill somebody an' he know they going to hang him, an' next day Rabbit dead. Then the case didn' try again. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =fish-pot=, made of bamboo strips and looking like a lobster-pot. =jonga=, the smallest of the three kinds of crawfish which abound in the streams and rivers of Jamaica. =knock=, empty. =tummy=; a less pretty word is really used. Annancy squeaks his words more than usual here. =Bery well, etc.=, in 6/8 rhythm [Music] and he claps his hands to the measure twice in the bar. =frettenation=, probably fright, but may have something to do with fretting. Owing to Rabbit's fright, he says that he has killed a man. Rabbit, through fright, says that he has killed a man. These elliptical expressions are hard to understand until one has heard them often. =try again=, try after all. XLIX. HOG AND DOG. One day Hog was going out to look work, an' Hog name was Cuddy. An' he got out an' walk all about an' couldn' get no work. An' when he come home Ratta employ him to keep watch for him when Broder Puss is coming. An' Hog ask Rat how much is his pay. An' Rat tell him that he will give him t'ree an' sixpence a week but he must find himself every t'ing to eat an' drink. An' Hog didn' agree. But as the time being so hard he says he will bear with Ratta till the week out. An' when the week done Ratta pay Hog, an' Ratta t'ought that Hog was still keeping watch for him. So Ratta go out, an' when he come back he didn' fin' Hog. An' him say:--Wasn' God, Puss would broke in on him. An' him cuss Hog that Hog would walk an' never get no work, an' some which worse than Hog will laugh after him. An' Hog start one morning to look work. What that fellah Mr. Dog done Hog. As he, being a market-keeper, he set down at the market gate an' see Hog was passing, an' he ask Hog where he is going. Hog tell him that he is going to look a little work. Same time Dog burst out a laugh. An' as he burst out a laugh he ask Hog t'ought he was working with Ratta. An' Hog feel so shame to himself till he wouldn' answer Dog. An' Dog laugh after Hog with this sing:-- [Music: Time get so hard Hog an' all a look work, Dog sit down a market gate an' go laugh at a Hog distress; me rarabum Cuddy dé da door, me rarabum Cuddy dé da door, me rarabum Cuddy dé da door.] An' Dog sing an' sing an' sing till Hog get vex an' come home back. An' from that day that's why Hog must always hate Dog until now. _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =Cuddy=, short for Cordelia. =wasn' God=, if it wasn't for God. =rarabum=, nonsense word, Italian vowels. =dé da door=, is at door, is out of doors. L. DEVIL AND THE PRINCESS. Once a King has a daughter, an' that gal was a pet to her father. So one day a Prince come to ask for her. The father love the young man, but the gal say:--"Puppa, me don't like him." So the father promise her that anybody she see she like he will agree to it. So one night a good friend of the King made a dance an' invite the young Princess to the ball. This man who made the dance invite all classes of people. So he invite Devil too, but they don't know that it was Devil. When all the guests come everybody give their name. Devil give his name Mr. Winkler. So the ball commenced. Devil see the gal. He went an' ask her if she wish to dance with him. The gal was so glad say:--"Yes, sir, for I love you the most." When they dance till daylight the gal don't want to lef' Devil. She say to Devil:--"Come have a walk home with me." Devil say:--"Yes, I would go, but I am a man have such a great business, I has to go home very soon to seek after it." The gal say:--"Come go home with me you will get me to marry, for my father is a King." An' as Devil hear about marry he go home with the gal. When she get to the house she call to her father:--"Puppa, here come my lover, I have found him at last." So the servant-boy was an old-witch, said:--"Young mistress, you know that man is Devil?" The gal get vex, begin to cry. She go to her father crying, tell him "the servant-boy cuss me most shameful." The father get upstarted, come out to the boy, don't ask the boy nothing, catch the boy an' put him in prison. They take Mr Winkler in the palace, an' the father fix up an' they get marry. After Mr. Winkler get marry he said:--"I am ready to go." The King say:--"No, I can't send away my one daughter. You must stay and I will make you a King too." Mr. Winkler say "No." During this time they don't know that it was Devil, for when the boy tell them they get vex. Devil marry ten time an' he eat all his wife, so he was going to eat this Princess too. So, as he was so anxious to go, the gal have to go with him. When they ready to start the father give them a long bag full with money. Devil get a boatman an' they start. They sail four days before they get to their home. When the gal get there she go meet a old lady in the house. This lady was Devil cook. As he got in he said to the cook:--"I have got a good fat meat for the party." So Devil go an' lock up the gal in a bar, an' lef' the old lady to watch if the gal is going to get 'way. He lef' a Cock that any time the old lady say that the gal get 'way he must call, an' him lef' a bag of corn to feed the Cock that he may keep good watch. The old lady say "Yes." Devil ready to start, order his t'ree-foot horse saddle, for he is going to invite his friend to come an' help him eat the gal. He start, deeble-a-bup, deeble-a-bup. As he get about a mile the old lady go in to the gal, take her out an' tell her that her husband is Devil an' he is going to eat you. The gal begin to cry. The old lady say:--"Don't cry, I love you an' I going to let you go, but the Cock is a watchman; he will see you, an' if he see you he will call for his master, but never min' I will try." The old lady get ten quart of the corn an' a gallon of rum, soak the corn in it for about a hour, an' after give it to the Cock. An' the Cock eat the whole evening till night, an', after him finish eat, him drop asleep. The old lady get a boatman an' pay him an' he take the gal over the sea. When day nearly light the Cock wake an' go to look if he see the gal through a hole. When he look the gal was gone. Him go to the cook an' ask. The lady said:--"Him gone, an' I was calling you an' you never wake." Then Cock sing out:-- [Music: Mister Winkler Winkler oh coocoorico the gal is gone. Awake me wake go look a hole the gal was gone.] Mr. Winkler hear an' was coming like lighten with his t'ree-foot horse, deeble-a-bup, deeble-a-bup. He call out:--"Me coming", deeble-a-bup, "Me coming", deeble-a-bup. At last he reach the yard an' see the gal gone. He get a canoe an' start after her, an' by next day light he see the gal boat was far away. He call out:--"Sairey dé 'pon sea, Sairey dé 'pon sea, come back darling, you husband dé come fe you." When the gal look he say:--"Shub ahead, boatman, do, to save me life!" An' by the time they get a land Devil was near them. An' the boatman shot off a piece of Devil canoe an' water get in, so Devil has to go home back. An' when the gal go home, tell her father what was her life, the father say:--"Don't marry again to nobody, not if even the King." An' the father take her in an' give her servant to look after her. _Jack Mantora me no choose any._ NOTES. =cuss=, abuse. It does not imply swearing. To swear is to =cuss bad word=. =in a bar=, a barred-up room. =deeble-a-bup=, the sound of the three-legged horse's step. Compare the itty-itty-hap of "Mr. Bluebeard." The Cook adopts Annancy's device in "Annancy and Screech-owl." =coocoorico.= The Cock's crow is excellent. The Negro is very clever in his imitation of animals. =a hole=, at the hole, through the hole. =canoe=, pronounced with accent on the first syllable and French =a=. LI. WHEELER. One day Puss was going out on a journey, an' he travel till he reach to a river mouth. An' as Puss being afraid for water he couldn' cross the river. An' Puss has to stop for two day an' one night, an' Puss climb a tree which hang over the water. An' Mr. Annancy was fishening. An' Annancy fishening till him come where Puss was, an' Puss didn' call to Annancy. An' same time Annancy meet up a licking 'tump a river side. Annancy lick, him lick, him lick, him lick outside till him sen' him han' inside. An' when Annancy shub him hand him feel something hold him. An' Annancy get very frighten an' pull fe get him hand out, an' him couldn' get 'way. An' Annancy ask the question:--"Who hold me?" An' a voice in a the 'tump said:--"Me, Wheeler." An' Annancy said to him must wheel him make him see. An' him wheel Mr. Annancy mile an' distant. An' when Annancy drop he didn' dead, an' he said:--"T'ank God! I met with a little accident, but I see it going to be a living for me an' me family." An' Mr. Annancy went home an' get some lovely iron peg, an' when him come he plant them in the river course to the very spot which him did drop. That time Puss seeing all what Mr Annancy is doing. Annancy leave, an' come where Wheeler is, an' keep himself very quiet, an' presently Peafowl was passing. An' Annancy call upon him say:--"Bro'er Peafowl, a living is here for me an' you." An' Peafowl ask him what is it. An' he take Peafowl an' carry him where Wheeler is, and he says:--"Bro'er Peafowl, you see that hole. As you hand is so long, don't be afraid, just shub you hand in there now an' you will find something grand." An' as Peafowl shub in him hand Wheeler hold him. An' Annancy tell him that he must pull. An' when him pull he couldn' get 'way. An' Mr. Annancy feel very proud an' happy till he laugh with joy in his heart. An' when him done laugh him tell Peafowl to say:--"Who hold me here?" An' Wheeler say:--"Me, Wheeler." Annancy tell him to say:--"Wheel me mile an' distant." An' him wheel Peafowl an' dash him on the iron peg, an' Mr. Annancy went an' pick him up an' put him in his bag. An' him went back to his old place a bush an' sat quiet. That time Puss was seeing all this. Ratta was passing, an' as Annancy see him Annancy said to him:--"I's all you deeshent man I like to see." An' Ratta ask him:--"What for?" An' Annancy say:--"Don't be afraid; a living is here for you an' me." An' he carry Ratta an' show him the 'tump. An' when him show Ratta, Ratta ask him if this is the living. Annancy say:--"No shub you han', man, in the hole, an' you will fin' a living." An' as Ratta shub him hand Wheeler hold him. An' Annancy tell him that he must pull. Him say he can't get 'way. Annancy tell him to ask:--"Who hold me?" "Me, Wheeler." Annancy tell him must say:--"Wheel me mile an' distant." An' he wheel Ratta an' dash him on the iron peg again. Annancy went an' pick him up an' put him in his bag, an' go back same place. After, Puss come down off the tree an' walk through the bush an' go down the river a little ways an' then turn up back, coming up very meek an' poorly. Annancy so glad to see Bro'er Puss him say:--"Walk up my bold friend Mr. Puss. Come an' see the living which is here for me an' you." An' Puss playing as to say that he didn' know nothing at all about it. An' Mr. Annancy begin to show Puss the 'tump, an' he tell Puss to shub him hand in the hole. When Annancy show Puss the hole, Puss say that him don' see it. Annancy get vex and say:--"Shub you han' you so, man! Shub you han' you so, man! There, there!" An' Puss put him hand another way, playing to say he don' see it. An' he go on, go on, till Annancy make a flourish with him own hand, an' Annancy hand slip in the hole an' Wheeler catch him. An' Annancy begin to cry as him know the danger which is down below. An' him cry out:--"Do, me good Bro'er Push, jus' run a river course; you will see some iron peg, pull them up for me." An' Puss begin fe walk in him sinnicky way, an' hide a bush where Annancy can't see. When Puss come, him say him pull them. Annancy wouldn' believe, an' crying still say:--"Bro'er Push, mus' go an' fetch one come make me see." Puss go, an' when him come back him come without it. Annancy ask him where is it. Him tell Annancy that it too heavy, an' him roll it 'way. An' Annancy, still crying, wouldn' believe. An' he begin to call Puss Godfather Push, an' beg him hard:--"Do, me good Godfather Push, just you jump pull dem." An' him go on, go on, till him believe Puss, an' him ask the question:--"Who hold me?" "Me, Wheeler." "Wheel me mile an' distant." An' Annancy fly by the air an' drop slam on his own trap. An' Puss walk down an' pick up Annancy, an' put him in the bag with Peafowl an' Ratta an' carry off all the living with a jolly song:-- [Music: Poor me little Cubba boy, barn day no Cubba? Me da go da Vaylum, barn day no Cubba?] _Jack Mantora me no choose none._ NOTES. =licking 'tump=, a tree stump with bees in it. The honey trickling out makes a licking-stump of it. =lick, him lick, him lick.= These words are run closely together, then a pause, and then =him lick outside=. Pause again, after which the sentence finishes. =wheel=, to cause to turn or spin. I have no clue to =Mr. Wheeler=. =mile an' distant=, to the distance of a mile. =I's all you, etc.=, it's all you decent men. =What for?= Ratta was suspicious of Annancy's flattery. =poorly=, poor in spirit, meek. =sinnicky=, sneaky. =Bro'er Push, must go=, you must go. =barn day no Cubba?= is not my born-day (birthday) Cubba. Children used to be named according to the day of the week on which they were born. Day. Boys. Girls. Sunday. Quashy. Quashiba. Monday. Cudjo. Jubba. Tuesday. Cubbenna. Cubba. Wednesday. Quaco. Memba. Thursday. Qua. Abba. Friday. Cuffy. Fibba. Saturday. Quamin. Beniba. According to this list, Cubba is a girl's name, but it is perhaps short for Cubbenna. =me da go da Vaylum=, I am going to Vaylum. PART II. DIGGING-SINGS. The Negroes when they get together never stop chattering and laughing. They have a keen sense of the ludicrous, and give a funny turn to their stories as they relate the common incidents of daily life. The doings of their neighbours form the chief topic of conversation here as in most places, and any local event of special importance is told over and over. Presently, after repeated telling, the story, or part of it, is set to one of their dance tunes, and tune and words henceforth belong to one another. This is the origin of the songs which follow. With the explanatory notes attached to them it is hoped that they will afford some insight into the peasant life of Jamaica. The tunes fall into two main divisions, "dancing-tunes" and "digging-sings," and besides the formal dances, whose steps are thoroughly known, there is an informal kind called "playing in de ring." It may be described as dancing mixed with horse-play. It was in this kind of romping that Parson Puss took part in the Annancy story (No. XXIX.), and perhaps it was hardly the thing for the cloth! Ring tunes begin anywhere and anyhow, and do not necessarily conform to the eight-bar rhythm of the more regular dance tunes. To the other class of songs belong the "digging-sings" used, together with rum, as an accompaniment to field labour. In March it is time to think of getting the land ready for planting. So, having rented a piece of hillside from a neighbour, if he has none of his own, the Jamaican begins to clear the ground. The biggest of the trees fall to the axe, and the brushwood, or bush, as it is called, is chopped down with the cutlass, a few rod-like saplings being left here and there to serve as supports for the yams, which will by and by climb them like hops. After a few days' exposure to the sun, he burns all the top and lop that lies on the ground, which is then ready for digging. He now calls in some of his friends to help him dig yam-hills--so the phrase runs. What they dig is, of course, holes, to begin with. The loose soil is then piled up into small mounds in which the yam heads will be placed. The object of the mound is to enable the proprietor to see easily at any time how the tuber is getting on, by just "gravelling" it with his hand. As the hills are being dug, the rum bottle circulates, and the digging-sings, which began quietly enough, get more and more lively. The Negro is cheery at all times, but when well primed with liquor he is hilarious. Nothing more joyous can be imagined than a good "digging-sing" from twenty throats, with the pickers--so they call their pickaxes--falling in regular beat. The pickers work faster and faster to the strains of a rousing "Oh, Samwel, oh!" or "The one shirt I have ratta cut ahm." One man starts or "raises" the tune and the others come in with the "bobbin," the short refrain of one or two words which does duty for chorus. The chief singer is usually the wag of the party, and his improvised sallies are greeted with laughter and an occasional "hi," which begins on a falsetto note and slides downwards, expressing amusement and delight very plainly. LII. Here is a specimen:-- [Music: Oh Miss Nancy Ray, Oh hurrah boys! Oh Miss Nancy Ray, Oh hurrah boys! Nancy Banana da broke man heart, Oh hurrah boys! Nancy Banana da broke man heart, Oh hurrah boys! Oh Miss Nancy Ray, Oh hurrah boys! Oh Miss Nancy Ray, Oh hurrah boys!] The bobbin is "Oh hurrah boys!" and a good swinging one it is. If the bobbin is well taken up each sing lasts for about five minutes, and the raiser of the tune prides himself on the number of "turnings" or slight variations he can give it. He also improvises words as he goes on. Such a sally as changing Miss Ray's name to Banana would be met with laughter when it was first heard. ("Da broke man heart" means "has broken a man's heart") LIII. The next example is a type of many of the sings. It turns on a piece of local gossip. The "at last" is significant and points to Catherine being an old offender. The proffered sympathy is hardly sincere. [Music: Ho biddybye, biddybye me yerry the talk biddybye, say Cat'rine gone a prison biddybye poor me Cat'rine oh biddybye Cat'rine gone at last biddybye.] Here is the story in plain English, "deep English" as the Negro calls it, not understanding it well:--"Oh by the bye I hear a report that Catherine has gone to prison. My poor Catherine!" (For "say" read "which says." "Biddybye" is the bobbin.) LIV. We come now to one which refers to labouring life:-- [Music: Tell Mister Linky me want go, hm! hm! oh Benjiman! Barrarap Barrarap Barrarap me Benjiman oh Benjiman!] The men are in the field watching the sun which is getting low. They begin to think the head-man, Mr. Linky, is forgetting how time goes. He should be giving the signal to "knock off work." So one of the gang, meaning Mr. Linky to hear, says to his neighbour:--"Benjamin, tell Mr. Linky I want to go." "Hm, hm!" with closed lips, means a great deal. It is a sort of good-natured remonstrance. Always _Benjiman_ for Benjamin and the _Barraraps_ culminate in a sharp final staccato _rap_. This has a longer bobbin "Oh Benjiman!" LV. The next might easily be mistaken for something of the same sort:-- [Music: Tell Mister Bell me go plant coco, Tell Mister Bell me go plant coco, Tell Mister Bell me go plant coco, fuppence a quart fe flour! Flour Flour Flour Flour! fuppence a quart fe flour!] Mr. Bell is, however, the keeper of a country shop. "Tell Mr. Bell I am going to plant cocoes. Threepence a quart for shop flour! No, it's too much expense." ("Too much expense" is a favourite phrase.) The accent which the music gives to the word _coco_ is not the right one. It should be on the first syllable. "Fuppence" is fivepence, but means threepence. This is the survival of an old coinage in which sixpence was called tenpence. The _u_ in "fuppence" is an Italian _u_ with a turn towards an open _o_. It sounds more like fourpence than fippence. "Plant coco" is the bobbin, but a gang who were inspired not to leave too much to the raiser of the tune, would take upon themselves to add "Fuppence a quart fe flour." ("Fe," sounded "fy," with short _y_ as in "very.") LVI. The next has again a well-defined bobbin in "nyam an' cry," and hereafter no reference will be made to this feature, which by now must be thoroughly understood. Where it appears to be wanting, the whole sing is sung in chorus. [Music: Bad homan oh! bad homan oh! nyam an' cry, me coco no ripe, nyam an' cry, me hafoo no ripe, nyam an' cry.] The man is "working his provision ground," and his wife is always saying she has not got enough to eat. She is a bad woman, who does nothing but "nyam an' cry," eat and call for more, and my cocoes are not ready to dig and my Afoo (Italian _a_, ahfoo) yam is not ready either. (There are as many different kinds of yams as there are of potatoes.) LVII. Continuing with subjects connected with field-work, we come now to a sing which must have originated in old slavery days, when ringing a bell was the signal for beginning and knocking-off work:-- [Music: Bell oh, Bell oh, Bell a ring a yard oh! oh Degay, Bell a ring a yard oh! Baboon roll de drum oh, Monkey rub de fiddle, oh Bell a ring a yard oh!] The bell is ringing up at the house, says one of the slaves to Degay the head-man, and we want our breakfast; and another, seeing Degay look cross at anybody presuming to make suggestions to him, tries to make him laugh with the piece of nonsense that follows. We shall meet with Degay or Deggy, for there is some doubt about his name, again. It will be thought that either the word Baboon is misplaced or the barring is wrong, but it is not so. The negro is careless of accent, as of many things. Here he likes to have it on the first syllable, which he lengthens to "bah." "Rubbing" a fiddle conveys the exact idea of the way they play it. Holding it not up to the chin but resting on the biceps, they rub a short bow backwards and forwards across the strings. If one of these is tuned it is considered quite satisfactory, and the rest make a sort of mild bagpipe accompaniment. Time is no object. ("Bell a ring" may mean either "The bell is ringing" or "The bell has rung." "A yard," in the yard. The immediate surroundings of the house are called the yard. They seldom speak of going to a friend's house. They say they are going to his yard.) LVIII. Breakfast is at twelve o'clock, and after a short rest work goes on again. A shower starts a new train of thought:-- [Music: The one shirt I have ratta cut ahm, Same place him patch ratta cut ahm, Rain, rain oh! Rain, rain oh! Rain, rain oh fall down an' wet me up.] "The rats have cut my only shirt with their teeth. I put in a patch and they bit it through again in the same place, so when the rain came down it made me very wet." (The broad "ahm" (for him, it), is more used now by the Coolies than the Negroes. "Ratta" is both singular and plural. When I first heard the word I thought it referred to a terrier. "Same place him patch"--in the same place where it was patched, just where it was patched.) LIX. The kindly sun comes out, the shirts are dry, and an amorous youth, with that absence of self-consciousness which is characteristic of the race, begins:-- [Music: Jessie cut him yoke suit me, Jessie cut him yoke suit me, So-so wahk him wahk suit me, Jessie cut him yoke suit me, oh suit me, oh suit me, oh suit me, Jessie cut him yoke suit me.] Broadly this means:--"all that Jessie does is right in my eyes. She dresses perfectly, but it is enough for me to see her walk to adore her. Jessie cuts her yoke"--technical term of modistes and tailors I am told--"to suit my taste." ("So-so walk him walk," is literally:--"the mere walk that she walks with suits me." They are fond of this repetition of a word, first as noun and then as verb. Thus they will say:--Me like the play him play:--It sweet me to see the dance him dance:--The talk him talk was foolishness:--The ride him ride, him boast about it.) LX. "Three acres of Coffee" which follows, is more interesting musically. [Music: T'ree acre of Cahffee, Four acre of bare lan', T'ree acre of Cahffee, Why you no come come ask fe me? Mumma ho me love the man, Mumma ho me love the man, Mumma ho me love the man, Why you no come come ask fe me?] The boy has been telling the girl of his worldly possessions, but has not made any offer of marriage. She is thinking it all over. "So you have got three acres of coffee and four acres of bare land, then why don't you come and ask for me?" "Bare" land is good land which has not yet been taken into cultivation. The first money a poor boy earns he spends in boots, which are the outward and visible sign of being well-to-do. They hurt him, "burn him" as he says, but no matter. Next he buys a piece of land. This is probably in bush, covered that is with the rough growth of grass, bushes and trees that so quickly springs up in the tropics. He clears and plants it piece by piece, as opportunity offers and inclination suggests. LXI. They are clever at inventing nonsense words to run easily off the tongue. For instance:-- [Music: Away, away oui oui Madame. I never see the sight of Robart, I never see the sight of F'edrick, Ding dogaraggaway, Ding dogaraggaway, Ding dogaraggaway, Ding dong.] ("Away" is clearly a corruption of _oui oui_.) LXII. They like to complain of their little ailments, as thus: [Music: Wednesday morning before day, Wednesday morning before day, Wednesday morning before day, me ma'am, me feel me head a hurt me.] If a man happens to hurt himself, he sends or brings the most exaggerated account of the accident. If it is a cut on the hand, he "nearly chop him hand off." If there is a trickle of blood, "the whole place running in blood." In my early days in Jamaica my boy Robert came rushing up with gestures expressing the utmost consternation, and gasped out "Rufus hang!" Rufus was the pony. "He dead?" I asked. "'Tiff dead!" was the reply. We were doing a piece of important planting in the garden, and I said "Well! as he's dead there's nothing to be done, and we'll go on with this job." Two or three hours later, to my surprise, I saw Robert carrying grass towards the stable. "What are you doing with the grass, Robert?" "It for Rufus." "But Rufus dead." "No! he don't dead again," which meant that he was still alive. When I went to see, I found him rather exhausted with his struggling--he had fallen on the hillside and got entangled in the rope--but not very bad, and by next day he had quite recovered. This kind of exaggeration enters into all their talk. Once, travelling in a tram-car, there was a slight accident. The car just touched the shaft of a passing carriage and broke it. One man said to his neighbour, "See dat? de buggy 'mash to pieces." "All gone to snuff," replied the other. LXIII. Here are two different versions of the same sing. The chord of the seventh held on by the voices sounds well. [Music: Oh Samwel oh! Oh Samwel oh! Oh Samwel oh! Oh Samwel oh! Samwel, the lie you tell 'pon me turn whole house a me door.] (They never tell lies _about_ people here, but always _upon_ people. "Turn whole house a me door," turns the whole house out of doors, upside down as we should say.) LXIV. [Music: Oh 'liza oh! Oh 'liza oh! Oh 'liza oh! Oh 'liza oh! 'liza 'pread you coat make I lie down dé under the Bushatahl.] "Coat" is petticoat. I am told that 'liza could take off a petticoat and still be quite properly dressed. "Make I lie down," etc., _i.e._, let me lie down under the Butcher's Stall. This is the name of a precipice just below my house. Horses have several times fallen over it and been killed. They then become butcher's meat for the John Crows, the vulture-like birds which are so useful as scavengers. LXV. We do not get many songs of the American plantation type like the following:-- [Music: Aunty Mary oh! Aunty Mary oh! Aunty Mary oh! Aunty Mary oh! Aunty Mary oh! Aunty Mary oh! Aunty Mary Thomas, O meet me a cross road.] (Cross roads are always a favourite place of meeting, and a rum shop is generally to be found there.) This is a monotonous form, and I am glad the musical bent of our people turns in another direction. LXVI. See how superior this truly Jamaican form is:-- [Music: Oh! me yerry news, me yerry, Oh! me yerry news, me yerry, Married homan a pull him ring me yerry Him put ahm a wine-glass me yerry Oh! me yerry news me yerry.] Local scandal again. "I hear news; a married woman has pulled off her wedding ring and put it in a wine-glass," the first convenient receptacle she saw. LXVII. It was some time before an explanation was forthcoming for the next: [Music: Jes' so me barn, jes' so me barn, you can weary long boot, jes' so me barn.] The words mean:--"I was born just so; you can wear long boots, boots that come high up the leg." A girl, who has not money enough to buy boots, is envious of a companion who is wearing them. She says:--"I was born, just as you were, poor. Yet you have got long boots, while I must put up with 'bulldogs,' rope-soled slippers. Where did you get the money to pay for your boots? Did you tief it, or what?" LXVIII. In the example that follows, a girl has been left to look after her little brother, and somebody reports that she has been "ill-treating," _i.e._ beating him. So the message is sent back:-- [Music: Tell Mary say, no do Johnny so. Oh! Tell Mary say, no do Johnny so.] "Tell Mary she is not to do Johnny so." "To do a person something" is to do them an injury. "He so crahss" (cross), a boy will say of his master, "and I done him nothing," or "I never do him one def ting," a single thing. "Def" is emphatic, but is not a "swear-word." "Say" is often added in places where it is not at all wanted. It occurs again in:-- LXIX. [Music: Me tell them gal a Portlan' Gap Min' Dallas man oh! me amber hé! me amber hé! me amber ho! tell them say.] "I tell the girls at Portland Gap 'Mind Dallas men.'" Portland Gap is in the Blue Mountains; Dallas in the Port Royal Mountains between the Blue Mountains and the sea. (The exclamatory "hé" has the Italian vowel, hard for some English ears to catch. It is nearly but not quite "hay.") The significance of "amber" is lost. This word occurs again in the pleasant flowing melody which stands next, and the boy who gave it me explained its meaning quite correctly, saying it "stood for yellow." LXX. [Music: Gold oh! Gold oh! Gold amber gold oh! Gold dé a me yard oh! Gold amber gold oh! Sell doubloon a joint oh! Gold amber gold oh! fe me gold a sunlight gold! Gold amber gold oh! fe me gold no copper gold! Gold amber gold oh!] "Gold is in my yard," perhaps buried, but also perhaps in the house, yard often including it. "My gold is sunlight gold, none of your rascally copper stuff." The doubloon is a large gold piece worth sixty-four shillings. It has long been out of use and few people in Jamaica have seen one. ("Fe me," for me, often does duty for "my." "This a fe me hoe," this is my hoe; "take fe you panicle," take your panicle, the tin mug out of which the morning sugar-water is drunk.) LXXI. No. 71, "Gee oh John Tom" is a brisk and vigorous sing till it gets to "a me lassie gone" where the little tinge of sadness is given by simple means, again the right thing in the right place, good art. [Music: Gee oh Mother Mac, Gee oh John Tom; Gee oh Mother Mac, Gee oh John Tom; a me lassie gone, Gee oh John Tom.] LXXII. Here is something very short:-- [Music: Oh Oh Leah married a Tuesday.] On asking if that was all, Levi, the contributor, said:--"It no have no more corner," it hasn't any more corners, or "turnings" as they generally say, what we call variations. Levi likes to cut everything short and rattle it through with lightning speed. He it was who gave me that little gem of an Annancy story about the rats and their trousers (No. XI.), and this is his:-- LXXIII. [Music: Cheer me oh! Cheer me oh! Cheer me oh! My will fight fe you.] LXXIV. In imitating animals the negro is clever. He moos like a cow, grunts like a pig, whinnies like a horse, besides the minor accomplishments of miauling and barking. Even trammelled by music this cock's crow is good:-- [Music: Me cock a crow coocoorico, before day him a crow coocoorico, him a crow fe me wake coocoorico.] (Sound the _i_ short as in rich.) LXXV. Now we come to a tragedy. Selina is drowned, and they sing smoothly and flowingly:-- [Music: Oh Selina! Oh Selina! John Crow de a river side a call fe Selina! Oh poor Selina! Duppy an' all a call fe Selina! Oh poor Selina.] Everybody in Jamaica believes in Duppy, and many women and children will not go out at night for fear of meeting one. A man, they say, has two spirits, one from God and the other not from God. The one from God is good, and the one not from God may be either good or bad. During sleep, these spirits leave the body and go to other people's houses in search of food. Being shadows themselves, they feed on the shadow of food and on the smell of food. They are seldom far apart, and the heavenly spirit can always prevent the earthly spirit from doing harm. At death the God-given spirit flies up upon a tree, and goes to heaven the third day. The other spirit remains on earth as Duppy. Its abiding place is the grave of the dead man, but it wanders about at night as it did when he was alive. A good Duppy will watch over and protect the living. A bad Duppy tries to frighten and harm people, which it is able to do now that it has lost the restraining influence of its former companion, the heavenly spirit. It can assume any sort of shape, appearing sometimes as a man, sometimes as an animal. If it is a very bad Duppy, it makes the place where it is unbearably hot. The Negro believes that he can put a bad Duppy upon another person.[48] He proceeds as follows:--Going to the grave at midnight, he scoops a small hollow in the ground and puts in some rice, sprinkling it with sugar-water, a mixture of water and moist cane-sugar. He then directs Duppy to visit the person whose name he mentions, and goes away without looking behind him. The person on whom Duppy is put becomes "tearing mad," and it requires a ten-pound fee to "take the shadow off." How to do this is the Obeah-man's secret. A Duppy of one's own family is worse than a stranger's, and the "baddest" of all is Coolie Duppy. One of the most dreaded Duppies is "Rolling (_i.e._ roaring) Calf." It goes about making a hideous noise, and clanking a chain. "If Rolling Calf catch you, give you one lick, you dead." Your only chance is to run, and you must keep on "cutting ten" (making the sign of the cross), and the pursuing monster has to go round that place ten times. "Shop-keeper and butcher," so goes local tradition, "tief too much (rob their customers very much) and when they dead they turn Rolling Calf." [Footnote 48: [Cf. Miss Kingsley, _The Fetish View of the Human Soul_, in _Folk-Lore_, vol. viii., p. 138; also R.E. Dennett, _Bavili Notes_, _ibid._, vol. xvi., p. 371.]] Those who are born with a caul can see Duppy. So can those who rub their faces with the rheum from the eye of a horse or dog, and those who cut their eyelashes. Every Duppy walks two feet above the ground, floating in the air. If a child is not christened before it is six months old, Duppy will carry it away into the bush. To avoid this, a Bible and pair of scissors are laid on the child's pillow. The scissors are a protection, owing to their cross-like form. Such are the main beliefs with regard to this remarkable superstition of Duppy on earth.[49] [Footnote 49: [See _Folk-Lore of the Negroes of Jamaica_, in _Folk-Lore_, vol. xv., pp. 87, 206, 450, and vol. xvi., p. 68.]] This, however, is not all. At the day of judgment the two spirits will be reunited to the body, and in many cases the God-given spirit will go to hell after all. I often ask my boys which of these three is themselves? Is it the body? Is it the heavenly spirit? Is it the earthly spirit? But they do not understand the question and have no sort of reply. When I ask if it is not hard that the heavenly spirit after its sojourn in heaven should go to hell, they laugh. LXXVI. Leaving the religious, we come now to, what Jamaica considers more important, the colour question:-- [Music: Sambo lady ho! Sambo, Sambo lady ho! Sambo, Sambo no like black man, Sambo, Sambo want white man, Sambo, Sambo no get white man, Sambo, Sambo no want man again, Sambo, Sambo lady oh! Sambo.] A Sambo is the child of a brown mother and a black father, brown being a cross between black and white. The Sambo lady, very proud of the strain of white in her blood, turns up her nose at the black man. She wants a white man for a husband. Failing to find one, she will not marry at all. LXXVII. "Oh John Thomas!" is a favourite digging-sing at Goatridge, twenty-two miles from Kingston:-- [Music: Oh! John Thomas, Oh! John Thomas, Oh! John Thomas, Oh! John Thomas, We all a combolow, John Thomas, Me go da 'leven mile, John Thomas, Me see one gal me love, John Thomas, Me court her all the way, John Thomas, Me come a Bangheson, John Thomas, Me buy one quattie bread, John Thomas, Me part it right in two, John Thomas, Me give her the biggest piece, John Thomas, and a warra more you want, John Thomas?] "Combolow" is comrade oh! "Da 'leven mile," to Eleven-miles, the halfway halting place between Goatridge and Kingston. When he gets to Bangheson's shop he buys a quattie (pronounce quotty, penny halfpenny, quarter of sixpence) loaf, and what more do you want, John Thomas? The quattie bread weighs eight ounces only. It is therefore a dear and much esteemed luxury. LXXVIII. Sambo, that we had just now, is the shortest of bobbins. Here we have a long one of four bars. [Music: Whé mumma dé? Whé mumma dé oh? Come go da 'tation, you see mumma dé; Him take half a day, him a work seven dollar, Come go da 'tation you see mumma dé.] Mamma has got into trouble, owing to a failing unhappily too common in Jamaica, inability to distinguish between what is mine and what is yours. Her pay for half a day was a "bit" (fourpence halfpenny) and she has managed to "work" (sarcastic use of the word, for it means to get by working) seven dollars--twenty-eight shillings--and has been taken to the police station. "Whé mumma dé," literally, "where mamma is?" This has been already noted as the usual form of question. The vowel in whé, dé, is the French _é_. We have the sound in English in the words, _debt_, _west_ and many others, but we always make it very short, and when it is lengthened, as it should be here, it generally changes in English mouths to the _a_ of _date_, _waste_, which is wrong. The C sharp on the word "dé" is peculiar and striking. The second "dé" stands for "there." LXXIX. There is something pleasantly simple and naïve about the planting-sing:-- [Music: Toady, Toady, min' you'self, min' you'self make I plant me corn; plant me corn fe go plant me peas, plant me peas fe go court me gal, court me gal fe go show mumma, mumma de one a go tell me yes, puppa de one a go tell me no; Toady, Toady, min' you'self, min' you'self make I plant me corn.] "Mind yourself, little Toad, let me plant my corn." So sings the boy as he brings down his digger with a forcible thrust. The digger has been described as an earth-chisel, and a very good description it is. It makes a long slit in the ground into which the maize grains or peas are dropped. Maize is always known as "corn." Peas, which are also called Red Peas, are the "beans" of America, familiar at home under the name of French beans. We eat them not only green in the usual way, but also make excellent soup of the dried ripe beans. The boy is thinking of the reward of his labour. "I am planting my corn. Some will be eaten green, some left to ripen. That will be sold. Then I shall buy peas, plant them, and when they are ready for market get sixpence a quart for them, if I am lucky. Then I shall be rich enough to walk with a girl. I shall pick out a nice one that mamma will approve of. She will be the one to say 'yes, me son,' but puppa always crabbed, and him going to tell me no bodder with it, gal too much expense." LXXX. When known details run dry, the following gives full play to the inventive faculty:-- [Music: Me know the man oh! know the man, Name John Watson, know the man; him come from Bread Lane, know the man; him ride one grey mule, know the man; the mule name Vic oh! know the man; him have one tumpa toe, know the man; him come a Mister Thomson, know the man, fe go sell him grey mule, know the man; he no make no sale oh! know the man, me know the man, know the man.[50]] [Footnote 50: "The" always tends to the pronunciation "de," but it has not been thought advisable to write it so as this might render it liable to confusion with "dé," meaning "is," with its differently sounded vowel. Moreover, it is not quite a true _d_, but has a pretty lisping sound intermediate between _th_ and _d_.] Other bars of this air have an inclination to 2/4 time besides those indicated. It will be observed that repeat marks have only been put to the first sing. It was not considered necessary to continue them. The various "turnings" of the tunes may be put in any order. The negroes themselves never put them twice in the same sequence. LXXXI. [Music: Minnie, Minnie, me los' me boar; Minnie, Minnie, me los' me boar; Minnie, Minnie, him a broke-foot boar; Minnie, Minnie, me los' me boar; Minnie, Minnie, and a blind-eye boar; Minnie, Minnie, go find you boar, Minnie, Minnie.] "I have lost my boar, Minnie. He's a broken-legged boar and has got a blind eye," and so on through all the defects or excellences that a boar might, could, should or would have. There could not be a greater contrast to this sombre "Minnie" than the gay:-- LXXXII. [Music: You want to yerry Duppy talk oh! Come go da river before day, an' you will yerry them laugh oh! Come go da river before day; You want to yerry Duppy talk oh! Come go da river before day.] "If you want to hear Duppy talk, go to the river before day." LXXXIII. Now the colour question crops up again. The Sambo lady, it may be remembered, wanted a white man and nothing but a white man. Sarah can do with a Sambo man, from which we may infer that Sarah was black. [Music: Oh me know Sarah, me know Sarah; Sarah love white man, me know Sarah; Sarah want Sambo man, me know Sarah; Sarah no want black man, me know Sarah.] LXXXIV. The pickers fall with slashing strokes to:-- [Music: Me donkey want water, rub him down Joe, rub him down Joe, rub him down Joe; Me donkey like a peeny, rub him down Joe, rub him down Joe, Joe, rub him down Joe; Me Jackass gone a pound, bring him come Joe, bring him come Joe, bring him come Joe; Me donkey full of capers, rub him down Joe, rub him down Joe, Joe, rub him down Joe.] "Peeny" is the Candlefly, which shines like my donkey's coat. "Bring come" for "bring" is very common, and in the same way they say "carry go," the "come" and "go" indicating the direction of motion. LXXXV. "Bring dem come" is the title of the next sing. It is in a curious minor mode, almost F minor, but wanting the leading note, which is replaced by E flat. [Music: A Somerset me barn, bring dem come, bring dem make me batter dem, bring dem come, me would take me picker batter dem, bring dem come. A Woburn Lawn me barn, bring dem come, I will like to see dem batter me, bring dem come, A Goatridge me barn, bring dem come, I want to see dem jostle me, bring dem come.] This is a digging contest. The Somerset men challenge their neighbours. Whoever digs most yam-hills in a given time is to be the winner. Every man is confident that he will hold out longer than every other, and boasts like Goliath. "I was born at Somerset; bring the strangers, bring them, let me beat them; I will take my pickaxe and beat them--I was born at Woburn Lawn; I should like to see them beat me." Honour and glory is the sole reward, but that counts for a great deal. It is so gratifying to hear the others say "Lah! that man dig hill, ya." ("Jostle" has the same meaning as "batter." When two ponies race, the riders try to jostle and foul each other.) LXXXVI. The next is really a woodcutter's sing, but it is used also for digging:-- [Music: Timber lay down 'pon pit, Timber; cut 'im make we go 'way, Timber; me want go 'way ya soon, Timber; timber lay down 'pon pit, Timber; timber, timber oh! Timber; me wanty go 'way ya soon, Timber; me want go home back a yard, Timber; a cedar timber oh! Timber; lash the saw make we go home, Timber; timber lay down 'pon pit, Timber.] "Lie down on the pit, timber. Cut it, and let us go away. I want to go away soon, do you hear? Drive (lash) the saw hard." The pit is not really a pit. The sawing is done where the tree falls. A rough scaffolding is made and the log is rolled up to lie on the top of it. The bottom sawyer stands upon the ground. The West Indian cedar is not a fir but a deciduous tree (_Cedrela odorata_), which looks like a hickory or walnut. It grows in the hills, and its lightness and durability make it very useful. Most people know it in the shape of cigar-boxes. The rest bars are sort of pauses for breath. It will be seen that they break the rhythm. Throwing the accent on "go," in "go 'way," is characteristic. We should put it on "'way." LXXXVII. Listen how restless and unfinished this sounds:-- [Music: Me want go home a yard oh! me want go home a yard oh! me want go home a yard oh! me want go home a yard oh! a Guava Ridge me barn oh! me want go home a yard oh! mumma me want come home oh! me want go home a yard oh! poor me boy me want go home, me want go home a yard oh! Teacher Bailey crahss 'pon me, me want go home a yard oh!] LXXXVIII. The last example refers to the rebellion of 1865. Several whites were murdered, and the survivors are of opinion that their lives were saved by the prompt action of Governor Eyre, who proclaimed martial law and restored order by severe measures:-- [Music: War down a Monkland, war down a Morant Bay, war down a Chiggerfoot, the Queen never know. War, war, war oh! War oh! heavy war oh! Soldiers from Newcastle come down a Monkland with gun an' sword fe kill sinner oh! War, war, war oh! War oh! heavy war oh!] The places mentioned are in the parish (corresponding to English county), of St. Thomas, except Newcastle, the hill cantonment of the white troops, which is in the next parish of St. Andrew. "Chiggerfoot" takes its name from the chigoe, chigger, or jigger, the minute flea which burrows into the foot. It is interesting to see that this contemporary comment by the blacks describes the rebels as sinners. Further on, No. CXXXVII., will be found another view, in which they pose as aggrieved persons. It shows that there was a loyal as well as a disloyal party. The reader has now had enough examples of digging-sings to show their nature and variety. The Negro is never at a loss for words, and the masters and overseers of the estate on which he generally labours, Bushas as he calls them--a word said to be derived from Pasha--are often satirised. The gangs on private estates are under a head-man, who is responsible to the Busha. The Busha is a white or coloured man as a rule--coloured in Jamaica meaning mixed white and black--and he is responsible to the master or owner. The workers have to be carefully looked after, for like other people the Negro will not do more work than he can help. Only when he is working for himself will he "let out," as he describes it, the whole of his splendid strength. It is a mistake to suppose that the black man is either stupid or lazy. When he has an incentive to work he is industrious, and will do as much in one day in his own field as he will in two for an employer who pays him. In selecting land for planting his sagacity is remarkable, and he knows just where it will "come," as he says, guinea yam or white yam, and where coffee will succeed and where fail. It is a pleasure to see their provision-grounds, the miscellaneous crop looks so thriving. "Provisions" embrace all eatables, such as yam, sweet potato, coco (_colocasia_), sugar cane, beans of various kinds, maize (or simply "corn," as we call it, having no other), okra (_hibiscus esculentus_), cassada (_manihot utilissima_), plantain, banana, arrowroot, pindar (_arachis hypogoea_, a ground-nut), pumpkin, tomato and cabbage. PART III. RING TUNES. That informal kind of dancing, referred to in some of the Annancy stories, known as "playing in the ring" or "Sally Water" has its origin in English children's games. Sometimes it is merely a case of hunting the slipper or of finding a key passed from hand to hand, but more often what begins in playing ends in dancing. The nature of this playing in the ring will be best understood from examples. LXXXIX. First, as giving its name to the whole, must stand:-- [Music: Little Sally Water sprinkle in the saucer; Rise, Sally, rise an' wipe your weeping eyes. Sally turn to the East, Sally turn to the West, Sally turn to the very one you like the best. On the carpet you must be happy as the grass-bird on the tree, Rise an' stand up on your leg an' choose the one that you like the best. Now you married I give you joy, first a gal an' second a boy; Seven year after, seven year to come, give her a kiss an' send her out.] The boys and girls join hands and form a ring. One--the sex is immaterial--crouches in the middle and personates Sally Water. At the words "Rise, Sally, rise," he or she slowly rises to an erect position, brushing away imaginary tears, turns first one way and then another, and chooses a partner out of the ring. Where the _tempo_ changes, they wheel--a rapid turning dance--and after the wheeling, the partner is left inside the ring and becomes Sally Water.[51] [Footnote 51: For a discussion of this game, perhaps the best-known and most widely-spread of all English singing games, see A.B. Gomme, _Traditional Games_, vol. ii., p. 149.] XC. Another form of this Ring tune is:-- [Music: Poor little Zeddy they put him in the corner! Rise, Zeddy, rise an' wipe your weeping eyes; Zeddy, turn to the East; Zeddy, turn to the West; Zeddy, turn to the very one you like the best.] XCI. The negro is a born actor, and to give emphasis to his words by appropriate gestures comes naturally to him. The little comedy which follows suits him to perfection:-- [Music: Whé me lover dé? Seemya, seemya. Me lover gone a sea? Seemya, seemya. Me no see me lover ya. Seemya, seemya. Him gone a Colon bay. Seemya, seemya. Go fin' you lover now. Seemya, seemya. No make no 'tupid dé. Seemya, seemya. Fool dem let dem go. Seemya, seemya. Me lover come back. Seemya, seemya. Go take you lover now. Seemya, seemya. Wheel him make me see. Seemya, seemya. Throw a kiss to him. Seemya, seemya. Wheel him let him go. Seemya, seemya.[52]] [Footnote 52: To avoid the tiresomeness of contraction marks, "see him ya" has been written in one word. It sounds exactly like _senior_ with an m instead of an n.] A ring is formed, and a girl is put in the middle. She asks:--"Where is my lover?" and the ring answers in chorus:--"See him here." "Has my lover gone to sea?" and the answer comes again:--"See him here." The gal goes on:--"I do not see my lover; has he gone to Colon bay?" and then, as though speaking to herself:--"Go, find your lover now. There! don't pretend to be stupid." At this point she takes the hand of a boy in the ring as if she were going to dance with him, but immediately pushes him back, and says, still speaking to herself:--"Fool them, let them go." Then simulating contrition and breaking the hitherto even rhythm:--"My lover, come back!" At "Go take your lover now" she goes again to the same boy, takes him out of the ring-circle and dances with him. They _wheel_ at the words "Wheel him make me see," which mean, "Let me see you wheel him." Finally at "Wheel him let him go" they part hands. Frequent references will be found to Colon. Jamaica labourers used to go there in large numbers to work on the Panama canal. XCII. To the same class belongs:-- [Music: Ring a diamond, ring a diamond, Why oh ring a diamond. Get in the ring you'll find one Sambo boy. Why oh ring a diamond. Me look me da look me no find one Sambo boy. Why oh ring a diamond. Me find me diamond, me find me diamond. Why oh ring a diamond. Wheel you diamond, wheel you diamond. Why oh ring a diamond. Let go diamond, let go diamond. Why oh ring a diamond.] This tune has a beautiful swing. In many bars it is almost impossible to distinguish whether the tune is triple or duple. Much license may be allowed in the direction of the latter to a good timist, but the general impression of triple time must be kept. The "Sambo boy" bar must be sung very smoothly. It is neither quite as it is written the first time nor quite as it occurs in the second, but just between the two. Three even crotchets with judicious _tempo rubato_ would give it. It will be understood that these tunes are sung antiphonally. In this one the leaders, who know the tune and words well, sing the first four bars and the next four belong to the chorus, after which the leaders take it up again, and so on. There is an opportunity here for a little harmless "chaff" about colour. The diamond chosen is a _black_ diamond, the blacker the better. The ring forms round him joining hands, and one girl is pushed in to look for the Sambo boy. She says:--"I look, I am looking, I don't find a Sambo boy" (_i.e._ a quarter black). At last she finds her diamond, either the boy inside the ring or one of those who circle round him, and they dance together, wheeling and letting go hands at the words "wheel," "let go." "Why" is an ejaculation, probably the same as Hi! XCIII. Another chorus tune of the same kind is:-- [Music: The gal over yonder carry banana, gal oh! gal oh! carry banana. A nine-hand banana, carry banana, a Chiney banana, carry banana. You find the banana? carry banana. You tief the banana? carry banana.] The girl is supposed to be carrying a bunch of bananas on her head, and the singers are commenting upon it and asking the girl questions, as they do here at a distance of half-a-mile. "Look! It is a nine-hand banana. No, a China banana. Did you find it? Did you steal it?" Banana bunches are reckoned by the number of hands they contain, the separate bananas being called fingers. Nine-hand is a convenient market size. The China banana is a stout low kind which withstands wind: the fruit is, however, coarse. The signal for taking a partner is given by the words "You find the banana?" XCIV. In the next there is no dancing. The ring closes up tight, shoulder to shoulder. Hands behind the back pass the ball round and round, and the girl inside the ring tries to find it. The person with whom it is found has to go into the ring and turn seeker. [Music: Pass the ball an' the ball goin' round, the ball goin' round an' the key can't find, Mother, honey, oh! the ball goin' round. Journey, ball, journey, ball, journey, ball, journey, Mother, honey, oh! the ball can't find.] The conventional "gwine" for "going" hardly represents it, only the _o_ is pronounced so short that the word becomes practically one syllable. In the dance tunes we shall come across the word "dying" shortened in the same way. XCV. A variation of this is obtained by putting a ring on a cord and sliding it along. The tune is:-- [Music: Me los' me gold ring fin' an' gi' me, Me los' me gold ring fin' an' gi' me, Me los' me gold ring fin' an' gi' me, A me husband gold ring fin' an' gi' me.] XCVI. In "Mother Phoebe" again there is no dancing:-- [Music: Old moder Phoebe, how happy you be When you sit under the Jinniper tree, oh the Jinniper tree so sweet. Take this old hat an' keep your head warm, Three an' four kisses will do you no harm, It will do a great good fe you.] Here the girl inside the ring takes a hat or cap and after several feints puts it on somebody's head, and that person has then to take her place in the ring. XCVII. More lively is the joyous:-- [Music: Do, do, do, do, do, Deggy, Deggy house a go burn down, do, De Gay. Deggy whé you would a do dé do, De Gay? Deggy dood an' doodess do, De Gay. Deggy go roun', Deggy do Degay. An' a cutchy fe Deggy do Degay, an' a wheel an' let go do, De Gay. Deggy house a burn down do, De Gay.] The boy inside the ring "makes all sort of flourish," dancing and posturing by himself. The word "cutchy" is accompanied by a deep curtsey, on rising from which he takes a girl out of the ring and wheels her. Deggy or Degay, has occurred already in No. LVII. Whether it is his own house that is burning, or somebody else's, it is impossible to conjecture. Observe the varying accent on the name. In taking down this song I first wrote "doodan doodess," thinking they were nonsense words suggested by the repetition of do, do, do, but on asking further about them was told that "dood" is a "risky beau-man," a smart well-dressed young fellow. So it is the American "dude" and its female counterpart "dudess" which here take the place of the usual "gal and boy." XCVIII. The latter we find in: [Music: Me go da Galloway road, Gal an' boy them a broke rock stone, Broke them one by one gal an' boy, Broke them two by two gal an' boy, Take up the one that you like gal an' boy, Ah! this here one me like gal an' boy, broke them t'row them down gal an' boy.] I go to Galloway road (where there is a quarry). Girls and boys are breaking stones. They break them one by one. They break them two by two, etc. Choosing stones suggests choosing partners. XCIX. We come across "dude" again in:-- [Music: Rosybel oh why oh! Rosybel oh why oh! Rosybel let go Mister Porter son, Rosybel oh why oh! Rosybel cock cock crow da yard, Rosybel oh why oh! Rosybel let go Mister Porter son, Rosybel oh why oh! Rosybel oh why oh! Rosybel oh why oh Rosybel wheel him doodjes' now, Rosybel oh why oh! Rosybel cock cock crow you no know, Rosybel oh why oh! Rosybel wheel him let him go, Rosybel oh why oh!] C. The play in the next is rough, and the holders of hands in the ring must have strong wrists. [Music: Me da lé lé lé, me da lé lé lé, Bull a pen ho! gingerly! the bull a broke pen! gingerly! A Mount Siney bull! gingerly! A Galloway bull! gingerly! bull a broke pen! gingerly!] Two strong young fellows personate the bulls. One is inside the ring and the other outside. They paw the ground and moo at each other but must not fight unless they can break the ring. When the ring is broken at last by a determined rush, one of the bulls is sometimes seized with panic and jumps back into the pen (ring) where he is safe. The fight, if it does take place, is not a very serious affair, the cowmen soon coming up with their ropes (handkerchiefs) which they throw over the bulls' heads and so draw them apart.[53] [Footnote 53: [Cf. "Bull in the Park," Gomme, _Traditional Games_, vol. i. p. 50.]] (_Me da dé_ would mean Me is there, I am there. Lé is substituted for euphony, being probably suggested by the last syllable of "gingerly.") CI. Another rough game is:-- [Music: Two man a road, Cromanty boy, Two man a road, fight for you lady! Two man a road, down town picny, Two man a road, fight for you lady! Two man a road, Cromanty win oh! Two man a road, Cromanty win.] A line of girls stretches along each side of the road and in front of them stand the two combatants armed with sticks. One is a Coromanti (one of the African tribes) and the other a Kingston or down-town boy. "Fight for your ladies" cry the respective lines to their champions. Whoever can disable the other and snatch one of his girls across the road is the winner. A mock doctor comes to bind up the wounds. CII. "Adina Mona," with its Italian-sounding words, is noisy, but not so rough:-- [Music: Ho! Adina Mona, Adina Mona, cutchy fe gran'ma; Adina Mona, Me tell Nana marnin'. Adina Mona, Nana no want it; Adina Mona, Me beg Nana wahter; Adina Mona, Him give me dirty wahter, Adina Mona.] Here they stand face to face in separate couples. At the beginning of one bar the boys knock their hands upon their thighs, and at the beginning of the next bar clap them against those of their partners, as in the first motion of the game of Clip-clap. As they do this the boys walk backwards, occasionally wheeling, and making, as they say, "all manner of flourish." CIII. "Palmer" affords an opportunity for individual display:-- [Music: Palmer, you just from town, Palmer, oh William Palmer! Palmer, you just from town, Palmer, oh William Palmer! Show me the figure whé you bring, Palmer, oh William Palmer! Dat dé no style at ahl, Palmer, oh William Palmer! Palmer, you just from town, Palmer, oh William Palmer! Put on de style now more, Palmer, oh William Palmer!] Palmer has just come back to his mountain home from Kingston, and is urged to show the latest step for a quadrille figure or other dance. His companions affect surprise. What! is that all? Oh, Palmer, that's not style! CIV. Very popular is the next one:-- [Music: Mother Freeman, a whé me Gungo dé? Not a one can sow me Gungo; Fe me Gungo, da precious Gungo, Not a one can sow me Gungo; All the gal them a go dead 'way 'pon me, Not a one can sow me Gungo. All the boy a go dead 'way 'pon me, Not a one can sow me Gungo.] Mother Freeman, where is my Gungo (a kind of pea)? No one will sow my Gungo, or perhaps rather:--Will no one sow my Gungo? For my Gungo is precious Gungo. As they sing and dance, the boys pretend to faint, and fall into the arms of the girls. When the words change, the girls fall into the arms of the boys, who catch them. "Dead 'way 'pon me," besides meaning to faint, has a slang interpretation equivalent to: "All the girls are death upon me." CV. The following is perhaps a sly allusion to some dull-witted boy:-- [Music: Me have me goosey a me yard, Me no call Barny clever. Go bring me goosey a me yard, Me no call Barny clever. Wheel me goosey make me see oh! Me no call Barny clever.] Thick sour milk allowed to stand and curdle is called "barnyclebber" [Irish word, F.Y.P.]. CVI. Here we have a reference to the too common practice of stealing, which is treated more as a joke than a crime:-- [Music: Drill him, Constab, drill him; Drill him, Constab, drill him; She tief her mother shilling fe go buy Sapadilla. Buy Sapadilla, buy Sapadilla; You go an' tief the shilling fe go buy Sapadilla. Wheel him, Constab, wheel him; Wheel him, Constab, wheel him; Him tief him mother shilling fe go buy Sapadilla.] A girl is the delinquent and the "Constab" (constable, pronounce _con_ as in _constant_) is inside the ring with her, lightly beating her with a twig or pocket-handkerchief. When one has been marched round and wheeled, he "sends her out" and takes another. Sapadilla is really a fruit something like a medlar, but the name is given to all sorts of fruit, notably Granadilla. CVII. Another "flogging" tune, but without any dancing, is:-- [Music: If you make him come out I will kill you to-night ya, Why do, me Nana, do!] A girl is in the ring and a boy is flogging her with a whip. The boy says to the holders of the ring:--"If you let her come out I will kill you to-night, do you hear?" The girl is going round, begging to be released, with the appeal to each one:--"Oh do, my Nana!" that is, "Do let me out." CVIII. The most laughable antics, "mechanic" as they call it, are indulged in in the next:-- [Music: Oh me Toad oh! Come along, Toad-eye; Oh me Toad oh! Come along, me Toady boy; Come along, Toad-eye; Come along, me Toady boy; Oh me Toad oh! Come along, Toad-eye.] Each girl has a "Toad" in front of her to protect her. The Toads jump about, and the one who can get past the other and capture his girl, wins. Jamaican toads, or at least the small kind, hop like the frogs of cooler countries. CIX. The first half of the tune which follows occurs in the story of Annancy and Screech-owl (No. XIX.):-- [Music: There's a black boy in a ring, tra la la la la, There's a black boy in a ring, tra la la la la, There's a black boy in a ring, tra la la la la, He like sugar an' I like plum. Wheel an' take you pardner, jump shamador! Wheel an' take you pardner, jump shamador! Wheel an' take you pardner, jump shamador! For he like sugar an' I like plum.] The boy inside the ring chooses his partner, whom he leaves there after the dance. She obtains release by choosing another partner, whom she leaves behind. So there is alternately a boy and a girl in the ring. "Shamador" is possibly a corruption of "camerado." CX. The next is an old tune which is going out of fashion. It is still remembered in my district, but nobody can tell me how it is danced. [Music: Johnny, Johnny, da wharra fe dinner? Three slice a lilly bit a dumpling, Me Johnny come roll the board.] "Da wharra" literally means "is what." What is there for dinner? Three slices and a little bit of dumpling. I tried to find out whether they were slices of dumpling or slices of something else, but no one could tell me that. The dumplings are plain flour and water, innocent of suet. They are very popular, and are eaten with a morsel of salt fish or meat. Johnny is invited to come and roll them on the board. CXI. We all know the next tune:-- [Music: Me lover gone a Colon Bay, Colon Bay, Colon Bay, Me lover gone a Colon Bay With a handsome concentina. Oh what is your intention, intention, intention? Oh what is your intention? My intention is to marry you. I will married to you, I will married to you, I will married to you, I will married to you, I will married to you, I will married to you With a handsome concentina.] (Levi always sings:--"What is your retention, retention, retention?") In "I will married to you" the wheeling becomes a giddy business, at least to the onlooker. The dancers never seem to feel it, nor do they appear to mind the heat. They simply stream with perspiration and put their handkerchiefs round their necks to save their white collars. CXII. A little breathing time is given by:-- [Music: Good morning to you, mother; Good morning to you, daughter; What is your intention? I want to be a teacher. You shan't be a teacher. I bound to be a teacher. Jump shamador, me darling. What is your intention? I goin' to be a doctor. You shan't be a doctor. I bound to be a doctor. You shan't be a doctor. I will be a doctor. Jump Shamador, me darling.] There is no dancing here. The mother walks round inside the ring, the various members of which she addresses in turn. "You shan't" is emphasised by an uplifted arm swept vigorously downwards and a stamp of the foot. The answers go through the various professions until it is felt that there is a want of something more exciting, which is supplied by:-- CXIII. [Music: One Johnny Miller he was living Water Lane an' he wheel right roun' an' the ladies drop. One on the right an' the other on the left, an' he wheel right roun' an' the ladies drop.] The tune is again familiar. A boy takes two girls out of the circle, leaves one in the middle and wheels the other. Having dropped her he wheels the second one. The wheeling over, she is dropped. These two then resume their places in the circle, and the boy takes out two more. "Water Lane." Kingston lies on ground sloping evenly to the sea. It is laid out on the American plan in parallel streets. A broad "Street" alternates with a narrower "Lane." The lanes pointing to the sea have water running down them and are called Water Lanes. CXIV. The next is used both as a Ring-tune and for the favourite Fifth Figure of the Quadrilles:-- [Music: Me go to Morant Bay, Bahlimbo. Me see one Coolie gal, Bahlimbo. Lard! me love the gal, Bahlimbo. Me tell her wait fe me, Bahlimbo. The gal no wait at all, Bahlimbo. Me ride, me ride, me ride, Bahlimbo. Me catch her on the way, Bahlimbo. Me bahss her all the way, Bahlimbo. The mumma say me rude, Bahlimbo. But that no rude at all, Bahlimbo. For woman cloth so cheap, Bahlimbo. Two yard fe bit, Bahlimbo. Man cloth so dear, Bahlimbo. One pound a yard, Bahlimbo.] "Bahlimbo" is a nick-name for a cheap sort of cloth, _i.e._ fabric of any kind. In Africa calicoes are called _limbo_. The "two yards fe bit" kind is calico print. A "bit" is fourpence halfpenny. "Bahss" means buss, kiss. White people pronounce Morant as it is spelt, but the Blacks always put the accent on the first syllable, and usually call it Morrum. CXV. As the time for dancing approaches (see note on weddings in "Gaulin" p. 76) the ring breaks up, and there is a lively marching tune or two, such as:-- [Music: Oh den Jacky me knee da go ben' a palm palm; oh me knee da go ben' a palm palm.] The couples with the right arm of one partner locked tightly into the left of the other march about bending their knees at rhythmical intervals, presenting the most ridiculous appearance. The tune has an infectious gaiety about it as its sections are sung over and over and interchanged. If you repeat them as often as they do, you will feel stealing over you that kind of intoxication which the Dancing Dervishes experience. CXVI. There is a great deal of laughing over "Jacky," which suggests:-- [Music: When me get a Mister Walker gate, Me will laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha! Me will laugh hé, hé, hé, hé! Me will laugh ha, ha!* Me will laugh qua, qua, qua, qua! Me will laugh ha, ha!* Me will laugh till me bustle drop! Me will laugh ha, ha!* Me will laugh há, há, há, há! Me will laugh ha, ha!* Me will laugh ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Me will laugh ha, ha!] At the marks * a return is made to the first four bars, always substituting a new name for Walker, and the tune has many more "turnings" besides the ones noted. A sufficient selection of Ring tunes has now been given to show their character. The number might be indefinitely increased. Every district has its own, and while some old favourites remain, new ones are constantly in process of making. These supply, or more than supply, the gaps caused by those which drop out. PART IV. DANCING TUNES. Turning now to the Dancing tunes, the chief difference to be noted is that they show a more marked departure from what may be called the Jamaican type of melody. Sailors bring popular songs to the seaports, and from there they spread into the country. For a time some of the original words are kept, but before long they get changed. The change is partly due to that corruption of the text which naturally takes place as the songs pass from mouth to mouth, but mainly to the fact that the words, referring as they do to English topics, have no interest here. So we generally find that the tunes are refitted with a complete set of new words, describing some incident which has lately happened in the district, or some detail of daily life. When these reflect, as they often do, upon the characters of individuals the names have been changed and all evidence pointing to the locality destroyed. The same course has been pursued where it is thought the susceptibilities of persons or their relations might possibly be offended, even when there is nothing mentioned to their discredit. The music consists of three "flutes" (fifes), two tambourines and a big drum. This is the professional element, which is reinforced by amateurs. One brings a cassada-grater, looking like a bread-grater; this, rubbed with the handle of a spoon, makes a very efficient crackling accompaniment. Another produces the jawbone of a horse, the teeth of which rattle when it is shaken. A third has detached from its leather one of his stirrup-irons, and is hanging it on a string to do duty as a triangle. The top of the music is not always supplied by fifes. Sometimes there will be two fiddles, sometimes a concertina, or, what is more approved, because it has "bigger voice," a flutina. On asking to see this strange instrument I was shown the familiar accordion. Their chief dances are the Valse, Polka, Schottische, and Quadrilles in five figures, of which the fifth figure is the most popular, or as they would say "sweet them most." This figure goes either to 6/8 or 2/4 time. The 2/4 figures of the Quadrilles are often used for Polka, and Polka and Schottische tunes are always interchangeable, the only difference being that the Schottische requires a slower time. CXVII. The ball opens with a set of Quadrilles:-- [Music: _1st Figure._ When I go home I will tell me mumma, When I go home I will tell me mumma, When I go home I will tell me mumma That the gals in Jamaica won't leave me alone.] This is the production of a white musician to whom the black girls were especially attentive. CXVIII. [Music: _2nd Figure._ Guava root a medicine, Guava root a medicine, Guava root a medicine fe go cure all the young gal fever.] A decoction of the root of the Guava is used in cases of fever. "Medicine" is pronounced so as to rhyme with Edison. CXIX. [Music: _3rd Figure._ Crahss-lookin' dog up'tairs, Crahss-lookin' dog up'tairs; I lift up me foot an' I hit him a kick an' him roll up him tail an' run. What you fe do with that? What you fe do with that? I meet him up'tairs an' I hit him a kick an' he roll up him tail an' run.] See note to "Parson Puss and Parson Dog" (p. 93), also Author's Preface. CXX. [Music: _4th Figure._ Goatridge have some set a gal So-so shirt them can't wash. Give me back me soap an' blue, Give me back me soap an' blue, Give me back me soap an' 'tarch, So-so shirt them can't wash.] Goatridge is the name of a neighbouring hamlet. When a boy "gives out his shirts to wash" he also provides the girl with soap, blue and starch. So-so means even. It also means only, as:--"I get so-so potato fe nyam," I only got potatoes to eat. "Shirt" is pronounced almost "shut." CXXI. [Music: _5th Figure._ Me carry me akee a Linstead market, Not a quatty worth sell. Oh what a losses! Not a quatty worth sell. Me carry me akee a Linstead market. Not a quatty worth sell. Oh not a light, not a bite! Not a quatty worth sell.] The Akee (_Cupania edulis_), pronounced _acky_, is a handsome tree producing something which one hardly knows whether to call a fruit or a vegetable. Besides the edible part, the beautiful scarlet capsule contains a substance which is poisonous. Deaths by misadventure through carelessness in its preparation for table occur every year. The time of these Quadrille tunes will be pretty accurately judged. They would all come under _Allegro_ except the First, which is slower than the others, and it might be headed _Allegretto_ or even _Andantino_. The Third figure is not much used, and many dancers do not know the step. Its place is generally supplied by one of the other figures. The most popular of all is the Fifth, of which we have many examples to give. The step is regulated by two beats in the bar of six, so we find that they dance it also to 2/4 time, as for instance:-- CXXII. [Music: _5th Figure._ Since Dora Logan a wahk with Gallawoss, The man them a beat them wife with junka 'tick. Why, why, why, Amily! Bring back me dumpling, yah? Amily! No dog, no puss, no fowl, Amily. Bring back me dumpling, yah?[54] Amily. No dog, no puss, no fowl, Amily. Fetch back me dumpling, yah? Amily.] [Footnote 54: "Yah?" = Do you hear?] This has to go very fast, indeed as fast as the words of the second bar can be spoken. It will be found then to correspond to a moderate _Allegro_ in six time counted in two. Two stories are mixed up here. One of the girl who walks with the Gallawoss--a Lizard with a gold eye and an undeserved reputation for biting--which leads to an age the reverse of golden, when the men beat their wives with junka (short) sticks. And the other, of some incident connected with breakfast in the field, when Amily ate somebody's dumpling and laid the blame on the usual scapegoat, the cat. CXXIII. The rapid speed necessitated by some forms of 2/4 time just suits the following:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ Fire, Mister Preston, Fire! Fi-er down the lane! Then send the brigade fe go out the fire, The brigade can't out the fire. Fire, Mister Preston! Fire, Mister Preston! Fi-er down the lane! Fire, Mister Preston! Fire, Mister Preston! Fi-er down the lane!] CXXIV. Where the beat is in crotchets it sounds unduly slow:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ Tief cahffee, Tief cahffee, Tief cahffee, Benigna Field, fe go buy silk dress, Fe go show them Gardon boy, fe go show them Gardon boy, fe go show them Gardon boy, Benigna Field, you tief cahffee.] Benigna[55] Field steals some coffee to get money to buy a silk dress to show off to the Gardon boys. (Gardon is a place, not a family.) [Footnote 55: Other unusual girls' names are Ambrogine, Ateline, Irene, Melmorine. These rhyme with Queen. The same Italian _i_ is found in Elgiva, Seppelita, Barnita, Justina, and the English _i_ in Alvira, Marina. The next are all accented, like the last six, on the penultimate; Etilda, Iota, Clarista, Pastora, Barzella, Zedilla, Amanda, Agarta (evidently a variant of Agatha), Timinetia (like Polynesia), Cherryana, Indiana. Then there is Hettybel, and one girl has this astonishing combination--Ataria (rhymes with Samaria), Azadell (? Isabel).] CXXV. [Music: _5th Figure._ Fan me, soldier man, fan me; Fan me, soldier man, fan me; Fan me, soldier man, fan me oh! Gal, you character gone! Sake a ten shilling shahl, Sake a ten shilling shahl, Sake a ten shilling shahl oh! Make me character gone.] CXXVI. [Music: _Schottische._ Manny Clark a you da man! Manny Clark a you da man! So so ride you ride a Ginger Piece, All the gal them a dead fe you. Oh you take 'notta boil soup, take salt fish 'tick in it, Gal, you want fe come kill me? Oh you take 'notta a boil soup, take salt fish 'tick in it, Gal, you want fe come kill me?] Manny Clark, a popular player of dance tunes, goes to Ginger Piece and is overwhelmed with attentions by the girls. He addresses himself as follows:--"Manny Clark, you are the man! You just ride to Ginger Piece and all the girls are dying for you." Then, turning to one of them, he adds:--"Oh, you boil the soup with your best, taking Anatto and salt fish to stick into it. Do you want to kill me with kindness?" Anatto gives a rich yellow colour to the soup. Salt fish (stockfish) is one of the principal articles of diet of the peasantry. CXXVII. [Music: _Schottische._ Bungo Moolatta, Bungo Moolatta, Who dé go married you? You hand full a ring an' you can't do a t'ing, Who dé go married you? Me give you me shirt fe wash, You burn up me shirt with iron, You hand full a ring an' you can't do a t'ing, Who dé go married you?] "You Bungo Mulatto, who is going to marry you? Your ring-bedecked fingers can't do anything. When I gave you my shirt to wash you burned it with an over-hot iron." Bungo (rhymes with Mungo) means a rough uncivilized African. A Mulatto is the child of two Brown parents, Brown being the offspring of Black and White. He has rather a yellow skin. CXXVIII. [Music: _5th Figure._ Bahl, Ada you must bahl, Bahl, Ada you must bahl, Bahl, Ada you must bahl, Ada you must bahl till the cock say coocoocoocoory co.] Ada has been naughty and has been shut up for a night in the dark. The poor little thing is "bawling," crying out in terror of the nameless horrors of the night. CXXIX. [Music: _2nd Figure._ Rise a roof in the morning, Rise a roof in the morning; Tell all the nigger them to come, come, come, Rise a roof in the morning. The Monkey and the Baboon them was sitting on the wall, Rise a roof in the morning; I an' my wife cannot agree, Rise a roof in the morning. She 'pread me bed on the dirty floor, Rise a roof in the morning; For Devil made the woman an' God made man, Rise a roof in the morning.] "Rise a roof" seems to mean, as far as I can understand the explanation, "raise the roof"; as we might say, "row enough to blow the roof off." "Baboon" always has this accent on the first syllable and a French _a_. The Blacks do not mind calling themselves niggers, but a White man must not call them so. To say "black nehgher" is an offence not to be forgiven. The word is used again quite kindly in the following:-- CXXX. [Music: _Jig._ Oh we went to the river an' we couldn' get across, We jump on the nigger back we think it was a horse.[56] Then Stephen, Stephen, Stephen boy, Stephen, Stephen, poor Stephen!] [Footnote 56: A last reminder to pronounce "acrahss," "harse." The Negro rejects the sound _aw_ altogether and always changes it to _ah_.] A party get to one of the bends of Four-and-twenty River, so called because the road crosses and recrosses it twenty-four times. Stephen carries them all over. CXXXI. [Music: _Polka._ Aunty Jane a call Minnie, Minnie won't go 'peak to him; Aunty Jane a call Minnie, Minnie won't go 'peak to him. Wrap up in a crocus beig In a Sandy Hill, Wrap up in a crocus beig In a Sandy Hill.] Aunty Jane does not want Minnie to keep company with the boys at Sandy Hill. Of course Minnie wants to go, and she does go. Aunty Jane sets off to bring her home. When she reaches Sandy Hill she calls. Minnie hears, but will not go and speak to her. She hides in the coffee-store by wrapping herself in a crocus bag or sack. "Crocus" is a rough cheap material. Coffee ready for market is put in the finer and smaller canvas bags. CXXXII. [Music: _Valse._ Marty, Marty, me wanty go home, Marty, Marty, me wanty go home, Marty, Marty, me wanty go home, Me wanty go home back a yard. Tell me mumma say me wanty come home, Me wanty come home, Me wanty come home, Tell me mumma say me wanty come home, Me wanty come home back a yard.] Martin has been flogging his wife--not an unusual condition of things--and she wants to go home to her mother. He will take her message quite loyally. The matter will be arranged and they will be good friends living apart. Before long she will go back to him of her own accord. They make up their quarrels as quickly as they fall into them. CXXXIII. [Music: _5th Figure._ What make you shave old Hall, Rosie Fowler? What make you shave old Hall? What make you shave old Hall, Rosie Fowler? What make you shave old Hall? What make you shave old Hall, Rosie Fowler? What make you shave old Hall? Mister Barber have two teeth a him mout', Them sweet like a sugar-plum.] Rosie Fowler left old Hall for Mr. Barber, and being remonstrated with, shaved him, _i.e._ gave him a good beating. CXXXIV. [Music: _Mazurka._ Run, Moses, run, Mister Walker da come; Run, Moses, run, Mister Walker da come. If you buck your right foot, buck your left foot, Never try look back; If you buck your right foot, buck your left foot, Never try look back.] To "buck" is to strike, and the word is applied to a stumbling horse, who is said to buck his foot against a stone, or simply to buck. It also means to butt with the head and is most likely a corruption of this word. Bucking, or charging stag-fashion with the head, is the favourite way for women to fight. Here is an account of such a contest:-- CXXXV. [Music: _5th Figure._ Whé you da do? Whé you da do? Whé you da do make Sarah buck you? Whé you da do? Whé you da do? Whé you da do make Sarah buck you? Adela da jump but Sarah buck him, Adela da jump but Sarah buck him, Adela da jump but Sarah buck him. Whé you da do make Sarah buck you? You Adela ho you ought to shame! You Adela ho you ought to shame! You Adela ho you ought to shame! Whé you da do make Sarah buck you?] Fights between women are by no means uncommon. This was a case of _cherchez l'homme_. The ladies both wanted to marry the same man. The "sing" was evidently composed by one of Sarah's partisans for the words are:--"What did you do to make Sarah buck you? Adela jumped, but Sarah bucked her. You, Adela, oh you ought to be ashamed!" Adela's sideway jump was not quick enough to save her from Sarah's head. "Whé you da do?" literally, What you is do? for What you did do? meaning What did you do? So, if they were trying to talk "deep English," for "Adela da jump" they would substitute "Adela is jump" and think it was quite right. CXXXVI. [Music: _5th Figure._ Mother William hold back Leah! Mother William hold back Leah! Me tell you say hold back Leah! Hold back Leah let go Jane Ann! Den a Leah Leah dead 'way, Den a Leah Leah dead 'way, Let go Jane Ann! Let go Jane Ann! Hold back Leah, let go Jane Ann!] This is sung _agitato_ and pulsates with excitement. We see the bustling, restless action--Mother Williams holding Leah, who is frantic to get at Jane Ann, and who faints with exhaustion as she struggles to escape from the strong arms thrown round her. "Let go Jane Ann!" cry the bystanders, which means:--Make Jane Ann go away, get her out of Leah's sight. CXXXVII. This seems a fitting moment to introduce:-- [Music: _4th Figure._ Oh General Jackson! Oh General Jackson! Oh General Jackson! Oh you kill all the Black man them! Oh what a wrongful judgment! Oh what a wrongful judgment! Oh what a wrongful judgment! You kill all the Black man them. Oh what a awful mourning! Oh what a awful mourning! Oh what a awful mourning You bring on St. Thomas people!] This is the other side of the question, referred to in the Digging Sing, No. 88. It is the rebellion of 1865 again, from the point of view of that section of the Blacks who considered themselves aggrieved at the measures taken for its suppression. CXXXVIII. We get a glimpse of the doings of the soldiery in peaceable times in:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ Soldier da go 'way, Married woman let go your bull-dog to-morrow; Soldier da go way to-morrow, The last of the ring ding to-morrow, Soldier da go 'way, Married woman let go your bull-dog to-morrow; Soldier da go 'way, Married woman let go your bull-dog.] The soldiers are shifting their quarters. As they are apt to be rather riotous on the night before departure, the owner of the bull-dog is advised to unchain him so that he may guard her property more effectually. CXXXIX. There is also a tender side to the parting:-- [Music: _4th Figure._ Don't cry too much, Jamaica gal, First West will soon come back again. Don't cry too much, Jamaica gal, Second West is gone to the war. Don't cry too much, don't cry too much, First West will come and cheer you up. Don't cry too much, Jamaica gal, Second West is gone to the war.] CXL. A few years ago Jamaica boasted of water as efficacious as that of Mecca in the opinion of some people. It seems to have lost its repute in these sceptical days:-- [Music: _4th Figure._ Dip them, Mister Bedward, dip them, Dip them in the healing stream; Some come with jackass, some come with bus, Dip them in the healing stream.] CXLI. It says much for the expertness of the dancers that they can fit the same steps to tunes of such varying accent as the two last examples present. Here is another which differs again:-- [Music: _4th Figure._ Very well, very well, Mister Collin now, An' him leave an' join Sabbatarian bands, An' him lose the whole of his members now, Oh then poor Sabbatarian bands!] Mr. Collin was a minister who told his flock that he had made a mistake in keeping Sunday holy, and that for the future he would have service on Saturday and the people were to come to church on that day and work on Sunday. The "sing" suggests that his congregation was not persuaded by his arguments. CXLII. The light-hearted way in which the Negro turns serious things into fun is well illustrated by:-- [Music: _4th Figure._ Oh trial! Great trevelation children ho! Trial! We're bound to leave this world. Baptis', Baptis', Baptis' till I die. I been grown up in the Baptis' side an' die under Baptis' rule. Oh trial! Great trevelation children ho! Trial! We're bound to leave this world. Church-light, Church-light, Church-light till I die, I been grown up in the Church-light side an' die under Church-light rule. Oh! trial! Great trevelation children ho! Trial! We're bound to leave this world.] And so on through all the sects and persuasions, Wesleyan, etc., etc., among them Mettetis (Methodist). There is no doubt about the word being _trevelation_ a mixture of Revelation, one of their favourite books in the Bible, and tribulation, for which it is intended. The wrong phrasing of two notes to "bound" is as they give it. We should allow only one. CXLIII. Every district has its rival churches and the various ministers have to humour their congregations, and not preach too hard things to them, so as to keep them from deserting to the enemy. [Music: _2nd Figure._ Father, I goin' to join the confirmation. No, me son, you must have a little patien', Why I tell you to have a little patien', You must go an' read the Revelation. I heard from my old generation That they never go an' join the confirmation, For they didn' have that great occasion To leave an' go an' join the confirmation.] It will have been observed that rhyming is the last thing sought after. Here, however, we have a genius who has set his mind upon it with some success. Patience, as pronounced by the Jamaican without the final letters, is a good and new rhyme to the rest. In the old days of slavery, says the father, they did not have the occasion (_i.e._ opportunity) to leave their work to go and be confirmed. The Black man is such an accomplished actor that he can assume any character. In these sings he throws off the stage trappings and shows his real attitude towards religion, his indifference and levity. He does not take it as a serious matter at all, and it has no effect upon his daily life. To go to church is a mark of respectability. To obtain that mark is one of his reasons for going. The other reason is to show his clothes and his boots. He will talk like a saint for the mere pleasure of rolling out words, and the ministers have to pretend to believe something of what he says. They are not, however, really deceived, and will tell you in private with a sigh that Christianity makes no progress; it is profession without practice. Of the Negro's real religion, which is bound up with Obeah, we get hardly a hint in the sings. This is what we should expect. Some things lie too deep for words and a man's religion is one of them. One general reference I have been able to find, and one particular one, and that is all. Here is the first:-- CXLIV. [Music: _5th Figure._ Obeah down dé why oh! Obeah down dé, Obeah down dé why oh! Obeah down dé. Giberaltar is a well fine place but Obeah down dé, Giberaltar is a well fine place but Obeah down dé.] CXLV. And here the second:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ The other day me waistcoat cut, The other day me waistcoat cut, The other day me waistcoat cut, What a pain an' grief to me. I spend me money but the beggar don't dead, I spend me money but the beggar don't dead, I spend me money but the beggar don't dead, What a pain an' grief to me. All me money gone like butter 'gainst sun, All me money gone like butter 'gainst sun, All me money gone like butter 'gainst sun, What a pain an' grief to me! Sake of the man me live 'pon tree, Sake of the man me live 'pon tree, Sake of the man me live 'pon tree, What a pain an' grief to me!] Obeah (pronounced in two syllables, Ob-ya, with short Italian vowels) is the dark blot upon this fair island of Jamaica. In every district there is an Obeah-man, or Bush-doctor, as he is often called, from his supposed knowledge of herb simples. He is by no means the innocent person which this latter designation would seem to imply. He deals in magic and sorcery of all descriptions, and there is not a Black man who does not believe in his powers. They consult him on every conceivable business and he gets heavy fees. He will secure a man the favour of his master so that he shall not lose his place, or help him to revenge a wrong, real or fancied. And herein lies the danger. The puerilities of inefficacious charms and mysterious ceremonies with which he deludes his clients are not all. He keeps poison in his bag, and for sufficient reward arsenic has been obtained to put in the liqueur, or ground glass for the coffee. The Government attempts in vain to stamp out the evil. The story of the last sing is briefly this. A has a friend who is an Obeah-man. From him he gets Obeah to injure an enemy B. The enemy does not suffer. So A says his waistcoat is torn, a figurative way of expressing the fact that he is beaten, B's Obeah turning out to be stronger than A's and able to repel it. Having indiscreetly talked about what he meant to do to B, B reports him to the police, and he has to abscond and seek shelter in the bush till the matter blows over. CXLVI. It is a pleasure to be able to leave the hypocrisy of Negro Christianity, and the lurid atmosphere of Obeah and to return to everyday amusements. [Music: _5th Figure._ All them gal a ride merry-go-round, Me no see no gal like a dem ya. Ride him, ride him, ride him, ride him, Ride him round the town, Ride him, ride him, ride him, ride him, Ride him round the town.] The merry-go-round is popular. "I never saw such girls," says an admiring bystander. Literally, "I have not seen any girls like those (here) girls." A neighbour of mine used to be made very angry when he first came to Jamaica because when he asked "Have you seen so-and-so?" the answer always was "I don't see him." This is good negro English for "I haven't seen him." It does not mean, as he thought, "I don't see him now," and the poor boy could not understand why his master got so "crahss." CXLVII. [Music: _5th Figure._ Merry-go-round a go fall down, fall down, fall down, Merry-go-round a go fall down, Sake a de worthless rider. Rider, rider, try to sit down good; Rider, rider, try to sit down good; Rider, rider, try to sit down good, Merry-go-round a go fall down.] Grammar nowhere as usual. It was not the Merry-go-round that was going to fall down, but the worthless (_i.e._ bad) rider who was going to fall off. "Try to sit down good" is an exhortation to hold on well. This curious use of "try" is found again in:-- CXLVIII. [Music: _Mazurka._ Try, dear, don't tell a lie, Try, dear, don't tell a lie, Try, dear, don't tell a lie, For I will never marry you. Try an' 'peak the truth me dear, Try an' 'peak the truth me dear, Try an' 'peak the truth me dear, An' you shall get the ring me dear.] CXLIX. Here are two more references to the colour question: [Music: _1st Figure._ Look how you mout', Look how you mout', Look how you mout' fe go kiss moolatta. Look how you mout', Look how you mout', Look how you mout' like a pan.] CL. [Music: _Valse._ Breezy say him no want Brown lady, Breezy say him no want Brown lady, Breezy say him no want Brown lady, Afterward him go take Brown lady. Why! Why! Why, Breezy! Why! Why! Why, Breezy! Why! Why! Why, Breezy! Think you say you no want Brown lady.] CLI. Here are three sings referring to Colon, the port of disembarkation for labourers on the Panama Canal:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ Isaac Park gone a Colon, Isaac Park gone a Colon, Isaac Park gone a Colon, Colon boat a go kill them boy. Colon bolow[57] gone a Colon, Colon bolow gone a Colon, Colon bolow gone a Colon, Colon boat a go kill them boy.] [Footnote 57: _Bolow_, comrade.] It was not the boat from Kingston to Colon that killed the boys; the deaths took place on the other side. Many were due to fever, but more, if the stories current here are true, to organised assassination. The wages were very large, and when a Jamaica boy has money in his pocket he gets "boastify." This annoyed the low-class mongrels. A Coolie who was there described to me the proceedings of one night, when the 'panish (by which is meant any straight-haired people) went out in a band and murdered every woolly-haired man they met. They began at one end of the camp, a straight line of barrack huts. Some of the victims were shot through the windows, others slashed with cutlasses. Where there were no lights the assassins passed their hands over the strangers' heads, and if they felt wool, revolver or cutlass did its work. Straight-haired Coolies, that is to say, East Indians, were allowed to go unharmed. CLII. [Music: _5th Figure._ Matilda dé 'pon dyin' bed, Matilda dé 'pon dyin' bed, Matilda dé 'pon dyin' bed, Matilda dé 'pon dyin' bed, Me want go Colabra, Me want go Colabra, Me want go Colabra, Matilda, dé 'pon dyin' bed.] When anybody is very ill all the members of the family, including quite distant relatives, think it incumbent upon them to go to the sick person's yard. They crowd into the house and sick-room and pour out a clatter of talk. Colabra (Culebra) is a place near Colon. Matilda must have been an old Jamaica acquaintance who had gone over to settle there. CLIII. [Music: _5th Figure._ Mas' Charley say want kiss Matty, Kiss with a willing mind, Me rarabum why! Colon money done, Me rarabum why! Colon money done.] "Me rarabum" is a nonsense phrase equivalent to "my boy." "My boy, hi! the money I made at Colon is done!" CLIV. Here is the lament of an out-of-work cabdriver:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ Me buggy a sell fe eight an' sixpence Whé me a go get fe drive? Me buggy a sell fe eight an' sixpence, Whé me a go get fe drive? Me buggy sell at last, poor me boy! Whé me a go get fe drive? Me buggy sell at last, poor me boy! Whé me a go get fe drive?] CLV. The words of the next dance have a certain interest, but the tune is poor:-- [Music: _Polka._ Oh 'zetta Ford, gal, you name no worth a cuss! Tief big big hog, Put ahm in a jar. Piccany da cry, Sit down whole a day, You tief big big hog, Nyam ahm out a door.] The girl stole the pig, killed it, cut it up and put the meat into a jar. This was done out in the bush, far away from her yard, and took the whole day. Meanwhile her poor little babies were starving at home, having been left without any one to look after them. CLVI. There is an idyllic simplicity about the following:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ Birdyzeena, Birdyzeena, Come make we go da Champong market, Come make we go, dear, Come make we go, dear, Come make we go da Champong market.] CLVII. [Music: _5th Figure._ Me an' Katie no 'gree, Katie wash me shirt in a sea. If you t'ink a lie, If you t'ink a lie, Look in a Katie yeye.] CLVIII. Water seems formerly to have been scarce in Kingston, judging by the following:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ Down town gal no have no water to wash them head to keep them clean. Down town gal no have no water to wash them head to keep them clean. Why! Why! Why! Take them gal in charge. Why! Why! Why! policeman, Take them gal in charge.] CLIX. The policeman is not always on the spot when he is wanted:-- [Music: _4th Figure._ Sal you ought to been ashame! You tief Mister Dixon Brahma, You nyam ahm a Yaws-house[58] level, Sally ought to been ashame.] [Footnote 58: _Yaws_, see p. 57.] In this country any plot of ground that is moderately flat is called a level. CLX. [Music: _4th Figure._ Good morning, Mister Harman, How are you this morning? I brought a serious complain about the old Barbadian. What about the 'badian? Him shirt has no border, Him face favour marlan, Come give me me one an' ninepence.] The singer goes to Mr. Harman, who is employing the Barbadian (whom he accuses of wearing a ragged shirt and having a face like a marlingspike), to try and get some money which the latter owes the complainant. This is an excellent example in short of an interview between two Black men. Of the sixteen bars four are occupied with salutation, four with complaint, and four with abuse. Two are given to a question as to the cause of complaint which receives no answer, and two to a demand for money owed by another person. So we have three-quarters of the interview devoted in equal parts to compliment, complaint, and abuse; one-eighth to an attempt on the part of the person interviewed to discover what is amiss; and one-eighth to a demand for money from the wrong man. CLXI. The lovers' quarrel which comes next is evidently not serious:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ Hullo me honey! Hullo me sugar! Hullo me old time gal! Oh den, gal, if you love me, Why don't you write me? Hullo me old time gal! Hullo me honey! Hullo me sugar! Hullo me old time boy! Oh den, boy, I wouldn' married you, Not for a fardin', Hullo me old time boy!] CLXII. [Music: _5th Figure._ When mumma dere you say you sick, Dis mumma gone you get better, 'tan' 'teady till him come 'tan' 'teady, 'tan' 'teady till him come 'tan' 'teady.] When mamma tells her daughter to take her hoe and come out into the field she feigns sickness. Her brother comes in and finds her quite well. "All right," he says, "just (dis) you stand steady ('teudy, French _eu_), just you wait till she comes home and you will get a flogging." CLXIII. We never go far without meeting some story about petty thieving:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ Oh Jilly oh! how you manage a jump the window? Oh Jilly oh! how you manage a jump the window? Doctor Clark a one an' tanner, Major Black a two an' six, Mister Nelson three an' six, How you manage a jump the window?] Jilly had been "tiefing" money and made her escape by jumping out of window. "Tanner," for sixpence, is common in English slang but not here. It seems to have been derived in this case from the White soldiers at Newcastle. CLXIV. [Music: _5th Figure._ James Brown, you mahmy call you. James Brown a shake him shoulder. Sake a the young gal butterdore, James Brown a shake him shoulder.] To express dissent they do not shake their heads but wriggle the whole of their bodies. It is a most expressive action. A butterdore, more properly butter-dough, is a kind of cake. CLXV. The next repeats the idea of No. CXVIII., but in the mouth of a girl. [Music: _4th Figure._ When I go home I will tell me mumma say, When I go home I will tell me mumma say, When I go home I will tell me mumma say That the boy in the country love me very much.] CLXVI. The next is the only example of pure fiction that I have met with:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ Feather, feather, feather, Baby da born with feather. You cut off the fowl head an' boil it in a 'tew-pan, Baby da born with feather. Feather, feather oh! Baby da born with feather. Feather, feather oh! Baby da born with feather. You cut off the fowl head an' boil it with the feather, So the baby go born with feather. I hear the news as I re'ch to Hagley Gap, Say baby da born with feather. Something me never hear, Something me never hear that Baby can born with feather. Something me never hear, Something me never hear that Baby can born with feather.] All the other sings are chronicles of true events, and it is an exceptional case to find one purely the offspring of imagination like this one. The compiler of the words could not get quite free of actuality; he puts in Hagley Gap, which is the name of a pass through the hills. I once asked why it was so called and was told because it was a hugly place. The cooking described savours of Obeah. CLXVII. [Music: _2nd Figure._ When the rain an' the breeze an' the storm an' the sun I never see a man like Quaco Sam, He live in the sun as well as the rain, I never see a man like Quaco Sam. Quaco Sam was a little bit a man, I never see a man like a Quaco Sam, For he never build a house but he live as any man, I never see a funny man as Quaco Sam.] CLXVIII. [Music: _5th Figure._ Anch a bite me a me back gully, gully; Anch a bite me a me back gully, gully; Anch a bite me a me back gully, gully; 'cratch me back, me will make one shirt fe you fe you. Anch a bite me, Anch a bite me, Anch a bite me, Anch a bite me, Anch a bite me a me back gully, gully; 'cratch me back me will make one shirt fe you.] Small black ants often swarm on the orange-trees, and the pickers, who do not use ladders but climb the branches, get covered with them. We all know that place in the "gully" or furrow of the back which we cannot reach ourselves. CLXIX. [Music: _4th Figure._ Me know one gal a Cross Road, Name of Lucy Banker, Him boil the long long cabbage bush, Him go long like a sailor nanchor. Follow me, follow me, You no see whé the gal a follow me, Follow me, then follow me, You no see whé the gal a follow me.] The story of the foregoing sing is this:--Lucy asked a fiddler and his friend to breakfast. The cooking was bad. The boiled bananas, which should have been light brown, were black, and the cabbage was not done enough, so that it was ropy or "long," as they aptly describe it. For these shortcomings the fiddler "put her a sing," _i.e._ put her into a sing. CLXX. [Music: _Schottische._ Moonshine baby, don't you cry, Mumma will bring somet'ing fe you, Some fe you, Some fe me, Fe we go boil wi' dirty pot.] This is a hit at another careless cook who had disregarded the time-honoured rule, "First wash your pot." A moonshine baby is a pretty baby. CLXXI. [Music: _2nd Figure._ I have a news to tell you all about the Mowitahl men,[59] Time is harder ev'ry day an' harder yet to come. They made a dance on Friday night an' failed to pay the drummer, Say that they all was need of money to buy up their August pork. Don't let them go free, drummer! Don't let them go free, drummer! For your finger cost money to tickle the poor goat-'kin. Not if the pork even purchase self Take it away for your labour, For your finger cost money to tickle the poor goat-'kin.] [Footnote 59: Mowitahl = Mowatt Hall.] The first of August (Ahgust as they call it) is the anniversary of Emancipation Day, and is a time of feasting and rejoicing. As in the case of wedding festivities, they do not limit themselves to one day, and holiday-making goes on for a week or longer. The goat-skin drum is pitied for the thumping it gets. So a man will often stroke his picker (pickaxe) and say:--"He no a come out if he t'ought him face would a jam so a dirty," he would not have come out if he had thought his face was going to be thrust so hard into the ground. "Self" is a redundant word. It strengthens "even if." CLXXII. [Music: _2nd Figure._ Once I was a trav'ller, trav'ller over the mountain, I nearly dead for water but a young gal show me the fountain. Why, why me picny! You shall be me wife. Show me you mammy an' you daddy, An' you shall be me wife. I have another sister, she blind she cannot see, But, if you wish to court her, you can come with me. Why, why me picny! you shall be me wife. Show me you mammy an' you daddy, An' you shall be me wife.] When a Black man says he is nearly dead for water he only means that he is rather thirsty. This sing is of an unusual form and suggests a foreign origin. CLXXIII. Here, on the contrary, is something typically Jamaican:-- [Music: _5th Figure._ Oh! me wouldn' bawl at all, Oh! me wouldn' bawl at all, Oh! me wouldn' bawl at all, For the policeman come tell a lie 'pon me.] A boy who has been arrested, conscious of his innocence, does not go through the usual pantomime of shrieks and tears. The policeman (observe the accent on the word) told a lie about me, he says. CLXXIV. Thoroughly Jamaican too, as to its words at least, is:-- [Music: _Jig._ You take junka 'tick fe go lick maugre dog, You take junka 'tick fe go lick maugre dog; When maugre dog dead a whé you a go do? Whé you a go do, Birdie? Whé you a go do?] This is a remonstrance addressed by a mother to her daughter who has taken up a short stick to beat her. "It is true," she says, "that I am but a lean dog, but when the lean dog is dead what are you going to do?" (_Maugre_, French _maigre_, pronounced _mahgher_.) CLXXV. [Music: _John Canoe dance._ Yellow fever come in, Me can't walk again; Him broke me hand, him broke me foot, Me can't walk again.] The "John Canoe" are masked dancers very agile in their movements. Yellow fever is now happily rare in Jamaica. "It has come and caught me," says the patient, "and broken my arms and legs so that I really can't walk." "Again" has a curious use here, which is perhaps better shown by the following illustration. A man was reported to be dead. Next day came the intelligence:--"He don't dead again," he is not dead after all, he is not really dead. Compare No. LXII. CLXXVI. [Music: _Schottische._ Jimmy Rampy a come oh, Sal oh! Jimmy Rampy a come oh, Sal oh! Some a wash him foot, some a comb him hair, Some a put him to bed, put him to bed oh, Sal oh! Jimmy Rampy a come oh! Sal oh! Jimmy Rampy a come oh, Sal oh! Some a wash him foot, some a comb him hair, Some a put him to bed, put him to bed oh, Sal oh!] "Sal oh!" is perhaps a corruption of _Salut_. Tradition associates a curtsey with the word. CLXXVII. The next calls to mind the Ring tune (No. XCIX.), "Rosybel oh, why oh!" [Music: _5th Figure._ Susan very well, why oh! Susan very well, why oh! Susan chop bolow with tumbler, Susan chop bolow with tumbler, Susan go chop bolow with tumbler, Susan go chop bolow with tumbler.] A case of assault with a broken piece of glass. Here is something more serious:-- CLXXVIII. [Music: _1st Figure._ Bahss, Bahss, you married you wife; Bahss, Bahss, you married you wife; Bahss, Bahss, you married you wife, You married you wife an' kill him again. You take up you wife an' carry him to church, You take up you wife an' carry him to church, You take up you wife an' carry him to church, An' afterward you kill her again.[60]] [Footnote 60: _Bahss_, Boss. "Carry him" is in two syllables, sounding like _ca-yim_.] CLXXIX. The next is a pretty lullaby, which they call a Nursing sing:-- [Music: Blackbird a eat puppa corn, oh! Blackbird a eat puppa corn, oh! Come go da mountain, go drive them, Blackbird a eat puppa corn, oh! Blackbird a eat puppa corn.] CLXXX. [Music: _Schottische._ Me da Coolie sleep on piazza with me wrapper round me shoulder, Me da Coolie sleep on piazza with me wrapper round me shoulder.] "Me da," literally, "I is," I am. The piazza, which is not pronounced in the Italian way but nearly rhymes with razor, is the long narrow entrance-room of Jamaican houses. A wrapper is a large piece of linen which serves all sorts of purposes. It is used as an article of clothing both by day and night, and also makes a convenient bag for rice. Many of the East Indian Coolies, originally brought over to work on plantations, have now settled in Jamaica. CLXXXI. [Music: _Schottische._ Notty Shaw, you better go home; Notty Shaw, you better go home; Notty, run in the garden an' pick a bunch of flowers; Notty Shaw, you better go home; Notty Shaw, you mother want you service; Notty Shaw, you mother want you service; Notty, go in the garden you see a bunch of rose; Notty Shaw, you better go home.] "Notty" is short for Nathaniel. "Rose" means any kind of flowers. When they want to indicate what we call roses they say "sweet-rose." CLXXXII. [Music: _1st Figure._ You worthless Becca Watson, You worthless Becca Watson, You worthless Becca Watson, You ought to been ashame. Them write you name an' t'row it a pass, Them write you name an' t'row it a pass, Them write you name an' t'row it a pass, you ought to been ashame.] A familiar tune, I think a mixture of two. To write disparaging remarks on paper, which is then thrown in the "pass" (path, road), for anybody to pick up and read, is a common trick. The epithet "worthless" seems to imply that Becca was not altogether free from blame. They seldom say "bad." It is almost always "worthless." CLXXXIII. [Music: _5th Figure._ Since the waggonette come in Parker take to heart dead, Since the waggonette come in Parker take to heart dead. Never mind conductor, Parker take to heart dead. Never mind conductor, Parker take to heart dead.] The reference is to a local enterprise, the Waggonette Company. It unfortunately failed, and the death of a person interested in its success, happening immediately after, is attributed to the failure. For "come in" we should say "were taken off." CLXXXIV. [Music: _Schottische or 4th Figure._ Them Gar'n Town people them call me follow-line, Them Gar'n Town people them call me follow-line, Them Gar'n Town people them call me follow-line, Somebody dying here ev'ry day. A ten pound order him kill me pardner, A ten pound order him kill me pardner, A ten pound order him kill me pardner For somebody dying here ev'ry day. Den number nine tunnel I would not work dé, Den number nine tunnel I would not work dé, Den number nine tunnel I would not work dé For somebody dying here ev'ry day.] An incident, or perhaps it were better to say an accident, in the making of the road to Newcastle. A man who undertook a piece of contract work for £10 was killed by a falling stone. The so-called tunnels are cuttings. Number nine had a very bad reputation. Gordon Town is a hamlet nine miles from Kingston. The driving road ends there, and access to the mountain district beyond is obtained only by mule tracks. Strangers are called "follow-line" because, as they come down from their homes in the higher hills, they walk in strings. No Black man or woman ever goes alone if he can help it. He always hitches on to somebody else, and the string increases in length as it passes along. This walking in Indian file is necessitated by the narrowness of the track, which is seldom wide enough for two to walk abreast. The tune has the character of a march rather than of a dance, but I am assured it is used for a Schottische, which has a somewhat slower measure than a Polka, and for Fourth Figure. Their cleverness in adapting the same steps to different rhythms has been already commented on. CLXXXV. The last of our tragedies, a murder this time, is chronicled in:-- [Music: _2nd Figure._ Young gal in Jamaica take warning, Never leave your mother house alone, For that was the cause why Alice get her death while driving in the May Pen cyar.] "The May Pen cyar" is a tramway which runs to May Pen, the cemetery of Kingston. CLXXXVI. [Music: _4th Figure._ Me no min dé a concert the night When Martha an' Pompey catch a fight. Da Martha da Pompey, Da Martha da Pompey catch a fight.] "Me no min dé," literally, "I not been there," I was not there. Nobody hearing these words for the first time would ever suspect that they were English. People are always said to "catch fight" when they come to blows. Few of the old classical slave names like Pompey now survive. CLXXXVII. [Music: _1st Figure._ Complain complain complain, Complain about me one, Me daddy complain, me mahmy complain, Complain about me one.] "Me one," _i.e._ "only me." Everlasting complaints, always about me! (What child does not suffer in this way?) In Negro speech _complain_ stands for complaint as well as for the verb. CLXXXVIII. Elderly readers will recognise a popular song of thirty years ago in the following:-- [Music: _2nd Figure._ I can't walk on the bare road, cyart man, I can't walk at all; When I remember, When I remember, When I remember them. Oh Captain Baker, I never can walk again, For when I remember the cyart man, cyart man, When I remember them.] These words taken as a whole refer to the carts of the United Fruit Company of which Captain Baker is the manager. In defiance of rules girls may be seen perched on top of the bunches of bananas in the laden carts. CLXXXIX. [Music: _5th Figure._ Come go da mountain, Come go da mountain, Come go da mountain go pick coco finger, Busha Webb an' all a pick coco finger, Busha Webb an' all a pick coco finger; Pick coco finger, Pick coco finger, Come go da mountain go pick coco finger.] "Come let us go to the mountain and dig cocoes. Overseer Webb and everybody is digging them." A plan often adopted is to dig round the root, search for the tubers, pick them off and then push back the soil. This may be the picking referred to, only the tubers do not look like fingers. They are the shape of a peg-top. Another suggestion is that the fingers are the young rolled-up leaves which are picked before they expand for spinach. This variety of interpretation, coupled with the fact that the word _finger_, always applied to bananas, is never used in speaking of cocoes, points to this being a very old sing. CXC. [Music: _Valse._ Amanda Grant, me yerry your name, yerry your name a bamboo root. Why! Why! me yerry your name, Why! Why! yerry your name, Me yerry your name a bamboo root.] Amanda stole some money and hid it at the foot of a bamboo. CXCI. [Music: _2nd Figure._ Last night I was lying on me number, An' a foolish man come wake me out of slumber, Say Why oh! Why oh! I never see a woman dancing with a wooden leg. Bammerlichy, bammerlichy, bamby, Bammerlichy, bammerlichy, bamby, Bammerlichy, bammerlichy, bamby, I never see a woman dancing with a wooden leg.] The scene is laid in the People's Shelter at Kingston which has numbered sleeping-berths. At "Bammerlichy" etc. the dancers imitate the stiff action of a wooden leg. CXCII. [Music: _5th Figure._ Me lassie me dundooze, me dundooze come kiss me, The kiss that you give me it rest on me mind till it give me the aygo. When we married an' settled down we have no cause to say, For as soon as the parson pass up the sentence nothing to part us.] "Dundooze" (or dundoze, for it is rather hard to catch the vowel) is a term of endearment. Others are, honey, lover, sugar, sweety, marvel, bolow, bahzoon. "Aygo" is ague; "say," perhaps, sunder. CXCIII. The next conveys an appreciative reference to a proprietor who is a large employer of labour. [Music: _Polka._ Mister Davis bring somet'ing fe we all, Mister Davis bring somet'ing fe we all. Oh him bring black gal, An' him bring brown gal, An' him bring yaller gal an' all.] CXCIV. [Music: _5th Figure._ A whé the use you da hang da me neck-back, Married man me no want you. Turn back, married man, turn back, you brute, Turn back married man, married man a dog.] CXCV. [Music: _4th Figure._ Quattywort' of this! Quattywort' of that! till him come up to a shilling oh! Why Brown man! Why Brown man! you have a nasty way, Robson.] The boy has run up a score at the shop and professes astonishment at the items and the total. Black trusts White more than Brown. CXCVI. We end with the pretty flowing melody:-- [Music: _Schottische._ Mahngoose a come, Dory, Mahngoose a come. All them gal are dead fe Dory, Mahngoose a come. Come back me dear Dory, Come back me dear. All them gal are dead fe Dory, Mahngoose a come.] The mongoose was introduced into Jamaica to kill the rats. Unfortunately rats sleep in the day and the mongoose sleeps at night, so they never met. How the mongoose took instead to killing chickens has been often told. Dory is having a private interview with a girl who has another admirer. This man has announced his intention of chastising Dory. "Mongoose has come" is a preconcerted formula which means, "the other man has come, Dory, look out!" When a gang of labourers is working and one of them catches sight of his master in the distance, he will sing this song and the others understand that they must pretend to be busy. THE END. NOTE.--(_Accidentally omitted on page 77_: _Cf._ Nos. 56, 67, 132, 133). Marriage is, unhappily, often a failure. The woman, in marrying, has attained the goal of her ambition. Now that she is Mrs. Smith she "sits down" and refuses to help her husband, provision-ground food is not good enough for her, and she is always calling out for a new frock. In a few years the couple separate and the home is broken up, with disastrous consequences to the children. In the old days the custom was to defer the ceremony (as Constantine deferred his baptism) to a very late period. This plan worked very well. The couple did not marry till they knew for certain that they suited each other, and often their well-brought-up children and grandchildren danced at the wedding. _APPENDIX._ _A._ TRACES OF AFRICAN MELODY IN JAMAICA. I have been asked to read through this book in proof, with the object of ascertaining whether the Jamaican songs bear any traces of an African origin. Unfortunately, it must be confessed at the outset that our knowledge of African music is scantier than that of almost any other kind of primitive music. In other regions of the globe the phonograph has been effectively utilised in acquiring accurate records of songs and dances. These records have been brought back to Europe, where they have been studied at leisure and their peculiarities of interval and rhythm have been precisely determined. But in the case of African music (apart from a few imperfectly studied records in my own possession) we have to rely entirely on the versions which travellers have taken down for us in the field. We have to assume, in the first place, the correctness of their 'musical ear,' and in the second place, the possibility of expressing in European notation those delicate shades of pitch and time in which the characteristics of primitive music so essentially consist. And both these are unwarrantable assumptions. However, from our study of comparative music elsewhere, we may make one statement with certainty, namely, that _an_ African music does not exist. There must be almost as many styles of native music in Africa as in Europe--varieties differing not only broadly in general form and structure, but also more minutely in the intervals and rhythms which are employed. I have been informed by travellers in West Africa that surprising differences occur in the degree of development of musical art even in closely neighbouring regions. In one district hardly any music is to be heard at all; in another the music is most uncouth; in a third it is highly agreeable to the European ear; while some parts of West Africa have advanced to the stage of part-singing. The most erroneous notions have been expressed as to the nature of African music. I have seen it stated that African songs consist in a gradual descent from a higher to a lower pitched note. That this is far from being usually the case is shown in the following specimens, which I have gathered from various narratives of African travel. I. [Music: _Boat Song. Congo District._] II. [Music: _Boat Song. Congo District._] III. [Music: _Song of Bawili Women._] IV. [Music: _Funeral Song. Angola._] V. [Music: _Song. Angola._] VI. [Music: _Song. M. Balunda._] VII. [Music: _Dance-Song. M. Balunda._] VIII. [Music: _Boat Song. Guinea Coast._] IX. [Music: _Song. I. of Bimbia._] Songs I. and II. from _La route du Tchad_. Jean Dybowski. Paris. 1893. pp. 198-9. Songs III.-VII. from _Aus West-Afrika_. Hermann Soyaux. Leipzig. 1879. Song VIII. from _Einige Notizen über Bonny_. Göttingen. 1848. Song IX. from _A Narrative of the Expedition ... to the River Niger_. London. 1848. A great deal might be said about the general character of these songs, _e.g._ the simplicity and brevity of the phrases, and the fondness for triple measure. But I pass on to consider three very interesting examples of Jamaican music which, thanks to my friend Mr. N.W. Thomas, I have found recorded in 1688 in Sir Hans Sloane's _Voyage to Jamaica_. "Upon one of the Festivals where a great many of the Negro Musicians were gathered together," he writes, "I desired Mr. Baptiste, the best musician there, to take the words they sung and set them to Musick which follows." X. [Music: _Angola Song._ Hobaognion Hobaognion Hoba Hobaognion ognion.] XI. [Music: _Papa Song._] XII. [Music: _Koromanti Songs._ Meri Bonbo mich langa meri wá langa.] From _A Voyage to ... Jamaica ..._ by Hans Sloane, M.D. London. 1707. Vol. i. pp. l, li. The words of these songs are _Hobaognion, ognion_ and _Meri Bonbo mich langa meri wá langa._ Sir Hans Sloane observes that the Jamaican negroes of that time had their native instruments: (i) gourds with necks and strung with horsehair, (ii) a "hollow'd Timber covered with Parchment," having a bow for its neck, the strings tied longer or shorter. These songs, however inaccurately recorded, are of the greatest value for the hint they give us of Jamaican music as it existed over two centuries ago. It will be observed that the songs are named 'Angola' and 'Koromanti,' according to their African _provenance_. In the present collection of modern songs, reference is made in Song CI. to Koromanti ('Cromanty'). So, too, the word 'Bungo' in Song CXXVI. no doubt refers to the large Bongo district of Africa (cf. 'Bungo talk,' p. 12, _n._). We can hardly expect to find considerable traces of this aboriginal African music after two centuries of missionary and of trade influence. African travellers have repeatedly told us how prone the negro is to introduce fresh tunes from other villages and to adapt them to his own purposes. Indeed, the contaminating influence which the Arabs and Portuguese have exercised upon primitive African music makes the study of the latter especially difficult. But a community does not adopt exotic music without at the same time exercising selection. Those melodies have the greatest chance of success which, to some degree at least, follow the current canons of public taste. Revolutionary innovations are rare. The gradual changes in taste which take place are the result of such selective adoption of foreign music as we have indicated. There is one feature in the above-quoted 'Angola' song which is also shared by the modern songs of this collection, namely, the presence of 'bobbins' or short refrains. The simplicity in structure of the songs is still a feature of Jamaican music. I may be allowed to call attention to the repetition of single phrases in Song XVIII. and to the building up of simple phrases in Songs LXXVII. and LXXIX. I had hoped that some light might be thrown on the antiquity of certain songs by the presence of nonsense words; but in this I was disappointed. I quite agree with Miss Broadwood (see next page) that the majority of the songs are of European origin. The negroes have learnt them from hearing sailors' chanties or they have adopted hymn tunes. But adoption always involves adaptation. A song is modified to suit the current canons of taste. In Song L. I observe 'Home, Sweet Home' and (in the latter half) a hymn tune which I frequently heard in the Torres Straits. Song CXXXIX. is doubtless 'The British Grenadiers.' But it, again, has not been adopted without modification. Needless to say, a detailed study of these modifications would throw light on the characteristics of modern Jamaican music. In Song XXXI. a typical non-European modification is the insertion of an extra (the fifth) bar, so that the phrase consists of nine bars. The five time in Song XI., the change of accent at the close of Song XXIV. and in Song XLI., are no doubt the expression of African delight in the complexities of rhythm. In the already-quoted 'Koromanti song,' we may observe the curious temporary change of rhythm in the second air, and the characteristic measure which prevails throughout the third air with its syncopation and almost baffling changes. Such features are precisely what we should expect to meet with among a primitive people who more than two centuries ago doubtless possessed in a still higher degree that delight in complication of rhythm which according to Mr. Jekyll (p. 6) persists among their descendants of to-day. For a more detailed study of this aspect of the subject I may perhaps refer enquirers to my "Study of Rhythm in Primitive People" (_British Journal of Psychology_, vol. i. pp. 397-406). The present taste and preferences of the Jamaican negroes may perhaps be gauged by the similarities and differences in the first bars of Songs LXIII., LXIV., and LXXVIII., by the similarity of Songs I. and VIII., XV. and XXVII., and of the bobbins in LIV. and LXVIII. But it is not my intention to make a detailed analysis of the songs of the present volume. My object has been rather to emphasize our present ignorance of African music, and to indicate the lines along which a more intimate acquaintance with African and Jamaican songs may be expected to lead to conclusions as to their relation to one another. C.S. MYERS. _B._ ENGLISH AIRS AND MOTIFS IN JAMAICA. By far the greater part of these Jamaican tunes and song-words seem to be reminiscences, or imitations, of European sailors' "chanties" of the modern class; or of trivial British nursery-jingles adapted, as all such jingles become adapted. Except in the cases specified below, I have not found one Jamaican tune which is _entirely_ like any one English or European tune that I happen to know. But unrecorded folk-tunes are essentially fluid, and pass through endless transformations. In all countries any one traditional ballad may be sung to dozens of distinct traditional tunes, each of these again having variants. It is therefore quite possible that versions of some of the older-sounding Jamaican airs are being sung unrecorded at this moment in the British Islands or elsewhere. I note below such instances of modal tunes as occur in this collection. I should perhaps explain that by "Modes" are meant those ancient scales (other than our major and minor scales) which amongst European composers fell into disuse at the beginning of the 17th century, but which survive still in the ancient Church Music (popularly called "Gregorian"), and in the Folk Music of most European countries, and notably that of the British Isles. III. =King Daniel=, p. 14. Cf. the old ballads "May Colvin" and "Young Hunting." In the latter the parrot reveals a murder. In both ballads the lady makes the same promises to the bird (see Child's _English and Scottish Popular Ballads_). VII. =The Three Sisters=, p. 26. Although the story of the monster outwitted by the maiden he tries to carry off is an almost world-wide _motif_, and is found in Africa among other countries, this particular version has evidently been in contact with European (English or Scottish) sources. This is shown not only by the fact that the suitor proves to be the Devil, but by the question and answer (misplaced by the story-teller): "What is roguer than a womankind?" "The Devil is roguer than a womankind." This riddle appears in three versions of the ballad of "The Three Sisters," otherwise "The Elfin Knight," or "Riddles wisely Expounded" (Child, _English and Scottish Popular Ballads_, vol. i. pp. 1-6), as: "O what is greener than the grass? Or what is worse than e'er woman was?" "O poison's greener than the grass, And the Devil's worse than e'er woman was...." "As soon as she the fiend did name, He flew away in a blazing flame," says one version, but in the rest there is no disenchantment, and the youngest sister wins the visitor as her husband by her ready wit in replying, which Professor Child (_Additions and Corrections_, vol. v. p. 283), thinks a modernization of the original story. He quotes a manuscript version taken from a book of Henry VI.'s time, wherein the "Elfin Knight" is the foul fiend himself _undisguised_. For similar survivals of Riddle Songs and Tales see "There was a Lady in the West" and "Scarborough Fair" in _English County Songs_, and Kidson's _Traditional Tunes_, and "The Lover's Task" in _Songs of the West_, etc. The tune is evidently an old ballad air. It is in the Aeolian Mode. XVII. =Man Crow=, p. 54. The tune is the same as that sung in Worcestershire by children to "A finger and thumb keep moving." XVIII. =Saylan=, p. 59. This is a version of "The Maid freed from the Gallows," "The Golden Ball," or "The Prickly Bush." For the latter see _English County Songs_. Child gives very exhaustive notes on the story and its variants; also a tune, noted in North Carolina, "The Prickly Bush" has a tune quite unlike Child's, and the Jamaican air is quite distinct from both. XXI. =Tacoma and the Old Witch Girl=, p. 65. Cf. "The Keys of Heaven" in _English County Songs_, "Blue Muslin" in _Songs of the West_, and "Madam I will gi'e you," etc., in _Journal of the Folk-Song Society_, No. 7. All these airs are distinct from each other, and from the Jamaican tune. XXIX. =Parson Puss and Parson Dog=, p. 91. This tune is the first half of the old French air "Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman?" used so often by English children in their games. See note in Moffat and Kidson's _Children's Songs and Games of Long Ago_, p. 42. Other adaptations of the same tune are CXVI. (p. 215), CLXXVII. (p. 264), and CLXXXIX. (p. 272). XXXI. =Pretty Poll=, p. 96. Cf. "King Daniel." This is again the story of "May Colvin" or "The Outlandish Knight." The tune "Come, pretty Poll" here given is rather reminiscent of one traditional air to the ballad sung still in different parts of England (where numerous tunes to the favourite story have been noted). See "The Outlandish Knight" in _Songs of Northern England_ (Stokoe and Reay) for the type of tune referred to, but plentiful variants from Hertfordshire, the West of England, Yorkshire, etc., exist in MS. XXXVI. =Leah and Tiger=, p. 108. The tune is in the Aeolian Mode. LXIII. =Oh, Samuel, oh=, p. 168. This tune is in the Mixolydian Mode. LXXXVIII. =War down a Monkland=, p. 187. The tune is in the Dorian Mode. By far the most interesting tune in this collection. It is a fine Dorian air, I should think an old traditional tune imported by English or Irish. There are slight modal influences in other tunes, viz.: "Bad homan oh," "Bell oh," "A Somerset me barn," "Whé me loon dé," "Me da lí," and "Since Dora Logan a wahk with Gallawoss" (Nos. 56, 57, 85, 91, 100, 122). CXI., p. 209. This tune is a variant of the well-known children's game-song, "Here come three Dukes a-riding." CXIX., p. 218. The tune is a variant of one commonly sung in the North of England and in various parts of Scotland, to a children's game, "Hullaballoo ballie," in which reference is made to lifting the right foot and the left foot. CXXVII., p. 225. This air is the first part of the tune of "O dem Golden Slippers," the negro revival song of some twenty years ago. CXXX., p. 227. This is a reminiscence of the Scotch dance-tune usually sung to the words "There's nae luck aboot the hoose." CLXXVIII., p. 264. This is a well-known old English dance-tune, known also in Scotland. CLXXXII., p. 267. The second part of this tune is merely a reminiscence of "We won't go home till morning." CLXXXVII., p. 271. This tune is the first part of a very commonplace modern Italian popular composition called "La Mandolinata," played on every conceivable instrument, and sung also, about the year 1876 and for some years afterwards. L.E. BROADWOOD. 
37668	----	FLEMISH LEGENDS By CHARLES DE COSTER With eight woodcuts by Albert Delstanche Translated from the French By Harold Taylor London: Chatto & Windus MCMXX CONTENTS Page I. The Brotherhood of the Cheerful Countenance 1 II. The Three Sisters 31 III. Sir Halewyn 43 IV. Smetse Smee 101 ILLUSTRATIONS The Church of Haeckendover Frontispiece The Little Stone Boy Facing page 6 The Man in White 52 Sir Halewyn in the Wood 64 The Song of the Head 92 Smetse caught by the Two Branches 108 In Smetse's Garden 126 The Devil-King and the Sack 150 TRANSLATOR'S NOTE There never was a book which needed less of an introduction than this one, unless it is that it should have an apology from the translator for his handling of so beautiful an original. But since so little is generally known of these Legends and their author a word of information may be demanded. Charles de Coster flourished in the middle part of the last century. He was brought up in the court of a great dignitary of the Roman Church, and intended for the aristocratic University of Louvain, but showed early his independent and democratic turn of mind by preferring the more popular University of Brussels, to which he made his own way. Here he fell in with a group of fellow-students and artistic enthusiasts which included Félicien Rops, with whom he was associated in a society called Les Joyeux, and afterwards in a short-lived Review, to which they gave the name of that traditional Belgian figure of joyousness and high spirits, Uylenspiegel. It was in this that these Legends first appeared, written in the years 1856 and 1857, and soon afterwards published in book form. Belgian literature was not at that time in a very flourishing condition, and little general appreciation was shown of de Coster's work, but it was hailed with enthusiasm by a few of the more discerning critics, and won him a place on a Royal Commission which was investigating mediæval state papers. After publishing another book, Contes brabançons, likewise based on the folk-lore of his country, he seems to have withdrawn into himself and led the life of a dreamer, wandering about among the peasants and burying himself in the wide countryside of Flanders, until he had completed his epic of the Spanish tyranny, Ulenspiegel, which has already been translated into English. None of these publications brought him any material recompense for his work, and he remained a poor man to the end of his life, in constant revolt against what he called the horrible power of money. [1] The primitive stuff of these Legends is to be found scattered up and down, a piece here and a piece there, in the folk-lore of Brabant and Flanders. De Coster, who had an intense love of this folk-lore and at the same time, as he said, "that particular kind of madness which is needed for such writing," set himself to give it a literary form. He has chosen to make that form so elaborate, and has worked his material to so fine a composition, that he must be considered to have produced an entirely original book. But he has not been unfaithful to his masters the people. Sir Halewyn, for instance, follows an old song. And the Faust-story of Smetse Smee, the jovial and ingenious smith, who gets the better of his bargain with the devil in so wholly satisfactory a fashion, crops up in one form or another again and again. The Legends were written in the idiom of the sixteenth century, the period to which the latest and longest of them roughly belongs. I believe that no more perfect example of pastiche exists in the language. But that is not of much interest to English readers, and I have made no attempt to reproduce the achievement. De Coster found modern French, with its rigidity of form, unsuitable to his subject and inapt to his genius. He seems to have had a mind so perfectly in tune with the Middle Ages that one may well believe that he found it actually more natural to write in the still fluid language of Rabelais than in that of his own day. The prose of the original is of arresting beauty, especially in Sir Halewyn; which, with its peculiarly Flemish tale of faery and enchantment, still beauty and glowing hearths, and the sombreness of northern forests brooding over them, I feel to be the high-water mark of his achievement. At times it becomes so rhythmic that one can hardly decide whether it is prose or poetry. It is not difficult to believe Potvin's report that de Coster spent an immense amount of pains on his work, sometimes doing a page twenty times over before he was content to let it go. De Coster has been spoken of as a mouthpiece of Protestantism. Protestant, of course, is the last word in the world to describe him. No one can have regretted much more than he the passing of that warm-hearted time before the Reformation. One has but to read the story of the building of the church at Haeckendover in The Three Sisters, or the prayer of the girl Wantje to the Virgin in the tale of the hilarious Brotherhood to see how far this is true. It is only in Smetse Smee, when he comes to the time of the Inquisition, that he bursts out with that stream of invective and monstrous mockery which made the Polish refugee Karski say of him, "Well roared, Fleming!" And even then it is Spain rather than Catholicism which is the centre of his attack, and Philip II who is his aiming-point. Above all and before all de Coster loved the simple peasant-people of his own land, with their frank interest in good things to eat and good beer to drink, their aptitude for quarrelling and their great hearts. All his chief portraits are painted from them. The old homely nobility of Flanders, such as were the people of Heurne in the tale of Halewyn, he liked well enough, but he could not bear a rich man or a distant-mannered master of the Spanish type. A tale is told of him and his painter friend Dillens which may well stand as the key to his work. One day at Carnival-time they were in Ghent, and when the evening came Dillens asked what they should do. "Voir le peuple!" cried de Coster, "le peuple surtout! La bourgeoisie est la même partout! Va voir le peuple!" H. T. THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE CHEERFUL COUNTENANCE I. Of the sorrowful voice which Pieter Gans heard in his garden, and of the flame running over the grass. In the days when the Good Duke ruled over Brabant, there was to be found at Uccle, with its headquarters in the tavern of The Horn, a certain Brotherhood of the Cheerful Countenance, aptly enough so named, for every one of the Brothers had a wonderfully jolly face, finished off, as a sign of good living, with two chins at the least. That was the young ones; but the older ones had more. You shall hear, first of all, how this Brotherhood was founded: Pieter Gans, host of this same Horn, putting off his clothes one night to get into bed, heard in his garden a sorrowful voice, wailing: "My tongue is scorching me. Drink! Drink! I shall die of thirst." Thinking at first that it was some drunkard below, he continued to get into bed quietly, notwithstanding the voice, which kept crying out in the garden: "Drink! Drink! I shall die of thirst." But this persisted so long and in so melancholy a manner that at last Pieter Gans must needs get up and go to the window to see who it might be making so much noise. Thence he saw a long flame, of great brightness and strange upstanding shape, running over the grass; and, thinking that it must be some poor soul from purgatory in need of prayers, he set about repeating litanies, and went through above a hundred, but all in vain, for the voice never ceased crying out as before: "Drink! Drink! I shall die of thirst." After cock-crow he heard no more, and looking out again he saw with great satisfaction that the flame had disappeared. When morning came he went straightway to the church. There he told the story of these strange happenings to the priest, and caused a fair mass to be said for the repose of the poor soul; gave a golden peter to the clerk so that others might be said later, and returned home reassured. But on the following night the voice began its wailing anew, as lamentably as if it were that of a dying man hindered from dying. And so it went on night after night. Whence it came about that Pieter Gans grew moody and morose. Those who had known him in former days, rubicund, carrying a good paunch and a joyous face, wont to tell his matins with bottles and his vespers with flagons, would certainly never have recognized him. For he grew so wizened, dried up, thin, and of such piteous appearance that dogs used to start barking at the sight of him, as they do at beggars with their bundles. II. How Jan Blaeskaek gave good counsel to Pieter Gans, and wherein covetousness is sadly punished. It so happened that while he was moping after this fashion, passing his days in misery and without any joy of them, alone in a corner like a leper, there came to the inn a certain Master Jan Blaeskaek, brewer of good beer, a hearty fellow, and of a jovial turn of mind. This visitor, seeing Pieter Gans looking at him nervously and shamefacedly, wagging his head like an old man, went up to him and shook him: "Come," said he, "wake up, my friend, it gives me no pleasure to see thee sitting there like a corpse!" "Alas," answered Pieter Gans, "I am not worth much more now, my master." "And whence," said Blaeskaek, "hast thou gotten all this black melancholy?" To which Pieter Gans made answer: "Come away to some place where none will hear us. There I will tell thee the whole tale." This he did. When Blaeskaek had heard to the end he said: "'Tis no Christian soul that cries in this manner, but the voice of a devil. It must be appeased. Therefore go thou and fetch from thy cellar a good cask of ale, and roll it out into the garden, to the place where thou didst see the flame shining." "That I will," said Pieter Gans. But at vespers, thinking to himself that ale was precious stuff to set before devils, he put instead in that place a great bowl of clear water. Towards midnight he heard a voice more sorrowful than ever, calling out: "Drink! Drink! I shall die of thirst." And he saw the bright flame dancing furiously over the bowl, which was suddenly broken with a loud report, and this in so violent a manner that the pieces flew up against the windows of the house. Then he began to sweat with terror and weep aloud, saying: "Now 'tis all over, dear God, all over with me. Oh, that I had followed the advice of the wise Blaeskaek, for he is a man of good counsel, of excellent counsel! Master Devil, who are so thirsty, do not kill me to-night; to-morrow you shall drink good ale, Master Devil. Ah, 'tis ale of fair repute throughout the land, this ale, fit for kings or for good devils like yourself!" Nevertheless the voice continued to wail: "Drink! Drink!" "There, there! Have a little patience, Master Devil; to-morrow you shall drink my best ale. It cost me many a golden peter, my master, and I will give you a whole barrelful. Do you not see that you must not strangle me to-night, but rather to-morrow if I do not keep my word." And after this fashion he wept and cried out until cock-crow. Then, finding that he was not dead, he said his matins with a better heart. At sun-up he went down himself to fetch the cask of ale from his cellar, and placed it in the middle of the grass, saying: "Here is the freshest and the best drink I have; I am no niggard. So have pity on me, Master Devil." III. Of the songs, voices, mewlings, and sounds of kisses which Pieter Gans and Blaeskaek heard in the garden, and of the brave mien wherewith Master Merry-face sat on the cask of stone. At the third hour Blaeskaek came down and asked for news. Pieter Gans told his tale, and as he was about to go away again drew him aside and said: "I have kept this secret from my servants, lest they should go and blab about it to the priests, and so I am as good as alone in the house. Do not therefore leave me, for it may happen that some evil will come of the business, and 'twould be well to have a good stomach in case of such event. Alone I should certainly have none, but together we shall have enough for both. It would be as well, then, to fortify ourselves against this assault on our courage. Instead of sleeping we will eat and drink heartily." "For that," said Blaeskaek, "I am as ready as thou." Towards midnight the two comrades, tippling in a low room, fortified with good eating, but not without some apprehension nevertheless, heard the same voice outside, no longer sorrowful, but joyous, singing songs in a strange tongue; and there followed divers sweet chants, such as angels might sing (speaking with proper respect to them all), who in Paradise had drunken too much ambrosia, voices of women celestially soft, mewlings of tigers, sighs, noise of embraces and lovers' kisses. "Ho, ho!" cried Pieter Gans, "what is this, dear Jesus? They are devils for a certainty. They will empty my cask altogether. And when they find my ale so good they will want more of it, and come crying every night and shouting louder than ever: 'Drink! Drink!' And I shall be ruined, alas, alas! Come, friend Blaeskaek"--and so saying he pulled out his kuyf, which is, as you may know, a strong knife well sharpened--"Come, we must drive them off by force! But alone I have not the courage." "I will come with you," said Blaeskaek, "but not until a little later, at cock-crow. They say that after that hour devils cannot bite." Before the sun rose the cock crew. And he had, that morning, so martial a tone that you would have thought it a trumpet sounding. And hearing this trumpet all the devils suddenly put a stop to their drinking and singing. Pieter Gans and Blaeskaek were overjoyed at that, and ran out into the garden in haste. Pieter Gans, hurrying to look for his cask of ale, found it changed into stone, and on top of it, sitting horseback fashion, what seemed to be a young boy, quite naked, a fair, sweet little boy, gaily crowned with vine-leaves, with a bunch of grapes hanging over one ear, and in his right hand a staff with a fir-cone at the tip, and grapes and vine-branches twined round it. And although this little boy was made of stone, he had all the appearance of being alive, so merry a countenance had he. Greatly alarmed were Gans and Blaeskaek at the sight of this personage. And fearing both the wrath of the devil and the punishment of the Church, and swearing together to say no word about it to any one, they put the figure (which was but a few thumbs high) in a dark cellar where there was no drink kept. IV. Wherein the two worthy men set out for Brussels, capital city of Brabant, and of the manners and condition of Josse Cartuyvels the Apothecary. Having done so much they set out together for Brussels, there to consult an old man, apothecary by trade, something of a glutton, but liked well enough by the common folk on account of a certain hotch-potch he made, well seasoned with rare herbs, for which he asked a not unreasonable price. He was reputed by the devout to have commerce with the devil, on account of the miraculous cures which he effected in both man and beast by means of his herbs. Furthermore, he sold beer, which he bought from Blaeskaek. And he was hideous to look at, gouty, wizened, yellow as a guinea, wrinkled as an old apple, and with carbuncles on his neck. He lived in a house of mean appearance, in that part where you may now see the brewery of Claes van Volxem. Gans and Blaeskaek, coming thither, found him in his kitchen, making up his stews. The apothecary, seeing Gans in such a piteous melancholy state, asked him if he had some ill whereof he wished to be cured. "He has nothing to be cured of," said Blaeskaek, "save an evil fear which has been tormenting him for a week past." Thereupon they told him the whole story of the chubby-faced image. "Dear God!" said Josse Cartuyvels, for such was the name of this doctor of stews, "I know this devil well enough, and will show you his likeness." And taking them up to the top of his house, into a small room which he had there, he showed them a gallant image of that same devil, making merry with pretty maids and gay goat-foot companions. "And what is the name," said Blaeskaek, "of this merry boy?" "I have no doubt it is Bacchus," said Josse Cartuyvels. "In olden times he was a god, but at the gracious coming of Our Lord Jesus Christ"--here all three crossed themselves--"he lost at once his power and his divinity. He was, in his time, good company, and more particularly notable as the inventor of wine, beer, and ale. It may be, on that account, that instead of hell he is only in purgatory, where no doubt he has become thirsty, and by God's permission was allowed to return to earth, once only, no more, and there sing this lamentable song which you heard in your garden. But I suppose that he was not allowed to cry his thirst in countries where wine is chiefly drunk, and that he came accordingly to Master Gans, knowing well enough that with him he would find the best ale in all Brabant." "True," said Gans, "true, friend Cartuyvels, the best in the duchy; and he drank up, if you please, a whole barrelful, without paying me so much as the smallest gold piece, nor silver, nor even copper. That is not the conduct of an honest devil." "Ah!" said Cartuyvels, "there you are in error, and do not perceive what is for your good and what for evil. But if you will take the advice I am about to give you, you may find a way whereby you can make clear profit from this Bacchus, for he is, you must know, the god of jolly drinkers and good innkeepers, and I am disposed to think that he will do you a good turn." "Well, then," asked Blaeskaek, "what must we do now?" "I have heard that this devil loves warmth and sunlight. So take him out, first of all, from this dark cellar. Then put him in some place whither the sun reaches, such as on top of the tall press which stands in the room where your customers sit and drink." "Sweet Jesus!" exclaimed Pieter Gans, "this is idolatry." "In no wise," said the apothecary. "I mean only this; that, put up where I tell you, sniffing the good smell of stoups and flagons, and hearing jolly talk, he will grow altogether frolicsome and happy. So may you bring Christian comfort to poor dead souls." "But if," said Pieter Gans, "the priests should get wind of this statue, so shamelessly set up for all to see?" "They cannot find you guilty of sin, for innocence keeps nothing secret. You will show this Bacchus openly to all your friends and relatives, and say that you found him buried under the earth in a corner of your garden. Thus you will make him seem an ancient relic, as indeed he is. Only take care to forget his name when you speak of him to any one, and, entitling him, as in jest, Master Merry-face, use this name for him always, and institute in his honour a jolly brotherhood." "So we will," answered Pieter Gans and Blaeskaek together, and they then departed, not without having given the apothecary two large coins for his trouble. He did his best, however, to keep them back, so that they might partake of some of his heavenly hotch-potch, but Pieter Gans turned him a deaf ear, saying to himself that it was devil's cooking, unwholesome for a good Christian stomach. So they left him and set out again for Uccle. V. Of the long conversation and great perplexity of Pieter Gans and Blaeskaek in the matter of the deviling; and how they returned to Uccle with a resolution taken. While they were on their way: "Well, comrade," said Gans to Blaeskaek, "what is thy opinion of this apothecary?" "A dog of a heretic!" said Blaeskaek, "a heathen, a despiser of all good and all virtue. For 'twas treasonable and wicked counsel he gave us." "True, my good friend, true. And is it not besides a great heresy to dare tell us that this deviling on his cask is he who invented beer, wine, and ale, when we have heard it preached every Sunday in our church that St. Noah, under the instruction of Our Lord Jesus Christ"--here both crossed themselves--"invented these things." "For my part," said Blaeskaek, "I know I have heard that preached above a hundred times." Here, seating themselves on the grass, they began to refresh themselves with a fine Ghent sausage, brought by Pieter Gans against such time as they should feel hungry. "There, there," said he, "let us not forget the Benedicite, my friend. So, perhaps, we may escape burning. For 'tis to God we owe this meat: may he deign to keep us always in his holy faith." "Amen," said Blaeskaek; "but, my master, between us we must certainly break up this wicked statue." "He who has no sheep fears no wolves. 'Tis easy enough for thee to talk comfortably of breaking up this deviling." "'Twould be a deed much to our credit." "But if he come back again to wail each night so piteously: 'Drink! Drink!' And if he turn angry with me and cast spells on my beer and my wine, and make me as poor as Job! Nay, better follow the advice of the apothecary." "Aye, and if the priests learn of the statue, and call us both before the tribunal, and have us burnt as heretics and idolaters, what then?" "Ah," said Gans, "here are the good God on the one hand and the wicked devil on the other, fighting over our poor bodies, and we shall be pounded to nothing between them, alas, alas!" "Well," said Blaeskaek, "let us go to the good fathers openly, and tell them the whole affair." "Alas, alas! We shall be burnt, my good master, burnt without mercy." "I believe there must be some way whereby to escape this danger." "There is none, my friend, there is none, and we shall be burnt. I feel myself already half roast." "I have thought of a way," said Blaeskaek. "There is none, my friend, there is no way whatever, unless it be the clemency of the worthy fathers. Canst see no pilgrim or wandering friar on the road?" "None." "If we see such a one we must give him all our sausage--have we said our grace for it?--and all the bread in our wallet, and humbly invite him into our house, to eat a quarter of roast lamb, well washed down with old wine. I have not much of that kind, but I will gladly give him all there is of it. Canst not see such a one coming?" "No one," said Blaeskaek. "But open those rabbit's ears of thine and hark to me: I will give thee good counsel, for I wish thee well, blubberer. We must follow the apothecary's advice in half-and-half fashion, so much only, you understand. 'Twould be idolatry of the most shameless kind to put up this statue in the public hall." "Alas, alas, by all the devils! yes, you are right." "Very well, then we will put him in a cupboard, which shall be well fastened, but with an opening on the top to let in the air. Therein we will also put a small keg of good beer, and ask him not to use it up too fast. In this way he will be, in fact, within the hall of the inn, and he will keep himself well hid for certain, for in his cupboard he will be able to take what pleasure he may from the songs of the drinkers, rattling of mugs, and clinking of bottles." "No," said Gans to that, "no, we must follow wholly the apothecary's advice, for he knows more about devils than we. As for this deviling, we will do our best to satisfy him, according to our means. But in spite of it all, I fear we shall one day be burnt, alas, alas!" VI. Wherein it is seen that the devil is not a good one; and of the evil trick which he played on the good wives of the drinkers. As soon as they reached The Horn, the two worthies took out from the cellar the statue of the deviling and put it with great respect on top of a press which stood in the hall. On the morrow there came to this inn nearly all the men of Uccle, brought together in this wise because on that day had been sold publicly in their stables two horses well bred by the late sheriff, Jacob Naeltjens. His son was in no mind to keep them, saying that a man's best steeds were his slipper-shoes. The men of Uccle were surprised and delighted when they saw the statue of the youngster on the press, especially when Blaeskaek told them that his name was Master Merry-face, and that it was proposed, by way of jest, to establish forthwith in his honour a jolly brotherhood. They were all willing to do this, and thereupon decided between them that no one should be of their brotherhood until he had drunk, as his baptism, four-and-twenty monstrous great cups of wine, while another brother beat twelve strokes on the plumpest belly of the company there present. Each night thereafter they gathered together at The Horn, and drank deep enough, as you may well guess. The most wonderful thing about the business was that in spite of this they worked all day like stout fellows, some at their crafts, some at their trades, others in the fields, contented one and all. But their good wives were not by any means contented, for as soon as vespers sounded all their husbands and sweethearts went off to The Horn, without giving them so much as a single thought, and there stayed until curfew. And when these worthies went home they did not beat their wives, as some drinkers do, but lay down quietly beside them in bed, and immediately, without saying a word, fell fast asleep and began to sound such fanfares with their noses as Master Porker makes with his snout. Then the poor women might thump them, cuff them, call their names as they would, to get them to sing their bedfellows a different sort of song, but all quite in vain: as well beat water to get fire out of it. They awoke only with cock-crow, but their temper in the morning was so rough and stormy that none of their womenfolk (that is to say, of such as were not asleep from weariness) dared say a word, either then or at the dinner-hour. All this was brought about by the evil power and influence of the deviling. On that account there was much sadness among the women, who said, all of them, that if such a state of things went on for long the race of the people of Uccle must needs become extinct, which would be a great pity. VII. Of the Great Parliament of the Women of Uccle. So it came about that the women decided between themselves to save the village from this fate, and to this end, while their menfolk were at drink with Pieter Gans, they met together at the house of a certain dame Syske, who was big, fat, loud-speaking, had hair upon her chin, and had buried five husbands, or else seven, I dare not particularize the number for fear of untruth. There, as a rebuke to their drunken husbands, they quenched their thirst with clear water. When all were present, the younger ones assembled on this side and the older on that, the ugly ones among the older, dame Syske opened the talk by saying that they must all go forthwith to The Horn, and there give these drinkers such a drubbing that they would be stiff and sore for a week because of it. The old and ugly ones applauded this proposal with their hands, their feet, their mouths, and their noses. There was a fine noise, you may well believe. But the young and pretty ones kept silent as fishes, all save one, very pretty, very fresh and very neat, bearing the name of Wantje, who said very modestly, and blushing somewhat, that it was of no use to belabour their worthy men in this fashion, but rather they must bring them back to good ways by gentleness and laughter. To this the dame Syske replied: "Little one, thou canst understand nothing of men, for thou art but a maid, or so I believe. For my part I know well enough how I managed my several husbands, and that was neither by gentleness nor by laughter, I promise thee. They are all dead, the worthy men (may God rest their souls!), but I remember them clearly, and know very well that at the least wrongdoing I made them dance the stick-dance on the field of obedience. None dared eat or drink, sneeze or yawn, unless I had first given him leave. Little Job Syske, my last, did my cooking for me in my own house. He made a good cook, poor little man. But I had to give him many good beatings to bring him to that, and so it was with the others as well. Therefore, little one, give up all these laughters and gentlenesses of thine, they are not worth much, I can tell thee. Let us rather go forthwith and cut ourselves good staves of greenwood, easy enough to find now that it is spring-time, and going off to The Horn let us make fall a good shower of blows on these unfaithful husbands." At this the old and ugly ones broke out afresh into monstrous howls and tumult, crying, "Out upon them! out on the drunkards! They want a good drubbing, they want a good hanging!" VIII. Of the great wit which every woman has, and of the modest conversation which the maid Wantje held with the worthies at the inn. On the morrow all these good women met together once again, and drank as before a great quantity of clear water; and afterwards went off, armed with sticks, to the place where they knew their men were to be found. Before the door of The Horn they stopped, and there a great council took place. The old ones wanted to go in with their sticks. "No," said Wantje, with the young and pretty ones, "we would rather be beaten ourselves." "Hark to these sillies!" cried the old ones, "these poor silly things. They have not an ounce of pride in their bodies, between the lot of them. Be guided by us, gentle ewekins: we will avenge the dignity of women for you upon these wretched drunkards." "That you shall not," said the young ones, "as long as we are there." "That we shall," howled the old ones. But here a certain young and merry wife burst out laughing. "See ye not," said she, "whence comes to these grannies so great a rage and such a thirst for vengeance? 'Tis simple bragging, to make us believe that their old croakers of husbands still care to sing them songs." At these words the old hags were thrown into such a state of fury that one or two died of rage there and then. Others, having quite lost their heads, wanted to kill the maids and young wives who were laughing at them (and 'twas pretty music, all those fresh and merry voices), but the dame Syske stopped them from that, saying that for the present they must take counsel together and not kill one another. Continuing their discussion, they quarrelled, argued, chattered, jabbered in this and like fashion until curfew-time, when they separated without having made up their minds to anything, by reason of not having had time enough to talk it over. And there were spoken in this assembly of women more than 877,849,002 words, each one as full of good sense as a cellarful of old wine. Pieter Gans, who, as they said, had rabbit's ears, hearing in the street a certain hum of chattering voices, cried out: "Alas, alas! what is this now? Devils for a certainty, dear Jesus!" "I will go and see, little coward," answered Blaeskaek. But on opening the door he burst out laughing all at once, saying: "Brothers, 'tis our wives." Thereupon all the drinkers rose and went to the door; some with bottles in their hands, others brandishing flagons, others again clinking their mugs together like church bells. Blaeskaek went out of the room, crossed the threshold of the outer door, and stepped into the street. "Well, wives," said he, "what brings you here with all this greenwood?" At these words the young ones let fall their sticks to the ground, for they were ashamed to be caught with such weapons. But one old woman, brandishing hers in the air, answered for the others: "We come, drunkards, to tell you the tale of the stick, and give you a good thrashing." "Woe, woe!" wept Pieter Gans, "that, I know, is my grandmother's voice." "So it is, scoundrel," said the old woman. Meanwhile the Brothers of the Cheerful Countenance, hearing all this, shook their sides merrily with laughing, and Blaeskaek said: "Then come in, come in, good wives, and let us see how you do your drubbing. Are those good greenwood staves you have brought?" "Yes," said they. "I am glad of that. For our part we have ready for you some good rods, well pickled in vinegar, which we use for whipping disobedient boys. 'Twill doubtless give you all sweet pleasure to feel their caresses, and so recall the days of your youth. Will you be pleased to try them? We will give you plenty." But at these scoffing words the old women took fright and ran off as fast as their legs would carry them, more particularly mother Syske, making such terrible threats and noises as they went that they sounded to those jolly Brothers like a flight of screeching crows passing down the deserted streets. The young ones stayed before the door of the inn, and 'twas affecting to see them so humbly standing, gentle and submissive, waiting for some kindly word from their husbands or sweethearts. "Well," said Blaeskaek, "do you please to come in?" "Yes," said they all. "Keep them out," said Pieter Gans into Blaeskaek's ear, "keep them out, or they will go chattering to the priests about the deviling, and we shall be burnt, my good friend." "I am deaf," said Blaeskaek; "come in, my dears." Thereupon entered all these good women, and took up their places, some by their husbands, others by their sweethearts, and the maids in a line on a bench modestly. "Women," said the drinkers, "you wish to join us?" "Yes," said they. "And to drink also?" "Yes," said they. "And have not come here to tell us temperance stories?" "Nay," said they, "we have come without any other wish than to join our good husbands and sweethearts, and laugh with them, if that may be, with God's good will." "Those are certainly fair words," said one old man, "but I suspect beneath them some woman's artifice or other." But no one paid him any heed, for by this time the women were seated all about the table, and you might hear this: "Drink this, pretty sweet, 'tis a draught from heaven." "Pour, neighbour, pour, pour out some more of this sweet drink." "Who is a better man than I? I am the Duke; I have good wine and good wife!" "Ho, there! broach a fresh cask of wine; we must have the best there is to-day to pleasure these good dames." "Courage! I have drunk too much; I am going to conquer the moon. But wait a little first. For the present I stay by this good wife of mine. Kiss me, sweet." "This is not the place, before all these people," the women would answer. And with many caresses and pretty ways each said to her man: "Come away home." They would indeed have been glad enough to go, all those good drinkers, but did not dare do it, being shamefaced in this matter in one another's presence. Guessing as much, the women talked of going back. "There, there!" said the old man, "is not that what I said. They want to have us outside." "Nay, my masters," said Wantje very sweetly, "but I pray you remember that we are not accustomed to such strong drinks, nor even to their smell. Therefore, master, if we feel the need to go out into the fresh air 'tis assuredly without wanting to anger or sadden you in any way whatsoever. May God keep you merry, brothers." And thereupon the good women went off, though the men tried to keep them back by force. IX. Wherein it is seen that the learned Thomas a Klapperibus knew what makes a drinker fidget on his stool. Left thus to their pots and tankards they turned to one another in wonder, saying: "Ah, look ye at these dames! Does it not always fall out in this wise; that they would have us do whatever they bid, and that with humility! Submissive they seem, tyrants they are. But look ye, is it to male or female that belongs properly the right of command in all matters? To the male. We are the males. Very well, then, let us drink! And we will at all times carry out our own wishes, which will presently be to sleep here in this inn, if we please." After this fashion they talked together for some time, feigning great anger, but being, in fact, eager enough to go and join their wives. By and by they fell silent, and so remained for a while, some yawning, others drumming tunes on the floor with their boots, others again, and these many, fidgeting on their seats, as if they were on sharp thorns. Suddenly a young townsman, but lately married, got up and left the hall, saying that by the advice of a leech he was forbidden to drink more than six-and-twenty mugs of ale, which number he had already taken. After he had gone they all began to excuse themselves, one with a pain in his stomach, another with a headache, others with a melancholy feeling or with the phlegm, and made off to their homes, excepting only one or two among the older men. And when they were once outside they hurried with all speed to join their wives. Thus was borne out what was written by the learned Thomas a Klapperibus in his great work De Amore, c. vi, wherein it is said, that woman has more power than the devil. X. Of the brigand called Irontooth. But this thing never happened but once; for on the morrow when the drinkers were carousing at The Horn the good women who came thither to entice them away a second time were driven off in a shameful manner. And as for the men, they continued to drink and to shout hilarious carols. Several times the night-watchman of the town came in to warn them against making so much noise after the sun was set. Ha, they listened to him with all respect, and seemed quite abashed and repentant at their fault; each one said his mea culpa; and in the meantime they gave the poor watchman so abundantly to drink that when he got outside he went off straight away to do his round leaning against some wall, and there snoring like a bass-viol. The others continued their drinking bouts and heavy slumbering, whereof the unhappy wives never ceased to complain. And so on, in this fashion, for a month and four days. Now by great misfortune the good Duke had lately been at war with my Lord of Flanders, and although peace had been made between them there remained afoot a band of lewd and ribald scoundrels, who went about ravishing all the countryside and robbing the townsfolk. This same band was commanded by a savage captain, to whom was given the name of Irontooth, because on the top of his casque he wore a single spike, sharp and cruel, like the tooth of some devil or of one of the unicorns of hell, cut out into fantastic shape. In battle he would sometimes put down his head and use this tooth as a wild boar uses his tusks. In this manner were slain many brave soldiers of the duchy of Brabant. On this same casque he carried also an evil bird whose wings beat against the steel, whereof it was said that it screeched in battle in a terrible fashion. It was Irontooth's custom to come at night to the villages on which he was minded to carry out his forays, butchering without mercy the poor townsfolk in their sleep, and carrying off jewels, plate, women, and maids, but of these last only the young ones. As for the old women, he left them their lives, saying that it was not worth the while of killing them, for they would certainly die of fright by themselves. XI. In which it is seen how bravely the good wives of Uccle did the duty of men. It came about that one night when only a few stars were showing, and the moon shining a little, there came to Uccle a certain Master André Bredael, running as hard as he could and quite out of breath. He brought this news: that being by chance behind a bush on the road to Paris, he had seen a troop of men go past, whom he thought to be the Irontooth's, for he had seen among them a spiked casque like that which the great brigand was wont to wear. While these men were halted by the roadside, and munching some food, he overheard them say that they were bound that night for Uccle, where they hoped to get good sport and fair plunder, but they said also that they must leave the high road and travel by small lanes, so that their passage should not be discovered. Master Bredael thought it most likely that they would debouch behind the church. Having learned so much he had hurried to Uccle by the Paris road, outdistancing the brigands by a good half-league, so that he might warn the townsmen to arms, and prepare a strong reception for these unwelcome travellers. And arriving there he hastened to the door of the prefecture and knocked loudly, so that the warning bell might be set ringing at once; but none came to open to him, for the good reason that the custodian, being one of the Brothers of the Cheerful Countenance, was fast asleep, like all the other drinkers. André Bredael then sought other means of alarum, and shouted out so loudly: "Fire! fire! Brand! brand!" that all the women and old men, and children who were too young to drink, leapt out of bed and ran to their windows to see what was going forward. André Bredael made himself known to them and begged them to come down into the square, which they did with all dispatch. When they were all gathered round him he told them of the coming of Irontooth, and bade them go and wake their husbands. At these words the older women began to shout as if mad: "Welcome to Irontooth, God's tooth in good deed, come to rip them all open! Ha, drinkers! now we shall see you, as a punishment from heaven, either hanged short or burnt alive or drowned without respite; and 'tis no more than your sins deserve!" Then, as if they had wings to their feet, they flew into their houses, and there Master Bredael, who stayed with the younger women in the square, heard the enraged old hags shouting, whining, weeping, vociferating, thumping on chests and frying-pans, in an attempt to awaken their good men. At the same time they cried in their ears: "Scoundrels, wake up! Sweet friends, come and protect us! Drunkards, do your duty for once in your accursed lives! Dear fellows, do you wish to find us dead by morning? Bear us no malice for our talk of thrashing you. We were foolish just then, and too hasty; ye were wise. But save us in this pass!" And so on, mixing together smooth and bitter words, like milk and vinegar. But none of the men stirred. "What is this?" said Master Bredael. "Alas, master," said the young women, "'tis as you see; they are as good as dead the night through, and so has it been a while past. If the angel of God himself were to come he would scarce be able to rouse them. Ah, must it be that after having left us lonely so long these wicked husbands will now leave us to die!" "Do not weep," said André Bredael, "this is no time for that. Do you love these husbands of yours?" "Yes," said they. "And your sons?" "Yes," said they. "And your little daughters, so sweet and winsome?" "Yes," said they. "And you are ready to defend them as best you can?" "Yes," said they. "Well, then," said Bredael, "go and fetch your men's bows and come back here with them as quickly as you can. We will think of some way to defend ourselves." Soon enough the women were back again, armed with bows which they had taken from their husbands, brothers, or sweethearts. These bows of Uccle were of great renown throughout the land, for they were as strong as steel, and winged their arrows with very great speed. With them came certain boys of twelve years old, or not much more, and one or two brave old men, but the women sent them back again indoors, saying that they must stay behind and look to the village. The good womenfolk then collected in a bunch in the square, talking with great ardour and courage, but not too much bragging withal. Every one was clad in a white gown, jacket, or shift, as is the customary night apparel of women. But on this occasion it was by the special favour of God that they were so clad, as you shall see by and by. Wantje, who was one of their number, standing very bold and calm, said suddenly that they must pray. Thereupon they all knelt devoutly, and the maid spoke thus: "Madam Mary the Virgin, who art queen of heaven as Madam the Duchess is queen of this country, give an ear to these poor wives and maids, humbly kneeling before you, who by reason of the drunkenness of their husbands and brothers must needs take on themselves men's duty and arm themselves to fight. If you will but make a small prayer to My Lord Jesus to give us his aid we shall be sure enough of victory. And we will give you as thanksgiving a fair crown of gold, with rubies, turquoises and diamonds in its rim, a fair golden chain, a fair robe of brocade spangled over with silver, and the same to My Lord your son. Therefore pray for us, Madam Mary." And all the other good maids and wives said after Wantje: "Pray for us, Madam Mary." Suddenly, as they were rising from their knees, they saw a beautiful bright star shoot from heaven to earth, not far from where they were. This was, no doubt, an angel from the good God, who came down from Paradise in this guise, to stand beside them and help them the more surely. Seeing the sign the good women took heart of grace, and Wantje spoke further, saying: "Madam the Virgin hearkens to us, 'tis certain. Let us now proceed to the gate of the village, beside the church of Our Lord, who dwells therein"--here all crossed themselves--"to await with confidence the coming of the Irontooth and his men. And when we see them near at hand let every woman draw her bow, without speaking, nor moving in any way. Madam the Virgin will guide the arrows." "Well spoken, brave maid," said Master Bredael. "Come, I see in those eyes of thine, so bright in the darkness, the breath of God, which is a flame, alight in thy maid's heart. We must do as she says, good wives." "Yes, yes," said they. This woman's army took up its place in line in the alley behind the church. After a while of waiting, wherein was much perplexity and anxiety, they heard the sound of footfalls and voices, growing louder as they listened, as of men on the march. And Wantje said: "Madam Mary, they are coming; have pity on us!" Then a large body of men appeared before them, carrying lanterns. And they heard a monstrous, husky, devil's voice crying: "Out, friends, out upon them! Loot for the Irontooth!" But here suddenly all these good women let fly their arrows with great precision, for though they themselves remained in darkness they could see the brigands, all lit up by their lanterns, as clearly as in daylight. Two hundred of the men fell at the first volley, some with arrows in their skulls, others in their necks, and several with them in their bellies. The Irontooth himself was among the first that the good women heard fall with a great thud, from an arrow let fly by Wantje, which pierced him through the eyeball neatly. Some were not wounded at all, but, having troubled conscience, thought when they saw all these white figures that 'twas the souls of those whom they had made pass from life into death, come back by God's grace to avenge themselves upon them. So they fell on their faces in the dust, as if dead from fear, crying out in a most piteous manner: "Mercy, Lord God! send back to hell all these ghosts, we pray you." But when they saw the good wives bearing down on them fear put strength into their legs, and they made off as fast as they would carry them. XII. Wherein Pieter Gans is nearer the stake than the wine-barrel. When the enemy had been so far discomfited the women came back into the square and stood before the prefecture, not feeling any glory, but rather sadness at having had to shed Christian blood in this manner. Ah, they returned thanks with a full heart to Our Lady the Virgin and Our Lord Jesus, who had given them the victory. Nor did they forget in their thanksgiving the good angel who had come to their assistance in the form of a bright star. And they sang fair hymns and litanies very sweetly. Meanwhile all the cocks in the countryside awoke one by one and heralded with their clarions the new day about to dawn. And at that call, all the drinkers were roused from sleep, and ran to their doors to find out whence came this sweet music. And my lord the Sun laughed in the sky. And the worthy men came out into the square, and some of them, when they saw their wives in the assembly, were all for beating them because they had left their beds; but André Bredael interposed and told them the whole story. Thereupon they were all amazed, ashamed, and repentant, seeing how well these brave petticoats had striven on their behalf. Pieter Gans, Blaeskaek, and Father Claessens, Dean of Uccle, a most saintly man, also came out into the square. Thereupon, seeing all this crowd assembled, Master Bredael spoke thus: "Friends," said he, "you hear how that 'tis through the valour of your wives and daughters alone that you are not by this time sniffing the air of heaven. Therefore 'tis seemly that here and now you should promise, and take oath to it, not to drink any more except by their wish." "That is all very well, Master Bredael," said one of the townsmen, "but 'tis not plain drinking that puts us all into so deep a sleep. I speak of these things with knowledge, I who have drunk wine freely all my life, and hope still so to do with relish to the end of my days. There is something else to it, devilry and evil spells, or so I think. Come hither, Pieter Gans, come hither and talk to us somewhat, and if thou know anything, bring light to this dark matter." "Alas, alas!" said Pieter Gans, his head wagging and his teeth chattering (for he was afraid, poor fellow), "alas, alas! I know nothing, my good friends." "Nay," said the man, "but thou dost know something of it, for I see thy head shaking and thy teeth chattering." But at this point the Dean confronted Gans: "Wicked Christian," said he, "I can see well enough thou hast had commerce with the devil, to the great despite of all these good men. Confess thy sin with all humility, and we will accord thee such grace as may be, but if thou deny it, thou shalt be punished with hot oil." "Ah," said Pieter Gans in tears, "'tis as I said; I shall be burnt, dear God! Blaeskaek, where art thou, my good friend? Give me thy help. Alas, alas!" But Blaeskaek had gone off in a hurry from fear of the holy Fathers. "Ah," said Pieter Gans, "see how the traitor deserts me when danger threatens!" "Speak," said the very reverend Father. "Yes, Master Dean," said Pieter Gans, weeping and wailing, "I will tell you the whole story, without keeping back anything.... Master!" he cried when he had come to the end of his recital, "if you will not punish me too heavily, Master, I will give all my poor savings as a perpetual gift to the Church. I am a true Christian, that I vow, and no heretic. Moreover, I wish not to die until I have had sufficient time to do long and full penance. But have me not boiled in oil before I have had that time, I beg of you." "As to that," answered the Dean, "we shall see. Now take us to the place where this devil is to be seen." By that time they were close to the church, and the priest went in to get therefrom some holy water before they started. Then all the men, women, and children of the village took their way to The Horn. There the Dean demanded to see what had been the cause of those wicked spells which had been cast over so many worthy men, and Pieter Gans, with all humility, showed him the deviling, still smiling and holding his staff of vine-branches in his hand. And all the women, after looking at him for some time, said that he was very comely for a devil. The priest first crossed himself, then, dipping his fingers in the holy water, anointed therewith the brow, breast, and belly of the statue, which thereupon, by the grace of God, crumbled into dust, and a sorrowful voice was heard saying: "Oi moi, ô phôs, tethnêka!" And these words of the devil were explained by the priest to signify, in the Greek tongue: "Woe is me! Light! I die!" XIII. Of the great wonder and astonishment of My Lord the Duke when he heard of the valour of the women of Uccle. In the meantime the village sent to the Duke two trusty men, with a message to that high prince informing him in due order all that had occurred. These men met him already on his way to Uccle, for he had learnt by his runners the Irontooth's design, and knowing full well where he would find him was coming against him at all speed with a strong force of horsemen. As soon as the messengers saw who it was coming along the road they went down on their knees, but the good Duke would have none of this, and made them rise and walk at his stirrup. Before they had gone far they reached the scene of the brigands' discomfiture. At the sight of all those heaped-up bodies the Duke halted, greatly astonished and no less pleased. "And who," quoth he, "has slain all these scoundrels in this wise?" "Our womenfolk," said one of the messengers. "What is this thou'rt telling me?" said the Duke with a frown. "Before God, My Lord," said the man, "I will tell you the whole story." And so he did. "Well," said the Duke when he had done, "who would have thought it of these good wives? I will reward them well for it." So saying he caused the casque of the Irontooth to be taken up and carried away. This casque was to be seen for many years in the armoury of My Lord Charles, who had it guarded with the utmost care. XIV. In what manner was instituted the Order of the Women-Archers of Uccle and of the fine reward which My Lord gave to the brave maid Wantje. On entering Uccle the good Duke saw coming towards him a large body of people, and in their midst a man crying out in a most piteous voice: "Master! Master Priest! let me not be boiled!" To which the answer was: "We shall see." "Whence comes all this noise?" said the Duke. But as soon as Pieter Gans saw who it was he ran towards him and threw his arms round his horse's legs. "My Lord," he cried, "My Lord Duke, let me not be boiled!" "And why," said the Duke, "should they boil one of my good men of Uccle?" But the very reverend Father Claessens, stepping forward, told him the whole story with great indignation, while Pieter Gans continued to blubber alongside in a most melancholy fashion. And thereon followed such confusion, with the one weeping and groaning, the other denouncing and syllogizing, and each so vehemently, that the good Duke could not tell which to listen to. Suddenly Wantje came forward out of the press, and, like Pieter Gans, cried: "Mercy and pity!" "My Lord," said the maid, "this man has sinned greatly against God, but only from simpleness of mind and a natural cowardice. The devil frightened him; he submitted to the devil. Pardon him, My Lord, for our sakes." "Maid," said the Duke, "that was well spoken, and 'tis to thee I will hearken." But the very reverend Father: "My Lord," said he, "forgets to think of God." "Father," said the Duke, "I am not forgetful of that duty. Nevertheless I think he takes little pleasure in watching Christian fat smoke or a good man's flesh boil, but likes rather to see men gentle and kind, and not giving their fellows penance to do. And on this day when Our Lady the Virgin has deigned to perform a miracle for our sakes I will not sadden her mother's heart by the death of a Christian. Therefore none of the accused, neither this Pieter Gans nor any other there may be, shall this time go to the stake." On hearing this Pieter Gans burst out laughing like a madman, and began to dance and sing, crying out the while: "Praise to My Lord! I am not to be boiled. Brabant to the Good Duke!" And all the townsfolk called out after him: "Praise to My Lord!" Then the Duke bade them be silent, and smiling: "Well, dames," said he, "who have this night done man's work so valiantly, come hither that I may give you a man's reward. First of all, to the bravest one among you I give this great chain of gold. Which is she?" The good women pushed Wantje forward before the Duke. "Ah," said he, "'tis thee, sweet pleader. Wilt kiss me, though I be old?" "Yes, My Lord," said the maid. And so she did, notwithstanding that she was a little shamefaced over it. And the good Duke, having hung the chain round her neck, spoke further in this wise: "As for you all, good dames, who have this night so gallantly carried arms, I institute among you a most honourable Order, under the protection of Madam Mary the Virgin, and I direct that there shall be set up in this place a staff of a good length, and that each Sunday you shall come together here and draw the bow in archery, in memory of the time when with those bows you saved the lives of your husbands and children. And there shall be a fair crown of laurel and a fair purseful of golden peters, bright and new, to be awarded annually to the best archer of the year, and brought to her on a cushion by all the others together. And this purse will dower her if she be a maid, or, if she be a wife, will stand her in good stead against a time of famine." In this manner was instituted the Order of Women-Archers of Uccle, who still draw the bow like men every Sunday, under the protection of Our Lady the Virgin. THE THREE SISTERS I. Of the three noble ladies and their great beauty. In the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 690, lived three maidens, descended, by male issue, from the noble line of the great emperor Octavian. Their names were Blanche, Claire, and Candide. Though they had dedicated the flower of their maidenhead to God, it is not to be supposed that this was for lack of lovers. For, on every day that passed, a crowd of people used to collect for nothing else than to see them go by on their way to church, and onlookers would say of them: "See what gentle eyes, see what white hands!" More than one, besides, with his mouth watering to look at them, would say sorrowfully: "Must it be that such sweet maids as these should dedicate themselves to God, who has eleven thousand or more in his Paradise already." "But none so fair," answered an old wheezing merchant behind them, who was drinking in the fragrance of their dresses. And going off on his way, if the old man saw any young fellow loafing by the roadside, or lying on his belly in the grass to warm his back in the sun, he would give him a kick in the ribs, saying: "Well now, dost thou care nothing to see the finest flowers of beauty that were ever blowing?" II. How a prince of Araby was taken with love for the youngest sister, and what came of it. Not a few young men tried to win them in marriage, but failing in this endeavour, turned moody and pined visibly away. Among them was a certain prince of Araby, who had himself baptized with great ceremony. And this for the sake of the youngest sister solely. But, failing to attain his end, either by pleading or by force, set himself one morning before her door, and there let himself fall on his sword. The maid, hearing this fair lord cry out, came down in haste and had him carried in and laid on her own bed; whereat (for he was not quite dead) he found great solace. And when she bent over him to bathe and dress his wound, he roused what force he had left in him, kissed her on her red mouth, sighed like a man delivered from torment, and so gave up his soul happily. But the maid was not at all pleased at this kiss, for she considered it a dishonour to her divine husband Jesus. Nevertheless she wept for the fair lord, a little. III. Wherein it is seen how Satan persecutes those ladies who seek to escape from the world. There were oftentimes a great crowd of suitors before the dwelling of the three ladies, some of them sighing laments, others prancing up and down on fine horses, others without uttering a word, but only looking up at the windows all the day long. And oftentimes these men would fight together and kill one another, from jealousy. At this the ladies were saddened exceedingly. "Ah," said the two elder to their sister, "pray for us, white Blanche, white of soul and white of body, pray for us, little one. Jesus listens readily to the prayers of such maids as thou art." "My sisters," answered she, "I am less worthy than you, but I will pray, if you so wish it." "Yes," said they. Then the three sisters knelt down, and the youngest prayed in this manner: "Kind Jesus, we have sinned against you assuredly, else you would not have let our beauty so touch these wicked men. Yes, we have indeed sinned, but, weaklings that we are, despite ourselves, Lord. Ah, grant us pardon for our great sorrow. You would have us for your own, and so indeed we have kept ourselves: our youth and beauty, mirth and sadness, vows and prayers, souls and bodies, thoughts and deeds, everything. In the morning, at noon, and at vesper-time, at all hours and all moments, do we not have you in our minds? When your bright sun rises, O beloved, and no less when your bright stars shine in your heaven, they can see us at prayer, and offering to you, not gold, frankincense, or myrrh, but our humble loves and our poor hearts. That is not enough, we know well. Dear one, teach us to do more." Pausing here they sighed sorrowfully, all three. "Kind Jesus," went on the youngest sister, "we know well enough the desire of these men. They think themselves brave and handsome, and hope on this account to capture our love, but they are neither handsome, nor brave, nor good, as you are, Jesus. And yours we are and shall be always, and theirs never. Will you please to love us also a little, for you alone are our comfort and joy in this sad world, Jesus? We will not be unfaithful to you in anything. Ah, let us rather die quickly, for we hunger and thirst for you. If you will, let these evil men continue to pursue us with their loves, 'twill be but delight to suffer it for your sake. Nevertheless, the mortal husband leaves not his wife in danger, nor the betrothed his bride. Are you not better than they, and will you not keep us also from the snares of the enemy? If it be not pleasing to you, do nothing, but then it may be that one day some one will steal from us our virginity, which is yours only. Ah, dear beloved, rather let us pass our lives old, ugly, leprous, and then descend into purgatory, among devils, flame, and brimstone, there to wait until you deem us pure enough at length to take us into your Paradise, where we shall be allowed to see you and love you for ever. Have pity upon us. Amen." And having spoken thus, the poor child wept, and her sisters with her, saying: "Pity, Jesus, pity." IV. Of the voice of the divine bridegroom, and of the horseman in silvern armour. Suddenly they heard a low voice saying: "Take heart." "Hark," they said, "the husband deigns to speak to his brides." And presently the room was filled with a perfume more delicate than that of a censer burning finest frankincense. Then the voice spake further: "To-morrow," it said, "when dawn breaks, go out from the town. Mount your palfreys, and, riding without halt, follow the road without heeding whither it leads. I will guide you." "We will obey you," they said, "for you have made us the happiest of the daughters of men." And rising from their knees, they kissed one another joyfully. While the voice was speaking to them, there had come into the square a beautiful horseman in silvern armour, with a golden helm on his head, and, flying above that like a bird, a crest more brilliant than a flame. The horse whereon he rode was of pure white. None of those there had seen him coming, and he was as if risen from the ground among the crowd of lovers, who, seized with fear, dared not look him in the face. "Rascals," quoth he, "take these horses away out of the square. Do you not know that the noise of their hooves troubles these three ladies in their prayers?" And therewith he rode away towards the east. "Ah," said the lovers to one another, "saw you that silvern armour and that flaming crest? 'Twas an angel of God assuredly, come from Paradise for the sake of these three ladies." The more insistent among them muttered: "He did not forbid us to stand on foot before the door, and in that wise we may yet remain with impunity." V. How, by the command of God, the three ladies rode to adventure. On the morrow, therefore, before daylight, the suitors returned once again in great numbers, but first left their horses behind them in their stables. Soon after daybreak they saw the three ladies ride out from their courtyard, in obedience to the command which God had given them, each one mounted upon her palfrey. Supposing that they were but going out into the neighbouring meadows to take the clean air, they followed behind, one and all, singing merry carols in their honour. For so long as they were in the streets of the town the palfreys moved slowly, but once out in the open country they began galloping. The lovers tried still to follow them, but at last were forced to drop off, and fell one by one along the wayside. When they had covered some miles the palfreys stood still; and the three ladies, seeing that they had come free of their pursuers, resolved to give honour to God for his aid, and to this end to build him a fair church. Where? They did not know. But the thing was already decided in Paradise, as you shall see. For as soon as they were once again on their horses, the animals, guided by God's holy spirit, set off at a high trot. And leapt rivers, threaded forests, passed through towns, whereof the gates opened of themselves to let them by, and closed again after, bounded over walls and like obstacles. And startled every one they met, all amazed to see go by, quick as the wind, these three white horses and these three fair ladies. And travelled in this way for a thousand leagues, or rather more. VI. Of the diamond hammers, and foundations torn up from the ground. At Haeckendover, in the duchy of Brabant, the palfreys stood still once again, and neighed. And would not go one step forward, nor back. For this was where God had chosen to have his church. But the ladies, supposing that they had stopped there because they were tired, went on as far as Hoy-Bout on foot, and there determined to start building. Therefore they sent for the most skilful workers in stone, and master-builders also, in so great number that at the end of one day the foundations were two hands' breadth high in the lowest part. And seeing this good beginning the ladies rejoiced greatly, and supposed their work agreeable to God. But on the morrow, alas, found all the stones torn up out of the ground. Thinking that by chance some traitor heretic had been buried in that place, who at night shook down the stones of their church with the trembling of his accursed bones, they removed to Steenen-Berg with their workmen, and there started afresh in the same manner as at Hoy-Bout. But on the morrow morning found the walls once again out of the ground. For the Lord Jesus was minded to be worshipped more particularly at Haeckendover. And sent, therefore, his angels by night, with hammers of diamond from the workshops of Paradise. And bade them tear down the work of the three ladies. Therefore the sisters, greatly perplexed and wondering, went down on their knees, praying God that he would tell them where he wished to have his church. VII. Of the youngest sister and the beautiful angel. And suddenly they saw a young man, of a beauty more than earthly, clad in a robe of the colour of the setting sun. Kindly he looked at them. Knowing him for God's angel, the three ladies fell on their faces before him. But the youngest, bolder than the others, as is the way with children, dared to steal a look at the fair ambassador, and, seeing him so comely, took heart and smiled. The angel took her by the hand, saying to her and to her sisters: "Come and follow me." This they did. And thence they came to the spot where the church now stands, and the angel said to them: "This is the place." "Thank you, My Lord," said the youngest joyously. VIII. How the three ladies saw a green island, with sweet flowers and birds thereon. At that time it was thirteen days past the feast of the Kings; snow had fallen heavily and set hard in frost after, by reason of a north wind which was blowing. And the three ladies saw before them, among the snow, as it were a green island. And this island was girt about with a cord of purple silk. And upon the island the air was fresh as in spring, and roses were blowing, with violets and jessamine, whose smell is like balm. But outside was naught but storm, north wind, and terrible cold. Towards the middle, where now stands the grand altar, was a holm-oak, covered with blossom as if it had been a Persian jessamine. In the branches, warblers, finches and nightingales sang to their hearts' content the sweetest songs of Paradise. For these were angels, who had put on feathered guise, carolling in this fashion in God's honour. One fair nightingale, the sweetest singer of them all, held in his right claw a roll of parchment, whereon was written in letters of gold: "This is the place chosen by God and shown by him to the three maidens for the building of a church to the glory of Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ." Great was the joy of the ladies at that sight, and the youngest said to the angel: "We see certainly that God loves us somewhat; what must we do now, My Lord Angel?" "Thou must build the church here, little one," answered the messenger, "and choose for this work twelve of the most skilled workmen, neither more nor less; God himself will be the thirteenth." And having said so much he returned to high heaven. IX. Of the church of Our Lord at Haeckendover, and of the strange mason who worked there. Then all three went off in haste to choose from among the others the twelve good workmen who should set up the foundations of the church where they had seen the cord of purple silk. The work went on so well that it was a pleasure to see the stones mounting up, straight and quickly. But the miracle was this, that during the hours of labour the masons were always thirteen in number, but at dinner and at paytime twelve only. For the Lord Jesus was pleased to work with the others, but neither ate nor drank with them; he who in Paradise had such fine broth and such sweet fruits, and wine from the fountain of Saphir, which is a fountain giving forth without intermission wine of a richer yellow than liquid gold itself. Nor did he suffer for want of money; for that is an evil reserved to us needy, piteous, and ill-faring mortals. The building advanced so well that soon the bell was hung in the tower as a sign that the church was finished. Then the three maids entered in together; and, falling on her knees, the youngest said: "By whom, divine husband and beloved Jesus, shall we dedicate this church built for your service?" To which the Lord Jesus replied: "It is I Myself who will consecrate and dedicate this church; let none come after me to consecrate it anew." X. Of the two bishops, and the withered hands. By and by two venerable bishops passed through Haeckendover, and seeing the new church were minded to give it their blessing. They knew nothing of the words of Jesus to the three ladies, or they would not have thought of such temerity. But they were punished terribly none the less. For as one of them was about to bless the water for this purpose he became suddenly blind. And the other, who was holding the holy water brush, when he lifted his arms for the blessing, found them suddenly withered and stiffened, so that he could no longer move them. And perceiving that they had sinned in some way the two bishops were filled with repentance and prayed to the Lord Jesus to pardon them. And they were straightway pardoned, seeing that they had sinned in ignorance. And thereafter they came oftentimes most devoutly to Haeckendover. SIR HALEWYN I. Of the two castles. Sir Halewyn lifted up his voice in a song. And whatever maid heard that song must needs go to him straight away. And now to all good Flemings will I tell the tale of this Halewyn and his song, and of the brave maid Magtelt. There were two proud castles in the province of Flanders. In one dwelt Sir Roel de Heurne, with the lady Gonde, his good wife; Toon the Silent, his son; Magtelt, his fair daughter, and a host of pages, grooms, varlets, men-at-arms, and all the other members of the household, among whom an especial favourite was Anne-Mie, a girl of gentle blood, maid to the lady Magtelt. Of everything that was made by his peasants, Sir Roel took naught but what was the best. And the peasants said of him that it was a good master who took only as much as he needed, when he might have left them with nothing. In the other castle lived Sir Halewyn the Miserable, with his father, brother, mother, and sister, and a large following of rascals and brigands. And these were an ill-favoured crew, I can tell you, past masters of robbery, pillage, and murder, such as it is not good to meet at too close quarters. II. Of Dirk, called the Crow. This family were issue by direct line of Dirk, the first of the Halewyns, to whom was given the name of the Crow, because he was as greedy of booty as a crow is of carrion. And also because he was clad all in black, and his men with him. This Dirk, who lived in the time of the great wars, was like a thunderbolt in battle, where, with his only weapon, a heavy club, furnished with a beak at one side, he broke javelins, splintered lances, and tore away mail as if it had been cloth; and no one could well resist his onslaught. And in this manner he so frightened his enemies that when they saw Dirk and his black soldiers bearing down upon them, shouting, yelling, without fear of any one, and in great number, they gave themselves up for dead before ever battle was joined. When victory was won and the more important booty divided (whereof Dirk always secured the lion's share and never came off badly), the other barons and their knights would leave the rest of the field to him and his followers, and would go off, saying: "The pieces are for the crow." No other man-at-arms would dare to stay behind then, or he would have been quickly taken and slain without waiting. And thereafter Dirk's men would begin to play the crow in earnest; cutting off fingers to get the rings on them, even of those not yet dead, who cried out to them for succour; chopping off heads and arms so that they might pull away clothes the more easily. And they even fought amongst themselves, and sometimes killed one another, over the bodies of the dead, for the sake of neck-pieces, straps of hide, or more paltry stuff still. And stayed sometimes on the battlefield over this business three days and three nights. When all the dead were stark naked they piled up their gains into carts which they brought for this purpose. And with these they returned to Dirk's castle, there to hold high revel and have good cheer. On the way they fought the peasants, taking whatever women and girls were at all comely, and did with them what they pleased. In this way they passed their lives fighting, pillaging, robbing the helpless, and caring nothing at all for either God or devil. Dirk the Crow became exceedingly powerful and got very much worship, both by reason of his prowess in battle and from the fact that My Lord the Count gave him after his victories the demesne of Halewyn, with powers of seigneury, both of the higher and the lower order. And he had a fine escutcheon made for himself, wherein was a crow sable on a field or, with this device: The pieces are for the Crow. III. Of Sir Halewyn and how he carried himself in his youth. But to this strong Crow were born children of a quite other kind. For they were all, strangely enough, men of the quill and writing-desk, caring nothing for the fine arts of war, and despising all arms. These great clerks lost a good half of their heritage. For each year some stronger neighbour would rob them of a piece of it. And they begot puny and miserable children, with pale faces, who passed their time, as clerks are wont, lurking in corners, sitting huddled on stools, and whining chants and litanies in a melancholy fashion. Thus came to an end the good men of the line. Siewert Halewyn, who was the wretch of whom I am to tell you this tale, was as ugly, puny, woebegone, and sour-faced as the others, or even worse than they. And like them he was always lurking and hiding in corners, and shirking company, hated the sound of laughter, sweated ill-humour, and, moreover, was never seen to lift his head skywards like an honest man, but was all the while looking down at his boots, wept without reason, grumbled without cause, and never had any satisfaction in anything. For the rest he was a coward and cruel, delighting during his childhood in teasing, frightening and hurting puppies and kittens, sparrows, thrushes, finches, nightingales, and all small beasts. And even when he was older, he hardly dared to attack so large a thing as a wolf, though he were armed with his great sword. But as soon as the beast was brought down he would rain blows on it with high valour. So he went on until he was old enough to marry. IV. How Sir Halewyn wished to take himself a wife, and what the ladies and gentlewomen said to it. Then, since he was the oldest of the family, he was sent off to the court of the Count, there to find himself a wife. But every one laughed at him, on account of his marvellous ugliness, more particularly the ladies and gentlewomen, who made fun of him among themselves, saying: "Look at this fine knight! What is he doing here? He has come to marry us, I suppose.--Who would have him, for four castles, as many manors, ten thousand peasants and half the gold in the province? None.--And that is a pity, for between them they would get fine children, if they were to be like their father!--Ho, what fine hair he has, the devil must have limned it with an old nail; what a fine nose, 'tis like a withered plum, and what fair blue eyes, so marvellously ringed round with red.--See, he is going to cry! That will be pretty music." And Sir Halewyn, hearing the ladies talk after this fashion, could not find a word to answer them with, for between anger, shame, and sorrow his tongue was fast stuck to the roof of his mouth. Nevertheless he would take a lance at every tournament, and every time would be shamefully overcome, and the ladies, seeing him fall, would applaud loudly, crying out: "Worship to the ill-favoured one! The old crow has lost his beak." Thus they compared him, for his shame, with Dirk, the old stock of the Halewyns, who had been so mighty in his day. And, acclaimed in this fashion every time he jousted, Sir Halewyn would go back from the field in sorrow to his pavilion. V. How it came about that Sir Halewyn, after a certain tournament, called upon the devil for aid. At the third tournament wherein he was beaten there were on the field his father, mother, brother, and sister. And his father said: "Well, look at my fine son, Siewert the soft, Siewert the overthrown, Siewert the faint-heart, coming back from jousting with his tail between his legs, like a dog thrashed with a great stick." And his mother said: "I suppose for certain that My Lord the Count has put a gold chain round thy neck, and acclaimed thee publicly, for having so valiantly in this jousting jousted on thy back, as in the old days my lord of Beaufort was wont to make thee do. Holy God! that was a fine tumble." And his sister said: "Welcome, my fair brother, what news do you bring? Thou wert the victor for certain, as I see from thy triumphant mien. But where is the wreath of the ladies?" And his brother said: "Where is your lordly bearing, My Lord Siewert Halewyn the elder, descendant of the Crow with the great beak? For such a Crow vanquishes without much trouble eagles, goshawks, shrikes, gerfalcons, sparrow-hawks. Are you not thirsty, my brother, with the thirst of a baron, of a victor, I will not say of a villein? We have here some fine frog's wine, which will cool the fires of victory in your belly." "Ha," answered the Sire, grinding his teeth, "if God gave me strength, I would make thee sing a different song Sir Brother." And saying this, he pulled out his sword to do so, but the younger, parrying his thrust, cried out: "Bravo, uncrowlike Crow! Bravo, capon! Raise up our house, I beg of thee, Siewert the victorious!" "Ha," said the Sire, "and why does this chatterer not go and joust as well as I? But he would not dare, being that kind of coward who looks on at others, folding his arms and making fun of those who strive." Then he dismounted from his horse, went off and hid himself in his chamber, cried out to the four walls in a rage, prayed to the devil to give him strength and beauty, and promised him, on the oath of a knight, that he would give him his soul in exchange. So he called on him all through the night, crying out, weeping, bewailing his lot, minded at times even to kill himself. But the devil did not come, being busy elsewhere. VI. Of the rovings and wanderings of Sir Halewyn. Every day after this, whether it were fair or foul, light sky or dark, storm or gentle breeze, rain, snow, or hail, Sir Halewyn wandered alone through the fields and woods. And children, seeing him, ran away in fear. "Ah," said he, "I must be very ugly!" And he went on with his wandering. But if on his way he met some common man who had strength and beauty, he would bear down on him and oftentimes kill him with his sword. And every one grew to shun him, and to pray to God that he would soon remove their Lord from this world. And every night, Sir Halewyn called on the devil. But the devil would not come. "Ah," said the Sire sorrowfully, "if thou wilt only give me strength and beauty in this life, I will give thee my soul in the other. 'Tis a good bargain." But the devil never came. And he, restless, always in anguish and melancholy, was soon like an old man to look at, and was given the name throughout the country of the Ill-favoured Lord. And his heart was swollen with hatred and anger. And he cursed God. VII. Of the Prince of the Stones and of the song. One day in the season of plum-picking, having roved over the whole countryside, and even as far as Lille, on the way back to his castle he passed through a wood. Ambling along he saw among the undergrowth, alongside an oak, a stone which was of great length and broad in proportion. And he said: "That will make me a good seat, comfortable enough to rest on for a little while." And sitting down on the stone he once again prayed to the devil to let him have health and beauty. By and by, although it was still daylight, and the small birds, warblers and finches, sang in the woods joyously, and there was a bright sun and a soft wind, Sir Halewyn went off to sleep, for he was very tired. Having slept until it was night, he was suddenly awakened by a strange sound. And he saw, by the light of the high moon and the clear stars, as it were a little animal, with a coat like a mossy stone, who was scratching up the earth beneath the rock, now and again thrusting his head into the hole he had made, as a dog does hunting moles. Sir Halewyn, thinking it was some wild thing, hit at it with his sword. But the sword was broken at its touch, and a little mannikin of stone leapt up on to his shoulders, and smote his cheeks sharply with his hard hands, and said, wheezing and laughing: "Seek, Siewert Halewyn; seek song and sickle, sickle and song; seek, seek, ill-favoured one!" And so saying he hopped about like a flea on the back of the Miserable, who bent forward as he was bid, and with a piece of his sword dug in the hole. And the stony cheek of the little mannikin was alongside his own, and his two eyes lit up the hole better than lanterns would have done. And biting Halewyn's flesh with his sharp teeth, striking him with his little fists, and with his nails pinching and pulling him, and laughing harshly, the little mannikin said: "I am the Prince of the Stones, I have fine treasures; seek, seek, Miserable!" And saying this, he pommelled him beyond endurance. "He wants," he screamed, mocking him, "Siewert Halewyn wants strength and beauty, beauty and strength; seek then, Miserable." And he pulled out his hair in handfuls, and tore his dress with his nails until he was all in rags, and kept saying, with great bursts of laughter: "Strength and beauty, beauty and strength; seek, seek, Miserable!" And he hung from his ears with his two hands, and kicked his stone feet in his face, notwithstanding that the Sire cried out with pain. And the little mannikin said: "To get strength and beauty, seek, Halewyn, a song and a sickle, seek, Sir Miserable!" And the Miserable went on scratching out the earth with his piece of sword. Suddenly the earth fell away under the stone, leaving a great hole open, and Halewyn, by the light of the mannikin's eyes, saw a sepulchre, and within the sepulchre a man lying, who was of marvellous beauty and had none of the appearance of death. This man was clad all in white, and in his hands held a sickle, whereof both handle and blade were of gold. "Take the sickle," quoth the little mannikin, thumping his head with his fists. Sir Halewyn did as he was bid, and straightway the man in the tomb became dust, and from the dust came a white flame, tall and spreading, and from the white flame a wonderfully sweet song. And suddenly all about the wood was spread a perfume of cinnamon, frankincense, and sweet marjoram. "Sing," said the mannikin, and the Miserable repeated the song. While he was singing his harsh voice was changed to a voice sweeter than an angel's, and he saw coming out of the depths of the wood a virgin of heavenly beauty and wholly naked; and she came and stood before him. "Ah," she said, weeping, "master of the golden sickle. I come, for I must obey; do not make me suffer too much in the taking of my heart, master of the golden sickle." Then the virgin went away into the depths of the wood; and the mannikin, bursting out into laughter, threw Sir Halewyn down on to the ground, and said: "Hast song and sickle; so shalt thou have strength and beauty; I am the Prince of the Stones; farewell, cousin." And Halewyn, picking himself up, saw no more of either the mannikin or the naked maid; and studying well the golden sickle, and pondering in his mind what could be the meaning of the man in the tomb and the naked virgin, and inquiring within himself in perplexity what use he could make of the sickle and the sweet song, he saw suddenly on the blade a fair inscription, written in letters of fire. But he could not read the writing, for he was ignorant of all the arts; and, weeping with rage, he threw himself into the bushes, crying out: "Help me, Prince of the Stones. Leave me not to die of despair." Thereupon the mannikin reappeared, leapt upon his shoulder, and, giving him a stout rap on the nose, read on one side of the blade of the sickle this inscription which follows: Song calls, Sickle reaps. In the heart of a maid shalt thou find: Strength, beauty, honour, riches, From the hands of a dead virgin. And upon the other side of the blade the mannikin read further: Whoso thou art shalt do this thing, Writing read and song sing: Seek well, hark and go; No man shall lay thee low. Song calls, Sickle reaps. And having read this the mannikin went away once more. Suddenly the Miserable heard a sad voice saying: "Wilt thou seek strength and beauty in death, blood, and tears?" "Yes," said he. "Ambitious heart, heart of stone," answered the voice. Then he heard nothing more. And he gazed at the sickle with its flaming letters until such time as My Lord Chanticleer called his hens awake. VIII. What Halewyn did to the little girl cutting faggots. The Miserable was overjoyed at what had come about, and inquired within himself whether it would be in the heart of a virgin child or of a marriageable virgin that he would find what was promised him, and so satisfy his great desire for worship and power. Pondering this he went a little way through the wood and stationed himself near to some cottages where he knew there were maids of divers ages, and there waited until morning. Soon after the sun was up, a little girl came out, nine years old, or rather less, and began collecting and cutting up faggots. Going up to her, he sang the song and showed her the sickle. Whereupon she cried out in fear, and ran away as fast as she could. But Halewyn, having quickly overtaken her, dragged her off by force to his castle. Going in, he met on the bridge his lady mother, who said to him: "Where goest thou, Miserable, with this child?" He answered: "To bring honour to our house." And his lady mother let him pass, thinking him mad. He went into his room, opened the side of the girl beneath a breast just budding, cut out the heart with the sickle, and drank the blood. But he got no more strength from it than he had before. And weeping bitter tears, he cried: "The sickle has played me false." And he threw down into the moat both the heart and the body. And the lady Halewyn seeing this poor heart and body dropping into the water, ordered that they should be taken out and brought to her. Seeing the body rent open under the breast, and the heart taken out, she became afraid lest Siewert her first-born was following dark practices. And she put the girl's heart back in her breast, and gave her a very fine and Christian burial, and had a fair great cross made on her winding-sheet, and afterwards she was put in the ground and a fair mass said for the quiet of her soul. IX. Of the heart of a maid and of the great strength which came to Sir Halewyn. Sorely troubled, and falling on his knees, Halewyn said: "Alas, is the spell then impotent? I sang, and she would not come to my singing! What would you have me do now, Lord Prince of the Stones? If it is that I must wait until nightfall, that I will do. Then, without doubt, having no sun to hinder your powers, you will give me strength and beauty, and all prowess, and you will send me the virgin I need." And he went at night to wander in the woods round about the cottages, and there, singing his song, and looking out to see if any were coming. He saw by the light of the bright moon the daughter of Claes, a poor mad man, nicknamed the Dog-beater, because he used to thump and pommel grievously whomever he met, saying that these accursed dogs had robbed him of his coat, and must give it him back again. This girl took care of Claes very well, and would not marry, though she was a beautiful maid, saying: "Since he is simple, I cannot leave him to look to himself." And every one, seeing her so stout-hearted, gave her, one some of his cheese, another some beans, another some flour, and so they lived together without wanting for food. The Miserable stood still at the edge of the wood and sang. And the maid walked straight towards the singing and fell on her knees before him. He went home to his castle, and she followed him, and entered in with him, saying no word. On the stair he met his brother, just returned from boar-hunting, who said, in mocking wise: "Ah, is the Miserable about to get us a bastard?" And to the girl: "Well, mistress, thy heart must be fast set on my ugly brother that thou must needs follow him in this wise, without a word spoken." But Halewyn, in a rage, hit out at his brother's face with his sword. Then, passing him by, went up into his own room. And there, having shut fast the door, from fear of his brother, he stripped the girl quite naked, as he had seen the virgin in his vision. And the girl said that she was cold. Quickly he opened her breast with the golden blade, under the left pap. And as the maid gave the death-cry, the heart came out of itself on the blade. And the Miserable saw before his eyes the little mannikin coming out of the stones of the wall, who said to him, grinning: "Heart on heart gives strength and beauty. Halewyn shall hang the maid in the Gallows-field. And the body shall hang until the hour of God." Then he went back into the wall. Halewyn put the heart on his breast, and felt it beating firmly and taking root in his skin. And suddenly his bent back was straightened; and his arm found such strength that he broke easily in two a heavy oaken bench; and looking at himself in a mirror-glass he saw an image so beautiful that he could scarce tell it for his own. And he felt in his veins the fire of youth burning. Going down into the great hall he found there at supper his father, mother, brother, and sister. None of them would have known him but for his voice, which was unchanged. And his mother rose and peered into his face to see him better. And he said to her: "Woman, I am thine own son, Siewert Halewyn, the Invincible." But his brother, whom he had but lately smitten in the face, ran towards him hotly, saying: "Cursed be the Invincible!" and struck him with his knife. But the blade snapped off like glass against the body of the Miserable; whereupon the younger brother seized him in his arms, but the Miserable tore him off and threw him to one side as if he had been a caterpillar. Then he rushed at him with his head down, like a battering-ram, but as soon as his head touched the Miserable it was cut open, and the blood ran down over his face. And his father and mother, his sister and the wounded brother, threw themselves on their knees and asked his forgiveness, begging him, since he had become so powerful, to bring them riches and honour. "That I will," said he. X. How the Miserable robbed a Lombard goldsmith, and of the pleasant speech of the ladies and gentlewomen. On the morrow, armed only with the sickle, for he despised other arms on account of the strength which the spell gave him, Halewyn took the body of the maid to the Gallows-field and there hanged it on the tree. Then he rode off to the city of Ghent. And the ladies, gentlewomen and maidens of the town, seeing him pass by on his black horse, said among themselves: "Who is this fair horseman?" "'Tis," he cried right proudly, "Siewert Halewyn, who was called the Ill-favoured one." "Nay, nay," said the bolder among them, "you are making fun of us, My Lord, or else you have been changed by a fairy." "Yes," said he, "and, moreover, I had fleshly knowledge of her; and so shall have of you, if I please." At these words the ladies and gentlewomen were not at all put out. And he went to the shop of a Lombard goldsmith in that town, who had at one time and another lent him six-and-twenty florins. But the goldsmith did not know him for himself. He told him that he was Sir Halewyn. "Ah," said the goldsmith, "then I pray, My Lord, that you will repay me my six-and-twenty florins." But Halewyn, laughing: "Take me," he said, "to the room where thou keepest thy gold." "My Lord," said the goldsmith, "that I will not, for all that I hold you in high esteem." "Dog," said he, "if thou dost not obey me I will strike thee dead instantly." "Ha!" said the goldsmith, "do not come blustering here, My Lord, for I am neither serf nor peasant, but a free burgess of this town. And if you are so minded as to lay your hands on me, I shall know how to get redress, I promise you." Then Halewyn struck him, and the burgess called for help. Hearing this cry, apprentices to the number of six came down into the shop, and, seeing Halewyn, ran to seize him. But he beat them off likewise and bade them show him where the gold was kept. Which they did, saying one to another: "This is the Devil." And the goldsmith, weeping: "My Lord," said he, "do not take it all." "I shall take what I will," said Halewyn; and he filled his money-bag. And in this way he took from the goldsmith more than seven hundred golden bezants. Then, seeing the poor man lamenting his lot, he struck him two or three hard blows, telling him not to whine so loud, and that before the month was out he would take from him double the amount. XI. Of the arrogant arms of Sir Halewyn. And the Miserable became the richest, most powerful, and most feared baron in the whole province. And blasphemously he compared himself to God. And considering that the old arms of Dirk, and his device, were too mean for his new magnificence: He sent to Bruges for painters in heraldry to fashion them afresh. These painters put the old crow away in one quarter, and on a field argent and sable blazoned a heart gules and a sickle or, with this device: None can stand against me. Moreover, he had this same blazon fashioned into a great standard which was flown from his castle keep. And also had it cut in stone over the gate. And on his shield, which he caused to be made larger so that the arrogant device might be seen to better advantage. And on his arms, his clothes, and wherever it could be put, there he had it as well. XII. How Sir Halewyn jousted with a knight of England. It so happened that at about this time My Lord of Flanders let call a tournament. And sent out to all his lords and barons to come to Ghent for that purpose. Halewyn went thither and set up his shield among the others. But the barons and lords, seeing the arrogant device and the great size of the shield, were greatly put to offence thereat. And all of them jousted with him, but each was overthrown in turn. Among them was present an English knight of much prowess, who rode out to the middle of the tourney-field and stood straight and proud before Sir Halewyn. "Well," quoth he, "My Lord the Invincible, it displeases me to see thee planted there so arrogantly and unhorsing us all in this fashion. Wilt thou fight with me?" "Yes," said Sir Halewyn. "If I overcome thee, thou shalt be my servant and I shall take thee with me into Cornwall." "Yes," said Sir Halewyn. "And cause thee to grease my horses' hooves, and empty the dung from the stable; and find out whether thou art invincible at such work also." "Yes," said Sir Halewyn. "And if thou art not invincible, the invincible stick shall thrash thee invincibly." "Yes," said Sir Halewyn. "But if thou overcome me, this shall be thy guerdon: "Five-and-twenty bezants which are in the house of thy Lord, the noble Count of Flanders; all the accoutrement of my horse, which is of fine mail; his fair saddle of pear-wood, covered with leather, and saddle-bows richly figured with ten horsemen lustily fighting and with Our Lord driving out the devil from one possessed; furthermore my helm of fine wrought steel, and on it a crest of silver, gilt over, with spread wings, which may very well, notwithstanding thy device, stand against thy bleeding heart, thy gaping sickle, and thy miserable crow. Well, My Lord the Invincible, dost think thou shalt win invincibly the five-and-twenty bezants, the helm of my head, and the trappings of my horse?" "Yes," said Sir Halewyn. Then, after My Lord himself had given the signal, they ran together with a great clatter. And the English knight was overthrown like the rest. Then all the ladies acclaimed and applauded the Miserable, crying out: "Worship to Siewert Halewyn the noble, Siewert Halewyn the Fleming, Siewert Halewyn the Invincible." And on his way back to the house of My Lord, there to feast with him, he was by these ladies kissed, fondled, and made much of without stint. And, putting on the gear of the English knight, he went off to the towns of Bruges, Lille, and Ghent, thieving and ravishing everywhere. And came back from each expedition with much booty. And felt the heart all the while pouring live strength into his breast and beating against his skin. Then he went back to his own castle with the five-and-twenty bezants and the arms of the knight of England. When he sounded the horn there came to him his mother, who, seeing him so gilt over, was overcome with joy, and cried: "He brings us riches, as he promised." "Yes," said Sir Halewyn. And she fell at his feet and kissed them. As also did the younger brother, saying: "Sir Brother thou hast lifted us up from poverty, I will willingly serve thee." "So shouldst thou, indeed," said Halewyn. Then, going into the hall: "I would sup," he said, "thou, woman, fetch me meat, and thou, fellow, drink." And on the morrow, and every day thereafter, he made to serve him at table, as if they had been his private servants, his father, mother, brother, and sister, turn by turn. XIII. Of the heart dried up and of the dame Halewyn. But one morning while he was at meat in his castle, when his father and sister were gone to Bruges to buy corn-coloured cloth-of-scarlet for their clothes, And he was being served, with all humility, by his mother and brother, He became suddenly quite cold, for the heart had ceased to beat. Putting his hand to his breast, he touched dried-up skin. Then he felt his face go back as it was before, his shoulders shrink down, his back hump up, and all his body lessen in stature. Looking at his mother and brother in turn, he saw them laughing and saying to each other: "See, here is our master back in his old ugly skin, and with his old ugly face." "Ha, My Lord," said his brother, coming boldly up to him and speaking insolently, "will you not take some of this clauwaert to hearten yourself? You have no longer, it seems, your former strength." "Wilt try it?" said the Miserable, and struck him with his fist, but did him no more hurt than if he had been a fly. Seeing this the younger brother grew bolder, and seating himself close to Halewyn on the seat: "My lord," said he, "you have had pudding enough, I think, 'tis my turn to eat." And he took the pudding from off his platter. "My lord son," said his mother, "now you shall give to me, who am old, some of this old wine you have kept for yourself." And she took the cup out of his hand. "My lord brother," said the younger son, "methinks you have too much of this roast of lamb with sweet chestnuts; I will take it, if you please." And he put the roast of lamb before his own place. "My lord son," said his mother, "you do not much like, it seems, this fair cheese and barley tart, give it to me, I pray you." And the Miserable, dumbfounded, gave it to her. "My lord brother," said the younger son, "you have been sitting there long enough like an emperor, will you be pleased to stir your limbs now and serve us?" And the Miserable, getting up, served them as he was bidden. "My lord son," said his mother, "I see you now submissive to our orders, will you be pleased to ask my pardon for having so long kept me standing like a private servant, fetching you food and drink, though I am your mother?" And the Miserable fell at her feet. "My lord brother," said the younger son, "wilt thou be pleased to fall at my feet likewise, and kiss them, for that thou hast made me do the work of a serf?" "That I will not," said the Miserable. "Thou wilt not?" "I will not," said the Miserable, and stepped back a pace. "Come hither," said his brother. "I will not," said the Miserable. Then the younger ran at him, and, bearing him to the ground without difficulty, began thumping and pommelling him, and striking him in the face with his golden spurs, saying: "Avenge thyself, Siewert Halewyn the Invincible. None can stand against thee, save I. Thou hast long treated us as serfs in thy house, now I will treat thee as a cheese and crush thee underfoot. Why dost thou not now caper as a kid, or fly away as a bird, Siewert the enchanted?" and, going into a frenzy of rage, he drew his knife, saying: "I will cut thee off thy head unless thou cry mercy." "I will not," said the Miserable. But his mother, hearing these words, took quickly from the fire a handful of embers, and notwithstanding their heat, threw them into the eyes and mouth of the younger brother, saying: "Thou shalt not kill my first-born, wicked son." And while the younger brother was howling by reason of the pain from the embers, which blinded him, his mother took the knife from him, and while he was twisting this way and that, swinging up his arms to strike whomever he could, she threw him down, shut him up in the room, and went out dragging her first-born after her. Then, although she was feeble with age, she carried Halewyn up into the tower on her back, as a shepherd carries a lamb (for he had quite lost his senses), and there tended him and bathed his face and breast, which were torn and bleeding, and there at nightfall left him and went away. XIV. Of the great weakness of Sir Halewyn and of the days and nights which he spent in the forest. The Miserable, alone and somewhat comforted, rose to his feet, and was right glad to feel the sickle still at his belt; opened the door, listened to make sure that he could hear nothing, and that his brother was not there. And when the night was fully dark, went down the stair slowly, sitting-wise. For he was so weakened by the blows and wounds he had received that he could not hold himself upright by any means; and in this fashion he went on until he reached the bridge, and, finding that still down, crossed over it. And very wearily he made his way to the forest. But he could not, on account of his weakness, go so far as the cottages, which were a good two leagues distant to the northward. So, lying down among the leaves, he sang. But no maid came, for the song could not be heard from so far away. And so passed the first day. When night came again, cold rain began to fall, which sent him into a fever. But notwithstanding this he would not go back to his castle, for fear of his brother. Shivering, and with his teeth a-chatter, he dragged himself northward through the brake, and saw in a clearing a fair pretty maid, rosy-cheeked, fresh, slender, and neat, and he sang his song. But the girl did not come to him. And so passed the second day. That night the rain fell anew, and he could not move, so stiff was he from the cold, and he sang, but no maid came. At dawn the rain continued, and while he was lying there among the leaves a wolf came and sniffed at him, thinking him dead, but on seeing it draw near he cried out in a terrible fashion, and the wolf took fright and went off. Then he grew hungry, but could find himself nothing to eat. At vespers he sang anew, but no maid came. And so passed the third day. Towards midnight the sky cleared, and the wind grew warmer. But the Miserable, though he was suffering greatly from hunger, thirst, and weariness, dared not sleep. On the morning of the fourth day he saw a girl coming towards him who seemed to be a burgess's daughter. The girl would have run away on seeing him, but he cried out loudly: "Help me! I am worn out with hunger and sickness." Then she drew near to him and said: "I also am hungry." "Art thou," he said, "a maid? " "Ah," said she, "I have had to flee from Bruges, because the priests would have burnt me alive, on account of a brown mole which I have on my neck, of the size of a pea, coming, they say, from my having had fleshly commerce with the devil. But I have never seen the devil, and do not know what he is like." He, without listening to her, asked again if she were a virgin, and, as the girl said nothing, he sang his song. But she did not move from where she stood, only saying: "You have a very sweet and strong voice for one so wasted with sickness and hunger." Then he said to her: "I am the lord Siewert Halewyn. Go to my castle and ask to be taken to my lady mother, and without speaking to any one else, whosoever he be, tell her that her son is hard put to it in the forest with hunger, fever, and weariness, and will die before long if none bring him help." The girl went off as he bid her, but coming out of the wood she saw in the Gallows-field the body of the maid hanging, and ran away in a fright. Passing into the territory of Sir Roel de Heurne she craved food and drink at the cottage of one of his peasants. And there she told how she had found Sir Halewyn dying of hunger. But she was told in reply that the said lord was crueller and more wicked than the devil himself, and should be left to be eaten by the wolves and other beasts of the forest. And the Miserable waited, lying in the leaves in great anguish. And so passed the fourth day. And at dawn of the fifth, having seen no more of the girl, he supposed that she had been caught by the priests and taken back to Bruges to be burnt. Quite disheartened, and chilled with the cold, and saying that he would soon die, he cursed the Prince of the Stones. Nevertheless, at vespers he sang once more. And he was then by the side of a forest way. And he saw coming through the trees a fair maid, who fell on her knees before him. And he did to her as he had done to the others. Then rose full of fresh strength, vigour, and beauty, and with the heart resting against his own went off to the Gallows-field, carrying the body, and there hanged it by that of the first virgin. XV. How the Miserable, having hanged fifteen virgins in the Gallows-field, held wicked revels and cruel orgies. Sir Halewyn became most powerful and greatly feared, and killed up to fifteen virgins, whom he hanged in the Gallows-field. And he led a riotous life, eating, drinking, and carousing continually. All those ladies who had made fun of him in the days of his impotence and ugliness were brought to his castle. And having had his will of them he turned them out of doors like bitches, so wreaking upon them his evil vengeance. And from Lille, Ghent, and Bruges came the most beautiful courtesans, with their badge on their arms, and they ministered to his pleasure and to that of his friends, among whom the more evil were Diederich Pater-noster, so called because he was a great frequenter of churches; Nellin the Wolf, who in battle attacked only the fallen, as wolves do; and Baudouin Sans Ears, who in his court of justice always cried: "Death, death," without waiting to hear any defence whatever. In company with the fair courtesans these same lords held revels and orgies without end, and took from their poor peasants all they had, corn, cheese, jewels, cocks, oxen, calves, and swine. Then, having stuffed themselves as full as they could hold, threw to their dogs choice viands and rich cakes. Gave to be broken and pounded up for their hawks and falcons, the meat of fowls, cockerels, and doves; had the hooves of their horses bathed in wine. Oftentimes until midnight, or even until cock-crow, there would be beating of drums, trilling of pipes, squeaking of viols, skirling of bagpipes, and winding of horns, for their entertainment. XVI. How the burgesses of the good town of Ghent gave protection to the virgins of the domain of Halewyn. Meanwhile in the cottages of the peasant folk were tears, hunger, and great misery. And when the fifteenth maid had been taken in the domain of Halewyn, The mothers prayed to God that he would make them barren, or else that they might bear men-children only. And the fathers complained and said to one another sadly: "Is it not a pitiful thing to see these sweet and gentle flowers of youth so brought to death and dishonour!" And some among them said: "Let us go by night to the good town of Ghent, taking with us all our virgin daughters, and tell the whole tale to the burgesses, begging their blessed protection for them, and leaving them there in the town if we are so permitted. So they will escape death at the hands of our master." Every one who heard this plan thought it a good one; and all the peasants with daughters who were virgins took them off to Ghent, and there told the story to the commune, and the good men gave them protection. Then with lighter hearts the peasants returned to the domain of Halewyn. XVII. Of what Sir Halewyn did on the borders of his domain. Not long afterwards a hard winter set in, with bitter cold and furious storm. And the heart of the fifteenth virgin no longer beat strong against Sir Halewyn's breast. And he sang, but none came. Wherefore he was disappointed and angry. But calling to mind that there were, in the castle of Sir Roel de Heurne, two girls supposed by common report to be virgins, And that this castle was no more than the fifth part of a league from the borders of his land, And that therefore the two maids would be able to hear and come to the call of his song, He went each night and stationed himself on the farthest border of his demesne, and there sang towards the said castle, notwithstanding the bitter cold, and the snow beginning to fall abundantly. XVIII. Of the damosels Magtelt and Anne-Mie, and of Schimmel the dapple-gray. While the Miserable was roaming the woods, Sir Roel de Heurne and the lady Gonde, his wife, richly clad, and wrapt round with deer-skins, which give particular warmth to the body, were sitting snugly on their coffers before their good fire of oaken logs, chatting together as old folk will. But it was the Lady Gonde who spoke most, being the woman. And she said: "My good man, do you hear the storm raging furiously in the forest?" "Yes," answered Sir Roel. And his lady said further: "God has been kind to give us, against this great cold, such a fine castle so strongly built, such good clothes, and such a bright fire." "Yes," answered the Sire. "But above all," said she, "he has shown us his divine grace by giving us such good and brave children." "True," answered the Sire. "For," said she, "nowhere could you find a young man more valiant, courteous, gentle, and fitter to uphold our name than Toon, our son." "Yes," said the Sire, "he has saved my life in battle." "But," said his lady, "he has this fault, that he is so scant of words that we scarce know the tone of his voice. He is well called the Silent." "There is better worth to a man," said the Sire, "in a good sword than in a long tongue." "Here I see you, my lord," said the lady, "pent up with your reflections, for sadness and gravity are the lot of old age, but I know well a certain maid who would smooth out your forehead and set you laughing." "'Tis possible," said the Sire. "Yes," said she, "it is certainly possible, for when Magtelt our daughter comes into this room, I shall see my lord and husband turn happy at once." At these words Sir Roel nodded his head and smiled a little. "Yes, yes," said his lady, "for when Magtelt laughs, then laughs my old Roel; when she sings, then my old Roel grows thoughtful and nods his head happily, and if she passes by, he follows with smiling eyes each step of his little daughter." "True, Gonde," said the Sire. "Yes, yes," said she, "for who is the well-being and joy of this house? 'Tis not I, who am old, and losing my teeth one by one; nor you either, my fellow in antiquity; nor the Silent either; nor Anne-Mie the private servant, who, though she is very sweet and healthy in her person, is something too quiet in her ways, and laughs only when she is set laughing. But she who makes our old age happy, she who is the nightingale in the house, she who is always coming and going, passing and repassing, flying hither and thither, singing and singing again, as happy as a peal of bells at Christmastide: 'tis our good daughter." "So it is," said the Sire. "Ah," said his lady further, "it is a happy thing for us to have such a child, since both of us have already cold in our feet at all seasons. For without her we should pass our time in sadness, and from our old feet the cold would creep up to our hearts, and so we should be taken to our graves more quickly." "Yes, wife," said the Sire. "Ah," said she, "another damosel would have wished for love-suitors, and to go to the court of My Lord to get a husband. But our little maid gives no thought to that, for hereabout she loves no one but ourselves, and her who goes everywhere with her, and is as a sister to her, Anne-Mie the private servant; but not without teasing her a little in order to make her laugh." "True," said the Sire. "Yes, yes," said his lady, "and every one loves her, admires her, and respects her, pages, grooms, varlets, men-at-arms, private servants, serfs, and peasants, so joyous and merry is she, so brave and gentle is her bearing. There is no one, even down to Schimmel, the great war-horse, who does not follow her like a dog. Ah! When he sees her coming he whinnies joyously; and she alone must bring him his oats and corn; from none other will he take a grain. She treats him like a man, and often gives him a great draught of clauwaert, which he drinks up with relish. She makes herself understood to him by words, but she must never be cross with him, or he makes as if to weep, and looks at her with so sad a manner that she cannot withstand it and then calls him to her, saying: 'Beautiful Schimmel, brave Schimmel,' and other soft words; hearing which the good dapple-gray gets up and comes close to her to have more compliments. He suffers no one on his back but she, and when he is carrying her he is as proud as My Lord of Flanders at the head of his good barons and knights. So she has her sovereignty over every one, by joyousness, goodness, and fair speaking." "Yes," said the Sire. "Ah," said his lady, "may the very good God watch over our little one, and may our old ears hear this fledgeling nightingale singing always." "Amen," said the Sire. XIX. How Magtelt sang to Sir Roel the lied of the Lion, and the song of the Four Witches. While Sir Roel and the lady Gonde were talking together, The snow had fallen in great quantity, And had quite covered Magtelt and Anne-Mie, who were coming back from having taken an eagle-stone to the wife of Josse, for her to bind to her left thigh and so get ease in her lying-in. And the girls came into the great hall, where Sir Roel was sitting with his good wife. Magtelt, drawing close to her father, knelt to him in salutation. And Sir Roel, having raised her up, kissed her on the brow. But Anne-Mie stayed quietly in a corner, as became a private servant. And it was a good sight to see these two maids wholly covered with snow. "Jesus-Maria," said the lady Gonde, "see these two sillies, what have they been doing to get themselves clothed in snow in this fashion? To the fire quickly, children; draw to the fire and dry yourselves." "Silence, wife," said Sir Roel, "you make youth faint-heart. In my young days I went through cold, snow, hail, thunder, and tempest without a thought. And so do I still, when there is need to, and I will have Magtelt do the same. Thanks be to God! 'tis not from a fire of logs that a daughter of ours must get warmth, but from the natural fire which burns in the bodies of the children of old Roel." But Magtelt, seeing him about to grow angry, went and knelt at his feet. "Lord father," said she, "we are not cold at all, for we have been leaping, dancing and frolicking so heartily, thumping and drubbing each other, that we turned winter into spring; furthermore we sang some fine songs, which I beg you will give me leave to sing over again to you." "So I will, little one," said Sir Roel. So Magtelt sang him the lied, of Roeland de Heurne the Lion, who came back from the Holy Land, and brought thence a great sword; and also the song of the Four Witches, wherein you may hear mewling of cats, bleating of goats, and the noise which they make with their tails in rainy weather. And Sir Roel forgot his anger. When Magtelt had done singing he caused supper to be served and the cross lit up, which threw over them a bright light from the four lamps burning at the end of each arm. And he made his daughter sit at his side. Anne-Mie came likewise to sit at table, beside the lady Gonde, who said: "Young company warms old folk." And there were served to them that evening fine white bread, beef salted and smoked in the chimney among the sweet smoke of fir-cones, Ghent sausage, which was invented, they say, by Boudwin the Glutton, bastard of Flanders, and old clauwaert. Supper finished, and a prayer spoken, Magtelt and Anne-Mie went off to bed, in the same room, for Magtelt loved Anne-Mie like a sister and would have her by her side at all times. XX. Of the sixteenth virgin hanged. Magtelt, with laughter, singing, and frolic, soon fell asleep. But Anne-Mie, being somewhat cold, could not close her eyes. And the Miserable came and stationed himself on the border of his land. Thence his voice rang out clear, soft, and melodious. And Anne-Mie heard it, and, forgetting that she was but lightly clad, rose up and went out of the castle by the postern. When she came into the open the snow smote harshly on her face, her breast, and her shoulders. And she tried to shield herself against this bitter cold and evil snow, but could not, for she had lain down to sleep nearly naked. Going towards the song she passed barefoot across the moat, whereof the water was hard frozen. And trying to mount the farther bank, which was high and slippery, she fell; And cut a great wound in her knee. Having picked herself up she entered the forest, wounding her bare feet on the stones, and her numbed body on the branches of trees. But she went her way without heeding. When she drew near to the Miserable she fell on her knees before him. And he did to her as he had done to the others. And Anne-Mie was the sixteenth virgin hanged in the Gallows-field. XXI. How Magtelt sought Anne-Mie. On the morrow Magtelt, being, as was customary, the first awake, said her prayers to My Lord Jesus and to Madam Saint Magtelt, her blessed patron. Having besought them earnestly for Sir Roel, the lady Gonde, the Silent, and all the household, most particularly for Anne-Mie, she looked at the maid's bed, and seeing its curtains half drawn she supposed that her companion was still asleep; and so, putting on her fine clothes, she kept saying as she moved up and down the room, or looked at herself in the mirror-glass: "Ho, Anne-Mie, wake up, wake up, Anne-Mie! Who sleeps late comes last to grass. The sparrows are awake and the hens also, and already their eggs are laid. Wake up, Anne-Mie, Schimmel is neighing in the stable, and the sun is shining bright on the snow; my lord father is scolding the servants, and my lady mother is interceding for them. Canst not smell the savoury odour of beans and good beef broiled with spices? I can smell it well enough, and it makes me hungry; wake up, Anne-Mie." But the girl could not possess herself in patience any longer, and threw the curtains wide open. Finding no Anne-Mie: "There!" she said, "the rogue, she has gone down without me; and without me, no doubt, is at this same moment eating those good beans and beef." And going down the stairs at a run Magtelt entered the great hall, where, seeing Sir Roel her father, she knelt to him and asked his blessing, and then likewise to the lady Gonde. But her mother said to her: "Where is Anne-Mie?" "I cannot tell," said Magtelt, "she is having some fun with us, I suppose, hidden in some corner." "That," said Sir Roel, "is not her way, for if any one here makes fun of others 'tis not she, but thou, little one." "My lord father," said Magtelt, "you make me anxious by talking so." "Well," said Sir Roel, "go and seek Anne-Mie; as for us, mother, let us eat; our old stomachs cannot wait for food as well as these young ones." "Ah," said the lady Gonde, "I have no mind to eat; go, Magtelt, and find me Anne-Mie." But Sir Roel helped himself to a great platterful of beans and good beef, and, falling to it, said that nothing was so easily put out, troubled, made anxious, as a woman, and this for nothing at all. Nevertheless he was himself a little uneasy, and from time to time looked up at the door, saying that the rascal of a girl would show herself suddenly from somewhere. But Magtelt, after searching the whole castle over, came back and said: "I can find Anne-Mie nowhere." XXII. How Magtelt wept bitterly, and of the fine dress which she had. And Magtelt had great sorrow in her heart, and wept, and made lament, crying: "Anne-Mie, where art thou? Would I could see thee again!" And falling on her knees before Sir Roel, she said: "My lord father, I pray you to send our men-at-arms in goodly number in search for Anne-Mie." "So I will," said he. The men-at-arms went out, but dared not pass on to the lands of Halewyn from fear of the spell. And on their return they said: "We can hear nothing of Anne-Mie." And Magtelt went up and stretched herself on her bed, and prayed to the good God to send her back her sweet comrade. On the second day she went and sat before the glazed window, and without intermission looked out all day at the countryside and the falling snow, and watched to see if Anne-Mie were coming. But Anne-Mie could not come. And on the third day the lids of her eyes bled for weeping. And on that day the snow ceased falling, the sky became clear, the sun shone therein, and the earth was hard frozen. And every day in the same place went and sat the sorrowing Magtelt, watching the countryside, thinking of Anne-Mie and saying nothing. Sir Roel, seeing her so low-hearted, sent to Bruges for some blue cloth-of-scarlet, for her to make herself a dress, and fine Cyprian gold for the border, and fine gold buttons of rich workmanship. Magtelt worked away at making this dress, but took no pleasure at all at the thought of all this fine apparel. And so passed away the week, and each day Magtelt worked at her dress, saying nothing and singing never, but weeping oftentimes. On the fifth day, when the dress was finished, well trimmed with the Cyprian gold and embellished with the rich buttons, the lady Gonde bade Magtelt don it, and then showed her her magnificence in a great mirror-glass; but Magtelt had no heart to be glad at seeing herself so beautiful, for she was thinking of Anne-Mie. And the lady Gonde, seeing how sad she was and silent, wept also, saying: "Since our Magtelt stopped singing I have felt more bitterly the chill of winter and old age." And Sir Roel made no murmur, but became sullen and pensive, and drank clauwaert all day. And at times, turning angry, he bade Magtelt sing and be cheerful. And the maid sang merry lieds to the old man, who then turned joyous again, and Gonde as well. And they spent all their time before the fire, nodding their heads. And they said: "The nightingale is come back again to the house, and her music makes the fires of spring sunshine stir in our bones." And Magtelt, having done singing, would go off to hide herself in a corner and weep for Anne-Mie. XXIII. Of Toon the Silent. On the eighth day, the Silent went wolf-hunting. Following a certain beast he rode into the domain of Halewyn. And at vespers the lady Gonde, leaving the great hall to go to the kitchen for the ordering of supper, on opening the door saw Toon before her. He seemed loth to come in, and hung his head as if with shame. The lady Gonde, going to him, said: "My son, why do you not come into the hall to bid good evening to the lord your father?" The Silent, without answering, went into the hall, and muttering short and sullen words by way of salutation, went to sit in the darkest corner. And the lady Gonde said to Sir Roel: "Our son is angry at something, I think, since he goes off into a dark corner far away from us, against his habit." Sir Roel said to the Silent: "Son, come hither to the light that we may see thy face." He obeyed, and Sir Roel, the lady Gonde, and the sorrowing Magtelt saw that he was bleeding from the head and from the neck, and cast down his eyes, not daring to look them in the face. The lady Gonde cried out with fright on seeing the blood, and Magtelt came to him, and Sir Roel said: "Who has given my son this shamed countenance, this downcast heart, and these wounds in his body?" The Silent answered: "Siewert Halewyn." "Why," said Sir Roel, "was my son so presumptuous as to attack the Invincible?" The Silent answered: "Anne-Mie hanged in the Gallows-field of Siewert Halewyn." "Woe!" cried Sir Roel, "our poor maid hanged! shame and sorrow upon us!" "Lord God," said Gonde, "you smite us hard indeed." And she wept. But Magtelt could neither weep nor speak from the bitterness of the grief which laid hold upon her. And she looked at her brother fixedly, and his sunken face blenched, and from the wounds against his eyes dropped tears of blood, and his body was shaken with spasms. And the Silent sank into a seat, weeping dully like a wounded lion. "Ha," quoth Sir Roel, hiding his face, "this is the first man of the house of Heurne that has found need to sit weeping. Shame upon us, and without redress, for there is a spell woven." And the Silent stuffed his fingers into the wound in his neck, pressing out the blood; but he felt nothing of the pain. "Toon," said the lady Gonde, "do not dirty your wound with your fingers in this wise; you will poison it, my son." But the Silent did not seem to hear. "Toon," said the lady Gonde, "do not do it; I, your mother, order you. Let me wash away this blood and dress with ointment these ugly sores." While she hurried to prepare the ointment and to warm the water in a washing-basin, Toon did not cease his groaning and weeping. And he tore out the hair from his beard in a rage. And Sir Roel, watching him, said: "When a man weeps 'tis blood and shame, shame without redress. Halewyn has a spell. Ah, presumptuous one, must thou then go to his castle to brave the Invincible?" "Woe, my lord," said the lady Gonde, "be not so bitter angry with the Silent, for he showed fine courage in wishing to avenge Anne-Mie on the Miserable." "Yes," said Sir Roel, "fine courage that brings shame to our house." "Tell," said she, "tell, Toon, the tale to thy father, to show him that thou art a worthy son to him none the less." "I wish it," said Sir Roel. "My lord father," said the Silent, groaning, and speaking in short breaths, "Anne-Mie hanging, Siewert Halewyn near to the gallows. He was laughing. I ran at him, cutting at his belly with my sword in the fashion of a cross to break the spell. Invincible! He laughed, saying: 'I will take Magtelt.' I struck him with a knife; the blade turned. He laughed. He said: 'I do not care for punishment, be off.' I did not go. I struck him with sword and knife together; in vain. He laughed. He said again: 'Be off.' I could not. Then he struck me with the flat of his sword in the neck and breast, and with the hilt in the back, like a serf. He laughed. I lost sense from the blows. Beaten like a serf, my lord father, I could do naught against him." Sir Roel, having heard Toon speak, was less angered, understanding that he had not been presumptuous, thinking also of his great pain and of his bitter groaning and his grievous shame. With the ointment ready and the water warm, the lady Gonde set to work to dress the wounds of her son, particularly that on his neck, which was a deep one. But Magtelt wept never a tear, and soon went off to her bed, not without a blessing from Sir Roel her father, and her lady mother. The three stayed a long while together before the fire, father, mother, and son, without a word spoken, for the Silent, moaning all the while, could not bear his defeat, and the lady Gonde wept and prayed; and Sir Roel, sad and ashamed, hid his face. XXIV. How the damosel Magtelt made a good resolution. Magtelt, before she lay down on her bed, prayed, but not aloud. And her face was hard set with anger. And having undressed she lay down in her bed, tugging at her breast with her finger-nails from time to time, as if she were fighting for breath. And her breathing was as if she were in agony. For she was bitter sad and out of heart. But she did not weep. And she heard the high wind, forerunner of snow, lifting over the forest, and roaring like a stream in spate after heavy rain. And it tossed against the window glass dried leaves and branches, which beat on the pane like dead men's finger-nails. And it howled and whistled sadly in the chimney. And the sorrowing maid saw in her mind's eye Anne-Mie hanging in the Gallows-field and her poor body pecked by the crows, and she thought of the stain on her brave brother's honour, and of the fifteen poor virgins outraged by the Miserable. But she did not weep. For in her breast was a dumb pain, harsh anguish, and a bitter thirst for vengeance. And she asked very humbly of Our Lady if it were a good thing to let the Miserable any longer go killing the maidens of the land of Flanders. And at cock-crow she rose from her bed, and her eyes were bright, and proud was her countenance, and her head held high, and she said: "I will go to Halewyn." And throwing herself on her knees she prayed to the very strong God to give her courage and strength for the revenge of Anne-Mie, Toon the Silent, and the fifteen virgins. XXV. Of the sword of the Lion. At sun-up she went to Sir Roel, who was still in bed, on account of the cold. Seeing her come in and fall on her knees before him, he said: "What wilt thou, little one?" "My lord father," she said, "may I go to Halewyn?" At this he became afraid, and saw well enough that Magtelt, unable to rid her heart of the thought of Anne-Mie, was minded to avenge her. And he said with love and anger: "No, my daughter, no, not thou; who goes there will not come again!" But seeing her go out of the room he never supposed that she would fail in her obedience. And Magtelt went thence to the lady Gonde, who was praying in the chapel for the repose of Anne-Mie's soul; and she pulled at her mother's dress, to show that she was there. When the lady Gonde turned her head, Magtelt fell on her knees before her: "Mother," said she, "may I go to Halewyn?" But her lady mother: "Oh no, child, no, not thou; who goes there will not come again!" And so saying, she opened her arms and let fall the golden ball wherewith she warmed her hands, so that the embers spread this way and that on the floor. Then she fell to moaning, weeping, trembling, and chattering with her teeth, and embraced the girl tightly as if she would never let her go. But she never supposed that she could fail in her obedience. And Magtelt went thence to Toon, who, despite his wounds, was already out of bed, and seated on his coffer, warming himself before a new-lit fire. "Brother," she said, "may I go to Halewyn?" Saying this she held herself straight before him. The Silent lifted his head and looked at her severely, waiting for her to speak further. "Brother," she said, "Siewert Halewyn has killed this sweet maid whom I loved; and has done the same to fifteen other pitiful virgins, who are hanging in the Gallows-field shamefully; he is for this country a greater evil than war, death, and pestilence; brother, I would kill him." But Toon looked at Magtelt and answered nothing. "Brother," said she, "thou must not refuse me, for my heart bids me go. Canst thou not see how sad and downcast I am in this house, and how I shall die of sorrow if I do not that which I should. But having been to him I shall come back joyous and singing as before." But the Silent said not a word. "Ah," she said, "dost fear for me, seeing how many good knights have assailed him and been by him shamefully overthrown, even thyself, my brave brother, who carriest even now his marks? I am not ignorant that on his shield is written: 'None can stand against me.' But what others could not, one may do. He goes glorying in his strength, more terrible than an oliphant, prouder than a lion, thinking himself invincible, but when the beast goes with assurance the hunter follows the more easily. Brother, may I go to Halewyn?" When Magtelt had reached so far in her speech, suddenly there fell from the wall whereon it was fastened a fair sword well set and sharpened, and with the blade stout to the hilt. The handpiece was of cedar of Lebanon, set out with golden cresslets, and in the castle this sword was held to be of marvellous virtue and holiness, because it had been brought from the crusade by Roeland de Heurne, the Lion. And none dared use it. The sword, falling, lay at the feet of Magtelt. "Brother," said Magtelt, crossing herself, "the good sword of the Lion has fallen at my feet; 'tis the very strong God showing thus his will. He must be obeyed, brother; let me go to Halewyn." And Toon the Silent, crossing himself as Magtelt had done, answered: "'Tis all one to me where thou go, if thou cherish thine honour and carry thy crown straight." "Brother," she said, "I thank you." And the noble maid began to tremble mightily from head to foot; and she who had not shed a tear on hearing of Anne-Mie's death and her brother's dishonour, fell to weeping abundantly, whereby her bitter anger was melted, and bursting into tears by reason of her great joy she said again: "Brother, brother, 'tis the hour of God! I go to the reckoning!" And she took the good sword. The Silent, seeing her so brave, lifted himself straight before her and put his hand on her shoulder. "Go," said he. And she went out. XXVI. Of the noble apparel of the maid Magtelt. In her own room she dressed herself in her most beautiful clothes as quickly as she could. What did the fair maid put on her white body? A bodice finer than silk. And over the fine bodice? A robe of cloth-of-scarlet of Flemish blue, whereon were the arms of de Heurne marvellously worked, and the edges next to the feet and the neck embroidered with fine Cyprian gold. Wherewith did the fair maid bind in her slender waist? With a girdle of the hide of a lion, studded with gold. What had the fair maid on her beautiful shoulders? Her great keirle, which was of cramoisy stitched with Cyprian gold, and covered her from head to foot, for it was an ample cloak. What had the fair maid on her proud head? A fine crown of beaten gold, whence fell tresses of pale hair as long as herself. What held she in her little hand? The blessed sword brought from the crusade. So apparelled she went out to the stable, and harnessed Schimmel, the great war-horse, with his saddle of State, a fine leathern seat, painted in divers colours, and richly worked with gold. And they set out together, through the snow falling thickly. XXVII. How Sir Roel and the lady Gonde questioned Toon the Silent, and of what he answered. While Magtelt was on her way to Halewyn, and when the first hour of her journey had already gone by, the lady Gonde questioned Sir Roel: "Sir," she said, "do you know where our daughter may be?" Sir Roel said that he knew nothing of it; and speaking to the Silent: "Son," said he, "dost thou know where thy sister has gone?" The Silent answered quietly: "Magtelt is a brave maid; whom God leads he leads well." "Sir," said the lady Gonde, "do not put yourself to the trouble of questioning him further, for saying so much he has used up his words." But Sir Roel to Toon: "Son, dost thou not know where she is?" "Magtelt," answered he, "is a fair maid, and carries her crown straight." "Ah," exclaimed the lady Gonde, "I am growing anxious; where is she then?" And she went off to search the castle thoroughly. But coming back she said to Sir Roel: "She is nowhere in the house; she has defied our orders and gone to Halewyn." "Wife," said Roel, "that cannot be. Children, in this country, were always obedient to their parents." "Toon," said she, "where is she? Toon, do you not know?" "The Miserable," he answered, "fears the beautiful maid; whom God leads he leads well." "Roel," cried out the lady Gonde, "he knows where our Magtelt has gone!" "Son, answer," said Sir Roel. The Silent answered: "The sword of the crusade fell from the wall at the maid's feet. Whom God guides succeeds in everything." "Toon," cried the lady Gonde, "where is Magtelt?" "The virgin," he said, "rides without fear, she goes faster than the armed man: whom God leads he leads well." The lady Gonde groaned: "Ah," she said, "our Magtelt will be killed, even now she is stiff frozen, sweet Jesus! The sword of the crusade is of no avail against Siewert Halewyn." The Silent answered: "He glories in his strength, thinking himself invincible, but when the beast goes with assurance the hunter follows more easily." "Wicked son, how couldst thou think to send the little bird to the hawk, the virgin to the enemy of virgins?" The Silent answered: "She will come whither none looks to see her: whom God leads he leads well." "Sir," said the lady Gonde to Roel, "you hear what he says; she has gone to Halewyn, and 'tis this wicked son that gave her leave." Sir Roel going to Toon: "Son," said he, "we had here but one joy, that was our Magtelt. Thou hast abused thy privilege in giving her leave to go thither. If she comes not back to us by nightfall I will curse thee and banish thee from my house. May God hear me, and take from thee, in this world bread and salt, and in the other thy portion in Paradise." "God," said the Silent, "will guide the sword. Whosoever has done wrong, on him let fall the punishment." Gonde began crying out, weeping and making dole. Roel bade her be silent, and sent a goodly troop of men-at-arms in the direction she had taken. But they came back without having seen anything of Magtelt, for they had not dared to go into the territory of Halewyn by reason of the spell. XXVIII. The riding of the maid Magtelt. Singing and winding her horn, rides the noble damosel. And she is beautiful with a beauty from heaven; fresh and rosy are her cheeks. And straight she carries her crown. And her little hand holds fast beneath her keirle the good sword of Roel the Lion. And wide open are her fearless eyes, searching the forest for Sir Halewyn. And she listens for the sound of his horse. But she hears nothing, except, in the heavy silence, the still sound of snowflakes falling quietly like feathers. And she sees nothing, except the air whitened with snow, and white also the long road, and white also the leafless trees. What is it makes the flame glow in her clear brown eyes? It is her high courage. Why does she carry so straight her head and her crown? Because of the great strength in her heart. What is it so swells her breast? The cruel thought of Anne-Mie, and her brother's shame and the great crimes of Sir Halewyn. And ceaselessly she looks to see if he be not coming, and if she can hear nothing of the sound of his horse. But she sees nothing, except the air whitened with snow, and white also the long road, and white also the leafless trees. And she hears nothing, except, in the heavy silence, the still sound of snowflakes falling quietly like feathers. And she sings. Then, speaking to Schimmel, she said: "Together, good Schimmel, we are going to a lion. Canst not see him in his cavern, awaiting passers-by, and devouring poor maids?" And Schimmel, hearing her, whinnied joyously. "Schimmel," said Magtelt, "thou art glad, I see, to be going to the revenge of Anne-Mie with the good sword." And Schimmel whinnied a second time. And Magtelt sought Sir Halewyn everywhere as she went through the forest. And she listened well for the sound of his horse, and looked to see if he were nowhere coming. And she saw nothing, except the air whitened with snow, and white also the long road, and white also the leafless trees. And she heard nothing, except, in the heavy silence, the still sound of snowflakes falling quietly like feathers. And she wound her horn. XXIX. Of the crow and the sparrow, of the hound, the horse and the seven echoes. When she reached the middle part of the forest, she saw through the thick snowflakes Sir Halewyn coming towards her. The Miserable had that day on his body a fine dress of blue cloth, on which was broidered in two colours his ugly arms. Round his waist he had a fair belt studded with lumps of gold, and at his belt the golden sickle, and over his dress a fair opperst-kleed of corn-coloured cloth-of-scarlet. Riding on his roan horse he came up to Magtelt, and she saw that he was handsome. Before his horse, barking and making a great noise, ran a hound like a wolf, which, on seeing Schimmel, leapt at him and bit him. But Schimmel, with a great kick which he let fly, set him dancing a sorry dance, and singing a pitiful song over his broken paw. "Ah," thought the maid, "God grant, brave Schimmel, that I may do better for the master than thou hast done for the dog." And the Miserable came to her: "Salutation," he said, "fair maid with clear brown eyes." "Salutation," she said, "Siewert Halewyn the Invincible." But the Miserable: "What brings thee," he said, "into my lands?" "My heart," said Magtelt, "bade me come, I wished greatly to see thee, and am content now that I can look at thee face to face." "So," said he, "have done and shall do all virgins, even more beautiful than thou art." While they were talking together the wounded hound made a rush at the horse and hung on to Halewyn's opperst-kleed as if he would drag him down to the ground. Having done this, he went off and sat down in the snow beside the road, and there lifting up his muzzle howled most lamentably. "See," said he, "my hound crying out to death. Hast no fear, maid?" "I go," she said, "in God's keeping." Having moved forward a little way, talking and riding together, they saw in the air above their heads, a crow of great size, on whose neck was perched an angry little sparrow, pecking him, clutching him, pulling out his feathers and piping furiously. Wounded, torn open, flying this way and that, right, left, upward, downward, banging against the trees blindly, and croaking with pain, this crow at length fell dead, with his eyes pecked out, across Halewyn's saddle. Having looked at it a moment, he tossed it aside into the road; while the sparrow flew off to a bough, and there, shaking out his feathers merrily, fell a-piping at the top of his voice in celebration of his victory. "Ah," said Magtelt, laughing to the sparrow, "thou art of noble blood, little bird; come hither, I will find thee a fair cage and give thee thy fill of wheat, millet, hemp, and linseed." But Halewyn became mightily angry: "Common little insolent!" he cried, "would that I had thee in a snare! Shouldst not then sing for long thy victory over this noble crow." None the less the sparrow went on singing without a break, and in this wise seemed to mock at Halewyn, who said to Magtelt: "Dost dare to applaud and give heart to this little animal, knowing that my shield bears on it the crow of my glorious ancestor Dirk! Knowest thou not that like him thou hast but little longer to sing?" "I," she said, "shall sing as long as it pleases God, my master." "There is for thee," said he, "no other master than I, for here I rule alone." Suddenly he turned very cold, for the heart of Anne-Mie, though it still beat, was become like ice in his breast. So, thinking that this heart was about to dry up, he said to Magtelt: "Thou comest in good season, fair virgin." "Whom God leads," said she, "comes always in good season." "But," he said, "who art thou, riding in my land, singing and winding the horn, who bringest hither such insolent talk?" "I," said she, "am the Lady Magtelt, daughter of Roel le Preux, Lord of Heurne." "And," said he, "art thou not chilled, riding thus in the snow?" "None," she said, "feels the cold in the race of the Lords of Heurne." "And," said he, "hast thou no fear, here at my side and on my own land, where no one dares to set foot?" "None," she said, "knows of fear in the race of the Lords of Heurne." "Thou art," said he, "a brave maid." "I," she said, "am daughter of Roel le Preux, Lord of Heurne." He answered nothing to that, and they went on a while without speaking. Suddenly he said, lifting his head arrogantly: "Am I not truly the Invincible, the Beautiful, the Strong? Shall I not be so always? Yes, for all things come to my aid in the hour of victory. In former times I must needs sing, in cold, snow, wind, and darkness, to call virgins to me, but now the most proud, noble, and beautiful of maids comes hither in broad day without song to call her: sure sign of growing power. Who is my equal? None, save God. He has the heavens and I the earth, and over all living things triumph and mastery. Let come what may, armies, lightning, thunder, tempest; who can stand but I?" "I!" answered to his hideous blasphemy seven voices speaking together. Those voices were the echo of the Seven Giants, which sent back every sound seven times over with great force and volume. But the Miserable: "Hark!" said he, "my Lord Echo dares to mock the Invincible." And he burst out laughing. But the echo burst out laughing likewise, and laughed loud, long, and terribly. And Halewyn appeared well pleased at the noise, and went on laughing, with the seven echoes after him. And it seemed to Magtelt as it were a thousand men hidden in the forest. And meanwhile the hound had taken fright and howled so desperately that it seemed to Magtelt as it were a thousand hounds in the forest crying out to death. The Miserable's horse had taken fright also, and was so terrified at his master's laughter, the dog's howls, and his own neighing, all ringing out together, that he plunged, reared, stood up on his hind legs like a man, laid back his ears with fear, and would, without doubt, have thrown Halewyn from his back, if, driving him onward with his spurs, he had not made him pass by force the place of the seven echoes. But Schimmel had not moved at all, and this strangely enough, for he was a young horse, apt to be alarmed. When the noise was over they rode on their way, speaking few words together as they rode. And together they came to the Gallows-field. XXX. How Magtelt came to the Gallows-field. There Magtelt saw the sixteen virgins hanging, and amongst them Anne-Mie, and all were covered over with snow. Halewyn's horse began again to rear, plunge, and lay back his ears as a sign of fear; but Schimmel neighed, and pawed the ground proudly with his hoof. And Halewyn said to Magtelt: "Thou hast there an unfaithful friend, who can neigh happily at the hour of thy death." But Magtelt answered nothing, and looking steadfastly at those poor virgins prayed to the very strong God to help her in their revenge. Meanwhile the Miserable alighted from his horse, and taking the golden sickle in his hand came towards Magtelt. "It is," he said, "the hour of thy death. Get down, therefore, as I have done." And in his impatience he would have lifted her from Schimmel's back. But Magtelt: "Leave me," she said, "to get down by myself; if I must die 'twill be without weeping." "Thou art a fine girl," said he. And she, having dismounted from her horse, said: "My lord, before thou strikest, doff thine opperst-kleed of the colour of corn, for the blood of virgins gushes fiercely, and if mine should stain thee I should be grieved." But before the opperst-kleed was off his shoulders, his head fell to the ground at his feet. And Magtelt, looking at the body, said: "He strode confidently, thinking himself invincible; but when the beast goes with assurance the hunter follows more easily." And she crossed herself. XXXI. Of the sixteen deaths and of the Prince of the Stones. Suddenly the head spoke, saying: "Go thou to the end of the road, and sound my horn aloud, so that my friends may hear." But Magtelt: "To the end of the road will I not go; thine horn will I not sound; murderer's counsel will I not follow." "Ah," said the head, "if thou art not the Virgin without pity, join me to my body, and with the heart that is in my breast anoint my red wound." But Magtelt: "I am the Virgin without pity; to thy body will I not join thee, and with the heart that is in thy breast will I not anoint thy red wound." "Maid," said the head, weeping and speaking with great terror, "maid, quickly, quickly, make on my body the sign of the cross, and carry me into my castle, for he is coming." While the head was speaking, suddenly came out of the wood the Prince of the Stones, and he came and seated himself on the body of the Miserable, and taking in his hands the head: "Salutation," he said, "to the Ill-favoured one; art thou now content? What of thy triumphant bearing, my lord the Invincible? She whom thou calledst not came without a song: the virgin without fear, in whose hands is death. But thou must sing once again thy sweet song, the song to call virgins." "Ah," said the head, "make me not sing, Lord Prince of the Stones, for I know well enough that at the end there is great suffering." "Sing," said the Prince of the Stones, "sing, coward that hast never wept to do evil, and now weepest at the time of punishment: sing, Miserable." "Ah," said the head, "have pity, Lord." "Sing," said the Prince of the Stones, "sing, 'tis the hour of God." "My lord Prince," said the head, "be not so hard in my evil hour." "Sing, Miserable," said the Prince of the Stones, "sing, 'tis the hour of the reckoning." "Ah," said the head, weeping, "I will sing, since you are my master." And the head sang the faery song. And suddenly there spread abroad in the air a smell of cinnamon, frankincense, and sweet marjoram. And the sixteen virgins, hearing the song, came down from the gallows and drew near to the body of Halewyn. And Magtelt, crossing herself, watched them pass, but felt no fear. And the first virgin, who was the daughter of the poor simpleton, Claes the Dog-beater, took the golden sickle, and cutting into the breast of the Miserable below the left nipple drew out a great ruby, and put this on her wound, where it melted into rich red blood in her breast. And the head let a great pitiful cry of pain. "So," said the Prince of the Stones, "did the poor virgins cry out when thou madest them pass from life unto death; sixteen times hast thou brought death about, sixteen times shalt thou die, besides the death thou hast suffered already. The cry is the cry of the body when the soul leaves it; sixteen times hast thou drawn this cry from other bodies, sixteen times shall cry out thine own; sing, Miserable, to call the virgins to the reckoning." And the head sang again the faery song, while the first virgin walked away silently towards the wood like a living person. And the second virgin came to the body of the Miserable and did to it as the first had done. And she also walked away into the wood like a living person. So did each of the sixteen virgins, and for each of them a ruby was changed into good red blood. And sixteen times the head sang the faery song, and sixteen times gave the death-cry. And one by one all the virgins went away into the depth of the wood. And the last of all, who was Anne-Mie, came to Magtelt, and kissing her right hand wherein she had held the sword: "Blessed be thou," she said, "who camest without fear, and, delivering us from the spell, leadest us into paradise." "Ah," said Magtelt, "must thou go so far away, Anne-Mie?" But Anne-Mie, without hearing her, passed like the others into the depth of the wood, walking silently over the snow like a living person. While the head was weeping and uttering bitter plaints, came out from the forest the child of nine years old, whom the Miserable had killed first of all. Still wearing her shroud she approached and fell at the feet of the mannikin Prince of the Stones. "Ah," she said, kissing the head tenderly, stroking it, caressing it, and wiping away its tears, "poor Miserable, I will pray for thee to the very good God, who readily hears the prayers of children." And the girl prayed in this wise: "Dear Lord, see how much he is suffering! Is it not payment enough that he should die sixteen times? Ah, Lord, sweet Lord, and you, Madam Mary, who are so kind, deign to hear me and grant him forgiveness." But the mannikin, starting up, pushed the child away and said harshly: "This head is mine, thy prayers avail nothing; be off, little ragamuffin, go back whence thou came." And the child went away like the other maids into the depth of the wood. Then he thrust his hand into the breast of the Miserable and pulled out a heart of stone: then, in his rasping voice, which hissed like a viper and scraped like a thousand pebbles under the iron sole of an armed man, he said: "Ambitious heart, heart of stone, thou wast in thy lifetime cruel and a coward; thou couldst not be content with such ample gifts as God in His bounty had given thee, thou hadst no desire towards goodness, courage, or just dealing, but towards gold, power, and vain honours; thou hadst no love for anything, neither father, mother, brother, nor sister; and so, to get more power and higher jurisdiction, thou killedst the people of the land of Flanders, without shame: and so also thou didst set thyself to hurt the weak, sucking thy life from their life, and thy blood from their blood. So have done and so shall always do this reptile order of ambitious ugly men. Blessed be God, who, by the hands of this frail and winsome maid, has cut off thine head from thy neck and taken thee from the world." As he spoke he had thrown the heart down into the snow, and trampling over it with great despite, kicking it with his toe like a vile thing, and laughing bitterly, he spoke again in his rasping voice: "Stone thou art, stone shalt thou be a thousand years, but a live stone, a suffering stone. And when men come and carve thee, cleave thee, grind thee to powder, thou shalt endure it all without being able to cry out. Ambitious heart, heart of stone, suffer and bleed, my cousin. "Thou hast starved poor folk, so shalt thou starve a thousand years; thou hast brought cold into their homes, thou shalt freeze in like manner. Ambitious heart, heart of stone, suffer and bleed, my cousin. "Thou shalt be a hearth-stone and burn with the heat; paving-stone, and let men walk over thee; stone of a church, and bear upon thee all the weight of the building; and thou shalt suffer every evil, pain, and anguish. Ambitious heart, heart of stone, suffer and endure, my cousin." Having said this the Prince of the Stones, driving before him with his foot the Miserable's heart, disappeared among the trees of the forest. Then Magtelt looked at the head, and saw that its eyes were open wide. She took it up and washed it with snow, then, carrying it with her, rode away on Schimmel, leaving near the body Halewyn's horse and hound, the one moaning softly, the other watching it with sorrowful wonderment. As she took up the head, the hound growled, but did not dare touch her. And while she rode away, horse and hound stayed by the body, downcast and sad, and covered with the snow which fell without ceasing. And they seemed to be guarding their master. XXXII. How father, mother, and sister sought everywhere their son and brother, and could not find him. Singing and winding her horn rides the noble maid Magtelt. And in her heart is joy, at the thought that Anne-Mie, the fifteen virgins, and Toon the Silent are avenged. And her hand holds fast beneath her keirle the good sword and the head of Halewyn. And Schimmel trots quickly, eager to be back in his stable. While she was riding she saw, through the thick snow falling, an old man coming towards her on a black horse. And the old man said: "Beautiful maid, riding so fast, hast seen my son Halewyn?" And Magtelt: "I left thy son Halewyn well placed, taking his diversion in the snow with sixteen maidens." And the old man rode on. When she had gone farther she saw, through the thick snow falling, a young and rosy-cheeked damosel coming towards her on a white palfrey. And the damosel said: "Beautiful maid, riding so fast, hast seen my brother Halewyn?" But Magtelt: "Go farther, to the Gallows-field, where thou shalt see thy brother in like guise to the sixteen maidens." And the damosel rode on. Farther still on her way, Magtelt saw, through the thick snow falling, a young man of haughty and stiff-necked countenance coming towards her on a roan charger. And the young man said: "Beautiful maid, riding so fast, hast seen my brother Halewyn?" But Magtelt: "Thy brother is a fair lord, so fair that round him sixteen maidens stand sentinel, unwilling to let him go." And the young man rode on. After travelling on her way still farther, she saw, through the thick snow falling, an old woman, high-coloured and of robust seeming, despite her great age, coming towards her. And the old woman said: "Beautiful maid, riding so fast, hast seen my son Halewyn?" But Magtelt: "Thy son Siewert Halewyn is dead; see, here is his head beneath my keirle, and his blood running thick on my dress." And the old woman cried out: "If thou had spoken these words earlier thou shouldst not have ridden so far." But Magtelt: "Thou art fortunate, old woman, in that I have left thee thine own body and not slain thee as I have thy son." And the old dame took fright and made off. And night fell. XXXIII. Of the feast in the castle of Heurne, and of the head upon the table. Schimmel trotted quickly, and soon Magtelt reached her father's castle and there sounded the horn. Josse van Ryhove, who was gate-keeper that night, was filled with amazement at the sight of her. Then he cried out: "Thanks be to God, 'tis our damosel come home again." And all the household ran to the gate crying out likewise with great noise and much shouting: "Our damosel is come home." Magtelt, going into the great hall, went to Sir Roel and knelt before him: "My lord father," she said, "here is the head of Siewert Halewyn." Sir Roel, taking the head in his hands and looking at it well, was so overcome with joy that he wept for the first time since the eyes were in his head. And the Silent, rising up, came to Magtelt, kissed her right hand wherewith she had held the sword, and wept likewise, saying: "Thanks be to thee who hast brought about the reckoning." The lady Gonde was like a woman drunk with joy, and could not find her tongue. At last, bursting into sobs, melting into tears, and embracing Magtelt eagerly: "Ah, ah," she cried out, "kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, little one! She has slain the Miserable, the sweet maid; the nightingale has vanquished the falcon! My child is come home again, home again my child. Noël! Thanks be to God who loves aged mothers and will not have them robbed of their children. Noël! See, Magtelt the beautiful, Magtelt the singing-bird, Magtelt the joyous, Magtelt the bright of heart, Magtelt the glorious, Magtelt the victorious, Magtelt my daughter, my child, my all, Noël!" And Magtelt smiled at her, caressing her and stroking her hands gently. And the lady Gonde, weeping freely, let her do, without speaking. "Ah," said Sir Roel, "I never saw my wife before in such festival mood." Then suddenly he cried out: "Festival," quoth he, "this should be a day of festival, the great feast of the house of Heurne!" And he threw open the door to call his pages, grooms, men-at-arms, and all the household. But they all held back, not daring to enter. "Ho!" cried he, in his great joyous voice, "where are cooks and kitchen-maids? Where are cauldrons, pots, and frying-pans? Where are barrels, kegs, flagons and bottles, tankards, mugs, and goblets? Where is clauwaert simple and double? Where is old wine and new wine? Where are hams and sausages, whales' tongues, and loins of beef, meat of the air, meat of the waters, and meat of the fields? Bring in everything there is and set it on the table, for this must be a feast-day in this house, feast for an emperor, a king, a prince; for"--and so saying he held up the Miserable's head by the hair--"our beloved maid has slain with her own hand the lord Siewert Halewyn." Hearing this they all cried out with a roar like thunder: "Praise be to God! Noël to our damosel!" "Go then," said Sir Roel, "and do as I have bid." And when the great feast was served the head was put in the middle of the table. On the morrow there was let cry war in the seigneury of Heurne. And Sir Roel went with a goodly force of men to attack by arms the castle of the Miserable, whereof all the relatives, friends, and followers were either hanged or slain. And My Lord the Count gave to the family of Heurne, the goods, titles and territories of Halewyn, excepting only the ugly shield, and theirs they remain to this day. SMETSE SMEE I. Of Smetse, his belly, and his forge. Smetse Smee lived in the good town of Ghent, on the Quai aux Oignons, beside the fair River Lys. He was well skilled in his trade, rich in bodily fat, and with so jolly a countenance that the most melancholy of men were cheered and took heart for no more than the sight of him in his smithy, trotting about on his short legs, head up and belly forward, seeing to everything. When work was in full swing in his shop, Smetse, listening to the busy sounds round the fire, would say, with his hands clasped across his stomach, quietly and happily: "By Artevelde! what are drums, cymbals, fifes, viols, and bagpipes worth? For heavenly music give me my sledges beating, my anvils ringing, my bellows roaring, my good workmen singing and hammering." Then, speaking to them all: "Courage," he would say, "my children! Who works well from daybreak drinks the better for it at vespers. Whose is that feeble arm down there, tapping with his hammer so gently? Does he think he is cracking eggs, the faint-heart? To those bars, Dolf, and plunge them in the water. To that breastplate, Pier, beat it out for us fine and true: iron well beaten is proof against bullets. To that plough-share, Flipke, and good work to it, too: from the plough comes the world's bread. To the door, Toon, here comes the raw-boned nag of Don Sancio d'Avila, the knight with the sour countenance, brought hither by his raw-boned groom, who is for having him shod, no doubt: let him pay double for his Spanish haughtiness and his harshness to poor folk!" So went Smetse about his smithy, singing mostly, and whistling when he was not singing. And for the rest getting much honest gain, profiting in health, and, at vespers, drinking bruinbier with a will in the inn of Pensaert. II. How Slimbroek the Red put out the fire in Smetse's forge. By and by there came to the Quai aux Oignons a certain Adriaen Slimbroek, who set up, with the licence of the guild, another smithy. This Slimbroek was an ugly, wizened, lean and puny personage, white-faced, underhung in the jaw like a fox, and nicknamed the Red on account of the colour of his hair. Skilled in intrigue, expert in sharp-practice, master of arts in cant and hypocrisy, and making himself out to be the finest of smiths, he had interested in his business all the rich and gentle folk of the town, who from fear or otherwise held to the Spaniards and wished ill to those of the reformed faith. They were before, for the most part, customers of Smetse, but Slimbroek had put them against him, saying: "This Smetse is a knave to the bottom of his heart, he was a marauder in his young days, sailing the seas with the men of Zeeland in despite of Spain, on the side of this religion which they call reformed. He still has many friends and relatives in Walcheren, more particularly at Middelburg, Arnemuiden, Camp-Veere, and Flushing, all obstinate Protestants, and speaking of the Pope of Rome and my Lords the Archdukes without veneration. "And for the rest," added he, "this fellow Smetse is altogether an atheist, reading the bible of Antwerp in despite of the decrees, and going to church only because he is afraid, and not at all because he will." By such slanders as these Slimbroek robbed Smetse of all his customers. And soon the fire was out in the forge of the good smith, and soon, too, the savings were eaten up, and Dame Misery came to the dwelling. III. Wherein Slimbroek is seen in the river prettily tricked out. Brought to this pass Smetse, nevertheless, would not let himself take to despair; but he was always sad and heavy of heart when, sitting in his cold smithy and looking at all his good tools lying idle on the ground, he heard the fair sound of hammers and anvils coming from Slimbroek's shop. But what angered him most was that whenever he passed before Slimbroek's dwelling the traitor carrot-head would appear suddenly on the threshold, and, saluting him graciously and giving him fair compliments, would make a hundred flattering speeches, accompanied by as many hypocritical salutations, and all for the sake of poking fun at him and to laugh unkindly at his misery. These ugly encounters and grimaces went on a long while, and Smetse came to the end of his patience: "Ah," said he, "it angers me to be in such poor case; although I must submit, for such is the holy will of God. But it irks me too bitterly to see this wicked knave, who by his trickeries has taken away all my customers, so amusing himself with my misery." Meanwhile Slimbroek spared him not at all, and each day became sharper in speech, for the more wrong he did to the good smith the more hate he bore him. And Smetse swore to have his revenge on him, in such a way as to spoil thenceforward his taste for mockery. It so happened that one Sunday when he was standing on the Quai des Bateliers, looking at the river with a crowd of watermen, townsfolk, boys, and scholars who were idle for the holy day, suddenly there came out of a pothouse, wherein he had been swallowing many pints of ale, Slimbroek, bolder than usual on account of the drink. Seeing Smetse he came and placed himself close to him, and with much gesticulation, loud bursts of talk and laughter, said to him in an insolent tone: "Good day, Smetse, good day, my worthy friend. How is thy fine face? It seems to lose its fat, which was of good quality, Smetse. 'Tis a great pity. What is the reason for it? Art thou angry at the loss of thy customers, Smetse? Thou must drink well to bring back the joy to thy stomach, Smetse. We never see thee now at vespers in the inn of Pensaert; why, Smetse? Hast no pennies to get drink? I have plenty for thee, if thou wilt, Smetse." And he shook his money-bag to make it ring. "Thank thee kindly," said Smetse, "thou art too generous, Master Slimbroek, 'tis my turn to stand thee drink now." "Ah," cried Slimbroek, feigning pity and compassion, "why wilt thou stand drink to me? The world knows thou art not rich, Smetse." "Rich enough," answered the smith, "to stand thee the best draught thou ever had." "Hark to him," said Slimbroek to the crowd of watermen and townsfolk, "hark to him. Smetse will stand us drink! The world is coming to an end. 'Tis the year of golden rags. Smetse will stand us drink! Ah! I shall taste with great pleasure the bruinbier that Smetse will stand us. I am thirsty as an African desert, thirsty as Sunday, thirsty as a devil half-boiled in the cauldrons of Lucifer." "Drink then, Slimbroek," said Smetse, and threw him into the river. Seeing this the people who were on the quay applauded heartily, and all ran to the edge to have a good look at Slimbroek, who, falling into the water head first, had struck and broken through the belly of a dog a long while dead, which was floating down on the stream as such carrion will. And he was tricked out round the neck with this dog in a most marvellous manner, nor could he get rid of it, being busy with his arms at keeping himself afloat, and his face was smeared all over with offensive matter. Notwithstanding that he was half-blinded, he dared not come out on to the quay where Smetse was, but swam off towards the other bank, decked with his carrion and blowing like a hundred devils. "Well," said Smetse, "dost find the bruinbier to thy liking; is it not the best in all the land of Flanders? But my good sir, take off thy bonnet to drink; such headgear is not worn for river parties." When Slimbroek was in midstream, over against the bridge, Smetse went up on to this bridge with the other onlookers, and Slimbroek, in the midst of his puffing and snorting, cried out to Smetse: "I'll have thee hanged, accursed reformer!" "Ah," said the good smith, "you are mistaken, my friend; 'tis not I who am the reformer, but you, who devise these new bonnets. Where got you this one? I have never seen such a one, neither so beautiful, nor so richly ornamented with tufts and hangings. Is the fashion coming to Ghent by and by?" Slimbroek answered nothing, and struggled to get rid of the dead dog, but in vain, and having paused in his swimming for this purpose, went down to the bottom, and came up again more furious than ever, blowing harder, and trying all the while to tear off the body." "Leave your hat on, my master," said Smetse, "do not so put yourself out in order to salute me, I am not worth the trouble. Leave it on." At last Slimbroek climbed out of the water. On the quay he shook off the dog hastily and made away as fast as he could to his dwelling. But he was followed by a crowd of young watermen and boys, who ran after him hooting, whistling, covering him with mud and other filth. And they continued to do the same to his house-front after he had gone in. IV. Of the two branches. In this wise Smetse had his revenge on Slimbroek, who thereafter dared not look him in the face, and hid when he passed. But the good smith, nevertheless, had no more pleasure in anything than before, for with every passing day he became more and more needy, having already, with his wife, used up what help came to them from the guild, and also a small sum of silver from Middelburg in Walcheren. Ashamed to get his living by begging and knavery, and knowing how to bear with his lot no longer, he resolved to kill himself. So one night he left his house, and went out to the moats of the town, which are bordered by fine trees, forked and spreading down to the ground. There he fastened a stone to his neck, commended his soul to God, and, stepping back three paces to get a better start, ran and jumped. But while he was in the very act he was caught suddenly by two branches, which, falling upon his shoulders, gripped him like man's hands and held him fast where he was. These branches were neither cold nor hard, as wood naturally is, but supple and warm. And he heard at the same instant a strange and scoffing voice saying: "Where goest thou, Smetse?" But he could not answer by reason of his great astonishment. And although there was no wind the trunks and branches of the tree moved and swung about like serpents uncoiling, while all around there crackled above ten hundred thousand sparks. And Smetse grew more afraid, and a hot breath passed across his face, and the voice, speaking again, but nearer, or so it seemed, repeated: "Where goest thou, Smetse?" But he could not speak for fear, and because his throttle was dry and his teeth chattering. "Why," said the voice, "dost not dare answer him who wishes thee naught but well? Where goest thou, Smetse?" Hearing so pleasant and friendly a speech, the good smith took heart and answered with great humility: "Lord whom I cannot see, I was going to kill myself, for life is no longer bearable." "Smetse is mad," said the voice. "So I am, if you will, Lord," answered the smith; "nevertheless when my smithy is lost to me by the cunning of a wicked neighbour, and I have no way to live but by begging and knavery, 'twould be greater madness in me to live than to die." "Smetse," said the voice, "is mad to wish himself dead, for he shall have again, if he will, his fair smithy, his good red fire, his good workmen, and as many golden royals in his coffers as he sees sparks in this tree." "I," exclaimed the smith in great delight, "shall never have such fine things as that! They are not for such miserables as I." "Smetse," said the voice, "all things are possible to my master." "Ah," said the smith, "you come from the devil, Lord?" "Yes," answered the voice, "and I come to thee on his account to propose a bargain: For seven years thou shalt be rich, thou shalt have thy smithy the finest in the town of Ghent; thou shalt win gold enough to pave the Quai aux Oignons; thou shalt have in thy cellars enough beer and wine to wet all the dry throttles in Flanders; thou shalt eat the finest meats and the most delicate game; thou shalt have hams in plenty, sausages in abundance, mince-pies in heaps; every one shall respect thee, admire thee, sing thy praises; Slimbroek at the sight of it shall be filled with rage; and for all these great benefits thou hast only to give us thy soul at the end of seven years." "My soul?" said Smetse, "'tis the only thing I have; would you not, My Lord Devil, make me rich at a less price?" "Wilt thou or wilt thou not, smith?" said the voice. "Ah," answered Smetse, "you offer me things that are very desirable, even, My Lord Devil (if I may say it without offence), more than I wish; for if I might have only my forge and enough customers to keep the fire alight I should be happier than My Lord Albert or Madam Isabella." "Take or leave it, smith," said the voice. "Lord Devil," answered Smetse, "I beg you not to become angry with me, but to deign to consider that if you give me but my forge, and not all this gold, wine, and meats, you might perhaps be content to let my soul burn for a thousand years, which time is not at all to be compared with the great length of all eternity, but would seem long enough to whomever must pass it in the fire." "Thy forge for thee, thy soul for us; take or leave it, smith," said the voice. "Ah," lamented Smetse, "'tis dear bought, and no offence to you, Lord Devil." "Well then, smith," said the voice, "to riches thou preferest beggary? Do as thou wilt. Ah, thou wilt have great joy when, walking with thy melancholy countenance about the streets of Ghent, thou art fled by every one and dogs snap at thy heels; when thy wife dies of hunger, and thou chantest mea culpa in vain; then when, alone in the world, thou beatest on thy shrunken belly the drum for a feast, and the little girls dancing to such music give thee a slap in the face for payment; then, at last, when thou dost hide thyself in thy house so that thy rags shall not be seen in the town, and there, scabby, chatter-tooth, vermin-fodder, thou diest alone on thy dung-hill like a leper, and art put into the earth, and Slimbroek comes to make merry at thy downfall." "Ah," said Smetse, "he would do it, the knave." "Do not await this vile end," said the voice, "it were better to die now: leap into the water, Smetse; leap, Smee." "Alas," lamented he, "if I give myself to you, I shall burn for all eternity." "Thou wilt not burn," said the voice, "but serve us for food, good smith." "I?" cried Smetse, much frightened at these words, "do you think to eat me down there? I am not good for eating, I must tell you. There is no meat more sour, tough, common, and vulgar than mine is. It has been at one time and another diseased with plague, itch, and other vile maladies. Ah, I should make you a shabby feast, you and the others, My Lord Devil, who have in hell so many souls which are noble, succulent, tasty, and well-fed. But mine is not at all good, I declare." "Thou art wrong, smith," said the voice. "Souls of wicked emperors, kings, princes, popes, famous captains of arms, conquerors, slayers of men, and other brigands, are always as hard as an eagle's beak; for so their omnipotence fashions them; we break our teeth off bit by bit in eating them. Others, having been eaten up beforehand by ambition and cruelty, which are like ravenous worms, give us hardly a crumb to pick. Souls of girls who, without want or hunger, sell for money what nature bids them give for nothing, are so rotten, putrid, and evil-smelling that the hungriest of devils will not touch them. Souls of vain men are bladders, and within there is nothing but wind; 'tis poor food. Souls of hypocrites, canters, liars, are like beautiful apples without, but beneath the skin are full of bile, gall, sour wine, and frightful poison; none of us will have any ado with them. Souls of envious men are as toads, who from spleen at being so ugly, run yellow spittle on whatever is clean and shining, from mouth, feet, and all their bodies. Souls of gluttons are naught but cow-dung. Souls of good drinkers are always tasty, and above all when they have about them the heavenly smell of good wine and good bruinbier. But there is no soul so tasty, delectable, succulent, or of such fine flavour as that of a good woman, a good workman, or a good smith such as thou. For, working without intermission, they have no time for sin to touch and stain them, unless it be once or twice only, and for this reason we catch them whenever we can; but 'tis a rare dish, kept for the royal table of My Lord Lucifer." "Ah," said Smetse, "you have made up your mind to eat me, I see well enough; nevertheless 'twould not cost you much to give me back my forge for nothing." "'Tis no great discomfort," said the voice, "to be so eaten, for My Lord and King has a mouth larger than had the fish whereby Jonah the Jew was swallowed in olden time; thou wilt go down like an oyster into his stomach, without having been wounded by his teeth in any wise; there, if it displease thee to stay, thou must dance with feet and hands as hard as thou canst, and My Lord will at once spit thee out, for he will not find it possible to stand for long such a drubbing. Falling at his feet thou wilt show him a joyous face, a steady look in his eyes, and a good countenance, and the same to Madam Astarte, who, without a doubt, will take thee for her pet, as she has done already to several; thereafter thou wilt have a joyous time, serving My Lady merrily and brushing his hair for My Lord; as for the rest of us, we shall be right glad to have you with us, for, among all these familiar vile and ugly faces of conquerors, plunderers, thieves, and assassins, 'twill do us good to see the honest countenance of a merry smith, as thou art." "My Lord Devil," said Smetse, "I do not merit such honour. I can well believe, from what you tell me, that 'tis pleasant enough down there with you. But I should be ill at ease, I must tell you, being naturally uncouth in the company of strangers; and so I should bring no joy with me, and should not be able to sing; and therefore you would get but poor amusement from me, I know in advance. Ah, give me back rather my good forge and my old customers, and hold me quit; this would be the act of a royal devil and would sit well upon you." Suddenly the voice spoke with anger: "Smith, wilt thou pay us in such ape's coin? Life is no longer of benefit to thee, death is abhorrent, and thou wouldst have from us without payment the seven full, rich and joyous years which I offer thee. Accept or refuse, thy forge for thee, thy soul for us, under the conditions I have told thee." "Alas," said Smetse, "then I will have it so, since it must be, Lord Devil!" "Well then," said the voice, "set thy mark in blood to this deed." And a black parchment, with a crow's quill, fell from the tree at the smith's feet. He read on the parchment, in letters of fire, the pact of seven years, opened his arm with his knife, and signed with the crow's quill. And while he was still holding the parchment and the quill, he felt them suddenly snatched from his hands with violence, but he saw nothing, and only heard a noise as of a man running in slipper-shoes, and the voice saying as it went into the distance: "Thou hast the seven years, Smetse." And the tree ceased its swaying, and the sparks in the branches went out. V. Of the flaming ball, of the forge relit, and of the terrible great buffet which the man with the lantern gave to Smetse's wife. Smetse, greatly amazed, rubbed his eyes, thinking he was dreaming. Suddenly shaking himself: "This devil," said he, "was he not making fun of me after all? Have I verily gotten my good forge back again? I will go and see." Having said this he started running in haste, and from far away saw a great light reddening the sky above the houses, and it seemed to him that the fire sending up this light was on the Quai aux Oignons; and he said to himself: "Could that be my forge?" And he ran the faster. Coming to the quay he found it lit up as if by a sun, from the paving-stones up to the tops of the trees which stood alongside, and he said to himself: "It is my forge." Then he was seized and shaken with joy, his legs failed him, and his breath grew short; but he kept running as hard as he could, and coming at last to his house he saw his smithy wide open as in the daytime, and at the back of it a great bright fire. Unable to contain himself at this sight he fell to dancing, leaping, and bursting out into laughter, crying: "I have my forge, my own forge! Ghent is mine!" Then he went in. Inspecting, examining, touching everything, he saw at the sides, laid out in good order, iron of all kinds: armour-iron, iron bars, plough-iron. "By Artevelde!" he said, "the devil was not lying!" And he took up a bar, and having made it red with the fire, which was done quickly, started beating it, making the hammer ring on the anvil like thunder, and crying: "Ha, so I have my good tools back again, and hear once more this good music which has so long been silent!" And while he was wiping away a tear of joy, which gave an unaccustomed wetness to his eye, he saw on a chest near by a good pewter pot standing, and beside it a fine mug, and he filled up the mug several times and drank it down with relish: "Ah," he said, "the good bruinbier, the drink which makes men! I had lost the taste for it! How good it is!" Then he went back to hammering the iron bar. While he was making all this noise, he heard himself called by name, and looking to see whence the voice came he perceived his wife in the half-open door which led from the kitchen, thrusting through her head and looking at him with a startled face. "Smetse," she said, "is it thou, my man?" "Yes, wife," said he. "Smetse," she said, "come close to me, I dare not set foot in this forge." "And why not, wife?" said he. "Alas," she said, clinging to him and gazing into the forge, "wert thou alone there, my man?" "Yes," said he. "Ah," she said, "Smetse, while you were away there were strange happenings!" "What happenings, wife?" "As I was lying in bed," she said, "suddenly the house trembled, and a flaming ball passed across our room, went out through the door, without hurting anything, down the stairs, and into the forge, where, bursting, as I suppose, it made a noise like a hundred thunder-claps. Suddenly all the windows and doors were thrown open with a great clatter Getting out of bed, I saw the quay all lit up, as it is now. Then, thinking that our house was on fire, I came down in haste, went into the forge, saw the fire lit, and heard the bellows working noisily. In each corner the iron of different kinds arranged itself in place according to the work for which it was used; but I could see no hands moving it, though there must have been some for sure. I began to cry out in a fright, when suddenly I felt, as it were, a glove of hot leather pressed against my mouth and holding it shut, while a voice said: 'Do not cry out, make no sound, if thou wilt not have thy husband burnt alive for the crime of sorcery.' Nevertheless he who thus ordered me to keep silent made himself more noise than I should ever have dared, but by a miracle none of our neighbours heard it. As for me, my man, I had no more heart to make a sound, and I fled back hither into the kitchen, where I was praying to God when I heard thy voice, and dared to open the door a crack. Oh, my man, since thou art here, explain, if thou can, all this tumult." "Wife," answered Smetse, "we must leave that to those more learned than ourselves. Think only to obey the order of the voice: keep thy mouth shut, speak to no one of what thou hast seen to-night, and go back to thy bed, for it is still pitch-dark." "I go," she said, "but wilt thou not come also, my man?" "I cannot leave the forge," said he. While he was speaking thus there came towards them, one after another, a baker carrying new-baked bread, a grocer carrying cheeses, and a butcher carrying hams. Smetse knew well enough that they were devils, from their white faces, hollow eyes, scorched hair, twisted fingers, and also from the fact that they walked with so little sound. His wife, amazed to see them coming into her house with all this food, would have stopped them, but they slipped between her hands like eels, and went into the kitchen, walking straight and silently. There, without a word spoken, the baker arranged his loaves in the pan, while the butcher and grocer put their cheeses and hams in the cool-of the cellar. And they finished their work, taking no notice of the smith's wife, who kept crying: "'Tis not here you must bring these things; you have made a mistake, I tell you, my good men. Go elsewhither." But they, notwithstanding her voice, arranged the loaves, meat, and cheeses quietly. This made the good woman more than ever put out, and she grew angry: "I tell you," she exclaimed, "you have made a mistake; do you not hear me? You have made a mistake, 'tis not here you should be; I say here, with us, in this place, in the house of Smetse the beggar, who has not a farthing to his name, who will never pay you. Alas, they will not listen to me!" And crying out at the top of her voice: "Masters, you are at Smetse's, do you not understand? Smetse the beggar! Do I not say it loud enough? Jesus, Lord, God! Smetse the needy! Smetse the ragged! Smetse the starved! Smetse who is rich in nothing but lice! Who will pay you nothing: do you hear me? Who will pay you nothing, nothing, nothing!" "Wife," said the smith, "you are losing your head, my dear. 'Tis I who sent for these good men." "Thou!" said his wife, "thou! but thou art mad, my man; yes, he is mad, my masters, altogether mad. Ah, 'tis thou who sent for them! 'Tis thou who sendest for loaves, hams, and cheeses in this profusion, like a rich man, when thou knowest well enough we cannot pay for them, and so showest thy bad faith!" "Wife," answered Smetse quietly, "we are rich, and will pay for everything." "We rich?" she said, "ah, poor beggar-man. Do I not know what is in our chest? Hast ever put thy nose in to see, any more than in the bread-pan? Art thou become the housewife? Alas, my man is mad, God help us!" Meanwhile the three men came back into the smithy. Seeing them again, the wife ran to them: "Master trades-men," said she, "you heard me well enough, for you are not deaf, I believe; we have nothing, we can pay you nothing; take back your provisions." But without looking at her, nor seeming to hear her, the three went off, walking stiff and silently. No sooner had they gone out than a brewer's cart drew up at the door, and the brewer's men came into the smithy carrying between them a great barrel full of bruinbier. "Smetse," said his wife, "this is too much! Master brewers, this is not for us; we do not like beer at all, we drink water. Take this barrel to one of our neighbours, it is no concern of ours, I tell you." None the less the brewer's men took down the barrel of bruinbier into the cellar, came up again, and went out to fetch others, and placed them alongside the first to the number of twenty. The good wife, trying to stop them, was pushed aside, while Smetse could not speak for laughing, and could only draw her to his side, and so prevent her from hurting herself on the barrels, which the men were carrying from street to cellar with marvellous speed and dispatch. "Oh," she wailed, "let me be! This is too much, Smetse! Alas! Now we are worse than beggars, we are debtors, Smetse: I shall go and throw myself into the river, my man. To run up debts to fill a famished stomach, that is shame enough; but to do so from simple gluttony, that is unbearable deceit. Canst thou not be content with bread and water got honestly with thy two hands? Art thou then become such a delicate feeder that thou must have cakes, fine cheeses, and full barrels? Smetse, Smetse, that is not like a good man of Ghent, but rather like a Spanish rogue. Oh, I shall go and drown myself, my man!" "Wife," said Smetse, troubled at seeing her in such distress, "do not weep. 'Tis all ours, my dear, duly, and by right." "Ah," she said moaning, "'tis an ill thing to lose in this wise in your old age that honesty which was your only crown." While the smith was endeavouring, but in vain, to console her, there entered a vintner followed by three-and-thirty porters, each carrying a basket full of bottles containing precious wines of great rarity, as was shown by the shape of those said bottles. When the good wife saw them she was overcome with despair, and her courage failed her: "Come in," she said in a piteous voice, "come in, master vintners; the cellar is below. You have there a goodly number of bottles, six score for certain. That is none too much for us who are wealthy, wealthy of misery, vermin, and lice; come in, my masters, that is the door of the cellar. Put them all there, and more besides if you will." And giving Smetse a push: "Thou art happy, no doubt," said she, "for 'tis a fine sight for a drunkard, such as thou art, to see all this good wine coming into the house without payment. Ah, he laughs!" "Yes, wife," said Smetse, "I laugh with content, for the wines are ours, ours the meats, ours the loaves and cheeses. Let us make merry over it together." And he tried to embrace her: but she, shaking herself free: "Oh, oh," she said, "he runs up debts, he tells lies, he laughs at his shame: he has all the vices, none is wanting." "Wife," said Smetse, "all this is ours, I tell thee again. To this amount am I paid in advance for certain large orders which have been graciously given me." "Art thou not lying?" said she, growing a little calmer. "No," said he. "All this is ours?" "Yes," he said, "by the word of honour of a citizen of Ghent." "Ah, my man, then we are henceforward out of our trouble." "Yes, wife," said he. "'Tis a miracle from God." "Alas," said he. "But these men come hither by night, against the usual custom, tell me the reason of that." "He who knows the reason for everything," said Smetse, "is an evil prier. Such a one am not I." "But," said she, "they speak never a word." "They do not like to talk," said Smetse, "that is clear. Or it may be that their master chose them dumb, so that they should not waste time chattering with housewives." "Yes, that may be," she said, while the thirty-first porter was going past, "but 'tis very strange, I cannot hear their footfalls, my man?" "They have for certain," said Smetse, "soles to suit their work." "But," she said, "their faces are so pale, sad, and motionless, that they seem like faces of the dead." "Night-birds have never a good complexion," said Smetse. "But," said his wife, "I have never seen these men among the guilds of Ghent." "Thou dost not know them all," said Smetse. "That may be, my man." In this manner the smith and his wife held converse together, the one very curious and disturbed, the other confused and ashamed at his lies. Suddenly, as the three-and-thirtieth porter of the master-vintner was going out of the door, there rushed in in great haste a man of middling height, dressed in a short black smock, pale-haired, large-headed, wan-faced, stepping delicately, quick as the wind, stiff as a poker; for the rest, smiling continually, and carrying a lantern. The man came up to Smetse hurriedly, without speaking bade him follow, and seized him by the arm. When Smetse hung back he made him a quick sign to have no fear, and led him into the garden, whither they were followed by the good wife. There he took a spade, gave his lantern to Smetse to hold, dug in the earth rapidly and opened a great hole, pulled out of the hole a leathern bag, opened it quickly, and with a smile showed Smetse and his wife that it was full of gold coin. The good wife cried out at the sight of the gold, whereupon he gave her a terrible great buffet in the face, smiled again, saluted, turned on his heel and went off with his lantern. The good wife, knocked down by the force of the blow, and quite dazed, dared not cry out again, and only moaned softly: "Smetse, Smetse," said she, "where art thou, my man? my cheek hurts me sorely." Smetse went to her and picked her up, saying: "Wife, let this buffet be a lesson to thee henceforward to control thy tongue better; thou hast disturbed with thy crying all the good men who have come here this night for my good; this last was less patient than the rest and punished thee, not without good reason." "Ah," she said, "I did ill not to obey thee; what must I do now, my man?" "Help me," said Smetse, "to carry the bag into the house." "That I will," she said. Having taken in the bag, not without some trouble, they emptied it into a coffer. "Ah," she said, seeing the gold run out of the bag and spread itself this way and that, "'tis a fine sight. But who was this man who showed thee this sack with such kindness, and who gave me this terrible great blow?" "A friend of mine," said Smetse, "a great discoverer of hidden treasure." "What is his name?" said she. "That," said Smetse, "I am not allowed to tell thee." "But, my man..." "Ah, wife, wife," said Smetse, "thou wilt know too much. Thy questioning will be thy death, my dear." "Alas," said she. VI. Wherein the wife of Smetse shows the great length of her tongue. When the day was up, Smetse and his wife sat down together to the good loaves, the fat ham, the fine cheese, the double bruinbier, and the good wines, and so eased their stomachs, hurt a little by being such a long while hungry. Suddenly there came in all the old workmen, and they said: "Baes Smetse, thou didst send for us; here we are, right glad to see thy fire lit up again, and to work for thee who wast always so good a master." "By Artevelde!" said Smetse, "here they all are: Pier, Dolf, Flipke, Toon, Hendrik, and the rest. Good day, my lads!" and he gripped them by the hand, "we must drink." While they were drinking, his wife said suddenly with a toss of the head: "But no one sent for you all! Is that not so, Smetse?" "Wife, wife," said the smith, "wilt thou never learn to hold thy tongue?" "But," said she, "I am speaking the truth, my man." "Thou art speaking foolishly," said he, "of things whereof thou knowest nothing. Stay in thy kitchen and do not come meddling in my forge." "Baesine," said Flipke, "without wishing to belie you, I must tell you that a message was sent to us in the name of the baes. For a man came in the middle of the night knocking on the doors of our houses, shouting out that we should all of us come hither without fail this morning for work of great urgency, and that for this we should each be given a royal as forfeit to our several masters. And we came, all of us, not wishing to leave our baes in the lurch." "'Tis good of you," said Smetse, "ye shall have the promised royal. But come with me, I will apportion to each of you the usual task." This he did, and once again the good music of sledges beating, anvils ringing, bellows blowing, and workmen singing was heard in the forge of the good smith. Meanwhile Smetse went to his wife and said to her with great heat: "Dost think it a fine thing to gainsay me before these good men! Chattering magpie, wilt never learn to hold thy tongue? Hast not already to-night been admonished sharply enough? Must thou have more telling?" "But, Smetse," said his wife, "I did not know that you had sent for them." "That is no reason," he said, "why thou shouldst give me the lie before all my workmen; canst thou not leave thy speaking until I have done, or else hold thy tongue altogether, which would be better still." "Smetse," said his wife, "I never saw you so angry before. Do not beat me, my man, I will be henceforward as dumb as this cheese." "So you should," said Smetse. "But, my man," said she, "canst not explain to me somewhat of all these happenings?" "Sometime," he said, and went back into his smithy. VII. Of Smetse the Rich. That day there came to Smetse many persons, both notable and common, nobles, priests, burgesses, and peasants, to give him orders for much work, and so it went on again on other days, and all through the year. Soon the smithy became too small, and Smetse had to enlarge it by reason of the ever-growing numbers of his workmen. And the work which they did was so beautiful and so marvellously well done that the fame of it spread abroad to foreign and distant countries, and people came to see and admire it from Holland, Zeeland, Spain, Germany, England, and even from the land of the Turk. But Smetse, thinking of the seven years, was not happy at all. Soon his coffers were full of fine crusats, angelots, rose nobles, and golden jewels. But he found no pleasure in looking at all this wealth, for he thought them poor payment for giving his soul to the devil for all the length of eternity. Red Slimbroek lost all his customers, who came back one by one to Smetse. Ragged and miserable he used to come every day and lounge on the quay, watching from there the bright fire glowing in the forge of the good smith, and, so standing, he seemed dazed and stupid, like an owl watching a doit. Smetse, knowing that he was needy, sent him several customers to bring him some means of sustenance, and also more than once a gift of money. But although he thus repaid evil with good he was no longer happy, thinking of the seven years. Smetse's wife, finding him so wealthy, bought for dinner each Sunday legs of fat mutton, geese, capons, turkeys, and other good meats; invited to her table his relatives, friends, and workmen; and then there would be a great feast, well washed down with double bruinbier. But Smetse, though he ate and drank like an emperor, was not at all happy, thinking of the seven years. And the steam from the roast meats spread abroad on the Quai aux Oignons, so fragrant and succulent, and so sweetening the air, that all the dogs wandering in the streets of the town would stop before the house and sniff at the smell, and there on their haunches, nose in air, would wait for crumbs: and the beggars, of whom there were great numbers, came thither likewise and tried to drive away the dogs. Thereupon ensued furious battles, in which many were badly bitten. Seeing this, Smetse's wife and other women would come every Sunday to the door with baskets of alms, and there, before the meal began, would give the beggars good bread, slices of meat, and two farthings to get themselves drink, and all this with soft words and fair speaking; then they charged them to go away from the quay, which they did in an orderly manner. But the dogs stayed behind, and at the end of the feast there was given to them likewise food of some sort. And then they would go off also, taking each his bone or other booty. Smetse and his wife together took both dogs and men into their affection; to the beggars he gave food and shelter; and so also to all the dogs of Ghent that were lame, infirm, or sickly, until at length his house came to be called the Dogs' Hospital and the Home of the Poor. Nevertheless he was not at all happy, thinking of the seven years. Worn and troubled with these thoughts, Smetse stopped singing and lost his fat, shrivelled visibly, became melancholy and moody, and in his smithy said never a word, except to give a necessary order. And he was no longer called Smetse the Merry, but Smetse the Rich. And he counted the days. VIII. How there came a ragged, wayfarer to Smetse's door, and with him, on an ass, a sweet wife and a little child. On the two hundred and forty-fifth day of the seventh year, when the plum-trees were in bloom, Smetse, dumb as a stone, was taking a little noonday rest. He sat on a wooden bench opposite his door, and with melancholy mien looked at the trees planted all along the quay, and the small birds playing among the branches or squabbling and pecking one another over some morsel of food, and blinked in the bright sun which made these birds so merry, and heard at his back the goodly sounds of his forge, his wife preparing dinner, and his workmen hurrying at their work so that they might be off to their meal, for it was nearing the time; and he said to himself that in hell he would see neither the sun, nor the birds, nor the trees with their load of green leaves, nor hear any more the sounds of his forge, nor the smiths hurrying, nor his good wife preparing dinner. By and by the workmen came out, and Smetse was left sitting alone on his bench, pondering in his mind whether there were not some way whereby he might outwit the devil. Suddenly there drew up at his door a man of piteous appearance, with brown hair and beard, dressed like a ragged townsman, and carrying a great staff in his hand. He was walking beside an ass, and leading it along by a rein. On the ass rode a sweet and beautiful young woman with a noble mien, suckling a little child, who was quite naked, and of such gentle and winsome countenance that the sight of it warmed Smetse's heart. The ass stopped at the door of the smithy and began to bray loudly. "Master smith," said the man, "our ass has cast one of his shoes on his way hither, wilt thou be pleased to give orders that another should be given him?" "I will do it myself," said Smetse, "for I am alone here." "I should tell thee," said the man, "that we are beggars, without money." "Have no care for that," said Smetse, "I am rich enough to be able to shoe in silver without payment all the asses in Flanders." Hearing this the woman alighted from the ass and asked Smetse if she might sit down on the bench. "Yes," said he. And while he was fastening up the beast, paring his hoof and fitting the shoe, he said to the man: "Whence come you, with this woman and this ass?" "We come," said the man, "from a distant country, and have still far to go." "And this child whom I see naked," said Smetse, "does he not oftentimes suffer from the cold?" "Nay," said the man, "for he is all warmth and all life." "Well, well," said Smetse, "you do not cry down your own children, master. But what is your meat and drink while you are travelling in this manner?" "Water from streams," said the man, "and such bread as is given us." "Ah," said Smetse, "that is not much, I see, for the ass's panniers are light. You must often go hungry." "Yes," said the man. "This," said Smetse, "is displeasing to me, and it is most unwholesome for a nursing mother to suffer hunger, for so the milk turns sour, and the child grows in sickly wise." And he called out to his wife: "Mother, bring hither as many loaves and hams as will fill the panniers of this beast. And do not forget some double bruinbier, 'tis heavenly comfort for poor travellers. And a good peck of oats for the ass." When the panniers were filled and the beast shod, the man said to Smetse: "Smith, it is in my mind to give thee some recompense for thy great goodness, for such as thou seest me I have great power." "Yes," said Smetse, with a smile, "I can see that well enough." "I am," said the man, "Joseph, nominal husband of the very blessed Virgin Mary, who is sitting on this bench, and this child that she has in her arms is Jesus, thy Saviour." Smetse, dumbfounded at these words, looked at the wayfarers with great astonishment, and saw about the man's head a nimbus of fire, a crown of stars about the woman's, and, about the child's, beautiful rays more brilliant than the sun, springing from his head and girdling him round with light. Thereupon he fell at their feet and said: "My Lord Jesus, Madam the Virgin, and my Master St. Joseph, grant me pardon for my lack of understanding." To this St. Joseph replied: "Thou art an honest man, Smetse, and righteous as well. For this reason I give thee leave to make three requests, the greatest thou canst think of, and my Lord Jesus will listen to them favourably." At these words Smetse was filled with joy, for it seemed to him that in this way he might perhaps escape the devil; but at the same time he did not dare to avow that he had traded his soul away. So he remained in silence for a few moments, thinking of what things he could ask, then suddenly said, with great respect: "My Lord Jesus, Madam St. Mary, and you, Master St. Joseph, will you please to enter my dwelling? There I can tell you what boons I ask." "We will," said St. Joseph. "Mother," said Smetse to his wife, "come hither and look to the ass of these noble lords." And Smetse went in before them, sweeping the threshold so that there should be no dust to touch the soles of their feet. And he took them into his garden, where there was a fine plum-tree in full blossom. "My Lord, Madam, and Sir," said Smetse, "will it please you to order that whosoever shall climb up into this plum-tree shall not be able to come down again unless I so desire?" "It will," said St. Joseph. Thence he led the way into the kitchen, where there stood a great and precious arm-chair, well padded in the seat, and of enormous weight. "My Lord, Madam, and Sir," said Smetse, "will it please you that whosoever shall sit in this chair shall not be able to rise unless I so desire?" "It will," said St. Joseph. Then Smetse fetched a sack, and, showing it to them, said: "My Lord, Madam, and Sir, will it please you that, whatsoever his stature, man or devil shall be able to get into this sack, but not out again, unless I so desire?" "It will," said St. Joseph. "My Lord, Madam, and Sir," said Smetse, "thanks be unto you. Now that I have made my three requests I have naught else to ask of your goodness, save only your blessing." "We will give it," said St. Joseph. And he blessed Smetse, and thereafter the holy family went upon their way. IX. What Smetse did in order to keep his secret. The good wife had heard nothing of what was said to her man by the celestial wayfarers, and she was amazed to see the behaviour and hear the speech of the good smith. But she was more so than ever when, on the departure of the all-powerful visitors, Smetse began to give forth bursts of laughter, to rub his hands, take hold of her, thump her on the chest, twist her this way and that, and say in a triumphant tone: "It may be, after all, that I shall not burn, that I shall not roast, that I shall not be eaten! Art not glad of it?" "Alas," she said, "I cannot understand what you are talking about, my man; have you gone mad?" "Wife," said Smetse, "do not show me the whites of thine eyes in this pitiful manner, 'tis no time for that. Canst not see how light my heart has grown? 'Tis because I have got rid of a burden on my shoulders heavier than the belfry itself; I say this belfry, our own, with the dragon taken from that of Bruges. And I am not to be eaten. By Artevelde! my legs bestir themselves of their own accord at the thought of it. I dance! Wilt not do likewise? Fie, moody one, brewing melancholy when her man is so happy! Kiss me, wife, kiss me, mother, for my proficiat; and so thou shouldst, for instead of despair I have found a good and steadfast hope. They think to roast me with sauces and feast off my flesh to their fill. I will have the laugh of them. Dance, wife, dance!" "Ah, Smetse," said she, "you should take a purge, my man; they say 'tis good for madness." "Thou," he said, tapping her on the shoulder with great affection and tenderness, "talkest boldly." "Hark," said she, "to the good doctor preaching reason to me! But wert thou mad or not, Smetse, doffing thy bonnet as thou did to those beggars who came hither sowing their lice; giving to me, thy wife, their ass to hold; filling their hampers with our best bread, bruinbier, and ham; falling on thy knees before them to have their blessing, and treating them like archdukes, with a torrent of My Lords, Sirs, and Madams." At these words Smetse saw well enough that the lordly wayfarers had not wished to discover themselves to any but he. "Wife," he said, "thou must not question me further, for I can tell thee nothing of this mystic happening, which it is not given thee to understand." "Alas," said she, "then 'tis worse than madness, 'tis mystery. Thou dost ill to hide thyself from me in this wise, Smetse, for I have always lived in thy house, faithful to thee only, cherishing thine honour, husbanding thy wealth, neither lending nor borrowing, holding my tongue in the company of other wives, considering thy secrets as mine own and never breathing a word of them to any one." "I know it," said Smetse, "thou hast been a good and true wife." "Then why," said she, "knowing this, hast thou not more faith in me? Ah, my man, it hurts me; tell me the secret, I shall know how to keep it, I promise thee." "Wife," said he, "knowing nothing thou wilt be able to hold thy tongue the more easily." "Smetse," said she, "wilt thou verily tell me nothing?" "I cannot," said he. "Alas," said she. By and by the workmen came back, and Smetse gave each of them a good royal to get themselves drink. Whereat they were all so merry, and felt themselves so rich, that for three days none of them put his nose into the smithy, save one old man who was too withered, stiff, short of breath, and unsteady on his legs to go swimming with the others in the Lys, and afterwards drying in the sun among the tall grasses, dancing in the meadows to the music of rebecks, bagpipes, and cymbals, and at night in the tavern emptying pots and draining glasses. X. Of the Bloody Councillor. At length the day came on which the good smith was due to hand over his soul to the devil, for the seventh year had run out, and plums were once again ripe. At nightfall, when certain workmen were busy on a grating for the Franciscan brothers which was to be done that night, and had stayed behind with Smetse for that purpose, there came into the forge an evil-looking fellow, with greasy white hair, a rope round his neck, his jaw dropped, his tongue hanging out, and dressed in an ill-found habit like a nobleman's servant fallen on evil days. This fellow, without being heard by any one there as he walked across the floor, came quickly up to Smetse and put his hand on his shoulder. "Smetse," he said, "hast packed thy bundle?" Hearing this the smith swung round. "Packed," he said, "and how does my packing concern thee, master bald-pate?" "Smetse," replied the fellow in a harsh voice, "hast forgotten thy restored fortunes, and the good times thou hast enjoyed, and the black paper?" "No, no," said Smetse, doffing his bonnet with great humility, "I have not forgotten; pardon me, my lord, I could not call to mind your gracious countenance. Will you be pleased to come into my kitchen, and try a slice of fat ham, taste a pot of good bruinbier, and sip a bottle of wine? We have time enough for that, for the seven years are not yet struck, but want, if I am not mistaken, still two hours." "That is true," said the devil; "then let us go into thy kitchen." So they entered in and sat down to the table. The good wife was greatly astonished to see them come in. Smetse said to her: "Bring us wine, bruinbier, ham, sausages, bread, cakes, and cheeses, and the best of each that we have in the house." "But, Smetse," said she, "you waste the good things which God has given you. 'Tis well to come to the help of poor folk, but not to do more for one than another. Beggar-men are beggar-men, all are equal!" "Beggar-men!" exclaimed the devil, "that I am not and never was. Death to the beggar-men! To the gallows with the beggar-men!" "My lord," said Smetse, "I beg you not to be angry with my good wife, who knows you not at all. Wife, consider and look at our guest with great attention, but greater respect, and afterwards thou mayest tell thy gossips that thou hast seen my Lord Jacob Hessels, the greatest reaper of heretics that ever was. "Ah, wife, he mowed them down grandly, and had so many of them hanged, burnt, and tortured in divers ways, that he could drown himself a hundred times in the blood of his dead. Go, wife, go and fetch him meat and drink." While he was munching, Smetse said: "Ah, my lord, I soon recognized you by your particular way of saying: 'To the gallows!' and also by this rope which finished off your life in so evil a manner. For Our Lord said: 'Whoso liveth by the rope shall perish by the rope.' My Lord Ryhove was harsh and treacherous toward you, for besides taking your life he took also your beard, which was a fine one. "Ah, that was an evil trick to play on so good a councillor as you were in those days when you slept so quietly and peaceably in the Bloody Council--I should say the Council of Civil Disorders, speaking respectfully--and woke up only to say: 'To the gallows!' and then went to sleep again." "Yes," said the devil, "those were good times." "So they were," said Smetse, "times of riches and power for you, my lord. Ah, we owe you a great deal: the tithe tax, dropped by you into the ear of the Emperor Charles; the arrest of my lords of Egmont and Hoorn, whereof the warrant was written in your own fair hand, and of more than two thousand persons who perished at your command by fire, steel, and rope!" "I do not know the number," said the devil, "but it is large. Give me, Smetse, some more of this sausage, which is excellent." "Ah," said the smith, "'tis not good enough for your lordship. But you are drinking nothing. Empty this tankard, 'tis double bruinbier." "Smith," said the devil, "it is good also, but I tasted better at Pierkyn's tavern one day when five girls of the Reformed Faith were burnt together in the market-place. That frothed better. While we were drinking we heard these five maids singing psalms in the fire. Ah, we drank well that day! But think, Smetse, of the great perversity of those maids, all young and strong, and so fast set in their crimes that they sang their psalms without complaint, smiling at the fire and invoking God in a heretical fashion. Give me more to drink, Smetse." "But," said Smetse, "King Philip asked for your canonization at Rome, for having served Spain and the Pope so well; why then are you not in paradise, my lord?" "Alas," wept the devil, "I had no recognition of my former services. Those traitors of Reformers are with God, while I burn in the bottom of the pit. And there, without rest or respite, I have to sing heretical psalms; cruel punishment, unspeakable torment! These chants stick in my throat, scrape up and down in my breast, tearing my inner flesh like a bristling porcupine with iron spines. At every note a new wound, a bleeding sore: and always, always I have to keep singing, and so it will go on through all the length of eternity." At these words Smetse was very much frightened, thinking how heavily God had punished Jacob Hessels. "Drink, my lord," he said to him; "this bruinbier is balm to sore throttles." Suddenly the clock struck. "Come, Smetse," said the devil, "'tis the hour." But the good smith, without answering, heaved a great sigh. "What ails thee?" said the devil. "Ah," said Smetse, "I am grieved at your incontinence. Have I welcomed you so ill that you will not let me go, before I leave here, to embrace my wife a last time and bid farewell to my good workmen, and to take one more look at my good plum-tree whose fruits are so rich and juicy? Ah, I would gladly refresh myself with one or two before I go off to that land where there is always thirst." "Do not think to escape me," said the devil. "That I would not, my lord," said Smetse. "Come with me, I pray you most humbly." "Very well," said the devil, "but not for long." In the garden Smetse began to sigh afresh. "Ah," he said, "look at my plums, my lord; will you be pleased to let me go up and eat my fill?" "Go up then," said the devil. Up in the tree Smetse began to eat in a most greedy manner, and suck in the juice of the plums with a great noise. "Ah," cried he, "plums of paradise, Christian plums, how fat you are! Princely plums, you would solace a hundred devils burning in the lowest parts of hell. By you, sweet plums, blessed plums, is thirst driven out of my throat; by you, adorable plums, gentle plums, is purged from my stomach all evil melancholy; by you, fresh plums, sugary plums, is diffused in my blood an infinite sweetness. Ah, juicy plums, joyous plums, faery plums, would that I could go on sucking you for ever!" And while he was saying all this, Smetse went on picking them, eating them and sipping the juice, without ever stopping. "Pox!" said the devil, "it makes my mouth water; why dost not throw me down some of these marvellous plums?" "Alas, my lord," said Smetse, "that I cannot do; they would melt into water on their fall, so delicate are they. But if you will be pleased to climb up into the tree you will find much pleasure in store for you." "Then I will," said the devil. When he was well settled on a stout branch and there regaling himself with plums, Smetse slipped down, picked up a stick lying on the grass and fell to belabouring him with great vigour. Feeling the stick on his back the devil would have leapt down on the smith, but could not move, for the skin of his seat held fast to the branch. And he snorted, ground his teeth, and foamed at the mouth with great rage, and also by reason of the pain which his tender skin caused him. Meanwhile Smetse gave him a good drubbing, caressed with his stick every quarter of his body in turn, bruised him to the bone, tore his habit, and gave him as strong and straight a beating as was ever given in the land of Flanders. And he kept saying: "You say not a word about my plums, my lord; they are good, none the less." "Ah," cried Hessels, "why am I not free!" "Alas, yes! why are you not free!" answered Smetse, "you would give me to some little butcher among your friends who would cut me up freely into slices like a ham, under your learned instruction, for you are, as I know well, a doctor of torment. But are you not being well tormented in turn by my stick? Alas, yes! why are you not free! You would hoist me up on some blessed gallows, and every one would see me hanging in the air, and freely would Master Hessels laugh. And so he would have his revenge on me for this excellent drubbing which I am giving him with such freedom. For nothing in this world is so free as a free stick falling freely on an unfree councillor. Alas, yes! why are you not free! You would free my head from my body, as you did with such satisfaction to my masters of Egmont and Hoorn. Alas, yes! why are you not free! then we should see Smetse in some good little fire, which would roast him freely, as was done to the poor maids of the reformed faith; and Smetse, like them, would be heard singing with a free soul to the God of free believers, and with a free conscience stronger than the flame, while Master Hessels drank bruinbier and said that it frothed nicely." "Oh," said the devil, "why beat me so cruelly, without pity for my white hairs?" "As for thy white hair," said Smetse, "'tis the hair of an old tiger who ate up our country. For this reason it gives me sweet pleasure to beat thee with this oaken stick; and also in order that thou mayst give me permission to stay another seven years on this earth, where I find myself so well content, if it so please thee." "Seven years!" said the devil, "do not count on that; I would rather bleed under thy stick." "Ah," said Smetse, "I see that your skin is fond of good blows. These are tasty ones, it is true. But the best of cheer is unwholesome if taken in excess. So when you have had enough of them, be so good as to tell me. I will put a stop to this feast, but for that I must have the seven years." "Never," said Hessels; and lifting his snout into the air like a baying dog, he cried out: "Devils to the rescue!" But this he did so loudly, and in such screeching wise, that at the sound of his cracked voice blaring out like a trumpet, all the workmen came to see what it was about. "You do not shout loud enough," said Smetse, "I will help you." And he beat him the harder, so that the devil cried the louder. "See," said Smetse, "how well this stick makes the little nightingale sing in my plum-tree. He is saying over his lied of love to call hither his fair mate. She will come by and by, my lord; but come down, I pray you, and await her below, for they say that the night dew is deadly at a height from the ground." "Baes," said certain workmen, "is it not my lord Jacob Hessels, the Bloody Councillor, who is perched up there in thy plum-tree?" "Yes, lads," answered Smetse, "'tis indeed that worthy man. He seeks high places now as he did all his life, and so also at the end of it, when he swung in the air, putting out his tongue at the passers-by. For that which is of the gallows returns to the gallows, and the rope will take back its own. 'Tis written." "Baes," said they, "can we not help to bring him down?" "Yes," said he. And the workmen went off to the smithy. Meanwhile the devil said nothing, trying all the time to get his seat away from the branch. And he struggled, wriggled about, twisted himself a hundred different ways, and used as levers, to lift himself up, feet, hands, and head, but all in vain. And Smetse, belabouring him well, said to him: "My lord Councillor, you are fast stuck, it seems, to the saddle; but I will have you out of it, have you out as fast as I can, for if I do not so, beating you with all my strength, you will tear up out of the ground the tree and its roots, and the good folk will see you walking along, dragging a plum-tree from your seat like a tail, which would be a piteous and laughable spectacle for such a noble devil as yourself to make. Give me rather the seven years." "Baes," said the workmen, who had returned from the smithy with hammers and iron bars, "here we are at your orders; what shall we do?" "Well," said Smetse, "since I have combed him down with oaken staves we will now louse him with hammers and bars." "Mercy, Smetse, mercy!" cried the devil; hammers and bars, this is too much; thou hast the seven years, smith." "Make haste," said Smetse, "and write me the quittance." "Here it is," said he. The smith took it, saw that it was in good order, and said: "I desire that thou come down." But the devil was so weak and enfeebled by the blows he had had that when he tried to leap he fell on his back. And he went off limping, shaking his fist at Smetse, and saying: "I await thee, in seven years, in hell, smith." "So you may," said Smetse. XI. Wherein the workmen hold fair speech with Smetse. While the devil was making off, Smetse, watching his workmen, saw that they were looking at one another strangely, spoke together in low voices, and seemed awkward in their manner, like people who would speak out, but dare not. And he said to himself: "Are they going to denounce me to the priests?" Suddenly Flipke the Bear came up to him. "Baes," said he, "we know well enough that this ghost of Hessels was sent to thee by him who is lord below; thou hast made a pact with the devil and art rich only by his money. We have guessed as much for some time. But so that thou should not be vexed, none of us have spoken of it in the town, and none will so speak. We would tell thee this to put thy mind at rest. And so now, baes, good night and quiet sleep to thee." "Thank you, lads," said Smetse, greatly softened. And they went their several ways. XII. How that Smetse would not give his secret into his wife's tongue's keeping. In the kitchen Smetse found his wife on her knees beating her breast, weeping, sighing, sobbing, and saying: "Jesus Lord God, he has made a pact with the devil; but 'tis not with my consent, I swear. And you also, Madam the Virgin, you know it, and you also, all my masters the saints. Ah, I am indeed wretched, not on my own account, but for my poor man, who for the sake of some miserable gold sold his soul to the devil! Alas, yes, sell it he did! Ah, my saintly masters, who are yourselves so happy and in such glory, pray the very good God for him, and deign to consider that if, as I dare hope, I die a Christian death and go to paradise, I shall be all alone there, eating my rice pudding with silver spoons, while my poor man is burning in hell, crying out in thirst and hunger, and I not able to give him either meat or drink.... Alas, that will make me so unhappy! Ah, my good masters the saints, Madam the Virgin, My Lord Jesus, he sinned but this once, and was all the rest of his life a good man, a good Christian, kind to the poor and soft of heart. Save him from the fires which burn for ever, and do not separate above those who were so long united below. Pray for him, pray for me, alas!" "Wife," said Smetse, "thou art very wretched, it seems." "Ah, wicked man," said she, "now I know all. 'Twas hell fire which came bursting into the house and lit up the forge; those master-bakers, brewers, and vintners were devils, all of them, and devil also that ugly man who showed thee the treasure and gave me so grievous a buffet. Who will dare to live peaceably in this house from now on? Alas, our food is the devil's, our drink also; devil's meat, loaves, and cheeses, devil's money, house, and all. Whoever should dig under this dwelling would see the fires of hell gush out incontinent. There are all the devils, I see them above, below, on the right hand, on the left, awaiting their prey with dropped jaws, like tigers. Ah, what a fine sight 'twill be to see my poor man torn into a hundred pieces by all these devils, and that in seven years, for he said, as I heard well enough, that he would come back in seven years." "Weep not, wife," said Smetse, "in seven years I may again be master as I was to-day." "But," said she, "if he had not gone up into the plum-tree, what wouldst thou have done, poor beggar-man? And what if he will not let himself fall a second time into thy snare as he did to-day?" "Wife," said Smetse, "he will so fall, for my snares are from heaven, and the things which are from God can always get the better of devils." "Art not lying again?" she said. "And wilt tell me what they are?" "That I cannot," said he, "for devils have sharp ears and would hear me telling thee, no matter how low I spoke; and then I should be taken off to hell without mercy." "Ah," said she, "then I will not ask, though 'tis not pleasant for me to live here in ignorance of everything, like a stranger. Nevertheless I would rather have thee silent and saved than talking and damned." "Wife," he said, "thou art wise when thou speakest so." "I will pray," she said, "every day for thy deliverance, and have a good mass said for thee at St. Bavon." "But," said he, "is it with devil's money thou wilt pay for this mass?" "Have no care for that," said she, "when this money enters the church coffers 'twill become suddenly holy." "Do as thou wilt, wife," said Smetse. "Ah," said she, "My Lord Jesus shall have a stout candle each day, and Madam the Virgin likewise." "Do not forget my master St. Joseph," said Smetse, "for we owe him much." XIII. Of the Bloody Duke. The end of the seventh year came again in its turn, and on the last evening there crossed the threshold of Smetse Smee's dwelling a man with a sharp and haughty Spanish face, a nose like a hawk's beak, hard and staring eyes, and a white beard, long and pointed. For the rest he was dressed in armour finely worked and most richly gilt; decorated with the illustrious order of the Fleece; wore a fine red sash; rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword, and held in his right the seven years' pact and a marshal's wand. Coming into the forge he walked straight towards Smetse, holding his head loftily and without deigning to notice any of the workmen. The smith was standing in a corner, wondering how he could make the devil who was sent for him sit down in the arm-chair, when Flipke ran quickly up to him and said in his ear: "Baes, the Bloody Duke is coming, take care!" "Woe!" said Smetse, speaking to himself, "'tis all up with me, if d'Alva has come to fetch me." Meanwhile the devil approached the smith, showed him the pact, and took him by the arm without a word to lead him off. "My Lord," said Smetse in a most sorrowful manner, "whither would you take me? To hell. I follow you. 'Tis too great honour for one so mean as I to be ordered by so noble a devil as yourself. But is it yet the appointed time? I think it is not, and your highness has too upright a soul to take me off before the time written in the deed. In the meantime I beg your highness to be seated: Flipke, a chair for My Lord; the best in my poor dwelling, the large, well-padded arm-chair which stands in my kitchen, beside the press, near the chimney, beneath the picture of my master St. Joseph. Wipe it well, lad, so that no dust may be left on it; and quick, for the noble duke is standing." Flipke ran into the kitchen and came back, saying: "Baes, I cannot lift that arm-chair alone, 'tis so heavy." Then Smetse feigned great anger and said to his workmen: "Do ye not hear? He cannot lift it alone. Go and help him, and if it takes ten of you let ten go. And quick now. Fie! the blockheads, can ye 'not see that the noble duke is standing?" Nine workmen ran to obey him and brought the chair into the forge, though not without difficulty. Smetse said: "Put it there, behind My Lord. Is there any dust on it? By Artevelde! they have not touched this corner. I will do it myself. Now 'tis as clean as new-washed glass. Will your highness deign to be seated?" This the devil did, and then looked round him with great haughtiness and disdain. But of a sudden the smith fell at his feet, and said with mocking laughter: "Sir duke, you see before you the most humble of your servants, a poor man living like a Christian, serving God, honouring princes, and anxious, if such is your lordly pleasure, to continue in this way of life seven years more." "Thou shalt not have one minute," said the devil, "come, Fleming, come with me." And he tried to rise from the chair, but could not. And while he was struggling with might and main, making a thousand vain efforts, the good smith cried joyously: "Would your highness get up? Ah, 'tis too soon! Let your highness wait, he is not yet rested after his long journey; long, I make bold to say, for it must be a good hundred leagues from hell to my smithy, and that is a long way for such noble feet, by dusty roads. Ah, My Lord, let yourself rest a little in this good chair. Nevertheless, if you are in great haste to be off, grant me the seven years and I will give you in return your noble leave and a full flask of Spanish wine." "I care nothing for thy wine," answered the devil. "Baes," said Flipke, "offer him blood, he will drink then." "My lad," said Smetse, "thou knowest well enough we have no such thing as blood in our cellars hereabouts, for that is no Flemish drink, but one that we leave to Spain. Therefore his highness must be so good as to excuse me. Nevertheless, I think he is thirsty, not for blood, but for blows, and of those I will give him his illustrious fill, since he will not grant me the seven years." "Smith," said the devil, looking at Smetse with great contempt, "thou wouldst not dare beat me, I think?" "Yes, My Lord," said the good man. "You would have me dead. For my part I hold to my skin, and this not without good reason, for it has always been faithful to me and well fastened. Would it not be a criminal act to break off in this sudden fashion so close a partnership? And besides, you would take me off with you to hell, where the air is filled with the stench of the divers cookeries for damned souls which are set up there. Ah, rather than go thither I would beat your highness for seven years." "Fleming," said the devil, "thou speakest without respect." "Yes, My Lord," said Smetse, "but I will hit you with veneration." And so saying he gave him with his clenched fist a terrible great blow on the nose, whereat the devil seemed astonished, dazed, and angry, like a powerful king struck by a low-born servant. And he tried to leap upon the smith, clenched his fists, ground his teeth, and shot out blood from his nose, his mouth, his eyes, and his ears, so angry was he. "Ah," said Smetse, "you seem angry, My Lord. But deign to consider that since you will not listen to my words, I must speak to you by blows. By this argument am I not doing my best to soften your heart to my piteous case? Alas, deign to consider that my humble fist is making its supplication as best it can to your illustrious eyes, begs seven years from your noble nose, implores them from your ducal jaw. Do not these respectful taps tell your lordly cheeks how happy, joyous, and well-liking I should be during those seven years? Ah, let yourself be convinced. But, I see, I must speak to you in another fashion, with the words of iron bars, the prayers of tongs, and the supplications of sledge-hammers. Lads," said the smith to his workmen, "will you be pleased to hold converse with My Lord?" "Yes, baes," said they. And together with Smetse they chose their tools. But it was the oldest who picked the heaviest ones, and were the hottest with rage, because it was they who in former days had lost, through the duke's doing, many friends and relatives by steel, by stake, and by live burial, and they cried: "God is on our side, he has delivered the enemy into our hands. Out upon the Bloody Duke, the master-butcher, the lord of the axe!" And all of them, young and old, cursed the devil with a thunder of cries; and they came up to him menacingly, surrounding the chair and raising their tools to strike. But Smetse stopped them and spoke again to the devil. "If your highness," he said, "is minded to hold to his noble bones, let him deign to grant me the seven years, for the time for laughter is past, let me tell you." "Baes," said the workmen, "whence comes to thee this kindness beyond measure? Why hold so long and fair parley with this fellow? Let us first break him up, and then he will offer thee the seven years of his own accord." "Seven years!" said the devil, "seven years! he shall not have so much as the shadow of a minute. Strike, men of Ghent, the lion is in the net; ye who could not find a hole deep enough to hide yourselves in when he was free and showed his fangs. Flemish cowards, see what I think of you and your threats." And he spat on them. At this spittle the bars, hammers, and other tools fell on him thick as hail, breaking his bones and the plates of his armour, and Smetse and his workmen said as they beat to their hearts' content: "Cowards were we, who wished to worship God in the sincerity of our hearts; valiant was he who prevented us with steel, stake, and live burial. "Cowards were we for having always laughed readily and drunk joyously, like men who, having done what they had to do, make light of the rest: valiant was this dark personage when he had poor men of the people arrested in the midst of their merrymaking at Kermis-time and put death where had been laughter. "Cowards were the eighteen thousand eight hundred persons who died for the glory of God; cowards those numberless others who by the rapine, brutality and insolence of the fighting men, lost their lives in these lands and others. Valiant was he who ordained their sufferings, and more valiant still when he celebrated his own evil deeds by a banquet. "Cowards were we always, we who, after a battle, treated our prisoners like brothers; valiant was he who, after the defeat in Friesland, had his own men slaughtered. "Cowards were we, who laboured without ceasing, spreading abroad over the whole world the work of our hands; valiant was he when, under the cloak of religion, he slew the richer among us without distinction between Romans and Reformers, and robbed us by pillage and extortion of thirty-six million florins. For the world is turned upside down; cowardly is the busy bee who makes the honey, and valiant the idle drone who steals it away. Spit, noble duke, on these Flemish cowards." But the duke could neither spit nor cough, for from the roughness of the blows they had given him he had altogether lost the shape of a man, so mingled and beaten together were bones, flesh, and steel. But there was no blood to be seen, which was a marvellous thing. Suddenly, while the workmen, wearied with beating, were taking breath, a weak voice came out from this hotch-potch of bones, flesh, and steel, saying: "Thou hast the seven years, Smetse." "Very well then, My Lord," said he, "sign the quittance." This the devil did. "And now," said Smetse, "will your highness please to get up." At these words, by great marvel, the devil regained his shape. But while he was walking away, holding up his head with great haughtiness and not deigning to look at his feet, he tripped over a sledge lying on the ground, and fell on his nose with great indignity, thereby giving much occasion for laughter to the workmen, who did not fail to make use of it. Picking himself up he threatened them with his fist, but they burst out laughing more loudly than ever. He came at them, grinding his teeth; they hooted him. He tried to strike with his sword a short and sturdy little workman; but the man seized the sword from his hands and broke it in three pieces. He struck another in the face with his fist, but the man gave him so good and valiant a kick as to send him sprawling on the quay with his legs in the air. There, flushing with shame, he melted into red smoke, like a vapour of blood, and the workmen heard a thousand joyous and merry voices, saying: "Beaten is the Bloody Duke, shamed is the lord of the axe, inglorious the prince of butchers! Vlaenderland tot eeuwigheid! Flanders for ever!" And a thousand pairs of hands beat applause all together. And the dawn broke. XIV. Of the great fears and pains of Smetse's wife. Smetse, going to look for his wife, found her in the kitchen on her knees before the picture of St. Joseph. "Well, mother," said he, "what didst think of our dance? Was it not a merry one? Ah, henceforth they will call our house the House of Beaten Devils." "Yes," said his wife, wagging her head, "yes, and also the house of Smetse who was carried away to hell. For that is where thou wilt go; I know it, I feel it, I foretell it. This devil's coming all accoutred for war presages evil. He will come back, no longer alone, but with a hundred thousand devils armed like himself. Ah, my poor man! They will carry lances, swords, pikes, hooked axes, and arquebuses. They will drag behind them canon which they will fire at us; and everything will be ground to pieces, thou, I, the smithy, and the workmen. Alas, everything will be levelled to the ground! And where our smithy now stands will be nothing but a sorry heap of dust. And the folk walking past along the quay will say when they see this dust: 'There lies the house of Smetse, the fool who sold his soul to the devil.' And I, after dying in this fashion, shall go to Paradise, as I dare to hope. But thee, my man, oh, woe unspeakable! they will take away with them and drag through fire, smoke, brimstone, pitch, boiling oil, to that terrible place where those are punished who, wishing to break a pact made with the devil, have no special help from God or his holy saints. Poor little man, my good comrade, dost know what there is in store for thee? Ho, a gulf as deep as the heavens are high, and studded all down its terrible sides with jutting points of rock, iron spikes, horrid spears, and a thousand dreadful pikes. And dost know what manner of gulf this is, my man? 'Tis a gulf wherein a man may keep falling always--dost understand me, always, always--gashed by the rocks, cut about by the spears, torn open by the pikes, always, always, down all the long length of eternity." "But, wife," said Smetse, "hast ever seen this gulf whereof thou speakest?" "Nay," said she, "but I know what manner of place it is, for I have often heard tell of it in the church of St. Bavon. And the good canon predicant would not lie." "Ah, no," said Smetse. XV. Of the Bloody King. When the last night of the seventh year was come Smetse was in his smithy, looking at the enchanted sack, and asking himself with much anxiety how he could make the devil get into it. While he was wondering, the smithy suddenly became filled with an evil stench of the most putrid, offensive and filthy kind. Innumerable lice swarmed over the threshold, ceiling, anvils, sledges, bars and bellows, Smetse and his men, who were all as if blinded, for these lice were as thick in the smithy as smoke, cloud, or fog. And a melancholy but imperative voice spoke, saying: "Smetse, come with me; the seven years have struck." And Smetse and his workmen, looking as well as they could in the direction whence the voice came, saw a man coming towards them with a royal crown on his head, and on his back a cloak of cloth-of-gold. But beneath the cloak the man was naked, and on his breast were four great abscesses, which formed together a single wide sore, and from this came the stench which filled the smithy, and the clouds of lice which swarmed round about. And he had on his right leg another abscess, more filthy, rank, and offensive than the rest. The man himself was white-faced, auburn-haired, red-bearded, with lips a little drawn, and mouth open somewhat. In his grey eyes were melancholy, envy, dissimulation, hypocrisy, harshness, and evil rancour. When the older workmen saw him they cried out in a voice like thunder: "Smetse, the Bloody King is here, take care!" "Silence," cried the smith, "peace there, silence and veneration! Let every man doff his bonnet to the greatest king that ever lived, Philip II by name, King of Castile, Leon, and Aragon, Count of Flanders, Duke of Burgundy and Brabant, Palatine of Holland and Zeeland, most illustrious of all illustrious princes, great among the great, victorious among victors. Sire," said he to the devil, "you do me unparalleled honour to come hither in person to lead me to hell, but my humble Ghentish lowness makes bold to suggest to your Royal and Palatine Highness that the appointed hour has not yet struck. Therefore if it pleases your Majesty I will pass on earth the brief time which is still left to me to live." "I allow it," said the devil. Meanwhile Smetse seemed unable to take his eyes off the devil, and showed himself very sorrowful and heavy, nodding his head, and saying several times: "Alas, alas! cruel torment! evil hour!" "What ails thee?" said the devil. "Sire," said Smetse, "nothing ails me but the great sorrow which I have at seeing how harsh God has been towards you, leaving you to bear in hell the malady whereof you died. Ah, 'tis a most pitiful sight to see so great a king as you consumed by these lice and eaten up with these abscesses." "I care nothing for thy pity," answered the king. "Sire," said Smetse further, "deign to think no evil of my words. I have never been taught fine ways of speech; but notwithstanding this I make bold to sympathize with your illustrious sufferings, and this the more in that I myself have known and suffered your ill, and you can still see, Sire, the terrible marks on my skin." And Smetse, uncovering his breast, showed the marks of the wounds which he had received from the traitor Spanish when he sailed the seas with the men of Zeeland. "But," said the devil-king, "thou seemest well enough cured, smith! Wast thou verily as sick as I?" "Like you, Sire," said Smetse, "I was nothing but a heap of living filth; like you I was fetid, rank, and offensive, and every one fled from me as they fled from you; like you I was eaten up with lice; but what could not be done for you by the most illustrious doctor Olias of Madrid, a humble carpenter did for me." At these words the devil-king cocked his ear. "In what place," said he, "does this carpenter dwell, and what is his name?" "He dwells," said Smetse, "in the heavens, and his name is Master St. Joseph." "And did this great saint appear to thee by especial miracle?" "Yes, Sire." "And by virtue of what didst thou merit this rare and blessed favour?" "Sire," answered Smetse, "I have never by my own virtue merited so much as the shadow of a single grain of particular grace, but in my sufferings I prayed humbly and with faith to my blessed patron, Master St. Joseph, and he deigned to come to my succour." "Tell me of this happening, smith." "Sire," said Smetse, holding up the sack, "this was my remedy." "This sack?" asked the devil. "Yes, Sire; but will your Majesty deign to look closely at the hemp whereof it is woven. Do you not think its quality altogether strange! Alas," said Smetse, running on with his talk, and appearing to go into an ecstasy, "'tis not given to us poor men to see every day such hemp as this. For this is not earthly hemp, but hemp of heaven, hemp from the good Paradise, sown by my master St. Joseph round about the tree of life, harvested and woven under his especial orders to make sacks wherein the beans are stored which my masters the angels eat on fast-days." "But," asked the devil, "how did this sack come into thy hands?" "Ah, Sire, by great marvel. One night I was in my bed, suffering twenty deaths from my ulcers, and almost at the point of giving up my soul. I saw my good wife weeping; I heard my neighbours and workmen, of whom there were many, saying round about my bed the prayers for the dying; my body was overcome with pain and my soul with despair. Nevertheless I kept praying to my blessed patron and swore that if he brought me out of that pass, I would burn to his honour in the church of St. Bavon such a candle as the fat of twenty sheep would not suffice to make. And my prayers were not in vain, Sire, for suddenly a hole opened in the ceiling above my head, a living flame and a celestial perfume filled the room, a sack came down through the hole, a man clothed in white followed the sack, walked in the air to my bed, pulled down the sheets which covered me, and in the twinkling of an eye put me in the sack and drew the strings tight round my neck. And then, behold the miracle! No sooner was I wrapped about with this good hemp than a genial warmth passed through me, my ulcers dried up, and the lice all perished suddenly with a terrible noise. After that the man told me with a smile about the hemp of heaven and the angelic beans, and finished his discourse by saying: 'Keep safe this remedy, 'tis sent thee by my master St. Joseph. Whosoever shall use it shall be cured of all ills and saved for all eternity, if in the meantime he do not sell his soul to the devil!' Then the man went away. And what the good messenger told me was true, for by means of this sack from heaven, I cured Toon, my workman, of the king's evil; Pier of fever, Dolf of scurvy, Hendrik of the phlegm, and a score of others who owe it to me that they are still alive." When Smetse had finished his speech the devil-king seemed lost in deep reflection, then suddenly lifted his eyes to heaven, joined his hands, crossed himself again and again, and, falling to his knees, beat upon his breast, and with most lamentable cries prayed as here follows: "Ah, my Master St. Joseph, sweet Lord, blessed saint, immaculate husband of the Virgin without stain, you have deigned to make whole this smith, and he would have been saved by you for all eternity had he not sold his soul to the devil. But I, Master, I, a poor king, who pray to you, do you disdain to make me whole also, and to save me as you would have saved him? You know well, sweet Lord, how I devoted my life, my person, my goods and those of my subjects to the defence of our blessed religion; how I hated, as is right, the freedom to believe other things than those which are ordained for us; how I combated it by steel, stake, and live burial; how I saved in this wise from the venom of reform Brabant, Flanders, Artois, Hainault, Valenciennes, Lille, Douai, Orchies, Namur, Tournai, Tournaisie, Malines, and my other lands. Nevertheless I have been thrown into the fires of hell, and there suffer without respite the unutterable torment of my consuming ulcers and my devouring vermin. Ah, will you not make me whole, will you not save me? You are able, my Master. Yes, you will perform again for the sorrowing king the miracle which saved the smith. Then shall I be able to pass into paradise, blessing and glorifying your name through centuries and centuries. Save me, Master St. Joseph, save me. Amen." And the devil-king, crossing himself, beating his breast, and babbling paternosters turn by turn, rose to his feet and said to Smetse: "Put me in the sack, smith." This Smetse did gladly, rolled him into the sack, leaving only his head thrust out, drew tight round his neck the stout cords, and placed the devil on an anvil. At this spectacle the workmen burst out laughing, clapping their hands together, and saying a hundred merry things to one another. "Smith," asked the devil, "are these Flemings laughing at me?" "Yes, Sire." "What are they saying, smith?" "Oh, Sire, they are saying that horses are caught by means of corn; dogs by liver; asses by thistles; hogs by swill; trout by curdled blood; carp by cheese; pike by gudgeon; and a humbug of your kidney by tales of false miracles." "Ho, the traitor smith," howled the devil, grinding his teeth, "he has taken in vain the name of my Master St. Joseph, he has lied without shame." "Yes, Sire." "And thou wilt dare to beat me as thou didst Jacob Hessels and my faithful duke?" "Even more heartily, Sire. Nevertheless 'tis only if you so wish it. You shall be set free if you please. Free if you give me back the deed; beaten if you are fixed in your idea of carrying me off to hell." "Give thee back the deed! "roared the devil, "I would rather suffer a thousand deaths in a single moment." "Sire King," said Smetse, "I pray you to think of your bones, which seem to me none too sound as it is. Consider also that the opportunity is a good one for us to avenge on your person our poor Flanders, so drenched in blood at your hands. But it displeases me to pass a second time where has passed already the wrath of the very just God. So give me back the deed; grace, Sire King, or 'twill begin raining presently." "Grace!" said the devil, "grace to a Fleming! perish Flanders rather! Ah, why have I not again, one single day, as much power, armies, and riches as I will; Flanders would give up her soul quickly. Then famine should reign in the land, parching the soil, drying up the water-springs and the life of plants; the last ghostly inhabitants of the empty towns would wander like phantoms in the streets, killing one another in heaps to find a little rotten food; bands of famished dogs would snatch newborn children from their mothers' withered breasts and devour them; famine should lie where had been plenty, dust where had been towns, crows where had been men; and on this earth stripped naked, stony, and desolate, on this burial-ground, I would set up a black cross with this inscription: Here lies Flanders the heretic, Philip of Spain passed over her breast!" So saying the devil foamed at the mouth with wrath, but scarce were his last words cold from his lips when all the hammers and bars in the smithy fell on him at once. And Smetse and his workmen, striking in turn, said: "This is for our broken charters and our privileges violated despite thine oath, for thou wast perjurer. "This is for that when we called thee thou didst not dare come into our land, where thy presence would have cooled the hottest heads, for thou wast coward. "This is for the innocent Marquess of Berg-op-Zoom, whom thou poisoned in prison, so that his inheritance might be thine; and for the Prince of Ascoly, whom thou madest to marry Dona Eufrasia, in child by thy seed, so that his wealth might enrich the bastard that was coming. The Prince died also, like so many others, for thou wert poisoner of bodies. "This is for the false witnesses paid by thee, and thy promise to ennoble whomever would kill Prince William for money, for thou wast poisoner of souls." And the blows fell heavy, and the king's crown was knocked off, and his body, like the duke's, was no more than a hotch-potch of bones and flesh, without any blood. But the workmen went on with their hammering, saying: "This is for thine invention of the Tourniquet, wherewith thou didst strangle Montigny, friend of thy son, for thou wast seeker of new tortures. "This is for the Duke of Alva, for the Counts of Egmont and Hoorn, for all our poor dead, for our merchants who went off to enrich England and Germany, for thou wast death and ruin to our land. "This is for thy wife, who died by thy deed, for thou wast husband without love. "This is for thy poor son Charles, who died without any sickness, for thou wast father without bowels. "This is for the hatred, cruelty, and slaughter with which thou didst make return for the gentleness, confidence, and goodwill of our land, for thou wast king without justice. "And this is for the Emperor, thy father, who, with his execrable proclamations and edicts, first sounded for our land the stroke of the evil hour. Give him a good drubbing on our account, and tell us thou wilt give back the deed to the baes." "Yes," wept a melancholy voice, coming from the heap of bones and flesh, "thou hast everything, Smetse, thou art free." "Give me back the parchment," said Smetse. "Open the sack," answered the voice. "Ho," cried Smetse, "yes, yes, indeed, I will open the sack wide, and Master Philip will leap out and take me off to hell with all speed. Oh, the good little devil! But 'tis not now the time for such high pranks. Therefore I make bold to beg your Majesty to give me first the parchment, which he may without difficulty pass up through this gap which is between his neck and the edge of the sacking." "I will not do it," said the devil. "That," said Smetse, "is as it pleases your subtle Majesty. In the sack he is, in the sack he may remain; I make no objection. Every man his own humour. But mine will be to leave him in his sack, and in this wise carry him off to Middelburg in Walcheren, and there ask the prefect that leave be given me to build a good little stone box in the market-place and therein to place your Majesty, leaving outside his melancholy countenance. So placed he will be able to see at a close view the happiness, joy, and prosperity of the men of the reformed faith: that will be a fine treat for him, which might be added to, on feast-days and market-days, by an unkind blow or two which people would give him in the face, or some wicked strokes with a stick, or some spittle dropped on him without respect. You will have besides, Sire, the unutterable satisfaction of seeing many good pilgrims from Flanders, Brabant, and your other blood-soaked countries come to Middelburg to pay back with good coin of their staves their old debt to your Most Merciful Majesty." "Ah," said the devil, "I will not have this shame put upon me. Take, smith, take the parchment." Smetse obeyed, and saw that it was indeed his own, then went and dipped it in holy water, where it turned into dust. At this he was filled with joy and opened the sack for the devil, whose bones moved and became joined again to one another. And he took on again his withered shape, his hungry vermin, and his devouring sores. Then, covering himself with his cloak of cloth-of-gold, he went out of the smithy, while Smetse cried after him: "Good journey to you, and a following wind, Master Philip!" And on the quay the devil kicked against a stone, which opened of itself and showed a great hole, wherein he was swallowed suddenly up like an oyster. XVI. Wherein Smetse beholds on the River Lys a most marvellous sight. When the devil had gone Smetse was almost off his head with joy, and ran to his wife, who had come to the door of the kitchen, and thumped her for joy, seized her, kissed her, hugged the good woman, shook her, pressed her to him, ran back to his men, shook them all by the hand, crying: "By Artevelde! I am quits, Smetse is quits!" And he seemed to have a tongue for nothing else but that he was quits! And he blew in his wife's ear, into his workmen's faces, and under the nose of a bald and wheezing old cat who sat up in one corner and got quit with him by a scratch in the face. "The rascal," said Smetse, "does not seem glad enough at my deliverance. Is he another devil, think you? They say they disguise themselves in every kind of shape. Ho," said he to the cat, who was arching her back in annoyance, "hast heard, listened, and understood, devil cat? I am quit and free, quit and franked, quit and happy, quit and rich! And I have made fools of all the devils. And from now on I will live gaily as becomes a quit smith. Wife, I will send this very day a hundred philipdalers to Slimbroek, so that that poor sinner may also rejoice at Smetse's quittance." But his wife said nothing, and when Smetse went to look for her he found her on the stair with a great bowl of holy water in her hands, in which she was dipping a fair sprig of palm branch. Coming into the smithy she began to sprinkle with the palm her man and the workmen, and also the hammers, anvils, bellows, and other tools. "Wife," said Smetse, trying to escape the wetting, "what art thou at?" "I am saving thee," said she, "presumptuous smith. Dost verily think that, being freed of devils, thou hast for thine own the chattels that come from them? Dost think that though they have lost the soul which was to be their payment they will leave thee thy riches. Ho, the good fool! They will come back again, yes; and if I do not sprinkle thee with this holy water, and myself likewise, and all these good men, who knows with what evils they may not torment us, alas!" And the good wife was working away with her palm-branch when suddenly a great thunder rumbled under the earth, shaking the quay, and the stones cracked, the panes shivered in the windows, all the doors and casements in the smithy opened of themselves, and a hot wind blew. "Ah," said she, "they are coming; pray, my man!" And suddenly there appeared in the sky the figure of a man, naked and of marvellous beauty. He was standing in a chariot of diamond, drawn by four flaming horses. And he held in his right hand a banner, whereon was written: "More beautiful than God." And from the body of this man, whereof the flesh shone brightly, came golden rays which lit up the Lys, the quay and the trees like sunlight. And the trees began to sway and swing their stems and branches, and all the quay seemed to roll like a ship upon the sea, and thousands of voices called out together: "Lord, we cry hunger and thirst; Lord, feed us; Lord, give us to drink." "Ah," said the good wife, "here is my Lord Lucifer and all his devils!" And when the voices had ceased the man made a sign with his hand, and of a sudden the waters of the Lys rose as if God had lifted up the river-bed. And the river became like a rough sea; but the waves did not roll on the quay, but each lifted separately, bearing on its crest a foam of fire. Then each of these flames rose into the air, drawing up the water like a pillar, and there seemed to poor Smetse and his wife and the men to be hundreds of thousands of these pillars of water, swaying and foaming. Then each pillar took on the form of a fearful animal, and suddenly there appeared, mingled together, striking and wounding one another, all the devils whose work was to torment poor damned souls. There were to be seen, crawling over crooked and shivering men's legs, monstrous crabs, devouring those who were servile in their lives. Near these crabs were ostriches bigger than horses, who ran along flapping their wings. Under their tails they had laurel-wreaths, sceptres, and crowns, and behind their tails were made to run those men who in our world spent all their time running after vain honours, without a care for doing good. And the ostriches went quicker than the wind, while the men ran without respite behind them in the effort to get the wreaths, crowns, and sceptres; but they could never reach them. In this way they were led to a treacherous pond full of loathsome mud, wherein they fell shamefully and stayed stuck for all eternity, whilst the mocking ostriches walked up and down on the bank dangling their bawbles. Among the ostriches were squadrons of many-coloured apes, diapered like butterflies, whose concern was with miserly Jewish and Lombard usurers. These men, when they entered hell, looked round them carefully, screwing up their eyes under their spectacles, collected from the ground divers rusty nails, old breeches, filthy rags, buttons showing the wood, and other old stuff, then dug a hole hastily, hid their treasures in it and went off to sit down some way away. The apes, seeing this, would leap on the hole, empty out its content, and throw it into the fire. Then the misers would weep, make lamentations, and be beaten by the apes, and at last go off to find some more secret place, hide there once again their new depredations, and see once again the hole emptied and the apes coming once again to beat them, and so on for all eternity. In the air, above the apes, soared eagles, who had, instead of a beak, four-and-twenty matchlock barrels firing together. These eagles were called Royal, because their concern was with conqueror princes, who were too fond in their lifetime of the sounds of war and cannon. And for their punishment these matchlocks were fired off in their faces again and again throughout eternity. Besides the ostriches, apes, and eagles, reared up a great serpent with a bear's coat, who writhed and twisted this way and that. He was of great length and breadth, beyond all measure, and had a hundred thousand hairy arms, in each of which he held an iron pike as sharp as a razor. He was called the Spaniards' Serpent, because in hell it was his task to gash about with his pikes without mercy all the bands of traitor pillagers who had despoiled our good country. Keeping clear of this serpent with great prudence, darted about mischievous little winged pigs whose tails were eels. These tails were designed for the perpetual teazing of such gluttons as came to hell. For the pig would come up to such a one, hold the eel close to his mouth, and, when he tried to bite it, suddenly fly away from him, and so on throughout eternity. There were to be seen also, marching up and down in their gorgeous feathers, monstrous peacocks. Whenever some vain dandy came their way, giving himself airs in his fine clothes, one of these peacocks would go to him and spread its tail, as if inviting him to pluck out a fine feather for his bonnet. But as soon as the dandy approached to take his feather, Master Peacock would let fly in his face with filthy and evil-smelling water, which spoilt all his fine clothes. And throughout eternity the dandy would try to get the feather, and throughout eternity be so swilled down. Among these fearful animals, wandered two by two male and female grasshoppers as big as a man, the one playing on a pipe, and the other brandishing a great knotted stick. Whenever they saw a man who, in his lifetime, leapt, by cowardice, from good to evil, from black to white, from fire to water, always on the side of the strongest, these grasshoppers would go to him, and one would play the pipe, while the other, leaning on his stick with great dignity, would say: "Leap for God," and the man would leap; "Leap for the Devil," and the man would leap again; "Leap for Calvin, leap for the Mass, leap for the goat, leap for the cabbage," and the man would keep leaping. But he never leapt high enough for the liking of the grasshopper with the stick, and so he was each time belaboured in a most pitiless manner. And he leapt without ceasing and was belaboured without respite, while the pipe made continual pleasant music, and so on throughout eternity. Farther on, naked and lying on cloths of gold, silk, and velvet, covered with pearls and a thousand resplendent gems, more beautiful than the most beautiful ladies of Ghent, Brussels, or Bruges, lascivious and smiling, singing, and playing on sweet instruments, were the wives of the devils. These dealt out punishment to old rakes, corrupters of youth and beauty. To them these she-devils would call out amorously, but they could never get near them. Throughout eternity these poor rakes had to look at them without being able to touch them even with the tip of the nail of their little finger. And they wept and made lamentation, but all in vain, and so on through centuries and centuries. There were also mischievous little devils with drums, made of the skins of hypocrites, whose masks hung down over the drum case as ornament. And the hypocrites to whom they belonged, without their skins, without their masks, in all their ugliness, ashamed, hooted, hissed, spat at, eaten up by horrible flies, and followed by the little devils beating their drums, had to wander up and down hell throughout eternity. It was good to see also the devils of conceited men. These were fine great leathern bottles full of wind, finished off with a beak, at the end of which was a reed. These bottles had eagle's feet and two good little arms, with fingers long enough to go round the widest part of the bottle. When the conceited man came into hell, saying: "I am great, I am grand, strong, beautiful, victorious, I will overcome Lucifer and marry his dam Astarte," the leathern bottles would come up to him and say, with a deep reverence: "My lord, will you be pleased to let us speak a word to you in secret, touching your high designs?" "Yes," he would say. Then two bottles would stuff their reeds into his ears in such a manner that he could not get them out again, and begin to press in their bellies with their long fingers, so as to force wind into his head, which thereupon swelled up, large and always larger, and Master Self-Conceit rose into the air and went off to wander throughout eternity, with his head bumping the ceiling of hell, and his legs waving in the air in the efforts to get down again; but all in vain. Marvellous devils were certain apes of quicksilver, always running, tumbling, leaping, coming, and going. These devils bore down on the lazy fellows who were thrown to them, gave them a spade to dig earth with, a sword to polish, a tree to trim, or a book to con. The lazybones would look at the task set him, saying: "To-morrow," and would stretch his arms, scratching and yawning. But as soon as he had his mouth wide open the ape would stuff into it a sponge soaked in quintessence of rhubarb. "This," he would say mockingly, "is for to-day; work, slug, work." Then, while the lazybones was retching, the devil would thump him, shake him a hundred different ways, giving him no more peace than a gadfly gives a horse, and so on throughout eternity. Pleasing devils were pretty little children very wide-awake and mischievous, whose concern was to teach learned orators to think, speak, weep, and laugh according to common nature. And when they did otherwise the little devils would rap them sharply on the knuckles. But the poor pedants could no longer learn, being too heavy, old, and stupid; so they had a rap on the knuckles every day and a whipping on Sundays. And all these devils cried out together: "Master, we are hungry; Master, give us to eat, pay somewhat for the good services we render thee." And suddenly the man in the chariot made a sign, and the good River Lys threw all these devils on the quay, as the sea splashes on the shore, and they hissed loud and terribly at landing. And Smetse, his wife, and the workmen heard the doors of the cellars open with a loud noise, and all the casks of bruinbier came hissing up the stairs, and hissing across the floor of the forge, and still hissing described a curve in the air and fell among the crowd of all the devils. And so also did the bottles of wine, so also the hams, loaves, and cheeses, and so also the good crusats, angelots, philipdalers, and other moneys, which were all changed into meat and drink. And the devils fell over one another, fought, scrambled, wounded themselves, forming only one great mass of battling monsters, howling and hissing, and each trying to get more than the others. When there was left neither drop nor crumb, the man in the chariot made another sign, and all the devils melted into black water and flowed into the river, where they disappeared. And the man vanished from the sky. And Smetse Smee was as poor as before, save for one little bag of golden royals, which his wife had by chance sprinkled with holy water, and which he kept, although it came from the devil. But this, as you shall see, did not profit him at all. And he lived with great content until he died suddenly one day in his smithy, at the great and blessed age of ninety-three years. XVII. Of Hell, of Purgatory, of the long ladder, and finally of Paradise. When he was dead his soul had to pass through Hell in the guise of a smith. Coming thither he saw, through the open windows, the devils which had so frightened him in the vision on the Lys, and who were now busy torturing and tormenting the poor damned souls as terribly as they could. And Smetse went to the doorkeeper; but the doorkeeper, on seeing him, howled out in a most awful fashion: "Smetse is here, Smetse Smee the traitor smith!" And he would not let him in. Hearing the hubbub, My Lord Lucifer, Madam Astarte, and all their court came to the windows, and all the other devils after them. And they all cried out in fear: "Shut the doors, 'tis the enchanted Smetse, Smetse the traitor smith, Smetse the beater of poor devils. If he comes in here he will overset, spoil, break up everything. Begone, Smetse!" "My masters," said Smetse, "if I do indeed come hither to look at your snouts, which are not beautiful I promise ye, 'tis not at all for my pleasure; and besides, I am not by any means anxious to come in. So do not make such a noise, master devils." "Yes, indeed, my fine smith," answered Madam Astarte, "thou showest a velvet pad now, but when thou art within thou wilt show thy claws and thine evil intention, and will slay us all, me, my good husband, and all our friends. Be off, Smetse; be off, Smee." "Madam," said Smetse, "you are indeed the most beautiful she-devil I ever saw, but that is, nevertheless, no reason why you should think so ill of a fellow-creature's intentions." "Hark to the fellow!" said Madam Astarte, "how he hides his wickedness under sugared words! Drive him away, devils, but do him no great harm." "Madam," said Smetse, "I beg you to listen." "Be off, smith!" cried out all the devils; and they threw burning coals at him, and whatever else they could find. And Smetse ran off as fast as his legs would take him. When he had travelled some way he came before Purgatory. On the other side was a ladder, with this inscription at its foot: "This is the road to the good Paradise." And Smetse, filled with joy, began to climb the ladder, which was made of golden thread, with here and there a sharp point sticking out, in virtue of that saying of God which tells us: "Broad is the way which leadeth to Hell, strait and rough the way to Heaven." And, indeed, Smetse soon had his feet sore. Nevertheless, he made his way upward without halting, and only stopped when he had counted ten hundred thousand rungs and could see no more of either earth or hell. And he became thirsty. Finding nothing to drink he became a little sullen, when suddenly he saw a little cloud coming past, and drank it up joyfully. It did not indeed seem to him as good drink as bruinbier, but he took consolation from the thought that it is not possible to have comforts everywhere alike. A little higher up the ladder he suddenly had hard work to keep his bonnet on his head, by reason of a treacherous autumn wind which was going down to earth to pull off the last leaves. And by this wind he was sorely shaken, and nearly lost his hold. After he was out of this pass he became hungry, and regretted the good earthly beef, smoked over pine-cones, which is so good a food for poor wayfarers. But he took heart, thinking that it is not given to man to understand everything. Suddenly he saw an eagle of terrible aspect coming upon him from the earth. Thinking for certain that he was some fat sheep, the eagle rose above him and would have dropped on him like a cannon-ball; but the good smith had no fear, bent to one side and caught the bird by the neck, which he wrung subtly. Then, still going up, he hastened to pluck it, ate morsels of it raw, and found them stringy. Nevertheless, he took this meat with patience, because he had no other. Then, patiently and bravely, he climbed for several days and several nights, seeing nothing but the blue of the sky and innumerable suns, moons, and stars above his head, under his feet, to right, to left, and everywhere. And he seemed to be in the midst of a fair great globe, whereof the inner walls had been painted this fair blue, strewn with all these suns, moons, and stars. And he was frightened by the great silence and by the immensity. Suddenly he felt a genial warmth, heard sweet voices singing, distant music, and the sound of a city toiling. And he saw a town of infinite size girt about with walls, over which he could see housetops, trees, and towers. And he felt that he was moving more quickly despite his own legs, and by and by, leaving the last rung behind, he set foot before the gate of the town. "By Artevelde!" said he, "here is the good Paradise." And he knocked on the gate; St. Peter came to open to him. Smetse was somewhat frightened at the gigantic appearance of the good saint, his great head of hair, his red beard, his large face, his high forehead, and his piercing eyes, with which he looked at him fixedly. "Who art thou?" quoth he. "Master St. Peter," said the smith, "I am Smetse Smee, who in his lifetime lived at Ghent on the Quai aux Oignons, and now prays you to let him enter your good Paradise." "No," said St. Peter. "Ah, my master!" said Smetse most piteously, "if 'tis because in my lifetime I sold my soul to the devil, I make bold to tell you that I repented most heartily, and was redeemed from his power and kept nothing that was his." "Excepting a sackful of royals," said the saint, "and on that account thou shalt not come in." "Master," said the smith, "I am not so guilty as you suppose; the sack stayed in my house because it had been blessed, and for that reason I thought I might well keep it. But take pity on me, for I knew not what I was doing. I pray you also to deign to consider that I come from a far country, that I am greatly tired, and would gladly rest in this good Paradise." "Be off, smith," said the saint, who was holding the door a crack open. Meanwhile Smetse had slipped through the opening, and taking off his leathern apron sat down, saying: "Master, I am here rightfully, you cannot turn me out." But St. Peter bade a troop of halberdier angels who were near at hand drive him away: and this the halberdier angels did with great dispatch. Thereafter, Smetse did not cease to beat on the door with his fists, and lamented, wept, and cried out: "Master, have pity on me, let me in, my master; I repent of all the sins I have committed, and even the others as well. Master, grant me permission to enter the blessed Paradise. Master...." But Master St. Peter, hearing this, put his head over the wall: "Smith," said he, "if thou wilt persist in this uproar, I shall have thee sent to Purgatory." And poor Smetse held his peace, and sat down on his seat, and so passed sad days, watching others enter. In this wise a week went by, during which he lived on a few scraps of bread which were thrown to him over the wall, and on grapes gathered from a sour vine which grew on the outer face of the wall of Paradise in this part. And Smetse was most unhappy, leading this idle existence. And he sought in his head for some work or other which would gladden him somewhat. Having found it, he shouted as loud as he could, and St. Peter put his head over the wall. "What wilt thou, Smetse?" said he. "Master," answered the smith, "will you be pleased to let me go down to earth for one night, so that I may see my good wife and look to my affairs?" "Thou mayst, Smetse," answered St. Peter. XVIII. Wherein it is seen why Smetse was whipped. It was then All Saints' Eve; bitter was the cold, and Smetse's good wife was in her kitchen, brewing some good mixture of sugar, yolk of egg, and bruinbier, to cure her of an evil catarrh, which had lain upon her ever since her man died. Smetse came and knocked at the window of the kitchen, whereat his wife was greatly frightened. And she cried out sadly: "Do not come and torment me, my man, if 'tis prayers thou wilt have. I say as many as I can, but I will say more if need be. Wilt thou have masses said? Thou shalt have them, and prayers and indulgences likewise. I will buy them, my man, I promise thee; but go back quickly whence thou camest." Nevertheless Smetse went on knocking. "'Tis not masses or prayers," said he, "that I want, but shelter, food, and drink, for bitter is the cold, rude the wind, sharp the frost. Open, wife." But she, on hearing him speak thus, prayed the more and cried out the louder, and beat her breast and crossed herself, but made no move to open the door, saying only: "Go back, go back, my man; thou shalt have prayers and masses." Suddenly the smith discerned an open window in the attic. He climbed up and entered the house by that means, went down the stair, and, opening the door, appeared before his wife; but as she kept drawing back before him as he advanced, crying out and calling the neighbours at the top of her voice, Smetse stood still so as not to frighten her further, sat down on a stool, and said: "Dost not see, mother, that I am indeed Smetse, and wish thee no harm?" But his wife would listen to nothing and crept back into a corner. Thence with her teeth a-chatter, and her eyes open wide, she made a sign to him to leave her, for she could no longer find her tongue, by reason of her great fear. "Wife," said the smith in friendly tones, "is it thus that thou givest greeting and welcome to thy poor husband, after the long time he has been away? Alas, hast forgot our old comradeship and union?" Hearing this soft and joyous voice she answered in a low tone and with great timidity: "No, dead master." "Well then," said he, "why art thou so afraid? Dost not know thy man's fat face, his round paunch, and the voice which in former days sang so readily hereabout?" "Yes," she said, "I know thee well enough." And why," said he, "if thou knowest me, wilt not come to me and touch me?" "Ah," said she, "I dare not, master, for 'tis said that whatever member touches a dead man is itself dead." "Come, wife," said the smith, "and do not believe all these lying tales." "Smetse," said she, "will you in good truth do me no hurt?" "None," said he, and took her by the hand. "Ah," she said suddenly, "my poor man, thou art cold and hungry and thirsty indeed!" "Yes," said he. "Well then," said she, "eat, drink, and warm thyself." While Smetse was eating and drinking he told his wife how he had been forbidden the door to Paradise, and how he designed to take from the cellar a full cask of bruinbier and bottles of French wine, to sell to those who went into the Holy City, so that he might be well paid, and with the money he received buy himself better food. "This, my man," she said, "is all very well, but will Master St. Peter give thee permission to set up at the gates of Paradise such a tavern?" "Of that," he said, "I have hope." And Smetse, laden with his cask and bottles, went his way back, up towards the good Paradise. Having reached the foot of the wall he set up his tavern in the open air, for the weather is mild in this heavenly land, and on the first day all who went in drank at Smetse's stall, and paid him well out of compassion. But one or two became drunk, and entering Paradise in this state, set Master Peter inquiring into the cause of it; and having found it out he enjoined Smetse to stop his selling, and had him whipped grievously. XIX. Of the fair judgment of My Lord Jesus. Not long afterwards the good wife died also, by reason of the terror that had seized hold of her at the sight of her man's ghost. And her soul went straight towards Paradise, and there she saw, sitting with his seat against the wall, the poor Smetse in a fit of melancholy brooding. When he saw her he jumped up with great joy, and said: "Wife, I will go in with thee." "Dost thou dare?" said she. "I will hide myself," said he, "under thy skirt, which is wide enough for us both, and so I shall pass without being seen." When he had done this she knocked on the door, and Master St. Peter came to open it. "Come in," he said, "good wife." But seeing Smetse's feet below the hem of the skirt: "This wicked smith," he cried, "will he always be making fun of me? Be off, devil-baggage!" "Ah, my master," said she, "have pity on him, or else let me stay out, too, to keep him company." "No," said Master St. Peter, "thy place is here, his is outside. Come in then, and let him be off at once." And the good wife went in while Smetse stayed outside. But as soon as the noonday hour came, and the angel cooks had brought the good wife her beautiful rice pudding, she went to the wall and put her head over it. "Art thou there," she said, "my man?" "Yes," said he. "Art thou hungry?" she said. "Yes," said he. "Well then," she said, "spread thy leathern apron; I will throw thee the pudding which has just been given me." "But thou," said he, "wilt thou eat nothing?" "No," said she, "for I have heard it said that there is supper by and by." Smetse ate the rice pudding, and was suddenly filled with comfort, for the pudding was more succulent and delicious than the finest meats of the earth. Meanwhile his wife went off to walk about in the good Paradise, and afterwards came back to Smetse to tell him what she had seen. "Ah," she said, "my man, 'tis a most beautiful place. Would that I could see thee within! Round about My Lord Jesus are the pure intelligences who discuss with him whatever is goodness, love, justice, knowledge, and beauty, and also the best means of governing men and making them happy. Their speech is like music. And all the while they keep throwing down to earth the seeds of beautiful, good, just and true thoughts. But men are so wicked and stupid that they tread underfoot these fair seeds or let them wither away. Farther on, established in their several places, are potters and goldsmiths, masons, painters, tanners and fullers, carpenters and shipbuilders, and thou shouldst see what fine work they do, each in his own trade. And when they have made some progress they cast down the seed of that also towards the earth, but 'tis lost oftentimes." "Wife," said Smetse, "didst see no smiths?" "Yes," said she. "Alas," said he, "I would gladly be working alongside them, for I am ashamed to be sitting here like a leper, doing nothing and begging my bread. But listen, wife; since Master St. Peter will not let me in, go thou and ask grace for me from My Lord Jesus, who is kind and will let me in for certain." "I go, my man," said she. My Lord Jesus, who was in council with his doctors, saw her coming towards him. "I know thee, good wife," said he; "thou wast in thy lifetime wedded to Smetse the smith, who entreated me so well when, in the guise of a little child, I came down to earth with Master Joseph and Madam Mary. Is he not in Paradise, thy good man?" "Alas, no, My Lord!" answered she, "my man is at the door, most sad and out of heart, because Master St. Peter will not let him in." "Why is that?" said My Lord Jesus. "Ah, I cannot tell," said she. But the angel who writes down the faults of men in a record of brass, speaking suddenly, said: "Smetse cannot enter Paradise, for Smetse, delivered from the devil, kept devil's money." "Ah," said My Lord Jesus, "that is a great sin; but has he not repented of it?" "Yes," said the good wife, "he has repented, and, moreover, he has been all his life good, charitable, and compassionate." "Go and find him," said My Lord Jesus, "I will question him myself." Two or three halberdier angels ran to obey him, and brought Smetse before the Son of God, who spoke in this wise: "Smetse, is it true that thou didst keep devil's money?" "Yes, My Lord," answered the smith, whose knees were knocking together with fear. "Smetse, this is not good, for a man should rather suffer every ill, pain, and anguish, than keep the money of one who is wicked, ugly, unjust, and a liar, as is the devil. But hast thou no meritorious deed to tell me, to mitigate this great sin?" "My Lord," answered Smetse, "I fought a long while beside the men of Zeeland for freedom of conscience, and, doing this, suffered with them hunger and thirst." "This is good, Smetse, but didst thou persist in this fair conduct?" "Alas, no, My Lord!" said the smith, "for, to tell truth, my courage lacked constancy, and I went back to Ghent, where, like so many another, I came under the Spanish yoke." "This is bad, Smetse," answered My Lord Jesus. "My Lord," wept the good wife, "none was more generous than he to the poor, kind to every one, charitable to his enemies, even to the wicked Slimbroek." "This is good, Smetse," said My Lord Jesus; "but hast thou no other merit in thy favour?" "My Lord," said the smith, "I have always laboured with a good heart, hated idleness and melancholy, loved joy and merriment, sung gladly, and drunk with thankfulness the bruinbier which came to me from you." "This is good, Smetse, but it is not enough." "My Lord," answered the smith, "I thrashed as soundly as I could the wicked ghosts of Jacob Hessels, the Duke of Alva, and Philip II, King of Spain." "Smetse," said My Lord Jesus, "this is very good. I grant thee leave to enter my Paradise." UNIFORM WITH "FLEMISH LEGENDS" THE LEGEND OF TYL ULENSPIEGEL BY CHARLES DE COSTER Translated by Geoffrey Whitworth. With 20 Woodcuts by Albert Delstanche. 7s. 6d. net SOME PRESS OPINIONS "Tyl Ulenspiegel is not yet, in most English households, an old friend. Yet we believe that the fellow will soon make his brave and humorous way into the friendship of old and young. And the twenty full-page woodcuts with which M. Albert Delstanche has illustrated this edition will help the friendship on. All the heartiness, the ruggedness, the fun, and the gloom of one tragic period in the history of a homely and much-enduring people are expressed through the eye to the mind by M. Delstanche's knowledge and skill."--The Times. "An excellent translation has brought a notable example of modern Belgian literature within the reach of readers in this country. Taking as his central figure the scampish Tyl Ulenspiegel, already in the sixteenth century a traditional personage, De Coster produced a remarkable reconstruction of Flemish life in the days of Spanish oppression and of the famous 'Beggars'."--Scotsman. "On the large scale, the obvious work of a master, a man who knew sorrow but who loved to share the mirth and good living of his fellows, mocked impostors wherever he found them, and had a hatred of cruelty and injustice that is like lightning. It is one of the rare books, full of sad laughter and warm understanding, of the order of 'Don Quixote'."--The Nation. "It is a happy thought which has brought out Mr. Geoffrey Whitworth's version of 'The Legend of Tyl Ulenspiegel' now ... for the description of it as the 'national epic of Flanders' has much more meaning than such phrases usually have.... And all the adventures of Tyl and his friends have this quality of reality in fairy-land, whether they are grotesque or tragic. The book has tragedy in it to balance its boisterous comedy, but the two are combined in a style whose generosity and exuberance make their union complete and satisfactory. It is a great book indeed. Mr. Whitworth is to be congratulated on his excellently easy and vivid translation; and the woodcuts of M. Albert Delstanche are all exceedingly impressive and many exceedingly beautiful."--Land and Water. "It is hardly too much to say that De Coster's book is a work of pure genius.... At such a moment as the present no publication could be more timely than this English version of what will inevitably rank as a great epic of Belgian nationality.... For the rest, we have only to compliment the publishers, the translator, and the illustrator upon their joint efforts to present a fine work in a worthy and acceptable form."--The Guardian. "The illustrator's bold and luminous drawings certainly catch the bluff spirit of Charles de Coster's quaint masterpiece, in which the transition-age between mediævalism and modernity lives again so grimly, so shrewdly, so humorously. Here there is a suitable gift-book for all who love to travel in the highways of world-literature."--Morning Post. "It is, of course, for adults and not for children, with its grim horrors and its full-blooded jollity. What we have learnt to call the soul of a people is in it--the spirit of Flanders. The force of De Coster's style loses nothing in Mr. Geoffrey Whitworth's translation, and there are admirable illustrations cut on the wood by M. Albert Delstanche."--Daily Telegraph. "A most remarkable volume."--Glasgow Herald. "Reading it for the first time in Mr. Whitworth's admirable English version, one is amazed at first that it has not been rendered previously. De Coster will never require another English version, and this one book of 'glorious adventures' is aureole enough to ensure his place on the great hierarchy of literature."--The Bookman. NOTE [1] His biography has been written by Charles Potvin. Charles de Coster; Sa Biographie. Weissenbruch; Brussels. 
34902	----	Second Edition. BASQUE LEGENDS: Collected, Chiefly in the Labourd, By Rev. WENTWORTH WEBSTER, M.A., Oxon. With an Essay On The Basque Language, By M. Julien Vinson, Of the Revue de Linguistique, Paris. Together with Appendix: Basque Poetry. London: Griffith and Farran, Successors to Newbery and Harris, Corner of St. Paul's Churchyard; And Walbrook & Co., 52, Fleet Street, E. C. 1879. All Rights Reserved. Printed by W. O. Walbrook, at the Fleet Street Printing Works, 52, Fleet Street, London. To M. Antoine D'Abbadie, of Abbadia, Member of the Institute of France, this Translation of Legends, originally told in the language of his ancestors, in grateful acknowledgment of kindly courtesy and of ever-ready assistance, is dedicated by his obliged and obedient servant, Wentworth Webster. CONTENTS. Page Introduction vii I.--Legends of the Tartaro 1 The Tartaro 4 M. d'Abbadie's Version 4 Variations of above 5 Errua, the Madman 6 Variations of above 10 The Three Brothers, the Cruel Master, and the Tartaro 11 The Tartaro and Petit Perroquet 16 II.--The Heren-Suge.--The Seven-Headed Serpent 20 The Grateful Tartaro and the Heren-Suge 22 Variation of above 32 The Seven-Headed Serpent 33 The Serpent in the Wood 38 III.--Animal Tales 42 Acheria, the Fox 43 The Ass and the Wolf 45 IV.--Basa-Jaun, Basa-Andre, and Lamiñak 47 Basa-Jauna 49 The Servant at the Fairy's 53 The Fairy in the House 55 The Pretty but Idle Girl 56 The Devil's Age 58 The Fairy-Queen Godmother 59 V.--Witchcraft and Sorcery 64 The Witches at the Sabbat 66 The Witches and the Idiots 67 The Witch and the New-Born Infant 69 The Changeling 73 VI.--Contes des Fées 76 (A) Tales like the Keltic 77 Malbrouk 77 The Fisherman and his Sons 87 Tabakiera, the Snuff-Box 94 Mahistruba, the Master Mariner 100 Dragon 106 Ezkabi-Fidel 111 Variation of above 120 The Lady-Pigeon and her Comb 120 Suggested Explanation of above 130 Laur-Cantons 132 The Young School-Boy 136 The Son who Heard Voices 137 The Mother and her Idiot Son; or, the Clever Thief 140 Juan Dekos, the Blockhead (Tontua) 146 Variation of the above--Juan de Kalais 151 The Duped Priest 154 (B) Contes des Fées, derived directly from the French 158 Ass'-Skin 158 Variations of above 165 The Step-Mother and Step-Daughter 166 Beauty and the Beast 167 Variation of above 172 The Cobbler and his Three Daughters (Blue-Beard) 173 Variations of above 175 The Singing Tree, the Bird which tells the Truth, and the Water which makes Young 176 Variation of above 181 The White Blackbird 182 The Sister and her Seven Brothers 187 Variations, etc. 191 List of Publication of Foreign Legends in France 192 VII.--Religious Tales 194 Fourteen 195 Variation of above--Jesus Christ and the Old Soldier 199 The Poor Soldier and the Rich Man 200 The Widow and her Son 202 The Story of the Hair-Cloth Shirt (La Cilice) 206 The Saintly Orphan Girl 209 The Slandered and Despised Girl 211 An Essay on the Basque Language 219 Appendix--Basque Poetry 235 INTRODUCTION. The study of the recent science of Comparative Mythology is one of the most popular and attractive of minor scientific pursuits. It deals with a subject-matter which has interested most of us at one period of our lives, and turns the delight of our childhood into a charm and recreation for maturer age. Nor is it without more useful lessons. In it we see more clearly than perhaps elsewhere the reciprocal influence, which none can wholly escape, of words and language upon thought, and again of thought and fancy upon words and language; how mere words and syllables may modify both conception and belief; how the metaphor, which at first presented an object more clearly and vividly to the mind than any more direct form of speech could do, soon confuses and at last wholly distorts the original idea, and buries its meaning under a new and foreign superstructure. We may mark here, too, by numerous examples, how slowly the human mind rises to the conception of any abstract truth, and how continually it falls back upon the concrete fact which it is compelled to picture to itself in order to state in words the simplest mental abstraction. The phrase, "The dawn flies before the sun," passing into the myth of Daphne and Apollo, is a lesson in psychology no less than in philology and in comparative mythology. Now, both the interest and the value of these studies are enhanced in proportion as they become complete. Our conclusions approach nearer to certainty, and will gradually pass from theory to demonstration, as we find the same legends and modes of thought and expression on natural phenomena constantly reappearing among the most distant and the most isolated peoples, in languages which in their complex forms tell of the infancy of human speech, and also in those whose worn-down frame speaks of the world's old age. Of the peoples now settled in Western Europe, the Basques are those which are the most separate from other populations; distinct in language, they represent, in a more or less mixed state, some older stratum of European ethnology. Their language, too, as regards the mass of the people, is still practically unwritten. [1] Here there is a chance of finding legends in a purer and older form than among any other European people; and in what they have borrowed from others, we may have an almost unique crucial test of the time which it takes for such traditions to pass orally from people of one language to another and totally different one. None of these legends have been published or even noticed till within the last two years, when M. d'Abbadie read the legend of the Tartaro before the Société des Sciences et des Arts de Bayonne, and M. Cerquand his "Légendes et Récits Populaires du Pays Basque," before the sister society at Pau. [2] Of course we must expect to find such legends very much altered, and in a state of almost inextricable confusion, and this not only through forgetfulness, and through the lapse of time since their origin, not only by the influence of a total change of religion, but they are also mingled and inter-penetrated with totally new ideas; the old and the new will be found side by side in striking and sometimes grotesque contrast. As in Campbell's "Tales of the West Highlands," personages of mythical antiquity go to kirk, and indulge in other decidedly post-Reformation practices, so in these Basque tales the reader must not be startled by the introduction of maize and tobacco, of cannon and gunpowder, of dances at the mairie, and the use of the guillotine, in stories which, perhaps, originally told of the movements of the stars, of the wars of the forces of the atmosphere, of the bright beauty of the rising, or of the glowing glory of the setting sun. [3] The body is the same in all ages, but the dress varies with the changing fashions. To borrow an illustration from a slightly older science, this is not a simple case of contorted and overlying strata to be restored to their original order, but rather of strata worn down, reconstructed, and deposited anew, and even modified in their latest stage by the interference of human action. And thus our problem becomes an exceedingly complex and difficult one, and our readers must not be disappointed if our conclusions are not so clear and positive as might be wished. The present is merely a tentative, and not, in any sense, a final essay towards its solution. How are these legends told now, and how have they been preserved? They are told by the Basque peasants, either when neighbours meet--after the fashion made familiar to us by American novelists in the "Husking Bee"--for the purpose of stripping the husks from the ears of maize, an operation generally performed in one or two long sessions; or at the prolonged wedding and other feasts, of which we have evidence in the tales themselves, or else in the long nights round the wintry hearth of their lonely dwellings. For it is one of the charms of the Basque land that the houses are scattered all over the face of the country, instead of being collected into crowded villages; and it is, perhaps, to this fact chiefly that we owe the preservation of so much old-world lore, and of primitive ideas, among this people. The reader must not be surprised at the length of some of our specimens. The details of the incidents of the longest are religiously preserved and, as told at home, they are probably more lengthy (as anyone will understand who has ever taken anything down from recitation) than as here given. Many an unlettered Basque peasant could serve an irritable stranger as Glendower did Hotspur, when he kept him "at least nine hours in reckoning up the several devils' names that were his lackeys." In La Soule the "Pastorales," or Basque dramas, which last from six to eight hours of uninterrupted action, are learnt in the same way by word of mouth during the long evenings of winter. These legends are still most thoroughly believed in. They still form part of the faith of these simple people--not at all, we need hardly say, in the use of mythological or atmospheric allegory, but as narratives of veritable fact. They believe them as they do the histories of the Bible or the "Lives of the Saints." In fact, the problem of reconciling religion and science presents itself to their minds in this strange guise--how to reconcile these narratives with those of the Bible and of the Church. The general solution is that they happened before the time of which the Bible speaks, or before Adam fell. They are "Lege zaharreko istorriguak"--"histories of the ancient law"--by which is apparently meant the time before Christianity. "This happened, sir, in the time when all animals and all things could speak," was said again and again by our narrators at the commencement of their story; not one doubted the literal truth of what they told. Their naïve good faith occasionally severely tested our own gravity. Appeal was often made to our supposed superior knowledge to confirm the facts. The varying tone of the voice told how truly the speakers sympathised with what they uttered. At times sobs almost interrupted utterance, when the frequent apostrophe came: "Think how this poor so-and-so must have suffered!" More often bursts of laughter at traditional jokes, too poor to raise a smile on less unsophisticated lips, broke the recital. Very determined, too, is their adherence to what they believe to be the genuine text of these old tales. "I don't understand it, but the history says so;" "It is so;" "The story says so," was positively affirmed again and again--e.g., in one of the Peau d'Ane or Cinderella stories, when the lady has dazzled her admirer by her dress of silver (moonlight?), then of gold (sunlight?), then of diamonds (dew-drops?), at last, on the wedding-day, the bride and bridegroom dress each other. "I don't know why," interrupted the story-teller, "but the story says so." Could anything tell more quaintly of the marriage of the sun and dawn? The sun decking the morning clouds with his light and beauty, and they again robing him in their soft and tender colouring. But we must pass on to the tales themselves. None of these, we think, will be found to be genuinely or exclusively Basque; the oldest we take to be those most widely known, and which are most distorted. The heads under which we have arranged them are: (1) Legends of the Tartaro, or Cyclops; (2) of the Heren-Suge, the Seven-Headed Serpent; (3) of purely Animal Tales, which are neither fables nor allegories; (4) of Basa-Jauna, Basa-Andre, and of the Lamiñak, or Fairies; (5) Tales of Witchcraft; (6) those which, for want of a better name, we have entitled Contes des Fées, in which the fairy is an Eastern magician--these we have divided into sections, (a) those which resemble the Keltic and other tales, and (b) those which are probably borrowed directly from the French; our last division (7), Religious Tales and Legends, are probably from mediæval sources common to Latin Christianity, but they are interesting as specimens of the tales which probably delighted the highest born of our own ancestors in the middle ages, and now linger only among the peasantry in out-of-the-way corners of Europe. Some of these tales seem to us to be more gracefully told, and have more of human interest in them, than any of the others. We fear scientific men will be disappointed in this collection. Notwithstanding that we have been careful to collect from those who know the Basque only, or who certainly knew only Basque when they first learnt these tales, yet they are evidently much mixed with French and Spanish. Our translations are literal to baldness; the only liberty we have taken is in softening down the exceeding directness and grossness of some portions. Not one tale is in the least licentious--but the Basque language calls a spade a spade, and not an implement of husbandry. [4] The Carlist war of the last four years has prevented our getting any legends from the Spanish Basque provinces, and has even to some extent hindered our work in the French Pays Basque, by providing an almost exclusive object of interest. In the more remote districts of the Pays Basque itself, which we have not been able to revisit since we commenced this collection, purer forms of some of these legends may be found, and others of which we have no example; [5] but these which we give are really representative. Though collected mainly in the neighbourhood of St. Jean de Luz, we have tested them by enquiry of natives of all the provinces, and find that they are equally well known in La Soule and in Basse Navarre as in the Labourd. We never met with a Basque peasant who could not tell us what are the Tartaro, the Heren-Suge, Basa-Jaun, and the Lamiñak. As a curious coincidence, we may notice how closely some of the Basque names of the stars parallel those given in Miss Frere's delightful "Old Deccan Days." In the narrator's narrative, pp. 27, 28, we read, "She (the grandmother) would show us the hen and chickens" (the Pleiades)--the same in Basque, "Oiloa chituekin;" "The three thieves climbing up to rob the Ranee's silver bedstead"--the three stars in Orion's belt, in Basque, the three kings, or brothers, or robbers; the milky way, "the great pathway of light on which He went up to heaven," has also obtained in Basque a Christianized name--"Erromako zubia, or Bidea," "the bridge or road to Rome." Again, "All the cobras in my grandmother's stories were seven-headed," so the Heren-Suge in the Basque country is always seven-headed. Little or nothing can be gathered from the names of the actors, the heroes or heroines of these tales. They are mostly anonymous, but the name, when given, is almost always borrowed from the French. This is disappointing, and much increases the difficulty of tracing the origin; but it is analogous to the fact that scarcely a single purely Basque name is to be found among the so-called kings and chieftains of the Basques during the early middle ages. [6] Among the classic writers, too, and among the soldiers and followers of our Anglo-Gascon princes, hardly a name indubitably Basque is to be found. For all more special details and discussions we refer to the Introductions to the separate sections. The few references given to the parallel legends of other countries are not intended to be at all complete, much less exhaustive. The Pays Basque is not a land of libraries, and it is not easy to collect these legends on the spot, and at the same time to get together the books necessary for a comparison of them with those of other countries. The few we offer are only those which have fallen in our way, and though worthless to the specialist, may be of some little aid as suggestions to the ordinary reader. [7] For the same purpose we annex a list of the first publication of the chief collections of foreign legends in France. [8] It is curious to remark that, while the masterpieces of French literature seem never to have penetrated beyond the surface of society, these legends have pierced to the very bottom of the social mass, and have become real living household words, even to those many millions of Frenchmen who do not understand one word of French. There remains the pleasant task of thanking some of the many friends who have assisted us in this collection. I had hoped to have joined the name of M. J. Vinson, the well-known Basque and Dravidian scholar, to my own as joint-author of this simple work. I should hardly have had the courage to have undertaken it had I not been assured of his invaluable assistance in difficulties about the language of the originals. Unavoidable circumstances have, however, prevented his seeing the Basque of many of the later tales, and he therefore prefers that the "Essay on the Basque Language" should alone bear his name. I cannot but accede to his wishes; but, at the same time, I offer him my most grateful thanks for the unfailing and unwearied help which he so kindly afforded me for many months. The legends contributed by him are noticed in their proper place. Our first acknowledgments are due to M. d'Abbadie, of Abbadia, the well-known "Membre de l'Institut," for his kind assistance and ready communication of the legends in his possession, and which were the starting point of our work. Next, and even more, to Madame M. Bellevue, of Dajieu-baita, through whose kind intervention the majority of these tales were collected, and who assisted in the translation of almost all. And then to the sisters Estefanella and Gagna-haurra Hirigaray, who contributed more than twenty tales; to Dr. Guilbeau and other friends at St. Jean de Luz who have taken a friendly interest in our work, and to all those whose names are appended to the tales they furnished. It would be presumptuous to hope that our readers will find as much pleasure in perusing these tales as we have had in collecting them. I.--LEGENDS OF THE TARTARO. Who, or what is the Tartaro? "Oh! you mean the man with one eye in the middle of his forehead," is the prompt and universal answer. The Tartaro is the Cyclops, the sun's round eye, k'uklwy. But the word Tartaro has apparently nothing to do with this. M. Cerquand, in his "Legendes et Récits Populaires du Pays Basque," derives the word from Tartare, Tartar, in the same way as the French word Ogre is said to be derived from Hongrois, Ugri. The only objection to this highly probable derivation (made still more probable by a Souletin variation, Moiriak) is the comparatively late date (the 13th century) of the first appearance of the Tartars in Europe. [9] It is besides perfectly true that in many tales the Tartaro replaces, and is identical with the giant or ogre; but this does not appear to us to be the original conception of this mythological monster, nor have we ever heard from an unlettered Basque such a description of him. To them he is simply a Cyclops--a huge man, with an eye in the centre of his forehead. It is an interesting question--Is there any connection between the Basque Tartaro and the Cyclops of the Odyssey and of the classics? First, we must remark that the Cyclops legend is not peculiar either to the Greek and Latin writers, or even to the Aryan nations; e.g., in his communication of the Tartaro legends to the Société des Sciences de Bayonne, M. d'Abaddie relates how he heard the tale told in June, 1843, in Eastern Africa, in Lat. N. 9.2, E. Lon. 34.48, by a man who had never before quitted the country. It is then only the special form of the legend, and not the primary idea, that the Greeks may have borrowed from the Basques. But there is this to observe--that, with both Greeks and Latins, the Cyclops myth is an occidental and not an oriental one, and is more strictly localised than almost any other. This may be accounted for by saying that the sun's great fiery eye is rather that of the setting than of the rising sun; that the red-hot stake is the ruddy mountain peak, or the tall fir-trunk, seen against the western horizon, and illumined by his descending rays. But in the stories of Theocritus and Ovid, where the sun-myth is not so apparent, the home of the Cyclops is still Sicily. Our first Tartaro legend reads very like a rough outline of Ovid's story of "Acis and Galatea." Now, W. Von Humboldt in his "Prüfung der Untersuchung über die Urbewohner Hispaniens vermittelst der Vaskischen Sprache" (Berlin, 1821), in cap. xlv., p. 167, and, again, con. vii., p. 178, arguing on quite different grounds, places Sicily as the most easterly habitation of the Basques within historic times. [10] We leave it then to classical scholars to consider whether the Italic races in Magna Græcia and Sicily may not have come in contact with the Basques there, and from them have adopted their special form of the Cyclops legend. As we said above, the Tartaro sometimes replaces the giant or the ogre; at other times we find him as Basa-Jaun, or even as an animal, substituted for Acheria, the fox. He is, in his proper form, a huge one-eyed giant, occasionally a cannibal, but not without a rough "bonhomie" when satiated with food and drink. Intellectually far below the feebler race of mankind, he is invariably beaten in his contests with them, notwithstanding his enormous strength; he loses all his wagers, and is generally lured on to commit involuntary suicide. In some aspects he reminds one of Milton's "Lubbar Fiend," and in his constant defeats and being constantly outwitted, recals one of the types of the Devil in mediæval story. At times he appears in gentler guise, as when he aids the young prince to his rights, and supplies Petit Yorge with the means of victory over the Heren-Suge. What the talking ring is which appears in so many of these stories we confess ourselves unable to interpret; it is found in the Keltic, but, as far as we are aware, not in the classic legends. One peculiarity of the Basque, and especially of the Tartaro legends, is that the hero of them is so often a madman, an idiot, or a fool. If we can trust our memory, the case is the same in the Slavonic representatives of Odysseus. [11] But the Basques seem to dwell upon and to repeat the idea in a peculiar way; they ring the changes on all states, from the wild madman, like the Scandinavian Berserker, through the idiot and fool, to the mere blockhead and ninny. Errua, Enuchenta, Ergela, Sosua, Tontua, are terms employed to designate the heroes who have sometimes, to our modern apprehension, little of the idiot or fool, except the name. Can it be that the power which put out the sun's fiery eye was looked upon as a beneficent being in a burning tropic land, while, as the legend travelled northward, the act seemed more like that of madness, or of senseless stupidity? One type of these Tartaro tales will at once recal Grimm's "Valiant Little Tailor," and some of the more modern versions of "Jack the Giant-Killer." But though the incidents are identical, it is hardly possible that they can be thus borrowed. Several of our narrators were utterly ignorant of French, and learnt the tale as children from old people, who died a few years since at upwards of 80. The first translation of Grimm's Tales into French was published in the year 1845. THE TARTARO. Once upon a time there was the son of a king who for the punishment of some fault became a monster. He could become a man again only by marrying. One day he met a young girl who refused him, because she was so frightened at him. And the Tartaro wanted to give her a ring, which she would not accept. However, he sent it her by a young man. As soon as the ring was upon her finger it began to say, "Thou there, and I here." [12] It kept always crying out this, and the Tartaro pursued her continually; and, as the young girl had such a horror of him, she cut off her finger and the ring, and threw them into a large pond, and there the Tartaro drowned himself. Estefanella Hirigarray, of Ahetze. M. D'ABBADIE'S VERSION. Our next story was communicated by M. d'Abbadie to the Société des Sciences et des Arts de Bayonne. The narrator is M. l'Abbé Heguiagaray, the Parish Priest of Esquiule in La Soule:-- In my infancy I often heard from my mother the story of the Tartaro. He was a Colossus, with only one eye in the middle of his forehead. He was a shepherd and a hunter, but a hunter of men. Every day he ate a sheep; then, after a snooze, every one who had the misfortune to fall into his hands. His dwelling was a huge barn, with thick walls, a high roof, and a very strong door, which he alone knew how to open. His mother, an old witch, lived in one corner of the garden, in a hut constructed of turf. One day a powerful young man was caught in the snares of the Tartaro, who carried him off to his house. This young man saw the Tartaro eat a whole sheep, and he knew that he was accustomed to take a snooze, and that after that his own turn would come. In his despair he said to himself that he must do something. Directly the Tartaro began to snore he put the spit into the fire, made it red-hot, and plunged it into the giant's one eye. Immediately he leapt up, and began to run after the man who had injured him; but it was impossible to find him. "You shall not escape. It is all very well to hide yourself," said he; "but I alone know the secret how to open this door." The Tartaro opened the door half-way, and let the sheep out between his legs. The young man takes the big bell off the ram, and puts it round his neck, and throws over his body the skin of the sheep which the giant had just eaten, and walks on all fours to the door. The Tartaro examines him by feeling him, perceives the trick, and clutches hold of the skin; but the young man slips off the skin, dives between his legs, and runs off. Immediately the mother of the Tartaro meets him, and says to him: "O, you lucky young fellow! You have escaped the cruel tyrant; take this ring as a remembrance of your escape." He accepts, puts the ring on his finger, and immediately the ring begins to cry out, "Heben nuk! Heben nuk!" ("Thou hast me here! Thou hast me here!") The Tartaro pursues, and is on the point of catching him, when the young man, maddened with fright, and not being able to pull off the ring, takes out his knife, and cuts off his own finger, and throws it away, and thus escapes the pursuit of the Tartaro. In other versions the young man goes into the forest with some pigs, meets the Tartaro there, is carried by him home, blinds him with the red-hot spit, and escapes by letting himself down through a garret window. The Tartaro pursues, guided by his ring, which at last he throws to the young man to put on, when it cries out as above, and the young man cuts off his finger, and throws it down a precipice or into a bog, where the ring still cries out, and the Tartaro following, is dashed to pieces and drowned. ERRUA, THE MADMAN. Like many others in the world, there was a man and woman who had a son. He was very wicked, and did nothing but mischief, and was of a thoroughly depraved disposition. The parents decided that they must send him away, and the lad was quite willing to set off. He set out then, and goes far, far, far away. He comes to a city, and asks if they want a servant. They wanted one in a (certain) house. He goes there. They settle their terms at so much a month, and that the one who is not satisfied should strip the skin off the other's back. [13] The master sends his servant to the forest to get the most crooked pieces of wood that he can find. Near the forest there was a vineyard. What does the servant do but cut it all up, and carries it to the house. The master asks him where the wood is. He shows him the vine-wood cut up. The master said nothing to him, but he was not pleased. Next day the master says to him, "Take the cows to such a field, and don't break any hole in the fence." What does the lad do? He cuts all the cows into little pieces, and throws them bit by bit into the field. The master was still more angry; but he could not say anything, for fear of having his skin stripped off. So what does he do? He buys a herd of pigs, and sends his servant to the mountain with the herd. The master knew quite well that there was a Tartaro in this mountain, but he sends him there all the same. Our madman goes walking on, on, on. He arrives at a little hut. The Tartaro's house was quite close to his. The pigs of the Tartaro and those of the madman used to go out together. The Tartaro said one day to him-- "Will you make a wager as to who will throw a stone farthest?" He accepted the wager. That evening our madman was very sad. While he was at his prayers, an old woman appeared to him, and asks him-- "What is the matter with you? Why are you so sad?" He tells her the wager that he has made with the Tartaro. The old woman says to him-- "If it is only that, it is nothing." And so she gives him a bird, and says to him-- "Instead of a stone, throw this bird." The madman was very glad at this. The next day he does as the old woman told him. The Tartaro's stone went enormously far, but at last it fell; but the madman's bird never came down at all. The Tartaro was astonished that he had lost his wager, and they make another--which of the two should throw a bar of iron the farthest. The madman accepted again. He was in his little house sadly in prayer. The old woman appears again. She asks him-- "What's the matter with you?" "I have made a wager again, which of the two will throw the bar of iron the farthest, and I am very sorry." "If it is only that, it is nothing. When you take hold of the bar of iron, say, 'Rise up, bar of iron, here and Salamanca.'" (Altchaala palenka, hemen eta Salamanka.) [14] Next day the Tartaro takes his terrible bar of iron, and throws it fearfully far. The young man could hardly lift up one end, and he says-- "Rise up, bar of iron, here and Salamanca." When the Tartaro heard that (he cried out)-- "I give up the wager--you have won," and he takes the bar of iron away from him. "My father and my mother live at Salamanca; don't throw, I beg of you, I implore you--you will crush them." Our madman goes away very happy. The Tartaro says to him again: "I will pull up the biggest oak in the forest, and you pull up another." He says, "Yes." And the later it grew in the day, the sadder he became. He was at his prayers. The old woman comes to him again, and says to him-- "What's the matter with you?" He tells her the wager he has made with the Tartaro, and how he will pull up an oak. The old woman gives him three balls of thread, and tells him to begin and tie them to all the oaks in the forest. [15] Next day the Tartaro pulls up his oak, an enormously, enormously big one; and the madman begins to tie, and to tie, and to tie. The Tartaro asks him: "What are you doing that for?" "You (pulled up) one, but I all these." The Tartaro replies, "No! No! No! What shall I do to fatten my pigs with without acorns? You have won; you have won the wager." The Tartaro did not know what to think about it, and saw that he had found one cleverer than himself, and so he asks him if he will come and spend the night at his house. The madman says, "Yes." He goes to bed then with the Tartaro. But he knew that there was a dead man under the bed. When the Tartaro was asleep what does the madman do? He places the dead man by the Tartaro's side, and gets under the bed himself. In the middle of the night the Tartaro gets up, and takes his terrible bar of iron and showers blows upon blows, ping pan, ping pan, as long and as hard as he could give them. The Tartaro gets up as usual, and goes to see his pigs, and the madman also comes out from under the bed; and he goes to see the pigs too. The Tartaro is quite astounded to see him coming, and does not know what to think of it. He says to himself that he has to do with a cleverer than he; but he asks him if he has slept well. He answers, "Yes, very well; only I felt a few flea-bites." Their pigs had got mixed, and as they were fat, he had to separate them in order to go away with his. The Tartaro asked the madman what mark his pigs had. The madman says to him, "Mine have some of them one mark, some of them two marks." They set to work to look at them, and they all had these same marks. Our madman goes off then with all the hogs. He goes walking on, on, on, with all his pigs. He comes to a town where it was just market day, and sells them all except two, keeping, however, all the tails, which he put in his pockets. As you may think, he was always in fear of the Tartaro. He sees him coming down from the mountain. He kills one of his hogs, and puts the entrails in his own bosom under his waistcoat. There was a group of men near the road. As he passed them he took out his knife, and stabs it into his chest, and takes out the pig's bowels, and our madman begins to run very much faster than before, with his pig in front of him. When the Tartaro comes up to these men, he asks if they have seen such a man. "Yes, yes, he was running fast, and in order to go faster just here he stabbed himself, and threw away his bowels, and still he went on all the faster." The Tartaro, too, in order to go faster, thrusts his knife into his body, and falls stark dead. [16] The madman goes to his master's. Near the house there was a marsh quite full of mud. He puts his live pig into it, and all the tails too. He enters the house, and says to the master that he is there with his pigs. The master is astounded to see him. He asks him, "Where are the pigs, then?" He says to him, "They have gone into the mud, they were so tired." Both go out, and begin to get the real pig out, and between the two they pull it out very well. They try to do the same thing with the others; but they kept pulling out nothing but tails. The madman says, "You see how fat they are; that is why the tails come out alone." He sends the servant to fetch the spade and the hoe. Instead of bringing them he begins to beat the mistress, whack! whack! and he cries to the master, "One or both?" The master says to him, "Both, both." And then he beats the servant maid almost to pieces. He goes then to the master, taking with him the spade and the hoe, and he sets to beating him with the spade and the hoe, until he can no longer defend himself, and then he thrashes the skin off his back, and takes his pig and goes off home to his father and mother; and as he lived well he died well too. Pierre Bertrand learnt it from his Grandmother, who died a few years since, aged 82. VARIATIONS OF ERRUA. We have several variations of this tale, some like the above, very similar to Grimm's "Valiant Little Tailor," others like Campbell's "Highland Tales." In one tale there are two brothers, an idiot and a fool (Enuchenta eta Ergela). The idiot goes out to service first, and gets sent back for his stupidity. Then the fool goes, and outwits both his master and the Tartaro, whose eye he burns out with a red-hot spit, as in the first instance. In another the servant frightens the Tartaro at the outset by cracking two walnuts, and saying that they were bones of Christians he was cracking. Another wager is as to which shall carry most water from a fountain. The Tartaro fills two hogsheads to carry, but the lad says to him, "Only that; I will take the whole fountain;" and he begins to stir the water about with a stick. But the Tartaro cries out, "No! No! No! I give up. Where shall I go and drink if you carry away all my water?" Another variation is as follows:-- THE THREE BROTHERS, THE CRUEL MASTER, AND THE TARTARO. Like many others in the world, there lived a mother with her three sons. They were not rich, but lived by their work. The eldest son said one day to his mother-- "It would be better for us if I should go out to service." The mother did not like it, but at last she let him go. He goes off, far, far, far away, and comes to a house, and asks if they want a servant. They say "Yes," and they make their agreement. The master was to give a very high salary--100,000 francs--but the servant was to do everything that the master ordered him, and, if he did not do it, the master was to tear the skin off his back at the end of the year, and to dismiss him without pay. [17] The servant said to him, "All right; I am strong, and I will work." On the morrow the master gives him a great deal of work, but he does it easily. The last months of the year the master presses him much more, and one day he sends him into a field to sow fourteen bushels of wheat in the day. The lad goes sadly, taking with him a pair of oxen. He returns to the house very late in the evening. The master says to him, "Have you done your work?" He says, "No." "Do you remember the agreement we made? I must tear the skin off your back: that is your salary." He tears the skin off, as he had said, and sends him away home without anything. His mother was in great grief at seeing him come home so thin and weak, and without any money. He tells what has happened, and the second brother wishes to start off at once, saying that he is strong, and that he will do more work. The mother did not like it, but she was obliged to let him go. He goes to the same house as his brother, and makes the same terms with the master. When he had almost finished his year, his master sends him too to sow fourteen bushels of wheat. He starts very early in the morning, with two pair of oxen; but the night came before he had sown it all. The master was very glad at the sight of that. He strips his skin off his back also, and sends him away without any money. Think of the vexation of this mother in seeing both her sons return in this fashion. The third wishes to start off at once. He assures his mother that he will bring back both the money and the skin of his back. He goes to this same gentleman. He tells this one, too, that he will give him a high salary, on condition that he will do all that he shall tell him to do, otherwise he shall have the skin torn off his back, and be sent away without anything, at the end of the year. He had made him work hard and well for ten months, and then wished to try him. He sent him to the field, and told him to sow fourteen bushels of wheat before night. He answers, "Yes." He takes two pairs of oxen, and goes off to the field. He ploughs a furrow all round the field, and throws his fourteen bushels of wheat into it. He then makes another furrow, to cover it up, and at night time he goes home to the house. The master is astonished. He asks him if he has sown it. "Yes, it is all under ground; you may be sure of it." The master was not pleased; he had his fears. The next day he sends him with sixteen head of cattle to such a field, and says to him, "You must take all these cattle into the field without unlocking the gate or making a gap." Our lad takes a hatchet, a hoe, and a fork. Off he goes, and when he gets to the field he kills them all, one by one. He cuts them up with the hatchet, and throws them with the fork into the field. He comes home at nightfall, and says to his master that all the cattle are in the field as he had told him. The master was not pleased, but he said nothing. The next day he told him to go to such a forest and to bring a load of wood from there, but all the sticks quite, quite straight. Our lad goes off and cuts down in the chestnut copse all the young chestnut trees which his master had planted, and which were very fine ones; and he comes home. When the master saw that, he was not pleased, and said to him, "To-morrow you shall go again with the oxen; and you must bring a load of wood quite crooked, all quite crooked; if you bring only one straight, so much the worse for you." The lad goes off, and pulls up a fine vineyard. After he had loaded his cart, he comes home. When the master saw that, he could not say anything; but he did not know what to think of it. He sends him into a forest. There was a Tartaro there; and all the persons, and all the animals who went there, he ate them all. The master gives him ten pigs, and also food for ten days, telling him that the hogs would fatten themselves well there, because there were plenty of acorns, and that he must return at the end of ten days. Our lad begins, and he goes on, and on, and on. He meets an old woman, who says to him: "Where are you going to, lad?" "To such a forest, to fatten these pigs." The woman says to him: "If you are not a fool, you will not go there. That horrible Tartaro will eat you." This woman was carrying a basket of walnuts on her head, and he said to her: "If you will give me two of these walnuts I will beat the Tartaro." She willingly gives them to him, and he goes on, and on, and on. He meets another old woman, who was winding thread. She says to him: "Where are you going, lad?" "To such a forest." "Don't go there. There is a horrible Tartaro there, who will be sure to eat you, and your pigs as well." "I must go there all the same, and I will conquer him, if you will give me two of your balls of thread." She gives him them, willingly; and he goes on farther, and finds a blacksmith, and he, too, asks him where he is going? And he answers, "To such a forest, to fatten my pigs." "You may just as well go back again. There is a terrible Tartaro there, who will be sure to eat you." "If you will give me a spit, I will beat him." "I will give it you, willingly," and he gives it him with goodwill. Our lad goes on, and comes to this forest. He cuts off the tails of all his pigs, and hides them in a safe place. The Tartaro appears, and says to him: "How did you come here? I am going to eat you." The lad says to him: "Eat a pig if you like, but don't touch me." He takes his two nuts, and rubs them one against the other. "I have two balls here, and if one of them touches you, you are dead." The Tartaro is frightened, and goes away in silence. After having eaten a pig, he comes back again, and says to him: "We must make a wager--which of the two will make the greatest heap of wood?" The Tartaro begins to cut and to cut. Our lad leaves him alone, and when he has made a terrible big heap, he begins to go round all the trees with his balls of thread, and says to him. "You, that; but I, all this;" and he goes on tying and tying. The Tartaro gives in, saying "that he is more clever than he." As he had stopped his ten days, he makes in the night a great fire, and makes his spit red-hot in it; and while the Tartaro was sleeping, he plunges this spit into his only eye. After having taken his pigs' tails, he goes away from the forest without any pigs, because the Tartaro had eaten one every day. Near his master's house there was "a well of the fairy." [18] Our lad sticks in there the tails of all his hogs, excepting one, as well as he could. He then goes running to his master, telling him that all the pigs were coming home very gaily, and that they had got so hot in coming so fast that they had all gone under the mud. "I wished to drag one out by pulling, but only the tail came away; here it is." He goes off then with the master to this marsh; but the master did not dare go in there to pull them out. He goes off sadly with his servant home, not knowing what to think about it. There he counts him out his 100,000 francs, and he went home proudly to his mother and his brothers. There they lived happily, and their master was left with 100,000 francs less. That served him right for having so much. THE TARTARO AND PETIT PERROQUET. Like many others in the world, there was a mother and her son. They were very wretched. One day the son said to his mother that he must go away, to see if he could do anything. He goes far, far, far away. He traverses many countries, and still goes on and on. He arrives in a great city, and asks if they know of a place for a servant. They tell him that there is one in the king's house. There they tell him that he is to be gardener. But he tells them that he does not know how to use a hoe at all, but that, all the same, he would learn it with the others. He was very nice-looking. He soon learnt it, and was liked by everybody. This king had a daughter, and she often noticed Petit Perroquet, because he was polite to everybody. In this city there was a prince, and he was paying court to this young princess, and he was seized with dislike and jealousy of Petit Perroquet. One day this prince [19] went to find the king. He said to him, "You do not know what Petit Perroquet says?--that he could bring the Tartaro's horse here." The king sends for Petit Perroquet, and says to him, "It seems that you have said that you could bring the Tartaro's horse here?" "I certainly did not say it." "Yes, yes," said the king, "you said it." "If you will give me all that I ask for, I will try." He asks for a great deal of money, and sets off. He travels on, and on, and on, and he had to pass a wide river. He speaks to the ferryman, and pays the passage money, and tells him that perhaps he will have a heavy load on his return, but that he will be well paid. He lands on the other side; but he had yet a long way to go in the forest, because the Tartaro lived in a corner of the mountain. At last he arrives, and knocks at the door. An old, old woman comes to him, and says to him, "Be off from here as quickly as possible; my son smells the smell of a Christian a league off." "To eat me here, or to eat me elsewhere, it is all the same to me." But he goes outside, and hides himself under a great heap of cut ferns. He had scarcely been there a moment, when he hears a deep breathing and a grinding of teeth, which sounded like thunder. He stops where he is, trembling. The Tartaro goes to his house, and asks his mother if there is not some Christian or other hidden here. "No, no," says she. "But eat away, your dinner is all ready." "No, no! I must eat this Christian first." He goes hunting, looking, looking into every corner. He goes to the heap of ferns, and pulls off some to put them on one side; but our Petit Perroquet was quite, quite at the bottom. The Tartaro was just on the point of finding him, but he grew tired, and went indoors, and began to eat and to drink enormously. Our Petit Perroquet creeps out of his ferns, and goes off to the stable. The horse had a big bell round his neck, but he fills it with ferns (this bell was as large as the big bell in the church of St. Jean de Luz). He mounts on the horse's back, and very soon he arrives at the ferry, and the ferryman comes to meet him. Together they get the horse into the ferry-boat as well as they could, and they cross over. He gave him a handsome reward. As soon as he was on the other side, the Tartaro appeared, crying out to him to give him his horse back again, and that he would give him all he could wish for. He replies, "No," and goes off full gallop. When he came near the king's palace he took the fern out of the bell, and everybody comes running out of doors or to the windows. All the world was astonished to see Petit Perroquet return. The king was in ecstasy. He did not know what to say, but he liked him even more than he did formerly, and the princess did also. The other prince was not at all pleased, and he begins to think of some other plot. He goes off to find the king, and he says to him, "Do you not know that Petit Perroquet says that he could bring the Tartaro's diamond?" The king sends for Petit Perroquet, and says to him, "It seems that you say you can get the Tartaro's diamond?" "I certainly did not say any such thing." "Yes, yes--you said it." "No, no! I did not say it; but I will try, if you give me all I shall ask for." And he asks for a great deal of money. He goes off, and reaches the ferry, and pays the ferryman well, and goes far, far, far away into the forest, till he gets to the house of the Tartaro. The old woman tells him to be off from there; and he goes and hides himself again in the ferns. And he stops there until the Tartaro comes to the house, just as he did the first time. He turns over nearly all the ferns, and leaves him scarcely covered. He stops quietly there all the time that the Tartaro was having his huge supper, and when he thinks he has finished, and is taking his nap, he creeps out very, very gently. The Tartaro always put his diamond under his pillow, and he takes it away without waking him, and escapes, running off as fast as if to break his feet. The ferryman is there, and he crosses him over, and he pays him well. The Tartaro appears on the other side again, and calls out to him telling him to give him back his diamond, and that he would give him all that he could wish for. He answers, "No, no!" and runs on to the king's house. When he arrived there, the king did not know what to do. One feasted him, and another feasted him, and all the world was busied about him, and everyone loved him more and more, and the princess as well as the rest. The wicked prince did not know what to think of it. He was eaten up with jealousy, and he thought of something else, and said to the king: "Petit Perroquet says that he can bring the Tartaro himself." The king sends for Petit Perroquet, and says to him: "It appears that you have said that you will bring the Tartaro himself here." "No, no, no, I did not say anything at all like that; but if you will give me all I ask for, I will try. You must have a carriage made of iron, half-a-yard thick, and three horses to draw it, and lots of money. When all that is ready, I will set out." He asks, also, for a barrel of honey, another of feathers, and two horns, and starts off. When he comes to the ferry, it was no easy thing to get this carriage into the boat. When he has got to the other side, he first puts himself into the barrel of honey, and then into the barrel of feathers, and ties the horns on to his head, and then mounts as postilion. He then comes to the Tartaro's house, and just then he happened to be at home. Petit Perroquet knocks at the door. The Tartaro himself comes to open, and asks: "Who are you? You!" "I!!--I am the oldest of all the devils in hell." He opens the carriage door for him, and says: "Get in there." The Tartaro gets in, and Petit Perroquet, very glad, starts off, and arrives at the ferry. He crosses, as he best can, with his carriage and horses. He pays the ferryman generously, and comes to the king's palace. They were all terrified when they saw that he had the Tartaro there. They tried to shoot him with cannon, but he caught the bullets, and sent them back as if they had been balls to play with. They could not kill him in that way, so they finished him with other arms. As Petit Perroquet had well gained her, they gave him the princess in marriage. He sent for his mother to the court, and as they lived well, so they died happily. Pierre Bertrand. II--THE HEREN-SUGE.--THE SEVEN-HEADED SERPENT. It would only be spoiling good work by bad to attempt to re-write the exhaustive essay which appears, under the heading of "St. George," in Baring Gould's "Curious Myths of the Middle Ages." He there traces the atmospheric myth in which the Dragon is the storm-cloud, the Maiden the earth, and the Hero the sun, through all the forms of the great Aryan legend, in Indian, Egyptian, Phoenician, Italic, Keltic, Teutonic, and Scandinavian mythology. He shows that it was merely by a mistaken metaphor [20] that St. George came to assume the place, and wear the glories of the solar hero; and that England only followed in the wake of other countries, in making him her national Saint and Patron. We will, therefore, now only glance at some of the Basque and Pyrenean forms of this wide-spread myth. M. Cerquand boldly places one form of the story, which is attached to the house of Belzunce, among historical legends. But the history of Belzunce and the Dragon stands in the same relation to the original myth as does that of Guy, Earl of Warwick, Moor of Moor Hall, and of scores of other heroes. In a Basque version, collected by ourselves, the concluding words show that in this form it is simply an Eponymous legend, to account for the name, "and that is whence comes the name of Belzunce." The oldest Pyrenean version with which we are acquainted is that of the "Serpent d'Isabit." We give the outlines of it from memory, as we heard, and read it, at Bagnères de Bigorre. The serpent lay with his head resting on the summit of the Pic du Midi de Bigorre, his neck stretched down towards Barèges, while his body filled the whole valley of Luz, St. Sauveur, and Gédres, and his tail was coiled in the hollow below the cirque of Gavarnie. He fed but once in three months, or the whole country would have been desolate. With a strong inspiration of his breath, he drew into his capacious maw, across the valleys, whole flocks of sheep and goats, herds of oxen, men, women, children, the population of whole villages at once. He was now asleep, and inert, after such a repast. The whole male population of several valleys assembled to consult on what should be done. After long and fruitless debate an old man arose and spoke:--"We have nearly three months yet before he will wake; let us cut down all the forests on the opposite hills; then let us bring all our forges and all the iron we possess, and with the wood thus cut down let us melt it all into one red-hot fiery mass; then we will hide ourselves behind the rocks, and make all the noise we can to try and awaken the monster." So said, so done. The serpent awoke in a rage at having his slumbers broken, he saw something bright on the opposite side of the valley, and drew in a long breath, and the fiery mass, with a roar like a thunderbolt, flew across the valley, right down the monster's throat. Then, what convulsions ensued; rocks were uptorn or split open, the mountains were shattered, the glaciers beaten into dust as the serpent twisted and lashed about in his agony. To quench his agony of thirst he descended to the valley, and drank up all the streams from Gavarnie to Pierrefitte. Then, in his last convulsion, he threw himself back upon the mountain side and expired; his head rested in a deep hollow; as the fire within him slowly cooled, the water he had swallowed poured out of his mouth, and formed the present Lac d'Isabit. In M. Cerquand's legend of the Dragon d'Alçay, the red-hot iron is replaced by "a cow's skin full of gunpowder." In all the Basque legends of this class the hero dies. But these legends differ widely from the following tales; there is in them no princess to be rescued, no charcoal-burner, no marriage, or any other wonders. Were it not for their still closer resemblance to the Gaelic tales, we should suspect the following legends to be simply translations of some French legend of St. George. As we remarked before, like the Deccan cobras, the Heren-Suge is always seven-headed. It is strange, too, to notice that the princess always behaves in the same chivalrous way. "One is enough to die." The union, too, of Tartaro and Heren-Suge in the same tale is curious. THE GRATEFUL TARTARO AND THE HEREN-SUGE. Like many of us who are, have been, and shall be in the world, there was a king, and his wife, and three sons. The king went out hunting one day, and caught a Tartaro. He brings him home, and shuts him up in prison in a stable, and proclaims, by sound of trumpet, that all his court should meet the next day at his house, that he would give them a grand dinner, and afterwards would show them an animal such as they had never seen before. The next day the two sons of the king were playing at ball against (the wall of) the stable where the Tartaro was confined, and the ball went into the stable. One of the boys goes and asks the Tartaro-- "Throw me back my ball, I beg you." He says to him, "Yes, if you will deliver me." He replies, "Yes, yes," and he threw him the ball. A moment after, the ball goes again to the Tartaro. He asks for it again; and the Tartaro says: "If you will deliver me, I will give it you." The boy says, "Yes, yes," takes his ball, and goes off. The ball goes there for the third time, but the Tartaro will not give it before he is let out. The boy says that he has not the key. The Tartaro says to him: "Go to your mother, and tell her to look in your right ear, because something hurts you there. Your mother will have the key in her left pocket, and take it out." The boy goes, and does as the Tartaro had told him. He takes the key from his mother, and delivers the Tartaro. When he was letting him go, he said to him: "What shall I do with the key now? I am undone." The Tartaro says to him: "Go again to your mother, and tell her that your left ear hurts you, and ask her to look, and you will slip the key into her pocket." The Tartaro tells him, too, that he will soon have need of him, and that he will only have to call him, and he will be his servant for ever. He puts the key back; and everyone came to the dinner. When they had eaten well, the king said to them that they must go and see this curious thing. He takes them all with him. When they are come to the stable, he finds it empty. Judge of the anger of this king, and of his shame. He said: "I should like to eat the heart, half cooked, and without salt, of him who has let my beast go." Some time afterwards the two brothers quarreled in presence of their mother, and one said to the other: "I will tell our father about the affair of the Tartaro." When the mother heard that, she was afraid for her son, and said to him: "Take as much money as you wish." And she gave him the Fleur-de-lis. [21] "By this you will be known everywhere as the son of a king." Petit Yorge [22] goes off, then, far, far, far away. He spends and squanders all his money, and does not know what to do more. He remembers the Tartaro, and calls him directly. He comes, and Petit Yorge tells him all his misfortunes; that he has not a penny left, and that he does not know what will become of him. The Tartaro says to him: "When you have gone a short way from here you will come to a city. A king lives there. You will go to his house, and they will take you as gardener. You will pull up everything that there is in the garden, and the next day everything will come up more beautiful than before. Also, three beautiful flowers will spring up, and you will carry them to the three daughters of the king, and you will give the most beautiful to the youngest daughter." [23] He goes off, then, as he had told him, and he asks them if they want a gardener. They say, "Yes, indeed, very much." He goes to the garden, and pulls up the fine cabbages, and the beautiful leeks as well. The youngest of the king's daughters sees him, and she tells it to her father, and her father says to her: "Let him alone, we will see what he will do afterwards." And, indeed, the next day he sees cabbages and leeks such as he had never seen before. Petit Yorge takes a flower to each of the young ladies. The eldest said: "I have a flower that the gardener has brought me, which has not its equal in the world." And the second says that she has one, too, and that no one has ever seen one so beautiful. And the youngest said that hers was still more beautiful than theirs, and the others confess it, too. The youngest of the young ladies found the gardener very much to her taste. Every day she used to bring him his dinner. After a certain time she said to him, "You must marry me." The lad says to her, "That is impossible. The king would not like such a marriage." The young girl says, too, "Well, indeed, it is hardly worth while. In eight days I shall be eaten by the serpent." For eight days she brought him his dinner again. In the evening she tells him that it is for the last time that she brought it. The young man tells her, "No," that she will bring it again; that somebody will help her. The next day Petit Yorge goes off at eight o'clock to call the Tartaro. He tells him what has happened. The Tartaro gives him a fine horse, a handsome dress, and a sword, and tells him to go to such a spot, and to open the carriage door with his sword, and that he will cut off two of the serpent's heads. Petit Yorge goes off to the said spot. He finds the young lady in the carriage. He bids her open the door. The young lady says that she cannot open it--that there are seven doors, and that he had better go away; that it is enough for one person to be eaten. Petit Yorge opens the doors with his sword, and sat down by the young lady's side. He tells her that he has hurt his ear, and asks her to look at it; [24] and at the same time he cuts off seven pieces of the seven robes which she wore, without the young lady seeing him. At the same instant comes the serpent, and says to him, "Instead of one, I shall have three to eat." Petit Yorge leaps on his horse, and says to him, "You will not touch one; you shall not have one of us." And they begin to fight. With his sword he cuts off one head, and the horse with his feet another; [25] and the serpent asks quarter till the next day. Petit Yorge leaves the young lady there. The young lady is full of joy; she wishes to take the young man home with her. He will not go by any means (he says); that he cannot; that he has made a vow to go to Rome; but he tells her that "to-morrow my brother will come, and he will be able to do something, too." The young lady goes home, and Petit Yorge to his garden. At noon she comes to him with the dinner, and Petit Yorge says to her, "You see that it has really happened as I told you--he has not eaten you." "No, but to-morrow he will eat me. How can it be otherwise?" "No, no! To-morrow you will bring me my dinner again. Some help will come to you." The next day Petit Yorge goes off at eight o'clock to the Tartaro, who gives him a new horse, a different dress, and a fine sword. At ten o'clock he arrives where the young lady is. He bids her open the door. But she says to him that she cannot in any way open fourteen doors; she is there, and that she cannot open them, and he should go away; that it is enough for one to be eaten; that she is grieved to see him there. As soon as he has touched them with his sword, the fourteen doors fly open. He sits down by the side of the young lady, and tells her to look behind his ear, for it hurts him. At the same time he cuts off fourteen bits of the fourteen dresses she was wearing. As soon as he had done that, the serpent comes, saying joyfully, "I shall eat not one, but three." Petit Yorge says to him, "Not even one of us." He leaps on his horse, and begins to fight with the serpent. The serpent makes some terrible bounds. After having fought a long time, at last Petit Yorge is the conqueror. He cuts off one head, and the horse another with his foot. The serpent begs quarter till the next day. Petit Yorge grants it, and the serpent goes away. The young lady wishes to take the young man home, to show him to her father; but he will not go by any means. He tells her that he must go to Rome, and set off that very day; that he has made a vow, but that to-morrow he will send his cousin, who is very bold, and is afraid of nothing. The young lady goes to her father's, Petit Yorge to his garden. Her father is delighted, and cannot comprehend it at all. The young lady goes again with the dinner. The gardener says to her, "You see you have come again to-day, as I told you. To-morrow you will come again, just the same." "I should be very glad of it." On the morrow Petit Yorge went off at eight o'clock to the Tartaro. He said to him that the serpent had still three heads to be cut off, and that he had still need of all his help. The Tartaro said to him, "Keep quiet, keep quiet; you will conquer him." He gives him a new dress, finer than the others, a more spirited horse, a terrible dog, [26] a sword, and a bottle of good scented water. [27] He said to him, "The serpent will say to you, 'Ah! if I had a spark between my head and my tail, how I would burn you and your lady, and your horse and your dog.' And you, you will say to him then, 'I, if I had the good-scented water to smell, I would cut off a head from thee, the horse another, and the dog another.' You will give this bottle to the young lady, who will place it in her bosom, and, at the very moment you shall say that, she must throw some in your face, and on the horse and on the dog as well." He goes off then without fear, because the Tartaro had given him this assurance. He comes then to the carriage. The young lady says to him, "Where are you going? The serpent will be here directly. It is enough if he eats me." He says to her, "Open the door." She tells him that it is impossible; that there are twenty-one doors. This young man touches them with his sword, and they open of themselves. This young man says to her, giving her the bottle, "When the serpent shall say, 'If I had a spark between my head and my tail, I would burn you,' I shall say to him, 'If I had a drop of the good-scented water under my nose;' you will take the bottle, and throw some over me in a moment." He then makes her look into his ear, and, while she is looking, he cuts off twenty-one pieces from her twenty-one dresses that she was wearing. At the same moment comes the serpent, saying, with joy, "Instead of one, I shall have four to eat." The young man said to him, "And you shall not touch one of us, at any rate." He leaps on his spirited horse, and they fight more fiercely than ever. The horse leaped as high as a house, and the serpent, in a rage, says to him, "If I had a spark of fire between my tail and my head, I would burn you and your lady, and this horse and this terrible dog." The young man says, "I, if I had the good-scented water under my nose, I would cut off one of your heads, and the horse another, and the dog another." As he said that, the young lady jumps up, opens the bottle, and very cleverly throws the water just where it was wanted. The young man cuts off a head with his sword, his horse another, and the dog another; and thus they make an end of the serpent. This young man takes the seven tongues with him, and throws away the heads. Judge of the joy of this young lady. She wanted to go straight to her father with her preserver (she says), that her father must thank him too; that he owes his daughter to him. But the young man says to her that it is altogether impossible for him; that he must go and meet his cousin at Rome; that they have made a vow, and that, on their return, all three will come to her father's house. The young lady is vexed, but she goes off without losing time to tell her father what has happened. The father is very glad that the serpent was utterly destroyed; and he proclaims in all the country that he who has killed the serpent should come forward with the proofs of it. The young lady goes again with the dinner to the gardener. He says to her, "I told you true, then, that you would not be eaten? Something has, then, killed the serpent?" She relates to him what had taken place. But, lo! some days afterwards there appeared a black charcoal-burner, who said that he had killed the serpent, and was come to claim the reward. When the young lady saw the charcoal-burner, she said immediately, that most certainly it was not he; that it was a fine gentleman, on horseback, and not a pest of a man like him. The charcoal-burner shows the heads of the serpent; and the king says that, in truth, this must be the man. The king had only one word to say, she must marry him. The young lady says, she will not at all; and the father began to compel her, (saying) that no other man came forward. But, as the daughter would not consent, to make a delay, the king proclaims in all the country, that he who killed the serpent would be capable of doing something else, too, and that, on such a day, all the young men should assemble, that he would hang a diamond ring from a bell, and that whosoever riding under it should pierce the ring with his sword, should certainly have his daughter. [28] From all sides arrive the young men. Our Petit Yorge goes off to the Tartaro, and tells him what has happened, and that he has again need of him. The Tartaro gives him a handsome horse, a superb dress, and a splendid sword. Equipped thus, Petit Yorge goes with the others. He gets ready. The young lady recognizes him immediately, and says so to her father. He has the good luck to carry off the ring on his sword; but he does not stop at all, but goes off galloping as hard as his horse can go. The king and his daughter were in a balcony, looking on at all these gentlemen. They saw that he still went on. The young lady says to her father: "Papa, call him!" The father says to her, in an angry tone, "He is going off, because apparently he has no desire to have you." And he hurls his lance at him. It strikes him on the leg. He still rides on. You can well imagine what chagrin for the young lady. The next day she goes with the gardener's dinner. She sees him with his leg bandaged. She asks him what it is. The young lady begins to suspect something, and goes to tell to her father how the gardener had his leg tied up, and that he must go and ask him what is the matter. That he had told her that it was nothing. The king did not want to go, (and said) that she must get it out of the gardener; but to please his daughter, he says he will go there. He goes then, and asks him, "What is the matter?" He tells him that a blackthorn has run into him. The king gets angry, and says "that there is not a blackthorn in all his garden, and that he is telling him a lie." The daughter says to him, "Tell him to show it us." He shows it to them, and they are astonished to see that the lance is still there. The king did not know what to think of it all. This gardener has deceived him, and he must give him his daughter. But Petit Yorge, uncovering his bosom, shows the "fleur-de-lis" there. The king did not know what to say; but the daughter said to him, "This is my preserver, and I will marry no one else than him." Petit Yorge asks the king to send for five dressmakers, the best in the town, and five butchers. The king sends for them. Petit Yorge asks the dressmakers if they have ever made any new dresses which had a piece out; and on the dressmakers saying "No," he counts out the pieces and gives them to the dressmakers, asking if it was like that that they had given the dresses to the princess. They say, "Certainly not." He goes, then, to the butchers, and asks them, if they have ever killed animals without tongues? They say, "No!" He tells them, then, to look in the heads of the serpent. They see that the tongues are not there, and then he takes out the tongues he has. The king, having seen all that, has nothing more to say. He gives him his daughter. Petit Yorge says to him, that he must invite his father to the wedding, but on the part of the young lady's father; and that they must serve him up at dinner a sheep's heart, half cooked, and without salt. They make a great feast, and place this heart before this father. They make him carve it himself, and he is very indignant at that. The son then says to him: "I expected that;" and he adds, "Ah! my poor father, have you forgotten how you said that you wished to eat the heart, half cooked, and without salt, of him who let the Tartaro go? That is not my heart, but a sheep's heart. I have done this to recall to your memory what you said, and to make you recognize me." They embrace each other, and tell each other all their news, and what services the Tartaro had done him. The father returned happy to his house, and Petit Yorge lived very happily with his young lady at the king's house; and they wanted nothing, because they had always the Tartaro at their service. Laurentine. In a variation of the above tale, from the narration of Mariño Amyot, of St. Jean Pied de Port, the young prince, as a herdsman, kills with a hammer successively three Tartaros who play at cards with him; he then finds in their house all their riches and horses, barrels full of gold and silver, etc., and also three "olano," which is described as an animal who serves the Tartaro, like a dog, but much larger and more terrible, but also more intelligent and able to do any message. He kills the serpent with the aid of the "olanos," and the princess helps by striking the serpent's tail with a sword, [29] instead of sprinkling the "sweet-scented water." The "olano" then steals dishes off the king's table for the prince. The charcoal-burner comes; but at last the prince shows the tongues and pieces of dress, and all ends happily, except for the charcoal-burner, who is placed on the top of seven barrels of powder, and fire is applied beneath, and then nobody sees him any more. The commencement of the next is so different that we give it at length. THE SEVEN-HEADED SERPENT. Like many others in the world, there was a mother with her three sons. The eldest said to her that he wished to go from country to country, until he should find a situation as servant, and that she should give him a cake. He sets out. While he is going through a forest he meets an old woman, who asks him for a morsel of his cake. [30] He says to her, "No!" that he would prefer to throw it into the muddy clay. And the lad asks her if she knows of a servant's place. She says, "No." He goes on from forest to forest, until the night overtakes him. There comes to him a bear. He says to him, "Ant of the earth! who has given you permission to come here?" "Who should give it me? I have taken it myself." And the bear devours him. The second son asks his mother to give him a cake, for he wishes to go as a servant, like his brother. She gives him one, and he goes away like his brother. He meets an old woman, who says to him, "Give me a little of your cake." "I prefer to throw it into this muddy clay rather than to give you any of it." He asks her if she knows of a servant's place. She replies, "No." And on he goes, on, on, on, deeper into the forest. He meets a huge bear. He says to him, "Ant of the earth! Who has given you permission to come here?" "Who should give it me? I have taken it myself." And the bear devours him. The third son asks his mother to give him a cake, for he wishes to go off, like his brothers. He sets off, and walks on, and on, and on. And he finds an old woman. She asks him, "Where are you going?" "I want a situation as servant." "Give me a little bit of your cake." "Here! Take the whole as well, if you like." "No, no! A little bit is enough for me." And he asks her if she knows of a servant's place. She says to him, "Yes; you will find it far beyond the forest. But you will meet an enemy here; but I will give you a stick, with the touch of which you may kill him." [31] He goes on, and on, and on. There comes to him a bear, and says to him, "Ant of the ground! Who has given you permission to come here?" "Who has given it me? I have taken it myself." The lad gives him a little blow with his stick, and the bear gives a howl-- "Oy, oy, oy!--spare my life! Oy, oy, oy!--spare my life!" But he said to him, "Tell me, then, how many you are in the place where you live?" "Seven." He gives him another blow, and he falls stark dead. He goes on, on, on, until he finds a palace. He goes in, and asks, "Do you want a servant?" They say to him, "Yes, yes; our shepherd has gone away, and we want one." They send him to bed; and the next day they give him a fine flock of sheep, and tell him not to go on the mountain, because it is full of large and savage animals, and to pay great attention, because the sheep always want to go there. The next day he goes off with his sheep, and all of them run away to this mountain, because the herbage was very good there. Our shepherd had, fortunately, not forgotten his stick, for at that moment there appeared before him a terrible bear. "Who has given you permission to come here?" "I have taken it myself." "I must eat you." He approaches, but our shepherd gives him a little blow with his stick, and he begins to cry out, "Oy, oy, oy!--spare my life!" "Tell me, then, how many you are where you live?" "We were seven yesterday, but to-day we are only six, with me." He gives him another blow, and he falls stark dead. And the shepherd hides him as well as he can in a hedge, and then he returns home with his sheep, well filled. That evening the sheep gave him a great deal of milk, and he made fine cheeses with it. [32] The master and mistress were delighted to have such a servant. The next day he goes off again. As soon as he opened the stable-door the sheep start off running to the good pasture and fine herbage, and the same things (happen again). At the end of a moment there appears a bear, who asks him why he comes there into those parts. Our shepherd, with his stick, gives him a little blow on the neck, and the bear begins to cry, "Ay, ay, ay!--spare my life!" He asks him, "How many are you there where you live?" "We were seven, but at present we are five with me." And he gives him a little blow, and he falls stiff and dead. And in five days he kills all the bears in the same way; and when he saw the last one come, he was frightened to see a beast so immense and so fearful, and which came dragging himself along, he was so old. He says to him, "Why have you come into these parts?" And at the same time the shepherd gives him a little blow. He begins to cry out to him to spare his life, and that he would give him great riches and beautiful apartments, and that they should live together. He spares his life, and sends the flock back to the house. They go through hedges and hedges, and "through the fairies' holes," [33] and arrive at last at a fine palace. There they find the table set out with every kind of food and drink. There were also servants to attend on them, and there were also horses all ready saddled, and with harness of gold and silver. There was nothing but riches there. After having passed some days there like that, our shepherd said to himself that it would be better to be master and owner of all that fortune. So he gives a blow to the bear, and kills him stark dead. After having dressed himself splendidly, he gets on horseback, and goes from country to country, and comes to a city, and hears the bells sounding, dilin-don, dilin-don, and all the people are in excitement. He asks, "What is the matter?" They tell him how that there is in the mountain a serpent with seven heads, and that one person must be given to him every day. This serpent has seven heads. They draw lots to know who must be given to the serpent. The lot had fallen on the king's daughter, and every one was in grief and distress, and all were going, with the king at their head, to accompany her to the mountain. They left her at the foot of the mountain, and she went on mounting alone to the top. This young man goes after her, and says to her, "I will accompany you." The king's daughter says to him, "Turn back, I beg you. I do not wish you to risk your life because of me." He says to her, "Have no fear for me. I have a charm of might." At the same time they hear an extraordinary noise and hissing, and he sees the serpent coming like the lightning. As our man has his stick with him, he gives him a little blow on one of his heads, and one by one the seven heads fall off, and our princess is saved. In order to go to the mountain, she was dressed in her most beautiful robes. She had seven of them on. He took a little piece from each of the seven robes, and he likewise takes the tongue from each of the heads, and puts them in these little pieces of silk. He then takes the king's daughter on his horse, and descends the mountain. The daughter goes home to her father, and our gentleman to the bear's house. The news that the seven-headed serpent is killed spreads quickly. The king had promised his daughter, and the half of his kingdom, to the man who should have killed him. The serpent was killed, as we have said. Three charcoal-burners, passing by on the mountain, see the serpent, and take the seven heads, and go to the king, asking to have a reward. But, as they were three, they were in a difficulty; and they were sent away until the council was assembled, and to see if any other person would come. As nobody appeared, they were going to draw lots who should be the husband of the king's daughter. There was great excitement that day, and there was also a great stir when this young man arrived in the city. He asks what it is. They tell him what it is. He was splendidly dressed, and had a magnificent horse. He asks to see the king, and, as he was handsomely dressed, he is received immediately. He asks if the seven heads of the serpent had seven tongues in them; and they cannot find them. Then he shows the seven tongues. He sends, too, for the princess' seven robes, and he shows the seven pieces that are wanting, as well as the seven tongues. When they see that, all exclaim-- "This is the true saviour of the king's daughter!" And they are married. The three charcoal-burners, after having been dressed in a coat of sulphur, were burnt alive in the midst of the market-place. Our gentleman and lady lived very happily, sometimes at her father's house and at other times at their own bear's-house; and, as they had lived well, they died happily. Then I was there, and now I am here. Our next tale will show the serpent in a new character, and might have been included under the variations of "Beauty and the Beast." THE SERPENT IN THE WOOD. Like many others in the world, there was a widower who had three daughters. One day the eldest said to her father, that she must go and see the country. She walked on for two hours, and saw some men cutting furze, and others mowing hay. She returned to the house, astonished at having seen such wonderful things. She told her father what wonderful things she had seen, and her father replied: "Men cutting furze! Men mowing hay!!" The second daughter asks, too, to go like her sister, and she returned after having seen the same things. And the third daughter said that she ought to go, too. "Child, what will you see?" "I, like my sisters, something or other." She set off on the same road as the others; and she, like the others, saw men cutting furze, and men mowing hay. She went on further, and she saw some washerwomen; and she went still a little further on till she had walked for three hours, and she saw some wood-cutters cutting firewood. She asked them if she should see anything more if she went a little further. They told her that she would see some more wood-cutters cutting firewood. She went very much farther into the wood, and she was caught, and kept prisoner by a serpent. She remained there crying, and not able to eat anything; and she remained like that eight days, very sad; then she began to grow resigned, and she remained there three years. At the end of three years she began to wish to return home. The serpent told her to come back again at the end of two days; that his time was nearly finished, and that he was a king's son condemned for four years [34] (to be a serpent). He gave her a distaff and spindle, of silver-gilt, and a silk handkerchief. He said to her: "If you do not find me here on your return, you will have to wear out seven pairs of shoes, six of leather and one pair of iron ones (before you will be able to find me)." When she came home, her father would not let her go back to the house where she had passed such a long time with a son of a king, condemned to be a serpent. She said that his time was almost finished, and that in gratitude she ought to return; that he had said that he would marry her. The father had her put in prison, confined in a room very high up. The fourth day she escaped, and went to the place, but she did not find the king's son. She had already shoes on her feet. She had almost worn them out. After that she bought another pair. She kept journeying on and on, and asking if it were far, and they told her that it was very far. She bought still another pair of shoes, and these, too, got worn out on the road. She bought a fifth pair, and after them the sixth also. She then asked if she were near yet, and they told her that she was still very far. Then she bought the seventh pair of shoes, of iron. And when she had gone a short way in these shoes, she asked if it were far from there to the son of the king. The seventh pair of shoes were almost worn out when she came to a city, and heard sounds of music. She inquired what was happening in the city. "Such a king's son is being married to-day." She went to the house, and knocked at the door. A servant came. "What do you want?" She asked if there were any work to spin, and she would spin it. And the servant went to tell it to the mistress. The lady ordered the servant to bring her in. She brought her in. And when she was in the kitchen, she showed the silk handkerchief which the king's son had given her; and she began to blow her nose with that. The lady was quite astonished to see the girl blow her nose with such a beautiful handkerchief, as if it were nothing, [35] when her son had one just like it for his marriage-day. So she told her son, when he came back from the church, that she had a spinster who came from a great distance, and said to him: "She has a silk handkerchief just like yours!" And the king's son said to his mother: "I, too, must see this spinster that you have there." And he began to go there. And his mother said to him, "But why must you see her?" "I wish to see her." He went to the kitchen, and in his presence she used her silk handkerchief. He said to her, "Show me that." She said to him, "It is too dirty to put into your hands, sir." The gentleman says to her, "I wish to see it, and show it to me." (Then) he recognised the young girl. She showed him (too) the distaff and spindle. At table, when everybody was engaged telling stories, this king said: "I also have a story to tell." Everybody was silent, and turned to look at him, and he said: "Formerly, I had a key to a chest of drawers, and I lost it, and had a new one made. (After that, I found the old one.)" And he turned to his wife: "Should I use the old one or the new one?" And she replied: "If the first was a good one, why should you make use of the new one?" Then he gave her this answer: "Formerly, I had a wife, and now I have taken you. I leave you, and take the former one. Do you go off, then, to your own house." Gagna-haurra Hirigaray. (Learnt at Guethary.) For the version of the Heren-Suge tales which most closely approaches the Gaelic, see below, "Keltic Legends," "The Fisherman and his Sons," p. 87. III.--ANIMAL TALES. We give two stories as specimens of animal tales, which are neither allegories, nor fables, and still less satires. The reader must remember the phrase, "This happened when animals and all things could talk." So thoroughly is this believed, that the first tale of this class recited to us completely puzzled us. The animals are in them placed so fully on a footing with human beings--not in the least as our "poor relations," but rather as sharper-witted, and quite as happy and well off as ourselves--that it is difficult at times to determine whether it is the beast or the man who is the speaker. Of the latter part of our first story we have heard many variations. In one given by M. Cerquand, p. 29, note, [36] the fox is represented by Basa-Jauna; in a version from Baigorry, by the Tartaro; but in three others, from separate localities, he is a fox. The first two truths are the same in all the versions. In that here given, the fun is heightened by the fox talking and lisping throughout like a little child. All these versions we take to be merely fragments of a much longer story. In M. Cerquand's "The Chandelier of St. Sauveur," p. 22, the hero's name is Acherihargaix--"the fox difficult to be caught;" and we suspect that he, too, was originally merely an animal. ACHERIA, THE FOX. One day a fox was hungry. He did not know what to think. He saw a shepherd pass every day with his flock, and he said to himself that he ought to steal his milk and his cheese, and to have a good feast; but he needed some one to help him in order to effect anything. So he goes off to find a wolf, and he says to him, "Wolf, wolf! we ought to have a feast with such a shepherd's milk and cheese. You, you shall go to where the flocks are feeding, and from a distance you must howl, 'Uhur, uhur, uhur.' The man, after having milked his sheep, drives them into the field, with his dog, very early in the morning, and he stops at home to do his work, and then he makes his cheese; and, when you have begun to howl 'Uhur, uhur,' and the dog to bark, the shepherd will leave everything else, and will go off full speed. During this time I will steal the milk, and we will share it when you come to me." The wolf agreed to have a feast, and set out. He did just what the fox had told him. The dog began to bark when the wolf approached. And when the man heard that he went off, leaving everything, and our fox goes and steals the vessel in which the curdled milk was. What does he do then, before the arrival of the wolf? He gently, gently takes off the cream, thinly, thinly, and he eats all the contents of the jug. After he has eaten all, he fills it up with dirt, and puts back the cream on the top, and he awaits the wolf at the place where he had told him. The fox says to him, since it is he who is to make the division, that as the top is much better than the underneath part, the one who should choose that should have only that, and the other all the rest. "Choose now which you would like." The wolf says to him, "I will not have the top; I prefer what is at the bottom." The fox then takes the top, and gives the poor wolf the vessel full of dirt. [37] When he saw that, the wolf got angry; but the fox said to him, "It is not my fault. Apparently the shepherd makes it like that." And the fox goes off well filled. Another day he was again very hungry, and did not know what to contrive. Every day he saw a boy pass by on the road with his father's dinner. He says to a blackbird, "Blackbird, you don't know what we ought to do? We ought to have a good dinner. A boy will pass by here directly. You will go in front of him, and when the boy goes to catch you, you will go on a little farther, limping, and when you shall have done that a little while the boy will get impatient, and he will put down his basket in order to catch you quicker. I will take the basket, and will go to such a spot, and we will share it, and will make a good dinner." The blackbird says to him, "Yes." When the boy passes, the blackbird goes in front of the boy, limping, limping. When the boy stoops (to catch him), the blackbird escapes a little further on. At last the boy, getting impatient, puts his basket on the ground, in order to go quicker after the blackbird. The fox, who kept watching to get hold of the basket, goes off with it, not to the place agreed upon, but to his hole, and there he stuffs himself, eating the blackbird's share as well as his own. Then he says to himself, "I shall do no good stopping here. The wolf is my enemy, and the blackbird, too. Something will happen to me if I stay here. I must go off to the other side of the water." He goes and stands at the water's edge. A boatman happened to pass, and he said to him: "Ho! man, ho! Will you, then, cross me over this water? I will tell you three truths." The man said to him, "Yes." The fox jumps (into the boat), and he begins to say: "People say that maize bread is as good as wheaten bread. That is a falsehood. Wheaten bread is better. That is one truth." When he was in the middle of the river, he said: "People say, too, 'What a fine night; it is just as clear as the day!' That's a lie. The day is always clearer. That is the second truth." And he told him the third as they were getting near the bank. "Oh! man, man, you have a bad pair of trousers on, and they will get much worse, if you do not pass over people who pay you more than I." "That's very true," said the man; and the fox leapt ashore. Then I was by the side of the river, and I learnt these three truths, and I have never forgotten them since. THE ASS AND THE WOLF. Astoa Eta Otsoa. Like many others in the world, there was an ass. He was going along a ravine, laden with Malaga wine. (You know that asses are very much afraid of wolves, because the wolves are very fond of the flesh of asses.) While he was journeying along in that fashion, he sees a wolf coming at some distance; he could not hide himself anywhere. The wolf comes up, and the ass says to him: "Good morning, good morning, Mr. Wolf; in case you should be thirsty, I have some excellent Malaga to drink." "I am not thirsty; no!--but astoundingly hungry; yes! My dinner to-day shall be your head and ears." "Mr. Wolf, if you were good enough to let me go and hear one mass----?" He says to him, "Well! yes." Our ass goes off then. When he gets into the church he shuts the door inside with his foot, and stops quietly there. When the wolf began to get impatient at waiting, he said: "Ay, ay, what a long mass! one would say it was Palm Sunday." The ass said to him: "Dirty old wolf, have patience. I am staying here with the angels, and I have my life (safe) for to-night." "Ay, ay, you bad ass, you are too, too, filthy, you know. If ever you meet with me again, mass you shall not hear." The ass said to him: "There are no dogs round the fold of Alagaia; if you go there you would get lots of sheep." The wolf gives it up, and sets off for the flock where the ass had told him to go. When the ass saw that he had gone away he came out of the church, and went home, and took good care not to come near the wolf's place any more. IV.--BASA-JAUN, BASA-ANDRE, AND LAMIÑAK. It is somewhat difficult to get a clear view of what Basa-Jaun and Basa-Andre, the wild man and the wild woman, really are in Basque mythology. In the first tale here given Basa-Jaun appears as a kind of vampire, and his wife, the Basa-Andre, as a sorceress, but we know of no other such representation of the former. Basa-Jaun is usually described by Basque writers as a kind of satyr, or faun, a wood-sprite; and Basques; in speaking of him to us, have frequently used the French term, "Homme de Bouc," "He-goat-man," to describe him. In some tales he appears rather as a species of brownie, and has received the familiar sobriquet of Ancho, [38] from the Spanish Sancho. In this character he haunts the shepherds' huts in the mountains, warms himself at their fires, tastes their clotted milk and cheese, converses with them, and is treated with a familiarity which, however, is never quite free from a hidden terror. His wife, the Basa-Andre, appears sometimes as a sorceress, sometimes as a kind of land-mermaid, as a beautiful lady sitting in a cave and "combing her locks with a comb of gold," in remote mountain parts. [39] The Lamiñak are true fairies, and do not differ more from the general run of Keltic fairies than the Scotch, Irish, Welsh, and Cornish fairies do from each other. In fact, the legends are often identical. The Lamiñak were described to us by one who evidently believed in, and dreaded them, as little people who lived underground. Another informant stated that they were little people who came down the chimney. They long to get possession of human beings, and change and carry off infants unbaptized, but they do not seem to injure them otherwise. They bring good luck to the houses which they frequent; they are fond of cleanliness, but always speak and give their orders in words exactly the opposite of their meaning. In common with Basa-Jaun and Basa-Andre they hate church bells, [40] and though not actively hostile to Christianity, are driven away as it advances. They were formerly great builders of bridges, and even of churches, [41] but were usually defrauded of their wage, which was to have been power over some human soul at the completion of the contract. Fairies' wells and fountains are common in the Landes and neighbouring Gascon provinces, but we know of none in the Pays Basque. [42] We failed distinctly to make out what are the "fairies' holes (Lamiña-ziloak)," spoken of in the Heren-Suge tale (p. 36); as far as we could gather from the narrator they are simply bare places in hedges, when covered by the web of the gossamer spider. We know of no dances by moonlight on fairy rings of green herbage; but if the reader will carefully eliminate from his memory the rare fancies of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson about Puck, Oberon, and Titania, he will find little otherwise to differentiate between the Basque Lamiñak and the fairies of Sir Walter Scott, of Campbell, and of Croker's "Irish Legends." One peculiarity certainly is that all the Basque Lamiñak are sometimes said to be all called "Guïllen," [43] which appears to be the same as the French Guillaume, and our William. It must be a sign of a failing belief and interest that witches and fairies are so often confounded. In these few stories it is evident that the witch is often a fairy, and the fairy a witch. BASA-JAUNA, THE WILD MAN. Once upon a time there lived in one house the landlady and the farmer's wife. [44] The farmer's wife had three sons; one day they said to their mother to give each of them a ball and a penny roll, that they wished to go from country to country. The mother was sorry to part with her three much-loved sons; but all three started off. When they were in the midst of a forest they saw that night was coming on, and the eldest brother said that he would climb up the first tree. He finds a tall tree, and climbs up to the top, to the very tip-top, and the second says to him: "Do you see nothing?" He says, "No, no; there's nothing to be seen, nothing; not a feather! nothing!" "Come down then; you are an old donkey." And the second climbs, and he sees nothing. The third says to him: "You are no good at all, you others. I will climb up." And he climbs to the top, to the very tip-top. The others say to him: "And do you not see anything?" He says to them: "Yes; I see a long column of smoke, but very, very thin, and far, very far away. Let us go towards that." And the three brothers set out together. At eight o'clock in the evening they come to a grand castle, and they knock at the door, and the Basa-Andre (wild woman) comes to answer. She asks: "Who is there?" And they reply, "It is we who are here." "What do you want, young children? Where are you going to at this time of night?" "We ask and beg of you to give us shelter for to-night; we will be satisfied with a corner of the floor, poor wretches as we are." "I have my husband, the Basa-Jaun, and if he catches you he will eat you; that's certain." "And if he catches us outside he will eat us all the same." Then she let these three brothers come in, and she hides the three in three different corners. Afterwards, at nine o'clock, the Basa-Jaun comes. He made a great noise and blustering, and then the Basa-Andre goes out, and says to him: "There is nobody here." "Yes, you have somebody; bring them out, or else I will eat you myself." And she goes and brings out the eldest brother, trembling with fright. The Basa-Jaun says to him, "Will you be my servant?" He says to him, "Yes." And Basa-Jaun begins again to sniff about. "You have still somebody else here?" And she brings out the second, and he says to him: "Will you be servant to me?" And he said, "Yes." Again, he smelled the smell of some one, and at the third time she brings out the third, and he says to him: "All three of you shall sup with me to-night, and afterwards we shall go to bed. But to-morrow we will all go hunting." And they go hunting the next day until eight o'clock in the evening. Now, they had at home a little sister. She was little then, but in time she grew up. One day the landlady and the farmer's wife had put out the new maize in the garden to dry; and when no one saw her, the little girl took some from her mistress' heap, and put it to her own. When the mistress saw that, she began to cry out, saying to her, "Bold hussey that you are, there is no one like you! You will come to a bad end like your brothers." And the young girl began to cry, and goes to find her mother, and says to her, "Mother, had I any brothers?" [45] She says to her, "Yes, my child." "What were they?" "Child, they went away a long time ago," she said to her. This little girl says, "I, too, must be off to-day. Give me a distaff to spin with, and a penny cake." She sets off, and comes to the house of the Basa-Jaun, and she knocks at the door, and she lets her in. While his wife was telling her that it is the house of the Basa-Jaun, the elder brother comes in; but they did not recognise one another at all. And afterwards Basa-Jaun comes, and says, as he enters the house: "You have something here for me," says he. "No," says she. "Show it." And immediately she shows her. Basa-Jaun says to her: "Will you engage yourself as my servant?" She says to him, "Yes, sir." Some days afterwards the brothers recognised their sister, and they embraced each other very much. And this young girl who was so well before began to grow thin. And one day one of her brothers asked her: "What is the matter with you that you are getting thin like this?" And she answered: "The master every evening asks me to put my little finger through the door, and he sucks the finger through the door, and I become every day more sad and more languid." [46] One day, when the Basa-Andre was not at home, these brothers and the sister plotted together to kill Basa-Jaun, if they could catch him in a ravine in a certain place. And they kill him. One day the wife asks, "Where is Basa-Jaun?" And Basa-Andre takes out three large teeth, and brings them to the house, and tells this young girl herself, when she heats the water for her brothers' feet in the evening, to put one tooth in the water of each. [47] And as soon as the third had finished washing the three brothers became oxen; and this young girl used to drive all three into the fields. And this young girl lived there on the birds they (the oxen) found, and nothing else. One day, as she was passing over a bridge, [48] she sees Basa-Andre under, and says to her: "If you do not make these three oxen men as they were before, I will put you into a red-hot oven." She answers her: "No! go to such a dell, and take thence three hazel sticks, [49] and strike each of them three blows on the back." And she did what she told her, and they were changed into men the same as they were before; and all the brothers and the sister lived happily together in Basa-Jaun's castle, and as they lived well they made a good end also. Estefanella Hirigaray. THE SERVANT AT THE FAIRY'S. Once upon a time there was a woman who had three daughters. One day the youngest said to her that she must go out to service. And going from town to town, she met at last a fairy who asked her: "Where are you going to, my child?" And she answered, "Do you know a place for a servant?" "Yes; if you will come to my house I will take you." She said, "Yes." She gave her her morning's work to do, and said to her: "We are fairies. I must go from home, but your work is in the kitchen; smash the pitcher, break all the plates, pound the children, give them breakfast (by themselves), dirty their faces, and rumple their hair." [50] While she was at breakfast with the children, a little dog comes to her and says: "Tchau, tchau, tchow; I too, I want something." "Be off from here, silly little dog; I will give you a kick." But the dog did not go away; and at last she gave him something to eat--a little, not much. "And now," says he, "I will tell you what the mistress has told you to do. She told you to sweep the kitchen, to fill the pitcher, and to wash all the plates, and that if it is all well done she will give you the choice of a sack of charcoal or of a bag of gold; of a beautiful star on your forehead, or of a donkey's tail hanging from it. You must answer, 'A sack of charcoal and a donkey's tail.'" The mistress comes. The new servant had done all the work, and she was very well satisfied with her. So she said to her: "Choose which you would like, a sack of charcoal or a bag of gold?" "A sack of charcoal is the same to me." "A star for your forehead, or a donkey's tail?" "A donkey's tail would be the same to me." Then she gives her a bag of gold, and a beautiful star on her forehead. [51] Then the servant goes home. She was so pretty with this star, and this bag of gold on her shoulders, the whole family was astonished at her. The eldest daughter says to her mother: "Mother, I will go and be a servant too." And she says to her, "No, my child, you shall not do so." But as she would not leave her in peace (she assented), and she goes off like her sister. She comes into the city of the fairies, and meets the same fairy as her sister did. She says to her: "Where are you going, my girl?" "To be a servant." "Come to us." And she takes her as servant. She tells her like the first one: "You will dig up the kitchen, break the plates, smash the pitcher, give the children their breakfasts by themselves, and dirty their faces." There was some of the breakfast left over, and the little dog comes in, and he went: "Tchow! tchow! tchow! I too, I should like something." And he follows her everywhere, and she gives him nothing; and at last she drove him off with kicks. The mistress comes home, and she finds the kitchen all dug up, the pitcher and all the plates broken. And she asks the servant: "What do you ask for wages? A bag of gold or a sack of charcoal? a star on your forehead, or a donkey's tail there?" She chose the bag of gold and a star on her forehead; but she gave her a sack of charcoal, and a donkey's tail for her forehead. She goes away crying, and tells her mother that she comes back very sorry. And the second daughter also asks permission to go. "No! no!" (says the mother), and she stops at home. Estefanella Hirigaray. THE FAIRY IN THE HOUSE. There was once upon a time a gentleman and lady. And the lady was spinning one evening. There came to her a fairy, and they could not get rid of her; and they gave her every evening some ham to eat, and at last they got very tired of their fairy. One day the lady said to her husband: "I cannot bear this fairy; I wish I could drive her away." And the husband plots to dress himself up in his wife's clothes just as if it was she, and he does so. The wife goes to bed, and the husband remains in the kitchen alone, and the fairy comes as usual. And the husband was spinning. The fairy says to him: "Good-day, madam." "The same to you too; sit down." "Before you made chirin, chirin, but now you make firgilun, fargalun." [52] The man replies, "Yes, now I am tired." As his wife used to give her ham to eat, the man offers her some also. "Will you take your supper now?" "Yes, if you please," replies the fairy. He puts the frying-pan on the fire with a bit of ham. While that was cooking, and when it was red, red-hot, he throws it right into the fairy's face. The poor fairy begins to cry out, and then come thirty of her friends. "Who has done any harm to you?" "I, to myself; I have hurt myself." [53] "If you have done it yourself, cure it yourself." And all the fairies go off, and since then there came no more fairies to that house. This gentleman and lady were formerly so well off, but since the fairy comes no longer the house little by little goes to ruin, and their life was spent in wretchedness. If they had lived well they would have died well too. Estefanella Hirigaray. THE PRETTY BUT IDLE GIRL. [54] Once upon a time there was a mother who had a very beautiful daughter. The mother was always bustling about, but the daughter would not do anything. So she gave her such a good beating that she sat down on a flat stone to cry. One day the young owner of the castle went by. He asks: "What makes such a pretty girl cry like that?" The woman answers him: "As she is too pretty she will not work." The young man asks if she knows how to sew. She answers, "Yes; if she liked she could make seven shirts a day." This young gentleman is much smitten with her. He goes home, and brings a piece of linen, and says to her: "Here are seven shirts, and if you finish them by such a time we will marry together." She sat thinking without doing anything, and with tears in her eyes. Then comes to her an old woman, who was a witch, and says to her: "What is it makes you so sad?" She answers, "Such a gentleman has brought me seven shirts to sew, but I cannot do them. I am sitting here thinking." This old woman says to her: "You know how to sew?" "I know how to thread the needle; (that is all)." This woman says to her: "I will make your shirts for you when you want them, if you remember my name in a year and a day." And she adds, "If you do not remember I shall do with you whatever I like. Marie Kirikitoun--nobody can remember my name." And she agreed. She makes her the seven shirts for the appointed time. When the young man came the shirts were made, and he takes the young girl with joy and they are both married. But this young girl grew continually sadder and sadder; though her husband made great feasts for her she never laughed. One day they had a frightfully grand festival. There came to the door an old woman, and she asks the servant: "What is the reason that you have such grand feastings?" She answers, "Our lady never laughs at all, and her husband has these grand feasts to make her gay." The old woman replied: "If she saw what I have heard this day she would laugh most certainly." The servant said to her, "Stay here; I will tell her so at once." They call the old woman in, and she told them that she had seen an old woman leaping and bounding from one ditch to another, and saying all the time: "Houpa, houpa, Marie Kirikitoun; nobody will remember my name." When this young lady heard that, she was merry at once, and writes down this name at once. She recompensed highly the old woman, and she was very happy; and when the other old woman came she knew her name. [55] Estefanella Hirigaray. THE DEVIL'S AGE. There was a gentleman and lady who were very poor. This man used to sit sadly at a cross-roads. There came to him a gentleman, who asked: "Why are you so sad?" "Because I have not wherewith to live." He said to him, "I will give you as much money as you like, if at such a time you tell the age of the devil." Our man goes off happy. He leads a merry life with his wife, for they wanted for nothing. They lived at a great rate. But time went on, and the time was approaching. This man recollected that he had not busied himself at all about the devil's age. He became pensive. His wife asked him what was the matter with him then? why is he not happy? that they wanted for nothing; why is he so sad? He tells her how it is that he got rich, and what compact he had made with a gentleman. His wife said to him: "If you have nothing but that, it is nothing at all. Get into a barrel of honey, and when you come out of it get into another barrel of feathers, and dressed like that go to the cross-roads and wait for the devil there. You will put yourself on all fours, and walk backwards and forwards, and go between his legs, and walk all round him." The man does as his wife had told him. The devil comes, and draws back (when he sees him); and our man goes up quite close to the devil. The devil being frightened said to him: "I am so many years old, and I have never seen any animal like that, and such a frightful one." [56] Our man had heard enough. He went off home at full speed, and told his wife that they would want for nothing, that he had done as she had told him, just as if she had been a witch, and that he was no longer afraid of the devil. They lived rich and happily, and if they lived well, they died well too. Franchun Beltzarri. THE FAIRY-QUEEN GODMOTHER. [57] There were, like many others in the world, a man and a woman over-burthened with children, and very poor. The woman no more knew what to do. She said that she would go and beg. She goes off, far, far, far away, and she arrives at the city of the fairies. After she had told them how many children she had, all give her a great many alms--she was laden with them. The queen of the fairies gives her besides twenty pounds in gold, and says to her: "If you will give me your child when you are confined--you shall bring it up in your law--I will give you a great deal of money, if you will do that." She told her that the godmother was already decided upon, but that she would speak about it to her husband. The queen told her to go home, and to return with the answer in a week. She gets home as she best can, very much fatigued by her burthen. Her husband was astonished that she could have carried so much. She tells him what had happened with the queen of the fairies. He says to her: "Certainly, we will make her godmother." And she returns at the end of a week to tell the queen that she accepts her. She tells her not to send and tell her when she is confined, that she will know it herself, and that she will come all right. At the end of a week she is confined of a daughter. The queen arrives, as she had said, with a mule laden with gold. When they came back from the christening, the godmother and the child fly away; and the parents console themselves with their other children, thinking that she will be happier in the house of the queen of the fairies. The queen takes her to a corner of a mountain. It is there where her house was. She had already another god-daughter; this was a little dog, whose name was Rose, [58] and she named this last god-daughter Pretty-Rose. She gave her, too, a glint of diamonds in the middle of her forehead. [59] She was very pretty. She grew up in the corner of the mountain, amusing herself with this dog. She said to her one day: "Has the queen no other houses? I am tired of being always here." The dog said to her: "Yes, she has a very fine one by the side of the king's highway, and I will speak to my godmamma about it." And the dog then told her how Pretty-Rose was bored, and (asked her) if she would not change her house. She said to her, "Yes," and off they go. While they were there one day Pretty-Rose was on the balcony, and a king's son passes, and he was astonished at the beauty of Pretty-Rose; and the king begged and prayed her to look at him again, and (asked her) if she would not go with him. She told him, "No, that she must tell it to her godmamma." Then the dog said, aside: "No, without me she shall not go anywhere." This king says to her: "But I will take you, too, willingly; but how shall I get you?" Rose says to him: "As I give every evening to my godmother always a glass of good liqueur to make her sleep well, as if by mistake, instead of half a glass, I will give her the glass full, and as she will not be able to rise any more to shut the door as usual, I, I will go and take the key to shut it. I will pretend to, and will give her back the key, leaving the door open, and you will open it when you come. She will not hear anything; she will be in a deep sleep." The king's son said that he would come at midnight, in his flying chariot. When night came, Rose gave her godmother the good drink in a glass, brim, brim-full. The godmother said: "What! what! child!" "You will sleep all the better, godmamma." "You are right," and she drinks it all. But she could not any more get up to shut the door, she had become so sleepy. Rose said to her: "Godmamma! I will shut the door to-day; stop where you are." She gave her the key, and Rose turns and turns it back again and again in the keyhole as if she had locked it; and leaving it unlocked she gave the key to her godmother, and she puts it in her pocket. She goes to bed; but Rose and Pretty-Rose did not go to bed at all. At midnight the son of the king arrives with his flying chariot. Rose and Pretty-Rose get into it, and go to this young man's house. The next day Rose says to Pretty-Rose: "You are not so pretty as you were yesterday;" and looking at her closely, "I find you very ugly to-day." Pretty-Rose said to her: "My godmamma must have taken away my diamond glint." And she said to Rose, "You must go to my godmamma, and ask her to give me back the glint that I had before." Rose did not want to go there--she was afraid; but Pretty-Rose prayed her so much, that she took off the silver dress and set out. [60] When she came to the mountain, she began to call out: "Godmamma! godmamma! Give Pretty-Rose her beautiful glint as before. I shall be angry with you for always (if you do not), and you will see what will happen to you." The godmother said to her: "Come here, come in, I will give you breakfast." She said, "I am afraid you will beat me." "No! no! come quickly, then." "You will give Pretty-Rose her glint?" "Yes, yes, she has it already." She then goes in. The queen washes her feet and wipes them, and puts her upon the velvet cushion, and gives her some chocolate; and says to her, that she knows where Pretty-Rose is, and that she will be married, and to tell her from her not to trouble herself about her toilet, nor about anything that is necessary for the wedding and feast, that she would come on the morning of the day. Rose goes off then. While she is going through the city where Pretty-Rose is, she hears two ladies, who were saying to two gentlemen, "What kind of wife is it that our brother is going to take? Not like us, because he keeps her shut up so close. Let us go and see her." The little dog said to them, "Not a bit like you, you horrible blubber-lips, as you are. You shall see her--yes." When the young kings heard that, they were ready to run their swords through the poor little dog. When she gets to Pretty-Rose's house she hides herself, and tells her all that has happened. Pretty-Rose gives her some good liqueur to drink, and she comes to herself. The king makes a proclamation that whoever shall (merely) spit where the little dog shall have placed her feet shall be killed, and to mind and pay attention to it. When the marriage day had arrived, came the queen. She brought for the wedding-day a robe of diamonds; for the next day, of gold; and for the third day, of silver. Judge how beautiful she was with her glint of diamonds, and her dress of diamonds, too. They could not look at her. Her godmother told her to have her sisters-in-law there, and not to be afraid of them; that they could not come near her in beauty. When she went out (of her room) on the wedding-day, her sisters-in-law could not look at her, she dazzled them so much. They said to each other: "The little dog was right when she said she was beautiful, this lady." And for three days Pretty-Rose walked about, [61] and every one was astounded at her beauty. When the feast was over, the godmother went home. Rose would not leave Pretty-Rose. The godmother told Pretty-Rose that she was born of poor parents, and that she had once helped them, but that what she had given them must be already exhausted. Pretty-Rose gave them enough for all to live grandly. She herself had four children, two boys and two girls; and if they had lived well, they had died well. Laurentine Learnt it from her mother. V.--WITCHCRAFT AND SORCERY. Our legends of witchcraft and sorcery are very poor, and in some of these, as said above, the witch is evidently a fairy. The reason of this is not that the belief in witchcraft is extinct among the Basques, but because it is so rife. Of stories of witchcraft (as matters of fact), and some of them very sad ones, we have heard plenty; but of legends, very few. In fact, witchcraft among the Basques has not yet arrived at the legendary stage. The difference is felt at once in taking down their recitations. In the legends they are reciting a text learnt by heart. It is "the story says so." "It is so," whether they understand it or not. But they tell their stories of witchcraft in their own words, just as they would narrate any other facts which they supposed had happened to themselves or to their neighbours. One woman told us, as a fact within her own knowledge, and persisted in it, a tale which appears both in M. Cerquand's pages and in Fr. Michel's "Pays Basque." [62] It was only after cross-examination that we could discover that it had not really happened to her own daughter, but that she had only seen the cottage and the chapel which are the scene of the alleged occurrence. We have, too, been informed on undoubted authority that, only a year or two back, a country priest was sorely puzzled by one of his parishioners, in his full senses, seriously and with contrition confessing to him that he frequented the "Sabbat." But what is strange and unexpected is, that with this prevalence of belief in witchcraft and sorcery, and which can be traced back to our earliest notices of the Basques, there is nothing to differentiate their belief on this subject from the current European belief of three centuries back. All the Basque words for witchcraft and sorcery are evidently borrowed. The only purely Basque term is Asti, which seems to be rather a diviner than a sorcerer. The term for the "Sabbat" is "Akhelarre"--"goat pasture"--and seems to be taken from the apparition of the devil there in form of a goat, which is not uncommon elsewhere. Pierre de Lancre, by the terrors of his hideous inquisition in 1609, produced a moral epidemic, and burnt numerous victims at St. Jean de Luz; but there is not a single Basque term in all his pages. Contrary to general opinion, both the Spanish Inquisition and the French ecclesiastical tribunals were more merciful and rational, and showed far less bigotry and barbarity than the two doctrinaire lawyers and judges of Bordeaux. The last person burnt for witchcraft at St. Jean de Luz was a Portuguese lady, who was accused of having secreted the Host for purposes of magic, in 1619. While her case was being investigated before the Bishop of Bayonne, in the crypt of the church, a mob of terrified fishermen, on the eve of starting for Newfoundland, burst in, tore her out of the church, and burnt her off-hand, in the midst of the "Place." "They dared not," they said, "sail while such a crime was unpunished." The Bishop's procés-verbal of the occurrence is still extant in the archives of the Mairie. The magic wand in all our tales is now said to be made from the hazel. In De Lancre's time it was from the "Souhandourra"--"the cornus sanguinea"--or dog-wood. This was then the witches' tree. THE WITCHES AT THE SABBAT. [63] Once upon a time, like many others in the world, there was a young lad. He was one day in a lime-kiln, and the witches came at night. They used to dance there, and one pretended to be the mistress of a house, who was very ill; and one day, as she was going out of the church, she let the holy wafer fall on the ground, and a toad had picked it up; and this toad is still near the door, under a stone, with the bread in his mouth. [64] And again, this same witch said that, until they took away this bread out of the toad's mouth, this lady will not be cured. This young lad had heard it all. When they had danced their rounds, the witches go away home, and our lad comes out of the lime-kiln, and goes to the house of this lady who is ill, and says to her, "I know what must be done to cure you," and he told her all that he had heard from the witch. The sick lady did what they told her, and the same day she was cured, and the young man was well paid. And that very evening there came to him a hunch-backed girl, and said to him, "I have heard that you know where the witches hold their Sabbat." He says, "Yes." "To-morrow I think I should like to hear what the witches say." And he points out to her the hole of the lime-kiln. And at midnight all the witches came, some from one quarter, some from another--some laughing, and others cutting capers. The witches said one to another, "We must look in the lime-kiln, to see what may be there." They go to look, and they find the hunchback girl, and they send her off-- "Go, go--through hedges and hedges, through thorns and thorns, through furze-bushes and furze-bushes, scratches and pricks." And in no way could our poor hunchback find her way home. All torn to pieces and exhausted, at last, in the morning, she arrived at her house. Estefanella Hirigaray. The second part of this story is evidently a blundered version, transferred from fairies to witches, of Croker's "Legend of Knochgrafton" ("Fairy Legends of South of Ireland," p. 10); and M. Cerquand, Part II., p. 17, has a Basque version, "Les Deux Bossus," almost identical with this Irish legend. The tale, as given in Croker, is found in the Bearnais Gascon, in Spanish, Italian, and German. It is evident, we think, that the Basque land is not its home, but that it has travelled there. We have also another Basque variation of the first part, in which two lads hear the witches at the Sabbat say that a king's daughter can only be cured by eating an ox's heart. The opening of this story is so different, that we here give it:-- THE WITCHES AND THE IDIOTS. Once upon a time there were two brothers, the one an idiot, and the other a fool. They had an old mother, old, old, very old. One morning early the elder arranges to go with his sheep to the mountain, and he leaves the fool at home with his old, old, mother, and said to him: "I will give my mother some chocolate now, and you will give her a hot bath (afterwards), quite, quite, hot." He goes to the mountain with his sheep. The second son put the water on to boil, and said to his mother: "My mother, the water is hot, what bath would you like?" [65] She says to him: "A bath with wood-ashes." And he carries it to the bed while it is boiling; and as she did not get up, he said to her: "Would you like a little broth?" And she said "Yes." "My mother, get up quickly!" and she did not get up. He takes her, and puts her himself into this boiling water, so that he boiled his poor mother. And he said to her, "My mother, get up again; the water is not cold." She did not answer. The night comes, and the other brother returns from the mountains, and says to him: "How is our mother?" "All right." "Have you given her the bath?" "Yes; but she is still there, and she is asleep in her bath." "Go and see if she is still asleep." He goes, and says, "No, no; she is laughing--she keeps on laughing." The other brother goes there, and perceives that their mother is quite dead. He did not know what to do. They both go into the garden, and there they make a great hole and bury her. They then burn the house, go into the woods, see the witches, cure the king's daughter, whom one of them marries, and they live happily. [66] It is possible that this first part may be a narrative of fact. We knew at Asté, near Bagnères de Bigorre, a brother, an idiot "crétin," who deliberately began to chop up his sister (also an idiot and "crétin"), who offered no resistance. He had chopped off several of her fingers, when they were accidently interrupted. In spite of the blood and pain, she was only laughing at it. We have another tale of this kind, which may be also founded on fact, so sad is often the condition of the crétins in the mountains. It is of a mother and her imbecile son; he nearly kills himself by chopping off the branch of the tree on which he was sitting. Then he believes himself dead, and commits various other follies. His mother thinks a wife might be able to take care of him, and tells him to cast sheeps' eyes at the young girls coming out of church after mass. He takes this literally, cuts out the eyes of all their flock, and so kills their sheep, the only thing they had, and throws these at the girls, who are disgusted, and quarrel with him. He goes home, and mother and son end their lives together in wretchedness. THE WITCH AND THE NEW-BORN INFANT. Like many others in the world, there was a man and woman, labourers, who lived by their toil. They were at ease. They had a mule, and the man lived by his mule carrying wine. Sometimes he was a week away from home. He always went to the same inn, where there was a woman and her daughter. One day the labourer sets off with his loaded mule, and his wife was very near her confinement. She was expecting it hourly; but, as he had orders upon orders, he was obliged to set off. He goes then, and comes to this inn. It was a market-day, and they had not kept a bedroom for him as usual, because there were so many people there, and he is put into a dark room without windows near the kitchen. He had not yet gone to sleep, when he hears the woman say to her daughter, "You are not aware that the wife of the man who is there is confined? Go and see if he is asleep." When the man heard that, he began to snore; and when the young girl heard through a slit in the door that he was snoring, she said to her mother, "Yes, yes, he is asleep." The mother said to her then (you may guess whether he was listening)-- "I must go and charm this newly-born infant." She takes up a stone under the hearth, and takes from under it a saucepan, in which there was an ointment. She takes a brush, and well rubs herself over her whole body, saying, [67] "Under all the clouds and over all the hedges, half an hour on the road, another half-hour there, and another to return." As soon as she had said that, off she went. When the man saw that she was gone, he comes out of his room. He had seen what she did. He anoints himself like her, and says, "Over the clouds, and under the hedges"--(he made a blunder there [68])--"a quarter of an hour to go there, half an hour to stop, and a quarter of an hour for the return." He arrives at his house, but torn to pieces by the thorns, and his clothes in strips, but that was all the same to him; he places himself behind the door of his wife's bedroom with a big stick. There comes a great white cat, "Miau, miau!" [69] When the man heard that, he goes out of the place where he was hiding, and with his stick he almost killed this cat, and set out directly afterwards for the inn, but not easily, under all the hedges. In spite of that, he arrives at the woman's house. He goes to bed quickly. The next day, when he gets up, he sees only the daughter. He asks her where her mother is. "She is ill, and you must pay me." "No! I prefer to see your mother." He goes to the mother, and finds her very ill. From this day he goes no more to that inn. When he gets home, he tells his wife what had happened, and how he had saved the child. But all was not ended there. They had misfortune upon misfortune. All their cows died, and all their other animals too. They were sinking into the deepest misery. [70] They did not know what would become of them. This man was brooding sadly in thought, when he met an old woman, who asked him what was the matter with him. He told her all his troubles, how many misfortunes they had had--all his cows lost. He had bought others, and they too had died directly. He is charmed by witches. "If you are like that you have only to put a consecrated taper under the peck measure in the stable, and you will catch her." He does as the old woman told him, and hides himself in the manger. At midnight she comes under the form of a cat, and gets astride the ox, saying: "The others before were fine, but this is very much finer." When our man heard that he comes out from where he was hiding, and with his stick he leaves her quite dead; although when he had done that our man was without any resources; (he had) neither bread, nor maize, nor cows, nor pigs, and his wife and children were starving. He goes off to see if he can do anything. There meets him a gentleman, who says to him: "What is the matter, man, that you are so sad?" "It is this misery that I am in that torments me so." "If you have only that, we will arrange all that if you like. I will give you as much money as you wish, if at the end of the year you can guess, and if you tell me with what the devil makes his chalice; and if you do not guess it then your soul shall be for us." When our man has got his money, he goes off home without thinking at all of the future. He lived happily for some time with his wife and child; but as the time approached he grew sad, and said nothing to his wife. One day he had gone a long way, wishing and trying to find out his secret, and the night overtakes him. He stops at a cross-roads, and hides himself. (You know that the witches come to the cross-roads [71] to meet together.) They come then, "hushta" from one side, "fushta" from the other, dancing. When they had well amused themselves like that, they begin to tell each other the news. One says: "You do not know, then, such a man has sold his head to the devil; certainly he will not guess with what the devil makes his chalice. I do not know myself; tell it me." "With the parings of the finger-nails which Christians cut on the Sunday." Our man with difficulty, with great difficulty, kept from showing himself, through his joy and delight. As soon as the day appeared all the witches went off to their homes, and our man too went off to his. He was no more sad. He waited till the day arrived, and went to the cross-roads. This gentleman was already there, come with a lot of devils, thinking that he would be for hell. He asks him: "You know what the devil makes his chalice of?" "I do not know, but I will try. With the parings of the finger-nails which Christians cut on Sundays?" As soon as he heard that, the devil goes off with all the others in fire and flame to the bottom of hell. Our man went off home, and lived a long time with his wife and daughter. If they had lived well, they would have died well too. THE CHANGELING. Like many others in the world, there was a gentleman and lady. They were very well off, but they could not keep any of their children. They had had ever so many, and all died. The lady was again in a hopeful condition. At the beginning of the night she was confined of a fine boy. Two young men heard this news, and they said to each other: "We ought to have a feast; we must steal a sheep out of this house. They will not pay attention to us with all their bustle and their joy." One of the lads then goes after eleven o'clock towards the house. He meets an old woman, who said to him: "Where are you off to, lad? There is nothing like the truth." "I was going, then, to such a house; the lady has been confined, and I wish to take advantage of it to steal a sheep. They will not pay any attention to-day. And you, where are you going?" "I too am going to the house. I am a witch, and it is I who have killed all their children." "And how do you do that?" "Easily. When the infant sneezes nobody says, 'Domine stekan,' [72] and then I become mistress of the child." The witch enters, doubtless as she liked, much more easily than our lad; but nevertheless he got in himself too. He was busy choosing his sheep, when he hears the infant sneeze. He says very, very loudly: "Domine stekan; even if I should not get my sheep." They go to see who is there, and what he was saying. The lad relates what the old woman had told him. As you may imagine they thanked him well, and told him to choose the finest sheep. The father and mother were delighted that they would save this child; but, poor wretches, they had not seen everything. A devil had come, who took their child and carried it to the roadside, and left it there. A coachman passing by sees this child, and takes it with him. He was married, but had no children. They had a great desire to have one. They were very well off also. His wife was delighted to see this fine child; they gave it a good nurse, and the child grew fast and became wonderfully handsome. The devil had placed himself in the child's cradle. This mother gave him suck, and, contrary to the other, he did not grow at all. The parents were vexed at having such a child; they did not know what to think of it. Their true child was more than extraordinarily clever. The coachman and his wife were dazed with joy, and they loved him as (if he were) their own child. When he was twelve years old, he said to his father and mother that he wished to become a monk. The coachman and his wife were very sorry, and they asked him to become only a priest. But after having seen his great desire they allow him to do as he wished. He went away then, and at the age of eighteen years he was able to say mass. When he was there, one day two men were passing in front of the garden of his real father, and they began to quarrel. They got so enraged that one killed the other, and threw him into his father's garden. This father was tried and condemned to death for having killed this man. While this young monk was saying mass, there comes to him a white pigeon and tells him what was taking place in his father's house, and that the pigeon will assume the form of the monk, "and you shall go off in my shape." The monk willingly does what he tells him, and arrives when they are leading his father to execution. He was being followed by the judges and by a crowd of people. He asks what he has done. They tell him that he has killed a man. He asks if they would do him a favour before they put him to death--if they would accompany him to the grave of the man whom he has killed. They tell him, "Yes." They all go off then. The monk has the grave opened, restores him to life, and asks him, pointing to his father: "Is this the man who has killed you?" The dead man says to him, "No!" After having said that he dies again. The monk did not wish to know who had killed him; he knew all he wanted with that. The father wished to take the monk home with him to dinner, but he would not go that day. He said to him: "I will come on such a day." As you may fancy they made a splendid dinner; nothing was wanting there. They invited all their friends and acquaintances to rejoice with them. When the monk arrives, the lady, before sitting down to table, wished to show him her child, how she had suckled him with her own milk eighteen years, and that he did not grow at all, but was always just as he was when he was born. The monk betook himself to prayer, and he saw that which they believed to be a child fly away under the shape of a devil in fire and flame, and he carried off with him part of the house. He told his mother not to vex herself because she had had the devil there, and that she would be happier without such a child. All the world was astonished at the power of this monk; but the mother was still grieved. The monk, to console her, told her his history; how he was her true child; how the devil had taken him and carried him to the roadside; how he had been found and brought up by a coachman; and that it was he himself who had been made priest, and her son. All were astounded at his words. After they had well dined, the monk went back into his convent, and the father and mother lived honourably, as they did before; and as they lived well, they died well too. Catherine Elizondo. VI.--CONTES DES FÉES. Under this head, we include all those legends which do not readily fall under our other denominations. Fée and fairy are not synonymous. All such tales as those of the "Arabian Nights" might come within the designation of Contes des Fées, but they could hardly be included under Fairy Tales, though the former may be said to embrace the latter. We have divided our legends of this kind into two sections:--(A) Those which have a greater or less similarity to Keltic legends, as recorded in Campbell's "Tales of the West Highlands," and elsewhere; (B) Those which we believe to be derived directly from the French. We have chosen the designation Keltic, because the burning question concerning the Basques at present is their relation to the Keltic race. Anything that can throw light upon this will have a certain interest for a small portion of the scientific world. That these legends do in some degree resemble the Keltic ones will, we think, be denied by no one. Whether they have a closer affinity with them than with the general run of Indo-European mythology may be an open question. Or, again, whether the Basques have borrowed from the Kelts, or the Kelts from the Basques, we leave undetermined. One legend here given, that of "Juan Dekos," has clearly been borrowed from the Gaelic, and that since the Keltic occupation of the Hebrides. [73] The very term Keltiberi, as used by the classical writers, shows some contact of the Kelts with the Basques in ancient times, whether we take Basque and Iberi to be co-extensive and convertible terms or not. What the rôle of the "White Mare" is in these tales we do not understand. Can it be connected with the figure of a horse which appears so frequently on the so-called Keltiberian coins, or is it a mere variation of the Sanscrit "Harits, or horses of the sun?" Campbell, Vol. I., p. 63, says these "were always feminine, as the horses in Gaelic stories are." It may be, perhaps, as well to mention that we did not see Campbell's "Tales of the West Highlands" till after these legends had been written down. (A.)--TALES LIKE THE KELTIC. MALBROUK. [74] Like many others in the world, there was a man and a woman who were over-burdened with children, and were very poor. The man used to go to the forest every day to get wood for his family. His wife was on the point of being confined. One day he was in the forest, and a gentleman comes to him, and says: "What are you doing, friend?" "I am looking for wood to support my family." "You are very poor, then?" "Yes, yes." "If you will make me godfather to your next child according to your law, I will give you a great deal of money." He says to him, "Yes, I will do so." He gives him, then, a great deal of money, and he goes home. His wife is confined shortly afterwards, and they were waiting, not knowing what to do to tell it to the godfather, since they did not know where he lived. He himself appeared from somewhere. They go to the church, and he gives him the name Malbrouk. While they were returning to the house, the godfather disappears with the child like smoke. The father and mother were distressed about it, though they had plenty of money; but in time their grief faded away. The old Malbrouk went to his house. His wife was a witch, and they had three daughters. The little Malbrouk grew fast, and at seven years' old he was as tall as a tall man. His godfather said to him: "Malbrouk, would you like to go to your own home?" He said to him, "Am I not here in my own home?" He told him, "No," and that he might go there for three days. "Go to such a mountain, and the first house that you will see there will be yours." He goes, then, to the mountain, and sees the house, and goes to it. He finds his two brothers at the door cutting wood. He tells them that he is their brother; but they will not believe him. They take him indoors, and he tells his father and mother that he is Malbrouk. They are astonished to see such a big man for seven years' old. They pass these three days in great delight; and he said to his brothers: "There is plenty of room at my godfather's for you too, and you must come with me." They go off, then, all three together. When they arrive, the witch was not at all contented. She said to her husband: "I don't know. These three men will do us some mischief, and we must kill them." Malbrouk did not wish to; but as the witch gave him no rest, he told her that at the end of three days he would kill them. What does the little Malbrouk do? At night their daughters used to put crowns on their heads, and the little Malbrouk and his brothers cotton night-caps. The little Malbrouk says to them: "We must make an exchange; it is now our turn to have the crowns." The girls were just as well pleased, and they gave them to them. One night (old) Malbrouk goes there, and after having felt their heads, when he perceived that they had the night-caps, he kills the three. After the little Malbrouk saw that he woke his brothers, took his godfather's seven-leagued boots, and goes off, far, far, far away. The witch said to (the old Malbrouk): "You have taken good care whom you have killed? I am not at all satisfied that you have not done some donkey-trick." The witch goes, and sees her three daughters dead. She was terribly angry, [75] and there was no help for it. Malbrouk and his brothers come to a place where a king lives, and he remarks that everything is sad. He asks what it is? They tell him that the king has lost his three daughters, and that nobody can find them. Malbrouk says to them: "I will find them." They tell that quickly to the king, and bring them before him, and Malbrouk tells him, too, that he will find them. All three set out. When they have gone a little way they find an old woman, who says to them: "Where are you going to in that fashion?" "To look for the king's three daughters." This old woman says to them: "Go to the king, and ask him for three hundred fathoms of new rope, a bucket, and a bell." They go, and the king gives to them immediately what they ask for. They go, then, to the woman, and she says to them, pointing to a well, that they are in that well. [76] The eldest put himself into the bucket, and says to them: "When I am afraid, I will ring the bell." When he has gone only a little way he is frightened, and rings. They pull him up. The second goes; and when he has gone a little farther down he is frightened, and rings. Malbrouk then gets in, and he says to them: "When I shall give a pull at the bucket from below, then you will pull it up." He goes down, then, and at last he sees that there is a beautiful house underground, and he sees there a beautiful young lady, who is sitting with a serpent asleep in her lap. When she sees Malbrouk, she says to him: "Be off, I pray you, from here; he has only three-quarters of an hour to sleep, and if he wakes, it is all over with you and me." He says to her, "No matter; lay the head of the serpent on the ground, gently, gently, without waking him." She lays it there, and he carries off this young lady in the bucket, after having pulled the cord. He goes into another chamber, and he sees another young lady, still more beautiful, with the head of a lion asleep on her lap. She also says to him: "Be off quickly from here. He has only half-an-hour to sleep, and if he wakes, it is all up with you and me." Malbrouk says to her, "Place gently, gently, without waking him, the head of the lion on the ground." She does so. Malbrouk takes her, gets into the bucket with her, and his brothers pull them both up. They write at once to the king to come and fetch them, that they have found two of his daughters. As you may suppose, the king sends a carriage directly to fetch them, and he makes great rejoicings. The king tells him to choose whichever of the two he likes for his wife. Malbrouk says to him: "When I shall have found your third daughter she shall be my wife, and my two brothers may take these two young ladies for their wives." They do as Malbrouk said, and he sets out to see his sweetheart. He goes on, and on, and on. All the fowls of the air know Malbrouk. As he was going along he finds a wolf, a dog, a hawk, and an ant, and in their language they cry out: "Oyhu! [77] Malbrouk, Malbrouk!" and saying to him, "Where are you going, Malbrouk? these three days we have been here before this sheep, and cannot agree how to divide it; but you, you shall divide it." Malbrouk goes to them, then, trembling lest they should make a division of him, too. He cuts off the head, and gives it to the ant. "You will have enough to eat, and for your whole household." He gives the entrails to the hawk, and for the dog and the wolf he cuts the carcase in half. He left them all well satisfied; and Malbrouk goes on his way in silence, in silence. When he had gone a little way, the ant says: "We have not given Malbrouk any reward." The wolf calls to him to come back. Malbrouk comes trembling, thinking that it was his turn, and that they are going to eat him, without doubt. The ant says to him: "We have not given you anything, after that you have made such a good division for us; but whenever you wish to become an ant, you have only to say, 'Jesus, ant!' and you will become an ant." The hawk says to him: "When you wish to make yourself a hawk, you will say, 'Jesus, hawk!' and you will be a hawk." The wolf says to him: "When you shall wish to become a wolf, you shall say, 'Jesus, wolf!' and you shall be a wolf." And the dog, he said to him the same thing, too. [78] He goes off, then, well pleased, further into the forest. A woodpecker says to him: "Malbrouk, where are you going?" "To fetch such a daughter of a king." "You will not find her easily. Since they have delivered her sisters, he has carried her to the farther side of the Red Sea, [79] in an island, and keeps her there in prison, in a beautiful house, with the doors and windows so closely shut that only the ants can get into that house." Malbrouk goes off happy at hearing this news, and that he would find the princess. He goes on, and on, and on, and he arrives opposite to this island, and remembering what the hawk had said to him, he said, "Jesus, hawk!" and immediately he becomes a hawk. [80] He flies away, and goes on until he comes to the island of which the woodpecker had told him; he sees that he can only get in there like an ant, and he says, "Jesus, ant!" and he gets through the little lattice-work. He is dazed at the sight of the beauty of this young lady. He says, "Jesus, man!" and he becomes a man again. When the young lady sees him, she says to him: "Be off quickly from here. It is all over with your life. He is about to come, this horrible body without a soul, [81] before a quarter of an hour, and you will be done away with." "I will become an ant again, and I will place myself in your bosom; but do not scratch yourself too hard, else you will crush me." As soon as he has said that the monster comes. He gives her partridges and pigeons for her dinner, but he himself eats serpents and horrible vermin. He tells her that he has a slight headache, and to take the hammer and rap him on the head. She could not lift it, it was so big; but she knocks him as well as she is able. The monster goes off. The ant comes out from where he was, and prepares to eat the partridges and pigeons with the young lady. Malbrouk said to her: "You must ask him, as if you were in great trouble about it, what would have to be done to kill him? and you will tell him how unhappy you would be if he should be killed--that you would die of hunger in prison in this island." The young lady says, "Yes," she will do so. The monster comes again, and says to her: "Ay! ay! ay! my head. Take the hammer, and hit me hard." The young lady does it until she is tired, and then she says: "How unfortunate I shall be if you die." He answers, "I shall not die. He who will know that will know a great secret." "Most certainly I would not wish you to die. I should die of hunger in this island without you, and I should get no benefit by it. You ought to tell me what would kill you." He says to her, "No! Before this, too, a woman has deceived a man, and I will not tell you." "You can tell it to me--yes, to me. To whom shall I tell it? I see nobody. Nobody is able to come here." At last, at last, he tells her then: "You must kill a terrible wolf which is in the forest, and inside him is a fox, in the fox is a pigeon; this pigeon has an egg in his head, and whoever should strike me on the forehead with this egg would kill me. [82] But who will know all that? Nobody." The princess said to him, "Nobody, happily. I, too, I should die." The monster goes out as before, and the ant too, as you may think, happy in knowing the secret. On the very next day he sets out for the forest. He sees a frightful wolf. He says, directly, "Jesus, wolf!" and he immediately becomes a wolf. He then goes to this wolf, and they begin to fight, and he gets him down and chokes him. He leaves him there, and goes off to the young lady in the island, and says to her: "We have got the wolf; I have killed him, and left him in the forest." The monster comes directly afterwards, saying: "Ay! ay! ay! my head! Strike my head quickly." She hits his head till she is tired. He says to the princess: "They have killed the wolf; I do not know if anything is going to happen to me. I am much afraid of it." "You have nothing to be afraid of. To whom could I have told anything? Nobody can get in here." When he has gone, the ant goes to the forest. He opens the wolf, and out of him comes a fox, who escapes at full speed. Malbrouk says, "Jesus, dog!" and he becomes a dog. He, too, sets off running, and catches the fox. They begin to fight, and he kills him, too. He opens him, and there comes out of him a pigeon. Malbrouk says, at once, "Jesus, hawk!" and he becomes a hawk. He flies off to catch the pigeon, seizes him in his terrible talons, and takes out of his head this precious egg, and goes proudly with it into the chamber of the young lady. He tells how he has very happily accomplished his business, and says to her: "At present, it is your turn; act alone." And again he makes himself an ant. Our monster comes, crying, that it is all up with him, that they have taken the egg out of the pigeon, and that he does not know what must become of him. He tells her to strike him on the head with the hammer. The young lady says to him: "What have you to fear? Who shall have got this egg? And how should he strike your forehead?" He shows her how, saying, "Like that." As the young lady had the egg in her hand, she strikes the monster as he had told her, and he falls stark dead. In an instant the ant comes out joyously (from his hiding-place), and he says to her: "We must set out instantly for your father's house." They open a window, and the young man makes himself a hawk, and he says to the young lady: "Cling firmly to my neck." And he flies off, and they arrive at the other side of the island. He writes immediately to the king his lord, to send and fetch them as quickly as possible. The king sent; and judge what joy and what feasts there were in that court. The king wished them to marry directly, but Malbrouk would not do so. (He said) that he ought to bring his dowry. The king said to him: "You have gained enough already." He will not hear of that, but goes off far, far, far away, to the house of his godfather. They had there a cow with golden horns, and these horns bore fruits of diamonds. A boy used to guard her in the field. Malbrouk said to him: [83] "What! do you not hear that the master is calling you? Go, quickly, then, and learn what he wants of you." The boy, (believing it), goes off. The master calls to him from the window: "Where are you going to, leaving the cow? Go quickly; I see that Malbrouk is about there." The boy sets off running back, but he cannot find the cow. Malbrouk had got off proudly with his cow, and he gives it to his future wife, who was very much pleased with it. The king wished him, then, to marry, (saying) that he was quite rich enough. Malbrouk would not yet. He must make a present to the king. He goes again to his godfather's house. He wished to steal from him a moon, which lighted for seven leagues round. Old Malbrouk used to drink a barrel of water every night. Young Malbrouk goes and empties this barrel. When night came, Malbrouk goes to drink at his barrel, and finds it empty. He goes to find his wife, and says to her: "I have not got a drop of water; go directly, and fetch me some. I cannot bear this thirst." His wife said to him, "It is night, light your moon." He lights it, and puts it by the chimney, on the roof. When everyone has gone to the fountain, young Malbrouk goes and takes this moon, and carries it to the king. And he, astonished, said to him: "Now you have done grandly; now be married." But he would not; (he said) that he ought to bring something more. His godfather had a violin, which it was enough only to touch for it to play, no matter what beautiful music, and it would be heard seven leagues off. He goes into his godfather's house to take the violin, and as soon as he has touched it, it begins to play music. Old Malbrouk rushes off, and catches his godson in the act. He seizes him, and puts him into an iron cage. He and his wife are right well pleased. They say to him: "This evening we are going to roast you, and eat you." Old Malbrouk goes to the forest to fetch wood, and his wife was busy cutting some small--she was taking a great deal of trouble about it. Malbrouk says to her: "Let me get out of here; I will cut that wood for you. You can kill me all the same this evening." She lets him out. After having cut up some, he takes one of the largest pieces and strikes the wife of Malbrouk, and kills her. He makes a great fire, and puts her in the caldron to boil. He takes the violin, and leaves the house. When old Malbrouk hears the violin, he says to himself: "My wife, not being able to hold out any longer, has, doubtless, killed Malbrouk, and to show me her joy she has taken the violin." And he does not trouble himself any more about it. When he approaches the house he stands, well pleased, looking at the caldron on the fire, but, on coming nearer, he sees some long hairs. He pulls out a little more, and perceives that it is his wife, who is there already, half-boiled. Think what a rage he was in. The young Malbrouk went to the king's house, and married his well-beloved princess. They made great rejoicings. As the king was somewhat aged, he gives his crown to Malbrouk, saying that he had well gained it. They all lived happily, and he made his two brothers kings also. Laurentine, About 35 years old; learnt it from her mother. THE FISHERMAN AND HIS SONS. Like many others in the world, there was a fisherman who lived with his wife. One day he was fishing and caught a fine fish (at that time all the animals and everything used to speak), and the fish said to him: [84] "Spare my life! Spare my life! I will give you all that you shall desire." And this poor man spared its life, and went home without having caught anything else. When he came home his wife asks him: "Where are your fish?" He tells her how that he had caught a fish, and that it had begged him to spare its life, and that he had left it in the water. His wife says to him: "Have you lost your head then? After having caught a fish to put it back again into the water!" And she called him all sorts of names, even "big donkey." The next day he goes fishing again, and (what a chance!) the same fish came again. It asks him again to spare its life. But the man answers: "No! My wife loaded me with abuse last evening." The fish said to him that he would give him as much money as he wished if he would but spare him. And our fisherman lets him go again. He remains there again all day, but nothing comes to his hook. Again he goes off home without anything at all. His wife is furious at seeing that he has nothing. He gives her some money, but she was not satisfied, and told her husband that he ought to have brought the fish. He goes fishing again for the third time, and again the same fish returns, and says to him, "Let me go into the water." But our man will not let him go again; his wife had scolded him so much last night. He must carry him home. "Well, then, since you will carry me home, I will tell you how you must divide me. You must give my tail to the dog, my head to the mare, and my trunk to your wife. At the end of a certain time your wife will bear three sons, and they will all be exactly like each other, exactly alike. The mare will have three colts, but all three alike, and the bitch three puppies, all exactly alike too. And if any misfortune should happen to any of the three children, the well which is behind the house will begin to boil." The woman did as the fish had said, and she gave birth to three wonderfully fine boys, who were all exactly, exactly alike, and the mare had three colts exactly alike, and the bitch three puppies exactly alike too. When these children grew big, one of them said to his parents that he wished to go from country to country to see the world. His parents did not wish it. But he had such a desire that at last they gave him leave. He takes a horse and a dog, extraordinarily large and handsome, a sword also, [85] and off he starts. He goes on, and on, very, very far. He comes to a city and goes to an inn. They were lamenting loudly there, and everybody was sad. [86] He asks, "What is it?" They tell him how that a serpent with seven heads lived in the mountain, and that every day they drew lots to know who should go to him, because he must eat one person every day; and that to-day the lot has fallen on the king's daughter, and that everyone was in mourning, and that the next day this princess must go very early to the mountain. Our young man takes his horse, his dog, and his sword, and starts off before the princess. He keeps himself hidden until the princess was alone at the top. Then our lad comes out, and the princess says to him: "Where do you come from here? Go down quickly, else you will be eaten as well as I. It is quite enough for one (to die)." And she entreats him to go down, but our lad will not. He wishes to try if he can do anything. At the same moment they hear a shrill hissing, and with that the serpent comes. The lad says to the dog: "Do your duty." And the dog leaps upon the serpent and holds him. He takes his sword and cuts off his seven heads as best he can. When he has done that he takes the seven tongues out of the seven heads and puts them in his pocket. This princess had on seven robes, each more beautiful than the others, and he cuts seven pieces out of them severally. The princess does not know what to do to thank him. She wishes to take the lad home with her, but he will not go. And he returns to the inn. The king proclaims that the man who has killed the serpent has gained the half of his kingdom, and his daughter; that he should make himself known. Our lad does not show himself at all, but a charcoal-burner [87] passing by on the mountain found the seven heads. He presents himself before the king as if he had killed the serpent. But the princess does not recognise him, and says that it is not he who has saved her. But as no one else came the marriage was about to be celebrated, when the princess pointed out to her father from a distance her rescuer. The king would not believe her. But they send and fetch him, and tell the charcoal-burner to show the seven heads of the serpent, and he shows them with great boldness. Our young man tells him to open their mouths. He does so, and the mouths had no tongues. Then he who had killed the serpent shows the seven tongues, and the seven pieces of the princess' robes, and they were all convinced that he had killed the serpent; and they burned the charcoal-burner alive in the middle of the market-place. Our young man marries the princess, and they had many and great rejoicings because he had delivered all the world from the terrible serpent. In the evening, when they retired to their chamber, the wife knelt down to say her prayers, and the husband went and looked out of the window, and he saw by the moonlight a magnificent castle, [88] which he had never seen before. He asks his wife: "What is that?" His wife says to him: "Nobody goes to that castle, for they who go there never return." [89] The husband said to her that he must go there. His wife did not wish it, but he had such a desire to do so that he takes his horse, his dog, and his sword, and goes off. He looks round and round (the castle), but he cannot find the door. At last he finds a little door half hidden, very small. He knocks. An old woman comes to him, and asks him what he wants. He says, "I have seen this castle so beautiful outside, that I am anxious to see the inside." She shows him in. He sees a table splendidly laid out. There was nothing that there was not on the table. This woman invites him to take something. He says that he does not want anything, but she insists so much that he ends by taking something. As soon as he has eaten the first mouthful he becomes a terrible monster, and by no means could he get out of that house. The water begins to boil at home, as the fish had said. All those in the house are grieved because some misfortune has happened to the son. One of the brothers at home said that he would immediately set out to the help of his brother. Those at home are very sorry, but they let him go. He takes a horse and a dog. The father and mother give him all the money that they can give him, and he starts off. He goes on, and on, and on, and, as was fated, [90] he comes to the same inn as his brother. There they recognise him. They inform the king that the gentleman is at the house, because he had had a search made for him through all the neighbourhood. They come and fetch him out of his corner, and he lets them do as they wish. A great supper was made, and he goes off with the princess. As before, the princess knelt down to pray. The young man goes to look out of the window, and sees this palace. He asks her what this beautiful castle is. She says to him: "You do not know what takes place there! They who go there never return." He says that he will start off directly. His wife asks him if he will return to that castle as before. "Do not go, I pray you." But nothing could have stopped him, and off he goes with his horse and his dog. Like the other brother, he goes wandering round and round the house without finding the door. At last he sees a very little door half hidden. He knocks at it, and the old woman comes and says to him: "What do you want?" "I have seen the outside of this castle, and I wish to see the inside." She tells him to come in. He leaves his horse and his dog outside, and he sees a table splendidly set out; one could not mention anything that was wanting, there was something of everything. She tells him to eat something. He did not wish to, but at last he takes something, (so little, that it was) almost nothing. At the first mouthful he becomes a terrible monster, and cannot in any way get out. The water at home begins to boil, and they know that some misfortune has happened to him. The third brother said that he must set out as quickly as possible. The parents did not wish it, but he said to them: "Perhaps I shall save them; let me go." They give him as much money as they can. He takes a horse and a dog, and off he starts. He goes on, and on, and on. He also goes to the same inn as his other brothers. He is recognised immediately, and the king is informed that this young gentleman is there. He sends to fetch him immediately, and makes great feastings and rejoicings, thinking that it is always the same as their first young gentleman. In the evening he is conducted to the princess. The princess kneels down to say her evening prayers, and her husband, wishing to see a little more of the festival, placed himself at the window. He also sees the beautiful castle. He asks his wife: "What is this beautiful house?" She says to him, "What! You! Do not you know what it is? No one returns from there. You know yourself what happens there, since you have been there yourself." He said to her, "I must go and see it again." The princess would not let him go; but he broke away from her. He takes his horse and his dog, and starts off. He looks, and looks all round, and cannot find the door. An old woman appears to him, and says to him-- "What do you think will become of you here? They who go in there do not come out." "But that is why I wish to go in, to know what passes within." Then the old woman gives him a pigeon, cooked and prepared for eating, and said to him, "Inside there is an old woman. She will try and force you to eat; but, if you are wise, you will not eat. You will show her the pigeon that you have in your pocket which remains after your repast, and you must make her eat some of the pigeon, and you will have full power over her." When he has found the door, he knocks. This old woman comes, and asks him what he wants. He says that he only wishes to see this house. She lets him in. He takes his dog, also, with him. He sees this splendid table. She wishes absolutely to make him eat; but he says that it is altogether impossible--that he has in his pocket a pigeon which he has not been able to eat, and that she must eat some of that. The old woman says she will not. He compels her, and tells her she must; and at last she eats it. He then asks her what she has done with his brothers. She says that she knows nothing about them; that she does not know what he means. He forces her to tell him, and says to her, "I will make my dog strangle you if you do not tell me." He frightens her so, that she shows him some terrible monsters. He tells her to restore them as they were before, otherwise some misfortune shall happen to her, and to mind what she is about. At last she set to work to change them as they were before, and their horses and dogs as well. They all go to the king's palace, where everyone is immensely astonished to see three gentlemen arrive exactly alike in all respects. They ask the princess which is her husband. But the poor young lady is greatly embarrassed. She could not distinguish them, because they were exactly alike. At last he who had killed the serpent said that he was her husband. They make great rejoicings, and give a great deal of money to the two brothers, and to their parents, and they went off. They burnt the old woman in the midst of the market-place, and this handsome castle was given to the newly-married pair, and they lived happily at court; and, as they lived well, so they died happily. Catherine Elizondo. All the latter part of this tale is much more detailed than in the Gaelic, and it is singular to read this note from Campbell's collector:--"The Gaelic is given as nearly as possible in the words used by Mackenzie; but he thinks his story rather shortened." Of the identity of the two stories there can be no doubt, although each supplies what is wanting to the other. TABAKIERA, THE SNUFF-BOX. [91] Like many others in the world, there was a lad who wished to travel, and off he went. He finds a snuff-box, and opens it. And the snuff-box said to him-- "Que quieres?" ("What do you wish for?") He is frightened, and puts it at once into his pocket. Luckily he did not throw it away. He goes on, and on, and on, and at last he said to himself, "(I wonder) if it would say to me again, 'Que quieres?' I should well know what to answer." He takes it out again, and opens it, and it says to him again, "Que quieres?" The lad says to it, "My hat full of gold." And it is filled! He is astounded, and he said to himself that he would never want anything any more. He goes on, and on, and on; and, after he had passed some forests, he arrives at a fine castle. The king lived there. He goes round, and round, and round it, looking at it with an impudent air. The king says to him-- "What are you looking for?" "To see your castle." "You would wish, too, to have one like it?" The lad does not answer. When the evening came, our lad takes out his snuff-box, and it said to him, "Que quieres?" "Build here, on this very spot, a castle, with laths of gold and silver, and diamond tiles, and with all its furniture of gold and silver." [92] As soon as he has said it, he sees in front of the king's castle a castle like what he had asked for. When the king gets up in the morning, he was astonished at this dazzling castle. His eyes were blinded by the (reflection of the) rays of the sun which fell upon it. The king went and said to him-- "You must be a man of great power, [93] and you must come to our house, where we will live together. I have a daughter, too, and you shall marry her." They do as the king had said, and they lived all together in the dazzling house. He was married to the king's daughter, and lived happily. Now, the king's wife was very envious of the lad and of his wife. She knew, by her daughter, how that they had a snuff-box, and that it did all that they wished. She intrigued with one of the servants to try and take it from them; but they take great care (to conceal) where they put the snuff-box away every evening. Nevertheless, at last she sees where it is put, and in the middle of the night, while they slept, she takes it from them, and carries it to her old mistress. What a joy for her! She opens it, and the snuff-box says to her, "Que quieres?" "You must take myself and my husband, and my servants, and this beautiful house, to the other side of the Red Sea, [94] and leave my daughter and her husband here." When the young couple awoke in the morning, they found themselves in the old castle, and their snuff-box was gone. They look for it everywhere, but it is useless. The young man will not wait an instant longer at home. He must start off at once to find his castle and his snuff-box. He takes a horse, and as much gold as the horse can carry, and he goes on, and on, and on, and on. He searches through all the towns in the neighbourhood until he had finished all his money. He searched, but he did not find it anywhere. But he went looking out still, feeding his horse as best he could, and begging for himself. Some one told him that he ought to go to the moon--that he makes a very long journey, and that he might guide him. He goes far, far, far away, on, and on, and on, and at last he arrives. He finds an old woman, who says to him-- "What do you come to do here? My son devours all creatures of all sorts; and, if you will trust me, you will be off before his arrival." He tells her his misfortunes--how that he had a snuff-box of great power, which has been stolen from him, and that he is now without anything, far from his wife, and stripped of everything, "and perhaps your son, in his journeys, has seen my palace, with its golden laths and tiles of diamonds, and the other ornaments of gold and silver." At that moment the moon appeared, and said to his mother that he smelt some one. His mother told him how that there was a wretched man who had lost everything; that he was come to him (for help), and that he would guide him. The moon told him to show himself. He comes, and asks him if he has not seen a house with beams of gold and with tiles of diamonds, and the rest of gold and silver; and he tells him how it was taken away from him. He answers, "No;" that he has not seen it, but that the sun makes longer journeys than he, and of greater extent, and that he would do better to go to him. He goes off again, on, and on, and on, with his horse, whom he nourished as he could, and begging for himself. At length he arrives at the sun's house. He finds an old woman, who said to him, "Where do you come from? Be off from here! Do you not know that my son eats all Christians?" He said to her, "No! I will not go away. I am so wretched that I do not care if he does eat me." And he tells her how he has lost everything; that he had a house, which had not its equal, with beams of gold and tiles of diamonds, and all the ornaments of gold and precious stones; and that he had been going about looking for it so long a time, and that there was no man so wretched as he. This woman hides him. The sun comes out and says to his mother-- "I smell the smell of a Christian, and I must eat him." The mother tells him that it was an unfortunate man who had lost his all, that he had come to speak to him, and begs him to take pity on him. He tells her to bring him out. Then the young man comes and asks the sun if he has seen a palace which has its equal nowhere, with its laths of gold and its tiles of diamonds, and the rest of gold and silver. The sun says to him: "No, but the south wind searches everything that I cannot see. He enters into every corner, he does, and if any one ought to know he will know." Our poor man then sets off again, feeding his horse how he could and begging for himself, and he comes at length to the house of the south wind. [95] He finds an old woman carrying water, and who was filling a great many barrels. She said to him: "What are you thinking of to come here? My son eats up everything when he arrives hungry and furious. You must beware of him." He says to her, "It is all the same to me. Let him eat me; I am so wretched that I fear nothing." And he tells her how he had a beautiful house which had not its equal in all the world, and with it all sorts of riches, and that, "Having abandoned my wife, I am seeking it, and I am come to consult your son, being sent by the sun." She hides him under the staircase. The south wind arrives as if he meant to tear the house up, and very thirsty. Before beginning to drink he smells the smell of the race of Christians, and said to his mother: "Out with what you have hidden," and that he must begin by eating him. His mother said to him, "Eat and drink what is before you." And she tells him the misfortunes of this man, and how that the sun has spared his life that he might come and consult him. Then he makes the man come out, and the man tells him how that he is going about trying to find a house, and that if anybody ought to know it is he, and that they had robbed him of his house, which had laths of gold, tiles of diamonds, and all the rest of gold and silver, and if he has not seen it anywhere? He tells him, "Yes, yes, and all to-day I have been passing over it, and have not been able to take away one of its tiles." "Oh! if you will tell me where it is!" He says that it is on the other side of the Red Sea, very, very far away. When our man heard that, the length of the road did not frighten him--he had already travelled over so much. He sets out then, and at last arrives at that city. He asks if anyone is in want of a gardener. They tell him that the gardener of the castle has gone away, and that perhaps they will take him. He goes off, and recognises his house--judge with what joy and delight! He asks if they are in want of a gardener. They tell him "Yes," and our lad is very pleased. He passes some time tolerably happily--middling. He talks with a servant about the riches of the masters and of the power which they had. He flattered and cajoled this young girl very much to get from her the history of the snuff-box, and he told her once that he very much wished to see it. One evening she brought it to him to look at, and our lad, very much pleased, pays great attention to where it was hidden in the room of the mistress. At night, when everybody is asleep, he goes and takes the snuff-box. You will understand with what joy he opens it. It says to him, "Que quieres?" And the lad says to it, "Que quieres, Que quieres, [96] carry me with my castle to the same place as (we were in) formerly, and drown the king and the queen and all the servants in this Red Sea." As soon as he had said it, he was carried to his wife, and they lived happily, and the others all perished in the Red Sea. [97] Catherine Elizondo. MAHISTRUBA, THE MASTER MARINER. Like many others in the world, there was a master mariner. Having had many losses and misfortunes in his life he no longer made any voyages, but every day went down to the seaside for amusement, and every day he met a large serpent, and every day he said to it: "God has given thy life to thee; live then." This master mariner lived upon what his wife and daughter earned by sewing. One day the serpent said to him: "Go to such a shipbuilder's, and order a ship of so many tons burden. Ask the price of it, and then double the price they tell you." [98] He does as the serpent told him, and the next day he goes down to the shore, and he tells the serpent that he has done as he had told him. The serpent then bids him go and fetch twelve sailors, very strong men, and to double whatever they shall ask. He goes and does what he was told to do. He returns to the serpent and tells him that he has twelve men. The serpent gives him all the money which he needed to pay for the ship. The shipbuilder is astonished to find that he is paid so large a sum of money in advance by this miserable man, but he hastens to finish his work as quickly as possible. The serpent again bids him have made in the hold of the ship a large empty space and a huge chest, and tells him to bring this down himself. He brings it, and the serpent gets into it. The ship was quickly ready, he embarks the chest in the ship, and they set out. This captain used to go every day to the serpent, but the sailors did not know what he went (into the hold) to do, nor what there was in the chest. The ship had already gone some distance, and nobody knew its destination. One day the serpent told the captain that there was going to be a frightful storm, that the earth and sky would mingle together, and that at midnight a large black bird would pass over the ship, and that it must be killed, and (he tells him) to go and see if there is any sportsman among his sailors. He goes and asks the sailors if there is any sportsman among them. [99] One of them answers, "Yes; I can kill a swallow in its flight." "All the better, all the better; that will be of use to you." He goes down to tell the serpent that there is a sportsman who can kill a swallow in its flight. And at the same moment the weather becomes black as night, and earth and sky are mingled together, and all are trembling with fright. The serpent gives the captain a good drink for the sportsman, and they bind him to the mast. At midnight a piercing cry was heard. It was the bird which was passing over, and our sportsman has the good luck to kill him. At the very instant the sea becomes calm. The captain goes to the serpent, and tells him that the bird is killed. The serpent answers him, "I know it." When they had gone a little further without anything happening, the serpent said one day: "Are we not near such a port?" The captain says to him, "It is in sight." "Very well, then, we are going there." He tells him to go again, and ask his sailors if there is a fast runner among them. The captain goes and asks his sailors if there is any fast runner among them. One of them says to him, "As for me, I can catch a hare running." "So much the better, so much the better; that will be of use to you." The captain goes to tell the serpent that there is one who can catch a hare running. The serpent says to him: "You will land the runner at this port, and you will tell him that he must go to the top of a little mountain; that there is a little house there, and an old, old woman in it; and that there is there a steel, a flint, and a tinder-box; and that he must bring these three things on board one by one, making a separate journey each time." Our runner goes off, and comes to this house. He sees the old woman, with red eyes, spinning at the threshold of her door. He asks her for a drop of water, that he has walked a long way without finding any water, and will she give him a little drop? The old woman says to him, "No." He begs her again, telling her that he does not know the roads in the country, nor where he is going to. This old woman kept constantly looking at the chimney-piece, and she said to him: "I am going to give you some, then." While she went to the pitcher, our runner takes the steel off the chimney-piece, and goes off at full speed, like the lightning; but the old woman is after him. At the very instant that he is about to leap into the ship the old woman catches him, and snatches off a bit of his coat, and a piece of the skin of his back with it. [100] The captain goes to the serpent, and says to him: "We have got the steel, but our man has got the skin of his back torn off." He gives him a remedy, and a good drink, and tells him that the man will be cured by to-morrow, but that he must go again next day. He says, "No, no; the devil may carry off this old woman, if he likes, but I will not go there any more." But, as he was cured next day by giving him that good drink again, he sets off. He dresses himself in a shirt without arms, and in an old torn pair of trousers, and goes to the old woman's, saying that his ship is wrecked on the shore, that he has been wandering about for forty-eight hours, and he begs her to let him go to the fire to light his pipe. She says, "No." "Do have pity--I am so wretched; it is only a little favour I ask of you." "No, no, I was deceived yesterday." But the man answered, "All the world are not deceivers. Don't be afraid." The old woman rises to go to the fire, and as she stoops to take it, [101] the man seizes the flint and escapes, running as if he would break his feet. But the old woman runs as fast as our runner; but she only catches him as he is jumping into the ship; she tears off the shirt, and the skin of his neck and back with it, and he falls into the ship. The captain goes directly to the serpent: "We have got the flint." He says to him, "I know it." He gives him the medicine and the good drink, in order that the man may be cured by the morrow, and that he may go again. But the man says, "No," that he does not want to see that red-eyed old woman any more. They tell him that they still want the tinder-box. The next day they give him the good drink. That gives him courage, and the desire to return again. He dresses himself up as if he had been shipwrecked, and goes off half naked. He comes to the old woman's, and asks for a little bread, as he has not eaten for a long time, (and begs her) to have pity on him--that he does not know where to go to. The old woman says to him: "Be off, where you will; you shall get nothing at my house, and nobody shall come in here. Every day I have enemies." "But what have you to fear from a poor man who only wants a little bread, and who will be off immediately afterwards?" At last the old woman rises to go to her cupboard, and our man takes her little tinder-box. The old woman runs after him, wishing to catch him, but our man is ahead. She overtakes him just as he is leaping into the ship. The old woman takes hold of the skin of his neck, and tears it all right down to the soles of his feet. Our runner falls down, and they do not know whether he is alive or dead; and the old woman says: "I renounce him, and all those who are in this ship." The captain goes to the serpent, and says to him: "We have the tinder-box, but our runner is in great danger. I do not know whether he will live; he has no skin left from his neck to the soles of his feet." "Console yourselves, console yourselves, he will be cured by to-morrow. Here is the medicine and the good drink. Now, you are saved. Go on deck, and fire seven rounds of cannon." He mounts on deck and fires the seven rounds of cannon, and returns to the serpent, and says to him: "We have fired the seven rounds." He says to him, "Fire twelve rounds more; but do not be afraid. The police will come here; they will handcuff you. You will be put in prison, and you will ask, as a favour, not to be executed before that they have visited the ship, in order to prove that there is nothing in it to merit such a chastisement." The captain goes on deck, and fires the twelve rounds of cannon. As soon as he has fired them, the magistrates and the police arrive; they handcuff the men, the sailors, and the captain, and they put them in prison. The sailors were not pleased; but the captain said to them: "You will soon be delivered." The next day the captain asks to go and speak to the king. He is brought before the king, and the king says: "You are condemned to be hanged." The captain says to him, "What! because we have fired some cannon-shots you are going to hang us!!" "Yes, yes, because for seven years we have not heard the cannon in this city. [102] I am in mourning--I and my people. I had an only son, and I have lost him. I cannot forget him." The captain says to him: "I did not know either this news or this order, and I beg you not to kill us before going and seeing if there is anything in the ship which condemns us justly." The king goes with his courtiers, his soldiers, and his judges--in a word, with everybody. When he has mounted on deck, what a surprise! The king finds his dearly-loved son, who relates to him how he had been enchanted by an old woman, and that he remained a serpent seven years. [103] How the captain every day went to walk by the seaside, and every day left him his life, saying to him, "The good God has made you too;" and having seen the captain's good heart, "I thought he would spare me, and it is to him that I owe my life." He goes to the court. The men are let out of prison, and they give the captain a large sum of money for a dowry for his two daughters, and the ship for himself. To the sailors they give as much as they like to eat and drink for all the time they wish to stop there, and afterwards enough to live upon for the rest of their lives. The king and his son lived happily, and as they had lived well, they died happily also. Gachina, The Net-maker. DRAGON. A king had a son who was called Dragon. He was as debauched as it is possible to be. All the money that he had he had spent, and still more; not having enough, he demanded his portion from his father. The father gives it him immediately, and he goes off, taking with him a companion who had been a soldier, and who was very like himself. [104] Very quickly they spent all their money. While they were travelling in a forest they see a beautiful castle. They enter and find there a table ready set out, and a magnificent supper prepared. They sit down to table and sup. Nobody appears as yet, and they go up-stairs to see the house, and they find the beds all ready, and they go to bed. They pass a very good night. The next morning Dragon gets up and opens the shutters, and sees a dazzling garden. He goes down into the garden, still without seeing anybody; but in passing under a fig tree, a voice says to him: "Ay! ay! ay! what pain you have put me to, and what suffering you are causing me!" He turns on all sides and finds nothing. He says: "Who are you? You! I do not understand it. Appear!" The voice says to him, "I cannot to-day; but perhaps to-morrow you will see me. But in order to do that you will have to suffer severely." He promises to suffer no matter what for her. The voice says to him: "To-morrow night they will make you suffer every kind of torture, but you must not say anything; and if you do that, you will see me to-morrow." They had spoken all this before the soldier friend, but he had heard nothing of it. They go to the house and find the dinner quite ready. Dragon would have wished that night had already come, to know what it was he was to see. He goes off to bed then, and after eleven o'clock he feels that something is coming, and his whole body is pricked all over. He keeps quite silent, because he wished to see the voice. And when the cock crew "Kukuruku!" he was released (from his torture). He lies waiting for daybreak to go to the fig tree. Day did not appear as soon as he would have wished it, and he goes running to the garden and sees under the fig tree, coming out of the ground as high as her shoulders, a young girl, and she says to him: "Last night you have suffered in silence, but the next night they will make you suffer much more. I do not know if you can bear it without speaking." He promises her that he will suffer still more in order to save her. As usual, they find the table ready for dinner and for supper. He goes off to bed. There happens to him the same thing as in the preceding night, but they do him still more harm. Happily he lies still without speaking. The cock crows "Kukuruku!" and they leave him quiet. As soon as daylight has come he goes off to the garden, and he sees the young lady visible as far as the knees. Dragon is delighted to save this beautiful girl, but she says sadly to him: "You have seen nothing up to this time. They will make you suffer twice as much." He says that he has courage to endure anything, because he wishes to get her out of that state. When night comes, he perceives that two are coming instead of one. One of them was lame, and he says to him (and you know lame people and cripples are the most cruel). [105] He says then to the other: "What! You have not been able to make this wretched boy speak! I will make him speak, I will." He cuts off his arms and then his legs, and our Dragon does not say anything. They make him suffer a great deal, but happily the cock crows "Kukuruku!" and he is delivered. He was much afraid what would become of him without hands and without feet; but on touching himself he feels with pleasure that all that is made right again. While he is in bed he hears a great noise. He lies without saying anything, being frightened, and not knowing what might happen to him, when all of a sudden this young lady appears and says to him: "You have saved me; I am very well pleased with you. But this is not enough; we must be off from here immediately." All the three go off together, and travel far, far, far away, and they arrive in a city. The young lady did not think it proper to lodge in the same hotel with them. Next morning the young lady gets up very early, and goes in search of the landlord of the hotel, and says to him: "A gentleman will come here to ask for me. You will tell him that I have gone out, and if he wishes to see me he must come to the fountain at the Four Cantons [106]--but fasting--and he is to wait for me there." The next morning the young gentleman goes to the hotel, and they tell him what the young lady has said. On that very day he goes to the fountain, taking his comrade with him, and fasting; but as the young lady had not yet arrived, forgetting himself, he put his hand in his pocket, and finding there a small nut, he eats it. As soon as he has eaten it he falls asleep. [107] The young lady arrives. She sees that he is asleep. She says to his companion: "He has eaten something. Tell him that I will return, but tell, tell him, I beg you, to eat nothing." She leaves him a beautiful handkerchief. Dragon wakes up as soon as the young lady is gone. His comrade tells him that she had come, and that she had told him not to eat anything. And he shows Dragon the handkerchief. He was very vexed at having eaten, and would have wished that it was already the next day. He starts then very, very early, and waits for the young lady, and, as was fated to happen, finding a walnut in his pocket, he eats it. He immediately falls asleep. The young lady appears and finds him sleeping. She says that she will return again the next day, but that he must not eat anything. She leaves him another handkerchief. Dragon awakes as soon as she has gone. Judge with what vexation. His friend tells him that she said that she would return the next day, but that he must do his best not to eat anything. He goes then the third day without eating anything, but, as was to happen, despairing of seeing the young lady, who was late, arrive, he takes an apple from an apple tree and eats it. He falls asleep immediately. The young lady comes and finds him asleep. She gives his comrade a ring to give to Dragon, telling him that if Dragon wishes to see her he will find her in the City of the Four Quarters. Dragon is very vexed, and he says to his friend: "The good God knows when I shall find this city, and it is better for you to go in one direction (and I in another)." Thereupon they separate. Dragon goes off, far, far, far away. He comes to a mountain; there he sees a man, who had before his door holy water, and whoever made use of it was well received. He goes in, therefore, and asks him if he knows where is the City of the Four Quarters. He tells him-- "No; but there are the animals of the earth and of the air, and that the latter might perhaps guide him there." He whistles to them. They come from all quarters, and he asks them if they know where is the City of the Four Quarters? They tell him "No." Then the man says to him-- "I have a brother on such a mountain, who has many more animals than I have; he has them all under his power, that man has." Dragon goes off then, and arrives there; he asks of that man if he knows where the City of the Four Quarters is? He tells him "No," but that he has animals which will know it, if anyone ought to know it. He whistles to them. He sees the animals, small and great, coming from all quarters. Dragon was trembling with fright. He asks them one by one if they know where the City of the Four Quarters is. They tell him "No;" but the man sees that one animal is wanting, and that is the eagle. He whistles, and he comes. He asks him, too, if he knows where the City of the Four Quarters is. He says to him-- "I am just come from there." The man says to him, "You must, then, guide this young gentleman there." The eagle says to him, "Willingly, if he will give me a morsel of flesh each time that I open my mouth." Dragon replies, "Yes, willingly." He then buys an ox. The eagle tells him to get upon his back. The man climbs up there with his ox, and when he opens his mouth he gives him a morsel of the ox, which kept gradually diminishing. They were obliged to cross over the sea, and there was no bridge to it there. The ox was finished when they were in the middle of the sea, and there was a great rock there. The eagle opens his mouth again, and, as there was no more beef, what does he do? As he was afraid of being left upon that rock, he cuts a morsel from the back of his own thighs, and puts it in his mouth. [108] They arrive on the other side of the sea. The eagle leaves him there, saying to him, "You are in the City of the Four Quarters. Do your own business here. I am going off to my own home." This young gentleman asks what is the news in this city. They tell him that the king's daughter is going to be married to-day. In this city it was permitted only to the wedding party to enter the church, but Dragon had bribed one of the keepers with money, (saying) that he would stop quiet in a corner of the church. It was also the custom in this city to publish the banns at the moment of marriage. When the priest began to publish them, Dragon came out of his corner, and said-- "I make an objection." He goes to the young lady, who recognises him; and he shows her the ring and the kerchiefs, and asks her in marriage. She says-- "This shall be my husband; he has well deserved it." He was still lame, as a piece of his flesh was still wanting. They were married then. The other bridegroom went back home quite ashamed. The others lived very happily, because both had suffered much. Then I was there, now I am here. Louise Lanusse, St. Jean Pied de Port. EZKABI-FIDEL. As there are many in the world, and as we are many of us, there was a mother who had a son. They were very poor. The son wished to go off somewhere, in order to better himself, (he said); that it was not living to live like that. The mother was sorry; but what could she do? In order that her son may be better off, she lets him go. He goes then, travelling on, and on, and on. In a forest he meets with a gentleman, who asks him where he is going. He tells him that, wishing to better himself, he had gone away from home to do something. This gentleman asks him if he is willing to be his servant. He replies, "Yes." They go off then together, and come to a beautiful place. After having entered, the gentleman gives him all the keys of the house, saying that he has a journey he must make, and that he must see the whole house--that he will find in it everything he wants to eat, and to take care of the horses in the stable. The gentleman goes away as soon as he had seen all the house and the stable. There were a lot of horses there, and in the midst of them all a white mare, [109] who said to him, "Ay! ay! Fidel, save me, I pray you, from here, and get me outside. You will not be sorry for it." Fidel stops at the place whence this voice came. A moment after, the white mare says to him, "Come near the white mare; it is she who is speaking to you." Fidel goes up to her, and says to her that he cannot let her go--that the master has not given him any other work to do (than to take care of the horses), and that he certainly will not do any such thing. The mare said to him, "Go and fetch a saucepan, and when I shall have filled it with water, you will wash your hands and your head." Fidel does as the mare told him, and is quite astonished at seeing his hands shine, and he says to her that he does not wish to have them like that, but that, as to his head, he could hide it. [110] The mare told him to wash his hands in the water, and that they would become again as they were before. The time goes on, and the time returns. A long time had passed, and the master had never returned. And one day the mare said to him, "Fidel, do you know how long you have been here?" He says to her, "I don't know at all--six months, perhaps?" The mare says to him, "Six years have passed, and if the master arrives when seven years shall have passed, you will be enchanted--you, too, as we all are here--and the master is a devil." After that he heard that, Fidel is frightened, and he says to himself that it would be better to do what the white mare had said--to get on her back, and both to escape from there. They go off then, both of them. When they had gone some little distance, the mare asks him if he sees anything behind him. He says, "Yes," that he sees something terrible, but in the clouds; but that it is something terrific. [111] The mare gives the earth a kick with her foot, and says to it, "Earth, with thy power form a dense, terrible fog where he is." They go on again, and the mare says again-- "Look back again, if you see anything." Fidel says to her, "Yes, I see again this terrible thing; it is coming after us quickly, and is going to catch us." The mare at the same time says again to the earth, in striking it with her foot, "Let it hail stones, and hail there where he is as much as can possibly fall." They go on. The mare says again, "Look back, if you see anything." He says to her again, "He is here, this terrible monster. It is all up with us now--we cannot escape him; he is quite near, and he comes with speed." The mare strikes the earth with her foot, and says to it-- "Form before him a river, and let him drown himself there for evermore." He sees him drown himself there. The mare says to him, "Now you shall go to such a spot. The king lives there. You will ask if they want a gardener, and they will tell you 'Yes.' You will stay there without doing anything, and the work will do itself by itself, without your doing anything. Every day three beautiful flowers will come up in this garden. You will carry them to the three daughters of the king, but you will always give the finest to the youngest." [112] It was the custom to carry the dinner to the gardener, but it was the youngest of the daughters who carried it to him. From the first day the gardener pleased the young lady, and she said to him one day that he must marry her. The lad said to her that that cannot be, that she ought not to think of marrying with a person of low birth and who has nothing, and that she must not dream any such dreams. This young lady falls ill. The father sends for the doctor, who says, after having touched her pulse, that she is ill of love; and the doctor goes to tell it to the king. The father goes to the young lady and tells her what the physician has said to him--that she is not so very ill. The daughter says to him: "In order to cure me you must send and fetch the gardener. Let him give me some broth and I shall be cured." The father sends to fetch him directly, has him washed and properly dressed, and makes him carry the broth. There was among the court an old, old nurse; she was a witch, and as she knew what the physician had said, she goes and hides herself in the young lady's bedroom before the gardener came there, in order to know what the young lady would say to him. The young lady said to him: "Yes, and you shall marry me; I will not marry anybody else but you, whatever you may say." The lad said to her: "No, no, I will not hear that mentioned." The nurse had heard all that had passed, and she goes and tells it immediately to the king. The young lady was cured, and goes to carry the dinner to Fidel. Fidel had a habit of always giving the first spoonful of the soup to the dog. He gives it him that day too, and as soon as the dog has eaten it he falls stark dead. When the young lady saw that she goes and tells it to her father. The father sends for a big dog, and gives him some of the soup, and as soon as he has eaten it he falls dead. Judge of the anger of that young lady. She goes and takes this old witch and has her burnt. She goes to look for Fidel in a little house which was at the bottom of the garden, and she sees his head bare. [113] It was shining like the sun, and she entirely lost her own head for it, and she said to him, that he must marry her. As she left him no peace, her father said to her: "If you will marry him, do so; but I will not give you anything. You must go and live in a corner of the mountain with your husband; there is a house there, and there you must stop. You may come only one day a week to see me." That was all the same to this young lady, (and they are married), and go off there. As the king had given her no money, when Fidel's hair grew she went from time to time to the goldsmiths, who said to her that they had not money enough belonging to them to pay for the gold that she brought them. And they lived there very happily. One day Fidel heard that the king was engaged in a great war, and he told his wife to go to her father and tell him that he too wished to go to this war. This young lady goes to tell her father her husband's commission. Her father says to her: "What is the use of a young man like that who has never killed anything but mole-crickets? Let him stop at home." His daughter says to him: "At least he is your son-in-law!" The father then says to her: "He may come on such a day." Fidel goes as they had told him. He asks the king for a horse and a sword. The king gives him a horse blind and lame. Fidel was not pleased with it. He begins his march, wishing to get on as quickly as possible, but when he had gone a little distance, the horse sticks in the mud, and cannot in any way get out of it. While he is there, the white mare comes to him. She gives him a beautiful horse, and a lance and a sword, and tells him that he will see his brothers-in-law encamped round a city, but not to stop there with them, but to ride straight to the city; that the gates will be shut, but as soon as he shall have touched them with his lance they will be broken to pieces, and that they will make peace with him. He does as she told him, and starts off on his horse like the lightning, without paying the slightest attention to his brothers-in-law. He goes up to the city, and as soon as he has touched the gates with his sword they are in pieces. He enters the city, and all the world comes out and makes him a thousand fêtes. They declare that they wish for no more war. They give him the key of the treasury and all the papers, and he retires from there with all the honours. When he returns he tells his brothers-in-law to retire--that the war is finished. They go back again. He stops at the place where he had left his old horse in the mud. He sends away his beautiful horse with all his things, and Fidel stops there, not being able to drag his old horse out of the mud. When his brothers-in-law pass, they mock at him (and ask him) if it is there that he has passed all his time. He tells them, "Yes." The others go on ahead, and at length he also arrives at the king's house. He leaves his old horse there and goes off home. He does not tell his wife what has happened, and they live in their hole. The king was getting old, and he had entirely lost his sight. Somebody gave him to understand that there was a water which made people young again, and another which restored sight. He told his sons-in-law that they must go (and look for it)--that he could not live long like that. And both of them start off. Their wives, at starting, had given each a golden apple. [114] They go far away; but they find nothing. Tired at last, they stop in a beautiful city. They take each of them a wife, and they live according to their fancy. When Fidel saw that his brothers-in-law did not arrive, he said to his wife that he must go off; perhaps he might be able better to find the waters which his father wanted. He goes off without saying anything to the king, and travels on, and on, and on. He meets an old woman, who says to him, "Where are you going to?" He tells her how he wants a water which gives sight to the blind and makes the old young, [115] and that he would not go back home without finding it. This old woman says to him: "You will see two animals fighting close to you, and you will gather the herb which makes the dead to live; you will have it boiled, and you will keep this water for yourself." This lad goes on a little farther, and he sees two lizards fighting so fiercely that one kills the other. The one who was left alive takes a blade of grass and touches the dead and rekindles his life. [116] Fidel gathers this grass, and goes off to this old woman. The old woman gives him two bottles, telling him that the one is for giving sight to the blind, and the other for making old men young; that he must not sell these waters for money, but must make an exchange of them for two golden apples which his brothers-in-law have in this very city, and that it is to them that he must give this water. Fidel goes into the city, and as soon as he has entered, he cries: "Who wishes to buy the water that gives sight to the blind, and the water which makes old men young?" His two brothers-in-law appear, and say that they must have some of this water, and ask what it costs. And he tells them that he does not sell it, but only gives it in exchange for golden apples. These gentlemen willingly make the exchange. But they wish to make trial of it directly; they bring an old blind dog, and immediately he grows young again. Judge how pleased they were with their water of power. They set off to the king, and this water makes him become very young and gives him sight. The king wishes to have great rejoicings, and invites all his friends in the neighbourhood. Fidel arrives at home, and says nothing to his wife. When he hears that the king is going to have rejoicings, he sends his wife to ask the king if he would not like them to go there too; that they would help, one in cutting the wood, and the other in serving at table. She did not wish to go there at all. She told her husband that she would a hundred times sooner stop at home; but her husband sends her off by force, (saying) that they ought to be there on that day. She goes, then, the poor woman, against her wish. She asks her father if he does not want some one to help on the feast day. The father says, "No!"--they have servants enough. An old general who was sitting by his side said to him: "Why do you not let them come?" Then the king said, "Come then on such a day." Fidel and his wife go. While they are at breakfast the old general asks Fidel if he also does not know something to relate? He replies "Yes," that he knows some (stories), but more than one would not be pleased with what he would tell. Then the king says, placing his sword upon the table: "The point of my sword shall know news of the heart of him who shall speak." Fidel begins then, how he went to the war with an old horse, blind and lame, but that in spite of that he had carried off the keys of the treasure and the papers. The king says to him that he has not seen them yet--that he is still expecting them. Fidel takes out the papers and gives them to the king. He gives also the keys of the treasury. The king assures himself that they are the real ones. He then narrates how he has sold in exchange for two golden apples that precious water. At this instant his wife rises and says to him: "Where have you these golden apples--you?" As it is she who has spoken the first words, Fidel takes up the king's sword and strikes his wife dead. [117] The king was grieved to see that, but Fidel says to him: "Do not disturb yourself for that; as I have taken away her life I will give it her again." He takes out his water which rekindles dead men, and rubs some on her temple, and she suddenly returns to life. Everyone is astounded at this great deed, and at all that he has already done. The king tells him that he has already gained the crown, but that he must be cured of this terrible scab [118] first. His wife rises, takes off his kerchief which he had upon his head, and shows the shining head of her husband, saying: "See, this is the scab of my husband!" The king says that the crown will shine much better on his head. He goes to fetch it, and places it upon this precious head. He banishes his sons-in-law with his two daughters to the same desert place where Fidel formerly lived. And Fidel and his wife lived much richer than the king was. His precious head gave him this power; and as they lived well they died well too. Laurentine. We have another version almost identical with the above, except at the commencement. Ezkabi really has the scab. On his journey, after leaving his home, he pays the debts of a poor man whose corpse is being beaten in front of the church, and buries him. There is nothing about a white mare. An old woman is the good genius of the tale. He goes as gardener, and the king's daughter falls in love with him, from catching a sight of his golden hair from her window; for the rest the stories are identical, except that this is a shorter form than the above. THE LADY PIGEON AND HER COMB. [119] Like many others in the world, there was a mother and her son; they were very poor. This son wished to leave his mother and go away, (saying) that they were wretched as they were. He goes off then far, far, far away. He finds a castle in a forest, and goes in and asks if they want a servant, and it is a Tartaro who comes to him. He asks him: "Where are you going to like that, ant of the earth?" He says that, being very poor at home, he wished to work to better himself. The Tartaro says to him, "As you have told the truth I spare your life, ant of the earth, and in a few days you will go away from here. Three young ladies will come to bathe in the water in my garden. They will leave their pigeon-robes under a large stone, and you will take the pigeon's skin which is in the middle. [120] The two young ladies will come out of the water and will take their skins. She who stops in the water will ask you for her skin, but you shall not give it her before she shall promise to help you always." The next day our lad sees that the young ladies are in the water. He goes and does as the Tartaro tells him; he takes the middle one of the three skins, the two young ladies take their skins, and the third asks him to give her hers. The lad will not give it her without her promise. The young lady will not give her word. He then says to her that he will not give it her at all. The young lady then says to him that he may reckon upon her, that she gives him her word, and that he shall go to-morrow to her father's house, that he will take him as servant, and that he lives in such a place. The lad goes off then the next day and finds this beautiful house in a forest. He asks if they want a servant? They tell him, "Yes," but that there is a great deal of work to do there. The next morning (the father) takes him into the forest and says to him: "You must pull up all these oaks with their roots, you must cut them into lengths, and put the trunks on one side, the branches on another, and the roots by themselves, each in their place. Afterwards you will plough the ground, then you will harrow it, then sow the wheat; you will then cut it, and you bring me at noon a little cake made out of this wheat, otherwise you will be put to death." [121] The lad says to him, "I will try." He goes then to the forest and sits down pensive. It was already eleven o'clock when the young lady appears to him. She says to him: "Why are you like that, so sad? Have not I promised that I would help you? Shut your eyes, but all the worse for you if you shall open them." She throws a comb into the air, [122] and says: "Comb, with thy power tear up these oaks with their roots, cut them into lengths, put the trunks together, and the branches, and the roots too by themselves." As soon as it was said it was done. She throws another comb, and says to it: "Comb, with thy power turn up this ground, harrow it, and sow the wheat." As soon as it was said it was done. She throws another comb, and says: "Comb, with thy power make a cake of this wheat when you have cut it." Our lad was curious to know what was taking place, but the young lady said to him: "Woe to you and to me if you open (your eyes). [123] Nothing will be finished for us." He does not open them, and the cake is cooked. Twelve o'clock was going to strike. She says to him: "Go with speed, you have no time to lose." The lad goes to the king and brings him the cake. The king is astonished. He says (to himself), "That is a clever lad, that," and he wishes to be assured of it by looking out of window; and, after having seen that this huge forest had been torn up, he is astonished. He sends away the lad, and goes and tells it to his wife. His wife says to him, "Take care that he is not in league with your daughter." [124] The husband says to her, "What do you mean? They have never seen each other." This husband was a devil. The young lady told our lad that her father is going to send him to fetch a ring in a river far away. "He will tell you to choose a sword from the midst of ever so many others, but you will take an old sabre and leave the others." The next day his wife told him that he ought to send him to fetch a ring which he had lost in the bed of a river. He sends him then, and tells him that he must choose a sword; that he will have quantities of evil fish to conquer. The lad says to him that he will not have those fine swords, that he has enough with this old sabre, which was used to scrape off the dirt. When he arrived at the bank of the river he sat there weeping, not knowing what to do. The young lady comes to him, and says: "What! You are weeping! Did not I tell you that I would always help you?" It was eleven o'clock. The young lady says to him: "You must cut me in pieces with this sabre, and throw all the pieces into the water." The lad will not do it by any means. He says to her: "I prefer to die here on the spot than to make you suffer." The lady says to him, "It is nothing at all what I shall suffer, and you must do it directly--the favourable moment is passing by like this, like this." The lad, trembling all over, begins with his sabre. He throws all the pieces into the river; but, lo! a part of the lady's little finger sticks to a nail in his shoe. The young lady comes out of the water and says to him: "You have not thrown everything into the water. My little finger is wanting." [125] After having looked for it, he sees that he has it under his foot, hooked on to a nail. The young lady gives him the ring. She tells him to go without losing a moment; for he must give it to the king at noon. He arrives happily (in time). The young lady, as she goes into the house, bangs the door with all her might and begins to cry out: "Ay! ay! ay! I have crushed my little finger." And she makes believe that she has done it there. The king was pleased. He tells him that on the morrow he must tame a horse and three young fillies. [126] The lad says to him: "I will try." The master gives him a terrible club. The young lady says to him in the evening: "The horse which my father has spoken to you about will be himself. You will strike him with all your might with your terrible club on the nose, and he will yield and be conquered. The first filly will be my eldest sister. You will strike her on the chest with all your force, and she also will yield and will be conquered. I shall come the last. You will make a show of beating me too, and you will hit the ground with your stick, and I too will yield, and I shall be conquered." The next day the lad does as the young lady has told him. The horse comes. He was very high-spirited, but our lad strikes him on the nose, he yields, and is conquered. He does the same thing with the fillies. He beats them with his terrible club, they yield, and are conquered; and when the third comes he makes a show of hitting her, and strikes the earth. She yields, and all go off. The next day he sees the master with his lips swollen, and with all his face as black as soot. The young ladies had also pain in the chest. The youngest also gets up very late indeed in order to do as the others. The master says to him that he sees he is a valuable servant, and very clever, and that he will give him one of his daughters for wife, but that he must choose her with his eyes shut. And the young lady says to him: "You will choose the one that will give you her hand twice, and in any way you will recognise me, because you will find that my little finger is wanting. I will always put that in front." The next day the master said to him: "We are here now; you shall now choose the one you wish for, always keeping your eyes shut." He shuts them then; and the eldest daughter approaches, and gives him her hand. He says to the king: "It is very heavy, (this hand); too heavy for me. I will not have this one." The second one approaches, she gives him her hand, and he immediately recognises that the little finger is wanting. He says to the king: "This is the one I must have." They are married immediately. [127] They pass some days like that. His wife says to him: "It is better for us to be off from here, and to flee, otherwise my father will kill us." They set off, then, that evening at ten o'clock, and the young lady spits before the door of her room, saying: "Spittle, with thy power, you shall speak in my place." [128] And they go off a long way. At midnight, the father goes to the door of the lad and his wife, and knocks at the door; they do not answer. He knocks harder, and then the spittle says to him: "Just now nobody can come into this room." The father says, "It is I. I must come in." "It is impossible," says the spittle again. The father grows more and more angry; the spittle makes him stop an hour like that at the door. At last, not being able to do anything else, he smashes the door, and goes inside. What is his terrible rage when he sees the room empty. He goes off to his wife, and says to her: "You were not mistaken; they were well acquainted, and they were really in league with one another, and they have both escaped together; but I will not leave them like that. I will go off after them, and I shall find them sooner or later." He starts off. Our gentleman and lady had gone very far, but the young lady was still afraid. She said to her husband: "He might overtake us even now. I--I cannot turn my head; but (look) if you can see something." The husband says to her: "Yes, something terrible is coming after us; I have never seen a monster like this." The young lady throws up a comb, and says: [129] "Comb, with thy power, let there be formed before my father hedges and thorns, and before me a good road." It is done as she wished. They go a good way, and she says again: "Look, I beg you, if you see anything again." The husband looks back, and sees nothing; but in the clouds he sees something terrible, and tells so to his wife. And his wife says, taking her comb: "Comb, with thy power, let there be formed where he is a fog, and hail, and a terrific storm." It happens as they wish. They go a little way farther, and his wife says to him: "Look behind you, then, if you see anything." The husband says to her: "Now it is all over with us. We have him here after us; he is on us. Use all your power." She throws again a comb immediately, and says: "Comb, with thy power, form between my father and me a terrible river, and let him be drowned there for ever." As soon as she has said that, they see a mighty water, and there their father and enemy drowns himself. [130] The young lady says, "Now we have no more fear of him, we shall live in peace." They go a good distance, and arrive at a country into which the young lady could not enter. She says to her husband: "I can go no farther. It is the land of the Christians there; I cannot enter into it. You must go there the first. You must fetch a priest. He must baptize me, and afterwards I will come with you; but you must take great care that nobody kisses you. If so, you will forget me altogether. Mind and pay great attention to it; and you, too, do not you kiss anyone." He promises his wife that he will not. He goes, then, on, and on, and on. He arrives in his own country, and as he is entering it an old aunt recognises him, and comes behind him, and gives him two kisses. [131] It is all over with him. He forgets his wife, as if he had never seen her, and he stays there amusing himself, and taking his pleasure. The young lady, seeing that her husband never returned, that something had happened to him, and that she could no longer count upon him, she takes a little stick, and striking the earth, she says: "I will that here, in this very spot, is built a beautiful hotel, with all that is necessary, servants, and all the rest." There was a beautiful garden, too, in front, and she had put over the door: "Here they give to eat without payment." One day the young man goes out hunting with two comrades, and while they were in the forest they said one to the other: "We never knew of this hotel here before. We must go there too. One can eat without payment." They go off then. The young lady recognises her husband very well, but he does not recognise her at all. She receives them very well. These gentlemen are so pleased with her, that one of them asks her if she will not let him pass the night with her. [132] The young lady says to him, "Yes." The other asks also, "I, too, was wishing it." The young lady says to him: "To-morrow then, you, if you wish it, certainly." And her husband says to her: "And I after to-morrow then." The young lady says to him, "Yes." One of the young men remains then. He passes the evening in great delight, and when the hour comes for going to bed, the young lady says to him: "When you were small you were a choir-boy, and they used to powder you; this smell displeases me in bed. Before coming there you must comb yourself. Here is a comb, and when you have got all the powder out, you may come to bed." Our lad begins then to comb his hair, but never could he get all the powder out, such quantities came out, and were still coming out of his head; and he was still at it when the young lady rose. The lad said to her: "What! you are getting up before I come." "And do you not see that it is day? I cannot stop there any longer. People will come." Our young man goes off home without saying a word more. He meets his comrade who was to pass the night with this young lady. He says to him: "You are satisfied? You amused yourself well?" "Yes, certainly, very well. If the time flies as fast with you as it did with me you will amuse yourself well." He goes off then to this house. The young lady says to him, after he had had a good supper: "Before going to bed you must wash your feet. The water will be here in this big copper; when you have them quite clean you may come to bed." Accordingly he washes one, and when he has finished washing the other, the first washed is still black and dirty. He washes it again, and finds the foot that he has just well washed very dirty again. He kept doing like that for such a long time. When the young lady gets up, the gentleman says to her: "What! You are getting up already, without me coming?" "Why did you not then come before day? I cannot stay any longer in bed. It is daylight, and the people will begin (to come)." Our young man withdraws as the other had done. Now it is the turn of her husband. She serves him still better than the others; nothing was wanting at his supper. When the hour for going to bed arrives, they go to the young lady's room; when they are ready to get into bed, the young lady says to him: "Put out the light." He puts it out, and it lights again directly. He puts it out again, and it lights again as soon as it is put out. He passes all the night like that in his shirt, never being able to put out that light. When daylight is come, the young lady says to him: "You do not know me then? You do not remember how you left your wife to go and fetch a priest?" As soon as she had said that he strikes his head, and says to her: "Only now I remember all that--up to this moment I was as if I had never had a wife at all--how sorry I am; but indeed it is not my fault, not at all. I never wished it like that, and it is my old aunt who kissed me twice without my knowing it." "It is all the same now. You are here now. You have done penance enough; your friends have done it too. One passed the whole night getting powder out of his head, and the other in washing his feet, and they have not slept with me any more than you have. At present you must go into your country, and you must get a priest. He shall baptize me, and then we will go into your country." The husband goes off and returns with the priest, and she is baptized, and they set out for his country. When they have arrived there, she touched the earth with her stick, and says to it: "Let there be a beautiful palace, with everything that is needed inside it, and a beautiful garden before the house." As soon as it is said, it is done. They lived there very rich and very happy with the old mother of the lad, and as they lived well they died well too. Laurentine Kopena. SUGGESTED EXPLANATION OF THE ABOVE TALE (THE LADY-PIGEON AND HER COMB). This legend seems to us to be one of the best examples in our collection of what may be called atmospherical, or climatological myths. The story opens with man in misery, without the aid of cultivation and agriculture. The old king we take to be a personification of winter; his daughter of spring, warmth, and fertility--of what the French call "la belle saison." The comb, with which she does her marvels, is the power which draws out her golden hair, the sun's bright rays. The young man, who, without her aid, can effect nothing, is man in relation to the frozen ground, which needs her aid to quicken it into fertility. It is the old Sun-god, the Cyclops, who tells him where to find, and how to woo, his fairy bride. But spring and earth are as yet both fast bound in winter's dominions. There he must go, and learn what he must do, if they are to be married. The felling of the forest, the sowing and ripening corn, and the cooked cake, teach him that he can only succeed by her help; and yet he does not see how she does it--man cannot see the corn grow, etc. The summer warmth and fertilizing power, typified by the ring, still lies buried in the frozen waters. The taming of the horses shows the need and help of domestic animals in agriculture. These things are necessary to be known ere spring can free herself from winter's dominion and marry her chosen lover. Winter would still hold her fast; but even in his own home her influence works secretly against him. He does not suspect that she is in league with her lover. But at length they are joined together; they flee, and the great struggle between winter and spring has fairly set in. She is able to hide her flight a little while; but he discovers it, and pursues and nearly overtakes her. But, by means of her comb, scattering abroad her warm rays, she works wonders. He is stopped by rough, wintry roads. Her path is through fair and pleasant ways; the storms, and hail, and rain of early spring assist her, but it is the mighty inundation of the swollen rivers which finally overwhelms him, and sweeps him for ever away. But their union is not complete yet. She cannot enter the Christians' land. The natural powers of earth and sky have need of agriculture and civilization for their full expansion. And man, frightened at the toil, is lured back again to the nomad hunter life. He forgets his bride in the pleasures of the chase. He spends the winter thus, but is drawn back by the attraction of his waiting bride in spring. She has food in abundance; he is hungry. Other wooers come; she cheats and deludes them, till her true husband appears, and submits to her once more. Then is the full marriage of earth and husbandry, and man wedded to the summer's warmth and glow. All parts of the tale are not equally clear, nor do we positively affirm that we have interpreted it aright. But there can be no doubt that we have here a nature allegory; and, told as it is by those who have not the most remote suspicion of its meaning, many things in it must needs be confused; the wonder is that the details are still so clear and so little distorted as they are. And, if this be the interpretation, or even if this kind of interpretation be allowed in this case, then we must consider if it is not to be extended to every case in which the several incidents occur, though they are now mingled and confused with circumstances with which they had no original connection. LAUR-CANTONS. [133] There was a man who was very rich. He wished to get married, but the young girls of this country would not marry him, because he had such a bad reputation. One day he sent for a vine-dresser, who had three daughters, and said to him, "I want to marry one of your three daughters; if I do not marry them, so much the worse for you--I will have you killed." This vine-dresser goes away home in sadness. He tells his two eldest daughters what Mr. Laur-Cantons had said to him. The daughters tell him that they will not marry; it is useless to ask them. The father stays indoors in his grief, and his youngest daughter comes home. He tells her, too, what has happened, and this one says to her father, "Do not be so sad; as for me, I will marry him, and nothing shall happen to you." The father and the daughter go off then. He marries this young girl. And, as Mr. Laur-Cantons was very rich, he had quantities of beautiful dresses made for her. He had gold by hogsheads full, and this young girl was very happy with this gentleman. After some time the king summoned him to go to the army, and he was obliged to go. He said to his wife, "Amuse yourself well," and he leaves her plenty of money. His wife says, "No," she will remain at home till he comes back, and will not see anybody until his return. Mr. Laur-Cantons set off for the court. When he was there, a merchant attacks him on purpose to vex him and put him in a passion, and tells him that he will get into his wife's house, and he wagers all that he has in his shop, and Mr. Laur-Cantons bets 100,000 francs that he will not get in. This merchant then goes off to the lady's house. He knocks at the door, and says that he comes with a letter from her husband, and begs her to open the door. But they do not open it. They tell him to put the letter in the hole; and, after having remained all night at the door in vain, he goes off to the forest in a rage, kicking and stamping about with his feet, because he had lost all that he possessed. An old woman passes by there, and says to him, "What is the matter with you, that you are in such great trouble?" "Be off with you, quickly, or I will give you two good boxes on the ear." This woman was a witch. This man was sorry a moment afterwards for not having listened to this old woman, and he goes off after her: "Just now I treated you very badly, but I must now tell you my trouble. I have lost all that I possess in a bet with Mr. Laur-Cantons that I would get into his wife's house, but I have passed the whole night there, and have not been able to get in." "If you have only that it is nothing, and I will arrange that." She goes with a basket of apples and knocks at the door, and says that she is the lady's nurse, and asks them to open. They open for her. The young lady shows her her dresses for the marriage day and for the next day too, her gold chain, and all her pretty things. While she is putting by her dresses the witch takes her gold chain, which had the lady's name on it; and the lady did not observe it, and did not miss anything when she shut up the others, because she had full confidence in her, believing that she was really her nurse, since she said so. The witch goes off to find the merchant and gives him the gold chain. The merchant gives her as a reward a complete set of new clothes. The merchant goes off joyfully to find Mr. Laur-Cantons, and shows him from a distance the gold chain. Imagine what was the rage of the gentleman. He goes off home immediately. He knocks at the door, saying that it is the master who is there; he enters, and says to his wife, with harsh voice, to go upstairs and put on her wedding dress and her gold ornaments. She comes down without putting it on at all, and he says to her: "Where are your gold ornaments?" "Not being able to find them, I have put on those of the next day." When he has got on horseback he tells her to get up behind him. This young lady, having suspected something, had taken a great deal of money with her. When they had gone a short way he dismounts. He puts his wife into a chest and throws her into the sea. On the sea-shore there are always people looking about, and when the chest was seen they caught hold of it as best they could. They begin to knock it, wishing to open it. She says to them from inside: "Gently, gently, there is someone alive inside here." After they had opened it she gave them a handsome present, and goes to an hotel, and dresses herself like a gentleman. She asks if there is anyone seriously ill in the town. They say to her: "For the last seven years the king's daughter is so." She goes off to seek flowers and herbs in the fields, and she makes acquaintance with the king's physicians; and one day she goes with them to the king's house, and as they come out she says to one of them: "I, I could cure that young lady." The king hears that, and bids her to come as soon as possible. At the first visit she gives her something to drink. As soon as she has drunk she moves her head. She gives her to drink a second time, and she sits up on the bed. The third time she gives her to drink she leaps right out of bed. Think what rejoicings there were in the house of the king! He did not know what to do to reward her, but she says to him that she wishes nothing, only she would be made governor of this city. She asks the names of the people at the court. They tell her a great many names, and that of Mr. Laur-Cantons among others. When she has got installed in her palace, she has Mr. Laur-Cantons brought up before her between two policemen. She asks him what he has done with his wife. He says to her that he knows nothing about her. She points to the gallows: "If you do not tell the truth, that shall be your reward." He tells her then how that a merchant had come to tempt him; how he had made a bet, and that he had come back with her gold chain, and then, having got into a passion, he had thrown her into the sea in a chest. She sends to fetch this merchant. He, too, tells how, in order not to lose all he had, and not being able to get into the house, a woman had brought him the chain. The merchant did not tell the truth at the first questioning--it was after having been threatened that he confessed it. She sends for the witch between eight policemen, and asks her how she had got the gold chain from the lady's house. She tells the whole truth as it had happened. As the governor had had seven barrels of powder placed one above the other, they put the witch on the top, and set fire to the barrels from below. The witch goes up in the air with the fire, and nobody sees her any more. They hang the merchant as well. Mr. Laur-Cantons was on his knees before the governor, begging pardon of him for his wicked actions. She pardons him, and made him governor and she remained governess. She sent for her father, and they lived very happily. If that is not true, may it happen (to me) like that. Louise Amyot, more than 70 years old. THE YOUNG SCHOOLBOY. Once upon a time there was a gentleman and lady. They had a child. The father was captain of a ship. The mother regularly sent her son to school, and when the father came back from his voyages he asked his child if he had learnt much at school. The mother answered, "No, no! not much." The father went off for another voyage. He comes home the second time. "My child, what have you learnt at school?" The child answers his father, "Nothing." "You have learnt nothing?" The captain goes to find the schoolmaster, and asks him if his child does not learn anything. "I cannot drive anything into that child's head." The boy comes up, and the father, asks him again what he has learnt at school. "This is all. (To understand) the song of the birds." "O, my son, the song of the birds! the song of the birds! Come, come on board ship with me." And he carries him off. While they were on the voyage a bird comes and settles on the end of the ship, singing, "Wirittitti, kirikiriki." "My son, come, come, instead of beginning by learning the art of a captain you have learned the song of birds. Do you know what this bird sings?" "Yes, my father. I know he sings that I am now under your orders, but you shall also be under mine." What does this captain do? He takes a barrel, knocks out the head, and puts his son into it. He closes up the barrel and throws it into the sea, and a storm casts it ashore. A king was walking there just at that moment, and he finds this barrel and sends for his men. They begin to try and break open the barrel, and the boy cries out from inside: "Gently, gently, there is someone inside." They open the barrel, and the boy comes out from inside. The king takes him home, and he marries the king's daughter. One day the father of this boy was caught in a great storm, and the captain is thrown by the tempest on the sea-shore. He went to the king, and saw his son. The son recognised the father, but the father did not recognise the son at all, and he became his own son's servant. One day he said to him: "Do you know who I am?" "No, sir." "I am such an one, your son. At such a time you threw me into the sea in a barrel, and now the bird's song has come true." And after that the father and the son lived together very happily. Estefanella Hirigaray. The following seems to be a variation of the same:-- THE SON WHO HEARD VOICES. Like many others in the world, there was a gentleman and lady. They had several children. There was one whom they did not love so much as they did the others, because he said that he heard a voice very often. He said also that this voice had told him that a father and a mother would be servants to their son, but without saying that it was they. When the mother heard that she got very angry, taking it for herself. They were very rich, and they had two men-servants. This mother told these servants to go with her son and kill him, and bring his heart back to the house. The next day she said to her son: "You must go for a walk to such a place with these servants, and you may stop there till twelve o'clock." The lad goes off quietly with the servants, and when they had gone a little distance, the two servants begin to talk loudly, and to dispute, and get angry. He goes up to them, and sees what they are quarrelling about. The one wished to kill him, and the other did not. They fought, and the one who did not wish to kill him got the better of the other. And they said that they would kill a big dog which they had with them, and that they would carry his heart to their mistress. Before the servants returned the mother had already begun to be sorry. Our young man wandered from place to place, and wandering like that, he said to himself that he must go to Rome. He meets with two men who tell him that they are going to Rome too, and they will make the journey together. They loved this young lad very much, because they saw that there was something in him different from the rest. When night came they all go to a house hidden in a thick forest. They ask shelter for the night. They tell them to enter, and give them a good supper. Our young lad hears the voice, and it says to him: "You are in a very unhappy place here. It would have been better if you had not come here." The other men said to him, "What is that? What is that?" "Nothing at all. It would have been better to have gone elsewhere." When they had finished supper, they show them to bed, but our young gentleman does not go to sleep. He hears in the middle of the night a great noise made by the robbers, who were returning home laden with silver. The woman said to them: "Go gently. We have three men here, and they say that one of them is very rich." Our young man hears that. He wakes his comrades, and they jump out of the window and escape. They walk on the whole day. When night comes they see a beautiful house, and they ask to be lodged there that night. They said to them: "Certainly, with pleasure, but you will not have much rest; we have a daughter who for seven years shrieks out in pain night and day." These men say to the young man: "Will not you cure her--you?" He said to them: "I will try." (The narrator had forgotten how this was done). They were very rich. When he had cured the young girl, this poor father said to him: "Sir, it is you who are now the master of this house. Give your orders, and whatever you wish shall be done." Our young gentleman thanks him very much, and tells him that he is going to Rome, but that he cannot say what he will do later after that. This young lady had a beautiful ring on her finger. The father cut this ring in two, and gave him one-half. They depart, and at length they arrive close to Rome, and as they come near all the bells begin to ring of themselves. Everyone comes out: "Where is he? What is this? It is the Holy Father [134] who must be coming!" They take our young gentleman and make him the Holy Father. The mother of this man was growing sadder and sadder, she was slowly languishing away, and they could no longer recognise her. She had never told her husband what she had done, but she asked him to go to Rome; and she ended by telling him what a terrible thing she had done, and that she believes that she will get pardon there, if he would go with her with the two servants who had also sinned. They arrive at Rome. This poor mother had such great grief, and such a weight at her heart that she wished to make her confession aloud in the middle of the church at Rome. [135] Chance willed it that her son was in this church. When he hears that he goes opening his arms to the arms of his mother, saying to her: "I forgive you, I am your son." The joy and the happiness kill the father and mother on the spot. He takes the two servants home with him, and gives to him who did not wish to kill him the half of the young lady's ring, and he married her, and lived happily in the midst of riches. He told the servant who wished to kill him to go to the mountain and to be a charcoal-burner, and he is still there making charcoal; and this charcoal which you see here was brought from his house. THE MOTHER AND HER (IDIOT) SON; OR, THE CLEVER THIEF. [136] Like many others in the world, there were a mother and her son; they were poor, and the young man, when he grew up, wished to go from home, to see if he could better his position. His mother lets him go with great reluctance. He goes on, and on, and on through terrible forests. He comes to a beautiful house, and asks if they want a servant. They tell him "Yes," and to come in; and then they tell him how they go at night to rob people, and sometimes to kill them; and they ask if he would go too. He says "Yes," and in the middle of the night he sees the chief of the robbers arrive, with all his company, laden with gold and silver; and he remained a long time with them. One day the chief said to him, "At such an hour a rich gentleman on horseback will pass by such a place, and you must go and rob him; and, if he will not give it up willingly, you must kill him." Our lad had had enough of this trade; but he told the chief that he would do it. He stays then, waiting for this gentleman, and at last he sees him coming. He presents himself before him, and says, "Your purse or your life!" The gentleman gives him his purse and all the money that he had, and he had a great deal. He said to him, "It is not enough yet. You must give me your fine clothes too, and your horse." They exchange clothes, and the gentleman goes off, very glad, although he had old clothes on, because he had spared him his life. Instead of returning to the robbers' house, what does our lad do? He goes off on horseback with his money to his mother's house. Everyone was astonished at his arrival, and that he had made his fortune so quickly. He goes to his mother, and judge of her joy! He tells her how it is that he has become so rich, and that it all happened far, far away. His mother told it to others, and at last this news comes to the ears of the mayor, who sends his servant to this young man to tell him to come to his house on the morrow without fault. He goes then, leaving his mother in tears. His mother told him to tell the mayor how he had made his fortune so quickly. He tells him what business he had pursued, but that it was very far away, and that he had never killed anybody. The mayor said to him, "If you do not steal my finest horse from my stable this very night, I will have you killed to-morrow." [137] This mayor was very rich, and he had a great many servants and a great many horses. There were three of them finer and more valuable than the others. Our lad goes home and consoles his mother. He asks her to give him his old clothes which he wore formerly, and, putting them over the others, he takes a big stick, and goes off to the mayor's, crawling along like an old man. He knocks at the door, and asks shelter for the night. A lad comes to him, and says-- "We shall not give you shelter in this house to-night. You may go on farther." But he begs so much, and asks him to give him at least a corner of the stable--that he does not know where to go to--that at last they let him enter, and give him a little straw (to lie down on). Our lad hears what they say to each other. Three lads were to stop till midnight on the three finest horses, and at midnight three other servants were to take their places. What does our lad do? They were asleep on their horses. As soon as he hears midnight, he goes and gives one of them a knock, and says to him, "It is midnight; go to bed." Half asleep, the lad goes off to bed; the others were still asleep on their horses. He mounts on the horse--he had chosen the finest--and opens the doors very gently, and goes off at a trot, without looking behind him. He goes home, and his mother is very delighted to see her son. The next day he goes to market to sell his horse. When the mayor gets up he goes to the stable, and sees that his finest horse is missing. The servants were sleeping on their horses, and the others in bed. He gets into a rage, and does not know what to do. He sends to the mother's to ask her where her son is. She replies that he is gone to sell a horse. They tell her that the mayor summons him immediately. The mother grows sad again, and tells her son what they have said to her, and off he goes. The mayor says to him, "What a fellow you are! You won the game yesterday, but if you do not steal from our oven to-night all the bread that is in it, it shall be all over with you." The mayor assembles all the municipal council and all his friends, thinking he would have some fun while guarding his oven. They had dances, and music, and games, and brilliant lights, and all sorts of amusements, and all this in front of the oven. What does our lad do? He takes a little hammer, and goes behind the oven. He makes a hole, and by that takes out all the loaves, and puts them in his basket, and goes home. The next day the mayor was proud because they had not stolen his loaves, and because they had so well guarded the door of the oven, and he sends his servant to fetch a loaf for breakfast. When she opens the door of the oven, she sees the sun through the other end of the oven. Judge of their astonishment! The mayor was in a red-hot passion. He sends to fetch the lad. They go and ask his mother where her son is. She answers, "Selling bread." And they tell the mayor. He sends to tell her to tell her son to come to him as soon as he comes home. The poor mother is again in great distress. When her son arrives, she tells him the message, and off he goes. The mayor says to him, "Yesterday, too, you have hit the mark; but you have not finished yet. This very night you must steal the sheets which we have under us in our bed, otherwise your life shall be put an end to." [138] He goes home, and he makes an image of himself from his old clothes; and, when night is come, he goes off dragging it to the mayor's. The mayor had placed guards at all the windows and doors, with arms. Our lad ties his image to a long stick, and, by drawing a cord, he hoists it against the wall. When the guards see a man climbing up the wall near a window, they fire, and all begin to cry out "Hurrah!" At this noise the mayor leaps out of bed, thinking that they have killed him, and that he must go and see him too. Our lad takes advantage of this moment to enter the house, and he goes to the mayor's bed, and says-- "It is cold, it is cold;" and keeps pulling and pulling all the bed-clothes to his side. When he has all, he says to the lady: "I must go and look again, to be quite sure, and to see if they have buried him." The wife said to him, "Stop here then; you will come back dead of cold." He goes off, and escapes very quickly, as well as he can, with the sheets. The others are out-doing each other, one beating, the other stabbing, the other pulling about (the image). At last they go in-doors, quite out of breath. All are pleased, and proud that they have their lad at last down there. The mayor goes to bed, and his wife says to him: "Now, at least, you will remain here without any more of this going and coming down there, and making me all cold." "I have not been going and coming. I!" "Yes, yes; you were certainly here just now, you too." He gets into bed, and he keeps turning and moving about, not being able to find the sheets. At last, getting impatient, he lights the candle, and he sees that the sheets are not there. Judge of their anger; they did not know what to do. The wife said to him: "You had better leave that man alone, or some misfortune will happen to us." He will not listen to anything, and goes off. He sends to fetch him as soon as daylight comes. They find his mother, and ask her where her son is. She answers: "He has gone to sell some sheets." They say to her, "You will send him to the mayor's when he comes home." And this poor woman is again in great trouble, for at last (she thinks) they will make an end of her son. She sends him again to the mayor's, who says to him: "This time you shall not escape me. If you do not steal all the money of my brother the priest, you are done for." [139] The brother of the mayor was rector of this town. When evening came our lad hides himself in the church, and dresses himself in the finest of the church robes, (used only) for the highest festivals. He lights all the candles and the lamps, and at midnight he begins to ring all the bells at full swing--dilin, don; dilin, don, don; dilin, don. The rector comes running with his servant to see what is happening in the church, and they see on the high altar someone, who says to them: "Prostrate yourselves. I am the good God. I am come to fetch you. You must die; but before dying you must bring here all the money, and all the riches that you have in your houses." The priest goes and brings everything. He makes the priest go to the top of the tower, and says to him: "You are now going into purgatory, but afterwards you will go to heaven." He makes him get into a sack, takes hold of one end, and drags him down the stairs, bumping, zimpi eta zampa, on all the steps. He cried, "Ay! ay!" and he says to him: "This is nothing; soon you will be in heaven." And he carries him like that to his brother's chicken-house, and leaves him there. The next morning the maid goes to feed the fowls. She sees a sack, and touches it, and the sack moves. The girl goes off running to tell her mistress what she has seen. Her mistress goes and touches it, and the sack does the same thing. She is frozen with fright, and goes to her husband, and says: "You see that I told you right to let that man alone. At present, what will become of us? What can there be in that sack?" The gentleman immediately sends someone to fetch this lad. He was just at that moment at home, and they tell him that the mayor orders him to come directly. They tell him to open the sack. He touches it, and the sack gives a leap; and he says that he will not open it, not for ten thousand francs. "I will give you ten thousand francs." "No! not for twenty thousand." "I will give them you." "No, no, no! not even for forty thousand." "I will give you thirty thousand." "No, no, no, no! not even for forty thousand." "And for fifty thousand?" He agreed to open it, and he hands them their brother, the priest, whom he had left without a sou. After having got his fifty thousand francs, our lad went off well satisfied to his home, and lived there rich with his mother; and the mayor lived with his brother, the priest, poorer than he was before. And if they had lived well, they would have died well too. JUAN DEKOS, [140] THE BLOCKHEAD (TONTUA). Like many others in the world, there was a gentleman and lady who had a son. When he was grown up his father found that (his intellect) was not awakened, although he had finished his education. What does he do? He buys a ship for him, and takes a captain and a crew, and loads the ship with sand, and sends his son in it as master. [141] They all set off, and go very, very far away, and they come to a country where there was no sand. They sell theirs very dear, and our Juan Dekos went to take a walk in that place. One day, passing before the door of the church, he sees that all passers-by used to spit on something; he goes up and asks why they do that. They say to him: "It is a dead man who is there, and if no one pays his debts, he will remain there until he rots away." [142] What does Juan Dekos do? With all the money that he had he pays this man's debts. The whole crew and the officers were in a red-hot rage, because they had all their money there. He goes back again with his ship, and they arrived in their own city. The father from a distance had recognised his son's ship, and comes to meet him. The sailors from a long way off shout out to him what he had done with the money. The father was not pleased, but he sends the ship off again loaded with iron. They go on, and at length arrive at a place where he sells his iron for a great deal of money. When they were walking about in this city, he sees Christians being sold by the savages in the market-place. There were eight of them for sale; and he buys all the eight, and employs all the money which he had made with his iron in buying them. He sends seven of them to their own homes, and keeps with him a young girl whose name was Marie Louise. She was very beautiful. He returns home with his ship, and his crew, and Marie Louise. The father comes to meet him, and the sailors tell him before Juan Dekos what he had done with the money. His father was very angry, and will not give anything more to his son; he may do what he likes. Juan Dekos had a portrait of Marie Louise made for the figure-head of his ship; and the men agree to go to the country of Marie Louise. They set out then. The second in command of the ship was lame, and he was very jealous of Juan Dekos and of Marie Louise. He did not know what to do. One day he sent for Juan Dekos on deck, saying that he wished to show him a strange fish that was in the water. When he had got him quite close to him, he throws him into the sea. Nobody was there when he did that. When the meal-time comes they all asked where Juan Dekos was, and nobody knew what was become of him. The lame man was delighted, thinking that Marie Louise would be his. He pays her all sorts of attention. Juan Dekos was taken by an angel and placed upon a rock, and he brought him there every day what was necessary for his maintenance. The ship at length arrived in the country of Marie Louise. As she was the king's daughter everybody recognised her, and that easily, from a distance by her portrait. The king was quickly told of it, and goes to meet his daughter, and you may imagine what rejoicings he made. He has all the men conducted to his house and treats them all well. Marie Louise tells how she had been bought by Juan Dekos, and how good he had been to her, and that she does not know what had become of him. She said also that the second officer had taken very great care of her. This second officer wished beyond all things to marry her, and the father wished it too, to show his gratitude, because it was he who had brought his daughter back to him, and because he had not known Juan Dekos. They tormented Marie Louise so much that she promised that, at the end of a year and a day, if Juan Dekos did not make his appearance, she would marry him. A year and a day passed, and there was no news of Juan Dekos. They were to be married then, and Juan Dekos was still upon his rock. The sea-weed was growing upon his clothes, and he had a monstrous beard. And the angel [143] said to him: "Marie Louise is married to-day. Would you like to be there?" He says, "Yes." "You must give me your word of honour that, at the end of a year, you will give me half the child that Marie Louise will bear to you." He promises it, and he takes him and carries him to the door of Marie Louise's house. This angel was the soul which he had saved of the man who was lying at the gates of the church for his debts. He asks for alms. Marie Louise's father was very charitable; they therefore give him something. He asks again if they would not let him go in to warm himself at the fire. They tell him "No," that he would be in the way on that day. They go and ask the master, and the master bids them to let him come in and to give him a good dinner. Marie Louise was already married when Juan Dekos arrived. He had a handsome handkerchief which Marie Louise had given him, and when she passed he showed it in such a way that she could not help seeing it. She saw it clearly, and after looking closely at him she recognises Juan Dekos. Marie Louise goes to find her father, and says to him: "Papa, you must do me a pleasure." "Yes, yes, if I can do so." "You see that poor man? I wish to have him to dine with us to-day." The father says, "That cannot be; he is filthy and disgusting." "I will wash him, and I will put him some of your new clothes on." The father then says, "Yes," and he makes them do as Marie Louise wished. They place him at table, but Marie Louise alone recognised him. After dinner they asked Juan Dekos to tell a story in his turn like the rest. He says, "Yes, but if you wish to hear my story you must shut all the doors and give me all the keys." They give them to him. He begins: "There was a father and a mother who had a son who was not very bright, and they decide that they must send him to sea. They load a ship with sand for him. He sells this sand very well, and pays the heavy debts of a dead man whom they were keeping at the church doors (without burial)." When the second officer saw and heard that, he perceived that his life was in danger, and that it was all up with him, and he begs the king for the key of the door, saying that he must go out; but he could not give it him, so he was forced to remain, and not at all at his ease. Juan Dekos begins again: "His father loaded the ship again with iron, and he sells it and bought with this money seven Christians, and," pointing to the king's daughter, "there is the eighth." The king knew this story already from his daughter. What do they do then? When they see how wicked the second officer had been, they had a cartload of faggots brought into the middle of the market-place, they put a shirt of sulphur upon him, and burn him in the midst of the place. Juan Dekos and Marie Louise marry and are very happy. They had a child, and at the end of a year an angel comes to fetch the half of it. Juan Dekos was very sorry, but as he had given his word he was going to cut it in half. The angel seizes him by the arm, and says to him: "I see your obedience; I leave you your child." If they lived well, they died well too. VARIATION OF THE ABOVE. JUAN DE KALAIS. [144] As there are many in the world, and as there will be, there was a mother and her son. They had a small fortune. Nothing would please the boy but that he should go and learn to be a sailor. The mother allows him to do so, and when he was passed as captain she gives him a ship with a valuable cargo. The lad starts off and comes to a city. While he was there he sees a crowd of men on a dung-heap, who were dragging an object, some on one side and others on the other. He approaches and sees that they have a dead man there. He asks what they are doing like that for, and why they do not bury him. They tell him that he has left debts, and that they will not bury him, even though he should fall to pieces. Juan de Kalais asks, "And if anyone should pay his debts, would you bury him then?" They say, "Yes." Juan de Kalais has it cried throughout the city that whoever has to receive anything of that man should show himself. As you may suppose, many came forward, even those who had nothing to receive. Our Juan de Kalais sold his cargo, and still, not having enough, he sold his ship too. He returns home and tells his mother what he has done. His mother was very angry, and said that he would never grow rich if he acted like that. But, as he wished much to go again, his mother bought for him a wretched little ship and loads it with oakum, and tar, and resin, and he goes on his voyage. He meets with a large man-of-war, and the captain tells him that he must buy of him a charming young lady. Juan de Kalais tells him that he has no money, but the other captain (he was an Englishman) tells him to give him his cargo at least. Juan de Kalais says to him: "That is not worth much." But the English captain says to him that it is, that it just happens to be most valuable to him, and they make the exchange. Our Juan de Kalais goes to his mother's house, and his mother was more angry than before, saying she had nothing now with which to load his ship. She had nothing, and would give him nothing; that instead of getting rich they had become poor, and that it would have been better if he had stopped at home. After some days he married the young lady whom the captain had given him, and as Juan de Kalais was in poverty and distress, not having any cargo, his wife told him that he had no need of cargo--that she will give him a flag and a handkerchief, and she gave him her ring and told him to go to the roadstead of Portugal and to fire three rounds of cannon; and, when people came, to tell them that he must see the king. (She added) that she was called Marie Madeleine. Our Juan de Kalais sets off and arrives in the roadstead of Portugal, and fires his three rounds of cannon. Everybody is astonished at hearing this noise. The king himself comes on board the ship and asks how they dared to fire, and that everyone is a prisoner. [145] He answers that he brings news of Marie Madeleine, and he shows him the flag with her portrait and the handkerchief. The king did not know where he was with joy, and he tells him that he must go directly and fetch her. The king had with him an old general [146] who had wished to marry Marie Madeleine, but she would not; and he asks the king if he might not go too with him--that he would do it quicker. The king told him to go then if he wished, and they set out. When they were at sea the old general said to Juan de Kalais one day: "Look, Juan de Kalais, what a fine fish there is here!" He looks and does not see anything. The old general says to him again: "Stoop down your head, and look here." And at the same time he throws him into the sea. The old general goes on his voyage, and takes the young lady and goes back to the king, and makes him believe that Juan de Kalais was drowned, and he still wished to marry Marie Madeleine; but she would by no means consent, (saying) that she had been married to Juan de Kalais, and that she was so deeply sorry for him that she would remain seven years without going out of her room. As her father wished her to marry this general she decided to do so then. Let us now go to the poor Juan de Kalais. He remained seven years on a rock, eating sea-weed and drinking the sea-water. There came to him a fox, [147] who said to him: "You do not know, Juan de Kalais, the daughter of the King of Portugal is going to be married to-morrow. What would you give to go there?" "The half of what I have at present, and the half of what I shall have later on." The fox takes him and carries him to the door of the house of the King of Portugal, and leaves him there. Juan de Kalais asks if they want a servant. They tell him that they will have work for him too--that they will have a wedding in the house to-morrow. The lady's maid recognised Juan de Kalais, and goes running to tell it to the queen, who will not believe it--(she says) that he was drowned. The servant, after having looked at him again, assures her that it is he; and the princess, to put an end to the dispute, goes off to see him, and quickly assures herself that it is he, seeing the ring that she had given him. She throws herself into his arms, and makes him come with her to the king. The king said to her that they would have the wedding feast just the same. While they were at table the king asked Juan de Kalais to tell them some story. Juan de Kalais says "Yes," and takes out his sword, and puts it on the table, saying, "Whoever speaks shall have news of my sword." He begins to tell how he had saved a man by selling all that he had and paying his debts; how afterwards he had made an exchange for a young lady--that in order to save her he had given all his cargo; then how he had been betrayed by one of his friends and thrown into the water, and that he had lived on sea-weed and sea-water. When the king had heard that he ordered the old general to be arrested, and has him burnt immediately in the midst of the market-place. The king gives Juan de Kalais all his riches, and they lived very happily. At the end of a year they had a fine boy, and lo! the fox comes and tells him that he has come to look for what he has promised him, and he begins to make a division. If there were two gold chains he put one aside, and of all that there was the same thing. When they had finished the division the fox said to him that there was still something--that he had told him it was to be the half of all he might possess. He remembers then his child, and takes out his sword to cut it in half, when the fox with his paw knocks the sword out of his hand, saying that it is enough; that he sees what a sterling good man he is, and that he wants nothing; that he (the fox) is the soul which he had saved by paying his debts, and that he is now in Heaven, thanks to him, and that he will keep his place and that of all his family ready there; and having said that he flew away, taking the form of a pigeon. Laurentine, Learnt it from her mother. THE DUPED PRIEST. [148] Like many others in the world, there was a man and his wife. The man's name was Petarillo. He was fond of sporting. One day he caught two leverets, and the parish priest came to see him. The husband said to his wife--"If the priest comes again you will let one of the hares go, as if to meet me, tying, at the same time, a letter round its neck, and I will tie another letter to the other hare." The priest goes to the house one day, and asks where the husband is. The woman says: "I will send one of the hares with a letter to fetch him. No matter where he is, she will find him; he has trained them so well." And she lets one of the hares loose. They grew impatient at the long delay, and had given it up, when at last the husband came. His wife says to him, "I sent the hare." He answers, "I have it here." The astonished priest says to him, "You must sell me that hare, I beg you; you have trained it so well." A second time he says, "You must sell it me." And the man said to him, "I will not give it you for less than five hundred francs." "Oh! you will give it me for three hundred?" "No, no." At last he gives it him for four hundred. The priest tells his housekeeper: "If any one comes, you will let the hare loose; she will find me, no matter where I may be." A man comes to the parsonage to say that a sick person is asking for the priest. She immediately lets the hare loose, being quite sure that that would be enough. But the priest did not return. The man got tired of waiting, and went off. The housekeeper told the priest that she had let the hare loose, and that she had seen nothing more of it. In a rage, he goes to the huntsman's house. But Petarillo, seeing him coming in a rage, gives a wine-skin to his wife, and says to her: "Put this under your jacket. When the priest is here, I will plunge a knife into you in a rage, and you will fall as if you were dead; and when I shall begin to play the flute, you will get up as if yon were alive." The priest arrives in a great rage, (they all three dispute), and the man stabs his wife. She falls on the ground, and the priest says to him: "Do you know what you have done?" He replies, "It is nothing; I will soon put it to rights." And he takes his flute, and begins to play. She gets up all alive again, and the priest says to him: "Do sell me that flute, I beg you." He answers that it is of great value, and that he will not sell it. "But you must sell it me. How much do you want for it? I will give you all you ask." "Five hundred francs." And he gives it him. The priest's housekeeper used sometimes to laugh at him. So when he came home he wanted to frighten her a little; and, as usual, she begins to make fun of him; and he stabs her with the large carving-knife. His sister says to him, "Do you know what you have done? You have killed your housekeeper!" "No, no! I can put that to rights." He begins to play on the flute, but it does no good at all. He rushes off in a rage to the huntsman's house, and he ties the huntsman in a sack, and hauls him off to throw him into the sea. As he passes near the church, the bell begins to ring for Mass, and he leaves the man there till he has said Mass. Meanwhile a shepherd passes. He asks him what he is doing there. He says to him, "The priest is going to throw me into the sea because I will not marry the king's daughter." The other said to him, "I will put myself in your place, and I will deliver you. When you have tied me up, go away with my flock." When the priest returned, after having said Mass, he takes up the sack, and the man says, "I will marry the king's daughter." "I will marry you presently." And he throws him into the sea. The good priest was returning home, when he sees the man with the sheep, and says to him, "Where did you get that flock from?" "From the bottom of the sea. There are plenty there. Don't you see that white head, how it lifts itself above the sea?" "Yes; and I, too, must have a flock like that." "Come close to the edge, then." And our huntsman pushes him into the sea. Gagna-haurra Hirigaray. We have other tales about priests, all in the same spirit as this. The Basques are a deeply religious people, and are generally on the best terms with the clergy; but they will not be dominated by them. Any attempt at undue interference in their national games or customs is sure to be resented; of this we have known several instances--some rather amusing ones. G. H., the narrator of the above tale, did not know a word of French. Some of Campbell's stories begin a little like these, e.g., Vol. I., p. 95, Macdonald's tale--"There was a king and a knight, as there was and will be, and as grows the fir tree, some of it crooked and some of it straight, and he was King of Eirinn." The ending, "If they had lived well, they would have died well too," recals a Latin inscription still occasionally to be seen on Basque houses:-- "Memento tua novissima, Et non peccabis in æternum." This is on two houses in Baigorry, and on one at Ascarrat, and probably on many others. (B.)--CONTES DES FÉES, DERIVED DIRECTLY FROM THE FRENCH. We do not suppose that the tales here given are the only ones in our collection which are derived more or less directly from or through the French. Several of those previously given under different heads we believe to have been so. The question, however, still remains: Whence did Madame d'Aulnoy, Perrault, and the other writers of the charming "Contes des Fées," derive their materials? Place their talent as high as we may, we still believe them to have been incapable of inventing them. Combine, transpose, dress up, refine--all this they did in an incomparable manner. Some portions they may have culled, directly or indirectly, from Eastern stories; their own imagination may have filled up many a blank, expanded many a hint, clothed many a half-dressed body in the habit of their own times--as heraldic painters formed grotesque monsters by selecting and putting together parts from many diverse animals; but to create, even in fancy, was beyond their line, if it is not altogether beyond the power of man. Therefore, when we hear these tales related by peasants ignorant of French, we may still ask how far they have learnt them at second or third hand from the printed works, and how far they are reciting the crude materials out of which those works were originally composed? This is a question which can only be fully answered when all the legends in all the languages and patois of France shall have been collected and compared. Meanwhile, we beg our readers to accept these few tales as a small and not very valuable stone contributed towards the erection of so vast an edifice. ASS'-SKIN. [149] Like many others in the world, there was a king and a queen. One day there came to them a young girl who wished for a situation. They asked her her name, and she said "Faithful." [150] The king said to her, "Are you like your name?" and she said "Yes." She stopped there seven years. Her master gave her all the keys, even that of the treasure. One day, when the king and queen were out, Faithful goes to the fountain, and she sees seven robbers coming out of the house. Judge what a state this poor girl was in! She runs straight to the treasury, and sees that more than half the treasure is missing. She did not know what would become of her--she was all of a tremble. When the king and queen came home she told them what had happened, but they would not believe her, and they put her in prison. She stays there a year. She kept saying that she was not in fault, but they would not believe her. The king condemns her to death, and sends her with four men to the forest to kill her, telling them to bring him her heart. They go off, but these men thought it a pity to kill this young girl, for she was very pretty, and she told them that she was innocent of this robbery; and they say to her: "If you will not come any more into this land, we will spare your life." She promises them that she will not be seen again in those parts. The men see an ass, and they tell her that they will carry its heart to the king. The young girl said to them: "Flay this ass, I pray you; and, in order that no one may know me, I will never take this skin off me." The men (do so), and go off to the king, and the young girl goes to look for some shelter. At nightfall she finds a beautiful house. She asks if they want some one to keep the geese. They tell her, "Yes, yes, yes." They put her along with the geese, and tell her that she must go with them every day to such a field. She went out very early in the morning and came back late. It was the king's house, and it was the queen-mother and her son who lived there. After some time there appeared to her one day an old woman, who called to her: "Faithful, you have done penance enough. The son of the king is going to give some grand feasts, and you must go to them. This evening you will ask madame permission, and you will tell her that you will give her all the news of the ball if she will let you go for a little while. And, see, here is a nut. All the dresses and things you want will come out of that. You will break it as you go to the place of the festival." [151] That evening she asked permission of her mistress to go and see the festival which the king is going to give, for a short time only, and that she will return directly and tell her all that she has seen there. Her mistress said, "Yes." That evening she goes then. On her way she breaks the nut, and there comes out of it a silver robe. She puts it on, and goes there, and immediately she enters all the world looks at her. The king is bewitched, he does not quit her for an instant, and they always dance together. He pays no attention at all to the other young ladies. They enjoy the refreshments very much. Some friends of the king call him, and he has to go there; and in this interval Faithful makes her escape to the house. She tells the queen how that a young girl had come to the ball, how she had dazzled everybody, and especially the king, who paid attention to her alone, but that she had escaped. When the son comes to the house, his mother says to him: "She escaped from you then, your young lady? She did not care for you, doubtless." He says to his mother, "Who told you that?" "Ass'-skin; she wished to go and see it." The king goes to where Faithful was and gives her two blows with his slipper, saying to her: "If you return there again I will kill you on the spot." The next day Ass'-skin goes with her geese, and there appears to her again the old woman. She tells her that she ought to go to the ball again this evening--that her mistress would give her permission. "Here is a walnut; you have there all that is necessary to dress yourself with. The king will ask you your name--Braf-le-mandoufle." [152] In the evening she asks permission of her mistress, but she is astonished (at her asking), and says to her: "You do not know what the king has said--that if he catches you he will kill you on the spot?" "I am not afraid. He will be sure not to catch me." "Go, then." She goes off, and on the way she breaks the walnut, and there comes out of it a golden robe. She goes in. The king comes with a thousand compliments, and asks her how she had escaped the evening before without saying anything to him, and that he had been very much hurt at it. They amuse themselves thoroughly. The king has eyes for her alone. He asks her her name. She tells him, "Braf-le-mandoufle." They feast themselves well, and some friends having called to him he goes to them, and the young lady escapes. Ass'-skin goes to tell the queen that yesterday evening's young lady had come, but still more beautiful--that she had escaped in the very middle of the ball. She goes off to her geese. The king comes to his house. His mother says to him: "She came then, the young lady you love? but she only loves you so-so, since she has gone off in this fashion." "Who told you that?" "Ass'-skin." He goes off to her and gives her two kicks with his slipper, and says to her: "Woe to you if you go there again; I will kill you on the very spot." She goes off to her geese, and the old woman comes to her again and tells her to ask permission again for this evening--that she must go to the dance. She gives her a peach, and tells her that she will have there all that is necessary to dress herself with. She goes then to ask her mistress if she will give her permission, like last night, to go to the ball. She says to her: "Yes, yes, I will give you leave. But are you not afraid lest the king should catch you? He has said that he will kill you if you go there." "I am not afraid, because I am sure that he will not catch me. Yesterday he looked for me again, but he could not catch me." She goes off then. On the way she opens her peach, and finds there a dress entirely of diamonds, and if she was beautiful before, judge what she is now! She shone like the sun. The king was plunged into joy when he saw her. He was in an ecstasy. He did not wish to dance, but they sat down at their ease on beautiful arm-chairs, and with their refreshments before them they passed such a long time together. The king asked her to give him her promise of marriage. The young lady gives him her word, and the king takes his diamond ring off his finger and gives it to her. His friends call him away to come quickly to see something very rare, and off he goes, leaving his lady. She takes advantage of this opportunity to escape. [153] She tells her mistress all that has passed--how that this young lady had come with a dress of diamonds, that all the world was dazzled by her beauty, that they could not even look at her she shone so brightly, that the king did not know where he was for happiness, that they had given each other their promise of marriage, and that the king had given her his diamond ring, but that the best thing of all was that to-day again she has escaped him. The king comes in at that very instant. His mother says to him: "She has not, she certainly has not, any wish for you. She has gone off with your diamond ring. Where will you go and look for her? You do not know where she lives. Where will you ask for a young lady who has such a name as 'Braf-le-mandoufle!' She has given you her promise of marriage too; but she does not wish to have you, since she has acted like that." Our king did not even ask his mother who has told her that. He went straight to bed thoroughly ill, and so Ass'-skin did not have her two kicks that evening. The queen was in great trouble at seeing her son ill like that. She was continually turning over in her head who this young lady might be. She said to her son, "Is this young lady our Ass'-skin? How else could she have known that you had given your promise to one another, and that you had given her the ring too? She must have been very close to you. Did you see her?" He says, "No," but remains buried in thought. His mother says, "She has a very pretty face under her ass'-skin." And she says that she must send for her, and that he must have a good look at her too; that he shall have some broth brought up by her. She sends for Ass'-skin to the kitchen, has the broth made for her son, and Ass'-skin puts in the middle of the bread the ring which the king had given her. The lady had her well dressed, and she goes to the king. The king, after having seen her, was still doubtful. He drank his broth; but when he puts the bread into his mouth he finds something (hard), and is very much astonished at seeing his ring. He was ill no longer. He goes and runs to his mother to tell her his joy that he has found his lady. He wishes to marry directly, and all the kings of the neighbourhood are invited to the feast; and, while they were dining, everyone had some fine news to relate. They ask the bride, too, if she had not something to tell them. She says "Yes," but that she cannot tell what she knows--that it would not please all at the table. Her husband tells her to speak out boldly; he draws his sword, and says, "Whosoever shall speak a word shall be run through with this sword." She then tells how a poor girl was servant at a king's house; how she remained there seven years; that they liked her very much, and treated her with confidence, even to giving her the keys of the treasure. One day, when the king and his wife were out, robbers entered, and stole almost all the treasure. The king would not believe that robbers had come. He puts the young girl in prison for a whole year, and at the end of that time he sends her to execution, telling the executioners to bring her heart to the house. The executioners were better than the king; they believed in her innocence, and, after having killed an ass, they carried its heart to the king; "and for the proof, it is I who was servant to this king." The bridegroom says to her, "Who can this king be? Is it my uncle?" The lady says, "I do not know if he is your uncle, but it is that gentleman there." The bridegroom takes his sword and kills him on the spot, saying to his wife, "You shall not be afraid of him any more." They lived very happily. Some time afterwards they had two children, a boy and a girl. When the elder was seven years old he died, telling his father and mother that he was going to Heaven to get a place there ready for them. At the end of a week the other child dies too, and she says to them that she, too, is going to Heaven, and that she will keep their place ready; that they, too, would quickly go to them. And, as she had said, at the end of a year, at exactly the very same time, both the gentleman and lady died, and they both went to Heaven. Laurentine. We have four other variations of the above story, written down, with others, that we heard, but did not copy out. One, which much resembles the above, excepting in the commencement, opens with the proposal of a king's son to marry one of the three daughters of another king. This king asks his three daughters (like King Lear) how much they love him. The eldest says, "As much as I do my little finger." That did not please him. The second says, "As much as my middle finger." The youngest says, "As much as the bread loves the salt." In a rage the father sends her into the forest, with two servants, to be killed. They spare her, and carry the horse's heart to the king, and the girl lives in the forest "on the plants which the birds brought her, and on the flowers which the bees brought her." The king's son finds her there while hunting, takes her home, and marries her. At the wedding feast she gives her father bread without salt, and then discovers herself, and all is made right, and they live all happily, except the two sisters, who remain old maids. Two others open like Campbell's "The King who Wished to Marry his Daughter." A king loses his wife, who on her deathbed makes him promise only to marry some one just like her. This is, of course, her daughter. The daughter will not, and takes counsel of her godmother. She bids her ask for a wedding dress made of the wings of flies; but this impossibility is performed. Then the daughter escapes--in the one tale in a ship, in the other on foot--and takes a place as servant. The king has a ball; the old woman appears, and gives her the nut with the dresses, etc. But in one of these tales, on the wedding-day she was more handsomely dressed than ever before, "and think! they had their dresses made for each other"--i.e., they dress each other! "I don't understand how it is," said the narrator, "but the story says so." Our fifth version is short, and, as it puts the step-mother in an unusual light, we give it entire:-- THE STEP-MOTHER AND THE STEP-DAUGHTER. A father and his daughter were living together. The daughter told her father to marry again. The father said, "Why? you will be unhappy." "It is all the same to me; I prefer to see you happy." And after some time he marries again. This lady asked her husband to give her full power over this young girl to do what she will with her. The husband consents, and does not think any more about her; he did not even see her again. This lady says to the young girl, "If you do all I tell you, you will be the better for it." The king lived near their house, and one day her step-mother gave her the keys of the king's house and told her to go at such an hour of the night into the king's bed-room, "and without waking him you will bring me back his sash." The daughter did not like it at all, but in spite of that she goes off, and without any person seeing her, she returns home with the king's girdle. The next day the step-mother says to her step-daughter, "You must go again, and you must bring the king's watch chain." While she was taking it, the king moved in his bed, and the young girl is so frightened that she runs off, and loses her shoe at the door of the king's room. At the end of some days they hear that the king has made a proclamation that he will go from house to house with a shoe, and that she whom it fits perfectly shall be his wife. The king goes looking and looking, first of all, in the houses of the rich; but he had said that he would go into all the houses. He goes then to this gentleman's who had married again, because it was close at hand. The persons of his suite asked him why he went there, for they were only poor people. The king will go all the same. He finds this lady, who says that they are poor, and that she is ashamed to receive the king in her bed-room; but it was there she had her step-daughter very nicely dressed, with only one shoe on her feet. She was dazzling with beauty, and the king finds her very much to his taste. They are married immediately; he takes the father and step-mother to his house, and they all live happily, and this step-daughter owed her good fortune to her step-mother. Louise Lanusse. There are two curious versions of these tales in Bladé's "Contes Populaires Recueillis en Agenais" (Paris, Baer, 1874), Nos. I. and VIII. Those who wish to compare others may follow up the references there given by Reinhold Köhler, on pp. 145 and 153; also those given at pp. 44 and 47 of Brueyre's "Contes Populaires de la Grande Bretagne" (Paris, Hachette, 1875). BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. [154] As there are many in the world in its state now, there was a king who had three daughters. He used continually to bring handsome presents to his two elder daughters, but did not pay any attention at all to his youngest daughter, and yet she was the prettiest and most amiable. The king kept going from fair to fair, and from feast to feast, and from everywhere he used to bring something for the two eldest daughters. One day, when he was going to a feast, he said to his youngest daughter: "I never bring anything home for you; tell me then what you want and you shall have it." She said to her father: "And I do not want anything." "Yes, yes, I am going to bring you something." "Very well then, bring me a flower." He goes off, and is busy buying and buying; for one a hat, for the other a beautiful piece of stuff for a dress, and for the first again a shawl; and he was returning home, when in passing before a beautiful castle, he sees a garden quite full of flowers, and he says to himself: "What! I was going home without a flower for my daughter; here I shall have plenty of them." He takes some then, and as soon as he has done so, a voice says to him: "Who gave you permission to take that flower? As you have three daughters, if you do not bring me one of them before the year be finished, you shall be burnt wherever you are--you, and your whole kingdom." The king goes off home. He gives his elder daughters their presents, and her nosegay to the youngest. She thanks her father. After a certain time this king became sad. His eldest daughter said to him: "What is the matter with you?" He says to her: "If one of my daughters will not go to such a spot before the end of the year, I shall be burned." His eldest daughter answers him, "Be burned if you like; as for me, I shall not go. I have no wish at all to go there. Settle it with the others." The second also asks him, "You seem very sad, papa; what is the matter with you?" He told her how he is bound to send one of his daughters to such a place before the end of the year, otherwise he should be burned. This one too says to him, "Manage your own business as you like, but do not reckon upon me." The youngest, after some days, said to him, "What is the matter with you, my father, that you are so sad? Has someone done you some hurt?" He said to her, "When I went to get your nosegay, a voice said to me, 'I must have one of your daughters before the year be completed,' [155] and now I do not know what I must do. It told me that I shall be burned." This daughter said to him, "My father, do not be troubled about it. I will go." And she sets out immediately in a carriage. She arrives at the castle and goes in, and she hears music and sounds of rejoicing everywhere, and yet she did not see anyone. She finds her chocolate ready (in the morning), and her dinner the same. She goes to bed, and still she does not see anyone. The next morning a voice says to her: "Shut your eyes; I wish to place my head on your knees for a moment." "Come, come; I am not afraid." There appears then an enormous serpent. Without intending it, the young lady could not help giving a little shudder. An instant after the serpent went away; and the young lady lived very happily, without lacking anything. One day the voice asked her if she did not wish to go home. She answers, "I am very happy here. I have no longing for it." "Yes, if you like, you may go for three days." He gives her a ring, and says to her, "If that changes colour, I shall be ill, and if it turns to blood, I shall be in great misery." [156] The young lady sets out for her father's house. Her father was very glad (to see her). Her sisters said to her: "You must be happy there. You are prettier than you were before. With whom do you live there?" She told them, "With a serpent." They would not believe her. The three days flew by like a dream, and she forgot her serpent. The fourth day she looked at her ring, and she saw that it was changed. She rubs it with her finger, and it begins to bleed. Seeing that she goes running to her father, and says to him that she is going. She arrives at the castle, and finds everything sad. The music will not play--everything was shut up. She called the serpent (his name was Azor, and hers Fifine). She kept on calling and crying out to him, but Azor appeared nowhere. After having searched the whole house, after having taken off her shoes, she goes to the garden, and there too she cries out. She finds a corner of the earth in the garden quite frozen, and immediately she makes a great fire over this spot, and there Azor comes out, and he says to her: [157] "You had forgotten me, then. If you had not made this fire, it would have been all up with me." Fifine said to him, "Yes, I had forgotten you, but the ring made me think of you." Azor said to her, "I knew what was going to happen; that is why I gave you the ring." And coming into the house, she finds it as before, all full of rejoicings--the music was playing on all sides. Some days after that Azor said to her: "You must marry me." Fifine gives no answer. He asks her again like that three times, and still she remained silent, silent. The whole house becomes sad again. She has no more her meals ready. Again Azor asks her if she will marry him. Still she does not answer, and she remains like that in darkness several days without eating anything, and she said to herself, "Whatever it shall cost me I must say, Yes." When the serpent asks her again, "Will you marry me?" she answers, "Not with the serpent, but with the man." As soon as she had said that the music begins as before. Azor says to her that she must go to her father's house and get all things ready that are necessary, and they will marry the next day. The young lady goes as he had told her. She says to her father that she is going to be married to the serpent to-morrow, (and asks him) if he will prepare everything for that. The father consents, but he is vexed. Her sisters, too, ask her whom she is going to marry, and they are astounded at hearing that it is with a serpent. Fifine goes back again, and Azor says to her: "Which would you prefer, from the house to the church, serpent, or from the church to the house, (serpent)?" Fifine says to him, "From the house to the church, serpent." Azor says to her, "I, too." A beautiful carriage comes to the door. The serpent gets in, and Fifine places herself at his side, and when they arrive at the king's house the serpent says to her: "Shut the doors and the curtains, that nobody may see." Fifine says to him, "But they will see you as you get down." "No matter; shut them all the same." She goes to her father. Her father comes with all his court to fetch the serpent. He opens the door, and who is astonished? Why, everybody. Instead of a serpent there is a charming young man; and they all go to the church. When they come out there is a grand dinner at the king's, but the bridegroom says to his wife: "To-day we must not make a feast at all. We have a great business to do in the house; we will come another day for the feast." She told that to her father, and they go on to their house. When they are come there her husband brings her in a large basket a serpent's skin, and says to her: "You will make a great fire, and when you hear the first stroke of midnight you will throw this serpent's skin into the fire. That must be burnt up, and you must throw the ashes out of window before the last stroke of twelve has ceased striking. If you do not do that I shall be wretched for ever." The lady says to him, "Certainly; I will do everything that I can to succeed." She begins before midnight to make the fire. As soon as she heard the first stroke she throws the serpent's skin (on the fire), and takes two spits and stirs the fire, and moves about the skin and burns it, till ten strokes have gone. Then she takes a shovel, and throws the ashes outside as the last twelfth stroke is ending. Then a terrible voice says: "I curse your cleverness, and what you have just done." At the same time her husband comes in. He did not know where he was for joy. He kisses her, and does not know how to tell his wife what great good she has done him. "Now I do not fear anything. If you had not done as I told you, I should have been enchanted for twenty-one years more. Now it is all over, and we will go at our ease to-morrow to your father's house for the wedding feast." They go the next day and enjoy themselves very much. They return to their palace to take away the handsomest things, because they did not wish to stop any more in that corner of the mountain. They load all their valuable things in carts and waggons, and go to live with the king. This young lady has four children, two boys and two girls, and as her sisters were very jealous of her, their father sent them out of the house. The king gave his crown to his son-in-law, who was already a son of a king. As they had lived well, they died well too. Laurentine. We have another version of this tale, which is a little more like its prototype, the "Cupid and Psyche" of Apuleius. In this the monster comes only at night. At first she is horribly frightened at it, but little by little she becomes accustomed to it, and loves it. At last, after having been left alone for some days, a magnificent young man appears to her, a king's son, who had been bewitched into the monster until some one should love him. Of course they marry and are happy. Estefanella Hirigaray. In a third version, which was not taken down, the father was a sailor instead of a king. THE COBBLER AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS (BLUE BEARD). Like many others in the world, there was a cobbler who had three daughters. They were very poor. He only earned enough just to feed his children. He did not know what would become of him. He went about in his grief, walking, walking sadly on, and he meets a gentleman, who asks him where he is going, melancholy like that. He answers him, "Even if I shall tell you, I shall get no relief." "Yes, yes; who knows? Tell it." "I have three daughters, and I have not work enough to maintain them. I have famine in the house." "If it is only that, we will manage it. You will give me one of your daughters, and I will give you so much money." The father was very grieved to make any such bargain; but at last he comes down to that. He gives him his eldest daughter. This gentleman takes her to his palace, and, after having passed some time there, he said to her that he has a short journey to make--that he will leave her all the keys, that she might see everything, but that there is one key that she must not make use of--that it would bring misfortune on her. He locks the door on the young lady. This young girl goes into all the rooms, and finds them very beautiful, and she was curious to see what there was in that which was forbidden. She goes in, and sees heaps of dead bodies. Judge of her fright! With her trembling she lets the key fall upon the ground. She trembles for the coming of her husband. He arrives, and asks her if she has entered the forbidden chamber. She tells him "Yes." He takes her and puts her into an underground dungeon; hardly, hardly did he give her enough to eat (to live on), and that was human flesh. This cobbler had finished his money, and he was again melancholy. The gentleman meets him again, and says to him, "Your other daughter is not happy alone; you must give me another daughter. When she is happy, I will send her back; and I will give you so much money." The father did not like it; but he was so poor that, in order to have a little money, he gives him his daughter. The gentleman takes her home with him, like the other. After some days he said to her too, "I must take a short journey. I will give you all the keys of the house, but do not touch such a key of such a room." He locks the house-door, and goes off, after having left her the food she needed. This young girl goes into all the rooms, and, as she was curious, she went to look into the forbidden chamber. She was so terribly frightened at the sight of so many dead bodies in this room, that she lets the key fall, and it gets stained. Our young girl was trembling as to what should become of her when the master should come back. He arrives, and the first thing he asks-- "Have you been in that room?" She told him "Yes." He takes her underground, like her other sister. This cobbler had finished his money, and he was in misery; when the gentleman comes to him again, and says to him, "I will give you a great deal of money if you will let your daughter come to my house for a few days; the three will be happier together, and I will send you the two back again together." The father believes it, and gives him his third daughter. The gentleman gives him the money, and he takes this young girl, like the others. At the end of some days he leaves her, saying that he is going to make a short journey. He gives her all the keys of the house, saying to her-- "You will go into all the rooms except this one," pointing out the key to her. He locks the outside door, and goes off. This young girl goes straight, straight to the forbidden chamber; she opens it, and think of her horror at seeing so many dead people. She thought that he would kill her too, and, as there were all kinds of arms in this chamber, she takes a sabre with her, and hides it under her dress. She goes a little further on, and sees her two sisters almost dying with hunger, and a young man in the same condition. She takes care of them as well as she can till the gentleman comes home. On his arrival, he asks her-- "Have you been in that room?" She says, "Yes;" and, in giving him back the keys, she lets them fall on the ground, on purpose, and at the instant that this gentleman stoops to pick them up, the young lady cuts off his head (with her sword). Oh, how glad she was! Quickly she runs to deliver her sisters and that young man, who was the son of a king. She sends for her father, the cobbler, and leaves him there with his two daughters, and the youngest daughter goes away with her young gentleman, after being married to him. If they lived well, they died well too. In another version, by Estefanella Hirigaray, we have the more ordinary tale of "Blue Beard"--that of a widower who has killed twenty wives, and marries a twenty-first, who has two brothers. She drops the key in the forbidden chamber, and is detected by the blood on it. She manages to write to her brothers, and the dialogue by which she endeavours to gain time is rather spirited. She is allowed to put on her wedding-dress, etc., to die in. She goes to get ready, and she hears the cries of her husband, "Are you ready?" "I am putting on my dress." He bawls out again, "Are you ready?" "Give me a moment more." "Are you ready?" "I am fastening my dress." "Are you ready yet?" "I am putting on my stockings." And she kept constantly looking out of window to see if her brothers were coming. "Are you ready?" "Stop one moment; I am putting on my shoes." "Are you ready?" "I am brushing my hair." "Are you ready?" "Let me put on my wreath." And she sees her brothers coming on horseback in the forest, but a very long way off. She hears again, "Are you ready?" "I am coming in an instant." "You are coming? I'll come, if you do not come down." "Don't come; I will come down myself, without you." He seizes her on the stairs to kill her; but the brothers rush in just in time to prevent her death, and they put him in prison. We heard, also, another version, which, unfortunately, we did not take down. It had something about a horse in it, and was like "The Widow and her Daughters," in Campbell, Vol. II., Tale xli., p. 265. THE SINGING TREE, THE BIRD WHICH TELLS THE TRUTH, AND THE WATER THAT MAKES YOUNG. Like many others in the world, there were three young girls. They were spinning together, and as girls must always talk about something while they are spinning, the eldest said: "You will not guess what I am thinking about?" "Tell it us, tell it us," (said the other two). "That I should like to be married to the king's valet." "And I with his son-in-law," said the second. And the third said: "And I with the king himself." Now, the king lived not far from these girls, and just at that moment he was passing before the door of their house, and heard what they said. The next day the king asked the eldest: "What were you saying yesterday at such a time?" And she was ashamed to tell him, but the king pressed her so much that at last she told it: "I said that I wished to be married to your servant." He made the second come, and asked her the same question: "What were you talking about yesterday?" She would not tell; but the king pressed her so much that she said: "I--I was saying that I wished to marry your son-in-law." He sends them back home, and sends for the third, and asks her what she said the evening before. She never dared to tell it, because that would have been too great an impudence, but at the last she told it him; and the king told her that they must really be married together, because she was so very pretty. This young girl goes running off home. She told her sisters that she is to marry the king, and all three go to live in the king's house. The two sisters were very jealous. The princess became in the family-way; and the king was obliged to go to another kingdom. His poor wife was confined of a fine girl. But her sisters made the queen believe that she had given birth to a cat, and they wrote this too to the king. The king wrote back to them: "If it be a cat, take all possible care of it." [158] When the king returned he did not mention the cat at all. She became pregnant a second time, and the king was obliged to go to another kingdom, and when the princess was confined her sisters made her believe that she had given birth to a dog. Think what grief and pain this poor queen suffered. Her sisters wrote to the king that his wife had given birth to a dog, and that without doubt she had something to do with animals. He wrote again: "If it be a dog, take all possible care of it." But they said that they had already thrown it into the water, as they had done with the cat. Fortunately a gardener was there, the same that had been there the first time. He caught hold of the basket, and finds a beautiful child inside. He is very glad, and carries the child to his wife, who puts the infant out to nurse. The princess became pregnant the third time. The king had intended to stop at home; but at the moment of the confinement he was obliged to go away somewhere, and the sisters wrote to the king that she had been confined of a bear. The king flew into a great rage, and ordered her to be put into a dungeon underground. They gave her a little food through a hole, so that she might not die of starvation; and nevertheless she had given birth to a handsome boy. The same gardener found this basket too, which they had thrown into the water. He carries it to his wife, and she gave it to the same nurse. They were very happy with it, and said that Heaven had sent them these three children, and they loved their father and mother very much; but when they were very old they both died. The two brothers and their sister got on very well together. They loved each other very much. The boys used to go out hunting and shooting, and they were so well off that they had something to give to the poor. One day there came an old woman begging, and she said to them: "You cannot be happy." "Yes, yes, we certainly are," they answered. And the woman said to them: "No, no, you want three things before you can be happy--the tree which sings, the bird which tells the truth, and the water which makes young again." The young girl grows sad at that. Her brothers remarked it immediately, and they asked her what was the matter with her. But she would not tell them. At last they forced her to tell it to them. She told them what this woman had told her. The elder of the brothers sets out immediately, taking with him a horse and a little money. He gives an apple to his sister, saying to her: [159] "If this apple changes I shall be in some trouble, and if it turns rotten I shall be dead." And he starts off, and travels on, and on, and on. He finds a monk who tells him to retrace his steps, that there are great dangers before him; but he will go on notwithstanding. He meets again another monk, who tells him that he will never return. He confesses himself and prepares for death, such great dangers will he have to pass through. He said to him: "You will hear terrible cries. It will seem to you as if they will pull you by your clothes, but never turn your head round." [160] But our lad grew frightened and turned his head round, and was changed into stone. After some days the apple begins to get bad, and they fall into great sorrow because something must have happened to their brother, and the second brother said that he must go off too; and off he goes with a horse and a little money. Like the other brother he meets a monk, who wishes to stop him; but he said to him that it was all the same to him. He goes on till he meets another monk. This one also said to him: "Return on your steps. You will not be able to pass; you will hear cries and see horrors and terrible things--you will never be able to pass through." But he prepares himself to go forward. He warned him well not to look round. He leaves his horse and sets out. When he has gone a short distance he hears frightful cries, and (sees) terrible things; and after having gone some distance further he looks on one side, and is changed into stone. The apple which he had left with his sister first changes, then goes quite rotten. You may judge of the sorrow and the grief of this poor girl. She says to herself that she must dress herself like a man. She locks the door (of their house), and sets out on horseback. The same monk wishes to prevent her going on. But she has a still greater desire to do so, and, notwithstanding all she hears, she will go on. She arrives at the last monk, who was a great saint. He did not recognise that it was a young girl. For a hundred years past he had been on the same spot, until someone should get to the end of the mountain, and he hoped that this young girl might pass. He gives her a bottle into which she might put the water that makes young again, and says to her: "You will sprinkle one drop on each stone, and they will live." She sets off. The horrible cries did not frighten her. All kinds of things were said to her. She goes on and on, constantly running, and gets to the top of the mountain, and she is saved. At the same instant she hears a thrilling song from a tree, which was warbling like a bird. A bird, too, flies on to her shoulder, and tells her so many things that she is quite astounded. But she does not lose her time--she takes out her bottle and fills it with water. She pours a drop on each stone, and finds her brothers at last. Think, think how they all three rejoiced together! They take their horses (they too had been changed into stones) and go home with their tree, and the bird, and the water. They lived very happily. The brothers went out hunting every day, and sometimes they met the king. One day the king invited them to dine with him, but they said that they must first ask permission of their sister. When they came home they asked her, and the bird answered immediately: "On condition that the king will come here to-morrow." They go with this answer to the king, and he says, "Yes." They dine very well with the king, but their sister was not at all pleased; she did not know how to receive the king. The bird says to her: "Lay the table with a fine cloth, and three dishes; put lentils into one, parched peas into the other, and haricot beans into the other." Next day the king comes with his two brothers. The king is astonished to hear this beautiful tree and this fine singing. He had never heard anything so wonderful. He was surprised to see these three dishes, and he said to them: "Is it not strange to receive a king like this?" And the bird, hopping out of its cage, begins, "It is not more strange than to see this young woman pass for a cat. Is she a cat?" In the same way it points to the elder brother, "Is this a dog, this young man? Is not this a thing more astonishing?" The king is confounded. And the same thing for the third time, pointing to the second son, "Is this a bear, this one? Is this not an astonishing thing?" The king, in his amazement, does not know what to answer to the bird; but it continues: "Is it not a shame to leave one's wife, and make her live eighteen years in a dungeon underground?" The king is terribly frightened, and off he goes with his sons and his daughter, intending to free their mother; but they did not forget the precious water, and they wash this princess in it, and she becomes as young as at eighteen years old. Judge of the joy of the king, of the queen, and of their children! The king fell into a great rage, and condemns the queen's sisters to be burnt alive in the midst of the market-place, with shirts of sulphur on them. Catherine Elizondo. We have also the more common version of this story--of an aged king with three sons. He reads of this water, and the three sons successively set out to fetch it. The two first fail, and stop, drinking, &c., in a certain city. The youngest meets an old woman, who tells him how to charm all the beasts in a forest he has to pass through, and how to get the water, but he is not to take anything else. But he steals the bird, and the magic horse as well, and when he gets to the forest finds all the animals awake. The old woman appears again, and gives him a magic stick, with the aid of which he passes. He finds his brothers against the advice of the old lady, and they throw him into a pit and take away the water, the horse, and the bird; but the water has no effect in their hands. The old woman appears, and sends a fox to help him out of the pit. He comes home, the horse neighs, the bird sings, he gives the water to his father, and from one hundred years old he becomes twenty. E. Hirigaray. THE WHITE BLACKBIRD. Like many others in the world, there was a king who had three sons. This king was blind, and he had heard one day that there was a king who had a white blackbird, which gave sight to the blind. When his eldest son heard that, he said to his father that he would go and fetch this white blackbird as quickly as possible. The father said to him, "I prefer to remain blind rather than to separate myself from you, my child." The son says to him, "Have no fear for me; with a horse laden with money I will find it and bring it to you." He goes off then, far, far, far away. When night came he stopped. One evening he stopped at an inn where there were three very beautiful young ladies. They said to him that they must have a game of cards together. He refuses; but after many prayers and much pressing they begin. He loses all his money, his horse, and also has a large debt against his word of honour. In this country it was the custom for persons who did not pay their debts to be put in prison, and if they did not pay after a given time they were put to death, and then afterwards they were left at the church doors until someone should pay their debts. [161] They therefore put this king's son in prison. The second son, seeing that his brother did not return, said to his father that he wished to go off, (and asked him) to give him a horse and plenty of money, and that certainly he would not lose his time. He sets off, and, as was fated to occur, he goes to the inn where his brother had been ruined. After supper these young ladies say to him: "You must have a game of cards with us." He refuses, but these young ladies cajole him so well, and turn him round their fingers, that he ends by consenting. They begin then, and he also loses all his money, his horse, and makes a great many debts besides. They put him in prison like his brother. After some time the king and his youngest son are in deep grief because some misfortune must have happened to them, and the youngest asks leave to set out. "I assure you that I will do something. Have no anxiety on my account." This poor father lets him go off, but not with a good will. He kept saying to him that he would prefer to be always blind; but the son would set off. His father gives him a beautiful horse, and as much gold as his horse could carry, and his crown. He goes off far, far, far away. They rested every night, and he happened, like his brothers, to go to the same inn. After supper these young ladies say to him: "It is the custom for everyone to play at cards here." He says that it is not for him, and that he will not play. The young ladies beg him ever so much, but they do not succeed with this one in any fashion whatever. They cannot make him play. The next morning he gets up early, takes his horse, and goes off. He sees that they are leading two men to death. He asks what they have done, and recognises his two brothers. They tell him that they have not paid their debts within the appointed time, and that they must be put to death. But he pays the debts of both, and goes on. Passing before the church he sees that they are doing something. He asks what it is. They tell him that it is a man who has left some debts, and that until someone pays them he will be left there still. He pays the debts again. He goes on his journey, and arrives at last at the king's house where the blackbird was. Our king's son asks if they have not a white blackbird which restores sight. They tell him, "Yes." Our young gentleman relates how that his father is blind, and that he has come such a long way to fetch it to him. The king says to him, "I will give you this white blackbird, when you shall have brought me from the house of such a king a young lady who is there." Our young man goes off far, far, far away. When he is near the king's house a fox [162] comes out and says to him, "Where are you going to?" He answers, "I want a young lady from the king's house." He gives his horse to the fox to take care of, and the fox says to him: "You will go to such a room; there will be the young lady whom you need. You will not recognise her because she has old clothes on, but there are beautiful dresses hanging up in the room. You will make her put on one of those. As soon as she shall have it on, she will begin to sing and will wake up everybody in the house." He goes inside as the fox had told him. He finds the young lady. He makes her put on the beautiful dresses, and as soon as she has them on she begins to sing and to carol. Everyone rushes into this young lady's room. The king in a rage wished to put him in prison, but the king's son shows his crown, and tells how such a king sent him to fetch this young lady, and when once he has brought her he promises him the white blackbird to open his father's eyes. The king then says to him, "You must go to the house of such a king, and you must bring me from there a white horse, which is very, very beautiful." Our young man sets out, and goes on, and on, and on. As he comes near the house of the king, the fox appears to him and says to him: "The horse which you want is in such a place, but he has a bad saddle on. You will put on him that which is hanging up, and which is handsome and brilliant. As soon as he shall have it on he will begin to neigh, so much as not to be able to stop. [163] All the king's people will come to see what is happening, but with your crown you will always get off scot free." He goes off as the fox had said to him. He finds the horse with the bad saddle, and puts on him the fine one, and then the horse begins to neigh and cannot stop himself. People arrive, and they wish to put the young man in prison, but he shows them his crown, and relates what king had sent him to fetch this horse in order to get a young lady. They give him the horse, and he sets off. He comes to the house of the king where the young lady was. He shows his horse with its beautiful saddle, and asks the king if he would not like to see the young lady take a few turns on this beautiful horse in the courtyard. The king says, "Yes." As the young lady was very handsomely dressed when she mounted the horse, our young man gives the horse a little touch with his stick, and they set off like the lightning. The king's son follows them, and they go both together to the king who had the white blackbird. They ask him for the blackbird, and the bird goes of itself on to the knees of the young lady, who was still on horseback. The king's son gives him a blow, and they set off at full gallop; he also escapes in order to rejoin them. They journey a long, long time, and approach their city. His brothers had heard the news how that their brother was coming with the white blackbird. These two brothers had come back at last to their father's house, and they had told their father a hundred falsehoods; how that robbers had taken away their money, and many things like that. The two brothers plotted together, and said that they must hinder their brother from reaching the house, and that they must rob him of the blackbird. They keep expecting him always. One day they saw him coming, and they say that they must throw him into a cistern, [164] and they do as they say. They take the blackbird and throw him and the lady into the water, and leave the horse outside. The fox comes to them on the brink of the cistern, and says to them: "I will leap in there; you will take hold of my tail one by one, and I will save you." The two wicked brothers had taken the blackbird, but he escaped from them as they entered the house, and went on to the white horse. Judge of the joy of the youngest brother when he sees that nothing is wanting to them! They go to the king. As soon as they enter the young lady begins to carol and to sing, the bird too, and the horse to neigh. The blackbird of its own accord goes on to the king's knees, and there by its songs restored him to sight. The son relates to his father what labours he underwent until he had found these three things, and he told him how he had saved two men condemned to death by paying their debts, and that they were his two brothers; that he had also paid the debts of a dead man, and that his soul (the fox was his soul) had saved him from the cistern into which his brothers had thrown him. Think of the joy of the father, and his sorrow at the same time, when he saw how wisely this young son had always behaved, and how wicked his two brothers had been. As he had well earned her, he was married to the young lady whom he had brought away with him, and they lived happily and joyfully. The father sent the two brothers into the desert to do penance. If they had lived well, they would have died well. THE SISTER AND HER SEVEN BROTHERS. There was a man and a woman very poor, and over-burdened with children. They had seven boys. When they had grown up a little, they said to their mother that it would be better that they should go on their own way--that they would get on better like that. The mother let them go with great regret. After their departure she gave birth to a little girl, and when this little girl was grown up a little she went one day to a neighbor's to amuse herself, and having played some childish trick the neighbor said to her: "You will be a good one, you too, as your brothers have been." [165] The child goes home and says to her mother, "Mother, have I some brothers?" [165] The mother says, "Yes." "Where are they?" "Oh, gone off somewhere." The daughter said to her, "I must go too, then. Give me a piece of linen enough to make seven shirts." And she would go off at once. The mother was very sorry for it, having already seven children away from home, and the only one she had wished to go away. She let her go then. This young girl went off, far, far, far away. She asks in a town if they know seven brothers who work together. They tell her "No." She goes off to a mountain and asks there too, and they tell her in what house they live. She goes to this house, and sees that all the household work is to be done, and that there is nobody at home. She makes the beds, and cleans the whole house, and puts it in order. She prepares the dinner, and then hides herself in the dust-hole. Her brothers come home, and are astonished to see all the household work done and the dinner ready. They begin to look if there is anyone in the house, but they never think of looking in the dust-hole, and they go off again to their work. Before night this young girl does all the rest of the work, and had the supper ready against the return of her brothers, and hides herself again in the dust-hole. Her brothers are astonished, and again search the house, but find nothing. They go to bed, and this young girl takes to sewing and sews a whole shirt. She gives it to her eldest brother, and in the same way she made a shirt every night, and took it to one of her brothers. They could not understand how that all happened. They always said that they would not go to sleep, but they fell asleep as soon as they were in bed. When the turn of the youngest came to have the shirt, he said to them, "Certainly I will not fall asleep." After he is in bed the young girl goes and says to him, thinking that he is asleep: "Your turn has come now at last, my dearly loved brother." And she begins to put the shirt on him on the bed, when her brother says to her: "You are then my sister, you?" And he kisses her. She tells him then how she had heard that she had brothers, and how she had wished to go to them to help them. The other brothers get up and rejoice, learning that it was their sister who had done all the household work. The brothers forbad her ever to go to such a neighbour's, whatever might happen. But one day, without thinking about it, when she was behindhand with her work, she went running to the house to ask for some fire, [166] in order to make the supper ready quicker. She was very well received; the woman offered to give her everything she wanted, but she said she was satisfied with a little fire. This woman was a witch, and gives her a parcel of herbs, telling her to put them as they were into the footbath--that they relieved the fatigue very much. [167] Every evening the seven brothers washed their feet at the same time in a large copper. She therefore put these herbs into the copper, and as soon as they had dipped their feet in they became six cows, and the seventh a Breton cow. [168] This poor girl was in such trouble as cannot be told. The poor cows all used to kiss their sister, but the young girl always loved much best the Breton one. Every day she took them to the field, and stopped with them to guard them. One day when she was there the son of a king passes by, and is quite astonished to see so beautiful a girl there. He speaks to her, and tells her that he wishes to marry her. The young girl says to him that she is very poor, and that that cannot be. The king says, "Yes, yes, yes, that makes no difference." The young girl makes as conditions that, if she marries him, he must never kill these cows, and especially this little Breton one. [169] The king promises it her, and they are married. The princess takes these cows home with her; they were always well treated. The princess became pregnant, and was confined while the king was absent. The witch comes, and takes her out of her bed, and throws her down a precipice that there was in the king's grounds, and the witch puts herself into the princess' bed. When the king comes home, he finds her very much changed, and tells her that he would not have recognised her. The princess tells him that it was her sufferings that had made her thus, and, in order to cure her more quickly, he must have the Breton cow killed. The king says to her-- "What! Did you not make me promise that she should never be killed? How is it you ask me that?" The witch considered that one her greatest enemy; and, as she left him no peace, he sent a servant to fetch the cows. He finds them all seven by the precipice; they were lowing, and he tried to drive them to the house, but he could not do it in any way; and he hears a voice, which says, "It is not for myself that I grieve so much, but for my child, and for my husband, and for my dearly-loved cows. Who will take care of them?" The lad could not succeed (in driving them), and goes and tells to the king what is taking place. The king himself goes to the precipice, and hears this voice. He quickly throws a long cord down, and, when he thinks that she has had time to take hold of it, he pulls it up, and sees that they have got the princess there. Judge of the joy of the king! She relates to her husband all that the witch had done to her, both formerly and now. The king goes to the witch's bed, and says to her, "I know your villanies now; and, if you do not immediately change these cows, as they were before, into fine boys, I will put you into a red-hot oven." The witch makes them fine men, and, notwithstanding that, the king had her burnt in a red-hot oven, and threw her ashes into the air. The king lived happily with his wife, and her seven brothers married ladies of the court, and sent for their mother, and they all lived happily together. Louise Lanusse. We have also, in Basque, a version of Madame d'Aulnoy's "Abenan." It seems to be a mixture of various legends strung together by this fanciful writer; but we do not think it worth either our own or our readers' while to try to disentangle its separate parts. The pretty little tale of "The Faded Roses" has been told us from two quite different sources. This tale, though without doubt derived from the French, we can trace up in Basque further than any other. It was told us by a lady of between seventy and eighty, who heard it as a child from an old nurse, whom she distinctly remembers to have told her that she learnt it as a child from her mother. It must thus have existed in Basque over a century. We have also two versions of Tom Thumb, who is called in the one "Ukhailtcho," or "Baratchuri"--"a clove of garlic;" [170] in the other, "Mundua-mila-pes," both containing the episode of his being swallowed by an ox; in the last, he himself is swallowed, as they are washing out the ox' entrails, by "a thief of a dog"--"Ohoñ chakhurra." It is singular that the same episode is preserved in the Gaelic; cf. Campbell, Vol. III., p. 114. We have in MS. a long Rabelesian legend, which opens like Cenac-Moncaut's tale of "Le Coffret de la Princesse," in his "Littérature Populaire de la Gascogne" (Paris, 1868). A king will give one of his daughters to whoever can guess what the skin of a certain animal is. It is the devil who guesses it, and who marries the princess. She is saved by the "white mare," which appears in so many of our tales. She then dresses as a man, but, nevertheless, a prince falls in love with her; and then follow a lot of scenes, the converse of the adventure of Achilles in Scyros. They marry; but, after seven years, the devil-husband reappears. After strange adventures, they are again succoured and united by the "white mare," who binds the devil for ever, and then flies to heaven as a white pigeon, and the rest live happily ever after. This legend is from "Laurentine, Sister of Toutou," and may be mingled with Cascarrot legends. We have given it as derived from the French, partly because the heroine's name is Fifine, and because this, and "Petit Perroquet and the Tartaro," are the only tales in our collection in which the term "prince" is employed in the Basque instead of "the king's son." Cf. Campbell's "Highland Tales," passim. We owe the following notes to the kindness of M. H. Vinson, Judge at La Réole, Gironde. They may be of assistance to some of our readers in the endeavour to trace out the length of time which is required for the translations of exotic legends to become popular traditions among a people who know the language of the translation only by "social contact." Premières Editions de la Première Traduction en Français des Mille et une Nuits. Les Mille et une Nuits, Contes Arabes, trad. par Galland. Paris, 12 vols. in 12mo. 1704-1717 Les Mille et une Nuits, Contes Arabes, trad. par Galland. Paris, 6 vols. in 12mo. 1774 Les Mille et une Nuits, Revues et Corrigées par M. Caussin de Percival. Paris, Lenormant, 9 vols. 8vo. 1806 Première Traduction de Bidpai et Loqman. Contes et Fables Indiennes de Bidpai et de Loqman, trad. (posth.) par Ante Galland. Paris, 2 vols. in 12mo. 1724 Contes et Fables Indiennes, Traduction d'après la Version Turque d'Ali-Tchelebt-ben-Salet, par Galland, terminée et publiée par D. Gardonne. Paris, 3 vols. 12mo. 1778 Fables de Loqman, Édition Arabe, accomp. d'une Traduction Franc: (par M. Mariel) au Caire, de l'imp. Nation, au VII. 8vo. [171] 1799 Contes de Grimm. Contes de la Famille, par les Frères Grimm, traduit de l'Allemand, par M. Martin et Pitre-Chevalier. Paris, Renouard, 12mo. 1846 Edition Originale, Kinder und Hausmärchen. Berlin, 2 vols. 16mo. 1812-14 Les Plus Anciens Recueils de Contes en Français. Les Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles. Paris, Ant. Verard, pet. in fol. Goth. 1486 Le Parangon de Nouvelles Honnestes. Lyon, in 8vo. 1531 Les Nouvelles Récreations de Bonaventure des Periers. Lyon, in 4to. 1558 L'Heptameron de Margaret de Valois. Paris, 8vo. 1559 Baliverneries ou Contes Nouveaux d'Entrapel, publ. par Noel Du Fail. Paris, 16mo. 1548 Les Serées de Guillaume Bouchet. Poitiers, 4to. Paris, 3 vols. 12mo. 1584, 1608 Nouvelles Choisies, par Ch. Sorel. Paris, 2 vols. 8vo. 1645 Contes des Fées, par Madame d'Aulnoy. 1630-1705 Contes des Fées, par Ch. Perrault. 1697 VII.--RELIGIOUS TALES. We give these tales simply as specimens of a literature which in mediæval times rivalled in popularity and interest all other kinds of literature put together. That even yet it is not without attraction, and that to minds which in some aspects seem most opposed to its influence, the preface of the late Charles Kingsley to "The Hermits" conclusively shows. Such tales have, too, a deeper interest to all who study the manner in which at a certain stage of intellectual cultivation the human mind seems alone able to take hold upon religious truth; or, at least, the side on which it is then most susceptible to its impressions. It is easy enough to laugh at these legends, and to throw them aside in contempt, as alternately irreverent or superstitious; but their very existence has an historical value which no ecclesiastical historian should neglect. Their grossness and rudeness to a great extent hide from us their real tenderness and true religious feeling; but they were, doubtless, to those who first heard them, and are still to those who now recite them, fully as instructive, and have quite as beneficial, purifying, and ennobling influence on them as the most polished and refined of the religious tales of the present day have on the young of our own generation. FOURTEEN. [172] Like many others in the world, there was a mother and her son. The lad was as strong as fourteen men together, but he was also obliged to eat as much as fourteen men. They were poor, and on that account he often suffered from hunger. He said one day to his mother, that it would be better for him to try and go somewhere else to see if he could be any better off; that he could not bear it any longer like this; that he was pained to see how much it cost her to feed him. The mother with regret allows him to depart. He goes off then far, far, far away, and comes to a large house. He asks if they want a servant there, and they answer that they will speak to the master. The master himself comes and says to him, "I employ experienced labourers generally, but I will take you nevertheless." The lad answers, "I must forewarn you, that I eat as much as fourteen men, but I do work in proportion." He asks him, "What do you know how to do?" He says to him, "I know a little of everything." The next day the master takes him into a field, and says to him: "You must mow all this meadow." He says to him, "Yes." The master goes away. At eight o'clock the servant comes with the breakfast. She had a basket full of provisions; there were six loaves, half a ham, and six bottles of wine. Our lad was delighted. The servant was astonished to see that all the meadow was mown, and she goes and tells it to the master. He too was pleased to see that he had such a valuable servant. He tells him to go and cut another meadow. Before mid-day he had it all down. The servant comes with the dinner, and was astonished to see how much work he had done. She brought him seven loaves, seven bottles of wine, and ever so much ham, but he cleared it all off. The master gives him again another field of grass to cut. Before night he had done it easily. Our master was delighted at it, and gave him plenty to eat. The servant too was highly pleased. As long as he had work the master said nothing, but afterwards, when he saw that all the harvest served only for the servant to eat, he did not know how to get rid of him. He sends him to a forest in which he knew that there were terrible beasts, and told him to bring wood from there. As soon as he has arrived a bear attacks him. He takes him by the nostrils and throws him on the ground, and twists his neck. He keeps pulling up all the young trees, and again a wolf attacks him; he takes him like the bear by the nostrils, throws him down, and twists his neck. In the evening he arrives at the house, and the master is astonished to see him return. He gave him a good supper; but he was not pleased, because he had torn up all the young trees. At night the master turns over in his head what he could do with his servant, and he determines to send him into a still more terrible forest, in the hope that some animal will devour him. Our lad goes off again. He tears up many large trees, when a lion attacks him. He kills him in a moment. There comes against him another terrible animal, and he finishes him off too. In the evening, when he comes home, he said to himself: "Why does my master send me into the forest? Perhaps he is tired of me." And he resolves to tell him that he will leave the house. When he arrives his master receives him well, but cannot understand how it is that he comes back. He gives him a good supper, and our lad says to him: "It is better for me to go off somewhere. There is no more work for me here." You may reckon how pleased the master was. He gives him his wages at once, and he goes away. He goes off, far, far, far away; but soon his money is exhausted, and he does not know what is to become of him. He sees two men standing on the bank of a river. He went up to them, and the men ask him if he will cross them over to the other side of the water. He answers, "Yes," and takes them both at once on his back; and these men were our Lord and St. Peter. Our Lord says to him in the middle of the stream: "I am heavy." "I will throw you into the water if you do not keep quiet, for I have quite enough to do." When they had come to the other side, the Lord said to him, "What must I give you as a reward?" "Whatever you like; only give it quickly, for I am very hungry." He gives him a sack, and says to him, "Whatever you wish for will come into this sack." And he goes off, far away. He comes to a town, and passing before a baker's shop he smells an odour of very good hot loaves, and he says to them, "Get into my sack," and his sack is quite full of them. He goes off to a corner of a forest, and there he lives by his sack. He returns again into the town, and passes before a pork-butcher's. There were there black puddings, sausages, hams, and plenty of good things. He says, "Come into my sack," and as soon as he has said it the sack is full. He goes again to empty it as he had done with the loaves, and he returns into the town. In front of an inn he says, "Come into my sack." There were there bottles of good wine and of liqueurs, and to all these good things he says, "Come into my sack," and his sack was filled. He goes off to his corner of the forest, and there he had provision for some days; and, when he had well stuffed himself, he went out for a walk. One day he saw some young girls weeping, and he asks them, "What is the matter with you?" They answer that their father is very ill. He asks if he can see him. They tell him, "Yes." He goes there then, and the poor man tells him how he has given his soul to the devil, and that he was expecting him that very day, and he was trembling even then. Our Fourteen asks if he will let him be on a corner of the bed, that he might see the devil. He tells him, "Yes." He then hides himself with his sack. A moment after the devil arrives, and our lad says to him: "Come into my sack." And as soon as he had said it, in goes the devil. Judge of the joy of our man! Our lad goes off to some stone-breakers, and says to them: "Hit hard! the devil is in this sack." They went at it, blow upon blow, stroke upon stroke, and the devil went: "Ay! ay! ay! let me out! let me go! ay! ay! ay!" The lad said, "You shall bring me, then, a paper, signed by all the devils of hell, that you have no rights over this man." The devil agrees, and he lets him go. In a moment he comes back with the paper, and the lad makes him go into the sack again, and has him beaten by the stone-breakers, while he carries the precious paper to the former man; and think how happy they were in that house! Our man goes off, walking, walking, on, and on, and always on, and he grew tired of this world. He said to himself, "I should like to go to Heaven." He goes on, and on, and on, but he comes to hell; but as soon as ever the devils saw that it was Fourteen they shut all the gates. He goes off again, far, far, very far, and comes to Heaven. There the gates are shut against him. What does Fourteen do? He put his sack in through the keyhole, and says to himself: "Go into the sack." As soon as he has said it he finds himself inside, and he is there still behind the door; and when you go to Heaven, look about well, and you will see him there. Catherine Elizondo. We add another version of this popular tale, collected by M. Vinson from M. Larralde de Lesaca, of St. Pée-sur-Nivelle:-- JESUS CHRIST AND THE OLD SOLDIER. Once upon a time, when Jesus Christ was going with His disciples to Jerusalem, He met an old man, and asked alms of him. The old man said to Him: "I am an old soldier, and they sent me away from the army with only two sous, because I was no longer good for anything. I have already given away one sou on the road; I have only one left, and I give that to you." Then our Lord says to him, "Which would you prefer, a sack of gold or Paradise?" St. Peter gently nudges the old man in the ribs, "Say Paradise." "What! Paradise!" says the old soldier. "Afterwards we shall have Paradise as well. I prefer a sack of gold." And our Lord gives him the sack of gold, and He said as He gave it to him: "When this sack is empty it will be sufficient to say, 'Artchila murtchila! go into my sack,' and everything you wish for will go into the sack." Our man takes the sack and goes on his road. When he had gone a little way he passed before the door of an inn, and sees a fine leg of mutton on the table. He was hungry, and, opening his sack, he said: "Artchila murtchila! fine leg of mutton, come into my sack!" and in an instant it was in it; and in the same way he had everything he wished for. One day the devil came to tempt this old man, but, as soon as he heard him, he opened his sack and said: "Artchila murtchila! go into my sack!" And the devil himself entered into the sack. He takes the sack with the devil in it to a blacksmith, and for a long time and very vigorously he pounded it with his sledgehammer. When the old soldier died he went to Paradise. When he arrived there St. Peter appears, and says to him: "Why are you standing there? And what are you asking for?" "Paradise." "What! Paradise!! Did not you prefer to have a sack of gold when God gave you the choice? Be off from here. Be off to hell. There are the gates, there." Our old man, in deepest sadness, goes to the door of hell, and knocks; but as soon as the door was opened the devil recognised his soldier, and began to cry out: "Don't let him come in! Don't let him come in! He will cause us too much trouble, and too many misfortunes. He is so very vicious!" And he will not receive him; so he returns again to Paradise, and God commanded St. Peter to let this man enter who had been such a foe to the devil. THE POOR SOLDIER AND THE RICH MAN. Like many others in the world, there was a man and his wife. They had an only son. The time for the conscription arrived. He went away with much regret. At the end of the seven years he was returning home with five sous in his pocket. As he was walking along a poor man came up to him, and asked charity in the Name of God. He gave him a sou, telling him that he had only five sous, but that he could not refuse at the Name of God. A moment after another poor man presents himself, and asks charity in the Name of God. He gives to him, telling him repeatedly: "I, who had only five sous to take home after seven years of service--I have already given away one of them; but I cannot refuse you--I shall have still enough left to get a breakfast with." And he goes on, but a moment after comes another poor man, and he gives again. This poor man says to him: "You will go to such a house, and you must ask charity of M. Tahentozen in the Name of God. He gives charity to no one; but he will ask you in from curiosity, and to hear the news. When you have told him all that you have seen, he will ask you where you have come from. You must say that you come from Heaven, but that you have seen nothing there but poor and maimed people, and that in hell there was nothing but rich men; and that at the gate of hell there are two devils sitting in arm-chairs, 'and I saw one arm-chair empty, and I went and asked whom it was for; and there came two devils from the gate, limping as if they were lame, and they said: "This is for M. Tahentozen. He never gives anything in charity, and, if he does not change, his place is there."'" Our soldier goes as he has been told, and asks charity in the Name of God. But the servant, as she always did, sent him away. The master, having heard someone, asks the servant who is there. The servant answers that it is a soldier who asks for charity. He tells her to bring him up, in order to ask the news. Our soldier tells him all that the poor man had told him to say. And there upon the rich man begins to reflect, and he keeps the soldier at his house, and makes him rich, and the rest (of his money) he divides among the poor. Gachina, the Net-maker. THE WIDOW AND HER SON. [173] Once upon a time, and like many others in the world, there was a widow who had a son. This son was so good to his mother that they loved one another beyond all that can be told. One day this son said to his mother that he must go to Rome. The mother was in the greatest distress, but she let him go. (At parting) she gave him three apples, and said to him: "If you make acquaintance (with anyone) on the road, and if you are thirsty, give him one of these apples to divide; and he who will give you back the largest part, he will be a good friend to you for the journey." He set out then. When he has gone a little way he falls in with three men. They made acquaintance, and they told him that they were going to Rome. They went on, and on, and on, and as talking makes one thirsty, the widow's son said to them: "I have in my pocket an apple which my mother gave me at starting; we will eat it. Here, take and divide it." One of them divides it, and gives him the smallest part. When he saw that he made some excuse and quitted his companions. He goes travelling on, on, on, along the road, when he meets with three monks. They tell him that they are going to Rome, and offer to make their journey together. When they had gone a little way, they get thirsty also. The widow's son says to them: "I have an apple which my mother gave me at starting. Here it is; take and divide it." They, too, were no better comrades than the others. They give him only a small piece. Fortunately he remembers the advice of his mother, and he leaves them. He goes on a short way alone, and sees in the distance something shining under an oak; as he approaches he sees that it is a king. He tells him where he is going, and learns that he too is going to Rome. The king engages him to rest himself along with him, and he stays there a long time; and at length they get thirsty, and the son of the widow gives him the last apple, telling him that it is his mother who gave it him at starting. The king's son divides it, and gives him the largest piece. The son of the widow is rejoiced that he has found a good comrade, and they vow great friendship under the oak. The son of the widow engages himself to bring the king's son to Rome alive or dead, and the other binds himself to serve and aid him as long as he has a drop of blood in his veins. Resuming their journey they go on, and on, and on, and at length night surprises them, and they do not know where to go to. They meet a young girl who was going to the fountain. They ask her if shelter would be given them in the house which they see there. She answers "Yes;" and then, lowering her voice, she adds, "Yes, to your misfortune." It was only the widow's son who heard these last words. So they go there, and enter, and are very well received. They had a good supper given them, and a good bed on the third story. The widow's son puts the prince on the outside of the bed, and he himself goes next the wall. The former falls asleep immediately, because he was very tired; but the widow's son was kept awake by his fear, and, just as twelve o'clock struck, he hears someone coming up stairs, and sees the owner come into the bed-room with a large knife in his hand. The mistress held the light and the servant a basin. They come near and cut the throat of the king's son, and carry him down stairs. While they are doing this the widow's son gets out on the roof, and from there he shouts and cries out for the justice. When he had made himself heard, he told the people what had taken place. As they had never before heard anything like this of the people in the house, they would not believe him, and put him in prison. The next day he was condemned to death. Before dying he asks one favour. It is granted him. He then asks for two blood-hounds to go and search the house with. They grant him that, and he goes with the servants of the justice. After having gone over the whole castle, without having found one drop of blood, they go down to the cellar. The dogs kept smelling about, but the master refused to open the door, saying there was nothing there but dirt and rubbish. They told him that he must open it all the same, and there they found the king's son with his crown. This was all they wanted. They set the widow's son at liberty; and he asks for the body of the king's son, and puts it into a sack. He takes the sack on his shoulders, and starts for Rome, where he arrives fatigued and worn out; but he has kept his word. He goes to see the Holy Father, and told him all that had taken place, and what had happened to his friend. Our Holy Father says to him, "To-morrow, at the moment of the Elevation, you will place the head on the body." He does so, and at the very same moment the body of the king's son is seized with a trembling, and he calls out-- "Where am I?" The widow's son answers, "At Rome. Do you not remember how your throat was cut yesterday? And I myself have carried you, as I promised, to Rome." The king's son went to pay his visit to our Holy Father, and (after that) they set out (home). And when they had gone a long way, they come to the oak where they had (first) made each other's acquaintance, and it is there, too, that they must part. They renew their promises (to each other). The king's son takes off his ring, and gives it to the other as a keep-sake to remember him by. And the king's son, on counting his money, remarks that he has just the same sum as he had when he was under the oak the last time. And they quit each other, each to go to his own home. When the widow's son reaches home, the mother is delighted to see her son again, and the son also (to see his mother). But the next day he was covered with a frightful disease, which was very like leprosy, and it had an infectious smell; but, fortunately, the mother did not smell it. The poor mother did all that she could to cure her son, but nothing relieved him. She heard that there was a monk in the neighbourhood, a great saint, who cured diseases. She sends for him, and the widow's son relates to him his journey to Rome, and all that had taken place there, and he tells also the promises which they had made to each other. Then the monk says to him, "If you wish to be cured, there is only one remedy--you must wash yourself in the blood of this king." This news made the young man very sad, but his mother would start the very next day; and they set out on their journey in an old carriage. Everyone where they passed stopped their noses, and said, "Pheu! pheu!" After some time they came to the king's house. The mother asks leave to speak to the king, but a servant drives her far away, because of the smell, telling her not to approach nearer. So she could not say anything to the king. But one day the king goes out, and sees the carriage, and he asks what it is. They tell him that it is a sick man, who smells like putrid fish, and who wishes to see the king. The king is angry because they had not told him of it before. Now this king was married, and already he had a son. He orders the people in the carriage to come to him, and the widow's son told him who he was, and showed him the ring which he had formerly given him. Without paying the least attention to his malady, the king takes him in his arms and embraces him. The widow's son tells him the grief that he had felt at what the monk had told him. The king goes to find his wife, and tells her what has happened about the sick man at the gate, and how this sick man had already restored him to life, and that now it was his turn, and that he could not be cured except by washing in his blood; and (he bids her) choose between her child and himself. This poor mother sacrifices her son. They kill him. The sick man washes himself immediately (in the blood), and is cured at the same instant. The queen, in her grief, goes into her child's bedroom, and there she finds her son full of life again. Overflowing with joy, she takes up her son, and goes out crying to everyone, and showing them her infant. Judge what a delight for them all! The widowed mother and her son lived in the king's palace so happily, and never left him more. Catherine Elizondo. THE STORY OF THE HAIR-CLOTH SHIRT (LA CILICE). Once upon a time, like many others in the world, there was a gentleman and a lady. They had no children, but they longed for one above everything. They made a vow to go to Rome. As soon as they had made the vow, the woman became pregnant. The husband said to her, "We shall do well to go there at once." The wife said, "We have not time enough now; we can go afterwards just as well." The lady was confined of a boy. The boy grows up and he sees that his father is constantly sad, and he finds him often crying in all the corners. The little boy was now seven years old, and the mother had not yet decided to go to Rome. One day this young boy goes into his father's bed-room, and finds him weeping again. He therefore said to him: "What is the matter with you, father?" But he will not answer him, and the child takes a pistol, and says to his father: "If you will not tell me what is the matter with you, I will shoot first you and myself afterwards." The father then said that he would tell him, (and he told him) how that his mother and he had made a vow to go to Rome if they had a child, and that they had never been there. The child said to him, "It is for me that this vow was made, and it is I who will go and fulfil it." He says "Good-bye," and sets out. He was seven years on the road, and begged his bread. At last he comes to the Holy Father, and tells him what has brought him there. Our Holy Father puts him in a room alone for an hour. When he comes out, he says to him, "Oh, you have made a mistake; you have made me stay there two hours at least." Our Holy Father tells him "No!"--that he has been there only one hour. And he puts him into another room for two hours. When he came out from there he said, "You have made me stop more than two hours." He says to him, "No," and puts him in another room for three hours. When he came out of that he said, "You have only left me there three minutes." And he said to him, "Yes, yes, yes; you have been there three hours." And our Holy Father told him that the first room was Hell; that the second was Purgatory; and that the last was Heaven. [174] The child says to him, "Where am I? I in Paradise! And my father?" "In Paradise too." "And my mother?" "In hell." The boy was grieved, and said to him, "Can I not save my mother? I would let my blood flow for her for seven years long." Our Holy Father tells him that he can, and he puts on him a hair-cloth shirt with a padlock, and throws the key into the water. And our Holy Father says to him, "When you shall find this key, your mother will be saved." He starts off, begging his way as before, and takes seven more years before arriving in his own country. He goes from house to house asking alms. His father meets him and asks him where he comes from. He says, "From Rome." He asks him if he has not seen on the road a boy of his own age. He says to him, "Yes, yes," and tells him that he has gone on walking for seven years, shedding his blood to save his mother. And he keeps on talking about his son. His mother comes out on the staircase and tells her husband to send that poor man away--that he must be off from there. But he pays no attention to her. He brings him in, and tells her that he is going to dine with them. His wife is not pleased. He sends the servant to market, telling her to buy the finest fish that she can find. When the young girl comes back, she goes to the poultry yard to clean the fish. The young man follows her, and as she was cleaning the fish she found a key inside it. The young man said to her, "That key belongs to me." And she gives it to him. The lady could not endure this young man, and she gives him a push, and he falls into the well. All on a sudden the water of the well overflows, and the young man comes out all dripping. The husband had not seen that his wife had pushed him into the well, and the young man told him that he had fallen into it. This poor man wishes to give him some clothes, but he will not accept them, saying that he will dry himself at the fire. At table the lady is not at all polite to him. The young man asks her if she would recognise her son. She says, "Yes, yes; he has a mark between his two breasts." And the young man opens his clothes, and shows the mark. At the same time he gives the key to his mother that she may open his hair-cloth shirt, and the mother sees nothing but blood and gore. He has suffered for her. The three die. And the servant sees three white doves fly away. I wish I could do like them in the same way. Gachina, the Net-maker. THE SAINTLY ORPHAN GIRL. There was a young girl who lived far from the world, alone, in sanctity. Every day a dove brought her her food. One day she saw a young girl whom two gens-d'armes were taking to prison or to execution. The orphan said to herself: "If she had lived like me, they would not have taken her to prison." And thereupon she had a thought of pride, and from that day the dove no longer brought her anything to eat. She goes to seek a priest, and tells him what has happened, and since when she does not receive any more food. This priest tells her that she has been punished on account of that thought, and that she must be present at the birth of three children, and see what their gifts would be. The first was the son of a king. She asks the queen permission to remain in the bed-chamber, no matter in what corner; all would be the same to her if she would only give her leave. She consents to it. When this queen gives birth to a boy, the infant has round its neck a white cord, and this orphan understood that he would be guillotined [175] when he was eighteen years old. She sees the birth of another child; a girl with a red cord round her neck, and she sees that she will turn out badly, and that she would go to ruin. She sees a third; this was a boy, and he had blue cord on, which meant that he would be very good. After having seen that this orphan goes back to the house of the queen. There she lived happily, busying herself especially about this child. As she caressed it she often used to say in a sad tone: "Poor child!" The mother remarked that, and one day she said: "One would say that this child was very unfortunate. Do you always act thus when you caress a child, as if it were very wretched, or as if something were going to happen to it?" She said that to her more than once. And when the (fated) age was drawing near, this orphan told the queen what must happen at the age of eighteen. I leave you to judge of the distress of this queen. She told it to her husband, and the father and mother told it to their son; and he said that he must leave the house immediately. He goes then a long way off to another town. And as he was a pretty good scholar, he got a place in a house where there was a large shop. They sold everything there; and as this lad was very good everybody loved him. They heard him go out of the house every night, but they did not know where. The master was curious (to learn this), and he made a hole above the shop, for he went there too in the night. He sees him take a wax candle, and put the price of this candle into the cash-box by the hole, counting the money aloud. Taking the candle with him he falls on his knees, and went a considerable distance to a chapel, walking still on his knees. The master follows him during a whole week, and the boy did always the same thing; and on the eighth day the master looks through the key-hole of the chapel, and sees an angel descend and throw a chain to our lad, and the angel lifted him up in the air. A moment after he comes down again, and goes back to his master's house. The master tells him that he has seen all, and the boy says that his penance is also finished, and that he must go home. The master does not wish it. "You shall go afterwards, if you wish it; but first you must marry my daughter." He tells him that he has a father and mother, and that he cannot do it without telling them; but if they wish it, he will do so willingly. He starts home then at once. You may imagine what joy for the king and the queen. They were constantly trembling lest they should hear that their dearly loved son had been hanged. They did not know what to do for joy. He told them how he had done penance, and that without doubt the good God had pardoned him; and how his old master wished him to marry his daughter. He does so, and all live happily and die well. Louise Lanusse. THE SLANDERED AND DESPISED YOUNG GIRL. Like many others of us in the world, there was a mother and her daughter. They were very poor, and the daughter said that she wished to go out to service, in order to do something for her mother. The mother will not listen to it; what would become of her without her daughter? She prefers to be poor with her to being rich alone. The young girl stays at home. She used to go out as needlewoman; but suddenly her mother falls ill, and quickly she dies. This poor young girl had the deepest sorrow, and she continued to go out to work as before. One day, while she was at work in a house, some acquaintance came and said to them-- "What! you have this young girl here to work! She is a bad girl; she is not at all what she ought to be. You should not take her." In the evening they give her her day's wages, and say that they do not want her any more. She goes to another house, and there the same thing happens. Some people come and say in the same way-- "You have that young girl to work! She will come to a bad end, that girl will. She is even a thief; do not have her again." In the evening they give her her day's wages, and say to her that they do not want her any more. No one asked her to work any more, and she remained at home. By charity and pity, some neighbours, without any necessity, let her come to work for them, because they were pained to see her distress. But there, too, someone comes and says, "I am astonished to see that young girl here. She is a worthless girl. How is it that you have her here?" They answer, "Moved by charity, just to help her." "Do not have her any more; she is a thief, and as bad as can be." After having given her her day's wages, they send her off, and say that they do not want her any more. [176] This poor young girl was in the greatest distress; if she wished to eat, she must beg. She set to work begging then, and everyone disliked her so much that, when they saw her, they used to spit at her. There came home from one of his voyages a ship's captain, and, while he was amusing himself with his friends, this young girl asks for charity. His friends tell him that she was a bad girl, and they spit at her, and he does like the rest. Our captain goes off for another voyage; but he was overtaken by a terrible tempest. The storm was so violent, and the rain came down as if it would never leave off; it made them all tremble. In the midst of his prayers the captain made a vow that, if he escaped, he would marry the worst and most despised girl that he could find. Immediately the weather became fine. He makes a very successful voyage, and one which brought him plenty of money; but, when he reached land, he forgot his vow, and began to amuse himself as much as possible. This same young girl asks charity, and, after his friends have told him that she was a bad girl, they spat at her, and he did so too. Again he goes to sea, and he is overtaken by a storm, much worse than the former one. The wind was most violent, and the lightning terrible; they saw nothing but that. All trembled, and were praying. The captain again makes a vow of marrying, if he should get safe home, with the most abandoned and the poorest girl he can find, and he regrets that he has not kept his vow. He said to himself, "If I had kept it, perhaps I should not have had such weather as this; but nothing now shall make me forget my promise." Immediately the weather becomes fine; he has immense good fortune, and gains as much money as he wishes. When he comes home, he sees this young girl again. His friends spit at her, but he says to them, "I will not spit at her--I wish to marry her." His friends burst out into roars of laughter, "Ha! ha! ha!" The sailor goes home to his mother, and tells her that he is going to be married. His mother answers him, "If you make a good and rich marriage, very well." The son said to her, "She is not at all rich. She is that girl there." The mother was not pleased. "Leave that bad girl alone." He said, "It is all the same to me; I will marry none but her." He asks his friends where she lives. They point to an old house. The captain goes there in the evening and knocks at the door. The girl says, "Who is there?" The man says, "Open the door for me. It is I." The young girl says, "I will not open the door--I am in bed." "Never mind, open it." "No! I will not do it." "I am going to break in the door." "Do what you will, but I will not open it." He breaks open the door, as he said, and goes in. He sees this young girl on a little straw, covered only by her dress. The man wants to go near her. The girl says: "You may kill me if you like, but you shall not come near me." They were like that a long time. The man says to her: "Give me your promise of marriage, then?" The young girl says, "What do you mean? I so poor and you so rich--how can we marry?" The man says that they will do so. The young girl will not believe him, and the gentleman says to her: "If you will give me your promise I will go away at once." And the young girl says "Yes," in order to make him go away. Then he goes away. The next day he goes to a priest and tells him what has taken place, and gives him forty thousand francs, and tells him to build a fine house with it, and to furnish it, and if anything more is wanting he will pay it at his next voyage. The young girl, too, goes to the priest, for before this she had been helped and comforted by him. The priest tells her how the captain had given him forty thousand francs for her to build a fine house with, and for her to make use of for all she wanted. The priest said that he would undertake building the house, and she said that she would see to all that was wanting for herself. The captain goes off, and has as successful a voyage as could be made--he had nothing but fair weather. He brought back plenty of money, and they were married soon after his arrival. His mother and his brothers and sister were at the wedding. After some time the captain wished to go and make another voyage. He left his fine house to take his wife to his mother's house, and he said to her: "My wife will be better with you than all alone. You will have her always dressed as becomes her position, and keep a good table for her, and take good care of her." The husband went to sea. He often wrote to his wife; but what do the captain's mother and her daughter do after he is gone? They take away from this lady all her pretty dresses, and make her put on old ones, and wooden shoes too with straw inside, and send her off to keep the geese with a bit of bread, telling her that she must bring home a load of small wood (to light the fire with), and that she must keep spinning while she is watching the geese. This poor young girl says nothing. She goes off with her flock of geese. When night comes she returns with four skeins of thread spun and a load of small wood. Every day she does the same. They do not even tell her that her husband has written to her. The captain has a fine voyage. He had some fears about his mother and his sister, and he thought to himself that it would be best to come home secretly, in silence, and see how they were treating his wife. He comes then as a foreigner, in the dress of a captain. He says that he comes from a distance, and that he wishes to pass a week in their house. The mother and the daughter receive him very well. They tell him to choose his own room, and he chooses his own wedding-chamber. At nightfall the geese come home, cackling, cackling, and with them the young girl. This gentleman tells them that it is his habit to have some young girl with him when he travels like that, and asks them if they can get him one. They tell him "Yes," that there would be none more glad than this young girl, and that they will give her to him. They go and tell it to the goose girl. She says that certainly she will not go. They say to her that he has chests full of gold, and that they would willingly go, but that he has chosen her; and they push her by force into the room. The gentleman orders an excellent supper, and says that he has the habit of supping well. The goose girl stands sadly before the table. She would not eat anything; the gentleman presses her, and she kept saying that she was not hungry--that she had eaten as much as she usually did. He asks her: "Where have you eaten? and what have you eaten?" "A piece of bread that I took with me in the morning." He tells her again to eat these good things. She says that she does not want anything, and that the greatest pleasure he can give her is to let her go off to her geese. The gentleman says to her: "You do not know then why you have come here? You are to sleep with me." The young girl says: "You shall cut me in pieces on the spot before I will go to your bed. I have a husband, and I wish to be faithful to him." And she tells, on his asking her, how that she was very poor, and no one loved her, and how a rich gentleman had wished to marry her--how very good he had been to her even after the marriage, and how when he went on a voyage he had left her at his mother's house, thinking that she would be best there, and that since he was gone she had had no news of her husband. The gentleman said to her: "Would you recognise your husband?" She says, "Yes." "Has he any marks?" The young girl says, "Yes; he has a mole between his two breasts with three hairs on it." The gentleman opens his shirt and shows her his birthmark. This young girl was seized with such joy that she fainted away, and fell down on the floor. As this gentleman knew the ways of the room he burst open the closet, and took a bottle of liqueur to bring his wife round again, and at last she came to herself, and passes a sweet night with her husband. The next morning the geese come, cackle, cackle, before the door, and the mistress of the house and her daughter come to the gentleman's door, calling out, if they have not stopped there long enough, that it is time to set off, and that it is a shame to be in bed at that hour. The gentleman gets up and says to his mother: "What, mother, was this the way that you ought to have treated my dearly-loved wife?" And he was in such a rage that, if his wife had not begged him to forgive her, he would even have beaten her; but his wife prevented him. He sent his mother and his sister out of the house, and he and his wife lived for many years happy and pleased with each other; and as they lived well they died well too. The Sister of Laurentine. This may be Toutou, but in the Basque country it is sometimes difficult to get hold of a person's surname. "Who is Laurentine?" you ask. "She is Toutou's sister," is the reply. "But who is Toutou?" "She is Laurentine's sister." If you want to get anything more out you have to cross-examine for half-an-hour. Some of our tales are not signed; we believe these are to be divided between Catherine Elizondo and Laurentine Kopena. Fresh names we think we always put down, but these brought so many tales that we sometimes omitted it with them, and in the rearrangement for printing we have lost our clue. We have some thirteen other tales of all kinds, besides variations, which we have not given. They are mostly short, and not very different in character from those given above, except in being more stupid in two or three cases; and a few of them are to be found in M. Cerquand's collection. AN ESSAY ON THE BASQUE LANGUAGE, BY M. JULIEN VINSON. The Basque Language is one which is particularly attractive to specialists. Its place in the general series of idioms has at last been well defined--it is an agglutinative and incorporating language, with some tendency to polysynthetism. It consequently finds a place in the second great morphological linguistic group, between the Finnic and the North American family of languages. I shall now attempt a very short sketch of its general features; but I must ask permission, first, briefly to state some of the most essential principles of the science of language. It is acknowledged that the science of language--that is to say, the science of the characteristic phenomenon of the human species, is a purely natural science. It has nothing in common with philology, which is mainly a historical study. Whether it be called linguistique, glottology, phonology, or even, by a too common abuse, comparative philology, the science of language follows the same method as the other natural sciences, and advances by observation and experience. The direct subject-matter of this science is those vocal organisms which express, by sensible sounds, thought and its divers modes of existence. These organisms are the spontaneous and unconscious product of organs which, as natural phenomena, fall under the general law of perpetual variation, acted on by their surroundings, climate, &c.; but as incapable of being modified by the external or internal exercise of human volition as any other of the organized beings which surround us. But as the object of language is to express thought in all its niceties, both the fact that gives rise to it, and the modifications of it caused by time and space, so it is seen that different idioms have adopted different methods of expressing, in the best and readiest manner, the idea, the conception or intuition, with its variable forms, in order to translate with precision its signification, and its relations. From this point of view language has been divided into three great groups: the first, that of isolating languages, wherein the monosyllabic roots all retain their meaning, and wherein the relations are only expressed conventionally, i.e., were not originally expressed at all; the second, that of agglutinative languages, in which the relations are expressed by roots once significative, but now reduced to a secondary and subordinate office; lastly, the third, that of inflectional languages, in which the change of relations is expressed by a modification in the root itself, and even in the radical vowel. It is clear that the idioms of the second group were once isolating, and that inflectional idioms have passed through both the former states. We conclude from this that language is essentially progressive and variable in the sense of a constant improvement in the expression of relations. And yet, in the study of existing languages we find, on the contrary, that they are often in this respect inferior to their ancestors. This contradiction, however, is only an apparent one. Thus, as Schleicher has demonstrated, languages are born, grow up, become stationary, decline and die; in a word, live after the same fashion as do organized beings. There are in every language two principal periods--that of formal development, during which the idiom passes from the first (monosyllabic) stage to the second (agglutinative) by reducing certain roots to a secondary and dependent office, then from the second to the third (inflectional) by a new effort to express simultaneously signification and relation; and that of formal decay, during which the original meaning of the relative affixes is more and more forgotten, they get worn out, change by degrees, and often end by perishing altogether. Formal decay begins when a language becomes historical, and it often gives rise to remarkable cases of regressive metamorphosis. One remark which we must make on this subject is that the known agglutinative languages have not spontaneously arrived at historical life--that is to say, have not commenced their decay, except under the influence of a foreign idiom either isolating or inflectional. Nevertheless, during their decay, languages can adopt fresh forms, but these are merely composed of words already in use; man in the historical period has no longer bare roots at his service. [177] These linguistic elements are, moreover, subject to the terrible law of the struggle for existence, and of vital competition. Many of them have perished and have left no trace; others are preserved to us merely in some scanty records. The Basque, pressed hard by Latin and its derived languages, has lost ground, especially in Spain. Beyond its actual limits, there are in Navarre many villages, the names of which are Basque, but in which Spanish only is spoken; and all along the frontiers of the actual region of the Basque in the Spanish provinces this idiom is spoken only by a minority of the inhabitants. It is, moreover, undergoing modification everywhere; the children often replace the old expressive native terms by a vocabulary drawn from the Romance tongues. In those places which are most in contact with strangers, and in which the movement of modern life is most keenly felt--at St. Sebastian and at St. Jean de Luz, for instance--the language has become exceedingly debased and incorrect. Everything presages the speedy extinction of the Escuara or Euscara, which is the name given to the Basque by those who speak it. The word, apparently, means merely "manner of speaking." All people have, in a greater or less degree, the pretension which caused the Greeks to treat all foreigners as barbarians--that is, as not properly-speaking men. Prince L. L. Bonaparte reckons the actual number of the Basques, not including emigrants established in Mexico, at Monte Video, and at Buenos Ayres, at 800,000, of whom 660,000 are in Spain, and 140,000 in France. The phonetic laws of the Escuara are simple; the sounds most frequently employed are the sibilants, nasals, and hard gutturals; the soft consonants are often suppressed between two vowels. The mixed sounds, between palatals and gutturals, characteristic of the second large group of languages, are also frequently met with. One of the predominant features is the complete absence of reduplication of consonants, the aversion to groups of consonants, and the care taken to complete the sound of final mute consonants by an epenthetic vowel. It is probable that originally the words were composed of a series of syllables formed regularly of a single consonant and a vowel. We must mention, besides, the double form of the nominatives, one of which is used only as the subject of an active verb; the other serves equally for the subject of the intransitive, and the object of the active verb. This is absolutely the same distinction remarked by M. Fried. Müller in the Australian languages between the subjective and the predicative nominative. Formal derivation is accomplished by means of suffixing the elements of relations; pronominal signs are nevertheless not only suffixed, but also prefixed to verbs. Except in this respect, nouns and verbs are not treated in two distinct manners; they are both equally susceptible of receiving suffixes which mark the relations of time and space, and many of which have preserved in their integrity both their proper signification and their primitive sonorous form. The article is the remote demonstrative pronoun. The pronouns "we" and "ye" are not the plurals of "I" and "thou," but have the appearance of special individualities. There are no possessive derivative terms; "my house," for example, is expressed by "the house of me," and has no analogy with "I eat," or any other verbal expression. There are no genders, although some suffixes are specially replaced by others in the names of animate beings; and in the verb there are special forms to indicate if a man or woman is being spoken to. There is no dual. The sign of the plural is interposed between the article and the suffixes. In the singular alone can there be an indefinite or indeterminate declension without the article. The conjugation is exceedingly complicated. The Basque verb includes in a single verbal expression the relations of space; of one person to another--(1) subjective (the idea of neutrality, of action limited to its author), (2) objective (the idea of action on a direct object), and (3) attributive (the idea of an action done to bear on an object viewed indirectly, the idea of indirect action); the relations of time; the relations of state, corresponding to as many distinct moods; the variations of action, expressed by different voices; the distinctions of subject or object, marked by numerous personal forms; the conditions of time and state which are expressed by conjunctions in modern languages--to each of these relations is appropriated an affix, often considerably abbreviated and condensed, but almost always recognisable. The primitive Basque verb--that is to say, in its full development--did not differ from that of other languages of the globe. It comprised only two moods, the indicative, and the conjunctive, which was derived from the indicative by a suffix; and three tenses, the present, the imperfect, and a kind of aorist indicating eventual possibility. There was only one secondary voice, the causative, formed by a special affix. To these forms it joined the signs of the direct and indirect object, which is the essential characteristic of incorporating idioms. During its historic life, during its period of formal decay, the verb has experienced in Basque modifications which are not found to a similar extent elsewhere. The primitive conjugation, or, so to say, the simple and direct one of verbal nouns, has little by little fallen into disuse, and has been replaced by a singular combination of verbal nouns, of adjectives, and of some auxiliary verbs. Thus it is that the Escuara, in all its dialects, has developed eleven moods and ninety-one tenses (each of which has three persons in each number), variable according to the sex or rank of the person addressed; it receives besides a certain number of terminations, which perform the office of our conjunctions. Moreover, from the totality of these auxiliaries two parallel series have been formed, which, joined alternatively to nouns of action, produce the active and middle voices, or rather the transitive and intransitive. The auxiliaries of the periphrastic conjugation are almost the only verbs that have been preserved belonging to the simple primitive system. With regard to syntax, the Basque resembles all agglutinative languages. The sentence is always simple. The phrases are generally short; relative pronouns are unknown. The complexity of the verb, which unites many ideas in a single word, contributes to this simplicity of the sentence, in which the subject and the attribute, with their respective complements, tend to form but one expression. This object is attained by the invariability of the adjectives, and especially by composition. The adjective is placed after the noun it qualifies, whilst the genitive, on the contrary, precedes the governing noun. Composition is of such common use in Basque, that it has caused several juxta-posed words to be contracted and reduced, so as to be partially confounded one with the other. This phenomenon is familiar to languages of the New World; it is this which properly constitutes polysynthetism, and which we must carefully distinguish from incorporation. This last word should be reserved to designate more particularly the phenomena of objective or attributive conjugation common to idioms of the second form. The Basque vocabulary appears to be very poor. Although it is still imperfectly known (for the old books, and the names of places, as well as certain little studied dialectic variations, must have retained some words generally forgotten), we are yet able to assert that pure Basque terms do not express abstract ideas. Except in words borrowed from the Gascon, French, Spanish, and Latin, we find no trace of any advanced civilization, and we can discover but very few expressions which imply collectivity or generalization--e.g., there is no word which has the wide signification of our word "tree," of our "animal." "God" is simply, by anthropomorphism, "the Master on High." One and the same word translates our ideas of "will, desire, fancy, thought." Borrowed words are more numerous, from the fact that the influence of Aryan dialects has been felt through many ages; it is probably owing to their contact with the Indo-European races that the Basques, or those who used to speak the Basque, have any historical existence. Thus, in order to study this singular idiom, it is necessary to understand thoroughly the history of the intervention of Latin in the Pyrenean region. No assistance is to be obtained from written documents, for there is not (and there cannot have been) any primitive Basque literature. The oldest book was published in 1545. [178] The second is the Protestant version of the New Testament, printed at La Rochelle by order of Jeanne d'Albret, in 1571. [179] Another difficulty arises from the extreme variability of the language. There are, perhaps, not two villages where it is spoken absolutely in the same manner. This is natural enough among an unlettered people, and one which can only rise to the level of the surrounding civilization by forgetting its ancient language. These different varieties are easily grouped into secondary dialects. Prince L. L. Bonaparte recognises twenty-five of them, but they are reduced without difficulty to eight great dialects. A closer inspection further reduces these eight divisions to three; that is to say, the differences between the eight principal dialects are unequal, and admit of partial resemblances. The eight dialects are: (1) The Labourdine, (2) The Souletine, (3) The Eastern Lower-Navarrese, (4) The Western Lower-Navarrese, (5) The Northern Upper-Navarrese, (6) The Southern Upper-Navarrese, (7) The Guipuzcoan, (8) The Biscayan. The Souletine and the two Lower-Navarrese dialects form the first group, which may be called the Oriental division. The Biscayan alone forms the Western, and the four others form the Central group. These names are taken from territorial divisions. La Soule was formerly a province feudatory to Navarre, and now embraces, within the French department of the Basses-Pyrénées, the cantons of Mauléon and Tardets, as well as some parishes of the canton of St. Palais, in the arrondissement of Mauléon. The Labourd, a viscounty, vassal of the Duchy of Aquitaine, corresponded to the cantons of Bayonne (excepting the city itself and three other parishes), of St. Jean de Luz, of Ustaritz, of Espelette, and part of Hasparren, in the arrondissement of Bayonne. The remaining part of the two French arrondissements which we have just named composes Lower Navarre, which is again subdivided into the districts of Cize, Mixe, Arberoue, Ostabaret, and the valleys of Osses and Baigorry. This was originally the sixth merindad of Navarre, a kingdom which extended into Spain as far as the Ebro, from Garde and Cortés on the one side to Vera and Viana on the other. Basque is still spoken along the French frontier and in several valleys forming the upper part of the territory. Guipuzcoa contains the cantons (partidos) of St. Sebastian, Tolosa, Azpeitia, and Vergara. Biscay comprises all the territory between Ondarroa and the river of Sommorostro, between La Carranza and the Peña de Gorbea. The dialects do not correspond exactly to the territorial subdivisions whose names they bear. Thus the Western Lower-Navarrese is spoken in a part of the ancient Labourd; the Biscayan in Guipuzcoa. Lastly, on the Spanish maps, there is another Basque province, Alava; but Basque is scarcely spoken there, excepting in a narrow strip along the northern frontier. The dialect of these Alavese districts is included in the Biscayan. To resume, the Biscayan dialect is now spoken in Alava, Biscay, and the western third part of Guipuzcoa, in Vergara, and in Las Salinas; the Guipuzcoan in almost all the rest of Guipuzcoa; the Northern Upper-Navarrese in some villages of Guipuzcoa on the French frontier, in Fontarabie, Irun, and in the northern part of Navarre; the Southern Upper-Navarrese in the rest of Basque Navarre; the Labourdine in the south-western part of the arrondissement of Bayonne; the Western Lower-Navarrese in the north-eastern part of the same arrondissement; the Souletine is spoken in the two cantons of Mauléon and Tardets, and at Esquiule in the arrondissement of Oloron; the Eastern Lower-Navarrese extends into the arrondissement of Bayonne as far as St. Pierre d'Irube, by Meharrin, Ayherre, Briscous, Urcuit. Of these arrondissements, of these provinces, none is entirely Basque in a linguistic point of view, except Guipuzcoa. Navarre is only half so, Alava only a tenth part. A little less than a fourth part has to be subtracted from Biscay, and certain Gascon villages from the arrondissements of Mauléon and Bayonne in France. Neither Bayonne, nor Pampeluna, nor Bilbao are Basque. [180] And, moreover, skirting the districts where the Basque is the native idiom of the majority of the inhabitants, on many points there is an intermediate zone in which Basque is known only by a minority of the population; nevertheless, this zone must be included in the geographical area of the idiom, since the persons who speak Basque in it know it as their native language, and have never learnt it. This zone is most extensive in Navarre, but exists also in Alava and in Biscay. In France there is no analogous mixed zone; and, as M. P. Broca remarks ("Sur l'Origine et la Repartition de la Langue Basque," Paris, 1875, p. 39), "the demarcation is brusque, and may be indicated by a single line." The Basques, moreover, in this respect, present some curious points for study. "In the valley of Roncal the men speak Spanish together; with the women they speak Basque, as do the women to each other. A similar state of things is to be observed at Ochagavia in Salazar. But this custom is not observed in the Roncalese villages of Uztarroz and Isaba, where the men among themselves speak indifferently Basque or Spanish." (Prince L. L. Bonaparte, "Etudes sur les Dialects d'Aezcoa," &c., p. 3). The preceding description justifies the opinion advanced at the beginning of this notice. The Basque is an agglutinative idiom, and must be placed, in a morphological point of view, between the Finnic family, which is simply incorporating, and the North American incorporating and polysynthetic families. But we must not conclude thence that the Escuara is a near relation either of the Finnic or of the Magyar, of the Algonquin or of the Irokese. The relationship of two or more languages cannot, in fact, be concluded merely from a resemblance of their external physiognomy. To prove a community of origin, it is indispensable that (if compared at the same stage of development) their principal grammatical elements should not only be analogous in their functions, but should also have a certain phonetic resemblance, in order to render the hypothesis of their original identity admissible. It is better to abstain from asserting that such languages are derived from the same source, if the significant roots--which, after all, constitute the proper basis, the true originality of a language--should be found to be totally different. At present, no language has been discovered which presents any root-likeness to the Basque, analogous to that which exists between the Sanscrit, Greek, and Gothic, or between Arabic and Hebrew. Nevertheless, there are in the world minds so devoted to the worship of their own fixed ideas, so smitten with their own metaphysical dreams, so full of faith in the necessity of the unity of language, that they have acquired the habit of torturing the radical elements of a language, and of making them flexible and variable to an inconceivable degree. They pass their lives in seeking etymologies, such as those which Schleicher calls "Etymologizerungen ins blanc hinein," and in discovering phonetic miracles--worthy children of those students of the last centuries who, in the general ignorance of the science of language, traced up all languages to Hebrew. The adventurous spirits to whom I allude have invented a theory of languages in which the vocabulary is incessantly renewed, and have formed the great "Turanian" family, in which everything which is neither Aryan, nor Semitic, nor Chinese, must be perforce included. In this olla podrida, where the Japanese elbows the Esquimaux, and the Australian shakes hands with the Turkish, where the Tamul fraternizes with the Hungarian, a place is carefully reserved for the Basque. Many amateurs, more daring still, have wedded the Escuara, or at least those who speak it, to the soi-disant Khamitic tribes of Egypt; others have united them to the ancient Phoenicians; others have seen in them the descendants of the Alans; others again, thanks to the Atlantides, make them a colony of Americans. It is not long since it was seriously affirmed, and in perfect good faith, that the Basques and the Kelts, the Welsh or Bretons, understood each other, and could converse at length, each using his native tongue. I refer these last to the poet Rulhière: "La contrariété tient souvent au langage: On peut s'entendre moins parlant un même son, Que si l'un parlait Basque et l'autre Bas-Breton." The more serious of these foes of negative conclusions, of these refiners of quintessences, assert that the ancestors of the Basques are incontestably the Iberians. In the first place I will remark that, supposing this proved, the Basques, or, if you will, the Iberians, would not be the less isolated; for how could the Iberian, any more than the Basque, be allied to the Keltic or to the Carthaginian? But this Iberian theory is not yet at all proved, and it will be easy to show it to be so in a few words. It reposes first of all on the following à priori--the Iberians have occupied all Spain and the south of Gaul, but the Escuara lives still at the foot of the Pyrénées; therefore the Escuara is a remnant of the language of the Iberians. The error of the syllogism is patent; the conclusion does not follow, and is wrongly deduced from the premises. As to the direct proofs, they are reduced to essays of interpretation, either of inscriptions called Iberian or Keltiberian, or of numismatic legends, or of proper, and especially of topographical names. [181] The inscriptions and legends are written in characters evidently of Phoenician origin, but their interpretation is anything but certain. All the readings, all the translations into Basque, proposed by MM. Boudard, Phillips, and others, are disputed by the linguists who are now studying the Basque. The names collected from ancient authors form a more solid basis; but the explanations proposed by W. von Humboldt, and after him by many etymologists without method, [182] are equally for the most part inadmissible. The Iberian theory is not proved, though it is perfectly possible. The Basques do not present, in an anthropological point of view, as far as we know at present, any original and well-defined characteristic other than their language. [183] Nothing in their manners or customs is peculiar to them. It is in vain that some writers have tried to discover the strange custom of the "couvade" among them, a custom still observed, it is said, by the natives of South America and in the plains of Tartary. It consists in the husband, when his wife is confined, going to bed with the new-born infant, and there he "couve," "broods over it," so to say. No modern or contemporaneous writer has found this custom among the Basques; and as to historical testimony, it is reduced to a passage of Strabo--which nothing proves to be applicable to the ancestors of the present Basques--and to certain allusions in writers of the last two centuries. These allusions always refer to the Béarnais, the dialect whence the word "couvade" is borrowed. Prince L. L. Bonaparte has discovered that in the Basque dialect of Roncal the moon is called "Goicoa;" Jaungoicoa is the word for "God" in Basque, and would mean "the Lord Moon," or rather "our Lord the Moon." He cites, with reference to this, "the worship of the moon by the ancient Basques." The only evidence in favour of this worship is a passage of Strabo (Lib. iii., iv. 16), where it is said that the Keltiberians, and their neighbours to the north, honour a certain anonymous God by dances before their doors at night during the full moon. But it must be proved that the Keltiberians and their neighbours to the north were Basques. Another passage of Strabo has furnished arguments to the "Iberists." He says (Lib. iii., iv. 18) that among the Cantabrians the daughters inherited, to the detriment of their brothers. M. Eugène Cordier has endeavoured, after Laferrière ("Histoire du Droit Français"), to establish that this arrangement is the origin of the right of primogeniture without distinction of sex, and which is found more or less in all the "coutumes" of the Western Pyrénées. He has developed this theory in an interesting essay, "Sur l'Organisation de la Famille chez les Basques" (Paris, 1869). But an able lawyer of Bayonne, M. Jules Balasque, has shown in Vol. II. of his remarkable "Etudes Historiques sur la Ville de Bayonne" (Bayonne, 1862-75) that there is nothing peculiar to the Basques in this fact; and we can only recognise in it, as in the opposite custom of "juveignerie" in certain northern "coutumes," an application of a principle essentially Keltic or Gallic for the preservation of the patrimony. In conclusion, I beg my readers to excuse the brevity of the preceding notes; but, pressed for time, and overwhelmed with a multitude of occupations, it has not been possible for me to do more. If I am still subject to the reproach which Boileau addresses to those who, in striving to be concise, become obscure, I have at least endeavoured to conform to the precept of the Tamul poet, Tiruvalluva--"To call him a man who lavishes useless words, is to call a man empty straw" (I. Book, xx. chap., 6th stanza). Bayonne, August 28, 1876. BASQUE POETRY. I.--PASTORALES. Perhaps there is no people among whom versification is so common, and among whom really high-class poetry is so rare, as among the Basques. The faculty of rhyming and of improvisation in verse is constantly to be met with. Not unusually a traveller in one of the country diligences, especially on a market-day, will be annoyed by the persistent crooning of one of the company, like Horace of old, more or less under the inspiration of Bacchus; and if he enquire what the man is about, he will be told that he is reciting a narrative in verse of all the events of the past day, mingled probably with more or less sarcastic reflections on the present company, and with especial emphasis on the stranger. At the yearly village fêtes, when the great match of Jeu de Paume au Rebot has been lost or won, prizes are sometimes given for improvisation on themes suggested at the moment, and the rapidity of the leading improvisatori [184] is something marvellous. Moreover, there are two species of native Drama. One, the Pastorale, the more regular and important, is now confined to the Vallée of La Saison and the Souletin district. The other, the Charivari, or Mascarade, more unfettered and impromptu, giving free rein to the invention of the actors, is occasionally, but rarely, acted in all districts of the Pays Basque. The Pastorale, or Tragedy, is certainly a representative and survival of the Mediæval Mystery, or Miracle Play; and in the remoter districts is acted almost as seriously as is the Ammergau Passion Play. It is an open-air performance, which unites in interminable length, and in the same piece, tragedy and comedy, music, dancing, and opera. Though undoubtedly the oldest form in which Basque poetry of any kind is preserved, it can have no claim to be an indigenous product. The subjects of the older Pastorales are drawn from three sources--from the Bible; from the lives of the Saints, or Hagiology; from the Chansons de Geste and Romances of Chivalry. None of the extant Pastorales, even in their earliest form, would, we think, be anterior to the thirteenth century. The anachronisms, the prejudices, the colouring, the state of education evinced, are all those of the date when the Chansons de Geste and the Legenda Aurea were the favourite literature of high and low; the epoch at the close of which flourished the brilliant petty courts of Gaston de Foix at Orthez, and of the Black Prince at Bordeaux. The anachronisms make Charlemagne a contemporary of the Crusaders; Mahomet is an idol, and in the shape of a wooden puppet sits on a cross-bar over one of the stage-entrances, where he is worshipped by all his followers as they pass in and out. The make-up of the characters and the dresses are conventional. But though we cannot assign any higher antiquity even to the original form of any of the extant Pastorales--we say original form, because they have been edited and re-edited generation after generation by almost every prompter at each successive representation--yet several of the accessories and part of the stage-business point to possibly older traditions. The stage, at least in the more inaccessible villages, where alone the Pastorales are now to be seen in anything like their genuine form, may still be described as "modicis pulpita tignis." It is generally constructed against a house in the "Place" of the village, and is composed of boards resting on inverted barrels; one or more sheets, suspended from cross-bars, hide the house walls, and form the background; to this drapery bunches of flowers and flags are affixed, and thus is formed the whole "scenery"; the rest is open air and sky. Usually behind the sheet, though sometimes in front on a chair, sits the prompter, or stage-director; at the corners and sides of the stage are the stage-keepers, armed with muskets, which are fired off at certain effective moments, and always at the end of a fight. But there are four points in which a Pastorale recalls more ancient traditions: (1) The sexes are never mingled; the Pastorale being played either entirely by men, or entirely by women. [185] (2) The speech is always a kind of recitative or chant, varying in time according to the step of the actors. (3) There is a true chorus. (4) The feet and metre of the verse correspond to the step and march of the actors, and to the dancing of the chorus. Now, as to (1), the effect is not unpleasing; the boy-lady or the boy-angel is often one of the most successful actors, and makes an excellent substitute for the real lady. There is no coarseness in his acting; on the contrary, there is a certain reserve of movement caused by the unwonted dress, which looks like a pleasing modesty, and makes the boy appear really lady-like. His get-up is generally unexceptionable. We have once only had an opportunity of seeing a girl's Pastorale, "Ste. Helène," at Garindein, in April of the present year, 1879. Unfortunately it was interrupted, almost as soon as commenced, by violent rain. The costumes were very modest and pretty. The heroines of the piece wore blue or scarlet-jackets, with long white skirts; the lady-heroes had shorter skirts and white unmentionables. The Pastorale of "Ste. Helène" has nothing to do with the mother of Constantine the Great, or with the Invention of the Cross. It is an olla podrida of old legends. The opening scene is taken from "The King who wished to marry his own daughter" (see above, p. 165.) A King Antoina wishes to marry his daughter Helène, and for that purpose procures a dispensation from the Pope, who appears on the scene, attended by an angel. Helène, however, still refuses, and escapes; she embarks for England, but the captain of the vessel falls outrageously in love with her (cf. "Juan Dekos," p. 148). A shipwreck saves her from his persecutions; she lands alone in England, is seen by Henry, King of England, who falls in love with her and forthwith marries her, in spite of his mother's objections. He is forced to go to the wars; Helène gives birth to twin boys, but the queen-mother changes the letter, and sends word to the King that she is confined of two puppies (cf. "The singing tree, the bird which tells the truth, and the water that makes young," p. 177). Ste. Helène is condemned to death; Clarice, her maid, offers to die in her stead, but both escape; the boys, who were supposed to have been murdered, at last reappear, and all ends happily as in the legends. The part of the "Satans" was taken by three middle-aged men, in buff breeches and white stockings, who danced very well. The preliminary procession on horseback, and the opening scene on the stage, were exceedingly pretty. (2) The recitative is always accompanied by music; generally a violin or two, a flute, the chirola, and the so-called Basque tambourine, a species of six-stringed guitar, beaten by a short stick, or plectrum. The tune is almost a monotone, but differs in time, being faster or slower according to the action of the piece; with the exception of those parts in which the chorus alone has possession of the stage, when the Saut Basque or other lively dancing airs are played. The strong, clear chant of the actor accompanying this music, which is never overpowering in its loudness, is heard much better and to a greater distance in the open air than any mere speaking would be; and, moreover, it prevents rant, without altogether effacing vivacity. For (3) there is a singular idea running through all these Basque Pastorales, according to which sanctity and nobility of character are associated with calmness of demeanour and tone, and villany and devilry of all kinds with restlessness and excitement. The angels and saints, the archbishops and bishops, move with folded hands and softly gliding steps; the heroes walk majestically slow; the common soldiers are somewhat more animated and careless in their gestures; the Saracens, the enemies, the villains, rush wildly about; but the chorus, or "Satans," are ever in restless, aimless, agitated movement, except when engaged in actual dancing. It is on these last, the chorus--of whom there should be three, or two at least--that the great fatigue and burden of the acting weighs. None but the most active and well-knit lads can play the part, and even them it tries severely. This chorus is invariably called "Satans;" their dress is always rigidly the same, and a pretty one it is--red beret or cap, red open jacket, white trousers with red stripes, red sashes, spartingues (hempen sandals) bound with red ribands; and they carry a little wand ornamented with red ribands and terminating in a three-forked hooked prong. [186] Blue is the colour consecrated to the good and virtuous; red to the enemy and the vicious, to the English, Saracens, and "Satans." The task of the "Satans" is not only to take part among the actors, but the difficulty of their utterance is much heightened by the compelled rapidity of their movements, while at intervals, when the stage is empty of other actors, they occupy the front corners of it, and dance the wild Saut Basque, singing at the same time some reflections on, or anticipations of, the action of the piece played, much like the chorus of a Greek tragedy; but, in addition to this, there is generally a comic interlude, more or less impromptu, and very slightly, if at all, connected with the main piece, wherein the "Satans" take the principal rôle, together with the best comedian of the other actors. This is done to relieve the tedium of the heavy tragedy, and, oddly enough, is often spoken partly in Gascon or in French, while only Basque is used in the Pastorale proper. (4) As will be judged from the above remarks, there is, perhaps, no spectacle in Europe from which the original relations of feet, line, pause, metre, verse, strophe, antistrophe, and rhythm in music, dance, and poetry can be better studied than at a Basque Pastorale. It will be seen there at a glance how far these terms are from being mere metaphors. Now, when we add that many of the actors in these Pastorales cannot--scarcely any could before the present generation--read or write; that the Pastorales extend from three to seven thousand lines, distributed in ballad verses of four lines each, the second and fourth rhyming; and that the representations last from six to eight hours, our readers may imagine the amount of serious preparation required where every sentence has to be learned by heart from repetition of a reader or reciter. Consequently, to get up a Pastorale, a whole winter is not too long. The task is generally performed at home in the actor's family, or in a house where two or three meet together for the study, if neighbours. We have seen some pleasing instances of the pride the whole family take in the success of the actor. Asking once a pretty boy where he could have learnt to play his part of lady in so very ladylike a manner, he answered, "From my father and my mother in the winter." At another time we had as companion in a long day's walk a man upwards of sixty, who had been a "Satan" in his youth. He explained how very trying it is both to dance well and to sing at the same time so as to be clearly heard. His father had been a "Satan" before him, and had trained him for the occasion, and had made him eat two raw eggs before commencing. He spoke of the joy of the whole family when his performance was successful, though he lost his voice for several days afterwards. To show what his former agility must have been, he cleared every fence and obstacle in our path gallantly, despite his sixty years. These Pastorales are seldom, if ever, acted as a money speculation, but during the acting of them one or two young men, accompanied by a pretty girl, make the round of the spectators, offering a glass of wine, in quasi-payment for which you are expected to place a coin in the plate which the maiden carries. The amount collected is seldom much beyond what is required for the necessary expenses; more often it is below, but if anything remains it is spent on a grand feast to all the actors. The number of Pastorales in existence is variously stated at from seventy to two hundred. The former number we believe to be the nearer to the fact. The names of those best known are as follows:-- From the Bible and Hagiology. Abraham, avec Sara and Agar S. Claudieus et Ste. Marsimissa Josué de Moïse Ste. Engrace Nabuchodonosor Ste. Helène, or Elaine S. Pierre Ste. Geneviève S. Jacques Les Trois Martyrs S. Jean Baptiste Ste. Agnes S. Louis Ste. Catherine S. Alexis Ste. Marguerite S. Roch La Destruction de Jerusalem Classical. Bacchus Alexandre Chansons de Geste, etc. Clovis Les Douze Pairs de France Mustafa, le Grand Turc Les Quatre Fils Aymon Astiaga Geneviève de Brabant Charlemagne Richard Sans Peur, Duc de Normandie [187] Thibaut Jeanne d'Arc Godefroi de Bouillon et la Jean Caillabit Deliverance de Jerusalem La Princesse de Gamatie Marie de Navarre Jean de Paris Roland Jean de Calais [188] Modern. Napoleon--(1) Le Consulat (2) L'Empire (3) Ste. Helène We will now give a brief epitome of "Abraham" as a specimen, not of the best, but of the only one which we have at hand in MS., [189] for none of the Pastorales, we believe, have ever been printed in extenso. The dramatis personæ are: The Eternal Father, who speaks chiefly in Latin quotations from the Vulgate, and always from behind the scenes, i.e., the suspended sheets mentioned above. Three Angels--Michael, Raphael, Gabriel--all of whom mingle quotations from the Vulgate with their Basque. Abraham, Sara, Agar, Isaac, and Ismael. Lot, and Uxor (sic) Lot's wife. Tina and Mina, Lot's daughters. Salamiel and Nahason, shepherds of Abraham. Sylva and Milla, shepherds of Lot. Melchisedec. Escol, a companion of Abraham. All / Raphel (Amraphel) \ these | Arioch | Kings of the Turks (Turcac). names | Thadal | are | Chodorlaomor / from < Sennaab \ the | Bara | Vulgate. | Bersa > Good Kings. | Semeber | \ Bala / Pharaon, King of Egypt. Corion and Gober, Pharaon's courtiers. Astaroch \ Telemar | Good Soldiers, defenders of the Holy Religion. Cormaim | Zuzite / Chavoq and Chorre, good giants, killed by the Turkish kings. Cocor, Patar; Maneton, and Catilie, inhabitants of Sodom. The last two are ladies. Maneton is a diminutive from Marie--Manon, Manette, Maneton; like Jeannette, Jeanneton, from Jeanne. "Satans"--Satan and Bulgifer--who swear most frightfully in French, on the principle, perhaps, of omne ignotum pro magnifico, and because swearing, while more terrible, is less mischievous when uttered in a tongue "not understanded of the people." Abraham is the model of a Christian, and Abraham and Pharaon both address their followers as "barons." Satan flatteringly addresses the shepherds by the Spanish title "Caballeros" when he wants to lead them into mischief. The actors are by no means so numerous as the "rôles"; one takes several successive parts, often without change of dress, a custom which heightens not a little the difficulty of following an acted Pastorale. There is more dramatic unity in "Abraham," and the main plot is more skilfully conducted than might be expected from its title. The key-note of the action is given at once when Satan and Bulgifer appear on horseback in the "Place" in front of the stage, and announce their project of "tormenting Abraham," and of "weakening the Christian Faith." The plot then follows pretty closely the Bible narrative. Only it is Satan and Bulgifer who are the authors of all Abraham's misfortunes and vexations; although the angels constantly appear to save him when matters are at their worst. It is the "Satans" who inflame Pharaon in Egypt with the report and sight of Sara's beauty; it is they who stir up strife between Abraham's and Lot's herdsmen; they are delighted with the wickedness of the inhabitants of Sodom, which they direct to suit their own purposes; they stir up war against Abraham and Lot in the persons of the Turkish kings with Biblical names. These at first conquer Lot, and one by one slay all his partisans, including the good giants Chavoq and Chorre, whose corpses are carried off by Satan to be feasted upon, with the licorish exclamation: "O what cutlets! what a fine leg!!" Then they tempt Agar, and make her quarrel with Sara. In the scene preceding the destruction of Sodom, although the angels are present, the inhabitants round Lot's door are blinded, not by them, but "by some magician." Lot's wife, Uxor, when to be changed into a pillar of salt, ingeniously falls under the stage, and there the transformation takes place unseen. When Isaac is born, he is forthwith baptised. Agar and Ismael are driven into the desert, and are saved by the angel Gabriel. The play then gradually works up to the climax, the sacrifice of Isaac--the last and terrible temptation--in which the "Satans" tempt the "two Christians," Abraham and Isaac, to unbelief and disobedience, and are foiled as ever. After this, the action languishes, Abraham dies, and the Pastorale comes to an end. All the actors appear on the stage and chant the De Profundis, then the angels sing, and all unite in a concluding chant. We give a few verses from the scene of the sacrifice as a specimen of the whole:-- SATAN AND BULGIFER; ABRAHAM AND ISAAC. Satan. Abraham, art thou ignorant? What art thou thinking of? Leave him in life; Thou hast some wise hairs. I tell thee to return To the house with the child; And there you shall live With very great joy. Abraham. Ah! alas! wretched torment! Always thus on this earth Satan doth vex me In all my doings. Nevertheless, I take courage; Yes, even now To slay Isaac I am ready on the instant. He has given me the order, The good God Himself, That I sacrifice Isaac On this mountain myself. Bulgifer. He who gave you this order Was not God. No! Go off to your house, And take your young son. Abraham. My only son Isaac, If I sacrifice him, All of my race I quickly destroy. The good God had told me That he would marry; But if he dies now, How can that be? I trust, nevertheless, On our Lord God; I am willing to offer to Him, To Him alone, my son. At last Satan and Bulgifer go off, exclaiming:-- O, you accursed one! You always overcome us; To confusion always You do put us. But, if we no more tempt you, We will tempt some one else; And we will even take down To hell some soul. In despair we depart For ever from thee; And we leave you now In a very sad case. After a few words between father and son, Isaac then offers himself, and prays as follows:-- People, I pray you, look On this poor innocent child; I am about to leave the world, And have done harm to none. (Music.) O Lord! our Saviour! Unjustly crucified! Lord, I must also Soon leave this world. (Music.) O King of Heaven! Who art powerful Above all other, Wise and triumphant. (Music.) I ask pardon of Thee For all my sins, Wherewith I oft have offended Thee from my birth. He binds himself, and goes on:-- All those, O Lord! Blot from remembrance; To Thy glory, I pray, Receive me immediately. King of the Angels, Prince of the Heaven, May'st Thou grant me, I pray Thee, Thy rest. I ask Thee pardon From my whole heart; Succour me, O Lord! With Thy holy hand. I have not enough wit To thank Thee therewith; But if to Heaven I should go, There will I praise Thee. O Lord! I pray Thee, have pity! Thou shouldest grant it me; For to leave this world I am determined. Angel of the Lord, Grant me strength, Since Thou art My Guide! Lord, I commend To Thee my spirit; It is Thou Who first Hast created me. And O! great God! I pray, If it be Thy will, In the repose of the blessed Place my soul. Father,--whenever You will,-- Sacrifice me now;-- To find my God I would depart. Abraham is in the act of sacrificing when the Angel Gabriel seizes him from behind, and bids him not do it, &c., &c. Any foreigner who, unless he has a most charming interpreter or interpretress, can sit out a whole Pastorale would surely deserve the first prize in the school of patience. The other kind of dramatic performance is much more irregular, and may assume various forms according to the circumstances which give occasion to it. It may be only a wild kind of carnival procession, the Mascarade, where each gesticulates as the character he represents; or a charivari in honour (?) of a dotard's marriage, wherein the advantages of celibacy over married life are sarcastically set forth; or it may take the form of a really witty impromptu comedy played on a tiny stage in honour of the marriage or the good fortune of the most popular persons of the village. One of the first kind is excellently described in Chaho's "Biarritz, entre les Pyréneés et l'Océan," vol. ii. pp. 84-121, to which we refer the reader. One of the last kind was acted at Louhossoa about 1866, on the double occasion of some marriages, and of the return of some young men from South America. There were three actors; the piece was witty and well played, and seemed to give the greatest satisfaction to the audience. II. If we except the Pastorales, the whole of Basque poetry may be described as lyrical; either secular, as songs, or religious, as hymns and noëls. There is no epic in Basque, [190] and scarcely any narrative ballads; even those chiefly are of uncertain date. A few sonnets exist, but they are almost exclusively translations or imitations of French, Spanish, or classical poems, and cannot be considered as genuine productions of the Basque muse. Some of the religious poetry may be described as didactic, but this again is mostly paraphrase or translation. All that is really native is lyrical. But even in song the Basques show no remarkable poetical merit. The extreme facility with which the language lends itself to rhyming desinence has a most injurious effect upon versification. There are not verses only, but whole poems, in which each line terminates with the same desinence. Instead of striving after that perfection of form which the change of a single word or even letter would affect injuriously, the Basques are too often satisfied with this mere rhyme. Their compositions, too, if published at all, are usually printed only on single sheets of paper, easily dispersed and soon lost. Hence the preservation of Basque poetry is entrusted mainly to the memory, and thus it happens that one scarcely meets with two copies of the same song exactly alike. If the memory fails, the missing words and rhymes are so easily supplied by others that it is not worth the effort to recall the precise expression used. And so it comes to pass that, while versification is very common among the Basques, high-class poetry is extremely rare. They have no song writers to compare with Burns or with Béranger. And if it be alleged that poets like these are rare, even among people far more numerous and more cultivated, the Basques still fall short, when measured by a much lower standard. They have no poets to rival the Gascon, Jasmin, or to compare with the Provençal or the Catalan singers at the other end of the Pyrenean chain. There is no modern Basque song which can be placed by the side of "Le Demiselle" and others of the Biarritz poet, Justin Larrebat; and among the older poets neither Dechepare nor Oyhenart is equal to the Béarnais, Despourrins. While the Jacobite songs of Scotland are among the finest productions of her lyric muse, the Carlist songs, on the contrary, though telling of an equally brave and romantic struggle, are one and all below mediocrity. But, while fully admitting this, there is yet much that is pleasing in Basque poetry. If it has no great merits, it is still free from any very gross defects. It is always true and manly, and completely free from affectation. It is seldom forced, and the singer sings just because it pleases him to do so, not to satisfy a craving vanity or to strain after the name and fame of a poet. The moral tone is almost always good. If at times, as in the drinking songs, and in some few of the amatory, the expression is free and outspoken, vice is never glossed over or covered with a false sentimentality. The Basque is never mawkish or equivocal--with him right is right, and wrong is wrong, and Basque poetry leaves no unpleasant after-taste behind. [191] The only peculiarity, in a poetical sense, is the extreme fondness for, and frequent employment of, allegory. In the love songs the fair one is constantly addressed under some allegorical disguise. It is a star the lover admires, or it is the nightingale who bewails his sad lot. The loved one is a flower, or a heifer, a dove or a quail, a pomegranate or an apple, figures common to the poets of other countries; but the Basques, even the rudest of them, never confuse these metaphors, as more famous poets sometimes do--the allegory is ever consistently maintained throughout. Even in prose they are accustomed to this use of allegory, and catch up the slightest allusion to it; but to others it often renders their poetry obscure, and very difficult of successful translation. The stranger is in doubt whether a given poem is really meant only for a description of the habits of the nightingale, or whether the bird is a pseudonym for the poet or the poet's mistress. Curiously enough, sometimes educated Basques seem to have almost as much difficulty in seizing this allegory as have foreigners. Thus, in a work now in course of publication, [192] one of the most famous of these allegorical complaints is actually taken for a poetical description of the nightingale itself. The historical songs, like all other historical remains among the Basques, are few and doubtful. There are two songs, however, for which are claimed a greater historical importance and a higher antiquity than any others can pretend to. These are the so-called "Leloaren Cantua" and the "Altabiskarco Cantua." Both these are reputed by some writers to be almost contemporaneous with the events which they relate. The first is said to be founded on the wars of the Roman Emperor Augustus with the Cantabri; the second is an account of the defeat of Charlemagne's rearguard at Roncesvalles, A.D. 778. The former may be some three hundred years old, but the latter is certainly a production of the nineteenth century, though none the less it is the most spirited offspring of the Basque muse. We will give the text and translation of each, and then justify our conclusions. LELOAREN CANTUA. SONG OF LELO. 1. 1. lelo. yl lelo; Lelo, dead (is) Lelo; lelo. yl lelo; Lelo, dead (is) Lelo; leloa çarat [193] Lelo, Zara (?) [193] il leloa. Killed Lelo. 2. 2. Romaco armac The arms of Rome aleguin eta do all they can, and Vizcayac daroa Biscay raises Zanzoa. The song of war. 3. 3. Octabiano Octavianus, munduco jauna Of the world lord, le coby di [193] Lecobidi (?) [193] Vizcayocoa. of Biscay. 4. 4. Ichasotati By sea eta leorres and by land y mini deusco he has placed us molsoa. the siege. 5. 5. leor celayac The dry plains bereac dira are theirs; menditan tayac the high mountains, leusoac. the caverns (are ours). 6. 6. lecu yronyan In favourable ground gagozanyan when we are, nocbera sendo each one firm daugogoa. has heart (?) 7. 7. bildurric guichi Little fear armabardinas (with) equal arms, oramayasu (but) our kneading-trough guexoa. (goes) ill. 8. 8. Soyacgogorrac Hard corselets badyri tuys wear they; narrubiloxa Bare body; surboa. (more) agility (?) 9. 9. bost urteco For five years, egun gabean by day, by night, gueldi bagaric without ceasing, pochoa. (lasts) the siege (?) 10. 10. gurecobata One of ours ylbadaguyan when he is dead, bost amarren five tens galdoa. they lose (?) 11. 11. aecanista They many and gue guichitaya we few (?) asqugudugu at last we have made lalboa. the peace. 12. 12. gueurelurrean In our land ta aen errian and in his village biroch ainbaten are tied in the same way zamoa. the loads (of wood). 13. 13. Ecin gueyago (It is) impossible more.   (The rest of this verse is lost through a rent in the paper.) 14. 14. tiber lecua Tiber the place gueldico zabal remains broad (?) Uchin tamayo Uchin Tamayo (?) grandoya. very large. 15. (Torn.) 16. 16. andiaristac The great oaks gueisto syndoas yield beticonayas to the constant strokes narraca. (of) the woodpecker. The history of the above song is as follows: At the close of the sixteenth century a notary of Zornoza, J. Iñiguez de Ibargüen, was commissioned by the Junta of Biscay to search the principal libraries of Spain for documents relating to the Basques. In the archives of Simancas he discovered an ancient MS. on parchment, containing verses in Basque, some almost, others wholly obliterated. Of these he copied what he could, and inserted them in p. 71 of his "Cronica general de España y sumaria de Vizcaya," a work which still exists in manuscript in the town of Marquina. From this history of Ibargüen the song was first reproduced by the celebrated Wilhelm von Humboldt, and published by him in 1817 in a supplement to Vater's "Mithridates." The text above given is taken from that of the "Cancionero Vasco," Series 2, iii., pp. 18, 20, and claims to be a new and literal copy from the MS. "Cronica" of Ibargüen. From the date of its publication by Humboldt, this piece has been the subject of much discussion. That it is one of the oldest fragments of Basque poetry hardly admits of doubt. But, when asked to believe that it is contemporary with Augustus, we must hesitate. The question arises: Did Ibargüen copy the almost defaced original exactly as it was, or did he suffer his declared predilections unconsciously to influence his reading of it? [194] Many of the words are still very obscure, and the translation of them is almost guess work. The first verse has little or no apparent connection with the rest of the poem, and has given rise to the most fanciful interpretations. Lelo has been imagined by some to be the name of a Basque hero; Zara, or Zarat, who kills him, the name of another; and the two reproduce the story of Agamemnon and Ægisthus. Others, with more probability, take Lelo, as is certainly the case in other poems, for a mere refrain (the everlasting Lelo, as a Basque proverb has it) used by the singer merely to give the key to the tune or rhythm to which he modulates the rest. Chaho, with his usual audacity, would translate it "glory," and render it thus:-- Finished is the glory! dead is the glory, Our glory! Old age has killed the glory, Our glory! But it has been very plausibly suggested [195] that the verse bears a suspicious likeness to a vague reminiscence of the Moslem cry "Lâ Êlah Ulâ Allah!" &c.; and if so, this, in the north of Spain, would at one bound place the poem some eight centuries at least after the time of Augustus. The proper names have a too correct look. Octabiano, Roma, and Tiber are far too much like the Latin; for if Greeks and Romans complained, as do Strabo and Mela, of the difficulty of transcribing Basque or Iberian names into their own language, the Basques might possibly find a somewhat corresponding difficulty in transcribing Greek and Latin names into Basque. Moreover, in a later verse appears "Uchin," a sobriquet for "Augustino," as a baptismal name in use among the Spanish Basques to this day. What the poem really refers to we dare not assert. We present the "Leloaren Cantua" to our readers simply as one of the oldest curiosities of Basque verse, without pledging ourselves to any particular date or interpretation thereof. Fortunately, we shall be able to speak with much more decision of the "Altabiskarco Cantua," of which the following is the latest text:-- ALTABISKARCO CANTUA. 1. Oyhu bat aditua izan da Escualdunen mendien artetic, Eta etcheco jaunac, bere athearen aitcinean chutic Ideki tu beharriac, eta erran du: "Nor da hor? Cer nahi dautet?" Eta chacurra, bere nausiaren oinetan lo zagüena, Altchatu da, eta karrasiz Altabiscarren inguruac bethe ditu. 2. Ibañetaren lepoan harabotz bat aghertcen da, Urbiltcen da, arrokac ezker eta ezcuin jotcen dituelaric; Hori da urrundic heldu den armada baten burrumba. Mendien copetetaric guriec errespuesta eman diote; Beren tuten soinua adiaraci dute, Eta etcheco jaunac bere dardac zorrozten tu. 3. Heldu dira! heldu dira! cer lantzazco sasia! Nola cer nahi colorezco banderac heien erdian aghertcen diren Cer simistac atheratcen diren heien armetaric! Cembat dira? Haurra condatzic onghi! Bat, biga, hirur, laur, bortz, sei, zazpi, zortzi, bederatzi, hamar, hameca, hamabi, Hamahirur, hamalaur, hamabortz, hamasei, hamazazpi, hemezortzi, hemeretzi, hogoi. 4. Hogoi eta milaca oraino! Heien condatcea demboraren galtcea liteque. Urbilditzagun gure beso zailac, errotic athera ditzagun arroca horiec, Botha ditzagun mendiaren patarra behera Hein buruen gaineraino; Leher ditzagun, herioz jo ditzagun. 5. Cer nahi zuten gure mendietaric Norteco guizon horiec? Certaco jin dira gure bakearen nahastera? Jaungoicoac mendiac eguin dituenean nahi izan du hec guizonec ez pasatcea. Bainan arrokac biribilcolica erortcen dira, tropac lehertcen dituzte. Odola churrutan badoa, haraghi puscac dardaran daude. Oh! cembat hezur carrascatuac! cer odolezco itsasoa! 6. Escapa! escapa! indar eta zaldi dituzeneac! Escapa hadi, Carlomano erreghe, hire luma beltzekin eta hire capa gorriarekin; Hire iloba maitea, Errolan zangarra, hantchet hila dago; Bere zangartasuna beretaco ez tu izan. Eta orai, Escualdunac, utz ditzagun arroca horiec, Jauts ghiten fite, igor ditzagun gure dardac escapatcen direnen contra. 7. Badoazi! badoazi! non da bada lantzazco sasi hura? Non dira heien erdian agheri ciren cer nahi colorezco bandera hec? Ez da gheiago simiztarik atheratcen heien arma odolez bethetaric. Cembat dira? Haurra, condatzac onghi. Hogoi, hemeretzi, hemezortzi, hamazazpi, hamasei, hamabortz, hamalaur, hamairur, Hamabi, hameca, hamar, bederatzi, zortzi, zazpi, sei, bortz, laur, hirur biga, bat. 8. Bat! ez da bihiric aghertcen gheiago. Akhabo da! Etcheco jauna, joaiten ahal zira zure chacurrarekin, Zure emaztearen eta zure haurren besarcatcera, Zure darden garbitcera eta alchatcera zure tutekin, Eta ghero heien gainean etzatera eta lo gitera. Gabaz, arranoac joainen dira haraghi pusca lehertu horien jatera, Eta hezur horiec oro churituco dira eternitatean. SONG OF ALTABISCAR. 1. A cry is heard From the Basque mountain's midst. Etcheco Jauna, [196] at his door erect, Listens, and cries, "What want they? Who goes there?" At his lord's feet the dog that sleeping lay Starts up, his bark fills Altabiscar [197] round. 2. Through Ibañeta's* pass the noise resounds, Striking the rocks on right and left it comes; 'Tis the dull murmur of a host from far, From off the mountain heights our men reply, Sounding aloud the signal of their horns; Etcheco Jauna whets his arrows then. 3. They come! They come! See, what a wood of spears What flags of myriad tints float in the midst! What lightning-flashes glance from off their arms! How many be they? Count them well, my child. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20. 4. Twenty, and thousands more! 'Twere but lost time to count. Our sinewy arms unite, tear up the rocks, Swift from the mountain tops we hurl them down Right on their heads, And crush, and slay them all. 5. What would they in our hills, these Northern men? Why come they here our quiet to disturb? God made the hills intending none should pass. Down fall the rolling rocks, the troops they crush! Streams the red blood! Quivers the mangled flesh! Oh! what a sea of blood! What shattered bones! 6. Fly, to whom strength remaineth and a horse! Fly, Carloman, red cloak and raven plumes! Lies thy stout nephew, Roland, stark in death; For him his brilliant courage naught avails. And, now, ye Basques, leaving awhile these rocks, Down on the flying foe your arrows shower! 7. They run! They run! Where now that wood of spears? Where the gay flags that flaunted in their midst? Rays from their bloodstained arms no longer flash! How many are they? Count them well, my child. 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. 8. One! There is left not one. 'Tis o'er! Etcheco Jauna home with thy dog retire. Embrace thy wife and child, Thine arrows clean, and stow them with thine horn; And then, lie down and sleep thereon. At night yon mangled flesh shall eagles [198] eat, And to eternity those bones shall bleach. (This translation is due to the kindness of a friend.) The history of this song is very curious, and shows the little value of subjective criticism in any but the most competent hands. The MS. of it is alleged to have been found on the 5th of August, 1794, in a convent at Fuenterrabia, by La Tour d'Auvergne, the celebrated "premier grenadier" of the French Army. It was printed about the year 1835, by Monglave, and accepted as a genuine contemporary document by Fauriel, Chaho, Cenac-Moncaut, and many other French writers; by Lafuente, Amador de los Rios, and other Spanish authors; by Araquistain, and by the Editors of the "Revista Euskara" and of the "Cancionero Vasco" among the Basques. It is needless to say that all guide-books, tourist sketches, et hoc genus omne, have adopted it. It was inserted as genuine by Fr. Michel, in the Gentleman's Magazine, in 1858, and in more recent years a translation appeared in another London magazine. In the "Basques et Navarrais" of M. Louis Lande, lately published, it is alluded to as genuine; and the Saturday Review of the 17th of August, 1878, quotes it as a corroboration of the "Chanson de Roland." [199] There have been some, however, who have stoutly opposed these claims; among them M. Barry, of Toulouse, M. Gaston Paris, and M. J. F. Blade, which last writer, both in a separate pamphlet and in his "Études sur l'Origine des Basques" (Paris, 1859), has shown from internal grounds its want of authenticity. M. Alexandre Dihinx, a Basque, in a series of articles in the Impartial, of Bayonne, for 1873, which have since been reprinted by M. J. Vinson, in L'Avenir, of Bayonne, May of the present year, conclusively proved both the incorrectness and the modern character of its Basque. But all these authors seem either to have been unaware of, or to have unaccountably overlooked, the true history of the piece. When M. Fr. Michel published this, and another song called "Abarcaren Cantua," in the Gentleman's Magazine, in 1858, as specimens of ancient Basque poetry, a letter from M. Antoine d'Abbadie, Membre de l'Institut, appeared forthwith in the number for March, 1859, stating that the Abarca song had actually been among the unsuccessful pieces submitted for the prize in the poetical competition at Urrugne, of the previous August; and he adds:-- "I am sorry that the Altabiscarraco cantua, mentioned in your same number, is acknowledged as a gem of ancient popular poetry. Truth compels me to deny that it is universally admitted as such, for one of my Basque neighbours has often named the person who, about twenty four years ago, composed it in French, and the other person, who translated it into modern but indifferent Basque. [200] The latter idiom, on purely philological ground, stands peerless among the most ancient languages in Europe, and I have felt it my duty to disclaim unfounded pretensions of which it has no need.--I am, etc., "Antoine d'Abbadie, "London, Jan. 31, 1859." Correspond. de l'Institut de France. In the next number M. Fr. Michel writes, "henceforth I will believe that the songs called Abarcaren Cantua and Altabiscarraco Cantua are forgeries"; this testimony is decisive. It has often been repeated by M. d'Abbadie, with the additional assurance that he knows not only the house, but the very room in which the song was first composed. That the language is modern and indifferent Basque is very evident in the text given by M. Fr. Michel in "Le Pays Basque, Paris, 1857." That above, taken from the "Cancionero Vasco" of the present year, is considerably corrected and improved. All attempts, and many efforts have been made, to force these irregular lines into any known form of Basque rhythm have hitherto signally failed. For the amusement of some of our readers we give below a list of the more evident foreign words in this and in the "Leloaren Cantua." The relative antiquity will thus be seen at a glance:-- L, Latin; S, Spanish; F, French; G, German words. SONG OF LELO. Romako Roma L Armac arma L Octabiano Octavianus L Munduco mundus L Lecu (?) locus L Tiber Tiber L Grandoya / grandis L \ grandioso S SONG OF ALTABISCAR. Copetetaric (?) caput L Armada armada S Errespuesta respuesta S Dardac dard F Colorezco color S Banderac bandera S Simistac / quimista S | chimiste F \ both from Arabic Tropac tropa S Arroca roca S Escapa escapar S Carlomano Karlomann G Errolan Roland F Erreghe rex, rege L Luma [201] (?) pluma S Fite vite F Capa capa S Condatcea contar S Milaca / mille L \ mil S Demboraren tempus tempora L Norteco norte S Pasatcea pasar S Contra contra L Lantzazco lanza S Akhabo acabar S Besarcatcera besar S Eternitatean eternidad S With reference to the above list we may observe that the Basque never begins a word with r, but always prefixes a euphonic er, ar, ir; hence er-respuesta, ar-roca, Er-rolan, er-rege, hir-risko, risque, F. In later copies editors have altered "Romaco," in the "Song of Lelo," into "Er-romaco," to give it more of a Basque look. Aren, or aen, eco-aco-co are case terminations; tcea-cea marks the verbal noun. Carlomann was never the name of Charlemagne, but of his brother and his uncle. Er-rolan is evidently from the French Roland; neither from the Hruotlandus of Einhardus, nor from the Spanish Roldan. Defenders of the authenticity of the piece allege that these words are only corruptions, introduced in the course of ages; but our readers can judge for themselves how far they enter into the very structure of the composition. The first book printed in Basque, the "Linguæ Vasconum Primitiæ, per Dominum Bernardum Echepare" (Bordeaux, 1545), is a collection of his poems, religious and amatory, the latter predominating. Echepare was the parish priest of the pretty little village of St. Michel, on the Béhérobie Nive, above St. Jean Pied de Port; and, if Nature alone could inspire a poet, he ought at least to have rivalled those of our own English Lakes. But, in truth, his verses are of scant poetical merit, and of little interest save as a philological curiosity. [202] They belong so distinctly to that irritating mediocrity which never can be excused in a poet. After Echepare the next author is Arnauld Oyhenart, of Mauléon, who published a collection of his youthful Basque poems in Paris, 1657. These have, if anything, less poetical value than Echepare's; but Oyhenart's collection of proverbs and his "Notitia Utriusque Vasconiæ" will always make his name stand high among Basque writers. Except hymns and noëls (Christmas carols), of which many collections and editions have been published from 1630 downwards, and some of which are noteworthy on account of higher than mere poetical merit, the deep and evidently genuine spirit of piety they evince, [203] little else is preserved much older than the present century. One ballad indeed there is, "The Betrothed of Tardetz," which may be somewhat older. No two versions of it are exactly alike, though the outline of the story is always the same. The Lord of the Castle of Tardetz wishes to give the elder of his two daughters in marriage to the King of Hungary, or of Portugal, as some have it. But the lady's heart has been already won by Sala, the son of the miller of Tardetz, and she bitterly bewails being "sold like a heifer." The bells which ring for her wedding will soon toll for her funeral. The romance in its present form is evidently incomplete, but apparently ended with the corpse of the bride being brought back to her father's castle. Most of the Basque songs, except the drinking ones, are set, more or less, in a minor key. The majority of the love songs would have been described by our forefathers as "complaints." One of the prettiest, both in words and music, is the fragment entitled "The Hermitage of St. Joseph":-- 1. 1. Chorittua, nurat hua Little bird, where goest thou Bi hegalez airian? On thy two wings in the air? Españalat juaiteko To Spain to go, Elhürra dük borthian: The snow is on the passes: Juanen gütük alkharreki We will go together Hura hurtü denian. When the snow is melted. 2. 2. San-Josefan ermita The Hermitage of Saint Joseph Desertian gora da; Is high in the desert Españalat juaitian. In going to Spain. Han da ene phausada; There is my resting-place, Guibelilat so' gin eta There have I looked behind, and Hasperena ardüra! The sigh is frequent. 3. 3. Hasperena, habilua Sigh, go Maitenaren borthala: To the door of my beloved. Habil, eta erran izok Go, and tell her Nik igorten haidala; It is I who send you: Bihotzian sar hakio Enter into her heart, Hura eni bezala. As she (is) in mine. [204] The songs of the Agots, or Cagots, those Pariahs of the Pyrénées, who dwelt apart shunned and despised by all, are, as might be expected, uniformly sad. The misery of the labourer's lot, and even of that of the contrabandista, is more frequently dwelt upon than the compensations to the poverty of the one, or the transient gleams of good fortune of the other. At least, such is the case in all those which are really songs of the people. In these there are not many delights of "life under the greenwood tree," as in Robin Hood, or our factitious gipsies' songs. The forest is an object of dread to the Basque poet, and it requires courage and all the powerful attraction of a loved one to induce him to traverse by night its gloomy shades; but then-- Mortu, oihan illuna Deserts and forests dark Deusere ez da neretzat. They are then nought to me. The following is an illustration of the Cagots' or Agots' songs. This piece, of which the author was the hero, was written about 1783, when he was eighteen years old. Cf. Fr. Michel, "Les Races Maudites de France et de l'Espagne," vol. ii. p. 150, and "Le Pays Basque," p. 270; and, for the music, Sallaberry, "Chants Populaires du Pays Basque," p. 172. [205] 1. --Argi askorrian jinik ene arresekila, Bethi beha entzün nahiz numbaitik zure botza; Ardiak nun ützi tüzü? Zerentako errada Nigarrez ikhusten deizüt zure begi ederra? 2. --Ene aitaren ichilik jin nüzü zure gana, Bihotza erdiratürik, zihauri erraitera, Khambiatü deitadala ardien alhagia, Sekülakoz defendatü zureki minzatzia. 3. --Gor niza, ala entzün düt? erran deitadazia? Sekülakoz jin zaiztala adio erraitera? Etziradia orhitzen gük hitz eman dügüla Lürrian bizi gireno alkharren maithtzia? 4. --Atzo nurbait izan düzü ene ait' ametara, Gük alkhar maite dügüla haien abertitzera; Hürüntaaztez alkhar ganik fite ditin lehia Eta eztitian jünta kasta Agotarekila. 5. --Agotak badiadila badizüt entzütia; Zük erraiten deitadazüt ni ere banizala: Egündano ükhen banü demendren leiñhüria Enündüzün ausartüren begila so' gitera. 6. --Jentetan den ederrena ümen düzü Agota: Bilho holli, larrü churi eta begi ñabarra. Nik ikhusi artzaiñetan zü zira ederrena: Eder izateko aments Agot izan behar da? 7. --So' izü nuntik ezagützen dien zuiñ den Agota: Lehen sua egiten zaio hari beharriala; Bata handiago dizü, eta aldiz bestia Biribil et' orotarik bilhoz üngüratia. 8. --Hori hala balimbada haietarik etzira, Ezi zure beharriak alkhar üdüri dira. Agot denak chipiago badü beharri bata, Aitari erranen diot biak bardin tuzüla. 9. --Agot denak bürüa aphal, eta dizü begia Lürrean bethi sarturik gaizki egüinak bezala. Izan banintz ni aberatz zü zira din bezala, Aitak etzeyzün erranen ni Agobat nizala. 1. Since daybreak arrived here with my flock, Always listening, wishing to hear somewhere thy voice. Where have you left the sheep? Whence is it I see your beautiful eye full of tears? 2. Unknown to my father I have come towards you, Heart-broken, to tell you yourself That he has changed for me the sheep-pasture, Forbidden me for ever speaking with you. 3. Am I deaf, or have I heard it? Did you say it? That you are come to bid farewell for ever? Do you not remember that we have given our word To love each other as long as we live upon the earth? 4. Yesterday some one came to my father and mother To warn them that we loved each other; That they should hasten at once to separate us from each other, And that they should not ally themselves with the Agots' caste. 5. That there are Agots I have heard tell; You tell me, too, that I am of them! If I had ever had only the shadow of them, I had not had the boldness to lift my eyes to you. 6. Of all men, they say, the Agot is the handsomest; Fair hair, white skin, and blue eye. Of the shepherds I have seen you are the handsomest: In order to be handsome, must one be an Agot? 7. It is by this one recognises who is an Agot-- One gives the first glance at his ear; He has one too large, and, as for the other, It is round and covered all over with hair. [206] 8. If that is so, you are not of those folk; For your ears resemble each other perfectly. If he who is Agot has one of his ears smaller, I will tell my father you have the two alike. 9. The Agot walks with his head low, and his eye Is fixed on the earth like a criminal. If I had been rich, like you, Your father would not have said that I was Agot. There are, too, verses of grim and bitter humour, which tell better than the pen of the historian how wretched was formerly the lot of the peasant, even in this favoured corner of France. Famine is personified, and has a name given it, drawn in biting irony from that of the highest Saint of the Church Calendar, Petiri Sanz (S. Peter). He wanders round the country seeking where to settle permanently; at one place he is driven off by (the sale of) rosin, at another little maize, at another by cheese and cherries; but at last he fixes his abode definitively at St. Pée (another form of Peter), on the Nivelle, where they have nothing at all to sell, and where he torments the inhabitants by forcing them to keep many a fast beyond those of ecclesiastical obligation. The same strain of gloomy humour appears in another form in a poem entitled "Mes Méditations," [207] in which a young priest of Ciboure, slowly dying of consumption, traces in detail all the physical and mental agonies of his approaching dissolution. A much less grim example, however, is contained in the following, which we quote mainly because of its brevity. It may remind some of our readers of a longer but similar strain which used often to be sung at harvest-homes in the Midland Counties:-- DOTE GALDIA. [208] THE LOST DOWRY. 1. 1. Aitac eman daut dotia, My father has given me my dowry, Neuria, neuria, neuria; Mine, mine, mine; Urdeño bat bere cherriekin, A sow with pigs ten, Oilo corroca bere chituekin, Her chicks with the hen, Tipula corda hayekin. And of onions a rope to stow by. 2. 2. Oxuac jan daut urdia, But the wolf has devoured my sow, Neuria, neuria, neuria; Mine, mine, mine; Acheriac oilo coroca, My chickens are killed by the cats, Garratoinac tipula corda; My onions are gnawn by the rats; Adios ene dotia. Good-bye to my dowry now. More literally:-- 1. My father has given me the dowry, Mine, mine, mine; A sow with her little pigs, A brood hen with her chickens, A cord of onions with them. 2. The wolf has eaten my sow, Mine, mine, mine; The fox my brood hen, The rats my cord of onions, Good-bye, my dowry. The lack of good poetry in Basque is certainly not due to want of encouragement. Moreover, the wish to produce it is there, but the power seems lacking. For over twenty years prizes have been annually given, first at Urrugne, and then at Sare, by M. Antoine d'Abbadie, of Abbadia. But among the multitude of competing poems few have been of any real value, and both in merit and in the number presented they seem to diminish annually. The best of them have been written by men of the professional class, whose taste has been formed on French, or Spanish, or classical, rather than on native models. The following is considered by native critics to be among the best, though several others are very little, if at all, inferior [209]:-- ARTZAIN DOHATSUA. 1. Etchola bat da ene jauregia Aldean, salhatzal, hariztegia; Arthalde bat Halakorik ez baita hambat, Bazait niri behar besembat. Ai! etzait itsusi! Ni naiz etchola huntako nausi 2. Goiz-arratsak bethi deskantsu ditut, Deuseren beldurrik nihondik ez dut; Hemen nago, Erregue baino fierrago. Nik zer behar dut gehiago? Ha! ez da itsusi! Etchola huntan Piarrez nausi. 3. Goizetan jaikirik argialdera, Igortzen ditut ardiak larrera; Eta gero Itzalpean jarririk nago, Nor da ni baino urusago? Ez! etzait itsusi! Ni naiz arthalde huntako nausi. 4. Aitoren semeak gasteluetan, Bihotzak ilhunik daude goguetan. Alegera (Bethi naiz; tristatucera) [210] Nik ez dut dembora sobera. Ai! etzait itsusi! Etcholan nor da ni baizen nausi. 5. Jan onegiak barnea betherik, Aberatsak nihoiz ez du goserik; Eta bethi Ene trempuaz da bekhaizti; Diruz ez baitaite erosi. Ha! ez da itsusi! Etchola gasteluaren nausi. 6. Noizbait Jaunari nik dainu egunik, Igortzen banindu aberasturik; Zorigaitzez Hesturik nindauke bihotzez, Ene etchola hemen minez. Jauna! ba ha niri! Utz nezazu etcholako nausi. THE HAPPY SHEPHERD. 1. A cottage my castle is, By the side of willows, wood, and oak copse; A flock Such as mine is of no great worth, Yet it is all I need. Ah! my lot is not so bad! I am master of this little house. 2. Tranquil I live by night and day, Of aught from no quarter afraid am I; Here dwell No king more proud. What need I more? Ha! it is not so bad! Peter is master in this little house. 3. Almost at daybreak each morn I rise, My sheep I drive to the pastures; And then 'Neath the shade reclined I pass the day. Where is there one more happy than I? No! my lot is not so bad! I of my flock the master am. 4. The sons of the nobles in the castles, Their hearts are black, their thoughts dull. Joyful (Always am I; to be sad) I have not time enough for that. Ah! my lot is not so bad! In the cottage of which I the master am. 5. Eating too much, and ever full, The rich they never feel hunger; Yet always My rude good health they envy; With money they cannot purchase that. Ha! it is not so bad! The cottage the lord of the castle is. 6. Once on a time I grieved the Lord, Sending me full of riches; Of sorrow Full then was I at heart, My little house here suffering. Lord! spare me! Leave me the master of my little house. A pretty cradle song, "Lo! Lo! ene Maitea" ("Sleep! Sleep! my Darling"), by M. Larralde, a physician of St. Jean de Luz, won the prize at Urrugne in 1859. It is written to a tune composed by the Vicomte de Belzunce; the words have been printed in the "Lettres Labourdines," par H. L. Fabre (Bayonne, 1869). 1. 1. Lo! Lo! nere maitea! Sleep! Sleep! my darling! Lo! ni naiz zurekin! Sleep! I am with thee! Lo! Lo! paregabea! Sleep! Sleep! without peer! Nigarrik ez-eghin; Shed no tears; Goizegui da! Munduko It is too soon! Of the world, Gelditzen bazira, If thou seest long days, Nigarretan urtzeco For tears thou wilt have Baduzu dembora. Enough time. 2. 2. Lo! nik zaitut higitzen, Sleep! I am rocking thee, Lo! Lo! nombait goza. Sleep! Sleep! and be still. Es duzuya ezagutzen Dost thou not recognise Amattoren boza? Of thy mother the voice? Exai guzietaric From every foe Zure begiratzen To guard thee Bertze lanak utzirik. I quit all else. Egonen naiz hemen. I am watching here. 3. 3. Lo! Lo! nere aingerua! Sleep! Sleep! my angel! Bainan amexetan, But borne on the wings of a dream Dabilkasu burua; Thy spirit far away flies; Hirria ezpainetan; A smile plays on thy lips; Norekin othe zare? Who are with thee? Non othe zabiltza? Where dost thou wander? Ez urrun ama-gabe Not far without your mother Gan ene bihotza. Go my (dear) heart. 4. 4. Lo! Lo! zeruetarat Sleep! Sleep! toward the heavens Airatu bazare, If thy spirit has flown, Ez bihar zu lurrerat Do not to earth return Ardiexi-gabe Without having obtained Ungi zure altchatzeko To bring thee up well Enetzat gracia; For me the favour; Guciz eni hortako This duty is all Zait ezti bizia! That is life to me! 5. 5. Lo! Lo! gauak oraindik, Sleep! Sleep! now it is night, Nombait du eguna; The day is still distant; Ez da nihon argirik There is no other light Baizik izarrena. Than that of the stars. Izarrez! mintzazean The stars! At the word Zutaz naiz orhoitzen; I am thinking of thee; Zein guti, zure aldean And (I say) than thee Duten distiratzen! A star is less bright. 6. 6. Lo! Lo! dembora dela! Sleep! Sleep! while there is time! Iduri zait albak I see that the dawn Histen hari tuela Is making pale Ekhi gabazkoak. The stars of the night. Choriac arboletan The birds in the trees Kantaz hasi dire; Their songs have begun; Laster nere besoetan Soon on my bosom Gochatuko zare. Thou wilt begin to play. 7. 7. Bainan atzarri zare But thou art waking Uso bat iduri. Like a sweet dove. Una nik zembat lore(ac) See what flowers Zuretzat ekharri! I have gathered for thee Ametsetan ait-amez Tell me, in thy dream Othe zare orhoitu? Didst thou think of me? Ai! hirri maite batez Ah! what a dear smile Baietz erradazu! Doth answer me, Yes! The following belongs to a more quaint and popular class of lullaby, or cradle songs; as it is so simple we do not give the Basque:-- LITTLE PETER. [211] 1. 5. Ah, my little Peter, Dear little Peter, I am sleepy, and-- I have bleached it, and-- Shall I go to bed? Shall I go to bed? Go on spinning, and-- Weave it, and-- Then, then, then, Then, then, then, Go on spinning, and-- Weave it, and-- Then, then, yes. Then, then, yes. 2. 6. Dear little Peter, Dear little Peter, I have spun, and-- I have woven it, and-- Shall I go to bed? Shall I go to bed? Put the thread up in skeins, and-- Cut it, and-- Then, then, then, Then, then, then, Put the thread up in skeins, and-- Cut it, and-- Then, then, yes. Then, then, yes. 3. 7. Dear little Peter, Dear little Peter, I have put it in skeins, and-- I have cut it, and-- Shall I go to bed? Shall I go to bed? Wind off the thread, and-- Sew it, and-- Then, then, then, Then, then, then, Wind off the thread, and-- Sew it, and-- Then, then, yes. Then, then, yes. 4. 8. Dear little Peter, Oh! my little Peter, I have wound it off, and-- I have sewn it, and-- Shall I go to bed? Shall I go to bed? Bleach it, and-- It is daylight! and-- Then, then, then, Then, then, then, Bleach it, and-- It is daylight! and-- Then, then, yes. Then, then, yes! The best living Basque poets are--on the French side, Captain Elisamboure, of Hendaye; and Iparraguirre, of San Sebastian, among the Spanish Basques. Iparraguirre is now very old. He is the author of the song "Guernicaco Arbola" ("The Tree of Guernica," in Biscay), an oak under which the Lords of Biscay swore fidelity to the Fueros. This has become almost the national song of the Basques. [212] A few words on two other classes of songs, the drinking and the macaronic, must conclude our remarks. The most spirited drinking song is the following. [213] It must be remembered, in excuse, that the shepherds live a very hard life on the mountains the greater part of the year, and taste little wine there. ARTZAIN ZAHARRAC. THE OLD SHEPHERDS. 1. 1. Tam, tam, tam, tam, Tam, tam, tam, tam, Rapetanplan. Rapetanplan. Artzain zaharrac tafarnan. The old shepherds (are) at the inn. Hordi gira? Are we drunk? Ez, ezgira. No, we are not. Basoak detzagun bira! Long live the glass! Iohoho! Iohoho! Iohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Basoak detzagun bira! Long live the glass! 2. 2. Tam, tam, tam, tam, Tam, tam, tam, tam, Rapetanplan. Rapetanplan. Nork joiten derauku borthan? Who knocks at the door? Behabada Perhaps Otsoa da! It's the wolf! Nihor ez gaiten athera! We won't go to the door, not one (of us)! Iohoho! Iohoho! Iohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Basoak detzagun bira! Long live the glass! 3. 3. Tam, tam, tam, tam, Tam, tam, tam, tam, Rapetanplan. Rapetanplan. Uria hari karrikan. The rain begins in the street. Gauden hemen, Let us stop the night here, Arno hunen This good wine Gostu onean edaten. To drink with pleasure. Iohoho! Iohoho! Iohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Gauden gostuan edaten! In the night to drink with pleasure! 4. 4. Tam, tam, tam, tam, Tam, tam, tam, tam, Rapetanplan. Rapetanplan. Babazuza tarrapatan! The hail comes rattling down! Dugun edan Let us drink Hamarretan. For the tenth time. Aberats gira gau huntan. We are rich to-night. Iohoho! Iohoho! Iohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Aberats gira gau hutan. We are rich this night. 5. 5. Tam, tam, tam, tam, Tam, tam, tam, tam, Rapetanplan. Rapetanplan. Ez dut minik sabeletan! I am so jolly inside! Nahi nuke I wish (I could live) Ehun urthe, A hundred years, Hola egon banindaite! If I might remain like this! Iohoho! Iohoho! Iohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Hola egon banindaite! If I might remain like this! 6. 6. Tam, tam, tam, tam, Tam, tam, tam, tam, Rapetanplan. Rapetanplan. Arnorik ez da boteilan! There's no more wine in the bottle! Ostalera, Landlord, Ez ikhara, Don't be afraid, Arnoko bethi sos bada! There's always money for wine! Iohoho! Iohoho! Iohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Arnoko bethi sos bada! There's always money for wine! 7. 7. Tam, tam, tam, tam, Tam, tam, tam, tam, Rapetanplan. Rapetanplan. Zer othe dut beguietan? What's gone wrong with my eyes? Non da bortha? Where's the door? Airatu da. It has flown away. Mahaya dantzan dabila! The table's beginning to dance! Iohoho! Iohoho! Iohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Mahaya dantzan dabila! The table's beginning to dance! 8. 8. Tam, tam, tam, tam, Tam, tam, tam, tam, Rapetanplan. Rapetanplan. Zangoak amor bidean! My feet won't go straight on the road! Hanketan min! I'm bad in my legs! Gaizo, Martin, To-morrow, Martin, Urkatsik ez dirok egin! You will not be able to walk at all! Iohoho! Iohoho! Iohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Urkatsik ez dirok egin! You will not be able to walk at all! 9. 9. Tam, tam, tam, tam, Tam, tam, tam, tam, Rapetanplan. Rapetanplan. Eri-tchar naiz hilzekotan. I am very ill, I am like to die. Sendo nintzan I should have been cured Aski edan; Had I drunk enough; Izan banu gau hunetan, If I had but this night, Iohoho! Iohoho! Iohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Hohoho! Aski edan gau hunetan! Drunk enough this night! It is not at all uncommon in a country where, within the space of some twenty miles, the traveller may hear at least four languages--French, Gascoun, Basque, and Spanish--to find two or more of these mixed in the same poem, and sometimes with a little Latin as well. This occurs frequently in the noëls, where the angel speaks in French or Latin, and the shepherds reply in Gascoun or Basque; also sometimes in the love songs, where the French or Spanish lover will try to soften the heart of a Basque maiden by compliments in French or Spanish, while she greatest tour de force of this kind we know, both as to language and rhyme, is the song given in Fr. Michel's "Le Pays Basque," p. 429. We quote the first verse only; but the song continues with twenty-eight successive Basque rhymes in "in," and the last seven in "en." Latin. Sed libera nos a malo. Deliver us from evil. Sit nomen Domini. God's holy Name be praised; Spanish. Vamos á cantar un Let's sing a song, my canto para diverti. friends, and a joyous clamour raise; Basque. Jan dugunaz gueroz For we of rare good chahalki houneti meat have eaten to our fill, Basque. Eta edan ardoa And the good wine of Juranzouneti. Jurançon French. Chantons, chantons, have drunken at our mes chers amis, je will. Then sing, suis content pardi! friends, sing, i'faith, I'm right well pleased! Gascoun. Trinquam d'aquest Let's hear the boun bi, glasses ring, Basque. Eta dezagun canta And our new song, my cantore berri. friends, let's all together sing. Almost every one of these Basque songs, like all true lyrics, has been adapted to some tune, either older than the words, or composed specially by the author. The music is often superior to the words. In the Nineteenth Century for August, 1878, Grant-Duff speaks of some of the Basque airs sung by the Béarnais tenor, Pascal Lamazou, as "extraordinarily beautiful." [214] Lamazou died at Pau in May, 1878. His répertoire consisted of fifty Pyrenean songs, of which thirty-four are Béarnais, fourteen Basque, and two are from the "Pyrénées Orientales." [215] One of the Basque airs "Artzaina," has somehow got attached to the popular American hymn, "I want to be an angel." Another, and larger collection, including more correct renderings of some of Lamazou's fourteen, is that of Sallaberry, "Chants Populaires du Pays Basque" (Bayonne, 1870). But, long before this, a collection of Basque Songs, Zorzicos, and dance music was published in San Sebastian, by J. D. Iztueta, in 1824 and 1826. Excellent reviews of these two works, with translations of some of the words, appeared in the Foreign Review and Continental Miscellany, vol. ii., pp. 338, 1828; and in vol. iv., p. 198. Some specimens of music are to be found at the end of Michel's "Le Pays Basque," in the "Cancionero Vasco"--now in course of publication, and so often referred to--and in other local publications, besides those in private hands. Basquophiles love to narrate that Rossini passed a summer in the Basque village of Cambo, and believe that they can recognise the influence of Basque airs in some of his subsequent operas. However this may be, let no one judge of Basque music by the noëls usually howled in the streets at Christmas and the New Year, or by the doleful productions of the last Carlist War. It would be equally fair to judge of English music by the serenades of the waits at Christmas. We refer those who wish to investigate further the subject of this chapter to the excellent work, "Le Pays Basque," par M. Fr. Michel (Paris and London, 1857), for the French, to the "Cancionero Vasco," by Don José Manterola, now in course of publication at San Sebastian, for the Spanish, Basque; and to M. Sallaberry's "Chants Populaires du Pays Basque" for the music. NOTES [1] See on this head M. Vinson's Essay in Appendix. [2] The second part of M. Cerquand's "Légendes et Récits Populaires du Pays Basque" (Pau, 1876), appeared while the present work was passing through the press. It is chiefly occupied with legends of Basa-Jaun and Lamiñak. [3] Not that we suppose all these tales to be atmospheric myths; we adopt this only as the provisional hypothesis which appears at present to cover the largest amount of facts. It seems certainly to be a "vera causa" in some cases; but still it is only one of several possible "veræ causæ," and is not to be applied to all. [4] Cf. Campbell's "Introduction," p. xxviii.:--"I have never heard a story whose point was obscenity publickly told in a Highland cottage; and I believe such are rare. If there was an occasional coarse word spoken, it was not coarsely meant." [5] One class, of which we have given no example, is that of the Star Legend given by M. Cerquand, "Légendes et Récits Populaires du Pays Basque," p. 19, and reprinted, with variations, by M. Vinson, "Revue de Linguistique," Tom. VIII., 241-5, January, 1876. [6] Cf. "Etudes Historiques sur la Ville de Bayonne, par MM. Balasque et Dulaurens," Vol. I., p. 49. [7] We have purposely omitted references to Greek and Latin mythology, as these are to be found "passim" in the pages of Max Müller and of Cox. The preparation for the Press was made at a distance from our own library, or more references to Spanish and patois sources would have been given. [8] See page 192. [9] There seems to be a Basque root "Tar," which appears in the words, "Tarro, Tarrotu, v., devenir un peu grand. Tarrapataka, adv., marchant avec précipitation et en faisant du bruit."--Salaberry's "Vocabulaire Bas-Navarrais," sub voce. Cf. Campbell's "Tales of the Western Highlands," Vol. II., 94:--"He heard a great Tartar noise," Tartar being printed as if it were a Gaelic word. [10] Cf. also Müller's "Fragmenta Historicorum Græcorum" (Didot, Paris, 1841), Vol. I., p. 246. "Ephori Fragmenta," 51, with the references there given. [11] Cf. also the Gaelic, "The Story and the Lay of the Great Fool," Campbell, Vol. III., pp. 146-154. [12] This talking giant's ring appears in Campbell's "Popular Tales of the West Highlands," Vol. I., p. 111, in the tale called "Conall cra Bhuidhe." He also refers (p. 153) to Grimm's tale of the "Robber and his Sons," where the same ring appears:--"He puts on the gold ring which the giant gave him, which forces him to cry out, 'Here I am!' He bites off his own finger, and so escapes." [13] Cf. Campbell's "Mac-a-Rusgaich," Vol. II., 305:--"I am putting it into the covenant that if either one of us takes the rue, that a thong shall be taken out of his skin, from the back of his head to his heel." [14] Salamanca was the reputed home of witchcraft and devilry in De Lancre's time (1610). He is constantly punning on the word. It is because "Sel y manque," etc. See also the story of Gerbert, Pope Sylvester II., in the 10th century. [15] This incident is found in Cenac-Moncaut's Gascon tale, "Le Coffret de la Princesse." "Litterature Populaire de la Gascogne," p. 193 (Dentu, Paris, 1868). [16] For this incident compare the death of the giant in one of the versions of "Jack the Giant-Killer;" and especially "the Erse version of Jack the Giant-Killer." Campbell, Vol. II., p. 327. [17] This agreement is found also in the Norse and in Brittany. See "Contes Populaires de la Grande Bretagne," by Loys Brueyre, pp. 25, 26. This is an excellent work. The incident of Shylock, in the "Merchant of Venice," will occur to every one. [18] Literally, "Marsh of the Basa-Andre." The "Puits des Fées" are common in France, especially in the Landes and in the Gironde. [19] Only in this, and one other tale, is the word "prince" used instead of "king's son." Compare the Gaelic of Campbell in this respect. This tale is probably from the French, and the Tartaro is only a giant. [20] One of the oddest instances of mistaken metaphors that we know of occurs in "La Vie de St. Savin, par J. Abbadie, Curé de la Paroisse" (Tarbes, 1861). We translate from the Latin, which is given in a note:--"Intoxicated with divine love, he was keeping vigil according to his custom, and when he could not find a light elsewhere, he gave light to his eyes from the light that was in his breast. The small piece of wax-taper thus lit passed the whole night till morning without being extinguished."--Off. S. Savin. [21] This Fleur-de-lis was supposed by our narrator to be some mark tattooed or impressed upon the breast of all kings' sons. [22] This, of course, is "Little George," and makes one suspect that the whole tale is borrowed from the French; though it is just possible that only the names, and some of the incidents, may be. [23] Cf. "Ezkabi Fidel," 112, below. [24] In Campbell's "Tale of the Sea-Maiden," instead of looking in his ear, the king's daughter put one of her earrings in his ear, the last two days, in order to wake him; and it is by these earrings and her ring that she recognises him afterwards, instead of by the pieces of dress and the serpent's tongues. [25] Campbell, Vol. I., lxxxvii., 8, has some most valuable remarks on the Keltic Legends, showing the Kelts to be a horse-loving, and not a seafaring race--a race of hunters and herdsmen, not of sailors. The contrary is the case with these Basque tales. The reader will observe that the ships do nothing extraordinary, while the horses behave as no horse ever did. It is vice versâ in the Gaelic Tales, even when the legends are identical in many particulars. [26] The three days' fight, and the dog, appear in Campbell's "Tale of the Sea-Maiden," Vol. I., pp. 77-79. [27] The Basque word usually means "Eau de Cologne." [28] This is a much better game than the ordinary one of tilting at a ring with a lance, and is a much more severe test of horsemanship. The ring, an ordinary lady's ring, is suspended by a thread from a cross-bar, at such a height that a man can just reach it by standing in his stirrups. Whoever, starting from a given point, can put a porcupine's quill, or a small reed, through the ring, and thus carry it off at a hand-gallop, becomes possessor of the ring. We have seen this game played at Monte Video, in South America; and even the Gauchos considered it a test of good horsemanship. Formerly, it seems, the ring was suspended from the tongue of a bell, which would be set ringing when the ring was carried away. The sword, of course, was the finest rapier. [29] One of those present here interrupted the reciter--"What did she hit the serpent on the tail for?" "Why, to kill him, of course," was the reply; "ask Mr. Webster if serpents are not killed by hitting them on the tail?" [30] I have a dim recollection of having read something very similar to this either in a Slavonic or a Dalmatian tale. [31] This incident is in the translation of a tale by Chambers, called "Rouge Etin," in Brueyre's "Contes de la Grande Bretagne," p. 64. See notes ad loc. [32] In the Pyrénées the ewes are usually milked, and either "caillé"--a kind of clotted cream--or cheese is made of the milk. The sheep for milking are often put in a stable, or fold, for the night. [33] For the "fairies' holes," see Introduction to the "Tales of the Lamiñak," p. 48. [34] Cf. "Mahistruba," p. 100; and "Beauty and the Beast," p. 167. [35] Silk kerchiefs are generally used, especially by women, as head-dresses, and not as pocket-handkerchiefs, all through the south of France. [36] "Légendes et Récits Populaires du Pays Basque," par M. Cerquand. Part I., Pau, 1875, and Part II., p.28, Pau, 1876. [37] Cf. Campbell's tale, "The Keg of Butter," Vol. III., 98, where the fox cheats the wolf by giving him the bottoms of the oats and the tops of the potatoes. See also the references there given. [38] Cf. Cerquand, Part I., p. 27, "Ancho et les Vaches," and notes. Also Part II., 34, et seq. [39] Cf. Cerquand, Part I., pp. 33, 34, "La Dame au Peigne d'Or." [40] Cerquand, Part I., p. 30, "Basa-Jauna et le Salve Regina." [41] Cerquand, "L'Eglise d'Espés." "Le Pont de Licq," Part I., pp. 31, 32, and Part II., pp. 50-52. [42] But compare the well or marsh of the Basa-Andre in the Tartaro tale, p. 15. [43] Cerquand, Part I., pp. 32, 33. [44] The owner of the farm and the "métayère," or tenant's wife. Under the "métayer" system the landlord and tenant divide the produce of the farm. This is the case almost universally in South-Western France, as elsewhere in the South. The "métayer's" residence often adjoins the landlord's house. [45] Cf. "The Sister and her Seven Brothers." [46] This is the only representation that we know of Basa-Jaun as a vampire. [47] As the Basques commonly go barefooted, or use only hempen sandals, the feet require to be washed every evening. This is generally done before the kitchen fire, and in strict order of age and rank. Cf. also "The Sister and her Seven Brothers." [48] The running water, we suspect, gives the girl power over the witch. [49] "Hazel sticks." In the sixteenth century the dog-wood, "cornus sanguinea," seems to have been the witches' wood. In the "Pastorales," all the enchantments, etc., are done by the ribboned wands of the Satans. This tale ends rather abruptly. The reciter grew very tired at the last. [50] Basque Lamiñak always say exactly the contrary to what they mean. [51] Cf. Bladé's "Contes Agenais," "Les Deux Filles," and Köhler's "Notes Comparatives" on the tale, p. 149. [52] That is, the wife span evenly with a clear steady sound of the wheel, but the man did it unevenly. [53] Cf. Campbell's "The Brollachan," Vol. II., p. 189, with the notes and variations. "Me myself," as here, seems the equivalent of the Homeric "o>'utic." [54] M. Cerquand has the same tale, Part I., p. 41. [55] This is a very widely spread legend. Cf. Patrañas, "What Ana saw in the Sunbeam;" "Duffy and the Devil," in Hunt's "Popular Romances of the West of England," p. 239; also Kennedy's "Idle Girl and her Aunts," which is very close to the Spanish story; and compare the references subjoined to the translation of the Irish legend in Brueyre's "Contes Populaires de la Grande Bretagne," p. 159. [56] Cf. "The Brewery of Egg-shells," in Croker's "Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland," pp. 32-36. [57] This tale, or at least this version of it, with the names Rose and Bellarose, must come from the French. [58] "A little dog" is mentioned in Campbell's "The Daughter of the Skies," Vol. I., 202, and notes. [59] "Kopetaen erdian diamanteko bista batez"--"a view of diamonds in the middle of the forehead." [60] Nothing has been said about this dress before. Something must have dropped out of the story. [61] At a Pyrenean wedding the bride and bridegroom, with the wedding party, spend nearly the whole day in promenading through the town or village. The feast often lasts several days, and the poor bride is an object of pity, she sometimes looks so deadly tired. [62] Cerquand, Part I., p. 29, notes to Conte 8; Fr. Michel, "Le Pays Basque," p. 152 (Didot, Paris, 1857). [63] "Akhelarre," literally "goat pasture." This was the name in the 16th century. [64] This belief in a toad sitting at the church door to swallow the Host is found in De Lancre. [65] That is, one with bran, or herbs, wood-ashes, &c., or plain water. [66] M. Cerquand gives this tale at length, Part II., pp. 10, 11. The incidents are very slightly changed. [67] Compare this with the scene in Apuleius, "De Asino Aureo;" and, for a somewhat similar "fairy ointment," see Hunt's "Popular Romances of the West of England," pp. 110-113. [68] The blunder is confounding "dessus," over, and "dessous," under. This shows that the tale is originally French, or, at least, the witch's part of it; for this punning mistake could not be made in Basque. The two words are not in the least similar in sound. "Gaiñetik" and "azpetik" are the words here used. [69] Witches still appear in the shape of cats, but generally black ones. About two years ago we were told of a man who, at midnight, chopped off the ear of a black cat, who was thus bewitching his cattle, and lo! in the morning it was a woman's ear, with an earring still in it. He deposited it in the Mairie, and we might see it there; but we did not go to look, as it was some distance off. [70] Literally, "red misery." In Basque the most intense wretchedness of any kind is always called "red." [71] There are several superstitions connected with cross-roads in the Pays Basque. When a person dies, the bedding or mattress is sometimes burnt at the nearest cross-roads, and every passer-by says a "Paternoster" for the benefit of the deceased. This custom is becoming extinct, but is still observed in old families. [72] This is, of course, only a mispronunciation of "Dominus tecum"--"The Lord be with you." Compare the opposite effect of "God save us," in Croker's tale of "Master and Man," pp. 96, 97. [73] See notes to "Juan Dekos," p. 146. [74] I think this word occurs in some "Chanson de Gestes," and in the Basque "Pastorales," as a Mahommedan devil. If not, it is probably our own "Duke of Marlborough" thus transformed. Cf. the song, "Malbrouk s'en va en guerre." [75] This is again, "red, angry." [76] Cf. Campbell, "The Tale of Connal," Vol. I., p. 142. [77] This looks uncommonly like "Ho, you!" but it is given by Salaberry as a Basque cry, "Appel par un cri fort, par la voix élevée." "Play," as an exclamation to begin at games of ball, has no meaning in Basque, and is believed to come from the English. We have borrowed "Jingo," "by Jingo," from "Jinkoa," "the deity." [78] In Campbell's first tale, "The Young King of Easaidh Ruadh, the hero is assisted by a dog, a falcon, and an otter. Cf. the notes in the translation of this tale in Brueyre's "Contes de la Grande Bretagne;" cf. also, "The Sea-Maiden," pp. 73 and 94, for a still closer resemblance. [79] Cf. "Tabakiera," p. 94, and "Old Deccan Days," pp. 83-91. It is curious to hear of the Red Sea from narrators so far apart, on opposite sides, as the Lingaets of the Deccan and the Basques, neither of whom, probably, had the most distant idea of its geographical position; certainly our Basque narrators had not. [80] In Campbell's "Sea-Maiden," the hero has only to think of the animals, and they are at his side; but he is not transformed into them. [81] Campbell refers to "The Giant who had no Heart in his Body," "Norse Tales," 1859. See his references, and those in the "Contes Populaires de la Grande Bretagne," cited above. M. d'Abbadie has also communicated to us the outlines of a wild Tartaro story, told in Basque, in which the hero "fights with a body without a soul." [82] Cf. Campbell's "Tales," before quoted, and "Old Deccan Days" ("Punchkin"), pp. 14, 15, for the whole of this incident. [83] Malbrouk seems now to assume the character of "Hermes, the clever thief." If we mistake not, this cow appears also in Indian mythology. [84] For the whole of this tale compare Campbell's "Sea-Maiden," Vol. I., p. 71. The sea-maiden takes the place of the fish. Besides the three sons, the three foals, and the three puppies, three trees grow behind the house, and serve as a sign like the well boiling. Bladé's "Les Deux Jumeaux," in his "Contes Agenais," is identical with this; cf. also Köhler's notes, p. 148. [85] Much more is made of the sword in the Gaelic tales. In them it is always a magic or a mystic weapon. [86] This episode of the fight with the seven-headed beast is introduced in the same way in the Gaelic--"The Sea-Maiden," pp. 76, 77. Cf. also "Rouge Etin," in Brueyre. [87] In the Gaelic the charcoal-burner is a general. [88] This takes place not on the wedding night, but some time after in the "Sea-Maiden," p. 82. The wife at prayers and the husband standing by indifferent is but too true a picture, we fear. [89] The "Sea-Maiden," p. 82--"Go not, go not," said she, "there never went man to this castle that returned." See below. [90] Basque, "as must needs be." [91] We were also told, in Basque, "The Powerful Lantern," which was the story of Aladdin's lamp, with only one incident omitted. The present is much more like the Gaelic, but there (Campbell, Vol. II., 297-9) it is a lady who gives the snuff-box, which says, "Eege gu djeege," on being opened. Campbell's note is:--"The explanation of these sounds was, that it was 'as if they were asking.' The sounds mean nothing, that I know of, in any language." "Que quieres?" is pure Spanish--"What dost thou want?" [92] Cf. MacCraw's variation in Campbell, note, Vol. II., p. 301, for the rest of the story. [93] "Power" in these tales, in the Basque, seems always to mean "magic power," some wonder-working gift or charm. [94] In Campbell's versions it is "the realm of the king under the waves," or "the realm of the rats;" but a voyage has to be made to that, and a rat takes the place of the servant in stealing the box again for the hero. "The Deccan Tales" mention the Red Sea. [95] The south wind is the most dreaded local wind in the Pays Basque. It is always hot, and sometimes very violent. After two or three days it usually brings on a violent thunderstorm and rain. [96] The lad here calls his snuff-box affectionately "Que quieres," as if that were its name. [97] The likeness and the variation of this tale from Campbell's Gaelic one, "The Widow's Son," etc., Vol. II., pp. 293-303, prove that both must be independent versions of some original like Aladdin's lamp, but not mere copies of it. [98] This doubling of a price is to get a thing more quickly done--in half the usual time. At least, that was the narrator's explanation. [99] These three clever men are found in Gascon (Bladé's "Armagnac Tales," p. 10), in Spanish, in Campbell's "The King of Lochlin's Three Daughters," Vol. I., p. 238, and in many others. Cf. Brueyre, pp. 113-120, and notes. [100] Cf. The tale from the Servian, in Naaké's "Slavonic Fairy Tales," p. 7. [101] i.e., the piece of "braise," or glowing ember from the wood fire, which is always nearly on a level with the floor in a Basque house. [102] Through the whole of the South of Europe, in Greece, Italy, Spain, Portugal, etc., the firing of guns, pistols, crackers, is universal at all kinds of "fêtes," especially religious ones; the half-deafened foreigner often longs for some such law as that infringed by "Mahistruba;" but cf. "Juan de Kalais," p. 151. [103] Cf. supra, p. 38, "The Serpent in the Wood." [104] This tale is somewhat like Campbell's "Three Soldiers," with the variations, Vol. I., p. 176. It is said to be very widely spread. [105] This is an interpolation by the narrator. [106] At Bayonne one part of the town is called "Les Cinq Cantons." [107] For like involuntary sleep, where the lady cannot awaken her lover, cf. Campbell, "The Widow's Son," Vol. II., p. 296. [108] For the incident of the eagle, cf. Campbell, "The King of Lochlin's Three Daughters," Vol. I., pp. 238-9:--"When they were at the mouth of the hole, the stots were expended, and she was going to turn back; but he took a steak out of his own thigh, and he gave this to the eagle, and with one spring she was on the surface of the earth." [109] Cf. the horse in Naaké's "Slavonic Fairy Tales," "Ivan Kruchina" (from the Russian), p. 117, and "the dun shaggy filly," in Campbell's "The Young King of Easaidh Ruadh," Vol. I., p. 5, and elsewhere; also the horse in the "Uso-Andre," and "The Unknown Animal," below. Campbell, Vol. I., p. 63, remarks that the horses in Gaelic stories are always feminine; but they are red as well as grey. [110] In this, and the following tale, Ezkabi's golden hair is evidently like "Diarmaid's" beauty spot. "He used to keep his cap always down on the beauty-spot; for any woman that might chance to see it, she would be in love with him."--Campbell's "Diarmaid and Grainne," Vol. III., p. 39, notes and variations. [111] Compare the following legend, and "Old Deccan Days" ("Truth's Triumph"), pp. 62, 63. [112] Cf. above, "The Grateful Tartaro and the Heren-Suge," p. 22. [113] Cf. note, supra, p. 113, and Grainne seeing Diarmaid as he lifts his cap or helmet. These beauty-spots seem to be the counterpart of Aphrodite's cestus. [114] Cf. the two golden pears in the Spanish "Juanillo el Loco," Patrañas, p. 38, given in exchange for the same water. [115] Cf. below, "The Singing Tree," etc., p. 176. [116] Cf. "Old Deccan Days," p. 139; and Cox, "Aryan Mythology," Vol. I., p. 160, seq. [117] Cf. below, p. 156. [118] The word "Ezkabi" is "the scab;" he either really had it, as in the next version, or was supposed to have it from keeping his head covered, as in this. In both cases the hair is most beautiful, precious, golden, and love-compelling. [119] Cf. with the whole of this tale, Campbell's second tale, "The Battle of the Birds," and the variations, especially the one of "Auburn Mary," Vol. I. pp. 52-58. [120] Cf. Baring Gould's chapter, "Swan-Maidens"--"Curious Myths of the Middle Ages," p. 561, seq. [121] In the Gaelic the labours are more like those of Herakles--to clean out a byre, to shoot birds, and to rob a magpie's nest. The Basque incidents seem to fit better into a climatological myth. [122] In "Old Deccan Days" ("Truth's Triumph") it is the hair and not the comb that does the wonders. In M. Cerquand's "Récits" the comb is an attribute of the Basa-Andre. [123] In Campbell's "Battle of the Birds" the hero always sleeps while the giant's daughter does his task for him. [124] Here the narrator interposed, "You see it is just as it happens; the women are always the worst." But in Campbell it is the giant himself who says, "My own daughter's tricks are trying me." [125] In Campbell the finger is lost in climbing the tree to get the magpie's nest; but, as here, the bride is recognised by the loss of it. [126] In "Auburn Mary" the hero has to catch a young filly, "with an old, black, rusty bridle."--Campbell, Vol. I., p. 55. [127] See below for a second marriage. In Campbell, p. 37, there is a double marriage. [128] In Campbell, p. 55, "Auburn Mary," there is the same "talking spittle." [129] Cf. "Truth's Triumph," in "Old Deccan Days;" and Campbell, pp. 33, 34; and supra, "Ezkabi-Fidel," pp. 113, 114. [130] Campbell, pp. 34 and 56. [131] In Campbell, it is an old greyhound that kisses him, but with the same result, pp. 34 and 56. [132] In one of Campbell's "Variations," pp. 51, 52, the ending is something like this. In more than one, the hero marries another bride in his period of oblivion. [133] Cf. Campbell's "The Chest," Vol. II., p. 1. The tales seem almost identical. [134] The usual term for "the Pope;" the French, "Le Saint-Père." [135] This is a curious testimony to an ancient practice. In the same way the Basques call "La Fête Dieu," "Corpus Christi Day;" "Phestaberria," "The New Feast," though it was instituted in the thirteenth century. [136] This is a very old and wide-spread story. The Gaelic versions are given in Campbell, Vol. II., p. 239, seq. Cf. also Cox, "Aryan Mythology," Vol. I., p. 111, seq. [137] In the Gaelic it is the bishop's horse. [138] This is in the Norse and Teutonic versions. [139] This, again, is more like the Gaelic. [140] This name was written thus phonetically from the Basque, and it was not till I saw the Gaelic tale that it struck me that it is simply "Jean d'Ecosse"--"John of Scotland," or "Scotch John." In the analogous tale in Campbell, "The Barra Widow's Son," Vol. II., p. 111, we read--"It was Iain Albanach" (literally, Jean d'Ecosse) "the boy was called at first; he gave him the name of Iain Mac a Maighstir" (John, master's son) "because he himself was master of the vessel." This seems decisive that in some way the Basques have borrowed this tale from the Kelts since their occupation of the Hebrides. The Spanish versions, too, are termed "The Irish Princess" (Patrañas, p. 234). [141] See note on preceding page, and Campbell, Vol. II., p. 3. [142] Whether this refers to any real custom about dead men's debts, we cannot say. It occurs in the Gaelic, in "Ezkabi," and in other tales and versions, notably in the Spanish; see as above, and "The White Blackbird," below, p. 182. [143] In other versions it is the soul of the man whose debts he had paid, either in the shape of a hermit or a fox. In the Gaelic it is left vague and undetermined. He is called "one," or "the asker." (Campbell, Vol. II., pp. 119 and 121.) The same contract is made in each case, and with the same result. [144] This is, of course, "Jean de Calais"--"John of Calais"--and would seem to show that it was through some French, and not Spanish, versions that the Basques learnt it. [145] This seems inserted from "Mahistruba," p. 105. [146] In the Gaelic it is a general, as here, and not a lame second officer, as in "Juan Dekos," who wants to marry the lady, and who sets the hero on a desert island.--Campbell, Vol. II., p. 118. [147] See note on page 149. [148] We had put this tale aside, with some others, as worthless, until we found from Campbell how widely it is spread. The earliest version seems to be the Italian of Straparola, 1567. The first incident there, persuading that a pig is an ass, we have in another Basque tale; the last two incidents are identical. They are found, too, in the Gaelic, though in separate versions. For killing the wife, see Campbell, Vol. II., p. 232; for the last, pp. 222 and 234. Cf. also "The Three Widows," with all the variations and notes, Vol. II., pp. 218-238. Is this a case of transmission from one people to another of the Italian of Straparola? or do all the versions point back to some lost original? and is there, or can there be, any allegorical meaning to such a tale? The answer to these questions seems of great importance, and the present tale to be a good instance to work upon. Petarillo seems an Italian name. [149] "Peau d'Ane." [150] "Fidèle." [151] The narrator was here asked "if the place of the dance was at the king's palace." "No," she gravely replied, "it was at the mairie." In other tales it is on the "place," i.e., the open square or market-place which there is in most French towns and villages in the south. It is generally in front either of the church or of the mairie. [152] This was explained as meaning "Beaten with the Slipper." This version came from the Cascarrot, or half-gipsy quarter of St. Jean de Luz, and may not be purely Basque. Except in one or two words the language is correct enough--for St. Jean de Luz. [153] At an exclamation of surprise from one of the auditors, the narrator piously said, "It is the Holy Virgin who permitted all that." [154] Cf. "The Serpent in the Wood," p. 38. [155] Literally, "be full." [156] Cf. the well behind the house in the "Fisherman and his Three Sons," p. 87. [157] Cf. "Dragon," p. 108.] [158] Here the narrator evidently forgot to tell about the child's being exposed, and the gardener finding it, as appears by the sequel. [159] Cf. the well that boils in "The Fisherman and his Three Sons," and the ring in "Beauty and the Beast." [160] Can Bunyan have taken his description of the "Valley of the Shadow of Death," in the "Pilgrim's Progress," partly from such tales as this? [161] Cf. above in "Ezkabi" and "Juan Dekos." There is some similarity between this tale and Campbell's "Mac Ian Direach," Vol. II., p. 328. Compare also "The Greek Princess and the Young Gardener," in Kennedy's "Fireside Stories of Ireland." We know only the French translation of this last in Brueyre, p. 145. "Le Merle Blanc" is one of the best known of French stories. [162] Cf. "Juan Dekos" for paying the debts, and the fox. In the Gaelic the fox is called "An Gille Mairtean," "the fox." (Campbell, Vol. II., p. 329, seq.) [163] Cf. the stealing of the bay filly in Campbell's "Mac Iain Direach," Vol. II., p. 334. [164] Huge cisterns, partly underground, for holding rain water, are common in the Pays Basque. They are, of course, near the houses off which the water drains. [165] Cf. "Basa-Jauna," p. 49. [166] A piece of the braise, or burnt stick. This is constantly done all through the South of France, where wood is burnt. If your fire is out you run to get a stick from your neighbour's fire. [167] Cf. note to "Basa-Jauna," p. 49. [168] Cf. "Old Deccan Days" ("Truth's Triumph"), pp. 57-58. The little girl is the rose tree there among the mango trees, her brothers. Cows are very gentle in the Pays Basque, and are often petted, especially the tiny black and white Breton ones. We have known a strong man weep at the death of a favourite cow, and this one of ten others. [169] The Ranee makes the same conditions in "Truth's Triumph"--"You will let me take these crows" (her brothers) "with me, will you not? for I love them dearly, and I cannot go away unless they may come too."--"Old Deccan Days," p. 59. [170] This was recited to M. Vinson, and has been published by him in the "Revue de Linguistique," p. 241 (Janvier, 1876). We have since heard of a longer form preserved at Renteria, in Guipuzcoa. [171] To these should perhaps be added the Latin of the Dolopathos and "Gesta Romanorum" of the 12th or 13th century. [172] The first portion of this tale is told of the Tartaro as "Twenty-Four." We suspect that it is an old Tartaro tale joined on to a Christopheros legend, unless indeed this be the very peculiarity and meaning of the Christopheros legend--the enlisting of the old gods into the service of Christ, and including the most human of them in His salvation. The last part of the tale is very widely spread. It is given by F. Caballero in the Spanish, and by Cenac-Moncaut, "Le Sac de la Ramée," p. 57--"Littérature Populaire de la Gascogne." There is something like it in Campbell's "Tale of the Soldier," Vol. II., p.276. [173] This seems to be one of the many variations of the "Golden Legend," the "Aurea Legenda" which Longfellow has so well versified. [174] The idea of this incident is not confined to Christianity; a similar story is told of a Mahommedan saint, and a caliph or king. The scene of the story is Cairo. [175] As is plain by the sequel, where the angel hangs him for a moment, the original story must have had "hanged." This is a good example of the way in which the dress of a story gets gradually altered, as old customs are forgotten among a people. [176] This whole picture is, unhappily, more true to life than one would think at first sight. The whole history of the Cagots, and a good deal of that of witchcraft, shows how virulent this kind of irrational dislikes is, and how difficult to deal with and to overcome when once they have been introduced into a rural population. [177] I am not unaware that certain portions of the theory above stated have been recently disputed, especially by Mr. Sayce ("Principles of Comparative Philology," Trübner, London, 1874). But I am unable, for the present at least, to accept all these criticisms, and I have here no opportunity of discussing them fully, or to good purpose. [178] "Poésies Basques de Bernard Dechepare." A most careful reprint, word for word, was published by Cazals, Bayonne, in 1874. [179] An exact reprint of the Gospel of St. Mark in this version, with notes, &c., by M. J. Vinson, was also published at Bayonne (Cazals), 1874. [180] For more minute and complete topographical details, see the excellent linguistic maps of Prince L. L. Bonaparte, which are models of the application of geography to the aid of philological study. The peculiar dialect spoken in every village, and, in some instances, in almost every house, may be there traced. [181] M. Van Eys has consecrated an excellent article to these etymologies in the "Revue de Linguistique," Juillet, 1874, pp. 3-15. [182] It must, however, be acknowledged that M. Luchaire, in various pamphlets relating to the ancient toponymy of Spain, has made certain of these explanations more acceptable. [183] A form of skull, postero-dolichocephalous, with good facial angle, ortho- or opistho-gnathous, but of comparatively small cerebral content, is claimed by some as peculiar to the Basques.--W. W. [184] The names of some of the most famous improvisatori, or Coblacaris, as they are called in Basque, have been preserved: Fernando Amezquetarra, in the Spanish Provinces; and Pierre Topet dit Etchehun, and Bernard Mardo of Barcus, in the French Pays Basque. [185] An exception is occasionally made in the case of the "Satans," as the part is almost too fatiguing for girls. [186] This little wand plays an important part of its own. In many of its uses it resembles the Caduceus of Mercury; a touch from it renders invisible, puts to death, or restores to life at the will of the Satanic possessor. It appears also as given to the hero in many of the "Legends;" cf. pp. 34, 35, above. [187] An account of the acting of Richard Sans Peur, at Larrau, in June 1864, is given in Macmillan's Magazine, January, 1865. [188] Cf. Legends above, p. 151. [189] This MS. was kindly lent by M. J. Vinson, to whom we have been so often indebted. [190] Ercilla, the author of the "Araucana," was however of Basque blood, and Basque names occur frequently among the poets and dramatists of Spain, especially in recent years. [191] The claim put forth in the "Revista Euskara," p. 61, April, 1878, may be fully conceded:--"Si; éste es el carácter distintivo de la poesía euskara; su exquisita moralidad. Jamás se encuentra en ella nada que se parezca, ni á una apología del vicio, ni á una excusa del crimen." [192] "Cancionero Vasco, acompañado de traducciones castellanas, juicios criticos," etc., por José Manterola. San Sebastian. 1877-8. Serie I., 2, p. 39. [193] The reader will remark that there is really no authority for treating these words as proper names. This, however, is the universal interpretation among Basques. [194] Ibargüen's words after quoting the song are: "Por este órden referidas yba este cantar contando toda esta historia que habemos dicho atrás en este capítulo de las guerras ceviles que en cinco años Octaviano Cesar Augusto hizo en esta Provincia Cantábrica, y aunque esta hereciat (historical song) tenga otros muy muchos versos rodados tan solamente dellos he tomado los diez e seis primeros, porque los demas estaban carcomidos, y los pongo aquí para el que fuere bascongado, contentándome con solo ellos ebitando largueza importuna de los demás, que el pergamino está muy roñoso e viejo," cited in the "Cancionero Vasco," 2, iii., pp. 4, 5. [195] Cf. Alexandre Dihinx in the Impartial de Bayonne, in 1873. These articles have been reprinted by M. J. Vinson in L'Avenir de Bayonne, May, 1878. [196] "The master of the house," the usual respectful address to a Basque proprietor of any rank. His wife is "Etcheco Anderea," "The mistress of the house." [197] Altabiscar is the mountain on the East, Ibañeta that on the West of the supposed scene of conflict. [198] Of course it ought to be "vultures." The Basque is distinctly "eagles;" an error which no Basque shepherd could have made. [199] The use of rocks "is confirmed by the Basque ballad of Altabiscar, in which, however, there is no allusion to the powerful inducement of booty." [200] There are other examples of similar mystification in later Basque literature. "Les Échos du Pas de Roland," par J. B. Dasconaguerre, Bayonne, 1868, professes on the title to be "traduit du Basque"; but the "Atheko-gaitzeko Oiharzunak" (the echoes of the bad door or pass), Bayonan, 1870, is really a translation from the French. To the Basques the name of Roland is unknown in connection with this beautiful ravine. M. Fr. Michel's "Le Romancero du Pays Basque," Didot, Paris, 1859, is scarcely less an embroidery on themes of which the ground only is Basque. [201] Cf. lorea, from the Latin flos flore. [202] An exact reprint of Echepare's "Poems," edited by M. Vinson, was published by Cazals, Bayonne, 1874. [203] The most curious fact to notice in these hymns is, how very soon after their death the Jesuit Fathers, Ignatius de Loyola and François de Xavier, were celebrated and addressed as saints in Basque verse. [204] This song is prettily translated in Miss Costello's "Béarn and the Pyrénées," London, 1844, where are also translations of some other Basque songs, the originals of which I have failed to trace. 1. Borne on thy wings amidst the air, Sweet bird, where wilt thou go? For if thou wouldst to Spain repair, The ports are filled with snow. Wait, and we will fly together, When the Spring brings sunny weather. 2. St. Joseph's Hermitage is lone, Amidst the desert bare, And when we on our way are gone, Awhile we'll rest us there; As we pursue our mountain track, Shall we not sigh as we look back? 3. Go to my love, oh! gentle sigh, And near her chamber hover nigh; Glide to her heart, make that thy shrine, As she is fondly kept in mine. Then thou may'st tell her it is I Who sent thee to her, gentle sigh! [205] For the most recent theory on the Cagots, see "Les Parias de France et de l'Espagne," par M. de Rochas (Hachette, Paris, 1876). [206] More often the Cagots' ears were said to be either completely round or with very long lobes, or with the lobes adhering. We have found examples of all of these in the Basque country, but not confined or peculiar to the Cagots. A case like that described in the verse above we have never seen. [207] Michel, "Le Pays Basque," p. 352. [208] Michel, "Le Pays Basque," p. 414. [209] I owe the MS. of this song to the kindness of M. Achille Fouquier, author, sportsman, and artist. [210] A line has dropped out of the MS. here. We supply the probable meaning. The composer is one P. Mendibel, 1859. [211] Taken down by M. J. Vinson, February 21, 1874. Cf. "Proverbes du Pays de Béarn," par V. Lespy (Montpellier, 1876), p. 84, for another song on "Little Peter" in Gascoun. [212] Cf. Fr. Michel, "Le Pays Basque," p. 260. "Cancionero Vasco," Series 2, iii., 82, etc. [213] From the MS. of M. A. Fouquier. This song took the prize at Urrugne, 1858. [214] The latest traveller in the Basque countries corroborates this. Major Campion writes, "I had no idea how fine were the old Basque songs, or, more correctly speaking, chants; some of them being perfectly charming."--"On Foot in Spain," by J. S. Campion, p. 73. (Chapman and Hall, 1879.) [215] These are to be obtained chez Ribaut, Pau, and the other booksellers at Biarritz and Pau. Fleet Street Printing Works, 52, Fleet Street, London, E.C. 
38129	----	Research Publications of the University of Minnesota Studies in the Social Sciences Number 14 ARMENIAN LEGENDS AND FESTIVALS By LOUIS A. BOETTIGER, M.A. Published by the University of Minnesota Minneapolis, January, 1920 Copyright 1920 by the University of Minnesota PREFACE The author of the study which follows responded to the lure of his task for both theoretical and practical reasons. He seemed, because of his intimate personal relationship to Armenian life, to be peculiarly qualified to study and interpret a cross-section of that country's life. It is particularly urgent that we as Americans have authentic studies of Armenia and Armenian social life. Heretofore there has been a striking lack of such materials readily accessible in English. Because of the not inconsiderable immigration which reaches us from Armenia, and because also there has been a call for the United States to act as mandatory for this country under the peace treaty, we should penetrate more deeply into the Armenian heart than we have been able to do so far, if we are to carry through successfully our job either as assimilator or as friendly guardian. Moreover there is incumbent upon the United States in particular the duty of understanding a country like Armenia, since we have been foremost in proclaiming the doctrine of the rights of small nationalities. Those are the practical purposes from the standpoint of social politics which have given rise to and confer full warrant upon this study. Of no less importance, however, is the contribution which Mr. Boettiger's study makes to theoretical sociology. He has sketched out for us the picture of a refractory culture which refuses to amalgamate with or yield to or be permeated by rival cultures. The social history of this sturdy people offers us a very clear-cut example of what really makes a society or a nation. Not mountains, not dynasties, not blood, but common interests, common traditions, common beliefs; in short, mental community. The theoretical joins with the practical service of this study if it can strengthen our understanding that only as our own blood and that of our Armenian friends reach the place where they boil at the same temperature, or are cooled by the same application of reason, can we minister to each other or carry out the new partnership which may lie immediately ahead of us in the reëstablishment of peace and the reorganization of world comity. Arthur J. Todd CONTENTS Pages Introduction 1-2 Part I. Legends Chapter I. The geography of Armenia 5-8 Chapter II. Ancient historical legends 9-23 Section 1. The legend, of Haic 9 2. The legend of Ara and Semiramis 10 3. Historical background of the legend of Ara and Semiramis 11 4. The legend of Vahakn 14 5. The historic background of the legend of Vahakn 15 6. The period of national integration 17 7. Legends of Artasches and Artavasd 20 8. Conclusions 22 Chapter III. Legends of the conversion to Christianity 24-38 Section 1. Pre-Christian mythology and religion 24 2. Legends of Abgar, Thaddeus, and St. Bartholomew 27 3. Legends of Rhipsime and Gregory 29 4. The Armenian church as a social force 34 Chapter IV. Locality legends 39-44 Section 1. Ararat 39 2. Khor-Virap and Erzerum 43 Chapter V. Interpretation and conclusions 45-48 Part II. Festivals Chapter I. The Gregorian church 51-55 Chapter II. Pagan folk festivals 56-66 Section 1. Vartavar and the Festival of Mihr 56 2. The Day of the Dead and Vartan's Day 58 3. Fortune-Telling Day 62 Chapter III. Christian folk festivals 67-78 Section 1. Christmas, Easter, and New Year 67 2. Special church ceremonies 71 Chapter IV. Private festival occasions 79-90 Section 1. Baptism 79 2. Betrothal 80 3. Marriage 83 4. Funeral 87 Chapter V. Summary 91-96 Conclusions 92 Bibliography 99-100 INTRODUCTION The study which follows has a very definite objective apart from the mere gathering of materials, namely, to interpret as far as the subject-matter would permit, the social life of the Armenian people. The legends and festivals described have thus been selected from a larger mass of material with this principle in mind. I have, therefore, omitted such as seemed to me to be of little or no social value. Also, in full accordance with this plan, I have chosen to include certain church ceremonies which give rise to such festivals, and are of such social importance that I considered them an organic part of my subject. Otherwise I think I have kept within the strict confines as indicated by the title of this study. It must, therefore, be evident that neither Part One on legends, nor Part Two on festivals, is exhaustive, and this is necessarily so, not only because of my selective plan, but also because much of the work on this and kindred subjects has been done by the French, and is available only on the continent. All of the sources used are, however, original in two possible constructions of the term; that is, they are the works of Armenians who have lived for many years in their native land, or of foreigners, generally French or English, who have traveled through the country and gathered their material first hand. A large portion of this matter I have been able to check up and add to through my wife, an Armenian, who lived in Constantinople most of her life, and who is naturally versed in the folk-lore of her native land. While this has been the chief source of my interest, it is not the only one, for during my three years' work in Beirut, Syria, I became acquainted with many Armenians. To describe a legend, or a festival, and to tag it Armenian, is about as purposeful and enlightening as to explain Plato's idea of social unity to a person who has no picture of Greek civilization. I have, therefore, found it necessary to fit these legends and festivals into the particular settings that seemed to me most natural. The legends that date from pagan times are meaningless apart from their historical background; the church legends and festivals are without value apart from their religious-historical setting, while such legends as those of Ararat require a description of the natural environment to which they belong. The conclusions and interpretation which this study gives rise to, as well as the manner in which I have organized and attempted to weave the material together into a unified fabric, are my own. Most of the books used have been supplied by the Case Memorial Library of Hartford Theological Seminary, and I owe the Reverend M. H. Ananikian of that institution my thanks for his gracious coöperation in suggesting materials and providing me with them. I am also deeply indebted to Professor J. W. Beach for his painstaking criticism and valuable suggestions, and for the corrections and suggestions offered by Professor W. S. Davis and Professor A. E. Jenks. To Professor A. J. Todd I am especially grateful, for it was under his direction and supervision that this study was carried out. Louis A. Boettiger PART ONE LEGENDS CHAPTER I THE GEOGRAPHY OF ARMENIA Armenia is a huge plateau, a westward extension of the great Iranian highland, bounded by the Caucasus Mountains on the north, the Taurus Mountains and Kurdistan on the south, the Persian lowlands on the southeast, and the Black and Caspian seas. The average height of the plateau is 6,000 feet. As it ends abruptly at the Black Sea on one side, so on the other it breaks down in rugged terraces to the Mesopotamian lowlands; on the east it sinks gradually to the lower levels of Persia, and on the west to the plains of Asia Minor. The chief mountain ranges run from northeast to southwest, rising above the general level of the plateau to an altitude ranging from 8,000 to 12,000 feet and culminating in Ararat, the lofty summit of which stands 17,000 feet above sea level. Broad, elevated, and fertile valleys range themselves between the mountains, the main lines of which are determined by the four chief rivers of the country, the Tigris, the Euphrates, the Aras, and the Kur. All four rise in the plateau, the two former emptying into the Persian Gulf, and the latter two into the Caspian Sea. The Euphrates divides the country into what is known as great and little Armenia, or Armenia major and Armenia minor, Armenia major on the east and Armenia minor on the west. Although the valleys are generally broad expanses of arable land, grass covered and treeless, the gorges of the Euphrates and Tigris can not be surpassed in grandeur and wildness. The winters are long and severe, and the summers short, dry, and hot. In the city of Erzerum the range of temperature is from -22° to 84°, and snow is usually present in June. [1] In consequence of the long and severe winters the villages are built on gentle slopes of the hillsides in which the houses are excavated. Robert Curzon, who traveled through the country about 1850, has written the best description of them. [2] A rectangular plot of ground about the size of an English acre is laid out and excavated to a depth of seven or eight feet at the back side, decreasing gradually with the slope of the hill to a depth of about two feet. After a careful leveling of the ground, trunks of straight trees are cut and arranged in rows for the support of the ceiling, which consists of cross-beams interspersed by a wooden frame-work upon which the removed soil is laid to a considerable thickness. The walls are made of stone. In entering the habitation at the lower slope of the hillside, one is obliged to descend three or four steps to the outer door, which opens to a passage six to ten feet in length, at the end of which is a second door, constructed of wood like the first. This door swings to through the operation of a curious wooden weight passed over a kind of pulley, in order to keep the outside cold from entering the inner chamber. The inside of the door is usually covered with a rough, red-dyed goatskin. Directly before the inner door is a wooden platform raised some two feet above the ground and known in Turkish as the "Salamlik," the hall of reception of the head of the family. Chairs and tables it possesses none, only divans richly draped with Kurdish stuffs placed against the stone walls that bound the two sides of the platform. The floor is carpeted with tekeke, a kind of grey felt, and the walls are decorated with swords, knives, pistols, and other weapons. On the other two sides, the Salamlik is bounded by wooden rails to keep away the sheep and cattle which occupy the greatest proportion of floor space, and whose breathing helps materially to keep the chamber warm. The other members of the household are confined behind the stone wall where the space is sometimes split up into two or more chambers for the various families of the patriarchal household. One of these rooms is the common eating-room, and is provided with an open hearth, fireplace, and chimney which leans forward over the fireplace and draws up the smoke through a hole in the turf-covered roof. A great stone is placed over the chimney to keep children at play and grazing animals from falling through. In traveling through the country on horseback, particular care must be taken lest the horse step through an old chimney hole and break his leg. The windows are funnel shaped holes through the ceiling spanned with oiled paper. Such is the Armenian household in which the people live day and night during eight winter months of the year in the coldest section of the country, as Erzerum and Mush. That many of the evenings were passed in listening to the tales and gossip of a wandering minstrel, or to the legends and folk-beliefs of the grey-haired members of the family, there can be no doubt. That the national tradition was passed on in this manner from the aged to the younger, to be again passed on in their turn, is a matter of as much certainty as that part at least of this same tradition has been preserved through the continually recurring storms of the passing centuries. The recounting of national legends and folk-lore is a chief means of amusement even in the warmer sections of the country, where the climate makes a free community life possible. How much more place, then, must it have had in these colder sections where only the head of the family ever left the household in winter-time, and then only in case of absolute necessity. As has been suggested, this style of dwelling-place is not common to all parts of Armenia. In some places the houses are built entirely above ground, usually of stone, and sometimes, especially in the case of the poorer inhabitants, of mud. Though the winters are not so long or severe as in the district of Erzerum, they are nevertheless sufficiently cold to require a fire six or seven months of the year. The characteristic feature of every living- and dining-room is the large "toneer" or circular fireplace dug out to a depth of three to four feet in the center of the room. Here the fire is built in the morning, usually with "tezek," the most common variety of fuel which is a sun-baked mixture of straw and sheep or cow dung. The bread is baked and the meals are cooked in the "toneer" and when it is time to eat, the members sit about the open space, letting their feet hang over the fire to keep warm. In the hut described by Montpèreux, there was but a single opening in the roof which served for window and chimney at the same time, and which was often carefully sealed up with straw to keep out the cold. [3] This author has given a clear picture of the common family fireplace and sleeping chamber in which each person fell asleep as best he might upon rugs and skins, keeping as near the "toneer" as possible. And if the traditions, legends, and folk-lore that will make up the body of this thesis are the common possession of the people, as I have reason to believe them to be, in spite of drastic measures taken to suppress them, how better could they have been told and retold than while lounging about the "toneer" during long winter evenings before sleeping time? [4] In what other respects the natural environment of the people moulded the common life, one can only conjecture. That the cold winters and deep river valleys have tended to the formation of isolated communities, clannishness, and provincialism, as is contended by some writers, has not generally been true. Tidal waves of conquering civilizations have passed over the country too frequently to make such an influence possible. [5] Furthermore the people are bound together by a national religion, whose chief officials are chosen by the lay members and priesthood of the many communities. [6] These representatives to the national religious assemblies return to their own people brimming with news and reports of political as well as religious and social matters. Such facts together with a common ancestry, a common tradition, and a common language have moulded a nation, and not a thousand differentiated groups among a people who were once a nation. They have tended to solidify and unify the national character, and it is just this process of solidification that gives significance to the whole fabric of beliefs, legends, and festivals of the people. As a nation, the Armenian people are exclusive, but this is an entirely different matter. For three years I have had occasion to observe groups of students belonging to different nations, chiefly Egyptians, Syrians, Greeks, Jews, Persians, Turks, and Armenians, and the latter always showed a most persistent determination to confine their friendships and social intercourse to themselves. Perhaps this is due to the fact that nearly all of the nations above mentioned have at one time or another dominated the Armenians; perhaps it is due to the persecution they have recently suffered, which, though it has been a sufficiently important fact to result in serious social and psychological changes, has by no means been characteristic of the history of the people, as it has been, for example, of the Jews; or perhaps it is due to the solidarity and oneness of the people as a whole. I am inclined rather to the latter explanation, and may perhaps be able to prove it so. Nevertheless, the singularity of the physical environment has placed its irremovable stamp upon the people. The words that best describe the country are not trees, hills, forests, gently flowing streams, such words as commonly express American landscape, but rather, gorges, mountain ranges, broad river valleys, treeless expanses of country. There is space to make one think of other worlds and other shores, and there are mountains suggestive of strength, that rise majestic above the plateau, to fill one with awe and wonder. Religious the people are naturally, but more than that, they are thoughtful, reflecting, considering. No writer that I have read but has spoken of the Armenian as intellectually alert and capable. That this thoughtfulness, this robust element in their idealism is in part the stamp of physical nature, there can be little doubt. CHAPTER II ANCIENT HISTORICAL LEGENDS SECTION 1. THE LEGEND OF HAIC Armenians do not call themselves Armenians nor their country Armenia. They are descendants of Haic, as the legend goes, who was the son of Togarmah, the son of Japhet, who was the son of Noah, and they call their country Haiasdan after the patriarchal progenitor of their people. [7] Haic dwelt in the plain of Shinar and was a prefect or director in the building of the tower of Babel. He was beautiful as a god and strong as a giant, mighty in battle and especially adept in spear throwing. In the days of his youth, Bel or Nimrod, who was the patron god of Babylon, established himself over all and wished to be worshipped. But Haic refused to obey, and taking his sons, who numbered about three hundred, his daughters, his sheep and cattle, he journeyed north until he came to the land of Ararat. Bel tried in vain to persuade his rival to come back. "Thou hast departed and hast settled in a chill and frosty region," urged the Assyrian god. "Soften thy hard pride, change thy coldness to geniality; be my subject and come and live a life of ease in my domain." [8] But Haic refused the cordial invitation, which so much angered Bel that the latter brought his army to force the Armenian hero into submission. Haic, however, was victorious, for he slew Bel with an arrow from his own bow. The place where Bel was buried is called "Kerezman," meaning grave, and is pointed out to this day. Armenians sing songs and tell stories of the great beauty and valor of Haic. He died at the age of four hundred in about 2028 B.C. [9] This oldest of Armenian legends, quaint and simple as it is in accounting for the beginnings of a people, savours of the Old Testament and is suggestive of the Assyrian invasion which took place about the ninth century before Christ. It is significant that the Armenians refused the protection of Bel, and that in the very beginning of their legendary history, they insisted on standing firm and maintaining their independence, for no single quality is more characteristic of this people than a proud, haughty, even at times disdainful independence. It is also suggestive that their patriarchal hero was no saint, but a mighty giant, beautiful as he was strong, whose greatest pride was in the throwing of a spear, for his descendants have not been a peaceful people. To be sure, they were the first nation to be converted to Christianity, which would say little for their firmness and independence, were it not that the priest with the cross was followed by a powerful king with a sword at the head of an army that had learned to fight as the Romans fought. [10] The songs that were sung in memory and honor of Haic are seldom sung to-day unless it be in some remote village where the civilization of the Turk has not yet pressed, and there are few such villages if any. For many of them breathe of a national spirit not beseeming a subject nation, and have been suppressed for many years. SECTION 2. THE LEGEND OF ARA AND SEMIRAMIS Dating back to the Assyrian invasion which took place during the seventh and eighth centuries before Christ, one of the oldest of Armenian legends, that of Semiramis, queen of Assyria, and Ara, king of Armenia, is told. [11] Ara was very beautiful, and Semiramis having heard speech of his beauty for many years, wished to possess him. But she dared do nothing for fear of Ninus, protector over Armenia. After the death of Ninus, however, the queen sent messengers to Ara, with gifts and offerings, with prayers and promises of riches, begging him to come to her at Nineveh and either wed her and reign over all that Ninus had possessed, or fulfill her desire and return in peace to Armenia with many gifts. But when the messengers had been turned away repeatedly, Semiramis became angry, and taking her army she hastened to Armenia. The battle was fought on the plain of Ara, called after him Ararat; and although the queen had given careful orders to her generals to devise some means of saving the life of Ara, the Armenian king was slain. She found the dead body among the others that had fallen, and ordered her servants to place it in an upper chamber in her castle. And when the Armenian army again arose to drive away the foe and avenge the death of Ara, the queen said, "I have commanded the gods to lick his wounds and he shall live again." She tried to bring Ara back to life by witchcraft and charms, but the body began to decay and she commanded her servants to cast the corpse into a deep pit and to cover it. And having dressed up one of her men in secret, she caused the following proclamation to be spread among the people: "The gods have licked Ara and have brought him back to life again, thus fulfilling our prayers and our pleasures. Therefore from this time forth shall they be the more glorified and worshipped by us, for they are the givers of joy and the fulfillers of desire." And she erected a statue to the gods, making it seem as though they had brought Ara back to life again. This news was spread over all the country of Armenia, and having satisfied the people, she put an end to the fighting. The twelve-year-old son of the king was taken by the Assyrian queen and appointed ruler over Armenia. She called him Ara, in memory of her love for Ara the Beautiful. To Semiramis is attributed the building of the ancient city of Van on the shores of the beautiful lake of Van, where she made her summer residence until the time of her departure. [12] She might well have lingered there, for the Armenians have a proverb, "Van in this world, paradise in the next." Nevertheless, Semiramis and Ara are mythical characters, although the latter is spoken of in the history of St. Martin as having lived along about 1769 B.C. [13] As regards the popular belief in the legend, however, there is not the slightest doubt. This is proved by the fact that even to-day the city is called "Sham-iram-agerd" by the Armenians, meaning the city of Semiramis. Lynch says that Ara and Semiramis are Tannuz and Istar, the Adonis and the Aphrodite of the Hellenic myth, and that the quest of the Assyrian queen may be connected with the introduction into Armenia of the worship of Istar whose name is mentioned in one of the cuneiform inscriptions at Van. [14] However, the results of modern scholarship are by no means conclusive on this point, as we shall see. SECTION 3. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND OF THE LEGEND OF ARA AND SEMIRAMIS Moses' history was read by St. Martin who became exceedingly interested in Van, and in the cuneiform inscriptions spoken of. It was due to him that the French government dispatched a mission to Armenia in 1827, under the direction of a young German Professor, Friedrich Edward Schulz. Schulz was murdered by the Kurds, a thing which rarely happens in Armenia, and his work was left incomplete. He had succeeded, however, in making copies of forty-two inscriptions, which were published in 1840, and proved to be remarkably accurate. Shortly afterward, orientalists made great discoveries in the Mesopotamian valley, but the inscriptions at Van did not tally with any syllabaries discovered up to that time, nor could they be translated in any known language. A number of them were found to be Assyrian, but the great majority were peculiar to Van, and entirely baffled the students. Not until 1880 were they finally unravelled. M. S. Guyard discovered at that time that the concluding phrase of many Vannic texts represented an imprecatory formula found in exactly the same place in Assyrian counterparts. This discovery enabled Professor Sayce, of Oxford, to decipher the inscriptions at a rapid rate. Among the important facts discovered were that the nation was a rival nation of Assyria, and that its people were called Khaldeans, or children of Khaldis, much in the same way as the Assyrians reflected the name of their god, Assur. The country was a theocracy and Khaldis was supreme. In the tablets, his wrath was invoked against whomever should destroy them. The capital city was Dhuspus, modern Van, which is the Disp, or Tsp of Armenian writers, and the Turuspa of Assyrian annals. The Assyrians styled the kingdom Urardhu, or Urarthu, which is the name appearing in the Bible in the familiar form Ararat. The earliest inscriptions date back to the ninth century before Christ, and as the language is neither Semitic nor Indo-European, the people could neither have been Assyrians whose language was Semitic, nor Armenians, whose language is Indo-European. The first mention made of Urardhu was in the reign of Ashur-Nazir-Pal (885-860 B.C.) whose successor, Shalmanasar II (860-825 B.C.) was the first Assyrian king to invade Armenia. [15] Raffi, however, (the son of the famous Armenian poet) speaks of an account given by Assur-Nazir-Haban (1882-1857 B.C.) of one of his victories. "They" (i.e., the people of Ararat or Urarthu), he said, "fled to the impregnable mountains so that I might not be able to get at them, for the mighty summits were like drawn swords pointing to the skies. Only the birds of heaven soaring on their wings could reach them. In three days I was there spreading terror in places where they had taken refuge. Their corpses like autumn leaves filled the clefts. The rest escaped to distant inaccessible heights." [16] This, clearly, is a much older record than any that Lynch found trace of, and although Raffi cites no authority for the quotation, I presume that it has been taken from a recent discovery. If this be true the Khaldeans were a very ancient people. One of the tablets shows that King Memas was the principal author of the magnificent canal which conducts the water of the river Khoshab to the suburbs of Van, and which is to-day called "Shamiram-Su" or river of Semiramis. [17] The line of Vannic kings is traceable as far down as 644 B.C. Most of these inscriptions are to be found on a huge isolated rock, situated in the curve of the bay, and known as the "rock of Van." [18] Among them are inscriptions left by Xerxes (485 B.C.), the Persian conqueror whose father's empire (Darius, 521-486 B.C.) succeeded the loose Scythian rule. But the ancient Khaldean kingdom had already vanished when Xerxes' victorious army overran the country, for shortly after the great influx of Scythians and the break-up of Assyria, came another horde from the west, perhaps to fill up the void left by the Scythian ravages. It is at this time that the Armenian people are first heard from, and it is this horde, therefore, that is regarded as the foundation stock of the Armenian people. They seem to have been an Indo-European people residing in the territory north of the Black Sea, for, coming from the west they must have entered Asia from Europe by crossing the straits. The ancient Khaldeans were assimilated to some extent, but for the most part, they were driven to the north and south, where they have left traces that have been recognized and recorded by Xenophon and Herodotus. [19] That the civilization and culture of the ancient Khaldeans were utilized is beyond doubt. Their most ancient cities, Van, Armavir, were foundations of Vannic kings, while recently it has been disclosed that the city of Hajk, southeast of Van, shows some of the familiar features of a Khaldean settlement. But their supreme god during the pre-Christian era was not Khaldis, but the Persian Ormuzd, which indicates that the Persians exercised an even greater influence. How then could Semiramis ever have come to Van in quest of an Armenian king, since it seems that the Scythians had already conquered Assyria before the great influx of Armenian hordes? Nor does it seem that the city of Van was built by the Assyrian queen, for the inscriptions make no mention of her name. King Memas who, in the view of Lynch, constructed the famous canal, was in all probability the author of the garden city. The belief, according to Lynch, as already stated, is that this legend is the Armenian version of the old Hellenic myth of Aphrodite and Adonis, taken over during the domination of the Seleucid dynasty which followed the conquest of Alexander about 325 B.C. [20] But this is unreasonable. That a myth should be taken over by a subject people and the characters rechristened is not difficult to understand, but that the name of one of them should be applied to the ancient city is very improbable to say the least. Furthermore, the legend is flavored rather strongly with Persian voluptuousness, and is not at all suggestive of Greek delicacy and refinement. Nor is the fact that the horde overran the country after the destruction of Assyria in any way conclusive, for if there were any assimilation at all, as there must unquestionably have been, the Khaldean culture and history was to that extent the actual possession of the Armenians. Even intermarriage would perhaps be unnecessary, for what Irishman who has been in the United States two months does not speak of Benjamin Franklin and George Washington as his forefathers? It is to be noted also that to this day the canal spoken of is called "Shamiram-Su" or river of Semiramis, by all Armenians. [21] On the whole it seems to me conclusive, therefore, that the legend of Semiramis and Ara has its roots in Armenian history, and is not at all a version of the Hellenic myth. SECTION 4. THE LEGEND OF VAHAKN The legend of Vahakn, king and god of Armenians, is very clearly attributable to the Greek period, which followed the Persian conquest under Xerxes. Vahakn was deified because of his great valor and made the fire-god of the Armenian people. [22] He was called "Vishapakagh," uprooter of dragons, since he cleared Armenia of monsters and saved it from evil influences. His exploits were known in the abode of the gods as well as in Armenia. The most famous of them was the theft of corn from the barns of King Barsham of Assyria, from whom he ran away and tried to hide in heaven. Because of the ears he dropped in his rapid flight, there arose the Milky Way which is called in Armenian the "track of the corn stealer." [23] Moses of Khorene writes as follows: Concerning the birth of this king the legends say, "Heaven and earth were in travail, And the crimson waters were in travail, And in the water, the crimson reed Was also in travail. From the mouth of the reed issued smoke, From the mouth of the reed issued flame, And out of the flame sprang the young child, His hair was of fire, a beard had he of flame, And his eyes were suns." [24] With our own ears did we hear these words sung to the accompaniment of the harp. They sing moreover that he did fight with the dragons, and overcame them; and some say that his valiant deeds were like unto Hercules. Others declare that he was a god, and that a great image of him stood in the land of Georgia, where it was worshipped, with sacrifices. [25] The wife of Vahakn was Astghik, the goddess of beauty, a personification of the moon, corresponding to the Phoenician and Sidonian Astarte. This is suggestive of Greek influence, for Venus, the Greek goddess of beauty, was also the wife of a fire-god, Vulcan. [26] The flight of Vahakn before the Assyrian king is certainly more suggestive of the fear in which the Assyrians must have been regarded than of the valor of their god. The originators of the legend were good psychologists, however, in regarding the instincts of fear and of pugnacity as compatible. For even the slayer of demons must some day face his superiors in strength, and when he does, will he not be afraid? In fact he would be more afraid than another, for he could not well impute more mercy to his superior than he himself had shown to his inferiors. The vein of humor is too rich to be left unnoted. If the Greeks could laugh at their gods, and even mock them, the Armenians could also make sport of them. For what could be more delightfully humorous than the picture of a bearded god, a slayer of dragons, whose hair was of flame and whose eyes like suns, stealing corn from the Assyrian king and dropping the ears from his shoulders in his hasty flight across heaven? The character thus brought out, together with the richness of imaginative quality, especially in the song of his birth, the wholesome and unveiled anthropomorphism (wholesome because it is unveiled), and the correspondence between the Greek fire-god Vulcan whose wife was Venus, the goddess of beauty, with the fire-god Vahakn whose wife Astghik was also goddess of beauty, stamp the legend with its unmistakable origin in Greek mythology. SECTION 5. THE HISTORIC BACKGROUND OF THE LEGEND OF VAHAKN The Greek period from which this legend dates began with the defeat of the Armenian king Vahy, who was overcome by Alexander the Great somewhere about 328 B.C. [27] The Greeks chose their own representative to rule over the province, who at the time of Alexander's death was Seleucus. Historians have taken the name of this governor to indicate the dynasty of Greek supremacy which followed; i.e., the Seleucid dynasty. This method of the Greeks of selecting their own man to govern a subject people, which was of course in pursuance of their policy of superimposing their own culture upon all subject nations, was contrary to the policy of the Parthians, Romans, and Persians, who allowed the Armenians to maintain their national independence provided they permitted the use of their armies and duly paid their taxes. And it is this policy of the Greeks that accounts for the fact that large portions of Greek mythology and religion were taken over by the Armenians. Although the period of political supremacy was short-lived, the influence of Greek culture continued to permeate the social life of the people through the reign of the Arsacid kings. [28] In 246 B.C. Arsaces, a Parthian, made himself master of the Parthians, Persians, Medes, Babylonians, and lastly Armenians. [29] His grandson, Arsaces the Great, conquered as far as India, and after seating himself securely upon the throne of Persia, placed his brother Valarsace upon the Armenian throne, so founding the Persian and Armenian Arsacid dynasties (150 B.C.). [30] The Persian Arsacidae became extinct in A.D. 226 when they were overthrown by the Persian Sasanidae, whereas the Armenian Arsacidae line continued up until A.D. 428, when the Armenian kingdom was divided between Persia and Rome by Shapuh, the Persian monarch, and Theodosius II. [31] This makes a period of 578 years (150 B.C.-A.D. 428) during which Armenia was governed by her own line of kings, and enjoyed the liberties of national independence. To be sure after the conquest of Lucullus and Pompey (66 B.C.) Armenia became tributary to Rome, but the right of succession remained with the Armenian royal family, even during Roman supremacy, so that the national life was in no manner interfered with. [32] The greatest Armenian king of the Arsacidae line was Tigranes the Great, who extended his domains by conquest and established himself in his capital, Tigranacerta, with a court of matchless splendor. [33] He is spoken of by historians as a king of kings, and as having ruled with a pomp, splendor, and pride never before known. Defeated by Pompey within the walls of his own capital city, his kingdom became tributary to Rome. SECTION 6. THE PERIOD OF NATIONAL INTEGRATION The continuity of the period of the Armenian Arsacidae makes it the time when the process of national solidification and unification was carried out to the point that made Armenia a nation, and beyond this point. Raffi asserts that the introduction of Greek culture during the Arsacid dynasty not only changed the religion of Armenians, but also so affected their language and customs that they became different from the Persians, which is proof that a process of social readjustment was going on. [34] It was during this period that the wandering minstrels spoken of by Langlois journeyed from one end of the nation to the other, singing their songs, repeating the national legends, relating the news of the world and the court gossip which probably made up the largest portion of it. Les chants de l'antique Arménie rappellent principalement des événements la plupart héroiques et légendaires, accomplis à des époques très différentes, ce qui donne à penser qu'ils ont dû être composés à diverses reprises, par des rhapsodes dont les noms ne nous sont point parvenus. Les sujets traités dans ces chants demontrent clairement qu'ils n'ont été inspirés ni à des prêtres païens, ni à des poètes qui auraient vécu sous leur influence, en vue d'être recités dans des fêtes religieuses ou en face des autels. Au contraire, on reconnait de prime abord que ces chants sont l'oeuvre de bardes nationaux, ayant un libre acces dans les palais des souverains et à la cour des satrapes. C'est ce qui fait supposer que ces poèmes sont peutêtre dûs à des ménestrels, à la solde des rois et des nobles et ayant pour emploi de célébrer leurs vertus et leurs prouesses. [35] This is putting the case conservatively, for Moses speaks often of "les chantres" and "les chants." They traveled as far as Persia and returned, for it is related by the Italian Countess Evelyn Martinengo how a wandering minstrel, who had just returned from that country, was entertained by an Armenian patriarchal family living in the kind of underground habitation described in the beginning of this thesis. [36] No one was ever more welcome than the minstrel. He was assigned to the guest chamber usually prepared especially for him, and always the best chamber in the household. His head and feet were washed for him by the wife of the patriarch, and at meal time all the delicacies of the household were spread before him. All guests were welcome, but no guest more welcome than the minstrel. They must have listened to his tales in a kind of petrified awe, and heard him sing his songs in speechless enjoyment. It was a practice among the minstrels of the time to compete with each other in public, and it is related how two minstrels entertained by a Persian prince were led out upon an open grass plot and seated, one facing the other. Five thousand people made a circle around the competitors while the rivals contended in song and verse, riddle and repartee. Each began where the other left off, until finally one failed to perceive the drift of his adversary, and answering at random, the spectators proclaimed him beaten. The triumphant bard was led to the vanquished, whose lyre was taken from him and broken. Robed in a prince's mantle, the victor was taken to the highest seat in the banquet hall. That the people were the judges of the contest, indicates how well they must have been acquainted with the current folk-songs, legends, and tradition. How generally and frequently the custom of minstrel competition was practiced throughout Armenia is not known, but it certainly is proof, besides Moses' own statements to the same effect, that the national legends and folk-songs were the possession of the common people. And what is more important, this same body of legends, folk-songs, and tradition did more than any other one thing to weld the sentiments of the people into a single national sentiment, which crystallized into a real patriotism, a real loyalty and devotion to any cause that was a national cause, because it was the natural, spontaneous expression of the life and thought of the people, and no mean, artificial thing superimposed from outside. [37] There are other reasons for giving this period the social importance that I have ascribed to it. The conversion of the people to Christianity about the third century after Christ was achieved in no sentimental fashion, but, as I believe, in a manner in which it alone could have been done, namely, at the point of the sword of their own king, Tiridates, who was converted from paganism to Christianity by Gregory the Illuminator. The traditions in connection with this important event will be told later. Suffice it to say at this point that the whole process of conversion was carried out so thoroughly and completely, that it may be described as a national volte-face, and therefore did not result in the disintegration, civil strife, and social chaos that would unquestionably have been the result had the process been carried out by means of peaceful penetration and propaganda. The third and last argument in support of the social and national importance of the period of the Arsacid kings is in respect to the alphabet which was compiled by St. Mesrob Maschtotz. St. Mesrob was a former secretary of the king, and desired to extirpate the last remnants of paganism in the province of Akoulis, but in the absence of an alphabet he was unable to carry out any scheme of propaganda. He therefore besought the king, Vramschapouh, to put an end to this state of things and the latter, in response to the request, placed all available material at the disposal of the saint. The task was accomplished in 404, somewhat at the expense of the future devotees of the language, for the alphabet contains thirty-eight letters. [38] Nevertheless, most of the sounds of foreign languages were represented, making it particularly useful as a foundation language for other languages. St. Mesrob, with a body of translators trained by himself and St. Sahak, then proceeded to the translation of the Bible, which was not completed until 433. Liturgies and song-books quickly followed. To be sure the effect of the invention of the alphabet and the distribution of the various religious publications that followed were not felt during the period of the Arsacidae, for the Bible was not published until after the break-up of the kingdom in 428, when it was divided between Persia and Rome. But the important point is that the time had come when the need for an alphabet was making itself very strongly felt, and this could not have been true of a diversified, heterogeneous population. For the three reasons above mentioned, i.e., first, the work of minstrels, second, the Christianizing of the nation, and third, the invention of the alphabet, all occurring during the successive reigns of the Arsacid kings, I should ascribe to this period (150 B.C.-A.D. 428) the integration of the Armenian people into a national unit. [39] Christianity must have come as a disrupting force, as a terrible shock, necessitating a complete social readjustment, but the fact that the readjustment was made shows that the people were ready for it. For better or for worse the yoke of Christianity was fastened to the neck of the people, and with it they had to replow the social soil. The job was a good one, for the Armenian church has been the chief power during the last ten or fifteen centuries in keeping alive the streams of national life, and in holding the people together in the face of invasion and repeated attempts at proselytization by the Persians and by the Greek and Roman Catholic churches. SECTION 7. LEGENDS OF ARTASCHES AND ARTAVASD The legends of Artasches and Satenik, and of Artavasd, the son of Artasches, belong to the Arsacid period, for Artavasd and Artasches are Armenian kings of the Arsacid dynasty, according to Moses. [40] The Alans who, according to the legend, were a neighboring people residing in the mountain region in the vicinity of Georgia, spread themselves over Armenia while Artasches, the Armenian king, collected a great army and forced the Alans to retreat across the river Kur where they pitched camp. The son of the Alan king was taken captive and brought to Artasches, which forced the former to seek peace on whatever terms the Armenian king might wish, provided only his son was returned in safety. But Artasches refused, whereupon the sister of the captured boy came to the river bank, and standing upon a great rock spoke to the camp of Artasches by means of interpreters saying: "Oh brave Artasches, who hast vanquished the great nation of Alans, unto thee I speak. Come, hearken unto the bright-eyed daughter of the Alan king and give back the youth. For it is not the way of heroes to destroy life at the root, nor for the sake of humbling and enslaving a hostage to establish everlasting enmity between two great nations." [41] Artasches, having heard of these sayings went to the river bank and having seen that the girl was beautiful, and listened to her words of wisdom, wished to marry her. His chamberlain considered it a wise stroke of policy, and therefore went to the Alan king, soliciting the hand of the princess for his master, whose oaths and assurances of peace he vouched for, together with the promise to return the boy. The king of the Alans answered, "From whence shall brave Artasches give thousands upon thousands, and ten thousands upon tens of thousands in return for the maiden?" Writes Moses: Concerning this, the poets of that land sing in their songs: "Brave King Artasches Mounted his fine black charger, And took the red leathern cord With the golden ring. Like a swift winged eagle He passed over the river And cast the golden ring Round the waist of the Alan Princess; Causing much pain to the tender maiden As he bore her swiftly back to his camp." Which being interpreted meaneth that he was commanded to give much gold, leather, and crimson dye in exchange for the maiden. So also they sing of the wedding: "It rained showers of gold when Artasches became a bridegroom, It rained pearls when Satenik became a bride." For it was the custom of our kings to scatter coins amongst the people when they arrived at the doors of the temple for their wedding, as also for the queens to scatter pearls in their bride-chamber. [42] The couplet quoted is still sung by the Armenians, and it is still customary for the bridegroom to scatter money on his way to the church, and though it may be for queens to scatter pearls, the Armenian bride is not to be outdone. She is given a partly opened pomegranate which she throws at the door of the bridegroom upon the arrival at the bridegroom's home after the ceremony at the church, the bits of pomegranate scattering themselves about as pearls. After fifty-one years of a very prosperous reign, Artasches, who was very much beloved by his people, died. The funeral procession was a most magnificent one, and many of the people killed themselves, out of love for their dead king, according to the custom of the time. And when the body was laid in the grave they threw precious jewels, gold, and silver after it. Nor did the lamenting and suicide stop after his burial, for upon the grave of their dead king the nobles and the people continued to kill themselves. So great was the slaughter that Artavasd, son of Artasches, and king after his father's death, addressed the spirit of his dead father, saying, "Behold, thou art taking all with thee; dost thou leave me to rule over ruins and the dead?" The words given by Moses of Khorene are: "Now that thou art gone, and hast taken with thee the whole land, how shall I reign over the ruins?" [43] Whereupon the spirit of Artasches cursed him and said, "When thou ridest forth to hunt Over the free heights of Ararat, The strong ones shall have thee, And shall take thee up On to the free heights of Ararat. There shalt thou abide, And never more see the light." [44] These words together with those of Artavasd spoken to his father's spirit were sung by the singers of the time. [45] One day while out hunting Artavasd was seized by some visionary terror and lost his reason. Urging his horse down a steep bank he fell into a chasm where he sank and disappeared. Old women told how he was confined in a cavern and bound with iron chains which his two dogs gnawed at daily in order to set him free. But somehow at the sound of the hammers striking on the anvils, the chains were continually strengthened, and it was customary among the blacksmiths of the time to strike the anvil three or four times to strengthen, as they said, the chains of Artavasd. And so the tradition was kept up by singers and blacksmiths; the blacksmiths and old women having consigned the jealous king to the world's nethermost regions, while the singers left him to the solitude of Ararat in accordance with the curse of Artasches. SECTION 8. CONCLUSIONS Such are the ancient legends of Armenia, in their respective historical settings: the legends of Haic, of Semiramis and Ara, of Vahakn, of Artasches and Satenik, and of Artavasd. All of them antedate the Christian era, and some of them by many centuries. Each one of them is told by Moses of Khorene. But as to origin and probable historic roots Moses was silent, for he was writing a history. He constantly laments the absolute dearth of material and sources and begins his accounts of these legends with the words "This is as it is told," or "the singers say," indicating that his only sources for them were the songs and reports current among the people during his own time. The legends of Haic and of Semiramis and Ara are told by Moses as though he believed them historic fact, but of course Moses had no materials to serve as a basis of criticism. He is careful to quote Mar Apas Catina as his only source for this material. The other three legends are regarded as such. Artavasd is spoken of as an historical king who lost his reason while riding horseback and fell into a deep chasm. The practice of suicide at the death of Artasches, his father, was a pagan custom. The curse of the spirit of the dead father, the chains, the dogs, and the anvils were of course recognized as the work of ingenious fancy. In view therefore, of the questionable character of Moses' sources these legends have very little historic value. They do, however, have a high social value inasmuch as the common knowledge of them among the people was the only ultimate source at the disposal of the historian. The second conclusion is that these legends formed a very important part of the larger mass of tradition and songs that served to cement the people into a nation. Just how important, it would be difficult to say, but the fact that they were current at the time Moses wrote indicates that they were current and passed on from generation to generation during the whole period of the Arsacidae kings. And as the people had no alphabet during this whole period, they must have been passed on by song and word of mouth. This was a time of special activity on the part of the minstrels and singers, and therefore the development of the national consciousness characteristic of the period must have been brought about in a large measure through the medium of these legendary beliefs. Furthermore these legends are known by the Armenian people to-day and are taught in the schools that are not too severely under the rules of Turkish and Russian censorship. Naturally enough, they are a source of great pride since they breathe national independence and loyalty. But of course, the Turks and Russians have suppressed all public singing of songs, and public teaching of history and legend that may possibly be construed as partaking of the national spirit. It may be argued that these legends slumbered between the covers of Moses' history during the centuries known as the dark ages, and that they had no social value until the contagion of the European spirit of the Renaissance awoke the legends and the people at the same time. But the mere dearth of record is no proof of this Rip Van Winkle theory. There is at least one reliable authority sufficient to disprove it, viz., Grigor Magistros, a scholar of the eleventh century who wrote that he heard the Artasches epic sung by minstrels. [46] Besides the unreasonableness of the supposition, there is the added fact of an independent Armenian kingdom known as the Bagradouni dynasty, whose capital seat was at the famous city of Ani. This kingdom included greater Armenia and continued from A.D. 887 to 1079. [47] But 1079 does not mark the end of Armenian independence though it marks the destruction of Ani, for Reuben, a member of the royal family, made his way into Cilicia in the year 1080, and rallying a handful of Armenians about him, overpowered the Greeks and founded what is known as the Rupenian Kingdom of Cilicia, which continued during a period of 300 years. So that here again is a period of very nearly five hundred years (889-1380), during which time the Armenian people enjoyed national political independence. [48] And this during the very period of the dark ages, about which we know so little! We could not, therefore, for a moment suppose the traditions and legends to have had no social importance during these centuries, for such an assumption would be in flat contradiction to the witness of Grigor Magistros, and to the facts of Armenian history. CHAPTER III LEGENDS OF THE CONVERSION TO CHRISTIANITY SECTION 1. PRE-CHRISTIAN MYTHOLOGY AND RELIGION The second body of legends which I wish to consider is chiefly concerned with the introduction of Christianity into the country. These, together with the traditional beliefs centered about the chief geographical feature of the land, Mt. Ararat, constitute a group bearing a very distinct religious stamp. For this reason, and also because they have a later origin, they are to be marked off very distinctly from those already taken up. In view of their religious bearing I shall introduce them with a brief account of the various forms of pagan worship that preceded the Christianization of the people. The chief religious influences have been the Assyrian, the Persian, and the Greek. It seems, however, that a kind of monotheism prevailed before the gods of any of these were taken over. The very ancient Armenian kings planted groves of poplars around their cities and the worship was carried on in these groves. [49] An altar was placed among the trees, where the first male descendant of the royal family (and perhaps other families) offered sacrifices to the one God, while the priests derived oracles from the rustling of the leaves. Even now the poplar groves are held in uncommon regard. This is a survival of the old belief that they were the dwelling place of God, and of the later practice of consecrating children in them. The belief that God dwelt among the leaves must have been suggested by the slightest trembling of the leaves, even at the gentlest breeze, and one can well imagine the people looking up at them in the impressive silence of the forest with an awe and wonder no other environment could possibly induce. The Armenian for poplar, "Sossi" is used to-day as a name for girls, and the poplar tree, although not held sacred by Armenian people to-day, is certainly regarded with great reverence. [50] The influence of Persian worship is more clear. Aramazd, the architect of the universe, lord and creator of all things, was the chief Armenian god, and is unquestionably the Persian Ormuzd named in the inscription of Xerxes on the rock of Van. Armenians have given him the title of "father of the gods," and the qualifications "great, and strong, creator of heaven and earth, and god of fertility and of abundance." The Greeks identified him with Zeus. [51] There were numerous sanctuaries erected in his honor, and at the annual festival celebrated in his name, white animals, especially goats, horses, and mules, were sacrificed and their blood used to fill silver and golden goblets. [52] Tir, or "Grogh" meaning in Armenian "to write" was his attendant spirit, whose chief business it was to watch over mankind, recording their good and evil deeds. [53] Upon the death of a person "Grogh" conducted the soul of the departed before his master, who opened the great book, and balancing the good and evil deeds, assigned a reward or punishment. Grogh is also the personification of hope and fear, and the expression "may Grogh take you" is still very commonly used among the people, especially by servant girls and those whose language has not undergone the purification of a season of "Sturm und Drang." It is interesting to note that this and some other expressions owe their survival to usage among women rather than among men, which is not difficult of explanation when one considers the social restrictions that women are generally subject to. "Viele Seiten des alten heidnischen Glaubens sind in dem heutigen Volksglauben, besonders bei den tiefer stehenden Volksschichten, bei alten Bauerinnen, als überbleibsel der Vergangenheit erhalten." [54] The god Mihr represented fire, and was the son of Aramazd. [55] He guided heroes in battle, and was commemorated by a festival held in the beginning of spring. Fires were kindled in the open market place in his honor, and a lantern lit from one of these fires was kept burning in his temple throughout the year. [56] It is still a festival among the people, although it has a different significance, and will be described more in detail later on. This is practiced not only by the Armenians, but also by the Syrian Maronites who reside in the Lebanon. I have seen the mountainsides literally aglow with a thousand fires in celebration of a Christian festival that has its roots in the pagan ceremony in honor of Mihr. The practice of a continually burning lantern was also carried over by some branches of the Christian church. Both Persians and Armenians were worshippers of Mihr (fire-worship), although there was a very distinct difference between the two. The Armenian sacred fire was invisible, whereas the Persian was material and kept up throughout the whole year. It is for this reason that the Armenians called the Persians fire-worshippers. The only visible fire-god worshipped by the Armenians was the sun, to which temples were dedicated, and after which the Armenian calendar month "Areg" was named. [57] The "Children of the Sun" as they were called, offered the most persistent opposition to the introduction of Christianity, and a community of them continued their worship in the face of persecution after Christianity became the religion of the state. The phrase "let me die for your sun," and the oath "let the sun of my son be witness," are language survivals of this particular worship. The Greek worship, introduced first during the Seleucid dynasty, and emphasized and encouraged by the line of Arsacidae kings up to the introduction of Christianity, exercised an even stronger influence than the Persian. Many of the Greek divinities were rechristened and adopted by the people. Chief of these was Anahit, "Mother of Chastity," known also as the "Pure and Spotless Goddess," who was the daughter of Aramazd, and corresponded to the Greek Artemid and the Roman Diana. [58] She was also regarded as the benefactress of the people. Writes Agathangelus: "Through her (Anahit) the Armenian land exists; from her it draws its life, she is the glory of our nation and its protectress." [59] Images and shrines were dedicated to her name under the titles, "The Golden Mother," "The Being of Golden Birth." A summer festival was celebrated in her honor at which a dove and a rose were offered to her golden image. The day was called "Vartavar," meaning "the flaming of the rose." The temples of Anahit and the golden image were destroyed with the conversion of the people to Christianity, but the festival has continued as a regular church festival under the same name "Vartavar" though of course with a different meaning. The second and third daughters of Aramazd were Astghik, the goddess of beauty, and Nane, or Noone, the goddess of contrivance. [60] The former was the wife of Vahakn, the mythical king-god, the legend in respect to whom has been told, and corresponded to the Phoenician and Sidonian Astarte. It is stated by Raffi that the goddess of contrivance was a necessary power to womankind, for then as now woman had to make big things out of small. Sandaramet, the wife of Aramazd, was an invisible goddess and personification of the earth. Her master sent rain upon her, and brought forth vegetation. Later she became the synonym for Hades. Perhaps the best summary of Armenian worship as existing before the Christian time is that given by St. Martin. La religion Arménienne était probablement un mélange des opinions de Zoroastre, fort alterés par le cult des divinités grecques. On voyait dans les temples de l'Arménie un grand nombre de statues de divinités, auxquelles on faisait des sacrifices d'animaux, ce qui ne se pratiquait point dans la religion de Zoroastre, qui, à proprement parler, n'admettait pas l'existence d'autre divinité que le temps sans bornes, appelé Zerwan. [61] Les plus puissants des dieux étaient Aramazd (Ormuzd), Anahid (Venus), Mihir (Mihr), ou Mithra. On y adorait encore d'autres divinités inférieures. Anahit, however, was goddess of chastity, and did not therefore correspond to Venus. [62] SECTION 2. LEGENDS OF ABGAR, THADDEUS, AND ST. BARTHOLOMEW The first connection that Armenians had with Christianity occurred in the reign of King Abgar, whose capital was at Edessa (now Ourfa) during the time of Christ's teaching in Palestine. [63] The story is legendary and very popular. Abgar was called a great man because of his exceeding meekness and wisdom. As the result of several severe military campaigns, the health of the king began to give way. This led to complications which developed into a very painful disease. It was at this time that Abgar sent two of his messengers to the Roman governor, Marinus, to show the Roman a treaty of peace that had been made between Ardasches and his brother of Persia, who had quarreled and had been reconciled by their kinsman Abgar; for the Romans suspected that Abgar had gone to Persia in order to collect and direct a Persian-Armenian army against the Romans. [64] To clear himself of all suspicion, therefore, those two messengers were sent to show the treaty of peace to the Roman governor. On their return the messengers went up to Jerusalem in order to see Christ, having heard of his wonderful deeds. And when they returned to their king, Abgar, they told of the works of Christ, at which the king marveled, and believed him to be the very Son of God. The king, because of his sickness, sent Christ a letter asking him to come and heal him of his disease. The letter is quoted as follows: The letter of Abgarus to our Saviour Jesus Christ. "Abgarus, a prince of the world, unto Jesus the Saviour and Benefactor, who hast appeared in the City of Jerusalem, Greetings. "I have heard of thee, and of the healings wrought by thy hands, without drugs and without roots; for it is said that thou givest sight to the blind, thou makest the lame to walk, and thou cleanest the lepers; thou curest those who have been long tormented by diseases, and raisest even the dead. And when I heard all this concerning thee, I thought that either thou art God come down from heaven that workest these things, or the Son of God. I have written unto thee, that thou shouldst trouble thyself to come unto me, and heal me of my disease. I have heard also that the Jews murmur against thee, and think to torture thee. My city is a small one, but it is beautiful, and it is sufficient for us twain." [65] The messengers delivered the message to Jesus in Jerusalem, to which the gospel bears witness in the words, "There were some amongst the heathen that came up to him." But Jesus could do no more than to send a letter in reply. The answer to the letter of Abgarus, written at the command of our Saviour by the Apostle Thomas: "Blessed is he who believeth on me, though he hath not seen me. For it is written concerning me thus: 'they that have seen me believed not on me, but they that have not seen me shall believe and live.' And concerning that which thou hast written unto me to come down unto thee, it is needful that I fulfill all that for which I was sent; and when I have fulfilled it I will ascend unto Him that sent me. And after my ascension I will send one of my disciples, who shall heal thee of thy disease, and give life unto thee and unto all that are with thee." [66] This letter was duly delivered to Abgar, with the image of the Saviour, which was still kept in Edessa at the time of Moses' writing. The legend concerning the image is somewhat as follows. One of the three messengers sent to Jesus with the letter of Abgar was an artist who was told to paint a portrait of Jesus in case the latter found it impossible to take the journey. The artist tried in vain to paint a good picture, and having noticed him, Jesus took a handkerchief and passing it over his face a most exact likeness was stamped upon it, which he gave to the artist to be given to the king. The quaint ending of Abgar's letter is worth the whole legend. What could be simpler or more seductive than the invitation, "My city is a small one, but it is beautiful, and it is sufficient for us twain." The tradition of the Armenian church, or the Gregorian church, as it is more commonly called, acknowledges St. Thaddeus and St. Bartholomew as the original founders, who are therefore designated as the first illuminators of Armenia. [67] Concerning the recognition of the tradition of St. Bartholomew, which includes his apostolic journeys, his preaching, and his martyrdom in Armenia, all Christian churches are unanimous. The name Albanus given as the place of his martyrdom, is the same as the name Albacus, hallowed by the Armenian tradition. His mission covered a period of sixteen years (A.D. 44-60). There is difference of opinion, however, in regard to the dates. The traditions about St. Thaddeus vary. Some suppose him to have been the brother of St. Thomas, and according to these, he traveled to Ardaze by way of Edessa. There is an anachronism, however, in this tradition which would transfer the mission of Thaddeus to the second century. According to a second tradition he is not the brother of Thomas, but one St. Judas Thaddeus, surnamed Lebbeus, who also is said to have established a sanctuary of worship at Ardaze, a circumstance admitted by the Greek and Latin churches. The Armenian church places the time of this mission as a period of eight years from 35-43. That this has been done to lay a strong foundation for the claim of apostolic origin may be suspected, especially in view of the belief that apostolic origin is essential to every Christian church, in order, as stated by Ormanian, "to place her in union with her Divine Founder." The church, however, has us at its mercy, for conclusive evidence one way or another is lacking. Nevertheless, the fact of Thaddeus' mission to Armenia wherever and whenever it might have occurred, is undisputed. [68] The matter is not especially important except to theologians with their doctrines of "apostolic origins." What is perfectly clear is that both these men did their work in comparative silence, and that they did not make very much headway, for if they had there would have been less doubt concerning the traditions. The great work was done by King Tiridates, and Gregory, who converted him about A.D. 301. The traditions concerning these men are among the most cherished possessions of the Armenian church. SECTION 3. LEGENDS OF RHIPSIME AND GREGORY These traditions have their historical setting in the reign of Tiridates, and of Chosroes the father of Tiridates. [69] Just as there was an Arsacid dynasty in Armenia, dating and originating in the Parthian conquests and supremacy, so also was there an Arsacid dynasty of Persia. The Persian king at the time of Chosroes was a kinsman of the latter, called Ardavan, who was overthrown (A.D. 227) by a Persian prince of the province of Fars, named Ardashir. [70] His dynasty, a very powerful one, known as the Sassanid dynasty, supplanted the Arsacid dynasty of Persia. Chosroes of Armenia, fearing future difficulty with the new Persian monarch, ardently supported his dethroned kinsman. The next year (228), therefore, he led a huge army beyond the frontiers of Persia, and laid waste her provinces to the gates of Ctesiphon. [71] The war was continued for ten years, during which time the Armenian capital, Vagharshapat, was filled with the booty of successful raids. The reigning Caesar, Severus, also alarmed by the success of the new Persian king, headed a Roman army against Ardashir. Realizing the jeopardy of his position, the Persian resolved to put Chosroes out of the way by whatever means possible. A Parthian of the royal blood, Anak by name, consented to execute his king's desire, and went with his family to Vagharshapat as a refugee. A friendship sprang up between himself and his future victim, enabling him to execute his purpose, which he did in company with his brother while preparation was being made for a spring campaign. But the murderers were cut off in their escape by Armenian horsemen and precipitated into the Araxes, while the dying king gave orders to massacre the family of Anak. Only two of the children were rescued, one of whom was Gregory, the Illuminator, founder of the Armenian national church, called also the Gregorian church. The child Gregory was taken to Cesarea where he was educated in the tenets of Christianity. [72] Ardashir died shortly after the murder of his foe, and thus failed to follow up his advantage except for a few raids into Armenian territory. Tiridates, a child at this time, was the oldest son of Chosroes, and as heir to the Armenian throne was the chief obstacle in the way of the ambitions of his uncles, whose treatment of the young king compelled him to take refuge in Rome where he was educated. [73] Having distinguished himself by personal bravery in a Gothic campaign, his nation's dominions were restored to him by the support of a Roman army, for during his absence Armenia was invaded by Shapur, the successor of Ardashir. The Persian king had taken advantage of the disputes of Tiridates' uncles. The remainder of the story is legendary. Gregory had been informed in the meantime of his father's deed, and seeking to make such amends for it as he could, he journeyed to Rome, where he attached himself as a servant to the exiled king, Tiridates. The latter, after his victory over the Persians and his re-accession to the Armenian throne, entered the temple of Anahit in company with his faithful servant Gregory, to offer sacrifices of thanksgiving. A feast followed the ceremony, at which many guests were present, and Tiridates, who must have known of Gregory's attachment to Christianity, commanded the latter to make an offering of garlands to the great goddess. Gregory refused. The king was angry. "How dare you," exclaimed the king, "adore a god whom I do not adore?" Persuasion and finally torture were used to coerce the pious and firm-minded youth, but to no avail. In the meantime, Tiridates had been informed as to Gregory's identity, i.e., that he was the son of his father's murderer, whereupon the king commanded that Gregory be cast into a deep pit where he was left to perish. [74] For thirteen years Gregory languished in his well, and was only saved from death by the ministrations of a widow who resided in the castle of Artaxata just by the pit. This was done in great secret, for Tiridates had issued an edict which admonished his subjects to beware of the resentment of the gods, of Aramazd, Anahit, and Vahakn, and following the practice of the Romans, to lay hands on all offenders against the gods, chief of whom, evidently, were the Christians. They were to be bound hand and foot, brought before the gate of the palace, and if found guilty their lands and chattels were assigned to their accusers. [75] While Christians were being robbed, and Gregory was slowly perishing of misery in his prison well, there arrived at Vagharshapat a Roman virgin of exquisite beauty, named Rhipsime, in company with her nurse Gaiane, and thirty-three followers who were also virgins. They had fled from the Emperor Diocletian, who had selected Rhipsime for his spouse, after a most careful search of his kingdom for the most beautiful of women. [76] Rhipsime, unfortunately had taken a vow of chastity, and there was nothing to do but to flee. Meanwhile an ambassador from Rome arrived at the court of the Armenian king bearing a letter in which Tiridates was informed of the flight of the virgin to his land, and bidden to discover the refugees, to send Rhipsime to Rome, and to kill her companions. The emperor added, however, in truly generous fashion, that he might himself marry her if he was overcome by her charms. The band was found, Rhipsime was recognized, and the king sent an escort of litters to bring them to his court. As Diocletian suspected, the Armenian king also fell in love, for the maiden, having refused the pomp of a royal equipage, was forced to appear before him in court. The Armenian's suit was likewise a failure. Rhipsime would marry, provided he became Christian, which the king took as mockery. Again the girl succeeded in escaping, but she was tracked, overtaken with her companions, bound with cords, and put to death with great cruelty. Both Rhipsime and her nurse Gaiane are commemorated on the calendar of saints, and at Etchmiadzin, the religious center of the nation, there are three edifices; the largest and most important bears the name of St. Gregory, while the other two respectively bear the names of the two saints, Rhipsime and Gaiane. Agathangelus relates the legend in his Histoire du Règne de Tiridate but unfortunately the book has been tampered with and now contains much questionable material. [77] There are mentioned ominous thunderclaps, openings of heaven, divine voices exhorting Rhipsime to stand firm in her faith, and the transformation of Tiridates into a grass-eating boar which was the punishment for his great crime. The sister of the king, Khosrovitukht, had a vision, in which she was told that the only remedy was to send for a prisoner named Gregory, who had been cast into a well some thirteen years before. A rope was let down into the cavern, and to the astonishment of all, there emerged a human form, blackened to the color of coal. It was none other than Gregory. He also saw visions and heard divine voices speak through curious openings in heaven. Strange columns of fire and flaming crosses of light appeared to him in the places where Rhipsime and Gaiane suffered martyrdom; and there appeared a great deal more to him which is recorded, even as there must have appeared yet more which is not recorded. The result of all of this was that Gregory ordered the construction of two chapels, one to be erected in honor of Rhipsime, the other in memory of Gaiane, both of which are still standing in Etchmiadzin. Etchmiadzin means, "the place where the Only-Begotten descended" for it was at this place that Gregory beheld his miraculous vision. Having prayed for the healing of the king, the horns fell from the royal head, and Tiridates, now a Christian, shared in the work of constructing the chapels. [78] He ascended Ararat and returned with huge blocks of stone which he laid at the portals of the chapels in expiation of his sin. It was customary among Armenians to place huge blocks of stone at the entrance of a church by way of offering. Dubois de Montpèreux saw a number of such stones, six or seven feet high, in front of the cathedral at Etchmiadzin, but Lynch found no trace of them. [79] Such are the legends of Gregory and of Tiridates' conversion to Christianity. In all justice, the highly imaginative material which was probably the work of an enthusiast, and in all certainty a surreptitious insertion in the work of the historian, should be distinguished from the less fanciful material concerning the imprisonment of Gregory and the martyrdom of the virgins, which though legendary, may probably be connected with the events of history. Although Dubois de Montpèreux recognizes that all traditions point to the conversion of Armenia as having taken place before the conversion of Constantine (in 312), he does not consider this as probable, for Tiridates, as a tributary king, and imitator of the Romans in all things, could not have had the courage to take so important a step except in following out the policy of the emperor. [80] Gregory, according to the view of Dubois, remained in his prison well until Constantine accepted Christianity, when the Armenian king called for him and was converted as a matter of diplomacy after listening to his exhortations. But this is not accepted by modern writers, any more than it was by the ancient historians. Bryce places the conversion at 302, and states that the so-called conversion of Constantine happened either twelve or thirty-seven years later, according as one reckons to the battle of the Milvian Bridge, or his baptism. [81] Armenia, therefore, was the first country that adopted Christianity as a religion of state, a matter of no small pride to the Gregorians, and it has been maintained as the national religion ever since in a form so intact as to surpass the dreams of the most ultra-conservative. And this, too, in the face of attacks by Persian fire-worshippers who attempted to force their religion upon the people, Greek and Latin popes, Mohammedan khalifs, and Turkish sultans. Ormanian, former Armenian patriarch at Constantinople, who gives the date as 301, considers the existence of the churches of St. Rhipsime and St. Gaiane with their inscriptions as positive proof, and mentions also the testimony in the writings of Eusebius, who cites the war of the year 311 which the Emperor Maximianus, the Dacian, declared against Armenians on account of their, at that time, recent conversion. [82] The critical studies made since the journey of Dubois (1837) are conclusive at least in this, that the conversion of Tiridates and of the nation could not have taken place later than the year 302, and there is no doubt therefore of the claim that the Gregorian church is the oldest national Christian church of the world. SECTION 4. THE ARMENIAN CHURCH AS A SOCIAL FORCE The conversion of the people followed close upon the conversion of the king, for Gregory was a temple-building priest not without ambition, and the king was an acknowledged hero. The business of converting the nation was not a matter of priests and preaching as suggested by Dubois; [83] as indicated before, it was rather a matter of fire and sword. Ormanian supposes that it was due to the work of the Christian communities already established, whose work was stimulated and encouraged by the king's conversion. [84] "Indeed," he says, "the almost instant conversion of the whole of Armenia at the beginning of the fourth century, can not be explained but by the preëxistence of a Christian element which had taken root in the country." And again, "The first nucleus of the faithful, by its steadfast energy, at length succeeded in gaining the mastery over both obstacles and persecutions." This does not seem to me to be correct, for in the first place the Christianity of the first, second, and third centuries was not the Christianity of Gregory; it was one of the many forms of worship killed by Gregory; and in the second place there are sufficient records to prove the wholesale destruction of pagan temples, images, idols, and inscriptions as carried out by the king and saint, and of the use of the sword in forcing the people to change their faith. [85] First, then, what was the Christianity of the first centuries? It is clear that the ideal was one of communal simplicity of life. That it was opposed to all hierarchies and established priesthoods there can be no question. The irksome round of daily toil was idealized in the fellowship of a common faith, the central point of which was the indwelling of the Spirit of God. Hence baptism was the all-important event, for through baptism the Holy Spirit descended into the human heart even as into Christ when he was baptized by John in the Jordan. Jesus was no God come to earth in human form by a miraculous conception; he was the son of Joseph and Mary. Feeling his kinship with God he was baptized, which ceremony was merely symbolic of the Indwelling Spirit. These early Christians have been called adoptionists, for the ceremony of baptism is said to represent the adoption of the individual by God, or by the Holy Spirit, both expressions having been used synonymously. Simple and pure, it seems that the adoptionists came as near carrying out the spirit of the teachings of Jesus as any Christian sect that ever existed. [86] But how utterly opposed, how perfectly contradictory to the brick and mortar religion of Gregory! That the adoptionists were objects of persecution by the orthodox church is a certainty, and it was very probably this sect that was referred to in "that stubborn heresy of their native land" mentioned so frequently by Armenian writers. The following picture was clearly set forth in a disputation between two Armenian church-men occurring at the close of the third century. "Tell me," says Archelaus, "over whom it was that the Holy Spirit descended like a dove? Who is this one whom John baptized? If he was already perfect, if he was already the Son, if he was already Virtue, the Holy Spirit could not have entered into him. A kingdom can not enter into a kingdom." [87] What is also to the point is the celebrated formula of Nice (325) at which the nature of Christ was defined as essentially and continuously divine. "Christ a very God, begotten of God, but not a creature of God; Son of God, of one nature with God; who came down from heaven and took flesh, and became man, and suffered and ascended unto heaven; who was before he was begotten, and who has always been." The decision was in absolute contradiction to the adoptionist faith, and it was legislated by this august council, that the members of such faith, who were called Paulicians, after their leader Paul of Samosata, should be rebaptized before admission to the church. [88] The recalcitrants were driven to the mountains, where they increased in number as in strength until the persecution of the ninth century. Both Agathangelus and Faustus of Byzantium were silent concerning these people, and, one suspects, advisedly so. Such was pre-Gregorian Christianity. How ridiculous to suppose that the conversion of the nation was due to the firm roots already established by the Christians when the Christians themselves had to be converted! On the contrary, it was the right of might that established the new religion. The troops of the capital city were led by the king and priest in such an image- and temple-smashing campaign as was never before seen. Proceeding down the Araxes valley, the temple of the god Dir was levelled to the ground; the temple of Anahit was stoutly defended but to no avail; the temple was burned. One after another of the most famous sanctuaries were destroyed; temples of Aramazd, of Mithra, of Nane, and of Anahit, many of which were defended by the vanquished until overpowered. [89] Shrines of Vahakn and of Astghik were laid to waste to be replaced by Christian churches which grew up over the ruins as if overnight; and if a temple was destroyed, it was only to build a Christian church in its stead. So construction followed in the wake of destruction, the old was supplanted by the new, and when all armed resistance was beaten down, the king and priest continued the work by preaching. When the work was fairly under way the ambitious priest journeyed to Cesarea in Cappadocia where he got himself ordained. This Gregory was no meek-spirited adoptionist. He was the son of Anak, of royal blood, ambitious, zealous, suffering and doing all things to gain his ends. In view, therefore, of the actual character of preëxisting Christianity, and of the methods employed in converting the people, how can one reasonably suppose that the "instant conversion of the whole of Armenia to Christianity can not be explained but by the preëxistence of a Christian element which had taken root in the country"? The state-authorized religion, however, did take root in the country, and became inextricably interwoven with the self-consciousness of the nation. It became the organ of national expression, and for many centuries has been the very backbone of the people. If the molten metals of national life had hardened during the reign of the Arsacidae kings they were at the time of the conversion in a molten state, ready to be remolded. This did not require much time. Old festivals were carried over intact, except that they were given a new meaning. The old national traditions, legends, and folk-lore were in the common possession of the people, and there was no reason for discouraging them. In fact the Armenian church even more than the state encouraged them, for it recognized in them a source of solidarity and national unity, as essential to the life of the church as its hierarchies, liturgy, and calendar of saints. So much then was old; part of the past carried over into the present to be carried over into the future. What then was new? First the legends and traditions, already mentioned, imbedded in the immediately past events of the new order. Legends of Abgar, of Gregory, of Thaddeus, of Rhipsime, of Tiridates, passed like magic fire from person to person, creating a common sentiment which made the foundations of the new church absolutely secure. How firmly this foundation was established is indicated by the reaction of the church to the decisions at the Council of Chalcedon, where the dogma of the dual nature of Christ was affirmed, in perfect contradiction to the Nicæan dogma, and by the reaction against the Persian proposals to accept fire-worship as the state religion. I shall consider the second point first. As already stated, the year 428 marked the end of the Armenian Arsacid dynasty. The nation was divided between Persia and Rome at this time, largely as a result of internal dissensions. In the year 450 the Persian king sent a letter to the Armenian princes, setting forth the excellence of fire-worship and the foolishness of Christianity, and summoned the Armenians to accept the Persian religion. [90] A council of bishops and laymen was held and a reply of unanimous refusal was drawn up. "From this faith no one can move us, neither angels nor men, neither sword nor fire, nor water, nor any deadly punishment." [91] A rather impertinent reply from a subject nation to one which dominated it; but thoroughly characteristic of the Armenians. The Persians did use fire and sword, and defeated the Armenians in the plain of Avarair under Mount Ararat (451). But they did not gain their end. An old historian wrote of the battle, "swords of slayers grew dull, but their necks were not weary," and the Persian high priest having seen the utter hopelessness of his project wrote, "these people have put on Christianity, not like a garment, but like flesh and blood." [92] Already, only one hundred fifty years after the conversion, the foundation of the church was secure. This of course was made possible by the completeness of the work of its founders; but this in itself would not have been sufficient. A common favorable sentiment had been created, which grew up under the natural conditions of life, and inasmuch as the legends described are part of the common beliefs of the people, it may be inferred that they played an important rôle in the formation of this sentiment. The church, on the other hand, has incorporated these legendary beliefs in its ritual and ceremony, and in that way has given them the necessary sanction by which they are passed on from generation to generation. They thus form part of the permanent social tradition of the Armenian people. The security of the church at this early time (450) was indicated not only by the reaction of the nation to the Persian proposals of fire-worship, but also by the reaction to the decision of the Council of Chalcedon, at which, as stated, the dual nature of Christ was dogmatically affirmed, in contradiction to the dogma established at the Council of Nicæa (325), accepted by the Armenian church. But at the time of the Chalcedonian council, the Persian difficulties were taking place, the battle of Avarair having occurred during the same year, and it was not until 491 that the Armenians held a synod of their own which assembled at Vagharshapat, in order to take decisive action. [93] The decisions of the Council of Chalcedon were rejected and the action was repeated at subsequent synods. Of the three sees or patriarchates, the Roman at Rome, the Greek at Alexandria, and the Byzantine at Constantinople, the latter was gaining in power, and it was at the Council of Chalcedon that the precedence of the see of Constantinople was recognized. Naturally, neither the Roman nor Greek sees acknowledged the decision of the council, but later both Greek and Latin churches revoked their opposition, and recognized it as the fourth OEcumenic Council. But the Armenian church would have nothing to do with Chalcedon, in spite of Greek and Latin approval, and since that time she has stood alone, absolutely independent of Greek and Latin churches. Ormanian states: "She set herself to resist every new dogmatic utterance said to emanate from revelation, as well as any innovation which could in any way pervert the primitive faith." [94] The "primitive faith" may be a slight stretch of point, but the fact that the Armenian church adopted an absolutely independent policy, which separated her from all other Christian churches, and to which she has steadfastly adhered in spite of persistent Greek and Latin influence and efforts at domination, is in clear support of my assertion that the social foundations of the church were firmly and securely established as early as 450, only one hundred fifty years after the work of Gregory and Tiridates. CHAPTER IV LOCALITY LEGENDS SECTION 1. ARARAT There is a third and last body of Armenian legends more closely related to the second group discussed than to the first, and yet marked off in some respects from the second as well. They have a distinct religious stamp like those we have just finished describing, and they are all related in some way to the stories of the Old Testament. The legend of Haic is related to the Old Testament, for Haic was the great-grandson of Noah, but it clearly belongs to the first group taken up, for the reason that it has to do with the origin of the Armenian nation. The first body, including Haic, and the legends of Semiramis and Ara, Vahakn, Artasches and Satenik, and Artavazd, are all concerned with ancient Armenian kings, real or mythical, and all go back to a time before the introduction of Christianity. Vahakn was deified, but that does not exclude him since he was first a king. The second group, including the legends of Abgar, Rhipsime and Gaiane, Gregory, Thaddeus, and Tiridates, are all concerned with historical figures, real or supposed, and there is no doubt about their historic reality, with the exception of Rhipsime and Gaiane. But what marks them off from the other groups is that they are all concerned with the introduction of Christianity into the country. Those of the third group have no historic value whatever. They are legends based upon legends that date back to a period even more remote than the legend of Haic, and their social value does not approach that of the first two groups. They are all connected in some way, either with the Old Testament legend of Noah, or with the legend of the origin of man. No traveler ever passed through Armenia without hearing of one or more of them. "In the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, the ark rested upon the mountains of Ararat." [95] Every Armenian, and others, too, believe that this is the Ararat of Armenia, or Masis as it is called, and it is true that there is absolutely nothing to disprove such a belief. James Bryce has given a careful consideration to the question, and states in conclusion that full liberty is left to the traveler to consider the "snowy sovereign of the Araxes plain" to be the true Ararat. [96] There are several points that may be noted. First, there is nothing in the statement of Genesis to show that the Ararat mentioned was a mountain called by that name; it seems rather that Ararat was a section of country, for the passage states that the ark rested "upon the mountains of Ararat." In the second place, the mountain is not called Ararat by Armenians, but Masis. And thirdly, there is no independent Armenian tradition of the flood so far as is known, for it can not be shown that the modern tradition is older than the Christian era. These facts would be conclusive evidence that Armenian Ararat is not the traditional Ararat of the Old Testament, were it not, first, for the fact that there was in the region of the mountain a province of Airarat which in all probability corresponds to the biblical Ararat. Secondly, the biblical Ararat unquestionably corresponds to the Assyrian Urarthu which is the section of country about Lake Van and Mount Ararat. So that, although not absolutely conclusive, the Armenian tradition enjoys a very high degree of probability. In this connection the legend of the village of Nakhitchevan is worth noting. It is situated just to the north of the mountain on the left bank of the Araxes. Armenians believe it to be the place where Noah first landed, and as proof, the name of the village, which means, "the first place of landing," is cited. One might suppose the name to have been given by the Christians after the conversion to Christianity, were it not that Ptolemy places in the same spot a city named Naxuana which is the exact Greek for the Armenian name. Also Josephus, fifty years before Ptolemy speaks of the place, as quoted by St. Martin: "Les Arméniens appellent ce lieu l'endroit de la descente parce que c'est là que l'arche trouva un endroit de salut, et qu'encore actuellement les indigènes montrent ses débris." [97] Tavernier who traveled through the country along about 1700 speaks of Nakhitchevan as the "oldest city of the world" and gives the tradition. [98] But many Jews, who undoubtedly gave the village its name, lived in Armenia, long before the Christian era. Situated on a broad plain four or five thousand feet above sea level, Ararat rises majestic and solitary to a height of 17,000 feet. There are no lesser peaks or ranges to destroy the grandeur of the effect. Except for its companion, Little Ararat, which rises beside it on a common base to a height of 12,840 feet, it stands alone as monarch of the broad plain it surveys. Little Ararat is in the form of a perfect cone, whereas Ararat is broad-shouldered and dome-shaped, supported by huge buttresses and capped with snow a considerable distance down the slope through the entire year. It is truly symbolic of strength and majesty. Such is the mountain about which a thousand legends cluster. Marco Polo says of the mountain: "There is an exceeding great mountain on which it is said the ark of Noah rested, and for this cause it is called the mountain of the Ark of Noah." In 1254, a little before Marco Polo's time, a Franciscan friar, William of Rubruck passed by the mountain upon which the ark is said to have rested, which mountain, he said, could not be ascended, though the earnest prayers of a pious monk prevailed so far that a piece of the wood of the ark was brought to him by an angel, which piece, he said, is still preserved in a church near by as a holy relic. He gives Masis as the name of the mountain and adds that it is the Mother of the World. According to a Persian tradition it is called "Cradle of the Human Race." Still more interesting is the account by Sir John Maundeville, part of which runs as follows: "Fro Artyroun go men to an Hille, that is clept Sabisocolle. And there besyde is another Hille, that men clepen Ararathe: but the Jews clepen it Taneez, where Noas Schipp rested: and zit is upon that Montayne and men may see it a ferr in clear wedre: and that Montayne is well a myle high. And sum men seyn that they have seen and touched the Schipp; and put here Fyngres in the parties where the Feend went out when that Noe seyd 'Benedicta.' But they that seyn such Wordes seyn here Willie, for a man may not gon up the Montayne for gret plenties of Snow that is alle weys on that Montayne nouther Somer ne Winter: so that no man may gon up there: ne never man did, sithe the time of Noe: Saf a Monk that be the grace of God brought one of the Plankes down, that zit is in the Mynstre at the foot of the Montayne. And beside is the Cytes of Dayne that Noe founded. And faste by it is the Cytee of Any, in which were 1000 churches. But upon that Montayne to gon up this monk had gret desir; and so upon a day he went up and when he was the third part of the Montayne he was so wery that he mighte not furthere, and so he rested him and felle to slep, and when he awoke he fonde himself liggyie at the foot of the Montayne. And then he preyde devoutly to God that he wold vouch saf to suffre him gon up. And an angelle cam to him and seyde that he scholde gon up; and so he did. And sithe that Time never non. Wherefore men scholde not beleeve such Woordes." [99] The legend of the monk is usually given in a form which confirms still more the sacredness of the mountain. St. Jacob, as the monk was named, tried three successive times to climb the mountain. Each time he fell asleep intending to resume his journey the next morning, only to wake up finding himself at the same point he had started from the preceding day. An angel came to him after the third time, and told him that God had forbidden mortal foot ever to tread on the sacred summit, but that he should be given a fragment of the ark in which mankind had been preserved as a reward for his devout perseverance. [100] This treasure is still preserved at Etchmiadzin and the saint is commemorated by the little monastery of St. Jacob, which till 1840, when a tremendous shaking of the mountain showered the little monastery with rocks of destruction, stood above the valley of Arghuri on the slopes of Ararat. The little village of Arghuri, the single village on the mountainside, was the city of Noah's vineyard, and contained a little church which is said to hallow the spot where Noah first set up an altar. [101] But this village, too, was completely destroyed by the avalanche of 1840. Not the slightest trace of it remains, though only three years before its destruction, Dubois de Montpèreux visited the little city and described it together with the church of Noah, Noah's vineyard, and the monastery of St. Jacob. [102] In the garden of the city were planted pear trees, apple, plum, cherry, apricot, peach, and nut trees. This very garden was the site of the first vine on which the old patriarch became drunk, and the inhabitants showed Dubois some bits of creepers to prove it. "Dieu," they said, "pour punir les ceps qui avaient ainsi entrainé le pauvre patriarche dans le péché, les condamna a ne plus porter de raisins." Naïve, yes, but very sweetly so. And the church, the people said, marked the place where Noah offered his first sacrifice after the deluge. Except for the garden of Arghuri, wrote Dubois, this great mountain was absolutely destitute of verdure; an old stunted willow, wound about with snow and ice was the only other exception to this. According to the legend, it marked the spot where a board of Noah's ark had taken root and sprung up into a living tree which the people venerated. One was not permitted to take away even the smallest of its feeble branches. All of this was blotted out so completely by the shower of falling rocks and boulders that it is hard to imagine the places as ever having existed. The primeval willow, the vineyard, the sacred church, and the little monastery of St. Jacob have left not the slightest trace. The bell of the old church is no more heard; the Christian service is not chanted any longer on the sacred mountain of the Ark. Of the numerous other legends associated with the mountain I shall mention only two. One of them regards the summit of the mountain as the site of Chaldean star-worship, and asserts that a pillar with a figure of a star stood upon it. [103] According to the same legend, twelve wise men stood beside the pillar to watch for the star of the East, which three of them followed to Bethlehem. The other is in respect to the spring situated above the spot where stood the monastery. A bird, called by the Armenians tetagush, feeds on the locusts which are such a plague to the country, and curiously enough, the bird is attracted by the waters of the spring. When the locusts appear, the people carry their bottles to the spring and filling them with the peculiarly charmed water, take them back to their fields where they are placed on the ground to attract the tetagush. The people of Syria and Palestine were much in need of tetagush and Ararat spring water during the spring and summer of 1915, for the swarms of locusts not only devoured the crops but also the leaves and barks of the trees. SECTION 2. KHOR-VIRAP AND ERZERUM On the bank of the Araxes, in the plain of Armenia, and in full view of Ararat are located the monastery of Khor-Virap and the chapel of St. Gregory close beside it. An Armenian inscription is cut in the walls of the portico of the monastery which marks the spot where a monk, Johannes by name, appeared twice after his death saying that he had seen Gregory the Illuminator. The chapel of St. Gregory covers the traditional well into which he was thrown and imprisoned for thirteen years by King Tiridates. Dubois descended into a sort of tunnel, fifteen or sixteen feet below the pavement of the chapel, which is part of an old fortress, and was shown the worn stones of a niche where the saint prayed, as evidence of the thirteen years, quite as though other pilgrims who knelt in the same place could not have assisted somewhat the pious work of the saint. [104] The spot is only a few steps from the famous temple dedicated to the principal god of the Armenians, Aramazd, and it seems clear that the pagan king intended to make a sacrifice to his gods in casting the young fanatic into the well. The temple was called Achelichad, meaning "many sacrifices" because of the many offerings here given up to Aramazd. With the era of Christianity, the name Achelichad gave way to the name Khor Virap, meaning dry well. Gregorius Magistros, already mentioned, brought the body of the saint from Constantinople and placed it in the bottom of the well, where it served to cure sick pilgrims. There is a tradition that the Armenian city of Erzerum, not far from the source of the Euphrates, marks the vicinity of the Garden of Eden. The Persian king Khosref Purveez is said to have encamped in the neighborhood and to have received a message from the prophet Mohammed during his sojourn, in which he was offered the protection of Islam if he would embrace the faith. But the king spurned the proposal and tossed the letter into the Euphrates. Nature, horrified at the sacrilege, dried up the flowers and fruits of the ancient garden and even parched up the sources of the river itself. And so the last relic of Eden became waste. [105] In the same connection, there is a plaintive Armenian elegy, composed in the person of Adam, who, sitting at the gate of paradise and beholding cherubim and seraphim enter the garden, makes the following defence: he did not eat the forbidden fruit until after he had witnessed its fatal effects upon Eve, when, seeing her despoiled of all her glory, he was touched with pity and tasted the immortal fruit in the hope that the Creator, contemplating both in the same plight might with paternal love take compassion on them. But in vain. "The Lord cursed the serpent and Eve," pathetically cries Adam, "and I was enslaved between them." The elegy closes most touchingly,--"When ye enter Eden, shut not the gate of paradise, but place me standing at the gate. I will look in a moment and then bring me back. Ah! I remember ye, O flowers and sweet smelling fountains. Ah! I remember ye, O birds, sweet singing, And ye, O beasts." [106] CHAPTER V INTERPRETATION AND CONCLUSIONS Because these legends are for the most part based upon older legends, and also because some of them are known only locally, they can not be said to have played so important a rôle in Armenian social life as the first two groups of legends. It would be a mistake, however, to suppose that all of the Ararat legends have merely a local value. Ararat is the center of the nation, the grand geographical feature of the country, and many of the beliefs clustered about it are held in common. In fact there is a very old belief which considers the sacred mountain to be the center of the world, and to-day it is the common point of meeting of the boundaries of Russian, Turkish, and Persian Armenia. And this is no accident; it is because of the veneration in which the mountain is held, and consequently, the realization of the importance the mountain gives to any territory in which it may be located. The belief that Ararat is the mountain of the Ark, the legend of Noah's vineyard, and the legend of St. Jacob are very commonly accepted. The primeval willow, the church of Arghuri, the legend, or perhaps one should say, the superstition of the tetagush, and the legend of the wise men in search of the star of the East, enjoy a more restricted circulation. Furthermore, it is natural to suppose that the legends centered in the destroyed city of Arghuri have not been told as frequently as of old, and are therefore dying out gradually, although they seem still to be very much alive. A legend or tradition that is objectified in an old willow, in a monastery, or in a garden, is likely to die out gradually with the destruction of its object. But some of them will never die out, object or no object, as for example the legend of the devout monk who tried to gain the summit of Ararat in order to see the holy Ark. There is something in his waking up each successive morning only to find himself at the same point he had started from the preceding day, which will keep its hold, whether there be a monastery erected in his name or not. And if the vineyard has been destroyed the people may very soon find another. In fact I should be surprised if in traveling through the mountain region of Ararat, I was not shown the legendary vineyard. This, however, would more likely be true of a legend that had a commercial value to the community because of the frequency of travelers, which could certainly not be said of Ararat legends. The same general valuation may be placed upon the Erzerum legends. A legend of this sort is not believed to be true, unless the legend upon which it is based is commonly believed in, and it is certainly safe to suppose that a majority of the Armenian people accept the Old Testament legends. This is important, for when a legend is not a matter of implicit belief by a people it has little social value. The elegy of Adam can not be properly said to be a legend at all. The preceding pages point out certain points of resemblance, and certain points of difference between the two words, legend and tradition, which require to be brought out at this point, first, because of vague and loose current usage, and second, in order to establish my own use of these terms. In the first place they are beliefs, and here lies the secret of their social value. Let them be disbelieved in and they may furnish material for entertaining after-dinner conversation, but they no more have the power of welding a people together into a nation, a caste, or a sect; they no longer have the power of creating a common sentiment among a large number of people or of creating a national consciousness. And in the second place, both the tradition and the legend are passed on from person to person, and from generation to generation. When a tradition is defined as a belief that is handed down orally from father to son, it is not at all differentiated from the legend which is also a belief, and which may also be passed on orally from generation to generation. Neither does a legend or a tradition change its character when the meaning is represented by symbols cut in rock, inscribed on papyrus, or written on paper. The event of inscription is very often a part of their history. But when it comes to a question of historic value we mark the parting of the ways. A tradition, used in the sense with which we are concerned here, is always rooted in an indisputable historic fact. Consider the traditions of Islam that are centered about the prophet Mohammed. They may have a thousand variations, may have embodied falsehood after falsehood in the course of their transmission from place to place, and from generation to generation, as most of them unquestionably have, but they are traditions, nevertheless, because they are associated with a character who is an undisputed historic figure. The refusal of St. Gregory to offer garlands to the goddess Anahit, and his imprisonment in the well during a period of thirteen years is a tradition because the belief is associated with a historic character. Compare this with the beliefs concerning Haic, Vahakn, Semiramis and Ara, and the distinction is clear, for these characters are all mythical. Artasches and Artavasd are generally recognized as historical kings, and are so spoken of by Moses. As such the beliefs concerning them should be classed as traditions. However, Moses as a historian has been relegated to a secondary position by Carrière, who gave the work a critical examination. This would make the beliefs concerning Artasches and Satenik and Artavasd purely legendary, unless further research establishes more reliable sources of which we do not know. The first group therefore are legends. In regard to the second group of beliefs all having to do with the introduction of Christianity, Bartholomew, Thaddeus, Gregory, and Tiridates are unquestionably historic; Rhipsime and Gaiane are mythical; the historic authenticity of Abgar is also questionable. We should therefore speak of the legends of Rhipsime, Gaiane and Abgar, and of the traditions of Bartholomew, Thaddeus, Gregory, and Tiridates. The Ararat and Erzerum group are of course legends with one or two exceptions. The belief concerning the scorning of the proposal of Mohammed by the Persian king who was encamped on the Euphrates as explaining the barrenness of the Garden of Eden certainly has to do with an historic figure, and perhaps two. But it is a legend, nevertheless, because both the prophet of Arabia and the Persian king are accidental rather than fundamental to the belief. The fundamental basis of belief is the legend of the Garden of Eden. The elegy of Adam in explanation of his sinful conduct is neither legend nor tradition, and the belief concerning the tetagush and the spring of Ararat is a superstition. It results in a distinct type of conduct marking it off from both tradition and legend. I have stated my conclusions at various places, and it would be pointless repetition to summarize them all. I shall therefore sum up only the important ones. The first is that the legends and traditions of Part One are an important part of a larger body of Armenian legends, traditions, folk-songs, and folk-lore, and that their social value lies in the power they have of creating a national sentiment. This national sentiment is the direct result of a social process accomplished through the medium of the traditions, legends, and folk-songs spoken of. An analysis of the national sentiment of ancient Armenia would lead us to the conclusion that it was made up of at least three elements: first, a sentiment of loyalty to the state; secondly, a sentiment of reverence amounting almost to worship for the past glory of the nation; and thirdly, a sentiment of love for the country. The last sentiment is an especially real experience to all Armenians. Objectified as it was at first in the vast plains, the broad river valleys, the mountain ranges, or simply in the soil that brought forth its vegetation, it came to be objectified in a spirit of independence and in the ideals of freedom and strength. These two objects of the national sentiment of love, the one material, the other immaterial, are not, however, to be dissociated in the social mind, as I have dissociated them on paper. They are inseparable, the material and the spiritual, and simply do not exist apart from each other. Only the emphasis varies, symbolized in one case by the peasant's kissing his native soil, and in the other by the far-away look toward the summit of some distant mountain. And when this sentiment of love is the most important of those sentiments that go to make up a national sentiment, that is, when it dominates all the others, holding them in subjection, there has come to be a national self. A continuous stream of consciousness envelopes the national self, and inasmuch as it implies a highly-organized and well-developed national self, national-self-consciousness is the larger term. It may be objectified and examined especially at a time of injustice from without, and even at the time of an obvious act of injustice by the state which usually results in civil strife. The latter case is illustrative of how one of the sentiments that make up the national sentiment may be under the domination of another, the sentiment of loyalty to the state being subordinate to the sentiment of love for the country in this case. That the national self is organic, i.e., that it is functional, a vital, living thing which grows and dies is clearly brought out by the second group of legends considered. This is the second general conclusion. The legends and traditions mentioned in this group are of course again part of a larger body, all of which have to do with the introduction of Christianity into the country. The important point is that from this larger body of beliefs there resulted a new national sentiment, new because something had come to be incorporated within it which was not there before. This something was a sentiment of loyalty to the church, evidenced in the readiness to uphold and protect the church with all its recognized encumbrances of hierarchies and paraphernalia against all foreign intrusion, whether peaceful or military in character. With the destruction of the state, this sentiment of loyalty to the church largely absorbed the sentiment of loyalty to the state. Reverence for the past glory of the nation went on unchanged except in so far as the church intensified it as a means of intensifying the whole national sentiment. A loosely organized, heterogeneous group of people can not boast of a national sentiment, nor of the united action necessary in times of national crisis, as when a people go to war. This united action is only possible where the diverse sentiments of a more or less heterogeneous people have been woven into a national sentiment of the kind spoken of. This weaving process, as I have shown, is essentially a social process, and the materials by means of which it is carried on are largely such as I have been describing, namely, the legends, traditions, and folk-lore that have somehow grown up among a people. PART TWO FESTIVALS CHAPTER I THE GREGORIAN CHURCH As the materials of Part One are part of a larger mass of legends, traditions, and folk-lore, the social value of which lies in their power of creating a national or group sentiment, so the festivals and ceremonies to be taken up in Part Two are part of a larger mass of festivals, ceremonies, and rites whose social value lies in the fact that they constitute a necessary vehicle of expression for this same national sentiment. The festivals are a necessary counterpart of the legends, as the latter are a necessary counterpart of the former. Activity is one of the most fundamental of nature's laws. The sentiment of love for an individual dies eventually in the absence of some formal mode of active expression. But be the action ever so little a thing, such as the laying of flowers upon the grave of the dead, the visiting of a shrine, or the sight of some hallowed spot of sacred memory, the sentiment is kept alive. To be sure a sentiment may smoulder for a lifetime, even as a national sentiment may slumber for centuries without a mode of expression, and then all of a sudden burst forth into a flame, or awaken into life at a mere suggestion from outside. Bereft of statehood, the sentiment of loyalty for the state has slumbered for centuries within the breast of the Armenian people, but how often, how too sadly often, has it not suddenly awakened into hot, new life only to be pacified into slumber again. But the last glow, the little flicker at the end is all that separates the living embers from the dead ash. How the Armenian church recognized the truth of this by putting into operation a thousand various modes of action in which the new national sentiment that it created has kept itself alive and fresh, may well serve as an object lesson to many another church. She did not make the mistake of imposing an entirely new body of festivals and ceremonies upon the people; she utilized the past and carried over a number of pagan festivals absolutely intact, which she clothed with a new meaning slowly recognized by the people. These form the first group to be considered. In the course of time she created certain new festivals which constitute the second group. And then she identified herself with all of the ceremonies of common life, such as betrothal, marriage, and funeral ceremonies. In this way the Armenian church has become absolutely and inseparably identified with the life of the people, and the people in turn have been held together into a nation which has continued to give its artists and artisans to the world. [107] What is Armenia? The national Gregorian church; much as Louis XIV, when asked "What is the state?" replied, "I am the state." This is unquestionably an exaggerated view, but not as much so as might be supposed, since the social life of the people is so completely bound up with the church. The only betrothal and marriage recognized is that sanctioned by the church. Whenever there is a common danger, as has been the case repeatedly during the past twenty years, the people flock to the church for protection. Such secret revolutionary propaganda as has been carried on has been done largely through the church. The young Armenian who returns from his academic life in Paris, a sceptic if not an unbeliever, and certainly opposed to the dogma and ultra-conservatism of his church, does not alienate himself, for he realizes his utter impotence in any kind of work for his people should he do so. In spite of the division of Armenia into three slices, Turkish, Persian, and Russian, the church has retained its hold, and if the position of the people as subject to Turkey, Persia, and Russia has placed her (the church) at a decided disadvantage in coping with the ever constant influence and propaganda, schools, and missionaries of the Greek, Latin, and Protestant churches, she has not at all given in, for the number of Catholic Armenians amounts to only 3 per cent of the number of orthodox Armenians, while the number of Protestant Armenians is only 1 per cent. [108] Considering, as I say, the utter helplessness of the church in combating outside influences, these figures indicate how closely the life of the people is identified with her. Perhaps her very helplessness has been a source of strength. These facts together with such little practices as I have mentioned (and I might also note the custom of the Armenian peasant of crossing himself daily at the altar of his community church before beginning his day of toil) [109] are sufficient to show that the church has been the chief means of keeping alive the currents of national life, that it is a national church, and that it has identified itself with the common life of the people. The festivals and ceremonies which constitute the second part of my paper thus form the vehicle of expression of the national sentiment, and are all connected with the church. The participation of the laity in church matters, especially in the election of its officials, is a chief reason for the essential oneness of church and people. Priests, bishops, and patriarchs, who constitute the three chief grades in the religious hierarchy, are chosen by the people. [110] The approval of higher authorities is necessary in most cases, but this only slightly detracts from the importance of the rôle of the people. A married priest is the religious head of every parish, and he is elected either by a direct process of voting or by a deed of presentation. The religious council of the diocese proceeds to examine the ability and qualifications of the candidate, who is ordained if his examination proves successful; if unsuccessful, a new candidate must be presented, for a bishop can not of his own initiative ordain a priest. The laity have no voice in the election of the celibate priesthood, which is only natural since the celibate priests are not in any way connected with the life of the community. Furthermore, they do not constitute a very important element, for when Ormanian wrote in 1911, there were only 400 celibate priests as against 4,000 married priests. [111] The married priest is very closely identified with his community. He not only makes a regular practice of visiting the various households of the parish, but he is sole confessor of the people. [112] As he officiates at masses and church ceremonies and promotes a general participation in the festivals, so also no betrothal, marriage, baptism, or funeral can be sanctioned without his presence. He is as well a kind of marriage agency, employment agency, and relief agency, acting always of course in coöperation with the council of elders of his parish. A priest called at the home of an Armenian lady I know, and remarked casually that he was aware she had a daughter, whom he was very anxious to see, for there were two young men of the community who were very desirous to marry. So the people inform the priest of their need and the priest does all in his power to help them. He does not receive a regular compensation, being absolutely dependent upon the voluntary offerings of his flock and the voluntary fees received for official services rendered. [113] This works out sometimes to his advantage, but more often not, depending generally on whether his parish is poverty stricken or well-to-do. There are several very curious usages practiced by the married priest. He is recruited from all classes of society, but more often there is a succession from father to son. [114] The conditions demanded, besides parochial election, are acquaintance with ecclesiastical and liturgical matters, an exemplary life, and the consent of his wife. After his ordination he must fast for forty days. He then prepares himself for his first mass by a life of retreat in the church, restricting himself to a vegetable diet for twenty-four hours. [115] The wife, who enjoys a certain precedence in society, observes a customary abstinence in the absence of her husband. One week or at least three days before the celebration of the mass, he keeps away from home, passing the nights within the church. He may engage in domestic or even professional work so long as this does not interfere with the duties of his calling. Should his wife die, he may not marry again unless he lays aside his priestly robe, nor may a priest ever marry a widow. These practices are not dead letters, except that the custom of sojourning within the church for three nights before mass has, in Constantinople at least, been reduced to a single night. The bishops are chosen as chiefs of dioceses by the council of the diocese, six sevenths of whose members are laymen, the remainder being ecclesiastics. [116] The patriarchs, including the Katholikos, the supreme authority of the church whose seat is at Etchmiadzin, the religious center of the nation, are chosen by an electoral assembly of the religious heads (bishops or archbishops) and lay deputies who are nominated by the dioceses as a whole. [117] The eight members of the synod, which is an advisory body to the Katholikos, and the seven oldest members of the congregation at Etchmiadzin have equal share in voting. The electoral assembly, so constituted, chooses two candidates, one of whom is selected by the Czar. The Czar, after his selection is made, sends a deputy to meet the successful candidate, who is decorated and escorted with due ceremony to Etchmiadzin where he is officially ordained. There are only two patriarchates besides the see of Etchmiadzin, i.e., those of Constantinople and Jerusalem. The corresponding patriarchs are likewise chosen by a national assembly, six sevenths of whose members belong to the laity. The patriarchs of both Jerusalem and of Constantinople acknowledge the supremacy of the Katholikos of Etchmiadzin, who is thus head of the church, though not infallible. The site of Etchmiadzin is the old capital city, Vagharshapat, the ruins of which are all but washed away; and it marks the spot where St. Gregory in his vision saw the descent of Jesus Christ. Etchmiadzin means, "Descent of the Only Begotten." The particular spot is commemorated by the central altar of the Cathedral, which is the chief church of the nation. This Cathedral is situated in the center of a huge court bounded in the form of a large rectangle by the cells of the monks, the long refectory building, the library, the theological seminary, and the residence of the Katholikos. Outside this rectangle are ranged buildings and open spaces, including the garden of the Katholikos, the court for pilgrims, the printing establishment, and dwellings for various uses, all of which is bounded by a huge wall in the form of a still larger rectangle about 1,000 feet in length and 700 feet in width. [118] The chapels of the martyrs are some distance from the monastery, the church of St. Gaiane, commemorating the spot of her martyrdom, being about one fourth of a mile distant, while the church of St. Rhipsime, which likewise honors the spot of Rhipsime's martyrdom, is about three fourths of a mile distant. The buildings now standing can hardly be those built by the saint. [119] Etchmiadzin has been for many years a place of pilgrimage for the faithful. There is not only the sacred Cathedral where Jesus Christ is believed to have appeared; there is also the chamber of holy relics in the rear of the Cathedral which is perhaps the chief attraction and glory of the place. The most important of the relics here kept is a hand of St. Gregory, or rather right arm, "atch," as it is called, now preserved in a silver case, and which was considered at one time to be a necessary appanage of the patriarchal dignity. The poor hand of the saint has been the cause of many peregrinations in consequence. [120] One patriarch seized it and carried it off with him in order to justify his claims. Another restole it and brought it back to Etchmiadzin, while others have pretended possession of the holy "atch," in order to make good their claims. It was with this relic as well as with the holy chrism that consecrations were performed, which made possession of it a necessary condition of the patriarchal authority. Another much revered relic is the fragment of the ark, which the angel who appeared to St. Jacob gave to him as a reward for his perseverance in attempting so impossible a task as the climbing of Ararat. Still another is the head of the "holy spear" which was thrust into the side of Christ by the Roman soldier at Golgotha. [121] There are others of lesser importance, some of which are believed to possess the power of effecting cures. Such in brief are the broader and more important facts relating to the church, which has thus come to sanction the festivals and ceremonies that make up the second part of this thesis. These, as I have said, naturally divide themselves into three groups, first those that have been taken over bodily from the past; second, new festivals and ceremonies created by the church; and third the ceremonies of common life with which the church has identified itself. In the first group are included the midsummer festival of Vartavar, the spring festival, the festival in commemoration of the dead, Fortune-Telling Day, and the festival of Vartan's Day. All except the last have their origin in pagan festivals; each one has been taken over by the church and made its own. CHAPTER II PAGAN FOLK FESTIVALS SECTION 1. VARTAVAR AND THE FESTIVAL OF MIHR Vartavar, meaning "flaming of the rose," was celebrated in pagan times in honor of Anahit, goddess of chastity, at midsummer. The central act of the festival was the offering of a dove and a rose to her golden image. With the introduction of Christianity the temple and the image were destroyed, and it may be noted that upon the site of the Temple of Anahit in Vagharshapat was built the Cathedral of Etchmiadzin. This would lead to the strange conclusion that in the vision of St. Gregory, Jesus Christ descended upon a pagan temple. The fact seems to be that this marvelous vision was seen by a pious monk who published a life of St. Gregory some two or three centuries after the Illuminator's death. [122] But the festival became the "Festival of the Transfiguration of Christ," although the name Vartavar still remains, and doves are still set flying. [123] The festival is celebrated differently in various places. Upon the mountains of Armenia every family brings a sheep for sacrifice, adorned with colored papers and pigments, and as the sheep approach the shrine, lighted candles are fixed upon their horns. [124] Sheaves of grain, fruit, flowers, and doves are also brought as sacrifices, while dust from beside the altar is carried home to children as a talisman to help them to learn their A B C's. In the absence of a church on the mountainside, which is usually the case, a large white tent with crosses is put up beside some sacred spring, with which the country abounds. The spring is necessary, for on this day the people amuse themselves by throwing water upon each other. For this reason the day is often called Armenian Water Day. After the doves are set flying, the priest sprinkles the people, and they in turn sprinkle water over each other. This practice probably dates to the legend of the deluge, the Universal Baptism with which God cleansed His sinful earth. The dove and the baptism are also suggestive of the baptism of Jesus by John in the waters of Jordan. This part of the festival is probably an addition to the pagan rite, for the sprinkling of the water is symbolic of love and forgiveness; it is carried on with much laughing and merry-making. The festival includes also a kind of fair, for the people have to show what progress they have made during the year in art and the various handicrafts. Races, competitions, and games are held, and the victors are crowned with wreaths of roses, so that even the rose continues to have an important place in the festivities as it had in pagan days. The sprinkling of water, the games, the races, show how happy a time the people must have on this day; the exhibition of the year's accomplishment in handicraft and art points out the more serious side; while the essential religious symbolism is very clearly emphasized. What may also be noted is that there is entertainment for all, old and young, serious and frivolous. The pious-minded may sit on the mountainside contemplating the religious aspect of it all; the gay and light-hearted may sprinkle water over each other; the young and strong may run races and play games; men and women of a practical turn of mind may visit the fair and note the progress made during the year; and children may roll about on the mountainsides or gather roses, for these are in full bloom at this time. The pagan spring festival in honor of Mihr, the god of fire, was taken over by the church to commemorate the bringing of the Babe Jesus to the temple, where Mary sacrificed two doves according to the custom of purification. [125] The ancient rite consisted of kindling fires in the open market places in honor of the god Mihr, and of lighting a lantern from one of the newly kindled fires, which was kept burning in the temple throughout the year. As now celebrated, on February 26, every young man who has been married within the year brings a load of aromatic shrubs, making a huge pile of them in the yard of the church. A religious service is held in the open air at evening-time, after which the priest sets fire to the pile. All the villagers, men, women, and children, dance about the fire, while boys and young men show their agility and courage by leaping over it. When the flames die down, each person carries home a glowing brand and places it on the hearthstone for good luck. The description of the festival by Abeghian shows how a general celebration of this kind varies in particulars from place to place. [126] On the afternoon of the 13th of February, [127] which is the day before the church festival of the purification, a pile of wood consisting usually of thorn-wood, cane, and straw is gathered together in the churchyard. The entire community comes together in the church on the night of the same day, each person provided with a candle. After the vespers all stand about the pile of shrub and wood, the newly married during the year making the first row. The candles are lighted from the church light, and after the priest has blessed the pile, it is set ablaze from all sides, after which the candles are put out. As soon as the fire has died down, the candles are relighted from the glowing embers which are regarded as sacred, and carried home where they are used to light a pile of shrub and wood that has been gathered on the roof of the house. The young people jump over the fire while the young women and married women march around it saying, "May it not itch me, and may I not receive any scabs," taking care just to singe the border of their dresses. The ashes, as well as the half-burned wood-stuffs are preserved, or scattered in the four corners of the barn, over the fields or in the garden, for the ashes and flames of the firebrands are believed to protect people and cattle from sickness and the fruit trees from worms and caterpillars. In the homes of the newly married the festival is celebrated with music and dance, the young couples especially making it a point to dance about the sacred flames, while in some places special food is prepared in honor of the occasion. Various prophesies are made during the festival, for example, if the flame and smoke blows to the east, it is a sign of a good harvest for the coming year, if toward the west, a bad growth is expected. In recent years the religious authorities at Etchmiadzin printed the following prohibition in the church calendar: "It is forbidden to run about the fire." But the festival is celebrated nevertheless. [128] That it originates in the pagan festival held in honor of Mihr there is little doubt, for the month of February corresponds to the ancient Armenian month Mehakan, which, translated into modern Armenian, Mihragan, means belonging to Mihr, or more loosely, the Festival of Mihr. SECTION 2. THE DAY OF THE DEAD AND VARTAN'S DAY The festival in commemoration of the dead is celebrated on the first day after Easter, and may be regarded as a reaction against the lenten fasts. Families of Armenians, loaded with picnic baskets, packages of food, and bottles of wine, flock to their cemeteries in great numbers. Priests are paid small fees for standing over the graves of the dead to chant prayers for the salvation of the departed souls. Over the graves of the recently dead stand the bereaved relatives of the deceased, lamenting loudly and bewailing a fate which they know must some day be their own. A more maudlin spectacle could not be imagined. Here and there are seated groups of families eating and drinking and laughing all the more heartily for the enforced abstinence of the preceding weeks; while standing beside this grave or that is a priest in black robe and high hat, chanting a prayer for the dead, and incidentally earning his daily bread. Eating seems to be the chief amusement; even the mourners eat after they have faithfully mourned, and the priests too come in for their shares after all possible fees have been earned. Altogether it is a post-lenten festival in the full meaning of the term, and much in contrast to the wholesome enjoyment and the light-hearted gaiety so characteristic of Vartavar. It has been witnessed in Constantinople by Armenians I know, who have given accounts to me. Whether or not it is carried out in this manner in the villages and rural districts I am not aware, but I should be very much surprised to learn that it was, for I should certainly regard the festival in this form as a product of the artificiality of city life. In the absence of wholesome amusements and of the community solidarity characteristic of the Armenian village, contact with city-bred folk would inevitably result in a shift of standards of judgment and valuation, together with a break-up in old habits of thought and life; and as the people have no common play-ground, so to speak, except the poor denuded cemetery allotted them by the Turkish government, one can well excuse the ugliness of the spectacle. The Armenian has Vartavar, a real festival, and need not look with shame upon this festival in commemoration of the dead. This same offering of sacrifice for the dead is carried on in a variety of ways. In Armenian villages the family of the deceased prepares a lamb or a kid with rice, and on the day of the funeral pieces of it are given to the attendants; given, as they say, and taken, in sacrifice for the dead. The practice in Constantinople is somewhat different, although the idea is exactly the same. Forty days after the death of an individual, or perhaps on the anniversary of the death, the bereaved family prepares a lamb or a kid with rice, which is distributed to the people in small pots, and given, as they say, in sacrifice for the dead. The Greek custom in this respect is most absurd. At the head of the casket, which is left open, two men march in the funeral procession carrying a wide tray filled with boiled wheat and sugar, and trailing a piece of black crape. After the burial this is distributed to the mourners in handfuls, again in sacrifice for the dead. Libations set aside and poured out in Roman days are illustrative of the same thing. That these practices are not Christian but distinct survivals of pagan festivals and customs is very clear. The above conclusions, namely, first that the festival as I described it is an aberration of city life, and second, that although identified with the church it is distinctly pagan in character, are borne out by Abeghian, whose material, as an Armenian who for many years lived in the little Armenian village of Astapat, is distinctly first-hand. [129] Worship of the deceased, he says, begins immediately after death. Each departed soul, and especially those of elderly people, requires particular honor on the first day after death, and during the ensuing year. It is for this reason a great misfortune for an Armenian peasant not to have a child. A still greater misfortune, however, it is to die in a strange land where there are none to care for the departed soul. That a curious evolution has taken place in these requirements is very clear. In the beginning, satisfactions of a material kind were required, something to eat and to drink, and accordingly the custom arose of placing bread upon the heart of the dead, or sanctified bread in the cavity of the mouth and incense in the nostrils. Then there arose the idea of facilitating the journey of the departed into the beyond, and of making the future life of the soul a happier one. For example, Armenians generally bathe the bodies of their dead in blessed water, and wash the clothes of the deceased on the day following burial for the purification of the soul so that it may arrive spotless at its destination. Since the soul has been cleansed of all sin through the symbolic washing of the body and clothes, no more covering is required for the body than a large white cloth. No other color is permissible. Should the deceased be more than ten years of age, candles or oil lamps are burned during eight days over the spot where the body was bathed in order to lighten the way of the soul into the beyond. According to old beliefs, the destination of the departed soul is a place of darkness, and hence two candles are placed in the hands of the dead immediately after the bath in order that he may recognize his friends and relatives in the world beyond. At frequent intervals during the first year, food and drink are brought to the cemetery, and placed upon the grave. There is weeping, eating, and drinking at these times, and what food is left over is always placed over the grave. The souls of the righteous are thought of as luminous, the wicked as black. Accordingly the blessed are called "spirits of light." [130] In order to possess a bright soul one must have performed good works, of which giving alms to the poor is considered the most important. Such spirits are also called "generous," "charitable." It is a current belief that the blackened souls become brighter through the good works of descendants, as well as through their prayers. Offspring are thus especially desirable, and the old Armenian liturgy, the Maschtotz prepared by St. Mesrob, the inventor of the Armenian alphabet in the fifth century, contains innumerable prayers for the dead. [131] The prayers are short and their power is relative to the frequency of repetition rather than to the length. Some sort of short prayer is repeated with every thought of the dead, as for example, "May God have mercy upon his soul"; "May his soul become lightened"; or only "The illuminated soul." Several days of the year are set apart for particular remembrance of the dead. [132] At these times the departed spirits are supposed to come down from heaven and to roam about the vicinity of their graves or in the homes of their relatives. On the eve of these days it is necessary to do honor to their memory with incense and candles, which are regarded as offerings. The odor of the incense is especially pleasant to spirits, for the incense-tree also blooms in paradise. [133] Saturday night is very commonly devoted to such intercession and worship. Incense is burned upon the hearth while prayers are repeated, or a flame is ignited upon a plate which is carried into all the corners of the house, or barn, or wherever it is believed the departed spirit may be wandering. In some places it is customary to maintain the "light of the dead" throughout the night in order that the spirits may enter the house. If they find the house dark in looking through the roof window, they make away, cursing. Water is not drunk in the dark during these nights, for it is believed that to do so would be to take it away from the thirsty spirits of the dead. On the Day of the Dead the spirits are especially honored, for they love most to wander in the neighborhood of their graves. People actually feel themselves to be among the souls of the dead on this celebration day. The latter are very happy to be thought of, and are especially glad to have their graves blessed by the priests. But to please them most one must bring wood and incense and leave it to be burned over their graves. Three days the spirits remain upon the earth, after which they return to heaven, their visit having been duly honored. If they come to find themselves forgotten, they curse their relatives and fly away in despair. Occasionally they come down to be of service; especially is this true of the dead father and his living son, for the former is especially remembered, and his grave is regarded as holy. Armenians swear by the graves, or by the spirits of their fathers, and call upon them for help in time of especial need. [134] Tavernier described the same festival in his Voyages and noticed that it was considered the greatest infamy to eat with a "Mordischou," the person who washed the dead. [135] No single festival and group of relevant beliefs is more instructive in showing how much of Armenian folk-belief and custom is the survival of paganism. There is yet another festival of this group, which, however, is not to be traced to paganism, and it would be a mistake to suppose that the church is connected with it in the same way and to the same extent as it is with the first three festivals considered. The festival is called Vartan's Day, and although the church sanctions the festival and sets apart a day for the celebration, it comes about as near being apart from the church as any single festival. Vartan was the general of the Armenian army defeated at the battle of Avarair, spoken of in Part One, by the Persian fire-worshippers who endeavored to impose their religion upon the Armenians at a time when part of Armenia was under the domination of Persia, and the remainder tributary to Rome. But though defeated in battle, the moral victory, as people now use the term, was Armenian, for the battle proved the utter failure of the Persians to convert the Armenian people to their religion. [136] Vartan saved the nation for Gregorian Christianity, and it is significant that the people look upon Vartan as saviour of the nation rather than as saviour of their religion, showing how the religion was and still is identified with the nation. It is in his honor that the people hold a festival on the anniversary day of the battle of Avarair. School children sing songs and wreath Vartan's picture with red flowers. The belief is that this peculiar kind of red flower sprang up from the blood of the Christian army. Recitations and national patriotic plays are given, and as the children participate in singing songs, reciting pieces, and rendering plays, the older people participate in attending them. [137] Besides the belief of the red flower there are numerous other beliefs hallowed by the day. Nightingales that fly over the battlefield are supposed to sing "Vartan, Vartan," and there is a species of antelope with a pouch of fragrant musk under its throat which is said to have acquired its fragrance by browsing on herbage wet with the blood of Armenian heroes. [138] Altogether it is the kind of festival to give expression to the sentiment I have spoken of as love for the country, for its mountains, rivers, and valleys, and for its ideals of freedom, independence, and strength. In the presence of the state the festival probably would be utilized to foster and give expression to the sentiment of loyalty to the state. There would be specially chosen speakers to talk of patriotism, waving of banners, and carefully designed methods of instilling hatred for a real or supposed enemy, much as French school children have been taught to hate Englishmen. But in the absence of the state, the sentiment expressed must be a purer sentiment, loftier and freer, and one can not but regret that Vartan's Day and similar festivals have been suppressed by the Turkish government. And yet, one could not reasonably expect otherwise. SECTION 3. FORTUNE-TELLING DAY Most charming and most picturesque of festivals is that participated in by the romantic Armenian maidens on the early dawn of Ascension Day. [139] On the eve of the same day the young girls who wish their fortunes told, decorate a large bowl with specially selected flowers, after which each girl casts a token, a ring, a brooch, a thimble, into the bowl. Flowers of several kinds are then put in, and the bowl is filled with water drawn from seven springs. Then they cover it with an embroidered cloth and take it by night to the priest who says a prayer over it. The most carefully and daintily prepared bowl is then placed out in the moonlight, open to the stars where it is left until dawn. At early daybreak of the next morning, the maidens, furnished with provisions for the entire day, go out of the village carrying their bowl to the side of a spring, the foot of a mountain, or into an open field, gathering on the way various kinds of flowers with which they deck themselves. Having arrived at their place of festival, they play games, dance, and sing, after which they take a beautiful little girl, too young to tell where the sun rises, who has been previously chosen and gaily dressed for the occasion, to draw the various articles out of the bowl. The face of the child is covered with a richly wrought veil that she may not see what is in the bowl, and she then proceeds to withdraw the articles which she holds in her hand one at a time. While this is done some one of the party recites a charm song, and the owner of each token takes the song which accompanies it as her fortune. There are thousands of these charm songs, most of which have been written especially for the festival, of which I shall give but a few. 1. Snowless hang the clouds to-night, Through the darkness comes a light; On this lonely pillow now, Never more shall sleep alight. 2. Like a star whose brightness grows On the earth my beauty shows; Thou shalt long for yet, and seek My dark eyes and arching brows. 3. Long and lone this night to me Passing slow and wearily; Passing full of sighs and tears-- Love, what doth it bring to thee? 4. Eden's smile my vineyard wore, Flowers bloomed, a goodly store; Handsome youth and ugly maid-- This was never seen before! [140] Thus each one carries its bit of prophesy, daintily and prettily expressed, which when sung at the foot of some mountain, in the bright eastern sunlight of the morning, while a little child is holding tokens beside a bowl surrounded by the group of beflowered maidens, makes as complete and charming a picture as one could well imagine. Many curious beliefs, superstitions, customs, and legends are directly related to Ascension Day. It is believed, for example, that on the eve of this day the water of the springs, brooks, and rivers lies peacefully motionless for a single moment during the night. At the same moment heaven and earth, mountain and stone, trees and flowers beckon and congratulate one another. First heaven congratulates and kisses the earth, then one star beckons to another, one flower to another, and so forth until all of nature's objects have expressed their mutual good feeling. Even plants and "soulless" objects receive the gift of speech and share their secrets one with the other at this time. He who hides himself in a stone crevice of the mountainside may listen to the conversation of stones and flowers, and understand what they tell each other. They tell on this night what sort of sicknesses they and the springs will heal, and many people endeavor to attend at this moment, but only a few succeed. [141] At midnight the waters are believed to have the power of healing, and people bathe themselves in the streams. As the children are not to be troubled during the night, water is warmed for them the next morning, bits of grass are thrown in and the children are bathed. During the magic moment the door of the cavern of "Maher," the revered hero god who dwells upon earth, is opened: and one may enter to see him, his steed, and the "wheel of the starred heavens" or the wheel of fate. In one of the national epics (David of Sassun) Maher is represented as the strongest of the heroes, and is supposed to dwell in a rocky cave in the vicinity of Van [142] (probably the rock of Van). In this cave all of the world's riches are heaped up, and the "wheel of the world," the wheel of fate which constantly turns assigning to people their destinies, stands there. Maher looks continually at the wheel and if it should stand still, he comes out of his cavern to ravage the world. The door of the cave is made of stone and covered with cuneiform inscriptions. It is locked during the entire year except for the night of the ascension of Christ, when it is opened during the single magic moment. Whosoever perceives this moment may step into the cave and take as much gold as he pleases. The idea of the "wheel of fortune" is considerably extant, although it is not always understood as separated from heaven and connected with Maher. [143] That the idea of fate or of fortune is generally associated with the day, not only by romantic maidens, but by the people, is very evident. The flowing waters are believed to change into gold during the silent minute, and if one places an object in the water and wishes at the same time that it become gold, the object turns to gold. Accordingly the young men and women go to the springs and rivers in order to draw water, trusting their fates that they may select the happy moment. Superstitions and magic are not lacking, for while one member of a party seats himself upon a pair of fire-tongs in the fashion of a rider, another performs likewise upon a long-handled spit. The iron tools are also regarded as a necessary protection against the calls that one hears behind after the water has been drawn, for if one should look back perchance, he would surely fall under the influence of the evil spirits. The oldest of the party carries a gourd flask full of wheat and barley, which is poured into the stream towards midnight with the words "I give you wheat and barley; you give me everything that is good." Thereupon he fills the gourd flask with water, and the party hurries homeward to discover the gold. [144] The fortune-telling festival is given by Abeghian as he observed it in his home village, and I shall give a free translation of his account at this point because of a few interesting variations. In Astapet, the festival is called the "Festival of the Mother of Flowers." On the day before Ascension Day the girls and young women of the village divide themselves into two groups, one to gather special sorts of flowers from the mountainside, while the other goes to "steal" water from seven springs, or seven rivers. The "thieves" must not see each other, nor must the people of the village know aught of what is happening. Having filled their vessels with water, each throws a stone into the spring and then they turn back, taking care neither to look about, to set down their vessels, nor to talk. They imagine that the mountains, the valleys, trees, and meadows call out behind them and if they should turn about they would be turned to stone. [145] At night of the same day the "water thieves" and flower gatherers meet together in a garden to prepare the "Havgir" or magic bowl in which is poured the water from the seven springs, and in which seven stones from the seven sources, together with leaves of the gathered flowers are dropped. Each one who wishes her fortune told now throws in a charm token, such as mentioned before. Those who are not present send their tokens in order to have them thrown into the "Havgir" by others. The bowl is then adorned with flowers, after which the "Vicak" meaning destiny or fate, is prepared. This consists of two pieces of wood tied together in the form of a cross, which is dressed and adorned with jewels and pearls to make it appear as a newly-married doll-bride. The "Vicak" is fastened to the "Havgir," and both are placed under the stars, in order that these who are the real destinies, may work the proper magic upon the charm tokens. [146] A few girls guard it during the whole night against the young men who try to steal it. Early the next morning the maidens gather together in the garden laden with food baskets and prepared to make a day of it. The "Havgir" and strangely fashioned "Vicak" are carried to a nearby spring, the young girls decking themselves with flowers as they go. The spring is decorated about with flowers, green leaves, and branches, and the "Havgir" is placed in the middle, and then after they have prepared everything and eaten, the oldest among them takes the "Vicak," kisses it, gives it to another, who does likewise, and so it passes from hand to hand. Finally a seven-year-old girl receives it. She sets herself in the middle of the group and holds the "Vicak" while the "Havgir" stands before her. The little girl is called "bride," is the interpreter of the "Vicak" and is specially selected and dressed for the occasion. When she has received the "Vicak" a red veil is passed over both, and all is ready for the central event of the festival. A charm song is sung by the group, and after each stanza the "bride" draws a token from the vessel. The preceding verse reveals the fate of the one to whom the token belongs. [147] The fortune-telling festival of Ascension morning stands quite alone. Bodeful of the future and suggestive of the past, it can not but have a serious tenor, for there are maidens whose lovers have not been born, as there are also sadder ones. Perhaps they do not take their verses very seriously. Whether they do or not there is always the charm of sunrise colors, and the out-of-doors that makes it as beautiful as it is romantic. The best of the future, their brightest hope, the best of the present, warmth of sunshine and color, and the best of the past, their golden dreams of youth, are brought together on this day and given a common expression in a way that must charm them as it charms the observer. Festivals to be perfect festivals must be out-of-doors and the day must be bright. CHAPTER III CHRISTIAN FOLK FESTIVALS The second group of festivals comprises those newly created by the church, such as the Blessing of the Grapes, New Year, Easter, and Christmas. I wish also to include in this group a few of the peculiarly characteristic church ceremonies which also have a distinct festival value for the people, i.e., the ceremony of the "Washing of Feet" on Maundy Thursday, "Khatchanguist" or the "Blessing of Water," the consecration of the Katholikos, and the manufacture of the "holy oil." SECTION 1. CHRISTMAS, EASTER, AND NEW YEAR The service of the church on any one of the festival days is exclusively connected with the divine mystery, so called. These include the Assumption, or Immaculate Conception, celebrated by the people in the festival "the Blessing of the Grapes"; the miraculous birth, which corresponds to the Christmas festival; the Transfiguration, or the folk-festival Vartavar; the Redemption, to which the Easter festival corresponds; and the Resurrection, including Ascension or Fortune-Telling Day. There are other festivals celebrated by the church, such as the festival of the Holy Cross, and of the Holy Church, which I omit because there is not a corresponding social expression. Grand mass is said at the church, and the particular passages of scripture that have a direct bearing on the occasion are read. The Armenian calendar is curious in that many of the festivals occupy a succession of days; there are, for example, 39 days for the Resurrection, 3 days for the Transfiguration, 10 days for the Ascension, etc., which make up a grand total of 136 days in the year to which festivals are assigned. As there are 160 days devoted to abstinence, 117 of which are liturgical abstinence, that is, days of penitence mentioned in the liturgy, there are left only 112 days for the commemoration of saints, which have necessarily to be grouped together, since there are more than 112 saints. [148] Because, therefore, of the continuity of festival days, one could not expect any one of the festivals to have any social value from the standpoint of the church service. But there is never any conflict between the services of the church and the festivities without, which are thus sanctioned by the church and in many cases directed and carried out by church officials. It has been noticed that the blessing of the priest was secured for the magic bowl, before it was placed underneath the stars on the eve of Ascension Day. The festival of the Virgin Mary, or the "Blessing of the Grapes," is more actively participated in by the church. It may be designed to keep the people from eating green grapes, but more probably was intended to give a social expression to an otherwise dull and very monotonous church ceremony. The people are all expected to maintain a strict abstinence from eating grapes until the middle of August, the day set apart for the festival. The grapes are then gathered in great quantities, some of which are carried to the church and placed on a large tray, which is set at the foot of the altar. After the ceremony of the church, the priest turns to the tray of grapes before him, which he blesses with his cross. The tray is then taken to the door of the church, where each member of the congregation is given a bunch as he passes out. The fast is thus broken with the taste of "blessed grapes," and there is no end of grape eating on that day. During the remainder of the day every woman named Mary, or named with a possible attribute of the Virgin Mary, as "Kudsa," meaning "saintly," or "Dirouhi," meaning "Mother of the Lord," keeps open house for the friends who drop in to eat grapes and to congratulate her. In rural places or villages where vineyards are abundant, social groups may be seen eating grapes from the vines while talking or playing as they are inclined. Grapes ripen earlier in some parts of Armenia than in others, and where this is true the festival is merged with the festival of Vartavar. [149] For the festival of New Year's Eve no religious coöperation whatever is necessary; it comes as near to being distinct from the church as any of the Armenian festivals. The preparation consists largely in making or purchasing gifts for the various members of the family, in cracking bowls of nuts and getting all kinds of dried fruits ready. Armenian and Greek New Year's Eve fall on the same night, and in Constantinople there is much agitation and animation in the streets. Singing and music fill the air, and as soon as dusk falls, groups of boys, some carrying small lanterns, others provided with tom-toms or hand-organs, begin the circuit of the streets. Thus they go from house to house singing the New Year's song and playing their hand-organs, receiving pennies as they go. After the boys have passed along, the porters, watchmen, and firemen make a noisy procession down the streets, they too playing hand-organs and stopping at one house after another where they receive a drink, some sweets and nuts, and most important of all, a tip. As midnight approaches, the excitement increases; the pounding of the tom-toms becomes unbearable, all the organs of the neighborhood are making music, and there is such a noise of singing, shouting, and laughing as can be compared only to a night of political election. Inside the homes of the better-to-do, the children are put to bed for a time while the enormous New Year's table is set. Besides several specially prepared New Year's dishes, every home must be provided with a dish of every kind of fruit, dried or fresh. Small candles are stuck around the plates, and the presents are heaped up on a side table. At midnight the candles are all lit, and the family ranges itself around the table while the eldest, usually the grandmother, blesses all and prays. After the prayer she wishes to all the best things for the coming year, for the young ladies good husbands, for the young men prosperity and good wives, happiness for the little children, and comfort and health for the older ones. These wishes having been given, all kiss the hands of the older members of the family, after which the children kiss each others' hands. The presents are exchanged; fruits, candies, and nuts are partaken of, and the fun goes on until dawn. [150] In the interior of Armenia, two elders of the church go from door to door of the more fortunate ones on the day before New Year, carrying bags which they fill with the offerings received at every house. These are carefully parceled out and at dusk are left at the doors of poor families who would otherwise have no New Year's cheer. The church makes up amply in the Easter festival for any lack of participation at New Year. Forty-eight days of rigid lenten abstinence, during which time no meat is eaten, precede the festivities of Easter Day. The first two or three days of the Holy Week are given over to housecleaning, which however must be finished by Thursday in order that the people may attend the ceremonies at church which continue until Easter Day. On Thursday afternoon "the Washing of the Feet," to be described later, commences, and the service continues until past midnight. On Saturday all go to the bath, which is made an essential part of the week's celebrations, and on the afternoon of the same day the real Easter service, called the Lighting of the Lights, begins. The church is first illuminated on Easter Eve, for on the three preceding days of mourning and sorrow the altar shrine is kept closed and no candles are lit. Even the congregation holds lighted wax candles while the triumphal songs are chanted by the robed choir of little boys. At the evening meal of the day before Easter the lenten fast is partly broken by eating fish and boiled eggs, but no meat. [151] The denial of the flesh recommences, however, at bedtime, for not a morsel is eaten until Easter midday. Early dawn sees the people putting on their new clothes, especially new shoes which are considered a necessity on this day, and all, newly attired, go to church where communion is celebrated. The church is usually filled with flowers and its most brilliant ornaments are displayed, the service ending at midday in time for the usual feast of stuffed roast lamb, the customary red eggs, and the egg bread made only at Easter time. In the afternoon the men visit from house to house and something dainty is always served, a cocktail or a cup of coffee with sweets like Turkish delight or bonbons. The formula repeated by the guest upon entering a house is always the same; "Christ is risen from the dead," he exclaims, and is answered by the host with the usual formula, "Blessed is the resurrection of Christ." Perhaps the boys enjoy Easter most of all. Provided with red Easter eggs, they collect in groups, whereupon there follows a most vivacious competition to win each other's eggs by clashing them together. The champion egg is used until it is broken, when a new champion is quickly brought forth. This process continues as long as there are two or more unbroken eggs, the game being won when all of the broken eggs are in the possession of the boy who holds the champion egg. Picnic day, or the "Day of the Dead," follows Easter Day, as I have described it, and it is singularly strange that a "day of resurrection" should be followed by a "day of the dead," when prayers are said and offerings given in sacrifice for the departed. But people are not mindful of such little incongruities; they are simple and carry out the festival celebrated by their fathers, much as their fathers celebrated it. The week before Christmas is likewise devoted to a thorough housecleaning by the Armenian housewife, and on the day before, special dishes are prepared for the next day's feast. Again there is the customary bath which is observed by all the members of the household. On Christmas Eve the abstinence of the preceding days is partly broken, usually with fried fish, lettuce, and boiled spinach. Boiled spinach is the rule because it is believed that this dish made up the supper of the Virgin Mary on the eve of Christ's birth. At church special vespers are sung and there is much emphasis laid upon special selections from the prophets which are also sung. An hour before dawn the sexton alone, or with a group of choir boys, goes from door to door singing what is called "the good tidings." It is the signal for the faithful to awake, don their best clothes and go to church again without eating breakfast. The holy bread and wine are not to be profaned by the people having eaten a breakfast of ordinary food, with the consequence that not a few faint during the service, even as at Easter time. But the ceremony is finished by half past ten, after which the women go home to prepare the midday feast while the men visit the homes of their friends. The never-failing formula of the guest upon entering the house of a friend is, "Christ is born and manifested to-day," which is responded to by the host with "Blessed is the manifestation of Christ." Each visit lasts about fifteen minutes and sweets and coffee are served. At midday the Christmas feast is partaken of, all make merry around the table, and in the afternoon more calls are paid and received. The festivities are observed for three days, the third being ladies' day, which is devoted by the ladies to giving and receiving visits. They offer their salutations and good wishes to each other, eating dainties even as the men. Shops and business places of Armenians are usually kept closed for three days. [152] There is thus considerable similarity between Easter and the Christmas festivities, which is probably due to more or less sameness in the church ceremonies. These ceremonies, always well attended, are made attractive to the people by beautiful displays of flowers, vested choir boys, the charm of whose singing can only be understood by those who have heard them; also by special singing, not by the congregation, but by those who can sing, and with such enticing little additions as the Lighting of Lights. The services are thus as much and as real a part of the day's rejoicings as the feasts and social visits, and if they are designed consciously or unconsciously to give active expression to the sentiment of loyalty to the church one must admit that the expression is a perfectly free and natural one. Abstinences do not make the festivities attractive, to be sure, and there are more unfortunate communities who can not afford so lavish a display as others; but flowers need only to be picked from the fields, and boys there are always, even in the poorest churches. The holiday rejoicing has somewhat more of the serious blend which is to be contrasted with the more perfect gaiety of New Year's Day, and is probably due to the weightiness of its religious significance of which one is constantly reminded, not only by the services at the church but also by the salutations of visitors and the necessary replies, always the same. But even the gaiety of New Year is not to be compared with the perfect lightness and freedom of merriment that characterize some aspects of Vartavar, nor do any of the Christian folk festivals have the completeness of Vartavar. SECTION 2. SPECIAL CHURCH CEREMONIES Together with this second group of festivals including as they do Christmas, Easter, New Year, and the Blessing of the Grapes, I wish to include a short series of church ceremonies all of which have a very distinct festival value, beside their value in being singularly characteristic of the Armenian church. They are distinctly different from the festivals of the preceding section, in that the festivities are incidental to a ceremony peculiar to the Armenian church. The "Washing of Feet," the "Blessing of the Water," the consecration of the Katholikos, and the manufacture of the holy oil, are those I desire to describe. The "Washing of Feet" occurs on Maundy Thursday, three days before Easter. [153] This day is the first of three successive days of mourning spoken of, during which the altar is closed, and no lights are lit. After the mass the bishop puts away his brocaded robes, and kneeling in imitation of Christ washing the feet of His disciples on the night of the betrayal, he washes the feet of the priests and choristers, of whom there are usually eleven. Christ washed the feet of twelve, but one of them was unworthy. The service then continues until midnight, and while the ceremony is in progress, the lights are put out one by one, to remain out until the "Lighting of the Lights" on Easter eve. If the church is a parish church in which a priest officiates, a number of little boys are ranged in order for the "Washing of Feet," which in this case is performed by the priest, who anoints the soles of their feet with oil after he has washed them. Each boy is given a walnut shell and before he moves from his place he carefully scrapes some of the oil into his shell, and carries it home to place in the butter. If he does this it is believed that the supply of butter will not fail throughout the year. This same service was observed by a writer in the Survey, in a church on East 27th Street, New York, rented by a company of Armenian folk residing in that city. [154] The same symbolic "Washing of Feet" was carried out on the evening of Maundy Thursday in much the same fashion as it is carried out in the home-land. The symbolism, the pageantry, the color of oriental Armenian worship, the silver-mounted Bible on the altar in the center, the rising steps, the crosses, the lighted candles, and the incense were all there. A white-robed choir with green velvet copes filed in, singing long chants. The choir was followed by two priests, and the priests by the bishop with his mitre, robe of crimson and gold, and his ivory cross held in the right hand with a kerchief of crimson silk. A shining crozier held in his left hand marked his office as shepherd of the flock; a large jewel locket and cross hung from his breast and was probably the gift of the Czar. The choir chant that continues all the while was described as an intricate, rhythmless tune, now passionate, now wailing and altogether "oriental," accompanied by a few older folk here and there who were humming in unison with the choir and the leader, who was beating time. Beside the humming the congregation took no part in the service except that it stood up for the psalm and prayer. Suddenly a sound to the right brought the observer's attention to an old woman lying prostrate in the aisle. No one helped her, no one even seemed to notice her, but presently she rose to a kneeling posture and lifted her eyes in prayer to the altar. Again she prostrated herself, and again rose to lift her eyes to the altar, which performance was repeated a third time before the old woman took her seat. "Der Voghormia" meaning "Lord have mercy upon us," was repeated ten times by the interceding bishop in a voice loud and intense, and a second ten times, and a third ten times. The chant quickened, and as the aged priest took the Bible from its place and held it toward the audience the bishop gave his benediction of peace to the "four corners of the earth." There was another chant after which the washing of the feet commenced. With deep seriousness the bishop placed his staff by the altar, laid aside his mitre and brocaded robes, and beginning with the aged priest, he knelt beside a bowl of water to wash his feet. Ten more of those who came forward shared in the ceremony. "I can not so serve you all," he said at the close of his address, "I am sorry. Take as symbolic what is done." There was a short intermission, but before ten o'clock the penitential service recommenced and continued until midnight. The story of Christ's betrayal in the garden was read, and the chants continued, wilder, sadder, and more wailing, accompanied by murmurs and occasionally by low cries from the people. As midnight approached the lights were dimmed one by one, and the emotion became more intense. As the hour struck, the congregation rose, and with clasped hands joined in a closing song and prayer. There were only a few score people present. The prostration of the old woman reminds one of the spiritually wounded who lay prostrate over the floor during the times of the Kentucky revivals, but the fact is there is nothing hysterical in this particular phase of Armenian worship. The attitude is commonly practiced by Armenians, especially among the peasant classes. They lie flat touching their heads to the ground. [155] But the posture is more peculiarly oriental than it is peculiarly Armenian. No sight is more common in the countries of Islam than the faithful Moslem who spreads his bit of carpet upon which he kneels with gaze fixed toward Mecca, prostrating himself repeatedly as he murmurs his prayers. Although the picture given by Dubois of a simple church service he attended in Koulpe, Armenia, is not the ceremony of Maundy Thursday, it has one or two strokes of native color that make it impossible to omit. [156] The church was poor and simple, the walls were built of stone cemented by clay or bad lime. Two rows of large beams neither squared nor trimmed supported the earthen roof in the manner of columns. At the farther end was a kind of niche, partitioned off by means of soiled curtains, thus forming a sanctuary where stood the priest, clothed in torn robe, to read the prayers. All of the little boys of the village encircled him, kneeling and chanting or reciting prayers, turn by turn. The eldest placed themselves outside of the choir and knelt on straw mats or on sheep's skins which marked their customary places, and kissed the earth, or murmured very low the words of the priest, or responded to the chanting at high pitch. The women held themselves apart, their faces half veiled, filling the back of the church behind the men, and, with lowered heads, were the first to leave. The kneeling posture and the prostration is again clearly in evidence, which together with what has been said is sufficient to show that this attitude, especially among the common people, is a very ordinary one and is therefore to be regarded merely as a very generally recognized posture of worship, and not at all significant necessarily of "conviction of sin" or a "feeling of penitence," which is nevertheless suggested. The church at Koulpe must have been a very poor one not to have benches, but it had its little chorus of boys, and the people participated in much the same way as in the little church in New York, although nearly a hundred years have passed since Dubois attended the simple service. "Khatchahankist," meaning literally, "repose of the cross," is the second of the four church ceremonies I shall describe. The ceremony might better be named "the Blessing of the Water," for that is what it really consists of. In the towns of Turkey the churches devote one day each week to the performance of this rite, but in other churches it occurs at the end of a special mass, as for example on Ascension Day, or on the commemoration day of St. Gregory. [157] There is always a very great gathering on this occasion largely because of the various superstitions connected with it. A large silver bowl of water is brought and placed on a stand at the foot of the altar, after which the officiating priest comes forward with relics of the Holy Cross, of the saints, or a simple silver cross in his hand. The more frequently used relics are those of St. Gregory the Illuminator, St. John the Baptist, St. James of Nisibis, or St. George the Martyr. The priest reads prayers over the water, which are answered by the chants from the choir, after which he dips the relic or the cross into the water three times, finally making the sign of the cross over the bowl. The Lord's prayer is repeated, after which a ladle is placed on one side of the vessel, while the priest kneels on the other, cross or relic in hand. Now the people crowd about, cross their faces and kiss the cross, and then take up the ladle to drink of the water thus blessed especially for drinking purposes. It is used also for ablutions, for popular belief endows the sacred liquid with curative power. Some of the prayers that are repeated and the texts that are read during this ceremony are well worth noting, for they illustrate the candid interest of all participating. After the reading of the texts, the deacon repeats the following proclamation: "Let us pray unto God who loveth mankind and hath given for hope and refuge his victorious holy cross, which is armor invincible against the inworkings of Satan, to the end that whatsoever it touches, this water and all creatures. He shall through the same vouchsafe both healing and mercy." The priest then prays: "Bless, O Lord, this water, and hallow it with thy holy cross, in order that the flocks and sheep which may approach and drink of the same, may derive therefrom freedom from disease and sterility; for from them we select sacrifices of fragrant sweetness and offer them as victims to thyself." And again the priest prays: "Bless, O Lord, this water with the life-giving powers of the cross that everyone who shall drink thereof may derive therefrom a medicine of soul and body, and a health from the diseases which afflict him." Again: "Bless, O Lord, this water with thy holy cross, that it may impart to the fields where it is sprinkled profitable harvests, and that all plants and herbs may be more than ever increased in fruitfulness." [158] The cross is then passed three times over the water with the words, "Let this water be blessed and hallowed in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen." This is followed by a short proclamation by the deacon and a closing prayer by the priest, after which the assembled people receive of the magic water as above described. This frank personal interest is characteristic of many of the church ceremonies. For example in the sacrament of holy communion, incense is offered with the prayer, "Do thou in its stead send upon us the graces and gifts of thine Holy Spirit." [159] Of central importance to the nation as to the religion is the ceremony of the consecration of the Katholikos, the supreme authority of the church, which is held in front of the Cathedral at Etchmiadzin. [160] People from near and far gather together to witness this event, and lest they should fail to see the central act of the ceremony, the roofs near-by are all used for the greater advantage they give to the observer. The banner of the Katholikos is set flying from the belfry tower; in front of the entrance to the Cathedral is set a wooden dais covered with carpets and costly embroideries whereon the ceremony is performed; the procession is formed and all is then in readiness. A service is held in the Cathedral, after which the procession issues from the church, and the various state and church officials including representatives from the Russian government, the choir and deacons, all take their places about the platform. The twelve bishops who reside at Etchmiadzin, and whose business it is to wait upon the Katholikos, now appear gorgeously attired, escorting the central figure of the day, over whose head two attendants carry a richly embroidered canopy. The patriarch falls on his knees, his feet beneath his body in full accordance with the ordinary posture. One bishop now reads, after which another advances bearing in his hands the image of a dove wrought in gold. It is the receptacle of the holy oil, which is a mixture of the sacred oil blessed by St. Gregory, sparingly used and carefully preserved in the treasury of the Cathedral, and of the specially prepared oil consecrated in Sis in Cilicia. While one bishop is pouring the holy oil from the neck of the golden dove over the head of the patriarch, the other bishops gather around to spread the oil about with their thumbs, making at the same time the sign of the cross. A piece of cloth is now placed over his head, his face being covered at the same time by a veil which is attached to the cloth. After a brief interval the newly consecrated Katholikos, followed by the bishops, officials, and procession, reenters the church in order to complete the ceremony. When the procession again files out escorting the pontiff to his residence, the choir sings, and the Russian band plays. Festivities continue throughout the day and into the night, including mainly the banquet with its toasts and songs by the choir, and the concert furnished by the band in the evening. The band is a foreign innovation, although the particular band observed by Lynch consisted mostly of Armenians. The holy oil used in the consecration consists for the most part of the preparation manufactured in Sis, as stated, and with which there is a special ceremony connected, which is of general importance, for the oil is also used for the various necessary consecrations of all the churches. In the church at Sis is treasured a gorgeous silver bowl, decorated with turrets and pinnacles, in which "Muron" as it is called, or holy oil is made every four years. Pilgrims come from far to witness the event. The bowl, which holds about a gallon of oil is placed outside the church, and in it are placed a hundred and one kinds of flowers amid prayers and chants. [161] These flowers are stirred with the arm of St. Gregory, after which the lid is put on and the mixture made to boil. [162] The privilege of lifting off the lid is auctioned, and it is said that £100 was once paid for the distinction. The oil is then sold to the pilgrims, all of whom take a phial of it along to their homes where it is used in baptism, marriage, and burial ceremonies. It is also believed to have wonderful medicinal properties. The chief social value of these ceremonies lies in the fact that they bring large groups of people together under unusual circumstances, all of which adds importance to the various rites and festivities of the occasion. Especially is this true of the consecration of the Katholikos, which may occur twice or at the most three times in a generation. For this reason and also because of the authority and position of the Katholikos, not only as head of the church, but also in a very real sense, as head of the nation, this ceremony is attended by many pilgrims from the various sections of the country. Having assembled, the occasion is thus made a great deal more of than if it were an ordinary event. The day is a festival day in the full meaning of the term. Besides the services there is the banquet, the special choir, and the band. The relics kept in the treasury, which it is probable that most people who come have not seen before; also the holy churches of St. Gaiane and St. Rhipsime, which are visited by small groups throughout the day; and most of all the sacred altar of the Cathedral, where Christ descended in the vision of St. Gregory, are special attractions. And then there is the library where many ancient and precious manuscripts are exhibited, the institution of the monastery, the garden of the Katholikos, the printing press, and the seminary, all of which are of interest to the spectator. In fact there is sufficient to induce the pilgrims to remain for a number of days, which many of them do. The grounds are provided with a pilgrim's court surrounded by guest chambers utilized at this time. Naturally enough the various monuments suggest the traditions and legends with which they are connected, such as the traditions of St. Gregory, Tiridates, the legends of St. Rhipsime and St. Gaiane, and the other legends associated with the introduction of Christianity. Although centered about a religious ceremony which probably lasts no longer than fifteen minutes, the occasion is thus made a festival, and is about as important in fostering a real sentiment of patriotism and of church loyalty as any other single festival. The ceremony of the manufacture of the holy oil is not of such central importance. It also, however, has the advantage of not occurring very frequently, coming as it does only once in every four years. This together with the general utility of the oil in all of the various church ceremonies, plus the superstitions connected with it, is sufficient to induce pilgrims to make the journey to Sis in Cilicia, where the ceremony is held. It is again this assembly of pilgrims that gives the ceremony a social importance. In a nation like the United States where all parts are connected by railroads, telegraphs, and telephones, such a pilgrimage would have comparatively little social value. Except for government centers, there are no telegraphs in Armenia, the telephone is known only in a few cities, and railroads there are none. This lack of communication gives such ceremonies to which pilgrimages are made a very special social value which they otherwise would not at all have. The electoral assemblies spoken of have the same value, and for the same reason. The Armenian is not a person to be silent, and talks even when prudence is the better part of valour. He criticizes, condemns, and praises openly, fearlessly, and carelessly, and such a gathering of pilgrims, or electors, if it means anything, would mean a wholesale exchange of facts relating to current events, opinions, and rumors with reference to politics, religion, and every phase of social and industrial life. The Blessing of the Water can not be said to have so great a social value, occurring as it does in some parts of the country once every week. And yet this service is unusually well attended, largely because of the superstitions connected with the blessed water. Religion here appears to offer its biggest attraction to the less fortunate, such as the rheumatic, the tubercular, the dyspeptic, the epileptic, and the feeble-minded. But enough facts have been mentioned to show that the Armenian church is something more than an institution of cure and relief. It has identified itself too completely with the common life by keeping alive the streams and cross currents of social activity to admit of such a supposition. The ceremony of Maundy Thursday, or Washing of the Feet, is, of the four I have mentioned, of the least social importance. But it is generally attended, especially by the women who are compelled by the ban of custom to complete their house-cleaning before this service begins. And then too, it is the commencement of the Easter celebration, and as such has a distinct festival value. I have reviewed them therefore in the order of their social importance. The consecration of the Katholikos first; second the making of holy oil; third, the Blessing of the Water, and finally, the Washing of the Feet, which complete the second group of festivals. CHAPTER IV PRIVATE FESTIVAL OCCASIONS SECTION 1. BAPTISM The third group of festivals comprises those connected with the common life of the people, including the ceremonies of baptism, betrothal, marriage, and funeral. The church is vitally related to each of them, and they are of importance here because of their social value, which I shall again endeavor to point out. First after birth, the most important event in the life of every Armenian child is that of baptism, for the belief is that the unbaptized child has no soul. The infant is therefore generally baptized on the day after birth, and when this is impossible always within eight days of birth. If the child is sick there is all the more reason to hurry; in this case the essential parts of the ceremony are performed in the home, the remainder being celebrated at the church at some later time. The very first thing to be done therefore after the birth of a child is to make the necessary preparations for baptism, which are very elaborate in the case of the first-born, especially if the child is a boy. [163] A girl is always better than no child at all, but not much better. A godfather and godmother are selected, presents are exchanged between them and the parents of the child, invitations are sent to friends and relations, and at a fixed time the assembled people form a procession to the church, led by the midwife holding the child. The godfather pays all expenses, and therefore such splendor as the ceremony may have in the way of special ornaments for the altar, numbers of priests, and a large choir, is determined by him. After the group has properly assembled at the church, the priest takes the child from the midwife and gives it to the godfather. The profession of faith follows immediately and then the priest turns to the west to abjure the devil and to the east to invoke the Trinity. [164] Having placed the hem of his chasuble upon the babe, the priest proceeds to the sacristy reciting a psalm, and followed by the people. The central event now takes place. The baptism consists of three immersions in the name of the Holy Trinity. First water is poured over the head of the child, after which the whole body is plunged into the water. Confirmation is administered right after the ceremony of immersion, and takes place upon the altar of the church proper, before the image of the Blessed Virgin. The forehead, eyes, ears, nose, mouth, hands, back, breast and upper part of the feet of the infant are anointed with holy oil, and two wax tapers are placed in the hands of the godfather while carrying the child. The priest then takes the tapers and the babe, consecrates and confirms him by three profound inclinations before the altar, gives candles and child back to the godfather and blesses both. Now the child may be called by its Christian name, which is usually that of a saint. [165] Led by the priest and the singing choir, the procession now starts back to the home of the little one, still carried by the godfather who continues to hold the candles. When he reaches the door of the mother, she kneels and prostrates herself before him. He in turn delivers the child to the mother's arms who may now kiss it for the first time, the child not having been kissed by any one from the moment of birth to the delivering over to the mother by the godfather after baptism. Others may now also kiss the babe, and each endeavors to be the first, for there is a superstitious value attached to the first kiss following the mother's after baptism. The priests and the family of the godfather spend the evening in the child's home. They are served constantly by the father who does not himself sit down. For forty days the mother must keep her room, and walk only in such parts of the house as are exposed to the sun. [166] Having completed the fortieth day she and her babe are taken to church by the grandmother. [167] On this occasion the young mother must bring an offering, which in times past was a rich Persian rug, but is now merely a package of tapers. She waits at the door of the sacristy until the priest comes and leads her in before the high altar where both mother and child receive a blessing. After this ceremony she must visit the godfather and kiss his hand in token of gratitude. If a funeral passes during the first forty days of the child's life, the little one must be snatched up from the cradle and be carried upright. People now come to offer their felicitations. The greeting of the guest is always, "May God raise the child in the shadow of its parents," to which answer is given, "May God bless you according to your desire," or "May your tongue be always in good health." SECTION 2. BETROTHAL It is the popular belief among Armenians that the practice of early marriages dates from the proclamation of a Persian shah of the sixteenth century, to whom part of Armenia was tributary. [168] This edict was intended to wipe out Christianity, and provided for the marriage of Armenian boys and girls with Persian children. In order to evade the edict, the Armenian parents ran secretly from house to house for several nights marrying off their children to each other. The custom on the part of the parents of arranging for the marriage of their children without the knowledge of the latter is supposed also to be rooted in this event. Whether the explanation be true or not, it certainly is not uncommon for children to marry at sixteen in the interior of Armenia, and it is still generally true that arrangements for the marriages of children are made without the knowledge of those most concerned. [169] The girl does occasionally exercise choice, but when the unfortunate suitor is not desired by the parents the feeling of obligation on the girl's part, simply because she has lived at her father's table, is sufficient to induce her to submit. [170] And the same may be said of the young man, although the greater independence of a son gives him a little more ground for acting contrary to his father's wishes, than in the case of the daughter. But even when the choice of the children is accepted, the arrangements and ceremony of betrothal are always carried out by the parents. These arrangements are something as follows. The parents of a young man consult his grandparents, and choose a young girl who to them seems eligible. They then inform a woman match-maker of their decision, and it is her business to sound the ground, so to speak, before a proposal is made, since a refusal would ruin the boy's reputation. The matchmaker is often a professional woman, and can therefore be relied upon not to make a bungle of the job. Among other things, she finds out what gifts the bridegroom-to-be must make to his future bride, which can of course be done only after the proposal has met with a favorable response on the part of the parents of the girl. "What can he offer his bride," is the all important question from the standpoint of the girl's family. Among the rich, but in times past, gold bracelets bejeweled with diamonds or strings of gold pieces for adorning the head or neck were common varieties of gifts. To-day silver plate, or expensive heirlooms are given. After these matters have been decided upon, preparations are made for the ceremony of betrothal, usually held in the evening. The friends of the young man are notified to meet together in his house at an appointed hour with the priest who is given a ring which he blesses. The procession of the bridegroom's friends headed by the priest now starts for the house of the bride. All are provided with lighted wax candles which they hold in their hands as they proceed down the streets accompanied by the sound of violin, clarinets, drum, and joyful singing. Sometimes a detour is made in order to lengthen the procession. Having arrived at their destination, the father and mother of the girl pretend to know nothing whatever of the reason for the coming of the guests, and conversation proceeds for a considerable time without the slightest allusion to the matter of chief moment. The priest finally makes the following statement amid profound silence: "According to the law of the supreme Creator, and following the usages of human society, we have the happiness of demanding the hand of Miss X, for Mr. Y." The father of the girl pretends not to wish to accept, stating that she is too young, or that her mother is very desirous to keep her at home. But upon further pressing on the part of the parents of the boy, the acceptance is given. It is now the turn of the girl to be consulted; she, however, is nowhere to be found. The priest searches, and when finally discovered she does not speak a word. The former, however, knows, and offering his hand he says, "If you consent, kiss the hand," which is straightway done, for the girl has been informed beforehand that the kiss is to be forthcoming. This part of the procedure takes place apart from the crowd, and is followed by the presentation of the ring and the benediction which must take place before the public. But since custom forbids the girl to appear during the entire evening, a brother or a sister comes forward and kneels before the priest to receive the ring. The rest all kneel at the same time, and the priest gives the benediction. The ring is carried by the child to the fiancée, the health of the couple is drunk in rose-syrup, and congratulations and compliments are exchanged. Whatever else is eaten or drunk, rose-syrup must be at hand, for this is essential and peculiar to the ceremony. All this while the young man is within the walls of his own home. Custom forbids him to appear at the house of his bride-to-be until the wedding day, and if perchance the two should meet, he must turn his head away while she hides herself. Towards ten o'clock the party breaks up, and each guest is given a wax candle. All try to steal something from the house before leaving, such as a bottle, a glass, or a spoon, and if the thieves are not caught before they leave the house, the articles are returned only at the price of a supper from the head of the family. The party now returns to the home of the future bridegroom, accompanied by the friends and relatives of the girl. The procession formed, there is the same lighting of wax candles received from the host, brightening the otherwise darkened streets, and the same music and singing to triumph over the silence of the night. The young man must stand upright before his future father-in-law all through the visit. For him the great moment comes when the brother of his fiancée takes him aside and offers him a glass of syrup prepared by her own hands. The whole night is passed in song and amusement. During the following fortnight both families receive visits of congratulation, and at every visit the host or hostess must offer the syrup drunk at the betrothal ceremony. SECTION 3. MARRIAGE Elaborate and gay as are the festivities of betrothal, the celebrations of marriage are so much more so that one is inclined to look upon the essential religious ceremony as a pretext for the merry-making. [171] The interval of a month which ordinarily intervenes between engagement and marriage is devoted to making the necessary preparations for the wedding. The bridegroom must get ready the promised ornaments, a white wedding-dress for his bride, a fine veil to cover her face, and a pair of shoes, a rather strange combination of gifts. One wonders also why the necessary gloves and silk stockings are not included. The young lady on her part prepares her trousseau including garments of various sorts, bits of jewelry, a wooden chest filled with her clothing, a mirror, a nuptial bed with the necessary accessories, and a few cooking utensils; altogether an outfit quite as varied and singular as the gifts of the bridegroom, but certainly practical and sensible enough. Two days before the wedding, which usually occurs on a Sunday afternoon, invitations are sent out to friends and relatives, and musicians are secured. On the eve of the ceremony, the godfather invites the bridegroom with his friends to a Turkish bath, where they go to the accompaniment of music and singing. This part of the celebration is full of laughter and song, and is continued on the forenoon of the next day in the home of the bridegroom, when the barber comes to shave him in the presence of the guests and musicians, who sing and play as on the preceding evening at the bath. The occasion is one of importance for the barber, who brings all sorts of perfumes which are purchased by the guests and poured over the bridegroom; he receives not only a large fee for his service but also a double price for the scented extracts. The young man is then dressed up while the priest and choir children who have arrived sing canticles. In the meantime very similar festivities occur in the home of the bride, participated in by her young girl friends and relatives, except that they are not characterized by the same spirit of loud laughter and rejoicing. On the eve of the wedding the girls gather around her to sing melancholy songs, in considerable contrast with the gay, spirited music and singing taking place in the Turkish bath at the same time. Having shared the sadness, they place a rose leaf on the palm of each hand of the bride, which is covered with henneh, a green Persian powder made into paste, after which each hand is carefully bandaged up. So the poor sad girl must go to bed, to sleep if she can. On the next morning her friends again arrive to take the bandages off her hands, to dress her, and to sing and dance about her. Except for the print of the rose leaf, the henneh leaves the hands orange red, which is supposed to be beautiful. The songs and dancing are again of a decidedly melancholy tone. Her white dress, together with the coat of the bridegroom, must be blessed by the priest, a ceremony which the church functionary performs alone, both articles being sent to him early in the morning. Preliminary to the day's events, and before breakfast, both bride and bridegroom, being previously confessed, go separately to church, where they take communion. This done, the festivities described follow, bride and bridegroom are dressed, and all is in readiness for the ceremony which occurs in the late afternoon or evening. The bride must ride to church on horseback, and having arrived she is dismounted, and later remounted without touching her feet to the ground, which rather cumbersome performance is accomplished through the help of a brother or relative, who also rides the bride's steed while the ceremony takes place within, for the horse is not to be left riderless. The procession to the church is accompanied by musicians. Before the rail which separates the choir from the body of the church, two wooden chairs are placed, upon which the couple sit down while the people present kneel on the mats covering the floor. When the time comes for the blessing of the priest, the couple arise, step inside the choir space, and stand facing each other between the high altar and two witnesses, their foreheads touching. In this position they receive the sacrament of matrimony, answering in the affirmative the questions of the priest regarding their duties to each other and to their children. Of the bride is demanded perfect faithfulness to conjugal duties, entire obedience to the husband of whom care, patience, wisdom, and love are required. The priest, taking the right hand of the bride and placing it in the hand of the bridegroom, says, "According to the divine order God gave to our ancestors, I give thee now this wife in subjection. Wilt thou be her master?" "Through the help of God I will," answers the bridegroom. The priest then asks the woman, "Wilt thou be obedient to him?" to which is answered, "I am obedient according to the order of God." These questions are repeated and replied to thrice, in evident implicit belief that once would not be sufficient. Finally, the priest ties to each of their heads a cord and cross, which is again removed by him late at night in the home with special ceremony, and it is only after this performance that the couple may enter the nuptial chamber. After the ceremony at the church the procession starts back for the home of the bridegroom's father, the bride riding upon her horse, musician playing, and choir boys singing. The water-carriers, who have supplied drinking water, break their jars noisily before the bridegroom, drenching his marriage costume and giving rather an abrupt signal to the godfather whose business it is to tip them. Noisily the procession moves along the streets until it arrives at the gate of the house. In days past it was the custom at this point in the ceremony to place a sheep ready to be sacrificed at the feet of the young couple, the poorer people contenting themselves with chickens. The butcher put his knife to the neck of the sheep saying, "May God thus put all your enemies under your feet, Amen, Amen." Then pieces of coin mixed with raisins, pistachios, and other bits of nuts or dried fruits are showered over the people from the windows above, while the godfather leads the bridegroom within to the crowd of men, and the godmother leads the bride to the women, everybody trying to kiss the cross on their heads. The bride is then placed in the seat of honor and in her arms is laid first a little boy, and then a little girl, so that the first child may be a boy and if perchance the will of God be otherwise at least a girl. Each guest now comes to the bride to place at her feet a fruit in season. The bridegroom is called "the prince of the feast" and must never quit his seat of honor. If he does leave his chair he must place an object belonging to him upon his seat, and if he should at any time omit to do so, the assembly makes the godfather pay the necessary forfeit, which is usually a dinner. Towards nine, the guests take their leave, having eaten and sung to their uttermost desire. [172] Living in the home of her patriarchal father-in-law, the young wife is subject to the severest restraints. She must wear a lightly fitting veil enclosing her face below the eyes, without which she can not appear even in the house. [173] She wears a close fitting bodice fastened at the neck with silver clasps, full trousers of rose colored silk gathered in at the ankles by a filet of silver; her feet are bare, a silver girdle of curious workmanship loosely encircles her waist, and a long padded garment, open down the front, hangs from her shoulders. Not a single word must she utter to any member of the household, except when alone with her husband, and then only such as may be absolutely necessary, until she has given birth to her first child. Then she may speak to her nursling, after a while to her mother-in-law, later to her own mother, and by and by to the young girls of the household, but never in all her life may she have word with a young man not a relative. During her first year of married life, she may not go out of the house except for two visits to the church. Every morning and at the end of each meal she must pour water over the hands of her father- and mother-in-law, and for a certain time after marriage, when visitors come, she must kiss their hands, except of course, for men, before whom she may not even appear. [174] Apart from these troublesome restraints the young wife is treated with the utmost solicitude, and in some parts, even the peasant wife is not allowed to do outdoor work. In the mountain villages of Persian Armenia, however, the women do all the tilling in the fields, wearing their veils over their mouths as they work. [175] The author here quoted states that husbands never see the mouths of their wives, who not only must not speak during the first year of married life, or until a child is born, but also may not converse freely with their husbands until six years of married life have elapsed. [176] In such fashion the sanctity of the marriage relation is strictly guarded, and as one would suppose, illegitimate births are unknown in Armenia. Intermarriage among relations is forbidden, and until recent years, divorce has been unknown. [177] As for the taboo on speech, it is calculated not so much as an inducement to the production of offspring as to preserve harmonious relations between the various members of the patriarchal household. Even the patriarch with all his authority would find difficulty in preserving proper decorum of speech and manners in so heterogeneous a household, if every newly acquired daughter-in-law were given a free rein in the use of her tongue. As the neophyte is made to understand his position by a brutal initiation, so the young wife is kept from assuming command over the female household by the placing of a moral valuation upon the silence which alone is compatible with the essential modesty regarded as the first and chief of virtues among wives. In the household of the patriarch there is a great deal to be done in common, and unfortunately the occasion for mutual aid is not sufficient to bring about the desired coöperation. Hence singleness of command and authority is a necessary condition, not only of efficiency, but also of peace, for it can not be supposed that so many daughters-in-law would work together in harmony. It would be a mistake, therefore, to regard the customary silence as an inducement to child-bearing. Identifying itself with the common events of life, such as birth, marriage, and death, the church has not only given a religious meaning to these occasions but has also sanctioned and even encouraged the festivities that accompany them. These festivities have up to this point been occasions for rejoicing, with the single and significant exception of the melancholy singing of the bride's friends on the eve and day of her wedding. There is a perfect naturalness about all the merry-making and festivals so far considered, and this is no less characteristic of the funeral celebrations now to be taken up. The description of these will conclude my treatment of the last group of festivals, which are more properly festival-ceremonies, or ceremonies that have been made the occasion of festivity. SECTION 4. FUNERAL The funerals, as one would naturally suppose, are more ceremonious, more ritualistic, and although there is now generally a minimum of festivity connected with them, this has not always been so. [178] When the condition of a sick person is beyond hope, the priest is notified and the person is given confession, communion, and extreme unction. After death the eyes and mouth are closed, the body washed and dressed up in the newest and cleanest clothes to be had, and the arms crossed on the breast. [179] Two candles are kept burning until the day of the funeral, one at the foot and one at the head of the coffin. Sad, wooden bells are sounded, and guests are invited to pay their last respects. Coffee is served to them, but without sugar, as a sign of grief. Mourning women are secured, who eulogize the departed and weep and lament until the priests begin their chanting. The corpse is now taken to the church in a special coffin which is covered with a black velvet cloth adorned with small white crosses, among the wealthy, but among the poor the body is wrapped in linen and laid in a simple bier, carried by relatives and friends. At the head of the procession, which marches very slowly and chants on the way, there are carried a great cross and two lighted torches, followed by the priests and then by the coffin. The passer-by must stop and cross himself many times. At the church the coffin is laid down, and if the relatives are wealthy each person in the church is provided with a small wax candle which is kept lighted during the service. While the ceremony proceeds the body is blessed with holy water and perfumed with incense, after which the procession re-forms to accompany the body to the cemetery. The chanting is kept up all the way. At the cemetery the body is lowered into its last resting-place, and the priest, after making the sign of the cross on the four corners of the grave, throws three shovelfuls of earth into it and three more on the coffin. The people imitate by throwing three handfuls of dust, and the ceremony completed, all return to the home of the deceased where they partake of steaming broth prepared by the neighbors and friends, and recite prayers for the soul of the dead. This latter practice, as said before, is a pagan survival, as is also the chanting of mass for the departed, which occurs three days later, at which time broth is again distributed, but this time to the poor as a sacrifice to the dead. The grave is blessed on the third day, again on the ninth, at the close of the third month, and for the last time, at the close of the year. The funeral of a priest is performed with much splendor. [180] The procession makes a circuit of all the churches, and stopping at different places, portions of the gospel are read. If the priest be of high rank, as an archbishop, or a bishop, he is carried in an open coffin and in a sitting posture, dressed up in official vestments, in which position he is interred in the courtyard of the church. Farmers send sheep to be killed and given to the poor as a sacrifice. The Greeks in Constantinople also carry their dead in an open coffin, but this is because a Greek official who was a refugee prisoner in Constantinople at the time of the war of the Turks with the Greeks, endeavored to get himself carried out of the country by feigning death and boxing himself up in a coffin. But the Turks discovered the ruse and it was enacted by the sultan that thereafter all Greeks must be carried to their graves in open coffins. The custom in respect to the Armenian bishops, however, has no connection with this. In some parts of Armenia, as for example in Erzerum, the snow lies so deep in winter-time that burial is well-nigh impossible. During spring-time, with the melting of the snow, coffins have been found perched up on tree tops. This was related by an Armenian boy I know of, who lived in the vicinity of Erzerum. Curious customs of the past have left their marks. In Tarsus, for example, there are Armenian graves ranged about a tree which is asserted to have been planted by St. Paul, each provided with a stone upon which has been carved a symbol of the deceased, for the merchant, a representation of weights and measures, for the blacksmith, an anvil and hammer, for the scribe, an inkstand and pen, and for the industrious housewife, a distaff and spindle. In the cemetery of Nakhitchevan is a large building in which the mourners have a great repast after the funeral, and in certain other graveyards, Dubois found innumerable pieces of broken pitchers and crockery, which were probably broken, as the custom is, to ward off the evil spirit of the dead. These four ceremonies complete the third and last group of festivals described. I have called them ceremonies because fundamentally that is what they are, but they are to be distinguished sharply from the many church ceremonies I have not so much as mentioned, by reason of their festival or social value which alone makes them proper subject-matter for this thesis. The relation between these ceremonies as revealed in the common procession, as well as in the religious ceremony necessary to each is due largely to the fact that they have to do with the most ordinary, and yet most extraordinary of life's events, birth, betrothal, marriage, and death. Reviewing them from the standpoint of their social or festival value, it is obvious that the marriage celebration easily takes first place, the betrothal festivities second, baptism and funeral third. There is the rather uncouth, perhaps, but none the less spontaneous gaiety of the friends of the bridegroom, not only on the eve of the wedding-day when they go to the bath, but also on the morning of the wedding-day when the unfortunate youth is assuredly cured of any addiction he might have to the use of perfumes. I should imagine that the music would begin to bore the young men by the time the barber arrives, since the musicians also accompany the rejoicing of the night before, and yet it may be said that there could be nothing more convenient or ingenious devised to carry over a lull in the merry-making, for after all, the young men could not well be singing, joking, laughing, and teasing all the time. In striking contrast is the melancholy rejoicing of the party of young women at the home of the bride. But where there is dancing and singing there can not well be weeping, although no doubt it is more natural for the bride to be thoughtful on her wedding-day, than for the bridegroom, for it is the former who leaves her home to spend the rest of her days in a very new, very strange, perhaps even unkindly world. There is still another reason for the melancholy, in that the girl must know she is bidding farewell forever to the delights and joys and freedom of childhood, for although to-day she may speak and sing and make merry, to-morrow morning she must be silent and prepared to pour water over the hands of her father- and mother-in-law. Henceforth it is for her to be submissive, obedient, docile, uncomplaining even at heart, for what use will it be to complain, and though her most cherished dreams may be of motherhood, does she not also have spirit, and why must it be broken? Is she then only a chattel to be sold into everlasting bondage? It is all too evident, even to the dullest of brides, that the happiness of childhood is forever past, and the brighter one can hardly fail to feel that she has been bartered for the bit of gold about her waist or neck. There is then the very highest of social value to be attributed to both of these festivities, and largely because in each group of people, the young men on one side, the young women on the other, there is perfect community of feeling, mutual understanding, and freedom of thought and expression. In comparison with these gatherings, the mixed assembly at the house of the bridegroom after the marriage ceremony is of little importance. The succession of events covering a period of nearly thirty-six hours, of which only a few, and perhaps none at all, are spent in sleep by the members of the bridal party, must certainly begin to have its effect by the time the little baby doll is placed in the lap of the bride. The betrothal party is always out for a good time, for they realize that the merry-making is to be an all-night affair. There is the procession with its candles lighting up the darkened streets, the music and singing filling all space, the humorous little artificialities in the house of the bride,--real enough, at least ceremoniously, from the standpoint of the family,--the syrup, the attempted stealing of utensils, the return procession, the singing, music, and dancing at the home of the young bridegroom-to-be, without stop until dawn. All of this makes a rather complete occasion, even for young people. Baptism and funeral rites come nearest being pure ceremonies. But even the baptismal rite has its procession to and from the church participated in by all the friends and relatives of the family, and though the event is an occasion neither for rejoicing nor for sorrow, it is important enough, occurring as it does but once in the lifetime of each individual. There are, to be sure, the social calls that follow the ceremony. But the event can not be said to have any attraction for the young; and if this is true of baptism, it is still more true of funerals. Nevertheless there is the distinct psychological value of each, calling up as they do various associations, as the baptism of this one, or the death of another one, and thus keeping alive the deepest experiences of life. If they are crude and offensive to more delicate tastes, it must be remembered that a belief is represented in the concrete fashion essential to the simple mind, a mode of representation necessary to the best of intellects even though on another plane. CHAPTER V SUMMARY Such are the festivals treated in the second and last part of this thesis. Is it true that they form a vehicle of expression for the national sentiment created by the large mass of social material of which the legends of Part One are a considerable and important portion? Again it will be necessary to remind ourselves of the chief sentiments included within Armenian national sentiment, i.e., the sentiment of loyalty to the church, the sentiment of reverence amounting almost to worship for the ancient glory of the nation, and the sentiment of love for the country. It would be ridiculous to suppose that every festival was designed to give expression to some one of these sentiments. But that these sentiments are given very clear, very real outward expression in the great majority of the celebrations described, should be so evident at this point as to make further exposition unnecessary. In the summer Festival of Vartavar, the spring Festival of Mihr, Vartan's Day, and in the consecration of the Katholikos there is the proud and reverent looking back to the times when Armenia was an independent nation; the festival ceremonies of the third group, baptism, betrothal, marriage, and funeral, though they are not positive expressions of the sentiments of loyalty to the church, are yet so completely interwoven with the church and dependent upon it that one is compelled to regard the feeling as something to be taken for granted, while in most of the festivals of the second group, Christmas, Easter, Maundy Thursday, and the Blessing of the Grapes especially, the sentiment is given a more positive expression. As for the sentiment of love for the country, that is identified especially with Vartavar and Vartan's Day. It is evident, therefore, that each of these festivals and festival-ceremonies forms a medium more or less evident as the case may be, for the expression of one or more or all of the sentiments that make up Armenian national sentiment. Some of them are not to be classified as readily as this, as for example, the festival of Ascension morning, or Fortune-Telling Day, in which the dominant sentiment is one of romantic love, or in the Blessing of the Water, where the desire for a gain in health or wealth is the main psychological fact. Each one of these festivals, however, is a great deal more than the putting into activity of some of the above sentiments. In many of them the play-instinct is clearly evident, while in a few such as Vartavar, the whole self, with all its sentiments, instincts, tendencies, and emotions, is given the fullest and most unrestrained freedom. A festival, if it is anything, is a letting loose of the reins; there is nothing to hinder, nothing to keep back, nothing to hide, nothing to fear, and the self reaches out in a higher consciousness of fullness and completeness of living. As such it would be the greatest of fallacies to suppose any one of the festivals to be restricted to a particular sentiment. Nevertheless, it is clear, that the festivals do constitute vehicles of expression for the sentiments that make up Armenian national sentiment. CONCLUSIONS The general conclusions to which this study unmistakably gives rise are in respect to the national traits of the Armenian people. These traits have been brought out both explicitly and implicitly in connection with the various legends and festivals considered, and it is my purpose, therefore, to summarize and substantiate them at this point. They include, first, the superstitiousness, second, the conservatism, third, the self-sufficiency, and lastly the familism of the people. First of these qualities, superstitiousness, may be ascribed in large measure to geographical isolation. The country to be sure, is so situated as to form a highway from Europe to the Mesopotamian valley, and from Asiatic Russia to the Mediterranean, and although it has been overrun by Assyrians, Greeks, Parthians, Romans, Persians, Turks, Egyptians, and still others, yet we must speak of it as isolated, for the science that has brought remote countries into contact has not affected Armenia to any considerable degree. Subject to a backward nation, lacking all modern means of communication, the country is shut off and the plows of civilization have not yet furrowed the social soil of superstition. How general these superstitions are is brought out especially by the festivals described, many of which have given rise to a superstition or a group of superstitions. From Vartavar, there came the belief that the dust from the sacred altar served as a talisman for children learning their A B C's; the spring fire festival gave rise to the practice of taking home a glowing brand for good luck; there is the belief that the blessed water will cure various diseases, and that the oil scraped from the anointed foot with a walnut given by the priest after washing the feet at the ceremony of Maundy Thursday, will keep a supply of butter throughout the year. And then there are the beliefs in the miraculous power of the holy oil, manufactured with due ceremony every four years at Sis; in the healing power of the various sacred relics kept at Etchmiadzin and other places, and ten thousand others. There are also beliefs not of a religious character as the above, such as the one in regard to the tetagush, the little locust-eating bird, which is supposed to be attracted by Ararat spring water. The same superstition obtains in other parts of the country with the difference that the inconvenience of obtaining Ararat spring water makes it necessary for the people to believe in the peculiar efficacy of other springs. These illustrations are sufficient, and although it could hardly be proved that Armenians are more innately superstitious than the Anglo-Saxon ancestors who believed only a few generations ago in the power of the malignant eye, and that an innocent person might pass through fire unharmed, yet their superstitious nature and beliefs are present-day facts explained most completely on the ground of comparative isolation from the rest of the world. Second of the national characteristics of the people clearly brought out by this study is their conservatism. This may also be traced in large measure to their secluded condition, but in larger proportion is it due to the solidarity and national consciousness, which naturally consider innovations as foreign, and intrusions of foreign cultures, ideals, customs, and manners as hostile. That this is true is indicated conclusively by the fact that in Constantinople, where Armenian culture has naturally come in conflict with that of the Greek, the Turk, and the European, the Armenians have not at all given up their ways to imitate any of the three peoples mentioned. To be sure they have not adhered rigidly to the old beliefs and practices of the interior. Comparison has resulted in substitution, and conflict between the rational and irrational, the utile and the inutile, has meant displacement, but invariably by something distinctly different from the usages and practices current among Turk or European. That is, Armenians are themselves centers of imitation by fellow Armenians who, though they follow the lines suggested by their fellow countrymen, scorn to imitate even the European, whose superiority is generally recognized in Constantinople. The Armenian, recognizing no superior, has merely modified his own practices, usages, manners, and customs to suit his changed environment. And therefore I say that the characteristic Armenian conservatism is due rather to a strong feeling of nationality than to isolation. The conservatism of the church has been an important element. Refusing to have anything to do with the decisions of the Council of Chalcedon, the church became independent and has maintained a policy of the most rigid ultra-conservatism ever since. Says Ormanian: The Armenian church would have nothing to do with this transaction (Chalcedon) which was prompted by a design that had no bearing on theology. She remained firm in her original resolve, and ever maintained an attitude of ultra-conservatism. She set herself to resist every new dogmatic utterance said to emanate from revelation, as well as every innovation which could in any way pervert the primitive faith. [181] That this same spirit is reflected in the social life of the people is something one would naturally expect, in view of the important influence of the church over the entire life of the people. As the father of the Alan princess replied when requested to give the hand of his daughter to Artasches, "From whence shall brave Artasches give thousands upon thousands and ten thousands upon tens of thousands unto the Alans in return for the maiden?" so to-day the first question that is asked when the hand of a young Armenian girl is requested in marriage is "What can he give for his bride?" The practice of wife purchase has only changed in that the required riches are given to the bride instead of to the father of the bride. Occasionally a young man is pressed to the point of mortgaging property in order to obtain the necessary funds, and it has been known that in many such cases the young bride found her treasure gone shortly after her marriage, her master having taken it to pay off his mortgage. So parents arrange for the marriage of their children, the young wife is delivered up to her husband as the obedient and submissive servant, children are baptized after they have scarcely opened their eyes, and church ceremonies are conducted much as they have been for generations. The self-sufficiency of the Armenian people has been indicated in the repeated failures of missionary religions and foreign cultures to alter appreciably the native folkways and mores. In spite of political subordination to Islam, the Gregorian church has held tenaciously to its ideals and has successfully maintained its independence. The distinctive social tradition,--which includes the political and the religious traditions,--has remained intact in the face of recurrent invasion, vassalage, and persecution. The Armenian will not be assimilated. Death is preferable to the loss of those intangible realities that make the people a distinctive group. When Haic, the patriarchal progenitor of the race, was invited to "soften his hard pride," and to return to the kingdom of the god Bel, the alternative, war, was chosen. In the year 450, when the Persian fire-worshippers invited the Armenians to change their faith, the answer again was war. The reply to the decision of Chalcedon illustrates the same spirit. Likewise through the centuries of the immediate past the ever recurring answer to the Turk has been war. Powerless to assimilate the Armenian people, the Turk has had to annihilate or be annihilated. The self-sufficiency of the people thus reveals itself in the will to maintain the distinctive social tradition, regardless of cost or sacrifice. The characteristic familism reveals itself not only in the customs of family life, but also in the very nature of the Armenian. In Russian Armenia there is a very active propaganda carried on by Russian girls to secure Armenian husbands because of the domesticity of the latter, which is in striking contrast to the adventurous unfaithfulness of the Russian husband, whose house becomes his prison, from which he therefore flees, leaving his wife and children to shift for themselves. The discontented Russian may be a more attractive lover for his "Wanderlust" and restlessness, but he is a less attractive husband for the same reason. An Armenian husband belongs in his home, where he lives in the hope that some day he may be the father of a huge household of married sons and grandsons. A young Armenian I know spoke to me of his wish that some day his father might collect the scattered sons and unite them and their families in a single household. This desire is so general among Armenians as to make it evident that the family is the all-important social unit. No reputation is so great as that carried by a good family name, nor is there any so damning as that which goes with a bad family name. And why is the young bride kept silent for years if not to ensure the all-essential family-unity, family-solidarity, and family-continuity,--that is, continuity of family tradition, manners, and customs? And why is the "patria-potestas" well-nigh unlimited if not for precisely the same reason? Nor is the taboo upon the young bride, according to which she may not speak to any young man not a relative during her entire life of marriage, of no significance in this connection. It too precludes family disruption, or blemish on the family name. Divorce and infidelity are very rare, all family differences having no tribunal outside the patriarch, who considers his greatest misfortune to be a lack of family integrity or oneness. Thus a son who has been swayed by Protestantism dares not clash with his father, and has no choice but to run away, while a daughter whose wishes are contrary can be disobedient only at the cost of breaking the family connection, to prevent which she is usually ready to make any sacrifice. All of this is no accident. Forced to dwell within the circle of the family group for seven, eight, or nine months during the year without so much as opening his door, because of the severity of winter, the life of the patriarch is inevitably centered in his household, and therefore also the self of each member is merged into the larger unit. This familism throws additional light on some of the conclusions I have insisted upon, for nothing so fosters conservatism as a substantial family solidarity; what could be more instrumental in passing on the national sentiment, and finally, what could be more favorable to the development of the self-sufficiency, the independence of Armenian character? In speaking of "familism and the well-knit family" Ross says; "Worshippers of the spirit of the hearth, they are more aloof from their fellows, slower therefore to merge with them or be swept from their moorings by them. It seems to be communion by the fire-side rather than communion in the public resort that gives individuality long bracing roots. The withdrawn social self, although it lacks breadth, gains in depth, etc." [182] Any socially well-knit people possessing a distinctive social tradition, and characterized by a highly developed national consciousness, may make its contribution to the world's work, if it is given the necessary freedom. As the period of the Arsacidae kings brought forth the golden age of Armenian literature, so greater achievements may follow the political independence that is hoped for, and for which Armenians have valiantly struggled. Lord Bryce writes of the Armenian race, "It is the only one of the native races of Western Asia that is capable of restoring productive industry and assured prosperity to the now desolate region that was the earliest home of civilization." In the past, the energy of the people has been wasted in ceaseless conflict. Given a guarantee of territorial integrity, and participation in the affairs of government with the hope of future autonomy, the energies of strife will be diverted to the work of peace. Not until then can the high calling expressed in the words of Lord Bryce be realized. BIBLIOGRAPHY Abeghian, A. Der armenische Volksglaube. Leipzig. 1899. Agathange. Histoire du règne de Tiridate. In Langlois, Collection des historiens de l'Arménie. Anonymous. Easter service. Survey 36:167. ---- Armenian folk-lore. Fraser's Magazine (n.s.) 13:283-97. Arnot, Robert. World's great classic series. Section on Armenian literature and folk-lore. New York. 1901. Bent, J. T. Travels amongst the Armenians. Contemporary Review 70:695. Blackwell, Alice, S. Preface to Seklemian's tales. New York. 1898. Boyadjian, Z. C. Armenian legends and poems. London. 1916. Brightman, F. E. Liturgies eastern and western. Oxford. 1896. Bryce, J. Transcaucasia and Ararat. London. 1896. Cesaresco, E. M. Folk-songs. London. 1886. Chikhachev, P. A. Reisen in Kleinasien und Armenien. Gotha. 1867. Clark, W. Armenian history. New Englander 22:507, 672. Conybeare, F. C. Armenian church. Encyclopaedia Britannica 11th ed. ---- Armenian language and literature. Ibid. ---- Key of truth. Oxford. 1898. ---- Rituale Armenorum. Oxford. 1905. Curzon, Robert. Armenia. London. 1854. Dubois de Montpèreux. Voyages. Vols. 2, 3. Paris. 1839-43. Elisée Vartabed. Histoire de Vartan et de la guerre des Arméniens. In Langlois, Collection. Emin, M. Movses--Khorenatzi yev Hayotz Hin Veber. Tiflis. 1886. Faustus of Byzance. Bibliothèque historique. In Langlois, Collection. Fortescue, E. F. K. The Armenian church. London. 1872. Gelzer, H. Armenia. New Schaff Herzog Encyclopaedia. Gibbon, Ed. Decline and fall of the Roman Empire. Vol. 3. New York. 1910. Hodgetts, E. A. B. Round about Armenia. London. 1896. Langlois, Victor. Collection des historiens de l'Arménie. Vols. 1, 2. Paris. 1867-1869. Contains translations of various historians dating from 2nd century before Christ to 5th century after Christ. Lidgett, Elizabeth S. An ancient people. London. 1897. Lynch, H. F. B. Armenia. Vols. 1, 2. London. 1901. MacDougall, W. Social psychology. Boston. 1916. Mar Apas Catina. Histoire ancienne de l'Arménie. In Langlois, Collection. Mesrob, St. Maschtotz. Constantinople. No date given. Moise de Khorene. Histoire de l'Arménie. In Langlois, Collection. Ormanian, M. The Armenian church. London. 1912. Radloff, W. Volksliteratur türkischen Stämme. St. Petersburg. 1866. Raffi, A. Article on Armenia. In Boyadjian, Armenian legends and poems. Rockwell, W. Publications of Hakluyt Society. Series 2, IV, and other references under "Armenia." Ross, E. A. Social psychology. New York. 1917. St. Martin, J. Mémoire sur l'Arménie. Paris. 1818-1819. Seklemian, S. Golden maiden and other tales. New York. 1898. Stubbs, W. Lectures on mediæval kingdoms. Oxford. 1887. Tarde, G. Les lois sociales. Paris. 1898. Tavernier, J. B. Voyages en Turquie en Perse et aux Indes. Vol. 3. Utrecht. 1712. Terzian, P. Religious customs among Armenians. Catholic World 71:305, 509. Trowbridge, T. C. Armenia and Armenians. New Englander 33:1. Ubicini, J. H. A. Letters on Turkey. London. 1856. Villari, Luigi. Fire and sword in the Caucasus. London. 1906. Wilson, C. W. Armenia. Encyclopaedia Britannica 11th ed. NOTES [1] Detailed descriptions of geography and geology may be found in Lynch, Armenia; St. Martin, Mémoire sur l'Arménie, 2. Summary descriptions may be found in the New Schaff Herzog and Britannica encyclopedias. [2] Robert Curzon, Armenia. [3] Dubois de Montpèreux, Voyages 3:400. [4] There is a belief that the toneer is sacred. "Nur der alte T'onir, der offen Backofen, der von den Iraniern entlehnt ist und am fünften Jahrhundert schon gebraucht wird, gilt überall in Armenien als heilig." Abeghian, Der armenische Volksglaube p. 3. [5] Surrounded as Armenia was with almost all of the ancient civilizations, including the Parthians, Scythians, Medes, Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, Greeks, and Romans, she was inevitably involved in continual warfare, while the central situation of the territory made it a common stamping ground for hostile armies. Langlois 1:ix. [6] Ormanian, The Church of Armenia pp. 151-54. [7] Mar Apas Catina. Langlois' Collection des Histoires de l'Arménie 1:16. [8] St. Martin, Mémoire sur l'Arménie 1:281. [9] Mar Apas Catina. Langlois 1:15-18. Moses of Khorene. Langlois 3:63-64. [10] St. Martin 1:306. [11] Ibid. 1:282-3. Moses of Khorene 2:67-69. Mar Apas Catina 1:26-27. The first Arsacidae king of Armenia, Valarsace, whose reign began in 149 B.C. found the kingdom in general disorder and was the first to organize the country along national lines. As a Parthian he was unacquainted with the history and institutions of the people, and desiring to build upon the established foundation, such as it was, he sent a Syrian scholar, Mar Apas Catina by name, with a letter to his brother, Arsace, king of Persia, requesting the latter to allow the Syrian access to the royal archives with the view of finding a history of Armenia. Mar Apas Catina found an old MS containing a history of ancient Armenia which bore the name of no author, and which was translated from Chaldean to Greek by order of Alexander the Great. It was translated into Syriac by the Syrian scholar for the benefit of Valarsace, but the MS has been lost, and there is not the slightest trace of it anywhere. It must have been in existence however, during the fifth century after Christ for Moses of Khorene used it as his only source for Armenia's ancient history, in writing his general history of Armenia. The old MS being lost, the translation by Mar Apas Catina and the first part of the history of Moses are given as identical to each other in Langlois' collection of Armenian historians. The ancient history contains the legends of Haic, of Ara and Semiramis, and of Vahakn, some of the songs of heroes, still sung, and other matter which is strictly speaking not historical. As a history, therefore, it is unreliable and unauthentic, but from the standpoint of the social historian it is invaluable, for a belief is as important a fact to sociology as the dethronement of a king is to history. [12] Boyadjian, Armenian Legends and Poetry p. 33. [13] St. Martin 1:409. [14] Lynch 2:65. [15] Lynch, Armenia, chapter entitled "Van." [16] Raffi, article in Boyadjian's Armenian Legends and Poetry, p. 125. [17] Lynch, chapter on Van. [18] Moses of Khorene 2:69. [19] Ibid. [20] Lynch 2:65. [21] Moses of Khorene 2:68, 69. [22] St. Martin 1:285. [23] Raffi p. 129. Abeghian pp. 49, 50. [24] Moses of Khorene 2:76. Translation from Moses, Boyadjian p. 10. Mar Apas Catina 1:40. [25] Mar Apas Catina 1:41. Moses of Khorene p. 76. Moses of Khorene, called the Herodotus of Armenia, has written the best known history of the Armenian people. The work has been translated into Latin, Italian, French, German, and Russian. Moses lived in the fifth century, two centuries after the conversion of the nation to Christianity. He belonged to the second order of translators in the school of St. Sahag and St. Mesrob, and was sent to Syria, Egypt, Greece, and Rome in order to complete his studies. Upon returning to his country he found everything in disorder. St. Sahag and St. Mesrob were dead, the king had been overthrown, and he chose the life of solitude. Sometime later he was chosen bishop and requested by an Armenian prince, Sahag Bagratide, to write a history of his country, which task he took up with great enthusiasm. The translation of Mar Apas Catina was his only source for Armenian ancient history. He carefully differentiates hearsay from fact, never fails to stamp a fable or legend as such, and generally quotes his authorities where he has them. Considering the limitation of his materials, and the time in which he wrote, Moses wrote a really remarkable book, although the verdicts of a few critics have been unfavorable. [26] Raffi p. 129. [27] Lidgett, An Ancient People. St. Martin 1:409. Mar Apas Catina p. 41. [28] The influence of Greek culture is chiefly indicated by the fact that the pagan divinities were Greek and that many temples were erected to these gods and goddesses all over the country. (Agathange, Histoire du Règne de Tiridate. Langlois 1:164-70.) Secondly, there were formed by St. Sahag and St. Mesrob in the fifth century after the conversion of the nation to Christianity, schools of translators, who studied in Greece, Egypt, and Rome and whose chief works were translations from the Greek. With the conversion (301) came the necessity for a written language, the characters of which were invented by St. Mesrob in 404. Thereupon were organized the schools of translators whose chief study of necessity was Greek, and whose translations and original works have given to the fifth century the title of "Golden Age of Armenian Literature." (Langlois 1:xxi-xxvi, 2:vii.) [29] St. Martin 1:288, 289. Mar Apas Catina 1:41. Moses of Khorene 2:81. [30] Ibid. [31] Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire 3:393. Moses of Khorene 2:155. [32] Ibid. pp. 88, 89. [33] St. Martin 1:291. Moses of Khorene p. 88. [34] Raffi p. 126. [35] Langlois 1:ix, x. These songs of which Moses of Khorene very frequently speaks are classified by Langlois into songs of the first order, the second order, and the third order. The first are relative to the prowess of Armenian kings and gods; the second concern a long series of military exploits accomplished against the Assyrians, Medes, and Persians; the third refer especially to traditions in connection with the Assyrians. The birth-song of Vahakn is an illustration of the songs of the first order (p. x, xi). Flint in his History of the Philosophy of History, p. 42, speaks of this period of minstrelsy as necessarily preceding the use of letters everywhere. "The myth and legend interest primitive man more than real fact. His vision is more largely of the imagination than of the sense of judgment. It is an error to regard the rude minstrelsy which generally preceded the use of letters as essentially historical." [36] Countess Evelyn Martinengo Cesaresco, Essays in the Study of Folk-Songs, chapter on Armenia. [37] The battle of Avarair under the leadership of the celebrated Vartan, where Armenia defended her national ideals against the intrusion of Persia, is proof of this. [38] Ormanian p. 22. Moses of Khorene p. 158. [39] There are further proofs that may be cited. The history of English and French literature shows that the golden age of their literature followed a period of social integration along national lines. And it is true that the golden age of Armenian literature dawned with the closing decades of the Arsacidae dynasty, and continued several decades beyond. And finally, when Valarsace, the first Arsacidae, ascended the throne of Armenia, finding everything in a state of disorder, he organized the country along national lines. Dividing the kingdom into provinces he placed his governors at the heads of them; he organized a standing army, appointed guardians of the granaries, established courts of justice, a royal guard, and minutely regulated court life. What is most interesting is that he appointed two reporters, one to remind him in his anger, "le bien à faire," the other to remind him of the necessity for doing justice. Ibid. pp. 82-85. [40] St. Martin 1:300. Moses of Khorene pp. 105-6. [41] Ibid. p. 106. [42] Boyadjian p. 49. Moses of Khorene p. 106. Moses as translated by Langlois, relates the story as legend, for after telling the tale, and quoting the songs he writes, "Voici maintenant le fait dans toute sa verité comme le cuir rouge est trés-estimé chez les Alains, Artaschés donne beaucoup de peaux de cette couleur, et beaucoup d'or en dot, et il obtient la jeune princesse Satenig. C'est là la lanière de cuir rouge garnie d'anneaux d'or. Ainsi dans les noces, ils chantent des légendes, en disant, 'Une pluie d'or tombait Au marriage d'Artaschés; Les perles pleuvait Aux noces de Satenig.'" Moses likewise relegates the legend and songs of Artavasd to their proper places. [43] Moses of Khorene p. 111. [44] Translation from Moses by Boyadjian p. 65. [45] Moses of Khorene p. 111. [46] Raffi p. 42. [47] St. Martin 1:appendix. [48] Ibid. [49] Clark, New Englander 22:507, 672. Raffi p. 127. [50] That trees are worshipped even to-day, and that certain superstitions are bound up with them is clearly shown by Abeghian. "In den Gegenden Armeniens, wo das Land mit Wäldern bedeckt ist, werden viele sehr alte und grosse Bäume für heilig gehalten und ähnlicher Weise wie die Quellen verehrt. Man brennt vor ihnen Lichter. Weihrauch, opfert ihnen Hähne und Hammel, küsst sie, kriecht durch ihren gespaltenen Stamm durch, oder lässt magere Kinder durch ihre Löcher schlüpfen, um die Einwirkung der bosen Geister aufzuheben. Man glaubt dass vom Himmel Lichter auf die heiligen Bäume kommen, oder Heilige sich auf denselben aufhalten. Auch die Bäume geben Gesundheit, einige heilen alle Krankheiten.... Um von Bäumen Heilung zu bekommen soll man ein Stück von seiner Kleidung abreissen und damit den Baum umwickeln oder es auf den Baum nageln. Man glaubt dadurch seine Krankheit auf den Baum zu übertragen." Abeghian pp. 58, 59. [51] Agathangelus p. 127. Emin, Recherches sur le Paganisme Arménien p. 9. [52] Raffi, article in Boyadjian's Armenian Legends and Poetry. [53] Tir is mentioned only once by Agathangelus (p. 164) and he is not mentioned by any other Armenian writers (Langlois 1:164). Emin compares him to the Greek Hermes or Mercury, probably because Agathangelus speaks of him as the recorder or reporter of Aramazd. (Emin p. 20, note 1.) [54] Abeghian p. 4. [55] He corresponds to the Persian Mithra and is hence of Persian origin and not Greek. The Greek translation of Agathangelus regards him as analogous to Vulcan, which Emin considers to be incorrect. (Agathangelus p. 168; Emin p. 20.) [56] Raffi, article in Boyadjian's Armenian Legends and Poetry. Seklemian's Tales. Preface by Blackwell. [57] "Und auch heute pflegt man stellenweise niederzuknieen und zu beten: 'O du göttliche strahlende Sonne! Dein Fuss ruhe auf meinem Antlitz! Bewahre meine Kinder.'" u. s. w. Abeghian p. 43. [58] Although the Greeks have identified Anahit with their goddess of chastity, Artemid, the Armenian goddess is not of Greek, but of Assyro-Babylonian origin according to Emin. Her name "Anahato" in ancient Persian means "Spotless." Agathangelus p. 126; Emin p. 10. [59] Agathangelus. Langlois 1:127. [60] Raffi p. 129. Both Nane and Astghik are mentioned by Agathangelus who speaks of the latter as the Aphrodite of the Greeks. (Agathangelus p. 173.) Emin likens Nane to Venus. The fact is that very little is known of either. (Agathangelus p. 168; Emin, p. 16.) [61] St. Martin 1:305, 306. [62] In the reigns of Artasches I and Tigranes II, many Greek statues were imported from abroad, and the latter king not only constructed temples for the worship of Greek divinities, but also ordered all to offer sacrifices and to worship newly acquired gods and goddesses. (Moses of Khorene pp. 86-88.) [63] St. Martin 1:295. [64] Moses of Khorene p. 95. [65] Moses of Khorene p. 96. [66] Ibid. [67] Ormanian p. 3. [68] There is another legend of St. Thaddeus, according to which he converted Abgar and his whole court to Christianity, curing the king of his disease at the same time. (Moses p. 97.) Abgar, who died shortly afterword, divided his kingdom between his son and nephew. The former at once resumed the pagan worship while the latter was forced to apostatize. But the preaching and martyrdom of St. Thaddeus at the hand of Sanatruk, the nephew, is recorded by Faustus of Byzantium, one of the most reliable of early Armenian historians. (Faustus of Byzantium. Langlois 1:210. See also Lynch, Armenia 1:278, and Moses of Khorene pp. 98-99.) [69] Lynch 1:286. [70] St. Martin pp. 302, 303. [71] Agathangelus. Langlois 1:115. [72] St. Martin p. 303. Agathangelus p. 122. [73] St. Martin p. 304. Agathangelus p. 121. [74] Agathangelus pp. 126-33. [75] Ibid. p. 135. [76] Lynch 1:256. Agathangelus p. 139. [77] Critics have distinguished Agathangelus, the historian, from Pseudo Agathangelus, the meddler, who evidently had religious interests at stake. The former lived in the fourth century, and was secretary to Tiridates, who unquestionably commissioned him to keep the records of the events of his reign. He is spoken of by Moses and other ancient historians as sincere and reliable. It is thus assumed that the original work has been destroyed or lost, and that the Greek and Armenian texts now existing are the work of an interpolater who desired to weave the straggling skeins of religious sentiment into a single garment by establishing an historic and literary sanction to the religious events of the period of the conversion. There are many indications of this, chief of which is the highly imaginative style of narrative, undoubtedly designed with the particular intent of capturing the minds of the people. (Langlois' introduction to Agathangelus 1:99-108.) [78] Langlois in his footnotes states that the chapel consecrated to St. Gaiane was constructed by the Katholikos Ezdras in the year 630. and repaired in 1652. The church of St. Rhipsime was built by the Katholikos Gomidas in 618, and repaired in 1653. The main cathedral was built by St. Gregory. They are situated in Etchmiadzin. (Dubois 3:213. Langlois 1:160, 162.) [79] Lynch 1:291, note. [80] Dubois 3:276. [81] Bryce pp. 314, 315. [82] Ormanian p. 13. [83] Dubois 3:276. [84] Ormanian p. 8. [85] Agathangelus pp. 164-66. [86] See Conybeare's translation and annotation of the Key of Truth, the book of the Paulicians (Adoptionists) of Thonrak. This book contains the baptismal and ordinal service of the Adoptionist church. (Especially pp. vi-xcxii.) [87] Conybeare p. xcvii. The original is given by Conybeare as follows: "Dic mihi," says Archelaus, "super quem Spiritus Sanctus sicut columba descendit. Quis est etiam qui baptizatur a Ioanne si perfectus erat, si Filius erat, si vertus erat, non poterat Spiritus ingredi; sicut nee regnum potest ingredi intra regnum." Lynch 1:279. [88] Ibid. 1:282. [89] Lynch 1:294. Agathangelus pp. 164-66. [90] St. Martin 1: appendix. Elisée Vartabed, Histoire de Vartan. Langlois 2:190-91. [91] Ibid. p. 195. [92] Lidgett, An Ancient People. The detailed events of this struggle against the Persians are told in the Histoire de Vartan et de la Guerre des Arméniens, by Elisée Vartabed who belonged to the second order of translators and served under General Vartan during the war, the history of which he narrates. After the sad ending of the series of dramatic incidents that made up this struggle for religious freedom, Elisée sought solitude and lived on herbs and roots in a mountainside cave which came to be known as the "cave of Elisée." Because of a growing social intimacy he was obliged to find a second cave in a more remote section of the country, where he completed his work and died. His history is written in the style of a religious mystic, is full of dramatic imagery, and has come down as an Armenian classic. (Langlois 2:179-82.) [93] Lynch 1:313. Ormanian p. 35. [94] Ibid. p. 36. [95] Genesis 8:4. [96] James Bryce, Transcaucasia and Ararat p. 210. St. Martin 1:264. [97] St. Martin 1:267-68. [98] Tavernier, Voyages 1:43. [99] Bryce, Transcaucasia and Ararat, chapter on Ararat. [100] Dubois 3:465. [101] Arghuri means "Il sema la vigne." St. Martin pp. 266, 267. [102] Dubois 3:465-68. [103] Bryce, chapter on Ararat. [104] Dubois 3:468. [105] Countess Evelyn Martinengo Cesaresco, chapter on Armenian folk-songs. Fraser's Magazine (n.s.) 13:283-97. [106] Fraser's Magazine (n.s.) 13:283-97. [107] Ormanian p. 224. Bertrand Bareilles, preface to the French edition of Ormanian p. xviii. [108] Ormanian p. 243. [109] Ibid. p. 177. [110] Ubicini, Letters on Turkey. Ormanian pp. 151, 152. [111] Ibid. p. 173. [112] Ibid. p. 141. [113] Ubicini, Letters on Turkey. [114] Ormanian p. 170. [115] Ibid. Ubicini, Letters on Turkey. Tavernier 1:498, 499. [116] Ormanian p. 152. [117] Ibid. [118] Lynch, chapter on Etchmiadzin. Dubois 3:362, 363. [119] See p. 30 of this thesis, note 32. [120] Ormanian p. 74. [121] Ibid. For the relation of the church to the Turkish and Russian Governments see Lynch 1:269, also Ubicini, Letters on Turkey. [122] That is, Pseudo Agathangelus. [123] Raffi p. 128. [124] Ibid. [125] Seklemian's Tales. Preface by Blackwell. [126] Abeghian pp. 72-74. [127] The 13th of February according to the old style calendar corresponds to the 26th of February of the Latin calender. [128] Abeghian p. 72. [129] Ibid. p 20. The remainder of the paragraph is a free translation of selected parts of pp. 20-22. [130] Abeghian p. 22. [131] Maschtotz, St. Mesrob. One third of the book is devoted to this purpose. [132] Ormanian p. 189. [133] Abeghian p. 23. [134] Ibid. This and preceding paragraph are a free translation from selected sentences of pp. 23 and 24. [135] Tavernier 1:507-9. [136] Elisée. [137] Lidgett, Ancient People. [138] Ibid. [139] Raffi p. 158. [140] Translated by Miss Boyadjian, Armenian Legends and Poetry. After the first and third lines of the charm song, the following line is sung, which I give in the German of Abeghian: "Liebe Rose meine, liebe, liebe." and after the second and fourth lines: "Liebe Blume meine, liebe, liebe." (Abeghian p. 65.) There are thousands of similarly constructed folk-songs treating a variety of subjects current among the people, many of which have been collected by an Armenian by the name of Tcheras, whose book, unfortunately, I have not been able to obtain. Miss Boyadjian has collected a few of them in her Armenian Legends and Poetry. However, I shall mention only such as are relevant to the festivals to be described. [141] Abeghian pp. 61-62. [142] World's Great Classic Series. Section on Armenian literature, with introduction by Robert Arnot. See David of Sassun pp. 57-79. [143] Abeghian p. 51, 52. Emin, Ancient Armenian Legends. [144] Abeghian p. 62. [145] These beliefs are analogous to those in connection with the bringing of healing water, or the water of perpetual life, the source of which is guarded by monsters, snakes, and scorpions. The hero steals cautiously to the source in order not to be observed by the watchmen, fills his vessel with water and hurries away, for the mountains and trees call out to warn the guardians of the source who awake and follow the hero. (Ibid. p. 63.) [146] This part of the festivities is also accompanied with song. In Astapet the following song is sung by way of introduction: "Holt einen grossen Meister, Lasset ihn den Hochzeitsrock meines geliebten zuschneiden Die Sonne sei der Stoff Der Mond diene als Futter. Stellt aus Wolken die Einfassung her, Wickelt aus dem Meer Seidengarn, Befestigt die Sterne in einer Reihe als Knopfe, Näht die ganze Liebe hinein." (Abeghian p. 64.) [147] Abeghian pp. 63-66. [148] Ormanian pp. 189-90. [149] For the ritual side of this festival, the church ceremony known as the Blessing of the Crops, or the Blessing of Harvest, and the prayers in connection therewith, F. C. Conybeare's Ritual Armenorum, and St. Mesrob's Maschtotz may be consulted. The social side I have gotten from my wife who has taken part in the festival several times. [150] A very common custom, especially in the interior villages of Armenia, is to give a lighted candle and an apple or orange in which small silver coins have been stuck, as gifts to the children. This is done by the eldest member of the family, usually the grandmother, at the time the younger ones come up to kiss her hand and receive her blessing. [151] For a description of the Easter and Christmas fasts, see Tavernier, Voyages 1:497-98. [152] The festivals of New Year's Day, Easter, and Christmas, I have described as related to me by my wife who has celebrated them in company with others in Constantinople. Such variations practiced in the interior of Armenia as I am aware of, I have indicated. [153] F. C. Conybeare, Ritual Armenorum pp. 213, 294. [154] Survey 36:167. Anonymous. [155] Tavernier, Voyages 1:496. [156] Dubois 3:441. [157] Ormanian p. 177. [158] F. C. Conybeare, Ritual Armenorum p. 224. [159] Brightman, Eastern Liturgies, chapter on Armenian Liturgy. For an interesting variation of this ceremony see Tavernier 1:502. Closely related to this ceremony is that of the blessing or purifying of a well. A well is not used until a priest has first blessed it, or if the water of a well becomes impure, it is necessary to purify it by the blessing of a priest. The latter takes a cross and a Bible and having requested the people to draw a pail of water which is thrown away, a second pail is drawn, over which the priest reads a psalm. The water is then blessed with the cross, incense is burned over the well, and the pail of water is emptied back. (Maschtotz.) [160] Lynch 1:203, 204. [161] Contemporary Review 70:695. J. T. Bent. Tavernier, 1:500, 501. [162] The people believe that the holy relic causes the mixture to boil. [163] Catholic World 11:301. Paul Terzian. [164] According to Maschtotz the devil is abjured and the Trinity invoked at the gate of the church. In the course of the ceremony the priest unclothes the babe and asks the godfather, "What seeks the child?" The godfather answers, "Faith, Hope, Love, and Baptism, to be cleansed from his sins and to be freed from the devils." The three immersions are symbolical of the three days of burial of Christ. (Maschtotz.) [165] In the description of baptism as witnessed by Tavernier, red and white threads were laid about the neck of the child at this point in the ceremony. They represent the blood and body of Christ and are probably believed to keep away the evil eye. Beads and various other charm tokens are commonly used for this purpose. (Tavernier 1:500.) [166] This is probably because evil spirits dwell in darkness, while the beneficent are light. [167] The similarity to the old Hebrew custom may be noted. [168] Paul Terzian, Catholic World 71:305. [169] Tavernier says that frequently two pregnant women who are on very friendly terms, will engage their future offspring, trusting to fortune that one will be a boy and the other a girl. (Tavernier 1:505.) [170] In fact when there is a variance of choice between parents and daughter it is common for the girl to regard the decision of her parents as being her fate. "Wenn eine junge Frau mit ihrer Heirat, die sie, nach dem Willen der Eltern geschlossen hat, unzufrieden ist, so singt sie: 'Was soll ich meinem Vater und meiner Mutter sagen? Das war auf meine Stirn geschrieben.'" (Abeghian p. 54.) [171] Paul Terzian, Catholic World 71:305. [172] It is very evident that the expense of these festivities is a considerable item in the budget of the bridegroom's father. But it is a matter of social pride and respectability to live up to a certain standard of established usage. Accordingly many families involve themselves in life-long incumbrances, not only in the betrothal and marriage festivities but also in the ceremony of baptism, simply to come up to a recognized norm of expenditure. (Tavernier 1:504, 505.) [173] Cesaresco, chapter on Armenian folk-songs. [174] Paul Terzian, Catholic World 71:508. [175] Bent, Contemporary Review 70:701. [176] Tavernier states that in Persian Armenia a man frequently lives with his wife ten years without ever hearing her voice or seeing her face. Of course she does not sleep with her veil over her face, but she is always careful to blow out the candle before she removes the veil, as she is to rise before daybreak in order to put it on again. (Tavernier 1:507.) [177] Trowbridge, New Englander 33:1 ff. [178] Paul Terzian, Catholic World 71:509. [179] This statement is in contradiction to a previous statement that the body of the dead is merely wrapped in white cloth after it has been washed; (see page 60) the use of the white cloth is common among Gregorian Armenians. [180] Paul Terzian, Catholic World 71:509 ff. [181] Ormanian p. 36. [182] Ross, Social Psychology pp. 88-89. 
37884	----	FOLK-TALES OF THE KHASIS By Mrs. RAFY Illustrated Macmillan and Co., Limited St. Martin's Street, London 1920 FOREWORD Without any apology I offer to the public this imperfect collection of the quaint and fascinating Folk-Tales of the Khasis, believing that the perusal of them cannot fail to cheer and to give pleasure to many. Of some of the stories there are several versions current in the country,--sometimes conflicting versions,--but this in no way diminishes their charm. In such cases I have selected the version which appeared to me the most unique and graceful, and seemed to throw the truest light on the habits and the character of this genial and interesting Hill race. Several of these tales have been published by me from time to time in The Statesman of Calcutta, by whose courtesy I am permitted to reproduce them in this volume. I shall consider the book amply rewarded if it bears the fruit I anticipate, by rendering more cheerful an hour or two in the life of its readers during these busy and strenuous times. K. U. R. August 10, 1918. CONTENTS Page 1. What makes the Eclipse 1 2. The Legend of Mount Sophet Bneng 8 3. How the Peacock got his Beautiful Feathers 10 4. The Goddess who came to live with Mankind 18 5. The Formation of the Earth 24 6. U Raitong (The Khasi Orpheus) 26 7. The Tiger and the Monkeys 37 8. The Legend of the Iei Tree 43 9. Hunting the Stag Lapalang 49 10. The Goddesses Ka Ngot and Ka Iam 52 11. U Biskurom 55 12. U Thlen 58 13. How the Dog came to live with Man 68 14. The Origin of Betel and Tobacco 75 15. The Stag and the Snail 81 16. The Leap of Ka Likai 85 17. The Shadows on the Moon 89 18. U Ksuid Tynjang 92 19. What makes the Lightning 97 20. The Prohibited Food 100 21. The Cooing of the Doves 104 22. How the Colour of the Monkey became Grey 106 23. Ka Panshandi, the Lazy Tortoise 108 24. The Idiot and the Hyndet Bread 111 25. U Ramhah 116 26. How the Cat came to live with Man 120 27. How the Fox got his White Breast 123 28. How the Tiger got his Strength 128 29. How the Goat came to live with Man 131 30. How the Ox came to be the Servant of Man 134 31. The Lost Book 137 32. The Blessing of the Mendicant 140 ILLUSTRATIONS In the Neighbourhood of the Mountain of the Iei Tree Frontispiece Page Khasi Peasants 3 At the Foot of Mount Shillong 19 At the Foot of the Mountain of the Iei Tree 44 A Khasi Waterfall in the Neighbourhood of the Mountain of the Iei Tree 45 The Haunt of Ka Kma Kharai 60 Sacred Grove and Monoliths 63 At the Foot of the Shillong Mountains 69 A View in the reputed Region where U Ramhah the Giant committed his Atrocities 76 The Leap of Ka Likai 86 The reputed Haunt of U Ksuid Tynjang 93 A Khasi Industry--Frying Fish in the Open Air 141 I WHAT MAKES THE ECLIPSE Very early in the history of the world a beautiful female child, whom the parents called Ka Nam, was born to a humble family who lived in a village on the borders of one of the great Khasi forests. She was such a beautiful child that her mother constantly expressed her fears lest some stranger passing that way might kidnap her or cast an "evil eye" upon her, so she desired to bring her up in as much seclusion as their poor circumstances would permit. To this the father would not agree; he told his wife not to harbour foolish notions, but to bring up the child naturally like other people's children, and teach her to work and to make herself useful. So Ka Nam was brought up like other children, and taught to work and to make herself useful. One day, as she was taking her pitcher to the well, a big tiger came out of the forest and carried her to his lair. She was terrified almost to death, for she knew that the tigers were the most cruel of all beasts. The name of this tiger was U Khla, and his purpose in carrying off the maiden was to eat her, but when he saw how young and small she was, and that she would not suffice for one full meal for him, he decided to keep her in his lair until she grew bigger. He took great care of her and brought home to her many delicacies which her parents had never been able to afford, and as she never suspected the cruel designs of the tiger, she soon grew to feel quite at home and contented in the wild beast's den, and she grew up to be a maiden of unparalleled loveliness. The tiger was only waiting his opportunity, and when he saw that she had grown up he determined to kill her, for he was longing to eat the beautiful damsel whom he had fed with such care. One day, as he busied himself about his lair, he began to mutter to himself: "Now the time has come when I can repay myself for all my trouble in feeding this human child; to-morrow I will invite all my fellow-tigers here and we will feast upon the maiden." It happened that a little mouse was foraging near the den at that time and she overheard the tiger muttering to himself. She was very sorry for the maiden, for she knew that she was alone and friendless and entirely at the mercy of the tiger; so the little mouse went and told the maiden that the tigers were going to kill her and eat her on the following day. Ka Nam was in great distress and wept very bitterly. She begged of the mouse to help her to escape, and the mouse, having a tender heart, gave her what aid was in her power. In the first place she told the maiden to go out of the den and to seek the cave of the magician, U Hynroh, the Giant Toad, to whom the realm was under tribute. He was a peevish and exacting monster from whom every one recoiled, and Ka Nam would have been terrified to approach him under ordinary conditions, but the peril which faced her gave her courage, and under the guidance of the mouse she went to the toad's cave. When he saw her and beheld how fair she was, and learned how she had been the captive of his old rival the tiger, he readily consented to give her his protection; so he clothed her in a toadskin, warning her not to divest herself of it in the presence of others on pain of death. This he did in order to keep the maiden in his own custody and to make her his slave. When the mouse saw that her beautiful friend had been transformed into the likeness of a hideous toad she was very sorrowful, and regretted having sent her to seek the protection of U Hynroh, for she knew that as long as she remained in the jungle Ka Nam would be henceforth forced to live with the toads and to be their slave. So she led her away secretly and brought her to the magic tree which was in that jungle, and told the maiden to climb into the tree that she might be transported to the sky, where she would be safe from harm for ever. So the maid climbed into the magic tree and spoke the magic words taught her by the mouse: "Grow tall, dear tree, the sky is near, expand and grow." Upon which the tree began to expand upwards till its branches touched the sky, and then the maiden alighted in the Blue Realm and the tree immediately dwindled to its former size. By and by the tiger and his friends arrived at the den, ravenous for their feast, and when he found that his prey had disappeared his disappointment and anger knew no bounds and were terrible to witness. He uttered loud threats for vengeance on whoever had connived at the escape of his captive, and his roars were so loud that the animals in the jungle trembled with fear. His fellow-tigers also became enraged when they understood that they had been deprived of their feast, and they turned on U Khla and in their fury tore him to death. Meanwhile Ka Nam wandered homeless in the Blue Realm, clothed in the toadskin. Every one there lived in palaces and splendour, and they refused to admit the loathsome, venomous-looking toad within their portals, while she, mindful of the warning of U Hynroh, the magician, feared to uncover herself. At last she appeared before the palace of Ka Sngi, the Sun, who, ever gracious and tender, took pity on her and permitted her to live in a small outhouse near the palace. One day, thinking herself to be unobserved, the maid put aside her covering of toadskin and sat to rest awhile in her small room, but before going abroad she carefully wrapped herself in the skin as before. She was accidentally seen by the son of Ka Sngi, who was a very noble youth. He was astonished beyond words to find a maiden of such rare beauty hiding herself beneath a hideous toadskin and living in his mother's outhouse, and he marvelled what evil spell had caused her to assume such a loathsome covering. Her beauty enthralled him and he fell deeply in love with her. He hastened to make his strange discovery known to his mother, and entreated her to lodge the maiden without delay in the palace and to let her become his wife. Ka Sngi, having the experience and foresight of age, determined to wait before acceding to the request of her young and impetuous son until she herself had ascertained whether a maid such as her son described really existed beneath the toadskin, or he had been deluded by some evil enchantment into imagining that he had seen a maiden in the outhouse. So Ka Sngi set herself to watch the movements of the toad in the outhouse, and one day, to her surprise and satisfaction, she beheld the maiden uncovered, and was astonished at her marvellous beauty and pleasing appearance. But she did not want her son to rush into an alliance with an enchanted maiden, so she gave him a command that he should not go near or speak to the maid until the toadskin had been destroyed and the evil spell upon her broken. Once again Ka Sngi set herself to watch the movements of the toad, and one day her vigilance was rewarded by discovering Ka Nam asleep with the toadskin cast aside. Ka Sngi crept stealthily and seized the toadskin and burned it to ashes. Henceforth the maiden appeared in her own natural form, and lived very happily as the wife of Ka Sngi's son, released for ever from the spell of the Giant Toad. There was an old feud between U Hynroh and Ka Sngi because she refused to pay him tribute, and when he learned that she had wilfully destroyed the magic skin in which he had wrapped the maiden, his anger was kindled against Ka Sngi, and he climbed up to the Blue Realm to devour her. She bravely withstood him, and a fierce struggle ensued which was witnessed by the whole universe. When mankind saw the conflict they became silent, subdued with apprehension lest the cruel monster should conquer their benefactress. They uttered loud cries and began to beat mournfully on their drums till the world was full of sound and clamour. Like all bullies, U Hynroh was a real coward at heart, and when he heard the noise of drums and shouting on the earth, his heart melted within him with fear, for he thought it was the tramp of an advancing army coming to give him battle. He quickly released his hold upon Ka Sngi and retreated with all speed from the Blue Realm. Thus mankind were the unconscious deliverers of their noble benefactress from the hand of her cruel oppressor. U Hynroh continues to make periodical attacks on the sun to this day, and in many countries people call the attacks "Eclipses," but the Ancient Khasis, who saw the great conflict, knew it to be the Giant Toad, the great cannibal, trying to devour Ka Sngi. He endeavours to launch his attacks when the death of some great personage in the world is impending, hoping to catch mankind too preoccupied to come to the rescue. Throughout the whole of Khasi-land to this day it is the custom to beat drums and to raise a loud din whenever there is an eclipse. II THE LEGEND OF MOUNT SOPHET BNENG Sophet Bneng is a bare dome-like hill, about thirteen miles to the north of Shillong, and not far from the Shillong-Gauhati highroad to the East, from which it is plainly visible. Its name signifies the centre of heaven. From the time of the creation of the world a tall tree, reaching to the sky, grew on the top of this hill, and was used by the heavenly beings as a ladder to ascend and descend between heaven and earth. At that time the earth was uninhabited, but all manner of trees and flowers grew in abundance, so that it was a very beautiful and desirable place, and they of heaven frequently came down to roam and to take their pleasure upon it. When they found that the land in the neighbourhood of Sophet Bneng was fertile and goodly, they began to cultivate it for profit, but they never stayed overnight on the earth; they ascended to heaven, according to the decree. Altogether sixteen families followed the pastime of cultivating the land upon the earth. Among the heavenly beings there was one who greatly coveted power, and was unwilling to remain the subject of his Creator, and aspired to rule over his brethren. He was constantly seeking for opportunities whereby to realise his ambitions. One day it happened that seven families only of the cultivators chose to descend to the earth, the other nine remaining in heaven that day. When they were busy at work in their fields, the ambitious one covertly left his brethren, and, taking his axe secretly, he cut down the tree of communication, so that the seven families could not return to their heavenly home. Thus it was that mankind came to live on the earth, and it is from these seven families--called by the Khasis "Ki Hinniew Skum" (the seven nests, or the seven roots)--who descended from heaven on that fatal day that all the nations of the earth have sprung. III HOW THE PEACOCK GOT HIS BEAUTIFUL FEATHERS When the world was young and when all the animals spoke the language of mankind, the peacock, U Klew, was but an ordinary grey-feathered bird without any pretensions to beauty. But, even in those days, he was much given to pride and vanity, and strutted about with all the majesty of royalty, just because his tuft was more erect than the tuft of other birds and because his tail was longer and was carried with more grace than the tails of any of his companions. He was a very unaccommodating neighbour. His tail was so big and unwieldy that he could not enter the houses of the more lowly birds, so he always attended the courts of the great, and was entertained by one or other of the wealthy birds at times of festivals in the jungle. This increased his high opinion of himself and added to his self-importance. He became so haughty and overbearing that he was cordially disliked by his neighbours, who endeavoured to repay him by playing many a jest at his expense. They used to flatter him, pretending that they held him in very high esteem, simply for the amusement of seeing him swelling his chest and hearing him boast. One day they pretended that a great Durbar of the birds had been held to select an ambassador to carry the greetings of the jungle birds to the beautiful maiden Ka Sngi, who ruled in the Blue Realm and poured her bright light so generously on their world, and that U Klew had been chosen for this great honour. The peacock was very elated and became more swaggering than ever, and talked of his coming visit with great boastings, saying that not only was he going as the ambassador from the birds, but he was going in his own interests as well, and that he would woo and win the royal maiden for his wife and live with her in the Blue Realm. The birds enjoyed much secret fun at his expense, none of them dreaming that he would be foolish enough to make the attempt to fly so far, for he was such a heavy-bodied bird and had never flown higher than a tree-top. But much to the surprise of every one, the peacock expressed his intention of starting to the Blue Realm and bade his friends good-bye, they laughing among themselves, thinking how ridiculous he was making himself, and how angry he would be when he found how he had been duped. Contrary to their expectations, however, U Klew continued his flight upwards till they lost sight of him, and they marvelled and became afraid, not knowing to what danger their jest might drive him. Strong on the wing, U Klew soared higher and higher, never halting till he reached the sky and alighted at the palace of Ka Sngi, the most beautiful of all maidens and the most good. Now Ka Sngi was destined to live alone in her grand palace, and her heart often yearned for companionship. When she saw that a stranger had alighted at her gates she rejoiced greatly, and hastened to receive him with courtesy and welcome. When she learned the errand upon which he had come, she was still happier, for she thought, "I shall never pine for companionship again, for this noble bird will always live with me"; and she smiled upon the world and was glad. When U Klew left the earth and entered the realm of light and sunshine, he did not cast from him his selfish and conceited nature, but rather his selfishness and conceit grew more pronounced as his comforts and luxuries increased. Seeing the eager welcome extended to him by the beautiful maiden, he became more uplifted and exacting than ever and demanded all sorts of services at her hands; he grew surly and cross unless she was always in attendance upon him. Ka Sngi, on the other hand, was noble and generous and delighted to render kindnesses to others. She loved to shine upon the world and to see it responding to her warmth and her smiles. To her mate, U Klew, she gave unstinted attention and waited upon him with unparalleled love and devotion, which he received with cold indifference, considering that all this attention was due to his own personal greatness, rather than to the gracious and unselfish devotion of his consort. In former times Ka Sngi had found one of the chief outlets for her munificence in shedding her warm rays upon the earth; but after the coming of U Klew her time became so absorbed by him that she was no longer able to leave her palace, so the earth became cold and dreary, and the birds in the jungle became cheerless, their feathers drooped, and their songs ceased. U Slap, the rain, came and pelted their cosy nests without mercy, causing their young ones to die; U Lyoh, the mist, brought his dark clouds and hung them over the rice fields so that no grain ripened; and Ka Eriong, the storm, shook the trees, destroying all the fruit, so that the birds wandered about homeless and without food. In their great misery they sought counsel of mankind, whom they knew to be wiser than any of the animals. By means of divinations mankind ascertained that all these misfortunes were due to the presence of U Klew in the Blue Realm, for his selfish disposition prevented Ka Sngi from bestowing her light and her smiles upon the world as in former times; and there was no hope for prosperity until U Klew could be lured back to jungle-land. In those days there lived in the jungle a cunning woman whose name was Ka Sabuit. Acting on the advice of mankind, the birds invoked her aid to encompass the return of the peacock from the Blue Realm. At that time Ka Sabuit was very destitute, owing to the great famine; she had nothing to eat except some wild roots and no seed to sow in her garden except one gourdful of mustard seeds--the cheapest and most common of all seeds--and even this she was afraid to sow lest the hungry birds should come and devour it and leave her without a grain. When the birds came to seek counsel of her she was very pleased, hoping that she could by some design force them to promise not to rob her garden. After they had explained to her their trouble, she undertook to bring U Klew back to the jungle within thirteen moons on two conditions: one, that the birds should refrain from picking the seeds from her garden; the other, that they should torment the animals if they came to eat her crops or to trample on her land. These appeared such easy terms that the birds readily agreed to them. The garden of the cunning woman was in an open part of the jungle and could be seen from many of the hill-tops around, and in past days the sun used to shine upon it from morning till night. Thither Ka Sabuit wended her way after the interview with the birds, and she began to dig the ground with great care and patience, bestowing much more time upon it than she had ever been known to do. Her neighbours laughed and playfully asked her if she expected a crop of precious stones to grow from her mustard seed that year that she spent so much labour upon the garden, but the elderly dame took no heed. She worked on patiently and kept her own counsel while the birds waited and watched. She shaped her mustard bed like unto the form of a woman; this provoked the mirth of her neighbours still more and incited many questions from them, but Ka Sabuit took no heed. She worked patiently on and kept her own counsel while the birds waited and watched. By and by the seeds sprouted and the plot of land shaped like a woman became covered with glistening green leaves, while the birds continued to watch and to keep the animals at bay, and the cunning woman watered and tended her garden, keeping her own counsel. In time small yellow flowers appeared on all the mustard plants, so that the plot of land shaped like a woman looked in the distance like a beautiful maiden wearing a mantle of gold that dazzled the eyes. When the neighbours saw it they wondered at the beauty of it and admired the skill of the cunning woman; but no one could understand or guess at her reason for the strange freak and Ka Sabuit threw no light on the matter. She still patiently worked on and kept her own counsel. Up in the Blue Realm U Klew continued his despotic and arrogant sway, while his gentle and noble wife spared no pains to gratify his every wish. Like all pampered people who are given all their desires, the peacock became fretful and more and more difficult to please, tiring of every diversion, and ever seeking some new source of indulgence, till at last nothing seemed to satisfy him; even the splendours and magnificence of the palace of Ka Sngi began to pall. Now and then memories of his old home and old associates came to disturb his mind, and he often wondered to himself what had been the fate of his old playmates in jungle-land. One day he wandered forth from the precincts of the palace to view his old haunts, and as he recognised one familiar landmark after another his eye was suddenly arrested by the sight of (as it seemed to him) a lovely maiden dressed all in gold lying asleep in a garden in the middle of the forest where he himself had once lived. At sight of her his heart melted like water within him for the love of her. He forgot the allegiance due to his beautiful and high-born wife, Ka Sngi; he could only think of the maiden dressed all in gold, lying asleep in a jungle garden, guarded by all the birds. After this U Klew was reluctant to remain in the Blue Realm. His whole being yearned for the maiden he had seen lying asleep on the earth, and one day, to his wife's sorrow, he communicated his determination to return to his native land to seek the object of his new love. Ka Sngi became a sorrowful wife, for there is no pang so piercing to the heart of a constant woman as the pang inflicted by being forsaken by her husband. With all manner of inducements and persuasions and charms she tried to prevail upon him to keep faithful to his marriage vows, but he was heartless and obdurate; and, unmindful of all ties, he took his departure. As he went away Ka Sngi followed him, weeping, and as she wept her tears bedewed his feathers, transforming them into all the colours of the rainbow. Some large drops falling on his long tail as he flew away were turned into brilliant-hued spots, which are called "Ummat Ka Sngi" (the Sun's tears) by the Khasis to this day. Ka Sngi told him that they were given for a sign that wherever he might be and on whomsoever his affections might be bestowed, he would never be able to forget her, Ka Sngi, the most beautiful and the most devoted of wives. Thus U Klew, the peacock, came back to the jungle. The birds, when they saw his beautiful feathers, greeted him with wonder and admiration. When he informed them that he had come in quest of a lovely maiden dressed all in gold, they began to laugh, and it now became clear to them what had been the object of the cunning woman when she shaped her mustard bed like unto the shape of a woman. They invited U Klew to come and be introduced to the object of his love, and they led him forth with great ceremony to the garden of Ka Sabuit, where he beheld, not a beautiful maiden as he had imagined, but a bed of common mustard cunningly shaped. His shame and humiliation were pitiful to behold; he tried to fly back to the Blue Realm, but he was no longer able to take a long flight; so, uttering the most sad and plaintive cries, he had to resign himself to the life of the jungle for ever. Every morning, it is said, the peacock can be seen stretching forth his neck towards the sky and flapping his wings to greet the coming of Ka Sngi; and the only happiness left to him is to spread his lovely feathers to catch the beams which she once more sheds upon the earth. IV THE GODDESS WHO CAME TO LIVE WITH MANKIND (A LEGEND OF THE SHILLONG PEAK) Shillong Peak is the highest mountain in the Khasi Hills, and although it bears such a prosaic name in our days, the mountain was a place of renown in the days of the Ancient Khasis, full of romance and mystery, sacred to the spirits and to the gods. In those days the mountain itself, and the whole country to the north of it, was one vast forest, where dwelt demons and dragons, who cast evil spells and caused dire sickness to fall upon any unfortunate person who happened to spend a night in that wild forest. In the mountain there lived a god. At first the Ancients had no clear revelation about this deity; they were vaguely aware of his existence, but there was no decree that sacrifices should be offered to him. After a time there arose among the Khasis a very wise man of the name of U Shillong who was endowed with great insight to understand the mysteries, and he discovered that the god of the mountain was great and powerful, and sacrifice and reverence should be offered to him, and he taught his neighbours how to perform the rites acceptably. The name of the deity was not revealed, so the people began to call him "U 'Lei Shillong" (the god of U Shillong) after the name of the man who first paid him homage. Then gradually he came to be called "the god Shillong," and in time the mountain itself was called the mountain of Shillong, and from this is derived the name of the present town of Shillong. Possibly the god Shillong was, and remains, one of the best-known and most generally reverenced of all the Khasi gods, for even on the far hill-tops of Jaintia altars have been raised to his service and honour. Although sacrifices are being offered to him at distant shrines, the abode of the god is in the Shillong mountain, more especially in the sacred grove on the summit of the peak itself, which is such a familiar landmark in the country. Judging from tradition, this deity was regarded as a benign and benevolent being, forbearing in his attitude towards mankind, who were privileged to hunt in his forests unhindered by dangers and sicknesses, and the dances of mankind were acceptable in his sight. He frequently assisted them in their misfortunes and helped them to overcome the oppression of demons. It was he who endowed U Suidnoh with wisdom to fight and to conquer U Thlen, the great snake-god and vampire from Cherrapoonjee, and it was by his intervention that Ka Thei and her sister were delivered from the grasp of the merciless demon, U Ksuid Tynjang. Tradition also points out that this famous deity had a wife and family, and three at least of his daughters are renowned in Khasi folk-lore. One of them transformed herself into the likeness of a Khasi maiden and came to live with mankind, where she became the ancestress of a race of chiefs. Two other daughters, out of playfulness, transformed themselves into two rivers, and are with us in that form to this day. This is the story of the goddess who came to live with mankind: Many hundreds of years ago, near the place now known as Pomlakrai, there was a cave called the Cave of Marai, near to which stood a high perpendicular rock around which the youthful cow-herds of the time used to play. They gathered there from different directions, and passed the time merrily, practising archery and playing on their flutes, while keeping an eye on their herds. The rock was too high for them to attempt to climb it, and it was always spoken of as "the rock on which the foot of man never trod." On a certain day, when the lads came as usual to the familiar rendezvous, they were surprised to see, sitting on the top of the rock, a fair young girl watching them silently and wistfully. The children, being superstitious, took fright at sight of her and ran in terror to Mylliem, their village, leaving the cattle to shift for themselves. When they told their news, the whole village was roused and men quickly gathered to the public meeting-place to hold a consultation. They decided to go and see for themselves if the apparition seen by the children was a real live child, or if they had been deluded by some spell or enchantment. Under the guidance of the lads, they hurried to the place on the hill where the rock stood, and there, as the boys had stated, sat a fair and beautiful child. The clothes worn by the little girl were far richer than any worn by their own women-folk, so they judged that she belonged to some rich family, and she was altogether so lovely that the men gazed open-mouthed at her, dazzled by her beauty. Their sense of chivalry soon asserted itself, however, and they began to devise plans to rescue the maiden from her perilous position. To climb up the face of that steep rock was an impossible feat; so they called to her, but she would not answer; they made signs for her to descend, but she did not stir, and the men felt baffled and perplexed. Chief among the rescuers was a man called U Mylliem Ngap, who was remarkable for his sagacity and courage. When he saw that the child refused to be coaxed, he attributed it to her fear to venture unaided down that steep and slippery rock. So he sent some of his comrades to the jungle to cut down some bamboos, which he joined together and made into a pole long enough to reach the top of the rock. Then he beckoned to the child to take hold of it, but she sat on unmoved. By this time the day was beginning to wane, yet the child did not stir and the rescuers were growing desperate. To leave her to her fate on that impregnable rock would be little less than cold-blooded murder, for nothing but death awaited her. They began to lament loudly, as people lament when mourning for their dead, but the child sat on in the same indifferent attitude. Just then U Mylliem Ngap noticed a tuft of wild flowers growing near the cave, and he quickly gathered a bunch and fastened it to the end of the long pole and held it up to the maiden's view. The moment she saw the flowers, she gave a cry of delight and held out her hand to take them. U Mylliem Ngap promptly lowered the pole and the child moved towards it, but before she could grasp the flowers the pole was again lowered; so, little by little, step by step, as the men watched with bated breath, the little maid reached the ground in safety. U Mylliem Ngap, with general consent, constituted himself her champion. He called her "Pah Syntiew," which means "Lured by Flowers," for her name and her origin were unknown. He took her to his own home and adopted her as his own daughter, cherishing her with fondness and affection, which the child fully requited. Ka Pah Syntiew, as she grew up, fulfilled all the promises of her childhood and developed into a woman of incomparable beauty and her fame went abroad throughout the country. She was also gifted and wise beyond all the maidens of the neighbourhood, and was the chosen leader at all the Khasi dances and festivals. She taught the Khasi girls to dance and to sing, and it was she who instituted the Virgins' Dance, which remains popular to this day among the Khasis. Her foster-father, seeing she possessed so much discretion and wisdom, used to consult her in all his perplexities and seek her advice in all matters pertaining to the ruling of the village. She displayed such tact and judgement that people from other villages brought their disputes to her to be settled, and she was acknowledged to be wiser and more just than any ruler in the country, and they began to call her "Ka Siem" (the Chiefess, or the Queen). When she came of age, U Mylliem Ngap gave her in marriage to a man of prowess and worth, who is mentioned in Khasi lore as "U Kongor Nongjri." She became the mother of many sons and daughters, who were all noble and comely. After her children had grown up, Ka Pah Syntiew called them all to her one day and revealed to them the secret of her birth. She was the daughter of U 'Lei Shillong, the mountain god, permitted by her father to dwell for a period among mankind, and at last the time was at hand for her to return to her native element. Not long after this Ka Pah Syntiew walked away in the direction of the cave of Marai, and no one dared to accompany her, for it was realised that her hour of departure had come. From that day she disappeared from mortal ken. Her descendants are known to this day as two of the leading families of Khasi chiefs, or Siems, and in common parlance these two families, those of Khairim and Mylliem, are still called "the Siems (the Chiefs) of Shillong," or "the Siems of the god." V THE FORMATION OF THE EARTH When the earth was created, it was one great plain, full of vast forests and smooth rivers. Then it happened that the mother of the three goddesses, Ka Ding, Ka Um, and Ka Sngi, died while wandering abroad one day on the earth. These goddesses are Fire, Water, and the Sun. It became necessary for the daughters to discover some means whereby their mother's body could be put away out of their sight and not be left exposed on the face of the earth. According to the decree, it was decided that Ka Sngi, being the youngest, should perform the rites of destroying the body; so Ka Sngi went out in all her strength, and put forth great heat till the rivers were dried up and all the leaves of the forest and the grass withered, but the body of the mother was not consumed. So Ka Sngi returned to her sisters and said, "I have exhausted all my powers, but our mother's body still lies on the face of the earth in our sight." After this the next sister, Ka Um, undertook to perform the rites, and she went forth with a great company of clouds, and poured incessant rain upon the earth till the rivers and pools were all flooded, but her mother's body was not destroyed. So Ka Um also returned to her sisters and said, "I have exhausted all my powers, but the body of our mother still lies on the face of the earth in our sight." Thus it remained for the elder sister, Ka Ding, to undertake to do the necessary rites, and she spread forth great flames which swept over the forests and caused the earth to burn and to crumble till the vast plain lost its contour and the body of the mother was consumed. Ever since then the earth has remained as the fire left it, full of mountains and valleys and gorges. It became a much more beautiful place, and in time mankind came here from heaven to dwell. VI THE LEGEND OF U RAITONG, THE KHASI ORPHEUS A few miles to the north of Shillong, the chief town of the Province of Assam, there is a fertile and pleasant hill known as the Hill of Raitong, which is one of the most famous spots in ancient folk-lore, and for which is claimed the distinction of being the place where the custom of suttee--wife-sacrifice of the Hindus--originated. The legend runs as follows: Many ages ago there lived a great Siem (Chief) who ruled over large territories and whose sceptre swayed many tribes and clans of people. As befitted such a great Siem, his consort, the Mahadei, was a woman of great beauty: her figure was erect and lissom and all her movements easy and graceful as the motion of the palms in the summer breeze; her hair was long and flowing, enfolding her like a wreathing cloud; her teeth were even as the rims of a cowrie; her lips were red as the precious coral and fragrant as the flower of Lasubon; and her face was fair like unto the face of a goddess. Strange to relate, the names of this famous royal couple have not been transmitted to posterity. It came to pass that affairs of the State necessitated the absence of the Siem from home for a protracted period. He appointed deputies to govern the village and to control his household during the interval, while the Mahadei, who was unto him as the apple of his eye, was placed under the joint guardianship of her own and his own family. When he had made all satisfactory arrangements he took his departure and went on his long journey accompanied by the good wishes of his people. Among the subjects of the Siem was a poor beggar lad, who was looked upon as being half-witted, for he spent his days roaming about the village clothed in filthy rags, his head and face covered with ashes like a wandering fakir. He never conversed with any of the villagers, but kept muttering to himself incessantly, lamenting his own forlorn and friendless condition. His name was U Raitong. Formerly he had been a happy and well-cared-for lad, surrounded and loved by many relatives and kindred, until a terrible epidemic swept through the village and carried away all his family and left him orphaned and alone, without sustenance and without a relative to stand by his bedside in time of sickness or to perform the funeral rites over his body when he died. Overwhelmed by grief and sorrow, U Raitong vowed a rash vow that all the days of his life should be spent in mourning the death of his kindred; thus it was that he walked about the village lamenting to himself and wearing ragged clothes. His neighbours, not knowing about the vow, thought that sorrow had turned his head, so they treated him as an idiot and pitied him and gave him alms. His condition was so wretched and his clothes so tattered that he became a proverb in the country, and to this day, when the Khasis wish to describe one fallen into extreme poverty and wretchedness, they say, "as poor as U Raitong." At night time, however, U Raitong considered himself free from the obligations of his rash vow, and when he retired to his rickety cabin on the outskirts of the village he divested himself of his rags and arrayed himself in fine garments, and would play for hours on his sharati (flute), a bamboo instrument much in vogue among the Khasis to this day. He was a born musician, and constant practice had made him an accomplished player, and never did flute give forth sweeter and richer music than did the sharati of U Raitong as he played by stealth in the hours of the night when all the village was asleep. The melodies he composed were so enthralling that he often became oblivious to all his surroundings and abandoned himself to the charms of his own subtle music. His body swayed and trembled with pure joy and delight as he gave forth strain after strain from his sharati; yet so cautious was he that none of his neighbours suspected that he possessed any gifts, for he feared to let it be known lest it should interfere with the performance of his vow. It happened one night that the Mahadei was restless and unable to sleep, and as she lay awake she heard the faint strains of the most sweet music wafted on the air. She imagined that it was coming from the fairies who were said to inhabit certain parts of the forest, and she listened enraptured until the sounds ceased. When it stopped, a feeling of great loneliness came over her, so overawing that she could not summon enough courage to speak about the strange music she had heard. She went about her household duties with her thoughts far away and longing for the night to come in the hope that the music would be wafted to her again. The following night, and for many successive nights, the Mahadei lay awake to listen, and was always rewarded by hearing the soft sweet strains of some musical instrument floating on the air till she imagined the room to be full of some beautiful beings singing the sweetest melodies that human ears ever heard. When it ceased, as it always did before daybreak, the feeling of desolation was intense, till her whole mind became absorbed with thoughts of the mysterious music. The fascination grew until at last it became overpowering and she could no longer resist the desire to know whence the sounds proceeded. She crept stealthily from her room one night, and following the direction of the strains, she walked through the village and was surprised to find that the music emerged from the dilapidated hut of U Raitong. The heart of the Mahadei was touched, for she thought that the fairies in tenderness and pity came to cheer and to comfort the poor idiot with their music, and she stood there to listen. The strains which she could hear but faintly in her own room now broke upon her in all their fulness and richness till her whole being was ravished by them. Before dawn the sounds suddenly ceased, and the Mahadei retraced her steps stealthily and crept back to her room without being observed by any one. After this she stole out of her house every night and went to listen to what she believed to be fairy-music outside the hut of U Raitong. One night, when the power of the music was stronger than usual, the Mahadei drew near and peeped through a crevice in the door, and to her astonishment, instead of the fairies she had pictured, she saw that it was U Raitong, the supposed idiot, who was playing on his sharati, but a Raitong so changed from the one she had been accustomed to see about the village that she could scarcely believe her own eyes. He was well and tastefully dressed and his face was alight with joy, while his body moved with graceful motions as he swayed with rapture in harmony with the rhythm of his wild music. She stood spellbound, as much moved by the sight that met her eyes as she had been by the charm of the music, and, forgetful of her marriage vows and her duty to her absent husband, she fell deeply and irrevocably in love with U Raitong. Time passed, and the Mahadei continued to visit the hut of U Raitong by stealth, drawn by her passionate love for him even more than by the fascination of his sharati. At first U Raitong was unaware that he was being spied upon, but when he discovered the Mahadei in his hut, he was greatly troubled, and tried to reason with her against coming with as much sternness as was becoming in one of his class to show to one so much above him in rank. But she overruled all his scruples, and before long the intensity of her love for him and the beauty of her person awoke similar feelings in him and he fell a victim to her wicked and unbridled passion. The months rolled on and the time for the return of the Siem was advancing apace. People began to discuss the preparations for celebrating his return, and every one evinced the most lively interest except the Mahadei. It was noticed that she, the most interested person of all, appeared the most unconcerned, and people marvelled to see her so cold and indifferent; but one day the reason became clear when it was announced that a son had been born to the Mahadei and that her guardians had locked her up in one of the rooms of the court, pending the arrival of the Siem. She offered no resistance and put forward no justification, but when questioned as to the identity of her child's father she remained resolutely silent. When the Siem arrived and heard of his wife's infidelity he was bowed down with shame and grief, and vowed that he would enforce the extreme penalty of the law on the man who had sullied her honour, but neither persuasion nor coercion could extract from the Mahadei his name. It was necessary for the well-being of the State, as well as for the satisfaction of the Siem, that the culprit should be found; so the Siem sent a mandate throughout his territory calling upon all the male population, on penalty of death, to attend a great State Durbar, when the Siem and his ministers would sit in judgement to discover the father of the child of the faithless Mahadei. Never in the history of Durbars was seen such a multitude gathered together as was seen on that day when all the men, both young and old, appeared before the Siem to pass through the test laid down by him. When all had assembled, the Siem ordered a mat to be brought and placed in the centre and the babe laid upon it; after which he commanded every man to walk round the mat in procession and, as he passed, to offer a plantain to the child, inasmuch as it was believed that the instincts of the babe would lead him to accept a plantain from the hand of his own father and from no other. The long procession filed past one by one, but the babe gave no sign, and the Siem and his ministers were baffled and perplexed. They demanded to know what man had absented himself, but when the roll was called the number was complete. Some one in the throng shouted the name of U Raitong, at which many laughed, for no one deemed him to be sane; other voices said mockingly, "Send for him"; others said "Why trouble about such a witless creature? He is but as a dog or a rat." Thus the Durbar was divided, but the ministers, unwilling to pass over even the most hapless, decided to send for him and to put him through the test like the other men. When the Siem's messengers arrived at the hut they found U Raitong just as usual, dressed in filthy rags and muttering to himself, his face covered with ashes. He arose immediately and followed the men to the place of Durbar, and as he came people pitied him, for he looked so sad and forlorn and defenceless that it seemed a shame to put such an one through the test. A plantain was put into his hand and he was told to walk past the mat. As soon as the babe saw him he began to crow with delight and held out his hands for the plantain, but he took no notice of the well-dressed people who crowded round. There was a loud commotion when the secret was discovered, and the Siem looked ashamed and humiliated to find that one so unseemly and poor was proved to be the lover of his beautiful wife. The assembly were awed at the spectacle, and many of them raised their voices in thanksgiving to the deity whom they considered to have directed the course of events and brought the guilty to judgement. The Siem commanded his ministers to pronounce judgement, and they with one accord proclaimed that he should be burned to death, without the performance of any rites and that no hand should gather his bones for burial. In this decision all the throng acquiesced, for such was the law and the decree. U Raitong received the verdict with indifference as one who had long known and become reconciled to his fate, but he asked one boon, and that was permission to build his own pyre and play a dirge for himself. The Siem and the people were astonished to hear him speak in clear tones instead of the blubbering manner in which he had always been known to speak. Nobody raised an objection to his request, so he received permission to build his own pyre and to play his own dirge. Accordingly on the morrow U Raitong arose early and gathered a great pile of dry firewood and laid it carefully till the pyre was larger than the pyres built for the cremation of Siems and the great ones of the land. After finishing the pyre he returned to his lonely hut and divested himself of his filthy rags and arrayed himself in the fine garments which he used to wear in the hours of the night when he abandoned himself to music; he then took his sharati in his hand and sallied forth to his terrible doom. As he marched towards the pyre he played on his sharati, and the sound of his dirge was carried by the air to every dwelling in the village, and so beautiful was it and so enchanting, so full of wild pathos and woe, that it stirred every heart. People flocked after him, wondering at the changed appearance of U Raitong and fascinated by the marvellous and mysterious music such as they had never before heard, which arrested and charmed every ear. When the procession reached the pyre, U Raitong stooped and lighted the dry logs without a shudder or a delay. Then once more he began to play on his sharati and marched three times around the pyre, and as he marched he played such doleful and mournful melodies that his hearers raised their voices in a loud wail in sympathy, so that the wailing and the mourning at the pyre of the unfortunate U Raitong was more sincere and impressive than the mourning made for the greatest men in the country. At the end of his third round U Raitong suddenly stopped his music, planted his sharati point downward in the earth, and leaped upon the burning pyre and perished. While these events were taking place outside, the Mahadei remained a close prisoner in her room, and no whisper of what was transpiring was allowed to reach her. But her heart was heavy with apprehension for her lover, and when she heard the notes of a sharati she knew it could be none other than U Raitong, and that the secret had been discovered and that he was being sent to his doom. As before, the notes of the sharati seemed to call her irresistibly, and with almost superhuman strength she burst open the door of her prison. Great as was her excitement and her desire to get away, she took precautions to cover her escape. Seeing a string of cowries with which her child had been playing, she hastily fastened them to the feet of a kitten that was in the room, so that whenever the kitten moved the noise of the cowries jingling on the floor of the room would lead those outside to think that it was the Mahadei herself still moving about; then she sped forth to the hill in the direction of the sound of the sharati and the wailing. When she arrived at the pyre, U Raitong had just taken his fatal leap. She pushed her way resolutely through the dense and wailing crowd, and before any one could anticipate her action she too had leaped into the flaming furnace to die by the side of her lover. The Siem alone of all the people in the village had withstood the fascination of the dirge. He sat in his chamber morose and outraged, brooding on his calamity. Just when the Mahadei was leaping into the flames a strange thing happened in the Siem's chamber--the head-cloth (tapmoh) of his wife was blown in a mysterious manner so that it fell at his feet although there was not enough breeze to cause a leaf to rustle. When the Siem saw it he said, "By this token my wife must be dead." Still hearing sounds coming from her room, he tried to take no heed of the omen. The foreboding, however, grew so strong that he got up to investigate, and when he opened the door of the room where the Mahadei had been imprisoned he found it empty, save for a kitten with a string of cowries fastened to its feet. He knew instinctively whither she had gone, and in the hope of averting further scandal he hurried in her wake towards the pyre on the hill, but he was too late. When he arrived on the scene he found only her charred remains. The news of the unparalleled devotion of the Mahadei to her lover spread abroad throughout the land and stirred the minds of men and women in all countries. The chaste wives of India, when they heard of it, said one to another, "We must not allow the unholy passion of an unchaste woman to become more famous than the sacred love of holy matrimony. Henceforth we will offer our bodies on the altar of death, on the pyre of our husbands, to prove our devotion and fidelity." Thus originated the custom of suttee (wife-sacrifice) in many parts of India. The Khasis were so impressed by the suitability of the sharati to express sorrow and grief that they have adopted that instrument ever since to play their dirges at times of cremation. The sharati of U Raitong, which he planted in the earth as he was about to leap to his doom, took root, and a clump of bamboos grew from it, distinguishable from all other bamboos by having their branches forking downwards. It is commonly maintained to this day that there are clumps of bamboos forking downwards to be found in plenty on the Hill of Raitong. VII THE TIGER AND THE MONKEYS At the beginning of time the animals were free and living wild and unruly lives, but there were so many disputes and quarrels that they convened a council to choose a king to reign over them. With one accord they nominated the tiger to be king, not for any special wisdom or merit which he possessed, but because of his great strength, by which he would be able to subdue the turbulent beasts. Although he possessed greater strength than any of his kindred, the tiger was more ignorant of the ways and habits of his subjects than any of the animals. He was so self-absorbed that he never troubled himself to study the ways of others, and this caused him to act very foolishly at times and to make himself ridiculous, for the animals were tempted to take advantage of his great ignorance and to play tricks upon him whenever they thought they could do so undetected. This tale relates how the monkeys played a cunning trick on their king which caused mortal enmity to spring up between him and them for ever. One hot day the tiger walked abroad to take an airing, but, the sun being so hot, he turned aside to shelter under some leafy trees and there he fell asleep. Presently he awoke, and on awaking he heard coming from overhead very melodious singing to which he listened enraptured. It was the little insect, Shalymmen, chirping on a leaf, but she was so small the tiger could not see her, and, being so ignorant, he had no idea whose voice it was. He peered to the branches right and left trying to discover the singer, but he only saw a company of monkeys at play in the trees, so he began to question them who it was that was singing above him. Now the monkeys and all the jungle animals were perfectly familiar with the singing of Shalymmen and recognised the voice from afar. They thought it very contemptible in the king to be more ignorant than themselves, and one audacious young monkey, in a spirit of mischief, answered that the singer was their youngest sister. The other monkeys were perturbed when they heard their brother giving such an impudent answer, thinking that the tiger would be offended and would punish them with his great strength. They were preparing to run away when, to their amazement, they heard the tiger replying to their rash young brother in a gentle voice and with most affable manners and saying to him, "You are my brother-in-law. Your sister has the most beautiful voice in the jungle; I will make her my wife." If the predicament of the monkeys was bad at the beginning, it was doubly so now, for they felt that, things having taken such an unexpected turn, it would be impossible to conceal from the knowledge of the tiger their brother's offence. They determined, however, not to desert the young culprit, and if possible to try and rescue him, so they approached the tiger, and with much seeming courtesy and honour they put forward the excuse that their sister was very young and not yet of marriageable age. This excuse made no impression on the king, for he said: "So much the better. As she is young, I can mould her to my own ways, and bring her up according to my own views, which would not be so easy if she were fully matured." To which the monkeys replied, "Our sister is not amenable to instruction. She is indolent and fond of her own will." The tiger, however, was so lovesick that no argument had weight with him. He thought the brothers were severe in their judgement, and expressed his conviction that she could not be as slothful as they said, for she was forgoing her midday repose for the sake of making music to cheer the animals. He ordered them to come down from the trees and to lead their sister to him. After this the monkeys feared to argue further, so they pretended to agree to his commands; but they craved a boon from him, and asked for a little time to make preparations, as it would not be becoming for one of such a high degree to join himself with a poor family like theirs without their showing him adequate honour such as was due to his rank. This request the tiger granted, and it was arranged between them that he was to come and claim his bride at the time of the full moon, a week from that day, and so the tiger departed with evident goodwill. As soon as they found themselves alone the monkeys began to think out some plans by which they could meet the situation and escape exposure. They decided to call together a council of the whole tribe of monkeys, for they well foresaw that the whole tribe would be in peril if the tiger found out what they had done. So the monkeys came to hold a council, and in that council it was decided that they must continue to keep up the duplicity begun, and in order to hoodwink the tiger still further they planned to make a clay image after the fashion of a woman and to present her to the tiger as his bride. So they made preparations for a great feast, but they did not invite anybody except their own tribe to attend. During the succeeding days the monkeys busied themselves collecting clay and moulding it into an image, which they propped against a tree. They were unable to make the head of one piece with the body, so they moulded the head separately, and when it was finished they placed it loosely on the body of the image. They then proceeded to dress the image in all the finery they could procure, and they carefully covered the head and face with a veil so as to hide it from the eyes of the bridegroom. The night of the full moon arrived, and all the monkey family were assembled at the appointed place, where with much clatter and seeming joy they awaited the arrival of the tiger, though they were really very anxious about the consequences. Everything was in readiness, and the place laid out with many kinds of food, so as to lead the tiger to think that they were sincere in their welcome. He came early, very gorgeously arrayed, and carrying over his shoulder a net full of betel nut and pan leaves, and was received with loud acclamation by his prospective relatives. But the tiger hardly deigned to give them a greeting, so impatient was he to meet his bride, and he demanded to be taken to her immediately. The monkeys led him with great ceremony to the clay image, but their hearts were beating fast with fear lest he should discover their fraud. When they reached the image they said, "This is our sister. Take her and may she be worthy of the great honour you have conferred upon her." Thereupon they retired to a safe distance. When the tiger saw how finely dressed she was and how modestly she had veiled herself, he felt a little timid, for she was so much finer than the little grey monkey he had been picturing to himself. He came up to her and said deferentially, as he slung the net of betel nut round her neck: "You are the chief person at this feast, take the pan and the betel nut and divide them among the company according to custom." The bride, however, remained motionless and mute, seeing which, the tiger asked the monkeys in a displeased voice, "Why doth not your sister answer me nor obey my commands?" "She is very young," they replied, "perhaps she has fallen asleep while waiting for you; pull the string of the net and she will awaken." Upon this the tiger gave the string a sharp tug, and the loose head of the image rolled on to the floor, whereupon the monkeys, uttering the most piercing shrieks, pounced upon the tiger in a mob, declaring that he had killed their sister, and that he had only made a pretence of marrying her in order to get hold of her to kill her. A fierce and bloody fight ensued in which the tiger was nearly killed, and ever since then the tiger has feared the monkeys, and they are the only animals in the jungle that dare challenge him to fight. He never discovered their duplicity, but he learned one very effective lesson, for he has never committed the indiscretion of proposing marriage with an unknown bride since that unfortunate affair with the monkeys; while the monkeys are rejoicing in the cunning by which they saved their brother and their tribe from punishment. VIII THE LEGEND OF THE IEI TREE Some eight or ten miles to the west of the town of Shillong is seen a prominent hill range, a place much renowned in Khasi folk-lore. It is known as the Mountain of the Iei Tree, and is a very romantic spot even in the present day, although divested of its former reputed glory. Its slopes are studded with thriving villages and cultivated fields, which appear from a distance like a bit of British landscape. At its foot the river Umiam (the wailing river) curves its dolorous way to the plains, at times leaping wildly over rugged precipices, scattering its spray in the sunshine, at other times lying almost motionless in the bosom of a valley, reflecting the beauty of myriad trees in its clear depths. According to tradition, this hill, and the land around it, was the most fertile land in the world; broad acres lay under cultivation and its forests yielded the largest and most valuable timber. It was also famous for the grandeur of its scenery; fairies and nymphs were said to have their haunts in its green glades, birds of lovely hues lived there and made their nests amid flowers of sweetest scent; there happy maidens loved to roam, and there young lovers met and plighted their troth. Such was the Mountain of the Iei Tree in the days of the Ancients. On the summit of the mountain there grew a tree of fabulous dimensions--the Iei Tree--which dwarfed even the largest trees in forests. It was of a species unique, such as mankind had never known; its thick outspreading branches were so clustered with leaves that the light of the sun could not penetrate through and the earth beneath its shadow became barren and unfruitful. The fame of the tree spread abroad and people from many lands came to see it, but there were none who dared to cut a twig or to scratch its bark, as it was commonly believed that the tree was the abode of some unknown and powerful god, to offend whom would bring destruction. The Iei Tree continued to grow through many ages, and year by year its malevolent shadow spread further and further, and the area of the barren land increased season by season until at last it became a serious menace to the world, and the very existence of mankind was at stake. People could no longer live on the slopes of the mountain, cultivation became impossible for many miles around, and the one-time prosperous families had to wander abroad as homeless fugitives, fleeing from the ever-pursuing, ever-threatening shadow. The pathways and pleasant nooks whence of old had echoed the merry voices and laughter of children were now become the lurking-places of dragons and the prowling-grounds of savage beasts whither no man ventured to roam. A Durbar of all mankind was summoned to consider the situation and to devise some plan to save the world from its impending doom. After long and solemn deliberations, it was resolved to mobilise a party of the bravest and most skilled wood-cutters to go into the mountain to hew down the Iei Tree so as to admit the sunlight once more to the earth. In the course of time the wood-cutters came and entered the mountain, defying all danger and risking the possible wrath of the unknown god whom they believed to haunt the tree. When they reached the Iei Tree, they plied their axes with skill and toiled vigorously till night came on, but the wood was so hard and so tough they only succeeded in cutting a little below the bark that day. They consoled themselves, however, by reflecting that so far there had appeared no signs of anger from the unknown god forasmuch as no misfortunes had befallen them; so they retired to rest, sanguine that by perseverance their gigantic task would in time be accomplished. Next morning they returned early to their work, but, to their consternation, they saw that the incisions made by them the day before at the cost of so much labour were obliterated, leaving the trunk of the tree as solid and unscathed as before. Many of the wood-cutters were so superstitious that they feared to approach the tree again, for they were now confirmed in their fear that the place was enchanted; but when their more stoical comrades reminded them of the great peril in which mankind stood, they plucked up courage, and for another day they toiled laboriously, only to find their work obliterated next morning. As no personal harm had befallen any of them, the wood-cutters determined to continue their attack, but no matter how patiently they worked during the day, the tree would be healed up in the night. They grew more and more mystified and discouraged, and the strain of living in that weird region was becoming intolerable. At last they decided to return to their fellow-men, preferring to endure the foreseen doom of the shadowed world rather than face the unknown and mysterious terrors of the land of the Iei Tree. As they sat, gloomy and disconsolate, brooding on their defeat, a little grey bird--Ka Phreit, the Khasi wren--came, chirruping and twittering, close to the wood-cutters, and she began to talk to them, urging them to keep up their courage, as she had come to help them. Now, in spite of their spiritless condition, the woodsmen could not help laughing to hear Ka Phreit--the smallest of all the birds--so impudently offering to help them--the picked wood-cutters of the world--to cut down a tree. But when the wren saw them laughing, she chirruped and twittered still louder, and drew still nearer, and with great excitement she said, "No doubt you are great and wise, for you have been chosen for a great task. You are unable to perform it, yet when I come to offer assistance, you laugh at me. It is true that I am the smallest of all the birds, but that has not hindered me from learning the secrets of this forest, which you must also learn before you can cut down the Iei Tree." On hearing the sage words of the wren, the woodmen felt ashamed for having laughed at her, seeing that she meant nothing but goodwill towards them; so they got up and saluted her, and begged her pardon, and asked her to teach them the secret of the forest. Thus mollified, Ka Phreit informed them that the tree was not healed by any supernatural agency as they had supposed, but that it was U Khla, the big tiger, who came every night to lick the tree and to heal it, for he did not want it to be cut down, as its shadow made it possible for him to prowl for prey in safety. This news cheered the wood-cutters' hearts and they lost no time in beginning another attack on the Iei Tree, and when night fell, instead of carrying their axes home as before, they planted them in the tree edge outward. When the tiger came to lick the tree that night (all unconscious that the wren had disclosed the secret to the men), the sharp blades cut his tongue, and he fled in terror, bleeding and howling, and never more returned to hinder the work of the wood-cutters, who, now that they were able to carry on their task undisturbed, succeeded in time in cutting down the Iei Tree. Thus Ka Phreit, the smallest of all the birds, helped mankind to bring back sunshine and prosperity to the world. IX HUNTING THE STAG LAPALANG Once upon a time there lived with its dam on the Plains of Sylhet a young deer whose fame has come down through the ages in Khasi folk-lore. The story of the Stag Lapalang, as he was called, continues to fascinate generation after generation of Khasi youths, and the merry cowboys, as they sit in groups on the wild hill-sides watching their flocks, love to relate the oft-told tale and to describe what they consider the most famous hunt in history. The Stag Lapalang was the noblest young animal of his race that had ever been seen in the forest and was the pride of his mother's heart. She watched over him with a love not surpassed by the love of a human mother, keeping him jealously at her side, guarding him from all harm. As he grew older the young stag, conscious of his own matchless grace and splendid strength, began to feel dissatisfied with the narrow confines and limited scope of the forest where they lived and to weary of his mother's constant warnings and counsels. He longed to explore the world and to put his mettle to the test. His mother had been very indulgent to him all his life and had allowed him to have much of his own way, so there was no restraining him when he expressed his determination to go up to the Khasi Hills to seek begonia leaves to eat. His mother entreated and warned him, but all in vain. He insisted on going, and she watched him sorrowfully as with stately strides and lifted head he went away from his forest home. Matters went well with the Stag Lapalang at first; he found on the hills plenty of begonia leaves and delicious grass to eat, and he revelled in the freedom of the cool heights. But one day he was seen by some village boys, who immediately gave the alarm, and men soon hurried to the chase: the hunting-cry rang from village to village and echoed from crag to crag. The hunting instincts of the Khasis were roused and men poured forth from every village and hamlet. Oxen were forgotten at the plough; loads were thrown down and scattered; nothing mattered for the moment but the wild exciting chase over hill and valley. Louder sounded the hunting cry, farther it echoed from crag to crag, still wilder grew the chase. From hill to hill and from glen to glen came the hunters, with arrows and spears and staves and swords, hot in pursuit of the Stag Lapalang. He was swift, he was young, he was strong--for days he eluded his pursuers and kept them at bay; but he was only one unarmed creature against a thousand armed men. His fall was inevitable, and one day on the slopes of the Shillong mountain he was surrounded, and after a brave and desperate struggle for his life, the noble young animal died with a thousand arrows quivering in his body. The lonely mother on the Plains of Sylhet became uneasy at the delay of the return of the Stag Lapalang, and when she heard the echoes of the hunting-cry from the hills her anxiety became more than she could endure. Full of dread misgivings, she set out in quest of her wanderer, but when she reached the Khasi hills, she was told that he had been hunted to death on the slopes of Shillong, and the news broke her heart. Staggering under the weight of her sorrow, she traversed the rugged paths through the wildwoods, seeking her dead offspring, and as she went her loud heartrending cries were heard throughout the country, arresting every ear. Women, sitting on their hearths, heard it and swooned from the pain of it, and the children hid their faces in dismay; men at work in the fields heard it and bowed their heads and writhed with the anguish of it. Not a shout was raised for a signal at sight of that stricken mother, not a hand was lifted to molest her, and when the huntsmen on the slopes of Shillong heard that bitter cry their shouts of triumph froze upon their lips, and they broke their arrows in shivers. Never before was heard a lamentation so mournful, so plaintive, so full of sorrow and anguish and misery, as the lament of the mother of the Stag Lapalang as she sought him in death on the slopes of Shillong. The Ancient Khasis were so impressed by this demonstration of deep love and devotion that they felt their own manner of mourning for their dead to be very inferior and orderless, and without meaning. Henceforth they resolved that they also would mourn their departed ones in this devotional way, and many of the formulas used in Khasi lamentations in the present day are those attributed to the mother of the Stag Lapalang when she found him hunted to death on the slopes of Shillong hundreds and hundreds of years ago. X THE GODDESSES KA NGOT AND KA IAM (A LEGEND OF SHILLONG PEAK) Ka Iam and Ka Ngot, the twin daughters of the god of Shillong, were two very beautiful beings; they were lively and frolicsome, and were indulged and given much freedom by the family. Like all twins they were never happy if long separated. One day the two climbed to the top of the Shillong mountain to survey the country. In the distance they saw the woody plains of Sylhet, and they playfully challenged one another to run a race to see who would reach the plains first. Ka Ngot was more retiring and timid than her sister, and was half afraid to begin the race; Ka Iam, on the other hand, was venturesome and fearless, and had been called Ka Iam because of her noisy and turbulent disposition. Before the race she spoke very confidently of her own victory, and teased her sister on account of her timidity. After a little preparation for the journey the twins transformed themselves into two rivers and started to run their race. Ka Ngot, searching for smooth and easy places, meandered slowly, taking long circuits, and came in time to Sylhet; but not finding her sister there, she went forward to Chhatak, and on slowly towards Dewara. Seeing no sign yet of her sister, she became very anxious and turned back to seek her; and, in turning, she took a long curve which looked in the brilliant sunshine like a curved silver chain, and the Khasis living on the hill-tops, when they saw it, exclaimed with wonder: "Rupatylli, Rupatylli!" (A silver necklace, a silver necklace!) and to this day that part of the river is known as "Rupatylli." Ka Iam, full of vigour and ambition, did not linger to look for easy passages, but with a noisy rush she plunged straight in the direction of Shella, the shortest cut she could find. She soon found, however, that the road she had chosen was far more difficult to travel than she had anticipated. Large rocks impeded her path at many points, and she was obliged to spend much time in boring her way through; but she pitted her young strength against all obstacles, and in time she reached Shella and came in view of the plains, where, to her chagrin, she saw that her sister had reached the goal before her, and was coming back leisurely to meet her. It was a great humiliation, for she had boasted of her victory before the race began, but, hoping to conceal her defeat from the world, she divided herself into five streams, and in that way entered the plains, and joined her sister. The rivers are called after the two goddesses to this day, and are known as "Ka Um Ngot" and "Ka Um Iam" (the river Ngot and the river Iam). Ever since Ka Ngot won the great race she has been recognised as the greater of the two twins, and more reverence has been paid to her as a goddess. Even in the present day there are many Khasis and Syntengs who will not venture to cross the "Um Ngot" without first sacrificing to the goddess; and when, on their journeys, they happen to catch a glimpse of its waters, they salute and give a greeting of "Khublei" to the goddess Ka Ngot who won the great race. XI U BISKUROM In the beginning of time mankind were very ignorant and did their work with great trouble and labour, for they had no tools and did not understand the way to make them. The Great God saw their difficulty from heaven, and He sent one of the heavenly beings down to the earth, in the likeness of a young man, to teach them. The name of this young man was U Biskurom. He was very noble to look at, and none of the sons of mankind could compare with him; he was also very gentle and good. He taught mankind many useful crafts. From him they learned to know the value of metals and the way to smelt iron and to make tools, but mankind were very slow to learn, and liked better to muddle in their own old way than to follow the directions given them by U Biskurom, so he had to stay such a long time on the earth that he forgot the way back to heaven. He was, however, so patient and painstaking that at last they learned to make good tools and to use them. Seeing that U Biskurom excelled them in finishing his instruments, and that he could do double their work in a day, mankind took advantage of his gentleness. They used him to save trouble to themselves, and often demanded work from him that it was impossible for him to do, and when he failed to satisfy them they grew angry and abusive. One day they made a clay image and called upon U Biskurom to make it alive; when he told them that he had not learnt how to produce life, they abused him and threatened to imprison him until he complied with their request. When U Biskurom saw that they would not listen to reason, he told them that if they wanted him to impart life to their images they must let him go back to heaven to gain the necessary knowledge. Upon this mankind took counsel together what to do. Some feared that if they let him go away he would never return. Others (the majority, however) thought that as the knowledge of how to impart life would be so valuable, it was worth risking a good deal to obtain it; so mankind decided to release U Biskurom. As he had forgotten the road along which he came to the earth, it was necessary for U Biskurom to invent some means whereby he could go up to heaven; so he told mankind to twine a long piece of string and to make a strong kite on which he could ascend to the sky. So mankind twined a long string and made a strong kite, and U Biskurom rode upon it to the sky. When they said, "Perhaps if we let you go you will not come back," he told them not to let go of the string, so that if he was not allowed to come back, he could write the knowledge on the kite and send it down to them. This satisfied them and they let him go. When U Biskurom reached heaven the Great God told him that he could not go back to the earth because He had seen how mankind had ill-treated him, and because of their ingratitude and their unholy ambition to impart life. So U Biskurom wrote upon the kite and sent it down to the earth. When mankind saw the kite descending a great throng came together to read the directions for imparting life, but to their chagrin there was not one among them able to decipher the writing. They consulted together what to do, for they were very angry with U Biskurom, and they decided to send a great shout to heaven, which would cause such a volley that the concussion would kill U Biskurom. U Biskurom laughed when he saw their folly, and in order to make them still more foolish, he caused some drops of blood to fall down from heaven, and when mankind saw these drops of blood they concluded that he had been killed by the force of their great shout. Because of their ingratitude and their uplifted pride mankind have remained in great ignorance, and all the knowledge they possess is very imperfect and gained at great labour and expense. XII U THLEN, THE SNAKE-VAMPIRE U Thlen is one of the legendary Khasi gods, whose worship is limited to a few clans and families. From participation in it all right-thinking Khasis recoil with loathing and horror, inasmuch as it involves the perpetration of crimes, for this god can only be propitiated by offerings of human sacrifices, with many revolting and barbaric rites. The clans who are reputed to be the devotees and worshippers of the Thlen are regarded with aversion and fear throughout the country, and to them are attributed many kinds of atrocities, such as the kidnapping of children, murders and attempted murders, and many are the tales of hair-breadth escapes from the clutches of these miscreants, who are known as Nongshohnohs. Within quite recent times murders have been committed which are still shrouded in mystery, but which are said to have indications that the victims were killed for the purpose of Thlen sacrifice. The following folk-tale purports to give an account of the origin and propagation of U Thlen, the most remorseless and cruel of all the Khasi deities. According to tradition the Hima (state) of Cherra was, in olden times, the haunt of many famous Bleis (gods) who dominated the lives of men. These deities were said to dwell in certain localities, which in consequence came to be recognised as sacred places, and frequently to be called after the names of the Bleis. Foremost among these gods was U Mawlong Siem, and the hill where he was supposed to dwell is called after his name to the present day, and the inhabitants of certain villages still offer sacrifices to him. In common with mankind, U Mawlong Siem is described as having a family, who, also in common with mankind, took pleasure in dancing and festivity. It is said that people sometimes hear the sound of revelry and the beating of drums within the mountain, supposed to be the drums of U Mawlong Siem beaten to the accompaniment of the dancing of his children, the sound of which invariably portends the death of a Siem or some great personage. The only one of his family whose name and history have been transmitted was a daughter called Ka Kma Kharai, which signifies one that roams about in trenches or hidden nooks. She was well known in the Blei-world, and she possessed the power of assuming whatever form she pleased. She often assumed the form of a woman and mingled with mankind without anybody suspecting her identity. Many of the Bleis sought her in marriage, but U Mawlong Siem, her father, would never give his consent, lest his prestige be lowered among the Bleis. There was one suitor whom Ka Kma Kharai specially favoured. He was the god of Umwai, but her father forbade the union so sternly as to dispel all the hopes of the lovers. This so angered the young goddess that henceforth she rebelled openly against her father, and by way of retaliation she encouraged the attentions of strange and undesirable lovers. When it was discovered that she was with child, she fled from her home, fearing the wrath of her father, and put herself under the protection of her maternal uncle, who lived in the Pomdoloi cave, and was one of the famous dragons, or Yak Jakors of the country. In this cave a son was born to her, who proved to be a monster of hideous aspect, having the form of a snake and the characteristics of a vampire, who could be appeased only when fed with human blood. This monster they called U Thlen. Unlike his mother, U Thlen could not transform himself into any likeness but that of a snake, but he had power to diminish or to enlarge his size at will. Sometimes he appeared so small as to be no bigger than a string of fine thread, at other times he expanded himself to such dimensions that he could swallow a man bodily. In those days there was much intercourse between the Bleis and mankind. The latter were privileged to attend the Iew-blei--the fair of the Bleis--at Lynghingkhongkhen, the way to which passed the Pomdoloi cave, and many unwary and unprotected travellers fell a prey to the greed of U Thlen and his associates. The commonest mode by which these poor unfortunates were lured to their doom was through the blandishments of Ka Kma Kharai, who approached them in the form of a woman merchant, and dazzled them with the brilliancy of the jewelry she offered for sale. She refrained from killing her captives on occasions, but induced them by promises of riches and immunity to pledge themselves to the services of U Thlen, her son. To such as these she gave a magic ring, known in ancient lore as the Yngkuid Ring (Sati Yngkuid) which was believed to possess magic that enabled the owners of the ring to obtain all the desires of their hearts, but this magic was dormant until the owners fulfilled their obligations to U Thlen and brought him human victims to feed upon. The method by which U Yak Jakor captured his victims was to waylay lonely travellers and to club them to death. U Thlen himself, when he grew old enough, also hunted men to death, so that between the three murderers the ravages made upon mankind were becoming grievous and intolerable. Mankind sought divinations and offered sacrifices to the gods for the cessation of these atrocities, upon which a Durbar of the Bleis was called. U Mawlong Siem, who was a powerful Blei and a blood-relation of the murderers, overruled the Durbar, declaring that no authority could deprive the Bleis, or the demons, of any power they possessed, be it for good or for evil; but to mitigate the distress of mankind a decree was issued, restricting the number of people to be devoured to half the number of captives. If U Thlen captured two victims, one was to be released, if he captured ten, five were to be released. It transpired, however, that this decree helped but little to allay the sufferings of mankind, for murders continued at an appalling rate. Mankind again sought divination and took counsel together, and it was made evident that the only one who could successfully help them was U Suidnoh (the fleeting demon), an erratic and insignificant being who haunted the forest of Lait-rngew to the north of Cherra. The Khasis hitherto had never recognised him as worthy of homage, but they went to offer him sacrifices then, according to the divinations. U Suidnoh volunteered to rescue them, but affirmed that the Snake could never be overcome without the sanction of a Blei, and inasmuch as the Bleis of the Cherra Hima had already refused their aid, he urged them to go and sacrifice to U 'Lei Shillong--the god of the Shillong mountain--and to invoke his aid and win his favour. So mankind offered sacrifices to U 'Lei Shillong, and received his sanction to wage war against U Thlen. U Suidnoh, equipped in all his strength, went forth to Pomdoloi and ordered the Khasis to bring to him many fat pigs and goats. These he killed and carried regularly to feed the Thlen in the cave, and this was the manner in which he made his offering. He bored a large hole in a rock roofing the cave, so that the carcases might be passed down without being seen by U Thlen, and so he would not discover that they were not human bodies. He assumed the voice and manner of a Thlen worshipper and called out: "My uncle, I have brought my tribute, open your mouth that I may feed you." U Thlen is described as being slothful and sleepy, never rousing himself except to seek food. When he heard the call from above he would shake himself and expand to a great size, and open wide his jaws, into which the meat offering was thrust. In this way mankind had respite for a time, and the hunting of men ceased. It was evident, however, that they must resort to some other measures, for it was impossible to continue to keep up the supply of fat animals. The Khasis began to grumble at the extravagant proceedings of U Suidnoh, but he always replied to their complaints with the words, "Koit, koit," signifying that all was well. After a time he told them to hire the services of U Ramhah, the giant, to assist him in his final struggle against the vampire. When U Ramhah came he bade him build a smelting-house near the cave, and to make a pair of giant tongs, and such was the strength of U Ramhah that it only took him one day to build the smelting-house and to make the giant tongs. Next day U Suidnoh told him to heat a large piece of iron, and to bring it when it was red-hot in the big tongs to the rock on the top of the cave. When this was done U Suidnoh called out according to his custom: "My uncle, I have brought my tribute, open your mouth that I may feed you"; so the Thlen shook himself and expanded his body to a gigantic size, and opened his jaws for the offering, whereupon the red-hot iron was thrust in. Upon this there followed the most terrible contortions of the Thlen's body, as he tossed about, writhing in his death agony, till the earth shook so violently that U Suidnoh and U Ramhah swooned from the concussion. When the disturbance subsided, and they had revived, they looked into the cave and found U Thlen lying dead. U Suidnoh sounded a big drum to summon the people together, and great jubilation and dancing took place when it was announced that their enemy was dead. From that time the Khasis have offered sacrifices to U Suidnoh, and he is held in great honour. The people held a council to consider how to dispose of the body of the Thlen, and it was decided that to make their triumph complete it was better to prepare a feast and to eat the body of U Thlen, so the carcase was dragged out of the cave and was divided on a flat rock into two portions. One portion was given to the people of the plains from the East, to be cooked after their manner, the other was given to the Khasis from the hills and the West to be cooked after their manner. The marks of the axe are said to be seen on the rock to this day, and the place is called Dain Thlen (the cutting of the Thlen). The hole which was bored by U Suidnoh in the top of the cave is also said to be visible to this day. It happened that more people came to the feast from the plains than from the hills; moreover, they were accustomed to eat eels and snakes, so they considered the Thlen meat very palatable and savoury. They ate the whole of their portion and departed to their villages happily, and they were never afterwards troubled by Thlens. On the other hand the Khasis were unused to the flesh of reptiles, and they found the Thlen meat very unsavoury and strange-flavoured, so that when their feasting was done, a great portion of the meat remained uneaten. This caused no little perplexity, for it was deemed possible for the Thlen to come and reanimate the unconsumed portions of his body, so they kindled a big fire to burn all the fragments of meat to ashes, after which they gave a glad shout, believing themselves for ever safe from the ravages of U Thlen. A certain woman, whose son had neglected his duties and stayed away from the feast, was sorely troubled in her mind, fearing that some ill luck might befall him, and a curse come on the family, because her son had wilfully disregarded the feast of conquest. While helping to gather the fragments of meat for burning, she surreptitiously hid a piece in the fold of her dress to take home to her son. When she reached her house she put the meat away in a covered vessel pending her son's arrival. When the son returned he brought news of many misfortunes which he had met that day, and particularly of the loss of much money, which loss he attributed to his neglect of the important feast; but when his mother told him how she had contrived to bring him a little of the Thlen meat, he was somewhat cheered, hoping that by this participation he might be helped to retrieve his fallen fortunes. To their dismay, when they uncovered the vessel, there was no meat left, only a tiny live snake wriggling about. They were preparing to destroy it when the little snake began to speak to them in their own tongue, beseeching them not to kill him. He said he was U Thlen come back to life, and that he was there by the decrees of the Bleis to bring them good fortune for as long as they gave him harbour and tribute. It was a great temptation, coming as it did, when they had met with great losses, so, without thinking much of the consequences, they allowed the Thlen to live, harbouring it in secret without the knowledge of outsiders. When U Thlen had fully regained his vitality, he demanded human sacrifices from them, which made them shudder with horror. But U Thlen was relentless, and threatened to devour them as a family, if they did not comply with his request, and when they saw one member of the family after another beginning to languish, fear for their lives drove them to hunt their fellow-men and to murder them, to propitiate U Thlen and to keep his good favour. Gradually U Thlen cast his sway over other families also, and won them to give him tribute. As his devotees increased he reproduced himself mysteriously, so that in place of one Thlen living in a cave where everybody knew him to be, there arose many Thlens, living concealed in the houses of the Nongshohnohs who, to preserve their own safety and the goodwill of U Thlen, have become men-hunters and murderers, of whom the Khasis live in deadly fear to this day. XIII HOW THE DOG CAME TO LIVE WITH MAN In the happy olden days, when the animals lived together at peace in the forest, they used to hold fairs and markets after the manner of mankind. The most important fair of all was called "Ka Iew Luri Lura" (the Fair of Luri Lura), which was held at stated intervals in the Bhoi (forest) country. Thither gathered all the animals, each one bringing some article of merchandise, according to the decree which demanded that every animal that came to the fair should bring something to sell. No matter whether he was young or old, rich or poor, no one was to come empty-handed, for they wanted to enhance the popularity of the market. U Khla, the tiger, was appointed governor of the fair. Man was excluded from these fairs as he was looked upon as an enemy. He used to hunt the animals with his bow and arrows, so they had ceased to fraternise with him and kept out of his way. But one day the dog left his own kindred in the jungle, and became the attendant of Man. The following story tells how that came to pass. One day U Ksew, the dog, walked abroad in search of goods to sell at the fair. The other animals were thrifty and industrious, they worked to produce their merchandise, but the dog, being of an indolent nature, did not like to work, though he was very desirous to go to the fair. So, to avoid the censure of his neighbours and the punishment of the governor of the fair, he set out in search of something he could get without much labour to himself. He trudged about the country all day, inquiring at many villages, but when evening-time came he had not succeeded in purchasing any suitable goods, and he began to fear that he would have to forgo the pleasure of attending the fair after all. Just as the sun was setting he found himself on the outskirts of Saddew village, on the slopes of the Shillong Mountain, and as he sniffed the air he became aware of a strong and peculiar odour, which he guessed came from some cooked food. Being hungry after his long tramp, he pushed his way forward, following the scent till he came to a house right in the middle of the village, where he saw the family at dinner, which he noticed they were eating with evident relish. The dinner consisted of fermented Khasi beans, known as ktung rymbai, from which the strong smell emanated. The Khasis are naturally a very cordial and hospitable people, and when the good wife of the house saw the dog standing outside looking wistfully at them she invited him to partake of what food there was left in the pot. U Ksew thankfully accepted, and by reason of his great hunger he ate heartily, regardless of the strange flavour and smell of the food, and he considered the ktung rymbai very palatable. It dawned on him that here, quite by accident, he had found a novel and marketable produce to take to the fair; and it happened that the kindly family who had entertained him had a quantity of the stuff for sale which they kept in earthen jars, sealed with clay to retain its flavour. After a little palaver according to custom, a bargain was struck, and U Ksew became the owner of one good-sized jar of ktung rymbai, which he cheerfully took on his back. He made his way across the hills to Luri Lura fair, chuckling to himself as he anticipated the sensation he would create and the profits he would gain, and the praise he would win for being so enterprising. On the way he encountered many of the animals who like himself were all going to Luri Lura, and carrying merchandise on their backs to sell at the fair: to them U Ksew boasted of the wonderful food he had discovered and was bringing with him to the market in the earthen jar under the clay seal. He talked so much about it that the contents of the earthen jar became the general topic of conversation between the animals, for never had such an article been known at Luri Lura. When he arrived at the fair the dog walked in with great consequence, and installed himself and his earthen jar in the most central place with much clatter and ostentation. Then he began to shout at the top of his voice, "Come and buy my good food," and what with his boastings on the road and the noise he made at the fair, a very large company gathered round him, stretching their necks to have a glimpse at the strange-looking jar, and burning with curiosity to see the much-advertised contents. U Ksew, with great importance, proceeded to uncover the jar; but as soon as he broke the clay seal a puff of the most unsavoury and foetid odour issued forth and drove all the animals scrambling to a safe distance, much to the dog's discomfiture and the merriment of the crowd. They hooted and jeered, and made all sorts of disparaging remarks till U Ksew felt himself covered with shame. The stag pushed forward, and to show his disdain he contemptuously kicked the earthen jar till it broke. This increased the laughter and the jeering, and more of the animals came forward, and they began to trample the ktung rymbai in the mud, taking no notice of the protestations of U Ksew, who felt himself very unjustly treated. He went to U Khla, the governor of the fair, to ask for redress, but here again he was met with ridicule and scorn, and told that he deserved all the treatment he had received for filling the market-place with such a stench. At last U Ksew's patience wore out, he grew snappish and angry, and with loud barks and snarls he began to curse the animals with many curses, threatening to be avenged upon them all some day. At the time no one heeded his curses and threats, for the dog was but a contemptible animal in their estimation, and it was not thought possible for him to work much harm. Yet even on that day a part of his curse came true, for the animals found to their dismay that the smell of the ktung rymbai clung to their paws and their hoofs, and could not be obliterated; so the laughter was not all on their side. Humiliated and angry, the dog determined to leave the fair and the forest and his own tribe, and to seek more congenial surroundings; so he went away from Luri Lura, never to return, and came once more to Saddew village, to the house of the family from whom he had bought the offending food. When the master of the house heard the story of the ill-treatment he had suffered from the animals, he pitied U Ksew, and he also considered that the insults touched himself as well as the dog, inasmuch as it was he who had prepared and sold the ktung rymbai. So he spoke consolingly to U Ksew and patted his head and told him to remain in the village with him, and that he would protect him and help him to avenge his wrongs upon the animals. After the coming of the dog, Man became a very successful hunter, for the dog, who always accompanied him when he went out to hunt, was able to follow the trail of the animals by the smell of the ktung rymbai, which adhered to their feet. Thus the animals lived to rue the day when they played their foolish pranks on U Ksew and his earthen jar at the fair of Luri Lura. Man, having other occupations, could not always go abroad to the jungle to hunt; so in order to secure a supply of meat for himself during the non-hunting seasons he tamed pigs and kept them at hand in the village. When the dog came he shared the dwelling and the meals of the pig, U Sniang; they spent their days in idleness, living on the bounty of Man. One evening, as Man was returning from his field, tired with the day's toil, he noticed the two idle animals and he said to himself--"It is very foolish of me to do all the hard work myself while these two well-fed creatures are lying idle. They ought to take a turn at doing some work for their food." The following morning Man commanded the two animals to go to the field to plough in his stead. When they arrived there U Sniang, in obedience to his master's orders, began to dig with his snout, and by nightfall had managed to furrow quite a large patch of the field; but U Ksew, according to his indolent habits, did no work at all. He lay in the shade all day, or amused himself by snapping at the flies. In the evening, when it was time to go home, he would start running backwards and forwards over the furrows, much to the annoyance of the pig. The same thing happened for many days in succession, till the patience of the pig was exhausted, and on their return from the field one evening he went and informed their master of the conduct of the dog, how he was idling the whole day and leaving all the work for him to do. The master was loth to believe these charges against U Ksew, whom he had found such an active and willing helper in the chase: he therefore determined to go and examine the field. When he came there he found only a few of the footprints of the pig, while those of the dog were all over the furrows. He at once concluded that U Sniang had falsely charged his friend, and he was exceedingly wroth with him. When he came home, Man called the two animals to him, and he spoke very angrily to U Sniang, and told him that henceforth he would have to live in a little sty by himself, and to eat only the refuse from Man's table and other common food, as a punishment for making false charges against his friend; but the dog would be privileged to live in the house with his master, and to share the food of his master's family. Thus it was that the dog came to live with Man. XIV THE ORIGIN OF BETEL AND TOBACCO Long, long ago two boys lived in a village on the slopes of the hills, who were very fond of one another and were inseparable companions. The name of one was U Riwbha; he was the son of one of the wealthiest men in the country. The other was called U Baduk, who belonged to one of the lowly families; but the difference in station was no barrier to the affection of the children for one another. Every day they sought one another out, and together they roamed abroad in the fields and the forests, learning to know the birds and the flowers; together they learned to swim in the rivers, together they learned to use the bow and arrow, and to play on the flute. They loved the same pastimes and knew the same friends. As they grew up they were not able to spend so much time together. U Riwbha had to overlook his father's property, which involved many days' absence from the village; while U Baduk went every day to labour in the fields to earn his own rice and to help his parents, who were poor. But the old friendship remained as firm as ever between the two young men, they trusted one another fully, and the one kept no secrets from the other. In the course of time they took to themselves wives and became the heads of families. U Riwbha's wife, like himself, belonged to one of the wealthy families, so that by his marriage his influence in the village increased, and he became very rich and prosperous. U Baduk also married into his own class and went to live in a distant village, but he never gathered riches like his friend; nevertheless he was very happy. He had a good and thrifty wife, and side by side they daily toiled in the fields to supply their simple wants as a family. Thus circumstances kept the two friends apart, for they seldom met. The old regard was not in the least abated by absence, rather the bond seemed to be drawn closer and closer as the years went by. Occasionally U Baduk journeyed to his native village to see his people and friends, and on these occasions nowhere was he made more welcome than in the house of his friend U Riwbha, who insisted upon his spending the greater part of his time with him, and partaking of many sumptuous meals at his house. Thus the two old comrades renewed their intimacy and affection. On his return home from one such visit U Baduk's wife told him that their neighbours had been talking a great deal and making disparaging remarks about the intimacy between them and their wealthy friend, hinting that no such friendship existed, that it was only U Baduk's boast that he had rich friends in his own village. If there were such an intimacy as he pretended, why had his rich friend never come to see them when U Baduk was constantly going to visit him? He was vexed to hear this, not so much because they condemned him, but because they were casting aspersions on his best friend, so he determined to invite his friend to pay them a visit. When U Baduk paid his next visit to his village, and had as usual accepted the hospitality of his friend, he ventured to say, "I am always coming to see you and partaking of your hospitality, but you have not been to see me once since I got married." To this U Riwbha replied, "Very true, my dear friend, very true, but do not take it amiss that I never thought of this before. You know that I have much business on my hands, and have no leisure like many people to take my pleasures; but I have been too remiss towards you, and I must make haste to remedy my fault. Give my greeting to your wife, and tell her that I will start from here to-morrow to come to pay you both a visit, and to give myself the pleasure of tasting a dish of her curry and rice." Highly gratified and pleased, U Baduk hastened home to tell his wife of his friend's projected visit, and urged her to rouse herself and to cook the most savoury meal she was capable of. She too was very pleased to hear that the man they respected and loved so much was coming to see them; but she said, "It has come very suddenly, when I am not prepared; we have neither fish nor rice in the house." "That is indeed unfortunate," said the husband, "but we have kind neighbours from whom we have never asked a favour before. You must go out and borrow what is wanted from them, for it would be too great a disgrace not to have food to place before our friend when he comes." The wife went out as requested by her husband, but although she walked the whole length of the village there was no one who could spare her any rice or fish, and she returned home gloomy and disheartened and told her husband of her ill-success. When U Baduk heard this bad news he was extremely troubled and said, "What sort of a world is this to live in, where a morsel of food cannot be obtained to offer hospitality to a friend? It is better to die than to live." Whereupon he seized a knife and stabbed himself to death. When the wife saw that her good husband was dead, she was smitten with inconsolable grief, and she cried out, "What is there for me to live for now? It is better that I also should die." Thereupon she in her turn seized the knife and stabbed herself to death. It happened that a notorious robber called U Nongtuh was wandering through the village that night, and, as it was cold, he bethought himself of sneaking into one of the houses where the family had gone to sleep, to warm himself. He saw that a fire was burning in U Baduk's house, and that it was very silent within. He determined to enter. "They are hard-working people," said he to himself, "and will sleep soundly; I can safely sit and warm myself without their knowing anything about me." So he squatted down comfortably on the hearth, not knowing that the two dead bodies lay on the floor close to him. Before long the warmth made him drowsy, and without thinking U Nongtuh fell asleep, and did not awake until the day was dawning; he jumped up hastily, hoping to escape before the village was astir, but he saw the two dead bodies and was greatly terrified. A great trembling took him, and he began to mutter wildly, "What an unfortunate man I am to have entered this house! The neighbours will say that I killed these people; it will be useless for me to deny it, for I have such an evil reputation nobody will believe me. It is better for me to die by my own hand here than to be caught by the villagers, and be put to death like a murderer." Whereupon he seized the knife and stabbed himself to death; so there were three victims on the floor, lying dead side by side, all because there was no food in the house to offer hospitality to a friend. The morning advanced, and when the neighbours noticed that no one stirred abroad from U Baduk's house they flocked there to find out what was the matter. When they saw the three dead bodies they were filled with sadness and compunction, for they remembered how they had refused to lend them food the night before, to prepare entertainment for their friend. In the course of the day U Riwbha arrived according to the promise made to his friend, and when he was told of the terrible tragedy his sorrow knew no bounds; he sat wailing and mourning by the body of the friend that he loved best, and would not be comforted. "Alas!" he wailed, "that a man should lose such a true friend because the world is become so hard for the poor that to entertain a friend is a greater burden than they can bear." For many hours he wept and sorrowed, praying to the Great God to show a way of keeping up the customs of hospitality without the poor having to suffer and be crushed, as his own good friend had been crushed. Just about that time the Great God walked abroad to look on the universe, and he saw the sorrow of U Riwbha, and took pity on his tears, and made known that from henceforth He would cause to grow three valuable plants, which were to be used by mankind in future as the means of entertainment, whereby the poor as well as the rich could indulge in the entertainment of friends without being burdened. Immediately three trees which had never been known to mankind before were seen springing up from the ground where the dead bodies lay. They were the Betel, the Pan, and the Tobacco. From that time it became a point of etiquette in Khasi households, rich and poor alike, to offer betel nut and pan or a whiff of tobacco from the hookah to friends when they make calls. XV THE STAG AND THE SNAIL On the day of the animals' fair at Luri Lura, the stag and the snail met. It was a very hot day, and the animals as they travelled to the fair eagerly sought the shelter of the trees. There was a large Rubber grove in the forest, and thither many of the animals hasted, panting from the great heat, and there laid down their burdens for a while and rested in the cool shades. It was a familiar rendezvous, and many of the animals turned there, as much from habit as from fatigue, glad to meet old acquaintances. On the day which concerns this story there was an unusually large throng, and they chatted together sociably about the different events of their lives and the circumstances of their neighbours. In one corner a group were noisily comparing notes with one another about the length of time it had taken them to travel certain distances. In this group was the stag, who monopolised the conversation, and boasted of his own speed, and the buffalo, trying to be affable, said that they were bound to admit that the stag was now the swiftest animal in the jungle, since the dog had run away to Man, and the entire company nodded in agreement. There was, however, a little grey snail in the grass with her shell on her back, who was very disgusted with the boastings of the animals, especially of the stag, as if swiftness was the only virtue to which an animal ought to aspire. In order to put a stop to their talk, she called out mockingly for them to look at the lather that covered their bodies from over-exertion, and to compare her own cool skin, which had not perspired at all in spite of the journey; consequently, she claimed the honours for good travelling for herself. This was received with much displeasure by the animals, who felt that their dignity had been flouted, for the snail was an insect in their estimation, not fit to be admitted to their august company. The stag began to canter gracefully round the grove to prove his superiority, his fellow animals applauding admiringly; but the little snail was not to be silenced, and to show her contempt she challenged the stag to run a long race with her, declaring that she would beat him. Many of the animals urged the stag not to heed the challenge of the snail, as it was only given to affront him, but he said that unless he would run she would always insult him and call him a coward who had shown fear of a snail. So it was settled that the stag and the snail should run a long race, from the Rubber grove to the top of Mount Shillong, on the animals' return from Luri Lura. The name of this little grey snail was Ka Mattah. As soon as the animals left the grove she summoned together all her tribe to consider how to proceed so as to beat the stag in the long race. Many of the snail family found fault with her for her foolish challenge, but they were all prepared to help her out of her difficulty, and to save her from the disgrace of defeat. It was decided in the family council that the snails should form themselves into a long line edging the path all the way from the Rubber grove to Mount Shillong, and hide themselves in the grass, so as not to be discovered by the stag. So the snails dispersed and formed themselves into a long line on the edge of the path. As soon as they had sold their wares, the animals hastened to the grove, laughing among themselves as they walked at the foolishness of Ka Mattah in setting herself up against the swiftest of the animals, and they planned how to make her the general laughing-stock of the jungle for her audacity. When they reached the Rubber grove they found Ka Mattah ready for the race, having discarded her cumbersome shell and put herself into a racing attitude on the path, which caused them no little amusement. As soon as the signal was given she dived into the grass and was lost to sight, while the stag cantered towards the mountains. After going some distance, he stopped, thinking that there would be no need to run further, as he imagined that the snail was far behind and likely to have given up the race; so he called out, "Heigh, Mattah, art thou coming?" To his surprise, the voice of the snail answered close beside him saying, "I am here, I am here." Thereupon he ran on more swiftly, but after running several miles he stopped again and called out as before, "Heigh, Mattah, art thou coming?" And again the voice answered close to his heels, "I am here, I am here"; upon which the stag tore off at a terrific pace through the forest, only stopping at intervals to call out to the snail. As often as he called, the voice answered close to his feet, "I am here, I am here," which set him racing with ever-increasing speed. When he reached the Iei Tree Mountain, he was panting and quivering from his great exertions and longed to lie down to rest, but he saw before him the goal to which he was bound, and spurred himself to a last effort. He was so exhausted as he climbed up the slopes of Shillong that he was giddy and faint, and could scarcely move his wearied limbs, and, to his dismay, before he reached the summit, he heard the tormenting voice of the snail calling out from the goal, "I have won, I have won." Exhausted and defeated, the stag threw himself full length on the ground, and his disappointment and the sickness due to the terrible strain he had put on himself caused him to spit out his gall-bladder. To this day no gall-bladder is to be found in the anatomy of the stag; so he carries in his body the token of the great defeat he sustained through the wiles of Ka Mattah, the little grey snail, and the pathetic look has never gone out of his eyes. XVI THE LEAP OF KA LIKAI "The Leap of Ka Likai" is the name given to a beautiful waterfall on the Khasi Hills, a few miles to the west of Cherrapoonjee, which, at certain points, is visible from great distances, while the roar and the echoes of its waters are to be heard for miles. The view is one of exceptional beauty, and many visitors are attracted to see it. The clear chattering stream is seen emerging from its wild mountain home, dashing over the high precipice into the shadows of a deep gorge, flinging upwards, as it falls, clouds of tremulous spray, which wreathe and coil around majestic rocks, creating countless small rainbows which dance and quiver in a maze of palms and ferns and blossoming shrubs. The place is so remote and so still, as if every sound had been awed into a hush, except the thunderous boom of the torrent with its distant echoes moaning and shrieking like a spirit in anguish, that the whole locality seems weird and uncanny, suggestive of terrible possibilities. This, probably, accounts for the gruesome tradition amongst the Khasis which has been associated with this waterfall from time immemorial. It runs as follows: Once upon a time there lived a young married woman called Ka Likai, in the village of Rangjirteh, on the hill above the Falls. She and her husband lived very happily together and rejoiced in the possession of a baby girl of great beauty. The young husband died when the child was still a babe, and from that time Ka Likai's whole heart became wrapped up in the child. She found it very hard to earn enough money to maintain them both, so she was persuaded to marry again, thinking to have her own burden lightened, and to obtain more comforts for her child. The new husband was a selfish and a somewhat brutal man; he was exceedingly jealous of his little step-daughter, because his wife paid her so much attention, and when he found that he had been accepted as a husband by Ka Likai merely for the benefit of the child, he was so mortified that he grew to hate her and determined to do her some mischief. He became sulky in the home and refused to go out to work, but he forced his wife to go every day, and during her absence he bullied and ill-treated the child. One day Ka Likai had to go on a long journey to carry iron ore, and this gave the cruel stepfather the opportunity he sought to carry out his evil purpose, and he killed the child. So depraved had he become and so demoniacal was his hatred, that he determined to inflict even a worse horror upon his wife; he took portions of the body and cooked them against the mother's return, and waited in silence for her coming. When Ka Likai reached her home in the evening, she was surprised to find her husband in a seemingly kinder mood than he had shown for a long time, having cooked her supper and set it ready for her, with unusual consideration. She noticed the absence of the child, and immediately asked where she was, but the man's plausible answer that she had just gone out to play dispelled every misgiving, and she sat down to eat without a suspicion of evil. After finishing her supper, she drew forward the betel-nut basket to prepare betel and pan to chew, according to custom after a meal. It happened that one of the hands of the murdered girl had been left by the stepfather in this basket, and the mother at once saw and recognised it. She wildly demanded the meaning of the awful discovery, whereupon the man confessed his crime, and also told her how she herself had eaten of the flesh of her own child. The terrible and overwhelming revelation took away the mother's reason. She rose distractedly, and, running to the edge of the precipice, threw herself into the abyss. Ever since then the Falls have been called "The Leap of Ka Likai," and the doleful moans of their echoes are said to be the echoes of Ka Likai's anguished cries. To this day, when widows with children are contemplating second marriages, they are cautioned to be careful and to use judgement, with the warning, "Remember Ka Likai." XVII WHAT CAUSED THE SHADOWS ON THE MOON In the early ages there lived a family of deities, consisting of a mother and four children--three daughters and one son. They lived very happily for many long years, the children showing great respect to their mother and to one another. Their names were Ka Um (Water), Ka Ding (Fire), and Ka Sngi (the Sun), and the boy was called U Bnai (the Moon). They were all very noble and beautiful to look upon, as became their high destiny, but it was universally agreed that Ka Sngi and U Bnai, the two youngest, possessed greater beauty and loveliness than the two elder sisters. In those days the moon was equal to the sun in brightness and splendour. When U Bnai grew up he began to show somewhat wayward tendencies; he came and went at his own will, without consulting his mother or his sisters, and consorted with companions far beneath him in rank. Sometimes he would absent himself from home for many days, and none of his family knew whither he wandered. His mother often remonstrated with him, as is right for every mother to do, and she and his sisters endeavoured to guide him into more decorous habits, but he was wilful and self-indulgent, thinking that he had a right to more liberty than his women-folk allowed him. By degrees he abandoned himself to a life of pleasure and wild pursuits, paying no heed to the advice and warnings of his elders. Once he followed some of his low associates into the nether regions and spent a long time in that land of goblins and vice. After a while his thoughts came back to his family and his erstwhile radiant home, and a longing to see them came over him, so he quitted the nether regions, and left his evil companions, and returned to his home and his kindred. He had gazed so long on the hideous faces of the inhabitants of the dark world, that he was dazzled by the beauty of his sister Ka Sngi, who came to meet him with smiles and joy for his return. He had also lost the right perception of duty and honour, and, instead of greeting her as his sister, he went to his mother and with unbrotherly wantonness demanded the hand of Ka Sngi in marriage, saying that he had travelled throughout many worlds, and had seen the sons of all nations, but there was no suitor to be found in the whole universe whose beauty could match that of Ka Sngi, except himself. Consequently he said that it behoved his mother to give countenance to his suit and to arrange the marriage. This caused the mother much grief, and she dismissed her son from her presence in dishonour. Ka Sngi, when she heard of his design, was enraged because of his unchaste proposal, and in anger she went forth to seek her brother. When she found him she forgot her usual dignity and decorum, and, lifting a handful of hot ashes, she threw it into U Bnai's face. The ashes scorched his flesh so deeply that the marks have remained on his face to this day. Ever since then the light of the moon has been pale, marred by dark shadows, and that is the reason he does not show his face in the day-time. XVIII U KSUID TYNJANG The Ancient Khasis were wont to people all their beautiful hills and forests with innumerable supernatural beings, who were supposed to be working in the world either for good or for evil, and dominating all the events of men's lives. There were Bleis (gods) of all grades, and Ksuids (demons or goblins) without number, and Puris (sprites or fairies), visible and invisible, to be encountered everywhere. The religious observances of the Khasis are mainly intended to fulfil obligations supposed to be imposed upon them by these imaginary beings, who are described as quick to take offence and difficult to appease; hence the many and complicated ceremonies which the Khasi religion demands. One of the most familiar names in ancient lore is that of U Ksuid Tynjang, a deformed and lame demon who haunted the forests and tormented mankind, and for his misdeeds had been doomed to suffer from an incurable and loathsome itching disease, which could only be allayed by the touch of a human hand. All the stories related of this repulsive demon are concerned with his forbidding personality and the tortures he inflicted on the victims he captured purposely to force them to rub his body and relieve the terrible itching to which he had been doomed. He used to tickle them to death with his deformed and claw-like hands if they tried to desist from their sickening task. To lure people into his grasp, he used to imitate the human voice and to shout "Kaw-hoit, Kaw-hoit!" the common signal-cry of people who lose their companions or their way--a cry to which all humane travellers quickly respond, for it is considered equivalent to murder to ignore the signal-cry without going to the rescue. In this way U Ksuid Tynjang was able to locate the whereabouts of lonely wanderers, and thither he would direct his unsteady steps, skipping and hobbling through the jungle, until he came up to them and made them his captives. In those days a great fair was periodically held at the foot of the Hills, and to this the Khasis from all over the country were wont to resort, especially the younger folk, who were fond of pleasure and liked to see the show of fine cloths brought there for sale. It happened that two young sisters from the Hills, Ka Thei and Ka Duh, with their brother, attended one of these fairs in the company of some of their neighbours. It was their first visit to a fair, and they were so taken up with the wonders of it that they forgot all about the time, and walked to and fro, gazing at the strange people and wares, until unconsciously they drifted away from their friends. It was now growing late, and Ka Thei, the eldest sister, anxiously bade the others cling to her that they might retrace their steps and if possible find their companions; but although they walked from one end of the fair to the other, they met nobody they knew. By this they were in great dismay, and they determined to start for home as fast as they could, hoping to overtake their friends on the way. Evidently every one was far ahead, for though they walked very fast and called out at intervals, they saw no signs of a friend and heard no response, and by the time they reached the Shillong forests, when they were yet some miles from home, night closed upon them, and they lost their way in the dense dark jungle. It was hopeless to try and proceed further, for the path could not be traced in the darkness, so the three timid young travellers sat down, footsore and forlorn, crushed down with foreboding and fear. Just then they heard a loud cry in the distance, Kaw-hoit! and they all thought it was the cry of one of their friends signalling to them, and the three shouted back in chorus Kaw-hoit! and waited expectantly for some one to appear. To their horror they saw approaching, not a friend as they had expected, but the deformed and diseased figure of a hideous Ksuid, upon which they realised that they had responded to the mimic-cry of U Ksuid Tynjang, whom they had often heard described, and against answering whose call they had often been warned. In a few moments he was with them, and peremptorily he ordered them to rub his itching body with their hands. Although they sickened at the contact, they knew better than to disobey, for U Ksuid Tynjang was known to be very cruel, tickling to death those who dared to disobey him. It happened that the young brother escaped being seen by the demon, a fact which Ka Thei hoped might turn to their advantage, for she had an alert and a resourceful mind. She motioned to him to squat down on the ground, and she hastily took off the knup (leaf umbrella) hanging from her shoulders, and covered him with it. Soothed by the touch of the young maidens' hands, the Ksuid began to dose. With a little contrivance, Ka Thei succeeded in approaching her brother, quickly stuck some shrubs in the knup, to make it look like the surrounding jungle, and whispered to him to crawl away as soon as the dawn broke, and seek the path to their village to carry the news of their fate to their parents, and bid them offer sacrifices to the god of Shillong, in whose territory they had been captured, for their deliverance. With the help of the shrub-covered knup the boy got away at dawn unobserved, and reached his home, whereupon his parents offered sacrifices to U 'Lei Shillong for the deliverance of their daughters. Whenever the Ksuid fell asleep the sisters were able to take turns at their unpleasant task. In order to lighten their lot somewhat, they planned to kindle a fire for the following night, and they collected dry sticks and made ready; when night fell they kindled the fire and felt less afraid. During the night, Ka Duh, in putting some fresh wood on the fire, found a large, heavy dao--an axe-knife--of iron which she showed to her sister, who at once took it as an augury that deliverance was forthcoming, and that the god of Shillong was working for them. She at once began to think of a plan whereby the dao might be useful to break the spell of the demon and to free her sister and herself from his power. She heated the thick blade red-hot while the Ksuid slumbered, and, taking it by the handle, she seared his body with the hot iron, so that he died. Such, however, is the tenacity of all Ksuids that, even when they are killed and die, they do not go out of existence. U Ksuid Tynjang could no longer resume the form of a demon as he had formerly done, but he could assume some other form and remain in his old haunts. The form he chose was that of a jirmi--a creeper of a tough and tenacious nature which entangles the feet of hunters when they run in the chase, and saps the life out of the forest trees, and destroys the plants cultivated by mankind. This plant is known to this day as the Tynjang creeper. XIX WHAT MAKES THE LIGHTNING In the early days of the world, when the animals fraternised with mankind, they tried to emulate the manners and customs of men, and they spoke their language. Mankind held a great festival every thirteen moons, where the strongest men and the handsomest youths danced "sword dances" and contested in archery and other noble games, such as befitted their race and their tribe as men of the Hills and the Forests--the oldest and the noblest of all the tribes. The animals used to attend these festivals and enjoyed watching the games and the dances. Some of the younger and more enterprising among them even clamoured for a similar carnival for the animals, to which, after a time, the elders agreed; so it was decided that the animals should appoint a day to hold a great feast. After a period of practising dances and learning games, U Pyrthat, the thunder giant, was sent out with his big drum to summon all the world to the festival. The drum of U Pyrthat was the biggest and the loudest of all drums, and could be heard from the most remote corner of the forest; consequently a very large multitude came together, such as had never before been seen at any festival. The animals were all very smartly arrayed, each one after his or her own taste and fashion, and each one carrying some weapon of warfare or a musical instrument, according to the part he intended to play in the festival. There was much amusement when the squirrel came up, beating on a little drum as he marched; in his wake came the little bird Shakyllia, playing on a flute, followed by the porcupine marching to the rhythm of a pair of small cymbals. Every one was exceedingly merry--they joked and poked fun at one another, in great glee: some of the animals laughed so much on that feast day that they have never been able to laugh since. The mole was there, and on looking up he saw the owl trying to dance, swaying as if she were drunk, and tumbling against all sorts of obstacles, as she could not see where she was going, at which he laughed so heartily that his eyes became narrow slits and have remained so to this day. When the merriment was at its height U Kui, the lynx, arrived on the scene, displaying a very handsome silver sword which he had procured at great expense to make a show at the festival. When he began to dance and to brandish the silver sword, everybody applauded. He really danced very gracefully, but so much approbation turned his head, and he became very uplifted, and began to think himself better than all his neighbours. Just then U Pyrthat, the thunder giant, happened to look round, and he saw the performance of the lynx and admired the beauty of the silver sword, and he asked to have the handling of it for a short time, as a favour, saying that he would like to dance a little, but had brought no instrument except his big drum. This was not at all to U Kui's liking, for he did not want any one but himself to handle his fine weapon; but all the animals began to shout as if with one voice, saying "Shame!" for showing such discourtesy to a guest, and especially to the guest by whose kindly offices the assembly had been summoned together; so U Kui was driven to yield up his silver sword. As soon as U Pyrthat got possession of the sword he began to wield it with such rapidity and force that it flashed like leaping flame, till all eyes were dazzled almost to blindness, and at the same time he started to beat on his big drum with such violence that the earth shook and trembled and the animals fled in terror to hide in the jungle. During the confusion U Pyrthat leaped to the sky, taking the lynx's silver sword with him, and he is frequently seen brandishing it wildly there and beating loudly on his drum. In many countries people call these manifestations "thunder" and "lightning," but the Ancient Khasis who were present at the festival knew them to be the stolen sword of the lynx. U Kui was very disconsolate, and has never grown reconciled to his loss. It is said of him that he has never wandered far from home since then, in order to live near a mound he is trying to raise, which he hopes will one day reach the sky. He hopes to climb to the top of it, to overtake the giant U Pyrthat, and to seize once more his silver sword. XX THE PROHIBITED FOOD When mankind first came to live upon the earth, the Great God saw fit to walk abroad in their midst frequently, and permitted them to hold converse with Him on matters pertaining to their duties and their welfare. At one time the discourse turned on the terrible consequences of disobedience, which caused punishment to fall, not only on the transgressor himself, but upon the entire human race also. The man could not comprehend the mystery and sought for enlightenment from God, and in order to help him to understand, the Great God said unto him, "Do thou retire for seven days to meditate upon this matter; at the end of the seven days I will again visit the earth; seek me then and we will discourse further. In the meantime go into the forest and hew down the giant tree which I point out to thee, and on thy peril beware of cutting down any other trees." And He pointed out a large tree in the middle of the forest. Thereupon the Great God ascended into heaven, and the man went forth to meditate and to cut down the giant tree, as he had been commanded. At the expiration of seven days the man came to the appointed place and the Great God came to him. He questioned him minutely about his work and his meditations during the week of retirement, but the man had gained no further knowledge nor received any new light. So the Great God, to help him, began to question him. Their discourse was after this manner: "Hast thou cut down the tree as thou wert commanded?" "Behold, its place is empty, I have cut it down." "Didst thou observe the command in all things? Didst thou abstain from cutting down any of the other trees?" "I abstained from cutting down any other trees; only the one that was pointed out to me have I cut down." "What are all these trees and shrubs that I see scattered about?" "These were broken and uprooted by the weight of the great tree as it fell." "Behold, here are some trees that have been cut down with an axe; how did this happen?" "The jungle was so thick I could not reach the giant tree without first cutting a path for myself." "That is true; therefore learn from this parable, man is so great that, if he falls into transgression, others must suffer with him." But the man still marvelled, and his mind remained dark. The Great God, in His long-sufferance, told him to ponder further upon the parable of the giant tree. So the Great God walked abroad for a time and man was left alone to ponder. When He returned He found the man still puzzled and unable to comprehend; and once again He questioned him. "What took place in My absence?" "Nothing of importance that I can think of." "Why didst thou cry out as if in pain?" "It was for a very trivial cause; an ant bit me in my heel." "And what didst thou do?" "I took a stone and killed the ant and the whole nest of ants." "This also is a parable; because one ant bit thee the whole nest was destroyed. Man is the ant; if man transgresseth he and all his race must suffer." Yet the man comprehended not: whereupon the Great God granted him another seven days to retire and to meditate upon the parables of the giant tree and the ant. Again the man came to the appointed place at the end of seven days' seeking to receive fuller knowledge and understanding. The Great God had not yet appeared, so the man took a walk in the forest to await His coming. As he wandered aimlessly about, he met a stranger carrying a small net in his hand out of which he was eating some food. Now this stranger was a demon, but the man did not know it. "Where art thou going?" asked the stranger affably after the manner of the country. "Just to walk for my pleasure," replied the man; "what food art thou eating?" "Only some cakes of bread which I find very tasty; take some and eat." And he passed the net to him. "Thy offer is kindly made, but do not take it amiss that I refuse to accept thy bread, for it is decreed that we shall live on rice alone." "Even so, but surely to take a morsel to taste would not be wrong." This time the man did not resist, but accepted a cake of bread and ate it with enjoyment, after which the stranger departed, taking his bag of cakes with him. The man had scarcely swallowed the strange food when he heard the voice of the Great God calling unto him from the skies, saying: "What hast thou done, oh man? Thou knowest the decree that rice was provided to be thy food, yet thou hast unmindfully transgressed and partaken of the strange food of the tempter. Henceforth thou and thy race shall be tormented by the strange being whose food thou hast eaten. By eating his food thou hast given him dominion over thee and over thy race, and to escape from his torments thou and thy race must give of thy substance to appease him and to avert his wrath." Thus, too late, the man began to understand, and ever since then the days of men have been full of sorrow because man yielded to the tempter's voice instead of submitting to the decrees of the Great God. XXI THE COOING OF THE DOVES Of all the birds there are none that keep themselves more separate than the doves. They do not peck at other birds as the crows and the vultures do, but, on restless foot and wing, they quickly withdraw themselves from every presuming neighbour. The Ancient Khasis say that at one time the doves sang like other birds, and the following story tells how they ceased their singing and came to express their feelings in the plaintive "Coo-oo" for which they are noted throughout the world. Once a family of doves lived very happily in the forest, and its youngest member was a beautiful female called Ka Paro. Her parents and all the family were very indulgent to her, and never permitted her to risk the danger of the grain-fields until they had ascertained that there were no hunters or wild beasts likely to attack her; so Ka Paro used to stay in the shelter of her home until they gave a signal that the land was safe and clear. One day, while waiting for the signal, she happened to go up into a tall tree on which there were clusters of luscious red berries growing. As the doves usually subsisted on grain, Ka Paro did not pay much attention to the berries; she sat on a branch, preening her feathers and watching other birds who came to pick them. By and by there came a smart young Jylleit (a jungle bird with gorgeous green and gold feathers) who perched to pick berries upon the very branch on which Ka Paro sat. She had never seen such a beautiful bird, and to please him she sang to him one of her sweetest songs. U Jylleit was quickly attracted by the sweet voice and the gentle manners of the dove, and a pleasant intimacy grew between the two. Ka Paro came to that tree to preen her feathers and to sing every day, while the Jylleit admired her and picked the berries. After a time U Jylleit sent to the dove's parents to ask her in marriage. Although their young daughter pressed them hard to give their consent, the parents were wise, and did not want to trust the happiness of their pet child to a stranger until they had time to test his worth; they knew too that marriages between alien tribes were scarcely ever a success. So, to test the constancy of the young suitor, they postponed the marriage till the winter, and with that the lovers had to be content. The parents remembered that the berries would be over by the winter, and it remained to be seen whether the Jylleit would be willing to forgo his luxuries and to share the frugal food of the doves, or whether he would fly away to some other forests where berries were to be found. Ka Paro was so much in love that she was very confident of the fidelity of her suitor, but to her sorrow, as soon as the berries were finished, U Jylleit flitted away without even a word of farewell, and she never saw him again. From that time Ka Paro ceased to sing. She could only utter the longing and sorrow that was in her heart in sad and plaintive notes, so the doves are cooing sadly even in their happiest moments. XXII HOW THE MONKEY'S COLOUR BECAME GREY In olden times the monkeys had long hair of different colours covering their bodies, and they were much more handsome than they are in the present day. They were very inquisitive animals and liked to meddle in the affairs of other people, and they caused a lot of trouble in the world. One day a monkey wandering on the plains met Ram, the god of the Hindus, searching for the goddess Sita. Ram, thinking that the monkey by his inquisitiveness and audacity might help to find her, bribed him to come to his service. After making enquiries far and near, the monkey heard at last that Ka Sita was confined in a fort in the island of Ceylon, so he went and told the god Ram. Thereupon Ram gathered together a great host to go and fight the king of the island of Ceylon, but they found the place infested with dragons and goblins of the most hostile disposition, so that they dared not venture to land. The hosts of Ram then held a consultation, and they decided that, as the monkey had been the cause of their coming there, he must find out a way for them to land without being destroyed by the dragons. The monkey, not knowing what to say, suggested that they should burn down the forests of Ceylon so that the dragons could have no place to hide. Upon this the hosts of Ram declared that the monkey himself must go over to put his plan into execution. So they dipped a long piece of cloth in oil and tied one end of it to the monkey's tail and set fire to the other end of it, and the monkey went over to the island and ran hither and thither dragging the flaming cloth behind him and setting the forests on fire everywhere he went, until all the forests of Ceylon were in flames. Before he could get back to his companions he saw with dismay that the cloth was nearly burnt out, and the heat from the fire behind him began to singe his long hair; whereupon, fearing to be burnt alive, he plunged into the sea and the flames were extinguished. From that time the monkey's hair has been grey and short as a sign that he once set the forests of Ceylon on fire. XXIII THE LEGEND OF KA PANSHANDI, THE LAZY TORTOISE Once upon a time there lived a young tortoise near a large pool. She was very ill-favoured and ugly in appearance and very foolish, as well as being of a lazy disposition, and, like all lazy people, she was slovenly and dirty in her habits. Her name was Ka Panshandi. The pool near which she lived being very clear, the stars and other heavenly bodies often gazed into it to behold their own images. At times the reflection of countless shining, blinking stars would be visible in the placid waters till the pool looked like a little part of the sky. At such times Ka Panshandi took immense delight in plunging into the pool, darting backwards and forwards and twirling round the bright silvery spots with great glee and contentment. Among those who came frequently to gaze at themselves in the pool was U Lurmangkhara, the brightest of all the stars; he began to notice the playful gambols of Ka Panshandi in the water and to admire her twirling motions. He lived so far away that he could not see her ugliness, nor could he know that she was lazy and foolish. All he knew was that she exposed herself nightly to the chilly waters of the pool in order (as he thought) to have the pleasure of being near the images of the stars, which was very flattering to his vanity. If she was so strongly attracted by their images, he thought to himself, how much more would she adore the real live stars if she were brought into contact with them. U Lurmangkhara fell deeply in love with her, and determined to go down to the earth to marry her and to endow her with all his wealth, for he was very rich and had always lived in great splendour. When his relations and friends heard of his purpose, they were much disturbed, and they came to remonstrate with him against what they considered to be a very rash and risky step--to go to a foreign land to make his home and to mate with an unknown consort whose habits and outlook on life might be altogether alien to him. But U Lurmangkhara would listen to no counsel. Persons in love never take heed of other people's advice. Down to the earth he came, and there married Ka Panshandi and endowed her with all his wealth. When Ka Panshandi found herself a rich wife, having unexpectedly won one of the noblest husbands in the world, her vanity knew no bounds, and she grew more indolent and idle than ever. Her house was squalid, and she minded not when even her own body was daubed with mud, and she felt no shame to see her husband's meals served off unscoured platters. U Lurmangkhara was very disappointed; being patient and gentle, he tried by kind words to teach his wife to amend her ways, but it was of no avail. Gradually he grew discontented and spoke angrily to her, but she remained as callous and as indifferent as ever, for it is easier to turn even a thief from stealing than to induce a sluggard to renounce his sloth. He threatened to leave her, her neighbours also repeatedly warned her that she would lose her good husband unless she altered her ways, but she remained as unconcerned as ever. At last, driven to despair, U Lurmangkhara gathered together all his wealth and went back to his home in the sky. Ka Panshandi was filled with remorse and grief when she found that her husband had departed. She called piteously after him, promising to reform if he would only return, but it was too late. He never came back, and she was left to her squalor and her shame. To this day Ka Panshandi is still hoping to see U Lurmangkhara coming back to the earth, and she is seen crawling about mournfully, with her neck outstretched towards the sky in expectation of his coming, but there is no sign of his return, and her life is dull and joyless. After these events Ka Panshandi's name became a mockery and a proverb in the land; ballads were sung setting forth her fate as a warning to lazy and thriftless wives. To the present day a forsaken wife who entertains hope of her husband's return is likened by the Khasis to Ka Panshandi in her expectant attitude with her head lifted above her shell: "Ka Panshandi dem-lor-khah." XXIV THE IDIOT AND THE HYNDET BREAD Long, long ago there lived on the Khasi Hills a certain widow with her only son, a lad possessed of great personal beauty, who was mentally deficient, and was known in the village as "U Bieit" (the idiot). The mother, being very poor and having neither kith nor kin to help her, was obliged to go out to work every day to support herself and her hapless child, so he was left to his own devices, roaming at large in the village. In this way he grew up to be very troublesome to his neighbours, for he often broke into their houses to forage for something to eat and caused much damage and loss. Like most people of weak intellect, U Bieit showed wonderful cunning in some directions, especially in the matter of procuring some good thing to eat, and the way he succeeded in duping some of his more sagacious comrades in order to obtain some dainty tit-bits of food was a matter of much amusement and merriment. But there were so many unpleasant incidents that people could not safely leave their houses, and matters at last became so serious that the widow was ordered to leave the village on his account. She sought admission into many of the surrounding villages, but the fame of U Bieit had travelled before him and no one was willing to let them dwell in their midst. So in great distress she took him down to the plains, where there was a big river along which many boats used to sail. Here she mournfully determined to abandon him, hoping that some of the wealthy merchants who often passed that way might be attracted by his good looks and take him into their company. She gave him some rice cakes to eat when he should be hungry, and told him to be a good boy and stay by the river-side, and she would bring him more cakes next day. The boy thoroughly appreciated the promise of more cakes, so was quite willing to be left by the river, but he felt lonely and uncomfortable in his strange surroundings after his mother had gone, and whenever a boat came in sight he ran into the thickets to hide. By and by a large boat was seen approaching with great white sails, which frightened him greatly and sent him running into a thicket with all his might. It happened that a wealthy merchant was returning from a journey, and landed to take food close to the hiding-place of U Bieit. The servants were going backward and forward into the boat while preparing their master's food, and, fearing lest some of them might tamper with his chest of gold nuggets, he ordered them to carry it ashore, and buried it in the sands close to where he sat. Just as he finished his repast a heavy shower came on, and the merchant hurried to the shelter of his boat; in his haste he forgot all about the chest of gold buried in the sands, and the boat sailed away without it. All this time the idiot boy was watching the proceedings with great curiosity and a longing to share the tempting meal, but fear of the boat with white sails kept him from showing himself. However, as soon as the boat was out of sight, he came out of the thicket and began to unearth the buried chest. When he saw the gold nuggets he thought they were some kind of cakes, and, putting one in his mouth, he tried to eat it. Finding it so hard, he decided that it must have been unbaked, and his poor marred mind flew at once to his mother, who always baked food for him at home, and, taking the heavy chest on his back, he started through the forest to seek her, and his instinct, like that of a homing pigeon, brought him safely to his mother's door. It was quite dark when he reached the village, so that nobody saw him, but his mother was awake crying and lamenting her own hard fate which had driven her to desert her unfortunate child. As she cried she kept saying to herself that if only she possessed money she could have obtained the goodwill of her neighbours and been permitted to live with her boy in the village. She was surprised to hear sounds of shuffling at her door resembling the shuffling of her forsaken boy; she got up hurriedly to see who it was, and was relieved and joyful to find him come back to her alive. She marvelled when she saw him carrying a heavy chest on his shoulders, and she could get but little light from his incoherent speech as to how he had obtained possession of it, but her eyes glittered with delight when she saw that it was full of gold nuggets. She allowed the lad to keep his delusion that they were cakes, and to pacify him she took some rice and made some savoury cakes for him, pretending that she was baking the strange cakes from the chest. After eating these, he went to sleep satisfied and happy. Now the widow had been longing for gold all her life long, saying that she wanted it to provide better comforts for the son who could not look after himself, but the moment the gold came into her possession her heart was filled with greed. Not only was she not willing to part with any of the nuggets to obtain the favour of the villagers for her son, but she was planning to send him abroad again to search for more gold, regardless of the perils to which he would be exposed. She called him up before daybreak, and, giving him some rice cakes in a bag, she told him to go again to the river-side and to bring home more boxes of cakes for her to bake. So the boy started out on his fruitless errand, but soon lost his way in the jungle; he could find the path neither to the river nor to his mother's house, so he wandered about disconsolate and hungry in the dense woods, searching for hidden chests and unbaked cakes. In that forest many fairies had their haunts, but they were invisible to mankind. They knew all about the idiot boy and his sad history, and a great pity welled up in their hearts when they saw how the lust for gold had so corrupted his mother's feelings that she sent him alone and unprotected into the dangers of that great forest. They determined to try and induce him to accompany them to the land of the fairies, where he would be guarded from all harm and where willing hands would minister to all his wants. So seven of the fairies transformed themselves into the likeness of mankind and put on strong wings like the wings of great eagles, and came to meet U Bieit in the jungle. By this time he had become exhausted with want of food, and as soon as he saw the fairies he called out eagerly to ask if they had any food, to which they replied that they had only some Hyndet bread (kpu Hyndet) which had been baked by the fairies in heaven; and when they gave him some of it, he ate it ravenously and held out his hand for more. This was just what the fairies wanted, for no human being can be taken to fairyland except of his own free will. So they said that they had no more to give in that place, but if he liked to come with them to the land of the fairies beyond the Blue Realm, he could have abundance of choice food and Hyndet cakes. He expressed his readiness to go at once, and asked them how he should get there. They told him to take hold of their wings, to cling firmly, and not to talk on the way; so he took hold of the wings of the fairies and the ascent to fairyland began. Now as they flew upwards there were many beautiful sights which gave the fairies great delight as they passed. They saw the glories of the highest mountains, and the endless expanse of forest and waters, and the fleeting shadows of the clouds, and the brilliant colours of the rainbow, dazzling in their transient beauty. But the idiot boy saw nothing of these things; his simple mind was absorbed in the one thought--food. When they had ascended to a great height and the borders of fairyland came into view, U Bieit could no longer repress his curiosity, and, forgetting all about the caution not to speak, he asked the fairies eagerly, "Will the Hyndet cakes be big?" As soon as he uttered the words he lost his hold on the fairies' wings and, falling to the earth with great velocity, he died. The Khasis relate this story mainly as a warning not to impose responsible duties on persons incapable of performing them, and not to raise people into high positions which they are not fitted to fill. XXV U RAMHAH Where is the country without its giant-story? All through the ages the world has revelled in tales of the incomparable prowess and the unrivalled strength and stature of great and distinguished men whom we have learned to call giants. We trace them from the days of Samson and Goliath, past the Knights of Arthur in the "Island of the Mighty" and the great warriors of ancient Greece, down to the mythland of our nursery days, where the exploits of the famous "Jack" and his confederates filled us with wonder and awe. Our world has been a world full of mighty men to whom all the nations pay tribute, and the Khasis in their small corner are not behind the rest of the world in this respect, for they also have on record the exploits of a giant whose fate was as strange as that of any famous giant in history. The name of the Khasi giant was U Ramhah. He lived in a dark age, and his vision was limited, but according to his lights and the requirements of his country and his generation, he performed great and wonderful feats, such as are performed by all orthodox giants all the world over. He lifted great boulders, he erected huge pillars, he uprooted large trees, he fought wild beasts, he trampled on dragons, he overcame armed hosts single-handed, he championed the cause of the defenceless, and won for himself praise and renown. When his fame was at its height he smirched his reputation by his bad actions. After the great victory over U Thlen in the cave of Pomdoloi, he became very uplifted and proud, and considered himself entitled to the possessions of the Khasis. So instead of helping and defending his neighbours as of yore, he began to oppress and to plunder them, and came to be regarded as a notorious highwayman, to be avoided and dreaded, who committed thefts and crimes wherever he went. At this period he is described as a very tall and powerful man whose stature reached "half way to the sky," and he always carried a soop (a large basket of plaited bamboo) on his back, into which he put all his spoils, which were generally some articles of food or clothing. He broke into houses, looted the markets and waylaid travellers. The plundered people used to run after him, clinging to his big soop, but he used to beat them and sometimes kill them, and by reason of his great strength and long strides he always got away with his booty, leaving havoc and devastation behind him. He was so strong and so terrible that no one could check his crimes or impose any punishments. There lived in the village of Cherra in those days a wealthy woman called Ka Bthuh, who had suffered much and often at the hands of U Ramhah, and whose anger against him burnt red-hot. She had pleaded urgently with the men of her village to rise in a body to avenge her wrongs, but they always said that it was useless. Whenever she met U Ramhah she insulted him by pointing and shaking her finger at him, saying, "You may conquer the strength of a man, but beware of the cunning of a woman." For this saying U Ramhah hated her, for it showed that he had not been able to overawe her as everybody else had been overawed by him, and he raided her godowns more frequently than ever, not dreaming that she was scheming to defeat him. One day Ka Bthuh made a great feast; she sent invitations to many villages far and near, for she wanted it to be as publicly known as possible in order to lure U Ramhah to attend. It was one of his rude habits to go uninvited to feasts and to gobble up all the eatables before the invited guests had been helped. The day of Ka Bthuh's feast came and many guests arrived, but before the rice had been distributed there was a loud cry that U Ramhah was marching towards the village. Everybody considered this very annoying, but Ka Bthuh, the hostess, pretended not to be disturbed, and told the people to let the giant eat as much as he liked first, and she would see that they were all helped later on. At this U Ramhah laughed, thinking that she was beginning to be afraid of him, and he helped himself freely to the cooked rice and curry that was at hand. He always ate large mouthfuls, but at feast times he used to put an even greater quantity of rice into his mouth, just to make an impression and a show. Ka Bthuh had anticipated all this, and she stealthily put into the rice some sharp steel blades which the giant swallowed unsuspectingly. When he had eaten to his full content U Ramhah took his departure, and when he had gone out of earshot Ka Bthuh told the people what she had done. They marvelled much at her cunning, and they all said it was a just deed to punish one whose crimes were so numerous and so flagrant, but who escaped penalty by reason of his great strength. From that time Ka Bthuh won great praise and became famous. U Ramhah never reached his home from that feast. The sharp blades he had swallowed cut his intestines and he died on the hill-side alone and unattended, as the wild animals die, and there was no one to regret his death. When the members of his clan heard of his death they came in a great company to perform rites and to cremate his body, but the body was so big that it could not be cremated, and so they decided to leave it till the flesh rotted, and to come again to gather together his bones. After a long time they came to gather the bones, but it was found that there was no urn large enough to contain them, so they piled them together on the hill-side until a large urn could be made. While the making of the large urn was in progress there arose a great storm, and a wild hurricane blew from the north, which carried away the bleached bones of U Ramhah, and scattered them all over the south borders of the Khasi Hills, where they remain to this day in the form of lime-rocks, the many winding caves and crevices of which are said to be the cavities in the marrowless bones of the giant. Thus U Ramhah, who injured and plundered the Khasis in his life-time, became the source of inestimable wealth to them after his death. His name is heard on every hearth, used as a proverb to describe objects of abnormal size or people of abnormal strength. XXVI HOW THE CAT CAME TO LIVE WITH MAN In olden times Ka Miaw, the cat, lived in the jungle with her brother the tiger, who was king of the jungle. She was very proud of her high pedigree and anxious to display the family greatness, and to live luxuriously according to the manner of families of high degree; but the tiger, although he was very famous abroad, was not at all mindful of the well-being and condition of his family, and allowed them to be often in want. He himself, by his skill and great prowess, obtained the most delicate morsels for his own consumption, but as it involved trouble to bring booty home for his household, he preferred to leave what he did not want himself to rot on the roadside, or to be eaten by any chance scavenger. Therefore, the royal larder was often very bare and empty. Thus the cat was reduced to great privations, but so jealous was she for the honour and good name of her house that, to hide her poverty from her friends and neighbours, she used to sneak out at night-time, when nobody could see her, in order to catch mice and frogs and other common vermin for food. Once she ventured to speak to her brother on the matter, asking him what glory there was in being king if his family were obliged to work and to fare like common folks. The tiger was so angered that she never dared to approach the subject again, and she continued to live her hard life and to shield the family honour. One day the tiger was unwell, and a number of his neighbours came to enquire after his health. Desiring to entertain them with tobacco, according to custom, he shouted to his sister to light the hookah and to serve it round to the company. Now, even in the most ordinary household, it is very contrary to good breeding to order the daughter of the house to serve the hookah, and Ka Miaw felt the disgrace keenly, and, hoping to excuse herself, she answered that there was no fire left by which to light the hookah. This answer displeased the tiger greatly, for he felt that his authority was being flouted before his friends. He ordered his sister angrily to go to the dwelling of mankind to fetch a firebrand with which to light the hookah, and, fearing to be punished if she disobeyed, the cat ran off as she was bidden and came to the dwelling of mankind. Some little children were playing in the village, and when they saw Ka Miaw they began to speak gently to her and to stroke her fur. This was so pleasant to her feelings after the harsh treatment from her brother that she forgot all about the firebrand and stayed to play with the children, purring to show her pleasure. Meanwhile the tiger and his friends sat waiting impatiently for the hookah that never came. It was considered a great privilege to draw a whiff from the royal hookah; but seeing that the cat delayed her return, the visitors took their departure, and showed a little sullenness at not receiving any mark of hospitality in their king's house. The tiger's anger against his sister was very violent, and, regardless of his ill-health, he went out in search of her. Ka Miaw heard him coming, and knew from his growl that he was angry; she suddenly remembered her forgotten errand, and, hastily snatching a firebrand from the hearth, she started for home. Her brother met her on the way and began to abuse her, threatening to beat her, upon which she threw down the firebrand at his feet in her fright and ran back to the abode of mankind, where she has remained ever since, supporting herself as of old by catching frogs and mice, and purring to the touch of little children. XXVII HOW THE FOX GOT HIS WHITE BREAST Once a fox, whose name was U Myrsiang, lived in a cave near the residence of a Siem (Chief). This fox was a very shameless marauder, and had the impudence to conduct his raids right into the Siem's private barn-yard, and to devour the best of his flocks, causing him much annoyance and loss. The Siem gave his servants orders to catch U Myrsiang, but though they laid many traps and snares in his way he was so wily and so full of cunning that he managed to evade every pitfall, and to continue his raids on the Siem's flocks. One of the servants, more ingenious than his fellows, suggested that they should bring out the iron cage in which the Siem was wont to lock up state criminals, and try and wheedle the fox into entering it. So they brought out the iron cage and set it open near the entrance to the barn-yard, with a man on guard to watch. By and by, U Myrsiang came walking by very cautiously, sniffing the air guardedly to try and discover if any hidden dangers lay in his path. He soon reached the cage, but it aroused no suspicion in him, for it was so large and so unlike every trap he was familiar with that he entered it without a thought of peril, and ere he was aware of his error, the man on guard had bolted the door behind him and made him a prisoner. There was great jubilation in the Siem's household when the capture of the fox was made known. The Siem himself was so pleased that he commanded his servants to prepare a feast on the following day as a reward for their vigilance and ingenuity. He also gave orders not to kill the fox till the next day, and that he should be brought out of the cage after the feast and executed in a public place as a warning to other thieves and robbers. So U Myrsiang was left to pine in his prison for that night. The fox was very unhappy, as all people in confinement must be. He explored the cage from end to end but found no passage of egress. He thought out many plans of escape, but not one of them could be put into execution, and he was driven to face the doom of certain death. He whined in his misery and despair, and roamed about the cage all night. Some time towards morning he was disturbed by the sounds of footsteps outside his cage, and, thinking that the Siem's men had come to kill him, he lay very still, hardly venturing to breathe. To his relief the new-comer turned out to be a belated traveller, who, upon seeing a cage, sat down, leaning his weary body against the bars, while U Myrsiang kept very still, not wishing to disclose his presence until he found out something more about his unexpected companion, and hoping also to turn his coming to some good account. The traveller was an outlaw driven away from a neighbouring state for some offence, and was in great perplexity how to procure the permission of the Siem (into whose state he had now wandered) to dwell there and be allowed to cultivate the land. Thinking that he was quite alone, he began to talk to himself, not knowing that a wily fox was listening attentively to all that he was saying. "I am a most unfortunate individual," said the stranger. "I have been driven away from my home and people, I have no money and no friends, and no belongings except this little polished mirror which no one is likely to buy. I am so exhausted that if they drive me out of this State again I shall die of starvation on the roadside. If I could only find a friend who could help me to win the favour of the Siem, so that I may be permitted to live here unmolested for a time, till my trouble blows over!" U Myrsiang's heart was beating very fast with renewed hope when he heard these words, and he tried to think of some way to delude the stranger to imagine that he was some one who had influence with the Siem, and to get the man to open the cage and let him out. So with all the cunning he was capable of, he accosted the man in his most affable and courteous manner: "Friend and brother," he said, "do not despair. I think I can put you in the way, not only to win the Siem's favour, but to become a member of his family." The outlaw was greatly embarrassed when he discovered that some one had overheard him talking. It was such a dark night he could not see the fox, but thought that it was a fellow-man who had accosted him. Fearing to commit himself further if he talked about himself, he tried to divert the conversation away from himself, and asked his companion who he was and what he was doing alone in the cage at night. The fox, nothing loth to monopolise the conversation, gave a most plausible account of his misfortunes, and his tale seemed so sincere and apparently true that it convinced the man on the instant. "There is great trouble in this State," said U Myrsiang. "The only daughter of the Siem is sick, and according to the divinations she is likely to die unless she can be wedded before sunset to-morrow, and her bridegroom must be a native of some other State. The time was too short to send envoys to any of the neighbouring States to arrange for the marriage, and as I happened to pass this way on a journey, the Siem's men forcibly detained me, on finding that I was a foreigner, and to-morrow they will compel me to marry the Siem's daughter, which is much against my will. If you open the door of this cage and let me out, you may become the Siem's son-in-law by taking my place in the cage." "What manner of man are you," asked the outlaw, "that you should disdain the honour of marrying the daughter of a Siem?" "You are mistaken to think that I disdain the honour," said the fox. "If I had been single I should have rejoiced in the privilege, but I am married already, and have a wife and family in my own village far from here, and my desire is to be released so that I may return to them." "In that case," replied the man, "I think you are right to refuse, but as for me it will be a most desirable union, and I shall be only too glad to exchange places with you." Thereupon he opened the door of the cage and went in, while U Myrsiang slipped out, and bolted the door behind him. The man was so pleased with his seeming good fortune that at parting he took off his polished mirror which was suspended round his neck by a silver chain, and begged his companion to accept it in remembrance of their short but strange encounter. As he was handing it to U Myrsiang, his hand came into contact with the fox's thick fur, and he realised then that he had been duped, and had, owing to his credulity, released the most thieving rogue in the forest. Regrets were vain. He was firmly imprisoned within the cage, while he heard the laughter of U Myrsiang echoing in the distance as he hurried away to safety, taking the polished mirror with him. The fox was well aware that it was unsafe for him to remain any longer in that locality, so, after fastening the mirror firmly round his neck, he hastened away with all speed, and did not halt till he came to a remote and secluded part of the jungle, where he stopped to take his breath and to rest. Unknown to U Myrsiang, a big tiger was lying in wait for prey in that part of the jungle, and, upon seeing the fox, made ready to spring upon him. But the fox, hearing some noise, turned round suddenly, and by that movement the polished mirror came right in front of the tiger's face. The tiger saw in it the reflection of his own big jaws and flaming eyes, from which he slunk away in terror, thinking that U Myrsiang was some great tiger-demon haunting the jungle in the shape of a fox, and from that time the tiger has never been known to attack the fox. One day, when hotly pursued by hunters, the fox plunged into a deep river. As he swam across, the flood carried away his polished mirror, but the stamp of it remains to this day on his breast in the form of a patch of white fur. XXVIII HOW THE TIGER GOT HIS STRENGTH After the animals were created they were sent to live in the jungle, but they were so foolish that they got into one another's way and interfered one with another and caused much inconvenience in the world. In order to produce better order, the Bleis (gods) called together a Durbar to decide on the different qualities with which it would be well to endow the animals, so as to make them intelligent and able to live in harmony with one another. After this, mankind and all the animals were summoned to the presence of the Bleis, and each one was given such intelligence and sense as seemed best to suit his might and disposition: the man received beauty and wisdom, and to the tiger were given craftiness and the power to walk silently. When the man returned to his kindred, and his mother beheld him, her heart was lifted with pride, for she knew that the Bleis had given to him the best of their gifts, and that henceforth all the animals would be inferior to him in beauty and intelligence. Realising with regret that he had not received physical strength equal to the beauty of his person, and that consequently his life would be always in danger, she told her son to go back to the Bleis to ask for the gift of strength. The man went back to the Bleis according to the command of his mother, but it was so late when he arrived that the Bleis were about to retire. Seeing that he was comelier than any of the animals and possessed more wisdom, which made him worthy of the gift of strength, they told him to come on the morrow and they would bestow upon him the desired gift. The man was dismissed till the following day, but he went away happy in his mind, knowing that the Bleis would not go back on their word. Now it happened that the tiger was roaming about in that vicinity, and by reason of his silent tread he managed to come unobserved near enough to hear the Bleis and the man talking about the gift of strength. He determined to forestall the man on the morrow, and to obtain the gift of strength for himself; soon he slunk away lest it should be discovered that he had been listening. Early on the following morning, before the Bleis had come forth from their retirement, the tiger went to their abode and sent in a messenger to say that he had come according to their command to obtain the gift of strength, upon which the Bleis endowed him with strength twelve times greater than what he had before possessed, thinking that they were bestowing it upon the man. The tiger felt himself growing strong, and as soon as he left the abode of the Bleis, he leaped forward twelve strides, and twelve strides upward, and so strong was he that it was unto him but as one short stride. Then he knew that he had truly forestalled the man, and had obtained the gift of strength, and could overcome men in battle. Later in the day, in accordance with the command he had received, the man set out for the abode of the Bleis, but on the way the tiger met him and challenged him to fight, and began to leap and bound upwards and forwards to show how strong he was, and said that he had received the "twelve strengths" and no one would be able to withstand him. He was just about to spring when the man evaded him, and ran away towards the abode of the Bleis. When he came there and presented himself before them, they asked him angrily, "Why dost thou come again to trouble us? We have already given thee the gift of strength." Then the man knew that the tiger's boast was true, and he told the Bleis of his encounter with the tiger on the way, and of his boast that he had obtained the gift of strength. They were greatly annoyed that deception had been practised on them, but there is no decree by which to recall a gift when once it has been bestowed by the Bleis. They looked upon the man with pity, and said that one so beautiful and full of wisdom should not be left defenceless at the mercy of the inferior animals. So they gave unto him a bow and an arrow, and told him, "When the tiger attacks thee with his strength, shoot, and the arrow will pierce his body and kill him. Behold, we have given to thee the gift of skill to make and to use weapons of warfare whereby thou wilt be able to combat the lower animals." Thus the tiger received strength, and man received the gift of skill. The mother of mankind, when she saw it, told her sons to abstain from using their weapons against one another, but to turn them against the animals only, according to the decree of the Bleis. XXIX WHY THE GOAT LIVES WITH MANKIND In early times the goat lived in the jungle, leading a free and independent life, like all the other animals. The following story gives an account of her flight from the animals to make her dwelling with Man. One fine spring day, when the young leaves were sprouting on the forest trees, Ka Blang, the goat, went out in search of food. Her appetite was sharpened by the delicious smell of the spring, which filled the air and the forest, so, not being satisfied with grass, she began to pluck the green leaves from a bush. While she was busy plucking and eating, she was startled to hear the deep growl of the tiger close beside her. The tiger asked her angrily, "What art thou doing there?" Ka Blang was so upset by this sudden interruption, and in such fear of the big and ferocious beast, that she began to tremble from head to foot, so that even her beard shook violently, and she hardly knew what she was doing or saying. In her fright she quavered: "I am eating khla" (a tiger), instead of saying, "I am eating sla" (leaves). The tiger took this answer for insolence and became very angry. He was preparing to spring upon her when he caught sight of her shaking beard, which appeared to him like the tuft of hair on a warrior's lance when it is lifted against an enemy. He thought that Ka Blang must be some powerful and savage beast able to attack him, and he ran away from her in terror. Now Ka Blang, having an ungrateful heart, instead of being thankful for her deliverance, grew discontented with her lot, and began to grumble because she had not been endowed with the strength attributed to her by the tiger, and she went about bewailing her inferiority. One day, in her wanderings, she climbed to the top of an overhanging cliff, and there she lay down to chew the cud, and, as usual, to dwell on her grievances. It happened that the tiger was again prowling in the same vicinity, but when he saw the goat approaching he fled in fear, and hid himself under the very cliff on to which she had climbed. There he lay very still, for fear of betraying his presence to the goat, for he was still under the delusion that she was a formidable and mighty animal. Ka Blang, all unconscious of his presence, began to grumble aloud, saying: "I am the poorest and the weakest of all the beasts, without any means of defence or strength to withstand an attack. I have neither tusks nor claws to make an enemy fear me. It is true that the tiger once ran away from me because he mistook my beard for a sign of strength; but if he had only known the truth he would have killed me on the instant, for even a small dog could kill me if he clutched me by the throat." The tiger, beneath the rock, was listening to every word, and, as he listened, his wrath was greatly kindled to find that he had disgraced himself by running away from such a contemptible creature, and he determined now to avenge himself for that humiliation. He crept stealthily from his hiding-place, and, ere she was aware of his approach, Ka Blang was clutched by the throat and killed. In order to restore his prestige, the tiger proclaimed far and wide how he had captured and killed the goat, and after that other tigers and savage beasts began to hunt the goats, and there followed such a general slaughter of goats that they were nearly exterminated. Driven to great extremity, the few remaining goats held a tribal council to consider how to save themselves from the onslaughts of the tigers, but, finding themselves powerless to offer any resistance, they determined to apply to mankind for protection. When they came to him, Man said that he could not come to the jungle to defend them, but they must come and live in his village if they wished to be protected by him. So the goats ran away from the jungle for ever, and came to live with mankind. XXX HOW THE OX CAME TO BE THE SERVANT OF MAN When mankind first came to live upon the earth, they committed many blunders, for they were ignorant and wasteful, not knowing how to shift for themselves, and having no one to teach them. The Deity who was watching their destinies saw their misfortunes and pitied them, for he saw that unless their wastefulness ceased they would perish of want when they multiplied and became numerous in the world. So the Deity called to him the ox, who was a strong and patient animal, and sent him as a messenger to mankind, to bless them, and to show them how to prosper. The ox had to travel a long way in the heat, and was much worried by the flies that swarmed round his path and the small insects that clung to his body and sucked his blood. Then a crow alighted on his back and began to peck at the insects, upon which it loved to feed; this eased the ox greatly, and he was very pleased to see the crow, and he told her where he was going, as a messenger from the Deity to mankind. The crow was very interested when she heard this, and questioned him minutely about the message he had been sent to deliver, and the ox told her all that he had been commanded to say to mankind--how he was to give them the blessing of the Deity and to warn them not to waste the products of the earth lest they died of want. They must learn to be thrifty and careful so that they might live to be old and wise, and they were to boil only sufficient rice for each meal, so as not to waste their food. When the crow heard this she was much disturbed, for she saw that there would be no leavings for the crows if mankind followed these injunctions. So she said to the ox, "Will you repay my kindness to you in destroying the insects that worry you by giving a message like that to mankind to deprive me of my accustomed spoil?" She begged of him to teach mankind to cook much rice always, and to ordain many ceremonies to honour their dead ancestors by offering rice to the gods, so that the crows and the other birds might have abundance to eat. Thus, because she had eased his torments, the ox listened to her words, and when he came to mankind he delivered only part of the message of the Deity, and part of the message of the crow. When the time came for the ox to return, a great fear overcame him as he approached the abode of the Deity, for he saw that he had greatly trespassed and that the Deity would be wrathful. In the hope of obtaining forgiveness, he at once confessed his wrong-doing, how he had been tempted by the crow, and had delivered the wrong message. This confession did not mitigate the anger of the Deity, for he arose, and, with great fury, he struck the ox such a blow on the mouth that all his upper teeth fell out, and another blow behind the ribs which made a great hollow there, and he drove the disobedient animal from his presence, to seek pasture and shelter wherever he could find them. After this the ox came back sorrowfully to mankind, and for food and for shelter he offered to become their servant; and, because he was strong and patient, mankind allowed him to become their servant. Ever since he was struck by the Deity the ox has had no teeth in the upper jaw, and the hollow behind his ribs remains to this day; it can never be filled up, however much grass and grain he eats, for it is the mark of the fist of the Deity. XXXI THE LOST BOOK After mankind began to multiply on the earth and had become numerous, and scattered into many regions, they lost much of their knowledge of the laws of God, and in their ignorance they committed many mistakes in their mode of worship, each one worshipping in his own way after his own fancy, without regard to what was proper and acceptable in the sight of God. In order to restore their knowledge and to reform their mode of worship, the Great God commanded a Khasi man and a foreigner to appear before Him on a certain day, upon a certain mountain, the name of which is not known, that they might learn His laws and statutes. So the Khasi and the foreigner went into the mountain and appeared before God. They remained with Him three days and three nights, and He revealed unto them the mode of worship. The Great God wrote His laws in books, and at the end of the third day He gave unto each man a book of the holy law, and said unto them: "This is sufficient unto you; return unto your own people; behold, I have written all that is needful for you to know in this book. Take it, and read it, and teach it to your kindred that they may learn how to be wise and holy and happy for ever." The two men took their books and departed as they were commanded. Between the mountain and their homeland there lay a wide river. On their way thither they had waded through it without any difficulty, for the water was low, but on their return journey they found the river in flood and the water so deep that they had to swim across. They were sorely perplexed how to keep their sacred books safe and dry; being devoid of clothing, the men found it difficult to protect them or to cover them safely. The foreigner had long hair, and he took his book and wrapped it in his long hair, which he twisted firmly on the top of his head; but the hair of the Khasi was short, so he could not follow the example of the foreigner, and, not able to think of a better plan, he took the book between his teeth. The foreigner swam across safely, with his book undamaged, and he went home to his kindred joyfully and taught them wisdom and the mode of worship. The Khasi, after swimming part of the way, began to flounder, for the current was strong, and his breathing was impeded by the book in his mouth. His head went under water, and the book was reduced to a worthless pulp. He was in great trouble when he saw that the book was destroyed. He determined to return to the mountain to ask the Great God for a new book, so he swam back across the wide river and climbed again to the mountain; but when he reached the place where he had before met God, he found that He had ascended into heaven, and he had to return empty-handed. When he reached his own country, he summoned together all his kindred and told them all that had happened. They were very sad when they heard that the book was lost, and bewildered because they had no means of enlightenment. They resolved to call a Durbar of all the Khasis to consider how they could carry on their worship in a becoming way and with some uniformity, so as to secure for themselves the three great blessings of humanity--health, wealth, and families. Since that day the Khasis have depended for their knowledge of sacred worship on the traditions that have come down from one generation to the other from their ancestors who sat in the great Durbar after the sacred book was lost, while the foreigners learn how to worship from books. XXXII THE BLESSING OF THE MENDICANT PART I Once there lived a very poor family, consisting of a father, mother, an only son, and his wife. They were poorer than any of their neighbours, and were never free from want; they seldom got a full meal, and sometimes they had to go without food for a whole day, while their clothes but barely covered their bodies. No matter how hard they worked, or where they went to cultivate, their crops never succeeded like the crops of their fellow-cultivators in the same locality. But they were good people, and never grumbled or blamed the gods, neither did they ask alms of any one, but continued to work season after season, contented with their poor fare and their half-empty cooking-pots. One day an aged mendicant belonging to a foreign tribe wandered into their village, begging for food at every house and for a night's shelter. But nobody pitied him or gave him food. Last of all, he came to the dwelling of the poor family, where, as usual, they had not enough food to satisfy their own need, yet when they saw the aged beggar standing outside in the cold, their hearts were filled with pity. They invited him to enter, and they shared their scanty meal with him. "Come," they said, "we have but little to give you, it is true, but it is not right to leave a fellow-man outside to starve to death." So he lodged with them that night. It happened that the daughter-in-law was absent that night, so that the stranger saw only the parents and their son. Next morning, when he was preparing to depart, the mendicant spoke many words of peace and goodwill to the family, and blessed them solemnly, expressing his sympathy with them in their poverty and privation. "You have good hearts," he said, "and have not hesitated to entertain a stranger, and have shared with the poor what you yourselves stood in need of. If you wish, I will show you a way by which you may grow rich and prosperous." They were very glad to hear this, for their long struggle with poverty was becoming harder and harder to bear, and they responded eagerly, saying, "Show us the way." Upon this the mendicant opened a small sack which he carried, and took from it a small live coney, which he handed tenderly to the housewife, saying, "This little animal was given to me years ago by a holy man, who told me that if I killed it and cooked its meat for my food I should grow rich. But by keeping the animal alive for many days I became so fond of it that I could not kill it. Now I am old and weak, the day of my death cannot be far off; at my death perhaps the coney may fall into the hands of unscrupulous persons, so I give it to you who are worthy. Do not keep it alive as I did, otherwise you will not be able to kill it and so will never reap the fruits of the virtue it possesses. When wealth comes to you, beware of its many temptations and continue to live virtuously as at present." He also warned them not to divulge the secret to any one outside the family, or to let any outsiders taste of the magic meat. When they were alone, the family began to discuss with wonder the words spoken by the mysterious stranger about the strange animal that had been left in their possession. They determined to act on the advice of their late guest, and to kill the coney on that very day, and that the mother should stay at home from her work in the fields to cook the meat against the return of the men in the evening. Left to herself, the housewife began to paint glowing pictures of the future, when the family would cease to be in want, and would have no need to labour for their food, but would possess abundance of luxuries, and be the envy of all their neighbours. As she abandoned herself to these idle dreams, the evil spirit of avarice entered her heart unknown to her, and changed her into a hard and pitiless woman, destroying all the generous impulses which had sustained her in all their years of poverty and made her a contented and amiable neighbour. Some time in the afternoon the daughter-in-law returned home, and, noticing a very savoury smell coming from the cooking-pot, she asked her mother-in-law pleasantly what good luck had befallen them, that she had such a good dinner in preparation. To her surprise, instead of a kind and gentle answer such as she had always received from her mother-in-law, she was answered by a torrent of abuse and told that she was not to consider herself a member of the family, or to expect a share of the dinner, which a holy man had provided for them. This unmerited unkindness hurt and vexed the younger woman, but, as it is not right to contradict a mother-in-law, she refrained from making any reply, and sat meekly by the fire, and in silence watched the process of cooking going on. She was very hungry, having come from a long journey, and, knowing that there was no other food in the house except that which her mother-in-law was cooking, she determined to try and obtain a little of it unobserved. When the elder woman left the house for a moment she snatched a handful of meat from the pan and ate it quickly, but her mother-in-law caught her chewing, and charged her with having eaten the meat. As she did not deny it, her mother-in-law began to beat her unmercifully, and turned her out of doors in anger. The ill-treated woman crawled along the path by which her husband was expected to arrive, and sat on the ground, weeping, to await his coming. When he arrived he marvelled to see his wife crying on the roadside, and asked her the reason for it. She was too upset to answer him for a long time, but when at last she was able to make herself articulate, she told him all that his mother had done to her. He became very wroth, and said, "If my mother thinks more of gaining wealth than of respecting my wife, I will leave my mother's house for ever," and he strode away, taking only a brass lota (water vessel) for his journey. PART II The husband and wife wandered about in the jungle for many days, living on any wild herbs or roots that they could pick up on their way, but all those days they did not see a village or a sign of a human habitation. One day they happened to come to a very dry and barren hill, where they could get no water, and they began to suffer from thirst. In this arid place a son was born to them, and the young mother seemed likely to die for want of water. The husband roamed in every direction, but saw no water anywhere, until he climbed to the top of a tall tree in order to survey the country, and to his joy saw in the distance a pool of clear water. He hastened down and fetched his lota, and proceeded in the direction of the pool. The jungle was so dense that he was afraid of losing his way, so in order to improvise some sort of landmark, he tore his dottie (loin-cloth) into narrow strips which he hung on the bushes as he went. After a long time he reached the pool, where he quenched his thirst and was refreshed. Then he filled his lota to return to his languishing wife, but was tempted to take a plunge in the cool water of the pool, for he was hot and dusty from his toilsome walk. Putting his lota on the ground and laying his clothes beside it, he plunged into the water, intending to stay only a few minutes. Now it happened that a great dragon, called U Yak Jakor, lived in the pool, and he rose to the surface upon seeing the man, dragged him down to the bottom, and devoured him. The anxious wife, parched with thirst, waited expectantly for the return of her husband, but, seeing no sign of him, she determined to go in search of him. So, folding her babe in a cloth, which she tied on her back, she began to trace the path along which she had seen her husband going, and by the help of the strips of cloth on the bushes, she came at last to the spot where her husband's lota and his clothes had been left. At sight of these she was filled with misgivings, and, failing to see her husband anywhere, she began to call out his name, searching for him in all directions. There were no more strips of cloth, so she knew that he had not gone farther. When U Yak Jakor heard the woman calling, he came up to the surface of the pool, and seeing she was a woman, and alone, he drew near, intending to force her into the water, for the dragon who was the most powerful of all the dragons inside the pool lost his strength whenever he stood on dry land, and could then do no harm to any one. In her confusion and fear on account of her husband, the woman did not take much notice of U Yak Jakor when he came, but shouted to him to ask if he had not seen a man passing that way; to which he replied that a man had come, who had been taken to the palace of the king beneath the pool. When she heard this she knew that they had come to the pool of U Yak Jakor, and, looking more closely at the being that had approached her, she saw that he was a dragon. She knew also that U Yak Jakor had no strength on dry land, and she lifted her arm with a threatening gesture, upon which he dived into the pool. By these tokens the woman understood that her husband had been killed by the dragon. Taking up the lota and his clothes, she hurried from the fatal spot and beyond the precincts of the dragon's pool, and, after coming to a safe and distant part of the jungle, she threw herself down on the ground in an abandonment of grief. She cried so loud and so bitterly that her babe awoke and cried in sympathy; to her astonishment she saw that his tears turned into lumps of gold as they fell. She knew this to be a token that the blessing of the mendicant, of which her husband had spoken, had rested upon her boy by virtue of the meat she had eaten. This knowledge cheered and comforted her greatly, for she felt less defenceless and lonely in the dreary forest. After refreshing herself with water from the lota, she set out in search of some human habitation, and after a weary search she came at last to a large village, where the Siem (Chief) of that region lived, who, seeing that she possessed much gold, permitted her to dwell there. PART III The boy was named U Babam Doh, because of the meat which his mother had eaten. The two lived very happily in this village, the mother leading an industrious life, for she did not wish to depend for their living on the gold gained at the expense of her son's tears. Neither did she desire it to become known that he possessed the magic power to convert his tears into gold, so she instructed her boy never to weep in public, and on every occasion when he might be driven to cry, she told him to go into some secret place where nobody could witness the golden tears. And so anxious was she not to give him any avoidable cause of grief that she concealed from him the story of her past sufferings and his father's tragic fate, and hid from sight the brass lota and the clothes she had found by the dragon's pool. U Babam Doh grew up a fine and comely boy, in whom his mother's heart delighted; he was strong of body and quick of intellect, so that none of the village lads could compete with him, either at work or at play. Among his companions was the Heir-apparent of the State, a young lad about his own age, who, by reason of the many accomplishments of U Babam Doh, showed him great friendliness and favour, so that the widow's son was frequently invited to the Siem's house, and was privileged to attend many of the great State functions and Durbars. Thus he unconsciously became familiar with State questions, and gleaned much knowledge and wisdom, so that he grew up enlightened and discreet beyond many of his comrades. One day, during the Duali (Hindu gambling festival), his friend the Heir-apparent teased him to join in the game. He had no desire to indulge in any games of luck, and he was ignorant of the rules of all such games, but he did not like to offend his friend by refusing, so he went with him to the gambling field and joined in the play. At first the Heir-apparent, who was initiating him into the game, played for very small stakes, but, to their mutual surprise, U Babam Doh the novice won at every turn. The Heir-apparent was annoyed at the continual success of his friend, for he himself had been looked upon as the champion player at previous festivals, so, thinking to daunt the spirit of U Babam Doh, he challenged him to risk higher stakes, which, contrary to his expectation, were accepted, and again U Babam Doh won. They played on until at last the Heir-apparent had staked and lost all his possessions; he grew so reckless that in the end he staked his own right of succession to the throne, and lost. There was great excitement and commotion when it became known that the Heir-apparent had gambled away his birthright; people left their own games, and from all parts of the field they flocked to where the two young men stood. When the Heir-apparent saw that the people were unanimous in blaming him for so recklessly throwing away what they considered his divine endowment, he tried to retrieve his character by abusing his opponent, taunting him with being ignorant of his father's name, and calling him the unlawful son of U Yak Jakor, saying that it was by the dragon's aid he had won all the bets on that day. This was a cruel and terrible charge from which U Babam Doh recoiled, but as his mother had never revealed to him her history, he was helpless in face of the taunt, to which he had no answer to give. He stood mute and stunned before the crowd, who, when they saw his dismay, at once concluded that the Heir-apparent's charges were well founded. They dragged U Babam Doh before the Durbar, and accused him of witchcraft before the Siem and his ministers. U Babam Doh, being naturally courageous and resourceful, soon recovered himself, and having absolute confidence in the justice of his cause, he appealed to the Durbar for time to procure proofs, saying that he would give himself up to die at their hands if he failed to substantiate his claim to honour and respectability, and stating that this charge was fabricated by his opponent, who hoped to recover by perfidy what he had lost in fair game. The Durbar were perplexed by these conflicting charges, but they were impressed by the temperate and respectful demeanour of the young stranger, in comparison with the flustered and rash conduct of the descendant of their own royal house, so they granted a number of days during which U Babam Doh must procure proofs of his innocence or die. U Babam Doh left the place of Durbar, burning with shame and humiliation for the stigma that had been cast upon him and upon his mother, and came sadly to his house. When his mother saw his livid face she knew that some great calamity had befallen him, and pressed him to tell her about it, but the only reply he would give to all her questions was, "Give me a mat, oh my mother, give me a mat to lie upon"; whereupon she spread a mat for him on the floor, on which he threw himself down in an abandonment of grief. He wept like one that could never be consoled, and as he wept his tears turned into gold, till the mat on which he lay was covered with lumps of gold, such as could not be counted for their number. Although the mother saw this inexhaustible wealth at her feet she could feel no pleasure in it, owing to her anxiety for her son, who seemed likely to die of grief. After a time she succeeded in calming him, and gradually she drew forth from him the tale of the attack made upon their honour by the Heir-apparent. She began to upbraid herself bitterly for withholding from him their history, and hastily she went to fetch her husband's clothes and the brass lota which she had concealed for so many years, and, bringing them to her son, she told him all that had happened to her and to his father, from the day on which the foreign mendicant visited their hut to the time of their coming to their present abode. U Babam Doh listened with wonder and pity for the mother who had so bravely borne so many sorrows, concealing all her woes in order to spare him all unnecessary pangs. When the mother finished her tale U Babam Doh stood up and shook himself, and, taking his bow and his quiver, he said, "I must go and kill U Yak Jakor, and so avenge my father's death, and vindicate my mother's honour." The mother's heart was heavy when she saw him depart, but she knew that the day had arrived for him to fulfil his duty to his father's memory, so she made no attempt to detain him, but gave him minute directions about the locality, and the path leading to the dragon's haunts. PART IV After a long journey U Babam Doh arrived at the pool, on the shores of which he found a large wooden chest, which he rightly guessed had belonged to some unfortunate traveller who had fallen a victim to the dragon. Upon opening the chest he found it full of fine clothes and precious stones, such as are worn only by great princes; these he took and made into a bundle to bring home. Remembering his mother's instructions not to venture into the pool, he did not leave the dry land, although he was hot and tired and longed to bathe in order to refresh himself. He began to call out with a loud voice as if hallooing to some lost companions, and this immediately attracted to the surface U Yak Jakor, who, after waiting a while to see if the man would not come to bathe in the pool, came ashore, thinking to lure his prey into the water. But U Babam Doh was on his guard, and did not stir from his place, and when the dragon came within reach he attacked him suddenly and captured him alive. He then bound him with rattan and confined him in the wooden chest. Fortified by his success, and rejoicing in his victory, U Babam Doh took the chest on his shoulders and brought the dragon home alive. Being wishful to enhance the sensation, when the day came for him to make his revelations public in the Durbar, he did not inform his mother that he had U Yak Jakor confined in the wooden chest, and when she questioned him about the contents of the chest he was silent, promising to let her see it some day. In the meantime he forbade her to open it, on pain of offending him, but he showed her the bundle of silken clothes. The news soon spread through the village that U Babam Doh had come back, and when the people saw him walking with lifted head and steadfast look, the rumour got abroad that he had been successful in his quest for proofs. This rumour caused the Heir-apparent to tremble for his own safety, and hoping to baulk U Babam Doh once more, he persuaded the Siem to postpone the date of the Durbar time after time. Thus U Yak Jakor remained for many days undiscovered, confined in the chest. Now U Babam Don's mother, being a woman, was burning with curiosity to know the secret of that wooden chest which her son had brought home and around which there appeared so much mystery. One day, when her son was absent, she determined to peep into it to see what was hidden there. U Yak Jakor had overheard all that the mother and son had said to one another, and he knew that the woman was not aware of his identity. As soon as he heard her approaching the chest he quickly transformed himself into the likeness of her dead husband, though he was powerless to break the rattan. The woman was startled beyond speech when she saw (as she thought) her husband alive and almost unchanged, whom she had mourned as dead for so many long years. When she could control her joy she requested him to come out, to partake of food and betel nut, but he replied that although he had by the help of their son escaped from the dragon's stronghold, he was under certain vows which would have to be fulfilled before he could come out, for if he left the chest before the fulfilment of his vow he would fall again into the power of the dragon. The mother began to find fault with her son for having concealed the fact of her husband's rescue from her, but the dragon said that if the son had disclosed the fact to anybody before the fulfilment of the vows it would have committed him into U Yak Jakor's hands. She must beware of letting U Babam Doh know that she had discovered the secret, or both her son and her husband would be lost to her for ever, while by judicious help she might bring about his release. Upon hearing this the woman implored him to show her in what way she could assist, and so quicken his release. The wily dragon hoped in this way to bring about the death of U Babam Doh, so he replied that his vow involved drinking a seer of tigress' milk, and that he who obtained the milk must not know for whom or for what purpose it was obtained. This was sad news for the woman, for it seemed to her quite impossible to procure tigress' milk on any condition. She was even less likely to find any one willing to risk his life to get it, without knowing for whom and for what purpose, and she wept bitterly. After a time she called to mind the many exploits of her son as a hunter, and she conceived a sudden plan by which she hoped to obtain tigress' milk. By and by she heard the footsteps of her son outside, and she hurriedly closed the lid of the chest, and lay on the ground, and feigned sickness, writhing as if in great agony. U Babam Doh was much concerned when he saw his mother, and bent over her with great solicitude. He tried many remedies, but she seemed to grow worse and worse, and he cried out in sorrow, saying, "Tell me, my mother, what remedy will cure you, and I will get it or die." "It is written in my nusip (book of fate) that I shall die of this sickness, unless I drink a seer of tigress' milk," said the mother. "I will obtain for you some tigress' milk," said the youth, "or die"; and, taking his bow and quiver and his father's lota, he went into the forest, asking some neighbours to come and sit with his mother during his absence. When he had been gone some time his mother said she felt better, and requested the neighbours to return to their homes, as she wished to sleep; but as soon as they were out of earshot she got up and prepared a savoury meal for him whom she thought her husband. PART V U Babam Doh, eager to see his mother healed, walked without halting till he came to a dense and uninhabited part of the forest which he thought might be the haunt of wild beasts, but he could see no trail of tigers. He was about to return home after a fruitless hunt, as he feared to be absent too long from his mother, when he heard loud moans from behind a near thicket. He immediately directed his steps towards the sound, prepared to render what assistance he could to whoever was suffering. To his surprise he found some young tiger cubs, one of whom had swallowed a bone, which had stuck in his throat, and was choking him. U Babam Doh quickly made a pair of pincers from a piece of bamboo, and soon had the bone removed. The cubs were very thankful for the recovery of their brother, and showed their gratitude by purring and licking U Babam Doh's hand, while the cub from whose throat the bone was extracted crouched at his feet, declaring that he would be his attendant for ever. U Babam Doh took up his lota and his bow and prepared to depart, but the cubs entreated him to stay until their mother returned, so as to get her permission for the young tiger to follow him. So U Babam Doh stayed with the cubs to await the return of the tigress. Before long the muffled sound of her tread was heard approaching. As she drew near, she sniffed the air suspiciously, and soon detected the presence of a man in her lair. Putting herself in a fighting attitude, she began to growl loudly, saying, "Human flesh, human flesh"; but the cubs ran to meet her, and told her how a kind man had saved their brother from death. Whereupon she stopped her growling, and, like her cubs, she showed her gratitude to U Babam Doh by purring and licking his hands. The tigress asked him many questions, for it was a rare occurrence for a man to wander so far into the jungle alone. On being told that he had come in search of tigress' milk to save his mother's life, she exclaimed eagerly that she knew of a way to give him what he wanted, by which she could in some measure repay him for saving her cub, and she bade him bring his lota and fill it with milk from her dugs. U Babam Doh did as she told him, and obtained abundance of tigress' milk, with which he hastened home to his mother, accompanied by the tiger cub. PART VI U Babam Doh found his mother, on his return, in just the same condition as when he left her; so as soon as he arrived he put the lota of milk into her hand, and said, "Drink, oh my mother. I have obtained for you some tigress' milk, drink and live." She made a pretence of drinking, but as soon as her son left the house she hurried to the wooden chest, and, handing in the lota, she said, "Drink, oh my husband. Our son hath obtained the tigress' milk, drink and be free from the dragon's power." U Yak Jakor was vexed to find that U Babam Doh had returned unharmed, and began to think how he could send him on another perilous venture, and he answered the woman plaintively, "To drink tigress' milk is only a part of my vow; before I can be released from the dragon's power I must anoint my body with fresh bear's grease, and he who obtains it for me must not know for whom or for what purpose it is obtained." The woman was very troubled to hear this, for she feared to send her son into yet another danger, but, believing that there was no other way to secure her husband's release, she again feigned sickness, and when her son asked her why the tigress' milk had not effected a cure, she replied: "It is written in my nusip that I must die of this sickness unless I anoint my body with fresh bear's grease." "I will obtain the fresh bear's grease for you, oh my mother, or die," answered the youth impetuously; and once more he started to the forest, taking his bow and quiver, and his father's lota, which he had filled with honey. As he was starting off, the tiger cub began to follow him, but U Babam Doh commanded him to stop at home to guard the house, and went alone to the forest. After travelling far he saw the footprints of bears, whereupon he cut some green plaintain leaves and spread them on the ground and poured the honey upon them, and went to hide in the thicket. Soon a big bear came and began to eat the honey greedily, and while it was busy feasting, U Babam Doh, from behind the thicket, threw a thong round its throat and captured it alive. Upon this a fierce struggle began; but the bear, finding that the more he struggled the tighter the grip on his throat became, was soon subdued, and was led a safe, though unwilling captive by U Babam Doh out of the jungle. Thus once again the son brought to his mother the remedy which was supposed to be written in her nusip. When he came in sight of his home, leading the bear by the thong, the tiger cub, on seeing his master, ran to meet him, with the good news that his mother had recovered and had been cooking savoury meals for a guest who was staying in the house. This news cheered U Babam Doh greatly, and, fastening the bear to a tree, he hastened to the house to greet his mother, but to his disappointment he found her ill and seemingly in as much pain as ever. Without delay he took a knife and went out to kill the bear, and, filling the lota with grease, he brought it to his mother, saying: "Anoint yourself, oh my mother, I have obtained for you the bear's grease; anoint yourself and live." He then went out to seek the tiger cub and punish him for deceiving him about his mother's condition, but the cub declared on oath that he had spoken only the truth, and that his mother had really been entertaining a guest during her son's absence, and seemed to have been in good health, going about her work, and cooking savoury meals. U Babam Doh was greatly mystified; he was loth to believe his mother could be capable of any duplicity, and yet the tiger cub seemed to speak the truth. He determined not to say anything to his mother about the matter, but to keep a watch on her movements for a few days. When her son left the house after giving her the bear's grease, the woman rose quickly, and lifting the lid of the chest, she said: "Anoint yourself, oh my husband. Our son hath obtained the bear's grease; anoint yourself and be free from the dragon's power." As before, the dragon was again very chagrined to find that U Babam Doh had come back alive and uninjured, so he thought of yet another plan by which he could send him into a still greater danger, and he answered the woman: "Anointing my body with bear's grease is only a part of my vow; before I can be released from the dragon's power I must be covered for one whole night with the undried skin of a python, and he who obtains the skin for me must not know for what purpose or for whom it is obtained." The woman wept bitterly when she heard of this vow, for she feared to send her son among the reptiles. U Yak Jakor, seeing her hesitation, began to coax her, and to persuade her to feign sickness once again, and she, longing to see her husband released, yielded to his coaxing. When her son came in he found her seemingly worse than he had seen her before, and once more he knelt by her side and begged of her to tell him what he could do for her that would ease her pain. She replied, "It is written in my nusip that I must die of this sickness unless I am covered for a whole night with the undried skin of a python"; and as before U Babam Doh answered and said that he would obtain for her whatever was written in her nusip; but he did not say that he would bring a python skin. Taking his bow and quiver, he left the house, as on former occasions, and walked in the direction of the jungle, but this time he did not proceed far. He returned home unobserved, and, climbing to the roof of the house, he quietly removed some of the thatch, which enabled him to see all that was going on inside the house, while he himself was unseen. Very soon he saw his mother getting up, as if in her usual health, and preparing to cook a savoury meal, which, to his amazement, when it had been cooked, she took to the wooden chest where he knew the dragon to be confined. As he looked, he saw the figure of a man lying in the chest, and he knew then that U Yak Jakor had transformed himself into another likeness in order to dupe his mother. He listened, and soon he understood from their conversation that the dragon had taken the form of his own dead father, and by that means had succeeded in making his mother a tool against her own son. He now blamed himself for not having confided to his mother the secret of the chest, and determined to undeceive her without further delay. He entered the house quickly, before his mother had time to close the lid of the chest. She stood before him flustered and confused, thinking that by her indiscretion she had irrevocably committed her husband to the power of the dragon; but when U Babam Doh informed her of the deception played upon her by U Yak Jakor she was overwhelmed with terror, to think how she had been duped into sending her brave son into such grave perils, and abetting the dragon in his evil designs on his life. When U Yak Jakor saw that there was no further advantage to be gained by keeping the man's form he assumed his own shape, and, thinking to prevent them from approaching near enough to harm him, he emitted the most foul stench from his scaly body. But U Babam Doh, who had borne so much, was not to be thwarted, and without any more lingering he took the chest on his shoulders and carried it to the place of Durbar. There, before the Siem and his ministers and the whole populace, he recounted the strange story of his own adventures and his parents' history. At the end of the tale he opened the wooden chest and exhibited the great monster, who had been such a terror to travellers for many generations, and in the presence of the Durbar, amid loud cheers, he slew U Yak Jakor, and so avenged his father's death and vindicated his mother's honour. The Siem and the Durbar unanimously appointed him the Heir-apparent, and when in the course of time he succeeded to the throne he proved himself a wise and much-loved ruler, who befriended the poor and the down-trodden and gave shelter to the stranger and the homeless. He always maintained that his own high estate was bestowed upon him in consequence of his family's generosity to a lonely and unknown mendicant, whose blessing descended upon them and raised them from a state of want and poverty to the highest position in the land. 
37532	----	THE SCOTTISH FAIRY BOOK BOOKS IN THE "FAIRY SERIES" _The English Fairy Book_ _The Welsh Fairy Book_ _The Irish Fairy Book_ _The Scottish Fairy Book_ _The Italian Fairy Book_ _The Hungarian Fairy Book_ _The Indian Fairy Book_ _The Spanish Fairy Book_ _The Danish Fairy Book_ _The Norwegian Fairy Book_ _The Jewish Fairy Book_ _The Swedish Fairy Book_ _The Chinese Fairy Book_ THE SCOTTISH FAIRY BOOK · BY ELIZABETH W. GRIERSON · WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY MORRIS MEREDITH WILLIAMS [Illustration] J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY PHILADELPHIA NEW YORK Printed in U.S.A. "Of _Brownys and of Bogillis Full this Buke_." --GAVIN DOUGLAS PREFACE There are, roughly speaking, two distinct types of Scottish Fairy Tales. There are what may be called "Celtic Stories," which were handed down for centuries by word of mouth by professional story-tellers, who went about from clachan to clachan in the "Highlands and Islands," earning a night's shelter by giving a night's entertainment, and which have now been collected and classified for us by Campbell of Isla and others. These stories, which are also common to the North of Ireland, are wild and fantastic, and very often somewhat monotonous, and their themes are strangely alike. They almost always tell of some hero or heroine who sets out on some dangerous quest, and who is met by giants, generally three in number, who appear one after the other; with whom they hold quaint dialogues, and whom eventually they slay. Most of them are fairly long, and although they have a peculiar fascination of their own, they are quite distinct from the ordinary Fairy Tale. These latter, in Scotland, have also a character of their own, for there is no country where the existence of Spirits and Goblins has been so implicitly believed in up to a comparatively recent date. As a proof of this we can go to Hogg's tale of "The Wool-gatherer," and see how the countryman, Barnaby, voices the belief of his day. "Ye had need to tak care how ye dispute the existence of fairies, brownies, and apparitions! Ye may as weel dispute the Gospel of Saint Matthew." Perhaps it was the bleak and stern character of their climate, and the austerity of their religious beliefs which made our Scottish forefathers think of the spirits in whom they so firmly believed, as being, for the most part, mischievous and malevolent. Their Bogies, their Witches, their Kelpies, even their Fairy Queen herself, were supposed to be in league with the Evil One, and to be compelled, as Thomas of Ercildoune was near finding out to his cost, to pay a "Tiend to Hell" every seven years; so it was not to be wondered at, that these uncanny beings were dreaded and feared. But along with this dark and gloomy view, we find touches of delicate playfulness and brightness. The Fairy Queen might be in league with Satan, but her subjects were not all bound by the same law, and many charming tales are told of the "sith" or silent folk, who were always spoken of with respect, in case they might be within earshot, who made their dwellings under some rocky knowe, and who came out and danced on the dewy sward at midnight. Akin to them are the tales which are told about a mysterious region under the sea, "far below the abode of fishes," where a strange race of beings lived, who, in their own land closely resembled human beings, and were of such surpassing beauty that they charmed the hearts of all who looked on them. They were spoken of as Mermaids and Mermen, and as their lungs were not adapted for breathing under water, they had the extraordinary power of entering into the skin of some fish or sea animal, and in this way passing from their own abode to our upper world, where they held converse with mortal men, and, as often as not, tried to lure them to destruction. The popular idea always represents Mer-folk as wearing the tails of fishes; in Scottish Folklore they are quite as often found in the form of seals. Then we frequently come across the Brownie, that strange, kindly, lovable creature, with its shaggy, unkempt appearance, half man, half beast, who was said to be the ordained helper of man in the drudgery entailed by sin, and was therefore forbidden to receive wages; who always worked when no one was looking, and who disappeared if any notice were taken of him. There are also, as in all other countries, animal tales, where the animals are endowed with the power of speech; and weird tales of enchantment; and last, but not least, there are the legendary stories, many of them half real, half mythical, which are to be found in the pages of Hogg, and Leyden, and above all, in Sir Walter Scott's "Border Minstrelsy." In preparing this book I have tried to make a representative collection from these different classes of Scottish Folklore, taking, when possible, the stories which are least well known, in the hope that some of them, at least, may be new to the children of this generation. It may interest some of these children to know that when James IV was a little boy, nearly four hundred years ago, he used to sit on his tutor, Sir David Lindsay's, knee, and listen to some of the same stories that are written here:--to the story of Thomas the Rhymer, of the Red-Etin, and of The Black Bull of Norroway. Although in every case I have told the tale in my own words, I am indebted for the originals to Campbell's "Popular Tales of the Western Highlands," Leyden's Poems, Hogg's Poems, Scott's "Border Minstrelsy," Chambers' "Popular Rhymes of Scotland," "The Folklore Journal," etc. ELIZABETH W. GRIERSON. _Whitchesters, Hawick, N.B., 12th April, 1910._ CONTENTS PAGE Thomas the Rhymer 1 Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree 17 Whippety-Stourie 33 The Red-Etin 42 The Seal Catcher and the Merman 58 The Page-boy and the Silver Goblet 67 The Black Bull of Norroway 74 The Wee Bannock 93 The Elfin Knight 101 What to say to the New Mune 114 Habetrot the Spinstress 115 Nippit Fit and Clippit Fit 130 The Fairies of Merlin's Crag 136 The Wedding of Robin Redbreast and Jenny Wren 144 The Dwarfie Stone 150 Canonbie Dick and Thomas of Ercildoune 169 The Laird o' Co' 179 Poussie Baudrons 186 The Milk-white Doo 188 The Draiglin' Hogney 196 The Brownie o' Ferne-Den 204 The Witch of Fife 211 Assipattle and the Mester Stoorworm 221 The Fox and the Wolf 245 Katherine Crackernuts 253 Times to Sneeze 268 The Well o' the World's End 272 Farquhar MacNeill 277 Peerifool 284 Birthdays 298 THOMAS THE RHYMER Of all the young gallants in Scotland in the thirteenth century, there was none more gracious and debonair than Thomas Learmont, Laird of the Castle of Ercildoune, in Berwickshire. He loved books, poetry, and music, which were uncommon tastes in those days; and, above all, he loved to study nature, and to watch the habits of the beasts and birds that made their abode in the fields and woods round about his home. Now it chanced that, one sunny May morning, Thomas left his Tower of Ercildoune, and went wandering into the woods that lay about the Huntly Burn, a little stream that came rushing down from the slopes of the Eildon Hills. It was a lovely morning--fresh, and bright, and warm, and everything was so beautiful that it looked as Paradise might look. The tender leaves were bursting out of their sheaths, and covering all the trees with a fresh soft mantle of green; and amongst the carpet of moss under the young man's feet, yellow primroses and starry anemones were turning up their faces to the morning sky. The little birds were singing like to burst their throats, and hundreds of insects were flying backwards and forwards in the sunshine; while down by the burnside the bright-eyed water-rats were poking their noses out of their holes, as if they knew that summer had come, and wanted to have a share in all that was going on. Thomas felt so happy with the gladness of it all, that he threw himself down at the root of a tree, to watch the living things around him. As he was lying there, he heard the trampling of a horse's hooves, as it forced its way through the bushes; and, looking up, he saw the most beautiful lady that he had ever seen coming riding towards him on a grey palfrey. She wore a hunting dress of glistening silk, the colour of the fresh spring grass; and from her shoulders hung a velvet mantle, which matched the riding-skirt exactly. Her yellow hair, like rippling gold, hung loosely round her shoulders, and on her head sparkled a diadem of precious stones, which flashed like fire in the sunlight. Her saddle was of pure ivory, and her saddle-cloth of blood-red satin, while her saddle girths were of corded silk and her stirrups of cut crystal. Her horse's reins were of beaten gold, all hung with little silver bells, so that, as she rode along, she made a sound like fairy music. Apparently she was bent on the chase, for she carried a hunting-horn and a sheaf of arrows; and she led seven greyhounds along in a leash, while as many scenting hounds ran loose at her horse's side. As she rode down the glen, she lilted a bit of an old Scotch song; and she carried herself with such a queenly air, and her dress was so magnificent, that Thomas was like to kneel by the side of the path and worship her, for he thought that it must be the Blessed Virgin herself. But when the rider came to where he was, and understood his thoughts, she shook her head sadly. "I am not that Blessed Lady, as thou thinkest," she said. "Men call me Queen, but it is of a far other country; for I am the Queen of Fairy-land, and not the Queen of Heaven." And certainly it seemed as if what she said were true; for, from that moment, it was as if a spell were cast over Thomas, making him forget prudence, and caution, and common-sense itself. For he knew that it was dangerous for mortals to meddle with Fairies, yet he was so entranced with the Lady's beauty that he begged her to give him a kiss. This was just what she wanted, for she knew that if she once kissed him she had him in her power. And, to the young man's horror, as soon as their lips had met, an awful change came over her. For her beautiful mantle and riding-skirt of silk seemed to fade away, leaving her clad in a long grey garment, which was just the colour of ashes. Her beauty seemed to fade away also, and she grew old and wan; and, worst of all, half of her abundant yellow hair went grey before his very eyes. She saw the poor man's astonishment and terror, and she burst into a mocking laugh. "I am not so fair to look on now as I was at first," she said, "but that matters little, for thou hast sold thyself, Thomas, to be my servant for seven long years. For whoso kisseth the Fairy Queen must e'en go with her to Fairy-land, and serve her there till that time is past." When he heard these words poor Thomas fell on his knees and begged for mercy. But mercy he could not obtain. The Elfin Queen only laughed in his face, and brought her dapple-grey palfrey close up to where he was standing. "No, no," she said, in answer to his entreaties. "Thou didst ask the kiss, and now thou must pay the price. So dally no longer, but mount behind me, for it is full time that I was gone." So Thomas, with many a sigh and groan of terror, mounted behind her; and as soon as he had done so, she shook her bridle rein, and the grey steed galloped off. On and on they went, going swifter than the wind; till they left the land of the living behind, and came to the edge of a great desert, which stretched before them, dry, and bare, and desolate, to the edge of the far horizon. At least, so it seemed to the weary eyes of Thomas of Ercildoune, and he wondered if he and his strange companion had to cross this desert; and, if so, if there were any chance of reaching the other side of it alive. But the Fairy Queen suddenly tightened her rein, and the grey palfrey stopped short in its wild career. "Now must thou descend to earth, Thomas," said the Lady, glancing over her shoulder at her unhappy captive, "and lout down, and lay thy head on my knee, and I will show thee hidden things, which cannot be seen by mortal eyes." So Thomas dismounted, and louted down, and rested his head on the Fairy Queen's knee; and lo, as he looked once more over the desert, everything seemed changed. For he saw three roads leading across it now, which he had not noticed before, and each of these three roads was different. One of them was broad, and level, and even, and it ran straight on across the sand, so that no one who was travelling by it could possibly lose his way. And the second road was as different from the first as it well could be. It was narrow, and winding, and long; and there was a thorn hedge on one side of it, and a briar hedge on the other; and those hedges grew so high, and their branches were so wild and tangled, that those who were travelling along that road would have some difficulty in persevering on their journey at all. And the third road was unlike any of the others. It was a bonnie, bonnie road, winding up a hillside among brackens, and heather, and golden-yellow whins, and it looked as if it would be pleasant travelling, to pass that way. "Now," said the Fairy Queen, "an' thou wilt, I shall tell thee where these three roads lead to. The first road, as thou seest, is broad, and even, and easy, and there be many that choose it to travel on. But though it be a good road, it leadeth to a bad end, and the folk that choose it repent their choice for ever. "And as for the narrow road, all hampered and hindered by the thorns and the briars, there be few that be troubled to ask where that leadeth to. But did they ask, perchance more of them might be stirred up to set out along it. For that is the Road of Righteousness; and, although it be hard and irksome, yet it endeth in a glorious City, which is called the City of the Great King. "And the third road--the bonnie road--that runs up the brae among the ferns, and leadeth no mortal kens whither, but I ken where it leadeth, Thomas--for it leadeth unto fair Elf-land; and that road take we. "And, mark 'ee, Thomas, if ever thou hopest to see thine own Tower of Ercildoune again, take care of thy tongue when we reach our journey's end, and speak no single word to anyone save me--for the mortal who openeth his lips rashly in Fairy-land must bide there for ever." Then she bade him mount her palfrey again, and they rode on. The ferny road was not so bonnie all the way as it had been at first, however. For they had not ridden along it very far before it led them into a narrow ravine, which seemed to go right down under the earth, where there was no ray of light to guide them, and where the air was dank and heavy. There was a sound of rushing water everywhere, and at last the grey palfrey plunged right into it; and it crept up, cold and chill, first over Thomas's feet, and then over his knees. His courage had been slowly ebbing ever since he had been parted from the daylight, but now he gave himself up for lost; for it seemed to him certain that his strange companion and he would never come safe to their journey's end. He fell forward in a kind of swoon; and, if it had not been that he had tight hold of the Fairy's ash-grey gown, I warrant he had fallen from his seat, and had been drowned. But all things, be they good or bad, pass in time, and at last the darkness began to lighten, and the light grew stronger, until they were back in broad sunshine. Then Thomas took courage, and looked up; and lo, they were riding through a beautiful orchard, where apples and pears, dates and figs and wine-berries grew in great abundance. And his tongue was so parched and dry, and he felt so faint, that he longed for some of the fruit to restore him. He stretched out his hand to pluck some of it; but his companion turned in her saddle and forbade him. "There is nothing safe for thee to eat here," she said, "save an apple, which I will give thee presently. If thou touch aught else thou art bound to remain in Fairy-land for ever." So poor Thomas had to restrain himself as best he could; and they rode slowly on, until they came to a tiny tree all covered with red apples. The Fairy Queen bent down and plucked one, and handed it to her companion. "This I can give thee," she said, "and I do it gladly, for these apples are the Apples of Truth; and whoso eateth them gaineth this reward, that his lips will never more be able to frame a lie." Thomas took the apple, and ate it; and for evermore the Grace of Truth rested on his lips; and that is why, in after years, men called him "True Thomas." They had only a little way to go after this, before they came in sight of a magnificent Castle standing on a hillside. "Yonder is my abode," said the Queen, pointing to it proudly. "There dwelleth my Lord and all the Nobles of his court; and, as my Lord hath an uncertain temper and shows no liking for any strange gallant whom he sees in my company, I pray thee, both for thy sake and mine, to utter no word to anyone who speaketh to thee; and, if anyone should ask me who and what thou art, I will tell them that thou art dumb. So wilt thou pass unnoticed in the crowd." With these words the Lady raised her hunting-horn, and blew a loud and piercing blast; and, as she did so, a marvellous change came over her again; for her ugly ash-covered gown dropped off her, and the grey in her hair vanished, and she appeared once more in her green riding-skirt and mantle, and her face grew young and fair. And a wonderful change passed over Thomas also; for, as he chanced to glance downwards, he found that his rough country clothes had been transformed into a suit of fine brown cloth, and that on his feet he wore satin shoon. Immediately the sound of the horn rang out, the doors of the Castle flew open, and the King hurried out to meet the Queen, accompanied by such a number of Knights and Ladies, Minstrels and Page-boys, that Thomas, who had slid from his palfrey, had no difficulty in obeying her wishes and passing into the Castle unobserved. Everyone seemed very glad to see the Queen back again, and they crowded into the Great Hall in her train, and she spoke to them all graciously, and allowed them to kiss her hand. Then she passed, with her husband, to a dais at the far end of the huge apartment, where two thrones stood, on which the Royal pair seated themselves to watch the revels which now began. Poor Thomas, meanwhile, stood far away at the other end of the Hall, feeling very lonely, yet fascinated by the extraordinary scene on which he was gazing. For, although all the fine Ladies, and Courtiers, and Knights were dancing in one part of the Hall, there were huntsmen coming and going in another part, carrying in great antlered deer, which apparently they had killed in the chase, and throwing them down in heaps on the floor. And there were rows of cooks standing beside the dead animals, cutting them up into joints, and bearing away the joints to be cooked. Altogether it was such a strange, fantastic scene that Thomas took no heed of how the time flew, but stood and gazed, and gazed, never speaking a word to anybody. This went on for three long days, then the Queen rose from her throne, and, stepping from the dais, crossed the Hall to where he was standing. "'Tis time to mount and ride, Thomas," she said, "if thou wouldst ever see the fair Castle of Ercildoune again." Thomas looked at her in amazement. "Thou spokest of seven long years, Lady," he exclaimed, "and I have been here but three days." The Queen smiled. "Time passeth quickly in Fairy-land, my friend," she replied. "Thou thinkest that thou hast been here but three days. 'Tis seven years since we two met. And now it is time for thee to go. I would fain have had thy presence with me longer, but I dare not, for thine own sake. For every seventh year an Evil Spirit cometh from the Regions of Darkness, and carrieth back with him one of our followers, whomsoever he chanceth to choose. And, as thou art a goodly fellow, I fear that he might choose thee. "So, as I would be loth to let harm befall thee, I will take thee back to thine own country this very night." Once more the grey palfrey was brought, and Thomas and the Queen mounted it; and, as they had come, so they returned to the Eildon Tree near the Huntly Burn. Then the Queen bade Thomas farewell; and, as a parting gift, he asked her to give him something that would let people know that he had really been to Fairy-land. "I have already given thee the Gift of Truth," she replied. "I will now give thee the Gifts of Prophecy and Poesie; so that thou wilt be able to foretell the future, and also to write wondrous verses. And, besides these unseen gifts, here is something that mortals can see with their own eyes--a Harp that was fashioned in Fairy-land. Fare thee well, my friend. Some day, perchance, I will return for thee again." With these words the Lady vanished, and Thomas was left alone, feeling a little sorry, if the truth must be told, at parting with such a radiant Being and coming back to the ordinary haunts of men. After this he lived for many a long year in his Castle of Ercildoune, and the fame of his poetry and of his prophecies spread all over the country, so that people named him True Thomas, and Thomas the Rhymer. I cannot write down for you all the prophecies which Thomas uttered, and which most surely came to pass, but I will tell you one or two. He foretold the Battle of Bannockburn in these words: "The Burn of Breid Shall rin fou reid," which came to pass on that terrible day when the waters of the little Bannockburn were reddened by the blood of the defeated English. He also foretold the Union of the Crowns of England and Scotland, under a Prince who was the son of a French Queen, and who yet bore the blood of Bruce in his veins. "A French Quen shall bearre the Sonne; Shall rule all Britainne to the sea, As neere as is the ninth degree," which thing came true in 1603, when King James, son of Mary, Queen of Scots, became Monarch of both countries. * * * * * Fourteen long years went by, and people were beginning to forget that Thomas the Rhymer had ever been in Fairy-land; but at last a day came when Scotland was at war with England, and the Scottish army was resting by the banks of the Tweed, not far from the Tower of Ercildoune. [Illustration] And the Master of the Tower determined to make a feast, and invite all the Nobles and Barons who were leading the army to sup with him. That feast was long remembered. For the Laird of Ercildoune took care that everything was as magnificent as it could possibly be; and when the meal was ended he rose in his place, and, taking his Elfin Harp, he sang to his assembled guests song after song of the days of long ago. The guests listened breathlessly, for they felt that they would never hear such wonderful music again. And so it fell out. For that very night, after all the Nobles had gone back to their tents, a soldier on guard saw, in the moonlight, a snow-white Hart and Hind moving slowly down the road that ran past the camp. There was something so unusual about the animals that he called to his officer to come and look at them. And the officer called to his brother officers, and soon there was quite a crowd softly following the dumb creatures, who paced solemnly on, as if they were keeping time to music unheard by mortal ears. "There is something uncanny about this," said one soldier at last. "Let us send for Thomas of Ercildoune, perchance he may be able to tell us if it be an omen or no." "Ay, send for Thomas of Ercildoune," cried every one at once. So a little page was sent in haste to the old Tower to rouse the Rhymer from his slumbers. When he heard the boy's message, the Seer's face grew grave and wrapt. "'Tis a summons," he said softly, "a summons from the Queen of Fairy-land. I have waited long for it, and it hath come at last." And when he went out, instead of joining the little company of waiting men, he walked straight up to the snow-white Hart and Hind. As soon as he reached them they paused for a moment as if to greet him. Then all three moved slowly down a steep bank that sloped to the little river Leader, and disappeared in its foaming waters, for the stream was in full flood. And, although a careful search was made, no trace of Thomas of Ercildoune was found; and to this day the country folk believe that the Hart and the Hind were messengers from the Elfin Queen, and that he went back to Fairy-land with them. [Illustration] [Illustration: And she set sail for her own Country.] GOLD-TREE AND SILVER-TREE In bygone days there lived a little Princess named Gold-Tree, and she was one of the prettiest children in the whole world. Although her mother was dead, she had a very happy life, for her father loved her dearly, and thought that nothing was too much trouble so long as it gave his little daughter pleasure. But by and by he married again, and then the little Princess's sorrows began. For his new wife, whose name, curious to say, was Silver-Tree, was very beautiful, but she was also very jealous, and she made herself quite miserable for fear that, some day, she should meet someone who was better looking than she was herself. When she found that her step-daughter was so very pretty, she took a dislike to her at once, and was always looking at her and wondering if people would think her prettier than she was. And because, in her heart of hearts, she was afraid that they would do so, she was very unkind indeed to the poor girl. At last, one day, when Princess Gold-Tree was quite grown up, the two ladies went for a walk to a little well which lay, all surrounded by trees, in the middle of a deep glen. Now the water in this well was so clear that everyone who looked into it saw his face reflected on the surface; and the proud Queen loved to come and peep into its depths, so that she could see her own picture mirrored in the water. But to-day, as she was looking in, what should she see but a little trout, which was swimming quietly backwards and forwards not very far from the surface. "Troutie, troutie, answer me this one question," said the Queen. "Am not I the most beautiful woman in the world?" "No, indeed, you are not," replied the trout promptly, jumping out of the water, as he spoke, in order to swallow a fly. "Who is the most beautiful woman, then?" asked the disappointed Queen, for she had expected a far different answer. "Thy step-daughter, the Princess Gold-Tree, without a doubt," said the little fish; then, frightened by the black look that came upon the jealous Queen's face, he dived to the bottom of the well. It was no wonder that he did so, for the Queen's expression was not pleasant to look at, as she darted an angry glance at her fair young step-daughter, who was busy picking flowers some little distance away. Indeed, she was so annoyed at the thought that anyone should say that the girl was prettier than she was, that she quite lost her self-control; and when she reached home she went up, in a violent passion, to her room, and threw herself on the bed, declaring that she felt very ill indeed. It was in vain that Princess Gold-Tree asked her what the matter was, and if she could do anything for her. She would not let the poor girl touch her, but pushed her away as if she had been some evil thing. So at last the Princess had to leave her alone, and go out of the apartment, feeling very sad indeed. By and by the King came home from his hunting, and he at once asked for the Queen. He was told that she had been seized with sudden illness, and that she was lying on her bed in her own room, and that no one, not even the Court Physician, who had been hastily summoned, could make out what was wrong with her. In great anxiety--for he really loved her--the King went up to her bedside, and asked the Queen how she felt, and if there was anything that he could do to relieve her. "Yes, there is one thing that thou couldst do," she answered harshly, "but I know full well that, even although it is the only thing that will cure me, thou wilt not do it." "Nay," said the King, "I deserve better words at thy mouth than these; for thou knowest that I would give thee aught thou carest to ask, even if it be the half of my Kingdom." "Then give me thy daughter's heart to eat," cried the Queen, "for unless I can obtain that, I will die, and that speedily." She spoke so wildly, and looked at him in such a strange fashion, that the poor King really thought that her brain was turned, and he was at his wits' end what to do. He left the room, and paced up and down the corridor in great distress, until at last he remembered that that very morning the son of a great King had arrived from a country far over the sea, asking for his daughter's hand in marriage. "Here is a way out of the difficulty," he said to himself. "This marriage pleaseth me well, and I will have it celebrated at once. Then, when my daughter is safe out of the country, I will send a lad up the hillside, and he shall kill a he-goat, and I will have its heart prepared and dressed, and send it up to my wife. Perhaps the sight of it will cure her of this madness." So he had the strange Prince summoned before him, and told him how the Queen had taken a sudden illness that had wrought on her brain, and had caused her to take a dislike to the Princess, and how it seemed as if it would be a good thing if, with the maiden's consent, the marriage could take place at once, so that the Queen might be left alone to recover from her strange malady. Now the Prince was delighted to gain his bride so easily, and the Princess was glad to escape from her step-mother's hatred, so the marriage took place at once, and the newly wedded pair set off across the sea for the Prince's country. Then the King sent a lad up the hillside to kill a he-goat; and when it was killed he gave orders that its heart should be dressed and cooked, and sent to the Queen's apartment on a silver dish. And the wicked woman tasted it, believing it to be the heart of her step-daughter; and when she had done so, she rose from her bed and went about the Castle looking as well and hearty as ever. I am glad to be able to tell you that the marriage of Princess Gold-Tree, which had come about in such a hurry, turned out to be a great success; for the Prince whom she had wedded was rich, and great, and powerful, and he loved her dearly, and she was as happy as the day was long. So things went peacefully on for a year. Queen Silver-Tree was satisfied and contented, because she thought that her step-daughter was dead; while all the time the Princess was happy and prosperous in her new home. But at the end of the year it chanced that the Queen went once more to the well in the little glen, in order to see her face reflected in the water. And it chanced also that the same little trout was swimming backwards and forwards, just as he had done the year before. And the foolish Queen determined to have a better answer to her question this time than she had last. "Troutie, troutie," she whispered, leaning over the edge of the well, "am not I the most beautiful woman in the world?" "By my troth, thou art not," answered the trout, in his very straightforward way. "Who is the most beautiful woman, then?" asked the Queen, her face growing pale at the thought that she had yet another rival. "Why, your Majesty's step-daughter, the Princess Gold-Tree, to be sure," answered the trout. The Queen threw back her head with a sigh of relief. "Well, at any rate, people cannot admire her now," she said, "for it is a year since she died. I ate her heart for my supper." "Art thou sure of that, your Majesty?" asked the trout, with a twinkle in his eye. "Methinks it is but a year since she married the gallant young Prince who came from abroad to seek her hand, and returned with him to his own country." When the Queen heard these words she turned quite cold with rage, for she knew that her husband had deceived her; and she rose from her knees and went straight home to the Palace, and, hiding her anger as best she could, she asked him if he would give orders to have the Long Ship made ready, as she wished to go and visit her dear step-daughter, for it was such a very long time since she had seen her. The King was somewhat surprised at her request, but he was only too glad to think that she had got over her hatred towards his daughter, and he gave orders that the Long Ship should be made ready at once. Soon it was speeding over the water, its prow turned in the direction of the land where the Princess lived, steered by the Queen herself; for she knew the course that the boat ought to take, and she was in such haste to be at her journey's end that she would allow no one else to take the helm. Now it chanced that Princess Gold-Tree was alone that day, for her husband had gone a-hunting. And as she looked out of one of the Castle windows she saw a boat coming sailing over the sea towards the landing place. She recognised it as her father's Long Ship, and she guessed only too well whom it carried on board. She was almost beside herself with terror at the thought, for she knew that it was for no good purpose that Queen Silver-Tree had taken the trouble to set out to visit her, and she felt that she would have given almost anything she possessed if her husband had but been at home. In her distress she hurried into the servants' hall. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" she cried, "for I see my father's Long Ship coming over the sea, and I know that my step-mother is on board. And if she hath a chance she will kill me, for she hateth me more than anything else upon earth." Now the servants worshipped the ground that their young Mistress trod on, for she was always kind and considerate to them, and when they saw how frightened she was, and heard her piteous words, they crowded round her, as if to shield her from any harm that threatened her. "Do not be afraid, your Highness," they cried; "we will defend thee with our very lives if need be. But in case thy Lady Step-Mother should have the power to throw any evil spell over thee, we will lock thee in the great Mullioned Chamber, then she cannot get nigh thee at all." Now the Mullioned Chamber was a strong-room, which was in a part of the castle all by itself, and its door was so thick that no one could possibly break through it; and the Princess knew that if she were once inside the room, with its stout oaken door between her and her step-mother, she would be perfectly safe from any mischief that that wicked woman could devise. So she consented to her faithful servants' suggestion, and allowed them to lock her in the Mullioned Chamber. So it came to pass that when Queen Silver-Tree arrived at the great door of the Castle, and commanded the lackey who opened it to take her to his Royal Mistress, he told her, with a low bow, that that was impossible, because the Princess was locked in the strong-room of the Castle, and could not get out, because no one knew where the key was. (Which was quite true, for the old butler had tied it round the neck of the Prince's favourite sheep-dog, and had sent him away to the hills to seek his master.) "Take me to the door of the apartment," commanded the Queen. "At least I can speak to my dear daughter through it." And the lackey, who did not see what harm could possibly come from this, did as he was bid. "If the key is really lost, and thou canst not come out to welcome me, dear Gold-Tree," said the deceitful Queen, "at least put thy little finger through the keyhole that I may kiss it." The Princess did so, never dreaming that evil could come to her through such a simple action. But it did. For instead of kissing the tiny finger, her step-mother stabbed it with a poisoned needle, and, so deadly was the poison, that, before she could utter a single cry, the poor Princess fell, as one dead, on the floor. When she heard the fall, a smile of satisfaction crept over Queen Silver-Tree's face. "Now I can say that I am the handsomest woman in the world," she whispered; and she went back to the lackey who stood waiting at the end of the passage, and told him that she had said all that she had to say to her daughter, and that now she must return home. So the man attended her to the boat with all due ceremony, and she set sail for her own country; and no one in the Castle knew that any harm had befallen their dear Mistress until the Prince came home from his hunting with the key of the Mullioned Chamber, which he had taken from his sheep-dog's neck, in his hand. [Illustration] He laughed when he heard the story of Queen Silver-Tree's visit, and told the servants that they had done well; then he ran upstairs to open the door and release his wife. But what was his horror and dismay, when he did so, to find her lying dead at his feet on the floor. He was nearly beside himself with rage and grief; and, because he knew that a deadly poison such as Queen Silver-Tree had used would preserve the Princess's body so that it had no need of burial, he had it laid on a silken couch and left in the Mullioned Chamber, so that he could go and look at it whenever he pleased. He was so terribly lonely, however, that in a little time he married again, and his second wife was just as sweet and as good as the first one had been. This new wife was very happy, there was only one little thing that caused her any trouble at all, and she was too sensible to let it make her miserable. That one thing was that there was one room in the Castle--a room which stood at the end of a passage by itself--which she could never enter, as her husband always carried the key. And as, when she asked him the reason of this, he always made an excuse of some kind, she made up her mind that she would not seem as if she did not trust him, so she asked no more questions about the matter. But one day the Prince chanced to leave the door unlocked, and as he had never told her not to do so, she went in, and there she saw Princess Gold-Tree lying on the silken couch, looking as if she were asleep. "Is she dead, or is she only sleeping?" she said to herself, and she went up to the couch and looked closely at the Princess. And there, sticking in her little finger, she discovered a curiously shaped needle. "There hath been evil work here," she thought to herself. "If that needle be not poisoned, then I know naught of medicine." And, being skilled in leechcraft, she drew it carefully out. In a moment Princess Gold-Tree opened her eyes and sat up, and presently she had recovered sufficiently to tell the Other Princess the whole story. Now, if her step-mother had been jealous, the Other Princess was not jealous at all; for, when she heard all that had happened, she clapped her little hands, crying, "Oh, how glad the Prince will be; for although he hath married again, I know that he loves thee best." That night the Prince came home from hunting looking very tired and sad, for what his second wife had said was quite true. Although he loved her very much, he was always mourning in his heart for his first dear love, Princess Gold-Tree. "How sad thou art!" exclaimed his wife, going out to meet him. "Is there nothing that I can do to bring a smile to thy face?" "Nothing," answered the Prince wearily, laying down his bow, for he was too heart-sore even to pretend to be gay. "Except to give thee back Gold-Tree," said his wife mischievously. "And that can I do. Thou wilt find her alive and well in the Mullioned Chamber." Without a word the Prince ran upstairs, and, sure enough, there was his dear Gold-Tree, sitting on the couch ready to welcome him. He was so overjoyed to see her that he threw his arms round her neck and kissed her over and over again, quite forgetting his poor second wife, who had followed him upstairs, and who now stood watching the meeting that she had brought about. She did not seem to be sorry for herself, however. "I always knew that thy heart yearned after Princess Gold-Tree," she said. "And it is but right that it should be so. For she was thy first love, and, since she hath come to life again, I will go back to mine own people." "No, indeed thou wilt not," answered the Prince, "for it is thou who hast brought me this joy. Thou wilt stay with us, and we shall all three live happily together. And Gold-Tree and thee will become great friends." And so it came to pass. For Princess Gold-Tree and the Other Princess soon became like sisters, and loved each other as if they had been brought up together all their lives. In this manner another year passed away, and one evening, in the old country, Queen Silver-Tree went, as she had done before, to look at her face in the water of the little well in the glen. And, as had happened twice before, the trout was there. "Troutie, troutie," she whispered, "am not I the most beautiful woman in the world?" "By my troth, thou art not," answered the trout, as he had answered on the two previous occasions. "And who dost thou say is the most beautiful woman now?" asked the Queen, her voice trembling with rage and vexation. "I have given her name to thee these two years back," answered the trout. "The Princess Gold-Tree, of course." "But she is dead," laughed the Queen. "I am sure of it this time, for it is just a year since I stabbed her little finger with a poisoned needle, and I heard her fall down dead on the floor." "I would not be so sure of that," answered the trout, and without saying another word he dived straight down to the bottom of the well. After hearing his mysterious words the Queen could not rest, and at last she asked her husband to have the Long Ship prepared once more, so that she could go and see her step-daughter. The King gave the order gladly; and it all happened as it had happened before. She steered the Ship over the sea with her own hands, and when it was approaching the land it was seen and recognised by Princess Gold-Tree. The Prince was out hunting, and the Princess ran, in great terror, to her friend, the Other Princess, who was upstairs in her chamber. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" she cried, "for I see my father's Long Ship coming, and I know that my cruel step-mother is on board, and she will try to kill me, as she tried to kill me before. Oh! come, let us escape to the hills." "Not at all," replied the Other Princess, throwing her arms round the trembling Gold-Tree. "I am not afraid of thy Lady Step-Mother. Come with me, and we will go down to the sea shore to greet her." So they both went down to the edge of the water, and when Queen Silver-Tree saw her step-daughter coming she pretended to be very glad, and sprang out of the boat and ran to meet her, and held out a silver goblet full of wine for her to drink. "'Tis rare wine from the East," she said, "and therefore very precious. I brought a flagon with me, so that we might pledge each other in a loving cup." Princess Gold-Tree, who was ever gentle and courteous, would have stretched out her hand for the cup, had not the Other Princess stepped between her and her step-mother. "Nay, Madam," she said gravely, looking the Queen straight in the face; "it is the custom in this land for the one who offers a loving cup to drink from it first herself." "I will follow the custom gladly," answered the Queen, and she raised the goblet to her mouth. But the Other Princess, who was watching for closely, noticed that she did not allow the wine that it contained to touch her lips. So she stepped forward and, as if by accident, struck the bottom of the goblet with her shoulder. Part of its contents flew into the Queen's face, and part, before she could shut her mouth, went down her throat. So, because of her wickedness, she was, as the Good Book says, caught in her own net. For she had made the wine so poisonous that, almost before she had swallowed it, she fell dead at the two Princesses' feet. No one was sorry for her, for she really deserved her fate; and they buried her hastily in a lonely piece of ground, and very soon everybody had forgotten all about her. As for Princess Gold-Tree, she lived happily and peacefully with her husband and her friend for the remainder of her life. [Illustration] WHIPPETY-STOURIE I am going to tell you a story about a poor young widow woman, who lived in a house called Kittlerumpit, though whereabouts in Scotland the house of Kittlerumpit stood nobody knows. Some folk think that it stood in the neighbourhood of the Debateable Land, which, as all the world knows, was on the Borders, where the old Border Reivers were constantly coming and going; the Scotch stealing from the English, and the English from the Scotch. Be that as it may, the widowed Mistress of Kittlerumpit was sorely to be pitied. For she had lost her husband, and no one quite knew what had become of him. He had gone to a fair one day, and had never come back again, and although everybody believed that he was dead, no one knew how he died. Some people said that he had been persuaded to enlist, and had been killed in the wars; others, that he had been taken away to serve as a sailor by the press-gang, and had been drowned at sea. At any rate, his poor young wife was sorely to be pitied, for she was left with a little baby-boy to bring up, and, as times were bad, she had not much to live on. But she loved her baby dearly, and worked all day amongst her cows, and pigs, and hens, in order to earn enough money to buy food and clothes for both herself and him. Now, on the morning of which I am speaking, she rose very early and went out to feed her pigs, for rent-day was coming on, and she intended to take one of them, a great, big, fat creature, to the market that very day, as she thought that the price that it would fetch would go a long way towards paying her rent. And because she thought so, her heart was light, and she hummed a little song to herself as she crossed the yard with her bucket on one arm and her baby-boy on the other. But the song was quickly changed into a cry of despair when she reached the pig-stye, for there lay her cherished pig on its back, with its legs in the air and its eyes shut, just as if it were going to breathe its last breath. "What shall I do? What shall I do?" cried the poor woman, sitting down on a big stone and clasping her boy to her breast, heedless of the fact that she had dropped her bucket, and that the pig's-meat was running out, and that the hens were eating it. "First I lost my husband, and now I am going to lose my finest pig. The pig that I hoped would fetch a deal of money." Now I must explain to you that the house of Kittlerumpit stood on a hillside, with a great fir wood behind it, and the ground sloping down steeply in front. And as the poor young thing, after having a good cry to herself, was drying her eyes, she chanced to look down the hill, and who should she see coming up it but an Old Woman, who looked like a lady born. She was dressed all in green, with a white apron, and she wore a black velvet hood on her head, and a steeple-crowned beaver hat over that, something like those, as I have heard tell, that the women wear in Wales. She walked very slowly, leaning on a long staff, and she gave a bit hirple now and then, as if she were lame. As she drew near, the young widow felt it was becoming to rise and curtsey to the Gentlewoman, for such she saw her to be. "Madam," she said, with a sob in her voice, "I bid you welcome to the house of Kittlerumpit, although you find its Mistress one of the most unfortunate women in the world." "Hout-tout," answered the old Lady, in such a harsh voice that the young woman started, and grasped her baby tighter in her arms. "Ye have little need to say that. Ye have lost your husband, I grant ye, but there were waur losses at Shirra-Muir. And now your pig is like to die--I could, maybe, remedy that. But I must first hear how much ye wad gie me if I cured him." "Anything that your Ladyship's Madam likes to ask," replied the widow, too much delighted at having the animal's life saved to think that she was making rather a rash promise. "Very good," said the old Dame, and without wasting any more words she walked straight into the pig-sty. She stood and looked at the dying creature for some minutes, rocking to and fro and muttering to herself in words which the widow could not understand; at least, she could only understand four of them, and they sounded something like this: "Pitter-patter, Haly water." Then she put her hand into her pocket and drew out a tiny bottle with a liquid that looked like oil in it. She took the cork out, and dropped one of her long lady-like fingers into it; then she touched the pig on the snout and on his ears, and on the tip of his curly tail. No sooner had she done so than up the beast jumped, and, with a grunt of contentment, ran off to its trough to look for its breakfast. A joyful woman was the Mistress of Kittlerumpit when she saw it do this, for she felt that her rent was safe; and in her relief and gratitude she would have kissed the hem of the strange Lady's green gown, if she would have allowed it, but she would not. "No, no," said she, and her voice sounded harsher than ever. "Let us have no fine meanderings, but let us stick to our bargain. I have done my part, and mended the pig; now ye must do yours, and give me what I like to ask--your son." Then the poor widow gave a piteous cry, for she knew now what she had not guessed before--that the Green-clad Lady was a Fairy, and a Wicked Fairy too, else had she not asked such a terrible thing. It was too late now, however, to pray, and beseech, and beg for mercy; the Fairy stood her ground, hard and cruel. "Ye promised me what I liked to ask, and I have asked your son; and your son I will have," she replied, "so it is useless making such a din about it. But one thing I may tell you, for I know well that the knowledge will not help you. By the laws of Fairy-land, I cannot take the bairn till the third day after this, and if by that time you have found out my name I cannot take him even then. But ye will not be able to find it out, of that I am certain. So I will call back for the boy in three days." And with that she disappeared round the back of the pig-sty, and the poor mother fell down in a dead faint beside the stone. All that day, and all the next, she did nothing but sit in her kitchen and cry, and hug her baby tighter in her arms; but on the day before that on which the Fairy said that she was coming back, she felt as if she must get a little breath of fresh air, so she went for a walk in the fir wood behind the house. Now in this fir wood there was an old quarry hole, in the bottom of which was a bonnie spring well, the water of which was always sweet and pure. The young widow was walking near this quarry hole, when, to her astonishment, she heard the whirr of a spinning-wheel and the sound of a voice lilting a song. At first she could not think where the sound came from; then, remembering the quarry, she laid down her child at a tree root, and crept noiselessly through the bushes on her hands and knees to the edge of the hole and peeped over. She could hardly believe her eyes! For there, far below her, at the bottom of the quarry, beside the spring well, sat the cruel Fairy, dressed in her green frock and tall felt hat, spinning away as fast as she could at a tiny spinning-wheel. And what should she be singing but-- "Little kens our guid dame at hame, Whippety-Stourie is my name." The widow woman almost cried aloud for joy, for now she had learned the Fairy's secret, and her child was safe. But she dare not, in case the wicked old Dame heard her and threw some other spell over her. So she crept softly back to the place where she had left her child; then, catching him up in her arms, she ran through the wood to her house, laughing, and singing, and tossing him in the air in such a state of delight that, if anyone had met her, they would have been in danger of thinking that she was mad. Now this young woman had been a merry-hearted maiden, and would have been merry-hearted still, if, since her marriage, she had not had so much trouble that it had made her grow old and sober-minded before her time; and she began to think what fun it would be to tease the Fairy for a few minutes before she let her know that she had found out her name. So next day, at the appointed time, she went out with her boy in her arms, and seated herself on the big stone where she had sat before; and when she saw the old Dame coming up the hill, she crumpled up her nice clean cap, and screwed up her face, and pretended to be in great distress and to be crying bitterly. The Fairy took no notice of this, however, but came close up to her, and said, in her harsh, merciless voice, "Good wife of Kittlerumpit, ye ken the reason of my coming; give me the bairn." Then the young mother pretended to be in sorer distress than ever, and fell on her knees before the wicked old woman and begged for mercy. "Oh, sweet Madam Mistress," she cried, "spare me my bairn, and take, an' thou wilt, the pig instead." "We have no need of bacon where I come from," answered the Fairy coldly; "so give me the laddie and let me begone--I have no time to waste in this wise." "Oh, dear Lady mine," pleaded the Goodwife, "if thou wilt not have the pig, wilt thou not spare my poor bairn and take me myself?" The Fairy stepped back a little, as if in astonishment. "Art thou mad, woman," she cried contemptuously, "that thou proposest such a thing? Who in all the world would care to take a plain-looking, red-eyed, dowdy wife like thee with them?" Now the young Mistress of Kittlerumpit knew that she was no beauty, and the knowledge had never vexed her; but something in the Fairy's tone made her feel so angry that she could contain herself no longer. "In troth, fair Madam, I might have had the wit to know that the like of me is not fit to tie the shoe-string of the High and Mighty Princess, WHIPPETY-STOURIE!" If there had been a charge of gunpowder buried in the ground, and if it had suddenly exploded beneath her feet, the Wicked Fairy could not have jumped higher into air. And when she came down again she simply turned round and ran down the brae, shrieking with rage and disappointment, for all the world, as an old book says, "like an owl chased by witches." [Illustration] THE RED-ETIN There were once two widows who lived in two cottages which stood not very far from one another. And each of those widows possessed a piece of land on which she grazed a cow and a few sheep, and in this way she made her living. One of these poor widows had two sons, the other had one; and as these three boys were always together, it was natural that they should become great friends. At last the time arrived when the eldest son of the widow who had two sons, must leave home and go out into the world to seek his fortune. And the night before he went away his mother told him to take a can and go to the well and bring back some water, and she would bake a cake for him to carry with him. "But remember," she added, "the size of the cake will depend on the quantity of water that thou bringest back. If thou bringest much, then will it be large; and, if thou bringest little, then will it be small. But, big or little, it is all that I have to give thee." The lad took the can and went off to the well, and filled it with water, and came home again. But he never noticed that the can had a hole in it, and was running out; so that, by the time that he arrived at home, there was very little water left. So his mother could only bake him a very little cake. But, small as it was, she asked him, as she gave it to him, to choose one of two things. Either to take the half of it with her blessing, or the whole of it with her malison. "For," said she, "thou canst not have both the whole cake and a blessing along with it." The lad looked at the cake and hesitated. It would have been pleasant to have left home with his mother's blessing upon him; but he had far to go, and the cake was little; the half of it would be a mere mouthful, and he did not know when he would get any more food. So at last he made up his mind to take the whole of it, even if he had to bear his mother's malison. Then he took his younger brother aside, and gave him his hunting-knife, saying, "Keep this by thee, and look at it every morning. For as long as the blade remains clear and bright, thou wilt know that it is well with me; but should it grow dim and rusty, then know thou that some evil hath befallen me." After this he embraced them both and set out on his travels. He journeyed all that day, and all the next, and on the afternoon of the third day he came to where an old shepherd was sitting beside a flock of sheep. "I will ask the old man whose sheep they are," he said to himself, "for mayhap his master might engage me also as a shepherd." So he went up to the old man, and asked him to whom the sheep belonged. And this was all the answer he got: "The Red-Etin of Ireland Ance lived in Ballygan, And stole King Malcolm's daughter, The King of fair Scotland. He beats her, he binds her, He lays her on a band, And every day he dings her With a bright silver wand. Like Julian the Roman, He's one that fears no man. "It's said there's ane predestinate To be his mortal foe, But that man is yet unborn, And lang may it be so." "That does not tell me much; but somehow I do not fancy this Red-Etin for a master," thought the youth, and he went on his way. He had not gone very far, however, when he saw another old man, with snow-white hair, herding a flock of swine; and as he wondered to whom the swine belonged, and if there was any chance of him getting a situation as a swineherd, he went up to the countryman, and asked who was the owner of the animals. He got the same answer from the swineherd that he had got from the shepherd: "The Red-Etin of Ireland Ance lived in Ballygan, And stole King Malcolm's daughter, The King of fair Scotland. He beats her, he binds her, He lays her on a band, And every day he dings her With a bright silver wand. Like Julian the Roman, He's one that fears no man. "It's said there's ane predestinate To be his mortal foe, But that man is yet unborn, And lang may it be so." "Plague on this old Red-Etin; I wonder when I will get out of his domains," he muttered to himself; and he journeyed still further. Presently he came to a very, very old man--so old, indeed, that he was quite bent with age--and he was herding a flock of goats. Once more the traveller asked to whom the animals belonged, and once more he got the same answer: "The Red-Etin of Ireland Ance lived in Ballygan, And stole King Malcolm's daughter, The King of fair Scotland. He beats her, he binds her, He lays her on a band, And every day he dings her With a bright silver wand. Like Julian the Roman, He's one that fears no man. "It's said there's ane predestinate To be his mortal foe, But that man is yet unborn, And lang may it be so." But this ancient goatherd added a piece of advice at the end of his rhyme. "Beware, stranger," he said, "of the next herd of beasts that ye shall meet. Sheep, and swine, and goats will harm nobody; but the creatures ye shall now encounter are of a sort that ye have never met before, and _they_ are not harmless." The young man thanked him for his counsel, and went on his way, and he had not gone very far before he met a herd of very dreadful creatures, unlike anything that he had ever dreamed of in all his life. For each of them had three heads, and on each of its three heads it had four horns; and when he saw them he was so frightened that he turned and ran away from them as fast as he could. Up hill and down dale he ran, until he was well-nigh exhausted; and, just when he was beginning to feel that his legs would not carry him any further, he saw a great Castle in front of him, the door of which was standing wide open. He was so tired that he went straight in, and after wandering through some magnificent halls, which appeared to be quite deserted, he reached the kitchen, where an old woman was sitting by the fire. He asked her if he might have a night's lodging, as he had come a long and weary journey, and would be glad of somewhere to rest. "You can rest here, and welcome, for me," said the old Dame, "but for your own sake I warn you that this is an ill house to bide in; for it is the Castle of the Red-Etin, who is a fierce and terrible Monster with three heads, and he spareth neither man nor woman, if he can get hold of them." Tired as he was, the young man would have made an effort to escape from such a dangerous abode had he not remembered the strange and awful beasts from which he had just been fleeing, and he was afraid that, as it was growing dark, if he set out again he might chance to walk right into their midst. So he begged the old woman to hide him in some dark corner, and not to tell the Red-Etin that he was in the Castle. "For," thought he, "if I can only get shelter until the morning, I will then be able to avoid these terrible creatures and go on my way in peace." So the old Dame hid him in a press under the back stairs, and, as there was plenty of room in it, he settled down quite comfortably for the night. But just as he was going off to sleep he heard an awful roaring and trampling overhead. The Red-Etin had come home, and it was plain that he was searching for something. And the terrified youth soon found out what the "Something" was, for very soon the horrible Monster came into the kitchen, crying out in a voice like thunder: "Seek but, and seek ben, I smell the smell of an earthly man! Be he living, or be he dead, His heart this night I shall eat with my bread." And it was not very long before he discovered the poor young man's hiding-place and pulled him roughly out of it. Of course, the lad begged that his life might be spared, but the Monster only laughed at him. "It will be spared if thou canst answer three questions," he said; "if not, it is forfeited." The first of these three questions was, "Whether Ireland or Scotland was first inhabited?" The second, "How old was the world when Adam was made?" And the third, "Whether men or beasts were created first?" The lad was not skilled in such matters, having had but little book-learning, and he could not answer the questions. So the Monster struck him on the head with a queer little hammer which he carried, and turned him into a piece of stone. Now every morning since he had left home his younger brother had done as he had promised, and had carefully examined his hunting-knife. On the first two mornings it was bright and clear, but on the third morning he was very much distressed to find that it was dull and rusty. He looked at it for a few moments in great dismay; then he ran straight to his mother, and held it out to her. "By this token I know that some mischief hath befallen my brother," he said, "so I must set out at once to see what evil hath come upon him." "First must thou go to the well and fetch me some water," said his mother, "that I may bake thee a cake to carry with thee, as I baked a cake for him who is gone. And I will say to thee what I said to him. That the cake will be large or small according as thou bringest much or little water back with thee." So the lad took the can, as his brother had done, and went off to the well, and it seemed as if some evil spirit directed him to follow his example in all things, for he brought home little water, and he chose the whole cake and his mother's malison, instead of the half and her blessing, and he set out and met the shepherd, and the swineherd, and the goatherd, and they all gave the same answers to him which they had given to his brother. And he also encountered the same fierce beasts, and ran from them in terror, and took shelter from them in the Castle; and the old woman hid him, and the Red-Etin found him, and, because he could not answer the three questions, he, too, was turned into a pillar of stone. And no more would ever have been heard of these two youths had not a kind Fairy, who had seen all that had happened, appeared to the other widow and her son, as they were sitting at supper one night in the gloaming, and told them the whole story, and how their two poor young neighbours had been turned into pillars of stone by a cruel enchanter called Red-Etin. Now the third young man was both brave and strong, and he determined to set out to see if he could in anywise help his two friends. And, from the very first moment that he had made up his mind to do so, things went differently with him than they had with them. I think, perhaps, that this was because he was much more loving and thoughtful than they were. For, when his mother sent him to fetch water from the well so that she might bake a cake for him, just as the other mother had done for her sons, a raven, flying above his head, croaked out that his can was leaking, and he, wishing to please his mother by bringing her a good supply of water, patched up the hole with clay, and so came home with the can quite full. Then, when his mother had baked a big bannock for him, and giving him his choice between the whole cake and her malison, or half of it and her blessing, he chose the latter, "for," said he, throwing his arms round her neck, "I may light on other cakes to eat, but I will never light on another blessing such as thine." And the curious thing was, that, after he had said this, the half cake which he had chosen seemed to spread itself out, and widen, and broaden, till it was bigger by far than it had been at first. Then he started on his journey, and, after he had gone a good way he began to feel hungry. So he pulled it out of his pocket and began to eat it. Just then he met an old woman, who seemed to be very poor, for her clothing was thin, and worn, and old, and she stopped and spoke to him. "Of thy charity, kind Master," she said, stretching out one of her withered hands, "spare me a bit of the cake that thou art eating." Now the youth was very hungry, and he could have eaten it all himself, but his kind heart was touched by the woman's pinched face, so he broke it in two, and gave her half of it. Instantly she was changed into the Fairy who had appeared to his mother and himself as they had sat at supper the night before, and she smiled graciously at the generous lad, and held out a little wand to him. "Though thou knowest it not, thy mother's blessing and thy kindness to an old and poor woman hath gained thee many blessings, brave boy," he said. "Keep that as thy reward; thou wilt need it ere thy errand be done." Then, bidding him sit down on the grass beside her, she told him all the dangers that he would meet on his travels, and the way in which he could overcome them, and then, in a moment, before he could thank her, she vanished out of his sight. But with the little wand, and all the instructions that she had given him, he felt that he could face fearlessly any danger that he might be called on to meet, so he rose from the grass and went his way, full of a cheerful courage. After he had walked for many miles further, he came, as each of his friends had done, to the old shepherd herding his sheep. And, like them, he asked to whom the sheep belonged. And this time the old man answered: "The Red-Etin of Ireland Ance lived in Ballygan, And stole King Malcolm's daughter, The King of fair Scotland. He beats her, he binds her, He lays her on a band, And every day he dings her With a bright silver wand. Like Julian the Roman, He's one that fears no man. "But now I fear his end is near, And destiny at hand; And you're to be, I plainly see, The heir of all his land." Then the young man went on, and he came to the swineherd, and to the goatherd; and each of them in turn repeated the same words to him. And, when he came to where the droves of monstrous beasts were, he was not afraid of them, and when one came running up to him with its mouth wide open to devour him, he just struck it with his wand, and it dropped down dead at his feet. At last he arrived at the Red-Etin's Castle, and he knocked boldly at the door. The old woman answered his knock, and, when he had told her his errand, warned him gravely not to enter. "Thy two friends came here before thee," she said, "and they are now turned into two pillars of stone; what advantage is it to thee to lose thy life also?" But the young man only laughed. "I have knowledge of an art of which they knew nothing," he said. "And methinks I can fight the Red-Etin with his own weapons." So, much against her will, the old woman let him in, and hid him where she had hid his friends. It was not long before the Monster arrived, and, as on former occasions, he came into the kitchen in a furious rage, crying: "Seek but, and seek ben, I smell the smell of an earthly man! Be he living, or be he dead, His heart this night I shall eat with my bread." Then he peered into the young man's hiding-place, and called to him to come out. And after he had come out, he put to him the three questions, never dreaming that he could answer them; but the Fairy had told the youth what to say, and he gave the answers as pat as any book. Then the Red-Etin's heart sank within him for fear, for he knew that someone had betrayed him, and that his power was gone. And gone in very truth it was. For when the youth took an axe and began to fight with him, he had no strength to resist, and, before he knew where he was, his heads were cut off. And that was the end of the Red-Etin. As soon as he saw that his enemy was really dead, the young man asked the old woman if what the shepherd, and the swineherd, and the goatherd had told him were true, and if King Malcolm's daughter were really a prisoner in the Castle. The old woman nodded. "Even with the Monster lying dead at my feet, I am almost afraid to speak of it," she said. "But come with me, my gallant gentleman, and thou wilt see what dule and misery the Red-Etin hath caused to many a home." She took a huge bunch of keys, and led him up a long flight of stairs, which ended in a passage with a great many doors on each side of it. She unlocked these doors with her keys, and, as she opened them, she put her head into every room and said, "Ye have naught to fear now, Madam, the Predestinated Deliverer hath come, and the Red-Etin is dead." [Illustration: And that was the end of the Red-Etin] And behold, with a cry of joy, out of every room came a beautiful lady who had been stolen from her home, and shut up there, by the Red-Etin. Among them was one who was more beautiful and stately than the rest, and all the others bowed down to her and treated her with such great reverence that it was clear to see that she was the Royal Princess, King Malcolm's daughter. And when the youth stepped forward and did reverence to her also, she spoke so sweetly to him, and greeted him so gladly, and called him her Deliverer, in such a low, clear voice, that his heart was taken captive at once. But, for all that, he did not forget his friends. He asked the old woman where they were, and she took him into a room at the end of the passage, which was so dark that one could scarcely see in it, and so low that one could scarcely stand upright. In this dismal chamber stood two blocks of stone. "One can unlock doors, young Master," said the old woman, shaking her head forebodingly, "but 'tis hard work to try to turn cauld stane back to flesh and blood." "Nevertheless, I will do it," said the youth, and, lifting his little wand, he touched each of the stone pillars lightly on the top. Instantly the hard stone seemed to soften and melt away, and the two brothers started into life and form again. Their gratitude to their friend, who had risked so much to save them, knew no bounds, while he, on his part, was delighted to think that his efforts had been successful. The next thing to do was to convey the Princess and the other ladies (who were all noblemen's daughters) back to the King's Court, and this they did next day. King Malcolm was so overjoyed to see his dearly loved daughter, whom he had given up for dead, safe and sound, and so grateful to her deliverer, that he said that he should become his son-in-law and marry the Princess, and come and live with them at Court. Which all came to pass in due time; while as for the two other young men, they married noblemen's daughters, and the two old mothers came to live near their sons, and everyone was as happy as they could possibly be. [Illustration] THE SEAL CATCHER AND THE MERMAN Once upon a time there was a man who lived not very far from John o' Groat's house, which, as everyone knows, is in the very north of Scotland. He lived in a little cottage by the sea-shore, and made his living by catching seals and selling their fur, which is very valuable. He earned a good deal of money in this way, for these creatures used to come out of the sea in large numbers, and lie on the rocks near his house basking in the sunshine, so that it was not difficult to creep up behind them and kill them. Some of those seals were larger than others, and the country people used to call them "Roane," and whisper that they were not seals at all, but Mermen and Merwomen, who came from a country of their own, far down under the ocean, who assumed this strange disguise in order that they might pass through the water, and come up to breathe the air of this earth of ours. But the seal catcher only laughed at them, and said that those seals were most worth killing, for their skins were so big that he got an extra price for them. Now it chanced one day, when he was pursuing his calling, that he stabbed a seal with his hunting-knife, and whether the stroke had not been sure enough or not, I cannot say, but with a loud cry of pain the creature slipped off the rock into the sea, and disappeared under the water, carrying the knife along with it. The seal catcher, much annoyed at his clumsiness, and also at the loss of his knife, went home to dinner in a very downcast frame of mind. On his way he met a horseman, who was so tall and so strange-looking and who rode on such a gigantic horse, that he stopped and looked at him in astonishment, wondering who he was, and from what country he came. The stranger stopped also, and asked him his trade and on hearing that he was a seal catcher, he immediately ordered a great number of seal skins. The seal catcher was delighted, for such an order meant a large sum of money to him. But his face fell when the horseman added that it was absolutely necessary that the skins should be delivered that evening. "I cannot do it," he said in a disappointed voice, "for the seals will not come back to the rocks again until to-morrow morning." "I can take you to a place where there are any number of seals," answered the stranger, "if you will mount behind me on my horse and come with me." The seal catcher agreed to this, and climbed up behind the rider, who shook his bridle rein, and off the great horse galloped at such a pace that he had much ado to keep his seat. On and on they went, flying like the wind, until at last they came to the edge of a huge precipice, the face of which went sheer down to the sea. Here the mysterious horseman pulled up his steed with a jerk. "Get off now," he said shortly. The seal catcher did as he was bid, and when he found himself safe on the ground, he peeped cautiously over the edge of the cliff, to see if there were any seals lying on the rocks below. To his astonishment he saw no rocks, only the blue sea, which came right up to the foot of the cliff. "Where are the seals that you spoke of?" he asked anxiously, wishing that he had never set out on such a rash adventure. "You will see presently," answered the stranger, who was attending to his horse's bridle. The seal catcher was now thoroughly frightened, for he felt sure that some evil was about to befall him, and in such a lonely place he knew that it would be useless to cry out for help. And it seemed as if his fears would prove only too true, for the next moment the stranger's hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he felt himself being hurled bodily over the cliff, and then he fell with a splash into the sea. He thought that his last hour had come, and he wondered how anyone could work such a deed of wrong upon an innocent man. But, to his astonishment, he found that some change must have passed over him, for instead of being choked by the water, he could breathe quite easily, and he and his companion, who was still close at his side, seemed to be sinking as quickly down through the sea as they had flown through the air. Down and down they went, nobody knows how far, till at last they came to a huge arched door, which appeared to be made of pink coral, studded over with cockle-shells. It opened, of its own accord, and when they entered they found themselves in a huge hall, the walls of which were formed of mother-of-pearl, and the floor of which was of sea-sand, smooth, and firm, and yellow. The hall was crowded with occupants, but they were seals, not men, and when the seal catcher turned to his companion to ask him what it all meant, he was aghast to find that he, too, had assumed the form of a seal. He was still more aghast when he caught sight of himself in a large mirror that hung on the wall, and saw that he also no longer bore the likeness of a man, but was transformed into a nice, hairy, brown seal. "Ah, woe to me," he said to himself, "for no fault of mine own this artful stranger hath laid some baneful charm upon me, and in this awful guise will I remain for the rest of my natural life." At first none of the huge creatures spoke to him. For some reason or other they seemed to be very sad, and moved gently about the hall, talking quietly and mournfully to one another, or lay sadly upon the sandy floor, wiping big tears from their eyes with their soft furry fins. But presently they began to notice him, and to whisper to one another, and presently his guide moved away from him, and disappeared through a door at the end of the hall. When he returned he held a huge knife in his hand. "Didst thou ever see this before?" he asked, holding it out to the unfortunate seal catcher, who, to his horror, recognised his own hunting knife with which he had struck the seal in the morning, and which had been carried off by the wounded animal. At the sight of it he fell upon his face and begged for mercy, for he at once came to the conclusion that the inhabitants of the cavern, enraged at the harm which had been wrought upon their comrade, had, in some magic way, contrived to capture him, and to bring him down to their subterranean abode, in order to wreak their vengeance upon him by killing him. But, instead of doing so, they crowded round him, rubbing their soft noses against his fur to show their sympathy, and implored him not to put himself about, for no harm would befall him, and they would love him all their lives long if he would only do what they asked him. "Tell me what it is," said the seal catcher, "and I will do it, if it lies within my power." "Follow me," answered his guide, and he led the way to the door through which he had disappeared when he went to seek the knife. The seal catcher followed him. And there, in a smaller room, he found a great brown seal lying on a bed of pale pink sea-weed, with a gaping wound in his side. "That is my father," said his guide, "whom thou wounded this morning, thinking that he was one of the common seals who live in the sea, instead of a Merman who hath speech, and understanding, as you mortals have. I brought thee hither to bind up his wounds, for no other hand than thine can heal him." "I have no skill in the art of healing," said the seal catcher, astonished at the forbearance of these strange creatures, whom he had so unwittingly wronged; "but I will bind up the wound to the best of my power, and I am only sorry that it was my hands that caused it." He went over to the bed, and, stooping over the wounded Merman, washed and dressed the hurt as well as he could; and the touch of his hands appeared to work like magic, for no sooner had he finished than the wound seemed to deaden and die, leaving only the scar, and the old seal sprang up, as well as ever. Then there was great rejoicing throughout the whole Palace of the Seals. They laughed, and they talked, and they embraced each other in their own strange way, crowding round their comrade, and rubbing their noses against his, as if to show him how delighted they were at his recovery. But all this while the seal catcher stood alone in a corner, with his mind filled with dark thoughts, for although he saw now that they had no intention of killing him, he did not relish the prospect of spending the rest of his life in the guise of a seal, fathoms deep under the ocean. But presently, to his great joy, his guide approached him, and said, "Now you are at liberty to return home to your wife and children. I will take you to them, but only on one condition." "And what is that?" asked the seal catcher eagerly, overjoyed at the prospect of being restored safely to the upper world, and to his family. "That you will take a solemn oath never to wound a seal again." "That will I do right gladly," he replied, for although the promise meant giving up his means of livelihood, he felt that if only he regained his proper shape he could always turn his hand to something else. So he took the required oath with all due solemnity, holding up his fin as he swore, and all the other seals crowded round him as witnesses. And a sigh of relief went through the halls when the words were spoken, for he was the most noted seal catcher in the North. Then he bade the strange company farewell, and, accompanied by his guide, passed once more through the outer doors of coral, and up, and up, and up, through the shadowy green water, until it began to grow lighter and lighter and at last they emerged into the sunshine of earth. Then, with one spring, they reached the top of the cliff, where the great black horse was waiting for them, quietly nibbling the green turf. When they left the water their strange disguise dropped from them, and they were now as they had been before, a plain seal catcher and a tall, well-dressed gentleman in riding clothes. "Get up behind me," said the latter, as he swung himself into his saddle. The seal catcher did as he was bid, taking tight hold of his companion's coat, for he remembered how nearly he had fallen off on his previous journey. Then it all happened as it happened before. The bridle was shaken, and the horse galloped off, and it was not long before the seal catcher found himself standing in safety before his own garden gate. He held out his hand to say "good-bye," but as he did so the stranger pulled out a huge bag of gold and placed it in it. "Thou hast done thy part of the bargain--we must do ours," he said. "Men shall never say that we took away an honest man's work without making reparation for it, and here is what will keep thee in comfort to thy life's end." Then he vanished, and when the astonished seal catcher carried the bag into his cottage, and turned the gold out on the table, he found that what the stranger had said was true, and that he would be a rich man for the remainder of his days. [Illustration] THE PAGE-BOY AND THE SILVER GOBLET There was once a little page-boy, who was in service in a stately Castle. He was a very good-natured little fellow, and did his duties so willingly and well that everybody liked him, from the great Earl whom he served every day on bended knee, to the fat old butler whose errands he ran. Now the Castle stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, and although the walls at that side were very thick, in them there was a little postern door, which opened on to a narrow flight of steps that led down the face of the cliff to the sea shore, so that anyone who liked could go down there in the pleasant summer mornings and bathe in the shimmering sea. On the other side of the Castle were gardens and pleasure grounds, opening on to a long stretch of heather-covered moorland, which, at last, met a distant range of hills. The little page-boy was very fond of going out on this moor when his work was done, for then he could run about as much as he liked, chasing bumble-bees, and catching butterflies, and looking for birds' nests when it was nesting time. And the old butler was very pleased that he should do so, for he knew that it was good for a healthy little lad to have plenty of fun in the open air. But before the boy went out the old man always gave him one warning. "Now, mind my words, laddie, and keep far away from the Fairy Knowe, for the Little Folk are not to trust to." This Knowe of which he spoke was a little green hillock, which stood on the moor not twenty yards from the garden gate, and folk said that it was the abode of Fairies, who would punish any rash mortal who came too near them. And because of this the country people would walk a good half-mile out of their way, even in broad daylight, rather than run the risk of going too near the Fairy Knowe and bringing down the Little Folks' displeasure upon them. And at night they would hardly cross the moor at all, for everyone knows that Fairies come abroad in the darkness, and the door of their dwelling stands open, so that any luckless mortal who does not take care may find himself inside. Now, the little page-boy was an adventurous wight, and instead of being frightened of the Fairies, he was very anxious to see them, and to visit their abode, just to find out what it was like. So one night, when everyone else was asleep, he crept out of the Castle by the little postern door, and stole down the stone steps, and along the sea shore, and up on to the moor, and went straight to the Fairy Knowe. To his delight he found that what everyone said was true. The top of the Knowe was tipped up, and from the opening that was thus made, rays of light came streaming out. His heart was beating fast with excitement, but, gathering his courage, he stooped down and slipped inside the Knowe. He found himself in a large room lit by numberless tiny candles, and there, seated round a polished table, were scores of the Tiny Folk, Fairies, and Elves, and Gnomes, dressed in green, and yellow, and pink; blue, and lilac, and scarlet; in all the colours, in fact, that you can think of. He stood in a dark corner watching the busy scene in wonder, thinking how strange it was that there should be such a number of these tiny beings living their own lives all unknown to men, at such a little distance from them, when suddenly someone--he could not tell who it was--gave an order. "Fetch the Cup," cried the owner of the unknown voice, and instantly two little Fairy pages, dressed all in scarlet livery, darted from the table to a tiny cupboard in the rock, and returned staggering under the weight of a most beautiful silver cup, richly embossed and lined inside with gold. He placed it in the middle of the table, and, amid clapping of hands and shouts of joy, all the Fairies began to drink out of it in turn. And the page could see, from where he stood, that no one poured wine into it, and yet it was always full, and that the wine that was in it was not always the same kind, but that each Fairy, when he grasped its stem, wished for the wine that he loved best, and lo! in a moment the cup was full of it. "'Twould be a fine thing if I could take that cup home with me," thought the page. "No one will believe that I have been here except I have something to show for it." So he bided his time, and watched. Presently the Fairies noticed him, and, instead of being angry at his boldness in entering their abode, as he expected that they would be, they seemed very pleased to see him, and invited him to a seat at the table. But by and by they grew rude and insolent, and jeered at him for being content to serve mere mortals, telling him that they saw everything that went on at the Castle, and making fun of the old butler, whom the page loved with all his heart. And they laughed at the food he ate, saying that it was only fit for animals; and when any fresh dainty was set on the table by the scarlet-clad pages, they would push the dish across to him, saying: "Taste it, for you will not have the chance of tasting such things at the Castle." At last he could stand their teasing remarks no longer; besides, he knew that if he wanted to secure the cup he must lose no time in doing so. So he suddenly stood up, and grasped the stem of it tightly in his hand. "I'll drink to you all in water," he cried, and instantly the ruby wine was turned to clear cold water. [Illustration] He raised the cup to his lips, but he did not drink from it. With a sudden jerk he threw the water over the candles, and instantly the room was in darkness. Then, clasping the precious cup tightly in his arms, he sprang to the opening of the Knowe, through which he could see the stars glimmering clearly. He was just in time, for it fell to with a crash behind him; and soon he was speeding along the wet, dew-spangled moor, with the whole troop of Fairies at his heels. They were wild with rage, and from the shrill shouts of fury which they uttered, the page knew well that, if they overtook him, he need expect no mercy at their hands. And his heart began to sink, for, fleet of foot though he was, he was no match for the Fairy Folk, who gained on him steadily. All seemed lost, when a mysterious voice sounded out of the darkness: "If thou wouldst gain the Castle door, Keep to the black stones on the shore." It was the voice of some poor mortal, who, for some reason or other, had been taken prisoner by the Fairies--who were really very malicious Little Folk--and who did not want a like fate to befall the adventurous page-boy; but the little fellow did not know this. He had once heard that if anyone walked on the wet sands, where the waves had come over them, the Fairies could not touch him, and this mysterious sentence brought the saying into his mind. So he turned, and dashed panting down to the shore. His feet sank in the dry sand, his breath came in little gasps, and he felt as if he must give up the struggle; but he persevered, and at last, just as the foremost Fairies were about to lay hands on him, he jumped across the water-mark on to the firm, wet sand, from which the waves had just receded, and then he knew that he was safe. For the Little Folk could go no step further, but stood on the dry sand uttering cries of rage and disappointment, while the triumphant page-boy ran safely along the shore, his precious cup in his arms, and climbed lightly up the steps in the rock and disappeared through the postern. And for many years after, long after the little page-boy had grown up and become a stately butler, who trained other little page-boys to follow in his footsteps, the beautiful cup remained in the Castle as a witness of his adventure. [Illustration] THE BLACK BULL OF NORROWAY In bygone days, long centuries ago, there lived a widowed Queen who had three daughters. And this widowed Queen was so poor, and had fallen upon such evil days, that she and her daughters had often much ado to get enough to eat. So the eldest Princess determined that she would set out into the world to seek her fortune. And her mother was quite willing that she should do so. "For," said she, "'tis better to work abroad than to starve at home." But as there was an old hen-wife living near the Castle who was said to be a witch, and to be able to foretell the future, the Queen sent the Princess to her cottage, before she set out on her travels, to ask her in which of the Four Airts she ought to go, in order to find the best fortune. "Thou needst gang nae farther than my back door, hinnie," answered the old Dame, who had always felt very sorry for the Queen and her pretty daughters, and was glad to do them a good turn. So the Princess ran through the passage to the hen-wife's back door and peeped out, and what should she see but a magnificent coach, drawn by six beautiful cream-coloured horses, coming along the road. Greatly excited at this unusual sight, she hurried back to the kitchen, and told the hen-wife what she had seen. "Aweel, aweel, ye've seen your fortune," said the old woman, in a tone of satisfaction, "for that coach-and-six is coming for thee." Sure enough, the coach-and-six stopped at the gate of the Castle, and the second Princess came running down to the cottage to tell her sister to make haste, because it was waiting for her. Delighted beyond measure at the wonderful luck that had come to her, she hurried home, and, saying farewell to her mother and sisters, took her seat within, and the horses galloped off immediately. And I've heard tell that they drew her to the Palace of a great and wealthy Prince, who married her; but that is outside my story. A few weeks afterwards, the second Princess thought that she would do as her sister had done, and go down to the hen-wife's cottage, and tell her that she, too, was going out into the world to seek her fortune. And, of course, in her heart of hearts she hoped that what had happened to her sister would happen to her also. And, curious to say, it did. For the old hen-wife sent her to look out at her back door, and she went, and, lo and behold! another coach-and-six was coming along the road. And when she went and told the old woman, she smiled upon her kindly, and told her to hurry home, for the coach-and-six was her fortune also, and that it had come for her. So she, too, ran home, and got into her grand carriage, and was driven away. And, of course, after all these lucky happenings, the youngest Princess was anxious to try what her fortune might be; so the very night, in high good humour, she tripped away down to the old witch's cottage. She, too, was told to look out at the back door, and she was only too glad to do so; for she fully expected to see a third coach-and-six coming rolling along the high road, straight for the Castle door. But, alas and alack! no such sight greeted her eager eyes, for the high road was quite deserted, and in great disappointment she ran back to the hen-wife to tell her so. "Then it is clear that thy fortune is not coming to meet thee this day," said the old Dame, "so thou must e'en come back to-morrow." So the little Princess went home again, and next day she turned up once more at the old wife's cottage. But once more she was disappointed, for although she looked out long and eagerly, no glad sight of a coach-and-six, or of any other coach, greeted her eyes. On the third day, however, what should she see but a great Black Bull coming rushing along the road, bellowing as it came, and tossing its head fiercely in the air. In great alarm, the little Princess shut the door, and ran to the hen-wife to tell her about the furious animal that was approaching. "Hech, hinnie," cried the old woman, holding up her hands in dismay, "and who would have thocht that the Black Bull of Norroway wad be your fate!" At the words, the poor little maiden grew pale. She had come out to seek her fortune, but it had never dawned upon her that her fortune could be anything so terrible as this. "But the Bull cannot be my fortune," she cried in terror. "I cannot go away with a bull." "But ye'll need tae," replied the hen-wife calmly. "For you lookit out of my door with the intent of meeting your fortune; and when your fortune has come tae ye, you must just thole it." And when the poor Princess ran weeping to her mother, to beg to be allowed to stay at home, she found her mother of the same mind as the Wise Woman; and so she had to allow herself to be lifted up on to the back of the enormous Black Bull that had come up to the door of the Castle, and was now standing there quietly enough. And when she was settled, he set off again on his wild career, while she sobbed and trembled with terror, and clung to his horns with all her might. On and on they went, until at last the poor maiden was so faint with fear and hunger that she could scarce keep her seat. Just as she was losing her hold of the great beast's horns, however, and feeling that she must fall to the ground, he turned his massive head round a little, and, speaking in a wonderfully soft and gentle voice, said: "Eat out of my right ear, and drink out of my left ear, so wilt thou be refreshed for thy journey." So the Princess put a trembling hand into the Bull's right ear, and drew out some bread and meat, which, in spite of her terror, she was glad to swallow; then she put her hand into his left ear, and found there a tiny flagon of wine, and when she had drunk that, her strength returned to her in a wonderful way. Long they went, and sore they rode, till, just as it seemed to the Princess that they must be getting near the World's End, they came in sight of a magnificent Castle. "That's where we maun bide this night," said the Black Bull of Norroway, "for that is the house of one of my brothers." The Princess was greatly surprised at these words; but by this time she was too tired to wonder very much at anything, so she did not answer, but sat still where she was, until the Bull ran into the courtyard of the Castle and knocked his great head against the door. [Illustration: They came in sight of a Magnificent Castle] The door was opened at once by a very splendid footman, who treated the Black Bull with great respect, and helped the Princess to alight from his back. Then he ushered her into a magnificent hall, where the Lord of the Castle, and his Lady, and a great and noble company were assembled; while the Black Bull trotted off quite contentedly to the grassy park which stretched all round the building, to spend the night there. The Lord and his Lady were very kind to the Princess, and gave her her supper, and led her to a richly furnished bedroom, all hung round with golden mirrors, and left her to rest there; and in the morning, just as the Black Bull came trotting up to the front door, they handed her a beautiful apple, telling her not to break it, but to put it in her pocket, and keep it till she was in the greatest strait that mortal could be in. Then she was to break it, and it would bring her out of it. So she put the apple in her pocket, and they lifted her once more on to the Black Bull's back, and she and her strange companion continued on their journey. All that day they travelled, far further than I can tell you, and at night they came in sight of another Castle, which was even bigger and grander than the first. "That's where we maun bide this night," said the Black Bull, "for that is the home of another of my brothers." And here the Princess rested for the night in a very fine bedroom indeed, all hung with silken curtains; and the Lord and Lady of the Castle did everything to please her and make her comfortable. And in the morning, before she left, they presented her with the largest pear that she had ever seen, and warned her that she must not break it until she was in the direst strait that she had ever been in, and then, if she broke it, it would bring her out of it. The third day was the same as the other two had been. The Princess and the Black Bull of Norroway rode many a weary mile, and at sundown they came to another Castle, more splendid by far than the other two. This Castle belonged to the Black Bull's youngest brother, and here the Princess abode all night; while the Bull, as usual, lay outside in the park. And this time, when they departed, the Princess received a most lovely plum, with the warning not to break it till she was in the greatest strait that mortal could be in. Then she was to break it, and it would set her free. On the fourth day, however, things were changed. For there was no fine Castle waiting for them at the end of their journey; on the contrary, as the shadows began to lengthen, they came to a dark, deep glen, which was so gloomy and so awesome-looking that the poor Princess felt her courage sinking as they approached it. At the entrance the Black Bull stopped. "Light down here, Lady," he said, "for in this glen a deadly conflict awaits me, which I must face unaided and alone. For the dark and gloomy region that lies before us is the abode of a great Spirit of Darkness, who worketh much ill in the world. I would fain fight with him and overcome him; and, by my troth, I have good hope that I shall do so. As for thee, thou must seat thyself on this stone, and stir neither hand, nor foot, nor tongue till I return. For, if thou but so much as move, then the Evil Spirit of the Glen will have thee in his power." "But how shall I know what is happening to thee?" asked the Princess anxiously, for she was beginning to grow quite fond of the huge black creature that had carried her so gallantly these last four days, "if I have neither to move hand nor foot, nor yet to speak." "Thou wilt know by the signs around thee," answered the Bull. "For if everything about thee turn blue, then thou wilt know that I have vanquished the Evil Spirit; but if everything about thee turn red, then the Evil Spirit hath vanquished me." With these words he departed, and was soon lost to sight in the dark recesses of the glen, leaving the little Princess sitting motionless on her stone, afraid to move so much as her little finger, in case some unknown evil fell upon her. At last, when she had sat there for well-nigh an hour, a curious change began to pass over the landscape. First it turned grey, and then it turned a deep azure blue, as if the sky had descended on the earth. "The Bull hath conquered," thought the Princess. "Oh! what a noble animal he is!" And in her relief and delight she moved her position and crossed one leg over the other. Oh, woe-a-day! In a moment a mystic spell fell upon her, which caused her to become invisible to the eyes of the Prince of Norroway, who, having vanquished the Evil Spirit, was loosed from the spell which had lain over him, and had transformed him into the likeness of a great Black Bull, and who returned in haste down the glen to present himself, in his rightful form, to the maiden whom he loved, and whom he hoped to win for his bride. Long, long he sought, but he could not find her, while all the time she was sitting patiently waiting on the stone; but the spell was on her eyes also, and hindered her seeing him, as it hindered him seeing her. So she sat on and on, till at last she became so wearied, and lonely, and frightened, that she burst out crying, and cried herself to sleep; and when she woke in the morning she felt that it was no use sitting there any longer, so she rose and took her way, hardly knowing whither she was going. And she went, and she went, till at last she came to a great hill made all of glass, which blocked her way and prevented her going any further. She tried time after time to climb it, but it was all of no avail, for the surface of the hill was so slippery that she only managed to climb up a few feet, to slide down again the next moment. So she began to walk round the bottom of the hill, in the hope of finding some path that would lead her over it, but the hill was so big, and she was so tired, that it seemed almost a hopeless quest, and her spirit died completely within her. And as she went slowly along, sobbing with despair, she felt that if help did not come soon she must lie down and die. About mid-day, however, she came to a little cottage, and beside the cottage there was a smithy, where an old smith was working at his anvil. She entered, and asked him if he could tell her of any path that would lead her over the mountain. The old man laid down his hammer and looked at her, slowly shaking his head as he did so. "Na, na, lassie," he said, "there is no easy road over the Mountain of Glass. Folk maun either walk round it, which is not an easy thing to do, for the foot of it stretches out for hundreds of miles, and the folk who try to do so are almost sure to lose their way; or they maun walk over the top of it, and that can only be done by those who are shod with iron shoon." "And how am I to get these iron shoon?" cried the Princess eagerly. "Couldst thou fashion me a pair, good man? I would gladly pay thee for them." Then she stopped suddenly, for she remembered that she had no money. "These shoon cannot be made for siller," said the old man solemnly. "They can only be earned by service. I alone can make them, and I make them for those who are willing to serve me." "And how long must I serve thee ere thou makest them for me?" asked the Princess faintly. "Seven years," replied the old man, "for they be magic shoon, and that is the magic number." So, as there seemed nothing else for it, the Princess hired herself to the smith for seven long years: to clean his house, and cook his food, and make and mend his clothes. At the end of that time he fashioned her a pair of iron shoon, with which she climbed the Mountain of Glass with as much ease as if it had been covered with fresh green turf. When she had reached the summit, and descended to the other side, the first house that she came to was the house of an old washerwoman, who lived there with her only daughter. And as the Princess was now very tired, she went up to the door, and knocked, and asked if she might be allowed to rest there for the night. The washerwoman, who was old and ugly, with a sly and evil face, said that she might--on one condition--and that was that she should try to wash a white mantle that the Black Knight of Norroway had brought to her to wash, as he had got it stained in a deadly fight. "Yestreen I spent the lee-long day washing it," went on the old Dame, "and I might as well have let it lie on the table. For at night, when I took it out of the wash-tub, the stains were there as dark as ever. Peradventure, maiden, if thou wouldst try thy hand upon it thou mightest be more successful. For I am loth to disappoint the Black Knight of Norroway, who is an exceeding great and powerful Prince." "Is he in any way connected with the Black Bull of Norroway?" asked the Princess; for at the name her heart had leaped for joy, for it seemed that mayhap she was going to find once more him whom she had lost. The old woman looked at her suspiciously. "The two are one," she answered; "for the Black Knight chanced to have a spell thrown over him, which turned him into a Black Bull, and which could not be lifted until he had fought with, and overcome, a mighty Spirit of Evil that lived in a dark glen. He fought with the Spirit, and overcame it and once more regained his true form; but 'tis said that his mind is somewhat clouded at times, for he speaketh ever of a maiden whom he would fain have wedded, and whom he hath lost. Though who, or what she was, no living person kens. But this story can have no interest to a stranger like thee," she added slowly, as if she were sorry for having said so much. "I have no more time to waste in talking. But if thou wilt try and wash the mantle, thou art welcome to a night's lodging; and if not, I must ask thee to go on thy way." Needless to say, the Princess said that she would try to wash the mantle; and it seemed as if her fingers had some magic power in them, for as soon as she put it into water the stains vanished, and it became as white and clean as when it was new. Of course, the old woman was delighted, but she was very suspicious also, for it appeared to her that there must be some mysterious link between the maiden and the Knight, if his mantle became clean so easily when she washed it, when it had remained soiled and stained in spite of all the labour which she and her daughter had bestowed upon it. So, as she knew that the young Gallant intended returning for it that very night, and as she wanted her daughter to get the credit of washing it, she advised the Princess to go to bed early, in order to get a good night's rest after all her labours. And the Princess followed her advice, and thus it came about that she was sound asleep, safely hidden in the big box-bed in the corner, when the Black Knight of Norroway came to the cottage to claim his white mantle. Now you must know that the young man had carried about this mantle with him for the last seven years--ever since his encounter with the Evil Spirit of the Glen--always trying to find someone who could wash it for him, and never succeeding. For it had been revealed to him by a wise woman that she who could make it white and clean was destined to be his wife--be she bonnie or ugly, old or young. And that, moreover, she would prove a loving, a faithful, and a true helpmeet. So when he came to the washerwoman's cottage, and received back his mantle white as the driven snow, and heard that it was the washerwoman's daughter who had wrought this wondrous change, he said at once that he would marry her, and that the very next day. When the Princess awoke in the morning and heard all that had befallen, and how the Black Knight had come to the cottage while she was asleep, and had received his mantle, and had promised to marry the washerwoman's daughter that very day, her heart was like to break. For now she felt that she never would have the chance of speaking to him and telling him who she really was. And in her sore distress she suddenly remembered the beautiful fruit which she had received on her journey seven long years before, and which she had carried with her ever since. "Surely I will never be in a sorer strait than I am now," she said to herself; and she drew out the apple and broke it. And, lo and behold! it was filled with the most beautiful precious stones that she had ever seen; and at the sight of them a plan came suddenly into her head. She took the precious stones out of the apple, and, putting them into a corner of her kerchief, carried them to the washerwoman. "See," said she, "I am richer than mayhap thou thoughtest I was. And if thou wilt, all these riches may be thine." "And how could that come about?" asked the old woman eagerly, for she had never seen so many precious stones in her life before, and she had a great desire to become the possessor of them. "Only put off thy daughter's wedding for one day," replied the Princess. "And let me watch beside the Black Knight as he sleeps this night, for I have long had a great desire to see him." To her astonishment the washerwoman agreed to this request; for the wily old woman was very anxious to get the jewels, which would make her rich for life, and it did not seem to her that there was any harm in the Princess's request; for she had made up her mind that she would give the Black Knight a sleeping-draught, which would effectually prevent him as much as speaking to this strange maiden. So she took the jewels and locked them up in her kist, and the wedding was put off, and that night the little Princess slipped into the Black Knight's apartment when he was asleep, and watched all through the long hours by his bedside, singing this song to him in the hope that he would awake and hear it: "Seven lang years I served for thee, The glassy hill I clamb for thee. The mantle white I washed for thee, And wilt thou no waken, and turn to me?" But although she sang it over and over again, as if her heart would burst, he neither listened nor stirred, for the old washerwoman's potion had made sure of that. Next morning, in her great trouble, the little Princess broke open the pear, hoping that its contents would help her better than the contents of the apple had done. But in it she found just what she had found before--a heap of precious stones; only they were richer and more valuable than the others had been. So, as it seemed the only thing to do, she carried them to the old woman, and bribed her to put the wedding off for yet another day, and allow her to watch that night also by the Black Prince's bedside. And the washerwoman did so; "for," said she, as she locked away the stones, "I shall soon grow quite rich at this rate." But, alas! it was all in vain that the Princess spent the long hours singing with all her might: "Seven lang years I served for thee, The glassy hill I clamb for thee, The mantle white I washed for thee, And wilt thou no waken, and turn to me?" for the young Prince whom she watched so tenderly, remained deaf and motionless as a stone. By the morning she had almost lost hope, for there was only the plum remaining now, and if that failed her last chance had gone. With trembling fingers she broke it open, and found inside another collection of precious stones, richer and rarer than all the others. She ran with these to the washerwoman, and, throwing them into her lap, told her she could keep them all and welcome if she would put off the wedding once again, and let her watch by the Prince for one more night. And, greatly wondering, the old woman consented. Now it chanced that the Black Knight, tired with waiting for his wedding, went out hunting that day with all his attendants behind him. And as the servants rode they talked together about something that had puzzled them sorely these two nights gone by. At last an old huntsman rode up to the Knight, with a question upon his lips. "Master," he said, "we would fain ken who the sweet singer is who singeth through the night in thy chamber?" "Singer!" he repeated. "There is no singer. My chamber hath been as quiet as the grave, and I have slept a dreamless sleep ever since I came to live at the cottage." The old huntsman shook his head. "Taste not the old wife's draught this night, Master," he said earnestly; "then wilt thou hear what other ears have heard." At other times the Black Knight would have laughed at his words, but to-day the man spoke with such earnestness that he could not but listen to them. So that evening, when the washerwoman, as was her wont, brought his sleeping-draught of spiced ale to his bedside, he told her that it was not sweet enough for his liking. And when she turned and went to the kitchen to fetch some honey to sweeten it, he jumped out of bed and poured it all out of the window, and when she came back he pretended that he had drunk it. So it came to pass that he lay awake that night and heard the Princess enter his room, and listened to her plaintive little song, sung in a voice that was full of sobs: "Seven lang years I served for thee, The glassy hill I clamb for thee, The mantle white I washed for thee, And wilt thou no waken, and turn to me?" And when he heard it, he understood it all; and he sprang up and took her in his arms and kissed her, and asked her to tell him the whole story. And when he heard it, he was so angry with the old washerwoman and her deceitful daughter that he ordered them to leave the country at once; and he married the little Princess, and they lived happily all their days. [Illustration] THE WEE BANNOCK "Some tell about their sweethearts, How they tirled them to the winnock, But I'll tell you a bonnie tale About a guid oatmeal bannock." There was once an old man and his wife, who lived in a dear little cottage by the side of a burn. They were a very canty and contented couple, for they had enough to live on, and enough to do. Indeed, they considered themselves quite rich, for, besides their cottage and their garden, they possessed two sleek cows, five hens and a cock, an old cat, and two kittens. The old man spent his time looking after the cows, and the hens, and the garden; while the old woman kept herself busy spinning. One day, just after breakfast, the old woman thought that she would like an oatmeal bannock for her supper that evening, so she took down her bakeboard, and put on her girdle, and baked a couple of fine cakes, and when they were ready she put them down before the fire to harden. While they were toasting, her husband came in from the byre, and sat down to take a rest in his great arm-chair. Presently his eyes fell on the bannocks, and, as they looked very good, he broke one through the middle and began to eat it. When the other bannock saw this it determined that it should not have the same fate, so it ran across the kitchen and out of the door as fast as it could. And when the old woman saw it disappearing, she ran after it as fast as her legs would carry her, holding her spindle in one hand and her distaff in the other. But she was old, and the bannock was young, and it ran faster than she did, and escaped over the hill behind the house. It ran, and it ran, and it ran, until it came to a large newly thatched cottage, and, as the door was open, it took refuge inside, and ran right across the floor to a blazing fire, which was burning in the first room that it came to. Now, it chanced that this house belonged to a tailor, and he and his two apprentices were sitting cross-legged on the top of a big table by the window, sewing away with all their might, while the tailor's wife was sitting beside the fire carding lint. When the wee bannock came trundling across the floor, all three tailors got such a fright that they jumped down from the table and hid behind the Master Tailor's wife. "Hoot," she said, "what a set of cowards ye be! 'Tis but a nice wee bannock. Get hold of it and divide it between you, and I'll fetch you all a drink of milk." So she jumped up with her lint and her lint cards, and the tailor jumped up with his great shears, and one apprentice grasped the line measure, while another took up the saucer full of pins; and they all tried to catch the wee bannock. But it dodged them round and round the fire, and at last it got safely out of the door and ran down the road, with one of the apprentices after it, who tried to snip it in two with his shears. It ran too quickly for him, however, and at last he stopped and went back to the house, while the wee bannock ran on until it came to a tiny cottage by the roadside. It trundled in at the door, and there was a weaver sitting at his loom, with his wife beside him, winding a clue of yarn. "What's that, Tibby?" said the weaver, with a start as the little cake flew past him. "Oh!" cried she in delight, jumping to her feet, "'tis a wee bannock. I wonder where it came from?" "Dinna bother your head about that, Tibby," said her man, "but grip it, my woman, grip it." But it was not so easy to get hold of the wee bannock. It was in vain that the Goodwife threw her clue at it, and that the Goodman tried to chase it into a corner and knock it down with his shuttle. It dodged, and turned, and twisted, like a thing bewitched, till at last it flew out at the door again, and vanished down the hill, "for all the world," as the old woman said, "like a new tarred sheep, or a daft cow." In the next house that it came to it found the Goodwife in the kitchen, kirning. She had just filled her kirn, and there was still some cream standing in the bottom of her cream jar. "Come away, little bannock," she cried when she saw it. "Thou art come in just the nick of time, for I am beginning to feel hungry, and I'll have cakes and cream for my dinner." But the wee bannock hopped round to the other side of the kirn, and the Goodwife after it. And she was in such a hurry that she nearly upset the kirn; and by the time that she had put it right again, the wee bannock was out at the door and half-way down the brae to the mill. The miller was sifting meal in the trough, but he straightened himself up when he saw the little cake. "It's a sign of plenty when bannocks are running about with no one to look after them," he said; "but I like bannocks and cheese, so just come in, and I will give thee a night's lodging." But the little bannock had no wish to be eaten up by the miller, so it turned and ran out of the mill, and the miller was so busy that he did not trouble himself to run after it. After this it ran on, and on, and on, till it came to the smithy, and it popped in there to see what it could see. The smith was busy at the anvil making horse-shoe nails, but he looked up as the wee bannock entered. "If there be one thing I am fond of, it is a glass of ale and a well-toasted cake," he cried. "So come inbye here, and welcome to ye." But as soon as the little bannock heard of the ale, it turned and ran out of the smithy as fast as it could, and the disappointed smith picked up his hammer and ran after it. And when he saw that he could not catch it, he flung his heavy hammer at it, in the hope of knocking it down, but, luckily for the little cake, he missed his aim. After this the bannock came to a farmhouse, with a great stack of peats standing at the back of it. In it went, and ran to the fireside. In this house the master had all the lint spread out on the floor, and was cloving[1] it with an iron rod, while the mistress was heckling[2] what he had already cloven. "Oh, Janet," cried the Goodman in surprise, "here comes in a little bannock. It looks rare and good to eat. I'll have one half of it." "And I'll have the other half," cried the Goodwife. "Hit it over the back with your cloving-stick, Sandy, and knock it down. Quick, or it will be out at the door again." But the bannock played "jook-about," and dodged behind a chair. "Hoot!" cried Janet contemptuously, for she thought that her husband might easily have hit it, and she threw her heckle at it. But the heckle missed it, just as her husband's cloving-rod had done, for it played "jook-about" again, and flew out of the house. This time it ran up a burnside till it came to a little cottage standing among the heather. Here the Goodwife was making porridge for the supper in a pot over the fire, and her husband was sitting in a corner plaiting ropes of straw with which to tie up the cow. "Oh, Jock! come here, come here," cried the Goodwife. "Thou art aye crying for a little bannock for thy supper; come here, histie, quick, and help me to catch it." "Ay, ay," assented Jock, jumping to his feet and hurrying across the little room. "But where is it? I cannot see it." "There, man, there," cried his wife, "under that chair. Run thou to that side; I will keep to this." So Jock ran into the dark corner behind the chair; but, in his hurry, he tripped and fell, and the wee bannock jumped over him and flew laughing out at the door. Through the whins and up the hillside it ran, and over the top of the hill, to a shepherd's cottage on the other side. The inmates were just sitting down to their porridge, and the Goodwife was scraping the pan. "Save us and help us," she exclaimed, stopping with the spoon half-way to her mouth. "There's a wee bannock come in to warm itself at our fireside." "Sneck the door," cried the husband, "and we'll try to catch it. It would come in handy after the porridge." But the bannock did not wait until the door was sneckit. It turned and ran as fast as it could, and the shepherd and his wife and all the bairns ran after it, with their spoons in their hands, in hopes of catching it. And when the shepherd saw that it could run faster than they could, he threw his bonnet at it, and almost struck it; but it escaped all these dangers, and soon it came to another house, where the folk were just going to bed. The Goodman was half undressed, and the Goodwife was raking the cinders carefully out of the fire. "What's that?" said he, "for the bowl of brose that I had at supper-time wasna' very big." "Catch it, then," answered his wife, "and I'll have a bit, too. Quick! quick! Throw your coat over it or it will be away." So the Goodman threw his coat right on the top of the little bannock, and almost managed to smother it; but it struggled bravely, and got out, breathless and hot, from under it. Then it ran out into the grey light again, for night was beginning to fall, and the Goodman ran out after it, without his coat. He chased it and chased it through the stackyard and across a field, and in amongst a fine patch of whins. Then he lost it; and, as he was feeling cold without his coat, he went home. As for the poor little bannock, it thought that it would creep under a whin bush and lie there till morning, but it was so dark that it never saw that there was a fox's hole there. So it fell down the fox's hole, and the fox was very glad to see it, for he had had no food for two days. "Oh, welcome, welcome," he cried; and he snapped it through the middle with his teeth, and that was the end of the poor wee bannock. And if a moral be wanted for this tale, here it is: That people should never be too uplifted or too cast down over anything, for all the good folk in the story thought that they were going to get the bannock, and, lo and behold! the fox got it after all. Footnotes: [Footnote 1: Separating the lint from the stalk.] [Footnote 2: Combing.] THE ELFIN KNIGHT There is a lone moor in Scotland, which, in times past, was said to be haunted by an Elfin Knight. This Knight was only seen at rare intervals, once in every seven years or so, but the fear of him lay on all the country round, for every now and then someone would set out to cross the moor and would never be heard of again. And although men might search every inch of the ground, no trace of him would be found, and with a thrill of horror the searching party would go home again, shaking their heads and whispering to one another that he had fallen into the hands of the dreaded Knight. So, as a rule, the moor was deserted, for nobody dare pass that way, much less live there; and by and by it became the haunt of all sorts of wild animals, which made their lairs there, as they found that they never were disturbed by mortal huntsmen. Now in that same region lived two young earls, Earl St. Clair and Earl Gregory, who were such friends that they rode, and hunted, and fought together, if need be. And as they were both very fond of the chase, Earl Gregory suggested one day that they should go a-hunting on the haunted moor, in spite of the Elfin King. "Certes, I hardly believe in him at all," cried the young man, with a laugh. "Methinks 'tis but an old wife's tale to frighten the bairns withal, lest they go straying amongst the heather and lose themselves. And 'tis pity that such fine sport should be lost because we--two bearded men--pay heed to such gossip." But Earl St. Clair looked grave. "'Tis ill meddling with unchancy things," he answered, "and 'tis no bairn's tale that travellers have set out to cross that moor who have vanished bodily, and never mair been heard of; but it is, as thou sayest, a pity that so much good sport be lost, all because an Elfin Knight choosest to claim the land as his, and make us mortals pay toll for the privilege of planting a foot upon it. "I have heard tell, however, that one is safe from any power that the Knight may have if one wearest the Sign of the Blessed Trinity. So let us bind That on our arm and ride forth without fear." Sir Gregory burst into a loud laugh at these words. "Dost thou think that I am one of the bairns," he said, "'first to be frightened by an idle tale, and then to think that a leaf of clover will protect me? No, no, carry that Sign if thou wilt; I will trust to my good bow and arrow." But Earl St. Clair did not heed his companion's words, for he remembered how his mother had told him, when he was a little lad at her knee that whoso carried the Sign of the Blessed Trinity need never fear any spell that might be thrown over him by Warlock or Witch, Elf or Demon. So he went out to the meadow and plucked a leaf of clover, which he bound on his arm with a silken scarf; then he mounted his horse and rode with Earl Gregory to the desolate and lonely moorland. For some hours all went well; and in the heat of the chase the young men forgot their fears. Then suddenly both of them reined in their steeds and sat gazing in front of them with affrighted faces. For a horseman had crossed their track, and they both would fain have known who he was and whence he came. "By my troth, but he rideth in haste, whoever he may be," said Earl Gregory at last, "and tho' I always thought that no steed on earth could match mine for swiftness, I reckon that for every league that mine goeth, his would go seven. Let us follow him, and see from what part of the world he cometh." "The Lord forbid that thou shouldst stir thy horse's feet to follow him," said Earl St. Clair devoutly. "Why, man, 'tis the Elfin Knight! Canst thou not see that he doth not ride on the solid ground, but flieth through the air, and that, although he rideth on what seemeth a mortal steed, he is really craried by mighty pinions, which cleave the air like those of a bird? Follow him forsooth! It will be an evil day for thee when thou seekest to do that." But Earl St. Clair forgot that he carried a Talisman which his companion lacked, that enabled him to see things as they really were, while the other's eyes were holden, and he was startled and amazed when Earl Gregory said sharply, "Thy mind hath gone mad over this Elfin King. I tell thee he who passed was a goodly Knight, clad in a green vesture, and riding on a great black jennet. And because I love a gallant horseman, and would fain learn his name and degree, I will follow him till I find him, even if it be at the world's end." And without another word he put spurs to his horse and galloped off in the direction which the mysterious stranger had taken, leaving Earl St. Clair alone upon the moorland, his fingers touching the sacred Sign and his trembling lips muttering prayers for protection. For he knew that his friend had been bewitched, and he made up his mind, brave gentleman that he was, that he would follow him to the world's end, if need be, and try to deliver him from the spell that had been cast over him. Meanwhile Earl Gregory rode on and on, ever following in the wake of the Knight in green, over moor, and burn, and moss, till he came to the most desolate region that he had ever been in in his life; where the wind blew cold, as if from snow-fields, and where the hoar-frost lay thick and white on the withered grass at his feet. And there, in front of him, was a sight from which mortal man might well shrink back in awe and dread. For he saw an enormous Ring marked out on the ground, inside of which the grass, instead of being withered and frozen, was lush, and rank, and green, where hundreds of shadowy Elfin figures were dancing, clad in loose transparent robes of dull blue, which seemed to curl and twist round their wearers like snaky wreaths of smoke. These weird Goblins were shouting and singing as they danced, and waving their arms above their heads, and throwing themselves about on the ground, for all the world as if they had gone mad; and when they saw Earl Gregory halt on his horse just outside the Ring they beckoned to him with their skinny fingers. "Come hither, come hither," they shouted; "come tread a measure with us, and afterwards we will drink to thee out of our Monarch's loving cup." And, strange as it may seem, the spell that had been cast over the young Earl was so powerful that, in spite of his fear, he felt that he must obey the eldrich summons, and he threw his bridle on his horse's neck and prepared to join them. But just then an old and grizzled Goblin stepped out from among his companions and approached him. Apparently he dare not leave the charmed Circle, for he stopped at the edge of it; then, stooping down and pretending to pick up something, he whispered in a hoarse whisper: "I know not whom thou art, nor from whence thou comest, Sir Knight, but if thou lovest thy life, see to it that thou comest not within this Ring, nor joinest with us in our feast. Else wilt thou be for ever undone." But Earl Gregory only laughed. "I vowed that I would follow the Green Knight," he replied, "and I will carry out my vow, even if the venture leadeth me close to the nethermost world." And with these words he stepped over the edge of the Circle, right in amongst the ghostly dancers. At his coming they shouted louder than ever, and danced more madly, and sang more lustily; then, all at once, a silence fell upon them, and they parted into two companies, leaving a way through their midst, up which they signed to the Earl to pass. He walked through their ranks till he came to the middle of the Circle; and there, seated at a table of red marble, was the Knight whom he had come so far to seek, clad in his grass-green robes. And before him, on the table, stood a wondrous goblet, fashioned from an emerald, and set round the rim with blood-red rubies. And this cup was filled with heather ale, which foamed up over the brim; and when the Knight saw Sir Gregory, he lifted it from the table, and handed it to him with a stately bow, and Sir Gregory, being very thirsty, drank. And as he drank he noticed that the ale in the goblet never grew less, but ever foamed up to the edge; and for the first time his heart misgave him, and he wished that he had never set out on this strange adventure. But, alas! the time for regrets had passed, for already a strange numbness was stealing over his limbs, and a chill pallor was creeping over his face, and before he could utter a single cry for help the goblet dropped from his nerveless fingers, and he fell down before the Elfin King like a dead man. Then a great shout of triumph went up from all the company; for if there was one thing which filled their hearts with joy, it was to entice some unwary mortal into their Ring and throw their uncanny spell over him, so that he must needs spend long years in their company. But soon their shouts of triumphs began to die away, and they muttered and whispered to each other with looks of something like fear on their faces. For their keen ears heard a sound which filled their hearts with dread. It was the sound of human footsteps, which were so free and untrammelled that they knew at once that the stranger, whoever he was, was as yet untouched by any charm. And if this were so he might work them ill, and rescue their captive from them. And what they dreaded was true; for it was the brave Earl St. Clair who approached, fearless and strong because of the Holy Sign he bore. And as soon as he saw the charmed Ring and the eldrich dancers, he was about to step over its magic border, when the little grizzled Goblin who had whispered to Earl Gregory, came and whispered to him also. "Alas! alas!" he exclaimed, with a look of sorrow on his wrinkled face, "hast thou come, as thy companion came, to pay thy toll of years to the Elfin King? Oh! if thou hast wife or child behind thee, I beseech thee, by all that thou holdest sacred, to turn back ere it be too late." "Who art thou, and from whence hast thou come?" asked the Earl, looking kindly down at the little creature in front of him. "I came from the country that thou hast come from," wailed the Goblin. "For I was once a mortal man, even as thou. But I set out over the enchanted moor, and the Elfin King appeared in the guise of a beauteous Knight, and he looked so brave, and noble, and generous that I followed him hither, and drank of his heather ale, and now I am doomed to bide here till seven long years be spent. "As for thy friend, Sir Earl, he, too, hath drunk of the accursed draught, and he now lieth as dead at our lawful Monarch's feet. He will wake up, 'tis true, but it will be in such a guise as I wear, and to the bondage with which I am bound." "Is there naught that I can do to rescue him!" cried Earl St. Clair eagerly, "ere he taketh on him the Elfin shape? I have no fear of the spell of his cruel captor, for I bear the Sign of One Who is stronger than he. Speak speedily, little man, for time presseth." "There is something that thou couldst do, Sir Earl," whispered the Goblin, "but to essay it were a desperate attempt. For if thou failest, then could not even the Power of the Blessed Sign save thee." "And what is that?" asked the Earl impatiently. "Thou must remain motionless," answered the old man, "in the cold and frost till dawn break and the hour cometh when they sing Matins in the Holy Church. Then must thou walk slowly nine times round the edge of the enchanted Circle, and after that thou must walk boldly across it to the red marble table where sits the Elfin King. On it thou wilt see an emerald goblet studded with rubies and filled with heather ale. That must thou secure and carry away; but whilst thou art doing so let no word cross thy lips. For this enchanted ground whereon we dance may look solid to mortal eyes, but in reality it is not so. 'Tis but a quaking bog, and under it is a great lake, wherein dwelleth a fearsome Monster, and if thou so much as utter a word while thy foot resteth upon it, thou wilt fall through the bog and perish in the waters beneath." [Illustration: Two coal-black Ravens Rose in the Air] So saying the Grisly Goblin stepped back among his companions, leaving Earl St. Clair standing alone on the outskirts of the charmed Ring. There he waited, shivering with cold, through the long, dark hours, till the grey dawn began to break over the hill tops, and, with its coming, the Elfin forms before him seemed to dwindle and fade away. And at the hour when the sound of the Matin Bell came softly pealing from across the moor, he began his solemn walk. Round and round the Ring he paced, keeping steadily on his way, although loud murmurs of anger, like distant thunder, rose from the Elfin Shades, and even the very ground seemed to heave and quiver, as if it would shake this bold intruder from its surface. But through the power of the Blessed Sign on his arm Earl St. Clair went on unhurt. When he had finished pacing round the Ring he stepped boldly on to the enchanted ground, and walked across it; and what was his astonishment to find that all the ghostly Elves and Goblins whom he had seen, were lying frozen into tiny blocks of ice, so that he was sore put to it to walk amongst them without treading upon them. And as he approached the marble table the very hairs rose on his head at the sight of the Elfin King sitting behind it, stiff and stark like his followers; while in front of him lay the form of Earl Gregory, who had shared the same fate. Nothing stirred, save two coal-black ravens, who sat, one on each side of the table, as if to guard the emerald goblet, flapping their wings, and croaking hoarsely. When Earl St. Clair lifted the precious cup, they rose in the air and circled round his head, screaming with rage, and threatening to dash it from his hands with their claws; while the frozen Elves, and even their mighty King himself stirred in their sleep, and half sat up, as if to lay hands on this presumptuous intruder. But the Power of the Holy Sign restrained them, else had Earl St. Clair been foiled in his quest. As he retraced his steps, awesome and terrible were the sounds that he heard around him. The ravens shrieked, and the frozen Goblins screamed; and up from the hidden lake below came the sound of the deep breathing of the awful Monster who was lurking there, eager for prey. But the brave Earl heeded none of these things, but kept steadily onwards, trusting in the Might of the Sign he bore. And it carried him safely through all the dangers; and just as the sound of the Matin Bell was dying away in the morning air he stepped on to solid ground once more, and flung the enchanted goblet from him. And lo! every one of the frozen Elves vanished, along with their King and his marble table, and nothing was left on the rank green grass save Earl Gregory, who slowly woke from his enchanted slumber, and stretched himself, and stood up, shaking in every limb. He gazed vaguely round him, as if he scarce remembered where he was. And when, after Earl St. Clair had run to him and had held him in his arms till his senses returned and the warm blood coursed through his veins, the two friends returned to the spot where Earl St. Clair had thrown down the wondrous goblet, they found nothing but a piece of rough grey whinstone, with a drop of dew hidden in a little crevice which was hollowed in its side. [Illustration] WHAT TO SAY TO THE NEW MUNE New Mune, true Mune, Tell unto me, If my ane true love He will marry me. If he marry me in haste, Let me see his bonny face; If he marry me betide, Let me see his bonnie side; Gin he marry na me ava', Turn his back and gae awa.' HABETROT THE SPINSTRESS In byegone days, in an old farmhouse which stood by a river, there lived a beautiful girl called Maisie. She was tall and straight, with auburn hair and blue eyes, and she was the prettiest girl in all the valley. And one would have thought that she would have been the pride of her mother's heart. But, instead of this, her mother used to sigh and shake her head whenever she looked at her. And why? Because, in those days, all men were sensible; and instead of looking out for pretty girls to be their wives, they looked out for girls who could cook and spin, and who gave promise of becoming notable housewives. Maisie's mother had been an industrious spinster; but, alas! to her sore grief and disappointment, her daughter did not take after her. The girl loved to be out of doors, chasing butterflies and plucking wild flowers, far better than sitting at her spinning-wheel. So when her mother saw one after another of Maisie's companions, who were not nearly so pretty as she was, getting rich husbands, she sighed and said: "Woe's me, child, for methinks no brave wooer will ever pause at our door while they see thee so idle and thoughtless." But Maisie only laughed. At last her mother grew really angry, and one bright Spring morning she laid down three heads of lint on the table, saying sharply, "I will have no more of this dallying. People will say that it is my blame that no wooer comes to seek thee. I cannot have thee left on my hands to be laughed at, as the idle maid who would not marry. So now thou must work; and if thou hast not these heads of lint spun into seven hanks of thread in three days, I will e'en speak to the Mother at St. Mary's Convent, and thou wilt go there and learn to be a nun." Now, though Maisie was an idle girl, she had no wish to be shut up in a nunnery; so she tried not to think of the sunshine outside, but sat down soberly with her distaff. But, alas! she was so little accustomed to work that she made but slow progress; and although she sat at the spinning-wheel all day, and never once went out of doors, she found at night that she had only spun half a hank of yarn. The next day it was even worse, for her arms ached so much she could only work very slowly. That night she cried herself to sleep; and next morning, seeing that it was quite hopeless to expect to get her task finished, she threw down her distaff in despair, and ran out of doors. Near the house was a deep dell, through which ran a tiny stream. Maisie loved this dell, the flowers grew so abundantly there. This morning she ran down to the edge of the stream, and seated herself on a large stone. It was a glorious morning, the hazel trees were newly covered with leaves, and the branches nodded over her head, and showed like delicate tracery against the blue sky. The primroses and sweet-scented violets peeped out from among the grass, and a little water wagtail came and perched on a stone in the middle of the stream, and bobbed up and down, till it seemed as if he were nodding to Maisie, and as if he were trying to say to her, "Never mind, cheer up." But the poor girl was in no mood that morning to enjoy the flowers and the birds. Instead of watching them, as she generally did, she hid her face in her hands, and wondered what would become of her. She rocked herself to and fro, as she thought how terrible it would be if her mother fulfilled her threat and shut her up in the Convent of St. Mary, with the grave, solemn-faced sisters, who seemed as if they had completely forgotten what it was like to be young, and run about in the sunshine, and laugh, and pick the fresh Spring flowers. "Oh, I could not do it, I could not do it," she cried at last. "It would kill me to be a nun." "And who wants to make a pretty wench like thee into a nun?" asked a queer, cracked voice quite close to her. Maisie jumped up, and stood staring in front of her as if she had been moonstruck. For, just across the stream from where she had been sitting, there was a curious boulder, with a round hole in the middle of it--for all the world like a big apple with the core taken out. [Illustration: Seated on this stone was the queerest Little old Woman.] Maisie knew it well; she had often sat upon it, and wondered how the funny hole came to be there. It was no wonder that she stared, for, seated on this stone, was the queerest little old woman that she had ever seen in her life. Indeed, had it not been for her silver hair, and the white mutch with the big frill that she wore on her head, Maisie would have taken her for a little girl, she wore such a very short skirt, only reaching down to her knees. Her face, inside the frill of her cap, was round, and her cheeks were rosy, and she had little black eyes, which twinkled merrily as she looked at the startled maiden. On her shoulders was a black and white checked shawl, and on her legs, which she dangled over the edge of the boulder, she wore black silk stockings and the neatest little shoes, with great silver buckles. In fact, she would have been quite a pretty old lady had it not been for her lips, which were very long and very thick, and made her look quite ugly in spite of her rosy cheeks and black eyes. Maisie stood and looked at her for such a long time in silence that she repeated her question. "And who wants to make a pretty wench like thee into a nun? More likely that some gallant gentleman should want to make a bride of thee." "Oh, no," answered Maisie, "my mother says no gentleman would look at me because I cannot spin." "Nonsense," said the tiny woman. "Spinning is all very well for old folks like me--my lips, as thou seest, are long and ugly because I have spun so much, for I always wet my fingers with them, the easier to draw the thread from the distaff. No, no, take care of thy beauty, child; do not waste it over the spinning-wheel, nor yet in a nunnery." "If my mother only thought as thou dost," replied the girl sadly; and, encouraged by the old woman's kindly face, she told her the whole story. "Well," said the old Dame, "I do not like to see pretty girls weep; what if I were able to help thee, and spin the lint for thee?" Maisie thought that this offer was too good to be true; but her new friend bade her run home and fetch the lint; and I need not tell you that she required no second bidding. When she returned she handed the bundle to the little lady, and was about to ask her where she should meet her in order to get the thread from her when it was spun, when a sudden noise behind her made her look round. She saw nothing; but what was her horror and surprise when she turned back again, to find that the old woman had vanished entirely, lint and all. She rubbed her eyes, and looked all round, but she was nowhere to be seen. The girl was utterly bewildered. She wondered if she could have been dreaming, but no that could not be, there were her footprints leading up the bank and down again, where she had gone for the lint, and brought it back, and there was the mark of her foot, wet with dew, on a stone in the middle of the stream, where she had stood when she had handed the lint up to the mysterious little stranger. What was she to do now? What would her mother say when, in addition to not having finished the task that had been given her, she had to confess to having lost the greater part of the lint also? She ran up and down the little dell, hunting amongst the bushes, and peeping into every nook and cranny of the bank where the little old woman might have hidden herself. It was all in vain; and at last, tired out with the search, she sat down on the stone once more, and presently fell fast asleep. When she awoke it was evening. The sun had set, and the yellow glow on the western horizon was fast giving place to the silvery light of the moon. She was sitting thinking of the curious events of the day, and gazing at the great boulder opposite, when it seemed to her as if a distant murmur of voices came from it. With one bound she crossed the stream, and clambered on to the stone. She was right. Someone was talking underneath it, far down in the ground. She put her ear close to the stone, and listened. The voice of the queer little old woman came up through the hole. "Ho, ho, my pretty little wench little knows that my name is Habetrot." Full of curiosity, Maisie put her eye to the opening, and the strangest sight that she had ever seen met her gaze. She seemed to be looking through a telescope into a wonderful little valley. The trees there were brighter and greener than any that she had ever seen before and there were beautiful flowers, quite different from the flowers that grew in her country. The little valley was carpeted with the most exquisite moss, and up and down it walked her tiny friend, busily engaged in spinning. She was not alone, for round her were a circle of other little old women, who were seated on large white stones, and they were all spinning away as fast as they could. Occasionally one would look up, and then Maisie saw that they all seemed to have the same long, thick lips that her friend had. She really felt very sorry, as they all looked exceedingly kind, and might have been pretty had it not been for this defect. One of the Spinstresses sat by herself, and was engaged in winding the thread, which the others had spun, into hanks. Maisie did not think that this little lady looked so nice as the others. She was dressed entirely in grey, and had a big hooked nose, and great horn spectacles. She seemed to be called Slantlie Mab, for Maisie heard Habetrot address her by that name, telling her to make haste and tie up all the thread, for it was getting late, and it was time that the young girl had it to carry home to her mother. Maisie did not quite know what to do, or how she was to get the thread, for she did not like to shout down the hole in case the queer little old woman should be angry at being watched. However, Habetrot, as she had called herself, suddenly appeared on the path beside her, with the hanks of thread in her hand. "Oh, thank you, thank you," cried Maisie. "What can I do to show you how thankful I am?" "Nothing," answered the Fairy. "For I do not work for reward. Only do not tell your mother who span the thread for thee." It was now late, and Maisie lost no time in running home with the precious thread upon her shoulder. When she walked into the kitchen she found that her mother had gone to bed. She seemed to have had a busy day, for there, hanging up in the wide chimney, in order to dry, were seven large black puddings. The fire was low, but bright and clear; and the sight of it and the sight of the puddings suggested to Maisie that she was very hungry, and that fried black puddings were very good. Flinging the thread down on the table, she hastily pulled off her shoes, so as not to make a noise and awake her mother; and, getting down the frying-pan from the wall, she took one of the black puddings from the chimney, and fried it, and ate it. Still she felt hungry, so she took another, and then another, till they were all gone. Then she crept upstairs to her little bed and fell fast asleep. Next morning her mother came downstairs before Maisie was awake. In fact, she had not been able to sleep much for thinking of her daughter's careless ways, and had been sorrowfully making up her mind that she must lose no time in speaking to the Abbess of St. Mary's about this idle girl of hers. What was her surprise to see on the table the seven beautiful hanks of thread, while, on going to the chimney to take down a black pudding to fry for breakfast, she found that every one of them had been eaten. She did not know whether to laugh for joy that her daughter had been so industrious, or to cry for vexation because all her lovely black puddings--which she had expected would last for a week at least--were gone. In her bewilderment she sang out: "My daughter's spun se'en, se'en, se'en, My daughter's eaten se'en, se'en, se'en, And all before daylight." Now I forgot to tell you that, about half a mile from where the old farmhouse stood, there was a beautiful Castle, where a very rich young nobleman lived. He was both good and brave, as well as rich; and all the mothers who had pretty daughters used to wish that he would come their way, some day, and fall in love with one of them. But he had never done so, and everyone said, "He is too grand to marry any country girl. One day he will go away to London Town and marry a Duke's daughter." Well, this fine spring morning it chanced that this young nobleman's favourite horse had lost a shoe, and he was so afraid that any of the grooms might ride it along the hard road, and not on the soft grass at the side, that he said that he would take it to the smithy himself. So it happened that he was riding along by Maisie's garden gate as her mother came into the garden singing these strange lines. He stopped his horse, and said good-naturedly, "Good day, Madam; and may I ask why you sing such a strange song?" Maisie's mother made no answer, but turned and walked into the house; and the young nobleman, being very anxious to know what it all meant, hung his bridle over the garden gate, and followed her. She pointed to the seven hanks of thread lying on the table, and said, "This hath my daughter done before breakfast." Then the young man asked to see the Maiden who was so industrious, and her mother went and pulled Maisie from behind the door, where she had hidden herself when the stranger came in; for she had come downstairs while her mother was in the garden. She looked so lovely in her fresh morning gown of blue gingham, with her auburn hair curling softly round her brow, and her face all over blushes at the sight of such a gallant young man, that he quite lost his heart, and fell in love with her on the spot. "Ah," said he, "my dear mother always told me to try and find a wife who was both pretty and useful, and I have succeeded beyond my expectations. Do not let our marriage, I pray thee, good Dame, be too long deferred." Maisie's mother was overjoyed, as you may imagine, at this piece of unexpected good fortune, and busied herself in getting everything ready for the wedding; but Maisie herself was a little perplexed. She was afraid that she would be expected to spin a great deal when she was married and lived at the Castle, and if that were so, her husband was sure to find out that she was not really such a good spinstress as he thought she was. In her trouble she went down, the night before her wedding, to the great boulder by the stream in the glen, and, climbing up on it, she laid her head against the stone, and called softly down the hole, "Habetrot, dear Habetrot." The little old woman soon appeared, and, with twinkling eyes, asked her what was troubling her so much just when she should have been so happy. And Maisie told her. "Trouble not thy pretty head about that," answered the Fairy, "but come here with thy bridegroom next week, when the moon is full, and I warrant that he will never ask thee to sit at a spinning-wheel again." Accordingly, after all the wedding festivities were over and the couple had settled down at the Castle, on the appointed evening Maisie suggested to her husband that they should take a walk together in the moonlight. She was very anxious to see what the little Fairy would do to help her; for that very day he had been showing her all over her new home, and he had pointed out to her the beautiful new spinning-wheel made of ebony, which had belonged to his mother, saying proudly, "To-morrow, little one, I shall bring some lint from the town, and then the maids will see what clever little fingers my wife has." Maisie had blushed as red as a rose as she bent over the lovely wheel, and then felt quite sick, as she wondered whatever she would do if Habetrot did not help her. So on this particular evening, after they had walked in the garden, she said that she should like to go down to the little dell and see how the stream looked by moonlight. So to the dell they went. As soon as they came to the boulder Maisie put her head against it and whispered, "Habetrot, dear Habetrot"; and in an instant the little old woman appeared. She bowed in a stately way, as if they were both strangers to her, and said, "Welcome, Sir and Madam, to the Spinsters' Dell." And then she tapped on the root of a great oak tree with a tiny wand which she held in her hand, and a green door, which Maisie never remembered having noticed before, flew open, and they followed the Fairy through it into the other valley which Maisie had seen through the hole in the great stone. All the little old women were sitting on their white chucky stones busy at work, only they seemed far uglier than they had seemed at first; and Maisie noticed that the reason for this was, that, instead of wearing red skirts and white mutches as they had done before, they now wore caps and dresses of dull grey, and instead of looking happy, they all seemed to be trying who could look most miserable, and who could push out their long lips furthest, as they wet their fingers to draw the thread from their distaffs. "Save us and help us! What a lot of hideous old witches," exclaimed her husband. "Whatever could this funny old woman mean by bringing a pretty child like thee to look at them? Thou wilt dream of them for a week and a day. Just look at their lips"; and, pushing Maisie behind him, he went up to one of them and asked her what had made her mouth grow so ugly. She tried to tell him, but all the sound that he could hear was something that sounded like SPIN-N-N. He asked another one, and her answer sounded like this: SPAN-N-N. He tried a third, and hers sounded like SPUN-N-N. He seized Maisie by the hand and hurried her through the green door. "By my troth," he said, "my mother's spinning-wheel may turn to gold ere I let thee touch it, if this is what spinning leads to. Rather than that thy pretty face should be spoilt, the linen chests at the Castle may get empty, and remain so for ever!" So it came to pass that Maisie could be out of doors all day wandering about with her husband, and laughing and singing to her heart's content. And whenever there was lint at the Castle to be spun, it was carried down to the big boulder in the dell and left there, and Habetrot and her companions spun it, and there was no more trouble about the matter. [Illustration] NIPPIT FIT AND CLIPPIT FIT In a country, far across the sea, there once dwelt a great and mighty Prince. He lived in a grand Castle, which was full of beautiful furniture, and curious and rare ornaments. And among them was a lovely little glass shoe, which would only fit the tiniest foot imaginable. And as the Prince was looking at it one day, it struck him what a dainty little lady she would need to be who wore such a very small shoe. And, as he liked dainty people, he made up his mind that he would never marry until he found a maiden who could wear the shoe, and that, when he found her, he would ask her to be his wife. And he called all his Lords and Courtiers to him, and told them of the determination that he had come to, and asked them to help him in his quest. And after they had taken counsel together they summoned a trusty Knight, and appointed him the Prince's Ambassador; and told him to take the slipper, and mount a fleet-footed horse, and ride up and down the whole of the Kingdom until he found a lady whom it would fit. So the Ambassador put the little shoe carefully in his pocket and set out on his errand. He rode, and he rode, and he rode, going to every town and castle that came in his way, and summoning all the ladies to appear before him to try on the shoe. And, as he caused a Proclamation to be made that whoever could wear it should be the Prince's Bride, I need not tell you that all the ladies in the country-side flocked to wherever the Ambassador chanced to be staying, and begged leave to try on the slipper. But they were all disappointed, for not one of them, try as she would, could make her foot small enough to go into the Fairy Shoe; and there were many bitter tears shed in secret, when they returned home, by countless fair ladies who prided themselves on the smallness of their feet, and who had set out full of lively expectation that they would be the successful competitors. At last the Ambassador arrived at a house where a well-to-do Laird had lived. But the Laird was dead now, and there was nobody left but his wife and two daughters, who had grown poor of late, and who had to work hard for their living. One of the daughters was haughty and insolent; the other was little, and young, and modest, and sweet. When the Ambassador rode into the courtyard of this house, and, holding out the shoe, asked if there were any fair ladies there who would like to try it on, the elder sister, who always thought a great deal of herself, ran forward, and said that she would do so, while the younger girl just shook her head and went on with her work. "For," said she to herself, "though my feet are so little that they might go into the slipper, what would I do as the wife of a great Prince? Folk would just laugh at me, and say that I was not fit for the position. No, no, I am far better to bide as I am." So the Ambassador gave the glass shoe to the elder sister, who carried it away to her own room; and presently, to every one's astonishment, came back wearing it on her foot. It is true that her face was very white, and that she walked with a little limp; but no one noticed these things except her younger sister, and she only shook her wise little head, and said nothing. The Prince's Ambassador was delighted that he had at last found a wife for his master, and he mounted his horse and rode off at full speed to tell him the good news. When the Prince heard of the success of his errand, he ordered all his Courtiers to be ready to accompany him next day when he went to bring home his Bride. You can fancy what excitement there was at the Laird's house when the gallant company arrived, with their Prince at their head, to greet the lady who was to be their Princess. The old mother and the plain-looking maid-of-all-work ran hither and thither, fetching such meat and drink as the house could boast to set before their high-born visitors, while the bonnie little sister went and hid herself behind a great pot which stood in the corner of the courtyard, and which was used for boiling hen's meat. [Illustration] She knew that her foot was the smallest in the house; and something told her that if the Prince once got a glimpse of her he would not be content till she had tried on the slipper. Meanwhile, the selfish elder sister did not help at all, but ran up to her chamber, and decked herself out in all the fine clothes that she possessed before she came downstairs to meet the Prince. And when all the Knights and Courtiers had drunk a stirrup-cup, and wished Good Luck to their Lord and his Bride, she was lifted up behind the Prince on his horse, and rode off so full of her own importance, that she even forgot to say good-bye to her mother and sister. Alas! alas! pride must have a fall. For the cavalcade had not proceeded very far when a little bird which was perched on a branch of a bush by the roadside sang out: "Nippit fit, and clippit fit, behind the King rides, But pretty fit, and little fit, ahint the caldron hides." "What is this that the birdie says?" cried the Prince, who, if the truth be told, did not feel altogether satisfied with the Bride whom fortune had bestowed upon him. "Hast thou another sister, Madam?" "Only a little one," murmured the lady, who liked ill the way in which things seemed to be falling out. "We will go back and find her," said the Prince firmly, "for when I sent out the slipper I had no mind that its wearer should nip her foot, and clip her foot, in order to get it on." So the whole party turned back; and when they reached the Laird's house the Prince ordered a search to be made in the courtyard. And the bonnie little sister was soon discovered and brought out, all blushes and confusion, from her hiding-place behind the caldron. "Give her the slipper, and let her try it on," said the Prince, and the eldest sister was forced to obey. And what was the horror of the bystanders, as she drew it off, to see that she had cut off the tops of her toes in order to get it on. But it fitted her little sister's foot exactly, without either paring or clipping; and when the Prince saw that it was so, he lifted the elder sister down from his horse and lifted the little one up in her place, and carried her home to his Palace, where the wedding was celebrated with great rejoicing; and for the rest of their lives they were the happiest couple in the whole kingdom. [Illustration] THE FAIRIES OF MERLIN'S CRAG About two hundred years ago there was a poor man working as a labourer on a farm in Lanarkshire. He was what is known as an "Orra Man"; that is, he had no special work mapped out for him to do, but he was expected to undertake odd jobs of any kind that happened to turn up. One day his master sent him out to cast peats on a piece of moorland that lay on a certain part of the farm. Now this strip of moorland ran up at one end to a curiously shaped crag, known as Merlin's Crag, because, so the country folk said, that famous Enchanter had once taken up his abode there. The man obeyed, and, being a willing fellow, when he arrived at the moor he set to work with all his might and main. He had lifted quite a quantity of peat from near the Crag, when he was startled by the appearance of the very smallest woman that he had ever seen in his life. She was only about two feet high, and she was dressed in a green gown and red stockings, and her long yellow hair was not bound by any ribbon, but hung loosely round her shoulders. She was such a dainty little creature that the astonished countryman stopped working, stuck his spade into the ground, and gazed at her in wonder. His wonder increased when she held up one of her tiny fingers and addressed him in these words: "What wouldst thou think if I were to send my husband to uncover thy house? You mortals think that you can do aught that pleaseth you." Then, stamping her tiny foot, she added in a voice of command, "Put back that turf instantly, or thou shalt rue this day." Now the poor man had often heard of the Fairy Folk and of the harm that they could work to unthinking mortals who offended them, so in fear and trembling he set to work to undo all his labour, and to place every divot in the exact spot from which he had taken it. When he was finished he looked round for his strange visitor, but she had vanished completely; he could not tell how, nor where. Putting up his spade, he wended his way homewards, and going straight to his master, he told him the whole story, and suggested that in future the peats should be taken from the other end of the moor. [Illustration: A large band of Fairies dancing Round and Round] But the master only laughed. He was a strong, hearty man, and had no belief in Ghosts, or Elves, or Fairies, or any other creature that he could not see; but although he laughed, he was vexed that his servant should believe in such things, so to cure him, as he thought, of his superstition, he ordered him to take a horse and cart and go back at once, and lift all the peats and bring them to dry in the farm steading. The poor man obeyed with much reluctance; and was greatly relieved, as weeks went on, to find that, in spite of his having done so, no harm befell him. In fact, he began to think that his master was right, and that the whole thing must have been a dream. So matters went smoothly on. Winter passed, and spring, and summer, until autumn came round once more, and the very day arrived on which the peats had been lifted the year before. That day, as the sun went down, the orra man left the farm to go home to his cottage, and as his master was pleased with him because he had been working very hard lately, he had given him a little can of milk as a present to carry home to his wife. So he was feeling very happy, and as he walked along he was humming a tune to himself. His road took him by the foot of Merlin's Crag, and as he approached it he was astonished to find himself growing strangely tired. His eyelids dropped over his eyes as if he were going to sleep, and his feet grew as heavy as lead. "I will sit down and take a rest for a few minutes," he said to himself; "the road home never seemed so long as it does to-day." So he sat down on a tuft of grass right under the shadow of the Crag, and before he knew where he was he had fallen into a deep and heavy slumber. When he awoke it was near midnight, and the moon had risen on the Crag. And he rubbed his eyes, when by its soft light he became aware of a large band of Fairies who were dancing round and round him, singing and laughing, pointing their tiny fingers at him, and shaking their wee fists in his face. The bewildered man rose and tried to walk away from them, but turn in whichever direction he would the Fairies accompanied him, encircling him in a magic ring, out of which he could in no wise go. At last they stopped, and, with shrieks of elfin laughter, led the prettiest and daintiest of their companions up to him, and cried, "Tread a measure, tread a measure, Oh, Man! Then wilt thou not be so eager to escape from our company." Now the poor labourer was but a clumsy dancer, and he held back with a shamefaced air; but the Fairy who had been chosen to be his partner reached up and seized his hands, and lo! some strange magic seemed to enter into his veins, for in a moment he found himself waltzing and whirling, sliding and bowing, as if he had done nothing else but dance all his life. And, strangest thing of all! he forgot about his home and his children; and he felt so happy that he had no longer the slightest desire to leave the Fairies' company. All night long the merriment went on. The Little Folk danced and danced as if they were mad, and the farm man danced with them, until at last a shrill sound came over the moor. It was the cock from the farmyard crowing its loudest to welcome the dawn. In an instant the revelry ceased, and the Fairies, with cries of alarm, crowded together and rushed towards the Crag, dragging the countryman along in their midst. As they reached the rock, a mysterious door, which he never remembered having seen before, opened in it of its own accord, and shut again with a crash as soon as the Fairy Host had all trooped through. The door led into a large, dimly lighted hall full of tiny couches, and here the Little Folk sank to rest, tired out with their exertions, while the good man sat down on a piece of rock in the corner, wondering what would happen next. But there seemed to be some kind of spell thrown over his senses, for even when the Fairies awoke and began to go about their household occupations, and to carry out certain curious practices which he had never seen before, and which, as you will hear, he was forbidden to speak of afterwards, he was content to sit and watch them, without in any way attempting to escape. As it drew toward evening someone touched his elbow, and he turned round with a start to see the little woman with the green dress and scarlet stockings, who had remonstrated with him for lifting the turf the year before, standing by his side. "The divots which thou took'st from the roof of my house have grown once more," she said, "and once more it is covered with grass; so thou canst go home again, for justice is satisfied--thy punishment hath lasted long enough. But first must thou take thy solemn oath never to tell to mortal ears what thou hast seen whilst thou hast dwelt among us." The countryman promised gladly, and took the oath with all due solemnity. Then the door was opened, and he was at liberty to depart. His can of milk was standing on the green, just where he had laid it down when he went to sleep; and it seemed to him as if it were only yesternight that the farmer had given it to him. But when he reached his home he was speedily undeceived. For his wife looked at him as if he were a ghost, and the children whom he had left wee, toddling things were now well-grown boys and girls, who stared at him as if he had been an utter stranger. "Where hast thou been these long, long years?" cried his wife when she had gathered her wits and seen that it was really he, and not a spirit. "And how couldst thou find it in thy heart to leave the bairns and me alone?" And then he knew that the one day he had passed in Fairy-land had lasted seven whole years, and he realised how heavy the punishment had been which the Wee Folk had laid upon him. [Illustration] THE WEDDING OF ROBIN REDBREAST AND JENNY WREN There was once an old grey Pussy Baudrons, and she went out for a stroll one Christmas morning to see what she could see. And as she was walking down the burnside she saw a little Robin Redbreast hopping up and down on the branches of a briar bush. "What a tasty breakfast he would make," thought she to herself. "I must try to catch him." So, "Good morning, Robin Redbreast," quoth she, sitting down on her tail at the foot of the briar bush and looking up at him. "And where mayest thou be going so early on this cold winter's day?" "I'm on my road to the King's Palace," answered Robin cheerily, "to sing him a song this merry Yule morning." "That's a pious errand to be travelling on, and I wish you good success," replied Pussy slyly; "but just hop down a minute before thou goest, and I will show thee what a bonnie white ring I have round my neck. 'Tis few cats that are marked like me." Then Robin cocked his head on one side, and looked down on Pussy Baudrons with a twinkle in his eye. "Ha, ha! grey Pussy Baudrons," he said. "Ha, ha! for I saw thee worry the little grey mouse, and I have no wish that thou shouldst worry me." And with that he spread his wings and flew away. And he flew, and he flew, till he lighted on an old sod dyke; and there he saw a greedy old gled sitting, with all his feathers ruffled up as if he felt cold. "Good morning, Robin Redbreast," cried the greedy old gled, who had had no food since yesterday, and was therefore very hungry. "And where mayest thou be going to, this cold winter's day?" "I'm on my road to the King's Palace," answered Robin, "to sing to him a song this merry Yule morning." And he hopped away a yard or two from the gled, for there was a look in his eye that he did not quite like. "Thou art a friendly little fellow," remarked the gled sweetly, "and I wish thee good luck on thine errand; but ere thou go on, come nearer me, I prith'ee, and I will show thee what a curious feather I have in my wing. 'Tis said that no other gled in the country-side hath one like it." "Like enough," rejoined Robin, hopping still further away; "but I will take thy word for it, without seeing it. For I saw thee pluck the feathers from the wee lintie, and I have no wish that thou shouldst pluck the feathers from me. So I will bid thee good day, and go on my journey." The next place on which he rested was a piece of rock that overhung a dark, deep glen, and here he saw a sly old fox looking out of his hole not two yards below him. "Good morning, Robin Redbreast," said the sly old fox, who had tried to steal a fat duck from a farmyard the night before, and had barely escaped with his life. "And where mayest thou be going so early on this cold winter's day?" "I'm on my road to the King's Palace, to sing him a song this merry Yule morning," answered Robin, giving the same answer that he had given to the grey Pussy Baudrons and the greedy gled. "Thou wilt get a right good welcome, for His Majesty is fond of music," said the wily fox. "But ere thou go, just come down and have a look at a black spot which I have on the end of my tail. 'Tis said that there is not a fox 'twixt here and the Border that hath a spot on his tail like mine." "Very like, very like," replied Robin; "but I chanced to see thee worrying the wee lambie up on the braeside yonder, and I have no wish that thou shouldst try thy teeth on me. So I will e'en go on my way to the King's Palace, and thou canst show the spot on thy tail to the next passer-by." So the little Robin Redbreast flew away once more, and never rested till he came to a bonnie valley with a little burn running through it, and there he saw a rosy-cheeked boy sitting on a log eating a piece of bread and butter. And he perched on a branch and watched him. "Good morning, Robin Redbreast; and where mayest thou be going so early on this cold winter's day?" asked the boy eagerly; for he was making a collection of stuffed birds, and he had still to get a Robin Redbreast. "I'm on my way to the King's Palace to sing him a song this merry Yule morning," answered Robin, hopping down to the ground, and keeping one eye fixed on the bread and butter. "Come a bit nearer, Robin," said the boy, "and I will give thee some crumbs." "Na, na, my wee man," chirped the cautious little bird; "for I saw thee catch the goldfinch, and I have no wish to give thee the chance to catch me." At last he came to the King's Palace and lighted on the window-sill, and there he sat and sang the very sweetest song that he could sing; for he felt so happy because it was the Blessed Yuletide, that he wanted everyone else to be happy too. And the King and the Queen were so delighted with his song, as he peeped in at them at their open window, that they asked each other what they could give him as a reward for his kind thought in coming so far to greet them. "We can give him a wife," replied the Queen, "who will go home with him and help him to build his nest." "And who wilt thou give him for a bride?" asked the King. "Methinks 'twould need to be a very tiny lady to match his size." [Illustration] "Why, Jenny Wren, of course," answered the Queen. "She hath looked somewhat dowie of late, this will be the very thing to brighten her up." Then the King clapped his hands, and praised his wife for her happy thought, and wondered that the idea had not struck him before. So Robin Redbreast and Jenny Wren were married, amid great rejoicings, at the King's Palace; and the King and Queen and all the fine Nobles and Court Ladies danced at their wedding. Then they flew away home to Robin's own country-side, and built their nest in the roots of the briar bush, where he had spoken to Pussie Baudrons. And you will be glad to hear that Jenny Wren proved the best little housewife in the world. [Illustration] THE DWARFIE STONE Far up in a green valley in the Island of Hoy stands an immense boulder. It is hollow inside, and the natives of these northern islands call it the Dwarfie Stone, because long centuries ago, so the legend has it, Snorro the Dwarf lived there. Nobody knew where Snorro came from, or how long he had dwelt in the dark chamber inside the Dwarfie Stone. All that they knew about him was that he was a little man, with a queer, twisted, deformed body and a face of marvellous beauty, which never seemed to look any older, but was always smiling and young. Men said that this was because Snorro's father had been a Fairy, and not a denizen of earth, who had bequeathed to his son the gift of perpetual youth, but nobody knew whether this were true or not, for the Dwarf had inhabited the Dwarfie Stone long before the oldest man or woman in Hoy had been born. One thing was certain, however: he had inherited from his mother, whom all men agreed had been mortal, the dangerous qualities of vanity and ambition. And the longer he lived the more vain and ambitious did he become, until at last he always carried a mirror of polished steel round his neck, into which he constantly looked in order to see the reflection of his handsome face. And he would not attend to the country people who came to seek his help, unless they bowed themselves humbly before him and spoke to him as if he were a King. I say that the country people sought his help, for he spent his time, or appeared to spend it, in collecting herbs and simples on the hillsides, which he carried home with him to his dark abode, and distilled medicines and potions from them, which he sold to his neighbours at wondrous high prices. He was also the possessor of a wonderful leathern-covered book, clasped with clasps of brass, over which he would pore for hours together, and out of which he would tell the simple Islanders their fortunes, if they would. For they feared the book almost as much as they feared Snorro himself, for it was whispered that it had once belonged to Odin, and they crossed themselves for protection as they named the mighty Enchanter. But all the time they never guessed the real reason why Snorro chose to live in the Dwarfie Stone. I will tell you why he did so. Not very far from the Stone there was a curious hill, shaped exactly like a wart. It was known as the Wart Hill of Hoy, and men said that somewhere in the side of it was hidden a wonderful carbuncle, which, when it was found, would bestow on its finder marvellous magic gifts--Health, Wealth, and Happiness. Everything, in fact, that a human being could desire. And the curious thing about this carbuncle was, that it was said that it could be seen at certain times, if only the people who were looking for it were at the right spot at the right moment. Now Snorro had made up his mind that he would find this wonderful stone, so, while he pretended to spend all his time in reading his great book or distilling medicines from his herbs, he was really keeping a keen look-out during his wanderings, noting every tuft of grass or piece of rock under which it might be hidden. And at night, when everyone else was asleep, he would creep out, with pickaxe and spade, to turn over the rocks or dig over the turf, in the hope of finding the long-sought-for treasure underneath them. He was always accompanied on these occasions by an enormous grey-headed Raven, who lived in the cave along with him, and who was his bosom friend and companion. The Islanders feared this bird of ill omen as much, perhaps, as they feared its Master; for, although they went to consult Snorro in all their difficulties and perplexities, and bought medicines and love-potions from him, they always looked upon him with a certain dread, feeling that there was something weird and uncanny about him. Now, at the time we are speaking of, Orkney was governed by two Earls, who were half-brothers. Paul, the elder, was a tall, handsome man, with dark hair, and eyes like sloes. All the country people loved him, for he was so skilled in knightly exercises, and had such a sweet and loving nature, that no one could help being fond of him. Old people's eyes would brighten at the sight of him, and the little children would run out to greet him as he rode by their mothers' doors. And this was the more remarkable because, with all his winning manner, he had such a lack of conversation that men called him Paul the Silent, or Paul the Taciturn. Harold, on the other hand, was as different from his brother as night is from day. He was fair-haired and blue-eyed, and he had gained for himself the name of Harold the Orator, because he was always free of speech and ready with his tongue. But for all this he was not a favourite. For he was haughty, and jealous, and quick-tempered, and the old folks' eyes did not brighten at the sight of him, and the babes, instead of toddling out to greet him, hid their faces in their mothers' skirts when they saw him coming. Harold could not help knowing that the people liked his silent brother best, and the knowledge made him jealous of him, so a coldness sprang up between them. Now it chanced, one summer, that Earl Harold went on a visit to the King of Scotland, accompanied by his mother, the Countess Helga, and her sister, the Countess Fraukirk. And while he was at Court he met a charming young Irish lady, the Lady Morna, who had come from Ireland to Scotland to attend upon the Scottish Queen. She was so sweet, and good, and gentle that Earl Harold's heart was won, and he made up his mind that she, and only she, should be his bride. But although he had paid her much attention, Lady Morna had sometimes caught glimpses of his jealous temper; she had seen an evil expression in his eyes, and had heard him speak sharply to his servants, and she had no wish to marry him. So, to his great amazement, she refused the honour which he offered her, and told him that she would prefer to remain as she was. Earl Harold ground his teeth in silent rage, but he saw that it was no use pressing his suit at that moment. So what he could not obtain by his own merits he determined to obtain by guile. Accordingly he begged his mother to persuade the Lady Morna to go back with them on a visit, hoping that when she was alone with him in Orkney, he would be able to overcome her prejudice against him, and induce her to become his wife. And all the while he never remembered his brother Paul; or, if he did, he never thought it possible that he could be his rival. But that was just the very thing that happened. The Lady Morna, thinking no evil, accepted the Countess Helga's invitation, and no sooner had the party arrived back in Orkney than Paul, charmed with the grace and beauty of the fair Irish Maiden, fell head over ears in love with her. And the Lady Morna, from the very first hour that she saw him, returned his love. Of course this state of things could not long go on hidden, and when Harold realised what had happened his anger and jealousy knew no bounds. Seizing a dagger, he rushed up to the turret where his brother was sitting in his private apartments, and threatened to stab him to the heart if he did not promise to give up all thoughts of winning the lovely stranger. But Paul met him with pleasant words. "Calm thyself, Brother," he said. "It is true that I love the lady, but that is no proof that I shall win her. Is it likely that she will choose me, whom all men name Paul the Silent, when she hath the chance of marrying you, whose tongue moves so swiftly that to you is given the proud title of Harold the Orator?" At these words Harold's vanity was flattered, and he thought that, after all, his step-brother was right, and that he had a very small chance, with his meagre gift of speech, of being successful in his suit. So he threw down his dagger, and, shaking hands with him, begged him to pardon his unkind thoughts, and went down the winding stair again in high good-humour with himself and all the world. By this time it was coming near to the Feast of Yule, and at that Festival it was the custom for the Earl and his Court to leave Kirkwall for some weeks, and go to the great Palace of Orphir, nine miles distant. And in order to see that everything was ready, Earl Paul took his departure some days before the others. The evening before he left he chanced to find the Lady Morna sitting alone in one of the deep windows of the great hall. She had been weeping, for she was full of sadness at the thought of his departure; and at the sight of her distress the kind-hearted young Earl could no longer contain himself, but, folding her in his arms, he whispered to her how much he loved her, and begged her to promise to be his wife. She agreed willingly. Hiding her rosy face on his shoulder, she confessed that she had loved him from the very first day that she had seen him; and ever since that moment she had determined that, if she could not wed him, she would wed no other man. For a little time they sat together, rejoicing in their new-found happiness. Then Earl Paul sprang to his feet. "Let us go and tell the good news to my mother and my brother," he said. "Harold may be disappointed at first, for I know, Sweetheart, he would fain have had thee for his own. But his good heart will soon overcome all that, and he will rejoice with us also." But the Lady Morna shook her head. She knew, better than her lover, what Earl Harold's feeling would be; and she would fain put off the evil hour. "Let us hold our peace till after Yule," she pleaded. "It will be a joy to keep our secret to ourselves for a little space; there will be time enough then to let all the world know." Rather reluctantly, Earl Paul agreed; and next day he set off for the Palace at Orphir, leaving his lady-love behind him. Little he guessed the danger he was in! For, all unknown to him, his step-aunt, Countess Fraukirk, had chanced to be in the hall, the evening before, hidden behind a curtain, and she had overheard every word that Morna and he had spoken, and her heart was filled with black rage. For she was a hard, ambitious woman, and she had always hated the young Earl, who was no blood-relation to her, and who stood in the way of his brother, her own nephew; for, if Paul were only dead, Harold would be the sole Earl of Orkney. And now that he had stolen the heart of the Lady Morna, whom her own nephew loved, her hate and anger knew no bounds. She had hastened off to her sister's chamber as soon as the lovers had parted; and there the two women had remained talking together till the chilly dawn broke in the sky. [Illustration: M. Meredith Williams Countess Fraukirk ... hidden behind a curtain ... overheard every word.] Next day a boat went speeding over the narrow channel of water that separates Pomona (on the mainland) from Hoy. In it sat a woman, but who she was, or what she was like, no one could say, for she was covered from head to foot with a black cloak, and her face was hidden behind a thick, dark veil. Snorro the Dwarf knew her, even before she laid aside her trappings, for Countess Fraukirk was no stranger to him. In the course of her long life she had often had occasion to seek his aid to help her in her evil deeds, and she had always paid him well for his services in yellow gold. He therefore welcomed her gladly; but when he had heard the nature of her errand his smiling face grew grave again, and he shook his head. "I have served thee well, Lady, in the past," he said, "but methinks that this thing goeth beyond my courage. For to compass an Earl's death is a weighty matter, especially when he is so well beloved as is the Earl Paul. "Thou knowest why I have taken up my abode in this lonely spot--how I hope some day to light upon the magic carbuncle. Thou knowest also how the people fear me, and hate me too, forsooth. And if the young Earl died, and suspicion fell on me, I must needs fly the Island, for my life would not be worth a grain of sand. Then my chance of success would be gone. Nay! I cannot do it, Lady; I cannot do it." [Illustration] But the wily Countess offered him much gold, and bribed him higher and higher, first with wealth, then with success, and lastly she promised to obtain for him a high post at the Court of the King of Scotland; and at that his ambition stirred within him, his determination gave way, and he consented to do what she asked. "I will summon my magic loom," he said, "and weave a piece of cloth of finest texture and of marvellous beauty; and before I weave it I will so poison the thread with a magic potion that, when it is fashioned into a garment, whoever puts it on will die ere he hath worn it many minutes." "Thou art a clever knave," answered the Countess, a cruel smile lighting up her evil face, "and thou shalt be rewarded. Let me have a couple of yards of this wonderful web, and I will make a bonnie waistcoat for my fine young Earl and give it to him as a Yuletide gift. Then I reckon that he will not see the year out." "That will he not," said Dwarf Snorro, with a malicious grin; and the two parted, after arranging that the piece of cloth should be delivered at the Palace of Orphir on the day before Christmas Eve. Now, when the Countess Fraukirk had been away upon her wicked errand, strange things were happening at the Castle at Kirkwall. For Harold, encouraged by his brother's absence, offered his heart and hand once more to the Lady Morna. Once more she refused him, and in order to make sure that the scene should not be repeated, she told him that she had plighted her troth to his brother. When he heard that this was so, rage and fury were like to devour him. Mad with anger, he rushed from her presence, flung himself upon his horse, and rode away in the direction of the sea shore. While he was galloping wildly along, his eyes fell on the snow-clad hills of Hoy rising up across the strip of sea that divided the one island from the other. And his thoughts flew at once to Snorro the Dwarf, who he had had occasion, as well as his step-aunt, to visit in bygone days. "I have it," he cried. "Stupid fool that I was not to think of it at once. I will go to Snorro, and buy from him a love-potion, which will make my Lady Morna hate my precious brother and turn her thoughts kindly towards me." So he made haste to hire a boat, and soon he was speeding over the tossing waters on his way to the Island of Hoy. When he arrived there he hurried up the lonely valley to where the Dwarfie Stone stood, and he had no difficulty in finding its uncanny occupant, for Snorro was standing at the hole that served as a door, his raven on his shoulder, gazing placidly at the setting sun. A curious smile crossed his face when, hearing the sound of approaching footsteps, he turned round and his eyes fell on the young noble. "What bringeth thee here, Sir Earl?" he asked gaily, for he scented more gold. "I come for a love-potion," said Harold; and without more ado he told the whole story to the Wizard. "I will pay thee for it," he added, "if thou wilt give it to me quickly." Snorro looked at him from head to foot. "Blind must the maiden be, Sir Orator," he said, "who needeth a love-potion to make her fancy so gallant a Knight." Earl Harold laughed angrily. "It is easier to catch a sunbeam than a woman's roving fancy," he replied. "I have no time for jesting. For, hearken, old man, there is a proverb that saith, 'Time and tide wait for no man,' so I need not expect the tide to wait for me. The potion I must have, and that instantly." Snorro saw that he was in earnest, so without a word he entered his dwelling, and in a few minutes returned with a small phial in his hand, which was full of a rosy liquid. "Pour the contents of this into the Lady Morna's wine-cup," he said, "and I warrant thee that before four-and-twenty hours have passed she will love thee better than thou lovest her now." Then he waved his hand, as if to dismiss his visitor, and disappeared into his dwelling-place. Earl Harold made all speed back to the Castle; but it was not until one or two days had elapsed that he found a chance to pour the love-potion into the Lady Morna's wine-cup. But at last, one night at supper, he found an opportunity of doing so, and, waving away the little page-boy, he handed it to her himself. She raised it to her lips, but she only made a pretence at drinking, for she had seen the hated Earl fingering the cup, and she feared some deed of treachery. When he had gone back to his seat she managed to pour the whole of the wine on the floor, and smiled to herself at the look of satisfaction that came over Harold's face as she put down the empty cup. His satisfaction increased, for from that moment she felt so afraid of him that she treated him with great kindness, hoping that by doing so she would keep in his good graces until the Court moved to Orphir, and her own true love could protect her. Harold, on his side, was delighted with her graciousness, for he felt certain that the charm was beginning to work, and that his hopes would soon be fulfilled. A week later the Court removed to the Royal Palace at Orphir, where Earl Paul had everything in readiness for the reception of his guests. Of course he was overjoyed to meet Lady Morna again, and she was overjoyed to meet him, for she felt that she was now safe from the unwelcome attentions of Earl Harold. But to Earl Harold the sight of their joy was as gall and bitterness, and he could scarcely contain himself, although he still trusted in the efficacy of Snorro the Dwarf's love-potion. As for Countess Fraukirk and Countess Helga, they looked forward eagerly to the time when the magic web would arrive, out of which they hoped to fashion a fatal gift for Earl Paul. At last, the day before Christmas Eve, the two wicked women were sitting in the Countess Helga's chamber talking of the time when Earl Harold would rule alone in Orkney, when a tap came to the window, and on looking round they saw Dwarf Snorro's grey-headed Raven perched on the sill, a sealed packet in its beak. They opened the casement, and with a hoarse croak the creature let the packet drop on to the floor; then it flapped its great wings and rose slowly into the air again its head turned in the direction of Hoy. With fingers that trembled with excitement they broke the seals and undid the packet. It contained a piece of the most beautiful material that anyone could possibly imagine, woven in all the colours of the rainbow, and sparkling with gold and jewels. "'Twill make a bonnie waistcoat," exclaimed Countess Fraukirk, with an unholy laugh. "The Silent Earl will be a braw man when he gets it on." Then, without more ado, they set to work to cut out and sew the garment. All that night they worked, and all next day, till, late in the afternoon, when they were putting in the last stitches, hurried footsteps were heard ascending the winding staircase, and Earl Harold burst open the door. His cheeks were red with passion, and his eyes were bright, for he could not but notice that, now that she was safe at Orphir under her true love's protection, the Lady Morna's manner had grown cold and distant again, and he was beginning to lose faith in Snorro's charm. Angry and disappointed, he had sought his mother's room to pour out his story of vexation to her. He stopped short, however, when he saw the wonderful waistcoat lying on the table, all gold and silver and shining colours. It was like a fairy garment, and its beauty took his breath away. "For whom hast thou purchased that?" he asked, hoping to hear that it was intended for him. "'Tis a Christmas gift for thy brother Paul," answered his mother, and she would have gone on to tell him how deadly a thing it was, had he given her time to speak. But her words fanned his fury into madness, for it seemed to him that this hated brother of his was claiming everything. "Everything is for Paul! I am sick of his very name," he cried. "By my troth, he shall not have this!" and he snatched the vest from the table. It was in vain that his mother and his aunt threw themselves at his feet, begging him to lay it down, and warning him that there was not a thread in it which was not poisoned. He paid no heed to their words, but rushed from the room, and, drawing it on, ran downstairs with a reckless laugh, to show the Lady Morna how fine he was. Alas! alas! Scarce had he gained the hall than he fell to the ground in great pain. Everyone crowded round him, and the two Countesses, terrified now by what they had done, tried in vain to tear the magic vest from his body. But he felt that it was too late, the deadly poison had done its work, and, waving them aside, he turned to his brother, who, in great distress, had knelt down and taken him tenderly in his arms. "I wronged thee, Paul," he gasped. "For thou hast ever been true and kind. Forgive me in thy thoughts, and," he added, gathering up his strength for one last effort, and pointing to the two wretched women who had wrought all this misery, "_Beware of those two women_, for they seek to take thy life." Then his head sank back on his brother's shoulder, and, with one long sigh, he died. When he learned what had happened, and understood where the waistcoat came from, and for what purpose it had been intended, the anger of the Silent Earl knew no bounds. He swore a great oath that he would be avenged, not only on Snorro the Dwarf, but also on his wicked step-mother and her cruel sister. His vengeance was baulked, however, for in the panic and confusion that followed Harold's death, the two Countesses slipped out of the Palace and fled to the coast, and took boat in haste to Scotland, where they had great possessions, and where they were much looked up to, and where no one would believe a word against them. But retribution fell on them in the end, as it always does fall, sooner or later, on everyone who is wicked, or selfish, or cruel; for the Norsemen invaded the land, and their Castle was set on fire, and they perished miserably in the flames. When Earl Paul found that they had escaped, he set out in hot haste for the Island of Hoy, for he was determined that the Dwarf, at least, should not escape. But when he came to the Dwarfie Stone he found it silent and deserted, all trace of its uncanny occupants having disappeared. No one knew what had become of them; a few people were inclined to think that the Dwarf and his Raven had accompanied the Countess Fraukirk and the Countess Helga on their flight, but the greater part of the Islanders held to the belief, which I think was the true one, that the Powers of the Air spirited Snorro away, and shut him up in some unknown place as a punishment for his wickedness, and that his Raven accompanied him. At any rate, he was never seen again by any living person, and wherever he went, he lost all chance of finding the magic carbuncle. As for the Silent Earl and his Irish Sweetheart, they were married as soon as Earl Harold's funeral was over; and for hundreds of years afterwards, when the inhabitants of the Orkney Isles wanted to express great happiness, they said, "As happy as Earl Paul and the Countess Morna." CANONBIE DICK AND THOMAS OF ERCILDOUNE It chanced, long years ago, that a certain horse-dealer lived in the South of Scotland, near the Border, not very far from Longtown. He was known as Canonbie Dick; and as he went up and down the country, he almost always had a long string of horses behind him, which he bought at one fair and sold at another, generally managing to turn a good big penny by the transaction. He was a very fearless man, not easily daunted; and the people who knew him used to say that if Canonbie Dick dare not attempt a thing, no one else need be asked to do it. One evening, as he was returning from a fair at some distance from his home with a pair of horses which he had not succeeded in selling, he was riding over Bowden Moor, which lies to the west of the Eildon Hills. These hills are, as all men know, the scene of some of the most famous of Thomas the Rhymer's prophecies; and also, so men say, they are the sleeping-place of King Arthur and his Knights, who rest under the three high peaks, waiting for the mystic call that shall awake them. But little recked the horse-dealer of Arthur and his Knights, nor yet of Thomas the Rhymer. He was riding along at a snail's pace, thinking over the bargains which he had made at the fair that day, and wondering when he was likely to dispose of his two remaining horses. All at once he was startled by the approach of a venerable man, with white hair and an old-world dress, who seemed almost to start out of the ground, so suddenly did he make his appearance. When they met, the stranger stopped, and, to Canonbie Dick's great amazement, asked him for how much he would be willing to part with his horses. The wily horse-dealer thought that he saw a chance of driving a good bargain, for the stranger looked a man of some consequence; so he named a good round sum. The old man tried to bargain with him; but when he found that he had not much chance of succeeding--for no one ever did succeed in inducing Canonbie Dick to sell a horse for a less sum than he named for it at first--he agreed to buy the animals, and, pulling a bag of gold from the pocket of his queerly cut breeches, he began to count out the price. As he did so, Canonbie Dick got another shock of surprise, for the gold that the stranger gave him was not the gold that was in use at the time, but was fashioned into Unicorns, and Bonnet-pieces, and other ancient coins, which would be of no use to the horse-dealer in his everyday transactions. But it was good, pure gold; and he took it gladly, for he knew that he was selling his horses at about half as much again as they were worth. "So," thought he to himself, "surely I cannot be the loser in the long run." Then the two parted, but not before the old man had commissioned Dick to get him other good horses at the same price, the only stipulation he made being that Dick should always bring them to the same spot, after dark, and that he should always come alone. And, as time went on, the horse-dealer found that he had indeed met a good customer. For, whenever he came across a suitable horse, he had only to lead it over Bowden Moor after dark, and he was sure to meet the mysterious, white-headed stranger, who always paid him for the animal in old-fashioned golden pieces. And he might have been selling horses to him yet, for aught I know, had it not been for his one failing. Canonbie Dick was apt to get very thirsty, and his ordinary customers, knowing this, took care always to provide him with something to drink. The old man never did so; he paid down his money and led away his horses, and there was an end of the matter. But one night, Dick, being even more thirsty than usual, and feeling sure that his mysterious friend must live somewhere in the neighbourhood, seeing that he was always wandering about the hillside when everyone else was asleep, hinted that he would be very glad to go home with him and have a little refreshment. "He would need to be a brave man who asks to go home with me," returned the stranger; "but, if thou wilt, thou canst follow me. Only, remember this--if thy courage fail thee at that which thou wilt behold, thou wilt rue it all thy life." Canonbie Dick laughed long and loud. "My courage hath never failed me yet," he cried. "Beshrew me if I will let it fail now. So lead on, old man, and I will follow." Without a word the stranger turned and began to ascend a narrow path which led to a curious hillock, which from its shape, was called by the country-folk the "Lucken Hare." It was supposed to be a great haunt of Witches; and, as a rule, nobody passed that way after dark, if they could possibly help it. Canonbie Dick was not afraid of Witches, however, so he followed his guide with a bold step up the hillside; but it must be confessed that he felt a little startled when he saw him turn down what seemed to be an entrance to a cavern, especially as he never remembered having seen any opening in the hillside there before. He paused for a moment, looking round him in perplexity, wondering where he was being taken; and his conductor glanced at him scornfully. "You can go back if you will," he said. "I warned thee thou wert going on a journey that would try thy courage to the uttermost." There was a jeering note in his voice that touched Dick's pride. "Who said that I was afraid?" he retorted. "I was just taking note of where this passage stands on the hillside, so as to know it another time." The stranger shrugged his shoulders. "Time enough to look for it when thou wouldst visit it again," he said. And then he pursued his way, with Dick following closely at his heels. After the first yard or two they were enveloped in thick darkness, and the horse-dealer would have been sore put to it to keep near his guide had not the latter held out his hand for him to grasp. But after a little space a faint glimmering of light began to appear, which grew clearer and clearer, until at last they found themselves in an enormous cavern lit by flaming torches, which were stuck here and there in sconces in the rocky walls, and which, although they served to give light enough to see by, yet threw such ghostly shadows on the floor that they only seemed to intensify the gloom that hung over the vast apartment. And the curious thing about this mysterious cave was that, along one side of it, ran a long row of horse stalls, just like what one would find in a stable, and in each stall stood a coal-black charger, saddled and bridled, as if ready for the fray; and on the straw, by every horse's side, lay the gallant figure of a knight, clad from head to foot in coal-black armour, with a drawn sword in his mailed hand. But not a horse moved, not a chain rattled. Knights and steeds alike were silent and motionless, looking exactly as if some strange enchantment had been thrown over them, and they had been suddenly turned into black marble. There was something so awesome in the still, cold figures and in the unearthly silence that brooded over everything that Canonbie Dick, reckless and daring though he was, felt his courage waning and his knees beginning to shake under him. In spite of these feelings, however, he followed the old man up the hall to the far end of it, where there was a table of ancient workmanship, on which was placed a glittering sword and a curiously wrought hunting-horn. When they reached this table the stranger turned to him, and said, with great dignity, "Thou hast heard, good man, of Thomas of Ercildoune--Thomas the Rhymer, as men call him--he who went to dwell for a time with the Queen of Fairy-land, and from her received the Gifts of Truth and Prophecy?" Canonbie Dick nodded; for as the wonderful Soothsayer's name fell on his ears, his heart sank within him and his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. If he had been brought there to parley with Thomas the Rhymer, then had he laid himself open to all the eldrich Powers of Darkness. "I that speak to thee am he," went on the white-haired stranger. "And I have permitted thee thus to have thy desire and follow me hither in order that I may try of what stuff thou art made. Before thee lies a Horn and a Sword. He that will sound the one, or draw the other, shall, if his courage fail not, be King over the whole of Britain. I, Thomas the Rhymer, have spoken it, and, as thou knowest, my tongue cannot lie. But list ye, the outcome of it all depends on thy bravery; and it will be a light task, or a heavy, according as thou layest hand on Sword or Horn first." Now Dick was more versed in giving blows than in making music, and his first impulse was to seize the Sword, then, come what might, he had something in his hand to defend himself with. But just as he was about to lift it the thought struck him that, if the place were full of spirits, as he felt sure that it must be, this action of him might be taken to mean defiance, and might cause them to band themselves together against him. [Illustration] So, changing his mind, he picked up the Horn with a trembling hand, and blew a blast upon it, which, however, was so weak and feeble that it could scarce be heard at the other end of the hall. The result that followed was enough to appal the stoutest heart. Thunder rolled in crashing peals through the immense hall. The charmed Knights and their horses woke in an instant from their enchanted sleep. The Knights sprang to their feet and seized their swords, brandishing them round their heads, while their great black chargers stamped, and snorted, and ground their bits, as if eager to escape from their stalls. And where a moment before all had been stillness and silence, there was now a scene of wild din and excitement. Now was the time for Canonbie Dick to play the man. If he had done so all the rest of his life might have been different. But his courage failed him, and he lost his chance. Terrified at seeing so many threatening faces turned towards him, he dropped the Horn and made one weak, undecided effort to pick up the Sword. But, ere he could do so, a mysterious voice sounded from somewhere in the hall, and these were the words that it uttered: "Woe to the coward, that ever he was born, Who did not draw the Sword before he blew the Horn." And, before Dick knew what he was about, a perfect whirlwind of cold, raw air tore through the cavern, carrying the luckless horse-dealer along with it; and, hurrying him along the narrow passage through which he had entered, dashed him down outside on a bank of loose stones and shale. He fell right to the bottom, and was found, with little life left in him, next morning, by some shepherds, to whom he had just strength enough left to whisper the story of his weird and fearful adventure. [Illustration] THE LAIRD O' CO' It was a fine summer morning, and the Laird o' Co' was having a dander on the green turf outside the Castle walls. His real name was the Laird o' Colzean, and his descendants to-day bear the proud title of Marquises of Ailsa, but all up and down Ayrshire nobody called him anything else than the Laird o' Co'; because of the Co's, or caves, which were to be found in the rock on which his Castle was built. He was a kind man, and a courteous, always ready to be interested in the affairs of his poorer neighbours, and willing to listen to any tale of woe. So when a little boy came across the green, carrying a small can in his hand, and, pulling his forelock, asked him if he might go to the Castle and get a little ale for his sick mother, the Laird gave his consent at once, and, patting the little fellow on the head, told him to go to the kitchen and ask for the butler, and tell him that he, the Laird, had given orders that his can was to be filled with the best ale that was in the cellar. Away the boy went, and found the old butler, who, after listening to his message, took him down into the cellar, and proceeded to carry out his Master's orders. There was one cask of particularly fine ale, which was kept entirely for the Laird's own use, which had been opened some time before, and which was now about half full. "I will fill the bairn's can out o' this," thought the old man to himself. "'Tis both nourishing and light--the very thing for sick folk." So, taking the can from the child's hand, he proceeded to draw the ale. But what was his astonishment to find that, although the ale flowed freely enough from the barrel, the little can, which could not have held more than a quarter of a gallon, remained always just half full. The ale poured into it in a clear amber stream, until the big cask was quite empty, and still the quantity that was in the little can did not seem to increase. The butler could not understand it. He looked at the cask, and then he looked at the can; then he looked down at the floor at his feet to see if he had not spilt any. No, the ale had not disappeared in that way, for the cellar floor was as white, and dry, and clean, as possible. "Plague on the can; it must be bewitched," thought the old man, and his short, stubby hair stood up like porcupine quills round his bald head, for if there was anything on earth of which he had a mortal dread, it was Warlocks, and Witches, and such like Bogles. "I'm not going to broach another barrel," he said gruffly, handing back the half-filled can to the little lad. "So ye may just go home with what is there; the Laird's ale is too good to waste on a smatchet like thee." But the boy stoutly held his ground. A promise was a promise, and the Laird had both promised, and sent orders to the butler that the can was to be filled, and he would not go home till it was filled. It was in vain that the old man first argued, and then grew angry--the boy would not stir a step. "The Laird had said that he was to get the ale, and the ale he must have." At last the perturbed butler left him standing there, and hurried off to his master to tell him he was convinced that the can was bewitched, for it had swallowed up a whole half cask of ale, and after doing so it was only half full; and to ask if he would come down himself, and order the lad off the premises. "Not I," said the genial Laird, "for the little fellow is quite right. I promised that he should have his can full of ale to take home to his sick mother, and he shall have it if it takes all the barrels in my cellar to fill it. So haste thee to the house again, and open another cask." The butler dare not disobey; so he reluctantly retraced his steps, but, as he went, he shook his head sadly, for it seemed to him that not only the boy with the can, but his master also, was bewitched. When he reached the cellar he found the bairn waiting patiently where he had left him, and, without wasting further words, he took the can from his hand and broached another barrel. If he had been astonished before, he was more astonished now. Scarce had a couple of drops fallen from the tap, than the can was full to the brim. "Take it, laddie, and begone, with all the speed thou canst," he said, glad to get the can out of his fingers; and the boy did not wait for a second bidding. Thanking the butler most earnestly for his trouble, and paying no attention to the fact that the old man had not been so civil to him as he might have been, he departed. Nor, though the butler took pains to ask all round the country-side, could he ever hear of him again, nor of anyone who knew anything about him, or anything about his sick mother. Years passed by, and sore trouble fell upon the House o' Co'. For the Laird went to fight in the wars in Flanders, and, chancing to be taken prisoner, he was shut up in prison, and condemned to death. Alone, in a foreign country, he had no friends to speak for him, and escape seemed hopeless. It was the night before his execution, and he was sitting in his lonely cell, thinking sadly of his wife and children, whom he never expected to see again. At the thought of them the picture of his home rose clearly in his mind--the grand old Castle standing on its rock, and the bonnie daisy-spangled stretch of greensward which lay before its gates, where he had been wont to take a dander in the sweet summer mornings. Then, all unbidden, a vision of the little lad carrying the can, who had come to beg ale for his sick mother, and whom he had long ago forgotten, rose up before him. [Illustration] The vision was so clear and distinct that he felt almost as if he were acting the scene over again, and he rubbed his eyes to get rid of it, feeling that, if he had to die to-morrow, it was time that he turned his thoughts to better things. But as he did so the door of his cell flew noiselessly open, and there, on the threshold, stood the self-same little lad, looking not a day older, with his finger on his lip, and a mysterious smile upon his face. "Laird o' Co', Rise and go!" he whispered, beckoning to him to follow him. Needless to say, the Laird did so, too much amazed to think of asking questions. Through the long passages of the prison the little lad went, the Laird close at his heels; and whenever he came to a locked door, he had but to touch it, and it opened before them, so that in no long time they were safe outside the walls. The overjoyed Laird would have overwhelmed his little deliverer with words of thanks had not the boy held up his hand to stop him. "Get on my back," he said shortly, "for thou are not safe till thou art out of this country." The Laird did as he was bid, and, marvellous as it seems, the boy was quite able to bear his weight. As soon as he was comfortably seated the pair set off, over sea and land, and never stopped till, in almost less time than it takes to tell it, the boy set him down, in the early dawn, on the daisy-spangled green in front of his Castle, just where he had spoken first to him so many years before. Then he turned, and laid his little hand on the Laird's big one: "Ae gude turn deserves anither, Tak' ye that for being sae kind to my auld mither," he said, and vanished. And from that day to this he has never been seen again. [Illustration] POUSSIE BAUDRONS "Poussie, Poussie Baudrons, Where hae ye been?" "I've been at London, Seeing the Queen!" "Poussie, Poussie Baudrons, What got ye there?" "I got a guid fat mousikie, Rinning up a stair." "Poussie, Poussie Baudrons, What did ye do wi't?" "I put it in my meal-poke To eat it to my bread." [Illustration: I got a guid fat mousikie Rinning up a stair] THE MILK-WHITE DOO There was once a man who got his living by working in the fields. He had one little son, called Curly-Locks, and one little daughter, called Golden-Tresses; but his wife was dead, and, as he had to be out all day, these children were often left alone. So, as he was afraid that some evil might befall them when there was no one to look after them, he, in an ill day, married again. I say, "in an ill day," for his second wife was a most deceitful woman, who really hated children, although she pretended, before her marriage, to love them. And she was so unkind to them, and made the house so uncomfortable with her bad temper, that her poor husband often sighed to himself, and wished that he had let well alone, and remained a widower. But it was no use crying over spilt milk; the deed was done, and he had just to try to make the best of it. So things went on for several years, until the children were beginning to run about the doors and play by themselves. Then one day the Goodman chanced to catch a hare, and he brought it home and gave it to his wife to cook for the dinner. Now his wife was a very good cook, and she made the hare into a pot of delicious soup; but she was also very greedy, and while the soup was boiling she tasted it, and tasted it, till at last she discovered that it was almost gone. Then she was in a fine state of mind, for she knew that her husband would soon be coming home for his dinner, and that she would have nothing to set before him. So what do you think the wicked woman did? She went out to the door, where her little step-son, Curly-Locks, was playing in the sun, and told him to come in and get his face washed. And while she was washing his face, she struck him on the head with a hammer and stunned him, and popped him into the pot to make soup for his father's dinner. By and by the Goodman came in from his work, and the soup was dished up; and he, and his wife, and his little daughter, Golden-Tresses, sat down to sup it. "Where's Curly-Locks?" asked the Goodman. "It's a pity he is not here as long as the soup is hot." "How should I ken?" answered his wife crossly. "I have other work to do than to run about after a mischievous laddie all the morning." The Goodman went on supping his soup in silence for some minutes; then he lifted up a little foot in his spoon. "This is Curly-Locks' foot," he cried in horror. "There hath been ill work here." "Hoots, havers," answered his wife, laughing, pretending to be very much amused. "What should Curly-Locks' foot be doing in the soup? 'Tis the hare's forefoot, which is very like that of a bairn." [Illustration] But presently the Goodman took something else up in his spoon. "This is Curly-Locks' hand," he said shrilly. "I ken it by the crook in its little finger." "The man's demented," retorted his wife, "not to ken the hind foot of a hare when he sees it!" So the poor father did not say any more, but went away out to his work, sorely perplexed in his mind; while his little daughter, Golden-Tresses, who had a shrewd suspicion of what had happened, gathered all the bones from the empty plates, and, carrying them away in her apron, buried them beneath a flat stone, close by a white rose tree that grew by the cottage door. And, lo and behold! those poor bones, which she buried with such care: "Grew and grew, To a milk-white Doo, That took its wings, And away it flew." And at last it lighted on a tuft of grass by a burnside, where two women were washing clothes. It sat there cooing to itself for some time; then it sang this song softly to them: "Pew, pew, My mimmie me slew, My daddy me chew, My sister gathered my banes, And put them between two milk-white stanes. And I grew and grew To a milk-white Doo, And I took to my wings and away I flew." The women stopped washing and looked at one another in astonishment. It was not every day that they came across a bird that could sing a song like that, and they felt that there was something not canny about it. "Sing that song again, my bonnie bird," said one of them at last, "and we'll give thee all these clothes!" So the bird sang its song over again, and the washerwomen gave it all the clothes, and it tucked them under its right wing, and flew on. [Illustration] Presently it came to a house where all the windows were open, and it perched on one of the window-sills, and inside it saw a man counting out a great heap of silver. And, sitting on the window-sill, it sang its song to him: "Pew, pew, My mimmie me slew, My daddy me chew, My sister gathered my banes, And put them between two milk-white stanes. And I grew and grew To a milk-white Doo, And I took to my wings and away I flew." The man stopped counting his silver, and listened. He felt, like the washerwomen, that there was something not canny about this Doo. When it had finished its song, he said: "Sing that song again, my bonnie bird, and I'll give thee a' this siller in a bag." So the Doo sang its song over again, and got the bag of silver, which it tucked under its left wing. Then it flew on. It had not flown very far, however, before it came to a mill where two millers were grinding corn. And it settled down on a sack of meal and sang its song to them. "Pew, pew, My mimmie me slew, My daddy me chew, My sister gathered my banes, And put them between two milk-white stanes. And I grew and grew To a milk-white Doo, And I took to my wings and away I flew." The millers stopped their work, and looked at one another, scratching their heads in amazement. "Sing that song over again, my bonnie bird!" exclaimed both of them together when the Doo had finished, "and we will give thee this millstone." So the Doo repeated its song, and got the millstone, which it asked one of the millers to lift on its back; then it flew out of the mill, and up the valley, leaving the two men staring after it dumb with astonishment. As you may think, the Milk-White Doo had a heavy load to carry, but it went bravely on till it came within sight of its father's cottage, and lighted down at last on the thatched roof. Then it laid its burdens on the thatch, and, flying down to the courtyard, picked up a number of little chuckie stones. With them in its beak it flew back to the roof, and began to throw them down the chimney. By this time it was evening, and the Goodman and his wife, and his little daughter, Golden-Tresses, were sitting round the table eating their supper. And you may be sure that they were all very much startled when the stones came rattling down the chimney, bringing such a cloud of soot with them that they were like to be smothered. They all jumped up from their chairs, and ran outside to see what the matter was. And Golden-Tresses, being the littlest, ran the fastest, and when she came out at the door the Milk-White Doo flung the bundle of clothes down at her feet. And the father came out next, and the Milk-White Doo flung the bag of silver down at his feet. But the wicked step-mother, being somewhat stout came out last, and the Milk-White Doo threw the millstone right down on her head and killed her. Then it spread its wings and flew away, and has never been seen again; but it had made the Goodman and his daughter rich for life, and it had rid them of the cruel step-mother, so that they lived in peace and plenty for the remainder of their days. [Illustration] THE DRAIGLIN' HOGNEY There was once a man who had three sons, and very little money to provide for them. So, when the eldest had grown into a lad, and saw that there was no means of making a livelihood at home, he went to his father and said to him: "Father, if thou wilt give me a horse to ride on, a hound to hunt with, and a hawk to fly, I will go out into the wide world and seek my fortune." His father gave him what he asked for; and he set out on his travels. He rode and he rode, over mountain and glen, until, just at nightfall, he came to a thick, dark wood. He entered it, thinking that he might find a path that would lead him through it; but no path was visible, and after wandering up and down for some time, he was obliged to acknowledge to himself that he was completely lost. There seemed to be nothing for it but to tie his horse to a tree, and make a bed of leaves for himself on the ground; but just as he was about to do so he saw a light glimmering in the distance, and, riding on in the direction in which it was, he soon came to a clearing in the wood, in which stood a magnificent Castle. The windows were all lit up, but the great door was barred; and, after he had ridden up to it, and knocked, and received no answer, the young man raised his hunting horn to his lips and blew a loud blast in the hope of letting the inmates know that he was without. Instantly the door flew open of its own accord, and the young man entered, wondering very much what this strange thing would mean. And he wondered still more when he passed from room to room, and found that, although fires were burning brightly everywhere, and there was a plentiful meal laid out on the table in the great hall, there did not seem to be a single person in the whole of the vast building. However, as he was cold, and tired, and wet, he put his horse in one of the stalls of the enormous stable, and taking his hawk and hound along with him, went into the hall and ate a hearty supper. After which he sat down by the side of the fire, and began to dry his clothes. By this time it had grown late, and he was just thinking of retiring to one of the bedrooms which he had seen upstairs and going to bed, when a clock which was hanging on the wall struck twelve. Instantly the door of the huge apartment opened, and a most awful-looking Draiglin' Hogney entered. His hair was matted and his beard was long, and his eyes shone like stars of fire from under his bushy eyebrows, and in his hands he carried a queerly shaped club. He did not seem at all astonished to see his unbidden guest; but, coming across the hall, he sat down upon the opposite side of the fireplace, and, resting his chin on his hands, gazed fixedly at him. "Doth thy horse ever kick any?" he said at last, in a harsh, rough voice. "Ay, doth he," replied the young man; for the only steed that his father had been able to give him was a wild and unbroken colt. "I have some skill in taming horses," went on the Draiglin' Hogney, "and I will give thee something to tame thine withal. Throw this over him"--and he pulled one of the long, coarse hairs out of his head and gave it to the young man. And there was something so commanding in the Hogney's voice that he did as he was bid, and went out to the stable and threw the hair over the horse. Then he returned to the hall, and sat down again by the fire. The moment that he was seated the Draiglin' Hogney asked another question. "Doth thy hound ever bite any?" "Ay, verily," answered the youth; for his hound was so fierce-tempered that no man, save his master, dare lay a hand on him. "I can cure the wildest tempered dog in Christendom," replied the Draiglin' Hogney. "Take that, and throw it over him." And he pulled another hair out of his head and gave it to the young man, who lost no time in flinging it over his hound. There was still a third question to follow. "Doth ever thy hawk peck any?" The young man laughed. "I have ever to keep a bandage over her eyes, save when she is ready to fly," said he; "else were nothing safe within her reach." "Things will be safe now," said the Hogney, grimly. "Throw that over her." And for the third time he pulled a hair from his head and handed it to his companion. And as the other hairs had been thrown over the horse and the hound, so this one was thrown over the hawk. Then, before the young man could draw breath, the fiercesome Draiglin' Hogney had given him such a clout on the side of his head with his queer-shaped club that he fell down in a heap on the floor. And very soon his hawk and his hound tumbled down still and motionless beside him; and, out in the stable, his horse became stark and stiff, as if turned to stone. For the Draiglin's words had meant more than at first appeared when he said that he could make all unruly animals quiet. Some time afterwards the second of the three sons came to his father in the old home with the same request that his brother had made. That he should be provided with a horse, a hawk, and a hound, and be allowed to go out to seek his fortune. And his father listened to him, and gave him what he asked, as he had given his brother. [Illustration: So he set out on his Quest] And the young man set out, and in due time came to the wood, and lost himself in it, just as his brother had done; then he saw the light, and came to the Castle, and went in, and had supper, and dried his clothes, just as it all had happened before. And the Draiglin' Hogney came in, and asked him the three questions, and he gave the same three answers, and received three hairs--one to throw over his horse, one to throw over his hound, and one to throw over his hawk; then the Hogney killed him, just as he had killed his brother. Time passed, and the youngest son, finding that his two elder brothers never returned, asked his father for a horse, a hawk, and a hound, in order that he might go and look for them. And the poor old man, who was feeling very desolate in his old age, gladly gave them to him. So he set out on his quest, and at nightfall he came, as the others had done, to the thick wood and the Castle. But, being a wise and cautious youth, he liked not the way in which he found things. He liked not the empty house; he liked not the spread-out feast; and, most of all, he liked not the look of the Draiglin' Hogney when he saw him. And he determined to be very careful what he said or did as long as he was in his company. So when the Draiglin' Hogney asked him if his horse kicked, he replied that it did, in very few words; and when he got one of the Hogney's hairs to throw over him, he went out to the stable, and pretended to do so, but he brought it back, hidden in his hand, and, when his unchancy companion was not looking, he threw it into the fire. It fizzled up like a tongue of flame with a little hissing sound like that of a serpent. "What's that fizzling?" asked the Giant suspiciously. "'Tis but the sap of the green wood," replied the young man carelessly, as he turned to caress his hound. The answer satisfied the Draiglin' Hogney, and he paid no heed to the sound which the hair that should have been thrown over the hound, or the sound which the hair that should have been thrown over the hawk, made, when the young man threw them into the fire; and they fizzled up in the same way that the first had done. Then, thinking that he had the stranger in his power, he whisked across the hearthstone to strike him with his club, as he had struck his brothers; but the young man was on the outlook, and when he saw him coming he gave a shrill whistle. And his horse, which loved him dearly, came galloping in from the stable, and his hound sprang up from the hearthstone where he had been sleeping; and his hawk, who was sitting on his shoulder, ruffled up her feathers and screamed harshly; and they all fell on the Draiglin' Hogney at once, and he found out only too well how the horse kicked, and the hound bit, and the hawk pecked; for they kicked him, and bit him, and pecked him, till he was as dead as a door nail. When the young man saw that he was dead, he took his little club from his hand, and, armed with that, he set out to explore the Castle. As he expected, he found that there were dark and dreary dungeons under it, and in one of them he found his two brothers, lying cold and stiff side by side. He touched them with the club, and instantly they came to life again, and sprang to their feet as well as ever. Then he went into another dungeon; and there were the two horses, and the two hawks, and the two hounds, lying as if dead, exactly as their Masters had lain. He touched them with his magic club, and they, too, came to life again. Then he called to his two brothers, and the three young men searched the other dungeons, and they found great stores of gold and silver hidden in them, enough to make them rich for life. So they buried the Draiglin' Hogney, and took possession of the Castle; and two of them went home and brought their old father back with them, and they all were as prosperous and happy as they could be; and, for aught that I know, they are living there still. THE BROWNIE O' FERNE-DEN There have been many Brownies known in Scotland; and stories have been written about the Brownie o' Bodsbeck and the Brownie o' Blednock, but about neither of them has a prettier story been told than that which I am going to tell you about the Brownie o' Ferne-Den. Now, Ferne-Den was a farmhouse, which got its name from the glen, or "den," on the edge of which it stood, and through which anyone who wished to reach the dwelling had to pass. And this glen was believed to be the abode of a Brownie, who never appeared to anyone in the daytime, but who, it was said, was sometimes seen at night, stealing about, like an ungainly shadow, from tree to tree, trying to keep from observation, and never, by any chance, harming anybody. Indeed, like all Brownies that are properly treated and let alone, so far was he from harming anybody that he was always on the look-out to do a good turn to those who needed his assistance. The farmer often said that he did not know what he would do without him; for if there was any work to be finished in a hurry at the farm--corn to thrash, or winnow, or tie up into bags, turnips to cut, clothes to wash, a kirn to be kirned, a garden to be weeded--all that the farmer and his wife had to do was to leave the door of the barn, or the turnip shed, or the milk house open when they went to bed, and put down a bowl of new milk on the doorstep for the Brownie's supper, and when they woke the next morning the bowl would be empty, and the job finished better than if it had been done by mortal hands. In spite of all this, however, which might have proved to them how gentle and kindly the Creature really was, everyone about the place was afraid of him, and would rather go a couple of miles round about in the dark, when they were coming home from Kirk or Market, than pass through the glen, and run the risk of catching a glimpse of him. I said that they were all afraid of him, but that was not true, for the farmer's wife was so good and gentle that she was not afraid of anything on God's earth, and when the Brownie's supper had to be left outside, she always filled his bowl with the richest milk, and added a good spoonful of cream to it, for, said she, "He works so hard for us, and asks no wages, he well deserves the very best meal that we can give him." One night this gentle lady was taken very ill, and everyone was afraid that she was going to die. Of course, her husband was greatly distressed, and so were her servants, for she had been such a good Mistress to them that they loved her as if she had been their mother. But they were all young, and none of them knew very much about illness, and everyone agreed that it would be better to send off for an old woman who lived about seven miles away on the other side of the river, who was known to be a very skilful nurse. But who was to go? That was the question. For it was black midnight, and the way to the old woman's house lay straight through the glen. And whoever travelled that road ran the risk of meeting the dreaded Brownie. The farmer would have gone only too willingly, but he dare not leave his wife alone; and the servants stood in groups about the kitchen, each one telling the other that he ought to go, yet no one offering to go themselves. Little did they think that the cause of all their terror, a queer, wee, misshapen little man, all covered with hair, with a long beard, red-rimmed eyes, broad, flat feet, just like the feet of a paddock, and enormous long arms that touched the ground, even when he stood upright, was within a yard or two of them, listening to their talk, with an anxious face, behind the kitchen door. For he had come up as usual, from his hiding-place in the glen, to see if there were any work for him to do, and to look for his bowl of milk. And he had seen, from the open door and lit-up windows, that there was something wrong inside the farmhouse, which at that hour was wont to be dark, and still, and silent; and he had crept into the entry to try and find out what the matter was. When he gathered from the servants' talk that the Mistress, whom he loved so dearly, and who had been so kind to him, was ill, his heart sank within him; and when he heard that the silly servants were so taken up with their own fears that they dared not set out to fetch a nurse for her, his contempt and anger knew no bounds. "Fools, idiots, dolts!" he muttered to himself, stamping his queer, misshapen feet on the floor. "They speak as if a body were ready to take a bite off them as soon as ever he met them. If they only knew the bother it gives me to keep out of their road they wouldna be so silly. But, by my troth, if they go on like this, the bonnie lady will die amongst their fingers. So it strikes me that Brownie must e'en gang himself." So saying, he reached up his hand, and took down a dark cloak which belonged to the farmer, which was hanging on a peg on the wall, and, throwing it over his head and shoulders, or as somewhat to hide his ungainly form, he hurried away to the stable, and saddled and bridled the fleetest-footed horse that stood there. When the last buckle was fastened, he led it to the door and scrambled on its back. "Now, if ever thou travelledst fleetly, travel fleetly now," he said; and it was as if the creature understood him, for it gave a little whinny and pricked up its ears; then it darted out into the darkness like an arrow from the bow. In less time than the distance had ever been ridden in before, the Brownie drew rein at the old woman's cottage. She was in bed, fast asleep; but he rapped sharply on the window, and when she rose and put her old face, framed in its white mutch, close to the pane to ask who was there, he bent forward and told her his errand. "Thou must come with me, Goodwife, and that quickly," he commanded, in his deep, harsh voice, "if the Lady of Ferne-Den's life is to be saved; for there is no one to nurse her up-bye at the farm there, save a lot of empty-headed servant wenches." "But how am I to get there? Have they sent a cart for me?" asked the old woman anxiously; for, as far as she could see, there was nothing at the door save a horse and its rider. "No, they have sent no cart," replied the Brownie, shortly. "So you must just climb up behind me on the saddle, and hang on tight to my waist, and I'll promise to land ye at Ferne-Den safe and sound." His voice was so masterful that the old woman dare not refuse to do as she was bid; besides, she had often ridden pillion-wise when she was a lassie, so she made haste to dress herself, and when she was ready she unlocked her door, and, mounting the louping-on stane that stood beside it, she was soon seated behind the dark-cloaked stranger, with her arms clasped tightly round him. Not a word was spoken till they approached the dreaded glen, then the old woman felt her courage giving way. "Do ye think that there will be any chance of meeting the Brownie?" she asked timidly. "I would fain not run the risk, for folk say that he is an unchancy creature." [Illustration] Her companion gave a curious laugh. "Keep up your heart, and dinna talk havers," he said, "for I promise ye ye'll see naught uglier this night than the man whom ye ride behind." "Oh, then, I'm fine and safe," replied the old woman, with a sigh of relief; "for although I havena' seen your face, I warrant that ye are a true man, for the care you have taken of a poor old woman." She relapsed into silence again till the glen was passed and the good horse had turned into the farmyard. Then the horseman slid to the ground, and, turning round, lifted her carefully down in his long, strong arms. As he did so the cloak slipped off him, revealing his short, broad body and his misshapen limbs. "In a' the world, what kind o' man are ye?" she asked, peering into his face in the grey morning light, which was just dawning. "What makes your eyes so big? And what have ye done to your feet? They are more like paddock's webs than aught else." The queer little man laughed again. "I've wandered many a mile in my time without a horse to help me, and I've heard it said that ower much walking makes the feet unshapely," he replied. "But waste no time in talking, good Dame. Go thy way into the house; and, hark'ee, if anyone asks thee who brought thee hither so quickly, tell them that there was a lack of men, so thou hadst e'en to be content to ride behind the BROWNIE O' FERNE-DEN." THE WITCH OF FIFE In the Kingdom of Fife, in the days of long ago, there lived an old man and his wife. The old man was a douce, quiet body, but the old woman was lightsome and flighty, and some of the neighbours were wont to look at her askance, and whisper to each other that they sorely feared that she was a Witch. And her husband was afraid of it, too, for she had a curious habit of disappearing in the gloaming and staying out all night; and when she returned in the morning she looked quite white and tired, as if she had been travelling far, or working hard. He used to try and watch her carefully, in order to find out where she went, or what she did, but he never managed to do so, for she always slipped out of the door when he was not looking, and before he could reach it to follow her, she had vanished utterly. At last, one day, when he could stand the uncertainty no longer, he asked her to tell him straight out whether she were a Witch or no. And his blood ran cold when, without the slightest hesitation, she answered that she was; and if he would promise not to let anyone know, the next time that she went on one of her midnight expeditions she would tell him all about it. The Goodman promised; for it seemed to him just as well that he should know all about his wife's cantrips. He had not long to wait before he heard of them. For the very next week the moon was new, which is, as everybody knows, the time of all others when Witches like to stir abroad; and on the first night of the new moon his wife vanished. Nor did she return till daybreak next morning. And when he asked her where she had been, she told him, in great glee, how she and four like-minded companions had met at the old Kirk on the moor and had mounted branches of the green bay tree and stalks of hemlock, which had instantly changed into horses, and how they had ridden, swift as the wind, over the country, hunting the foxes, and the weasels, and the owls; and how at last they had swam the Forth and come to the top of Bell Lomond. And how there they had dismounted from their horses, and drunk beer that had been brewed in no earthly brewery, out of horn cups that had been fashioned by no mortal hands. And how, after that, a wee, wee man had jumped up from under a great mossy stone, with a tiny set of bagpipes under his arm, and how he had piped such wonderful music, that, at the sound of it, the very trouts jumped out of the Loch below, and the stoats crept out of their holes, and the corby crows and the herons came and sat on the trees in the darkness, to listen. And how all the Witches danced until they were so weary that, when the time came for them to mount their steeds again, if they would be home before cock-crow, they could scarce sit on them for fatigue. [Illustration: Ridden and Ridden--Till they Reached the land of the Lapps] The Goodman listened to this long story in silence, shaking his head meanwhile, and, when it was finished, all that he answered was: "And what the better are ye for all your dancing? Ye'd have been a deal more comfortable at home." At the next new moon the old wife went off again for the night; and when she returned in the morning she told her husband how, on this occasion, she and her friends had taken cockle-shells for boats, and had sailed away over the stormy sea till they reached Norway. And there they had mounted invisible horses of wind, and had ridden and ridden, over mountains and glens, and glaciers, till they reached the land of the Lapps lying under its mantle of snow. And here all the Elves, and Fairies, and Mermaids of the North were holding festival with Warlocks, and Brownies, and Pixies, and even the Phantom Hunters themselves, who are never looked upon by mortal eyes. And the Witches from Fife held festival with them, and danced, and feasted, and sang with them, and, what was of more consequence, they learned from them certain wonderful words, which, when they uttered them, would bear them through the air, and would undo all bolts and bars, and so gain them admittance to any place soever where they wanted to be. And after that they had come home again, delighted with the knowledge which they had acquired. "What took ye to siccan a land as that?" asked the old man, with a contemptuous grunt. "Ye would hae been a sight warmer in your bed." But when his wife returned from her next adventure, he showed a little more interest in her doings. For she told him how she and her friends had met in the cottage of one of their number, and how, having heard that the Lord Bishop of Carlisle had some very rare wine in his cellar, they had placed their feet on the crook from which the pot hung, and had pronounced the magic words which they had learned from the Elves of Lappland. And, lo and behold! they flew up the chimney like whiffs of smoke, and sailed through the air like little wreathes of cloud, and in less time than it takes to tell they landed at the Bishop's Palace at Carlisle. And the bolts and the bars flew loose before them, and they went down to his cellar and sampled his wine, and were back in Fife, fine, sober, old women by cock-crow. When he heard this, the old man started from his chair in right earnest, for he loved good wine above all things, and it was but seldom that it came his way. "By my troth, but thou art a wife to be proud of!" he cried. "Tell me the words, Woman! and I will e'en go and sample his Lordship's wine for myself." But the Goodwife shook her head. "Na, na! I cannot do that," she said, "for if I did, an' ye telled it over again, 'twould turn the whole world upside down. For everybody would be leaving their own lawful work, and flying about the world after other folk's business and other folk's dainties. So just bide content, Goodman. Ye get on fine with the knowledge ye already possess." And although the old man tried to persuade her with all the soft words he could think of, she would not tell him her secret. But he was a sly old man, and the thought of the Bishop's wine gave him no rest. So night after night he went and hid in the old woman's cottage, in the hope that his wife and her friends would meet there; and although for a long time it was all in vain, at last his trouble was rewarded. For one evening the whole five old women assembled, and in low tones and with chuckles of laughter they recounted all that had befallen them in Lappland. Then, running to the fireplace, they, one after another, climbed on a chair and put their feet on the sooty crook. Then they repeated the magic words, and, hey, presto! they were up the lum and away before the old man could draw his breath. "I can do that, too," he said to himself; and he crawled out of his hiding-place and ran to the fire. He put his foot on the crook and repeated the words, and up the chimney he went, and flew through the air after his wife and her companions, as if he had been a Warlock born. And, as Witches are not in the habit of looking over their shoulders, they never noticed that he was following them, until they reached the Bishop's Palace and went down into his cellar, then, when they found that he was among them, they were not too well pleased. However, there was no help for it, and they settled down to enjoy themselves. They tapped this cask of wine, and they tapped that, drinking a little of each, but not too much; for they were cautious old women, and they knew that if they wanted to get home before cock-crow it behoved them to keep their heads clear. But the old man was not so wise, for he sipped, and he sipped, until at last he became quite drowsy, and lay down on the floor and fell fast asleep. And his wife, seeing this, thought that she would teach him a lesson not to be so curious in the future. So, when she and her four friends thought that it was time to be gone, she departed without waking him. He slept peacefully for some hours, until two of the Bishop's servants, coming down to the cellar to draw wine for their Master's table, almost fell over him in the darkness. Greatly astonished at his presence there, for the cellar door was fast locked, they dragged him up to the light and shook him, and cuffed him, and asked him how he came to be there. And the poor old man was so confused at being awakened in this rough way, and his head seemed to whirl round so fast, that all he could stammer out was, "that he came from Fife, and that he had travelled on the midnight wind." As soon as they heard that, the men servants cried out that he was a Warlock, and they dragged him before the Bishop, and, as Bishops in those days had a holy horror of Warlocks and Witches, he ordered him to be burned alive. When the sentence was pronounced, you may be very sure that the poor old man wished with all his heart that he had stayed quietly at home in bed, and never hankered after the Bishop's wine. But it was too late to wish that now, for the servants dragged him out into the courtyard, and put a chain round his waist, and fastened it to a great iron stake, and they piled faggots of wood round his feet and set them alight. As the first tiny little tongue of flame crept up, the poor old man thought that his last hour had come. But when he thought that, he forgot completely that his wife was a Witch. [Illustration: His chains fell off, and he mounted in the air,--up and up--] For, just as the little tongue of flame began to singe his breeches, there was a swish and a flutter in the air, and a great Grey Bird, with outstretched wings, appeared in the sky, and swooped down suddenly, and perched for a moment on the old man's shoulder. And in this Grey Bird's mouth was a little red pirnie, which, to everyone's amazement, it popped on to the prisoner's head. Then it gave one fierce croak, and flew away again, but to the old man's ears that croak was the sweetest music that he had ever heard. For to him it was the croak of no earthly bird, but the voice of his wife whispering words of magic to him. And when he heard them he jumped for joy, for he knew that they were words of deliverance, and he shouted them aloud, and his chains fell off, and he mounted in the air--up and up--while the onlookers watched him in awestruck silence. He flew right away to the Kingdom of Fife, without as much as saying good-bye to them; and when he found himself once more safely at home, you may be very sure that he never tried to find out his wife's secrets again, but left her alone to her own devices. ASSIPATTLE AND THE MESTER STOORWORM In far bygone days, in the North, there lived a well-to-do farmer, who had seven sons and one daughter. And the youngest of these seven sons bore a very curious name; for men called him Assipattle, which means, "He who grovels among the ashes." Perhaps Assipattle deserved his name, for he was rather a lazy boy, who never did any work on the farm as his brothers did, but ran about the doors with ragged clothes and unkempt hair, and whose mind was ever filled with wondrous stories of Trolls and Giants, Elves and Goblins. When the sun was hot in the long summer afternoons, when the bees droned drowsily and even the tiny insects seemed almost asleep, the boy was content to throw himself down on the ash-heap amongst the ashes, and lie there, lazily letting them run through his fingers, as one might play with sand on the sea-shore, basking in the sunshine and telling stories to himself. And his brothers, working hard in the fields, would point to him with mocking fingers, and laugh, and say to each other how well the name suited him, and of how little use he was in the world. And when they came home from their work, they would push him about and tease him, and even his mother would make him sweep the floor, and draw water from the well, and fetch peats from the peat-stack, and do all the little odd jobs that nobody else would do. So poor Assipattle had rather a hard life of it, and he would often have been very miserable had it not been for his sister, who loved him dearly, and who would listen quite patiently to all the stories that he had to tell; who never laughed at him or told him that he was telling lies, as his brothers did. But one day a very sad thing happened--at least, it was a sad thing for poor Assipattle. For it chanced that the King of these parts had one only daughter, the Princess Gemdelovely, whom he loved dearly, and to whom he denied nothing. And Princess Gemdelovely was in want of a waiting-maid, and as she had seen Assipattle's sister standing by the garden gate as she was riding by one day, and had taken a fancy to her, she asked her father if she might ask her to come and live at the Castle and serve her. Her father agreed at once, as he always did agree to any of her wishes; and sent a messenger in haste to the farmer's house to ask if his daughter would come to the Castle to be the Princess's waiting-maid. And, of course, the farmer was very pleased at the piece of good fortune which had befallen the girl, and so was her mother, and so were her six brothers, all except poor Assipattle, who looked with wistful eyes after his sister as she rode away, proud of her new clothes and of the rivlins which her father had made her out of cowhide, which she was to wear in the Palace when she waited on the Princess, for at home she always ran barefoot. Time passed, and one day a rider rode in hot haste through the country bearing the most terrible tidings. For the evening before, some fishermen, out in their boats, had caught sight of the Mester Stoorworm, which, as everyone knows, was the largest, and the first, and the greatest of all Sea-Serpents. It was that beast which, in the Good Book, is called the Leviathan, and if it had been measured in our day, its tail would have touched Iceland, while its snout rested on the North Cape. And the fishermen had noticed that this fearsome Monster had its head turned towards the mainland, and that it opened its mouth and yawned horribly, as if to show that it was hungry, and that, if it were not fed, it would kill every living thing upon the land, both man and beast, bird and creeping thing. For 'twas well known that its breath was so poisonous that it consumed as with a burning fire everything that it lighted on. So that, if it pleased the awful creature to lift its head and put forth its breath, like noxious vapour, over the country, in a few weeks the fair land would be turned into a region of desolation. As you may imagine, everyone was almost paralysed with terror at this awful calamity which threatened them; and the King called a solemn meeting of all his Counsellors, and asked them if they could devise any way of warding off the danger. And for three whole days they sat in Council, these grave, bearded men, and many were the suggestions which were made, and many the words of wisdom which were spoken; but, alas! no one was wise enough to think of a way by which the Mester Stoorworm might be driven back. At last, at the end of the third day, when everyone had given up hope of finding a remedy, the door of the Council Chamber opened and the Queen appeared. Now the Queen was the King's second wife, and she was not a favourite in the Kingdom, for she was a proud, insolent woman, who did not behave kindly to her step-daughter, the Princess Gemdelovely, and who spent much more of her time in the company of a great Sorcerer, whom everyone feared and dreaded, than she did in that of the King, her husband. So the sober Counsellors looked at her disapprovingly as she came boldly into the Council Chamber and stood up beside the King's Chair of State, and, speaking in a loud, clear voice, addressed them thus: "Ye think that ye are brave men and strong, oh, ye Elders, and fit to be the Protectors of the People. And so it may be, when it is mortals that ye are called on to face. But ye be no match for the foe that now threatens our land. Before him your weapons be but as straw. 'Tis not through strength of arm, but through sorcery, that he will be overcome. So listen to my words, even though they be but those of a woman, and take counsel with the great Sorcerer, from whom nothing is hid, but who knoweth all the mysteries of the earth, and of the air, and of the sea." Now the King and his Counsellors liked not this advice, for they hated the Sorcerer, who had, as they thought, too much influence with the Queen; but they were at their wits' end, and knew not to whom to turn for help, so they were fain to do as she said and summon the Wizard before them. And when he obeyed the summons and appeared in their midst, they liked him none the better for his looks. For he was long, and thin, and awesome, with a beard that came down to his knee, and hair that wrapped him about like a mantle, and his face was the colour of mortar, as if he had always lived in darkness, and had been afraid to look on the sun. But there was no help to be found in any other man, so they laid the case before him, and asked him what they should do. And he answered coldly that he would think over the matter, and come again to the Assembly the following day and give them his advice. And his advice, when they heard it, was like to turn their hair white with horror. For he said that the only way to satisfy the Monster, and to make it spare the land, was to feed it every Saturday with seven young maidens, who must be the fairest who could be found; and if, after this remedy had been tried once or twice, it did not succeed in mollifying the Stoorworm and inducing him to depart, there was but one other measure that he could suggest, but that was so horrible and dreadful that he would not rend their hearts by mentioning it in the meantime. And as, although they hated him, they feared him also, the Council had e'en to abide by his words, and pronounced the awful doom. And so it came about that, every Saturday, seven bonnie, innocent maidens were bound hand and foot and laid on a rock which ran into the sea, and the Monster stretched out his long, jagged tongue, and swept them into his mouth; while all the rest of the folk looked on from the top of a high hill--or, at least, the men looked--with cold, set faces, while the women hid theirs in their aprons and wept aloud. "Is there no other way," they cried, "no other way than this, to save the land?" But the men only groaned and shook their heads. "No other way," they answered; "no other way." Then suddenly a boy's indignant voice rang out among the crowd. "Is there no grown man who would fight that Monster, and kill him, and save the lassies alive? I would do it; I am not feared for the Mester Stoorworm." It was the boy Assipattle who spoke, and everyone looked at him in amazement as he stood staring at the great Sea-Serpent, his fingers twitching with rage, and his great blue eyes glowing with pity and indignation. "The poor bairn's mad; the sight hath turned his head," they whispered one to another; and they would have crowded round him to pet and comfort him, but his elder brother came and gave him a heavy clout on the side of his head. "Thou fight the Stoorworm!" he cried contemptuously. "A likely story! Go home to thy ash-pit, and stop speaking havers;" and, taking his arm, he drew him to the place where his other brothers were waiting, and they all went home together. But all the time Assipattle kept on saying that he meant to kill the Stoorworm; and at last his brothers became so angry at what they thought was mere bragging, that they picked up stones and pelted him so hard with them that at last he took to his heels and ran away from them. That evening the six brothers were threshing corn in the barn, and Assipattle, as usual, was lying among the ashes thinking his own thoughts, when his mother came out and bade him run and tell the others to come in for their supper. The boy did as he was bid, for he was a willing enough little fellow; but when he entered the barn his brothers, in revenge for his having run away from them in the afternoon, set on him and pulled him down, and piled so much straw on top of him that, had his father not come from the house to see what they were all waiting for, he would, of a surety, have been smothered. But when, at supper-time, his mother was quarrelling with the other lads for what they had done, and saying to them that it was only cowards who set on bairns littler and younger than themselves, Assipattle looked up from the bicker of porridge which he was supping. "Vex not thyself, Mother," he said, "for I could have fought them all if I liked; ay, and beaten them, too." "Why didst thou not essay it then?" cried everybody at once. "Because I knew that I would need all my strength when I go to fight the Giant Stoorworm," replied Assipattle gravely. And, as you may fancy, the others laughed louder than before. Time passed, and every Saturday seven lassies were thrown to the Stoorworm, until at last it was felt that this state of things could not be allowed to go on any longer; for if it did, there would soon be no maidens at all left in the country. So the Elders met once more, and, after long consultation, it was agreed that the Sorcerer should be summoned, and asked what his other remedy was. "For, by our troth," said they, "it cannot be worse than that which we are practising now." But, had they known it, the new remedy was even more dreadful than the old. For the cruel Queen hated her step-daughter, Gemdelovely, and the wicked Sorcerer knew that she did, and that she would not be sorry to get rid of her, and, things being as they were, he thought that he saw a way to please the Queen. So he stood up in the Council, and, pretending to be very sorry, said that the only other thing that could be done was to give the Princess Gemdelovely to the Stoorworm, then would it of a surety depart. When they heard this sentence a terrible stillness fell upon the Council, and everyone covered his face with his hands, for no man dare look at the King. But although his dear daughter was as the apple of his eye, he was a just and righteous Monarch, and he felt that it was not right that other fathers should have been forced to part with their daughters, in order to try and save the country, if his child was to be spared. So, after he had had speech with the Princess, he stood up before the Elders, and declared, with trembling voice, that both he and she were ready to make the sacrifice. "She is my only child," he said, "and the last of her race. Yet it seemeth good to both of us that she should lay down her life, if by so doing she may save the land that she loves so well." Salt tears ran down the faces of the great bearded men as they heard their King's words, for they all knew how dear the Princess Gemdelovely was to him. But it was felt that what he said was wise and true, and that the thing was just and right; for 'twere better, surely, that one maiden should die, even although she were of Royal blood, than that bands of other maidens should go to their death week by week, and all to no purpose. So, amid heavy sobs, the aged Lawman--he who was the chief man of the Council--rose up to pronounce the Princess's doom. But, ere he did so, the King's Kemper--or Fighting-man--stepped forward. "Nature teaches us that it is fitting that each beast hath a tail," he said; "and this Doom, which our Lawman is about to pronounce, is in very sooth a venomous beast. And, if I had my way, the tail which it would bear after it is this, that if the Mester Stoorworm doth not depart, and that right speedily, after he have devoured the Princess, the next thing that is offered to him be no tender young maiden, but that tough, lean old Sorcerer." And at his words there was such a great shout of approval that the wicked Sorcerer seemed to shrink within himself, and his pale face grew paler than it was before. Now, three weeks were allowed between the time that the Doom was pronounced upon the Princess and the time that it was carried out, so that the King might send Ambassadors to all the neighbouring Kingdoms to issue proclamations that, if any Champion would come forward who was able to drive away the Stoorworm and save the Princess, he should have her for his wife. And with her he should have the Kingdom, as well as a very famous sword that was now in the King's possession, but which had belonged to the great god Odin, with which he had fought and vanquished all his foes. The sword bore the name of Sickersnapper, and no man had any power against it. The news of all these things spread over the length and breadth of the land, and everyone mourned for the fate that was like to befall the Princess Gemdelovely. And the farmer, and his wife, and their six sons mourned also;--all but Assipattle, who sat amongst the ashes and said nothing. When the King's Proclamation was made known throughout the neighbouring Kingdoms, there was a fine stir among all the young Gallants, for it seemed but a little thing to slay a Sea-Monster; and a beautiful wife, a fertile Kingdom, and a trusty sword are not to be won every day. So six-and-thirty Champions arrived at the King's Palace, each hoping to gain the prize. But the King sent them all out to look at the Giant Stoorworm lying in the sea with its enormous mouth open, and when they saw it, twelve of them were seized with sudden illness, and twelve of them were so afraid that they took to their heels and ran, and never stopped till they reached their own countries; and so only twelve returned to the King's Palace, and as for them, they were so downcast at the thought of the task that they had undertaken that they had no spirit left in them at all. And none of them dare try to kill the Stoorworm; so the three weeks passed slowly by, until the night before the day on which the Princess was to be sacrificed. On that night the King, feeling that he must do something to entertain his guests, made a great supper for them. But, as you may think, it was a dreary feast, for everyone was thinking so much about the terrible thing that was to happen on the morrow, that no one could eat or drink. And when it was all over, and everybody had retired to rest, save the King and his old Kemperman, the King returned to the great hall, and went slowly up to his Chair of State, high up on the dais. It was not like the Chairs of State that we know nowadays; it was nothing but a massive Kist, in which he kept all the things which he treasured most. The old Monarch undid the iron bolts with trembling fingers, and lifted the lid, and took out the wondrous sword Sickersnapper, which had belonged to the great god Odin. His trusty Kemperman, who had stood by him in a hundred fights, watched him with pitying eyes. "Why lift ye out the sword," he said softly, "when thy fighting days are done? Right nobly hast thou fought thy battles in the past, oh, my Lord! when thine arm was strong and sure. But when folk's years number four score and sixteen, as thine do, 'tis time to leave such work to other and younger men." The old King turned on him angrily, with something of the old fire in his eyes. "Wheest," he cried, "else will I turn this sword on thee. Dost thou think that I can see my only bairn devoured by a Monster, and not lift a finger to try and save her when no other man will? I tell thee--and I will swear it with my two thumbs crossed on Sickersnapper--that both the sword and I will be destroyed before so much as one of her hairs be touched. So go, an' thou love me, my old comrade, and order my boat to be ready, with the sail set and the prow pointed out to sea. I will go myself and fight the Stoorworm; and if I do not return, I will lay it on thee to guard my cherished daughter. Peradventure, my life may redeem hers." Now that night everybody at the farm went to bed betimes, for next morning the whole family was to set out early, to go to the top of the hill near the sea, to see the Princess eaten by the Stoorworm. All except Assipattle, who was to be left at home to herd the geese. The lad was so vexed at this--for he had great schemes in his head--that he could not sleep. And as he lay tossing and tumbling about in his corner among the ashes, he heard his father and mother talking in the great box-bed. And, as he listened, he found that they were having an argument. "'Tis such a long way to the hill overlooking the sea, I fear me I shall never walk it," said his mother. "I think I had better bide at home." "Nay," replied her husband, "that would be a bonny-like thing, when all the country-side is to be there. Thou shalt ride behind me on my good mare Go-Swift." "I do not care to trouble thee to take me behind thee," said his wife, "for methinks thou dost not love me as thou wert wont to do." "The woman's havering," cried the Goodman of the house impatiently. "What makes thee think that I have ceased to love thee?" "Because thou wilt no longer tell me thy secrets," answered his wife. "To go no further, think of this very horse, Go-Swift. For five long years I have been begging thee to tell me how it is that, when thou ridest her, she flies faster than the wind, while if any other man mount her, she hirples along like a broken-down nag." The Goodman laughed. "'Twas not for lack of love, Goodwife," he said, "though it might be lack of trust. For women's tongues wag but loosely; and I did not want other folk to ken my secret. But since my silence hath vexed thy heart, I will e'en tell it thee. "When I want Go-Swift to stand, I give her one clap on the left shoulder. When I would have her go like any other horse, I give her two claps on the right. But when I want her to fly like the wind, I whistle through the windpipe of a goose. And, as I never ken when I want her to gallop like that, I aye keep the bird's thrapple in the left-hand pocket of my coat." "So that is how thou managest the beast," said the farmer's wife, in a satisfied tone; "and that is what becomes of all my goose thrapples. Oh! but thou art a clever fellow, Goodman; and now that I ken the way of it I may go to sleep." Assipattle was not tumbling about in the ashes now; he was sitting up in the darkness, with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes. His opportunity had come at last, and he knew it. He waited patiently till their heavy breathing told him that his parents were asleep; then he crept over to where his father's clothes were, and took the goose's windpipe out of the pocket of his coat, and slipped noiselessly out of the house. Once he was out of it, he ran like lightning to the stable. He saddled and bridled Go-Swift, and threw a halter round her neck, and led her to the stable door. The good mare, unaccustomed to her new groom, pranced, and reared, and plunged; but Assipattle, knowing his father's secret, clapped her once on the left shoulder, and she stood as still as a stone. Then he mounted her, and gave her two claps on the right shoulder, and the good horse trotted off briskly, giving a loud neigh as she did so. The unwonted sound, ringing out in the stillness of the night, roused the household, and the Goodman and his six sons came tumbling down the wooden stairs, shouting to one another in confusion that someone was stealing Go-Swift. The farmer was the first to reach the door; and when he saw, in the starlight, the vanishing form of his favourite steed, he cried at the top of his voice: "Stop thief, ho! Go-Swift, whoa!" And when Go-Swift heard that she pulled up in a moment. All seemed lost, for the farmer and his sons could run very fast indeed, and it seemed to Assipattle, sitting motionless on Go-Swift's back, that they would very soon make up on him. But, luckily, he remembered the goose's thrapple, and he pulled it out of his pocket and whistled through it. In an instant the good mare bounded forward, swift as the wind, and was over the hill and out of reach of its pursuers before they had taken ten steps more. Day was dawning when the lad came within sight of the sea; and there, in front of him, in the water, lay the enormous Monster whom he had come so far to slay. Anyone would have said that he was mad even to dream of making such an attempt, for he was but a slim, unarmed youth, and the Mester Stoorworm was so big that men said it would reach the fourth part round the world. And its tongue was jagged at the end like a fork, and with this fork it could sweep whatever it chose into its mouth, and devour it at its leisure. For all this, Assipattle was not afraid, for he had the heart of a hero underneath his tattered garments. "I must be cautious," he said to himself, "and do by my wits what I cannot do by my strength." He climbed down from his seat on Go-Swift's back, and tethered the good steed to a tree, and walked on, looking well about him, till he came to a little cottage on the edge of a wood. The door was not locked, so he entered, and found its occupant, an old woman, fast asleep in bed. He did not disturb her, but he took down an iron pot from the shelf, and examined it closely. "This will serve my purpose," he said; "and surely the old dame would not grudge it if she knew 'twas to save the Princess's life." Then he lifted a live peat from the smouldering fire, and went his way. Down at the water's edge he found the King's boat lying, guarded by a single boatman, with its sails set and its prow turned in the direction of the Mester Stoorworm. "It's a cold morning," said Assipattle. "Art thou not well-nigh frozen sitting there? If thou wilt come on shore, and run about, and warm thyself, I will get into the boat and guard it till thou returnest." "A likely story," replied the man. "And what would the King say if he were to come, as I expect every moment he will do, and find me playing myself on the sand, and his good boat left to a smatchet like thee? 'Twould be as much as my head is worth." "As thou wilt," answered Assipattle carelessly, beginning to search among the rocks. "In the meantime, I must be looking for a wheen mussels to roast for my breakfast." And after he had gathered the mussels, he began to make a hole in the sand to put the live peat in. The boatman watched him curiously, for he, too, was beginning to feel hungry. Presently the lad gave a wild shriek, and jumped high in the air. "Gold, gold!" he cried. "By the name of Thor, who would have looked to find gold here?" This was too much for the boatman. Forgetting all about his head and the King, he jumped out of the boat, and, pushing Assipattle aside, began to scrape among the sand with all his might. [Illustration: Assipattle, sailing slowly over the sea] While he was doing so, Assipattle seized his pot, jumped into the boat, pushed her off, and was half a mile out to sea before the outwitted man, who, needless to say, could find no gold, noticed what he was about. And, of course, he was very angry, and the old King was more angry still when he came down to the shore, attended by his Nobles and carrying the great sword Sickersnapper, in the vain hope that he, poor feeble old man that he was, might be able in some way to defeat the Monster and save his daughter. But to make such an attempt was beyond his power now that his boat was gone. So he could only stand on the shore, along with the fast assembling crowd of his subjects, and watch what would befall. And this was what befell! Assipattle, sailing slowly over the sea, and watching the Mester Stoorworm intently, noticed that the terrible Monster yawned occasionally, as if longing for his weekly feast. And as it yawned a great flood of sea-water went down its throat, and came out again at its huge gills. So the brave lad took down his sail, and pointed the prow of his boat straight at the Monster's mouth, and the next time it yawned he and his boat were sucked right in, and, like Jonah, went straight down its throat into the dark regions inside its body. On and on the boat floated; but as it went the water grew less, pouring out of the Stoorworm's gills, till at last it stuck, as it were, on dry land. And Assipattle jumped out, his pot in his hand, and began to explore. Presently he came to the huge creature's liver, and having heard that the liver of a fish is full of oil, he made a hole in it and put in the live peat. Woe's me! but there was a conflagration! And Assipattle just got back to his boat in time; for the Mester Stoorworm, in its convulsions, threw the boat right out of its mouth again, and it was flung up, high and dry, on the bare land. The commotion in the sea was so terrible that the King and his daughter--who by this time had come down to the shore dressed like a bride, in white, ready to be thrown to the Monster--and all his Courtiers, and all the country-folk, were fain to take refuge on the hill top, out of harm's way, and stand and see what happened next. And this was what happened next. The poor, distressed creature--for it was now to be pitied, even although it was a great, cruel, awful Mester Stoorworm--tossed itself to and fro, twisting and writhing. And as it tossed its awful head out of the water its tongue fell out, and struck the earth with such force that it made a great dent in it, into which the sea rushed. And that dent formed the crooked Straits which now divide Denmark from Norway and Sweden. Then some of its teeth fell out and rested in the sea, and became the Islands that we now call the Orkney Isles; and a little afterwards some more teeth dropped out, and they became what we now call the Shetland Isles. After that the creature twisted itself into a great lump and died; and this lump became the Island of Iceland; and the fire which Assipattle had kindled with his live peat still burns on underneath it, and that is why there are mountains which throw out fire in that chilly land. When at last it was plainly seen that the Mester Stoorworm was dead, the King could scarce contain himself with joy. He put his arms round Assipattle's neck, and kissed him, and called him his son. And he took off his own Royal Mantle and put it on the lad, and girded his good sword Sickersnapper round his waist. And he called his daughter, the Princess Gemdelovely, to him, and put her hand in his, and declared that when the right time came she should be his wife, and that he should be ruler over all the Kingdom. Then the whole company mounted their horses again, and Assipattle rode on Go-Swift by the Princess's side; and so they returned, with great joy, to the King's Palace. But as they were nearing the gate Assipattle's sister, she who was the Princess's maid, ran out to meet him, and signed to the Princess to lout down, and whispered something in her ear. The Princess's face grew dark, and she turned her horse's head and rode back to where her father was, with his Nobles. She told him the words that the maiden had spoken; and when he heard them his face, too, grew as black as thunder. For the matter was this: The cruel Queen, full of joy at the thought that she was to be rid, once for all, of her step-daughter, had been making love to the wicked Sorcerer all the morning in the old King's absence. "He shall be killed at once," cried the Monarch. "Such behaviour cannot be overlooked." "Thou wilt have much ado to find him, your Majesty," said the girl, "for 'tis more than an hour since he and the Queen fled together on the fleetest horses that they could find in the stables." "But I can find him," cried Assipattle; and he went off like the wind on his good horse Go-Swift. It was not long before he came within sight of the fugitives, and he drew his sword and shouted to them to stop. They heard the shout, and turned round, and they both laughed aloud in derision when they saw that it was only the boy who grovelled in the ashes who pursued them. "The insolent brat! I will cut off his head for him! I will teach him a lesson!" cried the Sorcerer; and he rode boldly back to meet Assipattle. For although he was no fighter, he knew that no ordinary weapon could harm his enchanted body; therefore he was not afraid. But he did not count on Assipattle having the Sword of the great god Odin, with which he had slain all his enemies; and before this magic weapon he was powerless. And, at one thrust, the young lad ran it through his body as easily as if he had been any ordinary man, and he fell from his horse, dead. Then the Courtiers of the King, who had also set off in pursuit, but whose steeds were less fleet of foot than Go-Swift, came up, and seized the bridle of the Queen's horse, and led it and its rider back to the Palace. She was brought before the Council, and judged, and condemned to be shut up in a high tower for the remainder of her life. Which thing surely came to pass. As for Assipattle, when the proper time came he was married to the Princess Gemdelovely, with great feasting and rejoicing. And when the old King died they ruled the Kingdom for many a long year. [Illustration] THE FOX AND THE WOLF There was once a Fox and a Wolf, who set up house together in a cave near the sea-shore. Although you may not think so, they got on very well for a time, for they went out hunting all day, and when they came back at night they were generally too tired to do anything but to eat their supper and go to bed. They might have lived together always had it not been for the slyness and greediness of the Fox, who tried to over-reach his companion, who was not nearly so clever as he was. And this was how it came about. It chanced, one dark December night, that there was a dreadful storm at sea, and in the morning the beach was all strewn with wreckage. So as soon as it was daylight the two friends went down to the shore to see if they could find anything to eat. They had the good fortune to light on a great Keg of Butter, which had been washed overboard from some ship on its way home from Ireland, where, as all the world knows, folk are famous for their butter. The simple Wolf danced with joy when he saw it. "Marrowbones and trotters! but we will have a good supper this night," cried he, licking his lips. "Let us set to work at once and roll it up to the cave." But the wily Fox was fond of butter, and he made up his mind that he would have it all to himself. So he put on his wisest look, and shook his head gravely. "Thou hast no prudence, my friend," he said reproachfully, "else wouldst thou not talk of breaking up a Keg of Butter at this time of year, when the stackyards are full of good grain, which can be had for the eating, and the farmyards are stocked with nice fat ducks and poultry. No, no. It behoveth us to have foresight, and to lay up in store for the spring, when the grain is all threshed, and the stackyards are bare, and the poultry have gone to market. So we will e'en bury the Keg, and dig it up when we have need of it." Very reluctantly, for he was thinner and hungrier than the Fox, the Wolf agreed to this proposal. So a hole was dug, and the Keg was buried, and the two animals went off hunting as usual. About a week passed by: then one day the Fox came into the cave, and flung himself down on the ground as if he were very much exhausted. But if anyone had looked at him closely they would have seen a sly twinkle in his eye. "Oh, dear, oh, dear!" he sighed. "Life is a heavy burden." "What hath befallen thee?" asked the Wolf, who was ever kind and soft-hearted. "Some friends of mine, who live over the hills yonder, are wanting me to go to a christening to-night. Just think of the distance that I must travel." "But needst thou go?" asked the Wolf. "Canst thou not send an excuse?" [Illustration] "I doubt that no excuse would be accepted," answered the Fox, "for they asked me to stand god-father. Therefore it behoveth me to do my duty, and pay no heed to my own feelings." So that evening the Fox was absent, and the Wolf was alone in the cave. But it was not to a christening that the sly Fox went; it was to the Keg of Butter that was buried in the sand. About midnight he returned, looking fat and sleek, and well pleased with himself. The Wolf had been dozing, but he looked up drowsily as his companion entered. "Well, how did they name the bairn?" he asked. "They gave it a queer name," answered the Fox. "One of the queerest names that I ever heard." "And what was that?" questioned the Wolf. "Nothing less than 'Blaisean' (Let-me-taste)," replied the Fox, throwing himself down in his corner. And if the Wolf could have seen him in the darkness he would have noticed that he was laughing to himself. Some days afterwards the same thing happened. The Fox was asked to another christening; this time at a place some twenty-five miles along the shore. And as he had grumbled before, so he grumbled again; but he declared that it was his duty to go, and he went. At midnight he came back, smiling to himself and with no appetite for his supper. And when the Wolf asked him the name of the child, he answered that it was a more extraordinary name than the other--"Be na Inheadnon" (Be in its middle). The very next week, much to the Wolf's wonder, the Fox was asked to yet another christening. And this time the name of the child was "Sgriot an Clar" (Scrape the staves). After that the invitations ceased. Time went on, and the hungry spring came, and the Fox and the Wolf had their larder bare, for food was scarce, and the weather was bleak and cold. "Let us go and dig up the Keg of Butter," said the Wolf. "Methinks that now is the time we need it." The Fox agreed--having made up his mind how he would act--and the two set out to the place where the Keg had been hidden. They scraped away the sand, and uncovered it; but, needless to say, they found it empty. "This is thy work," said the Fox angrily, turning to the poor, innocent Wolf. "Thou hast crept along here while I was at the christenings, and eaten it up by stealth." "Not I," replied the Wolf. "I have never been near the spot since the day that we buried it together." "But I tell thee it must have been thou," insisted the Fox, "for no other creature knew it was there except ourselves. And, besides, I can see by the sleekness of thy fur that thou hast fared well of late." Which last sentence was both unjust and untrue, for the poor Wolf looked as lean and badly nourished as he could possibly be. So back they both went to the cave, arguing all the way. The Fox declaring that the Wolf _must_ have been the thief, and the Wolf protesting his innocence. "Art thou ready to swear to it?" said the Fox at last; though why he asked such a question, dear only knows. "Yes, I am," replied the Wolf firmly; and, standing in the middle of the cave, and holding one paw up solemnly he swore this awful oath: "If it be that I stole the butter; if it be, if it be-- May a fateful, fell disease fall on me, fall on me." When he was finished, he put down his paw and, turning to the Fox, looked at him keenly; for all at once it struck him that his fur looked sleek and fine. "It is thy turn now," he said. "I have sworn, and thou must do so also." The Fox's face fell at these words, for although he was both untruthful and dishonest now, he had been well brought up in his youth, and he knew that it was a terrible thing to perjure oneself and swear falsely. So he made one excuse after another, but the Wolf, who was getting more and more suspicious every moment, would not listen to him. So, as he had not courage to tell the truth, he was forced at last to swear an oath also, and this was what he swore: "If it be that I stole the butter; if it be, if it be-- Then let some most deadly punishment fall on me, fall on me-- Whirrum wheeckam, whirrum wheeckam, Whirram whee, whirram whee!" After he had heard him swear this terrible oath, the Wolf thought that his suspicions must be groundless, and he would have let the matter rest; but the Fox, having an uneasy conscience, could not do so. So he suggested that as it was clear that one of them must have eaten the Keg of Butter, they should both stand near the fire; so that when they became hot, the butter would ooze out of the skin of whichever of them was guilty. And he took care that the Wolf should stand in the hottest place. But the fire was big and the cave was small; and while the poor lean Wolf showed no sign of discomfort, he himself, being nice and fat and comfortable, soon began to get unpleasantly warm. As this did not suit him at all, he next proposed that they should go for a walk, "for," said he, "it is now quite plain that neither of us can have taken the butter. It must have been some stranger who hath found out our secret." But the Wolf had seen the Fox beginning to grow greasy, and he knew now what had happened, and he determined to have his revenge. So he waited until they came to a smithy which stood at the side of the road, where a horse was waiting just outside the door to be shod. Then, keeping at a safe distance, he said to his companion, "There is writing on that smithy door, which I cannot read, as my eyes are failing; do thou try to read it, for perchance it may be something 'twere good for us to know." And the silly Fox, who was very vain, and did not like to confess that his eyes were no better than those of his friend, went close up to the door to try and read the writing. And he chanced to touch the horse's fetlock, and, it being a restive beast, lifted its foot and struck out at once, and killed the Fox as dead as a door-nail. And so, you see, the old saying in the Good Book came true after all: "Be sure your sin will find you out." [Illustration] KATHERINE CRACKERNUTS There was once a King whose wife died, leaving him with an only daughter, whom he dearly loved. The little Princess's name was Velvet-Cheek, and she was so good, and bonnie, and kind-hearted that all her father's subjects loved her. But as the King was generally engaged in transacting the business of the State, the poor little maiden had rather a lonely life, and often wished that she had a sister with whom she could play, and who would be a companion to her. The King, hearing this, made up his mind to marry a middle-aged Countess, whom he had met at a neighbouring Court, who had one daughter, named Katherine, who was just a little younger than the Princess Velvet-Cheek, and who, he thought, would make a nice play-fellow for her. He did so, and in one way the arrangement turned out very well, for the two girls loved one another dearly, and had everything in common, just as if they had really been sisters. But in another way it turned out very badly, for the new Queen was a cruel and ambitious woman, and she wanted her own daughter to do as she had done, and make a grand marriage, and perhaps even become a Queen. And when she saw that Princess Velvet-Cheek was growing into a very beautiful young woman--more beautiful by far than her own daughter--she began to hate her, and to wish that in some way she would lose her good looks. "For," thought she, "what suitor will heed my daughter as long as her step-sister is by her side?" Now, among the servants and retainers at her husband's Castle there was an old Hen-wife, who, men said, was in league with the Evil Spirits of the air, and who was skilled in the knowledge of charms, and philtres, and love potions. "Perhaps she could help me to do what I seek to do," said the wicked Queen; and one night, when it was growing dusk, she wrapped a cloak round her, and set out to this old Hen-wife's cottage. "Send the lassie to me to-morrow morning ere she hath broken her fast," replied the old Dame when she heard what her visitor had to say. "I will find out a way to mar her beauty." And the wicked Queen went home content. Next morning she went to the Princess's room while she was dressing, and told her to go out before breakfast and get the eggs that the Hen-wife had gathered. "And see," added she, "that thou dost not eat anything ere thou goest, for there is nothing that maketh the roses bloom on a young maiden's cheeks like going out fasting in the fresh morning air." Princess Velvet-Cheek promised to do as she was bid, and go and fetch the eggs; but as she was not fond of going out of doors before she had had something to eat, and as, moreover, she suspected that her step-mother had some hidden reason for giving her such an unusual order, and she did not trust her step-mother's hidden reasons, she slipped into the pantry as she went downstairs and helped herself to a large slice of cake. Then, after she had eaten it, she went straight to the Hen-wife's cottage and asked for the eggs. "Lift the lid of that pot there, your Highness, and you will see them," said the old woman, pointing to the big pot standing in the corner in which she boiled her hens' meat. The Princess did so, and found a heap of eggs lying inside, which she lifted into her basket, while the old woman watched her with a curious smile. "Go home to your Lady Mother, Hinny," she said at last, "and tell her from me to keep the press door better snibbit." The Princess went home, and gave this extraordinary message to her step-mother, wondering to herself the while what it meant. But if she did not understand the Hen-wife's words, the Queen understood them only too well. For from them she gathered that the Princess had in some way prevented the old Witch's spell doing what she intended it to do. So next morning, when she sent her step-daughter once more on the same errand, she accompanied her to the door of the Castle herself, so that the poor girl had no chance of paying a visit to the pantry. But as she went along the road that led to the cottage, she felt so hungry that, when she passed a party of country-folk picking peas by the roadside, she asked them to give her a handful. They did so, and she ate the peas; and so it came about that the same thing happened that had happened yesterday. The Hen-wife sent her to look for the eggs; but she could work no spell upon her, because she had broken her fast. So the old woman bade her go home again and give the same message to the Queen. The Queen was very angry when she heard it, for she felt that she was being outwitted by this slip of a girl, and she determined that, although she was not fond of getting up early, she would accompany her next day herself, and make sure that she had nothing to eat as she went. So next morning she walked with the Princess to the Hen-wife's cottage, and, as had happened twice before, the old woman sent the Royal maiden to lift the lid off the pot in the corner in order to get the eggs. And the moment that the Princess did so off jumped her own pretty head, and on jumped that of a sheep. [Illustration: Off jumped her own pretty head and on jumped that of a sheep] Then the wicked Queen thanked the cruel old Witch for the service that she had rendered to her, and went home quite delighted with the success of her scheme; while the poor Princess picked up her own head and put it into her basket along with the eggs, and went home crying, keeping behind the hedge all the way, for she felt so ashamed of her sheep's head that she was afraid that anyone saw her. Now, as I told you, the Princess's step-sister Katherine loved her dearly, and when she saw what a cruel deed had been wrought on her she was so angry that she declared that she would not remain another hour in the Castle. "For," said she, "if my Lady Mother can order one such deed to be done, who can hinder her ordering another. So, methinks, 'twere better for us both to be where she cannot reach us." So she wrapped a fine shawl round her poor step-sister's head, so that none could tell what it was like, and, putting the real head in the basket, she took her by the hand, and the two set out to seek their fortunes. They walked and they walked, till they reached a splendid Palace, and when they came to it Katherine made as though she would go boldly up and knock at the door. "I may perchance find work here," she explained, "and earn enough money to keep us both in comfort." But the poor Princess would fain have pulled her back. "They will have nothing to do with thee," she whispered, "when they see that thou hast a sister with a sheep's head." "And who is to know that thou hast a sheep's head?" asked Katherine. "If thou hold thy tongue, and keep the shawl well round thy face, and leave the rest to me." So up she went and knocked at the kitchen door, and when the housekeeper came to answer it she asked her if there was any work that she could give her to do. "For," said she, "I have a sick sister, who is sore troubled with the migraine in her head, and I would fain find a quiet lodging for her where she could rest for the night." "Dost thou know aught of sickness?" asked the housekeeper, who was greatly struck by Katherine's soft voice and gentle ways. "Ay, do I," replied Katherine, "for when one's sister is troubled with the migraine, one has to learn to go about softly and not to make a noise." Now it chanced that the King's eldest son, the Crown Prince, was lying ill in the Palace of a strange disease, which seemed to have touched his brain. For he was so restless, especially at nights, that someone had always to be with him to watch that he did himself no harm; and this state of things had gone on so long that everyone was quite worn out. And the old housekeeper thought that it would be a good chance to get a quiet night's sleep if this capable-looking stranger could be trusted to sit up with the Prince. So she left her at the door, and went and consulted the King; and the King came out and spoke to Katherine and he, too, was so pleased with her voice and her appearance that he gave orders that a room should be set apart in the Castle for her sick sister and herself, and he promised that, if she would sit up that night with the Prince, and see that no harm befell him, she would have, as her reward, a bag of silver Pennies in the morning. Katherine agreed to the bargain readily, "for," thought she, "'twill always be a night's lodging for the Princess; and, forbye that, a bag of silver Pennies is not to be got every day." So the Princess went to bed in the comfortable chamber that was set apart for her, and Katherine went to watch by the sick Prince. He was a handsome, comely young man, who seemed to be in some sort of fever, for his brain was not quite clear, and he tossed and tumbled from side to side, gazing anxiously in front of him, and stretching out his hands as if he were in search of something. And at twelve o'clock at night, just when Katherine thought that he was going to fall into a refreshing sleep, what was her horror to see him rise from his bed, dress himself hastily, open the door, and slip downstairs, as if he were going to look for somebody. "There be something strange in this," said the girl to herself. "Methinks I had better follow him and see what happens." So she stole out of the room after the Prince and followed him safely downstairs; and what was her astonishment to find that apparently he was going some distance, for he put on his hat and riding-coat, and, unlocking the door crossed the courtyard to the stable, and began to saddle his horse. When he had done so, he led it out, and mounted, and, whistling softly to a hound which lay asleep in a corner, he prepared to ride away. "I must go too, and see the end of this," said Katherine bravely; "for methinks he is bewitched. These be not the actions of a sick man." So, just as the horse was about to start, she jumped lightly on its back, and settled herself comfortably behind its rider, all unnoticed by him. Then this strange pair rode away through the woods, and, as they went, Katherine pulled the hazel-nuts that nodded in great clusters in her face. "For," said she to herself, "Dear only knows where next I may get anything to eat." On and on they rode, till they left the greenwood far behind them and came out on an open moor. Soon they reached a hillock, and here the Prince drew rein, and, stooping down, cried in a strange, uncanny whisper, "Open, open, Green Hill, and let the Prince, and his horse, and his hound enter." "And," whispered Katherine quickly, "let his lady enter behind him." Instantly, to her great astonishment, the top of the knowe seemed to tip up, leaving an aperture large enough for the little company to enter; then it closed gently behind them again. They found themselves in a magnificent hall, brilliantly lighted by hundreds of candles stuck in sconces round the walls. In the centre of this apartment was a group of the most beautiful maidens that Katherine had ever seen, all dressed in shimmering ball-gowns, with wreaths of roses and violets in their hair. And there were sprightly gallants also, who had been treading a measure with these beauteous damsels to the strains of fairy music. When the maidens saw the Prince, they ran to him, and led him away to join their revels. And at the touch of their hands all his languor seemed to disappear, and he became the gayest of all the throng, and laughed, and danced, and sang as if he had never known what it was to be ill. As no one took any notice of Katherine, she sat down quietly on a bit of rock to watch what would befall. And as she watched, she became aware of a wee, wee bairnie, playing with a tiny wand, quite close to her feet. He was a bonnie bit bairn, and she was just thinking of trying to make friends with him when one of the beautiful maidens passed, and, looking at the wand, said to her partner, in a meaning tone, "Three strokes of that wand would give Katherine's sister back her pretty face." Here was news indeed! Katherine's breath came thick and fast; and with trembling fingers she drew some of the nuts out of her pocket, and began rolling them carelessly towards the child. Apparently he did not get nuts very often, for he dropped his little wand at once, and stretched out his tiny hands to pick them up. This was just what she wanted; and she slipped down from her seat to the ground, and drew a little nearer to him. Then she threw one or two more nuts in his way, and, when he was picking these up, she managed to lift the wand unobserved, and to hide it under her apron. After this, she crept cautiously back to her seat again; and not a moment too soon, for just then a cock crew, and at the sound the whole of the dancers vanished--all but the Prince, who ran to mount his horse, and was in such a hurry to be gone that Katherine had much ado to get up behind him before the hillock opened, and he rode swiftly into the outer world once more. But she managed it, and, as they rode homewards in the grey morning light, she sat and cracked her nuts and ate them as fast as she could, for her adventures had made her marvellously hungry. When she and her strange patient had once more reached the Castle, she just waited to see him go back to bed, and begin to toss and tumble as he had done before; then she ran to her step-sister's room, and, finding her asleep, with her poor misshapen head lying peacefully on the pillow, she gave it three sharp little strokes with the fairy wand and, lo and behold! the sheep's head vanished, and the Princess's own pretty one took its place. In the morning the King and the old housekeeper came to inquire what kind of night the Prince had had. Katherine answered that he had had a very good night; for she was very anxious to stay with him longer, for now that she had found out that the Elfin Maidens who dwelt in the Green Knowe had thrown a spell over him, she was resolved to find out also how that spell could be loosed. And Fortune favoured her; for the King was so pleased to think that such a suitable nurse had been found for the Prince, and he was also so charmed with the looks of her step-sister, who came out of her chamber as bright and bonnie as in the old days, declaring that her migraine was all gone, and that she was now able to do any work that the housekeeper might find for her, that he begged Katherine to stay with his son a little longer, adding that if she would do so, he would give her a bag of gold Bonnet Pieces. So Katherine agreed readily; and that night she watched by the Prince as she had done the night before. And at twelve o'clock he rose and dressed himself, and rode to the Fairy Knowe, just as she had expected him to do, for she was quite certain that the poor young man was bewitched, and not suffering from a fever, as everyone thought he was. And you may be sure that she accompanied him, riding behind him all unnoticed, and filling her pockets with nuts as she rode. When they reached the Fairy Knowe, he spoke the same words that he had spoken the night before. "Open, open, Green Hill, and let the young Prince in with his horse and his hound." And when the Green Hill opened, Katherine added softly, "And his lady behind him." So they all passed in together. Katherine seated herself on a stone, and looked around her. The same revels were going on as yesternight, and the Prince was soon in the thick of them, dancing and laughing madly. The girl watched him narrowly, wondering if she would ever be able to find out what would restore him to his right mind; and, as she was watching him, the same little bairn who had played with the magic wand came up to her again. Only this time he was playing with a little bird. And as he played, one of the dancers passed by, and, turning to her partner, said lightly, "Three bites of that birdie would lift the Prince's sickness, and make him as well as he ever was." Then she joined in the dance again, leaving Katherine sitting upright on her stone quivering with excitement. If only she could get that bird the Prince might be cured! Very carefully she began to shake some nuts out of her pocket, and roll them across the floor towards the child. He picked them up eagerly, letting go the bird as he did so; and, in an instant, Katherine caught it, and hid it under her apron. In no long time after that the cock crew, and the Prince and she set out on their homeward ride. But this morning, instead of cracking nuts, she killed and plucked the bird, scattering its feathers all along the road; and the instant she gained the Prince's room, and had seen him safely into bed, she put it on a spit in front of the fire and began to roast it. And soon it began to frizzle, and get brown, and smell deliciously, and the Prince, in his bed in the corner, opened his eyes and murmured faintly, "How I wish I had a bite of that birdie." When she heard the words Katherine's heart jumped for joy, and as soon as the bird was roasted she cut a little piece from its breast and popped it into the Prince's mouth. When he had eaten it his strength seemed to come back somewhat, for he rose on his elbow and looked at his nurse. "Oh! if I had but another bite of that birdie!" he said. And his voice was certainly stronger. So Katherine gave him another piece, and when he had eaten that he sat right up in bed. "Oh! if I had but a third bite o' that birdie!" he cried. And now the colour was coming back into his face, and his eyes were shining. This time Katherine brought him the whole of the rest of the bird; and he ate it up greedily, picking the bones quite clean with his fingers; and when it was finished, he sprang out of bed and dressed himself, and sat down by the fire. And when the King came in the morning, with his old housekeeper at his back, to see how the Prince was, he found him sitting cracking nuts with his nurse, for Katherine had brought home quite a lot in her apron pocket. The King was so delighted to find his son cured that he gave all the credit to Katherine Crackernuts, as he called her, and he gave orders at once that the Prince should marry her. "For," said he, "a maiden who is such a good nurse is sure to make a good Queen." The Prince was quite willing to do as his father bade him; and, while they were talking together, his younger brother came in, leading Princess Velvet-Cheek by the hand, whose acquaintance he had made but yesterday, declaring that he had fallen in love with her, and that he wanted to marry her immediately. So it all fell out very well, and everybody was quite pleased; and the two weddings took place at once, and, unless they be dead sinsyne, the young couples are living yet. [Illustration: Times To Sneeze] [Illustration: Sneeze on Monanday Sneeze for a Letter] [Illustration: Sneeze on Tuesday Something Better] [Illustration: Sneeze on Wednesday Kiss a Stranger] [Illustration: Sneeze on Feersday Sneeze for Danger] [Illustration: Sneeze on Friday Sneeze for Sorrow] [Illustration: Sneeze on Saturday see your Sweetheart Tomorrow] THE WELL O' THE WORLD'S END There was once an old widow woman, who lived in a little cottage with her only daughter, who was such a bonnie lassie that everyone liked to look at her. One day the old woman took a notion into her head to bake a girdleful of cakes. So she took down her bakeboard, and went to the girnel and fetched a basinful of meal; but when she went to seek a jug of water to mix the meal with, she found that there was none in the house. So she called to her daughter, who was in the garden; and when the girl came she held out the empty jug to her, saying, "Run, like a good lassie, to the Well o' the World's End and bring me a jug of water, for I have long found that water from the Well o' the World's End makes the best cakes." So the lassie took the jug and set out on her errand. Now, as its name shows, it is a long road to that well, and many a weary mile had the poor maid to go ere she reached it. But she arrived there at last; and what was her disappointment to find it dry. She was so tired and so vexed that she sat down beside it and began to cry; for she did not know where to get any more water, and she felt that she could not go back to her mother with an empty jug. While she was crying, a nice yellow Paddock, with very bright eyes, came jump-jump-jumping over the stones of the well, and squatted down at her feet, looking up into her face. "And why are ye greeting, my bonnie maid?" he asked. "Is there aught that I can do to help thee?" "I am greeting because the well is empty," she answered, "and I cannot get any water to carry home to my mother." "Listen," said the Paddock softly. "I can get thee water in plenty, if so be thou wilt promise to be my wife." Now the lassie had but one thought in her head, and that was to get the water for her mother's oat-cakes, and she never for a moment thought that the Paddock was in earnest, so she promised gladly enough to be his wife, if he would get her a jug of water. No sooner had the words passed her lips than the beastie jumped down the mouth of the well, and in another moment it was full to the brim with water. The lassie filled her jug and carried it home, without troubling any more about the matter. But late that night, just as her mother and she were going to bed, something came with a faint "thud, thud," against the cottage door, and then they heard a tiny little wee voice singing: "Oh, open the door, my hinnie, my heart, Oh, open the door, my ain true love; Remember the promise that you and I made Down i' the meadow, where we two met." "Wheesht," said the old woman, raising her head. "What noise is that at the door?" "Oh," said her daughter, who was feeling rather frightened, "it's only a yellow Paddock." "Poor bit beastie," said the kind-hearted old mother. "Open the door and let him in. It's cold work sitting on the doorstep." So the lassie, very unwillingly opened the door, and the Paddock came jump-jump-jumping across the kitchen, and sat down at the fireside. And while he sat there he began to sing this song: "Oh, gie me my supper, my hinnie, my heart, Oh, gie me my supper, my ain true love; Remember the promise that you and I made Down i' the meadow, where we two met." "Gie the poor beast his supper," said the old woman. "He's an uncommon Paddock that can sing like that." "Tut," replied her daughter crossly, for she was growing more and more frightened as she saw the creature's bright black eyes fixed on her face. "I'm not going to be so silly as to feed a wet, sticky Paddock." "Don't be ill-natured and cruel," said her mother. "Who knows how far the little beastie has travelled? And I warrant that it would like a saucerful of milk." Now, the lassie could have told her that the Paddock had travelled from the Well o' the World's End; but she held her tongue, and went ben to the milk-house, and brought back a saucerful of milk, which she set down before the strange little visitor. "Now chap off my head, my hinnie, my heart, Now chap off my head, my ain true love, Remember the promise that you and I made Down i' the meadow, where we two met." "Hout, havers, pay no heed, the creature's daft," exclaimed the old woman, running forward to stop her daughter, who was raising the axe to chop off the Paddock's head. But she was too late; down came the axe, off went the head; and lo, and behold! on the spot where the little creature had sat, stood the handsomest young Prince that had ever been seen. He wore such a noble air, and was so richly dressed, that the astonished girl and her mother would have fallen on their knees before him had he not prevented them by a movement of his hand. "'Tis I that should kneel to thee, Sweetheart," he said, turning to the blushing girl, "for thou hast delivered me from a fearful spell, which was cast over me in my infancy by a wicked Fairy, who at the same time slew my father. For long years I have lived in that well, the Well o' the World's End, waiting for a maiden to appear, who should take pity on me, even in my loathsome disguise, and promise to be my wife, and who would also have the kindness to let me into her house, and the courage, at my bidding, to cut off my head. "Now I can return and claim my father's Kingdom, and thou, most gracious maiden, will go with me, and be my bride, for thou well deserv'st the honour." And this was how the lassie who went to fetch water from the Well o' the World's End became a Princess. [Illustration] FARQUHAR MACNEILL Once upon a time there was a young man named Farquhar MacNeill. He had just gone to a new situation, and the very first night after he went to it his mistress asked him if he would go over the hill to the house of a neighbour and borrow a sieve, for her own was all in holes, and she wanted to sift some meal. Farquhar agreed to do so, for he was a willing lad, and he set out at once upon his errand, after the farmer's wife had pointed out to him the path that he was to follow, and told him that he would have no difficulty in finding the house, even though it was strange to him, for he would be sure to see the light in the window. He had not gone very far, however, before he saw what he took to be the light from a cottage window on his left hand, some distance from the path, and, forgetting his Mistress's instructions that he was to follow the path right over the hill, he left it, and walked towards the light. It seemed to him that he had almost reached it when his foot tripped, and he fell down, down, down, into a Fairy Parlour, far under the ground. [Illustration: They bowed gravely] It was full of Fairies, who were engaged in different occupations. Close by the door, or rather the hole down which he had so unceremoniously tumbled, two little elderly women, in black aprons and white mutches, were busily engaged in grinding corn between two flat millstones. Other two Fairies, younger women, in blue print gowns and white kerchiefs, were gathering up the freshly ground meal, and baking it into bannocks, which they were toasting on a girdle over a peat fire, which was burning slowly in a corner. In the centre of the large apartment a great troop of Fairies, Elves, and Sprites were dancing reels as hard as they could to the music of a tiny set of bagpipes which were being played by a brown-faced Gnome, who sat on a ledge of rock far above their heads. They all stopped their various employments when Farquhar came suddenly down in their midst, and looked at him in alarm; but when they saw that he was not hurt, they bowed gravely and bade him be seated. Then they went on with their work and with their play as if nothing had happened. But Farquhar, being very fond of dancing, and being in no wise anxious to be seated, thought that he would like to have a reel first, so he asked the Fairies if he might join them. And they, although they looked surprised at his request, allowed him to do so, and in a few minutes the young man was dancing away as gaily as any of them. And as he danced a strange change came over him. He forgot his errand, he forgot his home, he forgot everything that had ever happened to him, he only knew that he wanted to remain with the Fairies all the rest of his life. And he did remain with them--for a magic spell had been cast over him, and he became like one of themselves, and could come and go at nights without being seen, and could sip the dew from the grass and honey from the flowers as daintily and noiselessly as if he had been a Fairy born. Time passed by, and one night he and a band of merry companions set out for a long journey through the air. They started early, for they intended to pay a visit to the Man in the Moon and be back again before cock-crow. All would have gone well if Farquhar had only looked where he was going, but he did not, being deeply engaged in making love to a young Fairy Maiden by his side, so he never saw a cottage that was standing right in his way, till he struck against the chimney and stuck fast in the thatch. His companions sped merrily on, not noticing what had befallen him, and he was left to disentangle himself as best he could. As he was doing so he chanced to glance down the wide chimney, and in the cottage kitchen he saw a comely young woman dandling a rosy-cheeked baby. Now, when Farquhar had been in his mortal state, he had been very fond of children, and a word of blessing rose to his lips. "God shield thee," he said, as he looked at the mother and child, little guessing what the result of his words would be. For scarce had the Holy Name crossed his lips than the spell which had held him so long was broken, and he became as he had been before. Instantly his thoughts flew to his friends at home, and to the new Mistress whom he had left waiting for her sieve; for he felt sure that some weeks must have elapsed since he set out to fetch it. So he made haste to go to the farm. When he arrived in the neighbourhood everything seemed strange. There were woods where no woods used to be, and walls where no walls used to be. To his amazement, he could not find his way to the farm, and, worst of all, in the place where he expected to find his father's house he found nothing but a crop of rank green nettles. In great distress he looked about for someone to tell him what it all meant, and at last he found an old man thatching the roof of a cottage. This old man was so thin and grey that at first Farquhar took him for a patch of mist, but as he went nearer he saw that he was a human being, and, going close up to the wall and shouting with all his might, for he felt sure that such an ancient man would be deaf, he asked him if he could tell him where his friends had gone to, and what had happened to his father's dwelling. The old man listened, then he shook his head. "I never heard of him," he answered slowly; "but perhaps my father might be able to tell you." "Your father!" said Farquhar, in great surprise. "Is it possible that your father is alive?" "Aye he is," answered the old man, with a little laugh. "If you go into the house you'll find him sitting in the arm-chair by the fire." Farquhar did as he was bid, and on entering the cottage found another old man, who was so thin and withered and bent that he looked as if he must at least be a hundred years old. He was feebly twisting ropes to bind the thatch on the roof. "Can ye tell me aught of my friends, or where my father's cottage is?" asked Farquhar again, hardly expecting that this second old man would be able to answer him. "I cannot," mumbled this ancient person; "but perhaps my father can tell you." "Your father!" exclaimed Farquhar, more astonished than ever. "But surely he must be dead long ago." The old man shook his head with a weird grimace. "Look there," he said, and pointed with a twisted finger, to a leathern purse, or sporran, which was hanging to one of the posts of a wooden bedstead in the corner. Farquhar approached it, and was almost frightened out of his wits by seeing a tiny shrivelled face crowned by a red pirnie, looking over the edge of the sporran. "Tak' him out; he'll no touch ye," chuckled the old man by the fire. So Farquhar took the little creature out carefully between his finger and thumb, and set him on the palm of his left hand. He was so shrivelled with age that he looked just like a mummy. "Dost know anything of my friends, or where my father's cottage is gone to?" asked Farquhar for the third time, hardly expecting to get an answer. "They were all dead long before I was born," piped out the tiny figure. "I never saw any of them, but I have heard my father speak of them." "Then I must be older than you!" cried Farquhar, in great dismay. And he got such a shock at the thought that his bones suddenly dissolved into dust, and he fell, a heap of grey ashes, on the floor. PEERIFOOL There was once a King and a Queen in Rousay who had three daughters. When the young Princesses were just grown up, the King died, and the Crown passed to a distant cousin, who had always hated him, and who paid no heed to the widowed Queen and her daughters. So they were left very badly off, and they went to live in a tiny cottage, and did all the housework themselves. They had a kailyard in front of the cottage, and a little field behind it, and they had a cow that grazed in the field, and which they fed with the cabbages that grew in the kailyard. For everyone knows that to feed cows with cabbages makes them give a larger quantity of milk. But they soon discovered that some one was coming at night and stealing the cabbages, and, of course, this annoyed them very much. For they knew that if they had not cabbages to give to the cow, they would not have enough milk to sell. So the eldest Princess said she would take out a three-legged stool, and wrap herself in a blanket, and sit in the kailyard all night to see if she could catch the thief. And, although it was very cold and very dark, she did so. At first it seemed as if all her trouble would be in vain, for hour after hour passed and nothing happened. But in the small hours of the morning, just as the clock was striking two, she heard a stealthy trampling in the field behind, as if some very heavy person were trying to tread very softly, and presently a mighty Giant stepped right over the wall into the kailyard. He carried an enormous creel on his arm, and a large, sharp knife in his hand; and he began to cut the cabbages, and to throw them into the creel as fast as he could. Now the Princess was no coward, so, although she had not expected to face a Giant, she gathered up her courage, and cried out sharply, "Who gave thee liberty to cut our cabbages? Leave off this minute, and go away." The Giant paid no heed, but went on steadily with what he was doing. "Dost thou not hear me?" cried the girl indignantly; for she was the Princess Royal, and had always been accustomed to be obeyed. "If thou be not quiet I will take thee too," said the Giant grimly, pressing the cabbages down into the creel. "I should like to see thee try," retorted the Princess, rising from her stool and stamping her foot; for she felt so angry that she forgot for a moment that she was only a weak maiden and he was a great and powerful Giant. And, as if to show her how strong he was, he seized her by her arm and her leg, and put her in his creel on the top of the cabbages, and carried her away bodily. When he reached his home, which was in a great square house on a lonely moor, he took her out, and set her down roughly on the floor. "Thou wilt be my servant now," he said, "and keep my house, and do my errands for me. I have a cow, which thou must drive out every day to the hillside; and see, here is a bag of wool, when thou hast taken out the cow, thou must come back and settle thyself at home, as a good housewife should, and comb, and card it, and spin it into yarn, with which to weave a good thick cloth for my raiment. I am out most of the day, but when I come home I shall expect to find all this done, and a great bicker of porridge boiled besides for my supper." The poor Princess was very dismayed when she heard these words, for she had never been accustomed to work hard, and she had always had her sisters to help her; but the Giant took no notice of her distress, but went out as soon as it was daylight, leaving her alone in the house to begin her work. As soon as he had gone she drove the cow to the pasture, as he had told her to do; but she had a good long walk over the moor before she reached the hill, and by the time that she got back to the house she felt very tired. So she thought that she would put on the porridge pot, and make herself some porridge before she began to card and comb the wool. She did so, and just as she was sitting down to sup them the door opened, and a crowd of wee, wee Peerie Folk came in. They were the tiniest men and women that the Princess had ever seen; not one of them would have reached half-way to her knee; and they were dressed in dresses fashioned out of all the colours of the rainbow--scarlet and blue, green and yellow, orange and violet; and the funny thing was, that every one of them had a shock of straw-coloured yellow hair. They were all talking and laughing with one another; and they hopped up, first on stools, then on chairs, till at last they reached the top of the table, where they clustered round the bowl, out of which the Princess was eating her porridge. "We be hungry, we be hungry," they cried, in their tiny shrill voices. "Spare a little porridge for the Peerie Folk." But the Princess was hungry also; and, besides being hungry, she was both tired and cross; so she shook her head and waved them impatiently away with her spoon, "Little for one, and less for two, And never a grain have I for you." she said sharply, and, to her great delight, for she did not feel quite comfortable with all the Peerie Folk standing on the table looking at her, they vanished in a moment. After this she finished her porridge in peace; then she took the wool out of the bag, and she set to work to comb and card it. But it seemed as if it were bewitched; it curled and twisted and coiled itself round her fingers so that, try as she would, she could not do anything with it. And when the Giant came home he found her sitting in despair with it all in confusion round her, and the porridge, which she had left for him in the pot, burned to a cinder. As you may imagine, he was very angry, and raged, and stamped, and used the most dreadful words; and at last he took her by the heels, and beat her until all her back was skinned and bleeding; then he carried her out to the byre, and threw her up on the joists among the hens. And, although she was not dead, she was so stunned and bruised that she could only lie there motionless, looking down on the backs of the cows. Time went on, and in the kailyard at home the cabbages were disappearing as fast as ever. So the second Princess said that she would do as her sister had done, and wrap herself in a blanket, and go and sit on a three-legged stool all night, to see what was becoming of them. She did so, and exactly the same fate befell her that had befallen her elder sister. The Giant appeared with his creel, and he carried her off, and set her to mind the cow and the house, and to make his porridge and to spin; and the little yellow-headed Peerie Folk appeared and asked her for some supper, and she refused to give it to them; and after that, she could not comb or card her wool, and the Giant was angry, and he scolded her, and beat her, and threw her up, half dead, on the joists beside her sister and the hens. Then the youngest Princess determined to sit out in the kailyard all night, not so much to see what was becoming of the cabbages, as to discover what had happened to her sisters. And when the Giant came and carried her off, she was not at all sorry, but very glad, for she was a brave and loving little maiden; and now she felt that she had a chance of finding out where they were, and whether they were dead or alive. So she was quite cheerful and happy, for she felt certain that she was clever enough to outwit the Giant, if only she were watchful and patient; so she lay quite quietly in her creel above the cabbages, but she kept her eyes very wide open to see by which road he was carrying her off. And when he set her down in his kitchen, and told her all that he expected her to do, she did not look downcast like her sisters, but nodded her head brightly, and said that she felt sure that she could do it. And she sang to herself as she drove the cow over the moor to pasture, and she ran the whole way back, so that she should have a good long afternoon to work at the wool, and, although she would not have told the Giant this, to search the house. Before she set to work, however, she made herself some porridge, just as her sisters had done; and, just as she was going to sup them, all the little yellow-haired Peerie Folk trooped in, and climbed up on the table, and stood and stared at her. "We be hungry, we be hungry," they cried. "Spare a little porridge for the Peerie Folk." "With all my heart," replied the good-natured Princess. "If you can find dishes little enough for you to sup out of, I will fill them for you. But, methinks, if I were to give you all porringers, you would smother yourselves among the porridge." At her words the Peerie Folk shouted with laughter, till their straw-coloured hair tumbled right over their faces; then they hopped on to the floor and ran out of the house, and presently they came trooping back holding cups of blue-bells, and foxgloves, and saucers of primroses and anemones in their hands; and the Princess put a tiny spoonful of porridge into each saucer, and a tiny drop of milk into each cup, and they ate it all up as daintily as possible with neat little grass spoons, which they had brought with them in their pockets. When they had finished they all cried out, "Thank you! Thank you!" and ran out of the kitchen again, leaving the Princess alone. And, being alone, she went all over the house to look for her sisters, but, of course, she could not find them. "Never mind, I will find them soon," she said to herself. "To-morrow I will search the byre and the outhouses; in the meantime, I had better get on with my work." So she went back to the kitchen, and took out the bag of wool, which the Giant had told her to make into cloth. But just as she was doing so the door opened once more, and a Yellow-Haired Peerie Boy entered. He was exactly like the other Peerie Folk who had eaten the Princess's porridge, only he was bigger, and he wore a very rich dress of grass-green velvet. He walked boldly into the middle of the kitchen and looked round him. "Hast thou any work for me to do?" he asked. "I ken grand how to handle wool and turn it into fine thick cloth." "I have plenty of work for anybody who asks it," replied the Princess; "but I have no money to pay for it, and there are but few folk in this world who will work without wages." "All the wages that I ask is that thou wilt take the trouble to find out my name, for few folk ken it, and few folk care to ken. But if by any chance thou canst not find it out, then must thou pay toll of half of thy cloth." The Princess thought that it would be quite an easy thing to find out the Boy's name, so she agreed to the bargain, and, putting all the wool back into the bag, she gave it to him, and he swung it over his shoulder and departed. She ran to the door to see where he went, for she had made up her mind that she would follow him secretly to his home, and find out from the neighbours what his name was. But, to her great dismay, though she looked this way and that, he had vanished completely, and she began to wonder what she should do if the Giant came back and found that she had allowed someone, whose name she did not even know, to carry off all the wool. And, as the afternoon wore on, and she could think of no way of finding out who the boy was, or where he came from, she felt that she had made a great mistake, and she began to grow very frightened. Just as the gloaming was beginning to fall a knock came at the door, and, when she opened it, she found an old woman standing outside, who begged for a night's lodging. Now, as I have told you, the Princess was very kind-hearted, and she would fain have granted the poor old Dame's request, but she dared not, for she did not know what the Giant would say. So she told the old woman that she could not take her in for the night, as she was only a servant, and not the mistress of the house; but she made her sit down on a bench beside the door, and brought her out some bread and milk, and gave her some water to bathe her poor, tired feet. She was so bonnie, and gentle, and kind, and she looked so sorry when she told her that she would need to turn her away, that the old woman gave her her blessing, and told her not to vex herself, as it was a fine, dry night, and now that she had had a meal she could easily sit down somewhere and sleep in the shelter of the outhouses. And, when she had finished her bread and milk, she went and laid down by the side of a green knowe, which rose out of the moor not very far from the byre door. And, strange to say, as she lay there she felt the earth beneath her getting warmer and warmer, until she was so hot that she was fain to crawl up the side of the hillock, in the hope of getting a mouthful of fresh air. And as she got near the top she heard a voice, which seemed to come from somewhere beneath her, saying, "TEASE, TEASENS, TEASE; CARD, CARDENS, CARD; SPIN, SPINNENS, SPIN; for PEERIFOOL PEERIFOOL, PEERIFOOL is what men call me." And when she got to the very top, she found that there was a crack in the earth, through which rays of light were coming; and when she put her eye to the crack, what should she see down below her but a brilliantly lighted chamber, in which all the Peerie Folk were sitting in a circle, working away as hard as they could. Some of them were carding wool, some of them were combing it, some of them were spinning it, constantly wetting their fingers with their lips, in order to twist the yarn fine as they drew it from the distaff, and some of them were spinning the yarn into cloth. While round and round the circle, cracking a little whip, and urging them to work faster, was a Yellow-Haired Peerie Boy. "This is a strange thing, and these be queer on-goings," said the old woman to herself, creeping hastily down to the bottom of the hillock again. "I must e'en go and tell the bonnie lassie in the house yonder. Maybe the knowledge of what I have seen will stand her in good stead some day. When there be Peerie Folk about, it is well to be on one's guard." So she went back to the house and told the Princess all that she had seen and heard, and the Princess was so delighted with what she had told her that she risked the Giant's wrath and allowed her to go and sleep in the hayloft. It was not very long after the old woman had gone to rest before the door opened, and the Peerie Boy appeared once more with a number of webs of cloth upon his shoulder. "Here is thy cloth," he said, with a sly smile, "and I will put it on the shelf for thee the moment that thou tellest me what my name is." Then the Princess, who was a merry maiden, thought that she would tease the little follow for a time ere she let him know that she had found out his secret. So she mentioned first one name and then another, always pretending to think that she had hit upon the right one; and all the time the Peerie Boy jumped from side to side with delight, for he thought that she would never find out the right name, and that half of the cloth would be his. But at last the Princess grew tired of joking, and she cried out, with a little laugh of triumph, "Dost thou by any chance ken anyone called PEERIFOOL, little Mannikin?" Then he knew that in some way she had found out what men called him, and he was so angry and disappointed that he flung the webs of cloth down in a heap on the floor, and ran out at the door, slamming it behind him. Meanwhile the Giant was coming down the hill in the darkening, and, to his astonishment, he met a troop of little Peerie Folk toiling up it, looking as if they were so tired that they could hardly get along. Their eyes were dim and listless, their heads were hanging on their breasts, and their lips were so long and twisted that the poor little people looked quite hideous. The Giant asked how this was, and they told him that they had to work so hard all day, spinning for their Master that they were quite exhausted; and that the reason why their lips were so distorted was that they used them constantly to wet their fingers, so that they might pull the wool in very fine strands from the distaff. "I always thought a great deal of women who could spin," said the Giant, "and I looked out for a housewife that could do so. But after this I will be more careful, for the housewife that I have now is a bonnie little woman, and I would be loth to have her spoil her face in that manner." And he hurried home in a great state of mind in case he should find that his new servant's pretty red lips had grown long and ugly in his absence. Great was his relief to see her standing by the table, bonnie and winsome as ever, with all the webs of cloth in a pile in front of her. "By my troth, thou art an industrious maiden," he said, in high good humour, "and, as a reward for working so diligently, I will restore thy sisters to thee." And he went out to the byre, and lifted the two other Princesses down from the rafters, and brought them in and laid them on the settle. Their little sister nearly screamed aloud when she saw how ill they looked and how bruised their backs were, but, like a prudent maiden, she held her tongue, and busied herself with applying a cooling ointment to their wounds, and binding them up, and by and by her sisters revived, and, after the Giant had gone to bed, they told her all that had befallen them. "I will be avenged on him for his cruelty," said the little Princess firmly; and when she spoke like that her sisters knew that she meant what she said. So next morning, before the Giant was up, she fetched his creel, and put her eldest sister into it, and covered her with all the fine silken hangings and tapestry that she could find, and on the top of all she put a handful of grass, and when the Giant came downstairs she asked him, in her sweetest tone, if he would do her a favour. And the Giant, who was very pleased with her because of the quantity of cloth which he thought she had spun, said that he would. "Then carry that creelful of grass home to my mother's cottage for her cow to eat," said the Princess. "'Twill help to make up for all the cabbages which thou hast stolen from her kailyard." And, wonderful to relate, the Giant did as he was bid, and carried the creel to the cottage. Next morning she put her second sister into another creel, and covered her with all the fine napery she could find in the house, and put an armful of grass on the top of it, and at her bidding the Giant, who was really getting very fond of her, carried it also home to her mother. The next morning the little Princess told him that she thought that she would go for a long walk after she had done her housework, and that she might not be in when he came home at night, but that she would have another creel of grass ready for him, if he would carry it to the cottage as he had done on the two previous evenings. He promised to do so; then, as usual, he went out for the day. In the afternoon the clever little maiden went through the house, gathering together all the lace, and silver, and jewellery that she could find, and brought them and placed them beside the creel. Then she went out and cut an armful of grass, and brought it in and laid it beside them. Then she crept into the creel herself, and pulled all the fine things in above her, and then she covered everything up with the grass, which was a very difficult thing to do, seeing she herself was at the bottom of the basket. Then she lay quite still and waited. Presently the Giant came in, and, obedient to his promise, he lifted the creel and carried it off to the old Queen's cottage. No one seemed to be at home, so he set it down in the entry, and turned to go away. But the little Princess had told her sisters what to do, and they had a great can of boiling water ready in one of the rooms upstairs, and when they heard his steps coming round that side of the house, they threw open the window and emptied it all over his head; and that was the end of him. [Illustration: Birthdays] [Illustration: A Monanday's Child His a Bonnie Face] [Illustration: A Tyesdays Child is Fou O' Grace] [Illustration: A Wednesday's Child is the Child o' Woe] [Illustration: A Feersday's Child Hiz Far To Go] [Illustration: A Friday's Child is Lovin and Givin] [Illustration: A Saitirday's Child Works hard for his Livin] [Illustration: But them thats Born On Sunday Is happy, blithe, and Gay] [Illustration] GLOSSARY A body a person Airt direction Ahint behind Bairn child Baudrons Scotch name for a cat Ben in towards an inner room Ben a mountain peak Bicker to argue in a petty way Bonnet-piece an old Scottish coin Byre cowhouse Canty kindly, cheerful Cantrip a freak, or wilful piece of trickery Chuckie-stone a small white pebble Clout a blow Cloving separating lint from its stalk Clue a ball of worsted Creel a large hand-made basket Cutty-pipe a short clay pipe Daft silly, weak-minded Dander to walk aimlessly Darkening the twilight Divot a sod Doo a dove Douce sedate Dowie dull, low-spirited Dyke a wall Eldritch weird Emprise an enterprise Entry a passage Fain gladly Feared afraid Forbye besides Gang go Girnel a meal-chest Gled a hawk Gloaming the twilight Greeting crying Hantle very much, a considerable number Havers nonsense Heckle to comb Hinnie a term of endearment Hirple to limp Histie "haste thee" Inbye inside Ingle neuk the corner by the fire Joists the beams in a roof Kailyard a kitchen garden Ken know Kirn a churn, to churn Kist a chest Knowe a little hillock Lift the sky, the air Light alight Lintie a linnet Lout to stoop Lum chimney Louping-on-stane a stone from which to mount a horse Malison a curse Meat food Migraine a pain affecting one half of the head Mutch a cap Onstead farm buildings Paddock a toad or frog Pirnie a woollen nightcap Poke a bag Rivlins shoes made of cowhide Sen' night a week Shoon shoes Siccan such Siller money Sinsyne since Smatchet small boy Sneck to latch or shut a door Snibbit bolted, _snib_, a bolt Thrapple throat Thole to bear Unchancy uncanny Wheen a few Wheesht be quiet! Wight a person Winnock a window Winnow to separate the chaff from the grain by wind Yestreen yesterday Yule Christmas Unicorns Ancient Scottish coins * * * * * ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Transcriber's notes: Taken out hypen in 'Mer-maids' and 'Mer-men' in Preface as not in text. Leaving the two words 'tomorrow' and 'tomorrow' as is. P.76. Taken out extra 'day' from 'day day'. P.80. Taken out extra 'the' from 'the the'. P.104. 'craried' is found in another version of this book, leaving as is. P.124. Taken out extra 'did' from 'did did'. P.144. Taken out hyphen in 'burn-side'. P.161. Taken out hyphen in 'Yule-tide'. P.263. Taken out hyphen in 'mis-shapen'. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- 
3833	----	AUSTRALIAN LEGENDARY TALES FOLK-LORE OF THE NOONGAHBURRAHS AS TOLD TO THE PICCANINNIES COLLECTED BY MRS. K. LANGLOH PARKER WITH INTRODUCTION BY ANDREW LANG, M.A. DEDICATED TO PETER HIPPI KING OF THE NOONGAHBURRAHS CONTENTS PREFACE INTRODUCTION, BY ANDREW LANG, M.A. 1 DINEWAN THE EMU, AND GOOMBLEGUBBON THE BUSTARD 2 THE GALAH, AND OOLAH THE LIZARD 3 BAHLOO THE MOON, AND THE DAENS 4 THE ORIGIN OF THE NARRAN LAKE 5 GOOLOO THE MAGPIE, AND THE WAHROOGAH 6 THE WEEOOMBEENS AND THE PIGGIEBILLAH 7 BOOTOOLGAH THE CRANE AND GOONUR THE KANGAROO RAT, THE FIRE MAKERS 8 WEEDAH THE MOCKING BIRD 9 THE GWINERBOOS THE REDBREASTS 10 MEAMEI THE SEVEN SISTERS 11 THE COOKOOBURRAHS AND THE GOOLAHGOOL 12 THE MAYAMAH 13 THE BUNBUNDOOLOOEYS 14 OONGNAIRWAH AND GUINAREY 15 NARAHDARN THE BAT 16 MULLYANGAH THE MORNING STAR 17 GOOMBLEGUBBON, BEEARGAII, AND OUYAN 18 MOOREGOO THE MOPOKE, AND BAHLOO THE MOON 19 OUYAN THE CURLEW 20 DINEWAN THE EMU, AND WAHN THE CROWS 21 GOOLAHWILLEEL THE TOPKNOT PIGEONS 22 GOONUR, THE WOMAN-DOCTOR 23 DEEREEREE THE WAGTAIL, AND THE RAINBOW 24 MOOREGOO THE MOPOKE, AND MOONINGUGGAHGUL THE MOSQUITO BIRD 25 BOUGOODOOGAHDAH THE RAIN BIRD 26 THE BORAH OF BYAMEE 27 BUNNYYARL THE FLIES AND WURRUNNUNNAH THE BEES 28 DEEGEENBOYAH THE SOLDIER-BIRD 29 MAYRAH, THE WIND THAT BLOWS THE WINTER AWAY 30 WAYAMBEH THE TURTLE 31 WIRREENUN THE RAINMAKER NATIVE TEXT OF THE FIRST TALE (APPENDIX) GLOSSARY PREFACE A neighbour of mine exclaimed, when I mentioned that I proposed making a small collection of the folk-lore legends of the tribe of blacks I knew so well living on this station, "But have the blacks any legends?"--thus showing that people may live in a country and yet know little of the aboriginal inhabitants; and though there are probably many who do know these particular legends, yet I think that this is the first attempt that has been made to collect the tales of any particular tribe, and publish them alone. At all events, I know that no attempt has been made previously, as far as the folklore of the Noongahburrahs is concerned. Therefore, on the authority of Professor Max Muller, that folk-lore of any country is worth collecting, I am emboldened to offer my small attempt, at a collection, to the public. There are probably many who, knowing these legends, would not think them worth recording; but, on the other hand, I hope there are many who think, as I do, that we should try, while there is yet time, to gather all the information possible of a race fast dying out, and the origin of which is so obscure. I cannot affect to think that these little legends will do much to remove that obscurity, but undoubtedly a scientific and patient study of the folk-lore throughout Australia would greatly assist thereto. I, alas! am but an amateur, moved to my work by interest in the subject, and in the blacks, of whom I have had some experience. The time is coming when it will be impossible to make even such a collection as this, for the old blacks are quickly dying out, and the young ones will probably think it beneath the dignity of their so-called civilisation even to remember such old-women's stories. Those who have themselves attempted the study of an unknown folk-lore will be able to appreciate the difficulties a student has to surmount before he can even induce those to talk who have the knowledge he desires. In this, as in so much else, those who are ready to be garrulous know little. I have confined this little book to the legends of the Narran tribe, known among themselves as Noongahburrahs. It is astonishing to find, within comparatively short distances, a diversity of language and custom. You may even find the same word in different tribes bearing a totally different meaning. Many words, too, have been introduced which the blacks think are English, and the English think are native. Such, for example, as piccaninny, and, as far as these outside blacks are concerned, boomerang is regarded as English, their local word being burren; yet nine out of ten people whom you meet think both are local native words. Though I have written my little book in the interests of folk-lore, I hope it will gain the attention of, and have some interest for, children--of Australian children, because they will find stories of old friends among the Bush birds; and of English children, because I hope that they will be glad to make new friends, and so establish a free trade between the Australian and English nurseries--wingless, and laughing birds, in exchange for fairy godmothers, and princes in disguise. I must also acknowledge my great indebtedness to the blacks, who, when once they understood what I wanted to know, were most ready to repeat to me the legends repeating with the utmost patience, time after time, not only the legends, but the names, that I might manage to spell them so as to be understood when repeated. In particular I should like to mention my indebtedness to Peter Hippi, king of the Noongahburrahs; and to Hippitha, Matah, Barahgurrie, and Beemunny. I have dedicated my booklet to Peter Hippi, in grateful recognition of his long and faithful service to myself and my husband, which has extended, with few intervals, over a period of twenty years. He, too, is probably the last king of the Noongabburrahs, who are fast dying out--, and soon their weapons, bartered by them for tobacco or whisky, alone will prove that they ever existed. It seemed to me a pity that some attempt should not be made to collect the folk-lore of the quickly disappearing tribe--a folk-lore embodying, probably, the thoughts, fancies, and beliefs of the genuine aboriginal race, and which, as such, deserves to be, indeed, as Max Muller says, "might be and ought to be, collected in every part of the world." The legends were told to me by the blacks themselves, some of whom remember the coming of Mitchellan, as they call Major Mitchell, the explorer of these back creeks. The old blacks laugh now when they tell you how frightened their mothers were of the first wheel tracks they saw. They would not let the children tread on them, but carefully lifted them over, lest their feet should break out in sores, as they were supposed to do if they trod on a snake's track. But with all their fear, little did they realise that the coming of Mitchellan was the beginning of their end, or that fifty years afterwards, from the remnant of their once numerous tribe, would be collected the legends they told in those days to their piccaninnies round their camp-fires, and those legends used to make a Christmas booklet for the children of their white supplanters. I can only hope that the white children will be as ready to listen to these stories as were, and indeed are, the little piccaninnies, and thus the sale of this booklet be such as to enable me to add frocks and tobacco when I give their Christmas dinner, as is my yearly custom, to the remnant of the Noongahburrahs. K. LANGLOH PARKER, BANGATE, NARRAN RIVER, NEW SOUTH WALES, June 24th, 1895. INTRODUCTION Australia makes an appeal to the fancy which is all its own. When Cortes entered Mexico, in the most romantic moment of history, it was as if men had found their way to a new planet, so strange, so long hidden from Europe was all that they beheld. Still they found kings, nobles, peasants, palaces, temples, a great organised society, fauna and flora not so very different from what they had left behind in Spain. In Australia all was novel, and, while seeming fresh, was inestimably old. The vegetation differs from ours; the monotonous grey gum-trees did not resemble our varied forests, but were antique, melancholy, featureless, like their own continent of rare hills, infrequent streams and interminable deserts, concealing nothing within their wastes, yet promising a secret. The birds and beasts--kangaroo, platypus, emu--are ancient types, rough grotesques of Nature, sketching as a child draws. The natives were a race without a history, far more antique than Egypt, nearer the beginnings than any other people. Their weapons are the most primitive: those of the extinct Tasmanians were actually palaeolithic. The soil holds no pottery, the cave walls no pictures drawn by men more advanced; the sea hides no ruined palaces; no cities are buried in the plains; there is not a trace of inscriptions or of agriculture. The burying places contain relics of men perhaps even lower than the existing tribes; nothing attests the presence in any age of men more cultivated. Perhaps myriads of years have gone by since the Delta, or the lands beside Euphrates and Tigris were as blank of human modification as was the whole Australian continent. The manners and rites of the natives were far the most archaic of all with which we are acquainted. Temples they had none: no images of gods, no altars of sacrifice; scarce any memorials of the dead. Their worship at best was offered in hymns to some vague, half-forgotten deity or First Maker of things, a god decrepit from age or all but careless of his children. Spirits were known and feared, but scarcely defined or described. Sympathetic magic, and perhaps a little hypnotism, were all their science. Kings and nations they knew not; they were wanderers, houseless and homeless. Custom was king; yet custom was tenacious, irresistible, and as complex in minute details as the etiquette of Spanish kings, or the ritual of the Flamens of Rome. The archaic intricacies and taboos of the customs and regulations of marriage might puzzle a mathematician, and may, when unravelled, explain the less complicated prohibitions of a totemism less antique. The people themselves in their struggle for existence had developed great ingenuities. They had the boomerang and the weet-weet, but not the bow; the throwing stick, but not, of course, the sword; the message stick, but no hieroglyphs; and their art was almost purely decorative, in geometrical patterns, not representative. They deemed themselves akin to all nature, and called cousins with rain and smoke, with clouds and sky, as well as with beasts and trees. They were adroit hunters, skilled trackers, born sportsmen; they now ride well, and, for savages, play cricket fairly. But, being invaded by the practical emigrant or the careless convict, the natives were not studied when in their prime, and science began to examine them almost too late. We have the works of Sir George Grey, the too brief pamphlet of Mr. Gideon Lang, the more learned labours of Messrs. Fison and Howitt, and the collections of Mr. Brough Smyth. The mysteries (Bora) of the natives, the initiatory rites, a little of the magic, a great deal of the social customs are known to us, and we have fragments of the myths. But, till Mrs. Langloh Parker wrote this book, we had but few of the stories which Australian natives tell by the camp-fire or in the gum-tree shade. These, for the most part, are KINDER MARCHEN, though they include many aetiological myths, explanatory of the markings and habits of animals, the origin of constellations, and so forth. They are a savage edition of the METAMORPHOSES, and few unbiased students now doubt that the METAMORPHOSES are a very late and very artificial version of traditional tales as savage in origin as those of the Noongahburrah. I have read Mrs. Parker's collection with very great interest, with "human pleasure," merely for the story's sake. Children will find here the Jungle Book, never before printed, of black little boys and girls. The sympathy with, and knowledge of beast-life and bird-life are worthy of Mr. Kipling, and the grotesque names are just what children like. Dinewan and Goomblegubbon should take their place with Rikki Tikki and Mr. Kipling's other delightful creatures. But there is here no Mowgli, set apart in the jungle as a man. Man, bird, and beast are all blended in the Australian fancy as in that of Bushmen and Red Indians. All are of one kindred, all shade into each other; all obey the Bush Law as they obey the Jungle Law in Mr. Kipling's fascinating stories. This confusion, of course, is not peculiar to Australian MARCHEN; it is the prevalent feature of our own popular tales. But the Australians "do it more natural:" the stories are not the heritage of a traditional and dead, but the flowers of a living and actual condition of the mind. The stories have not the ingenious dramatic turns of our own MARCHEN. Where there are no distinctions of wealth and rank, there can be no CINDERELLA and no PUSS IN BOOTS. Many stories are rude aetiological myths; they explain the habits and characteristics of the birds and beasts, and account in a familiar way for the origin of death ("Bahloo, the Moon, and the Daens"). The origin of fire is also accounted for in what may almost be called a scientific way. Once discovered, it is, of course, stolen from the original proprietors. A savage cannot believe that the first owners of fire would give the secret away. The inventors of the myth of Prometheus were of the same mind. On the whole the stories, perhaps, most resemble those from the Zulu in character, though these represent a much higher grade of civilisation. The struggle for food and water, desperately absorbing, is the perpetual theme, and no wonder, for the narrators dwell in a dry and thirsty land, and till not, nor sow, nor keep any domestic animals. We see the cunning of the savage in the devices for hunting, especially for chasing honey bees. The Rain-magic, actually practised, is of curious interest. In brief, we have pictures of savage life by savages, romances which are truly realistic. We understand that condition which Dr. Johnson did not think happy--the state from which we came, and to which we shall probably return. "Equality," "Liberty", "Community of Goods," all mean savagery, and even savages, if equal, are not really free. Custom is the tyrant. The designs are from the sketch-book of an untaught Australian native; they were given to me some years ago by my brother, Dr. Lang, of Corowa. The artist has a good deal of spirit in his hunting scenes; his trees are not ill done, his emus and kangaroos are better than his men and labras. Using ink, a pointed stick, and paper, the artist shows an unwonted freedom of execution. Nothing like this occurs in Australian scratches with a sharp stone on hard wood. Probably no other member of his dying race ever illustrated a book. ANDREW LANG. * * * * * 1. DINEWAN THE EMU, AND GOOMBLEGUBBON THE BUSTARD Dinewan the emu, being the largest bird, was acknowledged as king by the other birds. The Goomblegubbons, the bustards, were jealous of the Dinewans. Particularly was Goomblegubbon, the mother, jealous of the Diriewan mother. She would watch with envy the high flight of the Dinewans, and their swift running. And she always fancied that the Dinewan mother flaunted her superiority in her face, for whenever Dinewan alighted near Goomblegubbon, after a long, high flight, she would flap her big wings and begin booing in her pride, not the loud booing of the male bird, but a little, triumphant, satisfied booing noise of her own, which never failed to irritate Goomblegubbon when she heard it. Goomblegubbon used to wonder how she could put an end to Dinewan's supremacy. She decided that she would only be able to do so by injuring her wings and checking her power of flight. But the question that troubled her was how to effect this end. She knew she would gain nothing by having a quarrel with Dinewan and fighting her, for no Goomblegubbon would stand any chance against a Dinewan, There was evidently nothing to be gained by an open fight. She would have to effect her end by cunning. One day, when Goomblegubbon saw in the distance Dinewan coming towards her, she squatted down and doubled in her wings in such a way as to look as if she had none. After Dinewan had been talking to her for some time, Goomblegubbon said: "Why do you not imitate me and do without wings? Every bird flies. The Dinewans, to be the king of birds, should do without wings. When all the birds see that I can do without wings, they will think I am the cleverest bird and they will make a Goomblegubbon king." "But you have wings," said Dinewan. "No, I have no wings." And indeed she looked as if her words were true, so well were her wings hidden, as she squatted in the grass. Dinewan went away after awhile, and thought much of what she had heard. She talked it all over with her mate, who was as disturbed as she was. They made up their minds that it would never do to let the Goomblegubbons reign in their stead, even if they had to lose their wings to save their kingship. At length they decided on the sacrifice of their wings. The Dinewan mother showed the example by persuading her mate to cut off hers with a combo or stone tomahawk, and then she did the same to his. As soon as the operations were over, the Dinewan mother lost no time in letting Goomblegubbon know what they had done. She ran swiftly down to the plain on which she had left Goomblegubbon, and, finding her still squatting there, she said: "See, I have followed your example. I have now no wings. They are cut off." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Goomblegubbon, jumping up and dancing round with joy at the success of her plot. As she danced round, she spread out her wings, flapped them, and said: "I have taken you in, old stumpy wings. I have my wings yet. You are fine birds, you Dinewans, to be chosen kings, when you are so easily taken in. Ha! ha! ha!" And, laughing derisively, Goomblegubbon flapped her wings right in front of Dinewan, who rushed towards her to chastise her treachery. But Goomblegubbon flew away, and, alas! the now wingless Dinewan could not follow her. Brooding over her wrongs, Dinewan walked away, vowing she would be revenged. But how? That was the question which she and her mate failed to answer for some time. At length the Dinewan mother thought of a plan and prepared at once to execute it. She hid all her young Dinewans but two, under a big salt bush. Then she walked off to Goomblegubbons' plain with the two young ones following her. As she walked off the morilla ridge, where her home was, on to the plain, she saw Goomblegubbon out feeding with her twelve young ones. After exchanging a few remarks in a friendly manner with Goomblegubbon, she said to her, "Why do you not imitate me and only have two children? Twelve are too many to feed. If you keep so many they will never grow big birds like the Dinewans. The food that would make big birds of two would only starve twelve." Goomblegubbon said nothing, but she thought it might be so. It was impossible to deny that the young Dinewans were much bigger than the young Goomblegubbons, and, discontentedly, Goomblegubbon walked away, wondering whether the smallness of her young ones was owing to the number of them being so much greater than that of the Dinewans. It would be grand, she thought, to grow as big as the Dinewans. But she remembered the trick she had played on Dinewan, and she thought that perhaps she was being fooled in her turn. She looked back to where the Dinewans fed, and as she saw how much bigger the two young ones were than any of hers, once more mad envy of Dinewan possessed her. She determined she would not be outdone. Rather would she kill all her young ones but two. She said, "The Dinewans shall not be the king birds of the plains. The Goomblegubbons shall replace them. They shall grow as big as the Dinewans, and shall keep their wings and fly, which now the Dinewans cannot do." And straightway Goomblegubbon killed all her young ones but two. Then back she came to where the Dinewans were still feeding. When Dinewan saw her coming and noticed she had only two young ones with her, she called out: "Where are all your young ones?" Goomblegubbon answered, "I have killed them, and have only two left. Those will have plenty to eat now, and will soon grow as big as your young ones." "You cruel mother to kill your children. You greedy mother. Why, I have twelve children and I find food for them all. I would not kill one for anything, not even if by so doing I could get back my wings. There is plenty for all. Look at the emu bush how it covers itself with berries to feed my big family. See how the grasshoppers come hopping round, so that we can catch them and fatten on them." "But you have only two children." "I have twelve. I will go and bring them to show you." Dinewan ran off to her salt bush where she had hidden her ten young ones. Soon she was to be seen coming back. Running with her neck stretched forward, her head thrown back with pride, and the feathers of her boobootella swinging as she ran, booming out the while her queer throat noise, the Dinewan song of joy, the pretty, soft-looking little ones with their zebra-striped skins, running beside her whistling their baby Dinewan note. When Dinewan reached the place where Goomblegubbon was, she stopped her booing and said in a solemn tone, "Now you see my words are true, I have twelve young ones, as I said. You can gaze at my loved ones and think of your poor murdered children. And while you do so I will tell you the fate of your descendants for ever. By trickery and deceit you lost the Dinewans their wings, and now for evermore, as long as a Dinewan has no wings, so long shall a Goomblegubbon lay only two eggs and have only two young ones. We are quits now. You have your wings and I my children." And ever since that time a Dinewan, or emu, has had no wings, and a Goomblegubbon, or bustard of the plains, has laid only two eggs in a season. 2. THE GALAH, AND OOLAH THE LIZARD Oolah the lizard was tired of lying in the sun, doing nothing. So he said, "I will go and play." He took his boomerangs out, and began to practise throwing them. While he was doing so a Galah came up, and stood near, watching the boomerangs come flying back, for the kind of boomerangs Oolah was throwing were the bubberahs. They are smaller than others, and more curved, and when they are properly thrown they return to the thrower, which other boomerangs do not. Oolah was proud of having the gay Galah to watch his skill. In his pride he gave the bubberah an extra twist, and threw it with all his might. Whizz, whizzing through the air, back it came, hitting, as it passed her, the Galah on the top of her head, taking both feathers and skin clean off. The Galah set up a hideous, cawing, croaking shriek, and flew about, stopping every few minutes to knock her head on the ground like a mad bird. Oolah was so frightened when he saw what he had done, and noticed that the blood was flowing from the Galah's head, that he glided away to hide under a bindeah bush. But the Galah saw him. She never stopped the hideous noise she was making for a minute, but, still shrieking, followed Oolah. When she reached the bindeah bush she rushed at Oolah, seized him with her beak, rolled him on the bush until every bindeah had made a hole in his skin. Then she rubbed his skin with her own bleeding head. "Now then," she said, "you Oolah shall carry bindeahs on you always, and the stain of my blood." "And you," said Oolah, as he hissed with pain from the tingling of the prickles, "shall be a bald-headed bird as long as I am a red prickly lizard." So to this day, underneath the Galah's crest you can always find the bald patch which the bubberah of Oolah first made. And in the country of the Galahs are lizards coloured reddish brown, and covered with spikes like bindeah prickles. 3. BAHLOO THE MOON AND THE DAENS Bahloo the moon looked down at the earth one night, when his light was shining quite brightly, to see if any one was moving. When the earth people were all asleep was the time he chose for playing with his three dogs. He called them dogs, but the earth people called them snakes, the death adder, the black snake, and the tiger snake. As he looked down on to the earth, with his three dogs beside him, Bahloo saw about a dozen daens, or black fellows, crossing a Creek. He called to them saying, "Stop, I want you to carry my dogs across that creek." But the black fellows, though they liked Bahloo well, did not like his dogs, for sometimes when he had brought these dogs to play on the earth, they had bitten not only the earth dogs but their masters; and the poison left by the bites had killed those bitten. So the black fellows said, "No, Bahloo, we are too frightened; your dogs might bite us. They are not like our dogs, whose bite would not kill us." Bahloo said, "If you do what I ask you, when you die you shall come to life again, not die and stay always where you are put when you are dead. See this piece of bark. I throw it into the water." And he threw a piece of bark into the creek. "See it comes to the top again and floats. That is what would happen to you if you would do what I ask you: first under when you die, then up again at once. If you will not take my dogs over, you foolish daens, you will die like this," and he threw a stone into the creek, which sank to the bottom. "You will be like that stone, never rise again, Wombah daens!" But the black fellows said, "We cannot do it, Bahloo. We are too frightened of your dogs." "I will come down and carry them over myself to show you that they are quite safe and harmless." And down he came, the black snake coiled round one arm, the tiger snake round the other, and the death adder on his shoulder, coiled towards his neck. He carried them over. When he had crossed the creek he picked up a big stone, and he threw it into the water, saying, "Now, you cowardly daens, you would not do what I, Bahloo, asked you to do, and so forever you have lost the chance of rising again after you die. You will just stay where you are put, like that stone does under the water, and grow, as it does, to be part of the earth. If you had done what I asked you, you could have died as often as I die, and have come to life as often as I come to life. But now you will only be black fellows while you live, and bones when you are dead." Bahloo looked so cross, and the three snakes hissed so fiercely, that the black fellows were very glad to see them disappear from their sight behind the trees. The black fellows had always been frightened of Bahloo's dogs, and now they hated them, and they said, "If we could get them away from Bahloo we would kill them." And thenceforth, whenever they saw a snake alone they killed it. But Babloo only sent more, for he said, "As long as there are black fellows there shall be snakes to remind them that they would not do what I asked them." 4. THE ORIGIN OF THE NARRAN LAKE Old Byamee said to his two young wives, Birrahgnooloo and Cunnunbeillee, "I have stuck a white feather between the hind legs of a bee, and am going to let it go and then follow it to its nest, that I may get honey. While I go for the honey, go you two out and get frogs and yams, then meet me at Coorigel Spring, where we will camp, for sweet and clear is the water there." The wives, taking their goolays and yam sticks, went out as he told them. Having gone far, and dug out many yams and frogs, they were tired when they reached Coorigel, and, seeing the cool, fresh water, they longed to bathe. But first they built a bough shade, and there left their goolays holding their food, and the yams and frogs they had found. When their camp was ready for the coming of Byamee, who having wooed his wives with a nullah-nullah, kept them obedient by fear of the same weapon, then went the girls to the spring to bathe. Gladly they plunged in, having first divested them selves of their goomillahs, which they were still young enough to wear, and which they left on the ground near the spring. Scarcely were they enjoying the cool rest the water gave their hot, tired limbs, when they were seized and swallowed by two kurreahs. Having swallowed the girls, the kurreahs dived into an opening in the side of the spring, which was the entrance to an underground watercourse leading to the Narran River. Through this passage they went, taking all the water from the spring with them into the Narran, whose course they also dried as they went along. Meantime Byamee, unwitting the fate of his wives, was honey hunting. He had followed the bee with the white feather on it for some distance; then the bee flew on to some budtha flowers, and would move no further. Byamee said, "Something has happened, or the bee would not stay here and refuse to be moved on towards its nest. I must go to Coorigel Spring and see if my wives are safe. Something terrible has surely happened." And Byamee turned in haste towards the spring. When he reached there he saw the bough shed his wives had made, he saw the yams they had dug from the ground, and he saw the frogs, but Birrahgnooloo and Cunnunbeillee he saw not. He called aloud for them. But no answer. He went towards the spring; on the edge of it he saw the goomillahs of his wives. He looked into the spring and, seeing it dry, he said, "It is the work of the kurreahs; they have opened the underground passage and gone with my wives to the river, and opening the passage has dried the spring. Well do I know where the passage joins the Narran, and there will I swiftly go." Arming himself with spears and woggarahs he started in pursuit. He soon reached the deep hole where the underground channel of the Coorigel joined the Narran. There he saw what he had never seen before, namely, this deep hole dry. And he said: "They have emptied the holes as they went along, taking the water with them. But well know I the deep holes of the river. I will not follow the bend, thus trebling the distance I have to go, but I will cut across from big hole to big hole, and by so doing I may yet get ahead of the kurreahs." On swiftly sped Byamee, making short cuts from big hole to big hole, and his track is still marked by the morilla ridges that stretch down the Narran, pointing in towards the deep holes. Every hole as he came to it he found dry, until at last he reached the end of the Narran; the hole there was still quite wet and muddy, then he knew he was near his enemies, and soon he saw them. He managed to get, unseen, a little way ahead of the kurreahs. He hid himself behind a big dheal tree. As the kurreahs came near they separated, one turning to go in another direction. Quickly Byamee hurled one spear after another, wounding both kurreahs, who writhed with pain and lashed their tails furiously, making great hollows in the ground, which the water they had brought with them quickly filled. Thinking they might again escape him, Byamee drove them from the water with his spears, and then, at close quarters, he killed them with his woggarahs. And ever afterwards at flood time, the Narran flowed into this hollow which the kurreahs in their writhings had made. When Byamee saw that the kurreahs were quite dead, he cut them open and took out the bodies of his wives. They were covered with wet slime, and seemed quite lifeless; but he carried them and laid them on two nests of red ants. Then he sat down at some little distance and watched them. The ants quickly covered the bodies, cleaned them rapidly of the wet slime, and soon Byamee noticed the muscles of the girls twitching. "Ah," he said, "there is life, they feel the sting of the ants." Almost as he spoke came a sound as of a thunder-clap, but the sound seemed to come from the ears of the girls. And as the echo was dying away, slowly the girls rose to their feet. For a moment they stood apart, a dazed expression on their faces. Then they clung together, shaking as if stricken with a deadly fear. But Byamee came to them and explained how they had been rescued from the kurreahs by him. He bade them to beware of ever bathing in the deep holes of the Narran, lest such holes be the haunt of kurreahs. Then he bade them look at the water now at Boogira, and he said: "Soon will the black swans find their way here, the pelicans and the ducks; where there was dry land and stones in the past, in the future there will be water and water-fowl, from henceforth; when the Narran runs it will run into this hole, and by the spreading of its waters will a big lake be made." And what Byamee said has come to pass, as the Narran Lake shows, with its large sheet of water, spreading for miles, the home of thousands of wild fowl. 5. GOOLOO THE MAGPIE, AND THE WAHROOGAH Gooloo was a very old woman, and a very wicked old woman too, as this story will tell. During all the past season, when the grass was thick with seed, she had gathered much doonburr, which she crushed into meal as she wanted it for food. She used to crush it on a big flat stone with small flat stones--the big stone was called a dayoorl. Gooloo ground a great deal of the doonburr seed to put away for immediate use, the rest she kept whole, to be ground as required. Soon after she had finished her first grinding, a neighbouring tribe came along and camped near where she was. One day the men all went out hunting, leaving the women and the children in the camp. After the men had been gone a little while, Gooloo the magpie came to their camp to talk to the women. She said, "Why do you not go hunting too? Many are the nests of the wurranunnahs round here, and thick is the honey in them. Many and ripe are the bumbles hanging now on the humble trees; red is the fruit of the grooees, and opening with ripeness the fruit of the guiebets. Yet you sit in the camp and hunger, until your husbands return with the dinewan and bowrah they have gone forth to slay. Go, women, and gather of the plenty that surrounds you. I will take care of your children, the little Wahroogabs." "Your words are wise," the women said. "It is foolish to sit here and hunger, when near at hand yams are thick in the ground, and many fruits wait but the plucking. We will go and fill quickly our comebees and goolays, but our children we will take with us." "Not so," said Gooloo, "foolish indeed were you to do that. You would tire the little feet of those that run, and tire yourselves with the burden of those that have to be carried. No, take forth your comebees and goolays empty, that ye may bring back the more. Many are the spoils that wait only the hand of the gatherer. Look ye, I have a durrie made of fresh doonburr seed, cooking just now on that bark between two fires; that shall your children eat, and swiftly shall I make them another. They shall eat and be full ere their mothers are out of sight. See, they come to me now, they hunger for durrie, and well will I feed them. Haste ye then, that ye may return in time to make ready the fires for cooking the meat your husbands will bring. Glad will your husbands be when they see that ye have filled your goolays and comebees with fruits, and your wirrees with honey. Haste ye, I say, and do well." Having listened to the words of Gooloo, the women decided to do as she said, and, leaving their children with her, they started forth with empty comebees, and armed with combos, with which to chop out the bees' nests and opossums, and with yam sticks to dig up yams. When the women had gone, Gooloo gathered the children round her and fed them with durrie, hot from the coals. Honey, too, she gave them, and bumbles which she had buried to ripen. When they had eaten, she hurried them off to her real home, built in a hollow tree, a little distance away from where she had been cooking her durrie. Into her house she hurriedly thrust them, followed quickly herself, and made all secure. Here she fed them again, but the children had already satisfied their hunger, and now they missed their mothers and began to cry. Their crying reached the ears of the women as they were returning to their camp. Quickly they came at the sound which is not good in a mother's ears. As they quickened their steps they thought how soon the spoils that lay heavy in their comebees would comfort their children. And happy they, the mothers, would feel when they fed the Wahroogahs with the dainties they had gathered for them. Soon they reached the camp, but, alas! where were their children? And where was Gooloo the magpie? "They are playing wahgoo," they said, "and have hidden themselves." The mothers hunted all round for them, and called aloud the names of their children and Gooloo. But no answer could they hear and no trace could they find. And yet every now and then they heard the sound of children wailing. But seek as they would they found them not. Then loudly wailed the mothers themselves for their lost Wahroogahs, and, wailing, returned to the camp to wait the coming of the black fellows. Heavy were their hearts, and sad were their faces when their husbands returned. They hastened to tell the black fellows when they came, how Gooloo had persuaded them to go hunting, promising if they did so that she would feed the hungry Wahroogahs, and care for them while they were away, but--and here they wailed again for their poor Wahroogahs. They told how they had listened to her words and gone; truth had she told of the plenty round, their comebees and goolays were full of fruits and spoils they had gathered, but, alas! they came home with them laden only to find their children gone and Gooloo gone too. And no trace could they find of either, though at times they heard a sound as of children wailing. Then wroth were the men, saying: "What mothers are ye to leave your young to a stranger, and that stranger a Gooloo, ever a treacherous race? Did we not go forth to gain food for you and our children? Saw ye ever your husbands return from the chase empty handed? Then why, when ye knew we were gone hunting, must ye too go forth and leave our helpless ones to a stranger? Oh, evil, evil indeed is the time that has come when a mother forgets her child. Stay ye in the camp while we go forth to hunt for our lost Wahroogahs. Heavy will be our hands on the women if we return without them." The men hunted the bush round for miles, but found no trace of the lost Wahroogahs, though they too heard at times a noise as of children's voices wailing. But beyond the wailing which echoed in the mothers' ears for ever, no trace was found of the children. For many days the women sat in the camp mourning for their lost Wahroogahs, and beating their heads because they had listened to the voice of Gooloo. 6. THE WEEOONIBEENS AND THE PIGGIEBILLAH Two Weeoombeen brothers went out hunting. One brother was much younger than the other and smaller, so when they sighted an emu, the elder one said to the younger: "You stay quietly here and do not make a noise, or Piggiebillah, whose camp we passed just now, will hear you and steal the emu if I kill it. He is so strong. I'll go on and try to kill the emu with this stone." The little Weeoombeen watched his big brother sneak up to the emu, crawling along, almost flat, on the ground. He saw him get quite close to the emu, then spring up quickly and throw the stone with such an accurate aim as to kill the bird on the spot. The little brother was so rejoiced that he forgot his brother's caution, and he called aloud in his joy. The big Weeoombeen looked round and gave him a warning sign, but too late, Piggiebillah had heard the cry and was hastening towards them. Quickly big Weeoombeen left the emu and joined his little brother. Piggiebillah, when he came up, said: "What have you found?" "Nothing," said the big Weeoombeen, "nothing but some mistletoe berries." "It must have been something more than that, or your little brother would not have called out so loudly." Little Weeoombeen was so afraid that Piggiebillah would find their emu and take it, that he said: "I hit a little bird with a stone, and I was glad I could throw so straight." "It was no cry for the killing of a little bird or for the finding of mistletoe berries that I heard. It was for something much more than either, or you would not have called out so joyfully. If you do not tell me at once I will kill you both." The Weeoombeen brothers were frightened, for Piggiebillah was a great fighter and very strong, so when they saw he was really angry, they showed him the dead emu. "Just what I want for my supper," he said, and so saying, dragged it away to his own camp. The Weeoombeens followed him and even helped him to make a fire to cook the emu, hoping by so doing to get a share given to them. But Piggiebillah would not give them any; he said he must have it all for himself. Angry and disappointed, the Weeoombeens marched straight off and told some black fellows who lived near, that Piggiebillah had a fine fat emu just cooked for supper. Up jumped the black fellows, seized their spears, bade the Weeoombeens quickly lead them to Piggiebillah's camp, promising them for so doing a share of the emu. When they were within range of spear shot, the black fellows formed a circle, took aim, and threw their spears at Piggiebillah. As the spears fell thick on him, sticking out all over him, Piggiebillah cried aloud: "Bingehlah, Bingeblah. You can have it, you can have it." But the black fellows did not desist until Piggiebillah was too wounded even to cry out; then they left him a mass of spears and turned to look for the emu. But to their surprise they found it not. Then for the first time they missed the Weeoombeens. Looking round they saw their tracks going to where the emu had evidently been; then they saw that they had dragged the emu to their nyunnoo, which was a humpy made of grass. When the Weeoombeens saw the black fellows coming, they caught hold of the emu and dragged it to a big hole they knew of, with a big stone at its entrance, which stone only they knew the secret of moving. They moved the stone, got the emu and themselves into the hole, and the stone in place again before the black fellows reached the place. The black fellows tried to move the stone, but could not. Yet they knew that the Weeoombeens must have done so, for they had tracked them right up to it, and they could hear the sound of their voices on the other side of it. They saw there was a crevice on either side of the stone, between it and the ground. Through these crevices they, drove in their spears, thinking they must surely kill the brothers. But the Weeoombeens too had seen these crevices and had anticipated the spears, so they had placed the dead emu before them to act as a shield. And into its body were driven the spears of the black fellows extended for the Weeoombeens. Having driven the spears well in, the black fellows went off to get help to move the stone, but when they had gone a little way they heard the Weeoombeens laughing. Back they came and speared again, and again started for help, only as they left to hear once more the laughter of the brothers. The Weeoombeens finding their laughter only brought back the black fellows to a fresh attack, determined to keep quiet, which, after the next spearing, they did. Quite sure, when they heard their spear shots followed by neither conversation nor laughter, that they had killed the Weeoombeens at last, the black fellows hurried away to bring back the strength and cunning of the camp, to remove the stone. The Weeoombeens hurriedly discussed what plan they had better adopt to elude the black fellows, for well they knew that should they ever meet any of them again they would be killed without mercy. And as they talked they satisfied their hunger by eating some of the emu flesh. After a while the black fellows returned, and soon was the stone removed from the entrance. Some of them crept into the hole, where, to their surprise, they found only the remains of the emu and no trace of the Weeoombeens. As those who had gone in first crept out and told of the disappearance of the Weeoombeens, others, incredulous of such a story, crept in to find it confirmed. They searched round for tracks; seeing that their spears were all in the emu it seemed to them probable the Weeoombeens had escaped alive, but if so, whither they had gone their tracks would show. But search as they would no tracks could they find. All they could see were two little birds which sat on a bush near the hole, watching the black fellows all the time. The little birds flew round the hole sometimes, but never away, always returning to their bush and seeming to be discussing the whole affair; but what they said the black fellows could not understand. But as time went on and no sign was ever found of the Weeoombeens, the black fellows became sure that the brothers had turned into the little white-throated birds which had sat on the bush by the hole, so, they supposed, to escape their vengeance. And ever afterwards the little white-throats were called Weeoombeens. And the memory of Piggiebillah is perpetuated by a sort of porcupine ant-eater, which bears his name, and whose skin is covered closely with miniature spears sticking all over it. 7. BOOTOOLGAH THE CRANE AND GOONUR THE KANGAROO RAT, THE FIRE MAKERS In the days when Bootoolgah, the crane, married Goonur, the kangaroo rat, there was no fire in their country. They had to eat their food raw or just dry it in the sun. One day when Bootoolgah was rubbing two pieces of wood together, he saw a faint spark sent forth and then a slight smoke. "Look," he said to Goonur, "see what comes when I rub these pieces of wood together--smoke! Would it not be good if we could make fire for ourselves with which to cook our food, so as not to have to wait for the sun to dry it?" Goonur looked, and, seeing the smoke, she said: "Great indeed would be the day when we could make fire. Split your stick, Bootoolgah, and place in the opening bark and grass that even one spark may kindle a light." And hearing wisdom in her words, even as she said Bootoolgah did. And lo! after much rubbing, from the opening came a small flame. For as Goonur had said it would, the spark lit the grass, the bark smouldered and smoked, and so Bootoolgah the crane, and Goonur the kangaroo rat, discovered the art of fire making. "This we will keep secret," they said, "from all the tribes. When we make a fire to cook our fish we will go into a Bingahwingul scrub. There we will make a fire and cook our food in secret. We will hide our firesticks in the openmouthed seeds of the Bingahwinguls; one firestick we will carry always hidden in our comebee." Bootoolgah and Goonur cooked the next fish they caught, and found it very good. When they went back to the camp they took some of their cooked fish with them. The blacks noticed it looked quite different from the usual sun-dried fish, so they asked: "What did you to that fish?" "Let it lie in the sun," said they. "Not so," said the others. But that the fish was sun-dried Bootoolgah and Goonur persisted. Day by day passed, and after catching their fish, these two always disappeared, returning with their food looking quite different from that of the others. At last, being unable to extract any information from them, it was determined by the tribe to watch them. Boolooral, the night owl, and Quarrian, the parrot, were appointed to follow the two when they disappeared, to watch where they went, and find out what they did. Accordingly, after the next fish were caught, when Bootoolgah and Goonur gathered up their share and started for the bush, Boolooral and Quarrian followed on their tracks. They saw them disappear into a Bingahwingul scrub, where they lost sight of them. Seeing a high tree on the edge of the scrub, they climbed up it, and from there they saw all that was to be seen. They saw Bootoolgah and Goonur throw down their load of fish, open their comebee and take from it a stick, which stick, when they had blown upon it, they laid in the midst of a heap of leaves and twigs, and at once from this heap they saw a flame leap, which flame the fire makers fed with bigger sticks. Then, as the flame died down, they saw the two place their fish in the ashes that remained from the burnt sticks. Then back to the camp of their tribes went Boolooral and Quarrian, back with the news of their discovery. Great was the talk amongst the blacks, and many the queries as to how to get possession of the comebee with the fire stick in it, when next Bootoolgah and Goonur came into the camp. It was at length decided to hold a corrobboree, and it was to be one on a scale not often seen, probably never before by the young of the tribes. The grey beards proposed to so astonish Bootoolgah and Goonur as to make them forget to guard their precious comebee. As soon as they were intent on the corrobboree and off guard, some one was to seize the comebee, steal the firestick and start fires for the good of all. Most of them had tasted the cooked fish brought into the camp by the fire makers and, having found it good, hungered for it. Beeargah, the hawk, was told to feign sickness, to tie up his head, and to lie down near wherever the two sat to watch the corrobboree. Lying near them, he was to watch them all the time, and when they were laughing and unthinking of anything but the spectacle before them, he was to steal the comebee. Having arranged their plan of action, they all prepared for a big corrobboree. They sent word to all the surrounding tribes, asking them to attend, especially they begged the Bralgahs to come, as they were celebrated for their wonderful dancing, which was so wonderful as to be most likely to absorb the attention of the firemakers. All the tribes agreed to come, and soon all were engaged in great preparations. Each determined to outdo the other in the quaintness and brightness of their painting for the corrobboree. Each tribe as they arrived gained great applause; never before had the young people seen so much diversity in colouring and design. Beeleer, the Black Cockatoo tribe, came with bright splashes of orange-red on their black skins. The Pelicans came as a contrast, almost pure white, only a touch here and there of their black skin showing where the white paint had rubbed off. The Black Divers came in their black skins, but these polished to shine like satin. Then came the Millears, the beauties of the Kangaroo Rat family, who had their home on the morillas. After them came the Buckandeer or Native Cat tribe, painted in dull colours, but in all sorts of patterns. Mairas or Paddymelons came too in haste to take part in the great corrobboree. After them, walking slowly, came the Bralgahs, looking tall and dignified as they held up their red heads, painted so in contrast to their French-grey bodies, which they deemed too dull a colour, unbrightened, for such a gay occasion. Amongst the many tribes there, too numerous to mention, were the rose and grey painted Galabs, the green and crimson painted Billai; most brilliant were they with their bodies grass green and their sides bright crimson, so afterwards gaining them the name of crimson wings. The bright little Gidgereegahs came too. Great was the gathering that Bootoolgah, the crane, and Goonur, the kangaroo rat, found assembled as they hurried on to the scene. Bootoolgah had warned Goonur that they must only be spectators, and take no active part in the corrobboree, as they had to guard their combee. Obedient to his advice, Goonur seated herself beside him and slung the comebee over her arm. Bootoolgah warned her to be careful and not forget she had it. But as the corrobboree went on, so absorbed did she become that she forgot the comebee, which slipped from her arm. Happily, Bootoolgah saw it do so, replaced it, and bade her take heed, so baulking Beeargah, who had been about to seize it, for his vigilance was unceasing, and, deeming him sick almost unto death, the two whom lie was watching took no heed of him. Back he crouched, moaning as he turned, but keeping ever an eye on Goonur. And soon was he rewarded. Now came the turn of the Bralgahs to dance, and every eye but that of the watchful one was fixed on them as slowly they came into the ring. First they advanced, bowed and retired, then they repeated what they had done before, and again, each time getting faster and faster in their movements, changing their bows into pirouettes, craning their long necks and making such antics as they went through the figures of their dance, and replacing their dignity with such grotesqueness, as to make their large audience shake with laughter, they themselves keeping throughout all their grotesque measures a solemn air, which only seemed to heighten the effect of their antics. And now came the chance of Beeargah the hawk. In the excitement of the moment Goonur forgot the comebee, as did Bootoolgah. They joined in the mirthful applause of the crowd, and Goonur threw herself back helpless with laughter. As she did so the comebee slipped from her arm. Then up jumped the sick man from behind her, seized the comebee with his combo, cut it open, snatched forth the firestick, set fire to the heap of grass ready near where he had lain, and all before the two realised their loss. When they discovered the precious comebee was gone, up jumped Bootoolgah and Goonur. After Beeargah ran Bootoolgah, but Beeargah had a start and was fleeter of foot, so distanced his pursuer quickly. As he ran he fired the grass with the stick he still held. Bootoolgah, finding he could not catch Beeargah, and seeing fires everywhere, retired from the pursuit, feeling it was useless now to try and guard their secret, for it had now become the common property of all the tribes there assembled. 8. WEEDAH THE MOCKING BIRD Weedah was playing a great trick on the black fellows who lived near him. He had built himself a number of grass nyunnoos, more than twenty. He made fires before each, to make it look as if some one lived in the nyunnoos. First he would go into one nyunnoo, or humpy, and cry like a baby, then to another and laugh like a child, then in turn, as he went the round of the humpies he would sing like a maiden, corrobboree like a man, call out in a quavering voice like an old man, and in a shrill voice like an old woman; in fact, imitate any sort of voice he had ever heard, and imitate them so quickly in succession that any one passing would think there was a great crowd of blacks in that camp. His object was to entice as many strange black fellows into his camp as he could, one at a time; then he would kill them and gradually gain the whole country round for his own. His chance was when he managed to get a single black fellow into his camp, which he very often did, then by his cunning he always gained his end and the black fellow's death. This was how he attained that end. A black fellow, probably separated from his fellows in the excitement of the chase, would be returning home alone passing within earshot of Weedah's camp he would hear the various voices and wonder what tribe could be there. Curiosity would induce him to come near. He would probably peer into the camp, and, only seeing Weedah standing alone, would advance towards him. Weedah would be standing at a little distance from a big glowing fire, where he would wait until the strange black fellow came quite close to him. Then he would ask him what he wanted. The stranger would say he had heard many voices and had wondered what tribe it could be, so had come near to find out. Weedah would say, "But only I am here. How could you have heard voices? See; look round; I am alone." Bewildered, the stranger would look round and say in a puzzled tone of voice: "Where are they all gone? As I came I heard babies crying, men calling, and women laughing; many voices I heard but you only I see." "And only I am here. The wind must have stirred the branches of the balah trees, and you must have thought it was the wailing of children, the laughing of the gouggourgahgah you heard, and thought it the laughter of women and mine must have been the voice as of men that you heard. Alone in the bush, as the shadows fall, a man breeds strange fancies. See by the light of this fire, where are your fancies now? No women laugh, no babies cry, only I, Weedah, talk." As Weedah was talking he kept edging the stranger towards the fire; when they were quite close to it, he turned swiftly, seized him, and threw him right into the middle of the blaze. This scene was repeated time after time, until at last the ranks of the black fellows living round the camp of Weedah began to get thin. Mullyan, the eagle hawk, determined to fathom the mystery, for as yet the black fellows had no clue as to how or where their friends had disappeared. Mullyan, when Beeargah, his cousin, returned to his camp no more, made up his mind to get on his track and follow it, until at length he solved the mystery. After following the track of Beeargah, as he had chased the kangaroo to where he had slain it, on he followed his homeward trail. Over stony ground he tracked him, and through sand, across plains, and through scrub. At last in a scrub and still on the track of Beeargah, he heard the sounds of many voices, babies crying, women singing, men talking. Peering through the bush, finding the track took him nearer the spot whence came the sounds, he saw the grass humpies. "Who can these be?" he thought. The track led him right into the camp, where alone Weedah was to be seen. Mullyan advanced towards him and asked where were the people whose voices he had heard as he came through the bush. Weedah said: "How can I tell you? I know of no people; I live alone." "But," said Mullyan, the eagle hawk, "I heard babies crying, women laughing, and men talking, not one but many." "And I alone am here. Ask of your cars what trick they played you, or perhaps your eyes fail you now. Can you see any but me? Look for yourself." "And if, as indeed it seems, you only are here, what did you with Beeargah my cousin, and where are my friends? Many are their trails that I see coming into this camp, but none going out. And if you alone live here you alone can answer me." "What know I of you or your friends? Nothing. Ask of the winds that blow. Ask of Bahloo the moon, who looks down on the earth by night. Ask of Yhi the sun, that looks down by day. But ask not Weedah, who dwells alone, and knows naught of your friends." But as Weedah was talking he was carefully edging Mullyan towards the fire. Mullyan, the eagle hawk, too, was cunning, and not easy to trap. He saw a blazing fire in front of him, lie saw the track of his friend behind him, he saw Weedah was edging him towards the fire, and it came to him in a moment the thought that if the fire could speak, well could it tell where were his friends. But the time was not yet come to show that he had fathomed the mystery. So he affected to fall into the trap. But when they reached the fire, before Weedah had time to act his usual part, with a mighty grip Mullyan the eagle hawk seized him, saying, "Even as you served Beeargah the hawk, my cousin, and my friends, so now serve I you." And right into the middle of the blazing fire he threw him. Then he turned homewards in haste, to tell the black fellows that he had solved the fate of their friends, which had so long been a mystery. When he was some distance from the Weedah's camp, he heard the sound of a thunder clap. But it was not thunder it was the bursting of the back of Weedah's head, which had burst with a bang as of a thunder clap. And as it burst, out from his remains had risen a bird, Weedah, the mocking bird; which bird to this day has a hole at the back of his head, just in the same place as Weedah the black fellow's head had burst, and whence the bird came forth. To this day the Weedah makes grass playgrounds, through which he runs, imitating, as he plays, in quick succession, any voices he has ever heard, from the crying of a child to the laughing of a woman; from the mewing of a cat to the barking of a dog, and hence his name Weedah, the mocking bird. 9. THE GWINEEBOOS THE REDBREASTS Gwineeboo and Goomai, the water rat, were down at the creek one day, getting mussels for food, when, to their astonishment, a kangaroo hopped right into the water beside them. Well they knew that he must be escaping from hunters, who were probably pressing him close. So Gwineeboo quickly seized her yam stick, and knocked the kangaroo on the head; he was caught fast in the weeds in the creek, so could not escape. When the two old women had killed the kangaroo they hid its body under the weeds in the creek, fearing to take it out and cook it straight away, lest the hunters should come up and claim it. The little son of Gwineeboo watched them from the bank. After having hidden the kangaroo, the women picked up their mussels and started for their camp, when up came the hunters, Quarrian and Gidgereegah, who had tracked the kangaroo right to the creek. Seeing the women they said: "Did you see a kangaroo?" The women answered: "No. We saw no kangaroo." "That is strange, for we have tracked it right up to here." "We have seen no kangaroo. See, we have been digging out mussels for food. Come to our camp, and we will give you some when they are cooked." The young men, puzzled in their minds, followed the women to their camp, and when the mussels were cooked the hunters joined the old women at their dinner. The little boy would not eat the mussels; he kept crying to his mother, "Gwineeboo, Gwineeboo. I want kangaroo. I want kangaroo. Gwineeboo. Gwineeboo." "There," said Quarrian. "Your little boy has seen the kangaroo, and wants some; it must be here somewhere." "Oh, no. He cries for anything he thinks of, some days for kangaroo; he is only a little boy, and does not know what he wants," said old Gwineeboo. But still the child kept saying, "Gwineeboo. Gwinceboo. I want kangaroo. I want kangaroo." Goomai was so angry with little Gwineeboo for keeping on asking for kangaroo, and thereby making the young men suspicious, that she hit him so hard on the mouth to keep him quiet, that the blood came, and trickled down his breast, staining it red. When she saw this, old Gwineeboo grew angry in her turn, and hit old Goomai, who returned the blow, and so a fight began, more words than blows, so the noise was great, the women fighting, little Gwineeboo crying, not quite knowing whether he was crying because Goomai had hit him, because his mother was fighting, or because he still wanted kangaroo. Quarrian said to Gidgereegah. "They have the kangaroo somewhere hidden; let us slip away now in the confusion. We will only hide, then come back in a little while, and surprise them." They went quietly away, and as soon as the two women noticed they had gone, they ceased fighting, and determined to cook the kangaroo. They watched the two young men out of sight, and waited some time so as to be sure that they were safe. Then down they hurried to get the kangaroo. They dragged it out, and were just making a big fire on which to cook it, when up came Quarrian and Gidgereegah, saying: "Ah! we thought so. You had our kangaroo all the time; little Gwinceboo was right." "But we killed it," said the women. "But we hunted it here," said the men, and so saying caught hold of the kangaroo and dragged it away to some distance, where they made a fire and cooked it. Goomai, Gwineeboo, and her little boy went over to Quarrian and Gidgereegah, and begged for some of the meat, but the young men would give them none, though little Gwineeboo cried piteously for some. But no; they said they would rather throw what they did not want to the hawks than give it to the women or child. At last, seeing that there was no hope of their getting any, the women went away. They built a big dardurr for themselves, shutting themselves and the little boy up in it. Then they began singing a song which was to invoke a storm to destroy their enemies, for so now they considered Quarrian and Gidgereegah. For some time they chanted: "Moogaray, Moogaray, May, May, Eehu, Eehu, Doongarah." First they would begin very slowly and softly, gradually getting quicker and louder, until at length they almost shrieked it out. The words they said meant, "Come hailstones; come wind; come rain; come lightning." While they were chanting, little Gwineeboo kept crying, and would not be comforted. Soon came a few big drops of rain, then a big wind, and as that lulled, more rain. Then came thunder and lightning, the air grew bitterly cold, and there came a pitiless hailstorm, hailstones bigger than a duck's egg fell, cutting the leaves from the trees and bruising their bark. Gidgereegah and Quarrian came running over to the dardurr and begged the women to let them in. "No," shrieked Gwineeboo above the storm, "there was no kangaroo meat for us: there is no dardurr shelter for you. Ask shelter of the hawks whom ye fed." The men begged to be let in, said they would hunt again and get kangaroo for the women, not one but many. "No," again shrieked the women. "You would not even listen to the crying of a little child; it is better such as you should perish." And fiercer raged the storm and louder sang the women: "Moogaray, Moogaray, May, May, Eehu, Eehu, Doongarah." So long and so fierce was the storm that the young men must have perished had they not been changed into birds. First they were changed into birds and afterwards into stars in the sky, where they now are, Gidgereegah and Ouarrian with the kangaroo between them, still bearing the names that they bore on the earth. 10. MEAMEI THE SEVEN SISTERS Wurrunnah had had a long day's hunting, and he came back to the camp tired and hungry. He asked his old mother for durrie, but she said there was none left. Then he asked some of the other blacks to give him some doonburr seeds that he might make durrie for himself, But no one would give him anything. He flew into a rage and he said, "I will go to a far country and live with strangers; my own people would starve me." And while he was yet hot and angry, he went. Gathering up his weapons, he strode forth to find a new people in a new country. After he had gone some distance, he saw, a long way off, an old man chopping out bees' nests. The old man turned his face towards Wurrunnah, and watched him coming, but when Wurrunnah came close to him he saw that the old man had no eyes, though he had seemed to be watching him long before he could have heard him. It frightened Wurrunnah to see a stranger having no eyes, yet turning his face towards him as if seeing him all the time. But he determined not to show his fear, but go straight on towards him, which he did. When he came up to him, the stranger told him that his name was Mooroonumildah, and that his tribe were so-called because they had no eyes, but saw through their noses. Wurrunnah thought it very strange and still felt rather frightened, though Mooroonumildah seemed hospitable and kind, for, he gave Wurrunnah, whom he said looked hungry, a bark wirree filled with honey, told him where his camp was, and gave him leave to go there and stay with him. Wurrunnah took the honey and turned as if to go to the camp, but when he got out of sight he thought it wiser to turn in another direction. He journeyed on for some time, until he came to a large lagoon, where he decided to camp. He took a long drink of water, and then lay down to sleep. When he woke in the morning, he looked towards the lagoon, but saw only a big plain. He thought he must be dreaming; he rubbed his eyes and looked again. "This is a strange country," he said. "First I meet a man who has no eyes and yet can see. Then at night I see a large lagoon full of water, I wake in the morning and see none. The water was surely there, for I drank some, and yet now there is no water." As he was wondering how the water could have disappeared so quickly, he saw a big storm coming up; he hurried to get into the thick bush for shelter. When he had gone a little way into the bush, he saw a quantity of cut bark lying on the ground. "Now I am right," he said. "I shall get some poles and with them and this bark make a dardurr in which to shelter myself from the storm I see coming." He quickly cut the poles he wanted, stuck them up as a framework for his dardurr. Then he went to lift up the bark. As he lifted up a sheet of it he saw a strange-looking object of no tribe that he had ever seen before. This strange object cried out: "I am Bulgahnunnoo," in such a terrifying tone that Wurrunnah dropped the bark, picked up his weapons and ran away as hard as he could, quite forgetting the storm. His one idea was to get as far as he could from Bulgahnunnoo. On he ran until he came to a big river, which hemmed him in on three sides. The river was too big to cross, so he had to turn back, yet he did not retrace his steps but turned in another direction. As he turned to leave the river he saw a flock of emus coming to water. The first half of the flock were covered with feathers, but the last half had the form of emus, but no feathers. Wurrunnah decided to spear one for food. For that purpose he climbed up a tree, so that they should not see him; he got his spear ready to kill one of the featherless birds. As they passed by, he picked out the one he meant to have, threw his spear and killed it, then climbed down to go and get it. As he was running up to the dead emu, he saw that they were not emus at all but black fellows of a strange tribe. They were all standing round their dead friend making savage signs, as to what they would do by way of vengeance. Wurrunnah saw that little would avail him the excuse that he had killed the black fellow in mistake for an emu; his only hope lay in flight. Once more he took to his heels, hardly daring to look round for fear he would see an enemy behind him. On he sped, until at last he reached a camp, which he was almost into before he saw it; he had only been thinking of danger behind him, unheeding what was before him. However, he had nothing to fear in the camp he reached so suddenly, for in it were only seven young girls. They did not look very terrifying, in fact, seemed more startled than he was. They were quite friendly towards him when they found that he was alone and hungry. They gave him food and allowed him to camp there that night. He asked them where the rest of their tribe were, and what their name was. They answered that their name was Meamei, and that their tribe were in a far country. They had only come to this country to see what it was like; they would stay for a while and thence return whence they had come. The next day Wurrunnah made a fresh start, and left the camp of the Meamei, as if he were leaving for good. But he determined to hide near and watch what they did, and if he could get a chance he would steal a wife from amongst them. He was tired of travelling alone. He saw the seven sisters all start out with their yam sticks in hand. He followed at a distance, taking care not to be seen. He saw them stop by the nests of some flying ants. With their yam sticks they dug all round these ant holes. When they had successfully unearthed the ants they sat down, throwing their yam sticks on one side, to enjoy a feast, for these ants were esteemed by them a great delicacy. While the sisters were busy at their feast, Wurrunnah sneaked up to their yam sticks and stole two of them; then, taking the sticks with him, sneaked back to his hiding-place. When at length the Meamei had satisfied their appetites, they picked up their sticks and turned towards their camp again. But only five could find their sticks; so those five started off, leaving the other two to find theirs, supposing they must be somewhere near, and, finding them, they would soon catch them up. The two girls hunted all round the ants' nests, but could find no sticks. At last, when their backs were turned towards him, Wurrunnah crept out and stuck the lost yam sticks near together in the ground; then he slipt back into his hiding-place. When the two girls turned round, there in front of them they saw their sticks. With a cry of joyful surprise they ran to them and caught hold of them to pull them out of the ground, in which they were firmly stuck. As they were doing so, out from his hiding-place jumped Wurrunnah. He seized both girls round their waists, holding them tightly. They struggled and screamed, but to no purpose. There were none near to hear them, and the more they struggled the tighter Wurrunnah held them. Finding their screams and struggles in vain they quietened at length, and then Wurrunnah told them not to be afraid, he would take care of them. He was lonely, he said, and wanted two wives. They must come quietly with him, and he would be good to them. But they must do as he told them. If they were not quiet, he would swiftly quieten them with his moorillah. But if they would come quietly with him he would be good to them. Seeing that resistance was useless, the two young girls complied with his wish, and travelled quietly on with him. They told him that some day their tribe would come and steal them back again; to avoid which he travelled quickly on and on still further, hoping to elude all pursuit. Some weeks passed, and, outwardly, the two Meamei seemed settled down to their new life, and quite content in it, though when they were alone together they often talked of their sisters, and wondered what they had done when they realised their loss. They wondered if the five were still hunting for them, or whether they had gone back to their tribe to get assistance. That they might be in time forgotten and left with Wurrunnali for ever, they never once for a moment thought. One day when they were camped Wurrunnah said: "This fire will not burn well. Go you two and get some bark from those two pine trees over there." "No," they said, "we must not cut pine bark. If we did, you would never more see us." "Go! I tell you, cut pine bark. I want it. See you not the fire burns but slowly?" "If we go, Wurrunnah, we shall never return. You will see us no more in this country. We know it." "Go, women, stay not to talk. Did ye ever see talk make a fire burn? Then why stand ye there talking? Go; do as I bid you. Talk not so foolishly; if you ran away soon should I catch you, and, catching you, would beat you hard. Go I talk no more." The Meamei went, taking with them their combos with which to cut the bark. They went each to a different tree, and each, with a strong hit, drove her combo into the bark. As she did so, each felt the tree that her combo had struck rising higher out of the ground and bearing her upward with it. Higher and higher grew the pine trees, and still on them, higher and higher from the earth, went the two girls. Hearing no chopping after the first hits, Wurrunnah came towards the pines to see what was keeping the girls so long. As he came near them he saw that the pine trees were growing taller even as he looked at them, and clinging to the trunks of the trees high in the air he saw his two wives. He called to them to come down, but they made no answer. Time after time he called to them as higher and higher they went, but still they made no answer. Steadily taller grew the two pines, until at last their tops touched the sky. As they did so, from the sky the five Meamei looked out, called to their two sisters on the pine trees, bidding them not to be afraid but to come to them. Quickly the two girls climbed up when they heard the voices of their sisters. When they reached the tops of the pines the five sisters in the sky stretched forth their hands, and drew them in to live with them there in the sky for ever. And there, if you look, you may see the seven sisters together. You perhaps know them as the Pleiades, but the black fellows call them the Meamei. 11. THE COOKOOBURRAHS AND THE GOOLAHGOOL Googarh, the iguana, was married to Moodai, the opossum and Cookooburrah, the laughing jackass. Cookooburrah was the mother of three sons, one grown up and living away from her, the other two only little boys. They had their camps near a goolahgool, whence they obtained water. A goolahgool is a water-holding tree, of the iron bark or box species. It is a tree with a split in the fork of it, and hollow below the fork. After heavy rain, this hollow trunk would be full of water, which water would have run into it through the split in the fork. A goolahgool would hold water for a long time. The blacks knew a goolahgool, amongst other trees, by the mark which the overflow of water made down the trunk of the tree, discolouring the bark. One day, Googarh, the iguana, and his two wives went out hunting, leaving the two little Cookooburrahs at the camp. They had taken out water for themselves in their opossum skin water bags, but they had left none for the children, who were too small to get any from the goolahgool for themselves, so nearly perished from thirst. Their tongues were swollen in their mouths, and they were quite speechless, when they saw a man coming towards them. When he came near, they saw it was Cookooburrah, their big brother. They could not speak to him and answer, when he asked where his mother was. Then he asked them what was the matter. All they could do was to point towards the tree. He looked at it, and saw it was a goolahgool, so he said: "Did your mother leave you no water?" They shook their heads. He said: "Then you are perishing for want of a drink, my brothers?" They nodded. "Go," he said "a little way off, and you shall see how I will punish them for leaving my little brothers to perish of thirst." He went towards the tree, climbed up it, and split it right down. As he did so, out gushed the water in a swiftly running stream. Soon the little fellows quenched their thirst and then, in their joy, bathed in the water, which grew in volume every moment. In the meantime, those who had gone forth to hunt were returning, and as they came towards their camp they met a running stream of water. "What is this?" they said, "our goolahgool must have burst," and they tried to dam the water, but it was running too strongly for them. They gave up the effort and hurried on towards their camp. But they found a deep stream divided them from their camp. The three Cookooburrahs saw them, and the eldest one said to the little fellows: "You call out and tell them to cross down there, where it is not deep." The little ones called out as they were told, and where they pointed Googarh and his wives waded into the stream. Finding she was getting out of her depth, Cookooburrah the laughing jackass cried out: "Goug gour gah gah. Goug gour gah gah. Give me a stick. Give me a stick." But from the bank her sons only answered in derision: "Goug gour gah gah. Goug gour gah gah." And the three hunters were soon engulfed in the rushing stream, drawn down by the current and drowned. 12. THE MAYAMAH The blacks had all left their camp and gone away to attend a borah. Nothing was left in the camp but one very old dog, too old to travel. After the blacks had been gone about three days, one night came their enemies, the Gooeeays, intending to surprise them and kill them. Painted in all the glory of their war-paint came the Gooeeays, their hair tied in top-knots and ornamented with feathers and kangaroos' teeth. Their waywahs of paddy, melon, and kangaroo rat skins cut in strips, round their waists, were new and strong, holding firmly some of their boomerangs and woggoorahs, which they had stuck through them. But prepared as they were for conquest, they found only a deserted camp containing naught but one old dog. They asked the old dog where the blacks were gone. But he only shook his head. Again and again they asked him, and again and again he only shook his head. At last some of the black fellows raised their spears and their moorillahs or nullah-nullahs, saying: "If you do not tell us where the blacks are gone, we shall kill you." Then spoke the old dog, saying only: "Gone to the borah." And as he spoke every one of the Gooeeays and everything they had with them was turned to stone. Even the waywahs round their waists, the top-knots on their heads, and the spears in their hands, even these turned to stone. And when the blacks returned to their camp long afterwards, when the borah was over, and the boys, who had been made young men, gone out into the bush to undergo their novitiate, each with his solitary guardian, then saw the blacks, their enemies, the Gooeeays, standing round their old camp, as if to attack it. But instead of being men of flesh, they were men of stone--they, their weapons, their waywahs, and all that belonged to them, stone. And at that place are to be found stones or mayamahs of great beauty, striped and marked and coloured as were the men painted. And the place of the mayamah is on one of the mounts near Beemery. 13. THE BUNBUNDOOLOOEYS The mother Bunbundoolooey put her child, a little boy Bunbundoolooey, who could only just crawl, into her goolay. Goolay is a sort of small netted hammock, slung by black women on their backs, in which they carry their babies and goods in general. Bunbundoolooey, the pigeon, put her goolay across her back, and started out hunting. When she had gone some distance she came to a clump of bunnia or wattle trees. At the foot of one of these she saw some large euloomarah or grubs, which were good to cat. She picked some up, and dug with her yam stick round the roots of the tree to get more. She went from tree to tree, getting grubs at every one. That she might gather them all, she put down her goolay, and hunted further round. Soon in the excitement of her search, she forgot the goolay with the child in it, and wandered away. Further and further she went from the Dunnia clump, never once thinking of her poor birrahlee, or baby. On and still on she went, until at length she reached a far country. The birrablee woke up, and crawled out of the goolay. First he only crawled about, but soon he grew stronger, and raised himself, and stood by a tree. Then day by day he grew stronger and walked alone, and stronger still he grew, and could run. Then he grew on into a big boy, and then into a man, and his mother he never saw while he was growing from birrahlee to man. But in the far country at length one day Bunbundoolooey, the mother, remembered the birrablee she had left. "Oh," she cried, "I forgot my birrahlee. I left my birrablee where the Dunnias grow in a far country. I must go to my birrahlee. My poor birrahlee! I forgot it. Mad must I have been when I forgot him. My birrahlee! My birrahlee!" And away went the mother as fast as she could travel back to the Dunnia clump in the far country. When she reached the spot she saw the tracks of her birrablee, first crawling, then standing, then walking, and then running. Bigger and bigger were the tracks she followed, until she saw they were the tracks of a man. She followed them until she reached a camp. No one was in the camp, but a fire was there, so she waited, and while waiting looked round. She saw her son had made himself many weapons, and many opossum rugs, which he had painted gaily inside. Then at last she saw a man coming towards the camp, and she knew he was her birrahlee, grown into a man. As he drew near she ran out to meet him, saying: "Bunbundoolooey, I am your mother. The mother who forgot you as a birrahlee, and left you. But now I have come to find you, my son. Long was the journey, my son, and your mother was weary, but now that she sees once more her birrahlee, who has grown into a man, she is no longer weary, but glad is her heart, and loud could she sing in her joy. Ah, Bunbundoolooey, my son! Bunbundoolooey, my son!" And she ran forward with her arms out, as if to embrace him. But stern was the face of Bunbundoolooey, the son, and no answer did he make with his tongue. But he stooped to the ground and picked therefrom a big stone. This swiftly he threw at his mother, hitting her with such force that she fell dead to the earth. Then on strode Bunbundoolooey to his camp. 14. OONGNAIRWAH AND GUINAREY Oongnairwah, the diver, and Guinarey, the eagle hawk, told all the pelicans, black swans, cranes, and many others, that they would take their net to the creek and catch fish, if some of them would go and beat the fish down towards the net. Gladly went the pelicans, black swans, and the rest to the creek. In they jumped, and splashed the water about to scare the fish down towards where Oongnairwah and Guinarey were stationed with their net. Presently little Deereeree, the wagtail, and Burreenjin, the peewee, who were on the bank sitting on a stump, called out, "Look out, we saw the back of an alligator in the water." The diver and eagle hawk called back, "Go away, then. The wind blows from you towards him. Go back or he will smell you." But Deereeree and Burreenjin were watching the fishing and did not heed what was said to them. Soon the alligator smelt them, and he lashed out with his tail, splashing the water so high, and lashing so furiously, that all the fishermen were drowned, even Deereeree and Burreenjin on the bank--not one escaped, And red was the bank of the creek, and red the stump whereon Deereeree and Burreenjin had sat, with the blood of the slain. And the place is called Goomade and is red for ever. 15. NARAHDARN THE BAT Narahdarn, the bat, wanted honey. He watched until he saw a Wurranunnah, or bee, alight. He caught it, stuck a white feather between its hind legs, let it go and followed it. He knew he could see the white feather, and so follow the bee to its nest. He ordered his two wives, of the Bilber tribe, to follow him with wirrees to carry home the honey in. Night came on and Wurranunnah the bee had not reached home. Narahdarn caught him, imprisoned him under bark, and kept him safely there until next morning. When it was light enough to see, Narahdarn let the bee go again, and followed him to his nest, in a gunnyanny tree. Marking the tree with his comebo that he might know it again, he returned to hurry on his wives who were some way behind. He wanted them to come on, climb the tree, and chop out the honey. When they reached the marked tree one of the women climbed up. She called out to Narahdarn that the honey was in a split in the tree. He called back to her to put her hand in and get it out. She put her arm in, but found she could not get it out again. Narahdarn climbed up to help her, but found when he reached her that the only way to free her was to cut off her arm. This he did before she had time to realise what he was going to do, and protest. So great was the shock to her that she died instantly. Narahdarn carried down her lifeless body and commanded her sister, his other wife, to go up, chop out the arm, and get the honey. She protested, declaring the bees would have taken the honey away by now. "Not so," he said; "go at once." Every excuse she could think of, to save herself, she made. But her excuses were in vain, and Narahdarn only became furious with her for making them, and, brandishing his boondi, drove her up the tree. She managed to get her arm in beside her sister's, but there it stuck and she could not move it. Narahdarn, who was watching her, saw what had happened and followed her up the tree. Finding he could not pull her arm out, in spite of her cries, he chopped it off, as he had done her sister's. After one shriek, as he drove his comebo through her arm, she was silent. He said, "Come down, and I will chop out the bees' nest." But she did not answer him, and he saw that she too was dead. Then he was frightened, and climbed quickly down the gunnyanny tree; taking her body to the ground with him, he laid it beside her sister's, and quickly he hurried from the spot, taking no further thought of the honey. As he neared his camp, two little sisters of his wives ran out to meet him, thinking their sisters would be with him, and that they would give them a taste of the honey they knew they had gone out to get. But to their surprise Narahdarn came alone, and as he drew near to them they saw his arms were covered with blood. And his face had a fierce look on it, which frightened them from even asking where their sisters were. They ran and told their mother that Narahdarn had returned alone, that he looked fierce and angry, also his arms were covered with blood. Out went the mother of the Bilbers, and she said, "Where are my daughters, Narahdarn? Forth went they this morning to bring home the honey you found. You come back alone. You bring no honey. Your look is fierce, as of one who fights, and your arms are covered with blood. Tell me, I say, where are my daughters?" "Ask me not, Bilber. Ask Wurranunnah the bee, he may know. Narahdarn the bat knows nothing." And he wrapped himself in a silence which no questioning could pierce. Leaving him there, before his camp, the mother of the Bilbers returned to her dardurr and told her tribe that her daughters were gone, and Narahdarn, their husband, would tell her nothing of them. But she felt sure he knew their fate, and certain she was that he had some tale to tell, for his arms were covered with blood. The chief of her tribe listened to her. When she had finished and begun to wail for her daughters, whom she thought she would see no more, he said, "Mother of the Bilbers, your daughters shall be avenged if aught has happened to them at the hands of Narahdarn. Fresh are his tracks, and the young men of your tribe shall follow whence they have come, and finding what Narahdarn has done, swiftly shall they return. Then shall we hold a corrobboree, and if your daughters fell at his hand Narahdarn shall be punished." The mother of the Bilbers said: "Well have you spoken, oh my relation. Now speed ye the young men lest the rain fall or the dust blow and the tracks be lost." Then forth went the fleetest footed and the keenest eyed of the young men of the tribe. Ere long, back they came to the camp with the news of the fate of the Bilbers. That night was the corrobboree held. The women sat round in a half-circle, and chanted a monotonous chant, keeping time by hitting, some of them, two boomerangs together, and others beating their rolled up opossum rugs. Big fires were lit on the edge of the scrub, throwing light on the dancers as they came dancing out from their camps, painted in all manner of designs, waywahs round their waists, tufts of feathers in their hair, and carrying in their hands painted wands. Heading the procession as the men filed out from the scrub into a cleared space in front of the women, came Narahdarn. The light of the fires lit up the tree tops, the dark balahs showed out in fantastic shapes, and weird indeed was the scene as slowly the men danced round; louder clicked the boomerangs and louder grew the chanting of the women; higher were the fires piled, until the flames shot their coloured tongues round the trunks of the trees and high into the air. One fire was bigger than all, and towards it the dancers edged Narahdarn; then the voice of the mother of the Bilbers shrieked in the chanting, high above that of the other women. As Narahdarn turned from the fire to dance back he found a wall of men confronting him. These quickly seized him and hurled him into the madly-leaping fire before him, where he perished in the flames. And so were the Bilbers avenged. 16. MULLYANGAH THE MORNING STAR Mullyan, the eagle hawk, built himself a home high in a yaraan tree. There he lived apart from his tribe, with Moodai the opossum, his wife, and Moodai the opossum, his mother-in-law. With them too was Buttergah, a daughter of the Buggoo or flying squirrel tribe. Buttergah was a friend of Moodai, the wife of Mullyan, and a distant cousin to the Moodai tribe. Mullyan the eagle hawk was a cannibal. That was the reason of his living apart from the other blacks. In order to satisfy his cannibal cravings, he used to sally forth with a big spear, a spear about four times as big as an ordinary spear. If he found a black fellow hunting alone, he would kill him and take his body up to the house in the tree. There the Moodai and Buttergab would cook it, and all of them would eat the flesh; for the women as well as Mullyan were cannibals. This went on for some time, until at last so many black fellows were slain that their friends determined to find out what became of them, and they tracked the last one they missed. They tracked him to where he had evidently been slain; they took up the tracks of his slayer, and followed them right to the foot of the yaraan tree, in which was built the home of Mullyan. They tried to climb the tree, but it was high and straight, and they gave up the attempt after many efforts. In their despair at their failure they thought of the Bibbees, a tribe noted for its climbing powers. They summoned two young Bibbees to their aid. One came, bringing with him his friend Murrawondah of the climbing rat tribe. Having heard what the blacks wanted them to do, these famous climbers went to the yaraan tree and made a start at once. There was only light enough that first night for them to see to reach a fork in the tree about half-way up. There they camped, watched Mullyan away in the morning, and then climbed on. At last they reached the home of Mullyan. They watched their chance and then sneaked into his humpy. When they were safely inside, they hastened to secrete a smouldering stick in one end of the humpy, taking care they were not seen by any of the women. Then they went quietly down again, no one the wiser of their coming or going. During the day the women heard sometimes a crackling noise, as of burning, but looking round they saw nothing, and as their own fire was safe, they took no notice, thinking it might have been caused by some grass having fallen into their fire. After their descent from having hidden the smouldering fire stick, Bibbee and Murrawondah found the blacks and told them what they had done. Hearing that the plan was to burn out Mullyan, and fearing that the tree might fall, they all moved to some little distance, there to watch and wait for the end. Great was their joy at the thought that at last their enemy was circumvented. And proud were Bibbee and Murrawondah as the black fellows praised their prowess. After dinner-time Mullyan came back. When he reached the entrance to his house he put down his big spear outside. Then he went in and threw himself down to rest, for long had he walked and little had he gained. In a few minutes he heard his big spear fall down. He jumped up and stuck it in its place again. He had no sooner thrown himself down, than again he heard it fall. Once more he rose and replaced it. As he reached his resting-place again, out burst a flame of fire from the end of his humpy. He called out to the three women, who were cooking, and they rushed to help him extinguish the flames. But in spite of their efforts the fire only blazed the brighter. Mullyan's arm was burnt off. The Moodai had their feet burnt, and Buttergah was badly burnt too. Seeing they were helpless against the fire, they turned to leave the humpy to its fate, and make good their own escape. But they had left it too late. As they turned to descend the tree, the roof of the humpy fell on them. And all that remained when the fire ceased, were the charred bones of the dwellers in the yaraan tree. That was all that the blacks found of their enemies; but their legend says that Mullyan the eagle hawk lives in the sky as Mullyangah the morning star, on one side of which is a little star, which is his one arm; on the other a larger star, which is Moodai the opossum, his wife. 17. GOOMBLEGUBBON, BEEARGAH, AND OUYAN Goomblegubbon the bustard, his two wives, Beeargah the hawk, and Ouyan the curlew, with the two children of Beeargah, had their camps right away in the bush; their only water supply was a small dungle, or gilguy hole. The wives and children camped in one camp, and Goomblegubbon a short distance off in another. One day the wives asked their husband to lend them the dayoorl stone, that they might grind some doonburr to make durrie. But he would not lend it to them, though they asked him several times. They knew he did not want to use it himself, for they saw his durrie on a piece of bark, between two fires, already cooking. They determined to be revenged, so said: "We will make some water bags of the opossum skins; we will fill them with water, then some day when Goomblegubbon is out hunting we will empty the dungle of water, take the children, and run away! When he returns he will find his wives and children gone and the dungle empty; then he will be sorry that he would not lend us the dayoorl." The wives soon caught some opossums, killed and skinned them, plucked all the hair from the skins, saving it to roll into string to make goomillahs, cleaned the skins of all flesh, sewed them up with the sinews, leaving only the neck opening. When finished, they blew into them, filled them with air, tied them up and left them to dry for a few days. When they were dry and ready to be used, they chose a day when Goomblegubbon was away, filled the water bags, emptied the dungle, and started towards the river. Having travelled for some time, they at length reached the river. They saw two black fellows on the other side, who, when they saw the runaway wives and the two children, swam over to them and asked whence they had come and whither they were going. "We are running away from our husband Goomblegubbon, who would lend us no dayoorl to grind our doonburr on, and we ran away lest we and our children should starve, for we could not live on meat alone. But whither we are going we know not, except that it must be far away, lest Goomblegubbon follow and kill us." The black fellows said they wanted wives, and would each take one, and both care for the children. The women agreed. The black fellows swam back across the river, each taking a child first, and then a woman, for as they came from the back country, where no creeks were, the women could not swim. Goomblegubbon came back from hunting, and, seeing no wives, called aloud for them, but heard no answer. Then he went to their camp, and found them not. Then turning towards the dungle he saw that it was empty. Then he saw the tracks of his wives and children going towards the river. Great was his anger, and vowing he would kill them when he found them, he picked up his spears and followed their tracks, until he too reached the river. There on the other side he saw a camp, and in it he could see strange black fellows, his wives, and his children. He called aloud for them to cross him over, for he too could not swim. But the sun went down and still they did not answer. He camped where he was that night, and in the morning he saw the camp opposite had been deserted and set fire to; the country all round was burnt so that not even the tracks of the black fellows and his wives could be found, even had he been able to cross the river. And never again did he see or hear of his wives or his children. 18. MOOREGOO THE MOPOKE, AND BAHLOO THE MOON Mooregoo the Mopoke had been camped away by himself for a long time. While alone he had made a great number of boomerangs, nullah-nullahs, spears, neilahmans, and opossum rugs. Well had he carved the weapons with the teeth of opossums, and brightly had he painted the inside of the rugs with coloured designs, and strongly had he sewn them with the sinews of opossums, threaded in the needle made of the little bone taken from the leg of an emu. As Mooregoo looked at his work he was proud of all he had done. One night Babloo the moon came to his camp, and said: "Lend me one of your opossum rugs." "No. I lend not my rugs." "Then give me one." "No. I give not my rugs." Looking round, Bahloo saw the beautifully carved weapons, so he said, "Then give me, Mooregoo, some of your weapons." "No, I give, never, what I have made, to another." Again Bahloo said, "The night is cold. Lend me a rug." "I have spoken," said Mooregoo. "I never lend my rugs." Barloo said no more, but went away, cut some bark and made a dardurr for himself. When it was finished and he safely housed in it, down came the rain in torrents. And it rained without ceasing until the whole country was flooded. Mooregoo was drowned. His weapons floated about and drifted apart, and his rugs rotted in the water. 19. OUYAN THE CURLEW Bleargah the hawk, mother of Ouyan the curlew, said one day to her son: "Go, Ouyan, out, take your spears and kill an emu. The women and I are hungry. You are a man, go out and kill, that we may eat. You must not stay always in the camp like an old woman; you must go and hunt as other men do, lest the women laugh at you." Ouyan took his spears and went out hunting, but though he went far, he could not get an emu, yet he dare not return to the camp and face the jeers of the women. Well could they jeer, and angry could his mother grow when she was hungry. Sooner than return empty-handed he would cut some flesh off his own legs. And this he decided to do. He made a cut in his leg with his comebo and as he made it, cried aloud: "Yuckay! Yuckay," in pain. But he cut on, saying: "Sharper would cut the tongues of the women, and deeper would be the wounds they would make, if I returned without food for them." And crying: "Yuckay, yuckay," at each stroke of his comebo, he at length cut off a piece of flesh, and started towards the camp with it. As he neared the camp his mother cried out: "What have you brought us, Ouyan? We starve for meat, come quickly." He came and laid the flesh at her feet, saying: "Far did I go, and little did I see, but there is enough for all to-night; to-morrow will I go forth again." The women cooked the flesh, and ate it hungrily. Afterwards they felt quite ill, but thought it must be because they had eaten too hungrily. The next day they hurried Ouyan forth again. And again he returned bringing his own flesh back. Again the women ate hungrily of it, and again they felt quite ill. Then, too, Beeargah noticed for the first time that the flesh Ouyan brought looked different from emu flesh. She asked him what flesh it was. He replied: "What should it be but the flesh of emu?" But Beeargah was not satisfied, and she said to the two women who lived with her: "Go you, to-morrow, follow Ouyan, and see whence he gets this flesh." The next day, the two woman followed Ouyan when he went forth to hunt. They followed at a good distance, that he might not notice that they were following. Soon they heard him crying as if in pain: "Yuckay, yuckay, yuckay nurroo gay gay." When they came near they saw he was cutting the flesh off his own limbs. Before he discovered that they were watching him, back they went to the old woman, and told her what they had seen. Soon Ouyan came back, bringing, as usual, the flesh with him. When he had thrown it down at his mother's feet, he went away, and lay down as if tired from the chase. His mother went up to him, and before he had time to cover his mutilated limbs, she saw that indeed the story of the women was true. Angry was she that he had so deceived her: and she called loudly for the other two women, who came running to her. "You are right," she said. "Too lazy to hunt for emu, he cut off his own flesh, not caring that when we unwittingly ate thereof we should sicken. Let us beat him who did us this wrong." The three women seized poor Ouyan and beat him, though he cried aloud in agony when the blows fell on his bleeding legs. When the women had satisfied their vengeance, Beeargah said: "You Ouyan shall have no more flesh on your legs, and red shall they be for ever; red, and long and fleshless." Saying which she went, and with her the other women. Ouyan crawled away and hid himself, and never again did his mother see him. But night after night was to be heard a wailing cry of, "Bou you gwai gwai. Bou you gwai gwai," which meant, "My poor red legs. My poor red legs." But though Ouyan the man was never seen again, a bird with long thin legs, very red in colour under the feathers, was seen often, and heard to cry ever at night, even as Ouyan the man had cried: "Bou you gwai gwai. Bou you gwai gwai." And this bird bears always the name of Ouyan. 20. DINEWAN THE EMU, AND WAHN THE CROWS Dinewan and his two wives, the Wahn, were camping out. Seeing some clouds gathering, they made a bark humpy. It came on to rain, and they all took shelter under it. Dinewan, when his wives were not looking, gave a kick against a piece of bark at one side of the humpy, knocked it down, then told his wives to go and put it up again. When they were outside putting it up, he gave a kick, and knocked down a piece on the other side; so no sooner were they in again than out they had to go. This he did time after time, until at last they su spected him, and decided that one of them would watch. The one who was watching saw Dinewan laugh to himself and go and knock down the bark they had just put up, chuckling at the thought of his wives having to go out in the wet and cold to put it up, while he had his supper dry and comfortably inside. The one who saw him told the other, and they decided to teach him a lesson. So in they came, each with a piece of bark filled with hot coals. They went straight up to Dinewan, who was lying down laughing. "Now," they said, "you shall feel as hot we did cold." And they threw the coals over him. Dinewan jumped up, crying aloud with the pain, for he was badly burnt. He rolled himself over, and ran into the rain; and his wives stayed inside, and laughed aloud at him. 21. GOOLAHWILLEEL THE TOPKNOT PIGEONS Young Goolahwilleeel used to go out hunting every day. His mother and sisters always expected that he would bring home kangaroo and emu for them. But each day he came home without any meat at all. They asked him what he did in the bush, as he evidently did not hunt. He said that he did hunt. "Then why," said they, "do you bring us nothing home?" "I cannot catch and kill what I follow," he said. "You hear me cry out when I find kangaroo or emu; is it not so?" "Yes; each day we hear you call when you find something, and each day we get ready the fire, expecting you to bring home the spoils of the chase, but you bring nothing." "To-morrow," he said, "you shall not be disappointed. I will bring you a kangaroo." Every day, instead of hunting, Goolahwilleel had been gathering wattle-gum, and with this he had been modelling a kangaroo--a perfect model of one, tail, ears, and all complete. So the next day he came towards the camp carrying this kangaroo made of gum. Seeing him coming, and also seeing that he was carrying the promised kangaroo, his mother and sisters said: "Ah, Goolahwilleel spoke truly. He has kept his word, and now brings us a kangaroo. Pile up the fire. To-night we shall eat meat." About a hundred yards away from the camp Goolahwilleel put down his model, and came on without it. His mother called out: "Where is the kangaroo you brought home?" "Oh, over there." And he pointed towards where he had left it. The sisters ran to get it, but came back saying: "Where is it? We cannot see it." "Over there," he said, pointing again. "But there is only a great figure of gum there." "Well, did I say it was anything else? Did I not say it was gum?" "No, you did not. You said it was a kangaroo." "And so it is a kangaroo. A beautiful kangaroo that I made all by myself." And he smiled quite proudly to think what a fine kangaroo he had made. But his mother and sisters did not smile. They seized him and gave him a good beating for deceiving them. They told him he should never go out alone again, for he only played instead of hunting, though he knew they starved for meat. They would always in the future go with him. And so for ever the Goolahwilleels went in flocks, never more singly, in search of food. 22. GOONUR, THE WOMAN-DOCTOR Goonur was a clever old woman-doctor, who lived with her son, Goonur, and his two wives. The wives were Guddah the red lizard, and Beereeun the small, prickly lizard. One day the two wives had done something to anger Goonur, their husband, and he gave them both a great beating. After their beating they went away by themselves. They said to each other that they could stand their present life no longer, and yet there was no escape unless they killed their husband. They decided they would do that. But how? That was the question. It must be by cunning. At last they decided on a plan. They dug a big hole in the sand near the creek, filled it with water, and covered the hole over with boughs, leaves, and grass. "Now we will go," they said, "and tell our husband that we have found a big bandicoot's nest." Back they went to the camp, and told Goonur that they had seen a big nest of bandicoots near the creek; that if he sneaked up he would be able to surprise them and get the lot. Off went Goonur in great haste. He sneaked up to within a couple of feet of the nest, then gave a spring on to the top of it. And only when he felt the bough top give in with him, and he sank down into water, did he realise that he had been tricked. Too late then to save himself, for he was drowning and could not escape. His wives had watched the success of their stratagem from a distance. When they were certain that they had effectually disposed of their hated husband, they went back to the camp. Goonur, the mother, soon missed her son, made inquiries of his wives, but gained no information from them. Two or three days passed, and yet Goonur, the son, returned not. Seriously alarmed at his long absence without having given her notice of his intention, the mother determined to follow his track. She took up his trail where she had last seen him leave the camp. This she followed until she reached the so-called bandicoot's nest. Here his tracks disappeared, and nowhere could she find a sign of his having returned from this place. She felt in the hole with her yarn stick, and soon felt that there was something large there in the water. She cut a forked stick and tried to raise the body and get it out, for she felt sure it must be her son. But she could not raise it; stick after stick broke in the effort. At last she cut a midjee stick and tried with that, and then she was successful. When she brought out the body she found it was indeed her son. She dragged the body to an ant bed, and watched intently to see if the stings of the ants brought any sign of returning life. Soon her hope was realised, and after a violent twitching of the muscles her son regained consciousness. As soon as he was able to do so, he told her of the trick his wives had played on him. Goonur, the mother, was furious. "No more shall they have you as husband. You shall live hidden in my dardurr. When we get near the camp you can get into this long, big comebee, and I will take you in. When you want to go hunting I will take you from the camp in this comebee, and when we are out of sight you can get out and hunt as of old." And thus they managed for some time to keep his return a secret; and little the wives knew that their husband was alive and in his mother's camp. But as day after day Goonur, the mother, returned from hunting loaded with spoils, they began to think she must have help from some one; for surely, they said, no old woman could be so successful in hunting. There was a mystery they were sure, and they were determined to find it out. "See," they said, "she goes out alone. She is old, and yet she brings home more than we two do together, and we are young. To-day she brought opossums, piggiebillahs, honey yams, quatha, and many things. We got little, yet we went far. We will watch her." The next time old Goonur went out, carrying her big comebee, the wives watched her. "Look," they said, "how slowly she goes. She could not climb trees for opossums--she is too old and weak; look how she staggers." They went cautiously after her, and saw when she was some distance from the camp that she put down her comebee. And out of it, to their amazement, stepped Goonur, their husband. "Ah," they said, "this is her secret. She must have found him, and, as she is a great doctor, she was able to bring him to life again. We must wait until she leaves him, and then go to him, and beg to know where he has been, and pretend joy that he is back, or else surely now he is alive again he will sometime kill us." Accordingly, when Goonur was alone the two wives ran to him, and said: "Why, Goonur, our husband, did you leave us? Where have you been all the time that we, your wives, have mourned for you? Long has the time been without you, and we, your wives, have been sad that you came no more to our dardurr." Goonur, the husband, affected to believe their sorrow was genuine, and that they did not know when they directed him to the bandicoot's nest that it was a trap. Which trap, but for his mother, might have been his grave. They all went hunting together, and when they had killed enough for food they returned to the camp. As they came near to the camp, Goonur, the mother, saw them coming, and cried out: "Would you again be tricked by your wives? Did I save you from death only that you might again be killed? I spared them, but I would I had slain them, if again they are to have a chance of killing you, my son. Many are the wiles of women, and another time I might not be able to save you. Let them live if you will it so, my son, but not with you. They tried to lure you to death; you are no longer theirs, mine only now, for did I not bring you back from the dead?" But Goonur the husband said, "In truth did you save me, my mother, and these my wives rejoice that you did. They too, as I was, were deceived by the bandicoot's nest, the work of an enemy yet to be found. See, my mother, do not the looks of love in their eyes, and words of love on their lips vouch for their truth? We will be as we have been, my mother, and live again in peace." And thus craftily did Goonur the husband deceive his wives and make them believe he trusted them wholly, while in reality his mind was even then plotting vengeance. In a few days he had his plans ready. Having cut and pointed sharply two stakes, he stuck them firmly in the creek, then he placed two logs on the bank, in front of the sticks, which were underneath the water, and invisible. Having made his preparations, he invited his wives to come for a bathe. He said when they reached the creek: "See those two logs on the bank, you jump in each from one and see which can dive the furthest. I will go first to see you as you come up." And in he jumped, carefully avoiding the pointed stakes. "Right," he called. "All is clear here, jump in." Then the two wives ran down the bank each to a log and jumped from it. Well had Goonur calculated the distance, for both jumped right on to the stakes placed in the water to catch them, and which stuck firmly into them, holding them under the water. "Well am I avenged," said Goonur. "No more will my wives lay traps to catch me." And he walked off to the camp. His mother asked him where his wives were. "They left me," he said, "to get bees' nests." But as day by day passed and the wives returned not, the old woman began to suspect that her son knew more than he said. She asked him no more, but quietly watched her opportunity, when her son was away hunting, and then followed the tracks of the wives. She tracked them to the creek, and as she saw no tracks of their return, she went into the creek, felt about, and there found the two bodies fast on the stakes. She managed to get them off and out of the creek, then she determined to try and restore them to life, for she was angry that her son had not told her what he had done, but had deceived her as well as his wives. She rubbed the women with some of her medicines, dressed the wounds made by the stakes, and then dragged them both on to ants' nests and watched their bodies as the ants crawled over them, biting them. She had not long to wait; soon they began to move and come to life again. As soon as they were restored Goonur took them back to the camp and said to Goonur her son, "Now once did I use my knowledge to restore life to you, and again have I used it to restore life to your wives. You are all mine now, and I desire that you live in peace and never more deceive me, or never again shall I use my skill for you:" And they lived for a long while together, and when the Mother Doctor died there was a beautiful, dazzlingly bright falling star, followed by a sound as of a sharp clap of thunder, and all the tribes round when they saw and heard this said, "A great doctor must have died, for that is the sign." And when the wives died, they were taken up to the sky, where they are now known as Gwaibillah, the red star, so called from its bright red colour, owing, the legend says, to the red marks left by the stakes on the bodies of the two women, and which nothing could efface. 23. DEEREEREE THE WAGTAIL, AND THE RAINBOW Deereeree was a widow and lived in a camp alone with her four little girls. One day Bibbee came and made a camp not far from hers. Deereeree was frightened of him, too frightened to go to sleep. All night she used to watch his camp, and if she heard a sound she would cry aloud: "Deerceree, wyah, wyah, Deereeree," Sometimes she would be calling out nearly all night. In the morning, Bibbee would come over to her camp and ask her what was the matter that she had called out so in the night. She told him that she thought she heard some one walking about and was afraid, for she was alone with her four little girls. He told her she ought not to be afraid with all her children round her. But night after night she sat up crying: "Wyah, wyah, Deereeree, Deereeree." At last Bibbee said! "If you are so frightened, marry me and live in my camp. I will take care of you." But Deereeree said she did not want to marry. So night after night was to be heard her plaintive cry of "Wyah, wyah, Deereeree, Deereeree." And again and again Bibbee pressed her to share his camp and marry him. But she always refused. The more she refused the more he wished to marry her. And he used to wonder how he could induce her to change her mind. At last he thought of a plan of surprising her into giving her consent. He set to work and made a beautiful and many coloured arch, which, when it was made, he called Euloowirree, and he placed it right across the sky, reaching from one side of the earth to the other. When the rainbow was firmly placed in the sky, and showing out in all its brilliancy, of many colours, as a roadway from the earth to the stars, Bibbee went into his camp to wait. When Deereeree looked up at the sky and saw the wonderful rainbow, she thought something dreadful must be going to happen. She was terribly frightened, and called aloud: "Wyah, wyah." In her fear she gathered her children together, and fled with them to Bibbee's camp for protection. Bibbee proudly told her that he had made the rainbow, just to show how strong he was and how safe she would be if she married him. But if she would not, she would see what terrible things he would make to come on the earth, not just a harmless and beautiful roadway across the heavens, but things that would burst from the earth and destroy it. So by working on her mixed feelings of fear of his prowess, and admiration of his skill, Bibbee gained his desire, and Deereeree married him. And when long afterwards they died, Deereeree was changed into the little willy wagtail who may be heard through the stillness of the summer nights, crying her plaintive wail of "Deereeree, wyah, wyah, Deereeree." And Bibbee was changed into the woodpecker, or climbing tree bird, who is always running up trees as if he wanted to be building other ways to the than the famous roadway of his Euloowirree, the building of which had won him his wife. 24. MOOREGOO THE MOPOKE, AND MOONINGUGGAHGUL THE MOSQUITO BIRD An old man lived with his two wives, the Mooninguggahgul sisters, and his two sons. The old man spent all his time making boomerangs, until at last he had four nets full of these weapons. The two boys used to go out hunting opossums and iguanas, which they would cook in the bush, and eat, without thinking of bringing any home to their parents. The old man asked them one day to bring him home some fat to rub his boomerangs with. This the boys did, but they brought only the fat, having eaten the rest of the iguanas from which they had taken the fat. The old man was very angry that his sons were so greedy, but he said nothing, though he determined to punish them, for he thought "when they were young, and could not hunt, I hunted for them and fed them well; now that they can hunt and I am old and cannot so well, they give me nothing." Thinking of his treatment at the hands of his sons, he greased all his boomerangs, and when he had finished them he said to the boys: "You take these boomerangs down on to the plain and try them; see if I have made them well. Then come back and tell me. I will stay here." The boys took the boomerangs. They threw them one after another; but to their surprise not one of the boomerangs they threw touched the ground, but, instead, went whirling up out of sight. When they had finished throwing the boomerangs, all of which acted in the same way, whirling up through space, they prepared to start home again. But as they looked round they saw a huge whirlwind coming towards them. They were frightened and called out "Wurrawilberoo," for they knew there was a devil in the whirlwind. They laid hold of trees near at hand that it might not catch them. But the whirlwind spread out first one arm and rooted up one tree, then another arm, and rooted up another. The boys ran in fear from tree to tree, but each tree that they went to was torn up by the whirlwind. At last they ran to two mubboo or beef-wood trees, and clung tightly to them. After them rushed the whirlwind, sweeping all before it, and when it reached the mubboo trees, to which the boys were clinging, it tore them from their roots and bore them upward swiftly, giving the boys no time to leave go, so they were borne upward clinging to the mubboo trees. On the whirlwind bore them until they reached the sky, where it placed the two trees with the boys still clinging to them. And there they still are, near the Milky Way, and known as Wurrawilberoo. The boomerangs are scattered all along the Milky Way, for the whirlwind had gathered them all together in its rush through space. Having placed them all in the sky, down came the whirlwind, retaking its natural shape, which was that of the old man, for so had he wreaked his vengeance on his sons for neglecting their parents. As time went on, the mothers wondered why their sons did not return. It struck them as strange that the old man expressed no surprise at the absence of the boys, and they suspected that he knew more than he cared to say. For he only sat in the camp smiling while his wives discussed what could have happened to them, and he let the women go out and search alone. The mothers tracked their sons to the plain. There they saw that a big whirlwind had lately been, for trees were uprooted and strewn in every direction. They tracked their sons from tree to tree until at last they came to the place where the mubboos had stood. They saw the tracks of their sons beside the places whence the trees had been uprooted, but of the trees and their sons they saw no further trace. Then they knew that they had all been borne up together by the whirlwind, and taken whither they knew not. Sadly they returned to their camp. When night came they heard cries which they recognised as made by the voices of their sons, though they sounded as if coming from the sky. As the cries sounded again the mothers looked up whence they came, and there they saw the mubboo trees with their sons beside them. Then well they knew that they would see no more their sons on earth, and great was their grief, and wroth were they with their husband, for well they knew now that he must have been the devil in the whirlwind, who had so punished the boys. They vowed to avenge the loss of their boys. The next day they went out and gathered a lot of pine gum, and brought it back to the camp. When they reached the camp the old man called to one of his wives to come and tease his hair, as his head ached, and that alone would relieve the pain. One of the women went over to him, took his head on her lap, and teased his hair until at last the old man was soothed and sleepy. In the meantime the other wife was melting the gum. The one with the old man gave her a secret sign to come near; then she asked the old man to lie on his back, that she might tease his front hair better. As he did so, she signed to the other woman, who quickly came, gave her some of the melted gum, which they both then poured hot into his eyes, filling them with it. In agony the old man jumped up and ran about, calling out, "Mooregoo, mooregoo," as he ran. Out of the camp he ran and far away, still crying out in his agony, as he went. And never again did his wives see him though every night they heard his cry of "Mooregoo, mooregoo." But though they never saw their husband, they saw a night hawk, the Mopoke, and as that cried always, "Mooregoo, moregoo," as their husband had cried in his agony, they knew that he must have turned into the bird. After a time the women were changed into Mooninguggahgul, or mosquito birds. These birds arc marked on the wings just like a mosquito, and every summer night you can hear them cry out incessantly, "Mooninguggahgul," which cry is the call for the mosquitoes to answer by coming out and buzzing in chorus. And as quickly the mosquitoes come out in answer to the summons, the Mooninguggahgul bid them fly everywhere and bite all they can. 25. BOUGOODOOGAHDAH THE RAIN BIRD Bougoodoogahdah was all old woman who lived alone with her four hundred dingoes. From living so long with these dogs she had grown not to care for her fellow creatures except as food. She and the dogs lived on human flesh, and it was her cunning which gained such food for them all. She would sally forth from her camp with her two little dogs; she would be sure to meet some black fellows, probably twenty or thirty, going down to the creek. She would say, "I can tell you where there are lots of paddy melons." They would ask where, and she would answer, "Over there, on the point of that moorillah or ridge. If you will go there and have your nullahs ready, I will go with my two dogs and round them up towards you." The black fellows invariably stationed themselves where she had told them, and off went Bougoodoogahdah and her two dogs. But not to round up the paddy melons. She went quickly towards her camp, calling softly, "Birree, gougou," which meant "Sool 'em, sool 'em," and was the signal for the dogs to come out. Quickly they came and surrounded the black fellows, took them by surprise, flew at them, bit and worried them to death. Then they and Bougoodoogahdah dragged the bodies to their camp. There they were cooked and were food for the old woman and the dogs for some time. As soon as the supply was finished the same plan to obtain more was repeated. The black fellows missed so many of their friends that they determined to find out what had become of them. They began to suspect the old woman who lived alone and hunted over the moorillahs with her two little dogs. They proposed that the next party that went to the creek should divide and some stay behind in hiding and watch what went on. Those watching saw the old woman advance towards their friends, talk to them for a while, and then go off with her two dogs. They saw their friends station themselves at the point of the moorillah or ridge, holding their nullahs in readiness, as if waiting for something to come. Presently they heard a low cry from the old woman of "Birree gougou," which cry was quickly followed by dingoes coming out of the bush in every direction, in hundreds, surrounding the black fellows at the point. The dingoes closed in, quickly hemming the black fellows in all round; then they made a simultaneous rush at them, tore them with their teeth, and killed them. The black fellows watching, saw that when the dogs had killed their friends they were joined by the old woman, who helped them to drag off the bodies to their camp. Having seen all this, back went the watchers to their tribe and told what they had seen. All the tribes round mustered up and decided to execute a swift vengeance. In order to do so, out they sallied well armed. A detachment went on to entrap the dogs and Bougoodoogahdah. Then just when the usual massacre of the blacks was to begin and the dogs were closing in round them for the purpose, out rushed over two hundred black fellows, and so effectual was their attack that every dog was killed, as well as Bougoodoogahdah and her two little dogs. The old woman lay where she had been slain, but as the blacks went away they heard her cry "Bougoodoogahdah." So back they went and broke her bones, first they broke her legs and then left her. But again as they went they heard her cry "Bougoodoogahdah." Then back again they came, and again, until at last every bone in her body was broken, but still she cried "Bougoodoogahdah." So one man waited beside her to see whence came the sound, for surely, they thought, she must be dead. He saw her heart move and cry again "Bougoodoogahdah" and as it cried, out came a little bird from it. This little bird runs on the moorillahs and calls at night "Bougoodoogahdah." All day it stays in one place, and only at night comes out. It is a little greyish bird, something like a weedah. The blacks call it a rain-maker, for if any one steals its eggs it cries out incessantly "Bougoodoogahdah" until in answer to its call the rain falls. And when the country is stricken with a drought, the blacks look for one of these little birds, and finding it, chase it, until it cries aloud "Bougoodoogahdah, Bougoodoogahdah" and when they hear its cry in the daytime they know the rain will soon fall. As the little bird flew from the heart of the woman, all the dead dingoes were changed into snakes, many different kinds, all poisonous. The two little dogs were changed into dayall minyah, a very small kind of carpet snake, non-poisonous, for these two little dogs had never bitten the blacks as the other dogs had done. At the points of the Moorillahs where Bougoodoogahdah and her dingoes used to slay the blacks, are heaps of white stones, which are supposed to be the fossilised bones of the massacred men. 26. THE BORAH OF BYAMEE Word had been passed from tribe to tribe, telling, how that the season was good, there must be a great gathering of the tribes. And the place fixed for the gathering was Googoorewon. The old men whispered that it should be the occasion for a borah, but this the women must not know. Old Byamee, who was a great Wirreenun, said he would take his two sons, Ghindahindahmoee and Boomahoomahnowee, to the gathering of the tribes, for the time had come when they should be made young men, that they might be free to marry wives, eat emu flesh, and learn to be warriors. As tribe after tribe arrived at Googoorewon, each took up a position at one of the various points of the ridges, surrounding the clear open space where the corrobborees were to be. The Wahn, crows, had one point; the Dummerh, pigeons, another; the Mahthi, dogs, another, and so on; Byamee and his tribe, Byahmul the black swans tribe, Oooboon, the blue tongued lizard, and many other chiefs and their tribes, each had their camp on a different point. When all had arrived there were hundreds and hundreds assembled, and many and varied were the nightly corrobborees, each tribe trying to excel the other in the fancifulness of their painted get-up, and the novelty of their newest song and dance. By day there was much hunting and feasting, by night much dancing and singing; pledges of friendship exchanged, a dillibag for a boomerang, and so on; young daughters given to old warriors, old women given to young men, unborn girls promised to old men, babies in arms promised to grown men; many and diverse were the compacts entered into, and always were the Wirreenun, or doctors of the tribes consulted. After some days the Wirreenun told the men of the tribes that they were going to hold a borah. But on no account must the innerh, or women, know. Day by day they must all go forth as if to hunt and then prepare in secret the borah ground. Out went the man each day. They cleared a very large circle quite clear, then they built an earthen dam round this circle, and cleared a pathway leading into the thick bush from the circle, and built a dam on either side of this pathway. When all these preparations were finished, they had, as usual, a corrobboree at night. After this had been going on for some time, one of the old Wirreenun walked right away from the crowd as if he were sulky. He went to his camp, to where he was followed by another Wirreenun, and presently the two old fellows began fighting. Suddenly, when the attention of the blacks was fixed on this fight, there came a strange, whizzing, whirring noise from the scrub round. The women and children shrank together, for the sudden, uncanny noise frightened them. And they knew that it was made by the spirits who were coming to assist at the initiation of the boys into young manhood. The noise really sounded, if you had not the dread of spirits in your mind, just as if some one had a circular piece of wood at the end of a string and were whirling it round and round. As the noise went on, the women said, in an awestricken tone, "Gurraymy," that is "borah devil," and clutched their children tighter to them. The boys said "Gayandy," and their eyes extended with fear. "Gayandy" meant borah devil too, but the women must not even use the same word as the boys and men to express the borah spirit, for all concerning the mysteries of borah are sacred from the ears, eyes, or tongues of women. The next day a shift was made of the camps. They were moved to inside the big ring that the black fellows had made. This move was attended with a certain amount of ceremony. In the afternoon, before the move had taken place, all the black fellows left their camps and went away into the scrub. Then just about sundown they were all to be seen walking in single file out of the scrub, along the path which they had previously banked on each side. Every man had a fire stick in one hand and a green switch in the other. When these men reached the middle of the enclosed ring was the time for the young people and women to leave the old camps, and move into the borah ring. Inside this ring they made their camps, had their suppers and corrobboreed, as on previous evenings, up to a certain stage. Before, on this occasion, that stage arrived, Byamee, who was greatest of the Wirreenun present, had shown his power in a remarkable way. For some days the Mahthi had been behaving with a great want of respect for the wise men of the tribes. Instead of treating their sayings and doings with the silent awe the Wirreenun expect, they had kept up an incessant chatter and laughter amongst themselves, playing and shouting as if the tribes were not contemplating the solemnisation of their most sacred rites. Frequently the Wirreenun sternly bade them be silent. But admonitions were useless, gaily chattered and laughed the Mahthi. At length Byamee, mightiest and most famous of the Wirreenun, rose, strode over to the camp of Mahthi, and said fiercely to them: "I, Byamee, whom all the tribes hold in honour, have thrice bade you Mahthi cease your chatter and laughter. But you heeded me not. To my voice were added the voices of the Wirreenun of other tribes. But you heeded not. Think you the Wirreenun will make any of your tribe young men when you heed not their words? No, I tell you. From this day forth no Mahthi shall speak again as men speak. You wish to make noise, to be a noisy tribe and a disturber of men; a tribe who cannot keep quiet when strangers are in the camp; a tribe who understand not sacred things. So be it. You shall, and your descendants, for ever make a noise, but it shall not be the noise of speech, or the noise of laughter. It shall be the noise of barking and the noise of howling. And from this day if ever a Mahthi speaks, woe to those who hear him, for even as they hear shall they be turned to stone." And as the Mahthi opened their mouths, and tried to laugh and speak derisive words, they found, even as Byamee said, so were they. They could but bark and howl; the powers of speech and laughter had they lost. And as they realised their loss, into their eyes came a look of yearning and dumb entreaty which will be seen in the eyes of their descendants for ever. A feeling of wonder and awe fell on the various camps as they watched Byamce march back to his tribe. When Byamee was seated again in his camp, he asked the women why they were not grinding doonburr. And the women said: "Gone are our dayoorls, and we know not where." "You lie," said Byamee. "You have lent them to the Dummerh, who came so often to borrow, though I bade you not lend." "No, Byamee, we lent them not." "Go to the camp of the Dummerh, and ask for your dayoorl." The women, with the fear of the fate of the Mahthi did they disobey, went, though well they knew they had not lent the dayoorl. As they went they asked at each camp if the tribe there would lend them a dayoorl, but at each camp they were given the same answer, namely, that the dayoorls were gone and none knew where. The Dummerh had asked to borrow them, and in each instance been refused, yet had the stones gone. As the women went on they heard a strange noise, as of the cry of spirits, a sound like a smothered "Oom, oom, oom, oom." The cry sounded high in the air through the tops of trees, then low on the ground through the grasses, until it seemed as if the spirits were everywhere. The women clutched tighter their fire sticks, and said: "Let us go back. The Wondah are about," And swiftly they sped towards their camp, hearing ever in the air the "Oom, oom, oom" of the spirits. They told Byamee that all the tribes had lost their dayoorls, and that the spirits were about, and even as they spoke came the sound of "Oom, oom, oom, oom," at the back of their own camp. The women crouched together, but Byamee flashed a fire stick whence came the sound, and as the light flashed on the place he saw no one, but stranger than all, he saw two dayoorls moving along, and yet could see no one moving them, and as the dayoorls moved swiftly away, louder and louder rose the sound of "Oom, oom, oom, oom," until the air seemed full of invisible spirits. Then Byamee knew that indeed the Wondah were about, and he too clutched his fire stick and went back into his camp. In the morning it was seen that not only were all the dayoorls gone, but the camp of the Dummerh was empty and they too had gone. When no one would lend the Dummerh dayoorls, they had said, "Then we can grind no doonburr unless the Wondah bring us stones." And scarcely were the words said before they saw a dayoorl moving towards them. At first they thought it was their own skill which enabled them only to express a wish to have it realised. But as dayoorl after dayoorl glided into their camp, and, passing through there, moved on, and as they moved was the sound of "Oom, oom, oom, oom," to be heard everywhere they knew it was the Wondah at work. And it was borne in upon them that where the dayoorl went they must go, or they would anger the spirits who had brought them through their camp. They gathered up their belongings and followed in the track of the dayoorls, which had cut a pathway from Googoorewon to Girrahween, down which in high floods is now a water-course. From Girrahween, on the dayoorls went to Dirangibirrah, and after them the Dummerh. Dirangibirrah is between Brewarrina and Widda Murtee, and there the dayoorls piled themselves up into a mountain, and there for the future had the blacks to go when they wanted good dayoorls. And the Dummerh were changed into pigeons, with a cry like the spirits of "Oom, oom, oom." Another strange thing happened at this big borah. A tribe, called Ooboon, were camped at some distance from the other tribes. When any stranger went to their camp, it was noticed that the chief of the Ooboon would come out and flash a light on him, which killed him instantly. And no one knew what this light was, that carried death in its gleam. At last, Wahn the crow, said "I will take my biggest booreen and go and see what this means. You others, do not follow me too closely, for though I have planned how to save myself from the deadly gleam, I might not be able to save you." Wahn walked into the camp of the Ooboon, and as their chief turned to flash the light on him, he put up his booreen and completely shaded himself from it, and called aloud in a deep voice "Wah, wah, wah, wah" which so startled Ooboon that he dropped his light, and said "What is the matter? You startled me. I did not know who you were and might have hurt you, though I had no wish to, for the Wahn are my friends." "I cannot stop now," said the Wahn, "I must go back to my camp. I have forgotten something I wanted to show you. I'll be back soon." And so saying, swiftly ran Wahn back to where he had left his boondee, then back he came almost before Ooboon realised that he had gone. Back he came, and stealing up behind Ooboon dealt him a blow with his boondee that avenged amply the victims of the deadly light, by stretching the chief of the Ooboon a corpse on the ground at his feet. Then crying triumphantly, "Wah, wah, wah," back to his camp went Wahn and told what he had done. This night, when the Borah corrobboree began, all the women relations of the boys to be made young men, corrobboreed all night. Towards the end of the night all the young women were ordered into bough humpies, which had been previously made all round the edge of the embankment surrounding the ring. The old women stayed on. The men who were to have charge of the boys to be made young men, were told now to be ready to seize hold each of his special charge, to carry him off down the beaten track to the scrub. When every man had, at a signal, taken his charge on his shoulder, they all started dancing round the ring. Then the old women were told to come and say good-bye to the boys, after which they were ordered to join the young women in the humpies. About five men watched them into the humpies, then pulled the boughs down on the top of them that they might see nothing further. When the women were safely imprisoned beneath the boughs, the men carrying the boys swiftly disappeared down the track into the scrub. When they were out of sight the five black fellows came and pulled the boughs away and released the women, who went now to their camps. But however curious these women were as to what rites attended the boys' initiation into manhood, they knew no questions would elicit any information. In some months' time they might see their boys return minus, perhaps, a front tooth, and with some extra scarifications on their bodies, but beyond that, and a knowledge of the fact that they had not been allowed to look on the face of woman since their disappearance into the scrub, they were never enlightened. The next day the tribes made ready to travel to the place of the little borah, which would be held in about four days' time, at about ten or twelve miles distance from the scene of the big borah. At the place of the little borah a ring of grass is made instead of one of earth. The tribes all travel together there, camp, and have a corrobboree. The young women are sent to bed early, and the old women stay until the time when the boys bade farewell to them at the big borah, at which hour the boys are brought into the little borah and allowed to say a last good-bye to the old women. Then they are taken away by the men who have charge of them together. They stay together for a short time, then probably separate, each man with his one boy going in a different direction. The man keeps strict charge of the boy for at least six months, during which time he may not even look at his own mother. At the end of about six months he may come back to his tribe, but the effect of his isolation is that he is too wild and frightened to speak even to his mother, from whom he runs away if she approaches him, until by degrees the strangeness wears off. But at this borah of Byamee the tribes were not destined to meet the boys at the little borah. Just as they were gathering up their goods for a start, into the camp staggered Millindooloonubbah, the widow, crying, "You all left me, widow that I was, with my large family of children, to travel alone. How could the little feet of my children keep up to you? Can my back bear more than one goolay? Have I more than two arms and one back? Then how could I come swiftly with so many children? Yet none of you stayed to help me. And as you went from each water hole you drank all the water. When, tired and thirsty, I reached a water hole and my children cried for a drink, what did I find to give them? Mud, only mud. Then thirsty and worn, my children crying and their mother helpless to comfort them; on we came to the next hole. What did we see, as we strained our eyes to find water? Mud, only mud. As we reached hole after hole and found only mud, one by one my children laid down and died; died for want of a drink, which Millindooloonubbah their mother could not give them." As she spoke, swiftly went a woman to her with a wirree of water. "Too late, too late," she said. "Why should a mother live when her children are dead?" And she lay back with a groan. But as she felt the water cool her parched lips and soften her swollen tongue, she made a final effort, rose to her feet, and waving her hands round the camps of the tribes, cried aloud: "You were in such haste to get here. You shall stay here. Googoolguyyah. Googoolguyyah. Turn into trees. Turn into trees." Then back she fell, dead. And as she fell, the tribes that were standing round the edge of the ring, preparatory to gathering their goods and going, and that her hand pointed to as it waved round, turned into trees. There they now stand. The tribes in the background were changed each according to the name they were known by, into that bird or beast of the same name. The barking Mahthi into dogs; the Byahmul into black swans: the Wahns into crows, and so on. And there at the place of the big borah, you can see the trees standing tall and gaunt, sad-looking in their sombre hues, waving with a sad wailing their branches towards the lake which covers now the place where the borah was held. And it bears the name of Googoorewon, the place of trees, and round the edge of it is still to be seen the remains of the borah ring of earth. And it is known as a great place of meeting for the birds that bear the names of the tribes of old. The Byahmuls sail proudly about; the pelicans, their water rivals in point of size and beauty; the ducks, and many others too numerous to mention. The Ooboon, or blue-tongued lizards, glide in and out through the grass. Now and then is heard the "Oom, oom, oom," of the dummerh, and occasionally a cry from the bird Millindooloonubbah of "Googoolguyyah, googoolguyyah." And in answer comes the wailing of the gloomy-looking balah trees, and then a rustling shirr through the bibbil branches, until at last every tree gives forth its voice and makes sad the margin of the lake with echoes of the past. But the men and boys who were at the place of the little borah escaped the metamorphosis. They waited long for the arrival of the tribes who never came. At last Byamee said: "Surely mighty enemies have slain our friends, and not one escapes to tell us of their fate. Even now these enemies may be upon our track; let us go into a far country." And swiftly they went to Noondoo. Hurrying along with them, a dog of Byamee's, which would fain have lain by the roadside rather than have travelled so swiftly, but Byamee would not leave her and hurried her on. When they reached the springs of Noondoo, the dog sneaked away into a thick scrub, and there were born her litter of pups. But such pups as surely man never looked at before. The bodies of dogs, and the heads of pigs, and the fierceness and strength of devils. And gone is the life of a man who meets in a scrub of Noondoo an earmoonan, for surely will it slay him. Not even did Byamee ever dare to go near the breed of his old dog. And Byamee, the mighty Wirreenun, lives for ever. But no man must look upon his face, lest surely will he die. So alone in a thick scrub, on one of the Noondoo ridges, lives this old man, Byamee, the mightiest of Wirreenun. 27. BUNNYYARL THE FLIES AND WURRUNNUNNAH THE BEES The Bunnyyarl and Wurrunnunnah were relations, and lived in one camp. The Wurrunnunnah were very hardworking, always trying to gather food in a time of plenty, to lay in a store for a time of famine. The Bunnyyarl used to give no heed to the future, but used to waste their time playing round any rubbish, and never thinking even of laying up any provisions. One day the Wurrunnunnah said, "Come out with us and gather honey from flowers. Soon will the winter winds blow the flowers away, and there will be no more honey to gather." "No," said the Bunnyyarl, "we have something to look to here." And off they went, turning over some rubbish and wasting their time, knowing whatever the Wurrunnunnah brought they would share with them. The Wurrunnunnah went alone and left the Bunnyyarl to their rubbish. The Wurrunnunnah gathered the flowers and stored the honey, and never more went back to live with the Bunnyyarls, for they were tired of doing all the work. As time went on the Wurrunnunnah were changed into little wild bees, and the lazy Bunnyyarls were changed into flies. 28. DEEGEENBOYAH THE SOLDIER-BIRD Deegeenboyah was an old man, and getting past hunting much for himself; and he found it hard to keep his two wives and his two daughters supplied with food. He camped with his family away from the other tribes, but he used to join the men of the Mullyan tribe when they were going out hunting, and so get a more certain supply of food than if he had gone by himself. One day when the Mullyan went out, he was too late to accompany them. He hid in the scrub and waited for their return, at some little distance from their camp. When they were coming back he heard them singing the Song of the Setting Emu, a song which whoever finds the first emu's nest of the season always sings before getting back to the camp. Deegeenboyah jumped up as he heard the song, and started towards the camp of the Mullyan singing the same song, as if he too had found a nest. On they all went towards the camp sing joyously: Nurdoo, nurbber me derreen derreenbah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah. Garmbay booan yunnahdeh beahwah ah, ah, ah, ah, ah. Gubbondee, dee, ee, ee, ee. Neah nein gulbeejah, ah, ah, ah, ah." Which song roughly translated means: I saw it first amongst the young trees, The white mark on its forehead, The white mark that before I had only seen as the emus moved together in the day-time. Never did I see one camp before, only moving, moving always. Now that we have found the nest We must look out the ants do not get to the eggs. If they crawl over them the eggs are spoilt. As the last echo of the song died away, those in the camp took up the refrain and sang it back to the hunters to let them know that they understood that they had found the first emu's nest of the season. When the hunters reached the camp, up came Deegeenboyah too. The Mullyans turned to him, and said: "Did you find an emu's nest too?" "Yes," said Deegeenboyah, "I did. I think you must have found the same, though after me, as I saw not your tracks. But I am older and stiff in my limbs, so came not back so quickly. Tell me, where is your nest?" "In the clump of the Goolahbahs, on the edge of the plain," said the unsuspecting Mullyan. "Ah, I thought so. That is mine. But what matter? We can share--there will be plenty for all. We must get the net and go and camp near the nest to-night, and to-morrow trap the emu." The Mullyan got their emu trapping net, one made of thin rope about as thick as a thin clothes line, about five feet high, and between two and three hundred yards long. And off they set, accompanied by Deegeenboyah, to camp near where the emu was setting. When they had chosen a place to camp, they had their supper and a little corrobborce, illustrative of slaying emu, etc. The next morning at daylight they erected their net into a sort of triangular shaped yard, one side open. Black fellows were stationed at each end of the net, and at stated distances along it. The net was upheld by upright poles. When the net was fixed, some of the blacks made a wide circle round the emu's nest, leaving open the side towards the net. They closed in gradually until they frightened the emu off the nest. The emu seeing black fellows on every side but one, ran in that direction. The blacks followed closely, and the bird was soon yarded. Madly the frightened bird rushed against the net. Up ran a black fellow, seized the bird and wrung its neck. Then some of them went back to the nest to get the eggs, which they baked in the ashes of their fire and ate. They made a hole to cook the emu in. They plucked the emu. When they had plenty of coals, they put a thick layer at the bottom of the hole, some twigs of leaves on top of the coals, some feathers on the top of them. Then they laid the emu in, more feathers on the top of it, leaves again on top of them, and over them a thick layer of coals, and lastly they covered all with earth. It would be several hours in cooking, so Deegeenboyah said, "I will stay and cook the emu, you young fellows take moonoons--emu spears--and try and get some more emu." The Mullyan thought there was sense in this proposal, so they took a couple of long spears, with a jagged nick at one end, to hold the emu when they speared it; they stuck a few emu feathers on the end of each spear and went off. They soon saw a flock of emu coming past where they were waiting to water. Two of the party armed with the moonoon climbed a tree, broke some boughs and put these thickly beneath them, so as to screen them from the emu. Then as the emu came near to the men they dangled down their spears, letting the emu feathers on the ends wave to and fro. The emu, seeing the feathers, were curious as to how they got there, came over, craning their necks and sniffing right underneath the spears. The black fellows tightly grasped the moonoons and drove them with force into the two emu they had picked One emu dropped dead at once. The other ran with the spear in it for a short distance, but the black fellow was quickly after it, and soon caught and killed it outright. Then carrying the dead birds, back they went to where Deegeenboyah was cooking the other emu. They cooked the two they had brought, and then all started for the camp in great spirits at their successful chase. They began throwing their mooroolahs as they went along, and playing with their bubberahs, or returning boomerangs. Old Deegeenboyah said, "Here, give me the emus to carry, and then you will be free to have a really good game with your mooroolahs and bubberahs, and see who is the best man." They gave him the emus, and on they went, some throwing mooroolahs, and some showing their skill with bubberahs. Presently Deegeenboyah sat down. They thought he was just resting for a few minutes, so ran on laughing and playing, each good throw eliciting another effort, for none liked owning themselves beaten while they had a mooroolah left. As they got further away they noticed Deegeenboyah was still sitting down, so they called out to him to know what was the matter. "All right," he said, "only having a rest; shall come on in a minute." So on they went. When they were quite out of sight Deegeenboyah jumped up quickly, took up the emus and made for an opening in the ground at a little distance. This opening was the door of the underground home of the Murgah Muggui spider--the opening was a neat covering, like a sort of trap door. Down though this he went, taking the emus with him, knowing there was another exit at some distance, out of which he could come up quite near his home, for it was the way he often took after hunting. The Mullyans went home and waited, but no sign of Deegeenboyah. Then back on their tracks they went and called aloud, but got no answer, and saw no sign. At last Mullyangah the chief of the Mullyans, said he would find him. Arming himself with his boondees and spears, he went back to where he had last seen Deegeenboyah sitting. He saw where his tracks turned off and where they disappeared, but could not account for their disappearance, as he did not notice the neat little trap-door of the Murgah Muggui. But he hunted round, determined to scour the bush until he found him. At last he saw a camp. He went up to it and saw only two little girls playing about, whom he knew were the daughters of Deegeenboyah. "Where is your father?" he asked them. "Out hunting," they said. "Which way does he come home?" "Our father comes home out of this;" and they showed him the spiders' trap-door. "Where are your mothers?" "Our mothers are out getting honey and yams." And off ran the little girls to a leaning tree on which they played, running up its bent trunk. Mullyangah went and stood where the trunk was highest from the ground and said: "Now, little girls, run up to here and jump, and I will catch you. Jump one at a time." Off jumped one of the girls towards his outstretched arms, which, as she came towards him he dropped, and, stepping aside, let her come with her full force to the ground where she lay dead. Then he called to the horror-stricken child on the tree: "Come, jump. Your sister came too quickly. Wait till I call, then jump." "No, I am afraid." "Come on, I will be ready this time. Now come." "I am afraid." "Come on; I am strong." And he smiled quite kindly up at the child, who, hesitating no longer, jumped towards his arms, only to meet her sister's fate. "Now," said Mullyangah, "here come the two wives. I must silence them, or when they see their children their cries will warn their husband if he is within earshot." So he sneaked behind a tree, and as the two wives passed he struck them dead with his spears. Then he went to the trapdoor that the children had shown him, and sat down to wait for the coming of Deegeenboyah. He had not long to wait. The trap-door was pushed up and out came a cooked emu, which he caught hold of and laid on one side. Deegeenboyah thought it was the girls taking it, as they had often watched for his coming and done before, so he pushed up another, which Mullyangah took, then a third, and lastly came up himself, to find Mullyangah confronting him spear and boondee in hand. He started back, but the trap-door was shut behind him, and Mullyangah barred his escape in front. "Ah," said Mullyangah, "you stole our food and now you shall die. I've killed your children." Decgeenboyah looked wildly round, and, seeing the dead bodies of his girls beneath the leaning tree, he groaned aloud. "And," went on Mullyangah, "I've killed your wives." Deegenboyah raised his head and looked again wildly round, and there, on their homeward path, he saw his dead wives. Then he called aloud, "Here Mullyangah are your emus; take them and spare me. I shall steal no more, for I myself want little, but my children and my wives hungered. I but stole for them. Spare me, I pray you. I am old; I shall not live long. Spare me." "Not so," said Mullyangah, "no man lives to steal twice from a Mullyan;" and, so saying, he speared Deegeenboyah where he stood. Then he lifted up the emus, and, carrying them with him, went swiftly back to his camp. And merry was the supper that night when the Mullyans ate the emus, and Mullyangah told the story of his search and slaughter. And proud were the Mullyans of the prowess and cunning of their chief. 29. MAYRAH, THE WIND THAT BLOWS THE WINTER AWAY At the beginning of winter, the iguanas hide themselves in their homes in the sand; the black eagle hawks go into their nests; the garbarlee or shingle-backs hide themselves in little logs, just big enough to hold them; the iguanas dig a long way into the sand and cover up the passage behind them, as they go along. They all stay in their winter homes until Mayrah blows the winter away. Mayrah first blows up a thunderstorm. When the iguanas hear the thunder, they know the spring is not far off, so they begin making a passage to go out again, but they do not leave their winter home until the Curreequinquin, or butcher birds sing all day almost without ceasing "Goore, goore, goore, goore." Then they know that Mayrah has really blown the winter away, for the birds are beginning to pair and build their nests. So they open their eyes and come out on the green earth again. And when the black fellows hear the curreequinquins singing "Goore, goore," they know that they can go out and find iguanas again, and find them fatter than when they went away with the coming of winter. Then, too, will they find piggiebillahs hurrying along to get away from their young ones, which they have buried in the sand and left to shift for themselves, for no longer can they carry them, as the spines of the young ones begin to prick them in their pouch. So they leave them and hurry away, that they may not hear their cry. They know they shall meet them again later on, when they are grown big. Then as Mayrah softly blows, the flowers one by one open, and the bees come out again to gather honey. Every bird wears his gayest plumage and sings his sweetest song to attract a mate, and in pairs they go to build their nests. And still Mayrah softly blows until the land is one of plenty; then Yhi the sun chases her back whence she came, and the flowers droop and the birds sing only in the early morning. For Yhi rules in the land until the storms are over and have cooled him, and winter takes his place to be blown away again by Mayrah the loved of all, and the bringer of plenty. 30. WAYARNBEH THE TURTLE Oolah, the lizard, was out getting yams on a Mirrieh flat. She had three of her children with her. Suddenly she thought she heard some one moving behind the big Mirrieh bushes. She listened. All of a sudden out jumped Wayambeh from behind a bush and seized Oolah, telling her not to make a noise and he would not hurt her, but that he meant to take her off to his camp to be his wife. He would take her three children too and look after them. Resistance was useless, for Oolah had only her yam stick, while Wayambeh had his spears and boondees. Wayambeh took the woman and her children to his camp. His tribe when they saw him bring home a woman of the Oolah tribe, asked him if her tribe had given her to him. He said, "No, I have stolen her." "Well," they said, "her tribe will soon be after her; you must protect yourself; we shall not fight for you. You had no right to steal her without telling us. We had a young woman of our own tribe for you, yet you go and steal an Oolah and bring her to the camp of the Wayambeh. On your own head be the consequences." In a short time the Oolahs were seen coming across the plain which faced the camp of the Wayambeh. And they came not in friendship or to parley, for no women were with them, and they carried no boughs of peace in their bands, but were painted as for war, and were armed with fighting weapons. When the Wayambeh saw the approach of the Oolah, their chief said: "Now, Wayambeh, you had better go out on to the plain and do your own fighting; we shall not help you." Wayambeh chose the two biggest boreens that he had; one he slung on him, covering the front of his body, and one the back; then, seizing his weapons, he strode out to meet his enemies. When he was well out on to the plain, though still some distance from the Oolah, he called out, "Come on." The answer was a shower of spears and boomerangs. As they came whizzing through the air Wayambeh drew his arms inside the boreens, and ducked his head down between them, so escaped. As the weapons fell harmless to the ground, glancing off his boreen, out again he stretched his arms and held up again his head, shouting, "Come on, try again, I'm ready." The answer was another shower of weapons, which he met in the same way. At last the Oolahs closed in round him, forcing him to retreat towards the creek. Shower after shower of weapons they slung at him, and were getting at such close quarters that his only chance was to dive into the creek. He turned towards the creek, tore the front boreen off him, flung down his weapons and plunged in. The Oolah waited, spears poised in hand, ready to aim directly his head appeared above water, but they waited in vain. Wayambeh, the black fellow, they never saw again, but in the waterhole wherein he had dived they saw a strange creature, which bore on its back a fixed structure like a boreen, and which, when they went to try and catch it, drew in its head and limbs, so they said, "It is Wayambeh." And this was the beginning of Wayambeh, or turtle, in the creeks. 31. WIRREENUN THE RAINMAKER The country was stricken with a drought. The rivers were all dry except the deepest holes in them. The grass was dead, and even the trees were dying. The bark dardurr of the blacks were all fallen to the ground and lay there rotting, so long was it since they had been used, for only in wet weather did the blacks use the bark dardurr; at other times they used only whatdooral, or bough shades. The young men of the Noongahburrah murmured among themselves, at first secretly, at last openly, saying: "Did not our fathers always say that the Wirreenun could make, as we wanted it, the rain to fall? Yet look at our country--the grass blown away, no doonburr seed to grind, the kangaroo are dying, and the emu, the duck, and the swan have flown to far countries. We shall have no food soon; then shall we die, and the Noongahburrah be no more seen on the Narrin. Then why, if he is able, does not Wirreenun inake rain?" Soon these murmurs reached the ears of the old Wirreenun. He said nothing, but the young fellows noticed that for two or three days in succession he went to the waterhole in the creek and placed in it a willgoo willgoo--a long stick, ornamented at the top with white cockatoo feathers--and beside the stick he placed two big gubberah, that is, two big, clear pebbles which at other times he always secreted about him, in the folds of his waywah, or in the band or net on his head. Especially was he careful to hide these stones from the women. At the end of the third day Wirreenun said to the young men: "Go you, take your comeboos and cut bark sufficient to make dardurr for all the tribe." The young men did as they were bade. When they had the bark cut and brought in Wirreenun said: "Go you now and raise with ant-bed a high place, and put thereon logs and wood for a fire, build the ant-bed about a foot from the ground. Then put you a floor of ant-bed a foot high whereever you are going to build a dardurr." And they did what he told them. When the dardurr were finished, having high floors of ant-bed and water-tight roofs of bark, Wirreenun commanded the whole camp to come with him to the waterhole; men, women, and children; all were to come. They all followed him down to the creek, to the waterhole where he had placed the willgoo willgoo and gubberah. Wirreenun jumped into the water and bade the tribe follow him, which they did. There in the water they all splashed and played about. After a little time Wirreenun went up first behind one black fellow and then behind another, until at length he had been round them all, and taken from the back of each one's head lumps of charcoal. When he went up to each he appeared to suck the back or top of their heads, and to draw out lumps of charcoal, which, as he sucked them out, he spat into the water. When he had gone the round of all, he went out of the water. But just as he got out a young man caught him up in his arms and threw him back into the water. This happened several times, until Wirreenun was shivering. That was the signal for all to leave the creek. Wirreenun sent all the young people into a big bough shed, and bade them all go to sleep. He and two old men and two old women stayed outside. They loaded themselves with all their belongings piled up on their backs, dayoorl stones and all, as if ready for a flitting. These old people walked impatiently around the bough shed as if waiting a signal to start somewhere. Soon a big black cloud appeared on the horizon, first a single cloud, which, however, was soon followed by others rising all round. They rose quickly until they all met just overhead, forming a big black mass of clouds. As soon as this big, heavy, rainladen looking cloud was stationary overhead, the old people went into the bough shed and bade the young people wake up and come out and look at the sky. When they were all roused Wirreenun told them to lose no time, but to gather together all their possessions and hasten to gain the shelter of the bark dardurr. Scarcely were they all in the dardurrs and their spears well hidden when there sounded a terrific clap of thunder, which was quickly followed by a regular cannonade, lightning flashes shooting across the sky, followed by instantaneous claps of deafening thunder. A sudden flash of lightning, which lit a pathway, from heaven to earth, was followed by such a terrific clash that the blacks thought their very camps were struck. But it was a tree a little distance off. The blacks huddled together in their dardurrs, frightened to move, the children crying with fear, and the dogs crouching towards their owners. "We shall be killed," shrieked the women. The men said nothing but looked as frightened. Only Wirreenun was fearless. "I will go out," he said, "and stop the storm from hurting us. The lightning shall come no nearer." So out in front of the dardurrs strode Wirreenun, and naked he stood there facing the storm, singing aloud, as the thunder roared and the lightning flashed, the chant which was to keep it away from the camp "Gurreemooray, mooray, Durreemooray, mooray, mooray," &c. Soon came a lull in the cannonade, a slight breeze stirred the trees for a few moments, then an oppressive silence, and then the rain in real earnest began, and settled down to a steady downpour, which lasted for some days. When the old people had been patrolling the bough shed as the clouds rose overhead, Wirreenun had gone to the waterhole and taken out the willgoo willgoo and the stones, for he saw by the cloud that their work was done. When the rain was over and the country all green again, the blacks had a great corrobboree and sang of the skill of Wirreenun, rainmaker to the Noongahburrah. Wirreenun sat calm and heedless of their praise, as he had been of their murmurs. But he determined to show them that his powers were great, so he summoned the rainmaker of a neighbouring tribe, and after some consultation with him, he ordered the tribes to go to the Googoorewon, which was then a dry plain, with the solemn, gaunt trees all round it, which had once been black fellows. When they were all camped round the edges of this plain, Wirreenun and his fellow rainmaker made a great rain to fall just over the plain and fill it with water. When the plain was changed into a lake, Wirreenun said to the young men of his tribe: "Now take your nets and fish." "What good?" said they. "The lake is filled from the rain, not the flood water of rivers, filled but yesterday, how then shall there be fish?" "Go," said Wirreenun. "Go as I bid you; fish. If your nets catch nothing then shall Wirreenun speak no more to the men of his tribe, he will seek only honey and yams with the women." More to please the man who had changed their country from a desert to a hunter's paradise, they did as he bade them, took their nets and went into the lake. And the first time they drew their nets, they were heavy with goodoo, murree, tucki, and bunmillah. And so many did they catch that all the tribes, and their dogs, had plenty. Then the elders of the camp said now that there was plenty everywhere, they would have a borah that the boys should be made young men. On one of the ridges away from the camp, that the women should not know, would they prepare a ground. And so was the big borah of the Googoorewon held, the borah which was famous as following on the triumph of Wirreenun the rainmaker. APPENDIX EDITOR and Publisher have gratefully accepted a suggestion made by Dr. E. B. Tylor, that the philologist would be thankful for a specimen of these tales in their native form. DINEWAN BOOLLARHNAH GOOMBLEGUBBON Dinewan boorool diggayah gillunnee. Nahmerhneh boorool doorunmai. Goomblegubbon boolwarrunnee. Goomblegubbon numbardee boorool boolwarrunnee Dinewan numbardee. Baiyan noo nurruldundi gunnoonah burraylundi nurreebah burri bunnagullundi. Goomblegubbondoo winnanullunnee dirrah dungah nah gillunnee, Dinewandoo boonoong noo beonemuldundi. Goomblegubbondoo winnanullunnee gullarh naiyahneh gwallee Dinewan gimbelah: "Wahl ninderh doorunmai gillaygoo. Baiyan noo winnanunnee boonoong gurrahgoo, wahlneh burraylaygoo. Wahl butndi naiyah boorool gillunnah boomahleegooneh naiyah butthdinen woggee gwallee myrenay boonoong gillundi." Illah noo nurray Dinewan nahwandi. Goomblegubbon lowannee boonooog noo wunnee wooee baiyan nurrunnee bonyehdool. Baiyan boollarhgneh gwalleelunnee. Goomblegubbondoo gooway: "Minyah goo ninderh wahl boonoong dulleebah gillunnee? Gunnoono diggayah burraylunneh. Wahl boonoong ninderh doorunmai. Myrenay boonoong gillunneh Gunnoogoo nunnahlah doorunmai gimbehlee." Dinewandoo gooway "Gheerh ninderh boonoong bayyi." "Wahl." Nahnee Dinewan noonoo meer gullahgeh. Baiyan boollarhneh budtnah ginnee. Boonoong butndi nullee gurray wahl Goomblegubbon doorunmai giggee. Dinewandoo gooneejayn gooway cooleer noo noo boonoong gurrahlee goo comeboo goo. Baiyan noo gaiathah noonoo boonoong gurray. Baiyan, neh bunnerhgahoonee Goomblegubbon. Dinewan gooway Goomblegubbon: "Boonoong nayr gurray." Goomblegubbon gindabnunnee, barnee, bunna gunnee dirrah gunnee numerhneh. Boonoong beeyonemay, baiyan noo gooway Dinewan. "Dungneemay ninnerhneh nayr byjundool boonoong. Mayerboo nay, nay boonoong, gurrah wahl dunerh. Wombah ninderh byjundool boonoong. Dinewan bunna gunnee boomahlee-goo Goomblegubbon, baiyan Goomblegubbon burrunnee. Narahgahdool myrenay boonoong. Baiyan Dinewan eelaynerhginnee nahnee illah nayahe ninnernah gullahrah gimbehlee. Illah lah noo noo winnanunnee. Baiyan noo doorimbai birrahleegul boollarhyel nuddahnooway booroolah binnamayahgahway. Baiyan neh moorillah die gahraymo noo-noo, boollarh noo garwannee. Baiyan neh woggee goo nahnee. Goomblegubbondoo birrahleegul oodundi gunoonoo garwil. Baiyan boollarhgneh gwallannee. Dinewan gooway Goomblegubbon." "Minyah goo ninderh booroolah birrahleegulgah gillunnah. Wahl ninder booroolah goo garwil ooday. Tuggil ninderh boollarhyel gargillay baiyan boollarhgnah, booral giggee, wahl ninderh booroolah goo gooloon marlday." Goomblegubbon buthdi ginnee nalmee. "Gullarh nayr nay birrahleegul boorool luggeray Dinewan? Boollarhyel nay gillundi yahmerh boollarhgnah boorool giggee luggeray Dinewan." Winnanunnee noo dungeway. Baiyan noo nurray Dinewan, nurray noo boorool. Baiyan noo gooway: "Boomahlee doo gunnoono boollarhyel nayr gurrahwulday. Dinewan wahl doorunmai gillay woggee goo. Goomblegubbon weel gillay doorunmai. Goomblegubbon boorool giggee luggeray Dinewun, boonoong gunnoo goo gurrahwulday. Baiyan noo boomay gunnoono birrahlee gul boollarhyel noo gurrahway. Baiyanneh durrahwallunee nummerh nayr Dinewan doo duldundigoo. Dinewandoo guggay." "Minyah ninnoo birrahleegul?" "Gunnoono nayr boomay boollarhyel gargillunnah." "Wullundoo youlloo ninderh boomay! Booroolah nay birrahleegul, gooloonmul dunnerli nayr gunnoonoo. Booroolah gunnoonoo. Nurraleh noill doowar yu booloobunnee. Nurraleh boonboon. Nummerh nayr bayah muldunnerh nay birrahlee gulloo." "Boollarhyel ninnoo birrahlee garlee." "Booroolah boollarh nay. Nayr di gargee ninnoonderh nurranmullee goo." Dinewan bunnagunnee binnamayahgoo nayr noo doorimbundigoo birrableegul. Baiyan naiyah durrabwullunee, dirralabeel ginnee noo boobootella, gwallandy, "Boom, boom." Birrahleegul noo noo bunna gairlehwahndi, beweererh nurrahwahndi, weeleer, weerleeer, Tuwerh munneh doorundi, baiyanneh eelay nurrunnee. Baiyan noo gooway. "Geeroo nayr ninnunnerh gooway. Gunnoono nayr nay birrahleegul gurrahwuldunnerh. Nurullah Numerh nayr ninnoo nurragah birrahleegul! Boomay ninderh ninnoo birrahleegul, ninderh nunnoo dung eemai! Tuggil nayr lahnylay nayr boonoong ninderh boomah boollarhyel birrahleegarlee gargillay. Gurrahwuldare ninnoo boonong nayr luggeeroo, gurrahwulday nay birrahleegul." Mrs. Parker writes: "The old black woman who first told me the tale is away, but I got another old woman of the pre-white era to tell it again to me yesterday; it is almost the same, minus one of the descriptive touches immaterial to the story as such; in fact, to all intents and purposes, the same." GLOSSARY Bahloo, moon. Beeargah, hawk. Beeleer, black cockatoo. Beereeun, prickly lizard. Bibbee, woodpecker, bird. Bibbil, shiny-leaved box-tree. Bilber, a large kind of rat. Billai or Billay, crimson-wing parrot. Bindeah, a prickle or small thorn. Bingah wingul, needle bush, a tall thorny shrub. Birrahgnooloo, woman's name, meaning "face like a tomahawk handle." Birrahlee, baby. Birrableegul, children. Boobootella, the big bunch of feathers at the back of an emu. Boolooral, an owl. Boomerang, a curved weapon used in hunting and in warfare by the blacks; called Burren by the Narran blacks. Bootoolgah, blue-grey crane. Borah, a large gathering of blacks where the boys are initiated into the mysteries which make them young men. Bou-gou-doo-gahdah, the rain bird. Like the bower or mocking bird. Bouyou, legs. Bowrah or Bohrah, kangaroo. Bralgahs, native companion, bird. Bubberah, boomerang that returns. Buckandee, native cat. Buggoo, flying squirrel. Bulgahnunnoo, bark-backed. Bumble, a fruit-bearing tree, sometimes called wild orange and sometimes wild pomegranate tree. Capparis. Bunbundoolooey, brown flock pigeon. Bunnyyarl, flies. Burreenjin, magpie, lark, or peewee Budtha, rosewood-tree, also girl's name. Byamee, man's name, meaning "big man." Comebee, bag made of kangaroo skins. Comeboo, stone tomahawk. Cookooburrah, laughing jackass. Coorigil, name of place, meaning sign of bees. Corrobboree, black fellows' dance. Cunnembeillee, woman's name, meaning pig-weed root. Curree guin guin, butcher-bird. Daen, black fellows. Dardurr, bark, humpy or shed. Dayah minyah, carpet snake. Dayoorl, large flat stone for grinding grass seed upon. Deegeenboyah, soldier-bird. Decreeree, willy wagtail. Dheal, the sacred tree of the Noongahburrahs, only used for putting on the graves of the dead. Dinewan, emu. Dingo, native dog. Doonburr, a grass seed. Doongara, lightning. Dummerh, pigeons. Dungle, water hole. Dunnia, wattle. Durrie, bread made from grass seed. Eär moonan, long sharp teeth. Euloo marah, large tree grubs. Edible. Euloo wirree, rainbow. Galah or Gilah, a French grey and rose-coloured cockatoo. Gayandy, borah devil. Gidgereegah, a species of small parrot. Girrahween, place of flowers. Gooeea, warriors. Googarh, iguana. Googoolguyyah, turn into trees. Googoorewon, place of trees. Goolahbah, grey-leaved box-tree. Goolahgool, water-holding tree. Goolahwilleel, top-knot pigeon. Gooloo, magpie. Goomade, red stamp. Goomai, water rat. Goomblegubbon, bastard or plainturkey. Goomillah, young girl's dress, consisting of waist strings made of opossum's sinews with strands of woven oppossum's hair, hanging about a foot square in front. Goonur, kangaroo rat. Goug gour gahgah, laughing-jackass. Literal meaning, "Take a stick." Grooee, handsome foliaged tree bearing a plum-like fruit, tart and bitter, but much liked by the blacks. Gubberah, magical stones of Wirreenum. Clear crystallised quatty. Guddah, red lizard, Guiebet, a thorny creeper bearing masses of a lovely myrtle-like flower and an edible fruit somewhat resembling passion fruit. Guinary, light eagle hawk. Guineboo, robin redbreast. Gurraymy, borah devil. Gwai, red. Gwaibillah, star. Mars. Kurreah, an alligator. Mahthi, dog. Maimah, stones. Maira, paddy melon. May or Mayr, wind. Mayrah, spring wind. Meainei, girls. Midjee, a species of acacia. Millair, species of kangaroo rat. Moodai, opossum. Moogaray, hailstones. Mooninguggahgul, mosquito-calling bird. Moonoon, emu spear. Mooregoo, motoke. Mooroonumildah, having no eyes. Morilla or Moorillah, pebbly ridges. Mubboo, beefwood-tree. Mullyan, eagle hawk. Mullyangah, the morning star. Murgah muggui, big grey spider. Murrawondah, climbing rat. Narahdarn, bat. Noongahburrah, tribe of blacks on the Narran. Nullah nullah, a club or heavy-headed weapon. Nurroo gay gay, dreadful pain. Nyunnoo or Nunnoo, a grass humpy. Ooboon, blue-tongued lizard. Oolah, red prickly lizard. Oongnairwah, black diver. Ouyan, curlew. Piggiebillah, ant-eater. One of the Echidna, a marsupial. Quarrian, a kind of parrot. Quatha, quandong; a red fruit like a round red plum. U e hu, rain, only so called in song. Waligoo, to hide. A game like hide-and-seek. Wahroogah, children. Wahn, crow. Wayambeh, turtle. Waywah, worn by men, consisting of a waistband made of opossum's sinews with bunches of strips of paddymelon skins hanging from it. Weedall, bower or mocking-bird. Weeownbeen, a small bird. Something like a redbreast, only with longer tail and not so red a breast. Widya nurrah, a wooden battleaxe shaped weapon. Willgoo willgoo, pointed stick with feathers on top. Wirree, small piece of bark, canoe-shaped. Wirreenun, priest or doctor. Womba, mad. Wondah, spirit or ghost. Wurranunnah, wild bees. Wurrawilberoo, whirlwind with a devil in it; also clouds of Magellan. Wurranunnah, bee. Wurrunnah, man's name, meaning standing. Yaraan, white gum-tree. Yhi, the sun. Yuckay, oh, dear! 
39712	----	GOBLIN TALES OF LANCASHIRE. BY JAMES BOWKER, F.R.G.S.I. AUTHOR OF 'PHOEBE CAREW, A NORTH COAST STORY,' 'NAT HOLT'S FORTUNE,' ETC. _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DRAWINGS BY THE LATE CHARLES GLIDDON._ 'Of Faery-land yet if he more enquire, By certain signes here sett in sondrie place, He may itt fynd.' SPENSER 'La veuve du même Plogojovits déclara que son mari depuis sa mort lui était venu demander des souliers.' CALMET, _Traité sur les Apparitions_, 1751. London W. SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO. PATERNOSTER ROW TO THE MOST NOBLE THE MARQUIS OF HARTINGTON, P.C., D.C.L. THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF MUCH KINDNESS. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION, I.--THE SKRIKER, II.--THE UNBIDDEN GUEST, III.--THE FAIRY'S SPADE, IV.--THE KING OF THE FAIRIES, V.--MOTHER AND CHILD, VI.--THE SPECTRAL CAT, VII.--THE CAPTURED FAIRIES, VIII.--THE PILLION LADY, IX.--THE FAIRY FUNERAL, X.--THE CHIVALROUS DEVIL, XI.--THE ENCHANTED FISHERMAN, XII.--THE SANDS OF COCKER, XIII.--THE SILVER TOKEN, XIV.--THE HEADLESS WOMAN, XV.--THE RESCUE OF MOONBEAM, XVI.--THE WHITE DOBBIE, XVII.--THE LITTLE MAN'S GIFT, XVIII.--SATAN'S SUPPER, XIX.--THE EARTHENWARE GOOSE, XX.--THE PHANTOM OF THE FELL, XXI.--ALLHALLOW'S NIGHT, XXII.--THE CHRISTMAS-EVE VIGIL, XXIII.--THE CRIER OF CLAIFE, XXIV.--THE DEMON OF THE OAK, XXV.--THE BLACK COCK, XXVI.--THE INVISIBLE BURDEN, APPENDIX.--COMPARATIVE NOTES, INTRODUCTION. For many of the superstitions which still cling to him the Lancashire man of the present day is indebted to his Celtic and Scandinavian ancestors. From them the Horse and Worm stories, and the Giant lore of the northern and southern mountains and fells, have come down, while the relationship of the 'Jinny Greenteeth,' the presiding nymph of the ponds and streams, with allusions to whom the Lancastrian mother strives to deter her little ones from venturing near the pits and brooks; to the water-spirits of the Gothic mythology, is too evident to admit of any doubt. The source of the 'Gabriel Ratchets,' the hell-hounds whose fear-inspiring yelps still are heard by the benighted peasant, who finds in the dread sound a warning of the approach of the angel of death; in the Norse Aasgaardsveia, the souls condemned to ride about the world until doomsday, and who gallop through the midnight storm with shrieks and cries which ring over the lonely moors; or in that other troop of souls of the brave ones who had died in battle, being led by the storm-god Woden to Walhalla, also is undeniable. Striking, however, as are the points of similitude between some of the Lancastrian traditions and those of the north of Europe, others seem to be peculiar to the county, and that these are of a darker and gloomier cast than are the superstitions of districts less wild and mountainous, and away from the weird influence of the sea, with its winter thunderings suggestive of hidden and awful power, may in a great measure be correctly attributed to the nature of the scenery. It is easy to understand how the unlettered peasant would people with beings of another world either the bleak fells, the deep and gloomy gorges, the wild cloughs, the desolate moorland wastes two or three thousand feet above the level of the sea, of the eastern portion of the county; or the salt marshes where the breeze-bent and mysterious-looking trees waved their spectral boughs in the wind; the dark pools fringed with reeds, amid which the 'Peg-o'-Lantron' flickered and danced, and over which came the hollow cry of the bittern and the child-like plaint of the plover; and the dreary glens, dark lakes, and long stretches of sand of the north and west. To him the forest, with its solemn Rembrandtesque gloom, Where Druids erst heard victims groan, the lonely fir-crowned pikes, and the mist-shrouded mountains, would seem fitting homes for the dread shapes whose spite ended itself in the misfortunes and misery of humanity. Pregnant with mystery to such a mind would be the huge fells, with their shifting 'neetcaps' of cloud, the towering bluffs, the swampy moors, and trackless morasses, across which the setting sun cast floods of blood-red light; and irresistible would be the influence of such scenery upon the lonely labourer who would go about his daily tasks with a feeling that he was surrounded by the supernatural. And wild as are many parts of the county to-day, it is difficult to conceive its condition a century or two ago, when much of the land was not only uncultivated, but was, for at least a portion of the year, covered by sheets of water, the highways being little more than bridle roads, or, if wider than usual, very sloughs of despond, the carts in several of the rural districts being laid aside in winter as utterly useless, and grain and other commodities, even in summer time, being conveyed from place to place on the backs of long strings of pack-horses. Living in lonely houses and cottages shut out from civilisation by the difficulties of communication, and hemmed in by floating mists and by much that was awe-inspiring, with in winter additional barriers of storm, snow and flood, it is easy to imagine how in the fancy of the yeoman, shepherd, farmer, or solitary lime burner, as 'th' edge o' dark' threw its weird glamour over the scene, boggarts and phantoms would begin to creep about to the music of the unearthly voices heard in every sough and sigh of the wandering wind as it wailed around the isolated dwellings. In everything weird they found a message from the unknown realms of death. The noise of the swollen waters of the Ribble or the Lune, or the many smaller streams hurrying down to the sea, was to them the voice of the Water Spirit calling for its victim, and the howling of their dogs bade the sick prepare to meet 'the shadow with the keys.' All around them were invisible beings harmful or mischievous, and to them they traced much of the misfortune which followed the stern working of nature's laws. The superstitions which date from, as well as the actual annals of the Witch Mania in Lancashire, in some slight degree confirm this theory, for whereas in the flat and more thickly-populated districts the hag contented herself with stealing milk from her neighbour's cows, spoiling their bakings, and other practical jokes of a comparatively harmless kind, in the wilder localities--the region of pathless moors and mist-encircled mountains--the witch ever was raising terrible storms, bringing down the thunder, killing the cattle, dealing out plagues and pestilence at will, wreaking evil of every conceivable kind upon man and beast, and, hot from her sabbath of devil-worship, even casting the sombre shadows and dread darkness of death over the households of those who had fallen under the ban of her hate. Lancashire has, however, an extensive ghost lore to which this theory has no reference, consisting as it does of stories of haunted houses and churchyards, indelible blood-stains, and all the paraphernalia of the Shapes that walk At dead of night, and clank their chains and wave The torch of hell around the murderer's bed. The sketch in this volume, 'Mother and Child,' for the skeleton of which tradition I am indebted to the late Mr. J. Stanyan Bigg, may be considered a fair specimen of these stories. In most cases these legends are not simply the vain creations of ignorance and darkness, although they fade before the light of knowledge like mists before the sun, for under many of them may be found a moral and a warning, or a testimony to the beauty of goodness, hidden it is true beneath the covering of a rude fable, just as inscriptions rest concealed below the moss of graveyards. The well-known legend of the Boggart of Townley Hall, with its warning cry of 'Lay out, lay out!' and its demand for a victim every seventh year, is a striking example of traditions of this class--emphatic protests against wrong, uttered in the form of a nerve-affecting fable. In more than one of the stories of this kind to which I have listened, the ghost of the victim has re-visited 'the pale glimpses of the moon,' and made night so hideous to the wrong-doer, that, in despair and remorse, he has put an end to himself; and trivial as these things may seem to Mr. Gradgrind and his school, they have, like other and nobler parables, influenced minds impervious to dry fact. To the devil lore of the county, however, the theory certainly will apply, for surely it is in a gloomy gorge, through which forked lightnings flash and chase each other, and the thunder rolls and reverberates, or on a dark and lonesome moor, rather than upon the shady side of Pall Mall, one would expect to meet the Evil One. Yet, undoubtedly, other causes contributed to enrich the store of tales of fiends with which the county abounds. In Lancashire many of the old customs, even such as the riding of the wooden Christ on Palm Sunday, continued to be kept up at a later period than was the case in other parts of England; and, notwithstanding the prohibitory edicts of the commissioners appointed by Queen Elizabeth, Miracle Plays and Moralities doubtless were performed there even during the early part of the reign of James I., for the Reformation, rapidly as its principles took root and spread in other parts of the country, did not make rapid headway in Lancashire, where great numbers of the people remained true to the faith of their forefathers. In fact, in many parishes, long after the Church of England had been by law established, Catholic priests continued to be the only officiating ministers. Probably the people loved their church not only on account of its doctrines, of which it may be presumed most of them knew but little, and of its impressive ceremonies, but also because of its recognition of the holy days and fair days, wakes, and games it was powerless to suppress; and perhaps of all the amusements thus winked at or even patronised by the church, that of dramatic representations, rude and grotesque as they undoubtedly were, was the most important. In many places the members of the various guilds and brotherhoods were the performers, but in the majority of cases the entertainments were given by the priests and other ecclesiastical functionaries. What part the Devil played in these amusements is well known to the antiquary, the old accounts containing particulars of the expenditure upon not only hair for the Evil One's wig, but also for canvas, of which to construct black shirts for the Satanic tag-rag, or, as the old scribes plainly put it, 'for the damned.' It is evident from the old records that Satan left the hands of his dresser an object compared with which the most hideous jack-in-the-box of the modern toy shop would be a vision of loveliness; and, as his chief occupations were those of roaring and yelling, and of suffering all sorts of indignities at the hands of the Vice, as does the pantaloon at the hands of the clown in a pantomime of to-day, it is easy to see that his _rôle_ was not a very dignified one. Everywhere the stage devil was simply the stage fool. Even in France, where the drama ever has been submitted to precise rules, 'there was,' as Albert Reville has remarked (_Histoire du Diable, ses origines, sa grandeur et sa decadence._ Strasbourg: 1870), 'a class of popular pieces called devilries (_diableries_), gross and often obscene masquerades, in which at least four devils took part.... In Germany also the devil was diverting on the stage. There exists an old Saxon Mystery of the Passion, in which Satan repeats, like a mocking echo, the last words of Judas who hangs himself; and when, in accordance with the sacred tradition, the traitor's bowels fall asunder, the Evil One gathers them into a basket, and, as he carries them away, sings a little melody appropriate to the occasion.' Undoubtedly these misrepresentations of the apostate angel helped to familiarise the popular mind with the idea of a personal devil going about veritably seeking whom he might devour; and although, when with the crowd in the presence of the Thespian ecclesiastics, people might feel quite at home with, and really enjoy, the company of the Evil One, away again on the dreary moor, or in the lonely hillside cottage, with the night wind howling at the door, fear would resume its wonted supremacy, and the feeling would be deepened and intensified by the memory of the horrid appearance of the stage Satan. It is possible that in a great measure we owe to these performances the somewhat monotonous frequency with which, in the purely local Lancashire devil stories, the Evil One, who generally in the most stupid manner permits himself to be overreached, comes oft second best, for doubtless many of the traditions were moulded in accordance with the lot of Satan in the miracle plays, as, in their turn, these were, although perhaps indirectly, based upon the teachings of the church, and that, in its turn, upon the writings of the Fathers, some of whom, and notably Origen, did not hesitate to speak of the Redemption even as due in no small degree to Satanic stupidity, a view so lastingly predominant in the Church that as Reville has said, 'la poesie ecclésiastique, la prédication populaire, des enseignements pontificaux même le repandirent, le dramatisèrent, le consacrèrent partout.' An interesting chapter in the history of religious beliefs might be written upon the views of the early Fathers with reference to Satan and his legion, and the student is not inclined to be quite so severe upon the superstitions of the unlettered peasant when he finds Jerome recording it as the opinion of all the doctors in the church, that the air between heaven and earth is filled with Evil Spirits, and Augustine and others stating that the devils had fallen there from a higher and purer region of the air. The early Christian Church too had its order of _Exorcists_, who had care of those possessed by Evil Spirits, the _energumeni_, and the Bishops, departing from the original idea that laymen had the power of exorcism, ordained men to the office and called upon them to exercise their functions even before the rite of baptism, to deliver the candidates 'from the dominion of the power of darkness.' Of the lighter superstitions in Lancashire, that of belief in fairies appears to be almost extinct, and it is to be lamented that forty years ago folk lore was considered of so little importance, for the slight and vague references in a rare little 'History of Blackpool,' by the Rev. W. Thornber, upon two of which the sketches entitled 'The Silver Token,' and 'The Fairy's Spade' are founded, show that the task of gathering a goodly store of such vestiges of ancient faiths would at the time when that volume was written have been a comparatively easy one. To-day, however, the case is different. Even my friend, the late Mr. John Higson, of Lees, to whose kindness I owe the tradition upon which the story of 'The King of the Fairies' is based, and whose labours in out-of-the-way paths dear to antiquaries were for some years as untiring as successful and praiseworthy, was not able to gather much bearing upon the fairy mythology of the Lancashire people. Most of the fairy and folk stories it was my good fortune to hear in the county and moorland districts were of a conventional kind, lubber fiends, death warnings, fairy ointment, and fairy money being as plentiful as diamonds in Eastern tales, and for that reason it was not thought necessary to reproduce them in this volume. The darker forms of superstition, like lower organisms, are more tenacious of life, and in many a retired nook of Lancashire there still may be found small congregations of believers in all the mystic lore of devildom and witchcraft. Readers of Mr. Edwin Waugh's exquisite sketches of north country life will at once call to mind, in the 'Grave of the Griselhurst Boggart,' an illustration of that dim fear of the supernatural which is yet so all-powerful, while the valuable collection of Folk Lore from the pens of the late Mr. Wilkinson and Mr. John Harland is full of testimony to the vitality of many of these offshoots from old-world creeds. GOBLIN TALES OF LANCASHIRE. TH' SKRIKER (SHRIEKER). On a fine night, about the middle of December, many years ago, a sturdy-looking young fellow left Chipping for his cottage, three or four miles away, upon the banks of the Hodder. The ground was covered with snow, which in many places had drifted into heaps, and the keen frost had made the road so slippery that the progress he made was but slow. Nature looked very beautiful, and the heart of the rustic even was touched by the sweet peacefulness of the scene. The noble old Parlick, and the sweeping Longridge, with its fir-crowned Thornley Height and Kemple End, stood out boldly against the clear sky, and the moon shed her soft silvery light into the long silent valley, stretching away until its virgin paleness mingled with the shadows and the darkness of the distant fells beyond Whitewell. All was still, save when the sighing wind rustled gently through the frosted branches of the leafless trees by the roadside, and shook down upon the wayfarer a miniature shower of snow; for even the tiny stream, so full of mirth and music in the summer time, had been lulled to sleep by the genius of winter; and the cottagers, whose little houses, half-hidden by the rime, seemed hardly large enough for the dwellings of dwarfs, had been snugly sleeping for hours. Adam was by no means a timid or nervous being, but there was a nameless something in the deathly silence which oppressed, if it did not actually frighten, him; and although he sang aloud a verse of the last song he had heard before he left the kitchen of the Patten Arms, his voice had lost its heartiness. He earnestly wished himself safely across the little bridge over the brook; but he was yet some distance from the stream when the faint chimes of midnight fell upon the air. Almost immediately after the last stroke of twelve had broken the silence a cloud passed over the face of the moon, and comparative darkness enveloped the scene; the wind, which before had been gentle and almost noiseless, began to howl amid the boughs and branches of the waving trees, and the frozen snow from the hedgerows was dashed against the wayfarer's face. He had already begun to fancy that he could distinguish in the soughing of the wind and the creaking of the boughs unearthly cries and fiendish shouts of glee; but as he approached the dreaded stream his courage almost entirely failed him, and it required a great effort to keep from turning his back to it, and running away in the direction of the little village at the foot of Parlick. It struck him, however, that he had come a long distance; that if he did go back to the Patten Arms the company would be dispersed, and the inmates asleep, and, what was more effective than all, that if he could only cross the bridge he would be safe, the Greenies, Boggarts, and Feorin not having power over any one who had passed over the water. Influenced by this thought, yet with his knees trembling under him, he pushed forward with assumed boldness, and he had almost reached the bridge when he heard the noise of passing feet in the crunching snow, and became conscious of the presence of a ghastly thing he was unable to see. Suddenly a sepulchral howl brought him to a stop, and, with his heart throbbing loudly enough to be heard, he stood gazing fixedly into the darkness. There was nothing to be perceived, however, save the copings of the bridge, with their coverings of rime; and he might have stood there until daylight had not another cry, louder and even more unearthly and horrible than the preceding one, called him from his trance. No sooner had this second scream died away than, impelled by an irresistible impulse, he stepped forward in the direction whence the noise had come. At this moment the moon burst forth from behind the clouds which had for some time obscured her light, and her rays fell upon the road, with its half-hidden cart-tracks winding away into the dim distance; and in the very centre of the bridge he beheld a hideous figure with black shaggy hide, and huge eyes closely resembling orbs of fire. Adam at once knew from the likeness the dread object bore to the figure he had heard described by those who had seen the Skriker, that the terrible thing before him was an Ambassador of Death. Without any consciousness of what he was doing, and acting as though under the sway of a strange and irresistible mesmeric influence, he stepped towards the bridge; but no sooner did he stir than the frightful thing in front of him, with a motion that was not walking, but rather a sort of heavy gliding, moved also, slowly retreating, pausing when he paused, and always keeping its fiery eyes fixed upon his blanched face. Slowly he crossed the stream, but gradually his steps grew more and more rapid, until he broke into a run. Suddenly a faint knowledge of the horrible nature of his position dawned upon him. A little cottage stood by the roadside, and from one of its chamber-windows, so near to the ground as to be within his reach, a dim light shone, the room probably being occupied by a sick person, or by watchers of the dead. Influenced by a sudden feeling of companionship, Adam tried to cry out, but his tongue clave to his parched mouth, and ere he could mumble a few inarticulate sounds, scarcely audible to himself, the dwelling was left far behind, and a sensation of utter loneliness and helplessness again took possession of him. He had thus traversed more than a mile of the road, in some parts of which, shaded by the high hedgerows and overhanging boughs, the only light seemed to him to be that from the terrible eyes, when suddenly he stumbled over a stone and fell. In a second, impressed by a fear that the ghastly object would seize him, he regained his feet, and, to his intense relief, the Skriker was no longer visible. With a sigh of pleasure he sat down upon a heap of broken stones, for his limbs, no longer forced into mechanical movement by the influence of the spectre's presence, refused to bear him further. Bitterly cold as was the night, the perspiration stood in beads upon his whitened face, and, with the recollection of the Skriker's terrible eyes and horrible body strong upon him, he shook and shivered, as though in a fit of the ague. A strong and burly man, in the very prime of life, he felt as weak as a girl, and, fearing that he was about to sink to the ground in a swoon, he took handfuls of the crisp snow and rubbed them upon his forehead. Under this sharp treatment he soon revived a little, and, after several unsuccessful efforts, he succeeded in regaining his feet, and resumed his lonely journey. Starting at the least sough of the breeze, the faintest creak of a bending branch, or the fall of a piece of frozen rime from a bough, he slowly trudged along. He had passed the quaint old house at Chaigely, the sudden yelp of a chained dog in the court-yard giving him a thrill of horror as he went by, and he had reached the bend in that part of the road which is opposite the towering wood-covered Kemple End. A keen and cutting blast swept through the black firs that crowned the summit, and stood, like solemn sentinels, upon the declivity. There was a music in the wind mournful as a croon over the corpse of a beautiful woman, whose hair still shimmers with the golden light of life; but Adam heard no melody in the moaning sighs which seemed to fill the air around. To him, whose soul was yet under the influence of the terror through which he had so recently passed, the sounds assumed an awful nature; whilst the firs, standing so clearly defined against the snow, which lay in virgin heaps upon the beds of withered fern, seemed like so many weird skeletons shaking their bony arms in menace or in warning. With a suddenness that was more than startling, there was a lull, and the breeze ceased even to whisper. The silence was more painful than were the noises of the blast battling with the branches, for it filled the breast of the solitary wayfarer with forebodings of coming woe. At the point he had reached the road sank, and as Adam stepped into the almost utter darkness, caused by the high banks, to which clung masses of decayed vegetation, beautified by the genius of winter into white festoons, again and again the terrible shriek rang out. There was no mistaking the voice of the Skriker for that of anything else upon earth, and, with a sickly feeling at his heart, Adam slowly emerged from the gloom, and, in expectation of the appearance of the ghastly figure, passed on. He had not to wait long, for as he reached the old bridge spanning the Hodder, once more he saw, in the centre of the road, about midway of the stream, the same terrible object he had followed along the lane from the brook at Thornley. With a sensation of terror somewhat less intense than that which had previously influenced him, he again yielded to the power which impelled him forward, and once more the strange procession commenced, the Skriker gliding over the snow, not, however, without a peculiar shuffling of its feet, surrounded, as they were, by masses of long hair, which clung to them, and deadened the sound, and Adam following in his mechanical and involuntary trot. The journey this time, however, was of but short duration, for the poor fellow's cottage was only a little way from the river. The distance was soon traversed, and the Skriker, with its face towards the terrified man, took up its position against the door of the dwelling. Adam could not resist the attraction which drew him to the ghastly thing, and as he neared it, in a fit of wild desperation, he struck at it, but his hand banged against the oak of the door, and, as the spectre splashed away, he fell forward in a swoon. Disturbed by the noise of the fall, the goodwife arose and drew him into the cottage, but for some hours he was unable to tell the story of his terrible journey. When he had told of his involuntary chase of the Skriker, a deep gloom fell over the woman's features, for she well knew what the ghastly visit portended to their little household. The dread uncertainty did not continue long, however, for on the third day from that upon which Adam had reached his home the eldest lad was brought home drowned; and after attending the child's funeral, Adam's wife sickened of a fever, and within a few weeks she too was carried to Mytton churchyard. These things, together with the dreadful experience of the journey from Chipping, so affected Adam that he lost his reason, and for years afterwards the sound of his pattering footsteps, as in harmless idiotcy, with wild eyes and outstretched hands, he trotted along the roads in chase of an imaginary Boggart, fell with mournful impressiveness upon the ears of groups gathered by farm-house fires to listen to stories of the Skriker.{1} THE UNBIDDEN GUEST. In a little lane leading from the town of Clitheroe there once lived a noted 'cunning man,' to whom all sorts of applications were made, not only by the residents, but also by people from distant places, for the fame of the wizard had spread over the whole country side. If a theft was committed, at once the services of 'Owd Jeremy' were enlisted, and, as a result, some one entirely innocent was, if not accused, at least suspected; while maidens and young men, anxious to pry into futurity, and behold the faces of their unknown admirers, paid him trifling fees to enable them to gratify their curiosity. In short, Jeremy professed to be an able student of the Black Art, on familiar speaking terms with Satan, and duly qualified to foretell men's destinies by the aid of the stars. The cottage in which the old man resided was of a mean order, and its outward appearance was by no means likely to impress visitors with an idea that great pecuniary advantages had followed that personal acquaintance with the Evil One of which the wizard boasted. If, however, the outside was mean and shabby, the inside of the dwelling was of a nature better calculated to inspire inquirers with feelings of awe, hung round, as the one chamber was, with faded and moth-eaten black cloth, upon which grotesque astrological designs and the figure of a huge dragon were worked in flaming red. The window being hidden by the dingy tapestry, the only light in the room came from a starved-looking candle, which was fixed in the foot of the skeleton of a child, attached to a string from the ceiling, and dangling just over the table, where a ponderous volume lay open before a large crystal globe and two skulls. In an old-fashioned chair, above which hung suspended a dirty and dilapidated crocodile, the wizard sat, and gave audience to the stray visitors whose desire to peer into futurity overmastered the fear with which the lonely cottage was regarded. A quaint-looking old man was Jeremy, with his hungry-looking eyes and long white beard; and, as with bony fingers he turned over the leaves of the large book, there was much in his appearance likely to give the superstitious and ignorant customers overwhelming ideas of his wondrous wisdom. The 'make up' was creditable to Jeremy, for though he succeeded in deceiving others with his assumption of supernatural knowledge, he himself did not believe in those powers whose aid he so frequently professed to invoke on behalf of his clients. One day, when the ragged cloth had fallen behind a victim who was departing from the wizard's sanctum with a few vague and mysterious hints in exchange for solid coin, the old man, after laughing sarcastically, pulled aside the dingy curtains and stepped to the casement, through which the glorious sunlight was streaming. The scene upon which the wizard looked was a very beautiful one; and the old man leaned his head upon his hands and gazed intently upon the landscape. ''Tis a bonnie world,' said he,--''tis a bonnie world, and there are few views in it to compare with this one for beauty. My soul is drawn toward old Pendle, yon, with a love passing that of woman, heartless and passionless though the huge mass be. Heartless!' said he, after a pause,--'heartless! when every minute there is a fresh expression upon its beautiful front? Ay, even so, for it looms yonder calm and unconcerned when we are ushered into the world, and when we are ushered out of it, and laid to moulder away under the mountain's shadow; and it will rear its bold bluffs to heaven and smile in the sunlight or frown in the gloom after we who now love to gaze upon it are blind to the solemn loveliness of its impassable face. Poor perishable fools are we, with less power than the breeze which ruffles yon purple heather!' With a heavy sigh Jeremy turned away from the window, and as the curtain fell behind him, and he stood again in the wretchedly-lighted room, he saw that he was not alone. The chair in which the trembling hinds generally were asked to seat themselves held a strange-looking visitor of dark and forbidding aspect. 'Jeremiah,' said this personage, 'devildom first and poetising afterwards.' There was an unpleasant tone of banter in this speech, which did not seem in keeping with the character of one who fain would pry into futurity; and as the wizard took his usual position beneath the crocodile, he looked somewhat less oracular than was his wont when in front of a shivering and terrified inquirer. 'What wantest thou with me?' said he, with an ill-assumed appearance of unconcern. The occupant of the chair smiled sardonically as he replied-- 'A little security--that's all. For five-and-twenty years thou hast been amassing wealth by duping credulous fools, and it is time I had my percentage.' The wizard stared in astonishment. Was the stranger a thief, or worse? he wondered, but after a time, however, he said, drily-- 'Even if thou hadst proved thy right to a portion of the profits of my honest calling--and thou hast not--thou wouldst not require a packhorse to carry thy share away. Doth this hovel resemble the abode of a possessor of great wealth? Two chairs, a table, and a few old bones, its furniture; and its tenant a half-starved old man, who has had hard work to support life upon the pittance he receives in return for priceless words of wisdom! Thou art a stranger to me, and thy portion of my earnings is correctly represented by a circle.' A loud and unmusical laugh followed the wizard's words; and before the unpleasant sound had died away the visitor remarked-- 'If I am yet a stranger to thee, Jeremiah, 'tis not thy fault, for during the last quarter of a century thou hast boasted of me as thy willing servant, and extorted hard cash from thy customers upon the strength of my friendship and willingness to help thee; and now, true to thy beggarly instincts, thou wouldst deny me! But 'twill be in vain, Jeremiah--'twill be in vain! I have postponed this visit too long already to be put off with subterfuges now.' 'I repeat, I know thee not,' said the wizard, in a trembling voice. And, hurriedly rising from his chair, he flung aside the thick curtain, in order that the light of day might stream into the chamber, for a nameless fear had taken possession of him, and he did not care to remain in the darkened apartment with his suspicious visitor. To his surprise and terror, however, darkness had fallen upon the scene, and, as he gazed in alarm at the little diamond-framed window, through which so short a time before he had looked upon a fair prospect of meadow and mountain, a vivid flash of lightning darted across the heavens, and a clap of thunder burst over the cottage. ''Twill spoil good men's harvests, Jeremiah,' the stranger calmly said; 'but it need not interrupt our interesting conversation.' Angry at the bantering manner in which the visitor spoke, the wizard flung open the door, and cried-- 'Depart from my dwelling, ere I cast thee forth into the mire!' 'Surely thou wouldst not have the heart to fulfil thy threat,' said the stranger, 'although 'tis true I have but one shoe to be soiled by the mud.' And as he spoke he quietly crossed his legs, and Jeremiah perceived a hideous cloven foot. With a groan, the wizard sank into his chair, and, deaf to the roaring of the thunder, and to the beating of the rain through the doorway, he sat helplessly gazing at his guest, whose metallic laughter rang through the room. 'Hast thou at length recognised me, Jeremiah?' asked the Evil One, after an interval, during which he had somewhat prominently displayed the hoof, and gloated over the agony its exhibition had caused his victim. The old man was almost too terrified to answer, but at last he whispered-- 'I have.' 'And thou no longer wilt refuse me the security?' hissed the tormentor, as he placed a parchment upon the table. 'What security dost thou demand?' feebly inquired the quaking wizard. 'Personal only,' said Satan. 'Put thy name to this,' and he pointed to the bond. Jeremy pushed his chair as far from the suspicious-looking document as he could ere he replied-- 'Thou shalt not have name of mine.' He had expected that an outburst of fiendish wrath would follow this speech, but to his surprise the guest simply remarked-- 'Very well, Jeremiah. By to-morrow night, however, thou shalt be exposed as the base and ignorant pretender thou art. Thou hast trespassed upon the rightful trade of my faithful servants long enough, and 'tis time I stopped thy prosperous career. Ere sunset thou shalt have a rival, who will take the bread from thy ungrateful mouth.' After this polite speech the visitor picked up the parchment, and began to fold it in a methodical manner. Such utterly unexpected gentlemanly behaviour somewhat reassured Jeremiah, and in a fainter voice he humbly asked what his visitor had to give in exchange for a wizard's autograph. 'Twenty-two years of such success as thou hast not even dared to dream of! No opposition--no exposure to thy miserable dupes,' readily answered Satan. Jeremiah considered deeply. The offer undoubtedly was a tempting one, for after all, his profession had not been very lucrative, and to lose his customers, therefore, meant starvation. He was certain that if another wizard opened an establishment the people would flock to him, even through mere curiosity; but he knew what signing the bond included, and he was afraid to take the step. After a long delay, during which Satan carefully removed a sharp stone from his hoof, Jeremiah therefore firmly said-- 'Master, I'll not sign!' Without more ado the visitor departed, and almost before he was out of sight the storm abated, and old Pendle again became visible. A few days passed, and no one came to the dwelling of the wizard; and as such an absence of customers was very unusual, Jeremy began to fear that the supernatural stranger had not forgotten his threat. On the evening of the fifth day he crept into the little town to purchase some articles of food. Previously, whenever he had had occasion to make a similar journey, as he passed along the street the children ran away in terror, and the older people addressed him with remarkable humility; but this time, as he stepped rapidly past the houses, the youngsters went on with their games as though only an ordinary mortal went by, and a burly fellow who was leaning against a door jamb took his pipe from his mouth to cry familiarly-- 'Well, Jerry, owd lad, heaw are ta'?' These marks of waning power and fading popularity were sufficiently unmistakable; but as he was making his few purchases he was informed that a stranger, who seemed to be possessed of miraculous powers, had arrived in the town, and that many people who had been to him were going about testifying to his wonderful skill. With a heavy heart the wizard returned to his cottage. Next night a shower of stones dashed his window to pieces, and, as he peered into the moonlight lane, he saw a number of rough fellows, who evidently were waiting and watching in hopes that he would emerge from his dwelling. These were the only visitors he had during an entire week; and at length, quite prepared to capitulate, he said to himself-- 'I wish I had another chance.' No sooner had he uttered the words, than there was a sudden burst of thunder, wind roared round the house, again the clients' chair was occupied, and the parchment lay upon the table just as though it had not been disturbed. 'Art thou ready to sign?' asked Satan. 'Ay!' answered the old man. The Evil One immediately seized the wizard's hand, upon which Jeremy gave a piercing yell, as well he might do, for the Satanic grip had forced the blood from the tips of his fingers. 'Sign!' said the Devil. 'I can't write,' said the wizard. The Evil One forthwith took hold of one of the victim's fingers, and using it as a pen, wrote in a peculiarly neat hand 'Jeremiah Parsons, his × mark,' finishing with a fiendish flourish. After doing this he again vacated the chair and the room as mysteriously as on the previous occasion. The autograph-loving visitor had barely departed with the parchment ere a knock at the door was heard, and in stepped a man who wished to have the veil lifted, and who brought the pleasing news that, influenced by the reports of the opposition wizard, he had been to his house in Clitheroe, but had found it empty, the whilom tenant having fled no one knew whither. From that time things looked up with Jeremy, and money poured into the skulls, for people crowded from far and near to test his skill. For two-and-twenty years he flourished and was famous, but the end came.{2} One morning, after a wild night when the winds howled round Pendle, and it seemed as though all the powers of darkness were let loose, some labourers who were going to their work were surprised to find only the ruins of the wizard's cottage. The place had been consumed by fire; and although search was made for the magician's remains, only a few charred bones were found, and these, some averred, were not those of old Jeremy, but were relics of the dusty old skeleton and the dirty crocodile under the shadow of which the wizard used to sit. THE FAIRY'S SPADE. 'Th' fairies han getten varra shy sin' thee an' me wir young, Matty, lass!' said an old grey-headed man, who, smoking a long pipe, calmly sat in a shady corner of the kitchen of a Fylde country farm-house. 'Nubry seems to see 'em neaw-a-days as they ust. I onst had a seet o' one on 'em, as plain as I con see thee sittin' theer, ravellin' thi owd stockin'. I wir ploughin' varra soon after dayleet, an' ther worn't a saand to be heeart nobbut th' noise o'th' graand oppenin', an' th' chirp ov a few brids wakkenin' an' tunin' up, an' ov a toothrey crows close at after mi heels a-pikin' up th' whorms. O ov a suddent I heeard sumbry cry, i' a voice like owd Luke wench i'th' orgin loft ov a Sundays, "I've brokken mi speet!" I lost no toime i' tornin' to see whoa wir at wark at that haar, an' i' aar fielt too, an' I clapt mi een on as pratty a little lass as ever oppent een i' this country side. Owd England choilt's bonny, yone warrant mi, but hoo's as feaw as sin aside o'th' face as I see that morn. Hoo stood theer wi' th' brokken spade i' her hond, an' i'th' tother a hommer an' a toothrey nails, an' hoo smoilt at mi, an' offert mi th' tackle, as mich as t' say, "Naaw, Isik, be gradely for onst i' thi loife, an' fettle this speet for mi, will ta?" For a whoile I stood theear gapin' like a foo', and wontherin' wheear hoo could ha' risen fray, but hoo cried aat onst mooar, "I've brokken mi speet!" Sooa I marcht toart her and tuk th' hommer an' th' nails, an' tacklet it up. It didn't tek mi long a-dooin', for it wir but a loile un; but when I'd done hoo smoilt at mi, an' so bonny, summat loike tha ust, Margit, when owd Pigheeod wir cooartin' tha; an' gan mi a hanful o' brass,{3} an' afooar I'd time to say owt off hoo vanisht. That wur th' only feorin as ivver I've seen, an' mebbi th' only one as I'm likely to luk at, for mi seet's getten nooan o'th' best latterly.' THE KING OF THE FAIRIES. Many years ago there lived in a farm-house at a point of the high-road from Manchester to Stockport, where Levenshulme Church now stands, a worthy named Burton, 'Owd Dannel Burton.'[A] The farm held by Daniel was a model one in its way, the old man raising finer crops than any other farmer in the district. It was rumoured that Daniel was very comfortably provided for, and that a few bad years would not harm him; and so wonderfully did everything he took in hand prosper, that his 'luck' became proverbial. Such uniform prosperity could not long continue without the tongue of envy and detraction being set wagging, and the neighbours who permitted thistles to overrun their pastures whilst they gadded about to rush-bearings and wakes, finding a reproach to their idleness not only in the old man's success, but also in the careful, industrious habits of his daily life, were not slow to insinuate that there was something more than farming at the bottom of it. 'Dannel' had sold himself to Satan, said some whose pigs had faded away, and whose harvests had not been worth the gathering; and others pretended to know even the terms of the contract, and how many years the old man yet had to play on. A few of these detractors were young men whose imaginations were not kept in sufficient control, but they grew wonderfully reserved respecting the Satanic bargain after the hearty Daniel had had an interview with them, and proved to them that he had not forgotten the use of a good tough black-thorn. [A] Mr. Burton's grandson was for many years rector of All Saints', Manchester. 'It's nobbut luck,' philosophically remarked others, 'mebbe it'll be my turn to-morn;' but the remainder vowed that neither luck or Evil One had anything to do with it, for the success was due to the labours of Puck, King of the Fairies. They were right. It was Puck, although no one ever knew how the old man had been able to enlist the services of so valuable an auxiliary, Daniel being strangely reticent upon the point, although generally by no means loth to speak of the fairies and their doings. Reserve with reference to these things, however, would not have availed much, for the farm labourers, the ruddy-cheeked milkmaids, and the other women-folk about the farm-house, were fond of boasting of the exploits of Puck--how during the night everything was 'cleaned up,' and all was in apple-pie order when they came into the kitchen at daybreak, the milk churned, the cows foddered, the necessary utensils filled with water from the well, the horses ready harnessed for their day's work at the plough, and even a week's threshing done and the barn left as tidy as though it had just been emptied and swept. Evidently the servant lasses had no fear of, or objection to, a hard-working supernatural visitor of this kind, but just the reverse, and many of their listeners found themselves wishing that their house, too, had its Boggart. For so long a period did this state of things continue, each morning revealing an astounding amount of work performed by the willing and inexpensive workman, that at length the assistance was taken for granted, and as a matter of course, offering no food for surprise, although it did not cease to be a cause of envy to the neighbours. On one occasion, however, as old Daniel was despatching a hearty and substantial breakfast, a heated labourer brought word that all the corn had been housed during the past night. The strange story was true enough, for when the old man reached the field, where on the previous evening the golden sheaves of wheat had stood, he found the expanse quite bare, and as clean as though reapers, leaders, gleaners, and geese had been carefully over it. The harvest was in the barn, but not content with this, Daniel, illustrating the old proverb that 'much would have more,' suddenly exclaimed, 'I wonder whose horses Puck{4} used in this work. If yon of mine, I daresay he sweated them rarely;' and away he strode towards the stable. He had not reached the fold, however, when he met Puck coming towards him, and in a fever of greedy anxiety he cried, 'Puck, I doubt thou'st spoiled yon horses!' No sooner were the words out of his mouth, however, than he saw that for once in his life he had made a mistake, for the fairy went pale with anger as he shouted in a shrill treble:-- Sheaf to field, and horse to stall, I, the Fairy King, recall! Never more shall drudge of mine Stir a horse or sheaf of thine. After which vow he at once vanished. The old man walked home in a sorrowful mood, and actually forgot to go to the stable; but next morning early he was disturbed by a knocking at his chamber door. 'Mesthur, ger up,' cried the messenger, who on the previous day had brought the news of the housing of the corn, 'Mesthur, ger up, th' corn's back i'th' fielt.' With a groan of anguish Daniel arose, and hastily made his way to the barn. All the pile was gone, and the floor littered with straw, exactly as it was before the fairy labour had so transformed the place. It did not take the farmer long to get over the ground between his barn and the corn-field, and arrived there he found the expanse once more covered with yellow sheaves, on which the beams of the rising sun were beginning to fall. Here and there a sheaf had fallen upon the ground, and everywhere straw and ears of corn were scattered about as though the reapers had not long before left the place. The old man turned away in despair. From that time forward there was no more work done about the farm, or the shippons, and stables; but in the house, however, the maids continued to find their tasks performed as usual. Great were the rejoicings in the locality when the story of the sheaves became known, and it got noised about that 'Dannel's' fairy had 'fown eawt' with him. The old man became very dejected, for although he did not clearly perceive that the rupture was entirely due to his own selfish greed, he could not go about the farm without observing how much he had lost. One summer evening in a thoughtful mood he was walking homewards, and wishing that the meadows were mown. Plunged in such reflections, he met a neighbour, who at once asked the cause of his trouble. Daniel turned to point to the meadows, and as he did so he saw the fairy, in an attitude of rapt attention, stooping behind the hedgerow as though anxious to overhear the conversation. 'Yo' miss your neet-mon?' said the neighbour. The old man thought that the time was come to make his peace with offended royalty, and with a cunning glance in the direction of the hiding-place, he answered, 'I do, Abrum, and may God bless Puck, th' King o'th' Fayrees.'{5} There was a startled cry from behind the hedgerow, and both men turned in that direction, but there was nothing to be observed. The fairy had vanished, never again to be seen in Daniel Burton's fields. That night the work was left undone even inside the farm-house, and thenceforward when the kitchen needed cleaning, water was wanted from the well, or when milk had to be churned, the maids had to get up early and do the work, for Puck, King of the Fairies, would not touch either mop or pail. MOTHER AND CHILD. The tenants of Plumpton Hall had retired to rest somewhat earlier than was their wont, for it was the last night of November. The old low rooms were in darkness, and all was silent as the grave; for though the residents, unfortunately for themselves, were not asleep, they held their breath, and awaited in fear the first stroke of the hour from the old clock in the kitchen. Suddenly the sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence; but with sighs of relief the terrified listeners found that the noise was made by a belated wayfarer, almost out of his wits with fright, but who was unable to avoid passing the hall, and who, therefore, ran by the haunted building as quickly as his legs could carry him. The sensation of escape, however, was of but short duration, for the hammer commenced to strike; and no sooner had the last stroke of eleven startled the echoes than loud thuds, as of a heavy object bumping upon the stairs, were heard. The quaking occupants of the chambers hid their heads beneath the bedclothes, for they knew that an old-fashioned oak chair was on its way down the noble staircase, and was sliding from step to step as though dragged along by an invisible being who had only one hand at liberty. If any one had dared to follow that chair across the wide passage and into the wainscoted parlour, he would have been startled by the sight of a fire blazing in the grate, whence, ere the servants retired, even the very embers had been removed, and in the chair, the marvellous movement of which had so frightened all the inmates of the hall, he would have seen a beautiful woman seated, with an infant at her breast. Year after year, on wild nights, when the snow was driven against the diamond panes, and the cry of the spirit of the storm came up from the sea, the weird firelight shone from the haunted room, and through the house sounded a mysterious crooning as the unearthly visitor softly sang a lullaby to her infant. Lads grew up into grey-headed men in the old house; and from youth to manhood, on the last night of each November, they had heard the notes, but none of them ever had caught, even when custom had somewhat deadened the terror which surrounded the events of the much-dreaded anniversary, the words of the song the ghostly woman sang. The maids, too, had always found the grate as it was left before the visit--not a cinder or speck of dust remaining to tell of the strange fire, and no one had ever heard the chair ascend the stairs. Chair and fire and child and mother, however, were seen by many a weary wayfarer, drawn to the house by the hospitable look of the window, through which the genial glow of the burning logs shone forth into the night, but who, by tapping at the pane and crying for shelter, could not attract the attention of the pale nurse, clad in a quaint old costume with lace ruff and ruffles, and singing a mournful and melodious lullaby to the child resting upon her beautiful bosom. Tradition tells of one of these wanderers, a footsore and miserable seafaring man on the tramp, who, attracted by the welcome glare, crept to the panes, and seeing the cosy-looking fire, and the Madonna-faced mother tenderly nursing her infant, rapped at the glass and begged for a morsel of food and permission to sleep in the hayloft--and, finding his pleadings unanswered, loudly cursed the woman who could sit and enjoy warmth and comfort and turn a deaf ear to the prayers of the homeless and hungry; upon which the seated figure turned the weird light of its wild eyes upon him and almost changed him to stone--a labourer, going to his daily toil in the early morn, finding the poor wretch gazing fixedly through the window, against which his terror-stricken face was closely pressed, his hair turned white by fear, and his fingers convulsively clutching the casement. THE SPECTRAL CAT. Long ago--so long, in fact, that the date has been lost in obscurity--the piously-inclined inhabitants of the then thickly wooded and wild country stretching from the sea-coast to Rivington Pike and Hoghton determined to erect a church at Whittle-le-Woods, and a site having been selected, the first stone was laid with all the ceremony due to so important and solemn a proceeding. Assisted by the labours as well as by the contributions of the faithful, the good priest was in high spirits; and as the close of the first day had seen the foundations set out and goodly piles of materials brought upon the ground ready for the future, he fell asleep congratulating himself upon having lived long enough to see the wish of his heart gratified. What was his surprise, however, when, after arising at the break of day, and immediately rushing to his window to gaze upon the work, he could not perceive either foundation or pile of stone, the field in which he expected to observe the promising outline being as green and showing as few marks of disturbance as the neighbouring ones.{6} 'Surely I must have been dreaming,' said the good man, as he stood with rueful eyes at the little casement, 'for there are not any signs either of the gifts or the labours of the pious sons of the church.' In this puzzled frame of mind, and with a heavy sigh, he once more courted sleep. He had not slumbered long, however, when loud knocks at the door of his dwelling and lusty cries for Father Ambrose disturbed him. Hastily attiring himself, he descended, to find a concourse of people assembled in front of the house; and no sooner had he opened the door than a mason cried out-- 'Father Ambrose, where are the foundations we laid yesterday, and where is the stone from the quarry?' 'Then I did not simply dream that I had blessed the site?' said the old man, inquiringly. Upon which there was a shout of laughter, and a sturdy young fellow asked-- 'And I did not dream that I carted six loads from the quarry?' 'Th' Owd Lad's hed a hand int',' said a labourer, 'for t' fielt's as if fuut hed never stept int'.' The priest and his people at once set off to inspect the site, and sure enough it was in the state described by the mason; cowslips and buttercups decking the expanse of green, which took different shades as the zephyr swept over it. 'Well, I'm fair capped,' said a grey-headed old farmer. 'I've hed things stown afoor today, bud they'n generally bin things wi' feathers on an' good to heyt an' not th' feaundations uv a church. Th' warlt's gerrin' ter'ble wickit. We's hev' to bi lukkin' eawt for another Noah's flood, I warrant.' A peal of laughter followed this sally, but Father Ambrose, who was in no mood for mirth, sternly remarked--'There is something here which savoureth of the doings of Beelzebub;' and then he sadly turned away, leaving the small crowd of gossips speculating upon the events of the night. Before the father reached his dwelling, however, he heard his name called by a rustic who was running along the road. 'Father Ambrose,' cried the panting messenger, 'here's the strangest thing happened at Leyland. The foundations of a church and all sorts of building materials have been laid in a field during the night, and Adam the miller is vowing vengeance against you for having trespassed on his land.' The priest at once returned to the little crowd of people, who still were gaping at the field from which all signs of labour had been so wonderfully removed, and bade the messenger repeat the strange story, which he did at somewhat greater length, becoming loquacious in the presence of his equals, for he enjoyed their looks of astonishment. When the astounding narrative had been told, the crowd at once started for Leyland, their pastor promising to follow after he had fortified himself with breakfast. When the good man reached the village he had no need to inquire which was Adam the miller's field, for he saw the crowd gathered in a rich-looking meadow. As he opened the gate Adam met him, and without ceremony at once accused him of having taken possession of his field. 'Peace, Adam,' said the priest. 'The field hath been taken not by me, but by a higher power, either good or evil--I fear the latter,' and he made his way to the people. True enough, the foundations were laid as at Whittle, and even the mortar was ready for the masons. 'I am loth to think that this is a sorry jest of the Evil One,' said Father Ambrose; 'ye must help me to outwit him, and to give him his labour for his pains. Let each one carry what he can, and, doubtless, Adam will be glad to cart the remainder,'--a proposition the burly miller agreed to at once. Accordingly each of the people walked off with a piece of wood, and Adam started for his team. Before long the field was cleared, and ere sunset the foundations were again laid in the original place, and a goodly piece of wall had been built. Grown wise by experience, the priest selected two men to watch the place during the night. Naturally enough, these worthies, who by no means liked the task, but were afraid to decline it, determined to make themselves as comfortable as they could under the circumstances. They therefore carried to the place a quantity of food and drink, and a number of empty sacks, with which they constructed an impromptu couch near the blazing wood fire. Notwithstanding the seductive influence of the liquor, they were not troubled with much company, for the few people who resided in the vicinity did not care to remain out of doors late after what Father Ambrose had said as to the proceeding having been a joke of Satan's. The priest, however, came to see the men, and after giving them his blessing, and a few words of advice, he left them to whatever the night might bring forth. No sooner had he gone than the watchers put up some boards to shield them from the wind, and, drawing near to the cheerful fire, they began to partake of a homely but plentiful supper. Considering how requisite it was that they should be in possession of all their wits, perhaps it would have been better had not a large bottle been in such frequent requisition, for, soon after the meal was ended, what with the effects of the by-no-means weak potion, the warmth and odour sent forth by the crackling logs, and the musical moaning of the wind in the branches overhead, they began to feel drowsy, to mutter complaints against the hardship of their lot, and to look longingly upon the heap of sacks. 'If owt comes,' said the oldest of the two, 'one con see it as well as two, an' con wakken t' tother--theerfore I'm in for a nod.' And he at once flung himself upon the rude bed. 'Well,' said the younger one, who was perched upon a log close to the fire, 'hev thi own way, an' tha'll live lunger; but I'se wakken tha soon, an' hev a doze mysen. That's fair, isn't it?' To this question there was no response, for the old man was already asleep. The younger one immediately reached the huge bottle, and after drinking a hearty draught from it placed it within reach, saying, as he did so-- 'I'm nooan freetunt o' thee, as heaw it is! Thaart not Belsybub, are ta?' Before long he bowed his head upon his hands, and gazing into the fire gave way to a pleasant train of reflections, in which the miller's daughter played a by-no-means unimportant part. In a little while he, too, began to doze and nod, and the ideas and thronging fancies soon gave way to equally delightful dreams. Day was breaking when the pair awoke; the fire was out, and the noisy birds were chirping their welcome to the sun. For a while the watchers stared at each other with well-acted surprise. 'I'm freetunt tha's o'erslept thysel',' said the young fellow; 'and rayly I do think as I've bin noddin' a bit mysen.' And then, as he turned round, 'Why, it's gone ageean! Jacob, owd lad! th' foundation, an' th' wo's, an' o th' lots o' stooans are off t' Leyland ageean!' The field was again clear, grass and meadow flowers covering its expanse, and after a long conference the pair determined that the best course for them to pursue would be that of immediately confessing to Father Ambrose that they had been asleep. Accordingly they wended their way to his house, and having succeeded in arousing him, and getting him to the door, the young man informed him that once more the foundations were missing. 'What took them?' asked the priest. To which awkward query the old man replied, that they did not see anything. 'Then ye slept, did ye?' asked the Father. 'Well,' said the young man, 'we did nod a minnit or two; but we wir toired wi' watchin' so closely; an', yo' see, that as con carry th' foundations ov a church away connot hev mich trouble i' sendin' unlarnt chaps loike Jacob an' me to sleep agen eaur will.' This ended the colloquy, for Father Ambrose laughed heartily at the ready answer. Shortly afterwards, as on the preceding day, the messenger from Leyland arrived with tidings that the walls had again appeared in Adam's field. Again they were carted back, and placed in their original position, and once more was a watch set, the priest taking the precaution of remaining with the men until near upon midnight. Almost directly after he had left the field one of the watchers suddenly started from his seat, and cried-- 'See yo', yonder, there's summat wick!' Both men gazed intently, and saw a huge cat, with great unearthly-looking eyes, and a tail with a barbed end. Without any seeming difficulty this terrible animal took up a large stone, and hopped off with it, returning almost immediately for another. This strange performance went on for some time, the two observers being nearly petrified by terror; but at length the younger one said-- 'I'm like to put a stop to yon wark, or hee'll say win bin asleep ageean,' and seizing a large piece of wood he crept down the field, the old man following closely behind. When he reached the cat, which took no notice of his approach, he lifted his cudgel, and struck the animal a heavy blow on its head. Before he had time to repeat it, however, the cat, with a piercing scream, sprang upon him, flung him to the ground, and fixed its teeth in his throat. The old man at once fled for the priest. When he returned with him, cat, foundations, and materials were gone; but the dead body of the poor watcher was there, with glazed eyes, gazing at the pitiless stars. After this terrible example of the power of the fiendish labourer it was not considered advisable to attempt a third removal, and the building was proceeded with upon the site at Leyland chosen by the spectre. The present parish church covers the place long occupied by the original building; and although all the actors in this story passed away centuries ago, a correct likeness of the cat has been preserved, and may be seen by the sceptical.{7} THE CAPTURED FAIRIES. There once lived in the little village of Hoghton two idle, good-for-nothing fellows, who, somehow or other, managed to exist without spending the day, from morn to dewy eve, at the loom. When their more respectable neighbours were hard at work they generally were to be seen either hanging about the doorway of the little ale-house or playing at dominoes inside the old-fashioned hostelry; and many a time in broad daylight their lusty voices might be heard as they trolled forth the hearty poaching ditty, 'It's my delight, on a shiny night.' It was understood that they had reason to sympathise with the sentiments expressed in the old ballad. Each was followed by a ragged, suspicious-looking lurcher; and as the four lounged about the place steady-going people shook their heads, and prophesied all sorts of unpleasant terminations to so unsatisfactory a career. So far as the dogs were concerned the dismal forebodings were verified, for from poaching in the society of their masters the clever lurchers took to doing a little on their own account, and both were shot in the pursuit of game by keepers, who were only too glad of an opportunity of ridding the neighbourhood of such misdirected intelligence. Soon after this unfortunate event, the two men, who themselves had a narrow escape, had their nets taken; and, as they were too poor to purchase others, and going about to borrow such articles was equivalent to accusing their friends of poaching habits, they were reduced to the necessity of using sacks whenever they visited the squire's fields. One night, after climbing the fence and making their way to a well-stocked warren, they put in a solitary ferret and rapidly fixed the sacks over the burrows. They did not wait long in anxious expectation of an exodus before there was a frantic rush, and after hastily grasping the sacks tightly round the necks, and tempting their missionary from the hole, they crept through the hedgerow, and at a sharp pace started for home. For some time they remained unaware of the nature of their load, and they were congratulating themselves upon the success which had crowned their industry, when suddenly there came a cry from one of the prisoners, 'Dick, wheer art ta?' The poachers stood petrified with alarm; and almost immediately a voice from the other bag piped out-- 'In a sack, On a back, Riding up Hoghton Brow.'{8} The terrified men at once let their loads fall, and fled at the top of their speed, leaving behind them the bags full of fairies, who had been driven from their homes by the intruding ferret. Next morning, however, the two poachers ventured to the spot where they had heard the supernatural voices. The sacks neatly folded were lying at the side of the road, and the men took them up very tenderly, as though in expectation of another mysterious utterance, and crept off with them. Need it be said that those bags were not afterwards used for any purpose more exciting than the carriage of potatoes from the previously neglected bit of garden, the adventure having quite cured the men of any desire to 'pick up' rabbits. Like most sudden conversions, however, that of the two poachers into hard-working weavers was regarded with suspicion by the inhabitants of the old-world village, and in self-defence the whilom wastrels were forced to tell the story of the imprisonment of the fairies. The wonderful narrative soon got noised abroad; and as the changed characters, on many a summer evening afterwards, sat hard at work in their loom-house, and, perhaps almost instinctively, hummed the old ditty, 'It's my delight, on a shiny night,' the shock head of a lad would be protruded through the honeysuckle which almost covered the casement, as the grinning youngster, who had been patiently waiting for the weaver to commence his song and give an opportunity for the oft-repeated repartee, cried, 'Nay, it isn't thi delight; "Dick, wheer art ta?"' THE PILLION LADY. It was on a beautiful night in the middle of summer that Humphrey Dobson, after having transacted a day's business at Garstang market, and passed some mirthful hours with a number of jovial young fellows in the best parlour of the Ffrances Arms, with its oak furniture and peacock feathers, mounted his steady-going mare, and set off for home. He had got some distance from the little town, and was rapidly nearing a point where the road crossed a stream said to be haunted by the spirit of a female who had been murdered many years back; and although the moon was shining brightly, and the lonely rider could see far before him, there was one dark spot overshadowed by trees a little in advance which Humphrey feared to reach. He felt a thrill of terror as he suddenly remembered the many strange stories told of the headless woman whose sole occupation and delight seemed to be that of terrifying travellers; but, with a brave endeavour to laugh off his fears, he urged his horse forward, and attempted to troll forth the burden of an old song:-- 'He rode and he rode till he came to the dooar, And Nell came t' oppen it, as she'd done afooar: "Come, get off thy horse," she to him did say, "An' put it i'th' stable, an' give it some hay."' It would not do, however; and suddenly he put spurs to the mare and galloped towards the little bridge. No sooner did the horse's hoofs ring upon the stones than Humphrey heard a weird and unearthly laugh from beneath the arch, and, as the animal snorted and bounded forward, the young fellow felt an icy arm glide round his waist and a light pressure against his back. Drops of perspiration fell from his brow, and his heart throbbed wildly, but he did not dare to look behind lest his worst fears should be verified, and he should behold 'th' boggart o'th' bruk.' As though conscious of its ghastly burden, the old mare ran as she never had run before; the hedgerows and trees seemed to fly past, while sparks streamed from the flints in the road, and in an incredibly short space of time the farm-house was reached. Instinctively, Humphrey tried to guide the mare into the yard, but his efforts were powerless, for the terrified animal had got the bit in her teeth, and away she sped past the gateway. As the rider was thus borne away, another sepulchral laugh broke the silence, but this time it sounded so close to the horseman's ear that he involuntarily looked round. He found that the figure, one of whose arms was twined round his waist, was not the headless being of whom he had heard so many fearful narratives, but another and a still more terrible one, for, grinning in a dainty little hood, and almost touching his face, there was a ghastly skull, with eyeless sockets, and teeth gleaming white in the clear moonlight. Petrified by fear, he could not turn his head away, and, as the mare bore him rapidly along, ever and anon a horrid derisive laugh sounded in his ears as for a moment the teeth parted and then closed with a sudden snap. Terrified as he was, however, he noticed that the arm which encircled his body gradually tightened around him, and putting down his hand to grasp it he found it was that of a fleshless skeleton. How long he rode thus embraced by a spectre he knew not, but it seemed an age. Suddenly, however, as at a turn in the road the horse stumbled and fell, Humphrey, utterly unprepared for any such occurrence, was thrown over the animal's head and stunned by the fall. When he recovered full consciousness it was daybreak. The sun was rising, the birds were singing in the branching foliage overhead, and the old mare was quietly grazing at a distance. With great difficulty, for he was faint through loss of blood, and lame, he got home and told his story. There were several stout men about the farm who professed to disbelieve it, and pretended to laugh at the idea of a skeleton horsewoman, who, without saying with your leave or by your leave, had ridden pillion with the young master, but it was somewhat remarkable that none of them afterwards could be induced to cross the bridge over the haunted stream after 'th' edge o' dark.' THE FAIRY FUNERAL. There are few spots in Lancashire more likely to have been peopled by fairies than that portion of the highway which runs along the end of Penwortham wood. At all times the locality is very beautiful, but it is especially so in summer, when the thin line of trees on the one side of the road and the rustling wood upon the other cast a welcome shade upon the traveller, who can rest against the old railings, and look down upon a rich expanse of meadow-land and corn-fields, bounded in the distance by dim, solemn-looking hills, and over the white farm-houses, snugly set in the midst of luxurious vegetation. From this vantage-ground a flight of steps leads down to the well of St. Mary, the water of which, once renowned for its miraculous efficacy, is as clear as crystal and of never-ceasing flow. To this sacred neighbourhood thousands of pilgrims have wended their way; and although the legend of the holy well has been lost, it is easy to understand with what superstitious reverence the place would be approached by those whose faith was of a devout and unquestioning kind, and what feelings would influence those whose hearts were heavy with the weight of a great sorrow as they descended the steps worn by the feet of their countless predecessors. From the little spring a pathway winds across meadows and through corn-fields to the sheltered village, and a little further along the highway a beautiful avenue winds from the old lodge gates to the ancient church and priory. Wide as is this road it is more than shaded by the tall trees which tower on each side, their topmost branches almost interlaced, the sunbeams passing through the green network, and throwing fantastic gleams of light upon the pathway, along which so many have been carried to the quiet God's Acre. At the end of this long and beautiful walk stands the old priory, no longer occupied by the Benedictines from Evesham, the silvery sound of whose voices at eventide used to swell across the rippling Ribble; and, a little to the right of the pile, the Church of St. Mary, with its background of the Castle Hill. By the foot of this Ancient British and Roman outlook there is a little farm-house, with meadow land stretching away to the broad river; and one night, fifty or sixty years ago, two men, one of whom was a local 'cow-doctor,' whose duties had compelled him to remain until a late hour, set out from this dwelling to walk home to the straggling village of Longton. It was near upon midnight when they stepped forth, but it was as light as mid-day, the moon shining in all her beauty, and casting her glamour upon the peaceful scene. So quiet was it that it seemed as though even the Zephyrs were asleep. There was not a breath of wind, and not a leaf rustled or a blade of grass stirred, and had it not been for the sounds of the footsteps of the two men, who were rapidly ascending the rough cart-track winding up the side of the hill, all would have been as still as death. The sweet silence was a fitting one, for in the graveyard by the side of the lane through which the travellers were passing, and over the low moss-covered wall of which might be seen the old-fashioned tombstones, erect like so many sentinels marking the confines of the battle-field of life, hundreds were sleeping the sleep with which only the music of the leaves, the sough of the wind, and the sigh of the sea seem in harmony. As the two men opened the gate at the corner of the churchyard, the old clock sounded the first stroke of midnight. 'That's twelve on 'em,' said the oldest of the two. 'Ay, Adam,' said the other, a taller and much younger man. 'Another day's passin' away, an' it con't dee wi'eaut tellin' everybody; yet ther's bod few on us as tez onny notice on't, for we connot do to be towd as wer toime's growin' bod short. I should think as tha dusn't care to hear th' clock strike, Adam, to judge bith' colour o' thi toppin', for tha 'rt gerrin' varra wintry lookin'.' The old man chuckled at this sally, and then said, slowly and drily:-- 'Speyk for thisen, Robin--speyk for thisen; an' yet why should ta speyk at o? Choilt as tha are--an' tha art nobbut a choilt, clivver as tha fancies thisen--tha 'rt owd enough to mind as it's nod olus th' grey-heeoded uns as dees th' fost. Th' chickins fo' off th' peeark mooar oftener nor th' owd brids. Ther's monny an owd tree wi' nobbud a twothree buds o' green abaat it, to show as it wur yung wonst, as tha'd hev herd wark to delve up, th' roots bein' so deep i'th' graand; an' ther's monny a rook o' young-lukkin' uns as tha met poo up as yezzy as a hondful o' sallet. It teks leetnin' to kill th' owd oak, but th' fost nippin' woint off th' Martch yon soon puts th' bonnie spring posies out o' seet. If I'm growin' owd, let's hope I'm roipnin' as weel. Tha'rt not th' fost bit of a lad as thowt heer baan to last o th' tothers aat, an' as hed hardly toime to finish his crowin' afoor th' sexton clapt o honful o' sond i' his meauth.' This conversation brought the two beyond the gate and some distance along the avenue, in which the moonlight was somewhat toned by the thickness of the foliage above, and they were rapidly nearing the lodge gates, when suddenly the solemn sound of a deep-toned bell broke the silence. Both men stopped and listened intently. 'That's th' passin'-bell,'{9} said Adam. 'Wodever con be up? I never knew it rung at this toime o'th' neet afooar.' 'Mek less racket, will ta,' said Robin. 'Led's keep count an' see heaw owd it is.' Whilst the bell chimed six-and-twenty both listeners stood almost breathless, and then Adam said:-- 'He's thy age, Robin, chuz who he is.' 'Ther wer no leet i 'th' belfry as wi come by, as I see on,' said the young man, 'I'd rayther be i' bed nor up theer towlin' ad this toime, wudn't tha?' 'Yoi,' said Adam. 'But owd Jemmy dusn't care, an' why should he? Hee's bin amung th' deeod to' long to be freet'nt on 'em neet or day, wake an' fable as he is. I dar' say hee's fun aat afoor neaw as they'r not varra rough to dale wi'. Ther's nod mich feightin i'th' bury-hoyle, beaut ids wi' th' resurrectioners. Bud led's get to'art whoam, lad; we're loikely enough to larn o abaat it to-morn.' Without more words they approached the lodge, but to their great terror, when they were within a few yards from the little dwelling, the gates noiselessly swung open, the doleful tolling of the passing-bell being the only sound to be heard. Both men stepped back affrighted as a little figure clad in raiment of a dark hue, but wearing a bright red cap, and chanting some mysterious words in a low musical voice as he walked, stepped into the avenue. 'Ston back, mon,' cried Adam, in a terrified voice--'ston back; it's th' feeorin; bud they'll not hort tha if tha dusna meddle wi' um.' The young man forthwith obeyed his aged companion, and standing together against the trunk of a large tree, they gazed at the miniature being stepping so lightly over the road, mottled by the stray moonbeams. It was a dainty little object; but although neither Adam nor Robin could comprehend the burden of the song it sang, the unmistakable croon of grief with which each stave ended told the listeners that the fairy was singing a requiem. The men kept perfectly silent, and in a little while the figure paused and turned round, as though in expectation, continuing, however, its mournful notes. By-and-by the voices of other singers were distinguished, and as they grew louder the fairy standing in the roadway ceased to render the verse, and sang only the refrain, and a few minutes afterwards Adam and Robin saw a marvellous cavalcade pass through the gateway. A number of figures, closely resembling the one to which their attention had first been drawn, walked two by two, and behind them others with their caps in their hands, bore a little black coffin, the lid of which was drawn down so as to leave a portion of the contents uncovered. Behind these again others, walking in pairs, completed the procession. All were singing in inexpressibly mournful tones, pausing at regular intervals to allow the voice of the one in advance to be heard, as it chanted the refrain of the song, and when the last couple had passed into the avenue, the gates closed as noiselessly as they had opened. As the bearers of the burden marched past the two watchers, Adam bent down, and, by the help of a stray gleam of moonlight, saw that there was a little corpse in the coffin. 'Robin, mi lad,' said he, in a trembling voice and with a scared look, 'it's th' pictur o' thee as they hev i' th' coffin!' With a gasp of terror the young man also stooped towards the bearers, and saw clearly enough that the face of the figure borne by the fairies indeed closely resembled his own, save that it was ghastly with the pallor and dews of death. The procession had passed ere he was able to speak, for, already much affrighted by the appearance of the fairies, the sight of the little corpse had quite unnerved him. Clinging in a terrified manner to the old man, he said, in a broken voice-- 'It raley wor me, Adam! Dust think it's a warnin', an' I'm abaat to dee?' The old man stepped out into the road as he replied-- 'It wur a quare seet, Robin, no daat; bud I've sin monny sich i' mi toime, an' theyne come to nowt i' th' end. Warnin' or not, haaever,' he added, with strong common sense, 'ther'll be no harm done bi thee livin' as if it wur one.' The mournful music of the strange singers and the solemn sound of the passing bell could still be heard, and the two awe-struck men stood gazing after the cavalcade. 'It mon be a warnin', again said Robin, 'an' I wish I'd axed um haa soon I've to dee. Mebbee they'n a towd me.' 'I don't think they wod,' said Adam. 'I've olus heeard as they'r rare and vext if they'r spokken to. Theyn happen a done tha some lumberment if tha 'ad axed owt.' 'They could but a kilt mi,' replied Robin, adding, with that grim humour which so often accompanies despair, 'an' they're buryin' mi neaw, ar'nod they?' Then in a calm and firm voice he said--'I'm baan to ax 'em, come wod will. If tha 'rt freetent tha con goo on whoam.' 'Nay, nay,' said Adam warmly, 'I'm nooan scaret. If tha'rt for catechoizing um, I'll see th' end on it.' Without further parley the men followed after and soon overtook the procession, which was just about to enter the old churchyard, the gates of which, like those of the lodge, swung open apparently of their own accord, and no sooner did Robin come up with the bearers than, in a trembling voice, he cried-- 'Winnot yo' tell mi haaw lung I've to live?' There was not any answer to this appeal, the little figure in front continuing to chant its refrain with even deepened mournfulness. Imagining that he was the leader of the band, Robin stretched out his hand and touched him. No sooner had he done this than, with startling suddenness, the whole cavalcade vanished, the gates banged to with a loud clang, deep darkness fell upon everything, the wind howled and moaned round the church and the tombstones in the graveyard, the branches creaked and groaned overhead, drops of rain pattered upon the leaves, mutterings of thunder were heard, and a lurid flash of lightning quivered down the gloomy avenue. 'I towd tha haa it ud be,' said Adam, and Robin simply answered-- 'I'm no worse off than befooar. Let's mak' toart whoam; bud say nowt to aar fowk--it ud nobbut freeten th' wimmin.' Before the two men reached the lodge gates a terrible storm burst over them, and through it they made their way to the distant village. A great change came over Robin, and from being the foremost in every countryside marlock he became serious and reserved, invariably at the close of the day's work rambling away, as though anxious to shun mankind, or else spending the evening at Adam's talking over 'th' warnin'.' Strange to say, about a month afterwards he fell from a stack, and after lingering some time, during which he often deliriously rambled about the events of the dreadful night, he dozed away, Old Jemmy, the sexton, had another grave to open, and the grey-headed Adam was one of the bearers who carried Robin's corpse along the avenue in which they had so short a time before seen the fairy funeral.{10} THE CHIVALROUS DEVIL. About half-a-century ago there lived, in a lane leading away from a little village near Garstang, a poor idiot named Gregory. He was at once the sport and the terror of the young folks. Uniformly kind to them, carefully convoying them to the spots where, in his lonely rambles, he had noticed birds' nests, or pressing upon them the wild flowers he had gathered in the neighbouring woods and thickets, he received at their ungrateful hands all kinds of ill treatment, not always stopping short of personal violence. In this respect, however, the thoughtless children only followed the example set them by their elders, for seldom did poor Gregory pass along the row of cottages, dignified by the name of street, which constituted the village, without an unhandsome head being projected from the blacksmith's or cobbler's shop, or from a doorway, and a cruel taunt being sent after the idiot, who, in his ragged clothing, with his handful of harebells and primroses, and a wreath of green leaves round his battered, old hat, jogged along towards his mother's cottage, singing as he went, in a pathetic monotone, a snatch of an old Lancashire ballad. In accordance with that holy law which, under such circumstances, influences woman's heart, the mother loved this demented lad with passionate fondness, all the tenderness with which her nature had been endowed having been called forth by the needs of the afflicted child, whose only haven of refuge from the harshness of his surroundings and the cruelty of those who, had not they been as ignorant as the hogs they fed, would have pitied and protected him, was her breast. Lavishing all her affection upon the poor lad, she had no kindness to spare for those who tormented him; and abstaining from any of those melodramatic and vulgar curses with which a person of less education would have followed those who abused her child, she studiously held herself aloof from her neighbours, and avoided meeting them, except when she was compelled to purchase food or other articles for her little household. This conduct gave an excuse for much ill feeling, and as the woman had no need to toil for her daily bread, and as her cottage was the neatest in the district, there was much jealousy. One night, at a jovial gathering, it was arranged that a practical joke, of what was considered a very humorous kind, should be played upon the idiot. The boors selected one of their party, whose task it should be to attire himself in a white sheet, and to emerge into the lane when the poor lad should make his appearance. In accordance with this plan the pack of hobbledehoys watched the cottage night after night, in the hope of seeing the idiot leave the dwelling, and at length their patience was rewarded. They immediately hid themselves in the ditch, while the mock ghost concealed himself behind the trunk of a tree. The lad, not suspecting any evil, came along, humming, in his melancholy monotone, the usual fragment, and just before he reached the tree the sheeted figure slowly stepped forth to the accompaniment of the groanings and bellowings of his associates. They had expected to see the idiot flee in terror; but instead of so doing, he laughed loudly at the white figure, and then suddenly, as the expression of his face changed to one of intense interest, he shouted, 'Oh, oh! a black one! a black one!' Sure enough, a dark and terrible figure stood in the middle of the road. The mock ghost fled, with his companions at his heels, the real spectre chasing them hotly, and the idiot bringing up the rear, shouting at the top of his voice, 'Run, black devil! catch white devil!' They were not long in reaching the village, down the street of which they ran faster than they ever had run before. Several of them darted into the smithy, where the blacksmith was scattering the sparks right and left as he hammered away at the witch-resisting horseshoes, and others fled into the inn, where they startled the gathered company of idle gossips; but the mock ghost kept on wildly, looking neither to the left nor to the right. The idiot had kept close behind the phantom at the heels of the mock ghost, and when at the end of the village the spectre vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, the lad ran a little faster and took its place. Of this, however, the white-sheeted young fellow was not aware, and, fearing every moment that the shadow would catch him in its awful embrace, he dashed down a by lane. Before he got very far, however, the idiot, who had gradually been lessening the distance between them, overtook and seized him by the neck. With a terrible cry the rustic fell headlong into the ditch, dragging Gregory with him as he fell. The latter was soon upon his feet, and dancing about the lane as he cried, 'Catch white devil! catch white devil!' The mock ghost, however, lay quiet enough among the nettles. Roused by the story told by the affrighted ones who had rushed so unceremoniously into their presence, as well as by the startling cry of 'Run, black devil! catch white devil!' which the idiot had shouted as he sped past the door, several of the topers emerged from their abiding place; and as nothing could be seen of either mock ghost, spectre, or idiot, they bravely determined to go in search of them. As they passed along the road from the village, their attention was attracted by the cries which seemed to come from the lonely lane, and somewhat nervously making their way along it, they soon saw the idiot dancing about the side of the ditch. With a sudden access of courage, due to the presence of anything human, however weak, they hurried along, and as they drew nearer, the idiot paused in his gambols, and pointed to the mock ghost, who lay stretched in the shadow of the hedgerow. He was soon carried away to the village, where he lay ill for weeks. The kindness of Gregory's mother to the sick lad's parents, who were very poor and could ill afford to provide the necessary comforts his condition required, caused public feeling to turn in her favour, and those who formerly had been loudest in defaming her became her warmest eulogists. Between the idiot and the young fellow, too, a strange friendship sprang up, and the pair might often be seen passing along the lanes, the idiot chanting his melancholy fragments to the companion whose cap he had adorned with wreaths of wild flowers. With such a protector the idiot was quite safe, and, indeed, had the village children been wishful to torment Gregory, if the presence of this companion had not sufficed to restrain them, they had only to remember that it was in defence of poor Gregory the Evil One himself had raced through the village.{11} THE ENCHANTED FISHERMAN. There are few views in the north of England more beautiful than that which is seen from Morecambe, as the spectator looks over the beautiful bay, with its crescent coast-line of nearly fifty miles in extent. At low water the dazzling sands, streaked by silvery deceptive channels, stretch to the distant glimmering sea, the music of whose heavings comes but faintly on the gentle breeze; but at tide-time a magnificent expanse of rolling waves sweeps away to Peel, and is dotted over with red-sailed fishing boats and coasters. Far to the north the huge heather-covered Furness Fells stand sentinel-like over the waters, and above them, dimly seen through the faint blue haze, tower the grand mountains of the magic lake country. The scene is full of a sweet dream-like beauty; but there are times when the beautiful is swallowed in the majestic, as the mists come creeping over the sea, obscuring the coasts, and hiding everything save the white caps of the waves gleaming in the darkness, through which the muttering diapasons of the wind, as though in deep distress, sound mysteriously; or when, in winter, the moon is hidden by scudding clouds, and the huge rollers, driven before the breeze, dash themselves to death, as upon the blast come the solemn boom of a signal gun, and the faint cries of those in danger on the deep. Years ago, however, before the little village of Poulton changed its name, and began to dream of becoming a watering-place, with terraces and hotels, instead of the picturesque, tumble-down huts of the fishermen, against which, from time immemorial, the spray had been dashed by the salt breezes, the only people who gazed upon the lovely prospect were, with the exception of an occasional traveller, the families of the toilers of the sea, and the rough-looking men themselves. These hardy fellows, accustomed to a wild life, and whose days from childhood had been spent on or by the sea, loved the deep with as much tenderness as a strong man feels towards a weak and wayward maiden, for they were familiar with its every mood, with the soothing wash of its wavelets when the sunbeams kissed the foam-bells, as they died on the white sands, and with the noise of the thunder of the breakers chased up the beach by the roaring gales. One evening a number of these men were seated in the cosy kitchen of the John-o'-Gaunt, listening to 'Owd England' as he narrated some of his strange experiences. 'I moind,' said he, 'when I was nobbut a bit of a lad, Tum Grisdale bein' dreawnt; an' now as we're tawkin' abeaut th' dangers o' th' sonds, yo'll mebbi hearken to th' tale. Poor Tum was th' best cockler i' Hest Bank, an' as ust to th' sands as a choilt is to th' face o' its mother; but for o that he wir dreawnt on 'em after o. I can co to moind yet--for young as I wor I're owd enough to think a bit when owt quare happent, an' th' seet o' th' deead bodies th' next ebb wir wi' me day an' neet fur lung afterwart--th' day when Tum an' his missis an' th' two lasses seet eawt o' seein' some relations o' th' missis's soide, as livt i' th' Furness country yon, th' owd mon an' th' dowters i' th' shandray, an' th' missis ridin' upo' th' cowt at th' soide. It wir a gradely bonnie afternoon, at th' back eend o' th' year. Th' day as they should o come back wir varra misty; an' abaat th' edge o' dark, just as here an' theear a leet wir beginnin' to twinkle i' th' windows, an' th' stars to peep aat, th' noise ov a cart comin' crunchin' o'er th' beach tuk mi feyther to th' door. "Why, yon's owd Tum Grisdale cart back ageean," he cried eaut. An' he dartit eawt o' th' dur, an' me after, as fast as I could. A creawd o' folk an' childer soon gathert reawnt, wonderin' what wir up; but neawt could bi larnt, for though th' lasses as seet eawt, as breet an' bonnie as posies o gillivers, wir theear i' th' shandray, they wir too freetent an' dazed, an' too wake wi' th' weet an' cowd, to say a whord. One thing, however, wir sewer enough, th' owd folk hedn't come back; an' altho' th' toide then hed covert th' track, an' wir shinin' i' th' moonleet, wheear th' mist could bi sin through, just as if it hedn't mony a Hest Bank mon's life to answer for, a lot o' young cocklers wir for startin' off theear an' then i' search on 'em. Th' owder an' mooar expayrienced, heawiver, wodn't hear on it. Two lives i' one day wir quoite enough, they said; so they o waitit till th' ebb, an' then startit, me, loile as i'wir, among th' rest, for mi feyther wir too tekken up i' talking to send me whoam. It wir a sad outin', but it wir loively compaart wi' t' comin' back, for when we tornt toart Hest Bank, th' strungest o' th' lads carriet owd Tum an' his missis, for we hedn't getten far o'er th' sonds afooar we feawnt th' poor owd lass, an' not far off, i' th' deep channel, owd Tum hissel. They wir buriet i' th' owd church-yart, an' one o' th' lasses wir laid aside on 'em, th' freet hevin' bin too mich for her. When t' tother sister recovert a bit, an' could bide to talk abaat it, hoo said as they geet lost i' th' mist, an' th' owd mon left 'em i' th' shandray while he walkt a bit to foind th' channel. When he didn't come back they geet freetent, but t' owd woman wodn't stir fray th' spot till they heeart t' watters comin', an' then they went a bit fur, but could find nowt o' Tum, though they thowt neaw an' then they could heear him sheautin' to 'em. Th' sheawts, heawiver, geet fainter an' fainter, an' at last stopt o' together. Givin' thersels up for lost, they left th' reins to th' mare an' t' cowt. Th' poor owd lass wir quoite daz't at th' absence o' Tum; an' as th' cowt wir swimmin' across th' channel hoo lost her howd, an' wir carriet away. Th' lasses knew neawt no mooar, th' wench olus said, till th' fowk run deawn to th' cart uppo' th' beach. Hor as wir left, hoo wir olus quare at after; an' hoo uset to walk alung t' bay at o heawers just at th' toide toime, yo' known, an' it wir pitiful t' heear her when th' woint wir a bit sriller nor usal, sayin' as hoo could heear her owd fayther's voice as he sheauted when hee'd wander't fray 'em an' couldn't foint way to 'em through t' mist. Hoo afterwarts went to sarvice at Lankister, to a place as th' paason fun' for her, i' th' idea o' th' change dooin' her good; but it worn't lung afooar th' news come as hoo wir i' th' 'sylum, an' I heeart as hoo deed theear some toime after.' No sooner had the grey-headed old fisherman finished his story than one of the auditors said, 'Hoo met weel fancy hoo heeart th' voice ov her fayther, for monnie a neet, an' monnie another hev I heeart that cry mysen. Yo' may stare, bud theear's mooar saands to be heeard i' th' bay nor some o' yo' lads known on; an' I'm no choilt to be freetent o' bein' i' th' dark. Why nobbut th' neet afooar last I heeart a peal o' bells ringin' under th' watter.'{12} There was a moment of surprise, for Roger Heathcote was not a likely man to be a victim to his own fancies, or to be influenced by the superstitions which clung to his fellows. Like the rest of his companions, he had spent the greatest portion of his life away from land; and either because he possessed keener powers of observation than they, or loved nature more, and therefore watched her more closely, he had gradually added to his store of knowledge, until he had become the recognised authority on all matters connected with the dangerous calling by which the men-folk of the little colony earned daily bread for their families. As he was by no means addicted to yarns, looks of wonder came over the faces of the listeners; and in deference to the wishes of Old England, who pressed him as to what he had heard and seen, Roger narrated the adventure embodied in this story.{13} * * * * * The fisherman's little boat was dancing lightly on the rippling waters of the bay. The night was perfectly calm, the moon shining faintly through a thin mist which rested on the face of the deep. It was nearly midnight, and Roger was thinking of making for home, when he heard the sweet sounds of a peal of bells. Not without astonishment, he endeavoured to ascertain from what quarter the noises came, and, strange and unlikely as it seemed, it appeared that the chimes rang up through the water, upon which, with dreamy motion, his boat was gliding. Bending over the side of the skiff he again heard with singular distinctness the music of the bells pealing in weird beauty. For some time he remained in this attitude, intently listening to the magical music, and when he arose, the mist had cleared off, and the moon was throwing her lovely light upon the waters, and over the distant fells. Instead, however, of beholding a coast with every inch of which he was acquainted, Roger gazed upon a district of which he knew nothing. There were mountains, but they were not those whose rugged outlines were so vividly impressed upon his memory. There was a beach, but it was not the one where his little cottage stood with its light in the window and its background of wind-bent trees. The estuary into which his boat was gliding was not that of the Kent, with its ash and oak-covered crags. Everything seemed unreal, even the streaming moonlight having an unusual whiteness, and Roger rapidly hoisted his little sails, but they only flapped idly against the mast, as the boat, in obedience to an invisible and unknown agency, drifted along the mysterious looking river. As the fisherman gazed in helpless wonder, gradually the water narrowed, and in a short time a cove was gained, the boat grating upon the gleaming sand. Roger at once jumped upon the bank, and no sooner had he done so, than a number of little figures clad in green ran towards him from beneath a clump of trees, the foremost of them singing-- To the home of elf and fay, To the land of nodding flowers, To the land of Ever Day Where all things own the Fay Queen's powers, Mortal come away! and the remainder dancing in circles on the grass, and joining in the refrain-- To the home of elf and fay, To the land of Ever Day, Mortal come away! The song finished, the little fellow who had taken the solo, tripped daintily to Roger, and, with a mock bow, grasped one of the fingers of the fisherman's hand, and stepped away as though anxious to lead him from the water. Assuming that he had come upon a colony of Greenies, and feeling assured that such tiny beings could not injure him, even if anxious to do so, Roger walked on with his conductor, the band dancing in a progressing circle in front of them, until a wood was reached, when the dancers broke up the ring and advanced in single file between the trees. The light grew more and more dim, and when the cavalcade reached the entrance to a cavern, Roger could hardly discern the Greenies. Clinging to the little hand of his guide, however, the undaunted fisherman entered the cave, and groped his way down a flight of mossy steps. Suddenly he found himself in a beautiful glade, in which hundreds of little figures closely resembling his escort, and wearing dainty red caps, were disporting themselves and singing-- Moonbeams kissing odorous bowers Light our home amid the flowers; While our beauteous King and Queen Watch us dance on rings of green. Rings of green, rings of green, Dance, dance, dance, on rings of green. No sooner had the fisherman entered the glade than the whole party crowded round him, but as they did so a strain of enchanting music was heard, and the little beings hopped away again, and whirled round in a fantastic waltz. Roger himself was so powerfully influenced by the melody that he flung himself into the midst of the dancers, who welcomed him with musical cries, and he capered about until sheer fatigue forced him to sink to rest upon a flowery bank. Here, after watching for a while the graceful gambols of the Greenies, and soothed by the weird music, the sensuous odours, and the dreamy light, he fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke from his slumber the fairies had vanished, and the fisherman felt very hungry. No sooner, however, had he wished for something to eat than on the ground before him there appeared a goodly array of delicacies, of which, without more ado, Roger partook. 'I'm in luck's way here,' he said to himself; 'It's not every day of the week I see a full table like this. I should like to know where I am, though.' As the wish passed his lips he saw before him a beautiful little being, who said in a sweet low voice-- In the land of nodding flowers, Where all things own the Fay Queen's powers! The fisherman no sooner saw the exquisite face of the dainty Greenie than he forgot altogether the rosy-cheeked wife at home, and fell hopelessly over head and ears in love with the sweet vision. Gazing into her beautiful eyes he blurted out, 'I don't care where it is if you are there.' With a smile the queen, for it was indeed the queen, seated herself at his side. 'Dost thou, Mortal, bow to my power?' asked she. 'Ay, indeed, do I to the forgetfulness of everything but thy bonny face,' answered Roger; upon which the queen burst into a hearty fit of laughter, so musical, however, that for the life of him the fisherman could not feel angry with her. 'If the king were to hear thee talking thus thou wouldst pay dearly for thy presumption,' said the Fay, as she rose and tripped away to the shadow of the trees. The enraptured Roger endeavoured to overtake her before she reached the oaks, but without success; and though he wandered through the wood for hours, he did not again catch a glimpse of her. He gained an appetite by the freak however, and no sooner had he wished for food again than dishes of rich viands appeared before him. 'I wish I could get money at this rate,' said the fisherman, and the words had hardly left his lips when piles of gold ranged themselves within his reach. Roger rapidly filled his pockets with the glittering coins, and even took the shoes from off his feet, and filled them also, and then slung them round his neck by the strings. 'Now, if I could but get to my boat,' thought he, 'my fortune would be made,' and accordingly he began to make his way in what he believed to be the direction of the river. He had not proceeded very far, however, when he emerged upon an open space surrounded by tall foxgloves,{14} in all the beautiful bells of which dreamy-eyed little beings were swinging lazily as the quiet zephyr rocked their perfumed dwellings. Some of the Greenies were quite baby fairies not so large as Roger's hand, but none of them seemed alarmed at the presence of a mortal. A score of larger ones were hard at work upon the sward stitching together moth and butterfly wings for a cloak for their Queen, who, seated upon a mushroom, was smiling approvingly as she witnessed the industry of her subjects. Roger felt a sudden pang as he observed her, for although he was glad once more to behold the marvellous beauty of her face, he was jealous of a dainty dwarf in a burnished suit of beetles' wing cases and with a fantastic peaked cap in which a red feather was coquettishly stuck, for this personage he suspected was the King, and forgetting his desire to escape with the gold, and at once yielding to his feelings, he flung himself on the luxuriant grass near the little being whose weird loveliness had thrown so strange a glamour over him, and without any thought or fear as to the consequences he at once bent himself and kissed one of her dainty sandalled feet. No sooner had he performed this rash act of devotion than numberless blows fell upon him from all sides, but he was unable to see any of the beings by whom he was struck. Instinctively the fisherman flung his huge fists about wildly, but without hitting any of the invisible Greenies, whose tantalising blows continued to fall upon him. At length, however, wearying of the fruitless contest, he roared out, 'I wish I were safe in my boat in the bay,' and almost instantaneously he found himself in the little skiff, which was stranded high and dry upon the Poulton beach. The shoes which he had so recently filled with glittering pieces of gold and suspended round his neck were again upon his feet, his pockets were as empty as they were when he had put out to sea some hours before, and somewhat dubious and very disgusted, in a few minutes he had crept off to bed. * * * * * When the strange tale of the fisherman's wonderful adventure with the hill folk was ended, the unbelievers did not hesitate to insinuate that Roger had not been out in the bay at all, and that the land of nodding flowers might be found by anyone who stayed as long and chalked up as large a score at the John-o'-Gaunt as he had done on the night when he heard the submerged bells and had so unusual a catch. Others, however, being less sceptical, many were the little boats that afterwards went on unsuccessful voyages in search of the mysterious estuary and the colony of Greenies, and a year afterwards, when a sudden gale swept over the restless face of the deep and cast Roger's boat bottom upwards upon the sandy beach, many believed that the fisherman had again found the land of Ever Day. THE SANDS OF COCKER. The quiet little village of Cockerham is hardly the spot one would expect to find selected as a place of residence by a gentleman of decidedly fast habits, and to whom a latch-key is indispensable; yet once upon a time the Evil One himself, it is said, took up his quarters in the go-to-bed-early hamlet. It hardly need be stated that the undesirable resident caused no small stir in the hitherto drowsy little place. Night after night he prowled about with clanking chains, and shed an unpleasantly-suggestive odour of sulphur, that rose to the diamond-paned windows and crept through cracks and chinks to the nasal organs of the horrified villagers, who had been disturbed by the ringing of the Satanic bracelets, and, fearing to sleep whilst there was so strong a smell of brimstone about, lay awake, thinking of the sins they had committed, or intended to commit if they escaped 'Old Skrat.' Before the wandering perfumer had thus, above a score of times, gratuitously fumigated the villagers, a number of the more daring ones, whose courage rose when they found that after all they were not flown away with, resolved that they would have a meeting, at which the unjustifiable conduct of a certain individual should be discussed, and means be devised of ridding the village of his odoriferous presence. In accordance with this determination, a gathering was announced for noonday, for the promoters of the movement did not dare to assemble after sunset to discuss such a subject. After a few cursory remarks from the chairman, and a long and desultory discussion as to the best way of getting rid of the self-appointed night watchman, it was settled that the schoolmaster, as the most learned man in the place, should be the deputation, and have all the honour and profit of an interview with the nocturnal rambler. Strange as it may appear, the pedagogue was nothing loath to accept the office, for if there was one thing more than another for which he had longed, it was an opportunity of immortalising himself; the daily round of life in the village certainly affording but few chances of winning deathless fame. He therefore at once agreed to take all the risks if he might also have all the glory. Not that he purposed to go to the Devil; no, the mountain should come to Mahomet; the Evil One should have the trouble of coming to him. His determination was loudly applauded by the assembled villagers, each of whom congratulated himself upon an escape from the dangerous, if noble, task of ridding the place of an intolerable nuisance. There was no time to be lost, and a night or two afterwards, no sooner had the clock struck twelve, than the schoolmaster, who held a branch of ash and a bunch of vervain in his hand, chalked the conventional circle{15} upon the floor of his dwelling, stepped within it, and in a trembling voice began to repeat the Lord's Prayer backwards. When he had muttered about half of the spell thunder began to roar in the distance; rain splashed on the roof, and ran in streams from the eaves; a gust of wind moaned round the house, rattling the loose leaded panes, shaking the doors, and scattering the embers upon the hearth. At the same time the solitary light, which had begun to burn a pale and ghastly blue, was suddenly extinguished, as though by an invisible hand; but the terrified schoolmaster was not long left in darkness, for a vivid flash of lightning illuminated the little chamber, and almost blinded the would-be necromancer, who tried to gabble a prayer in the orthodox manner, but his tongue refused to perform its office, and clave to the roof of his mouth. At that moment, could he have made his escape, he would willingly have given to the first comer all the glory he had panted to achieve; but even had he dared to leave the magic circle, there was not time to do so, for almost immediately there was a second blast of wind, before which the trees bent like blades of grass, a second flash lighted up the room, a terrible crash of thunder shook the house to its foundations, and, as a number of evil birds, uttering doleful cries, dashed themselves through the window, the door burst open, and the schoolmaster felt that he was no longer alone. An instantaneous silence, dreadful by reason of the contrast, followed, and the moon peeped out between the driving clouds and threw its light into the chamber. The birds perched themselves upon the window sill and ceased to cry, and with fiery-looking eyes peered into the room, and suddenly the trembling amateur saw the face of the dark gentleman whose presence only a few minutes before he had so eagerly desired. Overpowered by the sight, his knees refused to bear him up, what little hair had not been removed from his head by the stupidity of the rising generation stood on end, and with a miserable groan he sank upon his hands and knees, but, fortunately for himself, within the magic ring, round which the Evil One was running rapidly. How long this gratuitous gymnastic entertainment continued he knew not, for he was not in a state of mind to judge of the duration of time, but it seemed an age to the unwilling observer, who, afraid of having the Devil behind him, and yielding to a mysterious mesmeric influence, endeavoured, by crawling round backward, to keep the enemy's face in front. At length, however, the saltatory fiend asked in a shrill and unpleasant voice, 'Rash fool, what wantest thou with me? Couldst thou not wait until in the ultimate and proper course of things we had met?' Terrified beyond measure not only at the nature of the pertinent question, but also by the insinuation and the piercing and horrible tone in which it was spoken, the tenant of the circle knew not what reply to make, and merely stammered and stuttered-- 'Good Old Nick,{16} go away for ever, and'-- 'Take thee with me,' interrupted the Satanic one quickly. 'Even so; such is my intent.' Upon this the poor wretch cried aloud in terror, and again the Evil One began to hop round and round and round the ring, evidently in the hope of catching a part of the body of the occupant projecting over the chalk mark. 'Is there no escape,' plaintively asked the victim in his extremity, 'is there no escape?' Upon this Old Nick suddenly stopped his gambols and quietly said, 'Three chances of escape shalt thou have,{17} but if thou failest, then there is no appeal. Set me three tasks, and if I cannot perform any one of them, then art thou free.' There was a glimmer of hope in this, and the shivering necromancer brightened up a little, actually rising from his ignoble position and once more standing erect, as he gleefully said, 'I agree.' 'Ah, ah,' said the Evil One _sotto voce_. 'Count the raindrops on the hedgerows from here to Ellel,' cried the schoolmaster. 'Thirteen,' immediately answered Satan, 'the wind I raised when I came shook all the others off.' 'One chance gone,' said the wizard, whose knees again began to manifest signs of weakness. There was a short pause, the schoolmaster evidently taking time to consider, for, after all, life, even in a place like Cockerham, was sweet in comparison with what might be expected in the society of the odoriferous one whose mirth was so decidedly ill-timed and unmusical. The silence was not of long continuance, however, for the Evil One began to fear that a detestably early cock might crow, and thereby rescue the trembling one from his clutches. In his impatience, therefore, he knocked upon the floor with his cloven hoof and whistled loudly, after the manner followed now-a-days by dirty little patrons of the drama, perched high in the gallery of a twopenny theatre, and again danced rapidly round the ring in what the tenant deemed unnecessary proximity to the chalk mark. 'Count the ears of corn in old Tithepig's field,' suddenly cried the schoolmaster. 'Three millions and twenty-six,' at once answered Satan. 'I have no way of checking it,' moaned the pedagogue. 'Ah, ah,' bellowed the fiend, who now, instead of hopping round the ring, capered in high glee about the chamber. 'Ho, ho!' laughed the schoolmaster, 'I have it! Here it is! Ho, ho! Twist a rope of sand{18} and wash it in the river Cocker without losing a grain.' The Evil One stepped out of the house, to the great relief of its occupier, who at once felt that the atmosphere was purer; but in a few minutes he returned with the required rope of sand. 'Come along,' said he, 'and see it washed.' And he swung it over his shoulder, and stepped into the lane. In the excitement of the moment the wizard had almost involuntarily stepped out of the magic circle, when suddenly he bethought himself of the danger, and drily said-- 'Thank you; I'll wait here. By the light of the moon I can see you wash it.' The baffled fiend, without more ado, stepped across to the rippling streamlet, and dipped the rope into the water, but when he drew it out he gave utterance to a shout of rage and disappointment, for half of it had been washed away. 'Hurrah!' shouted the schoolmaster. 'Cockerham against the world!' And as in his joy he jumped out of the ring, the Evil One, instead of seizing him, in one stride crossed Pilling Moss and Broadfleet, and vanished, and from that night to the present day Cockerham has been quite free from Satanic visits.{19} THE SILVER TOKEN. Believe i' Fairies? 'Ay, that I do, though I never clapped mi een on 'em,' said old Nancy to a group of gaping listeners seated by the farm-house kitchen fire. 'That's quare,' remarked a sceptical young woman in the ingle nook. Old Nancy gave her a scornful glance, and then went on:-- 'I never see'd a fairy as I know on, but I used to sarve one on 'em wi' milk. Yo' mon stare; but th' way on it wir this. I wir at mi wark i' th' dairy one day, abaat th' edge o' dark, when o ov a suddent a loile jug clapt itsel daan afooar mi on th' stooan. Yo' may be sure I wir fair capt, for wheear it come fray, or heaw it geet theear, I couldn't mek aat. I stoopt mi daan to pike howd on it, and it met a' bin silver, it wir that breet and bonnie; but it wir as leet as a feather, an' I couldn't tell what it wir med on. I wir baan to set it o' th' stooan again, when I seed at a new sixpenny bit hed bin put theer wi' it, so it struck mi as milk wir wantit. Accordingly I fillt th' jug and seet it daan again, an' welly as soon as I'd clapt it wheear I fun' it, it up an' whipt eaut o' seet. Well I thowt it meeterly quare, bud I'd heeard mi feyther say, monny an' monny a toime, as thuse as geet fairy brass gin 'em should tell nubry, so I kept it to mysen, though I'd hard wark, yo' may be sure. Every neet th' jug an' th' sixpenny bit clapt theirsens o' th' stooan as reglar as milkin' toime, an' I fillt th' jug and piked up th' brass. At last, ha'ever, I thowt happen no lumber could come on it if I towd nobbut one, so when Roger theear and me settlet a beein wed I towd him what sooart ov a nest-egg I'd getten so quarely. Mi feyther wir reet, ha'ever, for th' next neet nayther jug nor th' sixpenny bit showed thersels, an' fray that day to this I've sin no mooar on 'em, an' it's ower forty year sin I piked up th' last brass.{3} THE HEADLESS WOMAN. (BEAWT HEEOD.) It was near upon twelve when Gabriel Fisher bade good night to the assembled roysterers who were singing and shouting in the kitchen of the White Bull, at Longridge, and, turning his back to the cosy hearth, upon which a huge log was burning, emerged into the moonlit road. With his dog Trotty close at his heels, he struck out manfully towards Tootal Height and Thornley, for he had a long and lonely walk before him. It was a clear and frosty night, but occasionally a light cloud sailed across the heavens, and obscured the moon. Rapidly passing between the two rows of cottages which constituted the little straggling village, his footsteps ringing upon the frozen ground, Gabriel made for the fells, and, as he hurried along, he hummed to himself a line of the last song he had heard, and now and again burst into a fit of laughter as he remembered a humorous story told by 'Owd Shuffler.' When he reached the highest point of the road whence he could see the beautiful Chipping valley, a soft breeze was whispering among the fir-trees, with that faint rustle suggestive of the gentle fall of waves upon a beach. Here and there a little white farm-house or labourer's cottage was gleaming in the moonlight, but the inmates had been asleep for hours. There was an air of loneliness and mystery over everything; and though Gabriel would have scorned to admit that he was afraid of anything living or dead, before he had passed out of the shadow of the weird-looking melodious branches he found himself wishing for other company than that of his dog. He suddenly remembered, too, with no access of pleasurable feelings, that on the previous day he had seen a solitary magpie, and all sorts of stories of 'Banister Dolls' and 'Jinny Greenteeths,' with which his youthful soul had been carefully harrowed, came across his mind. He tried to laugh at these recollections, but the attempt was by no means a successful one, and he gave expression to a hearty wish that Kemple End were not quite so far off. Just then a sharp shrill cry fell upon his ear, and then another and another. 'Th' Gabriel Ratchets,'{33} he shouted, 'what's abaat to happen?' The cries were not repeated, however, and he went on, but when he reached the peak of the fell, and gazed before him into the deep shade of a plantation, he could not repress a slight shudder, for he fancied that he saw something moving at a distance. He paused for a moment or two to assure himself, and then went on again slowly, his heart throbbing violently as he lessened the space between the moving object and himself. The dog, as though equally influenced by similar feelings, crept behind him in a suspicious and terrified manner. 'It's nobbut a woman,' said he, somewhat re-assured; 'it's a woman sewerly. Mebbee someburry's badly, an' hoo's gooin' for help. Come on, Trotty, mon.' So saying, he quickened his pace, the dog hanging behind, until he approached almost close to the figure, when, with a wild howl, away Trotty fled down the hillside. As Gabriel drew still closer, he saw that the object wore a long light cloak and hood, and a large coal-scuttle bonnet; and surprised to find that the sound of his footsteps did not cause her to turn to see who was following, he called out: 'It's a bonny neet, Missis; bud yo're aat rayther late, arn't yo'?' 'It is very fine,' answered the woman, in a voice which Gabriel thought was the sweetest he had ever heard, but without turning towards him as she spoke. 'Summat wrong at your fowk's, happen?' he asked, anxious to prolong the talk. There was no reply to this, though, and Gabriel knew not what to think, for the silent dame, although she declined to reply, continued to keep pace with him, and to walk at his side. Was it some one who had no business to be out at that hour, and who did not wish to be recognised, he wondered? But if so, thought he, why did she continue to march in a line with him? The voice, certainly, was that of one of a different rank to his own; but, on the other hand, he reflected, if she were one of the gentle folks, why the cottager's cloak and bonnet, and the huge market basket? These conjectures crossed his brain in rapid succession; and influenced by the last one--that as to his companion's clothing--he determined again to address her. 'Yo' met a left yir tung at whoam, Missis,' said he, 'sin' yo' connot answer a civil mon.' This taunt, however, like the direct query, failed to provoke an answer, although the startled Gabriel could have sworn that a smothered laugh came from beneath the white cloth which covered the contents of the basket 'Let me carry yer baskit,' said he; 'it's heavy for yo'.' Without a word, the woman held it out to him; but, as Gabriel grasped the handle, a voice, which sounded as though the mouth of the speaker were close to his hand, slowly said: 'You're very kind, I'm sure;' and then there came from the same quarter a silvery peal of laughter. 'What i' th' warld can it be?' said Gabriel, as without more ado he let the basket fall to the ground. He did not remain in ignorance very long, however, for, as the white cloth slipped off, a human head, with fixed eyes, rolled out 'Th' yedless boggart!' cried he, as the figure turned to pick up the head, and revealed to him an empty bonnet, and away he fled down the hill, fear lending him speed. He had not run far, however, before he heard a clatter of feet on the hard road behind him; but Gabriel was one of the fleetest lads about the fells, and the sight he had just seen was calculated to bring out all his powers; so the sound did not grow louder, but just as he turned into the old Chaighley Road, the head, thrown by the boggart, came whizzing past in unpleasant proximity to his own, and went rolling along in front of him. For a second or two Gabriel hesitated what to do, the headless woman behind and the equally terrible head in front; but it did not take long to decide, and he went forward with renewed vigour, thinking to pass the dreadful thing rapidly rolling along in advance of him. No sooner was he near to it, however, than, with an impish laugh, which rang in his ears for days afterwards, the ghastly object diverged from its course and rolled in his way. With a sudden and instinctive bound, he leaped over it; and as he did so the head jumped from the ground and snapped at his feet, the teeth striking together with a dreadfully suggestive clash. Gabriel was too quick for it, however, but for some distance he heard with horrible distinctness the clattering of the woman's feet and the banging of the head upon the road behind him. Gradually the sounds grew fainter as he speeded along, and at length, after he had crossed a little stream of water which trickled across the lane from a fern-covered spring in the fell side, the sounds ceased altogether. The runner, however, did not pause to take breath until he had reached his home and had crept beneath the blankets, the trembling Trotty, whom he found crouched in terror at the door of the cottage, skulking upstairs at his heels and taking refuge under the bed. 'I olus said as tha'd be seein' a feeorin wi' thi stoppin' aat o' neets,' remarked his spouse after he had narrated his adventure; 'bud if it nobbut meks tha fain o' thi own haath-stooan I'se be some glad on it, for it's moor nor a woman wi' a heead on her shoothers hes bin able to do.'{20} THE RESCUE OF MOONBEAM. From one corner of Ribbleton Moor, the scene of Cromwell's victory over Langdale, there is as lovely a view as ever painter dreamed of. Far below the spectator the Ribble sweeps almost in a circle beneath the scars which, by the action of years of this washing, have been scooped out so as to form a large precipice, under which the waters flow, marking out in their course the great 'horse-shoe meadow,' with its fringe of shining sand. The peaceful valley through which the river, reflecting in its moving bosom the overhanging many-tinted woods and cliffs, meanders on its way to the sea, is bounded afar-off by noble hills, the whale-like Pendle towering in majestic grandeur above the rest. From the moor a rough and stony lane winds down the wooded hillside, past a beautiful old half-timbered house down to the dusty highway and the bridge over the Belisamia of the Romans. The beautiful river, with its tremulous earth and sky pictures, the meadows and corn-fields whence come now and again the laugh and song of the red-faced mowers and reapers, the clearly-defined roads and white farm-houses, the spires of distant hillside churches, and the rich green of the waving woods, make up an enchanting picture. When night comes, however, and the lovely stars peep out, and the crescent moon casts her glamour over the dreaming earth, and half-hidden in a dimly transparent veil of shimmering mist the Ribble glides as gently as though it had paused to listen to its own melody, a still deeper loveliness falls upon the dreaming landscape, over which the very genius of beauty seems to hover silently with outspread wings. At such a time, when moon and stars threw a faint and mysterious light over the sleeping woods, and not a sound, save the cry of a restless bird, broke the silence, a young countryman made his way rapidly across the horse-shoe meadow to the bend of the stream under Red Scar. It was not to admire the beautiful scenery, however, that Reuben Oswaldwistle was crossing the dew-besprinkled field, over which faint odours of hay were wafted by a gentle breeze. The sturdy young fellow was too practical to yield entirely to such an influence, and although he was by no means unlearned in the traditions and stories of the neighbourhood, long familiarity had taught him to look upon the landscape with the eye of a farmer. He was simply about to practise the gentle art in the hope of beguiling a few stray 'snigs' for dinner on the following day. Still the scene in all its glamour of moonlight and peace was not powerless even upon his rude nature; so, after setting his lines, he took out a little black pipe, filled it from a capacious moleskin pouch, and after lighting the fragrant weed, gave way to a train of disconnected fancies--past, present, and future mingling strangely in his reverie. What with the rustling of the leaves overhead, the musical rippling of the river as it danced over the stones on its way to the sea, and the soothing effect of the tobacco, Reuben was beginning to doze, when suddenly he fancied he heard the sound of a light footstep in the grass behind him. Turning round somewhat drowsily, he beheld a little figure of about a span high, clad in green, and wearing a dainty red cap, struggling along under the load of a flat-topped mushroom much larger than itself. After having more than once fallen with its load, the dwarf cried out in a sweet, faint voice, 'Dewdrop, Dewdrop!' and no sooner had the sound died into silence than another little fellow, who evidently answered to the pretty name, came tripping from the shadow of a hawthorn. 'What's the matter, Moonbeam?' said the new-comer, cheerily. 'This table is too much for me,' answered the labourer whom Reuben had seen first, 'and if the king's dinner is not ready to a minute he will have me stung. Help me with this load, there's a good sort.' Without any more ado Dewdrop came forward and the tiny pair put their shoulders beneath the load and marched off. They did not bear it very far, however, for the astonished Reuben simply stretched himself at full length on the grass and again was quite close to them. The two dots stopped when they came to a hole, into which they at once stuck the stem of the mushroom. Moonbeam then took from his pocket a butterfly's wing, which served him as a handkerchief, and wiping his forehead as he spoke, he said:-- 'I'm about tired of this. Every night the table is stolen, Dewdrop, and I've to find a new one for each dinner, and no thanks for it either. What has come of late over the king I am at a loss to imagine, for he has done nothing but have me stung. I shall emigrate if this continues, that's all.' 'So would I,' answered the other little fellow, 'if Blue-eyes would go also, but I can't leave her.' After a hearty peal of laughter, during which he had held his shaking sides, Moonbeam shouted-- 'Why, my dear innocent, if you went she would be after you in a trice. I remember that when I was as guileless as you I fell in love with Ravenhair, the daughter of old Pigear. She treated me just as Blue-eyes uses you, but when, in a fit of jealous rage, I began to pay delicate attentions to Jasmine, the tables soon were turned, and one evening, as I was dozing in a flower cup, I heard some one call me, and peeping out of my chamber, I saw the once scornful Ravenhair weeping at the foot of the stalk. No sooner did she catch a glimpse of the tip of my nightcap than in piteous tones, that went straight to my heart, she cried out, "Dearest Moony, let me come up and"--. But, hush! wasn't that the dinner gong?' The pair listened intently as over the grass came the solemn hum of a bee. 'I'm in for it,' said the fairy whose tale had been so suddenly interrupted; 'there's the first bell, and I haven't got even the table set.' The pair darted off, and tripping away into the shade of the hawthorn, they were for a moment or two lost to the sight of the wondering Reuben, but they soon returned, each bearing a dish and cover made of a little pearl shell. These they placed upon the mushroom, and away they scudded, again to return in a minute with another load. In an incredibly short space of time the table was set out with a goodly array of tiny dishes and plates. Once more the hum of the bee was heard booming over the grass, and from the shadow of the tree there emerged a dainty being whose attire glittered in the moonlight, and whose step was like that of a proud monarch. He was clad in a many-hued coat made of wings of dragon flies, a green vest cut from a downy mouse-ear leaf, and with buttons of buttercup buds; little knee-breeches of fine-spun silk dyed in the juice of a whinberry, stockings of cobweb, and shoes of shining beetle case; his shirt, which was as white as falling snow, had been cut from convolvulus flowers ere they had opened to the light; and his hat, a gem of a thing fit only for a fairy, was of red poppy, with a waving white feather, and a band of fur from a caterpillar. He led by the hand another personage, equally daintily dressed, but of a higher order of loveliness, with a pale oval face, and dreamy-looking eyes, gleaming like the sea when the moon and stars are bending over its bosom, and the wind is whispering its sad secrets. Her hair was golden, and rippled almost to her exquisite feet, and over it she wore a blue cornflower wreath, with diamond dewdrops here and there amid the leaves. Her dress was of damask rose leaves looped up with myosotis. The grass hardly bent beneath her, so daintily did she trip along, just touching the tips of the fingers of the hand the king extended to her. Following this royal pair came a group of gaily-clad attendants, and a band discoursing sweet sounds, the deep bass of bees harmonising happily with the barytone of a beetle and the crescendo chirp of a cricket. With a loud flourish from the musicians all took their places at the festive mushroom, and the banquet began. The dishes were sufficiently various to tempt even an anchorite to excess, for all the delicacies of the season were there. Ladybird soup, baked stickleback, roasted leg of nightingale, boiled shoulder of frog with cranberry sauce, wild strawberry tarts, and numerous kinds of fruits and juices, made up a dainty repast, of which king, queen, and courtiers partook heartily. The band, the members of which were perched in the swinging flowers of a foxglove close by, played lustily during the feast. 'For once,' said the king, 'for once--and let the circumstance be remembered when the annals of our reign are written--a day hath passed without anything having annoyed our royal self, without anything unpleasant having happened in our royal presence, and without anything having disagreed with our royal stomach.' No sooner had these words passed the royal lips, however, than the queen gave a faint shriek, and cried out-- 'My love, there is not a drop of my chickweed wine on the table.' A dark cloud passed over the monarch's face as he angrily shouted-- 'Methinks we were congratulating our royal self somewhat too early in the day. Bring hither the rascally Moonbeam and bid the executioners attend for orders.' One of the courtiers, with an alacrity marvellously resembling that of beings of a larger growth, rushed out, and speedily returned with the unfortunate dependant, who at once flung himself on the ground before the angry king and begged to be forgiven. What result might have followed these prayers is uncertain, for, unfortunately, the suppliant's tears fell upon one of the monarch's shoes and dimmed its lustre. 'Bring hither the executioners and their instruments,' roared the infuriated king, and almost immediately a couple of sturdy little fellows appeared leading by a chain two large wasps. 'Do your disreputable work!' shouted the monarch. The executioners seized Moonbeam, fastened him to a stake, and pressed a wasp against him. The insect instantly stung him, and the miserable little fellow howled with pain. 'Take him away,' cried the queen; 'we don't want _whine_ of that kind.' 'What a wretched pun!' involuntarily said Moonbeam, as they were dragging him from the royal presence. 'Bring the villain back,' roared the King; 'bring him back, and sting him until he is less critical.' 'If tha hez him stung ageeon,' interrupted the indignant Reuben, who in his excitement had gradually crept nearer to the royal table, 'I'll knock thi proud little heeod off, chuz who tha art.' Neither the king or the executioners, however, took the slightest notice of the warning, so, as the latter were once more forcing the unhappy Moonbeam against the other wasp, down came a huge fist upon the royal head. 'Theer,' said the fisherman, exultingly, 'I towd tha, didn't I, bud tha wouldn't tek wernin'. Tha 'rt on 't' penitent form bi this time, I daat.' Lifting up his hand, however, what was the surprise of the wondering Reuben to find only a little crushed grass under it. King, Queen, courtiers, Moonbeam, executioners, and wasps, all had vanished, and even the band, whose humming and droning he had heard so distinctly during the whole banquet, no longer broke the silence. 'Well,' said the fisherman, 'that's a capper, in o mi born days. I see 'em as plain as a pikestaff. Th' last day connot be far off, I'm sewer. Bud I'll hev th' tabble, at onny rate, beawt axin.' And, so saying, he took possession of the huge mushroom, and after hurriedly gathering up his lines, he wended his way across the meadow to his little cottage by the high road, and arrived there, he narrated to his drowsy wife the story of the banquet. 'Drat th' fairies, an' thee, too, wi' thi gawmless tales,' said his sceptical helpmate, 'I wondered what hed getten tha. Tha's bin asleep for hours i' th' meadow istid a lookin' after th' fish. Tha never seed a fairy i' thi life. Tha'rt nod hauve sharp enough, clivver as tha art i' owt as is awkurt.' There was a short pause after this sally, and then the sly Reuben drily answered-- 'Yoy, I 've sin a fairy monny an' monny a time. Olus when I used to come a cooartin' to thi moather's. Bud tha 'r nod mich like a fairy neaw, tha 'st autert terbly. Tha 'rt too thrivin' lookin'.' 'Be off wi' thi fawseness,' said the pleased woman; 'tha 'd ollus a desayvin tung i' thi heead;' and then after a drowsy pause as she was dosing to sleep; 'but for o that I'll mek a soop o' good catsup out o' thi fairy tabble.' THE WHITE DOBBIE. Many years ago, long before the lovely Furness district was invaded by the genius of steam, the villagers along the coast from Bardsea to Rampside were haunted by a wandering being whose errand, the purpose of which could never be learned, used to bring him at night along the lonely roads and past the straggling cottages. This pilgrim was a wearied, emaciated-looking man, on whose worn and wan face the sorrows of life had left deep traces, and in whose feverish, hungry-looking eyes, mystery and terror seemed to lurk. Nobody knew the order of his coming or going, for he neither addressed anyone, nor replied if spoken to, but disregarded alike the 'good neet' of the tramp who knew him not, and the startled cry of the belated villager who came suddenly upon him at a turn of the road. Never stopping even for a minute to gaze through the panes whence streamed the ruddy glow of the wood fires, and to envy the dwellers in the cosy cottages, he kept on his way, as though his mission was one of life and death, and, therefore, would not brook delay. On wild wintry nights, however, when the salt wind whirled the foam across the bay, and dashed the blinding snow into heaps upon the window-sills and against the cottage doors, and darkness and storm spread their sombre wings over the coast, then was it certain that the mysterious being would be seen, for observation had taught the villagers and the dwellers in solitary houses along the lonely roads between the fishing hamlets that in storm and darkness the weird voyager was most likely to appear. At such times, when the sound of footsteps, muffled by the snow, was heard between the soughs and moans of the wailing wind, the women cried, 'Heaven save us; 'tis th' White Dobbie,' as, convulsively clutching their little ones closer to their broad bosoms, they crept nearer to the blazing log upon the hearth, and gazed furtively and nervously at the little diamond-paned window, past which the restless wanderer was making his way, his companion running along a little way in advance, for not of the mysterious man alone were the honest people afraid. In front of him there invariably ran a ghastly-looking, scraggy white hare,{21} with bloodshot eyes. No sooner however did anyone look at this spectral animal than it fled to the wanderer, and jumping into his capacious pocket, was lost to sight. Verily of an unearthly stock was this white hare, for upon its approach and long before it neared a village, the chained dogs, by some strange instinct conscious of its coming, trembled in terror, and frantically endeavoured to snap their bonds; unfastened ones fled no man knew whither; and if one happened to be trotting alongside its belated master as he trudged homeward and chanced to meet the ghastly Dobbie with its blood-red eyes, with a scream of pain almost human in its keen intensity, away home scampered the terrified animal, madly dashing over hedge and ditch as though bewitched and fiend-chased. For many years the lonely wanderer had traversed the roads, and for many years had the hare trotted in front of him; lads who were cradled upon their mother's knee when first they heard the awe-inspiring footfalls had grown up into hearty wide-chested men, and men who were ruddy fishers when the pilgrim first startled the dwellers in Furness had long passed away into the silent land; but none of them ever had known the wayfarer to utter a syllable. At length, however, the time came when the solemn silence was to be broken. One night when the breeze, tired of whispering its weird messages to the bare branches, and chasing the withered leaves along the lanes, had begun to moan a hushed prelude to the music of a storm, through the mist that had crept over the bay, and which obscured even the white-crested wavelets at the foot of the hill on which stood the sacred old church, there came at measured intervals the melancholy monotone of the Bardsea passing bell{9} for the dead. Dismally upon the ears of the dwellers in the straggling hamlet fell the announcement of the presence of death, and even the woman who had for years been bell-ringer and sexton, felt a thrill of fear as she stood in the tower but dimly lighted by a candle in a horn lantern, and high above her head the message of warning rang out; for, although accustomed to the task, it was not often that her services were required at night. Now and again she gazed slowly round the chamber, upon the mouldering walls of which fantastic shadows danced, and she muttered broken fragments of prayers in a loud and terrified voice, for as the door had been closed in order that the feeble light in the lantern might not be extinguished by the gusts of wind, isolated as she was from the little world upon the hillside, she felt in an unwonted manner the utter loneliness of the place and its dread surroundings. Suddenly she uttered a shrill shriek, for she heard a hissing whisper at her ear and felt an icy breath upon her cheek. She dared not turn round, for she saw that the door opening upon the churchyard remained closed as before, and that occasionally passing within the range of her fixed stare, a white hare with blood-red eyes gambolled round the belfry. 'T' Dobbie!' sighed she, as the dim light began to flicker and the hare suddenly vanished. As she stood almost paralysed, again came the terrible whisper, and this time she heard the question-- 'Who for this time?' The horrified woman was unable to answer, and yet powerless to resist the strange fascination which forced her to follow the direction of the sound; and when the question was put a second time, in an agony of fear she gazed into the wild eyes of the being at her elbow, her parched tongue cleaving to her open mouth. From the pocket of the dread visitor the ghastly animal gazed at the ringer, who mechanically jerked the bell-rope, and the poor woman was fast losing her senses, when suddenly the door was burst open, and a couple of villagers, who had been alarmed by the irregular ringing, entered the tower. They at once started back as they saw the strange group--the wanderer with sad, inquiring look, and pallid face, the phantom hare with its firelit eyes, and the old ringer standing as though in a trance. No sooner, however, did one of the intruders gaze at the animal than it slipped out of sight down into the pocket of its companion and keeper, and the wanderer himself hastily glided between the astonished men, and out into the darkness of the graveyard. On many other gloomy nights afterwards the ringer was accosted in the same manner, but although the unnatural being and the spectral hare continued for some winters to pass from village to village and from graveyard to graveyard, a thick cloud of mystery always hung over and about them, and no one ever knew what terrible sin the never-resting man had been doomed to expiate by so lonely and lasting a pilgrimage. Whence he came and whither he went remained unknown; but long as he continued to patrol the coast the hollow sound of his hasty footsteps never lost its terror to the cottagers; and even after years had passed over without the usual visits, allusions to the weird pilgrim and his dread companion failed not to cause a shudder, for it was believed that the hare was the spirit of a basely-murdered friend, and that the restless voyager was the miserable assassin doomed to a wearisome, lifelong wandering.{22} THE LITTLE MAN'S GIFT. Many are the wells in Lancashire that once were supposed to be the homes of good or evil spirits--of demons or of beneficent fairies--and, despite the injunctions of the Church against the customs of praying at and waking wells, down to a comparatively recent period they were resorted to by pilgrims of all grades who were in search of health. One such spring near Blackpool, known as the Fairies' Well, had its daily crowds of the ailing and the sorrowful, for its water was credited with virtues as wonderful as they were manifold, and from far and near people brought vessels to be filled with the miraculous fluid. One day at noon, a poor woman who had journeyed many a weary mile in order to obtain a supply of the water with which to bathe the eyes of her child, whose sight was fast failing, and upon whom all the usual remedies had been tried without success, on rising from her knees at the well side, was surprised to find standing near her a handsome little man clad in green, who certainly was not in sight when she bent to fill her bottle. As she stood gazing at the dainty object, the visitor, without having previously asked her any questions, handed to her a beautiful box filled with ointment, and directed her to apply the salve to the eyes of her child, whose sight it would restore. Surprised beyond measure at the little man's knowledge of her family affairs, the woman mechanically accepted the gift, but when, after carefully placing the box in her pocket, she turned to thank the giver, he was no longer to be seen; and satisfied that she had had an interview with one of the beings after whom the well was named, she started on her journey to her distant home. The strangeness of the present, given as she trusted it was by a fairy who was conversant with the painful circumstances under which she had made her pilgrimage, caused her to hope that the ointment would prove efficacious in removing the disorder under which her child was labouring; but this vague feeling, based as it was upon the mysterious nature of the gift, was accompanied by a perfectly natural fear that, after all, the giver might have been one of those mischievous beings whose delight it was to wreak harm and wrong upon humanity. When she reached home and told the strange story to her wondering husband, the nervous pair decided that the ointment should not be used unless a further mark of fairy interest in the child's welfare were vouchsafed to them; but when a few days had passed, and the child continued to grow worse, the anxious mother, in the absence of her husband, determined to test the salve upon one of her own eyes. She did so, and after a few minutes of dreadful suspense, finding that evil results did not follow, and saying to herself that surely the fairy could not be desirous of harming her child, she anointed the little girl's eyes. She refrained, however, from making her helpmate acquainted with what she had done, until in the course of a few days the child's eyesight was so nearly restored that it was no longer necessary or possible to keep the matter from him. Great were the rejoicings of the worthy pair over their little one's recovery; but there was not for a very long time any opportunity afforded them of expressing their gratitude. Some years had passed,--and, as the girl had never had a relapse, the strange gift was almost forgotten,--when one day, in the market-place at Preston, the woman, who was haggling about the price of a load of potatoes, saw before her the identical little fellow in green attire from whom, long before, she had received the box of wonder-working ointment. Although he was busily engaged in a pursuit in which, perhaps, few gentlemen would care to be interrupted, that of stealing corn from an open sack, the thoughtless woman, regardless of etiquette, and yielding to the sudden impulse which prompted her to thank him, stepped forward, and, grasping the fairy's hand, gave utterance to her gratitude. To her surprise, however, the little fellow seemed very angry with her, and, instead of acknowledging her thanks, hastily asked if she could see him with both eyes, and if she had used the ointment intended for her child. The frightened woman at once said that she saw him with only one eye, and was entering into a long account of the circumstances under which, with maternal instinct, she had tested the value of the gift, when, without more ado, the irritated fairy struck her a violent blow and vanished, and from that time forward the poor woman, instead of being able to see better than her neighbours, was blind of one eye. The daughter, however, often saw the fairies, but, profiting by her mother's painful experience, she was wise enough to refrain from speaking to them either when they gathered by moonlight beneath the trees or in broad daylight broke the Eighth Commandment, utterly unconscious that they were observed by a mortal to whom had been given the wondrous gift of fairy vision.{23} SATAN'S SUPPER.{24} I. Ye Evil One The 'Old Lad' sat upon his throne, giveth unto Beneath a blasted oak, them a stayve. And fiddled to the mandrake's groan, The marsh-frog's lonely croak; II. Ye corpses Whilst winds they hissed, and shrieked, and moaned dashe their About the branches bare, wigges. And all around the corpses groaned, And shook their mould'ring hair; III. Ye hagges As witches gathered one by one, crowde to ye And knelt at Satan's feet, _levee_. With faces some all worn and wan, And some with features sweet, IV. Ye power The earth did ope and imps upsprang of Of every shape and shade, Musicke. Who 'gan to dance as th' welkin rang With tunes the 'Old Lad' played; V. Ye poetrie At which the witches clapped their hands, of And laughed and screamed in glee; motion. Or jumped about in whirling bands, And hopped in revelry, VI. Ye delicacies Till Satan ceased, when all did rest, of ye And swarmed unto the meat: season, The flesh of infants from the breast, The toes from dead men's feet, VII. Ye ditto, With sand for salt, and brimstone cates, With blood for old wine red; On glittering dish and golden plates The dainty food was spread. VIII. Ye From heavy cups, with jewels rough, coolinge The witches quenched their thirst; drinkes. Yet not before the ruddie stuff Had been by Satan cursed. IX. Ye barde But one lank fiend of skin and bone, telleth of With hungry-looking eyne, an outcaste Gazed at the food with dreary moans, impe. And many a mournful whine; X. Of hys For Satan would not let him feed unparalleled Upon the toothsome cheer, wickednesse; (He had not done all day a deed To cause a human tear); XI. Of hys And so he hopped from side to side, gamboles To beg a bit of 'toke,' and praieres, And, vagrant-like, his plea denied, He prayed that they might choke XII. And of Themselves with morsels rich and fat hys Or die upon the floor, revylyngs of Like paupers (grieving much thereat goode menne. The guardians of the poor). XIII. Ye earlie byrde A cock then flapped his wings and crew, prepareth for ye Announcing coming light; 'Diet of When, seizing on a jar of stew, Wormes.' The snubbed imp took his flight. XIV. _Les Adieux._ And at the solemn sound of doom The witches flew away, While Satan slunk off through the gloom, Afraid of break of day; XV. Ye fruitlesse And in the darkness drear he cried-- remorse of His voice a trifle gruff, Beelzebubbe. 'Those omelettes were nicely fried; I have not had enough!' XVI. Ye resulte A blight fell on the trembling flowers of ye meetynge And on the quivering trees-- uponne ye No buds there drink the passing showers, Or leaves wave in the breeze; XVII. Agryculture For Satan's presence withered all of ye The daisies and the grass, dystricte. And all things over which like pall His sulphurous tail did pass. THE EARTHENWARE GOOSE. Once upon a time, which somewhat vague reference in this instance means long before it was considered a compliment by the fair dames of Lancashire to be termed witches, there lived in the Fylde country village of Singleton a toothless, hooknosed old woman, whose ill fortune it was to be credited with the friendship of the Evil One. Perhaps had the ancient dame been somewhat better looking she might have borne a better character. In those distant days to be poor was considered decidedly discreditable, but to be ugly also was to add insult to injury. The old woman knew only too well that she was poor and that she was plain, for the urchins and hobbledehoys of the locality lost no opportunity of reminding her of the facts, whenever, on frugal mind intent, she emerged from her rude cottage to expend a few pence upon articles of food. Ugliness and poverty, however, Mag Shelton persisted in considering misfortunes and not crimes, and when anybody to whom she was an eyesore, with gallantry peculiar to the time and place let us hope, wished that she would die and rid the village of her objectionable presence, the old woman took no notice of the polite expression. To die by particular desire was not in Mag's line. What harm could a toothless old woman do, that the world, by which term the half-dazed creature meant the village in which she had spent her life, should evince so much anxiety to be rid of her?--argued Mag. True, if toothless, she had her tongue; but without a visiting circle, and with no benefactors to belie, that valuable weapon in the service of spite might just as well have been in the mouth of an uneducated heathen. Harmless, however, as the old dame thought herself, the villagers held a different opinion, and the children, afraid of disturbing the witch, invariably removed their wooden-soled clogs before they ran past the hut in which Mag lived,{25} while the older folk, if they did not literally take the coverings from their feet as they passed the lonely dwelling, crept by on tiptoe, and glanced furtively at the unsuspecting inhabitant of the cottage, who, by the aid of the fitful firelight, might be seen dozing near the dying embers, and now and again stroking a suspiciously bright-eyed cat, nestled snugly upon her knee. The old woman's solitary way of life favoured the growth of superstitions regarding her, for the Singletonians were not without their share of that comforting vanity which impresses the provincial mind with a sense of the high importance of its society, parish, and creed; and they could not imagine anyone preferring to keep away from them and to sit alone, without at once believing, as a necessary consequence, that the unappreciative ones must have dealings with Satan. It soon was found convenient to attribute anything and everything of an unpleasant nature to the denizen of the lonely cottage, 'th' Owd Witch,' as she was termed. Was a cow or a child ailing? Mag had done it! Had the housewife omitted to mark with the sign of the cross the baking of dough left in the mug on the hearth, and the bread had turned out 'heavy,' Mag Shelton had taken advantage of the overworked woman's negligence! Was there but a poor field of wheat? 'Twas the fault of old Mag, swore the farmer. In short, whatever went wrong throughout the entire country-side was judged to be clearly traceable to the spite and malevolence of the toothless old woman and her suspicious-looking cat. This state of things might, however, have continued without any interruption, until Nature had interposed and released Mag from her attendance upon such a world, had it not begun to be noticed that almost every farmer in the neighbourhood was complaining of the mysterious disappearance of milk, not only from the dairies, but also from the udders of the cows grazing in the pastures. A bucolic genius immediately proclaimed that in this case, too, the culprit must be Mag, for had not she her familiars to feed, and what could be more agreeable to the palate of a parched fiend or perspiring imp, than a beaker of milk fresh from the cow and redolent of meadow-flowers? With such a gaping family to satisfy, what regard could the old lady retain for the Eighth Commandment? This logic was deemed unanswerable, and a number of the farmers determined to conceal themselves one night about the witch's cottage, in the hope of something confirmatory turning up. It was late when they took their places, and they barely had settled themselves comfortably behind the hedgerow before a noise was heard, and the old woman emerged from the house,--the cat, and, of all things else in the world, a stately goose solemnly paddling behind her. The men in ambush remained silent until Mag and her attendants had passed out of sight and hearing, when one of them said, 'Keep still, chaps, till hoo comes back. Hoo's gone a milkin', I daat.' The watchers therefore kept perfectly quiet, and in a little while their patience was rewarded; for the old woman reappeared, walking slowly and unattended by her former companions. As she paused to unfasten the cottage door, the men pounced out of their hiding-place, seized her roughly, and at once tore off her cloak. To the surprise of the rude assailants, however, no sign of milkjugs could be observed; and, as they stood aghast, Mag cried, in a shrill and angry voice, 'Will ye never learn to respect grey hair, ye knaves?' 'We'll respect tha' into th' pit yon, mi lady,' immediately responded one of the roughest of the men. 'What hes ta done with th' milk to-neet?' In vain were the old woman's protestations,--that, driven from the roads and lanes in the daytime by the children and the hobbledehoys who persecuted her, she had of late taken her exercise by night; the judicial mind was made up, and rude hands were outstretched to drag her to the horsepond, when, fortunately for Mag, the appearance of the goose, waddling in a hurried and agitated manner, created a timely diversion in her favour. 'I thowt it quare,' said one of the would-be executioners--'varra quare, that th' goose worn't somewheer abaat, for hoo an' it's as thick as Darby an' Jooan.' As though conscious that all was not well with its mistress, the ungainly and excited bird, stretching its neck towards the bystanders, and hissing loudly, placed itself by the old woman's side. 'We want no hissin' heear,' said the leader of the band, as he lifted a heavy stick and struck the sibilant fowl a sharp rap on its head. No sooner had the sound of the blow fallen upon the ears of the assembled rustics than the goose vanished, not a solitary feather being left behind, and in its place there stood a large broken pitcher, from which milk, warm from the cow, was streaming. Here was proof to satisfy even the most credulous, and, as a consequence, in a moment the old woman was floundering in the pond, from which she barely escaped with her life. A few days afterwards, however, upon the interposition of the Vicar, she was permitted to leave the inhospitable village, and away she tramped in search of 'fresh woods and pastures new,' her cat and the revivified goose bearing her company.{26} She had left the inhospitable place, when the landlord of the Blue Pig discovered that the jug in which the witch-watchers had conveyed their 'allowance' to the place of ambush had not been returned. It was not again seen in its entirety, and the sarcastic host often vowed that it was here and there in the village in the shape of cherished fragments of the broken one into which the watchers declared that they had seen Mag's goose transformed. THE PHANTOM OF THE FELL. On a beautiful night late in summer a solitary man, who was returning from some wedding festivities, was rapidly crossing Fair Snape. The moon was at the full, and threw her glamour upon the lovely fell, as a breeze sighed among the tall ferns which waved gently to and fro under the sweet invisible influence, and the only sounds which fell upon the wayfarer's ear were the almost inaudible rustling of the bracken, and the occasional faint bark of a distant watch-dog. Giles Roper, however, was not thinking of the beauty of the night, or of the scenery, but, naturally enough, was congratulating himself upon being ever so much nearer to the stocking of that farm without which he could not hope for the hand of the miller's rosy daughter. Thoughts of a chubby, good-hearted little woman like Liza were calculated to drive out all other and less pleasant ones; but Giles was rapidly approaching a part of the hillside said to be haunted. Many tales had he heard by the winter's fire of the doings of the nameless appearance, the narrators speaking in hushed voices, and the hearers instinctively drawing closer together on the old settle; and these narratives crowded into his recollection as he left the cheerful moonlight and stepped into the shade of the little clough. Before he had got very far down he was prepared to see or hear anything; but, making allowance for the fear which somehow or other had taken possession of him, he knew that there was something more than fancy in a melancholy wail which broke upon his ears as he reached a bend in the ravine. There was nothing however in the sad note of lamentation calculated to terrify, save the consciousness that such sweet music could not be that of a mortal. Instinctively Giles looked in the direction whence the sound had come, and in the dim light he saw the figure of a woman with a pallid face of singular and unearthly beauty, her hair falling behind her like a sheet of gold, and her eyes emitting a strange lustre, which, however, was not sufficiently intense to conceal their beautiful azure hue. The bewildered spectator gazed in rapt worship, for though his limbs still trembled he no longer felt any fear, but rather a wild delirious longing to speak to, and to be addressed by, the beautiful being before him. He was sufficiently near to the appearance to be able to distinguish the features clearly, and when he saw a movement of the lips his heart throbbed violently under the expectation that he was about to receive a mysterious commission. He was, however, doomed to be disappointed, for the only sound emitted by the phantom was another low melodious cry, even more pathetic and mournful than that by which his attention had first been attracted to the lovely object. At the same time Giles saw that the figure was more distant than before, and that it was slowly gliding away, but beckoning to him, as though anxious that he should follow. The young man, spell-bound and fascinated by the enchanting eyes, which were beautiful enough to turn the head of one wiser than the raw country lad upon whom they were fixed, followed eagerly, but at the end of the clough, where the moonlight was brilliant, the figure vanished, leaving Giles, not with that feeling of relief said to follow the disappearance of a mysterious visitant, but, on the contrary, anxious to behold the vision again. He therefore turned and retraced his steps to the undulating summit of the fell, where the wind was sighing over the many-flowered heather, but there was nothing to be seen of the blue-eyed phantom, and only for the faint wash of the rustling ferns all would have been silent. Unwilling to leave the spot, although he was conscious that the task was a fruitless one, he continued to wander from one point to another, and it was not until daybreak that he finally gave up the search and descended the fell. Not caring to allude to his adventure and vain search upon the pike, Giles accounted for his lateness by asserting that he had remained until midnight at the distant farmhouse where the rejoicings had taken place, and had afterwards lost his way on the fells. With this excuse, however, his relatives were quite content, one sarcastic farm-servant drily remarking that after wedding festivities it was wonderful he had been able to find his way home at all. The extraordinary thoughtfulness which Giles evinced during the day was of too marked a nature to remain unobserved; but the old father attributed it merely to that natural dislike to settled labour which generally follows boisterous relaxation, and the mother thought it was due to a desire to be off again to see the chubby daughter of the miller. The old dame, therefore, was not surprised when her son announced his intention to leave home for a few hours, and she congratulated herself on her foresight and discernment, finishing her soliloquy by saying--'Well, hoo's a bonny wench as he's after; an', what's mooar, hoo's as good as hoo's pratty.' It was not, however, to the far-off dwelling of the miller that Giles was making his way. On the contrary, he was leisurely pacing in quite an opposite direction, his back turned to the old mill, and his eyes fixed upon the distant fells, which he did not care to reach until the gloaming had given way to moonlight. Not that he was afraid of being seen, the road he trod was too lonely for that; but he thought it was unlikely his watchings would be rewarded before the night had properly set in. If the beautiful object was a spirit--and what else could it have been?--it would come at its own time, and who ever heard of spirits appearing before midnight? The young fellow, therefore, waited until the moon rose and bathed the hills in her golden flood, when he at once began to climb the fell, making his way up the ravine in which on the previous night he had heard the mysterious voice. It was some time from midnight, and he stopped to rest, taking his seat upon a moss-covered stone. Here he waited patiently; but he had begun to fear that his visit was to be a fruitless one, when once more he heard the peculiar mournful wail, and rapidly turning round, he saw that he was not alone. Again the weird eyes, in all their unearthly beauty, were fixed upon him, and the long white arms were extended as though to beckon him to draw nigh. Instinctively Giles rose in obedience to the pleading attitude of the fair vision; but as he approached the phantom it grew less and less distinct, and at length vanished. As on the previous night, the young fellow wandered about in the hope of again seeing the lovely being, and once more he was obliged to return to the farm unsuccessful. Possessed by a maddening and irresistible desire to gaze upon the wondrous face which had bewitched him, the approach of nightfall invariably found Giles on his way to the fell, and it can easily be imagined to what unpleasantness in his family circle this course of conduct gave rise. On the one hand the parents gave the rein to all sorts of vague suspicions as to the cause of the night rambles; and the lad's disinclination to give any explanations did not help the old people to think more kindly of him. The father of the girl whom he had asked in marriage also did not fail to expostulate with him, in the idea that he had fallen into evil ways, and that his pilgrimages were to a distant town; while the girl herself, loving him as she did with all the vigour of her simple and earnest nature, and uninfluenced by any foolish feeling of false shame, came to his parents' house in the hope of obtaining a promise of better things. Her pleadings and her womanly threats, however, were unavailing, the whilom lover in a shamefaced manner refusing to make any promise of different behaviour. The interview was a painful one; for the girl, feeling certain that her father's interpretation was correct, used all her powers to induce Giles to abandon his evil courses; but at length, finding that her prayers were ineffectual, she bitterly reproached him with his want of honesty. 'It's no evil as I'm after, lass! Don't think that on mi,' said the young man, in an appealing tone; but the girl was not to be convinced by mere assertion. 'It's no good as teks tha away o'er t' pike neet after neet,' said she, with a sudden access of grief, 'it'ull come by tha in some way or another, Giles.' And in tears she turned away from him. 'Whisht, lass, whisht! If tha nobbut knew, O tha'd pity i'stid o' blaming mi.' The girl heeded not these words, but kept on her way. When she got to a turn in the road, however, she looked back mournfully, as though in doubt whether to return and cast herself upon his breast, and bid him trust in her; but pride overcame her, and she resisted the impulse. That night, as two of the miller's men were poaching, they were startled by the unexpected sound of a human voice, and hastily hiding themselves beneath the tall ferns, they saw Giles emerge from the clough and run towards the place where they were concealed. He seemed to be half mad with excitement, and as he ran he was crying aloud some words they could not catch. When he drew nearer, however, they were able to hear more distinctly, and to their surprise they found that he was appealing to an invisible being to appear to him. For some time they remained in their place of concealment, Giles hovering about the spot; but when the young fellow ran to a distance, they emerged from their hiding-place and rapidly made their way to the mill. For obvious reasons, however, they agreed to keep silence as to what they had seen and heard. The day after this episode Giles was in a fever and delirious, raving continually about the bonny face and 'breet een' of the being he had seen in the ravine. His afflicted parents found in the wild utterances sad confirmation of their worst fears, and, half broken-hearted, they hovered sorrowfully about his bed. For weeks he battled with the disorder, and at nightfall frequently endeavoured to leave the house, and vainly struggled with the friends who prevented him, to whom he frantically cried that she of the blue eyes was calling him. A cloud fell over the hitherto happy household. Night and day the old people watched over their sick lad, each of them feeling that the task would have been a comparatively easy one had not the patient's delirious ravings revealed to them so terrible a background to the round of their primitive and innocent daily life. Not that they loved their child any less because of the revelations he had unconsciously made to them, but they brooded and fretted over his supposed wickedness, and bowed their heads in grief and shame as they unwillingly heard his impassioned cries. By-and-by the story of these ravings got noised about, and the miller's daughter, who hitherto had been suffering bravely, broke down altogether when she knew that she was an object of pity to the gossips. It fortunately happened, however, that the miller's men who had seen Giles at the pike got into conversation with their master about the matter, and it struck one of them that the woman about whom Giles was supposed to be raving, and of whom tales of all sorts were being circulated, was a feeorin of some kind that the young fellow had seen on the lonely fell. No sooner was this idea arrived at than off they started to see the distressed parents, the miller's daughter hastening with them. They found no difficulty in gaining credence for their narrative, and with a burst of thankfulness the old people felt that the gulf which had yawned between them and their eldest born was for ever closed; while, as for the girl, her transports of joy were almost painful in their intensity. So great a weight was lifted from all hearts that the illness of the patient was for the time almost forgotten. Giles, however, still remained in a very critical condition, but he soon had an additional nurse, who, despite the watchings and the toil of which she relieved the old people, was rapidly becoming more and more like the ruddy-faced damsel to whom the young fellow had plighted his troth, for she could listen to and disregard the ravings of her lover and look forward to the time when happiness should again smile upon them. A few weeks passed. The violence of the disorder abated, and the patient recovered so far as to be able to bear removal to a large chair by the kitchen fire. As he sat quietly dreaming the short autumn days away, without any allusions to the beauty about whom he had so constantly raved during his delirium, the old people and the miller's daughter began to congratulate themselves that the dream-madness had passed away with the worst phase of the illness. The girl, however, although she did not utter any complaint, suffered deeply from the coolness with which Giles treated her. Not that he was ungrateful, for, on the contrary, it was impossible to do anything for him, however slight the service might be, without a thankful acknowledgment; but there was a visible constraint in his manner which could not escape the keen sight of love. Fearing to distress him by any remonstrances, the patient girl refrained from referring to the past or showing that she was observant of any change in his behaviour towards her, but she brooded over her grief when she was alone. The young fellow knew that the poor girl was suffering, but for the life of him he could not assume that which he did not feel. Much as he had loved her before the night of his adventure on the pike, from the moment when he had first seen the face of the mysterious being his affection for her had faded away, consumed by the intense longing which filled his soul night and day whenever he thought of the eyes illumined by a fire that was not human, and of the features and hair so exquisitely beautiful in the faint moonlight. Calm and quiet as he looked, seated propped with cushions in the old chair by the fire, he was inwardly fretting against the weakness that kept him from the fells, and his longing soul came into his eyes as he gazed through the little diamond-paned window, and saw the pike, in all the beauty of many-tinted autumn, kissed by the setting sun as the blushing day sank into the swarthy arms of night. Slowly winter came, bringing snow and storm, and as though influenced by a feeling that even Nature had interposed her barriers between him and the lovely being, one afternoon, as the mists crept slowly over the white landscape, and hid in their shimmering folds the distant fells where he had first seen the sweet face so seldom absent from his feverish dreams, he could not resist the desire which seized him to visit once more the haunted ravine. The various members of the little household were away from the house engaged in their labours about the farm, and taking advantage of this, Giles fled from the dwelling, and made his way through the dim light to the hills. It was not long, however, before his absence was discovered, but some time elapsed before the men-folk could be gathered, and the shades of night had fallen before the anxious pursuers reached the foot of the pike. The thick mist had enveloped everything, and as the lanterns, choked as they were by the damp, threw but a fitful light, it was with the utmost difficulty that the men found the footmarks of the wanderer in the snow up the fell side. The searchers were led by the father of Giles, who spoke not, but glanced at the track as though in dread of discovering that which he had come to find. Suddenly the old man gave a startled cry, for he had followed the marks to the edge of a little cliff, over which he had almost fallen in his eagerness. It was forthwith determined to follow the ravine to its commencement, and although nothing was said by any of the party, each man felt certain that the missing young fellow would be found at the bottom. It did not take long to reach the entrance, and with careful steps the old man led the way over the boulders. He had not gone far before the light from his lantern fell upon the upturned face of his son, whose body lay across the course of a little frozen stream. The features were set in the sleep of death, for Giles had fallen from the level above, the creeping mists having obscured the gorge where he first saw the lovely phantom, in search of which he had met an untimely end. ALLHALLOW'S NIGHT. To many a beautiful landscape the majestic Pendle adds a nameless charm, and the traveller who gazes upon it from any of the points whence a view of the whalelike mass is to be obtained, would hardly dream that the moss and fern-covered hill, smiling through the dim haze, once was the headquarters of witchcraft and devilry. Readers of the quaint and sad trials of the witchmania period, and of Harrison Ainsworth's celebrated novel based thereon, will, however, remember what dread scenes were said to have transpired in the dim light of its cloughs and upon its wild sides, when Chattox, Mouldheels, and the other poor wretches whose 'devilish practices and hellish means,' as they were termed in the old indictments, made the neighbourhood of the mountain so unsafe a locality. In a lonely little house some distance from the foot of Pendle, there dwelt a farmer and his family, together with a labourer whom he employed. Entirely illiterate, and living in a wild and weird district, with but few houses nearer than a mile away, the household believed firmly in all the dreadful boggart, witch, and feeorin stories current in the district. For a long time, however, the farmer had not any personal experience of the power of either witch or boggart; but at length his turn came. After a tempestuous night, when the windows and doors rattled in their frames, and the wind, dashing the big rain drops against the little diamond-shaped panes, moaned and shrieked round the lonely dwelling, three of the beasts were found dead in the shippon. A few days afterwards two of the children sickened, and when 'th' edge o' dark' was creeping up the hill-side one of them died. As though this trouble was not enough, the crops were blighted. With reluctance the farmer saw in these things proof that he had in some unknown manner incurred the displeasure of the invisible powers, and that the horse-shoe over his door, the branches of ash over the entrance to the shippon, and the hag stones hung up at the head of his own and of the children's bed, had lost their power of protection. The family council, at which the unprotected condition of the house was discussed, was of the saddest kind, for even the rough labourer missed the prattle of the little one whose untimely end had cast a shadow over the dwelling, and he thoroughly sympathised with his master in his losses; while, as for the farmer and his wife, dread of what the future might have in store for them mingled with their sorrow, and added to the heaviness of their hearts. 'Isaac, yo' may as weel tek' th' wiggin{27} an' th' horse shoes deawn, for onny use they seem to be on. We'en nowt to keep th' feorin' off fra' us, an' I deawt we'es come off bud badly till November,' said the farmer, as he knocked the ashes from his pipe. 'An' why nobbut till November, Ralph,' asked the wife in a terrified voice, as she gazed anxiously towards the little window through which Pendle could be dimly seen looming against the evening sky. 'Because on O'Hallow neet, mi lass, I meean to leet th' witches{28} on Pendle.' 'Heaven save us!' cried the woman. 'Tha'll be lost as sewer as th' whorld.' There was a short silence, and then old Isaac spoke-- 'If th' mestur goes, Isik guz too. Wis be company, at onny rate.' The farmer gratefully accepted this offer of fellowship, and the appeals of his wife, who implored him to abandon the notion, were of no avail. Others had lighted the witches, and thereby secured a twelvemonth's immunity from harm, and why should not he go and do likewise? Ruin was staring him in the face if things did not improve, thought he, and his determination to 'leet' his unseen enemies grew stronger and stronger. At length the last day of October came, bringing with it huge clouds and a misty rain, which quite obscured the weird hill; but at nightfall the wind rose, the rain ceased, the stars began to appear, and the huge outline of Pendle became visible. When the day's work was over, the farmer and Isaac sat in the kitchen, waiting for the hour at which they were to start for the haunted mountain, and the dread and lonesome building where the witches from all parts gathered in mysterious and infernal conclave. Neither of the men looked forward to the excursion with pleasurable feelings, for, as the emotion caused by the losses had somewhat subsided, terror of the beings who were supposed to assemble in the Malkin Tower resumed its sway; but soon after the old clock had chimed ten they rose from the settle and began their preparations for the lighting. Each man grasped a branch of mountain ash, to which several sprigs of bay were tied as a double protection against thunder and lightning, and any stray fiends that might happen to be lurking about, and each carried in the other hand an unlighted candle. As they passed from the house the tearful goodwife cried a blessing upon them, and a massive old bulldog crept from a corner of the yard and took its place at their heels. The three stepped along bravely, and before long they had crossed the brook and reached the foot of Pendle. Rapidly making their way to a well-known ravine they paused to light the candles. This operation, performed by means of a flint and steel and a box of tinder, occupied some time; and while they were so engaged clouds obscured the moon, a few heavy drops of rain fell, the wind ceased to whisper, and an ominous silence reigned, and the dog, as though terrified, crept closer to its master and uttered a low whine. 'We's hev' a storm, I daat, Isik,' said the farmer. 'Ise think mysen weel off an' win nowt else bud a storm,' drily replied the old man, as, lighted candle in hand, he began to climb the hill-side, his master and the dog following closely behind. When they had almost reached the top of the ravine a flash of lightning suddenly pierced the darkness, and a peal of thunder seemed to shake the earth beneath them; while a weird and unearthly shriek of laughter rang in their ears as a black figure flew slowly past them, almost brushing against their faces in its flight. The dog immediately turned and fled, howling terribly as it ran down the hill-side; but the men went on, each one carefully shading his light with the hand in which the branch of ash was grasped. The road gradually became rougher, and occasionally Isaac stumbled over a stone, and almost fell, the farmer frantically shouting to him to be careful of his candle, but without any serious mishap the pair managed to get within sight of the tower. Evidently some infernal revelry was going on, for light streamed from the window-openings, and above the crash of the thunder came shrieks of discordant laughter. Every now and again a dark figure floated over their heads and whirled in at one of the windows, and the noise became louder, by the addition of another shrill voice. 'It mon be drawin' nee midneet,' said the farmer. 'If we con but pass th' hour wis be reet for a twelvemonth. Let's mek for whoam neaw.' Both men readily turned their backs to the building, but no sooner had they done so than a Satanic face, with gleaming eyes, was visible for a moment, and instantaneously both lights were extinguished. 'God bless us!' immediately cried both men. Almost before the words had left their lips the tower was plunged in total darkness, the shrieks of unholy laughter were suddenly stilled, and sounds were heard as of the rapid flight of the hags and their familiars, for the ejaculations had broken up the gathering. Terrified beyond measure at the extinction of their lights, but still clinging tenaciously to the branches, which apparently had proved so ineffectual to preserve them against the power of the witches, the men hurried away. They had not proceeded far in the direction in which they supposed the farm lay, when, with a cry, the farmer, who was a little in advance of his aged companion, fell and vanished. He had slipped down the cleft, on the brink of which Isaac stood, tremblingly endeavouring to pierce the darkness below. Not a sound came up to tell the old man that his master had escaped with his life; and, as no response came to his shouts, at length he turned away, feeling sure that he was masterless, and hoping to be able to reach the farm, and obtain assistance. After wandering about for some time, however, half-blinded by the lightning, and terrified beyond measure at the result of their mutual boldness, Isaac crept under a large stone, to wait for the dawn. Influenced by the cold and by fatigue, the old man fell asleep; but no sooner had the first faint rays of coming day kissed the hill-summit, than he was aroused by the old bulldog licking his face, and as he gazed around in sleepy astonishment some men appeared. The farmer's wife, terrified by the arrival of the howling dog, and the non-arrival of the 'leeters,' had made her way to a distant farm-house and alarmed the inmates, and a party of sturdy fellows had started off to find the missing men. Isaac's story was soon told; and when the searchers reached the gorge the farmer was found nursing a broken leg. Great were the rejoicings of the goodwife when the cavalcade reached the farm, for, bad as matters were, she had expected even a worse ending; and afterwards, when unwonted prosperity had blessed the household, she used to say, drily, 'Yo' met ha' kept th' candles in to leet yo' whoam, for it mon ha' bin after midneet when _he_ blew 'em aat,' a joke which invariably caused the farmer and old Isaac to smile grimly. THE CHRISTMAS-EVE VIGIL. Many years have passed since the living of Walton-le-Dale was held by a gentleman of singularly-reserved and studious habits, who, from noon till night, pored over dusty black-letter folios. Although he was by no means forgetful of the few duties which pertained to his sacred office, and never failed to attend to the wants of those of his parishioners who were in trouble and had need of kind words of sympathy and advice, or even of assistance of a more substantial nature, the length of time he devoted to his mysterious-looking volumes, and a habit he had of talking to himself, as, late at night, with head bent down, he passed along the village street, and vanished into the darkness of a lonely lane, gave rise to cruel rumours that he was a professor of the black art; and it was even whispered that his night walks were pilgrimages to unholy scenes of Satanic revelry. These suspicions deepened almost into certainty when the old people who had charge of his house informed the gossips that the contents of a large package, since the arrival of which the women in the village had been unable to sleep for curiosity, were strange-looking bottles, of a weird shape, with awful signs and figures upon them; and that, during the evening, after the carrier had brought them, noises were heard in the clergyman's room, and the house was filled with sulphurous smoke. Passing from one gossip to another, the story did not fail to receive additions as usual, until when it reached the last house in the straggling village the narrator told how the student had raised the Evil One, who, after filling the house with brimstone, vanished in a ball of fire, not, however, without first having imprinted the mark of his claws upon the study table. Had the unconscious clergyman lived more in the everyday world around him, and less in that of black-letter books, he would not have failed to perceive the averted looks with which his parishioners acknowledged his greetings, or, what would have pained him even more deeply, the frightened manner in which the children either fled at his approach, if they were playing in the lanes, or crept close to their parents when he entered the dwellings of the cottagers. Ignorant alike of the absurd rumours, and unobservant of the change which had come over his flock, or at least acting as though unaware of them, the clergyman continued to perform the duties of his sacred office, and to fly from them to his beloved volumes and experiments, growing more and more reserved in his habits, and visibly paling under his close application. After matters had gone on in this way for some time, the villagers were surprised to see a friendship spring up and ripen between their pastor and an old resident in the village, of almost equally strange habits. There was, however, in reality but little to wonder at in this, for the similarity between the pursuits and tastes of the two students was sufficiently great to bridge over the gulf of widely-different social positions. Abraham, or 'Owd Abrum,' as he was generally named, was a herb doctor, whose knowledge of out-of-the-way plants which possessed mysterious medicinal virtues, and of still more wonderful charms and spells, was the theme of conversation by every farmhouse fireside for miles round. At that day, and in that locality, the possession of a few books sufficed to make a man a wonder to his neighbours; and Abraham had a little shelf full of volumes upon his favourite subjects of botany and astrology. The old man lived by himself in a little cottage, some distance along a lane leading from the village across the meadows; and, despite the absence of female supervision, the place always was as clean and bright as a new pin. Had he needed any assistance in his household duties, Abraham would not have asked in vain for it, for he was feared as well as respected. If he was able to charm away evil and sickness, could he not also bring sickness and evil? So reasoned the simple villagers; and those who were not, even unconsciously, influenced by the guileless everyday life of the old man, were impressed by the idea that he had the power to cast trouble upon them if they failed to maintain an outward show of reverence. However early the villagers might be astir, as they passed along the lanes on their way to their labour in the fields, they were certain to find 'Owd Abrum' searching by the hedgerows or in the plantations for herbs, to be gathered with the dew upon them; and at night the belated cottager, returning from a distant farm, was equally certain of finding Abraham gazing at the heavens, 'finding things aat abaat fowk,' as the superstitious country people said and believed. Addicted to such nocturnal studies, it was not likely that the old herb doctor and the pale student would remain unknown to each other. The acquaintance however, owing to the reserved habits of both, began in a somewhat singular manner. Returning from a long and late walk about midnight, the minister was still some distance from his abode, when he heard a clear voice say: 'Now is the time, if I can find any: Jupiter is angular, the moon's applied to him, and his aspect is good.' The night was somewhat cloudy--the stars being visible only at intervals--and it was not until the clergyman had advanced a little way that he was able to perceive the person who had spoken. He saw that it was the old herbalist, and immediately accosted him. An animated conversation followed, Abraham expatiating on the virtues of the plants he had been gathering under the dominion of their respective planets, and astonishing the pale student by the extent of his information. In his turn, the old man was delighted to find in the clergyman a fellow-enthusiast in the forbidden ways of science; and as the student was no less charmed to discover in the 'yarb doctor' a scholar who could sympathise with him and understand his yearnings after the invisible, late as was the hour, the pair adjourned to Abraham's cottage. The visitor did not emerge until the labourers were going to their toil, the time having been spent in conversation upon the powers exercised by the planets upon plants and men, the old man growing eloquent as to the wonderful virtue of the Bay Tree, which, he said, could resist all the evil Saturn could do to the human body, and in the neighbourhood of which neither wizard nor devil, thunder or lightning, could hurt man; of Moonwort, with the leaves of which locks might be opened, and the shoes be removed from horses' feet; of Celandine, with which, if a young swallow loseth an eye, the parent birds will renew it; of Hound's Tongue, a leaf of which laid under the foot will save the bearer from the attacks of dogs; of Bugloss, the leaf of which maketh man poison-proof; of Sweet Basil, from which (quoting Miraldus) venomous beasts spring--the man who smelleth it having a scorpion bred in his brain; and of a score of other herbs under the dominion of the Moon and Cancer, and of the cures wrought by them through antipathy to Saturn. From that time the pair became intimate friends, the clergyman yielding, with all the ardour of youth, to the attraction which drew him towards the learned old man; and Abraham gradually growing to love the pale-faced student, whose thirst after knowledge was as intense as his own. Seldom a day passed on which one of them might not have been observed on his way to the abode of the other; and often at night the pair walked together, their earnest voices disturbing the slumbering echoes, as at unholy hours they passed up the hill, and through the old churchyard, with its moss-covered stones and its rank vegetation. Upon one of these occasions they had talked about supernatural appearances; and as they were coming through the somewhat neglected God's Acre, the clergyman said he had read, in an old volume, that to anyone who dared, after the performance of certain ghastly ceremonies, wait in the church porch on Christmas-eve, the features of those who were to die during the following year would be revealed, and that he intended upon the night before the coming festival to try the spell. The old man at once expressed a wish to take part in the trial, and before the two parted it was agreed that both should go through the preliminary charms, and keep the vigil. In due time the winter came, with its sweet anodyne of snow, and as Christmas approached everything was got in readiness. Soon after sunset on Christmas-eve the old herb doctor wended his way to the dwelling of his friend, taking with him St. John's Wort, Mountain Ash, Bay leaves, and Holly. The enthusiasts passed the evening in conversation upon the mysterious qualities of graveyard plants; but shortly after the clock struck eleven they arose, and began to prepare for the vigil, by taking precautions against the inclemency of the weather, for the night was very cold, large flakes of snow falling silently and thickly upon the frozen ground. When both were ready the old man stepped to the door to see that the road was clear, for, in order to go through the form of incantation, a small fire was requisite; and as they were about to convey it in a can, they were anxious that the strange proceeding should not be noticed by the villagers. Late as it was, however, lights shone here and there in the windows, and even from the doorways, for, although it was near midnight, many of the cottage doors were wide open, it being believed that if, on Christmas-eve, the way was thus left clear, and a member of the family read the Gospel according to St. Luke, the saint himself would pass through the house. As the two men, after carefully closing the door behind them, stepped into the road, a distant singer trolled forth a seasonable old hymn. This was the only noise, however, the village street being deserted. They reached the churchyard without having been observed, and at once made their way round the sacred building, so as not to be exposed to the view of any chance reveller returning to his home. It was well that they did so, for they had hardly deposited the can of burning charcoal upon a tombstone ere sounds of footsteps, somewhat muffled by the snow, were heard, and several men passed through the wicket. They were, however, only the ringers, on their way to the belfry, and in a few minutes they had entered the building, and all was still again for a few moments, when, upon the ears of the somewhat nervous men there fell the voices of choristers singing under the window of a neighbouring house the old Lancashire carol-- 'As I sat anonder yon green tree, Yon green tree, yon green tree-- As I sat anonder yon green tree A Christmas day in the morning.'{29} The words could be heard distinctly, and almost unconsciously the two men stood to listen; but directly the voices ceased the student asked if they had not better begin, as the time was passing rapidly. 'Ay,' replied Abraham, 'we han it to do, an' we'd better ger it ower.' Without any more words they entered the porch, and at once made a circle around them with leaves of Vervain, Bay, and Holly. The old man gave to his companion a branch of Wiggintree,{27} and firmly held another little bough, as with his disengaged hand he scattered a powder upon the embers. A faint odour floated around them, as they chanted a singular Latin prayer; and no sooner was the last word uttered than a strain of sweet sad music, too inexpressibly soft and mournful to be of earth, was heard. Every moment it seemed to be dying away in a delicious cadence, but again and again was the weird melody taken up by the invisible singers, as the listeners sank to their knees spell-bound. An icy breath of wind hissed round the porch, however, and called the entranced men to their senses, and suddenly the student grasped the arm of his aged companion, and cried, in a terrified voice-- 'Abraham, the spell works. Behold!' The old man gazed in the direction pointed out, and, to his inexpressible horror, saw a procession wending its way towards the porch. It consisted of a stream of figures wrapped up in grave-clothes, gleaming white in the dim light. With solemn and noiseless steps the ghastly objects approached the circle in which stood the venturesome men, and, as they drew nearer, the faces of the first two could be seen distinctly, for the blazing powder cast a lurid glow upon them, and made them even more ghastly. Both spectators had almost unconsciously recognised the features of several of the villagers, when they were aroused from their lethargy of terror by the appearance of one face, which seemed to linger longer than its predecessors had done. Abraham at once saw that the likeness was that of the man by his side, and the clergyman sank to the ground in a swoon. For some time the old man was too much affected by the lingering face to think of restoring the unconscious man at his feet; but at length the clashing of the bells over his head, as they rang forth a Christmas greeting, called him to himself, and he bent over the prostrate form of his friend. The minister soon recovered, but as he was too weak to walk, the old man ran to the belfry to beg the ringers to come to his assistance. When these men came round to the porch the fire was still burning, the flickering flames of various colours casting dancing shadows upon the walls. 'Abraham,' said one of the ringers, 'there's bin some wizzard wark goin' on here, an' yo' sin what yo'n getten by it.' 'Han yo' bin awsin to raise th' devul, an' Kesmus-eve an' o'?' asked another, in a low and terrified voice. With a satirical smile, Abraham answered the last speaker: 'It dusn't need o' this mak' o' things to raise th' devul, lad. He's nare so far fra' thuse as wants him.' Bearing the clergyman in their arms, the men walked through the village, but they did not separate without having, in return for the confidence Abraham reposed in them by confiding to them the secret of the vigil, promised strict secrecy as to what they had witnessed. Abraham's companion soon recovered from the shock, but not before the story of the night-watch had gone the round of the village. Many were the appeals made to the old herbalist to reveal his strangely-acquired knowledge, but Abraham remained sternly obdurate, remarking to each of his questioners-- 'Yo'll know soon enough, mebbi.' The clergyman, however, was in a more awkward position, and his parishioners soon made him aware how unwise he had been in giving way to the desire to pry into futurity; for, when any of them were ill and he expressed a kindly wish for their recovery, it was by no means unusual for the sick person to reply-- 'Yo could tell me heaw it will end iv yo' loiked.' This oftentimes being followed by a petition from the assembled relatives-- 'Will yo tell us if he wir one o' th' processioners?' Ultimately Abraham's companion went away, in the hope of returning when the memory of the watch should have become less keen, but, before a few months had passed away, news came of his death, after a violent attack of fever caught during a visit to a wretched hovel in the fishing village where he was staying. By the next December, all the people whose features the old herbalist had recognised during the procession had been carried to the churchyard; but, although several men offered to accompany Abraham to the porch on the forthcoming Christmas-eve, he dared not again go through the spells and undergo the terrors of a church-porch vigil.{30} THE CRIER OF CLAIFE. Upon a wild winter night, some centuries ago, the old man who plied the ferry-boat on Windermere, and who lived in a lonely cottage on the Lancashire side of the Lake, was awakened from his sleep by an exceedingly shrill and terrible shriek, which seemed to come from the opposite shore. The wind was whistling and moaning round the house, and for a little while the ferryman and his family fancied that the cry by which they had been disturbed was nothing more than one of the mournful voices of the storm; but soon again came another shriek, even more awe-inspiring than the former one, and this was followed by smothered shouts and groans of a most unearthly nature. Against the wishes of his terrified relatives, who clung to him, and besought him to remain indoors, the old fellow bravely determined to cross the water, and heeding not the prayers of his wife and daughter, he unfastened his boat, and rowed away. The two women, clasped in each other's arms, trembling with fear, stood at the little door, and endeavoured to make out the form of their protector; but the darkness was too deep for them to see anything upon the lake. At intervals, however, the terrible cry rang out through the gloom, and shrieks and moans were heard loud above the mysterious noises of the night. In a state of dreadful suspense and terror the women stood for some time, but at length they saw the boat suddenly emerge from the darkness, and shoot into the little cove. To their great surprise, however, the ferryman, who could be seen sitting alone, made no effort to land, and make his way to the cottage; so, fearing that something dreadful had happened to him, and, impelled by love, they rushed to the side of the lake. They found the old man speechless, his face as white and blanched as the snow upon the Nab, and his whole body trembling under the influence of terror, and they immediately led him to the cottage, but though appealed to, to say what terrible object he had seen, he made no other response than an occasional subdued moan. For several days he remained in that state, deaf to their piteous entreaties, and staring at them with wild-looking eyes; but at length the end came, and, during the gloaming of a beautiful day, he died, without having revealed to those around him what he had seen when, in answer to the midnight cry, he had rowed the ferry-boat across the storm-ruffled lake. After the funeral had taken place the women left the house, its associations being too painful to permit of their stay, and went to live at Hawkshead, whence two sturdy men, with their respective families, removed to the ferry. The day following that of the arrival of the new-comers was rough and wild, and, soon after darkness had hidden everything in its sable folds, across the lake came the fearful cry, followed by a faint shout for a boat, and screams and moans. The men, hardy as they were, and often as they had laughed at the story told by the widow of the dead man, no sooner heard the first shriek ring through the cottage than they were smitten with terror. Profiting, however, by the experience of their predecessor, and influenced by fear, they did not make any attempt to cross the lake, and the cries continued until some time after midnight. Afterwards, whenever the day closed gloomily, and ushered in a stormy night, and the wind lashed the water of the lake into fury, the terrible noises were heard with startling distinctness, until at length the dwellers in the cottage became so accustomed to the noises as not to be disturbed by them, or, if disturbed, to fall asleep again after an ejaculation of 't' crier!' Pedlars and others who had to cross the lake, however, were not so hardened, and after a time the ferry-boat was almost disused, for the superstitious people did not dare to cross the haunted water, save in the broad daylight of summer. It therefore struck the two individuals who were most concerned in the maintenance of the ferry that if they intended to live they must do something to rid the place of its bad name, and of the unseen being who had driven away all their patrons. In their extremity they asked each other who should help them, if not the holy monks, who had come over the sea to the abbey in the Valley of Deadly Night Shade; and one of the ferrymen at once set out for Furness. No sooner had he set eyes upon the stately pile erected by the Savignian and his companions than his heart felt lighter, for he had a simple faith in the marvellous power of the white-robed men, whose voices were seldom if ever heard, save when lifted in worship during one of their seven daily services. Knocking at the massive door, he was received by a ruddy-looking servitor, who ushered him into the presence of the abbot. The ferryman soon told his story, and begged that a monk might return with him to lay the troubled spirit, and after hearing the particulars of the visitation, the abbot granted the request, making a proviso, however, that the abbey coffers should not be forgotten when the lake was freed from the fiend. No sooner had the visitor finished the meal set before him by the hospitable monks than, in company with one of the holy men, he set out homeward. As, by a rule of his order, the monk was not permitted to converse, the journey was not an enlivening one, and the ferryman was heartily glad when they reached his cottage. The first night passed without any alarm, the monk and his hosts spending the dreary hours in watching and waiting. The following day, however, was as stormy as the worst enemy of the ferry could have wished, and, when night fell, all the dwellers in the cottage, as well as the silent monk, gathered together again to wait for the cries, but some hours passed without any other sounds having been heard than those caused by the restless wind, as it swept over the lake and among the trees. The Cistercian was beginning to imagine himself the victim of an irreverent practical joke, and that the stories of the spectral crier which had reached the distant abbey long before the ferryman's visit were a pack of falsehoods, when about midnight, he suddenly jumped from the chair upon which he was dozing by the wood fire, hastily made the sign of the cross, and hurriedly commended himself to the protection of his patron saint, for sharp and clear came the dread cry, followed rapidly by a number of shrieks and groans and a smothered appeal for a boat. In an instant one of the men, with courage doubtless inspired by the presence of the holy man, shouldered the oars and opened the door, and the monk at once stepped into the open air and hurried to the lake, the men following at a respectful distance. The white-robed father was the first to get into the boat, and the ferrymen hoped that he intended to go alone, but he called upon them to propel the boat to the middle of the lake, and much as they disliked the task, as it was on their behalf that the monk was about to combat the evil spirit, they could not well refuse to accompany him. When they were about half-way across the lake the wind suddenly lulled, and once more they heard the awful scream, and this time it sounded as though the crier was quite close to them. The occupants of the boat were terribly frightened, and one of them, after suddenly shrieking 'he's here,' fainted, and lay still at the bottom of the boat, while the monk and the other man stared straight before them, as though petrified. There was a fourth person present, a grim and ghastly figure, with the trappings of this life still dangling about its withered and shrunken limbs, and a gaping wound in its pallid throat. For a few minutes there was a dead silence, but at last it was broken by the monk, who rapidly muttered a prayer for protection against evil spirits, and then took a bottle from a pocket of his robe, and sprinkled a few drops of holy water upon himself and the ferryman, who remained in the same statuesque attitude, and upon the unconscious occupant of the bottom of the boat. After this ceremony, he opened a little book, and, in a sonorous voice, intoned the form for the exorcism of a wandering soul, concluding with _Vade ad Gehennam!_ when to the infinite relief of the ferryman, and probably of the monk also, the ghastly figure forthwith vanished. The Cistercian asked to be immediately taken to the shore, and when he neared the house, the little book was again brought into requisition, and the spirit's visits, should it ever again put in an appearance, limited to an old and disused quarry, a distance from the cottage.{31} From that time to this, the wild, lonely place has indeed been desolate and deserted, the boldest people of the district not having sufficient courage to venture near it at nightfall, and the more timid ones shunning the locality even at noonday. These folks aver that even yet, despite the prayers and exorcisms of the white-robed Cistercian from Furness, whenever a storm descends upon the lake, the Crier escapes from his temporary prison house, and revisits the scene of his first and second appearance to men, and that on such nights, loud above the echoed rumble of the thunder, and the lonely sough of the wind, the benighted wayfarer still hears the wild shrieks and the muffled cry for a boat. THE DEMON OF THE OAK. Once a fortress and a mansion, but now, unfortunately, little more than a noble ruin, Hoghton Tower stands on one of the most commanding sites in Lancashire. From the fine old entrance-gate a beautiful expanse of highly-cultivated land slopes down and stretches away to the distant sea, glimmering like a strip of molten silver; and on either hand there are beautiful woods, in the old times 'so full of tymber that a man passing through could scarce have seen the sun shine in the middle of the day.' At the foot of these wooded heights a little river ripples through a wild ravine, and meanders through the rich meadows to the proud Ribble. From the building itself, however, the glory has departed. Over the noble gateway, with its embattled towers, and in one of the fast-decaying wainscots, the old family arms, with the motto, _Mal Gre le Tort_, still remain; but these things, and a few mouldering portraits, are all that are left there to tell of the stately women who, from the time of Elizabeth down to comparatively modern days, pensively watched the setting sun gild the waters of the far-off Irish Sea, and dreamed of lovers away in the wars--trifling things to be the only unwritten records of the noble men who buckled on their weapons, and climbed into the turrets to gaze over the road along which would come the expected besieging parties. Gone are the gallants and their ladies, the roystering Cavalier and the patient but none the less brave Puritan, for, as Isaac Ambrose has recorded, during the troublous times of the Restoration, the place, with its grand banqueting chamber, its fine old staircases, and quaint little windows, was 'a colledge for religion.' The old Tower resounds no more with the gay song of the one or the solemn hymn of the other, 'Men may come, and men may go,' and an old tradition outlives them all. To this once charming mansion there came, long ago, a young man, named Edgar Astley. His sable garments told that he mourned the loss of a relative or friend; and he had not been long at the Tower before it began to be whispered in the servants'-hall that 'the trappings and the suits of woe' were worn in memory of a girl who had been false to him, and who had died soon after her marriage to his rival. This story in itself was sufficient to throw a halo of romance around the young visitor; but when it was rumoured that domestics, who had been returning to the Tower late at night, had seen strange-coloured lights burning in Edgar's room, and that, even at daybreak, the early risers had seen the lights still unextinguished, and the shadow of the watcher pass across the curtains, an element of fear mingled with the feelings with which he was regarded. There was much in the visitor calculated to deepen the impressions by which the superstitious domestics were influenced, for, surrounded by an atmosphere of gloom, out of which he seemed to start when any of them addressed him, and appearing studiously to shun all the society which it was possible for him to avoid, he spent most of his time alone, seated beneath the spreading branches of the giant oak tree at the end of the garden, reading black-letter volumes, and plunged in meditation. Not that he was in any way rude to his hosts; on the contrary, he was almost chivalrous in his attention to the younger members of the family and to the ladies of the house, who, in their turn, regarded him with affectionate pity, and did their utmost to wean him from his lonely pursuits. Yet, although he would willingly accompany them through the woods, or to the distant town, the approach of the gloaming invariably found him in his usual place beneath the shadow of the gnarled old boughs, either poring over his favourite books, or, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, lost in a reverie. Time would, the kind people thought, bring balm to his wounds, and in the meanwhile they were glad to have their grief-stricken friend with them; and fully appreciating their sympathy, Edgar came and went about the place and grounds just as the whim of the moment took him. This absence of curiosity on the part of the members of the family was, however, amply compensated for by the open wonder with which many of the domestics regarded the young stranger; and before he had been many months in the house his nightly vigils were the theme of many a serious conversation in the kitchen, where, in front of a cosy fire, the gossips gathered to compare notes. Unable to repress their vulgar curiosity, or to gratify it in any more honourable or less dangerous manner, it was determined that one of the domestics should, at the hour of twelve, creep to the door of the visitor's chamber, and endeavour to discover what was the nature of those pursuits which rendered lights necessary during the whole of the night. The selection was soon made, and after a little demur the chosen one agreed to perform the unpleasant task. At midnight, therefore, the trembling ambassador made his way to the distant door, and after a little hesitation, natural enough under the circumstances, he stooped, and gazed through a hole in the dried oak whence a knot had fallen. Edgar Astley was seated at a little table, an old black-looking book with huge clasps open before him. With one hand he shaded his eyes from the light which fell upon his face from the flames of many colours dancing in a tall brazen cup. Suddenly, however, he turned from his book, and put a few pinches of a bright-looking powder to the burning matter in the stand. A searching and sickly odour immediately filled the room, and the quivering flames blazed upwards with increased life and vigour as the student turned once more to the ponderous tome, and, after hastily glancing down its pages, muttered: 'Strange that I cannot yet work the spell. All things named here have I sought for and found, even blood of bat, dead man's hand, venom of viper, root of gallows mandrake, and flesh of unbaptized and strangled babe. Am I, then, not to succeed until I try the charm of charms at the risk of life itself? And yet,' said he, unconscious of the presence of the terrified listener, 'what should I fear? So far have I gone uninjured, and now will I proceed to the triumphant or the bitter end. Once I would have given the future happiness of my soul to have called her by my name, and now what is this paltry life to me that I should hesitate to risk it in this quest, and perhaps win one glimpse of her face?' There was a moment of silence as the student bent his head over the book, but though no other person was visible, the listener, to his horror, quickly heard a sharp hissing voice ask, 'And wouldst thou not even yet give thy soul in exchange for speech with thy once betrothed?' The student hastily stood erect, and rapidly cried: 'Let me not be deceived! Whatever thou art, if thou canst bring her to me my soul shall be thine now and for ever!' There was a dead hush for a minute or two, during which the lout at the door heard the beating of his own heart, and then the invisible being again spoke: 'Be it so. Thou hast but one spell left untried. When that has been done thou shalt have thy reward. Beneath the oak at midnight she shall be brought to thee. Darest thou first behold me?' 'I have no fear,' calmly replied the student, but such was not the state of the petrified listener, for no sooner had the lights commenced to burn a weird blue than he sank fainting against the door. When he came to consciousness he was within the awful room, the student having dragged him in when he fell. 'What art thou, wherefore dost thou watch me at this hour, and what hast thou seen?' sternly demanded Edgar, addressing the terrified boor, and in few and trembling words the unhappy domestic briefly answered the queries; but the student did not permit him to leave the chamber, through the little window of which the dawn was streaming, before he had sworn that not a word as to anything he had seen or heard should pass his lips. The solemnity of the vow was deepened by the mysterious and awful threats with which it was accompanied, and the servant, therefore, loudly protested to his fellows that he had not seen or heard anything, but that, overcome by his patient watching, he had fallen asleep at the door; and many were the congratulations which followed when it was imagined what the consequences would have been had he been discovered in his strange resting-place. The day following that of the adventure passed over without anything remarkable beyond the absence of Edgar from his usual seat under the shade of the giant oak, but the night set in stormily, dark clouds scudded before the wind, which swept up from the distant sea, and moaned around the old tower, whirling the fallen leaves in fantastic dances about the garden and the green, and shaking in its rage even the iron boughs of the oak. The household had retired early, and at eleven o'clock only Edgar and another were awake. In the student's chamber the little lamp was burning and the book lay open as usual, and Edgar pored over the pages, but at times he glanced impatiently at the quaint clock. At length, with a sigh of relief, he said, sternly and sadly, 'The time draws nigh, and once more we shall meet!' He then gathered together a few articles from different corners of the room and stepped out upon the broad landing, passed down the noble old staircase, and out from the hall. Here he was met by a cold blast of wind, which shrieked round him, as though rejoicing over its prey; and as Edgar was battling with it, a man emerged from a recess and joined him. The night was quite dark, not a star or a rift in the sky visible, and the two men could hardly pick their way along the well-known path. They reached the oak tree, however, and Edgar placed the materials at its foot, and at once, with a short wand, drew a large circle around the domestic and himself. This done, he placed a little cauldron on the grass, and filled it with a red powder, which, although the wind was roaring through the branches above, immediately blazed up with a steady flame. The old mastiffs chained under the gateway began to howl dismally; but, regardless of the omen,{32} Edgar struck the ground three times with his hazel stick, and cried in a loud voice: 'Spirit of my love, I conjure thee obey my words, and verily and truly come to me this night!' Hardly had he spoken when a shadowy figure of a beautiful child appeared, as though floating around the magic ring. The servant sank upon his knees, but the student regarded it not, and it vanished, and the terrified listener again heard Edgar's voice as he uttered another conjuration. No sooner had he begun this than terrible claps of thunder were heard, lightning flashed round the tree, flocks of birds flew across the garden and dashed themselves against the window of the student's chamber, where a light still flickered; and, loud above the noises of the storm, cocks could be heard shrilly crowing, and owls uttering their mournful cries. In the midst of this hubbub the necromancer calmly went on with his incantation, concluding with the dread words: 'Spirit of my love, I conjure thee to fulfil my will without deceit or tarrying, and without power over my soul or body earthly or ghostly! If thou comest not, then let the shadow and the darkness of death be upon thee for ever and ever!' As the last word left his lips the storm abated its violence, and comparative silence followed. Suddenly the little flame in the cauldron flared up some yards in height, and sweet voices chanting melodiously could be heard. 'Art thou prepared to behold the dead?' asked an invisible being. 'I am!' undauntedly answered Edgar. An appearance as of a thick mist gathered opposite him, and slowly, in the midst of it, the outlines of a beautiful human face, with mournful eyes, in which earthly love still lingered, could be discerned. Clad in the garments of the grave, the betrothed of Edgar Astley appeared before him. For some time the young man gazed upon her as though entranced, but at length he slowly extended his arms as though to embrace the beautiful phantom. The domestic fell upon his face like one stricken by death, the spectre vanished, and again the pealing thunder broke forth. 'Thou art for ever mine,' cried a hissing voice; but as the words broke upon the ears of the two men, the door of the mansion was flung open, and the old baronet and a number of the servants, who had been disturbed by the violence of the storm, the howling of the dogs, and the shrill cries of the birds, rushed forth. 'Come not near me if ye would save yourselves,' cried the necromancer. 'We would save thee,' shouted the old man, still advancing. '_In nomine Patris_,' said he, solemnly, as he neared the magic circle; and no sooner had the words left his lips than sudden stillness fell upon the scene; the lightning no longer flashed round the oak; and, as the flame in the cauldron sank down, the moon broke through a cloud, and threw her soft light over the old garden. Edgar was leaning against the oak tree, his eyes fixed in the direction where the image of his betrothed had appeared; and when they led him away, it was as one leads a trusting child, for the light of reason had left him. The unfortunate domestic, being less sensitive, retained his faculties; but he ever afterwards bore upon his wrist, as if deeply burned into the flesh, the marks of a broad thumb and fingers. This strange appearance he was wont to explain to stray visitors, by saying that when, terrified almost out of his wits, he fell to the ground, his hand was outside the magic circle, and 'summat' seized him; which lucid explanation was generally followed up by an old and privileged servitor, who remarked, 'Tha'll t'hev mooar marks nor thuse on tha' next toime as _He_ grabs tha', mi lad.' THE BLACK COCK. 'Ay,' said Old 'Lijah, 'I mind one time when they said th' Owd Lad hissel appear't i' broad dayleet, an' wir seen bi hunderts o' fowk, owd an' yung.' There was a dead silence for a little while as the listeners gathered nearer the blazing fire, two or three of them getting a little further away from the door, against which the wind was dashing the snow, and then 'Lijah resumed: 'When I wir a lad, me an' mi mestur wer ast to a berryin. Ther wer a deeol o' drink stirrin, th' coffee pot, wi th' lemon peel hangin aat, gooin abaat fray one side to th' tother fast enough, and at last o' wer ready, but just as they wer baan to lift th' coffin a clap o' thunder shuke th' varra glasses o' th' table. 'Th' chaps as hed howd stopped a bit an' lukt raand, but th' deead chap's feythur shouted, "Come on, lads, or wist be late, an' th' paason waynt berry;" so they piked off, but no sooner hed they getten' i' th' street nor a lad i' th' craad cried out, "Heigh, chaps, luk at th' black cock {34} on th' top o' th' coffin," an' sure enough theer it wor. One o' th' beerers said directly as they'd enough to carry wi'out ony passingers, an' up wi' his fist an' knockt it off, but it wer on ageean in a minit, an one bi' one they o' hed a slap at it, but every time it wer knockt off back it flew to it' place at th' deead mon's feet, so at last th' owd mon give th' word of command, an' off they startit wi' th' looad. Th' craad geet bigger afooar they reached th' owd country church wheer he hed to be berried, an' th' fowk geet a throwin stooans at th' black bird, an' hittin it wi' sticks an' shaatin at it, but it stuck theer like a fixter. 'After a while we reached th' graveyart, an' th' paason come deawn th' road fray th' church door to meet th' coffin, an' he wer just baan to start th' service when he see th' bird an' stopped. '"What han yo' got theere?" he says, lukin varra vext, for he thowt some marlock wer gooin on. "What han yo' theere, men?" 'Th' owd feythur stepped forrut an' towd him what hed happent, an' as nooan on 'em could freetun it off it peeark naythur wi' sticks or stooans or sweearin. '"It's a strange tale," said th' vicar, "but we moant hev no brids here! Yo' fowk keep eaut o' th' graveyart nobbut thuse as is invitet to th' funeral! I'll settle him for yo!" an' so sayin he grabbed howd o' th' cock, an' walked o'er th' graves wi' it to a place wheer th' bruk run under th' hedges, an' then he bent deawn o' th' floor an' dipped th' bird i'th' watter, an' held it theer for abaat a quarter ov an hour. 'No sooner had he getten up, heawever, nor th' brid flew up eaut o' th' watter quite unhort, an' hopped o'er th' grass to th' coffin an' peearkt ageean as if nowt hed happent. 'Th' vicar lukt varra consarnt for a while, an' skrat his yed as he staret at th' fowk. 'Theer's summat not reet abaat that brid,' he said, 'but that's no rayson why we shouldn't bury th' deead!' an' he pottert off toart th' grave, an' th' beerers carriet th' coffin to th' side, an' th' sarvice wer gone through, wi' th' bird harkenin every word like a Christian. 'Th' chaps then startit o' lowerin th' coffin into th' grave, an' th' brid still stuck o' th' peeark, an' it wer nobbut when th' hole wer filled, as it came above graand ageean, an' theer it set on th' maand. 'A craad o' fowk waited abaat an' hung on th' graveyart wo' till th' edge o' dark, an' then they piket off whoam, for they begun to think as mebbi it were th' Owd Lad hissel, but a twothree on us stopped till it wer neet afooar we went after 'em, th' cock sittin theear just th' same as it hed done i' th' dayleet. 'It were usual i' thuse days to watch th' graves for a few neets, for ther wer a deeal o' resurrectionin' gooin on i'o' directions, th' body-snatchers hevin mooar orders than they could attend to; but though th' deead chap's feythur offert brass an' plenty o' drink an' meyt to anybody as ud keep a look aat, not one dar do it, an' th' deead mon wer laft to tek care o' hissel, or for th' brid to mind him. 'Soon after dayleet th' next mornin I went wi' a twothree moor young chaps to see heaw th' place lukt, an' th' grave hedn't bin brokken into, but th' brid had flown, and fray that day to this I could never find aat ayther wheer it coom fray or went to, but I heeart as th' vicar said it met be th' Owd Lad claimin' his own.' THE INVISIBLE BURDEN. At the junction of the four cross roads, gleaming white in the hot sunshine and hawthorn-bounded, and marked by the parallel ruts made by the broad wheels of the country carts, the old public house of the _Wyresdale Arms_ was scarcely ever without a number of timber wagons or hay carts about its open door, the horses quietly munching from the nose-bags and patiently waiting until their owners or drivers should emerge from the sanded kitchen. Nathan Peel's hostelry was the half-way house for all the farmers and cart-drivers in the district, and generally quiet enough at night time, but from its capacious kitchen roars of laughter rang out many a summer afternoon, as the carters and yeomen told their droll stories. On one of these occasions, when the sun was blazing outside, and shimmering upon the sands and the distant sea, and through the open window the perfume of the may-blossom stole gently, a quaint looking old fellow, whose face had been bronzed by three-score summers and winters, happened to mention an occurrence as having taken place about the time of 'th' quare weddin',' and a chorus of voices at once called upon him for the story. 'It's quite forty year sin,' he said thoughtfully, 'an' I wir quite a young chap then, an' ready for any marlock. I could dance too wi' hear an' thear one, an' no weddin' wir reet wi'aat axin' me. This one I'm baan to tell abaat heawivir wir Mester Singleton's owdest son o' th' Dyke Farm, an' as he wir weddin' th' prattiest lass i' o' th' country side, varra nigh everybody wir theear, 'specially as Mester Singleton hed given it aat ther'd be a welcome for onnybody. A string o' nearly twenty conveyances, milk carts, an' shandrys, an' gigs, went to th' church wi' fowk o' seein' 'em wed; but comin' back, young Adam started off wi' his young wife as if he wir mad, an' isted o' gooin' th' owd road across th' Stone Brig, an' through th' Holme meadow he pelted off through th' Ingleton Road an' th' Owd Horse Lane. Th' mare seemed to know what th' young chap wir up to, an' to enter into th' spirit o't' thing an' off hoo went like th' woint, th' string o' shandrys an' milk carts an' gigs peltin' on at after abaat a mile behint, an' th' fowk laughin' an' shaatin' at th' fun. Th' gate into th' Owd Horse Lane wir wide open, so th' fowk wir disappointed as expected to gain a minnit or two wi' Adam hevin' to get daan theer to oppen it, an' into th' lane th' mare dashed, an' on hoo went as if th' shandry an' Adam an' his wife wir nowt behint her. Abaat midway i'th' lane heawever th' road dipped a bit, an' th' watter fra a spring i'th' bank ran o'er it, an' just afoor th' shandry reyched it th 'mare stopped o' of a sudden, an' Adam flew aat o'er th' horse's back an' pitched into th' hedge like leetnin'. Th' wife shaated as if he wir kilt, but he'd no bones brokken, an' when we geet up to him he crept aat o'th' prickles wi' a shame-faced look as if he'd bin catcht thievin'. Ther wir some rare jokin' as he climbed up to th' side of his wife an' lasht the mare for another start, but it wir no use, th' mare couldn't stir th' conveyance. Adam lasht away at her, but stir it hoo couldn't, an' at last eight or ten on us set to an' turned th' wheels for twenty or thirty yards an' it wir th' same as if it wir a timber-wagon, it wir that heavy. It wir th' same wi' every one o'th' conveyances, not one could be got o'er th' watter only wi' eight or ten on us toilin' an' slavin' at th' wheels, no matter heaw th' horse strained an' pulled. Nobody could make aat what it wir, an' th' Vicar came an' look't abaat but could find nowt. He said, heawever, th' Owd Lad had some hand in it, an' he warned th' fowk not to use th' road when they could help it. Many an' many a time heawivir, I see carts stuck theear bi' th' day together, for some chaps wouldn't be persuaded not to go through th' lane, for it wir a short cut, an' other chaps went i' nowt but darin' when they'd hed a sup o' drink. It went on for some years like that, an' fowk came fray far an' near to see it. I'd gettin' wed mysen and hed a farm on the Holme, but I used to go raand to it bi'th' owd road across the Brig, but one day, a breet hot day, I'd mi little lad i'th cart an' he bothert mi to go through th' lane, he wantit to see th' Owd Lad he said, an' as he started o' cryin' abaat it, I went. Well, the cart stuck i'th' owd place bi th' runnin' watter, an' th' little lad wir deleeted. I geet daan an' took howd o'th' wheel, for I knew it wir no use usin' the whip, an' th' horse wir sweatin' as if it wir rare an' 'freetont, when little Will shaated aat o' ov a sudden 'Feythar, I con see him!' 'See what?' I sang aat, an' broad dayleet as it wir, mi knees wir quakin'. 'A little chap i'th' cart,' he said, 'a fat little chap wi' a red neet cap on.' 'Wheer is he?' I shaated, for I couldn't see owt. 'Theer on th' cart tail,' he said, an' then he shaated 'Why, he's gone,' an' no sooner hed he spokken than th' horse started off wi' th' cart as if it hed nowt behint it. Thir never wir a cart stuck theer at after that, an' th' Vicar said it wir because little Will hed persayved th' Feeorin, an' as Will hed th' gift o' seein' feeorin an' sich like because he wir born at midneet. APPENDIX. _COMPARATIVE NOTES._ 1. Belief in the appearance of the Skriker, Trash, or Padfoot, as the apparition is named in Lancashire, or Padfooit, as it is designated in Yorkshire, is still very prevalent in certain parts of the two counties. This boggart is invariably looked upon as the forerunner of death, and it is supposed that only the relatives of persons about to die, or the unfortunate doomed persons themselves, ever see the apparition. Of quite a distinct class to that of the 'Skrikin' Woman,' an appearance which, at a but recent period, obtained for a lane at Warrington the reputation of being haunted, the Padfoot seems to be peculiar to Lancashire and Yorkshire, unless, indeed, the Welsh Gwyllgi or Dog of Darkness, and the Shock of the Norfolk seaboard, are of the same family. In Norfolk, the spectre, as it does in Lancashire, portends death, but I have been unable to find any Welsh story of the apparition with a more tragic ending than fright and illness. As the Trash generally takes the form of a large shaggy dog or small bear, can the superstition be an offshoot from that old Aryan belief which gave so important an office to the dog as a messenger from the world of the dead, and an attendant upon the dying, or has the grim idea come down to us from the ancient times, when, as the Rev. S. Baring Gould says, 'It was the custom to bury a dog or a boar alive under the corner-stone of a church, that its ghost might haunt the neighbourhood, and drive off any who would profane it--_i.e._ witches or warlocks'? 2. In most of these stories of compacts with the Evil One it is singular how little is received in exchange for the soul. In a few instances poverty bargains for untold wealth, or ugliness and age for youth and loveliness, but generally it is for the bare means of prolonging or supporting life that the daring and despairing one enters into the everlasting agreement. In fact, as a French authoress has said, it is 'for a mouthful of bread to nourish their debilitated stomachs, and the bundle of sticks which warms again their benumbed limbs.' In Sussex it would appear, from what a country-lad told the Rev. S. Baring Gould, that half-a-crown is the price Satan pays for a soul,--a letter addressed to the Evil One, and containing an offer of the soul, bringing a response in that practical form, if placed under the pillow at night. In Normandy it is considered sufficient to make the compact binding for the acceptance to be simply a verbal one; but in Lancashire the formal parchment deed, with its signatures in blood, is indispensable. 3. Old Isaac, it would seem, was not disappointed when he came to make use of his handful of money, and probably, therefore, he had spent it before he told the story, for in all instances where the fairies are recorded as rewarding mortals with money, any revelation as to its source is invariably followed by the gift being turned to bits of paper or leaves. 4. Although there appears to have been some little confusion in the mind of the old farmer as to the rank in the world of faerie held by his little benefactor, he seems to have designated him correctly, for although the general idea of Puck is that of a mere mischief-loving and mischief-working sprite, such as is painted by Drayton, Shakspere credits Puck not only with wanton playfulness, but also with industry, for in the second act of the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' the fairy, addressing the sprite, says: 'Those that hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, _You do their work_.' Shakspere and Ben Jonson, however, agree in making Oberon King of the Fairies--a king, too, with a stately presence, and far above showing an interest in a farmer's fields. Under any circumstances one is not prepared to find Puck of royal estate, and doubtless the labouring spirit of our story was simply one of those goblins who, according to the author of the _Anatomy of Melancholy_, would 'grind corn for a mess of milk, cut wood, or do any manner of nursery work'--a Robin Goodfellow merely, the 'lubber fiend' of Milton, the Bwbach or household fairy of Wales. Lancashire had many such. Stories of beings rejoicing in the name of Hobthrust or Throbthrush, but in all other respects closely resembling the fairy king of the foregoing tradition, still are told by the farm-house fires in Furness, in South-East Lancashire, and in the Fylde country. Rewarded night after night with a supply of oatmeal porridge--strange relic, probably, of the old libations to the gods--they toiled at the churn till daybreak. A Furness legend chronicles how a farmer, whose house was the favourite resting-place of one of these visitors, one evening, when threatening clouds were gathering, wished that he had the harvest carted. Next morning the work was found done, but a horse was found dead in the stable, Hob having been unsparing. As the day was a beautiful one, the farmer did not appreciate the housing as he ought to have done, and testily wished that Hob was in the mill-dam. A few hours afterwards, not Hob, but the grain was found there. 'Crawshaws in Berwickshire,' says the author of the _Popular Rhymes of Berwickshire_, 'was once the abode of an industrious Brownie, who both saved the corn and thrashed it for several seasons. At length, after one harvest, some person thoughtlessly remarked that the corn was not well mowed or piled up in the barn. The sprite took offence at this, and the next night threw the whole of the corn over the Raven Crag, a precipice about two miles off, muttering-- "It's no weel mowed! It's no weel mowed! Then it's ne'er be mowed by me again. I'll scatter it o'er the Raven stone, And they'll hae some wark ere it's mowed again."' The North Lancashire Hobthrusts, however, do not seem to have been made to disappear by man's ingratitude, but, like the Irish Cluricaun and the Scotch Brownie, were to be driven away by kindness. In one instance, a tailor, for whom a Hobthrust had done some work, gratefully made him a coat and hood for winter wear, and in the night the workman was heard bidding farewell to his old quarters-- 'Throb-thrush has got a new coat and new hood, And he'll never do no more good.' Readers of the Brothers Grimm and lovers of George Cruikshank will not need to be reminded how the grateful shoemaker deprived himself of the assistance of the elves. In the German story, however, as in Breton ones, although the elves depart, prosperity continues to bless the labours of the people whose practical gratitude has driven the little beings away. The Hob which, according to Harrison Ainsworth, haunted the Gorge of Cliviger, does not appear to have been at all domesticated, the novelist, in the only allusion he makes to it, characterising it as 'a frightful hirsute demon, yclept Hobthrust.' In the Fylde country, however, the lubber fiends seem to have been as industrious as was that of our legend. Tradition tells of one at Rayscar which not only housed the grain but also got the horses ready for the journey to the distant market. At Hackensall Hall one took the Celtic form of a great horse, and required only a pie in reward for its toil. The Hobs of the neighbouring county of Yorkshire are credited with greater powers than those required for the rapid performance of household duties. One of these beings is still said to haunt a cave in the vicinity of the old-world hamlet of Runswick. To this place anxious and superstitious mothers brought their ailing little ones, and as they stood at the mouth of the cavity, cried, 'Hob, my bairn's gettent kinkcough (whooping-cough?), takkt off, takkt off!' In the same district there is a haunted tumulus called 'Obtrash Roque,' rendered by Walcott 'the Heap of Hob-o'-the-Hurst.' Of the bogle denizen of this mound a story similar to that told by Mr. Crofton Croker, in Roby's _Traditions (Clegg Hall Boggart)_, is current in the district. A farmer who was bothered by the spirit, determined to remove to a quieter locality, and as the carts were leaving with the goods and implements a neighbour cried out, 'It's flittin yo' are,' when the Hob at once replied, from a churn, 'Ay, we're flitting;' upon which the farmer thought he might as well remain where he was. Similar flitting stories, however, are told of the Scandinavian _Nis_, the Irish _Cluricaun_, the Welsh _Bwbach_, and the Polish _Ickrzycki_. 5. Why the expression of a wish like this should have offended Puck is not very evident. There is in Sweden a lubber fiend named the _Tomte_, and of this being the peasantry believe that only by unrewarded toil can it work out its salvation. Can the Lancashire King of the Fairies have been one of the same order, and have considered the utterance of a good wish as a reward, or even as a sarcastic allusion to his 'lost condition'? The belief is by no means uncommon that the fairies are the angels who were neutral during the Satanic rebellion. In Brittany, however (_Chants Populaires de la Bretagne_, par Th. Hersart de la Villemarqué), they are the Princesses who, in the days of the Apostles, would not embrace Christianity. The traditions of most countries agree, however, in attributing to the fairies extreme sensitiveness on the subject of their condition. Mr. Campbell has recorded that when the elves, who had grown weary of crossing the Dornoch Frith in cockle-shells, were engaged in building a bridge of gold across its mouth, a passer-by lifted his hands and blessed the tiny workmen, who immediately vanished, the bridge sinking with them beneath the waves, and its place being at once taken by quicksands. Almost every district haunted by 'greenies' or 'hill folk' has its story of a piteous appeal on the subject of their future state made by visible or invisible fairies. In a Highland story it is an old man reading the Bible who is accosted, the inquirer screaming and plunging into the sea upon being answered that the sacred pages did not contain any allusion to the salvation of any but the sons of Adam. My friend, Mr. Kennedy, in his valuable _Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts_, gives a charming traditionary story of a priest who was benighted and lost upon a moor, and who was similarly accosted, and implored to declare that at the last day the lot of the fairies would not be with Satan. After the appeal had been somewhat ambiguously answered, 'a weak light was shed around where he stood, and he distinguished the path and an opening in the fence.' In Cornwall they are supposed to be the spirits of the people who inhabited the country long before the birth of Christ, and who, although not good enough to partake of the joys of Heaven, yet are too good for Hell. In Wales there is a somewhat similar belief, but it is said that their probation will end at the day of judgment, when they will be admitted to Paradise. It is commonly believed by the Cornish peasants that they are gradually growing smaller, and that at length they will change into ants. Few people in Cornwall, therefore, are sufficiently venturesome to destroy a colony of those insects. 6. Many are the old sacred piles in Lancashire with the building of which it is believed that goblins had something to do. The parish church of Rochdale, the old church of Samlesbury, that of St. Oswald's at Winwick, near Warrington, and the parish church of Burnley, may be instanced as a few of those which are popularly supposed to have been interfered with by superhuman labourers. At Rochdale the unexpected workpeople took the form of 'strange-looking men;' in other cases, as in those of Winwick and Burnley, pigs removed the materials, it being traditional that their cry of 'we-week' gave its name to the former place; while at Newchurch, in Rossendale, although the interloping builders were invisible, a little old woman with a bottle was not only seen, but was fraternised with by the thirsty watchers who had been appointed to guard the foundations. Similar stories of changed site are told of numerous churches throughout Britain. The legend of Gadshill church, near Ventnor, like that of Hinderwell, Yorkshire, attributes the removal of the foundations to supernatural means, the stones having hopped after each other from their original place at the foot of the hill to that in which they were afterwards found, the shins of the watchers having been 'barked' in the most unceremonious manner by certain little blocks of somewhat erratic tendencies. It is, however, by no means improbable that at Gadshill, as at Rochdale, the fact of the building having been erected in a position so difficult of access, and so trying to aged and infirm parishioners, may have caused a testy and irreverent, and perhaps asthmatic, worshipper to invent the Satanic theory. In one case, that of Bredon, in Leicestershire, the objectors appear to have taken the form of doves. Loth as one may be to think harm of such sweet messengers, Mr. Kennedy, after telling the story of the building of the cathedral of Ardfert, in Kerry, by St. Brendain, and the trouble caused by a large crow, which took the measuring line in its bill and flew across the valley with it, adds, 'The bird was a fairy in disguise. If the messenger had been _from another quarter_, he would have made his appearance under snowy plumes.'[B] [B] The foundations of the priory church of Christchurch, Hampshire, were, tradition says, removed by unseen hands, down from the lonely St. Catherine's Hill to the present site in the valley. The beams and rafters, too short on the hill, were too long in the vale. In the valley, too, an extra workman, Christ, always came on the pay-night. 7. This work of art was one of the gargoyles of the old building, and was purchased by Mr. Ffarington, the father of the present lady of the manor, when the church was rebuilt. It bore the name of 'the Cat Stone.' Another version of this tradition, of but limited circulation, and little known even in the immediate locality, credits an angel with the removal of the foundations and with the utterance of the following anything but angelic strain:-- Here I have placed thee, And here shalt thou stand; And thou shalt be called The church of Leyland! 8. This legend appears to have had a Teutonic origin. Mr. Kelly, in his chapter on the 'Wild Hunt,' quotes a somewhat similar story from a German source: 'The wild huntsman's hounds can talk like men. A peasant caught one of them, a little one, and hid it in his pack. Up came the wild huntsman and missed it. "Where are you, Waldmann?" he cried. "In Heineguggeli's sack," was the answer.' 9. 'The passing bell,' says Harland, 'according to Grose, was anciently rung for two purposes, one to bespeak the prayers of all good Christians for a soul just departing, the other to drive away the evil spirits who stood at the bed's foot ready to seize their prey, or at least to molest and terrify the soul on its passage.' Mr. Sikes says that in Wales, before the Reformation, 'there was kept in all Welsh churches, a handbell which was taken by the Sexton to the house where a funeral was to be held, and rung at the head of the procession,' and that 'the custom survived long after the Reformation in many places, as at Caerleon, the little Monmouthshire village, which was a bustling Roman city when London was a hamlet. The bell, called the _bangu_, was still preserved in the parish of Llanfair Duffryn Clwyd half a dozen years ago.' The bell might now with greater propriety be called the _passéd_ bell, as it is tolled only after a death, the ringing concluding with a number of distinct knells to announce the years and sex of the deceased, which the authority alluded to above considers 'a vestige of an ancient Roman Catholic injunction.' Until a comparatively recent period it was customary at Walton-le-Dale, Lancashire, to inter Protestants in the afternoon, a bell being tolled at intervals prior to the funeral; Catholics, however, were buried in the evening, a full peal being rung upon the bells immediately before the procession started. Mr. Thornber, writing in 1844, says that at the beginning of this century, at Poulton, the more respectable portion of the inhabitants were buried by candle-light, and that it was considered a sacred duty to expose a lighted candle in the windows of every house as the corpse was carried through the streets. He speaks of the custom as a mark of respect to the dead, but possibly there was something more than this in it. In Ireland even to-day it is usual to leave lighted candles in the room where a corpse is laid out. This belief in the power of bells over not only demons and evil spirits of every kind, but also over the elves and 'good people,' appears to have been held in all countries ever inhabited by fairies and hill folk. The Danish trolls are said to have been driven out of the country by the hanging of bells in the churches, the noise reminding them forcibly of the time when Thor used to fling his hammer after them. It is recorded in a bit of local doggrel from the pen of a dead and forgotten rhymester, that the fairies remained at Saddleworth, on the confines of Lancashire and Yorkshire, until 'The steeple rose, And bells began to play;' when the Queen wandered away to the wild district 'Where Todmore's kingdom lay;' and the less important plebeians of fairy land 'disperséd, went.' Mr. Henderson says that 'at Horbury, near Wakefield, and at Dewsbury, on Christmas Eve, is rung the "devil's knell," a hundred strokes, then a pause, then three strokes, three strokes, and three strokes again.' In Iceland it is believed that at daybreak or upon the ringing of a bell the trolls flee. 10. Fairy funerals, according to tradition, have been seen in other counties beside Lancashire, for an old Welsh writer alludes to such sights as having been witnessed in his day. Mr. Wirt Sikes, in his _British Goblins_, a recent and most valuable contribution to the folk lore and mythology of South Wales, says that the bell of Blaenporth, Cardiganshire, was noted for tolling thrice at midnight, unrung by human hands, to foretell death, and that when the 'Tolaeth before the burying,' the sound of an unseen funeral-procession passing by, is heard, the voices sing the 'Old Hundredth,' and the tramping of feet and the sobbing and groaning of mourners can be heard. In Normandy, says P. Le Fillastre, _Annuaire de la Manche_, 1832, the large white coffins, _les bières_, which the belated voyager sees along the roads, or placed on the churchyard fences, are unaccompanied by either bearers or mourners, and the cemetery bell is silent. Readers of Professor Hunt's volumes of Cornish Drolls and Romances will remember the beautiful legend of the fisherman who, gazing by night through the window of a lonely church, saw a procession passing along the aisle, and witnessed the interment, near the sacramental table, of the fairy queen. The only point of resemblance, however, between the Southern and Northern traditions is to be found in the solemn tolling of the church-bell. The Cornish story is unique in one respect, inasmuch as, although we have plenty of legends in which the fairies evince a desire to peer into their future state, and even some in which their deaths are alluded to, it is extremely rare to find one in which the burial of a fairy is narrated; and this fact would seem to point to a defect in the 'Finn theory,' so plausibly advocated by Mr. Campbell; for, surely, if once upon a time 'the fairies were a real people, like the Lapps,' tradition would not be so silent, as it almost universally is, with reference to the outward and visible signs of their mortality.[C] [C] Only since these notes were in type have I seen the excellent paper from the pen of Mr. Grant Allen (_Cornhill Magazine_, March 1881), on the Genesis of the Myth of the Fairies. See also the same charming writer's _Vignettes from Nature_, p. 206, and papers by B. Melle and F. A. Allen, in _Science Gossip_ for 1866, 'The Track of the Pigmies.' 11. My friend, Mr. W. E. A. Axon, in his interesting _Black Knight of Ashton_, tells a story of a 'Race with the Devil,' the hero of which was one of a party of _pace-eggers_, who, waking up after a doze by a farm-house fire, beside which the party had been permitted to sleep on a wild night, and, feeling cold, had put on his Beelzebub dress, to the terror of another member of the company, who awoke afterwards, and seeing, as he supposed, the Devil seated airing himself by the fire, fled into the darkness and the storm, his equally terrified companions following him, and the no-less-frightened Beelzebub bringing up the rear. The Mid and South Lancashire stories, as will at once be seen, do not resemble each other in any way, however; and I refer to Mr. Axon's legend for the sake of directing my readers' attention to a valuable note appended to it, in which Mr. Axon points out that there is a similar old Hindoo story of such a chase, which was translated from the Sanscrit into Chinese not later than the year 800. It seems hardly probable that the Lancashire pace-egging story, so exquisitely narrated by my friend, could have had an Aryan origin, yet the resemblance is a striking and remarkable one. 12. Many are the traditions of submerged bells told along the Lancashire coast. 'Here,' says the Rev. W. Thornber in the scarce _History of Blackpool_ (1844), 'or out at sea opposite this spot, once stood the cemetery of Kilgrimol, mentioned in the above-quoted chapter of the Priory of Lytham. Of this fact, tradition is not silent, and the rustic who dwells in the neighbourhood relates tales of fearful sights, and how many a benighted wanderer has been terrified with the sounds of bells pealing dismal chimes.' In Wales, too, the superstition is a common one. It is by no means improbable that there may be more in these faint whispers than would at first appear, and that underneath these dim traditions of churches swallowed by the sea there may rest a faint stratum of the old Scandinavian superstition that sweet singing and beautiful music could be heard by any who stood to listen on an Elf hill; for, although the idea of submerged cities may be found floating in the lore of all Celtic peoples, and in some places the submersion is a matter even of history,[D] in others, as at Kilgrimol, it is doubtful whether the sounds come from the sea or the earth. It is, therefore, more than likely that the traditions of submersion have received the addition of pealing bells from natural causes. There is an Indian superstition which in another way illustrates this theory. Manitobah Lake, in the Red River region, derives its name from a small island, upon which is heard, whenever the gales blow from the north, a sound resembling the pealing of distant church-bells, and which is caused by the waves beating on the shore at the foot of the cliffs and the rubbing of the fallen fragments against each other. This island the Ojibeways suppose to be the home of Manitobah, 'the speaking god,' and upon it they dare not land. [D] _Vide_ Lyell's _Principles of Geology_, Chapter on _Encroachments of the Sea_, for many instances of submerged villages and churches along the English coast. There is in Normandy a singular tradition of a submerged bell, dating back to the time of the English occupation, along with others of buried and hidden treasure. It is said that, as the English soldiers were abandoning the country, they destroyed the abbey of Corneville, and were taking away with them the principal bell, when the barge capsized. As they were trying to recover the prize, the French came upon them, and they were obliged to hurry away, leaving the bell behind. Since that time, whenever the bells of the churches in the district ring out their joyous peals upon solemn festival days, the submerged bell also can be heard joining in the carillon. (_Essai sur l'arrondissement de Pont-Audemer_.) A story somewhat similar to this is told of a bell from St. David's, Pembrokeshire, carried off by Cromwellian troops whose vessel afterwards was wrecked in Ramsay Sound, from the moving waters of which the pealing can be heard when a storm is rising. 13. For the sake of those who are not 'native and to the manner born,' Roger's story is not given in his vernacular, a mixture of the Mid-Lancashire and the Furness dialects, trying even to those who are acquainted with the expressive Doric of other parts of the County Palatine. 14. Mr. Henderson, in his _Notes on the Folk Lore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders_, states that Mr. Wilkie maintains that the _Digitalis purpurea_ was in high favour with the witches, who used to decorate their fingers with its largest bells; hence called Witches' Thimbles. Mr. Hartley Coleridge has more pleasing associations with this gay wild-flower. He writes of 'the fays That sweetly nestle in the foxglove bells;' and adds in a note, 'popular fancy has generally conceived a connection between the foxglove and the good people.' In Ireland, where it is called _lusmore_, or the great herb, and also Fairy Cup, the bending of its stalks is believed to denote the unseen presence of supernatural beings. The Shefro, or gregarious fairy, is represented as wearing the corona of the foxglove on his head, and no unbecoming head-dress either. In Wales, that the elves wear gloves of the bells of _Digitalis_ is a common fancy. 15. This conventional circle seems to be universally common to such stories of summoning the Evil One. Even in China, as Mr. Dennys has stated, the ring is drawn round the summoner, and the incantation uttered, as in our own stories. 16. In Lancashire, Old Nick (afterwards St. Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors) is considered the patron saint of the wind, just as in the Scandinavian mythology it is Odin, also termed Nick and Hold Neckar, who raises storms. In Normandy, near Aigle, there is a superstition respecting a Mother _Nique_, doubtless, says Vaugeois, of Scandinavian origin. 17. Instances of generous treatment of opponents on the part of the Evil One are by no means rare. Readers of Mr. Roby will remember that Satan gave a loophole of escape to Michael Waddington, the hero of 'Th' Dule upo' Dun' legend, by granting him an extra wish, although the poor wretch's time was up. 18. The Cockerham schoolmaster appears to have lacked originality, for in the Scottish legend of 'Michael Scott' it is recorded that when the fairies crowded round his dwelling crying for work, he bade them twine ropes of sand to reach the moon, and tradition has it that traces of their unsuccessful attempts may yet be found. A more recent instance is told in a sketch of Dr. Linkbarrow, a Westmoreland wizard, who lived about a hundred years ago, quoted from the _Kendal Mercury_ by Mr. Sullivan, in his _Cumberland and Westmoreland, Ancient and Modern_. The Doctor, who was disturbed at church by a terrible storm, hurried home, and on the way met the devil, who asked for work. He immediately set him to make 'thumb symes' of river sand. Imitating the Israelites, perhaps not unconsciously--for Satan's knowledge of Scripture is proverbial--the Evil One asked for straw, which was refused him. On his arrival at home, the Doctor found his servant prying into his black-letter book, which imprudence had caused the storm and Satan's pilgrimage. Several similar stories, illustrating the danger of tampering with books of magic, are told in Normandy. In one of them it is recorded that the servant of a village curé, moved by curiosity, read a page or two of one of his master's volumes, when suddenly Satan appeared. The domestic fled, but the Evil One captured him, and was making away with him when the curé arrived and simply read a few other words from the book, upon which Satan dropped his prey. In another one Satan keeps his victim three years, but at length is obliged to let him go. In the last story of this kind, however, which has come under my notice--a French one by the way--the incautious student has scarcely read a line of the open book when Satan appears and strangles him. The sorcerer, quietly returning home, sees devils perched on the house, and, surprised, beckons them to approach. One does so, and tells him the story, and he thereupon rushes to his study and finds the student stretched dead upon the floor. Afraid of being accused of murder, he orders the devil who had assassinated the scholar to pass into the body of his victim. The demon obeys, and goes to promenade in the street at the point most frequented by the students, but suddenly, upon another order, he quits the body, and the corpse falls in the midst of the terrified promenaders. In Cornwall, instead of the devil, it is the ghost of Tregeagle, the wizard, that is doomed to make trusses of sand in Genvor Cove, and to bear them to the top of Escol's Cliff. Having once succeeded in carrying a truss, after having first brought water from a neighbouring stream and frozen the sand, he is now condemned to make the trusses without water. 19. Another version of this story, which is still told in the lonely farm-houses of the district, gives the scholars the credit of having raised the devil during the absence of their master. Similar tasks were given to the infernal visitor by a sharp-witted lad, who feared lest his should be the soul the Evil One threatened to take back with him; and not many years ago a flag, said to have been broken by the outwitted Satan in his passage across the floor, used to be triumphantly exhibited to any daring and irreverent sceptic who expressed doubts as to the truthfulness of the narrative. At Burnley Grammar School a black mark on a stone was at one time exhibited in proof of a state visit of the same kind, and a similar ignominious flight. The Grammar School of Middleton, near Manchester, also can boast of the patronage of the Evil One; and Samuel Bamford has recorded that in his youth a hole in the school flags was shown as an impression of the Satanic hoof. The Middleton legend credits the lads with the unenviable honour of having called up the fiend and afterwards innocently wishing him to withdraw, which he sternly declined to do without having received his usual fee of a soul. As at Cockerham, he was requested to make a rope of sand; and he was rapidly completing the task, when, to the joy of the urchins, the schoolmaster came upon the scene, and quickly exorcised the visitor, who, in his disgusted and disordered flight, broke down nearly half of the building. 20. Stories of headless beings may be found in the lore of most countries of Europe, and are of the same class as those of the men, women and horses 'beawt yeds,' common to the hilly districts of both North and South Lancashire. As a general rule, in South Lancashire, the head is not seen at all, whereas in the northern part of the county the spectre almost invariably carries it under the left arm, as is done by the wandering beings in similar Danish stories. A Scotch legend, alluded to by Sir Walter Scott, credits the ghost of a Duchess of Queensberry with an innovation, as the spectre is said to wheel its head in a barrow through the galleries of Drumlanrick Castle. In Glamorganshire there is a tradition of a headless woman, who appears every sixty years, and many are the terrible stories told of her dreadful visitations. Although tales of headless horses are not rare in Lancashire, there does not appear to be any tradition of hearses, or other conveyances drawn by them, similar to the Northumberland legend of the midnight cavalcade along the subterraneous passage between Tarset and Dalby Castles, or to the stories told by the Irish peasants. It is more than probable that many of the legends and stories of headless beings of both sexes had their origin in the old Saxon belief that if a person who was guilty of a crime for which he deserved to lose his head, died without having paid the penalty, he was condemned after death to travel over the earth with his head under his arm. 21. Not very long ago it was commonly believed at Warrington, on the authority of many persons who declared they had seen the apparition, that a spectral white rabbit haunted Bank Quay, its appearance invariably foretelling the early death of a relative of the person whose misfortune it was to behold the animal. 'In Cornwall,' says Mr. Hunt, 'it is a very popular fancy that when a maiden who has loved not wisely but too well, dies forsaken and broken-hearted, she comes back in the shape of a white hare to haunt her deceiver. The phantom follows the false one everywhere, mostly invisible to all else. It sometimes saves him from danger, but invariably the white hare causes the death of the betrayer in the end.' 22. Can this tradition be an offshoot of the legend of Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew, the man who, standing at his door, refused the cup of water for which the Saviour, bowed down beneath the burden of the cross, begged, but who bade the Lord walk quicker, and was answered, 'I go, but thou shalt thirst and tarry till I come'? In one shape or another most European countries have the weird myth of this restless being. In none of the stories, however, have I found any reference to an animal accompanying the wanderer. 23. The belief in the efficacy of fairy ointment appears to have been somewhat generally held in England. A Northumberland tradition tells of a midwife who was fetched to attend a lady, and who received a box of ointment with which to anoint the infant. By accident the woman touched one of her eyes with the mixture, and at once saw that she was in a fairy palace. She had the good sense, however, to conceal her astonishment, and reached her home in safety. Some time afterwards she saw the lady stealing bits of butter in the market-place, and thoughtlessly accosted her, when, after an inquiry similar to that of the Lancashire legend, the fairy breathed upon the offending eye and destroyed the sight. Other versions still current in Northumberland make the thief a fairy stealing corn. Similar stories are told in Devonshire and in both the Lowlands and Highlands of Scotland. In Scotland, however, the fairy spits into the woman's eye. The Irish fairy (Co. Wexford), a vindictive being, uses a switch. In Cornwall a fairy bantling has to be put out to nurse, and has to be washed regularly in water and carried to its room by its invisible relatives. The nurse receives the marvellous sight after some of the liquid has splashed upon her eyes, and the usual result follows. She sees a thief in the market-place--that of St. Ives; and after he has muttered-- 'Water for elf, not water for self! You've lost your eye, your child, and yourself!' she becomes blind. In another Cornish legend a green ointment, made with four-leaved clover, gathered at a certain time of the moon, confers the wondrous gift. In Lancashire the four-leaved clover does not require any preparation; the mere possession of it being supposed to render fairies visible. The Scandinavian belief appears to have been that, although the hill folk could bestow the gift of this sight upon whom they chose, all children born on Sunday possessed the faculty. This superstition seems to survive in a slightly altered form in the Lancashire one that children born during twilight can see spirits and foretell deaths, the latter faculty, probably, having been substituted for the prophetic power of the chosen of the elves in the Northern mythology. It is more than probable that these ointment stories came from the East. Who does not remember the charming history of the blind man, Baba Abdalla, whose sight was destroyed by a little miraculous ointment, and afterwards as wonderfully restored by a box on the ear? 24. An old farm-labourer pointed out to me a place where the Evil One used to meet the witches, and gambol with them until cock-crow. It was at the junction of four cross-roads, between Stonyhurst and Ribchester; and as I stood there at 'th' edge o' dark,' when the wind was whispering through the fir woods on either hand, with that mysterious sound so like the gentle wash of waves upon a sandy shore, the spot seemed indeed a suitable one for such gatherings. My informant, however, although very circumstantial in his account of what had transpired at the nocturnal assemblies, scouted the idea of anything of the sort taking place in these times, and remarked drily: 'Ther's too mich leet neaw-a-days, Mesthur, fur eawt o' that mak'. Wi' should hev' th' caanty police after um afooar they'd time to torn raand!' 25. Until recently, there was an ancient British tumulus by the side of the highway from Darwen to Bolton, where the road passes through the domains of White Hall and Low Hill. This spot, long before the urns of bones were disinterred, was looked upon by the country people as being haunted by various boggarts, and Mr. Charles Hardwick says that children were in the habit of taking off their clogs and shoes, and walking past the heap barefooted when compelled to traverse the road after nightfall.[E] [E] _Vide_ Footnote [C] 26. Mag did not wander far, for her grave is shown in the churchyard at Woodplumpton, in which village her memory still is green. But few people venture to rest themselves upon the huge stone which marks the spot where her spirit was laid. A strangely jumbled tradition tells how a priest managed to 'catch' her and 'lay her spirit.' In Cornwall and other counties a clergyman of the Establishment was considered qualified to 'lay' a ghost; but in Lancashire it was believed that only a Roman Catholic priest had the wondrous power. In Wales the magical number three is brought in, for three clergymen are necessary to exorcise a spirit. In Normandy, as a matter of course, only the priests have the power. 27. Witchen or quicken, old English names of the rowan or mountain ash. Mr. Kelly (_Indo-European Tradition and Folklore_) accounts for the reputation of the 'wiggin' by connecting it with the Indian Palasa, the tree that, according to the Vedas, sprang from the feather which, together with a claw, fell from the falcon bringing the heavenly _soma_ to earth. The same writer also compares it with the Mimosa, and quotes a singular passage from Bishop Heber, to the effect that the natives of Upper India are in the habit of wearing sprigs of it in their turbans, and of suspending pieces of it over their beds, as security against wizards, spells, the Evil Eye, etc. Naturally enough the Bishop expresses his surprise at finding the superstitions, which in England and Scotland attach to the rowan, applied in India to a tree of similar form, and he asks, 'From what common centre are these common notions derived?' The Mimosa is popularly supposed to have sprung from the claw alluded to above. On account of its reputed power against the 'feorin,' a rowan tree was almost invariably planted near the moorland or mountain side farm-house. 'Rowan, ash, and red thread Keep the devils from their speed,' says the old distich. In some parts of Scotland ash sap still is given to infants as a preservative against fairies. 28. It was firmly believed in Lancashire, says Mr. Harland, that a great gathering of witches assembled on this night at their general rendezvous in the Forest of Pendle--a ruined and desolate farm-house called the _Malkin Tower_ (Malkin being the name of a familiar demon in Middleton's old play of _The Witch_, derived from _maca_, an equal, a companion). This superstition led to another, that of _lighting_, _lating_, or _leeting_ the witches (from _leoht_, A.-S., light). It was believed that if a lighted candle were carried about the fells or hills from eleven to twelve o'clock at night, and it burned all the time steadily, it had so far triumphed over the evil power of the witches, who, as they passed to the Malkin Tower, would employ their utmost efforts to extinguish the light, that the person whom it represented might safely defy their malice during the season; but if by any accident the light went out, it was an omen of evil to the luckless wight for whom the experiment was made. It was also deemed inauspicious to cross the threshold of that person until after the return from leeting, and not then unless the candle had preserved its light. Mr. Milner describes the ceremony as having been recently performed. 29. Mr. Sullivan quotes this quaint old carol at length in his _Cumberland and Westmoreland, Ancient and Modern_; and adds, 'This song is still sung at Penrith, having replaced one called "Joseph and Mary," in the early part of the century. Yet its antiquity is undoubted, and it has probably come here from Lancashire, where it is well known.' As, however, it is by no means so widely known as Mr. Sullivan supposes, we may be pardoned if we reproduce it here. The second and remaining verses are as follows:-- 'I met three ships come sailing by, Come sailing by, etc. Who do you think was in one of them? In one of them? etc. The Virgin Mary and her Son, And her Son, etc. She combed His hair with an ivory comb, An ivory comb, etc. She washed His face in a silver bowl, A silver bowl, etc. She sent Him up to heaven to school, To heaven to school, etc. All the angels began to sing, Began to sing, etc. The bells of heaven began to ring, Began to ring, etc.' 30. Mr. Samuel Bamford says that Middleton Parish Church was the scene of a procession similar to that described in the above legend, the observer being an avaricious old sexton who was anxious to know what fees he should receive in the following year. This worthy, on All Souls' night, stationed himself in the sacred building, and counted the spirits he saw enter and walk about, until he observed a double of himself. Of course, soon afterwards there was a vacancy for a gravedigger at Middleton, the sight having been too much for 'Old Johnny.' A similar superstition reigns in various parts of England and in Wales, where, at Christmas-time, says Mr. Croker, quoting from a Welsh authority, the relatives of the deceased listen at the church door in the dark, 'when they sometimes fancy they hear the names called over in church of those who are destined shortly to join their lost relatives in the tomb.' In Cornwall, strange to say, it is a young unmarried woman who, standing in the church porch at midnight on Midsummer's-eve, sees the strange gathering. 'This is so serious an affair,' says Professor Hunt, 'that it is not, I believe, often tried. I have, however, heard of young women who have made the experiment. But every one of the stories relate that they have seen shadows of themselves coming last in the procession; that pining away from that day forward, ere Midsummer has again come round they have been laid to rest in the village graveyard.' Mr. Sikes says that it is a Hallow-Een custom in some parts of Wales to listen at the church door in the dark to hear shouted by a ghostly voice in the edifice the names of those who are shortly to be buried in the adjoining churchyard. In other parts, he says, 'the window serves the same purpose,' and, he adds, 'there are said to be still extant outside some village churches steps which were constructed in order to enable the superstitious peasantry to climb to the window to listen.' These steps in several places seemed to me to be merely old mounting blocks, but they may have been made use of for the less practical purpose in question. 31. It is asserted that at the present day dogs cannot be induced to go near this quarry, and that even closely hunted animals will permit themselves to be captured rather than enter its recesses. 32. Few superstitions have a wider circle of believers in Lancashire than that which attributes to dogs the power of foretelling death and disaster. There are few people, however well educated, who would be able to resist a foreboding of coming woe if they heard the howling of a strange dog under the window of a sick person's room; and, absurd as the dread so inspired may seem to the sceptic, there is more ground for it than can easily be explained away. It has frequently been urged that the animals are attracted by the lighted window, and that their howlings are nothing more than unpleasant appeals for admittance; and that often, by reason of the awe with which tradition has surrounded the noises, they terrify the invalid, and produce the end they are supposed to foretell. This plausible theory, however, does not account in any way for the similar visitations made in the daytime, when there is no artificial light to attract; or for the singular facts, that generally the dog is a stranger to the locality--that it does not loiter about, but makes its way direct to the particular house--that it will wait until a gate is opened, so that it may get near to the window--that it cannot be driven away before its mission has been performed--and that, in all cases, the howling is alike, invariably terminating in three peculiar yelping barks, which are no sooner uttered than the animal runs off, and is no more seen in the neighbourhood. In Normandy the noise is considered an infallible presage of death. Mr. Kelly says that this superstition obtains credence in France and Germany; and that in Westphalia, a dog howling along a road is considered a sure sign that a funeral soon will pass that way. In the Scandinavian mythology, Hel, Goddess of Death, is visible only to dogs. The superstition has, at any rate, antiquity to recommend it, and it seems evident from Exodus xi. 5-7, that even in the days of the captivity of the Children of Israel in Egypt, the omen was firmly believed in. I was seated one summer evening in the drawing-room of a house in one of the large London squares. The conversation was of the ordinary after-dinner nature, but enlivened by the remarks of more than one gifted guest. It was, however, suddenly interrupted in a very startling manner by the howling of a dog, which had placed itself in the roadway facing the house, regardless alike of the wheels of the numerous passing carriages and cabs, and of the whips of the drivers. The lady of the house, a north-country woman, said at once, as she rose from her seat at the open window, 'That means death. I shall hear of some sad trouble.' The dog would not be driven away by the angry coachmen and cabmen, but finished the howling with three peculiar yelps, and then trotted off rapidly; and there was much jesting during the rest of the evening about the strange occurrence. A few days afterwards, however, I was informed that on the evening of the dinner-party the brother of the hostess had died in North Lancashire. 33. 'Th' Gabriel Ratchets' strike terror into the heart of many a moorland dweller in Lancashire and Yorkshire still, presaging, as they are believed to do, death or sorrow to every one who is so unfortunate as to hear them. In the popular idea they are a pack of dogs yelping through the air. Our old literature has many references to the superstition. In more recent days, Wordsworth has introduced it in one of his sonnets:-- 'And oftentimes will start-- For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS.' Mr. Philip Gilbert Hamerton, in a poem dated 1849, in his _Isles of Loch Awe and other Poems_, which he has kindly given me permission to quote here, says of them,-- 'Faintly sounds the airy note, And the deepest bay from the staghound's throat, Like the yelp of a cur, on the air doth float, And hardly heard is the wild halloo.' and-- 'They fly on the blast of the forest That whistles round the withered tree, But where they go we may not go, Nor see them as they fly.' Mr. Hamerton, however, goes beyond the Lancashire peasant, at any rate so far as I have been able to ascertain, for I never met any one in the hill country or on the moorlands of the North who fancied that the throng included anything but _Ratchets_, _i.e._ dogs, for the poet goes on to sing-- 'Hark! 'tis the goblin of the wood Rushing down the dark hill-side, With steeds that neigh and hounds that bay.' Mr. Henderson has recorded that, about Leeds, the flight is supposed to be that of 'the souls of unbaptized children doomed to flit restlessly above their parents' abode.' In Germany, certainly the Wild Hunt or Furious Host is accompanied by unbaptized children, and it has been recorded that a woman, about the year 1800, died of grief upon learning that the Furious Host had passed over the village where her still-born child had died just before. Mr. Kelly (_Indo-European Tradition_) very ably and poetically resolves all the various superstitions of this Wild Hunt into figurative descriptions of natural phenomena, but Mr. Yarrell, the distinguished naturalist, reduces the cries of the Gabriel Hounds into the whistling of the Bean Goose, _Anser Segetum_, as the flocks are flying southward in the night, migrating from Scandinavia. In Wales 'The Whistlers,' the cry of the golden-plover, is considered an omen of death, but it seems to be a quite distinct superstition from that of the _Cwn Annwn_, or Dogs of Hell, which latter is a Wild Hunt. I have heard the weird cry of the Gabriel Ratchets at night in several of the northern countries, and in the loneliness and gloom of early winter in the heart of the hills, or upon a wild bleak moorland, it was difficult to overcome a sudden feeling of dread when the yelps rang forth, even with Mr. Yarrell's scientific explanation fresh in my mind. To sketch the ramifications of the superstition of the Wild Hunt, however, would require a volume, so numerous and various are they. 34. In the old witch-mania records it is not unusual to find a cock sacrificed to the Evil One, and Satan's dislike of cock-crow has become proverbial. Brand has pointed out that the Christian poet Prudentius (fourth century) mentions that antipathy as a tradition of common belief. In an old German story Satan builds a house for a peasant who agrees to pay his soul for the work. A condition is made, however, that this house must be completed before cock-crow, and the wily peasant, just before the last tile is put on the roof, imitates the bird of morn, upon which all the cocks in the locality crow, and Satan, baffled, flees. The Evil One's appearance in the form of a cat, a goat, a pig, an old woman, a black dog, a stylish gentleman, and the conventional shape, with hoof and horns, have been testified to, and Calmet (_Traité sur les apparitions des Esprits et sur les Vampires_, 1751) alludes to his taking the shape of a raven, but I have not met with any record of his appearance as a cock. In this case, however, that was insisted upon, although it was suggested that it might have been some other fowl. EDINBURGH: T. AND A. CONSTABLE, PRINTERS TO THE QUEEN, AND TO THE UNIVERSITY. ADVERTISEMENTS THE ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY OF The Fairy Tales of all Nations. 'The Boys and Girls of to-day owe a deep debt of gratitude to Messrs. Sonnenschein & Co. for the treat here prepared for them.'--_School Board Chronicle._ 'The idea is a good one, and in addition to the intrinsic interest of the stories, the volumes will be convenient for Students of comparative Folk-lore.'--_British Quarterly Review._ 'The idea is an excellent one. The paper, print, binding and illustrations, are all that could be desired.'--_School Guardian._ _SERIES I.--ORIGINAL FAIRY TALES._ =Germany: Hauff's Longnose the Dwarf and other Fairy Tales. 5s.= 'Hauff as a story-teller is inimitable.... We have never known this book to fail with a child audience.'--_Journal of Education._ =Scandinavia: Gustafsson's Tea-time Tales for Young Little Folks and Young Old Folks.= 4_s._ 6_d._ 'Gustafsson will doubtless succeed in continually increasing his retinue of readers.'--_Academy._ =The New Arabian Nights: Select Tales omitted from the Editions of GALLAND and of LANE.= Edited by W. F. KIRBY. 4_s._ 6_d._ _Just published._ _In preparation._ =Clemens Brentano's Fairy Tales.--Topelius' Finland Idyls.= _SERIES II.--FOLK TALES._ =America: Hiawatha and other Legends of the Wigwams of the Red American Indians,= compiled by C. MATHEWS. 5_s._ _Just published._ =Ireland: Fairy Legends and Traditions of Ireland, Collected from the People,= by T. CROFTON CROKER. 5_s._ _Just published._ =Lancashire: Goblin Tales of Lancashire,= Collected by JAMES BOWKER. 4_s._ 6_d._ _Just published._ =Scandinavia: Old Norse Fairy Tales,= Gleaned from the Swedish Folk, by STEPHENS and CAVALLIUS. 4_s._ 6_d._ _Just published._ =Spain: The Bird of Truth, and other Fairy Tales,= Collected by FERNAN CABALLERO. 4_s._ 6_d._ _In preparation._ Volumes for =Brittany, Basque Provinces, Portugal, Modern Greece.= _EXTRA SERIES._ =Old Norse Sagas,= Selected and Translated by EMILY S. CAPPEL. 4_s._ 6_d._ _Just published_ =Gesta Romanorum: The Ancient Moral Tales of the Old Story-tellers,= Selected and Adapted. 4_s._ 6_d._ _Just published._ _In preparation._ =Popular Books of the Middle Ages.--Tales of Enchantment from all Lands.= Transcriber's Note: Archaic and inconsistent spelling, dialect, and punctuation retained. Advertisements were moved from the front of the book to the end. Numbers in braces {} refer to sections of the appendix. Letters in brackets [] refer to footnotes at the end of the paragraph. 
39195	----	available by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 39195-h.htm or 39195-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/39195/39195-h/39195-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/39195/39195-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the the Google Books Library Project. See http://books.google.com/books?vid=qqETAAAAYAAJ&id [Illustration: KE-ALOHI-LANI] LEGENDS OF GODS AND GHOSTS (HAWAIIAN MYTHOLOGY) Collected and Translated from the Hawaiian by W. D. WESTERVELT Author of "Legends of Old Honolulu" and "Maui, a Demi-God of Polynesia" [Illustration] Boston, U.S.A. Press of Geo. H. Ellis Co. London Constable & Co., Ltd. 10 Orange St., Leicester Sq., W.C. 1915 Copyright, 1915, by William Drake Westervelt Honolulu, H.T. TABLE OF CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE INTRODUCTION v I. THE GHOST OF WAHAULA TEMPLE 1 II. MALUAE AND THE UNDER-WORLD 14 III. A GIANT'S ROCK-THROWING 21 IV. KALO-EKE-EKE, THE TIMID TARO 26 V. LEGENDARY CANOE-MAKING 29 VI. LAU-KA-IEIE 36 VII. KAUHUHU, THE SHARK GOD OF MOLOKAI 49 VIII. THE SHARK-MAN OF WAIPIO VALLEY 59 IX. THE STRANGE BANANA SKIN 66 X. THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN 74 XI. HAWAIIAN GHOST TESTING 84 XII. HOW MILU BECAME THE KING OF GHOSTS 94 XIII. A VISIT TO THE KING OF GHOSTS 100 XIV. KALAI-PAHOA, THE POISON-GOD 108 XV. KE-AO-MELE-MELE, THE MAID OF THE GOLDEN CLOUD 116 XVI. PUNA AND THE DRAGON 152 XVII. KE-AU-NINI 163 XVIII. THE BRIDE FROM THE UNDER-WORLD 224 APPENDIX: The Deceiving of Kewa 241 Homeless and Desolate Ghosts 245 Aumakuas, or Ancestor-ghosts 248 The Dragon Ghost-gods 255 Chas. R. Bishop 259 Partial List of Hawaiian Terms 260 Press Notices 264 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS KE-ALOHI-LANI Frontispiece OPPOSITE PAGE IMAGES OF GODS AT THE HEIAU 12 FROM A TARO PATCH 28 KUKUI-TREES, IAO VALLEY, MT. EEKE 50 A TRUSTY FISHERMAN 64 THE MISTY PALI, NUUANU 120 DANCING THE HULA 140 BREADFRUIT-TREES 160 A YOUNG CHIEF OF HAWAII 188 THE HOME OF THE DRAGONS NEAR HILO 198 COCOANUTS 222 THE HOME OF KEWALU 230 FISH PLATES IN COLOR * * * * * PRONUNCIATION * * * * * Readers will have little difficulty in pronouncing names if they remember _two_ rules:-- 1. No syllable ends in a consonant, _e.g._, Ho-no-lu-lu, not Hon-o-lulu. 2. Give vowels the German sound rather than the English, _e.g._, "e" equals "a," and "i" equals "e," and "a" is sounded like "a" in "father." INTRODUCTION The legends of the Hawaiian Islands are as diverse as those of any country in the world. They are also entirely distinct in form and thought from the fairy-tales which excite the interest and wonder of the English and German children. The mythology of Hawaii follows the laws upon which all myths are constructed. The Islanders have developed some beautiful nature-myths. Certain phenomena have been observed and the imagination has fitted the story to the interesting object which has attracted attention. Now the Rainbow Maiden of Manoa, a valley lying back of Honolulu, is the story of a princess whose continual death and resurrection were invented to harmonize with the formation of a series of exquisite rainbows which are born on the mountain-sides in the upper end of the valley and die when the mist clouds reach the plain into which the valley opens. Then there were the fish of the Hawaiian Islands which vie with the butterflies of South America in their multitudinous combinations of colors. These imaginative people wondered how the fish were painted, so for a story a battle between two chiefs was either invented or taken as a basis. The chiefs fought on the mountain-sides until finally one was driven into the sea and compelled to make the deep waters his continual abiding-place. Here he found a unique and pleasant occupation in calling the various kinds of fish to his submarine home and then painting them in varied hues according to the dictates of his fancy. Thus we have a pure nature-myth developed from the love of the beautiful, one of the highest emotions dwelling in the hearts of the Hawaiians of the long ago. So, again, Maui, a wonder-working hero like the Hercules of Grecian mythology, heard the birds sing, and noted their beautiful forms as they flitted from tree to tree and mingled their bright plumage with the leaves of the fragrant blossoms. No other one of those who lived in the long ago could see what Maui saw. They heard the mysterious music, but the songsters were invisible. Many were the fancies concerning these strange creatures whom they could hear but could not see. Maui finally pitied his friends and made the birds visible. Ever since, man has been able to both hear the music and see the beauty of his forest neighbors. Such nature-myths as these are well worthy of preservation by the side of any European fairy-tale. In purity of thought, vividness of imagination, and delicacy of coloring the Hawaiian myths are to be given a high place in literature among the stories of nature vivified by the imagination. Another side of Hawaiian folk-lore is just as worthy of comparison. Lovers of "Jack-the-Giant-Killer," and of the other wonder-workers dwelling in the mist-lands of other nations, would enjoy reading the marvelous record of Maui, the skilful demi-god of Hawaii, who went fishing with a magic hook, and pulled up from the depths of the ocean groups of islands. This story is told in a matter-of-fact way, as if it were a fishing-excursion only a little out of the ordinary course. Maui lived in a land where volcanic fires were always burning in the mountains. Nevertheless it was a little inconvenient to walk thirty or forty miles for a live coal after the cold winds of the night had put out the fire which had been carefully protected the day before. Thus, when he saw that some intelligent birds knew the art of making a fire, he captured the leader and forced him to tell the secret of rubbing certain sticks together until fire came. Maui also made snares, captured the sun and compelled it to journey regularly and slowly across the heavens. Thus the day was regulated to meet the wants of mankind. He lifted the heavens after they had rested so long upon all the plants that their leaves were flat. There was a ledge of rock in one of the rivers, so Maui uprooted a tree and pushed it through, making an easy passage for both water and man. He invented many helpful articles for the use of mankind, but meanwhile frequently filled the days of his friends with trouble on account of the mischievous pranks which he played on them. Fairies and gnomes dwelt in the woodland, coming forth at night to build temples, massive walls, to fashion canoes, or whisper warnings. The birds and the fishes were capable and intelligent guardians over the households which had adopted them as protecting deities. Birds of brilliant plumage and sweet song were always faithful attendants on the chiefs, and able to converse with those over whom they kept watch. Sharks and other mighty fish of the deep waters were reliable messengers for those who rendered them sacrifices, often carrying their devotees from island to island and protecting them from many dangers. Sometimes the gruesome and horrible creeps into Hawaiian folk-lore. A poison tree figures in the legends and finally becomes one of the most feared of all the gods of Hawaii. A cannibal dog, cannibal ghosts, and even a cannibal chief are prominent among the noted characters of the past. Then the power of praying a person to death with the aid of departed spirits was believed in, and is at the present time. Almost every valley of the island has its peculiar and interesting myth. Often there is a historical foundation which has been dealt with fancifully and enlarged into miraculous proportions. There are hidden caves, which can be entered only by diving under the great breakers or into the deep waters of inland pools, around which cluster tales of love and adventure. There are many mythological characters whose journeys extend to all the islands of the group. The Maui stories are not limited to the large island Hawaii and a part of the adjoining island which bears the name of Maui, but these stories are told in a garbled form on all the islands. So Pele, the fire-goddess, who dwelt in the hottest regions of the most active volcanoes, belongs to all, and also Kamapuaa, who is sometimes her husband, but more frequently her enemy. The conflicts between the two are often suggested by destructive lava flows checked by storms or ocean waves. It cannot be suspected that the ancient Hawaiian had the least idea of deifying fire and water--and yet the continual conflict between man and woman is like the eternal enmity between the two antagonistic elements of nature. When the borders of mist-land are crossed, a rich store of folk-lore with a historical foundation is discovered. Chiefs and gods mingle together as in the days of the Nibelungen Lied. Voyages are made to many distant islands of the Pacific Ocean, whose names are frequently mentioned in the songs and tales of the wandering heroes. A chief from Samoa establishes a royal family on the largest of the Hawaiian Islands, and a chief from the Hawaiian group becomes a ruler in Tahiti. Indeed the rovers of the Pacific have tales of seafaring which equal the accounts of the voyages of the Vikings. The legends of the Hawaiian Islands are valuable in themselves, in that they reveal an understanding of the phenomena of nature and unveil their early history with its mythological setting. They are also valuable for comparison with the legends of the other Pacific islands, and they are exceedingly interesting when contrasted with the folk-lore of other nations. I THE GHOST OF WAHAULA TEMPLE Hawaiian temples were never works of art. Broken lava was always near the site upon which a temple was to be built. Rough unhewn stones were easily piled into massive walls and laid in terraces for altar and floors. Water-worn pebbles were carried from the nearest beach and strewn over the uneven floor, making a comparatively smooth place over which the naked feet of the temple dwellers passed without the injuries which would otherwise frequently come from the sharp-edged lava. Rude grass huts built on terraces were the abodes of the priests and of the high chiefs who sometimes visited the places of sacrifice. Elevated, flat-topped piles of stones were usually built at one end of the temple for the chief idols and the sacrifices placed before them. Simplicity of detail marked every step of temple erection. No hewn pillars or arched gateways of even the most primitive designs can be found in any of the temples whether of recent date or belonging to remote antiquity. There was no attempt at ornamentation even in the images of the great gods which they worshipped. Crude, uncouth, and hideous were the images before which they offered sacrifice and prayer. In themselves the heiaus, or temples, of the Hawaiian Islands have but little attraction. To-day they seem more like massive walled cattle-pens than places which had ever been used for sacred worship. On the southeast coast of the island of Hawaii near Kalapana is one of the largest, oldest, and best preserved heiaus, or temples, in the Hawaiian Islands. It is no exception to the architectural rule for Hawaiian temples, and is worthy the name of temple only as it is intimately associated with the religious customs of the Hawaiians. Its walls are several feet thick and in places ten to twelve feet high. It is divided into rooms or pens, in one of which still lies the huge sacrificial stone upon which victims--sometimes human--were slain before the bodies were placed as offerings in front of the hideous idols leaning against the stone walls. This heiau now bears the name Wahaula, or "red-mouth." In ancient times it was known as Ahaula, or "the red assembly," possibly denoting that at times the priests and their attendants wore red mantles in their processions or during some part of their sacred ceremonies. This temple is said to be the oldest of all the Hawaiian heiaus--except possibly the heiau at Kohala on the northern coast of the same island. These two heiaus date back in tradition to the time of Paao, the priest from Upolu, Samoa, who was said to have built them. He was the traditional father of the priestly line which ran parallel to the royal genealogy of the Kamehamehas during several centuries until the last high priest, Hewahewa, became a follower of Jesus Christ--the Saviour of the world. This was the last heiau destroyed when the ancient tabus and ceremonial rites were overthrown by the chiefs just before the coming of Christian missionaries. At that time the grass houses of the priests were burned and in these raging flames were thrown the wooden idols back of the altars and the bamboo huts of the soothsayers and the rude images on the walls, with everything combustible which belonged to the ancient order of worship. Only the walls and rough stone floors were left in the temple. In the outer temple court was the most noted sacred grave in all the islands. Earth had been carried from the mountain-sides inland. Leaves and decaying trees added to the permanency of the soil. Here in a most unlikely place it was said that all the varieties of trees then found in the islands had been gathered by the priests--the descendants of Paao. To this day the grave stands by the temple walls, an object of superstitious awe among the natives. Many of the varieties of trees there planted have died, leaving only those which were more hardy and needed less priestly care than they received a hundred years or more ago. The temple is built near the coast on the rough, sharp, broken rocks of an ancient lava flow. In many places in and around the temple the lava was dug out, making holes three or four feet across and from one to two feet deep. These in the days of the priesthood had been filled with earth brought in baskets from the mountains. Here they raised sweet potatoes and taro and bananas. Now the rains have washed the soil away and to the unknowing there is no sign of previous agriculture. Near these depressions and along the paths leading to Wahaula other holes were sometimes cut out of the hard fine-grained lava. When heavy rains fell, little grooves carried the drops of water to these holes and they became small cisterns. Here the thirsty messengers running from one priestly clan to another, or the traveller or worshippers coming to the sacred place, could almost always find a few drops of water to quench their thirst. Usually these water-holes were covered with a large flat stone under which the water ran into the cistern. To this day these small water places border the path across the pahoehoe lava field which lies adjacent to the broken a-a lava upon which the Wahaula heiau is built. Many of them are still covered as in the days of the long ago. It is not strange that legends have developed through the mists of the centuries around this rude old temple. Wahaula was a tabu temple of the very highest rank. The native chants said, "No keia heiau oia ke kapu enaena." ("Concerning this heiau is the burning tabu.") "Enaena" means "burning with a red hot rage." The heiau was so thoroughly "tabu," or "kapu," that the smoke of its fires falling upon any of the people or even upon any one of the chiefs was sufficient cause for punishment by death, with the body as a sacrifice to the gods of the temple. These gods were of the very highest rank among the Hawaiian deities. Certain days were tabu to Lono--or Rongo, as he was known in other island groups of the Pacific Ocean. Other days belonged to Ku--who was also worshipped from New Zealand to Tahiti. At other times Kane, known as Tane by many Polynesians, was held supreme. Then again Kanaloa--or Tanaroa, sometimes worshipped in Samoa and other island groups as the greatest of all their gods--had his days especially set apart for sacrifice and chant. The Mu, or "body-catcher," of this heiau with his assistants seems to have been continually on the watch for human victims, and woe to the unfortunate man who carelessly or ignorantly walked where the winds blew the smoke from the temple fires. No one dared rescue him from the hands of the hunter of men--for then the wrath of all the gods was sure to follow him all the days of his life. The people of the districts around Wahaula always watched the course of the winds with great anxiety, carefully noting the direction taken by the smoke. This smoke was the shadow cast by the deity worshipped, and was far more sacred than the shadow of the highest chief or king in all the islands. It was always sufficient cause for death if a common man allowed his shadow to fall upon any tabu chief, _i.e._, a chief of especially high rank; but in this "burning tabu," if any man permitted the smoke or shadow of the god who was being worshipped in this temple to come near to him or overshadow him, it was a mark of such great disrespect that the god was supposed to be enaena, or red hot with rage. Many ages ago a young chief whom we shall know by the name Kahele determined to take an especial journey around the island visiting all the noted and sacred places and becoming acquainted with the alii, or chiefs, of the other districts. He passed from place to place, taking part with the chiefs who entertained him sometimes in the use of the papa-hee, or surf-board, riding the white-capped surf as it majestically swept shoreward--sometimes spending night after night in the innumerable gambling contests which passed under the name pili waiwai--and sometimes riding the narrow sled, or holua, with which Hawaiian chiefs raced down the steep grassed lanes. Then again, with a deep sense of the solemnity of sacred things, he visited the most noted of the heiaus and made contributions to the offerings before the gods. Thus the days passed, and the slow journey was very pleasant to Kahele. In time he came to Puna, the district in which was located the temple Wahaula. But alas! in the midst of the many stories of the past which he had heard, and the many pleasures he had enjoyed while on his journey, Kahele forgot the peculiar power of the tabu of the smoke of Wahaula. The fierce winds of the south were blowing and changing from point to point. The young man saw the sacred grove in the edge of which the temple walls could be discerned. Thin wreaths of smoke were tossed here and there from the temple fires. Kahele hastened toward the temple. The Mu was watching his coming and joyfully marking him as a victim. The altars of the gods were desolate, and if but a particle of smoke fell upon the young man no one could keep him from the hands of the executioner. The perilous moment came. The warm breath of one of the fires touched the young chief's cheek. Soon a blow from the club of the Mu laid him senseless on the rough stones of the outer court of the temple. The smoke of the wrath of the gods had fallen upon him, and it was well that he should lie as a sacrifice upon their altars. Soon the body with the life still in it was thrown across the sacrificial stone. Sharp knives made from the strong wood of the bamboo let his life-blood flow down the depressions across the face of the stone. Quickly the body was dismembered and offered as a sacrifice. For some reason the priests, after the flesh had decayed, set apart the bones for some special purpose. The legends imply that the bones were to be treated dishonorably. It may have been that the bones were folded together in the shape known as unihipili, or "grasshopper" bones, _i.e._, folded and laid away for purposes of incantation. Such bundles of bones were put through a process of prayers and charms until at last it was thought a new spirit was created which dwelt in that bundle and gave the possessor a peculiar power in deeds of witchcraft. The spirit of Kahele rebelled against this disposition of all that remained of his body. He wanted to be back in his native district, that he might enjoy the pleasures of the Under-world with his own chosen companions. Restlessly the spirit haunted the dark corners of the temple, watching the priests as they handled his bones. Helplessly the ghost fumed and fretted against its condition. It did all that a disembodied spirit could do to attract the attention of the priests. At last the spirit fled by night from this place of torment to the home which he had so joyfully left a short time before. Kahele's father was the high chief of Kau. Surrounded by retainers, he passed his days in quietness and peace waiting for the return of his son. One night a strange dream came to him. He heard a voice calling from the mysterious confines of the spirit-land. As he listened, a spirit form stood by his side. The ghost was that of his son Kahele. By means of the dream the ghost revealed to the father that he had been put to death and that his bones were in great danger of dishonorable treatment. The father awoke benumbed with fear, realizing that his son was calling upon him for immediate help. At once he left his people and journeyed from place to place secretly, not knowing where or when Kahele had died, but fully sure that the spirit of his vision was that of his son. It was not difficult to trace the young man. He had left his footprints openly all along the way. There was nothing of shame or dishonor--and the father's heart filled with pride as he hastened on. From time to time, however, he heard the spirit voice calling him to save the bones of the body of his dead son. At last he felt that his journey was nearly done. He had followed the footsteps of Kahele almost entirely around the island, and had come to Puna--the last district before his own land of Kau would welcome his return. The spirit voice could be heard now in the dream which nightly came to him. Warnings and directions were frequently given. Then the chief came to the lava fields of Wahaula and lay down to rest. The ghost came to him again in a dream, telling him that great personal danger was near at hand. The chief was a very strong man, excelling in athletic and brave deeds, but in obedience to the spirit voice he rose early in the morning, secured oily nuts from a kukui-tree, beat out the oil, and anointed himself thoroughly. Walking along carelessly as if to avoid suspicion, he drew near to the lands of the temple Wahaula. Soon a man came out to meet him. This man was an Olohe, a beardless man belonging to a lawless robber clan which infested the district, possibly assisting the man-hunters of the temple in securing victims for the temple altars. This Olohe was very strong and self-confident, and thought he would have but little difficulty in destroying this stranger who journeyed alone through Puna. Almost all day the battle raged between the two men. Back and forth they forced each other over the lava beds. The chief's well-oiled body was very difficult for the Olohe to grasp. Bruised and bleeding from repeated falls on the rough lava, both of the combatants were becoming very weary. Then the chief made a new attack, forcing the Olohe into a narrow place from which there was no escape, and at last seizing him, breaking his bones, and then killing him. As the shadows of night rested over the temple and its sacred grave the chief crept closer to the dreaded tabu walls. Concealing himself he waited for the ghost to reveal to him the best plan for action. The ghost came, but was compelled to bid the father wait patiently for a fit time when the secret place in which the bones were hidden could be safely visited. For several days and nights the chief hid himself near the temple. He secretly uttered the prayers and incantations needed to secure the protection of his family gods. One night the darkness was very great, and the priests and watchmen of the temple felt sure that no one would attempt to enter the sacred precincts. Deep sleep rested upon all the temple-dwellers. Then the ghost of Kahele hastened to the place where the father was sleeping and aroused him for the dangerous task before him. As the father arose he saw this ghost outlined in the darkness, beckoning him to follow. Step by step he felt his way cautiously over the rough path and along the temple walls until he saw the ghost standing near a great rock pointing at a part of the wall. The father seized a stone which seemed to be the one most directly in the line of the ghost's pointing. To his surprise it very easily was removed from the wall. Back of it was a hollow place in which lay a bundle of folded bones. The ghost urged the chief to take these bones and depart quickly. [Illustration: IMAGES OF GODS AT THE HEIAU] The father obeyed, and followed the spirit guide until safely away from the temple of the burning wrath of the gods. He carried the bones to Kau and placed them in his own secret family burial cave. The ghost of Wahaula went down to the spirit world in great joy. Death had come. The life of the young chief had been taken for temple service and yet there had at last been nothing dishonorable connected with the destruction of the body and the passing away of the spirit. II MALUAE AND THE UNDER-WORLD This is a story from Manoa Valley, back of Honolulu. In the upper end of the valley, at the foot of the highest mountains on the island Oahu, lived Maluae. He was a farmer, and had chosen this land because rain fell abundantly on the mountains, and the streams brought down fine soil from the decaying forests and disintegrating rocks, fertilizing his plants. Here he cultivated bananas and taro and sweet potatoes. His bananas grew rapidly by the sides of the brooks, and yielded large bunches of fruit from their tree-like stems; his taro filled small walled-in pools, growing in the water like water-lilies, until the roots were matured, when the plants were pulled up and the roots boiled and prepared for food; his sweet potatoes--a vegetable known among the ancient New Zealanders as ku-maru, and supposed to have come from Hawaii--were planted on the drier uplands. Thus he had plenty of food continually growing, and ripening from time to time. Whenever he gathered any of his food products he brought a part to his family temple and placed it on an altar before the gods Kane and Kanaloa, then he took the rest to his home for his family to eat. He had a boy whom he dearly loved, whose name was Kaa-lii (rolling chief). This boy was a careless, rollicking child. One day the boy was tired and hungry. He passed by the temple of the gods and saw bananas, ripe and sweet, on the little platform before the gods. He took these bananas and ate them all. The gods looked down on the altar expecting to find food, but it was all gone and there was nothing for them. They were very angry, and ran out after the boy. They caught him eating the bananas, and killed him. The body they left lying under the trees, and taking out his ghost threw it into the Under-world. The father toiled hour after hour cultivating his food plants, and when wearied returned to his home. On the way he met the two gods. They told him how his boy had robbed them of their sacrifices and how they had punished him. They said, "We have sent his ghost body to the lowest regions of the Under-world." The father was very sorrowful and heavy hearted as he went on his way to his desolate home. He searched for the body of his boy, and at last found it. He saw too that the story of the gods was true, for partly eaten bananas filled the mouth, which was set in death. He wrapped the body very carefully in kapa cloth made from the bark of trees. He carried it into his rest-house and laid it on the sleeping-mat. After a time he lay down beside the body, refusing all food, and planning to die with his boy. He thought if he could escape from his own body he would be able to go down where the ghost of his boy had been sent. If he could find that ghost he hoped to take it to the other part of the Under-world, where they could be happy together. He placed no offerings on the altar of the gods. No prayers were chanted. The afternoon and evening passed slowly. The gods waited for their worshipper, but he came not. They looked down on the altar of sacrifice, but there was nothing for them. The night passed and the following day. The father lay by the side of his son, neither eating nor drinking, and longing only for death. The house was tightly closed. Then the gods talked together, and Kane said: "Maluae eats no food, he prepares no awa to drink, and there is no water by him. He is near the door of the Under-world. If he should die, we would be to blame." Kanaloa said: "He has been a good man, but now we do not hear any prayers. We are losing our worshipper. We in quick anger killed his son. Was this the right reward? He has called us morning and evening in his worship. He has provided fish and fruits and vegetables for our altars. He has always prepared awa from the juice of the yellow awa root for us to drink. We have not paid him well for his care." Then they decided to go and give life to the father, and permit him to take his ghost body and go down into Po, the dark land, to bring back the ghost of the boy. So they went to Maluae and told him they were sorry for what they had done. The father was very weak from hunger, and longing for death, and could scarcely listen to them. When Kane said, "Have you love for your child?" the father whispered: "Yes. My love is without end." "Can you go down into the dark land and get that spirit and put it back in the body which lies here?" "No," the father said, "no, I can only die and go to live with him and make him happier by taking him to a better place." Then the gods said, "We will give you the power to go after your boy and we will help you to escape the dangers of the land of ghosts." Then the father, stirred by hope, rose up and took food and drink. Soon he was strong enough to go on his journey. The gods gave him a ghost body and also prepared a hollow stick like bamboo, in which they put food, battle-weapons, and a piece of burning lava for fire. Not far from Honolulu is a beautiful modern estate with fine roads, lakes, running brooks, and interesting valleys extending back into the mountain range. This is called by the very ancient name Moanalua (two lakes). Near the seacoast of this estate was one of the most noted ghost localities of the islands. The ghosts after wandering over the island Oahu would come to this place to find a way into their real home, the Under-world, or, as the Hawaiians usually called it, Po. Here was a ghostly breadfruit-tree named Lei-walo, possibly meaning "the eight wreaths" or "the eighth wreath"--the last wreath of leaves from the land of the living which would meet the eyes of the dying. The ghosts would leap or fly or climb into the branches of this tree, trying to find a rotten branch upon which they could sit until it broke and threw them into the dark sea below. Maluae climbed up the breadfruit-tree. He found a branch upon which some ghosts were sitting waiting for it to fall. His weight was so much greater than theirs that the branch broke at once, and down they all fell into the land of Po. He needed merely to taste the food in his hollow cane to have new life and strength. This he had done when he climbed the tree; thus he had been able to push past the fabled guardians of the pathway of the ghosts in the Upper-world. As he entered the Under-world he again tasted the food of the gods and he felt himself growing stronger and stronger. He took a magic war-club and a spear out of the cane given by the gods. Ghostly warriors tried to hinder his entrance into the different districts of the dark land. The spirits of dead chiefs challenged him when he passed their homes. Battle after battle was fought. His magic club struck the warriors down, and his spear tossed them aside. Sometimes he was warmly greeted and aided by ghosts of kindly spirit. Thus he went from place to place, searching for his boy, finding him at last, as the Hawaiians quaintly expressed it, "down in the papa-ku" (the established foundation of Po), choking and suffocating from the bananas of ghost-land which he was compelled to continually force into his mouth. The father caught the spirit of the boy and started back toward the Upper-world, but the ghosts surrounded him. They tried to catch him and take the spirit away from him. Again the father partook of the food of the gods. Once more he wielded his war-club, but the hosts of enemies were too great. Multitudes arose on all sides, crushing him by their overwhelming numbers. At last he raised his magic hollow cane and took the last portion of food. Then he poured out the portion of burning lava which the gods had placed inside. It fell upon the dry floor of the Under-world. The flames dashed into the trees and the shrubs of ghost-land. Fire-holes opened in the floor and streams of lava burst out. Backward fled the multitudes of spirits. The father thrust the spirit of the boy quickly into the empty magic cane and rushed swiftly up to his home-land. He brought the spirit to the body lying in the rest-house and forced it to find again its living home. Afterward the father and the boy took food to the altars of the gods, and chanted the accustomed prayers heartily and loyally all the rest of their lives. III A GIANT'S ROCK-THROWING A point of land on the northwestern coast of the island Oahu is called Ka-lae-o-Kaena which means "The Cape of Kaena." Out in the ocean a short distance from this cape lies a large rock which bears the name Pohaku-o-Kauai, or rock of Kauai, a large island northwest of Oahu. This rock is as large as a small house. There is an interesting legend told on the island of Oahu which explains why these names have for generations been fastened to the cape and to the rock. A long, long time ago there lived on the island Kauai a man of wonderful power, by the name of Hau-pu. When he was born, the signs of a demi-god were over and around the house of his birth. Lightning flashed through the skies, and thunder reverberated, rolling along the mountain-sides. Thunder and lightning were very rare in the Hawaiian Islands, and were supposed to be connected with the birth or death or some very unusual occurrence in the life of a chief. Mighty floods of rain fell and poured in torrents down the mountain-sides, carrying the red iron soil into the valleys in such quantities that the rapids and the waterfalls became the color of blood, and the natives called this a blood-rain. During the storm, and even after sunshine filled the valley, a beautiful rainbow rested over the house in which the young chief was born. This rainbow was thought to come from the miraculous powers of the new-born child shining out from him instead of from the sunlight around him. Many chiefs throughout the centuries of Hawaiian legends were said to have had this rainbow around them all their lives. Hau-pu while a child was very powerful, and after he grew up was widely known as a great warrior. He would attack and defeat armies of his enemies without aid from any person. His spear was like a mighty weapon, sometimes piercing a host of enemies, and sometimes putting aside all opposition when he thrust it into the ranks of his opponents. If he had thrown his spear and if fighting with his bare hands did not vanquish his foes, he would leap to the hillside, tear up a great tree, and with it sweep away all before him as if he were wielding a huge broom. He was known and feared throughout all the Hawaiian Islands. He became angry quickly and used his great powers very rashly. One night he lay sleeping in his royal rest-house on the side of a mountain which faced the neighboring island of Oahu. Between the two islands lay a broad channel about thirty miles wide. When clouds were on the face of the sea, these islands were hidden from each other; but when they lifted, the rugged valleys of the mountains on one island could be clearly seen from the other. Even by moonlight the shadowy lines would appear. This night the strong man stirred in his sleep. Indistinct noises seemed to surround his house. He turned over and dropped off into slumber again. Soon he was aroused a second time, and he was awake enough to hear shouts of men far, far away. Louder rose the noise mixed with the roar of the great surf waves, so he realized that it came from the sea, and he then forced himself to rise and stumble to the door. He looked out toward Oahu. A multitude of lights were flashing on the sea before his sleepy eyes. A low murmur of many voices came from the place where the dancing lights seemed to be. His confused thoughts made it appear to him that a great fleet of warriors was coming from Oahu to attack his people. He blindly rushed out to the edge of a high precipice which overlooked the channel. Evidently many boats and many people were out in the sea below. He laughed, and stooped down and tore a huge rock from its place. This he swung back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until he gave it great impetus which added to his own miraculous power sent it far out over the sea. Like a great cloud it rose in the heavens and, as if blown by swift winds, sped on its way. Over on the shores of Oahu a chief whose name was Kaena had called his people out for a night's fishing. Canoes large and small came from all along the coast. Torches without number had been made and placed in the canoes. The largest fish-nets had been brought. There was no need of silence. Nets had been set in the best places. Fish of all kinds were to be aroused and frightened into the nets. Flashing lights, splashing paddles, and clamor from hundreds of voices resounded all around the nets. Gradually the canoes came nearer and nearer the centre. The shouting increased. Great joy ruled the noise which drowned the roar of the waves. Across the channel and up the mountain-sides of Kauai swept the shouts of the fishing-party. Into the ears of drowsy Hau-pu the noise forced itself. Little dreamed the excited fishermen of the effect of this on far-away Kauai. Suddenly something like a bird as large as a mountain seemed to be above, and then with a mighty sound like the roar of winds it descended upon them. Smashed and submerged were the canoes when the huge boulder thrown by Hau-pu hurled itself upon them. The chief Kaena and his canoe were in the centre of this terrible mass of wreckage, and he and many of his people lost their lives. The waves swept sand upon the shore until in time a long point of land was formed. The remaining followers of the dead chief named this cape "Kaena." The rock thrown by Hau-pu embedded itself deeply in the bed of the ocean, but its head rose far above the water, even when raging storms dashed turbulent waves against it. To this death-dealing rock the natives gave the name "Rock of Kauai." Thus for generations has the deed of the man of giant force been remembered on Oahu, and so have a cape and a rock received their names. IV KALO-EKE-EKE, THE TIMID TARO A myth is a purely imaginative story. A legend is a story with some foundation in fact. A fable tacks on a moral. A tradition is a myth or legend or fact handed down from generation to generation. The old Hawaiians were frequently myth makers. They imagined many a fairy-story for the different localities of the islands, and these are very interesting. The myth of the two taro plants belongs to South Kona, Hawaii, and affords an excellent illustration of Hawaiian imagination. The story is told in different ways, and came to the writer in the present form: A chief lived on the mountain-side above Hookena. There his people cultivated taro, made kapa cloth, and prepared the trunks of koa-trees for canoes. He had a very fine taro patch. The plants prided themselves upon their rapid and perfect growth. In one part of the taro pond, side by side, grew two taro plants--finer, stronger, and more beautiful than the others. The leaf stalks bent over in more perfect curves: the leaves developed in graceful proportions. Mutual admiration filled the hearts of the two taro plants and resulted in pledges of undying affection. One day the chief was talking to his servants about the food to be made ready for a feast. He ordered the two especially fine taro plants to be pulled up. One of the servants came to the home of the two lovers and told them that they were to be taken by the chief. Because of their great affection for each other they determined to cling to life as long as possible, and therefore moved to another part of the taro patch, leaving their neighbors to be pulled up instead of themselves. But the chief soon saw them in their new home and again ordered their destruction. Again they fled. This happened from time to time until the angry chief determined that they should be taken, no matter what part of the pond they might be in. The two taro plants thought best to flee, therefore took to themselves wings and made a short flight to a neighboring taro patch. Here again their enemy found them. A second flight was made to another part of South Kona, and then to still another, until all Kona was interested in the perpetual pursuit and the perpetual escape. At last there was no part of Kona in which they could be concealed. A friend of the angry chief would reveal their hiding-place, while one of their own friends would give warning of the coming of their pursuer. At last they leaped into the air and flew on and on until they were utterly weary and fell into a taro patch near Waiohinu. But their chief had ordered the imu (cooking-place) to be made ready for them, and had hastened along the way on foot, trying to capture them if at any time they should try to light. However, their wings moved more swiftly than his feet, so they had a little rest before he came near to their new home. Then again they lifted themselves into the sky. Favoring winds carried them along and they flew a great distance away from South Kona into the neighboring district of Kau. Here they found a new home under a kindly chief. Here they settled down and lived many years under the name of Kalo-eke-eke, or "The Timid Taro." A large family grew up about them and a happy old age blessed their declining days. It is possible that this beautiful little story may have grown out of the ancient Hawaiian unwritten law which sometimes permitted the subjects of a chief to move away from their home and transfer their allegiance to some neighboring ruler. [Illustration: FROM A TARO PATCH] V LEGENDARY CANOE-MAKING Some of the Hawaiian trees have beautifully grained wood, and at the present time are very valuable for furniture and interior decoration. The koa is probably the best of the trees of this class. It is known as the Hawaiian mahogany. The grain is very fine and curly and wavy, and is capable of a very high polish. The koa still grows luxuriantly on the steep sides and along the ridges of the high mountains of all the islands of the Hawaiian group. It has great powers of endurance. It is not easily worn by the pebbles and sand of the beach, nor is it readily split or broken by the tempestuous waves of the ocean, therefore from time immemorial the koa has been the tree for the canoe and surf-board of the Hawaiians. Long and large have been the canoes hewn from the massive tree trunks by the aid of the kohi-pohaku, the cutting stone, or adze, of ancient Hawaii. Some times these canoes were given miraculous powers of motion so that they swept through the seas more rapidly than the swiftest shark. Often the god of the winds, who had especial care over some one of the high chiefs, would carry him from island to island in a canoe which never rested when calms prevailed or stopped when fierce waves wrenched, but bore the chief swiftly and unfailingly to the desired haven. There is a delightful little story about a chief who visited the most northerly island, Kauai. He found the natives of that island feasting and revelling in all the abandon of savage life. Sports and games innumerable were enjoyed. Thus day and night passed until, as the morning of a new day dawned, an unwonted stir along the beach made manifest some event of very great importance. The new chief apparently cared but little for all the excitement. The king of the island had sent one of his royal ornaments to a small island some miles distant from the Kauai shores. He was blessed with a daughter so beautiful that all the available chiefs desired her for wife. The father, hoping to avoid the complications which threatened to involve his household with the households of the jealous suitors, announced that he would give his daughter to the man who secured the ornament from the far-away island. It was to be a canoe race with a wife for the prize. The young chiefs waited for the hour appointed. Their well-polished koa canoes lined the beach. The stranger chief made no preparation. Quietly he enjoyed the gibes and taunts hurled from one to another by the young chiefs. Laughingly he requested permission to join in the contest, receiving as the reward for his request a look of approbation from the handsome chiefess. The word was given. The well-manned canoes were pushed from the shore and forced out through the inrolling surf. In the rush some of the boats were interlocked with others, some filled with water, while others safely broke away from the rest and passed out of sight toward the coveted island. Still the stranger seemed to be in no haste to win the prize. The face of the chiefess grew dark with disappointment. At last the stranger launched his finely polished canoe and called one of his followers to sail with him. It seemed to be utterly impossible for him to even dream of securing the prize, but the canoe began to move as if it had the wings of a swift bird or the fins of fleetest fish. He had taken for his companion in his magic canoe one of the gods controlling the ocean winds. He was first to reach the island. Then he came swiftly back for his bride. He made his home among his new friends. The Hawaiians had many interesting ceremonies in connection with the process of securing the tree and fashioning it into a canoe. David Malo, a Hawaiian writer of about the year 1840, says, "The building of a canoe was a religious matter." When a man found a fine koa tree he went to the priest whose province was canoe-making and said, "I have found a koa-tree, a fine large tree." On receiving this information the priest went at night to sleep before his shrine. If in his sleep he had a vision of some one standing naked before him, he knew that the koa-tree was rotten, and would not go up into the woods to cut that tree. If another tree was found and he dreamed of a handsome well-dressed man or woman standing before him, when he awoke he felt sure that the tree would make a good canoe. Preparations were made accordingly to go into the mountains and hew the koa into a canoe. They took with them as offerings a pig, cocoanuts, red fish, and awa. Having come to the place they rested for the night, sacrificing these things to the gods. Sometimes, when a royal canoe was to be prepared, it seems as if human beings were also brought and slain at the root of the tree. There is no record of cannibalism connected with these sacrifices, and yet when the pig and fish had been offered before the tree, usually a hole was dug close to the tree and an oven prepared in which the meat and vegetables were cooked for the morning feast of the canoe-makers. The tree was carefully examined and the signs and portents noted. The song of a little bird would frequently cause an entire change in the enterprise. When the time came to cut down the tree the priest would take his stone axe and offer prayer to the male and female deities who were supposed to be the special patrons of canoe building, showing them the axe, and saying: "Listen now to the axe. This is the axe which is to cut down the tree for the canoe." David Malo says: "When the tree began to crack, ready to fall, they lowered their voices and allowed no one to make a disturbance. When the tree had fallen, the head priest mounted the trunk and called out, 'Smite with the axe, and hollow the canoe.' This was repeated again and again as he walked along the fallen tree, marking the full length of the desired canoe." Dr. Emerson gives the following as one of the prayers sometimes used by the priest when passing a long the trunk of the tree: "Grant a canoe which shall be swift as a fish To sail in stormy seas When the storm tosses on all sides." After the canoe had been roughly shaped, the ends pointed, the bottom rounded, and perhaps a portion of the inside of the log removed, the people fastened lines to the canoe to haul it down to the beach. When they were ready for the work the priest again prayed: "Oh, canoe gods, look you after this canoe. Guard it from stem to stern, until it is placed in the canoe-house." Then the canoe was hauled by the people in front, or held back by those who were in the rear, until it had passed all the hard and steep places along the mountain-side and been put in place for the finishing touches. When completed, pig and fish and fruits were again offered to the gods. Sometimes human beings were again a part of the sacrifice. Prayers and incantations were part of the ceremony. There was to be no disturbance or noise, or else it would be dangerous for its owner to go out in his new canoe. If all the people except the priest had been quiet, the canoe was pronounced safe. It is said that the ceremony of lashing the outrigger to the canoe was of very great solemnity, probably because the ability to pass through the high surf waves depended so much upon the out rigger as a balance which kept the canoe from being overturned. The story of Laka and the fairies is told to illustrate the difficulties surrounding canoe making. Laka desired to make a fine canoe, and sought through the forests for the best tree available. Taking his stone axe he toiled all day until the tree was felled. Then he went home to rest. On the morrow he could not find the log. The trees of the forest had been apparently undisturbed. Again he cut a tree, and once more could not find the log. At last he cut a tree and watched in the night. Then he saw in the night shadows a host of the little people who toil with miraculous powers to support them. They raised the tree and set it in its place and restored it to its wonted appearance among its fellows. But Laka caught the king of the gnomes and from him learned how to gain the aid rather than the opposition of the little people. By their help his canoe was taken to the shore and fashioned into beautiful shape for wonderful and successful voyages. VI LAU-KA-IEIE "Waipio valley, the beautiful: Precipices around it, The sea on one side; The precipices are hard to climb; Not to be climbed Are the sea precipices." --_Hawaiian Chant._ Kakea (the white one) and Kaholo (the runner) were the children of the Valley. Their parents were the precipices which were sheer to the sea, and could only be passed by boats. They married, and Kaholo conceived. The husband said, "If a boy is born, I will name it; if a girl, you give the name." He went up to see his sister Pokahi, and asked her to go swiftly to see his wife. Pokahi's husband was Kaukini, a bird-catcher. He went out into the forest for some birds. Soon he came back and prepared them for cooking. Hot stones were put inside the birds and the birds were packed in calabashes, carefully covered over with wet leaves, which made steam inside so the birds were well cooked. Then they were brought to Kaholo for a feast. On their way they went down to Waipio Valley, coming to the foot of the precipice. Pokahi wanted some sea-moss and some shell-fish, so she told the two men to go on while she secured these things to take to Kaholo. She gathered the soft lipoa moss and went up to the waterfall, to Ulu (Kaholo's home). The baby was born, wrapped in the moss and thrown into the sea, making a shapeless bundle, but a kupua (sorcerer) saw that a child was there. The child was taken and washed clean in the soft lipoa, and cared for. All around were the signs of the birth of a chief. They named him Hiilawe, and from him the Waipio waterfall has its name, according to the saying, "Falling into mist is the water of Hiilawe." Pokahi took up her package in which she had brought the moss and shell-fish, but the moss was gone. Hina-ulu-ohia (Hina-the-growing ohia-tree) was the sorcerer who took the child in the lipoa moss. She was the aumakua, or ancestor goddess, of the boat-builders. Pokahi dreamed that a beautiful woman appeared, her body covered with the leaves of koa-trees. "I know that you have not had any child. I will now give you one. Awake, and go to the Waipio River; watch thirty days, then you will find a girl wrapped in soft moss. This shall be your adopted child. I will show you how to care for it. Your brother and his wife must not know. Your husband alone may know about this adopted girl." Pokahi and her husband went down at once to the mouth of the river, heard an infant cry in the midst of red-colored mist, and found a child wrapped in the fragrant moss. She wished to take it up, but was held back by magic powers. She saw an ohia-tree rising up from the water,--branches, leaves, and flowers,--and iiwi (birds) coming to pick the flowers. The red birds and red flowers were very beautiful. This tree was Hina. The birds began to sing, and quietly the tree sank down into the water and disappeared, the birds flying away to the west. Pokahi returned to her brother's house, going down to the sea every day, where she saw the human form of the child growing in the shelter of that red mist on the surface of the sea. At the end of the thirty days Pokahi told her friends and her husband that they must go back home. On their way they went to the river. She told her husband to look at the red mist, but he wanted to hurry on. As they approached their house, cooking-odors welcomed them, and they found plenty of food prepared outside. They saw something moving inside. The trees seemed to be walking as if with the feet of men. Steps were heard, and voices were calling for the people of the house. Kaukini prepared a lamp, and Pokahi in a vision saw the same fine tree which she had seen before. There was also a hala-tree with its beautiful yellow blossoms. As they looked they saw leaves of different kinds falling one after another, making in one place a soft fragrant bed. Then a woman and a man came with an infant. They were the god Ku and Hina his wife. They said to Pokahi and her husband, "We have accepted your sacrifices and have seen that you are childless, so now we have brought you this child to adopt." Then they disappeared among the trees of the forest, leaving the child, Lau-ka-ieie (leaf of the ieie vine). She was well cared for and grew up into a beautiful woman without fault or blemish. Her companions and servants were the birds and the flowers. Lau-ka-pali (leaf of the precipice) was one of her friends. One day she made whistles of ti leaves, and blew them. The Leaf-of-the Morning-Glory saw that the young chiefess liked this, so she went out and found Pupu-kani-oi (the singing land-shell), whose home was on the leaves of the forest trees. Then she found another Pupu-hina-hina-ula (shell beautiful, with rainbow colors). In the night the shells sang, and their voices stole their way into the love of Lau-ka-ieie, so she gently sang with them. Nohu-ua-palai (a fern), one of the old residents of that place, went out into the forest, and, hearing the voices of the girl and the shells, came to the house. She chanted her name, but there was no reply. All was silent. At last, Pua-ohelo (the blossom of the ohelo), one of the flowers in the house, heard, and opening the door, invited her to come in and eat. Nohu-ua-palai went in and feasted with the girls. Lau-ka-ieie dreamed about Kawelona (the setting of the sun), at Lihue, a fine young man, the first-born of one of the high chiefs of Kauai. She told her kahu (guardian) all about her dream and the distant island. The kahu asked who should go to find the man of the dreams. All the girl friends wanted to go. She told them to raise their hands and the one who had the longest fingers could go. This was Pupu-kani-oi (the singing shell). The leaf family all sobbed as they bade farewell to the shell. The shell said: "Oh, my leaf-sisters Laukoa [leaf of the koa-tree] and Lauanau [leaf of the tapa, or paper-mulberry, tree], arise, go with me on my journey! Oh, my shell-sisters of the blue sea, come to the beach, to the sand! Come and show me the path I am to go! Oh, Pupu-moka-lau [the land-shell clinging to the mokahana leaf], come and look at me, for I am one of your family! Call all the shells to aid me in my journey! Come to me!" Then she summoned her brother, Makani-kau, chief of the winds, to waft them away in their wind bodies. They journeyed all around the island of Hawaii to find some man who would be like the man of the dream. They found no one there nor on any of the other islands up to Oahu, where the Singing Shell fell in love with a chief and turned from her journey, but Makani-kau went on to Kauai. Ma-eli-eli, the dragon woman of Heeia, tried to persuade him to stop, but on he went. She ran after him. Limaloa, the dragon of Laiewai, also tried to catch Makani-kau, but he was too swift. On the way to Kauai, Makani-kau saw some people in a boat chased by a big shark. He leaped on the boat and told them he would play with the shark and they could stay near but need not fear. Then he jumped into the sea. The shark turned over and opened its mouth to seize him; he climbed on it, caught its fins, and forced it to flee through the water. He drove it to the shore and made it fast among the rocks. It became a great shark stone, Koa-mano (warrior shark), at Haena. He leaped from the shark to land, the boat following. He saw the hill of "Fire-Throwing," a place where burning sticks were thrown over the precipices, a very beautiful sight at night. He leaped to the top of the hill in his shadow body. Far up on the hill was a vast number of iiwi (birds). Makani-kau went to them as they were flying toward Lehua. They only felt the force of the winds, for they could not see him or his real body. He saw that the birds were carrying a fine man as he drew near. This was the one Lau-ka-ieie desired for her husband. They carried this boy on their wings easily and gently over the hills and sea toward the sunset island, Lehua. There they slowly flew to earth. They were the bird guardians of Kawelona, and when they travelled from place to place they were under the direction of the bird-sorcerer, Kukala-a-ka-manu. Kawelona had dreamed of a beautiful girl who had visited him again and again, so he was prepared to meet Makani-kau. He told his parents and adopted guardians and bird-priests about his dreams and the beautiful girl he wanted to marry. Makani-kau met the winds of Niihau and Lehua, and at last was welcomed by the birds. He told Kawelona his mission, who prepared to go to Hawaii, asking how they should go. Makani-kau went to the seaside and called for his many bodies to come and give him the boat for the husband of their great sister Lau-ka-ieie. Thus he made known his mana, or spirit power, to Kawelona. He called on the great cloud-gods to send the long white cloud-boat, and it soon appeared. Kawelona entered the boat with fear, and in a few minutes lost sight of the island of Lehua and his bird guardians as he sailed out into the sea. Makani-kau dropped down by the side of a beautiful shell-boat, entered it, and stopped at Mana. There he took several girls and put them in a double canoe, or au-waa-olalua (spirit-boat). Meanwhile the sorcerer ruler of the birds agreed to find out where Kawelona was to satisfy the longing of his parents, whom he had left without showing them where he was going or what dangers he might meet. The sorcerer poured water into a calabash and threw in two lehua flowers, which floated on the water. Then he turned his eyes toward the sun and prayed: "Oh, great sun, to whom belongs the heavens, turn your eyes downward to look on the water in this calabash, and show us what you see therein! Look upon the beautiful young woman. She is not one from Kauai. There is no one more beautiful than she. Her home is under the glowing East, and a royal rainbow is around her. There are beautiful girls attending her." The sorcerer saw the sun-pictures in the water, and interpreted to the friends the journey of Kawelona, telling them it was a long, long way, and they must wait patiently many days for any word. In the signs he saw the boy in the cloud-boat, Makani-kau in his shell-boat, and the three girls in the spirit-boat. The girls were carried to Oahu, and there found the shell-girl, Pupu-kani-oi, left by Makani-kau on his way to Lehua. They took her with her husband and his sisters in the spirit-boat. There were nine in the company of travellers to Hawaii: Kawelona in his cloud-boat; two girls from Kauai; Kaiahe, a girl from Oahu; three from Molokai, one from Maui; and a girl called Lihau. Makani-kau himself was the leader; he had taken the girls away. On this journey he turned their boats to Kahoolawe to visit Ka-moho-alii, the ruler of the sharks. There Makani-kau appeared in his finest human body, and they all landed. Makani-kau took Kawelona from his cloud-boat, went inland, and placed him in the midst of the company, telling them he was the husband for Lau-ka-ieie. They were all made welcome by the ruler of the sharks. Ka-moho-alii called his sharks to bring food from all the islands over which they were placed as guardians; so they quickly brought prepared food, fish, flowers, leis, and gifts of all kinds. The company feasted and rested. Then Ka-moho-alii called his sharks to guard the travellers on their journey. Makani-kau went in his shell boat, Kawelona in his cloud-boat, and they were all carried over the sea until they landed under the mountains of Hawaii. Makani-kau, in his wind body, carried the boats swiftly on their journey to Waipio. Lau-ka-ieie heard her brother's voice calling her from the sea. Hina answered. Makani-kau and Kawelona went up to Waimea to cross over to Lau-ka-ieie's house, but were taken by Hina to the top of Mauna Kea. Poliahu and Lilinoe saw the two fine young men and called to them, but Makani-kau passed by, without a word, to his own wonderful home in the caves of the mountains resting in the heart of mists and fogs, and placed all his travellers there. Makani-kau went down to the sea and called the sharks of Ka-moho-alii. They appeared in their human bodies in the valley of Waipio, leaving their shark bodies resting quietly in the sea. They feasted and danced near the ancient temple of Kahuku-welo-welo, which was the place where the wonderful shell, Kiha-pu, was kept. Makani-kau put seven shells on the top of the precipice and they blew until sweet sounds floated over all the land. Thus was the marriage of Lau-ka-ieie and Kawelona celebrated. All the shark people rested, soothed by the music. After the wedding they bade farewell and returned to Kahoolawe, going around the southern side of the island, for it was counted bad luck to turn back. They must go straight ahead all the way home. Makani-kau went to his sister's house, and met the girls and Lau-ka-ieie. He told her that his house was full of strangers, as the people of the different kupua bodies had assembled to celebrate the wedding. These were the kupua people of the Hawaiian Islands. The eepa people were more like fairies and gnomes, and were usually somewhat deformed. The kupuas may be classified as follows: Ka-poe-kino-lau (the people who had leaf bodies). " " " -pua (the people who had flower bodies). " " " -manu (the people who had bird bodies). " " " -laau (trees of all kinds, ferns, vines, etc.). " " " -pupu (all shells). " " " -ao (all clouds). " " " -makani (all winds). Ka-poe-kina-ia (all fish). " " " -mano (all sharks). " " " -limu (all sea-mosses). " " " -pohaku (all peculiar stones). " " " -hiwa-hiwa (all dangerous places of the pali). After the marriage, Pupu-kani-oi (the singing shell) and her husband entered the shell-boat, and started back to Molokai. On their way they heard sweet bird voices. Makani-kau had a feather house covered with rainbow colors. Later he went to Kauai, and brought back the adopted parents of Kawelona to dwell on Hawaii, where Lau-ka-ieie lived happily with her husband. Hiilawe became very ill, and called his brother Makani-kau and his sister Lau-ka-ieie to come near and listen. He told them that he was going to die, and they must bury him where he could always see the eyes of the people, and then he would change his body into a wonderful new body. The beautiful girl took his malo and leis and placed them along the sides of the valley, where they became beautiful trees and vines, and Hina made him live again; so Hiilawe became an aumakua of the waterfalls. Makani-kau took the body in his hands and carried it in the thunder and lightning, burying it on the brow of the highest precipice of the valley. Then his body was changed into a stone, which has been lying there for centuries; but his ghost was made by Hina into a kupua, so that he could always appear as the wonderful misty falls of Waipio, looking into the eyes of his people. After many years had passed Hina assumed permanently the shape of the beautiful ohia-tree, making her home in the forest around the volcanoes of Hawaii. She still had magic power, and was worshipped under the name Hina-ula-ohia. Makani-kau watched over Lau-ka-ieie, and when the time came for her to lay aside her human body she came to him as a slender, graceful woman, covered with leaves, her eyes blazing like fire. Makani-kau said: "You are a vine; you cannot stand alone. I will carry you into the forest and place you by the side of Hina. You are the ieie vine. Climb trees! Twine your long leaves around them! Let your blazing red flowers shine between the leaves like eyes of fire! Give your beauty to all the ohia-trees of the forest!" Carried hither and thither by Makani-kau (great wind), and dropped by the side of splendid tall trees, the ieie vine has for centuries been one of the most graceful tree ornaments in all the forest life of the Hawaiian Islands. Makani-kau in his spirit form blew the golden clouds of the islands into the light of the sun, so that the Rainbow Maiden, Anuenue, might lend her garments to all her friends of the ancient days. VII KAUHUHU, THE SHARK-GOD OF MOLOKAI The story of the shark-god Kauhuhu has been told under the legend of "Aikanaka (Man-eater)," which was the ancient name of the little harbor Pukoo, which lies at the entrance to one of the beautiful valleys of the island of Molokai. The better way is to take the legend as revealing the great man-eater in one of his most kindly aspects. The shark-god appears as the friend of a priest who is seeking revenge for the destruction of his children. Kamalo was the name of the priest. His heiau, or temple, was at Kaluaaha, a village which faced the channel between the islands of Molokai and Maui. Across the channel the rugged red-brown slopes of the mountain Eeke were lost in the masses of clouds which continually hung around its sharp peaks. The two boys of the priest delighted in the glorious revelations of sunrise and sunset tossed in shattered fragments of cloud color, and revelled in the reflected tints which danced to them over the swift channel-currents. It is no wonder that the courage of sky and sea entered into the hearts of the boys, and that many deeds of daring were done by them. They were taught many of the secrets of the temple by their father, but were warned that certain things were sacred to the gods and must not be touched. The high chief, or alii, of that part of the island had a temple a short distance from Kaluaaha, in the valley of the harbor which was called Aikanaka. The name of this chief was Kupa. The chiefs always had a house built within the temple walls as their own residence, to which they could retire at certain seasons of the year. Kupa had two remarkable drums which he kept in his house at the heiau. His skill in beating his drums was so great that they could reveal his thoughts to the waiting priests. One day Kupa sailed far away over the sea to his favorite fishing-grounds. Meanwhile the boys were tempted to go to Kupa's heiau and try the wonderful drums. The valley of the little harbor Aikanaka bore the musical name Mapulehu. Along the beach and over the ridge hastened the two sons of Kamalo. Quickly they entered the heiau, found the high chief's house, took out his drums and began to beat upon them. Some of the people heard the familiar tones of the drums. They dared not enter the sacred doors of the heiau, but watched until the boys became weary of their sport and returned home. [Illustration: KUKUI-TREES, IAO VALLEY, MT. EEKE] When Kupa returned they told him how the boys had beaten upon his sacred drums. Kupa was very angry, and ordered his mu, or temple sacrifice seekers, to kill the boys and bring their bodies to the heiau to be placed on the altar. When the priest Kamalo heard of the death of his sons, in bitterness of heart he sought revenge. His own power was not great enough to cope with his high chief; therefore he sought the aid of the seers and prophets of highest repute throughout Molokai. But they feared Kupa the chief, and could not aid him, and therefore sent him on to another kaula, or prophet, or sent him back to consult some one the other side of his home. All this time he carried with him fitting presents and sacrifices, by which he hoped to gain the assistance of the gods through their priests. At last he came to the steep precipice which overlooks Kalaupapa and Kalawao, the present home of the lepers. At the foot of this precipice was a heiau, in which the great shark-god was worshipped. Down the sides of the precipice he climbed and at last found the priest of the shark-god. The priest refused to give assistance, but directed him to go to a great cave in the bold cliffs south of Kalawao. The name of the cave was Anao-puhi, the cave of the eel. Here dwelt the great shark-god Kauhuhu and his guardians or watchers, Waka and Mo-o, the great dragons or reptiles of Polynesian legends. These dragons were mighty warriors in the defence of the shark-god, and were his kahus, or caretakers, while he slept, or when his cave needed watching during his absence. Kamalo, tired and discouraged, plodded along through the rough lava fragments piled around the entrance to the cave. He bore across his shoulders a black pig, which he had carried many miles as an offering to whatever power he could find to aid him. As he came near to the cave the watchmen saw him and said:---- "E, here comes a man, food for the great [shark] Mano. Fish for Kauhuhu." But Kamalo came nearer and for some reason aroused sympathy in the dragons. "E hele! E hele!" they cried to him. "Away, away! It is death to you. Here's the tabu place." "Death it may be--life it may be. Give me revenge for my sons--and I have no care for myself." Then the watchmen asked about his trouble and he told them how the chief Kupa had slain his sons as a punishment for beating the drums. Then he narrated the story of his wanderings all over Molokai, seeking for some power strong enough to overcome Kupa. At last he had come to the shark-god--as the final possibility of aid. If Kauhuhu failed him, he was ready to die; indeed he had no wish to live. The mo-o assured him of their kindly feelings, and told him that it was a very good thing that Kauhuhu was away fishing, for if he had been home there would have been no way for him to go before the god without suffering immediate death. There would have been not even an instant for explanations. Yet they ran a very great risk in aiding him, for they must conceal him until the way was opened by the favors of the great gods. If he should be discovered and eaten before gaining the aid of the shark-god, they, too, must die with him. They decided that they would hide him in the rubbish pile of taro peelings which had been thrown on one side when they had pounded taro. Here he must lie in perfect silence until the way was made plain for him to act. They told him to watch for the coming of eight great surf waves rolling in from the sea, and then wait from his place of concealment for some opportunity to speak to the god because he would come in the last great wave. Soon the surf began to roll in and break against the cliffs. Higher and higher rose the waves until the eighth reared far above the waters and met the winds from the shore which whipped the curling crest into a shower of spray. It raced along the water and beat far up into the cave, breaking into foam, out of which the shark-god emerged. At once he took his human form and walked around the cave. As he passed the rubbish heap he cried out: "A man is here. I smell him." The dragons earnestly denied that any one was there, but the shark-god said, "There is surely a man in this cave. If I find him, dead men you are. If I find him not, you shall live." Then Kauhuhu looked along the walls of the cave and into all the hiding-places, but could not find him. He called with a loud voice, but only the echoes answered, like the voices of ghosts. After a thorough search he was turning away to attend to other matters when Kamalo's pig squealed. Then the giant shark-god leaped to the pile of taro leavings and thrust them apart. There lay Kamalo and the black pig which had been brought for sacrifice. Oh, the anger of the god! Oh, the blazing eyes! Kauhuhu instantly caught Kamalo and lifted him from the rubbish up toward his great mouth. Now the head and shoulders are in Kauhuhu's mouth. So quickly has this been done that Kamalo has had no time to think. Kamalo speaks quickly as the teeth are coming down upon him. "E Kauhuhu, listen to me. Hear my prayer. Then perhaps eat me." The shark-god is astonished and does not bite. He takes Kamalo from his mouth and says: "Well for you that you spoke quickly. Perhaps you have a good thought. Speak." Then Kamalo told about his sons and their death at the hands of the executioners of the great chief, and that no one dared avenge him, but that all the prophets of the different gods had sent him from one place to another but could give him no aid. Sure now was he that Kauhuhu alone could give him aid. Pity came to the shark-god as it had come to his dragon watchers when they saw the sad condition of Kamalo. All this time Kamalo had held the hog which he had carried with him for sacrifice. This he now offered to the shark-god. Kauhuhu, pleased and compassionate, accepted the offering, and said: "E Kamalo. If you had come for any other purpose I would eat you, but your cause is sacred. I will stand as your kahu, your guardian, and sorely punish the high chief Kupa." Then he told Kamalo to go to the heiau of the priest who told him to see the shark-god, take this priest on his shoulders, carry him over the steep precipices to his own heiau at Kaluaaha, and there live with him as a fellow-priest. They were to build a tabu fence around the heiau and put up the sacred tabu staffs of white tapa cloth. They must collect black pigs by the four hundred, red fish by the four hundred, and white chickens by the four hundred. Then they were to wait patiently for the coming of Kauhuhu. It was to be a strange coming. On the island Lanai, far to the west of the Maui channel, they should see a small cloud, white as snow, increasing until it covers the little island. Then that cloud shall cross the channel against the wind and climb the mountains of Molokai until it rests on the highest peaks over the valley where Kupa has his temple. "At that time," said Kauhuhu, "a great rainbow will span the valley. I shall be in the care of that rainbow, and you may clearly understand that I am there and will speedily punish the man who has injured you. Remember that because you came to me for this sacred cause, therefore I have spared you, the only man who has ever stood in the presence of the shark-god and escaped alive." Gladly did Kamalo go up and down precipices and along the rough hard ways to the heiau of the priest of the shark-god. Gladly did he carry him up from Kalaupapa to the mountain-ridge above. Gladly did he carry him to his home and there provide for him while he gathered together the black pigs, the red fish, and the white chickens within the sacred enclosure he had built. Here he brought his family, those who had the nearest and strongest claims upon him. When his work was done, his eyes burned with watching the clouds of the little western island Lanai. Ah, the days passed by so slowly! The weeks and the months came, so the legends say, and still Kamalo waited in patience. At last one day a white cloud appeared. It was unlike all the other white clouds he had anxiously watched during the dreary months. Over the channel it came. It spread over the hillsides and climbed the mountains and rested at the head of the valley belonging to Kupa. Then the watchers saw the glorious rainbow and knew that Kauhuhu had come according to his word. The storm arose at the head of the valley. The winds struggled into a furious gale. The clouds gathered in heavy black masses, dark as midnight, and were pierced through with terrific flashes of lightning. The rain fell in floods, sweeping the hillside down into the valley, and rolling all that was below onward in a resistless mass toward the ocean. Down came the torrent upon the heiau belonging to Kupa, tearing its walls into fragments and washing Kupa and his people into the harbor at the mouth of the valley. Here the shark-god had gathered his people. Sharks filled the bay and feasted upon Kupa and his followers until the waters ran red and all were destroyed. Hence came the legendary name for that little harbor--Aikanaka, the place for man-eaters. It is said in the legends that "when great clouds gather on the mountains and a rainbow spans the valley, look out for furious storms of wind and rain which come suddenly, sweeping down the valley." It also said in the legends that this strange storm which came in such awful power upon Kupa also spread out over the adjoining lowlands, carrying great destruction everywhere, but it paused at the tabu staff of Kamalo, and rushed on either side of the sacred fence, not daring to touch any one who dwelt therein. Therefore Kamalo and his people were spared. The legend has been called "Aikanaka" because of the feast of the sharks on the human flesh swept down into that harbor by the storm, but it seems more fitting to name the story after the shark-god Kauhuhu, who sent mighty storms and wrought great destruction. VIII THE SHARK-MAN OF WAIPIO VALLEY This is a story of Waipio Valley, the most beautiful of all the valleys of the Hawaiian Islands, and one of the most secluded. It is now, as it has always been, very difficult of access. The walls are a sheer descent of over a thousand feet. In ancient times a narrow path slanted along the face of the bluffs wherever foothold could be found. In these later days the path has been enlarged, and horse and rider can descend into the valley's depths. In the upper end of the valley is a long silver ribbon of water falling fifteen hundred feet from the brow of a precipice over which a mountain torrent swiftly hurls itself to the fertile valley below. Other falls show the convergence of other mountain streams to the ocean outlet offered by the broad plains of Waipio. Here in the long ago high chiefs dwelt and sacred temples were built. From Waipio Valley Moikeha and Laa-Mai-Kahiki sailed away on their famous voyages to distant foreign lands. In this valley dwelt the priest who in the times of Maui was said to have the winds of heaven concealed in his calabash. Raising the cover a little, he sent gentle breezes in the direction of the opening. Severe storms and hurricanes were granted by swiftly opening the cover widely and letting a chaotic mass of fierce winds escape. The stories of magical powers of bird and fish as well as of the strange deeds of powerful men are almost innumerable. Not the least of the history-myths of Waipio Valley is the story of Nanaue, the shark-man, who was one of the cannibals of the ancient time. Ka-moho-alii was the king of all the sharks which frequent Hawaiian waters. When he chose to appear as a man he was always a chief of dignified, majestic appearance. One day, while swimming back and forth just beneath the surface of the waters at the mouth of the valley, he saw an exceedingly beautiful woman coming to bathe in the white surf. That night Ka-moho-alii came to the beach black with lava sand, crawled out of the water, and put on the form of a man. As a mighty chief he walked through the valley and mingled with the people. For days he entered into their sports and pastimes and partook of their bounty, always looking for the beautiful woman whom he had seen bathing in the surf. When he found her he came to her and won her to be his wife. Kalei was the name of the woman who married the strange chief. When the time came for a child to be born to them, Ka-moho-alii charged Kalei to keep careful watch of it and guard its body continually from being seen of men, and never allow the child to eat the flesh of any animal. Then he disappeared, never permitting Kalei to have the least suspicion that he was the king of the sharks. When the child was born, Kalei gave to him the name "Nanaue." She was exceedingly surprised to find an opening in his back. As the child grew to manhood the opening developed into a large shark-mouth in rows of fierce sharp teeth. From infancy to manhood Kalei protected Nanaue by keeping his back covered with a fine kapa cloak. She was full of fear as she saw Nanaue plunge into the water and become a shark. The mouth on his back opened for any kind of prey. But she kept the terrible birthmark of her son a secret hidden in the depths of her own heart. For years she prepared for him the common articles of food, always shielding him from the temptation to eat meat. But when he became a man his grandfather took him to the men's eating-house, where his mother could no longer protect him. Meats of all varieties were given to him in great abundance, yet he always wanted more. His appetite was insatiable. While under his mother's care he had been taken to the pool of water into which the great Waipio Falls poured its cascade of water. There he bathed, and, changing himself into a shark, caught the small fish which were playing around him. His mother was always watching him to give an alarm if any of the people came near to the bathing-place. As he became a man he avoided his companions in all bathing and fishing. He went away by himself. When the people were out in the deep sea bathing or fishing, suddenly a fierce shark would appear in their midst, biting and tearing their limbs and dragging them down in the deep water. Many of the people disappeared secretly, and great terror filled the homes of Waipio. Nanaue's mother alone was certain that he was the cause of the trouble. He was becoming very bold in his depredations. Sometimes he would ask when his friends were going out in the sea; then he would go to a place at some distance, leap into the sea, and swiftly dash to intercept the return of his friends to the shore. Perhaps he would allay suspicion by appearing as a man and challenge to a swimming-race. Diving suddenly, he would in an instant become a shark and destroy his fellow-swimmer. The people felt that he had some peculiar power, and feared him. One day, when their high chief had called all the men of the valley to prepare the taro patches for their future supply of food, a fellow-workman standing by the side of Nanaue tore his kapa cape from his shoulders. The men behind cried out, "See the great shark-mouth!" All the people came running together, shouting, "A shark-man!" "A shark-man!" Nanaue became very angry and snapped his shark-teeth together. Then with bitter rage he attacked those standing near him. He seized one by the arm and bit it in two. He tore the flesh of another in ragged gashes. Biting and snapping from side to side he ran toward the sea. The crowd of natives surrounded him and blocked his way. He was thrown down and tied. The mystery had now passed from the valley. The people knew the cause of the troubles through which they had been passing, and all crowded around to see this wonderful thing, part man and part shark. The high chief ordered their largest oven to be prepared, that Nanaue might be placed therein and burned alive. The deep pit was quickly cleaned out by many willing hands, and, with much noise and rejoicing, fire was placed within and the stones for heating were put in above the fire. "We are ready for the shark-man," was the cry. During the confusion Nanaue quietly made his plans to escape. Suddenly changing himself to a shark, the cords which bound him fell off and he rolled into one of the rivers which flowed from the falls in the upper part of the valley. None of the people dared to spring into the water for a hand-to-hand fight with the monster. They ran along the bank, throwing stones at Nanaue and bruising him. They called for spears that they might kill him, but he made a swift rush to the sea and swam away, never again to return to Waipio Valley. Apparently Nanaue could not live long in the ocean. The story says that he swam over to the island of Maui and landed near the village Hana. There he dwelt for some time, and married a chiefess. Meanwhile he secretly killed and ate some of the people. At last his appetite for human flesh made him so bold that he caught a beautiful young girl and carried her out into the deep waters. There he changed himself into a shark and ate her body in the sight of the people. The Hawaiians became very angry. They launched their canoes, and, throwing in all kinds of weapons, pushed out to kill their enemy. But he swam swiftly away, passing around the island until at last he landed on Molokai. [Illustration: A TRUSTY FISHERMAN] Again he joined himself to the people, and again one by one those who went bathing and fishing disappeared. The priests (kahunas) of the people at last heard from their fellow-priests of the island of Maui that there was a dangerous shark-man roaming through the islands. They sent warning to the people, urging all trusty fishermen to keep strict watch. At last they saw Nanaue change himself into a great fish. The fishermen waged a fierce battle against him. They entangled him in their nets, they pierced him with spears and struck him with clubs until the waters were red with his blood. They called on the gods of the sea to aid them. They uttered prayers and incantations. Soon Nanaue lost strength and could not throw off the ropes which were tied around him, nor could he break the nets in which he was entangled. The fishermen drew him to the shore, and the people dragged the great shark body up the hill Puu-mano. Then they cut the body into small pieces and burned them in a great oven. Thus died Nanaue, whose cannibal life was best explained by giving to him in mythology the awful appetite of an insatiable man-eating shark. IX THE STRANGE BANANA SKIN Kukali, according to the folk-lore of Hawaii, was born at Kalapana, the most southerly point of the largest island of the Hawaiian group. Kukali lived hundreds of years ago in the days of the migrations of Polynesians from one group of islands to another throughout the length and breadth of the great Pacific Ocean. He visited strange lands, now known under the general name, Kahiki, or Tahiti. Here he killed the great bird Halulu, found the deep bottomless pit in which was a pool of the fabled water of life, married the sister of Halulu, and returned to his old home. All this he accomplished through the wonderful power of a banana skin. Kukali's father was a priest, or kahuna, of great wisdom and ability, who taught his children how to exercise strange and magical powers. To Kukali he gave a banana with the impressive charge to preserve the skin whenever he ate the fruit, and be careful that it was always under his control. He taught Kukali the wisdom of the makers of canoes and also how to select the fine-grained lava for stone knives and hatchets, and fashion the blade to the best shape. He instructed the young man in the prayers and incantations of greatest efficacy and showed him charms which would be more powerful than any charms his enemies might use in attempting to destroy him, and taught him those omens which were too powerful to be overcome. Thus Kukali became a wizard, having great confidence in his ability to meet the craft of the wise men of distant islands. Kukali went inland through the forests and up the mountains, carrying no food save the banana which his father had given him. Hunger came, and he carefully stripped back the skin and ate the banana, folding the skin once more together. In a little while the skin was filled with fruit. Again and again he ate, and as his hunger was satisfied the fruit always again filled the skin, which he was careful never to throw away or lose. The fever of sea-roving was in the blood of the Hawaiian people in those days, and Kukali's heart burned within him with the desire to visit the far-away lands about which other men told marvelous tales and from which came strangers like to the Hawaiians in many ways. After a while he went to the forests and selected trees approved by the omens, and with many prayers fashioned a great canoe in which to embark upon his journey. The story is not told of the days passed on the great stretches of water as he sailed on and on, guided by the sun in the day and the stars in the night, until he came to the strange lands about which he had dreamed for years. His canoe was drawn up on the shore and he lay down for rest. Before falling asleep he secreted his magic banana in his malo, or loin-cloth, and then gave himself to deep slumber. His rest was troubled with strange dreams, but his weariness was great and his eyes heavy, and he could not arouse himself to meet the dangers which were swiftly surrounding him. A great bird which lived on human flesh was the god of the land to which he had come. The name of the bird was Halulu. Each feather of its wings was provided with talons and seemed to be endowed with human powers. Nothing like this bird was ever known or seen in the beautiful Hawaiian Islands. But here in the mysterious foreign land it had its deep valley, walled in like the valley of the Arabian Nights, over which the great bird hovered looking into the depths for food. A strong wind always attended the coming of Halulu when he sought the valley for his victims. Kukali was lifted on the wings of the bird-god and carried to this hole and quietly laid on the ground to finish his hour of deep sleep. When Kukali awoke he found himself in the shut-in valley with many companions who had been captured by the great bird and placed in this prison hole. They had been without food and were very weak. Now and then one of the number would lie down to die. Halulu, the bird-god, would perch on a tree which grew on the edge of the precipice and let down its wing to sweep across the floor of the valley and pick up the victims lying on the ground. Those who were strong could escape the feathers as they brushed over the bottom and hide in the crevices in the walls, but day by day the weakest of the prisoners were lifted out and prepared for Halulu's feast. Kukali pitied the helpless state of his fellow-prisoners and prepared his best incantations and prayers to help him overcome the great bird. He took his wonderful banana and fed all the people until they were very strong. He taught them how to seek stones best fitted for the manufacture of knives and hatchets. Then for days they worked until they were all well armed with sharp stone weapons. While Kukali and his fellow-prisoners were making preparation for the final struggle, the bird-god had often come to his perch and put his wing down into the valley, brushing the feathers back and forth to catch his prey. Frequently the search was fruitless. At last he became very impatient, and sent his strongest feathers along the precipitous walls, seeking for victims. Kukali and his companions then ran out from their hiding-places and fought the strong feathers, cutting them off and chopping them into small pieces. Halulu cried out with pain and anger, and sent feather after feather into the prison. Soon one wing was entirely destroyed. Then the other wing was broken to pieces and the bird-god in his insane wrath put down a strong leg armed with great talons. Kukali uttered mighty invocations and prepared sacred charms for the protection of his friends. After a fierce battle they cut off the leg and destroyed the talons. Then came the struggle with the remaining leg and claws, but Kukali's friends had become very bold. They fearlessly gathered around this enemy, hacking and pulling until the bird-god, screaming with pain, fell into the pit among the prisoners, who quickly cut the body into fragments. The prisoners made steps in the walls, and by the aid of vines climbed out of their prison. When they had fully escaped, they gathered great piles of branches and trunks of trees and threw them into the prison until the body of the bird-god was covered. Fire was thrown down and Halulu was burned to ashes. Thus Kukali taught by his charms that Halulu could be completely destroyed. But two of the breast feathers of the burning Halulu flew away to his sister, who lived in a great hole which had no bottom. The name of this sister was Namakaeha. She belonged to the family of Pele, the goddess of volcanic fires, who had journeyed to Hawaii and taken up her home in the crater of the volcano Kilauea. Namakaeha smelled smoke on the feathers which came to her, and knew that her brother was dead. She also knew that he could have been conquered only by one possessing great magical powers. So she called to his people: "Who is the great kupua [wizard] who has killed my brother? Oh, my people, keep careful watch." Kukali was exploring all parts of the strange land in which he had already found marvelous adventures. By and by he came to the great pit in which Namakaeha lived. He could not see the bottom, so he told his companions he was going down to see what mysteries were concealed in this hole without a bottom. They made a rope of the hau tree bark. Fastening one end around his body he ordered his friends to let him down. Uttering prayers and incantations he went down and down until, owing to counter incantations of Namakaeha's priests, who had been watching, the rope broke and he fell. Down he went swiftly, but, remembering the prayer which a falling man must use to keep him from injury, he cried, "O Ku! guard my life!" In the ancient Hawaiian mythology there was frequent mention of "the water of life." Sometimes the sick bathed in it and were healed. Sometimes it was sprinkled upon the unconscious, bringing them back to life. Kukali's incantation was of great power, for it threw him into a pool of the water of life and he was saved. One of the kahunas (priests) caring for Namakaeha was a very great wizard. He saw the wonderful preservation of Kukali and became his friend. He warned Kukali against eating anything that was ripe, because it would be poison, and even the most powerful charms could not save him. Kukali thanked him and went out among the people. He had carefully preserved his wonderful banana skin, and was able to eat apparently ripe fruit and yet be perfectly safe. The kahunas of Namakaeha tried to overcome him and destroy him, but he conquered them, killed those who were bad, and entered into friendship with those who were good. At last he came to the place where the great chiefess dwelt. Here he was tested in many ways. He accepted the fruits offered him, but always ate the food in his magic banana. Thus he preserved his strength and conquered even the chiefess and married her. After living with her for a time he began to long for his old home in Hawaii. Then he persuaded her to do as her relative Pele had already done, and the family, taking their large canoe, sailed away to Hawaii, their future home. X THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN This is not a Hawaiian legend. It was written to show the superstitions of the Hawaiians, and in that respect it is accurate and worthy of preservation. Far away in New England one of the rugged mountain-sides has for many years been marked with the profile of a grand face. A noble brow, deep-set eyes, close-shut lips, Roman nose, and chin standing in full relief against a clear sky, made a landmark renowned throughout the country. The story is told of a boy who lived in the valley from which the face of the Old Man of the Mountain could be most clearly seen. As the years passed, the boy grew into a man of sterling character. When at last death came and the casket opened to receive the body of an old man, universally revered, the friends saw the likeness to the stone features of the Old Man of the Mountain, and recognized the source of the inspiration which had made one life useful and honored. Near Honolulu, just beyond one of the great sugar plantations, is a ledge of lava deposited centuries ago. The lava was piled up into mountains, now dissolved into slopes of the richest sugar-land in the world. And yet sometimes the hard lava, refusing to disintegrate, thrusts itself out from the hillsides in ledges of grotesque form. [Illustration] On one of these ancient lava ridges was the outline of an old man's face, to which the Hawaiians have given the name, "The Old Man of the Mountain." The laborers on the sugar-plantations, the passengers on the railroad trains, and the natives who still cling to their scattered homes sometimes have looked with superstitious awe upon the face made without hands. In the days gone by they have called it the "Akuapohaku" (the stone god). Shall we hear the story of Kamakau, who at some time in the indefinite past dwelt in the shadow of the stone face? Kamakau means "the afraid." His name came to him as a child. He was a shrinking, sensitive, imaginative little fellow. He was surrounded by influences which turned his imagination into the paths of most unwholesome superstition. But beyond the beliefs of most of his fellows, in his own nature he was keenly appreciative of mysterious things. There was a spirit voice in every wind rustling the tops of the trees. Spirit faces appeared in unnumbered caricatures of human outline whenever he lay on the grass and watched the sunlight sift between the leaves. Everything he looked upon or heard assumed some curious form of life. The clouds were most mysterious of all, for they so frequently piled up mass upon mass of grandeur, in such luxurious magnificence and such prodigal display of color, that his power of thought lost itself in his almost daily dream of some time-wandering in the shadow valleys of the precipitous mountains of heaven. Here he saw also strangely symmetrical forms of man and bird and fish. Sometimes cloud forests outlined themselves against the blue sky, and then again at times separated by months and even years, the lights of the volcano-goddess, Pele, glorified her path as she wandered in the spirit land, flashing from cloud-peak to cloud-peak, while the thunder voices of the great gods rolled in mighty volumes of terrific impressiveness. Even in the night Kamakau felt that the innumerable stars were the eyes of the aumakuas (the spirits of the ancestors). It was not strange that such a child should continually think that he saw spirit forms which were invisible to his companions. It is no wonder that he fancied he heard voices of the menehunes (fairies), which his companions could never understand. As he shrunk from places where it seemed to him the spirits dwelt, his companions called him "Kamakau," "the afraid." When he grew older he necessarily became keenly alive to all objects of Hawaiian superstition. He never could escape the overwhelming presence of the thousand and more gods which were supposed to inhabit the Hawaiian land and sea. The omens drawn from sacrifices, the voices from the bamboo dwelling-places of the oracles, the chants of the prophets, and powers of praying to death he accepted with unquestioning faith. Two men were hunting in the forests of the mountains of Oahu. Tired with the long chase after the oo, the bird with the rare yellow feathers from which the feather cloaks of the highest chiefs were made, they laid aside spears and snares and lay down for a rest. "I want the valley of the stone god," said one: "its fertile fields would make just the increase needed for my retainers, and the 'moi,' the king, would give me the land if Kamakau were out of the way." "Are there any other members of his family, O Inaina, who could resist your claim?" "No, my friend Kokua. He is the only important chief in the valley." "Pray him to death," was Kokua's sententious advice. "Good; I'll do it," said Inaina: "he is one who can easily be prayed to death. 'The Afraid' will soon die." "If you will give me the small fish-pond nearest my own coral fish-walls I will be your messenger," said Kokua. "Ah, that also is good," replied Inaina, after a moment's thought. "I will give you the small pond, and you must give the small thoughts, the hints, to his friends that powerful priests are praying Kamakau to death. All this must be very mysterious. No name can be mentioned, and you and I must be Kamakau's good friends." It must be remembered that land tenure in ancient Hawaii was almost the same as that of the European feudal system. Occupancy depended upon the will of the high chief. He gave or took away at his own pleasure. The under-chiefs held the land as if it belonged to them, and were seldom troubled as long as the wishes of the high chief, or king, were carried out. Inaina felt secure in the use of his present property, and believed that he could easily find favor and obtain the land held by the Kamakau family if Kamakau himself could be removed. Without much further conference the two hunters returned to their homes. Inaina at once sought his family priest and stated his wish to have Kamakau prayed to death. They decided that the first step should be taken that night. It was absolutely necessary that something which had been a part of the body of Kamakau should be obtained. The priest appointed his confidential hunter of sacrifices to undertake this task. This servant of the temple was usually sent out to find human sacrifices to be slain and offered before the great gods on special occasions. As the darkness came on he crept near the grass house of Kamakau and watched for an opportunity of seizing what he wanted. The two most desired things in the art of praying to death were either a lock of hair from the head of the victim or a part of the spittle, usually well guarded by the trusted retainers who had charge of the spittoon. It chanced to be "Awa night" for Kamakau, and the chief, having drunk heavily of the drug, had thrown himself on a mat and rolled near the grass walls. With great ingenuity the hunter of sacrifices located the chief and worked a hole through the thatch. Then with his sharp bone knife he sawed off a large lock of Kamakau's hair. When this was done he was about to creep away, but a native came near. Instantly grunting like a hog, he worked his way into the darkness. He saw outlined against the sky in the hands of the native the chief's spittoon. In a moment the hunter of sacrifices saw his opportunity. His past training in lying in wait and capturing men for sacrifice stood him in good stead at this time. The unsuspecting spittoon-carrier was seized by the throat and quickly strangled. The spittoon in falling from the retainer's hand had not been overturned. Exultant at his success, the hunter of sacrifices sped away in the darkness and placed his trophies in the hands of the priest. The next morning there was a great outcry in Kamakau's village. The dead body was found as soon as dawn crept over the valley, and the hand-polished family calabash was completely lost. When the people went to Kamakau's house with the report of the death of his retainer, they soon saw that the head of their chief had been dishonored. A great feeling of fear took possession of the village. Kamakau's priest hurried to the village temple to utter prayers and incantations against the enemy who had committed such an outrage. Kokua soon heard the news and came to comfort his neighbor. After the greeting, "Auwe! auwe!" (Alas! alas!) Kokua said: "This is surely praying to death, and the gods have already given you over into the hands of your enemy. You will die. Very soon you will die." Soon Inaina and other chiefs came with their retainers. Among high and low the terrible statement was whispered: "Kamakau is being prayed to death, and no man knows his enemy." Many a strong man has gone to a bed of continued illness, and some have crossed the dark valley into the land of death, even in these days of enlightened civilization, simply frightened into the illness or death by the strong statements of friends and acquaintances. Such is the make-up of the minds of men that they are easily affected by the mysterious suggestions of others. It is purely a matter of mind-murder. It is no wonder that in the days of the long ago Kamakau, moved by the terror of his friends and horrible suggestions of his two enemies, soon felt a great weakness conquering him. His natural disposition, his habit of seeing and hearing gods and spirits in everything around him, made it easy for him to yield to the belief that he was being prayed to death. His strength left him. He could take no food. A strange paralysis seemed to take possession of him. Mind and body were almost benumbed. He was really in the hands of unconscious mesmerists, who were putting him into a magnetic sleep, from which he was never expected to awake. It is a question to be answered only when all earthly problems have been solved. How many of the people prayed to death have really been dissected and prepared for burial while at first under mesmeric influences! The people gathered around Kamakau's thatched house. They thought that he would surely die before the next morning dawned. Inaina and Kokua were lying on the grass under the shade of a great candlenut-tree, quietly talking about the speedy success of their undertaking. A little girl was playing near them. It was Kamakau's little Aloha. This was all the name so far given to her. She was "My Aloha," "my dear one," to both father and mother. She heard a word uttered incautiously. Inaina had spoken with the accent of success and his voice was louder than he thought. He said, "We have great strength if we kill Kamakau." The child fled to her father. She found him in the half-unconscious state already described. She shook him. She called to him. She pulled his hands, and covered his face with kisses. Her tears poured over his hot, dry skin. Kamakau was aroused by the shock. He sat up, forgetting all the expectation of death. Out through the doorway he glanced toward the west. The sinking sun was sending its most glorious beams into the grand clouds, while just beneath, reflecting the glory, lay the Old Man of the Mountain. The stone face was magnificent in its setting. The unruffled brow, the never-closing eyes, the firm lips, stood out in bold relief against the glory which was over and beyond them. Kamakau caught the inspiration. It seemed to his vivid imagination as if ten thousand good spirits were gathered in the heavens to fight for him. He leaped to his feet, strength came back into the wearied muscles, a new will-power took possession of him, and he cried: "I will not die! I will not die! The stone god is more powerful than the priests who pray to death!" His will had broken away from its chains, and, unfettered from all fear, Kamakau went forth to greet the wondering people and take up again the position of influence held among the chiefs of Oahu. The lesson is still needed in these beautiful ocean-bound islands that praying to death means either the use of poison or the attempt to terrify the victim by strong mental forces enslaving the will. In either case the aroused will is powerful in both resistance and watchfulness. XI HAWAIIAN GHOST TESTING Manoa Valley for centuries has been to the Hawaiians the royal palace of rainbows. The mountains at the head of the valley were gods whose children were the divine wind and rain from whom was born the beautiful rainbow-maiden who plays in and around the valley day and night whenever misty showers are touched by sunlight or moonlight. The natives of the valley usually give her the name of Kahalaopuna, or The Hala of Puna. Sometimes, however, they call her Kaikawahine Anuenue, or The Rainbow Maiden. The rainbow, the anuenue, marks the continuation of the legendary life of Kahala. The legend of Kahala is worthy of record in itself, but connected with the story is a very interesting account of an attempt to discover and capture ghosts according to the methods supposed to be effective by the Hawaiian witch doctors or priests of the long, long ago. The legends say that the rainbow-maiden had two lovers, one from Waikiki, and one from Kamoiliili, half-way between Manoa and Waikiki. Both wanted the beautiful arch to rest over their homes, and the maiden, the descendant of the gods, to dwell therein. Kauhi, the Waikiki chief, was of the family of Mohoalii, the shark-god, and partook of the shark's cruel nature. He became angry with the rainbow-maiden and killed her and buried the body, but her guardian god, Pueo, the owl, scratched away the earth and brought her to life. Several times this occurred, and the owl each time restored the buried body to the wandering spirit. At last the chief buried the body deep down under the roots of a large koa-tree. The owl-god scratched and pulled, but the roots of the tree were many and strong. His claws were entangled again and again. At last he concluded that life must be extinct and so deserted the place. The spirit of the murdered girl was wandering around hoping that it could be restored to the body, and not be compelled to descend to Milu, the Under-world of the Hawaiians. Po was sometimes the Under-world, and Milu was the god ruling over Po. The Hawaiian ghosts did not go to the home of the dead as soon as they were separated from the body. Many times, as when rendered unconscious, it was believed that the spirit had left the body, but for some reason had been able to come back into it and enjoy life among friends once more. Kahala, the rainbow-maiden, was thus restored several times by the owl-god, but with this last failure it seemed to be certain that the body would grow cold and stiff before the spirit could return. The spirit hastened to and fro in great distress, trying to attract attention. If a wandering spirit could interest some one to render speedy aid, the ancient Hawaiians thought that a human being could place the spirit back in the body. Certain prayers and incantations were very effective in calling the spirit back to its earthly home. The Samoans had the same thought concerning the restoration of life to one who had become unconscious, and had a special prayer, which was known as the prayer of life, by which the spirit was persuaded to return into its old home. The Hervey Islanders also had this same conception of any unconscious condition. They thought the spirit left the body but when persuaded to do so returned and brought the body back to life. They have a story of a woman who, like the rainbow-maiden, was restored to life several times. The spirit of Kahala was almost discouraged. The shadows of real death were encompassing her, and the feeling of separation from the body was becoming more and more permanent. At last she saw a noble young chief approaching. He was Mahana, the chief of Kamoiliili. The spirit hovered over him and around him and tried to impress her anguish upon him. Mahana felt the call of distress, and attributed it to the presence of a ghost, or aumakua, a ghost-god. He was conscious of an influence leading him toward a large koa-tree. There he found the earth disturbed by the owl-god. He tore aside the roots and discovered the body bruised and disfigured and yet recognized it as the body of the rainbow-maiden whom he had loved. In the King Kalakaua version of the story Mahana is represented as taking the body, which was still warm, to his home in Kamoiliili. Mahana's elder brother was a kahuna, or witch-doctor, of great celebrity. He was called at once to pronounce the prayers and invocations necessary for influencing the spirit and the body to reunite. Long and earnestly the kahuna practised all the arts with which he was acquainted and yet completely failed. In his anxiety he called upon the spirits of two sisters who, as aumakuas, watched over the welfare of Mahana's clan. These spirit-sisters brought the spirit of the rainbow-maiden to the bruised body and induced it to enter the feet. Then, by using the forces of spirit-land, while the kahuna chanted and used his charms, they pushed the spirit of Kahala slowly up the body until "the soul was once more restored to its beautiful tenement." The spirit-sisters then aided Mahana in restoring the wounded body to its old vigor and beauty. Thus many days passed in close comradeship between Kahala and the young chief, and they learned to care greatly for one another. But while Kauhi lived it was unsafe for it to be known that Kahala was alive. Mahana determined to provoke Kauhi to personal combat; therefore he sought the places which Kauhi frequented for sport and gambling. Bitter words were spoken and fierce anger aroused until at last, by the skilful use of Kahala's story, Mahana led Kauhi to admit that he had killed the rainbow-maiden and buried her body. Mahana said that Kahala was now alive and visiting his sisters. Kauhi declared that if there was any one visiting Mahana's home it must be an impostor. In his anger against Mahana he determined a more awful death than could possibly come from any personal conflict. He was so sure that Kahala was dead that he offered to be baked alive in one of the native imus, or ovens, if she should be produced before the king and the principal chiefs of the district. Akaaka, the grandfather of Kahala, one of the mountain-gods of Manoa Valley, was to be one of the judges. This proposition suited Mahana better than a conflict, in which there was a possibility of losing his own life. Kauhi now feared that some deception might be practised. His proposition had been so eagerly accepted that he became suspicious; therefore he consulted the sorcerers of his own family. They agreed that it was possible for some powerful kahuna to present the ghost of the murdered maiden and so deceive the judges. They decided that it was necessary to be prepared to test the ghosts. If it could be shown that ghosts were present, then the aid of "spirit catchers" from the land of Milu could be invoked. Spirits would seize these venturesome ghosts and carry them away to the spirit-land, where special punishments should be meted out to them. It was supposed that "spirit catchers" were continually sent out by Milu, king of the Under-world. How could these ghosts be detected? They would certainly appear in human form and be carefully safeguarded. The chief sorcerer of Kauhi's family told Kauhi to make secretly a thorough test. This could be done by taking the large and delicate leaves of the ape-plant and spreading them over the place where Kahala must walk and sit before the judges. A human being could not touch these leaves so carefully placed without tearing and bruising them. A ghost walking upon them could not make any impression. Untorn leaves would condemn Mahana to the ovens to be baked alive, and the spirit catchers would be called by the sorcerers to seize the escaped ghost and carry it back to spirit-land. Of course, if some other maid of the islands had pretended to be Kahala, that could be easily determined by her divine ancestor Akaaka. The trial was really a test of ghosts, for the presence of Kahala as a spirit in her former human likeness was all that Kauhi and his chief sorcerer feared. The leaves were selected with great care and secretly placed so that no one should touch them but Kahala. There was great interest in this strange contest for a home in a burning oven. The imus had been prepared: the holes had been dug, and the stones and wood necessary for the sacrifice laid close at hand. The king and judges were in their places. The multitude of retainers stood around at a respectful distance. Kauhi and his chief sorcerer were placed where they could watch closely every movement of the maiden who should appear before the judgment-seat. Kahala, the rainbow-maiden, with all the beauty of her past girlhood restored to her, drew near, attended by the two spirit-sisters who had saved and protected her. The spirits knew at once the ghost test by which Kahala was to be tried. They knew also that she had nothing to fear, but they must not be discovered. The test applied to Kahala would only make more evident the proof that she was a living human being, but that same test would prove that they were ghosts, and the spirit-catchers would be called at once and they would be caught and carried away for punishment. The spirit-sisters could not try to escape. Any such attempt would arouse suspicion and they would be surely seized. The ghost-testing was a serious ordeal for Kahala and her friends. The spirit-sisters whispered to Kahala, telling her the purpose attending the use of the ape leaves and asking her to break as many of them on either side of her as she could without attracting undue attention. Thus she could aid her own cause and also protect the sister-spirits. Slowly and with great dignity the beautiful rainbow-maiden and her friends passed through the crowds of eager attendants to their places before the king. Kahala bruised and broke as many of the leaves as she could quietly. She was recognized at once as the child of the divine rain and wind of Manoa Valley. There was no question concerning her bodily presence. The torn leaves afforded ample and indisputable testimony. Kauhi, in despair, recognized the girl whom he had several times tried to slay. In bitter disappointment at the failure of his ghost-test the chief sorcerer, as the Kalakaua version of this legend says, "declared that he saw and felt the presence of spirits in some manner connected with her." These spirits, he claimed, must be detected and punished. A second form of ghost-testing was proposed by Akaaka, the mountain-god. This was a method frequently employed throughout all the islands of the Hawaiian group. It was believed that any face reflected in a pool or calabash of water was a spirit face. Many times had ghosts been discovered in this way. The face in the water had been grasped by the watcher, crushed between his hands, and the spirit destroyed. The chief sorcerer eagerly ordered a calabash of water to be quickly brought and placed before him. In his anxiety to detect and seize the spirits who might be attending Kahala he forgot about himself and leaned over the calabash. His own spirit face was the only one reflected on the surface of the water. This spirit face was believed to be his own true spirit escaping for the moment from the body and bathing in the liquid before him. Before he could leap back and restore his spirit to his body Akaaka leaped forward, thrust his hands down into the water and seized and crushed this spirit face between his mighty hands. Thus it was destroyed before it could return to its home of flesh and blood. The chief sorcerer fell dead by the side of the calabash by means of which he had hoped to destroy the friends of the rainbow-maiden. In this trial of the ghosts the two most powerful methods of making a test as far as known among the ancient Hawaiians were put in practice. Kauhi was punished for his crimes against Kahala. He was baked alive in the imu prepared on his own land at Waikiki. His lands and retainers were given to Kahala and Mahana. The story of Kahala and her connection with the rainbows and waterfalls of Manoa Valley has been told from time to time in the homes of the nature-loving native residents of the valley. XII HOW MILU BECAME THE KING OF GHOSTS Lono was a chief living on the western side of the island Hawaii. He had a very red skin and strange-looking eyes. His choice of occupation was farming. This man had never been sick. One time he was digging with the oo, a long sharp-pointed stick or spade. A man passed and admired him. The people said, "Lono has never been sick." The man said, "He will be sick." Lono was talking about that man and at the same time struck his oo down with force and cut his foot. He shed much blood, and fainted, falling to the ground. A man took a pig, went after the stranger, and let the pig go, which ran to this man. The stranger was Kamaka, a god of healing. He turned and went back at the call of the messenger, taking some popolo fruit and leaves in his cloak. When he came to the injured man he asked for salt, which he pounded into the fruit and leaves and placed in coco cloth and bound it on the wound, leaving it a long time. Then he went away. As he journeyed on he heard heavy breathing, and turning saw Lono, who said, "You have helped me, and so I have left my lands in the care of my friends, directing them what to do, and have hastened after you to learn how to heal other people." The god said, "Lono, open your mouth!" This Lono did, and the god spat in his mouth, so that the saliva could be taken into every part of Lono's body. Thus a part of the god became a part of Lono, and he became very skilful in the use of all healing remedies. He learned about the various diseases and the medicines needed for each. The god and Lono walked together, Lono receiving new lessons along the way, passing through the districts of Kau, Puna, Hilo, and then to Hamakua. The god said, "It is not right for us to stay together. You can never accomplish anything by staying with me. You must go to a separate place and give yourself up to healing people." Lono turned aside to dwell in Waimanu and Waipio Valleys and there began to practise healing, becoming very noted, while the god Kamaka made his home at Ku-kui-haele. This god did not tell the other gods of the medicines that he had taught Lono. One of the other gods, Kalae, was trying to find some way to kill Milu, and was always making him sick. Milu, chief of Waipio, heard of the skill of Lono. Some had been sick even to death, and Lono had healed them. Therefore Milu sent a messenger to Lono who responded at once, came and slapped Milu all over the body, and said: "You are not ill. Obey me and you shall be well." Then he healed him from all the sickness inside the body caused by Kalae. But there was danger from outside, so he said: "You must build a ti-leaf house and dwell there quietly for some time, letting your disease rest. If a company should come by the house making sport, with a great noise, do not go out, because when you go they will come up and get you for your death. Do not open the ti leaves and look out. The day you do this you shall die." Some time passed and the chief remained in the house, but one day there was the confused noise of many people talking and shouting around his house. He did not forget the command of Lono. Two birds were sporting in a wonderful way in the sky above the forest. This continued all day until it was dark. Then another long time passed and again Waipio was full of resounding noises. A great bird appeared in the sky resplendent in all kinds of feathers, swaying from side to side over the valley, from the top of one precipice across to the top of another, in grand flights passing over the heads of the people, who shouted until the valley re-echoed with the sound. Milu became tired of that great noise and could not patiently obey his physician, so he pushed aside some of the ti leaves of his house and looked out upon the bird. That was the time when the bird swept down upon the house, thrusting a claw under Milu's arm, tearing out his liver. Lono saw this and ran after the bird, but it flew swiftly to a deep pit in the lava on one side of the valley and dashed inside, leaving blood spread on the stones. Lono came, saw the blood, took it and wrapped it in a piece of tapa cloth and returned to the place where the chief lay almost dead. He poured some medicine into the wound and pushed the tapa and blood inside. Milu was soon healed. The place where the bird hid with the liver of Milu is called to this day Ke-ake-o-Milu ("The liver of Milu"). When this death had passed away he felt very well, even as before his trouble. Then Lono told him that another death threatened him and would soon appear. He must dwell in quietness. For some time Milu was living in peace and quiet after this trouble. Then one day the surf of Waipio became very high, rushing from far out even to the sand, and the people entered into the sport of surf-riding with great joy and loud shouts. This noise continued day by day, and Milu was impatient of the restraint and forgot the words of Lono. He went out to bathe in the surf. When he came to the place of the wonderful surf he let the first and second waves go by, and as the third came near he launched himself upon it while the people along the beach shouted uproariously. He went out again into deeper water, and again came in, letting the first and second waves go first. As he came to the shore the first and second waves were hurled back from the shore in a great mass against the wave upon which he was riding. The two great masses of water struck and pounded Milu, whirling and crowding him down, while the surf-board was caught in the raging, struggling waters and thrown out toward the shore. Milu was completely lost in the deep water. The people cried: "Milu is dead! The chief is dead!" The god Kalae thought he had killed Milu, so he with the other poison-gods went on a journey to Mauna Loa. Kapo and Pua, the poison-gods, or gods of death, of the island Maui, found them as they passed, and joined the company. They discovered a forest on Molokai, and there as kupua spirits, or ghost bodies, entered into the trees of that forest, so the trees became the kupua bodies. They were the medicinal or poison qualities in the trees. Lono remained in Waipio Valley, becoming the ancestor and teacher of all the good healing priests of Hawaii, but Milu became the ruler of the Under-world, the place where the spirits of the dead had their home after they were driven away from the land of the living. Many people came to him from time to time. He established ghostly sports like those which his subjects had enjoyed before death. They played the game kilu with polished cocoanut shells, spinning them over a smooth surface to strike a post set up in the centre. He taught konane, a game commonly called "Hawaiian checkers," but more like the Japanese game of "Go." He permitted them to gamble, betting all the kinds of property found in ghost-land. They boxed and wrestled; they leaped from precipices into ghostly swimming-pools; they feasted and fought, sometimes attempting to slay each other. Thus they lived the ghost life as they had lived on earth. Sometimes the ruler was forgotten and the ancient Hawaiians called the Under-world by his name--Milu. The New Zealanders frequently gave their Under-world the name "Miru." They also supposed that the ghosts feasted and sported as they had done while living. XIII A VISIT TO THE KING OF GHOSTS When any person lay in an unconscious state, it was supposed by the ancient Hawaiians that death had taken possession of the body and opened the door for the spirit to depart. Sometimes if the body lay like one asleep the spirit was supposed to return to its old home. One of the Hawaiian legends weaves their deep-rooted faith in the spirit-world into the expressions of one who seemed to be permitted to visit that ghost-land and its king. This legend belonged to the island of Maui and the region near the village Lahaina. Thus was the story told: Ka-ilio-hae (the wild dog) had been sick for days and at last sank into a state of unconsciousness. The spirit of life crept out of the body and finally departed from the left eye into a corner of the house, buzzing like an insect. Then he stopped and looked back over the body he had left. It appeared to him like a massive mountain. The eyes were deep caves, into which the ghost looked. Then the spirit became afraid and went outside and rested on the roof of the house. The people began to wail loudly and the ghost fled from the noise to a cocoanut-tree and perched like a bird in the branches. Soon he felt the impulse of the spirit-land moving him away from his old home. So he leaped from tree to tree and flew from place to place wandering toward Kekaa, the place from which the ghosts leave the island of Maui for their home in the permanent spirit-land--the Under-world. As he came near this doorway to the spirit-world he met the ghost of a sister who had died long before, and to whom was given the power of sometimes turning a ghost back to its body again. She was an aumakua-ho-ola (a spirit making alive). She called to Ka-ilio-hae and told him to come to her house and dwell for a time. But she warned him that when her husband was at home he must not yield to any invitation from him to enter their house, nor could he partake of any of the food which her husband might urge him to eat. The home and the food would be only the shadows of real things, and would destroy his power of becoming alive again. The sister said, "When my husband comes to eat the food of the spirits and to sleep the sleep of ghosts, then I will go with you and you shall see all the spirit-land of our island and see the king of ghosts." The ghost-sister led Ka-ilio-hae into the place of whirlwinds, a hill where he heard the voices of many spirits planning to enjoy all the sports of their former life. He listened with delight and drew near to the multitude of happy spirits. Some were making ready to go down to the sea for the hee-nalu (surf-riding). Others were already rolling the ulu-maika (the round stone discs for rolling along the ground). Some were engaged in the mokomoko, or umauma (boxing), and the kulakulai (wrestling), and the honuhonu (pulling with hands), and the loulou (pulling with hooked fingers), and other athletic sports. Some of the spirits were already grouped in the shade of trees, playing the gambling games in which they had delighted when alive. There was the stone konane-board (somewhat like checkers), and the puepue-one (a small sand mound in which was concealed some object), and the puhenehene (the hidden stone under piles of kapa), and the many other trials of skill which permitted betting. Then in another place crowds were gathered around the hulas (the many forms of dancing). These sports were all in the open air and seemed to be full of interest. There was a strange quality which fettered every new-born ghost: he could only go in the direction into which he was pushed by the hand of some stronger power. If the guardian of a ghost struck it on one side, it would move off in the direction indicated by the blow or the push until spirit strength and experience came and he could go alone. The newcomer desired to join in these games and started to go, but the sister slapped him on the breast and drove him away. These were shadow games into which those who entered could never go back to the substantial things of life. Then there was a large grass house inside which many ghosts were making merry. The visitor wanted to join this great company, but the sister knew that, if he once was engulfed by this crowd of spirits in this shadow-land, her brother could never escape. The crowds of players would seize him like a whirlwind and he would be unable to know the way he came in or the way out. Ka-ilio-hae tried to slip away from his sister, but he could not turn readily. He was still a very awkward ghost, and his sister slapped him back in the way in which she wanted him to go. An island which was supposed to float on the ocean as one of the homes of the aumakuas (the ghosts of the ancestors) had the same characteristics. The ghosts (aumakuas) lived on the shadows of all that belonged to the earth-life. It was said that a canoe with a party of young people landed on this island of dreams and for some time enjoyed the food and fruits and sports, but after returning to their homes could not receive the nourishment of the food of their former lives, and soon died. The legends taught that no ghost passing out of the body could return unless it made the life of the aumakuas tabu to itself. Soon the sister led her brother to a great field, stone walled, in which were such fine grass houses as were built only for chiefs of the highest rank. There she pointed to a narrow passage-way into which she told her brother he must enter by himself. "This," she said, "is the home of Walia, the high chief of the ghosts living in this place. You must go to him. Listen to all he says to you. Say little. Return quickly. There will be three watchmen guarding this passage. The first will ask you, 'What is the fruit [desire] of your heart?' You will answer, 'Walia.' Then he will let you enter the passage. "Inside the walls of the narrow way will be the second watchman. He will ask why you come; again answer, 'Walia,' and pass by him. "At the end of the entrance the third guardian stands holding a raised spear ready to strike. Call to him, 'Ka-make-loa' [The Great Death]. This is the name of his spear. Then he will ask what you want, and you must reply, 'To see the chief,' and he will let you pass. "Then again when you stand at the door of the great house you will see two heads bending together in the way so that you cannot enter or see the king and his queen. If these heads can catch a spirit coming to see the king without knowing the proper incantations, they will throw that ghost into the Po-Milu [The Dark Spirit-world]. Watch therefore and remember all that is told you. "When you see these heads, point your hands straight before you between them and open your arms, pushing these guards off on each side, then the ala-nui [the great way] will be open for you--and you can enter. "You will see kahilis [soft long feather fans] moving over the chiefs. The king will awake and call, 'Why does this traveller come?' You will reply quickly, 'He comes to see the Divine One.' When this is said no injury will come to you. Listen and remember and you will be alive again." Ka-ilio-hae did as he was told with the three watchmen, and each one stepped back, saying, "Noa" (the tabu is lifted), and he pushed by. At the door he shoved the two heads to the side and entered the chief's house to the Ka-ikuwai (the middle), falling on his hands and knees. The servants were waving the kahilis this way and that. There was motion, but no noise. The chief awoke, looked at Ka-ilio-hae, and said: "Aloha, stranger, come near. Who is the high chief of your land?" Then Ka-ilio-hae gave the name of his king, and the genealogy from ancient times of the chiefs dead and in the spirit-world. The queen of ghosts arose, and the kneeling spirit saw one more beautiful than any woman in all the island, and he fell on his face before her. The king told him to go back and enter his body and tell his people about troubles near at hand. While he was before the king twice he heard messengers call to the people that the sports were all over; any one not heeding would be thrown into the darkest place of the home of the ghosts when the third call had been sounded. The sister was troubled, for she knew that at the third call the stone walls around the king's houses would close and her brother would be held fast forever in the spirit-land, so she uttered her incantations and passed the guard. Softly she called. Her brother reluctantly came. She seized him and pushed him outside. Then they heard the third call, and met the multitude of ghosts coming inland from their sports in the sea, and other multitudes hastening homeward from their work and sports on the land. They met a beautiful young woman who called to them to come to her home, and pointed to a point of rock where many birds were resting. The sister struck her brother and forced him down to the seaside where she had her home and her responsibility, for she was one of the guardians of the entrance to the spirit-world. She knew well what must be done to restore the spirit to the body, so she told her brother they must at once obey the command of the king; but the brother had seen the delights of the life of the aumakuas and wanted to stay. He tried to slip away and hide, but his sister held him fast and compelled him to go along the beach to his old home and his waiting body. When they came to the place where the body lay she found a hole in the corner of the house and pushed the spirit through. When he saw the body he was very much afraid and tried to escape, but the sister caught him and pushed him inside the foot up to the knee. He did not like the smell of the body and tried to rush back, but she pushed him inside again and held the foot fast and shook him and made him go to the head. The family heard a little sound in the mouth and saw breath moving the breast, then they knew that he was alive again. They warmed the body and gave a little food. When strength returned he told his family all about his wonderful journey into the land of ghosts. NOTE.--A student should read next the articles "Homeless and Desolate Ghosts" and "Ancestor Ghost-Gods" in the Appendix. XIV KALAI-PAHOA, THE POISON-GOD The Bishop Museum of Honolulu has one of the best as well as one of the most scientifically arranged collections of Hawaiian curios in the world. In it are images of many of the gods of long ago. One of these is a helmeted head made of wicker-work, over which has been woven a thick covering of beautiful red feathers bordered with yellow feathers. This was the mighty war-god of the great Kamehameha. Another is a squat rough image, crudely carved out of wood. This was Kamehameha's poison-god. The ancient Hawaiians were acquainted with poisons of various kinds. They understood the medicinal qualities of plants and found some of these strong enough to cause sickness and even death. One of the Hawaiian writers said: "The opihi-awa is a poison shell-fish. These are bitter and deadly and can be used in putting enemies to death. Kalai-pahoa is also a tree in which there is the power to kill." Kamehameha's poison-god was called Kalai-pahoa, because it was cut from that tree which grew in the upland forest on the island of Molokai. A native writer says there was an antidote for the poison from Kalai-pahoa, and he thus describes it: "The war-god and the poison-god were not left standing in the temples like the images of other gods, but after being worshipped were wrapped in kapa and laid away. "When the priest wanted Kalai-pahoa he was taken down and anointed with cocoanut-oil and wrapped in a fresh kapa cloth. Then he was set up above the altar and a feast prepared before him, awa to drink, and pig, fish, and poi to eat. "Then the priest who had special care of this god would scrape off a little from the wood, and put it in an awa cup, and hold the cup before the god, chanting a prayer for the life of the king, the government, and the people. One of the priests would then take the awa cup, drink the contents, and quickly take food. "Those who were watching would presently see a red flush creep over his cheeks, growing stronger and stronger, while the eyes would become glassy and the breath short like that of a dying man. Then the priest would touch his lips to the stick, Mai-ola, and have his life restored. Mai-ola was a god who had another tree. When Kalai-pahoa entered his tree on Molokai, Mai-ola entered another tree and became the enemy of the poison-god." The priests of the poison-god were very powerful in the curious rite called pule-ana-ana, or praying to death. The Hawaiians said: "Perhaps the priests of Kalai-pahoa put poison in bananas or in taro. It was believed that they scraped the body of the image and put the pieces in the food of the one they wished to pray to death. There was one chief who was very skilful in waving kahilis, or feather fans, over any one and shaking the powder of death into the food from the moving feathers. Another would have scrapings in his cloak and would drop them into whatever food his enemy was eating." The spirit of death was supposed to reside in the wood of the poison-god. A very interesting legend was told by the old people to their children to explain the coming of medicinal and poisonous properties into the various kinds of trees and plants. These stories all go back to the time when Milu died and became the king of ghosts. They say that after the death of Milu the gods left Waipio Valley on the island of Hawaii and crossed the channel to the island Maui. These gods had all kinds of power for evil, such as stopping the breath, chilling or burning the body, making headaches or pains in the stomach, or causing palsy or lameness or other injuries, even inflicting death. Pua and Kapo, who from ancient times have been worshipped as goddesses having medicinal power, joined the party when they came to Maui. Then all the gods went up Mauna Loa, a place where there was a large and magnificent forest with fine trees, graceful vines and ferns, and beautiful flowers. They all loved this place, therefore they became gods of the forest. Near this forest lived Kane-ia-kama, a high chief, who was a very great gambler. He had gambled away all his possessions. While he was sleeping, the night of his final losses, he heard some one call, "O Kane-ia-kama, begin your play again." He shouted out into the darkness: "I have bet everything. I have nothing left." Then the voice again said, "Bet your bones, bet your bones, and see what will happen." When he went to the gambling-place the next day the people all laughed at him, for they knew his goods were all gone. He sat down among them, however, and said: "I truly have nothing left. My treasures are all gone; but I have my bones. If you wish, I will bet my body, then I will play with you." The other chiefs scornfully placed some property on one side and said, "That will be of the same value as your bones." They gambled and he won. The chiefs were angry at their loss and bet again and again. He always won until he had more wealth than any one on the island. After the gambling days were over he heard again the same voice saying: "O Kane-ia-kama, you have done all that I told you and have become very rich in property and servants. Will you obey once more?" The chief gratefully thanked the god for the aid that he had received, and said he would obey. The voice then said: "Perhaps we can help you to one thing. You are now wealthy, but there is a last gift for you. You must listen carefully and note all I show you." Then this god of the night pointed out the trees into which the gods had entered when they decided to remain for a time in the forest, and explained to him all their different characteristics. He showed him where gods and goddesses dwelt and gave their names. Then he ordered Kane-ia-kama to take offerings of pigs, fish, cocoanuts, bananas, chickens, kapas, and all other things used for sacrifice, and place them at the roots of these trees into which the gods had entered, the proper offerings for each. The next morning he went into the forest and saw that he had received a very careful description of each tree. He observed carefully the tree shown as the home of the spirit who had become his strange helper. Before night fell he placed offerings as commanded. As a worshipper he took each one of these trees for his god, so he had many gods of plants and trees. For some reason not mentioned in the legends he sent woodcutters to cut down these trees, or at least to cut gods out of them with their stone axes. They began to cut. The koko (blood) of the trees, as the natives termed the flowing sap, and the chips flying out struck some of the woodcutters and they fell dead. Kane-ia-kama made cloaks of the long leaves of the ieie vine and tied them around his men, so that their bodies could not be touched, then the work was easily accomplished. The chief kept these images of gods cut from the medicinal trees and could use them as he desired. The most powerful of all these gods was that one whose voice he had heard in the night. To this god he gave the name Kalai-pahoa (The-one-cut-by-the-pahoa-or-stone-axe). One account relates that the pahoa (stone) from which the axe was made came from Kalakoi, a celebrated place for finding a very hard lava of fine grain, the very best for making stone implements. The god who had spoken to the chief in his dream was sometimes called Kane-kulana-ula (noted red Kane). The gods were caught by the sacrifices of the chief while they were in their tree bodies before they could change back into their spirit bodies, therefore their power was supposed to remain in the trees. It was said that when Kane-kulana-ula changed into his tree form he leaped into it with a tremendous flash of lightning, thus the great mana, or miraculous power, went into that tree. The strange death which came from the god Kalai-pahoa made that god and his priest greatly feared. One of the pieces of this tree fell into a spring at Kaakee near the maika, or disc-rolling field, on Molokai. All the people who drank at that spring died. They filled it up and the chiefs ruled that the people should not keep branches or pieces of the tree for the injury of others. If such pieces were found in the possession of any one he should die. Only the carved gods were to be preserved. Kahekili, king of Maui at the time of the accession of Kamehameha to the sovereignty of the island Hawaii, had these images in his possession as a part of his household gods. Kamehameha sent a prophet to ask him for one of these gods. Kahekili refused to send one, but told him to wait and he should have the poison-god and the government over all the islands. One account records that a small part from the poison one was then given. So, after the death of Kahekili, Kamehameha did conquer all the islands with their hosts of gods, and Kalai-pahoa, the poison-god, came into his possession. The overthrow of idolatry and the destruction of the system of tabus came in 1819, when most of the wooden gods were burned or thrown into ponds and rivers, but a few were concealed by their caretakers. Among these were the two gods now to be seen in the Bishop Museum in Honolulu. NOTE.--See Appendix, page 259, Chas. R. Bishop. XV KE-AO-MELE-MELE, THE MAID OF THE GOLDEN CLOUD The Hawaiians never found gold in their islands. The mountains being of recent volcanic origin do not show traces of the precious metals; but hovering over the mountain-tops clustered the glorious golden clouds built up by damp winds from the seas. The Maiden of the Golden Cloud belonged to the cloud mountains and was named after their golden glow. Her name in the Hawaiian tongue was Ke-ao-mele-mele (The Golden Cloud). She was said to be one of the first persons brought by the gods to find a home in the Paradise of the Pacific. In the ancient times, the ancestors of the Hawaiians came from far-off ocean lands, for which they had different names, such as The Shining Heaven, The Floating Land of Kane, The Far-off White Land of Kahiki, and Kuai-he-lani (purchased is heaven). It was from Kuai-he-lani that the Maiden of the Golden Cloud was called to live in Hawaii. In this legendary land lived Mo-o-inanea (self-reliant dragon). She cared for the first children of the gods, one of whom was named Hina, later known in Polynesian mythology as Moon Goddess. Mo-o-inanea took her to Ku, one of the gods. They lived together many years and a family of children came to them. Two of the great gods of Polynesia, Kane and Kanaloa, had found a beautiful place above Honolulu on Oahu, one of the Hawaiian Islands. Here they determined to build a home for the first-born child of Hina. Thousands of eepa (gnome) people lived around this place, which was called Waolani. The gods had them build a temple which was also called Waolani (divine forest). When the time came for the birth of the child, clouds and fogs crept over the land, thunder rolled and lightning flashed, red torrents poured down the hillsides, strong winds hurled the rain through bending trees, earthquakes shook the land, huge waves rolled inland from the sea. Then a beautiful boy was born. All these signs taken together signified the birth of a chief of the highest degree--even of the family of the gods. Kane and Kanaloa sent their sister Anuenue (rainbow) to get the child of Ku and Hina that they might care for it. All three should be the caretakers. Anuenue went first to the place where Mo-o-inanea dwelt, to ask her if it would be right. Mo-o-inanea said she might go, but if they brought up that child he must not have a wife from any of the women of Hawaii-nui-akea (great wide Hawaii). Anuenue asked, "Suppose I get that child; who is to give it the proper name?" Mo-o-inanea said: "You bring the child to our brothers and they will name this child. They have sent you, and the responsibility of the name rests on them." Anuenue said good-by, and in the twinkling of an eye stood at the door of the house where Ku dwelt. Ku looked outside and saw the bright glow of the rainbow, but no cloud or rain, so he called Hina. "Here is a strange thing. You must come and look at it. There is no rain and there are no clouds or mist, but there is a rainbow at our door." They went out, but Anuenue had changed her rainbow body and stood before them as a very beautiful woman, wrapped only in the colors of the rainbow. Ku and Hina began to shiver with a nameless terror as they looked at this strange maiden. They faltered out a welcome, asking her to enter their house. As she came near to them Ku said, "From what place do you come?" Anuenue said: "I am from the sky, a messenger sent by my brothers to get your child that they may bring it up. When grown, if the child wants its parents, we will bring it back. If it loves us it shall stay with us." Hina bowed her head and Ku wailed, both thinking seriously for a little while. Then Ku said: "If Mo-o-inanea has sent you she shall have the child. You may take this word to her." Anuenue replied: "I have just come from her and the word I brought you is her word. If I go away I shall not come again." Hina said to Ku: "We must give this child according to her word. It is not right to disobey Mo-o-inanea." Anuenue took the child and studied the omens for its future, then she said, "This child is of the very highest, the flower on the top of the tree." She prepared to take the child away, and bade the parents farewell. She changed her body into the old rainbow colors shining out of a mist, then she wrapped the child in the rainbow, bearing it away. Ku and Hina went out looking up and watching the cloud of rainbow colors floating in the sky. Strong, easy winds blew and carried this cloud out over the ocean. The navel-string had not been cut off, so Anuenue broke off part and threw it into the ocean, where it became the Hee-makoko, a blood-red squid. This is the legendary origin of that kind of squid. Anuenue passed over many islands, coming at last to Waolani to the temple built by the gnomes under Kane and Kanaloa. They consecrated the child, and cut off another part of the navel-cord. Kanaloa took it to the Nuuanu pali back of Honolulu, to the place called Ka-ipu-o-Lono. Kane and Kanaloa consulted about servants to live with the boy, and decided that they must have only ugly ones, who would not be desired as wives by their boy. Therefore they gathered together the lame, crooked, deformed, and blind among the gnome people. There were hundreds of these living in different homes, and performing different tasks. Anuenue was the ruler over all of them. This child was named Kahanai-a-ke-Akua (the one adopted by the gods). He was given a very high tabu by Kane and Kanaloa. No one was allowed to stand before him and no person's shadow could fall upon him. Hina again conceived. The signs of this child appeared in the heavens and were seen on Oahu. Kane wanted to send Lanihuli and Waipuhia, their daughters, living near the pali of Waolani and Nuuanu. The girls asked where they should go. [Illustration: THE MISTY PALI, NUUANU] Kane said: "We send you to the land Kuai-he-lani, a land far distant from Hawaii, to get the child of Hina. If the parents ask you about your journey, tell them you have come for the child. Tell our names and refer to Mo-o-inanea. You must now look at the way by which to go to Kuai-he-lani." They looked and saw a great bird--Iwa. They got on this bird and were carried far up in the heavens. By and by the bird called two or three times. The girls were frightened and looking down saw the bright shining land Kuai-he-lani below them. The bird took them to the door of Ku's dwelling-place. Ku and Hina were caring for a beautiful girl-baby. They looked up and saw two fine women at their door. They invited them in and asked whence they came and why they travelled. The girls told them they were sent by the gods Kane and Kanaloa. Suddenly a new voice was heard. Mo-o-inanea was by the house. She called to Ku and to Hina, telling them to give the child into the hands of the strangers, that they might take her to Waka, a great priestess, to be brought up by her in the ohia forests of the island of Hawaii. She named that girl Paliula, and explained to the parents that when Paliula should grow up, to be married, the boy of Waolani should be her husband. The girls then took the babe. They were all carried by the bird, Iwa, far away in the sky to Waolani, where they told Kane and Kanaloa the message or prophecy of Mo-o-inanea. The gods sent Iwa with the child to Waka, on Hawaii, to her dwelling-place in the districts of Hilo and Puna where she was caring for all kinds of birds in the branches of the trees and among the flowers. Waka commanded the birds to build a house for Paliula. This was quickly done. She commanded the bird Iwa to go to Nuumea-lani, a far-off land above Kuai-he-lani, the place where Mo-o-inanea was now living. It was said that Waka, by her magic power, saw in that land two trees, well cared for by multitudes of servants; the name of one was "Makalei." This was a tree for fish. All kinds of fish would go to it. The second was "Kalala-ika-wai." This was the tree used for getting all kinds of food. Call this tree and food would appear. Waka wanted Mo-o-inanea to send these trees to Hawaii. Mo-o-inanea gave these trees to Iwa, who brought them to Hawaii and gave them to Waka. Waka rejoiced and took care of them. The bird went back to Waolani, telling Kane and Kanaloa all the journey from first to last. The gods gave the girls resting-places in the fruitful lands under the shadow of the beautiful Nuuanu precipices. Waka watched over Paliula until she grew up, beautiful like the moon of Mahea-lani (full moon). The fish tree, Makalei, which made the fish of all that region tame, was planted by the side of running water, in very restful places spreading all along the river-sides to the seashore. Fish came to every stream where the trees grew, and filled the waters. The other tree was planted and brought prepared food for Paliula. The hidden land where this place was has always been called Paliula, a beautiful green spot--a home for fruits and flowers and birds in a forest wilderness. When Paliula had grown up, Waka went to Waolani to meet Kane, Kanaloa, and Anuenue. There she saw Kahanai-a-ke-Akua (the boy brought up by the gods) and desired him for Paliula's husband. There was no man so splendid and no woman so beautiful as these two. The caretakers decided that they must be husband and wife. Waka returned to the island Hawaii to prepare for the coming of the people from Waolani. Waka built new houses finer and better than the first, and covered them with the yellow feathers of the Mamo bird with the colors of the rainbow resting over. Anuenue had sent some of her own garments of rainbows. Then Waka went again to Waolani to talk with Kane and Kanaloa and their sister Anuenue. They said to her: "You return, and Anuenue will take Kahanai and follow. When the night of their arrival comes, lightning will play over all the mountains above Waolani and through the atmosphere all around the temple, even to Hawaii. After a while, around your home the leaves of the trees will dance and sing and the ohia-trees themselves bend back and forth shaking their beautiful blossoms. Then you may know that the Rainbow Maiden and the boy are by your home on the island of Hawaii." Waka returned to her home in the tangled forest above Hilo. There she met her adopted daughter and told her about the coming of her husband. Soon the night of rolling thunder and flashing lightning came. The people of all the region around Hilo were filled with fear. Kane-hekili (flashing lightning) was a miraculous body which Kane had assumed. He had gone before the boy and the rainbow, flashing his way through the heavens. The gods had commanded Kane-hekili to dwell in the heavens in all places wherever the gods desired him to be, so that he could go wherever commanded. He always obeyed without questioning. The thunder and lightning played over ocean and land while the sun was setting beyond the islands in the west. After a time the trees bent over, the leaves danced and chanted their songs. The flowers made a glorious halo as they swayed back and forth in their dances. Kane told the Rainbow Maiden to take their adopted child to Hawaii-nui-akea. When she was ready, she heard her brothers calling the names of trees which were to go with her on her journey. Some of the legends say that Laka, the hula-god, was dancing before the two. The tree people stood before the Rainbow Maiden and the boy, ready to dance all the way to Hawaii. The tree people are always restless and in ceaseless motion. The gods told them to sing together and dance. Two of the tree people were women, Ohia and Lamakea. Lamakea is a native whitewood tree. There are large trees at Waialae in the mountains of the island Oahu. Ohia is a tree always full of fringed red blossoms. They were very beautiful in their wind bodies. They were kupuas, or wizards, and could be moving trees or dancing women as they chose. The Rainbow Maiden took the boy in her arms up into the sky, and with the tree people went on her journey. She crossed over the islands to the mountains of the island Hawaii, then went down to find Paliula. She placed the tree people around the house to dance and sing with soft rustling noises. Waka heard the chants of the tree people and opened the door of the glorious house, calling for Kahanai to come in. When Paliula saw him, her heart fluttered with trembling delight, for she knew this splendid youth was the husband selected by Waka, the prophetess. Waka called the two trees belonging to Paliula to bring plenty of fish and food. Then Waka and Anuenue left their adopted children in the wonderful yellow feather house. The two young people, when left together, talked about their birthplaces and their parents. Paliula first asked Kahanai about his land and his father and mother. He told her that he was they child of Ku and Hina from Kuai-he-lani, brought up by Kane and the other gods at Waolani. The girl went out and asked Waka about her parents, and learned that this was her first-born brother, who was to be her husband because they had very high divine blood. Their descendants would be the chiefs of the people. This marriage was a command from parents and ancestors and Mo-o-inanea. She went into the house, telling the brother who she was, and the wish of the gods. After ten days they were married and lived together a long time. At last, Kahanai desired to travel all around Hawaii. In this journey he met Poliahu, the white-mantle girl of Mauna Kea, the snow-covered mountain of the island Hawaii. Meanwhile, in Kuai-he-lani, Ku and Hina were living together. One day Mo-o-inanea called to Hina, telling her that she would be the mother of a more beautiful and wonderful child than her other two children. This child should live in the highest places of the heavens and should have a multitude of bodies which could be seen at night as well as in the day. Mo-o-inanea went away to Nuumea-lani and built a very wonderful house in Ke-alohi-lani (shining land), a house always turning around by day and by night like the ever moving clouds; indeed, it was built of all kinds of clouds and covered with fogs. There she made a spring of flowing water and put it outside for the coming child to have as a bath. There she planted the seeds of magic flowers, Kanikawi and Kanikawa, legendary plants of old Hawaii. Then she went to Kuai-he-lani and found Ku and Hina asleep. She took a child out of the top of the head of Hina and carried it away to the new home, naming it Ke-ao-mele-mele (the yellow cloud), the Maiden of the Golden Cloud, a wonderfully beautiful girl. No one with a human body was permitted to come to this land of Nuumea-lani. No kupuas were allowed to make trouble for the child. The ao-opua (narrow-pointed clouds) were appointed watchmen serving Ke-ao-mele-mele, the Maiden of the Golden Cloud. All the other clouds were servants: the ao-opua-ka-kohiaka (morning clouds), ao-opua-ahiahi (evening clouds), ao-opua-aumoe (night clouds), ao-opua-kiei (peeking clouds), ao-opua-aha-lo (down-looking clouds), ao-opua-ku (image-shaped clouds rising at top of sea), opua-hele (morning-flower clouds), opua-noho-mai (resting clouds), opua-mele-mele (gold-colored clouds), opua-lani (clouds high up), ka-pae-opua (at surface of sea or clouds along the horizon), ka-lani-opua (clouds up above horizon), ka-ma-kao-ka-lani (clouds in the eye of the sun), ka-wele-lau-opua (clouds highest in the sky). All these clouds were caretakers watching for the welfare of that girl. Mo-o-inanea gave them their laws for service. She took Ku-ke-ao-loa (the long cloud of Ku) and put him at the door of the house of clouds, with great magic power. He was to be the messenger to all the cloud-lands of the parents and ancestors of this girl. "The Eye of the Sun" was the cloud with magic power to see all things passing underneath near or far. Then there was the opua-alii, cloud-chief with the name Ka-ao-opua-ola (the sharp-pointed living cloud). This was the sorcerer and astronomer, never weary, never tired, knowing and watching over all things. Mo-o-inanea gave her mana-nui, or great magic power, to Ke-ao-mele-mele--with divine tabus. She made this child the heir of all the divine islands, therefore she was able to know what was being done everywhere. She understood how the Kahanai had forsaken his sister to live with Poliahu. So she went to Hawaii to aid her sister Paliula. When Mo-o-inanea had taken the child from the head of Hina, Ku and Hina were aroused. Ku went out and saw wonderful cloud images standing near the house, like men. Ku and Hina watched these clouds shining and changing colors in the light of the dawn, as the sun appeared. The light of the sun streamed over the skies. For three days these changing clouds were around them. Then in the midst of these clouds appeared a strange land of the skies surrounded by the ao-opua (the narrow-pointed clouds). In the night of the full moon, the aka (ghost) shadow of that land leaped up into the moon and became fixed there. This was the Alii-wahine-o-ka-malu (the queen of shadows), dwelling in the moon. Ku and Hina did not understand the meaning of these signs or shadows, so they went back into the house, falling into deep sleep. Mo-o-inanea spoke to Hina in her dreams, saying that these clouds were signs of her daughter born from the head--a girl having great knowledge and miraculous power in sorcery, who would take care of them in their last days. They must learn all the customs of kilo-kilo, or sorcery. Mo-o-inanea again sent Ku-ke-ao-loa to the house of Ku, that cloud appearing as a man at their door. They asked who he was. He replied: "I am a messenger sent to teach you the sorcery or witcheries of cloud-land. You must have this knowledge that you may know your cloud-daughter. Let us begin our work at this time." They all went outside the house and sat down on a stone at the side of the door. Ku-ke-ao-loa looked up and called Mo-o-inanea by name. His voice went to Ke-alohilani, and Mo-o-inanea called for all the clouds to come with their ruler Ke-ao-mele-mele. "Arise, O yellow cloud, Arise, O cloud--the eye of the sun, Arise, O beautiful daughters of the skies, Shine in the eyes of the sun, arise!" Ke-ao-mele-mele arose and put on her glorious white kapas like the snow on Mauna Kea. At this time the cloud watchmen over Kuai-he-lani were revealing their cloud forms to Hina and Ku. The Long Cloud told Hina and Ku to look sharply into the sky to see the meaning of all the cloud forms which were servants of the divine chiefess, their habits of meeting, moving, separating, their forms, their number, the stars appearing through them, the fixed stars and moving clouds, the moving stars and moving clouds, the course of the winds among the different clouds. When he had taught Ku and Hina the sorcery of cloud-land, he disappeared and returned to Ke-alohi-lani. Some time afterward, Ku went out to the side of their land. He saw a cloud of very beautiful form, appearing like a woman. This was resting in the sky above his head. Hina woke up, missed Ku, looked out and saw Ku sitting on the beach watching the clouds above him. She went to him and by her power told him that he had the desire to travel and that he might go on his journey and find the woman of his vision. A beautiful chiefess, Hiilei, was at that time living in one of the large islands of the heavens. Ku and Hina went to this place. Ku married Hiilei, and Hina found a chief named Olopana and married him. Ku and Hiilei had a redskin child, a boy, whom they named Kau-mai-liula (twilight resting in the sky). This child was taken by Mo-o-inanea to Ke-alohi-lani to live with Ke-ao-mele-mele. Olopana and Hina had a daughter whom they called Kau-lana-iki-pokii (beautiful daughter of sunset), who was taken by Ku and Hiilei. Hina then called to the messenger cloud to come and carry a request to Mo-o-inanea that Kau-mai-liula be given to her and Olopana. This was done. So they were all separated from each other, but in the end the children were taken to Hawaii. Meanwhile Paliula was living above Hilo with her husband Kahanai-a-ke-Akua (adopted son of the gods). Kahanai became restless and determined to see other parts of the land, so he started on a journey around the islands. He soon met a fine young man Waiola (water of life). Waiola had never seen any one so glorious in appearance as the child of the gods, so he fell down before him, saying: "I have never seen any one so divine as you. You must have come from the skies. I will belong to you through the coming years." The chief said, "I take you as my aikane [bosom friend] to the last days." They went down to Waiakea, a village by Hilo, and met a number of girls covered with wreaths of flowers and leaves. Kahanai sent Waiola to sport with them. He himself was of too high rank. One girl told her brother Kanuku to urge the chief to come down, and sent him leis. He said he could not receive their gift, but must wear his own lei. He called for his divine caretaker to send his garlands, and immediately the most beautiful rainbows wrapped themselves around his neck and shoulders, falling down around his body. Then he came down to Waiakea. The chief took Kanuku also as a follower and went on up the coast to Hamakua. The chief looked up Mauna Kea and there saw the mountain women, who lived in the white land above the trees. Poliahu stood above the precipices in her kupua-ano (wizard character), revealing herself as a very beautiful woman wearing a white mantle. When the chief and his friends came near the cold place where she was sitting, she invited them to her home, inland and mountainward. The chief asked his friends to go with him to the mountain house of the beauty of Mauna Kea. They were well entertained. Poliahu called her sisters, Lilinoe and Ka-lau-a-kolea, beautiful girls, and gave them sweet-sounding shells to blow. All through the night they made music and chanted the stirring songs of the grand mountains. The chief delighted in Poliahu and lived many months on the mountain. One morning Paliula in her home above Hilo awoke from a dream in which she saw Poliahu and the chief living together, so she told Waka, asking if the dream were true. Waka, by her magic power, looked over the island and saw the three young men living with the three maidens of the snow mantle. She called with a penetrating voice for the chief to return to his own home. She went in the form of a great bird and brought him back. But Poliahu followed, met the chief secretly and took him up to Mauna Kea again, covering the mountain with snow so that Waka could not go to find them. Waka and the bird friends of Paliula could not reach the mountain-top because of the cold. Waka went to Waolani and told Anuenue about Paliula's trouble. Anuenue was afraid that Kane and Kanaloa might hear that the chief had forsaken his sister, and was much troubled, so she asked Waka to go with her to see Mo-o-inanea at Ke-alohi-lani, but the gods Kane and Kanaloa could not be deceived. They understood that there was trouble, and came to meet them. Kane told Waka to return and tell the girl to be patient; the chief should be punished for deserting her. Waka returned and found that Paliula had gone away wandering in the forest, picking lehua flowers on the way up toward the Lua Pele, the volcano pit of Pele, the goddess of fire. There she had found a beautiful girl and took her as an aikane (friend) to journey around Hawaii. They travelled by way of the districts of Puna, Kau, and Kona to Waipio, where she saw a fine-looking man standing above a precipice over which leaped the wonderful mist-falls of Hiilawe. This young chief married the beautiful girl friend of Paliula. Poliahu by her kupua power recognized Paliula, and told the chief that she saw her with a new husband. Paliula went on to her old home and rested many days. Waka then took her from island to island until they were near Oahu. When they came to the beach, Paliula leaped ashore and went up to Manoa Valley. There she rushed into the forest and climbed the ridges and precipices. She wandered through the rough places, her clothes torn and ragged. Kane and Kanaloa saw her sitting on the mountain-side. Kane sent servants to find her and bring her to live with them at Waolani. When she came to the home of the gods in Nuuanu Valley she thought longingly of her husband and sang this mele: "Lo, at Waolani is my lei of the blood-red rain, The lei of the misty rain gathered and put together, Put together in my thought with tears. Spoiled is the body by love, Dear in the eyes of the lover. My brother, the first-born, Return, oh, return, my brother." Paliula, chanting this, turned away from Waolani to Waianae and dwelt for a time with the chiefess Kalena. While Paliula was living with the people of the cold winds of Waianae she wore leis of mokihana berries and fragrant grass, and was greatly loved by the family. She went up the mountain to a great gulch. She lay down to sleep, but heard a sweet voice saying, "You cannot sleep on the edge of that gulch." She was frequently awakened by that voice. She went on up the mountain-ridges above Waianae. At night when she rested she heard the voices again and again. This was the voice of Hii-lani-wai, who was teaching the hula dance to the girls of Waianae. Paliula wanted to see the one who had such a sweet voice, so went along the pali and came to a hula house, but the house was closed tight and she could not look in. She sat down outside. Soon Hii-lani-wai opened the door and saw Paliula and asked her to come in. It was the first time Paliula had seen this kind of dancing. Her delight in the dance took control of her mind, and she forgot her husband and took Hii-lani-wai as her aikane, dwelling with her for a time. One day they went out into the forest. Kane had sent the dancing trees from Waolani to meet them. While in the forest they heard the trees singing and dancing like human beings. Hii-lani-wai called this a very wonderful thing. Paliula told her that she had seen the trees do this before. The trees made her glad. They went down to the seaside and visited some days. Paliula desired a boat to go to the island of Kauai. The people told them of the dangerous waters, but the girls were stubborn, so they were given a very small boat. Hii-lani-wai was steering, and Paliula was paddling and bailing out the water. The anger of the seas did not arise. On the way Paliula fell asleep, but the boat swiftly crossed the channel. Their boat was covered with all the colors of the rainbow. Some women on land at last saw them and beckoned with their hands for them to come ashore. Malu-aka (shadow of peace) was the most beautiful of all the women on Kauai. She was kind and hospitable and took them to her house. The people came to see these wonderful strangers. Paliula told Malu-aka her story. She rested, with the Kauai girls, then went with Malu-aka over the island and learned the dances of Kauai, becoming noted throughout the island for her wonderful grace and skill, dancing like the wind, feet not touching the ground. Her songs and the sound of the whirling dance were lifted by the winds and carried into the dreams of Ke-ao-mele-mele. Meanwhile, Ke-ao-mele-mele was living with her cloud-watchmen and Mo-o-inanea at Ke-alohi-lani. She began to have dreams, hearing a sweet voice singing and seeing a glorious woman dancing, while winds were whispering in the forests. For five nights she heard the song and the sound of the dance. Then she told Mo-o-inanea, who explained her dream, saying: "That is the voice of Paliula, your sister, who is dancing and singing near the steep places of Kauai. Her brother-husband has forsaken her and she has had much trouble. He is living with Poliahu on Hawaii." When Ke-ao-mele-mele heard this, she thought she would go and live with her sister. Mo-o-inanea approved of the thought and gave her all kinds of kupua power. She told her to go and see the god Kane, who would tell her what to do. At last she started on her journey with her watching clouds. She went to see Hina and Olopana, and Ku and Hiilei. She saw Kau-mai-liula (twilight resting in the sky), who was very beautiful, like the fair red flowers of the ohia in the shadows of the leaves of the tree. She determined to come back and marry him after her journey to Oahu. When she left Kuai-he-lani with her followers she flew like a bird over the waves of the sea. Soon she passed Niihau and came to Kauai to the place where Paliula was dancing, and as a cloud with her cloud friends spied out the land. The soft mists of her native land were scattered over the people by these clouds above them. Paliula was reminded of her birth-land and the loved people of her home. Ke-ao-mele-mele saw the beauty of the dance and understood the love expressed in the chant. She flew away from Kauai, crossed the channel, came to Waolani, met Kane and Kanaloa and told them she had come to learn from them what was the right thing to do for the sister and the husband who had deserted her. Kane suggested a visit to Hawaii to see Paliula and the chief, so she flew over the islands to Hawaii. Then she went up the mountain with the ao-pii-kai (a cloud rising from the sea and climbing the mountain) until she saw Poliahu and her beautiful sisters. Poliahu looked down the mountain-side and saw a woman coming, but she looked again and the woman had disappeared. In a little while a golden cloud rested on the summit of the mountain. It was the maid in her cloud body watching her brother and the girl of the white mountains. For more than twenty days she remained in that place. Then she returned to Waolani on Oahu. Ke-ao-mele-mele determined to learn the hulas and the accompanying songs. Kane told her she ought to learn these things. There was a fine field for dancing at the foot of the mountain near Waolani, and Kane had planted a large kukui-tree by its side to give it shade. Kane and his sister Anuenue went to this field and sat down in their place. The daughters of Nuuanu Pali were there. Kane sent Ke-ao-mele-mele after the dancing-goddess, Kapo, who lived at Mauna Loa. She was the sister of the poison-gods and knew the art of sorcery. Ke-ao-mele-mele took gifts, went to Kapo, made offerings, and thus for the first time secured a goddess for the hula. [Illustration: DANCING THE HULA] Kapo taught Ke-ao-mele-mele the chants and the movements of the different hulas until she was very skilful. She flew over the seas to Oahu and showed the gods her skill. Then, she went to Kauai, danced on the surf and in the clouds and above the forests and in the whirlwinds. Each night she went to one of the other islands, danced in the skies and over the waters, and returned home. At last she went to Hawaii to Mauna Kea, where she saw Kahanai, her brother. She persuaded him to leave the maiden of the snow mantle and return to Waolani. Paliula and her friends had returned to the home with Waka, where she taught the leaves of clinging vines and the flowers and leaves on the tender swinging branches of the forest trees new motions in their dances with the many kinds of winds. One day Kahanai saw signs among the stars and in the clouds which made him anxious to travel, so he asked Kane for a canoe. Kane called the eepa and the menehune people and told them to make canoes to carry Kahanai to his parents. These boats were made in the forests of Waolani. When the menehunes finished their boat they carried it down Nuuanu Valley to Puunui. There they rested and many of the little folk came to help, taking the canoe down, step by step, to the mouth of the Nuuanu stream, where they had the aid of the river to the ocean. The menehunes left the boat floating in the water and went back to Waolani. Of the fairy people it was said: "No task is difficult. It is the work of one hand." On the way down Nuuanu Valley the menehunes came to Ka-opua-ua (storm cloud). They heard the shouting of other people and hurried along until they met the Namunawa people, the eepas, carrying a boat, pushing it down. When they told the eepas that the chief had already started on his journey with double canoes, the eepas left their boat there to slowly decay, but it is said that it lasted many centuries. The people who made this boat were the second class of the little people living at Waolani, having the characters of human beings, yet having also the power of the fairy people. These were the men of the time of Kane and the gods. Kahanai and his friends were in their boat when a strong wind swept down Nuuanu, carrying the dry leaves of the mountains and sweeping them into the sea. The waves were white as the boat was blown out into the ocean. Kahanai steered by magic power, and the boat like lightning swept away from the islands to the homes of Ku and Hina. The strong wind and the swift current were with the boat, and the voyage was through the waves like swift lightning flashing through clouds. Ku and Hiilei saw the boat coming. Its signs were in the heavens. Ku came and asked the travellers, "What boat is this, and from what place has it come?" Kahanai said, "This boat has come from Waolani, the home of the gods Kane and Kanaloa and of Ke-ao-mele-mele." Then Ku asked again, "Whose child are you?" He replied, "The son of Ku and Hina." "How many other children in your family?" He said: "There are three of us. I am the boy and there are two sisters, Paliula and Ke-ao-mele-mele. I have been sent by Ke-ao-mele-mele to get Kau-mai-liula and Kau-lana-iki-pokii to go to Oahu." Ku and his wife agreed to the call of the messenger for their boy Kau-mai-liula. When Kahanai saw him he knew that there was no other one so fine as this young man who quickly consented to go to Oahu with his servants. Ku called for some beautiful red boats with red sails, red paddles,--everything red. Four good boatmen were provided for each boat, men who came from the land of Ulu-nui--the land of the yellow sea and the black sea of Kane--and obeyed the call of Mo-o-inanea. They had kupua power. They were relatives of Kane and Kanaloa. The daughter of Hina and Olopana, Kau-lana-iki-pokii, cried to go with her brother, but Mo-o-inanea called for her dragon family to make a boat for her and ordered one of the sorcerer dragons to go with her and guard her. They called the most beautiful shells of the sea to become the boats for the girl and her attendants. They followed the boats of Kahanai. With one stroke of the paddles the boats passed through the seas around the home of the gods. With the second stroke they broke through all the boundaries of the great ocean and with the third dashed into the harbor of old Honolulu, then known as Kou. When the boats of Kahanai and Kau-mai-liula came to the surf of Mamala, there was great shouting inland of Kou, the voices of the eepas of Waolani. Mists and rainbows rested over Waolani. The menehunes gathered in great multitudes at the call of Kane, who had seen the boats approaching. The menehune people ran down to lift up the boats belonging to the young chief. They made a line from Waolani to the sea. They lifted up the boats and passed them from hand to hand without any effort, shouting with joy. While these chiefs were going up to Waolani, Ke-ao-mele-mele came from Hawaii in her cloud boats. Kane had told the menehunes to prepare houses quickly for her. It was done like the motion of the eye. Ke-ao-mele-mele entered her house, rested, and after a time practised the hula. The chiefs also had houses prepared, which they entered. The shell boats found difficulty in entering the bay because the other boats were in the way. So they turned off to the eastern side of the harbor. Thus the ancient name of that side was given Ke-awa-lua (the second harbor, or the second landing-place in the harbor). Here they landed very quietly. The shell boats became very small and Kau-lana and her companions took them and hid them in their clothes. They went along the beach, saw some fish. The attendants took them for the girl. This gave the name Kau-lana-iki-pokii to that place to this day. As they went along, the dragon friend made the signs of a high chief appear over the girl. The red rain and arching bow were over her, so the name was given to that place, Ka-ua-koko-ula (blood rain), which is the name to this day. The dragon changed her body and carried the girl up Nuuanu Valley very swiftly to the house of Ke-ao-mele-mele (the maiden of the golden cloud) without the knowledge of Kane and the others. They heard the hula of Ke-ao-mele-mele. Soon she felt that some one was outside, and looking saw the girl and her friend, with the signs of a chief over her. So she called: "Is that you, O eye of the day? O lightning-like eye from Kahiki, The remembered one coming to me. The strong winds have been blowing, Trembling comes into my breast, A stranger perhaps is outside, A woman whose sign is the fog, A stranger and yet my young sister, The flower of the divine home-land, The wonderful land of the setting sun Going down into the deep blue sea. You belong to the white ocean of Kane, You are Kau-lana-iki-pokii, The daughter of the sunset, The woman coming in the mist, In the thunder and the flash of lightning Quivering in the sky above. Light falls on the earth below. The sign of the chiefess, The woman high up in the heavens, Kau-lana-iki-pokii, Enter, enter, here am I." Those outside heard the call and understood that Ke-ao-mele-mele knew who they were. They entered and saw her in all the beauty of her high divine blood. They kissed. Kau-lana told how she had come. Ke-ao-mele-mele told the dragon to go and stay on the mountain by the broken pali at the head of Nuuanu Valley. So she went to the precipice and became the watchman of that place. She was the first dragon on the islands. She watched with magic power. Later, Mo-o-inanea came with many dragons to watch over the islands. Ke-ao-mele-mele taught her young sister the different hulas and meles, so that they were both alike in their power. When the young men heard hula voices in the other houses they thought they would go and see the dancers. At the hour of twilight Waolani shook as if in an earthquake, and there was thunder and lightning. The young men and Anuenue went to the house and saw the girls dancing, and wondered how Kau-lana had come from the far-off land. Ke-ao-mele-mele foretold the future for the young people. She told Kau-lana that she would never marry, but should have magic medicine power for all coming days, and Kahanai should have the power over all customs of priests and sorcerers and knowledge of sacrifices, and should be the bosom friend of the medicine-goddess. She said that they would all go to Waipio, Hawaii. Kane, Kanaloa, and Anuenue approved of her commands. Ke-ao-mele-mele sent Kau-lana to Hawaii to tell Paliula to come and live with them at Waipio and find Kahanai once more. Kau-lana hastened to Hawaii in her shell boat. She called, "O my red shell boat of the deep blue sea and the black sea, come up to me." The shell boat appeared on the surface of the sea, floating. The girl was carried swiftly to Hawaii. There she found Waka and Paliula and took them to Waipio. They lived for a time there, then all went to Waolani to complete the marriage of Ke-ao-mele-mele to Kau-mai-liula. Kane sent Waka and Anuenue for Ku and Hiilei, Hina and Olopana with Mo-o-inanea to come to Oahu. Mo-o-inanea prepared large ocean-going canoes for the two families, but she and her people went in their magic boats. Mo-o-inanea told them they would never return to these lands, but should find their future home in Hawaii. Waka went on Ku's boat, Anuenue was with Hina. Ku and his friends looked back, the land was almost lost; they soon saw nothing until the mountains of Oahu appeared before them. They landed at Heeia on the northern side of the Nuuanu precipice, went over to Waolani, and met all the family who had come before. Before Mo-o-inanea left her land she changed it, shutting up all the places where her family had lived. She told all her kupua dragon family to come with her to the place where the gods had gone. Thus she made the old lands entirely different from any other lands, so that no other persons but gods or ghosts could live in them. Then she rose up to come away. The land was covered with rainclouds, heavy and black. The land disappeared and is now known as "The Hidden Land of Kane." She landed on Western Oahu, at Waialua, so that place became the home of the dragons, and it was filled with the dragons from Waialua to Ewa. This was the coming of dragons to the Hawaiian Islands. At the time of the marriage of Ke-ao-mele-mele and Kau-mai-liula, the Beautiful Daughter of Sunset came from the island Hawaii bringing the two trees Makalei and Makuukao, which prepared cooked food and fish. When she heard the call to the marriage she came with the trees. Makalei brought great multitudes of fish from all the ocean to the Koo-lau-poko side of the island Oahu. The ocean was red with the fish. Makuukao came to Nuuanu Valley with Kau-lana, entered Waolani, and provided plenty of food. Then Makalei started to come up from the sea. Kau-lana-iki-pokii told the gods and people that there must not be any noise when that great tree came up from the sea. They must hear and remain silent. When the tree began to come to the foot of the pali, the menehunes and eepas were astonished and began to shout with a great voice, for they thought this was a mighty kupua from Kahiki coming to destroy them. When they had shouted, Makalei fell down at the foot of the pali near Ka-wai-nui, and lies there to this day. So this tree never came to Waolani and the fish were scattered around the island. Kau-lana's wrath was very great, and he told Kane and the others to punish these noisy ones, to take them away from this wonderful valley of the gods. He said, "No family of these must dwell on Waolani." Thus the fairies and the gnomes were driven away and scattered over the islands. For a long time the Maiden of the Golden Cloud and her husband, Twilight Resting in the Sky, ruled over all the islands even to the mysterious lands of the ocean. When death came they laid aside their human bodies and never made use of them again--but as aumakuas, or ghost-gods, they assumed their divine forms, and in the skies, over the mountains and valleys, they have appeared for hundreds of years watching over and cheering their descendants. NOTE.--See now article on "Dragon Ghost-gods" in the Appendix. XVI PUNA AND THE DRAGON Two images of goddesses were clothed in yellow kapa cloth and worshipped in the temples. One was Kiha-wahine, a noted dragon-goddess, and the other was Haumea, who was also known as Papa, the wife of Wakea, a great ancestor-god among the Polynesians. Haumea is said to have taken as her husband, Puna, a chief of Oahu. He and his people were going around the island. The surf was not very good, and they wanted to find a better place. At last they found a fine surf-place where a beautiful woman was floating on the sea. She called to Puna, "This is not a good place for surf." He asked, "Where is there a place?" She answered, "I know where there is one, far outside." She desired to get Puna. So they swam way out in the sea until they were out of sight nor could they see the sharp peaks of the mountains. They forgot everything else but each other. This woman was Kiha-wahine. The people on the beach wailed, but did not take canoes to help them. They swam over to Molokai. Here they left their surf-boards on the beach and went inland. They came to the cave house of the woman. He saw no man inside nor did he hear any voice, all was quiet. Puna stayed there as a kind of prisoner and obeyed the commands of the woman. She took care of him and prepared his food. They lived as husband and wife for a long time, and at last his real body began to change. Once he went out of the cave. While standing there he heard voices, loud and confused. He wanted to see what was going on, but he could not go, because the woman had laid her law on him, that if he went away he would be killed. He returned to the cave and asked the woman, "What is that noise I heard from the sea?" She said: "Surf-riding, perhaps, or rolling the maika stone. Some one is winning and you heard the shouts." He said, "It would be fine for me to see the things you have mentioned." She said, "To-morrow will be a good time for you to go and see." In the morning he went down to the sea to the place where the people were gathered together and saw many sports. While he was watching, one of the men, Hinole, the brother of his wife, saw him and was pleased. When the sports were through he invited Puna to go to their house and eat and talk. Hinole asked him, "Whence do you come, and what house do you live in?" He said, "I am from the mountains, and my house is a cave." Hinole meditated, for he had heard of the loss of Puna at Oahu. He loved his brother-in-law, and asked, "How did you come to this place?" Puna told him all the story. Then Hinole told him his wife was a goddess. "When you return and come near to the place, go very easily and softly, and you will see her in her real nature, as a mo-o, or dragon; but she knows all that you are doing and what we are saying. Now listen to a parable. Your first wife, Haumea, is the first born of all the other women. Think of the time when she was angry with you. She had been sporting with you and then she said in a tired way, 'I want the water.' You asked, 'What water do you want?' She said, 'The water from Poliahu of Mauna Kea.' You took a water-jar and made a hole so that the water always leaked out, and then you went to the pit of Pele. That woman Pele was very old and blear-eyed, so that she could not see you well, and you returned to Haumea. She was that wife of yours. If you escape this mo-o wife she will seek my life. It is my thought to save your life, so that you can look into the eyes of your first wife." The beautiful dragon-woman had told him to cry with a loud voice when he went back to the cave. But when Puna was going back he went slowly and softly, and saw his wife as a dragon, and understood the words of Hinole. He tried to hide, but was trembling and breathing hard. [Illustration] His wife heard and quickly changed to a human body, and cursed him, saying: "You are an evil man coming quietly and hiding, but I heard your breath when you thought I would not know you. Perhaps I will eat your eyes. When you were talking with Hinole you learned how to come and see me." The dragon-goddess was very angry, but Puna did not say anything. She was so angry that the hair on her neck rose up, but it was like a whirlwind, soon quiet and the anger over. They dwelt together, and the woman trusted Puna, and they had peace. One day Puna was breathing hard, for he was thirsty and wanted the water of the gods. The woman heard his breathing, and asked, "Why do you breathe like this?" He said: "I want water. We have dwelt together a long time and now I need the water." "What water is this you want?" He said, "I must have the water of Poliahu of Mauna Kea, the snow covered mountain of Hawaii." She said, "Why do you want that water?" He said: "The water of that place is cold and heavy with ice. In my youth my good grandparents always brought water from that place for me. Wherever I went I carried that water with me, and when it was gone more would be brought to me, and so it has been up to the time that I came to dwell with you. You have water and I have been drinking it, but it is not the same as the water mixed with ice, and heavy. But I would not send you after it, because I know it is far away and attended with toil unfit for you, a woman." The woman bent her head down, then lifted her eyes, and said: "Your desire for water is not a hard thing to satisfy. I will go and get the water." Before he had spoken of his desire he had made a little hole in the water-jar, as Hinole had told him, that the woman might spend a long time and let him escape. She arose and went away. He also arose and followed. He found a canoe and crossed to Maui. Then he found another boat going to Hawaii and at last landed at Kau. He went up and stood on the edge of the pit of Pele. Those who were living in the crater saw him, and cried out, "Here is a man, a husband for our sister." He quickly went down into the crater and dwelt with them. He told all about his journey. Pele heard these words, and said: "Not very long and your wife will be here coming after you, and there will be a great battle, but we will not let you go or you will be killed, because she is very angry against you. She has held you, the husband of our sister Haumea. She should find her own husband and not take what belongs to another. You stay with us and at the right time you can go back to your wife." Kiha-wahine went to Poliahu, but could not fill the water-jar. She poured the water in and filled the jar, but when the jar was lifted it became light. She looked back and saw the water lying on the ground, and her husband far beyond at the pit of Pele. Then she became angry and called all the dragons of Molokai, Lanai, Maui, Kahoolawe, and Hawaii. When she had gathered all the dragons she went up to Kilauea and stood on the edge of the crater and called all the people below, telling them to give her the husband. They refused to give Puna up, crying out: "Where is your husband? This is the husband of our sister; he does not belong to you, O mischief-maker." Then the dragon-goddess said, "If you do not give up this man, of a truth I will send quickly all my people and fill up this crater and capture all your fires." The dragons threw their drooling saliva in the pit, and almost destroyed the fire of the pit where Pele lived, leaving Ka-moho-alii's place untouched. Then the fire moved and began to rise with great strength, burning off all the saliva of the dragons. Kiha-wahine and the rest of the dragons could not stand the heat even a little while, for the fire caught them and killed a large part of them in that place. They tried to hide in the clefts of the rocks. The earthquakes opened the rocks and some of the dragons hid, but fire followed the earthquakes and the fleeing dragons. Kiha-wahine ran and leaped down the precipice into a fish-pond called by the name of the shadow, or aka, of the dragon, Loko-aka (the shadow lake). So she was imprisoned in the pond, husbandless, scarcely escaping with her life. When she went back to Molokai she meant to kill Hinole, because she was very angry for his act in aiding Puna to escape. She wanted to punish him, but Hinole saw the trouble coming from his sister, so arose and leaped into the sea, becoming a fish in the ocean. When he dove into the sea Kiha-wahine went down after him and tried to find him in the small and large coral caves, but could not catch him. He became the Hinalea, a fish dearly loved by the fishermen of the islands. The dragon-goddess continued seeking, swimming swiftly from place to place. Ounauna saw her passing back and forth, and said, "What are you seeking, O Kiha-wahine?" She said, "I want Hinole." Ounauna said: "Unless you listen to me you cannot get him, just as when you went to Hawaii you could not get your husband from Pele. You go and get the vine inalua and come back and make a basket and put it down in the sea. After a while dive down and you will find that man has come inside. Then catch him." The woman took the vine, made the basket, came down and put it in the sea. She left it there a little while, then dove down. There was no Hinole in the basket, but she saw him swimming along outside of the basket. She went up, waited awhile, came down again and saw him still swimming outside. This she did again and again, until her eyes were red because she could not catch him. Then she was angry, and went to Ounauna and said: "O slave, I will kill you to-day. Perhaps you told the truth, but I have been deceived, and will chase you until you die." Ounauna said: "Perhaps we should talk before I die. I want you to tell me just what you have done, then I will know whether you followed directions. Tell me in a few words. Perhaps I forgot something." The dragon said, "I am tired of your words and I will kill you." Then Ounauna said, "Suppose I die, what will you do to correct any mistakes you have made?" Then she told how she had taken vines and made a basket and used it. Ounauna said: "I forgot to tell you that you must get some sea eggs and crabs, pound and mix them together and put them inside the basket. Put the mouth of the basket down. Leave it for a little while, then dive down and find your brother inside. He will not come out, and you can catch him." This is the way the Hinalea is caught to this day. After she had caught her brother she took him to the shore to kill him, but he persuaded her to set him free. This she did, compelling him ever after to retain the form of the fish Hinalea. Kiha-wahine then went to the island Maui and dwelt in a deep pool near the old royal town of Lahaina. After Pele had her battle with the dragons, and Puna had escaped according to the directions of Hinole, he returned to Oahu and saw his wife, Haumea, a woman with many names, as if she were the embodiment of many goddesses. After Puna disappeared, Kou became the new chief of Oahu. Puna went to live in the mountains above Kalihi-uka. One day Haumea went out fishing for crabs at Heeia, below the precipice of Koolau, where she was accustomed to go. [Illustration: BREADFRUIT-TREES] Puna came to a banana plantation, ate, and lay down to rest. He fell fast asleep and the watchmen of the new chief found him. They took his loin-cloth, and tied his hands behind his back, bringing him thus to Kou, who killed him and hung the body in the branches of a breadfruit-tree. It is said that this was at Wai-kaha-lulu just below the steep diving rocks of the Nuuanu stream. When Haumea returned from gathering moss and fish to her home in Kalihi-uka, she heard of the death of her husband. She had taken an akala vine, made a pa-u, or skirt, of it, and tied it around her when she went fishing, but she forgot all about it, and as she hurried down to see the body of her husband, all the people turned to look at her, and shouted out, "This is the wife of the dead man." She found Puna hanging on the branches. Then she made that breadfruit-tree open. Leaving her pa-u on the ground where she stood, she stepped inside the tree and bade it close about her and appear the same as before. The akala of which the pa-u had been made lay where it was left, took root and grew into a large vine. The fat of the body of Puna fell down through the branches and the dogs ate below the tree. One of these dogs belonged to the chief Kou. It came back to the house, played with the chief, then leaped, caught him by the throat and killed him. NOTE.--This is the same legend as "The Wonderful Breadfruit Tree" published in the "Legends of Old Honolulu," but the names are changed and the time is altered from the earliest days of Hawaiian lore to the almost historic period of King Kakuhihewa, whose under-chief mentioned in this legend gave the name to Old Honolulu, as for centuries it bore the name "Kou." The legend is new, however, in so far as it gives the account of the infatuation of Puna for Kiha-wahine, the dragon-goddess, and his final escape from her. XVII KE-AU-NINI Ku-aha-ilo was a demon who had no parents. His great effort was to find something to eat--men or any other kind of food. He was a kupua--one who was sometimes an animal and sometimes a man. He was said to be the father of Pele, the goddess of volcanic fires. Nakula-uka and Nakula-kai were the parents of Hiilei, who was the mother of Ke-au-nini. Nakula-kai told her husband that she was with child. He told her that he was glad, and if it were a boy he would name him, but if a girl she should name the child. The husband went out fishing, and Nakula-kai went to see her parents, Kahuli and Kakela. The hot sun was rising, so she put leaves over her head and came to the house. Her father was asleep. She told her mother about her condition. Kahuli awoke and turning over shook the land by his motion, _i.e._, the far-away divine land of Nuu-mea-lani. He asked his daughter why she had come, and when she told him he studied the signs and foretold the birth of a girl who should be named Hina. Kahuli's wife questioned his knowledge. He said: "I will prepare awa in a cup, cover it with white kapa, and chant a prayer. I will lift the cover, and if the awa is still there I am at fault. If the awa has disappeared I am correct. It will be proved by the awa disappearing that a girl will be born. "I was up above Niihau. O Ku! O Kane! O Lono! I have dug a hole, Planted the bamboo; The bamboo has grown; Find that bamboo! It has grown old. The green-barked bamboo has a green bark; The white-barked bamboo has a white bark. Fragments of rain are stinging the skin-- Rain fell that day in storms, Water pouring in streams. Mohoalii is by the island, Island cut off at birth from the mainland; Many islands as children were born." A girl was born, and the grandparents kept the child, calling her Hina. She cried, and the grandmother took her in her arms and sang: "Fishing, fishing, your father is fishing, Catching the opoa-pea." Nakula-kai went down to her home. Her husband returned from fishing. He said he thought another child was born. He had heard the thunder, but no storm. She told him that a boy was born. Nakula-uka named that boy Ke-au-miki (stormy or choppy current). Ten days afterward another boy was born. He was named Ke-au-kai (current toward the beach). These children had no food but awa. Their hair was not cut. They were taken inside a tabu temple and brought up. Nakula-uka and his wife after a long time had another girl named Hiilei (lifted like a lei on the head). The grandparents took the child. She was very beautiful and was kept tabu. Her husband should be either a king or a male kupua of very high birth. When she had grown up she heard noises below her woodland home several times, and she was very curious. She was told, "That comes from the surf-riding." Hiilei wanted to go down and see. The grandmother said, "Do not go, for it would mean your death." Once more came the noise, and she was told it was "spear-throwing." The girl wanted to know how that was done. The grandparents warned her that there was great danger, saying: "The path is full of trouble. Dragons lie beside the way. Ku-aha-ilo, the mo-o [dragon], is travelling through the sky, the clouds, the earth, and the forest. His tongue is thrusting every way to find food. He is almost starved, and now plans to assume his human form and come to Nuu-mea-lani, seeking to find some one for food. You should not go down to the beach of Honua-lewa [the field of sports]." But Hiilei was very persistent, so the grandmother at last gave permission, saying: "I will let you go, but here are my commands. You are quite determined to go down, but listen to me. Ku-aha-ilo is very hungry, and is seeking food these days. When you go down to the grove of kukui-trees, there Ku-aha-ilo will await you and you will be afraid that he will catch you. Do not be afraid. Pass that place bravely. Go on the lower side--the valley-side--and you cannot be touched. When that one sees you he will change into his god-body and stand as a mo-o. Do not show that you are afraid. He cannot touch you unless you are afraid and flee. Keep your fear inside and give 'Aloha' and say, 'You are a strangely beautiful one.' The dragon will think you are not afraid. Then that mo-o will take another body. He will become a great caterpillar. Caterpillars will surround you. You must give 'Aloha' and praise. Thus you must do with all the mysterious bodies of Ku-aha-ilo without showing any fear. Then Ku-aha-ilo will become a man and will be your husband." So the girl went down, dressed gorgeously by the grandmother in a skirt of rainbow colors, flowers of abundant perfumes--nothing about her at fault. She came to the kukui grove and looked all around, seeing nothing, but passing further along she saw a mist rising. A strong wind was coming. The sun was hot in the sky, making her cheeks red like lehua flowers. She went up some high places looking down on the sea. Then she heard footsteps behind her. She looked back and saw a strange body following. She became afraid and trembled, but she remembered the words of her grandmother, and turned and said, "Aloha," and the strange thing went away. She went on and again heard a noise and looked back. A whirlwind was coming swiftly after her. Then there was thunder and lightning. Hiilei said: "Aloha. Why do you try to make me afraid? Come in your right body, for I know that you are a real man." Everything passed away. She went on again, but after a few steps she felt an earthquake. Afraid, she sat down. She saw a great thing rising like a cloud twisting and shutting out the sun, moving and writhing--a great white piece of earth in front of a whirlwind. She was terribly frightened and fell flat on the ground as if dead. Then she heard the spirit of her grandmother calling to her to send away her fear, saying: "This is the one of whom I told you. Don't be afraid." She looked at the cloud, and the white thing became omaomao (green). Resolutely she stood up, shook her rainbow skirt and flowers. The perfumes were scattered in the air and she started on. Then the dragons, a multitude, surrounded her, climbing upon her to throw her down. Her skin was creeping, but she remembered her grandmother and said: "Alas, O most beautiful ones, this is the first time I have ever seen you. If my grandmother were here we would take you back to our home and entertain you, and you should be my playmates. But I cannot return, so I must say 'Farewell.'" Then the dragons disappeared and the caterpillars came into view after she had gone on a little way. The caterpillars' eyes were protruding as they rose up and came against her, but she said, "Aloha." Then she saw another form of Ku-aha-ilo--a stream of blood flowing like running water. She was more frightened than at any other time, and cried to her grandfather: "E Kahuli, I am afraid! Save my life, O my grandfather!" He did not know she had gone down. He told his wife that he saw Ku-aha-ilo surrounding someone on the path. He went into his temple and prayed: "Born is the night, Born is the morning, Born is the thunder, Born is the lightning, Born is the heavy rain, Born is the rain which calls us; The clouds of the sky gather." Then Kahuli twisted his kapa clothes full of lightning and threw them into the sky. A fierce and heavy rain began to fall. Streams of water rushed toward the place where Hiilei stood fighting with that stream of blood in which the dragon was floating. The blood was all washed away and the dragon became powerless. Ku-aha-ilo saw that he had failed in all these attempts to terrify Hiilei. His eyes flashed and he opened his mouth. His tongue was thrusting viciously from side to side. His red mouth was like the pit of Pele. His teeth were gnashing, his tail lashing. Hiilei stood almost paralyzed by fear, but remembered her grandmother. She felt that death was near when she faced this awful body of Ku-aha-ilo. But she hid her fear and called a welcome to this dragon. Then the dragon fell into pieces, which all became nothing. The fragments flew in all directions. While Hiilei was watching this, all the evil disappeared and a handsome man stood before her. Hiilei asked him gently, "Who are you, and from what place do you come?" He said, "I am a man of this place." "No," said Hiilei, "you are not of this land. My grandparents and I are the only ones. This is our land. From what place do you come?" He replied: "I am truly from the land above the earth, and I have come to find a wife for myself. Perhaps you will be my wife." She said that she did not want a husband at that time. She wanted to go down to the sea. He persuaded her to marry him and then go down and tell her brothers that she had married Ku-aha-ilo. If a boy was born he must be called Ke-au-nini-ula-o-ka-lani (the red, restful current of the heavens). This would be their only child. He gave her signs for the boy, saying, "When the boy says to you, 'Where is my father?' you can tell him, 'Here is the stick or club Kaaona and this malo or girdle Ku-ke-anuenue.' He must take these things and start out to find me." He slowly disappeared, leaving Hiilei alone. She went down to the sea. The people saw her coming, a very beautiful woman, and they shouted a glad welcome. She went out surf-riding, sported awhile, and then her grandfather came and took her home. After a time came the signs of the birth of a chief. Her son was born and named Ke-au-nini. This was in the land Kuai-he-lani. Kahuli almost turned over. The land was shaken and tossed. This was one of the divine lands from which the ancestors of the Hawaiians came. Pii-moi, a god of the sun, asked Akoa-koa, the coral, "What is the matter with the land?" Akoa-koa replied, "There is a kupua--a being with divine powers--being born, with the gifts of Ku-aha-ilo." Pii-moi was said to be below Papaku-lolo, taking care of the foundation of the earth. The brothers were in their temple. Ke-au-kai heard the signs in the leaves and knew that his sister had a child, and proposed to his brother to go over and get the child. The mother had left it on a pile of sugar-cane leaves. They met their sister and asked for the child. Then they took it, wrapped it in a soft kapa and went back to the temple. The temple drum sounded as they came in, beaten by invisible hands. The boy grew up. The mother after a time wanted to see the child, and went to the temple. She had to wait a little, then the boy came out and said he would soon come to her. She rejoiced to see such a beautiful boy as her Ke-au-nini-ula-o-ka-lani. They talked and rejoiced in their mutual affection. An uncle came and sent her away for a time. The boy returned to the temple, and his uncle told him he could soon go to be with his mother. Then came an evil night and the beating of the spirit drum. A mist covered the land. There was wailing among the menehunes (fairy folk). Ke-au-nini went away covered by the mist, and no one saw him go. He came to his grandfather's house, saw an old man sleeping and a war-club by the door. He took this club and lifted it to strike the old man, but the old man caught the club. The boy dropped it and tried to catch the old man. The old man held him and asked who he was and to what family he belonged. The boy said: "I belong to Kahuli and Kakela, to Nakula-uka and Nakula-kai. I am the son of Ku-aha-ilo and Hiilei. I have been brought up by Ke-au-miki and Ke-au-kai. I seek my mother." The old man arose, took his drum and beat it. Hiilei and her mother came out to meet the boy. They put sacrifices in their temple for him and chanted to their ancestor-gods: "O Keke-hoa-lani, dwell here; Here are wind and rain." By and by Ke-au-nini asked his mother, "Where is my father?" She told him: "You have no father in the lands of the earth. He belongs to the atmosphere above. You cannot go to find him. He never told me the pathway to his home. You had better stay with me." He replied: "No I cannot stay here. I must go to find my father." He was very earnest in his purpose. His mother said: "If you make a mistake, your father will kill you and then eat you and take all your lands. He will destroy the forests and the food plants, and all will be devoured by your father. His kingdom is tabu. If you go, take great care of the gifts, for with these things you succeed, but without them you die." She showed him the war-club and the rainbow-girdle, and gave them into his care. The boy took the gifts, kissed his mother, went outside and looked up into the sky. He saw wonderful things. A long object passed before him, part of which was on the earth, but the top was lost in the clouds. This was Niu-loa-hiki, one of the ancestor-gods of the night. This was a very tall cocoanut-tree, from which the bark of cocoanuts fell in the shape of boats. He took one of these boats in his hands, saying, "How can I ride in this small canoe?" He went down to the sea, put the bark boat in the water, got in and sailed away until the land of Nuu-mea-lani was lost. His uncle, Ke-au-kai, saw him going away, and prayed to the aumakuas (ancestral ghost-gods) to guard the boy. The boy heard the soft voice of the far-off surf, and as he listened he saw a girl floating in the surf. He turned his boat and joined her. She told him to go back, or he would be killed. She was Moho-nana, the first-born child of Ku-aha-ilo. When she learned that this was her half-brother, she told him that her father was sleeping. If he awoke, the boy would be killed. The boy went to the shore of this strange land. Ku-aha-ilo saw him coming, and breathed out the wind of his home against the boy. It was like a black whirlwind rushing to the sea. The boy went on toward his father's tabu place, up to Kalewa, in the face of the storm. He saw the tail of Ku-aha-ilo sweep around against him to kill him. He began his chants and incantations and struck his war-club on the ground. Lava came out and fire was burning all around him. He could not strike the tail, nor could the tail strike him. Ku-aha-ilo sent many other enemies, but the war-club turned them aside. The earth was shaking, almost turning upside down as it was struck by the war-club. Great openings let lava fires out. Ku-aha-ilo came out of his cave to fight. His mouth was open, his tongue outstretching, his eyes glaring, but the boy was not afraid. He took his club, whirled it in his hand, thinking his father would see it, but his father did not see it. The boy leaped almost inside the mouth and struck with the club up and down, every stroke making an opening for fire. The father tried to shut his mouth, but the boy leaped to one side and struck the father's head. The blow glanced aside and made a great hole in the earth, which let out fire. The dragon body disappeared and came back in another form, as a torrent of blood. Ke-au-nini thrust it aside. Then a handsome man stood before him with wild eyes, demanding who he was. Ku-aha-ilo had forgotten his son, and the miraculous war-club which he had given to Hiilei, so he began to fight with his hands. Ke-au-nini laid his club down. The father was near the end of his strength, and said, "Let our anger cease, that we may know each other." The boy was very angry and said: "You have treated me cruelly, when I only came to see you and to love you. You would have taken my young life for sacrifice. Now you tell me you belong to the temple of my ancestors in Nuu-mea-lani." Then he caught his father and lifted him up. He tossed him, dizzy and worn out, into the air, and catching the body broke it over his knee. Ku-aha-ilo had killed and eaten all his people, so that no one was left in his land. The boy's sister saw the battle and went away to Ka-lewa-lani (the divine far-away cloud-land). Ke-au-nini returned on his ocean journey to Nuu-mea-lani. The uncle saw a mist covering the sea and saw the sign of a chief in it, and knew that the boy was not dead, but had killed Ku-aha-ilo. The boy came and greeted them and told the story. He remained some time in the temple and dreamed of a beautiful woman. The brothers talked about the power of Ke-au-nini who had killed his father, a man without parents, part god and part man. They thought he would now kill them. Ke-au-nini became pale and thin and sick, desiring the woman of his dream. Finally he told the brothers to find that woman or he would kill them. Ke-au-kai told him that he would consult the gods. Then he made a red boat with a red mast and a red sail and told Ke-au-miki to go after Hiilei, their sister. Hiilei came down to stay with her son while the brothers went away to find the girl. Ke-au-kai (broad sea-current) said to Ke-au-miki (chopped-up current): "You sit in front, I behind. Let this be our law. You must not turn back to look at me. You must not speak to me. I must not speak to you, or watch you." Ke-au-miki went to his place in the boat. The other stood with one foot in the boat and one on the land. He told the boy they would go. If they found a proper girl they would return; if not, they would not come back. They pushed the boat far out to sea by one paddle-stroke. Another stroke and land was out of sight. Swiftly leaped the boat over the ocean. They saw birds on the island Kaula. One bird flew up. Heavy winds almost upset the boat and filled it with water up to their chins. They caught the paddles, bailing-cups, and loose boards for seats, and held them safe. The wind increased like a cyclone over them. Thus in the storm they floated on the sea. Ke-au-nini by his sorcery saw the swamped canoe. He ran and told his mother. She sent him to the temple to utter incantations: "O wind, wini-wini [sharp-pointed]; O wind full of stinging points; O wind rising at Vavau, At Hii-ka-lani; Stamped upon, trodden upon by the wind. Niihau is the island; Ka-pali-kala-hale is the chief." This chant of Ke-au-nini reached Ke-au-kai, and the wind laid aside its anger. Its strength was made captive and the sea became calm. The boat came to the surface, and they bailed it out and took their places. Ke-au-kai said to his brother: "What a wonderful one is that boy of ours! We must go to Niihau." They saw birds, met a boat and fisherman, and found Niihau. When the Niihau people saw them coming on a wonderful surf wave, they shouted about the arrival of the strangers. The chief Ka-pali-kala-hale came down as the surf swept the boat inland. He took the visitors to his house and gave gifts of food, kapas, and many other things. Then they went on their way. When they were between Niihau and Kauai, the wind drove the boat back. A whirlwind threw water into the boat, swamping it. It was sinking and all the goods were floating away. Ke-au-nini again saw the signs of trouble and chanted: "The wind of Kauai comes; it touches; it strikes; Rising, whirling; boat filled with water; The boat slipping down in the sea; The outrigger sticks in the sand. Kauai is the island; Ka-pali-o-ka-la-lau is chief." The sea became calm. The boat was righted and the floating goods were put in. They met canoes and went on a mighty surf wave up the sands of the beach. The people shouted, "Aloha!" The chiefess of that part of Kauai was surf-riding and heard the people shouting welcome, so she came to land and found the visitors sitting on the sand, resting. She took them to the royal home. All the people of Kauai came together to meet the strangers, making many presents. The brothers found no maids sufficiently perfect, so they crossed over to Oahu, meeting other trials. At last they went to Hawaii to the place where Haina-kolo lived, a chiefess and a kua (goddess). This was above Kawaihae. They went to Kohala, seeking the dream-land of Ke-au-nini, and then around to Waipio Valley. There they saw a rainbow resting over the home of a tabu chief, Ka-lua-hine. They landed near the door of the Under-world. This entrance is through a cave under water. There they saw the shadow of Milu, the ruler of the dead. Milu's people called out, "Here are men breaking the tabu of the chief." Olopana, a very high chief, heard the shouts while he was in the temple in the valley. He saw the visitors chased by the people, running here and there. Haina-kolo, his sister, was tabu. Watchmen were on the outside of her house. They also saw the two men and the people pursuing, and told Haina-kolo, and she ordered one of the watchmen to go out and say to the strangers, "Oh, run swiftly; run, run, and come inside this temple!" They heard and ran in. The people stopped on the outside of the wall around the house. This was a tabu drum place, and not a temple of safety. Olopana was in the heiau (temple) Pakaalana. Haina-kolo asked who they were. They said they were from Hawaii. She said, "No, you have come from the sea." Hoo-lei-palaoa, one of her watchmen, called, and men came and caught the two strangers, taking them to Olopana, who was very angry because they had come into the temple of his sister. So he ordered his men to take them at once and carry them to a prison house to die on the morrow. He said if the prisoners escaped, the watchmen should die and their bodies be burned in the fire. Toward morning the two prisoners talked together and uttered incantations. Ke-au-nini saw by the signs that they were in some trouble and chanted in the ears of the watchmen: "They shall not die. They shall not die." The watchmen reported to Olopana what they had heard, then returned to watch. The moon was rising and the two prisoners were talking. Ke-au-kai told his brother to look at the moon, saying: "This means life. The cloud passes, morning comes." Ke-au-kai prayed and chanted. The watchmen again reported to Olopana, giving the words of the chant. In this chant the family names were given. Olopana said: "These are the names of my mother's people. My mother is Hina. Her sister is Hiilei. Her brothers are Ke-au-kai and Ke-au-miki. They were all living at Kuai-he-lani. Hina and her husband Ku went away to Waipio. There she had her child, Haina-kolo." Olopana sent messengers for Hina, who was like the rising moon, giving life, and for her husband Ku, who was at Napoopoo, asking them to come and look at these prisoners. They ran swiftly and arrived by daylight. Hina had been troubled all night. Messengers called: "Awake! Listen to the chant of the prisoners, captured yesterday." And they reported the prayers of Ke-au-kai. Hina arose and went to the heiau (temple) and heard the story of her brothers, who came also with the warriors. Olopana heard Hina wailing with her brothers, and was afraid that his mother would kill him because he had treated his visitors so badly. The strangers told her they had come to find a wife for Ke-au-nini. They had looked at the beautiful women of all the islands and had found none except the woman at Waipio. Then they told about the anger of the people, the pursuit, and their entrance into the tabu temple. Hina commanded Olopana to come before them. He took warriors and chiefs and came over to the temple and stood before his parents. Hina pronounced judgment, saying: "This chief shall live because he sent for me. The chiefs and people who pursued shall die and be cooked in the oven in which they thought to place the strangers." Ku's warriors captured Olopana's men and took them away prisoners, but Olopana was spared and made welcome by his uncle. And they all feasted together for days. Then the brothers prepared to go after Ke-au-nini. One man who heard the wailing of the brothers and knew of the coming of Hina went to his house, took his wife and children and ran by way of Hilo to Puna-luu. It was said this man took his calabash to get water at the spring Kauwila, and an owl picked a hole in it and let the water out. For this the owl was injured by a stone which was thrown at him, and he told the other birds. They said he was rightly punished for his fault. The brothers found their red boat, launched it, and bade farewell to the chief's people and lands. They returned to Kuai-he-lani, like a flash of lightning speeding along the coast from south to west. The boy in the temple saw them in their swift boat. He told Hiilei and prepared for their coming. They landed, feasted, and told their story. Then they prepared for their journey to Waipio. Their boat was pulled by fish in place of boatmen, and these disappeared upon arrival at Hawaii. Ke-au-kai went first to meet Olopana, who ran down to see Ke-au-nini and asked how he came. Ke-au-nini said, "There was no wandering, no murmuring, no hunger, no pinched faces." Then they feasted while over them thunder and lightning played and mist covered the house. Awa was thrown before the spirit of the thunder and they established tabus. Olopana had trouble with his priests and became angry and wanted to punish them because they did not know how to do their work so well as Ke-au-nini. They could make thunder and lightnings and earthquakes, but Ke-au-nini blew toward the east and something like a man appeared in a cloud of dust; he put his right hand in the dust and began to make land. Olopana saw this and thought it was done by the kahunas (priests) and so he forgave them, thinking they had more power than Ke-au-nini. Later he ordered them to be killed and cooked. Olopana asked Ke-au-nini, "Which of the tabu houses do you wish to take as your residence?" Ke-au-nini replied: "My house is the lightning, the bloody sky, or the dark cloud hanging over Kuai-he-lani, down the ridge or extending cape Ke-au-oku, where Ku of Kauhika is, where multitudes of eyes bend low before the gods. The house of my parents--there is where I dwell. You have heard of that place." Olopana was greatly astonished, bowed his head and thought for a long time, then said: "We will set apart our tabu days for worship, and I will see your tabu place--you in your place and I outside. When you are through your days of tabu you must return and we will live together." Ke-au-nini raised his eyes and spoke softly to the clouds above him: "O my parents, this my brother-in-law wishes to see our dwelling-place, therefore call Ke-au-kai to send down our tabu dwelling-place." Ke-au-kai was near him, and said: "We had very many troubles on the ocean in coming after the one whom you want for your wife. You aided us to escape; perhaps the old man in the skies will hear you if you call." Then Ke-au-nini turned toward the east: "Ke-au-nini has his home, His home with his mother. Hiilei, the wife, She was the child of Nakula-uka, The first-born Kakela. The cheeks grow red; And the eyes flash fire. In the Lewa-lani (heavens), The very heart of the lightning, A double rainbow is high arched. The voice of the Kana-mu are heard. Calling and crying are the Kana-wa. [The Kana-mu and the Kana-wa were companies of little people, _i.e._, fairies.] I continually call to you, O little ones, Come here with the white feathers, Let feathers come here together; Let all the colors of the tortoise-back Gather and descend; Let all the posts stand strong; Braced shall be the house; Fasten in also the smoke-colored feathers; Work swiftly and complete our tabu house." Then the darkness of evening came, and in the shadows the little people labored in the moonless night. Soon their work was done, the house finished, and a sacred drum placed inside. When the clear sky of the morning rested over, and the sun made visible the fairy home in the early dawn, the people cried out with wonder at the beautiful thing before them. There stood a house of glowing feathers of all colors. Posts and rafters of polished bones shone like the ivory teeth of the whale, tinted in the smoke of a fire. Softly swayed the feathered thatch in a gentle breeze, rustling through the surrounding cocoa-trees. Most beautiful it was, as in the chant of Lilinoe: "Hulei Lilinoe me Kuka-hua-ula; Hele Hoaheo i kai o Mokuleia." "Lifted up, blown by the wind are The falls down to the sea of Mokuleia." Ke-au-nini told his brother-in-law, "Oh, my brother, look upon my tabu dwelling-place as you wished." Olopana was very curious, and asked, "How many people are needed to make a house like this so quickly?" Ke-au-nini laughed and said, "You have seen my people: there are three of us who built this house--I, the chief, and my two friends." He did not give the names of the little people, Kana-mu and Kana-wa, who were really great multitudes, like the menehunes who made the ditch at Waimea, Kauai. They were the one-night people. All this work was finished while they alone could see clearly to use their magic powers. Inside the house lay soft mats made from feathers of many birds, and sleeping-couches better than had ever been seen before. Ke-au-nini said to his brother-in-law: "We are now ready to have the tabu of our house. My parents will enter with me." Olopana asked his kahunas if it were right for the parents to stay with the chief during a tabu, under the law of their land. The priests consulted and told Olopana that this was all right. They had no power to forbid. The parents had divine power, so also the boy, both alike, and could dwell together without breaking tabu. Then they said, "If you forbid, you will be landless." Ke-au-kai and Ke-au-miki entered the house with their young chief. Ke-au-miki beat the sacred drum, announcing the tabu. They poured and drank awa, ate sugar-cane and chanted softly to the rhythm of the drum. Olopana was filled with jealousy because all was hidden from him. He did not know what a drum was. He had only known a time of tabu, but not the secret drum, and the soft chant. During the ten days' tabu Ke-au-nini did not see his wife, but remained shut in his place. Olopana called for all the people to bring presents. When the tabu was over and the temple door opened, Ke-au-nini and Haina-kolo prepared for the marriage. All the people came bringing feather mats, food, fish, and awa, which had been growing on a tree. Hamakua sent food and fish; Hilo sent olona and feathers; Puna sent mats and awa from the trees; Kau sent kapa; Kona sent red kapas; Kohala sent its wonderful noted sweet potatoes. The young chiefess appeared before all the people, coming from her tabu place, and she saw all the fine presents, and a great cocoanut-leaf lanai (porch) prepared by her brother. She came there before her parents and brother. They were waiting for Ke-au-nini, who delayed coming. Olopana asked his priests: "Why does the young chief fail to appear? We are all ready for the marriage feast." The priest said to Olopana: "Do you think that you can treat this man as one of us? He is a god on his father's side and also on his mother's. He is very high. It is on his mother's side that you are related. You should go to him with a sacrifice. Take a black pig, a cup of awa, a black chicken, and a cocoanut. If we do not do these things we shall not know where he is staying, for he is under the care of the gods. Now is the right time to go with the offering. Go quickly. The sun is rising high in the sky." Olopana quickly gathered the offerings and went away to sacrifice before Ke-au-nini. He called him thus: "Rise up! Let your strength look inland; Let your might look toward the sea; Let your face look upward; Look up to the sun over your head; The strange night has passed. Awake! Here are the offerings,-- Food for the gods: Let life come!" He set the pig free and it ran to the feet of Ke-au-nini. The chicken did the same, and the other offerings were laid before the door. Olopana went back. Ke-au-nini and his uncles awoke. He said to them: "Now the tabu is lifted. Now the hour of the marriage has come. We must prepare to go down to the sea. We shall see the sports of this land. Soon we shall meet the priests and the people." They arose and opened their bundles of kapa, very fine and soft for red malos (girdles) for the uncles. Ke-au-nini put on his malo, called Ke-kea-awe-awe-ula (the red girdle with long ends, shaded in the tints of the rainbow) and his red feather cloak and his red feather helmet, nodding like a bird. His skin, polished and perfumed, shone resplendently. He was most gorgeous in his appearance. When he went out of his house, thatched with bird feathers and built of polished bones, darkness spread over the sky. The voices of the little fairies, the Kana-mu and Kana-wa were heard. The people in the great cocoanut lanai were filled with wonder, for they had never seen darkness come in this way. It was like the sun eclipsed. When Ke-au-nini and his companions entered the lanai, the darkness passed away and all the people saw them in their splendor. The chiefs opened a way for the three. Ke-au-miki came in first and the people thought he was the husband, but when Ke-au-kai came they said, "This one is more beautiful," and when Ke-au-nini passed before them they fell on their faces, although he had a gauze kapa thrown over him. He passed on between rows of chiefs to the place of marriage. His uncles stepped aside, and then he threw off his thin kapa and the people shouted again and again until the echoes shook the precipices around the valley. [Illustration: A YOUNG CHIEF OF HAWAII] Then Haina-kolo came out of her house near by and was guided to the side of her husband. As she saw him her heart melted and flowed to him like the mingling of floating sea-mosses. Olopana arose and said: "O chiefs and people, I have been asked to come here to the marriage of my sister with one whom she has met in dreams and loved. I agree to this wedding. Our parents approve, and the gods have given their signs. Our chiefess shall belong to the stranger. You shall obey him. I will do as he may direct. They shall now become husband and wife." The people shouted again and again, saying, "This is the husband of our chiefess." Then began the hookupu. Six districts brought six piles of offerings. There were treasures and treasures of all kinds. Then came the wonderful feast of all the people. The fish companions of Ke-au-nini, who had drawn his boat from Kuai-he-lani, wanted Haina-kolo for themselves. While they were at the feast they found they could not get her, and they grew cold and ashamed and angry. Soon they broke away from the feast. Moi and Uhu ran away to the sea and returned to their homes. Niu-loa-hiki (a great eel) looked at Ke-au-nini and said: "You are very strange. I thought I should have my reward this day, but the winning has come to you. I am angry, because you are my servant. It is a shame for the chiefs of Hawaii to let you become their ruler." His angry eyes flashed fire, he opened his mouth and started to cry out again, but the people saw him and shouted: "Look, look, there is an eel that comes to the land. He runs and dives into the sea. This eel, Niu-loa-hiki, is more evil than any other of all the family of eels." Then all the fish ran off angry at this failure and gathered in the sea for consultation. Uhu said he would return at once to Makapuu. He was the Uhu who had the great battle with Kawelo when he was caught in a net. Moi went to the rough water outside the harbor. Kumunuiaiake went to Hilo. He was the huge fish with which Limaloa had a great battle when he came to visit Hawaii. He was killed by Limaloa. Hou and Awela went wherever they could find a ditch to swim in. The people feasted on the mullet of Lolakea and the baked dogs of Hilo and the humpbacked mullet of Waiakea and all the sweet things of Hawaii. Then the sports commenced and there was surf-riding, dancing, wrestling, and boxing. Kawelo-hea, the surf-rider of Kawa in Oahu, was the best surf-rider. Hina-kahua, the child of the battling-places of Kohala, was the best boxer. Pilau-hulu, the noted boy of Olaa, was the best puhenehene-player. Lilinoe was the best konane-player. Luu-kia was the best kilu-player. She was a relative of Haina-kolo. When the sports were over they returned to the chief's house and slept. Haina-kolo was one who did not closely adhere to the tabu. She ate the tabu things, which were sacred, belonging to the gods, such as bananas and luau. Ke-au-nini had always carefully, from his birth to marriage-day, observed the tabu, but, following the example of his wife, soon laid aside his carefulness, and lived in full disregard of all restraint for a time. Then Ke-au-nini left Haina-kolo and returned to Kuai-he-lani because dissensions arose between them on account of their wrong-doing. He did not tell his wife or friends, or even his uncles, but he took his cocoanut-boat to go back to his home secretly. When he was far out in the ocean his sister saw him from her home in Lewa-lani (the blue sky). She sent Kana-ula, her watchman, to go out and guard him and bring him to her. Kana-ula was a strong wind blowing with the black clouds which rise before a storm. In a little while the watchman saw Ke-au-nini off Kohala, and by his great strength lifted Ke-au-nini and placed him on Kuai-he-lani, where he saw his mother and relatives. Then he went up to Lewa-lani to his sister and dwelt with her to forget his love for Haina-kolo. Haina-kolo had a great love for her husband, never making any trouble before they separated. Her love for him was burning and full of passion, while she grieved over his disappearance. She soon had a child. The priests living in the heiau (temple), Pakaalana, beat their drums, and all Waipio knew that a chief was born. Haina-kolo began to go about like one crazed, longing to see the eyes of her husband. She took her child and launched out in the ocean. The boat in which she placed the child was the long husk of a cocoanut. She held fast to this and swam and floated by its side. When they had gone far out in the sea a great wind swept over them and upon them, driving them far out of sight of all land. She looked only for death. This wind was Kana-ula, and had been sent by Moho, who was very angry at the girl for violating the tabu of the gods and eating the things set apart for the gods. This wind was to blow her far away on the ocean until death came. When Haina-kolo had been blown a little way she prayed and moved her feet, turning toward the place where she had rejoiced with her husband. Then she offered another prayer and began to swim, but was driven out of sight of land. The wind ceased, its anger passed away, and a new land appeared. She swam toward this new land. Lei-makani, the child, saw this land, which was the high place of Ke-ao-lewa, and chanted: "Destroy the first kou grove; Destroy the second kou grove; Open a wonderful door in the evening; Offer your worship. Return, return, O bird!" The mother said: "No, my child, that is not a bird. Oh, my child, that is Ke-ao-lewa, the land where we shall find a shore." But she went on patiently, swimming by the capes of Kohala, and came near to the places of noted surf and was almost on the land. Moho saw her still swimming and sent another wind servant, Makani-kona, the south wind, to drive her again out in the ocean. This south wind came like a whirlwind, sweeping and twisting over the waves, sending Haina-kolo far out in the tossing sea. He thought he had killed her, so he went back to Moho. Moho asked him about his journey over the seas. He replied, "You sent me to kill, and that I did." She was satisfied and ceased her vigilance. Tired and suffering, Haina-kolo and her child floated far out in the ocean, too weary to swim. Then Lei-makani saw Ke-ao-lewa again lifted up and spread out like the wings of a floating bird. Help came to her in a great shark, Kau-naha-ili-pakapaka (Kau-naha, with a rough skin), belonging to the family of Pii-moi, one of the relatives of Ku, who swam up to her and carried her and the child until he was tired. Haina-kolo was rested and warmed by the sun. She saw that her shark friend was growing weak, so she called to the sun, "O sun, go on your way to the land of Ka-lewa-nuu, and tell Ke-au-nini that we are here at the cape of Ka-ia." The sun did not hear the cry from the sea. She called again, using the same words. The sun heard this call of Haina-kolo and went on to the place where Ke-au-nini was staying and called to him, "O Ke-au-nini, your wife is near the cape of Ka-ia." Moho heard the call. She was playing konane with her brother. She made a noise to confuse the words of the sun, and said to her brother, "O ke ku kela, o ka holo keia. Niole ka luna, kopala ka ele, na ke kea ka ai." "Take this one up. Let that one move. Take that up slowly. The black is blotted out, the white wins." Then the sun called again, saying the same words, and Ke-au-nini heard, leaped up and left his sister, and went down to Kuai-he-lani and entered the temple, where he was accustomed to sleep, and fell as one dead. While he was reclining, his spirit left his body and went down to Milu and stayed there a long time. Haina-kolo was very near the land in the afternoon. Soon they came to the beach. There she dug a little hole for her child and laid him in his little boat in it and went up the path like a crazy person to the top of the high precipices of Ka-hula-anu (the cold dancing) and began to eat fruit growing on the trees. She clothed herself in leaves, then rushed into the forest. Lei-makani was still floating where his mother had left him, near a place where the servants of Luu-kia went fishing every morning to get the food loved by the chiefs. Two men, Ka-holo-holo-uka and Ka-holo-holo-kai, had come down for Luu-kia, carrying a net. They threw their net over the water and the child floated into it. They thought they had a great fish. They carried the net up on the beach and found the boy. It was a little dark, and hard to see what they were catching. One called to the other, "What have we caught this morning?" The other said: "I thought we had a great fish, but this is a child. I will take this child to my home." The other said, "No--This is a fish." So they had a quarrel until the sun rose. Then they went up to the village. Ka-holo-holo-uka told his wife, "We have a child." Then he told her how they had caught Lei-makani. They talked loudly. This chiefess heard their noisy clamor and asked her servant, "What's the trouble with these noisy ones?" They told her and she wanted that child brought to her, and commanded Maile-lau-lii (small leaf maile) to go and get it. He took it to Luu-kia, who marked its wonderful beauty. She sent for the fishermen to tell her how they got the child. They told her about the fishing. She wanted to know who were the parents. They said: "We do not know. This may be the child of Haina-kolo, for we know she has disappeared with her child. She may be dead and this may be her boy." Luu-kia said, "You two take the child, and I will give the name, Lopa-iki-hele-wale [going without anything]. Then you care for it until it grows up." They took the child to the land of Opaeloa, as a good place to bring it up. The fishermen said to Luu-kia, "Will you provide food, fish, and clothing?" She said, "Yes." They thought the child would not understand, but it knew all these words. The fisherman and his wife took the child away. Waipio Valley people were surrounded by precipices, but the gods of Waipio watched all the troubles by sending messengers to go over to the upland and follow Haina-kolo. Ku and Hina and Olopana were burdened by the loss of Haina-kolo and Lei-makani, so they went to the temple at Pakaalana, where the uncles of Ke-au-nini were staying. There they consulted the gods with signs and sorceries. They sent Ke-au-miki to get some little stones at Kea-au, a place near Haena. His brother said: "Get thirteen stones--seven white and six black. Make them fast in a bundle, so they cannot be lost, then come back by Pana-ewa and get awa (_piper methysticum_) which man did not plant, but which was carried by the birds to the trees and planted there. Then return this evening and we will study the signs." Ke-au-miki went up the pali (precipice) and hastened along the top running and leaping and flying over Hamakua to Hilo. The Hilo palis were nothing to this man as he sped swiftly over the gulches until he came to the Wailuku River guarded by the kupua Pili-a-mo-o, who concealed the path so that none could find it until a price was paid. The dragon covered the path with its rough skin. Ke-au-miki stood looking for a path, but could only see what seemed to be pahoehoe lava. The tail of the dragon was like a kukui-tree-trunk lying in the water. He saw the tail switching and rising up to strike him. Then he knew that this was a kupua. The tail almost struck him on the head. He called to Kahuli in Kuai-he-lani, who sent a mighty wind and hurled aside the waters, caught up the body of the dragon and let it fall, smashing it on the rocks, breaking the beds of lava. Then Ke-au-miki rushed over the river and up the precipices, speeding along to Pa-ai-ie, where the long ohia point of Pana-ewa is found, then turned toward the sea and went to Haena, to the place where the little stones aala-manu are found. He picked up the stones and ran to Pana-ewa and got the awa hanging on the tree, tied up the awa and stones and hurried back. He crossed the gulch at Konolii and met a man, Lolo-ka-eha, who tried to take the awa away from him. He was a robber. When they came face to face, Ke-au-miki caught the man with his hand, hurled him over the precipice and killed him. When he saw that this man was dead, he ran as swiftly as the wind until he met a very beautiful woman, Wai-puna-lei. She saw him and asked him to be her husband, but he would not stop. He crossed Hilo boundaries to Hamakua, to the place where the kapa-trees were growing, as the sun was going down over the palis. He came to the temple door and laid down his burden. [Illustration: THE HOME OF THE DRAGONS NEAR HILO] Then Ke-au-kai said: "This is my word to all the people: Prepare the awa while I take the little stones, pour awa into a cup: I will cover it up and we will watch the signs. If, while I chant, the bubbles on the awa come to the left side, we will find Haina-kolo. If they go to the right, she is fully lost. Let all the people keep silence; no noise, no running about, no sleeping. Watch all the signs and the clouds in the heavens." Then he chanted: "O Ku and Kane and Kanaloa, Let the magic power come. Amama ua noa. Tabu is lifted from My bird-catching place for food. You are a stranger, I am a resident. Let the friend be taken care of. United is the earth of the tabu woman. Amama." The bubbles stood on the right side, and the priest said, "We shall never find Haina-kolo; the gods have gone away." Olopana said: "I am much troubled for my brother and sister, and that child I wanted for the chief of this land. I do not understand why these things have come to us." All the people were silent, weeping softly, but Ke-au-kai and his brother were not troubled, for they knew their chief and wife were in the care of the aumakuas. When Lei-makani had grown up, Luu-kia took him as her husband. He went surf-riding daily. She was very jealous of Maile, who would often go surf-riding with him. Lei-makani did not care for her, for he knew she was a sister of his mother although she had a child by him. One day, when he went with Maile, Luu-kia was angry and caught that child and killed it by dashing it against a stone. The servants went down to the beach, waiting for Lei-makani to come to land. Then they told him about the death of his child and their fear for him if he went up to the house with Maile. Lei-makani left his surf-board and went to the house weeping, and found the child's body by the stone. He took a piece of kapa and wrapped it up, carrying the broken body down to a fountain, where he cleansed it and offered chants and incantations until the child became alive. His mother, Haina-kolo, heard the following chants and came to her son, for the voice was carried to her by kupuas who had magic powers. The child's name was Lono-kai. He wrapped it again in soft warm kapas and chanted while he washed the child, naming the fountain Kama-ahala (a child has passed away): "Kama-ahala smells of the blood; The sick smell of the blood rises. Washed away in the earth is the blood; Hard is the red blood Warmed by the heat of the heavens, Laid out under the shining sky. Lono-kai-o-lohia is dead." Then the voice of the child was heard in a low moan from the bundle, saying, "Lono-kai-o-lohia [Lono possessed of the Ala spirit] is alive." The father heard the voice and softly uttered another chant: "In the silence Has been heard the gods of the night; What is this wailing over us? Wailing for the death of Lono, the spirit of the sea--dead!" The voice came again from the kapas, "Lono, the spirit of the sea, is alive." Lei-makani's love for his child was overflowing, and again he uttered an incantation to his own parents: "O Ku, the father! O Hina, the mother! Olopana was the first-born; Haina-kolo, the sister, was born: Haina-kolo and Ke-au-nini were the parents: Lei-makani was the child: I am Lei-makani, the child of Haina-kolo, The sacred woman of Waipio's precipices; My mother is living among the ripe halas; For us was the fruit of the ulii; I was found by the fisherman; I am the child of the pali hula-anu; I was cared for by one of my family Inland at Opaeloa; They gave me the name Lopa-iki-hele-wale [Little lazy fellow having nothing]; But I am Lei-makani--you shall hear it." His heart was heavy with longing for his mother, and the gods of the wind, the wind brothers, took his plaintive love-chant to the ears of Haina-kolo, who had wandered in her insanity, but was now free from her craze and had become herself. She followed that voice over the precipices and valleys to the top of a precipice. Standing there and looking down she saw her child and grandchild below, and she chanted: "Thy voice I have heard Softly echoed by the pali, Wailing against the pali; Thy voice, my child beloved; My child, indeed; My child, when the cloud hung over And the rainbow light was above us, That day when we floated together When the sea was breaking my heart; My child of the cape of Ka-ia, When the sun was hanging above us. Where have I been? Tell Ke-au-nini-ula-o-ka-lani; I was in the midst of the sea With the child of our love; My child, my little child, Where are you? Oh, come back!" Then she went down the precipice and met her son holding his child in his arms, and wailed: "My lord from the fogs of the inland, From the precipices fighting the wind, Striking down along the ridges; My child, with the voice of a bird, Echoed by the precipice of Pakohi, Shaking and dancing on inaccessible places, Laughing out on the broken waters Where we were floating in danger; There I loved dearly your voice Fighting with waves While the fierce storm was above us Seen by your many gods Who dwell in the shining sky-- Auwe for us both!" They waited a little while, until the time when Lono-kai became strong again. Then they went up to the village. Haina-kolo had run into the forest, her wet pa-u torn off, no clothing left. Her long hair was her cloak, clothing her from head to foot. She wandered until cold, then dressed herself with leaves. As her right senses returned she made warm garments of leaves and ate fruits of the forest. When they came to the village they met the people who knew Haina-kolo. She dwelt there until Lono-kai grew up. He and his father looked like twins, having great resemblance, people told them, to Ke-au-nini. The boy asked, "Where is my grandfather, Ke-au-nini?" Lei-makani said: "I never saw your grandfather. He was very tabu and sacred. He killed his own father, Ku-aha-ilo, god of the heavens. I know by my mana [spirit power] that he is with the daughters of Milu." The boy said: "I must go and find him. I will go in my spirit body, leaving this human body. You must not forbid the journey." Ke-au-kai, the priest, said: "You cannot find him unless you learn what to do before you go. Those chiefs of Milu have many sports and games. I tell you these things must be learned before you go into that land. If you are able to win against the spirits of that place you can get your grandfather." All the chiefs aided the boy to acquire skill in all sports. They went to the fields of Paaohau. Nuanua, the most skilful teacher of hula, taught him to dance. The highest chiefs and chiefesses went with him to help, taking their retinues with them. Lei-makani said: "The knowledge of sports is the means by which you will catch your grandfather. Now be careful. Do not be stingy with food. Give to others and take care of the people." They went up in a great company, and Haina-kolo wondered at the beauty of the boy, and asked why they were travelling. Lono-kai told them the reason for his journey and desire to see the field of sports. Nuanua, the hula teacher, sent his assistants to get all kinds of leaves and flowers used in the hula, then sent for a black pig to be used as an omen. If it ran to Lono-kai, he would become a good dancer; if not, he would fail. The pig went to him. The priest offered this prayer: "Laka is living where the forest leaves are trembling, The ghost-god of dancers above and below, From the boundary of the North to the place most southern; O Laka, your altar is covered with leaves, The dancing leaves of the ieie vine; This offering of leaves is the labor of the gods, The gods of your family, Pele and Hiiaka; The women living in warm winds come here for the toil, And this labor of ours is learning your dance. Tabu laid down; tabu lifted. Amama ua noa [We are through]!" The priest lifted his eyes, and the pig was seen lying at the foot of the boy. Then he commenced teaching the boy the kilu and the first dance. They were thirty days learning the dances, and the boy learned all those his teachers knew. Then they went around Hawaii, studying the dances. He was told to go back and get all the new ideas and seek the gods to learn their newest dance, for theirs differed from those of his teachers. He was to seek this knowledge in dreams. Lei-makani said: "Your teachers have shown you the slow way; if that is all you know, you will win fame, but not victory. You must learn from the gods." Lono-kai again went to Hamakua with his companions and learned how to play konane, the favorite game of Ke-au-nini. The teacher said, "I have taught you all I know inside and outside, as I would not teach the other young chiefs." The boy said to him, "There is one thing more,--give offerings to the gods that they may teach us in our dreams newer and better ways." So they waited quietly, offering sacrifices. The priests told him to set apart a pig while he made a prayer. If the pig died during the prayer, he would not forget anything learned. The boy laid his right hand on the pig and began to pray: "Here is a pig, an offering to the gods. O Lono in the Under-world, Lono in the sky: O Kane, who makes not-to-be-broken laws, Kane in the darkness, Kane in the hot wind, Kane of the generations, Kane of the thunder, Kane in the whirlwind and the storm: Here is labor--labor of the gods. My body is alive for you! Filled up is the Nuu-pule. My prayer is for those you hold dear. O Laka, come with knowledge and magic power! Laka, dancing in the moving forest leaves Of the mountain ridges and the valleys, Return and bestow the knowledge Of Pele and Hiiaka, the guardians of the wind, Knowing the multitude of the gods of the night, Knowing Aukele-nui-aku in the Under-world. O people of the night, Here is the pig, the offering! Come with knowledge, magic power, and safety. Amama ua noa." Then the boy lifted his hand and the pig lay silent in death. Then came thunder shaking the earth, and lightning flashing in flames, and a storm breaking in red rain. Mists came and the shadows of the thousands of gods of Ke-au-nini fell upon the boy. The teachers and friends sat in perfect silence for a long time. The storm was beating outside, and the boy was overcome with weariness and wondered at the silence of his friends. Rainbow colors were about him, and the people were awed by their fears and sat still until evening came. Then the teacher asked the boy if he saw what had been done in the darkness resting over him, and if he could explain to them. The boy said, "I do not understand you; perhaps my teacher can explain." Nuanua said: "I am growing old and have never seen such things above any one learning the dance. You have come to me modestly, like one of the common people, when I should have gone to you, and now the gods show your worth and power and their favor." Then he took a piece of wood from the hula altar which was covered with leaves and flowers, and, putting it in a cup of awa, shook it, and looked, and said to the boy: "This is the best I can do for you. Now the gods will take you in their care." Then he poured awa into cups, passing them to all the people as he chanted incantations, all the company clapping their hands. Then they drank. But the boy's cup was drunk by the eepas of Po (gnomes of the night). So the company feasted and the night became calm. Lono-kai that night left his friends with Nuanua and journeyed on. He waited some days and then told Lei-makani he thought he was ready. He said: "Yes, I have heard about your success, but I will see what you can do. We will wait another ten days before you go." Then for two days all the people of Waipio brought their offerings. They built a great lanai, and feasted. Lei-makani told the people that he had called them together to see the wonderful power in the sports of the boy. So the boy stood up and chanted: "O Kuamu-amu [the little people of the clouds of the sky], The alii thronging in crowds from Kuai-he-lani, On the shoulders of Moana-liha, divided at the waters, Divided at the waters of the heavy mist, And the rain coming from the skies, And the storm rushing inland. Broken into mists are the falls of the mountains,-- Mists that bathe the buds of the flowers, Opening the buds below the precipices. Arise, O beloved one!" [Illustration: 244. Kihikihi, (Zanclus Canescens)] Ke-au-nini heard this chant, even down in Po, while he was sporting with the eepas of Milu, while his spirit body was with his friend Popo-alaea. He repeated the same chant, and the ghosts all rejoiced and laughed, and Laka leaped to his side and danced before him. They had the same sports as the noted ones on Hawaii. Lono-kai danced in magic power before all the people until the time came for him to go along the path of his visions of the night. All omens and signs had been noted and were found to be favorable. One of the old priests told the people to make known their thought about the best path for the young chief, but they were silent. Then Moli-lele, an old priest who had the spirit of the unihipilis resting upon him, said: "I know that there will be many troubles. Cold and fierce winds come over the sea. Low tides come in the morning. The land of Kane-huna-moku rises in the coral surf." He chanted: "Dead is this chief of ours, Caught as a bird strikes a fish; The foam of surf waves rises up, Smiting and driving below. No sorcerer of the land is there, Where the coral reef labors, And the rock-eating Hina of the far-off sea." The chiefs began to wail, but lightning was in the eyes of the boy and his face was filled with anger at this word of the old priest. Then another priest arose and said: "O chiefs and people, I have seen the path to the Under-world, and it is not right for this young man to go. His body is human and easily captured by the ghosts. He might be safe if he could get the body of the one he seeks. There are fierce guardians of the path who will make war on whoever comes in the flesh." Then Kalei, another priest, said: "I know their world. I saw the stars this morning, and they told me that the path was stopped against this chief by broken coral and the bones of the dead. The tabu-children of Hina are swimming in the sea. I will prove the danger by this awa cup. If the bubbles of the awa poured in go to the right, he can go. If to the left, he must stay." This he did uttering incantations, but bubbles covered all the surface. Then the priests advised the young chief to stay and eat the fat of the land. Then Hae-hae, the great chief, said, "We have come to point out a path, if we can, and to make quiet and peaceful that way into Po." He instituted new omens, and showed that the young chief would be successful, but he would have many difficulties to overcome. Lono-kai arose and said: "The words of these chiefs were twisted. I will go after the spirit-body of my grandfather, as I have sworn to do. My word is fast. I will go to the land where my grandfather stays." The priests who had tried to terrify Lono-kai were his enemies, and would oppose his journey, and he wanted them killed, but Lei-makani would not permit it. Ku also quieted him with patient words, and he ceased from anger and told them he must prepare at once to go. Lei-makani had a double canoe made ready, and selected a number of strong men to accompany the young chief. Lono-kai would not have any of these men, but went out early in the morning, took a cup of awa to the temple nearby and chanted his genealogical mele. Thunder and lightning and heavy wind and rain attended his visit to the temple. He returned to his parents and told them to wait for him thirty days. If a mist was over all the land they might wait and watch ten days more, and if the mist continued, another ten, when he would return with thunder and lightning to meet his friends. But if the voices of the sea were strong at Kumukahi, with mist resting on Opaelolo and rain on Puu-o-ka-polei, then he would be dead. He took his feather cloak and war weapons from his grandparents, and feather helmet, and went out. He bade his parents farewell, took a cocoanut-husk canoe and went down to the sea. The waves rose high, pounding the face of the coast precipices. Lei-makani ran down to bring Lono-kai back, but according to the proverb he caught the hand of the chiefess who lives in the land of Nowhere. The boy had disappeared. Out in the sea Lono-kai was tossing in the high waves, passing all the islands, even to the land Niihau. There he met the great watchman of Kuai-he-lani called Honu (the turtle). He came quietly near the head. Honu asked, "Where are you going?" Lono-kai said: "You speak as if you alone had the right to the sea. You are a humpbacked turtle; you shall become a great round stone." Then the turtle began to slap its fins on the sea, raising waves high as precipices. Five times forty he struck the sea with mighty force, looking for the destruction of the chief as the waves passed over him. But Lono-kai waited until the turtle became tired, thinking the chief dead. As the waters became calm the chief raised his club and struck the right flapper of the turtle, destroying its power. Then the left fin beat the sea into foam, but Lono-kai waited and broke that fin also; then he broke the back of the turtle into little pieces and went on his way. Soon the ocean grew fierce again. Huge waves came, and whirlwinds. He saw something red in the great sea--a kupua of the ocean. The name of this enemy was Ea, a great red turtle, who crawled out and asked where he was going. Lono-kai said: "What right have you to question me? Have I questioned your right to go on the sea?" Ea said: "This is not your place. I will kill you. You shall be food for me to eat. When you are dead I will go and kill the watchman who let you come into this tabu-sea of my chief." "Who is your chief?" asked Lono-kai. Ea replied: "Hina-kekai [the calabash for boiling water], the daughter of Pii-moi. Now I will kill you." [Illustration] Then Ea began to strike the water with his right fin, throwing the water up on all sides in mighty waves, expecting to overthrow Lono-kai and his boat. When he rested to see the result of this battle his fin was on the surface, and the chief struck it and broke it. Then in another fight, when head and fin were lifted to destroy the boat, Lono-kai struck the neck and broke it, so killing his enemy. Now he thought all his troubles were over and he could go safely on his way. But soon there lay before him a new enemy, floating on the sea, a very long thing, like a long stick. He approached and saw that it was like the fin of a shark, but as he came nearer he observed the smooth skin of a long eel. Lifting its head and looking right at him, the eel said: "O, proud man, you are here where you have no business to be. I will mix you with my awa and eat you now." Then he struck at Lono-kai with his tail and hit his eyes and knocked him down, then, thinking Lono-kai was dead, he turned his head to the boat to catch the body, but Lono-kai, leaping up on the head of the eel, holding his boat with one hand and his club with the other, struck the head with the magic club, breaking the bones. Fire came out of the broken head, the eel falling into pieces which became islands of fire in the midst of which appeared a very beautiful woman who asked him whence he came, and why. He told her he was from Hawaii and was going to Kuai-he-lani and would kill her, for he thought she was a mo-o, or dragon-woman. He said, "You tried to kill me, O woman, and now you must stay and become the fire oven of the ocean." He asked her name. She said to him: "This kupua was Waka, the dragon of the rough head, and I have escaped from his body. I want you now for my husband, and I will accompany you on your journey." Lono-kai told her, "This would not be right, but when I return, if I come this way, you shall be mine." She said, "My ruler will kill me, for I have been sent to guard this place." Lono-kai asked, "Who is your ruler?" "Hina-kekai, she will kill me. You belong to the Ku-aha-ilo family, which is a very strong family. Therefore we have been watching for you for our chiefess." Lono-kai told her to go to his land and wait for him. He would be her husband. She must wait there without fault until his return. Then he went away. Waka did not know whence this chief came, so she went to Oahu and landed at Laiewai. There she awaited her husband. Lono-kai went on to the land of Kuai-he-lani, where he landed and hid his boat among the vines on the beach. He went to the temple where the body of his grandfather lay, clean and beautiful in death. He could not see any door or break in the body for the escape of the spirit. Then he struck the earth with his magic war-club until a great hole opened. He looked down and saw a large house and many people moving around below. He knew that the spirit of his grandfather was there. He went down and looked about, but the people had disappeared. The remains of a great feast were there. He stood at the door looking in, when two men appeared and welcomed him with an "Aloha," and told him he must have come from the land above, for there was no man like him in that place. They advised him to make his path back into that land from whence he had come, for if the king of the Under-world saw him he would be killed. Lono-kai asked, "Who is your king?" They told him, "Milu." "What does he do?" "Our king dances for Popo-alaea and Ke-au-nini." Lono-kai went with the men to see the sports. They tried to persuade him not to go, but he was very obstinate and asked them to hide him. They said, "If we do this and you are discovered we shall be destroyed." He told them the reason of his coming and asked their help, and said when he had his grandfather they could follow him into the Upper-world. They went to a house which was large and beautiful. They entered and saw the chiefs playing kilu. After a long time Lono-kai began to make his presence known. Popo-alaea was winning. Then Ke-au-nini chanted: "The multitude of those below give greeting To the friends of the inland forest of Puna; We praise the restfulness of our home; The leaves and divine flowers of that place." Lono-kai chanted the same words as an echo of Ke-au-nini. Silence fell on the group, and Milu cried out: "Who is the disturber of our sport? We must find him and kill him." They began the search, but could not find any one and at last resumed their games. Popo-alaea chanted: "I welcome back my friend, The great shadow of Waimea, Where stands the milo-tree in the gentle breeze, And the ohia-tree. You know the place." Ke-au-nini sang the same chant. Then Lono-kai echoed it very softly and sweetly. All said this last voice was the best. Milu again caused a search to be made, but found nothing. The two men hid Lono-kai by a post of the house. The group returned to the sports. Soon Milu changed the game to hula. Ke-au-nini stood up to dance and began his chant: "Aloha to our houses without friends. The path goes inland to Papalakamo; Come now and enter! Outside is the trouble, the storm, And there you meet the cold." The people around were striking the spirit drums. Then Lono-kai chanted: "Established is the honor of Ke-au-nini (Noteworthy is the name). Lifted up to the high heaven; I am the child of Lei-makani, I am Lono from the sunrise place, Hae-o-hae: I have come after thee, my father; We must return. Where are you?" Ke-au-nini could not stand up to dance when he heard the voice of his grandchild, for his love overpowered him. He looked up and saw the form of the young chief leaping into the place prepared for the hula and standing there before the chief. The people rose up in great confusion. Lono-kai caught the spirit of Ke-au-nini and put it in a cocoanut-shell. He leaped past the ghosts, and ran very swiftly out of the house. Some of the people saw him lay hands on Ke-au-nini, and cried out: "Oh, the husband of our chiefess! Oh, the husband of our chiefess! He has taken the husband of our chiefess!" But they did not see Lono-kai go out. The two men who had aided Lono-kai went out as soon as he leaped into the hula place. They hurried along the path toward freedom, but Lono-kai soon overtook them. Milu called to his people to hasten and capture and kill the one who had stolen Ke-au-nini. They saw the two men with Lono-kai, and pursued rapidly, but could not overtake them. The fugitives were very near the opening to the world above. When Lono-kai saw that the pursuers were almost upon him he whirled his magic war-club and struck the ground, making a great hole into which the spirits fell one over the other. Lono-kai and the two watchmen went up the cave opening by which he had gone down into the land of Milu. Dawn was breaking as they ran into the temple at Kuai-he-lani, where the body of Ke-au-nini was lying. Lono-kai pushed the spirit into the hollow of the foot and held the foot fast, shaking it until the spirit had gone to the very ends of the body and life had returned. When Ke-au-nini was fully restored, Lono-kai asked him if he could help restore to their bodies the two spirits who had aided him in escaping. Ke-au-nini evidently did not remember anything of his life in the Under-world, for he did not know these ghosts and thought he had been asleep from the time he entered the temple and fell down in weariness. Lono-kai thought they could not find the bodies, but Ke-au-nini put the ghosts in cocoanuts and carried them up into the forest to one of his ancestors who knew the bodies from which these ghosts had come. Thus they were restored and had a long and happy life in their former home. Lono-kai told his grandfather they must return to Hawaii to meet all the friends. For thirty days mists covered Hawaii and there was thunder and lightning and earthquakes. Then Lono-kai said to Ke-au-nini: "To-morrow we must go to Hawaii. We must have the appropriate ceremonies for cleansing and taking food." Ke-au-nini said: "Yes, I have been a long time in the adopted land of Milu, and my eyes are dimmed and my thought is dazed with the dance of the restless spirits of the night. We must wait until I have performed all the cleansing ceremonies, made offerings and incantations. Prayers must be said for my return to life. Then we will go." They attended to all the temple rites, and the marks of death were washed away. The body was cleansed, the eyes made clear, so strength and joy returned into the body. Then Ke-au-nini said: "I am ready. I see a multitude of birds circling around Kaula. There is evil toward Hawaii." They again went into the temple and slept until very early the next morning. Then they took their cocoanut-husk canoes, each holding his own in his hand, and went down to the edge of the sea and stood there, each pointing the nose of his boat toward Waipio. None of the people awoke until they landed. They pulled the boats upon the beach and went to their temple. As they came to the door of the temple, drums beat like rolling thunder. Then the sun arose, the mists all vanished from Hawaii. The people awoke and understood that their chiefs had returned. They ran out of their houses shouting and rejoicing. Olopana commanded the chiefs and the people to prepare all kinds of sweet food and gifts and things for a very great luau. When this was done they feasted sixty days and returned to their homes. Lei-makani became the ruler of Hawaii. Lono-kai-o-lohia was honored by his father. All of the chiefs in that generation were noted throughout the islands. * * * * * It was said that there was a beautiful chiefess of Molokai who wanted to find a young chief of Hawaii for her husband, so she sent her kahu, or guardian, and servants to make the journey while she went back to her sleeping-place and dreamed of a very fine young chief shining like the sun and surrounded by all the colors of the rainbow. Then she awoke and found no one, but she loved that spirit-body which she had seen in her dreams, so she arose and went down to the beach and told her guardian to make haste and reach Hawaii that day. When the kahu heard her call, he put forth all his power and uttered the proper incantations. He sped through the waters like a skimming bird, passed the great precipices near Waipio, and soon after dawn landed on the beautiful beach. The people had not yet come from their homes for the work of the day. He went up to the village and came near the house of Lei-makani. A watchman asked where he was from and the purpose of his journey. He said: "I am a stranger from Molokai, a messenger from my chiefess, who seeks a husband of high rank equal to her own. She has no one worthy to be her husband." The Waipio chief said: "We have a splendid young chief, but there is no one his equal in rank and beauty. You could not ask for him." Then Lei-makani heard the noise and came out and asked about this conversation. His watchman told him that this man was from Molokai. Lei-makani asked the man to approach. The Molokai chief thought that Lei-makani was the handsomest man he had ever seen. Ke-au-kai came out of the temple and looked upon the stranger and asked why he had come. When he learned that the man sought a husband for his chiefess, he advised him to return lest he should meet death at the hands of the watchman, but the man would not go away. After a time the chiefs of Waipio came before Lei-makani. The Molokai chief explained his errand, and praised his chiefess, and said that he was willing to be killed and cooked in an oven if she were not as beautiful and of as high rank as he had told them. Lono-kai at that moment entered the assembly, and the stranger cried out: "This man is the husband for my chiefess. Her tabu rank is the same as the tabu rank of this fine young chief. No others in all the islands are like these two. It would be glorious for them to meet." Lono-kai said, "You return at once and make preparation, and I will come in the evening." The kahu returned to Molokai, but the chiefess saw him coming back alone and became very angry, her eyes flashing with wrath because he had not brought the young chief with him. She screamed out, "Where is the value of your journey, if you return without my husband?" "Wait a little," the guardian said gently, "until you hear about what I have seen upon Hawaii. I have found the one you wanted. We must get ready to meet your husband, for the young chief is coming here this evening. When you meet, the love of each of you will be great toward the other." [Illustration: COCOANUTS] She ordered all Molokai to prepare for a great feast commencing that evening. Messengers ran swiftly, people and chiefs hastened their labors, and by evening vast quantities of food had been prepared. Lono-kai took his cocoanut-husk boat and came over the sea like a bird skimming the water. As the sun sank and the evening shadows fell, the two young people met and delighted in each other's beauty. Then they were married in the midst of all the people of Molokai. XVIII THE BRIDE FROM THE UNDER-WORLD A LEGEND OF THE KALAKAUA FAMILY Ku, one of the most widely known gods of the Pacific Ocean, was thought by the Hawaiians to have dwelt as a mortal for some time on the western side of the island Hawaii. Here he chose a chiefess by the name of Hina as his wife, and to them were born two children. When he withdrew from his residence among men he left a son on the uplands of the district of North Kona, and a daughter on the seashore of the same district. The son, Hiku-i-kana-hele (Hiku of the forest), lived with his mother. The daughter, Kewalu, dwelt under the care of guardian chiefs and priests by a temple, the ruined walls of which are standing even to the present day. Here she was carefully protected and perfected in all arts pertaining to the very high chiefs. Hiku-of-the-Forest was not accustomed to go to the sea. His life was developed among the forests along the western slopes of the great mountains of Hawaii. Here he learned the wisdom of his mother and of the chiefs and priests under whose care he was placed. To him were given many of the supernatural powers of his father. His mother guarded him from the knowledge that he had a sister and kept him from going to the temple by the side of which she had her home. Hiku was proficient in all the feats of manly strength and skill upon which chiefs of the highest rank prided themselves. None of the chiefs of the inland districts could compare with him in symmetry of form, beauty of countenance, and skill in manly sports. The young chief noted the sounds of the forest and the rushing winds along the sides of the mountains. Sometimes, like storm voices, he heard from far off the beat of the surf along the coral reef. One day he heard a noise like the flapping of the wings of many birds. He looked toward the mountain, but no multitude of his feathered friends could be found. Again the same sound awakened his curiosity. He now learned that it came from the distant seashore far below his home on the mountain-side. Hiku-of-the-Forest called his mother and together they listened as again the strange sound from the beach rose along the mountain gulches and was echoed among the cliffs. "E Hiku," said the mother, "that is the clapping of the hands of a large number of men and women. The people who live by the sea are very much pleased and are expressing their great delight in some wonderful deed of a great chief." Day after day the rejoicing of the people was heard by the young chief. At last he sent a trusty retainer to learn the cause of the tumult. The messenger reported that he had found certain tabu surf waters of the Kona beach and had seen a very high chiefess who alone played with her surf-board on the incoming waves. Her beauty surpassed that of any other among all the people, and her skill in riding the surf was wonderful, exceeding that of any one whom the people had ever seen, therefore the multitude gathered from near and far to watch the marvelous deeds of the beautiful woman. Their pleasure was so great that when they clapped their hands the sound was like the voices of many thunder-storms. The young chief said he must go down and see this beautiful maiden. The mother knew that this chiefess of such great beauty must be Kewalu, the sister of Hiku. She feared that trouble would come to Kewalu if her more powerful brother should find her and take her in marriage, as was the custom among the people. The omens which had been watched concerning the children in their infancy had predicted many serious troubles. But the young man could not be restrained. He was determined to see the wonderful woman. He sent his people to gather the nuts of the kukui, or candlenut-tree, and crush out the oil and prepare it for anointing his body. He had never used a surf-board, but he commanded his servants to prepare the best one that could be made. Down to the seashore Hiku went with his retainers, down to the tabu place of the beautiful Kewalu. He anointed his body with the kukui oil until it glistened like the polished leaves of trees; then taking his surf-board he went boldly to the tabu surf waters of his sister. The people stood in amazed silence, expecting to see speedy punishment meted out to the daring stranger. But the gods of the sea favored Hiku. Hiku had never been to the seaside and had never learned the arts of those who were skilful in the waters. Nevertheless as he entered the water he carried the surf-board more royally than any chief the people had ever known. The sunlight shone in splendor upon his polished body when he stood on the board and rode to the shore on the crests of the highest surf waves, performing wonderful feats by his magic power. The joy of the multitude was unbounded, and a mighty storm of noise was made by the clapping of their hands. Kewalu and her maidens had left the beach before the coming of Hiku and were resting in their grass houses in a grove of cocoanut-trees near the heiau. When the great noise made by the people aroused her she sent one of her friends to learn the cause of such rejoicing. When she learned that an exceedingly handsome chief of the highest rank was sporting among her tabu waters she determined to see him. So, calling her maidens, she went down to the seashore and first saw Hiku on the highest crest of the rolling surf. She decided at once that she had never seen a man so comely, and Hiku, surf-riding to the shore, felt that he had never dreamed of such grace and beauty as marked the maiden who was coming to welcome him. When Kewalu came near she took the wreath of rare and fragrant flowers which she wore and coming close to him threw it around his shoulders as a token to all the people that she had taken him to be her husband. Then the joy of the people surpassed all the pleasure of all the days before, for they looked upon the two most beautiful beings they had ever seen and believed that these two would make glad each other's lives. Thus Hiku married his sister, Kewalu, according to the custom of that time, because she was the only one of all the people equal to him in rank and beauty, and he alone was fitted to stand in her presence. For a long time they lived together, sometimes sporting among the highest white crests of storm-tossed surf waves, sometimes enjoying the guessing and gambling games in which the Hawaiians of all times have been very expert, sometimes chanting meles and genealogies and telling marvelous stories of sea and forest, and sometimes feasting and resting under the trees surrounding their grass houses. Hiku at last grew weary of the life by the sea. He wanted the forest on the mountain and the cold, stimulating air of the uplands. But he did not wish to take his sister-wife with him. Perhaps the omens of their childhood had revealed danger to Kewalu if she left her home by the sea. Whenever he tried to steal away from her she would rush to him and cling to him, persuading him to wait for new sports and joys. One night Hiku rose up very quietly and passed out into the darkness. As he began to climb toward the uplands the leaves of the trees rustled loudly in welcome. The night birds circled around him and hastened him on his way, but Kewalu was awakened. She called for Hiku. Again and again she called, but Hiku had gone. She heard his footsteps as his eager tread shook the ground. She heard the branches breaking as he forced his way through the forests. Then she hastened after him and her plaintive cry was louder and clearer than the voices of the night birds. "E Hiku, return! E Hiku, return! O my love, wait for Kewalu! Hiku goes up the hills; Very hard is this hill, O Hiku! O Hiku, my beloved!" But Hiku by his magic power sent thick fogs and mists around her. She was blinded and chilled, but she heard the crashing of the branches and ferns as Hiku forced his way through them, and she pressed on, still calling: "E Hiku, beloved, return to Kewalu." Then the young chief threw the long flexible vines of the ieie down into the path. They twined around her feet and made her stumble as she tried to follow him. The rain was falling all around her, and the way was very rough and hard. She slipped and fell again and again. The ancient chant connected with the legend says: "Hiku is climbing up the hill. Branches and vines are in the way, And Kewalu is begging him to stop. Rain-drops are walking on the leaves. The flowers are beaten to the ground. Hopeless the quest, but Kewalu is calling: 'E Hiku, beloved! Let us go back together.'" [Illustration: THE HOME OF KEWALU] Her tears, mingled with the rain, streamed down her cheeks. The storm wet and destroyed the kapa mantle which she had thrown around her as she hurried from her home after Hiku. In rags she tried to force her way through the tangled undergrowth of the uplands, but as she crept forward step by step she stumbled and fell again into the cold wet arms of the ferns and grasses. Then the vines crept up around her legs and her arms and held her, but she tore them loose and forced her way upward, still calling. She was bleeding where the rough hands of the forest had torn her delicate flesh. She was so bruised and sore from the blows which the branches had showered upon her that she could scarcely creep under them. At last she could no longer hear the retreating footsteps of Hiku. Then, chilled and desolate and deserted, she gave up in despair and crept back to the village. There she crawled into the grass house where she had been so happy with her brother Hiku, intending to put an end to her life. The ieie vines held her arms and legs, but she partially disentangled herself and wound them around her head and neck. Soon the tendrils grew tight and slowly but surely choked the beautiful chiefess to death. This was the first suicide in the records of Hawaiian mythology. As the body gradually became lifeless the spirit crept upward to the lua-uhane, the door by which it passed out of the body into the spirit world. This "spirit-door" is the little hole in the corner of the eye. Out of it the spirit is thought to creep slowly as the body becomes cold in death. The spirit left the cold body a prisoner to the tangled vines, and slowly and sadly journeyed to Milu, the Under-world home of the ghosts of the departed. The lust of the forest had taken possession of Hiku. He felt the freedom of the swift birds who had been his companions in many an excursion into the heavily shaded depths of the forest jungles. He plunged with abandon into the whirl and rush of the storm winds which he had called to his aid to check Kewalu. He was drunken with the atmosphere which he had breathed throughout his childhood and young manhood. When he thought of Kewalu he was sure that he had driven her back to her home by the temple, where he could find her when once more he should seek the seashore. He had only purposed to stay a while on the uplands, and then return to his sister-wife. His father, the god Ku, had been watching him and had also seen the suicide of the beautiful Kewalu. He saw the spirit pass down to the kingdom of Milu, the home of the ghosts. Then he called Hiku and told him how heedless and thoughtless he had been in his treatment of Kewalu, and how in despair she had taken her life, the spirit going to the Under-world. Hiku, the child of the forest, was overcome with grief. He was ready to do anything to atone for the suffering he had caused Kewalu, and repair the injury. Ku told him that only by the most daring effort could he hope to regain his loved bride. He could go to the Under-world, meet the ghosts and bring his sister back, but this could only be done at very great risk to himself, for if the ghosts discovered and captured him they would punish him with severest torments and destroy all hope of returning to the Upper-world. Hiku was determined to search the land of Milu and find his bride and bring her back to his Kona home by the sea. Ku agreed to aid him with the mighty power which he had as a god, nevertheless it was absolutely necessary that Hiku should descend alone and by his own wit and skill secure the ghost of Kewalu. Hiku prepared a cocoanut-shell full of oil made from decayed kukui nuts. This was very vile and foul smelling. Then he made a long stout rope of ieie vines. Ku knew where the door to the Under-world was, through which human beings could go down. This was a hole near the seashore in the valley of Waipio on the eastern coast of the island. Ku and Hiku went to Waipio, descended the precipitous walls of the valley and found the door to the pit of Milu. Milu was the ruler of the Under-world. Hiku rubbed his body all over with the rancid kukui oil and then gave the ieie vine into the keeping of his father to hold fast while he made his descent into the world of the spirits of the dead. Slowly Ku let the vine down until at last Hiku stood in the strange land of Milu. No one noticed his coming and so for a little while he watched the ghosts, studying his best method of finding Kewalu. Some of the ghosts were sleeping; some were gambling and playing the same games they had loved so well while living in the Upper-world; others were feasting and visiting around the poi bowl as they had formerly been accustomed to do. Hiku knew that the strong odor of the rotten oil would be his best protection, for none of the spirits would want to touch him and so would not discover that he was flesh and blood. Therefore he rubbed his body once more thoroughly with the oil and disfigured himself with dirt. As he passed from place to place searching for Kewalu, the ghosts said, "What a bad-smelling spirit!" So they turned away from him as if he was one of the most unworthy ghosts dwelling in Milu. In the realm of Milu he saw the people in the game of rolling cocoanut-shells to hit a post. Kulioe, one of the spirits, had been playing the kilu and had lost all his property to the daughter of Milu and one of her friends. He saw Hiku and said, "If you are a skilful man perhaps you should play with these two girls." Hiku said: "I have nothing. I have only come this day and am alone." Kulioe bet his bones against some of the property he had lost. The first girl threw her cup at the kilu post. Hiku chanted: "Are you known by Papa and Wakea, O eyelashes or rays of the sun? Mine is the cup of kilu." Her cup did not touch the kilu post before Hiku. She threw again, but did not touch, while Hiku chanted the same words. They took a new cup, but failed. Hiku commenced swinging the cup and threw. It glided and twisted around on the floor and struck the post. This counted five and won the first bet. Then he threw the cup numbered twenty, won all the property and gave it back to Kulioe. At last he found Kewalu, but she was by the side of the high chief, Milu, who had seen the beautiful princess as she came into the Under-world. More glorious was Kewalu than any other of all those of noble blood who had ever descended to Milu. The ghosts had welcomed the spirit of the princess with great rejoicing, and the king had called her at once to the highest place in his court. She had not been long with the chiefs of Milu before they asked her to sing or chant her mele. The mele was the family song by which any chief made known his rank and the family with which he was connected, whenever he visited chiefs far away from his own home. Hiku heard the chant and mingled with the multitude of ghosts gathered around the place where the high chiefs were welcoming the spirit of Kewalu. While Hiku and Kewalu had been living together one of their pleasures was composing and learning to intone a chant which no other among either mortals or spirits should know besides themselves. While Kewalu was singing she introduced her part of this chant. Suddenly from among the throng of ghosts arose the sound of a clear voice chanting the response which was known by no other person but Hiku. Kewalu was overcome by the thought that perhaps Hiku was dead and was now among the ghosts, but did not dare to incur the hatred of King Milu by making himself known; or perhaps Hiku had endured many dangers of the lower world by coming even in human form to find her and therefore must remain concealed. The people around the king, seeing her grief, were not surprised when she threw a mantle around herself and left them to go away alone into the shadows. She wandered from place to place among the groups of ghosts, looking for Hiku. Sometimes she softly chanted her part of the mele. At last she was again answered and was sure that Hiku was near, but the only one very close was a foul-smelling, dirt-covered ghost from whom she was turning away in despair. Hiku in a low tone warned her to be very careful and not recognize him, but assured her that he had come in person to rescue her and take her back to her old home where her body was then lying. He told her to wander around and yet to follow him until they came to the ieie vine which he had left hanging from the hole which opened to the Upper-world. When Hiku came to the place where the vine was hanging he took hold to see if Ku, his father, was still carefully guarding the other end to pull him up when the right signal should be given. Having made himself sure of the aid of the god, he tied the end of the vine into a strong loop and seated himself in it. Then he began to swing back and forth, back and forth, sometimes rising high and sometimes checking himself and resting with his feet on the ground. Kewalu came near and begged to be allowed to swing, but Hiku would only consent on the condition that she would sit in his lap. The ghosts thought that this would be an excellent arrangement and shouted their approval of the new sport. Then Hiku took the spirit of Kewalu in his strong arms and began to swing slowly back and forth, then more and more rapidly, higher and higher until the people marvelled at the wonderful skill. Meanwhile he gave the signal to Ku to pull them up. Almost imperceptibly the swing receded from the spirit world. All this time Hiku had been gently and lovingly rubbing the spirit of Kewalu and softly uttering charm after charm so that while they were swaying in the air she was growing smaller and smaller. Even the chiefs of Milu had been attracted to this unusual sport, and had drawn near to watch the wonderful skill of the strange foul-smelling ghost. Suddenly it dawned upon some of the beholders that the vine was being drawn up to the Upper-world. Then the cry arose: "He is stealing the woman!" "He is stealing the woman!" The Under-world was in a great uproar of noise. Some of the ghosts were leaping as high as they could, others were calling for Hiku to return, and others were uttering charms to cause his downfall. No one could leap high enough to touch Hiku, and the power of all the charms was defeated by the god Ku, who rapidly drew the vine upward. Hiku succeeded in charming the ghost of Kewalu into the cocoanut-shell which he still carried. Then stopping the opening tight with his fingers so that the spirit could not escape he brought Kewalu back to the land of mortals. With the aid of Ku the steep precipices surrounding Waipio Valley were quickly scaled and the journey made to the temple by the tabu surf waters of Kona. Here the body of Kewalu had been lying in state. Here the auwe, or mourning chant, of the retinue of the dead princess could be heard from afar. Hiku passed through the throngs of mourners, carefully guarding his precious cocoanut until he came to the feet, cold and stiff in death. Kneeling down he placed the small hole in the end of the shell against the tender spot in the bottom of one of the cold feet. The spirits of the dead must find their way back little by little through the body from the feet to the eyes, from which they must depart when they bid final farewell to the world. To try to send the spirit back into the body by placing it in the lua-uhane, or "door of the soul," would be to have it where it had to depart from the body rather than enter it. Hiku removed his finger from the hole in the cocoanut and uttered the incantations which would allure the ghost into the body. Little by little the soul of Kewalu came back, and the body grew warm from the feet upward, until at last the eyes opened and the soul looked out upon the blessed life restored to it by the skill and bravery of Hiku. No more troubles arose to darken the lives of the children of Ku. Whether in the forest or by the sea they made the days pleasant for each other until at the appointed time together they entered the shades of Milu as chief and chiefess who could not be separated. It is said that the generations of their children gave many rulers to the Hawaiians, and that the present royal family, the "House of Kalakaua," is the last of the descendants. NOTE.--A lover of legends should now read "The Deceiving of Kewa" in the Appendix, a legend which shows conclusively the connection some centuries ago between the Hawaiians and the Maoris of New Zealand. APPENDIX * * * * * THE DECEIVING OF KEWA A poem, or mourning chant, of the Maoris of New Zealand has many references to the deeds of their ancestors in Hawaiki, which in this case surely has reference to the Hawaiian Islands. Among the first lines of this poem is the expression, "Kewa was deceived." An explanatory note is given which covers almost two pages of the Journal of the Polynesian Society in which the poem is published. In this note the outline of the story of the deceiving of Kewa is quite fully translated, and is substantially the same as "The Bride from the Under-world." "The Deceiving of Kewa," as the New Zealand story is called, has this record among the Maoris. "This narrative is of old, of ancient times, very, very old. 'The Deceiving of Kewa' is an old, old story." Milu in some parts of the Pacific is the name of the place where the spirits of the dead dwell. Sometimes it is the name of the ruler of that place. In this ancient New Zealand legend it takes the place of Hiku, and is the name of the person who goes down into the depths after his bride, while the spirit-king is called Kewa, a part of the name Kewalu, which was the name of the Hawaiian bride whose ghost was brought back from the grave. This, then, is the New Zealand legend, "The Deceiving of Kewa." There once lived in Hawaiki a chief and his wife. They had a child, a girl, born to them; then the mother died. The chief took another wife, who was not pleasing to the people. His anger was so great that the chief went away to the great forest of Tane (the god Kane in Hawaiian), and there built a house for himself and his wife. After a time a son was born to them and the father named him Miru. This father was a great tohunga (kahuna), or priest, as well as a chief. He taught Miru all the supreme kinds of knowledge, all the invocations and incantations, those for the stars, for the winds, for foods, for the sea, and for the land. He taught him the peculiar incantations which would enable him to meet all cunning tricks and enmities of man. He learned also all the great powers of witchcraft. It is said that on one occasion Miru and his father went to a river, a great river. Here the child experimented with his powerful charms. He was a child of the forest and knew the charm which could conquer the trees. Now there was a tall tree growing by the side of the river. When Miru saw it he recited his incantations. As he came to the end the tree fell, the head reaching right across the river. They left the tree lying in this way that it might be used as a bridge by the people who came to the river. Thus he was conscious of his power to correctly use the mighty invocations which his father had taught him. The years passed and the boy became a young man. His was a lonely life, and he often wondered if there were not those who could be his companions. At last he asked his parents: "Are we here, all of us? Have I no other relative in the world?" His parents answered, "You have a sister, but she dwells at a distant place." When Miru heard this he arose and proceeded to search for his sister, and he happily came to the very place where she dwelt. There the young people were gathered in their customary place for playing teka (Hawaiian keha). The teka was a dart which was thrown along the ground, usually the hard beach of the seashore. Miru watched the game for some time and then returned to his home in the forest. He told his father about the teka and the way it was played. Then the chief prepared a teka for Miru, selected from the best tree and fashioned while appropriate charms were repeated. Miru threw his dart along the slopes covered by the forest and its underbrush, but the ground was uneven and the undergrowth retarded the dart. Then Miru found a plain and practised until he was very expert. After a while he came to the place where his sister lived. When the young people threw their darts he threw his. Aha! it flew indeed and was lost in the distance. When the sister beheld him she at once felt a great desire toward him. The people tried to keep Miru with them, pleading with him to stay, and even following him as he returned to his forest home, but they caught him not. Frequently he repeated his visits, but never stayed long. The sister, whose name is not given in the New Zealand legends, was disheartened, and hanged herself until she was dead. The body was laid in its place for the time of wailing. Miru and his father came to the uhunga, or place of mourning. The people had not known that Miru was the brother of the one who was dead. They welcomed the father and son according to their custom. Then the young man said, "After I leave, do not bury my sister." So the body was left in its place when the young man arose. He went on his way till he saw a canoe floating. He then gave the command to his companions and they all paddled away in the canoe. They paddled on for a long distance, in fact to Rerenga-wai-rua, the point of land in New Zealand from which the spirits of the dead take their last leap as they go down to the Under-world. When they reached this place they rested, and Miru let go the anchor. He then said to his companions, "When you see the anchor rope shaking, pull it up, but wait here for me." The young man then leaped into the water and went down, down near the bottom, and then entered a cave. This cave was the road by which the departed spirits went to spirit-land. Miru soon saw a house standing there. It was the home of Kewa, the chief of the Under-world. Within the house was his sister in spirit form. Miru carried with him his nets which were given magic power, with which he hoped to catch the spirit of his sister. In many ways he endeavored to induce her ghost to come forth from the house of Kewa, but she would not come. He commenced whipping his top in the yard outside, but could not attract her attention. At last he set up a swing and many of the ghosts joined in the pastime. For a long time the sister remained within, but eventually came forth induced by the attraction of the swing and by the appearance of Miru. Miru then took the spirit in his arms and began to swing. Higher and higher they rose whilst he incited the ghosts to increase to the utmost the flight of the moari, or swing. On reaching the highest point he gathered the spirit of the sister into his net, then letting go the swing away they flew and alighted quite outside the spirit-land. Thence he went to the place where the anchor of the floating canoe was. Shaking the rope his friends understood the signal. He was drawn up with the ghost in his net. He entered the canoe and returned home. On arrival at the settlement the people were still lamenting. What was that to him? Taking the spirit he laid it on the dead body, at the same time reciting his incantations. The spirit gradually entered the body and the sister was alive again. This is the end of the narrative, but it is of old, of ancient times, very, very old. "The Deceiving of Kewa" is an old, old story. In the Maori poem in which the reference to Kewa is made which brought out the above translation of one of the old New Zealand stories are also many other references to semi-historical characters and events. At the close of the poem is the following note: "The lament is so full of references to the ancient history of the Maoris that it would take a volume to explain them all. Most of the incidents referred to occurred in Hawaiki before the migration of the Maoris to New Zealand or at least five hundred to six hundred years ago." Another New Zealand legend ought to be noticed in connection with the Hawaiian story of Hiku (Miru, New Zealand) seeking his sister in the Under-world. In what is probably the more complete Hawaiian story Hiku had a magic arrow which flew long distances and led him to the place where his sister-wife could be found. In a New Zealand legend a magic dart leads a chief by the name of Tama in his search for his wife, who had been carried away to spirit-land. He threw the dart and followed it from place to place until he found a wrecked canoe, near which lay the body of his wife and her companions. He tried to bring her back to life, but his incantations were not strong enough to release the spirit. Evidently the Hawaiian legend became a little fragmentary while being transplanted from the Hawaiian Islands to New Zealand. Hiku, the young chief who overcomes Miru of the spirit-world, loses his name entirely. Kewalu, the sister, also loses her name, a part of which, Kewa, is given to the ruler of the Under-world, and the magic dart is placed in the hands of Tama in an entirely distinct legend which still keeps the thought of the wife-seeker. There can scarcely be any question but that the original legend belongs to the Hawaiian Islands, and was carried to New Zealand in the days of the sea-rovers. * * * * * HOMELESS AND DESOLATE GHOSTS The spirits of the dead, according to a summary of ancient Hawaiian statements, were divided into three classes, each class bearing the prefix "ao," which meant either the enlightened or instructed class, or simply a crowd or number of spirits grouped together. The first class, the Ao-Kuewa, were the desolate and the homeless spirits who during their residence in the body had no friends and no property. The second class was called the Ao-Aumakuas. These were the groups of ghost-gods or spirit-ancestors of the Hawaiians. They usually remained near their old home as helpful protectors of the family to which they belonged, and were worshipped by the family. The third class was the Ao-o-Milu. Milu was the chief god of the Under-world throughout the greater part of Polynesia. Many times the Under-world itself bore the name of Milu. The Ao-o-Milu were the souls of the departed of both the preceding classes who had performed all tasks, passed all barriers, and found their proper place in the land of the king of ghosts. The Old Hawaiians never intelligently classified these departed spirits and sometimes mixed them together in inextricable confusion, but in the legends and remarks of early Hawaiian writers these three classes are roughly sketched. The desolate ghost had no right to call any place its home, to which it could come, over which it could watch, and around which it could hover. It had to go to the desolate parts of the islands or into a wilderness or forest. The homeless ghost had no one to provide even the shadow of food for it. It had to go into the dark places and search for butterflies, spiders, and other insects. These were the ordinary food for all ghosts unless there were worshippers to place offerings on secret altars, which were often dedicated to gain a special power of praying other people to death. Such ghosts were well cared for, but, on the other hand, the desolate ones must wander and search until they could go down into the land of Milu. There were several ways which the gods had prepared for ghosts to use in this journey to the Under-world. It is interesting to note that all through Polynesia as well as in the Hawaiian Islands the path for ghosts led westward. The students of New Zealand folk-lore will say that this signified the desire of those about to die to return to the land of their ancestors beyond the western ocean. The paths were called Leina-a-ka-uhane (paths-for-leaping-by-the-spirit). They were almost always on bold bluffs looking westward over the ocean. The spirit unless driven back could come to the headland and leap down into the land of the dead, but when this was done that spirit could never return to the body it had left. Frequently connected with these Leina-a-ka-uhane was a breadfruit-tree which would be a gathering-place for ghosts. At these places there were often friendly ghosts who would help and sometimes return the spirit to the body or send it to join the Ao-Aumakuas (ancestor ghosts). At the place of descent it was said there was an owawa (ditch) through which the ghosts one by one were carried down to Po, and Lei-lono was the gate where the ghosts were killed as they went down. Near this gateway was the Ulu-o-lei-walo, or breadfruit-tree of the spirits. This tree had two branches, one toward the east and one toward the west, both of which were used by the ghosts. One was for leaping into eternal darkness into Po-pau-ole, the other as a meeting-place with the helpful gods. This tree always bore the name Ulu-o-lei-walo (the-quietly-calling-breadfruit-tree). On the island of Oahu, one of these was said to have been at Kaena Point; another was in Nuuanu Valley. The desolate ghost would come to this meeting-place of the dead and try to find a ghost of the second class, the aumakuas, who had been one of his ancestors and who still had some family to watch over. Perhaps this one might entertain or help him. If the ghost could find no one to take him, then he would try to wander around the tree and leap into the branches. The rotten, dead branches of the tree belonged to the spirits. When they broke and fell, the spirits on them dropped into the land of Milu--the under-world home of ghosts. Often the spirit could leap from these dead branches into the Under-world. Sometimes the desolate spirit would be blown, as by the wind, back and forth, here and there, until no possible place of rest could be found on the island where death had come; then the ghost would leap into the sea, hoping to find the way to Milu through some sea-cave. Perhaps the waves would carry the ghost, or it might be able to swim to one of the other islands, where a new search would be made for some ancestor-ghost from which to obtain help. Not finding aid, it would be pushed and driven over rough, rocky places and through the wilderness until it again went into the sea. At last perhaps a way would be found into the home of the dead, and the ghost would have a place in which to live, or it might make the round through the wilderness again and again, until it could leap from a bluff, or fall from a rotten branch of the breadfruit-tree. A great caterpillar was the watchman on the eastern side of the leaping-off place. Napaha was the western boundary. A mo-o (dragon) was the watchman on that side. If the ghost was afraid of them it went back to secure the help of the ghost-gods in order to get by. The Hawaiians were afraid that these watchmen would kill ghosts if possible. If a caterpillar obstructed the way it would raise its head over the edge of the bluff, and then the frightened ghost would go far out of its way, and wandering around be destroyed or compelled to leap off some dead branch into eternal darkness. But if that frightened ghost, while wandering, could find a helpful ghost god, it would be kept alive, although still a wanderer over the islands. At the field of kaupea (coral) near Barbers Point, in the desert of Puuloa, the ghost would go around among the lehua flowers, catching spiders, butterflies, and insects for food, where the ghost-gods might find them and give them aid in escaping the watchmen. There are many places for the Leina-a-ka-uhane (leaping-off-places) and the Ulu-o-lei-walo (breadfruit-trees) on all the islands. To these places the wandering desolate ghosts went to find a way to the Under-world. Another name for the wandering ghosts was lapu, also sometimes called Akua-hele-loa (great travellers). These ghosts were frequently those who enjoyed foolish, silly pranks. They would sweep over the old byways in troops, dancing and playing. They would gather around the old mats where the living had been feasting, and sit and feast on imaginary food. The Hawaiians say: "On one side of the island Oahu, even to this day the lapu come at night. Their ghost drums and sacred chants can be heard and their misty forms seen as they hover about the ruins of the old heiaus (temples)." The fine mists or fogs of Manoa Valley were supposed to conceal a large company of priests and their attendants while roaming among the great stones which still lie where there was a puu-honua (refuge-temple) in the early days. If any one saw these roving ghosts he was called lapu-ia, or one to whom spirits had appeared. The Hawaiians said: "The lapu ghosts were not supposed to watch over the welfare of the persons they met. They never went into the heavens to become black clouds, bringing rain for the benefit of their households. They did not go out after winds to blow with destructive force against their enemies. This was the earnest work of the ancestor-ghosts, and was not done by the lapu." Another name for ghosts was wai-lua, which referred especially to the spirit leaving the body and supposed to have been seen by some one. This wai-lua spirit could be driven back into the body by other ghosts, or persuaded to come back through offerings or incantations given by living friends, so that a dead person could become alive again. It was firmly believed that a person could endure many deaths, and that if any one lost consciousness he was dead, and that when life stopped it was because the spirit left the body. When life was renewed it was because the spirit had returned to its former home. The kino-wai-lua was a ghost leaving the body of a living person and returning after a time, as when any one fainted. Besides the ghosts of the dead, the Hawaiians gave spirit power to all natural objects. Large stones were supposed to have dragon power sometimes. * * * * * AUMAKUAS, OR ANCESTOR-GHOSTS There are two meanings to the first part of this word, for "au" means a multitude, as in "auwaa" (many canoes), but it may mean time and place, as in the following: "Our ancestors thought that if there was a desolate place where no man could be found, it was the aumakua (place of many gods)." "Makua" was the name given to the ancestors of a chief and of the people as well as to parents. The aumakuas were the ghosts who did not go down into Po, the land of King Milu. They were in the land of the living, hovering around the families from which they had been separated by death. They were the guardians of these families. When any one died, many devices were employed in disposing of the body. The fact that an enemy of the family might endeavor to secure the bones of the dead for the purpose of making them into fish-hooks, arrow-heads, or spear-heads led the surviving members of a family either to destroy or to conceal the body of the dead. For if the bones were so used it meant great dishonor, and the spirit was supposed to suffer on account of this indignity. Sometimes the flesh was stripped from the bones and cast into the ocean or into the fires of the volcanoes, that the ghost might be made a part of the family ghosts who lived in such places, and the bones were buried in some secret cave or pit, or folded together in a bundle which was thought to resemble a grasshopper, so these were called unihipili (grasshopper). The unihipili bones were used in connection with a strange belief called pule-ana-ana (praying to death). When the body of a dead person was to be hidden, only two or three men were employed in the task. Sometimes the one highest in rank would slay his helpers so that no one except himself would know the burial-place. The tools, the clothing, and the calabashes of the dead were unclean until certain ceremonies of purification had been faithfully performed. Many times these possessions were either placed in the burial-cave beside the body or burned so that they might be the property of the spirit in ghost-land. The people who cared for the body had to bathe in salt water and separate themselves from the family for a time. They must sprinkle the house and all things inside with salt water. After a few days the family would return and occupy the house once more. Usually the caretakers of a dead body would make a hole in the side of the house and push it through rather than take it through the old doorway, probably having the idea that the ghost would only know the door through which the body had gone out when alive and so could not find the new way back when the opening was dosed. After death came, the ghost crept out of the body, coming up from the feet until it rested in the eyes, and then it came out from the corner of one eye, and had a kind of wind body. It could pass around the room and out of doors through any opening it could find. It could perch like a bird on the roof of a house or in the branches of trees, or it could seat itself on logs or stones near the house. It might have to go back into the body and make it live again. Possibly the ghost might meet some old ancestor-ghosts and be led so far away that it could not return; then it must become a member of the aumakua, or ancestor-ghost, family, or wander off to join the homeless desolate ghost vagabonds. Sometimes dead bodies were thrown into the sea with the hope that the ghost body would become a shark or an eel, or perhaps a mo-o, or dragon-god, to be worshipped with other ancestor-gods of the same class. Sometimes the body or the bones would be cast into the crater of Kilauea, the people thinking the spirit would become a flame of fire like Pele, the goddess of volcanoes; other spirits went into the air concealed in the dark depths of the sky, perhaps in the clouds. Here they carried on the work needed to help their families. They would become fog or mist or the fine misty rain colored by light. With these the Rainbow Maiden, Anuenue, delighted to dwell. They often lived in the great rolling white clouds, or in the gray clouds which let fall the quiet rain needed for farming. They also lived in the fierce black thunder-clouds which sent down floods of a devastating character upon the enemies of the family to which they belonged. There were ghost ancestors who made their homes near the places where the members of their families toiled; there were ancestor-ghosts to take care of the tapa, or kapa, makers, or the calabash or house or canoe makers. There were special ancestor-ghosts called upon by name by the farmers, the fishermen, and the bird-hunters. These ghosts had their own kuleanas, or places to which they belonged, and in which they had their own peculiar duties and privileges. They became ancestor ghost-gods and dwelt on the islands near the homes of their worshippers, or in the air above, or in the trees around the houses, or in the ocean or in the glowing fires of volcanoes. They even dwelt in human beings, making them shake or sneeze as with cold, and then a person was said to become an ipu, or calabash containing a ghost. Sometimes it was thought that a ghost god could be seen sitting on the head or shoulder of the person to whom it belonged. Even in this twentieth century a native woman told the writer that she saw a ghost-god whispering in his ear while he was making an address. She said, "That ghost was like a fire or a colored light." Many times the Hawaiians have testified that they believed in the presence of their ancestor ghost-gods. This is the way the presence of a ghost was detected: Some sound would be heard, such as a sibilant noise, a soft whistle, or something like murmurs, or some sensation in a part of the body might be felt. If an eyelid trembled, a ghost was sitting on that spot. A quivering or creepy feeling in any part of the body meant that a ghost was touching that place. If any of these things happened, a person would cry out, "I have seen or felt a spirit of the gods." Sometimes people thought they saw the spirits of their ghost friends. They believed that the spirits of these friends appeared in the night, sometimes to kill any one who was in the way. The high chiefs and warriors are supposed to march and go in crowds, carrying their spears and piercing those they met unless some ghost recognized that one and called to the others, "Alia [wait]," but if the word was "O-i-o [throw the spear]!" then that spirit's spear would strike death to the passer-by. There were night noises which the natives attributed to sounds or rustling motions made by such night gods as the following: Akua-hokio (whistling gods). " -kiei (peeping gods). " -nalo (prying gods). " -loa (long gods). " -poko (short gods). " -muki (sibilant gods). A prayer to these read thus: "O Akua-loa! [long god] O Akua-poko! [short god] O Akua-muki! [god breathing in short, sibilant breaths] O Akua-hokio! [god blowing like whistling winds] O Akua-kiei! [god watching, peeping at one] O Akua-nalo! [god hiding, slipping out of sight] O All ye Gods, who travel on the dark night paths! Come and eat. Give life to me, And my parents, And my children, To us who are living in this place. Amama [Amen]." This prayer was offered every night as a protection against the ghosts. The aumakuas were very laka (tame and helpful). It was said that an aumakua living in a shark would be very laka, and would come to be rubbed on the head, opening his mouth for a sacrifice. Perhaps some awa, or meat, would be placed in his mouth, and then he would go away. So also if the aumakua were a bird, it would become tame. If it were the alae (a small duck), it would come to the hand of its worshipper; if the pueo (owl), it would come and scratch the earth away from the grave of one of its worshippers, throwing the sand away with its wings, and would bring the body back to life. An owl ancestor-god would come and set a worshipper free were he a prisoner with hands and feet bound by ropes. It made no difference whether the dead person were male or female, child or aged one, the spirit could become a ghost-god and watch over the family. There were altars for the ancestor-gods in almost every land. These were frequently only little piles of white coral, but sometimes chiefs would build a small house for their ancestor-gods, thus making homes that the ghosts might have a kuleana, or place of their own, where offerings could be placed, and prayers offered, and rest enjoyed. The Hawaiians have this to say about sacrifices for the aumakuas: If a mo-o, or dragon-god, was angry with its caretaker or his family and they became weak and sick, they would sacrifice a spotted dog with awa, red fish, red sugar-cane, and some of the grass growing in taro patches wrapped in yellow kapa. This they would take to the lua, or hole, where the mo-o dwelt, and fasten the bundle there. Then the mo-o would become pleasant and take away the sickness. If it were a shark-god, the sacrifice was a black pig, a dark red chicken, and some awa wrapped in new white kapa made by a virgin. This bundle would be carried to the beach, where a prayer would be offered: "O aumakuas from sunrise to sunset, From North to South, from above and below, O spirits of the precipice and spirits of the sea, All who dwell in flowing waters, Here is a sacrifice--our gifts are to you. Bring life to us, to all the family, To the old people with wrinkled skin, To the young also. This is our life, From the gods." Then the farmer would throw the bundle into the sea, bury the chicken alive, take the pig to the temple, then go back to his house looking for rain. If there was rain, it showed that the aumakua had seen the gifts and washed away the wrong. If the clouds became black with heavy rain, that was well. The offerings for Pele and Hiiaka were awa to drink and food to eat, in fact all things which could be taken to the crater. This applies to the four great gods, Kane, Ku, Lono, and Kanaloa. They are called the first of the ancestors. Each one of these was supposed to be able to appear in a number of different forms, therefore each had a number of names expressive of the work he intended or was desired to do. An explanatory adjective or phrase was added to the god's own name, defining certain acts or characteristics, thus: Kane-puaa (Kane, the pig) was Kane who would aid in stirring up the ground like a pig. This is one of the prayers used when presenting offerings to aumakuas, "O Aumakuas of the rising of the sun, guarded by every tabu staff, here are offerings and sacrifices--the black pig, the white chicken, the black cocoanut, the red fish--sacrifices for the gods and all the aumakuas; those of the ancestors, those of the night, and of the dawn, here am I. Let life come." The ancestor-gods were supposed to use whatever object they lived with. If ghosts went up into the clouds, they moved the clouds from place to place and made them assume such shape as might be fancied. Thus they would reveal themselves over their old homes. All the aumakuas were supposed to be gentle and ready to help their own families. The old Hawaiians say that the power of the ancestor-gods was very great. "Here is the magic power. Suppose a man would call his shark, 'O Kuhai-moana [the shark-god]! O, the One who lives in the Ocean! Take me to the land!' Then perhaps a shark would appear, and the man would get on the back of the shark, hold fast to the fin, and say: 'You look ahead. Go on very swiftly without waiting.' Then the shark would swim swiftly to the shore." The old Hawaiians had the sport called "lua." This sometimes meant wrestling, but usually was the game of catching a man, lifting him up, and breaking his body so that he was killed. A wrestler of the lua class would go out to a plain where no people were dwelling and call his god Kuialua. The aumakua ghost-god would give this man strength and skill, and help him to kill his adversaries. There were many priests of different classes who prayed to the ancestor-gods. Those of the farmers prayed like this: "O great black cloud in the far-off sky, O shadow watching shadow, Watch over our land. Overshadow our land From corner to corner From side to side. Do not cast your shadow on other lands Nor let the waters fall on the other lands [_i.e._, keep the rains over my place]." Also they prayed to Kane-puaa (Kane, the pig), the great aumakua of farmers: "O Kane-puaa, root! Dig inland, dig toward the sea; Dig from corner to corner, From side to side; Let the food grow in the middle, Potatoes on the side roots, Fruit in the centre. Do not root in another place! The people may strike you with the spade [o-o] Or hit you with a stone And hurt you. Amama [Amen]." So also they prayed to Kukea-olo-walu (a taro aumakua god): "O Kukea-olo-walu! Make the taro grow, Let the leaf spread like a banana. Taro for us, O Kukea! The banana and the taro for us. Pull up the taro for us, O Kukea! Pound the taro, Make the fire for cooking the pig. Give life to us-- To the farmers-- From sunrise to sunset From one fastened place to the other fastened place [_i.e._, one side of the sky to the other fastened on each side of the earth]. Amama [Amen]." Trees with their branches and fruit were frequently endowed with spirit power. All the different kinds of birds and even insects, and also the clouds and winds and the fish in the seas were given a place among the spirits around the Hawaiians. The people believed in life and its many forms of power. They would pray to the unseen forces for life for themselves and their friends, and for death to come on the families of their enemies. They had special priests and incantations for the pule-ana-ana, or praying to death, and even to the present time the supposed power to pray to death is one of the most formidable terrors to their imagination. Menehunes, eepas, and kupuas were classes of fairies or gnomes which did not belong to the ancestor-gods, or aumakuas. The menehunes were fairy servants. Some of the Polynesian Islands called the lowest class of servants "manahune." The Hawaiians separated them almost entirely from the spirits of ancestors. They worked at night performing prodigious tasks which they were never supposed to touch again after the coming of dawn. The eepas were usually deformed and defective gnomes. They suffered from all kinds of weakness, sometimes having no bones and no more power to stand than a large leaf. They were sometimes set apart as spirit caretakers of little children. Nuuanu Valley was the home of a multitude of eepas who had their temple on the western side of the valley. Kupuas were the demons of ghost-land. They were very powerful and very destructive. No human being could withstand their attacks unless specially endowed with power from the gods. They had animal as well as human bodies and could use whichever body seemed to be most available. The dragons, or mo-os, were the most terrible kupuas in the islands. * * * * * THE DRAGON GHOST-GODS Dragons were among the ghost-gods of the ancient Hawaiians. These dragons were called mo-o. The New Zealanders used the same names for some of their large reptile gods. They, however, spelled the word with a "k," calling it mo-ko, and it was almost identical in pronunciation as in meaning with the Hawaiian name. Both the Hawaiians and New Zealanders called all kinds of lizards mo-o or mo-ko; and their use of this word in traditions showed that they often had in mind animals like crocodiles and alligators, and sometimes they referred the name to any monster of great mythical powers belonging to a man-destroying class. Mighty eels, immense sea-turtles, large fish of the ocean, fierce sharks, were all called mo-o. The most ancient dragons of the Hawaiians are spoken of as living in pools or lakes. These dragons were known also as kupuas, or mysterious characters who could appear as animals or human beings according to their wish. The saying was: "Kupuas have a strange double body." There were many other kupuas besides those of the dragon family. It was sometimes thought that at birth another natural form was added, such as an egg of a fowl or a bird, or the seed of a plant, or the embryo of some animal, which when fully developed made a form which could be used as readily as the human body. These kupuas were always given some great magic power. They were wonderfully strong and wise and skilful. Usually the birth of a kupua, like the birth of a high chief, was attended with strange disturbances in the heavens, such as reverberating thunder, flashing lightning, and severe storms which sent the abundant red soil of the islands down the mountain-sides in blood-red torrents known as ka-ua-koko (the blood rain). This name was also given to misty fine rain when shot through by the red waves of the sun. By far the largest class of kupuas was that of the dragons. These all belonged to one family. Their ancestor was Mo-o-inanea (The Self-reliant Dragon), who figured very prominently in the Hawaiian legends of the most ancient times, such as "The Maiden of the Golden Cloud." Mo-o-inanea (The Self-reliant Dragon) brought the dragons, the kupua dragons, from the "Hidden Land of Kane" to the Hawaiian Islands. Mo-o-inanea was apparently a demi-goddess of higher power even than the gods Ku, Kane, or Kanaloa. She was the great dragon-goddess of the Hawaiians, coming to the islands in the migration of the gods from Nuu-mea-lani and Kuai-he-lani to settle. The dragons and other kupuas came as spirit servants of the gods. For a while this Mo-o-inanea lived with her brothers, the gods, at Waolani, but after a long time there were so many dragons that it was necessary to distribute them over the islands, and Mo-o-inanea decided to leave her brothers and find homes for her numerous family. So she went down to Puunui in the lower part of Nuuanu Valley and there made her home, and it is said received worship from the men of the ancient days. Here she dwelt in her dual nature--sometimes appearing as a dragon, sometimes as a woman. Very rich clayey soil was found in this place, forced out of the earth as if by geyser action. It was greatly sought in later years by the chiefs who worshipped this goddess. They made the place tabu, and used the clay, sometimes eating it, but generally plastering the hair with it. This place was made very tabu by the late Queen Kaahumanu during her lifetime. Mo-o-inanea lived in the pit from which this clay was procured, a place called Lua-palolo, meaning pit-of-sticky-clay. After she had come to this dwelling-place the dragons were sent out to find homes. Some became chiefs and others servants, and when by themselves were known as the evil ones. She distributed her family over all the islands from Hawaii to Niihau. Two of these dragon-women, according to the legends, lived as guardians of the pali (precipice) at the end of Nuuanu Valley, above Honolulu. After many years it was supposed that they both assumed the permanent forms of large stones which have never lost their associations with mysterious, miraculous power. Even as late as 1825, Mr. Bloxam, the chaplain of the English man-of-war, recorded in "The Voyage of the Blonde" the following statement: "At the bottom of the Parre (pali) there are two large stones on which even now offerings of fruits and flowers are laid to propitiate the Aku-wahines, or goddesses, who are supposed to have the power of granting a safe passage." Mr. Bloxam says that these were a kind of mo-o, or reptile, goddesses, and adds that it was difficult to explain the meaning of the name given to them, probably because the Hawaiians had nothing in the shape of serpents or large reptiles in their islands. A native account of these stones says: "There is a large grove of hau-trees in Nuuanu Valley, and above these lie the two forest women, Hau-ola and Ha-puu. These are now two large stones, one being about three feet long with a fine smooth back, the other round with some little rough places. The long stone is on the seaward side, and this is the Mo-o woman, Hau-ola; and the other, Ha-puu. The leaves of ferns cover Hau-ola, being laid on that stone. On the other stone, Ha-puu, are lehua flowers. These are kupuas." Again the old people said that their ancestors had been accustomed to bring the navel cords of their children and bury them under these stones to insure protection of the little ones from evil, and that these were the stone women of Nuuanu. Ala-muki lived in the deep pools of the Waialua River near the place Ka-mo-o-loa, which received its name from the long journeys that dragon made over the plains of Waialua. She and her descendants guarded the paths and sometimes destroyed those who travelled that way. One dragon lived in the Ewa lagoon, now known as Pearl Harbor. This was Kane-kua-ana, who was said to have brought the pipi (oysters) to Ewa. She was worshipped by those who gathered the shell-fish. When the oysters began to disappear about 1850, the natives said that the dragon had become angry and was sending the oysters to Kahiki, or some far-away foreign land. Kilioe, Koe, and Milolii were noted dragons on the island of Kauai. They were the dragons of the precipices of the northern coast of this island, who took the body of the high chief Lohiau and concealed it in a cave far up the steep side of the mountain. There is a very long interesting story of the love between Lohiau and Pele, the goddess of fire. In this story Pele overcame the dragons and won the love of the chief. Hiiaka, the sister of the fire-goddess, won a second victory over them when she rescued a body from the cave and brought it back to life. On Maui, the greatest dragon of the island was Kiha-wahine. The natives had the saying, "Kiha has mana, or miraculous power, like Mo-o-inanea." She lived in a large deep pool on the edge of the village Lahaina, and was worshipped by the royal family of Maui as their special guardian. There were many dragons of the island of Hawaii, and the most noted of these were the two who lived in the Wailuku River near Hilo. They were called "the moving boards" which made a bridge across the river. Sometimes they accepted offerings and permitted a safe passage, and sometimes they tipped the passengers into the water and drowned them. They were destroyed by Hiiaka. Sacred to these dragons who were scattered over all the islands were the mo-o priests and the sorcerers, who propitiated them with offerings and sacrifices, chanting incantations. * * * * * CHAS. R. BISHOP Mr. Chas. R. Bishop died in California early in 1915, having just passed his ninety-third birthday. He was born in Glens Falls, N.Y., and sailed around Cape Horn to Hawaii in the early days before steamship communication. His wife, Pauahi, was a very high chiefess descended from the royal line of Kamehameha the Great. To her Kamehameha V. offered the throne, and on her refusal to espouse him remained a bachelor and died without heir. Mrs. Pauahi Bishop bequeathed her vast estate and fortune to found the schools for Hawaiian boys and girls, known as the Kamehameha Schools, Honolulu, and near these Mr. Bishop founded the Bishop Museum; which contains all the magnificent feather-cloaks, helmets, calabashes, etc., handed down from generation to generation through the royal line of the Kamehamehas and inherited by Mrs. Bishop. This has been greatly increased by other gifts and purchases and now forms the finest museum in the world, of relics of the Polynesian race. PARTIAL LIST OF HAWAIIAN TERMS USED (For Pronunciation see page iv) aala-manu, 198. Ahaula, 2. Aikanaka, 49, 50, 57, 58. aikane, 133, 137. aka, 158. akala, 161. Akaaka, 88, 90, 92. Akoa-koa, 170. Akuapohaku, 75. ala, 201. ala-nui, 105. alii, 7, 50, 208. Aliiwahine, 120. Aloha, 82. aloha, 105, 166-168, 178, 215. amama, 199, 205. Anao-puhi, 57. Anuenue, 48, 84, 117-126, 134, 140, 147, 148. ao-opua, etc., 128, 130. ao-pii-kai, 140. Aukele-nui-aku, 206. aumakua, 37, 47, 101, 103, 150, 173. auwe, 80, 239. au-waa-olalua, 43. awa, 17, 79, 109, 164, 165, 186, 187, 199, 207, 211, 213. Awela, 191. Ea, 212, 213. Eeke, 49. eepa, 46, 117, 141, 142, 144, 150, 207. Enaena, 5. Hae-hae, 210, 217. Haena, 197, 198. Haina-kolo, 178-180, 186-204. hala, 39, 201. Halulu, 66-73. Hamakua, 133, 186, 197, 199, 205. hau, 71. Haumea, 152, 154, 157, 160, 161. Hau-pu, 21-25. Hawaii-nui-akea, 2, 4, 7, 118, 125, 155. Heeia, 41, 148, 160. Hee-makoko, 120. hee-nalu, 102. heiau, 2, 3, 49-51, 57, 179, 180. Hewahewa, 3. Hiku, 225-240. Hiiaka, 205, 206. Hiikalanui, 177, 197, 199. Hiilawe, 37, 47. Hii-lani-wai, 136, 137. Hiilei, 132, 139, 143, 148, 163-176, 180-184. Hilo, 95, 122, 124, 132, 186, 190, 191. Hina, 37-39, 45-48, 117-132, 139, 142, 144, 148, 163, 164, 180, 181, 191. Hina-kekai, 213, 214. Hinalea, 158, 160. Hinole, 153-158. holua, 7. Honolulu, 14, 18, 74, 117. Honu, 212. honuhonu, 102. Honua-lewa, 165. Hookena, 26. hookupu, 189. Hou, 191. hula, 102, 137, 145-147, 204-207, 216. ieie, 39, 48, 113, 205, 230, 231. iiwi, 38. imu, 28. Inaina, 77, 78. inalua, 159. Iwa, 121, 122. Kaakee, 114. Kaa-lii, 15. Kaaona, 170. Ka-ao-opua-ola, 129. Kaena, 21, 24, 25. Kahala, 84-93. Kahanai, 120-126, 132, 141-148. Kahekili, 114, 115. Kahele, 7-12. Kahiki, 66, 116, 146, 150. kahili, 105, 110. Kaholo, 36, 37, 195. Kahoolawe, 44, 46, 157. kahu, 40, 52, 55, 220-222. Kahuku, 45, 49-58. Ka-hula-anu, 105. Kahuli, 163, 164, 168-172, 198. kahuna, 64, 66, 72, 87, 183, 186. Ka-ia, 194, 202. Kaiahe, 44. Kaikawahine, 84. Ka-ikuwai, 105. Ka-ilio-hae, 100-106. Kaipuo Lono, 120. Kakea, 36. Kakela, 163, 172, 184. Kakuhihewa, 16. Kalae, 5, 21, 95-99. Kalai-pahoa, 108-115. Kalapana, 66. Kalakaua, 87, 92, 224, 240. Kalakoi, 113. Kalala-ika-wai, 122. Kalaniopua. Kalauokolea, 134. Kalaupapa, 51, 56. Kalawao, 51. Kalei, 60, 61, 210. Kalena, 136. Ka-lewa-nuu, 194. Kalei, 61. Ka-lewa-lani, 175. Kalihi-uka, 160, 161. Kalo-eke-eke, 26, 28. Kaluaaka, 49, 50. Ka-lua-hine, 178. Kama-ahala, 201. Kamaka, 94. Kamakau, 75, 83. Ka-make-loa, 104. Kamalo, 49-58. Kamehameha, 3, 108, 114, 115. Ka-moho-alii, 44, 45, 50, 61, 157. Kamoihiili, 84, 87. Kanaloa, 5, 15, 16, 117-124, 136, 139, 143, 147, 178, 199. Kana-mu, 184, 185, 188. Kane-ia-kama, 111-113. Kana-ula, 192. Kane, 5, 15, 16, 116, 117, 120-126, 134-150, 164, 199, 206. Kane-hekili, 124, 125. Kane-huna-moku, 209. Kanikawi, 127. Kanuku, 133. kapa, 61, 63, 102, 109, 112, 152, 164, 171, 179, 187-189, 200, 201. Kapu, 5. Ka-opua-ua, 142. Ka-pali-kala-hale, 177. Kapo, 98, 111, 140, 141. Kapoekino, etc., 46. Kau, 9, 10, 11, 13, 28, 95, 156, 187. Ka-ua-koko-ula, 145. Kauai, 21, 24, 25, 30, 40, 41, 43, 137-139, 177, 178, 185. Kauhi, 85. Kauhika, 183. Kauhuku, 49. Kaukini, 36, 39. Kaula, 176, 219. Kau-lana-iki-pokii, 132, 143-150, 184-188. Kau-mai-liula, 132, 139, 143-149. Kau-naha, 194. Kauwila, 181. Kawa, 191. Kawaihae, 178. Ka-wai-nui, 150. Kawelo, 191. Kawelona, 40-47. Kea-au, 197. Keakeo-Milu, 97. Ke-alohilani, 127, 130-135, 138. Ke-ao-lewa, 193, 194 Ke-ao-mele-mele, 116, 128, 131, 138-150. Ke-au-kai, 165, 171-177, 180-183, 186, 189, 199, 200, 221. Ke-au-miki, 164, 172, 176, 180, 186, 189, 197, 198. Ke-au-nini, 163, 170-197, 202-208, 215-219. Ke-au-oku, 183. Ke-awa-lua, 145. Kekaa, 101. Kekeaaweaweulu, 188. Keke-hoa-lani, 172. Kewa, 240. Kewalu, 224-240. Kiha-pu, 45. Kiha-wahine, 152, 157-162. Kilauea, 71, 157. kilo-kilo, 130. kilu, 99, 205, 235. koa, 26, 29, 32, 37, 85, 87. Koa-mano, 41. Kohala, 3, 178, 187, 191-193. kohi-pohaku, 29. koko, 113. Kokua, 77, 78, 80. Kona, 26-28, 89, 224, 233, 239. konane, 99, 191, 205. Konolii, 198. Koo-lau-poko, 149, 160. Kou, 144, 160. kou, 193. Ku, 5, 39, 72, 117, 126, 131, 148, etc. kua, 178. Ku-aha-ilo, 163, 175, 204, 214. Kuai-he-lani, 116, 121, 122, 126-131, 139, 170, 180, 183, 190-198, 212, 214, 215, 218. Kuamu-amu, 208. Kukali, 66-73. Kukalaukamanu, 42. Ku-ke-anuenue, 170. Ku-ke-ao-loa, 129, 130. kukui, 11, 140, 166, 198, 227, 233. Ku-kui-haele, 95. kulakulai, 102. Kulioe, 235. ku-maru, 14. Kumukahi, 211. Kumunuiaiake, 190. Kupa, 50-58. kupua, 46, 47, 71, 99, 125, 133, 135, 139, 149, 200, 212, 214. Laamaikahiki, 59. Lahaina, 100, 160. Laiewai, 41, 214. Laka, 14, 125-205, 206. Lamakea, 125. Lanai, 157. lanai, 187, 189, 208. Lanihuli, 120. Lauanau, 40. Laukaiieie, 36, 39, 40-48. Laukoa, 40. Lau-ka-pali, 39. lehua, 167. Lehua, 42, 43, 44. Lei-walo, 18. Lewa-lani, 184, 192. Lihau, 44. Lihue, 40. Lilinoe, 171, 185. Limaloa, 190, 191. lipoa, 37. Loko-aka, 158. Lolokea, 191. Lolo-ka-eha, 198. Lono, 5, 94-99, 200-203, 206. Lono-kai, 204, 205, 208. Lopoikihelewele, 196. loulou, 102. Lua Pele. lua-uhane, 231. Luakia, 191, 195, 196, 200. Mahana, 87-90. Mahea-lani, 123. maika, 114, 153. Maile, 200. Mai-ola, 109. Makalei, 122, 123, 149, 150. Makani-kau, 41-48. Makani-kona, 193. Makuukao, 149. mo-o, 51, 52, 154, 165, 166. Makapuu, 149. malo, 47, 68, 188. Maluae, 14-19. Malu-aka, 138. Mamala, 144. Mamo, 124. Mana, 43. mana, 43, 129, 204. Mamo, 52. Manoa, 14, 84, 88, 91, 93, 135. Maori, 240. Mapulehu, 50. Mauna Loa, 98, 111, 140. Mauna Kea, 45, 127, 131-134, 154, 155. Maui, 44, 49, 56, 59, 64, 98, 100-114, 151, 156. mele, 147, 211, 236. menehune, 76, 141, 142-145, 150, 171, 185. milo, 216. Milu, 96-99, 110, 179, 204, 216, 218, 219, 232-240. miru, 99. Moana-liha, 208. Moanalua, 18. Moho, 193, 194 (see Mohoalii and Mohonana). Mohoalii, 85 (see Ka-moho-alii). Moho-nana, 175 (see Mooinanea). moi, 77. Moi, 190. Moikeha, 59. mokahana, 40, 41. Moli-lele, 209. Molokai, 44, 46, 49, 51, 52, 56, 64, 98, 109, 114, 152, 156, 158, 220-223. mo-o, 154, 165, 166. Mo-o, 51, 52. Mo-o-inanea, 116-135, 139, 144, 147, 148. Mu, 6, 8. Nakula-kai, 163, 164, 172. Nakula-uka, 163-165, 172, 184. Namakaeha, 71, 72. Namunawa, 142. Nanaue, 60-65. Napoopoo, 180. noa, 105. Nohu, 40, 85, 89, 94-99, 110. Niihau, 42, 139, 164, 177, 211. Niuloahiki, 173, 190. Nuumea-lani, 122, 127, 128, 163, 165, 173, 175. Nuuanu, 121, 123, 136, 140-144, 161. Nuu-pule, 206. Oahu, 14, 23, 25, 41, 44, 77, 83, 117, 125, 139, 143, 144, 152, 154, 160, 178, 191, 214. ohelo, 40. ohia, 37, 38, 47, 48. Ohia, 125. Olaa, 191. Olohe, 11. Olopana, 132, 144, 148, 179-189, 197, 199, 220. omaomao, 167. Opealoa, 196, 202, 211. opihi-awa, 108. opoa-pea, 164. Ounauna, 158-160. Pa-ai-ie, 198. Paao, 3, 4. Paaohau, 204. pahoa, 13. pahoehoe, 198. Pakaalana, 179, 192, 197. pali, 150, 197, 202. Paliula, 121-141, 147. Pana-ewa, 197, 198. Papa, 235. papa-hee, 7. papa-ku, 19. Papalakamo, 217. pa-u, (skirt) 203. pau (to stop). Pele, 73, 76, 154, 159, 160, 163, 169, 205, 206. Pilau-hulu, 191. Pili-a-mo-o, 197. piliwaiwai, 7. Pii-moi, 170, 194, 213. Po, 17-19, 85. Pokahi, 36-39. Pokahu, 21. Poliahu, 45, 138, 140, 154-157. Po-Milu, 105, 208. Popo-alaea, 208, 215, 216. Pua, 98, 111. Pua-ohelo, 40. Pueo, 85. puepue-one, 102. puhenehene, 191. Pukoo, 49. Puna, 7, 10, 11, 95, 122, 152-162, 171, 187. Puna-luu, 141. Pupu-hina-hina-ula, 40. Pupukanoi, 39, 40, 44, 46. Pupu-moka-lau, 43. Puu-mano, 65. Puu-o-ka-polei, 211. tabu, 5, 6, 12, 52, 53, 55, 58, 120, 129, 165, 172, 174, 179, 183, 186, 188, 191, 193, 199, 210, 212, 227, 228. Tahiti, 3, 66. Tanaroa, 5. Tane, 5. taro, 14, 26, 27, 28, 53, 54, 63, 110. tapa, 55, 97. ti, 39, 96, 97. Uhu, 190. Ulu, 37. Ulu-nui, 143. ulu-maika, 102. umauma, 102. unihipili, 8. Upolu, 3. Wahaula, 1-13. Waiakea, 133, 191. Waialae, 125. Waialua, 149. Wai-kaha-lulu, 161. Waikiki, 84, 85, 93. Wailuku, 197. Waimanu, 95. Waimea, 45, 185. Waiohinu, 28. Waiola, 132. Waipio, 36, 37, 45, 59-64, 95-110, 135, 148, 178, 180-182, 192, 197, 201, 208, 220, 224, 233, 239. Waipuhia, 120. Wai-puna-lei, 198. Waka, 51, 121-126, 135, 141, 148, 214. Wakea, 152, 235. Walia, 104. Waolani, 117, 120-126, 134, 136, 147, 140-150. wini-wini, 177. PRESS NOTICES LEGENDS OF OLD HONOLULU. By William Drake Westervelt. (Published July, 1915.) Press of Geo. H. Ellis Co., Boston. 12mo. $1.50. Lovers of legendary lore may feast upon this collection of traditional tales of the Hawaiian people and their origin as first told by the old Hawaiians and sometimes touched up and added to by the Hawaiian story-teller. The author was president of the Hawaiian Historical Society for some time, and is a resident of Honolulu. The tales found in this handsomely illustrated volume have already for the most part seen print in papers, magazines, and society reports, and they are well worthy of preservation in this permanent form. The legends tell of many things in heaven and on earth, of the creation of man, the gods who found water, the great dog Ku, the Cannibal Dog-man, the water of life of Kane.--_Transcript, Boston, Mass., Aug. 11, 1915._ * * * * * "Legends of Old Honolulu," collected and translated by W. D. Westervelt, author of several other fine literary works, is an interesting and fascinating volume in which we are told with beauty of language and colorful description the weird and mysterious folk-lore of these distant people who live in a charmed atmosphere and whose life is one long summer day. These legends have been gathered from Hawaiian traditions by W. D. Westervelt, who resides in Honolulu, and who is particularly equipped for giving them to the reading public. They are illustrated with many sepia pictures taken from original photographs, and these add greatly to the charm of the book. The author has not lost the simplicity of style in translation, and this makes these tales all the more delightful. "The Great Dog Ku" is captivating in its unusual depiction. "The Wonderful Shell" is a veritable prose poem, and there is magic and wonderful imagery about "Pikoi the Rat-Killer" which will enthrall the youngsters and entertain their elders. All these legends have their own particular appeal, and this book may be classed among the rare offerings of the year.--_Courier, Buffalo, N. Y., Aug. 29, 1915._ W. D. Westervelt has produced a book of permanent and world-wide interest in collecting and translating the legends of old Honolulu which embody all that the vanishing race knows of their origin and their life before the white man came to civilize and decimate them. The legends are given their proper setting by means of descriptive interludes and explanations of native customs and a key to the language and its pronunciation. No ethnologist, student of comparative religion, or mythologist can afford to be ignorant of the material collected by Mr. Westervelt and embodied in this well printed and finely illustrated little volume. Published by Geo. H. Ellis Co., Boston, Mass.--_Express, Portland, Me., Sept. 4, 1915._ * * * * * Mr. Westervelt has long been an active investigator of the aboriginal conditions of Hawaiian life, and the stories he has discovered have added not a little to our knowledge of the Polynesian race as it was before the dawn of history. The ancient Hawaiians were of an imaginative turn of mind, and their traditions abound in tales of gods and goblins. Some of the stories, now centuries old, are closely related to the legends that are known to exist in New Zealand and other islands of the Pacific, and many of them bear active resemblances to the fairy-tales of our own country. They are interesting enough in themselves, and have an added attraction for the student of comparative folk-lore. The present volume contains excellent illustrations of the scenery of Honolulu, some of them taken from photographs by the author.--_Scotsman, Great Britain, Sept. 13, 1915._ * * * * * Mr. Westervelt, who gives us these legends of Polynesia, has lived for many years in Honolulu, and has made a special study of the history and traditions of the people of the islands. He writes as one well versed in his subject, and some of the legends which he presents to us are of great beauty, showing a fine and delicate imagination in their authors. The character of the legends varies. One or two, and these perhaps the most interesting, are Creation myths. It is evident here and there that the original web is crossed with later strands which have obviously been introduced by Christian missionary teaching, and it is not always easy to disentangle them. One, that has as primitive and antique a savour as any, is that of the Hog-god, Kamapuaa. It is a great tale, and Kamapuaa was rather a glorious ruffian and capable of surprising transformations. "Many of the Hawaiians [he writes] of to-day believe in the continual presence of the aumakuas, the spirits of the dead. In time past the aumakuas were a powerful reality. An ancester, a father or a grandfather, a makua, died. Sometimes he went to Po, the under-world, or to Milu, the shadow-land, or to Lani, the Hawaiian heaven, and sometimes he remained to be a torment or a blessing to his past friends." We could do well with more light thrown on these places, pleasant or unpleasant, and on the ideas of the Polynesians concerning the life after death. It seems that it would be well within Mr. Westervelt's power and knowledge to give us this further light, and we may hope that some day he will do so.--_Times, London, Sept. 23, 1915._ * * * * * Honolulu is fast becoming a favorite tourist land, and particularly since the tremendous popularity of a recent Hawaiian volcano play, a good many people have taken to humming pensively the native farewell song and discoursing wistfully of the Eden-like qualities of the islands. In view of this increasing interest, W. D. Westervelt's book of the legends of Honolulu is especially timely, although such a work always has value. During his residence in Honolulu this writer has collected and translated from the Hawaiian all the available legends of the region, retelling them with singular success. To mention but an instance, every one of them has a tale relating the creation of man. This haunting similarity is one of the fascinations of legend study. Mr. Westervelt has made a noteworthy contribution to that branch of literature.--_Bellman, Minneapolis, Minn., Sept. 25, 1915._ * * * * * These legends will prove of unusual interest to the general reader and especially to the scholar, thinker, and poet. They describe vividly and strongly the triumphs and the wanderings of the people of Hawaii. The legends of old Honolulu proper have been compiled from stories told by old Hawaiians still living; others, furnished by the pioneer American missionaries, who began their work on the islands early in the last century. The writer has lived among this remnant of a great race for many years, and through his sympathy and deep appreciation of native hopes and native aspirations has been able to familiarize himself with their inner life. Price, buckram, 12mo., $1.50; also in kapa. Press of Geo. H. Ellis Co., Boston, Mass.--_Overland Monthly, San Francisco, Cal., Oct. 1, 1915._ * * * * * "Legends of Old Honolulu" is an interesting summary of what is known about the Hawaiian Islands, their people, and the origin of their race. As soon as the Hawaiian alphabet was prepared, in 1821, native writers began delving into their past, finding there a treasure-mine of romantic stories and of valuable ethnological and historical facts in regard to the Polynesian race. These stories were written originally in Hawaiian, for native news-papers, and have been collected and translated by Mr. W. D. Westervelt, author of previous volumes on this same subject. While the book will be of special interest to students of ethnology and to those who have visited Honolulu, the romantic charm which pervades this Pacific archipelago gives its history a universal attraction for the reading public. The volume is well bound and well illustrated. Boston: Geo. H. Ellis Co.--_Globe, Boston, Oct. 25, 1915._ 
34704	----	Transcriber's Note Bold text is indicated with equals signs, =like this=. Individual letters in curly brackets indicate superscripts, e.g. y{e}. A y with a circumflex above is shown as [^y]. Reverse asterisms are indicated with [*.*]. Illustration captions in {curly brackets} have been added by the transcriber for the convenience of the reader. BRITISH GOBLINS: _WELSH FOLK-LORE, FAIRY MYTHOLOGY, LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS._ BY WIRT SIKES, UNITED STATES CONSUL FOR WALES. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY T. H. THOMAS. In olde dayes of the Kyng Arthour ... Al was this lond fulfilled of fayrie. CHAUCER. LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON, CROWN BUILDINGS, 188 FLEET STREET. 1880. [_All rights reserved._] LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. [Illustration: THE OLD WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.] TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, ALBERT EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES, THIS ACCOUNT OF THE FAIRY MYTHOLOGY AND FOLK-LORE OF HIS PRINCIPALITY IS BY PERMISSION DEDICATED. PREFACE. In the ground it covers, while this volume deals especially with Wales, and still more especially with South Wales--where there appear to have been human dwellers long before North Wales was peopled--it also includes the border counties, notably Monmouthshire, which, though severed from Wales by Act of Parliament, is really very Welsh in all that relates to the past. In Monmouthshire is the decayed cathedral city of Caerleon, where, according to tradition, Arthur was crowned king in 508, and where he set up his most dazzling court, as told in the 'Morte d'Arthur.' In a certain sense Wales may be spoken of as the cradle of fairy legend. It is not now disputed that from the Welsh were borrowed many of the first subjects of composition in the literature of all the cultivated peoples of Europe. The Arthur of British history and tradition stands to Welshmen in much the same light that Alfred the Great stands to Englishmen. Around this historic or semi-historic Arthur have gathered a throng of shining legends of fabulous sort, with which English readers are more or less familiar. An even grander figure is the Arthur who existed in Welsh mythology before the birth of the warrior-king. The mythic Arthur, it is presumed, began his shadowy life in pre-historic ages, and grew progressively in mythologic story, absorbing at a certain period the personality of the real Arthur, and becoming the type of romantic chivalry. A similar state of things is indicated with regard to the enchanter Merlin; there was a mythic Merlin before the real Merlin was born at Carmarthen. With the rich mass of legendary lore to which these figures belong, the present volume is not intended to deal; nor do its pages treat, save in the most casual and passing manner, of the lineage and original significance of the lowly goblins which are its theme. The questions here involved, and the task of adequately treating them, belong to the comparative mythologist and the critical historian, rather than to the mere literary workman. UNITED STATES CONSULATE, CARDIFF, _August, 1879_. CONTENTS. BOOK I. THE REALM OF FAERIE. CHAPTER I. PAGE Fairy Tales and the Ancient Mythology--The Compensations of Science--Existing Belief in Fairies in Wales--The Faith of Culture--The Credulity of Ignorance--The Old-Time Welsh Fairyland--The Fairy King--The Legend of St. Collen and Gwyn ap Nudd--The Green Meadows of the Sea--Fairies at Market--The Land of Mystery 1 CHAPTER II. Classification of Welsh Fairies--General Designation--Habits of the Tylwyth Teg--Ellyllon, or Elves--Shakspeare's Use of Welsh Folk-Lore--Rowli Pugh and the Ellyll--Household Story Roots--The Ellylldan--The Pooka--Puck Valley, Breconshire--Where Shakspeare got his Puck--Pwca'r Trwyn--Usual Form of the Pooka Story--Coblynau, or Mine Fairies--The Knockers--Miners' Superstitions--Basilisks and Fire Fiends--A Fairy Coal-mine--The Dwarfs of Cae Caled--Counterparts of the Coblynau--The Bwbach, or Household Fairy--Legend of the Bwbach and the Preacher--Bogies and Hobgoblins--Carrying Mortals through the Air--Counterparts and Originals 11 CHAPTER III. Lake Fairies--The Gwragedd Annwn, or Dames of Elfin-Land--St. Patrick and the Welshmen; a Legend of Crumlyn Lake--The Elfin Cow of Llyn Barfog--Y Fuwch Laethwen Lefrith--The Legend of the Meddygon Myddfai--The Wife of Supernatural Race--The Three Blows; a Carmarthenshire Legend--Cheese and the Didactic Purpose in Welsh Folk-Lore--The Fairy Maiden's Papa--The Enchanted Isle in the Mountain Lake--Legend of the Men of Ardudwy--Origin of Water Fairies--Their prevalence in many Lands 34 CHAPTER IV. Mountain Fairies--The Gwyllion--The Old Woman of the Mountain--The Black Mountain Gwyll--Exorcism by Knife--Occult Intellectual Powers of Welsh Goats--The Legend of Cadwaladr's Goat 49 CHAPTER V. Changelings--The Plentyn-newid--The Cruel Creed of Ignorance regarding Changelings--Modes of Ridding the House of the Fairy Child--The Legend of the Frugal Meal--Legend of the Place of Strife--Dewi Dal and the Fairies--Prevention of Fairy Kidnapping--Fairies caught in the Act by Mothers--Piety as an Exorcism 56 CHAPTER VI. Living with the Tylwyth Teg--The Tale of Elidurus--Shuï Rhys and the Fairies--St. Dogmell's Parish, Pembrokeshire--Dancing with the Ellyllon--The Legend of Rhys and Llewellyn--Death from joining in the Fairy Reel--Legend of the Bush of Heaven--The Forest of the Magic Yew--The Tale of Twm and Iago--Taffy ap Sion, a Legend of Pencader--The Traditions of Pant Shon Shenkin--Tudur of Llangollen; the Legend of Nant yr Ellyllon--Polly Williams and the Trefethin Elves--The Fairies of Frennifawr--Curiosity Tales--The Fiend Master--Iago ap Dewi--The Original of Rip Van Winkle 65 CHAPTER VII. Fairy Music--Birds of Enchantment--The Legend of Shon ap Shenkin--Harp-Music in Welsh Fairy Tales--Legend of the Magic Harp--Songs and Tunes of the Tylwyth Teg--The Legend of Iolo ap Hugh--Mystic Origin of an old Welsh Air 91 CHAPTER VIII. Fairy Rings--The Prophet Jones and his Works--The Mysterious Language of the Tylwyth Teg--The Horse in Welsh Folk-Lore--Equestrian Fairies--Fairy Cattle, Sheep, Swine, etc.--The Flying Fairies of Bedwellty--The Fairy Sheepfold at Cae'r Cefn 103 CHAPTER IX. Piety as a Protection from the Seductions of the Tylwyth Teg--Various Exorcisms--Cock-crowing--The Name of God--Fencing off the Fairies--Old Betty Griffith and her Eithin Barricade--Means of Getting Rid of the Tylwyth Teg--The Bwbach of the Hendrefawr Farm--The Pwca'r Trwyn's Flitting in a Jug of Barm 112 CHAPTER X. Fairy Money and Fairy Gifts in General--The Story of Gitto Bach, or Little Griffith--The Penalty of Blabbing--Legends of the Shepherds of Cwm Llan--The Money Value of Kindness--Ianto Llewellyn and the Tylwyth Teg--The Legend of Hafod Lwyddog--Lessons inculcated by these Superstitions 119 CHAPTER XI. Origins of Welsh Fairies--The Realistic Theory--Legend of the Baron's Gate--The Red Fairies--The Trwyn Fairy a Proscribed Nobleman--The Theory of hiding Druids--Colour in Welsh Fairy Attire--The Green Lady of Caerphilly--White the favourite Welsh Hue--Legend of the Prolific Woman--The Poetico-Religious Theory--The Creed of Science 127 BOOK II. THE SPIRIT-WORLD. CHAPTER I. Modern Superstition regarding Ghosts--American 'Spiritualism'--Welsh Beliefs--Classification of Welsh Ghosts--Departed Mortals--Haunted Houses--Lady Stradling's Ghost--The Haunted Bridge--The Legend of Catrin Gwyn--Didactic Purpose in Cambrian Apparitions--An Insulted Corpse--Duty-performing Ghosts--Laws of the Spirit-World--Cadogan's Ghost 137 CHAPTER II. Household Ghosts and Hidden Treasures--The Miser of St. Donat's--Anne Dewy's Ghost--The Ghost on Horseback--Hidden Objects of Small Value--Transportation through the Air--From Breconshire to Philadelphia, Pa., in Thirty-Six Hours--Sir David Llwyd, the Magician--The Levitation of Walter Jones--Superstitions regarding Hares--The Legend of Monacella's Lambs--Aerial Transportation in Modern Spiritualism--Exorcising Household Ghosts--The Story of Haunted Margaret 151 CHAPTER III. Spectral Animals--The Chained Spirit--The Gwyllgi, or Dog of Darkness--The Legend of Lisworney-Crossways--The Gwyllgi of the Devil's Nags--The Dog of Pant y Madog--Terrors of the Brute Creation at Phantoms--Apparitions of Natural Objects--Phantom Ships and Phantom Islands 167 CHAPTER IV. Grotesque Ghosts--The Phantom Horseman--Gigantic Spirits--The Black Ghost of Ffynon yr Yspryd--Black Men in the Mabinogion--Whirling Ghosts--Antic Spirits--The Tridoll Valley Ghost--Resemblance to Modern Spiritualistic Performances--Household Fairies 174 CHAPTER V. Familiar Spirits--The Famous Sprite of Trwyn Farm--Was it a Fairy?--The Familiar Spirits of Magicians--Sir David Llwyd's Demon--Familiar Spirits in Female Form--The Legend of the Lady of the Wood--The Devil as a Familiar Spirit--His Disguises in this Character--Summoning and Exorcising Familiars--Jenkin the Pembrokeshire Schoolmaster--The Terrible Tailor of Glanbran 187 CHAPTER VI. The Evil Spirit in his customary Form--The stupid Medieval Devil in Wales--Sion Cent--The Devil outwitted--Pacts with the Fiend and their Avoidance--Sion Dafydd's Foul Pipe--The Devil's Bridge and its Legends--Similar Legends in other Lands--The Devil's Pulpit near Tintern--Angelic Spirits--Welsh Superstitions as to pronouncing the Name of the Evil Spirit--The Bardic Tradition of the Creation--The Struggle between Light and Darkness and its Symbolization 202 CHAPTER VII. Cambrian Death-Portents--The Corpse-Bird--The Tan-Wedd--Listening at the Church-Door--The Lledrith--The Gwrach y Rhibyn--The Llandaff Gwrach--Ugliness of this Female Apparition--The Black Maiden--The Cyhyraeth, or Crying Spirit--Its Moans on Land and Sea--The St. Mellons Cyhyraeth--The Groaning Spirit of Bedwellty 212 CHAPTER VIII. The Tolaeth Death Portent--Its various Forms--The Tolaeth before Death--Ewythr Jenkin's Tolaeth--A modern Instance--The Railway Victim's Warning--The Goblin Voice--The Voice from the Cloud--Legend of the Lord and the Beggar--The Goblin Funeral--The Horse's Skull--The Goblin Veil--The Wraith of Llanllwch--Dogs of Hell--The Tale of Pwyll--Spiritual Hunting Dogs--Origin of the Cwn Annwn 225 CHAPTER IX. The Corpse Candle--Its Peculiarities--The Woman of Caerau--Grasping a Corpse Candle--The Crwys Candle--Lights issuing from the Mouth--Jesting with the Canwyll Corph--The Candle at Pontfaen--The Three Candles at Golden Grove--Origin of Death-Portents in Wales--Degree of Belief prevalent at the Present Day--Origin of Spirits in General--The Supernatural--The Question of a Future Life 238 BOOK III. QUAINT OLD CUSTOMS. CHAPTER I. Serious Significance of seemingly Trivial Customs--Their Origins--Common Superstitions--The Age we Live in--Days and Seasons--New Year's Day--The Apple Gift--Lucky Acts on New Year's Morning--The First Foot--Showmen's Superstitions--Levy Dew Song--Happy New Year Carol--Twelfth Night--The Mari Lwyd--The Penglog--The Cutty Wren--Tooling and Sowling--St. Valentine's Day--St. Dewi's Day--The Wearing of the Leek--The Traditional St. David--St. Patrick's Day--St. Patrick a Welshman--Shrove Tuesday 250 CHAPTER II. Sundry Lenten Customs--Mothering Sunday--Palm Sunday--Flowering Sunday--Walking Barefoot to Church--Spiritual Potency of Buns--Good Friday Superstitions--Making Christ's Bed--Bad Odour of Friday--Unlucky Days--Holy Thursday--The Eagle of Snowdon--New Clothing at Easter--Lifting--The Crown of Porcelain--Stocsio--Ball-Playing in Churchyards--The Tump of Lies--Dancing in Churchyards--Seeing the Sun Dance--Calan Ebrill, or All Fools' Day--May Day--The Welsh Maypole--The Daughter of Lludd Llaw Ereint--Carrying the Kings of Summer and Winter 266 CHAPTER III. Midsummer Eve--The Druidic Ceremonies at Pontypridd--The Snake Stone--Beltane Fires--Fourth of July Fires in America--St. Ulric's Day--Carrying Cynog--Marketing on Tombstones--The First Night of Winter--The Three Nights for Spirits--The Tale of Thomas Williams the Preacher--All Hallows Eve Festivities--Running through Fire--Quaint Border Rhymes--The Puzzling Jug--Bobbing for Apples--The Fiery Features of Guy Fawkes' Day--St. Clement's Day--Stripping the Carpenter 277 CHAPTER IV. Nadolig, the Welsh Christmas--Bell-Ringing--Carols--Dancing to the Music of the Waits--An Evening in Carmarthenshire--Shenkin Harry, the Preacher, and the Jig Tune--Welsh Morality--Eisteddfodau--Decorating Houses and Churches--The Christmas Thrift-box--The Colliers' Star--The Plygain--Pagan Origin of Christmas Customs 286 CHAPTER V. Courtship and Marriage--Planting Weeds and Rue on the Graves of Old Bachelors--Special Significance of Flowers in connection with Virginity--The Welsh Venus--Bundling, or Courting Abed--Kissing Schools--Rhamanta--Lovers' Superstitions--The Maid's Trick--Dreaming on a Mutton Bone--Wheat and Shovel--Garters in a Lovers' Knot--Egg-Shell Cake--Sowing Leeks--Twca and Sheath 298 CHAPTER VI. Wedding Customs--The Bidding--Forms of Cymmhorth--The Gwahoddwr--Horse-Weddings--Stealing a Bride--Obstructions to the Bridal Party--The Gwyntyn--Chaining--Evergreen Arches--Strewing Flowers--Throwing Rice and Shoes--Rosemary in the Garden--Names after Marriage--The Coolstrin--The Ceffyl Pren 306 CHAPTER VII. Death and Burial--The Gwylnos--Beer-drinking at Welsh Funerals--Food and Drink over the Coffin--Sponge Cakes at Modern Funerals--The Sin-eater--Welsh Denial that this Custom ever existed--The Testimony concerning it--Superstitions regarding Salt--Plate of Salt on Corpse's Breast--The Scapegoat--The St. Tegla Cock and Hen--Welsh Funeral Processions--Praying at Cross-roads--Superstition regarding Criminals' Graves--Hanging and Welsh Prejudice--The Grassless Grave--Parson's Penny, or Offrwm--Old Shoes to the Clerk--Arian y Rhaw, or Spade Money--Burials without Coffin--The Sul Coffa--Planting and Strewing Graves with Flowers 321 BOOK IV. BELLS, WELLS, STONES, AND DRAGONS. CHAPTER I. Base of the Primeval Mythology--Bells and their Ghosts--The Bell that committed Murder and was damned for it--The Occult Powers of Bells--Their Work as Detectives, Doctors, etc.--Legend of the Bell of Rhayader--St. Illtyd's Wonderful Bell--The Golden Bell of Llandaff 338 CHAPTER II. Mystic Wells--Their Good and Bad Dispositions--St. Winifred's Well--The Legend of St. Winifred--Miracles--St. Tecla's Well--St. Dwynwen's--Curing Love-sickness--St. Cynfran's--St. Cynhafal's--Throwing Pins in Wells--Warts--Barry Island and its Legends--Ffynon Gwynwy--Propitiatory Gifts to Wells--The Dreadful Cursing Well of St. Elian's--Wells Flowing with Milk--St. Illtyd's--Taff's Well--Sanford's Well--Origins of Superstitions of this Class 345 CHAPTER III. Personal Attributes of Legendary Welsh Stones--Stone Worship--Canna's Stone Chair--Miraculous Removals of Stones--The Walking Stone of Eitheinn--The Thigh Stone--The Talking Stone in Pembrokeshire--The Expanding Stone--Magic Stones in the 'Mabinogion'--The Stone of Invisibility--The Stone of Remembrance--Stone Thief-catchers--Stones of Healing--Stones at Cross-roads--Memorials of King Arthur--Round Tables, Carns, Pots, etc.--Arthur's Quoits--The Gigantic Rock-tossers of Old--Mol Walbec and the Pebble in her Shoe--The Giant of Trichrug--Giants and the Mythology of the Heavens--The Legend of Rhitta Gawr 361 CHAPTER IV. Early Inscribed Stones--The Stone Pillar of Banwan Bryddin, near Neath--Catastrophe accompanying its Removal--The Sagranus Stone and the White Lady--The Dancing Stones of Stackpool--Human Beings changed to Stones--St. Ceyna and the Serpents--The Devil's Stone at Llanarth--Rocking Stones and their accompanying Superstitions--The Suspended Altar of Loin-Garth--Cromlechs and their Fairy Legends--The Fairies' Castle at St. Nicholas, Glamorganshire--The Stone of the Wolf Bitch--The Welsh Melusina--Parc-y-Bigwrn Cromlech--Connection of these Stones with Ancient Druidism 373 CHAPTER V. Baleful Spirits of Storm--The Shower at the Magic Fountain--Obstacles in the way of Treasure-Seekers--The Red Lady of Paviland--The Fall of Coychurch Tower--Thunder and Lightning evoked by Digging--The Treasure-Chest under Moel Arthur in the Vale of Clwyd--Modern Credulity--The Cavern of the Ravens--The Eagle-guarded Coffer of Castell Coch--Sleeping Warriors as Treasure-Guarders--The Dragon which St. Samson drove out of Wales--Dragons in the Mabinogion--Whence came the Red Dragon of Wales?--The Original Dragon of Mythology--Prototypes of the Welsh Caverns and Treasure-Hills--The Goblins of Electricity 385 [Illustration: {FAIRIES.}] BRITISH GOBLINS. BOOK I. THE REALM OF FAERIE. At eve, the primrose path along, The milkmaid shortens with a song Her solitary way; She sees the fairies with their queen Trip hand-in-hand the circled green, And hears them raise, at times unseen, The ear-enchanting lay. REV. JOHN LOGAN: _Ode to Spring_, 1780. CHAPTER I. Fairy Tales and the Ancient Mythology--The Compensations of Science--Existing Belief in Fairies in Wales--The Faith of Culture--The Credulity of Ignorance--The Old-Time Welsh Fairyland--The Fairy King--The Legend of St. Collen and Gwyn ap Nudd--The Green Meadows of the Sea--Fairies at Market--The Land of Mystery. I. With regard to other divisions of the field of folk-lore, the views of scholars differ, but in the realm of faerie these differences are reconciled; it is agreed that fairy tales are relics of the ancient mythology; and the philosophers stroll hand in hand harmoniously. This is as it should be, in a realm about which cluster such delightful memories of the most poetic period of life--childhood, before scepticism has crept in as ignorance slinks out. The knowledge which introduced scepticism is infinitely more valuable than the faith it displaced; but, in spite of that, there be few among us who have not felt evanescent regrets for the displacement by the _foi scientifique_ of the old faith in fairies. There was something so peculiarly fascinating in that old belief, that 'once upon a time' the world was less practical in its facts than now, less commonplace and humdrum, less subject to the inexorable laws of gravitation, optics, and the like. What dramas it has yielded! What poems, what dreams, what delights! But since the knowledge of our maturer years destroys all that, it is with a degree of satisfaction we can turn to the consolations of the fairy mythology. The beloved tales of old are 'not true'--but at least they are not mere idle nonsense, and they have a good and sufficient reason for being in the world; we may continue to respect them. The wit who observed that the final cause of fairy legends is 'to afford sport for people who ruthlessly track them to their origin,'[1] expressed a grave truth in jocular form. Since one can no longer rest in peace with one's ignorance, it is a comfort to the lover of fairy legends to find that he need not sweep them into the grate as so much rubbish; on the contrary they become even more enchanting in the crucible of science than they were in their old character. FOOTNOTE: [1] 'Saturday Review,' October 20, 1877. II. Among the vulgar in Wales, the belief in fairies is less nearly extinct than casual observers would be likely to suppose. Even educated people who dwell in Wales, and have dwelt there all their lives, cannot always be classed as other than casual observers in this field. There are some such residents who have paid special attention to the subject, and have formed an opinion as to the extent of prevalence of popular credulity herein; but most Welsh people of the educated class, I find, have no opinion, beyond a vague surprise that the question should be raised at all. So lately as the year 1858, a learned writer in the 'Archæologia Cambrensis' declared that 'the traveller may now pass from one end of the Principality to the other, without his being shocked or amused, as the case may be, by any of the fairy legends or popular tales which used to pass current from father to son.' But in the same periodical, eighteen years later, I find Mr. John Walter Lukis (President of the Cardiff Naturalists' Society), asserting with regard to the cromlechs, tumuli, and ancient camps in Glamorganshire: 'There are always fairy tales and ghost stories connected with them; some, though _fully believed in_ by the inhabitants of those localities, are often of the most absurd character; in fact, the more ridiculous they are, the more they are believed in.'[2] My own observation leads me to support the testimony of the last-named witness. Educated Europeans generally conceive that this sort of belief is extinct in their own land, or, at least their own immediate section of that land. They accredit such degree of belief as may remain, in this enlightened age, to some remote part--to the south, if they dwell in the north; to the north, if they dwell in the south. But especially they accredit it to a previous age: in Wales, to last century, or the middle ages, or the days of King Arthur. The rector of Merthyr, being an elderly man, accredits it to his youth. 'I am old enough to remember,' he wrote me under date of January 30th, 1877, 'that these tales were thoroughly believed in among country folk forty or fifty years ago.' People of superior culture have held this kind of faith concerning fairy-lore, it seems to me, in every age, except the more remote. Chaucer held it, almost five centuries ago, and wrote:[3] In olde dayes of the Kyng Arthour, ... Al was this lond fulfilled of fayrie; ... I speke of many hundrid yer ago; But now can no man see non elves mo. Dryden held it, two hundred years later, and said of the fairies: I speak of ancient times, for now the swain Returning late may pass the woods in vain, And never hope to see the nightly train. In all later days, other authors have written the same sort of thing; it is not thus now, say they, but it was recently thus. The truth, probably, is that if you will but sink down to the level of common life, of ignorant life, especially in rural neighbourhoods, there you will find the same old beliefs prevailing, in about the same degree to which they have ever prevailed, within the past five hundred years. To sink to this level successfully, one must become a living unit in that life, as I have done in Wales and elsewhere, from time to time. Then one will hear the truth from, or at least the true sentiments of, the class he seeks to know. The practice of every generation in thus relegating fairy belief to a date just previous to its own does not apply, however, to superstitious beliefs in general; for, concerning many such beliefs, their greater or less prevalence at certain dates (as in the history of witchcraft) is matter of well-ascertained fact. I confine the argument, for the present, strictly to the domain of faerie. In this domain, the prevalent belief in Wales may be said to rest with the ignorant, to be strongest in rural and mining districts, to be childlike and poetic, and to relate to anywhere except the spot where the speaker dwells--as to the next parish, to the next county, to the distant mountains, or to the shadow-land of Gwerddonau Llion, the green meadows of the sea. FOOTNOTES: [2] 'Archæologia Cambrensis,' 4th Se., vi., 174. [3] 'Wyf of Bathes Tale,' 'Canterbury Tales.' III. In Arthur's day and before that, the people of South Wales regarded North Wales as pre-eminently the land of faerie. In the popular imagination, that distant country was the chosen abode of giants, monsters, magicians, and all the creatures of enchantment. Out of it came the fairies, on their visits to the sunny land of the south. The chief philosopher of that enchanted region was a giant who sat on a mountain peak and watched the stars. It had a wizard monarch called Gwydion, who possessed the power of changing himself into the strangest possible forms. The peasant who dwelt on the shores of Dyfed (Demetia) saw in the distance, beyond the blue waves of the ocean, shadowy mountain summits piercing the clouds, and guarding this mystic region in solemn majesty. Thence rolled down upon him the storm-clouds from the home of the tempest; thence streamed up the winter sky the flaming banners of the Northern lights; thence rose through the illimitable darkness on high, the star-strewn pathway of the fairy king. These details are current in the Mabinogion, those brilliant stories of Welsh enchantment, so gracefully done into English by Lady Charlotte Guest,[4] and it is believed that all the Mabinogion in which these details were found were written in Dyfed. This was the region on the west, now covered by Pembroke, Carmarthen, and Cardigan shires. More recently than the time above indicated, special traditions have located fairyland in the Vale of Neath, in Glamorganshire. Especially does a certain steep and rugged crag there, called Craig y Ddinas, bear a distinctly awful reputation as a stronghold of the fairy tribe.[5] Its caves and crevices have been their favourite haunt for many centuries, and upon this rock was held the court of the last fairies who have ever appeared in Wales. Needless to say there are men still living who remember the visits of the fairies to Craig y Ddinas, although they aver the little folk are no longer seen there. It is a common remark that the Methodists drove them away; indeed, there are numberless stories which show the fairies to have been animated, when they were still numerous in Wales, by a cordial antipathy for all dissenting preachers. In this antipathy, it may be here observed, teetotallers were included. FOOTNOTES: [4] 'The Mabinogion, from the Welsh of the Llyfr Coch o Hergest.' Translated, with notes, by Lady Charlotte Guest. (New Edition, London, 1877.) [5] There are two hills in Glamorganshire called by this name, and others elsewhere in Wales. IV. The sovereign of the fairies, and their especial guardian and protector, was one Gwyn ap Nudd. He was also ruler over the goblin tribe in general. His name often occurs in ancient Welsh poetry. An old bard of the fourteenth century, who, led away by the fairies, rode into a turf bog on a mountain one dark night, called it the 'fish-pond of Gwyn ap Nudd, a palace for goblins and their tribe.' The association of this legendary character with the goblin fame of the Vale of Neath will appear, when it is mentioned that Nudd in Welsh is pronounced simply Neath, and not otherwise. As for the fairy queen, she does not seem to have any existence among Cambrian goblins. It is nevertheless thought by Cambrian etymologists, that Morgana is derived from Mor Gwyn, the white maid; and the Welsh proper name Morgan can hardly fail to be mentioned in this connection, though it is not necessarily significant. The legend of St. Collen, in which Gwyn ap Nudd figures, represents him as king of Annwn (hell, or the shadow land) as well as of the fairies.[6] Collen was passing a period of mortification as a hermit, in a cell under a rock on a mountain. There he one day overheard two men talking about Gwyn ap Nudd, and giving him this twofold kingly character. Collen cried out to the men to go away and hold their tongues, instead of talking about devils. For this Collen was rebuked, as the king of fairyland had an objection to such language. The saint was summoned to meet the king on the hill-top at noon, and after repeated refusals, he finally went there; but he carried a flask of holy water with him. 'And when he came there he saw the fairest castle he had ever beheld, and around it the best appointed troops, and numbers of minstrels and every kind of music of voice and string, and steeds with youths upon them, the comeliest in the world, and maidens of elegant aspect, sprightly, light of foot, of graceful apparel, and in the bloom of youth; and every magnificence becoming the court of a puissant sovereign. And he beheld a courteous man on the top of the castle who bade him enter, saying that the king was waiting for him to come to meat. And Collen went into the castle, and when he came there the king was sitting in a golden chair. And he welcomed Collen honourably, and desired him to eat, assuring him that besides what he saw, he should have the most luxurious of every dainty and delicacy that the mind could desire, and should be supplied with every drink and liquor that the heart could wish; and that there should be in readiness for him every luxury of courtesy and service, of banquet and of honourable entertainment, of rank and of presents, and every respect and welcome due to a man of his wisdom. "I will not eat the leaves of the trees," said Collen. "Didst thou ever see men of better equipment than these of red and blue?" asked the king. "Their equipment is good enough," said Collen, "for such equipment as it is." "What kind of equipment is that?" said the king. Then said Collen, "The red on the one part signifies burning, and the blue on the other signifies coldness." And with that Collen drew out his flask and threw the holy water on their heads, whereupon they vanished from his sight, so that there was neither castle nor troops, nor men, nor maidens, nor music, nor song, nor steeds, nor youths, nor banquet, nor the appearance of anything whatever but the green hillocks.' FOOTNOTE: [6] 'Greal' (8vo. London, 1805), p. 337. V. A third form of Welsh popular belief as to the whereabouts of fairyland corresponds with the Avalon of the Arthurian legends. The green meadows of the sea, called in the triads Gwerddonau Llion, are the Green fairy islands, reposing, In sunlight and beauty on ocean's calm breast.[7] Many extraordinary superstitions survive with regard to these islands. They were supposed to be the abode of the souls of certain Druids, who, not holy enough to enter the heaven of the Christians, were still not wicked enough to be condemned to the tortures of annwn, and so were accorded a place in this romantic sort of purgatorial paradise. In the fifth century a voyage was made, by the British king Gavran, in search of these enchanted islands; with his family he sailed away into the unknown waters, and was never heard of more. This voyage is commemorated in the triads as one of the Three Losses by Disappearance, the two others being Merlin's and Madog's. Merlin sailed away in a ship of glass; Madog sailed in search of America; and neither returned, but both disappeared for ever. In Pembrokeshire and southern Carmarthenshire are to be found traces of this belief. There are sailors on that romantic coast who still talk of the green meadows of enchantment lying in the Irish channel to the west of Pembrokeshire. Sometimes they are visible to the eyes of mortals for a brief space, when suddenly they vanish. There are traditions of sailors who, in the early part of the present century, actually went ashore on the fairy islands--not knowing that they were such, until they returned to their boats, when they were filled with awe at seeing the islands disappear from their sight, neither sinking in the sea, nor floating away upon the waters, but simply vanishing suddenly. The fairies inhabiting these islands are said to have regularly attended the markets at Milford Haven and Laugharne. They made their purchases without speaking, laid down their money and departed, always leaving the exact sum required, which they seemed to know, without asking the price of anything. Sometimes they were invisible, but they were often seen, by sharp-eyed persons. There was always one special butcher at Milford Haven upon whom the fairies bestowed their patronage, instead of distributing their favours indiscriminately. The Milford Haven folk could see the green fairy islands distinctly, lying out a short distance from land; and the general belief was that they were densely peopled with fairies. It was also said that the latter went to and fro between the islands and the shore through a subterranean gallery under the bottom of the sea. [Illustration: FAIRIES MARKETING AT LAUGHARNE.] That isolated cape which forms the county of Pembroke was looked upon as a land of mystery by the rest of Wales long after it had been settled by the Flemings in 1113. A secret veil was supposed to cover this sea-girt promontory; the inhabitants talked in an unintelligible jargon that was neither English, nor French, nor Welsh; and out of its misty darkness came fables of wondrous sort, and accounts of miracles marvellous beyond belief. Mythology and Christianity spoke together from this strange country, and one could not tell at which to be most amazed, the pagan or the priest. FOOTNOTE: [7] Parry's 'Welsh Melodies.' CHAPTER II. Classification of Welsh Fairies--General Designation--Habits of the Tylwyth Teg--Ellyllon, or Elves--Shakspeare's Use of Welsh Folk-Lore--Rowli Pugh and the Ellyll--Household Story Roots--The Ellylldan--The Pooka--Puck Valley, Breconshire--Where Shakspeare got his Puck--Pwca'r Trwyn--Usual Form of the Pooka Story--Coblynau, or Mine Fairies--The Knockers--Miners' Superstitions--Basilisks and Fire Fiends--A Fairy Coal-mine--The Dwarfs of Cae Caled--Counterparts of the Coblynau--The Bwbach, or Household Fairy--Legend of the Bwbach and the Preacher--Bogies and Hobgoblins--Carrying Mortals through the Air--Counterparts and Originals. I. Fairies being creatures of the imagination, it is not possible to classify them by fixed and immutable rules. In the exact sciences, there are laws which never vary, or if they vary, their very eccentricity is governed by precise rules. Even in the largest sense, comparative mythology must demean itself modestly in order to be tolerated in the severe company of the sciences. In presenting his subjects, therefore, the writer in this field can only govern himself by the purpose of orderly arrangement. To secure the maximum of system, for the sake of the student who employs the work for reference and comparison, with the minimum of dullness, for the sake of the general reader, is perhaps the limit of a reasonable ambition. Keightley[8] divides into four classes the Scandinavian elements of popular belief as to fairies, viz.: 1. The Elves; 2. The Dwarfs, or Trolls; 3. The Nisses; and 4. The Necks, Mermen, and Mermaids. How entirely arbitrary this division is, the student of Scandinavian folk-lore at once perceives. Yet it is perhaps as satisfactory as another. The fairies of Wales may be divided into five classes, if analogy be not too sharply insisted on. Thus we have, 1. The Ellyllon, or elves; 2. The Coblynau, or mine fairies; 3. The Bwbachod, or household fairies; 4. The Gwragedd Annwn, or fairies of the lakes and streams; and 5. The Gwyllion, or mountain fairies. The modern Welsh name for fairies is y Tylwyth Teg, the fair folk or family. This is sometimes lengthened into y Tylwyth Teg yn y Coed, the fair family in the wood, or Tylwyth Teg y Mwn, the fair folk of the mine. They are seen dancing in moonlight nights on the velvety grass, clad in airy and flowing robes of blue, green, white, or scarlet--details as to colour not usually met, I think, in accounts of fairies. They are spoken of as bestowing blessings on those mortals whom they select to be thus favoured; and again are called Bendith y Mamau, or their mother's blessing, that is to say, good little children whom it is a pleasure to know. To name the fairies by a harsh epithet is to invoke their anger; to speak of them in flattering phrase is to propitiate their good offices. The student of fairy mythology perceives in this propitiatory mode of speech a fact of wide significance. It can be traced in numberless lands, and back to the beginning of human history, among the cloud-hung peaks of Central Asia. The Greeks spoke of the furies as the Eumenides, or gracious ones; Highlanders mentioned by Sir Walter Scott uncover to the gibbet and call it 'the kind gallows;' the Dayak will not name the small-pox, but calls it 'the chief;' the Laplander calls the bear 'the old man with the fur coat;' in Ammam the tiger is called 'grandfather;' and it is thought that the maxim, 'Speak only good of the dead,' came originally from the notion of propitiating the ghost of the departed,[9] who, in laying off this mortal garb, had become endowed with new powers of harming his late acquaintance. FOOTNOTES: [8] 'Fairy Mythology' (Bohn's Ed.), 78. [9] John Fiske, 'Myths and Myth-makers,' 223. II. The Ellyllon are the pigmy elves who haunt the groves and valleys, and correspond pretty closely with the English elves. The English name was probably derived from the Welsh _el_, a spirit, _elf_, an element; there is a whole brood of words of this class in the Welsh language, expressing every variety of flowing, gliding, spirituality, devilry, angelhood, and goblinism. Ellyllon (the plural of ellyll), is also doubtless allied with the Hebrew Elilim, having with it an identity both of origin and meaning.[10] The poet Davydd ab Gwilym, in a humorous account of his troubles in a mist, in the year 1340, says: Yr ydoedd ym mhob gobant Ellyllon mingeimion gant. There was in every hollow A hundred wrymouthed elves. The hollows, or little dingles, are still the places where the peasant, belated on his homeward way from fair or market, looks for the ellyllon, but fails to find them. Their food is specified in Welsh folk-lore as fairy butter and fairy victuals, ymenyn tylwyth teg and bwyd ellyllon; the latter the toadstool, or poisonous mushroom, and the former a butter-resembling substance found at great depths in the crevices of limestone rocks, in sinking for lead ore. Their gloves, menyg ellyllon, are the bells of the digitalis, or fox-glove, the leaves of which are well known to be a strong sedative. Their queen--for though there is no fairy-queen in the large sense that Gwyn ap Nudd is the fairy-king, there is a queen of the elves--is none other than the Shakspearean fairy spoken of by Mercutio, who comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the forefinger of an alderman.[11] Shakspeare's use of Welsh folk-lore, it should be noted, was extensive and peculiarly faithful. Keightley in his 'Fairy Mythology' rates the bard soundly for his inaccurate use of English fairy superstitions; but the reproach will not apply as regards Wales. From his Welsh informant Shakspeare got Mab, which is simply the Cymric for a little child, and the root of numberless words signifying babyish, childish, love for children (mabgar), kitten (mabgath), prattling (mabiaith), and the like, most notable of all which in this connection is mabinogi, the singular of Mabinogion, the romantic tales of enchantment told to the young in by-gone ages. FOOTNOTES: [10] Pughe's 'Welsh Dictionary.' (Denbigh, 1866.) [11] 'Romeo and Juliet,' Act II., Sc. 4. III. In the Huntsman's Rest Inn at Peterstone-super-Ely, near Cardiff, sat a group of humble folk one afternoon, when I chanced to stop there to rest myself by the chimney-side, after a long walk through green lanes. The men were drinking their tankards of ale and smoking their long clay pipes; and they were talking about their dogs and horses, the crops, the hard times, and the prospect of bettering themselves by emigration to America. On this latter theme I was able to make myself interesting, and acquaintance was thereupon easily established on a friendly footing. I led the conversation into the domain of folk-lore; and this book is richer in illustration on many a page, in consequence. Among others, this tale was told: On a certain farm in Glamorganshire lived Rowli Pugh, who was known far and wide for his evil luck. Nothing prospered that he turned his hand to; his crops proved poor, though his neighbours' might be good; his roof leaked in spite of all his mending; his walls remained damp when every one else's walls were dry; and above all, his wife was so feeble she could do no work. His fortunes at last seemed so hard that he resolved to sell out and clear out, no matter at what loss, and try to better himself in another country--not by going to America, for there was no America in those days. Well, and if there was, the poor Welshman didn't know it. So as Rowli was sitting on his wall one day, hard by his cottage, musing over his sad lot, he was accosted by a little man who asked him what was the matter. Rowli looked around in surprise, but before he could answer the ellyll said to him with a grin, 'There, there, hold your tongue, I know more about you than you ever dreamed of knowing. You're in trouble, and you're going away. But you may stay, now I've spoken to you. Only bid your good wife leave the candle burning when she goes to bed, and say no more about it.' With this the ellyll kicked up his heels and disappeared. Of course the farmer did as he was bid, and from that day he prospered. Every night Catti Jones, his wife,[12] set the candle out, swept the hearth, and went to bed; and every night the fairies would come and do her baking and brewing, her washing and mending, sometimes even furnishing their own tools and materials. The farmer was now always clean of linen and whole of garb; he had good bread and good beer; he felt like a new man, and worked like one. Everything prospered with him now as nothing had before. His crops were good, his barns were tidy, his cattle were sleek, his pigs the fattest in the parish. So things went on for three years. One night Catti Jones took it into her head that she must have a peep at the fair family who did her work for her; and curiosity conquering prudence, she arose while Rowli Pugh lay snoring, and peeped through a crack in the door. There they were, a jolly company of ellyllon, working away like mad, and laughing and dancing as madly as they worked. Catti was so amused that in spite of herself she fell to laughing too; and at sound of her voice the ellyllon scattered like mist before the wind, leaving the room empty. They never came back any more; but the farmer was now prosperous, and his bad luck never returned to plague him. [Illustration: ROWLI AND THE ELLYLL.] The resemblance of this tale to many he has encountered will at once be noted by the student of comparative folk-lore. He will also observe that it trenches on the domain of another class in my own enumeration, viz., that of the Bwbach, or household fairy. This is the stone over which one is constantly stumbling in this field of scientific research. Mr. Baring-Gould's idea that all household tales are reducible to a primeval root (in the same or a similar manner that we trace words to their roots), though most ingeniously illustrated by him, is constantly involved in trouble of the sort mentioned. He encounters the obstacle which lies in the path of all who walk this way. His roots sometimes get inextricably gnarled and intertwisted with each other. But some effort of this sort is imperative, and we must do the best we can with our materials. Stories of the class of Grimm's Witchelmänner (Kinder und Hausmärchen) will be recalled by the legend of Rowli Pugh as here told. The German Hausmänner are elves of a domestic turn, sometimes mischievous and sometimes useful, but usually looking for some material reward for their labours. So with the English goblin named by Milton in 'L'Allegro,' which drudges, To earn his cream-bowl duly set. FOOTNOTE: [12] Until recently, Welsh women retained their maiden names even after marriage. IV. The Ellylldan is a species of elf exactly corresponding to the English Will-o'-wisp, the Scandinavian Lyktgubhe, and the Breton Sand Yan y Tad. The Welsh word dan means fire; dan also means a lure; the compound word suggests a luring elf-fire. The Breton Sand Yan y Tad (St. John and Father)[13] is a double ignis fatuus fairy, carrying at its finger-ends five lights, which spin round like a wheel. The negroes of the southern seaboard states of America invest this goblin with an exaggeration of the horrible peculiarly their own. They call it Jack-muh-lantern, and describe it as a hideous creature five feet in height, with goggle-eyes and huge mouth, its body covered with long hair, and which goes leaping and bounding through the air like a gigantic grasshopper. This frightful apparition is stronger than any man, and swifter than any horse, and compels its victims to follow it into the swamp, where it leaves them to die. Like all goblins of this class, the Ellylldan was, of course, seen dancing about in marshy grounds, into which it led the belated wanderer; but, as a distinguished resident in Wales has wittily said, the poor elf 'is now starved to death, and his breath is taken from him; his light is quenched for ever by the improving farmer, who has drained the bog; and, instead of the rank decaying vegetation of the autumn, where bitterns and snipes delighted to secrete themselves, crops of corn and potatoes are grown.'[14] A poetic account by a modern character, called Iolo the Bard, is thus condensed: 'One night, when the moon had gone down, as I was sitting on a hill-top, the Ellylldan passed by. I followed it into the valley. We crossed plashes of water where the tops of bulrushes peeped above, and where the lizards lay silently on the surface, looking at us with an unmoved stare. The frogs sat croaking and swelling their sides, but ceased as they raised a melancholy eye at the Ellylldan. The wild fowl, sleeping with their heads under their wings, made a low cackle as we went by. A bittern awoke and rose with a scream into the air. I felt the trail of the eels and leeches peering about, as I waded through the pools. On a slimy stone a toad sat sucking poison from the night air. The Ellylldan glowed bravely in the slumbering vapours. It rose airily over the bushes that drooped in the ooze. When I lingered or stopped, it waited for me, but dwindled gradually away to a speck barely perceptible. But as soon as I moved on again, it would shoot up suddenly and glide before. A bat came flying round and round us, flapping its wings heavily. Screech-owls stared silently at us with their broad eyes. Snails and worms crawled about. The fine threads of a spider's web gleamed in the light of the Ellylldan. Suddenly it shot away from me, and in the distance joined a ring of its fellows, who went dancing slowly round and round in a goblin dance, which sent me off to sleep.'[15] FOOTNOTES: [13] Keightley, 'Fairy Mythology,' 441. [14] Hon. W. O. Stanley, M.P., in 'Notes and Queries.' [15] 'The Vale of Glamorgan.' (London, 1839.) V. Pwca, or Pooka, is but another name for the Ellylldan, as our Puck is another name for the Will-o'-wisp; but in both cases the shorter term has a more poetic flavour and a wider latitude. The name Puck was originally applied to the whole race of English fairies, and there still be few of the realm who enjoy a wider popularity than Puck, in spite of his mischievous attributes. Part of this popularity is due to the poets, especially to Shakspeare. I have alluded to the bard's accurate knowledge of Welsh folk-lore; the subject is really one of unique interest, in view of the inaccuracy charged upon him as to the English fairyland. There is a Welsh tradition to the effect that Shakspeare received his knowledge of the Cambrian fairies from his friend Richard Price, son of Sir John Price, of the priory of Brecon. It is even claimed that Cwm Pwca, or Puck Valley, a part of the romantic glen of the Clydach, in Breconshire, is the original scene of the 'Midsummer Night's Dream'--a fancy as light and airy as Puck himself.[16] Anyhow, there Cwm Pwca is, and in the sylvan days, before Frere and Powell's ironworks were set up there, it is said to have been as full of goblins as a Methodist's head is of piety. And there are in Wales other places bearing like names, where Pwca's pranks are well remembered by old inhabitants. The range given to the popular fancy in Wales is expressed with fidelity by Shakspeare's words in the mouth of Puck: I'll follow you, I'll lead you about a round, Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier, Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.[17] The various stories I have encountered bear out these details almost without an omission. [Illustration: {SKETCH OF PWCA.}] In his own proper character, however, Pwca has a sufficiently grotesque elfish aspect. It is stated that a Welsh peasant who was asked to give an idea of the appearance of Pwca, drew the above figure with a bit of coal. A servant girl who attended to the cattle on the Trwyn farm, near Abergwyddon, used to take food to 'Master Pwca,' as she called the elf. A bowl of fresh milk and a slice of white bread were the component parts of the goblin's repast, and were placed on a certain spot where he got them. One night the girl, moved by the spirit of mischief, drank the milk and ate most of the bread, leaving for Master Pwca only water and crusts. Next morning she found that the fastidious fairy had left the food untouched. Not long after, as the girl was passing the lonely spot, where she had hitherto left Pwca his food, she was seized under the arm pits by fleshly hands (which, however, she could not see), and subjected to a castigation of a most mortifying character. Simultaneously there fell upon her ear in good set Welsh a warning not to repeat her offence on peril of still worse treatment. This story 'is thoroughly believed in there to this day.'[18] I visited the scene of the story, a farm near Abergwyddon (now called Abercarne), and heard a great deal more of the exploits of that particular Pwca, to which I will refer again. The most singular fact of the matter is that although at least a century has elapsed, and some say several centuries, since the exploits in question, you cannot find a Welsh peasant in the parish but knows all about Pwca'r Trwyn. FOOTNOTES: [16] According to a letter written by the poet Campbell to Mrs. Fletcher, in 1833, and published in her Autobiography, it was thought Shakspeare went in person to see this magic valley. 'It is no later than yesterday,' wrote Campbell, 'that I discovered a probability--almost near a certainty--that Shakspeare visited friends in the very town (Brecon in Wales) where Mrs. Siddons was born, and that he there found in a neighbouring glen, called "The Valley of Fairy Puck," the principal machinery of his "Midsummer Night's Dream."' [17] 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' Act III., Sc. 3. [18] 'Archæologia Cambrensis,' 4th Se., vi., 175. (1875.) VI. The most familiar form of the Pwca story is one which I have encountered in several localities, varying so little in its details that each account would be interchangeable with another by the alteration of local names. This form presents a peasant who is returning home from his work, or from a fair, when he sees a light travelling before him. Looking closer he perceives that it is carried by a dusky little figure, holding a lantern or candle at arm's length over its head. He follows it for several miles, and suddenly finds himself on the brink of a frightful precipice. From far down below there rises to his ears the sound of a foaming torrent. At the same moment the little goblin with the lantern springs across the chasm, alighting on the opposite side; raises the light again high over its head, utters a loud and malicious laugh, blows out its candle and disappears up the opposite hill, leaving the awestruck peasant to get home as best he can. [Illustration: PWCA. COBLYNAU.] VII. Under the general title of Coblynau I class the fairies which haunt the mines, quarries and underground regions of Wales, corresponding to the cabalistic Gnomes. The word coblyn has the double meaning of knocker or thumper and sprite or fiend; and may it not be the original of goblin? It is applied by Welsh miners to pigmy fairies which dwell in the mines, and point out, by a peculiar knocking or rapping, rich veins of ore. The faith is extended, in some parts, so as to cover the indication of subterranean treasures generally, in caves and secret places of the mountains. The coblynau are described as being about half a yard in height and very ugly to look upon, but extremely good-natured, and warm friends of the miner. Their dress is a grotesque imitation of the miner's garb, and they carry tiny hammers, picks and lamps. They work busily, loading ore in buckets, flitting about the shafts, turning tiny windlasses, and pounding away like madmen, but really accomplishing nothing whatever. They have been known to throw stones at the miners, when enraged at being lightly spoken of; but the stones are harmless. Nevertheless, all miners of a proper spirit refrain from provoking them, because their presence brings good luck. VIII. Miners are possibly no more superstitious than other men of equal intelligence; I have heard some of their number repel indignantly the idea that they are superstitious at all; but this would simply be to raise them above the level of our common humanity. There is testimony enough, besides, to support my own conclusions, which accredit a liberal share of credulity to the mining class. The _Oswestry Advertiser_, a short time ago, recorded the fact that, at Cefn, 'a woman is employed as messenger at one of the collieries, and as she commences her duty early each morning she meets great numbers of colliers going to their work. Some of them, we are gravely assured, consider it a bad omen to meet a woman first thing in the morning; and not having succeeded in deterring her from her work by other means, they waited upon the manager and declared that they should remain at home unless the woman was dismissed.' This was in 1874. In June, 1878, the _South Wales Daily News_ recorded a superstition of the quarrymen at Penrhyn, where some thousands of men refused to work on Ascension Day. 'This refusal did not arise out of any reverential feeling, but from an old and widespread superstition, which has lingered in that district for years, that if work is continued on Ascension Day an accident will certainly follow. A few years ago the agents persuaded the men to break through the superstition, and there were accidents each year--a not unlikely occurrence, seeing the extent of works carried on, and the dangerous nature of the occupation of the men. This year, however, the men, one and all, refused to work.' These are examples dealing with considerable numbers of the mining class, and are quoted in this instance as being more significant than individual cases would be. Of these last I have encountered many. Yet I should be sorry if any reader were to conclude from all this that Welsh miners are not in the main intelligent, church-going, newspaper-reading men. They are so, I think, even beyond the common. Their superstitions, therefore, like those of the rest of us, must be judged as 'a thing apart,' not to be reconciled with intelligence and education, but co-existing with them. Absolute freedom from superstition can come only with a degree of scientific culture not yet reached by mortal man. It can hardly be cause for wonder that the miner should be superstitious. His life is passed in a dark and gloomy region, fathoms below the earth's green surface, surrounded by walls on which dim lamps shed a fitful light. It is not surprising that imagination (and the Welsh imagination is peculiarly vivid) should conjure up the faces and forms of gnomes and coblynau, of phantoms and fairy men. When they hear the mysterious thumping which they know is not produced by any human being, and when in examining the place where the noise was heard they find there are really valuable indications of ore, the sturdiest incredulity must sometimes be shaken. Science points out that the noise may be produced by the action of water upon the loose stones in fissures and pot-holes of the mountain limestone, and does actually suggest the presence of metals. In the days before a Priestley had caught and bottled that demon which exists in the shape of carbonic acid gas, when the miner was smitten dead by an invisible foe in the deep bowels of the earth it was natural his awestruck companions should ascribe the mysterious blow to a supernatural enemy. When the workman was assailed suddenly by what we now call fire-damp, which hurled him and his companions right and left upon the dark rocks, scorching, burning, and killing, those who survived were not likely to question the existence of the mine fiend. Hence arose the superstition--now probably quite extinct--of basilisks in the mines, which destroyed with their terrible gaze. When the explanation came, that the thing which killed the miner was what he breathed, not what he saw; and when chemistry took the fire-damp from the domain of faerie, the basilisk and the fire fiend had not a leg to stand on. The explanation of the Knockers is more recent, and less palpable and convincing. IX. The Coblynau are always given the form of dwarfs, in the popular fancy; wherever seen or heard, they are believed to have escaped from the mines or the secret regions of the mountains. Their homes are hidden from mortal vision. When encountered, either in the mines or on the mountains, they have strayed from their special abodes, which are as spectral as themselves. There is at least one account extant of their secret territory having been revealed to mortal eyes. I find it in a quaint volume (of which I shall have more to say), printed at Newport, Monmouthshire, in 1813.[19] It relates that one William Evans, of Hafodafel, while crossing the Beacon Mountain very early in the morning, passed a fairy coal mine, where fairies were busily at work. Some were cutting the coal, some carrying it to fill the sacks, some raising the loads upon the horses' backs, and so on; but all in the completest silence. He thought this 'a wonderful extra natural thing,' and was considerably impressed by it, for well he knew that there really was no coal mine at that place. He was a person of 'undoubted veracity,' and what is more, 'a great man in the world--above telling an untruth.' That the Coblynau sometimes wandered far from home, the same chronicler testifies; but on these occasions they were taking a holiday. Egbert Williams, 'a pious young gentleman of Denbighshire, then at school,' was one day playing in a field called Cae Caled, in the parish of Bodfari, with three girls, one of whom was his sister. Near the stile beyond Lanelwyd House they saw a company of fifteen or sixteen coblynau engaged in dancing madly. They were in the middle of the field, about seventy yards from the spectators, and they danced something after the manner of Morris-dancers, but with a wildness and swiftness in their motions. They were clothed in red like British soldiers, and wore red handkerchiefs spotted with yellow wound round their heads. And a strange circumstance about them was that although they were almost as big as ordinary men, yet they had unmistakably the appearance of dwarfs, and one could call them nothing but dwarfs. Presently one of them left the company and ran towards the group near the stile, who were direfully scared thereby, and scrambled in great fright to go over the stile. Barbara Jones got over first, then her sister, and as Egbert Williams was helping his sister over they saw the coblyn close upon them, and barely got over when his hairy hand was laid on the stile. He stood leaning on it, gazing after them as they ran, with a grim copper-coloured countenance and a fierce look. The young people ran to Lanelwyd House and called the elders out, but though they hurried quickly to the field the dwarfs had already disappeared. FOOTNOTE: [19] 'A Relation of Apparitions of Spirits in the County of Monmouth and the Principality of Wales.' By Rev. Edmund Jones of the Tranch. (Newport, 1813.) X. The counterparts of the Coblynau are found in most mining countries. In Germany, the Wichtlein (little Wights) are little old long-bearded men, about three-quarters of an ell high, which haunt the mines of the southern land. The Bohemians call the Wichtlein by the name of Haus-schmiedlein, little House-smiths, from their sometimes making a noise as if labouring hard at the anvil. They are not so popular as in Wales, however, as they predict misfortune or death. They announce the doom of a miner by knocking three times distinctly, and when any lesser evil is about to befall him they are heard digging, pounding, and imitating other kinds of work. In Germany also the kobolds are rather troublesome than otherwise, to the miners, taking pleasure in frustrating their objects, and rendering their toil unfruitful. Sometimes they are downright malignant, especially if neglected or insulted, but sometimes also they are indulgent to individuals whom they take under their protection. 'When a miner therefore hit upon a rich vein of ore, the inference commonly was not that he possessed more skill, industry, or even luck than his fellow-workmen, but that the spirits of the mine had directed him to the treasure.'[20] The intimate connection between mine fairies and the whole race of dwarfs is constantly met throughout the fairy mythology; and the connection of the dwarfs with the mountains is equally universal. 'God,' says the preface to the Heldenbuch, 'gave the dwarfs being, because the land and the mountains were altogether waste and uncultivated, and there was much store of silver and gold and precious stones and pearls still in the mountains.' From the most ancient times, and in the oldest countries, down to our own time and the new world of America, the traditions are the same. The old Norse belief which made the dwarfs the current machinery of the northern Sagas is echoed in the Catskill Mountains with the rolling of the thunder among the crags where Hendrik Hudson's dwarfs are playing ninepins. FOOTNOTE: [20] Scott, 'Demonology and Witchcraft,' 121. XI. The Bwbach, or Boobach, is the good-natured goblin which does good turns for the tidy Welsh maid who wins its favour by a certain course of behaviour recommended by long tradition. The maid having swept the kitchen, makes a good fire the last thing at night, and having put the churn, filled with cream, on the whitened hearth, with a basin of fresh cream for the Bwbach on the hob, goes to bed to await the event. In the morning she finds (if she is in luck) that the Bwbach has emptied the basin of cream, and plied the churn-dasher so well that the maid has but to give a thump or two to bring the butter in a great lump. Like the Ellyll which it so much resembles, the Bwbach does not approve of dissenters and their ways, and especially strong is its aversion to total abstainers. There was a Bwbach belonging to a certain estate in Cardiganshire, which took great umbrage at a Baptist preacher who was a guest in the house, and who was much fonder of prayers than of good ale. Now the Bwbach had a weakness in favour of people who sat around the hearth with their mugs of cwrw da and their pipes, and it took to pestering the preacher. One night it jerked the stool from under the good man's elbows, as he knelt pouring forth prayer, so that he fell down flat on his face. Another time it interrupted the devotions by jangling the fire-irons on the hearth; and it was continually making the dogs fall a-howling during prayers, or frightening the farm-boy by grinning at him through the window, or throwing the maid into fits. At last it had the audacity to attack the preacher as he was crossing a field. The minister told the story in this wise: 'I was reading busily in my hymn-book as I walked on, when a sudden fear came over me and my legs began to tremble. A shadow crept upon me from behind, and when I turned round--it was myself!--my person, my dress, and even my hymn-book. I looked in its face a moment, and then fell insensible to the ground.' And there, insensible still, they found him. This encounter proved too much for the good man, who considered it a warning to him to leave those parts. He accordingly mounted his horse next day and rode away. A boy of the neighbourhood, whose veracity was, like that of all boys, unimpeachable, afterwards said that he saw the Bwbach jump up behind the preacher, on the horse's back. And the horse went like lightning, with eyes like balls of fire, and the preacher looking back over his shoulder at the Bwbach, that grinned from ear to ear. XII. The same confusion in outlines which exists regarding our own Bogie and Hobgoblin gives the Bwbach a double character, as a household fairy and as a terrifying phantom. In both aspects it is ludicrous, but in the latter it has dangerous practices. To get into its clutches under certain circumstances is no trifling matter, for it has the power of whisking people off through the air. Its services are brought into requisition for this purpose by troubled ghosts who cannot sleep on account of hidden treasure they want removed; and if they can succeed in getting a mortal to help them in removing the treasure, they employ the Bwbach to transport the mortal through the air. This ludicrous fairy is in France represented by the gobelin. Mothers threaten children with him. 'Le gobelin vous mangera, le gobelin vous emportera.'[21] In the English 'hobgoblin' we have a word apparently derived from the Welsh hob, to hop, and coblyn, a goblin, which presents a hopping goblin to the mind, and suggests the Pwca (with which the Bwbach is also confused in the popular fancy at times), but should mean in English simply the goblin of the hob, or household fairy. In its bugbear aspect, the Bwbach, like the English bogie, is believed to be identical with the Slavonic 'bog,' and the 'baga' of the Cuneiform Inscriptions, both of which are names for the Supreme Being, according to Professor Fiske. 'The ancestral form of these epithets' is found in 'the old Aryan "Bhaga," which reappears unchanged in the Sanskrit of the Vedas, and has left a memento of itself in the surname of the Phrygian Zeus "Bagaios." It seems originally to have denoted either the unclouded sun, or the sky of noonday illuminated by the solar rays.... Thus the same name which to the Vedic poet, to the Persian of the time of Xerxes, and to the modern Russian, suggests the supreme majesty of deity, is in English associated with an ugly and ludicrous fiend, closely akin to that grotesque Northern Devil of whom Southey was unable to think without laughing.'[22] FOOTNOTES: [21] Père l'Abbé, 'Etymologie,' i., 262. [22] Fiske, 'Myths and Myth-makers,' 105. CHAPTER III. Lake Fairies--The Gwragedd Annwn, or Dames of Elfin-Land--St. Patrick and the Welshmen; a Legend of Crumlyn Lake--The Elfin Cow of Llyn Barfog--Y Fuwch Laethwen Lefrith--The Legend of the Meddygon Myddfai--The Wife of Supernatural Race--The Three Blows; a Carmarthenshire Legend--Cheese and the Didactic Purpose in Welsh Folk-Lore--The Fairy Maiden's Papa--The Enchanted Isle in the Mountain Lake--Legend of the Men of Ardudwy--Origin of Water Fairies--Their prevalence in many Lands. I. The Gwragedd Annwn (literally, wives of the lower world, or hell) are the elfin dames who dwell under the water. I find no resemblance in the Welsh fairy to our familiar mermaid, beyond the watery abode, and the sometimes winning ways. The Gwragedd Annwn are not fishy of aspect, nor do they dwell in the sea. Their haunt is the lakes and rivers, but especially the wild and lonely lakes upon the mountain heights. These romantic sheets are surrounded with numberless superstitions, which will be further treated of. In the realm of faerie they serve as avenues of communication between this world and the lower one of annwn, the shadowy domain presided over by Gwyn ap Nudd, king of the fairies. This sub-aqueous realm is peopled by those children of mystery termed Plant Annwn, and the belief is current among the inhabitants of the Welsh mountains that the Gwragedd Annwn still occasionally visit this upper world of ours.[23] The only reference to Welsh mermaids I have either read or heard is contained in Drayton's account of the Battle of Agincourt. There it is mentioned, among the armorial ensigns of the counties of Wales: As Cardigan, the next to them that went, Came with a mermaid sitting on a rock.[24] FOOTNOTES: [23] 'Archæologia Cambrensis,' 2nd Se., iv., 253. [24] There is in 'Cymru Fu' a mermaid story, but its mermaid feature is apparently a modern embellishment of a real incident, and without value here. II. Crumlyn Lake, near the quaint village of Briton Ferry, is one of the many in Wales which are a resort of the elfin dames. It is also believed that a large town lies swallowed up there, and that the Gwragedd Annwn have turned the submerged walls to use as the superstructure of their fairy palaces. Some claim to have seen the towers of beautiful castles lifting their battlements beneath the surface of the dark waters, and fairy bells are at times heard ringing from these towers. The way the elfin dames first came to dwell there was this: A long, ay, a very long time ago, St. Patrick came over from Ireland on a visit to St. David of Wales, just to say 'Sut yr y'ch chwi?' (How d'ye do?); and as they were strolling by this lake conversing on religious topics in a friendly manner, some Welsh people who had ascertained that it was St. Patrick, and being angry at him for leaving Cambria for Erin, began to abuse him in the Welsh language, his native tongue. Of course such an insult could not go unpunished, and St. Patrick caused his villifiers to be transformed into fishes; but some of them being females, were converted into fairies instead. It is also related that the sun, on account of this insolence to so holy a man, never shed its life-giving rays upon the dark waters of this picturesque lake, except during one week of the year. This legend and these magical details are equally well accredited to various other lakes, among them Llyn Barfog, near Aberdovey, the town whose 'bells' are celebrated in immortal song. III. Llyn Barfog is the scene of the famous elfin cow's descent upon earth, from among the droves of the Gwragedd Annwn. This is the legend of the origin of the Welsh black cattle, as related to me in Carmarthenshire: In times of old there was a band of elfin ladies who used to haunt the neighbourhood of Llyn Barfog, a lake among the hills just back of Aberdovey. It was their habit to make their appearance at dusk clad all in green, accompanied by their milk-white hounds. Besides their hounds, the green ladies of Llyn Barfog were peculiar in the possession of droves of beautiful milk-white kine, called Gwartheg y Llyn, or kine of the lake. One day an old farmer, who lived near Dyssyrnant, had the good luck to catch one of these mystic cows, which had fallen in love with the cattle of his herd. From that day the farmer's fortune was made. Such calves, such milk, such butter and cheese, as came from the milk-white cow never had been seen in Wales before, nor ever will be seen again. The fame of the Fuwch Gyfeiliorn (which was what they called the cow) spread through the country round. The farmer, who had been poor, became rich; the owner of vast herds, like the patriarchs of old. But one day he took it into his silly noddle that the elfin cow was getting old, and that he had better fatten her for the market. His nefarious purpose thrived amazingly. Never, since beef steaks were invented, was seen such a fat cow as this cow grew to be. Killing day came, and the neighbours arrived from all about to witness the taking-off of this monstrously fat beast. The farmer had already counted up the gains from the sale of her, and the butcher had bared his red right arm. The cow was tethered, regardless of her mournful lowing and her pleading eyes; the butcher raised his bludgeon and struck fair and hard between the eyes--when lo! a shriek resounded through the air, awakening the echoes of the hills, as the butcher's bludgeon went through the goblin head of the elfin cow, and knocked over nine adjoining men, while the butcher himself went frantically whirling around trying to catch hold of something permanent. Then the astonished assemblage beheld a green lady standing on a crag high up over the lake, and crying with a loud voice: Dere di felen Einion, Cyrn Cyfeiliorn--braith y Llyn, A'r foel Dodin, Codwch, dewch adre. Come yellow Anvil, stray horns, Speckled one of the lake, And of the hornless Dodin, Arise, come home. Whereupon not only did the elfin cow arise and go home, but all her progeny to the third and fourth generations went home with her, disappearing in the air over the hill tops and returning nevermore. Only one cow remained of all the farmer's herds, and she had turned from milky white to raven black. Whereupon the farmer in despair drowned himself in the lake of the green ladies, and the black cow became the progenitor of the existing race of Welsh black cattle. This legend appears, in a slightly different form, in the 'Iolo MSS.,' as translated by Taliesin Williams, of Merthyr:[25] 'The milk-white milch cow gave enough of milk to every one who desired it; and however frequently milked, or by whatever number of persons, she was never found deficient. All persons who drank of her milk were healed of every illness; from fools they became wise; and from being wicked, became happy. This cow went round the world; and wherever she appeared, she filled with milk all the vessels that could be found, leaving calves behind her for all the wise and happy. It was from her that all the milch cows in the world were obtained. After traversing through the island of Britain, for the benefit and blessing of country and kindred, she reached the Vale of Towy; where, tempted by her fine appearance and superior condition, the natives sought to kill and eat her; but just as they were proceeding to effect their purpose, she vanished from between their hands, and was never seen again. A house still remains in the locality, called Y Fuwch Laethwen Lefrith (The Milk-white Milch Cow.)' FOOTNOTE: [25] Llandovery, published for the Welsh MSS. Society, 1848. IV. The legend of the Meddygon Myddfai again introduces the elfin cattle to our notice, but combines with them another and a very interesting form of this superstition, namely, that of the wife of supernatural race. A further feature gives it its name, Meddygon meaning physicians, and the legend professing to give the origin of certain doctors who were renowned in the thirteenth century. The legend relates that a farmer in the parish of Myddfai, Carmarthenshire, having bought some lambs in a neighbouring fair, led them to graze near Llyn y Fan Fach, on the Black Mountains. Whenever he visited these lambs three beautiful damsels appeared to him from the lake, on whose shores they often made excursions. Sometimes he pursued and tried to catch them, but always failed; the enchanting nymphs ran before him and on reaching the lake taunted him in these words: Cras dy fara, Anhawdd ein dala; which, if one must render it literally, means: Bake your bread, 'Twill be hard to catch us; but which, more poetically treated, might signify: Mortal, who eatest baken bread, Not for thee is the fairy's bed! One day some moist bread from the lake came floating ashore. The farmer seized it, and devoured it with avidity. The following day, to his great delight, he was successful in his chase, and caught the nymphs on the shore. After talking a long time with them, he mustered up the courage to propose marriage to one of them. She consented to accept him on condition that he would distinguish her from her sisters the next day. This was a new and great difficulty to the young farmer, for the damsels were so similar in form and features, that he could scarcely see any difference between them. He noted, however, a trifling singularity in the strapping of the chosen one's sandal, by which he recognized her on the following day. As good as her word, the gwraig immediately left the lake and went with him to his farm. Before she quitted the lake she summoned therefrom to attend her, seven cows, two oxen, and one bull. She stipulated that she should remain with the farmer only until such time as he should strike her thrice without cause. For some years they dwelt peaceably together, and she bore him three sons, who were the celebrated Meddygon Myddfai. One day, when preparing for a fair in the neighbourhood, the farmer desired her to go to the field for his horse. She said she would, but being rather dilatory, he said to her humorously 'Dôs, dôs, dôs,' i.e., 'Go, go, go,' and at the same time slightly tapped her arm three times with his glove.... The blows were slight--but they were blows. The terms of the marriage contract were broken, and the dame departed, summoning with her her seven cows, her two oxen, and the bull. The oxen were at that moment ploughing in the field, but they immediately obeyed her call and dragged the plough after them to the lake. The furrow, from the field in which they were ploughing to the margin of the lake, is still to be seen--in several parts of that country--at the present day. After her departure, the gwraig annwn once met her three sons in the valley now called Cwm Meddygon, and gave them a magic box containing remedies of wonderful power, through whose use they became celebrated. Their names were Cadogan, Gruffydd and Einion, and the farmer's name was Rhiwallon. Rhiwallon and his sons, named as above, were physicians to Rhys Gryg, Lord of Dynevor, and son of the last native prince of Wales. They lived about 1230, and dying, left behind them a compendium of their medical practice. 'A copy of their works is in the Welsh School Library in Gray's Inn Lane.'[26] FOOTNOTE: [26] 'Cambro-Briton,' ii., 315. V. In a more polished and elaborate form this legend omits the medical features altogether, but substitutes a number of details so peculiarly Welsh that I cannot refrain from presenting them. This version relates that the enamoured farmer had heard of the lake maiden, who rowed up and down the lake in a golden boat, with a golden oar. Her hair was long and yellow, and her face was pale and melancholy. In his desire to see this wondrous beauty, the farmer went on New Year's Eve to the edge of the lake, and in silence awaited the coming of the first hour of the new year. It came, and there in truth was the maiden in her golden boat, rowing softly to and fro. Fascinated, he stood for hours beholding her, until the stars faded out of the sky, the moon sank behind the rocks, and the cold gray dawn drew nigh; and then the lovely gwraig began to vanish from his sight. Wild with passion, and with the thought of losing her for ever, he cried aloud to the retreating vision, 'Stay! stay! Be my wife.' But the gwraig only uttered a faint cry, and was gone. Night after night the young farmer haunted the shores of the lake, but the gwraig returned no more. He became negligent of his person; his once robust form grew thin and wan; his face was a map of melancholy and despair. He went one day to consult a soothsayer who dwelt on the mountain, and this grave personage advised him to besiege the damsel's heart with gifts of bread and cheese. This counsel commending itself strongly to his Welsh way of thinking, the farmer set out upon an assiduous course of casting his bread upon the waters--accompanied by cheese. He began on Midsummer eve by going to the lake and dropping therein a large cheese and a loaf of bread. Night after night he continued to throw in loaves and cheeses, but nothing appeared in answer to his sacrifices. His hopes were set, however, on the approaching New Year's eve. The momentous night arrived at last. Clad in his best array, and armed with seven white loaves and his biggest and handsomest cheese, he set out once more for the lake. There he waited till midnight, and then slowly and solemnly dropped the seven loaves into the water, and with a sigh sent the cheese to keep them company. His persistence was at length rewarded. The magic skiff appeared; the fair gwraig guided it to where he stood; stepped ashore, and accepted him as her husband. The before-mentioned stipulation was made as to the blows; and she brought her dower of cattle. One day, after they had been four years married, they were invited to a christening. In the midst of the ceremony the gwraig burst into tears. Her husband gave her an angry look, and asked her why she thus made a fool of herself. She replied, 'The poor babe is entering a world of sin and sorrow; misery lies before it. Why should I rejoice?' He pushed her pettishly away. 'I warn you, husband,' said the gwraig; 'you have struck me once.' After a time they were bidden to the funeral of the child they had seen christened. Now the gwraig laughed, sang, and danced about. The husband's wrath again arose, and again he asked her why she thus made a fool of herself. She answered, 'The dear babe has escaped the misery that was before it, and gone to be good and happy for ever. Why should I grieve?' Again he pushed her from him, and again she warned him; he had struck her twice. Soon they were invited to a wedding; the bride was young and fair, the groom a tottering, toothless, decrepit old miser. In the midst of the wedding feast the gwraig annwn burst into tears, and to her husband's question why she thus made a fool of herself she replied, 'Truth is wedded to age for greed, and not for love--summer and winter cannot agree--it is the diawl's compact.' The angry husband thrust her from him for the third and last time. She looked at him with tender love and reproach, and said, 'The three blows are struck--husband, farewell!' He never saw her more, nor any of the flocks and herds she had brought him for her dowry. [Illustration: THE GWRAIG OF THE GOLDEN BOAT.] In its employment of the myth to preach a sermon, and in its introduction of cheese, this version of the legend is very Welsh indeed. The extent to which cheese figures in Cambrian folk-lore is surprising; cheese is encountered in every sort of fairy company; you actually meet cheese in the Mabinogion, along with the most romantic forms of beauty known in story. And herein again is illustrated Shakspeare's accurate knowledge of the Cambrian goblins. 'Heaven defend me from that Welsh fairy!' says Falstaff, 'lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!'[27] Bread is found figuring actively in the folk-lore of every country, especially as a sacrifice to water-gods; but cheese is, so far as I know, thus honoured only in Cambria. FOOTNOTE: [27] 'Merry Wives of Windsor,' Act V., Sc. 5. VI. Once more this legend appears, this time with a feature I have nowhere else encountered in fairy land, to wit, the father of a fairy damsel. The son of a farmer on Drws Coed farm was one foggy day looking after his father's sheep, when crossing a marshy meadow he beheld a little lady behind some rising ground. She had yellow hair, blue eyes and rosy cheeks. He approached her, and asked permission to converse; whereupon she smiled sweetly and said to him, 'Idol of my hopes, you have come at last!' They there and then began to 'keep company,' and met each other daily here and there along the farm meadows. His intentions were honourable; he desired her to marry him. He was sometimes absent for days together, no one knew where, and his friends whispered about that he had been witched. Around the Turf Lake (Llyn y Dywarchen) was a grove of trees, and under one of these one day the fairy promised to be his. The consent of her father was now necessary. One moonlight night an appointment was made to meet in this wood. The father and daughter did not appear till the moon had disappeared behind the hill. Then they both came. The fairy father immediately gave his consent to the marriage, on one condition, namely, that her future husband should never hit her with iron. 'If ever thou dost touch her flesh with iron she shall be no more thine, but she shall return to her own.' They were married--a good-looking pair. Large sums of money were brought by her, the night before the wedding, to Drws Coed. The shepherd lad became wealthy, had several handsome children, and they were very happy. After some years, they were one day out riding, when her horse sank in a deep mire, and by the assistance of her husband, in her hurry to remount, she was struck on her knee by the stirrup of the saddle. Immediately voices were heard singing on the brow of the hill, and she disappeared, leaving all her children behind. She and her mother devised a plan by which she could see her beloved, but as she was not allowed to walk the earth with man, they floated a large turf on the lake, and on this turf she stood for hours at a time holding converse with her husband. This continued until his death.[28] FOOTNOTE: [28] 'Cymru Fu,' 476. VII. The didactic purpose again appears in the following legend, which, varying but little in phraseology, is current in the neighbourhood of a dozen different mountain lakes: In other days, before the Cymry had become reconciled to their Saxon foe, on every New Year's morning a door was found open in a rock hard by the lake. Those mortals who had the curiosity and the resolution to enter this door were conducted by a secret passage to a small island in the middle of the lake. Here they found a most enchanting garden, stored with the choicest fruits and flowers, and inhabited by the Gwragedd Annwn, whose beauty could be equalled only by the courtesy and affability which they exhibited to those who pleased them. They gathered fruit and flowers for each of their guests, entertained them with the most exquisite music, disclosed to them many secrets of futurity, and invited them to stay as long as they liked. 'But,' said they, 'the island is secret, and nothing of its produce must be carried away.' The warning being heeded, all went well. But one day there appeared among the visitors a wicked Welshman, who, thinking to derive some magical aid therefrom, pocketed a flower with which he had been presented, and was about to leave the garden with his prize. But the theft boded him no good. As soon as he had touched unhallowed ground the flower vanished, and he lost his senses. However, of this abuse of their hospitality the Gwragedd Annwn took no notice at the time. They dismissed their guests with their accustomed courtesy, and the door was closed as usual. But their resentment was bitter; for though the fairies of the lake and their enchanted garden undoubtedly occupy the spot to this day, the door which led to the island has never been reopened. VIII. In all these legends the student of comparative folk-lore traces the ancient mythology, however overlain with later details. The water-maidens of every land doubtless originally were the floating clouds of the sky, or the mists of the mountain. From this have come certain fair and fanciful creations with which Indo-European folk-lore teems, the most familiar of which are Undine, Melusina, Nausicaa, and the classic Muse. In Wales, as in other lands, the myth has many forms. The dispersion of dark clouds from the mountains, by the beams of the rising sun, or the morning breezes, is localized in the legend of the Men of Ardudwy. These men make a raid on the maidens of the Vale of Clwyd, and are pursued and slaughtered by the latter's fathers and brothers. The maidens thereupon cast themselves headlong into the lake, which is thenceforth called the Maidens' Lake, or Llyn y Morwynion. In another legend, the river mist over the Cynwal is the spirit of a traitress who perished long ago in the lake. She had conspired with the sea-born pirates of the North (the ocean storms) to rob her Cambrian lord of his domains. She was defeated by the aid of a powerful enchanter (the sun), and fled up the river to the lake, accompanied by her maidens, who were drowned with her there.[29] FOOTNOTE: [29] 'Arch. Camb.,' 4th Se., vii., 251. IX. As the mermaid superstition is seemingly absent in Wales, so there are no fairy tales of maidens who lure mortals to their doom beneath the water, as the Dracæ did women and children, and as the Nymph of the Lurley did marriageable young men. But it is believed that there are several old Welsh families who are the descendants of the Gwragedd Annwn, as in the case of the Meddygon Myddfai. The familiar Welsh name of Morgan is sometimes thought to signify, 'Born of the Sea.' Certainly môr in Welsh means sea, and gân a birth. It is curious, too, that a mermaid is called in Basse Bretagne 'Mary Morgan.' But the class of stories in which a mortal marries a water-maiden is large, and while the local details smack of the soil, the general idea is so like in lands far remote from each other as to indicate a common origin in pre-historic times. In Wales, where the mountain lakes are numerous, gloomy, lonely, and yet lovely; where many of them, too, show traces of having been inhabited in ancient times by a race of lake-dwellers, whose pile-supported villages vanished ages ago; and where bread and cheese are as classic as beer and candles, these particulars are localized in the legend. In the Faro Islands, where the seal is a familiar yet ever-mysterious object, with its human-like eyes, and glossy skin, the wife of supernatural race is a transformed seal. She comes ashore every ninth night, sheds her skin, leaves it on the shore, and dances with her fairy companions. A mortal steals her sealskin dress, and when day breaks, and her companions return to their abode in the sea, compels her to remain and be his wife. Some day he offends her; she recovers her skin and plunges into the sea. In China, the superstition appears in a Lew-chewan legend mentioned by Dr. Dennys,[30] which relates how a fairy in the guise of a beautiful woman is found bathing in a man's well. He persuades her to marry him, and she remains with him for nine years, at the end of which time, despite the affection she has for their two children, she 'glides upwards into a cloud' and disappears. FOOTNOTE: [30] 'Folk-Lore of China,' 99. CHAPTER IV. Mountain Fairies--The Gwyllion--The Old Woman of the Mountain--The Black Mountain Gwyll--Exorcism by Knife--Occult Intellectual Powers of Welsh Goats--The Legend of Cadwaladr's Goat. I. The Gwyllion are female fairies of frightful characteristics, who haunt lonely roads in the Welsh mountains, and lead night-wanderers astray. They partake somewhat of the aspect of the Hecate of Greek mythology, who rode on the storm, and was a hag of horrid guise. The Welsh word gwyll is variously used to signify gloom, shade, duskiness, a hag, a witch, a fairy, and a goblin; but its special application is to these mountain fairies of gloomy and harmful habits, as distinct from the Ellyllon of the forest glades and dingles, which are more often beneficent. The Gwyllion take on a more distinct individuality under another name--as the Ellyllon do in mischievous Puck--and the Old Woman of the Mountain typifies all her kind. She is very carefully described by the Prophet Jones,[31] in the guise in which she haunted Llanhiddel Mountain in Monmouthshire. This was the semblance of a poor old woman, with an oblong four-cornered hat, ash-coloured clothes, her apron thrown across her shoulder, with a pot or wooden can in her hand, such as poor people carry to fetch milk with, always going before the spectator, and sometimes crying 'Wow up!' This is an English form of a Welsh cry of distress, 'Wwb!' or 'Ww-bwb!'[32] Those who saw this apparition, whether by night or on a misty day, would be sure to lose their way, though they might be perfectly familiar with the road. Sometimes they heard her cry, 'Wow up!' when they did not see her. Sometimes when they went out by night, to fetch coal, water, etc., the dwellers near that mountain would hear the cry very close to them, and immediately after they would hear it afar off, as if it were on the opposite mountain, in the parish of Aberystruth. The popular tradition in that district was that the Old Woman of the Mountain was the spirit of one Juan White, who lived time out of mind in those parts, and was thought to be a witch; because the mountains were not haunted in this manner until after Juan White's death.[33] When people first lost their way, and saw her before them, they used to hurry forward and try to catch her, supposing her to be a flesh-and-blood woman, who could set them right; but they never could overtake her, and she on her part never looked back; so that no man ever saw her face. She has also been seen in the Black Mountain in Breconshire. Robert Williams, of Langattock, Crickhowel, 'a substantial man and of undoubted veracity,' tells this tale: As he was travelling one night over part of the Black Mountain, he saw the Old Woman, and at the same time found he had lost his way. Not knowing her to be a spectre he hallooed to her to stay for him, but receiving no answer thought she was deaf. He then hastened his steps, thinking to overtake her, but the faster he ran the further he found himself behind her, at which he wondered very much, not knowing the reason of it. He presently found himself stumbling in a marsh, at which discovery his vexation increased; and then he heard the Old Woman laughing at him with a weird, uncanny, crackling old laugh. This set him to thinking she might be a gwyll; and when he happened to draw out his knife for some purpose, and the Old Woman vanished, then he was sure of it; for Welsh ghosts and fairies are afraid of a knife. FOOTNOTES: [31] See p. 104. [32] Pronounced Wooboob. [33] 'Juan (Shuï) White is an old acquaintance of my boyhood,' writes to me a friend who was born some thirty years ago in Monmouthshire. 'A ruined cottage on the Lasgarn hill near Pontypool was understood by us boys to have been her house, and there she appeared at 12 p.m., carrying her head under her arm.' II. Another account relates that John ap John, of Cwm Celyn, set out one morning before daybreak to walk to Caerleon Fair. As he ascended Milfre Mountain he heard a shouting behind him as if it were on Bryn Mawr, which is a part of the Black Mountain in Breconshire. Soon after he heard the shouting on his left hand, at Bwlch y Llwyn, nearer to him, whereupon he was seized with a great fright, and began to suspect it was no human voice. He had already been wondering, indeed, what any one could be doing at that hour in the morning, shouting on the mountain side. Still going on, he came up higher on the mountain, when he heard the shouting just before him, at Gilfach fields, to the right--and now he was sure it was the Old Woman of the Mountain, who purposed leading him astray. Presently he heard behind him the noise of a coach, and with it the special cry of the Old Woman of the Mountain, viz., 'Wow up!' Knowing very well that no coach could go that way, and still hearing its noise approaching nearer and nearer, he became thoroughly terrified, and running out of the road threw himself down upon the ground and buried his face in the heath, waiting for the phantom to pass. When it was gone out of hearing, he arose; and hearing the birds singing as the day began to break, also seeing some sheep before him, his fear went quite off. And this, says the Prophet Jones, was 'no profane, immoral man,' but 'an honest, peaceable, knowing man, and a very comely person' moreover. III. The exorcism by knife appears to be a Welsh notion; though there is an old superstition of wide prevalence in Europe that to give to or receive from a friend a knife or a pair of scissors cuts friendship. I have even encountered this superstition in America; once an editorial friend at Indianapolis gave me a very handsome pocket-knife, which he refused to part with except at the price of one cent, lawful coin of the realm, asserting that we should become enemies without this precaution. In China, too, special charms are associated with knives, and a knife which has slain a fellow-being is an invaluable possession. In Wales, according to Jones, the Gwyllion often came into the houses of the people at Aberystruth, especially in stormy weather, and the inmates made them welcome--not through any love they bore them, but through fear of the hurts the Gwyllion might inflict if offended--by providing clean water for them, and taking especial care that no knife, or other cutting tool, should be in the corner near the fire, where the fairies would go to sit. 'For want of which care many were hurt by them.' While it was desirable to exorcise them when in the open air, it was not deemed prudent to display an inhospitable spirit towards any member of the fairy world. The cases of successful exorcism by knife are many, and nothing in the realm of faerie is better authenticated. There was Evan Thomas, who, travelling by night over Bedwellty Mountain, towards the valley of Ebwy Fawr, where his house and estate were, saw the Gwyllion on each side of him, some of them dancing around him in fantastic fashion. He also heard the sound of a bugle-horn winding in the air, and there seemed to be invisible hunters riding by. He then began to be afraid, but recollected his having heard that any person seeing Gwyllion may drive them away by drawing out a knife. So he drew out his knife, and the fairies vanished directly. Now Evan Thomas was 'an old gentleman of such strict veracity that he' on one occasion 'did confess a truth against himself,' when he was 'like to suffer loss' thereby, and notwithstanding he 'was persuaded by some not to do it, yet he would persist in telling the truth, to his own hurt.' Should we find, in tracing these notions back to their source, that they are connected with Arthur's sword Excalibur? If so, there again we touch the primeval world. Jones says that the Old Woman of the Mountain has, since about 1800, (at least in South Wales,) been driven into close quarters by the light of the Gospel--in fact, that she now haunts mines--or in the preacher's formal words, 'the coal-pits and holes of the earth.' IV. Among the traditions of the origin of the Gwyllion is one which associates them with goats. Goats are in Wales held in peculiar esteem for their supposed occult intellectual powers. They are believed to be on very good terms with the Tylwyth Teg, and possessed of more knowledge than their appearance indicates. It is one of the peculiarities of the Tylwyth Teg that every Friday night they comb the goats' beards to make them decent for Sunday. Their association with the Gwyllion is related in the legend of Cadwaladr's goat: Cadwaladr owned a very handsome goat, named Jenny, of which he was extremely fond; and which seemed equally fond of him; but one day, as if the very diawl possessed her, she ran away into the hills, with Cadwaladr tearing after her, half mad with anger and affright. At last his Welsh blood got so hot, as the goat eluded him again and again, that he flung a stone at her, which knocked her over a precipice, and she fell bleating to her doom. Cadwaladr made his way to the foot of the crag; the goat was dying, but not dead, and licked his hand--which so affected the poor man that he burst into tears, and sitting on the ground took the goat's head on his arm. The moon rose, and still he sat there. Presently he found that the goat had become transformed to a beautiful young woman, whose brown eyes, as her head lay on his arm, looked into his in a very disturbing way. 'Ah, Cadwaladr,' said she, 'have I at last found you?' Now Cadwaladr had a wife at home, and was much discomfited by this singular circumstance; but when the goat--yn awr maiden--arose, and putting her black slipper on the end of a moonbeam, held out her hand to him, he put his hand in hers and went with her. As for the hand, though it looked so fair, it felt just like a hoof. They were soon on the top of the highest mountain in Wales, and surrounded by a vapoury company of goats with shadowy horns. These raised a most unearthly bleating about his ears. One, which seemed to be the king, had a voice that sounded above the din as the castle bells of Carmarthen used to do long ago above all the other bells in the town. This one rushed at Cadwaladr and butting him in the stomach sent him toppling over a crag as he had sent his poor nannygoat. When he came to himself, after his fall, the morning sun was shining on him and the birds were singing over his head. But he saw no more of either his goat or the fairy she had turned into, from that time to his death. CHAPTER V. Changelings--The Plentyn-newid--The Cruel Creed of Ignorance regarding Changelings--Modes of Ridding the House of the Fairy Child--The Legend of the Frugal Meal--Legend of the Place of Strife--Dewi Dal and the Fairies--Prevention of Fairy Kidnapping--Fairies caught in the Act by Mothers--Piety as an Exorcism. I. The Tylwyth Teg have a fatal admiration for lovely children. Hence the abundant folk-lore concerning infants who have been stolen from their cradles, and a plentyn-newid (change-child--the equivalent of our changeling) left in its place by the Tylwyth Teg. The plentyn-newid has the exact appearance of the stolen infant, at first; but its aspect speedily alters. It grows ugly of face, shrivelled of form, ill-tempered, wailing, and generally frightful. It bites and strikes, and becomes a terror to the poor mother. Sometimes it is idiotic; but again it has a supernatural cunning, not only impossible in a mortal babe, but not even appertaining to the oldest heads, on other than fairy shoulders. The veracious Prophet Jones testifies to a case where he himself saw the plentyn-newid--an idiot left in the stead of a son of Edmund John William, of the Church Valley, Monmouthshire. Says Jones: 'I saw him myself. There was something diabolical in his aspect,' but especially in his motions. He 'made very disagreeable screaming sounds,' which used to frighten strangers greatly, but otherwise he was harmless. He was of a 'dark, tawny complexion.' He lived longer than such children usually lived in Wales in that day, (a not altogether pleasant intimation regarding the hard lot to which such children were subjected by their unwilling parents,) reaching the age of ten or twelve years. But the creed of ignorance everywhere as regards changelings is a very cruel one, and reminds us of the tests of the witchcraft trials. Under the pretence of proving whether the objectionable baby is a changeling or not, it is held on a shovel over the fire, or it is bathed in a solution of the fox-glove, which kills it; a case where this test was applied is said to have actually occurred in Carnarvonshire in 1857. That there is nothing specially Welsh in this, needs not to be pointed out. Apart from the fact that infanticide, like murder, is of no country, similar practices as to changelings have prevailed in most European lands, either to test the child's uncanny quality, or, that being admitted, to drive it away and thus compel the fairies to restore the missing infant. In Denmark the mother heats the oven, and places the changeling on the peel, pretending to put it in; or whips it severely with a rod; or throws it into the water. In Sweden they employ similar methods. In Ireland the hot shovel is used. With regard to a changeling which Martin Luther tells of in his 'Colloquia Mensalia,' the great reformer declared to the Prince of Anhalt, that if he were prince of that country he would 'venture _homicidium_ thereon, and would throw it into the River Moldaw.' He admonished the people to pray devoutly to God to take away the devil, which 'was done accordingly; and the second year after the changeling died.' It is hardly probable that the child was very well fed during the two years that this pious process was going on. Its starved ravenous appetite indeed is indicated in Luther's description: It 'would eat as much as two threshers, would laugh and be joyful when any evil happened in the house, but would cry and be very sad when all went well.' II. A story, told in various forms in Wales, preserves a tradition of an exceedingly frugal meal which was employed as a means of banishing a plentyn-newid. M. Villemarqué, when in Glamorganshire, heard this story, which he found to be precisely the same as a Breton legend, in which the changeling utters a rhymed triad as follows: Gweliz vi ken guelet iar wenn, Gweliz mez ken gwelet gwezen. Gweliz mez ha gweliz gwial, Gweliz derven e Koat Brezal, Biskoaz na weliz kemend all. In the Glamorgan story the changeling was heard muttering to himself in a cracked voice: 'I have seen the acorn before I saw the oak: I have seen the egg before I saw the white hen: I have never seen the like of this.' M. Villemarqué found it remarkable that these words form in Welsh a rhymed triad nearly the same as in the Breton ballad, thus: Gweliz mez ken gwelet derven, Gweliz vi ken gwelet iar wenn, Erioez ne wiliz evelhenn.[34] Whence he concluded that the story and the rhyme are older than the seventh century, the epoch of the separation of the Britons of Wales and Armorica. And this is the story: A mother whose child had been stolen, and a changeling left in its place, was advised by the Virgin Mary to prepare a meal for ten farm-servants in an egg-shell, which would make the changeling speak. This she did, and the changeling asked what she was about. She told him. Whereupon he exclaimed, 'A meal for ten, dear mother, in one egg-shell?' Then he uttered the exclamation given above, ('I have seen the acorn,' etc.,) and the mother replied, 'You have seen too many things, my son, you shall have a beating.' With this she fell to beating him, the child fell to bawling, and the fairy came and took him away, leaving the stolen child sleeping sweetly in the cradle. It awoke and said, 'Ah, mother, I have been a long time asleep!' FOOTNOTE: [34] Keightley, 'Fairy Mythology,' 437. III. I have encountered this tale frequently among the Welsh, and it always keeps in the main the likeness of M. Villemarqué's story. The following is a nearly literal version as related in Radnorshire (an adjoining county to Montgomeryshire), and which, like most of these tales, is characterised by the non-primitive tendency to give names of localities: 'In the parish of Trefeglwys, near Llanidloes, in the county of Montgomery, there is a little shepherd's cot that is commonly called the Place of Strife, on account of the extraordinary strife that has been there. The inhabitants of the cottage were a man and his wife, and they had born to them twins, whom the woman nursed with great care and tenderness. Some months after, indispensable business called the wife to the house of one of her nearest neighbours, yet notwithstanding that she had not far to go, she did not like to leave her children by themselves in their cradle, even for a minute, as her house was solitary, and there were many tales of goblins, or the Tylwyth Teg, haunting the neighbourhood. However, she went and returned as soon as she could;' but on her way back she was 'not a little terrified at seeing, though it was midday, some of the old elves of the blue petticoat.' She hastened home in great apprehension; but all was as she had left it, so that her mind was greatly relieved. 'But after some time had passed by, the good people began to wonder that the twins did not grow at all, but still continued little dwarfs. The man would have it that they were not his children; the woman said they must be their children, and about this arose the great strife between them that gave name to the place. One evening when the woman was very heavy of heart, she determined to go and consult a conjuror, feeling assured that everything was known to him.... Now there was to be a harvest soon of the rye and oats, so the wise man said to her, "When you are preparing dinner for the reapers, empty the shell of a hen's egg, and boil the shell full of pottage, and take it out through the door as if you meant it for a dinner to the reapers, and then listen what the twins will say; if you hear the children speaking things above the understanding of children, return into the house, take them and throw them into the waves of Llyn Ebyr, which is very near to you; but if you don't hear anything remarkable do them no injury." And when the day of the reaping came, the woman did as her adviser had recommended to her; and as she went outside the door to listen she heard one of the children say to the other: Gwelais fesen cyn gweled derwen; Gwelais wy cyn gweled iâr; Erioed ni welais ferwi bwyd i fedel Mewn plisgyn wy iâr! Acorns before oak I knew; An egg before a hen; Never one hen's egg-shell stew Enough for harvest men! 'On this the mother returned to her house and took the two children and threw them into the Llyn; and suddenly the goblins in their blue trousers came to save their dwarfs, and the mother had her own children back again; and thus the strife between her and her husband ended.'[35] FOOTNOTE: [35] 'Cambrian Quarterly,' ii., 86. IV. This class of story is not always confined to the case of the plentyn-newid, as I have said. It is applied to the household fairy, when the latter, as in the following instance, appears to have brought a number of extremely noisy friends and acquaintances to share his shelter. Dewi Dal was a farmer, whose house was over-run with fairies, so that he could not sleep of nights for the noise they made. Dewi consulted a wise man of Taiar, who entrusted Dewi's wife to do certain things, which she did carefully, as follows: 'It was the commencement of oat harvest, when Cae Mawr, or the big field, which it took fifteen men to mow in a day, was ripe for the harvesters. "I will prepare food for the fifteen men who are going to mow Cae Mawr to-morrow," said Eurwallt, the wife, aloud. "Yes, do," replied Dewi, also aloud, so that the fairies might hear, "and see that the food is substantial and sufficient for the hard work before them." Said Eurwallt, "The fifteen men shall have no reason to complain upon that score. They shall be fed according to our means." Then when evening was come Eurwallt prepared food for the harvesters' sustenance upon the following day. Having procured a sparrow, she trussed it like a fowl, and roasted it by the kitchen fire. She then placed some salt in a nut-shell, and set the sparrow and the salt, with a small piece of bread, upon the table, ready for the fifteen men's support while mowing Cae Mawr. So when the fairies beheld the scanty provision made for so many men, they said "Let us quickly depart from this place, for alas! the means of our hosts are exhausted. Who before this was ever so reduced in circumstances as to serve up a sparrow for the day's food of fifteen men?" So they departed upon that very night. And Dewi Dal and his family lived, ever afterwards, in comfort and peace.'[36] FOOTNOTE: [36] Rev. T. R. Lloyd (Estyn), in 'The Principality.' V. The Welsh fairies have several times been detected in the act of carrying off a child; and in these cases, if the mother has been sufficiently energetic in her objections, they have been forced to abandon their purpose. Dazzy Walter, the wife of Abel Walter, of Ebwy Fawr, one night in her husband's absence awoke in her bed and found her baby was not at her side. In great fright she sought for it, and caught it with her hand upon the boards above the bed, which was as far as the fairies had succeeded in carrying it. And Jennet Francis, of that same valley of Ebwy Fawr, one night in bed felt her infant son being taken from her arms; whereupon she screamed and hung on, and, as she phrased it, 'God and me were too hard for them.' This son subsequently grew up and became a famous preacher of the gospel. [Illustration: JENNET FRANCIS STRUGGLES WITH THE FAIRIES FOR HER BABY.] There are special exorcisms and preventive measures to interfere with the fairies in their quest of infants. The most significant of these, throughout Cambria, is a general habit of piety. Any pious exclamation has value as an exorcism; but it will not serve as a preventive. To this end you must put a knife in the child's cradle when you leave it alone, or you must lay a pair of tongs across the cradle. But the best preventive is baptism; it is usually the unbaptised infant that is stolen. So in Friesland, Germany, it is considered a protection against the fairies who deal in changelings, to lay a Bible under the child's pillow. In Thuringia it is deemed an infallible preventive to hang the father's breeches against the wall. Anything more trivial than this, as a matter for the consideration of grave and scholarly men, one could hardly imagine; but it is in precisely these trivial or seemingly trivial details that the student of comparative folk-lore finds his most extraordinary indices. Such a superstition in isolation would suggest nothing; but it is found again in Scotland,[37] and other countries, including China, where 'a pair of the trousers of the child's father are put on the frame of the bedstead in such a way that the waist shall hang downward or be lower than the legs. On the trousers is stuck a piece of red paper, having four words written upon it intimating that all unfavourable influences are to go into the trousers instead of afflicting the babe.'[38] FOOTNOTES: [37] Henderson, 'Notes on the Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties,' 6. [38] See Doolittle's 'Social Life of the Chinese.' CHAPTER VI. Living with the Tylwyth Teg--The Tale of Elidurus--Shuï Rhys and the Fairies--St. Dogmell's Parish, Pembrokeshire--Dancing with the Ellyllon--The Legend of Rhys and Llewellyn--Death from joining in the Fairy Reel--Legend of the Bush of Heaven--The Forest of the Magic Yew--The Tale of Twm and Iago--Taffy ap Sion, a Legend of Pencader--The Traditions of Pant Shon Shenkin--Tudur of Llangollen; the Legend of Nant yr Ellyllon--Polly Williams and the Trefethin Elves--The Fairies of Frennifawr--Curiosity Tales--The Fiend Master--Iago ap Dewi--The Original of Rip van Winkle. I. Closely akin to the subject of changelings is that of adults or well-grown children being led away to live with the Tylwyth Teg. In this field the Welsh traditions are innumerable, and deal not only with the last century or two, but distinctly with the middle ages. Famed among British goblins are those fairies which are immortalised in the Tale of Elidurus. This tale was written in Latin by Giraldus Cambrensis (as he called himself, after the pedantic fashion of his day), a Welshman, born at Pembroke Castle, and a hearty admirer of everything Welsh, himself included. He was beyond doubt a man of genius, and of profound learning. In 1188 he made a tour through Wales, in the interest of the crusade then in contemplation, and afterwards wrote his book--a fascinating picture of manners and customs in Wales in the twelfth century. The scene of the tale is that Vale of Neath, already named as a famous centre of fairyland. Elidurus, when a youth of twelve years, 'in order to avoid the severity of his preceptor,' ran away from school, 'and concealed himself under the hollow bank of a river.' After he had fasted in that situation for two days, 'two little men of pigmy stature appeared to him,' and said, 'If you will go with us, we will lead you into a country full of delights and sports.' Assenting, Elidurus rose up and 'followed his guides through a path at first subterraneous and dark, into a most beautiful country, but obscure and not illuminated with the full light of the sun.' All the days in that country 'were cloudy, and the nights extremely dark.' The boy was brought before the king of the strange little people, and introduced to him in the presence of his Court. Having examined Elidurus for a long time, the king delivered him to his son, that prince being then a boy. The men of this country, though of the smallest stature, were very well proportioned, fair-complexioned, and wore long hair. 'They had horses and greyhounds adapted to their size. They neither ate flesh nor fish, but lived on milk-diet, made up into messes with saffron. As often as they returned from our hemisphere, they reprobated our ambition, infidelities, and inconstancies; and though they had no form of public worship, were, it seems, strict lovers and reverers of truth. The boy frequently returned to our hemisphere, sometimes by the way he had gone, sometimes by others; at first in company, and afterwards alone; and made himself known only to his mother, to whom he described what he had seen. Being desired by her to bring her a present of gold, with which that country abounded, he stole, whilst at play with the king's son, a golden ball with which he used to divert himself, and brought it in haste to his mother, but not unpursued; for, as he entered the house of his father, he stumbled at the threshold;' the ball fell, 'and two pigmies seizing it, departed, showing the boy every mark of contempt and derision. Notwithstanding every attempt for the space of a year, he never again could find the track to the subterraneous passage.' He had made himself acquainted with the language of his late hosts, 'which was very conformable to the Greek idiom. When they asked for water, they said _Udor udorum_; when they want salt, they say _Halgein udorum_.'[39] FOOTNOTE: [39] See Sir R. C. Hoare's Translation of Giraldus. II. Exactly similar to this medieval legend in spirit, although differing widely in detail, is the modern story of Shuï Rhys, told to me by a peasant in Cardiganshire. Shuï was a beautiful girl of seventeen, tall and fair, with a skin like ivory, hair black and curling, and eyes of dark velvet. She was but a poor farmer's daughter, notwithstanding her beauty, and among her duties was that of driving up the cows for the milking. Over this work she used to loiter sadly, to pick flowers by the way, or chase the butterflies, or amuse herself in any agreeable manner that fortune offered. For her loitering she was often chided; indeed, people said Shuï's mother was far too sharp with the girl, and that it was for no good the mother had so bitter a tongue. After all the girl meant no harm, they said. But when one night Shuï never came home till bed-time, leaving the cows to care for themselves, dame Rhys took the girl to task as she never had done before. 'Ysgwaetheroedd, mami,' said Shuï, 'I couldn't help it; it was the Tylwyth Teg.' The dame was aghast at this, but she could not answer it--for well she knew the Tylwyth Teg were often seen in the woods of Cardigan. Shuï was at first shy about talking of the fairies, but finally confessed they were little men in green coats, who danced around her and made music on their tiny harps; and they talked to her in language too beautiful to be repeated; indeed she couldn't understand the words, though she knew well enough what the fairies meant. Many a time after that Shuï was late; but now nobody chided her, for fear of offending the fairies. At last one night Shuï did not come home at all. In alarm the woods were searched; there was no sign of her; and never was she seen in Cardigan again. Her mother watched in the fields on the Teir-nos Ysprydion, or three nights of the year when goblins are sure to be abroad; but Shuï never returned. Once indeed there came back to the neighbourhood a wild rumour that Shuï Rhys had been seen in a great city in a foreign land--Paris, perhaps, or London, who knows? but this tale was in no way injurious to the sad belief that the fairies had carried her off; they might take her to those well-known centres of idle and sinful pleasure, as well as to any other place. [Illustration: SHUÏ RHYS AND THE TYLWYTH TEG.] III. An old man who died in St. Dogmell's parish, Pembrokeshire, a short time since (viz., in 1860), nearly a hundred years old, used to say that that whole neighbourhood was considered 'fou.' It was a common experience for men to be led astray there all night, and after marvellous adventures and untellable trampings, which seemed as if they would be endless, to find when day broke that they were close to their own homes. In one case, a man who was led astray chanced to have with him a number of hoop-rods, and as he wandered about under the influence of the deluding phantom, he was clever enough to drop the rods one by one, so that next day he might trace his journeyings. When daylight came, and the search for the hoop-rods was entered on, it was found they were scattered over miles upon miles of country. Another time, a St. Dogmell's fisherman was returning home from a wedding at Moelgrove, and it being very dark, the fairies led him astray, but after a few hours he had the good luck (which Sir John Franklin might have envied him) to 'discover the North Pole,' and by this beacon he was able to steer his staggering barque to the safe port of his own threshold. It is even gravely stated that a severe and dignified clerical person, no longer in the frisky time of life, but advanced in years, was one night forced to join in the magic dance of St. Dogmell's, and keep it up till nearly daybreak. Specific details in this instance are wanting; but it was no doubt the Ellyllon who led all these folk astray, and put a cap of oblivion on their heads, which prevented them from ever telling their adventures clearly. IV. Dancing and music play a highly important part in stories of this class. The Welsh fairies are most often dancing together when seen. They seek to entice mortals to dance with them, and when anyone is drawn to do so, it is more than probable he will not return to his friends for a long time. Edmund William Rees, of Aberystruth, was thus drawn away by the fairies, and came back at the year's end, looking very bad. But he could not give a very clear account of what he had been about, only said he had been dancing. This was a common thing in these cases. Either they were not able to, or they dared not, talk about their experiences. Two farm servants named Rhys and Llewellyn were one evening at twilight returning home from their work, when Rhys cried out that he heard the fairy music. Llewellyn could hear nothing, but Rhys said it was a tune to which he had danced a hundred times, and would again, and at once. 'Go on,' says he, 'and I'll soon catch you up again.' Llewellyn objected, but Rhys stopped to hear no more; he bounded away and left Llewellyn to go home alone, which he did, believing Rhys had merely gone off on a spree, and would come home drunk before morning. But the morning came, and no Rhys. In vain search was made, still no Rhys. Time passed on; days grew into months; and at last suspicion fell on Llewellyn, that he had murdered Rhys. He was put in prison. A farmer learned in fairy-lore, suspecting how it was, proposed that he and a company of neighbours should go with poor Llewellyn to the spot where he had last seen Rhys. Agreed. Arrived at the spot, 'Hush,' cried Llewellyn, 'I hear music! I hear the sweet music of the harps!' They all listened, but could hear nothing. 'Put your foot on mine, David,' says Llewellyn to one of the company; his own foot was on the outward edge of a fairy ring as he spoke. David put his foot on Llewellyn's, and so did they all, one after another; and then they heard the sound of many harps, and saw within a circle about twenty feet across, great numbers of little people dancing round and round. And there was Rhys, dancing away like a madman! As he came whirling by, Llewellyn caught him by his smock-frock and pulled him out of the circle. 'Where are the horses? where are the horses?' cried Rhys in an excited manner. 'Horses, indeed!' sneered Llewellyn, in great disgust; 'wfft! go home. Horses!' But Rhys was for dancing longer, declaring he had not been there five minutes. 'You've been there,' says Llewellyn, 'long enough to come near getting me hanged, anyhow.' They got him home finally, but he was never the same man again, and soon after he died. V. In the great majority of these stories the hero dies immediately after his release from the thraldom of the fairies--in some cases with a suddenness and a completeness of obliteration as appalling as dramatic. The following story, well known in Carmarthenshire, presents this detail with much force: There was a certain farmer who, while going early one morning to fetch his horses from the pasture, heard harps playing. Looking carefully about for the source of this music, he presently saw a company of Tylwyth Teg footing it merrily in a corelw. Resolving to join their dance and cultivate their acquaintance, the farmer stepped into the fairy ring. Never had man his resolution more thoroughly carried out, for having once begun the reel he was not allowed to finish it till years had elapsed. Even then he might not have been released, had it not chanced that a man one day passed by the lonely spot, so close to the ring that he saw the farmer dancing. 'Duw catto ni!' cried the man, 'God save us! but this is a merry one. Hai, holo! man, what, in Heaven's name, makes you so lively?' This question, in which the name of Heaven was uttered, broke the spell which rested on the farmer, who spoke like one in a dream: 'O dyn!' cried he, 'what's become of the horses?' Then he stepped from the fairy circle and instantly crumbled away and mingled his dust with the earth. A similar tale is told in Carnarvon, but with the fairy dance omitted and a pious character substituted, which helps to indicate the antiquity of this class of legend, by showing that it was one of the monkish adoptions of an earlier story. Near Clynog, in Carnarvonshire, there is a place called Llwyn y Nef, (the Bush of Heaven,) which thus received its name: In Clynog lived a monk of most devout life, who longed to be taken to heaven. One evening, whilst walking without the monastery by the riverside, he sat down under a green tree and fell into a deep reverie, which ended in sleep; and he slept for thousands of years. At last he heard a voice calling unto him, 'Sleeper, awake and be up.' He awoke. All was strange to him except the old monastery, which still looked down upon the river. He went to the monastery, and was made much of. He asked for a bed to rest himself on and got it. Next morning when the brethren sought him, they found nothing in the bed but a handful of ashes.[40] So in the monkish tale of the five saints, who sleep in the cave of Caio, reappears the legend of Arthur's sleeping warriors under Craig-y-Ddinas. FOOTNOTE: [40] 'Cymru Fu,' 188. VI. [Illustration: PLUCKED FROM THE FAIRY CIRCLE.] A tradition is current in Mathavarn, in the parish of Llanwrin, and the Cantref of Cyfeillioc, concerning a certain wood called Ffridd yr Ywen, (the Forest of the Yew,) that it is so called on account of a magical yew-tree which grows exactly in the middle of the forest. Under that tree there is a fairy circle called The Dancing Place of the Goblin. There are several fairy circles in the Forest of the Yew, but the one under the yew-tree in the middle has this legend connected with it: Many years ago, two farm-servants, whose names were Twm and Iago, went out one day to work in the Forest of the Yew. Early in the afternoon the country became covered with so dense a mist that the youths thought the sun was setting, and they prepared to go home; but when they came to the yew-tree in the middle of the forest, suddenly they found all light around them. They now thought it too early to go home, and concluded to lie down under the yew-tree and have a nap. By-and-by Twm awoke, to find his companion gone. He was much surprised at this, but concluded Iago had gone to the village on an errand of which they had been speaking before they fell asleep. So Twm went home, and to all inquiries concerning Iago, he answered, 'Gone to the cobbler's in the village.' But Iago was still absent next morning, and now Twm was cross-questioned severely as to what had become of his fellow-servant. Then he confessed that they had fallen asleep under the yew where the fairy circle was, and from that moment he had seen nothing more of Iago. They searched the whole forest over, and the whole country round, for many days, and finally Twm went to a gwr cyfarwydd (or conjuror), a common trade in those days, says the legend. The conjuror gave him this advice: 'Go to the same place where you and the lad slept. Go there exactly a year after the boy was lost. Let it be on the same day of the year and at the same time of the day; but take care that you do not step inside the fairy ring. Stand on the border of the green circle you saw there, and the boy will come out with many of the goblins to dance. When you see him so near to you that you may take hold of him, snatch him out of the ring as quickly as you can.' These instructions were obeyed. Iago appeared, dancing in the ring with the Tylwyth Teg, and was promptly plucked forth. 'Duw! Duw!' cried Tom, 'how wan and pale you look! And don't you feel hungry too?' 'No,' said the boy, 'and if I did, have I not here in my wallet the remains of my dinner that I had before I fell asleep?' But when he looked in his wallet, the food was not there. 'Well, it must be time to go home,' he said, with a sigh; for he did not know that a year had passed by. His look was like a skeleton, and as soon as he had tasted food, he mouldered away. VII. Taffy ap Sion, the shoemaker's son, living near Pencader, Carmarthenshire, was a lad who many years ago entered the fairy circle on the mountain hard by there, and having danced a few minutes, as he supposed, chanced to step out. He was then astonished to find that the scene which had been so familiar was now quite strange to him. Here were roads and houses he had never seen, and in place of his father's humble cottage there now stood a fine stone farm-house. About him were lovely cultivated fields instead of the barren mountain he was accustomed to. 'Ah,' thought he, 'this is some fairy trick to deceive my eyes. It is not ten minutes since I stepped into that circle, and now when I step out they have built my father a new house! Well, I only hope it is real; anyhow, I'll go and see.' So he started off by a path he knew instinctively, and suddenly struck against a very solid hedge. He rubbed his eyes, felt the hedge with his fingers, scratched his head, felt the hedge again, ran a thorn into his fingers and cried out, 'Wbwb! this is no fairy hedge anyhow, nor, from the age of the thorns, was it grown in a few minutes' time.' So he climbed over it and walked on. 'Here was I born,' said he, as he entered the farmyard, staring wildly about him, 'and not a thing here do I know!' His mystification was complete when there came bounding towards him a huge dog, barking furiously. 'What dog is this? Get out, you ugly brute! Don't you know I'm master here?--at least, when mother's from home, for father don't count.' But the dog only barked the harder. 'Surely,' muttered Taffy to himself, 'I have lost my road and am wandering through some unknown neighbourhood; but no, yonder is the Careg Hir!' and he stood staring at the well-known erect stone thus called, which still stands on the mountain south of Pencader, and is supposed to have been placed there in ancient times to commemorate a victory. As Taffy stood thus looking at the Long Stone, he heard footsteps behind him, and turning, beheld the occupant of the farm-house, who had come out to see why his dog was barking. Poor Taffy was so ragged and wan that the farmer's Welsh heart was at once stirred to sympathy. 'Who are you, poor man?' he asked. To which Taffy answered, 'I know who I was, but I do not know who I _am now_. I was the son of a shoemaker who lived in this place, this morning; for that rock, though it is changed a little, I know too well.' 'Poor fellow,' said the farmer, 'you have lost your senses. This house was built by my great-grandfather, repaired by my grandfather; and that part there, which seems newly built, was done about three years ago at my expense. You must be deranged, or have missed the road; but come in and refresh yourself with some victuals, and rest.' Taffy was half persuaded that he had overslept himself and lost his road, but looking back he saw the rock before mentioned, and exclaimed, 'It is but an hour since I was on yonder rock robbing a hawk's nest.' 'Where have you been since?' Taffy related his adventure. 'Ah,' quoth the farmer, 'I see how it is--you have been with the fairies. Pray, who was your father?' 'Sion Evan y Crydd o Glanrhyd,' was the answer. 'I never heard of such a man,' said the farmer, shaking his head, 'nor of such a place as Glanrhyd, either: but no matter, after you have taken a little food we will step down to Catti Shon, at Pencader, who will probably be able to tell us something.' With this he beckoned Taffy to follow him, and walked on; but hearing behind him the sound of footsteps growing weaker and weaker, he turned round, when to his horror he beheld the poor fellow crumble in an instant to about a thimbleful of black ashes. The farmer, though much terrified at this sight, preserved his calmness sufficiently to go at once and see old Catti, the aged crone he had referred to, who lived at Pencader, near by. He found her crouching over a fire of faggots, trying to warm her old bones. 'And how do you do the day, Catti Shon?' asked the farmer. 'Ah,' said old Catti, 'I'm wonderful well, farmer, considering how old I am.' 'Yes, yes, you're very old. Now, since you are so old, let me ask you--do you remember anything about Sion y Crydd o Glanrhyd? Was there ever such a man, do you know?' 'Sion Glanrhyd? O! I have some faint recollection of hearing my grandfather, old Evan Shenkin, Penferdir, relate that Sion's son was lost one morning, and they never heard of him afterwards, so that it was said he was taken by the fairies. His father's cot stood somewhere near your house.' 'Were there many fairies about at that time?' asked the farmer. 'O yes; they were often seen on yonder hill, and I was told they were lately seen in Pant Shon Shenkin, eating flummery out of egg-shells, which they had stolen from a farm hard by.' 'Dir anwyl fi!' cried the farmer; 'dear me! I recollect now--I saw them myself!' Pant Shon[41] Shenkin, it must be here remarked, was a famous place for the Carmarthenshire fairies. The traditions thereabout respecting them are numerous. Among the strangest is, that a woman once actually caught a fairy on the mountain near Pant Shon Shenkin, and that it remained long in her custody, retaining still the same height and size, but at last made its escape. Another curious tradition relates that early one Easter Monday, when the parishioners of Pencarreg and Caio were met to play at football, they saw a numerous company of Tylwyth Teg dancing. Being so many in number, the young men were not intimidated at all, but proceeded in a body towards the puny tribe, who, perceiving them, removed to another place. The young men followed, whereupon the little folks suddenly appeared dancing at the first place. Seeing this, the men divided and surrounded them, when they immediately became invisible, and were never more seen there. FOOTNOTE: [41] Sion and Shon are the same word, just as are our Smith and Smyth. Where there are so few personal names as in Wales, while I would not myself change a single letter in order to render the actors in a tale more distinct, it is perhaps as well to encourage any eccentricities of spelling which we are so lucky as to find on the spot. VIII. Ignorance of what transpired in the fairy circle is not an invariable feature of legends like those we have been observing. In the story of Tudur of Llangollen, preserved by several old Welsh writers, the hero's experiences are given with much liveliness of detail. The scene of this tale is a hollow near Llangollen, on the mountain side half-way up to the ruins of Dinas Bran Castle, which hollow is to this day called Nant yr Ellyllon. It obtained its name, according to tradition, in this wise: A young man, called Tudur ap Einion Gloff, used in old times to pasture his master's sheep in that hollow. One summer's night, when Tudur was preparing to return to the lowlands with his woolly charge, there suddenly appeared, perched upon a stone near him, 'a little man in moss breeches with a fiddle under his arm. He was the tiniest wee specimen of humanity imaginable. His coat was made of birch leaves, and he wore upon his head a helmet which consisted of a gorse flower, while his feet were encased in pumps made of beetle's wings. He ran his fingers over his instrument, and the music made Tudur's hair stand on end. "Nos da'ch', nos da'ch'," said the little man, which means "Good-night, good-night to you," in English. "Ac i chwithau," replied Tudur; which again, in English, means "The same to you." Then continued the little man, "You are fond of dancing, Tudur; and if you but tarry awhile you shall behold some of the best dancers in Wales, and I am the musician." Quoth Tudur, "Then where is your harp? A Welshman even cannot dance without a harp." "Oh," said the little man, "I can discourse better dance music upon my fiddle." "Is it a fiddle you call that stringed wooden spoon in your hand?" asked Tudur, for he had never seen such an instrument before. And now Tudur beheld through the dusk hundreds of pretty little sprites converging towards the spot where they stood, from all parts of the mountain. Some were dressed in white, and some in blue, and some in pink, and some carried glow-worms in their hands for torches. And so lightly did they tread that not a blade nor a flower was crushed beneath their weight, and every one made a curtsey or a bow to Tudur as they passed, and Tudur doffed his cap and moved to them in return. Presently the little minstrel drew his bow across the strings of his instrument, and the music produced was so enchanting that Tudur stood transfixed to the spot.' At the sound of the sweet melody, the Tylwyth Teg ranged themselves in groups, and began to dance. Now of all the dancing Tudur had ever seen, none was to be compared to that he saw at this moment going on. He could not help keeping time with his hands and feet to the merry music, but he dared not join in the dance, 'for he thought within himself that to dance on a mountain at night in strange company, to perhaps the devil's fiddle, might not be the most direct route to heaven.' But at last he found there was no resisting this bewitching strain, joined to the sight of the capering Ellyllon. '"Now for it, then," screamed Tudur, as he pitched his cap into the air under the excitement of delight. "Play away, old devil; brimstone and water, if you like!" No sooner were the words uttered than everything underwent a change. The gorse-blossom cap vanished from the minstrel's head, and a pair of goat's horns branched out instead. His face turned as black as soot; a long tail grew out of his leafy coat, while cloven feet replaced the beetle-wing pumps. Tudur's heart was heavy, but his heels were light. Horror was in his bosom, but the impetus of motion was in his feet. The fairies changed into a variety of forms. Some became goats, and some became dogs, some assumed the shape of foxes, and others that of cats. It was the strangest crew that ever surrounded a human being. The dance became at last so furious that Tudur could not distinctly make out the forms of the dancers. They reeled around him with such rapidity that they almost resembled a wheel of fire. Still Tudur danced on. He could not stop, the devil's fiddle was too much for him, as the figure with the goat's horns kept pouring it out with unceasing vigour, and Tudur kept reeling around in spite of himself. Next day Tudur's master ascended the mountain in search of the lost shepherd and his sheep. He found the sheep all right at the foot of the Fron, but fancy his astonishment when, ascending higher, he saw Tudur spinning like mad in the middle of the basin now known as Nant yr Ellyllon.' Some pious words of the master broke the charm, and restored Tudur to his home in Llangollen, where he told his adventures with great gusto for many years afterwards.[42] FOOTNOTE: [42] Rev. T. R. Lloyd (Estyn), in 'The Principality.' IX. Polly Williams, a good dame who was born in Trefethin parish, and lived at the Ship Inn, at Pontypool, Monmouthshire, was wont to relate that, when a child, she danced with the Tylwyth Teg. The first time was one day while coming home from school. She saw the fairies dancing in a pleasant, dry place, under a crab-tree, and, thinking they were children like herself, went to them, when they induced her to dance with them. She brought them into an empty barn and they danced there together. After that, during three or four years, she often met and danced with them, when going to or coming from school. She never could hear the sound of their feet, and having come to know that they were fairies, took off her ffollachau (clogs), so that she, too, might make no noise, fearful that the clattering of her clog-shodden feet was displeasing to them. They were all dressed in blue and green aprons, and, though they were so small, she could see by their mature faces that they were no children. Once when she came home barefoot, after dancing with the fairies, she was chided for going to school in that condition; but she held her tongue about the fairies, for fear of trouble, and never told of them till after she grew up. She gave over going with them to dance, however, after three or four years, and this displeased them. They tried to coax her back to them, and, as she would not come, hurt her by dislocating 'one of her walking members,'[43] which, as a euphemism for legs, surpasses anything charged against American prudery. FOOTNOTE: [43] Jones, 'Apparitions.' X. Contrasting strongly with this matter-of-fact account of a modern witness is the glowing description of fairy life contained in the legend of the Fairies of Frennifawr. About ten miles south of Cardigan is the Pembrokeshire mountain called Frennifawr, which is the scene of this tale: A shepherd's lad was tending his sheep on the small mountains called Frennifach one fine morning in June. Looking to the top of Frennifawr to note what way the fog hung--for if the fog on that mountain hangs on the Pembrokeshire side, there will be fair weather, if on the Cardigan side, storm--he saw the Tylwyth Teg, in appearance like tiny soldiers, dancing in a ring. He set out for the scene of revelry, and soon drew near the ring where, in a gay company of males and females, they were footing it to the music of the harp. Never had he seen such handsome people, nor any so enchantingly cheerful. They beckoned him with laughing faces to join them as they leaned backward almost falling, whirling round and round with joined hands. Those who were dancing never swerved from the perfect circle; but some were clambering over the old cromlech, and others chasing each other with surprising swiftness and the greatest glee. Still others rode about on small white horses of the most beautiful form; these riders were little ladies, and their dresses were indescribably elegant, surpassing the sun in radiance, and varied in colour, some being of bright whiteness, others the most vivid scarlet. The males wore red tripled caps, and the ladies a light fantastic headdress which waved in the wind. All this was in silence, for the shepherd could not hear the harps, though he saw them. But now he drew nearer to the circle, and finally ventured to put his foot in the magic ring. The instant he did this, his ears were charmed with strains of the most melodious music he had ever heard. Moved with the transports this seductive harmony produced in him, he stepped fully into the ring. He was no sooner in than he found himself in a palace glittering with gold and pearls. Every form of beauty surrounded him, and every variety of pleasure was offered him. He was made free to range whither he would, and his every movement was waited on by young women of the most matchless loveliness. And no tongue can tell the joys of feasting that were his! Instead of the tatws-a-llaeth (potatoes and buttermilk) to which he had hitherto been accustomed, here were birds and meats of every choice description, served on plates of silver. Instead of home-brewed cwrw, the only bacchic beverage he had ever tasted in real life, here were red and yellow wines of wondrous enjoyableness, brought in golden goblets richly inlaid with gems. The waiters were the most beautiful virgins, and everything was in abundance. There was but one restriction on his freedom: he must not drink, on any consideration, from a certain well in the garden, in which swam fishes of every colour, including the colour of gold. Each day new joys were provided for his amusement, new scenes of beauty were unfolded to him, new faces presented themselves, more lovely if possible than those he had before encountered. Everything was done to charm him; but one day all his happiness fled in an instant. Possessing every joy that mortal could desire, he wanted the one thing forbidden--like Eve in the garden, like Fatima in the castle; curiosity undid him. He plunged his hand into the well: the fishes all disappeared instantly. He put the water to his mouth: a confused shriek ran through the garden. He drank: the palace and all vanished from his sight, and he stood shivering in the night air, alone on the mountain, in the very place where he had first entered the ring.[44] [Illustration: THE FATAL DRAUGHT.] FOOTNOTE: [44] 'Cambrian Superstitions,' 148. (This is a small collection of Welsh stories printed at Tipton in 1831, and now rare; its author was W. Howells, a lad of nineteen, and his work was drawn out by a small prize offered by Archdeacon Beynon through a Carmarthen newspaper in 1830. Its English requires rehandling, but its material is of value.) XI. Comment on the resemblances borne by these tales to the more famous legends of other lands, is perhaps unnecessary; they will occur to every reader who is at all familiar with the subject of folk-lore. To those who are not, it is sufficient to say that these resemblances exist, and afford still further testimony to the common origin of such tales in a remote past. The legend last given embodies the curiosity feature which is familiar through the story of Bluebeard, but has its root in the story of Psyche. She was forbidden to look upon her husband Eros, the god of love; she disobeyed the injunction, and the beautiful palace in which she had dwelt with him vanished in an instant, leaving her alone in a desolate spot. Ages older than the Psyche story, however, is the legend embodying the original Aryan myth. The drop of oil which falls upon the shoulder of the sleeping prince and wakes him, revealing Psyche's curiosity and destroying her happiness, is paralleled among the Welsh by the magic ointment in the legend of the Fiend Master. This legend, it may be premised, is also familiar to both France and Germany, where its details differ but little from those here given: A respectable young Welshwoman of the working class, who lived with her parents, went one day to a hiring fair. Here she 'was addressed by a very noble-looking gentleman all in black, who asked her if she would be a nursemaid, and undertake the management of his children. She replied that she had no objection; when he promised her immense wages, and said he would take her home behind him, but that she must, before they started, consent to be blindfolded. This done, she mounted behind him on a coal-black steed, and away they rode at a great rate. At length they dismounted, when her new master took her by the hand and led her on, still blindfolded, for a considerable distance. The handkerchief was then removed, when she beheld more grandeur than she had ever seen before; a beautiful palace lighted up by more lights than she could count, and a number of little children as beautiful as angels; also many noble-looking ladies and gentlemen. The children her master put under her charge, and gave her a box containing ointment, which she was to put on their eyes. At the same time he gave her strict orders always to wash her hands immediately after using the ointment, and be particularly careful never to let a bit of it touch her own eyes. These injunctions she strictly followed, and was for some time very happy; yet she sometimes thought it odd that they should always live by candle-light; and she wondered, too, that grand and beautiful as the palace was, such fine ladies and gentlemen as were there should never wish to leave it. But so it was; no one ever went out but her master. One morning, while putting the ointment on the eyes of the children, her own eye itched, and forgetting the orders of her master she touched one corner of it with her finger which was covered with ointment. Immediately, with the vision of that corner of her eye, she saw herself surrounded by fearful flames; the ladies and gentlemen looked like devils, and the children appeared like the most hideous imps of hell. Though with the other parts of her eyes she beheld all grand and beautiful as before, she could not help feeling much frightened at all this; but having great presence of mind she let no one see her alarm. However, she took the first opportunity of asking her master's leave to go and see her friends. He said he would take her, but she must again consent to be blindfolded. Accordingly a handkerchief was put over her eyes; she was again mounted behind her master, and was soon put down in the neighbourhood of her own house. It will be believed that she remained quietly there, and took good care not to return to her place; but very many years afterwards, being at a fair, she saw a man stealing something from a stall, and with one corner of her eye beheld her old master pushing his elbow. Unthinkingly she said, "How are you master? how are the children?" He said, "How did you see me?" She answered, "With the corner of my left eye." From that moment she was blind of her left eye, and lived many years with only her right.'[45] An older legend preserving this mythical detail is the story of Taliesin. Gwion Bach's eyes are opened by a drop from Caridwen's caldron falling upon his finger, which he puts in his mouth. FOOTNOTE: [45] 'Camb. Sup.,' 349. XII. A Carmarthenshire tradition names among those who lived for a period among the Tylwyth Teg no less a person than the translator into Welsh of Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress.' He was called Iago ap Dewi, and lived in the parish of Llanllawddog, Carmarthenshire, in a cottage situated in the wood of Llangwyly. He was absent from the neighbourhood for a long period, and the universal belief among the peasantry was that Iago 'got out of bed one night to gaze on the starry sky, as he was accustomed (astrology being one of his favourite studies), and whilst thus occupied the fairies (who were accustomed to resort in a neighbouring wood), passing by, carried him away, and he dwelt with them seven years. Upon his return he was questioned by many as to where he had been, but always avoided giving them a reply.' XIII. The wide field of interest opened up in tales of this class is a fascinating one to the students of fairy mythology. The whole world seems to be the scene of such tales, and collectors of folk-lore in many lands have laid claim to the discovery of 'the original' on which the story of Rip van Winkle is based. It is an honour to American genius, to which I cannot forbear a passing allusion, that of all these legends, none has achieved so wide a fame as that which Washington Irving has given to our literature, and Joseph Jefferson to our stage. It is more than probable that Irving drew his inspiration from Grimm, and that the Catskills are indebted to the Hartz Mountains of Germany for their romantic fame. But the legends are endless in which occur this unsuspected lapse of time among supernatural beings, and the wandering back to the old home to find all changed. In Greece, it is Epimenides, the poet, who, while searching for a lost sheep, wanders into a cave where he slumbers forty-seven years. The Gaelic and Teutonic legends are well known. But our wonder at the vitality of this myth is greatest when we find it in both China and Japan. In the Japanese account a young man fishing in his boat on the ocean is invited by the goddess of the sea to her home beneath the waves. After three days he desires to see his old mother and father. On parting she gives him a golden casket and a key, but begs him never to open it. At the village where he lived he finds that all is changed, and he can get no trace of his parents until an aged woman recollects having heard of their names. He finds their graves a hundred years old. Thinking that three days could not have made such a change, and that he was under a spell, he opens the casket. A white vapour rises, and under its influence the young man falls to the ground. His hair turns grey, his form loses its youth, and in a few moments he dies of old age. The Chinese legend relates how two friends wandering amongst the ravines of their native mountains in search of herbs for medicinal purposes, come to a fairy bridge where two maidens of more than earthly beauty are on guard. They invite them to the fairy land which lies on the other side of the bridge, and the invitation being accepted, they become enamoured of the maidens, and pass what to them seems a short though blissful period of existence with the fairy folk. At length they desire to revisit their earthly homes and are allowed to return, when they find that seven generations have lived and died during their apparently short absence, they themselves having become centenarians.[46] In China, as elsewhere, the legend takes divers forms. FOOTNOTE: [46] Dennys, 'Folk-Lore of China,' 98. CHAPTER VII. Fairy Music--Birds of Enchantment--The Legend of Shon ap Shenkin--Harp-Music in Welsh Fairy Tales--Legend of the Magic Harp--Songs and Tunes of the Tylwyth Teg--The Legend of Iolo ap Hugh--Mystic Origin of an old Welsh Air. I. In those rare cases where it is not dancing which holds the victim of Tylwyth Teg in its fatal fascination, the seducer is music. There is a class of stories still common in Wales, in which is preserved a wondrously beautiful survival of the primitive mythology. In the vast middle ground between our own commonplace times and the pre-historic ages we encounter more than once the lovely legend of the Birds of Rhiannon, which sang so sweetly that the warrior knights stood listening entranced for eighty years. This legend appears in the Mabinogi of 'Branwen, daughter of Llyr,' and, as we read it there, is a medieval tale; but the medieval authors of the Mabinogion as we know them were working over old materials--telling again the old tales which had come down through unnumbered centuries from father to son by tradition. Cambrian poets of an earlier age often allude to the birds of Rhiannon; they are mentioned in the Triads. In the Mabinogi, the period the warriors listened is seven years. Seven men only had escaped from a certain battle with the Irish, and they were bidden by their dying chief to cut off his head and bear it to London and bury it with the face towards France. Various were the adventures they encountered while obeying this injunction. At Harlech they stopped to rest, and sat down to eat and drink. 'And there came three birds, and began singing unto them a certain song, and all the songs they had ever heard were unpleasant compared thereto; and the birds seemed to them to be at a great distance from them over the sea, yet they appeared as distinct as if they were close by; and at this repast they continued seven years.'[47] This enchanting fancy reappears in the local story of Shon ap Shenkin, which was related to me by a farmer's wife near the reputed scene of the legend. Pant Shon Shenkin has already been mentioned as a famous centre for Carmarthenshire fairies. The story of Taffy ap Sion and this of Shon ap Shenkin were probably one and the same at some period in their career, although they are now distinct. Shon ap Shenkin was a young man who lived hard by Pant Shon Shenkin. As he was going afield early one fine summer's morning he heard a little bird singing, in a most enchanting strain, on a tree close by his path. Allured by the melody he sat down under the tree until the music ceased, when he arose and looked about him. What was his surprise at observing that the tree, which was green and full of life when he sat down, was now withered and barkless! Filled with astonishment he returned to the farm-house which he had left, as he supposed, a few minutes before; but it also was changed, grown older, and covered with ivy. In the doorway stood an old man whom he had never before seen; he at once asked the old man what he wanted there. 'What do I want here?' ejaculated the old man, reddening angrily; 'that's a pretty question! Who are you that dare to insult me in my own house?' 'In your own house? How is this? where's my father and mother, whom I left here a few minutes since, whilst I have been listening to the charming music under yon tree, which, when I rose, was withered and leafless?' 'Under the tree!--music! what's your name?' 'Shon ap Shenkin.' 'Alas, poor Shon, and is this indeed you!' cried the old man. 'I often heard my grandfather, your father, speak of you, and long did he bewail your absence. Fruitless inquiries were made for you; but old Catti Maddock of Brechfa said you were under the power of the fairies, and would not be released until the last sap of that sycamore tree would be dried up. Embrace me, my dear uncle, for you are my uncle--embrace your nephew.' With this the old man extended his arms, but before the two men could embrace, poor Shon ap Shenkin crumbled into dust on the doorstep. [Illustration: SHON AP SHENKIN RETURNS HOME.] FOOTNOTE: [47] Lady Charlotte Guest's 'Mabinogion,' 381. II. The harp is played by Welsh fairies to an extent unknown in those parts of the world where the harp is less popular among the people. When any instrument is distinctly heard in fairy cymmoedd it is usually the harp. Sometimes it is a fiddle, but then on close examination it will be discovered that it is a captured mortal who is playing it; the Tylwyth Teg prefer the harp. They play the bugle on specially grand occasions, and there is a case or two on record where the drone of the bagpipes was heard; but it is not doubted that the player was some stray fairy from Scotland or elsewhere over the border. On the top of Craig-y-Ddinas thousands of white fairies dance to the music of many harps. In the dingle called Cwm Pergwm, in the Vale of Neath, the Tylwyth Teg make music behind the waterfall, and when they go off over the mountains the sounds of their harps are heard dying away as they recede. The story which presents the Cambrian equivalent of the Magic Flute substitutes a harp for the (to Welshmen) less familiar instrument. As told to me this story runs somewhat thus: A company of fairies which frequented Cader Idris were in the habit of going about from cottage to cottage in that part of Wales, in pursuit of information concerning the degree of benevolence possessed by the cottagers. Those who gave these fairies an ungracious welcome were subject to bad luck during the rest of their lives, but those who were good to the little folk became the recipients of their favour. Old Morgan ap Rhys sat one night in his own chimney corner making himself comfortable with his pipe and his pint of cwrw da. The good ale having melted his soul a trifle, he was in a more jolly mood than was natural to him, when there came a little rap at the door, which reached his ear dully through the smoke of his pipe and the noise of his own voice--for in his merriment Morgan was singing a roystering song, though he could not sing any better than a haw--which is Welsh for a donkey. But Morgan did not take the trouble to get up at sound of the rap; his manners were not the most refined; he thought it was quite enough for a man on hospitable purposes bent to bawl forth in ringing Welsh, 'Gwaed dyn a'i gilydd! Why don't you come in when you've got as far as the door?' The welcome was not very polite, but it was sufficient. The door opened, and three travellers entered, looking worn and weary. Now these were the fairies from Cader Idris, disguised in this manner for purposes of observation, and Morgan never suspected they were other than they appeared. 'Good sir,' said one of the travellers, 'we are worn and weary, but all we seek is a bite of food to put in our wallet, and then we will go on our way.' 'Waw, lads! is that all you want? Well, there, look you, is the loaf and the cheese, and the knife lies by them, and you may cut what you like, and fill your bellies as well as your wallet, for never shall it be said that Morgan ap Rhys denied bread and cheese to a fellow creature.' The travellers proceeded to help themselves, while Morgan continued to drink and smoke, and to sing after his fashion, which was a very rough fashion indeed. As they were about to go, the fairy travellers turned to Morgan and said, 'Since you have been so generous we will show that we are grateful. It is in our power to grant you any one wish you may have; therefore tell us what that wish may be.' 'Ho, ho!' said Morgan, 'is that the case? Ah, I see you are making sport of me. Wela, wela, the wish of my heart is to have a harp that will play under my fingers no matter how ill I strike it; a harp that will play lively tunes, look you; no melancholy music for me!' He had hardly spoken, when to his astonishment, there on the hearth before him stood a splendid harp, and he was alone. 'Waw!' cried Morgan, 'they're gone already.' Then looking behind him he saw they had not taken the bread and cheese they had cut off, after all. ''Twas the fairies, perhaps,' he muttered, but sat serenely quaffing his beer, and staring at the harp. There was a sound of footsteps behind him, and his wife came in from out doors with some friends. Morgan feeling very jolly, thought he would raise a little laughter among them by displaying his want of skill upon the harp. So he commenced to play--oh, what a mad and capering tune it was! 'Waw!' said Morgan, 'but this is a harp. Holo! what ails you all?' For as fast as he played his neighbours danced, every man, woman, and child of them all footing it like mad creatures. Some of them bounded up against the roof of the cottage till their heads cracked again; others spun round and round, knocking over the furniture; and, as Morgan went on thoughtlessly playing, they began to pray to him to stop before they should be jolted to pieces. But Morgan found the scene too amusing to want to stop; besides, he was enamoured of his own suddenly developed skill as a musician; and he twanged the strings and laughed till his sides ached and the tears rolled down his cheeks, at the antics of his friends. Tired out at last he stopped, and the dancers fell exhausted on the floor, the chairs, the tables, declaring the diawl himself was in the harp. 'I know a tune worth two of that,' quoth Morgan, picking up the harp again; but at sight of this motion all the company rushed from the house and escaped, leaving Morgan rolling merrily in his chair. Whenever Morgan got a little tipsy after that, he would get the harp and set everybody round him to dancing; and the consequence was he got a bad name, and no one would go near him. But all their precautions did not prevent the neighbours from being caught now and then, when Morgan took his revenge by making them dance till their legs were broken, or some other damage was done them. Even lame people and invalids were compelled to dance whenever they heard the music of this diabolical telyn. In short, Morgan so abused his fairy gift that one night the good people came and took it away from him, and he never saw it more. The consequence was he became morose, and drank himself to death--a warning to all who accept from the fairies favours they do not deserve. III. The music of the Tylwyth Teg has been variously described by people who claim to have heard it; but as a rule with much vagueness, as of a sweet intangible harmony, recalling the experience of Caliban: The isle is full of noises; Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears.[48] One Morgan Gwilym, who saw the fairies by Cylepsta Waterfall, and heard their music dying away, was only able to recall the last strain, which he said sounded something like this: [Music] Edmund Daniel, of the Arail, 'an honest man and a constant speaker of truth,' told the Prophet Jones that he often saw the fairies after sunset crossing the Cefn Bach from the Valley of the Church towards Hafodafel, leaping and striking in the air, and making a serpentine path through the air, in this form: [Illustration: {WAVY HORIZONTAL LINE.}] The fairies were seen and heard by many persons in that neighbourhood, and sometimes by several persons together. They appeared more often by night than by day, and in the morning and evening more often than about noon. Many heard their music, and said of it that it was low and pleasant; but that it had this peculiarity: no one could ever learn the tune. In more favoured parts of the Principality, the words of the song were distinctly heard, and under the name of the 'Cân y Tylwyth Teg' are preserved as follows: Dowch, dowch, gyfeillion mân, O blith marwolion byd, Dowch, dowch, a dowch yn lân. Partowch partowch eich pibau cân, Gan ddawnsio dowch i gyd, Mae yn hyfryd heno i hwn. One is reluctant to turn into bald English this goblin song, which in its native Welsh is almost as impressive as 'Fi Fo Fum.' Let it suffice that the song is an invitation to the little ones among the dead of earth to come with music and dancing to the delights of the night revel. FOOTNOTE: [48] 'Tempest,' Act III., Sc. 2. IV. In the legend of Iolo ap Hugh, than which no story is more widely known in Wales, the fairy origin of that famous tune 'Ffarwel Ned Pugh' is shown. It is a legend which suggests the Enchanted Flute fancy in another form, the instrument here being a fiddle, and the victim and player one under fairy control. In its introduction of bread and cheese and candles it smacks heartily of the soil. In North Wales there is a famous cave which is said to reach from its entrance on the hillside 'under the Morda, the Ceiriog, and a thousand other streams, under many a league of mountain, marsh and moor, under the almost unfathomable wells that, though now choked up, once supplied Sycharth, the fortress of Glyndwrdwy, all the way to Chirk Castle.' Tradition said that whoever went within five paces of its mouth would be drawn into it and lost. That the peasants dwelling near it had a thorough respect for this tradition, was proved by the fact that all around the dangerous hole 'the grass grew as thick and as rank as in the wilds of America or some unapproached ledge of the Alps.' Both men and animals feared the spot: 'A fox, with a pack of hounds in full cry at his tail,' once turned short round on approaching it, 'with his hair all bristled and fretted like frostwork with terror,' and ran into the middle of the pack, 'as if anything earthly--even an earthly death--was a relief to his supernatural perturbations.' And the dogs in pursuit of this fox all declined to seize him, on account of the phosphoric smell and gleam of his coat. Moreover, 'Elias ap Evan, who happened one fair night to stagger just upon the rim of the forbidden space,' was so frightened at what he saw and heard that he arrived at home perfectly sober, 'the only interval of sobriety, morning, noon, or night, Elias had been afflicted with for upwards of twenty years.' Nor ever after that experience--concerning which he was wont to shake his head solemnly, as if he might tell wondrous tales an' he dared--could Elias get tipsy, drink he never so faithfully to that end. As he himself expressed it, 'His shadow walked steadily before him, that at one time wheeled around him like a pointer over bog and stone.' One misty Hallow E'en, Iolo ap Hugh, the fiddler, determined to solve the mysteries of the Ogof, or Cave, provided himself with 'an immense quantity of bread and cheese and seven pounds of candles,' and ventured in. He never returned; but long, long afterwards, at the twilight of another Hallow E'en, an old shepherd was passing that--as he called it--'Land-Maelstrom of Diaboly,' when he heard a faint burst of melody dancing up and down the rocks above the cave. As he listened, the music gradually 'moulded itself in something like a tune, though it was a tune the shepherd had never heard before.' And it sounded as if it were being played by some jolting fiend, so rugged was its rhythm, so repeated its discordant groans. Now there appeared at the mouth of the Ogof a figure well-known to the shepherd by remembrance. It was dimly visible; but it was Iolo ap Hugh, one could see that at once. He was capering madly to the music of his own fiddle, with a lantern dangling at his breast. 'Suddenly the moon shone full on the cave's yellow mouth, and the shepherd saw poor Iolo for a single moment--but it was distinctly and horribly. His face was pale as marble, and his eyes stared fixedly and deathfully, whilst his head dangled loose and unjointed on his shoulders. His arms seemed to keep his fiddlestick in motion without the least sympathy from their master. The shepherd saw him a moment on the verge of the cave, and then, still capering and fiddling, vanish like a shadow from his sight;' but the old man was heard to say he seemed as if he slipped into the cave in a manner quite different from the step of a living and a willing man; 'he was dragged inwards like the smoke up the chimney, or the mist at sunrise.' Years elapsed; 'all hopes and sorrows connected with poor Iolo had not only passed away, but were nearly forgotten; the old shepherd had long lived in a parish at a considerable distance amongst the hills. One cold December Sunday evening he and his fellow-parishioners were shivering in their seats as the clerk was beginning to light the church, when a strange burst of music, starting suddenly from beneath the aisle, threw the whole congregation into confusion, and then it passed faintly along to the farther end of the church, and died gradually away till at last it was impossible to distinguish it from the wind that was careering and wailing through almost every pillar of the old church.' The shepherd immediately recognised this to be the tune Iolo had played at the mouth of the Ogof. The parson of the parish--a connoisseur in music--took it down from the old man's whistling; and to this day, if you go to the cave on Hallow eve and put your ear to the aperture, you may hear the tune 'Ffarwel Ned Pugh' as distinctly as you may hear the waves roar in a sea-shell. 'And it is said that in certain nights in leap-year a star stands opposite the farther end of the cave, and enables you to view all through it and to see Iolo and its other inmates.'[49] [Music: FFARWEL NED PUGH.] FOOTNOTE: [49] 'Camb. Quarterly,' i., 45. CHAPTER VIII. Fairy Rings--The Prophet Jones and his Works--The Mysterious Language of the Tylwyth Teg--The Horse in Welsh Folk-Lore--Equestrian Fairies--Fairy Cattle, Sheep, Swine, etc.--The Flying Fairies of Bedwellty--The Fairy Sheepfold at Cae'r Cefn. I. The circles in the grass of green fields, which are commonly called fairy rings, are numerous in Wales, and it is deemed just as well to keep out of them, even in our day. The peasantry no longer believe that the fairies can be seen dancing there, nor that the cap of invisibility will fall on the head of one who enters the circle; but they do believe that the fairies, in a time not long gone, made these circles with the tread of their tripping feet, and that some misfortune will probably befall any person intruding upon this forbidden ground. An old man at Peterstone-super-Ely told me he well remembered in his childhood being warned by his mother to keep away from the fairy rings. The counsel thus given him made so deep an impression on his mind, that he had never in his life entered one. He remarked further, in answer to a question, that he had never walked under a ladder, because it was unlucky to walk under a ladder. This class of superstitions is a very large one, and is encountered the world over; and the fairy rings seem to fall into this class, so far as present-day belief in Wales is concerned. II. Allusion has been made in the preceding pages to the Prophet Jones, and as some account of this personage is imperatively called for in a work treating of Welsh folk-lore, I will give it here, before citing his remarks respecting fairy circles. Edmund Jones, 'of the Tranch,' was a dissenting minister, noted in Monmouthshire in the first years of the present century for his fervent piety and his large credulity with regard to fairies and all other goblins. He was for many years pastor of the congregation of Protestant Dissenters at the Ebenezer Chapel, near Pontypool, and lived at a place called 'The Tranch,' near there. He wrote and published two books, one an 'Account of the Parish of Aberystruth,' printed at Trevecca; the other a 'Relation of Apparitions of Spirits in the County of Monmouth and the Principality of Wales,' printed at Newport; and they have been referred to by most writers on folk-lore who have attempted any account of Welsh superstitions during the past half-century; but the books are extremely rare, and writers who have quoted from them have generally been content to do so at second-hand. Keightley,[50] quoting from the 'Apparitions,' misprints the author's name 'Edward Jones of the Tiarch,' and accredits the publication to 'the latter half of the eighteenth century,' whereas it was published in 1813. Keightley's quotations are taken from Croker, who himself had never seen the book, but heard of it through a Welsh friend. It is not in the library of the British Museum, and I know of but a few copies in Wales; the one I saw is at Swansea. The author of these curious volumes was called the Prophet Jones, because of his gift of prophecy--so a Welshman in Monmouthshire told me. In my informant's words, 'He was noted in his district for foretelling things. He would, for instance, be asked to preach at some anniversary, or quarterly meeting, and he would answer, "I cannot, on that day; the rain will descend in torrents, and there will be no congregation." He would give the last mite he possessed to the needy, and tell his wife, "God will send a messenger with food and raiment at nine o'clock to-morrow." And so it would be.' He was a thorough-going believer in Welsh fairies, and full of indignant scorn toward all who dared question their reality. To him these phantoms were part and parcel of the Christian faith, and those who disbelieved in them were denounced as Sadducees and infidels. FOOTNOTE: [50] 'Fairy Mythology,' 412. III. With regard to the fairy rings, Jones held that the Bible alludes to them, Matt. xii. 43: 'The fairies dance in circles in dry places; and the Scripture saith that the walk of evil spirits is in dry places.' They favour the oak-tree, and the female oak especially, partly because of its more wide-spreading branches and deeper shade, partly because of the 'superstitious use made of it beyond other trees' in the days of the Druids. Formerly, it was dangerous to cut down a female oak in a fair dry place. 'Some were said to lose their lives by it, by a strange aching pain which admitted of no remedy, as one of my ancestors did; but now that men have more knowledge and faith, this effect follows not.' William Jenkins was for a long time the schoolmaster at Trefethin church, in Monmouthshire, and coming home late in the evening, as he usually did, he often saw the fairies under an oak within two or three fields from the church. He saw them more often on Friday evenings than any other. At one time he went to examine the ground about this oak, and there he found the reddish circle wherein the fairies danced, 'such as have often been seen under the female oak, called Brenhin-bren.' They appeared more often to an uneven number of persons, as one, three, five, &c.; and oftener to men than to women. Thomas William Edmund, of Hafodafel, 'an honest pious man, who often saw them,' declared that they appeared with one bigger than the rest going before them in the company. They were also heard talking together in a noisy, jabbering way; but no one could distinguish the words. They seemed, however, to be a very disputatious race; insomuch, indeed, that there was a proverb in some parts of Wales to this effect: 'Ni chytunant hwy mwy na Bendith eu Mamau,' (They will no more agree than the fairies). IV. This observation respecting the mysterious language used by fairies recalls again the medieval story of Elidurus. The example of fairy words there given by Giraldus is thought by the learned rector of Llanarmon[51] to be 'a mixture of Irish and Welsh. The letter U, with which each of the words begins, is, probably, no more than the representative of an indistinct sound like the E mute of the French, and which those whose language and manners are vulgar often prefix to words indifferently. If, then, they be read dor dorum, and halgein dorum, dor and halgein are nearly dwr (or, as it is pronounced, door) and halen, the Welsh words for water and salt respectively. Dorum therefore is equivalent to "give me," and the Irish expression for "give me" is thorum; the Welsh dyro i mi. The order of the words, however, is reversed. The order should be thorum dor, and thorum halen in Irish, and in Welsh dyro i mi ddwr, and dyro i mi halen, but was, perhaps, reversed intentionally by the narrator, to make his tale the more marvellous.'[52] FOOTNOTES: [51] Rev. Peter Roberts, 'Cambrian Popular Antiquities,' 195. (1815.) [52] Supra, p. 67. V. The horse plays a very active part in Welsh fairy tales. Not only does his skeleton serve for Mary Lwyds[53] and the like, but his spirit flits. The Welsh fairies seem very fond of going horseback. An old woman in the Vale of Neath told Mrs. Williams, who told Thomas Keightley, that she had seen fairies to the number of hundreds, mounted on little white horses, not bigger than dogs, and riding four abreast. This was about dusk, and the fairy equestrians passed quite close to her, in fact less than a quarter of a mile away. Another old woman asserted that her father had often seen the fairies riding in the air on little white horses; but he never saw them come to the ground. He heard their music sounding in the air as they galloped by. There is a tradition among the Glamorgan peasantry of a fairy battle fought on the mountain between Merthyr and Aberdare, in which the pigmy combatants were on horseback. There appeared to be two armies, one of which was mounted on milk-white steeds, and the other on horses of jet-black. They rode at each other with the utmost fury, and their swords could be seen flashing in the air like so many penknife blades. The army on the white horses won the day, and drove the black-mounted force from the field. The whole scene then disappeared in a light mist. FOOTNOTE: [53] See Index. VI. In the agricultural districts of Wales, the fairies are accredited with a very complete variety of useful animals; and Welsh folk-lore, both modern and medieval, abounds with tales regarding cattle, sheep, horses, poultry, goats, and other features of rural life. Such are the marvellous mare of Teirnyon, which foaled every first of May, but whose colt was always spirited away, no man knew whither; the Ychain Banog, or mighty oxen, which drew the water-monster out of the enchanted lake, and by their lowing split the rocks in twain; the lambs of St. Melangell, which at first were hares, and ran frightened under the fair saint's robes; the fairy cattle which belong to the Gwraig Annwn; the fairy sheep of Cefn Rhychdir, which rose up out of the earth and vanished into the sky; even fairy swine, which the haymakers of Bedwellty beheld flying through the air. To some of these traditions reference has already been made; others will be mentioned again. Welsh mountain sheep will run like stags, and bound from crag to crag like wild goats; and as for Welsh swine, they are more famed in Cambrian romantic story than almost any other animal that could be named. Therefore the tale told by Rev. Roger Rogers, of the parish of Bedwellty, sounds much less absurd in Wales than it might elsewhere. It relates to a very remarkable and odd sight, seen by Lewis Thomas Jenkin's two daughters, described as virtuous and good young women, their father a substantial freeholder; and seen not only by them but by the man-servant and the maid-servant, and by two of the neighbours, viz., Elizabeth David, and Edmund Roger. All these six people were on a certain day making hay in a field called Y Weirglodd Fawr Dafolog, when they plainly beheld a company of fairies rise up out of the earth in the shape of a flock of sheep; the same being about a quarter of a mile distant, over a hill, called Cefn Rhychdir; and soon the fairy flock went out of sight, as if they vanished in the air. Later in the day they all saw this company of fairies again, but while to two of the haymakers the fairies appeared as sheep, to others they appeared as greyhounds, and to others as swine, and to others as naked infants. Whereupon the Rev. Roger remarks: 'The sons of infidelity are very unreasonable not to believe the testimonies of so many witnesses.'[54] FOOTNOTE: [54] Jones, 'Apparitions,' 24. VII. The Welsh sheep, it is affirmed, are the only beasts which will eat the grass that grows in the fairy rings; all other creatures avoid it, but the sheep eat it greedily--hence the superiority of Welsh mutton over any mutton in the wide world. The Prophet Jones tells of the sheepfold of the fairies, which he himself saw--a circumstance to be accorded due weight, the judicious reader will at once perceive, because as a habit Mr. Jones was not specially given to seeing goblins on his own account. He believes in them with all his heart, but it is usually a friend or acquaintance who has seen them. In this instance, therefore, the exception is to be noted sharply. He thus tells the tale: 'If any think I am too credulous in these relations, and speak of things of which I myself have had no experience, I must let them know they are mistaken. For when a very young boy, going with my aunt, early in the morning, but after sun-rising, from Hafodafel towards my father's house at Pen-y-Llwyn, at the end of the upper field of Cae'r Cefn, ... I saw the likeness of a sheepfold, with the door towards the south, ... and within the fold a company of many people. Some sitting down, and some going in, and coming out, bowing their heads as they passed under the branch over the door.... I well remember the resemblance among them of a fair woman with a high-crown hat and a red jacket, who made a better appearance than the rest, and whom I think they seemed to honour. I still have a pretty clear idea of her white face and well-formed countenance. The men wore white cravats.... I wondered at my aunt, going before me, that she did not look towards them, and we going so near them. As for me, I was loth to speak until I passed them some way, and then told my aunt what I had seen, at which she wondered, and said I dreamed.... There was no fold in that place. There is indeed the ruins of some small edifice in that place, most likely a fold, but so old that the stones are swallowed up, and almost wholly crusted over with earth and grass.' This tale has long been deemed a poser by the believers in Cambrian phantoms; but there is something to be said on the side of doubt. Conceding that the Reverend Edmund Jones, the dissenting minister, was an honest gentleman who meant to tell truth, it is still possible that Master Neddy Jones, the lad, could draw a long bow like another boy; and that having seen, possibly, some gypsy group (or possibly nothing whatever) he embellished his tale to excite wonderment, as boys do. Telling a fictitious tale so often that one at last comes to believe it oneself, is a well-known mental phenomenon. VIII. The only other instance given by the Prophet Jones as from the depths of his own personal experience, is more vague in its particulars than the preceding, and happened when he had presumably grown to years of discretion. He was led astray, it appears, by the Old Woman of the Mountain, on Llanhiddel Bryn, near Pontypool--an eminence with which he was perfectly well acquainted, and which 'is no more than a mile and a half long and about half a mile broad.' But as a result of his going astray, he came to a house where he had never been before; and being deeply moved by his uncanny experience, 'offered to go to prayer, which they admitted.... I was then about twenty-three years of age and had begun to preach the everlasting gospel. They seemed to admire that a person so young should be so warmly disposed; few young men of my age being religious in this country then. Much good came into this house and still continues in it.... So the old hag got nothing by leading me astray that time.' CHAPTER IX. Piety as a Protection from the Seductions of the Tylwyth Teg--Various Exorcisms--Cock-crowing--The Name of God--Fencing off the Fairies--Old Betty Griffith and her Eithin Barricade--Means of Getting Rid of the Tylwyth Teg--The Bwbach of the Hendrefawr Farm--The Pwca'r Trwyn's Flitting in a Jug of Barm. I. The extreme piety of his daily walk and conversation may have been held as an explanation why the Prophet Jones saw so few goblins himself, and consequently why most of his stories of the fairies are related as coming from other people. The value of a general habit of piety, as a means of being rid of fairies, has already been mentioned. The more worldly exorcisms, such as the production of a black-handled knife, or the turning one's coat wrongside out, are passed over by the Prophet as trivial; but by the student of comparative folk-lore, they are not deemed unimportant. The last-mentioned exorcism, by the way, is current among the Southern negroes of the United States. The more spiritual exorcisms are not less interesting than the others, however. First among these is ranked the pronunciation of God's name; but the crowing of a cock is respectfully mentioned, in connection with the story of our Saviour. Jones gives many accounts which terminate in the manner of the following: Rees John Rosser, born at Hendy, in the parish of Llanhiddel, 'a very religious young man,' went one morning very early to feed the oxen in a barn called Ysgubor y Llan, and having fed them lay himself upon the hay to rest. While he lay there he heard the sound of music approaching, and presently a large company of fairies came into the barn. They wore striped clothes, some in gayer colours than the others, but all very gay; and they all danced to the music. He lay there as quiet as he could, thinking they would not see him, but he was espied by one of them, a woman, who brought a striped cushion with four tassels, one at each corner of it, and put it under his head. After some time the cock crew at the house of Blaen y Cwm, hard by, upon which they appeared as if they were surprised and displeased; the cushion was hastily whisked from under his head, and the fairies vanished. 'The spirits of darkness do not like the crowing of the cock, because it gives notice of the approach of day, for they love darkness rather than light.... And it hath been several times observed that these fairies cannot endure to hear the name of God.' A modern Welsh preacher (but one whose opinions contrast most decidedly with those of Jones) observes: 'The cock is wonderfully well versed in the circumstances of the children of Adam; his shrill voice at dawn of day is sufficient intimation to every spirit, coblyn, wraith, elf, bwci, and apparition to flee into their illusive country for their lives, before the light of day will show them to be an empty nothingness, and bring them to shame and reproach.'[55] Shakspeare introduces this superstition in Hamlet: _Ber._ It was about to speak, when the cock crew. _Hor._ And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons.[56] But the opinion that spirits fly away at cock-crow is of extreme antiquity. It is mentioned by the Christian poet Prudentius (fourth century) as a tradition of common belief.[57] As for the effect of the name of God as an exorcism, we still encounter this superstition, a living thing in our own day, and in every land where modern 'spiritualism' finds believers. The mischief produced at 'spiritual seances' by 'bad spirits' is well-known to those who have paid any attention to this subject. The late Mr. FitzHugh Ludlow once related to me, with dramatic fervour, the result of his attempts to exorcise a bad spirit which was in possession of a female 'medium,' by trying to make her pronounce the name of Christ. She stumbled and stammered over this test in a most embarrassing way, and finally emerged from her trance with the holy name unspoken; the bad spirit had fled. This was in New York, in 1867. Like many others who assert their unbelief in spiritualism, Mr. Ludlow was intensely impressed by this phenomenon. Students of comparative folk-lore class all such manifestations under a common head, whether related of fairies or spirit mediums. They trace their origin to the same source whence come the notions of propitiating the fairies by euphemistic names. The use of such names as Jehovah, the Almighty, the Supreme Being, etc., for the terrible and avenging God of the Jewish theology, being originally an endeavour to avoid pronouncing the name of God, it is easy to see the connection with the exorcising power of that name upon all evil spirits, such as fairies are usually held to be. Here also, it is thought, is presented the ultimate source of that horror of profane language which prevails among the Puritanic peoples of England and America. The name of the devil is similarly provided with euphemisms, some of which--such as the Old Boy--are not of a sort to offend that personage's ears; and until recently the word devil was deemed almost as offensive as the word God, when profanely used. FOOTNOTES: [55] Rev. Robert Ellis, in 'Manion Hynafiaethol.' (Treherbert, 1873.) [56] 'Hamlet,' Act I., Sc. 1. [57] Brand, 'Popular Antiquities,' ii., 31. II. A popular protection from the encroachments of fairies is the eithin, or prickly furze, common in Wales. It is believed that the fairies cannot penetrate a fence or hedge composed of this thorny shrub. An account illustrating this, and otherwise curious in its details, was given in 1871 by a prominent resident of Anglesea:[58] 'One day, some thirty years ago, Mrs. Stanley went to one of the old houses to see an old woman she often visited. It was a wretched hovel; so unusually dark when she opened the door, that she called to old Betty Griffith, but getting no answer she entered the room. A little tiny window of one pane of glass at the further side of the room gave a feeble light. A few cinders alight in the miserable grate also gave a glimmer of light, which enabled her to see where the bed used to be, in a recess. To her surprise she saw it entirely shut out by a barricade of thick gorse, so closely packed and piled up that no bed was to be seen. Again she called Betty Griffith; no response came. She looked round the wretched room; the only symptom of life was a plant of the Wandering Jew (_Saxifraga tricolor_), so called by the poor people, and dearly loved to grace their windows. It was planted in a broken jar or teapot on the window, trailing its long tendrils around, with here and there a new formed plant seeming to derive sustenance from the air alone. As she stood, struck with the miserable poverty of the human abode, a faint sigh came from behind the gorse. She went close and said, "Betty, where are you?" Betty instantly recognised her voice, and ventured to turn herself round from the wall. Mrs. Stanley then made a small opening in the gorse barricade, which sadly pricked her fingers; she saw Betty in her bed and asked her, "Are you not well? are you cold, that you are so closed up?" "Cold! no. It is not cold, Mrs. Stanley; it is the Tylwyth Teg; they never will leave me alone, there they sit making faces at me, and trying to come to me." "Indeed! oh how I should like to see them, Betty." "Like to see them, is it? Oh, don't say so." "Oh but Betty, they must be so pretty and good." "Good? they are not good." By this time the old woman got excited, and Mrs. Stanley knew she should hear more from her about the fairies, so she said, "Well, I will go out; they never will come if I am here." Old Betty replied sharply, "No, do not go. You must not leave me. I will tell you all about them. Ah! they come and plague me sadly. If I am up they will sit upon the table; they turn my milk sour and spill my tea; then they will not leave me at peace in my bed, but come all round me and mock at me." "But Betty, tell me what is all this gorse for? It must have been great trouble for you to make it all so close." "Is it not to keep them off? They cannot get through this, it pricks them so bad, and then I get some rest." So she replaced the gorse and left old Betty Griffith happy in her device for getting rid of the Tylwyth Teg.' FOOTNOTE: [58] Hon. W. O. Stanley, in 'Notes and Queries.' III. A common means of getting rid of the fairies is to change one's place of residence; the fair folk will not abide in a house which passes into new hands. A story is told of a Merionethshire farmer who, being tormented beyond endurance by a Bwbach of a mischievous turn, reluctantly resolved to flit. But first consulting a wise woman at Dolgelley, he was advised to make a pretended flitting, which would have the same effect; he need only give out that he was going to move over the border into England, and then get together his cattle and his household goods, and set out for a day's drive around the Arenig. The fairy would surely quit the house when the farmer should quit it, and especially would it quit the premises of a born Cymro who avowed his purpose of settling in the foreign land of the Sais. So then he could come back to his house by another route, and he would find the obnoxious Bwbach gone. The farmer did as he was told, and set out upon his journey, driving his cattle and sheep before him, and leading the cart upon which his furniture was piled, while his wife and children trudged behind. When he reached Rhyd-y-Fen, a ford so called from this legend, they met a neighbour, who exclaimed, 'Holo, Dewi, are you leaving us for good?' Before the farmer could answer there was a shrill cry from inside the churn on the cart, 'Yes, yes, we are flitting from Hendrefawr to Eingl-dud, where we've got a new home.' It was the Bwbach that spoke. He was flitting with the household goods, and the farmer's little plan to be rid of him was a complete failure. The good man sighed as he turned his horses about and went back to Hendrefawr by the same road he had come. IV. The famous Pwca of the Trwyn Farm, in Mynyddyslwyn parish, came there from his first abode, at Pantygasseg, in a jug of barm. One of the farm-servants brought the jug to Pantygasseg, and as she was being served with the barm in the jug, the Pwca was heard to say, 'The Pwca is going away now in this jug of barm, and he'll never come back;' and he was never heard at Pantygasseg again. Another story tells that a servant let fall a ball of yarn, over the ledge of the hill whose base is washed by the two fishponds between Hafod-yr-Ynys and Pontypool, and the Pwca said, 'I am going in this ball, and I'll go to the Trwyn, and never come back,'--and directly the ball was seen to roll down the hillside, and across the valley, ascending the hill on the other side, and trundling along briskly across the mountain top to its new abode. CHAPTER X. Fairy Money and Fairy Gifts in General--The Story of Gitto Bach, or Little Griffith--The Penalty of Blabbing--Legends of the Shepherds of Cwm Llan--The Money Value of Kindness--Ianto Llewellyn and the Tylwyth Teg--The Legend of Hafod Lwyddog--Lessons inculcated by these Superstitions. I. 'This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove so,' says the old shepherd in 'Winter's Tale;' sagely adding, 'Up with it, keep it close; home, home, the next way. We are lucky, boy, and to be so still, requires nothing but secrecy.'[59] Here we have the traditional belief of the Welsh peasantry in a nut-shell. Fairy money is as good as any, so long as its source is kept a profound secret; if the finder relate the particulars of his good fortune, it will vanish. Sometimes--especially in cases where the money has been spent--the evil result of tattling consists in there being no further favours of the sort. The same law governs fairy gifts of all kinds. A Breconshire legend tells of the generosity of the Tylwyth Teg in presenting the peasantry with loaves of bread, which turned to toadstools next morning; it was necessary to eat the bread in darkness and silence to avoid this transformation. The story of Gitto Bach, a familiar one in Wales, is a picturesque example. Gitto Bach (little Griffith), a good little farmer's boy of Glamorganshire, used often to ramble to the top of the mountain to look after his father's sheep. On his return he would show his brothers and sisters pieces of remarkably white paper, like crown pieces, with letters stamped upon them, which he said were given to him by the little children with whom he played on the mountain. One day he did not return. For two years nothing was heard of him. Meantime other children occasionally got like crown-pieces of paper from the mountains. One morning when Gitto's mother opened the door there he sat--the truant!--dressed exactly as he was when she saw him last, two years before. He had a little bundle under his arm. 'Where in the world have you been all this time?' asked the mother, 'Why, it's only yesterday I went away!' quoth Gitto. 'Look at the pretty clothes the children gave me on the mountain, for dancing with them to the music of their harps.' With this he opened his bundle, and showed a handsome dress; and behold, it was only paper, like the fairy money. FOOTNOTE: [59] 'Winter's Tale,' Act III., Sc. 3. II. But usually, throughout Wales, it is simply a discontinuance of fairy favour which follows blabbing. A legend is connected with a bridge in Anglesea, of a lad who often saw the fairies there, and profited by their generosity. Every morning, while going to fetch his father's cows from pasture, he saw them, and after they were gone he always found a groat on a certain stone of Cymmunod Bridge. The boy's having money so often about him excited his father's suspicion, and one Sabbath day he cross-questioned the lad as to the manner in which it was obtained. Oh, the meddlesomeness of fathers! Of course the poor boy confessed that it was through the medium of the fairies, and of course, though he often went after this to the field, he never found any money on the bridge, nor saw the offended Tylwyth Teg again. Through his divulging the secret their favour was lost. Jones tells a similar story of a young woman named Anne William Francis, in the parish of Bassalleg, who on going by night into a little grove of wood near the house, heard pleasant music, and saw a company of fairies dancing on the grass. She took a pail of water there, thinking it would gratify them. The next time she went there she had a shilling given her, 'and so had for several nights after, until she had twenty-one shillings.' But her mother happening to find the money, questioned her as to where she got it, fearing she had stolen it. At first the girl would not tell, but when her mother 'went very severe on her,' and threatened to beat her, she confessed she got the money from the fairies. After that they never gave her any more. The Prophet adds: 'I have heard of other places where people have had money from the fairies, sometimes silver sixpences, but most commonly copper coin. As they cannot make money, it certainly must be money lost or concealed by persons.' The Euhemerism of this is hardly like the wonder-loving Jones. III. In the legends of the two shepherds of Cwm Llan and their experience with the fairies, the first deals with the secrecy feature, while the second reproduces the often-impressed lesson concerning the money value of kindness. The first is as follows: One evening a shepherd, who had been searching for his sheep on the side of Nant y Bettws, after crossing Bwlch Cwm Llan, espied a number of little people singing and dancing, and some of the prettiest damsels he ever set eyes on preparing a feast. He went to them and partook of the meal, and thought he had never tasted anything to equal those dishes. When it became dusk they pitched their tents, and the shepherd had never seen before such beautiful things as they had about them there. They provided him with a soft feather-bed and sheets of the finest linen, and he retired, feeling like a prince. But on the morrow, lo and behold! his bed was but a bush of bulrushes, and his pillow a tuft of moss. He however found in his shoes some pieces of silver, and afterwards, for a long time, he continued to find once a week a piece of silver placed between two stones near the spot where he had lain. One day he divulged his secret to another, and the weekly coin was never placed there again. There was another shepherd near Cwm Llan, who heard some strange noise in a crevice of a rock, and turning to see what it was, found there a singular creature who wept bitterly. He took it out and saw it to be a fairy child, but whilst he was looking at it compassionately, two middle-aged men came to him and thanked him courteously for his kindness, and on leaving him presented him with a staff as a token of remembrance of the occasion. The following year every sheep he possessed bore two ewe lambs. They continued to thus breed for years to come; but one very dark and stormy night, having stayed very late in the village, in crossing the river that comes down from Cwm Llan, there being a great flood sweeping everything before it, he dropped his staff into the river and saw it no more. On the morrow he found that nearly all his sheep and lambs, like his staff, had been swept away by the flood. His wealth had departed from him in the same way as it came--with the staff which he had received from the guardians of the fairy child. IV. A Pembrokeshire Welshman told me this story as a tradition well known in that part of Wales. Ianto Llewellyn was a man who lived in the parish of Llanfihangel, not more than fifty or eighty years ago, and who had precious good reason to believe in the fairies. He used to keep his fire of coal balls burning all night long, out of pure kindness of heart, in case the Tylwyth Teg should be cold. That they came into his kitchen every night he was well aware; he often heard them. One night when they were there as usual, Ianto was lying wide awake and heard them say, 'I wish we had some good bread and cheese this cold night, but the poor man has only a morsel left; and though it's true that would be a good meal for us, it is but a mouthful to him, and he might starve if we took it.' At this Ianto cried out at the top of his voice, 'Take anything I've got in my cupboard and welcome to you!' Then he turned over and went to sleep. The next morning, when he descended into the kitchen, he looked in his cupboard, to see if by good luck there might be a bit of crust there. He had no sooner opened the cupboard door than he cried out, 'O'r anwyl! what's this?' for there stood the finest cheese he had ever seen in his life, with two loaves of bread on top of it. 'Lwc dda i ti!' cried Ianto, waving his hand toward the wood where he knew the fairies lived; 'good luck to you! May you never be hungry or penniless!' And he had not got the words out of his mouth when he saw--what do you think?--a shilling on the hob! But that was the lucky shilling. Every morning after this, when Ianto got up, there was the shilling on the hob--another one, you mind, for he'd spent the first for beer and tobacco to go with his bread and cheese. Well, after that, no man in the parish was better supplied with money than Ianto Llewellyn, though he never did a stroke of work. He had enough to keep his wife in ease and comfort, too, and he got the name of Lucky Ianto. And lucky he might have been to the day of his death but for the curiosity of woman. Betsi his wife was determined to know where all this money came from, and gave the poor man no peace. 'Wel, naw wfft!' she cried--which means in English, 'Nine shames on you'--'to have a bad secret from your own dear wife!' 'But you know, Betsi, if I tell you I'll never get any more money.' 'Ah,' said she, 'then it's the fairies!' 'Drato!' said he--and that means 'Bother it all'--'yes--the fairies it is.' With that he thrust his hands down in his breeches pockets in a sullen manner and left the house. He had had seven shillings in his pockets up to that minute, and he went feeling for them with his fingers, and found they were gone. In place of them were some pieces of paper fit only to light his pipe. And from that day the fairies brought him no more money. V. The lesson of generosity is taught with force and simplicity in the legend of Hafod Lwyddog, and the necessity for secrecy is quite abandoned. Again it is a shepherd, who dwelt at Cwm Dyli, and who went every summer to live in a cabin by the Green Lake (Llyn Glas) along with his fold. One morning on awaking from sleep he saw a good-looking damsel dressing an infant close by his side. She had very little in which to wrap the babe, so he threw her an old shirt of his own, and bade her place it about the child. She thanked him and departed. Every night thereafter the shepherd found a piece of silver placed in an old clog in his cabin. Years and years this good luck continued, and Meirig the shepherd became immensely wealthy. He married a lovely girl, and went to the Hafod Lwyddog to live. Whatever he undertook prospered--hence the name Hafod Lwyddog, for Lwydd means prosperity. The fairies paid nightly visits to the Hafod. No witch or evil sprite could harm this people, as Bendith y Mamau was poured down upon the family, and all their descendants.[60] FOOTNOTE: [60] 'Cymru Fu,' 472. VI. The thought will naturally occur that by fostering belief in such tales as some of the foregoing, roguery might make the superstition useful in silencing inquiry as to ill-gotten gains. But on the other hand the virtues of hospitality and generosity were no doubt fostered by the same influences. If any one was favoured by the fairies in this manner, the immediate explanation was, that he had done a good turn to them, generally without suspecting who they were. The virtues of neatness, in young girls and servants, were encouraged by the like notions; the belief that a fairy will leave money only on a clean-kept hob, could tend to nothing more directly. It was also made a condition of pleasing the Tylwyth Teg that the hearth should be carefully swept and the pails left full of water. Then the fairies would come at midnight, continue their revels till daybreak, sing the well-known strain of 'Toriad y Dydd,' or 'The Dawn,' leave a piece of money on the hob, and disappear. Here is seen a precaution against fire in the clean-swept hearth and the provision of filled water-pails. That the promised reward did not always arrive, was not evidence it would never arrive; and so the virtue of perseverance was also fostered. Superstitions of this class are widely prevalent among Aryan peoples. The 'Arabian Nights' story of the old rogue whose money turned to leaves will be recalled. In Danish folk-lore, the fairy money bestowed on the boors turns sometimes to pebbles, and sometimes grows hot and burns their fingers, so that they drop it, when it sinks into the earth. [Music: TORIAD Y DYDD.] CHAPTER XI. Origins of Welsh Fairies--The Realistic Theory--Legend of the Baron's Gate--The Red Fairies--The Trwyn Fairy a Proscribed Nobleman--The Theory of hiding Druids--Colour in Welsh Fairy Attire--The Green Lady of Caerphilly--White the favourite Welsh Hue--Legend of the Prolific Woman--The Poetico-Religious Theory--The Creed of Science. I. Concerning the origin of the Tylwyth Teg, there are two popular explanations, the one poetico-religious in its character, the other practical and realistic. Both are equally wide of the truth, the true origin of fairies being found in the primeval mythology; but as my purpose is to avoid enlarging in directions generally familiar to the student, I have only to present the local aspects of this, as of the other features of the subject. The realistic theory of the origin of the Tylwyth Teg must be mentioned respectfully, because among its advocates have been men of culture and good sense. This theory presumes that the first fairies were men and women of mortal flesh and blood, and that the later superstitions are a mere echo of tales which first were told of real beings. In quasi-support of this theory, there is a well-authenticated tradition of a race of beings who, in the middle of the sixteenth century, inhabited the Wood of the Great Dark Wood (Coed y Dugoed Mawr) in Merionethshire, and who were called the Red Fairies. They lived in dens in the ground, had fiery red hair and long strong arms, and stole sheep and cattle by night. There are cottages in Cemmaes parish, near the Wood of the Great Dark Wood, with scythes in the chimneys, which were put there to keep these terrible beings out. One Christmas eve a valiant knight named Baron Owen headed a company of warriors who assailed the Red Fairies, and found them flesh and blood. The Baron hung a hundred of them; but spared the women, one of whom begged hard for the life of her son. The Baron refused her prayer, whereupon she opened her breast and shrieked, 'This breast has nursed other sons than he, who will yet wash their hands in thy blood, Baron Owen!' Not very long thereafter, the Baron was waylaid at a certain spot by the sons of the 'fairy' woman, who washed their hands in his warm and reeking blood, in fulfilment of their mother's threat. And to this day that spot goes by the name of Llidiart y Barwn (the Baron's Gate); any peasant of the neighbourhood will tell you the story, as one told it to me. There is of course no better foundation for the fairy features of it than the fancies of the ignorant mind, but the legend itself is--very nearly in this shape--historical. The beings in question were a band of outlaws, who might naturally find it to their interest to foster belief in their supernatural powers. II. The so-called Pwca'r Trwyn, which haunted the farm-house in the parish of Mynyddyslwyn, is sometimes cited as another case in which a fairy was probably a being of flesh and blood; and if this be true, it of course proves nothing but the adoption of an ancient superstition by a proscribed Welsh nobleman. There is a tradition that this fairy had a name, and that this name was 'yr Arglwydd Hywel,' which is in English 'Lord Howell.' And it is argued that this Lord, in a contest with the forces of the English king, was utterly worsted, and driven into hiding; that his tenants at Pantygasseg and the Trwyn Farm, loving their Lord, helped to hide him, and to disseminate the belief that he was a household fairy, or Bwbach. It is related that he generally spoke from his own room in this farm-house, in a gentle voice which 'came down between the boards' into the common room beneath. One day the servants were comparing their hands, as to size and whiteness, when the fairy was heard to say, 'The Pwca's hand is the fairest and smallest.' The servants asked if the fairy would show its hand, and immediately a plank overhead was moved and a hand appeared, small, fair and beautifully formed, with a large gold ring on the little finger. III. Curiously interesting is the hypothesis concerning the realistic origin of the Tylwyth Teg, which was put forth at the close of the last century by several writers, among them the Rev. Peter Roberts, author of the 'Collectanea Cambrica.' This hypothesis precisely accounts for the fairies anciently as being the Druids, in hiding from their enemies, or if not they, other persons who had such cause for living concealed in subterraneous places, and venturing forth only at night. 'Some conquered aborigines,' thought Dr. Guthrie; while Mr. Roberts fancied that as the Irish had frequently landed hostilely in Wales, 'it was very possible that some small bodies of that nation left behind, or unable to return, and fearing discovery, had hid themselves in caverns during the day, and sent their children out at night, fantastically dressed, for food and exercise, and thus secured themselves.' But there were objections to this presumption, and the Druidical theory was the favourite one. Says Mr. Roberts: 'The fairy customs appeared evidently too systematic, and too general, to be those of an accidental party reduced to distress. They are those of a consistent and regular policy instituted to prevent discovery, and to inspire fear of their power, and a high opinion of their beneficence. Accordingly tradition notes, that to attempt to discover them was to incur certain destruction. "They are fairies," says Falstaff: "he that looks on them shall die." They were not to be impeded in ingress or egress; a bowl of milk was to be left for them at night on the hearth; and, in return, they left a small present in money when they departed, if the house was kept clean; if not, they inflicted some punishment on the negligent, which, as it was death to look on them, they were obliged to suffer, and no doubt but many unlucky tricks were played on such occasions. Their general dress was green, that they might be the better concealed; and, as their children might have betrayed their haunts, they seem to have been suffered to go out only in the night time, and to have been entertained by dances on moonlight nights. These dances, like those round the Maypole, have been said to be performed round a tree; and on an elevated spot, mostly a tumulus, beneath which was probably their habitation, or its entrance. The older persons, probably, mixed as much as they dared with the world; and, if they happened to be at any time recognised, the certainty of their vengeance was their safety. If by any chance their society was thinned, they appear to have stolen children, and changed feeble for strong infants. The stolen children, if beyond infancy, being brought into their subterraneous dwellings, seem to have had a soporific given them, and to have been carried to a distant part of the country; and, being there allowed to go out merely by night, mistook the night for the day, and probably were not undeceived until it could be done securely. The regularity and generality of this system shows that there was a body of people existing in the kingdom distinct from its known inhabitants, and either confederated, or obliged to live or meet mysteriously; and their rites, particularly that of dancing round a tree, probably an oak, as Herne's, etc., as well as their character for truth and probity, refer them to a Druidic origin. If this was the case, it is easy to conceive, as indeed history shows, that, as the Druids were persecuted by the Romans and Christians, they used these means to preserve themselves and their families, and whilst the country was thinly peopled, and thickly wooded, did so successfully; and, perhaps, to a much later period than is imagined: till the increase of population made it impossible. As the Druidical was one of the most ancient religions, so it must have been one of the first persecuted, and forced to form a regular plan of security, which their dwelling in caves may have suggested, and necessity improved.' IV. It will be observed that one of the points in this curious speculation rests on the green dress of the fairies. I do not call attention to it with any Quixotic purpose of disputing the conclusion it assists; it is far more interesting as one feature of the general subject of fairies' attire. The Welsh fairies are described with details as to colour in costume not commonly met with in fairy tales, a fact to which I have before alluded. In the legend of the Place of Strife, the Tylwyth Teg encountered by the women are called 'the old elves of the blue petticoat.' A connection with the blue of the sky has here been suggested. It has also been pointed out that the sacred Druidical dress was blue. The blue petticoat fancy seems to be local to North Wales. In Cardiganshire, the tradition respecting an encampment called Moyddin, which the fairies frequented, is that they were always in green dresses, and were never seen there but in the vernal month of May. There is a Glamorganshire goblin called the Green Lady of Caerphilly, the colour of whose dress is indicated by her title. She haunts the ruin of Caerphilly Castle at night, wearing a green robe, and has the power of turning herself into ivy and mingling with the ivy growing on the wall. A more ingenious mode of getting rid of a goblin was perhaps never invented. The fairies of Frennifawr, in Pembrokeshire, were on the contrary gorgeous in scarlet, with red caps, and feathers waving in the wind as they danced. But others were in white, and this appears to be the favourite hue of modern Welsh fairy costume, when the Tylwyth Teg are in holiday garb. These various details of colour are due to the fervour of the Welsh fancy, of course, and perhaps their variety may in part be ascribed to a keener sense of the fitness of things among moderns than was current in earlier times. White, to the Welsh, would naturally be the favourite colour for a beautiful creature, dancing in the moonlight on the velvet sward. The most popular pet name for a Welsh lass is to-day exactly what it has been for centuries, viz., Gwenny, the diminutive of Gwenllian (Anglicised into Gwendoline)--a name which means simply white linen; and the white costume of the favourite fairies undoubtedly signifies a dress of white linen. This fabric, common as it is in our day, was in ancient times of inestimable value. In the Mabinogion, linen is repeatedly particularised in the gorgeous descriptions of fabled splendour in princely castles--linen, silk, satin, velvet, gold-lace, and jewels, are the constantly-recurring features of sumptuous attire. In his account of the royal tribes of Wales, Yorke mentions that linen was so rare in the reign of Charles VII. of France (i.e., in the fifteenth century) 'that her majesty the queen could boast of only two shifts of that commodity.' The first cause of the fairies' robes being white is evidently to be discerned here; and in Wales the ancient sentiment as to whiteness remains. The Welsh peasantry, coarsely and darkly clad themselves, would make white a purely holiday colour, and devise some other hue for such commoner fairies as the Bwbach and his sort: The coarse and country fairy, That doth haunt the hearth and dairy.[61] So the Bwbach is usually brown, often hairy; and the Coblynau are black or copper-coloured in face as well as dress. FOOTNOTE: [61] Jonson, Masque of 'Oberon.' V. A local legend of the origin of fairies in Anglesea mingles the practical and the spiritual in this manner: 'In our Saviour's time there lived a woman whose fortune it was to be possessed of nearly a score of children, ... and as she saw our blessed Lord approach her dwelling, being ashamed of being so prolific, and that He might not see them all, she concealed about half of them closely, and after his departure, when she went in search of them, to her great surprise found they were all gone. They never afterwards could be discovered, for it was supposed that as a punishment from heaven for hiding what God had given her, she was deprived of them; and it is said these her offspring have generated the race called fairies.'[62] FOOTNOTE: [62] 'Camb. Sup.,' 118. VI. The common or popular theory, however, is in Wales the poetico-religious one. This is, in a word, the belief that the Tylwyth Teg are the souls of dead mortals not bad enough for hell nor good enough for heaven. They are doomed to live on earth, to dwell in secret places, until the resurrection day, when they will be admitted into paradise. Meantime they must be either incessantly toiling or incessantly playing, but their toil is fruitless and their pleasure unsatisfying. A variation of this general belief holds these souls to be the souls of the ancient Druids, a fancy which is specially impressive, as indicating the duration of their penance, and reminds us of the Wandering Jew myth. It is confined mainly to the Coblynau, or dwellers in mines and caves. Another variation considers the fairies bad spirits of still remoter origin--the same in fact who were thrown over the battlements of heaven along with Satan, but did not fall into hell--landed on the earth instead, where they are permitted to tarry till doomsday as above. A detail of this theory is in explanation of the rare appearance of fairies nowadays; they are refraining from mischief in view of the near approach of the judgment, with the hope of thus conciliating heaven. The Prophet Jones, in explaining why the fairies have been so active in Wales, expounds the poetico-religious theory in masterly form. After stating that some in Monmouthshire were so ignorant as to think the fairies happy spirits, because they had music and dancing among them, he proceeds to assert, in the most emphatic terms, that the Tylwyth Teg are nothing else, 'after all the talking about them,' but the disembodied spirits of men who lived and died without the enjoyment of the means of grace and salvation, as Pagans and others, and whose punishment therefore is far less severe than that of those who have enjoyed the means of salvation. 'But some persons may desire to know why these fairies have appeared in Wales more than in some other countries? to which I answer, that I can give no other reason but this, that having lost the light of the true religion in the eighth and ninth centuries of Christianity, and received Popery in its stead, it became dark night upon them; and then these spirits of darkness became more bold and intruding; and the people, as I said before, in their great ignorance seeing them like a company of children in dry clean places, dancing and having music among them, thought them to be some happy beings, ... and made them welcome in their houses.... The Welsh entered into familiarity with the fairies in the time of Henry IV., and the evil then increased; the severe laws of that prince enjoining, among other things, that they were not to bring up their children to learning, etc., by which a total darkness came upon them; which cruel laws were occasioned by the rebellion of Owen Glandwr, and the Welsh which joined with him; foolishly thinking to shake off the Saxon yoke before they had repented of their sins.' Whatever their locally accepted causes of being may be, it is beyond any question that in the fairy folk-lore of Wales, as of other lands, are to be found the _débris_ of ancient mythology--scintillant fragments of those magic constellations which glow in the darkness of primeval time, grand and majestic as the vast Unknown out of which they were evolved by barbaric fancy. Through the aid of modern scientific research, 'those ages which the myths of centuries have peopled with heroic shadows'[63] are brought nearer to us, and the humble Welsh Tylwyth Teg may reach back and shake hands with the Olympian gods. [Illustration: "THE HUMBLE 'TYLWYTH TEG' SHAKE HANDS WITH THE OLYMPIAN GODS."] FOOTNOTE: [63] Marquis of Bute, address before the Royal Archæological Institute, Cardiff meeting. BOOK II. THE SPIRIT-WORLD. Where the wan spectres walk eternal rounds. POPE. _Miranda._ What is't? a spirit? Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, It carries a brave form:--But 'tis a spirit. SHAKSPEARE: _Tempest_. CHAPTER I. Modern Superstition regarding Ghosts--American 'Spiritualism'--Welsh Beliefs--Classification of Welsh Ghosts--Departed Mortals--Haunted Houses--Lady Stradling's Ghost--The Haunted Bridge--The Legend of Catrin Gwyn--Didactic Purpose in Cambrian Apparitions--An Insulted Corpse--Duty-performing Ghosts--Laws of the Spirit-World--Cadogan's Ghost. I. In an age so given to mysticism as our own, it is unnecessary to urge that the Welsh as a people are not more superstitious regarding spirits than other peoples. Belief in the visits to earth of disembodied spirits is common to all lands. There are no doubt differences in the degree of this belief, as there are differences in matters of detail. Where or how these spirits exist are questions much more difficult to the average faith than why they exist. They exist for the moral good of man; of this there prevails no doubt. The rest belongs to the still unsettled science of the Unknowable. That form of mysticism called 'spiritualism' by its disciples is dignified to the thoughtful observer by being viewed as a remnant of the primeval philosophy. When we encounter, in wandering among the picturesque ghosts of the Welsh spirit-world, last-century stories displaying details exactly similar to those of modern spiritualism, our interest is strongly aroused. The student of folk-lore finds his materials in stories and beliefs which appear to be of a widespread family, rather than in stories and beliefs which are unique; and the spirit of inquiry is constantly on the alert, in following the details of a good old ghost story, however fascinating it may be in a poetic sense. The phantoms of the Welsh spirit-world are always picturesque; they are often ghastly; sometimes they are amusing to the point of risibility; but besides, they are instructive to him whose purpose in studying is, to know. That this age is superstitious with regard to ghosts, is not wonderful; all ages have been so; the wonder is that this age should be so and yet be the possessor of a scientific record so extraordinary as its own. An age which has brought forth the magnetic telegraph, steamships and railway engines, sewing-machines, mowing-machines, gas-light, and innumerable discoveries and inventions of marvellous utility--not to allude to those of our own decade--should have no other use for ghostology than a scientific one. But it would be a work as idle as that of the Coblynau themselves, to point out how universal among the most civilised nations is the superstition that spirits walk. The 'controls' of the modern spiritualistic seance have the world for their audience. The United States, a land generally deemed--at least by its inhabitants--to be the most advanced in these directions of any on God's footstool, gave birth to modern spiritualism. Its disciples there compose a vast body of people, respectable and worthy people in the main (as the victims of superstition usually are), among whom are many men of high intellectual ability. With the masses, some degree of belief in the spirits is so nearly universal that I need hardly qualify the adjective. In a country where there is practically no such class as that represented in Europe by the peasantry, the rampancy of such a belief is a phenomenon deserving close and curious study. The present work affords no scope for this study, of course. But I may here mention in further illustration of my immediate theme, the constant appearance, in American communities, of ghosts of the old-fashioned sort. Especially in the New England states, which are notable for their enlightenment, are ghost-stories still frequent--such as that of the haunted school-house at Newburyport, Mass., where a disembodied spirit related its own murder; of the ghost of New Bedford, which struck a visitor in the face, so that he yet bears the marks of the blow; of the haunted house at Cambridge, in the classic shadow of Harvard College. It is actually on record in the last-named case, that the house fell to decay on account of its ghastly reputation, as no one would live in it; that a tenant who ventured to occupy it in 1877 was disturbed by the spirit of a murdered girl who said her mortal bones were buried in his cellar; and that a party of men actually dug all night in that cellar in search of those bones, while the ghost waltzed in a chamber overhead. The more common form of spirit peculiar to our time appears constantly in various parts of the country; it is continually turning up in the American newspapers, rapping on walls, throwing stones, tipping over tables, etc. 'Mediums' of every grade of shrewdness and stupidity, and widely differing degrees of education and ignorance, flourish abundantly. Occasionally, where revelations of murder have been made to a mortal by a spirit, the police have taken the matter in hand. It is to be observed as a commendable practice in such cases, that the mortal is promptly arrested by the police if there has really been a murder; and when the fact appears, as it sometimes does, that the mortal had need of no ghost to tell him what he knows, he is hanged. II. The Welsh dearly love to discuss questions of a spiritual and religious nature, and there are no doubt many who look upon disbelief herein as something approaching paganism. That one should believe in God and a future life, and yet be utterly incredulous as to the existence of a mundane spirit-world, seems to such minds impossible. It is not many years since the clergy taught a creed of this sort. One must not only believe in a spiritual existence, but must believe in that existence here below--must believe that ghosts walked, and meddled, and made disagreeable noises. Our friend the Prophet Jones taught this creed with energy. In his relation of apparitions in Monmouthshire, he says: 'Enough is said in these relations to satisfy any reasonable sober-minded person, and to confute this ancient heresy, now much revived and spreading, especially among the gentry, and persons much estranged from God and spiritual things; and such as will not be satisfied with things plainly proved and well designed; are, in this respect, no better than fools, and to be despised as such.... They are chiefly women and men of weak and womanish understandings, who speak against the accounts of spirits and apparitions. In some women this comes from a certain proud fineness, excessive delicacy, and a superfine disposition which cannot bear to be disturbed with what is strange and disagreeable to a vain spirit.' Nor does the Prophet hesitate to apply the term 'Sadducees' to all doubters of his goblins. His warrant for this is found in Wesley and Luther. That Luther saw apparitions, or believed he did, is commonly known. Wesley's beliefs in this direction, however, are of a nearer century, and strike us more strangely; though it must be said that the Prophet Jones, in our own century, believed more than either of his eminent prototypes. 'It is true,' wrote Wesley, 'that the English in general, and indeed most of the men in Europe, have given up all accounts of witches and apparitions as mere old wives' fables. I am sorry for it, and I willingly take this opportunity of entering my solemn protest against this violent compliment which so many that believe the Bible pay to those who do _not_ believe it.... They well know, whether Christians know it or not, that the giving up witchcraft is, in effect, giving up the Bible. And they know, on the other hand, that if but one account of the intercourse of men with separate spirits be admitted, their whole castle in the air--deism, atheism, materialism--falls to the ground.' III. The ghosts of Wales present many well-defined features. It is even possible to classify them, after a fashion. Of course, as with all descriptions of phantoms, the vagueness inevitable in creatures of the imagination is here; but the ghosts of Welsh tradition are often so old, and have been handed down so cleanly through successive generations, that in our day they have almost acquired definite outlines, as in the case of images arising from the perceptions. Always bearing in mind the risk of being lost in the labyrinthine eccentricities of popular fancy, compared to which the Arsinoë of Herodotus was unperplexing, I venture to classify the inhabitants of the Welsh spirit-world thus: 1. Departed Mortals; 2. Goblin Animals; 3. Spectres of Natural Objects; 4. Grotesque Ghosts; 5. Familiar Spirits; 6. Death Omens. IV. The ghosts of departed mortals are usually the late personal acquaintances of the people who see them. But sometimes they are strangers whom nobody knows, and concerning whom everybody is curious. Two such ghosts haunted the streets of Ebbw Vale, in Glamorganshire, in January, 1877. One was in the shape of an old woman, the other in that of a girl child. Timid people kept indoors after nightfall, and there were many who believed thoroughly in the ghostly character of the mysterious visitors. Efforts were made to catch them, but they eluded capture. It was hinted by materialists that they were thieves; by unbelievers in spiritualism that they had perhaps escaped from a seance in some adjoining town. These ghosts, however, are not very interesting. A cultivated moderner can have no satisfaction in forming the acquaintance of a seance ghost; it is quite otherwise in the case of a respectable old family goblin which has haunted a friend's house in the most orthodox manner for centuries. Such ghosts are numerous in Wales, and quite faithfully believed in by selected individuals. Indeed one of the highest claims to a dignified antiquity that can be put in by a Welsh family mansion, is the possession of a good old-fashioned blood-curdling spectre--like that, for example, which has haunted Duffryn House, a handsome stone manse near Cardiff, for the past two hundred years and more. This is the ghost of the doughty admiral Sir Thomas Button, famed in his day as an Arctic navigator. Since his death he has faithfully haunted (so the local farm folk say) the cellar and the garden of Duffryn House, where he lived, when he did live, which was in the 17th century. He has never been known to appear in hall or chamber of the mansion, within the memory of man, but has been seen hovering over the beer butt or tun in the cellar, commemorated in his name, and walking in the flower-garden of a fine windy night. It is noteworthy that in Wales it is by no means necessary that a house should be tenantless, mortally speaking, merely because a ghost haunts it. The dreary picture of desolation drawn by Hood, the all-sufficient explanation of which was-- ... the place is haunted! would not recall the smug tidiness of Duffryn House, whose clean-cut lawns and well-trimmed hedges are fit surroundings of a mansion where luxurious comfort reigns. A ghost which confines itself to the cellar and the garden need disturb neither the merrymaking nor the slumbers of the guests. St. Donat's Castle is down on the southern coast of Glamorganshire, in a primitive region not yet profaned by railroads, nor likely to be perhaps for many years to come. It is owned and inhabited by a worthy gentleman whose ancestors for seven centuries sleep in the graveyard under the old castle wall. Its favourite ghost--for to confine this or any other ancient Welsh castle to a single ghost would be almost disrespectful--is that of Lady Stradling, who was done away with by some of her family in those wicked old times when families did not always dwell in peace together. This ghost makes a practice of appearing when any mishap is about to befall a member of the house of Stradling--the direct line of which is, however, extinct, a fact not very well apprehended among the neighbouring peasantry. She wears high-heeled shoes and a long trailing gown of the finest silk. In this guise doth she wander up and down the long majestic halls and chambers, and, while she wanders, the castle hounds refuse to rest, but with their howlings raise all the dogs of the village under the hill. V. Ghosts of this sort are vague and purposeless in character, beyond a general blood-curdling office which in all ghosts doth dwell. They haunt not only castles and family mansions, but bridges, rocks, and roads, objectless but frightful. The ghost of Pont Cwnca Bach, near Yscanhir, in Carmarthenshire, frightens people off the bridge into the rivulet. Many belated peasants have had this dire experience at the little bridge, afterwards wandering away in a dazed condition, and finding themselves on recovering at some distance from home, often in the middle of a bog. In crossing this bridge people were seized with 'a kind of _cold dread_,' and felt 'a peculiar sensation' which they could not describe, but which the poorest fancy can no doubt imagine. Another purposeless spectre exists in the legend of Catrin Gwyn, told in Cardiganshire. The ruin of a shepherd's cottage, standing on a mountain waste near the river Rheidol, is the haunt of this spectre. A peasant who was asked to escort a stranger up the narrow defile of rocks by the ruin, in horror exclaimed, 'Yn enw y daioni, peidiwch,' (in the name of heaven, sir, don't go!) 'or you'll meet White Catti of the Grove Cave.' 'And what's that?' 'An evil spirit, sir.' And the superstitious peasant would neither be laughed nor reasoned out of his fears. Catrin was the bride of a young shepherd living near Machynlleth in 1705. One day she went to market with a party of other peasants, who separated from her on the return way at a point two miles from Gelli Gogo. She was never more seen alive. A violent storm arose in the night, and next day a scrap of her red cloak was found on the edge of a frightful bog, in which she is believed to have disappeared in the darkness and storm. The husband went mad; their cottage fell to decay; and to this day the shepherds declare that Catti's ghost haunts the spot. It is most often seen, and in its most terrific shape, during howling storms, when it rides on the gale, shrieking as it goes.[64] FOOTNOTE: [64] 'Camb. Quarterly,' i., 452. VI. Few Cambrian spirits are devoid of a didactic purpose. Some teach reverence for the dead,--a lesson in great request among the rising generation in Wales and elsewhere. The church at Tregaron, Cardiganshire, was being rebuilt in 1877, and certain skulls were turned up by the diggers in making new foundations. The boys of Tregaron amused themselves playing ball with the skulls, picking out their teeth, banging them against the wall to see if they would break, and the like.[65] They probably never heard the story told by Mrs. Morgan of Newport to the Prophet Jones: of some people who were drinking at an inn there, 'two of them officers of excise,' when one of the men, to show his courage, declared he was afraid of no ghosts, and dared go to the charnel house and fetch a skull from that ghastly place. This bold and dangerous thing he did, and the men debated, over their beer, whether it was a male or a female skull, and concluded it was a woman's, 'though the grave nearly destroys the difference between male and female before the bones are turned to dust, and the difference then quite destroyed and known only to God.' After a jolly hour over the skull, the bold one carried it back and left it where he got it; but as he was leaving the church, suddenly a tremendous blast like a whirlwind seized him, and so mauled and hauled him that his teeth chattered in his head and his knees knocked together, and he ever after swore that nothing should tempt him to such a deed again. He was still more convinced that the ghost of the original owner of the skull had been after him, when he got home, and his wife told him that his cane, which hung in the room, had been beating against the wall in a dreadful manner. FOOTNOTE: [65] 'Western Mail,' Dec. 14, 1877. VII. As a rule, the motive for the reappearance on earth of a spirit lately tenanting a mortal body, is found in some neglected duty. The spirit of a suicide is morally certain to walk: a reason why suicides are so unpopular as tenants of graveyards. It is a brave man who will go to the grave of a suicide and play 'Hob y deri dando' on the ysturmant (jew's-harp), without missing a note. Many are the tales displaying the motive, on the ghost's part, of a duty to perform--sometimes clearly defining it, sometimes vaguely suggesting it, as in the story of Noe. 'The evening was far gone when a traveller of the name of Noe arrived at an inn in Pembrokeshire, and called for refreshment. After remaining some time he remarked that he must proceed on his journey. "Surely," said the astonished landlord, "you will not travel at night, for it is said that a ghost haunts that road, crying out, The days are long and the nights are cold to wait for Noe." "O, I am the man sought for," said he, and immediately departed; but strange to say, neither Noe nor the ghost was ever heard of afterwards.'[66] The ghost of a weaver, which appeared to Walter John Harry, had a very clear idea of the duty he must perform: Walter John Harry was a Quaker, a harmless, honest man, and by trade a farrier, who lived in the romantic valley of Ebwy Fawr. The house he lived in was haunted by the ghost of Morgan Lewis, a weaver, who had died in that house. One night, while lying awake in his bed, with his wife sleeping by his side, Harry saw a light slowly ascending the stairs, and being somewhat afraid, though he was naturally a fearless man, strove to awake his wife by pinching her, but could not awake her. So there he lay in great fear, and with starting eyes beheld the ghost of the weaver come up the stairs, bearing a candle in its hand, and wearing a white woollen cap on its head, with other garments usual to the weaver when alive. The ghost came near the farrier's bed, who then mustered up courage to speak to it. 'Morgan Lewis,' said Harry, 'why dost thou walk this earth?' The ghost replied with great solemnity, that its reason for so doing was that there were some 'bottoms of wool' hidden in the wall of this house, and until these said bottoms were removed from the wall it could not sleep. The ghost did not say this wool had been stolen, but such was the inference. However, the harmless farrier spoke severely to the ghost, saying, 'I charge thee, Morgan Lewis, in the name of God, that thou trouble my house no more.' Whereupon the ghost vanished, and the house ceased thereafter to be haunted. The motives animating ghosts are much the same the world over, and these details have no greater novelty than that of the local colouring. European peoples are familiar with the duty-compelled ghost; but it is odd to encounter the same spectre in China. The most common form of Chinese ghost-story is that wherein the ghost seeks to bring to justice the murderer who shuffled off its mortal coil. The ghosts of suicides are also especially obnoxious there. The spectres which are animated by a sense of duty are more frequently met than any others: now they seek to serve virtue in distress, now they aim to restore wrongfully-held treasure.[67] FOOTNOTES: [66] 'Camb. Sup.,' 31. [67] Dennys, 'Folk-Lore of China,' 73. VIII. The laws governing the Welsh spirit-world are clear and explicit. A ghost on duty bent has no power of speech until first spoken to. Its persistency in haunting is due to its eager desire to speak, and tell its urgent errand, but the person haunted must take his courage in both hands and put the question to the issue. Having done so, he is booked for the end of the business, be it what it may. The mode of speech adopted must not vary, in addressing a spirit; in the name of the Father, Son, or Holy Ghost it must be addressed, and not otherwise. Its business must be demanded; three times the question must be repeated, unless the ghost answer earlier. When it answers, it speaks in a low and hollow voice, stating its desire; and it must not be interrupted while speaking, for to interrupt it is dangerous in the extreme. At the close of its remarks, questions are in order. They must be promptly delivered, however, or the ghost will vanish. They must bear on the business in hand: it is offended if asked as to its state, or other idle questions born of curiosity. Neglect to obey the ghost's injunctions will lead to much annoyance, and eventually to dire results. At first the spirit will appear with a discontented visage, next with an angry one, and finally with a countenance distorted with the most ferocious rage. Obedience is the only method of escape from its revenge. Such is a _resumé_ of the laws. The illustrations thereof are generally consistent in their details. The story of Cadogan's ghost is one of many in kind. Thomas Cadogan was the owner of a large estate in the parish of Llanvihangel Llantarnam, and being a covetous man did wickedly remove his landmarks in such a way as to absorb to himself part of the land of a widow his neighbour. After his death this injustice troubled him, and as a certain woman was going home one night, at a stile she passed over she met Cadogan's ghost. By a strange forgetfulness, this woman for the moment lost sight of the fact that Cadogan was now a ghost; she had momentarily forgotten that Cadogan was dead. 'Mr. Cadogan,' said she, with ungrammatical curiosity, 'what does you here this time o' night?' To which the ghost answered, 'I was obliged to come.' It then explained the matter of the landmarks, and begged the woman to request a certain person (whom it mentioned) to remove them back to their proper places; and then the ghost vanished. At this unexpected termination of the interview, the woman suddenly recollected Cadogan's death, and fell into a state of extreme terror. She however did as the ghost had bidden her, and Cadogan walked no more. CHAPTER II. Household Ghosts and Hidden Treasures--The Miser of St. Donat's--Anne Dewy's Ghost--The Ghost on Horseback--Hidden Objects of Small Value--Transportation through the Air--From Breconshire to Philadelphia, Pa., in Thirty-Six Hours--Sir David Llwyd, the Magician--The Levitation of Walter Jones--Superstitions regarding Hares--The Legend of Monacella's Lambs--Aerial Transportation in Modern Spiritualism--Exorcising Household Ghosts--The Story of Haunted Margaret. I. The majority of stories of this class turn on the subject of hidden treasures. The popular belief is that if a person die while any hoarded money--or indeed metal of any kind, were it nothing more than old iron--is still hidden secretly, the spirit of that person cannot rest. Its perturbation can only be relieved by finding a human hand to take the hidden metal, and throw it down the stream of a river. To throw it up the stream, will not do. The Ogmore is the favourite river for this purpose in lower Glamorganshire. The spirit selects a particular person as the subject of its attentions, and haunts that person till asked what it wants, when it prefers its request. Some say it is only ill-gotten treasure which creates this disturbance of the grave's repose. A tailor's wife at Llantwit Major, who had been a stout and jolly dame, was thus haunted until she was worn to the semblance of a skeleton, 'for not choosing to take a hoard honestly to the Ogmore.' But flesh and blood could not resist for ever, and so--this is her story: 'I at last consented, for the sake of quiet, to take the treasure to the river; and the spirit wafted me through the air so high that I saw below me the church loft, and all the houses, as if I leaned out of a balloon. When I took the treasure to throw it into the river, in my flurry I flung it up stream instead of down: and on this the spirit, with a savage look, tossed me into a whirlwind, and however I got back to my home I know not.' The bell-ringers found her lying insensible in the church lane, as they were going home from church late in the evening. II. There was an old curmudgeon of a money-hoarder who lived in a cottage on the side of the cwm, or dingle, at St. Donat's, not far from the Castle. His housekeeper was an antique dame of quaint aspect. He died, and the dame lived there alone; but she began to grow so gaunt and grizzly that people wondered at it, and the children ran frightened from her. Some one finally got from her the confession that she was haunted by the miser's ghost. To relieve her of its presence the Methodists resolved to hold a prayer-meeting in the haunted house. While they were there singing and praying the old woman suddenly jumped up and screamed, 'There he is! there he is!' The people grew silent. Then some one said, 'Ask it what it wants.' 'What do you want?' quavered the old woman. No one heard the reply, except the dame, who presently said: 'Where is it?' Then the old woman, nodding and staring as if obeying an invisible mandate, groped her way to the chimney, thrust her gaunt arm up, and drew down a bag of money. With this she cried out, 'Let me go! let me go!' which, no one preventing her, she did, as quickly as a flash of light. Some young men by the door followed her, and, it being a bright moonlight night, beheld her whisk over the stile without touching it, and so off up the road towards the Ogmore. The people now resumed their praying and singing. It was an hour before the old woman got back, and then she was found to be spattered with mud and bedraggled with wet, as if she had been having a terrific time. She had indeed, as she confessed, been to the Ogmore, and thrown the bag of money down the stream; the ghost had then taken off its hat, made a low bow, and vanished, to trouble her no more. III. A young man from Llywel parish, who was courting a lass who lodged at the house of Thomas Richard, in the vale of Towy, found himself haunted as he went to and fro by the ghost of Anne Dewy, a woman who had hanged herself. She would not only meet him in the road, and frighten him, but she would come to his bedside, and so scare him that he fell ill. While he was ill his cousin came to see him, and thinking his illness was due to his being crossed in love, rallied him, saying, 'Wfft! thou'rt sick because thy cariad has refused thee.' But being gravely answered, and told of Anne Dewy's ghost, this cousin advised the haunted man to speak to her. 'Speak to her,' said he, 'or thou wilt have no quiet. I will go with thee, and see thou shalt have no harm.' So they went out, and called at Tafarn y Garreg, an inn not far off; but the haunted man could not drink, and often looked towards the door. 'What ails the man?' asked the tap-room loungers. He continued to be uneasy, and finally went out, his cousin following him, and then he saw the ghost again. 'Oh God, here she is!' he cried out, his teeth chattering and his eyes rolling. 'This is a sad thing,' said his cousin: 'I know not what to think of thee; but come, I will go with thee, go where thou wilt.' They returned to the ale-house, and after a while the haunted man started up, saying he was called, but when others offered to go with him he said no, he must go alone. He did go alone, and spoke to the ghost, who said, 'Fear nothing; follow me.' She led him to a spot behind the house where she had lived when in the flesh, and where she had hanged herself, and bade him take from the wall a small bag. He did so. The bag contained 'a great sum of money,' in pieces of gold; he guessed it might be 200_l._ or more. But the ghost, greatly to his regret, bade him go and cast it into the river. He obeyed, against his better judgment. The next day, and for many a day thereafter, people looked for that money where he had thrown it in the river, but it never could be found. The Rev. Thomas Lewis, a dissenting minister in those parts, saw the place in the wall where the money had been hid, in the haunted house, and wondered how the young man could reach it, it being so very high; but thought it likely he was assisted by the ghost. IV. This same Rev. Thomas Lewis was well acquainted with a man who was similarly employed by a perturbed spirit, and was at the man's bedside when he died. This ghost was in appearance a clergyman, dressed in black clothes, with a white wig on. As the man was looking out of an ale-house window one night, he saw this ghost on horseback, and went out to him. The ghost bowed and silently offered him drink; but this was declined. Thereupon the ghost lifted his hat, crooked his elbow, and said in a hollow tone, 'Attoch chwi, syr,' (towards you, sir). But others who were there could see nothing and hear nothing. The ghost then said, 'Go to Clifford Castle, in Radnorshire, take out some money which lies hidden there, and throw it into the river. Do this, I charge thee, or thou shalt have no rest.' Further and more explicit directions were then given, and the unhappy man set out, against his will, for Clifford Castle, which is the castle in which was born Fair Rosamond, King Henry II.'s beautiful favourite. No one but himself was allowed to enter the castle, although he was permitted to have a friend's company to the ruined gate thereof. It was dark when they came to the castle, but he was guided to the place where the money was, and ran with it and flung it into the river. After that he was haunted no more. An old house at Ty'n-y-Twr, in Carnarvonshire, was haunted by a ghost whose troubles were a reversal of the rule. A new tenant, who took possession of the house a few years ago, was so bothered by this spectre that he resolved to question it. He did so and got for answer the information that if he would deposit a particular sum of money in a specified place, his ghostship would cease to walk. The man actually did this, and it acted like magic. The money disappeared with promptitude, and the ghost came there no more. A man at Crumlyn, Monmouthshire, was haunted by a ghost whose trouble related to a hidden object of small value. Nevertheless the spectre was so importunate that the man set out one night to accompany it to the scene of perturbation. In due time they came to a huge stone, which the ghost bade its friend lift up, who replied that he had not sufficient strength, it being a pretty large rock he was thus requested to move. 'But try,' said the ghost. So he tried, and lo! it was lifted as if it had been a feather. He drew forth a pike, or mattock; 'and the light,' the man afterwards related, 'was as great as if the sun shone; and in the snow there was no impression of the feet of either of us.' They went to the river, and by the ghost's command the man threw the pike over his head into the water, standing with his back to the flood. The ghost then conducted him home, and never troubled him more. But for a long time after he was out of his senses. This was an illustration, according to the popular belief, of the wickedness of hiding anything, however trifling its value--a practice strongly condemned by the Welsh peasantry. There is a Glamorganshire story about a certain young man who, returning late at night from courting his sweetheart, felt tired, and sitting down fell asleep. He had not slept long when he was aroused by a strange noise, and looking up recognised the ghost of his departed grandfather. Enquiring the cause of the old gentleman's visit to this scene of trials, he got this answer: 'Under the corner of the thatch of your roof, look and you will find a pair of silver spurs, surreptitiously obtained by me when in the flesh, and hidden there. Throw them into the river Taff, and I shall be at peace.' The young man obeyed these instructions, and found the spurs accordingly; and although many persons were present when he climbed to the roof and fumbled under the thatch, and saw him in the very act, not one among them could see the spurs, which were to them invisible. They said, however, that when the purloined spurs had been thrown into the river, a bright flame was seen to flash along the water. V. A large proportion of these stories of ghostly perturbation concerning hidden treasure include a further feature of great interest, relating to transportation through the air. I have mentioned that ghosts sometimes employ the services of the fairy Boobach in thus carrying mortals from place to place. The fairies of Wales are indeed frequently found to be on the best of terms with the ghosts. Their races have much in common, and so many of their practices are alike that one is not always absolutely sure whether he is dealing with a fairy or a spectre, until some test-point crops up. However, in transporting a mortal through the air, ghost and fairy work together. The Boobach being set his task, complaisantly gives the mortal the choice of being transported above wind, amid wind, or below wind. The value of knowing beforehand what to expect, was never better illustrated than in this place. The mortal who, with a natural reluctance to get into an unpleasantly swift current, avoids travelling mid-wind, misses a pleasant journey, for mid-wind is the only agreeable mode of being borne by a Boobach. Should you choose to go above wind, you are transported so high that you skim the clouds and are in danger of being frightened to death. But choosing the below-wind course is even worse, for then you are dragged through bush, through briar, in a way to impress upon you the advice of Apollo to Phaeton, and teach you the value of the golden mean. _In medio tutissimus ibis._ VI. In the parish of Ystradgynlais, in Breconshire, Thomas Llewellyn, an innkeeper's son, was often troubled by the spirit of a well-dressed woman, who used to stand before him in narrow lanes, as if to bar his passage, but he always got by her, though in great alarm. One night he mustered up courage to speak to her, and ask her what she wanted with him. To which she replied, 'Be not afraid; I will not hurt thee.' Then she told him he must go to 'Philadelphia in Pennsylvania,' and take a box from a house there, (which she described,) in which there was a sum of 200_l._ But as he did not know how to go to that far-off place, he said as much. 'Meet me here next Friday night,' said the phantom; 'meet me, I charge thee.' She then vanished. The young man went home and told this story to his neighbours and friends. They held a consultation with the curate of the parish, who promptly appointed a prayer-meeting for that Friday night, to which the young man was bidden, and by which it was hoped the purpose of the ghost to spirit him off to Philadelphia might be circumvented. The meeting continued until midnight, and when it broke up the young man's friends stayed with him; but they had no sooner got beyond the parson's stables than he was taken from among them. His subsequent adventures are thus related by himself: 'The apparition carried me away to a river, and threw me into it, chiding me for telling the people of our appointed meeting and for not coming to meet her as she had charged me; but bade me be not afraid, that she would not hurt me, because she had not charged me to be silent on the subject; nevertheless I had done wrong to go to the parson's house. Now, said she, we begin the journey. I was then lifted up and carried away I know not how. When I came to the place,' (in Philadelphia,) 'I was taken into a house, and conducted to a fine room. The spirit then bade me lift up a board, which I did. I then saw the box, and took it. Then the spirit said I must go three miles and cast it into the black sea. We went, as I thought, to a lake of clear water, where I was commanded to throw the box into it; which when I did there was such a noise as if all about was going to pieces. From thence I was taken up and carried to the place where I was first taken up. I then asked her, Am I free now? She said I was; and then she told me a secret, which she strictly charged me to tell no person.' Extensive and ingenious guessing was indulged in by all Ystradgynlais, as to what this secret might be; and one woman made herself popular by remembering that there was a certain Elizabeth Gething in other days who had gone from this neighbourhood to Pennsylvania, and the conclusion was eagerly arrived at, that this was the woman whose phantom the young man saw, and that the secret she told him was her name when alive. They questioned him as to her appearance, and he said she was largely made, very pale, her looks severe, and her voice hollow, different from a human voice. This was considered by the Ystradgynlaisians, with many nods to each other, as a most accurate description of what Elizabeth Gething would probably be, after having shuffled off this mortal coil. The time occupied in this mysterious transportation and ghostly enterprise was three days and three nights; that is, from Friday night to Monday night; and when the voyager came home he could scarcely speak. VII. Sir David Llwyd, the Welsh magician, was once at Lanidloes town, in Montgomeryshire, and as he was going home late at night, saw a boy there from his neighbourhood. He asked the lad if he would like to ride home behind him, and receiving an affirmative reply, took the boy up behind on the horse's back. They rode so swiftly that they were home in no time, and the boy lost one of his garters in the journey. The next day, seeing something hanging in the ash-tree near the church, he climbed up to learn what it was, and to his great surprise found it was the garter he had lost. 'Which shows they rode home in the air,' observes the Prophet Jones in telling the story. Mr. Jones has a number of extraordinary narratives of this class--e.g., the following, which I condense: Henry Edmund, of Hafodafel, was one night visiting Charles Hugh, the conjuror of Aberystruth, and they walked together as far as Lanhiddel, where Hugh tried to persuade his companion to stay all night with him at a public house. Edmund refused, and said he would go home. 'You had _better_ stay,' said Hugh in a meaning tone. But Edmund went out into the street, when he was seized by invisible hands and borne through the air to Landovery, in Carmarthenshire, a distance of fully fifty miles as the crow flies. There he was set down at a public house where he had before been, and talked with people who knew him. He then went out into the street, when he was seized again and borne back to Lanhiddel, arriving there the next morning at daybreak. The first man he met was the conjuror Charles Hugh, who said, 'Did I not tell you you had better stay with me?' VIII. The landlord of the inn at Langattock Crickhowel, in Breconshire, was a man called Richard the Tailor. He was more than suspected of resorting to the company of fairies, and of practising infernal arts. One day a company of gentlemen were hunting in that vicinity, when the hounds started a hare, which ran so long and so hard that everybody was prostrated with fatigue; and this hare disappeared from view at the cellar window of the inn kept by Richard the Tailor. The circumstance begat a suspicion among the hunters that the hare which had so bothered them was none other than Richard the Tailor himself, and that his purpose in taking that form had been to lead them a dance and bring them to the door of his inn at an hour too late for them to return home, thus compelling them to spend their money there. They stayed, however, being very tired. But they growled very hard at their landlord and were perfectly free with their comments on his base conduct. One of their party, having occasion to go out-doors during the evening, did not come back; his name was Walter Jones, and he was well known in that part of the country. The company became uneasy at his absence, and began to abuse the landlord roundly, threatening to burn the house if Walter Jones did not return. Notwithstanding their threats, Walter Jones came not back all night. Late the next morning he made his appearance, looking like one who had been drawn through thorns and briars, with his hair in disorder, and his whole aspect terribly demoralised. His story was soon told. He had no sooner got out-doors than invisible hands had whisked him up, and whirled him along rough ways until daybreak, when he found himself near by the town of Newport, helping a man from Risca to raise a load of coal upon his horse. Suddenly he became insensible, and was whisked back again to the inn where they now saw him. The distance he traversed in going to and fro was about forty miles. And Walter Jones, who had hitherto been an ungodly man, mended his ways from that time forth. IX. There are many points in all these traditional stories which are suggestive of interesting comparisons, and constantly remind us of the significance of details which, at first sight, seem trivial. The supposed adoption of the hare form by the tailor recalls a host of mythological details. The hare has been identified with the sun-god Michabo of the American Indians, who sleeps through the winter months, and symbolises the sleep of nature precisely as in the fairy myth of the Sleeping Maiden, and the Welsh legends of Sleeping Heroes. Among the Hottentots, the hare figures as the servant of the moon. In China, the hare is viewed as a telluric genius in one province, and everywhere as a divine animal. In Wales, one of the most charming of the local legends relates how a hare flying from the hounds took refuge under a fair saint's robes, so that hares were ever after called Monacella's Lambs in that parish. Up to a comparatively recent time, no person in the parish would kill a hare. When a hare was pursued by dogs, it was firmly believed that if any one cried, 'God and St. Monacella be with thee,' it was sure to escape. The legend is related by Pennant, in his tour through Montgomeryshire: 'At about two miles distant from Llangynog, I turned up a small valley to the right, to pay my devotions to the shrine of St. Monacella, or, as the Welsh style her, Melangell.... She was the daughter of an Irish monarch, who had determined to marry her to a nobleman of his court. The princess had vowed celibacy. She fled from her father's dominions, and took refuge in this place, where she lived fifteen years without seeing the face of man. Brochwel Yscythrog, prince of Powys, being one day a hare-hunting, pursued his game till he came to a great thicket; when he was amazed to find a virgin of surprising beauty engaged in deep devotion, with the hare he had been pursuing under her robe, boldly facing the dogs, who retired to a distance, howling, notwithstanding all the efforts of the sportsmen to make them seize their prey. When the huntsman blew his horn, it stuck to his lips. Brochwel heard her story, and gave to God and her a parcel of lands to be a sanctuary to all who fled there. He desired her to found an abbey on the spot. She did so, and died abbess of it, in a good old age. She was buried in the neighbouring church.... Her hard bed is shown in the cleft of a neighbouring rock. Her tomb was in a little chapel, or oratory, adjoining to the church and now used as a vestry-room. This room is still called cell y bedd, (cell of the grave).... The legend is perpetuated by some rude wooden carvings of the saint, with numbers of hares scuttling to her for protection.' X. It is interesting to observe, in connection with the subject of transportation through the air, with what vitality this superstition lingers in modern spiritualism. The accounts of such transportation are familiar to every reader of newspapers. That Mr. Home was seen, by a learned English nobleman, sailing through the moonlight seventy feet from the ground, is on record; that Mrs. Guppy was transported from Highbury Park to Lamb's Conduit Street, in London, in a trance and a state of partial _déshabille_, is also on record; and that a well-known American spiritualist was borne by invisible hands from Chicago to Milwaukee and back, between midnight and 4 A.M., I have been assured by a number of persons in Illinois who thoroughly believed it, or said they did. But it certainly is not too much to demand, that people who give credence to these instances of aerial transportation should equally believe in the good old ghost stories of the Welsh. The same consistency calls for credulity as to the demoniacal elevation of Simon Magus, and the broomstick riding of the witches whose supernatural levitation was credited by Lord Bacon and Sir Matthew Hale, not to speak of Addison and Wesley. There is something peculiarly fascinating to the gross denizens of earth in this notion of skimming like a bird over house-tops. No dreams, save those of love and dalliance, are so charming to the dreamer as visions of flying; to find oneself floating along over the tops of trees, over the streets where less favoured mortals walk, to look down on them as they stroll, is to feel an exquisite pleasure. The mind of childhood and that of ignorance, alike unable to discriminate between reality and illusion, would naturally retain the impression of such a dream with peculiar vividness. The superstition has no doubt been fostered by this fact, although it, like most superstitions, began its career in pre-historic days. The same class of belief attaches to the magical lore of widely separated lands, in all ages. The magic carpet of the Arabian Nights finds its parallel to-day in the enchanted mat of the Chinese conjuror, which carries him from place to place, at a height of twenty or thirty feet in the air. The levitation involved is in Welsh story embodied in the person of Sgilti Yscawndroed; when he was sent on a message through the wood he went along the tops of the trees; in his whole life, a blade of reed grass never bent beneath his feet, so light was his tread.[68] FOOTNOTE: [68] Lady Charlotte Guest's 'Mabinogion,' 225. XI. It remains but to add, in connection with our household ghosts, that the method of exorcising such goblins in Wales is explicit. The objectionable spectre must be conjured, in the name of Heaven, to depart, and return no more. Not always is this exorcism effective; the ghost may have a specific purpose in hand, or it may be obstinate. The strength of the exorcism is doubled by employing the Latin language to deliver it; it receives its utmost power, however, through the clergy; three clergymen, it is thought, will exorcise any ghost that walks. The exorcism is usually for a stated period; seven years is the favourite time; one hundred years the limit. There are many instances where a ghost which had been laid a hundred years returned at the end of the time to its old haunts. In all cases it is necessary the ghost should agree to be exorcised; no power can lay it if it be possessed of an evil demon--a spirit within a spirit, as it were--which stubbornly refuses to listen to argument. In such cases the terrors of Heaven must be rigorously invoked; but the result is only temporary. Properly constituted family ghosts, however, will lend a reasonable ear to entreaty, backed by prayer. There are even cases on record where the ghost has been the entreater, as in the story of Haunted Margaret. Haunted Margaret, or Marget yr Yspryd, was a servant-girl who lived in the parish of Panteg. She had been seduced by a man who promised to marry her, and a day was set for their wedding; but when the day came, the man was not on hand, and Margaret thereupon fell on her knees in the church and prayed Heaven that her seducer might have no rest either in this world or in the world to come. In due course the man died, and immediately his ghost came to haunt Margaret Richard. People heard her in the night saying to the ghost, 'What dost thou want?' or 'Be quiet, let me alone;' and hence it was that she came to be known in that parish by the nickname of Marget yr Yspryd. One evening when the haunted woman was at the house of Mrs. Hercules Jenkins, at Trosdra, she began to be uneasy, and as it grew late said, 'I must go now, or else I shall be sure to meet him on the way home.' Mrs. Jenkins advised Margaret to speak to him; 'and tell him thou dost forgive him,' said the good dame. Margaret went her way, and as she drew near a stile at the end of a foot-bridge, she saw the ghost at the stile waiting for her. When she came up to it the ghost said, 'Do thou forgive me, and God will forgive thee. Forgive me and I shall be at rest, and never trouble thee any more.' Margaret then forgave him, and he shook hands with her in a friendly way, and vanished. CHAPTER III. Spectral Animals--The Chained Spirit--The Gwyllgi, or Dog of Darkness--The Legend of Lisworney-Crossways--The Gwyllgi of the Devil's Nags--The Dog of Pant y Madog--Terrors of the Brute Creation at Phantoms--Apparitions of Natural Objects--Phantom Ships and Phantom Islands. I. Of spectral animals there is no great diversity in Cambria, unless one should class under this head sundry poetic creatures which more properly belong to the domain of magic, or to fairyland. The spirits of favourite animals which have died return occasionally to visit their masters. Sometimes it is a horse, which is seen on a dark night looking in at the window, its eyes preternaturally large. More often it is the ghost of a dog which revisits the glimpses of the moon. Men sometimes become as fondly attached to a dog as they could to any human being, and, where the creed of piety is not too severe, the possibility of a dog's surviving after death in a better world is admitted. 'It is hard to look in that dog's eyes and believe,' said a Welshman to me, 'that he has not a bit of a soul to be saved.' The almost human companionship of the dog for man is a familiar fact. It is not strange, therefore, that the dog should be the animal whose spirit, in popular belief, shares the nature of man's after death. II. Sometimes the spirit in animal form is the spirit of a mortal, doomed to wear this shape for some offence. This again trenches on the ground of magic; but the ascription to the spirit-world is distinct in modern instances. There was a Rev. Mr. Hughes, a clergyman of the Church of England, in the isle and county of Anglesea, who was esteemed the most popular preacher thereabout in the last century, and upon this account was envied by the rest of the clergy, 'which occasioned his becoming a field preacher for a time, though he was received into the Church again.'[69] As he was going one night to preach, he came upon an artificial circle in the ground, between Amlwch village and St. Elian Church, where a spirit in the shape of a large greyhound jumped against him and threw him from his horse. This experience was repeated on a second night. The third night he went on foot, and warily; and now he saw that the spirit was chained. He drew near, but keeping beyond the reach of the chain, and questioned the spirit: 'Why troublest thou those that pass by?' The spirit replied that its unrest was due to a silver groat it had hidden under a stone when in the flesh, and which belonged to the church of St. Elian. The clergyman being told where the groat was, found it and paid it over to the church, and the chained spirit was released. FOOTNOTE: [69] Jones, 'Apparitions.' III. In the Gwyllgi, or Dog of Darkness, is seen a spirit of terrible form, well known to students of folk-lore. This is a frightful apparition of a mastiff, with a baleful breath and blazing red eyes which shine like fire in the night. It is huge in size, and reminds us of the 'shaggy mastiff larger than a steed nine winters old,' which guarded the sheep before the castle of Yspaddaden Pencawr. 'All the dead trees and bushes in the plain he burnt with his breath down to the very ground.'[70] The lane leading from Mousiad to Lisworney-Crossways, is reported to have been haunted by a Gwyllgi of the most terrible aspect. Mr. Jenkin, a worthy farmer living near there, was one night returning home from market on a young mare, when suddenly the animal shied, reared, tumbled the farmer off, and bolted for home. Old Anthony the farm-servant, found her standing trembling by the barn-door, and well knowing the lane she had come through suspected she had seen the Gwyllgi. He and the other servants of the farm all went down the road, and there in the haunted lane they found the farmer, on his back in the mud. Being questioned, the farmer protested it was the Gwyllgi and nothing less, that had made all this trouble, and his nerves were so shaken by the shock that he had to be supported on either side to get him home, slipping and staggering in the mud in truly dreadful fashion all the way. It is the usual experience of people who meet the Gwyllgi that they are so overcome with terror by its unearthly howl, or by the glare of its fiery eyes, that they fall senseless. Old Anthony, however, used to say that he had met the Gwyllgi without this result. As he was coming home from courting a young woman of his acquaintance (name delicately withheld, as he did not marry her) late one Sunday night--or it may have been Monday morning--he encountered in the haunted lane two large shining eyes, which drew nearer and nearer to him. He was dimly able to discern, in connection with the gleaming eyes, what seemed a form of human shape above, but with the body and limbs of a large spotted dog. He threw his hat at the terrible eyes, and the hat went whisking right through them, falling in the road beyond. However, the spectre disappeared, and the brave Anthony hurried home as fast as his shaking legs would carry him. As Mr. David Walter, of Pembrokeshire, 'a religious man, and far from fear and superstition,' was travelling by himself through a field called the Cot Moor, where there are two stones set up called the Devil's Nags, which are said to be haunted, he was suddenly seized and thrown over a hedge. He went there another day, taking with him for protection a strong fighting mastiff dog. When he had come near the Devil's Nags there appeared in his path the apparition of a dog more terrible than any he had ever seen. In vain he tried to set his mastiff on; the huge beast crouched frightened by his master's feet and refused to attack the spectre. Whereupon his master boldly stooped to pick up a stone, thinking that would frighten the evil dog; but suddenly a circle of fire surrounded it, which lighting up the gloom, showed the white snip down the dog's nose, and his grinning teeth, and white tail. 'He then knew it was one of the infernal dogs of hell.'[71] Rebecca Adams was 'a woman who appeared to be a true living experimental Christian, beyond many,' and she lived near Laugharne Castle, in Carmarthenshire. One evening when she was going to Laugharne town on some business, her mother dissuaded her from going, telling her she would be benighted, and might be terrified by some apparition at Pant y Madog. This was a pit by the side of the lane leading to Laugharne, which was never known to be dry, and which was haunted, as many had both seen and heard apparitions there. But the bold Rebecca was not to be frighted at such nonsense, and went her way. It was rather dark when she was returning, and she had passed by the haunted pit of Pant y Madog, and was congratulating herself on having seen no ghost. Suddenly she saw a great dog coming towards her. When within about four or five yards of her it stopped, squatted on its haunches, 'and set up such a scream, so loud, so horrible, and so strong, that she thought the earth moved under her.' Then she fell down in a swoon. When she revived it was gone; and it was past midnight when she got home, weak and exhausted. FOOTNOTES: [70] 'Mabinogion,' 230. [71] Jones, 'Apparitions.' IV. Much stress is usually laid, in accounts of the Gwyllgi, on the terror with which it inspires domestic animals. This confidence in the ability of the brute creation to detect the presence of a spirit, is a common superstition everywhere. An American journal lately gave an account of an apparition seen in Indiana, whose ghostly character was considered by the witnesses to be proven by the terror of horses which saw it. They were drawing the carriage in which drove the persons to whom the ghost appeared, and they shied from the road at sight of it, becoming unmanageable. The spectre soon dissolved in thin air and vanished, when the horses instantly became tractable. In Wales it is thought that horses have peculiarly this 'gift' of seeing spectres. Carriage horses have been known to display every sign of the utmost terror, when the occupants of the carriage could see no cause for fright; and in such cases a funeral is expected to pass there before long, bearing to his grave some person not dead at the time of the horses' fright. These phenomena are certainly extremely interesting, and well calculated to 'bid us pause,' though not, perhaps, for the purpose of considering whether a horse's eye can receive an image which the human retina fails to accept. Much weight will not be given to the fright of the lower animals, I fear, by any thoughtful person who has witnessed the terror of a horse at sight of a flapping shirt on a clothes-line, or that hideous monster a railway engine. Andrew Jackson Davis has a theory that we all bear about us an atmosphere, pleasing or repulsive, which can be detected by horses, dogs, and spiritual 'mediums;' this _aura_, being spiritual, surrounds us without our will or wish, goes where we go, but does not die when we die, and is the means by which a bloodhound tracks a slave, or a fond dog finds its master. Without denying the possibility of this theory, I must record that in my observation a dog has been found to smell his master most successfully when that master was most in need of a bath and a change of linen. Also, that when the master leaves off his coat he clearly leaves--if a dog's conduct be evidence--a part of his _aura_ with it. More worthy of serious attention is August Comte's suggestion that dogs and some other animals are perhaps capable of forming fetichistic notions. That dogs accredit inanimate objects with volition, to a certain extent, I am quite convinced. The thing which constitutes knowledge, in dogs as in human beings--that is to say, thought, organised by experience--corrects this tendency in animals as they grow older, precisely as it corrects the false conclusions of children, though never to the same extent. That a dog can think, I suppose no well-informed person doubts in these days. V. The Gwyllgi finds its counterpart in the Mauthe Doog of the Isle of Man and the Shock of the Norfolk coast. It there comes up out of the sea and travels about in the lanes at night. To meet it is a sign of trouble and death. The Gwyllgi also is confined to sea-coast parishes mainly, and although not classed among death-omens, to look on it is deemed dangerous. The hunting dogs, Cwn Annwn, or dogs of hell, whose habitat is the sky overhead, have also other attributes which distinguish them clearly from the Gwyllgi. They are death-omens, ancient of lineage and still encountered. The Gwyllgi, while suggesting some interesting comparisons with the old mythology, appears to have lost vogue since smuggling ceased to be profitable. VI. Confined to the coast, too, are those stories of phantom ships and phantom islands which, too familiar to merit illustration here, have their origin in the mirage. That they also touch the ancient mythology is undoubted; but their source in the mirage is probably true of the primeval belief as well as of the medieval, and that of our time. The Chinese also have the mirage, but not its scientific explanation, and hence of course their belief in its supernatural character is undisturbed. CHAPTER IV. Grotesque Ghosts--The Phantom Horseman--Gigantic Spirits--The Black Ghost of Ffynon yr Yspryd--Black Men in the Mabinogion--Whirling Ghosts--Antic Spirits--The Tridoll Valley Ghost--Resemblance to Modern Spiritualistic Performances--Household Fairies. I. The grotesque ghosts of Welsh folk-lore are often most diverting acquaintances. They are ghosts on horseback, or with coloured faces, or of huge and monstrous form; or they indulge in strange gymnastics, in whirling, throwing stones, or whistling. A phantom horseman, encountered by the Rev. John Jones, of Holywell, in Flintshire, as described by himself, is worthy of Heinrich Zschokke. This Mr. Jones was a preacher of extraordinary power, renowned and respected throughout Wales. He was one day travelling alone on horseback from Bala, in Merionethshire, to Machynlleth, Montgomeryshire, and as he approached a forest which lay in his way he was dogged by a murderous-looking man carrying a sharp sickle. The minister felt sure this man meditated an attack on his life, from his conduct in running crouched along behind hedges, and from his having met the man at the village inn of Llanuwchllyn, where the minister exposed his watch and purse. Presently he saw the man conceal himself at a place where the hedge was thick, and where a gate crossed the road; and feeling sure that here he should be attacked, he stopped his horse to reflect on the situation. No house was in sight, and the road was hidden by high hedges on either side. Should he turn back? 'In despair, rather than in a spirit of humble trust and confidence,' says the good man, 'I bowed my head, and offered up a silent prayer. At this juncture my horse, growing impatient of the delay, started off. I clutched the reins, which I had let fall on his neck, when, happening to turn my eyes, I saw, to my utter astonishment, that I was no longer alone: there, by my side, I beheld a horseman in a dark dress, mounted on a white steed. In intense amazement I gazed upon him. Where could he have come from? He appeared as suddenly as if he had sprung from the earth; he must have been riding behind and have overtaken me, and yet I had not heard the slightest sound. It was mysterious, inexplicable; but joy overcame my feelings of wonder, and I began at once to address my companion. I asked him if he had seen any one, and then described to him what had taken place, and how relieved I felt by his sudden appearance. He made no reply, and on looking at his face he seemed paying but slight attention to my words, but continued intently gazing in the direction of the gate, now about a quarter of a mile ahead. I followed his gaze, and saw the reaper emerge from his concealment and run across a field to our left, resheathing his sickle as he hurried along. He had evidently seen that I was no longer alone, and had relinquished his intended attempt.' Seeking to converse with the mysterious horseman, the minister found the phantom was speechless. In vain he addressed it in both Welsh and English; not a word did it utter, save that once the minister thought it said 'Amen,' to a pious remark. Suddenly it was gone. 'The mysterious horseman was gone; he was not to be seen; he had disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. What could have become of him? He could not have gone through the gate, nor have made his horse leap the high hedges, which on both sides shut in the road. Where was he? had I been dreaming? was it an apparition--a spectre, which had been riding by my side for the last ten minutes? was it but a creature of my imagination? I tried hard to convince myself that this was the case; but why had the reaper resheathed his murderous-looking sickle and fled? And then a feeling of profound awe began to creep over my soul. I remembered the singular way of his first appearance, his long silence, and the single word to which he had given utterance after I had mentioned the name of the Lord; the single occasion on which I had done so. What could I then believe but that ... in the mysterious horseman I had a special interference of Providence, by which I was delivered from a position of extreme danger?' II. Of gigantic ghosts there are many examples which are very grotesque indeed. Such was the apparition which met Edward Frank, a young man who lived in the parish of Llantarnam. As he was coming home one night he heard something walking towards him, but at first could see nothing. Suddenly his way was barred by a tall dismal object which stood in the path before him. It was the ghost of a marvellous thin man, whose head was so high above the observer's line of vision that he nearly fell over backward in his efforts to gaze at it. His knees knocked together and his heart sank. With great difficulty he gasped forth, 'In the name of God what is here? Turn out of my way or I will strike thee!' The giant ghost then disappeared, and the frightened Edward, seeing a cow not far off, went towards her to lean on her, which the cow stood still and permitted him to do. The naïveté of this conclusion is convincing. Equally prodigious was the spectre seen by Thomas Miles Harry, of the parish of Aberystruth. He was coming home by night from Abergavenny, when his horse took fright at something which it saw, but which its master could not see. Very much terrified, the latter hastened to guide the animal into an adjoining yard, and dismount; whereupon he saw the apparition of a gigantic woman. She was so prodigiously tall, according to the account of the horrified Harry, that she was fully half as high as the tall beech trees on the other side of the road; and he hastened to hide from his eyes the awful sight, by running into the house, where they listened open-mouthed to his tale. Concerning this Mr. Harry we are assured that he was of an affable disposition, innocent and harmless, and the grandfather of that eminent and famous preacher of the Gospel, Thomas Lewis, of Llanharan, in Glamorganshire.[72] The same narrator relates that Anne, the daughter of Herbert Jenkins, of the parish of Trefethin, 'a young woman well disposed to what is good,' was going one evening to milk the cows by Rhiw-newith, when as she passed through a wood she saw a horrible black man standing by a holly tree. She had with her a dog, which saw it also, and ran towards it to bark at it, upon which it stretched out a long black tongue, and the dog ran affrighted back to the young woman, crawling and cringing about her feet for fear. She was in great terror at all this, but had the courage still to go on after the cows, which had strayed into another field. She drove them back to their own field, and in passing the holly-tree avoided looking that way for fear of seeing the black man again. However, after she had got safely by she looked back, and saw the monster once more, 'very big in the middle and narrow at both ends,' and as it walked away the ground seemed to tremble under its heavy tread. It went towards a spring in that field called Ffynon yr Yspryd, (the Fountain of the Spirit,) where ghosts had been seen before, and crossing over the stile into the common way, it whistled so loud and strong that the narrow valley echoed and re-echoed with the prodigious sound. Then it vanished, much to the young woman's relief. FOOTNOTE: [72] Jones, 'Apparitions.' III. That giants should appear in the Welsh spirit-land will surprise no one, but the apparition of black men is more unique. The Mabinogion, however, are full of black men, usually giants, always terrible to encounter. The black man whom Peredur slew had but one eye, having lost the other in fighting with the black serpent of the Carn. 'There is a mound, which is called the Mound of Mourning; and on the mound there is a carn, and in the carn there is a serpent, and on the tail of the serpent there is a stone, and the virtues of the stone are such, that whosoever should hold it in one hand, in the other he will have as much gold as he may desire. And in fighting with this serpent was it that I lost my eye.'[73] In the 'Lady of the Fountain' mabinogi the same character appears: 'a black man ... not smaller in size than two of the men of this world,' and with 'one eye in the middle of his forehead.'[74] And there are other black men in other Mabinogion, indicating the extremely ancient lineage of the spectre seen by Anne Jenkins at the Fountain of the Spirit. Whatever Anglo-Saxon scoffers may say of Welsh pedigrees of mere flesh and blood, the antiquity of its spectral hordes may not be disputed. The black giant of Sindbad the Sailor and the monster woodward of Cynan alike descend from the Polyphemus blinded by Odysseus. FOOTNOTES: [73] 'Mabinogion,' 106. [74] Ibid., 6. IV. Another grotesque Welsh goblin goes whirling through the world. Three examples are given by the Prophet Jones. _First:_ Lewis Thomas, the father of the Rev. Thomas Lewis, was on his return from a journey, and in passing through a field near Bedwellty, saw this dreadful apparition, to wit, the spectre of a man walking or whirling along on its hands and feet; at sight of which Lewis Thomas felt his hair to move on his head; his heart panted and beat violently, 'his body trembled, and he felt not his clothes about him,' _Second:_ John Jenkins, a poor man, who lived near Abertillery, hanged himself in a hay-loft. His sister soon after came upon his dead body there hanging, and screamed loudly. Jeremiah James, who lived in Abertillery House, hearing the scream, looked in that direction and saw the 'resemblance of a man' coming from the hay-loft 'and violently turning upwards and downwards topsy turvy' towards the river, 'which was a dreadful sight to a serious godly man.' _Third:_ Thomas Andrew, living at a place called The Farm, in the parish of Lanhiddel, coming home late at night saw a whirling goblin on all fours by the side of a wall, which fell to scraping the ground and wagging its head, 'looking aside one way and the other,' making at the same time a horrible mowing noise; at which Thomas Andrew 'was terribly frightened.' V. The antics of these and similar inhabitants of the Cambrian spirit-world at times outdo the most absurd capers of modern spiritualism. At the house of a certain farmer in the parish of Llanllechid, in Carnarvonshire, there was great disturbance by a spirit which threw stones into the house, and from one room to another, which hit and hurt the people who lived there. The stones were of various sizes, the largest weighing twenty-seven pounds. Most of them were river stones, from the stream which runs hard by. Some clergymen came from Bangor and read prayers in the house, to drive the spirit away, but their faith was not strong enough, and stones were thrown at them, so that they retired from the contest. The family finally had to abandon the house. On the farm of Edward Roberts, in the parish of Llangunllo, in Radnorshire, there was a spirit whose antics were somewhat remarkable. As the servant-man was threshing, the threshel was taken out of his hand and thrown upon the hay-loft. At first he did not mind this so much, but when the trick had been repeated three or four times he became concerned about it, and went into the house to tell of it. The master of the house was away, but the wife and the maid-servant laughed at the man, and merrily said they would go to the barn to protect him. So they went out there and sat, the one to knit and the other to wind yarn. They were not there long before their things were taken from their hands and tumbled about the barn. On returning to the house, they perceived the dishes on the shelves move to and fro, and some were thrown on to the stone floor and broken. That night there was a terrible clattering among the dishes, and next morning they could scarcely tread without stepping on the wrecks of crockery which lay about. This pleasant experience was often repeated. Neighbours came to see. People even came from far to satisfy their curiosity--some from so far as Knighton; and one who came from Knighton to read prayers for the exorcising of the spirit, had the book taken out of his hand and thrown upstairs. Stones were often cast at the people, and once iron was projected from the chimney at them. At last the spirit set the house on fire, and nothing could quench it; the house was burnt down: nothing but the walls and the two chimneys stood, long after, to greet the eyes of people who passed to and from Knighton market. VI. A spirit which haunted the house of William Thomas, in Tridoll Valley, Glamorganshire, used to hit the maid-servant on the side of her head, as it were with a cushion, when she was coming down the stairs. 'One time she brought a marment of water into the house,' and the water was thrown over her person. Another time there came so great an abundance of pilchards in the sea, that the people could scarcely devour them, and the maid asked leave of her master to go and fetch some of them. 'No,' said he, being a very just man, 'the pilchards are sent for the use of poor people; we do not want them.' But the maid was very fond of pilchards, and so she went without leave, and brought some to the house. After giving a turn about the house, she went to look for her fish, and found them thrown out upon the dunghill. 'Well,' said her master, 'did not I tell thee not to go?' Once a pot of meat was on the fire, and when they took it off they found both meat and broth gone, none knew where, and the pot as empty as their own bellies. Sometimes the clasped Bible would be thrown whisking by their heads; and 'so it would do with the gads of the steller, and once it struck one of them against the screen where a person then sat, and the mark of it still to be seen in the hard board.' Once the china dishes were thrown off the shelf, and not one broke. 'It was a great business with this light-hating spirit to throw an old lanthorn about the house without breaking it.' When the maid went a-milking to the barn, the barn-door would be suddenly shut upon her as she was milking the cow; then when she rose up the spirit began to turn the door backwards and forwards with an idle ringing noise. Once it tried to make trouble between the mistress and the maid by strewing charcoal ashes on the milk. When William Evans, a neighbour, went there to pray, as he knelt by the bedside, it struck the bed such a bang with a trencher that it made a report like a gun, so that both the bed and the room shook perceptibly. On another occasion, it made a sudden loud noise, which made the master think his house was falling down, and he was prodigiously terrified; it never after that made so loud a noise. The Rev. R. Tibbet, a dissenting minister from Montgomeryshire, was one night sleeping in the house, with another person in the bed with him; and they had a tussle with the Tridoll spirit for possession of the bed-clothes. By praying and pulling with equal energy, the parson beat the spirit, and kept the bed-clothes. But the spirit, apparently angered by this failure, struck the bed with the cawnen (a vessel to hold grain) such a blow that the bed was knocked out of its place. Then they lit a light and the spirit left them alone. It was a favourite diversion with this goblin to hover about William Thomas when he was shaving, and occasionally cuff him on the side of his head--the consequence being that the persecuted farmer shaved himself by fits and starts, in a very unsatisfactory manner, and in a most uncomfortable state of mind. For about two years it troubled the whole of that family, during which period it had intervals of quiet lasting for a fortnight or three weeks. Once it endeavoured to hinder them from going to church, by hiding the bunch of keys, on the Lord's day, so that for all their searching they could not find them. The good man of the house bade them not to yield to the devil, and as they were loth to appear in their old clothes at meeting, they were about to break the locks; but first concluded to kneel in prayer, and so did. After their prayers they found the keys where they used to be, but where they could not find them before. One night the spirit divided the books among the members of the family, after they had gone to bed. To the man of the house it gave the Bible, to the woman of the house 'Allen's Sure Guide,' and upon the bed of the maid-servant (whom it was specially fond of plaguing) it piled a lot of English books, which language she did not understand. The maid was heartily afraid of the spirit, and used to fall on her knees and go to praying with chattering teeth, at all hours of the day or night; and prayer this spirit could not abide. When the maid would go about in the night with a candle, the light thereof would diminish, grow feeble as if in dampness, and finally go out. The result was the maid was generally excused from making journeys into cellar or garret after dark, very much to her satisfaction. Particularly did this frisky Tridoll spirit trouble the maid-servant after she had gone to bed--in winter hauling the bed-clothes off her; in summer piling more on her. Now there was a young man, a first cousin to William Thomas, who could not be got to believe there was a spirit at his kinsman's house, and said the family were only making tricks with one another, 'and very strong he was, a hero of an unbeliever, like many of his brethren in infidelity.' One night William Thomas and his wife went to a neighbour's wake, and left the house in charge of the doubting cousin, who searched the place all over, and then went to bed there; and no spirit came to disturb him. This made him stronger than ever in his unbelief. But soon after he slept there again, when they were all there, and before going to bed he said aloud to the maid, 'If anything comes to disturb thee, Ally, call upon me, as I lie in the next room to you.' During the night the maid cried out that the spirit was pulling the clothes off her bed, and the doubting cousin awoke, jumped out of bed, and ran to catch the person he believed to be playing tricks with the maid. But there was no creature visible, although there rained upon his doubting head a series of cuffs, and about his person a fusillade of kicks, which thrust the unbelief quite out of him, so that he doubted no more. The departure of this spirit came about thus: William Thomas being in bed with his wife, heard a voice calling him. He awaked his wife, and rising on his elbow said to the invisible spirit, 'In the name of God what seekest thou in my house? Hast thou anything to say to me?' The spirit answered, 'I have,' and desired him to remove certain things out of a place where they had been mislaid. 'Satan,' answered William Thomas, in a candid manner, 'I'll do nothing thou biddest me; I command thee, in the name of God, to depart from my house.' And it obeyed. VII. This long and circumstantial account, which I have gathered from different sources, but mainly from the two books of the Prophet Jones, will impress the general reader with its resemblance, in many respects, to modern newspaper ghost stories. The throwing about of dishes, books, keys, etc.; its raps and touches of the person; its making of loud noises by banging down metal objects; all these antics are the tricks of contemporaneous spiritualism. But this spectre is of a date when our spiritualism was quite unknown. The same is true of the spirit which threw stones, another modern spiritualistic accomplishment.[75] The spiritualists will argue from all this that their belief is substantiated, not by any means that it is shaken. The doubter will conclude that there were clever tricksters in humble Welsh communities some time before the American city of Rochester had produced its 'mediums.' The student of comparative folk-lore, in reading these accounts, will be equally impressed with their resemblance to phenomena noted in many other lands. The conclusion is irresistible that we here encounter but another form of the fairy which goes in Wales by the name of the Bwbach, and in England is called the Hobgoblin, in Denmark the Nis, in Scotland the Brownie. Also, the resemblance is strong in all stories of this class to certain of the German Kobolds. In several of these accounts of spirits in Wales appear the leading particulars of the Kobold Hinzelmann, as condensed by Grimm from Feldman's long narrative.[76] There is also a close correspondence to certain ghost stories found in China. In the story of Woo, from the 'Che-wan-luk,'[77] appear details much like those in Hinzelmann, and equally resembling Welsh particulars, either in the stories given above, or those which follow. But we are now drawn so near to the division of Familiar Spirits that we may as well enter it at once. FOOTNOTES: [75] For the sake of comparison, I give the latest American case which comes under my notice. The scene is Akron, a bustling town in the State of Ohio; the time October, 1878. 'Mr. and Mrs. Michael Metzler, middle-aged Germans, with their little daughter, ten years of age, and Mrs. Knoss, Metzler's mother-in-law, recently moved to a brick house in the suburbs known as Hell's Half Acre. The house is a good, substantial building, situated in a somewhat open space, and surrounded by a lonesome deserted air. A few days after they had moved, they were disturbed by sharp rappings all over the house, produced by small stones or pebbles thrown against the window panes. Different members of the family were hit by these stones coming to and going from the house. Other persons were hit by them, the stones varying in size from a pea to a hen's egg. Mrs. Metzler said that when she went after the cow in the evening, she could hear these stones whistling around her head. Mr. and Mrs. Metzler, who are devout Catholics, had Father Brown come to the house to exorcise the spirits which were tormenting them. The reverend father, in the midst of his exercises, was struck by a stone, and so dismayed thereby that he went home in despair.' (Newspaper account.) [76] 'Deutsche Sagen,' i. 103. [77] Dennys, 'Folk-Lore of China,' 86. CHAPTER V. Familiar Spirits--The Famous Sprite of Trwyn Farm--Was it a Fairy?--The Familiar Spirits of Magicians--Sir David Llwyd's Demon--Familiar Spirits in Female Form--The Legend of the Lady of the Wood--The Devil as a Familiar Spirit--His Disguises in this Character--Summoning and Exorcising Familiars--Jenkin the Pembrokeshire Schoolmaster--The Terrible Tailor of Glanbran. I. Innumerable are the Welsh stories of familiar spirits. Sometimes these are spectres of the sort whose antics we have just been observing. More often they are confessedly demons, things of evil. In numberless cases it is no less a personage than the diawl himself who makes his appearance in the guise of a familiar spirit. The familiar spirit which takes up its abode in the household is, as we have seen, a pranksome goblin. Its personal appearance--or rather its invisibility--is the saving circumstance which prevents it from being deemed a fairy. The familiar spirit which haunted the house of Job John Harry, at the Trwyn Farm, in the parish of Mynyddyslwyn, was a stone-thrower, a stroker of persons, etc., but could not be seen. It is famous in Wales under the cognomen of Pwca'r Trwyn, and is referred to in my account of the Ellylldan.[78] The tenants at present residing on the Trwyn Farm are strangers who have recently invaded the home of this ancestral spook, but I was able to glean abundant information concerning it from people thereabout. It made a home of Mr. Harry's house some time in the last century, for a period beginning some days before Christmas, and ending with Easter Wednesday, on which day it departed. During this time it spoke, and did many remarkable things, but was always invisible. It began at first to make its presence known by knocking at the outer door in the night; but when persons went to open the door there was no one there. This continued for some time, much to the perplexity of the door-openers. At last one night it spoke to the one who opened the door, and the family were in consequence much terrified. Some of the neighbours, hearing these tales, came to watch with the family; and Thomas Evans foolishly brought a gun with him, 'to shoot the spirit,' as he said. But as Job John Harry was coming home that night from a journey, the familiar spirit met him in the lane and said, 'There is a man come to your house to shoot me, but thou shalt see how I will beat him.' So Job went on to the house, and immediately stones were thrown at the unbelieving Thomas who had brought the gun, stones from which he received severe blows. The company tried to defend him from the stones, which did strike and hurt him, and no other person; but their efforts were in vain. The result was, that Thomas Evans took his gun and ran home as fast as his legs would carry him, and never again engaged in an enterprise of that sort. As this familiar spirit got better acquainted with its quarters, it became more talkative, and used often to speak from out of an oven by the hearth's side. It also took to making music o' nights with Job's fiddle. One night as Job was going to bed, the familiar spirit gave him a gentle stroke on the toe. 'Thou art curious in smiting,' said Job. 'I can smite thee where I please,' replied the spirit. As time passed on the family became accustomed to their ghostly visitor, and seeing it never did them any harm, but on the contrary was a source of recreation to them, they used to boldly speak to it, and indulge in entertaining conversation. One old man, a neighbour, more bold than wise, hearing the spirit just by his side, but being unable to see it, threatened to stick it with his knife. 'Thou fool,' quoth the spirit, 'how canst thou stick what thou canst not see with thine eyes?' When questioned about its antecedents, the spirit said, 'I came from Pwll y Gasseg' (Mare's Pit, a place in the adjacent mountain), 'and I knew ye all before I came hither.' The wife of Morris Roberts desired one of the family to ask the spirit who it was that killed William Reilly the Scotchman; which being done, the spirit said, 'It was Blanch y Byd who bade thee ask that question;' and Blanch y Byd (Worldly Blanche) was Morris Roberts' wife ever after called. On Easter Wednesday the spirit departed, saying, 'Dos yn iach, Job,' (fare thee well, Job,) and Job asked the spirit, 'Where goest thou?' The reply was, 'Where God pleases.'[79] There are other accounts of this Trwyn sprite which credit it to a time long anterior to last century; but all are consistent in this, that the goblin is always invisible. The sole exception to this rule is the legend about its having once shown a white hand to some girls in the kitchen, thrusting it through the floor of its room overhead for that purpose. Now invisibility is a violation of fairy traditions, while ghosts are very often invisible--these rapping and stone-throwing ghosts, always. It might be urged that this spirit was a Bwbach, if a fairy at all, seeing that it kept pretty closely to the house; but on the whole I choose to class it among the inhabitants of the spirit-world; and really, the student of folk-lore must classify his materials distinctly in some understandable fashion, or go daft. FOOTNOTES: [78] Supra, p. 21. [79] Let me recommend the scene of this story to tourists. It is a most romantic spot, on the top of a mountain, a glorious tramp from Crumlyn, returning by another road to Abercarne. Wheels cannot go there, though a sure-footed horse might bear one safely up. The ancient farm-house is one of the quaintest in Wales, and must be hundreds of years old; and its front porch looks out over a ravine hardly less grand and lonely than a Californian gulch. II. The sort of familiar spirit employed by magicians in the eighteenth and preceding centuries was distinctly a demon. The spirit of this class which was controlled by Sir David Llwyd is celebrated in Wales. This Sir David was a famous dealer in the black art, who lived in Cardiganshire. He was a physician, and at one time a curate; but being known to deal in the magic art, he was turned out of the curacy, and obliged to live by practising physic. It was thought he learned the magic art in Oxford. 'It was this man's great wickedness,' says the Prophet Jones, 'to make use of a familiar spirit.... The bishop did well in turning him out of the sacred office, though he was no ill-tempered man, for how unfit was such a man to read the sacred Scripture! With what conscience could he ask the sponsors in baptism to undertake for the child to renounce the world, the flesh and the devil, who himself was familiar with one of the spirits of darkness?... Of this Sir David I have heard much, but chiefly depend upon what was told to me by the Rev. Mr. Thomas Lewis, the curate of Landdw and Tolachdy, an excellent preacher of the gospel; and not sufficiently esteemed by his people, (which likely will bring a judgment on them in time to come.) Mr. Lewis knew the young woman who had been Sir David's maid servant, and the house where he lived.' His familiar spirit he kept locked up in a book. Once while he was in Radnorshire, in going from one house to another he accidentally left this book behind him, and sent his boy back to fetch it. The boy, being of an inquisitive turn of mind, opened the book--a thing his master had expressly charged him not to do--and the familiar spirit immediately demanded to be set at work. The boy, though very much alarmed, had the wit to answer, 'Tafl gerrig o'r afon,' (throw stones out of the river,) which the spirit immediately did, so that the air was for a time full of flying stones, and the boy was fain to skip about in a surprisingly active manner in order to dodge the same. After a while, having thrown up a great quantity of stones out of the river, (the Wye,) the spirit again, with the pertinacity of its kind, asked for something to do; whereupon the boy bade it throw the stones back again, which it did. Sir David having waited a long time for the boy to return, began to suspect that things had gone wrong, and so hastened back after him, and commanded the familiar spirit again into his book. III. Familiar spirits of this class are not always invisible; and they can assume such forms as may be necessary to serve their purposes. A favourite shape with them is that of a young and lovely woman. Comparisons are here suggested with the water-maidens, and other like forms of this fancy; but they need not be pursued. It is necessary for the student of phantoms to constantly remind himself of the omnipresent danger of being enticed too far afield, unless he keep somewhat sternly to the path he has marked out. How ancient is the notion of a familiar spirit in female form, may be seen from accounts which are given by Giraldus and other old writers. Near Caerleon, (Monmouthshire,) in the twelfth century, Giraldus tells us[80] there lived 'a Welshman named Melerius, who by the following means acquired the knowledge of future events and the occult sciences: Having on a certain night met a damsel whom he loved, in a pleasant and convenient place, while he was indulging in her embraces, instead of a beautiful girl he found in his arms a hairy, rough and hideous creature, the sight of which deprived him of his senses; and after remaining many years in this condition he was restored to health in the church of St. David's, through the merits of its saints. But having always had an extraordinary familiarity with unclean spirits, by seeing them, knowing them, talking with them, and calling each by his proper name, he was enabled through their assistance to foretell future events; he was indeed often deceived (as they are) with respect to circumstances at a great distance; but was less mistaken in affairs which were likely to happen soon, or within the space of a year. They appeared to him on foot, equipped as hunters, with horns suspended from their necks, and truly as hunters not of animals but of souls; he particularly met them near monasteries and religious places; for where rebellion exists there is the greatest need of armies and strength. He knew when any one spoke falsely in his presence, for he saw the devil as it were leaping and exulting upon the tongue of the liar; and if he looked into a book faultily or falsely written, although wholly illiterate he would point out the place with his finger. Being questioned how he could gain such knowledge, he said he was directed by the demon's finger to the place.' In the same connection Giraldus mentions a familiar spirit which haunted Lower Gwent, 'a demon incubus, who from his love for a certain young woman, and frequenting the place where she lived, often conversed with men, and frequently discovered hidden things and future events.' FOOTNOTE: [80] Sir R. C. Hoare's Trans., i. 105. IV. The legend of the Lady of the Wood is contained in the Iolo MSS., and is of considerable antiquity. It is a most fascinating tale: Einion, the son of Gwalchmai, 'was one fine summer morning walking in the woods of Treveilir,' when 'he beheld a graceful slender lady of elegant growth, and delicate feature, and her complexion surpassing every white and red in the morning dawn and the mountain snow, and every beautiful colour in the blossoms of wood, field, and hill. And then he felt in his heart an inconceivable commotion of affection, and he approached her in a courteous manner, and she also approached him in the same manner; and he saluted her, and she returned his salutation; and by these mutual salutations he perceived that his society was not disagreeable to her. He then chanced to cast his eye upon her foot, and he saw that she had hoofs instead of feet, and he became exceedingly dissatisfied,' as well he might. But the lady gave him to understand that he must pay no attention to this trifling freak of nature. 'Thou must,' she said, 'follow me wheresoever I go, as long as I continue in my beauty.' The son of Gwalchmai thereupon asked permission to go and say good-bye to his wife, at least. This the lady agreed to; 'but,' said she, 'I shall be with thee, invisible to all but thyself.' 'So he went, and the goblin went with him; and when he saw Angharad, his wife, he saw her a hag like one grown old, but he retained the recollection of days past, and still felt extreme affection for her, but he was not able to loose himself from the bond in which he was. "It is necessary for me," said he, "to part for a time, I know not how long, from thee, Angharad, and from thee, my son, Einion," and they wept together, and broke a gold ring between them; he kept one half and Angharad the other, and they took their leave of each other, and he went with the Lady of the Wood, and knew not where; for a powerful illusion was upon him, and he saw not any place, or person, or object under its true and proper appearance, excepting the half of the ring alone. And after being a long time, he knew not how long, with the goblin, the Lady of the Wood, he looked one morning as the sun was rising upon the half of the ring, and he bethought him to place it in the most precious place he could, and he resolved to put it under his eyelid; and as he was endeavouring to do so, he could see a man in white apparel, and mounted on a snow-white horse, coming towards him, and that person asked him what he did there; and he told him that he was cherishing an afflicting remembrance of his wife Angharad. "Dost thou desire to see her?" said the man in white. "I do," said Einion, "above all things, and all happiness of the world." "If so," said the man in white, "get upon this horse, behind me;" and that Einion did, and looking around he could not see any appearance of the Lady of the Wood, the goblin, excepting the track of hoofs of marvellous and monstrous size, as if journeying towards the north. "What delusion art thou under?" said the man in white. Then Einion answered him and told everything how it occurred 'twixt him and the goblin. "Take this white staff in thy hand," said the man in white, and Einion took it. And the man in white told him to desire whatever he wished for. The first thing he desired was to see the Lady of the Wood, for he was not yet completely delivered from the illusion. And then she appeared to him in size a hideous and monstrous witch, a thousand times more repulsive of aspect than the most frightful things seen upon earth. And Einion uttered a cry of terror; and the man in white cast his cloak over Einion, and in less than a twinkling Einion alighted as he wished on the hill of Treveilir, by his own house, where he knew scarcely any one, nor did any one know him.' The goblin meantime had gone to Einion's wife, in the disguise of a richly apparelled knight, and made love to her, pretending that her husband was dead. 'And the illusion fell upon her; and seeing that she should become a noble lady, higher than any in Wales, she named a day for her marriage with him. And there was a great preparation of every elegant and sumptuous apparel, and of meats and drinks, and of every honourable guest, and every excellence of song and string, and every preparation of banquet and festive entertainment.' Now there was a beautiful harp in Angharad's room, which the goblin knight desired should be played on; 'and the harpers present, the best in Wales, tried to put it in tune, and were not able.' But Einion presented himself at the house, and offered to play on it. Angharad, being under an illusion, 'saw him as an old, decrepit, withered, grey-haired man, stooping with age, and dressed in rags.' Einion tuned the harp, 'and played on it the air which Angharad loved. And she marvelled exceedingly, and asked him who he was. And he answered in song: ... "Einion the golden-hearted." ... "Where hast thou been!" "In Kent, in Gwent, in the wood, in Monmouth, In Maenol, Gorwenydd; And in the valley of Gwyn, the son of Nudd; See, the bright gold is the token." And he gave her the ring. "Look not on the whitened hue of my hair, Where once my aspect was spirited and bold; Now gray, without disguise, where once it was yellow. Never was Angharad out of my remembrance, But Einion was by thee forgotten."' But Angharad 'could not bring him to her recollection. Then said he to the guests: "If I have lost her whom I loved, the fair one of polished mind, The daughter of Ednyved Vychan, I have not lost (so get you out!) Either my bed, or my house, or my fire." 'And upon that he placed the white staff in Angharad's hand, and instantly the goblin which she had hitherto seen as a handsome and honourable nobleman, appeared to her as a monster, inconceivably hideous; and she fainted from fear, and Einion supported her until she revived. And when she opened her eyes, she saw there neither the goblin, nor any of the guests, nor of the minstrels, nor anything whatever except Einion, and her son, and the harp, and the house in its domestic arrangement, and the dinner on the table, casting its savoury odour around. And they sat down to eat ... and exceeding great was their enjoyment. And they saw the illusion which the demoniacal goblin had cast over them.... And thus it ends.'[81] FOOTNOTE: [81] Iolo MSS. 587, et seq. V. There is hardly a goblin in the world more widely known than this spectre of the forest. Her story appears in the legends of very many lands, including China. Its ancient Grecian prototype is found in the Odyssey.[82] When it is the Diawl himself who appears in the role of the familiar spirit, his majesty is usually in some other form than that of a man, with hoofs, horns, and tail. The orthodox form of Satan has indeed been seen in many parts of Wales, but not when doing duty as a familiar spirit. A Welsh poet of the thirteenth century mentions this form: And the horned devil, With sharp hoofs On his heels.[83] He is variously called cythraul, dera, diafol, all euphemisms for devil, equivalent to our destroyer, evil one, adversary--as well as plain diawl, devil. In his character of a familiar spirit he assumes the shape of a fiery ball, a donkey, a black calf, a round bowl, a dog, a roaring flame, a bull, a goose, and numberless others, including the imp that goes into a book. In all this he bears out the character given him in old mythology, where he grows big or little at pleasure, and roars in a gale as Hermes, the wind-god, howls as a dog, enters a walnut as in the Norse Tale, or is confined in a bottle as the genie of the 'Arabian Nights.' To that eminent nonconformist preacher, Vavasor Powell, the devil once appeared in shape like a house. 'Satan ... appeared several times, and in several wayes, to me: as once like a house, stood directly in my way, with which sight I fell on my face as dead.... Another time, being alone in my chamber ... I perceived a strong cold wind to blow ... it made the hair of my flesh to stand up, and caused all my bones to shake; and on the suddain, I heard one walk about me, tramping upon the chamber floor, as if it had been some heavie big man ... but it proved in the end to be no other than ... Satan.'[84] A black calf, which haunted a Pembrokeshire brook early in the present century, was believed to be the devil in familiar guise. It appeared at a certain spot near the village of Narberth--a village which has figured actively in mythic story since the earliest ages of which there is any record. One night two peasants caught the terrible calf and took it home, locking it up safely in a stable with some other cattle, but it had vanished when morning came. Henry Llewelyn, of Ystrad Defoc parish, Glamorganshire, was beset by the devil in the shape of a round bowl. He had been sent by his minister (Methodist) to fetch from another parish a load of religious books--Bibles, Testaments, Watts' 'Psalms, Hymns and Songs for Children'--and was coming home with the same, on horseback, by night, when he saw a living thing, round like a bowl, moving to and fro across the lane. The bold Llewelyn having concluded it was the devil, resolved to speak to it. 'What seekest thou, thou foul thing?' he demanded, adding, 'In the name of the Lord Jesus go away!' And to prove that it was the adversary, at these words it vanished into the ground, leaving a sulphurous smell behind. To William Jones, a sabbath-breaker, of Risca village, the devil appeared as an enormous mastiff dog, which transformed itself into a great fire and made a roaring noise like burning gorse. And to two men at Merthyr Tydfil, in Glamorganshire, the fiend appeared in the shape of a gosling. These men were one night drinking together at the Black Lion Inn, when one dared the other to go to conjure. The challenge was accepted, and they went, but conducted their emprise with such drunken recklessness, that the devil put out the eyes of one of them, so that he was blind the rest of his days. FOOTNOTES: [82] In his fascinating essay on the 'Folk-Lore of France,' in the 'Folk-Lore Record' for 1878 (published by the Folk-Lore Society) Mr. A. Lang says: 'So widespread is this superstition, that a friend of mine declares he has met with it among the savages of New Caledonia, and has known a native who actually died, as he himself said he would, after meeting one of the fairy women of the wild wood.' [83] Gruffydd ab yr Ynad Coch. [84] 'The Life and Death of Mr. Vavasor Powell,' p. 8. (A curious seventeenth century book, no two existing copies of which appear to be alike. I here cite from that in the library of the Marquis of Bute, than which a more perfect copy is rarely met with.) VI. The mode of summoning and of exorcising familiar spirits--in other words, of laying and raising the devil--varies little the world over. Even in China, the magic circle is entered and incantations are muttered when the fiend is summoned; and for the exorcism of devils there are laws like our own--though since modern Christianity has been introduced in China the most popular exorcist is the Christian missionary.[85] In Wales, the popular belief is compounded of about equal parts of foul magic and fair Biblical text; magic chiefly for summoning, the Book for exorcising. John Jenkin, a schoolmaster in Pembrokeshire, was a conjuror of renown in that part of Wales. One of his scholars who had a curiosity to see the devil made bold to ask the master to assist him to that entertainment. 'May see him,' said the master, 'if thou hast the courage for it. Still,' he added, 'I do not choose to call him till I have employment for him.' So the boy waited; and not long after a man came to the master saying he had lost some money, and wished to be told who had stolen it. 'Now,' the master said to the scholar, 'I have some business for him.' At night they went into the wood together and drew a circle, which they entered, and the schoolmaster called one of the spirits of evil by its name. Presently they saw a light in the sky, which shot like lightning down to the circle, and turned round about it. The conjuror asked it who had stolen the man's money; the spirit did not know, and it disappeared. Then the schoolmaster called another evil spirit by its name; and presently they saw the resemblance of a bull flying through the air towards them, so swiftly and fiercely as if it would go through them; and it also turned about the circle. But the conjuror asked it in vain who had the stolen money. 'I must call still another,' said he. The schoolboy was now almost dead with fear, and the conjuror considerately waited till he was somewhat revived before calling the third spirit. But when he did call, there came out of the wood a spirit dressed in white, and went about the circle. 'Ah,' said the schoolmaster, 'we shall now hear something from this.' And sure enough 'this' told the conjuror (in a language the boy could not understand) where the money was, and all about it. Then it vanished in red fire; and that boy 'has never been well since, the effect of the great fright still cleaving to him.' Not far from Glanbran, in Carmarthenshire, lived a tailor, who added to his trade as a breeches-mender the loftier, if wickeder, employments of a worker in magic. A certain Mr. Gwynne, living at Glanbran, took it upon himself to ridicule this terrible tailor, for the tailor was a little man, and Mr. Gwynne was a burly six-footer, who feared nobody. 'Thou have the courage to look upon the devil!' sneered Gwynne; 'canst thou show him to me?' 'That I can,' said the tailor, his eyes flashing angrily; 'but you are not able to look at him.' 'What!' roared Gwynne, 'thou able to look at him, and not I?' 'Very well,' quoth the tailor; 'if you are able to look at him I will show him to you.' It was in the day time, but the tailor went immediately into a little grove of wood in a field hard by, and made a circle in the usual manner. In a short time he returned to fetch the incredulous Mr. Gwynne, saying, 'Come with me and you shall see him.' The two then crossed the field until they came to the stile by the wood, when suddenly the tailor cried, 'Look yonder! there it is!' And looking, Mr. Gwynne saw, in the circle the tailor had drawn, 'one of the fallen angels, now become a devil.' It was so horrible a sight that the terrified Mr. Gwynne was never after able to describe it; but from that time forth he had a proper respect for the tailor. FOOTNOTE: [85] Dennys, 'Folk-Lore of China,' 89. CHAPTER VI. The Evil Spirit in his customary Form--The stupid Medieval Devil in Wales--Sion Cent--The Devil outwitted--Pacts with the Fiend and their Avoidance--Sion Dafydd's Foul Pipe--The Devil's Bridge and its Legends--Similar Legends in other Lands--The Devil's Pulpit near Tintern--Angelic Spirits--Welsh Superstitions as to pronouncing the Name of the Evil Spirit--The Bardic Tradition of the Creation--The Struggle between Light and Darkness and its Symbolization. I. The devil has often appeared in Wales in his customary form, or with his distinctive marks covered up by such clothing as mortals wear. There was even a tailor in Cardiganshire who had the honour of making a suit of clothes for his sulphuric majesty. The medieval view of this malignant spirit--which makes the devil out as dull and stupid as he is mendacious and spiteful--still lingers in some parts. Those formal pacts with the devil, the first traces of which are found in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, have been made in great numbers in Wales; and tales in which the devil is outwitted by a mortal are still preserved with much distinctness in various localities. That the myth of Polyphemus reappears in all accounts of this sort, is pretty well agreed among students of folk-lore. Hercules and Cacus, Polyphemus and Odysseus, Peredur and the one-eyed monster of the Mabinogion, Gambrinus and der Teufel, Jack the Giant-Killer, Norse Jötuns and Arabian genii tricked and bottled; all these are deemed outgrowths of the same primeval idea, to wit, the victory of the sun-god over the night-fiend; and the story of Sion Cent's compact with the diawl is doubtless from the same root. Certain it is that were not the devil at times gullible, he never would have been so useful as a familiar spirit, never could have been made so completely a slave to his mortal masters. The Pope (Benedict IX.) who had seven evil spirits in a sugar-bottle, merely subdivided the arch-fiend in the same way the genii of the old tales are subdivided--now existing as a dense and visible form, again expanding to blot out the sky, and again entering the narrow compass of a bottle or a nut-shell; co-existing in a million places at the same instant, yet having a single individuality. II. Tradition relates that Sion Cent was a famous necromancer in Monmouthshire, who outwitted the devil, not once but many times. He lives in popular legend simply as a worker in magic, but in reality he was a worthy minister, the Rev. John Kent, who flourished from 1420 to 1470, and wrote several theological works in Latin. In his native Welsh he confined himself to poetry, and Sion Cent was his Cymric pseudonym. Like many learned men in those days, he was accredited with magical powers by the ignorant peasantry, and of his transactions with the devil many stories were then invented which still survive. One relates that he once served as a farmer's boy, and was set to keep the crows from the corn, but preferring to go to Grosmont fair, he confined the crows in an old roofless barn by a magic spell till the next day, when he returned. His compact with the devil enabled him to build the bridge over the Monnow, near Grosmont, which still bears his name. The compact gave the devil the man's soul, as all such compacts do--the stipulation being that if his body were buried either in or out of the church, his soul should be forfeit to the diawl. But the shrewd Welshman gave orders that he should be buried exactly under the chancel wall, so that he should lie neither in the church nor out of it; and the devil was made a fool of by this device. A precisely similar tradition exists concerning an old gentleman in Carmarthenshire. III. A popular legend giving the origin of the jack-o'-lantern in Wales deals with the idea of a stupid devil: A long time ago there lived on the hills of Arfon an old man of the name of Sion Dafydd, who used to converse much with one of the children of the bottomless pit. One morning Sion was on his way to Llanfair-Fechan, carrying a flail on his shoulder, for he had corn there, when whom should he meet but his old friend from the pit, with a bag on his back, and in it two little devils like himself. After conversing for some time they began to quarrel, and presently were in the midst of a terrible fight. Sion fell to basting the devils with his flail, until the bag containing the two little ones went all to pieces, and the two tumbling out, fled for their lives to Rhiwgyfylchi, which village is considered to this day a very wicked place from this fact. Sion then went his way rejoicing, and did not for a long time encounter his adversary. Eventually, however, they met, and this time Sion had his gun on his shoulder. 'What's that long thing you're carrying?' inquired the devil. 'That's my pipe,' said Sion. Then the devil asked, 'Shall I have a whiff out of it?' 'You shall,' was Sion's reply, and he placed the mouth of his gun in the devil's throat and drew the trigger. Well; that was the loudest report from a gun that was ever heard on this earth. 'Ach!--tw!--tw!' exclaimed the smoker, 'your pipe is very foul,' and he disappeared in a flame. After a lapse of time, Sion met him again in the guise of a gentleman, but the Welshman knew it was the tempter. This time he made a bargain for which he was ever afterwards sorry, i.e., he sold himself to the devil for a sum down, but with the understanding that whenever he could cling to something the devil should not then control him. One day when Sion was busily gardening, the evil one snatched him away into the air without warning, and Sion was about giving up all hopes of again returning to earth, when he thought to himself, 'I'll ask the devil one last favour.' The stupid devil listened. 'All I want is an apple,' said Sion, 'to moisten my lips a bit down below; let me go to the top of my apple-tree, and I'll pick one.' 'Is that all?' quoth the diawl, and consented. Of course Sion laid hold of the apple-tree, and hung on. The devil had to leave him there. But the old reprobate was too wicked for heaven, and the devil having failed to take him to the other place, he was turned into a fairy, and is now the jack-o'-lantern.[86] FOOTNOTE: [86] 'Cymru Fu,' 355 et seq. IV. Best known among the natural objects in various parts of Wales which are connected with the devil in popular lore, is the Devil's Bridge, in Cardiganshire. Associated with this bridge are several legends, which derive their greatest interest from their intrinsic evidences of an antiquity in common with the same legends in other lands. The guide-books of the region, like guide-books everywhere, in their effort to avoid being led into unwarranted statement, usually indulge in playfully sarcastic references to these ancient tales. They are much older, however, than the bridge itself can possibly be. The devil's activity in bridge-building is a myth more ancient than the medieval devil of our acquaintance. The building story of the Devil's Bridge in Cardiganshire runs briefly thus: An old woman who had lost her cow spied it on the other side of the ravine, and was in great trouble about it, not knowing how to get over where the animal was. The devil, taking advantage of her distress, offered to throw a bridge over the ravine, so that she might cross and get her cow; but he stipulated that the first living creature to cross the bridge should be his. The old woman agreed; the bridge was built; and the devil waited to see her cross. She drew a crust of bread from her pocket, threw it over, and her little black dog flew after it. 'The dog's yours, sir,' said the dame; and Satan was discomfited. In the story told of the old bridge over the Main at Frankfort, a bridge-contractor and his troubles are substituted for the old woman and her cow; instead of a black dog a live rooster appears, driven in front of him by the contractor. The Welsh Satan seems to have received his discomfiture good-naturedly enough; in the German tale he tears the fowl to pieces in his rage. In Switzerland, every reader knows the story told of the devil's bridge in the St. Gothard pass. A new bridge has taken the place, for public use, of the old bridge on the road to Andermatt, and to the dangers of the crumbling masonry are added superstitious terrors concerning the devil's power to catch any one crossing after dark. The old Welsh bridge has been in like manner superseded by a modern structure; but I think no superstition like the last noted is found at Hafod. V. The English have a saying that the devil lives in the middle of Wales. There is in every part of Wales that I have seen a custom of whitening the doorsteps with chalk, and it is said to have originated in the belief that his Satanic majesty could not enter a door thus protected. The devil of slovenliness certainly would find difficulty in entering a Welsh cottage if the tidiness of its doorstep is borne out in the interior. But out-of-doors everywhere there are signs of the devil's active habits. His flowers grow on the river-banks; his toes are imprinted on the rocks. Near Tintern Abbey there is a jutting crag overhung by gloomy branches of the yew, called the Devil's Pulpit. His eminence used in other and wickeder days to preach atrocious morals, or immorals, to the white-robed Cistercian monks of the abbey, from this rocky pulpit. One day the devil grew bold, and taking his tail under his arm in an easy and _dégagée_ manner, hobnobbed familiarly with the monks, and finally proposed, just for a lark, that he should preach them a nice red-hot sermon from the rood-loft of the abbey. To this the monks agreed, and the devil came to church in high glee. But fancy his profane perturbation (I had nearly written holy horror) when the treacherous Cistercians proceeded to shower him with holy water. The devil clapped his tail between his legs and scampered off howling, and never stopped till he got to Llandogo, where he leaped across the river into England, leaving the prints of his talons on a stone. VI. Where accounts of the devil's appearance are so numerous, it is perhaps somewhat surprising so little is heard of apparitions of angels. There are reasons for this, however, which might be enlarged upon. Tradition says that 'in former times' there were frequent visits of angels to Wales; and their rare appearance in our days is ascribed to the completion of revelation. One or two modern instances of angelic visitation are given by the Prophet Jones. There was David Thomas, who lived at a place called the Pantau, between the towns of Carmarthen and Laugharne; he was 'a gifted brother, who sometimes preached,' in the dissenting way. One night, when he was at prayer alone in a room which stood apart from his house, there was suddenly a great light present, which made the light of the candle no longer visible. And in that light appeared a band of angels, like children, very beautiful in bright clothing, singing in Welsh these words: Pa hyd? Pa hyd? Dychwelwch feibion Adda! Pa hyd? Pa hyd yr erlidiwch y Cristnogion duwiol? How long? How long? Return ye sons of Adam! How long? How long will ye persecute the godly Christians? After a time they departed; reappeared; departed again; the great light faded; and the light of Mr. Thomas's candle was once more visible on his table. There was also Rees David, a man of more than common piety, who lived in Carmarthenshire, near Whitlands. At the time of his death, it was testified by 'several religious persons who were in the room,' that there was heard, by them and by the dying man, the singing of angels. It drew nearer and nearer as his death-struggle grew imminent, and after his death they 'heard the pleasant incomparable singing gradually depart, until it was out of hearing.' That the dying do see something more, in the last moment of expiring nature, than it is given to living eyes to see, is a cherished belief by numberless Christian men and women, whom to suspect of superstitious credulity were to grossly offend. This belief is based on exclamations uttered by the dying, while with fixed and staring eyes they appeared to gaze intently at some object not visible to the bystanders. But that the bystanders also saw, or heard, voice or vision from the Unknown, is not often pretended. VII. Reference has been made to the euphemisms in use among all peoples to avoid pronouncing the name of the devil. That many good folk still consider the word devil, lightly spoken, a profane utterance only second to a similar utterance of God's name, is a curious survival of old superstitions. No prohibition of this sort attaches to the words demon, fiend, etc., nor to such euphemisms, common in both Welsh and English, as the adversary, the evil one, etc. It is an old custom in North Wales to spit at the name of the devil, even when so innocently used as in pronouncing the name of the Devil's Bridge. The peasantry prefer to call the bridge 'Pont y Gwr Drwg,' the Bridge of the Wicked One; and spitting and wiping off the tongue are deemed a necessary precaution after saying devil, diafol, or diawl. The phrase 'I hope to goodness,' so common in Wales and elsewhere, is clearly but another euphemism for God; the goodness meant is the Divine beneficence. 'Goodness' sake' is but a contraction of 'For God's sake!' The Hebrew tetragrammaton which was invested with such terror, as representing the great 'I am,' finds an explanation, according to the ideas of Welsh scholars, in the Bardic traditions. These relate that, by the utterance of His Name, God created this world; the Name being represented by the symbol /|\, three lines which typify the focusing of the rising sun's rays at the equinoxes and solstices. The first ray is the Creator, the second the Preserver, and the third the Destroyer; the whole are God's Name. This name cannot be uttered by a mortal; he has not the power; therefore it remains for ever unuttered on earth. At the creation the universe uttered it in joy at the new-born world; 'the morning stars sang together.' At the last day it will be uttered again. Till then it is kept a secret, lest it be degraded, as it has been by the Hindus, who, from the three rays created their three false gods, Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva. Tradition relates that Einigan Gawr saw the Divine Name appear, and inscribed it on three rods of mountain ash. The people mistook the three rods thus inscribed for God himself, and Einigan died from grief at their error.[87] FOOTNOTE: [87] 'Dosparth Edeyrn Dafod Aur,' 3. VIII. The devil with which we are acquainted is a character unknown to Greek or Roman mythology; this devil was a later invention; but his identity with the genii, or jinns of the 'Arabian Nights,' the Dïvs of Persian history, is clear enough. Ahriman, the evil spirit, king of the realms of darkness and of fire, was apparently the progenitor of Satan, as Vritra was of Ahriman. Both these ancient arch-fiends appeared as serpents in form, and were myths representing the darkness, slain by the light, or the sun-god, in the one case called Indra, in the other Ormuzd. The medieval devil with horns and hoofs does not appear in the records of Judaism. He is an outgrowth of the moral principle of the Christian era; and traced to his origins he is simply a personification of the adversary in the never-ending struggle on earth between light and darkness. That struggle is not, in nature, a moral one; but it remains to-day, as it was in the beginning, the best type we have of the battle between right and wrong, and between truth and error. When God said, 'Let there be light,' the utterance became the symbol and guide of virtue, of brave endeavour, and of scientific research, until the end. CHAPTER VII. Cambrian Death-Portents--The Corpse-Bird--The Tan-Wedd--Listening at the Church-Door--The Lledrith--The Gwrach y Rhibyn--The Llandaff Gwrach--Ugliness of this Female Apparition--The Black Maiden--The Cyhyraeth, or Crying Spirit--Its Moans on Land and Sea--The St. Mellons Cyhyraeth--The Groaning Spirit of Bedwellty. I. There are death portents in every country, and in endless variety; in Wales these portents assume distinct and striking individualities, in great number and with clearly defined attributes. The banshee, according to Mr. Baring-Gould, has no corresponding feature in Scandinavian, Teutonic, or classic mythology, and belongs entirely to the Celts. The Welsh have the banshee in its most blood-curdling form under the name of the Gwrach y Rhibyn; they have also the Cyhyraeth, which is never seen, but is heard, moaning dolefully and dreadfully in the night; the Tolaeth, also only heard, not groaning but imitating some earthly sound, such as sawing, singing, or the tramping of feet; the Cwn Annwn and Cwn y Wybr, Dogs of Hell and Dogs of the Sky; the Canwyll Corph, or Corpse Candle; the Teulu, or Goblin Funeral, and many others--all of them death-portents. These, as the more important and striking, I will describe further; but there are several others which must first be mentioned. The Aderyn y Corph is a bird which chirps at the door of the person who is about to die, and makes a noise that sounds like the Welsh word for 'Come! come!' the summons to death.[88] In ancient tradition, it had no feathers nor wings, soaring without support high in the heavens, and, when not engaged upon some earthly message, dwelling in the land of illusion and phantasy.[89] This corpse-bird may properly be associated with the superstition regarding the screech-owl, whose cry near a sick-bed inevitably portends death. The untimely crowing of a cock also foretells the sudden demise of some member of the family. In North Wales the cry of the golden plover is a death-omen; these birds are called, in this connection, the whistlers.[90] The same superstition prevails in Warwickshire, and the sound is called the seven whistlers. Thunder and lightning in mid-winter announce the death of the great man of the parish. This superstition is thought to be peculiar to Wales, or to the wilder and more secluded parts of North Wales.[91] Also deemed peculiar to Wales is the Tan-wedd, a fiery apparition which falls on the lands of a freeholder who is about to die. It is described as appearing somewhat similar to falling stars, but slower of motion. 'It lighteneth all the air and ground where it passeth,' says 'the honest Welshman, Mr. Davis, in a letter to Mr. Baxter,' adding, 'lasteth three or four miles or more, for aught is known, because no man seeth the rising or beginning of it; and when it falls to the ground it sparkleth and lighteth all about.'[92] It also comes as a duty-performing goblin, after a death, haunting the graveyard, and calling attention to some special grave by its conduct, as in the following account: Walter Watkins, of the Neuadd, in a parish of Brecknockshire, was going one dark night towards Taf Fechan Chapel, not far from his house, when he saw a light near the chapel. It increased till it was as big as a church tower, and decreased again till it was as small as a star; then enlarged again and decreased as before; and this it did several times. He went to his house and fetched his father and mother to see it, and they all saw it plainly, much to their astonishment and wonder. Some time after, as a neighbour was ploughing in a field near the chapel, about where the mysterious light had been seen, the plough struck against a large flat stone. This the ploughman raised up, after a deal of difficulty, and under it he found a stone chest, in which was the jawbone of a man, and nought else except an earthen jug. The bone was supposed to be the remains of a man who had disappeared long before, and whose wife had since married; and on her being told of it, she fell ill and died. The light, which had often been seen before by various persons, was after this seen no more. It was believed to be the spirit of the murdered man, appearing as a light. Listening at the church-door in the dark, to hear shouted by a ghostly voice in the deserted edifice the names of those who are shortly to be buried in the adjoining churchyard, is a Hallow E'en custom in some parts of Wales. In other parts, the window serves the same purpose. There are said to be still extant, outside some village churches, steps which were constructed in order to enable the superstitious peasantry to climb to the window to listen. The principle of 'expectant attention,' so well known to physiological science, would be likely in this case to act with special force as a ghost-raiser. In an ancient MS. by Llywelyn Sion, of Llangewydd, there is mention of a frightful monster called the Fad Felen, which was seen through the key-hole of Rhos church by Maelgwn Gwynedd, who 'died in consequence.' This monster was predicted in a poem by Taliesin, as a 'strange creature' which should come from the sea marsh, with hair and teeth and eyes like gold. The yellow fever plague, which raged in Wales during some five years in the sixth century, is the monster referred to in this legend. The Scotch wraith and Irish fetch have their parallel in Wales in the Lledrith, or spectre of a person seen before his death; it never speaks, and vanishes if spoken to. It has been seen by miners previous to a fatal accident in the mine. The story is told of a miner who saw himself lying dead and horribly maimed in a phantom tram-car, led by a phantom horse, and surrounded by phantom miners. As he watched this dreadful group of spectres they passed on, looking neither to the right nor the left, and faded away. The miner's dog was as frightened as its master at the sight, and ran howling into the darkness. Though deeming himself doomed, the miner continued to work in the pit; and as the days passed on, and no harm came to him, he grew more cheerful, and was so bold as to laugh at the superstition. The day he did this, a stone fell from the roof and broke his arm. As soon as he recovered he resumed work in the pit; his death followed instantly. A stone crushed him, and he was borne maimed and dead in the tram along the road where his lledrith had appeared, 'a mile below the play of sunshine and wave of trees.'[93] The Mallt y Nos, or night-fiend, is a death-omen mentioned by Rev. D. R. Thomas in the 'Archæologia Cambrensis'; and Croker[94] gives as the Welsh parallel of the Irish death-coach a spectre called ceffyl heb un pen, or the headless horse. The marw coel, or 'yellow spot before death,' is another death-omen which I have been able to trace no further than the pages where I find it.[95] FOOTNOTES: [88] 'Dewch! dewch!' [89] 'Cymru Fu,' 299. [90] 'Camb. Quarterly,' iv., 487. [91] 'Arch. Camb.' 4th Se., iii., 333. [92] Brand, 'Pop. Ant.' iii., 127. [93] 'Tales and Sketches of Wales,' in 'Weekly Mail.' [94] 'Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland,' 341. [95] 'The Vale of Glamorgan.' II. A frightful figure among Welsh apparitions is the Gwrach y Rhibyn, whose crowning distinction is its prodigious ugliness. The feminine pronoun is generally used in speaking of this goblin, which unlike the majority of its kind, is supposed to be a female. A Welsh saying, regarding one of her sex who is the reverse of lovely, is, 'Y mae mor salw a Gwrach y Rhibyn,' (She is as ugly as the Gwrach y Rhibyn.) The spectre is a hideous being with dishevelled hair, long black teeth, long, lank, withered arms, leathern wings, and a cadaverous appearance. In the stillness of night it comes and flaps its wings against the window, uttering at the same time a blood-curdling howl, and calling by name on the person who is to die, in a lengthened dying tone, as thus: 'Da-a-a-vy!' 'De-i-i-o-o-o ba-a-a-ch!' The effect of its shriek or howl is indescribably terrific, and its sight blasting to the eyes of the beholder. It is always an omen of death, though its warning cry is heard under varying circumstances; sometimes it appears in the mist on the mountain side, or at cross-roads, or by a piece of water which it splashes with its hands. The gender of apparitions is no doubt as a rule the neuter, but the Gwrach y Rhibyn defies all rules by being a female which at times sees fit to be a male. In its female character it has a trick of crying at intervals, in a most doleful tone, 'Oh! oh! fy ngwr, fy ngwr!' (my husband! my husband!) But when it chooses to be a male, this cry is changed to 'Fy ngwraig! fy ngwraig!' (my wife! my wife!) or 'Fy mlentyn, fy mlentyn bach!' (my child, my little child!) There is a frightful story of a dissipated peasant who met this goblin on the road one night, and thought it was a living woman; he therefore made wicked and improper overtures to it, with the result of having his soul nearly frightened out of his body in the horror of discovering his mistake. As he emphatically exclaimed, 'Och, Dduw! it was the Gwrach y Rhibyn, and not a woman at all.' III. The Gwrach y Rhibyn recently appeared, according to an account given me by a person who claimed to have seen it, at Llandaff. Surely, no more probable site for the appearance of a spectre so ancient of lineage could be found, than that ancient cathedral city where some say was the earliest Christian fane in Great Britain, and which was certainly the seat of the earliest Christian bishopric. My narrator was a respectable-looking man of the peasant-farmer class, whom I met in one of my walks near Cardiff, in the summer of 1878. 'It was at Llandaff,' he said to me, 'on the fourteenth of last November, when I was on a visit to an old friend, that I saw and heard the Gwrach y Rhibyn. I was sleeping in my bed, and was woke at midnight by a frightful screeching and a shaking of my window. It was a loud and clear screech, and the shaking of the window was very plain, but it seemed to go by like the wind. I was not so much frightened, sir, as you may think; excited I was--that's the word--excited; and I jumped out of bed and rushed to the window and flung it open. Then I saw the Gwrach y Rhibyn, saw her plainly, sir, a horrible old woman with long red hair and a face like chalk, and great teeth like tusks, looking back over her shoulder at me as she went through the air with a long black gown trailing along the ground below her arms, for body I could make out none. She gave another unearthly screech while I looked at her; then I heard her flapping her wings against the window of a house just below the one I was in, and she vanished from my sight. But I kept on staring into the darkness, and as I am a living man, sir, I saw her go in at the door of the Cow and Snuffers Inn, and return no more. I watched the door of the inn a long time, but she did not come out. The next day, it's the honest truth I'm telling you, they told me the man who kept the Cow and Snuffers Inn was dead--had died in the night. His name was Llewellyn, sir--you can ask any one about him, at Llandaff--he had kept the inn there for seventy years, and his family before him for three hundred years, just at that very spot. It's not these new families that the Gwrach y Rhibyn ever troubles, sir, it's the old stock.' IV. The close resemblance of this goblin to the Irish banshee (or benshi) will be at once perceived. The same superstition is found among other peoples of Celtic origin. Sir Walter Scott mentions it among the highlands of Scotland.[96] It is not traced among other than Celtic peoples distinctly, but its association with the primeval mythology is doubtless to be found in the same direction with many other death-omens, to wit, the path of the wind-god Hermes. The frightful ugliness of the Gwrach y Rhibyn is a consistent feature of the superstition, in both its forms; it recalls the Black Maiden who came to Caerleon and liberated Peredur:[97] 'Blacker were her face and her two hands than the blackest iron covered with pitch; and her hue was not more frightful than her form. High cheeks had she, and a face lengthened downwards, and a short nose with distended nostrils. And one eye was of a piercing mottled gray, and the other was as black as jet, deep-sunk in her head. And her teeth were long and yellow, more yellow were they than the flower of the broom. And her stomach rose from the breast-bone, higher than her chin. And her back was in the shape of a crook, and her legs were large and bony. And her figure was very thin and spare, except her feet and legs, which were of huge size.' The Welsh word 'gwrach' means a hag or witch, and it has been fancied that there is a connection between this word and the mythical Avagddu,[98] whose wife the gwrach was. The Gwrach y Rhibyn appears also as a river-spectre, in Glamorganshire. FOOTNOTES: [96] 'Demonology and Witchcraft,' 351. [97] 'Mabinogion,' 114. [98] Avagddu means both hell and the devil, as our word Heaven means both the Deity and his abode. V. A death-portent which is often confused with the Gwrach y Rhibyn, yet which is rendered quite distinct by its special attributes, is the Cyhyraeth. This is a groaning spirit. It is never seen, but the noise it makes is no less terrible to the ear than the appearance of its visible sister is to the eye. Among groaning spirits it is considered to be the chief. The Prophet Jones succinctly characterises it as 'a doleful, dreadful noise in the night, before a burying.' David Prosser, of Llanybyther parish, 'a sober, sensible man and careful to tell the truth,' once heard the Cyhyraeth in the early part of the night, his wife and maid-servant being together in the house, and also hearing it; and when it came opposite the window, it 'pronounced these strange words, of no signification that we know of,' viz. '_Woolach! Woolach!_' Some time afterward a funeral passed that way. The judicious Joshua Coslet, who lived by the river Towy in Carmarthenshire, testified that the Cyhyraeth is often heard there, and that it is 'a doleful, disagreeable sound heard before the deaths of many, and most apt to be heard before foul weather. The voice resembles the groaning of sick persons who are to die; heard at first at a distance, then comes nearer, and the last near at hand; so that it is a threefold warning of death. It begins strong, and louder than a sick man can make; the second cry is lower, but not less doleful, but rather more so; the third yet lower, and soft, like the groaning of a sick man almost spent and dying.' A person 'well remembering the voice' and coming to the sick man's bed, 'shall hear his groans exactly like' those which he had before heard from the Cyhyraeth. This crying spirit especially affected the twelve parishes in the hundred of Inis Cenin, which lie on the south-east side of the river Towy, 'where some time past it groaned before the death of every person who lived that side of the country.' It also sounded before the death of persons 'who were born in these parishes, but died elsewhere.' Sometimes the voice is heard long before death, but not longer than three quarters of a year. So common was it in the district named, that among the people there a familiar form of reproach to any one making a disagreeable noise, or 'children crying or groaning unreasonable,' was to ejaculate, 'Oh 'r Cyhyraeth!' A reason why the Cyhyraeth was more often heard in the hundred of Inis Cenin was thought to be that Non, the mother of St. David, lived in those parts, where a village is called after her name, Llan-non, the church of Non. On the southern sea-coast, in Glamorganshire, the Cyhyraeth is sometimes heard by the people in the villages on shore passing down the channel with loud moans, while those dismal lights which forebode a wreck are seen playing along the waves. Watchers by the sea-shore have also heard its moan far out on the ocean, gradually drawing nearer and nearer, and then dying away; and when they thought it gone it has suddenly shrieked close to their startled ears, chilling their very marrows. Then, long after, they would hear it, now faint, now loud, going along the sands into the distant darkness. One or more corpses were usually washed ashore soon after. In the villages the Cyhyraeth is heard passing through the empty streets and lanes by night, groaning dismally, sometimes rattling the window-shutters, or flinging open the door as it flits by. When going along the country lanes it will thus horrify the inmates of every house it passes. Some old people say it is only heard before the death of such as are of strayed mind, or who have long been ill; but it always comes when an epidemic is about to visit the neighbourhood. A tradition of the Cyhyraeth is connected with the parish churchyard at St. Mellons, a quaint old-fashioned village within easy tramping distance of Cardiff, but in Monmouthshire. It is of a boy who was sent on an errand, and who heard the Cyhyraeth crying in the churchyard, first in one place, then in another, and finally in a third place, where it rested. Some time after, a corpse was brought to that churchyard to be buried, but some person came and claimed the grave. They went to another place, but that also was claimed. Then they went to a third place, and there they were allowed to bury their dead in peace. And this going about with the corpse was 'just the same as the boy declared it.' Of course the boy could not know what was to come to pass, 'but this crying spirit knew exactly what would come to pass.' I was also told by a person at St. Mellons that a ghost had been seen sitting upon the old stone cross which stands on the hillside near the church. VI. Other groaning spirits are sometimes heard. A girl named Mary Morgan, living near Crumlyn Bridge, while standing on the bridge one evening was seized with mortal terror on hearing a groaning voice going up the river, uttering the words, 'O Dduw, beth a wnaf fi?' (O God, what shall I do?) many times repeated, amid direful groans. The conclusion of this narration is a hopeless mystery, as Mary fainted away with her fright. Much more satisfactory, as a ghost-story with a moral, is the tale of the groaning spirit of Bedwellty.[99] There was one night a wake at the house of Meredith Thomas, over the body of his four-year-old child, at which two profane men (named Thomas Edward Morgan and Anthony Aaron) began playing at cards, and swearing most horribly. In the parish of Bedwellty, the wakes--or watch-nights, as they are more commonly called in Wales--were at that time very profanely kept. 'Few besides the dissenters,' says Jones (who was himself a dissenter, it must be remembered), 'had the sense and courage to forbid' this wickedness, but 'suffered it as a custom, because the pretence was to divert the relations of the dead, and lessen their sorrows.' While the aforementioned profane men were playing cards and swearing, suddenly a dismal groaning noise was heard at the window. At this the company was much frightened, excepting the card-players, who said 'Pw!' and went on playing. But to pacify the rest of the company they finally desisted, and at once the groaning ceased. Soon after they began playing again, when at once the groaning set up in most lamentable tones, so that people shuddered; but the profane men again said, 'Pw! it is some fellow playing tricks to frighten us.' 'No,' said William Harry Rees, a good man of the Baptist persuasion, 'it is no human being there groaning, but a spirit,' and again he desired them to give over. But though they were so bold with their card-playing, these wicked men had not the hardihood to venture out and see who it was 'playing tricks,' as they called it. However, one of the company said, 'I will go, and take the dogs with me, and see if there be any human being there.' The groaning still continued. This bold person then 'took the prime staff, and began to call the dogs to go with him;' but the dogs could not be induced to go out, being in great terror at the groaning noise, and sought to hide themselves under the stools, and about the people's feet. In vain they beat the dogs, and kicked and scolded them, out-door they would not go. This at last convinced the profane men, and they left off playing, for fear the devil should come among them. For it was told in other places that people had played cards till his sulphurous majesty appeared in person. FOOTNOTE: [99] Jones, 'Apparitions,' 24. CHAPTER VIII. The Tolaeth Death Portent--Its various Forms--The Tolaeth before Death--Ewythr Jenkin's Tolaeth--A modern Instance--The Railway Victim's Warning--The Goblin Voice--The Voice from the Cloud--Legend of the Lord and the Beggar--The Goblin Funeral--The Horse's Skull--The Goblin Veil--The Wraith of Llanllwch--Dogs of Hell--The Tale of Pwyll--Spiritual Hunting Dogs--Origin of the Cwn Annwn. I. The Tolaeth is an ominous sound, imitating some earthly sound of one sort or another, and always heard before either a funeral or some dreadful catastrophe. Carpenters of a superstitious turn of mind will tell you that they invariably hear the Tolaeth when they are going to receive an order to make a coffin; in this case the sound is that of the sawing of wood, the hammering of nails, and the turning of screws, such as are heard in the usual process of making a coffin. This is called the 'Tolaeth before the Coffin.' The 'Tolaeth before Death' is a supernatural noise heard about the house, such as a knocking, or the sound of footsteps in the dead of night. Sometimes it is the sound of a tolling bell, where no bell is; and the direction in which the ear is held at the time points out the place of the coming death. Formerly the veritable church-bell in its steeple would foretell death, by tolling thrice at the hour of midnight, unrung by human hands. The bell of Blaenporth, Cardiganshire, was noted for thus warning the neighbours. The 'Tolaeth before the Burying' is the sound of the funeral procession passing by, unseen, but heard. The voices are heard singing the 'Old Hundredth,' which is the psalm tune usually sung by funeral bands; the slow regular tramp of the feet is heard, and the sobbing and groaning of the mourners. The Tolaeth touches but one sense at a time. When this funeral procession is heard it cannot be seen. But it is a peculiarity of the Tolaeth that after it has been heard by the ear, it sometimes makes itself known to the eye also--but in silence. The funeral procession will at first be heard, and then if the hearer stoop forward and look along the ground, it may perhaps be seen; the psalm-singers, two abreast, with their hats off and their mouths open, as in the act of singing; the coffin, borne on the shoulders of four men who hold their hats by the side of their heads; the mourners, the men with long black hatbands streaming behind, the women pale and sorrowful, with upheld handkerchiefs; and the rest of the procession stretching away dimly into shadow. Not a sound is heard, either of foot or voice, although the singers' mouths are open. After the procession has passed, and the observer has risen from his stooping posture, the Tolaeth again breaks on the ear, the music, the tread of feet, and the sobbing, as before. A real funeral is sure to pass that way not long afterwards. This form of the Tolaeth should not be confused with the Teulu, or Goblin Funeral proper, which is a death-warning occupying its own place. II. John Clode, an honest labouring man living on the coast of Glamorganshire, near the Sker Rocks, had just gone to bed one night, when he and his wife heard the door open, the tread of shuffling feet, the moving about of chairs, and the grunting of men as if setting down a load. This was all in the room where they lay, it being the only room their cottage afforded, except the one upstairs. 'John, John!' cried his wife in alarm, 'what is this?' In vain John rubbed his eyes and stared into the darkness. Nothing could he see. Two days afterward their only son was brought home drowned; and his corpse being borne into the house upon a ladder, there were the same noises of opening the door, the shuffling of feet, the moving of chairs, the setting down of the burden, that the Tolaeth had touched their ears with. 'John, John!' murmured poor Mrs. Clode; 'this is exactly what I heard in the night.' 'Yes, wife,' quoth John, 'it was the Tolaeth before Death.' Before Ewythr Jenkin of Nash died, his daughter Gwenllian heard the Tolaeth. She had taken her old father's breeches from under his pillow to mend them (for he was very careful always to fold and put his breeches under his pillow, especially if there was a sixpence in the pocket), and just as she was about sitting down at the table on which she had thrown them, there came a loud rap on the table, which startled her very much. 'Oh, Jenny, what was that?' she asked of the servant girl; but Jenny could only stare at her mistress, more frightened than herself. Again did Gwenllian essay to sit and take the breeches in hand, when there came upon the table a double rap, much louder than the first, a rap, in fact, that made all the chairs and kettles ring. So then Gwenllian fainted away. At a place called by its owner Llynwent, in Radnorshire, at a certain time the man of the house and his wife were gone from home. The rest of the family were sitting at supper, when three of the servants heard the sound of horses coming toward the house, and cried out, 'There, they are coming!' thinking it was their master and mistress returning home. But on going out to meet them, there was nobody near. They re-entered the house, somewhat uneasy in their minds at this strange thing, and clustered about the fire, with many expressions of wonderment. While they were so seated, 'Hark!' said one, and all listening intently, heard footsteps passing by them and going up stairs, and voices of people talking among themselves. Not long afterward three of the family fell sick and died. III. An instance of recent occurrence is given by a local newspaper correspondent writing from the scene of a Welsh railway accident in October, 1878. It was at Pontypridd, famous the world over for its graceful bridge, (now old and superannuated,) and renowned in Druidic story as a seat of learning. A victim of the railway accident was, a few days before the collision, 'sitting with his wife at the fireside, when he had an omen. The house was still, and they were alone, only a little servant girl being with them. Then, while so sitting and talking, they both heard a heavy footstep ascending the stairs, step by step, step by step, as that of one carrying a burden. They looked at one another, and the husband called, "Run, Mary, upstairs; some one has gone up." Mary did run, but there was no one. She was told to look in every room, and she did so, and it was put down as fancy. When the news was borne to the poor wife on Saturday night, she started up and said, "There now, that was the omen!"'[100] That his readers may not by any perversity fail to understand him as alluding to the Tolaeth before Death, our newspaper correspondent states his creed: 'I believe in omens. I knew a lady who heard distinctly three raps at her door. Another lady was sitting with her near it too. The door was an inner door. No servant was in the house. The two ladies heard it, and yet no human hand touched that door, and at the time when the knock was heard a dear brother was dying. I know of strange things of this sort. Of voices crying the names of half-sleeping relatives when the waves were washing some one dear away to the mighty deep; but then the world laughs at all this and the world goes on.' The correspondent is severe; there is nothing here to laugh at. FOOTNOTE: [100] 'Western Mail,' Oct. 23, 1878. IV. The Tolaeth has one other form--that of a Voice which speaks, in a simple and natural manner, but very significant words. Thus Edward Lloyd, in the parish of Llangurig, was lying very ill, when the people that were with him in his chamber heard a voice near them, but could see no one; nor could they find any one anywhere about the house, to whom the voice might belong. Soon afterwards they heard it utter, so distinctly that it seemed to be in the room where they were, these words, 'Y mae nenbren y t[^y] yn craccio,' (the upper beam of the house cracketh.) Soon the Voice spoke again, saying, 'Fe dor yn y man,' (it will presently break.) And once more it spoke: 'Dyna fe yn tori,' (there it breaks.) That moment the sick man gave up the ghost. John, the son of Watkin Elias Jones, of the parish of Mynyddyslwyn, was one day ploughing in the field, when the oxen rested, and he sent the lad who drove the oxen, to fetch something which he wanted; and while thus alone in the field, he saw a cloud coming across the field to him. When the cloud had come to that part of the field where he was, it stopped, and shadowed the sun from him; and out of the cloud came a Voice, which asked him which of these three diseases he would choose to die of--fever, dropsy, or consumption. Being a man who could give a plain answer to a plain question, he replied that he would rather die of consumption. The lad now returning, he sent him home with the oxen, and then, feeling inclined to sleep, lay down and slept. When he awoke he was ill, and fell by degrees into a consumption, of which he died one year from the day of this warning. He did not tell of this apparition, however, until within six weeks of his death. V. One of the most beautiful legends in the Iolo MSS. gives an ancient tale of the Tolaeth which may be thus condensed: A great and wealthy lord, rich in land, houses and gold, enjoying all the luxuries of life, heard a voice proclaim thrice distinctly: 'The greatest and richest man of this parish shall die to-night.' At this he was sadly troubled, for he knew that the greatest and richest man of that parish could be no other than he; so he sent for the physician, but made ready for death. Great, however, was his joy when the night passed, the day broke, and he was yet alive. At sunrise the church bell was heard tolling, and the lord sent in haste to know who was dead. Answer came that it was an old blind beggar man, who had asked, and been refused, alms at the great man's gate. Then the lord knew the meaning of the warning voice he had heard: that very great and very rich man had been the poor beggar--his treasures and wealth in the kingdom of heaven. He took the warning wisely to heart, endowed religious houses, relieved all who were in poverty, and when at last he was dying, the voices of angels were heard to sing a hymn of welcome; and he was buried, according to his desire, in the old beggar's grave.[101] FOOTNOTE: [101] Iolo MSS., 592. VI. Of the Teulu, or Goblin Funeral, a death-portent of wide prevalence in Wales, numberless stories are told. This omen is sometimes a form of the Tolaeth, but in itself constitutes an omen which is simple and explicit. A funeral procession is seen passing down the road, and at the same time it is heard. It has no shadowy goblin aspect, but appears to be a real funeral. Examination shows its shadowy nature. Subsequently a real funeral passes the same way, and is recognised as the fulfilment of the omen. The goblin funeral precedes the other sometimes by days, sometimes by weeks. Rees Thomas, a carpenter of Carmarthenshire, passing by night through Rhiw Edwst, near Capel Ywen, heard a stir as of a procession of people coming towards him, walking and speaking; and when they were close to him he felt the touch of an unseen hand upon his shoulder, and a voice saying to him, 'Rhys bach, pa fodd yr y'ch chwi?' (my dear Rees, how are you?) A month after, passing that way again, he met a funeral in that very place, and a woman of the company put her hand upon his shoulder and spoke exactly the same Welsh words to him that the invisible spirit had spoken. Rev. Howel Prosser, many years ago curate of Aberystruth, late one evening saw a funeral procession going down the church lane. Supposing it to be the funeral of a man who had recently died in the upper part of his parish, yet wondering he had not been notified of the burial, he put on his band in order to perform his office over the dead, and hastened to meet the procession. But when he came to it he saw that it was composed of strangers, whom he had never seen before. Nevertheless, he laid his hand on the bier, to help carry the corpse, when instantly the whole vanished, and he was alone; but in his hand he found the skull of a dead horse. 'Mr. Prosser was my schoolmaster, and a right honest man,' says Edmund Jones,[102] who is responsible for this story, as well as for the ensuing: Isaac William Thomas, who lived not far from Hafodafel, once met a Goblin Funeral coming down the mountain toward Llanhiddel church. He stood in a field adjoining the highway, and leaned against the stone wall. The funeral came close to the other side of the wall, and as the bier passed him he reached forth his hand and took off the black veil which was over the bier. This he carried to his home, where many people saw it. 'It was made of some exceeding fine stuff, so that when folded it was a very little substance, and very light.' That he escaped being hurt for this bold act was long the marvel of the parish; but it was believed, by their going aside to come so near him, that the goblins were willing he should do as he did. An old man who resided near Llanllwch church, in Carmarthenshire, used to assert in the most solemn manner that he had seen the Teulu going to church again and again. On a certain evening hearing one approaching, he peeped over a wall to look at it. The persons composing the procession were all acquaintances of his, with the exception of one who stood apart from the rest, gazing mournfully at them, and who appeared to be a stranger. Soon afterwards there was a real burying, and the old man, determined to see if there would be in the scene any resemblance to his last Teulu, went to the churchyard and waited. When the procession arrived, all were there as he had seen them, except the stranger. Looking about him curiously, the old man was startled by the discovery that he was himself the stranger! He was standing on the identical spot where had stood the man he did not recognise when he saw the Teulu. It was his own ghost. FOOTNOTE: [102] 'Account of the Parish of Aberystruth,' 17. VII. The death portent called Cwn Annwn, or Dogs of Hell, is a pack of hounds which howl through the air with a voice frightfully disproportionate to their size, full of a wild sort of lamentation. There is a tradition that one of them once fell on a tombstone, but no one was able to secure it. A peculiarity of these creatures is that the nearer they are to a man the less loud their voice sounds, resembling then the voice of small beagles, and the farther off they are the louder is their cry. Sometimes a voice like that of a great hound is heard sounding among them--a deep hollow voice, as if it were the voice of a monstrous bloodhound. Although terrible to hear, and certain portents of death, they are in themselves harmless. 'They have never been known,' says a most respectable authority,[103] 'to commit any mischief on the persons of either man or woman, goat, sheep, or cow.' Sometimes they are called Cwn y Wybr, or Dogs of the Sky, but the more sulphurous name is the favourite one. They are also sometimes called Dogs of the Fairies. Their origin in fairyland is traced to the famous mabinogi of Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed; but in that fascinating tale of enchantment their right to be called Cwn Annwn is clearly set forth, for they are there the hounds of a King of Annwn. There are several translations of this mabinogi in existence, and its popularity in South Wales is great, for the villages, vales, and streams mentioned in it are familiar to residents in Pembroke, Carmarthen, and Cardigan shires. Pwyll, the Prince, was at Narberth, where was his chief palace, when he went one day to a wood in Glyn Cych. Here 'he sounded his horn and began to enter upon the chase, following his dogs and separating from his companions. And as he was listening to the cry of his pack, he could distinctly hear the cry of another pack, different from that of his own, and which was coming in an opposite direction. He could also discern an opening in the woods towards a level plain; and as his pack was entering the skirt of the opening he perceived a stag before the other pack, and about the middle of the glade the pack in the rear coming up and throwing the stag on the ground. Upon this he fixed his attention on the colour of the pack, without recollecting to look at the stag: and of all the hounds in the world he had ever seen he never saw any like them in colour. Their colour was a shining clear white, with red ears; and the whiteness of the dogs and the redness of their ears were equally conspicuous.'[104] They were the hounds of Arawn, a crowned king in the land of Annwn, the shadow-land of Hades. The Cwn Annwn are sometimes held to be the hell-hounds which hunt through the air the soul of the wicked man, the instant it quits the body--a truly terrific idea to the vulgar mind. The Prophet Jones has several accounts of them: Thomas Phillips, of Trelech parish, heard them with the voice of the great dog sounding among them, and noticed that they followed a course that was never followed by funerals, which surprised him very much, as he had always heard that the Dogs of the Sky invariably went the same way that the corpse was to follow. Not long after a woman from an adjoining parish died at Trelech, and being carried to her own parish church to be buried, her corpse did actually pass the same way in which the spirit dogs had been heard to hunt. Thomas Andrew, of the parish of Llanhiddel, heard them one night as he was coming home. 'He heard them coming towards him, though he saw them not.' Their cry grew fainter as they drew near him, passed him, and louder again as they went from him. They went down the steeps towards the river Ebwy. And Thomas Andrew was 'a religious man, who would not have told an untruth for fear or for favour.' FOOTNOTES: [103] 'Cambro-Briton,' i., 350. [104] Dr. W. Owen Pughe's Trans., 'Camb.-Briton,' ii., 271. VIII. No form of superstition has had a wider popularity than this of spiritual hunting dogs, with which was usually connected in olden time the wild huntsman, a personage who has dropped quite out of modern belief, at least in Wales. In France this goblin was called Le Grand Veneur, and hunted with his dogs in the forests of Fontainebleau; in Germany it was Hackelberg, who sold himself to the devil for permission to hunt till doomsday. In Britain it was King Arthur who served as the goblin huntsman. Peasants would hear the cry of the hounds and the sounding of the horns, but the huntsman was invisible. When they called out after him, however, the answer came back: 'We are King Arthur and his kindred.' Mr. Baring-Gould,[105] in giving an account of the myth of Odin, the Wild Huntsman, who rides over the forests by night on a white horse, with his legion of hell-hounds, seems to ascribe the superstition to the imagination of a belated woodcutter frightened by the wind in the tree-tops. William Henderson[106] presumes the belief in the Wild Huntsman's pack, which prevails in the North of England, to come from the strange unearthly cries uttered by wild fowl on their passage southward, and which sound like the yelping of dogs. These natural phenomena have not served, however, to keep the old belief alive in Wales. That the Cwn Annwn are descendants of the wish-hound of Hermes, hardly admits of doubt. The same superstition prevails among all Aryan peoples, with details differing but little. The souls of the dying are carried away by the howling winds, the dogs of Hermes, in the ancient mythology as in surviving beliefs; on this follows the custom of opening the windows at death, so that the released soul may escape. In Devonshire they say no soul can escape from the house in which its body dies, unless all the locks and bolts are opened. In China a hole is made in the roof for a like purpose. The early Aryan conception of the wind as a howling dog or wolf speeding over the house-tops caused the inmates to tremble with fear, lest their souls should be called to follow them. It must be constantly borne in mind that all these creatures of fancy were more or less interchangeable, and the god Hermes was at times his own dog, which escorted the soul to the river Styx. The winds were now the maruts, or spirits of the breeze, serving Indra, the sky-god; again they were the great psychopomp himself. The peasant who to-day tells you that dogs can see death enter the house where a person is about to die, merely repeats the idea of a primeval man whose ignorance of physical science was complete. FOOTNOTES: [105] 'Iceland, its Scenes and Sagas,' 199-203. [106] 'Notes on Folk-Lore,' 97. CHAPTER IX. The Corpse Candle--Its Peculiarities--The Woman of Caerau--Grasping a Corpse Candle--The Crwys Candle--Lights issuing from the Mouth--Jesting with the Canwyll Corph--The Candle at Pontfaen--The Three Candles at Golden Grove--Origin of Death-Portents in Wales--Degree of Belief prevalent at the Present Day--Origin of Spirits in General--The Supernatural--The Question of a Future Life. I. Perhaps the most picturesque of the several death-omens popular in Wales is the Canwyll Corph, or Corpse Candle. It is also, according to my observation, the most extensively believed in at the present day. Its details are varied and extremely interesting. The idea of a goblin in the form of a lighted tallow candle is ludicrous enough, at first sight; and indeed I know several learned Welsh gentlemen who venture to laugh at it; but the superstition grows more and more grim and less risible the better one becomes acquainted with it. It is worth noting here that the canwyll, or candle, is a more poetic thing among the Welsh--has a higher literary place, so to speak--than among English-speaking peoples. In the works of their ancient poets the candle is mentioned in passages where we should use the word light or lamp--as in this verse, which is attributed to Aneurin (sixth century): The best candle for man is prudence. The candle is the favourite figure for mental guidance among the Welsh;[107] there is no book in the Welsh language so popular as a certain work of religious counsel by a former Vicar of Llandovery, called 'The Candle of the Cymry.' The Corpse Candle is always and invariably a death-warning. It sometimes appears as a stately flambeau, stalking along unsupported, burning with a ghastly blue flame. Sometimes it is a plain tallow 'dip' in the hand of a ghost, and when the ghost is seen distinctly it is recognised as the ghost of some person yet living, who will now soon die. This, it will be noticed, is a variation upon the wraith, or Lledrith. Sometimes the goblin is a light which issues from a person's mouth or nostrils. According to the belief of some sections, the size of the candle indicates the age of the person who is about to die, being large when it is a full-grown person whose death is foretold, small when it is a child, still smaller when an infant. Where two candles together are seen, one of which is large and the other small, it is a mother and child who are to die. When the flame is white, the doomed person is a woman; when red, a man. FOOTNOTE: [107] Stephens, 'Lit. of the Kymry,' 287. (New Ed., 1876.) II. Among the accounts of the Corpse Candle which have come under my notice none are more interesting than those given me by a good dame whom I encountered at Caerau, near Cardiff. Caerau is a little village of perhaps one hundred souls, crouched at the foot of a steep hill on whose summit are the ancient earthworks of a Roman camp. On this summit also stands the parish church, distinctly visible from Cardiff streets, so ponderous is its square tower against the sky. To walk there is a pleasant stroll from the late Marquis of Bute's statue in the centre of the seaport town. I am thus particular merely for emphasis of the fact that this superstition is not confined to remote and out-of-the-way districts. Caerau is rural, and its people are all poor people, perhaps; but its church is barely three miles from the heart of a busy seaport. In this church I met the voluble Welshwoman who gave me the accounts referred to. One was to this effect: One night her sister was lying very ill at the narrator's house, and she was alone with her children, her husband being in the lunatic asylum at Cardiff. She had just put the children to bed, and had set her candle on the floor preparatory to going to bed herself, when there came a 'swish' along the floor, like the rustling of grave-clothes, and the candle was blown out. The room, however, to her surprise, remained glowing with a feeble light as from a very small taper, and looking behind her she beheld 'old John Richards,' who had been dead ten years. He held a Corpse Candle in his hand, and he looked at her in a chill and steadfast manner which caused the blood to run cold in her veins. She turned and woke her eldest boy, and said to him, 'Don't you see old John Richards?' The boy asked 'Where?' rubbing his eyes. She pointed out the ghost, and the boy was so frightened at sight of it that he cried out 'O wi! O Dduw! I wish I may die!' The ghost then disappeared, the Corpse Candle in its hand; the candle on the floor burned again with a clear light, and the next day the sick sister died. Another account ran somewhat thus: The narrator's mother-in-law was ill with a cancer of the breast. 'Jenny fach,' she said to the narrator one night, 'sleep by me--I feel afraid.' 'Hach!' said Jenny, thinking the old woman was foolishly nervous; but she stayed. As she was lying in bed by the side of her mother-in-law, she saw at the foot of the bed the faint flame of a Corpse Candle, which shed no light at all about the room; the place remained as dark as it was before. She looked at it in a sort of stupor for a short time, and then raised herself slowly up in bed and reached out to see if she could grasp the candle. Her fingers touched it, but it immediately went out in a little shower of pale sparkles that fell downward. At that moment her mother-in-law uttered a groan, and expired. 'Do you know Thomas Mathews, sir?' she asked me; 'he lives at Crwys now, but he used to live here at Caerau.' 'Crwys?' I repeated, not at once comprehending. 'Oh, you must know Crwys, sir; it's just the other side of Cardiff, towards Newport.' 'Can you spell it for me?'[108] The woman blushed. ''Deed, sir,' said she, 'I ought to be a scholar, but I've had so much trouble with my old man that I've quite forgot my spellin'.' However, the story of Thomas Mathews was to the effect that he saw a Corpse Candle come out of his father's mouth and go to his feet, and away a bit, then back again to the mouth, which it did not exactly enter, but blended as it were with the sick man's body. I asked if the candle was tallow at any point in its excursion, to which I was gravely answered that it was the spirit of tallow. The man died not long after, in the presence of my informant, who described the incident with a dramatic force and fervour peculiarly Celtic, concluding with the remark: 'Well, well, there's only one way to come into the world, but there's a many ways to go out of it.' The light issuing from the mouth is a fancy frequently encountered. In the 'Liber Landavensis' it is mentioned that one day as St. Samson was celebrating the holy mysteries, St. Dubricius with two monks saw a stream of fire to proceed glittering from his mouth.[109] In old woodcuts, the souls of the dying are represented as issuing from the mouth in the form of small human figures; and the Tyrolese peasants still fancy the soul is seen coming out of the mouth of a dying man like a little white cloud.[110] From the mouth of a patient in a London hospital some time since the nurses observed issuing a pale bluish flame, and soon after the man died. The frightened nurses--not being acquainted with the corpse-candle theory of such things--imagined the torments of hell had already begun in the still living body. A scientific explanation of the phenomenon ascribed it to phosphuretted hydrogen, a result of incipient decomposition.[111] FOOTNOTES: [108] It is pronounced Croo-iss. [109] 'Liber Landavensis,' 299. [110] Tylor, 'Primitive Culture,' 391. [111] 'Transactions Cardiff Nat. Soc.,' iv. 5. III. It is ill jesting with the Corpse Candle. Persons who have endeavoured to stop it on its way have come severely to grief thereby. Many have been struck down where they stood, in punishment of their audacity, as in the case of William John, a blacksmith of Lanboydi. He was one night going home on horseback, when he saw a Corpse Candle, and his natural caution being at the moment somewhat overcome by potables, he resolved to go out of his way to obstruct its passage. As the candle drew near he saw a corpse upon a bier, the corpse of a woman he knew, and she held the candle between her forefingers, and dreadfully grinned at him. Then he was struck from his horse, and lay in the road a long time insensible, and was ill for weeks thereafter. Meantime, the woman whose spectral corpse he had seen, died and was buried, her funeral passing by that road. A clergyman's son in Carmarthenshire, (subsequently himself a preacher,) who in his younger days was somewhat vicious, came home one night late from a debauch, and found the doors locked. Fearing to disturb the folk, and fearing also their reproaches and chidings for his staying out so late, (as many a young fellow has felt before and since,) he went to the man-servant, who slept in an out-room, as is sometimes the custom in Welsh rural districts. He could not awake the man-servant, but while standing over him, he saw a small light issue from the servant's nostrils, which soon became a Corpse Candle. He followed it out. It came to a foot-bridge which crossed a rivulet. Here the young man became inspired with the idea of trying an experiment with the Corpse Candle. He raised the end of the foot-bridge off the bank, and watched to see what the ghostly light would do. When it came to the rivulet it seemed to offer to go over, but hesitated, as if loth to cross except upon the bridge. So the young man put the bridge back in its place, and stayed to see how the candle would act. It came on the bridge, and as it passed the young man it struck him, as with a handkerchief. But though the blow was thus light and phantom-like, it doubled the young man up and left him a senseless heap on the ground, where he lay till morning, when he recovered and went home. It is needless to add that the servant died. IV. Morris Griffith was once schoolmaster in the parish of Pontfaen, in Pembrokeshire, but subsequently became a Baptist preacher of the Gospel. He tells this story: 'As I was coming from a place called Tre-Davydd, and was come to the top of the hill, I saw a great light down in the valley, which I wondered at; for I could not imagine what it meant. But it came to my mind that it was a light before a burying, though I never could believe before that there was such a thing. The light which I saw then was a very red light, and it stood still for about a quarter of an hour in the way which went towards Llanferch-Llawddog church. I made haste to the other side of the hill, that I might see it farther; and from thence I saw it go along to the churchyard, where it stood still for a little time and entered into the church. I remained waiting to see it come out, and it was not long before it came out, and went to a certain part of the churchyard, where it stood a little time, and then vanished out of my sight. A few days afterwards, being in school with the children about noon, I heard a great noise overhead, as if the top of the house was coming down. I ran out to see the garret, and there was nothing amiss. A few days afterwards, Mr. Higgon of Pontfaen's son died. When the carpenter came to fetch the boards to make the coffin, (which were in the garret,) he made exactly such a stir, in handling the boards in the garret, as was made before by some spirit, who foreknew the death that was soon to come to pass. In carrying the body to the grave, the burying stood where the light had stood for about a quarter of an hour, because there was some water crossing the way, and the people could not go over it without wetting their feet, therefore they were obliged to wait till those that had boots helped them over. The child was buried in that very spot of ground in the churchyard, where I saw the light stop after it came out of the church. This is what I can boldly testify, having seen and heard what I relate--a thing which before I could not believe.' Joshua Coslet, before mentioned in these pages, suddenly met a Corpse Candle as he was going through Heol Bwlch y Gwynt, (Windgap Lane) in Llandilo Fawr parish. It was a small light when near him, but increased as it went farther from him. He could easily see that there was some dark shadow passing along with the candle, and the shadow of a man carried it, holding it 'between his three forefingers over against his face.' He might perhaps have seen more, but he was afraid to look too earnestly upon it. Not long after, a burying passed through Heol Bwlch y Gwynt. Another time he saw the likeness of a candle carried in a skull. 'There is nothing unlikely or unreasonable in either of these representations,' says the Prophet Jones, their historian. A Carmarthenshire tradition relates that one day, when the coach which runs between Llandilo and Carmarthen was passing by Golden Grove, the property of the Earl of Cawdor, three Corpse Candles were observed on the surface of the water gliding down the stream which runs near the road. All the passengers saw them. A few days after, some men were about crossing the river near there in a coracle, when one of them expressed his fear at venturing, as the river was flooded, and he remained behind. Thus the fatal number crossed the river--three--three Corpse Candles having foretold their fate; and all were drowned. V. Tradition ascribes the origin of all these death-portents to the efforts of St. David. This saint appears to have been a great and good man, and a zealous Catholic, who, as a contemporary of the historical Arthur, is far enough back in the dim past to meet the views of romantic minds. And a prelate who by his prayers and presence could enable King Arthur to overthrow the Saxons in battle, or who by his pious learning could single-handed put down the Pelagian heresy in the Cardiganshire synod, was surely strong enough to invoke the Gwrach y Rhibyn, the Cyhyraeth, the Corpse Candle, and all the dreadful brood. This the legend relates he did by a special appeal to Heaven. Observing that the people in general were careless of the life to come, and could not be brought to mind it, and make preparation for it, St. David prayed that Heaven would give a sign of the immortality of the soul, and of a life to come, by a presage of death. Since that day, Wales, and particularly that part of Wales included in the bishopric of St. David, has had these phantoms. More materialistic minds consider these portents to be a remainder of those practices by which the persecuted Druids performed their rites and long kept up their religion in the land which Christianity had claimed: a similar origin, in fact, is here found for goblin omens as for fairies. That these various portents are extensively believed in at the present day there cannot be a doubt; with regard to the most important of them, I am able to testify with the fullest freedom; I have heard regarding them story after story, from the lips of narrators whose sincerity was expressed vividly in face, tones, and behaviour. The excited eye, the paling cheek, the bated breath, the sinking voice, the intense and absorbed manner--familiar phenomena in every circle where ghost stories are told--evidenced the perfect sincerity, at least, of the speakers. It is unnecessary here to repeat, what I for my own part never forget, nor, I trust, does the reader, that Wales is no exception to the rest of the world in its credulity. That it is more picturesque is true, and it is also true that there is here an unusual amount of legend which has not hitherto found its way into books. Death-omens are common to all lands; even in America, there are tales of the banshee, imported from Ireland along with the sons of that soil. In one recent case which came under my notice the banshee belonged to a Cambridgeshire Englishman. This was at Evansville, Indiana, and the banshee had appeared before the deaths of five members of a family, the last of whom was the father. His name was Feast, and the circumstances attending the banshee's visits were gravely described in a local journal as a matter of news. Less distinguished death-portents are common enough in the United States. That the Cambrian portents are so picturesque and clearly defined must be considered strong testimony to the vivid imagination of the Welsh. Figures born of the fancy, as distinguished from creatures born of the flesh, prove their parentage by the vagueness of their outlines. The outlines of the Cyhyraeth and the Gwrach y Rhibyn sometimes run into and mingle with each other, and so do those of the Tolaeth and the Goblin Funeral; but the wonder is they are such distinct entities as they are. VI. To say that all the visible inhabitants of the mundane spirit-world are creatures of the disordered human liver, is perhaps a needless harshness of statement. The question of a future life is not involved in this subject, nor raised by the best writers who are studying it; but, religious belief quite apart, it remains to be proved that spirits of a supernatural world have any share in the affairs of a world governed by natural law. A goblin which manifests itself to the human eye, it seems to me, becomes natural, by bowing before the natural laws which rule in optics. Yet believers in ghosts find no difficulty in this direction; the word 'supernatural' covers a multitude of sins. 'What is the supernatural?' asks Disraeli, in 'Lothair.' 'Can there be anything more miraculous than the existence of man and the world? anything more literally supernatural than the origin of things?' Surely, in this life, nothing! The student who endeavours to govern his faith by the methods of science asks no more of any ghost that ever walked the earth, than that it will prove itself a reality. Man loves the marvellous. The marvels of science, however, do not melt away into thin air on close examination. They thrive under the severest tests, and grow more and more extraordinary the more they are tried. The spectroscope and the radiometer are more wonderful than any 'supernatural' thing yet heard of. Transportation through the air in the arms of a spirit is a clear impossibility; but it is less wonderful than the every-day feats of electricity in our time, the bare conception of which would have filled Plato and Aristotle with awe. The actual origin of the phantoms of the spirit-world is to be found in the lawless and luxuriant fancy of primeval man. The creatures of this fancy have been perpetuated throughout all time, unto our own day, by that passionate yearning in men for continued life and love, which is ineradicable in our nature. Men will not, they can not, accept the doubt which plunges an eternal future into eternal darkness, and separates them for ever from the creatures of their love. Hence, when the remorseless fact of Death removes those creatures, they look, with a longing which is indescribably pathetic, into the Unknown where their beloved have gone, and strive to see them in their spirit-life. On this verge the finite mind must pause; to question that life is to add a terrible burden to all human woe; it need not be questioned. But to question the power of anything in that life to manifest itself to man through natural law, is to do what science has a right to do. 'The living know that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing ... neither have they any more a portion for ever in any thing that is done under the sun.'[112] FOOTNOTE: [112] 'Eccles.' ix., 5, 6. [Illustration: {SPRIG OF LILY OF THE VALLEY.}] BOOK III. QUAINT OLD CUSTOMS. Where in an agede cell with moss and iveye growne, In which nor to this daye the sunn had ever showne, Their reverend British saint, in zealous ages paste, To contemplation lived, and did so truly faste, As he did onlie drink what chrystal [rivers] yields, And fed upon the leakes he gather'd in the fields: In memory of whom, in the revolving year, The Welchman on that daye that sacred herb doth wear. _MS. in Bodleian Library._ CHAPTER I. Serious Significance of seemingly Trivial Customs--Their Origins--Common Superstitions--The Age we Live in--Days and Seasons--New Year's Day--The Apple Gift--Lucky Acts on New Year's Morning--The First Foot--Showmen's Superstitions--Levy Dew Song--Happy New Year Carol--Twelfth Night--The Mari Lwyd--The Penglog--The Cutty Wren--Tooling and Sowling--St. Valentine's Day--St. Dewi's Day--The Wearing of the Leek--The Traditional St. David--St. Patrick's Day--St. Patrick a Welshman--Shrove Tuesday. I. Numberless customs in Wales which appear to be meaningless, to people of average culture, are in truth replete with meaning. However trivial they may seem, they are very seldom the offspring of mere fooling. The student of comparative folk-lore is often able to trace their origin with surprising distinctness, and to evolve from them a significance before unsuspected. In many cases these quaint old customs are traced to the primeval mythology. Others are clearly seen to be of Druidical origin. Many spring from the rites and observances of the Roman Catholic Church in the early days of Christianity on Welsh soil--where, as is now generally conceded, the Gospel was first preached in Great Britain. Some embody historical traditions; and some are the outgrowth of peculiar states of society in medieval times. Directly or indirectly, they are all associated with superstition, though in many instances they have quite lost any superstitious character in our day. Modern society is agreed, with respect to many curious old customs, to view them as the peculiar possession of ignorance. It is very instructive to note, in this connection, how blandly we accept some of the most superstitious of these usages, with tacit approval, and permit them to govern our conduct. In every civilised community, in every enlightened land on earth, there are many men and women to whom this remark applies, who would deem themselves shamefully insulted should you doubt their intelligence and culture. Men and women who 'smile superior' at the idea of Luther hurling inkstands at the devil, or at the Welsh peasant who thinks a pig can see the wind, will themselves avoid beginning a journey on a Friday, view as ominous a rainy wedding-day, throw an old slipper after a bride for luck, observe with interest the portents of their nightly dreams, shun seeing the new moon over the left shoulder, throw a pinch of salt over the same member when the salt-cellar is upset, tie a red string about the neck to cure nose-bleed, and believe in the antics of the modern spiritualistic 'control.' Superstition, however, they leave to the ignorant! The examples of every-day fetichism here cited are familiar to us, not specially among the Welsh, but among the English also, and the people of the United States--who, I may again observe, are no doubt as a people uncommonly free from superstition, in comparison with the older nations of the earth; but modesty is a very becoming wear for us all, in examining into other people's superstitions. Aside from their scientific interest, there is a charm about many of the quaint customs of the Welsh, which speaks eloquently to most hearts. They are the offspring of ignorance, true, but they touch the 'good old times' of the poet and the romancer, when the conditions of life were less harsh than now. So we love to think. As a matter of scientific truth, this idea is itself, alas! but a superstition. This world has probably never been so fair a place to live in, life never so free from harsh conditions, as now; and as time goes on, there can be no doubt the improving process will continue. The true halcyon days of man are to be looked for in the future--not in the past; but with that future we shall have no mortal part. II. In treating of customs, no other classification is needful than their arrangement in orderly sequence in two divisions: first, those which pertain to certain days and seasons; second, those relating to the most conspicuous events in common human life, courtship, marriage, and death. Beginning with the year: there is in Glamorganshire a New Year's Day custom of great antiquity and large present observance, called the apple gift, or New Year's gift. In every town and village you will encounter children, on and about New Year's Day, going from door to door of shops and houses, bearing an apple or an orange curiously tricked out. Three sticks in the form of a tripod are thrust into it to serve as a rest; its sides are smeared with flour or meal, and stuck over with oats or wheat, or bits of broken lucifer matches to represent oats; its top is covered with thyme or other sweet evergreen, and a skewer is inserted in one side as a handle to hold it by. In its perfection, this piece of work is elaborate; but it is now often a decrepit affair, in the larger towns, where the New Year is welcomed (as at Cardiff) by a midnight chorus of steam-whistles. [Illustration: THE NEW YEAR'S APPLE.] The Christian symbolism of this custom is supposed to relate to the offering, by the Wise Men, of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to the infant Jesus. The older interpretation, however, takes the custom back to the Druidic days, and makes it a form of the solar myth. In the three supporting sticks of the apple are seen the three rays of the sun, /|\, the mystic Name of the Creator; the apple is the round sun itself; the evergreens represent its perennial life; and the grains of wheat, or oats, Avagddu's spears. Avagddu is the evil principle of darkness--hell, or the devil--with which the sun fights throughout the winter for the world's life. Thousands of children in Wales seek to win from their elders a New Year's copper by exhibiting the apple gift, or by singing in chorus their good wishes. A popular verse on this occasion hopes the hearer will be blessed with an abundance of money in his pocket and of beer in his cellar, and draws attention to the singers' thin shoes and the bad character of the walking. In many cases the juvenile population parades the street all night, sometimes with noisy fife bands, which follow the death knell, as it sounds from the old church tower, with shrill peals of a merrier if not more musical sort. In Pembrokeshire, to rise early on New Year's morning is considered luck-bringing. On that morning also it is deemed wise to bring a fresh loaf into the house, with the superstition that the succession of loaves throughout the year will be influenced by that incident. A rigid quarantine is also set up, to see that no female visitor cross the threshold first on New Year's morning; that a male visitor shall be the first to do so is a lucky thing, and the reverse unlucky. A superstition resembling this prevails to this day in America among showmen. 'There's no showman on the road,' said an American manager of my acquaintance, 'who would think of letting a lady be first to pass through the doors when opening them for a performance. There's a sort of feeling that it brings ill-luck. Then there are cross-eyed people; many a veteran ticket-seller loses all heart when one presents himself at the ticket-window. A cross-eyed patron and a bad house generally go together. A cross-eyed performer would be a regular Jonah. With circuses there is a superstition that a man with a yellow clarionet brings bad luck.' Another well-known New York manager in a recent conversation assured me that to open an umbrella in a new play is deemed certain failure for the piece. An umbrella may be carried closed with impunity, but it must not be opened unless the author desire to court failure. The Chinese have the Pembrokeshire superstition exactly, as regards the first foot on New Year's Day. They consider a woman peculiarly unlucky as a first foot after the New Year has begun, but a Buddhist priest is even more unlucky than a woman, in this light.[113] Another Pembrokeshire custom on New Year's morning is quaint and interesting. As soon as it is light, children of the peasantry hasten to provide a small cup of pure spring water, just from the well, and go about sprinkling the faces of those they meet, with the aid of a sprig of evergreen. At the same time they sing the following verses: Here we bring new water from the well so clear, For to worship God with, this happy new year; Sing levy dew, sing levy dew, the water and the wine, With seven bright gold wires, and bugles that do shine; Sing reign of fair maid, with gold upon her toe; Open you the west door and turn the old year go; Sing reign of fair maid, with gold upon her chin; Open you the east door and let the new year in! This custom also is still observed extensively. The words 'levy dew' are deemed an English version of Llef i Dduw, (a cry to God). A Welsh song sung on New Year's Day, in Glamorganshire, by boys in chorus, somewhat after the Christmas carol fashion, is this: Blwyddyn newydd dda i chwi, Gwyliau llawen i chwi, Meistr a meistres bob un trwy'r ty, Gwyliau llawen i chwi, Codwch yn foreu, a rheswch y tan, A cherddwch i'r ffynon i ymofyn dwr glan. A happy new year to you, Merry be your holidays, Master and mistress--every one in the house; Arise in the morning; bestir the fire, And go to the well to fetch fresh water. FOOTNOTE: [113] Dennys, 'Folk-Lore of China,' 31. III. Among Twelfth Night customs, none is more celebrated than that called Mary Lwyd. It prevails in various parts of Wales, notably in lower Glamorganshire. The skeleton of a horse's head is procured by the young men or boys of a village, and adorned with 'favours' of pink, blue, yellow, etc. These are generally borrowed from the girls, as it is not considered necessary the silken fillets and rosettes should be new, and such finery costs money. The bottoms of two black bottles are inserted in the sockets of the skeleton head to serve as eyes, and a substitute for ears is also contrived. On Twelfth Night they carry this object about from house to house, with shouts and songs, and a general cultivation of noise and racket. Sometimes a duet is sung in Welsh, outside a door, the singers begging to be invited in; if the door be not opened they tap on it, and there is frequently quite a series of _awen_ sung, the parties within denying the outsiders admission, and the outsiders urging the same. At last the door is opened, when in bounces the merry crowd, among them the Mary Lwyd, borne by one personating a horse, who is led by another personating the groom. The horse chases the girls around the room, capering and neighing, while the groom cries, 'So ho, my boy--gently, poor fellow!' and the girls, of course, scream with merriment. A dance follows--a reel, performed by three young men, tricked out with ribbons. The company is then regaled with cakes and ale, and the revellers depart, pausing outside the door to sing a parting song of thanks and good wishes to their entertainers. The penglog (a skull, a noddle) is a similar custom peculiar to Aberconwy (Conway) in Carnarvonshire. In this case the horse's skull is an attention particularly bestowed upon prudes. Mary Lwyd may mean Pale Mary, or Wan Mary, or Hoary Mary, but the presumption is that it means in this case Blessed Mary, and that the custom is of papal origin. There is, however, a tradition which links the custom with enchantment, in connection with a warlike princess, reputed to have flourished in Gwent and Morganwg in the early ages, and who is to be seen to this day, mounted on her steed, on a rock in Rhymney Dingle.[114] The cutty wren is a Pembrokeshire Twelfth Night custom prevailing commonly during the last century, but now nearly extinct. A wren was placed in a little house of paper, with glass windows, and this was hoisted on four poles, one at each corner. Four men bore it about, singing a very long ballad, of which one stanza will be enough: [Music: O! where are you go-ing? says Mil-der to Mel-der, O! where are you go-ing? says the youn-ger to the el-der; O! I can-not tell, says Fes-tel to Fose; We're go-ing to the woods, said John the Red Nose, We're go-ing to the woods, said John the Red Nose!] The immediate purpose of this rite was to levy contributions. Another such custom was called 'tooling,' and its purpose was beer. It consisted in calling at the farm-houses and pretending to look for one's tools behind the beer cask. 'I've left my saw behind your beer cask,' a carpenter would say; 'my whip,' a carter; and received the tool by proxy, in the shape of a cup of ale. The female portion of the poorer sort, on the other hand, practised what was called sowling, viz., asking for 'sowl,' and receiving, accordingly, any food eaten with bread, such as cheese, fish, or meat. This custom is still maintained, and 'sowling day' fills many a poor woman's bag. The phrase is supposed to be from the French _soûl_, signifying one's fill. FOOTNOTE: [114] Vide W. Roberts's 'Crefydd yr Oesoedd Tywyll,' 1. IV. Connected with St. Valentine's Day, there is no Welsh custom which demands notice here; but it is perhaps worthy of mention that nowhere in the world is the day more abundantly productive of its orthodox crop--love-letters. The post-offices in the Principality are simply deluged with these missives on the eve and morning of St. Valentine's. In Cardiff the postmaster thinks himself lucky if he gets off with fifteen thousand letters in excess of the ordinary mail. Nineteen extra sorters and carriers were employed for this work on February 14th, 1878, and the regular force also was heavily worked beyond its usual hours. The custom is more Norman than Cambrian, I suppose; the word Valentine comes from the Norman word for a lover, and the saint is a mere accident in this connection. V. St. Dewi is to the Welsh what St. George is to the English, St. Andrew to the Scotch, and St. Patrick to the Irish. His day is celebrated on the 1st of March throughout Wales, and indeed throughout the world where Welshmen are. In some American ports (perhaps all) the British consulate displays its flag in honour of the day. In Wales there are processions, grand dinners; places of business are closed; the poor are banqueted; speeches are made and songs are sung. The most characteristic feature of the day is the wearing of the leek. This feature is least conspicuous, it may be noted, in those parts of Wales where the English residents are fewest, and least of all in the ultra-Welsh shires of Cardigan and Carmarthen, where St. David is peculiarly honoured. The significance of this fact no doubt lies in the absence of any necessity for asserting a Cambrianism which there are none to dispute. In the border towns, every Welshman who desires to assert his national right wears the leek in his hat or elsewhere on his person; but in the shadow of St. David's College at Lampeter, not a leek is seen on St. Dewi's Day. In Glamorganshire may be found the order of Knights of the Leek, who hold high festival on the 1st of every March, gathering in the Welsh bards and men of letters. Why is the leek worn? Practically, because the wearer is a Welshman who honours tradition. But the precise origin of the custom is involved in an obscurity from which emerge several curious and interesting traditions. The verses cited at the opening of this Part refer to one of these; they are quoted by Manby[115] without other credit than 'a very antient manuscript.' Another tradition is thus given in a pamphlet of 1642:[116] 'S. David when hee always went into the field in Martiall exercise he carried a Leek with him, and once being almost faint to death, he immediately remembred himself of the Leek, and by that means not only preserved his life but also became victorious: hence is the Mythologie of the Leek derived.' The practice is traced by another writer[117] to 'the custom of Cymhortha, or the neighbourly aid practised among farmers, which is of various kinds. In some districts of South Wales all the neighbours of a small farmer without means appoint a day when they all attend to plough his land, and the like; and at such a time it is a custom for each individual to bring his portion of leeks, to be used in making pottage for the whole company; and they bring nothing else but the leeks in particular for the occasion.' Some find the true origin of the custom in Druidical days, but their warrant is not clear, nor how it came to be associated with the 1st of March in that case. The military origin bears down the scale of testimony, and gives the leek the glory of a Cambrian victory as its consecrator to ornamental purposes. Whether this victory was over the Saxon or the Gaul does not exactly appear; some traditions say one, some the other. The battle of Poictiers has been named; also that of Cressy, where the Welsh archers did good service with the English against a common enemy; but an older tradition is to the effect that the Saxon was the foe. The invaders had assumed the dress of the Britons, that they might steal upon them unsuspected; but St. David ordered the Welshmen to stick leeks in their caps as a badge of distinction. This he did merely because there was a large field of leeks growing near the British camp. The precaution gave the day to the favoured of St. Dewi. It cannot be denied that there have been found Englishmen rude enough to ridicule this honourable and ancient custom of the Welsh, though why they should do so there is no good reason. The leek is not fragrant, perhaps; but if an old custom must smell sweet or be laughed at, there is work enough for our risibles in every English parish. The following is one of the foolish legends of the English respecting the leek: 'The Welsh in olden days were so infested by ourang outangs that they could obtain no peace day or night, and not being themselves able to extirpate them they invited the English to assist, who came; but through mistake killed several of the Welsh, so that in order to distinguish them from the monkeys they desired them to stick a leek in their hats.' The author of this ridiculous tale deserves the fate of Pistol, whom Fluellen compelled to eat his leek, skin and all. _Flu._ I peseech you heartily, scurvy lowsy knave, at my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek; because, look you, you do not love it, nor your affections, and your appetites, and your digestions, does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it. _Pist._ Not for Cadwallader, and all his goats. _Flu._ There is one goat for you. [_Strikes him._] Will you be so good, scald knave, as eat it? _Pist._ Base Trojan, thou shalt die. _Flu._ You say very true, scald knave, when Got's will is: I will desire you to live in the meantime, and eat your victuals.... If you can mock a leek you can eat a leek.... _Pist._ Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see, I eat. _Flu._ Much goot do you, scald knave, heartily. Nay, 'pray you, throw none away; the skin is goot for your proken coxcomb. When you take occasions to see leeks hereafter, I pray you, mock at them! that is all.[118] FOOTNOTES: [115] 'Hist. and Ant. of the Parish of St. David,' 54. [116] 'The Welchmen's Ivbilee to the honour of St. David, shewing the manner of that solemn celebration which the Welchmen annually hold in honour of St. David, describing likewise the trve and reall cause why they wear that day a _Leek_ on their Hats, with an excellent merry Sonnet annexed unto it, composed by T. Morgan Gent. London. Printed for I. Harrison.' [117] Owen, 'Camb. Biog.' 86. [118] Shaks., 'K. Henry V.,' Act V., Sc. 1. VI. The traditional St. David is a brilliant figure in Welsh story; with the historical character this work has not to deal. The legendary account of him represents a man of gigantic stature and fabulous beauty, whose age at his death was 147 years. He was a direct descendant of the sister of the Virgin Mary, and his first miracles were performed while he was yet unborn. In this condition he regulated the diet of his virgin mother, and struck dumb a preacher who presumed to preach in her presence. At the hour of his birth St. Dewi performed a miracle; another when he was baptized; and he was taught his lessons (at a place called The Old Bush, in South Wales) by a pigeon with a golden beak, which played about his lips. As he grew up, his miraculous powers waxed stronger; and magicians who opposed him were destroyed by fire which he called from heaven to consume them. Thirsty, a fountain rose in Glyn Hodnant at his call, and from this fountain ran not water but good wine. When he went about the country he was always accompanied by an angel. On the banks of the river Teify, a miserable woman wept over her son who lay dead; she appealed to Dewi, who laid hold of the boy's right hand and he arose from the dead as if from a sleep. At Llandewi Brefi, in Cardiganshire, as he was preaching on the surface of the flat ground, the ground rose as a high mount under his feet, so that the people all about could see him as well as hear him. A labourer lifted his pickaxe to strike a friend of Dewi's, which the saint seeing from afar off, raised his hand and willed that the labourer's hand should become stiff--which it did. Another friend, going away to Ireland, forgot and left behind him a little bell that Dewi had given him; but Dewi sent the bell across the sea by an angel, so that it arrived there next day without the aid of human hands. And finally, having made up his mind that he would die and go to heaven, he did so--but quite of his own will--at his own request, so to speak. Having asked that his soul might be taken, an angel informed him it would be taken on the first of March proximo. So David bade his friends good-bye on the 28th of February, greatly to their distress. 'Alas!' they cried, 'the earth will not swallow us! Alas! fire will not consume us! Alas! the sea will not come over the land! Alas! the mountains will not fall to cover us!' On Tuesday night, as the cocks were crowing, a host of angels thronged the streets of the city, and filled it with joy and mirth; and Dewi died. 'The angels took his soul to the place where there is light without end, and rest without labour, and joy without sorrow, and plenty of all good things, and victory, and brightness, and beauty.' There Abel is with the martyrs, Noah is with the sailors, Thomas is with the Indians, Peter is with the apostles, Paul is with the Greeks, other saints are with other suitable persons, and David is with the kings.[119] On the summit which rose under St. Dewi while he stood on it and preached, now stands St. David's church, at Llandewi Brefi. In the days of its glory--i.e. during nearly the whole period of Roman Catholic rule--it was renowned beyond all others in Britain. To go twice to St. David's was deemed equal to going once to Rome, and a superstitious belief prevailed that every man must go to St. David's once, either alive or dead. William the Conqueror marched through Wales in hostile array in 1080, but arriving at St. David's shrine laid aside the warrior for the votary. FOOTNOTE: [119] 'Cambro-British Saints,' 402, etc. VII. St. Patrick's Day is celebrated in Wales with much enthusiasm. The Welsh believe that St. Patrick was a Welshman. Born at Llandeilo Talybont, in Glamorganshire, and educated at the famous college of Llantwit Major, he held St. David's place till the coming of Dewi was announced to him; then he went into Ireland, to do missionary work, as it were. This is the monastic tale. Patrick was comfortably settled in the valley of Rosina, and intended to pass his life there, but an angel came to him and said, 'Thou must leave this place to one who is not yet born.' Patrick was annoyed, even angered, but obedient, and went off to Ireland, where he became a great man.[120] The story of the Iolo MSS., however, presents the matter in a different light: 'About A.D. 420 the Island of Britain seemed to have neither ruler nor proprietor.' The Irish took advantage of this state of things to invade and oppress Britain, robbing her of corn, cattle, 'and every other moveable property that they could lay their hands on.' Among other things, they stole away St. Patrick from the college at Llantwit Major, 'whence that college became destitute of a principal and teacher for more than forty years, and fell into dilapidation'--a condition it remains in at present, by the way. 'Patrick never returned to Wales, choosing rather to reside in Ireland; having ascertained that the Irish were better people than the Welsh, in those times.'[121] Still, it is not the native Welsh who are as a rule the celebrators of St. Patrick's Day in Wales. FOOTNOTES: [120] 'Cambro-British Saints,' 403. [121] Iolo MSS., 455. VIII. Shrove Tuesday was once characterised by a custom called throwing at cocks, now obsolete. Hens which had laid no eggs before that day were threshed with a flail, as being good for nothing. The person who hit the hen with the flail and killed her got her for his reward. The more reputable custom of cramming with crammwythau (pancakes) still survives, and is undoubtedly of extreme antiquity. CHAPTER II. Sundry Lenten Customs--Mothering Sunday--Palm Sunday--Flowering Sunday--Walking Barefoot to Church--Spiritual Potency of Buns--Good Friday Superstitions--Making Christ's Bed--Bad Odour of Friday--Unlucky Days--Holy Thursday--The Eagle of Snowdon--New Clothing at Easter--Lifting--The Crown of Porcelain--Stocsio--Ball-Playing in Churchyards--The Tump of Lies--Dancing in Churchyards--Seeing the Sun Dance--Calan Ebrill, or All Fools' Day--May Day--The Welsh Maypole--The Daughter of Lludd Llaw Ereint--Carrying the Kings of Summer and Winter. I. Wearing mourning throughout Lent was formerly common in Wales. In Monmouthshire, Mothering Sunday--the visiting of parents on Mid-Lent Sunday--was observed in the last century, but is nowhere popular in Wales at present. Palm Sunday takes precedence among the Welsh, and is very extensively and enthusiastically observed. The day is called Flowering Sunday, and its peculiar feature is strewing the graves of the dead with flowers. The custom reaches all classes, and all parts of the Principality. In the large towns, as Cardiff, many thousands of people gather at the graves. The custom is associated with the strewing of palms before Christ on his entry into Jerusalem, but was observed by the British Druids in celebration of the awakening life of the earth at this season. II. In Pembrokeshire, it was customary up to the close of the last century, to walk barefoot to church on Good Friday, as had been done since times prior to the Reformation. The old people and the young joined in this custom, which they said was done so as not to 'disturb the earth.' All business was suspended, and no horse nor cart was to be seen in the town. Hot-cross buns also figured in a peculiar manner at this time. They were eaten in Tenby after the return from church. After having tied up a certain number in a bag, the folk hung them in the kitchen, where they remained till the next Good Friday, for use as medicine. It was believed that persons labouring under any disease had only to eat a portion of a bun to be cured. The buns so preserved were used also as a panacea for all the diseases of domestic animals. They were further believed to be serviceable in frightening away goblins of an evil sort. That these buns are of Christian invention is the popular belief, and indeed this notion is not altogether exploded among the more intelligent classes. Their connection with the cross of the Saviour is possible by adoption--as the early Christians adopted many pagan rites and customs--but that they date back to pre-historic times there is abundant testimony. Innumerable are the superstitious customs and beliefs associated with Good Friday. In Pembrokeshire there was a custom called 'making Christ's bed.' A quantity of long reeds were gathered from the river and woven into the shape of a man. This effigy was then stretched on a wooden cross, and laid in some retired field or garden, and left there. The birth of a child on that day is very unlucky--indeed a birth on any Friday of the whole year is to be deprecated as a most unfortunate circumstance. III. The bad odour in which Friday is everywhere held is naturally associated, among Christians, with the crucifixion; but this will not account for the existence of a like superstition regarding Friday among the Brahmins of India, nor for the prevalence of other lucky and unlucky days among both Aryan and Mongolian peoples. In the Middle Ages Monday and Tuesday were unlucky days. A Welshman who lived some time in Russia, tells me Monday is deemed a very unlucky day there, on which no business must be begun. In some English districts Thursday is the unlucky day. In Norway it is lucky, especially for marrying. In South Wales, Friday is the fairies' day, when they have special command over the weather; and it is their whim to make the weather on Friday differ from that of the other days of the week. 'When the rest of the week is fair, Friday is apt to be rainy, or cloudy; and when the weather is foul, Friday is apt to be more fair.' The superstitious prejudice of the quarrymen in North Wales regarding Holy Thursday has been cited. It is not a reverential feeling, but a purely superstitious one, and has pervaded the district from ancient times. It has been supposed that Thursday was a sacred day among the Druids. There is a vulgar tradition (mentioned by Giraldus), that Snowdon mountains are frequented by an eagle, which perches on a fatal stone on every Thursday and whets her beak upon it, expecting a battle to occur, upon which she may satiate her hunger with the carcases of the slain; but the battle is ever deferred, and the stone has become almost perforated with the eagle's sharpening her beak upon it. There may perhaps be a connection traced between these superstitions and the lightning-god Thor, whose day Thursday was. IV. Easter is marked by some striking customs. It is deemed essential for one's well-being that some new article of dress shall be donned at this time, though it be nothing more than a new ribbon. This is also a Hampshire superstition. A servant of mine, born in Hampshire, used always to say, 'If you don't have on something new Easter Sunday the dogs will spit at you.' This custom is associated with Easter baptism, when a new life was assumed by the baptized, clothed in righteousness as a garment. A ceremony called 'lifting' is peculiar to North Wales on Easter Monday and Tuesday. On the Monday bands of men go about with a chair, and meeting a woman in the street compel her to sit, and be lifted three times in the air amidst their cheers: she is then invited to bestow a small compliment on her entertainers. This performance is kept up till twelve o'clock, when it ceases. On Easter Tuesday the women take their turn, and go about in like manner lifting the men. It has been conjectured that in this custom an allusion to the resurrection is intended. [Illustration: LIFTING. (_From an old drawing._)] A custom, the name of which is now lost, was that the village belle should on Easter Eve and Easter Tuesday carry on her head a piece of chinaware of curious shape, made expressly for this purpose, and useless for any other. It may be described as a circular crown of porcelain, the points whereof were cups and candles. The cups were solid details of the crown: the candles were stuck with clay upon the spaces between the cups. The cups were filled with a native beverage called bragawd, and the candles were lighted. To drink the liquor without burning yourself or the damsel at the candle was the difficulty involved in this performance. A stanza was sung by the young woman's companions, the last line of which was, Rhag i'r feinwen losgi ei thalcen. (Lest the maiden burn her forehead.[122]) Stocsio is an Easter Monday custom observed from time immemorial in the town of Aberconwy, and still practised there in 1835. On Easter Sunday crowds of men and boys carrying wands of gorse went to Pen Twthil, and there proclaimed the laws and regulations of the following day. They were to this effect: all men under sixty to be up and out before 6 A.M.; all under forty, before 4 A.M.; all under twenty, to stay up all night. Penalty for disobedience: the stocks. The crier who delivered this proclamation was the man last married in the town previous to Easter Sunday. Other like rules were proclaimed, amid loud cheers. Early next morning a party, headed by a fife and drum, patrolled the town with a cart, in search of delinquents. When one was discovered, he was hauled from his bed and made to dress himself; then put in the cart and dragged to the stocks. His feet being secured therein, he was duly lectured on the sin of laziness, and of breaking an ancient law of the town by lying abed in violation thereof. His right hand was then taken, and he was asked a lot of absurd questions, such as 'Which do you like best, the mistress or the maid?' 'Which do you prefer, ale or buttermilk?' 'If the gate of a field were open, would you go through it, or over the stile?' and the like. His answers being received with derision, his hand was smeared with mud, and he was then released amid cheers. 'This sport, which would be impracticable in a larger and less intimate community, is continued with the greatest good humour until eight; when the rest of the day is spent in playing ball at the Castle.'[123] FOOTNOTES: [122] 'Arch. Camb.' 4 Se., iii., 334. [123] 'Hist. and Ant. of Aberconwy,' 108. V. Ball-playing against the walls of the church between hours of service was a fashion of Easter which is within recollection. It was also common on the Sabbath day itself in many parishes, in the days when dissent was unknown and parishioners had long distances to traverse on a Sunday; 'and that, too, with the sanction of the clergyman, and even his personal superintendence. Old people can remember such a state of things, when the clergyman gave notice that the game must cease by putting the ball into his pocket and marched his young friends into church.'[124] Nowhere less than in a custom like this would the ordinary observer look for traditionary significance; yet there is no doubt our Easter eggs are but another surviving form of the same ancient rite. Before the Reformation there was a Church of England custom of playing ball _in_ church at Easter, according to Dr. Fosbrooke, the dean and clergy participating. There were other sports and pastimes common alike to Easter and to the Sabbath day, which are full of curious interest. Some of them no doubt arose out of the social exigencies of sparsely settled neighbourhoods, which caused people to remain at the church between services, instead of returning to distant homes; but a Druidic origin seems necessary to account for others. That the people should between services gather near the church to talk over the gossip of the day, is natural enough, and is a phenomenon which may still be witnessed in remote parts of the United States. In St. Dogmell's parish, Pembrokeshire, there is a tump which bears the name of 'Cnwc y Celwydd,' videlicet, the Tump of Lies. Here were men and women formerly in the habit of gathering together on the Lord's day in great crowds, and entertaining each other with the inventing and telling of the most lying and wonderful yarns they could conjure up with the aid of an imagination spurred to exercise by rivalry and applause. The custom is discontinued; but there is still hardly a neighbourhood in Wales so rich in tales of fairies and other goblins. The custom of dancing in churchyards was common in many parts of the Principality in the early part of this century. At Aberedwy, Malkin saw a large yew tree in the churchyard under which as many as sixty couples had been seen dancing at once.[125] The dancing was not in that part of the yard consecrated to the dead, but on the north side of the church, where it was not the custom to bury. A tradition is preserved by Giraldus of a solemn festival dance which took place in the churchyard at St. Almedha's church, Breconshire, on that saint's day. The dance was 'led round the churchyard with a song,' and succeeded by the dancers falling down in a trance, followed by a sort of religious frenzy. This is believed to have been a Druidical rite, described on hearsay by Giraldus, and embellished by him with those pious inventions not uncommon in his day. One of the customs of Easter, at a comparatively recent period in Wales, was getting the children up early in the morning to see the sun dance. This exercise the sun was said to perform at rising on Easter Day, in honour of the rising of our Lord. The sun was sometimes aided in this performance by a bowl of clear water, into which the youth must look to see the orb dance, as it would be dangerous to look directly on the sun while thus engaged. The religious dance of the ancient Druids is believed to exist in modern times in a round dance wherein the figures imitate the motions of the sun and moon. The ball-playing in church mentioned above was also accompanied by dancing. FOOTNOTES: [124] 'Arch. Camb.' 4 Se., iii., 333. [125] Malkin's 'South Wales,' 281. VI. The first of April is in Welsh called Calan Ebrill, and an April Fool a Ffwl Ebrill; the similarity of English and Welsh words may be said to typify the similarity of observance. The universality of this observance among Aryan peoples would certainly indicate an origin in a time preceding the dispersion of the human family over the world. The Druids, tradition says, celebrated the revival of Nature's powers in a festival which culminated on the first of April in the most hilarious foolery. The Roman Saturnalia or feast of fools perpetuated the rite, though the purpose of the Christian revelry may quite possibly have been to ridicule the Druidic ceremonies. The festivities of May-day are in like manner associated with the powers of Nature, whose vigour and productiveness were symbolized by the Maypole round which village lads and lasses danced. The rites of love were variously celebrated at this time, and some of these customs locally have long survived the Maypole itself. The ordinance for the destruction of Maypoles in England and Wales, printed in 1644, declared them 'a heathenish vanity, generally abused to superstition and wickedness,' wherefore it was ordained that they should be destroyed, and that no Maypole should thereafter be 'set up, erected, or suffered to be within this kingdom of England or dominion of Wales.' The Maypole in Wales was called Bedwen, because it was always made of birch, bedw, a tree still associated with the gentler emotions. To give a lover a birchen branch, is for a maiden to accept his addresses; to give him a collen, or hazel, the reverse. Games of various sorts were played around the bedwen. The fame of a village depended on its not being stolen away, and parties were constantly on the alert to steal the bedwen, a feat which, when accomplished, was celebrated with peculiar festivities. This rivalry for the possession of the Maypole was probably typical of the ancient idea that the first of May was the boundary day dividing the confines of winter and summer, when a fight took place between the powers of the air, on the one hand striving to continue the reign of winter, on the other to establish that of summer. Here may be cited the Mabinogi of Kilhwch and Olwen, where it speaks of the daughter of Lludd Llaw Ereint. 'She was the most splendid maiden in the three Islands of the Mighty, and in the three Islands adjacent,' and for her does Gwyn ap Nudd, the fairy king, fight every first of May till the day of doom.[126] She was to have been the bride of Gwythyr, the son of Greidawl, when Gwyn ap Nudd carried her off by force. The bereaved bridegroom followed, and there was a bloody struggle, in which Gwyn was victorious, and which he signalized by an act of frightful cruelty; he slew an old warrior, took out his heart from his breast, and constrained the warrior's son to eat the heart of his father. When Arthur heard of this he summoned Gwyn ap Nudd before him, and deprived him of the fruits of his victory. But he condemned the two combatants to fight for the radiant maiden henceforth for ever on every first of May till doomsday; the victor on that day to possess the maiden.[127] FOOTNOTES: [126] 'Mabinogion,' 229. [127] 'Mabinogion,' 251. VII. In the remote and primitive parish of Defynog, in Breconshire, until a few years since, a custom survived of carrying the King of Summer and the King of Winter. Two boys were chosen to serve as the two kings, and were covered all over with a dress of brigau bedw, (birchen boughs,) only their faces remaining visible. A coin was tossed and the boy chosen was the summer king; a crown of bright-hued ribbons was put upon his head. Upon the other boy's head was placed a crown of holly, to designate the winter king. Then a procession was formed, headed by two men with drawn swords to clear the way. Four men supported the summer king upon two poles, one under his knees and the other under his arms; and four others bore the winter king in a similar undignified posture. The procession passed round the village and to the farm-houses near by, collecting largess of coin or beer, winding up the perambulation at the churchyard. Here the boys were set free, and received a dole for their services, the winter king getting less than the other. Another May-day custom among the boys of that parish, was to carry about a rod, from which the bark had been partly peeled in a spiral form, and upon the top of which was set either a cock or a cross, the bearers waking the echoes of the village with 'Yo ho! yo ho! yo ho!'[128] FOOTNOTE: [128] 'Arch. Camb.,' 2 Se., iv., 326. CHAPTER III. Midsummer Eve--The Druidic Ceremonies at Pontypridd--The Snake Stone--Beltane Fires--Fourth of July Fires in America--St. Ulric's Day--Carrying Cynog--Marketing on Tombstones--The First Night of Winter--The Three Nights for Spirits--The Tale of Thomas Williams the Preacher--All Hallows Eve Festivities--Running through Fire--Quaint Border Rhymes--The Puzzling Jug--Bobbing for Apples--The Fiery Features of Guy Fawkes' Day--St. Clement's Day--Stripping the Carpenter. I. Midsummer Eve, or St. John's Eve (June 23rd), is one of the ancient Druidic festivals, still liberally honoured in Wales. The custom of lighting bonfires survives in some of the villages, and at Pontypridd there are ceremonies of a solemn sort. Midsummer Eve, in 1878, fell on a Sunday. Upon that day the 'Druids and bards' at Pontypridd held the usual feast of the summer solstice in the face of the sun. There is a breezy common on the top of a high hill overlooking the town, where stand a logan stone and a circle of upright stones constituting the 'temple of the Druids.' Here it is the custom of the present-day adherents of that ancient religion, beside which Christianity is an infant, to celebrate their rites 'within the folds of the serpent,' a circle marked with the signs of the zodiac. The venerable archdruid, Myfyr Morganwg, stands on the logan stone, with a mistletoe sprig in his button-hole, and prays to the god Kali, 'creator of sun, moon, stars, and universe.' Then the white-bearded old man delivers a discourse, and new members are initiated into the 'mysteries,' Occasionally these new members are Americans from over the sea, and they include both sexes. Large crowds gather to witness the impressive spectacle--a shadow of the ancient rites when from Belenian heights flamed high the sacrificial fires. It was a former belief that these fires protected the lands within their light from the machinations of sorcery, so that good crops would follow, and that their ashes were valuable as a medicinal charm. The Snake-stone is another striking Welsh tradition, associated with Midsummer eve. At this time of the year there are certain convocations of snakes, which, hissing sociably together among one another, hiss forth a mystic bubble, which hardens into the semblance of a glass ring. The finder of this ring is a lucky man, for all his undertakings will prosper while he retains it. These rings are called Gleiniau Nadroedd in Welsh--snake-stones in English. They are supposed to have been used by the ancient Druids as charms. There is a Welsh saying, respecting people who lay their heads together in conversation, that the talkers are 'blowing the gem.' II. The traditions connected with the Beltane fires are very interesting, but the subject has received so much attention in published volumes that it need not here be dwelt upon. The lad who in the United States capers around a bonfire on the night of Independence Day has not a suspicion that he is imitating the rites of an antiquity the most remote; that in burning a heap of barrels and boxes in a public square the celebrators of the American Fourth of July imitate the priests who thus worshipped the sun-god Beal. The origins of our most familiar customs are constantly being discovered in such directions as this. On the face of the thing, nothing could be more absurd as a mode of jollification, in a little American town, with its wooden architecture, on a hot night in the midst of summer, than building a roaring fire to make the air still hotter and endanger the surrounding houses. The reason for the existence of such a custom must be sought in another land and another time; had reflection governed the matter, instead of tradition, the American anniversary would have found some more fitting means of celebration than Druidic fires and Chinese charms. (For it may be mentioned further, in this connection, that the fire-crackers of our urchins are quite as superstitious in their original purpose as the bonfire is. In China, even to this day, fire-crackers are charms pure and simple, their office to drive away evil spirits, their use as a means of jollification quite unknown to their inventors.) A far more sensible Midsummer rite, especially in a hot country, would have been to adopt the custom of St. Ulric's day, and eat fish. This saint's day falls on the fourth of July, and Barnabe Googe's translation of Naogeorgius has this couplet concerning it: Wheresoeuer Huldryche hath his place, the people there brings in Both carpes and pykes, and mullets fat, his fauour here to win. III. The Welsh saint called Cynog was one of the numberless children of that famous old patriarch Brychan Brycheiniog, and had his memory honoured, until a comparatively recent period, in the parish of Defynog. Here, on this saint's feast Monday, which fell in October, there was a custom called 'carrying Cynog.' Cynog was represented by a man who was paid for his services with money, or with a suit of clothes--sometimes a 'stranger' from an adjoining parish, but on the last recorded occasion a drunken farmer of the neighbourhood. He was clad in dilapidated garments, and borne through the village; after which he was tumbled headlong into the river amid the jeers of the crowd, to scramble out as best he might. It was not a very respectful way of commemorating a saint who had been buried a thousand years or thereabouts; but such as it was it died out early in the present century. The ducking which ended the performance has been supposed to be a puritan improvement on what was before a religious ceremony, or mystery. It is more than possibly a relic of the Druidic sacrificial rites; in cases where a river ran near, at the time of the Beltane fires, a sacrifice by water was substituted for that of flame. The feast of St. Cynog continued for a week. On the Tuesday there was a singular marketing in the churchyard; from all about the farmers brought their tithe of cheese, and taking it to the churchyard, laid it on the tombstones, where it was sold for the parson's behoof. IV. All Hallows eve is by the Welsh called 'Nos Calan Gauaf,' meaning 'the first night of winter;' sometimes, 'Nos Cyn Gauaf,' the 'night before winter.' It is one of the 'Teir Nos Ysprydnos,' or 'three nights for spirits,' upon which ghosts walk, fairies are abroad, mysterious influences are in the air, strange sights are seen, and in short goblins of every sort are to be with special freedom encountered. They may be conjured to appear, by certain enchantments, and to give their visitors glimpses of the future, especially as regards the subject of marrying. On this night it is customary for the young people, gathered in many a merry circle, to seek by tricks and charms of various sort to become acquainted with their future lovers and sweethearts. Not that it is always necessary to employ such aids, for on the Teir Nos Ysprydnos the phantoms of future companions have been known to appear unsummoned. There are many such stories as that of Thomas Williams, the preacher, who slept in the hills on a Nos Ysprydnos, and although he used no charms nor tricks of any sort, he saw his future wife. As he was just about putting out his light, having jumped into bed, the door opened and the goblin mother of the young woman he subsequently married walked into the room, leading her daughter. 'Here, Thomas,' said she, 'I am going, but I leave you Mary.' And when he came down home out of the mountains he found that the old mother had died in her bed at the very moment he saw her goblin. To have done less than marry the girl, after that, would have been to insult the good old lady's ghost, and cast reflections on the reputation of All Hallows eve. The two other spirit-nights, it may here be mentioned, are May-day eve and Midsummer eve; which with All Hallows were three great festivals of the ancient Druids, when they commemorated the powers of Nature and love in the manner which has been alluded to. I have two accounts of this matter, however, and I know not which is the older in tradition, as I have both from the mouths of the people; but one account calls Christmas-night the third spirit-night. The festivities of All Hallows in Wales are in the main like those of other Christian lands, in so far as they consist of feasting and making merry. Bonfires were kindled in many places until recently, and perhaps are still, in some parts, again in pursuance of the Druidic rites, which the Christian Church adopted and continued while changing their significance. In Owen's account of the Bards occurs a curious description of the autumnal fires kindled in North Wales on the eve of the first of November, and the attendant ceremonies. There was running through the fire and smoke, and casting of stones into the fire, 'all running off at the conclusion to escape from the black short-tailed sow.'[129] This custom of running through the fire is said to survive in Ireland. It is no doubt related to the ancient sacrificial rites. As testimonies to the kinship of our race, all these customs possess a deep interest, which is increased in this direction as they lose in the charm of the unique. On the Welsh Border there prevails a Hallow-e'en custom among the children of going about to the houses singing the rhymes which follow: Wissel wassel, bread and possel, Cwrw da, plas yma: An apple or a pear, a plum or a cherry, Or any good thing to make us merry. Sol cakes, sol cakes, Pray you, good missus, a sol cake; One for Peter, and two for Paul, And three for the good man that made us all. The roads are very dirty, My shoes are very thin, I've got a little pocket, To put a penny in. Up with the kettle and down with the pan, Give us an answer and we'll be gan. (_A loud rap at the door._) _Spoken._ Please to give us a 'apenny. Some of these rhymes are heard in Glamorganshire and elsewhere at Christmas and New Year's. The puzzling jug is a vessel in use in some quarters as a means of increasing the hilarity of a Hallow-e'en party. It is a stone jug, 'out of which each person is compelled to drink. From the brim, extending about an inch below the surface, it has holes fantastically arranged so as to appear like ornamental work, and which are not perceived except by the perspicacious; three projections, of the size and shape of marbles, are around the brim, having a hole of the size of a pea in each; these communicate with the bottom of the jug through the handle, which is hollow, and has a small hole at the top, which, with two of the holes being stopped by the fingers, and the mouth applied to the one nearest the handle, enables one to suck the contents with ease; but this trick is unknown to every one, and consequently a stranger generally makes some mistake, perhaps applying his mouth as he would to another jug, in which case the contents (generally ale) issue through the fissures on his person, to the no small diversion of the spectators.'[130] Another merry custom of All Hallows was--and is--twco am 'falau, bobbing for apples. A large tub (crwc) is brought into the kitchen of a farm-house and filled with water; a dozen apples are thrown into it, and the rustic youths bob for them with their mouths. To catch up two apples at a single mouthful is a triumphant achievement. Again the revellers will form a semicircle before the fire, while there depends above their mouths from a hook in the ceiling, a string with a stick attached. At one end of the stick is an apple, at the other end a candle. To snatch the apple with the lips, and yet avoid the candle, is the aim of the competitors. The stick is so hung that it turns easily on its axis, and the bobbers often find themselves catching the candle in their hair while aiming at the apple. This appears to be a relic of the ancient Welsh game of quintain, or gwyntyn. FOOTNOTES: [129] Brand, 'Pop. Ant.,' i., 191. [130] 'Camb. Sup.,' 174. V. November the Fifth, the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot, is much observed in Wales. 'God grant,' said Bishop Sanderson in one of his sermons, 'that we nor ours ever live to see November the Fifth forgotten, or the solemnity of it silenced.' The words are similar to those used by a great American, of the early days of the Republic, with regard to the 4th of July--God grant it might never be forgotten. But the rites by which both days are celebrated are as old as tradition, and much older than history. As the Americans have given a historical significance to bonfires and fireworks, so the English before them did to sacrificing a puppet on Guy Fawkes' Day; and so again some Catholic nations have made the rite a religious one, in the hanging of Judas. All three customs are traced to the same original--the ancient Druidic sacrifices to the sun-god Beal or Moloch. It is noteworthy that the Fifth of November and the Fourth of July--or rather the fiery features of these days--are alike voted a nuisance by respectable and steady-going people in the countries to which they respectively belong. VI. On St. Clement's Day (the 23rd of November) it was customary in Pembrokeshire in the last century to parade an effigy of a carpenter, which had been hung to the church steeple the night before. Cutting the effigy down from where it hung, the people carried it about the village, repeating loudly some doggerel verses which purported to be the last will and testament of St. Clement, distributing to the different carpenters in town the several articles of dress worn by the effigy. After the image was thus stripped of its garments, one by one, the padded remains were thrown down and carefully kicked to pieces by the crowd. CHAPTER IV. Nadolig, the Welsh Christmas--Bell-Ringing--Carols--Dancing to the Music of the Waits--An Evening in Carmarthenshire--Shenkin Harry, the Preacher, and the Jig Tune--Welsh Morality--Eisteddfodau--Decorating Houses and Churches--The Christmas Thrift-box--The Colliers' Star--The Plygain--Pagan Origin of Christmas Customs. I. We come now to the most interesting holiday season of the year, by reason of its almost universality of observance among Christian peoples, and the variety of customs peculiar to it. In the land of Arthur and Merlin it is a season of such earnest and widespread cordiality, such warm enthusiasm, such hearty congratulations between man and man, that I have been nowhere equally impressed with the geniality and joyousness of the time. In some Catholic countries one sees more merriment on the day itself; indeed, the day itself is not especially merry in Wales, at least in its out-door aspects. It is the season rather than the day which is merry in Wales. The festival is usually understood, throughout Christendom, to include twelve days; the Welsh people not only make much of the twelve days, but they extend the peculiar festivities of the season far beyond those limits. Christmas has fairly begun in Wales a week or two before Christmas-day. The waits are patrolling the streets of Cardiff as early as December 5th, and Christmas festivals are held as early as December 19th, at which Christmas-trees are displayed, and their boughs denuded of the toys and lollipops in which the juvenile heart delights. After Christmas-day the festival continues I know not just how long, but apparently for weeks. The characteristic diversions of the Christmas season are, in the main, alike in all Christian countries. In Wales many well-known old customs are retained which in some other parts of Great Britain have disappeared, such as the mummers, the waits, carols, bell-ringings, etc. Not only do the bell-ringers of the several churches throughout the principality do their handsomest on their own particular bells, but there are grand gatherings, at special points, of all the bell-ringers for leagues around, who vie with each other in showing what feats they can perform, how they can astonish you with their majors, bob-majors, and triple bob-majors, on the brazen clangers of the steeples. At Cowbridge, for instance, on Christmas will come together the ringers from Aberdare, Penarth, St. Fagan's, Llantrisant, Llanblethian, and other places, thirty or forty in number, and after they have rung till the air above the town is black with flying clefs and quavers from the steeples, they will all sit down to a jolly Christmas-dinner at the Bear. The bands of waits, or 'pipers of the watch,' who wake the echoes of the early morning with their carols, are heard in every Welsh town and village. In some towns there are several bands and much good-natured rivalry. The universal love of music among the Welsh saves the waits from degenerating into the woe-begone creatures they are in some parts, where the custom has that poor degree of life which can be kept in it by shivering clusters of bawling beggars who cannot sing. Regularly organised and trained choirs of Welshmen perambulate the Cambrian country, chanting carols at Christmas-tide, and bands of musicians play who, in many cases, would not discredit the finest military orchestras. Carols are sung in both Welsh and English; and, generally, the waits are popular. If their music be not good, they are not tolerated; irate gentlemen attack them savagely and drive them off. Not exactly that boot-jacks and empty bottles are thrown at them, but they are excoriated in 'letters to the editor,' in which strong language is hurled at them as intolerable nuisances, ambulatory disturbers of the night's quiet, and inflicters of suffering upon the innocent. But such cases are rare. The music is almost invariably good, and the effect of the soft strains of melodiously-warbled Welsh coming dreamily to one's ears through the darkness and distance on a winter morning is sweet and soothing to most ears. Sometimes small boys will pipe their carols through the key-holes. The songs vary greatly in character, but usually the religious tone prevails, as in this case: As I sat on a sunny bank, a sunny bank, a sunny bank, All on a Christmas morning, Three ships came sailing by, sailing by, sailing by. Who do you think was in the ships? Who do you think was in the ships? Christ and the Virgin Mary. Both English and Welsh words are sung. Sometimes a group of young men and women will be seen dancing about the waits to the measure of their music, in the hours 'ayont the twal.' In one aspect the Welsh people may be spoken of as a people whose lives are passed in the indulgence of their love for music and dancing. The air of Wales seems always full of music. In the Christmas season there is an unending succession of concerts and of miscellaneous entertainments of which music forms a part, while you cannot enter an inn where a few are gathered together, without the imminent probability that one or more will break forth in song. By this is not meant a general musical howl, such as is apt to be evoked from a room full of men of any nationality when somewhat under the influence of the rosy god, but good set songs, with good Welsh or English words to them, executed with respect for their work by the vocalists, and listened to with a like respect by the rest of the company. When an Englishman is drunk he is belligerent; when a Frenchman is drunk he is amorous; when an Italian is drunk he is loquacious; when a Scotchman is drunk he is argumentative; when a German is drunk he is sleepy; when an American is drunk he brags; and when a Welshman is drunk he sings. Sometimes he dances; but he does not do himself credit as a dancer under these circumstances; for when I speak of dancing I do not refer to those wooden paces and inflections which pass for dancing in society, and which are little more than an amiable pretext for bringing in contact human elements which are slow to mix when planted in chairs about a room: I refer to the individual dancing of men who do not dance for the purpose of touching women's hands, or indulging in small talk, but for the purpose of dancing; and who apply themselves seriously and skilfully to their work--to wit, the scientific performance of a jig. I chanced to pass one evening, in the Christmas-time, at a country inn in a little Carmarthenshire village remote from railways. Certain wanderings through green lanes (and the lanes were still green, although it was cold, mid-winter weather) had brought me to the place at dusk, and, being weary, I had resolved to rest there for the night. Some local festivity of the season had taken place during the day, which had drawn into the village an unusual number of farmer-folk from the immediate neighbourhood. After a simple dinner off a chop and a half-pint of cwrw da, I strolled into what they called the smoke-room, by way of distinguishing it from the tap-room adjoining. It was a plain little apartment, with high-backed wooden settles nearly up to the ceiling, which gave an old-fashioned air of comfort to the place. Two or three farmers were sitting there drinking their beer and smoking their pipes, and toasting their trouserless shins before the blazing fire. Presently a Welsh harper with his harp entered from out-doors, and, seating himself in a corner of the room, began to tune his instrument. The room quickly filled up with men and women, and though no drinks but beer and 'pop' were indulged in (save that some of the women drank tea), Bacchus never saw a more genial company. Some one sang an English song with words like these: Thrice welcome, old Christmas, we greet thee again, With laughter and innocent mirth in thy train; Let joy fill the heart, and shine on the brow, While we snatch a sweet kiss 'neath the mistletoe-bough-- The mistletoe-bough, The mistletoe-bough, We will snatch a sweet kiss 'neath the mistletoe-bough. The words are certainly modern, and as certainly not of a high order of literary merit, but they are extremely characteristic of life at this season in Wales, where kissing under the mistletoe is a custom still honoured by observance. There was dancing, too, in this inn company--performed with stern and determined purpose to excel, by individuals who could do a jig, and wished to do it well. The harper played a wild lilting tune; a serious individual who looked like a school-teacher took off his hat, bowed to the company, jumped into the middle of the floor, and began to dance like a madman. It was a strange sight. With a face whose grave earnestness relaxed no whit, with firmly compressed lips and knitted brow, the serious person shuffled and double-shuffled, and swung and teetered, and flailed the floor with his rattling soles, till the perspiration poured in rivulets down his solemn face. The company was greatly moved; enthusiastic ejaculations in Welsh and English were heard; shouts of approbation and encouragement arose; and still the serious person danced and danced, ending at last with a wonderful pigeon-wing, and taking his seat exhausted, amid a tremendous roar of applause. Scenes like this are common throughout Wales at the Christmas-time; and they contrast strangely with the austerities of religious observance which are everywhere proceeding. But there is not so wide a chasm between the two as would exist in some countries. The best church-members frequently do not deem a little jollity of this sort a hanging matter, and there are ministers who can do a double-shuffle themselves if the worst comes to the worst. A worthy pastor in Glamorganshire related to me, with a suspicious degree of relish, a story about two ministers who were once riding through a certain village of Wales on horseback. One was the Rev. Evan Harris, the other a celebrated old preacher named Shenkin Harry. And, as they rode on, Harris noticed his companion's legs twitching curiously on his horse's sides. 'Why, what ails your leg?' he asked. 'Don't you hear the harp,' was the reply, 'in the public-house yonder? It makes my old toes crazy for a jig.' But the moral tone of Wales is certainly better, on the whole, than that of most countries--better even than that of Great Britain generally, I should say. There is, I know, a prevailing impression quite to the contrary; but it is utterly absurd. It is an impression which has grown, I imagine, out of English injustice to Welshmen in former times, allied to English ignorance in those times concerning this people. Until within the last hundred years, English writers habitually wrote of Wales with contempt and even scurrility. But no one can live in Wales and not form the opinion that the Welsh are, in truth, an exceptionally moral people; and the nature of their public entertainments throughout the Christmas-time enforces this conclusion. Stendhal's declaration that, in true Biblical countries, religion spoils one day out of seven, destroys the seventh part of possible happiness, would find strong illustration in Wales. It is not my purpose to argue whether the illustration would prove or disprove Stendhal's assertion, though one might fairly ask whether religious people are not, perhaps, as happy in going to church on Sunday as irreligious people are in staying away. II. Let it not be supposed that there is any lack of amusement on Christmas-day for people who are willing to be amused in a God-fearing manner. Although you cannot go to the theatre or the circus, you can have a wide liberty of choice among oratorios, concerts, examinations, exhibitions, eisteddfodau, and other odd diversions. Concerts especially thrive. The halls in which they are held are decorated with evergreens, and the familiar custom is in Wales habitually and commonly associated with the ancient Druids, who viewed the green twigs as the symbols of perennial life. Thus a peculiar poetic grace rests with a custom beautiful in itself, and capable in any land of being poetized by any one poetically inclined. Many of those unique gatherings called eisteddfodau are held in different parts of the principality, when poetry, music, and essays, in Welsh and in English, are put forth by the strivers in these Olympian games of intellect and culture, after the prizes which in Hellas would have given them crowns of olive-leaves instead of gold-coins of the realm. When Pindar and Sophocles handed in poems, and Herodotus competed among the essayists, and Phidias and Praxiteles among the cutters of stone, there was no Christmas,--but it is claimed there were eisteddfodau, here in Wales; ay, and before that; for has not Herodotus spoken of the British bards who held them? III. In the family circle, the rules which regulate the Sabbath in Wales--which are almost as repressive as those of bonnie Scotland, where, by the way, Christmas-day is scarcely observed at all--are relaxed, and the aspect of the home is as bright as can be. The rooms are elaborately decorated with flowers and evergreens, holly and ivy, ferns and rare plants. In Glamorganshire, and other of the southern counties looking on the sea, roses and hawthorn-sprays may be sometimes seen in full bloom out-of-doors at Christmas. The decoration of churches is also elaborate beyond anything I have elsewhere seen. It is a sight to behold, the preparations for and the work of decorating a vast pile of ecclesiastical buildings like Llandaff Cathedral--the huge quantities of evergreens and holly, flowers, cedars, etc., which are day by day accumulated by the ladies who have the business in charge; and the slow, continual growth of forms of grace--arches, crosses, wreaths, festoons; green coverings to font, altar, pulpit, choir-stalls, pillars, reredos, and rood-screen; panels faced with scarlet cloth bearing sacred devices worked in evergreen; the very window-sills glowing with banks of colour--until all the wide spaces in chancel, nave, and transepts, are adorned. IV. Of common prevalence formerly, and still observed in numerous parishes, is the custom called the Plygain, or watching for the dawn. This consists in proceeding to the church at three o'clock on Christmas morning, and uniting in a service which is held by the light of small green candles made for the purpose. Sometimes this ceremony is observed at home, the people in a farm-house holding a jollification on the Christmas eve, and sitting up all night to greet the dawn. If the east wind blew on the Christmas eve the circumstance was deemed propitious in this connection. This wind was called 'gwynt traed y meirw,' (the wind blowing over the feet of the corpses,) because it blew towards the foot of the graves in the churchyards. It was also believed that the dumb animals paid their tribute of respect to this night; the bees would hum loudly in their hives at midnight, and the cattle in the cow-houses would bend their knees as in adoration.[131] A Christmas-eve custom among Welsh colliers is to carry from house to house a board stuck over with lighted candles, or to wheel a handbarrow containing a bed of clay in which the candles are stuck. This is called 'the Star,' sometimes 'the Star of Bethlehem,' and when stopping before a house the men kneel about it and sing a carol. A like custom exists in Belgium, among children. The purpose is to solicit a Rhodd Nadolig, or Christmas gift. FOOTNOTE: [131] 'Cymru Fu,' 403. V. The British Boxing-day is well known, both as to its customs and its origin. The Christmas-box, or thrift-box, is still to be seen in barber shops in Wales, fastened to the wall, or standing conveniently under the looking-glass among the pots and brushes. At one time the custom became such a nuisance throughout Britain that an outcry was raised about it. It got to that pass that the butcher and baker would send their apprentices around among their customers to levy contributions. The English Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, in 1837, sent a circular to the different embassies requesting their excellencies and chargés d'affaires to discontinue the customary Christmas-boxes to the 'messengers of the Foreign Department, domestic servants of Viscount Palmerston, foreign postmen, etc.' The nuisance is hardly less prevalent now. The faithful postman in Wales not only expects to be remembered at Christmas, but he expects to be given a precise sum, and if he does not get it he is capable of asking for it. In one case, a postman accustomed to receive five shillings at a certain office, on asking for his 'box,' was told the usual donor was absent in London, whereupon he requested the clerk to write up to him in London immediately on the subject. These things strike a stranger as very singular, among a people usually so self-respecting. Warnings are from time to time issued on this subject by those in authority, but the custom is likely to survive so long as it is not ranked outright with beggary. Like the Christmas-tree, it is a graceful thing among the children, or among friends or household servants, if spontaneous; but as a tax, it is an odious perversion.[132] FOOTNOTE: [132] Among those who last Christmas applied at my house for 'his box, sir, if you please' (as my maid put it), quite as a matter of course, were the postman, the leader of the waits, the boy who brings the daily newspapers, the bookseller's boy, the chimney-sweep, the dustman, the grocer's man, etc., etc., no one of whom I had ever set eyes on. The equal of this I never encountered, except in Paris, on the _jour de l'an_. VI. The pagan origin of most of our Christmas customs is undoubted. Even the cheery Christmas-tree is a symbol of heathen rites in times long antedating Christ. The early Christian fathers, in adopting the popular usages of their predecessors, and bending them to the service of Christianity, made wondrous little change in them, beyond the substitution of new motives and names for the old festivals peculiar to several seasons of the year. The British Druids' feast of Alban Arthur, celebrating the new birth of the sun, occurred at our Christmas time, and is still celebrated at Pontypridd, Glamorganshire, every year. It begins on the 22nd of December, and lasts three days, during which period the sun is supposed to fight with Avagddu, the spirit of darkness, the great luminary having descended into hell for that purpose. On the third day he rose, and the bards struck their harps, rejoicing that the sun had again been found. The Pontypridd ceremonies are similar to those of Midsummer-day, already mentioned. The Arch-Druid presides in the folds of the serpent circle--when he can get there, that is, for he is old, past eighty, and the Druidic hill is apt to be slippery with snow and ice at this time of the year. He prays to the pagan god, and perhaps chants a poem in Welsh.[133] The Druidic fires of the winter solstice feast were continued in customs like that which survived in Herefordshire until recent years, when on old Christmas-eve thirteen fires were lighted in a cornfield, twelve of them being in a circle round a central one which burned higher than the rest. The circle fires were called the Twelve Apostles, and the central one the Virgin Mary. In a shed near by was a cow with a plum-cake between or upon her horns, into whose face a pail of cider was dashed, with a rhyming address, and the cow tossing her horns from her unexpected baptism naturally threw the plum-cake down. If it fell forward, good harvests were predicted; if backward, the omen was evil. A feast among the peasants followed. In the Plygain in like manner survives the Druidic custom of going to the sacred groves before dawn on this morning, to greet the rising of the new-born sun after his struggle with the evil principle. FOOTNOTE: [133] I give a free translation of this effort as delivered on Sunday, December 24th, 1876 (which proved a mild day), and which I find reported in the 'Western Mail' of the 26th as follows: 'The day of the winter solstice has dawned upon us; little is the smile and the halo of Hea. The depth of winter has been reached, but the muse of Wales is budding still. Cold is the snow on the mountains; naked are the trees, and the meadows are bare; but while nature is withering the muse of Wales is budding. When the earth is decked in mourning, and the birds are silent, the muse of Wales, with its harp, is heard in the gorsedd of the holy hill. On the stone ark, within the circle of the caldron of Ceridwen, are throned the sons of Awen; though through their hair the frozen mist is wafted, their bosoms are sympathetic and they rejoice. Peace, love, and truth, encircle our throne; throne without a beginning and without ending, adorned with uchelwydd (mistletoe), symbol of perennial life. The throne of the British Bard--which remains a throne while other thrones decay into dust around it: an everlasting throne! The great wheel of ages revolves and brings around our festivities; repeating our joys it does perpetually. Muse, awake; awake, ye harps; let not any part of the year be forgotten wherein to crown usage (defod), morals (moes), and virtue. The Saviour Hea is about to be born of the winter solstice. He will rise higher still and higher shiningly, and we will have again a new year. Haste hail, haste falling snow, hasten rough storms of winter--hasten away that we may see the happy evidences of the new year.' CHAPTER V. Courtship and Marriage--Planting Weeds and Rue on the Graves of Old Bachelors--Special Significance of Flowers in connection with Virginity--The Welsh Venus--Bundling, or Courting Abed--Kissing Schools--Rhamanta--Lovers' Superstitions--The Maid's Trick--Dreaming on a Mutton Bone--Wheat and Shovel--Garters in a Lovers' Knot--Egg-Shell Cake--Sowing Leeks--Twca and Sheath. I. Welsh courtship is a thorough-going business, early entered upon by the boys and girls of the Principality; and consequently most Welsh women marry young. The ancient laws of Howell the Good (died 948) expressly provided that a woman should be considered marriageable from fourteen upwards, and should be entitled to maintenance from that age until the end of her fortieth year; 'that is to say, from fourteen to forty she ought to be considered in her youth.' By every sort of moral suasion it is deemed right in Wales to encourage matrimony, and no where are old bachelors viewed with less forbearance. There used to be a custom--I know not whether it be extinct now--of expressing the popular disapprobation for celibacy by planting on the graves of old bachelors that ill-scented plant, the rue, and sometimes thistles, nettles, henbane, and other unlovely weeds. The practice was even extended, most illiberally and unjustly, to the graves of old maids, who certainly needed no such insult added to their injury. Probably the custom was never very general, but grew out of similar--but other-meaning--customs which are still prevalent, and which are very beautiful. I refer to the planting of graves with significant flowers in token of the virtues of the dead. Thus where the red rose is planted on a grave, its tenant is indicated as having been in life a person of peculiar benevolence of character. The flower specially planted on the grave of a young virgin is the white rose. There is also an old custom, at the funeral of a young unmarried person, of strewing the way to the grave with evergreens and sweet-scented flowers, and the common saying in connection therewith is that the dead one is going to his or her marriage-bed. Sad extremely, and touchingly beautiful, are these customs; but wherever such exist, there are sure to be ill-conditioned persons who will vent spiteful feelings by similar means. Hence the occasional affront to the remains of antiquated single folk, who had been perhaps of a temperament which rendered them unpopular. The Welsh being generally of an affectionate disposition, courtship, as I have said, is a thorough-going business. To any but a people of the strongest moral and religious tendencies, some of their customs would prove dangerous in the extreme; but no people so link love and religion. More of their courting is done while going home from church than at any other time whatever; and the Welsh Venus is a holy saint, and not at all a wicked Pagan character like her classic prototype. 'Holy Dwynwen, goddess of love, daughter of Brychan,' had a church dedicated to her in Anglesea in 590; and for ages her shrine was resorted to by desponding swains and lovesick maidens. Her name--_Dwyn_, to carry off, and _wen_, white--signifies the bearer off of the palm of fairness; and, ruling the court of love while living, when dead A thousand bleeding hearts her power invoked. Throughout the poetry of the Cymric bards you constantly see the severest moral precepts, and the purest pictures of virtuous felicity, mingling in singularly perfect fusion with the most amorous strains. Among the 'Choice Things' of Geraint, the famous Blue Bard, were: A song of ardent love for the lip of a fair maid; A softly sweet glance of the eye, and love without wantonness; A secluded walking-place to caress one that is fair and slender; To reside by the margin of a brook in a tranquil dell of dry soil; A house small and warm, fronting the bright sunshine. With these, versifications of all the virtues and moralities. 'In the whole range of Kymric poetry,' says the learned Thomas Stephens,[134] 'there is not, I venture to assert, a line of impiety.' FOOTNOTE: [134] Vide 'Lit. of the Kymry.' II. The Welsh custom of Bundling, or courting abed, needs no description. The Welsh words sopen and sypio mean a bundle and to bundle, and they mean a squeezed-up mass, and to squeeze together; but there is a further meaning, equivalent to our word baggage, as applied to a strumpet.[135] The custom of bundling is still practised in certain rural neighbourhoods of Wales. To discuss its moral character is not my province in these pages; but I may properly record the fact that its practice is not confined to the irreligious classes. It is also pertinent here to recall the circumstance that among these people anciently, courtship was guarded by the sternest laws, so that any other issue to courtship than marriage was practically impossible. If a maiden forgot her duty to herself, her parents, and her training, when the evil result became known she was to be thrown over a precipice; the young man who had abused the parents' confidence was also to be destroyed. Murder itself was punished less severely. Customs of promiscuous sleeping arose in the earliest times, out of the necessities of existence in those primitive days, when a whole household lay down together on a common bed of rushes strewn on the floor of the room. In cold weather they lay close together for greater warmth, with their usual clothing on. Cæsar's misconception that the ancient Britons were polyandrous polygamists evidently had here its source. It is only by breathing the very atmosphere of an existence whose primitive influences we may thus ourselves feel, that we can get a just conception of the underlying forces which govern a custom like this. Of course it is sternly condemned by every advanced moralist, even in the neighbourhoods where it prevails. An instance came to my knowledge but a short time ago, (in 1877,) where the vicar of a certain parish (Mydrim, Carmarthenshire) exercised himself with great zeal to secure its abolition. Unfortunately, in this instance, the good man was not content with abolishing bundling, he wanted to abolish more innocent forms of courting; and worst of all, he turned his ethical batteries chiefly upon the lads and lasses of the dissenting congregation. Of course, it was not the vicar's fault that the bundlers were among the meeting-house worshippers, and not among the established church-goers, but nevertheless it injured the impartiality of his championship in the estimation of 'the Methodys.' I am not sure the bundling might not have ceased, in deference to his opinions, notwithstanding, if he had not, in the excess of his zeal, complained of the young men for seeing the girls home after meeting, and casually stretching the walk beyond what was necessary. Such intermeddling as this taxed the patience of the courting community to its extreme limit, and it assumed a rebellious front. The vicar, quite undaunted, pursued the war with vigour; he smote the enemy hip and thigh. He returned to the charge with the assertion that these young people had 'schools for the art of kissing,' a metaphorical expression, I suppose; and that they indulged in flirtation. This was really too much. Bundling might or might not be an exclusively dissenting practice, but the most unreasonable of vicars must know that kissing and flirtation were as universal as the parish itself; and so there was scoffing and flouting of the vicar, and, as rebounds are proverbially extreme, I fear there is now more bundling in Mydrim than ever. FOOTNOTE: [135] The Rev. Dr. Thomas, late President of Pontypool College, whose acquaintance with Welsh customs is very extensive, (and to whose erudition I have been frequently indebted during the progress of these pages through the press,) tells me he never heard the word sopen or sypio, synonymous with bundling, used for the old custom, but only 'caru yn y gwelu,' (courting abed.) III. The customs of Rhamanta, or romantic divination, by which lovers and sweethearts seek to pierce the future, are many and curious, in all parts of Wales. Besides such familiar forms of this widely popular practice as sleeping on a bit of wedding-cake, etc., several unique examples may be mentioned. One known as the Maid's Trick is thus performed; and none must attempt it but true maids, or they will get themselves into trouble with the fairies: On Christmas eve, or on one of the Three Spirit Nights, after the old folks are abed, the curious maiden puts a good stock of coal on the fire, lays a clean cloth on the table, and spreads thereon such store of eatables and drinkables as her larder will afford. Toasted cheese is considered an appropriate luxury for this occasion. Having prepared the feast, the maiden then takes off all her clothing, piece by piece, standing before the fire the while, and her last and closest garment she washes in a pail of clear spring water, on the hearth, and spreads it to dry across a chair-back turned to the fire. She then goes off to bed, and listens for her future husband, whose apparition is confidently expected to come and eat the supper. In case she hears him, she is allowed to peep into the room, should there be a convenient crack or key-hole for that purpose; and it is said there be unhappy maids who have believed themselves doomed to marry a monster, from having seen through a cranny the horrible spectacle of a black-furred creature with fiery eyes, its tail lashing its sides, its whiskers dripping gravy, gorging itself with the supper. But if her lover come, she will be his bride that same year. In Pembrokeshire a shoulder of mutton, with nine holes bored in the blade bone, is put under the pillow to dream on. At the same time the shoes of the experimenting damsel are placed at the foot of the bed in the shape of a letter T, and an incantation is said over them, in which it is trusted by the damsel that she may see her lover in his every-day clothes. In Glamorganshire a form of rhamanta still exists which is common in many lands. A shovel being placed against the fire, on it a boy and a girl put each a grain of wheat, side by side. Presently these edge towards each other; they bob and curtsey, or seem to, as they hop about. They swell and grow hot, and finally pop off the shovel. If both grains go off together, it is a sign the young pair will jump together into matrimony; but if they take different directions, or go off at different times, the omen is unhappy. In Glamorganshire also this is done: A man gets possession of a girl's garters, and weaves them into a true lover's knot, saying over them some words of hope and love in Welsh. This he puts under his shirt, next his heart, till he goes to bed, when he places it under the bolster. If the test be successful the vision of his future wife appears to him in the night. IV. A curious rhamanta among farm-women is thus described by a learned Welsh writer:[136] The maiden would get hold of a pullet's first egg, cut it through the middle, fill one half-shell with wheaten flour and the other with salt, and make a cake out of the egg, the flour, and the salt. One half of this she would eat; the other half was put in the foot of her left stocking under her pillow that night; and after offering up a suitable prayer, she would go to sleep. What with her romantic thoughts, and her thirst after eating this salty cake, it was not perhaps surprising that the future husband should be seen, in a vision of the night, to come to the bedside bearing a vessel of water or other beverage for the thirsty maid. Another custom was to go into the garden at midnight, in the season when 'black seed' was sown, and sow leeks, with two garden rakes. One rake was left on the ground while the young woman worked away with the other, humming to herself the while, Y sawl sydd i gydfydio, Doed i gydgribinio! Or in English: He that would a life partner be, Let him also rake with me. There was a certain young Welshwoman who, about eighty years ago, performed this rhamanta, when who should come into the garden but her master! The lass ran to the house in great fright, and asked her mistress, 'Why have you sent master out into the garden to me?' 'Wel, wel,' replied the good dame, in much heaviness of heart, 'make much of my little children!' The mistress died shortly after, and the husband eventually married the servant. The sterner sex have a form of rhamanta in which the knife plays a part. This is to enter the churchyard at midnight, carrying a twca, which is a sort of knife made out of an old razor, with a handle of sheep or goat-horn, and encircle the church edifice seven times, holding the twca at arm's length, and saying, 'Dyma'r twca, p'le mae'r wain?' (Here's the twca--where's the sheath?) FOOTNOTE: [136] Cynddelw, 'Manion Hynafiaethol,' 53. CHAPTER VI. Wedding Customs--The Bidding--Forms of Cymmhorth--The Gwahoddwr--Horse-Weddings--Stealing a Bride--Obstructions to the Bridal Party--The Gwyntyn--Chaining--Evergreen Arches--Strewing Flowers--Throwing Rice and Shoes--Rosemary in the Garden--Names after Marriage--The Coolstrin--The Ceffyl Pren. I. Wales retains several ancient customs in connection with weddings, which are elsewhere extinct. No one who has ever paid any attention to Wales and its ways can have failed to hear of that most celebrated rite the Bidding, which is, however, one of several picturesque survivals less well known to the outer world. The Bidding wedding must be spoken of as an existing custom, although it be confined to rural neighbourhoods in South Wales, and to obscure and humble folk. Those who strive to prove that all such customs are obsolete everywhere--a thankless and even ungraceful task, it seems to me--will not admit that the Bidding has been known since 1870. I have evidence, however, that in Pembroke, Cardigan, and Carmarthen shires, the custom did not cease on the date named, and there is every probability that it prevails to-day. Nothing could be of smaller importance, it is true, than the precise date on which a given custom recently ceased, since any one may revive it next year who chooses to do so. The Bidding is an invitation sent by a couple who are about to be married, soliciting the presence and donations of the neighbours on their behalf. The presents may be either sums of money or necessaries. Gifts of bread, butter, cheese, tea, sugar, and the like, are common, and sometimes articles of farming stock and household furniture. All gifts of money are recognized by a sort of promissory note, i.e., by setting down the name and residence of the donor, with the amount given; and when a like occasion arises on the part of the giver, the debt is religiously paid. The obligation is an absolute one, and its legality has actually been recognized by the Court of Great Sessions at Cardiff. The gift is even claimable under other circumstances than the donor's getting married. Another sort of contribution is the eatables and drinkables which are set before the guests; these are only repayable when required on a like occasion. The method of bidding the guests was until lately through a personage called the gwahoddwr (inviter or bidder) who tramped about the country some days beforehand, proclaiming the particulars to everybody he met. He usually recited a doggerel set of rhymes before and after the special invitation--a composition of his own, or understood to be such, for rhyme-making was a part of the talent of a popular bidder. Frequently no little humour was displayed in the bidding song. But since the printing press became the cheap and ready servant of the humblest classes, the occupation of the bidder has gradually fallen to decay; a printed circular serves in his place. At the shop of a printer in Carmarthen I procured a copy of the following bidding circular, which may be a real document, or a fictitious one: CARMARTHENSHIRE, JULY 4TH, 1862. As we intend to enter the Matrimonial State, on Wednesday, the 30th of July instant, we purpose to make a BIDDING on the occasion, the same day, at the Young Man's Father's House, called TY'R BWCI, in the Parish of Llanfair ar y Bryn, when and where the favour of your good and agreeable company is respectfully solicited, and whatever donation you may be pleased to confer on us then will be thankfully received, warmly acknowledged, and cheerfully repaid whenever called for on a similar occasion. By your most obedient Servants, OWEN GWYN, ELEN MORGAN. The Young Man, his Father and Mother (Llewelyn and Margaret Gwyn, of Ty'r Bwci), his Brother (Evan Gwyn, Maes y Blodau), his Sisters (Gwladys and Hannah), and his Aunt (Mary Bowen, Llwyn y Fedwen, Llannon), desire that all gifts of the above nature due to them be returned to the Young Man on the above day, and will be thankful for all additional favours granted. The Young Woman, her Father (Rhys Morgan, Castell y Moch), and her Brothers and Sister (Howel, Gruffydd, and Gwenllïan Morgan), desire that all gifts of the above nature due to them be returned to the Young Woman on the above day, and will be thankful for all additional favours conferred on her. The Young Man's company will meet in the Morning at Ty'r Bwci; and the Young Woman's at Pant y Clacwydd, near the Village of Llansadwrn. The Bidding is sometimes held on the day of the wedding, and sometimes on the day and night before it; the custom varies in different districts, as all these customs do. When the latter is the case, the night is an occasion of great merrymaking, with much consumption of cwrw da, and dancing to the music of the harp, for poor indeed would be the Welsh community that could not muster up a harper. This festival is called Nos Blaen, or preceding night, and is a further source of income to the couple, from the sale of cakes and cwrw. 'Base is the slave who pays' is a phrase emphatically reversed at a Welsh wedding. [Illustration: THE OLD-TIME GWAHODDWR.] The Bidding is but one form of a feature of Welsh life which extensively prevails, known by the term Cymmhorth. The Bidding is a Priodas Cymmhorth; the Cyfarfod Cymmhorth, or Assistance Meeting, is much the same thing, minus the wedding feature. The customs of the latter festival are, however, often of a sort distinctly tending toward matrimonial results as an eventuality. A number of farmer girls of the humbler sort will gather at a stated time and place to give a day's work to one needing assistance, and after a day spent in such toil as may be required, the festival winds up with jollity in the evening. The day is signalized on the part of those youths of the neighbourhood who are interested in the girls, by tokens of that interest in the shape of gifts. The lass who receives a gift accompanied by a twig of birch is thereby assured of her lover's constancy. To her whom the young man would inform of his change of heart, a sprig of hazel is given. An earlier feature of this ceremony was the Merry Andrew, who presented the gifts in the name of the lover. This personage was disguised fantastically, and would lead the young woman he selected into another room, where he would deliver the gift and whisper the giver's name. The antiquity of the Bidding as a local custom is undoubted. The old-time gwahoddwr was a person of much importance, skilled in pedigrees and family traditions, and himself of good family. A chieftain would assume the character in behalf of his vassal, and hostile clans respected his person as he went about from castle to castle, from hall to hall. He bore a garlanded staff as the emblem of his office, and on entering a dwelling would strike his staff upon the floor to command the attention of the group before him, and then begin his address. II. The Horse-Wedding is of more ancient origin than the Bidding, and is still a living custom in some parts of Wales, especially Carmarthenshire and western Glamorganshire. It was in other days common throughout South Wales, and was scolded about by old Malkin (generally very cordial in his praise of Welsh customs) in these spicy terms: 'Ill may it befal the traveller, who has the misfortune of meeting a Welsh wedding on the road. He would be inclined to suppose that he had fallen in with a company of lunatics, escaped from their confinement. It is the custom of the whole party who are invited, both men and women, to ride full speed to the church porch, and the person who arrives there first has some privilege or distinction at the marriage feast. To this important object all inferior considerations give way; whether the safety of his majesty's subjects, who are not going to be married, or their own, incessantly endangered by boisterous, unskilful and contentious jockeyship.'[137] Glamorganshire is here spoken of. The custom varies somewhat in different localities, but it preserves the main feature, to force the bride away from her friends, who then gallop after her to church, arriving _toujours trop tard_, of course, like the carabineers in 'Les Brigands.' There have been cases, however, when the bride was caught by a member of the pursuing party, and borne away--an incident which occurred in the knowledge of an acquaintance, who related it to me. As may readily be inferred, the bride in this case was not unwilling to be caught; in fact she was averse to marrying the man who was taking her to church, and who was her parent's choice, not her own. The lover who had her heart caught up with her by dint of good hard riding, and whisked her on his horse within sight of the church-door, to the intense astonishment of the bridegroom, who gazed at them open-mouthed as they galloped away. He thought at first it was a joke, but as the lovers disappeared in the distance the truth dawned upon him: a Welsh custom had served something like its original purpose. But usually, the whole performance is a vehicle for fun of the most good-natured and innocent sort. It begins by the arrival of the neighbours on horseback at the residence of the expectant bridegroom. An eye-witness to a certain wedding gathering in Glamorganshire a few years ago states that the horsemen exceeded one hundred in number. From among them a deputation was chosen to go (still on horseback) to the bride's residence to make formal demand for her. Her door was barred inside, and the demand was made in rhyme, and replied to in the same form from within. It often happens that a brisk contest of wits signalizes this proceeding, for if the voice of any one within is recognized by one of those outside, his personal peculiarities are made the subject of satirical verses. A voice inside being recognized as that of a man who was charged with sheep-stealing, this rhyme was promptly shouted at him: Gwrando, leidr hoyw'r ddafad, Ai ti sydd yma heddyw'n geidwad? Ai dyna y rheswm cloi y drysau, Rhag dwyn y wreigan liw dydd goleu? (Ah, sheep-stealer, art thou a guardian of the fair one? If the doors were not locked thou wouldst steal the bride in broad daylight.) The doors are opened in the end, of course, and after refreshments the wedding party gallops off to church. The bride is stolen away and borne off to a distance on her captor's horse, but only in sport; her captor brings her back to the church, where she is quietly married to the proper person. Sometimes the precaution is taken of celebrating the marriage privately at an early hour, and the racing takes place afterward. Obstructions are raised by the bride's friends, to prevent the bridegroom's party from coming to her house, and these difficulties must be overcome ere the bride can be approached. Sometimes a mock battle on the road is a feature of the racing to church. The obstructions placed in the road in former days included the Gwyntyn, a sort of game of skill which seems to have been used by most nations in Europe, called in English the quintain. It was an upright post, upon which a cross-piece turned freely, at one end of which hung a sand-bag, the other end presenting a flat side. At this the rider tilted with his lance, his aim being to pass without being hit in the rear by the sand-bag. Other obstructions in use are ropes of straw and the like. There is a Welsh custom called Chaining, which probably arose out of the horse-wedding, and still prevails. In the village of Sketty, Glamorganshire, in August, 1877, I saw a chaining, on the occasion of a marriage between an old lady of eighty and a man of fifty. The affair had made so much talk, owing to the age of the bride, that the whole village was in the streets. While the wedding ceremony was in progress, a chain was stretched across the street, forming a barrier which the wedding party could not pass till the chainers were 'tipped.' The driver of the carriage containing the newly wedded pair was an Englishman, and ignorant of the custom, at which he was naturally indignant. His angry efforts to drive through the barrier made great sport for the Welshmen. The origin of the Welsh horse-wedding may be traced to the Romans, if no further back, and may thus be connected with the rape of the Sabines. That the Romans had an exactly similar custom is attested by Apuleius, and it is said to have been established by Romulus in memory of the Sabine virgins. It is not improbable that the Romans may have left the custom behind them when they quitted this territory in the fifth century, after nearly three hundred years' rule. FOOTNOTE: [137] Malkin's 'South Wales,' 67. III. Among the wealthier classes of Wales, certain joyous and genial wedding customs prevail, such as are common in most parts of the British isles, but which do not reappear in the new world across the Atlantic,--a fact by which American life is a heavy loser, in my opinion. When the Rector of Merthyr's daughter (to use the form of speech common) was married, a few months since, the tenants of the estate erected arches of evergreens over the roads, and adorned their houses with garlands, and for two or three days the estate was a scene of festivity, ending with the distribution of meat to the poor of the parish. Such festivities and such decorations are common on the estates of the country gentry not only, but in the towns as well. At Tenby, when the High Sheriff's son was married to the Rector of Tenby's daughter, in 1877, garlands of flowers were hung across the High Street, bearing pleasant mottoes, while flags and banners fluttered from house-tops in all directions. Children strewed flowers in the bride's path as she came out of church, while the bells in the steeple chimed a merry peal, and a park of miniature artillery boomed from the pier-head. This custom of children strewing flowers in the path of the new-made bride is common; so also is that of throwing showers of rice after the wedded pair, by way of expressing good wishes--a pleasanter thing to be thrown under these circumstances than the old shoes of tradition. However, since fashion has taken up the custom of rice-throwing and shoe-throwing, the shoes have become satin slippers. As far back as the 16th century, throwing an old shoe after any one going on an important errand was deemed lucky in Wales. It is thought that in the case of a bride, the custom is derived from the old Jewish law of exchange, when a shoe was given in token that the parents for ever surrendered all dominion over their daughter. But a precisely similar custom prevails in China, where it is usual for the bride to present her husband with a pair of shoes, by way of signifying that for the future she places herself under his control. 'These are carefully preserved in the family and are never given away, like other worn-out articles, it being deemed, that to part with them portends an early separation between husband and wife.'[138] The custom of rice-throwing is also Chinese, the rice being viewed as a sign of abundance. In Sicily, as in some parts of England, wheat is thrown on the bride's head; in Russia, a handful of hops; in the north of England a plateful of shortcake;[139] in Yorkshire, bits of the bride-cake. All these customs, while popularly done 'for luck,' are apparently symbolical of the obedience and the fruitfulness of the newly-wedded wife. And as in Scandinavia the bride tries to get her husband to pick up her handkerchief as an omen of his obeying instead of compelling obedience, so in China the bride tries to sit on a part of her husband's dress. The vulgar story and adage, 'Bandbox now, bandbox always,' expresses the superstition succinctly. There is a saying current on the Welsh border, that when rosemary flourishes in the garden of a married pair, the lady 'rules the roast,' as the phrase is--though if there is anything a woman should rule, one would think the 'roast' is that thing. 'That be rosemary, sir,' said an old gardener in Herefordshire, pointing to where the plant grew; 'they say it grows but where the missus is master, and it do grow here like wildfire.' The idea of feminine obedience to masculine will, merely because it is masculine, is in itself looked upon as a superstition by all cultivated people in these days, I suppose. Sex aside, if the truth were known, it would be found that the stronger is the ruler, in all lands, under all customs, be the outward show of the ruling more or less; and it is not always where the public sees it most clearly, or fancies it does, that the rule of the dame is sternest. The strength here employed is not virile strength; there is nothing necessarily masculine about it. The severest mistress of her lord I ever knew was a feeble little woman with hands like a baby's, and a face of wax, with no more will-power apparently than a week-old kitten, but whose lightest whim lay on her lord like iron, and was obeyed as faithfully as if it were backed by a cat-o'-nine-tails and a six-shooter. To return for a moment to our Welsh wedding customs among the wealthier classes. When the couple return from their bridal tour, the fun often begins all over again. Thus at Lampeter, on the edge of Cardiganshire, last September, when Mr. and Mrs. Jones of Glandennis (Jones of Glandennis, Roberts of the Dingle, Williams of Pwlldu,--such cognomens take the place in Wales of the distinctive names which separate Englishmen one from another, and from Jones of Nevada),--when Jones of Glandennis brought home his bride, the whole neighbourhood was agog to greet them. Thousands of people gathered in a field near the station, and passed their time in athletic sports till the train arrived, when they woke the echoes with their cheers. The Joneses entered their carriage, the horses were unharnessed, and a long procession of tenantry, headed by a brass band, dragged the carriage all the way to Glandennis, two miles off, some bearing torches by the side of the carriage. Arches of evergreens were everywhere; and when they got to the house, nothing would do but Mrs. Jones must appear at a window and make a little speech of thanks to the crowd; which she did accordingly--a thing in itself shocking to superstitious ideas of chivalry, but in strictest accord with the true chivalric spirit toward woman. Then fireworks blazed up the sky, and bonfires were lighted on the tops of all the adjoining hills. Lampeter town was illuminated, and nobody went to bed till the small hours. After marriage, Welshwomen still in some cases retain their maiden names, a custom formerly universal among them. The wife of John Thomas, though the mother of a houseful of children, may be habitually known among her neighbours as Betty Williams. In other cases, she not only assumes her husband's name, but the name of his calling as well; if he is Dick Shon the tailor, she is simply Mrs. Dick Shon the tailor. FOOTNOTES: [138] Dennys, 'Folk-Lore of China,' 18. [139] Henderson, 'Notes on Folk-Lore,' 22. IV. A custom called the Coolstrin is now apparently obsolete, unless in occasional rural communities remote from railroads. It resembles the old custom once known in certain parts of England, called the skimitry or skimmington, in which a man whose wife had struck him was forced to ride behind a woman, with his face to the horse's tail, while a band of pans and cow-horns made music for them. The Welsh custom is, however, more elaborate, and more comical, while it is less severe on the man. A husband who is suspected of having a termagant wife, is made the subject of espionage. If it be found that he drinks his mug of ale standing, with his eye twinkling toward the door, the circumstance is considered most suspicious. Efforts are accordingly made to induce the henpecked man to stay and be merry, and if he can be made drunk a great point is gained, as then a squad of volunteers take him inside his own door and critically observe his reception. A moral point involved appears to be that a henpecked husband is a disgrace to manhood in general; and the purpose of the coolstrin is to reform it altogether. However, although it may even be proved that a woman is in the habit of cuffing her husband, the case does not come under the jurisdiction of the coolstrin court until she has 'drawn blood on him.' Then the court is convened. It is composed, no doubt, of any rakehelly youngsters, married or single, who are ripe for sport. One of them is chosen for judge; a special point is that he must be a married man who is not afraid of his wife; and he is invested with robe and gown, that is to say, the collar-bone of a horse is set on his head, around the crown of a slouch hat, and a bed-quilt is made fast to his shoulders. He marches through the streets, with a youth behind him bearing his bed-quilt train, and mounts a chosen wall for a judge's bench. Officers with long white wands range themselves solemnly on either side of him; men are chosen as advocates; and a posse of rustics with pitchforks keeps order. The court is opened by a crier who calls on all good men who as yet wear their own clos,[140] to attend the court. The case is argued by the advocates; witnesses are examined to prove, first, that the man is henpecked, second, that his wife has struck him and drawn blood with the blow. In one case it was proved that the wife had knocked her beery lord down, and that his nose, striking a stool, had bled. The wife's advocate nearly gravelled the judge, by holding that blood drawn by a stool could not be said to have been drawn by the woman. The judge got over this by deciding that if the woman had taken the stool by one of its three legs, and hit the man, drawing blood, the blood would be clearly chargeable to her. 'And where is the difference,' asked he, triumphantly, 'between knocking the stool against him, and knocking him against the stool?' The woman was found guilty. 'For,' said the prosecuting attorney indignantly, 'if a man shan't drink a blue of beer with a neighbour or so, to what won't it come?' Her condemnation followed; to be ridden on the Ceffyl Pren. A derisive procession was formed, and two fellows were rigged up to personate the husband and wife. The male bore a broom, and the female brandished a ladle, and the two were paraded through the town. A band of 'musicians' marched before them, beating frying-pans with marrow bones, banging gridirons and kettles with pokers, tongs and shovels, and two playing on a fife and drum. These were followed by two standard bearers, one bearing a petticoat on top of a pole, the other a pair of breeches in the same manner. Other orts and ends of rabble made up the procession, which with antic and grimace marched about the village and neighbourhood. The orgie ended by the planting in front of the culprit's house of the pole and petticoat, and the pelting of it with addled eggs, stones, and mud, till it fell to the ground. The noble bifurcated emblem of manhood, the clos, was then elevated proudly aloft, and the woman's punishment was deemed complete. This is the story of a rural village in Glamorganshire. The custom was known in other counties, and varied in its details. In Breconshire, the virago was punished through the ceffyl pren merely by the moral influence of parading it before her cottage. Quarrelsome wives were said to stand in great and constant dread of its possible appearance before their doors. In Cardiganshire, on the contrary, the custom termed the coolstrin is _vice versâ_, and it is only husbands who ill-use their wives who are amenable to its discipline. FOOTNOTE: [140] Breeches. CHAPTER VII. Death and Burial--The Gwylnos--Beer-drinking at Welsh Funerals--Food and Drink over the Coffin--Sponge Cakes at Modern Funerals--The Sin-eater--Welsh Denial that this Custom ever existed--The Testimony concerning it--Superstitions regarding Salt--Plate of Salt on Corpse's Breast--The Scapegoat--The St. Tegla Cock and Hen--Welsh Funeral Processions--Praying at Cross-roads--Superstition regarding Criminals' Graves--Hanging and Welsh Prejudice--The Grassless Grave--Parson's Penny, or Offrwm--Old Shoes to the Clerk--Arian y Rhaw, or Spade Money--Burials without Coffin--The Sul Coffa--Planting and Strewing Graves with Flowers. I. With the growth of modern refinement the people of every land have become constantly more decorous in their grief. The effort of the primitive and untutored mind to utter its sorrow in loud and wild lamentations, and of friends and neighbours to divert the mind of the sufferer from his bereavement, gave rise to many funeral customs of which we still find traces in Wales. Pennant, while travelling in North Wales, noted, with regard to one Thomas Myddleton, a fact which he held 'to prove that the custom of the Irish howl, or Scotch Coranich, was in use among us (the Welsh); for we are told he was buried "cum magno dolore et clamore cognatorum et propinquorum omnium."' No such custom now exists; but there is a very impressive rite, of a corresponding character, but religious, called the Gwylnos. It is a meeting held in the room where the corpse is lying, on the night before the funeral. The Irish cry, 'Why did ye die?' is replaced by pious appeals to Heaven, in which great and strong emotion is expressed, the deceased referred to in stirring sentences, and his death made a theme for warnings on the brevity of earth-life and the importance of the future life of the soul. On the day of the funeral, however, the customs are not always in keeping with modern notions of the praiseworthy. Indulgence in beer-drinking at funerals is still a Welsh practice, and its antiquity is indicated by a proverb: 'Claddu y marw, ac at y cwrw'--(To bury the dead, and to the beer.)[141] The collection of Welsh writings called 'Cymru Fu' refers to the custom thus, (to translate:) 'Before the funeral procession started for the church, the nearest friends and relatives would congregate around the corpse to wail and weep their loss; while the rest of the company would be in an adjoining room drinking warm beer (cwrw brwd) and smoking their pipes; and the women in still another room drinking tea together.'[142] The writer here speaks of the custom in the past tense, but apparently rather as a literary fashion than to indicate a fact; at any rate, the custom is not extinct. Occasionally it leads to appearances in the police-court on the part of injudicious mourners.[143] After taking the coffin out of the house and placing it on a bier near the door, it was formerly customary for one of the relatives of the deceased to distribute bread and cheese to the poor, taking care to hand it to each one over the coffin. These poor people were usually those who had, in expectation of this gift, been busily engaged in gathering flowers and herbs with which to grace the coffin. Sometimes this dole was supplemented by the gift of a loaf of bread or a cheese with a piece of money placed inside it. After that a cup of drink was presented, and the receiver was required to drink a little of it immediately.[144] Alluding to this subject the Rev. E. L. Barnwell[145] says: 'Although this custom is no longer in fashion, yet it is to some extent represented by the practice, especially in funerals of a higher class, to hand to those who are invited to attend the funeral, oblong sponge cakes sealed up in paper, which each one puts into his or her pocket, but the providing and distribution of these cakes are now often part of the undertaker's duty.' [Illustration: GIVING FOOD OVER THE COFFIN. (_From an old drawing._)] FOOTNOTES: [141] So the Spanish say, 'The dead to the bier, the living to good cheer.' [142] 'Cymru Fu,' 91. [143] 'Two Llancaiach men named Servis and Humphrey were arrested for fighting. They had _been to a funeral_, had done the customary honours by the remains of the departed brother or sister who had suffered, died, and was "chested," and then, after drowning their grief in the "cwrw," finished up in the police-court with a _finale_ involving the payment of 5_s._ and costs, and 8_s._ 8_d._ damage, or in default twenty-one days' hard labour.'--'Western Mail,' Jan. 31, 1877. [144] Pennant, quoted by Roberts, 'Camb. Pop. Ant.,' 175. [145] 'Arch. Camb.' 4th Se., iii., 332. II. What connection there may be between these customs and the strange and striking rite of the Sin-eater, is a question worthy of careful consideration. It has been the habit of writers with family ties in Wales, whether calling themselves Welshmen or Englishmen, to associate these and like customs with the well-known character for hospitality which the Cymry have for ages maintained. Thus Malkin writes: 'The hospitality of the country is not less remarkable on melancholy than on joyful occasions. The invitations to a funeral are very general and extensive; and the refreshments are not light, and taken standing, but substantial and prolonged. Any deficiency in the supply of ale would be as severely censured on this occasion, as at a festival.'[146] Some have thought that the bread-eating and beer-drinking are survivals of the sin-eating custom described by Aubrey, and repeated from him by others. But well-informed Welshmen have denied that any such custom as that of the Sin-eater ever existed in Wales at any time, or in the border shires; and it must not be asserted that they are wrong unless we have convincing proof to support the assertion. The existing evidence in support of the belief that there were once Sin-eaters in Wales I have carefully collated and (excluding hearsay and second-hand accounts), it is here produced. The first reference to the Sin-eater anywhere to be found is in the Lansdowne MSS. in the British Museum, in the handwriting of John Aubrey, the author. It runs thus: 'In the county of Hereford was an old custom at funerals to hire poor people, who were to take upon them the sins of the party deceased. One of them (he was a long, lean, ugly, lamentable poor rascal), I remember, lived in a cottage on Rosse highway. The manner was that when the corpse was brought out of the house, and laid on the bier, a loaf of bread was brought out, and delivered to the Sin-eater, over the corpse, as also a mazard bowl of maple, full of beer (which he was to drink up), and sixpence in money, in consideration whereof he took upon him, _ipso facto_, all the sins of the defunct, and freed him or her from walking after they were dead.' Aubrey adds, 'and this custom though rarely used in our days, yet by some people was observed in the strictest time of the Presbyterian Government; as at Dynder (_nolens volens_ the parson of the parish), the kindred of a woman, deceased there, had this ceremony punctually performed, according to her will: and also, the like was done at the city of Hereford, in those times, where a woman kept many years before her death a mazard bowl for the Sin-eater; and the like in other places in this country; as also in Brecon, e.g., at Llangors, where Mr. Gwin, the minister, about 1640, could not hinder the performance of this custom. I believe,' says Aubrey, 'this custom was heretofore used all over Wales.' He states further, 'A.D. 1686: This custom is used to this day in North Wales.' Upon this, Bishop White Kennet made this comment: 'It seems a remainder of this custom which lately obtained at Amersden, in the county of Oxford; where, at the burial of every corpse, one cake and one flaggon of ale, just after the interment, were brought to the minister in the church porch.'[147] No other writer of Aubrey's time, either English or Welsh, appears to have made any reference to the Sin-eater in Wales; and equal silence prevails throughout the writings of all previous centuries. Since Aubrey, many references to it have been made, but never, so far as I can discover, by any writer in the Welsh language--a singular omission if there ever was such a custom, for concerning every other superstitious practice commonly ascribed to Wales the Welsh have written freely. In August, 1852, the Cambrian Archæological Association held its sixth annual meeting at Ludlow, under the Presidency of Hon. R. H. Clive, M.P. At this meeting Mr. Matthew Moggridge, of Swansea, made some observations on the custom of the Sin-eater, when he added details not contained in Aubrey's account given above. He said: 'When a person died, his friends sent for the Sin-eater of the district, who on his arrival placed a plate of salt on the breast of the defunct, and upon the salt a piece of bread. He then muttered an incantation over the bread, which he finally ate, thereby eating up all the sins of the deceased. This done he received his fee of 2_s._ 6_d._ and vanished as quickly as possible from the general gaze; for, as it was believed that he really appropriated to his own use and behoof the sins of all those over whom he performed the above ceremony, he was utterly detested in the neighbourhood--regarded as a mere Pariah--as one irredeemably lost.' The speaker then mentioned the parish of Llandebie where the above practice 'was said to have prevailed to a recent period.' He spoke of the survival of the plate and salt custom near Swansea, and indeed generally, within twenty years, (i.e. since 1830) and added: 'In a parish near Chepstow it was usual to make the figure of a cross on the salt, and cutting an apple or an orange into quarters, to put one piece at each termination of the lines.' Mr. Allen, of Pembrokeshire, testified that the plate and salt were known in that county, where also a lighted candle was stuck in the salt; the popular notion was that it kept away the evil spirit. Mr. E. A. Freeman, (the historian) asked if Sin-eater was the term used in the district where the custom prevailed, and Mr. Moggridge said it was. Such is the testimony. I venture no opinion upon it further than may be conveyed in the remark that I cannot find any direct corroboration of it, as regards the Sin-eater, and I have searched diligently for it. The subject has engaged my attention from the first moment I set foot on Cambrian soil, and I have not only seen no reference to it in Welsh writings, but I have never met any unlettered Welshman who had ever heard of it. All this proves nothing, perhaps; but it weighs something.[148] FOOTNOTES: [146] 'South Wales,' 68. [147] Vide Hone's 'Year Book,' 1832, p. 858. [148] Mr. Eugene Schuyler's mention of a corresponding character in Turkistan is interesting: 'One poor old man, however, I noticed, who seemed constantly engaged in prayer. On calling attention to him I was told that he was an iskatchi, a person who gets his living by taking on himself the sins of the dead, and thenceforth devoting himself to prayer for their souls. He corresponds to the Sin-eater of the Welsh border.'--'Turkistan,' ii., 28. III. Of superstitions regarding salt, there are many in Wales. I have even encountered the special custom of placing a plate of salt on the breast of the corpse. In the case of an old woman from Cardiganshire, who was buried at Cardiff, and who was thus decked by her relatives, I was told the purpose of the plate of salt was to 'prevent swelling.' There is an Irish custom of placing a plate of snuff on the body of a corpse; hence the saying, addressed to an enemy, 'I'll get a pinch off your belly yet.' The Irish also employ the plate of salt in the same manner. In view of the universal prevalence of superstitions regarding salt, too much weight should not be placed on this detail, in connection with the accounts of the Sin-eater. Such superstitions are of extreme antiquity, and they still survive even among the most cultivated classes. Salt falling toward a person was of old considered a most unlucky omen, the evil of which could only be averted by throwing a little of the fallen salt over the shoulder. My own wife observes this heathen rite to this day, and so, I fancy, do most men's wives--jocularly, no doubt, but with a sort of feeling that 'if there _is_ anything in it,' &c. Salt was the ancient symbol of friendship, being deemed incorruptible. In the Isle of Man no important business was ventured on without salt in the pocket; marrying, moving, even the receiving of alms, must be sanctified by an exchange of salt between the parties. An influential legend is noted among the Manx inhabitants, of the dissolution of an enchanted palace on that island, through the spilling of salt on the ground. In Da Vinci's picture of the Lord's Supper, Judas Iscariot is represented as overturning the salt--an omen of the coming betrayal of Christ by that personage. In Russia, should a friend pass you the salt without smiling, a quarrel will follow. The Scotch put salt in a cow's first milk after calving. Even the Chinese throw salt into water from which a person has been rescued from drowning. All these practices point either to lustration or propitiation. IV. It has been suggested that the custom of the Sin-eater is in imitation of the Biblical scapegoat. 'And Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat, and confess over him all the iniquities of the children of Israel, and all their transgressions in all their sins, putting them upon the head of the goat, and shall send him away by the hand of a fit man into the wilderness. And the goat shall bear upon him all their iniquities unto a land not inhabited: and he shall let go the goat in the wilderness.'[149] This brings up the subject of charms and magic, and is illustrated in Wales, if not by the Sin-eater, by the cock and hen of St. Tegla's Well. This well is about half-way between Wrexham and Ruthin, in the parish of Llandegla, and has been considered efficacious in curing epilepsy. One of the common names of that complaint in Welsh is Clwyf y Tegla, (Tegla's disease). Relief is obtained by bathing in the well, and performing a superstitious ceremony in this manner: The patient repairs to the well after sunset, and washes himself in it; then, having made an offering by throwing into the water fourpence, he walks round it three times, and thrice recites the Lord's Prayer. If of the male sex, he offers a cock; if a woman, a hen. The bird is carried in a basket, first round the well, then round the church, and the rite of repeating the Pater Noster again performed. After all this, he enters the church, creeps under the altar, and making the Bible his pillow and the communion cloth his coverlet, remains there until the break of day. In the morning, having made a further offering of sixpence, he leaves the cock (or hen, as the case may be) and departs. 'Should the bird die, it is supposed that the disease has been transferred to it, and the man or woman consequently cured.'[150] The custom is associated with the ancient Druids as well as with the Jews, and its resemblance to the scapegoat is suggestive. FOOTNOTES: [149] Levit. xvi., 21, 22. [150] Ab Ithel, 'Arch. Camb.' 1st Se., i., 184. V. The funeral procession, in rural districts where hearses are unknown, wends its way graveward on foot, with the corpse borne by the nearest relatives of the deceased, a custom probably introduced in Wales during their residence here by the Romans. The coffin of Metellus, the conqueror of Macedon, was borne by his four sons. The coffins of Roman citizens held in high esteem by the Republic, were borne by justices and senators, while those of the enemies of the people were borne by slaves and hired servants. As the Welsh procession winds its way along the green lanes, psalms and hymns are sung continually, except on coming to cross-roads. Here the bier is set down, and all kneel and repeat the Lord's Prayer. The origin of this custom, as given by the Welsh, is to be found in the former practice of burying criminals at cross-roads. It was believed that the spirits of these criminals did not go far away from the place where their bodies lay, and the repeating of the Lord's Prayer was supposed to destroy and do away with any evil influence these spirits might have on the soul of the dear departed.[151] The Welsh retain much of the superstitious feeling regarding the graves of criminals and suicides. There is indeed a strong prejudice against hanging, on account of the troublesome spirits thus let loose. The well-known leniency of a 'Cardigan jury' may be connected with this prejudice, though it is usually associated with a patriotic feeling. 'What! would you have hur hang hur own countryman?' is the famous response of a Cardigan juror, who was asked why he and his brethren acquitted a murderer. The tale may be only a legend; the fact it illustrates is patent. It is related that in a dispute between two Cardigan farmers, some fifty years ago, one of them killed the other. The jury, believing the killing was unintentional, acquitted the homicide; but 'whether the man was guilty or not, his neighbours and the people who lived in the district, and who knew the spot where the farmer was killed, threw a stone upon it whenever they passed, probably to show their abhorrence of the deed that had been perpetrated in that place. By this means a large heap of stones, which was allowed to remain for many years, arose.'[152] They were then removed to repair the turnpike. This custom is apparently Jewish. Hangings are almost unknown in Wales, whether from the extra morality of the people, or the prejudice above noted. FOOTNOTES: [151] 'Cymru Fu,' 92. [152] 'Bye-gones,' March 22, 1876. VI. The legend of the Grassless Grave is a well-known Montgomeryshire tale, concerning a certain spot of earth in the graveyard of Montgomery Castle, upon which the verdure is less luxuriant than in other portions of the yard. One dark November night, many years ago, a man named John Newton, who had been at Welshpool fair, set out for home. Soon after, he was brought back to Welshpool in the custody of two men, who charged him with highway robbery, a crime then punishable with death. He was tried, and executed, in spite of his protestations; and in his last speech, admitting he had committed a former crime, but protesting he was innocent of this, he said: 'I have offered a prayer to Heaven, and believe it has been heard and accepted. And in meek dependence on a merciful God, whom I have offended, but who, through the atonement of His blessed Son, has, I trust, pardoned my offence, I venture to assert that as I am innocent of the crime for which I suffer, the grass, for one generation at least, will not cover my grave.' For thirty years thereafter, the grave was grassless; a bare spot in the shape of a coffin marked, amidst the surrounding luxuriance, the place where lay the penitent criminal, unjustly executed. Then a sacrilegious hand planted the spot with turf; but it withered as if blasted by lightning; and the grave is still grassless--certainly an unnecessary extension of the time set by the defunct for its testimony to his innocence. VII. A curious surviving custom at Welsh funerals is the Offrwm, or parson's penny. After having read the burial service in the church, the parson stands behind a table while a psalm is being sung, and to him go the mourners, one and all, and deposit a piece of money on the table. The parson counts it, states the amount, and pockets it. If the mourner depositing his offrwm be wealthy, he will give perhaps a guinea; if a farmer or tradesman, his gift will be a crown; and if poor, he will lay down his sixpence. 'Each one that intended making an offering of silver, would go up to the altar in his turn, and after each one had contributed there would be a respite, after which those who gave copper as their offering went forward and did likewise; but no coppers were offered at any respectable funeral. These offerings often reached the sum of ten and even twenty pounds in the year.' Thus the Welsh work, 'Cymru Fu,' speaking as usual in the past tense; but the custom is a present-day one. The Welsh believe that this custom was originally intended to compensate the clergyman for praying for the soul of the departed. It has now ceased to mean anything more than a tribute of respect to the deceased, or a token of esteem towards the officiating clergyman. In the parish of Defynog, Breconshire, there was a custom (up to 1843, when it seems to have ceased through the angry action of a lawless widower,) of giving to the parish clerk the best pair of shoes and stockings left behind by the defunct.[153] A still more curious form of the offrwm, which also survives in many rural neighbourhoods, is called the Arian y Rhaw, or spade money. At the grave, the gravedigger rubs the soil off his spade, extends it for donations, and receives a piece of silver from each one in turn, which he also pockets. In Merionethshire the money is received at the grave in a bowl, instead of on the spade, and the gift is simply called the offrwm. 'I well recollect, when a lad,' says an entertaining correspondent,[154] 'at Llanrhaiadr-yn-Mochnant, seeing the clerk or sexton cleaning his spade with the palm of his hand, and blowing the remaining dust, so that the instrument of his calling should be clean and presentable, and then, with due and clerk-like gravity, presenting his polished spade, first to the "cyfneseifiaid" (next-of-kin), and then to the mourners one by one, giving all an opportunity of showing their respect to the dead, by giving the clerk the accustomed offrwm. At times the old clerk, "yr hen glochydd," when collecting the offrwm, rather than go around the grave to the people, to the no small annoyance of the friends, would reach his spade over the grave. At the particular time referred to, the clerk, having nearly had all the offrwm, saw that facetious wag and practical joker, Mr. B., extending his offering towards him from the opposite side of the grave. The clerk, as was his wont, extended the spade over the grave towards the offered gift. The opportunity for fun was not to be lost, and whilst placing his offrwm on the spade, Mr. B. pressed on one corner, and the spade turned in the hands of the unwitting clerk, emptying the whole offering into the grave, to the no small surprise of the clerk, who never forgot the lesson, and the great amusement of the standers-by.' It is noted in this connection that the sexton's spade 'was a terror to the superstitious, for if the gravedigger would but shake his spade at anyone, it was a matter of but short time ere the sexton would be called upon to dig the grave of that person who had come under the evil influence of the spade. "Has the sexton shook his spade at you?" was a question often put to a person in bad health.' FOOTNOTES: [153] 'Arch. Camb.,' 2nd Se., iv., 326. [154] 'Bye-gones,' Oct. 17, 1877. VIII. Until a recent date, burials without a coffin were common in some parts of Wales. Old people in Montgomeryshire not many years ago, could remember such burials, in what was called the cadach deupen, or cloth with two heads. Old Richard Griffith, of Trefeglwys, who died many years ago, recollected a burial in this fashion there, when the cloth gave way and was rent; whereupon the clergyman prohibited any further burials in that churchyard without a coffin. That was the last burial of the kind which took place in Montgomeryshire.[155] In the middle ages there was a Welsh custom of burying the dead in the garment of a monk, as a protection against evil spirits. This was popular among the wealthy, and was a goodly source of priestly revenue. FOOTNOTE: [155] 'Bye-gones,' Nov. 22, 1876. IX. Sul Coffa is an old Welsh custom of honouring the dead on the Sunday following the funeral, and for several succeeding Sundays, until the violence of grief has abated. In the Journal of Thomas Dinelly, Esquire, an Englishman who travelled through Wales and Ireland in the reign of Charles II.,[156] this passage occurs, after description of the wake, the keening, etc.: 'This done y{e} Irish bury their dead, and if it be in or neer y{e} burying place of that family, the servants and followers hugg kiss howle and weep over the skulls that are there digg'd up and once a week for a quarter of an year after come two or three and pay more noyse at the place.' The similarity in spirit between this and the Welsh Sul Coffa is as striking as the difference in practice. The Welsh walk quietly and gravely to the solemn mound beneath which rest the remains of the loved, and there kneeling in silence for five or ten minutes, pray or appear to pray. The Sul Coffa of Ivan the Harper is a well-known anecdote. Ivan the Harper was a noted character in his day, who desired that his coffa should be thus: 'I should like,' said he, on his death-bed, 'to have my coffa; but not in the old style. Instead of the old custom ask Williams of Merllyn and Richard the Harper to attend the church at Llanfwrog, and give these, my disciples, my two harps, and after the service is over, let them walk to my grave; let Williams sit at the head and Richard at the feet, of my grave, and let them play seven Welsh airs, beginning with Dafydd y Garreg Wen,' (David of the White Stone) 'and ending with, Toriad y Dydd,' (the Dawn.) 'The former is in a flat key, like death, and the latter is as sober as the day of judgment.' This request was religiously obeyed by the mourners on the ensuing Sul Coffa. FOOTNOTE: [156] Quoted in the Proceedings of the Kilkenny Arch. Soc., 1858. X. Reference has been made, in the chapter on courtship and marriage, to the Welsh practice of planting graves with flowers. There are graves in Glamorganshire which have been kept blooming with flowers for nearly a century without interruption, through the loving care of descendants of the departed. By a most graceful custom which also prevailed until recently, each mourner at a funeral carried in his hand a sprig of rosemary, which he threw into the grave. The Pagan practice of throwing a sprig of cypress into the grave has been thought to symbolize the annihilation of the body, as these sprigs would not grow if set in the earth: whereas the rosemary was to signify the resurrection or up-springing of the body from the grave. The existing custom of throwing flowers and immortelles into the grave is derivable from the ancient practice. But the Welsh carry the association of graves and floral life to the most lavish extreme, as has already been pointed out. Shakspeare has alluded to this in 'Cymbeline,' the scene of which tragedy is principally in Pembrokeshire, at and about Milford Haven: _Arv._ With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave: Thou shalt not lack The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azur'd harebell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Outsweeten'd not thy breath.[157] [Music: DAFYDD Y GARREG WEN.] FOOTNOTE: [157] 'Cymbeline,' Act IV., Sc. 2. BOOK IV. BELLS, WELLS, STONES, AND DRAGONS. Gorgons, and hydras, and chimeras dire. MILTON: _Paradise Lost_. Then up there raise ane wee wee man Franethe the moss-gray stane; His face was wan like the collifloure, For he nouthir had blude nor bane. HOGG: _The Witch of Fife_. ... where he stood, Of auncient time there was a springing well, From which fast trickled forth a silver flood, Full of great vertues, and for med'cine good: ... For unto life the dead it could restore. SPENSER: _Faerie Queene_. CHAPTER I. Base of the Primeval Mythology--Bells and their Ghosts--The Bell that committed Murder and was damned for it--The Occult Powers of Bells--Their Work as Detectives, Doctors, etc.--Legend of the Bell of Rhayader--St. Illtyd's Wonderful Bell--The Golden Bell of Llandaff. I. The human mind in its infancy turns instinctively to fetichism. The mind of primeval man resembled that of a child. Children have to learn by experience that the fire which burns them is not instigated by malice.[158] In his primitive condition, man personified everything in nature. Animate and inanimate objects were alike endowed with feelings, passions, emotions, moral qualities. On this basis rests the primeval mythology. The numerous superstitions associated with bells, wells and stones in Wales, excite constant inquiries as regards their origin in fetichism, in paganism, in solar worship, or in church observances. That bells, especially, should suggest the supernatural to the vulgar mind is not strange. The occult powers of bells have place in the popular belief of many lands. The Flemish child who wonders how the voices got into the bells is paralleled by the Welsh lad who hears the bells of Aberdovey talking in metrical words to a musical chime. The ghosts of bells are believed to haunt the earth in many parts of Wales. Allusion has been made to those castle bells which are heard ringing from the submerged towers in Crumlyn lake. Like fancies are associated with many Welsh lakes. In Langorse Pool, Breconshire, an ancient city is said to lie buried, from whose cathedral bells on a calm day may be heard a faint and muffled chime, pealing solemnly far down in the sepial depths. A legend of Trefethin relates that in the church of St. Cadoc, at that place, was a bell of wondrous powers, a gift from Llewellyn ap Iorwerth, Lord of Caerleon. A little child who had climbed to the belfry was struck by the bell and killed, not through the wickedness of the bell itself, but through a spell which had been put upon the unfortunate instrument by an evil spirit. But though innocent of murderous intent, the wretched bell became forfeit to the demons on account of its fatal deed. They seized it and bore it down through the earth to the shadow-realm of annwn. And ever since that day, when a child is accidentally slain at Trefethin, the bell of St. Cadoc is heard tolling mournfully underneath the ground where it disappeared ages ago. FOOTNOTE: [158] A Mississippi negro-boy who was brought by a friend of mine from his southern home to a northern city, and who had never seen snow, found the ground one morning covered with what he supposed to be salt, and going out to get some, returned complaining that it 'bit his fingers.' II. There was anciently a belief that the sound of brass would break enchantment, as well as cause it; and it is presumed that the original purpose of the common custom of tolling the bell for the dead was to drive away evil spirits. Originally, the bell was tolled not for the dead, but for the dying; it was believed that evil spirits were hovering about the sick chamber, waiting to pounce on the soul as soon as it should get free from the body; and the bell was tolled for the purpose of driving them away. Later, the bell was not tolled till death had occurred, and this form of the custom survives here, as in many lands. Before the Reformation there was kept in all Welsh churches a handbell, which was taken by the sexton to the house where a funeral was to be held, and rung at the head of the procession. When the voices of the singers were silent at the end of a psalm, the bell would take up the burden of complaint in measured and mournful tones, and ring till another psalm was begun. It was at this period deemed sacred. The custom survived long after the Reformation in many places, as at Caerleon, the little Monmouthshire village which was a bustling Roman city when London was a hamlet. The bell--called the bangu--was still preserved in the parish of Llanfair Duffryn Clwyd half-a-dozen years ago. I believe the custom of ringing a handbell before the corpse on its way through the streets is still observed at Oxford, when a university man is buried. The town marshal is the bellman for this office. The custom is associated with the same superstitious belief which is seen in the 'passing bell,' the notes of pure bronze freeing the soul from the power of evil spirits. III. The Welsh were formerly strong in the belief that bells could perform miracles, detect thieves, heal the sick, and the like. In many instances they were possessed of locomotive powers, and would transport themselves from place to place when they had occasion, according to their own sweet will, and without human intervention. It is even recorded that certain handbells required to be tied with the double cord of an exorcism and a piece of twine, or they would get up and walk off in the night. Bells which presaged storms, as well as other disasters, have been believed to exist in many parts of Wales. In Pembrokeshire the unexpected tolling of a church bell in the night is held to be the sure precursor of a calamity--a belief which may be paralleled in London, where there are still people who believe such tolling on the part of the great bell of St. Paul's portends disaster to the royal family. In the Cromwellian wars, the sacrilegious followers of the stern old castle-hater carried off a great bell from St. David's, Pembrokeshire. They managed to get it on shipboard, but in passing through Ramsey Sound the vessel was wrecked--a direct result, the superstitious said, of profanely treating the bell. Ever since that time, Pembroke people have been able to hear this sunken bell ring from its watery grave when a storm is rising. IV. The legend of the Bell of Rhayader perpetuates a class of story which reappears in other parts of Great Britain. It was in the twelfth century that a certain contumacious knight was imprisoned in the castle of Rhayader. His wife, being devoted to him, and a good Catholic, besought the aid of the monks to get him out. They were equal to the occasion, at least in so far as to provide for her service a magical bell, which possessed the power of liberating from confinement any prisoner who should set it up on the wall and ring it. The wife succeeded in getting the bell secretly into her husband's possession, and he set it up on the wall and rang it. But although he had gathered his belongings together and was fully prepared to go, the doors of his prison refused to open. The castellan mocked at the magical bell, and kept the knight in durance vile. So therefore (for of course the story could not be allowed to end here) the castle was struck by lightning, and both it and the town were burned in one night--excepting only the wall upon which the magic bell was hanging. Nothing remains of the castle walls in this day. V. The bell of St. Illtyd was greatly venerated in the middle ages. A legend concerning this wonderful bell relates that a certain king had stolen it from the church, and borne it into England, tied about the neck of one of his horses. For this deed the king was destroyed, but repenting before his death, ordered the bell to be restored to its place in Wales. Without waiting to be driven, the horse with the bell about his neck set out for Wales, followed by a whole drove of horses, drawn by the melodious sound of the bell. Wonderful to tell, the horse was able to cross the river Severn and come into Wales, the great collection of horses following. 'Then hastening along the shore, and over the mountains, and through the woods, he came to the road which went towards Glamorgan, all the horses hearing, and following the sweet sound.' When they came to the banks of the river Taff, a clergyman heard the sound of the bell, and went out to meet the horse, and they together carried the bell to the gate of St. Illtyd's church. There the horse bent down and loosed his precious burden from his neck, 'and it fell on a stone, from which fall a part of it was broken, which is to be seen until the present day, in memory of the eminent miracle.'[159] Some thirty years ago a bell was discovered at Llantwit Major, in Glamorganshire, which was thought to be the identical bell of this saint. The village named was the scene of his exploits, many of which were miraculous to the point of Arabian Nights marvelousness. The discovered bell was inscribed 'Sancte Iltute, ora pro nobis,' and stood upon the gable of the quaint old town-hall. But though the bell was unmistakably ancient, it bore intrinsic evidence of having been cast long after the saint's death, when his name had become venerated. He was one of King Arthur's soldiers, who afterwards renounced the world, and founded several churches in Glamorganshire. FOOTNOTE: [159] 'Cambro-British Saints,' 492. VI. Among the many legends of Llandaff which still linger familiarly on the lips of the people is that of the bell of St. Oudoceus, second bishop of that see. In the ancient 'Book of Llandaff,' where are preserved the records of that cathedral from the earliest days of Christianity on this island, the legend is thus related: 'St. Oudoceus, being thirsty after undergoing labour, and more accustomed to drink water than any other liquor, came to a fountain in the vale of Llandaff, not far from the church, that he might drink, where he found women washing butter, after the manner of the country; and sending to them his messengers and disciples, they requested that they would accommodate them with a vessel, that their pastor might drink therefrom; who, ironically, as mischievous girls, said, "We have no cup besides that which we hold in our hands, namely, the butter." And the man of blessed memory taking it, formed one in the shape of a small bell, and he raised his hand so that he might drink therefrom, and he drank. And it remained in that form, that is, a golden one, so that it appeared to those who beheld it to consist altogether of the purest gold, which, by divine power, is from that day reverently preserved in the church of Llandaff in memory of the holy man, and it is said that by touching it health is given to the diseased.'[160] [Music: CLYCHAU ABERDYFI. (The Bells of Aberdovey.)] FOOTNOTE: [160] 'Liber Landavensis,' 378. CHAPTER II. Mystic Wells--Their Good and Bad Dispositions--St. Winifred's Well--The Legend of St. Winifred--Miracles--St. Tecla's Well--St. Dwynwen's--Curing Love-sickness--St. Cynfran's--St. Cynhafal's--Throwing Pins in Wells--Warts--Barry Island and its Legends--Ffynon Gwynwy--Propitiatory Gifts to Wells--The Dreadful Cursing Well of St. Elian's--Wells Flowing with Milk--St. Illtyd's--Taff's Well--Sanford's Well--Origins of Superstitions of this Class. I. The waters of mystery which flow at Lourdes, in France, are paralleled in numberless Welsh parishes. In every corner of Cambria may be found wells which possess definite attributes, malicious or beneficent, which they are popularly supposed to actively exert toward mankind. In almost every instance, the name of the tutelary saint to whom the well is consecrated is known to the peasantry, and generally they can tell you something about him, or her. Unnumbered centuries have elapsed since the saint lived; nay, generation upon generation has perished since any complete knowledge of his life or character existed, save in mouldering manuscripts left by monks, themselves long turned to dust; yet the tradition of the saint as regards the well is there, a living thing beside its waters. However lightly some forms of superstition may at times be treated by the vulgar, they are seldom capable of irreverent remark concerning the well. In many cases this respect amounts to awe. These wells are of varying power and disposition. Some are healing wells; others are cursing wells; still others combine the power alike to curse and to cure. Some are sovereign in their influence over all the diseases from which men suffer, mental and moral as well as physical; others can cure but one disease, or one specific class of diseases; and others remedy all the misfortunes of the race, make the poor rich, the unhappy happy, and the unlucky lucky. That these various reputations arose in some wells from medicinal qualities found by experience to dwell in the waters, is clear at a glance; but in many cases the character of the patron saint gives character to the well. In parishes dedicated to the Virgin Mary there will almost inevitably be found a Ffynon Mair, (Well of Mary,) the waters of which are supposed to be purer than the waters of other wells. Sometimes the people will take the trouble to go a long distance for water from the Ffynon Mair, though a good well may be nearer, in whose water chemical analysis can find no difference. Formerly, and indeed until within a few years past, no water would do for baptizing but that fetched from the Ffynon Mair, though it were a mile or more from the church. That the water flowed southward was in some cases held to be a secret of its virtue. In other instances, wells which opened and flowed eastward were thought to afford the purest water. II. Most renowned and most frequented of Welsh wells is St. Winifred's, at Holywell. By the testimony of tradition it has been flowing for eleven hundred and eighty years, or since the year 700, and during all this time has been constantly visited by throngs of invalids; and that it will continue to be so frequented for a thousand years to come is not doubted, apparently, by the members of the Holywell Local Board, who have just taken a lease of the well from the Duke of Westminster for 999 years more, at an annual rental of £1. The town of Holywell probably owes not only name but existence to this well. Its miraculous powers are extensively believed in by the Welsh, and by people from all parts of Great Britain and the United States; but Drayton's assertion that no dog could be drowned in its waters, on account of their beneficent disposition, is not an article of the existing faith. The most prodigious fact in connection with this wonderful fountain, when its legendary origin is contemplated, is its size, its abounding life, the great volume of its waters. A well which discharges twenty-one tons of water per minute, which feeds an artificial lake and runs a mill, and has cured unnumbered thousands of human beings of their ills for hundreds of years, is surely one of the wonders of the world, to which even mystic legend can only add one marvel more. The legend of St. Winifred, or Gwenfrewi, as she is called in Welsh, was related by the British monk Elerius in the year 660, or by Robert of Salop in 1190, and is in the Cotton MSS. in the British Museum. It is there written in characters considered to be of the middle of the eleventh century. Winifred was the daughter of a valiant soldier in North Wales; from her youth she loved a heavenly spouse, and refused transitory men. One day Caradoc, a descendant of royal stock, came to her house fatigued from hunting wild beasts, and asked Winifred for drink. But seeing the beauty of the nymph he forgot his thirst in his admiration, and at once besought her to treat him with the familiarity of a sweetheart. Winifred refused, asserting that she was engaged to be married to another. Caradoc became furious at this, and said, 'Leave off this foolish, frivolous, and trifling mode of speaking, and consent to my wish.' Then he asked her to be his wife. Finding he would not be denied, Winifred had recourse to a stratagem to escape from him: she pretended to comply, but asked leave to first make a becoming toilet. Caradoc agreed, on condition that she should make it quickly. The girl went through her chamber with swift feet into the valley, and was escaping, when Caradoc perceived the trick, and mounting his horse spurred after her. He overtook her at the very door of the monastery to which she was fleeing; before she could place her foot within the threshold he struck off her head at one blow. St. Beino coming quickly to the door saw bloody Caradoc standing with his stained sword in his hand, and immediately cursed him as he stood, so that the bloody man melted in his sight like wax before a fire. Beino then took the virgin's head (which had been thrown inside the door by the blow which severed it) and fitted it on the neck of the corpse. Winifred thereupon revived, with no further harm than a small line on her neck. But the floor upon which her bloody head had fallen, cracked open, and a fountain sprang up like a torrent at the spot. 'And the stones appear bloody at present as they did at first, and the moss smells as frankincense, and it cures divers diseases.'[161] Thus far the monastic legend. Some say that Caradoc's descendants were doomed to bark like dogs. Among the miracles related of Winifred's well by her monkish biographer is one characterized as 'stupendous,' concerning three bright stones which were seen in the middle of the ebullition of the fountain, ascending and descending, 'up and down by turns, after the manner of stones projected by a shooter.' They so continued to dance for many years, but one day an unlucky woman was seized with a desire to play with the stones. So she took hold of one; whereat they all vanished, and the woman died. This miracle was supplemented by that of a man who was rebuked for theft at the fountain; and on his denying his guilt, the goat which he had stolen and eaten became his accuser by uttering an audible bleating from his belly. But the miracles of Winifred's well are for the most part records of wonderful cures from disease and deformity. Withered and useless limbs were made whole and useful; the dumb bathed in the water, came out, and asked for their clothes; the blind washed and received their sight; lunatics 'troubled by unclean spirits' were brought to the well in chains, 'tearing with their teeth and speaking vain things,' but returned homeward in full possession of their reason. Fevers, paralysis, epilepsy, stone, gout, cancers, piles--these are but a few of the diseases cured by the marvellous well, on the testimony of the ancient chronicler of the Cotton MSS. 'Nor is it to be hidden in the silence of Lethean oblivion that after the expulsion of the Franks from all North Wales' the fountain flowed with a milky liquor for the space of three days. A priest bottled some of it, and it 'was carried about and drunk in all directions,' curing diseases in the same manner as the well itself. FOOTNOTE: [161] 'Cambro-British Saints,' 519. III. Only second in fame to Winifred's, among the Welsh themselves, is St. Tecla's well, or Ffynon Tegla, in Denbighshire. It springs out of a bog called Gwern Degla, about two hundred yards from the parish church of Llandegla. Some account of the peculiar superstitious ceremony connected with this well has already been given, in the chapter treating of the sin-eater. It is there suggested that the cock to which the fits are transferred by the patient at the well is a substitute for the scapegoat of the Jews. The parish clerk of Llandegla in 1855 said that an old man of his acquaintance 'remembered quite well seeing the birds staggering about from the effects of the fits' which had been transferred to them. IV. Of great celebrity in other days was St. Dwynwen's well, in the parish of Llandwyn, Anglesea. This saint being patron saint of lovers, her well possessed the property of curing love-sickness. It was visited by great numbers, of both sexes, in the fourteenth century, when the popular faith in its waters seems to have been at its strongest. It is still frequented by young women of that part of the country when suffering from the woes inflicted by Dan Cupid. That the well itself has been for many years covered over with sand does not prevent the faithful from displaying their devotion; they seek their cure from 'the water next to the well.' Ffynon Dwynwen, or Fountain of Venus, was also a name given to the sea, according to the Iolo MSS.; and in the legend of Seithenhin the Drunkard, in the 'Black Book of Carmarthen,' this stanza occurs: Accursed be the damsel, Who, after the wailing, Let loose the Fountain of Venus, the raging deep.[162] The story of Aphrodite, born from the foam of the sea, need only be alluded to here. FOOTNOTE: [162] 'Black Book of Carmarthen,' xxxviii. (An ancient MS. in the Hengwrt collection, which belonged of old to the priory of Black Canons at Carmarthen, and at the dissolution of the religious houses in Wales, when their libraries were dispersed, was given by the treasurer of St. David's Church to Sir John Price, one of Henry VIII.'s commissioners.) V. Several wells appear to have been devoted to the cure of the lower animals' diseases. Such was the well of Cynfran, where this ejaculation was made use of: 'Rhad Duw a Chynfran lwydd ar y da!'--(the grace of God and the blessed Cynfran on the cattle.) This Cynfran was one of the many sons of the patriarch Brychan, and his well is near Abergeleu. Pennant speaks also of a well near Abergeleu, which he calls St. George's well, and says that there the British Mars had his offering of horses; 'for the rich were wont to offer one, to secure his blessing on all the rest. He was the tutelar saint of those animals.' VI. St. Cynhafal's well, on a hillside in Llangynhafal parish, Denbighshire, is one of those curing wells in which pins are thrown. Its specialty is warts. To exorcise your wart you stick a pin in it and then throw the pin into this well; the wart soon vanishes. The wart is a form of human trouble which appears to have been at all times and in all countries a special subject of charms, both in connection with wells and with pins. Where a well of the requisite virtue is not conveniently near, the favourite form of charm for wart-curing is in connection with the wasting away of some selected object. Having first been pricked into the wart, the pin is then thrust into the selected object--in Gloucestershire it is a snail--and then the object is buried or impaled on a blackthorn in a hedge, and as it perishes the wart will disappear. The scapegoat principle of the sin-eater also appears in connection with charming away warts, as where a 'vagrom man' counts your warts, marks their number in his hat, and goes away, taking the warts with him into the next county--for a trifling consideration.[163] FOOTNOTE: [163] A popular belief among boys in some parts of the United States is that warts can be rubbed off upon a toad impaled with a sharp stick; as the toad dies the warts will go. _Per contra_, this cruel faith is offset by a theory that toads if ill-treated can spit upon their aggressors' hands and thus cause warts. VII. On Barry Island, near Cardiff, is the famous well of St. Barruc, or Barri, which was still frequented by the credulous up to May, 1879, at which time the island was closed against visitors by its owner, Lord Windsor, and converted into a rabbit warren. Tradition directs that on Holy Thursday he who is troubled with any disease of the eyes shall go to this well, and having thoroughly washed his eyes in its water, shall drop a pin in it. The innkeeper there formerly found great numbers of pins--a pint, in one instance--when cleaning out the well. It had long been utterly neglected by the sole resident of the island, whose house was a long distance from the well, at a point nearer the main land; but pins were still discovered there from time to time. There was in old days a chapel on this island; no vestige of it remains. Tradition says that St. Barruc was buried there, and the now barren and deserted islet appears to have been anciently a popular place among the saints. St. Cadoc had one of his residences there.[164] He was one day sitting on a hill-top in that island when he saw the two saints Barruc and Gwalches drawing near in a boat, and as he looked the boat was overturned by the wind. Both saints were drowned, and Cadoc's manual book, which they had in the boat with them, was lost in the sea. But when Cadoc proceeded to order his dinner, a salmon was brought to him which being cut open was found to have the missing manual book in its belly in an unimpaired condition. Concerning another saint whose name was Barri, a wonderful story is told that one day being on a visit to St. David he borrowed the latter's horse and rode across the sea from Pembrokeshire to the Irish coast. Many have supposed this Barri to be the same person as Barruc, but they were two men. This romantic island was anciently celebrated for certain ghastly noises which were heard in it--sounds resembling the clanking of chains, hammering of iron, and blowing of bellows--and which were supposed to be made by the fiends whom Merlin had set to work to frame the wall of brass to surround Carmarthen. So the noises and eruptions of Etna and Stromboli were in ancient times ascribed to Typhon or Vulcan. But in the case of Barry I have been unable, by any assistance from imagination, to detect these mystic sounds in our day. Camden, in his 'Britannica,' makes a like remark, but says the tradition was universally prevalent. The judicious Malkin, however, thinks it requires but a moderate stretch of fancy to create this cyclopean imagery, when the sea at high tides is often in possession of cavities under the very feet of the stranger, and its voice is at once modified and magnified by confinement and repercussion.[165] FOOTNOTES: [164] 'Cambro-British Saints,' 336. [165] Malkin's 'South Wales,' 132. VIII. Another well whose specialty is warts is a small spring called Ffynon Gwynwy, near Llangelynin church, Carnarvonshire. The pins used here must be crooked in order to be efficacious. It is said that fifty years ago the bottom of this little well was covered with pins; and that everybody was careful not to touch them, fearing that the warts deposited with the pins would grow upon their own hands if they did so.[166] At present the well is overgrown with weeds, like that on Barry Island. FOOTNOTE: [166] 'Arch. Camb.,' 3rd Se., xiii., 61. IX. The use of pins for purposes of enchantment is one of the most curious features of popular superstition. Trivial as it appears to superficial observation, it can be associated with a vast number of mystic rites and ceremonials, and with times the most ancient. There is no doubt that before the invention of pins in this country small pieces of money were thrown into the well instead; indeed it was asserted by a writer in the 'Archæologia Cambrensis' in 1856 that money was still thrown into St. Tecla's well, by persons desirous of recovering from fits. That the same practice prevailed among the Romans is shown by Pliny, who speaks of the sacred spring of the Clitumnus, so pure and clear that you may count the pieces of money that have been thrown into it, and the shining pebbles at the bottom. And in connection with the Welsh well of St. Elian there was formerly a box into which the sick dropped money as they nowadays drop a pin into that well. This box was called cyff-elian, and was in the form of a trunk studded with nails, with an aperture in the top through which the money was dropped. It is said to have got so full of coins that the parishioners opened it, and with the contents purchased three farms. The presentation of pins to the well, though now a meaningless rite on the part of those who practice it, was originally intended as a propitiatory offering to the evil spirit of the well. In some instances the heathen faith is virtually restored, and the well endowed with supernatural powers irrespective of the dedication of its waters to a Christian saint. Indeed in the majority of cases where these wells are now resorted to by the peasantry for any other than curative purposes, the fetichistic impulse is much more conspicuous than any influence associated with religious teaching. X. St. Elian's is accounted the most dreadful well in Wales. It is in the parish of Llanelian, Denbighshire. It is at the head of the cursing wells, of which there are but few in the Principality, and holds still a strong influence over the ignorant mind. The popular belief is that you can 'put' your enemy 'into' this well, i.e., render him subject to its evil influence, so that he will pine away and perhaps die unless the curse be removed. The degree and nature of the curse can be modified as the 'offerer' desires, so that the obnoxious person will suffer aches and pains in his body, or troubles in his pocket--the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. The minister of the well appears to be some heartless wretch residing in the neighbourhood, whose services are enlisted for a small fee. The name of the person to be 'put into' the well is registered in a book kept by the wretch aforesaid, and a pin is cast into the well in his name, together with a pebble inscribed with its initials. The person so cursed soon hears of it, and the fact preys on his mind; he imagines for himself every conceivable ill, and if gifted with a lively faith soon finds himself reduced to a condition where he cannot rest till he has secured the removal of the curse. This is effected by a reversal of the above ceremonies--erasing the name, taking out the pebble, and otherwise appeasing the spirit of the well. It is asserted that death has in many instances resulted from the curse of this wickedly malicious well.[167] FOOTNOTE: [167] 'Camb. Pop. Ant.,' 247. See also 'Arch. Camb.,' 1st Se., i. 46. XI. Occasionally the cursing powers of a well were synonymous with curing powers. Thus a well much resorted to near Penrhos, was able to curse a cancer, i.e., cure it. The sufferer washed in the water, uttering curses upon the disease, and also dropping pins around the well. This well has been drained by the unsympathizing farmer on whose land it was, on account of the serious damage done to his crops by trespassers. XII. Wells from which milk has flowed have been known in several places. That Winifred's well indulged in this eccentricity on one occasion has been noted. The well of St. Illtyd is celebrated for the like performance. This well is in Glamorganshire, in the land called Gower, near Swansea. It was about the nativity of John the Baptist, on the fifth day of the week, in a year not specified, but certainly very remote, that for three hours there flowed from this well a copious stream of milk instead of water. That it was really milk we are not left in any possible doubt, for 'many who were present testified that while they were looking at the milky stream carefully and with astonishment, they also saw among the gravel curds lying about in every direction, and all around the edge of the well a certain fatty substance floating about, such as is collected from milk, so that butter can be made from it.'[168] The origin of this well is a pleasing miracle, and recalls the story of Canute; but while Canute's effort to command the sea was a failure in the eleventh century, that of St. Illtyd five hundred years earlier was a brilliant success. It appears that the saint was very pleasantly established on an estate consisting of a field surrounded on all sides by plains, with an intermediate grove, but was much afflicted by the frequent overflowings of the sea upon his land. In vain he built and rebuilt a very large embankment of mud mixed with stones, the rushing waves burst through again and again. At last the saint's patience was worn out, and he said, 'I will not live here any longer; I much wished it, but troubled with this marine molestation, it is not in my power. It destroys my buildings, it flows to the oratory which we built with great labour.' However, the place was so convenient he was loth to leave it, and he prayed for assistance. On the night before his intended departure an angel came to him and bade him remain, and gave him instructions for driving back the sea. Early in the morning Illtyd went to the fluctuating sea and drove it back; it receded before him 'as if it were a sensible animal,' and left the shore dry. Then Illtyd struck the shore with his staff, 'and thereupon flowed a very clear fountain, which is also beneficial for curing diseases, and which continues to flow without a falling off; and what is more wonderful, although it is near the sea, the water emitted is pure.'[169] FOOTNOTES: [168] 'Arch. Camb.,' 1st Se., iii., 264. [169] 'Cambro-British Saints,' 478. XIII. Some of the Welsh mystic wells are so situated that they are at times overflowed by the waters of the sea, or of a river. Taff's Well, in Glamorganshire, a pleasant walk from Cardiff, is situated practically in the bed of the river Taff. One must wade through running water to reach it, except in the summer season, when the water in the river is very low. A rude hut of sheet iron has been built over it. This well is still noted for its merits in healing rheumatism and kindred ailments. The usual stories are told of miraculous cures. A primitive custom of the place is that when men are bathing at this well they shall hang a pair of trousers outside the hut; women, in their turn, must hang out a petticoat or bonnet. At Newton Nottage, Glamorganshire, a holy well called Sanford's is so situated that the water is regulated in the well by the ocean tides. From time immemorial wondrous tales have been told of this well, how it ebbs and flows daily in direct contrariety to the tidal ebb and flow. The bottom of the well is below high-water mark on the beach, where it has an outlet into the sea. At very low tides in the summer, when the supply of water in the well is scanty, it becomes dry for an hour or two after low water. When the ocean tide rises, the sea-water banks up and drives back the fresh water, and the well fills again and its water rises. The villagers are accustomed to let the well-water rise through what they call the 'nostrils of the well,' and become settled a little before they draw it. Of course this phenomenon has been regarded as something supernatural by the ignorant for ages, and upon the actual visible phenomena have been built a number of magical details of a superstitious character. XIV. The wide prevalence of some form of water-worship among Aryan peoples is a fact of great significance. Superstitions in connection with British wells are generally traceable to a Druidic origin. The worship of natural objects in which the British Druids indulged, particularly as regards rivers and fountains, probably had a connection with traditions of the flood. When the early Christian preachers and teachers encountered such superstitions among the people, they carefully avoided giving unnecessary offence by scoffing at them; on the contrary they preferred to adopt them, and to hallow them by giving them Christian meanings. They utilized the old Druidic circles as places of worship, chose young priests from among the educated Druids, and consecrated to their own saints the mystic wells and fountains. In this manner were continued practices the most ancient. As time passed on, other wells were similarly sanctified, as the new religion spread and parish churches were built. Disease and wickedness being intimately associated in the popular mind--epileptics and like sufferers being held to be possessed of devils, and even such vulgar ills as warts and wens being considered direct results of some evil deed, suffered or performed--so the waters of Christian baptism which cleansed from sin, cleansed also from disease. Ultimately the virtue of the waters came to be among the vulgar a thing apart from the rite of baptism; the good was looked upon as dwelling in the waters themselves, and the Christian rite as not necessarily an element in the work of regeneration. The reader who will recall what has been said in the chapter on changelings, in the first part of this volume, will perceive a survival of the ancient creed herein, in the notion that baptism is a preventive of fairy babe-thievery. Remembering that the changeling notion is in reality nothing but a fanciful way of accounting for the emaciation, ugliness, idiocy, bad temper--in a word, the illness--of the child, it will be seen that the rite of baptism, by curing the first manifestations of evil in the child's system, was the orthodox means of preventing the fairies from working their bad will on the poor innocent. CHAPTER III. Personal Attributes of Legendary Welsh Stones--Stone Worship--Canna's Stone Chair--Miraculous Removals of Stones--The Walking Stone of Eitheinn--The Thigh Stone--The Talking Stone in Pembrokeshire--The Expanding Stone--Magic Stones in the 'Mabinogion'--The Stone of Invisibility--The Stone of Remembrance--Stone Thief-catchers--Stones of Healing--Stones at Cross-roads--Memorials of King Arthur--Round Tables, Carns, Pots, etc.--Arthur's Quoits--The Gigantic Rock-tossers of Old--Mol Walbec and the Pebble in her Shoe--The Giant of Trichrug--Giants and the Mythology of the Heavens--The Legend of Rhitta Gawr. I. In the traditions concerning Welsh stones, abundant personal attributes are accorded them, such as in nature belong only to animals. They were endowed with volition and with voice; they could travel from place to place without mortal aid; they would move uneasily when disturbed by human contact; they expanded and contracted at will; they clung to people who touched them with profane or guilty purpose; they possessed divers qualities which made them valuable to their possessors, such as the power of rendering them invisible, or of filling their pockets with gold. In pursuing the various accounts of these stones in Welsh folk-lore we find ourselves now in fairyland, now in the domains of mother church, now listening to legends of enchantment, now to tales of saintly virtue, now giving ear to a magician, now to a monk. Stone-worship, of which the existing superstitions are remains, was so prevalent under the Saxon monarchy, that it was forbidden by law in the reign of Edgar the Peaceable, (ninth century,) and when Canute came, in the following century, he also found it advisable to issue such a law. That this pagan worship was practised from a time of which there is now no record, is not questioned; and the perpetuation of certain features of this worship by the early Christians was in spite of the laws promulgated for its suppression by a Christian king. In this manner the monks were enabled to draw to themselves the peasantry in whose breasts the ancient superstition was strong, and who willingly substituted the new story for the old, so long as the underlying belief was not rudely uprooted. II. Among the existing stones in Wales with which the ancient ideas of occult power are connected, one in Carmarthenshire is probably unique of its kind. It is called Canna's Stone, and lies in a field adjoining the old church of Llangan, now remote from the population whose ancestors worshipped in it. The church was founded by an Armorican lady of rank named Canna, who was sainted. The stone in question forms a sort of chair, and was used in connection with a magic well called Ffynon Canna, which is now, like the church, deserted and wretched. Patients suffering from ague, in order to profit by its healing power, must sit in the chair of Canna's stone, after drinking of the water. If they could manage to sleep while in the chair, the effect of the water was supposed to be made sure. The process was continued for some days, sometimes for two or three weeks. In the middle of this parish there is a field called Parc y Fonwent, or the churchyard-field, where, according to local tradition, the church was to have been originally built; but the stones brought to the spot during the day were at night removed by invisible hands to the site of the present church. Watchers in the dark heard the goblins engaged in this work, and pronouncing in clear and correct Welsh these words, 'Llangan, dyma'r fan,' which mean, 'Llangan, here is the spot.' Similar miraculous removals of stones are reported and believed in other parts of Wales. Sometimes visible goblins achieve the work; sometimes the stones themselves possess the power of locomotion. The old British historian Nennius[170] speaks of a stone, one of the wonders of the Isle of Anglesea, which walks during the night in the valley of Eitheinn. Being once thrown into the whirlpool Cerevus, which is in the middle of the sea called Menai, it was on the morrow found on the side of the aforesaid valley. Also in Builth is a heap of stones, upon which is one stone bearing the impress of a dog's foot. This was the famous dog of King Arthur, named Cabal, which left its footprint on this stone when it hunted the swine Troynt. Arthur himself gathered this heap of stones, with the magic stone upon it, and called it Carn Cabal; and people who take away this stone in their hands for the space of a day and a night cannot retain it, for it returns itself to the heap. The Anglesea stone is also mentioned by Giraldus, through whom it achieved celebrity under the name of Maen Morddwyd, or the Thigh Stone--'a stone resembling a human thigh, which possesses this innate virtue, that whatever distance it may be carried it returns of its own accord the following night. Hugh, Earl of Chester, in the reign of King Henry I., having by force occupied this island and the adjacent country, heard of the miraculous power of this stone, and for the purpose of trial ordered it to be fastened with strong iron chains to one of a larger size and to be thrown into the sea; on the following morning, however, according to custom, it was found in its original position, on which account the Earl issued a public edict that no one from that time should presume to move the stone from its place. A countryman also, to try the powers of this stone, fastened it to his thigh, which immediately became putrid, and the stone returned to its original situation.'[171] This stone ultimately lost its virtues, however, for it was stolen in the last century and never came back. FOOTNOTES: [170] Harleian MSS., 3859. [171] Sir R. C. Hoare's Giraldus, 'Itin. Camb.,' ii., 104. III. The Talking Stone Llechlafar, or stone of loquacity, served as a bridge over the river Alyn, bounding the churchyard of St. David's in Pembrokeshire, on the northern side. It was a marble slab worn smooth by the tread of many feet, and was ten feet long, six feet broad, and one foot thick. Ancient tradition relates that one day 'when a corpse was being carried over it for interment the stone broke forth into speech, and by the effort cracked in the middle, which fissure is still visible; and on account of this barbarous and ancient superstition the corpses are no longer brought over it.'[172] In this same parish of St. David's, there was a flight of steps leading down to the sea, among which were a certain few which uttered a miraculous sound, like the ringing of a bell. The story goes that in ancient times a band of pirates landed there and robbed the chapel. The bell they took away to sea with them, but as it was heavy they rested it several times on their way, and ever since that day the stones it rested upon have uttered these mysterious sounds when struck. Also in this parish is the renowned Expanding Stone, an excavation in the rock of St. Gowan's chapel, which has the magic property of adapting itself to the size of the person who gets into it, growing smaller for a small man and larger for a large one. Among its many virtues was that if a person got into it and made a wish, and did not change his mind while turning about, the wish would come true. The original fable relates that this hollow stone was once solid; that a saint closely pursued by Pagan persecutors sought shelter of the rock, which thereupon opened and received him, concealing him till the danger was over and then obligingly letting him out. This stone may probably be considered as the monkish parallel for the magic stones which confer on their possessor invisibility, as we find them in the romances of enchantment. In the 'Mabinogion' such stones are frequently mentioned, usually in the favourite form of a gem set within a ring. 'Take this ring,' says the damsel with yellow curling hair,[173] 'and put it on thy finger, with the stone inside thy hand; and close thy hand upon the stone. And as long as thou concealest it, it will conceal thee.' But when it is found, as we find in following these clues further, that this Stone of Invisibility was one of the Thirteen Rarities of Kingly Regalia of the Island of Britain; that it was formerly kept at Caerleon, in Monmouthshire, the city whence St. David journeyed into Pembrokeshire; and that it is mentioned in the Triads thus: 'The Stone of the Ring of Luned, which liberated Owen the son of Urien from between the portcullis and the wall; whoever concealed that stone the stone or bezel would conceal him,' the strong probability appears that we are dealing with one and the same myth in the tale of magic and in the monkish legend. Traced back to a period more remote than that with which these Welsh stories ostensibly deal, we should find their prototype in the ring of Gyges. The Stone of Remembrance is another stone mentioned in the 'Mabinogion,' also a jewel, endowed with valuable properties which it imparts not merely to its wearer, but to any one who looks upon it. 'Rhonabwy,' says Iddawc to the enchanted dreamer on the yellow calf-skin, 'dost thou see the ring with a stone set in it, that is upon the Emperor's hand?' 'I see it,' he answered. 'It is one of the properties of that stone to enable thee to remember that thou seest here to-night, and hadst thou not seen the stone, thou wouldst never have been able to remember aught thereof.'[174] Still another stone of rare good qualities is that which Peredur gave to Etlym, in reward for his attendance,[175] the stone which was on the tail of a serpent, and whose virtues were such that whosoever should hold it in one hand, in the other he would have as much gold as he might desire. Peredur having vanquished the serpent and possessed himself of the stone, immediately gave it away, in that spirit of lavish free-handedness which so commonly characterizes the heroes of chivalric British romance. FOOTNOTES: [172] Ibid., ii., 8. [173] Lady Charlotte Guest's 'Mabinogion,' 13. [174] Lady Charlotte Guest's 'Mabinogion,' 303. [175] Ibid., 111. IV. In the church of St. David's of Llanfaes, according to Giraldus, was preserved among the relics a stone which caught a thieving boy in the act of robbing a pigeon's nest, and held him fast for three days and nights. Only by assiduous and long-continued prayer were the unhappy boy's parents able to get him loose from the terrible stone, and the marks of his five fingers remained ever after impressed upon it, so that all might see them. There was a stone of similar proclivities in the valley of Mowddwy, which did good service for the church. A certain St. Tydecho, a relation of King Arthur, who slept on a blue rock in this valley, was persecuted by Maelgwn Gwynedd. One day this wicked knight came with a pack of white dogs to hunt in that neighbourhood, and sat down upon the saint's blue stone. When he endeavoured to get up he found himself fastened to his seat so that he could not stir, in a manner absurdly suggestive of French farces; and he was obliged to make up matters with the saint. He ceased to persecute the good man, and to make amends for the past gave him the privilege of sanctuary for a hundred ages.[176] FOOTNOTE: [176] 'Celtic Remains,' 420. (Printed for the Cambrian Arch. Soc., London, 1878.) V. As for Stones of Healing, with qualities resembling those abiding in certain wells, they appear in many shapes. Now it is a maenhir, against which the afflicted peasant must rub himself; now it is a pebble which he must carry in his pocket. The inevitable wart reappears in this connection; the stone which cures the wart is found by the roadside, wrapped in a bit of paper, and dropped on a cross-road; to him who picks it up the wart is transferred. Children in Pembrokeshire will not at the present day pick up a small parcel on a cross-road, suspecting the presence of the wart-bearing stone. In Carmarthen are still to be found traces of a belief in the Alluring Stone, whose virtue is that it will cure hydrophobia. It is represented as a soft white stone, about the size of a man's head, originally found on a farm called Dysgwylfa, about twelve miles from Carmarthen town. Grains were scraped from the stone with a knife, and administered to the person who had been bitten by a rabid dog; and a peculiarity of the stone was that though generation after generation had scraped it, nevertheless it did not diminish in size. A woman who ate of this miraculous stone, after having been bitten by a suspicious cur, testified that it caused 'a boiling in her blood.' The stone was said to have fallen from the sky in the first instance. VI. Stones standing at cross-roads are seldom without some superstitious legend. A peasant pointed out to me, on a mountain-top near Crumlyn, Monmouthshire, a cross-roads stone, beneath which, he asserted, a witch sleeps by day, coming forth at night. 'Least they was say so,' he explained, with a nervous look about him, 'but there you! _I_ was never see anything, an' I was pass by there many nights--yes, indeed, often.' The man's eagerness to testify against the truth of the tradition was one of the most impressive illustrations possible of lingering superstitious awe in this connection. A famous Welsh witch, who used to sleep under a stone at Llanberis, in North Wales, was called Canrig Bwt, and her favourite dish at dinner was children's brains. A certain criminal who had received a death-sentence was given the alternative of attacking this frightful creature, his life to be spared should he succeed in destroying her. Arming himself with a sharp sword, the doomed man got upon the stone and called on Canrig to come out. 'Wait till I have finished eating the brains in this sweet little skull,' was her horrible answer. However, forth she came presently, when the valiant man cut off her head at a blow. To this day they scare children thereabout with the name of Canrig Bwt. VII. In every part of Wales one encounters the ancient memorials of King Arthur--sometimes to be dimly connected with the historical character, but more often with the mythical figure--each with its legend, or its bundle of legends, poetic, patriotic, or superstitious. Arthur's Round Table at Caerleon, Monmouthshire, is as well known to every boy in the neighbourhood as any inn or shop of the village. It is a grass-grown Roman amphitheatre, whence alabaster statues of Adrian's day have been disinterred. There is also an Arthur's Round Table in Denbighshire, a flat-topped hill thus called, and in Anglesea another, near the village of Llanfihangel. Arthur's Seat, Arthur's Bed, Arthur's Castle, Arthur's Stone, Arthur's Hill, Arthur's Quoit, Arthur's Board, Arthur's Carn, Arthur's Pot--these are but a few of the well-known cromlechs, rocking-stones, or natural objects to be found in various neighbourhoods. They are often in duplicates, under these names, but they never bear such titles by other authority than traditions reaching back into the dark ages. Some of the stories and superstitions which attach to them are striking, and of the most fascinating interest to the student of folk-lore; others are merely grotesque, as in the case of Arthur's Pot. This is under a cromlech at Dolwillim, on the banks of the Tawe, and in the stream itself when the water is high; it is a circular hole of considerable depth, accurately bored in the stone by the action of the water. This hole is called Arthur's Pot, and according to local belief was made by Merlin for the hero king to cook his dinner in. Arthur's Quoits are found in many parts of the country. A large rock in the bed of the Sawdde river, on the Llangadock side of Mynydd Du, (the Black Mountain,) is one of these quoits. The story is that the king one day flung it from the summit of Pen Arthur, a mile away. There is another large rock beside it, which was similarly flung down by a lady of Arthur's acquaintance, whose gigantic proportions may be guessed from the fact that this boulder was a pebble in her shoe, which annoyed her. VIII. Upon this hint there opens out before the inquirer a wealth of incident and illustration, in connection with gigantic Britons of old time who hurled huge rocks about as pebbles. There is the story of the giant Idris, who dwelt upon Cader Idris, and who found no less a number than three troublesome pebbles in his shoe as he was out walking one day, and who tossed them down where they lie on the road from Dolgelley to Machynlleth, three bulky crags. There are several legends about Mol Walbec's pebbles in Breconshire. This lusty dame has a full score of shadowy castles on sundry heights in that part of Wales; and she is said to have built the castle of Hay in one night. In performing this work she carried the stones in her apron; one of these--a pebble about a foot thick and nine feet long--fell into her shoe. At first she did not notice it, but by-and-by it began to annoy her, and she plucked it out and threw it into Llowes churchyard, three miles away, where it now lies. In many parts of Wales where lie rude heaps of stones, the peasantry say they were carried there by a witch in her apron. The gigantic creatures whose dimensions are indicated by these stones reappear continually in Welsh folk-lore. Arthur is merely the greatest among them; all were of prodigious proportions. Hu Gadarn, Cadwaladr, Rhitta Gawr, Brutus, Idris, are all members of the shadowy race whose 'quoits' and 'pebbles' are scattered about Wales. The remains at Stonehenge have been from time immemorial called by the Cymry the Côr Gawr, Circle or Dance of Giants. How the Carmarthen enchanter, Merlin, transported these stones hither from Killara mountain in Ireland by his magic art, everybody knows. It is only necessary that a stone should be of a size to make the idea of removing it an apparently hopeless one--that Merlin or some other magician brought it there by enchantment, or that Arthur or some other giant tossed it there with his mighty arm, is a matter of course.[177] The giant of Trichrug, (a fairy haunt in Cardiganshire,) appears to have been the champion pebble-tosser of Wales, if local legend may be trusted. Having invited the neighbouring giants to try their strength with him in throwing stones, he won the victory by tossing a huge rock across the sea into Ireland. His grave is traditionally reported to be on that mountain, and to possess the same properties as the Expanding Stone, for it fits any person who lies down in it, be he tall or short. It has the further virtue of imparting extraordinary strength to any one lying in it; but if he gets into it with arms upon his person they will be taken from him and he will never see them more. FOOTNOTE: [177] It is noteworthy that most of the great stones of these legends appear to have really been transported to the place where they are now found, being often of a different rock than that of the immediate locality. To what extent the legends express the first vague inductions of early geological observers, is a question not without interest. IX. The gigantic stone-tossers of Wales associate themselves without effort with the mythology of the heavens. One of their chiefest, Idris, was indeed noted as an astrologer, and is celebrated as such in the Triads: Idris Gawr, or the Giant Idris; Gwydion, or the Diviner by Trees; Gwyn, the Son of Nudd, the Generous; So great was their knowledge of the stars, that they could foretell whatever might be desired to be known until the day of doom. And among Welsh legends none is more familiar than that of Rhitta Gawr, wherein the stars are familiarly spoken of as cows and sheep, and the firmament as their pasture. CHAPTER IV. Early Inscribed Stones--The Stone Pillar of Banwan Bryddin, near Neath--Catastrophe accompanying its Removal--The Sagranus Stone and the White Lady--The Dancing Stones of Stackpool--Human Beings changed to Stones--St. Ceyna and the Serpents--The Devil's Stone at Llanarth--Rocking Stones and their accompanying Superstitions--The Suspended Altar of Loin-Garth--Cromlechs and their Fairy Legends--The Fairies' Castle at St. Nicholas, Glamorganshire--The Stone of the Wolf Bitch--The Welsh Melusina--Parc-y-Bigwrn Cromlech--Connection of these Stones with Ancient Druidism. I. Paleographic students are more or less familiar with about seventy early inscribed stones in Wales. The value of these monuments, as corroborative evidence of historical facts, in connection with waning popular traditions, is well understood. Superstitious prejudice is particularly active in connection with stones of this kind. The peasantry view them askance, and will destroy them if not restrained, as they usually are, by fear of evil results to themselves. Antiquaries have often reason to thank superstition for the existence in our day of these ancient monuments. But there is a sort of progressive movement towards enlightenment which carries the Welsh farmer from the fearsome to the destructive stage, in this connection. That dangerous thing, a little knowledge, sometimes leads its imbiber beyond the reach of all fear of the guardian fairy or demon of the stone, yet leaves him still so superstitious regarding it that he believes its influence to be baleful, and its destruction a sort of duty. It was the common opinion of the peasantry of the parish in which it stood, that whoever happened to read the inscription on the Maen Llythyrog, an early inscribed stone on the top of a mountain near Margam Abbey, in Glamorganshire, would die soon after. In many instances the stones are believed to be transformed human beings, doomed to this guise for some sin, usually an act of sacrilege. Beliefs of this character would naturally be potent in influencing popular feeling against the stones. But on the other hand, however desirable might be their extinction, there would be perils involved, which one would rather his neighbour than himself should encounter. Various awful consequences, but especially the most terrific storms and disturbances of the earth, followed any meddling with them. At Banwan Bryddin, a few miles from Neath, a stone pillar inscribed 'MARCI CARITINI FILII BERICII,' long stood on a tumulus which by the peasants was considered a fairy ring. The late Lady Mackworth caused this stone to be removed to a grotto she was constructing on her grounds, and which she was ornamenting with all the curious stones she could collect. An old man who was an under-gardener on her estate, and who abounded with tales of goblins, declaring he had often had intercourse with these strange people, told the Rev. Mr. Williams of Tir-y-Cwm, that he had always known this act of sacrilege would not go unpunished by the guardians of the stone. He had more than once seen these sprites dancing of an evening in the rings of Banwan Bryddin, where the 'wonder stone' stood, but never since the day the stone was removed had any mortal seen them. Upon the stone, he said, were written mysterious words in the fairy language, which no one had ever been able to comprehend, not even Lady Mackworth herself. When her ladyship removed the stone to Gnoll Gardens the fairies were very much annoyed; and the grotto, which cost Lady Mackworth thousands of pounds to build, was no sooner finished than one night, Duw'n catwo ni! there was such thunder and lightning as never was heard or seen in Glamorganshire before; and next morning the grotto was gone! The hill had fallen over it and hidden it for ever. 'Iss indeed,' said the old man, 'and woe will fall on the Cymro or the Saeson that will dare to clear the earth away. I myself, and others who was there, was hear the fairies laughing loud that night, after the storm has cleared away.' II. The Sagranus Stone at St. Dogmell's, Pembrokeshire, was formerly used as a bridge over a brook not far from where it at present stands--luckily with its inscribed face downwards, so that the sculpture remained unharmed while generations were tramping over it. During its use as a bridge it bore the reputation of being haunted by a white lady, who was constantly seen gliding over it at the witching hour of midnight. No man or woman could be induced to touch the strange stone after dark, and its supernatural reputation no doubt helped materially in its preservation unharmed till the present time. It is considered on paleographic grounds to be of the fourth century. In Pembrokeshire also are found the famous Dancing Stones of Stackpool. These are three upright stones standing about a mile from each other, the first at Stackpool Warren, the second further to the west, on a stone tumulus in a field known as Horestone Park, and the third still further westward. One of many traditions concerning them is to the effect that on a certain day they meet and come down to Sais's Ford to dance, and after their revel is over return home and resume their places. III. There is a curious legend regarding three stones which once stood on the top of Moelfre Hill, in Carnarvonshire, but which were long ago rolled to the bottom of the hill by 'some idle-headed youths' who dug them up. They were each about four feet high, standing as the corners of a triangle; one was red as blood, another white, and the third a pale blue. The tradition says that three women, about the time when Christianity first began to be known in Britain, went up Moelfre Hill on a Sabbath morning to winnow their corn. They had spread their winnowing sheet upon the ground and begun their work, when some of their neighbours came to them and reprehended them for working on the Lord's day. But the women, having a greater eye to their worldly profit than to the observance of the fourth commandment, made light of their neighbours' words, and went on working. Thereupon they were instantly transformed into three pillars of stone, each stone of the same colour as the dress of the woman in whose place it stood, one red, one white, and the third bluish. Legends of the turning to stone of human beings occur in connection with many of the meini hirion (long stones). Near Llandyfrydog, Anglesea, there is a maenhir of peculiar shape. From one point of view it looks not unlike the figure of a humpbacked man, and it is called 'Carreg y Lleidr,' or the Robber's Stone. The tradition connected with it is that a man who had stolen the church Bible, and was carrying it away on his shoulder, was turned into this stone, and must stand here till the last trump sets him free. At Rolldritch (Rhwyldrech?) there is or was a circle of stones, concerning which tradition held that they were the human victims of a witch who, for some offence, transformed them to this shape. In connection with this circle is preserved another form of superstitious belief very often encountered, namely, that the number of stones in the circle cannot be correctly counted by a mortal.[178] It is noteworthy that the only creature which shares with man the grim fate of being turned to stone, in Welsh legends, is the serpent. The monkish account of St. Ceyna, one of the daughters of Prince Brychan, of Breconshire, relates that having consecrated her virginity to the Lord by a perpetual vow, she resolved to seek some desert place where she could give herself wholly up to meditation. So she journeyed beyond the river Severn, 'and there meeting a woody place, she made her request to the prince of that country that she might be permitted to serve God in that solitude. His answer was that he was very willing to grant her request, but that the place did so swarm with serpents that neither man nor beast could inhabit it. But she replied that her firm trust was in the name and assistance of Almighty God to drive all that poisonous brood out of that region. Hereupon the place was granted to the holy virgin, who, prostrating herself before God, obtained of him to change the serpents and vipers into stones. And to this day the stones in that region do resemble the windings of serpents, through all the fields and villages, as if they had been framed by the hand of the sculptor.' The scene of this legend is mentioned by Camden as being at a place near Bristol, called Keynsham, 'where abundance of that fossil called by the naturalists Cornu Ammonis is dug up.' FOOTNOTE: [178] Roberts, 'Camb. Pop. Ant.,' 220. IV. Our old friend the devil is once more to the fore when we encounter the inscribed stone of the twelfth century, which stands in the churchyard of Llanarth, near Aberaeron, in Cardiganshire. A cross covers this stone, with four circular holes at the junction of the arms. The current tradition of the place regarding it is that one stormy night, there was such a tremendous noise heard in the belfry that the whole village was thrown into consternation. It was finally concluded that nobody but the diawl could be the cause of this, and therefore the people fetched his reverence from the vicarage to go and request the intruder to depart. The vicar went up into the belfry, with bell, book, and candle, along the narrow winding stone staircase, and, as was anticipated, there among the bells he saw the devil in person. The good man began the usual 'Conjurate in nomine,' etc., when the fiend sprang up and mounted upon the leads of the tower. The vicar was not to be balked, however, and boldly followed up the remainder of the staircase and got also out upon the leads. The devil finding himself hard pressed, had nothing for it but to jump over the battlements of the tower. He came down plump among the gravestones below, and falling upon one, made with his hands and knees the four holes now visible on the stone in question, which among the country people still bears the name of the Devil's Stone. V. The logan stones in various parts of Wales, which vibrate mysteriously under the touch of a child's finger, and rock violently at a push from a man's stronger hand, are also considered by the superstitious a favourite resort of the fairies and the diawl. The holy aerolite to which unnumbered multitudes bow down at Mecca is indeed no stranger thing than the rocking-stone on Pontypridd's sky-perched common. Among the marvellous stones in Nennius is one concerning a certain altar in Loin-Garth, in Gower, 'suspended by the power of God,' which he says a legend tells us was brought thither in a ship along with the dead body of some holy man who desired to be buried near St. Illtyd's grave, and to remain unknown by name, lest he should become an object of too reverent regard; for Illtyd dwelt in a cave there, the mouth of which faced the sea in those days; and having received this charge, he buried the corpse, and built a church over it, enclosing the wonderful altar, which testified by more than one astounding miracle the Divine power which sustained it. This is thought to be a myth relating to some Welsh rocking-stone no longer known. The temptation to throw down stones of this character has often been too much for the destruction-loving vulgarian, both in Wales and in other parts of the British islands; but the offenders have seldom been the local peasantry, who believe that the guardians of the stone--the fairies or the diawl, as the case may be--will heavily avenge its overthrow on the overthrowers. VI. [Illustration: THE FAIRY FROLIC AT THE CROMLECH.] Venerable in their hoary antiquity stand those monuments of a long-vanished humanity, the cromlechs which are so numerous in Wales, sharing with the logan and the inscribed stone the peasant's superstitious interest. Even more than the others, these solemn rocks are surrounded with legends of enchantment. They figure in many fairy-tales like that of the shepherd of Frennifawr, who stood watching their mad revelry about the old cromlech, where they were dancing, making music on the harp, and chasing their companions in hilarious sort. That the fairies protect the cromlechs with special care, as they also do the logans and others, is a belief the Welsh peasant shares with the superstitious in many lands. There is a remarkable cromlech near the hamlet of St. Nicholas, Glamorganshire, on the estate of the family whose house has the honour of being haunted by the ghost of an admiral. This cromlech is called, by children in that neighbourhood, 'Castle Correg.' A Cardiff gentleman who asked some children who were playing round the cromlech, what they termed it, was struck by the name, which recalled to him the Breton fairies thus designated.[179] The korreds and korregs of Brittany closely resemble the Welsh fairies in numberless details. The korreds are supposed to live in the cromlechs, of which they are believed to have been the builders. They dance around them at night, and woe betide the unhappy peasant who joins them in their roundels.[180] Like beliefs attach to cromlechs in the Haute Auvergne, and other parts of France. A cromlech at Pirols, said to have been built by a fée, is composed of seven massive stones, the largest being twelve feet long by eight and a half feet wide. The fée carried these stones hither from a great distance, and set them up; and the largest and heaviest one she carried on the top of her spindle, and so little was she incommoded by it that she continued to spin all the way.[181] FOOTNOTES: [179] Mr. J. W. Lukis, in an address before the Cardiff Nat. Soc. in July, 1874. [180] Keightley, 'Fairy Mythology,' 432. [181] Cambry, 'Monuments Celtiques,' 232. VII. Among the Welsh peasantry the cromlechs are called by a variety of names, one interesting group giving in Cardiganshire 'the Stone of the Bitch,' in Glamorganshire 'the Stone of the Greyhound Bitch,' in Carmarthenshire and in Monmouthshire 'the Kennel of the Greyhound Bitch,' and in some other parts of Wales 'the Stone of the Wolf Bitch.' These names refer to no fact of modern experience; they are legendary. The Cambrian form of the story of Melusina is before us here, with differing details. The wolf-bitch of the Welsh legend was a princess who for her sins was transformed to that shape, and thus long remained. Her name was Gast Rhymhi, and she had two cubs while a wolf-bitch, with which she dwelt in a cave. After long suffering in this wretched guise, she and her cubs were restored to their human form 'for Arthur,' who sought her out. The unfortunate Melusina, it will be remembered, was never entirely robbed of her human form. 'Ange par la figure, et serpent par le reste,' she was condemned by the lovely fay Pressina to become a serpent from the waist downwards, on every Saturday, till she should meet a man who would marry her under certain specified conditions. The monkish touch is on the Welsh legend, in the medieval form in which we have it in the Mabinogi of 'Kilhwch and Olwen.' The princess is transformed into a wolf-bitch 'for her sins,' and when restored, although it is for Arthur, 'God did change' her to a woman again.[182] FOOTNOTE: [182] 'Mabinogion,' 259. VIII. In a field called Parc-y-Bigwrn, near Llanboidy, Carmarthenshire, are the remains of a cromlech destroyed many years ago, concerning which an old man named John Jones related a superstitious tale. It was to the effect that there were ten men engaged in the work of throwing it down, and that when they were touching the stone they became filled with awe; and moreover, as the stone was being drawn away by six horses the road was suddenly rent asunder in a supernatural manner. This is a frequent phenomenon supposed by the Welsh peasantry to accompany the attempt to move a cromlech. Another common catastrophe is the breaking down of the waggon--not from the weight of the stone, but through the displeasure of its goblin guardians. Sometimes this awful labour is accompanied by fierce storms of hail and wind, or violent thunder and lightning; sometimes by mysterious noises, or swarms of bees which are supposed to be fairies in disguise. IX. A very great number of fanciful legends might be related in connection with stones of striking shape, or upon which there are peculiar marks and figures; but enough of this store of folk-lore has been given to serve present ends. If more were detailed, there would in all cases be found a family resemblance to the legends which have been presented, and which lead us now into the enchanted country where Arthur reigns, now wandering among the monkish records of church and abbey, now to the company of the dwarfs and giants of fairyland. That the British Druids regarded many of these stones with idolatrous reverence, is most probable. Some of them, as the cromlechs and logans, they no doubt employed in their mystic rites, as being symbols of the dimly descried Power they worshipped. Of their extreme antiquity there is no question. The rocking-stones may be considered natural objects, though they were perhaps assisted to their remarkable poise by human hands. The cromlechs were originally sepulchral chambers, unquestionably, but they are so old that neither history nor tradition gives any aid in assigning the date of their erection. Opinions that they were once pulpits of sun-worship, or Druidic altars of sacrifice, are not unwarranted, perhaps, though necessarily conjectural. The evidence that the inscribed stones are simply funeral monuments, is extensive and conclusive. Originally erected in honour of some great chief or warrior, they were venerated by the people, and became shrines about which the latter gathered in a spirit of devotion. With the lapse of ages, the warrior was forgotten; even the language in which he was commemorated decayed, and the marks on the stones became to the peasantry meaningless hieroglyphics, to which was given a mysterious and awful significance; and so for unnumbered centuries the tombstone remained an object of superstitious fear and veneration. CHAPTER V. Baleful Spirits of Storm--The Shower at the Magic Fountain--Obstacles in the way of Treasure-Seekers--The Red Lady of Paviland--The Fall of Coychurch Tower--Thunder and Lightning evoked by Digging--The Treasure-Chest under Moel Arthur in the Vale of Clwyd--Modern Credulity--The Cavern of the Ravens--The Eagle-guarded Coffer of Castell Coch--Sleeping Warriors as Treasure-Guarders--The Dragon which St. Samson drove out of Wales--Dragons in the Mabinogion--Whence came the Red Dragon of Wales?--The Original Dragon of Mythology--Prototypes of the Welsh Caverns and Treasure-Hills--The Goblins of Electricity. I. In the prominent part played by storm--torrents of rain, blinding lightning, deafening thunder--in legends of disturbed cromlechs, and other awful stones, is involved the ancient belief that these elements were themselves baleful spirits, which could be evoked by certain acts. They were in the service of fiends and fairies, and came at their bidding to avenge the intrusion of venturesome mortals, daring to meddle with sacred things. This fascinating superstition is preserved in numberless Welsh legends relating to hidden treasures, buried under cromlechs or rocky mounds, or in caverns. In the 'Mabinogion' it appears in the enchanted barrier to the Castle of the Lady of the Fountain. Under a certain tall tree in the midst of a wide valley there was a fountain, 'and by the side of the fountain a marble slab, and on the marble slab a silver bowl, attached by a chain of silver, so that it may not be carried away. Take the bowl and throw a bowlful of water on the slab,' says the black giant of the wood to Sir Kai, 'and thou wilt hear a mighty peal of thunder, so that thou wilt think that heaven and earth are trembling with its fury. With the thunder there will come a shower so severe that it will be scarce possible for thee to endure it and live. And the shower will be of hailstones; and after the shower the weather will become fair, but every leaf that was upon the tree will have been carried away by the shower.'[183] Of course the knight dares this awful obstacle, throws the bowlful of water upon the slab, receives the terrible storm upon his shield, and fights the knight who owned the fountain, on his coming forth. Sir Kai is worsted, and returns home to Arthur's court; whereupon Sir Owain takes up the contest. He sallies forth, evokes the storm, encounters the black knight, slays him, and becomes master of all that was his--his castle, his lands, his wife, and all his treasures. The peasant of to-day who sets out in quest of hidden treasures evokes the avenging storm in like manner. Sometimes the treasure is in the ground, under a cromlech or a carn; he digs, and the thunder shakes the air, the lightnings flash, torrents descend, and he is frustrated in his search. Again, the treasure is in a cavern, guarded by a dragon, which belches forth fire upon him and scorches his eyeballs. Welsh folk-lore is full of legends of this character; and the curious way in which science and religion sometimes get mixed up with these superstitions is most suggestive--as in the cases of the falling of Coychurch tower, and the Red Lady of Paviland. The latter is the name given a skeleton found by Dr. Buckland in his exploration of the Paviland caves, the bones of which were stained by red oxide of iron. The vulgar belief is that the Red Lady was entombed in the cave by a storm while seeking treasure there--a legend the truth of which no one can dispute with authority, since the bones are certainly of a period contemporary with the Roman rule in this island. Coins of Constantine were found in the same earth, cemented with fragments of charcoal and bone ornaments. In the case of Coychurch tower, it undoubtedly fell because it was undermined by a contractor who had the job of removing certain defunct forefathers from their graves near its base. Some eighteen hundred skulls were taken from the ground and carted off to a hole on the east side of the church. But the country folk pooh-pooh the idea that the tower fell for any reason other than sheer indignation and horror at the disturbance of this hallowed ground by utilitarian pickaxe and spade. They call your attention to the fact that not only did the venerable tower come crashing down, after having stood for centuries erect, but that in falling it struck to the earth St. Crallo's cross--an upright stone in the churchyard as venerable as itself--breaking it all to pieces. FOOTNOTE: [183] 'Mabinogion,' 8. II. A hollow in the road near Caerau, in Cardiganshire, 'rings when any wheeled vehicle goes over it.' Early in this century, two men having been led to believe that there were treasures hidden there (for a fairy in the semblance of a gipsy had appeared and thrown out hints on the fascinating subject from time to time), made up their minds to dig for it. They dug accordingly until they came, by their solemn statement, to the oaken frame of a subterranean doorway; and feeling sure now, that they had serious work before them, prepared for the same by going to dinner. They had no sooner gone than a terrible storm arose; the rain fell in torrents, the thunder pealed and the lightning flashed. When they went back to their work, the hole they had digged was closed up; and nothing would convince them that this was done by any other than a supernatural agency. Moreover, but a little above the place where they were, there had been no rain at all.[184] FOOTNOTE: [184] 'Arch. Camb.' 3rd Se., ix., 306. III. There is a current belief among the peasants about Moel Arthur--a mountain overlooking the Vale of Clwyd--that treasure, concealed in an iron chest with a ring-handle to it, lies buried there. The place of concealment is often illuminated at night by a supernatural light. Several people thereabouts are known to have seen the light, and there are even men who will tell you that bold adventurers have so far succeeded as to grasp the handle of the iron chest, when an outburst of wild tempest wrested it from their hold and struck them senseless. Local tradition points out the place as the residence of an ancient prince, and as a spot charmed against the spade of the antiquary. 'Whoever digs there,' said an old woman in Welsh to some men going home from their work on this spot, after a drenching wet day, 'is always driven away by thunder and lightning and storm; you have been served like everybody else who has made the attempt.' IV. So prevalent are superstitions of this class even in the present day that cases get into the newspapers now and then. The 'Herald Cymraeg' of September 25, 1874, gave an account of some excavations made at Pant-y-Saer cromlech, Anglesea, by the instigation of John Jones of Llandudno, 'a brother of Isaac Jones, the present tenant of Pant-y-Saer,' at the time on a visit to the latter. The immediately exciting cause of the digging was a dream in which the dreamer was told that there was a pot of treasure buried within the cromlech's precincts. The result was the revelation of a large number of human bones, among them five lower jaws with the teeth sound; but no crochan aur (pitcher of gold) turned up, and the digging was abandoned in disgust. Is it credible that between this account and the following yawns the gulf of seven hundred years? Thus Giraldus: In the province of Kemeys, one of the seven cantrefs of Pembrokeshire, 'during the reign of King Henry I., a rich man who had a residence on the northern side of the Preseleu mountains was warned for three successive nights by dreams that if he put his hand under a stone which hung over the spring of a neighbouring well called the Fountain of St. Bernacus, he should find there a golden chain; obeying the admonition, on the third day he received from a viper a deadly wound in his finger; but as it appears that many treasures have been discovered through dreams, it seems to me probable that some ought and some ought not to be believed.'[185] FOOTNOTE: [185] Sir R. C. Hoare's Giraldus, 'Itin. Camb.' ii., 37. V. In a certain cavern in Glamorganshire, called the Ogof Cigfrain, or Cavern of the Ravens, is said to be a chest of gold, watched over by two birds of gloomy plumage, in a darkness so profound that nothing can be seen but the fire of their sleepless eyes. To go there with the purpose of disturbing them is to bring on a heaving and rolling of the ground, accompanied by thunder and lightning. A swaggering drover from Brecknockshire, though warned by a 'dark woman' that he had better not try it, sneered that 'a couple of ravens were a fine matter to be afraid of indeed!' and ventured into the cavern, with a long rope about his waist, and a lantern in his hand. Some men who accompanied him (seeing that he was bent on this rash and dangerous emprise,) held the coil of rope, and paid it out as he went further and further in. The result was prompt and simple: the sky cracked with loud bursts of thunder and flashes of lightning, and the drover roared with affright and rushed out of the dark cavern with his hair on end. No coaxing ever prevailed on him to reveal the terrible sights he had seen; when questioned he would only repeat in Welsh the advice of 'Punch' to those about to marry, viz., 'Peidiwch!' VI. In the legend of Castell Coch, instead of a raven it is a pair of huge eagles which watch the treasure. Castell Coch is an easy and pleasant two hours' walk from Cardiff Castle, with which it is vulgarly believed to be connected by a subterranean passage. A short time ago--well, to be precise, a hundred years ago, but that is no time at all in the history of Castell Coch, which was a crumbling ruin then as it is now[186]--in or about the year 1780, a reduced lady was allowed to fit up three or four rooms in the ruin as a residence, and to live there with two old servants of her house. One night this lady was awakened from her sleep to receive the visit of a venerable ghost in a full dress-suit of an earlier century, who distressed her by his troubled countenance and vexed her by his eccentric behaviour, for when she spoke to him from the depths of her nightcap he at once got through the wall. He came on subsequent nights so often, and frightened the servants so much by the noise he made--in getting through the wall, of course--that the lady gave up her strange abode, and was glad to pay house rent ever after in other parts. This old ghost was in the flesh proprietor of the castle, it appears, and during the civil wars buried an iron chest full of gold in the subterranean passage--which is still there, guarded by two large eagles. A party of gentlemen who somewhere about 1800 attempted to explore the passage saw the eagles, and were attacked by the birds of freedom so fiercely that they retreated in disorder. Subsequently they returned with pistols and shot the eagles, which resented this trifling impertinence by tearing the treasure-seekers in a shocking manner. After having recovered from their wounds, the determined Welshmen renewed the attack--this time with silver bullets, which they had got blessed by a good-natured priest. The bullets rattled harmlessly on the feathers of the terrible birds; the ground shook under foot; rain descended in torrents; with their great wings the eagles beat out the gold-hunters' torches, and they barely escaped with their lives. FOOTNOTE: [186] It is at present being entirely restored and made habitable by its owner, Lord Bute. VII. The shadowy Horror which keeps vigil over these hidden treasures is now a dragon, again a raven or an eagle, again a worm. In the account of the treasure-seeker of Nantyglyn, it is a winged creature of unknown nature, a 'mysterious incubus,' which broods over the chest in the cave. The terrible Crocodile of the Lake, which was drawn from its watery hiding-place by the Ychain Banog, or Prominent Oxen of Hu Gadarn, is also sometimes called a dragon (draig) in those local accounts which survive in the folk-lore of several different districts. It infested the region round about the lake where it lay concealed, and the mighty oxen so strained themselves in the labour of drawing it forth that one of them died and the other rent the mountain in twain with his bellowing. Various legends of Sleeping Warriors appear in Welsh folk-lore, in which the dragon is displaced by a shadowy army of slumbering heroes, lying about in a circle, with their swords and shields by their sides, guarding great heaps of gold and silver. Now they are Owen Lawgoch and his men, who lie in their enchanted sleep in a cavern on the northern side of Mynydd Mawr, in Carmarthenshire; again they are Arthur and his warriors, asleep in a secret ogof under Craig-y-Ddinas, waiting for a day when the Briton and the Saxon shall go to war, when the noise of the struggle will awaken them, and they will reconquer the island, reduce London to dust, and re-establish their king at Caerleon, in Monmouthshire. Dragon or demon, raven or serpent, eagle or sleeping warriors, the guardian of the underground vaults in Wales where treasures lie is a personification of the baleful influences which reside in caverns, graves, and subterraneous regions generally. It is something more than this, when traced back to its source in the primeval mythology; the dragon which watched the golden apples of Hesperides, and the Payshtha-more, or great worm, which in Ireland guards the riches of O'Rourke, is the same malarious creature which St. Samson drove out of Wales. According to the monkish legend, this pestiferous beast was of vast size, and by its deadly breath had destroyed two districts. It lay hid in a cave, near the river. Thither went St. Samson, accompanied only by a boy, and tied a linen girdle about the creature's neck, and drew it out and threw it headlong from a certain high eminence into the sea.[187] This dreadful dragon became mild and gentle when addressed by the saint; did not lift up its terrible wings, nor gnash its teeth, nor put out its tongue to emit its fiery breath, but suffered itself to be led to the sea and hurled therein.[188] In the 'Mabinogion,' the dragon which fights in Lludd's dominion is mentioned as a plague, whose shriek sounded on every May eve over every hearth in Britain; and it 'went through people's hearts, and so scared them, that the men lost their hue and their strength, and the women their children, and the young men and maidens lost their senses.'[189] 'Whence came the _red_ dragon of Cadwaladr?' asks the learned Thomas Stephens.[190] 'Why was the Welsh dragon in the fables of Merddin, Nennius, and Geoffrey, described as _red_, while the Saxon dragon was _white_?' The question may remain long unanswered, for the reason that there is no answer outside the domain of fancy, and therefore no reason which could in our day be accepted as reasonable.[191] The Welsh word 'dragon' means equally a dragon and a leader in war. Red was the most honourable colour of military garments among the British in Arthur's day; and Arthur wore a dragon on his helmet, according to tradition. His haughty helmet, horrid all with gold, Both glorious brightness and great terror bred, For all the crest a dragon did enfold With greedy paws.[192] But the original dragon was an embodiment of mythological ideas as old as mankind, and older than any written record. The mysterious beast of the boy Taliesin's song, in the marvellous legend of Gwion Bach, is a dragon worthy to be classed with the gigantic conceptions of the primeval imagination, which sought by these prodigious figures to explain all the phenomena of nature. 'A noxious creature from the rampart of Satanas,' sings Taliesin; with jaws as wide as mountains; in the hair of its two paws there is the load of nine hundred waggons, and in the nape of its neck three springs arise, through which sea-roughs swim.[193] FOOTNOTES: [187] 'Liber Landavensis,' 301. [188] Ibid., 347. [189] 'Mabinogion,' 461. [190] 'Literature of the Kymry,' 25. [191] Mr. Conway, in his erudite chapter on the Basilisk, appears to think that the red colour of the Welsh dragon, in the legend of Merlin and Vortigern, determines its moral character; that it illustrates the evil principle in the struggle between right and wrong, or light and darkness, as black does in the Persian legends of fighting serpents.--'Demonology and Devil-Lore,' p. 369. (London, Chatto and Windus, 1879.) [192] Spenser, 'Faerie Queene.' [193] 'Mabinogion,' 484. VIII. For the prototype of the dragon-haunted caves and treasure-hills of Wales, we must look to the lightning caverns of old Aryan fable, into which no man might gaze and live, and which were in fact the attempted explanation of thunderstorms, when the clouds appeared torn asunder by the lightning. Scholars have noted the impressive fact that the ancient Aryan people had the same name for cloud and mountain; in the Old Norse, 'klakkr' means both cloud and rock, and indeed the English word cloud has been identified with the Anglo-Saxon 'clûd,' rock.[194] Equally significant here is the fact that in the Welsh language 'draig' means both lightning and dragon. Primeval man, ignorant that the cloud was in any way different in structure from the solid mountains whose peaks it emulated in appearance, started back aghast and trembling when with crashing thunders the celestial rocks opened, displaying for an instant the glowing cavern whose splendour haunted his dreams. From this phenomenon, whose goblins modern science has tamed and taught to run errands along a wire, came a host of glittering legends, the shining hammer of Thor, the lightning spear of Odin, the enchanted arrow of Prince Ahmed, and the forked trident of Poseidon, as well as the fire-darting dragons of our modern folk-lore. [Illustration: {THISTLE DECORATION.}] FOOTNOTE: [194] Max Müller, 'Rig-Veda,' i. 44. And see Mr. Baring-Gould's 'Curious Myths of the Middle Ages,' etc. INDEX A. Aberdovey, the Bells of, 339, 344 Aderyn y Corph, the, 212 All Fools' Day, 274 All Hallows, 280 Alluring Stone, the, 367 American Ghost Stories, 139, 185 Angels, Apparitions of, 208 Animals' Terrors at Goblins, 171 Annwn, the World of Shadows, 7, 34 Antic Spirits, 180 Aphrodite, the Welsh, 350 Apple Gift, the, 253 Arian y Rhaw, 333 Arthur, the Mythic and the Historic, vii. Arthur's Dog, 363 " Pot, 369 " Quoits, 370 " Round Table, 369 " Seat, Bed, Castle, Stone, etc., 369 Ascension Day, Curious Superstition concerning, 25 Aura, the Human, its Perception by Dogs, 172 Avagddu, 219 Avalon, 8 B. Ball-playing in Churchyards, 272 Bangu, the, 340 Banshee, the, 212 " " in America, 247 Banwan Bryddin, the Stone of, 374 Barnwell, Rev. E. L., cited, 324 Baron's Gate, Legend of the, 127 Barry Island, Mysterious Noises on, 353 Basilisks in Mines, 27 Beer-drinking at Funerals, 322 Bells, Superstitions concerning, 339 " of Aberdovey, 339, 344 " " St. Cadoc, 339 " " Rhayader, Legend of the, 341 " " St. Illtyd, 342 " " St. Oudoceus, 343 Beltane Fires, 278 Bendith y Mamau, 12 Betty Griffith and the Fairies, 115 Birds of Rhiannon, the, 91 Blabbing, Penalty of, 119 Black Book of Carmarthen, the, 350 " Maiden of Caerleon, the, 219 " Man of Ffynon yr Yspryd, 178 " Men in the Mabinogion, 178 Blue Petticoat, Old Elves of the, 132 Bogie, the, 32 Boxing-day, 295 Branwen, Daughter of Llyr, 91 Bread and Cheese in Fairy Mythology, 44 Brownie, the, 186 Bundling, or Courting Abed, 300 Buns, 267 Burial Customs, 321 Bush of Heaven, Legend of the, 73 Bute, the Marquis of, cited, 136 Bwbach, the, 30 " and the Preacher, the, 30 C. Cadogan's Ghost, 149 Cadwaladr's Goat, the Legend of, 54 Cae Caled, the Dwarfs of, 28 Cae Mawr, the Mowing of, 61 Caerau, the Woman of, 239 Caerphilly, the Green Lady of, 132 Calan Ebrill, 274 Cân y Tylwyth Teg, the, 99 Canna's Stone, 362 Canrig Bwt, the Legend of, 368 Canwyll Corph, the, 238 Caradoc the Bloody, 348 Caridwen's Caldron, 88 Carols, 288 Carrying the Kings, 276 " Cynog, 279 " Mortals through the Air, 157, 163 Castell Coch, the Eagles of, 390 " Correg, 380 Catrin Gwyn, the Legend of, 144 Catti Shon, the Witch of Pencader, 77 Cavern of Ravens, the, 389 Ceffyl Pren, the, 319 Chained Spirit, the, 168 Chaining at Weddings, 313 Changelings, 56 Cheese in Welsh Fairy Tales, 44 Christmas Observances, 286 Classification of Fairies, 11 " " Ghosts, 141 " " Customs, 252 Coblynau, 24 Cock-crow, Fairy Dislike of, 112 " a Death Omen when Untimely, 213 Colliers' Star, the, 294 Colour in Fairy Costume, 131 Compacts with the Diawl, 202 Conway, Mr., cited, 393 Coolstrin, the, 317 Corpse, an Insulted, 146 " Bird, the, 212 " Candle, the, 238 Courting Abed, 300 Courtship and Marriage, 298 Craig y Ddinas, a Fairy Haunt, 6 Criminals' Graves, Superstitions concerning, 331 Crocodile of the Lake, the, 392 Cromlechs, Superstitions concerning, 379 " Legendary Names of, 381 Cross-roads, Stones at, 368 Crown of Porcelain, the, 269 Crumlyn Lake, Legend of, 35 Curiosity Tales, 86 Cursing Wells, 355 Customs, Superstitious and Traditional, 250 Cutty Wren, the, 257 Cwm Llan, the Shepherds of, 121 Cwm Pwca, Breconshire, 20 Cwn Annwn, 233 Cwn y Wybr, 233 Cyhyraeth, the, 219 " of St. Mellons, the, 221 " " the Sea-coast, the, 221 D. Dancing Stones of Stackpool, the, 375 Dancing in Churchyards, 273 " with Fairies, 70 Death Portents, 212 Devil, when Invented, 210 " as a Familiar Spirit, 197 " exorcising the, 199 " in his Customary Form, 202 " measured for a Suit of Clothes, 202 " his Stupidity, 202 " as a Bridge-builder, 206 " at Tintern Abbey, 207 " and the Foul Pipe, a Legend, 204 Devil's Bridge, Legends of the, 205 " Nags, the, 170 " Pulpit, the, 207 " Stone at Llanarth, the, 378 Dewi Dal and the Fairies, 61 Didactic Purpose in Welsh Fairy Tales, 44 " " " Spirits, 145 Dissenters, Fairy Antipathy to, 6 Divination, 302 Dog of Darkness, the, 168 Dogs of the Fairies, 234 " " Hell, 233 " " the Sky, 233 " Fetichistic Notions of, 172 " Ghosts of, 167 Dracæ, 47 Dragons, 391 Dreams of Flying, 164 Druidic Fires, 278 Druids, Fairies Hiding, 129 Duffryn House, the Ghost of, 143 Duty-compelled Ghosts, 146 Dwarfs, 27 Dwynwen, the Welsh Venus, 299, 350 Dyfed, the Ancient, 5 E. Early Inscribed Stones, Superstitions concerning, 373 Easter Customs, 269 Egg-shell Pottage, Story of the, 60 Eisteddfodau, 293 Eithin Hedges, a Protection against Fairies, 115 Elf Queen, the, 14 Elfin Dames, 34 " Cow, the, 36 Elidurus, the Tale of, 65 Ellylldan, the, 18 Ellyllon, 12 Elves, 13 Enchanted Harp, the, 94 Epimenides, 89 Equestrian Fairies, 107 " Ghosts, 174 Eumenides, 12 Euphemisms, 12, 114, 209 Excalibur, 53 Exorcism of Changelings, 57 " " Devils, 199 " " Fairies, 112, 116 " " Ghosts, 165 " " Child-stealing Elves, 62 Expanding Stone, the, 365 F. Fair Folk, 12 Fairies, existing belief in, 2 " King of the, 6 " Welsh names of, 12 " at Market, 9 " of the Mines, 24 " of the Lakes, 34 " of the Mountains, 49 " Dancing with, 70 " of Frennifawr, Legend of the, 82 " on Horseback, 107 " the Red, 127 " hiding Druids, 129 " why in Wales, 132 " their Origin, 127 " Bad Spirits, 134 " on familiar terms with Ghosts, 157 " of the Cromlechs, 380 Fairy Land, 5 " Queen, 14 " Islands, 8, 45 " Food, 13 " Gloves, 13 " Coal-mining, 27 " Father, the, 45 " a, captured by a Welshwoman, 78 " Song, 99 " Rings, 103 " Conversations, 106 " Battle, a, 107 " Animals, 108 " Sheepfold, the, 109 " Gifts, 119 " Tales, débris of Ancient Mythology, 135 Falling of Coychurch Tower, 386 Familiar Spirits, 187 " " in Female Form, 191 Family Ghosts, 142 Fatal Draught, the, 83 Fetches, 215 Fetichism, 338 Fetichistic Notions of Lower Animals, 171 Ffarwel Ned Pugh, 99 Ffynon yr Yspryd, 178 Ffynon Canna, 362 Fiend Master, Legend of the, 86 Fire-damp Goblins, 27 Fires, Mysterious, 213 First Foot on New Year's Day, 254 First Night of Winter, 280 Flowering Sunday, 266 Food at Funerals, 322 Forest of the Yew, Legend of the, 73 Foul Pipe, Story of the, 204 Fountain of Venus, the, 350 Fountains Flowing with Milk, 356 Fourth of July, 278 Frennifawr, the Fairies of, 82 Friday, its Bad Reputation, 268 Frugal Meal, Legend of the, 58 Funeral Customs, 321 " the Goblin, 231 Future Life, the Question of a, 247 Fuwch Gyfeiliorn, the, 36 G. Gallery under the Sea, 10 Gast Rhymhi, the Legend of, 381 Ghosts, Existing Belief in, 137 " in America, 139 " Classification of, 141 " with a Duty to Perform, 146 " of Ebbw Vale, 142 " on Horseback, 154, 174 " Exorcising, 165 " of Animals, 167 " Grotesque, 174 " Gigantic, 176 " their Origin, 247 " of Bells, 339 " Stories of-- The Weaver's Ghost, 147 Cadogan's Ghost, 149 The Ghost of Ystradgynlais, 157 The Admiral's Ghost, 143 The Miser's Ghost, 152 The Ghost of St. Donat's, 143 The Pont Cwnca Bach Ghost, 144 The Ghost of Noe, 147 Anne Dewy's Ghost, 153 The Clifford Castle Ghost, 155 The Ghost of Ty'n-y-Twr, 155 The Ghost of the Silver Spurs, 156 The Tridoll Valley Sprite, 181 The Mynyddyslwyn Sprite, 187 Giants, 370 Giants' Dance, the, 371 Gigantic Ghosts, 176 Giraldus Cambrensis, 65 Gitto Bach, the Legend of, 119 Gnomes, 24 Goats, Strange Beliefs concerning, 53 Gobelin, the French, 32 Goblin Animals, 167 " Funerals, 231 God's Name as an Exorcism, 112 " " in the Bardic Traditions, 209 Good Friday Customs, 266 Good Old Times, the, 252 Grassless Grave, Legend of the, 331 Green Lady of Caerphilly, the, 132 " Meadows of the Sea, 8 Groaning Spirits, 222 Grotesque Ghosts, 174 Guest, Lady Charlotte, 5 Guy Fawkes Day Customs, 284 Gwahoddwr, the, 307 Gwenfrewi, Legend of, 347 Gwerddonau Llion, 8 Gwion Bach (Taliesin), 88, 394 Gwrach y Rhibyn, the, 216 Gwragedd Annwn, the, 34 Gwraig of the Golden Boat, the, 41 Gwydion, the Wizard Monarch, 5 Gwyllgi, the, 168 Gwyllion, 49 Gwyn ap Nudd, 6, 372 H. Hafod Lwyddog, Legend of, 124 Hallow E'en Customs, 280 Hares, Mythological Details, 162 Harp Music among Welsh Fairies, 94 Haunted Bridge, the, 144 " Castles and Houses, 143 " Margaret, 165 Headless Horse, the, 216 Hecate, 49 Hermes, 236 Hidden Treasures and Perturbed Ghosts, 151 " " Dragon-Guarded, 386 Hobgoblin, 32 Holy Thursday, Superstition concerning, 25, 268 Horse-Weddings, 310 Hot-cross Buns, 267 Household Fairy, the, 31 Howell Dda, 298 I. Iago ap Dewi's Seven Years' Absence, 88 Ianto Llewellyn and the Fairies, 123 Idris the Giant, 370 Incubus, 193 Inscribed Stones, Superstitious Dread of, 373 Iolo ap Hugh, the Legend of, 99 Islands, the Enchanted, 8 J. Jack-muh-Lantern, 18 Jennet Francis and the Fairy Child-Stealers, 62 John the Red Nose, 258 Jones, the Prophet, 104 Juan White, the Spirit of, 50 K. Knife, Exorcism by the, 52 Knockers in Mines, 24 Kobolds, 29 L. Lady of the Fountain, 178, 385 " " Wood, Legend of the, 193 Lake Fairies, 34 Lang, A., cited, 197 Language of the Fairies, 106 Lapse of Time under Enchantment, 89 Laws of the Welsh Spirit-World, 148 Leek, Wearing of the, 260 Lenten Customs, 266 Levitation of Mortals, 157, 163 Levy Dew, 255 Lies, the Tump of, 273 Lifting at Easter, 269 Lightning Caverns, 394 Linen, its Ancient Value, 133 Listening at the Church Door, 214 Lisworney-Crossways, the Legend of, 169 Living with Fairies, 65 Llandaff Gwrach y Rhibyn, the, 217 Llechlafar Stone, 364 Lledrith, the, 215 Llwyd the Magician, 159, 190 Llwyn y Nef, the Bush of Heaven, 72 Llyn Barfog, the Fairy Maiden of, 36 " y Dywarchen, the Lady of, 44 " y Fan Fach, the Sirens of, 38 " Glas, the Shepherd of, 124 " y Morwynion, the Maidens' Lake, 47 Logan Stones, Superstitions concerning, 378 Lord and Beggar, Legend of the, 230 Love Charms, 302 Lucky Days, 268 Lukis, J. W., cited, 3, 380 Luther and the Changeling, 57 M. Mab, 14 Mabinogion, the, 5, 14, 91 Magic Carpet, 164 " Harp, 95 Maidens' Lake, the, 47 Maid's Trick, the, 302 Making Christ's Bed, 267 Mallt y Nos, the, 215 Marget yr Yspryd, 165 Mari Lwyd, the, 256 Marketing on Tombstones, 280 Marriage Customs, 306 May-day Customs, 274 Meddygon Myddfai, Legend of the, 38 Melerius, the Legend of, 192 Melusina, the Welsh, 381 Memorials of Arthur, 369 Men of Ardudwy, the Legend of the, 47 Merlin the Enchanter, as a Stone Remover, 371 " " " and the Red Dragon, 393 " an Early Myth, viii. Mermaids, 35, 47 Merthyr, the Rector of, cited, 3 Methodists, Banishers of Fairies, 6 Mid-Lent Sunday, 266 Midsummer Eve, 277 Milford Haven, the Fairies at, 9 Milk from Fountains, 356 Milk-white Milch Cow, Legend of the, 37 Mine Goblins, 24 Miner's Wraith, the, 215 Mirage, 173 Moel Arthur, the Treasure-Chest of, 388 Moelfre Hill, the Women of, 376 Mol Walbec the Giantess, 370 Monacella's Lambs, 162 Money thrown in Wells, 354 Morgan, Born of the Sea, 47 Morgana, 7 Mothering Sunday, 266 Mountain Ash, the Three Rods of, 210 " the Old Woman of the, 49 Mourning in Lent, 266 Music in Welsh Fairy Tales, 91, 98 Myfyr Morganwg, 277 Mystic Wells, 345 N. Nadolig, 286 Names of Welsh Fairies, 12 Nant yr Ellyllon, 79 Narberth in Mythic Story, 198, 234 New Year's Day Customs, 252 Night Fiend, the, 215 Nights for Spirits, the Three, 280 Nis, the, 186 Noises, Mysterious, on Barry Island, 353 North Wales, Fairyland in, 5 Nos Calan Gauaf, 280 O. Oaks, Superstitions concerning, 105 Odin's Spear, 395 Offrwm, the, 332 Old Woman of the Mountain, 49 " " " Torrent, 216 Origins of Fairies, 127 " " the Devil, 210 " " Death Omens, 245 " " Customs, 251 " " Spirits, 247 " " Mystic Well Superstitions, 359 " " Superstitions regarding Stones, 383 " " Dragons, 395 Owen Lawgoch and his Enchanted Men, 392 Owl's Screech a Death Omen, 213 P. Palm Sunday Customs, 266 Pant Shon Shenkin, the Legend of, 75 Pant-y-Madoc, the Gwyllgi of, 170 Pant-y-Saer, the Treasure-Hunter of, 389 Parc-y-Bigwrn, the Cromlech of, 382 Parson's Penny, 332 Pebble-Tossers, Gigantic, 370 Pembrokeshire a Land of Mystery, 10 Peredur, the Legend of, 202, 366 Phantom Horseman, the, 174 " Ships and Islands, 173 Pigmies, 24 Pins in Enchantment, 354 Place of Strife, the Legend of the, 59 Plant Annwn, 34 Planting Weeds on Graves, 298 " Flowers on Graves, 299, 336 Plentyn-newid, the, 56 Plygain, the, 294 Poetico-Religious Theory of Fairies' Origin, 134 Polly Williams and the Fairies, 81 Polyphemus, the Welsh, 179, 202 Pontypridd, Druidic Ceremonies at, 277 Preacher and Bwbach, the, 30 Prolific Woman, Legend of the, 133 Pronunciation of Welsh Words, Preface Propitiation of Goblins, 12, 114 Psyche, 86 Puck, the Welsh, 20 Puzzling Jug, the, 283 Pwca'r Trwyn, Account of, 187 " " chastises a Servant Girl, 22 " " travels in a Jug, 118 " " a Proscribed Noble, 128 " " was it a Fairy, 190 Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed, 234 Q. Quintain, the, 284, 313 Quoits, Arthur's, 370 R. Ravens, Cave of the, 389 Realistic Theory of Fairies' Origin, 129 Red Book of Hergest (Llyfr Coch), 5 " Fairies, the, 127 " Lady of Paviland, the, 386 Rhamanta, 302 Rhitta Gawr, the Giant, 372 Rhys and Llewellyn, the Story of, 70 Rice at Weddings, 314 Richard the Tailor, 160 Rip Van Winkle, the Original of, 89 Robber's Stone, the, 376 Rocking Stone, Superstitions concerning, 378 Rowli Pugh and the Ellyll, 15 S. Sabbath-breakers Turned to Stone, 376 Sacred Wells, 345 Sagranus Stone, the, 375 Sailors' Superstitions, 9 St. Barruc's Well, 352 St. Ceyna, the Legend of, 377 St. Clement's Day, 284 St. Collen, the Legend of, 7 St. Cynfran's Well, 351 St. Cynhafal's Well, 351 St. David the Introducer of Death Portents into Wales, 245 " his Day, 259 " his Legendary Character, 260 St. Dogmell's Parish, 69, 273 St. Dwynwen's Well, 350 St. Elian's Well, 355 St. George's Well, 351 St. Gwenfrewi, the Legend of, 347 St. Gwynwy's Well, 353 St. Illtyd's Well, 357 St. John's Eve, 277 St. Mary's Well, 346 St. Melangell's Lambs, 162 St. Patrick and the Elfin Dames, 35 " a Welshman, 264 " his Day, 264 St. Samson and the Dragon, 392 St. Tegla's Well, 329, 349 St. Tydecho's Blue Stone, 367 St. Ulric's Day, 279 St. Valentine's Day, 259 St. Winifred's Well, 346 Salt at Funerals, 328 Sanford's Well, 358 Scapegoat, the, 329 Science, the Marvels of, 248 Seeing the Sun Dance, 273 Serpents Turned to Stones, 377 Seven Whistlers, the, 213 Sgilti Yscawndroed, the Lightfooted, 164 Shakspeare, his use of Welsh Folk-Lore, 14, 44 " his Visit to Wales, 20 Shepherds of Cwm Llan, the Legends of the, 121 Shoe-throwing, 314 Shon ap Shenkin, the Story of, 92 Showmen's Superstitions, 255 Shrove Tuesday, 265 Shuï Rees and the Fairies, 67 Sin-eater, the, 324 Sion Cent the Magician, 203 Skulls, 145 Sleeping Saints, the, 73 " Heroes, Legends of, 162, 392 Snake Stone, the, 278 Soul, its Future Destiny, 249 Souls of Dogs, 167 Sowling, 258 Spade Money, 333 Spectral Animals, 167 Spirit Fountain, the, 178 " Life, the Question of a, 249 " Nights, the Three, 280 " World, Laws Governing the Welsh, 148 Spirits' Antics, 180 Spiritual Hunting Dogs, 235 Spiritualism, 139 Spitting at the Name of the Devil, 209 Stanley, Hon. W. O., cited, 19, 115 Stone-throwing Spirits, 180, 185 Stone-tossing Giants, 370 Stone-worship, 361 Stone of Invisibility, the, 365 " " Remembrance, the, 366 " " Golden Gifts, the, 366 Stones, Curious Superstitions concerning, 361 " at Cross-roads, 368 " of Healing, 367 Storms, Baleful Spirits of, 385 Stripping the Carpenter, 284 Suicides, Superstitions concerning, 146, 331 Sul Coffa, 335 Summoning Spirits, 199 Supernatural, What is the, 248 Superstition, its Degree of Prevalence, 138, 251 " in the United States, 139, 252 Sweethearts' Charms, 302 T. Taff's Well, 358 Taffy ap Sion, the Shoemaker's Son, Legend of, 75 Tailor Magician of Glanbran, the, 200 Taliesin, the Tale of, 88 " his Dragon, 394 Talking Stone, the, 364 Tan-wedd, the, 213 Teetotallers, Fairy Antipathy to, 6 Teir-nos Ysprydnos, 280 Terrors of the Brute, Creation at Apparitions, 171 Teulu, the, 231 Thief-catching Stone, the, 366 Thigh Stone, the, 363 Thomas, Rev. Dr., cited, 300 Thor's Hammer, 395 Three Blows, the Story of the, 40 " Losses by Disappearance, the, 9 " Nights for Spirits, the, 280 Throwing at Cocks, 265 Thunder and Lightning as a Death Omen, 213 Toads and Warts, 352 Tolaeth, the, 225 Tolling the Bell, 340 Tooling, 258 Toriad y Dydd, 125 Transformation of Human Beings to Animals, 167, 381 " " " Stone, 374, 376 Transportation through the Air, 157, 163 Trichrug, the Giant of, 371 Tricking the Diawl, 203 Tridoll Valley Ghost, the, 181 Tudur of Llangollen, the Story of, 79 Tump of Lies, the, 273 Twelfth Night Customs, 256 Tylwyth Teg, the, 12 U. Unknowable, the, 138 Unlucky Days, 268 V. Vale of Neath, the, its Goblin Fame, 6 Vavasor Powell and the Devil, 198 Veil, the Goblin, 232 Venus, the Welsh, 299 " " her Well, 350 Villemarqué cited, 58 W. Walking Barefoot to Church, 266 Walking-stones, 363 Warts, 351, 367 Water Maidens, 47 " Worship, 359 Wedding Customs, 306 Wells, Mystic, 345 Wesley's Belief in Apparitions, 141 Whistlers, the, 213 Whistling Goblin, the, 178 White as a Fairy Colour, 132 " Catti of the Grove Cave, 144 Whitening Doorsteps to Keep off the Devil, 207 Wife of Supernatural Race, 38 Wild Huntsman, 235 Will-o'-Wisp, 20 Witches Sleeping under Stones, 368 Wonder Stone of Banwan Bryddin, the, 374 Wraiths, 215 Y. Ychain Banog, the, 108, 392 Yellow Spot before Death, the, 216 LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. _A Catalogue of American and Foreign Books Published or Imported by MESSRS. SAMPSON LOW & CO. can be had on application._ _Crown Buildings, 188, Fleet Street, London, April, 1879._ A List of Books PUBLISHED BY SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON. ALPHABETICAL LIST. _A classified Educational Catalogue of Works_ published in Great Britain. Demy 8vo, cloth extra. 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Page 17--reducable amended to reducible--"... all household tales are reducible to a primeval root ..." Page 45--hurrry amended to hurry--"... in her hurry to remount, ..." Page 49--Llanhyddel amended to Llanhiddel--"... the guise in which she haunted Llanhiddel Mountain ..." Page 75--acccustomed amended to accustomed--"... the barren mountain he was accustomed to." Page 106--Mammau amended to Mamau--"... Ni chytunant hwy mwy na Bendith eu Mamau, ..." Page 117--Dolgelly amended to Dolgelley--"But first consulting a wise woman at Dolgelley, ..." Page 117--gods amended to goods (based on reference to same further up the same page)--"He was flitting with the household goods, ..." Page 125--Mammau amended to Mamau--"... as Bendith y Mamau was poured down ..." Page 135--hape amended to have--"... may desire to know why these fairies have appeared ..." Page 137--Shakespeare amended to Shakspeare--"SHAKSPEARE: _Tempest_." Page 176--Lantarnam amended to Llantarnam--"... who lived in the parish of Llantarnam." Page 241--Landavenis amended to Landavensis--"In the 'Liber Landavensis' it is mentioned ..." Page 275--Llud amended to Lludd--"... the daughter of Lludd Llaw Ereint." Page 276--VIII amended to VII--"VII. In the remote and primitive parish ..." Page 314--IV amended to III--"III. Among the wealthier classes ..." Page 317--V amended to IV--"IV. A custom called the Coolstrin ..." Page 338--Faery amended to Faerie--"SPENSER: _Faerie Queene_." Page 343--Taf amended to Taff--"When they came to the banks of the river Taff, ..." Page 358--well amended to Well--"Taff's Well, in Glamorganshire, ..." Page 399--Gwin amended to Gwyn--"Catrin Gwyn, the Legend of, 144" Page 400--Wybyr amended to Wybr--"Cwn y Wybr, 233" Page 404--Howel amended to Howell--"Howell Dda, 298" Page 408--Dyved amended to Dyfed--"Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed, 234" The frontispiece illustration has been moved to follow the title page. Other illustrations have been moved where necessary so that they are not in the middle of a paragraph. 
11938	----	Folklore of the Santal Parganas Translated by Cecil Henry Bompas of the Indian Civil Service 1909 Preface The Santals are a Munda tribe, a branch of that aboriginal element which probably entered India from the North East. At the present day they inhabit the Eastern outskirts of the Chutia Nagpore plateau. Originally hunters and dwellers in the jungle they are still but indifferent agriculturists. Like the Mundas and Hos and other representatives of the race, they are jovial in character, fond of their rice beer, and ready to take a joke. Their social organization is very complete; each village has its headman or manjhi, with his assistant the paranik; the jogmanghi is charged with the supervision of the morals of the young men and women; the naeke is the village priest, the godet is the village constable. Over a group of villages is the pargana or tribal chief. The Santals are divided into exogamous septs--originally twelve in number, and their social observances are complex, e.g. while some relations treat each other with the greatest reserve, between others the utmost freedom of intercourse is allowed. Their religion is animistic, spirits (_bongas_) are everywhere around them: the spirits of their ancestors, the spirit of the house, the spirit dwelling in the patch of primeval forest preserved in each village. Every hill tree and rock may have its spirit. These spirits are propitiated by elaborate ceremonies and sacrifices which generally terminate in dances, and the drinking of rice beer. The Santal Parganas is a district 4800 sq. miles in area, lying about 150 miles north of Calcutta, and was formed into a separate administration after the Santals had risen in rebellion in 1856. The Santals at present form about one-third of the population. The stories and legends which are here translated have been collected by the Rev. O. Bodding, D.D. of the Scandinavian Mission to the Santals. To be perfectly sure that neither language nor ideas should in any way be influenced by contact with a European mind he arranged for most of them to be written out in Santali, principally by a Christian convert named Sagram Murmu, at present living at Mohulpahari in the Santal Parganas. Santali is an agglutinative language of great regularity and complexity but when the Santals come in contact with races speaking an Aryan language it is apt to become corrupted with foreign idioms. The language in which these stories have been written is beautifully pure, and the purity of language may be accepted as an index that the ideas have not been affected, as is often the case, by contact with Europeans. My translation though somewhat condensed is very literal, and the stories have perhaps thereby an added interest as shewing the way in which a very primitive people look at things. The Santals are great story tellers; the old folk of the village gather the young people round them in the evening and tell them stories, and the men when watching the crops on the threshing floor will often sit up all night telling stories. There is however, no doubt that at the present time the knowledge of these stories tends to die out. Under the peace which British rule brings there is more intercourse between the different communities and castes, a considerable, degree of assimilation takes place, and old customs and traditions tend to be obliterated. Several collections of Indian stories have been made, _e.g._ Stokes, Indian Fairy Tales; Frere, Old Deccan Days; Day, Folk Tales of Bengal; and Knowles' Folk Tales of Kashmir, and it will be seen that all the stories in the present collection are by no means of pure Santal origin. Incidents which form part of the common stock of Indian folklore abound, and many of the stories professedly relate to characters of various Hindu castes, others again deal with such essentially Santal beliefs as the dealings of men and _bongas_. The Rev. Dr. Campbell of Gobindpore published in 1891 a collection of Santal Folk Tales. He gathered his material in the District of Manbhum, and many of the stories are identical with those included in the present volume. I have added as an appendix some stories which I collected among the Hos of Singhbhum, a tribe closely related to the Santals, and which the Asiatic Society of Bengal has kindly permitted me to reprint here. My task has been merely one of translation; it is due solely to Mr Bodding's influence with, and intimate knowledge of, the people that the stories have been committed to writing, and I have to thank him for assistance and advice throughout my work of translation. I have roughly classified the stories: in part 1 are stories of a general character; part 2, stories relating to animals; in part 3, stories which are scarcely folklore but are anecdotes relating to Santal life; in Part 4, stories relating to the dealings of _bongas_ and men. In part 5, are some legends and traditions, and a few notes relating to tribal customs. Part 6 contains illustrations of the belief in witchcraft. I have had to omit a certain number of stories as unsuited for publication. C. H. Bompas. Table of Contents PART I I. Bajun and Jhore II. Anuwa and His Mother III. Ledha and the Leopard IV. The Cruel Stepmother V. Karmu and Dharmu VI. The Jealous Stepmother VII. The Pious Woman VIII. The Wise Daughter-in-Law IX. The Oilman and His Sons X. The Girl Who Found Helpers XI. How to Grow Rich XII. The Changed Calf XIII. The Koeri and the Barber XIV. The Prince Who Acquired Wisdom XV. The Monkey Boy XVI. The Miser's Servant XVII. Kuwar and the Raja's Daughter XVIII. The Laughing Fish XIX. How the Cowherd Found a Bride XX. Kara and Guja XXI. The Magic Cow XXII. Lita and His Animals XXIII. The Boy Who Found His Father XXIV. The Oilman's Bullock XXV. How Sabai Grass Grew XXVI. The Merchant's Son and the Raja's Daughter XXVII. The Flycatcher's Egg XXVIII. The Wife Who Would Not Be Beaten XXIX. Sahde Goala XXX. The Raja's Son and the Merchant's Son XXXI. The Poor Widow XXXII. The Monkey and the Girl XXXIII. Ramai and the Animals XXXIV. The Magic Bedstead XXXV. The Ghormuhas XXXVI. The Boy Who Learnt Magic XXXVII. The Charitable Jogi XXXVIII. Chote and Mote XXXIX. The Daydreamer XL. The Extortionate Sentry XLI. The Broken Friendship XLII. A Story Told By a Hindoo XLIII. The Raibar and the Leopard XLIV. The Ungrateful Snake XLV. The Tiger's Bride XLVI. The Killing of the Tiger XLVII. The Dream XLVIII. The King of the Bhuyans XLIX. The Foolish Sons L. Kora and His Sister LI. A Story on Caste LII. Tipi and Tepa LIII. The Child With the Ears of the Ox LIV. The Child Who Knew His Father LV. Jogeshwar's Marriage LVI. The Strong Man LVII. The Raja's Advice LVIII. The Four Jogis LIX. The Charitable Raja LX. A Variant.--The Wandering Raja LXI. The Two Wives LXII. Spanling and His Uncles LXIII. The Silent Wife LXIV. The Dumb Shepherd LXV. The Good Daughter-in-Law LXVI. The Raja's Dream LXVII. The Mongoose Boy LXVIII. The Stolen Treasure LXIX. Dukhu and His Bonga Wife LXX. The Monkey Husband LXXI. Lakhan and the Wild Buffaloes LXXII. The Boy with the Stag LXXIII. The Seven Brothers and the Bonga Girl LXXIV. The Tiger's Foster Child LXXV. The Caterpillar Boy LXXVI. The Monkey Nursemaid LXXVII. The Wife Who Could Not Keep a Secret LXXVIII. Sit and Lakhan LXXIX. The Raja Who went to Heaven LXXX. Seven Tricks and Single Trick LXXXI. Fuljhari Raja LXXXII. The Corpse of the Raja's Son LXXXIII. The Sham Child LXXXIV. The Sons of the Kherohuri Raja LXXXV. The Dog Bride LXXXVI. Wealth or Wisdom LXXXVII. A Goala and the Cow LXXXVIII. The Telltale Wife LXXXIX. The Bridegroom Who Spoke in Riddles XC. The Lazy Man XCI. Another Lazy Man XCII. The Widow's Son XCIII. The Boy Who Was Changed Into a Dog XCIV. Birluri and Birbanta XCV. The Killing of the Rakhas XCVI. The Children of the Vultures XCVII. The Ferryman XCVIII. Catching a Thief XCIX. The Grasping Raja C. The Prince Who Would Not Marry CI. The Prince Who Found Two Wives CII. The Unfaithful Wife CIII. The Industrious Bride CIV. The Boy and His Fate CV. The Messengers of Death CVI. The Speaking Crab CVII. The Leopard Outwitted CVIII. The Wind and the Sun CIX. The Coldest Season PART II CX. The Jackal and the Crow CXI. The Tiger Cub and the Calf CXII. The Jackal and the Chickens CXIII. The Jackal Punished CXIV. The Tigers and the Cat CXV. The Elephants and the Ants CXVI. A Fox and His Wife CXVII. The Jackal and the Crocodiles CXVIII. The Bullfrog and the Crab CXIX. The Hyena Outwitted CXX. The Crow and the Egret CXXI. The Jackal and the Hare CXXII. The Brave Jackal CXXIII. The Jackal and the Leopards PART III CXXIV. The Fool and His Dinner CXXV. The Stingy Daughter CXXVI. The Backwards and Forwards Dance CXXVII. The Deaf Family CXXVIII. The Father-in-Law's Visit CXXIX. Ramai and Somai CXXX. The Two Brothers CXXXI. The Three Fools CXXXII. The Cure For Laziness CXXXIII. The Brahmin's Powers CXXXIV. Ram's Wife CXXXV. Palo CXXXVI. The Women's Sacrifice CXXXVII. The Thief's Son CXXXVIII. The Divorce CXXXIX. The Father and the Father-in-Law CXL. The Reproof CXLI. Enigmas CXLII. The Too Particular Wife CXLIII. The Paharia Socialists CXLIV. How A Tiger Was Killed CXLV. The Goala's Daughter CXLVI. The Brahmin's Clothes CXLVII. The Winning of the Bride PART IV CXLVIII. Marriage With Bongas CXLIX. The Bonga Heaven CL. Lakhan and the Bonga CLI. The House Bonga CLII. The Sarsagun-Maiden CLIII. The Schoolboy and the Bonga CLIV. The Bonga's Cave CLV. The Bonga's Victim CLVI. Baijal and the Bonga CLVII. Ramai and the Bonga CLVIII. The Boundary Bonga CLIX. The Bonga Exorcised PART V CLX. The Beginning of Things CLXI. Chando and His Wife CLXII. The Sikhar Raja CLXIII. The Origin of Tobacco CLXIV. The Transmigration of Souls CLXV. The Next World CLXVI. After Death CLXVII. Hares and Men CLXVIII. A Legend CLXIX. Pregnant Women CLXX. The Influence of the Moon CLXXI. Illegitimate Children CLXXII. The Dead CLXXIII. A Hunting Custom Part VI CLXXIV. Witchcraft CLXXV. Of Dains and Ojhas CLXXVI. Initiation Into Witchcraft CLXXVII. Witch Craft CLXXVIII. Witch Stories CLXXIX. Witch Stories CLXXX. Witch Stories CLXXXI. The Two Witches CLXXXII. The Sister-in-Law Who Was a Witch CLXXXIII. Ramjit Bonga CLXXXIV. The Herd Boy and the Witches CLXXXV. The Man-Tiger Glossary Appendix Folklore of the Kolhan Part I. In these stories there are many incidents which appear in stories collected in other parts of India, though it is rather surprising that so few of them appear elsewhere in their entirety. We have however, instances of the husk myth, the youngest son who surpasses his brother, the life of the ogre placed in some external object, the jealous stepmother, the selection of a king by an elephant, the queen whose husband is invariably killed on his wedding night, etc. etc. Few of the old Indian stories found in the Kathâ Sarit Sâgara or the Buddhist Birth stories appear in recognizable form in the present collection. I. Bajun and Jhore. Once upon a time there were two brothers named Bajun and Jhore. Bajun was married and one day his wife fell ill of fever. So, as he was going ploughing, Bajun told Jhore to stay at home and cook the dinner and he bade him put into the pot three measures of rice. Jhore stayed at home and filled the pot with water and put it on to boil; then he went to look for rice measures; there was only one in the house and Jhore thought "My brother told me to put in three measures and if I only put in one I shall get into trouble." So he went to a neighbour's house and borrowed two more measures, and put them into the pot and left them to boil. At noon Bajun came back from ploughing and found Jhore stirring the pot and asked him whether the rice was ready. Jhore made no answer, so Bajun took the spoon from him, saying "Let me feel how it is getting on", but when he stirred with the spoon he heard a rattling noise and when he looked into the pot he found no rice but only three wooden measures floating about; then he turned and abused Jhore for his folly, but Jhore said "You yourself told me to put in three measures and I have done so." So Bajun had to set to work and cook the rice himself and got his dinner very late. Next day Bajun said to Jhore, "You don't know how to cook the dinner; I will stay at home to-day, you go to plough, and take a hatchet with you and if the plough catches in a root or anything, give a cut with the hatchet." So Jhore went ploughing and when the plough caught in anything and stopped, he gave a cut with his hatchet at the legs of the bullocks; they backed and plunged with the pain and then he only chopped at them the more until he lamed them both. At noon Bajun saw the bullocks come limping back and asked what was the matter with them. "O," said Jhore, "that is because I cut at them as you told me." "You idiot," said Bajun, "I meant you to give a cut at the roots in which the plough got caught, not at the legs of the bullocks; how will you live if you do such silly things? You cannot plough, you must stay at home and cook the rice. I will show you this evening how it is done." So after that Jhore stayed at home and cooked. Bajun's wife grew no better, so one day Bajun, before he went to the fields, told Jhore to warm some water in order that his wife might wash with it. But Jhore made the water boiling hot and then took it and began to pour it over his sister-in-law as she lay on her bed; she was scalded and shrieked out "Don't pour it over me," but Jhore only laughed and went on pouring until he had scalded her to death. Then he wrapped her up in a cloth and brought her dinner to her and offered it her to eat, but she was dead and made no answer to him, so he left it by her and went and ate his own rice. When Bajun came back and found his wife scalded to death he was very angry and went to get an axe to kill Jhore with; thereupon Jhore ran away into the jungle and Bajun pursued him with the axe. In the jungle Jhore found a dead sheep and he took out its stomach and called out "Where are you, brother, I have found some meat." But Bajun answered, "I will not leave you till I have killed you." So Jhore ran on and climbed up inside a hollow tree, where Bajun could not follow, Bajun got a long stick and poked at him with it and as he poked, Jhore let fall the sheep's stomach, and when Bajun saw it he concluded that he had killed his brother. So he went home and burned the body of his wife and a few days later he performed the funeral ceremonies to the memory of his wife and brother; he smeared the floor of the house with cowdung and sacrificed goats and fowls. Now Jhore had come back that day and climbed up on to the rafters of the house, and he sat there watching all that his brother did. Bajun cooked a great basket of rice and stewed the flesh of the animals he had sacrificed and offered it to the spirits of the dead and he recited the dedication "My wife I offer this rice, this food, for your purification," and so saying he scattered some rice on the ground; and he also offered to Jhore, saying, "Jhore, my brother, I offer this rice, this food, for your purification," and then Jhore called out from the roof "Well, as you offer it to me I will take it." Bajun had not bargained to get any answer, so he was astounded and went to ask the villagers whether their spirits made answer when sacrificed to: and the villagers told him that they had never heard of such a thing. While Bajun was away on this errand, Jhore took up the unguarded basket of rice and ran away with it; after going some way he sat down by the road and ate as much as he wanted, then he sat and called out "Is there anyone on the road or in the jungle who wants a feast?" A gang of thieves who were on a thieving expedition heard him and went to see what he meant; he offered to let them eat the rice if they would admit him to their company; they agreed and he went on with them to steal; they broke into a rich man's house and the thieves began to collect the pots and pans but Jhore felt about in the dark and got hold of a drum and began to beat on it. This woke up the people of the house and they drove away the thieves. Then the thieves abused Jhore and said that they could not let him stay with them: "Very well", said he, "then give me back the rice you ate." Of course they could not do this. So they had to let him stay with them. Then they went to the house of a rich Hindu who had a stable full of horses and they planned to steal the horses and ride away with them; so each thief picked out a horse, but Jhore got hold of a tiger which had come to the back of the stable to kill one of the horses; and when the thieves mounted their horses, Jhore mounted on the tiger, and the tiger ran off with him towards the jungle. Jhore kept on calling out "Keep to the road, you Hindu horse, keep to the road, you Hindu horse." But it dragged him through the briars and bushes till he was dead and that was the end of Jhore. II. Anuwa and His Mother. Once there was a young fellow named Anuwa who lived with his old mother, and when he was out ploughing his mother used to take him his breakfast. One day a jackal met her on her way to the field with her son's breakfast and told her to put down the food which she was carrying or he would knock her down and bite her; so she put it down in a fright and the jackal ate most of it and then went away and the old woman took what was left to her son and told him nothing about what had happened. This happened several days in succession; at last one day Anuwa asked her why she brought so little rice and that so untidily arranged; so she told him how she was attacked every day by the jackal. Then they made a plan that the next day the mother should take the plough afield, while Anuwa should dress up as an old woman and carry the breakfast. This they did and the jackal met Anuwa as usual and made him put down the breakfast basket, but while the jackal was eating, Anuwa knocked him head over heels with his stick; and the jackal got up and fled, threatening and cursing Anuwa. Among other things the jackal as he ran away, had threatened to eat Anuwa's _malhan_ plants, so Anuwa put a fence of thorns round them and when the jackal came at night and tried to eat the pods he only got his nose pricked. Foiled in this the jackal called out "Well, I will eat your fowls to-morrow;" but Anuwa the next night sat by the fowl house with a sickle and when the jackal came and poked in his head, Anuwa gave him a rap on the snout with the sickle, so the jackal made off crying "Well, Anuwa, your fowls have pecked me on the head, you shall die." So the next day Anuwa pretended to be dead and his mother went about crying; she took her way to the jungle and there she met the jackal and she told him that Anuwa had died in consequence of his curse and she invited him to the funeral feast, saying that he used to eat the rice which she had cooked and he had become like a son to her. The jackal gladly promised to attend, and he collected a number of his friends and at evening they went to Anuwa's house and sat down in the courtyard. Then the old woman came out and began to bewail her son: but the jackal said "Stop crying, grannie, you cannot get back the dead: let us get on to the feast." So she said that she would fry some cakes first, as it would take some time before the rice was ready. The jackals approved of this but they asked her to tie them up with a rope first lest they should get to fighting over the food, so the old woman brought a thick rope and tied them all up and tightest of all she tied up the jackal which had cursed Anuwa; then she went inside and put an iron pan on the fire and from time to time she sprinkled water on it and when the jackals heard the water hissing they thought that it was the cakes frying and jumped about with joy. Suddenly Anuwa came out with a thick stick and set to beating the jackals till they bit through the ropes and ran away howling; but the first jackal was tied so tightly that he could not escape, and Anuwa beat him till he was senseless and lay without moving all night. The next morning Anuwa took the jackal and tied him to a stake near the place where the village women drew water and he put a thick stick beside it and every woman who went for water would give the jackal one blow with the stick. After a few days beating the body of the jackal became all swollen and one night some other jackals came there and asked him what he ate that he had got so fat and he said that every one who came to draw water gave him a handful of rice and that was why he was so fat; and if they did not believe him they could take his place and try for themselves. So one jackal agreed to try and untied the first jackal and let himself be tied in his place, but in the morning five women came down and each gave him a blow with the stick till he jumped about for pain, and seeing him jumping other women came and beat him till he died. III. Ledha and the Leopard. Once upon a time a boy named Ledha was tending cattle with other boys at the foot of a hill, and these boys in fun used to call out "Ho, leopard: Ho, leopard," and the echo used to answer from the hill "Ho, leopard." Now there really was a leopard who lived in the hill and one day he was playing hide and seek with a lizard which also lived there. The lizard hid and the leopard looked every where for it in vain. At last the leopard sat down to rest and it chanced that he sat right on top of the lizard which was hiding in a hole. The lizard thought that the leopard meant to hurt it and in revenge bit him and fastened on to his rump so that he could not get it off, so that day when the boys came calling out "Ho, leopard," he ran towards them to get their help: but when they saw the leopard they all fled for their lives. Ledha however could not run fast because he was lame, and the leopard headed him off and begged him to remove the lizard. This he did after the leopard had sworn not to eat him, and before they parted the leopard made him promise to tell no one that the lizard had bitten him, and said that if he told then he would be carried off and eaten. So Ledha rejoined his companions and told them nothing of what had passed between him and the leopard. But that night when they had all gone to bed, Ledha's sister-in-law began to worry him to tell her what the leopard had said to him, when it had caught him. He told her that the leopard would eat him if he told, but she coaxed him and said that no one could hear them inside the house; so at last he told her that he had taken off a lizard which was hanging on to its rump. Then they went to sleep; but the leopard was hiding at the back of the house and heard all that they said; and when they were all asleep, he crept in and carried off Ledha's bed with Ledha in it on his head. When Ledha woke up towards morning, he found himself being carried through dense jungle and he quietly pulled himself up into one of the trees which overhung the path. Thus when the leopard put down the bed and was going to eat Ledha, he found it empty. So he went back on his track and by and bye came to the tree in which Ledha was hiding. The leopard begged Ledha to come down, as he had something to say to him, and promised not to eat him; but directly Ledha reached the ground the leopard said "Now I am going to eat you." Ledha was powerless, so he only asked to be allowed to have one chew of tobacco before he died; the leopard assented and Ledha felt in his cloth for his tobacco, but the tobacco did not come out easily and as Ledha felt about for it the dry tobacco leaves crackled; the leopard asked what the crackling sound was, and Ledha said "That is the lizard which bit you yesterday;" then the leopard got into a terrible fright and ran away as hard as he could, calling out "Don't let it loose: Don't let it loose." So Ledha was saved from the leopard, but he did not know his way out of the jungle. He wandered about, till he came to the place where the wild buffaloes used to sleep at night, and he swept up the place and made it clean and then took refuge in a hollow tree; he stayed there some days, sweeping up the place daily and supporting himself on the fruit of a fig-tree. At last one day the buffaloes left one cow behind to watch and see who it was who swept up their sleeping place. The cow pretended to be too ill to rise, and Ledha after watching for some time came out and swept the ground as usual, and then tried to pull the sick cow up by the tail; but she would not move so he went back to his hollow tree. When the buffaloes returned they heard that it was a kindhearted man who cleaned their sleeping place; so they called Ledha out and said that they would keep him as their servant to clean their sleeping place and to scrub them when they bathed in the river; they made him taste the milk of all the cows and appointed the cow whose milk he liked best to supply him. Thenceforward he used to wander about with the buffaloes and he made a flute and used to play on it. One day after scrubbing the buffaloes he washed his head in the river and some of his hairs came out; so he wrapped them up in a leaf and set the packet to float down the stream. Lower down the stream two princesses were bathing with their attendants, and when they saw the packet they tried who could fish it out and it was the younger princess who caught it. Then they measured the hairs and found them twelve cubits long. The princess who had taken the packet from the water went home and took to her bed and said that she would not eat until the man was found to whom the hairs belonged. Her father, the Raja, sent messengers in all directions to search for the man but they could not find him. Then he sent a parrot and the parrot flew up high and looking down saw Ledha with the buffaloes in the forest; but it did not dare to go near, so the parrot returned and told the Raja that the man was in the forest but that no messenger could approach for fear of the wild buffaloes. However a crow said, "I can bring him if any one can," so they sent the crow and it went and perched on the backs of the buffaloes and began to peck them; then Ledha threw stones at it, but it would not go away; then he threw a stick at it and last of all he threw his flute. The crow caught up the flute and flew up to a tree with it. Ledha ran after it, but the crow kept flying on a short distance and Ledha still pursued until he came to the Raja's city. The crow flew on till it entered the room where the princess lay, and dropped the flute into the hands of the princess. Ledha followed right into the room and they shut him in and the princess gave him his flute after he had promised to marry her. So he stayed there a long time, but meanwhile the buffaloes all got weak and ill for want of some one to look after them. One day Ledha set off to the jungle with his wife to see them and when he saw how ill the buffaloes were, he decided to build a house in the jungle and live there. And the Raja sent them money and horses and cattle and elephants and servants and they built a palace and Ledha subdued all the jungle and became a great Raja; and he made a highway to his father-in-law's home and used to go to and fro on it. IV. The Cruel Stepmother. There was once a Raja whose wife died leaving him with one young child. He reared it with great care and when it could toddle about it took a great fancy to a cat; the child was always playing with it and carrying it about. All his friends begged the Raja to marry again, but he said that he was sure that a stepmother would be cruel to his child; at last they persuaded him to promise to marry again, if a bride could be found who would promise to care for the child as her own, so his friends looked out for a bride; but though they found plenty of girls who were anxious to marry the Raja, not one would promise to care for his child as her own. There was a young widow in a certain village who heard of what was going on, and one day she asked whether a bride had been found for the Raja and she was told that no one was willing to take charge of the child. "Why don't they agree," said she, "I would agree fast enough. If I were Rani I should have nothing to do but look after the child and I would care for it more than its own mother could." This came to the ears of the Raja and he sent for the widow and was pleased with her looks, and when she promised to love his child as her own, he married her. At first no one could be kinder to the child than she was, but in the course of time she had a child of her own and then she began to be jealous of the elder child; and she thought daily how she could get rid of him. He was still devoted to his cat and one day when he came back to the house, he asked his stepmother where the cat was. She answered angrily, "The cat has bewitched the boy! It is 'cat, cat,' all day long." At this the child began to cry; so she found the cat and threw it to him, saying, "Here is your cat: you are mad about your cat." But the boy hugged it in his arms and kept on crying at his stepmother's cross words. As he would not keep quiet his stepmother got more angry still; and catching hold of the cat she scratched her own arms and legs with the cat's claws until the blood flowed; then she began to cry and scold and when the neighbours came to see what was the matter, she told them that the boy had let his cat scratch her; and the neighbours saw that she was not loving the boy as she promised. Presently the Raja came in and asked what was the matter; she turned and scolded him saying: "You have reared the accursed cat and it has scratched me finely; look, it has taken all the skin off; this is the way the boy repays me for all my trouble. I will not stay with you; if I stay the boy will injure me like this again." The Raja said, "Don't cry like a baby; how can a simple child like that know better? when he grows up I will scold him." But the woman persisted and declared that she would go away with her own child unless the Raja promised to kill his elder son. The Raja refused to do this, so the Rani took up her baby and went out of the house with it in a rage. Now the Raja was deeply in love with her and he followed and stopped her, and said that he could not let her take away his younger child; she answered, "Why trouble about the child? it is mine; I have left you your boy, if you don't kill him, when he grows up, he will tell you some lie about me and make you have me beaten to death." At last the Raja said "Well, come back and if the boy does you any harm I will kill him." But the Rani said. "Either kill him now or let me go." So at last the Raja promised and brought her back to the palace. Then the Raja called the boy and gave him his dinner and told him that they were going on a visit to his uncle's: and the child was delighted and fetched his shoes and umbrella, and off they set, and a dog came running after them. When they came to a jungle the Raja told his son to sit under a tree and wait for him, and he went away and killed the dog that had followed them and smeared the blood on his axe and went home, leaving the child. When his father did not return, the child began to cry, and Thakur heard him and came down, and to frighten the boy and make him leave the jungle he came in the guise of a leopard; but the child would not move from where he was; then Thakur appeared as a bear, and as a snake and an elephant and in many other forms but the child would not move; so at last Thakur took the form of an old woman, who lifted him in her arms and soothed him and carried him to the edge of the jungle and left him on the outskirts of a village. In the morning a rich Brahman found him and took him home, and as no one claimed the child he brought him up and made him his goat-herd, and they gave him the name of Lela. The Brahman's sons and daughters used to go school, and before he took his goats out to graze Lela used to carry their books to the school. And going to the school every day Lela got to know one or two letters and used to draw them in the sand while minding his goats; later he got the children to give him an old book saying that he wanted to pretend to the other boys that he could read and out of this book he taught himself to read: and as he grew up he became quite a scholar. One day he picked up a letter and found that it was from one of the village girls arranging to elope that very evening with a young man. At the appointed time Lela went to the rendez-vous and hid himself in a tree; soon he saw the Brahman's daughter come to the place, but as her letter had not been delivered her lover did not appear. The girl got tired of waiting and then she began to call to her lover, thinking that perhaps he was hiding for a joke. When she called, Lela answered from the tree and she thought that it was her lover and said "Come down and let us be off." So Lela came down and they started off together; when day dawned she saw that it was Lela who was with her and she sat down and upbraided him for deceiving her. Lela said that they had met by chance; he had not enticed her away, no harm had been done and she could go home if she liked or come away with him if she liked. The girl considered but she saw that if she went home now she would be disgraced and her family would be outcasted, so in the end she agreed to run away with Lela. They went on and after travelling some days they came to a great city, where they took up their quarters in a tumble-down house and the next morning Lela went into the city to look for work. He went to the cutcherry and enrolled himself as a _muktear_ (attorney) and soon the litigants and the magistrates found out how clever he was and he acquired a big practice. One day the Raja said, "This fellow is very handsome, I wonder what his wife is like?" And he sent an old woman to see; so the old woman went and got into conversation with Lela's wife and returned to the Raja and told him that none of his wives was so beautiful as Lela's wife; so the Raja determined to go and see her himself, and as the old woman said that she would hide herself in the house if she saw the Raja coming, he disguised himself as a poor man and went and saw her; he found that the old woman had not exaggerated and he determined to possess himself of Lela's wife. He had first to get Lela out of the way, so he sent for him and said, "You are a fine fellow and have given me satisfaction. I have one more commission for you, if you perform it I will give you half my kingdom and my sister in marriage." Lela said that he must hear what it was before he made any promise. The Raja said "It is this: in a certain mountain grows the Chandmoni Kusum flower; bring it to me and I will give you what I have promised:"--but the Raja felt sure that if Lela went to the mountain he would be eaten by the Rakhas (ogress) who dwelt there. Lela said that he would go if the Raja gave him a written bond In the presence of witnesses; and this the Raja willingly did. Then Lela went and told his wife and she said, "This is excellent: I have a younger sister in the mountain, her name is Chandmoni and it was she who planted the Chandmoni Kusum flower; when you get there call her by her name and she will certainly give you the flower." So Lela started off and when he was gone his wife fell ill, and her body became a mass of sores. Directly Lela was out of the way, the Raja sent the old woman to see what his wife was doing and she brought back word that she was afflicted with illness; so the Raja sent medicines and told the old woman to nurse her. Lela went off and came to the cave in the mountain where Chandmoni lived with the Rakhas; and the Rakhas was away hunting men, so Lela called out Chandmoni and told her who he was and begged her to hide him; then they planned how they should kill the Rakhas, and she hid him in the cave; presently the Rakhas returned and said to Chandmoni "I smell a man: where is he?" But Chandmoni said that there was no one there but herself; and that the smell was probably due to the Rakhas having been eating human flesh and recommended her to anoint herself with hot ghee. The Rakhas agreed: so Chandmoni put a great iron pan of ghee on to boil, and when it was boiling she called the Rakhas, and as the Rakhas was leaning over the pan, Lela ran out and pushed her into the boiling ghee and she died. Then Chandmoni asked Lela why he had come, and he told her, "to fetch the flower." She promised to give it to him but asked what was to become of her now that the ogress with whom she lived was dead. Lela promised to take her with him, so they cut off the tongue and ears and claws of the Rakhas and returned to the city. And directly Lela returned, his first wife recovered from her illness. Then the Raja saw that it was useless to contend with Lela, and he gave him half his kingdom and married him to his sister according to his bond. So Lela lived with his three Ranis and they bore him children and after some years he told them that he was the son of a Raja and he wished to visit his own country and see whether his father was alive. So they set out in great style with horses and elephants and came to the town where Lela's father lived. Now five or six days after abandoning Lela, his father had become blind and, he made over the management of his kingdom to a Dewan, and the Dewan and the Rani managed everything. When the Dewan heard that Lela had come with a great force he thought that he would loot the country and he ran away in fear. Then Lela sent word to his father to come to him, as he was the son who had been abandoned in the jungle, so the Raja set forth joyfully and after he had gone a few paces he began to see dimly, and by the time that he came to Lela's camp he had quite recovered his eyesight. When they met, father and son embraced and wept over each other; and Lela ordered a feast to be prepared and while this was being done a maidservant came running to say that the wicked Rani had hanged herself, so they went and burned the body and then returned and enjoyed the feast. Then the Raja resigned his kingdom to Lela and the ryots begged him to stay and rule over them; so he remained there and lived happily ever after. V. Karmu and Dharmu. There were once two brothers Karmu and Dharmu. Karmu was a farmer and Dharmu was a trader; once when Dharmu was away from home Karmu gave a religious feast and did not invite Dharmu's household; when Dharmu returned and learnt this, he told his wife that he also would perform the ceremonies in his house, so they set to work and were employed in cooking rice and vegetables far into the night; and Karam Gosain came down to see what preparations Dharmu was making in his honour, and he watched from the back of the house. Just then Dharmu strained off the water from the cooked rice and threw it out of the window, and it fell on Karam Gosain and scalded him, and as the flies and insects worried the wound, Karam Gosain went off to the Ganges and buried himself in the middle of the stream. As he had thus offended Karam Gosain, all Dharmu's undertakings failed and he fell into deep poverty, and had not even enough to eat, so he had to take service with his brother Karmu. When the time for transplanting the rice came, Dharmu used to plough and dig the ditches and mend the gaps along with the day labourers. Karmu told him not to work himself but act as overseer of the other labourers, and the labourers also told him that it was not suitable for him to work as a labourer himself, but Dharmu said that he must earn his wages and insisted on working; and in the same way Dharmu's wife might have acted as overseer of the women, but she was ashamed not to work too. One day they were transplanting the rice and Karmu brought out breakfast for the labourers; he told Dharmu and his wife to wash their hands and come and eat; but they answered that they belonged to the household and that the hired labourers should be fed first, so the labourers ate and they ate up all the rice and there was nothing left for Dharmu and his wife. When the midday meal was brought the same thing happened, Dharmu and his wife got nothing; but they hoped that it would be made up to them when the wages were paid, and worked on fasting. At evening when they came to pay the wages in kind, Dharmu's name was called out first, but he told his brother to pay the labourers first, and in doing this the paddy was all used up and there was nothing left for Dharmu and his wife; so they went home sorrowfully and their children cried for food and they had nothing to give them. In the night Dharmu's wife said "They promised to pay us for merely looking after the work and instead, we worked hard and have still got nothing. We will not work for them anymore; come, let us undo the work we did to-day, you cut down the embankments you repaired, and I will uproot the seedlings which I planted." So they went out into the night to do this. But whenever Dharmu raised his spade a voice called out "Hold, hold!" And whenever his wife put out her hand to pull up the rice a voice called out "Hold, hold!" Then they said "Who are you who stop us?" And the voice answered "You have done evil and offended Karam Gosain by scalding him; this is why you have become poor and to-day have worked without food and without wages; he has gone to the Ganges and you must go and propitiate him." And they asked how they should propitiate him, and the voice said "Grind turmeric and put it on a plate, and buy new cloth and dye it with turmeric and make ready oil and take these things to the Ganges and call on Karam Gosain." And they believed the voice and the next day did as it commanded, and set off, leaving their children in charge of Karmu. On the way they came to a fig-tree full of figs and they went to eat the fruit; but when they got near they found that all the figs were full of grubs, and they sang:-- "Exhausted by hunger we came to a fig-tree, And found it full of grubs, O Karam Gosain, how far off are you?" Then they came to a mango tree and the same thing happened. And they went on and saw a cow with a calf; and they thought that they would milk the cow and drink the milk, but when they went to catch it it ran away from them and would not let itself be caught; and they sang:-- "We go to catch the cow and it runs away, We go to catch the calf and it runs away, O Karam Gosain how far off are you?" But the cow said to them--"Go to the banks of the Ganges." Then they came to a buffalo and went to milk it, but it lowered its head and charged them; and Dharam cried but his wife said "Don't cry" and sang:-- "If you go to catch the buffalo, Dharmu, It will kill you. How shall we drink milk? How shall we drink milk? How far off are you, O our Karam Gosain?" And the buffalo said "Go on to the bank of the Ganges." Then they came to a horse and they thought that they would catch it and mount it, but it kicked and snorted; and they sang:-- "Dharmu tries to catch the horse: But it kicks and runs away. How shall we reach the Ganges? O Karam Gosain, how far off are you?" And the horse said "Go to the banks of the Ganges." Then they saw an elephant but it would not let them approach, so they decided to push on straight for the river; and they saw under a banyan tree a large pot full of rupees, but they were so disheartened that they made no attempt to touch it; then they met a woman who asked where they were going and when she heard, she said "For twelve years I have had a _pai_ measure stuck on my throat; ask Karam Gosain for me how I am to get rid of it," and they promised; and going on they met a woman with a bundle of thatching grass stuck to her head; and she made them promise to ask Karam Gosain how she could be freed; then they met a woman with both her feet burning in a fire and another with a stool stuck fast to her back and they promised to enquire how these might be delivered. So at last they came to the Ganges and they stood on the bank and called to Karam Gosain; and when he came they caught hold of him and he said "Fie, what low caste person is touching me?" But they said. "It is no low caste person, but Dharmu." Then they bathed him and anointed him with oil and turmeric and wrapped him in the new cloth which they had brought, and thus they persuaded him to return; so they rose up to go back, and Dharmu asked about the women whom they had met, and Karam Gosain said: "The woman has a stool stuck to her back because when visitors came she never offered them a seat; let her do so in future, and she will be freed; and the woman has her feet burning in the fire because she pushed the fuel into the fire with her foot; let her not do so in future, and she will be freed; and the woman has the thatching grass stuck to her head because when she saw a friend with straw sticking in her hair she did not tell her about it; let her do so in future and she will be freed; and the woman has the pai measure stuck to her throat because, when her neighbour wanted to borrow her measure, she would not lend it; let her do so in future and she will be freed." And Karam Gosain asked whether they had seen an elephant and a horse and a buffalo and a cow and money and mangoes and figs and Dharmu said "Yes," but that he had not been able to catch the animals and the fruit was bad. Karam Gosain promised them that on their way back they should take possession of all; and they did so and mounted on the elephant and returned to their home with great wealth. On their way they met the four women and told them how they could be saved from their troubles. The villagers welcomed Dharmu and he arranged a great feast and gave paddy to all the villagers to husk; but when they had boiled it the weather became cloudy so that they could not dry it, so they prayed to the sun and he at once shone out and dried the paddy. Then a day was fixed and they prepared rice beer, and worshipped Karam Gosain and they danced all night and got very drunk and enjoyed themselves. VI. The Jealous Stepmother. There was once a man whose wife died leaving him with one son and after a year he married again. The second wife was very jealous of the son and she told her husband that she would not stay with him unless he killed the boy; at first he refused but she insisted and then he said that he was frightened to do the deed, but she might kill the boy herself if she liked. She said, "No: he is your son and you must kill him; if he were mine I would do it. You need not be frightened; when you take him out ploughing make him drive the front plough, and you sharpen your plough pole to a point and drive it into him from behind and kill him and then it will seem to be an accident." So the man promised and made a sharp point to his plough pole but whenever they ploughed, the son drove his plough so fast that the father could not catch him up and so the boy was not killed; then the woman abused her husband and said that he was deceiving her. So he promised to finish the business the next day and told her to give the boy a good hot breakfast before they started, so that he might receive one last kindness, and he said that they must find some other way of killing him because all the ploughing was finished; but his wife told him he could plough down their crop of _goondli_, the bullocks would stop to eat the _goondli_ as they went along and so he would easily catch up his son. Accordingly the next morning father and son took out the ploughs and the boy asked where they should plough, and the father said that they would plough down the field of _goondli_. But the boy said "Why should we do that? it is a good crop and will be ripe in a day or two; it is too late to sow again, we shall lose this crop and who knows whether we shall get anything in its place?" And the father thought 'What the boy says is true; the first crop is like the first child, if I kill him who will support me in my old age? Who knows whether my second wife will have children. I will not kill him however angry she be;' so they unyoked their ploughs and went home. He told his wife that he would not kill the boy and scolded her and ended by giving her a beating. Then she ran away in a passion but he did not trouble to go and look for her and in a few days her father and brothers brought her back, and her husband told them what had happened and they also scolded her and told her to mend her ways. VII. The Pious Woman. There was once a very pious woman and her special virtue was that she would not eat or drink on any day until she had first given alms to a beggar. One day no beggar came to her house, so by noon she got tired of waiting, and, tying in her cloth some parched rice, she went to the place where the women drew water. When she got there she saw a Jugi coming towards her, she greeted him and said that she had brought dried rice for him. He said that omens had bidden him come to her and that he came to grant her a boon: she might ask one favour and it would be given her. The woman said: "Grant me this boon--to know where our souls go after death, and to see at the time of death how they escape, whether through the nose or the mouth, and where they go to; and tell me when I shall die and where my soul will go to; this I ask and no more." Then the Jugi answered, "Your prayer is granted, but you must tell no one; if you do, the power will depart from you." So saying he took from his bag something like a feather and brushed her eyes with it and washed them with water. Then the woman's eyes were opened and she saw spirits--_bongas, bhuts, dains, churins_, and the souls of dead men; and the Jugi told her not to be afraid, but not to speak to them lest men should think her mad; then he took his leave, and she returned home. Now in the village lived a poor man and his wife and they were much liked because they were industrious and obedient; shortly afterwards this poor man died and the pious woman saw men come with a palankin and take away the poor man's soul with great ceremony. She was pleased at the sight and thought that the souls of all men were taken away like this. But shortly afterwards her father-in-law died. He had been a rich man, but harsh, and while the family were mourning the pious woman saw four sipahis armed with iron-shod staves and of fierce countenance come to the house and two entered and took the father-in-law by the neck and thrust him forth; they bound him and beat him, they knocked him down and as he could not walk they dragged him away by his legs. The woman followed him to the end of the garden and when she saw him being dragged away, she screamed. When her husband's relatives saw her screaming and crying they were angry and said that she must have killed her father-in-law by witchcraft, for she did not sit by the corpse and cry but went to the end of the garden. So after the body had been burnt they held a council and questioned her and told her that they would hold her to be a witch, if she could not explain. So she told them of the power which the Jugi had conferred on her and of what she had seen, and they believed her and acquitted her of the charge of witchcraft; but from that time she lost her power and saw no more spirits. VIII. The Wise Daughter-in-Law. There was once a rich man who had seven sons, but one day his wife died and after this the family fell into poverty. All their property was sold and they lived by selling firewood in the bazar. At last the wife of the eldest son said to her father-in-law. "I have a proposal to make: Do you choose one of us to be head of the family whom all shall obey; we cannot all be our own masters as at present." The old man said "Well, I choose you," and he assembled the whole family and made them promise to obey the wife of his eldest son. Thereupon she told them that they must all go out into the fields and bring her whatever they found. So the next day they went out in different directions and the old man found some human excrement and he thought "Well, my daughter-in-law told me to bring whatever I found" so he wrapped it up in leaves and took it home; and his daughter-in-law told him that he had done well and bade him hang up the packet at the back of the house. A few days later he found the slough of a snake and he took that home and his daughter-in-law told to tie a clod of earth to it to prevent its being blown away, and to throw it on to the roof of the house. Some years after the Raja of the country was ill with cancer of the face and none of the _ojhas_ could cure him. At last one _ojha_ said that there was only one medicine which could effect a cure, but he saw no chance of obtaining it and that was human excrement 12 years old. Then the Raja sent messengers throughout the kingdom offering a reward of 200 Rupees to any one who could supply excrement twelve years old; and when a messenger came to the village where this family lived the daughter-in-law produced the packet which the old man had brought home and received the reward of 200 Rupees; and they were all delighted at making so much money by what the old man had brought home in jest. And again it happened that the son of a Raja was bathing and he left his gold belt on the bank and a kite thought it was a snake and flew off with it. The prince was much distressed at the loss but the Raja told him not to grieve as the kite must have dropped it somewhere and he would offer a reward of a thousand rupees for it. Now the kite had soon found that the belt was not good to eat and seeing the snake's skin which the old man had thrown on to the roof of the house, it dropped the belt and flew off with the skin; and the daughter-in-law picked up the belt and when criers came round offering a reward she produced it and received the money. And they praised her wisdom and by this means the family became rich again. IX. The Oilman and His Sons. There was once an oilman with five sons and they were all married and lived jointly with their father. But the daughters-in-law were discontented with this arrangement and urged their husbands to ask their father to divide the family property. At first the old man refused, but when his sons persisted, he told them to bring him a log two cubits long and so thick that two hands could just span it, and he said that if they could break the log in two, he would divide the property; so they brought the log and then asked for axes, but he told them that they must break it themselves by snapping it or twisting it or standing on it; so they tried and failed. Then the old man said, "You are five and I make six; split the log into six," So they split it and he gave each a piece and told them to break them, and each easily snapped his stick; then the old man said "We are like the whole log: we have plenty of property and are strong and can overcome attack; but if we separate we shall be like the split sticks and easily broken." They admitted that this was true and proposed that the property should not be divided but that they should all become separate in mess. But the father would not agree to this for he thought that people would call him a miser if he let his sons live separately without his giving them their share in the property as their own, So as they persisted in their folly he partitioned the property. But in a few years they all fell into poverty and had not enough to eat nor clothes to wear, and the father and mother were no better off; then the old man called all his sons and their wives and said "You see what trouble you have fallen into; I have a riddle for you, explain it to me. There are four wells, three empty and one full of water; if you draw water from the full one and pour it into the three empty ones they will become full; but when they are full and the first one is empty, if you pour water from the three full ones into the empty one it will not be filled; what does this mean?" And they could not answer and he said, "The four wells mean that a man had three sons, and while they were little he filled their stomachs as the wells were filled with water; but when they separated they would not fill the old man's stomach." And it was true, that the sons had done nothing to help their father and they were filled with shame and they agreed that as long as their father lived they would be joint with him and would not separate again until he died. X. The Girl Who Found Helpers. Once upon a time there were seven brothers, and they were all married, and they had one sister who was not married. The brothers went away to a far country for a whole year, leaving their wives at home. Now the wives hated their sister-in-law and did their best to torment her. So one day they gave her a pot full of holes and told her to bring it back full of water; and threatened that if she failed she should have no food. So she took the pot to the spring and there sat down and cried and sang:-- "I am fetching water in a pot full of holes, I am fetching water in a pot full of holes, How far away have my brothers gone to trade." After she had cried a long time, a number of frogs came up out of the water and asked her what was the matter, and she told them that she must fill the pot with water, and was not allowed to stop the holes with clay or lac. Then they told her not to cry, and said, that they would sit on the holes and then the water would not run out; they did this and the girl dried her eyes and filled the pot with water and took it home. Her sisters-in-law were much disappointed at her success, but the next day they told her to go to the jungle and bring back a bundle of leaves, but she was to use no rope for tying them up. So she went to the jungle and collected the leaves and then sat down and cried and sang:-- "I am to fetch leaves without a rope I am to fetch leaves without a rope How far have my brothers gone to trade?" and as she cried a _buka sobo_ snake came out and asked why she was crying, and when she told it, it said that it would coil itself round the leaves in place of a rope. So it stretched itself out straight and she piled the leaves on the top of it and the snake coiled itself tightly round them and so she was able to carry the bundle home on her head. Her sisters-in-law ran to see how she managed it, but she put the bundle down gently and the snake slipped away unperceived. Still they resolved to try again; so the next day they sent her to fetch a bundle of fire wood, but told her that she was to use no rope to tie it with. So she went to the jungle and collected the sticks and then sat down and cried:-- "I am to bring wood without tying it, I am to bring wood without tying it, How far have my brothers gone to trade?" and as she cried a python came out and asked what was the matter, and when it heard, it told her not to cry and said that it would act as a rope to bind up the sticks; so it stretched itself out and she laid the sticks on it and then it coiled itself round them and she carried the bundle home. As the sisters-in-law had been baffled thus, they resolved on another plan and proposed that they should all go and gather sticks in the jungle; and on the way they came to a _machunda_ tree in full flower and they wanted to pick some of the flowers. The wicked sisters-in-law at first began to climb the tree, but they pretended that they could not and kept slipping down; then they hoisted their sister-in-law into the branches and told her to throw down the flowers to them. But while she was in the tree, they tied thorns round the trunk so that she could not descend and then left her to starve. After she had been in the tree a long time, her brothers passed that way on their return journey, and sat down under the tree to rest; the girl was too weak to speak but she cried and her tears fell on the back of her eldest brother, and he looked up and saw her; then they rescued her and revived her and listened to her story; and they were very angry and vowed to have revenge. So they gave their sister some needles and put her in a sack and put the sack on one of the pack-bullocks. And when they got home, they took the sack off gently and told their wives to carry it carefully inside the house, and on no account to put it down. But when the wives took it up, the girl inside pricked them with the needles so that they screamed and let the sack fall. Their husbands scolded them and made them take it up again, and they had to carry it in, though they were pricked till the blood ran down. Then the brothers enquired about all that had happened in their absence, and at last asked after their sister, and their wives said that she had gone to the jungle with some friends to get firewood. But the brothers turned on them and told how they had found her in the _machunda_ tree and had brought her home in the sack, and their wives were dumbfounded. Then the brothers said that they had made a vow to dig a well and consecrate it; so they set to work to dig a well two fathoms across and three fathoms deep; and when they reached water, they fixed a day for the consecration; and they told their wives to put on their best clothes and do the _cumaura_ (betrothal) ceremony at the well. So the wives went to the well, escorted by drummers, and as they stood in a row round the well, each man pushed his own wife into it and then they covered the well with a wooden grating and kept them in it for a whole year and at the end of the year they pulled them out again. * * * * * Another version of this story gives three other tasks preliminary to those given above and begins as follows:-- Once upon a time there was a girl named Hira who had seven brothers. The brothers went away to a far country to trade leaving her alone in the house with their wives; these seven sisters-in-law hated Hira and did what they could to torment her; one day they sowed a basketful of mustard seed in a field and then told her to go and pick it all up; she went to the field and began to lament, singing:-- "They have sown a basket of mustard seed! Oh, how far away have my brothers gone to trade." As she cried a flock of pigeons came rustling down and asked her what was the matter, and when they heard, they told her to be comforted; they at once set to work picking up the mustard grain by grain and putting it into her basket; soon the basket was quite full and she joyfully took it home and showed it to her sisters-in-law. Then they set her another task and told her to bring them some bear's hair that they might weave it into a hair armlet for her wedding. So she went off to the jungle and sat down to cry; as she wept two bear cubs came up and asked what was the matter; when she told her story they bade her be of good cheer and took her into their cave and hid her. Presently the mother bear came back and suckled her cubs, and when they had finished they asked their mother to leave them some of her hair that they might amuse themselves by plaiting it while she was away. She did so and directly she had gone off to look for food, the cubs gave the girl the hair and sent her home rejoicing. The sisters-in-law were only made more angry by her success and plotted how to kill her, so they ordered her to bring them some tiger's milk that they might make it into curds for her wedding. Then she went off to the jungle and began to weep, singing:-- "I brought the hair of a bear: How far away have my brothers gone to trade." At the sound two tiger cubs came running up and asked what was the matter; they told her to be comforted and they would manage to give her what she wanted; and they took her and hid her near where they were lying. Presently the tigress came back and suckled her cubs and as she did so she declared that she smelt a human being, but the cubs laughed at her and said that it must be they whom she smelt; so she was satisfied, and as she was leaving them they asked her to leave some of her milk in an earthern pot so that they might have something to drink if she were long in coming back. The tigress did so and directly she was gone the cubs gave the milk to the girl who took it home.--The story then continues as before. XI. How to Grow Rich. Once upon a time there was a woman whose husband died while she was pregnant, and she was very unhappy and used to pray daily to Singh Chando to give her a man child in place of her husband; she was left well off and among her property were three gold coins, and as she was afraid of these being stolen she decided to place them in the care of the village headman. So she took them to him and asked him to keep them till her child was born; and no one was present at the time but the headman's wife. In due time her child was born and by the mercy of Singh Chando it was a son; and when the boy had grown a bit and could run alone his mother decided to take back the gold coins, so she went to the headman and asked him for them; but he and his wife said: "We do not understand what you are talking about? We know of no gold coins: where are your witnesses? You must have had witnesses in such a business." And they drove her out. She went away crying and called the villagers together and asked them to decide the matter. So they questioned her and the headman but as it was word against word they could come to no decision; so they settled to put the parties on oath, but the headman and the woman both swore that they had spoken the truth, saying, "May we die if we have spoken falsely." Then the villagers made them swear by their children and the woman and the headman laid their hands on the heads of their sons and swore; and when the woman swore her son fell down dead and she took up the dead body in her arms and ran away with it. The villagers were very sorry for what had happened but the headman and his wife abused them for not having believed their word. The woman had not gone very far before she met a stranger who asked why she was crying and when she told him, he said: "Do not cry: you told one falsehood and so your son has died. Take your child back to the villagers and tell them that it was five gold coins and not three that you gave to the headman and if you do this the child will come to life again." So the woman hastened back and found the villagers still assembled and she told them as the stranger had directed; and she agreed to be sworn again on the body of the child, and the headman promised to pay five gold pieces if the child were restored to life. So the woman laid her hands on the dead child and swore, and it was restored to life. Then the headman was dumbfounded and reluctantly brought out five gold pieces and gave them to the woman. She gave five rupees to the villagers and they made the headman give them ten rupees for having deceived them, and they bought pigs and had a feast. In the course of time the boy grew up and his mother urged him to marry. He asked her if she knew how to choose a wife and also what sort of cattle to buy, and she said that she did not know; her husband had not told her this. So the youth said that he would go to Singh Chando and ask. His mother washed his clothes for him and gave him food for the journey and he set out. On the way he met a man who asked him where he was going and he answered that he was going to make a petition to Singh Chando. "Then," said the man, "make a petition for me also. I have so much wealth that I cannot look after it all; ask him to take away half from me." The youth promised and went on and he met another man who said that he had so many cattle that he could not build enough cow-houses for them and asked him to petition Singh Chando to diminish their number; and he promised, and went on and came to Singh Chando, and there he asked how to choose a wife and how to buy cattle. And Singh Chando said, "When you buy a bullock first put your hand on its quarter and if it shrinks and tries to get free, buy it; and when you want a wife enquire first as to the character of her father and mother; good parents make good children." Then the youth asked about the two men he had met; Singh Chando said;--"Tell the first man when he is ploughing to plough two or three furrows beyond the boundary of his field and his wealth will diminish and tell the second man to drive away three or four of his cattle every day and their number will decrease." So the youth returned and met the man who had too many cattle and told him what Chando had said, and the man thought "If I drive away three or four head of cattle every day I shall soon become poor" so from that time he looked out for any straying cattle and would drive them home with his own; if the owner claimed them, he gave them up, but if no claimant appeared, he kept them and so he became richer than ever. And the youth went on and met the man who was too rich, and when he heard what Chando had said he thought "If I plough over the boundary on to my neighbour's land it will be a great sin and I shall soon become poor;" and he went to his ploughmen and told them never to plough right up to the edge of the field but to leave two of three furrows space, and they obeyed and from that time he grew richer than ever. And the youth returned to his mother and told her all that had happened and they understood the meaning of the advice which Chando had given to the two men and acted accordingly. And it is true that we see that avaricious men who trespass across boundaries become poor. XII. The Changed Calf. There was once a cowherd named Sona who saved a few rupees and he decided to buy a calf so as to have something to show for his labours; and he went to a distant village and bought a bull calf and on the way home he was benighted. So he turned into a Hindu village and went to an oilman's house and asked to be allowed to sleep there. When the oilman saw such a fine calf he coveted it and he told Sona to put it in the stable along with his own bullock and he gave him some supper and let him sleep in the verandah. But in the middle of the night the oilman got up and moistened some oil cake and plastered it over the calf; he then untied his own bullock and made it lick the oil cake off the calf, and as the bullock was accustomed to eat oil cake it licked it greedily; then the oilman raised a cry, "The bullock that turns the oil mill has given birth to a calf." And all the villagers collected, and saw the bullock licking the calf and they believed the oilman. Sona did not wake up and knew nothing of all this, the next morning he got up and went to untie his calf and drive it away, but the oilman would not let him and claimed the calf as his own. Then Sona called the villagers to come and decide the matter: but they said that they had seen him bring no calf to the village and he had not called any of them to witness it, but they _had_ seen the bullock licking the calf; why should the bullock lick any but its own calf? No one ever saw a bullock lick a strange bullock or cow and so they awarded the calf to the oilman. Then Sona said that he would call someone to argue the matter and he went away meaning to get some men from the next village: but he lost his way in the jungle and as he went along a night-jar flew up from under his feet; he called out to it to stay as he was in great distress, and the bird alighted and asked what was the matter, and Sona told it his trouble. Then the night-jar said that it would argue the matter for him but it must have a colleague and it told Sona to go on and ask the first living being he met to help; so he went on and met a jackal and the jackal agreed to help the night-jar, and they told him to call the villagers to the edge of the jungle and not to let them bring any dogs with them. So Sona brought all the villagers to the jungle and the night-jar and jackal sat side by side on a stone. Then Sona asked the villagers whether they would let him take away the calf or no, and they persisted in their previous opinion. At last one man said, "What are your advocates doing? it seems to me that they are asleep." And at this the two woke up with a start and looked about them, and the night-jar said "I have been asleep and dreamed a dream: will you men please hear it and explain its meaning?" And the jackal said, "I too have had a dream, please explain it for me. If you can explain the meaning you shall keep the calf and, if not, the boy shall have it." The villagers told them to speak and the night-jar said, "I saw two night-jar's eggs and one egg was sitting on the other; no mother bird was sitting on them, tell me what this means." And the jackal said, "I saw that the sea was on fire and the fishes were all being burnt up, and I was busy eating them and that was why I did not wake up, what is the meaning of this dream?" And the villagers said. "The two dreams are both alike: neither has any meaning; an egg cannot sit on an egg, and the sea cannot catch fire." The jackal said, "Why cannot it be? If you won't believe that water can catch fire why do you say that a bullock gave birth to a calf? Have you ever seen such a thing? Speak," And they admitted that they had never seen a bullock have a calf, but only cows. "Then," said the jackal, "explain why you have given the oilman a decree." And they admitted that they were wrong and awarded the calf to Sona and fined the oilman five rupees for having deceived them. XIII. The Koeri and the Barber. There was a well-to-do man of the Koeri (cultivating) caste and opposite his house lived a barber who was very poor; and the barber thought that if he carried on his cultivation just as the Koeri did he might get better results; so every day he made some pretext to visit the Koeri's house and hear what work he was going to do the next day, and with the same object he would listen outside his house at night; and he exactly imitated the Koeri: he yoked his cattle and unyoked them, he ploughed and sowed and transplanted just when the Koeri did and the result was good, for that year he got a very fine crop. But he was not content with this and resolved to continue to copy the Koeri; the Koeri suspected what the barber was doing and did not like it. So he resolved to put the matter to the test and at the same time teach the barber to mind his own business. In January they both planted sugar cane, and one day when the crop was half grown the barber was sitting at the Koeri's house and the Koeri gave orders to his servants to put the leveller over the crop the next day and break it down; this was only a pretence of the Koeri's, but the barber went away and the next day crushed his sugar cane crop with the leveller, the whole village laughed to see what he had done; but it turned out that each root of the barber's sugar cane sent up a number of shoots and in the end he had a much heavier crop than the Koeri. Another day the Koeri announced that he was going to sow _but_ (pulse) and therefore ordered his servants to bring out the seed and roast it well, that it might germinate quickly; and the barber hearing this went off and had his seed _but_ roasted and the next day he sowed it, but only a very few seeds germinated, while the crop of the Koeri which had not really been roasted sprouted finely. The barber asked the Koeri why his crop had not come up well, and the Koeri told him that it must be because he had not roasted the seed enough; the few seeds that had come up must have been those which had been roasted most. But in the end the laugh was against the Koeri, for the few seeds of the barber's which germinated, produced such fine plants that when he came to thresh them out he had more grain than the Koeri, and so in 3 or 4 years the barber became the richer man of the two. XIV. The Prince Who Acquired Wisdom. There was once a Raja who had an only son and the Raja was always urging his son to learn to read and write in order that when he came to his kingdom he might manage well and be able to decide disputes that were brought to him for judgment; but the boy paid no heed to his father's advice and continued to neglect his lessons. At last when he was grown up, the Prince saw that his father was right and he resolved to go away to foreign countries to acquire wisdom; so he set off without telling anyone but his wife, and he took with him a purse of money and three pieces of gold. After travelling a long time, he one day saw a man ploughing in a field and he went and got some tobacco from him and asked him whether there were any wise men living in that neighbourhood. "What do you want with wise men?", asked the ploughman. The Prince said that he was travelling to get wisdom. The ploughman said that he would give him instruction if he were paid. Then the Prince promised to give him one gold piece for each piece of wisdom. The ploughman agreed and said. "Listen attentively! My first maxim is this: You are the son of a Raja; whenever you go to visit a friend or one of your subjects and they offer you a bedstead, or stool, or mat to sit on, do not sit down at once but move the stool or mat a little to one side; this is one maxim: give me my gold coin." So the Prince paid him. Then the ploughman said. "The second maxim is this: You are the son of a Raja; whenever you go to bathe, do not bathe at the common bathing place, but at a place by yourself; give me my coin," and the Prince did so. Then he continued, "My third maxim is this: You are the son of a Raja; when men come to you for advice or to have a dispute decided, listen to what the majority of those present say and do not follow your own fancy, now pay me;" and the Prince gave him his last gold coin, and said that he had no more. "Well," said the ploughman, "your lesson is finished but still I will give you one more piece of advice free and it is this: You are the son of a Raja; Restrain your anger, if anything you see or hear makes you angry, still do not at once take action; hear the explanation and weigh it well, then if you find cause you can give rein to your anger and if not, let the offender off." After this the prince set his face homewards as he had spent all his money; and he began to repent of having spent his gold pieces on advice that seemed worthless. However on his way he turned into a bazar to buy some food and the shopkeepers on all sides called out "Buy, buy," so he went to a shop and the shopkeeper invited him to sit on a rug; he was just about to do so when he remembered the maxim of his instructor and pulled the rug to one side; and when he did so he saw that it had been spread over the mouth of a well and that if he had sat on it he would have been killed[1]; so he began to believe in the wisdom of his teacher. Then he went on his way and on the road he turned aside to a tank to bathe, and remembering the maxim of his teacher he did not bathe at the common place but went to a place apart; then having eaten his lunch he continued his journey, but he had not gone far when he found that he had left his purse behind, so he turned back and found it lying at the place where he had put down his things when he bathed; thereupon he applauded the wisdom of his teacher, for if he had bathed at the common bathing place someone would have seen the purse and have taken it away. When evening came on he turned into a village and asked the headman to let him sleep in his verandah, and there was already one other traveller sleeping there and in the morning it was found that the traveller had died in his sleep. Then the headman consulted the villagers and they decided that there was nothing to be done but to throw away the body, and that as the Prince was also a traveller he should do it. At first he refused to touch the corpse as he was the son of a Raja, but the villagers insisted and then he bethought himself of the maxim that he should not act contrary to the general opinion; so he yielded and dragged away the body, and threw it into a ravine. Before leaving it he remembered that it was proper to remove the clothes, and when he began to do so he found round the waist of the body a roll of coin; so he took this and was glad that he had followed the advice of his teacher. That evening he reached the boundary of his own territory and decided to press on home although it was dark; at midnight he reached the palace and without arousing anyone went to the door of his wife's room. Outside the door he saw a pair of shoes and a sword; at the sight he became wild with rage and drawing the sword he called out: "Who is in my room?" As a matter of fact the Prince's wife had got the Prince's little sister to sleep with her, and when the girl heard the Prince's voice she got up to leave; but when she opened the door and saw the Prince standing with the drawn sword she drew back in fear; she told him who she was and explained that they had put the shoes and sword at the door to prevent anyone else from entering; but in his wrath the Prince would not listen and called to her to come out and be killed. Then she took off her cloth and showed it to him through the crack of the door and at the sight of this he was convinced; then he reflected on the advice of his teacher and repented, because he had nearly killed his sister through not restraining his wrath. XV. The Monkey Boy. There was once a man who had six sons and two daughters and he died leaving his wife pregnant of a ninth child. And when the child was born it proved to be a monkey. The villagers and relations advised the mother to make away with it, but she refused saying "Chando knows why he has given me such a child, but as he has done so I will rear it." All her relations said that if she chose to rear a monkey they would turn her out of the family. However she persisted that she would do so at all costs. So they sent her to live with her child in a hut outside the village, and the monkey boy grew up and learned to talk like a human being. One day his elder brothers began to clear the jungle for cultivation and the monkey boy took a hatchet and went with them; he asked where he could clear land for himself and in fun they showed him the place where the jungle was thickest. So he went there and drove his hatchet into the trunk of a tree and then returned and watched his brothers working hard clearing the scrub, and when they had finished their work he went and fetched his hatchet and returned home with them. Every day he did the same--and one day his brothers asked why he spent all his time with them, but he said that he only came to them when he was tired of cutting down trees; they laughed at this and said that they would like to see his clearing, so he took them to the place and to their astonishment they saw a large clearing, bigger than they had been able to make for themselves. Then the brothers burnt the jungle they had cut down and began to plough the land. But the monkey boy's mother had no plough or cattle nor any seed rice; the only thing in the house was a pumpkin, so he took the seed out of the pumpkin and sowed it in his clearing. His brothers asked what he had sown and he told them--Rice. The brothers ploughed and sowed and used to go daily to watch the growing crop, and one day they went to have a look at the monkey boy's crop and they saw that it was pumpkins and not rice and they laughed at him. When their crop was ripe the brothers prepared to offer the first fruits and the monkey boy watched them that he might observe the same ceremonies as they. One day they brought home the first fruits and offered them to the _bongas_, and they invited the monkey boy and his mother to come to the feast which followed the offering. They both went and enjoyed themselves; and two or three days later the monkey boy said that he would also have a feast of first fruits, so he told his mother to clear the courtyard and invited his brothers and he purified himself and went to his clearing and brought home the biggest pumpkin that had grown there; this he offered to the spirits; he sliced off the top of it as if it were the head of a fowl, and as he did so he saw that the inside was full of rice; he called his mother and they filled a winnowing fan with the rice and there was enough besides to nearly fill a basket; they were delighted at this windfall but kept the matter secret lest they should be robbed. The monkey boy told his mother to be sure and cook enough rice so that his brothers and their wives might have as much as ever they could eat, and not merely a small helping such as they had given him, and if necessary he would go and fetch another pumpkin; so his mother boiled the rice. When the time fixed for the feast came, nothing was to be seen of the brothers because they did not expect that there would really be anything for them to eat; so the monkey boy went and fetched them, and when they came to the feast they were astonished to have as much rice as they could eat. When the crop was quite ripe the monkey boy gathered all the pumpkins and got sufficient rice from them to last for the whole year. After this the brothers went out to buy horses, and the monkey boy went with them and as he had no money he took nothing but a coil of rope; his brothers were ashamed to have him with them and drove him away, so he went on ahead and got first to the place where the horsedealer lived. The brothers arrived late in the evening and decided to make their purchases the following morning and ride their horses home, so they camped for the night. The monkey boy spent the night hiding on the rafters of the stable; and in the night the horses began to talk to each other and discussed which could gallop farthest, and one mare said "I can gallop twelve _kos_ on the ground and then twelve _kos_ in the air." When the monkey boy heard this he got down and lamed the mare by running a splinter into her hoof. The next morning the brothers bought the horses which pleased them and rode off. Then the monkey boy went to the horsedealer and asked why the mare was lame and advised him to apply remedies. But the dealer said that that was useless: when horses got ill they always died; then the monkey boy asked if he would sell the mare and offered to give the coil of rope in exchange; the dealer, thinking that the animal was useless, agreed, so the monkey boy led it away, but when he was out of sight he took out the splinter and the lameness at once ceased. Then he mounted the mare and rode after his brothers, and when he had nearly overtaken them he rose into the air and flew past his brothers and arrived first at home. There he tied up the mare outside his house and went and bathed and had his dinner and waited for his brothers. They did not arrive for a full hour afterwards and when they saw the monkey boy and his mount they wanted to know how he had got home first. He boasted of how swift his mare was and so they arranged to have a race and match their horses against his. The race took place two or three days later and the monkey boy's mare easily beat all the other horses, she gallopped twelve _kos_ on the ground and twelve _kos_ in the air. Then they wanted to change their horses for his, but he said they had had first choice and he was not going to change. In two or three years the monkey boy became rich and then he announced that he wanted to marry; this puzzled his mother for she thought that no human girl would marry him while a monkey would not be able to talk; so she told him that he must find a bride for himself. One day he set off to look for a wife and came to a tank in which some girls were bathing, and he took up the cloth belonging to one of them and ran up a tree with it, and when the girl missed it and saw it hanging down from the tree she borrowed a cloth from her friends and went and asked the monkey boy for her own; he told her that she could only have it back if she consented to marry him; she was surprised to find that he could talk and as he conversed she was bewitched by him and let him pull her up into the tree by her hair, and she called out to her friends to go home and leave her where she was. Then he took her on his back and ran off home with her. The girl's father and relations turned out with bows and arrows to look for the monkey who had carried her off but he had gone so far away that they never found him. When the monkey boy appeared with his bride all the villagers were astonished that he had found anyone to marry him, but everything was made ready for the marriage as quickly as possible and all the relations were invited and the wedding took place and the monkey boy and his wife lived happily ever after. XVI. The Miser's Servant. Once there was a rich man who was a miser. Although he kept farm servants they would never stay out the year with him; but ran away in the middle. When the villagers asked why they ran away and so lost their year's wages the servants answered. "You would do the same in our place: at the busy time of the year he speaks us fair and feeds us well, but directly the crops are gathered he begins to starve us; this year we have had nothing to eat since September." And the villagers said "Well, that is a good reason, a man can stand scolding but not starvation; we all work to fill our bellies, hunger is the worst disease of all." The news that the miser made his servants work for nothing spread throughout the neighbourhood so he could get no servants near by and when he brought them from a distance they soon heard of his character and ran away. Men would only work for him on daily wages and because of his miserliness they demanded higher wages than usual from him and would not work without. Now there was a young fellow named Kora who heard all this and he said "If I were that man's servant I would not run away. I would get the better of him; ask him if he wants a servant and if he says, yes, take me to him." The man to whom Kora told this went to the miser and informed him that Kora was willing to engage himself to him; so Kora was fetched and they had a drink of rice beer and then the miser asked Kora whether he would work for the full year and not run away in the middle. Kora said that he would stay if he were satisfied with the wages. The master said "I will fix your wages when I see your work; if you are handy at every thing I will give you 12 _Kats_ of rice and if you are only a moderate worker then 9 or 10 _Kats_ besides your clothes. How much do you ask for?" And Kora said "Well, listen to me: I hear that your servants run away in the middle of the year because you give them so little to eat, all I ask for my wages is that you give me once a year one grain of rice and I will sow it and you must give me low land to plant all the seed that I get from it; and give me one seed of maize and I will sow it for seed, and you must give me upland to sow all the seed I get from it; and give me the customary quantity of clothes, and for food give me one leaf full of rice three times a day. I only want what will go on a single leaf, you need not sew several leaves together into a plate. I will ask for no second helping but if you do not fill the leaf full I shall have the right to abuse you, and if I do not do all the work you give me properly, then you can abuse me and beat me. If I run away from fear of hard work you may cut off the little finger of my right hand, and if you do not give me the wages we have agreed upon then I shall have the right to cut off the little finger of your hand. What do you say to this proposal: consult your friends and give me your answer." Then the miser answered "I engage you on these terms and if I turn you off without reason you may cut off my little finger." Then Kora turned to the man who had fetched him and said "Listen to all this: if there is any dispute hereafter you will be my witness." So Kora began to work and the first day they gave him rice on a single _sal_ leaf and he ate it up in one mouthful: but the next day he brought a plantain leaf (_which is some three feet long_) and said "Give me my rice on this and mind you fill it full." And they refused: but he said "Why not? it is only a single leaf" and they had to give in because he was within his rights; so he ate as much as he wanted, and every day he brought a plantain leaf till his master's wife got tired and said to her husband "Why have you got a servant like this--he takes a whole pot of rice to himself every day," but he answered "Never mind: his wages are nothing, he is working for his keep alone;" so the whole year Kora got his plantain leaf filled and he was never lazy over his work so they could find no fault with him on that score, and when the year was up they gave him one grain of rice and one seed of maize for his wages for the year. Kora kept them carefully, and his master's sons laughed at him and said "Mind you don't drop them or let a mouse eat them." Kora said nothing but when the time for sowing maize came he took his grain of maize and sowed it by the dung heap, and he called them to see where he sowed it; and at the time of sowing rice he sowed his grain separately, and when the time for transplanting came he planted his rice seedling in a hollow and bade them note it. When the maize ripened it was found that his plant had two big cobs and one small one on it, and his rice seedling sent up a number of ears; and when it ripened he cut it and threshed it and got one _pai_ of rice, and he kept the maize and rice for seed. And the next year also he sowed this seed separately and it produced a big basket of rice and another one of maize, and he kept this also for seed; and in the course of five or six years he had taken all their high lands to sow his seed in and in a few years more he had taken all their rice lands too. Then his master was very miserable but he saw that it was useless to make any complaint and the master became so poor that he had to work as a servant to Kora. At last the miser called the heads of the village together and wept before them, and they had pity on him and interceded for him; but Kora said "It is God who has punished him and not I; he made poor men work for nothing for so long and now he has to suffer;" but they asked him to be merciful and give him some land, and he agreed and said "Cut off his little finger and I will let him off his bargain; and call all the servants whom he has defrauded and I will pay them" but the miser would not have his finger cut off; then Kora said "Let him keep his finger and I will give him back half his land." The miser agreed to this and promised to treat his servants well in future, and in order to lessen his shame he married his daughter to Kora; and he had to admit that it was by his own folly that this trouble had befallen him. XVII. Kuwar and the Raja's Daughter. There was once a rich merchant who lived in a Raja's city; and the Raja founded a school in order that his own children might have some education, and the boys and the girls of the town used to go to the school as well as the Raja's sons and daughters and among them the rich merchant's son, whose name Was Kuwar. In the course of time the children all learned to read and write. In the evenings all the boys used to mount their horses and go for a ride. Now it happened that Kuwar and the Raja's daughter fell in love with each other and she wrote him a letter saying that if he did not marry her she would forcibly install herself in his house. He wrote back and begged her not to come to his house as this would be the ruin of his family; but he said that he would willingly run away with her to a distant country, and spend his whole life with her, if she would overlook the fact that they were of different castes; and if she agreed to this they must settle to what country to go. Somehow news of their intention got about, and the Raja was told that his daughter was in love with the merchant's son. Then the Raja gave orders that his daughter was not to be allowed to go outside the palace, and the merchant spoke severely to Kuwar and neither of them was allowed to go to the school any more. But one day the princess went to the place where the Raja's horses were tied up and among them was a mare named Piyari and she went up to the mare and said "You have eaten our salt for a long time, will you now requite me?" And Piyari said "Certainly I will!". Then the princess asked "If I mount you, will you jump over all these horses and this wall and escape?" And the mare said "Yes, but you will have to hold on very tight." The princess said "That is my look-out: it is settled that on the day I want you you will jump over the wall and escape." Then she wrote a letter to Kuwar and gave it to her maid-servant to deliver into Kuwar's own hands, without letting anyone know: and in the letter she fixed a day for their elopement and told Kuwar to wait for her by a certain tree. So on the day fixed after everyone was asleep Kuwar went to the tree and almost at once the princess came to him riding on Piyari; he asked her how she had escaped and whether she had been seen and she told him how the mare had jumped over the wall without anyone knowing; then they both mounted Piyari and drove her like the wind and in one night they passed through the territory of two or three Rajas and in the morning were in a far country. Then they dismounted to cook their rice, and went to the house of an old woman to ask for a light with which to light their fire. Now this old woman had seven sons and they were all robbers and murderers; and six of them had killed travellers and carried off their wives and married them. When Kuwar and the princess came asking for a light the seven sons were away hunting and when the old woman saw the princess she resolved to marry her to her youngest son, and made a plan to delay them; so she asked them to cook their rice at her house and offered them cooking pots and water pots and firewood and everything necessary; they did not know that she meant to kill Kuwar and unsuspiciously accepted her offer. When they had finished cooking Kuwar asked the old woman whether she lived alone and she told him that she was a widow but had seven sons and they were all away on a trading expedition. The old woman kept on looking out to see if her sons were returning, and she had made an arrangement with them that if she ever wanted them she would set fire to a small hut and they would come home at once when they saw the smoke rising. But before her sons came back Kuwar and the princess finished their meal and paid the old woman and mounted Piyari and gallopped off. Then the old woman set fire to the hut and her sons, seeing the smoke hurried home. She told them that a beautiful girl had just left who would make a suitable wife for the youngest of the brothers. Then the brothers tied on their swords and mounted their horses and went in pursuit. Kuwar and the princess knew nothing of their danger and rode on happily, but presently they heard horses neighing behind them and looking round, saw men riding after them with drawn swords. Then the princess said to Kuwar "Our enemies are upon us; do you sit in front and let me sit behind you, then they will kill us both together. If I am in front they may kill you alone and carry me off alive." But while they were thinking of this the seven brothers caught them up, and began to abuse them and charge them with having set fire to the house in which they had eaten their rice, and told them to come back with them at once. Kuwar and the princess were too frightened to answer and they had no sword with which to defend themselves. Then the robbers surrounded them and killed Kuwar, and they said to the princess "You cannot stay here all alone; we will take you back and you shall marry one of us." The princess answered "Kill me here at once, never will I go with you." They said "We shall take away your horse and all your food, will not that make you go?" But the princess threw herself on the dead body of Kuwar and for all they could do they could not drag her off it. Then the murderers said to the youngest brother "She is to be your wife: you must pull her away." But he refused saying "No, if I take her away she will not stay with me, she will probably hang herself or drown herself; I do not want a wife like that, if any of you want her, you can have her." But they said that it would not be right for one of them to take a second wife while their youngest brother was unmarried, and that their mother intended him to marry this girl; if he would not they would kill her there and then. But the youngest brother had pity on her and asked them to spare her life, so they took away her horse and her food and everything that she had and went away and left her there. For a day and a night the princess lay there weeping and lamenting her dead Kuwar and never ceased for a moment. Then Chando said "who is this who is weeping and what has happened to her?" And he sent Bidhi and Bidha to see what was the matter; they came and told him that a princess was weeping over the body of her dead husband and would not leave him though she had been robbed of everything she had. Then Chando told them to go and frighten her, and if they could frighten her away from her husband's dead body he would do nothing, but if she would not leave him then they were to restore him to life. So they went and found her holding the dead body of her husband In her lap and weeping; and they first assumed the form of tigers and began to circle round her roaring, but she only went on weeping and sang-- "You have come roaring, tigress: First eat me, tigress: Then only will I let you eat the body of my lord." She would not quit the body nor run away from fear of the tigers, so they slunk away and came back in the form of two leopards, and prowled round her growling; but she only sang "You have come roaring, leopardess First eat me, leopardess Then only will I let you eat the body of my lord." and as she would not fly from them they slunk away and came back in the form of two bears, but the princess only sang the same song; then they appeared as two elephants; and then as two huge snakes which hissed terribly but still she only wept; and in many forms they tried to frighten her away but she would not move nor leave the corpse of Kuwar, so in the end they saw that all the heart of the princess was with Kuwar and that even in death they could not be separated, so at last they drew near to her in the form of human beings and asked her why she was crying, as they had heard her weeping from a long way off, and had been filled with pity for her lamentations. Then the princess said "Alas, this youth and I are from such and such a country and as we loved and our lives were bound up in each other we ran away together hither, and here on the road he has been killed and the murderers have left me without my horse or food; and this is why I weep." Then Bidhi and Bidha said "Daughter, rise up and we will take you to your home, or we will find you another husband; this one is dead and cannot be restored to you; you will find another; come arise, you have but one life," But the princess answered "No I will not go and leave him here. I will not leave him while my life lasts; but I pray you if you know of any medicine that might restore him to life, to try it." Then they answered "We know something of medicine and if you wish we will try to cure him;" so saying, they ground up some simples and told the princess to spread out a cloth and lay the dead body on it and to put the head which had been cut off into position, and then to cover it with the cloth and hold the head in position; so she did as they bade, and they rubbed the medicine on the body and then they suddenly disappeared from her sight. Then in a few moments she saw Kuwar's chest heave as if he were breathing; thereupon she shook him violently and he rose up and said "Oh, what a long time I have slept," but the princess said "Do not talk of sleep; you were killed and two men appeared from somewhere and applied medicine and brought you to life again;" then Kuwar asked where they were and she told him how they had disappeared without her knowledge. Then they rose up and went in search of food to a village where there was a bazar, and they tried to get employment as servants; but the people advised them to go to the capital city where the Raja lived, and there if no one would take them as servants they could get employment as coolies on a big tank which the Raja was excavating. So they went there, and as they could not get employment as servants they went to work at the tank with the common coolies and were paid their wages at the end of the week and so managed to live. Kuwar's desire was to somehow save five or six rupees and then build a little house for themselves. Now although the tank had been dug very deep there were no signs of any water. Then the Raja ordered the centre post to be planted in hopes that this would make the water rise; and he told the coolies not to run away as he would make a feast to celebrate the making of the tank and would distribute presents among them, and at this the labourers were very pleased. Now Kuwar's wife was very fair to see and the Raja saw her and fell in love with her and made a plot to get possession of her. So when the centre post had been planted and still no water came he said "We must see what sacrifice is required to make the water come. I have animals of all kinds; one by one they shall be offered and you shall sing and dedicate them." So first an elephant was led down into the bed of the tank and the people sang "Tank, we will sacrifice to you an elephant Let clear water bubble up, O tank," but no water came. Then they led down a horse and sang a similar song, but no water came; and then in succession a camel, a donkey, a cow, a buffalo, a goat and a sheep were offered but no water came; and so they stopped. Then the Raja asked why they stopped and they said that they had no more animals. Then the Raja bade them sing a song dedicating a man, to see if that would bring the water; so they sang and as they sang water bubbled up everywhere from the bottom of the tank and then the coolies were stricken with fear for they did not know which of them would be sacrificed. But the Raja sent his soldiers and they seized Kuwar and bound him to the post in the middle of the tank; and then a song was sung dedicating him to the tank and as the water rose around him the princess wept bitterly; but the Raja said "Do not cry I will arrange for your support and will give you part of my kingdom and you shall live in my palace." The princess said "Yes: hereafter I may stay with you, but let me now watch Kuwar till he is drowned;" so Kuwar fixed his eyes on the princess and tears streamed down his face until the waters rose and covered him; and the princess also gazed at him till he was drowned. Then the Raja's soldiers told her to come with them and she said "Yes, I am coming, but let me first offer a libation of water to my dead husband;" and on this pretext she went into the water and then she darted to the place where Kuwar had been bound and sank beneath the surface. The Raja bade men rescue her but all were afraid to enter the water and she was seen no more. Then the Raja gave all the coolies a feast and scattered money among the crowd and dismissed them. And this is the end of the story. XVIII. The Laughing Fish. There was once a merchant who prospered in his business and in the course of time became very rich. He had five sons but none of them was married. In the village where he lived was an old tank which was half silted up and he resolved to clean it out and deepen it, if the Raja would give it to him; so he went to the Raja and the Raja said that he could have the tank if he paid forty rupees. The merchant paid the money and then went home and called his family together and said that they would first improve the tank and then find wives for all his sons. The sons agreed and they collected coolies and drained off the water and began to dig out the silt. When they had drained off the water they found in the bed of the tank a number of big fish of unknown age: which they caught and two of them they sent to the Raja as a present. When the fish were carried into the presence of the Raja they both began to laugh: then the Raja said "What is the meaning of this? Here are two dead fish, why are they laughing?" And he told the men who brought the fish to explain what was the matter or else to take them away again. But they could give no explanation. Then the Raja called all his officers and astrologers and asked them what they thought it meant: but no one could give him any answer. Then the Raja told the men to take the fish away again, and to tell the merchant that, if he could not explain why the fish laughed, he would kill him and all his descendants; and he wrote a letter to the same effect, and fixed a day by which the merchant was to explain the matter. When the merchant read the letter he fell into the greatest distress and for two or three days he could not make up his mind whether to go on with the work on the tank or no; but in the end he resolved to finish it so that his name might be held in remembrance. So they finished the work and then the merchant said to his sons: "My sons I cannot arrange for your marriages, for the Raja has threatened to kill us all, if I cannot explain why the fish laughed; you must all escape from here so that our family may not die out;" but the younger sons all answered "We are not able to take care of ourselves, either you come with us to protect us or we will stay here." Then the merchant told his eldest son to escape alone so that their family might not become extinct. So the eldest son took a supply of money and went away into a far country. After travelling a long time he came to a town where a Raja lived and decided to stay there; so he first went to a tank and bathed and sat down on the bank to eat some refreshment; and as he sat the daughter of the Raja came down to the tank to bathe and she saw the merchant's son and their eyes met. Then the princess sent her maid-servants to ask him where he came from; and he told them where he came from and that he meant to make a stay in that town, and he promised them a rupee if they could persuade the princess to uncover her face. They went and told their mistress all this and she answered "Go and get your rupee from him, I will uncover my face; and ask him what he wants." And when they went, she drew aside the cloth from her face; then he gave them the rupee, and they asked him whether he had seen her and what his intention was; then he said that his wish was to marry the princess and live with her in her father's house! When the princess heard this she said "Yes, my heart has gone out to him also;" so then she bathed and went home and lay down in her room and would not get up, and when her father asked her what was the matter, she made no answer. Then they asked her maidens what was the matter and they said that she had seen a stranger by the tank and wished to marry him. The Rani asked whether the stranger was still there and they said that they had left him by the tank. So two men were sent to fetch the stranger or to find out where he had gone. The two servants went and found the merchant's son just ready to continue his journey, and they asked him who he was and what he wanted. He said that he was looking for employment but would like best to marry and live in the house of his father-in-law. Then they told him not go away and they would arrange such a marriage for him, so they took him to a house in the town and left him there and went back to the Raja. They told the Raja that the stranger had gone away but that they could follow him and bring him back if he gave them some money for their journey. So the Raja gave them two rupees; then they went off but only ate their dinner at home, and then they brought the merchant's son to the Raja, pretending that they had overtaken him a long way off. He was questioned about himself and he told his whole history except that the Raja had threatened to cut off his family, and his account being satisfactory it was arranged that he should marry the princess. Musicians were sent for and the marriage took place at once. After his marriage the merchant's son was much depressed at the thought of his brothers' fate and in the middle of the night he used to rise up and weep till the bed was soaked with his tears; the princess noticed this and one night she pretended to go to sleep but really lay awake and watched her husband; and in the middle of the night saw him rise quietly and begin to sob. She was filled with sympathy and went to him and begged him to tell her what was the matter and whether he was sorry that he had married her; and he answered "I cry because I am in despair; in the daytime I restrain my tears before others with difficulty but in the night they cannot be kept back; but I am ashamed for you to see me and I wait till you are asleep before I give way to my feelings." Then she asked what was the cause of his sorrow and he answered "My father and mother and brothers and sisters are all doomed to die; for our Raja has sworn to kill them by a certain day if he is not told why two fish, which my father sent to him as a present, laughed when they were brought before him. In consequence of this threat my father sent me from home that one of the family might survive and although I may be safe here the thought of them and their fate makes me weep." The princess asked him what was the day fixed for the mystery to be explained; and he told her that it was at the full moon of a certain month. Then the princess said "Come take me to your father's house: I shall be able to explain why the fishes laughed." The merchant's son joyfully agreed to start off the next day; so in the morning they told the Raja why they wished to go, and he said to his daughter "Go and do not be afraid; go in confidence, I promise you that you will be able to explain why the fishes laughed." So they made ready and journeyed to the merchant's house; and when they arrived they told the merchant to go to the Raja and ask him to collect all the citizens on a certain day to hear the reason why the fishes laughed. The merchant went to the Raja and the Raja gave him a letter fixing the day and all the citizens were assembled in an open plain; and the princess dressed herself as a man and went to the assembly and stood before the Raja. Then the Raja bade her explain why the fishes laughed, and the princess answered "If you wish to know the reason order all your Ranis to be brought here;" so the Ranis were summoned; then the princess said "The reason why the fishes laughed was because among all your wives it is only the eldest Rani who is a woman and all the others are men. What will you give me if this is not proved to be true?" Then the Raja wrote a bond promising to give the merchant half his kingdom if this were proved to be true. When enquiry was made it was found that the wives had really become men, and the Raja was put to shame before all his people. Then the assembly broke up and the merchant received half the Raja's kingdom. XIX. How the Cowherd Found a Bride. There was once a Goala who was in charge of a herd of cattle and every day he used to bring the herd for their midday rest to the foot of a peepul tree. One day the peepul tree spoke and said to him "If you pour milk every day at my roots I will grant you a boon." So thenceforward the Goala every day poured milk at the roots of the tree and after some days he saw a crack in the ground; he thought that the roots of the tree were cracking the earth but the fact was that a snake was buried there, and as it increased in size from drinking the milk it cracked the ground and one day it issued forth; at the sight of it the Goala was filled with fear and made sure that the snake would devour him. But the snake said "Do not fear: I was shut up in the nether world, and you by your kindness have rescued me, I wish to show gratitude to you and will confer on you any boon for which you ask." The Goala answered that the snake should choose what he would give him; then the snake called him near, and breathed on his hair which was very long and it became glistening as gold, and the snake said that his hair would obtain for him a wife and that he would be very powerful; and that whatever he said would come to pass. The Goala asked what sort of things would come to pass. The snake answered "If you say a man shall die he will die and if you say he shall come to life, he will come to life. But you must not tell this to anyone; not even to your wife when you marry; if you do the power will vanish." Some time afterwards it happened that the Goala was bathing in the river; and as he bathed one of his hairs came out and the fancy took him to wrap it in a leaf and set it to float down the stream. Lower down the river a princess was bathing with her attendants and they saw the packet come floating down and tried to stop it but it floated straight to the princess and she caught it and opened it and found the hair inside. It shone like gold and when they measured it, it was twelve fathoms long. So the princess tied it up in her cloth and went home and shut herself up in her room, and would neither eat nor drink nor speak. Her mother sent two of her companions to question her, and at last she told them that she would not rise and eat until they found the person to whom the golden hair belonged; if it were the hair of a man he should be her husband and if it came from a girl she would have that girl come and live with her. When the Raja and Rani heard this and that the hair had come floating down the river they went to their daughter and told her that they would at once send messengers up the stream to find the owner of the hair. Then she was comforted and rose up and ate her rice. That very day the Raja ordered messengers to follow up the banks of the stream and enquire in all the villages and question every one they met to find trace of the owner of the golden hair; so the messengers set out on both banks of the stream and followed it to its source but their search was vain and they returned without news; then holy mendicants were sent out to search and they also returned unsuccessful. Then the princess said "If you cannot find the owner of the golden hair I will hang myself!" At this a tame crow and a parrot which were chained to a perch, said "You will never be able to find the man with the golden hair; he is in the depths of the forest; if he had lived in a village you would have found him, but as it is we alone can fetch him; unfasten our chains and we will go in search of him." So the Raja ordered them to be unfastened and gave them a good meal before starting, for they could not carry a bag of provisions with them like a man. Then the crow and the parrot mounted into the air and flew away up the river, and after long search they spied the Goala in the jungle resting his cattle under the peepul tree; so they flew down and perched on the peepul tree and consulted how they could lure him away. The parrot said that he was afraid to go near the cattle and proposed that the crow should fly down and carry off the Goala's flute, from where it was lying with his stick and wrapper at the foot of the tree. So the crow went flitting from one cow to another till it suddenly pounced on the flute and carried it off in its beak; when the Goala saw this he ran after the crow to recover his flute and the crow tempted him on by just fluttering from tree to tree and the Goala kept following; and when the crow was tired the parrot took the flute from him and so between them they drew the Goala on right to the Raja's city, and they flew into the palace and the Goala followed them in, and they flew to the room in which the princess was and dropped the flute into the hand of the princess and the Goala followed and the door was shut upon him. The Goala asked the princess to give him the flute and she said that she would give it to him if he promised to marry her and not otherwise. He asked how he could marry her all of a sudden when they had never been betrothed; but the princess said "We have been betrothed for a long time; do you remember one day tying a hair up in a leaf and setting it to float downstream; well that hair has been the go-between which arranged our betrothal." Then the Goala remembered how the snake had told him that his hair would find him a wife and he asked to see the hair which the princess had found, so she brought it out and they found that it was like his, as long and as bright; then he said "We belong to each other" and the princess called for the door to be opened and brought the Goala to her father and mother and told them that her heart's desire was fulfilled and that if they did not allow the wedding to take place in the palace she would run away with the Goala. So a day was fixed for the wedding and invitations were issued and it duly took place. The Goala soon became so much in love with his bride that he forgot all about his herd of cattle which he had left behind, without any one to look after them; but after some time he bethought himself of them and he told his bride that he must return to his cattle, whether she came with him or no. She said that she would take leave of her parents and go with him; then the Raja gave them a farewell feast and he made over to the Goala half his kingdom, and gave him a son's share of his elephants and horses and flocks and herds and said to him "You are free to do as you like: you can stay here or go to your own home; but if you elect to stay here, I shall never turn you out." The Goala considered and said that he would live with his father-in-law but that he must anyhow go and see the cattle which he had abandoned without any one to look after them. So the next day he and his wife set off and when they got to the jungle they found that all the cattle were lying dead. At this the Goala was filled with grief and began to weep; then he remembered the promise of the snake that he should be able to restore the dead to life and he resolved to put it to the test. So he told his wife that he would give the dead cows medicine and he got some jungle roots as a blind and held them to the noses of the dead animals and as he did so, he said "Come to life" and, behold, one by one the cows all got up and began lowing to their calves. Having thus proved the promises of the snake the Goala was loud in his gratitude and he filled a large vessel with milk and poured it all out at the foot of the peepul tree and the snake came and breathed on the hair of the princess and it too became bright as gold. The next day they collected all the cows and drove them back to the princess' home and there the Goala and his wife lived happily, ruling half the kingdom. And some years after the Goala reflected that the snake was to him as his father and mother and yet he had come away in a hurry without taking a proper farewell, so he went to see whether it was still there; but he could not find it and he asked the peepul tree and no answer came so he had to return home disappointed. XX. Kara and Guja. Once upon a time there were two brothers named Kara and Guja who were first class shots with the bow and arrow. In the country where they lived, a pair of kites were doing great damage: they had young ones in a nest in a tree and used to carry off children to feed their nestlings until the whole country was desolated. So the whole population went in a body to the Raja and told him that they would have to leave the country if he could not have the kites killed. Then the Raja made proclamation that any one who could kill the two kites should receive a large tract of land as a reward, and thereupon many men tried to kill them; but the kites had made their nest of ploughs and clod-crushers so that the arrows could not hit them, and the shooters had to give up the attempt. At last Kara and Guja thought that they would try, so they made an ambush and waited till the birds came to the nest to feed their young and then shot them both through the hole in a clod-crusher into which the pole fits, and the two kites fell down dead, at the source of the Ganges and Jumna, and where they fell they made a great depression in the ground. Then Kara and Guja carried the bodies to the Raja and he gave them a grant of land; and their grateful neighbours made a large rice field of the depression which the kites had made in the earth and this was given to Kara and Guja as service land to their great delight. Kara and Guja used to spend their time in the forest, living on what they could find there; they slept in a cave and at evening would cook their rice there or roast jungle roots. One day a tiger spied them out as they were roasting tubers and came up to them suddenly and said. "What are you cooking? Give me some or I will eat you." So while they went on eating the roasted tubers, they threw the coals from the fire to the tiger at the mouth of the cave and he crunched them up and every now and then they threw him a bit of something good to eat; the tiger would not go away but lay there expecting to be fed, and Kara and Guja debated how to get rid of him. Then Guja suddenly jumped up and dashed at the tiger and caught him by the tail and began to twist the tail and he went on twisting until he twisted it right off and the tiger ran roaring away. Kara and Guja roasted the tail and ate it, and they found it so nice that they decided to hunt the tiger and eat the rest of him. So the two brothers searched for him everywhere and when they found him they chased him until they ran him down and killed him; then they lit a fire and singed the hair off and roasted the flesh and made a grand meal: but they did not eat the paunch. Kara wanted to eat it but Guja would not let him, so Kara carried it away on his shoulder. Presently they sat down in the shade of a banyan tree by the side of a road and along the road came a Raja's wedding procession; when Kara and Guja saw this they climbed into the tree and took the tiger's paunch up with them. The wedding party came to a halt at the foot of the tree and some of them lay down to eat and the Raja got out of his palki and lay down to sleep in the shade. After a time Kara got tired of holding the tiger's paunch in his arms and whispered to Guja that he could hold it no longer, Guja told him on no account to let it go but at last Kara got so tired that he let it fall right on the top of the Raja; then all the Raja's attendants raised a shout that the Raja's stomach had burst and all ran away in a panic leaving everything they had under the tree; but after they had gone a little distance they thought of the goods they had left behind and how they could not continue the journey without them, so they made their way back to the banyan tree. But meanwhile Kara and Guja had climbed down and gathered together all the fine clothes and everything valuable and taken them up into the tree. And Kara took up a large drum which he found and in one end of the drum he made a number of little holes: and he caught a number of wild bees which had a nest in the tree and put them one by one into the drum. When the Raja's attendants came back and saw that there were two men in the tree, they called out: "Why have you dishonoured our Raja? We will kill you." Kara and Guja answered "Come and see who will do the killing." So they began to fight and the Raja's men fired their guns at Kara and Guja till they were tired of shooting, and had used up all their powder and shot, but they never hit them. Then Kara and Guja called out "Now it is our turn!" And when the Raja's men saw that Kara and Guja had nothing but a drum they said "Yes, it is your turn." So Kara and Guja beat the drum and called "At them, my dears: at them my dears." And the wild bees flew out of the drum and stung the Raja's men and drove them right away. Then Kara and Guja took all their belongings and went home and ever after were esteemed as great Rajas because of the wealth which they had acquired. XXI. The Magic Cow. There was once a Raja who had an only son named Kara and in the course of time the Raja fell into poverty and was little better than a beggar. One day when Kara was old enough to work as a cowherd his father called him and said "My son, I am now poor but once I was rich. I had a fine estate and herds of cattle and fine clothes; now that is all gone and you have scarcely enough to eat. I am old and like to die and before I leave you I wish to give you this advice: there are many Rajas in the world, Raja above Raja; when I am dead do you seek the protection of some powerful Raja." As there was not enough to eat at home Kara had to take service as goat-herd under a neighbouring Raja; by which he earned his food and clothes and two rupees a year. Some time afterwards his father died and Kara went to his master and asked for a loan of money with which to perform his father's funeral ceremonies, and promised to continue in his service until he had worked off the loan. So the Raja advanced him five rupees and five rupees worth of rice, and with this money Kara gave the funeral feast. Five or six days later his mother died, and he again went to the Raja and asked for ten rupees more; at first the Raja refused but Kara besought him and promised to serve him for his whole life if he could not repay the loan. So at last the Raja lent him ten rupees more, and he gave the funeral feast. But the Raja's seven sons were very angry with their father because he had lent twenty rupees to a man who had no chance of paying, and they used to threaten and worry Kara because he had taken the money. Then Kara remembered how his father had said that there were many Rajas in the world, Raja above Raja, and he resolved to run away and seek service with the greatest Raja in the world. So he ran away and after travelling some distance he met a Raja being carried in a palki and going with a large party to fetch a bride for his son; and when he heard who it was he decided to follow the Raja; so he went along behind the palki and at one place a she-jackal ran across the road; then the Raja got out of his palki and made a salaam to the jackal. When Kara saw this he thought "This cannot be the greatest Raja in the world or why should he salaam to the jackal. The jackal must be more powerful than the Raja; I will follow the jackal." So he left the wedding party and went after the jackal; now the jackal was hunting for food for her young ones, and as Kara followed her wherever she went she could find no opportunity of killing a goat or sheep; so at last she went back to the cave in which she lived. Then her cubs came whining to meet her and she told her husband that she had been able to catch nothing that day because a man had followed her wherever she went, and had come right up to their cave and was waiting outside. Then the he-jackal told her to ask what the man wanted. So she went out to Kara and asked him and Kara said "I have come to place myself under your protection;" then she called the he-jackal and they said to him, "We are jackals and you are a man. How can you stay with us; what could we give you to eat and what work could we find for you to do?" Kara said that he would not leave them as all his hopes lay in them; and at last the jackals took pity on him and consulted together and agreed to make him a gift as he had come to them so full of hope; so they gave him a cow which was in the cave, and said to him: "As you have believed in us we have made up our minds to benefit you; take this cow, she will supply you with everything you want; if you address her as mother she will give you whatever you ask, but do not ask her before people for they would take her from you; and do not give her away whatever inducements are offered you." Then Kara thanked them and called down blessings on their heads and took the cow and led it away homewards. When he came to a tank he thought he would bathe and eat; while he bathed he saw a woman washing clothes at the other side of the tank but he thought that she would not notice him, so he went up to the cow and said "Mother, give me a change of clothes." Thereupon the cow vomited up some nice new clothes and he put them on and looked very fine. Then he asked the cow for some plates and dishes and she gave them; then he asked for some bread and some dried rice, and he ate all he wanted and then asked the cow to keep the plates and dishes for him; and the cow swallowed them up again. Now the woman by the tank had seen all that had happened and ran home and told her husband what she had seen and begged him to get hold of the wonderful cow by some means or other. Her husband could not believe her but agreed to put it to the test, so they both went to Kara and asked where he was going and offered to give him supper, and put him up for the night and give grass for his cow. He accepted this invitation and went with them to their house and they gave him the guest-room to sleep in and asked what he would have to eat, but he said that he did not want any supper,--for he intended to get a meal from the cow after every one was asleep. Then the man and his wife made a plot and pretended to have a violent quarrel and after abusing each other for some time the man flung out of the house in a passion and pretended to run away; but after going a short distance he crept back quietly to the guest-room. Hanging from the roof was the body of a cart and he climbed up into that and hid himself, without Kara knowing anything about it. When Kara thought that every one was asleep, he asked his cow for some food and having made a good meal went to sleep. The man watching up above saw everything and found that his wife had spoken the truth; so in the middle of the night he climbed down and led away Kara's magic cow and put in its place one of his own cows of the same colour. Early the next morning Kara got up and unfastened the cow and began to lead it away, but the cow would not follow him; then he saw that it had been changed and he called his host and charged him with the theft. The man denied it and told him to call any villagers who had seen him bring his cow the day before; now no one had seen him come but Kara insisted that the cow had been changed and went to summon the village headman and the villagers to decide the matter: but the thief managed to give a bribe of one hundred rupees to the headman and one hundred rupees to the villagers and made them promise to decide in his favour; so when they met together they told Kara that he must take the cow which he had found tied up in the morning. Kara protested and said that he would fetch the person from whom he had got the cow and take whichever cow he pointed out. Telling them that they were responsible for his cow while he was away, he hastened off to the cave where the jackals lived. The jackals somehow knew that he had been swindled out of the cow, and they met him saying "Well, man, have you lost your cow?" And he answered that he had come to fetch them to judge between himself and the villagers: so the jackals went with him and he went straight to the headman and told him to collect all the villagers; meanwhile the jackals spread a mat under a peepul tree and sat on it chewing _pan_ and when the villagers had assembled the jackal began to speak, and said: "If a judge takes a bribe his descendants for several generations shall eat filth, in this world and the next; but if he make public confession, then he shall escape this punishment. This is what our forefathers have said; and the man who defrauds another shall be thrust down into hell; this also they have said. Now all of you make honest enquiry into this matter; we will swear before God to do justice and the complainant and the accused shall also take oath and we will decide fairly." Then the village headman was conscience stricken and admitted that he had taken a bribe of one hundred rupees, and the villagers also confessed that they had been bribed; then the jackal asked the accused what he had to say to this: but he persisted that he had not changed the cow; the jackal asked him what penalty he would pay if he were proved guilty and he said that he would pay double. Then the jackal called the villagers to witness that the man had fixed his punishment, and he proposed that he and his wife should go to the herd of cattle, and if they could pick out the cow that Kara claimed it would be sure proof that it was his. So the jackals went and at once picked out the cow, and the villagers were astonished and cried. "This is a just judgment! They have come from a distance and have recognised the cow at once." The man who had stolen it had no answer to give; then the jackal said: "You yourself promised to pay double; you gave a bribe of one hundred rupees to the headman and one hundred rupees to the villagers and the cow you stole is worth two hundred rupees that is four hundred rupees, therefore you must pay a fine of eight hundred rupees;" and the man was made to produce eight hundred rupees and the jackal gave all the money to the villagers except ten rupees which he gave to Kara; and he kept nothing for himself. Then Kara and the jackals went away with the cow, and after getting outside the village the jackals again warned Kara not to ask the cow for anything when anyone was by and took their leave of him and went home. Kara continued his journey and at evening arrived at a large mango orchard in which a number of carters were camping for the night. So Kara stopped under a tree at a little distance from the carters and tied his cow to the root. Soon a storm came up and the carters all took shelter underneath their carts and Kara asked his cow for a tent and he and the cow took shelter in it. It rained hard all night and in the morning the carters saw the tent and wondered where it came from, and came to the conclusion that the cow must have produced it; so they resolved to steal the cow. Kara did not dare to make the cow swallow the tent in the day time while the carters were about, so he stayed there all the next day and at night the cow put away the tent. Then when Kara was asleep some carters came and took away the cow and put in its place a cow with a calf, and they hid the magic cow within a wall of packs from their pack bullocks. In the morning Kara at once saw what had happened and went to the carters and charged them with the theft; they denied all knowledge of the matter and told him he might look for his cow if he liked; so he searched the encampment but could not see it. Then he called the village headman and chowkidar and they searched and could not find the cow and they advised Kara to keep the cow and calf as it must be better than his own barren cow; but he refused and said that he would complain to the magistrate and he made the headman promise not to let the carters go until he came back. So he went to a Mahommedan magistrate and it chanced that he was an honest man who gave just judgments and took no bribes, and made no distinction between the rich and the poor; he always listened to both sides carefully, not like some rascally magistrates who always believe the story that is first told them and pay no attention to what the other side say. So when Kara made his complaint this magistrate at once sent for the carters and the carters swore that they had not stolen the cow: and offered to forfeit all the property they had with them, if the cow were found in their possession. Then the magistrate sent police to search the encampment and the police pulled down the pile of packs that had been put round the cow, and found the cow inside and took it to the magistrate. Then the magistrate ordered the carters to fulfil their promise and put them all in prison and gave all their property to Kara. So Kara loaded all the merchandise on the carts and pack bullocks and went home rejoicing. At first the villagers did not recognise who it was who had come with so much wealth but Kara made himself known to them and they were very astonished and helped him to build a grand house. Then Kara went to the Raja from whom he had borrowed the money for his parents' funerals and paid back what he owed. The Raja was so pleased with him that he gave him his daughter in marriage and afterwards Kara claimed his father-in-law's kingdom and got possession of it and lived prosperously ever after. And the seven sons of his first master who used to scold him were excited by his success and thought that if they went to foreign parts they also could gain great wealth; so they took some money from their father and went off. But all they did was to squander their capital and in the end they had to come back penniless to their father. XXII. Lita and His Animals. Once upon a time there was a man who had four sons: two of them were married and two were unmarried and the youngest was named Lita. One day Lita went to his father and asked for fifty or sixty rupees that he might go on a trading expedition and he promised that if he lost the money he would not ask for any share in the paternal property. As he was very urgent his father at last gave him sixty rupees and he set out on his travels. After going some way he came to a village in which all the inhabitants were chasing a cat; he asked them what was the matter and they told him that the cat was always stealing their Raja's milk and the Raja had offered a reward of twenty rupees to anyone who would kill it. Then Lita said to them "Do not kill the cat; catch it alive and give it to me and I will pay you twenty rupees for it; then you can go to the Raja and say that you have killed it and ask for the reward; and if the Raja asks to see the body tell him that a stranger came and asked for the body, for he thought that a cat which had fed on milk should be good eating and so you gave it to him." The villagers thought that this would be an excellent plan and promised to bring him the cat alive. They soon managed to catch it hiding under a heap of firewood and brought it to Lita and he paid them twenty rupees and then they went to the Raja and got twenty rupees from him. Then Lita went on, and by-and-bye came to a village where the villagers were hunting an otter in a tank; they had made a cut in the bank and had let out all the water. Lita went to them and asked what they were doing; they said that they were hunting for an otter which had been destroying the Raja's fish and the Raja had promised them a reward if they killed it, and they had driven it into the tank and were draining off the water in order to catch it. Then Lita offered to buy it of them if they brought it to him alive; so when they caught it they brought it to him and he gave them money for it and continued his journey with the cat and the otter. Presently he saw a crowd of men and he went up to them and asked what they were doing: and they told him that they were hunting a rat which was always gnawing the Raja's pens and papers and the Raja had offered a reward for it, and they had driven it out of the palace, but it had taken refuge in a hole and they were going to dig it out Then Lita offered to buy it from them as he had bought the other two animals and they dug it out and sold it to him. He went on and in the same way found a crowd of men hunting a snake which had bitten many people: and he offered to buy it for twenty rupees and when they had chased it till it was exhausted, they caught it alive and sold it to Lita. As his money was all spent, he then set off homewards; and on the way the snake began to speak and said: "Lita, you have saved my life; had you not come by, those men would certainly have had my life; come with me to my home, where my father and mother are, and I will give you anything you ask for; we have great possessions." But Lita was afraid and said: "When you get me there you will eat me, or if you don't, your father and mother will." But the snake protested that it could not be guilty of such ingratitude and at last Lita agreed to accompany it when he had left the other animals at his home. This he did and set off alone with the snake, and after some days they reached the snake's home. The snake told Lita to wait outside while he went and apprized his parents and he told Lita that when he was asked to choose his reward he should name nothing but the ring which was on the father-snake's finger, for the ring had this property that if it were placed in a _seer_ of milk and then asked to produce anything whatever, that thing would immediately appear. Then the snake went on to his home and when the father and mother saw him they fell on his neck and kissed him and wept over him saying that they had never expected to see him again; the snake told them how he had gone to the country of men and how a reward had been set on his head and he had been hunted, and how Lita had bought him from the men who would have killed him. The father snake asked why he had not brought Lita to be rewarded and the snake said that he was afraid that when they saw him they would eat him. But the father and mother swore that they could not be guilty of such ingratitude, and when he heard this the snake went and brought in Lita, and they entertained him handsomely for two days; and on the third day the father snake asked Lita what he would take as his reward. Lita looked round at the shining palace in which they lived and at first was afraid to speak but at last he said: "I do not want money or anything but the ring on your finger: if you will not give me that, I will take nothing; I saved your son from peril and that you will remember all your lives, and if you give me the ring I will honour you for it as long as I live." Then the father and mother snake consulted together and the mother said "Give it to him as he asks for it" so the father snake drew it from his finger and gave it to Lita and they gave him also some money for his journey back; and he went home and found the other three animals safe and sound waiting for him. After a time his father said that Lita must marry; so marriage go-betweens were sent out to look for a bride and they found a very rich and beautiful girl whose parents were agreeable to the match. But the girl herself said that she would only marry a man who would build a covered passage from her house to his, so that she could walk to her new home in the shade. The go-betweens reported this, and Lita's father and brothers consulted and agreed that they could never make such a passage, but Lita said to his father: "Arrange the match; it shall be my charge to arrange for making the covered passage; I will not let you be put to shame over it." For Lita had already put the ring to the test: he had dropped it into a _seer_ of milk and said "Let five _bharias_ of parched rice and two _bharias_ of curds appear" and immediately the parched rice and curds were before him; and thereupon he had called out "The snake has worthily rewarded me for saving his life;" and the cat and the otter and the rat overheard what he said. So the go-between was told to arrange for the wedding to take place that very month, as Lita's birthday fell in the next month, which therefore was not suitable for his wedding. Then the bride's family sent him back to say that they were prepared to send a string of nine knots; and the next day the go-between told this to Lita's family and they said that they were willing to accept it; so the go-between brought a string of nine knots to signify that the wedding would take place in nine days. The days passed by and Lita's father and brothers became very anxious because they saw no sign of the covered passage; but on the very night before the wedding, Lita took his ring and ordered a covered passage to be made from the one house to the other with a good path down the middle; and the next morning they found it made; and the bridegroom's party passed along it to the bride's house and the bride was escorted home along it. Now the bride had been deeply in love with another young man who lived in her village and had much wished to marry him but her wishes of course were not consulted in the matter. Some time after the marriage she one day in the course of conversation asked her husband Lita how much he had spent on making the covered passage to her house and how he had built it so quickly. He told her that he knew nothing about it; that his father and mother had arranged for it and no doubt had spent a large sum of money. So the next day she took an opportunity of asking her mother-in-law about it, but Lita's mother said that nothing had been spent at all; somehow the passage had been made in one night, she knew not how. Then Lita's wife saw that Lita was keeping a secret from her, and she began to reproach him for having any secrets from his wife: and at last when she had faithfully promised never to reveal the matter to anyone, he told her the secret of the ring. Now her former lover used still to visit her and one day she sent for him and said that she would no longer live with Lita, but wished to run away with him. The lover at first objected that they would be pursued and killed while if they escaped to a distance he would have nothing to support her with; but the faithless woman said that there need be no anxiety about that and she told him about the magic ring and how by means of it they could provide themselves with a house and everything they wanted. So they fixed a night for the elopement and on that night when Lita was asleep his wife quietly drew the ring off his finger and went out to her lover who was waiting outside and told him to get a goat from the pen; then they beheaded the goat and went inside and poured all its blood on the ground under the bed on which Lita was sleeping, and then having hid the body and head of the goat, they ran away. Towards morning Lita woke up and missed his wife, so he lit a lamp to look for her and then saw the pool of blood under the bed. At this sight he was terror stricken. Some enemy had killed and carried off his wife and he would be charged with the murder. So he lay there wondering what would happen to him. At last his mother came into the room to see why he and his wife had not got up as usual and when she saw the blood she raised a cry; the village headman and chowkidar were sent for and they questioned Lita, but he could only say that he knew nothing of what had happened; he did not know what the blood was, he did not know where his wife was. Thereupon they sent two men to the house of the wife's parents to see if by any chance she had run away there and in any case to bring her relations to be present at the enquiry into her disappearance. When her father and brothers heard what had happened they at once went to Lita's house in wrath and abused him as a murderer. They asked why, if his wife had not done her duty to him, he had not sent her back to them to be chastised and taught better, instead of murdering her and they went straight to the magistrate and complained: the magistrate sent police who arrested Lita and took him before the magistrate. Meanwhile it had become known that not only was Lita's wife missing but also her lover; and Lita's father presented a petition to the magistrate bringing this to notice and asserting that the two must have run away together. Then the magistrate ordered every search to be made for the missing couple but said that Lita must remain in custody till they were found, so he was shut up in prison. From prison he made an application to the magistrate that his three tame animals, the cat and the otter and the rat might be brought to the place where he was; the magistrate kindly consented but the animals were not allowed into the prison. However at night the rat being small made its way inside and found out Lita, and asked what was to be done. Lita said that he wanted the three animals to save him from his great danger as he had saved them; he wanted them to trace his wife and her lover and recover the ring; they would doubtless find them living in some gorgeous palace, the gift of the ring. The rat went out and gave the other two Lita's message and they readily undertook to do their best; so the next morning the three animals set off. In vain they hunted all over the country, till one day they came to the bank of the Ganges and there on the other side they saw a palace shining like gold. At this their hopes revived, for this might be a palace made by the magic ring. But the cat and the rat objected that they could not cross the river. The otter said that he would easily manage that and he took the cat on his back and the rat climbed on to the back of the cat and so the otter ferried them both across the river; then they consulted and decided that it would be safest to wait till the evening before they went to the palace to see who lived in it. When they looked in in the evening, they at once recognised Lita's wife and her lover; but these two were in constant terror of being pursued and when they had had their evening meal they fastened and bolted every entrance so securely that no one could gain admittance. Then the cat and the otter told the rat that he must collect all the rats of the neighbourhood and they must burrow through the wall and find some way of abstracting the magic ring. So the rat collected a crowd of his friends and in no time they bored a hole through the wall; then they all began to look for the ring; they hunted high and low but could not find it; however the cat sat at the entrance of the hole which they had made and vowed that they should not come out, unless they got the ring. Then the first rat climbed on to the bed in which the couple were sleeping and searched their clothes and examined their fingers and toes but in vain; then he thought that the woman might have it in her mouth so he climbed on to her chest and tickled her nose with the tip of his tail; this made her sneeze and behold she sneezed out the ring which she had hidden in her mouth. The rat seized it and ran off with it and when the cat was satisfied that he had really got it, she let him out and the three friends set off rejoicing on their homeward journey. They crossed the river in the same way as when they came with the cat riding on the otter and the rat on the cat: and the rat held the ring in its mouth. Unfortunately when they were halfway across, a kite swooped down to try and carry off the rat. Twice it swooped and missed its grasp but the second time it struck the rat with its wing and the rat in terror let the ring fall into the river. When they reached the bank the three friends consulted what they were to do in this fresh misfortune. As the otter was the only one who could swim it volunteered to look for the ring, so it plunged into the water and searched the bottom of the river in vain; then it guessed that a fish must have swallowed the ring and it set to work to catch every fish it saw and tore them open; at last in the stomach of a big fish it found the ring, so it brought the fish to the bank and while they were all rejoicing and eating a little of the fish a kite swooped down and carried off the fish, ring and all. The three animals watched the kite flying away with the fish; but some women who were gathering firewood ran after the kite and took the fish from it and putting it in their basket went home. Then the otter and the rat said to the cat "Now it is your turn: we have both recovered the ring once, but we cannot go into the house of these humans. They will let you go near them easily enough; the ring is in the fish's stomach, you must watch whether they throw away the stomach or clean it, and find an opportunity for carrying off the ring." So the cat ran after the women and when they began to cut up the fish, it kept mewing round them. They threw one or two scraps to it, but it only sniffed at them and would not eat them; then they began to wonder what on earth the cat wanted, and at last they threw the stomach to it. This it seized on gladly and carried it off and tore it open and found the ring and ran off with it to where the otter and the rat were waiting. Then the three friends travelled hard for a day and a night and reached the prison in which Lita was confined. When Lita got the ring he begged his jailer to get him a _seer_ of milk and when it was brought he dropped the ring in it, and said "I wish the bed on which my faithless wife and her lover are sleeping to be brought here with them in it this very night" and before morning the bed was brought to the prison. Then the magistrate was called and when he saw that the wife was alive he released Lita, and the lover who had run away with her had to pay Lita double the expenditure which had been incurred on his marriage, and was fined beside. But Lita married another wife and lived happily with her. And some time afterwards he called the otter and the cat and the rat to him and said that he purposed to let them go and before they parted he would give them anything they wished for. They said that he owed them nothing, and they made Lita promise to let them know if ever he lost the ring or fell into trouble, and he promised to help them if ever their lives were in danger, and one morning he took them to a bazar, near which was a tank full of fish, and he turned the otter into the tank and left the cat and the rat to support themselves in the bazar. The next day he went to see them and the otter came out of the tank and gave him a fish which it had caught, and the cat brought him some milk it had stolen, and that was the last he saw of them. XXIII. The Boy Who Found His Father. There was once a boy who used always to cheat when playing _Kati_ (pitch and toss) and for this the village boys with whom he played used to quarrel with him, saying "Fatherless orphan, why do you cheat?" So one day he asked his mother why they called him that name and whether his father was really dead. "He is alive" said she "but a long time ago a rhinoceros carried him off on its horn." Then the boy vowed that he would go in search of his father and made his mother put him up provisions for the journey; and he started off taking with him an iron bow and a big bundle of arrows. He journeyed on all day and at nightfall he came to a village; there he went up to the house of an old woman to ask for a bed. He stood at the threshhold and called out to her "Grannie, grannie, open the door." "I have no son, and no grandchildren to call me grannie," grumbled the old woman and went to open the door to see who was there, and when she opened the door and saw him, she said "Ho, you are my grandson." "Yes," answered he, "I am your grandchild." So she called him inside and gave him a bed to sleep on. The old woman was called Hutibudi; and she and the boy sat up late talking together and then they lay down to sleep; but in the middle of the night he heard the old woman crunching away trying to bite his bow to pieces. He asked her what she was eating: "Some pulse I got from the village headman," "Give me a little to try" he begged. "I am sorry my child, I have finished it all." But really she had none to give, however she only hurt her jaws biting so that she began to groan with pain: "What are you groaning for, Grannie?" said the boy; "Because I have toothache" she answered: and in truth her cheeks were badly swollen. Then he told her that a good cure for toothache was to bite on a white stone and she believed him and the next morning got a piece of white quartz and began to bite on it; but this only broke her teeth and made her mouth bleed so that the pain was worse than before: then the boy jeered at her and said. "Did you think, Grannie, that you could bite my iron bow and arrows?" So saying he left her and continued the search for his father and his road led him to a dense jungle which seemed to have no end, and in the middle of the jungle he came to a lake and he sat down by it to eat what was left of the provisions he had brought: as he sat, he suddenly saw some cow-bison coming down to the lake: at this he caught up his bow and arrows in a hurry and climbed up a tall _sal_ tree: from the tree he watched the bison go down to the water to drink and then go back into the jungle. And after them tigers and bears came down to the water: the sight of them frightened him and he sang:-- "Drink your fill, tiger, I shall not shoot you. I shall shoot the giant rhinceros." and they drank and went away. Then various kinds of birds came and after them a great herd of rhinceroses and among them was one which had the dried up body of the boy's father stuck on its horn. The boy was rather frightened and sang "Drink your fill, rhinceroses, I shall not shoot you I shall shoot the giant rhinceros." and when the giant rhinceros with the body of his father stooped its head to drink from the lake, he put an arrow through it and it turned a somersault and fell over dead: while all the other rhinceroses turned tail and ran away. Then the boy climbed down from the tree and pulled the dead body of his father off the horn of the dead animal and laid it down at the foot of a tree and began to weep over it. As he wept a man suddenly stood before him and asked what was the matter, and when he heard, said "Cry no more: take a cloth and wet it in the lake and cover your father's body with it: and then whip the body with a _meral_ twig and he will come to life." So saying the stranger suddenly disappeared; and the boy obeyed his instructions and behold his father sat up alive and rubbing his eyes said "I must have been asleep a very long time." Then his son explained to him all that had happened and gave him some food and took him home. XXIV. The Oilman's Bullock. There was once a poor but industrious oilman; he got a log of wood and carved out an oil mill and, borrowing some money as capital, he bought mustard and sesame seed and set to work to press it; as he had no bullock he had to turn the mill himself. He was so industrious that he soon began to prosper and was able to buy a bullock for his mill. By and bye he got so rich that he was able to buy some land and a cart and pair of bullocks and was quite a considerable man in the village. One day one of his cart bullocks died and this loss was a sad blow to the oilman. However he tied up the surviving bullock in the stable along with the old oil mill bullock and fed them well. One night it chanced that one of the villagers passed by the stable and hear the two animals talking and this is what he heard. The young bullock said "You came to this house first, friend; what sort of treatment does one get here?" "Why do you ask me?" said the other. "Oh, I see your shoulder is galled and your neck shows mark of the yoke." The old bullock answered "Whether my master treats me well or ill I owe him money and have to stay here until I have paid him off. When I have paid him five hundred rupees I shall go." "How will you ever pay back such a sum?" "If my master would only match me to fight the Raja's elephant for five hundred rupees I should win the fight and my debt would be cleared; and if he does not do that I shall probably have to work for him all my life. How long do you intend to stay?" "My debt will be cleared if I work for him two years" answered the new comer. The man who overheard this conversation was much astonished and went off to the oilman and told him all about it. Next day the whole village had heard of it and they were all anxious for the oilman to match his bullock against the Raja's elephant; but the oilman was very frightened, for he feared that if he sent such a challenge, the Raja would be angry with him and drive him out of the country. But the leading villagers urged him and undertook to find the money if he lost, and to persuade the Raja that the oilman was mad, if he became angry with him. At last the oilman consented, provided that some of the villagers went to the Raja and proposed the match; he was too frightened to go himself. So two of the village elders went to the Raja and asked him to match his elephant against the oilman's bullock for five hundred rupees; the Raja was very much amused and at once fixed a day for the fight. So they returned and told the oilman to be ready and raised a subscription of five hundred rupees. The evening before the contest the oilman gave the bullock a big feed of meal and oilcake; and on the eventful morning the villagers all collected and watched him oiling its horns and tying a bell round its neck. Then the oilman gave the bullock a slap on its back and said "Take care: you are going to fight an elephant; if you owe me so much money you will win, and if not, then you will be defeated." When he said this the bullock pawed the ground and snorted and put down its head. Then they all set out with the five hundred rupees to a level field near the Raja's palace; a great crowd collected to see the fun and the Raja went there expecting easily to win five hundred rupees. The elephant was brought forward with vermilion on its cheeks, and a pad on its back, and a big bell round its neck, and a mahout riding it. The crowd called out "Put down the stakes:" so each side produced the money and publicly announced that the owner of the animal which should be victorious should take all the stakes. But the oilman objected to the mahout's riding the elephant; no one was going to ride his bullock. This was seen to be fair and the mahout had to get off; then the fight began. The bullock snorted and blew through its nose, and ran at the elephant with its head lowered. Then the elephant also rushed forward but the bullock stood its ground and stamped; at this the elephant turned tail and ran away; the bullock ran after it and gored it from behind until it trumpeted with pain. The crowd shouted "The Raja's elephant is beaten." And the oilman took the five hundred rupees and they all went home. From that day the oilman no longer put the bullock to work the oil mill but fed it well and left it free to go where it liked. But the bullock only stayed on with him for one month and then died. XXV. How Sabai Grass Grew. Once upon a time there were seven brothers who had an only sister. These brothers undertook the excavation of a large tank; but although they spent large sums and dug very deep they could not reach water and the tank remained dry. One day as they were consulting what to do to get the tank to fill, they saw a Jogi corning towards them with a lota in his hand; they at once called to him to come and advise them, for they thought that, as he spent his time wandering from country to country, he might somewhere have learned some thing which would be of use to them. All the Jogi said to them was "You have a sister: if you sacrifice her, the tank will fill with water." The brothers were fond of the girl, but in their despair at seeing their labour wasted they agreed to give the advice of the Jogi a trial. So they told their mother the next day that, when their sister brought them out their midday meal, she was to be dressed in her best and carry the rice in a new basket and must bring a new water pot to draw their water in. At midday the girl went down to her brothers with her best cloth and all her jewellery on; and when they saw their victim coming they could not keep from tears. She asked them what they were grieving for; they told her that nothing was the matter and sent her to draw water in her new water-pot from the dry tank. Directly the girl drew near to the bank the water began to bubble up from the bottom; and when she went down to the water's edge it rose to her instep. She bent down to fill her pot but the pot would not fill though the water rose higher and higher; then she sang:-- "The water has risen, brother, And wetted my ankle, brother, But still the _lota_ in my hand Will not sink below the surface." But the water rose to her knees and the pot would not fill, and she sang:-- "The water has risen, brother, And wetted my knees, brother, But still the lota in my hand Will not sink below the surface." Then the water rose to her waist and the pot would not fill, and she sang:-- "The water has risen, brother, And wetted my waist, brother, But still the lota in my hand Will not sink below the surface." Then the water reached her neck and the pot would not fill; and she sang:-- The water has risen, brother, And wetted my neck, brother, But still the lota in my hand Will not sink below the surface." At last it flowed over her head and the water-pot was filled, but the girl was drowned. The tank however remained brimful of sparkling water. Now the unhappy girl had been betrothed and her wedding day was just at hand. On the day fixed the marriage broker came to announce the approach of the bridegroom; who shortly afterwards arrived at the outskirts of the village in his palki. The seven brothers met him, and the usual dancing began. The bridegroom's party however wished to know why the bride did not appear. The brothers put them off with various excuses, saying that the girl had gone with her friends to gather firewood or to the river to draw water. At last the bridegroom's party got tired of waiting and turned to go home in great wrath at the way in which they had been treated. On their way they passed by the tank in which the girl had been sacrificed and, growing in the middle of it, they saw a most beautiful flower. The bridegroom at once determined to possess this, and he told his drummers to pick it for him; but whenever one of them tried to pick it, the flower moved out of his reach and a voice came from the flower saying:-- "Take the flower, drummer, But the branch you must not break." and when they told him what the flower sang the bridegroom said that he would try and pick it himself; no sooner had he reached the bank than the flower of its own accord floated towards him and he pulled it up by the roots and took it with him into the palki. After they had gone a little way the palki bearers felt the palki strangely heavy: and when they looked in they found the bride also sitting in it, dressed in yellow garments; for the flower was really the girl who had been drowned. So they joyfully took the happy couple with drumming and music to the bridegroom's house. In a short time misfortune befel the seven brothers; they fell into the deepest poverty and were forced to earn what they could by selling leaves and sticks which they gathered in the jungle. As they went about selling these, they one day came to the village where their sister was living and as they cried their wares through the streets they were told to go to the house where the marriage had taken place. They went there, and as they were selling their leaf plates their sister saw and recognised them; they had only ragged loincloths on, and their skins were black and cracked like a crocodile's. At the sight their sister began to cry. Her friends asked what was the matter and she said a straw from the thatch had run into her eye, so they pulled down some of the thatch; she still went on crying and they again asked what was wrong; she said that she had knocked her foot against a stone in the ground; so they dug up the stone and threw it away. But she still went on weeping and at last confessed that the miserable-looking leaf-sellers were her brothers. Then her husband's parents told her to be comforted, and they gave the brothers oil and bade them go and bathe and oil their bodies: but the brothers were so hungry that when they got to the bathing place they drank the oil and ate the oil cake that had been given to them; and came back with their skins as rough as when they went. So then they were given more oil and some of the household went with them and made them bathe and oil themselves properly and then brought them to the house and gave them new clothes and made them a feast of meat and rice. According to the custom of the country they were made to sit down in order of age and were helped in that order; when they had all been helped and had eaten, their sister said to them "Now brothers you come running to me for food, and yet you sacrificed me in the tank." Then they were overwhelmed with shame: they looked up at the sky but there was no escape there; they looked down at the earth; and the earth split open and they all ran into the chasm. The sister tried to catch the youngest brother by the hair and pull him out, calling "Come back, brother, come back brother, you shall carry my baby about for me!" but his hair came off in her hand and the earth swallowed them all up. Their sister planted the hair in a corner of the garden and it is said that from that human hair, _sabai_ grass originated. XXVI. The Merchant's Son and the Raja's Daughter. Once a merchant's wife and a Raja's wife were both with child and one day as they bathed together they fell into conversation, and they agreed that if they both bore daughters then the girls should be "flower friends" while if one had a son and one a daughter then the children should marry: and they committed the agreement to writing. A month or two later the Raja's wife bore a daughter and the merchant's wife a son. When the children grew up a bit they were sent to school, and as they were both very intelligent they soon learnt to read and write. At the school the boys used to be taught in an upstairs room and the girls on the ground floor. One day the boy wrote out a copy of the agreement which their mothers had made and threw It down to the girl who was below. She read it and from that day they began to correspond with each other; love soon followed and they decided to elope. They fixed a day and they arranged that the boy should wait for the girl under a _turu_ tree outside the town. When the evening came the girl made haste to cook her parents' supper and then, when they went to bed, she had as usual to soothe them to sleep by rubbing their limbs; all this took a long time and the merchant's son soon got tired of waiting, so he sang to the tree:-- "Be witness be witness for me 'Turu tree' When the Raja's daughter comes." and so singing he tied his horse to the roots of the tree and himself climbed up into the branches, and sitting in the tree he pulled off and threw down a number of twigs. Late at night the Raja's daughter came; she saw the horse tied and the twigs scattered on the ground, but no other sign of her lover. And at last she got tired of waiting and called the _Turu_ tree to witness, singing:-- "Be witness be witness for me 'Turu tree' When the merchant's son comes." As she finished her song the merchant's son threw down a large branch to her, so she looked up and saw him sitting in the tree. Then she climbed up to him and began to scold him for putting her to the pain of waiting so long. He retorted "It was you who made me anxious by keeping me waiting." "That was not my fault: you know how much work a woman has to do. I had to cook the supper and put my parents to bed and rub them to sleep. Climb down and let us be off." So they climbed down from the tree and mounted the horse and rode off to a far country. On the road the girl became very thirsty but in the dense jungle they could find no water, at last the merchant's son threw a stone at hazard and they heard it splash in a pool; so they went in the direction of the sound and there they found water but it was foul and full of worms and the girl refused to drink it. She said that she would only drink water "which had a father and mother." So they went on their way, and after a time they came to a number of crows holding a meeting and in the midst was an owl with its head nodding drowsily; it was seeing dreams for them; every now and then a crow would give it a shove and ask what it had dreamt, but the owl only murmured that it had not finished and went off to sleep again. At last it said "I have seen a gander and a goose go down into a river and swim about in it." The merchant's son and his companion went on and presently came to a river in full flood, which was quite uncrossable; on the far bank was a cow lowing to a calf which had been left on the bank where they were. When she saw them the girl began to sing:-- "The cow lows for its calf The calf bleats for its mother: My father and mother Are weeping for me at home." When he heard her lament like this the merchant's son exclaimed "You women are all alike, come let us go back." "How can we go back now?" answered the girl "You of course can pretend that you have been hunting; but we women lose our character if we are hidden by a bush for a minute." So as they could not cross the river by themselves, a goose and gander carried them across on their backs. As they went on the merchant's son asked the girl how far she would like to go, a six days' journey or a six months' journey. He told her that in the six months' journey they would only have fruits and roots and such like to eat and water to drink, but the six days' journey was easy and free from hardship. The girl chose the six days' journey, so they went on for six days and came to a stream on the banks of which stood a cottage in which lived an old woman. Before they went up to it the girl told her lover not to eat any rice given to him by the old woman but to throw it to the fowls; then they went and asked to be allowed to cook their food there; now the old woman had seven unmarried sons, who were away hunting at the time, and when she saw the Raja's daughter she wished to detain her and marry her to one of her sons. So in order to delay them she gave them a damp stove and green firewood to cook with; she also offered the merchant's son some poisoned rice but he threw it to the fowls, and when they ate it they fell down dead. The girl could not make the fire burn with the green wood, so they hurried away as fast as they could without waiting to cook any food. Before they started however the old woman managed to tie up some mustard seed in a cloth and fasten it to their horse's tail, so that as they rode, the seed was spilt along the road they took. When the old woman's sons came back from hunting she greeted them by saying: "Why did you not come back sooner? I have just found a pretty wife for you; but I have tied mustard seed to their horse's tail and it is being scattered along the road: in one place it is sprouting in another it is flowering; in another it is seeding and in another it is ripe; when you get to the place where it is ripe you will catch them." So the seven brothers pursued the two lovers and caught them up, but the merchant's son cut down six of them with his sword; the seventh however hid under the horse's belly and begged for mercy and offered to serve them as groom to their horse. This man's name was Damagurguria; they spared his life and he followed them running behind the horse; but he watched his opportunity and caught the merchant's son unawares and killed him with his sword. Then he told the girl that she belonged to him and she admitted it and asked that she might ride behind him on the horse, so Damagurguria mounted and took her up behind him and turned homewards. He could not see what the girl was doing and they had not gone far when she drew his sword and killed him with it. Then she rode back to where the body of her lover lay and began to weep over it. As she sat there a man in shining white clothing appeared and asked what was the matter; she told him Damagurguria had killed her lover. Then he bade her stop crying and go and wet a _gamcha_ he gave her and come straight back with it without looking behind her and then pick a _meral_ twig and beat the corpse with it. So the girl took the _gamcha_ and went and dipped it in a pool but, as she was bringing it back, she heard a loud roaring behind her and she looked back to see what it was; so the stranger sent her back again to the pool and this time she did not look round though she heard the same roaring. Then the stranger told her to join the severed head to the body and cover it with the wet _gamcha_; and then, after waiting a little, to beat the body with the _meral_ twig. So saying he disappeared. The girl carefully complied with these instructions and to her joy saw the merchant's son sit up and rub his eyes, remarking that he must have been asleep for a long time. Great was his astonishment when he heard how Damagurguria had killed him and how he had been restored to life by the help of the stranger in white. This was the end of the lovers' troubles and they lived happily ever after. XXVII. The Flycatcher's Egg. One day a herd boy found a flycatcher's egg and he brought it home and asked his mother to cook it for him, but she put it on a shelf and forgot about it. His mother was a poor woman and had to go out all day to work; so before she started she used always to cook her son's dinner and leave it covered up all ready for him. No sooner had she gone to work than a _bonga_ girl used to come out of the flycatcher's egg and first eat up the rice that had been left for the herd boy and then quickly put water on to boil and cook some rice with pulse; and, having eaten part of it, cover up the rest, ready for the herd boy on his return. Then she used to comb and dress her hair and go back into the egg. This happened every day and at last the boy asked his mother why she gave him rice cooked with pulse every day, as he was tired of it. His mother was much astonished and said that some one must have been changing his food, because she always cooked his rice with vegetables. At this the boy resolved to watch and see who was touching his food; so one day he climbed up on to the rafters and lay in wait. Presently out of the egg came the _bonga_ girl and cooked the food and combed her hair as usual. Just as she was going back into the egg, the herd boy sprang down and caught her. "Fi, Fi," cried she "is it a _Dome_ or a _Hadi_ who is clasping me?" "No _Dome_ or _Hadi_," said he: "we are husband and wife:" so he took her to wife and they lived happily together. He strictly forbade her ever to go outside the house and he said incantations over some mustard seed and gave it to her, and told her that, if any beggars came, she was to give them alms through the window and, if they refused to take them in that way, then she was to throw the mustard seed at them; but on no account to go outside the house. One day when her husband was away a jugi came begging; the _bonga_ girl offered him alms through the window but the jugi flatly refused to take them; he insisted on her coming out of the house and giving them. Then she threw the mustard seed at him and he turned into ashes. By superior magic however he at once recovered his own form and again insisted on her coming outside to give him alms, so she went out to him and he saw how beautiful she was. The jugi went away and one day he went to beg at the Raja's palace and, talking to the Raja, he told him how he had seen a girl of more than human beauty. The Raja resolved to possess her, and one day he took the form of a fly and flew to the house and saw the beautiful _bonga_; a second day he came back in the same form and suddenly caught her up and flew off with her on his back to his palace, and in spite of her weeping shut her up in a beautifully furnished room on the roof of his palace. There she had to stay and her food was brought to her there. When the herd boy came home and found that his beautiful wife was missing he filled the air with lamentations and leaving his home he put on the garb of a jugi and went about begging. One day he came to the palace of the Raja who had carried off his wife; as he begged he heard his wife's voice, so he sang:-- "Give me, oh give me, my flycatcher wife, Give me my many-coloured wife." Then they offered him a jar full of money to pacify him, but he threw the rupees away one by one and continued his lament. Then the Raja called for his two dogs Rauta and Paika and set them on the man and they tore him to death. At this his wife wept grievously and begged them to let her out since there was no one to carry her away, now that her husband was dead. They prepared to take away the corpse to burn it and the _bonga_ girl asked to be allowed to go with them as she had never seen the funeral rites of a jugi: so they let her go. Before starting she tied a little salt in the corner of her cloth. When she reached the burning place, she sang to the two dogs:-- "Build the pyre, Rauta and Paika! Alas! The dogs have bitten the jugi, Alas! They have chased and killed the jugi." So the two dogs built the pyre and lay the body on it. Then she ordered them to split more wood, singing:-- "Cut the wood, Rauta and Paika! Alas! The dogs have bitten the Jugi, Alas! They have chased and killed the jugi." So they split more wood and then she told them to apply the fire, singing:-- "Light the fire, Rauta and Paika! Alas! The dogs have bitten the Jugi, Alas! they have chased and killed the jugi." When the pyre was in full blaze she suddenly said to the dogs "Look up, Rauta and Paika, see the stars are shining in the day time." When the two dogs looked up, she threw the salt into their eyes, and, while they were blinded, she sprang into the flames and died as a _sati_ on the body of her husband. XXVIII. The Wife Who Would Not Be Beaten. There was once a Raja's son who announced that he would marry no woman who would not allow him to beat her every morning and evening. The Raja's servants hunted high and low in vain for a bride who would consent to these terms, at long last, they found a maiden who agreed to be beaten morning and evening if the prince would marry her. So the wedding took place and for two or three days the prince hesitated to begin the beating; but one morning he got up and, taking a stick from the corner, went to his bride and told her that she must have her beating. "Wait a minute" said she "there is one thing I want to point out to you before you beat me. It is only on the strength of your father's position that you play the fine gentleman like this: your wealth is all your father's and it is on his wealth that you are relying. When you have earned something for yourself, and made a position for yourself, then I am willing that you should beat me and not before." The prince saw that what his bride said was true and held his hand. Then, in order to earn wealth for himself, he set out on a trading expedition, taking quantities of merchandise loaded in sacks; and he had a large band of retainers with him, mounted on horses and elephants, and altogether made a fine show. The princess sent one of her own servants with the prince and gave him secret instructions to watch his opportunity and if ever, when the prince was bathing, he should throw away a loin cloth, to take possession of it without the prince knowing anything about it and bring it to her. The prince journeyed on till he came to the country called Lutia. The Raja of Lutia was walking on the roof of his palace and he saw the cavalcade approaching, and he sent a _sipahi_ to meet the prince and ask him this question, "Have you the secret of prosperity for ever or of prosperity for a day?" When this question was put to the prince he answered that he had the secret of prosperity for ever. When the Lutia Raja was told of this answer, he ordered his men to stop the prince's train; so they surrounded them and seized all the merchandise and the prince's retainers fled on their horses and elephants and left him alone and penniless. In his distress the prince was forced to take service with a rich Hindu, and he had nothing to live on but what his master chose to give him, and all he had to wear was a loin cloth like the poorest labourer. The only man who did not desert him was the servant whom the Princess had sent; and one day he saw that the prince had thrown away an old loin cloth while bathing; this he picked up and took home to his mistress, who put it away. When she heard all that had happened to her husband, she set out in her turn to the Lutia country and all she took with her was a mouse and a shawl. When she reached the Lutia country the Raja as before sent a messenger to ask whether she knew the secret of prosperity for ever or of prosperity for a day. She answered "prosperity for a day." Thereupon the Raja had her sent for and also all the retainers who had deserted the Prince and who had collected together in the neighbourhood. When they had all come the Raja said that he would now decide who should have all the wealth which had been taken from the prince: he produced a cat and said that the person towards whom the cat jumped should have all the wealth. So they all sat round the Raja and the Princess had her mouse hidden under her shawl and every now and then she kept uncovering its head and covering it up again. The cat soon caught sight of the mouse and, when the Raja let it go, it jumped straight to the Princess in hopes of catching the mouse. The Raja at once adjudged all the merchandise to her, and she loaded it on the horses and elephants and took it home accompanied by her husband's retainers. A few days afterwards her husband came home, having got tired of working as a servant, and, putting a bold face on it, he went up to her and said that now he was going to beat her; all the retainers who had accompanied him when he set out to trade and also the servant whom the princess had sent with him were present. Then, before them all, the princess took up the old loin cloth and asked him if he knew to whom it had belonged; at this reminder of his poverty the prince was dumb with shame. "Ask your retainers" continued the princess "to whom all the merchandise with which you set out now rightfully belongs, ask them whether it is yours or mine, and then say whether you will beat me." The prince had no answer to give her and after this lesson gave up all idea of beating his bride. XXIX. Sahde Goala. Once a marriage was arranged between Sahde Goala and Princess Chandaini and on the wedding day when it began to get dusk Sahde Goala ordered the sun to stand still. "How," said he, "can the people see the wedding of a mighty man like myself in the dark?" So at his behest the sun delayed its setting for an hour, and the great crowd which had assembled saw all the grand ceremonies. The next day Sahde and his bride set off home and it took them three days to reach the place where he lived. Before they left they had invited the princess's father to come and see them; accordingly a day or two later he set out, but it took him three months to accomplish the distance which Sahde Goala had traversed in three days. When the old Raja reached his son-in-law's house they welcomed him and washed his feet and offered him refreshments; and when he had eaten, he asked his son-in-law to take him out for a stroll. So they went out, Sahde Goala in front and the old Raja following behind him and as they walked Sahde Goala struck his foot against a stone, and the stone was shattered to pieces. When the Raja saw this proof of his son-in-law's superhuman strength, he became alarmed for his daughter's safety. If Sahde ever lost his temper with her he might clearly smash her to atoms, so he made up his mind that he could not leave her in such keeping. When he told his daughter what he had seen she was as frightened as her father and begged him to take her home, so they agreed to escape together some time when Sahde Goala was out of the way. One morning Sahde Goala went out to watch his men working in the fields and the old Raja and his daughter seized this opportunity to escape. Sahde Goala had a sister named Lorokini and she ran to the field to tell her brother that his wife was running away. "Let her go" said Sahde Goala. The old Raja travelled faster than his daughter and left her behind and as she travelled along alone Sahde Goala made a flooded river flow across her path. It was quite unfordable so the Princess stood on the bank and sang:-- "My mother gave me birth, My father gave me in marriage: If the water upstream would stand still And the water downstream would flow away Then I could go and live in my own home." But no such thing happened and she had to go back to her husband's house. When she arrived her mother-in-law gave her a large basket of cooked rice and a pot of relish and told her to take them to the labourers in the field. Her mother-in-law helped her to lift the basket on to her head and she set off. When she reached the field she called to her sister-in-law:-- "Come Lorokini, Lift down from my head The basket of rice And the pot of relish." But Lorokini was angry with her for trying to run away and refused to help, singing:-- "I will not come I will not lift down the basket: Prop it against a _murup_ tree: I will not lift it down." Then Chandaini Rani propped it against the trunk of a _murup_ tree, and so set it on the ground. Then she sang to her husband:-- "Here, husband, is the lota of water: Here, husband, is the tooth stick; Come, and wash your hands: If you are angry with me Take me back to my father and mother." But Sahde Goala was ploughing at the head of his men and paid no attention to her: then she sang again:-- "Seven hundred labourers And twenty hundred women labourers, You are causing to die of thirst." But still Sahde Goala paid no attention. Then Chandaini Rani got angry and by leaning the basket against the _murup_ tree managed to get it on to her head again and carried it home, and from that time murup trees grow slanting. Directly she had taken the rice and relish to the house she set off again to run away to her mother. As before Sahde Goala caused a flooded river to flow across her path and as before she sang:-- "My mother gave me birth, My father gave me in marriage: If the water upstream would stand still And the water downstream would flow away Then I could go and live in my own home," And this time the water did stand still and the water below all flowed away and she crossed over. As she crossed she said "If I am really chaste no one will be able to touch me." And as she reached the opposite bank she saw a young man sitting waiting for her; his name was Bosomunda, he had been sitting waiting for her on the bank for days without moving. When he saw Chandaini Rani mount the bank he rose and said "Come: I have been waiting for you, you are to be my mistress." "Fie, fie!" answered she "Am I to belong to any Dome or Hari?" Bosomunda swore that she should be his. "If so, then follow a little behind me so as not to tread on my shadow." So they went on, the Rani in front and Bosomunda behind. Presently they came to a tamarind tree on which grew two enormous fruits; the Rani pointed to them saying "If I am to belong to you, you must pick me those fruits." So Bosomunda began to climb the tree, and as he climbed she prayed that the tree might grow and touch the sky; and in fact as fast as Bosomunda climbed so the tree grew and he got no nearer to the fruit. Then the Chandaini Rani picked up the weapons which he had laid on the ground and threw them away one to the north and one to the south, one to the east and one to the west, and ran off as fast as she could. Bosomunda at first did not see her because his eyes were fixed on the tamarind fruit, but after she had gone a long way he caught sight of her and came down as fast as he could and, gathering up his weapons, went in pursuit. But Chandaini Rani had got a long start, and as she hurried along she passed a thorn tree standing by the side of the road and she called to it "Thorn tree, Bosomunda is coming after me, do your best to detain him for a little." As she spoke it seemed as if a weight descended on the tree and swayed it to and fro so that its branches swept the ground, and it answered her "I will do like this to him." Then she went on and met a goat on the road, and she asked it to do its best to delay Bosomunda, and the goat pawed the ground and dug its horns into the earth and said that it would do the same to Bosomunda. Then she went on and met a ram and made the same request; the ram charged a tree and butted it right over and promised to treat Bosomunda in the same way. Afterwards she came to a bull and the bull drove its horns into a bank and brought down a quantity of earth and said that that was the way he would treat Bosomunda. Next she came to a buffalo and the buffalo charged a bank of earth to show what he would do to Bosomunda. Then she came to an elephant and the elephant trampled a clod of earth to dust and said that he would treat Bosomunda so. Then she went on and saw a paddy bird feeding by the roadside and she asked it to do its best to delay Bosomunda; the paddy bird drove its bill into the earth and said that it would treat Bosomunda in the same way. Meanwhile Bosomunda was in hot pursuit. When he came to the thorn tree, the tree swayed its branches and caught him with its thorns, but he cut down the tree and freed himself; he went on a little way and met the goat which ran at him with its horns, but Bosomunda sang:-- "Do not fight with me, goat, I will cut off your legs and cut off your head And take them to the shrine of Mahadeo." So saying, he killed the goat and cut off its head and tied it to his waist and went on. Next the ram charged him but he sang: "Do not fight with me, Ram, I will cut off your legs and cut off your head And take them to the shrine of Mahadeo." So saying he killed the Ram and took its head. Then in succession he was attacked by the bull and the buffalo and the elephant, but he killed them all and cut off their heads. Then he came to the paddy bird, which pretended to be busily engaged in picking up insects and gradually worked its way nearer and nearer. Bosomunda let it get quite close and then suddenly seized it and gave its neck a pull which lengthened it out considerably; "Thank you" said the paddy bird, as he put it down "now I shall be able to catch all the fish in a pool without moving." Thereupon Bosomunda caught it again and gave its neck a jerk and that is why paddy birds have necks shaped like a letter S. Bosomunda continued his pursuit and caught up Chandaini Rani just as she was entering her father's house; he seized her by her hair and managed to cut off the edge of her cloth and pull off one of her golden anklets, and then had to let her go. He took up his abode at the _ghat_ of a tank and began to kill every one who came down to the water. The citizens complained to the Raja of the destruction he was causing and the Raja ordered some valiant man to be searched for, fit to do battle with the murderer; so they sent for a Birbanta (giant) and the Raja promised to give him half his kingdom and his daughter in marriage if he could slay Bosomunda. So the Birbanta made ready for the fight and advanced brandishing his weapons against Bosomunda. Three days and three nights they fought, and in the end the Birbanta was defeated and killed. Then the Raja ordered his subjects to find another champion and a Birburi was found willing to undertake the fight in hope of the promised reward; and as he was being taken to the field of battle his mother met him with a ladle full of curds and told him to do a war dance, and as he was dancing round she threw the curds at him; he caught the whole of it on his shield except one drop which fell on his thigh; from this his mother foresaw that he would bleed to death In the fight, so she took some rice and ran on ahead and again met her son and told him to do the war dance and show how he was going to fight; and as he danced his sword shivered to atoms. His mother said, "Is this the way in which you intended to fight, of a surety you would have met your death." Then she made him gather together the pieces of his sword and cover them with a wet cloth, and in a few minutes the pieces joined together; then she allowed him to go to the fight. When the battle began the Birburi's mother kept calling out "Well, Bosomunda, have you killed my son?" This enraged Bosomunda and he kept running after the old woman to drive her away, and this gave the opportunity to the Birburi to get in a good blow; in this way they fought for seven days and nights and at the end Bosomunda was defeated and killed. Then the Raja gave half his kingdom to the Birburi and married him to his daughter Chandaini Rani. After their marriage they set out for their new home and on the way they met Sahde Goala who had come in search of his missing wife. "Hulloa" cried Sahde Goala "where are you taking my wife to?" "I know nothing about your wife" said the Birburi "this is the Raja's daughter whom I have married as a reward for killing Bosomunda; he has given me half his kingdom from Sir Sikar to the field of the cotton tree." Then Sahde Goala told him to go his way, so the Birburi and the Rani went on and Sahde Goala caused a flooded river with the water flowing bank high to cross their path. As they waited on the bank Sahde Goala made the Birburi an offer that, if he could carry the woman across the river without getting the sole of her foot wet, then she should belong to him and if not Sahde Goala should take her. The Birburi agreed and tried and tried again to get the Rani across without wetting her, but the flood was too strong, so at last he gave in and Sahde Goala took her back with him to their former home. There they lived and in the course of time Chandaini Rani bore a son and she named him Dhonontori, and after the birth of their son the family became so wealthy (dhon) that the Hindus revered Dhonontori as a god. And so ends the story. XXX. The Raja's Son and the Merchant's Son. Once upon a time the son of a Raja and the son of a merchant were great friends; they neither of them had any taste for lessons but would play truant from school and waste their time running about the town. The Raja was much vexed at his son's behaviour; he wished him to grow up a worthy successor to himself, and with this object did all he could to break off his friendship with the merchant's son, as the two boys only led each other into mischief; but all his efforts failed and at last he offered a reward of one hundred rupees to any one who could separate them. One of the Raja's concubines made up her mind to earn the reward, and one day she met the two boys as they were going out to bathe. The Raja's son was walking ahead and the merchant's son a little way behind; the woman ran after the merchant's son and threw her arms round him and putting her lips to his ear pretended to whisper to him and then ran away. When they met at the river the Prince asked the merchant's son what the woman had told him, his friend denied that she had said anything but for all his protestations the Prince would not believe this. They quarrelled about it for a long time and at last the Prince went home in a rage and shut himself up in his room and refused to eat or be comforted. His father sent to enquire what was the matter with him and the Prince replied that food should not pass his lips until the merchant's son had been put to death. Thereupon the Raja sent for some soldiers and told them to devise some means of killing the merchant's son. So they bound the youth and showed him to the Prince and said that they would take him to the jungle and kill and bury him there. They then led him off, but on the road they caught a lamb and when they got to the jungle they killed the lamb and steeped the clothes of the merchant's son in the blood that they might have something to show to the Prince and then went back leaving the boy in the jungle. They took the bloody cloth to the Prince and told him to rise and eat, but when he saw the blood, all his old friendship revived and he was filled with remorse and could not eat for sorrow. Then the Raja told his soldiers to find out some friend to comfort the Prince, and they told him that they would soon set things straight and going off to the jungle brought back the merchant's son and took him to the Prince; and the two youths forgot their differences and were as friendly as before. Time passed and one day the Prince proposed to his friend that they should run away and seek their fortunes in the world. So they fixed a day and stole away without telling anyone, and, as they had not taken any money, they soon had to look about for employment. They found work and the arrangement their masters made with them was this: their wages were to be as much rice each day as would go on a leaf; and if they threw up their work they were to forfeit one hand and one ear; on the other hand if their masters discharged them so long as they were willing to work for this wage the master was to lose one hand and one ear. The merchant's son was cunning enough to turn this agreement to his advantage, for every day he brought a large lotus leaf to be filled with rice; this gave him more than he could eat and he soon grew fat and flourishing, but the Raja's son only took an ordinary _sal_ leaf to his master and the rice that he got on this was not enough to keep him alive, so he soon wasted away and died. Now the merchant's son had told his master that his name was Ujar: one day his master said "Ujar, go and hoe that sugar cane and look sharp about it." So Ujar went and instead of hoeing the ground dug up all the sugar cane and piled it in a heap. When the master saw his fine crop destroyed he was very angry and called the villagers to punish Ujar, but when they questioned him, Ujar protested that he was bound to obey his master's orders; he had been ordered to hoe the sugar cane, not the ground, and he had done as he was told, and so they had to let him off. Another day a Hindu neighbour came to Ujar's master and asked him to lend him his servant for a day. So Ujar went to the Hindu's house and there was told to scrape and spin some hemp, but Ujar did not understand the Hindu language and when he got the knife to scrape the hemp with, he proceeded to chop it all up into little pieces; when the Hindu saw what had happened he was very angry and called in the neighbours, but Ujar protested that he had been told to cut the hemp and had done so; and so he got off. Ujar's master had an only child and one day he told Ujar to take the child to a tank and give him a good washing, so Ujar took the child to a tank and there proceeded to dash the child against a stone in the way that washermen wash clothes; he knocked the child about until he knocked the life out of him and then carefully washed him in the tank and brought the body home and put it on the bed. Next morning the father was surprised not to hear the child running about and, going to look, found the dead body. The villagers assembled but Ujar protested that his master had told him to wash the child thoroughly and he had only obeyed orders; so they had to let him off again. After this the master made up his mind to get rid of Ujar, but he was in a fix: he could not dismiss him because of the agreement that if he did not continue to employ him so long as he was willing to serve for one leaf full of rice a day he was to lose a hand and an ear. So he decided to kill him, but he was afraid to do so himself for fear of being found out; so he decided to send Ujar to his father-in-law's house and get them to do the job. He wrote a letter to his father-in-law asking him to kill the bearer directly he arrived before many people knew of his coming and this letter he gave to Ujar to deliver. On the way however Ujar had some misgivings and he opened the letter and read it; thereupon he tore it in pieces and instead of it wrote a letter to his master's father-in-law in which his master was made to say that Ujar was a most valuable servant and they should give him their youngest daughter in marriage as soon as possible. The fraud was not found out and directly Ujar arrived he was married to the youngest daughter of his master's father-in-law. A few days later the master went to see how his plan had worked and was disgusted to find Ujar not only alive but happily married. So he thought that he would entice him into the jungle and kill him there; with this object he one day invited Ujar to come out hunting with him, but Ujar suspected what was up and took a hatchet with him; and directly they got to the jungle he fell behind his master and cut him down with his hatchet and then went home and told his wife's relations that his master had got tired of hunting and had gone back to his own home; no doubts were raised about his story and he lived on happily with his wife till he died at a ripe old age. XXXI. The Poor Widow. Once there was a poor widow who had two children; she lived by daily labour and if she got no work any day, then that day they had to go without food. One morning she went out to look for work and a rich woman called her and asked if she wanted a job; she said "Yes, that is what I am looking for," then the rich woman said "Stay here and pick the lice out of my hair, and I will pay you your usual wages and give you your dinner as well." So the poor widow agreed and spent the day picking out the lice and at evening the rich woman brought out a measure of rice to give her as her wages and, as she was measuring it, she felt her head itch and she put up her hand and scratched and pulled out a large louse. Then she got very angry and scolded the widow and said that she would pay her nothing as she had not done her work properly and she turned her out. Then the widow was very unhappy for she had nothing to give her starving children and she wished that she had stuck to her usual work. When she got home and her children began to cry for food, she remembered that she had seen some wild _saru_ (vegetable) growing in a certain place; so she took a basket and a sickle and telling her children not to cry went out to gather it. It was dark and lonely and she felt frightened but then she thought of her children and went on and gathered the _saru_, and returned home crying because she had nothing better to give her offspring. On the way she met an old man who asked her why she was crying and she told him all her story. Then he told her to take the herbs home and chop them all up and to put some in every basket and pot she had and to cook the rest for supper. So when she got home she did as she had been directed and when she came to take the herbs which she had cooked out of the pot, she found that they had turned into rice, and she and her children ate it with joy. The next morning she found that every pot and basket into which she had put the herbs was full of rice; and from that time she prospered and bought goats and pigs and cattle and lived happily ever after. But no one knew where the old man came from, as she had forgotten to ask him. XXXII. The Monkey and the Girl. Once upon a time the boys and girls of a village used to watch the crops of _but_ growing by a river, and there was a Hanuman monkey who wished to eat the _but,_ but they drove him away. So he made a plan: he used to make a garland of flowers and go with it to the field and, when he was driven away, he would leave the flowers behind; and the children were pleased with the flowers and ended by making friends with the monkey and did not drive him away. There was one of the young girls who was fascinated by the monkey and promised to marry him. Some of the other children told this in the village and the girl's father and mother came to hear of it and were angry and the father took some of the villagers and went and shot the monkey. Then they decided not to throw away the body, but to burn it like the corpse of a man. So they made a pyre and put the body on it and set fire to it; just then the girl came and they told her to go away, but she said that she wished to see whether they really burned him like a man. So she stood by and when the pyre was in full blaze, she called out "Oh look, what is happening to the stars in the sky!" at this every one looked up at the sky; then she took some sand which she had in the fold of her cloth and threw it into the air and it fell into their eyes and blinded them. While they were rubbing the sand out of their eyes the girl leapt on to the pyre, and was burned along with the monkey and died a _sati_. Her father and brothers were very angry at this and said that the girl must have had a monkey's soul and so she was fascinated by him; and so saying they bathed and went home. XXXIII. Ramai and the Animals. Once there was a blacksmith who had five sons and the sons were always quarrelling. Their father used to scold them, but they paid no heed; so he got angry and one day he sent for them and said: "You waste your time quarrelling. I have brought you up and have amassed wealth; I should like to see what you are worth. I will put it to the test: I will give you each one hundred rupees, and I will see how you employ the money; if any of you puts it to profitable use, I will call him my son; but if any of you squander it, I shall call him a girl." So they went forth with the money and one bought buffaloes and one bought horses and another cattle, each according to his judgement, and brought them home. But the youngest son, who was named Ramai, soon after he started, found some men killing a cat and he begged them not to kill the cat, but let him have it and he bought it of them, and going on he found some men killing a dog which they had caught stealing and he bought it of them to save its life. By and bye he came to some men hunting an otter and he asked what they were doing, and they said that the otter ate the fish in a Raja's tank and so they were going to kill it; and he asked them to catch it and sell it to him, and promised to take it away where it could do no harm; and they did so. Then he went on and came to some men who were killing a young black snake and he saved that also, and then returned home with his four animals, and he tethered the cat and the dog and the otter in the yard and he put the snake into a pot with a lid on and hung it in the cow shed. When his father saw Ramai's animals, he was very angry and jeered at him and said that he had no more mind than a woman; and especially he told him to throw away the snake at once, if he did not want it killed. So Ramai took down the pot with the snake in it, and the snake said: "Take me to my father and mother and they will reward you, and when they ask what you would like, take nothing but the ring which is on my father's hand: it is a magic ring and has the property that it will give you whatever you ask." So Ramai took the young snake to its home and its father and mother were very grateful and asked what reward he would accept: and he said he would take nothing but the ring, so they gave it to him. On the way home he thought that he would test its virtues: so he bathed and spread out a cloth and then prayed: "Oh ring, give me some luncheon," and behold he saw a nice lunch heaped up in the middle of the cloth. He ate it joyfully and went back home, and there he found that his father had killed the other animals and he reproached him; but his father said: "They were useless and were only eating their heads off, why should not I kill them?" Ramai answered: "These were not useless, they were most valuable animals, much better than those my brothers bought; if you asked my brothers for a gold palace they could not make you one, but I could do so at once, thanks to the snake, and I could marry a princess and get anything else I want." His father said that he would like to see him try: so Ramai asked the ring for a gold palace and immediately one appeared in their garden. Then his father was very repentant about having killed the other animals. But Ramai's boast that he could marry a princess got abroad and the Raja heard of it and as he was glad to have so rich a son-in-law, he gave him his daughter in marriage. And with his daughter the Raja sent elephants and horses, but Ramai sent them back again, lest it should be said that he had become rich through the bounty of the Raja; and by virtue of the ring they lived in wealthy and prosperity. XXXIV. The Magic Bedstead. Once upon a time a carpenter made a bedstead, and when it was ready he put it in his verandah. At night he heard the four legs of the bedstead talking together and saying: "We will save the life of anyone who sleeps on this bedstead and protect him from his enemies." When the carpenter heard this, he decided not to part with the bed for less than a hundred rupees. So next day he went out to try and get this price for the bed, but people laughed at him and said that no one could pay such a price but the Raja; so he went to the Raja and the Raja asked why he wanted one hundred rupees for a bedstead that was apparently worth only five or six annas. The carpenter answered that the bed would protect its owner from all enemies; the Raja doubted at first but as the man persisted in his story, he agreed to buy the bed, but he stipulated that if he found the story about it not to be true, he should take back his money. One night the king lay awake on the bed and he heard the legs of the bed talking, so he lay still and listened: and they said that the Raja was in danger and that they must try to save him. So one leg loosened itself from the bed and went away outside and it found a tiger which had come to eat the Raja, and it beat the tiger to death, and then came back and fixed itself into its place again. Soon a second leg said that it would go outside; so it went and that leg met a leopard and a bear and it beat them to death and returned. Then the third leg said that it was its turn, and it went outside and it found four burglars digging a hole through the wall of the palace, and it set upon them and broke their legs and left them lying there. When this one returned, the fourth leg went out and it heard a voice in the sky saying: "The Raja is very cunning, I will send a snake which shall hide in his shoe and when he puts the shoe on in the morning, it will bite him and he will die." When this leg came back, each one told the others what it had seen and done, and the Raja heard them and lay awake till morning, and at dawn he called his servants and sent them outside the palace and there they found the tiger and leopard and bear lying dead, and the four thieves with their legs broken. Then the Raja believed what the legs had said and he would not get up but first ordered his servants to make a fire in the courtyard and he had all his shoes thrown into the fire and then he got up. After this the Raja ordered that great care was to be taken of the bedstead and that anyone who sat on it should be put to death; and he himself used not to sleep in it anymore but he kept it in his bedroom that it might protect him. XXXV. The Ghormuhas. Ghormuhas have heads like horses and bodies and arms like men and their legs are shaped like men's but they have only one leg each, and they eat human beings. One day a young man named Somai was hunting a deer and the deer ran away to the country of the Ghormuhas and Somai pursued it, and the Ghormuhas caught him and took him home to eat. First they smoked him for two or three days so that all the vermin were driven out of his body and clothes and then they proceeded to fatten him; they fed him well every day on rice cooked with turmeric. Somai saw how they dealt with their other victims: they tied them hand and foot and threw them alive into a pot of boiling oil and when they were cooked they hung the bodies up in the doorway and would take a bite as they passed in and out; the liver and heart and brains they cooked separately. They used to eat their own parents also: for when a father or mother grew old they would throw them on to the roof of the house and when they rolled down and were killed they would say to their friends, "The pumpkin growing on our roof has got ripe and fallen off and burst, let us come and eat it;" and then they had a feast. Somai saw all this and was very frightened. The Ghormuhas could run very fast and they made Somai run a race with them every day and their plan was that they would eat him when he was strong enough to beat them in the race. In the course of time he came to beat them in running on the road; then they said that they would make him run in the fields and, if he beat them there, they meant to eat him. Somai found out their plan and he decided to try and run away; if he stayed he would be eaten, so if they caught him when he tried to run away he would be no worse off. So the first day they raced in the fields Somai was winning but he remembered and stopped himself and let himself be beaten that day. But he resolved to try and escape the next day and the Ghorarahas had decided to eat him that day whatever happened. So when the race began, Somai set off towards the lower lands where the rice fields were embanked and he jumped the embankments, but the Ghormuhas who pursued him could not jump well and tumbled and fell; and thus he ran away to his own country and made good his escape. And it was he who told men what Ghormuhas are like and how they live. XXXVI. The Boy Who Learnt Magic. Once upon a time there was a Raja who had seven wives and they were all childless, and he was very unhappy at having no heir. One day a Jogi came to the palace begging, and the Raja and his Ranis asked him whether he could say what should be done in order that they might have children; the Jogi asked what they would give him if he told them and they said that they would give him anything that he asked for and gave him a written bond to this effect. Then the Jogi said "I will not take elephants or horses or money, but you shall give me the child which is born first and any born afterwards shall be yours, do you agree?" And the Ranis consulted together and agreed. "Then," said the Jogi, "this is what you must do: you must all go and bathe, and after bathing you must go to a mango orchard and the Raja must choose a bunch of seven mangoes and knock it down with his left hand and catch it in a cloth, without letting it touch the ground; then you must go home and the Ranis must sit in a row according to their seniority and the Raja must give them each one of the mangoes to eat, and he must himself eat the rinds which the Ranis throw away; and then you will have children." And so saying the Jogi went away promising to return the next year. A few days later the Raja decided to give a trial to the Jogi's prescription and he and the Ranis did as they had been told; but the Raja did not eat the rind of the youngest Rani's mango; he did not love her very much. However five or six months after it was seen that the youngest Rani was with child and then she became the Raja's favourite; but the other Ranis were jealous of her and reminded the Raja that he would not be able to keep her child. But when her time was full she gave birth to twin sons, and the Raja was delighted to think that he would be able to keep the younger of the two and he loved it much. When the year was up the Jogi came and saw the boys and he said that he would return when they could walk; and when they could run about, he came again, and asked whether the Raja would fulfil his promise. The Raja said that he would not break his bond. Then the Jogi said that he would take the two boys and when the Raja objected that he was only entitled to one, he said that he claimed both as they were born at the same time; but he promised that if he took both he would teach them magic and then let one come back; and he promised also that all the Ranis should have children. So the Raja agreed and sent away the boys with the Jogi and with them he sent goats and sheep and donkeys and horses and camels and elephants and furniture of all sorts. The Jogi was called Sitari Jogi and he was a Raja in his own country. But before they reached his country all the animals died, first the goats, then the sheep and the donkeys and the horses and the camels and the elephants. And when the goats died the boys lamented: "The goats have died, father, How far, father, Is it to the country of the Sitari Jogi?" and so they sang when the other animals died. At last they reached the Jogi's palace and every day he taught them incantations and spells. He bought them each a water pot and sent them every morning to fill it with dew, but before they collected enough, the sun came out and dried up the dew; one day they got a cupful, another day half a cupful, but they never were able to fill the pots. In the course of time they learnt all the spells the Jogi knew and one day when they went out to gather dew, the younger boy secretly took with him a rag and he soaked this in the dew and then squeezed it into the pot and so he soon filled it; and the elder boy seeing his brother's pot full, filled his pot at a pool of water and they took them to the Jogi; but the Jogi was not deceived by the elder boy and told him that he would never learn magic thoroughly; but the younger boy having learned all that the Jogi knew, learnt more still from his friends, for all the people of that country knew magic. Then one day the Jogi took the two boys back to their home and he told the Raja that he would leave the elder boy at home. The Raja wanted to keep the younger one, but the Jogi insisted and the younger boy whispered to his mother not to mind as he would soon come back by himself; so they let him go. The Jogi and the boy used to practise magic: the Jogi would take the form of a young man and the boy would turn into a bullock and the Jogi would go to a village and sell the bullock for a good price; but he would not give up the tethering rope and then he would go away and do something with the tethering rope and the boy would resume his shape again and run off to the Jogi and when the purchasers looked for their bullock they found nothing, and when they went to look for the seller the Jogi would change his shape again so that he could not be recognised; and in this way they deceived many people and amassed wealth. Then the Jogi taught the boy the spell he used with the rope, and when he had learnt this, he asked to be taught the spell by which he could change his own shape without having a second person to work the spell with the rope. The Jogi said that he would teach him that later but he must wait. Then the boy reproached the Jogi and said that he did not love him; and he went away to his friends in the town and learnt the spell he wanted from them, so that he was able to change his shape at will. Two or three days after the boy again went to the Jogi and said "Teach me the spell about which I spoke to you the other day," and the Jogi refused. "Then," said the boy, "I shall go back to my father, for I see that you do not love me." At this the Jogi grew wrathful and said that if the away he would kill him, so the boy at this ran away in terror, and the Jogi became a leopard and pursued him: then the boy turned himself into a pigeon and the Jogi became a hawk and pursued him; so the boy turned himself into a fly and the Jogi became a paddy bird and pursued him; the fly alighted on the plate of a Rani who was eating rice, and the Jogi took on his natural shape and told the Rani to scatter the rice which she was eating on the ground and she did so; but the boy turned himself into a bead of coral on the necklace which the Rani was wearing; and the Jogi did not notice this but became a pigeon and ate up the rice which the Rani had thrown down. When he did not find the boy among the rice he turned himself into a Jogi again and saw him in the necklace; then he told the Rani to break her necklace and scatter the beads on the ground and she did so; then the Jogi again became a pigeon and began to pick up the beads, but the boy turned himself into a cat and hid under the verandah and when the pigeon came near, he pounced on it and killed it, and ran outside with it. Then he became a boy again and twisted off the bird's head and wrapped it in his cloth and went off home; and looking behind he saw the Jogi's head come rolling after him, so when he came to a blacksmith's fire by the side of the road he threw the pigeon's head into it, and then the Jogi's head also ran into the fire and was consumed. And the boy went home to his parents. XXXVII. The Charitable Jogi. Once there was a very poor man with a large family; and when his eldest son grew up he tried to arrange a marriage for him. He selected a bride and arranged matters with her relations but then he found that he had no money to pay for the performance of the marriage ceremonies. So he tried to borrow from his friends and from money lenders, but no one would lend him anything. So he proposed to the bride's relatives to only have the betrothal that year and the marriage the year after, but they would not agree and said that the marriage must be then or never. Just then a Jogi came to his house to beg and he told the Jogi all about his difficulties and asked for help; the Jogi took pity on him and gave him twenty rupees which was all that he had collected by begging. Now this Jogi had two wives at home and he thought that he would get a poor reception from them if he returned empty handed, so he picked up two stones and wrapped them up in two pieces of cloth. And when he reached home his wives welcomed him and brought out a bed for him to sit on and asked about his adventures and when they saw the bundles they wished to know what was inside and they opened them before him and behold the stones had turned into gold. When the Jogi saw this he wished that he had picked up three or four stones instead of only two and he understood that Chando had given him the gold because he helped the poor man. This is why no money lender will refuse a loan if one is asked for for the performance of a marriage and money so borrowed is always paid back punctually. When the Jogi came back the next year the poor man paid him the twenty rupees. XXXVIII. Chote and Mote. Once upon a time there were two brothers Chote and Mote; they were poor but very industrious and they got tired of working as hired labourers in their own village so they decided to try their luck elsewhere. They went to a distant village and Chote took service with an oilman and Mote with a potter on a yearly agreement. Chote had to drive the oil mill in the morning and then after having his dinner to feed the mill bullock and take it out to graze. But the bullock having had a good meal of oilcake would not settle down to graze alone but kept running after all the herds of cattle it saw, and Chote had to spend his whole time running after it till he was worn out and he was very soon sorry that he had taken up such hard service; and was quite resolved not to stay on after his year was up. Mote was no better off; the potter overworked him, making him carry water and dig earth from morn to night and for all he did he got nothing but abuse. One day the brothers, met and Mote asked Chote how he was getting on. Chote answered "Oh I have got a capital place; all the morning I sit at my ease on the oil mill, then I have a good dinner and take the bullock out to graze and as it has had a good meal of oilcake it lies down without giving any trouble and I sit in the shade and enjoy myself." Then Mote said "I am pretty lucky too. I have to fetch three or four pots of water, then I have my dinner and a rest and then I have to dig earth and knead it. Still I cannot say that I have so little work as you; will you change with me for three or four days, so that I may have a rest?" Chote gladly agreed and each brother thought that he had got the better of the other. In the morning while Mote was driving the oil mill he was very pleased with his new job and when he had to take the bullock out to graze he took a bedstead with him to lie on. But directly the bullock got outside the village it rushed off bellowing towards some other cattle and Mote had to run after it with his bedstead on his head, and all the afternoon the bullock kept him running about till he was worn out. Meanwhile Chote was no better off; his unaccustomed shoulders were quite bruised with constantly carrying water. At the potter's house was a custard apple tree and it was believed that there was money buried at the foot of the tree; so as Chote was a stranger, the potter told him to water the earth by the tree to soften it, as it was to be used for pottery. Chote softened the earth and dug it and as he dug he uncovered pots of rupees; so he covered them up again and dug the earth elsewhere. And at evening he went and proposed to Mote to run away with the money. So at midnight, they went and dug it up and ran off home. As they were not pursued, they felt safe after a month or two, so they spent the money in buying land and cattle, and their cultivation prospered, and they became quickly rich. XXXIX. The Daydreamer. Once an oil man was going to market with his pots of oil arranged on a flat basket and he engaged a Santal for two annas to carry the basket; and as he went along, the Santal thought "With one anna I will buy food and with the other I will buy chickens, and the chickens will grow up and multiply and then I will sell some of the fowls and eggs and with the money I will buy goats; and when the goats increase, I will sell some and buy cows, and then I will exchange some of the calves for she-buffaloes, and when the buffaloes breed, I will sell some and buy land and start cultivation and then I will marry and have children and I will hurry back from my work in the fields and my wife will bring me water and I will have a rest and my children will say to me 'Father, be quick and wash your hands for dinner,' but I will shake my head and say 'No, no, not yet!'"--and as he thought about it he really shook his head and the basket fell to the ground and all the pots of oil were smashed. Then the oilman abused him and said that he must pay two rupees for the oil and one anna for the pots: but the Santal said that he had lost much more than that and the oilman asked him how that could be: and the Santal explained how with his wages he was going to get fowls and then goats and then oxen and buffaloes and land and how he came to spill the basket and at that the oilman roared with laughter and said "Well I have made up the account and I find that our losses are equal, so we will cry quits;" and so saying they went their ways laughing. XL. The Extortionate Sentry. There was once a sentry outside a Raja's palace who would let no one go in to sell anything to the Raja until they first promised to give him half the price they received from the Raja, and the poor traders had to promise, for their livelihood depended on selling their goods. One day a fisherman caught an enormous fish and he thought that if he took it to the Raja he would get a big price for it. So he went off to the palace, but when he came to the gate the sentry stopped him and would not let him go in, until he promised to give him half of what he got, and after some argument he had to promise. So he was admitted to the Raja's presence and when the Raja asked what was the price of the fish, the fisherman said "A hundred blows with a stick." The Raja was very astonished and asked the meaning of such a request. Then the fisherman said that the sentry had extorted a promise that he should get half the price and he wanted him to get fifty blows. At this the Raja was very angry and he had the sentry beaten with one hundred stripes and dismissed him. XLI. The Broken Friendship. Once upon a time there was a Raja and his Dewan and they each had one son, and the two boys were great friends, and, when they grew old enough, they took to hunting and when they became young men they were so devoted to the sport that they spent their whole time in pursuit of game; they followed every animal they could find until they killed it, and they shot every bird in the town. Their parents were much distressed at this, for they thought that if their boys spent all their time together hunting they would grow up unruly and ignorant; so they made up their minds that they must separate the young men so that they would not be tempted to spend so much time in sport, but would be able to learn something useful; they scolded the youths and told them to give up their friendship and their hunting, but this had no effect. Then the Raja told the villagers that he would reward any one who would break up the friendship, and the villagers tried their best but effected nothing. There was however an old woman in the village who one day said, "If the Raja gave me ten rupees I would soon put a stop to their friendship." This came to the ears of the Raja and he exclaimed "What is ten rupees to me! bring the old woman to me and I will give her ten rupees, if she can put an end to this friendship." So the old woman was brought trembling before the Raja and on being questioned undertook to break up the friendship if she were properly rewarded; and when this was promised she asked for two men to be given to her and she took them to her house and there she made them sling a bed on a pole, such as is used for carrying a man on a journey and she hung curtains all round it and drew them close and inside, on an old winnowing fan, they put some rotten manure from a dung hill. Then she made the two men take up the bed and she fetched a drum and she paraded all through the bazar beating the drum with the bed following behind her. She told the two carriers not to answer any questions as to what was in the bed. Thus they passed out of the town and went in the direction in which the two young men had gone hunting. When these heard the sound of the drum and saw the two men carrying the bed they ran up to see what it was and told the carriers to put It down that they might look inside; so the bed was put on the ground and the Raja's son peeped inside the curtain, but as he caught the smell he jumped back and the Dewan's son asked what was the matter and he said "it stinks: it is dung." The Dewan's son would not believe him and also looked to convince himself; then they both asked what the meaning of this was: the old woman said that she would explain the meaning of it but only to one of them, and the one who had heard could tell the other. So she made the carriers take away the bed and she called the Raja's son aside saying "Come I will tell you what it means" then she put her arms round the neck of the Raja's son and put her lips to his ear and pretended to whisper to him, but really she said nothing; then she let him go and followed the carriers. The Dewan's son at once ran to his friend and asked what the old woman had told him; the Raja's son answered "She told me nothing at all, she only pretended to whisper." The Dewan's son would not believe this and pressed him to tell, saying "We have been friends for so long and have had no secrets from each other, why won't you tell me this? if you refuse to tell me there is an end of our friendship," but the Raja's son persisted that he had been told nothing and proposed that they should go and ask the old woman if it were not so; but the Dewan's son said that that was no good because the old woman and the Raja's son had plainly made a plot to keep him in the dark. The quarrel grew hotter and hotter, till at last they parted in anger and each went to his own home and from that time their friendship was broken off. And being separated they gave up hunting and took to useful pursuits. Thus the old woman earned her reward from the Raja. XLII. A Story Told by a Hindu. Once upon a time there was a Raja who had two sons and after their father's death they divided the kingdom between them. The two brothers were inveterate gamblers and spent their time playing cards with each other; for a long time fortune was equal, but one day it turned against the elder brother and he lost and lost until his money and his jewellery, his horses and his elephants and every thing that he had, had been won by his younger brother. Then in desperation he staked his share in the kingdom and that too he lost. Then the younger brother sent drummers through the city to proclaim that the whole kingdom was his; the shame of this was more than the elder prince could bear, so he resolved to quit the country and he told his wife of his intention and bade her stay behind. But his faithful wife refused to be parted from him; she vowed that he had married her not for one day nor for two but for good and all, and that where he went, there she would go, and whatever troubles he met, she would share. So he allowed her to come with him and the two set off to foreign parts. After sometime their path led them through an extensive jungle and after travelling through it for two days they at last lost their way completely; their food gave out, they were faint with starvation and torn with briars. The prince urged his wife to return but she would not hear of it, so they pushed on, supporting life on jungle fruits; sometimes the prince would go far ahead, for his faithful wife could only travel slowly, and then he would return and wait for her; at last he got tired of leading her on and made up his mind to abandon her. At night they lay down at the foot of a tree and the prince thought "If wild animals would come and eat us it would be the best that could happen. I cannot bear to see my wife suffer any more; although her flesh is torn with thorns, she will not leave me. I will leave her here; may wild beasts kill both her and me, but I cannot see her die before my eyes." So thinking he got up quietly and went off as quickly as he could. When the princess woke and found that she had been abandoned, she began to weep and wept from dawn to noon without ceasing; at noon a being, in the guise of an old woman appeared and asked her why she wept, and comforted her and promised to lead her out of the wood and told her that Chando had had compassion on her and would allow her to find her husband again if they both lived. So saying the old woman led the princess from the forest and showed her the way to a great city where a Raja lived. The princess went begging her way through the city to the Raja's palace and there they engaged her as a servant. Now her husband had also escaped from the jungle and sought employment as a labourer but no one would give him work for more than a day or two, and at last his search for work brought him to the city in which the princess was; and there he was engaged as a groom in the palace stables. The prince had changed his name and he had no chance of knowing that his wife was in the palace, because she was confined to the women's apartments; so some years passed without their having news of each other. At last one day the princess happened to go on to the roof and looking down at the stables saw and thought she recognised her husband; then she leaned over and listened till she heard his voice and at that she was sure that it was he, so she hastened to the Raja and begged to be allowed to meet her husband, and the Raja sent to call the syce with the name which the princess had given but no one came, for the prince would not reveal himself. Then the princess told their story and how her husband had gambled away his half of the kingdom. The Raja ordered any one with such a history to come forward, as his wife was in the palace; but the prince did not reveal himself. Then the princess said "Let all the syces cook rice and bring me a bit of each man's cooking to taste." They did so, and when she tasted the rice cooked by her husband, she at once said that it was his; her husband was unable to deny it and admitted everything. Then they took him away from his work in the stables and let him live with his wife. After a time the Raja wrote to the younger brother asking whether he would restore the half of the kingdom which he had won; and the younger brother answered that he would gladly do so, if his brother would sign an agreement never to gamble any more; it was with this object in view and to teach him the folly of his ways that he had dispossessed him. The elder brother gladly gave the required promise and returned to his kingdom with his faithful wife and lived happily ever afterwards. XLIII. The Raibar and the Leopard. Once upon a time a _Raibar_ was going backwards and forwards between two families arranging a marriage and part of the road which he used to travel ran through a forest. One day as he was going to the bride's house he took a sack with him intending to try and get the loan of some Indian corn from the bride's relations; but as he was passing through the piece of jungle he suddenly met a leopard; he was terribly frightened but collecting his wits he addressed the animal thus "Leopard; I beg you not to eat me; I am engaged on a work of great merit, I am making two men out of one." This address amazed the leopard and he at once asked the _raibar_ whether he could make him into two, and promised that if he could his life should be spared. The _raibar_ answered readily "Seeing that in pursuit of my profession I have made two men out of one all over the country, of course I can make you into two leopards if I try; all you have to do is to get into this sack and keep quiet; if you utter a sound you will spoil the charm." "Well," said the leopard, "I will try and see; I undertake to keep quite quiet, and if you are successful I promise to tell the whole race of leopards to spare the lives of _raibars_." So saying the leopard jumped into the sack and allowed the man to tie him up tightly in it. No sooner was this done than the _raibar_ took the sack on his head and carried it to the bank of a river and having given it two or three hearty whacks with his stick threw it into the water. The sack went floating down the stream and it happened that lower down a leopardess sat watching the water and when she saw the sack coming along she thought that it was a dead cow floating down. So when it came near she jumped into the water and pulled it ashore. She then proceeded to tear open the sack, when out jumped the first leopard; he soon explained how he came to be in the sack, and declared that the _raibar's_ promise had been fulfilled and that she was his destined mate. The leopardess agreed and the two set to work to tell all the other leopards what had happened and what a kindness the _raibar_ had done them; and so it came to pass that to the present day leopards never interfere with _raibars_ when they are going about arranging a marriage; no one ever heard of one being injured. Meanwhile the _raibar_ went on his way rejoicing at having rid himself of the leopard. But the next year, while engaged on the business of another marriage, the _raibar_ was passing through the same jungle when he came face to face with the very leopard that he thought he had safely disposed of; he at once took to his heels, but the leopard called out to him not to be afraid and to wait, as he had something to say to him. So the _raibar_ stopped and the leopard asked whether he did not recognise him; the _raibar_ stoutly denied all knowledge of him. "Well," said the leopard "I am the leopard of whom you made two out of one, and to show my gratitude I will give you any reward you like; would you like a cow or a deer or any other animal? I will kill you one and bring it to you." When the _raibar_ saw the turn that things had taken he thought that he had better take advantage of it, so he asked for a good large nilgai. The leopard told him to come to a certain tree at noon the next day and he would find the animal there. So they separated and the next day at noon the _raibar_ went to the tree and found a fine nilgai waiting for him, which he and his friends took home and ate with joy. XLIV. The Ungrateful Snake. There was once a Raja and his dewan and they each had one son; these sons were married in infancy but as they grew up they never heard anything about their having been married. When the boys reached manhood and found no arrangements being made for their weddings they began to wonder at the delay and often talked about it, and in the end they agreed to run away to another country. Soon after this resolve of theirs some horse dealers came to their home with horses to sell; the two youths at once saw that if they could each have a horse and learn to ride it, it would be easy for them to run away from home. So they hurried to their fathers and begged them to buy them each one of the beautiful horses which the dealers had brought. The Raja and the dewan did not like to disappoint their sons so they bought the horses, to the great delight of the boys, who used to ride them every day. One day the Raja's son was out riding by himself and he passed by a tank where a number of women and girls were bathing and drawing water; as he came galloping along the women ran back in a fright; and as they could not draw their water while he was there, an old woman came up to him and told him to go away and not stay making eyes at the girls as if he had no wife of his own: "What wife have I?", said the prince, "I know nothing of having been married." "You were married sure enough when you were an infant," replied the old woman: "your wife is still in her father's house, but now that you have grown up they will probably bring her home to you this year." Then the prince asked where his wife lived and having learnt the name of the village he galloped off home and at once began to question his mother about his marriage; his mother told him that they intended to have the bride brought home that year, but the prince was impatient and proposed that he should go off at once to his father-in-law's and see his wife, and try to persuade them to let her come back with him without any ceremony; his mother made no objection, so he got ready for the journey and started off on horseback. He had not gone far when he saw a field of thatching grass on fire, and in the middle, surrounded by the flames, was a huge poisonous snake, unable to escape. As the prince rode by, the snake called out to him "Prince, you are going joyously to bring home your bride, and here am I in danger of being burned alive; will you not have pity on me and save me? If you do I will confer a boon on you." "But if I save you," objected the prince, "you will only eat me: snakes do not know what gratitude is." "I am not of that kind," answered the snake: "here I am in danger of death, I beseech you to have pity on me." These pleadings prevailed and the prince got off his horse and beat out the fire and then spread a cloth over the embers so that the snake could crawl out. When the snake was safe the prince asked for the boon that had been promised him: "No boon will you get" said the snake: "you did a foolhardy thing in saving me, for now I am going to eat you, and you cannot escape from me." The prince saw that there was little hope for him but he begged the snake to allow two or three judges to decide whether it was fair that he should be killed, after what he had done. The snake agreed to this provided that the judges were not human beings; he was willing to be bound by the opinions of any one else. They set out together to look for judges and soon saw a herd of cattle resting under a banyan tree by a pool of water, so they agreed to make these their judges; then the prince explained to one of the cows and the banyan tree and the water what they were to decide, whether it was fair for the snake, whose life he had saved, now to want to kill him. The banyan tree was the first to answer: it said "You did good to the snake and your wages for doing good are evil; you saved his life and he will now kill you, this is fair, this is the justice we have learnt from human beings; you enjoy the shade of us trees and in return you lop off our branches and sit on them, and do us all manner of injury; it is right that the snake should eat you." Then the prince turned to the cow: "He may eat you," answered the cow: "the tree is right, see how men treat cattle; you drive away our calves from us and take our milk and you beat us and make us work hard; for all this ill treatment the snake shall eat you." Then the prince asked the water what it had to say: "I agree with the other two" said the water: "to return evil for good is the justice of mankind, it is by drinking water that your very lives are preserved; yet you spit into it and wash dirty things in it; shall not the snake return you evil for good?" So judgment was delivered, and the snake wanted to eat the prince; but the prince asked the tree and the cow and the water to listen while he made one prayer; he told them how he had been married when he was too young to know anything about it, and how he was going for the first time to see his wife, when this misfortune befell him; so he begged that he might be allowed to go and see his bride and then be eaten on his way back; the banyan tree asked what the snake thought about this proposal and the snake said that it would make no objection if the tree and the cow and the water would be sureties for the return of the prince within three days. So the prince promised them faithfully that he would return and they let him go. The prince rode on to his father-in-law's house, and when he arrived, a bed was brought out for him to sit on and he was asked where he came from. When he explained who he was, they at once brought water and washed his feet and then gave him oil and a tooth stick and took him to bathe; then they brought him curds and dried rice to eat and afterwards killed a goat and made a feast and showed him every honour. That evening as his wife was rubbing his arms and legs, the prince remained silent and downcast and showed none of the joy of a bridegroom; and when his bride asked what was the matter, he told her that he had only come to see her for one day and that afterwards she must try and forget all about him. At first he would not tell her more, but when she urged him, he told her how he had to go and surrender himself to the snake on the next day. When she heard this she vowed that she would go with him and die with him. The next morning came and the prince said that he must return, and his wife said that she was going with him; so they made everything ready and set out on their way. When they came within sight of the banyan tree where the prince was to be killed, he tried to turn his wife back but though he used force she refused to leave him and said that she would first see him killed and then go home; so at last he let her accompany him. When they reached the tree she asked to be allowed to go in front and be the first to meet the snake; to this the prince assented. They had not gone far when they saw the snake awaiting them in the path with its crest raised, and when they drew near, the prince's bride begged the snake to eat her first, as she had nowhere to live if she survived her husband. The snake refused and bade her go home to her parents; she said that that was impossible; they had sold her and the prince had bought her, in life and in death, bones and ashes. But the snake would not listen and made for the prince to eat him. His wife however kept in front of the snake and would not let it pass; she called the banyan tree to witness that the snake should not eat her husband without first killing her; without her husband she would have no one to support her. Then the snake promised to teach her an incantation by means of which she could support herself, so saying, the snake conferred some magic power upon and taught her an incantation; and promised her that if she took some dust in her hand and repeated the incantation and then blew on the dust, any person on whom she sprinkled the dust would at once be burnt to ashes. Then the prince's wife asked how she should restore the people to life and the snake taught her that also, but she was not satisfied and said that she must try at once to see whether the snake was deceiving her or no; so the snake bade her experiment on a _tarop_ tree which grew near. Thereupon she gathered up some dust and repeated the incantation and blew on it and suddenly threw it over the snake, which at once turned to ashes, and that was the end of the snake. Then the prince and his wife went on their way rejoicing, and he was filled with wonder at the way in which his bride had saved him by persisting in going with him. XLV. The Tiger's Bride. One day a woman went to cut thatching grass and she cut such a quantity that when she tied it up, the bundle was too big for her to lift on to her head; so she stood and called for some one to help her, but no one was within hearing and no one came. She called and called and at last began to promise that she would give her daughter in marriage to any one who would help her. After she had called out this a few times, a tiger suddenly appeared and asked what she wanted; she explained her difficulty and the tiger undertook to lift the load on to her head, if she would really give him her daughter in marriage. She promised and with the help of the tiger took up the bundle and went home. Two or three days after, the tiger presented himself at her house and was duly married to the daughter. After the wedding the couple started for the tiger's home; all the way the unhappy bride wept and sang:-- "How far off is our home, big head?" "You can just see the mouth of the cave" answered the tiger and in a short time they came to a large cave. Then the tiger told her to set to work and cook a feast while he went off and invited his friends to come and share it. But the bride when left alone caught a cat and killed it and hung it over the fire, so that its blood dropped slowly into the pan and made a fizzling noise, as if cooking were going on; and then she ran off to her mother's house and climbed a tree which grew near it and began to sing:-- "You married me to a ti-ti-tiger: You threw me to a bear: Take back the necklace you gave me Take back the bracelet and the diamonds and the coral." Meanwhile the tiger returned with his friends and sat down outside the cave and told his wife to be quick with the cooking of the cakes for he heard the hissing over the fire and thought that she was cooking. At last as she did not come out, he got tired of waiting and went in to fetch her: then he saw that she had disappeared and had to go and tell his friends. They were very angry at being cheated out of a feast, and fell upon the tiger and beat him, till he ran away and was seen no more: but his bride was left to flit from tree to tree singing:-- "You married me to a ti-ti-tiger: You threw me to a bear: Take back the necklace you gave me Take back the bracelet and the diamonds and the coral." XLVI. The Killing of the Tiger. They say that there was a time when all living things had a common speech and animals and men could understand each other, and in those days there was a man-eating tiger which infested a jungle through which a highroad ran; it preyed on people passing along the road till no one ventured to travel, and as the country was so unsafe, the people went in a body to the Raja and told him of the ravages of the tiger and asked him to send a force of soldiers to hunt and shoot it. So the Raja called together all his soldiers and promised to give half his kingdom to any one of them who would kill the tiger, but not one of them was brave enough to make the attempt; they said that their business was to fight men and not tigers and leopards; then the Raja extended his offer to all his subjects and the petitioners went home to consult about it; and the news was published that the Raja would give half his kingdom to the slayer of the tiger. Now there was a poor man who was a very brave shikari of big game, and cunning into the bargain, and he offered to go and kill the tiger. They questioned him carefully, and when they saw that he was in earnest they took him to the Raja to hear from the Raja's lips what his reward should be; and the Raja promised him half his kingdom, and wrote a bond to that effect, for he thought that the tiger would surely kill the man. Then the shikari said that he would start the next morning and return the next day either with the dead tiger or with bits of its ears and claws to show that he had killed it. The Raja told the people to watch carefully and see that the shikari did not cheat by taking the claws and ears of a tiger with him. The next morning the shikari started off and all he took with him was a looking-glass and three pictures of a tiger drawn on three pieces of paper and a hatchet; he went to the road which the tiger frequented and climbed a banyan tree and spent the night in it. The tiger did not pass by at all that night but in the morning it appeared and called out "Who is up in the tree?" The shikari said "It is I." "Come down quickly," said the tiger, "I have been looking for you." "Wait a minute," answered the shikari, "I have been looking for you also." "What for?" said the tiger: "Tell me first why you are looking for me," said the man: "To eat you," answered the tiger; then the man said, "Well I have been hunting for you to catch you and take you away. I have caught three or four like you and if you don't believe me, let me get down and I will show you". The tiger got into a fright and said: "Come down and show me." So the shikari climbed down and uncovered his looking glass and told the tiger to look and he reflected in the glass the pictures of the tigers which he had brought and said, "Now I am going to catch you and put you in here also." The tiger asked why he was to be caught and the shikari said that it was because he had made the road unsafe by killing travellers; then the tiger begged and prayed to be let off and promised that he would never kill any travellers again. At last the shikari said that he would let him go, if he would allow him to cut off his claws and the tips of his ears and the tip of his tongue as a pledge of his good faith. The tiger said, "Well, you may cut off one claw from each foot and the very tip of my ears and tongue." So the shikari cut them off with his hatchet and, after again warning the tiger, went back home; and then presented himself with all his friends before the Raja and the Raja gave him the promised reward, But the tiger's tongue festered and, after roaring with pain for a whole day, it died. XLVII. The Dream. One night as a man and his wife lay talking in bed, the woman told her husband that she had dreamt that in a certain place she had dug up a pot full of rupees, and she proposed that they should go and look for it and see whether the dream was true. While they talked, it chanced that some thieves, who had climbed on to the roof, overheard the conversation and at once decided to forestall the others. So they went off to the place which the woman had described and began to dig, and after digging a little they were delighted to come on a pot with a lid on. But when they took off the lid an enormous snake raised its head and hissed at them. At this the thieves cursed the woman who had misled them and agreed to take the snake and drop it through the roof on to the man and his wife as they lay in bed. So they shut the snake up again and carried it off to the house and, making a hole in the thatch, dropped it through. But as it fell the snake changed into a stream of money, which came rattling down on the couple below; the thieves found a snake, but it was not a real snake, it was Thakur; and it was his will to give the money to the man and his wife. When these two had recovered from their astonishment, they gathered up the money, and lived in wealth ever afterwards. XLVIII. The King of the Bhuyans. There was once a king of the Bhuyans and near his palace was a village of Santals; he was a kind ruler and both Santals and Bhuyans were very happy under his sway. But when he died, he was succeeded by his son, who was a very severe master and soon fell out with the Santals. If he found any cattle or buffaloes grazing anywhere near his crops, he had the cowherds beaten severely: so that no one dared to take the cattle in that direction. The Santals were very angry at this and longed to get even with the Raja; they planned to turn the cattle into the Raja's crops at night when no one could see them or catch them, but in the end their courage failed them. One year after the rice had been cut, but before the millet crop was gathered, the youths and maidens of the Santal village had a dance and danced all night till nearly morning; then they agreed that it was not worth while to go to bed and they had better take the cattle out to graze at once. After grazing their fill, the cattle all collected at the midday resting place and the cowherds were so sleepy after their night's dancing, that they fell fast asleep on the bare ground. After a time the buffaloes began to move again and seeing a nice field of millet belonging to the Raja soon made their way to it and grazed the whole field down. The Raja happened to pass that way and was filled with wrath at the sight; he at once ordered his _sipahis_ to go and beat the cowherds within an inch of their lives and so the _sipahis_ ran to the place with sticks. Their approach roused the sleeping cowherds who jumped up and ran off home as hard as they could; all but the servant of the village _paramanik_ (assistant headman) he did not run away but went to drive the cattle out of the field; he knew that this was his duty to his master and he was resolved to do his duty even at the cost of his life. As all the other boys had got away the sipahis turned their attention to him, but as they aimed blows at him with the sticks, he caught the blows on his arms and the sticks shivered to atoms without harming him; so then they went to kick him but a great _cibei_ snake came rustling up behind them; so they saw it was no use to contend with him and desisted: whereupon he drove all the village cattle home in triumph. The sipahis reported to the Raja how the cowherds had all made good their escape, and how the paramanik's herd boy had driven off the cattle. Then the Raja told them to go that afternoon at the time the cattle were brought home for the night and wait at the end of the village street and then give the cowherds the thrashing they deserved; The sipahis did as they were ordered and that evening waited for the returning herd boys; and caught them as they came home and thrashed them within an inch of their lives. The others were all left senseless on the ground: but the sipahis did not dare to lay hands on the paramanik's herd boy, he drove the cattle back into the village, and told the villagers what had been done to their sons. So the villagers went out with beds and carried the wounded boys home; then they assembled and resolved to go and punish the Raja, so they went to him and asked what he meant by killing their children. "Dear me," said the Raja, "are they really dead?" "Well, if not not quite dead, they are very ill," was the answer. "I am sorry," said the Raja: "I admit that I have done wrong, but if you will forgive me this time, I will undertake to cure them in a minute and make them as well as ever; go and fetch them here." So the Santals went off to fetch the wounded cowherds and carried them to the Raja, all lying senseless on beds and put them down before him. While they were away the Raja had told his sipahis to grind some good hot _chilis_; and when the cowherds were brought to him he told the sipahis to thrust the chili paste up their noses; this was done and the smarting soon made the cowherds jump up and run away in a very lively fashion, and that was the way the Raja kept his word and cured them. XLIX. The Foolish Sons. There was once a man of the blacksmith caste who had six sons; the sons were all married and the whole family lived together. But the sons' wives took to quarrelling and at last the sons went to their parents and proposed that they should set up separate households, as the women folk could not live in peace. The blacksmith and his wife did not like the idea at all and pointed out that it would be most inadvisable; while, so far, there was plenty of food and clothing for all, they would find it much more expensive to have seven separate households and split up what was quite enough so long as they lived together, and what was to become of their old parents who were now too old to work? The sons protested that they would support their father and mother as long as they lived, even though the family separated. At last the old man said that he would put them to the test and see whether they were clever enough to manage their own affairs and smart enough to cheat people into giving them what they wanted. "I will see," said he, "how you would manage to support the family in time of famine or if we fell into poverty. I and your mother have managed to bring up a large family, and you know nothing of the anxiety that it has cost us; you have merely had to enjoy yourselves and eat your meals; if you insist on it, I will let you separate, but don't blame me afterwards. However to-morrow I will take you on a journey and find some means of testing your cleverness." So the next morning they made ready for the journey; their father only allowed them to take one meal of rice tied up in their cloths and he gave each of them one pice, which he said was their inheritance. They set off and after travelling some way they sat down and ate up their rice and then went on again. By the middle of the afternoon they began to feel hungry, so the father proposed their going to a bazar which was in sight; but between them and the bazar was a channel of stagnant water, very deep, and with its surface covered by a coating of weeds. They tried to cross, but directly they set foot on it they sank through the weeds, and it was too deep for wading. So their father said they would all camp on the bank and he would see whether they were clever enough to get across the channel and bring food for a meal; if they could do that he would believe that they could support their families in time of famine. So the old man spread his cloth on the ground and set down and watched them try their luck one by one. The eldest brother first jumped up to try but he could not cross the channel; everytime he tried, he sank through the weeds, at last he gave up in despair and admitted that he could not feed the party. Then the other brothers all tried in turn and failed. At last it came to the turn of the youngest; he modestly said that he was not likely to succeed where his elders had failed but he would have a try, so he went to the edge of the water and spreading out his cloth on the weeds lay down on it so that his weight was distributed; in this position the weeds supported him and he managed to wriggle himself across on his face to the other side. Once across, he went to the bazar, and going to a shop began to talk with the shopkeeper; after a little he asked for the loan of an anna; the shopkeeper said that he could not lend to a stranger; the blacksmith's son gave the name of some village as his home and pressed for the loan, promising to pay him one anna as interest within a week and pulling out his pice he said "See here, I will pay you this pice as part of the interest in advance." At this the shopkeeper suffered himself to be persuaded and lent him the anna. With this the blacksmith's son went off to a second shop and begged for the loan of four annas, as he had pressing need of it; he promised to pay an anna a week interest, and to pay down at once the interest for the first week. After some hesitation the shopkeeper was deceived into lending the four annas. Then he went off to another shop and borrowed a rupee by promising to pay eight annas a month as interest and putting down four annas as advance. Then he went to a Marwari's shop and asked for the loan of ten rupees; the Marwari asked for interest at the rate of one rupee a day; the blacksmith's son protested that that was too high but offered to pay one rupee every two days and to pay one rupee of interest in advance; the Marwari hesitated, but after being given a name and address--which were however false--he gave way and took his signature to a bond and lent him the ten rupees. At this the blacksmith's son set off in triumph to rejoin his brothers; he crossed the water in the same way as before and took the ten rupees to his father. Then they all went on to another bazar and bought dried rice and sweetmeats and curds and had a grand feast. Then their father proceeded to point out to his sons how, except the youngest, they were all useless; they had been unable to cross the channel or to make anything of their own pice of capital; they had nothing to answer, and all went home and from that day nothing was heard of any proposal to divide the family until the old father and mother died. L. Kora and His Sister. There were once seven brothers and they had one sister who was the youngest of the family. The six eldest brothers were married but no wife had been found for the youngest; for three years enquiries were made to try and find a suitable bride for him, but all in vain. At last the young man, whose name was Kora, told his parents and brothers not to trouble any more, as he would find a wife for himself; he intended to bring a flowering plant from the forest and plant it by the stand on which the watering pots were kept, and then he would marry any maiden who picked one of the flowers and put it in her hair. His father and mother approved of this proposal, so the next day he brought some sort of flowering plant and planted it by the water-pot stand. He charged all his family to be most careful that no one of his own relations picked the flower and also to warn any of the village girls who wanted to pick it, that if she did so and put it in her hair, she would thereby become his wife; but if, knowing this, anyone wished to do so, they were not to prevent her. The neighbours soon got to hear what the plant meant and used often to come and look at it, and Kora watched it growing, till after a time it produced a bud and then a beautiful and sweet-scented flower. All the village girls came to see the beautiful flower; and one day Kora's sister when she went to the water-stand to get some water to drink, caught hold of it and longed to pick it, it looked so pretty. Her mother saw what she was doing and scolded her for touching the forbidden flower, but the girl begged to see what it would look like in her hair; there could be no harm done if she pulled the whole plant up by its roots and put it in her hair and then replanted it; no one would know what had happened. In spite of her mother's remonstrances she insisted on doing this and having seen how the flower looked in her hair carefully replanted it. Soon afterwards Kora came home and went to see his flower; he knew at once that some one had worn it and called to his mother and asked who it was. She protested that she knew nothing about the matter, but Kora said that he could tell by the smell that it had been worn and then he showed that there was also a hair sticking to the flower. Then his mother admitted that in spite of all she could say, his sister had worn the flower and planted it again in the ground. When she saw that she was found out, the girl began to cry, but her father said that it was clearly fated that she and Kora should marry and this was the reason why they had been unable to find any other bride; so they must now arrange for the wedding. Accordingly rice was got ready and all the usual preparations made for a marriage. The unfortunate girl saw that flight was her only means of escape from such a fate, so one day she ran away; all she took with her was a pet parrot. For many days she travelled on and one day she stopped by a pool to bathe and as she rubbed her limbs she collected the scurf that she rubbed off her skin and put in on the ground in one place; then she went on with her bathing; but at the place where she had put the scurf of her skin, a palm tree sprang up and grew so rapidly, that, by the time she came out of the water, it had become a large tree. The girl was struck by this strange sight and at once thought that the tree would afford her a safe refuge; so she climbed up it with her parrot in her hand and when safely seated among the leaves she begged the palm tree to grow so tall that no one would be able to find her, and the tree grew till it reached an unusual height. So the girl stayed in the tree top and the parrot used to go every day and bring her food. Meanwhile her parents and brothers searched high and low for her for two or three days, for the wedding day was close at hand, but their search was of course in vain; and they concluded that the girl must have drowned herself in some river. Time passed and one day at noon, a Mahuli girl, who was taking her basket-ware to market, stopped to rest in the shade of the palm tree: and as she sat there, Kora's sister called to her from the top of the tree and asked her to give her a small winnowing fan in exchange for a bracelet The Mahuli girl told her to throw the bracelet down first. Kora's sister made no objection to this, and when she had got the bracelet, the Mahuli girl threw up a winnowing fan which soared right up to where Kora's sister was sitting. Before the Mahuli girl went on her way, Kora's sister made her promise never to let anyone see the bracelet whew she went about selling her baskets as otherwise it would be stolen from her; and secondly on no account to let it be known that there was anyone in the palm tree, on pain of death. The Mahuli girl kept her promise and whenever she went out selling baskets she used to keep her bracelet covered with her cloth. One day it chanced that she went to the house where Kora lived to sell her wares and they asked her why it was that she kept her arm covered; she told them that she had a sore on it; they wanted to see how big the sore was, but she refused to show it, saying that if she showed it she would die. They laughed at such a ridiculous story and at last forced her to show her arm, which of course was quite well; but they at once recognised the bracelet and asked where she had got it from. The Mahuli girl refused to tell them and said that if she did, she would die. "What a foolish girl you are" they objected "first you say you will die if you show us your arm and then if you tell us where you got this bracelet from; it belonged to our daughter whom we have lost, and so you must tell us! Come, we will give you a basket full of rice if you tell us." The Mahuli girl could not resist this offer, and when the basket of rice was produced, she told them where the palm tree was, in which Kora's sister was hiding. In all haste the father and mother went to the tree and found that it was much too high for them to climb: so they begged their daughter to come down and promised not to marry her to her brother; but she would not come down: then they sang:-- "You have made a palm tree from the scrapings of your skin And have climbed up into it, daughter! Come daughter, come down." But she only answered:-- "Father and mother, why do you cry? I must spend my life here: "Do you return home." So they went home in despair. Then her sisters-in-law came in their turn and sang:-- "Palm tree, palm tree, give us back our sister: The brother and sister have got to be married." But she would not answer them nor come down from the tree, so they had to go home without her. Then all her other relations came and besought her to come down, but she would not listen to them. So they went away and invoked a storm to come to their aid. And a storm arose and cold rain fell, till the girl in the palm tree was soaked and shivering, and the wind blew and swayed the palm tree so that its top kept touching the ground. At last she could bear the cold and wet no more and, seizing an opportunity when the tree touched the ground, she slipped off. Her relations had made all the villagers promise on no account to let her into their houses; so when she went into the village and called out at house after house no one answered her or opened to her. Then she went to her own home and there also they refused to open to her. But Kora had lit a big fire in the cow house and sat by it warming himself, knowing that the girl would have to come to him; and as she could find no shelter elsewhere she had to go to his fire, and then she sat and warmed herself and thought "I fled for fear of this man and now I have come back to him; this is the end, I can no longer stay in this world; the people will not even let me into their houses. I have no wish to see them again." So she sat and thought, and when she was warmed, she lay down by the side of Kora; and he wore tied to his waist a nail-cutter; she unfastened this and cut her throat with it as she lay. Her death struggles aroused Kora, and he got up and saw the ground covered with her blood and he saw that she had killed herself with his nail-cutter; then he took counsel with himself and also cut his throat in the same way. In the morning the two corpses were found lying side by side, and it was seen that their blood refused to mingle but had flowed in opposite directions. So they took the bodies away to burn them and laid them on one pyre; and when the fire was lit, it was seen that the smoke from the two bodies rose separately into the air. Then all who saw it, said "We wished to marry brother and sister but Chando would not approve of it; see how their blood would not mingle though spilt on the same floor, and how the smoke from the pyre rises in two separate columns; it is plain that the marriage of brother and sister is wrong." From that time such manages have been discontinued. LI. A Story on Caste. There was once a village inhabited only by Musahars. Among them was one girl who was so beautiful that she seemed more than human. Her father and mother were so proud of her looks that they determined not to marry her to a man of their own caste. They were constantly discussing whom they should choose as a son-in-law; one day they began to consider who were the greatest persons in the world. The old woman was of opinion that there was no one greater than Chando, the Sun God, and suggested that they should marry the girl to him. Her husband agreed and off they set and presented themselves before Chando. Chando asked why they had come. "O Chando, we understand that you are the greatest being in the world and we have come to marry our daughter to you," Chando answered "I fancy there is some one greater than I," "Who is he?" asked the parents. "The cloud is greater than I, for it can hide my face and quench my rays." At this the father and mother hurried off with their daughter in search of the Cloud, and when they found him, told him that they had brought their daughter to give him to wife, as he was the greatest being in the world. "I may be great," said the Cloud, "but there is a greater than I, the Wind. The Wind rises and blows me away in a minute." So they went in search of the Wind and when they found him, explained to him why they had brought him their daughter. The Wind said "I am strong but there are stronger than I: the Mountains are stronger. I can blow things down or whirl them away, but I cannot move the mountains." So on they went to the Mountain and explained their errand. The Mountain said "I am great but there are more powerful than I. The ground-rat is more powerful, for however high I may be the ground-rats burrow holes in me and I cannot resist them." The poor parents by this time began to feel rather discouraged, but still they made up their minds to persevere and went on to look for the ground-rat. They found him and offered him their daughter in marriage, but the ground-rat denied that he was the most powerful being on earth, the Musahars were more powerful for they lived by digging out ground-rats and eating them. The hapless couple went home very dejectedly, reflecting that they had begun by despising their own caste and had gone in search of something greater and had ended where they begun. So they arranged to marry their daughter to a man of their own caste after all. _Moral_ You should not despise your own caste or race; you cannot help what caste you are born into. A Santal may learn to read and write and associate with men of good position and thereby his mind may be perverted. He may wish to change his caste become a Sadhu, or a Kherwar, or a Boistab, or a Mussulman, or a Christian or anything else; but people will still know him for a beef-eating Santal. If he becomes a Christian, no one will think him the equal of a Saheb or a Brahman; no Saheb will marry his daughter or give him his daughter in marriage. Remember what happened to the Musahar, who despised his own caste. God caused you to be born in a certain caste. He and not we made the different castes and He knows what is good and bad for us. LII. Tipi and Tepa. Tipi and Tepa dwelt together and lived on baked cakes. One day they met a bear in the jungle. "Now I will eat you" growled the bear. "Spare us," said Tipi and Tepa "and to-morrow we will beg some food and bake it into cakes and give it to you," So the bear let them go away to beg; but when they came back they ate the food which they had procured and then hid themselves inside a hollow gourd. The bear came and looked about for them but could not find them and went away. The next day Tipi and Tepa again went out begging and as luck would have it again met the bear. "Now I will eat you" said the bear. "No" said they "let us go and beg some food for you." So they went off begging and came back and baked cakes and ate them and then hid inside the gourd. The bear came and carried off the gourd on its shoulder and began to pick plums and other fruit and put them into the gourd. As fast as the fruit was put in Tipi and Tepa ate it up. "It is a very funny thing that the gourd does not become full" thought the bear. But Tepa ate so much that at last he burst, with such a noise that the bear threw down the gourd and ran away. LIII. The Child with the Ears of an Ox. Once upon a time a son was born to a certain Raja and the child had the ears of an ox. The Raja was very much ashamed and let no one know. But the secret could not be kept from the barber who had to perform the ceremony of shaving the child's head. However the Raja made the barber vow not to tell anyone of what he had seen. So the barber went away, but the secret which he might not tell had an unfortunate effect; it made his stomach swell to an enormous size. As the barber went along in this unhappy condition he met a Dom who asked why his stomach was so swollen. The barber said that it was because he had shaved the Raja's child and had seen that it had the ears of an ox. Directly he had broken his vow and blurted out the secret, his stomach returned to its usual size. The Dom went his way and cut down a tree and made a drum out of the wood, and went about playing on the drum and begging. He came to the Raja's palace and there he drummed and sang:-- "The son of the Raja Has the ears of an ox." When the Raja heard this, he was very angry, and swore to punish the barber who must have broken his vow. But the Dom assured the Raja that he knew nothing about the matter; that it was the drum that sang the words and not he and that he had no idea what they meant. So the Raja was pacified and gave the Dom a present and sent him away and the barber was not punished. LIV. The Child Who Knew His Father. Once upon a time there was a girl whose parents took the greatest care that she should not be familiar with any of the young men of the village. But in spite of their precautions she formed an intimacy with a young man and was presently found to be with child. When this became known the villagers held a panchayat to enquire into the matter, but the girl flatly declined to give any information and her father and brothers were unable to point out the offender. So the village elders decided to let the matter stand over till the child was born. When the birth took place the question arose in whose name its head should be shaved; as its father was still unknown, the villagers decided that this should be settled when the child was old enough to talk. So when the child was two or three years old and could prattle a little, the girl's father went to the headman and _paranic_ and asked them what was to be done. They said that he must pay a fine to them and another to the villagers, because he had made the village unclean for so long, and give a feast to the villagers and then they would find out the father of the child and make him marry the girl; and if he refused to do this, he would be outcasted. The unfortunate man agreed and then the _jog manjhi_ and _godet_ were sent to call all the men of the neighbourhood to a meeting. They assembled in their best clothes and pagris and sat down in rows, and in the middle a circle was drawn on the ground; then prayers were offered to Chando and the child was set in the circle and told to find its father. The child began to walk slowly along the lines of men but it did not stop till it came to its real father, who was sitting a little apart, and then it threw itself into his arms. Thus the truth was discovered and the man married the girl and, as he was very poor, went to live in his father-in-law's house. LV. Jogeshwar's Marriage. Once upon a time there was a young man of the weaver caste, named Jogeshwar. He was an orphan and lived all alone. One summer he planted a field of pumpkins on the sandy bed of a river. The plants grew well and bore plenty of fruit: but when the pumpkins were ripe, a jackal found them out and went every night and feasted on them. Jogeshwar soon found out from the foot-marks who was doing the damage; so he set a snare and a few days later found the jackal caught in it. He took a stick to beat its life out, but the jackal cried: "Spare me and I will find you a wife." So Jogeshwar stayed his hand and released the jackal who promised at once to set off about the business. The jackal kept his word and went to a city where a Raja lived. There he sat down on the bank of one of the Raja's tanks. To this tank the servants from the palace brought the pots and dishes to be washed, and to this tank also came the Rani and princesses to bathe. Whenever the servants came to wash their dishes, the jackal kept on repeating: "What sort of a Raja is this whose plates are washed in water in which people have bathed? there is no Raja like Raja Jogeshwar: he eats of golden plates and yet he never uses them a second time but throws them away directly he has eaten off them once." The servants soon carried word to the Raja of the jackal who sat by the tank and of his story of Raja Jogeshwar. Then the Raja sent for the jackal and asked why he had come: the jackal answered that he was looking for a bride for Raja Jogeshwar. Now the Raja had three or four daughters and he thought that he saw his way to a fine match for one of them. So he sent for the young women and asked the jackal to say whether one of them would be a suitable bride for Raja Jogeshwar. The jackal chose the second sister and said that he would go and get the consent of Raja Jogeshwar. The jackal hurried back and told the astonished weaver that he had found a Raja's daughter for him to marry. Jogeshwar had nothing to delay him and only asked that an early day might be fixed for the wedding. So the jackal went back to the Raja and received from him the knotted string that fixed the date of the wedding. The jackal had now to devise some means by which Jogeshwar could go through the wedding ceremonies without his poverty being found out. He first went to the Raja and asked how many attendants Raja Jogeshwar should bring with him, as he did not want to bring more than the bride's father could entertain. The Raja was too proud to fix any number and said they could bring as many as they liked. Jogeshwar having no relations and no money, was quite unable to arrange for a grand procession to escort him; he could only just afford to hire a palki in which to be carried to the bride's house; so the jackal sent word to all the jackals and paddy birds of the neighbourhood to come to a feast at the palace of the bride, an invitation which was eagerly accepted. At the time fixed they started off, with all the paddy birds riding on the backs of the jackals. When they came within sight of the palace, the jackal ran on ahead and invited the Raja to come out and look at the procession as there was still time to send them back, if they were too many, but it would be a great disgrace if they were allowed to arrive and find no entertainment. The Raja went out to look and when he saw the procession stretching away for a distance of two miles or more with all the paddy birds looking like white horsemen as they rode on the backs of the jackals, his heart failed him and he begged the jackal to send them away, as he could not entertain such a host. So then the jackal hurried back and turned them all away and Jogeshwar reached the palace, accompanied only by his palki bearers. Before the wedding feast, the jackal gave Jogeshwar some hints as to his behaviour. He warned him that three of four kinds of meat and vegetables would be handed round with the rice, and bade him to be sure to help himself from each dish--of course in his own house the poor weaver had never had more than one dish to eat with his rice--and when _pan_ was handed to him after the feast he was not to take any until he had a handful of money given him; by such behaviour he would lead every one to think that he was really a prince. Jogeshwar did exactly as he was told and was thought a very grand personage. The next evening Jogeshwar set off homewards with his bride, the bride's brothers and attendants accompanying them. They travelled on and on till the bride's party began to grow tired and kept asking the jackal how much further they had to go. The jackal kept on putting them off, till at last they came in sight of a grove of palm trees, and he told them that Raja Jogeshwar's palace stood among the palm trees but was so old and weather worn that it could not be seen from a distance. When they reached the palm grove and found nothing but Jogeshwar's humble hut, the bride's brothers turned on the jackal and asked what he meant by deceiving them. The jackal protested that he had told no lies: the weaver ate every day off plates made of dry leaves and threw them away when done with and that was all he meant when he talked of golden plates. At this excuse they turned on him and wanted to beat him, but he ran away and escaped. The bride's friends went back and told the Raja how things had turned out and as divorce was not lawful for them, the Raja could only send for his daughter and her husband and give them an estate to live on. LVI. The Strong Man. There was once a Strong man but no one knew of his strength. He was in the service of a farmer who made him headman over all his labourers. In those days much of the country was still covered with jungle. One day the farmer chose a piece of forest land which he thought suitable for cultivation and told his labourers to set to work and clear it, and as usual after giving his orders he troubled himself no more about the matter, as he could fully rely on the Strong man. The next morning, the Strong man set the other labourers to work ploughing a field and then said that he would go and have a look at the jungle which his master wanted cleared. So he went off alone with only a stick in his hand. When he reached the place, he walked all round it, and saw how much could be made into good arable land, and then he began to clear it. He pulled up the trees by the roots and piled them into a heap and he took the rocks and threw them to one side and made the ground quite clear and smooth, and then went back to the house. On being asked why he had been so long away, he answered that he had been pulling up a few bushes at the place which was to be cleared. The following morning the Strong man told the farm labourers to take their ploughs to the clearing and begin to plough it. When the farmer heard this, he was puzzled to think how the land could be ready for ploughing so soon, and went to see it and to his amazement found the whole land cleared, every tree pulled up by the roots and all the rocks removed. Then he asked the Strong man whether he had done the work by himself. The Strong man answered "no," a number of people had volunteered to help him and so the work had been finished in a day. The farmer said nothing but he did not believe the story and saw that his servant must really be a man of marvellous strength. Neither he nor the farm labourers let any one else know what had happened, they kept it to themselves. Now the Strong man's wages were twelve measures of rice a year. After working for four years he made up his mind to leave his master and start farming on his own account. So he told the farmer that he wished to leave but offered to finish any work there was to do before he went, that no one might be able to say that he had gone away, leaving his work half done. The farmer assured him that there was nothing for him to do and gave him rice equal to his four years' wages. The rice made two big _bandis_, each more than an ordinary man could lift, but the Strong man slung them on to a bamboo and carried them off over his shoulder. After he had gone a little way, it struck the farmer that it would not do to let him display his strength in this way and that it would be better if he took the rice away at night. So he had the Strong man called back and told him that there was one job which he had forgotten to finish; he had put two bundles of sahai grass into the trough to steep and had forgotten to twist it into string. Without a word the Strong man wait and picked the _sabai_ out of the water and began to twist it, but he could tell at once by the feel that the _sabai_ had only just been placed in the water and he charged the farmer with playing a trick on him. The farmer swore that there was no trick and, rather than quarrel, the Strong man went on with the work. While he was so engaged the farmer offered him some tobacco, and the Strong man took it without washing and wiping his hands. Now no one should prepare or chew tobacco while twisting sabai; if one does not first wash and dry one's hands one's strength will go. The Strong man knew this, but he was so angry at being called back on false pretences that he forgot all about it. But when he had finished the string and the farmer said that he might go, he essayed to take up the two _bandis_ of rice as before. To his sorrow he found that he could not lift them. Then he saw the mistake that he had made. He had to leave one _bandi_ behind and divide the other into two halves and sling them on the bamboo and carry them off with him. The Strong man's cultivation did not prosper, and after three or four years he found himself at the end of his means and had again to take service with a farmer. One day when field work was in full swing the Strong man had a quarrel with his new master. So when he had finished the morning's ploughing he pulled the iron point of the ploughshare out of its socket and snapped it in two. Then he took the pieces to his master and explained that it had caught on the stump of a tree and got broken. The master took the broken share to the blacksmith and had it mended. The next day the Strong man went through the same performance and his master had again to go the blacksmith. The same thing happened several days running, till at last the farmer decided to keep watch and see what really happened. So he hid himself and saw the Strong man snap the ploughshare in two; but in view of such a display of strength he was much too frightened to let his servant know that he had found out the trick that was being played on him. He took the pieces to the blacksmith as usual and at the smithy he found some of his friends and told them what had happened. They advised him to set the Strong man to twisting sabai string and then by some pretext induce him to take tobacco. The farmer did as they advised and in about a fortnight the Strong man lost all his strength and became as other men. Then his master dismissed him and he had to go back to his house and his strength never returned to him. LVII. The Raja's Advice. Once upon a time an aged Raja lay dying. Before he breathed his last he sent for his only son and gave him the following advice. "My son," he said, "never go on a journey alone; do not associate with low people, for if you do no one will respect you; never confide a secret to your wife; do not tell outsiders the affairs of your house; do not let village affairs go beyond the village street, and never get into a rage." The son succeeded to the Raja and shortly afterwards set out to pay a visit to his wife's relations. He started alone and after going some distance he remembered his father's injunctions never to go on a journey alone. He had gone too far to go back and he saw no one within call, so he looked about and presently found a crab hole. He set to work and dug out the crab and fixing it in his _pagri_ continued his journey. By-and-bye he came to a river. Now in this river lived a crocodile, which had leagued with a crow to destroy travellers crossing the river. Whenever the crow saw anyone coming, it gave warning to the crocodile, and the crocodile then seized the traveller as he entered the river, while the crow pecked out his eyes. In this way they had been the death of many travellers. So when the crow saw the young Raja coming, it cawed to the crocodile, which hastened to the ford and seized the Raja as he stepped into the water, while the crow flew at his head. But the crab caught the crow by the leg and nipped it so hard that the crow, in agony, called out to the crocodile to let the man go, as it was being killed. So the crocodile released its hold and the Raja struggled to the bank, and then caught the crow which was held fast by the crab and wrung its neck. Then he went back home with the crab, reflecting on the wisdom of his father's advice. Later on, the Raja thought that he would put another of his father's maxims to the proof and see what would happen if he told his wife a secret. So he took a spade and buried an old earthen pot in the corner of his garden. He let his wife see him and she promptly asked what he was burying; he put her off, but that night she insisted so much on knowing, that, after swearing her to secrecy, he told her that a child had come straying to his house and he had killed it to obtain good luck and had buried the body. Time passed, and one day the Raja had a quarrel with his wife, he began to beat her and she in return abused him and kept on calling out that he was a murderer, who had buried a child in his garden. Their next door neighbour heard all this and, directly she found the Raja's wife alone, asked whether what she said was true. The Raja's wife, being still in a passion, asserted that it was quite true. The story was soon all over the town, and the townspeople rose and seized the Raja and charged him with the murder. Then he took them to the garden and made them dig up what he had buried and they found only an old pot. So they had to pay him compensation for making a false charge, and the Raja valued more than ever the advice given him by his father. LVIII. The Four Jogis. Once four Jogis were out on a begging expedition and came to a city were a Raja lived. As they went along they discussed how they should beg of the Raja; and while they were discussing the point, they saw a field rat and one of them exclaimed "I know how I shall beg of him! I shall say 'See, he throws up the earth, scrapety scrape!'" This did not help the other three, but, further on, some frogs jumped into a pond as they passed by, and one of the others at once said "I know what I shall say! I shall say 'plumpety plump! down he has sat.'" A little later, they saw a pig wallowing in the mud, and the third Jogi called out "I have it! I shall say 'Rub away, rub away! Now some more water! Rub away, rub away! I know, my boys, what you are going to do.'" The fourth Jogi was still in perplexity but, when they came in sight of the Raja's city, he exclaimed "I know what I shall say 'Highways and byeways, what a big city! The kotwal is going his rounds, his rounds.'" Then they got a man to write down these four forms of address on a sheet of paper and presented it to the Raja. The Raja took it, and read it, and could not make head or tail of it. And when the four Jogis saw him looking so puzzled, they got frightened and took to their heels, for they could not read themselves and were not sure of what the paper really contained. Now the Raja's chief officer was a Tehsildar, and he had also a Barber, who shaved him every day, And that evening after the Jogis had run away, the Tehsildar proposed to the Barber that, when shaving the Raja the next morning, he should cut the Raja's throat and they could then divide the kingdom between them, and the Barber consented. Not content with this, the Tehsildar and the palace chowkidar that same night tried to break into the Raja's palace and steal his money and jewellery. They began to cut a hole through the mud wall of the Raja's room, but it chanced that the Raja was so puzzled by the paper which the Jogis had put into his hand, that he kept on reading it over and over again, and just as the Tehsildar and chowkidar had half cut their way through the wall, they heard the Raja saying "See, he throws up the earth, scrapety, scrape!" At once they concluded that they had been heard and they crouched down; the Raja went on "Plumpety, plump! down he has sat." This made them think that they had been seen and the chowkidar crept to the door to listen: he heard the Raja saying "Highways and byeways, what a big city! The kotwal is going his rounds, his rounds!" Then the chowkidar felt sure that he was discovered and he ran off with the Tehsildar, without completing their burglary. The next morning the Barber went to shave the Raja, and, while he was sharpening the razor, the Raja again began to study the mysterious paper, murmuring "Rub away, rub away, now some more water: Rub away, rub away! I know my boy what you are going to do." The Barber thought that the Raja referred to his rubbing water over his face for shaving, and concluded that the Tehsildar had revealed the plot; so he threw himself at the Raja's feet and confessed everything, swearing that the Tehsildar and not he was to blame. The Raja at once sent for the chowkidar to take the Tehsildar and Barber to prison. When the chowkidar came in he found the Raja repeating "See he throws up the earth, scrapety, scrape!" He at once concluded that the Raja was referring to the burglary and he fell on his knees and confessed all that had happened. This was news to the Raja, but he went and saw the place where the wall had been partly cut through, and then he sent all the guilty men to prison and despatched messengers to look for the Jogis who had been the means of saving his life and property; but the Jogis had been so frightened and had run away so far, that they were never found. LIX. The Charitable Raja. There was once a Raja who was very charitable; he used to give a new cloth and a good meal to every one who came and begged of him. But one day a Jogi came and refused to take what was offered to him: he demanded that the Raja should give him his kingdom and everything that he had. The Raja thought it wrong to refuse the request, and went out into the world with his wife and his two young children, a beggar. For a long time they wandered about living on charity, till their clothes were worn to rags, and then they chanced to hear of a rich merchant who gave a cloth to any beggar who asked it of him; so they resolved to go to him for help. When they reached the village where the merchant lived, the Rani left the Raja with the two children to cook some dinner and went to the merchant's house to beg for some clothes; but when the merchant saw her he fell in love with her and shut her up and would not let her go. To be saved from the merchant's designs the Rani prayed that she might be smitten with disease and at once she became very ill. After waiting in vain for her return the Raja set off with his two sons to look for her and presently came to a flooded river. He carried one child across first but, as he was returning for the other, he was swept away by the current and the children were left alone. A Goala woman, going to the river for water, found them, and as she was childless took them home with her and brought them up. Meanwhile the Raja was carried down stream by the flood and was washed ashore, bruised and wounded, a long way down. At the place where he landed a large crowd was collected; for the Raja of the country had lately died leaving no heir, and the widow had ordered all the people to assemble in order that two elephants, belonging to the late Raja, might choose his successor. The half-drowned Raja joined the crowd and as he sat looking on, one elephant, passing by all its own people, came to him and put the golden necklace on his neck and the other elephant lifted him on to its back and carried him off and seated him on the Raja's throne; and as he sat on the throne all his wounds and bruises were healed. Years passed and the Raja's two sons grew up, and as the Goala woman who had adopted them was very poor, they went out into the world to earn their living. As it chanced, they took service as sipahis with the Raja their father, whom of course they did not recognise. Just after their arrival the Raja arranged a great festival at which people from all parts assembled; and among others the merchant went there with the Raja's wife, in hopes that among the crowd he might find some physician able to cure the woman. When he arrived, he went to the Raja and asked that two sipahis might be deputed to keep watch over the woman he had brought. The Raja sent his two newly enlisted sipahis, and thus the sons were set to guard their own mother, and it was not long before they found out their relationship. The Rani was delighted to recover her long lost children, but when she heard that her husband had been washed away by the river and drowned, she began to weep and wail. The merchant went to the Raja and complained that the sipahis who had been sent, had thrown the woman into great distress and the Raja thereupon sent for all the parties in order that he might enquire into the matter. When he heard their story, he at once recognised that it was his own wife and sons who stood before him and thus the whole family was happily united. Then his wife prayed to Thakur that if she were really the wife he had lost and had been faithful to him, she might be restored to health; water was poured over her and she was at once cured of her disease, and they all lived happily ever afterwards. LX. A Variant.--The Wandering Raja. Once there was a Raja who was very prosperous; but his wife found their life of wealth and ease monotonous, and she continually urged him to travel into other countries and to see whether other modes of life were pleasant or distressful; she pestered her husband so much that at last he gave way. He put his kingdom in charge of his father's sister and her husband and set off with his wife and his two sons as an ordinary traveller. After travelling some days they got tired of eating the parched rice which they had brought with them and thought they would boil some rice for their dinner. So the Rani went into a bazar to get cooking pots, and a light for the fire. She went to the house of a rich merchant for these, but he was attracted by her beauty and seized her and shut her up and would not let her go back, but kept her as his wife. The Raja and his sons soon got tired of waiting for her; he concluded that the journey was merely a pretext of his wife's to escape from him, as she had disappeared the first time that he let her out of his sight. So he turned to go home and soon came to a river which had to be crossed, he left his sons on the bank and went into the water to see how deep it was and as he was wading in, a large fish came and swallowed him. The fish swam away down stream and was caught in the net of some fishermen. When they saw how big a fish they had caught, they decided to take it to the Raja of that country. The Raja bought it at a high price, but when it was cut open at the palace the man it had swallowed was found alive inside; so the Raja of the country appointed him one of his retainers. Meanwhile the two boys had been found abandoned on the bank of the river by a cowherd, who was too poor to bring them up, so he took them also to the Raja; and they rejoiced to meet their father and when they grew up, were also appointed retainers. They had to travel all over the country on the Raja's business and it happened that they one day came to the village where their mother was and they met and recognised her; she told them how she had been seized and confined and begged them to bring her husband to her. So the sons fetched their father and the Rani told her husband how unhappy she was and begged him to get her released, and he promised to ask the help of his master. When the Raja of the country heard the story he took pity on them and went with a body of soldiers and seized the wicked merchant and ordered him to give up all his wealth and as the merchant tried to conceal where some of his money was buried, the Raja cut him down with his sword. He also laid a heavy fine on the villagers, because they had not sent word to him of the capture of the Rani. Then he took home the Raja who had been swallowed by the fish and his wife and sons, and entertained them for some days, and then gave them elephants and horses and men and all the merchant's property and sent them to their own country. The uncle and aunt who had been appointed Regents came out to meet them and escorted them home. Two or three days after the aunt asked the Raja how he had got his elephants and horses and money, and he said "They are the profits of my wife's sin; I will not tell you the whole story for if you heard it you also might be led astray; my wife induced me to travel by false pretences. It is not good to follow the advice of a woman; it is by mere chance that you see me alive to-day." His wife heard what he said, and she went out and cut her throat from remorse; and they went and burned her body. LXI. The Two Wives. There were once a Raja and his Dewan who had each one son, and the two boys were great friends. Both had been married in their infancy and when they grew up and heard that they had wives, they agreed to go together and visit them. So they set out, and they arranged that on account of the superior rank of the Raja's son they would go first and visit his wife; and they also agreed that, as they were going to a strange place, they would keep together day and night. When they reached the house of the Prince's father-in-law they were received with great honour and when night came they lay down with their beds side by side. Presently the Prince's wife came to him and began to rub his arms and legs, until she had soothed him off to sleep. The Dewan's son pretended also to go fast asleep, but really he was careful to keep awake, for he thought it safer to be on the watch in a strange place. His prudence was rewarded, for after a time he saw the Prince's wife leave her sleeping husband and go out of the house. The Dewan's son followed her and saw her enter the house of a Gosain who lived on the outskirts of the village. He went near and listened at the door. He heard the Gosain ask the young woman why she was so late in coming, and her answer that she had been detained by the visit of her husband. The Gosain reproached her for not having told him that she was married, and she protested that she had known nothing about it until her husband appeared. The Gosain said that she must choose between him and her husband, and she answered that she would never give him up. "Then" said the Gosain "if you really mean it, go and bring me your husband's head." At this the Dewan's son hurried back and lay down on his bed. Presently he saw the woman come with a sword and cut off her husband's head. But when she took it to the Gosain, he rose and beat her with his iron pincers and drove her out, swearing that he would have nothing more to do with a woman who was so heartless as to kill her own husband. Then the woman returned and placed the severed head by her husband's body and raised a great outcry, that her husband had been murdered. The people of the house came and at first they charged the Dewan's son with the crime and were about to put him to death; but he called the Gosain as a witness and the real facts were proved by his evidence, and the murderess was hanged. The Dewan's son would not allow the Prince's body to be burnt but insisted on taking it with him, that it might be cremated at his own home. So he took it on his back and carried it off. He thought that, as he had come so far, it would be better to visit his own wife before going home. So, when he reached the village where his wife lived, he hid the Prince's body in a hollow tree and went to his father-in-law's house. That night when they had gone to bed, the Dewan's son saw that his wife had something on her mind, so he resolved to watch her. When she thought that he was asleep, he saw her rise and go out of the house. He followed her to a shrine of Mahadeb; there she smeared the ground with cowdung and worshipped the god and said "O Siva! I have worshipped you for many days; now my husband has come to take me to his house, and you must find another worshipper." The Mahadeb answered "You have served me for many days; call hither your husband; as you have worshipped me for so long, I will confer a boon on you." So she went and called her husband and as he knew what had happened, he had no hesitation in going with her to the shrine. There the Siv bade him ask a boon, and he prayed that the Raja's son might be restored to life, The Siv bade them bring the body and cover it with a wet cloth; and when they had done so, the body began to breathe and presently the Prince rose up alive and well. The Dewan's son told him all that had happened and the next day they went home, taking with them the wife of the Dewan's son, through whose virtue and piety the Prince had been restored to life. LXII. Spanling and His Uncles. There was once a little man named Spanling (Bita) because he was only a span (_Bita_) high; and he had a beard one span and four finger-breadths long. His father was dead, and he lived alone with his mother and he was as cunning as anyone in the world. He had one cow-buffalo and this he always grazed at night, for fear that the sun might melt it. Once it happened that as he was following his buffalo, he got buried in its droppings and he was so small that he could not get out. However, next morning, some girls, who were gathering cowdung for fuel, found him and set him free. Spanling decided to get rid of the buffalo after this; so he killed it and flayed it and when the skin was dry, took it away to sell. Before he found a purchaser night came on, so he climbed a tree with his hide to be out of danger. During the night a gang of thieves came to the tree, and began to divide their booty. While there were busy over this, Spanling let the hide fall with a clatter into their midst, and they all ran away in a fright, leaving all their stolen goods behind. When day dawned, Spanling climbed down and found piles of gold waiting for him. He took it home and sent his mother to borrow a wooden measure from his uncles to measure it with. When he returned the measure, one of the gold pieces was left sticking in a crack. His uncles at once hastened to enquire how he came to be measuring gold. Spanling told them that he had sold his buffalo skin at a town which he named, for an enormous price and no doubt they could find the same market, if they chose to kill their buffaloes. The uncles hurried home and killed all their buffaloes and took the hides to the city, which Spanling had named, but they were only laughed at when they asked more than the price which was paid every day for hides. The uncles came home very angry at the way in which they had been tricked by Spanling, and in revenge they burnt his house down. Finding himself homeless, Spanling gathered the ashes of his house into sacks, loaded them on a cart and drove away. When evening came he camped by the roadside in company with some other carters and, in the middle of the night, he quietly changed his sacks of ashes for some of the sacks in the other carts. When he got home he found that the sacks which he had stolen were full of gold coins. He again sent to his uncles for a measure and when the measure was returned a gold coin was again left sticking in a crack. The uncles at once came to enquire how Spanling had got the money. He told them that he had sold the ashes of his house for gold and, as their houses were bigger than his, they would doubtless make their fortunes if they burnt them down and sold the ashes. The uncles took his advice but when they tried to sell the ashes they were only laughed at for their pains. LXIII. The Silent Wife. There was once a madcap of a fellow, whose wife got on very well with him and did all the house work very nicely, but she would never speak a single word to him. As nothing he tried would make her speak, the madcap at last hit on a plan of taking her on a long journey. But even when he told his wife that she must come with him to a far country, she did not utter a word. When all was ready for a start the madcap bathed his feet and took a _lota_ of water into the house and pouring it out, prayed to the spirit of his grandfather thus "Grandfather, grant that my wife may speak; if you do not fail me in this, I will make offerings to you on my return; grant that we may come back together happily; teach her to speak to me soon." Then he set out with his wife and they travelled on until they entered a dense forest, where there was no sign of human habitation. As they went on, the tailor birds and babblers began to chatter and scream at them. The madcap got angry at this and called out to the birds that if they did not stop, he would chase them and go on chasing them for a day and a night. Then he sat down and watched them. His wife stood waiting by his side, and soon she began to wonder what she would do and where she would go, if her husband really went in chase of the birds. So at last she spoke to him and said "Come, get up; we must make haste out of this jungle." Directly the words were out of her mouth, the madcap knelt down and bowing to the ground said "I thank you, Grandfather". Then he rose and went on with his wife. Presently they met a bear; the madcap called out "You brute of a bear, what do you mean by coming to meet us like this? I will chase you and go on chasing you till to-morrow morning." But his wife besought him to come along and not leave her. Directly she spoke, the madcap cried "Bravo" and kneeling down thanked his grandfather. They went on and presently a jackal crossed their path; the madcap cursed it and vowed that he would chase it all the night. Again his wife urged him to come on and again the madcap knelt down and thanked his grandfather; but his wife did not know why he did so, nor did she trouble to ask. Just as they reached the edge of the forest they saw a leopard and this also the madcap threatened to chase. "Then go and chase it," said his wife, who now felt safe. So he went in pursuit of the leopard, but after going a little way he lost sight of it and went back to where his wife was. "What has become of all your boasting?" said she. "You have not chased it till to-morrow morning." "No," said the madcap "I have killed it; if you don't believe me, come and see." But she did not want to go back into the jungle and said no more about it. As his wife had broken her silence the madcap saw no use in going further and they turned homewards; all the way his wife went on chatting and singing along with him. When he reached home he sacrificed a number of goats to his grandfather, and lived happily with his wife ever after. LXIV. The Dumb Shepherd. There was once a very rich and powerful Raja and in his heart he thought that there was no one so powerful in the world as himself; thus he thought but he told no one of his thought. One day he made up his mind to see whether others could guess what he was thinking, so he called together his officers and servants and dependants and bade them tell him what thought was in his heart. Many of them made guesses, but not one gave an answer which satisfied the Raja. Then the Raja told his dewan that he must without fail find some one who would, guess his thought, and he gave the dewan exactly one month's time in which to search. The dewan searched high and low but all in vain, and as the time drew near he grew more and more anxious, for he feared that he would fall into disgrace. But he had a daughter and she consoled him and told him to cheer up, as she would find a man on the day fixed to read the Raja's thoughts. The dewan had to take what comfort he could from this promise, and when the appointed day arrived, his daughter brought a dumb shepherd whom they employed and bade her father take him to the Raja. The dewan thought it very unlikely that the dumb shepherd would succeed where others had failed, but he saw no alternative to following his daughter's advice. So the dewan presented himself before the Raja with the dumb shepherd and found a large company assembled to see what happened. The two stood before the Raja and the dumb man looked at the Raja. Then the Raja held up one finger, at this the dumb shepherd held up two fingers. Then the Raja held up three fingers, but at this the dumb man made signs of dissent and ran away as fast as he could. Then the Raja laughed and seemed very pleased and praised the dewan for having brought him such a clever man, and gave the dewan a rich reward. The dewan was still at a loss to know what had happened, and begged the Raja to explain what had passed between him and the shepherd. "When I held up one finger," said the Raja "I asked him whether I alone was Raja, and he by holding up two reminded me that there was God, who was as powerful as I am. Then I asked him whether there was any third, and he vehemently denied that there was. Thus he has read my thoughts, for I have always been thinking that I alone am powerful, but he has reminded me that there is God as well, but no third." Then they all went their ways, and that night the dewan questioned the dumb shepherd as to how he had been able to understand the Raja: and the dumb man explained "I have only three sheep of my own, and when I appeared before the Raja he held up one finger, meaning that he wanted me to give him one of my sheep, and as he is a great Raja I offered to give him two; but when he held up three ringers to show that he wanted to take all three from me, I thought that he was going too far and so I ran away." By this lucky chance the dewan earned his reward from the Raja. LXV. The Good Daughter-in-Law. There was once a very rich man who had seven sons and the sons were all married and lived with their father. The father was a miser: he lived in the poorest manner in spite of all his wealth and hoarded all his money. His eldest daughter-in-law managed the household and she alone of the family did not approve of the miserly way in which the family affairs were conducted. One day a Jugi came to the house and asked for alms. The eldest daughter-in-law happened to be away at the time, fetching water from the stream. Those of the family who were at home flatly declined to give the poor beggar anything and turned him away from the house. So the Jugi went away, cursing them for their miserliness. On his way he met the eldest daughter-in-law coming back with her jar of water and she asked the Jugi why he seemed so angry. When she heard how he had been treated, she at once besought him to return to the house and explained that she was the housekeeper and that that was the reason why none of the others had ventured to give him alms. The Jugi returned with her and she gave him a _seer_ of rice to put in his bag. At first the Jugi refused to take it, on the ground that she was only giving it for fear of his curses but she assured him that she never refused alms to anyone who begged. So the Jugi took the rice and then asked what boon she would accept in return. The woman at first said that she was in want of nothing, but, on the Jugi pressing her, she said that she would like to be able to understand the language of birds and beasts and to see the disembodied souls of men. Then the Jugi took a feather from his bag and drew it across her eyes and blew into her eyes and ears and she found herself possessed of the powers for which she had asked. But before he left, the Jugi told her that she must never reveal to any human being the boon he had conferred on her, for if she did she would die. Years passed and nothing happened but then it chanced that a Chamar who lived at the end of the village died, and as he had been a good and kind man his family wept bitterly at their loss. The woman saw the spirit of the Chamar being taken away in a grand chariot and she also wept for the death of so good a man. Her family became very suspicious at her showing sorrow for the death of a stranger of another caste. A few days later the miserly father-in-law died and the woman saw three beings dragging him out of the house by his heels, and she laughed to see him treated so for his sins. But the family were shocked by her laughter and concluded that she was a witch and had killed her father-in-law by her witchcraft; so after the funeral they held a family council and called on the woman to explain why she had laughed. She assured them that if she told she would die, but they insisted and at last she told them of the boon conferred on her by the Jugi, and what she had seen, and then she lay down upon her bed and died. LXVI. The Raja's Dream. Once upon a time there was a Raja who had no children. So he and his wife agreed that he should marry again. His second wife bore him two sons, and they were very pleased that the Raja should have heirs and all lived happily together. But after the two sons had been born, the elder Rani also gave birth to a son. This caused discord in the family, for the younger Rani had counted on her sons succeeding to the Raja, but now she feared that the son of the elder Rani would be preferred. So she went to the Raja and besought him to send away the elder Rani and her son. The Raja listened to her and gave the first wife a separate estate and a separate house and sent them away. Time passed and one night the Raja had a dream, the meaning of which he could not understand; he dreamt that he saw a golden leopard and a golden snake and a golden monkey dancing together. The Raja could not rest until he had found out the meaning of the dream, so he sent for his younger wife and her two sons and consulted them. They could give no explanation, but the younger son said that he had a presentiment that his brother, the son of the elder Rani, could interpret the dream. So that son was sent for, and when he appeared before his father and heard the story of the dream, he said "This is the interpretation: the three golden animals represent us three brothers, for we are like gold to you. Thakur has sent this dream in order that we may not fight hereafter; we cannot all three succeed to the Raj and we shall assuredly fight if one is not chosen as the heir. It is intended that whichever of us can find a golden leopard, and a golden snake and a golden monkey and make them dance before the people, he is your principal son and shall be your heir," The Raja was pleased with this interpretation and told his three sons that he would give the Raj to whichever of them could find the three animals by that day year. The sons of the younger Rani went away, feeling that it was useless for them to make any attempt to fulfil the conditions; even if they got a goldsmith to make the animals, they would never be able to make them dance. But the other brother went to his mother and told her all that had happened, and she bade him be of good courage and he would find the animals; if he went to a Gosain who lived in the jungle, he would be told what to do. So the Raja's son set out, and after travelling for some days he found himself benighted in a dense jungle. Wandering about, he at last saw a fire burning in the distance, so he went to it and sat down by it and began to smoke. Now the Gosain was sleeping near by and the smell of the smoke awoke him, and he rose and asked who was there. "O uncle, it is I." "Really, is it you my nephew? Where have you come from so late at night?" "From home, uncle." "What has brought me to your memory now? You have never paid me a visit before. I am afraid that something has happened." "You need not fear that, I have come to you because my mother tells me that you can help me to find the golden leopard and the golden snake and the golden monkey." At this the Gosain promised to help the Raja's son to find the animals and then put the cooking-pot on the fire to boil; and in it he put only three grains of rice, but when it was cooked, they found that there was enough to make a meal of. When they had eaten, the Gosain said "Nephew, I cannot tell you what you have to do; but further in the jungle lives my younger brother: go to him and he will tell you." So when it was morning the Raja's son set out, and in two days he reached the second Gosain and told him of his quest. The Gosain listened to his story and put the cooking-pot on to boil and in it threw two grains of rice, and this, when cooked, was sufficient for a good meal. After they had eaten, the Gosain said that he could not tell how the animals were to be found, but that he had a still younger brother who could tell. So the next morning the Raja's son continued his journey, and in two or three days he came to the third Gosain and there he learnt what was to be done. This Gosain also put the pot on to boil but in the pot he only put one grain of rice and a bit of a grain, yet when cooked it was enough for a meal. In the morning the Gosain told the Raja's son to go to a blacksmith and have a shield made of twelve maunds of iron and with its edge so sharp that a leaf falling on it would be cut in two. So he went to the blacksmith and had a shield made, and took it to the Gosain. The Gosain said that they must test it, and he set it edgewise in the ground under a tree and told the Raja's son to climb the tree and shake some leaves down. The Raja's son climbed the tree and shook the branches, but not a leaf fell. Then the Gosain climbed up and gave the tree a shake and the leaves fell in showers and every leaf that touched the edge of the shield was cut in two. Then the Gosain was satisfied that the shield was rightly made. Then the Gosain told the Raja's son, that further on in the jungle he would find a pair of snakes living in a bamboo house; and they had a daughter whom they never allowed to come out of the house; he must fix the sharp shield in the door of the house and hide himself in a tree, and when the snakes came out they would be cut to pieces; then, when the snakes were dead, he was to go to their daughter and she would show him where to find the golden animals. So the Raja's son set out and about noon he came to the home of the snakes, and he set the shield in the doorway as the Gosain had said, and at evening, when the snakes tried to come out of the house, they were cut to pieces. When her father and mother were dead, the daughter came out to see what had happened, and the Raja's son saw that she was very beautiful. He went to her and began to talk and it did not take them long to fall in love with each other. The snake maiden soon forgot her father and mother, and she and the Raja's son lived together in the bamboo house many days. The snake maiden strictly forebade him to go anywhere to the west or south of the house, but one day he disobeyed her and wandered away to the west. After going a short distance he saw golden leopards dancing, and directly he set eyes on them, he himself was changed into a golden leopard and began to dance with the others. The snake maiden soon knew what had happened, and she followed him and led him back and restored him to his own shape. A few days later, the Raja's son went away to the south and there he found golden snakes dancing on the bank of a tank and directly he saw them, he too became a golden snake and joined the dance. Again the snake maiden fetched him back and restored him to his own form. But again the Raja's son went out to the south-west and there he saw golden monkeys dancing under a banyan tree, and when he saw them he became a golden monkey; again the snake maiden brought him back and restored him to human shape. After this the Raja's son said that it was time for him to go back home. The snake maiden asked why he had come there at all, and then he told her all about the Raja's dream and said that as he had found the animals he would now go home. "Kill me first" said the snake maiden; "you have killed my parents and I cannot live alone here." "No, I will not kill you, I will take you with me" answered the Raja's son, and the snake maiden gladly agreed. Then the Raja's son asked how he was to take the golden animals with him, for so far he had only seen where they were. The snake maiden said that if he faithfully promised never to desert her, nor take another wife, she would produce the animals for him when the time came. So he swore never to leave her and they set out for his home. When they reached the place where the third Gosain lived, the Raja's son said that he had promised to visit the Gosain on his homeward journey and show him the golden animals; but he did not know what to do, as he had not got the animals with him. Then the snake maiden tied three knots in his cloth and bade him untie them when the Gosain asked to see the animals. So the Raja's son went to see the Gosain, and the Gosain asked whether he had brought the golden leopard and snake and monkey. "I am not sure" answered the other, "but I have something tied up in my cloth," and he untied the three knots and found in them a clod of earth, a potsherd and a piece of charcoal. He threw them away and went back to the snake maiden, and asked why she had put worthless rubbish in his cloth. "You had no faith" said she "if you had believed, the animals would not have turned into the clod and the potsherd and the charcoal." So they journeyed on, till they came to the second Gosain, and he also asked to see the golden animals and this time the Raja's son set his mind hard to believe and, when he untied the knots, there were a golden leopard and a golden snake and a golden monkey. Then they went on and showed the animals to the first Gosain, and then went to the house where his mother lived. When the appointed day came, the Raja's son sent word to his father to have a number of booths and shelters erected in a spacious plain, and to have a covered way made from his mother's house to the plain, and then he would show the dancing animals. So the Raja gave the necessary orders, and on the day fixed all the people assembled to see the fun. Then the Raja's son set the three animals on the ground and his wife remained hidden in the covered way and caused the animals to dance. The people stayed watching all day till evening and then dispersed, That night all the booths and shelters which had been erected were changed into houses of gold; and when he saw this, the Raja left his younger wife and her children and went and lived with his first wife. LXVII. The Mongoose Boy. Once upon a time there was a Raja who had two wives. By his first wife he had six sons, but the second wife bore only one son and he was born as a mongoose. When the six sons of the elder wife grew up, they used to jeer at their mongoose brother and his mother, so the Raja sent his second wife to live in a separate house. The Mongoose boy could talk like any man but he never grew bigger than an ordinary mongoose and his name was Lelsing. One day the Raja called all his sons to him and said that he wished, before he died, to divide his property among them. But the sons said that they had rather he did not do so then; they wished to go abroad and see the world, and if he would give each of them some capital to start, with, they would go abroad and trade and even if they did not make much profit they would have the advantage of seeing the world. So the Raja gave his six sons twenty rupees each to start business with; but when Lelsing also asked for some money, his brothers jeered at him and declared that he certainly could not go with them, for he would only get eaten up by some dog. Lelsing made no answer at the time but afterwards he went to his father alone and begged again for some money. At last the Raja, though he scarcely believed that Lelsing would really go out trading, gave him ten rupees. The six brothers made everything ready and one morning set out on their travels, without saying anything to Lelsing. But Lelsing saw them start and followed after them, and as the brothers were resting in the middle of the day they looked back and saw Lelsing galloping along to overtake them. So they all travelled together for three or four days, till they came to a great jungle and camped on its outskirts. There they debated how long they should stay away from home and they decided that they would trade for six months and then go back. The next morning they entered the jungle, and as they travelled through it, the six brothers managed to give Lelsing the slip, so that when they came out of the forest they found themselves at Nilam bazar, but Lelsing after wandering about for some time came out at Sujan bazar. The six brothers bought sun-horses at Nilam bazar, and began to trade. But Lelsing at Sujan bazar looked about for someone who would engage him as a servant. No one would employ a mongoose, and Lelsing was in despair, for he had very little money. At last he began to enquire whether anyone would sell him a cheap horse, and learnt that the horse market was at Nilam bazar; so he went to Nilam bazar and there found his brothers trading, but he did not make himself known to them. He tried to buy a horse but they were all too highly priced for him, so at last he had to be content with buying a donkey for three rupees and some articles to trade with. When the six months expired, the brothers went home; and a little after them came Lelsing, leading his donkey, his brothers laughed at him but the Raja did not laugh; and Lelsing showed his father and mother what profits he had made by his trading, which his brothers declined to do. The Raja was pleased with Lelsing for this and declared that, in spite of his shape, he was a man and a Raja. It only made his brothers more angry with him to hear Lelsing praised. Two or three years later there was a famine in the land. Lelsing foresaw it and he dug a large hole in the floor of his house and buried in it all the grain on which he could lay his hand. The famine grew severe, but Lelsing and his mother always had enough to eat from their private store. But his brothers were starving and their children cried from want of food. Lelsing had pity on them and sent his mother with some rice for them to eat. The Raja and his sons were amazed that Lelsing should have rice to give away, and they went to his house to see how much he had; but they found the house apparently empty, for they did not know of the store buried in the ground. Puzzled and jealous the brothers made up their minds to burn down Lelsing's house. So one night they set fire to it, and it was burnt to ashes: the store buried in the ground was however uninjured. Lelsing put the ashes of his house into sacks and, loading them on his donkey, set out to sell them. As he found no buyers, he rested for the night under a tree by the road side. Presently a band of merchants with well loaded pack-bullocks came to the place. "You must not camp here" called out Lelsing to them "I have two sacks of gold coin here and you may take an opportunity to steal them. If you are honest men, you will go to a distance." So the merchants camped a little way off, but in the middle of the night they came and carried off Lelsing's sacks, leaving two of their own in their place, and hurried on their way. In the morning Lelsing made haste to carry home the sacks which had been changed, and when he came to open them he found them full of rice and rupees. He sent his mother to borrow a measure from his brothers with which to measure the rupees; and when he returned it, he sent it to them full of rupees. His brothers came running to know where he had found so much money. "I got it by selling the ashes of my house" said Lelsing "and it is a pity that I had only one house; if I had had more houses, I should have had more ashes, and should have got more money still." On hearing this the brothers at once made up their mind to burn their own houses, and take the ashes for sale. But when they did so and took the ashes for sale from village to village they were only laughed at for their pains, and in the end had to throw away the ashes and come back empty handed. They were very angry at the trick which Lelsing had played on them and decided to kill him and his mother; but when they went to the house to do the murder, Lelsing happened to be away from home and so they were only able to kill his mother. When Lelsing came home he found his mother lying dead. He placed the body on his donkey and carried it off to burn it on the banks of the Ganges. As he went, he saw a large herd of pack bullocks coming along the road. He quickly propped the body of his mother against a tree which grew by the road and himself climbed into its branches, and when the bullocks came up he began to call out "Take care, take care: you will have my sick mother trampled to death." But the drivers were too far behind to hear what he said. When they came up, he climbed down from the tree and charged them with having allowed their bullocks to kill his mother. The drivers had no wish to face a charge of murder; and in the end, to secure their release, they made over to Lelsing all their bullocks, with the merchandise which they were carrying. Lelsing threw his mother's corpse into some bushes, and drove the laden bullocks home. Naturally his brothers wanted to know where he had got such wealth from, and he explained that it was by selling the dead body of his mother and he was sorry that he had only one to dispose of. At once his brothers went and killed all their wives, and took the corpses away to sell; but no one would buy and they had to return disappointed. Another trick that Lelsing played his brothers was this: he used to mix rupees in the food he gave his donkey, and these passed out in the droppings; and Lelsing took care that his brothers should know of it. They found no rupees in the dung of their horses, and consulted Lelsing as to the reason why. He told them that if they gave their horses a blow with an axe while they ate their grain, they would find rupees in the dung. The brothers did as they were advised, but the only result was that they killed all their horses. More and more angry, the brothers resolved to kill Lelsing by guile. So they went to him and said that they had found a wife for him, and would take him to be married. When the procession was ready, Lelsing got into a palki. His brothers made the doors of the palki fast and carried him off towards a deep river, into which they meant to throw him, palki and all. When they reached the river, they put the palki down and went to look for a suitably deep pool. Lelsing found that he was outwitted, and began to weep and wail. Just then a shepherd came by, driving a flock of sheep and asked what was the matter. Lelsing cried out that they were going to marry him against his will, but that anyone who would take his place in the palki could marry his bride. The shepherd thought that this would be a great opportunity to get a wife without spending any money on the marriage, and readily changed places with Lelsing, who drove away the flock of sheep. The brothers soon came back and, picking up the paiki, threw it into the river and went home, thinking that they had at last got rid of Lelsing. But four or five days later Lelsing appeared, driving a large flock of sheep. His brothers asked him, in amazement where he had come from, "You threw me" said Lelsing "into a shallow pool of the river where there were only sheep, but in the deeper parts there are cattle and buffaloes as well. I can take you to fetch some of them if you like. You take your palkis to the bank of the river,--for I cannot carry you all--and then shut yourselves inside and I will push you into the water." So the brothers took their palkis to the river side and shut themselves in, and each called out "Let me have the deepest place, brother." Then Lelsing pushed them in one by one and they were all drowned. Then he went home rejoicing at the revenge which he had taken for their ill treatment of him. LXVIII. The Stolen Treasure. Once upon a time three jars full of money were stolen from a Raja's palace. As all search was fruitless the Raja at last gave notice that, whoever could find them, should receive one half of the money. The offer brought all the _jans_ and _ojhas_ in the country to try their hand, but not one of them could find the treasure. The fact was that the money had been stolen by two of the Raja's own servants and it fell to the duty of these same two men to entertain the _ojhas_ who came to try and find the money. Thus they were able to keep watch and see whether any of them got on the right track. Not far from the Raja's city lived a certain tricky fellow. From his boyhood he had always been up to strange pranks, and he had married the daughter of a rich village headman. At the time that the Raja's money was stolen his wife was on a visit to her father, and after she had been some time away, he went to fetch her home. However, on his way, he stopped to have a flirtation with a girl he knew in the village and the result was that he did not get to his father-in-law's house till long after dark. As he stood outside he heard his wife's relations talking inside, and from their conversation he learnt that they had killed a capon for supper, and that there was enough for each of them to have three slices of capon and five pieces of the vegetable which was cooked with it. Having learnt this he opened the door and went in. The household was amazed at his arriving so late at night but he explained that he had dreamt that they had killed a capon and were having a feast: and that there was enough for them each to have three slices of capon and five pieces of vegetable, so he had come to have a share. At this his father-in-law could do nothing but have another fowl killed and give him supper; he was naturally astonished at the Trickster's powers of dreaming and insisted that he must certainly go and try his luck at finding the Raja's stolen money. The Trickster was taken aback at this, but there was no getting out of it; so the next morning he set out with his father-in-law to the Raja's palace. When they arrived they were placed in charge of the two guilty servants, who offered them refreshments of curds and parched rice. As he was washing his hands after eating, the Trickster ejaculated, "Find or fail I have at any rate had a square meal," Now the two servants were named Find and Fail and when they heard what the Trickster said, they thought he was speaking of them, and had by some magic already found out that they were the thieves. This threw them into consternation, and they took the Trickster aside and begged him not to tell the Raja that they were the thieves. He asked where they had put the money, and they told him that they had hidden it in the sand by the river. Then he promised not to reveal their guilt, if they would show him where to find the money when the time came. They gladly promised and took him to the Raja. The Trickster pretended to read an incantation over some mustard seed, and then taking a bamboo went along tapping the ground with it. He refused to have a crowd with him, because they would spoil the spell, but Find and Fail followed behind him and showed him where to go. So he soon found the jars of money and took them to the Raja, who according to his promise gave him half their contents. LXIX. Dukhu and His Bonga Wife. Once upon a time there was a man named Bhagrit who had two sons named Lukhu and Dukhu; and Lukhu used to work in the fields, while Dukhu herded the buffaloes. In summer Dukhu used to take his buffaloes to drink and rest at a pool in the bed of a dry river. Now in the pool lived a _bonga_ girl and she fell in love with Dukhu. So one day as he was sitting on the bank she appeared to him in the guise of a human maiden. She went up to him and began to talk, and soon they became great friends and agreed to meet at the same place every day. As the girl was beautiful Dukhu fell deeply in love with her and resolved to marry her, not knowing that she was a _bonga_. One day the _bonga_-girl asked Dukhu to come home with her to dinner, as he had stayed too late to go to his own house; but he said he was too shy to do so, as her parents knew nothing about him. The _bonga_-girl said "Oh no, I have told my people all about our love, but if you won't come with me, stay here till I fetch you some rice; it is too late for you to go home now; by the time you come back, the buffaloes will have wandered off for their afternoon grazing." So Dukhu agreed to wait while she brought the rice, and she got up and moved away and disappeared behind some bushes, but a minute later Dukhu saw her come smiling towards him with a pot of rice on her head; though how she had fetched it so quickly he could not make out. She came to him and put it down and told him to wash his hands and come and eat his dinner. Dukhu asked her whether she had had her own dinner and she said that she would go back and have that later. Then he proposed that she should eat part of what she had brought; and she said that she would do so, if he did not want it all. Dukhu resolved to test her, for it would be a proof of true love, if she ate what he left over. So after eating half the rice he said that he was satisfied and when she found that Dukhu would eat no more she took what was left; then he was satisfied that she really loved him and they began to talk of getting married, and he told her that there would be no difficulty about it, as his elder brother Lukhu was already married. Then Dukhu asked the _bonga_ to take him to her house to see her parents, so one day she led him into the pool and as he went in, the water never came above his ankles; and somehow they passed along a broad road until they came to the _bonga_ girl's house, and this was full of tigers and leopards and snakes. At the sight of them Dukhu was too frightened to speak; the _bonga_ said that she would not let them touch him and offered him a large coiled-up snake to sit on; but he would not sit down till she came and sat by his side. Then the _bonga_ father and mother asked their daughter whether this was her husband, and when she said "yes" they came and made obeisance to him. After they had had their dinner she took him back and he knew that she was a _bonga_; but still he could not give her up. After this the _bonga_ girl brought Dukhu his dinner every day on the bank of the river, and he never went home for his midday-meal at all. His brother's wife asked him why he did not come home and he said that he did not get hungry and was content with some buffalo's milk; but she did not believe him and resolved to watch and see who brought him his dinner, but though she went and watched every day she only saw him sitting alone, and the _bonga_ girl was invisible to her. But one day she saw him disappear into the pool, and come out again. When she told this at home, Dukhu's father, Bhagrit, got very angry and decided to find out who made Dukhu disappear into the pool. He resolved to bale out the water and find out what was at the bottom. So he sent for men with baling baskets and began to divide off the water with dams, but out of the water a voice was heard, singing;-- "Do not dam the water, father, Do not dam the water, father, Your daughter-in-law, the Ginduri fish is dying." At this sound the workmen were frightened and stopped; but Bhagrit made them go on, saying that whatever happened should be on his head. And when the dams were finished, they began to bale out the water; thereupon a voice sang:-- "Do not bale the water, father, Do not bale the water, father. Your daughter-in-law, the Ginduri fish is dying." But they paid no attention and baled the water dry, and at the bottom of the pool they found an enormous fish, for the _bonga_ girl had turned into a fish. And they went to kill it, but the fish sang:-- "Do not hit me, father, Do not hit me, father, Your daughter-in-law, the Ginduri fish is dying." Nevertheless they killed it and dragged it on to the bank. Then they began to cut it up, and as they did so, it sang:-- "Do not cut me, father, Do not cut me, father, Your daughter-in-law, the Ginduri fish, is dying." Nevertheless they cut it up, and Bhagrit divided the pieces among the workmen, but they were too frightened to take any and preferred to take the smaller fishes as their share. So he told Lukhu's wife to take up the pieces and wash them: and as she did so the song was heard:-- "Do not wash me, sister, Do not wash me, sister, The Ginduri fish is dying." And she was very frightened, but her father made her wash them and then they took home the pieces and lit a fire and ground spices and turmeric and heated oil and made ready to cook the fish. Then the fish sang again:-- "Do not cook me, sister, Do not cook me, sister, The Ginduri fish, sister, is dying.' But she nevertheless put the pieces into the pot to boil, when lo and behold, out of the pot jumped the pretty _bonga_ girl. Then Bhagrit said to his neighbours.--"You see by my persistence I have got a daughter-in-law"--and she was duly married to Dukhu. At the wedding the _bonga_ girl said "Listen, Father and all of you: I tell you and I tell my husband--however much we quarrel let not my husband strike me on the head, let him beat me on the body, I shall not mind; but on the day that he hits me on the head: I shall depart for good." After the marriage the family became very prosperous and their crops flourished and every one liked the _bonga_ girl; but between her and her husband there were constant quarrels and their friends could not stop them. One day it happened that Dukhu smacked her on the head. Then the _bonga_ girl began to cry and called her father-in-law and mother-in-law and said "Father, listen, the father of your grandson has turned me out, you must do your work yourselves to-day;" then she took her child on her hip and left the house; and they ran after her and begged her to return, but she would not heed; and they tried to snatch the child from her but she would not give it up, and went away and was seen no more. LXX. The Monkey Husband. One very hot day some children were bathing in a pool, when a Hanuman monkey snatched up the cloth which one of the girls had left on the bank and ran up a tree with it. When the children came out of the water and went to take up their clothes, they found one missing, and looking about, they saw the monkey in the tree with it. They begged the Hanuman to give it back, but the monkey only said--"I will not give it unless its owner consents to marry me."--Then they began to throw sticks and stones at him but he climbed to the top of the tree out of the way. Then they ran and told the parents of the girl whose cloth had been stolen; and they called their neighbours and went with bows and arrows and threatened to shoot the monkey if he did not give up the cloth, but he still said that he would not, unless the girl would marry him. Then they shot all their arrows at him but not one of them hit him; then the neighbours said. "This child is fated to belong to the monkey and that is why we cannot hit him." Then the girl's father and mother began to cry and sang:-- "Give the girl her cloth, Her silk cloth, monkey boy," and he answered "If she consents to marry me I will give it: If she consents I will put it in her hand." And as he did not listen to the father and mother, her father's younger brother and his wife sang the same song, but in vain; and then the girl herself begged for it, and thereupon the monkey let down one end of the cloth to her; and when she caught hold of it, he pulled her up into the tree, and there made her put on her cloth and ran off with her on his back. The girl was quite willing to go with him and called out as she was carried away: "Never mind, father and mother, I am going away." The Hanuman took her to a cave in the mountains and they lived on fruit,--mangoes or jack or whatever fruit was in season. The monkey climbed the trees and shook the fruit down; but if the girl saw by the marks of teeth that the monkey had bitten off any fruit, instead of only shaking it down, she would not eat it, and pretended that she had had enough; for she would not eat the leavings of the monkey. At last the girl got tired of having only fruit to eat; and demanded rice. So the monkey took her to a bazar, and leaving her on the outskirts of the village under a tree, he went and stole some pots from a potter and rice and salt and turmeric and pulse and sweetmeats from other shops, and brought them to the girl. Then she collected sticks and lit a fire and cooked a meal; and the monkey liked the cooked food, and asked her to cook for him every day. So they stayed there several days. Then the girl asked for more clothes and the monkey tried to steal them too, but the shopkeepers were on the watch and drove him away. The girl soon got tired of sleeping under a tree so they went back to the cave and the monkey gathered mangoes and jackfruit and told her to go and sell them in the market and then she would be able to buy cloth. But when she had sold the fruit, she stayed in the village and took service with a well-to-do shopkeeper, and never returned to the monkey. The monkey watched for her and searched for her in vain, and returned sorrowfully to his hill; but the girl stayed on in the village and eventually married one of the villagers. LXXI. Lakhan and the Wild Buffaloes. Once upon a time there was the only son of a widow, who used to tend the sheep and goats of a Raja and his name was Lakhan. One day he harnessed one of the goats to a plough and ploughed up a piece of high land and sowed hemp there. The crop grew finely, but one night a herd of wild buffaloes came and ate it all up; at this Lakhan resolved to pursue the buffaloes and shoot them. His mother did all she could to dissuade him but he made up a bundle of provisions, and set off on his journey with a stick, and a bow and arrows, and a flute made of the castor oil plant. He tracked the buffaloes for some days and one evening he came to the house of an old witch (hutibudhi) and he went up to it and asked the witch if he might sleep there. She answered "My house is rough and dirty, but you can choose a corner to sleep in; I can give you nothing more, as I have not a morsel of food in the house." "Then," said he, "I must go to bed hungry" and he lay down supperless. In the middle of the night the witch began to gnaw at Lakhan's bow and he heard her gnawing and called out "What are you munching? Give me at bit," but she answered that it was only a little pulse which she had gleaned from the fields and she had finished it. So Lakhan said no more; but during the night the witch bit his bow to pieces and when he saw this in the morning, he was very unhappy; for it was useless to find the bison, if he had nothing to shoot them with. So he went home and had an iron bow and arrows made by a blacksmith, and then started off again. As before he came to the witch's house and arranged to sleep there; and in the night the witch tried to bite the bow to pieces, and Lakhan heard her crunching it and asked her what she was eating: she said it was only a little grain which she had gleaned. In the morning he found the bow all right, but the witch's jaws were badly swollen. Lakhan laughed at her and asked what was the matter and she said that she had toothache. So Lakhan went on his way rejoicing and at last reached the place where the wild buffaloes rested at night; he waited there and while he waited he swept away all the droppings and made the place clean, and then climbed up into a tree. At evening great herds of buffaloes came to the place and they were so many that Lakhan was afraid to shoot. So he stayed there, and every day he used to sweep the place clean, while the buffaloes were away, and at night time hid himself in the tree. The buffaloes determined to find out who their benefactor was, and they chose an old cow to stay behind and watch. The next day the old cow pretended that she was too weak to rise, and was left behind when the herd went out to graze. Lakhan thought that she was too old to do him any harm, so, although she was there, he got down from the tree and cleaned up the place as usual, and even swept quite close up to the old cow buffalo. In the evening the other buffaloes came back and the old cow told them that it was a human being who swept their resting place clean; and when they promised not to hurt him, she pointed out the tree where Lakhan was. Then the buffaloes told him to come down and swore not to kill him but to support him and keep him as their servant. They told him to make a leaf bowl and they filled this with their milk, as much as he could drink, and they arranged that he should stay at the sleeping place and keep it clean, and when he wanted milk he was to play on his flute and they would come at the sound. So every noon he used to blow the flute and the cows came, running and gave him more milk than he wanted so that he used even to bathe himself in milk, and this made his hair grow very long. One day a parrot belonging to a Raja saw him drying his long hair in the sun and the parrot went to the Raja and told him that he had found a husband for the Raja's daughter, with beautiful long hair; but that no one could go near where he lived because of the wild buffaloes; however the parrot undertook to bring him with the help of a tame crow of the Raja's: so the crow and the parrot flew off to the jungle, and they decided that the best way to entice Lakhan away, was to carry off his flute. So when the cows gave him milk at noon and he put down his flute, the crow seized it in his beak and flew away to the top of a tree. When Lakhan missed the flute and saw the crow with it, he began to throw stones but the crow flew off with it, keeping just out of range; the crow flew from tree to tree and seemed to be always just about to drop the flute and in this way enticed Lakhan on, till they came to the Raja's palace and Lakhan followed the crow right inside and they shut the door on him and made him marry the princess. After some time his wife's brothers began to talk rudely about him saying "I suppose this fellow is some poor orphan, without any relations" and when Lakhan heard this he said that if they wanted to see his cattle and buffaloes they must make a yard for them. So the Raja gave orders for a large cattle yard to be made, and when it was ready Lakhan took his flute and put his wife on the roof of the palace and he himself climbed a tree and blew on the flute. Then the wild buffaloes came running at the sound and gored to death every one they met, and Lakhan and his wife became Raja and Rani. LXXII. The Boy with the Stag. Once all the men of a village went out to hunt in the hills and a certain orphan boy wanted to go with them, and although they told him that there was no water in the hills and he would die of thirst, he insisted on starting. The first day they found no water, but the orphan boy managed to endure it; but the second day he suffered so much, that he begged the hunters to take him to water; they told him that there was no water and they could not take him to any. So he set off alone in the direction in which he understood there might be water, but he soon lost his way in the jungle; so in despair he climbed a _meral_ tree and picked the fruit and threw it in all directions and to his joy he heard one fruit splash as it fell into water; so he climbed down and sure enough close to the tree he found a pool and drank his fill. And then he saw a fawn stuck fast in the mud at the edge of the pool, so he fixed an arrow to his bow and crept towards it, resolved to catch it alive if he could, but if it ran away, to shoot it. The fawn did not move and he managed to seize it and pulling it out of the mud, he rubbed it clean and put his bow string round its neck and took it home. The fawn grew up into a stag and he trained it to fight and one day he matched it to fight with a goat. The agreement was that the owner of the winner should take both the animals; in the fight the stag was victorious, so the boy won the goat. Then he matched his stag with a ram and a bullock and even with a buffalo, and the stag was always victorious and in this way he soon grew rich. Seeing him so rich one of the villagers gave him his daughter in marriage and took him to live in his house, and so he lived happily ever afterwards. LXXIII. The Seven Brothers and the Bonga Girl. Once upon a time there were seven brothers who lived all alone in the jungle, far from human habitations. None of them was married and they lived on the game they killed. It chanced that a _bonga_ maiden saw the youngest brother and fell deeply in love with him. So one day when all the brothers were away hunting, she placed in their house seven nicely cooked plates of rice. When the brothers returned in the evening from the chase, they were astonished to find the rice waiting for them; all but the youngest said that it must be some plot to kill them and refused to touch the food, but the youngest wished to eat it. His brothers would not let him and told him to throw the rice away; so he took it outside the house, but instead of throwing it away, he ate up the whole seven plates full, without letting his brothers know. But when they went to bed that night, the youngest brother snored loudly, because he had eaten so much, and thereby his brothers guessed that he had eaten the rice, and they were very unhappy for they were sure that he was about to die. However in the morning he was none the worse; so they went out hunting as usual but the youngest brother suffered continually from thirst, the result of overeating, and this convinced his brothers that he had eaten the rice, though he denied it. When they reached home that evening, they again found seven dishes of rice placed ready for them. And that day the youngest brother and the youngest but one ate; and the day after there was the rice again, and the three youngest ate it. Then the eldest brother said: "To-morrow I will stay behind and watch, and see who it is who brings the rice; we have no servant, if I can catch the person who is so kind to us, I will engage him as a cook for us, and we need have no more of this mystery. Do you bring back my share of the game you shoot." So the next morning the eldest brother stayed behind and hid himself and watched. But he could not see the _bonga_, though she brought the rice as usual; and when he told his brothers this, it was decided that the second brother should stay behind the next day, and see if he had better luck; and that day they all ate the rice, except the eldest brother, who said that he would never eat it, until he knew who brought it; so the next day the second brother watched but he also could not see the _bonga_. One by one all the brothers watched in vain, until only the youngest one was left. Then they said to the youngest brother: "Now it is your turn and if our friend does not show himself to you, we will eat no more of his rice." So the next day the other brothers went off to hunt and the youngest stayed at home; he did not trouble to hide himself, but sat in the house making a bow. At noon he saw the _bonga_ girl coming with the rice on her head, but he took no notice and pretended to be looking down at something. Then the _bonga_ came into the courtyard and put down the rice and looked about and said: "I saw something like a man here, where has he got to?" and she looked into the house and still the youngest brother kept silent; then she spoke to him and asked whether he was ill, that he had not gone hunting. He answered her that he was not ill, but had been left to watch for the person who brought them rice every day. Thereupon the _bonga_ went outside and brought in the rice and putting it down, said: "It is I who do it. Come, wash your hands and I will give you your dinner," but he said: "First tell me what all this means," and she said: "It means that I want to live with you." He objected. "How can I marry you when my brothers are not married?" She answered that if he married her, they would soon find wives for his brothers. Then she urged him to eat, but he said that if he ate one plateful, his brothers would question him, so the _bonga_ girl went and brought an extra dish and he ate that. And as they talked together, he soon fell deeply in love with her, and promised to consult his brothers about her living with them; but he saw a difficulty which would arise if she married him, for his elder brothers would not care even to ask her for water, and thus she would be really of very little use in the house; so with some hesitation he proposed that she should marry the eldest brother and then they could all talk freely to her; but the girl would not agree to this and said that there would be no harm at all in their talking to her, provided that they did not touch her, and she would not mind giving his elder brothers water. So they plighted their troth to each other, subject to the consent of the brothers, and towards evening the _bonga_ girl left, promising to return on the morrow. When the brothers returned they discussed the matter and agreed that the youngest should marry the girl, provided that she promised to keep house for them. So the next day the girl came back and stayed with them; and they found wives for the other brothers, and got cattle and buffaloes and broke up land for cultivation and though the brothers did not altogether give up hunting, they became rich. A certain jogi found out where they lived and once every year he came to ask for alms; one year he came just after the _bonga_ girl had borne a child, so as she was doing no work, it was her sisters-in-law who brought out food for the jogi. But at this he was displeased, and said that he would only eat at the hands of the girl, who had given him food the year before. They told him that she was in child-bed and could not come out. Then he said: "Go and tell her that the Jhades Jogi has come and wants her arm tassel." So she sent out her arm tassel to him and he put it in his bag and got up and went away. Thereupon the _bonga_ girl arose and left her baby, and followed him, and never came back. At evening the brothers returned from hunting, and heard what had happened. They were very distressed and told their wives to look after the baby while they went in pursuit. They followed as hard as they could and caught up the Jogi on the banks of a river; then they tried to shoot him, but their arrows were powerless against him, and he by magic turned the seven brothers into stones. So the Jogi carried off the woman to his home. He was a Raja in his own country and he had a big garden; and an old woman who looked after it used to make garlands every day and bring them to the Rani, and the Rani used to pay their weight in silver for them. In the course of time the child who was left behind grew up and when he used to play with his fellows at pitch and toss and there was any dispute about the game his playmates would say "Fatherless boy, you want to cheat!" So he asked his aunts whether it was true that he had no father and they told him that the Jhades jogi had carried off his mother, and how his father and uncles had gone in pursuit and had never returned. So the boy decided to go in search of his mother and he set off, and first he met some goatherds and he sang to them:-- "Ho, Ho, goatherds Have you seen the Jhades Jogi On this road?" But they could tell him nothing. And then he met some shepherd boys, and he sang to them:-- "Ho, Ho, shepherds, Have you seen the Jhades jogi On this road?" But they could tell him nothing. Then he met some boys tending buffaloes and he sang;-- "Ho, ho, buffalo herds, Have you seen the Jhades jogi On this road?" But they could tell him nothing. Then he came to a thorn bush, with a number of rags fluttering on it, and he sang:-- "Ho, ho, plum bush, Have you seen the Jhades jogi On this road?" And the plum tree said "The Jhades jogi brought your mother this way, and I did my best to stop them. If you don't believe me see the rags as a proof." And he put his hand on the tree and went on. And then he came to a squirrel which was chattering in a banyan tree, and he sang:-- "Ho, ho, squirrel, Have you seen the Jhades jogi On this road?" And the squirrel said "I have been calling you since yesterday. The jogi brought your mother this way, go on and you will overtake them. And your father and uncles also came this road." The boy was cheered by this news and he put his hand on the squirrel's back and said "You are a fine fellow to give me this clue" and the marks of his fingers were imprinted on the squirrel and that is why squirrels have striped backs to the present day. Then he went on and came to a river and he decided to sit and have his lunch there; he did not know that his father and uncles had been turned into stones in that very place, but as he sat and ate, his eyes were opened and he saw the stones weeping, and he recognised them, and he dropt a little food on each that they might eat, and pursued his way, until he came to the Jhades jogi's kingdom, and he went to the old woman who kept the Jogi's garden and asked to be allowed to stay with her and help her to make the garlands. One day when he had made a garland, he tied to it a ring which had belonged to his mother. So when the old woman took the garland to the Rani, the Rani wondered why it weighed so heavy, and when she examined it she saw her own ring. Then she asked the old woman who had tied the ring there, and when she heard that a strange boy had come, she at once ran to him and recognised her own son. Then they planned how they could kill the Jhades jogi and escape! The mother agreed to find out in what lay the life of the Jogi. So she questioned him and worried him till he told her that his life lay in a certain pumpkin vine. Then the boy went and cut down the pumpkin vine, but the Jogi did not die; then the Rani worried and worried the Jogi till he told her that his life lay in his sword; then the boy stole the sword and burnt it in a fire of cowdung, but still the Jogi did not die; then his mother again worried and plagued the Jogi till at last he told her the truth and said "In the middle of the sea is a cotton tree, and on the tree are two Bohmae birds; if they are killed I shall die." So the boy set off to the sea and on the road he met three old women and one had a stool stuck to her back, and one had a bundle of thatching grass stuck on her head, and the third had her foot stuck fast to a rice-pounder, and they asked him where he was going, and he told them, "to visit the shrine of the Bohmae bird": then they asked him to consult the oracle and find out how they could be freed from the things which were stuck fast to them, and he promised to do so. By-and-bye he came to the sea and was puzzled as to how he was to cross it. As he walked up and down the shore he saw an alligator rolling about in pain with a swollen stomach; and when it saw the boy it said "I am like to die with this pain in my stomach, how can I be cured?" and the boy proposed that it should take him to the cotton tree in the midst of the sea and there they might learn a remedy from the Bohmae birds. The alligator agreed, so the boy got on its back and was taken across the water. Then the boy sat at the foot of the cotton tree and sang:-- "Come down, Bohmae birds, I wish to consult the oracle." But the birds were frightened and flew to the top of the tree. But as he went on singing, they became curious and came down and asked what was the matter, and he said "There are three old woman and one has a stool stuck to her and one a bundle of grass and one a rice pounder; how are they to be freed?" And they said "The first old woman never asked visitors to her house to take a seat; if she does so in future she will get rid of the stool,"--and as they said this they came nearer--"and the second old woman, if she saw anyone with straws sticking in their hair never offered to take them out. If she does so in future she will be freed," and as they said this they came nearer still--"and the third old woman would not allow widows and orphans to use her rice pounder: if she does so she will be freed:" and as they said this they came quite near, and the boy seized them and broke their wings, and as he did so the Jogi's arms were broken; then he snapped off their legs, and as he did so the Jogi's legs were broken; and the birds screamed and the Jogi howled. Then the alligator carried the boy back, and by the time it reached the shore it was cured of its pain. On his way back the boy told the three old women of what the birds had said; and when he got to the Jogi's palace he twisted off the heads of the Bohmae birds and then the Jogi's head fell to the ground. Then he started homewards with his mother, carrying the birds and their heads; and the Jogi's head came rolling after them. But he saw a blacksmith's fire burning by the side of the road and he threw the birds into the fire and the Jogi's head rolled into the fire and was burnt, and that was the end of him. When they came to the river where his father and uncles were turned into stones, he bathed in the river, and then put a cloth over the stones and they were restored to human shape; and they rubbed their eyes and said "We must have slept a long time" and were astonished when they heard how the Jogi had turned them into stones. Then they all went home and lived happily ever after. LXXIV. The Tiger's Foster Child. Once upon a time a Potter woman went to dig earth for making pots, and while she was working she was prematurely delivered of a boy. And she considered whether she should carry the child home, or the basket of clay, but in the end decided to take the clay which was urgently wanted, while she would doubtless have plenty more children in the course of time. So she went away, leaving the baby in the pit. At evening a tiger came by and heard the child crying and he took pity on it and carried it away and he and his wife reared it. As the child grew up they used to take him to the tigers' assembly. He was not at all afraid of the tigers and understood all they said and one day he heard them saying that the Pargana (tribal chief) tiger was a great man-eater. At this he was very angry and set off to look for the man-eater, without telling his foster parents. When the Pargana tiger saw the boy coming he had just finished cleaning his teeth, and he thought "This is lucky, here is my breakfast coming;" but just as he was about to spring on the boy, the boy caught hold of him and tore him to pieces. The news of this exploit soon spread, and the tigers called a meeting to consider the matter, and they told the foster father that he must take steps to prevent the boy doing any such thing again. So the tiger and tigress went home and told the boy that it was time that he went back to his own people, as he had brought shame upon them; the boy objected that men would not receive him, but they told him to go as an orphan boy and beg in the villages till he found his mother. So he went away and when he came to a village he sang:-- "My mother went to dig earth And left me in the pit; The tiger and the tigress of the jungle Reared me--give me alms," And thus he went begging from village to village and one day he came to the village where his father and mother lived. His mother heard him a long way off and running to him knew him for her son. Then she brought water and oil and turmeric and bathed him and anointed him, and gave him new clothes and fed him on curds and parched rice. And the villagers collected, and when they heard the stories of the mother and son, they believed them and gave a feast in honour of the boy, and took him into the village. LXXV. The Caterpillar Boy. Once there was an old woman who lived on the grain she could collect from other people's threshing floors. One day as she swept up a threshing floor she found a caterpillar among the paddy; she threw it away but it came crawling back again; she threw it away again, but it said "Do not throw me away, take me home with you and you will prosper." So she let it stay and that day she found that she collected a whole basketful of rice; at this she was delighted, and put the caterpillar on the top of her basket and took it home. There she asked the caterpillar what work it would do, and it said that it would watch the paddy, when it was spread out to dry after being boiled, and prevent the fowls and pigs from eating it. So the caterpillar used to watch the paddy while the old woman went out looking for food; and every day she brought back a full basket of rice, and so she soon became rich. It got whispered about that the old woman was so prosperous, because she had a caterpillar boy in her house. One day the caterpillar said that he wanted to go and bathe, so he went to the river and took off his caterpillar skin, and bathed, and as he rubbed his head, one or two hairs came out, and these he wrapped up in a leaf and set the packet to float down the stream. Lower down the stream a princess was bathing and when she saw the packet come floating down, she had it fished out, and when she opened it she saw the hairs inside and she measured them and found them to be twelve fathoms long; then the princess vowed that she would not eat rice, till she found the man to whom the hairs belonged. And she went home and shut herself in her room and refused to eat. At this her father and mother were much distressed, and when they heard what had happened the Raja said "Well she wants a husband, I will find him for her." And he sent a notice throughout his kingdom saying that he would give his daughter and half his kingdom to the man who had hair twelve fathoms long. Everyone who heard this came with his sons and the princess was told to look at them and choose whom she liked; but none had hair twelve fathoms long, and she would take none of them. Then the Raja asked whether everyone in the kingdom had come, and he was told that there was a caterpillar boy, who lived with an old woman, who had not come, so the Raja sent to fetch him, but he said that he had no arms or legs and could not go; so they sent a palki for him and he was brought in that. And when the palki was set on the ground, the caterpillar boy rolled out and the princess said that he should be her husband. At this her father and mother were much ashamed and remonstrated with her, but she persisted in her fancy, so the marriage took place. They sent the newly married pair to live in a house at the outskirts of the village and only one maidservant accompanied the princess. Every night the caterpillar boy used to take off his skin and go out to dance, and one night the maidservant saw him and told her mistress. And they agreed to watch him, so the next night they pretended to go to sleep, but when the caterpillar boy went out, they took his skin and burnt it on the fire; and when he came back, he looked for it, but could not find it. Then the princess got up and caught him in her arms, and he retained his human form, and he was as handsome as a god. In the morning the caterpillar boy and his wife stayed inside the house, and the Raja sent some children to see what had happened, and the children brought back word that there was a being in the house, but whether human or divine they could not say. Then the Raja went and fetched his son-in-law to the palace, but the caterpillar was not pleased and said to his wife; "They treat me very well now that they see that I am a man, but what did they do before?" However he stayed in his father-in-law's palace. Presently the Raja said that his kingdom was too small to give half of it to his son-in-law, so he proposed that they should go and conquer fresh territory, and carve out a kingdom for the caterpillar boy. So they went to war and attacked another Raja, but they were defeated and their army cut to pieces. Then the son-in-law said that he would fight himself; so he drew his sword and brandished it and it flashed like lightning and dazzled the eyes of the enemy and his shield clanged on his thigh with a noise like thunder; and he defeated the other Raja and took his kingdom and carried off all his wealth. But the Raja thought that as his son-in-law was so strong, he would one day kill him also and take his kingdom: so he resolved to find a means to kill him. On their way back from the war they found no water on the road and were distressed with thirst. One day they came to a large tank and found it dry. So they made a sacrifice in the hopes that water would flow. First they sacrificed goats and sang:-- "Tank, we are giving goats Trickle out water! Tank, we are giving goats Flow, water!" But no water came. Then in succession they sacrificed sheep, and oxen and buffaloes, and horses and elephants, but all in vain: and after each failure the Raja said "Son-in-law, it is your turn," and at last his son-in-law said "Well, let it be me;" and he armed himself and mounted his horse and went and stood in the middle of the tank, and he sang:-- "Up to my knees the water, father, The water, father, has oozed out." And the Raja answered:-- "Do you, my son, remain standing there," And as he sang the water welled out up to his horse's knee and then to its belly; and he still sang and the water rose to the horse's back and then to his own waist, and to his chest, and he still sang, and it reached his mouth and then he was completely submerged and the tank was full. Then they all drank their fill and the Raja said to his men "We have sacrificed this Saru prince. I will kill any of you who tells my daughter what has happened" and they promised not to tell, but they forgot that there were two dogs with them. And when they got home each man's wife brought out water and welcomed him and the princess asked where her husband, the Saru prince, was, and no one answered; then she sang:-- "Oh Father, my father; How far away Is the Saru Prince, the Gindu Raja?" and the Raja answered "My daughter, my darling, the Saru Prince, the Gindu Raja Is very far away, amusing himself with hunting." And she sang to them all, but no one told her anything, and then she sang to the two dogs, who were named Chaura and Bhaura:-- "Oh Chaura, oh Bhaura, How far away Is the Saru Prince, the Gindu Raja?" and they answered "Oh sister, oh Rani! Your father has sacrificed him In the big tank." Thereupon she began to cry, and every day she sat and cried on the bank of the tank. Now the two daughters of the Snake King and Queen had received the Saru Prince as he disappeared under the water, and when they heard the princess crying every day they had pity on her; she used to sing:-- "Oh husband! Oh Raja! My father has sacrificed you In the big tank. Oh husband! Oh Raja, Take me with you too." So the daughters of the Snake King and Queen took pity on her and told their frog chowkidar to restore the Saru Prince to his wife; and the Prince and his wife went home together. When the Raja and his wife saw their son-in-law again, they were terrified, but he said nothing to reproach them. The princess however could not forgive them for trying to kill her husband and always looked angrily at them; then the Raja and the Rani took counsel together and agreed that they had done wrong to the prince, and that he must be a magician; and they thought that their daughter must also be a magician, as she had recognised the prince when he was a caterpillar, and she could not even see his long hair; so they were afraid and thought it best to make over the kingdom to their son-in-law, and they abdicated in his favour, and he took the kingdom. LXXVI. The Monkey Nursemaid. Once upon a time there were seven brothers who were all married and each had one child and the brothers arranged to engage a boy to carry the children about; so they sent for a boy and to see if he was strong enough, they made a loaf as big as a door and they told the boy to take it away and eat it; but he was not strong enough to lift it; so they told him that he could not carry their children. Now a Hanuman monkey was looking on from the top of a tree, and he came down and carried off the loaf and ate it. Thereupon the mothers engaged him to carry the children, and he used to carry the whole seven about on his back. One day the children were running about the house and kept interfering with their mothers' work, and the mothers scolded the monkey for not keeping them out of the way. Then the monkey got sulky and carried off the children to a distant hill and did not bring them back at evening. So the mothers got very anxious, but the villagers laughed at them for engaging a monkey, instead of a human being, to look after the children. When the mothers heard that the monkey had taken the children to the hill, they were still more unhappy, for in the hill lived a _rakhas_ (ogre) but it was too late to go in search of them that night. Meanwhile the monkey for fear of the _rakhas_ had carried the children up to the top of a palm tree and when the _rakhas_ spied them out he tried to climb the tree, but the monkey drove him away by throwing the palm fruit at him. However the monkey was really in a fix, for he was sure that the Rakhas would return, and he knew that if he let the children be eaten, their parents would make him pay for it with his life. So he went off to a blacksmith and bought sharp knives and tied them on to the trunk of the palm tree: and when the Rakhas came back and tried to climb the tree, he was so badly cut by the knives, that he fell down to the ground with a thud and lay there groaning. Then the monkey cautiously descended and the Rakhas begged him to cure his wounds; the monkey answered that he would cure him if he gave him complete outfits for the children. The Rakhas said that he would give them directly he was cured. So the monkey applied some medicines and recited the following spells:-- "Rustling, rustling sesamum, Slender sesamum: Tell your grandfather, Tell him of seven waist strings. Rustling, rustling sesamum, Slender sesamum: Tell your grandfather, Tell him of seven dhotis." And in succeeding verses, he mentioned seven coats, seven pair of shoes, seven hats, seven swords, seven horses, and seven hogs; and as he repeated the incantation he blew on the Rakhas, and he was healed. The Rakhas was to give the things mentioned in the incantation, but when seven hogs were mentioned he objected and wished only to give one, and in the end the monkey agreed to be content with two; so the Rakhas departed and the next day appeared with seven waist strings, seven dhoties, seven coats, seven hats, seven pairs of shoes, seven swords, seven horses and two hogs. Then the monkey rigged the children out in this apparel and mounted them on the horses; and the monkey and the Rakhas mounted on the two hogs,--the Rakhas having faithfully promised not to eat the children or their parents,--and they all set out for the children's home. When the mothers saw the cavalcade come jingling along, they were frightened at first; but when they recognised their children they were delighted, and they gave the monkey and Rakhas a good dinner. Then the monkey made over the children to their parents and gave up his post as nurse, and left amid the good wishes of all. LXXVII. The Wife Who Could Not Keep a Secret. Once there was a man of the Goala caste, who looked after the cattle of a rich farmer. One day a cow dropped a calf in the jungle without the Goala knowing, and at evening the cow came running to join the others, without the calf. When they got home the cow kept on lowing and the master asked whether she had had a calf; the Goala had to confess that the calf had been left in the jungle; the master scolded him well, so he took a rope and stick and went out into the night. But when he got to the jungle he could not hear the calf, so he decided to wait where he was till the morning; he was too frightened of wild animals to stay on the ground, so he climbed a tree leaving the stick and rope at the foot of it. Soon a tiger smelt him out and came to the place. Then the stick and the rope took council together as to how they could save their master; the stick saw that it could not see in the dark and so was powerless; so the rope agreed to fight first, and it whirled itself round in the air with a whistling noise, and the tiger hearing the noise and seeing no one, got frightened, and thought that there was an evil spirit there; so it did not dare to come very near and in the morning it took itself off. Then the Goala saw the cow come to look for her calf, so he took up the stick and rope and followed her. The cow soon found her calf and asked it whether it had not been very cold and uncomfortable all night; but the calf said "No mother, I put my foot in these four pots of rupees and they kept me warm," The Goala heard this and resolved to see if it were true; so he dug up the earth where the calf had been lying and soon uncovered the rims of four pots full of money. But the Goala did not care to take the money home for fear his wife should talk about it; he resolved to see first whether his wife could keep a secret. So he went home and told her to cook him some food quickly; she asked why, and he said "The Raja has a tortoise inside him and I am going to look at him." Then his wife said that she must fetch some water, and she went off with the water pot. On the way she met several women of the village, who asked her why she was fetching water so early, and she said, "Because the Raja has a tortoise inside him and my husband is going off to see it." In less than an hour the village was full of the news, and the rumour spread until it reached the ears of the Raja. The Raja was very angry and said that he would kill the man who started the report, unless he could prove it to be true. So he sent messengers throughout the country to trace back the rumour to its source. One messenger found out that it was the Goala who had started the story and told him that the Raja wanted to give him a present; so he gladly put on his best clothes and went off to the Raja's palace. But the Raja had him bound with ropes, and then questioned him as to why he had told a false story. The Goala admitted that his story was false, but explained that he had only told it to his wife, in order to see whether she could keep a secret, because he had found four pots of money. The Raja asked where the money was and the Goala said that he would show it, but he wanted to know first how much of it he was to have, for himself. The Raja promised him half; so the Goala led men to the place and they dug up the money, and the Goala kept half and became a rich man. _Moral_. However friendly you are with a man do not tell him what is in your heart, and never tell your wife the real truth, for one day she will lose her temper and let the matter out. LXXVIII. Sit and Lakhan. Once upon a time there was a Raja who had two wives and a concubine, but after giving birth to her second son, the first Rani died, and the name of her elder boy was Sit and that of the younger was Lakhan. The two children used to cry for their mother but the second Rani never comforted them, for she hated them; it was the concubine who used to bathe them and care for them, and their father loved them much. They used to go to the place where their father sat administering justice and Sit would sit behind his father and Lakhan in front. The second Rani hated to see them with their father and would tell the concubine to drive them away; but she refused and said that it was natural for a father to love his motherless children; so the Rani kept silent, but anger remained in her heart. At last the Rani feigned to be ill and kept her bed; the Raja sent for doctors and _ojhas_, and they came and saw that she could not rise and they wanted to feel her pulse, but she would not let them touch her; all she would do was to make the concubine tie a string to her wrist and let the doctors hold the other end of the string; so the doctors diagnosed the disease as best they could in this way and gave her medicines, but she got no better. After some days the Rani sent for the Raja and said "I am dying and you don't care; these doctors' medicines do me no good; there is one medicine only which will cure me." The Raja asked "What is it? I will get it for you." Then the Rani made him swear by Kali that he would give her the medicine she wanted, and he swore blindly. Then the Rani said "If I eat the livers of Sit and Lakhan I shall get well, and if not I shall die." At this request the Raja was struck dumb. Now the concubine and a sipahi had overheard the conversation, and when they heard what the Rani said, they withdrew and the concubine went and told Sit and Lakhan of what was in store for them, and Sit began to cry:--but Lakhan said "Do not cry brother, our father gave us life, and it is for him to take it away if he will." So the Raja came out from the Rani's room and when he saw the boys he wept and he went to them and told them to eat their rice quickly, but they would not eat; then he had their best clothes brought for them and told them to put them on, but they refused. Then the Raja called for _sipahis_ and the _sipahi_ who had been with the concubine, and two others, came and the Raja told them with tears in his voice to take the two boys away and let him never see them again, and he added so that the boys should not hear "Bring me their livers." So the sipahis took away the boys, and as they passed through the bazar they bought them some sweetmeats. After walking for a time they came to a jungle; then Sit said to the sipahis "How far are we to go? Do here what is in your minds." But the sipahis went on further; then Sit again told them to do what they had to do. But the sipahis said "Do not be frightened, we shall not kill you; we shall not obey your father; you must go away and never come back here." Now two dogs had followed them, attracted by the smell of the sweetmeats, and the _sipahis_ caught and killed them and cut out their livers, and they put them on a plate and took them to the Raja. The Rani was delighted and had the livers cooked, and ate them and the next day she rose from her bed. Meanwhile Sit and Lakhan travelled on, and in a few days they had eaten all their food and were very tired, and one evening they sat down at the foot of a tree in the jungle intending to spend the night there. In that tree a pair of birds had their nest. Every year they hatched their eggs and reared the young: but every year when the young were half grown, a snake came and devoured them. That year also there were two young in the nest, and on the day that the boys rested at the foot of the tree the snake had resolved to eat them. But when it came, the boys heard it moving in the leaves and killed it. At evening the old birds returned and the nestlings said that the boys had saved their lives, and asked the old birds to give them some of the food that they had brought. So they threw down two bits of food, and it was ordained that whoever ate the first piece, should marry the daughter of a Raja, and whoever ate the second piece, should spit gold; and it chanced that Sit ate the first piece, and Lakhan the second. The next morning the boys went on their way, and the Raja of the country was looking for a husband for his daughter and he had sent an elephant out with a flower in its trunk and it was arranged that the princess should marry the man to whom the elephant gave the flower. The elephant came upon Sit sitting by the side of the road, while Lakhan was at a distance; and when the elephant saw Sit, it went up and gave him the flower and the attendants mounted him on the elephant and took him to the Raja and he married the princess. A few days after the wedding Sit sat outside the palace with his wife, and did not come in though it was evening, and the Raja asked him why he was sitting outside in the dew. Then Sit began to cry and lament his brother, singing-- "O Brother Lakhan, where have you gone? O younger brother, where have you gone?" Then the Raja heard how he had been separated from his brother, and he promised to send men in search of Lakhan, and they found him in the house of a potter; but the potter refused to give him up until he had been paid for the days that he had entertained him; but really the Potter had become wealthy, because whenever Lakhan opened his mouth he spat gold, and he did not wish to lose such a valuable guest. Then Sit mounted his horse and took five rupees and gave them to the Potter in payment for his entertainment, and brought Lakhan home with him. When they found that Lakhan spat gold they were very glad to keep him and the Raja gave him his second daughter in marriage; and Lakhan made the whole family rich. Meanwhile Sit and Lakhan's father had fallen into poverty; his country had been conquered and his army destroyed and he and his wife wandered about begging; when the boys heard this, they sent for the concubine who had been good to them, and she came and lived with them, but they did not forgive their father and step-mother. _Moral_. There is no controlling a second wife and they are hard to get on with. First wives are the best, they are obedient and agree with the opinions of their husband. LXXIX. The Raja Who Went To Heaven. Once upon a time there was a Raja, who had many water reservoirs and tanks, and round the edges he planted trees, mangoes, pipals, palms and banyans; and the banyan trees were bigger than any. Every day after bathing the Raja used to walk about and look at his trees, and one morning, as he did so, he saw a maiden go up to a banyan tree and climb it, and the tree was then carried up to the sky, but when he went in the evening he saw the tree in its place again; the same thing happened three or four days running. The Raja told no one, but one morning he climbed the banyan tree before the maiden appeared, and when she came, he was carried up to the sky along with the tree. Then he saw the maiden descend and go and dance with a crowd of Gupinis (Divine milk maids) and the Raja also got down and joined in the dance. He was so absorbed in the dance that he took no note of time; so when at last he tore himself away, he found that the banyan tree had disappeared. There was nothing to be done, but stay where he was; so he began to wander about and he soon came to some men building a palace as hard as they could. He asked them for whom the palace was being built, and they named his own name. He asked why it was being built for him, and they said that Thakur intended to bring him there, because he was a good ruler, who did not oppress his subjects and gave alms to the poor and to widows and orphans. There was no difference between night and day up in the sky, but when the Raja came back, he found that the banyan tree was there, and he climbed up it and was carried back to earth by it. Then he went home and told his people that he had been on a visit to a friend. After that the Raja used to visit the banyan tree every day, and when he found that it did not wither although it had been taken up by the roots, he concluded that what he had seen was true and he began to prepare for death. So he distributed all his wealth among his friends and among the poor; and when his officers remonstrated he made them no answer. A few days later he died, and was taken to the palace which he had seen being built. It is said that what you give away in this world, you will get back in the next; there you will get good wages for what you have done in this life. LXXX. Seven-Tricks and Single-Trick. Seven-Tricks and Single-Trick were great friends, but some one told Seven-Tricks that Single-Trick was the cleverer man of the two. Seven-Tricks pondered over this but felt sure that his very name showed that he was the cleverer; so one day he went to pay a visit to Single-Trick, and put the matter to the test When Single-Trick saw him coming, he called a pretty girl and hid her inside the house and told his wife to put the rice on to boil. Seven-Tricks arrived and was pressed to stay for the midday meal; he accepted and Single-Trick's wife brought them water to wash their hands and when they sat down, helped them to the rice. As they ate, Single-Trick pretended to get very angry and began to abuse his wife "You lazy slattern, why have you put no salt in the rice? I will beat you for this, I will beat you into a girl again." So saying he caught up a club and gave her a blow with it, and pushed her into the house and pretended to continue the beating inside; and then came out dragging with him the pretty girl whom he had hidden. When Seven-Tricks saw this transformation he made up his mind to steal the club, and try whether he could beat his own wife into a girl again. So when he went home he secretly took away the club, and the next day when his wife was giving him his dinner he pretended to get angry with her for not putting salt in the rice, and snatching up the club gave her a good pounding with it, and drove her into the house and then pulled her forth again; but to his dismay she did not look a day younger than before. Seven-Tricks was puzzled but could only opine that he had not beaten the woman hard enough, so he beat her till her bones cracked; but still there was no result and he had to give up in despair. After a time Seven-Tricks paid another visit to Single-Trick, and Single-Trick invited him to come hunting in the forest; before they started Single-Trick told his wife to go and buy a hare and keep it in the house. The two friends set off, and after a time they put up a hare; Single-Trick had brought with him his dog, which was a shocking coward and no good at hunting; when they saw the hare Single-Trick loosed the dog calling "After it, after it, drive it right home." And the coward of a dog, directly it was free, put its tail between its legs and ran straight home. "Come along home now; that is a splendid sporting dog, it is sure to have taken the hare home;" so saying Single-Trick set off back, and when they arrived he asked his wife whether the dog had brought home a hare. "Yes", said she, "I have put it in that room" and promptly produced the hare that she had bought. Seven-Tricks at once resolved to possess himself of a dog that brought the game home by itself, and the next night he came and stole it, and in the morning took it out hunting. He soon started a hare and loosed the dog after it; the dog ran straight away in the direction of the house, and Seven-Tricks followed at his leisure, and asked his wife where the dog had put the hare. "Hare," said she "there is no hare, the dog came running back alone." "Perhaps I was too slow and gave him time to eat the hare," thought Seven-Tricks; so he took it out again and when he loosed it after a hare, he ran after it as fast as he could to see what it did. Everyone laughed to see the hunter chasing his dog, instead of his game. When he got to the house of course there was no hare, and so he gave up trying to hunt. Another day he paid a visit to Single-Trick and Single-Trick asked him to come out fishing. Before they started Single-Trick told his wife to buy some live _codgo_ fish and keep them ready in the house. When they came to a pool, Single-Trick at once let down his line and soon got a bite from a _codgo_ fish; as he pulled it out he threw it, rod and all, behind him in the direction of his home and said to Seven-Tricks "_Come_ along home, I expect that all the fish in the pool will have reached home by now," Directly they got to the house Single-Trick asked his wife whether the fish had come. "Yes", said she, "I have put them all in this basket" and brought out a basket of live _codgo_ fish. Seven-Tricks at once made up his mind to steal the wonderful fishingrod, so he came back that evening and managed to abstract it, and next morning went fishing with it. Directly he had caught a _codgo_ fish, he threw it over his shoulder and went off home and asked whether the fish had arrived, but he only got laughed at for his folly. Then he was convinced that Single-Trick was more than a match for him, and he would have nothing more to do with him. LXXXI. Fuljhari Raja. There was once a Raja named Fuljhari and he was childless; he and his wife made pilgrimages to many shrines but all in vain, the wished-for son never arrived. One day a Jugi came to the palace begging and the Raja asked the holy man to tell him how he could have a son; then the Jugi examined the palms of their hands but having done so remained silent. The Raja urged him to speak but the Jugi said that he feared that the reply would be distasteful to the Raja and make him angry. But the Raja and his wife begged for his advice, and promised to do him no harm whatever he said. At last the Jugi explained that they could never have a child unless they separated, and the Raja went right away and the Rani lived with another man; with this he took his departure. Then the Raja and his wife consulted together and the Raja proposed to take the Jugi's advice, as he felt that he could not leave his kingdom without an heir; so he said that he would go away to a far country, on pretence of visiting a distant shrine; but the Rani feared that if, on his return, he found that she had borne a child, he would kill her or at least turn her and the child out to beg their bread; but the Raja assured her that he would never treat her in that way and after making his final arrangements he went off to a far country. There he stayed some years and in the meanwhile the Rani had five sons; at last she wrote to her husband to come home and directly he reached the palace he bade the Rani to bring the boys to him, that he might embrace and acknowledge them; so they were brought and he took them one by one in his arms and kissed them, and he saw that they were all the images of himself. But when he kissed the youngest child he was suddenly struck with blindness. Then he rose in wrath and ordered the child to be taken away and killed; but the mother had pity on it and persuaded the soldiers not to kill it but to convey it away to a far country. The child's name was Lita and he grew up and was married to the daughter of the Raja of the land and lived in his father-in-law's house. But Lita was always tormented by the thought that he had been the cause of his father's blindness; although he would not tell anyone of his sorrow, he used to get up when every one was asleep and spend the night in tears. One night his wife surprised him weeping and begged him to tell her what was the matter. She pressed him until he told her how, immediately his father kissed him, he had gone blind and how his mother had smuggled him out of the country and saved his life, but how the recollection of the harm he had done tormented him and how he longed to be able to return to his own country and restore his father's sight. His wife on hearing this at once began to comfort him and assured him that she would help him to obtain a medicine which would restore his father's sight. In a range of mountains was a Rakhas who had a daughter who was buried in a heap of Fuljhari flowers; if Lita went and could persuade the Rakhas to let him marry his daughter, he could then get a Fuljhari flower and if that were rubbed on his father's eyes his sight would be restored. So Lita set out towards the mountains and sat down by the road side at their foot. Presently the Rakhas and his wife came by; the wife asked him what he was sitting there for; he said that he was looking out for some one who would have him to come and live in his house as a son-in-law. The Rakhas paid no heed to this and proposed to eat up Lita at once, but his wife begged him to spare the young man and take him home and marry him to their daughter, who was very lonely. The Rakhas gave way and they took Lita to the cavern in which they lived and there was their daughter buried under a heap of flowers. They made her get up, and told her that they had brought a husband for her. Lita and his bride lived happily together and were soon deeply in love with each other, and after a time he told her about his father's blindness and how he wished to try to cure it with one of her flowers. She readily agreed to help him; so the next day she went to her father and said that she wished to pay a short visit to her husband's home; the Rakhas consented and she and Lita took their leave. She told Lita that when the Rakhas offered him a farewell gift, he should take nothing but a hair from the Rakhas' head; this he did and they tied the flower and the hair up carefully and set off to the home, where Lita's first wife was awaiting them. She told her parents that Lita had come back with one of his sisters, and that she now wished to go back with them on a visit to their home. Her parents assented and the three of them set out and one evening reached the outskirts of the village in which Lita had been born. They camped under a roadside tree, but in the middle of the night they took out the Rakhas' hair and said to it "Make us a golden palace" and at once a golden palace sprang up. Next morning all the residents of the village collected to see the wonderful new palace, and Lita told them to bring their Raja and he would cure him of his blindness. So they went and fetched the old blind Raja and directly Lita touched his eyes with the flower his sight was restored. Then they wept over each other and told all that had happened. And the old Raja and his wife came and lived with Lita and his wives and the other brothers stayed on at their old home; and they all lived happily ever after. LXXXII. The Corpse of the Raja's Son. There was once a blacksmith named Chitru who had a very pretty wife; and the woman attracted the attention of the son of the Raja. Chitru suspected that his wife was unfaithful to him, and one night he pretended to go away from home, but really he lay in wait and surprised the prince visiting his wife; then he sprang out upon him and strangled him. But when he found himself with the corpse of the prince on his hands, he began to wonder what he should do to avoid being convicted of the murder. At last he took up the corpse and carried it to the house of two dancing girls who lived in the village, and laid it down inside. Soon after the dancing girls woke up and saw the corpse lying in their room; they at once aroused their parents, and when they found that it was the corpse of the Prince, they were filled with consternation. Now Chitru had a reputation for cunning, so they decided to send for him quietly and take his advice. When he came they begged him to save them; he pretended to be much surprised and puzzled and at last undertook to get them out of their difficulty, if they paid him one hundred rupees; they gladly paid him the money, and then he took up the corpse and carried it off and laid it down on the verandah of the house of a _mahajan_ who lived near. Soon after some one came out of the house and found the corpse; at once they were all in consternation and sent for the clever Chitru to help them out of their difficulty. Chitru refused to lift a finger unless he were paid two hundred rupees, and when he had got the money he took up the corpse and put it in a sitting position in a little patch of _brinjals_ which a Koeri had planted by his front door. At dawn the Koeri came out and saw what he thought was a thief stealing his brinjals, and promptly threw a stone at the man. The corpse fell over, and when the Koeri went to see who it was he found the dead body of the Raja's son. As it was daylight, he had no opportunity of making away with the body, so he was arrested and sent for trial. He was acquitted, because he had acted unwittingly, but he was too frightened of the Raja to stay any longer in the village and absconded as soon as he could. Chitru, who was the real murderer, made his wife promise to keep silence by threats and was three hundred rupees the better for the business. LXXXIII. The Sham Child. There was once a Raja who had two wives and each Rani had a maidservant who was the Raja's concubine; but none of them had any children. In the course of time the ladies began to quarrel and when they appealed to the Raja, he found that the elder Rani was to blame and turned her out of the palace, and sent her to live in a palm leaf hut on the outskirts of the town. Her faithful maidservant followed her, and the two supported themselves by begging. But they barely got enough to keep body and soul together. After a few days the maidservant asked permission of her mistress to play a trick on the Raja, by which they should at least get sufficient food. The Rani assented and the maidservant went off to the Raja and told him that the wife whom he had turned out was five months with child, and that it was a disgrace that one who was to be the mother of his heir should have to beg her bread. On hearing this the Raja somewhat relented towards the Rani, and he ordered money to be sent her sufficient to provide her with food, and had a proper house prepared for her. When the proper time arrived, the maidservant went to the Raja and told him that a son had been born; at this joyful news the Raja became still more generous and told the maidservant that she was free to take whatever was wanted for the child. This suited the maid and her mistress excellently; so long as they could keep up the deception they lived in comfort; when the child was supposed to have grown old enough to run about, they asked for the price of some anklets with bells on them and bought a pair, and whenever the Raja passed by the house in which the Rani lived, the maidservant made her mistress rattle the anklets, and then went outside and told the Raja to listen to the anklets tinkling as his son ran about the house. The Raja would tell the maidservant not to let the boy run about too much, lest he should fall and hurt himself; then she would hurry inside and tell the Rani to stop the jingling, and then come and tell the Raja that the boy was resting in his mother's lap; but for all this the Raja was never given an opportunity of seeing his son. However as time went on the Raja chose a bride and arranged for his son's wedding; the bride's friends did not come to inspect the bridegroom; a day was fixed right off for the wedding. As this day drew near, the Rani became more and more frightened, for it seemed that her deception must at last be discovered, and she would probably be put to death. But the maidservant encouraged her and promised to devise a plan; so when the day came for them to start for the bride's house she made a paste of ground mowah flowers and out of this fashioned an image of a child; and when the procession started off, with the Raja in a palki, and drummers, and palki-bearers, the maidservant was also carried in a palki and pretended that she was holding the child. Off they started and as it was too far to go in one day, they stopped for the night at a bazar, where there was the shrine of a saint. At midnight the maidservant arose and went to the shrine and called to the spirit (bonga) which dwelt there, and said that he must grant her a boon, and if not it would be the worse for him; the spirit asked what she wanted and she showed the paste image and said that she was going with the procession to marry her son, and somehow on the way he had been turned into paste; if the spirit would not give her another son, she would spit on him and curse him. The spirit saw that she meant what she said, and for fear of being spat upon, he produced a boy from somewhere and gave him to her. The maidservant was delighted at her success and bowed down three times in reverence to the spirit and took away the boy and put him in her palki. The next morning they rose and reached the bride's house and the wedding took place in due form. As they were returning, the maidservant sent on two men to warn her mistress of what had happened and to tell her to get ready a feast. So when they reached home there was a feast ready and the bride's friends were duly entertained and dismissed. Afterwards the Raja fell out with his second wife and left the palace where she lived and came and stayed with the elder Rani, whom he had formerly turned out. LXXXIV. The Sons of the Kherohuri Raja. The Kherohuri Raja had five sons, and he made up his mind that he would only marry them to five sisters. So he sent out Brahmans and Jugis to search the world to find a Raja with five unmarried daughters. And at the same time the Chandmuni Raja had five marriagable daughters, and he made up his mind that he would marry them to five brothers; he did not care what their rank in life was, but he was determined to find a family of five brothers to marry his daughters. And he also told all the Brahmans and Jugis who wandered about begging, to look out for a family of five unmarried brothers. One day it chanced that the emissaries of the Kherohuri Raja and those of the Chandmuni Raja met at a river; both parties were resting after taking their midday meal and as they smoked they fell into conversation, and soon found that their meeting was most fortunate; each party had found the Tery thing they wanted, so they all set off to the palace of the Kherohuri Raja in order that the Chandmuni Raja's messengers might see the young men. The Kherohuri Raja ordered them to be hospitably entertained and food to be set before them; they however refused to eat anything till they had seen the five bridegrooms. The five young men were then introduced and as they appeared to be sound in wind and limb and in all respects satisfactory, there was no further obstacle to the entertainment. The next day the Kherohuri Raja sent out officials to visit and inspect the daughters of the Chandmuni Raja, and as their report was satisfactory, nothing remained but to fix the day for the wedding. When the time came for the bridegrooms and their retinue to set off to the country of the Chandmuni Raja, they and their servants and followers all started, so that no one was left at home but their mother. After they had gone a little way the eldest prince stopped them and said that they could not leave their mother all alone, what would she do supposing some sudden danger arose? The others agreed that this was so, but the difficulty was to decide who should stay; not one of the other brothers would consent to do so. So at last the eldest brother said that he would stay, and he gave them his shield and sword and told them to perform his marriage for him by putting the vermilion on the bride's forehead with his sword. When they reached the home of the Chandmuni Raja they proceeded at once to perform the vermilion ceremony, beginning with the eldest daughter; but when the sword was produced and she was told that she must go through the ceremony with the sword, as her bridegroom had not come, she began to cry and make a great to-do. Nothing would induce her to consent. "Why was her husband the only one who had not come in person? he must be blind or lame or married;" this resistance put all the others into a difficulty, for the younger sisters could not be married before the elder. At last after much talking her father and mother persuaded the eldest daughter to go through the ceremony; the women put vermilion on the sword and with the sword the mark was made on the bride's forehead; and then the younger sisters were married and after a grand feast the whole party set out for the palace of the Kherohuri Raja. On the way they were benighted in the midst of a great jungle twelve _kos_ wide, and the palki bearers declined to go any further in the dark, so they had all to camp where they were. In the middle of the night, suddenly sixteen hundred Rakhases descended on them and swallowed up the whole cavalcade, elephants and horses and palkis and men. In this danger the eldest princess who had been married to the sword prayed to Chando saying "O Chando! I have never yet set eyes on my husband; he is not with me here. I pray thee carry my palki in safety up into the sky." And Chando heard her prayer and lifted her palki up into the air and preserved her, but all those who were left on the ground were swallowed up by the Rakhases; when the day dawned not one was to be seen. As the princess from mid air gazed on this melancholy spectacle, a parrot came flying over and she called to it and begged it to take a letter for her to her husband in the palace of the Kherohuri Raja. The parrot obeyed her behest, and when the eldest prince read the letter and learned what had happened, he made a hasty meal and saddled his horse and was ready to start; but as it was nearly evening he thought it better to wait till the next day. Very early the following morning he set out and when his bride saw him come riding along she prayed to Chando that if it were really her husband the palki might descend to the ground; it immediately sank, and the bride and bridegroom met; then she told him all that had happened and gave him the shield and sword that he had sent to represent him at the marriage; with these in his hands he waited and when at nightfall the Rakhases returned, the Prince slew everyone of them with his sword; and as he killed them the Rakhases vomited up the elephants, horses and men that they had eaten. Then his wife told the prince to dip a cloth in water and wring it out over the dead and as the water fell on them they all became alive again, elephants, horses and men. But his brothers far from being grateful to him for having restored them to life, took counsel together saying. "Now that he has delivered us from this danger, he will think that he has a claim on us and will treat us as his servants; let us cut open his stomach and then the Rakhas will eat him." So they turned on him, cut open his stomach, and went their ways. Then the wounded prince told the palki-bearers to carry his bride back to her father's house. When they appeared before the Chandmuni Raja, he upbraided them for not having brought the prince too, to try if he could not have been healed. Meanwhile the prince lay in the jungle groaning for a whole day and night; then Chando and his wife heard his cries and came down and told him to push in his entrails and when he had done so, they gave him a slap on his stomach and he became whole again. Then as he was afraid to return to his home where his brothers were, he went begging to his father-in-law's house; as he came to it, his wife said to her sister-in-law that the beggar seemed to be like her husband, so she went to him and they recognised each other and he was taken in and well treated and lived there many years. In the end he was seized with a desire to go and see his old mother, and, his wife consenting to go with him, they set off to his father's home; when his brothers saw him come, they were filled with fear and made him Raja over them and they became his servants and he lived in prosperity for the rest of his life. LXXXV. The Dog Bride. Once upon a time there was a youth who used to herd buffaloes; and as he watched his animals graze he noticed that exactly at noon every day a she-dog used to make its way to a ravine, in which there were some pools of water. This made him curious and he wondered to whom it belonged and what it did in the ravine; so he decided to watch, and one day when the dog came he hid himself and saw that when it got to the water, it shed its dog skin and out stepped a beautiful maiden, and began to bathe; and when she had finished bathing she put on the skin and became a dog again, and went off to the village; the herdboy followed her and watched into what house she entered, and he enquired to whom the house belonged. Having found out all about it, he went back to his work. That year the herdboy's father and mother decided that it was time for him to marry and began to look about for a wife for him; but he announced that he had made up his mind to have a dog for his wife and he would never marry a human girl. Everyone laughed at him for such an extraordinary idea, but he could not be moved; so at last they concluded that he must really have the soul of a dog in him, and that it was best to let him have his own way. So his father and mother asked him whether there was any particular dog he would like to have for his bride, and then he gave the name of the man into whose house he had tracked the dog that he had seen going to the ravine. The master of the dog laughed at the idea that anyone should wish to marry her, and gladly accepted a bride's price for her; so a day was fixed for the wedding and the booth built for the ceremony and the bridegroom's party went to the bride's house and the marriage took place in due form and the bride was escorted to her husband's house. Every night when her husband was asleep, the bride used to come out of the dog's skin and go out of the house; and when her husband found out this, he one night only pretended to go to sleep and lay watching her, and when she was about to leave the room he jumped up and caught hold of her and seizing the dog skin, threw it into the fire, where it was burnt to ashes, so his bride remained a woman, but she was of more than human beauty. This soon became known in the village and everyone congratulated the herdboy on his wisdom in marrying a dog. Now the herdboy had a friend named Jitu and when Jitu saw what a prize his friend had got, he thought that he could not do better than marry a dog himself. His relations made no objection and a bride was selected and the marriage took place, but when they were putting vermilion on the bride's forehead she began to growl; but in spite of her growling they dragged her to the bridegroom's house, and forcibly anointed her with oil and turmeric; but when the bride's party set off home, the dog broke loose and ran after them; then everyone shouted to Jitu to run after his bride and bring her back, but she only growled and bit at him, so that he had at last to give it up. Then everyone laughed at him so much that he was too ashamed to speak, and two or three days later he hanged himself. LXXXVI. Wealth or Wisdom. Once upon a time there were a Raja and a rich merchant, and they each had one son. The two boys went to the same school and in the course of time became great friends; they were always together out of school hours; the merchant's son would take his meals at the Raja's palace or the Raja's son would eat with his friend at the merchant's house. One day the two youths began a discussion as to whether wealth or wisdom were the more powerful: the Raja's son said that wealth was most important, while the merchant's son declared for wisdom; the discussion waxed hot and neither would yield his opinion. At last the merchant's son declared; "It is of no use for us to argue like this, let us put it to the test: let us both go to some far country and take service with some master for a year, and try whether wealth or wisdom is the more successful." The Prince agreed to this plan and they fixed a day for starting. Then they both went home and collected what money they could lay hands on and, when the time arrived, started off early one morning. After they had travelled some distance the Prince began to think of how his parents must be searching for him, for he had said nothing about his going away; but the merchant's son comforted him by saying that he had left word of their intentions at his home, and his relations would tell the Raja; so they continued on their way, and after a time they came to a certain country where the merchant's son proposed that they should look for employment. But now that it had come to the point, the prince did not like the idea of becoming a servant and he said that he would live on the money which he had brought with him, and which would last for a year or two. "You may do as you like" answered his friend "but for my part I must look for work." So he went to a village and found employment as a teacher in a school; his pupils gave him his food and also some small wages, so that he had enough to live on, without spending any of the money he had brought with him. Meanwhile the Raja's son hired a house in the village and began to lead a riotous life; in a very short time He had wasted all his money on his evil companions and was reduced to absolute starvation; for when his money came to an end, all his so-called friends deserted him. Thin and wretched, he went to the merchant's son and asked him either to take him back to his father's home or to find him work. His friend agreed to find him some employment, and after a little enquiry heard of a farmer who wanted a servant to take a bullock out to graze and to fill a trough with water once a day. The prince thought that he could easily manage that amount of work, so he went to the farmer and engaged himself as his servant. The terms of service were these:--If the prince threw up his work one of his little fingers was to be cut off, but if the farmer dismissed him while he was working well then the farmer was to lose a little finger; and if the prince grazed the bullock and filled the trough with water regularly, he was to get as much cooked rice as would cover a plantain leaf, but if he did not do the work he was to get only what would go on a tamarind leaf. The prince readily agreed to these terms, for he thought that the work would not take him more than an hour or two. But unhappily for him, things did not turn out as he expected. On the first morning he took the bullock out to graze, but the animal would not eat; whenever it saw any other cattle passing, it would gallop off to join them, and when the prince had run after it and brought it back, nothing would make it graze quietly; it kept running away in one direction or another with the prince in pursuit. So at last he had to bring it home and shut it up in the cow-shed and even that he found difficult. Then they set him to filling the trough, and he found that he could not do that either, for the trough had a hole in the bottom and had been set over the mouth of an old well; and as fast as the prince poured the water in, it ran away, but he was too stupid to see what was the matter and went on pouring till he was quite tired out; so as he had not completed the tasks set him, he only got a tamarind leaf full of rice for his supper; this went on every day and the prince began to starve, but he was afraid to run away and tell his troubles to the merchant's son, lest he should have his little finger cut off. But the merchant's son had not forgotten his friend and began to wonder why the Prince kept away from him. So one day he went to pay him a visit and was horrified to find him looking so ill and starved; when he heard how the prince was only getting a tamarind leaf full of rice every day, because he could not perform the task set him, he offered to change places with the Prince and sent him off to teach in the school while he himself stayed with the farmer. The next morning the merchant's son took the bullock out to graze and he also found that the animal would not graze quietly but spent its time in chasing the other cattle, so at noon he brought it home and set to work to fill the trough; he soon found the hole in the bottom through which the water escaped and stopped it up with a lump of clay and then he easily filled the trough to the brim. Then in the afternoon he took the bullock out again to graze and when he brought it back at sunset he was given a plantain leaf full of rice; this meant more food than he could possibly eat in a day. He was determined that the bullock should not give him any more trouble, so the next morning when he took it out to graze, he took with him a thick rope and tethered the animal to a tree; this saved him all the trouble of running after it, but it was clear that it would not get enough to eat in that way, so he made up his mind to get rid of it altogether, and when he took it out in the afternoon, he took with him a small axe and drove the bullock to a place where a herd of cattle were grazing and then knocked it on the head with the axe and threw the body into a ravine near by. Then he hid the axe and ran off to his master and told him that the bullock had started fighting with another animal in the herd and had been pushed over the edge of the ravine and killed by the fall. The farmer went out to see for himself and when he found the dead body lying in the ravine he could not but believe the story, and had no fault to find with his cunning servant. A few days later, as the rice crop was ripe, the farmer told the merchant's son to go to the fields to reap the rice. "How shall I reap it?" asked he. "With a sickle," replied the farmer. "Then it will be the the sickle and not I, that reaps it" "As you like," said the farmer, "you go along with the sickle, no doubt it knows all about it;" so they got him a sickle and he went off to the fields. When he got there, he noticed how bright the sickle looked, and when he touched it, he found it quite hot from being carried in the sun. "Dear, dear," said he, "I cannot let this sickle reap the rice: it is so hot that it must have very bad fever; I will let it rest in the shade until it gets better," so he laid it down in a shady spot and began to stroll about. Presently up came the farmer, and was very angry to find no work going on. "Did I send you out to stroll about, or to start cutting the rice?" roared he. "To cut the rice," answered the merchant's son, "but the sickle has fallen ill with high fever and is resting in the shade; come and feel how hot it is." "You are nothing but an idiot," answered the farmer. "You are no good here; go back home and start a fire in the big house and boil some water by the time I get back." The merchant's son was only on the lookout for an excuse to annoy the farmer and the words used by the farmer were ambiguous; so he went straight back to the farm and set the biggest house on fire. The farmer saw the conflagration and came rushing home and asked the merchant's son what on earth he meant by doing such mischief. "I am only doing exactly what you told me; nothing would induce me to disobey any order of yours, my worthy master." The farmer had nothing more to say; his words would bear the construction put upon them by the merchant's son, and he was afraid to dismiss him lest he should have to lose his little finger; so he made up his mind to get rid of this inconvenient servant in another way, and the next day he called him and told him that he must send word to his father-in-law of the unfortunate burning of the house, and the merchant's son must carry the letter. The latter accordingly set off with the letter, but on the road he thought that it would be just as well to see what the letter was really about; so he opened it and found that it contained a request from the farmer to his father-in-law to kill the bearer of the letter immediately on his arrival. The merchant's son at once tore this up and wrote another letter in the farmer's name: saying that the bearer of the letter was a most excellent servant and he wished him to marry into the family; but that as he himself had no daughters he hoped that his father-in-law would give him one of his daughters to wife. Armed with this he proceeded on his journey. The father-in-law was rather surprised at the contents of the letter and asked the merchant's son if he knew what it was about; he protested complete ignorance: the farmer had told him nothing, and as he was only a poor cowherd, of course he could not read. This set suspicion at rest; the wedding was at once arranged and duly took place, and the merchant's son settled down to live with his wife's family. After a time the farmer got news of what had happened, and when he saw how the merchant's son had always been sharp enough to get the better of him, he began to fear that in the end he would be made to cut off his finger; so he sought safety in flight. He ran away from his house and home and was never heard of more. When news of this came to the ears of the merchant's son, he set out to visit his old friend the Prince and found him still teaching in the little village school. "What do you think now," he asked him, "is wisdom or money the better. By my cleverness, I got the better of that farmer; he had to give me more rice than I could eat. I killed his bullock, I set fire to his house, and I got a wife without expending a pice on my marriage; while you--you have spent all the money you brought with you from home, and have met with nothing but starvation and trouble; what good has your money done you?" The Prince had not a word to answer. Two or three days later the Prince proposed that they should go back to their parents; his friend agreed but said that he must first inform his wife's relations, so they went back to the village where the merchant's son had married, and while they were staying there the Prince caught sight of a Raja's daughter and fell violently in love with her. Learning of the Prince's state of mind the merchant's son undertook to arrange the match; so he sent his wife to the Raja's daughter with orders to talk of nothing but the virtues and graces of the Prince who was staying at their house. Her words had their due effect and the Raja's daughter became so well disposed towards the Prince, that when one day she met him, she also fell violently in love with him and felt that she could not be happy unless she became his wife. So the wedding duly took place, and then the Prince and the merchant's son with their respective wives returned to their fathers' houses. LXXXVII. The Goala and the Cow. Once upon a time a young man of the Goala caste was going to his wedding; he was riding along in a palki, with all his friends, to the bride's house and as he was passing by a pool of water he heard a voice saying, "Stop you happy bridegroom; you are happy, going to fetch your bride; spare a thought for my misfortune and stay and pull me out of this quagmire." Looking out he saw a cow stuck fast in the mud at the edge of the pool, but he had no pity for it and harshly refused to go to its help, for fear lest he should make his clothes muddy. Then the cow cursed the Goala, saying, "Because you have refused to help me in my extremity, this curse shall light on you, directly you touch your bride you shall turn into a donkey." At these words the Goala was filled with fear and telling the bearers to put down the palki he alighted and ran and pulled the cow out of the mud; this done, he begged her to withdraw the curse, but the cow declared that this was impossible, what she had said was bound to come to pass. At these words the Goala began to lament and threw himself at the feet of the cow, beseeching her; at length the cow relented, and promised that though the curse could not be withdrawn it should be mitigated and it would be possible for his wife to restore him to human shape. So the Goala had to take what comfort he could from this and returning to the palki he told his friends what had passed. Much downcast the procession continued its way, wondering what would be the upshot of this adventure. Arrived at the bride's house, they proceeded to celebrate the wedding; but as the Goala touched the bride with his finger to apply the vermilion mark to her forehead, he suddenly became a donkey. The company were filled with dismay and the bride's parents declared that they would never let their daughter go away with such a husband, but the bride herself spoke up and said that as Thakur for some reason had given her such a husband she would cleave to him, and nothing that her relations said could shake her purpose; so when the bridal party set out homewards, she went with them to her husband's house. But there everyone laughed at her so much for having married a donkey that she made up her mind to run away to another country; so one day she packed up some provisions for the journey and set out, driving the donkey before her. She journeyed on and on till one day she happened to come to a tank with a large well near it; she turned the donkey loose to graze on the banks of the tank and sat down by the well to eat some of the food which she had with her. In the fields below the tank were some twenty ploughmen in the service of the Raja of that country, driving their ploughs; and when it got past noon these men began to grumble, because; no one had brought them their dinner; as it got later and later they became more and more violent, and vowed that when anyone did come they would give him a good beating for his laziness. At last one of the maid-servants of the Raja was seen coming along, carrying their food in a basket on her head and with her child running by her side. The sight pacified the ploughmen and the maid-servant hastened to set down the basket near them and then went off to the well to draw some water for them. Just as she was ready to let down the water-pot, a wedding procession passed along the road with drums and music, making a fine show. The maid could not keep her eyes off this, but at the same time did not wish to keep the ploughmen waiting any longer; so, with her eyes on the procession, she tied the well-rope, as she thought round the neck of the water-pot, but really, without knowing it, she tied the rope round the neck of her own little child and proceeded to lower him into the well. When she pulled up the rope she found that she had strangled her own child. She was of course much distressed at this, but she was even more afraid of what might be done to her and at once hit on a device to save herself from the charge of murder. Taking the dead child in her arms she ran to the ploughmen and scattered all the food she had brought about the ground; then with the child still in her arms, she ran to the Raja and complained to him that his ploughmen had assaulted her, because she was late in taking them their dinner, had knocked the basket of food all about the ground and had beaten her child to death; she added that a strange woman was grazing a donkey near the place and must have seen all that passed. The Raja at once sent a Sipahi to fetch the ploughmen and when they came before him he asked them what had happened, and bade them swear before _Sing bonga_ whether they were guilty of the murder. The ploughmen solemnly swore to speak the truth, and then told the Raja exactly what had happened, how the woman had killed her child by mistake and then falsely charged them with the murder. Then the Raja asked them whether they had any witnesses, and they said that there was no one of their own village present at the time, but that a strange woman was grazing an ass on the banks of the tank, who must have seen all that happened. Then the Raja sent two sipahis to fetch the woman, telling them to treat her well and bring her along gently. So the sipahis went to the woman and told her that the Raja wanted her on very important business; she made no demur and went to fetch her donkey. The sipahis advised her to leave it behind to graze, but she said that wherever she went the donkey must go and drove it along with her. When she appeared before the Raja he explained to her what had happened, and how the maid-servant told one story about the death of the child and the ploughmen another, and he charged her to speak the truth as to what she had seen. The Goala's bride answered that she was ready to take an oath and to swear by her donkey: if she spoke the truth the donkey would turn into a man, and if she lied it would retain its shape. "If you take that oath," said the Raja, "the case shall be decided accordingly." Then the Goala's wife began to tell all that she had seen and how the ploughmen were angry because their dinner was late, and how the maid-servant had gone to the well to draw water and had strangled her child by mistake and had then knocked over the basket and charged the ploughmen with the murder. "If I have lied may Chando punish me and if I have spoken the truth may this ass become a man;" so saying she laid her hand on the back of the animal and it at once resumed its human shape. This was sufficient to convince the Raja, who turned to the maid-servant and reproached her with trying to ruin the ploughmen by her false charge. She had no answer to make but took up the dead body of the child and went out without a word. Thus the Goala was restored to his original shape, but he and his faithful wife did not return to their own relations; they took service with a farmer of that country and after a time they saved money and took some land and lived prosperously and well. From that time men of the Goala caste have always been very careful to treat cattle well. LXXXVIII. The Telltale Wife. Once upon a time a man was setting out in his best clothes to attend a village meeting. As he was passing at the back of the house his maid-servant happened to throw a basket of cowdung on the manure heap and some of it accidentally splashed his clothes. He thought that he would be laughed at if he went to the meeting in dirty clothes so he went back to change them; and he put the dirty cloth he took off in an earthen pot and covered the mouth with leaves and hung it to the roof of the room in which he and his wife slept. Two or three days later his wife began to question him as to what was in the pot hanging from the roof. At first he refused to tell her; but every time she set eyes on it she renewed her questioning; for a time he refused to gratify her curiosity, saying that no woman could keep a secret, but she protested that she would tell no one; her husband's secrets were her own; at last he pretended that his patience was worn out and having made her promise never to tell a soul, he said "I have killed a man, and to prevent the murder being traced I cut off his head and hid it in that pot; mind you do not say a word or my life will be forfeit." For a time nothing more was said, but one day husband and wife had a quarrel; high words and blows passed between them and at last the woman ran out of the house, crying: "You have struck me, I shall let it be known that you are a murderer." She went to the village headman and told him what was hidden in the pot; the villagers assembled and bound the supposed murderer with ropes and took him to the police. The police officer came and took down the pot and found in it nothing but a stained cloth. So he fined the headman for troubling him with false information and went away. Then the man addressed his fellow-villagers in these words "Listen to me: never tell a secret to a woman and be careful in your conversation with them; they are sure to let out a secret and one day will turn your accusers." From that time we have learnt the lesson that anything which you tell to a woman will become known. LXXXIX. The Bridegroom Who Spoke in Riddles. Once upon a time there were two brothers; the elder was named Bhagrai and was married, but the younger, named Kora, was still a bachelor. One day Bhagrai's wife asked her husband when he intended to look out for a wife for Kora, for people would think it very mean of them if they did not provide for his marriage. But to his wife's astonishment Bhagrai flatly refused to have anything to do with the matter. He said that Kora must find a wife for himself. His wife protested that that was impossible as Kora had no money of his own, but Bhagrai would not listen to her and refused even to give Kora his share in the family property. Bhagrai's cruel conduct was very distressing to his wife; and one day as she was sitting picking the lice out of Kora's head, she began to cry and Kora felt her tears dropping on to his back; he turned round and asked his sister-in-law why she was crying. She said that she could not tell him, as it would only make him unhappy, but he would not be put off and said that she had no right to have any secrets from him and at last she told him that Bhagrai had said that he must arrange his own marriage without any help from them. At this cruel news Kora began to cry too and falling on his sister-in-law's neck he wept bitterly. Then he went and fetched his clothes and bow and arrows and flute and what other little property he had, and told his sister-in-law that he must go out into the world and seek his fortune, for he would never get a wife by staying at home. So she tied up some dried rice for him to eat by the way and let him go. Kora set out and had not travelled far, before he fell in with an old man who was travelling in the same direction as himself and they agreed to continue their way together. After walking some miles, Kora said "I have a proposal to make: let us take it in turns to carry each other: then we shall neither of us get tired and shall do the journey comfortably." The old man refused to have anything to do with such an extraordinary arrangement: so on they went and by and bye came to a tank which seemed a good place to rest and eat some food by. The old man sat down at the steps leading down to the water, but Kora went and sat on the bank where it was covered with rough grass. Presently he called out "Friend, I do not like the look of this tank: to whom does it belong?" The old man told him the name of the owner, "Then why has he put no post in the middle of it?" This question amazed his companion for there was the usual post sticking up in the middle of the tank in front of them: he began to think that he had fallen in with a lunatic: however he said nothing and they went on together: and presently they passed a large herd of cow-buffaloes: looking at them Kora said "Whose are these: why have they no horns?" "But they have got horns: what on earth do you mean by saying that they have not?" replied his companion, Kora however persisted "No, there is not a horn among them." The old man began to lose his temper but they went on and presently passed by a herd of cows, most of them with bells tied round their necks. No sooner did Kora catch sight of them than he began again "Whose can these cows be? Why have they not got bells on?" "Look at the bells," said the old man "cannot you use your eyes?" "No," said Kora, "I cannot see a bell among them." The old man did not think it worth while to argue with him and at evening they reached the village where he lived: and Kora asked to be allowed to stay with him for the night. So they went to his house and sat down on a string bed in the cow-shed while the women folk brought them out water to wash their feet. After sitting awhile, Kora suddenly said "Father, why did you not put up a king post when you were making this cow-shed?" Now at that very moment he was leaning against the king post and the old man was too puzzled and angry at his idiotic question to say anything: so he got up and went into the house to tell his wife to put some extra rice into the pot for their visitor. His wife and daughter at once began asking him who their guest was: he said that he knew nothing about him except that he was an absolute idiot. "What is the matter with him," asked the daughter: "he looks quite sensible": then her father began to tell her all the extraordinary things that Kora had said: how he had proposed that they should carry each other in turn: and had declared that there was no post in the middle of the tank: and that the buffaloes had no horns and the cows no bells: and that there was no king post to the cow house. His daughter listened attentively and then said "I think it is you, father, who have been stupid and not our guest: I understand quite well what he meant. I suppose that when he proposed that you should carry each other, you had not been doing much talking as you went along?" "That is so," said her father, "we had not spoken for a long time:" "Then all he meant was that you should chat as you went along and so make the way seem shorter: and as to the tank, were there any trees on its banks?" "No, they were quite bare." "Then that is what he meant when he talked about the post: he meant that the tank should have had trees planted round it: and as to the buffaloes and cows, there was doubtless no bull with either herd." "I certainly did not notice one," said her father. "Then that is what he was talking about: I think that it was very stupid of you not to understand him." "Then what does he mean by the king post in the cow house" asked the old man. "He meant that there was no cross beam from wall to wall," "Then you don't think him a fool at all?" "No, he seems to me very sensible." "Then perhaps you would like to have him for your husband?" "That is for you and my mother to decide." So the old man went off to his wife and asked her what she thought about the match and they both agreed that it would be very suitable: the girl understood Kora's riddles so well that they seemed made for each other. So the next morning when Kora proposed to start off on his journey again, the old man asked whether he would care to stay with them and marry his daughter. Kora was delighted to find a wife so soon, and readily agreed to work for five years in his father-in-law's house to win his bride: so a day was fixed for the betrothal ceremony, and thus Kora succeeded in arranging his own marriage. XC. The Lazy Man. Once upon a time three brothers lived together: the youngest of them was named Kora and he was the laziest man alive: he was never willing to do any work but at meal times he was always first on the spot. His laziness began to drag the family down in the world, for they could not afford to feed a man who did no work. His two elder brothers were always scolding him but he would not mend his ways: however the scolding annoyed him and one day he ran away from home. He had become so poor that he had nothing on but a loin cloth: it was the middle of winter and when the evening drew on he began to shiver with cold: so he was very glad when he came to a village to see a group of herdboys sitting round a fire in the village street, roasting field rats. He went up to them and sat down by the fire to warm himself. The herd boys gave him some of the rats to eat and when they had finished their feast went off to their homes to sleep. It was nice and warm by the fire and Kora was too lazy to go round the village looking for some one who would take him in for the night: so he made up his mind to go to sleep by the fire. He curled himself up beside it and was about to take off his waist cloth to spread over himself as a sheet when he found a bit of thread which he had tied up in one of the corners of the cloth. "Why!" thought he "cloth is made of thread: so this thread must be cloth! I will use it as a sheet." So he tied one end of the thread round his big toe and wound the other end round his ears and stretching himself out at full length soon fell asleep. During the night the fire died down and a village dog which was on the prowl came and coiled itself up on the warm ashes and also went to sleep alongside Kora. Now the headman of that village was a well-to-do man with much land under cultivation and a number of servants, and as it was the time when the paddy was being threshed he got up very early in the morning to start the work betimes. As he walked up the village street he came on the man and dog lying fast asleep side by side. He roused up Kora and asked him who he was and whether he did not find it very cold, lying out in the open. "No" answered Kora, "I don't find it cold: this is my dog and he has eaten up all my cold: he will eat up the cold of a lakh of people." The headman at once thought that a dog that could do this would be a very useful animal to possess: he had to spend a lot of money in providing clothes for his farm labourers and yet they all suffered from the cold, while if he could get hold of the dog he and all his household would be permanently warm: so he asked Kora what price he set on the dog. Kora said that he would sell it for fifty lakhs of rupees and no less: he would not bargain about the matter: the headman might take it or leave it as he liked. The headman agreed to the terms and taking Kora to his house paid him over the money. Kora made no delay in setting off homewards and when he arrived the first thing he did was to tell his brothers to find him a wife as he had now enough money to pay all the expenses of his marriage. When his brothers found that the lazy one of the family had come home with such a fortune they gave him a very different reception from what they used to before, and set to work to arrange his marriage and the three brothers all lived happily ever after. Meanwhile the headman who had bought the dog sent for his labourers and told them of his luck in finding such a valuable animal. He bade them tie it up at the door of the hut on the threshing floor in which they slept: and in the morning to lead it round with them as they drove the oxen that trod out the grain, and then they would none of them feel cold. That night the labourers put the matter to the test but although the dog was tied up by the door the men in the hut shivered all night long as usual. Then in the morning they one after the other tried leading the dog as they drove the oxen round the threshing floor but it did not make them any warmer, so they soon got tired and tied the dog up again. Presently their master came along and asked what they had done with the dog and was told that the animal would not eat up the cold at all. The headman would not believe that he had been duped and began to lead the dog round to try for himself. Only too soon he had to admit that it made no difference. So, in a rage he caught up a stick and beat the poor dog to death. Thus he lost his money and got well laughed at by all the village for his folly. XCI. Another Lazy Man. Once upon a time there was a man named Kora who was so lazy that his brothers turned him out of the house and he had to go out into the world to seek his fortune. At first he tried to get some other young man of the village to keep him company on his travels but they all refused to have anything to do with such a lazy fellow, so he had to set out alone. However, he was resolved to have a companion of some sort, so when he came to a place where a crab had been burrowing he set to work and dug it out of the ground and took it along with him, tied up in his cloth. He travelled on for days and weeks until he came to a country which was being devastated by a Rakhas who preyed on human beings, and the Raja of the country had proclaimed that any one who could kill the Rakhas should have one of his sisters in marriage and a large grant of land. Kora however knew nothing of all this and that evening he camped for the night under a tree on the outskirts of a village. Presently the villagers came out and begged him to come and spend the night in one of their houses, as it was impossible for a man to sleep safely in the open by himself. "Do not trouble about me," said Kora, "I am not alone: I have a companion and we two shall be quite safe together." The villagers saw no one with him and could not understand what he was talking about, but as he would not listen to them they had to leave him to his fate. Night came on and as usual Kora untied the crab from his cloth and soon fell asleep. About midnight the Rakhas came prowling along and seeing Kora sleeping alone made towards him. But the crab rushed at the Rakhas and climbing up his body seized his neck with its claws and slit the windpipe. Down fell the Rakhas and lay kicking on the ground. The noise awoke Kora, who seized a big stone and dashed out the brains of the Rakhas. He then cut off the tips of the ears and tongue and claws and wrapped them up in his cloth and lay down to sleep again with the crab in his bosom. At dawn the chowkidar of the village, who was a Dome, came on his rounds and found the Rakhas lying dead. He thought that it would be easy for him to obtain the credit of having killed it: so he cut off one of the legs and hurrying home told his wife and children to clear out of the house at once: he had nothing more to do with them, as he was going to marry the Raja's sister and become a great landowner. Then he rushed out into the village, shouting out that he had killed the Rakhas. The villagers all went to see the dead body and found it lying near the tree under which they had left Kora to spend the night. They were not quite convinced that the Dome's story was true and asked Kora who had really killed the Rakhas. He declined to answer but asked that he and the Dome might both be taken to the Raja, and then proof would be forthcoming as to who was really entitled to the Reward. So the villagers took up the dead body and carried it off to the Raja, taking Kora and the Dome with them. The Raja asked what proof there was as to who had killed the Rakhas: and first the Dome produced the leg which he had cut off; but Kora unrolled his cloth and showed the ears and tongue and claws of the Rakhas. It was at once seen that the leg which the Dome had brought wanted the claws, so his fraud was clearly proved and he was driven from the assembly with derision and had to go and humbly make his peace with the wife whom he had turned out of his house. But the nuptials of Kora and the Raja's sister took place at once and they were given a fine palace to live in and a large tract of country for their own. Kora never allowed himself to be separated from his faithful crab and this led to his life being saved a second time. A few nights after he was married, Kora was lying asleep with the crab upon his breast, when two snakes began to issue from the nostrils of his bride: their purpose was to kill Kora but when they saw the watchful crab they drew in their heads again. A few minutes later they again looked out: then the crab went and hid under the chin of the Princess and when the snakes put out their heads far enough it seized both of them with its claws: the snakes wriggled and struggled until they came entirely out of the nose of the princess and were dragged to the floor where the crab strangled them. In the morning Kora awoke and saw what the crab had done: he asked what he could do to show his gratitude to his faithful friend, and the crab asked to be set free in some pond which never dried up and that Kora would rescue it if any one ever succeeded in catching it. So Kora chose a tank and set the crab free and every day he used to go and bathe in that tank and the crab used to come and meet him. After living in luxury for a time Kora went with a grand procession of horses and elephants to visit his industrious brothers who had turned him out of their home for laziness, and he showed them that he had chosen the better part, for they would never be able to keep horses and elephants for all their industry: so he invited them to come and live with him on his estate and when they had reaped that year's crops they went with him. XCII. The Widow's Son. Once upon a time there was a poor woman whose husband died suddenly from snake bite, leaving her with one little girl. At the time she was expecting another child and every day she lamented the loss of her husband and prayed to Chando that the child she should bear might be a son: but fresh troubles came upon her, for when her husband's brothers saw that she was with child they declared that she had been unfaithful to her husband and had murdered him to conceal her shame: and although they had no proof of this, they seized on all their dead brother's property and land and left the widow nothing but the bare house to live in. But Chando had pity on her and when her time was full a boy was born to her. She gave thanks to Chando and devoted herself to bringing up the child. The boy grew up and learned to walk and talk and one day he asked his mother where his father was. She told him that a snake had bitten his father before he was born. Thereupon the boy embraced her and told her not to cry as he would support her and take the place of his father. The mother was filled with wonder and gratitude at the boy's intelligence. In answer to her daily prayers she met with kindness at all hands: when she went out working her employers gave her extra wages: when she went gleaning something extra was left for her, and if she had to beg no one refused to give her alms, so in time she was able to get together some household requisites and start keeping fowls and pigs. By selling these she saved enough money to buy goats and sheep: and in course of time was able to think of buying a cow. By that time her son--whom she called Bhagraihad grown up to be a boy and took an interest in all that went on: so he asked his mother how he could tell when to buy a heifer. She said that if when the seller was showing a cow to an intending purchaser the animal dropped dung, it should be bought without hesitation, as such a cow was sure to take kindly to its new home and to have plenty of calves: another equally good sign was if the cow had nine teeth. Thereupon Bhagrai declared that he would set out to buy a cow and be guided in his choice by these signs and not come back till he found one. His mother thought that he was too young to undertake such a business but at last yielded to his entreaties. Then he tried to get some one in the village to go with him on his expedition but no one of his own friends or relations would go, so he had to arrange with a man of the blacksmith caste to keep him company. Early one morning they set out, enquiring as they went along whether any one had a cow for sale. For a long time they were unsuccessful but after passing right through the territories of one Raja, they at length came to a village where they heard of a heifer for sale. As they were examining it it dropped dung, and on inspection its mouth showed nine teeth. Bhagrai at once declared that he must buy it and would not listen to the blacksmith who tried to dissuade him because, although the animal was full grown, it had had no calf and was probably barren. Bhagrai however preferred to be guided by the signs of which his mother had told him, and after a certain amount of haggling bought the animal for five rupees. The money was paid and he and the blacksmith set off homewards with the cow. Night overtook them and they turned into a village and asked to be allowed to sleep in the verandah of one of the houses: and permission being given they tied the cow to a post and went to sleep. In the middle of the night the owner of the house came and took away their cow and tied an old and worthless one of his own in its place. On waking in the morning Bhagrai and the blacksmith saw at once what had happened and charged the owner of the house with the theft. He vehemently denied all knowledge of the matter and after they had quarrelled for a long time went to call the villagers to arbitrate between them. But he took care to promise the headman and leading villagers a bribe of five rupees if they decided the case in his favour: so the result was a foregone conclusion and the arbitrators told Bhagrai to take away the old worthless cow. He however refused to accept the decision and said that he would go and find two people to represent him on the panchayat. The villagers raised no objection for they knew that he was a stranger, and thought that they could easily convince any persons he might pick up. Bhagrai set off towards a village he saw in the distance but lost his way in the jungle, and as he was wandering about he came on two jackals. On seeing him they started to run but he called to them to stop and telling them all that had happened asked them to come to the panchayat. The jackals answered that it was clear that the villagers had been bribed, but they would come and do what was possible. They told him to bring the villagers with both the cows to a big banyan tree outside the village. All the villagers went out to meet the jackals and Bhagrai stood up in the midst and began to explain his grievance. Meanwhile the jackals sat quite still, seeming to take no interest in what was going on. "A fine pair these are to have on a panchayat" said the villagers to each other, "they are nearly asleep: they have been up all night catching crabs and grasshoppers and now are too tired to keep awake." "No," said one jackal, "we are not as sleepy as you think: we are quite willing to take a part in deciding this dispute: but the fact is that I and my wife have a quarrel and we want you first to decide that for us and then we will take up the question of the cow; if you villagers can settle our difference satisfactorily we shall be able to conclude that you have given a fair judgement on the complaint of this orphan boy." The villagers told him to continue and he explained "I and my wife always go about together: we eat at the same time and drink at the same time and yet she drops dung twice a day while I do so only once: what is the reason of this?" The villagers could think of no answer and the jackal bade them ask his wife: so they laughed and asked whether it was true that she dropped dung twice to the he-jackal's once. But the jackal reproved them for their levity, wise men of old had said that it was wrong to jest when men of weight met to decide a dispute; so they became serious and the she-jackal answered "It is true that I drop dung twice to his once: there is an order laid on me to do so: I drop dung once at the same time that he does: that excrement falls to the ground and stays there: but the second time the excrement falls into the mouths of the ancestors of those men who take bribes and do injustice to the widow and orphan and when such bribetakers reach the next world they will also have to eat it. If however they confess their sin and ask pardon of me they will be let off the punishment: this is the reason why I have been ordered to drop dung twice." "Now you have heard what she has to say" put in the he-jackal "what to you think of the explanation? I hope that there are no such bribetakers among you: if there are they had better confess at once." Then all the villagers who had agreed to take a share of the bribe and had helped to rob the boy of his cow confessed what they had done and declared that the boy should have his cow again, and they fined the thief five rupees. So Bhagrai and the blacksmith went gladly on their way and the blacksmith soon told all his neighbours of the two wonderful jackals who talked like men and had compelled the villagers to restore the stolen cow. "Ah" said the boy's mother "they were not jackals, they were Chando," When Bhagrai's uncles heard all this and saw how he and his mother had prospered in spite of the loss of all their property, they became frightened and gave back the land and cattle which they had taken, without waiting for them to be claimed. XCIII. The Boy Who Was Changed into a Dog. Once upon a time there were seven brothers: the six eldest were married, but the youngest was only a youth and looked after the cattle. The six married brothers spent their life in hunting and used often to be away from home for one or two months at a time. Now all their six wives were witches and directly their husbands left home the six women used to climb a peepul tree and ride away on it, to eat men or do some other devilry. The youngest brother saw them disappear every day and made up his mind to find out what they did. So one morning he hid in a hollow in the trunk of the peepul tree and waited till his sisters-in-law came and climbed up into the branches: then the tree rose up and was carried through the air to the banks of a large river, where the women climbed down and disappeared. After a time they came back and climbed into the tree and rode on it back to the place where it came from. But as they descended they saw their brother-in-law hiding in the trunk and at first they tried to make him promise not to tell what he had seen, but he swore that he would let his brothers know all about it: so then they thought of killing him, but in the end the eldest said that this was not necessary and she fetched two iron nails and drove them into the soles of his feet whereupon he at once became a dog. He could understand all that was said but of course could not speak. He followed them home and they treated him well and always gave him a regular helping at meals as if he were a human being and did not merely throw him the scraps as if he were a dog: nor would he have eaten them if they had. A month afterwards the other brothers came home and asked if all had gone well in their absence. Their wives said that all was well except that the youngest brother had unfortunately disappeared without leaving any trace. While they were talking the dog came up and fawned on the brothers, so they asked where it had come from and the women said that it had followed them home on the day that they were looking for the missing boy: and they had kept it ever since. So matters rested: the brothers searched high and low but could not find the missing boy and so gave up the quest. Now the Raja of that country had three daughters whom he had tried in vain to get married: whenever a bridegroom was proposed to them they declared that he was not to their liking and they would have nothing to do with him. At last their father said that as they would not let him choose husbands for them, they must make the choice themselves: he proposed to assemble all the men in his kingdom on a certain day and there and then they must take to themselves husbands. So proclamation was made that all the men were to assemble outside the palace and that three of them would receive the Raja's daughters in marriage without having to pay any brideprice. On the fixed day a great crowd collected and among others went the six brothers: and the dog followed them. Then the three princesses were brought out and three flies were caught: round one fly was tied a piece of white thread for the eldest princess and round the second fly a red thread for the second princess: and round the last fly a blue thread for the youngest princess. Then the three princesses solemnly promised that each would marry the man on whom the fly marked with her colour settled, and the flies were let loose. The red fly and the blue fly soon settled on two of the men sitting in the crowd but the white fly flew high in the air and circled round and at last settled on the dog which was sitting beside the six brothers. At this the crowd laughed and jeered but the eldest princess said that she must accept what fate had decreed and that she would marry the dog. So the betrothal ceremony of the three princesses took place at once, soon followed by their weddings. The husbands of the two youngest princesses took their brides home, but the eldest princess stayed in her father's house with her dog. One day after its dinner the dog was lying on its side asleep and the princess chanced to see the heads of the iron nails in its feet: "Ah," thought she, "that is why the poor dog limps." So she ran and fetched a pair of pincers and pulled out the nails: no sooner had she done so than the dog was restored to its human shape and the princess was delighted to find that not only was he a man but also very handsome: and they settled down to live happily together. Some months later the six brothers resolved to go and visit the Raja, so that the princess might not feel that the dog she had married had no friends in the world. Off they set and when they reached the Raja's palace they were amazed to find their younger brother and still more so when they heard the story of all that had happened to him. They immediately decided to take vengeance on their wives and when they reached home gave orders for a large well to be dug: when it was ready they told their wives to join in the consecration ceremony which was to ensure a pure and plentiful supply of water: so the six witches went to the well and while their attention was occupied, their husbands pushed them all into the well and filled it up with earth and that was the end of the witches. XCIV. Birluri and Birbanta. Birluri was of the Goala caste and Birbanta of the oilman's caste. And this is the story of their fight. Birluri was very rich, with great herds of cattle and buffaloes but Birbanta's wealth consisted in tanks and ponds. Birluri used every day to water his cattle at Birbanta's ponds: and this made Birbanta very angry: he felt it an injustice that though Birluri was so rich he would not dig his own ponds: so he sent word that Birluri must stop watering his cattle or he would be killed. Birluri answered the messengers that he was quite ready to fight Birbanta: for though Birbanta had made the tanks, it was God who had made the water in them and so he considered that his cattle had a perfect right to drink the water. When Birbanta heard this he fell into a rage and vowed that he would not let the cattle drink, but would kill every living thing that went down to the water. From that day he let no one drink from his tanks: when women went to draw water he used to smash their water pots and put the rims round their necks like necklaces: all wild birds and animals he shot: and the cattle and buffaloes he cut down with his axe: and at last he proceeded to kill any human beings who went there. When the Raja of the country heard this he was very angry and bade his _sipahis_ search for some one strong enough to overcome and kill Birbanta: and he promised as a reward the hand of one of his daughters and half his kingdom. So the _sipahis_ made proclamation all through the country and at last Birluri heard of it and volunteered to fight Birbanta. Then the Raja fixed a day for the fight, so that all the country might know and Birbanta also have due warning. Both the combatants made ready for the fray: Birbanta was armed with a sword and a shield like a cart wheel and was skilful at sword play, while Birluri's weapon was the quarter-staff. The day arrived and Birluri girded up his loins and set out, twirling his staff round his head. Now his father and mother were both dead; but on the road his mother met him in the guise of an old woman, so that he did not recognise her. She greeted him and asked where he was going and when she heard that it was to fight Birbanta she said "My son, you are very strong: but if he asks for water do not give it him, for if you do, he will assuredly kill you: but when he throws away his sword, do you make haste and take it and slay him with it." So saying she went on her way and when Birluri came within a _kos_ of the fighting place he began to twirl his staff and he made such a cloud of dust that it became dark as night and in the darkness the staff gleamed like lightning. When Birbanta saw this he rose up and shouted "Here comes my enemy: I will fight my best and we will see who will conquer" and when he saw Birluri armed only with a quarter-staff he felt sure that he would not be overcome by such a weapon: so he grasped his sword and took his shield on his arm and went out to the fight The fray was fast and furious: Birbanta hacked and hacked with his sword but Birluri caught all the blows on his quarterstaff and took no injury. At last the end of the staff was hacked off leaving a sharp point: then Birluri transfixed Birbanta with the pointed end and Birbanta faltered: again he thrust him through and Birbanta acknowledged himself defeated, saying "My life is yours: let me drink some water at your hands before you kill me." So Birluri agreed to a truce and they stopped fighting. Then Birluri cut down a palm tree and dipped it into Birbanta's tank and holding out the end to Birbanta told him to suck it. Birbanta refused to take it and asked him to give him water in his hands: but Birluri remembered his mother's warning and refused. Then Birbanta in despair threw away his sword and shield and Birluri snatched up the sword and smote off his head: and this is the song of victory which Birluri sang.-- "Birbanta stopped the _ghat_ for the golden oxen-- The dust is raised up to heaven! Birbanta sat by the _ghat_ of the oxen-- The lightning is flashing in the sky! He has made an embankment: he has made a tank: But the water he collected in it, has become his enemy!" Then Birluri was taken to the Raja and married to one of the Raja's daughters and given one half of the Raja's kingdom. After a time Birluri told his wife that they must go back to his home to look after the large herds of cattle which he had left behind him. But his wife laughed at him and would not believe that he owned so much property: then Birluri said that if she would not go with him he would call the cattle to come to him: so he called them all by name and the great herd came running to the Raja's palace and filled the whole barn yard and as there was no room for them to stay there, they went away into the jungle and became wild cattle. XCV. The Killing of the Rakhas. Once upon a time a certain country was ravaged by a Rakhas to such an extent that there were only the Raja and a few ryots left. When things came to this pass, the Raja saw that something must be done: for he could not be left alone in the land. Ryots need a Raja and a Raja needs ryots: if he had no ryots where was he to get money for his support: and he repeated the verse of the poet Kalidas: "When the jungle is destroyed, the deer are in trouble without jungle: When the Raja is destroyed, the ryots are in trouble without their Raja: When the good wife of the house is destroyed, good fortune flees away." So thinking the Raja made a proclamation throughout all the land that if any one could kill the Rakhas he would reward him with the hand of one of his daughters and half his kingdom. This proclamation was read out by the headman of a certain village to the assembled villagers and among the crowd was a mischievous youth, named Jhalka, who when he heard the proclamation called out that he could kill the Rakhas in ten minutes. The villagers turned on him "Why don't you go and do so: then you would marry the Raja's daughter and we should all bow down to you." At the thought of this Jhalka began to skip about crying "I will finish him off in no time." The headman heard him and took him at his word and wrote to the Raja that in his village there was a man who undertook to kill the Rakhas. When Jhalka heard this he hurried to the headman and explained that he had only been joking. "I cannot treat such things as a joke" answered the headman: "Don't you know that this is a Raja's matter: to deal with Rajas is the same as to deal with _bongas_: you may make a promise to the _bongas_ in jest, but they will not let you off it on that plea. You are much too fond of playing the fool." Ten or twelve days later sipahis came from the Raja to fetch Jhalka: he told them that he had only spoken in jest and did not want to go to the Raja, but they took him away all the same. Before he started he picked out a well-tempered battle axe and begged his father to propitiate the _bongas_ and pray that he might be saved from the Rakhas. When he was produced before the Raja, Jhalka again tried to explain that there had been a mistake, but the Raja told him that he would be taken at his word and must go and kill the Rakhas. Then he saw that there was nothing left for him but to put his trust in God: so he asked that he might be given two mirrors and a large box and when these were brought he had the box taken to the foot of a large banyan tree which grew by a ford in the river which flowed by the hill in which the Rakhas lived: it was at this ford that the Rakhas used to lie in wait for prey. Left alone there Jhalka put one of the mirrors into the box and then tightened his cloth and climbed the banyan tree with his battle axe and the other mirror. He was not at all happy as he waited for the Rakhas, thinking of all the people who had been killed as they passed along the road below the tree: however he was determined to outwit the Rakhas if he could. All night long he watched in vain but just at dawn the Rakhas appeared. At the sight of him Jhalka shook so much with fright that the branches of the tree swayed. The Rakhas smelt that there was a human being about and looking up into the tree saw the branches waving. "Ha," said he, "here is my breakfast."' Jhalka retorted "Ha! here is another Rakhas to match those I have got" "What are you talking about?" asked the Rakhas: "I am glad to have met you at last" returned Jhalka. "Why?" asked the Rakhas, "and what are you trembling for?" "I am trembling with rage: we shall now see whether I am to eat you or you are to eat me." "Come down and try." "No, you come up here and try." Jhalka would not leave the tree and the Rakhas would not climb it: so they waited. At last the Rakhas asked "Who are you? I have seen a thousand men like you" And Jhalka answered "Who are you? I have seen a thousand like you." At this the Rakhas began to hesitate and wonder whether Jhalka was really his equal in strength, so he changed the subject and asked what the big box was. "That is the box into which I put Rakhases like you when I catch them; I have got plenty more at home." "How many are there in the box?" "Two or three." The Rakhas asked to see them, but Jhalka would not leave the tree until the Rakhas had sworn an oath to do him no harm; then he came down and opened the box and made the Rakhas look into the mirror inside the box; and he also held up the second mirror saying that there was another Rakhas. The Rakhas was fascinated at the sight of his own reflection; when he grinned or opened his mouth the reflection did the same; and while he was amusing himself with making different grimaces Jhalka suddenly cut him down with the battleaxe, and he fell down dead. Then Jhalka cut off the ears and tongue and toes and hastened with them to the Raja. When it was found that the Rakhas was really dead the Raja assembled all his subjects and in their presence married Jhalka to his daughter and made over to him half the kingdom and gave him horses and elephants and half of everything in his palace. XCVI. The Children and the Vultures. Once upon a time all the women of a village went to the jungle to gather _karla_ fruit; and one of them was pregnant. In the jungle she felt that her time was come and she went aside without telling any of her friends and gave birth to twin boys. The other women went on gathering fruit and when they had filled their baskets and were on their way home they noticed that one of their number was missing, but as it was late they were afraid to go back and look for her, and besides they felt sure that she must have been devoured by some wild animal. Meanwhile the mother of the twins began to call to her friends, but they were far out of hearing; so she debated whether she should carry home the two babes or her basket of _karla_ fruit; she did not feel strong enough to carry both the infants in her arms and so she decided to take the basket of fruit, especially as she would probably have plenty more children, while the _karla_ fruit could not be replaced. She covered the twins with leaves of the Asan tree and went home. But when her husband heard what had happened he was very angry, and scolded her well; she could easily have thrown away the fruit and carried home the children in the basket instead of taking so much trouble about the _karla_ fruit, as if no one had ever seen any before. He wanted to take a few friends and go and look for the children at once; but his father and mother begged him not to risk his life in the jungle at night; the woman had been a fool but that could not be remedied; people must learn by experience; as the Hindu proverb says "When your caste goes, wisdom comes." They could not allow the breadwinner of the family to risk his life; though the roof and doors of the house had gone, the walls remained; as long as the tree stood new branches would grow; but if the tree fell there was no more hope; so in the end the children were left where they were. No sooner had the mother gone than a pair of king vultures swooped down to make a meal of the children but they cried so pitifully that the vultures had hot the heart to kill them but instead carried them up to their nest and brought them food: and nurtured them. And when the children began to walk they carried them down to the ground and when they were big enough to take care of themselves they told them to go into the neighbouring villages and beg; but they forbade them to go towards the village in which their real parents lived. So every day the two boys went out begging, and as they went from house to house, they sang:-- "Our mother took away the _karla_ fruit She covered us up with Asan leaves. The pair of King vultures Reared us.--Give us alms." And people had pity on them and gave them enough to live on. One day the two boys thought that they would go and see what the country was like in the direction which had been forbidden to them; so they set out singing their usual song, and when they came to the house where their mother lived she heard them sing and knew that they must be her children; so she called them and bathed them and oiled their bodies and told them that she was their mother and they were very glad to stay with her. But when the children did not return, the vultures flew in search of them and circled round and round in the air looking for them. The mother saw them and knew what they wanted, so she took the children into the house and hid them under a large basket. But the vultures flew down to the house and tore a hole in the thatch and entered through it and overturned the basket and seized the children. Then the father and mother also caught hold of them and the vultures pulled and the parents pulled until the children were torn in two and the vultures flew away with the portions they had secured. The father and mother sorrowfully burnt on a pyre the remains of the children that were left to them. The vultures when they reached their nest were unwilling to eat the flesh of the children they had reared, so they set fire to their nest; but as the flames rose high, some juice spirted out from the burning flesh on to the vultures and they tasted it and found it so good that they pulled the rest of the flesh out of the flames and ate it, and from that time vultures feed on human bodies. XCVII. The Ferryman. There was once a ferryman who plied a ferry across a big river, and he had two wives. By the elder wife he had five sons and by the younger only one. When he grew old he gave up work himself and left his sons to manage the boats; but the step-brothers could not agree and were always quarrelling. So the father gave one boat to the son of the younger wife and told him to work it by himself at a separate crossing higher up the river, while the five other brothers plied to old ferry. It turned out that most passengers used to cross at the youngest brother's ferry and as he had no one to share the profits with him, his earnings were very large. Because of this he used to jeer at his other brothers who were not so well off. This made them hate him more than ever, and they resolved to be revenged; so one day when he was alone in the boat they set it adrift down the river without any oars. As he drifted helplessly down the river he saw a river snake, as long as the river was broad, waiting for him with open mouth. He thought that his last hour had come, but he seized a knife which was in the boat and waited. When the stream brought him within reach, the snake swallowed him, boat and all, and swam to the bank. When he felt the snake climbing up the bank he began to cut his way out of its stomach with his knife, and soon made a wound which killed the snake and enabled him to make his way out and pull out the boat. Then he looked about him and saw a large village near by; so he went towards it to tell the villagers how he had killed the great snake. But when he reached it he found it deserted; he went from house to house but found no one. At last he came to a house in which there was one girl, who told him that she was the only inhabitant left, as the great river snake had eaten up all the other people. Then he told her how he had killed the snake and took her to see its dead body. The village was full of the wealth left by its former inhabitants; so he and the girl decided to stay there, and there were such riches that they lived like a Raja and Rani. One morning his wife told him that she had had a dream, in which she was warned that he must on no account go out towards the south of the village; but he laughed at her, because he had up to that time moved about wherever he liked without any harm. She begged him to listen to her advice, because it was by her wisdom that she had saved her life when every one else in the village had been killed, so for a few days he obeyed her, but one morning he took a sword and went off towards the south. He had not gone far when he came to a cow, which had fallen into a pit, and it called to him. "Oh Brother, I have fallen into great trouble; help me out and one day I will do the same to you, if you ask my aid." So he took pity on the cow and pulled it out. Going on a little further he came to a buffalo which had stuck fast in a bog and it also called to him for help and promised to do the like for him in case of need. So he pulled it out of the mud, and went on his way. Presently he came to a well and from the depths of the well a man who had fallen into it cried to him for help; so he went and pulled him up; but no sooner had the man reached the surface than he turned and pushed his rescuer down the well and ran away. His wife waited and waited for his return and when he did not come, she divined that he had gone towards the south in spite of her warning. So she went to look for him and presently found him at the bottom of the well. So she let down a rope and pulled him up and gave him a scolding for his folly. After this they thought it best to leave that country, so they embarked on the boat and travelled back to his father's house. XCVIII. Catching a Thief. There was once a rich Raja; and in order to frighten away thieves whenever he woke up at night he used to call out-- "What are you people saying? I know all about it: You are digging the earth and throwing the earth away: I know all about it: you are skulking there scraping a hole." One night a gang of thieves really came and began to dig a hole through the mud wall of the Raja's house. And while they were at work the Raja woke up and called out as usual. The thieves thought that they were discovered and bolted. The next morning the hole they had been making was found, and the Raja ordered his sipahies to catch the thieves. The head of all the thieves was a Bhuyan by caste and for five rupees he would catch any thief you wanted. So the sipahies were told to bring this Bhuyan and they went to a potter and asked. "Ho, maker of pots, he who makes whole paddy into _china_: where does he live?" And the potter answered. "He who heats pewter; his house is over there." Following this direction they found the Bhuyan and he caught the thieves for them. CHAPTER XCIX XCIX. The Grasping Raja. There was once a Raja who was very rich. He was a stern man and overbearing and would brook no contradiction. Not one of his servants or his subjects dared to question his orders; if they did so they got nothing but abuse and blows. He was a grasping man too; if a cow or a goat strayed into his herds he would return the animal if its owner claimed in the same day; but he would not listen to any claim made later. He was so proud that he thought that there was no one in the world wiser than himself. It happened that a certain man living in the kingdom of this Raja lost a cow; one evening it did not come back to its stall from the grazing-ground; so the next day he set out to search for it and questioned every one he met. He soon got news that a cow like his had been seen in the Raja's herd. So he went to look, and there, among the Raja's cattle, he saw his own cow. He asked the cowherd to let him take it away; but the cowherd refused to do so without a written order from the Raja. So the owner went off to the Raja and claimed his cow; but the Raja would not listen and gave him only abuse and turned him out. Then he went to his friends and asked them to help him but they were afraid to do anything and advised him to regard the cow as lost for good. So the unfortunate man took his way homeward very unhappily; on the way he sat down by the bank of a stream and began to bewail his loss. As he cried, Thakur took pity on him and sent a jackal to him. The jackal came and asked why he was crying, and when it had heard the story of the loss of the cow, it said "Cheer up! go back to the Raja and tell him that you want a panchayat to settle the matter about the cow; and that you intend to call one whether he agrees to abide by its decision or no. If he agrees, come back quickly to me and I will arrange to get back your cow for you." So off went the owner of the cow to the Raja and told him that he wanted to call a panchayat. The Raja made no objection and bade him call the neighbours together. The poor man did so and then hurried off to the jackal and told it how things had turned out. The jackal returned with him to the outskirts of the city and then sent him to the Raja to say that the panchayat must be held on the plain outside the city--for the jackal was afraid of the dogs in the city. When the Raja received this message it made him very angry, however he went outside the city and met the panchayat and ordered them to get to business quickly. Then the owner of the cow stood up and told his story and the neighbours who had assembled called to him encouragingly, but the jackal sat in the background and pretended to be asleep. When the tale was finished, the Raja told the people who had assembled to give their decision, but they were all so afraid of the Raja that not one ventured to speak. As they kept silence the Raja turned to the owner of the cow. "Well, where are the people who are going to judge the case? No one here will say a word." "That is my judge," said the man pointing to the jackal. "Why it is fast asleep; what sort of a judge is that?" But just then the jackal shook itself and said. "I have had a most remarkable dream." "There, he has been dreaming, instead of listening to the case." exclaimed the Raja. "O Raja don't be so scornful" said the jackal, "I am a cleverer judge than you." "You, who are you? I have grown old in judging cases and finding out the truth; and you dare to talk to me like that!" "Well," retorted the jackal, "if you are so clever guess the meaning of my dream; and if you cannot, give the man back his cow; if you can say what it means, I will acknowledge that you are fit to be a Raja. This is what I dreamt.--I saw three die in one place; one from sleepiness; one from anger and one from greed. Tell me what were the three and how did they come to be in one place." This riddle puzzled every one, but the friends of the man who had lost his cow saw their opportunity and began to call out to the Raja to be quick and give the answer. The Raja made several guesses, but the jackal each time said that he was wrong, and asserted that the real answer would strike every one present as satisfactory. The Raja was completely puzzled and then suggested that there was no coherency in dreams: if the jackal had had some meaningless dream, no one could guess it. "No," said the jackal, "you just now laughed at the idea that any one should come to a panchayat and go to sleep; and what you said was true; I would not really go to sleep on an occasion like this; and I did not really dream. Now show that you are cleverer than I; if you can, you keep the cow." The Raja thought and thought in vain, and at last asked to be told the answer to the puzzle. First the jackal made him write out a promise to restore the cow and to pay twenty-five rupees to the panchayat; and then it began:--"In a forest lived a wild elephant and every night it wandered about grazing and in the day it returned to its retreat in a certain hill. One dawn as it was on its way back after a night's feeding, it felt so sleepy that it lay down where it was; and it happened that its body blocked the entrance to a hole which was a poisonous snake. When the snake wanted to come out and found the way blocked, it got angry and in its rage bit the elephant and the elephant died then and there. Presently a jackal came prowling by and saw the elephant lying dead; it could not restrain itself from such a feast and choosing a place where the skin was soft began to tear at the flesh. Soon it made such a large hole that it got quite inside the elephant and still went on eating. But when the sun grew strong, the elephant's skin shrunk and closed the hole and the jackal could not get out again and died miserably inside the elephant. The snake too in its hole soon died from want of food and air. So the elephant met its death through sleepiness and the snake through anger and the jackal through greed. This is the answer to the puzzle, but Chando prevented your guessing it, because you unjustly took the poor man's cow and as a lesson to you that he is lord of all, of the poor and weak as well as of Rajas and Princes." When the jackal concluded all present cried out that the answer was a perfect one; but the Raja said "I don't think much of that; I know a lot of stories like that myself." However he had to give back the cow and pay twenty-five rupees to the panchayat. In gratitude to the jackal the owner of the cow bought a goat and gave it to the jackal and then the jackal went away and was seen no more. C. The Prince Who Would Not Marry. There was once a Raja who in spite of having many wives was childless; and his great desire was to have a son. He made many vows and performed every ceremony that was recommended to him, but in vain. At last a Jogi came to his kingdom and hearing of his case told him that if he would pray to Thakur and give away to the poor one-fourth of all his wealth, he should have a son. The Raja followed the Jogi's advice, and in due time his youngest wife bore him a son; a son so fair and so beautiful that there was no one on earth to match him. When the boy grew up, they began to think about his marriage and the Raja said that he would only marry him to a bride as fair and as beautiful as himself. It did not matter whether she were poor or rich, all that was needful was that she should be a match for his son in looks. So messengers were sent out to all the surrounding kingdoms to look for such a bride. They searched for years; nine years, ten years passed and still no bride was found to match in looks the Prince. After ten years had passed the Prince heard of this search and he went to his father and announced that he did not wish to marry; and that if he ever should wish to do so, he would find a wife for himself. The Raja was very angry at this and said that the Prince wished to bring him to shame; every one would say that the Raja was too mean to arrange a marriage for his only son. But the Prince was obstinate and persisted that he did not wish the Raja to take any steps in the matter. At this the Raja grew more and more angry, until at last he ordered the Prince to be taken to prison and kept there, until he promised to marry any one whom his father chose. Every day the warders asked whether he would yield and every day he refused; and it is impossible to say how long he would have languished in prison, had not the wife of the Parganna of the Bongas come one night to the prison with two other bongas. They began to talk about the Prince's hard case. The warders heard them talking, but could see no one. The Bonga Parganna's wife proposed that they should provide a _bonga_ bride for the Prince, for it was certain that no human bride could be his match for beauty. The two bongas agreed that it was a good idea but the Prince had declared that he would not marry and that was a difficulty. "Let him see the bride I offer him and see what happens" answered the old _Bonga's_ wife. So the next night when the Prince was asleep a beautiful bonga maiden was brought to the prison and when he awoke he saw her sitting by his side. He fell in love with her at first sight and exchanging rings with her promised that she should be his wife. Then the warders, who had been watching, ran to the Raja and told him that the Prince had agreed to marry. The Raja came and took the Prince and his bride out of the prison, and the wedding was celebrated with great rejoicings throughout the kingdom. CI. The Prince Who Found Two Wives. There was once a Raja who had an only son. When the Prince grew up the courtiers proposed to the Raja that he should arrange for his son's marriage; the Raja however wished to postpone it for a time. So the courtiers used to laugh and say to the Prince "Wait a little and we will find you a couple of wives;" the young man would answer, "What is that? I can find them for myself. If you offered to find me ten or twelve wives there would be something in it." The Raja heard of his boasting like this and was very angry and said "Well if he is so sure that he can find a wife for himself, let him do it;" and he took no further steps to arrange for his son's marriage. Now the Prince had a most beautiful voice and used also to play on the one-stringed lute. He used often to sit up half the night singing and playing to himself. One night as he sat singing, he heard a laugh and looking round saw a beautiful _bonga_ girl. He asked who she was and how she had come there, and she told him that she lived close by and could not help coming to see who it was, who was singing so beautifully. After that she used to visit the Prince every night, but always disappeared before dawn. This went on for some weeks and then the Prince asked her to stay and be his wife. She agreed, provided he would first go to her home and see her relations. So the next night he went with her; and found that her father was also a Raja and very rich. He stayed there three or four days; while his mysterious disappearance caused the greatest consternation at his own home. However he returned quietly by night and was found sleeping as usual in his bed one morning. Then he told his parents all that had happened and how he had left his wife behind at her father's house. Two or three days later the Prince fell very ill: every sort of remedy was tried in vain. As he grew worse and worse, one day a messenger came from his father-in-law and offered to cure him if he were removed to his wife's house. So he was carried thither and when he arrived he found that his wife was also very ill; but directly he was brought to where she lay, at the mere sight of each other they both became well again. After some months the Prince and his wife set out to return to their own home. They were benighted on the way; so they tied their horses to a tree and prepared to camp under it. The Prince went to a bazar to buy provisions and while there, was arrested on a false charge and was sent to prison. The Princess waited and waited and at last felt sure that something must have detained him against his will. She would not leave the spot, and to make it less likely that she should be molested, she dressed herself as a man. Some days passed and the Prince did not return; then one morning an old woman passing by came and asked for a light for her hookah, and stayed talking for some time. The old woman was struck by the sweet face and gentle voice of the stranger, and on her return told the daughter of the Raja of that country that there was a strange young man, who looked and talked very differently from any of the young men of that neighbourhood. The Raja's daughter was curious to see him, and the next morning she went with the old woman and talked with the disguised Princess. Before she left she was deeply in love with him, and directly she reached home she sent word to her father that she had seen the man whom she must marry. "It is of no use to thwart one's children," said the Raja and at once sent messengers to bring the stranger to marry his daughter. When the disguised Princess was brought before the Raja, she said that she had no objection to being married provided that it was done according to the custom of her own country, and that was that the vermilion should be applied to the bride's forehead with a sword. The Raja made no objection; so the Princess took her husband's sword and put vermilion on it and then applied it to the bride's forehead; and so the marriage was complete. But when the Princess was left alone with her bride, she confessed that she was a woman and told her all her history and how her husband had disappeared in the bazar. Then the Raja's daughter went to her father and told him what had happened and had enquiries made and speedily had the Prince released from prison. Then the prince himself again put vermilion on the forehead of the Raja's daughter, and a few days later set off home with both his wives. This was the way in which he found two wives for himself, as he had boasted that he would. CII. The Unfaithful Wife. Once upon a time there were two brothers and as their wives did not get on well together, they lived separately. After a time it came to the ears of the elder brother that the younger brother's wife was carrying on an intrigue with a certain Jugi; so he made up his mind to watch her movements. One night he saw a white figure leave his brother's house and, following it quietly, he saw it go into the Jugi's house, and creeping nearer, he heard his sister-in-law's voice talking inside. He was much grieved at what he had seen, but could not make up his mind to tell his brother. One day the elder brother found that he had no milk in the house, as all his cows had run dry; so he sent a servant to his brother's house to ask for some milk; but the younger brother's wife declined to give any, and sent word that her brother-in-law was quite rich enough to buy milk cows if he wanted milk. The elder brother said nothing at this rebuff, but after a time it happened that the younger brother's cows all became dry, and he in his turn sent to his elder brother for milk. The elder brother's wife was not disposed to give it, but her husband bade her not bear malice and to send the milk. After this the elder brother sent for the other and advised him to watch his wife and see where she went to at night. So that night the younger brother lay awake and watched; and in the middle of the night saw his wife get up very quietly and leave the house. He followed her; as the woman passed down the village street, some Mahommedans, who had been sitting up smoking ganja, saw her and emboldened by the drug set out to see who it was, who was wandering about so late at night. The woman took refuge in a clump of bamboos and pulled down one of the bamboos to conceal herself. The Mahommedans surrounded the clump but when they saw the one bamboo which the woman held shaking, while all the rest were still--for it was a windless night--they concluded that it was an evil spirit that they were pursuing and ran away in a panic. When they were gone, the woman came out from the bamboos and went on to the Jugi's house. Her husband who had been watching all that happened followed her: and having seen her enter the Jugi's house hastened home and bolted his door from inside. Presently his wife returned and found the door which she had left ajar, fastened; then she knew that she was discovered. She was however full of resource; she began to beg to be let her in, but her husband only showered abuse upon her and bade her go back to the friend she had left. Then she took a large stone and heaved it into a pool of water near the house. Her husband heard the splash and concluded that she was drowning herself. He did not want to get into trouble with the police, as would surely be the case if his wife were found drowned, so he ran out of the house to the pool of water to try and save her. Seizing this opportunity his wife slipped into the house and in her turn locked the door from inside; so that her husband had to spend the rest of the night out-of-doors. He could not be kept out of the house permanently and the next day he gave his wife a thrashing and turned her out. At evening however she came back and sat outside in the courtyard, weeping and wailing. The noise made her husband more angry than ever, and he shouted out to her that if she did not keep quiet he would come and cut off her nose. She kept on crying, and the Jugi heard her and sent an old woman to call her to him. She declared that if she went her husband would know and be the more angry with her, but she might go if the old woman would sit in her place and keep on crying, so that her husband might believe her to be still in the courtyard. The old woman agreed and began to weep and wail, while the other went off to the Jugi. She wept to such purpose that the husband at last could not restrain his anger, and rushing out into the darkness with a knife, cut off the nose, as he supposed, of his wife. Presently the wife came back and found the old woman weeping in real earnest over the loss of her nose. "Never mind, I'll find it and fix it on for you," so saying she felt about for the nose till she found it, clapped it on to the old woman's face and told her to hold it tight and it would soon grow again. Then she sat down where she had sat before and began to lament the cruelty of her husband in bringing a false charge against her and challenged him to come out and see the miracle which had occurred to indicate her innocence. She repeated this so often that at last her husband began to wonder what she meant, and took a lamp and went out to see. When he found her sitting on the ground without a blemish on her face, although he had seen her with his own eyes go to the Jugi's house, he could not doubt her virtue and had to receive her back into the house. Thus by her cunning the faithless wife escaped the punishment which she deserved. CIII. The Industrious Bride. Once upon a time a party of three or four men went to a village to see if a certain girl would make a suitable bride for the son of one of their friends; and while they were talking to her, another young woman came up. The visitors asked the first girl where her father was and she told them that he had gone to "meet water." Then they asked where her mother was, and she said that she had gone "to make two men out of one." These answers puzzled the questioners, and they did not know what more to say; as they stood silent the other girl got up and went away remarking, "While I have been waiting here, I might have carded a seer of cotton." The men who were looking for a girl who would make a good wife, at once concluded that they had found what they wanted: "How industrious she must be to talk like that" thought they--"much better than this other girl who can only give us incomprehensible answers." And before they left the village they set everything in train for a match between their friend's son and the girl who seemed so industrious. When they got home and told their wives what they had done they got well laughed at: their wives declared that it was quite easy to understand what the first girl had meant: of course she meant that her father had gone to reap thatching grass and her mother had gone to thresh _dal_. The poor men only gaped with astonishment at this explanation. However the marriage they had arranged duly took place, but the fact was that the bride was entirely ignorant of how to clean and spin cotton. It was not long before this was found out, for, in the spring, when there was no work in the fields, her father-in-law set all the women of the household to spinning cotton; and told them that they and their husbands should have no new clothes until they had finished their task. The bride, who had been so carefully chosen, tried to learn how to spin by watching the others, but all in vain. The other women laughed at her efforts and she protested that it was the fault of the spinning wheel: it did not know her; her mother's spinning wheel knew her well and she could spin capitally with that. They jeered at the idea of a spinning wheel having eyes and being able to recognise its owner; however one day the young woman went and fetched her mother's spinning wheel and tried to spin with that. She got on no better than before, and could only explain it by saying that the spinning wheel had forgotten her. Whatever the reason was, the other women all finished their spinning and received their new clothes, while she had nothing to show. Then her father-in-law scolded her and told her that it was too late to make other arrangements and as she could not get any new clothes the best thing for her to do would be to smear her body with _Gur_ and stick raw cotton all over it. A _parrab_ soon came round and all the other women got out their new clothes and went to see the fun. The clumsy bride had no new clothes and she took her father-in-law's advice and smeared her body with _gur_ and covered herself with raw cotton and so went to the _parrab_. Her husband was very angry that she should have taken her father-in-law's jest in earnest, and when she came home he gave her a good beating and turned her out of the house. And that was the end of the "industrious" bride. CIV. The Boy and His Fate. There was once a Raja and Rani who had had three sons, but they had all died when only three or four months old. Then a fourth son was born, a fine handsome child; and he did not die in infancy but grew up to boyhood. It was however fated that he should die when he was sixteen years old and his parents knew this and when they saw him coming happily home from his games of play, their eyes filled with tears at the thought of the fate that hung over him. One day the boy asked his father and mother why it was that they were so sorrowful: and they told him how his three little brothers had died and how they feared that he had but little longer to live. On hearing this the boy proposed that he should be allowed to go away into a far country, as perhaps by this means he might avoid his fate. His father was glad to catch at the faintest hope and readily gave his consent: so they supplied him with money and mounted him on a horse, and off he set. He travelled far and settled down in a place that pleased him. But in a short time the messengers of death came to the Raja's palace to take him away. When they did not find him, they followed in pursuit along the road which he had taken; they wore the likeness of men and soon traced out the Raja's son. They presented themselves to him and said that they had come to take him home again. The prince said that he was ready to go, but asked them to allow him to cook and eat his rice before starting. They told him that he might do this if he were quick about it: he promised to hurry, and set to his cooking: he put sufficient rice into the pot to feed them all and when it was ready he offered some to each of the messengers. They consulted together as to whether they should eat it, but their appetites got the better of their caution and they agreed to do so, and made a good meal. But directly they had finished they began to debate what they should do; they had eaten his rice and could no longer compass his death. So they told him frankly that Chando had sent them to call him; he was to die that night and they were to take away his spirit; but they had made the mistake of eating at his hands and although they must take him away, they would give him advice as to how he might save his life: he was to take a thin piece of lamp-wick and when Chando questioned him, he was to put it up his nose and make himself sneeze. The prince promised to remember this, and that night they took his spirit away to Chando, but when Chando began to question him he made himself sneeze with the lamp-wick; thereupon Chando at once wrote that he should live for sixty years more and ordered the messengers to immediately restore his spirit to its body. Then the prince hastened back to his father and mother, and told them that he had broken through his fate and had a long life before him; and they had better make arrangements for his marriage at once. This they did and he lived to a ripe old age, as he had been promised. CV. The Messengers of Death. There was once a Brahman who had four sons born to him, but they all died young; a fifth son however was born to him, who grew up to boyhood. But it was fated that he too should die before reaching manhood. One day while his father was away from home, the messengers of death came to take him away. The Brahman's wife thought that they were three friends or relations of her husband, who had come to pay a visit, and gave them a hearty welcome. And when she asked who they were, they also told her that they were connections of her husband. Then she asked them to have some dinner and they said that they would eat, provided that she used no salt in the cooking. She promised not to do, but what she did was to scatter some salt over the bottom of the dish. Then she cooked the rice and turned it into the dish and gave it to them to eat. They ate but when they came to the bottom of the dish they tasted the salt which had been underneath. Then the three messengers said "She has got the better of us; we have eaten her salt and can no longer deceive her; we must tell her why we have come." So they told her that her son was to die that night and that Chando had sent them to take away his spirit: all they could do was to let her come too, and see the place to which her son's spirit was going. The mother thought that this would be a consolation to her, so she went with them. When they arrived in the spirit world they told the Brahman's wife to wait for them by a certain house in which dwelt her son's wife; and they took the boy to Chando. Presently they brought him back to the house in which his wife dwelt and near which his mother was waiting and she overheard the following conversation between the boy and his wife. The wife said "Have you come for good this time, or must you again go back to the world?" "I have to go back once more." "And how will you manage to return again here?" "I shall ask for the dust of April and May and if it is not given to me I shall cry myself to death; and if that fails, I shall cry for a toy winnowing fan; and if they give me that, then I will cry for an elephant and if that fails then on my wedding day there will be two thorns in the rice they give me to eat and they will stick in my throat and kill me. And if that does not come to pass, then, when I return home after the wedding, a leopard will kill a cow and I shall run out to chase the leopard and I shall run after it, till I run hither to you." "When you come back," said his wife, "bring me some of the vermilion they use in the world" and the boy promised. The messengers then took the Brahman's wife home, and shortly afterwards the boy was born again. His mother had carefully guarded the memory of all that she had heard in the other world; and when the child asked for the dust and the winnowing fan and the elephant, she at once gratified his desires. So the boy grew up, and his wedding day arrived. His mother insisted on accompanying him to the bride's house, and when the rice was brought for the bride and bridegroom to eat together, she asked to be allowed to look at it first, and on examining it pulled out the the two thorns; and then her son ate it unharmed. But when the wedding party returned home and the ceremony of introducing the bride to the house was being performed, word was brought that a leopard had killed one of the cows; at once the bridegroom ran out in pursuit; but his mother followed him and called out, "My son, your wife told you to take her some of the vermilion of this world; here is some that I have brought, take it with you." At this her son stopped and asked her to explain what she meant; then she told him all and he went no more in pursuit of the leopard: so he stayed and grew up and lived to a good old age. CVI. The Speaking Crab. There was once a farmer who kept a labourer and a field woman to do the work of the farm; and they were both very industrious and worked as if they were working on their own account and not for a master. Once at the time of transplanting rice, they were so busy that they stayed in the fields all day and had their meals there and did not go home till the evening. During this time it happened that the man had unyoked his plough bullocks and taking his hoe began to dress the embankment of the field, and as he dug, he dug out a very large crab; so he plucked some leaves from the bushes and wrapped the crab in them and fetching the yoke rope from the plough, he tied the bundle up tightly with it and put it on the stump of a tree, intending to take it home in the evening; but when he went home he forgot about it. Now the crab was alive and in the middle of the night it began to struggle to get out, but could not free itself. It happened that just then the farmer was walking in the field to see that no one came to steal his rice seedlings, and the crab began to sing:-- "This servant, this servant, father, And this maidservant, this maidservant, father, Caught me while digging the bank: And in leaves, leaves, father, With the yoke rope, yoke rope, father Tied me and left me on the stump." At this sound the farmer was very frightened, and puzzled also; for he thought, "If this were a human being crying, every one in the neighbourhood would have heard and woke up, but it seems that I alone am able to hear the sound; who can it be who is talking about my servants?" So he went back to bed and told no one. The next morning when the labourer looked for his yoke ropes, he missed one; and then he remembered that he had used it to tie up the crab; so he went to the place and found his rope. When his master brought them their breakfast that day and they had finished eating, the labourer began to tell how he had lost one of the yoke ropes and had found it again: and how he had used it for tying up the crab which he had found. The master asked whether the crab was alive or dead; and the labourer said that it was dead. Then the master said "My man you have done a very foolish thing; why did you tie it up alive? Last night I could not sleep for its crying. Why did you imprison the innocent creature until it died?" And he told them the song it had sung, and forbade them ever to cause such pain to living creatures. He said "Kill them outright or you will bring disgrace on me; when I heard the lament I thought it was a man, but now I learn from you that it was a crab. I forbid you ever to do the like again." And at the time of the Sohrai festival the farmer called together all his household and sang them the song and explained its meaning to them, and the men who heard it remember it to this day. CVII. The Leopard Outwitted. There was once a man-eating leopard, whose depredations became so serious, that the whole neighbouring population decided to have a great hunt and kill it. On the day fixed a great crowd of beaters collected, and their drums made a noise as if the world were being turned upside down. When the leopard heard the shouting and the drumming, it started to escape to another jungle, and as it was crossing a road it came on a merchant driving a packbullock. The merchant tried to run away, but the leopard stopped him and said "You must hide me or I will eat you." The merchant continued to run, thinking that if he helped the leopard it would surely eat him afterwards, but the leopard swore an oath not to eat him if he would only hide it. So the merchant stopped and took one of his sacks off the bullock and emptied it out and tied up the leopard in it, and put it on the bullock and then drove on. When they got out of hearing of the hunters the leopard asked to be let out; but directly the sack was untied it said that it would devour the merchant. The merchant said "You can of course eat me, but let us consult an arbitrator as to whether it is fair." The leopard agreed and as they were near a stream, the man asked the water whether it was fair that he should be killed, after he had saved the leopard's life; the water answered "Yes; you men wash all manner of filthy things in me; let it eat you!" Then the leopard wanted to eat him, but the merchant asked leave to take two more opinions; so he asked a tree; but the tree said "Men cut me down; let the leopard eat you." The merchant was very downcast to find everyone against him and the leopard said, "Well, whom will you consult next? You have so many friends;" so they went on and presently met a jackal and the merchant said that he would appeal to him. The jackal considered for some time and then said "I don't understand how you hid the leopard; let me see how it was done; and then I shall be able to decide," The merchant said "I hid him in this sack." "Really," said the jackal, "show me exactly how you did it" So the leopard got into the sack to show how he was hidden; then the jackal asked to be shown how the leopard was carried out of danger; so the merchant tied up the sack and put it on the bullock. "Now," said the jackal, "drive on, and when we come to yonder ravine and I tell you to put the sack down, do you knock in the head of the leopard with a stone." And the merchant did so and when he had killed the leopard, he took it out of the sack and the jackal ate its body. CVIII. The Wind and the Sun. Once the Wind and the Sun disputed as to which was the more powerful. And while they were quarrelling a man came by wrapped in a shawl and wearing a big _pagri_. And they said "It is no good quarrelling; let us put our power to the test and see who can deprive this man of the shawl he has wrapped round him." Then the Wind asked to be allowed to try first and said "You will see that I will blow away the blanket in no time," and the Sun said, "All right, you go first." So the Wind began to blow hard; but the man only wrapped his shawl more tightly round him to prevent its being blown away and fastened it round himself with his _pagri_; and though the Wind blew fit to blow the man away, it could not snatch the shawl from him; so it gave up and the Sun had a try; he rose in the sky and blazed with full force and soon the man began to drip with sweat; and he took off his shawl and hung it on the stick he carried over his shoulder and the Wind had to admit defeat. CIX. The Coldest Season. One winter day a bear and a tiger began to dispute as to which is the coldest season of the year; the bear said July and August, which is the rainy season, and the tiger said December and January, which is the winter season. They argued and argued but could not convince each other; for the bear with his long coat did not feel the cold of winter but when he got soaked through in the rain he felt chilly. At last they saw a man coming that way and called on him to decide--"but have a care"--said the tiger--"if you give an opinion favourable to the bear, I will eat you;" and the bear said "If you side with the tiger, _I_ will eat you." At this the man was terror stricken but an idea struck him and he made the tiger and the bear promise not to eat him if he gave a fair decision and then he said "It is not the winter which is the coldest, nor the rainy season which is the coldest, but windy weather; if there is no wind no one feels the cold much either in the winter or in the rainy season." And the tiger and the bear said "You are right, we never thought of that" and they let him go. CHAPTER II Part II. To a people living in the jungles the wild animals are much more than animals are to us. To the man who makes a clearing in the forest, life is largely a struggle against the beasts of prey and the animals who graze down the crops. It is but natural that he should credit them with feelings and intelligence similar to those of human beings, and that they should seem to him suitable characters around which to weave stories. These stories are likely to be particularly current among a people occupying a forest country, and for this reason are less likely to appear in collections made among the inhabitants of towns. It is a strange coincidence and presumably only a coincidence that Story 118, 'The Hyena outwitted' is known in a precisely similar form among the Kaffirs of South Africa. CX. The Jackal and the Crow. Once upon a time a crow and a jackal became bosom friends and they agreed that the crow should support the jackal in the hot weather and the jackal support the crow in the rainy season. By-and-bye the jackal got discontented with the arrangement, and vowed that it would not go on supporting an animal of another species, but would take some opportunity of eating it up. But he did not let this appear, and one day he invited the crow to a feast and gave him as many frogs and grasshoppers as he could eat and treated him well and they parted very affectionately. Then a few days later the crow invited the jackal to dinner in return; and when the jackal arrived the crow led him to an ant-hill and showed him a hollow gourd which he had filled with live mice and said "Here is your dinner." The jackal could not get his nose into the hole of the gourd so, to get at the mice, he had to break it. And the mice ran all over the place and the jackal jumped about here and there trying to catch them. At this sight the crow stood and laughed; and the jackal said to himself "Very well, my friend, you invited me here to have a laugh at me; wait till I have finished with the mice; then it will be your turn." So when he had caught all the mice he could, he declared that he had had as much as he could eat and would like to go and sleep off his meal. As they said farewell and were salaaming to each other, the jackal pounced on the crow and ate him up; not a bone or a claw was left. Then the jackal began to skip with joy and sang:-- "I ate a gourdful of mice And by the side of the ant-hill I ate the crow: Hurrah!" And singing thus he went skipping homewards; and on the way he met a fowl and called to it to get out of the way or he would eat it,--singing:-- "I ate a gourdful of mice And by the side of the ant-hill I ate the crow:--Hurrah!" And as the fowl did not move he ate it up; then he skipped on and came to a goat and he sang his verse and told it to get out of the way and as it did not, he ate it; and in the same way he met and killed a sheep and a cow and he ate the liver and lungs of the cow; and then he killed a buffalo and ate its liver and lungs; and by this time he was as full as he could hold. Then he came to a pool of water and he called to it to get out of the way or he would drink it up and as it did not move, he drank it dry. Then he came to a post and said "Get out of my way or I will jump over you"-- "I ate a gourdful of mice And by the side of the ant-hill I ate the crow--Hurrah!" And so saying he tried to jump over it; but he was so full of what he had eaten and drunk that he leaped short and fell on the point of the stake and was transfixed, so that he died. CXI. The Tiger Cub and the Calf. A Tigress and a Cow used to graze in a dense jungle, and they were both with young. They became great friends and agreed that they would marry their children to each other. In the course of time the tigress gave birth to a she-cub and the cow to a bull-calf. They kept the young ones in the same place and used to go and graze together, and then return at the same time to suckle their young. On their way back they used to drink at a certain river, the tigress up the stream and the cow lower down. One day it happened that the cow got first to the river and drank at the upper drinking place, and the tigress drank lower down. And the froth from the cow's mouth floated down the stream and the tigress tasted it and found it nice, and this made her think that the flesh of the cow must also be good; so she resolved to eat the cow one day. The cow saw what was in the mind of the tigress and she left some of her milk in a bowl, and said to her calf: "The tigress has resolved to eat me; watch this milk and when you see it turn red like blood, you will know that I have been killed;" then she went off to graze with the tigress. The two youngsters always used to play together very happily but that day the calf would not play but kept going to look at the bowl of milk; and the tigress cub asked the reason. The calf told her what his mother had said; then the tigress cub said that if this happened she would never suck from her mother again and it would be better for them both to run away. So the two kept going to look at the bowl of milk, and about midday they saw that it had changed to blood and they both began to weep. Shortly after, the tigress came back, and flies were clustered round her mouth because of the blood on it. The tigress told her daughter to come and suck, but she said that she would wait till the cow came and then she and the calf could have their meal together as usual; at this the tigress frowned terribly and the cub was frightened, so she said, "Very well, mother, I will suck, but first go and wash your mouth; why are the flies clustered round it?" So the tigress went off but she did not wash, she only ate some more of the cow. While she was away, the calf and the cub ran off to another jungle, and when the tigress came back, she searched for them with horrid roarings and could not find them, and if she had found them she would have killed them. CXII. The Jackal and the Chickens. Once upon a time a jackal and a hen were great friends and regarded each other as brother and sister; and they agreed to have a feast to celebrate their friendship; so they both brewed rice beer and they first drank at the jackal's house and then went to the hen's house; and there they drank so much that the hen got blind drunk, and while she lay intoxicated the jackal ate her up. The jackal found the flesh so nice that he made up his mind to eat the hen's chickens too; so the next day he went to their house and found them all crying "Cheep, cheep," and he asked what was the matter; they said that they had lost their mother; he told them to cheer up and asked where they slept; they told him 'on the shelf in the wall'. Then he went away; but the chickens saw that he meant to come and eat them at night, so they did not go to sleep on the shelf but filled it with razors and knives and when the jackal came at night and felt about the shelf he got badly cut and ran away screaming. But a few day later he paid another visit to the chickens, and condoled with them on the loss of their mother and again asked where they slept, and they told him, 'in the fireplace.' Directly the jackal was gone, they filled the stove with live embers and covered them up with ashes; and went to sleep themselves inside a drum. At night the jackal came and put his paws into the fireplace; but he only scraped the hot embers up against his belly and got burnt; this made him scream and the chickens burst out laughing. The jackal heard them and said "You have got me burnt; now I am going to eat you." They said, "Yes, uncle, but please eat us outside the house; you did not eat our mother in her own house; take us to yonder flat rock." So the jackal took up the drum but when he got to the rock he accidentally let it fall and it broke and the chickens ran away in all directions; but the chicken that had been at the bottom of the drum had got covered with the droppings of the others and could not fly away; so the jackal thought "Well it is the will of heaven that I should have only one chicken; it is doubtless for the best!" The chicken said to the jackal, "I see that you will eat me, but you cannot eat me in this state; wash me clean first." So the jackal took the chicken to a pool and washed it; then the chicken asked to be allowed to get a little dry; but the jackal said that if it got dry it would fly away. "Then," said the chicken, "rub me dry with your snout and I will myself tell you when I am ready to be eaten;" so the jackal rubbed it dry and then proceeded to eat it; but directly the jackal got it in his mouth it voided there, so the jackal spat it out and it flew away. The jackal thought that it had gone into a hole in a white ant-hill, but really it had hidden elsewhere; however the jackal felt for it in the hole and then tried in vain to scrape the hole larger; as he could not get into the hole he determined to sit and wait till hunger or suffocation forced the chicken to come out. So he sat and watched, and he sat so long that the white ants ate off his hind quarters; at last he gave up and went off to the rice fields to look for fish and crabs. There he saw an old woman catching fish, and he asked to be allowed to help her. So the old woman sat on the bank and the jackal jumped and twisted about in the water and presently he caught a _potha_ fish which he ate; but as the jackal had no hind quarters the fish passed through him none the worse. Soon the jackal caught the same fish over again, and he laughed at the old woman because she had caught none. She told him that he was catching the same fish over and over again, and when he would not believe her she told him to mark with a thorn the next one which he caught; he did so and then found that he really was catching and eating the same fish over and over again. At this he was much upset and asked what he should do. The old woman advised him to go to a cobbler and get patched up; so he went and killed a fowl and took it to a cobbler and offered it to him if he would put him to rights; so the cobbler sewed on a leather patch with a long leather tail which rapped on the ground as the jackal went along. Then the jackal went to a village to steal fowls and he danced along with his tail tapping, and sang: "Now the Moghul cavalry are coming And the Koenda Rajas. Run away or they will utterly destroy you." And when the villagers heard this they all ran away and the jackal entered the village and killed as many fowls as he wanted. A few days later he went again to the village and frightened away the villagers as before; but one old woman was too feeble to run away and she hid in a pig sty, and one fowl that the jackal chased, ran into this sty and the jackal followed it, and when he saw the old woman, he told her to catch the fowl for him or he would knock her teeth out; but she told him to catch it himself; so he caught and ate it. Then he said to the old woman. Say "Toyo" (jackal) and she said "Toyo;" then he took a currypounder and knocked all her teeth out and told her again to say "Toyo;" but as she had no teeth she said "Hoyo;" this amused the jackal immensely and he went away laughing. When the villagers returned, the old woman told them that it was only a jackal who had attacked the village, so they decided to kill him; but one man said "You won't be able to catch him; let us make an image of this old woman and cover it with birdlime and set it up at the end of the village street; he will stop and abuse her, and we shall know where he is." So they did this, and the next morning, when the jackal came singing along the road, they hid inside their houses. When the jackal reached the village, he saw the figure of the old woman with its arms stretched out, and he said to it, "What are you blocking my road for? get out of the way; I knocked your teeth out yesterday: arn't you afraid? Get out of the way or I will kick you out." As the figure did not move he gave it a kick and his leg was caught in the birdlime; then he said, "Let me go, you old hag, or I will give you a slap." Then he gave it a slap and his front paw was stuck fast; then he slapped at it with his other paw and that stuck; then he tried to bite the figure and his jaws got caught also; and when he was thus helpless the villagers came out and beat him to death and that was the end of the jackal. CXIII. The Jackal Punished. Once a hen and a jackal were great friends, and they decided to have a feast and each brewed beer for the occasion; the hen brewed with rice, and maize and millet and the jackal brewed with lizards, locusts, frogs and fish. And when the brew was ready, they first went to the jackal's house, but the hen could not touch his beer, it smelt so bad and the jackal drank it all; then they went to the hen's house and her beer was very nice and they both drank till the hen got very drunk and began to stagger about; and the jackal made up his mind that the hen must be very nice to eat, as her beer was so good to drink and when he saw her drunk he was delighted and sang: "Fowl, do not graze in the field! The jackal laughs to see you. Paddy bird, do not fish in the pond! You pecked a piece of sedge thinking it was a frog's leg! Do not drink rice beer, O fowl! The jackal laughs to see you. And so saying he gobbled her up; and her chickens cried at the sight. Then the jackal resolved to eat the chickens also, so he came back the next day, and asked them where they slept and they said "In the hearth." But when the jackal had gone, the chickens planned how they should save their lives. Their mother had laid an egg and as there was no one to hatch it now, they said, "Egg, you must lie in the fireplace and blind the jackal;" and they said to the paddy husker, "You must stand by the door and when the jackal runs out you must knock him down;" and they told the paddy mortar to wait on the roof over the door and fall and crush the jackal. So they put the egg among the hot ashes in the fireplace and they themselves sat in a cupboard with axes ready; and when the jackal came he went to the fireplace and scratched out the ashes; and the egg burst and spirted into his eyes and blinded him and as he ran out of the door the paddy husker knocked him over; and as he crawled away the paddy mortar fell on him from the roof and crushed him; then the chickens ran out and chopped him to pieces with their axes and revenged the death of their mother. CXIV. The Tigers and the Cat. In former days tigers and cats were friends and used to hunt together and share the game they caught; and they did not eat the game raw but used to cook it as men do. One day some tigers and a cat had killed a deer and they had no fire with which to cook it; then the tigers said to the cat "You are small, go and beg a light from yonder village." But the cat said that he was afraid to go; however they urged him saying "You have a thin tail and plump feet; you can bring it in a trice." So, as they all insisted on his going, he at last consented; and said "Well, I will go; but don't expect me to be very quick; if I get a good opportunity for fetching the fire, I will come back soon." They said "All right, go and run off with a small fire-brand and we will meet you outside the village." So the cat went off and coming to a house, went inside to pull a firebrand from the hearth. On the fire some milk was boiling; and the cat thought "This smells very nice, I will have a taste of it" and he found it so nice that he made up his mind to drink it all, before he took away the fire-brand. But in order to lap the milk he had to put his feet on the fireplace, and it was so hot that he burnt his feet and had to get down; so then he sat down and waited till the fire went out and the hearth grew cool, and then he lapped up the milk and ran off with a piece of smouldering wood. Meanwhile the tigers had got tired of waiting and had eaten the deer raw; and they were very angry at being made to eat raw flesh and swore that they would eat the cat too. When they saw the cat bringing the fire they ran to meet him and abused him and cried out "You have made us eat raw flesh; we will eat you too, dung and all" On hearing this threat the cat ran back to the village in fear of his life; and the tigers followed in pursuit; but when they got near the village, the village dogs all ran out barking and the tigers were frightened and turned back and the cat was saved. From that day tigers and leopards have eaten raw flesh; and cats bury their excrement, because of what the tigers had said. Every day the tigers went to the village in search of the cat; but when the dogs barked they slunk away; for the tigers were very frightened at the sight of the dogs' curly tails; they thought that the tails were nooses and that they would be strangled by them. One day one of the tigers met a jackal and called to him "Nephew, listen to me; a cat made us eat raw flesh and has escaped into this village and I want to catch it, but the dogs come barking at me. I don't mind that, but I am very frightened of their nooses. Now, you are very like a dog, cannot you go and tell them not to use their nooses." The jackal answered, "Uncle, you are quite mistaken; what you see are their tails, not nooses; they will not strangle you with them." So the tiger took courage and the next day went to the village to hunt for the cat, but he could not find it. And when the dogs barked he got angry and caught and killed one of them; and from that time tigers and leopards eat dogs. CXV. The Elephant and the Ants. In the days of old there was a great deal more jungle than there is now, and wild elephants were very numerous; once upon a time a red ant and a black ant were burrowing in the ground, when a wild elephant appeared and said "Why are you burrowing here; I will trample all your work to pieces;" the ants answered "Why do you talk like this; do not despise us because we are small; perhaps we are better than you in some ways;" The elephant said "Do not talk nonsense: there is nothing at which you could beat me; I am in all ways the largest and most powerful animal on the face of the earth." Then the ants said "Well, let us run a race and see who will win, unless you win we will not admit that you are supreme." At this the elephant got into a rage and shouted; "Well, come we will start at once," and it set off to run with all its might and when it got tired it looked down at the ground and there were two ants. So it started off again and when it stopped and looked down, there on the ground were two ants; so it ran on again, but wherever it stopped it saw the ants, and at last it ran so far that it dropped down dead from exhaustion. Now it is a saying that ants are more numerous in this world than any other kind of living creature; and what happened was that the two ants never ran at all, but stayed where they were; but whenever the elephant looked at the ground, it saw some ants running about and thought that they were the first two, and so ran itself to death. This story teaches us not to despise the poor man, because one day he may have an opportunity to put us to shame. From this story of the elephant we should learn this lesson; the Creator knows why He made some animals big and some small and why He made some men fools; so we should neither bully nor cheat men who happen to be born stupid. CXVI. A Fox and His Wife. Once upon a time there were a fox and his wife who lived in a hole with their five little ones. Every evening the two foxes used to make their way to a bazar to feed on the scraps thrown away by the bazar people; and every night on their way home the following conversation passed between them. The fox would say to his wife, "Come tell me how much wit you have," and she would answer him by, "Only so much as would fill a small vegetable basket." Then she in her turn would ask "And how much wit have you?" "As much as would load twelve buffaloes." One night as they were on their way home as usual, the two suddenly found themselves face to face with a tiger, who greeted them by saying "At last my friends, I have got you." At this the fox for all his wit, could not utter a word but crouched down and shook with fright. Mrs Fox however was not at all inclined to give way to despair. She saluted the tiger and said "Ah, uncle, do not eat us up just now; I and my husband have a dispute and we want you to settle it for us." The tiger was mollified by being addressed by so respectful a name as uncle, and answered in a gentler voice "Well, my niece, tell me what is the point and I will decide it for you." "It is this," went on Mrs. Fox, "we have five children and we wish to divide them between us but we cannot decide how to do so; I say that I will take three and leave him two; while he wants to take three and leave me two. We came out to look for some man to settle the dispute but have not met one: and now providentially you have appeared before us like a god; no doubt you will be able to make the division for us." The tiger reflected that if he managed things well, he would be able to eat not only the two foxes but their young ones as well, so he graciously agreed to make the division. The foxes then invited him to come back with them to the hole in which they lived, and when they reached it, Mr. Fox bolted into it saying that he was going to bring out the children. As however he did not come out again, Mrs. Fox said that it was clear that he could not manage the children by himself, and she would go and help; and thereupon proceeded to back into the hole, keeping her face turned towards the tiger. Seeing her disappearing the tiger thought to seize her, but as she kept her eyes on him he could only say "Hullo, what is the matter? Why are you going in backwards?" "Oh, uncle," replied Mrs. Fox, "how could I turn my back on so great a personage as you?" and with that she disappeared. Presently the tiger heard the two foxes calling out from inside "Goodbye, uncle, you can go away now; we have arranged how to divide the children ourselves." Then he saw how he had been fooled and flew into a terrible rage and tried to squeeze his way into the hole; but it was much too small and at last he had to go away baffled: and so the foxes were saved by Mrs. Fox's wit. CXVII. The Jackal and the Crocodiles. Once upon a time there was a Raja who had an only son. As the boy grew up his father sent him to a school to learn to read and write. One day on his way back from school, the boy sat down by the road side to rest, and placed his school books on the ground by his side. Suddenly a jackal came along and snatched up the bundle of books and ran away with it; and though the boy ran after it, he failed to catch the jackal and had to go and tell his father how he had lost his school books. The Raja told him not to mind, as it was a very good omen and meant that he would grow up as clever as a jackal; and so the matter ended as far as the boy was concerned; and his father bought him a new set of books. But the jackal ran off to the side of a tank and taking a book from the bundle sat down and began to read it aloud. He kept on saying over and over again "Ibor, obor, iakoro sotro" "Ibor obor iakoro sotro." Hearing the noise a crocodile who lived in the tank poked his head out of the water and began "Well, nephew, what is that you are repeating?" "I am only reading a book, uncle." "What, nephew, do you know how to read and write?" "Yes, certainly I do," answered the jackal. "In that case," returned the crocodile "would you mind teaching my five children?" The jackal was quite willing to be their master, but a difficulty struck the crocodile; the jackal lived on high land, and the little crocodiles could not go so far from the water. The jackal at once suggested a way out of the difficulty: "Let the crocodile dig a little pool near where the jackal lived and put the children into it. Then the jackal could take the little crocodiles out of it when he was giving them their lessons and put them back again when they had finished." So it was arranged, and in two or three days the crocodile dug the pool and the jackal began the lessons. Each morning the jackal took the five little crocodiles out of the water and told them to repeat after him what he said, and then he began "Ibor obor iakoro sotro" "Ibor obor iakoro sotro." But try as they might the little crocodiles could not pronounce the words properly; then the jackal lost his temper and cuffed them soundly. In spite of this they still showed no signs of improvement, till at last the jackal made up his mind that he could not go on with such unsatisfactory pupils, and that the best thing he could do would be to eat them up one at a time. So the next morning he addressed the little crocodiles, "I see that you can't learn, when I take you in class all together: in future I will have you up one at a time and teach you like that." So he took one out of the water and began to teach it; but the little crocodile could not pronounce its words properly, so in a very short time the jackal got angry and gobbled it up. The next day he took out another, which soon met the same fate as its brother; and so things went on till the jackal had eaten four out of the five. When there was only one left, the crocodile came to see how the lessons were getting on. The sight of him put the jackal in a terrible fright; but he answered the crocodile that the children were making very fair progress. "Well, I want to see them. Come along and let us have a look at them." This was awkward for the jackal, but his wits did not desert him; he ran on ahead to the pool and going into the water, caught the one little crocodile which remained, and held it up, saying "See here is one." Then he popped it under the water and brought it up again and said "See, here's another" and this he did five times and persuaded the crocodile that he had seen his five children. The crocodile pretended to be satisfied but he was not quite easy in his mind and would have preferred to see all the five little ones at once. However, he said nothing, but made up his mind to watch the jackal; so the next day he hid himself and waited to see what happened. He saw the jackal take the little crocodile out of the water and begin the lesson--"Ibor obor iakoro." Then when the unfortunate pupil still failed to pronounce the words, the jackal began to give it cuffs and blows. At this sight the crocodile ran forward and caught the jackal, crying out "Show me my other four little ones; is this the way you treat my children?" The jackal had no answer to give and the crocodile soon put an end to his life and took back his one remaining child to the tank where he lived. CXVIII. The Bullfrog and the Crab. There was a Raja who had no head and there was a Tiger who had no tail. One day they met in a nullah. "Here's a fine dinner for me" said the Tiger. "Here's a fine dinner for me!" said the Raja. At this retort the Tiger's courage oozed away; and he did not dare to go any nearer; but he called out "Well, if I am to be your dinner, come and catch me:" and the Raja called out "If I am to be your dinner, come and catch me." So they stood challenging each other, but neither took a step forward. Then the Tiger became abusive and called out, "What have you done with your head?" The Raja retorted "What is a tiger without a tail? You also are short of a member. I may have no head but I have more legs than you." The Tiger could think of no retort to make to this and so said "Come, don't let us quarrel any more; let us be friends; I live near here, where do you live?" "My home is also near here." "Then we are neighbours: there is no reason why we should be enemies." "Who knows what you are at?" answered the Raja: "for you are pretending that you cannot see aright, but it is quite true that we are neighbours." "You are right," said the other, "I admit that I did wrong, and I bow down before you." So they saluted each other and the Tiger said "Let's have a song to show what good friends we are: and he sang (to the rice planting tune): "The Frog King and the Frog Queen Sat at their front door. The Frog King's marriage is going on: Look, my master! The Frog King and the Frog Queen! The Frog King's marriage is going on." CXIX. The Hyaena Outwitted. Once upon a time there was a great tiger who lived in a forest; and all the other animals that lived in the forest treated him as their Raja, down to the very birds. They all felt safe under his protection, because he was so much feared that no men dared hunt in that forest. One day it happened that this Raja tiger killed a man and made such a enormous meal on the flesh, that he got very bad indigestion. The pain grew worse and worse, till he felt sure that his last hour was come. In his agony he sent for a hyaena and offered to make him his _dewan_, if only he would call all the other animals of the forest to come and pay a farewell visit to their lord. The hyaena readily agreed but thought it would be better to send another messenger, while he stayed by the tiger to see that all the animals duly presented themselves. Just then a crow flew overhead; so they called him and deputed him to summon all the animals. The crow flew off and in a short time all the animals assembled before the tiger and paid their respects to him and expressed wishes for his speedy recovery;--all except the jackals. They had been summoned along with the others; but somehow they paid no attention and only remembered about it in the afternoon. Then they were very frightened as to what would be the consequence of their remissness; but one chief jackal stood up and told them not to fear, as he would contrive a way of getting the better of the hyaena. There was nothing else to be done, so they had to put what trust they could in their chief and follow him to the Tiger. On his way the chief jackal picked up a few roots, and took them with him. When they reached the place where the suffering monarch lay, the hyaena at once began to abuse them for being late, and the Tiger also angrily asked why they had not come before; then the chief jackal began humbly "O Maharaja, we were duly summoned; your messenger is not to blame; but we reflected that it was useless merely to go and look at you when you were so ill: that could do you no good; so we bestirred ourselves to try and find some medicine that would cure you. We have searched the length and breadth of the jungle and have found all that is necessary, except one thing and that we have failed to find." "Tell me what it is," said the hyaena, "and I will at once despatch all these animals to look for it and it will surely be found." "Yes," echoed the tiger, "what is it?" "Maharaja," said the jackal, "when you take these medicines, you must lie down on the fresh skin of a hyaena, which has been flayed alive; but the only hyaena we can find in the forest is your _dewan_" "The world can well bear the loss of one hyaena," said the Tiger: "take him and skin him." At these words all the animals set upon the hyaena and flayed him alive; and the tiger lay down on the skin and took the medicines brought by the jackal; and as he was not seriously ill, his pain soon began to pass away. "That is a lesson to the hyaena not to scold us and get us into trouble," said the jackal, as he went home. CXX. The Crow and the Egret. A crow and a white egret once made their nests in the same tree, and when the nestlings began to grow up the crow saw how pretty and white the young egrets were, and thought them much nicer than her own black young ones. So one day when the egret was away, the crow changed the nestlings and brought the little white egrets, to her own nest. When the mother egret returned and found the ugly little black crows in her own nest, it did not take her long to see what had happened and she at once taxed the crow with the theft. The crow denied all knowledge of the matter and a fine quarrel ensued. Quarrelling led to nothing and they agreed to refer the dispute to the decision of a money-lender, whose house stood by the tree in which the two nests were. The crow, as the less shy of the two, flew down and asked the money-lender to come out and settle their dispute. The first question the money-lender asked was what they were going to give him. The egret promised to catch him a fine _rohu_ fish, which was what she was accustomed to eat, but the crow said that she would give him a golden necklace. The money-lender said that the fees must be brought first before he heard the case, so the egret flew off and caught a big fish, but the crow went to where a Raja was bathing and carried off the gold chain which the Raja had left on the bank of the river. The money-lender then gave his decision, which was in favour of the party who had given him the most valuable present; he decided that the young birds must stay where they were. "But," protested the egret "how have my white nestlings become black?" "That is quite natural" answered the money-lender, "a white cow may have a black or brown calf: why should not you have black young ones?" And so saying he drove them away. The poor egret was not at all content with this unjust decision, and was about to renew the quarrel, when a jackal came racing by; it had just made its escape from some hunters. "Where are you off to so fast, uncle?" called out the egret. "I am in arrears with my rent and am hurrying to pay it to the Raja," answered the jackal. "Stay and listen to my grievance," begged the egret, and she told the jackal all that had happened and how the money-lender had let himself be bribed by the gold necklace. The jackal was very indignant, "A man who could give a decision like that would call a buffalo, a bullock or a pig, a sheep. It is no decision at all; I cannot stop now, but I will come back to-morrow and decide the matter for you and before doing so, I will stuff the mouth of that unjust judge with filth." So saying the jackal hurried off. The money-lender heard all that passed and was filled with shame at having earned the contempt of the jackal; he feared more disgrace on the morrow, so he at once called the crow and made her return the egret's nestlings, and the next morning when the jackal came back it found that everything had been settled to the satisfaction of the egret. CXXI. The Jackal and the Hare. A jackal and a hare were sworn friends. One day they planned to have a dinner of rice cooked with milk. So the hare crouched down under a bush which grew by the side of a road leading to a busy market; and the jackal stayed watching a little way off. Presently some men came along, taking rice to sell at the market. When they saw the hare by the side of the road, they put down their baskets of rice and ran to catch the hare. He led them a long chase, and then escaped. Meanwhile the jackal carried off as much of the unguarded rice as he wanted. By the same trick they got hold of milk, and firewood, and a cooking pot, and some leaf plates; Thus they had everything necessary for the meal except fire. So the jackal ran off to a village and went to the house of a poor old woman who was pounding dried plum fruit into meal, and asked her for a light "Go into the house and take a brand from the fire yourself" said the old woman: "No" said the jackal "you go and get it; and I will pound your meal for you, while you are away." So the old woman went into the house; and while she was away the jackal put filth into the mortar and covered it up with meal. Then he took away the lighted brand, and after he had gone the old woman found that all her meal was spoilt. Then the jackal cooked their rice and milk and when it was ready, they began to discuss which should first go and bathe, before they began to eat. At last the jackal went off; he hurried over his bath and came back as quickly as possible. Then the hare went, and he spent a long time having a thorough bath. While the hare was away, the jackal ate as much of the rice as he wanted and then filled the pot with filth and covered it over with rice. When the hare came back, they debated which should help the rice. At last they agreed that the hare should do so; but when the hare had taken out a little rice he found the pot full of filth. "So it is for this that I took all the trouble to get the provisions for our meal" cried the hare; and threw the contents of the pot over the jackal and drove him away. The jackal went off and made a drum, and every day he sat in the sun beneath a bank and played the drum. The hare heard the sound and one day he went to the jackal and asked to be allowed to play the drum. The jackal handed it over but the hare beat it and shook it so vigorously that at last it was smashed to pieces. Then the hare ran away. CXXII. The Brave Jackal. Once upon a time a he-goat ran away for fear of being slaughtered and took refuge in a leopard's cave. When the leopard came back to the cave the goat called out "Hum Pakpak," and the leopard ran away in a fright. Presently it met a jackal and called out "Ah! my sister's son, some fearful animal has occupied my house!" "What is it like, uncle?" asked the jackal "It has a wisp of hemp tied to its chin," answered the leopard: "I am not afraid, uncle," boasted the jackal, "I have eaten many animals like that, bones and all." So they tied their tails together and went back to the leopard's cave. When the two drew near the goat stood up: and the leopard said "This morning he called out something dreadful at me." At this they both fled, and in their struggles to separate all the hair on the jackal's tail was scraped off and the jackal called out "Alas, alas! Uncle, you have scraped off all my skin!" CXXIII. The Jackal and the Leopards. Once upon a time a leopard and a leopardess were living with their cubs; and when the parents were away a jackal used to go to the cubs and say "If you won't pay up the paddy you owe, give me something on account." And the cubs gave him all the meat which their parents had brought; and as this happened every day the cubs began to starve. The leopard asked why they looked so thin although he brought them lots of game and the cubs explained that they had to give up all their food to the jackal from whom he had borrowed paddy. So the leopard lay in wait and when the jackal came again to beg of the cubs he chased him. The jackal ran away and hid in a crack in the ground; the leopard tried to follow and got stuck in the crack and was squeezed to death. The jackal came out and kicked the dead body, crying "I see you lying in wait for me." Now the jackal wore silk shoes and a silk dhoti and he went back to the leopard's family and asked who would look after them now the leopard was dead. They said that they would live with him; so the jackal stayed there and they all went hunting deer. The jackal lay in wait and the leopards drove the game to him. But when the deer came out, the jackal was too frightened to attack them and climbed to the top of an ant-hill to be out of the way. So when the leopards came up they found that the jackal had killed nothing. But the jackal only complained that they had not driven the deer in the right direction. So the next day the leopardess lay in wait and the jackal and the cubs beat the jungle; when they came up they found that the leopardess had killed a fine deer. "Now," said the jackal "let me first offer the game as a sacrifice to the spirit of our dead leopard;" so saying he tried to bite a hole in the deer but the skin was too tough. So he made the leopardess tear the skin and then he pushed inside the carcase and ate up all the entrails. When he had had as much as he could eat he came out and let the leopards begin their meal. Another day they wished to cross a flooded river. The young leopards offered to carry the jackal over on their shoulders but the jackal was too proud to allow this. So the leopards all jumped across the stream safely but when the jackal tried he fell into the middle of the water and was carried away down stream. Lower down a crocodile was lying on the bank sunning itself "Pull me out, pull me out!" called the jackal "and I will bring you some fat venison." So the crocodile pulled him out. "Now open your mouth and shut your eyes" said the jackal and when the crocodile obeyed he popped a large stone into its jaws and ran away. This made the crocodile very angry and it vowed to be revenged. The jackal used to go every day to a certain tank to drink: and to reach the water he used to sit on the root of an _arjun_ tree which projected from the bank. The crocodile observed this habit and one day lay in wait under the water by the _arjun_ tree and when the jackal came to drink caught him by the leg. The jackal did not lose his presence of mind but called out "What a fool of a crocodile to catch hold of the root of the tree instead of my leg." On hearing this the crocodile let go its hold and the jackal laughed and ran away. Every day the jackal used to lie in the sun on the top of a stack of straw. The crocodile found this out and buried itself in the straw and waited for the jackal. That day it happened that the jackal found a sheep-bell and tied it round his neck so that it tinkled as he ran. When it heard the bell the crocodile said "What a bother! I am waiting for the jackal and here comes a sheep tinkling its bell." The jackal heard the crocodile's exclamation and so detected the trick; he at once went and fetched a light and set fire to the heap of straw and the crocodile was burnt to death. CXXIV. The Fool and His Dinner. A man once went to visit his mother-in-law and for dinner they gave him rice with a relish made of young bamboo shoots. The man liked it extremely and thought that it was meat, but he saw no pieces of meat; so he asked his mother-in-law what it was made of; and behind him was a door made of bamboos: so the mother-in-law said, "I have cooked that which is behind you;" and he looked round and saw the door; so he resolved to carry off the door, as it made such good eating, and in the middle of the night he took it off the hinges and ran away with it. In the morning the door was missed and the mother-in-law guessed what had happened and had a hearty laugh. Meanwhile the man went home with the door and chopped it up and gave the pieces to his wife to cook; the wife said that it was useless to cook dry chips but he insisted and said that her mother had made a beautiful dish of them. So they were cooked and the man sat down to eat; but they were all hard and tasteless; then he scolded his wife and she told him to cook them himself if he was not pleased; so he cooked some himself and the result was the same; and his wife laughed at him and when the villagers heard of it they nicknamed him "Silly", and used to call the name after him when they met him. CXXV. The Stingy Daughter. Once a man went to visit his married daughter: he intended to arrive in time for dinner; so though he passed some edible herbs on the way he did not stop to eat them. When he arrived he was duly welcomed and after some conversation he told his daughter that he must return the same day; she said "All right, but wait till it gets hot." (The father understood this to be a metaphorical way of saying "Wait till the dinner is cooked.") But the daughter was determined not to cook the rice while her father was there: so they sat talking and when the sun was high the daughter went into the yard and felt the ground with her foot and finding it scorching she said "Now father, it is time for you to be going: it has got hot" Then the old man understood that she was not going to give him his dinner. So he took his stick and got up to go. Now the son-in-law was a great hunter and that day he had killed and brought home a peacock; as he was leaving, the father said "My daughter, if your husband ever brings home a peacock I advise you to cook it with mowah oil cake; that makes it taste very nice." So directly her father had gone, the woman set to work and cooked the peacock with mowah oil cake; but when her husband and children began to eat it they found it horribly bitter and she herself tasted it and found it uneatable; then she told them that her father had made fun of her and made her spoil all the meat. Her husband asked whether she had cooked rice for her father; and when she said "No" he said that this was the way in which he had punished her; he had had nothing to eat and so he had prevented their having any either; she should entertain all visitors and especially her father. So they threw away the meat and had no dinner. CXXVI. The Backwards and Forwards Dance. There was once a Santal who owed money to a money-lender: the lender went to dun him every day but as he had nothing to pay with he used to hide in the jungle and as he had no warm clothes he used to light a fire to warm himself by; and when the fire was low he would sit near it and when it blazed up he would move back from it. When the money-lender asked the man's wife where he was, she always replied "He is dancing the 'Backwards and Forwards' dance." The money-lender got curious about this; and said that he would like to learn the dance. So one evening the Santal met him and offered to teach him the dance but, he said he must be paid and what would the money-lender give? The money-lender said that he would give any thing that was asked; so the Santal called two witnesses and before them the money-lender promised that if the Santal taught him the dance he would let him off his debt. The next morning the Santal took the money-lender to the jungle and told him to take off his clothes as they would dance with only loin cloths on; then he lit a heap of straw and they sat by it warming themselves; and he purposely made only a small fire at first. Then the money-lender asked when they were going to begin to dance but the Santal said "Let us warm ourselves first, I am very cold," so saying he piled on more straw and as the fire blazed up they moved away from it; and when it sank they drew nearer again. While this was going on the two witnesses came up and the money-lender began to object that he was not being taught to dance; but the Santal said, "What more do you want; don't you keep moving backwards and forwards in front of the fire? This is the 'Backwards and Forwards' dance." Seeing how he had been tricked the money-lender was much upset and he appealed to the witnesses, but they decided against him; and he went home crying and lost his money. CXXVII. The Deaf Family. Formerly Santals were very stupid and much afraid of Hindus; and once a Santal was ploughing at a place where two roads met and a Hindu came along and asked him, in Hindi, where the two roads went to; now the Santal did not understand Hindi and was also deaf and he thought that the Hindu said "These two bullocks are mine,"--and he answered "When did I take your bullocks?" The Hindu sat down and repeated his question; but the Santal did not understand and continued to assert that the bullocks were his and were named Rice eater and Jaituk[2] and had formed part of his wife's dowry; the Hindu kept on asking about the roads and at last the Santal got frightened and thought "perhaps my father-in-law took the bullocks from this man and at any rate he will beat me and take them by force"; so he unyoked his bullocks and handed them over to the stranger; and the Hindu when he found out what was meant went off with them as fast as he could. Soon after the Santal's mother brought him out his dinner and he told her what had happened about the bullocks! And she also was deaf and thought that he was complaining that the rice had no salt in it; so she answered, "Your wife gave it to me like this; I cannot say whether she put salt into it; come, eat it up." After he had eaten his dinner the old woman took the dishes home; and she found her husband cutting out a rice pounder; and she told him how their son had scolded her because there was no salt in the rice; and the husband was also deaf and he thought that she wanted to know what he was making and he answered crossly "It may be a rice pounder and it may be a rice mortar." And as often as she repeated her story he made this answer and told her not to worry him. Then she went to her daughter-in-law who was also deaf and sat spinning in the verandah; and she scolded her for not putting salt in the rice; and she answered "Who knows what I am spinning; the thread may be all knotty, but still I reel it up." And this is the end of the story. Thus the man lost his bullocks through cross questions and crooked answers; and as the whole family talked like that they soon became poor. CXXVIII. The Father-in-Law's Visit. A man once went to visit his married daughter in the month of October and he went round the fields with his son-in-law to see how his crop was growing. At each rice field they came to, the father-in-law said "You have not dammed up the outlets" and the son-in-law said "Yes, I have; the water is standing in the fields all right," and could not understand what the old man meant. The next day they both set off to visit some friends at a distance; and the son-in-law carried his shoes in his hand except when they came to a river when he always put them on; and when they were going along in the sun he carried his umbrella under his arm, but when they came to any shady trees he put it up; and he did the same on the way back. The old man was very astounded at this but made no remark. On reaching the house however he told his daughter that he was sorry that her husband was a mad man and told her what had happened. His daughter said, "No, father, he is not mad: he has a very good reason; he does not wear his shoes on dry ground because he can see where he is going; but in a river you cannot see what is under-foot; there may be sharp stones or thorns and so he puts on his shoes then; and he puts up his umbrella under trees lest falling branches should hit him or the droppings of birds fall on him, but in the open he can see that there is nothing to hurt him." Her father admitted that these were good reasons and he had been foolish not to understand them; he then took his leave. And in the following January he visited them again; and when he saw their stock of rice he asked how much they had, and the son-in-law said that there was only what he saw. "But," said the old man, "When I saw your fields you had a very fine crop coming on." "The crop was good," answered the son-in-law "but I owed rice to the money-lender and I have had to pay that back and I have had to pay my rent and this is all that I have left." "Ah!" said the father-in-law, "when I saw your fields I told you that you had not dammed up the outlets; by outlets I meant these drains; as water flows away through an outlet so has your wealth flowed away to money-lenders and landlords; is not this so?" And the son-in-law admitted that he was right and that his words had had a meaning. CXXIX. Ramai and Somai. Once two poor men named Ramai and Somai came to a village and took some waste land from the headman, and ploughed it and sowed millet; and their plough was only drawn by cows and their ploughshare was very small, what is called a "stumpy share;" and when they had sowed a little the rains came on; and Somai gave up cultivation and took to fishing and for a time he made very good profits by catching and selling fish; and he did not trouble even to reap the millet he had sown; he laughed at Ramai who was toiling away clearing more land and sowing maize and rice. He used to go and look at him and tell him that he would never get a crop while he had nothing better than a "stumpy" plough; it would probably break to pieces one day and then he would be helpless; he had much better take to fishing which gave quick and easy returns. Ramai made no answer, but when the rains were over there was no more fishing to be done; and Somai was left to starve and had to go from village to village begging. But Ramai reaped his millet and lived on that till his maize was ripe and then his maize supported him until his rice was ripe and he always had plenty to eat; and to show his despite for Somai, after he had had a good dinner, he would come out in front of his house and call out "What of the stumpy share now?" Every day after eating he would come out and say "At first I worked hard and suffered hunger but now I am eating in happiness; and you were happy then but now you are starving." CXXX. The Two Brothers. There were once two brothers who were constantly quarrelling and one afternoon after a heated quarrel the younger brother asked the villagers to come and judge between them. The villagers agreed to meet the next morning. At cockcrow the next day the elder brother went to the other's house and woke him up and said "Brother, this is a bad business; you have called in the villagers and they will certainly fine us both for quarrelling; it would be much better for us to save the money and spend it on a pig; then we and our families could have a feast." "I quite agree," said the younger brother, "but now I have summoned the villagers, what can be done? If I merely tell them to go away, they will never come again when I summon them." The elder brother said, "I have a plan; when they come they will ask how the quarrel began and what abusive words I used; and then you must tell them that that is a point which they have to decide; and then they will be able to do nothing and will go away." The younger brother agreed to this and when the villagers came and asked what the quarrel was about he said, "Don't you know what the quarrel was? That was the very matter I wanted you to decide; if you don't know, how can you judge about it?" And this answer he repeated to all their questioning; then they got angry and said that he was mocking them; and they declined to give any decision, but said that the brothers must give them dinner as they had detained them so long; but the brothers flatly declined to do so as no decision had been given, and the villagers went away grumbling, while the brothers bought a pig with the money they had saved and had a jolly feast and as they ate the elder brother said: "See what a good plan mine was; but for it we should now have been feasting others at our expense." CXXXI. The Three Fools. Once upon a time three men were sitting at the foot of a tamarind tree and a stranger came up to them with a bunch of plantains on his shoulder and he put the plantains on the ground in front of them and bowed and went away. Thereupon the three men began to quarrel as to who was to have the plantains; each said that they were his because it was to him that the man had bowed. So they started calling each other "Fool" and after quarrelling for some time one said "Well, yes, I admit that I am a great fool" and the other two asked why he thought himself a fool and he said "Well one day my wife went to the jungle with the other village women to get firewood and left our baby in my charge; as she was a long time coming back the child became hungry and began to cry; I walked him about but he would not stop crying; I tried to feed him with rice and with rice water and with _Gur_ and with cow's milk but he would not eat or stop crying; I was in despair when his mother came back and took him up and gave him the breast and the child was quiet at once. Seeing this I said to my wife "Human milk must be sweeter than anything else." My wife said "Who can say whether it is nice; we all drink it when we are infants; but when we grow up we cannot say what it is like." Then I said that I would try what it was like and I sucked her breast and found that it was much sweeter than cow's milk; after that I formed the habit and used to drink her milk every day; and as I left none for the child it died soon afterwards of starvation; this shows what a fool I am." Then one of the other men said "But I am a bigger fool than you." And they asked him in what way; and he said "I was married and was very much in love with my wife; once when she had gone on a visit to her father's I went to fetch her home; and she was got up in all her finery, with her hair well dressed and vermilion on her forehead and red _arta_ on her feet. On our way home it began to rain and we took shelter in a village; and when the shower was over we went on; and we came to a river which was in flood from the rain; the water was up to a man's armpits and I decided to carry my wife across so that the _arta_ on her feet might not get washed off. So I took her on my shoulder and to prevent her feet getting wet I held her feet uppermost and as her head was under water when I got across I found that she had been drowned; and if I had not been such a fool she would not have been killed." Then the third man said "And I also am a fool. I had quarrelled with my own family so I lived with my wife in a house alone at the end of the village and we had no children. Now I was very fond of smoking; and one night I wanted a light for my hookah but there was none in the house; so I started to go and ask for a light from some neighbour; but as it was very dark I did not like to leave my wife all alone: nor did I like to send her out alone to ask for the light; so at last I took my hookah in my hand and set my wife astride on my shoulder and went round from house to house like that, asking for a light; and all the villagers laughed like anything; so I am a fool." Then they agreed that they were all three fools and had better divide the plantains equally among them and go home; and that is what they did. CXXXII. The Cure for Laziness. There was once a man who lived happily with his wife, but she was very lazy; when work in the fields was at its height she would pretend to be ill. In June and July, she would begin to moan as if in pain, and when every one else had gone off to work she would eat any rice that they had left over; or if there were none, would cook some for herself; Her father-in-law decided to call in some _ojhas_ to examine her and if they could not cure her, then to send her back to her father: so he called in two _ojhas_ and told them to do their best, as he did not want the woman's relations to complain that she had not been properly treated. So the first _ojha_ felt her pulse and smiled and said nothing, and the second _ojha_ felt her pulse and smiled and said nothing, and when the father-in-law asked them if they knew what was the matter, they answered that the illness was very serious and medicines must be applied; the father-in-law said "Yes; but you must get the medicines or tell me exactly what is wanted and I will arrange for it;" this conversation took place before the woman; the _ojhas_ said "Very well, we will do what you want but before applying the medicine we shall have to do some incantations;" the father-in-law answered "Do whatever is necessary to make a good job of it. Don't spare anything; try and get everything ready by to-morrow: for we are in great difficulty; I do not like to leave the patient alone in the house and yet I cannot spare anyone to look after her;" the _ojhas_ promised and got up and went out with the father-in-law, and in the village street they told him that laziness was all that was the matter with the woman, but that they knew a medicine which would cure her; so they went to the jungle and dug up two very big tubers of the _tirra_ plant, as big as pumpkins, and in the evening they went to the man's house and told him that they had found the medicine, and that the whole household was to come to the cross roads at the end of the village very early the next morning with the patient and they would exorcise the disease and apply remedies. At cockcrow the next morning the two _ojhas_ brought the two tubers and put them down at the end of the village street, and then went to the house where the sick woman lived and awoke the inmates, and they borrowed a pot of water and some vermilion and an old winnowing fan and then they all went to the place where the tubers had been left, and the _ojhas_ made the patient sit on the winnowing fan facing the east and painted her with vermilion; then they waved pig's dung round her head and tied the two tubers round her neck and told her to walk up and down the village street three times; and that would remove the spell that was on her. So the woman began to walk up the village street and every one laughed at her and the children ran after her and smacked her and jumped and shouted for joy and the _ojhas_ called out to her "You must not take off the tubers until you are cured." The woman walked up and down twice, but then she was so ashamed at being laughed at that she threw away the tubers and ran off home; then they all laughed the more; and followed her to the house, and the _ojhas_ asked whether she was cured that she had taken off the remedies they had applied; she only smiled in answer and they told her to take care because if she ever got ill again they would apply the same remedy; but from that day the woman completely recovered and did her fair share of all the work. CXXXIII. The Brahman's Powers. A long time ago a Brahman came from the west and did many wonders to the astonishment of those who saw him. He came to a certain village and at first put up in an old bamboo hut; there he sat motionless for three or four days and so far as anyone could see ate and drank nothing. The villagers said that he must eat during the night, so four men arranged to watch him continuously; two by day and two by night; but though they watched they could not detect him eating or drinking. Then the villagers collected and began to question him and as his answers seemed worthy of credit they began to bring him offerings of milk; one day he asked to be supplied with coolies that he might rebuild the hut in which he had taken up his abode; so coolies were brought and he made them collect bricks and prepare mortar and at the end of the day's work they asked to be paid; then the Brahman wrapped himself in his cloth and repeated some _mantras_, whereupon pice fell tinkling down from his body and with them he paid the coolies; and so it was every day until the house was finished. All this was a source of great wonder to those who saw it. CXXXIV. Ram's Wife. It is a custom among us Santals that husband and wife do not mention each other's names; and even if a husband sometimes mentions his wife's name in a case of urgent necessity, the wife will never speak her husband's; in the same way a man may not mention the name of his younger brother's wife or of his wife's elder sister; women again may not use the name of their younger sister's husband or their husband's elder brother. Our forefathers have said that if any one breaks this rule his children will be born deaf or dumb; we believe this and fear to break through the custom. There was once a man named Ram who was ploughing his field; when he got to the end he found that he had not brought the seed with him; so he called out to his wife, pretending however that he was speaking to his daughter "Seed, daughter, seed!" And she called back "What do you want it for? Are you going to sow it?" (eram = will you sow) and every time he called, she answered "Eram?" At this he lost his temper and ran up to the house and asked what she meant by speaking his name, when he told her to bring out the seed for sowing; and thereupon he proceeded to give her a good thrashing. His wife said to him "Your name is the same as the word for 'sow,' it is a very fine name you have got." At this Ram laughed and asked how he could help having the name which his father and mother had given him. At this she giggled. "Then why are you hurt by it? You had better in future take out the seed corn with you and then you won't have to call to me; if you do I shall answer you as I did to-day." To the present day people do not use the forbidden words; or if compelled to they spit on the ground first; even Christian converts do not like to infringe the rule if many people are present and usually speak of a person with a forbidden name as the father, or mother of such and such a child. CXXXV. Palo. There was once a man named Dhuju, and he had sons named Ret Mongla, Saru Sama and Chapat champa; and their wives were named Chibo, Porbet and Palo. One rainy season the family was busy with the ploughing: Ret Mongla used to take the plough cattle out to get some grazing before the sun rose; and his two brothers took the ploughs to the fields a little later and the old father used to look on and tell them what to do. It was their practice when they wanted to attract each other's attention to call out: "Ho!" and not "Ya!" or "Brother." One day it had been arranged that they should sow _gundli_ in a field; but when the eldest brother arrived at the place with the bullocks ready to plough he found that his two brothers had not turned up with the ploughs; so he began to call "Pal, ho!" (Pal = plough share). Now just then the wife of the youngest brother, Palo, had gone towards that field to throw away the sweepings of the cowshed and she thought Ret Mongla was calling her name; this surprised her and made her very angry; and she made up her mind to pay him back and then if she were scolded for not paying proper respect to her husband's eldest brother to explain that he had insulted her first. So that morning when she took out their breakfast to the men working in the field, she pretended to be in great hurry, and putting down her basket near the place where the three brothers were ploughing, called out to them: "Come, stop ploughing," and then with scarcely an interval: "Look sharp and come and eat; or if you don't I will take your breakfast away again." So the brothers stopped their work and ate their breakfasts. But when Palo had gone back and they were sitting having a chew of tobacco, the eldest brother began: "Did you notice how that girl behaved to me just now; she spoke to me in a most rude way as if I were not a person to whom she owed respect." The other two said that they had noticed it themselves, and her husband Chapat Champa said that he would punish her for it when he got home. Directly he got to the house he began scolding her and she made no answer, but that night when they were alone together she told him that what she had done was because Ret Mongla had insulted her by calling her by name. The next day her mother-in-law took her to task but Palo gave the same explanation. Then Ret Mongla's mother went to him and asked him whether there was any truth in this counter-charge; he saw at once what had happened and explained that he had never called out his sister-in-law by name; he had called out for the plough; "Pal ho! Pal ho!" because his brothers had not got the ploughs ready; when Palo understood what a mistake she had made, she was covered with confusion and they brought water and she washed Ret Mongla's feet as she had done on the day of her marriage, and they salaamed to each other and peace was restored. But if the mistake had not been explained Palo would have been turned out of the family. CXXXVI. The Women's Sacrifice. This is a story of the old days when the Santals both men and women were very stupid. Once upon a time the men of a certain village had fixed a day for sacrificing a bullock; but the very day before the sacrifice was to take place, the Raja's _sipahis_ came to the village and carried off all the men to do five days forced labour at the Raja's capital. The women thus left alone suffered the greatest anxiety; they thought it quite possible that their husbands and fathers would never be allowed to return or even be put to death; so they met in conclave and decided that the best thing they could do would be to carry out the sacrifice which the men had intended to make and which had been interrupted so unexpectedly. So they made haste to wash their clothes and bathe, and by way of purification they fasted that evening and slept on the bare ground. Then at dawn they made ready everything wanted for the sacrifice and went to the jungle with the bullock that was to be the victim. There at the foot of a _sal_ tree they scraped a piece of ground bare and smeared it with cow dung; then they put little heaps of rice at the four corners of a square and marked the place with vermilion; then they sprinkled water over the bullock and led it up to the square. But here their difficulties began for none of them knew what incantations the men said on such an occasion; they wasted a lot of time each urging the other to begin, at last the wife of the headman plucked up courage and started an invocation like this: "We sacrifice this bullock to you; grant that our husbands may return; let not the Raja sacrifice them but grant them a speedy return." Having got as far as this she wanted the other women to take a turn, but they said that her invocation was capital and quite sufficient; and they had better get on to the sacrifice at once. Easier said than done; they none of them knew how to do it; as they all hung back the headman's wife scolded them roundly and bade them take the axe and kill the beast; then they all asked where they were to strike the animal: "Where its life resides," said the headman's wife. "Where is that," asked the women. "Watch and see what part of it moves," answered she, "and strike there." So they looked and presently the bullock moved its tail: "That's where its life is," shouted they; so three or four of them caught hold of the rope round the animal's neck and one woman seized the axe and struck two blows at the root of the animal's tail. She did it no harm but the pain of the blow made the bullock pass water. "See the blood flowing," cried the women, and eagerly caught the stream in a vessel; then the sacrificer dealt another blow which made the bullock jump and struggle until it broke loose and galloped off. The women followed in pursuit and chased it through a field of cotton; the bullock knocked off many of the ripe cotton pods and these the women thought were lumps of fat fallen from the wounded bullock, so they took them home and ate them; such fools were the women in those days. CXXXVII. The Thief's Son. Once upon a time a goat strayed into the house of a certain man who promptly killed it and hid the body. At evening the owner of the goat missed it and came in search of it. He asked the man who had killed it whether he had seen it, but the latter put on an innocent air and declared that he knew nothing about it but he invited the owner of the missing animal to look into the goat house and see if it had accidentally got mixed up with the other goats. The search was of course in vain. Directly the owner had gone the thief brought out the body and skinned and cut it up, and every one in the house ate his fill of flesh. Before they went to sleep the thief told his sons to be careful not to go near any of the other boys when they were grazing the cattle next day, lest they should smell that they had been eating meat. Next morning the thief's son took his goats out to graze and was careful not to go near any of the other boys who were tending cattle; whenever they approached him he moved away. At last they asked him what was the matter; and he told them that they must keep at a distance lest they should smell what he had been eating. "What have you eaten?" The simpleton replied that he had been eating goat's flesh and that there was still some in the house. The cowherds at once ran off and told the owner of the lost goat. The news soon spread and the villagers caught the man who had killed the goat and searched his house and found the flesh of the goat. Then they fined him one rupee four annas and made him give another goat in exchange for the one he had stolen. CXXXVIII. The Divorce. There was once a man who had reason to suspect his wife's faithfulness. He first tried threatening and scolding her; but this had no good effect, for far from being ashamed she only gave him back harder words than she received. So he set to work to find some way of divorcing her without making a scandal. One day when he came home with a fine basket of fish which he had caught he found that his father-in-law had come to pay them a visit. As he cleaned the fish he grumbled at the thought that his wife would of course give all the best of them to her father; at last an idea struck him. As he handed over the fish to his wife he told her to be careful not to give her father the heads of the _mangri_ fish nor the dust of tobacco, as it was very wrong to give either of those things to a visitor. "Very well," she answered; but to herself she thought "What does he mean by forbidding me to do these things? I shall take care to give my father nothing but the heads of the fish" for her pleasure was to thwart her husband. So when the evening meal was ready she filled a separate plate for her father with nothing but the fish heads. As her husband heard the old man munching and crunching the bones he smiled to himself at the success of the plot. When his father was about to leave he asked for some tobacco, and the woman brought him only tobacco dust which she had carefully collected out of the bottom of the bag. The old gentleman went off without a word but very disappointed with his treatment. A few days later the woman went to visit her father's house, and then he at once asked her what she meant by treating him as she had done. "I am sorry," said she: "I did it to spite my husband; he went out of his way to tell me not to give you the heads of the fish and the dust of tobacco, and so I picked out nothing but heads for you and gave you all the tobacco dust I could collect because I was so angry with him." From this her father easily understood that husband and wife were not getting on well together. Time passed and one day her mother went to visit the troublesome wife. As she was leaving, her daughter asked whether there was any special reason for her coming. Her mother admitted that she had come hoping to borrow a little oil to rub on the cattle at the coming Sohrae festival, but as her son-in-law was not there she did not like to mention it and would not like to take any without his consent. "O never mind him!" said the woman and insisted on her mother taking away a pot--not of cheap mowah or mustard oil,--but of ghee. Now a little girl saw her do this and the tale was soon all over the village; but the undutiful wife never said a word about it to her husband, and it was only after some days that he heard from others of his wife's extravagance. When it did reach his ears he seized the opportunity and at once drove her out of the house, and when a panchayat was called insisted on divorcing her for wasting his substance behind his back. No one could deny that the reason was a good one and so the panchayat had to allow the divorce. Thus he got rid of his wife without letting his real reason for doing so be known. CXXXIX. The Father and the Father-in-Law. There was once a Raja who had five sons and his only daughter was married to a neighbouring Raja. In the course of time this Raja fell into poverty; all his horses and cattle died and his lands were sold. At last they had even to sell their household utensils and clothes for food. They had only cups and dishes made of gourds to use and the Raja's wife and sons had to go and work as day labourers in order to get food to eat. At last one day the Raja made up his mind to go and visit his married daughter and ask her husband's family to give him a brass cup (_bati_) that he might have something suitable to drink out of. Off he went and when he reached the house he was welcomed very politely by his daughter's father-in-law and given a seat and water to wash his feet, and a hookah was produced and then the following conversation began. "Where have you come from, father of my daughter-in-law?" "I have walked from home, father of my son-in-law?" "You come here so often that you make me quite frightened! How is it? Is it well with you and yours? with body and skin? Would it not be well for us to exchange news?" "Yes indeed; for how can you know how I am getting on if I do not tell you. By your kind enquiries my life has grown as big as a mountain, my bosom is as broad as a mat, and my beard has become as long as a buffalo horn." "And I also, father of my daughter-in-law, am delighted at your coming and enquiring about me; otherwise I should wonder where you had settled down, and be thinking that you did not know the way relations should behave to each other; at present, I am glad to say, the seed left after sowing, the living who have been left behind by death, by your favour and the goodness of God, are all doing well. Is it not a proverb. 'The eye won't walk, but the ear will go and come back in no time.' Now the ear is the visitor and so far as it has looked our friends up, it is well with all, so far as I know." The other answered; "Then I understand that by the goodness of God, all is very well with you all, O father of my son-in-law. That is what we want, that it may be well with us, body and soul." "Life is our wealth; life is great wealth. So long as life lasts wealth will come. Even if there is nothing in the house, we can work and earn wealth, but if life goes where shall we obtain it?" The visitor answered "That is true; and we have been suffering much from the 'standing' disease; (i.e. hunger) I have tried to get medicine to cure it in vain; the Doctors know of none. I should be greatly obliged if you could give me some medicine for it." "The very same disease has overflowed this part of the country" was the reply:--at this they both laughed; and the visitor resumed,-- "Don't they say 'we asked after them and they did not ask anything about us in return;'? it is right now for me to ask how you are getting on" and so saying he proceeded in his turn to put the same questions and to receive the same answers. Then they went out and bathed and came back and had some curds and rice and sat for a while smoking their hookahs. Then a goat was killed and cooked and they had a grand feast. But the Raja did not forget about the _bati_, and he took his daughter aside and told her to sound her mother-in-law about it. She brought back a message that if he wanted anything he should ask for it himself. So he went very shamefacedly to his host and told him that be must he leaving: "Well, good-bye, are you sure you only came to pay us a visit and had no other object?" The Raja seized the opening that this reply gave him and said "Yes, I had something in my mind; we are so poor now that we have not even a brass cup to drink out of, and I hoped that you would give me one of yours." "My dear Sir, you say that you have gourds to drink but of: we have not even that; we have to go down to the stream and drink out of our hands; I certainly cannot give you a _bati._" At this rebuff the poor Raja got up and went away feeling very angry at the manner in which he had been treated. When he reached home the Raja vowed that he would not even live in the neighbourhood of such faithless friends so he went with all his family to a far country. In their new home his luck changed and he prospered so much that in a few years he became the Raja of the country. Meanwhile the other Raja--the father-in-law,--fell into such poverty that he and his family had to beg for their living. The first Raja heard about this and made a plan to attract them to the place where he lived. He ordered a great tank to be dug and promised the workers one pice for each basket of earth they removed. This liberal wage attracted labourers from all sides; they came in such numbers that they looked like ants working and among them came the father-in-law and his family and asked the Raja for work. The Raja recognised them at once though they did not know him; at first the sight of their distress pleased him but then he reflected that if he cherished anger Chando would be angry with him, so he decided to treat them well and invited them to his palace. The poor creatures thought that they were probably doomed for sacrifice but could only do as they were bid. Great was their amazement when they were well fed and entertained and when they learnt who their benefactor was they burst into tears; and the Raja pointed out to them how wrong it was to laugh at the poor, because wealth might all fly away as theirs had done. CXL. The Reproof. A poor man once went to visit his daughter's father-in-law who was very rich. The rich man was proud of his wealth and looked down on poverty; so he made no special entertainment for his visitor and only gave him rice and _dal_ for his dinner. When they went out to bathe he stood on the bank of the tank and began to boast. "I made this tank; all the land over there belongs to me; all those buffaloes and cattle you see, belong to me; I have so many that I have to keep two men to milk them." The visitor said nothing at the time but that afternoon as host and guest sat smoking together they saw a beggar standing in front of the house. The sun was very powerful and the ground was so hot that the beggar kept shifting from one foot to another as he stood out in the sun. Then the poor visitor spoke up and said "It is strange that when you made such a nice house you made the roof without eaves." "Where are your eyes? Cannot you see the eaves?" asked the host in astonishment. The other answered "I see that you have made a house as high as a hill but if it had any eaves, surely that poor beggar there would not be standing out in the sun; and this morning you must have been mistaken in saying that that tank was yours for otherwise you would have given me fish for dinner; and I think that they were only rocks and tufts of grass which you pointed out to me as your flocks and herds for otherwise you would have offered me some milk or curds." And the rich man was ashamed and had no answer to make. CXLI. Enigmas. Once upon a time a man and his son went on a visit to the son's father-in-law. They were welcomed in a friendly way; but the father-in-law was much put out at the unexpected visit as he had nothing ready for the entertainment of his guest. He took an opportunity to go into the house and said to one of his daughters-in-law. "Now, my girl, fill the little river and the big river while I am away; and polish the big axe and the little axe and dig out five or six channels, and put hobbles on these relations who have come to visit us and bar them Into the cow house. I am going to bathe and will come back with a pot full of the water of dry land, then we will finish off these friends." The two visitors outside overheard this strange talk and began to wonder what it meant. They did not like the talk about axes and digging channels, it sounded as if their host meant to kill them as a sacrifice and bury their bodies in a river bed; rich men had been known to do such things. With this thought in their minds they got up and began to run away as fast as their legs could carry them. But when the young woman saw what they were doing she ran after them and called them back. They reluctantly stopped to hear what she had to say; and when she came up they reproached her for not having warned them of the fate in store for them. But she only laughed at their folly and explained that what her father-in-law meant was that she should wash their feet and give them a seat in the cow house; and make ready two pots of rice beer and polish the big and little brass basins and make five or six leaf cups and he would bring back some liquor and they would all have a drink. At this explanation they had a hearty laugh and went back to the house. CXLII. The Too Particular Wife. There was once a man with a large tumour on his forehead and his wife was so ashamed of it that she would never go about with him anywhere for fear of being laughed at. One day she went with a party of friends to see the _Charak Puja_. Her husband wished to go with her but she flatly declined to allow him. So when she had gone he went to a friend's house and borrowed a complete set of new clothes and a large pagri. When he had rigged himself out in these he could hardly be recognised; but his forehead with the tumour was quite visible. Then he too went off to the fair and found his wife busy dancing. After watching her for some time he borrowed one of the drums and began to play for the dancers; and in particular he played and danced just in front of his wife. When he saw that his wife was preparing to go home he started off ahead, got rid of his fine clothes and took the cattle out to graze. Presently he went back to the house and asked his wife whether she had enjoyed the fun. "You should have come to see it for yourself," said she. "But you would not let me! Otherwise I should have gone." "Yes," answered his wife, "I was ashamed of the lump on your forehead but other people do not seem to mind, for there was a man there with a lump just like yours who was playing the drum and taking a leading part in the fun and no one seemed to laugh at him: so in future I shall not mind going about with you." CXLIII. The Paharia Socialists. Formerly before the Santals came into the country the four _taluqs_ of Sankara, Chiptiam, Sulunga and Dhaka formed the Paharia Raj and the whole country was dense jungle. Then the Santals came and cleared the jungle, and brought the land under cultivation. The Paharia Raja of Gando was named Somar Singh and he paid tribute to the Burdwan Raja. Once ten or twelve Paharias went to Burdwan to pay the annual tribute. After they had paid in the money the Raja gave them a feast and a room to sleep in and sent them one bed. The Paharias had a discussion as to who should sleep on the bed and in order to avoid any ill-feeling about it they decided that they would all sleep on the ground and put their feet on the bed and then they could feel that they had all an equal share of it. This they did and in the morning the Burdwan Raja came in and found them all lying in this strange position and was very much amused. He explained that he had sent the bed for the use of the chief man among them and asked whether they had no distinctions of rank. "Yes" they said "we have in our own villages; but here we are in a foreign land and as we do not all belong to one village who is to decide which is the chief among us. Away from home we are all equal." CXLIV. How a Tiger Was Killed. In the days when the Santals lived in the jungle country there was once a man who had a patch of maize by the bank of a stream; and to watch his crop he had put up a platform in his field. Now one day he stole a goat and killed it; he did not take it home nor tell his family; he took it to the maize patch with some firewood and fire and a knife and a hatchet; and he hoisted all these on to his platform and lit a fire in the bottom of an earthen pot and cut up the goat and began to cook and eat the flesh. And a tiger smelt the flesh and came and sat down under the platform. As the man ate he threw down the bones and as he threw them the tiger caught them in its mouth; and after a time the man noticed that he did not hear the bones strike the ground; so he looked down quietly and saw the tiger; then he was very frightened for he thought that when he could no longer keep the tiger quiet by throwing down bits of meat, the tiger would spring up unto the platform and eat him. At last a thought struck him and he drew the head of his hatchet off the handle and put it in the fire till it became red-hot; and meanwhile he kept the tiger quiet by throwing down pieces of meat. Then when the axe head was ready he picked it out of the fire and threw it down; the tiger caught it as it fell and roared aloud with pain; its tongue and palate and throat were so burnt that it died. Thus the man saved himself from the tiger and whether the story be true or no, it is known to all Santals. CXLV. The Goala's Daughter. There was once a man of the _Goala_ caste who had an only daughter and she grew up and was married, but had no child; and after twenty years of married life she gave up all hope of having any. This misfortune preyed on her mind and she fell into a melancholy. Her parents asked her why she was always weeping and all the answer she would give was "My sorrow is that I have never worn clothes of 'Dusty cloth' and that is a sorrow which you cannot cure." But her father and mother determined to do what they could for their daughter and sent servants with money into all the bazars to buy "Dusty cloth". The shopkeepers had never heard of such an article so they bought some cloth of any sort they could get and brought it to the Goala; when he offered it to his daughter she thanked him and begged him not to waste his money: "You do not understand" said she--"what I mean by 'Dusty cloth.' God has not given it to me and no one else can; what I mean by 'Dusty cloth' is the cloth of a mother made dusty by the feet of her child." Then her father and mother understood and wept with her, saying that they would do what man could do but this was in the hands of God; and they sang:-- "Whatever the child of another may suffer, we care not: But our own child, we will take into our lap, even when it is covered with dust." CXLVI. The Brahman's Clothes. There was once a Brahman who had two wives; like many Brahmans he lived by begging and was very clever at wheedling money out of people. One day the fancy took him to go to the market place dressed only in a small loin cloth such as the poorest labourers wear and see how people treated him. So he set out but on the road and in the market place and in the village no one salaamed to him or made way to him and when he begged no one gave him alms. He soon got tired of this and hastened home and putting on his best _pagri_ and coat and dhoti went back to the market place. This time every one who met him on the road salaamed low to him and made way for him and every shopkeeper to whom he went gave him alms: and the people in the village who had refused before gladly made offerings to him. The Brahman went home smiling to himself and took off his clothes and put them in a heap and prostrated himself before them three or four times, saying each time. "O source of wealth: O source of wealth! it is clothes that are honoured in this world and nothing else." CXLVII. The Winning of a Bride. Formerly this country was all jungle; and when the jungle was first cleared the crops were very luxuriant; and the Santals had large herds of cattle, for there was much grazing; so they had milk and curds in quantities and _ghee_ was as common as water; but now milk and curds are not to be had. In those days the Santals spent their time in amusements and did not trouble about amassing wealth, but they were timid and were much oppressed by their Rajas who looted any man who showed signs of wealth. Well, in those days the winters were very cold and there used to be heavy frost at nights. And there was a man who had seven grown-up daughters and no son; and at the time of threshing the paddy he had to undergo much hardship because he had no son to work for him; he had to sleep on the threshing floor and to get up very early to let out the cattle; and as the hoar frost lay two inches deep he found it bitterly cold. In those days the villagers had a common threshing floor; and one day this man was talking to a friend and he jestingly asked whether he would spend a night naked on the threshing floor; and the friend said that he would if there were sufficient inducement but certainly not for nothing. Then the father of the seven daughters said "If you or any one else will spend a night naked on the threshing floor I will give him my eldest daughter in marriage without charging any bride price."--for he wanted a son-in-law to help him in his work. A common servant in the employ of the village headman heard him and said "I will accept the offer;" the man had not bargained for such an undesirable match but he could not go back from his word; so he agreed and said that he would choose a night; and he waited till it was very cold and windy and then told the headman's servant to sleep out that night. The servant spent the night on the threshing floor without any clothes in spite of the frost and won his bride. CHAPTER IV Part IV The following stories illustrate the belief in Bongas, i.e. the spirits which the Santals believe to exist everywhere, and to take an active part in human affairs. Bongas frequently assume the form of young men and women and form connections with human beings of the opposite sex. At the bidding of witches they cause disease, or they hound on the tiger to catch men. But they are by no means always malevolent and are capable of gratitude. The Kisar Bonga or Brownie who takes up his abode in a house steals food for the master of the house, and unless offended will cause him to grow rich. CXLVIII. Marriage with Bongas. There have been many cases of Santals marrying _bonga_ girls. Not of course with formal marriage ceremonies but the marriage which results from merely living together. In Darbar village near Silingi there are two men who married _bonga_. One of them was very fond of playing on the flute and his playing attracted a _bonga_ girl who came to him looking like a human girl, while he was tending buffaloes. After the intimacy had lasted some time she invited him to visit her parents, so he went with her and she presented him to her father and mother as her husband. But he was very frightened at what he saw; for the seats in the house were great coiled up snakes and on one side a number of tigers and leopards were crouching. Directly he could get a word alone with his wife he begged her to come away but she insisted on his staying to dinner; so they had a meal of dried rice and curds and _gur_ and afterwards he smoked a pipe with his _bonga_ father-in-law and then he set off home with his _bonga_ wife. They were given a quantity of dried rice and cakes to take with them when they left. After seeing him home his wife left him; so he thought that he would share the provisions which he had brought with a friend of his; he fetched his friend but when they came to open the bundle in which the rice and cakes had been tied, they found nothing but _meral_ leaves and cow dung cakes such as are used for fuel. This friend saw that the food must have been given by _bongas_ and it was through the friend that the story became known. In spite of this the young man never gave up his _bonga_ wife until his family married him properly. She used to visit his house secretly, but would never eat food there; and during his connection with her all his affairs prospered, his flocks and herds increased and he became rich, but after he married he saw the _bonga_ girl no more. The adventures of the other young man of the same village were much the same. He made the acquaintance of a _bonga_ girl thinking that she was some girl of the village, but she really inhabited a spring, on the margin of which grew many _ahar_ flowers. One day she asked him to pick her some of the _ahar_ flowers and while he was doing so she cast some sort of spell upon him and spirited him away into the pool. Under the water he found dry land and many habitations; they went on till they came to the _bonga_ girl's house and there he too saw the snake seats and tigers and leopards. He was hospitably entertained and stayed there about six months; one of his wife's brothers was assigned to him as his particular companion and they used to go out hunting together. They used tigers for hunting-dogs and their prey was men and women, whom the tigers killed, while the _bonga_ took their flesh home and cooked it. One day when they were hunting the _bonga_ pointed out to the young man a wood cutter in the jungle and told him to set the tiger on to "yonder peacock"; but he could not bring himself to commit murder; so he first shouted to attract the wood cutter's attention and then let the tiger loose; the wood cutter saw the animal coming and killed it with his axe as it sprang upon him. His _bonga_ father-in-law was so angry with him for having caused the death of the tiger, that he made his daughter take her husband back to the upper world again. In spite of all he had seen the young man did not give up his _bonga_ wife and every two or three months she used to spirit him away under the water: and now that man is a _jan guru_. CXLIX. The Bonga Headman. Sarjomghutu is a village about four miles from Barhait Bazar on the banks of the Badi river. On the river bank grows a large banyan tree. This village has no headman or _paranic_; any headman who is appointed invariably dies; so they have made a _bonga_ who lives in the banyan tree their headman. When any matter has to be decided, the villagers all meet at the banyan tree, where they have made their _manjhi than_; they take out a stool to the tree and invite the invisible headman to sit on it. Then they discuss the matter and themselves speak the answers which the headman is supposed to give. This goes on to the present day and there is no doubt that these same villagers sometimes offer human sacrifices, but they will never admit it, for it would bring them bad luck to speak about it. The villagers get on very well with the _bonga_. If any of them has a wedding or a number of visitors at his house, and has not enough plates and dishes, he goes to the banyan tree and asks the headman to lend him some. Then he goes back to his house, and returning in a little while finds the plates and dishes waiting for him under the tree; and when he has finished with them he cleans them well and takes them back to the tree. CL. Lakhan and the Bongas. Once a young man named Lakhan was on a hunting party and he pursued a deer by himself and it led him a long chase until he was far from his companions; and when he was close behind it they came to a pool all overgrown with weeds and the deer jumped into the pool and Lakhan after it; and under the weeds he found himself on a dry high road and he followed the deer along this until it entered a house and he also entered. The people of the house asked him to sit down but the stool which was offered him was a coiled up snake, so he would not go near it; and he saw that they were _bongas_ and was too frightened to speak. And in the cattle pen attached to the house he saw a great herd of deer. Then a boy came running in and asked the mistress of the house who Lakhan was; she said that he had brought their kid home for them. Lakhan wanted to run away but he could not remember the road by which he had come. Two daughters of the house were there and they wanted their father to keep Lakhan as a son-in-law; but their father told them to catch him a kid and let him go; so they brought him a fawn and the two girls led him back and took him through the pool to the upper world: but on the way they put some enchantment on him, for two or three weeks later he went mad and in his madness he ran about from one place to another and one day he ran into the pool and was seen no more, and no one knows where he went or whether the two bonga maidens took him away. CLI. The House Bonga. Once upon a time there was a house _bonga_ who lived in the house of the headman of a certain village; and it was a shocking thief; it used to steal every kind of grain and food, cooked and uncooked; out of the houses of the villagers. The villagers knew what was going on but could never catch it. One evening however the _bonga_ was coming along with a pot of boiled rice which it had stolen, when one of the villagers suddenly came upon it face to face; the _bonga_ slunk into the hedge but the villager saw it clearly and flung his stick at it, whereupon the _bonga_ got frightened and dropped the pot of rice on the ground so that it was smashed to pieces and fled. The villager pursued the _bonga_ till he saw it enter the headman's house. Then he went home, intending the next morning to show the neighbours the spilt rice lying on the path; but when the morning came he found that the rice had been removed, so he kept quiet. At midday he heard the headman's servants complaining that the rice which had been given them for breakfast was so dirty and muddy that some of them had not been able to eat it at all; then he asked how they were usually fed "Capitally," they answered "we get most varied meals, often with turmeric and pulse or vegetables added to the rice; but that is only for the morning meal; for supper we get only plain rice." "Now, I can tell you the reason of that" said the villager, "there is a greedy _bonga_ in your house who goes stealing food at night and puts some of what he gets into your pots for your morning meal." "That's a fine story" said the servants: "No, it's true" said the villager, and told them how the evening before he had made the _bonga_ drop the rice and how afterwards it had been scraped up off the ground; and when they heard this they believed him because they had found the mud in their food. Some time afterwards the same man saw the _bonga_ again at night making off with some heads of Indian corn; so he woke up a friend and they both took sticks and headed off the _bonga_, who threw down the Indian corn and ran away to the headman's house. Then they woke up the headman and told him that a thief had run into his house. So he lit a lamp and went in to look, and they could hear the _bonga_ running about all over the house making a great clatter and trying to hide itself; but they could not see it. Then they took the headman to see the Indian corn which the _bonga_ had dropped in its flight. The next day the villagers met and fined the headman for having the _bonga_ in his house; and from that time the _bonga_ did not steal in that village, and whenever the two men who had chased it visited the headman's house the _bonga_ was heard making a great clatter as it rushed about trying to hide. CLII. The Sarsagun Maiden. There was once a Sarsagun girl who was going to be married; and a large party of her girl friends went to the jungle to pick leaves for the wedding. The Sarsagun girl persisted in going with them as usual though they begged her not to do so. As they picked the leaves they sang songs and choruses; so they worked and sang till they came to a tree covered with beautiful flowers; they all longed to adorn their hair with the flowers but the difficulty was that they had no comb or looking glass; at last one girl said that a _bonga Kora_ lived close by who could supply them; thereupon there was a great dispute as to who should go to the _bonga Kora_ and ask for a mirror and comb; each wanted the other to go; and in the end they made the Sarsagun girl go. She went to the _bonga Kora_ and called "Bonga Kora give a me mirror and comb that we may adorn our hair with _Mirjin_ flowers." The Bonga Kora pointed them out to her lying on a shelf and she took them away. Then they had a gay time adorning their hair; but when they had finished not one of the girls would consent to take back the mirror and comb. The Sarsagun maiden urged that as she had brought them it was only fair that someone else should take them back; but they would not listen, so in the end she had to take them. The Bonga Kora pointed to a shelf for her to place them on but when she went to do so and was well inside his house he closed the door and shut her in. Her companions waited for her return till they were tired and then went home and told her mother what had happened. Then her father and brother went in search of her and coming to the Bonga Kora's home they sang: "Daughter, you combed yourself with a one row comb Daughter, you put _mirjin_ flowers in your hair Daughter, come hither to us." But she only answered from within-- "He has shut me in with a stone, father He has closed the door upon me, father Do you and my mother go home again." Then her eldest brother came and sang the same song and received the same answer; her mothers's brother and father's sister then came and sang, also in vain; so they all went home. Just then the intended bridegroom with his party arrived at the village and were welcomed with refreshments and invited to camp under a tree; but while the bridegroom's party were taking their ease, the bride's relations were in a great to-do because the bride was missing; and when the matchmaker came and asked them to get the marriage ceremony over at once that the bridegroom might return, they had to take him into the house and tell him what had happened. The matchmaker went and told the bridegroom, who at once called his men to him and mounted his horse and rode off in a rage. Now it happened that the drummers attached to the procession had stopped just in front of the home of the _Bonga Kora_ and were drumming away there; so when the bridegroom rode up to them his horse passed over the door of the Bonga Kora's home and stamped on it so hard that it flew open; standing just inside was the Sarsagun girl; at once the bridegroom pulled her out, placed her on his horse and rode off with her to his home. CLIII. The Schoolboy and the Bonga. There was once a boy who went every day to school and on his way home he used always to bathe in a certain tank. Every day he left his books and slate on the bank while he bathed and no one ever touched them. But one day while he was in the water a _bonga_ maiden came out of the tank and took his books and slate with her under the water. When the boy had finished bathing he searched for them a long time in vain and then went home crying. When the midday meal was served he refused to eat anything unless his books were found: his father and mother promised to find them for him and so he ate a very little. When the meal was finished his father and mother went to the bonga maiden and besought her--singing "Give daughter-in-law, give Give our boy his pen, give up his pen." The _bonga_ maiden sang in answer "Let the owner of the pen Come himself and fetch it." Then the boy's eldest brother and his wife went and sang "Give, sister-in-law, give, Give our brother his pen: give up his pen." The _bonga_ maiden sing in answer "Let the owner of the pen Come himself and fetch it" Then the boy's maternal uncle and his wife went and sang the same song and received the same answer. So they told the boy that he must go himself. When he reached the tank the _bonga_ girl came up and held out his books to him; but when he went to take them she drew back and so she enticed him into the tank; but when once he was under the water he found he was in quite a dry and sandy place. There he stayed and was married to the _bonga_ girl. After he had lived with her a long time he became homesick and longed to see his father and mother. So he told his _bonga_ wife that he must go and visit them. "Then do not take your school books with you," said she; "perhaps you won't come back." "No, I will surely return," he answered; so she agreed to his going and said that she would sit on the door step and watch for his return; and he must promise to be very quick. She tied up some cakes and dried rice for him and also gave him back his school books. She watched him go to his home and sat and watched for his return but he never came back. Evening came and night came but he did not return: then the _bonga_ girl rose and went after him. She went through the garden and up to her husband's house in a flame of fire: and there she changed herself into a Karinangin snake and entering the house climbed on to the bed where the boy lay sleeping and climbed on to his breast and bit him. "Rise mother, rise mother, The Karinangin snake Is biting me." he called-- But no one heard him though he kept on calling: so he died and the _bonga_ girl went away with his spirit. CLIV. The Bonga's Cave. There was once a young _bonga_ who dwelt in a cave in the side of a hill in the jungle; and every day he placed on a flat stone outside, a pot of oil and a comb and a looking glass and some lamp black or vermilion; any woman who went to the jungle could see these things lying there; but they were never visible to a man. After a time the girls who went to the jungle began to use the comb and looking glass and to dress and oil their hair there; it became a regular custom for them to go first to the flat stone before collecting their firewood or leaves. One day five girls went together to the jungle and after they had combed and dressed their hair it happened that one got left behind; and seeing her alone the _bonga_ came out of the cave and creeping up quietly from behind threw his arms round her; and although she shouted to her friends for help he dragged her inside the cave. Her companions were just in time to see her disappear; and they begged and prayed the _bonga_ to let the girl go for once; but the _bonga_ answered from within that he would never let her go but was going to keep her as his wife; and he drew a stone door over the mouth of the cave. News of the misfortune was sent to the girl's parents and they came hastening to the place; and her mother began to sing: "My daughter, you rubbed your hair with oil from a pot: My daughter, you combed your hair with a comb with one row of teeth; Come hither to me, my daughter." And the girl sang from within the cave: "Mother, he has shut me in with a stone With a stone door he has shut me in, mother Mother, you must go back home." Then her father sang the same song and got the same answer; so they all went home. Then the girl's father's younger brother and his wife came and sang the song and received the same answer and then her mother's brother and father's sister came and then all her relations, but all in vain. Last of all came her brother riding on a horse and when he heard his sister's answer he turned his horse round and made it prance and kick until it kicked open the stone door of the cave; but this was of no avail for inside were inner doors which he could not open; so he also had to go home and leave his sister with the _bonga_. The girl was not unhappy as the wife of the _bonga_ and after a time she proposed to him they should go and pay a visit to her parents. So the next day they took some cakes and dried rice and set off; they were welcomed right warmly and pressed to stay the night. In the course of the afternoon the girl's mother chanced to look at the provisions which they had brought with them; and was surprised to see that in place of cakes was dried cowdung and instead of rice, leaves of the _meral_ tree. The mother called her daughter in to look but the girl could give no explanation; all she knew was that she had put up cakes and dried rice at starting. Her father told them all to keep quiet about the matter lest there should be any unpleasantness and the _bonga_ decline to come and visit them again. Now the girl's brother had become great friends with his _bonga_ brother-in-law and it was only natural that when the _bonga_ and his wife set off home the next morning he should offer to accompany them part of the way. Off they started, the girl in front, then the _bonga_ and then her brother; now the brother had hidden an axe under his cloth and as they were passing through some jungle he suddenly attacked the _bonga_ from behind and cut off his head. Then he called to his sister that he had killed the _bonga_ and bade her come back with him; so the two turned back and as they looked round this saw that the _bonga's_ head was coming rolling after them. At this they started to run and ran as hard as they could until they got to the house and all the way the head came rolling after until it rolled right into the house. There was a fire burning on the hearth and they plucked up courage to take the head and throw it into the fire where it was burnt to ashes. That was the end of the _bonga_ but eight or nine days later the girl's head began to ache and in spite of all medicines they applied it got worse and worse until in a short time she died. Then they knew that the _bonga_ had taken her away and had not given her up. CLV. The Bonga's Victim. Once upon a time there were seven brothers and they had one sister. Every day they used to go out hunting leaving their wives and sister at home. One very hot day they had been hunting since dawn and began to feel very thirsty; so they searched for water but could find none. Then one of them climbed a tree and from its summit saw a beautiful pool of water close by: so he came down and they all went in the direction in which he had seen the water; but they could not find it anywhere; so another of the brothers climbed a tree and he called out that he could see the pool close by, but when he came down and led them in what he thought was the right direction he was equally unable to find the water; and so it went on; whenever they climbed a tree they could see the water close by, but when on the ground they could not find it; and all the time they were suffering tortures from thirst. Then they saw that some _bonga_ was deluding them and that they must offer some sacrifice to appease him. At first they proposed to devote one of their wives to the _bonga_; but not one of the brothers was willing that his wife should be the victim; and they had no children to offer so at last they decided to dedicate their only sister as the sacrifice. Then they prayed "Ye who are keeping the water from us, listen; we dedicate to you our only sister; show us where the water is." No sooner had they said this than they saw a pool of water close beside them and hastened to it and quenched their thirst. Then they rested and began to discuss how they should sacrifice their sister; and at last they decided that as they had devoted her to the _bonga_ because they wanted water, it would be best to cast her into the water; and they planned to go and work one day near a pond of theirs and make their sister bring their breakfast out to them and then drown her. So they went home and two or three days later the eldest brother said that the time had come for the sacrifice; but the two youngest loved their sister very much and begged for a little delay. Out of pity the others agreed; but almost at once one of the brothers fell ill and was like to die. Medicines were tried but had no effect; then they called in an _ojha_ and he told them that the _bonga_ to whom they had made the vow while out hunting had caused the illness and that if they did not fulfil the vow their brother would die. Then they all went to the sick man's bedside and poured out water on the ground and swore that they would fulfil their vow; no sooner had they done so than the sick man was restored to health. So the very next day they arranged to go and level the field near their pond and they told their wives to send their sister to them with their breakfast. When the time came the girl took out their breakfast and put it down by them and they sent her to draw water for them from the pond but when she put her water pot down to the surface it would not sink so as to let the water run in. The girl called out to her brothers that the pot would not fill; they told her to go a little further into the water; so she went in till the water was up to her thighs but still the pot would not fill: then they called to her to go in further and she went in waist deep but still it would not fill; then she went in up to her neck and still it would not fill; then she went in a little further and the water closed over her and she was drowned. At this sight the brothers threw away the food which she had brought and hastened home. Some days later the body rose and floated to the bank and at the place where it lay a bamboo sprang up and grew and flourished. One day a Dome went to cut it down to make a flute of; as he raised his axe the voice of the girl spoke from within the bamboo "O Dome, do not cut high up; cut low down." The Dome looked about but could not see who it was who spoke; however he obeyed the voice and cut the bamboo close to the ground and made a flute of it. The sound of the flute was surpassingly sweet and the Dome used to play on it every day. One day he was playing on it at a friend's house and a Santal heard it and was so taken by its sweet tone that he came at night and stole it. Having got possession of it he used to play on it constantly and always keep it by him. Every night the flute became a woman and the Santal found her in his house without knowing where she came from and used to spend the night talking to her but towards morning she used to go outside the house on some pretext and disappear. But one night as she was about to depart the Santal seized her and forced her to stay with him. Then she retained her human form but the flute was never seen afterwards; so they called the girl the Flute girl and she and the Santal were betrothed and soon afterwards married. CLVI. Baijal and the Bonga. Once upon a time there was a young man named Baijal and he was very skilful at playing on the bamboo flute. He played so sweetly that a _bonga_ girl who heard him fell deeply in love with him and one day when Baijal was alone in the jungle she took the form of a pretty girl and pretended that she had come to the jungle to gather leaves. The two met and acquaintance soon became love and the two used to meet each other every day in the jungle. One day the _bonga_ girl asked Baijal to come home with her; so they went to a pool of water and waded into it but when the water had risen to the calf of his leg Baijal suddenly found himself on a broad dry road which led to his mistress's house. When they reached it the bonga girl introduced Baijal to her father and brothers as her husband and told him not to be afraid of anything he saw; but he could not help feeling frightened, for the stools on which they sat were coiled-up snakes and the house dogs were tigers and leopards. After he had been there three of four day his brothers-in-law one morning asked him to come out hunting pea fowl. He readily agreed and they all set out together. The Bongas asked Baijal to lead the dog but as the dog was a tiger he begged to be excused until they reached the jungle. So they hunted through the hills and valleys until they came to a clearing in which there was a man chopping up a tree. Then the _bongas_ called to Baijal "There is a peacock feeding; take the dog; throw a stick and knock the bird over and then loose the dog at it." Baijal pretended not to understand and said that he could see no peacock; then they told him plainly that the man chopping the log was their game. Then he saw that he was meant to kill the man and not only so, but that he would have to eat the flesh afterwards. However he was afraid to refuse, so he took the tiger in the leash and went towards the clearing but instead of first throwing his stick at the man he merely let the tiger loose and cheered it on. The wood cutter heard the shout and looking round saw the tiger; grasping his axe he ran to meet it and as the animal sprang on him he smote it on the head and killed it. Then Baijal went back and told his brothers-in-law that the peacock had pecked their hound to death. They were very angry with him for not throwing his stick first but he explained that he thought that such a big dog as theirs would not need any help. Two or three days later Baijal told his _bonga_ wife to come home with him, so they set off with a bundle of provisions for the journey. When they had passed out through the pool Baijal opened the bundle to have something to eat but found that the bread had turned into cowdung fuel cakes; and the parched rice into _meral_ leaves; so he threw them all away. However he would not give up the _bonga_ girl and they used to meet daily and in the course of time two children were born to them. Whenever there was a dance in the village the _bonga_ girl used to come to it. She would leave the two children on Baijal's bed and spend the whole night dancing with the other women of the village. The time came when Baijal's parents arranged for his marriage, for they knew nothing of his _bonga_ wife; and before the marriage the _bonga_ made him promise that if he had a daughter he would name the child after her. Even when he was married he did not give up his _bonga_ wife and used to meet her as before. One night she came with her children to a dance and after dancing some time said that she was tired and would go away; Baijal urged her not to go but to come with her children and live in his house along with his other wife. She would not agree and he tried to force her and shut the door of the house; but she and her children rose to the roof in a flash of light and disappeared over the top of the house wall and passed away from the village in a flame of fire. At this Baijal was so frightened that from that time he gave her up and never went near her again. By and bye his wife bore him a daughter but they did not name the child after the _bonga_ and the consequence was that it soon pined away and died. Two or three more were born but they also all died young because he had not named them after the _bonga_. At last he did give a daughter the right name and from that time his children lived. CLVII. Ramai and the Bonga. Once a _bonga_[3] haunted the house of a certain man and became such a nuisance that the man had him exorcised and safely pegged down to the ground; and they fenced in the place where the _bonga_ lay with thorns and put a large stone on the top of him. Just at the place was a clump of "Kite's claws" bushes and one day when the berries on the bushes were ripe, a certain cowherd named Ramai went to pick them and when he came round to the stone which covered the _bonga_ he stood on it to pick the fruit and the _bonga_ called out to him to get off the stone; Ramai looked about and seeing no one said "Who is that speaking?" and the voice said "I am buried under the stone; if you will take it off me I will give you whatever boon you ask"; Ramai said that he was afraid that the _bonga_ would eat him but the _bonga_ swore to do him no harm, so he lifted up the stone and the _bonga_ came out and thanking Ramai told him to ask a boon. Ramai asked for the power to see _bongas_ and to understand the language of ants. "I will give you the power," said the _bonga_, "but you must tell no one about it, not even your wife; if you do you will lose the power and in that case you must not blame me," Then the _bonga_ blew into his ear and he heard the speech of ants; and the _bonga_ scratched the film of his eye balls with a thorn and he saw the _bongas_: and there were crowds of them living in villages like men. In December when we thresh the rice the _bongas_ carry off half of it; but Ramai could see them and would drive them away and so was able to save his rice. Once a young fellow of his own age was very ill; and his friends blew into his ears and partially brought him to his senses and he asked them to send for Ramai; so they called Ramai and he had just been milking his cows and came with the tethering rope in his hand; and when he entered the room he saw a _bonga_ sitting on the sick man's chest and twisting his neck; so he flogged it with the rope till it ran away and he pursued it until it threw itself into a pool of water; and then the sick man recovered. But Ramai soon lost his useful power; one day as he was eating his dinner he dropped some grains of rice and two ants fell to quarrelling over one grain and Ramai heard them abusing each other and was so amused that he laughed out loud. His wife asked why he laughed and he said at nothing in particular, but she insisted on knowing and he said that it was at some scandal he had heard in the village; but she would not believe him and worried him until he told her that it was at the quarrel of the ants. Then she made him tell her how he gained the power to understand what they said: but from that moment he lost the powers which the _bonga_ had conferred on him. CLVIII. The Boundary Bonga. There was once a man who owned a rich swampy rice field. Every year he used to sacrifice a pig to the boundary _bonga_ before harvest; but nevertheless the _bonga_ always reaped part of the crop. One year when the rice was ripening the man used to go and look at it every day. One evening after dusk as he was sitting quietly at the edge of the field he overheard the _bonga_ and his wife talking. The _bonga_ said that he was going to pay a visit to some friends but his wife begged him not to go because the rice was ripe and the farmer would be cutting it almost at once. However the _bonga_ would not listen to her advice and set off on his journey. The farmer saw that there was no time to be lost and the very next day he sacrificed the usual pig and reaped the whole of the crop. That evening when work was over he stayed and listened to hear whether the _bonga_ had come back, but all was quiet. The next day he threshed the paddy and instead of twenty bushels as usual he found that he had got sixty bushels of rice, That evening he again went to the field and this time he found that the _bonga_ had returned and was having a fine scolding from his wife, because he had let the farmer reap the whole crop. "Take your silly pig and your silly plate of flour from the sacrifice," screamed the _bonga's_ wife, throwing them at her spouse, "that is all you have got; this is all because you would go away when I told you not to do it; how could I reap the crop with the children to look after? If you had stayed we might have got five _bandis_ of rice from that field." CLIX. The Bonga Exorcised. A very poor man was once ploughing his field and as he ploughed the share caught fast in something. At first he thought that it was a root and tried to divide it with his axe; but as he could not cut it he looked closer and found that it was a copper chain. He followed the chain along and at either end he found a brass pot full of rupees. Delighted with his luck he wrapped the pots in his cloth and hurried home. Then he and his wife counted the money and buried it under the floor of their house. From that time the man began to prosper; his crops were always good; and his cattle increased and multiplied; he had many children and they grew up strong and healthy and were married and had children of their own. But after many years luck changed. The family was constantly ill and every year a child died. The _jan guru_ who was consulted declared that a _Kisar bonga_ was responsible for their misfortunes. He told the sons how their father had found the money in the ground and said that the _bonga_ to whom the money belonged was responsible for their misfortunes and was named Mainomati. He told them how to get rid of the _bonga_. They were to dig up the buried money and place it in bags; and load it on the back of a young heifer; and take five brass nails and four copper nails, and two rams. If the _bonga_ was willing to leave the house the heifer would walk away to another village directly the bags were placed on its back; but if the _bonga_ would not go the heifer would not move. So they did as the _Janguru_ advised and when the bags were placed on the heifer it walked away to a large peepul tree growing on the banks of a stream in another village and there it stopped. Then they sacrificed the rams and uttering vows over the nails drove them into the peepul tree and went home, turning the heifer loose. From that time their troubles ceased. But that evening a man driving his cattle home saw a young woman nailed to the peepul tree; and not knowing that she was a _bonga_ he released her and took her home and married her. CHAPTER V Part V. The legends and customary beliefs contained in this part are definitely connected with the Santals. CLX. The Beginning of Things. In the days of old, Thakur Baba had made everything very convenient for mankind and it was by our own fault that we made Thakur Baba angry so that he swore that we must spend labour in making things ready for use. This is the story that I have heard. When the Santals lived in Champa and the Kiskus were their kings, the Santals were very simple and religious and only worshipped Thakur. In those days the rice grew ready husked, and the cotton bushes bore cloth all ready woven and men did not have to pick the lice out of each others' hair; men's skulls grew loose and each man could lift off his own skull and clean it and then replace it. But all this was spoilt by the misdeeds of a serving girl of one of the Rajas. When she went into the field for purposes of nature she would at the same time pick and eat the rice that grew by her; and when she had made her hands dirty cleaning out a cow house she would wipe them on the cloth which she was wearing. Angered by these dirty habits Thakur Baba deprived men of the benefits which he had conferred upon them and the rice began to grow in a husk and the cotton plants only produced raw cotton and men's skulls became fixed so that they could not be removed. In those old days too the sky was quite close to the earth and Thakur Baba used to come and visit men in their houses. So it was a saying among our forefathers "Do, not throw your dirty leaf plates near the front or back door and do not let your brass plates and dishes remain unwashed at night; for if Thakur Baba come along and see them so, he will not come into the house but will be angry and curse us." But one day a woman after finishing her meal threw the used leaf plate out of the door, and a gust of wind carried it up to the sky; this displeased Thakur Baba and he resolved no longer to dwell in the neighbourhood of men as they were so ill-mannered as to throw their dirty leaf plates at him and so he lifted the sky to its present height above the earth. To this day men who have heard of this scold those who throw their refuse into the street and bid them heap it up in some out-of-the-way place. The misdeeds of men at length made Thakur Baba so angry that he resolved to destroy them all. Now Thakur Baba is Sing Chando or the Sun, and the Moon is his wife: and at first there were as many stars by day as there are by night and they were all the children of the Sun and Moon who had divided them between them. So Sing Chando having resolved to destroy mankind blazed with a fierce heat till man and beast writhed under the torture of it. But when the Moon looked down and saw their sufferings she was filled with pity and thought how desolate the earth would be without a living being on it. So she hastened to Sing Chando and prayed him not to desolate the earth; but for all her beseeching the utmost that she could obtain was a promise from her Lord that he would spare one or two human beings to be the seed of a future race. So Sing Chando chose out a young man and a young woman and bade them go into a cave in a hill side and close the mouth of the cave with a raw hide and when they were safely inside he rained fire from heaven and killed every other living being on the earth. Five days and five nights it rained fire and the man and woman in the cave sang--(to the Baha tune) "Five days and five nights the fire will rain, ho! Five days and five nights, all night long, ho! Where will you two human beings stay? Where will you two take shelter? There is a hide, a hide: There is also a hill: There is also a cave in the rock! There will we two stay: There will we two take shelter." When they came out of the cave the first thing they saw was a cow lying burnt to death with a _karke_ tree fallen on the top of it and near it was lying a buffalo cow burnt to death; at the sight they sang:-- "The cow is glowing cinders, glowing cinders: The _karke_ tree is burnt: The buffalo cow has fallen and has been burnt to ashes, to ashes." And as they went on, they sang a similar lament over the remains of each living being as they saw it. Although these two had been spared to raise up a new race, Ninda Chando, the Moon, feared that the Sun would again get angry with the new race and destroy it; and so she made a plan to trick him. She covered up all her children with a large basket and smeared her mouth and lips with red and going to Sing Chando told him that she had eaten up every one of her children and proposed that he should now eat up his. At first Sing Chando declined to believe her but she pointed to her lips and said that they were red with the blood of the children; so Sing Chando was convinced and agreed to eat up his children except two whom he would keep to play with. So they devoured all but two and the two that were saved are the morning and evening stars. Thus Sing Chando was deprived of the power to again burn up the earth; but when that night Ninda Chando let out her own children from under the basket she warned them to beware of the wrath of their father when he found out the trick that had been played him. When Sing Chando saw Ninda Chando's children still alive he flew to her in a passion and the children at the sight of him scattered in all directions and that is why the stars are now spread all over the sky; at first they were all in one place. Although the stars escaped, Sing Chando could not restrain his wrath and cut Ninda Chando in two and that is why the Moon waxes and wanes; at first she was always full like the sun. Some men say that the man and woman whom Thakur hid in the cave were Pilchu Haram and Pilchu Budhi and they had twelve sons and twelve daughters and mankind is descended from them and has increased and filled the earth; and that it was in that country that we were divided into twelve different races according to the food which our progenitors chose at a feast. CLXI. Chando and His Wife. Once upon a time Chando went to the hills to fashion a plough out of a log of wood; and his wife was left at home alone, Chando was so long in coming back that his wife grew impatient; so she made some mosquitos and sent them to worry him and drive him home. But Chando made some dragon-flies and they ate up the mosquitos and he went on with his work. His wife made various other animals and sent them out, but Chando destroyed them all. At last she made a tiger and sent it to frighten him home; but Chando took up a handful of chips from the log he was cutting and threw them at the tiger and they turned into wild dogs and chased the tiger away. Ever since that no tiger will face wild dogs. Then Chando's wife shut up a locust in an iron pot and when Chando at last came home she asked him "Why have you been so long? Who is to give food and drink to all the living creatures if you don't attend to business." Chando answered that he had fed them all. "No you have not, you have not fed the locust!" "But I have" said Chando. Then she took the lid off the iron pot and showed him the locust eating grass inside; and Chando had nothing to say. CLXII. The Sikhar Raja. Santals say that the Sikhar Raja was a _bonga_ and this is the story they tell about him. A certain woman was with child but could not say by whom she was pregnant so she fled into the jungle and at the foot of a clump of bamboos gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl; and then went home leaving the children lying in the jungle. The children lay there crying very pitifully. Now a herd of wild bison was grazing in the jungle and they heard the crying and one of the cows went to see what was the matter and took pity on the children and suckled them. Every day she came three times and fed them; and under her care the children grew up strong and healthy. If any man came to hunt in the jungle the bison-cow used to attack him and drive him away; she used to bring the bows and arrows which the hunters threw away in their flight to the boy that he might learn how to shoot. And when any basket makers passed by the jungle on their way to market to sell their wares she used to charge out at them and then bring to the girl the winnowing fans and baskets they threw down in their fright, so that she might learn to sift rice. Thus the children prospered; and the boy was named Harichand and he and his sister looked like gods. When they grew up they married each other and then the bison-cow left them. Then Thakur sent from heaven sixteen hundred _gopinis_ and the _gopinis_ said that Harichand and his wife should be king and queen in that land of Sikhar. Then they took counsel together as to where the royal fort should be. Three scribes sat down to study the books with Harichand and his wife in their midst; on the right sat the scribe Hikim, and on the left the scribe Bhuja and the scribe Jaganath opened the book to see where the fort should be; and all the gopinis sat round in a circle and sang while the book was read. "Raja Harichand of the Sikhar stock, of Jhalamala, Where is his abode! Raja Harichand of the Sikhar stock, of Jhalamala, In the bamboo clump is his abode!" "Raja Harichand of the Sikhar stock of Jhalamala In the banyan-tree field in his abode! Raja Harichand, of the Sikhar stock, of Jhalamala, In the brinjal corner is his abode." And they found in the book that the fort should be in Pachet hill; then they sang in triumph:-- "It will not do, O Raja, to build a fort here: We will leave Paras and build a fort on Pachet hill: There in the happy Brinda forest." Then they brought the Raja and Rani from the jungle to Pachet and on the top of the Pachet hill a stone fort sprang up for them; and all the country of Sikhar acknowledged their sway. After that the Santals made their way from Champa and dwelt in Sikhar and cleared all the jungle in it and abode there many years. They called the Sikhar Raja a _bonga_ because no one knew his father or mother. Under Raja Harichand the Santals were very contented and happy, and when he celebrated the Chatar festival they used to sing this song, because they were so contented:-- "Harichand Raja was born of a bison-cow, Sirguja Rana was born of a snake." CLXIII. The Origin of Tobacco. This is the way that the chewing tobacco began. There was once a Brahmin girl whose relations did not give her in marriage and she died unmarried. After the body had been burned and the people had gone home, Chandu thought "Alas, I sent this woman into the world and she found favour with no one; well, I will confer a gift on her which will make men ask for her every day," So he sowed tobacco at the burning place and it grew up and flourished. And there was a boy of the cowherd caste who used to graze his cattle about that place; he saw his goats greedily eating the tobacco leaf and he wondered what the leaf was and tasted a bit but finding it bitter he spat it out. Some time after however he had tooth-ache and having tried many remedies in vain he bethought himself of the bitter tobacco and he chewed some of that and kept it in his mouth and found that it cured the tooth-ache; from that time he formed the habit of chewing it. One day he saw some burnt bones or lime and he picked up the powder and rubbed it between his fingers to see what it was and after doing so he ate some tobacco and found that the taste was improved, so from that time he always chewed lime with the tobacco. He recommended the leaf to other men who had tooth-ache and they formed the habit of chewing it too and called it tobacco; and then men who had no tooth-ache took to it; and acquired a craving for it. This is the way tobacco chewing began, as our forefathers say. CLXIV. The Transmigration of Souls. All the cats of Hindus have believed and believe, and the Santals also have said and say, that Thakur made the land and sky and sea and man and animals and insects and fish and the creation was complete and final: he made their kinds and castes once for all and did not alter them afterwards; and he fixed the time of growth and of dwelling in the body; and for the flowers to seed and he made at that time as many souls as was necessary and the same souls go on being incarnated sometimes in a human body and sometimes in the body of an animal; and so it is that many human beings really have the souls of animals; if a man has a man's soul he is of a gentle disposition; but if he gets the soul of a dog or cat then he is bad tempered and ready to quarrel with everyone; and the man with a frog's soul is silent and sulky and those who get tiger's souls when they start a quarrel never give up till they gain their point. There is a story which proves all this. There was once a Brahman who had two wives and as he knew something of herbs and simples he used to leave his wives at home and go about the country as a quack doctor; but whenever he came home his two wives used to scold him and find fault with him for no reason at all till they made his life a burden. So he resolved to leave two such shrews and one day when they had been scolding as usual he put on the garb of a _jogi_ and in spite of their protests went out into the world. After journeying two or three days he came to a town in which a pestilence was raging and he sat down to rest under a tree on the outskirts. There he noticed that many corpses had been thrown out and he saw two vultures fly down to feed on the bodies; and the he-vulture said to his mate "Which corpse shall we eat first?" Now the Brahman somehow understood the language of the birds--but the mate returned no answer though the he-vulture kept on repeating the question; at last she said "Don't you see there is a man sitting at the foot of the tree?" Then they both approached the Brahman and asked why he was sitting in such a place and whether he was in distress; he told them that trouble had driven him from his home and that he was wandering about the world as chance led him, because the continual quarrelling of his two wives was more than he could bear. The vultures said "We will give you a means by which you may see your wives as they really are" and one of them pulled out a wing feather and told him when he went to any house begging to stick it behind his ear and then he would see what the people were really like; and they advised him to marry a woman who gave him alms with her hands. Then he got up and went away with the feather, leaving the birds to prey on the corpses. When the Brahman came to a village to beg he saw by the aid of the feather, that some of the people were really cats and some were dogs and other animals and when they gave him alms they brought it in their teeth; then he made up his mind to go home and see what his wives really were; and he found that one was a bitch and one was a sow; and when they brought him water they carried the cup in their months; at this sight he left the house again in disgust, determined to marry any woman who offered him alms with her hands. He wandered for days till at last the daughter of a Chamar, when he begged, brought him alms in her hands; and he at once determined to stay there and marry her at all costs; so he sat down and when the Chamar asked why he did not go away he said that he meant to marry the girl who had given him alms and live in his house as his son-in-law; the Chamar did all he could to remonstrate at such an extraordinary proposal as that a Brahman should destroy his caste by marrying a Chamar; the Brahman said that they might do what they liked to him but that he would not leave till he obtained his bride. So at last the Chamar called in his castefellows and relations to advise him whether he would be guilty of any sin in yielding to the proposal of the Brahman; and they called into council the principal villagers of all the other castes and after fully questioning the Chamar and the Brahman the judgment of the villagers was that the marriage should take place and they would take the responsibility. Then the Brahman was made to give a full account of himself and where he had come from, and when this was found to be true, the bride price was fixed and paid and the marriage took place and the Brahman became a Chamar. CLXV. The Next World. This is what the Santals say about the next world. After death men have a very hard time of it in the next world. _Chando bonga_ makes them work terribly hard; the woman have to pound the fruit of the castor oil plant with a pestle; and from the seeds Chando bonga makes human beings. All day long they have to work; those women who have babies get a little respite on the excuse of suckling their babies; but those who have no children get no rest at all; and the men are allowed to break off to chew tobacco but those who have not learnt to chew have to work without stopping from morning to night. And this is the reason why Santals learn to chew tobacco when they are alive; for it is of no use to merely smoke a _huka_: in the next world we shall not be allowed to knock off work in order to smoke. In the next world also it is very difficult to get water to drink. There are frogs who stand on guard and drive away any who comes to the water to drink; and so when Satals die we send drinking vessels with them so that they may be able to run quickly to the water and fill the vessels and get away before they are stopped. And it is said that if a man during his lifetime has planted a peepul tree he gets abused for it in the next world and is told to go and pick the leaves out of the water which have fallen into it and are spoiling it and such a man is able to get water to drink while he is picking the leaves out of it; but whether this is all true I cannot say. CLXVI. After Death. When grown-up people die they become ancestral _bongas_ and sacrifices are offered to them at the Flower and Sohrai festivals; and when children die they become _bhuts_. When a pregnant woman dies, they drive long thorns into the soles of the feet before the body is burned for such women become _churins_. The reason of this is that when the _churin_ pursues any one the thorns may hurt her and prevent her from running fast: and so the man who is pursued may escape; for if the _churin_ catches him she will lick all the flesh off his bones; they especially attack the belly and their tongues are very rough. There was once a man who had been to get his ploughshare sharpened by the blacksmith and as he was on his way home it came on to rain, so he took shelter in a hollow tree. While he was waiting for the weather to clear he saw a _churin_ coming along singing and she also came to take shelter in the same tree. Fortunately she pushed in backwards and the man took the ploughshare which was still nearly red hot and pressed it against her back; so she ran away screaming and he made good his escape in the other direction; otherwise he would assuredly have been licked to death. CLXVII. Hares and Men. In former days hares used to eat men and a man presented himself before Thakur and said "O Father, these hares do us much damage; they are little animals and hide under leaves and then spring out and eat us; big animals we can see coming and can save ourselves. Have pity on us and deliver us from these little animals," So Thakur summoned the chief of the hares and fixed a day for hearing the case; and when the man and the hare appeared he asked the hare whether they ate men and the hare denied it and asserted on the contrary that men ate hares; but the man when questioned denied that men killed hares. Then Thakur said "O hare and man, I have questioned you both and you give contradictory answers; and neither admits the charge; the matter shall be decided in this way; you, hare, shall watch a _Kita_ tree and if within a year you see a leaf fall from the tree you shall be allowed to eat men; and you, man, shall watch a _Korkot_ tree and if you see a leaf fall, then men shall be allowed to eat hares. Begin your watch to-day and this day next year bring me your leaves." So the man and the hare departed and each sat under a tree to see a leaf fall but they watched and watched in vain until on the last day of the year a _korkot_ leaf fell and the man joyfully picked it up and took it to Thakur; and the hare failing to see a leaf fall bit off a leaf with its teeth and took it to Thakur. Then Thakur examined the two leaves and said to the hare, "This leaf did not fall of itself; see, the tip of the stalk is quite different from the stalk of the leaf this man has brought; you bit it off." And the hare was silent Then Thakur rubbed the legs of the hare with a ball of cleaned cotton and passed this sentence on him, that thenceforward he should skip about like a leaf blown by the wind and that men should hunt hares wherever they found them and kill and eat them, entrails and all. And this is the reason why Santals do not clean the hares they kill, but eat them entrails and all. CLXVIII. A Legend. Once upon a time a woman was found to be with child by her own brother, so the two had to fly the country. In their flight they came to the Mustard Tank and Flower Lake, on the banks of which they prepared to cook their food. They boiled water and cooked rice in it; and then they boiled water to cook pulse to eat with the rice. But when the water was ready they found that they had forgotten to bring any pulse. While they were wondering what they could get to eat with their rice they saw a man of the fisher caste (Keot) coming along with his net on his shoulder. Then the woman sang-- "The son of a Keot is standing on the bank of the tank: The fish are jumping: the son of a Keot is catching the fish." So the Keot caught them some fish, which they ate with their rice. Then they went on and by the side of the road they saw a date palm the juice of which had been tapped; and they wished to drink the juice but they found that they had brought no drinking vessel with them. The woman looked about and saw near by a fan palm tree and she sang-- "The peepul's leaves go flicker, flicker: The banyan's leaves are thick and fleshy: Of the fan palm's leaf, brother, make a cup. And we will drink the juice of the date palm." So her brother made a drinking vessel of a palm leaf and they drank the date juice and went on their way. At nightfall they rested at the foot of a Bael tree and fell into a drunken sleep from the date juice they had drunk. As the woman lay senseless her child was born to her and no sooner was the child born than a bael fruit fell on to its head and split it into four pieces which flew apart and became four hills. From falling on the new-born child the bael fruit has ever since had a sticky juice and the tree is covered with thorns which are the hair of the child. In the morning the man and woman went on and came to a forest of _Tarop_ trees and the woman wiped her bloody hands on the _Tarop_ trees and so the _Tarop_ tree ever since exudes a red juice like blood. Next morning they went on and came to a spring and drank of its water and afterwards the woman bathed in it and the blood stained water flowed over all the country and so we see stagnant water covered with a red scum. Going on from there they reached a low lying flat and halted; almost at once they saw a thunder storm coming up from the South and West; and the woman sang-- "A storm as black as the _so_ fruit, brother, Is coming, full of danger for us: Come let us flee to the homestead of the liquor seller." But the brother answered-- "The liquor seller's house is an evil house: You only wish to go there for mischief." So they stayed where they were and the lightning came and slew them both. CLXIX. Pregnant Women. Pregnant women are not allowed to go about alone outside the village; for there are _bongas_ everywhere and some of them dislike the sight of pregnant women and kill them or cause the child to be born wry-necked. A pregnant woman may not make a mud fireplace for if she does her child will be born with a hare-lip; nor may she chop vegetables during an eclipse or the same result will follow. She may not ride in a cart, for if she does the child will be always crying and will snore in its sleep; if she eats the flesh of field rats the child's body will be covered with hair and if she eats duck or goose flesh the child will be born with its fingers and toes webbed. Nor may a pregnant woman look on a funeral, for if she does her child will always sleep with its eyes half open. CLXX. The Influence of the Moon. If a child is born on the day before the new moon the following ceremony is observed. After bathing the child they place an old broom in the mother's arms instead of the child; then the mother takes the child and throws it out on the dung heap behind the house. The midwife then takes an old broom and an old winnowing fan and sweeps up a little rubbish on to the fan and takes it and throws it on the dung hill; there she sees the child and calls out. "Here is a child on the dung heap" then she pretends to sweep the child with the broom into the winnowing fan and lifts it up and carries it into the house; and asks the people of the house whether they will rear it. They ask what wages she will give them and she promises to give them a heifer when the child is grown up. If this is not done the child will be unlucky when it grows up; if it is a boy, however often he may marry, his wife will die and so, if it is a girl, her husbands will die. Another fact is that they always shave a child's head for the first two times during the same moon; if it is shaved first during one moon and then during the following moon; it will always have a headache once a month. Similarly when they tie the knots in a string to fix the date of a wedding the wedding must take place in the lunar month in which the knots are tied or else the children born of the marriage will die. CLXXI. Illegitimate Children. If a woman has an illegitimate child and from fear or shame will not name its father the bastard is called a child of Chando. At its birth there is no assembly of the neighbours; its head is not ceremonially shaved and there is no _narta_ ceremony. The midwife does what is necessary; and the child is admitted into no division of the tribe. If it is a boy it is called Chandu or Chandrai or sometimes Birbanta and if a girl Chandro or Chandmuni or perhaps Bonela. Sometimes after the child is born the mother will under seal of secrecy tell its father's name to her mother or the midwife; and then between themselves they will call the child by a name taken from the father's family but they will never tell it to anyone else. When the child grows up he is given some nickname and if he turns out well and is popular his name is often changed again and he is recognised as a Santal. Often if a father will not acknowledge a child the mother will strangle it at birth and bury the body. Men who practise sorcery dig up the bones of such murdered infants and use them as rattles when doing their sorceries and are helped by them to deceive people. CLXXII. The Dead. Santals are very much afraid of burial grounds; for dead men become _bongas_ and _bongas_ eat men. If a man meet such a _bonga_ in a burial ground it is of little use to fight for the _bonga_ keeps on changing his shape. He may first appear as a man and then change into a leopard or a bear or a pig or a cat: very few escape when attacked by such a being. It is said that the spirits of young children become _bhuts_ and those of grown-up people _bongas_ and those of pregnant women _churins_. CLXXIII. Hunting Custom. Formerly when the men went to a hunt the mistress of the house would not bathe all the time they were away and when the hunters returned she met them at the front door and washed their feet and welcomed them home. The wife of the _dehri_ used to put a dish of water under her bed at night and if the water turned red like blood they believed that it was a sign that game had been killed. CHAPTER VI Part VI. The belief in witchcraft is very real to the present day among the Santals. All untimely deaths and illness which does not yield to treatment are attributed to the machinations of witches, and women are not unfrequently murdered in revenge for deaths which they are supposed to have caused, or to prevent the continuance of illness for which they are believed to be responsible. The Santal writer in spite of his education is a firm believer in witchcraft, and details his own experiences. He has justification for his belief, for as was the case in Mediaeval Europe, women sometimes plead guilty to having caused death by witchcraft when there appears to be no adequate motive for a confession, which must involve them in the severest penalties. Mr. Bodding is aware that Santal women do actually hold meetings at night at which mantras and songs are repeated, and at which they may believe they acquire uncanny powers; the exercise of such powers may also on occasion be assisted by the knowledge of vegetable poisons. The witch may either herself cause death by 'eating,' or eating the liver of, her victim, or may cause her familiar "bonga" to attack the unfortunate. That witches eat the liver is an old idea in India mentioned by the Mughal historians. The Jan guru is employed to detect who is the woman responsible for any particular misfortune. His usual method is to gaze on a leaf smeared with oil, in which as in a crystal he can doubtless imagine that shapes present themselves. The witch having been detected, she is liable to be beaten and maltreated until she withdraws her spells, and if this does not lead to the desired result she may be put to death. CLXXIV. Witchcraft. The higher castes do not believe in witchcraft. If a man is ill they give him medicines and if he dies in spite of the medicine they do nothing further. But all the lower castes believe in witchcraft and know that it is a reality. The Santal women learnt the craft first from Marang Burn by playing a trick on him when he meant to teach their husbands. And now they take quite little girls out by night and teach them so that the craft may not die out. We know of many cases to prove that witchcraft is a reality. Pirthi who lives in Pankha's house was once ill: and it was an aunt of his who was "eating" him. One night as he lay ill the witch came and bent over him to take out his liver: but he woke up just in time and saw her and catching her by the hair he shouted for the people in the house. They and the villagers came and took the woman into custody. When the Pargana questioned her she confessed everything and was punished. Another time a boy lay ill and senseless. A cowherd who was driving cattle home at evening ran to the back of the house where the sick boy lay, after a cow which strayed there. There he found a woman in a state of possession (rum) he told the villagers what he had seen and they caught the woman and gave her a severe beating: whereupon the sick boy recovered. But about two months afterwards the cowherd suddenly fell down dead: and when they consulted a _jan_ as to the reason he said that it was the witch who had been beaten who had done it. CLXXV. Of Dains and Ojhas. Once upon a time Marang Buru decided that he would teach men witchcraft. In those days there was a place at which men used to assemble to meet Marang Buru and hold council with him: but they only heard his voice and never saw his face. One day at the assembly when they had begun to tell Marang Buru of their troubles he fixed a day and told them to come to him on it, dressed all in their cleanest clothes and he would teach them witchcraft. So the men all went home and told their wives to wash their clothes well against the fixed day, as they were going to Thakur to learn witchcraft. The women of course all began to discuss this new plan among themselves and the more they talked of it the less they liked it; it seemed to them that if the men were to get this new strange power it would make them more inclined to despise and bully women than ever; so they made a plot to get the better of their husbands. They arranged that each woman should brew some rice beer and offer it to her husband as he was starting to meet Marang Buru and beg him to drink some lest his return should be delayed. They foresaw that the men would not be able to resist the drink; and that having started they would go on till they were dead drunk: it would then be easy for the women to dress themselves like men and go off to Marang Buru and learn witchcraft in place of their husbands. So said, so done;--the women duly made their husbands drunk and then put on _pagris_ and _dhoties_ and stuck goats' beards on their faces and went off to Marang Buru to learn witchcraft. Marang Buru did not detect the imposition and according to his promise taught them all the incantations of witchcraft. After the women had come home with their new knowledge their husbands gradually recovered their senses and bethought them of their appointment with Marang Buru. So they hurried off to the meeting place and asked him to teach them what he had promised. "Why, I taught it all to you this morning," answered Marang Buru, "what do you mean by coming to me again?" The men could not understand what he meant and protested that they had not been to him at all in the morning. "Then you must have told your wives what I was going to do!" This they could not deny: "I see," said Marang Buru "then they must have played a trick on you and learnt the _mantras_ in your place," At this the men began to lament and begged that they might be taught also: but Marang Buru said that this was impossible; he could only teach them a very little; their wives had reaped the crop and they could only have the gleanings; so saying, he taught them the art of the _ojha_ and in order that they might have the advantage of their wives in one respect and be able to overawe them he also taught them the craft of the _jan_ and with that they had to be content. This is why only women are witches. CLXXVI. Initiation into Witchcraft. When girls are initiated into witchcraft they are taken away by force and made to lead tigers about. This makes them fearless. They are then taken to all the most powerful _bongas_ in succession; and are taught to invoke them, as school boys are taught lessons, and to become possessed _(rum)_. They are also taught _mantras_ and songs and by degrees they cease to be afraid. The novice is made to come out of the house with a lamp in her hand and a broom tied round her waist; she is then conducted to the great _bongas_ one of whom approves of her and when all have agreed she is married to that _bonga_. The _bonga_ pays the usual brideprice and applies _sindur_ to her forehead. After this she can also marry a man in the usual way and he also pays the bride price. When a girl has learnt everything she is made to take her degree (_sid atang_) by taking out a man's liver and cooking it with rice in a new pot; then she and the young woman who is initiating her, eat the feast together; a woman who has once eaten such a stew is completely proficient and can never forget what she has learnt. This is the way in which girls learn witchcraft; and if any girl refuses to take the final step and will not eat men she is caused to go mad or die. Those however who have once eaten men have a craving for it. Generally it is only women who are witches; but there are men who have learnt witchcraft and there are others who without being initiated have kept company with witches. For instance in Simra village there is Chortha who was once a servant of the Parganna. He says that the Parganna's wife used to take him out with her at night. The women used to sacrifice fowls and goats and make him skin them and cut them up: he had then to roast cakes of the flesh and give them to the Parganna's wife who distributed them among the other women. Sometimes also witches take a man with them to their meetings to beat the drum: and sometimes if a man is very much in love with a girl he is allowed to go with them and is taught witchcraft. For instance there was a man who had a family of daughters and no son and so he engaged a man servant by the year to work for him. After being some years in service this man servant one night was for some reason unusually late in letting the buffaloes out to graze, and while doing so he saw all the women of the household assembled out of doors; they came up to him and told him not to be afraid and promised to do him no harm provided he told no one what he had seen. Two or three days later the young women of the house invited him to go to a witches' meeting. He went but felt rather frightened the whole time; however nothing happened to him, so he got over his fear and after that he used to go with them quite willingly and learnt all about witchcraft. At last they told him that he must _sid atang_ by "eating" a human being. He objected that he was an orphan and so there was no relation whom he could eat. This was a difficulty that seemed insurmountable; and he suggested that he should be excused the full course and taught only a little such as how to "eat" fowls. The women agreed but it was arranged that to deceive people he should go for two or three days and study with a _jan guru_ and be initiated by him. Thus it would be thought that he learnt his magic from the _guru_ but really he learnt it from the witches who taught him everything except how to "eat" human beings. He learnt how to make trees wither away and come to life again; and to make rain fall where he wished while any place he chose remained quite dry; he learnt to walk upon the surface of water without getting wet; he could exorcise hail so that none would touch his house though it fell all around. For a joke he could make stools stick fast to his friends when they sat on them; and anyone he scolded found himself unable to speak properly. All this we have seen him do; but it was no one's business to question him to find out how much he really knew. Once at the shield and sword dance they cast a spell on a youth till his clothes fell off him in shreds and he was ashamed to dance. Then this servant had the pieces of cloth brought to him; and he covered them with his own cloth and mumbled some _mantras_ and blew on it and the pieces joined together and the cloth was as good as ever. This we have seen ourselves. He lived a long time with his master who found him a wife; but because his first child died he left the place and went to live near Amrahat where he is now. Another case is Tipu of Mohulpahari. They say that an old witch Dukkia taught him to be an _ojha_. No one has dared to ask him whether he also learnt witchcraft from her but he himself admits that she taught him to be an _ojha_. Although it is true that there are witches and that they "eat" men you will never see them except when you are alone. The son-in-law of Surai of Karmatane village, named Khade, died from meeting witches; he told us all about it as he lay dying. He was coming home with some other men: they had all had a little too much to drink and so they got separated. Khade was coming along alone and had nearly reached his house when he saw a crowd of witches under a tree. He went up and asked who they were. Thereupon they turned on him and seized him and dragged him away towards Maluncha. There they did something to him and let him go. Next morning he was seized with purging and by mistake some of the witches' vengeance fell also on the other men and they were taken ill too. They however recovered, but Khade died. If you meet witches you die, but not of course if they take you with them of their own will and teach you their craft. CLXXVII. Witchcraft. Girls are taught witchcraft when they are young and are married to a _bonga_ husband. Afterwards when they marry a man they still go away and visit the _bonga_ and when they do so they send in their place a _bonga_ woman exactly like them in appearance and voice; so that the husband cannot tell that it is not his real wife. There is however a way of discovering the substitution; for if the man takes a brand from the fire and burns the woman with it, then if it is really a _bonga_ and not his wife she will fly away in a flame of fire. CLXXVIII. Witch Stories. I will now tell you something I have seen with my own eyes. In the village of Dhubia next to mine the only son of the Paranik lay ill for a whole year. One day I went out to look at my _rahar_ crop which was nearly ripe and as I stood under a mowah tree I heard a voice whispering. I stooped down to try and see through the _rahar_ who was there but the crop was so thick that I could see nothing; so I climbed up the mowah tree to look. Glancing towards Dhubia village I saw the third daughter of the Paranik come out of her house and walk towards me. When about fifty yards from me she climbed a big rock and waited. Presently an old aunt of hers came out of the village and joined her. Then the old woman went back to her house and returned with a lota of water. Meanwhile the girl had come down from the rock and sat at its foot near a thicket of _dhela_ trees. The old woman caused the girl to become possessed (_rum_) and they had some conversation which I could not hear, Then they poured out the water from the lota and went home. On my way home I met a young fellow of the village and found that he had also seen what the two women did. We went together to the place and found the mark of the water spilled on the ground and two leaves which had been used as wrappers and one of which was smeared with vermilion and _adwa_ rice had been scattered about. We decided to tell no one till we saw whether what had been done was meant to benefit or injure the sick boy. Fifteen days later the boy died: and when his parents consulted a _jan_ he named a young woman of the village as the cause of the boy's death and she was taken and punished severely by the villagers. It is plain that the boy's sister and aunt in order to save themselves caused the _jan_ to see an innocent woman. I could not bring the boy back to life so it was useless for me to say anything, especially as the guilty women were of the Paranik's own family. This I saw myself in broad daylight. Another thing that happened to me was this. I had been with the Headman to pay in the village rent. It was night when we returned and after leaving him I was going home alone. As I passed in front of a house a bright light suddenly shone from the cowshed; I looked round and saw a great crowd of women-witches standing there. I ran away by the garden at the back of the house until I reached a high road; then I stopped and looked round and saw that the witches were coming after me; and looking towards the hamlet where my house was I saw that witches were coming with a bright light from that direction also. When I found myself thus hemmed in I felt that my last hour had come but I ran on till I came to some jungle. Looking back from there I saw that the two bands had joined together and were coming after me. I did not feel safe there for I knew that there were _bongas_ in the jungle who might tell the witches where I was. So I ran on to the _tola_ where an uncle and aunt of mine lived. As I ran down the street I saw two witches at the back of one of the houses. They were sitting down; one was in a state of possession _(rum)_ and the other was opposite her holding a lamp. So I left the street and made my way through the fields till I Came to my uncle's house. I knocked and was admitted panting and breathless; my uncle and aunt went outside to see what it was that had scared me and they saw the witches with the two lights flashing and made haste to bolt the door. None of us slept for the rest of the night and in the morning I told them all that had happened. Since that night I have been very frightened of witches and do not like to go out at night. It was lucky that the witches did not recognise me; otherwise I should not have lived. Ever since I have never stayed at home for long together; I go there for two or three months at a time and then go away and work elsewhere. I am too frightened to stay in my own village. Now all the old women who taught witchcraft are dead except one: when she goes I shall not be frightened any more. I shall be able to go home when I like. I have never told any one but my uncle and aunt what I saw until now that I have written it down. So from my own experience I have no doubt about the existence of witches; I cannot say how they "eat" men, whether by magic or whether they order _"bongas"_ to cause a certain man to die on a certain day. Some people say that when a witch is first initiated she is married to a _bonga_ and if she wants to "eat" a man she orders her _bonga_ husband to kill him and if he refuses she heaps abuse on him until he does. CLXXIX. Witch Stories. Young girls are taught witchcraft against their wills and if they refuse to "eat" their father or brother they die or go mad. There was a girl in my own village and she went out gathering herbs with another girl who was a witch. As usual they sang at their work and the witch girl sang songs the tune of which the other thought so pretty that she learnt them by heart. When she had learnt them the witch girl told her that they were witch songs and explained to her their meaning. The girl was very angry at having been taught them unawares but the witch girl assured her that she would never be able to forget the songs or their interpretation; then she assigned her to a _bonga_ bridegroom and then told her to _sid atang_ and all would be well with her otherwise she would have trouble. When the girl learnt that she must _sid atang_ by "eating" her father or brother or mother she began to make excuses; she could not kill her father for he was the support of the family; nor her only brother for he was wanted too at the _Baha_ and _Sohrai_ nor her mother who had reared her in childhood. The witch girl said that if she refused she would die; and she said that she would rather die than do what was required of her. Then the witch did something and the girl began to rave and talk gibberish and from that time was quite out of her senses. _Ojhas_ tried to cure her in vain until at last one suggested that she should be taken to another village as the madness must be the work of witches living in her own village. So they took her away and the remedies then cured her. She stayed in her new home and was married there. A long time afterwards she went back to pay a visit to her father's house: but the day after she arrived her head began to ache and she fell ill and though her husband came and took her away she died the day after she reached her home. There was another girl; her friends noticed that when she came home with them in the evening after planting rice she was very careful not to fall behind or be left alone and they used to laugh at her for being a coward. But one day she was gathering Indian corn with a friend and as they talked she said "You will all have lovely dancing at the Sohrai." "You!" said her friend: "won't you be there? Are you going away?" Then the girl began to cry and sobbed out that her mother had taught her witchcraft and married her to a _bonga_; and it was for fear of the _bonga_ that she did not like to be alone in the dark; and because she had refused to "eat" anyone her mother intended to "eat" her and so she had no hope of living to see the Sohrai. Three days later the girl fell ill and died, and after her death her friend told how she had foreseen it. CLXXX. Witch Stories. In the village of Mohulpahari there was a youth named Jerba. He was servant to Bepin Teli of Tempa and often had to come home in the dark after his day's work. One night he was coming back very late and, before he saw where he was, suddenly came upon a crowd of witches standing under a hollow mowah tree at the foot of the field that the dhobie has taken. Just as he caught sight of them they seized hold of him and flung him down and did something which he could not remember--for he lost his senses when they threw him down. When he came to himself he managed to struggle free and run off. The witches pursued but failed to overtake him and he reached his home in a state of terror. The witches however had not finished with him for two or three days after they caused him to fall from a tree and break his arm. Ojhas were called in but their medicines did him no good. The arm mortified and maggots formed and in a few days Jerba himself told them that he would not recover; he told them how the witches chased him and that he had recognised them as women of his own village and shortly afterwards he became speechless and died. My own brother-in-law lived at Mubundi. One night he and several other men were sitting up on the threshing-floor watching their rice. In the middle of the night they saw lights shining and flickering in the courtyard of my brother-in-law's house and he went to see what was the matter. When he got near, the lights went into the house: he went up quietly and as he looked in found the house full of women who extinguished the light directly they saw him and rushed out of the house. Then he asked my sister what the light was; but she could only stammer out "What light? I saw no light," so he struck her a blow and went back to the threshing-floor and told the others what he had seen. That night he would not tell them the names of the women he had seen; and before morning his right arm swelled and became very painful; the swelling quickly increased and by noon he lost consciousness and a few hours later he died. CLXXXI. The Two Witches. There were once a woman and her daughter-in-law who were both witches. One night during the annual Sohrai festival the men of the village were going from house to house singing and getting rice beer to drink; and one young man named Chandrai got so drunk that when they came to the house where the two witch-women lived he rolled himself under the shelf on which rice was stored and fell asleep. Next morning he came to his senses but he did not like to come out and show himself for fear of ridicule so he made up his mind to wait till a party came round singing again and then to slip out with them unperceived. He lay waiting and presently all the men of the house went away to join in the _danka_ dance; leaving the mistress of the house and her daughter-in-law alone. Presently, the two began to talk and the elder woman said "Well what with the pigs and the goats that have been sacrificed during this Sohrai we have had plenty of meat to eat lately and yet I don't feel as if I had had any." "That is so," answered her daughter-in-law; "fowls' and pig's flesh is very unsatisfying." "Then what are we to do?" rejoined the old woman, "I don't know unless you do for the father of your grandchild." When he heard this Chandrai shivered with fright and hid himself further under the rice shelf, for he saw that the two women must be witches. That day was the day on which a bullock is tied to a post outside each house and at noon the husband of the younger witch began to dig a hole outside the house to receive the post. While he was working Chandrai heard the two women begin to talk again. "Now is your opportunity," said the younger woman, "while he is digging the hole." "But perhaps the _ojha_ will be able to discover us," objected the other. "Oh we can prevent that by making the _ojha_ see in the oiled leaf the faces of Rupi and Bindi--naming two girls of the village--and we can say that my husband had seduced them and then declined to marry them and that that was why they killed him." The old woman seemed to be satisfied, for she took up a hatchet and went out to where her son was digging the hole. She waited till he bent down to throw out the earth with his hands and then cut open his back and pulled out his liver and heart and brought them into the house. Her unfortunate son felt a spasm of pain when his mother struck him but he did not know what had hurt him and there was no visible wound. The two women then chopped up the liver and heart and cooked and ate them. That night when the village youths came round to the house, singing, Chandrai slipped out with them unperceived and hastened home. Two or three days later the bewitched man became seriously ill; medicines and sacrifices did him no good; the _ojhas_ were called in but could make nothing of the illness. The villagers were very angry with them for the failure and the headman told them that they must ascertain by means of the oiled leaf who had caused the illness, or it would be the worse for them. So the _ojhas_ went through their ceremonies and after a time declared that the oiled leaf showed the faces of the two girls Rupi and Bindi; and that it was they who were eating up the sick man. So the two girls were sent for and questioned but they solemnly swore that they knew nothing about the matter. No one believed their protestations and the headman ordered that filth should be put into their mouths and that they should be well beaten to make them confess. However before any harm was done them Chandrai sprang up and called out to the headman: "You have proof that these girls are witches, but I will not let you beat them here. Let us take them to yonder open field; the token of their oath is there and we will make them first remove it. If we beat them first they will probably refuse to remove the oath." "How do you know about their oath?" asked the headman. "Never mind, I do know." The villagers were convinced by his confident manner and all went with the two girls to the open field. Chandrai's object was to get away from the witches' house for he was afraid to speak there; but when they were out in the open he stood up and told the villagers all that he had seen and heard the two witches do; they remembered that he had been missing for a whole day during the Sohrai festival and believed him. So the sick man's wife and mother were fetched and well beaten to make them restore the sick man to health; but his liver and heart had been eaten so that the case was hopeless and in a few days he was dead. His relations in revenge soon killed the two witches. Rupi and Bindi whose lives had been saved by Chandrai went and established themselves in his house, for they declared that as they owed their lives to him it was plain that he must marry them. CLXXXII. The Sister-in-Law Who Was a Witch. There were once two brothers who lived together; the elder was married but the younger had no wife. The elder brother used to cultivate their lands and his wife used to draw water and fetch fuel and the younger brother used to take the cattle out to graze. One year when the elder brother was busy in the fields the younger one used to take his cattle to graze near where his brother was working and the wife used to bring out the breakfast for both of them. One day the younger brother thought he would play a trick on his sister-in-law by not answering when she called him to his breakfast; so when her husband had finished his meal and she called out for the younger brother to come he gave no answer; she concluded that the cattle were straying and would not let him come so she took up her basket and went to look for him; but when he saw her coming he climbed up a tree and hid himself and for all her calling gave no answer, but only sat and laughed at her although she came quite close to where he was. At last the woman got into a passion and putting down the breakfast by the side of a pool which was close to the tree up which her brother-in-law had climbed she stripped off her clothes and began bowing down and calling. "Ho, Dharmal Chandi! come forth!" When he saw this the man was amazed and waited to see whom she was calling, meaning to let her know he was there directly she turned to go away home with the breakfast. But the woman kept on calling to Dharmal Chandi and at last out of the pool appeared an immense bearded _bonga_ with long and matted hair. When the woman saw him her tongue flickered in and out like a snake's and she made a hissing noise, such as a crab makes. Then the woman began "Dharmal Chandi I have a request which you must promise to grant." And when the _bonga_ had promised she proceeded. "You must have my brother-in-law killed by a tiger the day after to-morrow; he has put me to endless trouble making me go shouting after him all through the jungle; I wanted to go back quickly because I have a lot of work at home; he has wasted my time by not answering; so the day after to-morrow you must have him killed." The _bonga_ promised to do what she asked and disappeared into the pool and the woman went home. While the younger brother was up in the tree his cattle had got into a _gundli_ field and eaten up the crop: and the owner found it out and got the brothers fined. So that evening the elder brother asked him where he had been that he had not looked after the cattle properly nor eaten any breakfast. In answer the younger brother only began to cry; at that his sister-in-law said. "Let him alone; he is crying for want of a wife; he is going silly because we have not married him;" and so nothing more was said. But the elder brother was not satisfied and the next day when they went together to work he asked the younger what was the real reason for his crying. Then the younger answered. "Brother, I am in great trouble; it makes me cry all day; if you wish ever to look on my face again, you must not work in the fields to-morrow but keep me company while I tend the cattle; if we are separated for a moment a tiger will kill me; it will be quickly over for me but you I know will miss me much and so I am grieving for you; if you have any tenderness for me do not leave me to-morrow but save me from the tiger." His brother asked the reason for this foreboding but the younger man said that he would explain nothing and accuse no one until the events of the next day had shown whether he was speaking the truth; if a tiger really came to stalk him then that would be proof that he had had good reason for his apprehension; and he begged his brother not to speak a word about it to anyone and especially not to his wife. The elder brother promised to keep the matter a secret and cheered his brother up and told him to be of good heart; they would take their bows and axes and he would like to see the tiger that would touch them. So the next morning the two brothers went off together well armed and tended the cattle in company; nothing happened and at midday they brought the cattle home; when the woman saw them with bows in their hands she asked where they had been. Her husband told her that he had been to look for a hare which he had seen on the previous day but he had not been able to find it. Then his brother said that he had seen a hare in its form that very morning but had not had time to shoot it. So they pretended to arrange to go and hunt this hare and after having eaten their rice they drove out the cattle again. As they went along they kept close together with their arrows on the string, so that the tiger which came to stalk the younger brother got no opportunity to attack; at last it showed itself at the edge of the jungle; the cattle were thrown into a turmoil and the brothers saw that it was really following them; and the elder brother was convinced that there was some reason for his brother's fears. So they turned the cattle back and cautiously drove them home, keeping a good look out all the way; the tiger prowled round them hiding in the bushes, sometimes in front and sometimes behind, but found no opening to attack while they for their part did not dare to shoot at it. The tiger followed them right up to the house; but the elder brother did not leave the other for a moment nor let him go outside the door and at night he slept on the same bed with him. The next morning he begged his brother to tell him all that had happened and explain how he knew that a tiger would seek his life on the previous day. "Come then" said the other, "to yonder open ground. I cannot tell you in the house;" so they went out together and then the younger told all that had happened and how his sister-in-law had ordered the _Bonga_ to have him killed by a tiger; "I did not tell you before till my story had been put to the proof for fear that you would not believe me and would tell your wife; but now you know all. I cannot live with you any longer; from this very day I must go and find a home elsewhere." "Not so" said the other, "I will not keep such a woman with me any longer; she is dangerous; I will go home now and put her to death," and so saying he went home and killed his wife with an axe. CLXXXIII. Ramjit Bonga. Once upon a time a man went out to snare quail: he set his snares by the side of a mountain stream and then sat down under a bush to watch them. As he waited he saw a young woman come along with her water pot under her arm to draw water from the stream. When she got to the _ghat_ she put down her pot and made her way up the stream towards where the snares had been set; she did not notice the hunter but went to the stump of an ebony tree near him and looking round and seeing no one she suddenly became possessed and started dancing round the ebony tree and singing some song which he could not clearly catch; and as she danced she called out "The Pig's fat is overflowing: brother-in-law Ramjit come here to me." When she called out like this the quail catcher quietly crept nearer still to her. Although the woman repeatedly summoned him in this way the Bonga would not come out because he was aware of the presence of the onlooker; the woman however got into a passion at his non-appearance and stripping off her clothes she danced naked round the tree calling out "The Pig's fat is overflowing: brother-in-law Ramjit come hither at once." At last out of the _nala_ appeared the bonga, dark, enormous and shaggy; and approached the woman: Then the woman said "Brother-in-law Ramjit there is something that you must do for me; my nephew is ill; he must die on such and such a day; that day I must see the smoke of his funeral pyre; but you must save me from the witch-finder; let the blame fall not on me but on so and so; this is what I came to urge on you; that you protect me from discovery and then we shall always be friends." The Bonga at first knowing that they were being watched would not make the promise but when the woman insisted he promised in a low voice and then disappeared into the _nala_; and the witch went back to the ghat, filled her water pot and went home. The quail catcher also went trembling home and he remembered the day fixed for the death of the nephew of the witch and he decided to wait and see what happened before saying anything to the villagers. Sure enough on the day before that fixed by the witch the invalid became unconscious and was obviously at the point of death. When he heard this the quail catcher went to the sick man's bedside and seeing his condition told his relatives to collect all the villagers to beat the woman whom he had seen with the Bonga and he told them all that had passed; the villagers believed him and summoning all the women of the village they scolded them; and then being excited by this they rose up and began to beat the women; to each they gave one blow with a stick, but the woman whom the quail catcher pointed out they beat till she fainted. Then they ordered her to cure the sick man and threatened to burn her along with him if he died, but she insisted that she was innocent. Then they told her that they knew all that had passed between her and the Bonga Ramjit, she persisted that it was all a mistake. So they started to beat her again; they beat her from her heels to her neck and then from her neck down to her heels till the blood flowed and they swore that they would not let her go unless she cured the sick man and that if he died they would cut her to pieces. At last the torture made her confess that it was she who was eating the sick man; and she promised to cure him; so they first made her tell the names of all the other witches in the village and then tied her to a post and kept her there, and did not untie her till in four or five days the sick man recovered. When she was let loose the quail catcher ran away from the village and would not live there any more. But the villagers threatened the witch woman that if her nephew or any of his family got ill again they would kill her; and they told her that as her secret had been found out she was henceforth to be their _ojha_ and cure their diseases; and they would supply her with whatever she wanted for the purpose; they asked what sacrifice her nephew must make on his recovery; and she told them to get a red cock, a grasshopper: a lizard; a cat and a black and white goat; so they brought her these and she sacrificed them and the villagers had a feast of rice and rice beer and went to their homes and the matter ended. CLXXXIV. The Herd Boy and the Witches. Once upon a time a cowherd lost a calf and while looking for it he was benighted in the jungle; for he was afraid to go home lest he should be scolded for losing the calf. He had with him his bow and arrows and flute and a stick but still he was afraid to stay the night in the jungle; so he made up his mind to go to the _jahirthan_ as _More Turuiko_ would protect him there; so he went to the _jahir than_ and climbed a tree in which a spirit abode; he took his bow and arrows up with him but he was too frightened to go to sleep. About supper time he saw a number of women who were witches collect from all sides at the _jahir than_: at this sight he was more frightened than ever; the witches then called up the _bongas_ and they also summoned two tigers; then they danced the _lagre_ dance and they combed the hair of the two tigers. Then they also called _More Turniko_ and when they came, one bonga said "I smell a man" and _More Turniko_ scolded him saying "Faith, you smelt nothing until we came; and directly we come you say you smell a man; it must be us you smell"; and the chief of the _bongas_ agreed that it must be all right. Then while the women were dancing the boy took his bow and shot the two tigers, and the tigers enraged by their wounds fell on the witches and killed them all; and then they died themselves; and as they were dying they roared terribly so that the people in the villages near heard them. When it grew light the boy climbed down and drawing the arrows from the bodies of the tigers went home. Then the people asked him where he had spent the night and he said that he was benighted while looking for his calf and as he heard tigers roaring near the _jahir than_ he was frightened and had stayed in the jungle. They told him that when the tigers began to roar the calf had come running home by itself and this was good news to the herd boy. Then he found that all the children in the village were crying for their mothers and the men were asking what had become of their wives; then the herdboy said that in the night he had seen some women going in the direction of the _jahir than_ but he had not seen them come back and they had better go and look there. So the villagers went off and found their wives lying dead by the _jahir than_ and the two tigers also dead; and they knew that the women must have been witches to go there at night; so they wept over them and burned the bodies. And a long time afterwards the boy told them all that he had seen and done; and they admitted that he had done right in destroying the witches and that it would be well if all witches met the same fate. This story whether true or not is told to this day. CLXXXV. The Man-Tiger. There was once a young man who when a boy had learnt witchcraft from some girl friends; he was married but his wife knew nothing about this. They lived happily together and were in the habit of paying frequent visits to the wife's parents. One day they were on their way together to pay such a visit and in passing through some jungle they saw, grazing with a herd of cattle, a very fine and fat bull calf. The man stopped and stripped himself to his waist cloth and told his wife to hold his clothes for him while he went and ate the calf that had stirred his appetite. His wife in astonishment asked him how he was going to eat a living animal; he answered that he was going to turn into a tiger and kill the animal and he impressed on her that she must on no account be frightened or run away and he handed her a piece of root and told her that she must give it him to smell when he came back and he would at once regain his human shape. So saying he retired into a thicket and took off his waist cloth and at once became a tiger; then he swallowed the waist cloth and thereby grew a fine long tail. Then he sprang upon the calf and knocked it over and began to suck its blood. At this sight his wife was overwhelmed with terror and forgetting everything in her fear ran right off to her father's house taking with her her husband's clothes and the magic root. She arrived breathless and told her parents all that had happened. Meanwhile her husband had been deprived of the means of regaining his own form and was forced to spend the day hiding in the jungle as a tiger; when night fell he made his way to the village where his father-in-law lived. But when he got there all the dogs began to bark and when the villagers saw that there was a tiger they barricaded themselves in their houses. The man-tiger went prowling round his father-in-law's house and at last his father-in-law plucked up courage and went out and threw the root which the wife had brought under the tiger's nose and he at once became a man again. Then they brought him into the house and washed his feet; and gave him hot rice-water to drink; and on drinking this he vomited up lumps of clotted blood. The next morning the father-in-law called the villagers and showed them this blood and told them all that had happened; then he turned to his son-in-law and told him to take himself off and vowed that his daughter should never go near him again. The man-tiger had no answer to make but went back silently and alone to his own home. _Note_:--The following is a prescription for making an _Ulat bag_ or were-tiger. "The fibre of a plant (Bauhinia vahli) beaten out and cooked in mustard oil in a human skull." Glossary. _Adwa_. Rice husked without having been boiled. _Arta_. Red pigment applied to the feet for ornament. _Baha Porob_. The flower festival; the spring festival held about February. _Bandi_. A receptacle for storing grain, made of straw rope. _Bharia_. A bamboo carried on the shoulder with a load slung at each end. _Bhut_. A ghost, a harmful spirit, not originally a Santal word. _Bonga_. The name for all gods, godlings and supernatural beings. Sing bonga is the sun god; the spirits of ancestors are bongas, there are bongas of the hills, streams and the forest; others are like fairies and take human form. Sacrifices are offered to bongas on all occasions. _Brinjal_. The egg plant. _But_. Grain, a kind of pulse. _Chamar_. A low caste, workers in leather. _Chando_. The sun, the supreme god of the Santals. _Champa_. A country in which according to their traditions, the Santals once lived. _Charak Puja_. The festival at which men are swung by hooks from a pole. _Chatar_. A festival at which dancing takes place round an umbrella. _Chowkidar_. A watchman. _Churin_. The spirit of a woman who has died while pregnant, her feet are turned backwards. Not originally Santal. _Chumaura_. A ceremony observed at marriage, and Sohrae festival. _Dain_. A witch. Witches are supposed to use their powers to cause sickness and death; women accused of witchcraft are often murdered. _Dehri_. The president of the annual hunt; he presides over the Court which during the hunt hears appeals against unjust decisions of paganas. _Dewan_. The chief minister of a Raja. _Dhobi_. A washerman. _Dhoti_. The waistcloth worn by men. _Dom_. A low caste, scavengers, basketmakers and drummers. _Gamcha_. A small piece of cloth worn round the neck, or when bathing. _Ghât_. The approach to a pool or river at which people bathe; the crossing place of a river. _Ghormuha_. A horse-headed monster; not a Santal name. _Goâla_. A man of the cow keeping caste. _Godet_. The village constable, the official messenger of the headman. _Goondli_. A small millet. _Gosain_. A religious ascetic, usually of the Vishnuite persuasion. _Gupinî_. A celestial milkmaid, such as those who danced with Krishna; not a Santal creation. _Gûr_. Juice of sugar cane, molasses. _Hadi_. A low caste of scavengers. _Jan_ or _Jan guru_. A witch finder. When a man is ill the Jan is consulted as to what witch is responsible. The Jan usually divines by gazing at an oiled leaf. _Jahirthan_. The group of sacred trees left in each village for the accommodation of the spirits of the forest when the jungle is cleared. _Jai tuk_. A bullock given to a woman at her marriage. _Jhalka_. A boastful man. _Jogi_ or _Jugi_. A religious ascetic, a mendicant. _Lota_. A small brass water pot. _Lakh_. One hundred thousand. _Mahadeo_. The great god, i.e. Siva. _Mahajan_. A moneylender. _Mahuli_. A tribe akin to the Santals, basket makers by profession. _Malhan_. A cultivated leguminous plant. _Manjhithan_. The little pavilion in the centre of every Santal village at which the spirits of dead headmen are worshipped and where village councils are held. _Mantra_. An incantation, sacred or magic formula. _Marang Burn_. The great spirit, the original chief god of the Santals. _Marwari_. A trader from Rajputana and the adjoining parts. _Maund_. A weight, 40 seers or 82 pounds. _Meral_. A small tree. Phyllanthus emblica. _More Turuiko_. Lit.: The five or six--certain Santal godlings. _Mowah_. A tree, Bassia latifolia, the fleshy flower is eaten and spirit is distilled from it. _Musahar_. A semi-aboriginal caste which catches and eats rats. _Nala_. A water course with steep banks. _Narta_. The namegiving ceremony observed three or five days after birth, by which the child is formally admitted into the tribe. _Ninda Chando_. The moon goddess, wife of Singchando the Sun god. _Kat_. A dry measure used for grain. _Kisar Bonga_. A spirit which takes up its abode in the house, frolicsome and mischievous. _Kisku_. One of the twelve exogamous septs of Santals, by tradition it was formerly the royal sept. _Koeri_. A cultivating caste of Hindus. _Kora_. A youth or young man, the hero of a story is often called so throughout, and I have for convenience adopted it as a proper name. _Kos_. A measure of distance, two miles. _Ojha_. An exorcist, a charm doctor, one who counteracts the effects of witchcraft. _Pachet_. A place in the Manbhum district which the Santals occupied in the course of their immigrations. _Panchayat_. A council primarily of five which meets to decide a dispute. _Pagri_. A cloth worn round the head, a turban. _Paharia_. A hill man; the Saurias or Malé of the Rajmahal hills. _Pai_. A wooden or metal measure containing half a seer. _Pan_. Betel used for chewing. _Parganna_. A Santal chief having jurisdiction over a number of villages. _Paranic_. The assistant headman of a village. _Parrab_. A festival. _Peepul_ or _pipal_. A tree, ficus religiosa. _Pilchu Haram_ and _Pilchu Budhi_. The first man and woman. _Rahar_. A cultivated crop, a kind of pulse. _Raibar_. A marriage go-between, a man employed to arrange a marriage. _Rakas_. An ogre. Sanskrit Rakhshya. _Rum_. To be possessed, to fall into a cataleptic state. _Sabai_. A kind of grass used for making rope. _Sal_. A forest tree. Shorea robusta. _Seer_. A weight, about two pounds. _Sid atang_. To take the final step, to be completely initiated. _Sing bonga_. The Sun god. _Sipahi_. An armed guard, a soldier, armed messenger. _Sohrai_. The great winter festival of the Santals. _Taluq_. A revenue division of the country. _Tarop tree_. A small tree, Buchanania latifolia. _Thakur_. The supreme Being. _Tika_. A mark on the forehead, the giving of which corresponds to coronation. _Tola_. A hamlet, a detached quarter of a village. Appendix Introduction. The Kolhan forms the western half of the district of Singhbhum in Chota Nagpur. The Hos or Larka Hos who form the bulk of the inhabitants are a branch of the Mundas of the Chota Nagpur Plateau. They are one of those Kolarian tribes of which the Santals are perhaps the best known. I have collected some of the Folklore stories current among them, the recollection of which would, however, appear to be dying out. The Rev. A. Campbell of the Free Church of Scotland, Santal Mission, has printed a volume of Santal Folk Tales collected by him in Manbhum, a neighbouring district to Singhbhum. As might be expected there is considerable resemblance between those Santal Tales and the ones now reproduced. I have heard some of Mr. Campbell's Santal stories told by Hos precisely as he relates them, and there are many incidents common to both collections. On the other hand there is no resemblance between these Kolarian tales, and the Bengal stories published by Rev. Lal Behari De. In the latter I only notice one incident which appears in the Kolhan stories, the bringing together of two lovers through a long hair floating down a stream, but in Bengal it is the lady's hair that floats to her lover, while in the Kolhan it is always the long hair of the hero which inspires love in the heart of the Raja's daughter. The stories may be divided into two groups, the animal stories in which the principal characters are animals, for the most part denizens of the jungles, and the stories which deal with a settled state of Society with Rajas, priests and members of the different Hindu castes following their usual occupations. It is interesting, but perhaps scarcely profitable, to try and deduce from the latter some hints of the previous history of the Hos, who, as we know them, are a strongly democratic race, with a well developed tribal system. They look on themselves as the owners, of the soil and are unwilling to admit the claims of any overlord. I have made no attempt to put the following stories into a literary dress; I merely bring them as a few stones to the hands of the builders who build the structure of comparative mythology. (1)--The River Snake. Once upon a time a certain woman had been on a visit to a distant village. As she was going home she reached the bank of a flooded river. She tried to wade across but soon found that the water was too deep and the current too strong. She looked about but could see no signs of a boat or any means of crossing. It began to grow dark and the woman was in great distress at the thought that she would not be able to reach her home. While she thus stood in doubt, suddenly out of the river came a great snake an said to her: "Woman, what will you give me if I ferry you across the river?" She answered: "Snake, I have nothing to give you." The snake said I cannot take you across the river unless you promise to give me something. Now the woman at the time was pregnant and not knowing what else to do, she promised that when her child was born, if it were a daughter she would marry her to the river snake and if it were a son that, when the boy grew up he should become the "_juri_" or "name friend" of the snake. The woman swore to do this with an oath and then the snake took her on his back and bore her safely across the flooded stream. The woman safely reached her home and in a little time a daughter was born to her. Years passed away and the woman forgot all about the snake and her oath. One day she went to the river to fetch water and the snake came out of the stream and said to her: "Woman, where is the wife whom you promised to me?" The woman then remembered her oath and going back to her house she returned to the river with her daughter. When the girl came to the bank of the river the snake seized her and drew her underneath the water and her mother saw her no more. The girl lived with the snake at the bottom of the river and in the course of years bore him four snake sons. Afterwards the girl remembered her home and one day she went to visit her mother. Her brothers when they came home were astonished to see her and said: "Sister, we thought that you were drowned in the river." She answered: "No, I was not drowned, but I am married and have children." The brothers said: "Where is this brother-in-law of ours?" Their sister said: "Go to the river and call him." So they went to the river and called and the snake came up out of the water and went to their house with them. Then they welcomed the snake and gave him great quantities of rice beer to drink. After drinking this the snake became sleepy and coiling himself in great coils went to sleep. Then the brothers who did not like a snake brother-in-law took their axes and cut off the head of the snake while he slept, and afterwards their sister lived in their house. (2)--The Sons of the Tigress. Once upon a time a cow and a tigress lived in a jungle and were great friends, they were never separated. Now in those days tigers did not eat flesh, but grazed like cattle, so the tigress never thought of doing any harm to her friend the cow. The tigress had given birth to two men children who were growing up fine and sturdy lads. One afternoon the cow and the tigress went down to a stream to drink, the cow went into the stream and drank and the tigress drank lower down. The cow fouled the water of the stream and the tigress tasting the water found it sweet and thought if the cow can make the water so sweet how sweet the flesh of the cow must be. So on the way back from the stream the tigress suddenly sprang on the cow and killed her and ate her up, leaving nothing but the bones. When she got home her sons asked her where the cow was, but the tigress said that she did not know and that the cow must have deserted them, but afterwards the boys found the bones of the cow and they guessed what had happened. Then they thought, if our mother has killed her friend the cow, she will surely kill and eat us next. So when the tigress was asleep they killed her with axes. Then they ran away and after going for many days through the jungle they reached a city and they found all the people in great distress because a tiger was devastating the kingdom and killing all the inhabitants and no one could kill the tiger. The Raja of the city made a a proclamation that any one who could kill the tiger should have half the kingdom and his daughter in marriage. The two boys being the sons of a tigress were able by their knowledge of tiger ways to kill the tiger. So they were given half the kingdom and the elder of them married the king's daughter and they lived happily ever after. (3)--The Tiger's Marriage. Once upon a time there lived a Raja who had one son and many daughters. One day the Raja went into the jungle to cut grass. He cut a great deal of grass and tied it up in a big bundle and then he found that he had cut so much that it was more than he could carry. As he was wondering what he should do a tiger came by that way and seeing the Raja in difficulties asked what he could do to help him. The Raja explained that he had cut a bundle of grass which was too heavy to carry. The tiger said that he would carry the grass if he were rewarded for it: the Raja asked him what reward he wanted. The tiger said that he wished for one of the Raja's daughters in marriage. The Raja reflected that he had many daughters and agreed to the proposition. Thereupon the grass was placed on the tiger's back and he carried it to the Raja's palace. Now the Raja was ashamed to give his daughter openly to the tiger so he told the tiger to wait by the water hole, and sending for one of his daughters bade her go and fetch water; the girl went to the water hole where the tiger was waiting and was carried off by the tiger. But the Raja's son missed his sister and went in search of her. After searching some time he came to a cave in the jungle and looking in he was the tiger finishing the remains of the girl whom he had killed. Then the Raja's son ran home as quickly as he could, and told the Raja what he had seen. The next day the tiger came openly to the Raja's palace and asked to see the Raja. He was taken to the Raja and treated politely. Then the tiger said to the Raja: "I am sorry to say that the wife whom you gave me has died, so you must give me another."[4] The Raja said he would think about the matter and invited the tiger to stay at the palace. So the tiger was given a good bed, and quickly went to sleep. In the night the Raja's son boiled some large vessels of water and poured the scalding water over the sleeping tiger and killed him. And in this way the tiger died. (4)--The Jackal and His Neighbours. Once upon a time a jackal killed a kid in a village and taking it to a little distance began to enjoy a good meal. But the crows who always make a noise about other people's business, gathered in a tree over his head and made a great cawing, so the villagers went to see what was the matter and beat the jackal severely and deprived him of his feast. On this account the jackal was very angry with the crows and determined to be revenged. Shortly afterwards a great storm came on with wind and heavy rain and all the birds and animals were in danger of being drowned. Then the jackal pretended to be sorry for the crows and invited them all to come and take shelter in his house. But when the jackal had got them safely into his house he killed and ate them all; all except one _nilkanth_ bird which he decided to keep for his breakfast the next day, so he tied the _nilkanth_ bird, on to his tail and went away from that part of the country. But the _nilkanth_ bird pecked and pecked at the jackal's tail until it not only pecked itself loose but hurt the tail so much that it became festered and swollen. As the jackal went along with his swollen tail he met a potter going to market with earthern pots for sale. Then the jackal put on a bullying air and said that he was a sipahi of the Raja, and one pot of those being taken to market must be given to him; at first the potter refused, but being frightened he in the end gave one to the jackal. Into this the jackal pressed the matter which had accumulated in his swollen tail and covered it over with leaves. Going on, the jackal met a boy tending goats, he told the boy that he had arranged with the boy's father to buy one of the goats in exchange for a pot of ghee, the boy believed this and took the chatty with its contents from the jackal and gave him a fine goat. The jackal went off to his home in triumph with the goat. His friends and neighbours were very jealous when they saw that he had so fine a goat and waiting till his back was turned, they killed and ate the goat, and then they filled the skin with stones and gravel so that it might seem that the whole goat was still there. The jackal found out what his neighbours had done, and he took the goat skin to a _muchi_ and got the _muchi_ to make it into a drum. Then he went to the banks of a deep river and began to play the drum. All the other jackals collected round and were lost in admiration of the tone of the drum. They wanted to know where so beautiful a drum was got, the first jackal said that there were many drums as good at the bottom of the river, and if they tied stones round their necks and jumped in they would find them. So the other jackals in their anxiety to get such drums jumped into the river and were drowned, and the jackal was revenged on all his enemies. (5)--The Jackal and the Tigers. Once upon a time a pair of tigers lived in a jungle with their two cubs, and every day the two tigers used to go out hunting deer and other animals that they might bring home food for the cubs. Near the jungle lived a jackal, and he found it very hard to get enough to live upon; however, one day he came upon the tiger's den when the father and mother tiger were out hunting, and there he saw the two tiger cubs with a large piece of venison which their parents had brought them. Then the jackal put on a swaggering air and began to abuse the tiger cubs for having so much venison, saying: "I am the sipahi of the Raja and the Raja has demanded venison and none can be found, while low people like you have a fine piece like this: give it at once or I will take it and report against you to the Raja." Then the tiger cubs were frightened and gave up the venison and the jackal went off gleefully and ate it. The next day the jackal came again and in the same way took off more meat. The jackal continued taking their meal from the tiger cubs every day till the cubs became very thin: the father tiger determined to find out why this was, so he hid himself in the bushes and watched: he saw the jackal come and take away the meat from the cubs. Then he was very angry and ran after the jackal to kill him and the jackal ran away very fast and the tiger ran after as fast as he could: at last the jackal ran into a cleft between two rocks and the tiger running after him stuck fast between the two rocks and could not come out and so was starved to death. But the jackal being smaller ran out on the other side. Then the jackal went back to the tiger's den and told the tigress that her husband had been caught by the Raja and thrown into prison for interfering with his sipahi. The tigress and her cubs were very unhappy at this news for they thought that they would starve. Then the jackal comforted them and told them not to be afraid as he would stay with them and protect them, and help them with their hunting. So the next day they all four went hunting. They arranged that the jackal should wait at a certain place, while the tigers beat the jungle and drove the game towards him. The jackal had boasted about the amount of game that he could catch and when a herd of deer broke by him he tried to seize one but they easily escaped: then the jackal was ashamed but in order not to be detected he lay down and pretended that he had been suddenly taken very ill. And when the tigers came up they were sorry for him and forgave him for catching no game. The next day it was arranged that the tigress should be in wait and the jackal and the two young tigers should beat: the tigress soon killed a fine deer. When the others came up the tigers wanted to eat it at once, but the jackal would not let them and said that they must go to a little distance while he did puja to make the food wholesome. The tigers obeyed and under pretence of doing puja the jackal ate up all the tit bits and then allowed the tigers to come and eat the rest. This happened daily and the jackal lived in comfort all his days. (6)--The Wild Buffaloes. There was once a man so poor that he had no land, no plough and no plough cattle: all that he had was a pair of fine goats. This man determined to plough with the goats, so he made a little plough and yoked the goats to it, and with it he ploughed a piece of barren upland. Having ploughed he had no seed paddy to sow; he went to try and borrow some paddy from the neighbours, but they would lend him nothing. Then he went and begged some paddy chaff, and a neighbour readily gave him some. The man took the chaff and sowed it as if it had been seed. Wonderful to relate from this chaff grew up the finest crop of paddy that ever was seen. Day by day the man went and watched with joy his paddy grow and ripen. One morning when he went to see it he was horrified to find that in the night wild buffaloes had come and eaten and destroyed the whole crop. Having now no other resource the man determined to follow the wild buffaloes into the jungle: he readily tracked them and came to a large open space where every night the wild buffaloes used to sleep. As it was very dirty he made a broom of twigs and brushed the place clean. At nightfall he heard the buffaloes coming back and he went and hid in a hollow tree. When the buffaloes saw how clean their sleeping place had been made they were very pleased and wondered who had done it. The next morning the buffaloes all went away into the jungle to graze, and the man came out of his hollow tree and again swept up the place: the buffaloes on their return saw that the place had again been swept and decided to leave one of their number to watch and see who did this. They left a buffalo who was lame to watch: when the day got hot however the lame buffalo went to sleep, and the man then came out of his tree and swept up the place and hid himself again without being discovered. So the next day the buffaloes left a blind one behind. The blind buffalo was of very acute hearing and he heard the man come out and sweep the place and return to the tree: so when the other buffaloes came back he told them of the man's hiding place. The buffaloes made him come out and arranged that they would provide for him if he would stay with them and sweep their sleeping place daily. The next day the buffaloes lay in wait for a band of merchants who were travelling through the forest and suddenly charging down upon them put the merchants to flight: they fled leaving behind them all their goods and provisions: these the buffaloes took on their horns and carried to the man, and in this way they from time to time supplied him with all he needed. As he was alone all day they gave him a pair of horns, and said that wherever he was if he blew on the horns all the buffaloes in the forest would come to his assistance. But one day when he was bathing he put the horns down on the bank of the stream and crows flew away with them and he did not care to tell the buffaloes that he had lost them. One day he went to bathe in the river and after bathing he sat and combed his hair on the bank. Now his hair was so long that it reached to his knees. One of his long hairs came out and so he took it and splitting open a _loa_ fruit he coiled the hair inside and closed the fruit up and then set it to float down the river. A long way down the stream a Raja's daughter happened to be bathing and the _loa_ fruit floated past her: she caught hold of it and when she opened it she found the long hair inside. At once she went to her father and vowed that she would marry no one except the man to whom the long hair belonged. As nothing would alter her determination the Raja sent men up the river to search for the owner of the long hair. One of them found the man at the home of the buffaloes and brought him to the Raja. He was at once married with great grandeur to the princess and promised the succession to the kingdom. So our hero began to live in great luxury. One day as he was standing in the courtyard of the palace some crows flew overhead and dropped the pair of horns that he had lost. He picked them up and boasted that if he blew on them the whole town would be at once destroyed. The bystanders laughed at him, whereupon he got angry and blew on the horns. Then there was a great noise and an enormous herd of wild buff aloes was seen rushing down to destroy the town. However before they could do any damage he ran out and assured them that he was unhurt; at this the buffaloes were pacified; then all the straw and grain in the palace was brought out and given to the buffaloes to eat: after eating all they wanted they went back into the jungle, all except one pair which stayed behind in the palace; and from this pair are descended all the tame buffaloes which we see to-day. (7)--The Grateful Cow. Once upon a time there were two brothers who were very poor and lived only by begging and gleaning. One day at harvest time they went out to glean. On their way they came to a stream with muddy banks and in the mud a cow had stuck fast and was unable to get out. The young brother proposed that they should help it out, but the elder brother objected saying that they might be accused of theft: the younger brother persisted and so they pulled the cow out of the mud. The cow followed them home and shortly afterwards produced a calf. In a few years the cow and her descendants multiplied in a marvellous manner so that the brothers became rich by selling the milk and _ghi_. They became so rich that the elder brother was able to marry; he lived at home with his wife and the younger brother lived in the jungle grazing the cattle. The elder brother's son used every day to take out his uncle's dinner to the jungle. This was not really necessary for the cow used to supply her master with all sorts of dainties to eat, so the younger brother, when his nephew brought out the rice used to give the boy some of the sweetmeats with which the cow supplied him, but he charged him not to tell his parents about this nor to take any home. But one day the boy hid some of the sweetmeats in his cloth and took them home and showed them to his mother. His mother had never seen such sweetmeats before and was convinced that her brother-in-law wished to poison her son. So she took the sweetmeats away and the next day she herself took out the dinner to her brother-in-law and after he had eaten it she said that she would comb his hair and pick out the lice from it; so he put his head on her lap and as she combed his hair in a soothing way he went off to sleep. When he was asleep the woman took out a knife and cut off his head. Then she got up and leaving the head and body lying at the place went home. But the cow had seen what occurred and with her horns she pushed the head along until it joined the neck: whereupon the man immediately came to life again and learned what had happened to him. So he drove off all the cattle to a distant part of the jungle and began to live there. Every day he milked his large herd of cows and got a great quantity of milk; he asked his friend the cow what he was to do with it and she told him to pour it into a hole in the ground at the foot of a pipal tree Every day he poured the milk into the hole and one day as he was doing so out of the hole came a large snake and thanked him for his kindness in supplying the milk and asked him what reward he would wish to receive in return. Acting on a hint from the cow the man said that he would like to have all the milk back again. Whereupon the snake vomited up all the milk which it had drunk and died on the spot. But the milk mingled with poison fell over the man and imported to his body a glorious and shining appearance, so that he seemed to be made of fire. After this the man used every day to go and bathe in a river, and each day when he bathed he threw one of his hairs into the water: and his hairs were very long. Lower down the river a princess used to bathe and one day she saw one of the hairs come floating down and vowed that she would marry no one but the owner of the hair. So the father of the princess sent a Brahman up the river to look for the man with the long hair. The Brahman was a very thin man with his ribs showing through his skin. After some days he found our hero and was amazed at his shining appearance. He told him that a princess wished to marry him: he was invited to stay some days; he did so, living on the milk from the herd of cows and in a short time became very fat. The cow told the man to take a basket and creep into the hole from which the snake had come he did so and at the bottom he found a heap of gold and silver: he filled his basket with this and came back and gave it all to the Brahman, and told him to go home and inform his master that he would come in a few days and marry his daughter. When the Raja saw the gold and silver and how fat the Brahman had got he was very pleased to think what a son-in-law he was getting. In a few days the cow said that it was time to start and as he had no other conveyance he set out riding on the cow. When they reached the boundary of the Raja's kingdom the man woke up one morning and found that a great retinue of elephants and horses and _palkis_ and _sipahis_ had appeared during the night. This was owing to the magic of the cow. So the man mounted an elephant and went in state to the Raja and married his daughter with great ceremony. After staying some days he decided to return home and started off with his wife and grand retinue. When they reached the boundary of the kingdom all the elephants and horses and _palkis_ and _sipahis_ vanished into air, and the princess found that she and her husband had nothing but an old cow to ride upon. At this she was very unhappy but she was ashamed to go back to her father, so she went on with her husband and helped to tend the cows in the jungle. One morning they woke up and found that in the night a grand palace had sprung up fitted with wealth of every kind, this was the last gift of the cow which soon afterwards died. Thus the man became a Raja and founded a kingdom and he gave a rupee to every one who would come and settle in his kingdom. Many people came and among others his brother and sister-in-law who had fallen into great poverty. When they saw their brother they were afraid and thought that they would be killed, but he forgave them and gave them clothes and land and they all lived happily ever after. (8)--The Belbati Princess. Once upon a time there were seven brothers the youngest of whom bore the name of Lita. The six elder brothers were all married but Lita refused to marry and when questioned he said that he would not marry any one but the Belbati Princess. His sisters-in-law laughed very much at the idea that he would marry a princess and worried him so much that at length he decided to set out in search of the Belbati princess. So one day he started off and after some time came to a jungle in which was sitting a holy _muni_. Lita went to him and asked if he knew where he would find the Belbati-princess. The _muni_ said that he did not know but that a day's journey farther on was another _muni_ who might be able to tell him. So Lita travelled on for a day and found another _muni_ who was in the midst of performing a three month's spell of fasting and meditation. Lita had to wait till the _muni_ returned to thoughts of this world and then made his enquiry. The _muni_ said that he did not know but that three days' journey farther on was another _muni_ who might be able to help him. So Lita went on and found the third _muni_ who was in the midst of a six months' fast. When this _muni_ came to himself and heard what Lita wanted he said that he would be very glad to help him. The Belbati princess was at the time imprisoned in the biggest _bel_ fruit growing on a _bel_ tree which was guarded by Rakshasas. If he went and plucked this fruit he would secure the princess, but if he took any but the biggest fruit he would be ruined. Lita promised to bear this in mind and then the _muni_ changed him into a _biti_ bird and told him the direction in which to fly. Lita flew off and soon came to the tree, which was covered with fruit; he was very frightened when he saw the Rakshasas there, so in a great hurry he went and bit off the first fruit that he came to; but this was not the biggest on the tree and the Rakshasas immediately fell upon him and ate him up. The _muni_, when Lita did not come back, knew that something must have happened to him so he sent a crow to see what was the matter. The crow came back and said that one _bel_ fruit had been picked but that he could not see Lita. Then the _muni_ sent the crow to bring him the droppings of the Rakshasas. The crow did so and from the droppings the _muni_ restored Lita to life. The _muni_ reproved Lita for his failure and told him that if he wished to make a second attempt he must remember his behest to pick only the biggest _bel_ fruit. Lita promised and the _muni_ turned him into a parroquet. In this form Lita again flew to the _bel_ tree and picked the biggest fruit on the tree. When the Rakshasas saw the parrot making off with the fruit they pursued him in fury; but the _muni_ turned the parrot into a fly so small that the Rakshasas could not see it, so they had to give up the chase. When they had departed Lita recovered his own form and went to the _muni_ with the _bel_ fruit and asked what more was to be done in order to find the princess. The _muni_ said that the princess was inside the fruit; that Lita was to take it to a certain well and very gently break it open against the edge of the well. Lita hurried off to the well and in his anxiety to see the princess he knocked the fruit with all his force and split it suddenly in two. The result of this was that the princess burst out of the fruit in such a blaze of light that Lita fell down dead. When the princess saw that her brightness had killed her lover she was very distressed and taking his body on her lap she wept over him. While she was doing so a girl of the Kamar caste came by and asked what was the matter. The princess said: "My lover is dead, if you will draw water from the well I will revive him by giving him to drink," but the Kamar girl at once formed a wicked plan. She said that she could not reach the water in the well. Then said the princess: "Do you hold this dead body while I draw the water." "No," said the Kamar girl, "I see you mean to run away leaving me with the dead body and I shall get into trouble." Then said the princess: "If you do not believe me take off my fine clothes and keep them as a pledge." Then the princess let the Kamar girl take off all her jewellery and her beautiful dress and went to draw water from the well. But the Kamar girl followed her and as the princess leant over the edge she pushed her in, so that she was drowned. Then the Kamar girl drew water from the well and went back to Lita and poured some into his mouth, and directly the water touched his lips he came back to life, and as the Kamar girl had put on the dress and jewellery of the Belbati princess he thought that she was the bride for whom he had sought. So he took her home to his brothers' house and married her. After a time Lita and his brothers went to hunt in the jungle; it was very hot and Lita grew very thirsty; he found himself near the well at which he had broken the _bel_ fruit and went to it for water. Looking down he saw floating on the water a beautiful flower; he was so pleased with it that he picked it and took it home to his Kamar wife; but when she saw it she was very displeased and cut it up into pieces and threw the pieces out of the house. Lita was sorry and noticed shortly afterwards that at the place where the pieces of the flower had been thrown a small _bel_ tree was sprouting. He had this planted in his garden and carefully watered. It grew well and after a time it produced ripe fruit. One day Lita ordered his horse, and as it was being brought it broke loose and run away into the garden: as it ran under the _bel_ tree one of the _bel_ fruits fell on to the saddle and stayed there. When the syce caught the horse he saw this and took the fruit home with him. When he went to cut open the fruit he found inside it a beautiful woman; he kept the woman in his house. At this time the Kamar woman fell ill and was like to die. Lita was very distressed at the thought of losing his Belbati princess. At last the Kamarin said that she was being bewitched by the girl who was living in the syce's house and that one or other of them must die. Lita at once ordered the girl to be taken into the jungle and killed. Four Ghasis took her away and put her to death. Her last request to them was that they should cut off her hands and feet and put them at the four sides of her grave. This they did. After the death of the girl the Kamar wife recovered her health. After a time Lita again went hunting and at nightfall came to the place where the girl had been put to death. There he found standing a fine palace. He went in but the only living creatures he saw were two birds who seemed to live there; he lay down on a bed and went to sleep. While he slept the birds sat by him and began talking. One told the other the story of the search for the Belbati princess and how the Kamar girl had thrown her into the well and taken her place. When Lita heard this he awoke and was very unhappy. The birds told him that once a year the Belbati princess visited the palace in which he was; her next visit would be in six months. So Lita stayed there and at the end of the six months he hid behind the door to await the princess. She came and as she passed through the door he caught her by the hand, but she wrenched herself away and fled. Lita was very depressed but the birds told him to be more careful the next time. So he waited a year and when the princess was expected he hid himself: the princess came and seeing no one entered the palace and went to sleep. While she slept Lita secured her. They were married and lived happily ever after, and the wicked Kamar girl was put to death. (9)--The Bread Tree. There once was a boy who lived with his mother and was engaged all day in tending cattle. Every morning when he started his mother gave him two pieces of bread called "hunger bread" and "stuffing bread,"--one to satisfy hunger with and the other to over-eat oneself on. One day the boy could not eat all his bread and he left the piece that remained over on a rock. When he went back the next day he was surprised to see that from the piece of bread a tree had grown which bore loaves of bread instead of fruit. After that the boy no longer took bread from his mother, but lived on the fruit of his tree. One day he had climbed his tree to pick a loaf when an old woman came by with a bag over her shoulder and saying that she was very poor begged for a piece of bread. The old woman was really a Rakshasi. The boy was kindhearted and told her that he would throw her down a loaf, but the old woman objected that it would get dirty if it fell on the ground. Then he told her to hold out her cloth and he would throw it into that: but she said that she could not see well enough to catch the loaf: he must come down and give it to her: so the boy came down to give her the loaf and when the Rakshasi had him on the ground, she seized him and put him in her bag and went off with him. After going some way she came to a pool of water and as she was rather thirsty from carrying such a burden, she put down her bag and went to drink. Opportunely some travellers came by and hearing the boy's shouts let him out of the bag. The boy filled the bag with stones and tied it up as before and made the best of his way home. The old Rakshasi went off with the heavy bag and when she got to her abode told her daughter with whom she lived that she had captured a fine dinner but when the daughter opened the bag she found in it nothing but stones: at this she was very angry and abused her mother: then the old woman said that the boy had escaped on the road: so the next day she went back to the place where the boy was tending cattle and by the same trick she caught him and put him in her bag and this time went straight home. She made him over to her daughter and went out to collect fire wood with which to cook him. The boy being left alone with the daughter began to ask how he was to be killed; she said that his head was to be pounded in a _Dhenki_. He pretended not to understand and asked how that was to be done. The girl not understanding such stupidity put her head under the striker of the _Dhenki_ to show him what would happen. Then the boy at once pounded her head in the _Dhenki_ and killed her: he then put on her clothes and cut her body up in pieces ready for cooking. When the old woman came back with the fire wood she was pleased to find that her daughter, as she thought, had got every thing ready; and the meal was soon cooked and eaten. After the old woman had thus made a hearty meal off the remains of her own daughter she felt sleepy and took a nap. While she slept the boy struck her on the head with a large stone and killed her; thus he saved his life and took all the property of the old Rakshasi and lived happily ever after. (10)--The Origin of _Sabai_ Grass (Ischaemum Angustifolium). Once upon a time there were six brothers who lived with their sister. The brothers used to spend their days in the jungle hunting while the sister minded the house and cooked the dinner against their return. One day while the brothers were hunting the girl went to cut herbs to cook with the dinner: as she was doing so she chanced to cut her finger and some drops of blood fell on the herbs, which were put in the pot. When the brothers came home to dinner they noticed how very sweet the food was and asked the reason. The girl said that she was afraid that it must be because some drops of her blood had fallen on it. Then the brothers took counsel together and agreed that if a few drops of her blood were so sweet, she must be very nice to eat. So they agreed to murder her and eat her. But the youngest brother named Lita, though he did not dare to oppose his elders, was sorry for the decision. The next day when the brothers came from the jungle they brought with them a beautiful flower of seven colours and gave it to their sister. She was delighted with it: she had never seen so beautiful a flower before and wanted to know where it grew and whether were others like it. They said that if she liked to come with them they would take her to the tree on which the flowers grew and she could pick as many as she liked. So the next morning she gladly went with them and they took her to the tree with the seven-coloured flowers. She climbed the tree to pick the flowers and when she was up in the tree they shot arrows at her to kill her; but though they shot many arrows they could not kill her. Then they compelled Lita to shoot and he with his first arrow killed his sister. Then they cut up the body of the girl ready for cooking and sent Lita to a well to fetch water in which to cook the flesh. Lita went to the well and overcome with sorrow sat down and wept. As he wept a large frog came to the surface of the water and asked him what was the matter; he said that he had been made to kill his sister and that now they were going to cook her flesh. The frog told him to be comforted and gave him a large _rohu_ fish. Lita took this back and when his brothers told him to cook the food, he hid the pieces of his sister's body and cooked the _rohu_ fish. The brothers ate this thinking that it was their sister. Then they went on into the jungle hunting. After going a short way Lita said that he had forgotten to recover his arrow and that he must go back and fetch it. He went back to the place, and taking his sister's body buried it and building a hut near, spent the days in weeping over the grave. After he had spent some time thus the girl appeared alive out of the ground. Lita was overjoyed and he and his sister remained happily in the jungle. One day a Raja hunting in the jungle passed that way and seeing the girl at once fell in love with her and took her away and married her. Lita he also took with him and made him ruler of half the kingdom. In honour of his marriage the Raja resolved to construct an enormous tank: and people came from far and near to work at it. Among others came Lita's five elder brothers, who had fallen into great poverty, owing to their wickedness. When their sister saw them she forgave them and sending for them bestowed on them food and clothing. But they were so ashamed and repentant that they could only kneel on the ground and beat the earth with their hands. As they continued to do so the earth opened and swallowed them up: only their hair stuck out of the ground and that became _sabai_ grass, and this was the origin of all the _sabai_ grass which exists. (11)--The Faithless Sister. Once upon a time there was a man who had a son and daughter: he used to cultivate his land and his son and daughter used to take his dinner to him. One day the man went to plough and while ploughing he stuck the spear which he had brought with him into the ground. As the man ploughed a tiger came and waited an opportunity to spring upon the man: but from whichever side the tiger approached, the spear which was stuck in the ground bent its point towards the tiger and so protected its master. Just then the boy and girl came along with their father's dinner. The baffled tiger was hiding in some bushes by the field. As the children went along they saw a paddy bird on the ground. The boy of course had his bow and bird arrows with him and he shot an arrow at the paddy bird: he missed the bird, but it happened that the tiger was just in the line of fire; the arrow pierced the eye of the tiger and killed it instantaneously. When the girl saw the tiger lying dead she said that it was clear that their father had enticed them there in order that the tiger might kill them when they brought him his dinner: clearly the only way for them to save their lives was to leave their home at once. The boy agreed; drawing his arrow from the tiger's head and taking the tiger's eyes with him, he went away with his sister as fast as they could run. After going some little distance they met in the way two tigers. The boy threw at the tiger the eyes of the first tiger which he had brought with him. The tigers at once fell down dead, but from the body of one proceeded, a hare, and from the body of the other, two dogs which peaceably followed the boy and his sister. Having escaped to a distance they lived in the jungle happily for some time with their three animal friends. One day the hare said that he would like to have a spear, so the boy went with him to a blacksmith and got a spear made. As they were returning they met in the way a giant _Rakshasa_ who wished to devour them, but the hare holding the spear kept jumping in and out of the giant's mouth with such speed that the _Rakshasa_ was dumbfounded and surrendered at discretion, promising to be a faithful servant to them henceforth. With the help of the _Rakshasa_ they had great success in hunting. The boy with the hare and the two dogs used to beat the jungle and drive the game towards the _Rakshasa_ who caught it in his mouth. One day they thus caught a monkey, whose life they spared and who joined their band. The monkey took a large drum and caught in it a nest of wild bees, which he preserved. One day while the others were away a Raja who was hunting in the jungle found the girl sitting alone and at once fell in love with her and wanted to marry her. The girl said that she was willing but that she was sure that her brother would never consent. The only thing was to kill her brother and the Raja could never do that as the faithful animals would protect him. At last the girl consented to try and compass her brother's death. To this end she became very melancholy and seemed to pine away: her brother asked what was the matter and she said that she would never recover unless he could fetch her a certain flower which grew in the midst of a certain lake. Now this lake swarmed with gigantic fish and poisonous snakes. But the brother, never daunted, went to the lake and began to swim out to the centre where the flower grew. Before he got half way there one of the gigantic fish swallowed him up. The Rakshasa however saw this and set to work to drink the lake up: he soon drank the lake dry and not only caught the big fish but also was able to gather the flower that had grown in the lake. They then cut open the fish and took the boy unharmed from its belly. The Rakshasa then vomited up the water he had swallowed and filled up the lake again. Meanwhile the Raja thinking that the boy had died, carried off his sister. But the boy setting out with the hare and the dogs and the Rakshasa and the monkey proceeded to attack the Raja's capital and recover his sister. The monkey opened his drum and the bees issued forth and attacked the Raja's army so that it fled. The Raja had to capitulate and give the boy half his kingdom and his own daughter in marriage, then peace was declared and the animals all disappeared into the jungle and our hero lived happily ever after. (12)--The Cruel Sisters-in-Law. Once upon a time there lived six brothers who had one sister. The brothers were all married and their wives hated their sister-in-law. It happened that the brothers all went away to trade in a far country and her sisters-in-law took the opportunity to illtreat the girl. They said "If you do not obey us and do what we tell you we will kill you." The girl said that she would obey their behests to the best of her ability. They said "Then go to the well and bring this earthen pot back full of water." The khalsi had a large hole in the bottom so that as fast as it was filled the water ran out. The girl took the pot to the well and sitting down began to weep over her fate. As she wept a large frog rose out of the water and asked her what was the matter. She said "My last hour has come. If I cannot fill this pot with water I shall be killed and it has a hole in the bottom." The frog said, "Be comforted, I will cure that: I will sit on the hole and stop it up with my body and you will be able to fill it." This it did and the girl took the water back to the house. The sisters-in-law were very angry but could say nothing so they set her another task. They told her to go the jungle and bring home a full bundle of sticks: but she was not to take any rope with which to tie them. The girl collected a large quantity of sticks and then sat down and cried because she was unable to carry them home: as she cried a large snake came up and asked what was the matter. The girl told him, whereupon the snake said that he would curl himself round the sticks and serve as a rope. This he did and the girl was able to carry the sticks home on her head. Defeated in this attempt the sisters-in-law the next day told the girl to go to a field of pulse which had been sown the day before and bring back all the grain by the evening. The girl went to the field and picked up a few grains but it had been sown broadcast and the girl soon saw that the task was hopeless: she sat down and cried and as she cried a flock of pigeons flew to her and asked her what was the matter: she said that she could not pick up all the grain in the field. They said that that was easily managed, and the pigeons spreading over the field soon picked up all the grain and put it into the girl's basket, so that by evening she returned with the basket full. The sisters-in-law were more than ever enraged. They gave her a pot and told her that she must go to the jungle and bring it back full of bear's milk. The girl went to the jungle and being very frightened sat down and began to cry: a large she bear came by and asked what was the matter. The girl explained and the she bear, sorry for her distress willingly allowed herself to be milked without doing the girl any harm. The sisters-in-law then resolved to make a more direct attempt on the girl's life. They took her into the jungle and told her to climb a certain tree and pick them the fruit. The tree had a tall smooth trunk and the girl had to climb the tree by driving pegs into the trunk. When she reached the branches the sisters-in-law pulled the pegs out of the tree and went home leaving the girl to starve. Night came on and the girl stayed in the tree: it so happened that that day the six brothers were returning home and being benighted stopped to sleep under that very tree. The girl thought that they were dacoits and stayed still. She could not help crying in her despair and a warm tear fell on the face of one the brothers sleeping below and woke him up. He looked, up and recognized his sister. The brothers soon rescued her and when they heard of the cruelty of their wives they went home and put them all to death. (13)--The False Rani. Once upon a time a Raja who had just married was returning with his bride to his kingdom. It was hot weather and a long journey and as they passed through a jungle the Raja and all his men went down to a stream to drink leaving the bride sitting in her _palki_. As the bride thus sat all alone she was frightened at seeing a she-bear come up. The bear asked the bride who she was and where she was going. When she heard, she thought that she would like to share so agreeable a fate, so by threats she made the Rani get out of her _palki_ and give her all her fine clothes and jewellery and go away into the jungle. The bear dressing herself in the Rani's clothes, got into the _palki_, and when the men came back they took up the _palki_ and went on their way without noticing any change, nor did the Raja detect the fraud: he took the bear to his palace and installed her as his wife. Meanwhile the real bride had picked up the walking stick of the Raja and a cloth which he had left on the road when he went to the stream, and ran into the jungle. She made her way to the house of a Ghasi woman who lived by the Raja's palace with her daughters. The daughters earned a living by selling flowers and one day one daughter, as she sold the Raja a garland, told him that his real bride was living in their house. The Raja was very distressed and at once went to see his bride and was satisfied of her identity when she produced his stick and cloth. The real Rani refused to go to his palace until the she bear had been put to death. Thereupon the Raja gave instructions to his followers and sent word to the palace that he was dead. The officers and servants at the palace then prepared a big pit and lit a large fire in it: they then sent for the she bear and told her that she must perform the funeral ceremonies of her husband. They made her take off her fine clothes and told her to kneel down by the burning pit and make salaam to it. As she was doing so they pushed her into the pit and she was burned to death. Then the Raja brought home his real bride in triumph. But from that time bears attack men when they get the chance. (14)--The Jackal and the Kite. Once upon a time a jackal and a kite agreed to join forces and get their food together. In pursuance of their plan they sent word to a prosperous village that a Raja with his army was marching that way and intended the next day to loot the village. The next morning the jackal took an empty _kalsi_ and marched towards the village drumming on the _kalsi_ with all his might, and the kite flew along overhead screaming as loud as he could. The villagers thought that the Raja's army was approaching and fled into the jungle. The jackal and the kite began to feast on all the good things that had been left in the houses. There was however one old woman who was too infirm to run away with the other inhabitants: and had hid herself inside her house. When she saw that no army came but only a jackal and a kite she crawled away into the jungle and told her friends. They came back, and surrounding the village, caught the jackal: they began to beat the jackal with sticks to kill it: the jackal uttered no sound and pretended that it did not mind being beaten: after a time it began to jeer at its captors and told them that they could never kill it by beating. The asked how it could be killed and it said by burning. So they tied a bunch of old cloths on to its tail and poured oil over them and set them on fire: the jackal ran off with the burning bundle at the end of its tail and jumping on to the nearest house set fire to the thatch: the fire spread and the whole village was burnt down. The jackal then ran to a tank and jumping into the water extinguished its blazing tail. But if you look you will see that all jackals have a burnt tip to their tail to this day. (15)--The Sons of the Raban Raja. There was a Raja who used to bathe daily at a certain tank. In the tank was a great fish: as the Raja washed his mouth this fish used daily to swallow the rinsings of his mouth. In consequence of this the fish after a time gave birth to two human children. As the two boys grew up they used to go into the village near the tank and play with the other children. One day however, a man beat them and drove them away from the other children jeering at them because they had no father. Much disturbed at this they went to the fish and asked whether it was true that they had no father. The fish told them that their father was the Raban Raja. The two boys resolved to go in search of the Raban Raja: they set out and after a time met a man and asked him if he knew the Raban Raja. The man asked why they wished to know. They said that they were his sons. Then the man at once killed them because the Raban Raja was an enemy of his country. From the place where the bodies of the dead boys lay, two large bamboos grew up. When the bamboos had grown very big, a Jogi came by that way and cut them down, making from them two flutes. These flutes produced such beautiful music that every one was charmed and the fame of the Jogi spread far and wide: so when in his wanderings the Jogi reached the kingdom of the Raban Raja the Raja sent for him and the Jogi came to the palace with his two bamboo flutes. When the flutes were brought into the presence of the Raja they burst open and from them appeared the two boys. When the Raja heard their history he recognized them as his sons, and sent the Jogi away with large rewards. (16)--The Potter's Son. Once upon a time there was a Kumhar whose wife was about to have a child. As they were very poor the pair resolved that if the child should prove to be a boy they would abandon it, but if it were a girl they would bring it up. When the child was born it was found to be a son, so the Kumhar took it into the jungle and left it there. There it was found by a tiger and tigress whose cubs had just died and who determined to bring up the man-child as their own. They accordingly fed it and looked after it; the boy grew up strong and healthy. When he got big, the tiger went to a blacksmith and had made for him a bow and arrows of iron with which he used to hunt. When the boy became a young man the tiger decided that his marriage must be arranged for. So he went to the capital of a neighbouring Raja, and when the Raja's daughter came to a tank to bathe, the tiger seized her and carried her off into the jungle, where she was married to the Kumhar's son. The princess was very pleased with her new husband, but found the life with the tigers in the jungle very irksome. She constantly begged her husband to run away, until at last he agreed. One day when the tigers were at a distance they started off and soon arrived at the palace of the princess' father. Leaving her husband by the palace tank, the princess went ahead to see how matters stood and to prepare a welcome for her husband. He being left alone decided to bathe in the tank. Now a dhoba was there washing the palace clothes, and seeing a stranger he concluded that it was a thief come to steal the clothes. He accordingly killed him and then in fear threw the body into the water. When the princess returned she was distressed to find no sign of her husband but his iron bow and arrows. Search was made everywhere and the tank was netted but no trace could be discovered of her missing spouse. Shortly afterwards a Ghasi girl came to catch _chingris_ in the tank, and while doing so suddenly laid hold of a large fish. In great delight she took it home. When she came to cut it up she found inside the belly of the fish a living child. Pleased with its appearance she decided to adopt it. She put it in a basket, and tying the basket under her cloth pretended to be pregnant, and shortly afterwards announced that she had given birth to a child. The boy grew with marvellous rapidity. Meanwhile the father of the widowed princess insisted that she should marry again. But she was faithful to the memory of her husband and declared that she would only marry the man who could draw the iron bow. Many suitors came but they all failed to draw the bow. At length the reputed son of the Ghasi woman came and pulling the bow with ease announced himself as the true husband of the princess with whom he lived happily ever after. (17)--The Wonderful Cowherd. Once upon a time there was a Raja who had seven daughters. The seven princesses used to bathe daily in a tank and when they bathed they used to put the scrapings from their bodies in a hole in the ground. From this hole there grew a tree, and the eldest princess announced that she would marry the man who could tell her what had caused the tree to grow; many suitors came and made guesses but none divined the truth; heir father was anxious that she should be married, and insisted on every one in the kingdom being questioned. At last a miserable, poverty stricken and sickly cowherd was asked; he had always grazed his cattle on the banks of the tank and had often seen the princesses bathing so he knew from what the tree had spring. The princess being bound by her oath had to marry the miserable cowherd and go and live with him in his hut. All day long the cowherd used to be groaning in sickness and misery; but at night he used to come out of his skin and appear as a beautiful and shining man; in this form he used to go and play and dance in the moonlight in the court yard of the Raja's palace. One night the princess's maid-servant saw her master return and creep into his ugly skin; she told her mistress who resolved to keep watch the next night; when she saw her husband assume his shining form and go out of the house leaving his ugly skin lying on the ground, she took the skin and burnt it in the fire. Immediately her husband came rushing back declaring that he was suffering the agonies of burning; but the skin was burnt and the former cowherd retained his glorious and shining appearance; and on the application of oil the pain of the burning ceased. The princess then began to live with pleasure in the company of so glorious a husband, who however only went out of the house at night as his body was too bright for ordinary eyes to look upon. It began however to be whispered about among the neighbours that a shining being was to be seen at the princess's house and the rumour eventually reached the ears of the Raja. The Raja sent a messenger to see who the being was, but when the messenger saw the shining man he was blinded and driven out of his senses and returned to the Raja in a state of madness. Two or three other messengers successively met the same fate. At length the Raja resolved to go himself; when he saw the shining form of his son-in-law he fell down in a faint; the princess's husband ran and lifted up the Raja in his arms and revived him. After this the former cowherd became only bearably bright, and being recognized as the heir to the kingdom went to live with his wife in the Raja palace. (18)--The Strong Prince. There was once a king who, though he had two wives, had no son. He was very anxious to have a son and heir and went away into the midst of the hills and jungles and there began a course of worship and sacrifices. His prayers were heard and while he was away it was found that both his wives were pregnant. In due time the senior Rani gave birth to a son and sent a Brahman to the king with the welcome news. The Brahman was a very holy man and he had to pray and bathe so often that he made very slow progress on his journey. A day or two later the younger Rani also gave birth to a son and she sent a low caste Ghasi to give the news to the Raja. The Ghasi travelled straight ahead and reached the Raja some time before the holy Brahman. On hearing the news that the younger Rani had given birth to a son the Raja had at once declared that this boy should be his heir. He was therefore much put out when the Brahman arrived with the news that the senior Rani had given birth to a son first. The Raja returned home and entering the palace saw the senior Rani sleeping with her babe beside her. The boy had sore eyes and the Raja, declaring that the child bore no resemblance to himself said that it was not his son and that the Rani had been unfaithful to him. The Rani indignantly denied the accusation and said that if the two brothers fought her son would prove his parentage. Accordingly the two boys were set to wrestle with each other. The struggle was an even one. As they swayed to and fro it happened that the elder boy caught hold of the Raja and pulled him to the ground. This incensed the Raja more than ever and he ordered the senior Rani to leave the kingdom with her child. On the road by which they had to pass the Raja stationed a _mast_ elephant in order that they might be killed, but when in due course the elephant attacked them the boy caught hold of it and threw it to a distance of four _kos_. After this feat the prince and his mother journeyed to another kingdom. There they took up their quarters near the ground where the Raja's _palwans_ wrestled. The prince went to wrestle with them and easily overcame the most renowned _palwans_. In many ways he showed his strength. One day he went to a mahajan's shop and the Mahajan instead of serving him promptly kept him waiting. In indignation the boy took up the entire building and threw it to a distance; hearing of these feats the Raja of the country sent for him and took him into his service; but here also he caused trouble. He insisted on being treated with deference. Going up to the highest officials he would tell them not to twist their moustaches at him, and knock them down. On the throne in the palace when the Raja was absent a pair of the Raja's shoes was placed and every one who passed by had to salaam to these. This our hero flatly refused to do. In fact he became such a nuisance that he was promised that he would be given his pay regularly if he would only stay away from the palace. After this he spent his days in idleness and by night he used to go to the shore and disport himself in the sea. One night the goddess Kali came to the Raja's palace and knocked at the gate: but no one would come to open it. Just then the prince came back from bathing in the sea. Seeing him, Kali Ma, said that she was so hungry that she must eat him, though she had intended to eat the people in the palace. She, however, promised him that though eaten he should be born again. The boy agreed to form a meal for the goddess on these terms and was accordingly eaten. Afterwards gaining admission to the palace Kali Ma ate up everyone in it except the Raja's daughter. Then our hero was born again and marrying the Raja's daughter succeeded to the kingdom, and lived happily ever after. (19)--The Prince Who Became King of the Jackals. Once upon a time there lived a Raja whose son formed a great friendship with a barber. For some reason the Raja quarrelled with his son and ordered him to leave the kingdom. Accordingly the prince departed to a far country in company with his friend, the barber. In order to earn a living the barber opened a school and the prince took service with a mahajan. They were in such straits that the prince had to submit to very hard terms, it was arranged that his wages were to be one leaf-plate full of rice a day: and that if he threw up the service he was to lose a piece of his skin a span long. After a short time the prince who had been brought up in luxury found the work so hard and the food so scanty that he resolved to leave the mahajan: but before he went he had to submit to a piece of skin being cut off, in terms of the agreement. The prince then went to the barber and told him how ill he had fared. The barber vowed that he should be avenged. So he went and offered himself as a servant to the mahajan: he was engaged and it was agreed that whichever party first proposed to terminate the contract should lose a piece of skin a span long. The barber worked so badly and ate so much that one day the mahajan in a fit of rage ordered him to leave the place and in consequence forfeited a piece of his skin. Having repaid the mahajan in his own coin the prince and the barber left those parts and journeyed to the land of the king of the jackals. They found the king of the jackals asleep in front of his cave. While he still slept the barber shaved all the hair off his tail. Then the two friends hid in the cave, drawing a cart in front of the entrance. When the jackal awoke and found that he had been shaved he concluded that there were _bongas_ (spirits) about; and ran away in terror. After going a short distance he met a bear who asked where he was going in such a hurry. The king of the jackals said that some _bongas_ had taken possession of his cave and shaved off his hair. The bear agreed to go back with the jackal and see if he could exorcise the spirits. Going to the cave the bear climbed on to the cart to offer a sacrifice. As he sat there the barber caught hold of his tail and held on to it while the prince began to stab the bear with a knife. The bear howled and groaned but could not get away. The king of the jackals who was looking on was delighted, for he concluded that the _bongas_ had taken possession of the bear who would learn who they were and how they were to be exorcised. At last the bear broke free and ran away: the jackal ran after him and asked him what the _bongas_ had told him: but the bear only said 'ugh' 'ugh' and ran into the jungle. Then the jackal met a tiger and telling his story persuaded the tiger also to try his hand at exorcising the spirits. The tiger was treated in the same way as the bear had been and ran off without giving the jackal any information. Then the king of the jackals resolved to try himself and mounted on to the cart. But the barber stabbed him through the bamboos and killed him. Then the prince succeeded to the kingdom of the jackals, and not only so, but replaced the piece of skin which he had forfeited to the mahajan by a piece of the skin of the dead jackal. (20)--The Mongoose Boy. Once upon a time there was a Raja who had seven wives but no children. In hope of issue he retired to the jungle and began a course of prayers and sacrifices. While he was so engaged a Brahman came to him and told him to take a stick and with it knock down seven mangoes from a neighbouring tree, and catch them before they reached the ground: he promised that if the Ranis ate these mangoes they would bear children. The Raja did as he was directed and took the mangoes home and gave one to each of his wives. The youngest Rani happened at the time to be sweeping out a room and so she put her mango in a niche in the wall. Just then a neighbour sent a mongoose, who was her servant, to ask for a light. While the Rani was fetching a firebrand from the hearth the mongoose saw the mango and climbing up nibbled part of it without being seen. After this the Rani ate the mango. In due time the seven Ranis each gave birth to a son: but the son of the youngest Rani was the most beautiful with a face like a mongoose. The eldest Rani was jealous of the beauty of the youngest Rani's son so one day she sent the youngest Rani to fetch some water: and during her absence took up the mongoose boy and putting a stone and a broom in its place took the child away and buried it in the pit from which the potters dig their earth. When the Raja heard that his youngest wife had given birth to nothing but a stone and a broom he was very angry and turned her out of the palace. Meanwhile a potter had found the mongoose boy still alive and had taken him to his home. There the child grew up and became a strong boy. One day he asked the potter to make him an earthenware horse. On this horse he used to ride about, for directly he mounted it, it was endowed with life. One day the mongoose boy took his earthenware horse to water it at a tank near the palace and there his six brothers saw it and insisted that they also should have earthenware horses to ride. Horses were accordingly made for them but when they mounted, the horses would not budge an inch. Enraged at this the princes complained to their mothers. The Ranis at once suspected the identity of the potter's boy and told their sons to kill him. So one day when the young princes met him at the tank they killed the mongoose boy and buried his body. At the place where the body was buried there grew up a bamboo of extraordinary size and a bush with sweet and beautiful flowers: many people tried to cut down the big bamboo and to pluck the beautiful flowers but every arm that was raised to do so was restrained by some unseen power. Eventually the news of this portent reached the ears of the Raja who went to see what was happening. When the Raja tried to pluck a flower he succeeded at the first attempt. The Raja then cut down the bamboo and out of it stepped the mongoose boy who told of the illtreatment which he had received at the hands of the six Ranis and their sons. The Raja wished him to come to the palace but he insisted that his mother should first be sent for. This was at once done. Then the Raja had a wide and deep well dug and announced that a Puja was to be performed at the opening of the well. To the ceremony came the six Ranis and their sons. As they all knelt at the edge of the well doing puja the Raja had them pushed into it, so that they were all drowned. Thus the wicked were punished and the mongoose boy eventually succeeded to his father's kingdom. (21)--The Prince and the Tigress. Once upon a time there was a Raja who had seven sons. One day a tigress came to the palace and asked the Raja to allow one of his sons to be her servant and look after her cattle. The Raja consented and ordered his eldest son to go with the tigress. The young man took his axe and bow and arrows and went with the tigress to her cave. When he got there he asked where were the cattle which he was to tend. The tigress pointed out to him all the bears which were roaming in the jungle and said that they were her cattle. By the cave stood a large rock and the tigress told the prince to take his axe and cut it in two. The prince tried, but the rock only turned the edge of his axe and he quite failed to cut it. The tigress being thus satisfied that the prince had no superhuman powers sprang upon him and killed him and devoured his body. Then she went back to the Raja and said that she had too much work to be done, that she wished him to give her a second son. The Raja agreed, but this prince met the same fate as the first; and in succession, all the sons of the Raja, except the youngest, went with the tigress and were devoured by her. At last the youngest son went with the tigress: when bidden to cut the rock in two, he easily accomplished the task. Then the tigress knew that she had met her master and ran into her cave. Looking into the cave, the prince saw the bones of his dead brothers. Gathering the bones together, he prayed for fire to burn them, and fire fell from above and burned the bones. Then he climbed a tree in order to be out of the reach of the tigress, and the tigress came and sat at the foot of the tree so that he could not descend. Then he prayed again and wind arose and wafted him away and set him down by a house where lived an old man and his wife. The tigress followed in pursuit, but the aged couple hid the prince and assured the tigress that he had not been seen; so the tigress returned disappointed. The prince stayed with the old people and worked on their land. One day as he was ploughing, the tigress came and killed one of the bullocks that were drawing the plough. The prince at once ran to the house to fetch his bow and arrow that he might kill the tigress. When he returned, he found that several tigers were sucking the blood of the bullock and with them a wild boar. He shot an arrow which wounded the boar. The boar maddened by the pain turned on the tigers and killed them all; including the tigress which had killed the Raja's sons. The prince then being no longer in danger from the tigress returned to his father's palace. (22)--The Cunning Potter. Once upon a time there lived at the gate of a Raja's palace a Potter who had a pretty wife. The Raja fell in love with the Potter's wife and schemed to get rid of the husband. He could not bring himself to commit a cold blooded murder, but he tried to accomplish his object indirectly by setting the Potter impossible tasks which he was to accomplish on pain of death. The Raja accordingly sent for the Potter and ordered him to bring him the heads of twenty-four jackals. The Potter went away to the jungle and began to dig a large hole in the side of a hill. A jackal presently came by and stopped to ask why he was digging the hole. The Potter said that it was going to rain fire from heaven, and that every one who had not such a shelter would be burnt. At this the jackal became very frightened; the Potter thereupon said that he was so sorry for them that he would allow the jackal and his friends to share the hole which he was digging. The jackal gratefully ran away and returned with a number of other jackals. They all went into the hole and the Potter closed the entrance. After a time the Potter looked out and said that the fire was over; he then stationed himself at the mouth of the hole and as the jackals came out he cut off their heads with a knife; in this away he beheaded twenty-three jackals; but the last jackal saw what was happening and dodged the knife and escaped. The Potter took the twenty-three heads to the Raja; but the Raja pretended to be angry and said that if the Potter did not at once procure a twenty-fourth head, he would be beheaded himself. The Potter took a pot of _gur_ and went to a pool of water which lay in the direction in which the twenty-fourth jackal had fled. Smearing his body all over with _gur_, he lay down by the water and pretended to be dead. Presently the jackal which had escaped passed that way with a friend. Seeing the body the second jackal proposed at once to go and eat it; but the first jackal warned the other that there was probably some plot and related how twenty-three of his friends had lost their lives at the hands of this very Potter. But the second jackal would not listen to advice and going to the supposed corpse smelt it and then began to lick it; finding the taste of the _gur_ very pleasant it set to work to lick the body all over beginning at the feet; it licked the feet and then the legs, when it reached his waist it was within reach of his hand and the Potter stabbed it with his knife and took the head to the Raja. Foiled in this design, the Raja next ordered the Potter to bring him a jar of tiger's milk. Taking some loaves of bread, the Potter went into the jungle and soon found a cave in which was a pair of tiger cubs whose parents were away hunting. The Potter told the cubs that he was their uncle and gave them the bread to eat; they liked the taste of the bread very much. Then the Potter hid himself in a tree near the cave. Presently the tigress came back but her cubs refused to suck her milk as usual, the tigress asked the reason of this and the cubs said that their uncle had come and fed them with something nicer than milk and they were no longer hungry. They then pointed out the Potter in the tree and the tigress wanted to know what he had given her cubs to eat. He told her that it was bread: the tigress said that she would like to try some herself, whereupon the potter replied that he would give her some if she would first give him some of her milk. The tigress agreed and also consented that her legs should be tied while she was being milked in order that she might not be able to harm the potter. The tigress having been milked, the Potter gave her a loaf of bread and then ran away as fast as he could. Finding that he would not be able to get rid of the Potter by any such devices, the Raja then persuaded the faithless wife to put the Potter to death. She accordingly set up an idol in her house and prayed daily to this that her husband might become blind and die. One day the Potter overheard her prayers: the next day he hid behind the idol and when the woman came and prayed he answered from behind the idol that her prayer was granted and that in two days her husband would become blind. Accordingly, two days later the Potter pretended to become blind. Then the woman sent word to the Raja that her husband was blind and that they had nothing to fear from him. The Raja accordingly came one night to visit the woman, and the Potter killed them both with an axe. He buried the body of his wife, but he was in great trouble as to how to dispose of the body of the Raja: for he knew that there would be a hue and cry when the disappearance of the Raja was discovered. At last he decided to put the body in a field of _brinjals_ belonging to a neighbour. Towards morning, the owner of the field came to see that his property was all right, and seeing some one among the _brinjals_, thought that it was a thief. He accordingly hit the supposed thief on the head; and when he came to examine the body, he was shocked to find that he had, as he thought, killed the Raja. In great distress he went to consult his friend, the Potter; the Potter advised him to put the body among the buffaloes belonging to a Goala. At dawn the Goala came to look at his buffaloes and seeing the body of the Raja thought that it was a thief stealing the milk of the buffaloes: catching up a club, he inflicted a blow which caused the body to fall over. When the Goala, found that the body was that of the Raja and that he had apparently killed him, he was in great fear and went to his friend, the Potter, for advice. It was finally decided to dispose of the body by putting it down a well. The next day great search was made for the missing Raja and the body was found in the well by a Brahman. Preparations were made for the obsequies and a funeral pyre erected. The Potter saw his opportunity and digging a hole in the ground under the pyre hid himself in it. When the body had been cremated and the mourners were still collected at the spot, the Potter began to speak from the hole in which he was concealed: the bystanders thought that they heard the voice of the Raja declaring that the Potter had always been his true friend and that he desired that he should be given half the kingdom and the hand of his daughter in marriage. The supposed wishes of the late Raja were obeyed and the Potter lived in luxury for the rest of his life. NOTES [1] This is why Santals when going to eat, move the stool that is offered to them before they sit down on it. [2] Jaituk is a bullock given to a girl by her parents at the time of her marriage. [3] Kisar bonga = brownie. [4] This is quite in accordance with Ho notions. If a man buys a wife there is an implied warranty that she is to last a reasonable time. If she dies shortly after marriage a sister or cousin has to be given to replace her. 
40246	----	NORTH CORNWALL FAIRIES AND LEGENDS By ENYS TREGARTHEN Author of 'The Piskey-Purse' With introduction by Howard Fox, F.G.S. Illustrated London Wells Gardner, Darton & Co., Ltd. 3, Paternoster Buildings, E.C. CONTENTS Page Introduction xi The Adventures of a Piskey in Search of his Laugh 1 The Legend of the Padstow Doombar 51 The Little Cake-bird 71 The Impounded Crows 99 The Piskeys' Revenge 113 The Old Sky Woman 125 Reefy, Reefy Rum 131 The Little Horses and Horsemen of Padstow 139 How Jan Brewer was Piskey-laden 149 The Small People's Fair 159 The Piskeys who did Aunt Betsy's Work 165 The Piskeys Who carried their Beds 177 The Fairy Whirlwind 183 Notes 189 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Page Tintagel Castle Frontispiece King Arthur's Castle, looking North 9 Tintagel Castle 15 By Rough Tor's granite-piled height the bright little Lantern went 21 'Night-riders, Night-riders, please stop!' 37 'Which is still called King Arthur's Seat' 45 Lifeboat going over the bar of doom 53 Tristram Bird could see over the maiden's head into the pool 55 Trebetherick Bay 62 Chapel Stile 65 'It is the Mermaid's wraith,' cried an old Granfer man 67 Tregoss Moor 73 On the way to Tamsin's Cottage 75 'I hear them laughing. Listen, Grannie!' 83 The Roche Rocks 85 He stepped on to Phillida's nose as light as the feathers of the old Sky Woman 91 'All the crows in the parish came as they were bidden' 101 'Perhaps you would like to hear the crows' version of the tale?' 105 The Piskeys got in and ate up the bowl of junket, and passed out the biscuits 118 'The Old Sky Woman sweeping out the Sky Goose's house' 128 She took to her heels and ran for her life 135 Saw them standing on the tile-ridge 141 They galloped much faster than he could run 145 Ruins of Constantine Church 153 They began to dance round him 157 Nannie went on the moors again, and Tinker followed her 172 INTRODUCTION The tales contained in this little volume of North Cornwall fairy stories, by Enys Tregarthen, are either founded on folk-lore or they are folk-lore pure and simple. The scene of the first story is laid amid the ancient walls and gateways of 'Grim Dundagel thron'd along the sea,' and other places not quite so well known by those who live beyond the Cornish land, but which, nevertheless, have a fascination of their own, especially Dozmare Pool, where Tregeagle's unhappy spirit worked at his hopeless task of emptying the pool with a crozan or limpet-shell 'that had a hole in it.' This large inland lake, one mile in circumference, is of unusual interest, not only because of the Tregeagle legend that centres round Dozmare, but from a tradition, which many believe, that it was to this desolate moor, with its great tarn, that Sir Bedivere, King Arthur's faithful knight, brought the wounded King after the last great battle at Slaughter Bridge, on the banks of the Camel. A wilder and more untamed spot could hardly be found even in Cornwall than Dozmare Pool and the barren moors surrounding it. As one stands by its dark waters, looking away towards the bare granite-crowned hills and listening to the wind sighing among the reeds and rushes and the coarse grass, one can realize to the full the weird legends connected with it, and one can see in imagination the huge figure of Tregeagle bending over the pool, dipping out the water with his poor little limpet-shell. The Tregeagle legends are still believed in. When people go out to Dozmare Pool, they do not mention Tregeagle's name for fear that the Giant will suddenly appear and chase them over the moors! On the golden spaces of St. Minver sand-hills the legends about this unearthly personage are not so easily realized, except on a dark winter's night, when the wind rages fiercely over the dunes and one hears a fearful sound, which the natives say is Tregeagle roaring because the sand-ropes that he made to bind his trusses of sand are all broken. St. Minver is not only known for its connection with the legend of Tregeagle, but it is one of the many parishes beloved by the Small People or Fairy Folk with whom Enys Tregarthen's little book has mostly to do. Piskeys danced in their rings on many a cliff and common and moor in that delightful parish, and on other wild moors, commons and cliffs in many another parish in North and East Cornwall. Fairy horsemen, locally known as night-riders, used to steal horses from farmers' stables and ride them over the moors and commons till daybreak, when they left them to perish, or to find their way back to their stalls. Numberless stories of the little Ancient People used to be told, which the cottagers often repeated to each other on winter evenings as they sat round the peat fires, and some of these Enys Tregarthen has retold. The author writes concerning them: 'Many of the legends were told me by very old people long since dead. The legend of the Doombar was told me when I was quite a small child by a very old person born late in the eighteenth century. The one of Giant Tregeagle came, I think, from the same source, but it is too far back to remember. I only know it was one of the stories of my childhood, as were also the Mole legend and some of the Piskey-tales, handed down from a dim past by our Cornish forebears. 'The legends about the Little People are very old, and some assert to-day that the tales about the Piskeys are tales of a Pigmy race who inhabited Cornwall in the Neolithic Period, and that they are answerable for most of the legends of our Cornish fairies. If this be so, the older stories are legends of the little Stone Men. 'The legends are numerous. Some of them are very fragmentary; but they are none the less interesting, for they not only give an insight into the world of the little Ancient People, but they also show how strongly the Cornish peasantry once believed in them, as perhaps they still do. For, strange as it may seem in these matter-of-fact days, there are people still living who not only hold that there are Piskeys, but say they have actually seen them! One old woman in particular told me not many months ago that she had seen "little bits of men in red jackets" on the moors where she once lived. She used to be told about the Piskeys when she was a child, and the old people of her day used to tell how "the little bits of men" crept in through the keyhole of moorland cottages when the children were asleep to order their dreams.' These stories are given to the world in the hope that many besides children, for whom they are specially written, will find them interesting, and all lovers of folk-lore will be grateful to know that the iron horse and other modern inventions have not yet succeeded in driving away the Small People, nor in banishing the weird legends from our loved 'land of haunting charm.' H. F. THE ADVENTURES OF A PISKEY IN SEARCH OF HIS LAUGH '... A soft Cradle of old tales.' W. B. Yeats. The moon was shining softly down on the grey ruins of King Arthur's Castle by the Tintagel sea, and on hundreds of little Piskeys dancing in a great Piskey-ring on the mainland, known as Castle Gardens. In the centre of the ring stood a Little Fiddler, fiddling away with all his might, keeping time with his head and one tiny foot. The faster he played and flung out the merry tune on the quiet moonlit night, the faster the Piskeys danced. As they danced they almost burst their sides with laughter, and their laughter and the music of the Little Fiddler was distinctly heard by an old man and his wife, who then lived in the cottage near the castle. One little Piskey, somewhat taller than a clothes-peg, was the best dancer there, and his laugh was the merriest. He was dancing with a Piskey about his own size, who could hardly keep step with his twinkling feet. As the Piskeys careered round and round the Piskey-ring, the tiny chap who was the best dancer, and had the merriest laugh, suddenly stopped laughing, and his little dancing feet gave under him, and down he went with a crash, dragging his little companion with him. Before they could pick themselves up, the Piskeys who were coming on behind, not seeing the two sprawling on the ring, fell on them, and in another moment Little Fiddler Piskey saw a moving heap of green-coated little bodies and a brown tangle of tiny hands and feet. So amazed was he at such an unusual sight that he stopped fiddling, and let his fiddle slip out of his hand unnoticed on the grass. When the Little Men had picked themselves up, except the one who had caused the mishap, they began to pitch into him for tumbling and causing them to tumble, when something in his tiny face made them stop. 'What made you go down on your stumjacket like that when you were dancing so beautifully?' asked a Piskey not unkindly. 'I don't know,' he answered, looking up at his little brother Piskey with a strange expression in his face, which was pinched and drawn, and pale as one of their own Piskey-stools; and instead of a laugh in his dark little eyes there was misery and woe. The strange expression in his eyes quite frightened the Piskeys, and one said: 'What is the matter with you? You are looking worse than a cat in a fit.' 'Am I?' said the poor little Piskey. 'I am feeling very queer. It was a queerness that made me fall on my little stumjacket. Am I ill like those great men and women creatures we sometimes entice into the bogs with Piskey-lights?' 'We have never heard of a Piskey getting ill or sick,' said a little brown Piskey, 'have we?' turning to speak to the Little Fiddler, who had come over to his companions, bringing his fiddle with him. 'I most certainly haven't,' answered the Little Fiddler. 'Then what is the matter with me, if I'm not sick?' asked the little Piskey who was looking so queer. 'Perhaps Granfer Piskey will be able to tell you, for I can't,' said the Tiny Fiddler. 'Where is Granfer Piskey?' asked the poor little sufferer. 'I am afraid I am getting worse, for all the dance has left my legs.' 'Granfer Piskey is over on the Island,' cried a little Piskey. 'So he is,' said all the other Piskeys, sending their glance in that direction, where, on the edge of a beetling cliff facing Castle Gardens, stood a tiny old man, with a white beard flowing down to his bare little feet. He was dressed, as were all the other Piskeys, in a bright green coat and a red stocking cap. He disappeared into a Piskey-hole the Piskeys had dug in the cliff, which led down into an underground passage between the Island and the mainland, and very soon he reappeared from another hole in Castle Gardens, a few feet from where the little Piskeys were anxiously awaiting him. 'Why are you not fiddling, dancing and laughing?' asked the little Whitebeard, winking his eyes on the silent little Piskey crowd, standing near their little brother Piskey who was looking so queer. 'You are wasting precious time standing here doing nothing. Before a great while the moon will have set over Trevose, and the time for merry-making and high-jinks will be over,' he added, as not a Piskey spoke. 'We are not fiddling, dancing and laughing because of something that has befallen our little brother,' said the Tiny Fiddler at last, pointing to the poor little Piskey who had raised himself to a sitting position and was seated on the Piskey-ring. 'He is a rum-looking little customer, sure 'nough,' said the old Whitebeard, glancing in the direction of the place where the Little Fiddler pointed. 'What is the matter with him?' 'That is what we want to know,' answered the Little Fiddler. 'Come and have a closer look at him, Granfer Piskey;' and Granfer Piskey came. 'What is the matter with him?' asked one of the Piskeys when the Whitebeard had stared down a minute or more on the little atom of misery sitting humped up on the edge of the great green ring like a toad on a hot shovel. 'You are so old and wise, you will be able to tell us what ails him, if anybody can. He thinks he is sick like the big people we lead a fine dance round the fields and commons sometimes,' as Granfer Piskey stood stock-still before the little afflicted Piskey, winking and blinking and solemnly shaking his head. 'He is not sick like those people of whom you spoke,' said the Whitebeard at last. 'He has----' 'The make-outs,' shrilled a little voice with a laugh somewhere in the background. 'No, he hasn't the make-outs, you impudent little rascal!' said Granfer Piskey, without lifting his gaze from the poor little fellow on the edge of the ring. 'That's a complaint from which you apparently suffer.' 'What has he?' asked the Tiny Fiddler, impatiently scraping his fiddle-stick over his fiddle, as if to emphasize his words. 'It isn't what he has, but what he hasn't,' said the old Whitebeard, in the same slow, solemn voice. 'I was going to say that our poor little brother has lost his laugh.' 'Lost his laugh!' cried little Fiddler Piskey and all the other little Piskeys; and their tiny faces of consternation showed what a terrible thing had befallen their poor little brother. 'Yes, he has had the sad misfortune to lose his laugh,' said the little old Whitebeard, winking and blinking harder than ever as he stood before the unhappy little Piskey who had lost his laugh; 'and, worse still, he is quite done for till he finds it again.' 'Where has my laugh gone to, Granfer Piskey?' asked the miserable little Piskey who had met with that dreadful misfortune. 'I don't know more than the Little Man in the moon,' answered the tiny old Whitebeard; 'but if I were you I would go and look for it.' 'Where must I go and look for my laugh?' asked the poor little Piskey. 'I have not the smallest idea; but I should go and search for it till I found it.' 'Will you come with me and search for my laugh?' asked the little Piskey, with a look of anxiety in his wee dark eyes, as Granfer Piskey was moving away. 'I am afraid I can't. It is my duty to stop with your brothers to see that they don't grow silly and lose their laugh. Besides, it is not quite the thing for an old Whitebeard like me to go travelling about the country with a youngster like you, in search of a laugh.' 'Will you go with me to look for my laugh?' asked the little Piskey, fixing his gaze on the Tiny Fiddler. 'I would go with you gladly, if I were not Fiddler Piskey,' he answered, touching his fiddle lightly with his bow. 'But if I were to go gallivanting up and down the country in search of your laugh, there would be nobody to play the dancing tune when our brothers dance in the moonshine.' 'Won't one of you go with me and help me to find my laugh?' begged the miserable little fellow, glancing from one Piskey to another as they crowded round him. 'We would if we hadn't so much dancing to do,' they said. 'We have to dance in every Piskey-ring from Tintagel Head to Crackington Hawn up St. Gennys, before the moon grows as small as a wren's claw.' 'Must I go by myself to search for my laugh?' said the poor little Piskey in a heart-breaking voice. 'Yes, you must go by yourself to look for your laugh,' answered all the little Piskeys. 'You should not have been so foolish as to lose it;' and the selfish little Brown Men--Granfer Piskey, Fiddler Piskey, and all the other Piskeys--turned their backs on their unfortunate little brother, and ran away across the gardens and over the cliffs towards Bossiney, half-way between which was another big Piskey-ring; and by-and-by the poor little Piskey who had lost his laugh heard in the distance, as he sat all alone in the great grassy place, their merry laughter and the music of Fiddler Piskey's tiny fiddle. He was a very sad little Piskey as he listened to the merriment of his little brother Piskeys, and the moon, sailing along the dark velvety blue of the midnight sky above the ruins of King Arthur's Castle and Gardens, never looked down on such a woebegone little Piskey before. He had always been happy and gay till now, and having no laugh was such a strange experience that it was no wonder he felt as miserable and wisht [1] as he did. As he sat there all alone on the ring his own little dancing feet had helped to make, two tiny hands were suddenly thrust up out of a small earth-heap half a foot from where he was sitting. So dainty were the hands, that he thought they belonged to one of the little Good People, a distant relation of his; and thinking that somehow one had got buried under the earth, he got up from the ring to help her out, and, without waiting to say 'Allow me,' or anything so polite, he caught hold of the wee hands, and pulling with all his strength, he dragged something very dark and soft out of the earth-heap, and saw to his surprise and disgust that it was the round plump body of a mole! 'Whatever did you drag me out of the want-hill for, you horrid creature! whoever you are?' cried the mole, who was not as soft as she looked. 'It took me hours to throw up that beautiful hill, and now it has fallen down into my tunnel, and my work will all have to be done over again, thanks to you.' 'I am so sorry,' said the Piskey. 'I saw two dinky little hands sticking up, and thought a relation of mine had got buried; and when I did my best to get her out I found it was only a want, as the country people call you moles.' 'A want indeed!' exclaimed the mole. 'Who are you, pray, to speak so disdainfully? If I am only a want, I was not always the poor thing I am now. Once upon a time I was a very great lady, and because I was foolish and proud and very vain of my beauty I was turned into a mole. My little hands are the only things left of me to show who I once was.' 'I am very sorry for you,' said the Piskey, with strong note of sympathy in his voice, so entirely new to him that he scarcely knew it was himself speaking; for Piskeys, although they are merry and gay, are often selfish in the extreme. 'I am more sorry for you than I can say,' he went on. 'It cannot be nice to be only a want, when once you were a beautiful lady. I am a Piskey,' as the little dark mole was silent. 'A Piskey, are you?' she cried, speaking at last. 'I remember you little Piskey people quite well, and have cause to remember. Once, when I was a grand lady and wore fine clothes, you Piskeys led me into a bog and spoilt my silken gown. I did not bless you then, and I do not bless you now. You are still up to your tricks, I find to my cost, for you have done your best to pull down my house about my ears.' 'I did not mean to do anything so unkind,' said the little Piskey. 'I am not merry enough now to play games on anyone.' 'How is that?' asked the mole. 'I have lost my laugh, and my heart is as heavy as lead,' he answered sorrowfully. 'Lost your laugh!' cried the mole. 'That is very strange.' 'Yes, it is; and I am quite done for, so Granfer Piskey told my little brothers, till I find it again.' 'Why don't you go and look for your laugh instead of throwing down want-hills?' said the mole severely. 'It would be more to your credit if you did.' 'I suppose it would,' replied the Piskey; 'but, unfortunately, I don't know where to go and look for my laugh. Have you seen it?' 'No, I haven't,' snapped the mole; 'I can't see without eyes. I have lost my eyesight through working underground for so many long centuries.' 'Do you know anybody who has seen my laugh?' asked the little Piskey, 'and who would kindly tell me where to go and find it?' 'I am afraid I don't,' answered the mole, 'except the Little Man in the Lantern. He is the most likely person I know to have seen your laugh. He is always flipping about the country in the night-time in his little Lantern, and sees most things that wander by night. He is a kind-hearted little fellow, and if he has seen your laugh, he'll be sure to help you to find it. You know, of course, where the little Lantern Man is to be found?' 'I have seen his Lantern in the marshes sometimes.' answered the Piskey. 'I saw it rush by a few weeks ago, when I and my brothers were lying snug and warm in a great Piskey-bed at Rough Tor Marsh. But as I do not happen to know the Lantern Man, will you please come with me to Rough Tor Marsh and ask him if he has seen my laugh?' 'What next will you ask me to do?' cried the mole. 'No, I cannot go with you. I am far too busy to go tramping round the country with a little Brown Piskey like you, in search of a laugh. I have a tunnel to make across Castle Gardens for my dear little baby wants to run about in, and I must do it before the sun shines over the Tors. If you really want to find your laugh, you must go and ask the Lantern Man yourself. The sooner you go the better, or you may lose the chance of asking him if he has seen it.' 'I dare say you are right,' said the little Piskey, with a heavy sigh. 'But I don't like the idea of travelling all the way from here to Rough Tor Marsh. My feet are heavy like my heart, now I have lost my laugh; yet I suppose I must go, for I am a wisht poor thing without it, and you would say so, too, Mrs. Mole, if your eyesight wasn't so bad.' 'Mrs. Mole, indeed!' snapped the velvet-coated little creature, raising her tiny hands in anger at such an insult. 'I beg to tell you that I am not Mrs. Mole, but the Lady Want, and that, although I have fallen from my high estate, I am still a lady of high degree, as my tiny hands bear witness;' and she held them out for him to see. 'I'm not up in fine distinctions,' said the little Piskey in a humble voice, 'and I beg your ladyship's pardon.' The Piskey's sad little voice so appeased 'the Lady Want' that she fully forgave his ignorance, and told him he was quite nice-mannered for a Piskey, and hoped the little Lantern Man had seen his laugh, and would be able to tell him where to find it; and then her little ladyship disappeared into the mole-hill, her tiny lady hands and all! When she had gone, the little Piskey turned his face towards the east, where the Tors rose up dark and shadowy against the moonlit sky. Then he looked back at the great keep, and turned his glance on the Castle Gardens, where, in the long ago, courtly knights and great ladies walked among the flowers that blossomed there under the shadow of the loopholed walls, and listened, as they walked, to the music of the Tintagel sea and the great waves that sometimes broke against the dark cliffs of the headland on which the grim old castle stood, where Good King Arthur was born. The little Piskey was saying good-bye to that delightful spot, with its soft turf and the beautiful Piskey-ring on which he had danced times without number; for the poor, lonely little fellow did not know if he should ever come back again. Then he broke off a bit of a knapweed stem for a staff to help him on his journey to Rough Tor Marsh, [2] and before the moon had laid down a lane of silver fire on the rippling waters between Tintagel Head and Trevose, the little Piskey had set out on his travels in search of his laugh. Piskeys always travel by night, and after many nights of wandering, the little Piskey who had lost his laugh came to the bog country, where he had last seen the little Lantern. Very tired and footsore was that poor little Piskey after his long journey, for, having lost his laugh, he had no dance in his feet to help him along, and he felt so done up as he sat by the great bog, or Piskey-bed, as he called it, that he did not much care whether he found his laugh or not. But when he had rested awhile he felt better, and looked over the great marshy place with eager eyes, to see if the little Lantern Man was anywhere about. To his delight he was; for far away in the distance he saw the white gleam of his Lantern. He kept his eyes upon the light, and by-and-by, when the Lantern came rocking over the bog in his direction, he stood up on the edge of the water ready to call. It disappeared ever so many times among the bog-myrtles and willows, but every time it reappeared it was closer. When it came near enough for him to see the little Lantern Man inside, he shouted: 'Little Man in the Lantern, please stop: I want to ask you something.' But whether the Lantern Man heard or not, he did not stop, and he and his Lantern flipped by the disappointed little Piskey as quickly as a widdy-mouse [3] on the wing, and was lost to sight in the reeds and rushes on the other side of the great marsh. After a while the little Lantern Man came back to the place where the Piskey was still standing, and the light from the Lantern was brighter and softer than a hedge full of glow-worm lights shining all at once. As the Lantern was passing the little Piskey, he called out louder than before, 'Little Man in the Lantern, please stop; I want to ask you something.' But the little Lantern Man did not stop, and he and his Lantern rushed by as quickly as before, and the poor little Piskey followed the rocking Lantern with his eyes over the great marsh. Just as he was in despair of the wonderful little Lantern coming his way again, it came, and so fast did it come, and so afraid was he of its passing him without making himself heard, that he shouted with all his might, 'Please, little Lantern Man, stop; I want to ask you something.' And to his joy the little Lantern Man stopped. The door of the little Lantern opened wide, and a tiny, shining face looked out. 'Did anybody call?' asked the little Lantern Man in a voice so kind that the Piskey's little heart leaped for joy. 'Yes, I called,' said the little Piskey. 'I called twice before, but you did not stop.' 'I never heard you call till now,' said the little Lantern Man. 'Who are you, and what do you want?' 'I am an unfortunate little Piskey who has lost his laugh,' answered the Piskey, 'and I have tramped all the way from Tintagel Head to Rough Tor Marsh to ask if you have seen it.' 'Lost your laugh, you poor little chap!' ejaculated the little Lantern Man in the same kind voice. 'How came you to lose it?' The little Piskey told him how he had lost his laugh, and what Granfer Piskey had said, and how the mole who called herself the Lady Want had told him to come to him. 'I would gladly help you to find your laugh if I knew where it was,' said the Lantern Man when the Piskey had told him all; 'but, unfortunately, I have never seen it.' 'Haven't you?' cried the poor little Piskey. 'I am disappointed. As you are always travelling about the country in your little Lantern, I felt sure you had seen my laugh.' 'I only travel in marshy ground,' said the little Lantern Man, still standing in the doorway of his tiny Lantern; 'and your laugh may not have passed along my way.' 'Do you happen to know anybody else who has seen my laugh?' asked the little Piskey anxiously. 'Nobody except Giant Tregeagle, of whom I dare say you have heard--that unhappy fellow who for some terrible wrong-doing has to dip Dozmare [4] Pool dry with a limpet-shell.' 'Yes, I have heard about that great Giant from Granfer Piskey,' answered the little Piskey. 'He was a wicked seigneur who once had a fine house at Dozmare Pool and a great park on Bodmin Moors, and he is often flying about the country with the Wicked One at his heels.' 'The very same,' cried the little Lantern Man. 'He travels from east to west, and from west to south, and back again. He will be sure to have seen your laugh.' 'I am afraid my laugh is too small for a great big giant to have noticed, even if it passed him,' said the little Piskey. 'He isn't so big but what he can see a laugh,' said the little Lantern Man. 'You had better go and ask him.' 'I don't know where he is,' said the little Piskey, who was in a most dejected frame of mind. 'He is at Dozmare Pool--or was not long since, doing his best to dip the big pool dry.' 'I am rather tired after tramping here from Tintagel,' said the little fellow, 'and I don't feel like going all the way to Dozmare Pool. I have no spring in my legs since my laugh left me,' he added, as the little Lantern Man smiled rather sadly. 'I never knew what it was to be tired and wisht before I lost my laugh.' 'I don't suppose you did, you poor little chap!' cried the little Lantern Man, 'and you must do all you can to find your laugh. I am going to Dozmare Pool, or the Magic Lake, as it was called in the long ago; and if you don't mind travelling in my Lantern, I'll give you a lift as far as that.' 'Will you?' exclaimed the little Piskey, his tiny brown face brightening as the Lantern Man smiled. 'You are very kind, and I will go with you gladly.' 'That's right!' cried the little Lantern Man; and he held out his hand, which shone like his face, and helped the little brown Piskey into his Lantern. When the Piskey was safe inside the Lantern, he thought it was the very brightest place he was ever in--'even brighter than a fairy's palace,' he said. 'There is no seat in my Lantern except the floor,' said the little Lantern Man, as the Piskey looked about him. 'The floor is not uncomfortable, if you care to sit down. I always sleep on it when my night work of giving light to the poor things that live in the marshes is done.' 'I would rather stand, thank you.' returned the Piskey. 'I can look out of your windows better.' 'Do as you like, only it is my duty to tell you that you would be safer on the floor. My Lantern and I travel so fast that the creatures that fly by night often knock up against us and turn us upside down.' The little Lantern Man shut the door of his Lantern as he was speaking, and in another minute they were rushing over Rough Tor Marsh at a fearful speed, and the little Piskey had to hold on to the frame of one of the tiny windows to keep himself on his feet. By Rough Tor's granite-piled heights the bright little Lantern went. On by Bronwilli (Brown Willy) it sped, and by many a solitary hill, almost as wild and untamed as old Rough Tor itself. Over lonely moors, bogs, rivers, and streams, it flew, and rocked and whirled as it went. As it sped on it bumped against all manner of strange creatures, and once a night-hawk [5] turned the little Lantern upside down, and the Piskey found himself standing on his head with his tiny lean legs sticking up in the air; and he looked so funny that the little Lantern Man laughed till the tears ran down his shining face, and if the Piskey had had his laugh he would have laughed too! On and on the Lantern rushed, zigzagging up and down, down and up, and as it went strange moths and queer things that go about only by night fluttered their wings against its bright windows and door. Once a widdy-mouse, with a face like a cat, looked in, and then vanished into the darkness; and once a short-eared owl gripped the Lantern in his talons, but it sped on all the same. About an hour after midnight the Lantern reached Dozmare Pool, which lies on the top of a great lonely moor surrounded by desolate hills. The moon was only a few days old, and had set long before the sun had gone down; but it was by no means dark by the big pool, for there was starshine from innumerable stars, and also the light that fell from the wonderful little Lantern. The little Lantern Man stopped his Lantern on a boulder by the pool, where was stretched a huge dark form, almost as big as a headland. It was Giant Tregeagle, lying face down on the margin of the pool, dipping water with a limpet-shell which had a hole in it. The little Lantern Man opened the door of his Lantern, and telling the little Piskey that now was his chance to ask the Giant about his laugh, he helped him out. 'Shout into his ear till he hears you,' he whispered, hanging out of his door, 'and don't despair if he does not hear you just at first.' The Piskey stepped up quite close to the great Giant, and he looked so tiny beside him that the little Lantern Man laughed, and said he was like a God's little cow [6] by the side of a plough-horse. 'Why,' he said, 'his ear alone would make a dozen little chaps like you and me. Now I must be off and give light to the poor things that want light. Good luck to you, my friend, in finding your laugh;' and the little Lantern Man closed the door of his Lantern, which sped away over the big pool, shedding light as it went. The Piskey watched the Lantern till it was hidden among the reeds and rushes, and then he turned his face to the Giant's ear, and when he had climbed up into it, he shouted: 'Giant Tregeagle, Giant Tregeagle, I am a poor little Piskey who has lost his laugh. Please stop dipping water for a minute, and tell me if you have seen it.' But the Giant took no notice of the little Piskey, and went on dipping out water with a limpet-shell that had a hole in it. Again and again the tiny brown Piskey shouted into the Giant's ear, but the big Giant took no more notice of his little piping voice than if a fly had buzzed close to his ear, and went on dipping. Once more the Piskey shouted with all the voice he had, thrusting his red-capped head into the hollow of the Giant's ear as he shouted: 'Giant Tregeagle, Giant Tregeagle, I am a poor little Piskey who has lost his laugh. Please stop dipping water for a minute, and tell me if you have seen it.' This time the Giant heard, and without pausing for a moment his hopeless task of emptying the pool dry, he said: 'What tiny squeak did I hear?' The Piskey was too frightened to answer, for Giant Tregeagle's voice was almost as loud as the roar of breakers breaking in the cavern under King Arthur's Castle, and the tiny fellow crouched down in the curl of the Giant's ear. 'What tiny squeak did I hear?' again asked the Giant; and the little Piskey, taking his courage in both his hands, answered back as loud as he could: 'It was a little Piskey who spoke to you--a little Piskey who has had the great misfortune to lose his laugh.' 'A little Piskey has lost his laugh, has he?' roared Giant Tregeagle. 'Why, that's nothing compared to a Giant who has lost his soul!' 'Have you lost your soul?' cried the little Piskey, who, having got the Giant's ear, could now make his tiny voice distinctly heard. 'Yes, I have lost my soul,' moaned the great fellow, and his moan shivered over the surface of Dozmare Pool, and made all the sallows that grew beside it shiver and shake as if a blasting wind had passed over them; and the reeds and rushes growing in the water sighed so sadly that the little Piskey felt ever so wisht, and sighed too. 'How did you come to lose your soul, Mister Giant?' asked the little Piskey after a while. 'That's a question,' answered the Giant, beginning again his hopeless task of emptying the pool. 'Have you never looked for your soul?' queried the tiny fellow who, having lost his laugh, felt very sorry for the unhappy Giant who had lost so precious a thing as his soul. 'It was no good to look for my soul when I gave it away in exchange for wealth,' cried the Giant; 'I can never get it back again unless I empty this big pool of every drop of water that is in it.' 'And can't you do that, and you a giant?' asked the little Piskey in surprise. 'I am afraid I can't with a limpet-shell that has a hole in it; and I am not allowed to use any other.' 'Will you let me help you to empty the pool?' asked the tiny Piskey. 'I am only a little bit of a chap compared with you, I know--a God's little cow by the side of a plough-horse, the Man in the Lantern said,' as the Giant laughed sardonically; 'and my dinky hand is nothing for size, but it hasn't a hole in it.' 'You can help me if you like,' said the Giant with another sardonic laugh. 'It will be perhaps another case of a mouse freeing the lion!' 'Who knows?' cried the Piskey, who took the Giant's remark quite seriously; and climbing out of the huge ear, he slid down over the boulder to the pool, and making a dipper of his tiny hand, began to dip out water as fast as he could, and never stopped dipping once till a movement behind him made him pause, and, looking up, he saw the great big Giant on his feet towering above him like a tor, with an awful look of rage on his face. 'I can never, never, empty Dozmare Pool with a limpet-shell that has a hole in it,' howled the Giant--'no, not if I dip till the Day of Doom;' and he flung the shell into the big pool. As he flung it a great blast of rage broke from him and lashed the dark water of the big pool in fury. He howled and howled, and his howls were heard in every part of the lonely waste surrounding the pool, and went roaring round and round the far-stretching moors, and were echoed by the desolate hills. By-and-by the Giant turned his back on the pool and strode away in the direction of the sea, howling and roaring as he went. The little Piskey was so terrified by the Giant's roaring that he crept into a water-rat's hole, and never ventured out for a night and a day. The second night after the Giant had gone he came out of the hole to see if he had returned, but he had not. He was disappointed in spite of the fright he had received, for the Giant had never told him whether he had seen his laugh, and he did not know where to go in search of it, or whom to ask if it had been seen. As he thought about this, he became very miserable--almost as miserable as the unhappy Giant who had sold his soul, and he wished with all his heart that the kind little Man in the Lantern would come his way again. As he was wishing this he looked over the big pool, which was very dark and unlit by single star, when something very soft and bright smote the black water on the opposite side of the pool. Thinking it was the dear little Man in his Lantern come in answer to his wish, he fixed his gaze upon the brightness, and in a minute or two a little Barge shot out from the reeds and came swiftly towards him, and he saw (for the Piskeys can see in the dark like a cat) that the Barge was being rowed across the big pool by a little old man. The soft light that smote the water came from the prow of the little craft and lit up the face of the Bargeman, which was half turned towards the Piskey, and was very seared and brown. When the Barge came near the spot where the Piskey was standing, the Tiny Bargeman said: 'Who are you, looking as if you had the world on your back? and what are you doing here this time of night, when all good folk ought to be in bed?' 'I am a poor unfortunate Piskey who has lost his laugh,' answered the tiny little Piskey, and his voice was very sad. 'It is a dreadful thing to lose your laugh,' said the little old Bargeman. 'It is,' responded the little Piskey. 'The little Man in the Lantern thought so too, and he brought me all the way from Rough Tor Marsh to Dozmare Pool in his Lantern to ask Giant Tregeagle if he had seen it.' 'And didn't you ask Giant Tregeagle that important question after the little Lantern Man had brought you so far?' asked the little Bargeman. 'I did, but he was so troubled about something he had lost--his soul it was--that he forgot to say whether he had seen my laugh.' 'That is a pity, for the Giant is now on St. Minver sand-hills making trusses of sand and sand-ropes to bind them with, and when the sand-ropes break in his hand--which they are sure to do when he tries to lift them--he will fly away to Loe Bar [7] to work at another impossible task.' 'How do you know that?' asked the little Piskey. The Tiny Bargeman looked at the green-coated, red-capped little Piskey with a strange expression in his dark eyes for a second or two, and then he said: 'I have lived so long in the world that I know most things. People who knew me in a far-away time called me Merlin the Magician, and said I had all the secrets of the world in the back of my head.' 'Then you will be able to tell me where my laugh has gone to?' struck in the little Piskey eagerly. 'I was speaking more of the past than of the present,' said the Tiny Bargeman. 'Since the time of which I spoke, I have lived here by this lake, now called Dozmare Pool. I lived sealed up in a stone, into which the Lady of the Lake shut me till a hundred years or so ago.' 'How very unkind of the Lady to put you into a stone!' said the little Piskey indignantly. 'Whatever did she do it for?' 'Thereby hangs a tale which is not good for a small Piskey like you to hear,' returned the Tiny Bargeman, with another strange look in his dark, mysterious little eyes. 'When Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, shut me up in the stone--like a toad in a hole she said--she thought she had done for me, and that I should soon die. But Merlin, the man who worked magic, was not so easily got rid of.' 'And didn't you die?' asked the Piskey innocently. 'You must have lost your wits, as well as your laugh, to ask such a stupid question,' said the Tiny Bargeman. 'I did not die, or I should not be sitting in this Barge now. But I grew down to the tiny old fellow you now see me through working my way out of that dreadful stone. My magical powers have also dwindled, I fear; for they are as nothing to what they once were. Therefore I am no longer Merlin the Magician, but only Merlin the Bargeman of Dozmare Pool.' 'And can't you tell me where my laugh is?' asked the little Piskey wistfully. 'I am a miserable, poor thing without my laugh.' 'I'm sure you are,' said the Tiny Bargeman, 'and I'll do what I can to help you to find it. I wasn't shut up in a stone all those centuries for nothing, as, perhaps, you have not lost your laugh for nothing. I'll tell you at once that your laugh has never been near this desolate spot, but it is possible that Giant Tregeagle may have seen it on his wild flight down to St. Minver sand-hills, or maybe he has seen it on the golden dunes. I advise you to go there and ask him.' 'How can I get to the sand-hills?' asked the poor little Piskey. 'It would take me such a long time to get there with no dance in my feet; and there is no little Lantern Man here to give me a lift in his Lantern.' 'You need not trouble your head how you are to get to the sand-hills. I'll take you near there in my Barge.' 'In your Barge?' echoed the little Piskey, looking over his shoulder to the long stretch of country between him and the sea, and then at the great pool set like a cup on the top of the moors, with no visible outlet. 'You are wondering how I can take you to the great outer sea,' said the Tiny Bargeman. 'For your satisfaction I will tell you that there is an underground waterway that leads down to Trebetherick Bay, close to St. Minver sand-hills. I will take you there in my Barge.' 'Why are you so kind?' asked the little Piskey, looking gratefully at the little old Bargeman. 'My brothers were not nearly so kind.' 'I saw you helping the wicked Giant to dip this great mere dry, and I thought so kind a deed deserved another,' answered the Little Bargeman lightly; 'and I told myself as I watched you that I would do you a kindness, if you needed a kindness. Will you let me take you to Trebetherick Bay?' 'Gladly,' answered the little Piskey. 'Get into my Barge, then,' cried the little old Bargeman; and the Piskey scrambled in and sat in the stern of the Barge facing the Bargeman. 'I like rowing about this pool,' remarked the Tiny Bargeman, as he put his little craft about and began to row from the shore. 'It has so many memories. It was here by this mere that the Lady of the Lake (not the one who shut me up in a stone) forged the wonderful Excalibur, the two-handled sword with the jewelled hilt, which she gave to Arthur the King, who, you know, afterwards ruled all the land. It was here that Sir Bedivere--one of the Knights of the far-famed Round Table--flung the sword by order of the wounded King, and was caught by the Lake Lady's uplifted arm. It was here---- But you are not listening,' he cried, breaking off his sentence as he noticed that the little Piskey was not paying any attention to what he was saying. 'I'm afraid I wasn't,' he said, very much ashamed. 'I am very dull and stupid since I lost my laugh.' 'You can't be more stupid than I was when I was shut up in the stone,' said the tiny old Bargeman; 'and I can well excuse your stupidity.' He said nothing more, for just then the Barge reached the shore from which it had put off, and, without getting out, he reached over and touched a big stone with an oar. He had no sooner touched the stone than it sprang back, and revealed a dark, deep tunnel, into which the little Barge shot like a thing alive. 'This underground waterway was known to the fair ladies who lived by the pool, and who took away the wounded King in their little ship to the Vale of Avilion,' remarked the Bargeman when the stone shut up itself behind them. 'Did they?' asked the little Piskey, trying to look interested. 'Yes,' he answered; 'and they also knew of another waterway, which will never be revealed to anybody except by the Good King,' he added half to himself, looking straight before him into the darkness of the narrow passage as he steered. The tiny Barge, which was a very ancient-looking little craft, with a gilded dragon forming its prow, sped on. But for its size, it might well have been the same little ship to which Merlin, the little old Bargeman, had just referred. The waterway was very long and deep, and the water ran so swiftly that the Barge did not now require to be rowed. It was also very dark, and the only light that shone was the light from the little boat. The little old Bargeman did not speak again till a roaring fell on their ears. 'It is the noise of water breaking on Padstow Doombar,' he said, as the little Piskey looked frightened. 'I thought it was Giant Tregeagle howling,' gasped the little Piskey. 'He hasn't tried to lift his sand-ropes yet, and he won't begin his howl of rage till he finds how brittle they are,' said the Little Bargeman.' And a very good thing for you,' he added; 'for he will be far too angry to tell you whether he has seen your laugh when the ropes of sand break in his great hand. There! we are close now to the great outer sea,' he cried, as the thunder of waves broke more loudly on their ears, and they saw the light of many stars through a narrow opening; and the next minute the little Barge came out into Trebetherick Bay. 'You only have to go up across the hillocks,' said the little old Bargeman, helping the little Piskey out of the barge, 'and if you follow your nose you will soon get to where the Giant is busy making sand-ropes.' 'Thank you for bringing me,' said the little Piskey; but he never knew whether he was heard or not, for the Tiny Bargeman and his ancient Barge vanished as he spoke. The Piskey made haste to follow his nose, and he scrambled up a sand-bank, and hastened as fast as his feet could take him over the sandy common, till he came to the place where Giant Tregeagle was sitting making sand-ropes to bind his trusses of sand which lay all around him. He was sitting by a hillock, his great head showing just above it, when the Piskey came near. The little Piskey climbed nearly to the top of the hillock, and when he got close to the Giant's ear he shouted: 'I am the little Piskey who told you he had lost his laugh. Please stop making sand-ropes for a minute and tell me if you have seen it.' But the big Giant took no notice of the tiny voice, and went on making his ropes of sand. The little Piskey then got into his ear and poked his red-capped head into the hollow of it, and again shouted: 'I am the little Piskey who told you he had lost his laugh, and----' 'Ah! the dinky little fellow who tried to help me to find my soul,' interrupted the great Giant, in a voice almost as loud as the waves breaking on the Padstow Doombar. 'Yes,' answered the Piskey, 'and a dinky Little Bargeman brought me from Dozmare Pool to Trebetherick that you might answer my question.' 'I know who you mean--Merlin, the little old Master of Magic,' cried the Giant in evident astonishment, pausing in his work of making a rope of sand to stare at the little Piskey. 'Fancy his bringing a tiny brown fellow like you from Dozmare Pool to Trebetherick Bay in his Magic Barge! Pigs will fly and sing after this!' 'He saw me helping you to dip the pool dry, and said that one kind deed deserved another,' said the Piskey as meek as a harvest-mouse. 'So he brought me all the way down to St. Minver to know if you had seen my laugh. Have you seen it, Mister Giant?' 'No, I have not seen it,' answered the Giant. 'Nothing so cheerful as a Piskey's laugh would come near such a mountain of misery as I am; and if by an evil chance it did come, it would flee far from my dark shadow.' 'Do you know anyone else who has seen my laugh?' asked the little Piskey piteously. 'Not one; unless your cousins, the Night-riders, have,' answered the Giant, looking at the sand-ropes he had just finished, lying at his feet. 'I must now begin to bind my trusses of sand.' He stooped to lift them as he spoke, and as he tried to take them up they fell to pieces in his hand. As they crumbled away his face was awful to see, and he began to howl and roar, and his cries of rage rang out over the sand-hills and over Trebetherick Bay, and were heard above the noise of waves breaking on the Padstow Doombar. Those roars of rage and anger so frightened the people living in the villages in the neighbourhood of the common that they shook in their beds, and as for the little Piskey, he was so terrified by what he had heard and seen that he tumbled over the hillock up which he had climbed to get into the Giant's ear. When he had picked himself up, Giant Tregeagle was flying away like an evil bird towards the south. The dawn broke soon after the Giant had gone, and as Piskeys always hide by day, he hid himself under a clump of tamarisk, and stayed there till the dark and the stars came again. When he came out he remembered what the Giant had said--that perhaps his cousins, the Night-riders, had seen his laugh. The moon being several days older than when the kind little Lantern Man had taken him to Dozmare Pool, it was now shining brightly over the common, and he knew if the Night-riders were in the neighbourhood of the sand-hills they would soon be riding over the common. As he was gazing about with wistful eyes a young colt came galloping along with scores of little Night-riders astride his back, and as many more hanging on to his mane and tail. The Night-riders, who were little people no bigger than Piskeys, and quite as mischievous, had taken the colt from a farmer's stable close to the common, and were enjoying their stolen ride as only Night-riders could. As they and the colt drew near, the little Piskey stood out in the moonshine and shouted: 'Night-riders, Night-riders, please stop! I want to ask you something.' But the little Night-riders were enjoying their gallop too much to listen or stop, and they flew by like the wind. The colt was fresh, and galloped like mad, and soon went round the common and back again; and as he was galloping by, the Piskey once more shouted to the little Night-riders to stop, but they took no heed, and once more flew by like the wind. Ever so many times the colt galloped round the sandy common, leaping over the hillocks in his mad gallop, and each time he passed, the little Piskey stood out in the moonshine and called out, but the Night-riders took not the slightest notice, nor pulled up the colt to see what he wanted. At last, when the Piskey had given up all hope of the Night-riders stopping, the colt, who was quite worn out with galloping so hard round and round the broken common, put his foot into a rabbit-hole and came down with a crash, with his many little riders on top of him. One little Night-rider, who happened to be astride the colt's left ear, was pitched off at the Piskey's feet. He looked as bright as a robin in his little red riding-coat, brown leggings, and his bright green cap with a wren's feather stuck in its front. When he had picked himself up, he thrust his tiny brown hands into his breeches pocket, stared hard at the little Piskey, and cried: 'What wisht little beggar are you?' 'I am a poor little chap who has lost his laugh,' answered the Piskey. 'I shouted every time you galloped the colt past here to ask if you had seen it, but you never stopped.' 'Of course we did not stop galloping because a Piskey called,' said the little Night-rider. 'How came you to be such a gawk as to lose your laugh?' 'I have no idea,' the Piskey returned. 'I only know it went away all of a sudden, and I have been searching for it ever since. Have you seen my little lost laugh?' 'No; but Granfer Night-rider may have,' answered the little Night-rider. 'He has wonderful eyes for seeing things that are lost.' 'Is Granfer Night-rider here?' asked the Piskey, sending his glance in the direction of the colt, which was almost smothered with Night-riders, some standing on his side as he lay, others still in the stirrups they had made in his tail and mane. 'He was on top of the colt's tail a minute ago,' answered the little Night-rider, following the Piskey's glance. 'There he is,' pointing to a tiny old fellow with a bushy grey beard coming towards them, carrying a tamarisk switch in his hand, with which he lashed the air as he came. He wore a red riding-coat, green breeches, red cap and feather like the other little Night-riders. 'What woebegone little rascal are you?' asked the old Greybeard, staring hard at the Piskey. 'A Piskey who has lost his laugh,' answered the little Night-rider for him, 'and he had the impertinence to want us to stop galloping to tell him if we had seen it.' 'You were very foolish to lose your laugh,' said Granfer Night-rider, standing in front of the unhappy little Piskey. 'How did you manage to lose it?' And the poor little fellow, without lifting his eyes from the sandy ground, told him. 'You are in Queer Lane, my son,' said Granfer Night-rider, when he had told him how he had lost his laugh, 'and I would not give a grain of corn for you.' 'Wouldn't you?' wailed the poor little Piskey. 'No, I wouldn't, nor half a grain either.' Quite a crowd of scarlet-coated little Night-riders had gathered near the Piskey by this time, and had listened to all that was said, and one little Night-rider asked if a Piskey had ever had the misfortune to lose his laugh before. 'Yes, once in the long ago,' answered the old Greybeard, fixing his eye on the little Piskey, who trembled beneath his gaze, 'and what was worse still, he never found it again. And so very unhappy was that little fellow without his laugh, and so miserable did he make everybody with his bewailings, that at last the Piskey tribe to which he belonged sent out a command that whoever found him wandering about the country was to take him in charge as a Piskey vagrant, put him into a Piskey-bag, and hang him upside down like a widdy-mouse in the first cavern they came to. He was found, put into a Piskey-bag, and hung up in a cavern. There he is still, and there he will hang till there are no more Small People!' 'Has the order yet been given for this little Piskey vagrant to be taken up and treated in like manner?' asked another little Night-rider. The poor little Piskey did not wait to hear the answer, but took to his heels and ran as fast as he could to the north, and the little Night-riders who were still standing on the colt watched him till he was out of sight, and Granfer Night-rider and all the other little Night-riders yelled after him to stop, but he did not stop. The Piskey ran and ran, and he never stopped running till he came to Castle Gardens, whence he had started. When he got there he was as exhausted as a colt ridden all night by naughty Night-riders, and he sank down all of a heap by the side of a mole-hill, where two tiny hands were again sticking up. 'Is your ladyship under the hill?' asked the little Piskey when he could speak. 'Yes,' answered the mole. 'Who are you?' 'The little Piskey who lost his laugh.' 'What! haven't you found it yet?' 'No,' he answered sadly, 'and I am dreadfully afraid I never shall. If I don't find it soon I shall be taken up for a Piskey vagrant, put in a bag, and hung upside down like a widdy-mouse in some cavern.' 'That will be a very tragic ending to a bright little Piskey,' said the mole. 'Tell me how you know that that will be your fate if you don't find your laugh.' And the Piskey told her. In fact, the Lady Want was so interested about what Granfer Night-rider had said that she begged him to tell her all his adventures from the time he set out to Rough Tor Marsh in search of his laugh till his return to Castle Gardens, which he was quite glad to do. 'You ought to find your laugh after all your travels and what you have gone through,' said the Lady Want when he had related everything, 'and I hope you will.' 'Does your ladyship happen to know anybody else who may have seen my laugh?' asked the little Piskey wistfully. 'Only one.' 'And who may that one be?' queried the little Piskey. 'Will your ladyship be kind enough to tell me?' 'The Good King Arthur,' the mole answered in a low voice. 'Good King Arthur!' ejaculated the Piskey. 'Why, he is dead, and a dead King is no more good than a Piskey without his laugh.' 'King Arthur is not dead,' said the mole. 'Not dead!' echoed the little Piskey in great surprise. 'No; he was seen perched only last evening on his own seat, which is still called King Arthur's Seat, and which, as I dare say you know, overhangs the sea.' 'Arthur the King not dead!' whispered the little Piskey, as if he could not get over his amazement. 'A precious good thing for you he isn't,' snapped the mole. 'But how isn't he dead?' asked the little Piskey. 'Because he was changed by magic into a bird,' answered the mole; 'he haunts the Dundagel [8] cliffs and the ruins of his old castle in the form of a chough. He was wounded almost unto death in his last great battle, it is true,' she added, for the small man looked as if he wanted this strange happening fully explained, 'and the marks of the battle he fought and the hurts he received are yet upon him, as the legs and beak of the great black bird plainly show--as plainly as my own tiny hands that I was once a great lady. But he is still alive. If you should see a bird with a red beak and legs flying over King Arthur's Castle as day is beginning to break, you may be quite certain that he is King Arthur. If he has seen your laugh he will be sure to tell you. He is very kind and good, as all the world knows.' 'I am glad the Good King is not dead,' said the little Piskey. 'I'll try and keep awake till the dawn so that I can ask him about my laugh; but I am so tired.' The little fellow did his best to keep awake, but he was too worn out with his run from St. Minver sand-hills to Tintagel Castle to sit and watch for the coming of the red-legged bird; and long before the sun wheeled up behind the Tors and shone upon the sea he was sound asleep under a great mallow growing by one of the grey old walls. When he awoke a day and a night had come and gone, and the birth of a new day was at hand. When he crawled out from under the mallow, the first thing he saw on the Island facing him was the dark form of a great black chough. He was perched on the wall above the old arched doorway, gazing gravely in front of him. The Piskey lost not a moment in getting across to the Island, which he did by the Piskey passage known only to the Piskeys; and when he had caught the bird's attention he said: 'I am a poor little Piskey who has lost his laugh, and I am come to ask the Good King Arthur if he has seen it.' But the bird was too high up for him to make himself heard, and he had to wait patiently till it flew down. After waiting a short time it did, and perched on a stick stuck in the ground. The Piskey ran over, and, clasping his hands, he repeated what he had just said. 'How came you to know I was King Arthur?' asked the chough, ignoring the little fellow's question. 'The mole who says she is the Lady Want told me,' he answered. 'Ah, I know her--the grand lady who considered the ground on which she walked was not good enough for her dainty feet, and has now, as a punishment, to walk under the ground--a lesson to all children of pride.' 'But please, Good King Arthur, answer my question about my laugh,' pleaded the little Piskey, in an agony of impatience. 'If I don't find it soon something dreadful will happen to me.' 'Have patience,' said the chough kindly. 'Nothing is ever won by impatience. I have seen something very funny lately running about over the grass. It is like nothing I have ever seen before except in a Piskey's face when he laughs. It is like a laugh gone mad, and it is enough to kill a man with laughing only to watch its antics. It made me laugh till I ached when I first noticed it. It does not make a sound, but its grimaces are worth flying a hundred miles only to see.' 'It must have been my laugh you saw,' cried the Piskey--'my dear little lost laugh that I have travelled so far to find. Where is it now, Good King Arthur?' 'It was here not long since,' answered the bird, who did not deny that he was Arthur the King. 'Why, there it is quite close to you,' pointing with his long-pointed beak to the most comical-looking thing you ever saw, on the grass a foot from where the Piskey was standing. 'It was a laugh gone mad,' as the chough said. The Piskey looked behind him, and when he saw the little bit of laughing, grinning absurdity on the grass, he jumped for joy and shrieked: 'It is my own little laugh that I lost!' Holding out both his arms, he cried, 'Oh, dear little laugh, come back to me! Oh, dear little laugh, come back to me!' And the droll little thing, which was a grin with a laugh and a laugh with a grin, came over to the Piskey, and began to climb up his legs, grinning and doubling itself up with laughter as it climbed, till it reached his chin, when it narrowed itself into a tiny grin and vanished into the Piskey. The next moment the Piskey was shouting at the top of his voice, 'I have got my laugh! I have got my laugh!' and he ran off laughing and dancing to the edge of the cliff and disappeared into the Piskey-hole, and in a few minutes more he was on Castle Gardens in the great Piskey-ring, laughing and dancing and dancing and laughing. His laugh was so loud and so free that his brother Piskeys heard him from afar, and came running over the cliffs from Bossiney to see what ever had happened. Little Fiddler Piskey was the first to reach the Gardens, and the first glance at the little whirling figure told him that his little brother had found his laugh; and putting his fiddle in position, he began fiddling away as hard as he could. As he fiddled, the other Piskeys, including Granfer Piskey, reached the ring, and the next minute they were all dancing and laughing as they had never laughed and danced before; but the one who laughed the heartiest was the little Piskey who had lost and found his laugh. They danced for a good hour, the little fiddler in their midst fiddling his fiddle, all the while keeping time with his head and foot, heedless that the daylight was driving the darkness away to the country to which it belongs; and King Arthur the Bird flew up on the wall and watched, and the mole who called herself the Lady Want let her dainty hands be seen on the mole-hill, till the fiddling, dancing, and laughing were finished, and the Piskeys went off to the Piskey-beds to sleep. THE LEGEND OF THE PADSTOW DOOMBAR In a far-away time Tristram Bird of Padstow bought a gun at a little shop in the quaint old market which in those days opened to the quay, the winding river, and the St. Minver sand-hills. When he had bought his gun he began forthwith to shoot birds and other poor little creatures. After a while he grew more ambitious, and told the fair young maids of Padstow that he wanted to shoot a seal or something more worthy of his gun; and so one bright morning he made his way down to Hawker's Cove, near the mouth of the harbour. When Tristram got there he looked about him to see what he could shoot, and the first thing he saw was a young maid sitting all alone on a rock, combing her hair with a sea-green comb. He was so overcome at such an unexpected sight that he quite forgot what had brought him to the cove, and could do nothing but stare. The rock on which the maiden sat was covered with seaweed, and surrounded by a big pool, called in that distant time the Mermaid's Glass. She was apparently unconscious that a good-looking young man was gazing at her with his bold dark eyes, and as she combed her long and beautiful hair she leaned over the pool and looked at herself in the Mermaid's Glass, and the face reflected in it was startling in its beauty and charm. Tristram Bird was very tall--six feet three in his stockings--and being such a tall young man, he could see over the maiden's head into the pool, and the face in its setting of golden hair reflected in its clear depths entirely bewitched him, and so did her graceful form, which was partly veiled in a golden raiment of her own beautiful hair. As he stood gazing at the bewitching face looking up from the Mermaid's Glass, its owner suddenly glanced over her shoulder, and saw Tristram staring at her. 'Good-morning to you, fair maid,' he said, still keeping his bold dark eyes fixed upon her, telling himself as he gazed that her face was even more bewitching than was its reflection. 'Good-morning, sir,' said she. 'Doing your toilet out in the open,' he said. 'Yes,' quoth she, wondering who the handsome youth could be and how he came to be there. 'Your hair is worth combing,' he said. 'Is it?' said she. 'It is, my dear,' he said. ''Tis the colour of oats waiting for the sickle.' 'Is it?' quoth she. 'Yes; and no prettier face ever looked into the Mermaid's Glass.' 'How do you know?' asked she. 'My heart told me so,' he said, coming a step or two nearer the pool, 'and so did my eyes when I saw its reflection looking up from the water. It bewitched me, sweet.' 'Did it?' laughed she, with a tilt of her round young chin. 'Yes,' he said, with an answering laugh, drawing another step nearer the pool. 'It does not take a man of your breed long to fall in love,' said the beautiful maid, with a toss of her golden head and a curl of her sweet red lips. 'Who told you that?' asked the love-sick young man, going red as a poppy. 'Faces carry tales as well as little birds,' quoth she. 'If my face is a tale-bearer, it will tell you that I love you more than heart can say and tongue can tell,' he said, drawing yet nearer the pool. 'Will it?' said she, combing her golden hair with her sea-green comb. 'Indeed it will, and must,' he said; 'for I love you with all my soul, and I want you to give me a lock of your golden hair to wear over my heart.' 'I do not give locks of my hair to landlubbers!' cried she, with another toss of her proud young head and a scornful curl of her bright red lips. 'A landlubber forsooth!' he said, with an angry flash in his bold black eyes. 'Who are you to speak so scornfully of a man of the land? One would think you were a maid of the sea.' 'I am,' quoth she, twining the tress of her hair she had combed round her shell-pink arm. 'No seamaid is half as beautiful as you,' said Tristram Bird, incredulous of what the maid said. 'But, maid of the sea or maid of the land, I love you, sweet, and I want to have you to wife.' 'Want must be your master, sir,' said she, with an angry flash in her sea-blue eyes. 'Love is my master, sweet maid,' he said. 'You are my love, and you have mastered me.' 'Have I?' said she, with a little toss of her golden head. 'Yes,' he said; 'and now that I have told you you are my love, and I want you to marry me, you will give me a lock of your golden hair, won't you, sweet?' 'I cannot,' said she. 'Give me one little golden wire of your hair, if you won't give me a lock,' he pleaded, coming close to the edge of the pool. 'I will make a golden ring of it,' he said, 'and wear it in the eye of the world.' 'Will you?' said she. 'I will, my dear,' he said. 'But I will not give you a hair of my head even to make a ring with,' said she. 'Then give me one for a leading-string,' he said. 'If you will, my charmer, you shall take the end of it and lead me whithersoever you will.' 'Even to the whipping-post?' said she. 'Even to the whipping-post,' he said. 'So you will be my fair bride, won't 'ee, sweet? If you will consent to love me, I'll make you as happy as the day is long.' 'Will you?' cried she, with a warning look in her sea-blue eyes and a strange little laugh. 'Yes,' he said, thinking her answer meant consent. 'And I've got a dear little house at Higher St. Saviour's, overlooking the river and Padstow Town low in the valley.' 'Have you?' said she. 'I have,' he said. 'And the little house is full of handsome things--a chestful of linen which my own mother wove for me on her loom against the time I should be wed to a pretty maid like you, an oaken dresser with every shelf full of cloam, [9] and a cosy settle where we can sit hand in hand talking of our love. You will marry me soon, won't you, sweet? The little house, and all that's in it, is waiting for my charmer.' 'Is it?' cried the beautiful maid, taking up another tress of her golden hair, and slowly combing its silken length with her sea-green comb. 'But let me tell you once and for ever, I would not marry you if you were decked in diamonds and your house a golden house, and everything in it made of jewels and set in gold.' 'Wouldn't you?' cried Tristram Bird, in great amazement. 'I wouldn't,' said she. 'You are a strange young maid to refuse an upstanding young man like me,' he said, 'who has a house of his own, to say nothing of what is inside it. Why, dozens of fair young maidens up to Padstow would have me to-morrow if I was only to ax them.' 'Then ax them,' cried the beautiful maid, turning her proud young head, and looking out towards Pentire, gorgeous in its spring colouring. 'But I can't ask any of them to marry me when I love you,' cried the infatuated youth. 'You have bewitched me, sweet, and no other man shall have you. If I can't have you living, I'll have you dead. I came down to Hawker's Cove to shoot something to startle the natives of Padstow Town, and they will be startled, shure 'nough, if I shoot a beautiful little vixen like you and take home to them.' 'Shoot me if you will, but marry you I will not,' said the beautiful maiden, with a scornful laugh. 'But I give you fair warning that if you shoot me, as you say you will, you will rue the day you did your wicked deed. I will curse you and this beautiful haven, which has ever been a refuge for ships from the time that ships sailed upon the seas;' and her sea-blue eyes looked up and down the estuary from the headlands that guarded its mouth to the farthest point of the blue, winding river. 'I will shoot you in spite of the curse if you won't consent to be mine,' cried the bewitched young man. 'I will never consent,' said she. 'Then I will shoot you now,' he said, and Tristram Bird lifted his gun and fired, and the ball entered the poor young maiden's soft pink side. She put her hand to her side to cover the gaping wound the shot had made, and as she did so she pulled herself out of the water, and where the feet should have been was the glittering tail of a fish! 'I have shot a poor young Mermaid,' Tristram cried, 'and woe is me!' and he shivered like one when somebody is passing over his grave. 'Yes, you have shot a poor Mermaid,' said the maid of the sea, 'and I am dying, and with my dying breath I curse this safe harbour, which was large enough to hold all the fighting ships of the Spanish Armada and your own, and it shall be cursed with a bar of sand which shall be a bar of doom to many a stately ship and many a noble life, and it shall stretch from the Mermaid's Glass to Trebetherick Bay on the opposite shore, and prevent this haven of deep water from ever again becoming a floating harbour save at full tide. The Mermaid's wraith will haunt the bar of doom her dying curse shall bring until your wicked deed has been fully avenged;' and looking round the great bay of shining waters, laughing and rippling in the eye of the sun, she raised her arms and cursed the harbour of Padstow with a bitter curse, and Tristram shuddered as he listened, and as she cursed she uttered a wailing cry and fell back dead into the pool, and the water where she sank was dyed with her blood. 'I have committed a wicked deed,' said Tristram Bird, gazing into the blood-stained pool, 'and verily I shall be punished for my sin;' and he turned away with the fear of coming doom in his heart. As he went up the cove and along the top of the cliffs the distressful, wailing cry of the Mermaid seemed to follow him, and the sky gloomed all around as he went, and the sea moaned a dreadful moan as it came up the bay. When he reached Tregirls, overlooking the Cove, he stood by the gate for a minute and gazed out over the beautiful harbour. The sea, which only half an hour ago was as blue as the eyes of the seamaid he had shot, and full of smiles and laughter, was now black as ash-buds, save where a golden streak lay across the water from Hawker's Cove to Trebetherick Bay. 'The Mermaid's curse is already working,' moaned Tristram Bird, and he fled through the lane leading to Padstow as if a death-hound was after him. When he reached Place House he met a little crowd of Padstow maids going out flower-gathering. 'Whither away so fast, Tristram Bird?' asked a little maid. 'You aren't driving a teem of snails this time, 'tis plain to see. Where hast thou been?' 'Need you ask?' said a pert young girl. 'He has been away shooting something to startle the maids of Padstow with! What strange new creature did you shoot, Tristram Bird?' 'A wonderful creature with eyes like blue fire,' returned the unhappy youth, looking away over St. Minver dunes towards the Tors--'a sweet, soft creature with beautiful hair, every wire of which was a sunbeam of gold, and her face was the loveliest I ever beheld. It clean bewitched me.' 'A beautiful maid like that, and yet you shot her?' cried all the young maids of Padstow Town. 'Yes, I shot her, to my undoing and the undoing of our fair haven,' groaned Tristram Bird; and he told them all about it--where he had seen the beautiful Mermaid, of his bewitchment from the moment he saw her face of haunting charm looking up at him from the Mermaid's Glass, and of the curse she uttered ere she fell back dead into the pool. All the smiles went out of the bright faces of the Padstow maids, as he told his tale. 'What a pity, Tristram Bird, you should have been so foolish as to shoot a Mermaid!' they said; and they did not go and pick flowers as they had intended, but went back to their homes instead, and Tristram Bird went on to Higher St. Saviour's, where he lived in a little house overlooking Padstow Town nestling like a bird in its nest. A fearful gale blew on the night of the day Tristram Bird shot the Mermaid, and all the next day, too, and the next night; and through the awful howling of the gale was heard the bellowing of the wind-tormented sea. Such a terrible storm had never been known at Padstow Town within the memory of man, so the old Granfer men said, and never a gale lasted so long. When the wind went down the natives of Padstow ventured out to see what the gale had wrought, and sad was the havoc it had made; and some went out to Chapel Stile, where a small chapel stood overlooking the haven, and what should meet their horrified gaze but a terrible bar of sand which the Mermaid's curse had brought there; and it stretched from Hawker's Cove to the opposite shore, and what was worse, the great sand-bar was covered with wrecks of ships and bodies of drowned men. 'It is the bar of doom brought there by the fearful curse of the maid of the sea whom I shot with my brand-new gun,' cried Tristram Bird, who was one of the first to reach the stile when the wind had gone down; and he told them all, as he had told the Padstow maids, of what the Mermaid had said before and after he had shot her. 'And because of the wicked deed I did,' he said, 'I have brought a curse on my native town, and Padstow will never be blessed with a safe and beautiful harbour till the poor Mermaid's death be avenged.' There was a dreadful silence after Tristram Bird had spoken, and the men and women of Padstow Town gazed at each other, troubled and sad, knowing that what the youth, who had been bewitched by the Mermaid's face, had said was true, for there below them was the great bar of sand dividing the outer harbour from the inner, and on it lay the masts and spars of broken ships and the lifeless bodies of the drowned. The wind was quiet, but the sea was still breaking and roaring on the back of the Doombar, and as the waves thundered and broke, a wailing cry sounded forth, like the wail that Tristram heard when the Mermaid disappeared under the water; it sounded like the distressful cry of a woman bewailing her dead, and all who heard shivered and shook, and both old and young looked down on the Doombar with dread in their eyes, but they saw nothing but the dead bodies of the sailors and their broken ships. 'It is the Mermaid's wraith,' cried an old Granfer man, leaning against the grey walls of the ancient chapel, 'and she is wailing the wail of the drowned; and, mark my words, everyone,' letting his eyes wander from one face to another, 'each time a ship is caught on this dreadful bar and lives are lost--as lost they will be--the Mermaid's wraith will bewail the drowned.' And it came to pass as the old man said, and whenever vessels are wrecked on that fateful bar of sand lying across the mouth of Padstow Harbour and men are drowned, it is told that the Mermaid's distressful cry is still heard bewailing the poor dead sailors. THE LITTLE CAKE-BIRD On the Tregoss Moors, where in the long-ago King Arthur and his Noble Knights went a-hunting, was a quaint old thatched cottage built of moorstone, and in it lived an old woman called Tamsin Tredinnick and her little grand-daughter Phillida; it stood between Castle-an-Dinas--a great camp-crowned hill--and the far-famed Roche Rocks. It possessed only one room, which, fortunately, was fairly large, for it had to contain most of old Tamsin's possessions, including a low wooden bedstead, an old oak dresser, a hutch for the grail--a coarse flour of which she made bread for herself and little Phillida--and her spinning-wheel. At the side of the cottage was a small linhey, or outhouse, the door of which the old woman always kept open in inclement weather that the wild creatures of the moors might take shelter from the cold and from the storms that swept over the great exposed moorland spaces. Tamsin was very poor, and could only earn enough to pay the rent of her cottage and to keep herself and little grandchild, who was an orphan, in grail-bread and coarse clothes. This she did by spinning wool, which she sold to a wool-merchant at St. Columb, a small market-town some miles away. She was advanced in years, and getting more unfit to spin every year, she told herself; and the less wool she spun the less money she had to spend on food and clothes for herself and Phillida. But, poor as she was, she was honest and good, and so was her little orphaned grandchild. They seldom complained, and when things were at their worst, and there was no grail left to make bread, or money to buy any, they told each other they had what bettermost people had not--wide moors to look out upon, and pure moorland air, fragrant with moor-flowers, to breathe into their lungs, little birds to sing to them most of the year, and dear little Piskeys to laugh outside their window in the dusk when they were very wisht. [10] Tamsin was a child of Nature, and she loved the big, lonely moors, gorgeous with broom and gorse in the spring-time and fading bracken in the autumn months, with all her simple heart, and so did little Phillida. They loved all the moor-flowers--even the duller blossoms of the mint and nettle tribes--that made those great, lonely spaces so wonderful and so full of charm. There was not a flower that broke into beautiful life on the moors but had a place in their hearts. They were their near and dear relations, they said, and as for the birds and other creatures that lived on the moorland, they were to them, as to St. Francis, their brothers and sisters, and even the Piskeys--the Cornish fairies--had a warm place in their affections. Not a great way from Tamsin's cottage was a large Piskey Circle where the Tregoss Piskeys danced when the nights were fine and the moon was up, and often when they danced the old grandmother and her little grandmaid would come out on the step of their door and watch them. They could see the Piskey Circle quite distinctly from the doorstep, and the Piskey-lights which the Piskeys held in their hands when they danced. But they never saw the Piskeys, for the Dinky Men, as Phillida called them, were very shy, and did not often let themselves be seen by human eyes. The old woman and the child never ventured near their Circle when the Small People were having their high flings, partly from a feeling of delicacy, and partly for fear of driving them away. The Dinky Men were as touchy as nesting-birds, Tamsin declared, and said that if either she or Phillida spied upon them when they were having their frolics they would, perhaps, forsake Tregoss Moor, which would have been a great misfortune. It was lucky, she said, to have the Small People living near a house. So she and her grandchild were content to watch them dancing from a respectable distance. The place where the Piskeys made their Circle was very smooth and soft with grass, and the Circle lay upon the close, thick turf like a red-gold ring. Behind the Circle was a small granite boulder, and above the boulder a big furze-bush, which burnt like a fire when the furze was in bloom, and there little yellow-hammers sang their little songs year in and year out. The Tregoss Moor Piskeys were quite nice for Piskeys, and took a great interest in Phillida and her old grandmother. They never tried to Piskey-lead them into the bogs and stream-works, of which there were many on the moors, nor set up Piskey-lights to slock [11] them into the Piskey Circle, which, we must confess, they did to their betters when they had the chance. They were ever so sorry when they knew the grail-hutch was getting empty, which somehow they always did, and that Grannie Tredinnick, as they called her, because Phillida did, had no money to buy grail to fill it; and they hastened to the cottage and peeped through the window and keyhole to see if they were looking wisht, and if they were they would begin to laugh in order to cheer them up and make them forget how hungry and sad they were. A Piskey's laugh is a gay little laugh, and as unfettered as the song of a lark, and anybody hearing it is bound to feel happy and gay, no matter how wisht he happens to be before. Perhaps that is the reason the old saying 'laughing like a Piskey' is so often quoted in the Cornish land. Old Tamsin and little Phillida always felt better when the Dinky Men came and laughed outside their door. Their laugh acted like a charm on the old woman, and often after the Piskeys came and laughed she laughed too, because she could not help it, and she would forget her aches and her pains, and would go to the spinning-wheel and try to spin. She generally found she could, and soon spun enough wool to buy grail to fill the grail-hutch. Tamsin suffered from rheumatism, and when the weather was very wet and raw on the moors her hands and feet were crippled with pain; she could not spin at all, and not even the Piskeys' gay little laughs could charm the pain out of them. One autumn and the beginning of the following winter were unusually wet, and the old woman's rheumatism was very bad, and, what was worse still, the Dinky Men went away from the moors. Where they had gone she did not know, and fervently hoped that she and Phillida had not offended them in any way. The hum of the spinning-wheel was silent as the grave, the grail-hutch was empty, and they had had to feed on berries like the birds. When things were at their worst the clouds left off raining, the weather brightened, the sun shone out, and the little brown Piskeys came back to the moors. Finding out how matters were in the little moorland cottage, they came outside the door and laughed their gay little laugh once more. They laughed so much and so funnily that Grannie Tredinnick, weak as she was, couldn't help laughing to save her life; and when they saw her rise up from her chair and go over to the spinning-wheel and make the wheel whirl, they were delighted and laughed again. The weather not only changed for the better, but warm soft days came, and the yellow-hammers and the black and white stone-chats must have thought summer had come again, and they sang their bright little songs, and the larks went up singing into the blue of the winter sky. Tamsin felt better than she had been for months, and became so well and cheerful, what with the brighter weather, the music of the birds, and the free laughter of the Dinky Men, that she was able to spin from morning shine till evening dark, and very soon she had spun all the wool she had. She sent it in a farmer's cart to St. Columb, and the farmer's man who took it for her brought back a great big bag of flour and some more wool to spin. But when that was all paid for, and the rent money put aside, all her earnings were gone, which made the good old woman very sad, for she wanted to make a little Christmas cake for Phillida. Christmas was on its way, and Phillida, like most children, looked forward to it; why, she could hardly have told, except that it was the Great Festival of the Nativity, and that Grannie always told her of the nice Christmasses she had had when she was a croom [12] of a cheeld, and that her mother always made her a Christmas cake, with a little bird on top, to remind her of the Great White Birds which sang when the Babe was born. When Christmas drew near Phillida could think and talk of nothing else but the beautiful Christmasses Grannie had had when she was a little maid, and of the Christmas cake with the little bird on top her mother had made for her. A few days before Christmas, as she and her grandmother were sitting down to their dinner of grail-bread, she said: 'Christmas Eve will soon be here now, Grannie. Do you think you can make me a little Christmas cake with a little cake-bird on top like those you had? Ever such a dinky cake and ever such a dinky bird will do, Grannie,' she added, as the old woman shook her head, 'just to see what a Christmas cake tastes like and the little cake-bird looks like.' 'I would gladly make 'ee a cake and a little bird,' said Tamsin, 'if only I was rich; but I am afraid I can't afford to make 'ee even a dinky one. You can't buy sugar and spice and other things to make a cake without money, and I ent a got no money, not even a farthing.' 'Haven't you?' cried little Phillida, her sweet child eyes full of tears. 'I am so disappointed, Grannie; I did so hope you could afford just a dinky cake.' 'I had hoped so, too, cheeld,' said the kind old woman. 'Never mind, I'll ask the Piskeys to come in and order you a little dream-cake an' a little dream-bird.' 'What is a little dream-cake, Grannie, and a little dream-bird?' asked the child. 'The Piskeys used to come in through the keyhole to pass over the bridges of children's noses, when I was a little maid like you, to order their dreams. It would be ever so nice if they passed over the bridge of your nose and ordered you a little dream-cake and a little dream-bird.' 'But you can't eat cakes in your dreams,' said little Phillida, 'and you can't hold little dream-birds in your hands.' 'Can't you?' cried Grannie. 'That's all you know about it. I will ask the Dinky Men to come through our keyhole to order your dreams the very next time they are outside our cottage.' 'They are outside now,' said Phillida. 'I hear them laughing. Listen, Grannie!' And the old woman listened, and she knew that the child was right, and that the Piskeys were outside their window, for she too heard their laughter. 'The Dinky Men be there right enough,' said Tamsin, 'an' they are tickled about something, by the way they are laughing.' 'P'raps they heard what you said about asking them to come in and order me a little dream-cake and a little dream-bird,' suggested the little maid. 'I shouldn't wonder,' laughed Grannie; 'an' I'm sure they'll be willing. I'll ask them now;' and getting up from her wooden arm-chair, she went to the door and called softly: 'Little Piskeys, are you there?' But the Piskeys made no response to the old woman's question save by a gay little laugh. 'If you be there, an' can hear me,' said Tamsin, 'I want 'ee to be so good as to come through my keyhole on the evening of Christmas Eve an' pass over the bridge of Phillida's nose, an' order her a little dream-cake with a little dream-bird on top. I shall be so obliged to 'ee if you will, for I am too poor to make the cheeld a real cake an' a little cake-bird.' When the old woman had said all this, such a burst of laughter broke on the winter air outside the cottage that Phillida rushed to the door and looked out. She could not see the Dinky Men, but their laughter was more than enough to tell her that they were there, and Grannie said she was sure they had heard what she asked, and would do it gladly. As they stood on their doorstep they heard the sound of tiny tripping feet going away from the cottage in the direction of the Piskey Circle; and as they followed the sound they noticed how bright the Circle was on the soft green turf. It was a perfect day--one of those very rare days we are privileged to have once or twice in December month--and the moors were full of charm. The many pools on it were full of light, the boulder near the Piskey Circle was diamond bright in the sunshine, and above it the furze was already breaking into golden blossom. The purple had 'pulsed' out of the heath and the pink from the ling, but each little sprig was a marvel of brown, and showed up the silver lichen that splashed the brown. The bracken was brilliant in warm tones of orange and gold, the brambles were every shade of crimson and red, and the haze on the moors was like the bloom of the hurts, [13] which still supplied food for the birds on the hills. In the direction of Roche, where the great Roche Rocks stand in lonely solitude, six hundred and eighty feet above the level of the sea, with the ruins of the little chapel dedicated to holy St. Michael on their summit, a lark went up singing into the blue, for larks, as most observers of nature know, are seldom out of song. The yellow-hammers were as bright as the brightly-coloured bracken, and sang their cheerful little lays from bramble and bush, and the streams rippled over the moors. The old grandmother and her little grandmaid stood on the doorstep taking in the quiet beauty of the moors. They even went out on to the moor, and turned their gaze towards the Roche Rocks to see if they could see the little sky-bird. After listening ten minutes or longer to the lark and other birds, and to the Piskeys laughing, they returned to the cottage. Fine weather seldom lasts long in winter-time, and when Christmas Eve came it was bitterly cold. A bitter wind blew over the moors from the north, which brought snow in its wake, and Phillida said the Old Woman was up in the sky picking her goose and throwing down the feathers as fast as she could throw them. The child, who was healthy and strong, did not mind the cold, and she liked watching the feathers of the great Sky Goose whirling down on the hills and moors; but she was somewhat afraid the Dinky Men would not come over the snow to order her dreams. But her grandmother told her that she was certain the Small People no more minded the cold than she did, and would be sure to come in through the keyhole when they were in bed and asleep. If Phillida did not mind the severe weather, Tamsin did. She could hardly keep herself warm in spite of a great fire that blazed on the hearthstone. Whatever else she and the child lacked, they always had a good fire to sit by, for the moors supplied them with furze and other firewood. As it grew towards evening the old grandmother told her little grandchild about Christmas, as was her wont whenever Christmas Eve came round, and why they were told to keep it as a hallowed time. She also told her of the Christmas cakes taken hot out of the oven on Christmas Eve, and Christmas birds on top of them, which had made her Christmas so bright in those far-away years when she was young like Phillida. Grannie's tales of the long ago were of absorbing interest to the child, who almost forgot that the Dinky Men were coming to order her dreams that night. When the day had gone, and night had come, Tamsin banked up the fire on the hearthstone, and then she and Phillida went to bed. The old woman knew that the Piskeys would not come in through the keyhole until they were in bed and asleep. The child and the old grandmother slept in the same bed, the latter at the head and Phillida at the foot. The head of the bed was against the wall by the side of the hearthplace, and Tamsin as she lay was in deep shadow, and only her white nightcap could be seen; but Phillida's charming little face was towards the hearth, and the fireshine fell full upon it. The child had a fair, smooth skin and clear-cut features, and her nose had a beautiful bridge! Her hair was thick and wavy, and of a deep red gold--only a little redder than the Piskey Circle--and her eyes, when they were open, were the soft sweet blue of the Cornish Tors when the skies were grey. The red peat and furze fire, like a Master of Magic, made the interior of the poor little moorland cottage look quite beautiful. The rough walls that went up to the brown of the thatch, where they caught the fireshine, glowed like the Small People's lanterns; the old dresser, which stood by the wall facing the hearth, looked as if it were painted in fairy colours, and the china on it glittered like the boulder near the Piskey Circle; and even the grail-hutch, a unique piece of furniture often seen in Cornish cottages, was turned into a thing of beauty. It was painted orange colour, and its little knobs were black, to which the shine of the fire gave depths and tones and undertones. By the side of the bed where Phillida slept was a fiddle-back chair, and on its seat lay her little blue weekaday frock, that added to the quaint and beautiful picture. Only a small part of the cottage was in shadow, and this intensified the brightness of the room where the firelight held sway. The cottage was looking its brightest, and was as warm as a zam [14] oven, when a gay little laugh came through the keyhole, and a merry little face peeped into the room. In another minute a Dinky Man came out of the keyhole and sat on the wooden latch of the door and gazed curiously about him. He was ever so dinky, but as cheerful-looking as a robin, in his bright red cloak and his quaint steeple hat; the face under the hat was almost as brown as an apple-pip, and only a shade or two lighter than his whiskers and beard, and his queer little eyes were full of laughter and fun. 'Are the little maid and her grannie asleep?' called a voice through the keyhole as the Dinky Man sat on the latch surveying the room. 'I think so,' he answered. 'They are still as mice when Madam Puss is close to their hole. You are safe to come in.' 'Then in we'll come,' cried the little voice; and in the twinkling of an eye a tiny little fellow dressed in green came through the keyhole and pushed off the Dinky Man sitting on the latch, who fell on his head on old Tamsin's lime-ash floor. Scores of little whiskered Piskeys--some in steeple hats and red flowing cloaks, some in green coats and red caps--came through the keyhole, and when they had swung themselves down by the durn [15] of the door, they looked towards the bed. 'I'll get up on the bed and see if the little maid is really asleep,' said one of the Piskeys; and he climbed up to the top of the fiddle-back chair close to the bed and looked down on the child. 'Is she asleep?' asked the other little Piskeys eagerly. 'As sound asleep as a seven-sleeper,' [16] answered the Dinky Man, 'and so is Grannie Tredinnick,' sending his glance to the head of the bed. 'Get up on to the bed as soon as you like, to order the little maid's dreams--the sooner the better. We are powerless to do harm after twelve o'clock, being the night of the Birth.' 'But we have come to do good, not to do harm,' cried the Piskeys one and all, 'and we will begin at once.' They scrambled up the legs and back of the old fiddle-back chair, and were on the bed in a quick-stick, and took their places near the sleeping child. Some sat all in a row on the edge of the patchwork quilt; some sat, or stood, on the pillow behind the child's bright little head; others were low down on the pillow; and one winking, blinking little Piskey perched himself on her arm and sat cross-legged like a tailor. 'I will be the first to order the little maid's dream,' said one of the Piskeys sitting on the edge of the quilt, and scrambling up, he stepped on to Phillida's nose as light as the feathers which the old Sky Woman had flung down on the moors, and as he walked over the bridge he said: 'Dream, little maid--dream that you are wide awake, and that you and Grannie Tredinnick are sitting at a table covered with a cloth as white as Piskey-wool, [17] and that in the middle of the table is a lovely cake made '"Of the finest of flour And fairy cow's cream-- As sweet as your dream-- And Small People's spice, And everything nice, Kneaded and mixed, And done in a trix In a little dream-bower," and on the top of the cake is a dinky bird with wings spread out all ready to fly.' Phillida dreamt as she was ordered, and in her dream she saw the cake, and that it was a beautiful cake, and the little cake-bird was a sweet little bird! 'What a handsome cake!' she cried out aloud in her sleep; 'and the little cake-bird is a dear little bird, and it looks as if it can fly and sing:' and she laughed so heartily that the Piskeys laughed too, and one of the Dinky Men turned head over heels on the patchwork quilt out of sheer delight that the child was so pleased with her beautiful dream-cake and the little dream-bird. 'Dream that Grannie Tredinnick is as pleased with the cake and the cake-bird as you are,' said another little Piskey, stepping on to the bridge of Phillida's nose, 'and that she thinks it is even better than the cakes which were made for her when she was a croom of a cheeld, and the little cake-bird is more like a real bird than those that were on top of her Christmas cakes.' The child dreamt as the Piskey ordered, and much beside that the Dinky Man never thought of ordering. In her dream she not only heard her grandmother say what a beautiful cake it was, and that the little cake-bird looked like a real bird, but that she said: 'We must cut and eat the cake, but spare the little cake-bird.' In her sleep she saw the old woman, dressed in her Sunday gown and cap, lean over the small oak table and cut her such a big slice of the cake that she cried out in amazed delight: 'What a great big piece you have given me, Grannie!' and her laugh was as happy and gay as a Piskey's laugh. 'But I must not eat all this myself; I must crumble some of it for the little moor-birds, and put a piece out on the doorstep for the Dinky Men. It isn't a dream-cake, Grannie, but a Christmas cake, and it has a little Christmas bird on top!' The Piskeys looked at one another with a peculiar expression in their round little eyes when the child spoke of putting a bit of her Christmas cake on the step of the door for them, and one said, 'Dear little maid!' and another said 'Pretty child!' and one little fellow, with a beard reaching to his feet, cried, 'How kind of her to want us poor little Piskeys to have part in the Christmas joy!' One little Dinky Man whispered: 'Perhaps it is not true what the old whiddle [18] says, after all--that we are not good enough for heaven nor bad enough for hell. The child does not think so, evidently, or she would not be so anxious for us to share her little Christmas cake.' The Piskey who sat cross-legged on Phillida's arm uncrossed his lean little legs, rose up and stepped on to her nose, and as he walked over its bridge he said ever so tenderly: 'Dream, sweet little Phillida--dream that you shared your cake with the dicky-birds, and put a piece of it on the doorstep for the Dinky Men, which they will treasure as long as there are any Dinky Men.' The child dreamt as she was ordered, and when she had put a bit of the cake on the doorstep for the Piskeys, she saw in her dream a crowd of Dinky Men in quaint little green coats, and caps as red as bryony berries, and tiny fellows in red cloaks and green hats, come and take up the cake with solemn faces and bent heads, and carry it away over the moors towards the Piskey Circle. When they had gone, she stood on the doorstep looking out over the moors, white with the feathers the old Sky Woman had thrown down; then she lifted her sweet little face to the sky, and saw that it was free from clouds and full of stars, which, she thought, were chiming the wonderful news of the Nativity. She was so happy listening to the music of the Christmas stars that she forgot she had not tasted her cake till a little Piskey sprang on to her nose to turn her dream. 'Dream that you are come over to the table and eating your cake,' he said, slowly passing over the bridge of her nose. 'How can I dream that when I am out here on the doorstep listening to the ringing of the star-bells?' murmured the child in her sleep. 'I wonder if the Dinky Men like listening to the star-bells' music? They are ringing up there in the dark because the Babe was born and laid in the cratch.' 'We shall never get her to dream our dreams if we let her stay there on the doorstep,' cried the Piskeys, looking strangely at one another. 'We never had such trouble to make a cheeld dream our dreams before.' 'Dream your poor old Grannie feels the cold from the open door,' said a Dinky Man, jumping on to Phillida's nose with all his weight, which caused her to jerk her head in her sleep, and made the Dinky Man lose his balance, and over he toppled on the heads of his tiny companions sitting at the bottom of the pillow near the child's soft white neck, much to the amusement of the other Piskeys and his own. They laughed so much, including the wee fellow who was heavy-heeled, that he could not order the dream, and a Piskey, when he could stop laughing for a minute, jumped up and stepped on to Phillida's nose, and as he passed over its bridge he said: 'Dream that you shut the door on the cold and the Sky Goose's feathers, and come back to the table.' And Phillida reluctantly dreamt as the Dinky Man ordered, and in her dream she saw herself sitting at the table facing her grandmother, who was munching a bit of the cake and smacking her withered old lips. 'This is a lovely cake, cheeld-vean. [19] We must eat every crumb of it, for we shall never have such another.' Phillida was glad her Grannie liked the cake, and she began to eat the generous slice the old woman had given her, and as she ate it she thought it was so delicious that she must go on eating cake for ever and ever. 'I shan't want to eat grail-bread after this,' she said, laughing out loud in her sleep. 'I shall always eat cake made '"Of fairy cow's cream And every good thing."' She was enjoying her dream-cake so very very much in her sleep that the Dinky Men would have liked her to go on eating it; but the quick ticking of Tamsin's clock told them that time was flying, and they had not yet finished ordering her dreams. 'Dream, little Phillida--dream that you and Grannie Tredinnick have eaten all the cake, and there is nothing left but the little cake-bird,' said one of the Dinky Men passing over the bridge of her nose; 'and that Grannie says the little cake-bird is yours.' Phillida dreamt all that, and in her dream her grandmother said, in her kind old voice: 'The little bird on the top of the cake belongs to the cheeld of the house, and Phillida is the only cheeld in my little house. Take the cake-bird, Phillida, my dear;' and Phillida took it and held it in her little warm hand. As she was holding it thus a Piskey stepped lightly as a ladybird on to her nose, and as he passed over its bridge he said: 'Dream, Phillida, dream that your little cake-bird is alive and wants to fly and sing;' and the child dreamt that the little cake-bird was alive, and was fluttering in her little warm hand, and then it flew out of her hand up to the thatch, and began to sing a wonderful song. 'What is my little cake-bird singing?' asked Phillida in her sleep. 'It is singing it is a fairy-bird,' said a Dinky Man, passing over the bridge of her nose, 'and that it is going to sing with other little fairy-birds in the Dinky People's land.' 'I don't think my little cake-bird is singing it is a fairy-bird and going to sing in the Dinky People's country,' said the child in her sleep. 'Its song is much too happy and beautiful for that. What is it singing? Please tell me. I do want to know. Can't you tell me?' she asked as the Piskeys looked at one another. 'Ah! I know now what its song is about. My little cake-bird is singing a little song because it is a little Christmas bird, and was on top of a Christmas cake! Isn't it a lovely song? It has changed its tune now, and it is singing a golden song about the Babe who was born on Christmas Day in the morning. I am a little Christian cheeld and know! Listen, listen!' she cried, clasping her hands and lifting her sweet child-face to the thatch. 'Isn't it wonderful? It thinks it is a little golden bird, and one day will sing with the Great White Angel Birds Grannie told me about.' 'Somebody far greater than we little Piskeys is ordering Phillida's dreams,' said the Dinky Men one to another, 'which are much more beautiful than we can order.' Just then old Tamsin's clock struck the midnight hour, and the Piskeys got off the bed, went across the room, climbed up the durn of the door and out through the keyhole on to the moors, and in a little while they were hastening over the snow-covered turf to the Piskey Circle, which was a big round door to the Dinky People's land under the moors. THE IMPOUNDED CROWS A small boy called Jim Nancarrow was sitting one day eating a pasty on top of the Crow Pound, a large enclosure built on a common by the far-famed St. Neot to impound the pilfering crows of the parish that bears his name. Jim was the son of a thatcher, and he was waiting to accompany his father to a distant hamlet to help him to thatch a cottage. He looked a nice little lad in his clean white smock and nankeen breeches and soft felt hat--much the worse for wear--shading his bright young face and clear blue eyes. As he was waiting for his father and eating his pasty, which his mother had given him for his dinner, he saw a crow flying over Goonzion Downs, of which the Crow Pound common was a part. As he watched it he thought of the pilfering crows which, according to the old tale, little St. Neot impounded there from morning till evening on Sundays, that his people might go to church undisturbed by fear of the great black thievish birds which ate up the corn sown in their fields. Jim had often heard this story from the old people of the parish, and whenever he saw a crow he wondered if it were a relation of the wicked crows their patron Saint had impounded. The crow that the boy was watching was flying in the direction of the Crow Pound, and when it came near it alighted on the top of the wall quite close to the lad. The crow was lean to look at, and scanty of feathers, and such a sorry-looking bird that Jim broke off a piece of his pasty and threw to him, which he ate as if he were starving. 'One would think you were one of the pilfering crows of St. Neot's time,' said Jim, tossing him another piece of his pasty; and to his surprise, the bird answered back: 'I am!' 'Are you?' cried Jim, staring hard at the crow. 'Well, you look ancient enough to be one of those birds, though I have always understood that our patron Saint lived ever so long ago, when Alfred the Great was a little chap like me. But p'r'aps crows tell lies as well as pilfer.' 'If I am not one of the identical crows St. Neot was unkind enough to put into this pound,' croaked the big black bird, eyeing Jim and his pasty with his bright little eye, 'I am a descendant of theirs in the direct line. I truly am,' as the lad stared as if he did not believe the assertion. 'Those poor impounded crows learnt the language of men during the long hours of their imprisonment, listening to all the little Saint and his people said about them outside this pound, and they passed on their dearly-bought knowledge to their children through long generations.' 'Then you are quite "high learnt," as the old Granfer men say,' cried Jim, gazing up at the bird in open-eyed amazement. 'I confess I am,' returned the crow with due modesty, 'especially in the old Cornish tongue, in which I can swear to any extent. I am not going to use bad language now,' as Jim took up a stone to throw at him. 'You would not understand it if I did. I am also "high learnt" in the needs of the body, and I shall be ever so grateful for a bit more of your pasty. It isn't nice to have an aching void inside one's little feather stumjacket.' 'I suppose it can't be,' said the lad, dropping the stone and breaking off a large piece of his pasty to toss to the bird. He was a feeling-hearted little fellow, and the crow's quaint appeal touched him, and the sorry-looking bird, with his bedraggled tail, had most of his pasty. 'I have had a good meal for once in my life, and am full fed,' said the crow, when the last of the pasty was eaten; and he perched on a stone, starred with stonecrop, and fluffed out all the feathers he possessed, and looked with a comical expression at Jim. 'I am better fed than little St. Neot after his poor little meal of fish,' he continued, still eyeing the boy, 'and I am feeling so comfortable that I am inclined for a chat.' 'Are you?' cried Jim, who thought this great black crow was a wonderful crow, which he certainly was. 'I don't know what to yarn about.' 'I do, then,' answered the bird quickly. 'I suppose you have heard the old whiddle [20] how the little St. Neot put the poor crows into this pound.' 'Yes, I have heard about it from the Granfer men and Grannie women here at Churchtown,' said Jim, turning his face towards a little village close to the church which he could just see from where he was sitting. 'But they never made much of a story of it.' 'Didn't they? Then perhaps you would like to hear the crows' version of the old tale,' said the crow. 'It will tell you that their morals were not so black as the farmers in this parish made out to the Holy Man.' 'I don't mind, if you are quick about it,' said Jim. 'I am going to a farm with my father to help him do some thatching when he has finished his dinner.' 'I cannot be driven after such a heavy meal of pasty,' croaked the crow; 'and if I may not take my time, I won't tell it at all.' 'As you like,' cried Jim with fine indifference; but the bird was anxious to tell the whiddle, and he began: 'We crows always considered it within our right to take what we could,' said the crow, 'and pilfering, as the farmers hereabouts were pleased to call it, was the only way the crows had of picking up a living, and they watched their opportunity to take what they needed to satisfy their hunger when the farmers were not about. But back in those far-away days when St. Neot dwelt here to try and make people good, times were dreadfully bad, especially for crows. The people were all tillers of the land in those days, and lived by the sweat of their brow, as crows did by pilfering. There was no other way open to them, and the farmers had their eyes on the land and on us poor hungry birds from dawn to dark, except on the Rest Day; and the only chance the crows had of filling their stomachs was on Sunday, when the people went to church. 'The starving crows looked forward to Sunday as only poor starving birds with empty crops could, and the moment one of the elder crows gave the signal, which he did in the crow way, they all flew off to the corn-sown fields, and had a regular feast. My word! and didn't they feed! They picked out with their sharp beaks every grain of corn they could find. 'When the farmers found out the hungry crows had eaten up all the corn they had sown, there was the Black Man to pay, and the poor crows were anathematized from one end of the parish to the other. 'The farmers resowed their fields, but they took good care to watch and see that the crows did not rob them of their toil; and they were always about the corn-sown land, Sundays as well as week-days, and the crows had to go supperless to bed, and little St. Neot had to preach to bare walls. 'The Saint was greatly distressed at his people's neglect of their religious duties, and he told them how wicked it was to stay away from church. The people said they were sorry, but declared it was the fault of the pilfering crows. '"The pilfering crows!" cried the Holy Man. "What have the crows to do with your stopping away from the House of God?" '"Everything," answered the farmers; and they told little St. Neot that whenever they sowed bread-corn in their fields the wicked crows came and ate it all up, and that if he could not prevent them from doing this wickedness, they must keep away from church and watch their fields. "We and our children must have bread to eat," they added, which was true enough--true for crows as well as men. 'The Holy Man was very much grieved to hear the cause of their not coming to church, and he said he would devise some means to prevent the crows from robbing the fields whilst they were attending to their worship. 'St. Neot was as good as his word, and it was noised about in the parish that he was building a great square enclosure of moorstone and mould about half a mile from the church; and when it was finished, he told his wondering people it was a pound for crows, which he meant to impound on Sundays from dawn till dusk, so that the farmers might come to church and worship without having their minds disturbed by fear of those black little robbers eating their corn. 'There was a fearful to-do among the poor hungry crows when they learned what St. Neot had done; and although they knew they were within their right to steal when they were hungry--and they were always hungry, poor things!--they were sorry they ate up the corn the farmers had sown, and every crow looked forward to the coming Rest Day with fear and trembling. 'Well, Sunday came, as Sundays will,' continued the crow, 'and before the sun had risen little St. Neot made known his will to the crows that they were to come to be impounded, and such power had the Saint over beast and bird that the crows had no choice save to obey, and long before St. Neot's bell rang out to call his people to worship in the little church which he had built for them by the aid of his two-deer team and one-hare team, all the crows in the parish came as they were bidden to be impounded in the Crow Pound. 'And, my gracious! what a lot of them came! There were crows of all sorts and conditions, all ages and sizes! There were great-great-great Granfer and Grannie Crows! there were great-great Granfer and Grannie Crows! great Granfer and Grannie Crows by the score! Grannie Crows by the hundred! Mammie and Daddy Crows by the thousand! and as for the children, and great-great-grand-children, they could hardly be counted! Even poor little Baby Crows, just able to fly, were there! 'The Crow Pound was chock-full of crows, and all the place was as black as St. Neot's gown. And as for the noise they made, it was enough to turn the Holy Man's brain; but it didn't. 'The little Saint did not expect to see so many crows, it was certain, though he expected a goodly number, by the big enclosure he had made; and the old tale says that, when he saw so many birds, he exclaimed with uplifted hands, "My goodness! what a lot of crows!" and he looked round at this great assemblage--all in respectable black--in open-eyed amazement. 'The people who came flocking to church when they heard that the crows were safe in the Crow Pound were almost as astonished as St. Neot to see such a big congregation of birds. 'The church was too far away from the pound for the crows to hear the little Saint preaching, but when the wind blew up from Churchtown they could hear the singing, and to show you they were not so bad as the farmers made out to the Holy Man, they croaked as loud as ever they could when Mass was sung, and were as silent as the grave during the time St. Neot was preaching. 'Every year, from sowing time till the corn was reaped and safe in the barn, the crows were impounded every Sunday from the early morning till evening whilst little St. Neot lived.' 'Is that all?' asked Jim, who listened to the crow's version of the old tale till it was finished. 'Yes,' answered the great black bird with a croak, and when he had said that he took to his wings and flew away as fast as he could fly over Goonzion Downs, the way he had come. 'That wisht-looking crow did not tell the old whiddle half bad,' said Jim to himself, as he watched the bird fly away. 'Shouldn't I like to have seen this old pound full of crows! It must have been terribly funny when St. Neot looked in upon them and cried, "My goodness! what a lot of crows!" It must have been as good as a Christmas play. There, father is coming. That sharp-eyed old crow must have seen him climbing the hill.' THE PISKEYS' REVENGE Once upon a time, so the old story begins, there were an old man and his wife called Granfer and Grannie Nankivell, who lived on a moor, and a small grand-daughter who lived with them. Genefer was the name of this little girl. She was a small brown child. Brown as a Piskey, her grandfather said; but, brown as she was, she was exceedingly pretty. Her lips were as red as the reddest of berries, and the glow on her cheeks matched her lips. Her grandfather was a turf-cutter, and most of his days had been spent cutting turf on the Cornish moors. When this old man was between sixty and seventy he cleared out a whole bog, which happened to be a Piskey-bed. The Piskeys never like their sleeping-places to be disturbed, and when they found out Granfer Nankivell had done it, they were very angry, and set up Piskey-lights to lead him astray when he came home. But they did it in vain as far as he was concerned. The old turf-cutter was very learned in Piskeys' wiles, and never ventured across the moors without wearing one of his garments inside out, and this made him Piskey-proof, which means that the Piskeys had no power to harm him or to lead him out of his way. But the sly Little People knew a thing or two as well as Granfer Nankivell, and when they found out that their Piskey-lights failed, they set their sharp little wits to work to do him harm in some other way. After much watching they discovered that the old turf-cutter had a weakness for sweet things, and that the greatest treat his wife could give him was sugar biscuits of her own making and a big plate of junket. They also found out that Grannie Nankivell, whenever she made these delicacies, put them overnight into her spence [21] for safety. They made up their minds that they would punish the old turf-cutter for taking away their nice soft green Piskey-bed by doing him out of his junket and biscuits, and they told some distant relations of theirs, the Fairy Moormen, to keep an eye upon the spence-window, and whenever they saw Grannie Nankivell bring a bowl of junket and a dish of biscuits into her spence, they must come with all speed and tell them. 'We'll watch too,' they said; 'but in case we are away dancing or setting up Piskey-lights, you must watch for us,' which the Tiny Moormen were quite pleased to do. But the moor fairies watched in vain for many a week, and just as they were beginning to fear that Grannie Nankivell was never going to make any more biscuits and junket for her husband, she set to and made some, and when they were made she took them into the spence, as she always did. The spence opened out from the kitchen, and was quite a little room in itself, with a tiny window facing the moors. In front of the window was a stone bench, and near it a square oak table. The Tiny Moormen were peeping in at the window when the old woman put the bowl of junket on the table and the dish of sugar biscuits on the bench, and the moment her back was turned they tore off to the Piskeys with the news. 'A big round basin full of lovely cool junket,' they cried, 'and a dish heaping full of round biscuits, yellow and white with eggs and sugar, with which they are made. I heard the old woman say that she had never made better, and all for Granfer Nankivell, 'cause 'tis his birthday to-morrow.' 'Birthday or no birthday, Granfer Nankivell shan't taste one,' cried the little Piskeys. 'No fy, he shan't! He turned us out of our beds, and we'll do him out of his biscuits and junket, see if we won't!' 'That's right!' said the Fairy Moormen, who were hand and glove with the Piskeys, 'only please save some for us.' They and the Piskeys hastened away to the turf-cutter's cottage, and when the turf-cutter and his wife had gone to bed, the Piskeys got into the spence and ate up the big bowl of junket, and passed out the biscuits to the Tiny Moormen. When Grannie Nankivell went to her spence the next day she found the junket-bowl empty and every biscuit gone. She said she could not imagine who had taken the things, but looked suspiciously at her little granddaughter Genefer. 'The cat must have got into the spence and done me out of my birthday treat,' said the old turf-cutter. 'You must shut the spence-window the next time you put a junket in there.' 'But the biscuits have gone as well as the junket,' said the old woman, still looking at little Genefer. 'Cats have no liking for sugar biscuits, that ever I heard tell of.' The next time Grannie Nankivell took biscuits and a junket into her spence she shut the window and also the door; but when she got up the following morning and went to see if they were safe, lo and behold! the junket-bowl was again empty and the biscuits were gone. ''Tis a two-legged cat who has eaten up my beautiful biscuits and junket,' she said to her husband; and she turned and looked at little Genefer. 'I am not the two-legged cat who ate up all the nice things you made for Granfer,' cried the child, meeting the old woman's glance with her honest brown eyes. 'I never said you did,' said Grannie Nankivell; 'but 'tis queer the junket-bowl is empty and every biscuit gone from the dish.' 'I expect it was a dog which got into the spence and licked up the junket and ate the biscuits,' put in the old turf-cutter. 'I would lock and bar the spence-door, if I were you, the next time I put such nice things in there.' 'I will,' she said. The next time Grannie Nankivell made biscuits and a junket she barred the window of the spence and locked the door, and the next morning, before Genefer dressed, she went to see if her junket and biscuits were all right; but the little round biscuits, which she had so carefully made and sugared, were every one gone, and the junket-bowl was quite empty, and as dry as a bone. ''Tis our little grandcheeld who has eaten it all!' cried Grannie Nankivell in great anger to the old turf-cutter. 'No cat or dog could get into a spence with door locked and window barred.' 'I don't believe it was Genefer,' said the old man stoutly. 'If it was not Genefer, who was it, pray? Biscuits and junkets don't eat up themselves, any more than dogs and cats can get through keyholes and barred windows.' 'That's true,' said Granfer Nankivell; 'all the same, I am certain sure that our dear little grandcheeld would not go and eat up the things.' 'Then who did?' asked the old woman with a snap. 'The little Piskeys, I shouldn't wonder,' he answered. 'My great-grannie told me they were little greedy-guts, and in her days they used to skim the cream off the milk, and eat all the cheese-cakes she used to make, unless she put some for them outside on the doorstep. Regular little thieves the Piskeys were in her days. P'raps they haven't learnt to be honest yet. There are plenty about now, and Little Moormen too, by the teheeing and tehoing I have heard lately, waiting, I dare say, to play some of their pranks on me.' But Grannie Nankivell was still unconvinced, and still believed it was Genefer, and not the Piskeys, who ate her biscuits and junket. One evening the old woman put another bowl of junket and a dish of biscuits in the spence, and was as careful as before to bar the window and lock the door; and in the middle of the night, when her husband was fast asleep and snoring, she got up and came downstairs to see if she could find out for certain who it was that ate up her good things. When she came down, whom should she see but her little grand-daughter Genefer standing by the spence-door in her little bedgown. 'I am fine and glad you have come, Grannie,' whispered the child, before the old woman could say anything. 'I believe it is the Piskeys who have eaten the junket and things you made for Granfer. I saw a dinky little fellow not much bigger than your thumb go in through the keyhole just now. They are having a fine time in there, anyhow,' as her grandmother looked at her oddly. 'If I were you, I would look through the keyhole and see what they are doing.' And through the keyhole the old woman looked, and saw, to her amazement, scores and scores of green-coated little men, whiskered like a man, on the oak table, standing round the junket-bowl ladling out the rich, thick junket with their tiny little hands, and half a dozen other little chaps were up in the window-sill passing out her delicious sugar biscuits to the Tiny Moormen, who were even more whiskered and bearded than their distant relations, the Piskeys. By their faces, they were all greatly enjoying themselves, and at the expense of Granfer Nankivell, the turf-cutter! Grannie Nankivell was so astonished that she lost her mouth-speech, [22] but when she found it her old voice shrilled through the keyhole: 'Filling your little bellies with the junket and biskeys I made for my old man, be 'ee?' she cried. 'I'll wring the necks of every one of you--iss fy, I will!' The old woman spoke too soon to carry out her threat, for she had no sooner spoken than the Piskeys vanished, the Tiny Moormen as well, and where they went she never knew. But her husband told her the little rascals were still in the spence when she could not see them. 'They have the power to make themselves visible or invisible, whichever is most convenient to them,' he said. 'They have done you out of your biscuits and junket a good many times, anyhow,' cried the old woman. 'Iss,' said Granfer Nankivell, 'they have; and as I did away with the Piskey-beds, we are quits. I only hope they will be of the same mind, and won't come any more and eat up those nice things you make for me. I am quite longing for a plateful of junket and one of your sweet biscuits.' Whether the Piskeys thought the old turf-cutter was sufficiently punished for clearing out their sleeping-places, or whether Grannie Nankivell's threat to wring their necks frightened them away, we cannot tell. At all events, they and the Tiny Moormen kept away from the cottage on the moor, and whenever the old woman made sugar biscuits and sweet junket, and put them in the spence, no two-legged cat, Moormen or Piskeys, ever ate up those specially-made dainties; and little Genefer's honesty was never again doubted. THE OLD SKY WOMAN When winter brought the cold north wind, and the snowflakes began to fall, the little North Cornwall children were always told that the Old Woman was up in the sky plucking her Goose. The children were very interested in the Old Sky Woman and her great White Goose, and they said, as they lifted their soft little faces to the grey of the cloud and watched the feathers of the big Sky Goose come whirling down, that she was a wonderful woman and her Goose a very big Goose. 'I want to climb up to the sky to see the Old Woman plucking her Goose,' cried a tiny boy; and he asked his mother to show him the great Sky Stairs. But his mother could not, for she did not know where the Sky Stairs were; so the poor little boy could not go up to see the Old Sky Woman plucking the beautiful feathers out of her big White Goose. 'Where does the Old Woman keep her great White Goose?' asked another child, with eyes and hair as dark as a raven's wing, as he watched the snow-white feathers come dancing down. 'In the beautiful Sky Meadows behind the clouds,' his mother said. 'What is the Old Sky Woman going to do with her great big Goose when she has picked her bare?' queried a little maid with sweet, anxious eyes. 'Stuff it with onions and sage,' her Granfer said. 'What will she do then with her great big Goose?' the little maid asked. 'Hang it up on the great Sky Goose-jack and roast for her Christmas dinner,' her Granfer said. 'Poor old Goose!' cried the little maid. 'I don't believe the Old Sky Woman would be so unkind as to kill and pluck her great big Goose,' said a wise little maid with sunny hair and eyes as blue as the summer sea. 'Winter-time is the Sky Goose's moulting time, and the Old Sky Woman is sweeping out the Sky Goose's house with her great Sky Broom, and the White Goose's feathers are flying down to keep the dear little flowers nice and warm till the north wind has gone away from the Cornish Land.' 'Perhaps that is so, dear little maid,' her Granfer said. REEFY, REEFY RUM A small girl called Nancy Parnell came down from Wadebridge to Padstow one St. Martin's summer to stay with her Grannie. The Grannie was old and weak in her legs, and could not take her granddaughter out to see the sights of the little old-world town, with its narrow streets and ancient houses, so the child had to go by herself. When she had seen all there was to be seen in the town, she went up to look at the church, of which she had heard from her mother, who was a Padstow woman, and the quaint little figures on the buttresses of the south wall. It was between the lights when she got there, but she could see the carved figures quite distinctly, which were a lion with its mouth wide open, a unicorn with a crown encircling its neck, and a young knight, standing between them, holding a shield; and when she had taken them all in she repeated a funny old rhyme which her mother told her she used to say when she was a little maid and lived at Padstow. The rhyme was as follows: 'Reefy, reefy rum, Without teeth or tongue; If you'll have me, Now I am a-come.' The rhyme--a taunt and an invitation in one--was very rude, and so was the little girl who repeated it; but the lion, the unicorn, and the little knight did not take any notice of her, and looked straight before them as they had done ever since they were carved on the wall. But Nancy was somewhat afraid of the effect of the rhyme on those quaint little figures, especially on the open-mouthed lion, who had no sign of teeth or tongue; and she ran round the great square-turreted tower, and took refuge under the pentice roof of the gateway, and sat on the bench to see if they would leave their stations on the wall and come after her; but they did not. The little stone knight and the two animals had a strange fascination for the little Wadebridger, and the next evening again found her in the beautiful churchyard gazing up at them with her bright child-eyes, and as she gazed she repeated the same rude rhyme: 'Reefy, reefy rum, Without teeth or tongue; If you'll have me, Now I am a-come.' But they took not the smallest notice of her, nor of her rhyme, and the young knight did not lift as much as an eyelash; but the child, now the rhyme was said, was even more apprehensive than ever of the effect it might have, and ran round the tower and again took refuge in the old gateway, and waited to see if they would come down from the wall and try to catch her; but they never came. The last evening of her stay at Padstow, Nancy went once more to the churchyard to have another look at the figures, and to taunt them with having no teeth or tongue. It was not quite so late as the first two evenings she had come thither, and the robins were singing their evensong in the churchyard trees. As she stood staring up at the figures, a shaft of light from the sun setting between the trees fell across their faces, and the eyes of the little knight seemed to look down in sad reproach at the rude little maid as she again repeated the rhyme which was even ruder than she knew. Her voice was shrill and loud, and was heard above the robins' cheerful song. She had hardly finished the rhyme when she saw the lion move from his place on the wall, followed by the unicorn and the young knight, and come sliding down. She did not wait to see them reach the bottom, for she took to her heels and ran for her life; but she could hear the figures carved in stone coming after her as she flew round the tower, and her heart was beating faster than the church clock when she reached the gateway. The gate, fortunately for her, was open wide, and she caught hold of it, and banged it behind her as the lion with his gaping mouth came up to it. She looked over her shoulder as she turned to run down the street, and she saw the three figures all in a row--the young knight in the middle holding his shield--gazing at her through the round wooden bars of the gate. The lion looked savage, and but for the brave little knight with his pure young face, who seemed to have a restraining power upon both animals, he might have broken the bars and come through the gate and made small bones of the child who had invited them three times to come down and have her! The little Wadebridger ran back to her Grannie, and told her about the rhyme she had said to the little stone figures on the wall of Padstow Church, and how they had come down and run after her to the gate. Her good old Grannie said it would have served her right if they had broken the gate and got her. 'A lesson to you, my dear,' she cried, 'never to be rude to man or beast, especially to figures carved on church walls.' The three little stone figures stood all in a row on the gate step till the child was out of sight, and finding she did not return, they went back to their places on the buttresses of the grey old church, and there they are still; and, as far as we know, they have never left them since Nancy Parnell, the little Wadebridger, repeated 'Reefy, reefy rum' three times, and that was when our great-great-grandmothers were children. THE LITTLE HORSES AND HORSEMEN OF PADSTOW At the bottom of the same old town there is a house which has two tiny little men on horseback on the top of its roof. They have stood there for hundreds of years, and they never leave their places save when they hear the great church clock strike the hour of midnight, when, it is said, they leave the red tiles, and gallop round the market-place and through the streets of the little town. These gallant little horsemen have seen the house on which they stand almost rebuilt--changed from an old-world building with quaint windows and doors into quite a modern one--and they have the sorrow of knowing that the only things left that are ancient are the walls, the red tile-ridge, their little horses, and themselves. Long generations of Padstow children have seen these quaint little men on horseback, and many a question have they asked concerning them; but the only thing they ever learnt was that whenever they hear the church clock strike twelve in the middle of the night they come down from the roof, gallop round the market, and through the streets, as we have just said. But as children are generally in bed at that late hour, none were ever fortunate enough to see them do this wonderful feat, except little Robin Curgenven, the son of a toymaker, and it happened in this way: One evening when Robin was about nine years old his father and mother went to a party; and as it was a party only for grown-up people, they left him at home asleep in bed. Robin slept sound as a ringer till just before twelve, when he awoke, and finding he was alone in the house, he crept out of bed, opened the front door, which was under the roof, and went out and stood on the top of an external stone stairway which led down to the market-place. The house where he lived was as quaint and old as the one on which the little men rode so gallantly, and it faced it. As he stood at the head of the steps the church clock began to strike the hour of midnight. It had only struck four or five when he remembered what he had heard about those wonderful little horsemen and their steeds, and he looked across the market to see if what he had been told about them was really true. He could see the house quite plainly, and the little horses and horsemen, for it was a clear night and full moon. The moment the clock had done striking Robin saw to his great delight the two little men on their two little horses leave the housetop and leap into the street, and go galloping round and round the market-place as his parents assured him they did when they heard the clock strike twelve. The little horses galloped so funnily, and the tiny riders sat so bolt upright on their quaint little steeds, that Robin laughed to see them, and said they looked exactly like the wooden toy horses and horsemen in his father's shop. And as they went galloping, galloping that queer little gallop, he clapped his hands and cheered like a Cornishman. The tiny little horsemen took no notice of the excited boy on the top of the stairs, and the moment they had finished their gallop round the old market they came through the narrow opening at the foot of the stairs, and galloped away up the street as fast as they could. So excited was little Robin Curgenven when he saw the tiny horsemen gallop away that he flew down the steps and tore after them, quite forgetting that his feet were bare, and that he had nothing on save his little white nightshirt. He ran very fast; but fast as he ran, he could not overtake those swift little horses, and by the time he got to the bottom of Middle Street they were nearly at the top. When they reached the head of that street the tiny horsemen pulled up their horses for a minute outside an ancient-looking house with a porch-room set on wooden pillars, and then they turned up Workhouse Hill and disappeared. Robin ran faster than before, and the tails of his little nightshirt flew out behind him on the wind as he ran; and he never stopped running till he was half-way up Church Street, when he saw the little horses and their riders galloping down towards him. They had been to the head of the town, and were returning; and he got on the footpath and stood near an arched passage, and waited for them to pass. He did not have to wait long, and so fast did they come you would have thought they were galloping for a wager. They seemed to be enjoying their gallop through the streets of the sleeping old town amazingly; and Robin, as he fixed his bright young eyes upon them, saw, or thought he saw, a broad grin on their queer little faces as they galloped by. The barefooted little lad, in his little night-garment, ran beside the quaint little horses and the little horsemen for a short distance, but they galloped much faster than he could run, and soon outdistanced him; and, run as hard as ever he could, he could not overtake them, but he heard the ringing of the tiny horses' hoofs on the hard road as they went galloping down through the town. When he reached the bottom of the town and the house where the little men and their horses usually stood, he glanced up, and to his surprise saw them standing on the tile-ridge, looking as if they had never left it. Robin gazed at them till he began to feel cold, and then he went back across the market to his own house; and half an hour later, when his father and mother came home from the party, they found him fast asleep on one of the steps with his toes tucked up under him. 'The funny little horses and little horsemen did hear the clock strike twelve, and galloped round the market and through the town same as you told me,' said Robin in a sleepy voice, when his father picked him up and carried him into the house. 'I saw them with my own eyes, and I ran after them up as far as Church Street. They galloped so funnily and so fast; I am glad I saw them.' 'So am I,' said his father, laughing, thinking his small son had dreamt it as he lay asleep on the step. 'You are the first little chap who ever saw them come down from the roof and gallop, and I fancy you will be the last.' Little Robin Curgenven may have been the first to see them gallop as his father said, but he may not be the last, for the quaint little horses and horsemen are still on the roof of the house, and it is told that they still gallop through Padstow streets, and round what once was the market, when they hear the church clock strike twelve! HOW JAN BREWER WAS PISKEY-LADEN The moon was near her setting as a tall, broad-shouldered man called Jan Brewer was walking home to Constantine Bay to his cottage on the edge of a cliff. He was singing an old song to himself as he went along, and he sang till he drew near the ruins of Constantine Church, standing on a sandy common near the bay. As he grew near the remains of this ancient church, which were clearly seen in the moonshine, he thought he heard someone laughing, but he was not quite sure, for the sea was roaring on the beach below the common, and the waves were making a loud noise as they dashed up the great headland of Trevose. 'I was mistaken; 'twas nobody laughing,' said Jan to himself, and he walked on again, singing as before; and he sang till he came near a gate, which opened into a field leading to his cottage, but when he got there he could not see the gate or the gateway. 'I was so taken up with singing the old song, that I must have missed my way,' he said again to himself. 'I'll go back to the head of the common and start afresh,' which he did; and when he got to the place where his gate ought to have been, he could not find it to save his life. 'I must be clean mazed,' [23] he cried. 'I have never got out of my reckoning before, nor missed finding my way to our gate, even when the night has been as dark as pitch. It isn't at all dark to-night; I can see Trevose Head'--looking across the bay--'and yet I can't see my own little gate! But I en't a-going to be done; I'll go round and round this common till I do find my gate.' And round and round the common he went, but find his gate he could not. Every time he passed the ruins of the church a laugh came up from the pool below the ruins, and once he thought he saw a dancing light on the edge of the pool, where a lot of reeds and rushes were growing. 'The Little Man in the Lantern is about to-night,' he said to himself, as he glanced at the pool. 'But I never knew he was given to laughing before.' Once more he went round the common, and when he had passed the ruins he heard giggling and laughing, this time quite close to him; and looking down on the grass, he saw to his astonishment hundreds of Little Men and Little Women with tiny lights in their hands, which they were flinking [24] about as they laughed and giggled. The Little Men wore stocking-caps, the colour of ripe briar berries, and grass-green coats, and the Little Women had on old grandmother cloaks of the same vivid hue as the Wee Men's coats, and they also wore fascinating little scarlet hoods. 'I believe the great big chap sees us,' said one of the Little Men, catching sight of Jan's astonished face. 'He must be Piskey-eyed, and we did not know it.' 'Is he really?' cried one of the Dinky [25] Women. ''Tis a pity,' as the Little Man nodded. 'But we'll have our game over him all the same.' 'That we will,' cried all the Little Men and Little Women in one voice; and, forming a ring round the great tall fellow, they began to dance round him, laughing, giggling, tehoing, and flashing up their lights as they danced. They went round him so fast that poor Jan was quite bewildered, and whichever way he looked there were these Little Men and Little Women giggling up into his bearded face. And when he tried to break through their ring they went before him and behind him, making a game over him, he said! He was at their mercy and they knew it; and when they saw the great fellow's misery, they only laughed and giggled the more. 'We've got him!' they cried to each other, and they said it with such gusto and with such a comical expression on their tiny brown faces, that Jan, bewildered as he was, and tired with going round the common so many times, could not help laughing, they looked so very funny, particularly when the Little Women winked up at him from under their little scarlet hoods. The Piskeys--for they were Piskeys--hurried him down the common, dancing round him all the time; and when he got there he felt so mizzy-mazey with those tiny whirling figures going round and round him like a whirligig, that he did not know whether he was standing on his head or his heels. He was also in a bath of perspiration--'sweating leaking,' he expressed it--and, putting his hand in his pocket to take out a handkerchief to mop his face, he remembered having been told that, if ever he got Piskey-laden, he must turn his coat pockets inside out, when he would be free at once from his Piskey tormentors. He immediately acted on this suggestion, and in a minute or less his coat-pockets were hanging out, and all the Little Men and the Little Women had vanished, and there, right in front of him, he saw his own gate! He lost no time in opening it, and in a very short time was in his thatched cottage on the cliff. THE SMALL PEOPLE'S FAIR In the same parish where Jan Brewer was Piskey-laden on Constantine Common there is a beautiful lane called Tresallyn. It has high mossy hedges, where ferns grow in abundance, and where speedwells love to display their multitude of blue blossoms. This lane is said to be a regular Piskeys' haunt, where all the Wee Folk in the neighbourhood meet. People who have passed through this lane in the evening or late at night have heard the Piskeys laughing; but nobody, as far as we know, except one young fellow, ever had the good fortune to see them, and he, like Jan Brewer, had the gift of seeing what others could not. Hender Bennett was the name of this young fellow, and he lived at a farm near Tresallyn Lane. One night, after he had been over to Towan, a village about a mile and a half away, to see a young girl whom he was courting, he was returning home through this beautiful old lane, when he was startled by a burst of music quite close to him. The music was so sweet and yet so stirring that he wanted to dance to the tune. He looked about to see whence the sound was coming, but he could see nothing unusual. It was a glorious night, and the big moon floated like a silver ball in the cloudless blue of the midnight sky, and shone so brightly that he could even see fronds of the ferns standing out quite clearly from the mossy hedge-banks. As he was looking around, the music grew louder, sweeter, and more stirring, and sending his gaze down the lane to where the trees arched it, he saw a big crowd of Small People holding a fair. He had heard of Little People's fairs from his great-grannie, but had never hoped to see one, and he was as glad as a bird that he happened to be going down Tresallyn Lane when they were holding one. The Wee Folk were holding their fair near a gate about a dozen yards or so from where he was standing. As the moon was just then floating over the gate, he could see all the Little People quite plainly, and what they were doing. The Little Men and the Little Women were all dressed up to the nines in the way of clothes, and although he could not have described the cut of their coats or the style of their gowns, he knew that all the Little Women were lovely, that dear little faces peeped out of quaint bonnets, that they carried frails in their hands, and that Piskey-purses hung by their sides in the same way that his great-grannie's big cotton purse bag hung under her gown. There were ever so many little standings or stalls on the grass--one here and one there, like currants in his mother's buns, Hender told himself. Every standing was laid out with all sorts of tempting things pleasing to Small People, on which they gazed with evident delight. They asked the price of this thing and that of the little standing women behind the stalls; and to see the Little People opening their tiny brown Piskey-purses and taking out their fairy money to pay for their purchases was as good as a play. But what delighted the young fellow most were the Tiny Fiddlers and Pipers; and to watch the way the Fiddlers elbowed their fiddle-sticks and fiddled was worth walking twelve miles any night to see, he said, to say nothing of watching the Little Men and the Little Women dancing to the tunes the Fiddlers fiddled and the Pipers piped. It was merrymaking with a vengeance, he told himself, and the fiddling, the piping, and the merrymaking at Summercourt Fair were nothing to it! The fair itself was held a few feet away from the standings and the merrymaking, and when Hender could turn away his gaze for a few minutes to look at the Little People's Fair Park, he saw a sight he feared he should never see again. There were scores of fairy horses, and as many bullocks and cows, and flocks of sheep and goats, none of them much bigger than those quaint little animals in toy farmyards; but these were all alive, he could tell, by the prancing of the horses! The sheep were confined within hurdles. There were pigs there as well, only to Hender's eyes they looked exactly like very large sow-pigs, [26] all of which were in small stone enclosures. Moving about among the animals were Little Men who were dressed like farmers, but whether they were farmers or not he could not tell. It was all so wonderfully interesting to Hender that he stood still like one in a dream, till one of the Little Men in a smart green coat went over to a very pretty Little Lady, who reminded him of his own sweetheart whom he had not very long kissed good-night, and asked her if he might treat her to some fairing, and he took hold of her little hand and led her up to the standing. And when he opened his purse to pay for what he bought for his lady-love Hender had to give vent to his feelings, and he cried out: 'I could not have done it better--no, not even if I had bought a fairing for my own little sweetheart! No fy! I couldn't.' The words were no sooner spoken when the Small People's fair vanished, Little People and all, and the only thing left to show that a fair had been held were a dozen sow-pigs in a stone enclosure! THE PISKEYS WHO DID AUNT BETSY'S WORK In our great-great-grandmothers' days people very seldom went away visiting, and when little Nannie Sando received an invitation from her Aunt Betsy--great-aunt really--who lived quite twenty miles from her home on a lonely moor, near Liskard, there was great excitement in Nannie's home. Nannie's father did not like the thought of her going away so far from home, and her mother did not like it either, but she said Aunt Betsy was well-to-do, and had a stockingful of gold hidden away somewhere; it would not do for them to offend her by refusing to let the child go. So the invitation was accepted, and Nannie was sent off by coach, and met by her aunt in a donkey-cart in Horn Lane, at Liskard, where the coach put up; and that same evening she reached the little house on the moor. It was quite a nice little house, with two rooms up and two down, and a large garden behind, sheltered by granite boulders fantastically piled one on top of the other. In front of the house were the moors, which, at the time Nannie came to stay with her aunt, were gorgeous with the bloom of heather and other flowers. Nice as the house was, and beautiful as the moors were, with their background of Kilmar and other Cornish tors, it was a lonely spot for a child to come and stay at, with only an elderly woman for company. But, then, there was the charm of novelty, and there were delights in the shape of her aunt's donkey and cow, and a big black tom-cat called Tinker, to say nothing of the far-stretching moors, which were so beautiful to look at and run wild on. When Nannie was leaving to go and stay with Aunt Betsy, her mother, with a view to possessing some of the old lady's golden hoard some day, told her little daughter to be very attentive to her aunt. 'Get up when she does,' she said, 'and help her to do her work, and make yourself very useful;' and the child said she would. Nannie, when she was going to bed on the evening of her arrival, remembered her mother's injunction, and said to her aunt: 'Please call me when you get up; I want to help you to clean up the houseplace.' But the old woman did not call her grand-niece, and let her stay in bed till breakfast-time; and when the child came down she found all the work done, and everything clean and shining. 'You never called me, Aunt Betsy,' said Nannie reproachfully. 'Mother did so want me to help you.' 'Did she?' cried the old woman sharply. 'If your mother told you to help me, she had a motive for it. I know your mother's little ways!' 'She said you were getting up in years,' said Nannie innocently, 'and that the young should spare the old as much as they could.' 'The dear little Brown Piskeys spare my old legs,' said the old woman, looking at the child. 'They come in and do my work before the world gets up.' 'The Piskeys!' cried the child. 'Who are the Piskeys? I never heard of them before.' 'You must be a very ignorant little girl not to have heard tell of the Piskeys,' cried Aunt Betsy, lifting her hands in surprise. 'They are dear Little People who take strange likes and dislikes to human beings. If they happen to like people very much, they come into their house and do their work for them. They have taken quite a fancy to me, and come into my house every night and clean up the houseplace, polish the candlesticks till they shine like gold, scour the pots and pans, and wash and clean everything that wants cleaning.' 'How very kind of them!' said Nannie. 'They must be dear Little People. I do wish I could see them doing your work, Aunt Betsy. It would be something to tell father and mother when I go home.' 'I don't expect you will have the good fortune to see the Piskeys,' said the old woman. 'They are little invisible Men and Women, and nobody ever sees them unless they happen to be Piskey-eyed. As you have never heard about these dear Wee Folk till now, it is quite certain you have not the gift.' 'Are you Piskey-eyed, Aunt Betsy?' asked Nannie eagerly. Her aunt did not answer, and told her little grand-niece to sit up at table and eat her breakfast. The child was too full of the Little People to eat much breakfast, and the more she thought about them, the more anxious she became to see those dear Wee Folk, who were so very, very kind to her Aunt Betsy. The next morning Nannie got up ever so early, with the hope of seeing the Piskeys, but, early as it was, Aunt Betsy was down before her. The work was all done, and the table laid for breakfast, as on the previous day. 'The Piskeys came and did it long before I was up,' remarked her aunt, not noticing the child's face of disappointment, glancing round the big kitchen, with its stone-flagged floor, just washed, and looking as blue as the tors, and up at the dresser, with its china looking as if it had been washed in sunshine, it was so sparkling; and as for the tall brass candlesticks on the high mantelpiece, they were dazzling in their brightness. 'It isn't fair that the Little People should come in and do all your work when I wanted to help,' said Nannie. 'I am used to Piskeys, but not to children,' returned the old woman. 'If you really want to do something for me, you shall go out on the moors and pick me a nosegay of wild flowers. It will make the kitchen look nice, and will complete the work of the Piskeys.' Nannie was willing, as she had nothing to do, and she put on her sun-bonnet to go. 'The clover is in blossom,' said her aunt, as the child was going out at the door, 'and if you happen to find one with four leaves you may perhaps get Piskey-eyed, and if you also find a Wee's Nest [27] you will have the good fortune to see all the Little People in Cornwall!' 'A Wee's Nest is a thing that is never found,' said Nannie; 'but I'll look for a four-leaved clover till I find it. P'raps you found a four-leaved clover, and that is how you can see the Piskeys,' looking round at her aunt with a smile. The old woman was not given to answering questions, and she only said that four-leaved clovers were not so easy to find as she imagined. There was an abundance of flowers everywhere on the moors, and Nannie soon gathered a great big nosegay; but although she looked for a four-leaved clover, she could not find one. Her aunt was very pleased with the flowers when she took them to her, and told her to put them into an earthenware pot, which she did; and when she had had her dinner, she went on the moors again. Tinker, the great tom-cat, with whom she had already made friends, followed her. Nannie stayed out on the moors till it was almost bedtime, searching for a four-leaved clover, but she searched in vain. The next morning, the child, hearing her aunt dressing, got up and dressed too, and, being young and nimble, she was dressed and down first. When she got to the kitchen, she heard the clatter of pans and a tripping to and fro of tiny feet, and little bursts of laughter came from the big spence at the upper end of the kitchen; but she saw nothing living, except Tinker, cleaning his face in front of the fire, and then she heard a patter of small feet going towards the outer kitchen door, and there was silence. 'You have driven away the Piskeys, you young good-for-nothing!' cried Aunt Betsy, coming into the kitchen, buttoning the sleeve of her gown as she came. 'The Little People don't like to be spied on when they are busy working. You should not have got up so early.' The old woman seemed as much put out as the Piskeys, and she flew round the kitchen doing the work the Small People had left undone, and would not allow Nannie to help at all, not even to lay the cloth for breakfast. After breakfast, the child, in order to put her aunt in a better mood, went out on the moors to get another nosegay of wild flowers, and she gathered one of every sort she could find. As she was picking them, Tinker, the cat, who had followed her again to the moors, put his paw on a clover and mewed; and, fearing a bee had stung him, she looked to see, and quite close to his paw was a white four-leaved clover! 'I shall be able to see the Piskeys now!' said Nannie joyfully; and she and Tinker returned to the house. Aunt Betsy was out at the back looking for a hen who had stolen her nest, and she did not come in till dinner-time. Nannie amused herself meanwhile in arranging the flowers, and when she had done that to her own satisfaction, she passed the four-leaved clover over her eyes three times, and looked round the kitchen to see what she could see. She saw nothing unusual, but she thought she saw a tiny brown laughing face peeping round the kitchen door. When Aunt Betsy came in from watching the hen, the child told her she had found the four-leaved clover, thanks to Tinker. Her aunt looked at her queerly, and asked her to show the clover which she had found; and when she saw that it was a four-leaved one, she only said: 'But you have not yet found the Wee's Nest, and you must not expect to see the dear little Brown Piskeys unless you do.' Nannie hoped she would, all the same, and this hope made her so excited she could not sleep; and when daylight began to creep into the sky she got up, and without waiting to put on more than her little petticoat, she crept downstairs, holding the four-leaved clover in her hand. When she got to the door of the kitchen, leading into it from the passage, she opened it softly and peeped in; and to her delight she saw scores and scores of Little People, all as busy as bees in a field of clover. Some were sweeping the flagged stones, some were washing the cloam [28] and scouring the pots and pans, some were polishing the candlesticks with a soft leather, and others were in the big spence scrubbing the stone benches and doing it all as keenly [29] as Aunt Betsy herself, which was most wonderful, she thought, considering how tiny they were. For they were not much bigger than a miller's thumb. [30] It was the Little Women Piskeys who were the busiest workers. The Little Men were less industrious; and when Tinker came into the kitchen, they stopped their work of cleaning the milk-pans to pull his great bushy tail and his whiskers. One little scamp of a Piskey--perhaps unconscious that Nannie was now Piskey-eyed--put his thumb to his nose, after the manner of naughty little boys, and made a face at her. The Piskeys were a merry little lot, and laughed at their work as if it were all play, which perhaps it was; and one little red-capped Piskey danced a hornpipe on the table as several of his companions were about to lay the cloth for Aunt Betsy's breakfast. They stood on the edge of the table, waiting for him to finish his dance, and as he did not seem inclined to do this, they caught hold of him by his legs and tickled him. The little Piskey who was being tickled, and those who tickled him, looked so comical that Nannie laughed, which made them stop and look round. 'There is a little maid watching us from the door!' said one of the Piskeys in a whisper. 'She is Piskey-eyed, the same as Aunt Betsy, and she will be spying upon us now, sure as eggs are eggs. I think we had better forsake this house and go and do work for some other old woman.' And, to Nannie's distress, they went, and ever after Aunt Betsy had to do her own work, which made her so cross that she sent poor Nannie home to her parents at the first opportunity she had; and when she died, which was not a great while after, she left her little hoard of gold to strangers. Nannie's father said 'twas a great pity, but that his wife was to blame, for if she had not urged their little maid to help the old lady to do her work with the unworthy motive of having some of her gold, Nannie would never have wanted to see the Piskeys doing Aunt Betsy's work. THE PISKEYS WHO CARRIED THEIR BEDS Many years ago the Piskeys used to dance on a grassy place on the top of the cliffs overlooking Newtrain Bay in the parish of Padstow. They danced there so often that the grass was worn quite bare, and until the cliffs on which they danced were undermined and broken down by the rough sea, the marks of their tiny feet were plainly seen. An old woman who lived a short distance from Newtrain Cliffs used to tell people interested in fairies that she had often seen them dancing there. 'They danced two and two,' she said, 'and so near the edge of the cliff, you would have thought they would dance over. But they never did; they were far too clever for that.' Jinnie Chapman was the name of this old woman. She was quite a character in her way, and almost as interesting as the Small People she loved to talk about. She was a little quick woman, with twinkling dark eyes, and whenever she went over to Newtrain to watch the Piskeys, she wore a black cottage-bonnet over her neat jinnie-guick cap, a blue print apron, and a quaint little black turnover with a wide border of red cones. This turnover she called a 'q' shawl, because the cones on its border were the shape of q's, she said. It was the great pleasure of her dull, uneventful life to see the Piskeys dancing, which she was simple enough to believe they did to give her pleasure; and she embraced every opportunity to get to the Newtrain Cliffs to watch them. Jinnie had watched the Small People so often that she knew every one of them by sight, and how many there were that danced. They never took any notice of the little old woman in the cottage-bonnet, the quaint shawl, and blue print apron, watching them dancing near a low stone hedge green and gold with samphire; and they laughed and talked to each other just the same as if she were not present. They never danced, as far as Jinnie knew, except when the moon was high, and they left off dancing when the moon set like a ball of fire over the great headlands. But she did not know where they went after the moon had gone down. One very bright moonlight night in the early autumn, when the Piskey-stools [31] were thick on Newtrain Cliffs, old Jinnie came again to watch the Piskeys; and when she got there, there were not any to be seen. She could not understand it, and she went and looked at the Piskey-stools to see if they were sitting on any of them having a chat, which they sometimes did when they were tired of dancing; but every Piskey-stool on the cliffs was unoccupied. As she was wondering what had become of the Piskeys, she heard shrieks of tiny laughter, like the giggles of kittiwakes, coming up from Newtrain Bay under the cliffs; and she hastened down the steep road leading to the bay--which was romantic-looking, and almost shut in by tall cliffs--as fast as her old legs would take her. When she got to the bottom of the road, she met four little Piskeys coming up, carrying a large Piskey-bag between them; and being very anxious to know what they were going to do with the dark-brown thing, she said: 'My little dears, will you kindly tell me what you are going to do with the Piskey-bag?' They were evidently too surprised to answer the old woman at once, for she had never spoken to them before, and they stared up at her open-mouthed. 'To sleep in when the cold weather comes,' answered a Piskey at last. 'They are ever so comfortable to snuggle under when the snow is on the ground,' said another little Piskey. 'Sleep in them, do you?' cried old Jinnie, greatly interested. 'To think of it now! I expect they are as warm as the blanketing the blanket-weavers weave in their looms at Padstow. But I never knew before you slept in the bags; I thought you kept your money in them.' 'We don't, then,' cried the Piskeys, grinning all over their little elf faces, which were almost as brown as the Piskey-bag they were carrying. 'We use the tiny young bags to keep our money in, not big ones like this.' 'Up we go!' cried one of the Piskeys to his companions, giving the one nearest him a poke in his ribs; and the four little Brown Men began to ascend the steep road, carrying the Piskey-bag by its four tails, swinging it to and fro, and shrieking with laughter as they swung it. Jinnie watched them for a few minutes, and then went down to the pebbly beach, where she saw dozens of little Brown Men in companies of four, each company bearing a Piskey-bag between them. There was a long string of these Little People from the water's edge to where she met them, which was about a dozen yards from the foot of the steep road. The little Brown Men took no notice of her, and swung the bags just as did the first quartette, seemingly unconscious that she was watching them, and laughed and joked among themselves as they swung them. Old Jinnie followed them up the beach and road, and she wondered to herself where they were going to take the bags; but she never knew, for when they reached the top of the cliff where they danced, they vanished, Piskey-bags and all! THE FAIRY WHIRLWIND A young married woman, who was very pretty, lived with her husband in a sweet little cottage by the sea. The cottage was cob-walled, and had a small flower-garden in its front, which was a picture in the early springtime with periwinkles and gilliflowers, and in the summer-time with roses and hollyhocks. There was another garden belonging to the cottage, but it was only for vegetables, and was on the top of a cliff quite five minutes' walk from the cottage. This young wife and her husband, who was a waggoner, had one little child a few months old. The child was very dear to them both, and they thought she was the sweetest and most beautiful little baby in all the world. The fairies must have been quite of the same opinion, as you will see. One afternoon the young wife was about to make an Irish stew for her husband's supper, when she found she had not enough potatoes in the house to make it. As she took her sun-bonnet from its peg to go up to the cliff garden to dig some up, her baby, who was lying in its wooden cradle, puckered its fair little face and began to cry. 'I believe the darling knows I am going out,' cried the fond young mother. 'I can't leave her here all by her little self; I must take her with me.' And when she had put on her bonnet and a basket for the potatoes on her arm, she lifted the baby out of the cradle and took her with her to the cliff, fondling the dear little thing and talking to it as she went. When she had reached the cliff-garden, she stood on the edge of the cliff with her flaxen-haired babe in her arms, looking out over the sea. It was a lovely June day, and the water was as quiet as a mill-pond and blue as vipers' bugloss, she told her baby. 'Just the sort of weather for my pretty to be out in,' she cried, hugging the child. Mrs. Davies, as the young woman was called, after gazing out over the sea for a few minutes, laid her baby down on the top of a potato ridge, close to where a succory and a knapweed grew side by side, and interlaced their blue and purple blossoms. When the babe had fixed its eyes upon the flowers and cooed to them in baby fashion, she set to work to dig up the potatoes. She had not been digging very long when she heard a curious noise behind her, like the sound of soft wind in trees, but there were no trees in the cliff-garden, and not wind enough to move even the potato leaves. She dropped the biddix [32] to see what it was that made so strange a sound, and as she dropped it she was caught in a whirlwind--a Fairy Whirlwind, she said it was--which whirled her round and round like a whirligig; and as she whirled she was enveloped in a cloud of fine grey pillum, or dust, and she could not see anything beyond her nose. When the whirlwind went away--and it vanished as suddenly as it came--she found herself close to the edge of the cliff ever so far away from her baby. Fearing she knew not what for her child, she ran over to it to see if it was quite safe; and to her horror, there, where her own fair little baby had lain, she saw a dark, wizen little creature, with a face wrinkled all over like an old woman's! 'That is not my little maid,' she shrieked; 'it's a changeling! The wicked Little People envied us our little beauty, and have stolen her away, and left one of their own ugly brats in her place. They raised a Fairy Whirlwind to hide from me what they were doing, the wicked, wicked little things!' Mrs. Davies never knew how long she stood staring down in hopeless misery upon the ugly babe the Small People had left there on the potato ridge in place of her own; but in the end she took it up in her arms and carried it down to the cottage. Her husband was at home by this time, wondering what had become of his wife and child, and you might have knocked him down with a straw when she poured out her woe to him, and showed him the ugly dark babe the fairies had exchanged for their own beautiful babe. 'What must I do with it?' she asked piteously, when her husband turned away from it with grief in his eyes and sorrow in his heart. 'Keep it till the Small People are tired of our little handsome,' he said, 'and be good to it if you can. If we ain't kind to the fairies' cheeld, they won't be kind to ours, that's certain.' So the young woman and her husband, for the sake of their own flaxen-haired, blue-eyed little darling the Small People had envied and taken away, were very kind to the babe they had left in its place. They hoped, as they took care of it, although they never loved it, that the fairies would quickly grow tired of their child and bring her back; but they hoped in vain. A year after the Small People had raised a whirlwind, the fairies' cheeld, as Mrs. Davies and her husband called the babe left on the potato ridge in place of their own, pined away and died; but the little human child with its flaxen curls and eyes of Cornish blue was never seen by mortal eyes after the fairies had stolen it. NOTES 'THE ADVENTURES OF A PISKEY IN SEARCH OF HIS LAUGH.' The Piskeys are said to have 'a kind of music,' and to dance to the strains of fairy fiddles. There are Piskey-rings on many of the Cornish cliffs and headlands. The country people say the Piskeys make them in the night. The rings, anyhow, spring up suddenly like mushrooms! The legend of the mole is still current in North Cornwall, and its tiny hands are shown as evidence that it was once a very proud and vain lady, who said that the ground was not fit for her dainty feet to walk on. As a punishment for her overwhelming vanity and pride, she was turned into a mole to walk underground. There is more than one quaint conceit about Jack-o'-the-Lantern or the little Man-o'-the-Lantern. Some say he walks about carrying a lantern, others that he goes over the moors in his lantern. He is the Piskey Puck. There are many weird stories told about Giant Tregeagle. I have given one of the simplest, but only as far as it has to do with North Cornwall. It is said that his shadow still flits over the moorlands in the neighbourhood of Dozmare Pool, and that the pool itself is the Mother of Storms, being moved by supernatural influences. There has always been a tradition that an underground waterway led from Dozmare Pool to the sea, but there is no tradition that Merlin ever came out of the place where the Lady of the Lake put him, or that he was the Bargeman of the moorland lake. The little fairy riders, or 'night-riders,' as we Cornish call them, are, I believe, peculiar to North and East Cornwall. They do not seem to have been a kind Little People. They never had any consideration for the horses and colts which they took out of farmers' stables near their haunts, but rode them over the moors and commons till they were ready to drop, and then left them to perish or to find their way back to their stables as best they could. They made stirrups out of the colts' manes and tails. The legend that King Arthur never died is still extant, and it is said that he haunts the dark Tintagel cliffs and the ruins of the old castle where he was born in the form of a red-legged chough. 'LEGEND OF THE PADSTOW DOOMBAR.' The above legend is doubtless a myth, but it is a fact that a wailing cry is sometimes heard on the Doombar after a fearful gale and loss of life on that fateful bar, like a woman bewailing the dead. 'THE LITTLE CAKE-BIRD.' In the neighbourhood of St. Columb the children used to be told that when they were in bed and asleep the dear little Piskeys would pass over their noses and order their dreams. One of the strange conceits about the Piskeys was told to me not long ago by a native of Cornwall. He said he had heard the old Granfers and Grannies say that the Piskeys were the spirits of still-born and unbaptized children, which will perhaps explain the curious belief that Small People were not good enough for heaven nor bad enough for hell. The gay little Piskeys seem to have their wistful moments and yearnings for higher things. They are said to listen at windows and doors in moorland villages when Christian people are saying their prayers. It was the custom in some parts of Cornwall to put a piece of dough in the shape of a bird on the top of the children's Christmas Eve buns, to remind the children that the white-winged Angels sang when the Babe of Bethlehem was born. If I remember rightly, the buns were eaten hot from the oven. 'THE IMPOUNDED CROWS.' This is a well-known legend. The Crow Pound, where little St. Neot impounded the pilfering crows, was in existence not a great while ago. It is now a field. 'THE OLD SKY WOMAN.' Wherever the snow falls in North Cornwall, especially at Padstow, little children cry one to the other that the Old Woman is up in the sky plucking her goose. 'THE LITTLE HORSES AND HORSEMEN OF PADSTOW.' The quaint little figures on the housetop in the old town of Padstow are visible to all the passers-by, and sometimes strangers ask why they were put there--a difficult question to answer, as nobody knows for certain. Perhaps they were placed on the ridge of the house for the Piskeys to dance on, or for the fairy riders to ride. Or maybe they were put there in the days of the Civil Wars, as a token that the house on which the little steeds and the little horsemen were perched was a refuge for King Charles' cavaliers. There is no tradition about the small horses and their riders, but the children were always told, as the tale says, that when they heard the clock strike twelve they galloped round the market and town. 'THE PISKEYS' REVENGE.' It used to be held, and is still told, that the Piskeys came in through the keyhole and ate up the good things. Children, when they knew that cakes were made and asked to have some, were told that the Piskeys had eaten them all. They had a special liking for junkets and sugar biscuits. 'THE PISKEYS WHO DID AUNT BETSY'S WORK.' Some of the Piskeys were kindly disposed, and were credited with doing kindly acts, and it is said that they often came into the cottages in the night-time and cleaned them. When the cottages looked very clean and neat it was said that the Piskeys had done it. 'HOW JAN BREWER WAS PISKEY-LADEN.' Legends about Piskey-led people are as plentiful as blackberries. The present one comes from the neighbourhood of Constantine. FOOTNOTES [1] Sad. [2] A bog near Rough Tor. [3] A bat. [4] Pronounced Dozmary. [5] Nightjar. [6] The ladybird. [7] Near Helston. [8] Tintagel. [9] China. [10] Sad. [11] Coax. [12] Tiny child. [13] Whortleberries. [14] An oven when half heated. [15] Frame. [16] The speckled, or ermine, moth. [17] Cotton-grass. [18] Tale. [19] Child-little. [20] Tale. [21] A small storeroom for victuals. [22] Power of utterance. [23] Mad. [24] Waving. [25] Little. [26] Wood-lice. [27] Mare's nest. [28] China. [29] Well. [30] A very small bird. [31] Mushrooms. [32] A double digging tool--one end pointed, the other flattened. 
41437	----	WARRIORS OF OLD JAPAN AND OTHER STORIES BY YEI THEODORA OZAKI AUTHOR OF THE JAPANESE FAIRY BOOK ILLUSTRATED BY SHUSUI OKAKURA AND OTHER JAPANESE ARTISTS HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON AND NEW YORK 1909 [Illustration: RUSHED UPON THE MONSTER AND QUICKLY DESPATCHED HIM] PREFACE The kind reception given to "The Japanese Fairy Book" has encouraged me to venture on a second volume of stories from Japan. I have invented none of these stories. They are taken from many different sources, and in clothing them with an English dress my work has been that of adapter rather than translator. In picturesqueness of conception Japanese stories yield the palm to none. And they are rich in quaint expressions and dainty conceits. But they are apt to be written in a style almost too bald. This defect the professional story-teller remedies by colouring his story as he tells it. In the same way I have tried to brighten the rather bare structure of a story, where it seemed to need such treatment; with touches of local colour in order to give emphasis to the narrative, and at the same time make the story more attractive to the foreign reader. Whether I have succeeded or not, the reader must judge for himself. I shall be satisfied if in some small measure I have been able to do for Japanese folk-lore what Andrew Lang has done for folk-lore in general, and if the tales in their English dress are found to retain the essential features of Japanese stories. Miss Fusa Okamoto and Mr. Taketaro Matsuda, my brother, Nobumori Ozaki, and one or two friends have given me help in translation. For the introductory note I am indebted to Mr. J.H. Gubbins, C.M.G., of the British Embassy, Tokyo. Most of the illustrations have been drawn by Mr. Shusui Okakura, of the Peers' College, to whose painstaking and patient collaboration grateful acknowledgment is due. A few of the pictures were drawn by Mr. Tsutsui, of the "Jiji Shimbun," and some of the historical pictures by Mr. Kokuho Utagawa and Mr. Tosen Toda. Yei Theodora Ozaki. CONTENTS Introductory Note Madame Yukio Ozaki I. Hachiro Tametomo, the Archer II. Gen Sanmi Yorimasa, the Knight III. The Story of Yoshitsune IV. The Story of Benkei V. The Goblin of Oyeyama VI. Kidomaru the Robber, Raiko the Brave, and the Goblin Spider VII. The Story of the Pots of Plum, Cherry, and Pine VIII. Shiragiku, or White Chrysanthemum IX. The Princess of the Bowl X. The Story of Lazy Taro ILLUSTRATIONS RUSHED UPON THE MONSTER AND QUICKLY DESPATCHED HIM (Frontispiece) TAMETOMO BEGAN TO RISE IN THE AIR YORIMASA COULD NOT TELL WHICH WAS THE LADY AYAME COULD OVERCOME TEN OR TWENTY SMALL TENGU IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE THE PHANTOM HOST DREW NEARER TO THE BOAT DIED STANDING WITH HIS FACE TO THE ENEMY THE HEAD FLEW UP INTO THE AIR THEY ENTERED THE CAVE AND FOUND A MONSTER SPIDER SHIRAGIKU WAS ABOUT TO DASH DOWN INTO THE RIVER SAISHO AND THE BOWL-WEARER WERE AT LAST MARRIED INTRODUCTORY NOTE Those who three years ago welcomed the appearance of "The Japanese Fairy Book" will be grateful to Madame Ozaki for the new treat afforded in the present volume. "The Japanese Fairy Book" appealed alike to the child, in or out of the nursery, to the student of folk-lore, and to the lover of things Japanese. To all of these the stories here told will come as old friends with new faces. In a country whose people are born story-tellers, where story-telling long since rose to the dignity of a profession, and the story-teller is sure of an appreciative audience, whether at a village fair or in a city theatre, the authoress had not to go far afield in search of her materials. But the range of this class of literature is wide, embracing as it does all that goes to make folk-lore, legendary history, fairy tales, and myths. From all these sources the present stories are drawn, and in each case the selection is justified and the story loses nothing in the telling. The simple directness of narrative peculiar to Japanese tales is not lost in the English setting, and the little glimpses we are given into Japanese verse may tempt the reader to do like Oliver Twist and "ask for more." J.H. Gubbins. Tokyo, May, 1909. MADAME YUKIO OZAKI A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, BY MRS. HUGH FRASER In the attempt to describe a character it is wise to begin, if possible, with its distinguishing attribute, the one which will leave its mark on the time, after the popularity of definite achievements may have passed away. So I will say, before going any further into the subject of this sketch, that if I were asked to single out the person who, to-day, most truly apprehends the points of contact and divergence in the thought of East and West, I would name the gentle dark-eyed lady who is the light of an ancient house in the loveliest part of Tokyo, a spot where, as she sits under the great pines of her garden, she can hear the long Pacific rollers breaking on the white beaches of Japan and listen to the wind as it murmurs its haunting songs of other homes in distant lands where she is known and loved. For though Yei Theodora Ozaki is a daughter of the East in heart and soul and parentage, one to whom all the fine ways and thoughts of it come by nature, she is also a child of the West in training, in culture, in the intellectual justice which enables her to discern the greatnesses and smile indulgently at the littlenesses of both. Her father, Baron Saburo Ozaki, the descendant of a Kyoto samurai family, a member of the House of Peers, and a Privy Councillor, was one of the first Japanese who went to England to study its language and institutions. While there, he made the acquaintance of Miss Bathia Catherine Morrison, and shortly afterwards she became his wife. This lady was the daughter of William Morrison, Esq., a profound scholar and linguist, who would have been more famous had not his attainments, great as they were, been overshadowed by those of his brother, the Rev. Alexander Morrison, whose translations of the works of German philosophers and historians placed much valuable material at the disposal of English readers. William Morrison's name, however, was known and loved in Japan many years before his little granddaughter Yei (the Illustrious Flower Petal) was born, for he was the instructor of most of the Japanese great men who went to England to learn the ways and speech of modern enlightenment. Prince Mori, Marquis Inouye, Baron Suyematsu, and many others who afterwards rose to eminence, were among his pupils, and when Baron Ozaki became his son-in-law it would have been natural to conclude that Miss Morrison was fairly familiar already with many sides of the complex Japanese character. But the union was not a happy one; and when, several years later, I made her acquaintance, I thought I could divine the reason. She was a charming and intelligent woman, but she was English to the backbone, and it was impossible for her to appreciate or sympathize with anything that was not British. And Saburo Ozaki was as fundamentally Japanese. Five years after their marriage they separated, by mutual consent; three little girls, of whom Yei Theodora was the second, remained in England with their mother and received a very thorough English education. Mr. Morrison took great interest in O Yei and brought her many books, which she devoured greedily, having inherited all his love of literature and learning. I have often heard her say that whatever ability she possesses in that direction is due to her English grandfather. She was just sixteen when Baron Ozaki insisted upon her coming out to live with him in Japan, and she gladly complied with his wishes. On meeting her after their long separation, he was delighted with her charm and grace, and pleasantly surprised to find that in appearance she was quite a Japanese maiden, small and slender, with dark eyes, pale complexion, and a mass of glossy black hair. Accustomed to rule as an autocrat over his household, he decreed that henceforth she was to be only Japanese. She was quite willing to please him in this, so far as she could; the pretty picturesque ways of her new home appealed to her artistic instinct, and the traditions and ideals of Japanese life at once claimed her for their own; her mental inheritance responded to them joyfully. But this was not quite enough for her father. His duty, from his point of view, was to arrange a suitable marriage for her as soon as possible; but here he met with an unexpected difficulty. The example of her parents' estrangement had inspired the girl with something like terror of the married state, and she had grown up with the resolve not to run the risk of contracting a like ill-assorted union. In consequence, she found herself in opposition to her father, an impossible situation in a Japanese family, and especially undesirable where there were younger children growing up, as in this case, for Baron Ozaki had married again after his return to his own country. Various other circumstances also combined to make her decide at this time to become independent. Her knowledge of English qualified her to give instruction in that language, and her superior education and well-known social position brought her many pupils in a land where teaching is looked upon as the highest of all professions. In this way many interesting friendships were formed with Japanese girls, one of whom opened for her the doors of that treasure house of story, the ancient lore and romance of Japan. Here the ardent sensitive mind was in its element. She says: "During those early years I loved the heroes and heroines of my country with passionate and romantic devotion. They were the companions of my solitude, royal and remote, yet near and potential as the white fire of girlhood's idealisms; they peopled my visions with beautiful images, tender and brave and loyal. In those days I was often reproached with being a dreamer, but my dreams were all of fair and noble things. The old stories had taken possession of me: they were a wonder, a joy, an exaltation, though I little imagined that I would ever write them down." It was during this period of her life that there came a temporary parting of the ways and Europe again claimed O Yei for a time. My husband was the British Minister in Tokyo, and we proposed to Baron Ozaki's daughter that she should come and live with us, acting as my secretary and companion. She accepted, and became not only a dearly loved friend, but an invaluable assistant to me, contributing very materially to the success of my various books on Japan by her profound knowledge of the country and the people. When I returned to Europe she followed me, and remained with us in Italy for about two years. A part of this time she spent in the house of my brother, Marion Crawford, acting as his amanuensis, and cataloguing his great library with such precision and intelligence that he remarked to me, "Miss Ozaki is a very exceptional person. I had not imagined that the work could be so well done." My brother discerned her literary talent and first suggested to her that she should write and publish the stories of old Japan which she used to tell in the family circle to the delight of old and young. "You have the gifts of imagination and of language," he said to her. "You really ought to lecture on those stories. You would have a great success." Italy was a revelation to O Yei; her love of colour and romance was satisfied there, and the never-silent music of the South, the gay yet haunting songs of the people, found a ready echo in her sweet voice, her delicate guitar-playing. But her heart had always turned faithfully to her English mother, and when I went to live in London she passed some time there, contributing her first stories and articles to the English magazines. Then she returned to Japan, where the famous educator, Mr. Fukuzawa, had offered her a post in his school. Of all her varied experiences this was the strangest. The slight shy girl had a class of two hundred young men and boys to instruct and keep in order, but from the crowded classroom she returned to the eeriest and loneliest of dwellings. She says: "I lived in the upper storey of an old Buddhist temple, really enjoying the queerness and out-of-the-worldness of it. Under my windows was a graveyard, where on summer nights I used to look for ghosts; but I had a terrible time with the cold and the draughts and the rats, in winter. Sometimes I was awakened at dawn by the sound of gongs and bells, and would look out of my window to see a funeral procession marshalled in the courtyard." In her spare time she continued to write, and various articles and fairy stories of hers appeared in the "Wide World," the "Girls' Realm," and the "Lady's Realm." At last her health broke down and she gave up her post at the school and devoted herself more closely to literary work, which resulted, in 1903, in the publication of "The Japanese Fairy Book," a work which has now become a classic. At the same time she belonged to several of the societies, patriotic, educational, and charitable, by which the Japanese ladies so quietly yet so efficiently aid the cause of true progress in their country. Indeed it was in the interests of Japanese womanhood that she first took up her pen, resolved to dispel the hopeless misconceptions which existed in regard to it in western minds. To use her own words: "When I was last in England and Europe and found by the questions asked me that very mistaken notions about Japan, and especially about its women, existed generally, I determined if possible to write so as to dispel these wrong conceptions. Hence my stories of Japanese heroines, Aoyagi and Kesa Gozen [in the 'Nineteenth Century'] and Tomaye Gozen, last year ['Lady's Pictorial']. It has been my hope too that the ancient tales and legends, retold in English, may show to the West some of the good old ideals and sentiments for which the Japanese lived and died." But other than purely studious interests entered into O Yei's life; she had many friends in the Court and Diplomatic circles, and they drew her more and more into society, where she was always a welcome addition to any gathering. She saw every side of the national existence, Imperial, official, scholastic, and was equally intimate with the small but brilliant foreign society. Her single state was a mystery to all except her closest friends; they knew that she had resolved never to marry until she met a man who should fulfil all her ideals. She met him at last. In 1904 she made the acquaintance of Yukio Ozaki, the Mayor of Tokyo. Each had long known of the other, and various amusing complications had occurred through mistakes of the postman, who, owing to identity of name (there was no connection of family), sometimes got hopelessly confused, and delivered the Mayor's letters to the young lady and the young lady's correspondence to the Mayor. From the moment when the two first met, at a big dinner party, and laughed together over the postman's mistakes, the result was a foregone conclusion. Mr. Ozaki had already learned all that his friends could tell him about the intellectual, attractive girl whose independent, resolute spirit had in no way marred her gentle womanliness; she knew him equally well by reputation--and to hear of Yukio Ozaki, in Japan, is to admire and respect him. Many were the parents, both wealthy and noble, who after his first wife's death would gladly have had him for a son-in-law. His irreproachable morals and elevated character earned for him during this period the title "Nihon no Dai Ichi no O musoko San," the "First (best) bridegroom in all Japan." But he too nursed an ideal, and was not to be drawn into new ties until he had found it. Given two such beings, it needed but one kindly touch of Fate's wand to bring them together. The result was a marriage happy in its perfect romance and blest with the deep sympathy of tastes and interests which forms the surest foundation for married felicity. I returned to Japan a few weeks before the wedding took place, and counted myself fortunate in gaining the friendship of Yukio Ozaki. My first impressions of him could be summed up in a very few words--strength, calmness, largeness of heart. The fearless glance of his eyes, the noble carriage of his fine dark head, the quiet voice and direct yet eloquent speech--all this was the fitting index to a character which through many long years of public stress and strain has never let even a passing shadow flit over its crystal sincerity and loyalty. Political corruption, temptations of personal ambition, lures of advancement, popular feeling, the outcries of opponents and the applause of adherents, all these have assailed him in vain, have fallen like broken arrows from the shield of his spotless integrity. A Japanese writer says of him: "Mr. Yukio Ozaki has had a wonderful political career. He is a born orator, the most powerful debater, and the ablest writer, in Japan; a staunch fighter for the cause of liberty and the interests of the people; one of the political magnates, and a potent factor in the introduction of the Meiji civilization; a man who is above every form of political corruption; once the Minister for Education, and now the highly renowned mayor of Tokyo who has never missed a single election for the twenty-five Sessions of the Diet of Japan." Mr. Ozaki is a strenuous and untiring worker. In his character of Mayor no detail is too small for him to go into patiently. Drainage, street cleaning, water supply, market regulations, everything that can conduce to the health and morals of the city passes under his watchful eyes, and Tokyo is governed marvellously well. His scrupulous conscientiousness leads him to take upon himself a thousand minutiae which another man would hand over to his subordinates. I shall never forget the searching orders that were promulgated to prepare the capital for the return of the troops from Manchuria. Hundreds of thousands of men, war-worn and ragged, with all their invalids, were to be arriving for months together, and no one could tell what germs of disease might come with them. So before the first detachment reached Shimbashi, a house-to-house visitation was made, the most thorough cleaning and clearing away of rubbish was insisted upon, and the entire foundations of the dwellings as well as out-houses and gateways were copiously sprinkled with chloride of lime. Tokyo sneezed, Tokyo wept, but Tokyo had no epidemics. Besides all his responsibilities as Mayor, a post which he has filled for seven years, Mr. Ozaki has great political duties to occupy his time. He has steadily refused to attach himself to any party in particular, and, though he has many supporters in the Diet, is an absolutely independent statesman, judging all measures from his only standpoints--right and wrong, and the best interests of the country. This uncompromising attitude has made many enemies for him, but even they admire and respect him, knowing that he is a man who has said to evil, "Stand thou on that side, for on this am I."[1] There is another side to his character, the love of all that is beautiful and inspiring. No one who saw the "Triumphal Return" of Admiral Togo can forget the splendid scene of that imposing ceremony, attended by half a million people and so deftly organized that all could see the hero and the man who welcomed him in the country's name. The welcome came from the nation's heart and found adequate expression in Yukio Ozaki's magnificent address, delivered in the voice whose clear tones had ever sounded in the cause of true patriotism. The thrill of deepest feeling was in them that day, and I, who stood near the speaker, saw that his hand trembled and his eyes were suffused with emotion as he welcomed the beloved old sailor back, in glory, to the country he had saved. One more superb pageant--one where Yukio Ozaki and his bride were host and hostess--returns to my memory, the fête given to Prince Arthur of Connaught in 1906. This was the largest social reunion that has ever taken place in the East, and most regally was the illustrious visitor entertained. In the beautifully wooded park a banqueting pavilion had been erected in the purest style of ancient Japanese architecture, severely harmonious in outline and detail. The interior contained, among other decorations, a great collection of rare Japanese flowers, shrubs, and dwarf trees--pines and maples hundreds of years old, and, from hoary trunk to new-born feathery branch tip, perfect miniatures of their spreading, towering brethren of the forest. The crowning feature of the day was the Daimyo's procession, a mile long, which defiled before our eyes across the great lawns in the open air. For this the last survivors of the feudal epoch had been sought out and brought in from every part of Japan, old _samurai_ who had accompanied their imperious masters in many a famous progress and had cut down all and any who had the temerity to cross their path. In joyful arrogance they came to show a degenerate world the martial splendours of their younger days, and the sight was enough to make one overlook the wrongs and dangers of the dead time and only regret that so much colour and fire had to be swept away to make room for the nation's new life. For things like these all art lovers are grateful to Yukio Ozaki, but his two or three intimate friends have more exquisite moments to thank him for. "Let me take you to my favourite garden," he said one day when I was with him and his wife, "the Garden of the Seven Flowers of Autumn." The sun was setting as we drove for miles beside the river-bank; leaving the city far behind, we came, through leafy lanes, to a half-hidden gate through which we passed into a dreamland of misty beauty, all shadowy and subdued in the late October twilight. Great pale moonflowers swung, like scarce-lit lamps, from tree and trellis; feathery autumn grasses waved their plumes below. The dark velvety paths led to dim monuments on whose grey stones we could feel rather than read the deep-cut characters of classic poems. All was imbued with the tender melancholy which brings repose, not pain; and even now, in hours of stress and weariness, my memory turns to the starlit peace that reigns o' nights in the spirit-haunted Garden of the Seven Flowers of Autumn. Things like these mean more to Yukio Ozaki and his wife than all the social and public side of their existence. Both have the proud delicate reserves of the aristocrat of mind and soul, and escape whenever they can from the publicity which has been forced upon them. It required much persuasion to obtain their permission for this sketch to be published. Madame Ozaki's last words on the subject were: "It is true that my life is varied and exceedingly interesting. One night I may dine at a State banquet with Cabinet Ministers and foreign Ambassadors, or with distinguished visitors like Mr. and Mrs. Taft, who recently visited this country; the next will find me with a purely Japanese party at the Maple Club. I assist at the Court functions, the Imperial wedding receptions; I act as sponsor or go-between at Japanese marriage ceremonies; I see all the ins and outs of Japanese life. I seem to live in the heart of two distinct civilizations, those of the East and the West, but the East is my spirit's fatherland. My mind still turns for companionship to the great ones of the Past, the heroines of my country's history. I find greater pleasure in the old classical drama of the 'No,' with its Buddhist teachings and ideals, its human tragedies of chivalry and of sorrow, than in all the sensational and spectacular modern drama. But my greatest happiness is in my home life, in the companionship of my baby daughter, in the few short hours that my husband can snatch from his work to devote to me. If you must write about us, tell people about Yukio--he is so good and great. I have no wish to be mentioned apart from him." Mary Crawford Fraser. Note: Mr. Ozaki's collected works have just been published in Japan; they include many essays on public and literary topics, original poems, and a translation into Japanese of the Life of Lord Beaconsfield. Madame Ozaki's writings include "The Shinto Fire-Walking," "The Hot Water Ordeal," "Nikko Festival," "Singing Insects of Japan," and many articles on travel and folk-lore, "The Japanese Fairy Book," "Japanese in Time of War," "Japanese Peeresses in Tableaux," "Stories of Japanese Heroines," "Buddha's Crystal" (in 1908), and "Japanese Girls' Home Accomplishments" (in 1909). [1] F.W. Myers. HACHIRO TAMETOMO, THE ARCHER Long, long ago there lived in Japan a man named Hachiro Tametomo, who became famous as the most skilful archer in the whole of the realm at that time. Hachiro means "the eighth," and he was so called because he was the eighth son of his father, General Tameyoshi of the house of Minamoto. Yoshitomo, who afterwards became such a great figure in Japanese history, was his elder brother. Tametomo was therefore uncle to the Shogun Yoritomo and the hero Yoshitsune, of whom you will soon read. He belonged to an illustrious family indeed. As a child Hachiro gave promise of being a very strong man, and as he grew older this promise was more than fulfilled. He early showed a love of archery, and his left arm being four inches longer than his right, there was no one who could bend the bow better or send the arrow farther than he could. By nature Hachiro was a rough, wild boy who did not know what fear was, and he loved to challenge his elder brothers to fight. He ever a grew wilder as he grew older, till at last he acted so rudely and wilfully, respecting and obeying no one set over him, that even his own father found him unmanageable. Now it happened when Hachiro was thirteen years old that a learned man, named Fujiwara-no-Shinsei, came to the Palace of the Emperor one day to give a lecture on a certain book. During the lecture he said that there could not be found in the whole of Japan a warrior whose skill in archery could match that of Kiyomori, the chief of the Taira clan, or of Yorimasa, the Minamoto knight. These two knights, though belonging to two different clans, were the best archers throughout the land. Now Hachiro, when he heard these words, laughed aloud in scorn, and said, so that every one might hear him, that Fujiwara-no-Shinsei was right about Yorimasa, but to call their enemy, that coward of a Kiyomori, a clever archer, only showed what a foolish and ignorant man Fujiwara-no-Shinsei was. This rude speech, so contrary to the rules of Japanese courtesy, which commands young people to maintain a respectful and humble silence in the presence of their elders, made Fujiwara very angry. When the lecture was finished, he therefore sent for Tametomo and rebuked him sternly for his behaviour, but the daring Tametomo, instead of being ashamed of his unmannerly conduct and prostrating himself in apology before the learned man, would not listen to anything he had to say, and was so boisterous in declaring that he was right that Fujiwara gave up his task of correction as a hopeless one. But the lad's father, Tameyoshi, when he heard of what had happened, was very angry with his son for daring to dispute with his elder and superior, especially in the sacred precincts of the Palace. He was so wroth indeed that at last he refused to see him or to keep him any longer under his roof, and to punish him he sent him far away from his home to the island of Kiushiu. Now Tametomo, like the wilful, headstrong boy that he was, did not mind his banishment at all; on the contrary, he felt like a hound let loose from the leash, and rejoiced in his liberty, even though he had incurred his father's displeasure. When he reached the island of Kiushiu he made his way to the province of Higo, and finally settled down in the plain of Kumamoto. Now that Tametomo found himself free to do just as he liked, his thirst for conflict became so great that he could not restrain himself. He gathered round him a band of fighters as wild as himself and challenged the men in all the neighbouring provinces to come out and match their strength against his. In twenty battles which followed this challenge Tametomo was never once defeated, so great was his strength, and his cleverness in directing his soldiers. He was like a silkworm eating up the mulberry tree. Just as the silkworm devours one leaf after another, with slow but sure relentlessness, so Tametomo fought and fought the inhabitants of the provinces round about till he had brought them all into subjection under him. By the time he was eighteen years old he had made himself chief of a large band of outlaws, distinguished for their reckless bravery, and with them he had mastered the whole of Kiushiu, the western part of Japan. It was now that the name of Chinsei was given him on account of his having conquered the West. _Chin_ means "to put down," and _sei_ means the "West." Tidings travelled slowly in those days, for there were no railways or telegraph wires forming a network of lightning speed communication across the land, and all carrying of news was done on foot by messengers; so it was a long time before the Government at the capital heard of the wild and lawless doings of Chinsei Hachiro Tametomo, but at last his daring exploits became known, and the Government decided to interfere and to put a stop to his outlawry. They sent a regiment of soldiers to hunt him down and take him prisoner, but Tametomo and his band were not only strong and fearless, but sharp of wit, and in the frequent skirmishes that took place they always came out victorious. At last the soldiers gave up their task of capturing him, for they found it impossible to overcome him and nothing would make Tametomo surrender. So the general returned to the capital and confessed that his expedition had failed. The Government now decided to arrest the outlaw's father, Tameyoshi, and so try to bring the rebel to bay. Tameyoshi was therefore seized and punished for being the parent of such an incorrigible rebel. Now even the wilful Tametomo was moved and distressed when he heard of what had happened to his father, because of him. Although he was undisciplined by nature, and ever ready to rebel against all authority, yet hidden deep in his heart there was still a sense of duty to his father, and on this his enemies had counted. He knew that it was inexcusable to let his father suffer punishment for his misdoings. As soon as the bad tidings reached him, he gave up without the least hesitation all the land in Kiushiu, which had cost him several years of hard fighting to wrest from the inhabitants, and taking with him only ten of his men, with all the speed he could make, he went up to the capital. As soon as he reached the city he sent in a document signed and sealed in his blood, asking pardon of the Government for all his former offences, and begging that his father might be released at once. He then waited calmly and quietly for his sentence of punishment to be declared. Now when those in authority saw his filial piety and his good conduct at this crisis, they could not find it in their hearts to treat him with severity. "Even this man who has behaved like a demon can feel so much for his father," they exclaimed; and merely rebuking him for his lawlessness they handed him over to his father, whom they had set free. At this time civil war broke out in the land, for two brothers, sons of the late ex-Emperor Toba, aspired to sit on the Imperial throne. Owing to the favouritism of their father the elder brother, Sutoku, was forced to abdicate and retire, while Go-Shirakawa, the younger brother, was put on the throne. On his deathbed the ex-Emperor Toba (also called the Pontiff-Emperor) had foreseen that there would be strife between the two, and left sealed instructions in case of emergency. On opening this document it was found to contain a command to all the principal generals to support Go-Shirakawa. Hence the great chief of the Taira, Kiyomori, and Tametomo's eldest brother, Yoshitomo,--indeed all the warriors of repute and strength,--supported Go-Shirakawa, while such nobles as Yorinaga and Fujiwara-no-Shinsei, who knew nothing of fighting, sided with the retired Emperor Sutoku. Yorinaga, it is said, could not mount his horse. Indeed the only efficient soldiers on Sutoku's side were Tameyoshi and his seven younger sons, Tametomo, the reformed rebel, amongst them. Sutoku was told of Tametomo's strength and wonderful skill as an archer, and was advised to make use of him, so Tametomo was summoned ere long to the ex-Emperor's presence. Tametomo was now just twenty years of age; he was more than seven feet in height; his eyes were sharp and piercing like those of a hawk, and he carried himself with great pride and noble bearing. As he entered the Imperial Audience Hall, so strong and brave and such a fine soldier did he look, that Sutoku at once felt confidence in him, and without delay consulted the young knight about the impending war. Then Tametomo told the Emperor of how, when he had been banished to the West by his father, he had lived the life of an outlaw for many years--all that time his hand had been raised against every one, and every one had fought against him. It had been his delight and pastime to fight all who opposed his being lord of Kiushiu. He and his band had always conquered, he said, because they had always fought at night. It would be a good plan, he thought, for Sutoku and his men to attack the Palace of Go-Shirakawa by night, to set fire to the Palace on three sides and to place soldiers on the fourth side to seize the new Emperor and his party when they tried to escape. If the ex-Emperor would follow his advice, Tametomo said he felt sure that he would win the victory. Yorinaga, who was attending the Council when he heard Tametomo's plan, shook his head in disapproval, and said that Tametomo's scheme of attack was an inferior one; that in his opinion it was a coward's trick to attack by night; and that it was more befitting brave soldiers to fight by day in the ordinary way. When Tametomo saw that his advice was overruled and that Sutoku's Council would not follow his tactics, he left the Palace. When he reached home he told his men of all that had passed, and added in his anger that Yorinaga was a conceited fellow who knew nothing of fighting, though he had dared to give his worthless opinion and to contradict him, Tametomo, who had fought without once being beaten all his life long. Thus giving vent to his disappointment, Tametomo seated himself on the mats, and as his anger passed away, he added with a sigh: "I only fear that Sutoku will be defeated in the coming struggle!" Had Tametomo's tactics been followed, Japanese history would certainly have been different, for Kiyomori and Yoshitomo won a victory by the very plan which Tametomo had advised Sutoku to follow. That night, without any warning, the enemy made an attack on the ex-Emperor's Palace. The wary Tametomo, however, expected an assault and had stationed himself at the South Gate on guard. On seeing Kiyomori and his band approaching he exclaimed: "You feeble worms! I'll surprise you!" and taking his bow and arrow shot a _samurai_ named Ito Roku through the breast. The arrow was shot with such skill and force that it went right through the soldier's body, and coming out through his back, pierced the sleeve of the armour of Ito Go, his younger brother, who was riding close behind him. Ito Go, when he saw the precision and strength with which the arrow was shot, knew that they had to deal with no common foe, and in alarm carried the arrow to his general, Kiyomori, to show it to him. Kiyomori examined the arrow carefully and found that it was made from a strong bamboo of more than the usual thickness, and that the metal head was like a big chisel, a formidable weapon indeed! It was so large that it resembled a spear more than an arrow, and even the redoubtable Kiyomori trembled at the sight of it. "This looks more like the arrow of a demon than of a man. Let us find another place of assault where our enemies are weaker and where the leaders are not such remarkable marksmen!" said he. Kiyomori then retired from the attack on the South Gate. When Yoshitomo (who was now supporting Kiyomori, though later on he left the Taira chief) heard of his brother Tametomo's doings, he said: "Tametomo may be a daredevil and boast of his skill as an archer, but he will surely not take up his bow and arrow against the person of his elder brother," and he took Kiyomori's place at the South Gate of the Palace which Tametomo was guarding. Drawing near the great roofed gate, Yoshitomo called aloud to Tametomo and said: "Is that you, Tametomo, on guard there? What a wicked deed you commit to fight against your elder brother? Now quickly open the gate and let me in. Tametomo! Do you hear? I am Yoshitomo! Retire there!" Tametomo laughed aloud at his elder brother's command and answered boldly: "If it is wrong for me to take up arms against you, my brother, are you not an undutiful son to take up arms against your father?" (Tameyoshi, his father, was fighting on the ex-Emperor's side.) Yoshitomo had no words wherewith to answer his brother and was silent. Tametomo, with his archer's eye, saw what a good mark his brother made just outside the gate, and he was greatly tempted to shoot at him even for sport. But he said that though war found them fighting on opposite sides, yet they were brothers, born of the same mother, and that it would be acting against his conscience to kill or hurt his own brother, for surely he would do so if he took aim seriously! He would however for the sake and love of sport continue to show Yoshitomo what a clever marksman he was. Taking good aim at Yoshitomo's helmet, Tametomo raised his bow and shot an arrow right into the middle of the star that topped it. The arrow pierced the star, came out the other side, and then cut through a wooden gate five or six inches in thickness. Even Yoshitomo was astonished at the skill which his brother displayed by this feat of archery. He now led his soldiers forward to the attack. But Sutoku's army was far outnumbered by the enemy, who swept down upon the Palace in overwhelming numbers, and though Tametomo fought bravely and with great skill, his strength and valour were of no avail against the great odds which assailed him. The enemy gained ground slowly, inch by inch, till at last the gates were battered down, and they ruthlessly entered the Palace. Calamity was added to calamity, the foe set fire to several parts of the building, and great confusion ensued. The ex-Emperor, in making a vain attempt to escape with Yorinaga, was caught and taken prisoner. Seeing that for the present there was nothing to be done, Tametomo, with his father Tameyoshi and his other brothers, all loyal to Sutoku's cause, made good their escape and fled to the province of Omi. Tameyoshi was an old man unable to endure the hardships of a hunted life, and he found that he could go no further; so he told his sons that, as the Emperor had been taken prisoner, and as there was no hope of raising Sutoku's flag again, at any rate for the present, it would be wiser for them all to return to the capital and surrender themselves to the conquerors--the Taira. They all agreed to this proposal except Tametomo, so Tameyoshi, the aged general, and the rest of his sons went back to Kyoto. Now Tametomo was left behind, alone in his brave resolution to fight another battle for the ex-Emperor Sutoku. As soon as he had parted, sad and determined, from his father and brothers, he made his way towards the Eastern provinces. But unfortunately, as he was journeying, the wound he had received in the recent fight became so painful that he stopped at some springs along the route, with the hope that the healing waters, a panacea for so many ills in Japan, would heal his hurt. But while taking the cure, his enemies came upon him and made him prisoner and he was sent back a captive to the capital. By the time Tametomo reached the city, his father and his brothers had been put to death, and he was soon told that he was to meet the same cruel fate. But courage always arouses chivalry in the hearts of friends and foes alike, and it seemed to Tametomo's enemies a pity to put such a brave man to death. In the whole land there was no man who could match him in bending the bow and sending the arrow home to its mark, so it was decided to spare his life at the last moment. But to prevent him from using his wonderful skill against them, his enemies cut the sinews of both his arms and sent him away to the island of Oshima off the coast of the province of Idzuto live. Lest he should escape on the way they bound him hand and foot and put him in a palanquin. He was surrounded by a guard of fifty men, and so big and heavy was he that twenty bearers were required to carry the palanquin. In spite of all the misfortunes that had befallen him, he carried the same courage, the same stout merry heart, the same love of wildness with him, even into exile. As the twenty men carried him along in the palanquin, Tametomo just for fun would now and again put forth all his strength. So great was his weight then that the twenty bearers would stagger and fall to the ground. These feats of strength alarmed the escort of fifty soldiers. They feared lest he should act more savagely and become unmanageable, past their power of control, so they treated him in much the same way as they would have treated a lion or a tiger. They tried not to anger him, but did their utmost to keep him in a good humour during the journey. At last they reached the province of Idzu and the seashore from whence they had to cross over to the island. Here they hired a boat, and putting Tametomo safely on board they took him to his last destination and left him there. Though Tametomo was banished to this island, yet once there his enemies left him free to do much as he liked. He was not treated as a common prisoner, but as a brave though vanquished foe. The simple islanders recognized in him a great man and behaved to him accordingly and listened to everything he chose to say. So he led an unmolested life, free from care, except the sorrow of being an exile--but his was a nature which took life as it came, without worrying about what he could not help. Now one day Tametomo was standing on the beach gazing out to sea, thinking of the many adventures he had passed through and wondering if fate would ever bring any change in the quiet life he was leading, when he saw a sea-gull come flying over the water. At first Tametomo with his keen eyes saw only a speck in the distance, but the speck grew larger and larger till at last the seabird appeared. Tametomo now guessed that there was an island lying in the direction from which the bird came. So he got into a boat and set out on a voyage of discovery. As he expected, he came to an island, after sailing from sunrise to sundown. To his amazement he found the place inhabited by creatures very different from human beings. They had dark red faces, with shocks of bright red hair, the locks of which hung over their foreheads and eyes. They looked just like demons. A whole crowd of these alarming-looking creatures were standing on the beach when Tametomo landed. When they caught sight of him they talked and gesticulated wildly amongst themselves and with fierce looks they rushed towards him. Tametomo saw at once that they meant him harm, but he was nothing daunted. He went up to a large pine tree that was growing near by, laid his hands on it, and uprooting it with as much ease as if it were a weed, he brandished it over his head and called aloud threateningly: "Come, you demons, fight if you will. I am Chinsei Hachiro Tametomo, the Archer of great Japan. If you will henceforth become my servants and look up to me as master in all things, it is well; otherwise I will beat you all to little pieces." When the demons saw Tametomo's great strength and his fearlessness they trembled. They held a short parley amongst themselves, and then the demon chief stepped forward, followed by all his band. They came in front of Tametomo and prostrating themselves before him on the sand, they one and all surrendered. Tametomo with much pride took possession of this island of demons and made himself monarch of all he surveyed. Having subdued the demons he returned to Oshima with the news. Great was the praise and merit awarded him by all the islanders. Another day, soon after this, Tametomo was walking along the sands of the seashore, when he saw coming towards him, floating nearer and nearer on the top of the waves, a little old man. Tametomo could hardly believe his sight; he had never seen anything so strange in his whole life; he rubbed his eyes, thinking he must be dreaming, and looked and looked again. There sure enough was a tiny man, no bigger than one foot five inches high, sitting gracefully on a round straw mat. Filled with wonder, Tametomo walked to the edge of the sand, and as the little creature floated nearer on an incoming wave he said: "Who are you?" "I am the microbe of small-pox," answered the stranger pigmy. "And why, may I ask, do you come to this island?" inquired Tametomo. "I have never been here before, so I came partly for sight-seeing and partly with the desire to seize hold of the inhabitants--" answered the little creature. Before he could finish his sentence Tametomo said angrily: "You spirit of hateful pestilence! Silence, I say! I am no other than Chinsei Hachiro Tametomo! Get out of my presence at once and take yourself far from this place, or I will make you repent the day you ever came here!" As Tametomo spoke, the small-pox microbe shrank and shrank from the form of a tiny man one foot five inches high, till only something the size of a pea was left in the middle of the straw mat. As he dwindled and dwindled, the little creature said that he was sorry that he had intruded into the island, but he had not known that it was in Tametomo's possession; and he then floated away out to sea on his straw mat as quickly and mysteriously as he had come. The island of Oshima has always been free from small-pox, and to this day the islanders ascribe the immunity they enjoy from the horrible pestilence to Tametomo, who drove away the microbe when the hateful creature would have landed there. Now that Tametomo had subdued the demons on the neighbouring island and had driven away the spirit of small-pox from Oshima, he was looked upon as a king by the simple islanders. They rendered him every possible honour and bowed their heads in the dust before him whenever he went abroad. At last this state of affairs was reported to the authorities in the capital. The Ministers of State decided that it was unsafe to allow this to go on. Such a popular and powerful hero was a menace to the Government. Tametomo, the Champion Archer, must be put down and without delay. Such was the decree. A messenger was then and there despatched with sealed orders to General Shigemitsu, in Idzu, to set sail with his men for Oshima and subdue Tametomo. One day Tametomo was standing on the beach and watching with pleasure, as he often did, the ever-whispering sea laughing and sparkling in the sunshine, when he saw fifty war-junks coming towards the island. The soldiers standing on the fifty decks were all armed with swords and bows and arrows, and clad in armour from head to foot, and they were beating drums and singing martial songs. Tametomo smiled when he saw this fleet all mustered in martial array and sent against him, a single man, for he knew, somehow or other, what they had come for. "Now," he said proudly to himself, "the opportunity is given me of trying my archer's skill once more." Seizing his bow, he pulled it to the shape of a full moon, and aiming it at the foremost ship, sent an arrow right into the prow. In an instant the boat was upset and the soldiers pitched into the sea. Till that moment Tametomo had feared that his arm had lost its first great strength, since his enemies had cut the sinews; but on the contrary he now found that not only were his arms as strong as ever, but that they had even grown longer, and that he was able to pull his bow wider than before. He clapped his hands with joy at the discovery and called aloud: "This is a happy thing!" But now Tametomo reflected that if he fought against those who had been sent by the Government to take him, he would only bring trouble on the people of the island, who had been so kind to him and who had sheltered him in his exile; he thought of how in their simple reverence for his great strength they had almost worshipped him as a deified hero and had looked up to him as their leader. No,--he would not, could not, bring war and trouble and certain punishment upon these good folk, so for their sake he decided not to fight more. He looked back with the keen flight of thought that comes to mortals in moments of great crises, and he remembered how with special mercy his life had been spared when he was taken prisoner in the civil war. Since then he had enjoyed life for over ten years. As a strong, brave man he could not grudge losing it now. He had made himself owner of the islands and the people called him their king; he felt that there was no shame or regret in dying when he had reached the height of his glory. Therefore, with firm and quick decision he made up his mind to die. He withdrew at once from the beach and retired to his house, and here he committed suicide by harikiri, thus saving himself from all dishonour and the islanders from all trouble. He was only thirty-two years of age when he died. His death was greatly regretted by all who loved him. But his glory did not die with him. The people ever afterward honoured and reverenced him as a great hero. Such is one story of the death of Tametomo, but legend has created another, still more interesting, about him. Instead of taking his own life, this tradition says that he escaped from Oshima and reached Sanuki. Here he visited the late Emperor's tomb and offered up prayers for the illustrious dead. He then, believing that his day of usefulness was over, prepared to kill himself; when suddenly, as in a dream, the Emperor, Yorinaga, his father, and all those royalists who had fought and died in the civil war, or had been taken prisoners and killed by the victorious parties of the new Emperor, appeared to him in the clouds and with a warning gesture prevented him from committing the dread deed of harakiri. As Tametomo gazed wonderingly at the beautiful vision, the bamboo curtain which hung before the ex-Emperor's palanquin lifted, and as the sunshine and grace of His Majesty's smile fell upon the awe-stricken man, the sword dropped from his hand and the wish to die expired in his breast. He fell forward in humble prostration to the ground. When Tametomo lifted his head, the vision had vanished within the clouds; nothing remained to be seen of the royal array which had saved him from his self-imposed death. This wonderful visitation changed Tametomo's mind. He gave up all idea of seeking death, and, leaving Sanuki, journeyed to Kiushiu, and took up his abode on Mount Kihara. Here he collected a band of followers, and with them embarked on board a ship with the intention of reaching the capital and once more striking a blow at the arrogant and usurping House of Taira. But misfortune followed him. He was overtaken by a storm, his ship was wrecked, his men lost, while he only narrowly escaped with his life to the island of Riukiu. Here he found the people in a state of great excitement, for a party of rebels had risen against the King, who was greatly oppressed by them, Tametomo put himself at the head of the loyalists, rescued the King, who had been taken prisoner, subdued the rebels, and then restored peace to the disturbed land. For these meritorious services the King adopted him as his son, bestowed upon him the title of Prince, and married him to one of the royal Princesses. At last one day, when Tametomo had reached a good old age, happy in the life of peace and bliss with which his later years had been crowned, as he was walking along one of the spacious verandahs of the Palace, his attendants noticed a trail of cloud coming towards their master from the sky. As soon as the cloud touched Tametomo, he began to rise in the air before their astonished gaze. Lost in speechless amazement, they watched the hero mount higher and higher, till the clouds closed round him and hid him from their view. Such is the pretty legend of the earthly end of the brave archer Tametomo, one of the most interesting figures in Japanese history, who conquered the trials and misfortunes of his youth, and won through to bright days of prosperity. He left a son called Shun-Tenno, who became King of Riukiu in due time. [Illustration: TAMETOMO BEGAN TO RISE IN THE AIR] GEN SANMI YORIMASA, THE KNIGHT Long, long ago in Japan there lived a brave knight named Gen Sanmi Yorimasa. Yorimasa was his own name, while _Gen_ was the great clan to which he belonged, the _Genji_, or _Minamoto_, famous in history, and _Sanmi_ showed that he was a knight of the Third Rank at Court, from the word _san_, which means "three." Now Yorimasa is so celebrated a warrior that to this day his picture is painted on the kites which the little boys of Japan fly at the New Year, and if you visit the temple of the Goddess of Mercy, at Asakusa, in Tokyo, you will see his portrait even there. And at the Boys' Festival, on the fifth of the fifth month, when in every household where there are sons the favourite heroes of the land are set out in the alcove of honour of the guest-room, you will surely find amidst the martial show of toys the figure of an archer clothed from head to foot in gay armour, with a huge bow in his hand and a quiver full of arrows on his back. That is Yorimasa of brave and dear memory. Yorimasa was the fifth descendant of the Great Knight Raiko, who killed the demons of Oyeyama about whom you will soon read. As a youth Yorimasa was noted for his valour and his skill in archery, and he was soon called to the Court and given the important post of Chief Guard of the Imperial Palace. Now, though Yorimasa was a man of ability and the greatest archer of his time, and though he had done deeds of note which had brought him into prominence, yet for some unaccountable reason his rank at Court remained stationary, and he did not advance from the Fourth degree (_Shi-i_), which he had when he first entered the sacred precincts of the Palace. The humour of the situation caught Yorimasa's fancy, for he was very quick-witted, and one day, smiling to himself, he sat down at his writing-table and composed a poem lamenting his bad luck. From the earliest ages the Japanese have trained themselves, at the times when their feelings are stirred by some event which causes happiness or sorrow or disappointment, not to give way to their emotions, but to control their minds sufficiently to compose a poem on the subject. Yorimasa's poem was of thirty-one syllables,[1] and in five short lines he said gracefully that "one who has not the means of climbing upwards remains under the tree and passes his life in picking up beechnuts." Now in Japanese the word for beechnuts is _shi-i_, and this word also means the Fourth Rank at Court. So that the couplet was a pun on his not being promoted. Yorimasa read the poem laughingly to some of his friends, and they, admiring his wit, repeated it and talked about it till it became quite famous in the Palace, and at last reached the Emperor's ear. The sympathy of His Majesty was aroused, and soon after this Yorimasa was raised to the rank of the Third degree, _sanmi_, and by this title he has ever afterwards been known. Now it happened that at this time the Emperor became ill and could not sleep at night. He complained of disturbance and a great sense of oppression from sunset to sunrise. His courtiers, full of anxiety, sat up to watch the night through, to see if they could discover the cause of the Emperor's agitation. Some kept vigil in and round the Imperial chamber, others on the wide-eaved verandahs, and some in the courtyard of the Palace. Then the watchers on the verandahs and in the courtyard noticed that as soon as the sun set a black cloud came from the eastern horizon of the capital, and travelling across the city finally rested on the roof of the Palace called the Purple Hall (_Shishinden_) of the North Star, where the Emperor slept. As soon as this cloud alighted on the Palace, the Emperor's sleep became disturbed, as if by frightful nightmare. Those in attendance round the royal bed heard strange scratchings and noises on the roof as if some dreadful beast were there. These unusual sounds and the nightmare of the Imperial sleeper lasted till dawn, when it was noticed that the black cloud always withdrew. Now in the Palace there was great commotion. The Minister of the Right and the Minister of the Left, whose duty it was to guard the Emperor from all harm, held long and anxious consultation as to what should be done. Every one in the Palace was of the opinion that the black cloud hid some monster which for some unknown cause haunted the Emperor. It was quite certain that unless the monster were killed, and that soon, the Emperor's life would be endangered, for he was growing weaker and thinner every day. The question was, who was brave enough to undertake the task? The Palace sentinels were already scared, so it was useless to expect help from them. The Ministers must seek for some brave _samurai_ well known for his daring and his skill as an archer and put him on night-duty, charging him to kill the monster as soon as it should appear. The courtiers, one and all, said that Yorimasa was the man. An Imperial messenger was therefore at once sent to the knight, with a letter telling him what was demanded of him. Yorimasa, when he read the letter, looked very grave, for he felt the responsibility of his new duty, which was different from all other work; for on him now depended the recovery of the Emperor, who was visibly growing worse and living through each day in terror of the nightmare which haunted him in the darkness. Yorimasa was a man of great courage and resource, and lost not a moment in getting ready. He strung his best bow most carefully and placed his quiver in two steel-headed arrows. He then put on his armour, and over his armour he donned a hunting-dress, and to look more courtly he put on a ceremonial cap instead of a helmet. He chose his favourite retainer, the bravest and strongest of all his soldiers, to accompany him. Yorimasa now set out as calmly and quietly as if he were simply going to his every-day duty and nothing more. As soon as his arrival was made known, he was summoned to the presence of the Ministers of the Right and the Left and told of all that was happening at Court--how every night at the hour of sunset a black cloud was seen to issue from the east, approach the Palace, and finally cover the roof of the Purple Hall of the North Star where the Emperor always slept. Then the Ministers told the knight of the strange noises that were heard on the roof, of the howlings and scratchings which lasted all night till the dawn broke. It behoved him, they said, to do his best to kill the monster, if such it was, for all the guards were now thoroughly frightened, and none of them dared attack it in hand-to-hand fight, and none had skill enough to hit it in the dark, though the Emperor's own body-guard of archers had tried again and again. Yorimasa listened to the strange story gravely. He saw that the whole Palace was in a state of alarm and disturbance, but he did not lose heart. With the greatest self-possession he waited for the end of the day. As soon as the sun set, the night grew stormy; the wind blew a hurricane, the lightning flashed, and the thunder roared. Nothing daunted by the fury of the elements, the brave archer waited and waited. It must have been near midnight when Yorimasa saw a thick black cloud sweep down and settle on the roof of the Palace. He bade his retainer be ready with sword and torch at any moment and to follow him closely. The black cloud moved along the ridge of the grey-tiled roof till it stopped at the northeast corner, just over the Imperial sleeping-chamber. Yorimasa cautiously followed the movements of the cloud, his man just behind him. Straining his eyes, Yorimasa saw, during a vivid flash of lightning, the form of a large animal. Keeping his eyes on the spot where he had seen the head, while the peals of thunder crashed like cannon above, in the darkness which followed he caught the glare first of one eye and then of the other as the creature moved along. "This must be the monster who disturbs the Emperor's rest!" said Yorimasa to himself. With these words he fitted an arrow to the bow, and aiming to the left of where he saw the left eye glare he pulled his bow as round as the full moon and let fly. Yorimasa felt that his arrow had touched flesh. At the same moment there was a frightful howl and a heavy thud, and the writhing in agony of some animal on the ground, which showed that Yorimasa had done his work well. Now Yorimasa's retainer rushed upon the monster; in one hand he held a blazing torch, in the other a short sword with which he stabbed the creature nine times and quickly despatched him. Then they both raised their voices and called to the sentinels and the courtiers to come and look. A strange sight was in store for them. Never had any of them seen anything like the monster that lay before them. The dreadful beast was as large as a horse; it had the head of an ape, the body and claws of a tiger, the tail of a serpent, the wings of a bird, and the scales of a dragon. They had heard and read of such creatures in some of the old books, but had always thought that such stories were old women's fables, to be told and whispered by grey-haired dames round the _hibachi_ (fire-brazier) to their wonder-struck grandchildren, but never to be entertained seriously by men of sense. For a few moments they were all struck dumb with astonishment; they gazed silently first at the strange and horrible beast before them, then at Yorimasa, the slayer of it. Exclamations of wonder burst from their lips. Then one and all turned to the brave archer and congratulated him on his wonderful feat, his courage and his marksmanship. It seemed as if they would never cease applauding him. The animal was flayed and its skin was carried to the Emperor, who ordered it to be stored as a curiosity in the Imperial treasure-house. His Majesty was highly pleased. He sent for Yorimasa and bestowed on him a sword called _Shishi-Wo_, or the King of Lions. The time of the year was the beginning of the fifth month; the crescent moon hung like a silver bow in the twilight sky, and the cuckoo[2] was calling from the trees near by; so the Minister of the Left who handed the sword to Yorimasa improvised the first half of a stanza saying: "O cuckoo of wonder, even your name Climbs ever upward to the Heaven!" Then Yorimasa, on his knees with uplifted hands and bowed head, received the sword, and as he did so he completed the short poem with these words:-- "Not through thine own: but through the merit of a moon-shaped bow!" The Minister used the cuckoo then calling in the trees as simile of the brave warrior whose fame was rising now at Court because of his brave deeds, and Yorimasa modestly answered that all was due not to his skill, but to his bow, which he likened to the crescent moon then reigning in the sky. Both turned to the scenery of the moment for inspiration--the Minister in expressing his praise and the warrior in receiving it with becoming humility and grace. The Emperor also considered this a fitting occasion to give Yorimasa the Lady Ayame (Iris) for his wife, and about this incident there is a pretty story. The Lady Ayame was the most lovely lady-in-waiting in the Palace, and as good as she was beautiful. Not only in beauty, but in mind and heart, was she superior to all the other ladies-in-waiting, and both the Emperor and Empress held her in high esteem. Many were the Court nobles who fell in love with her, but all in vain; there was not one, however great or rich or handsome, who could make her so much as grant him even a fleeting smile. Time after time these noble suitors wrote her letters and poems, telling her of their hopeless love and beseeching her to send them but a single line in reply. But only her silence answered them. She remained obdurate to all entreaties. One day Yorimasa, when on duty in the Palace, caught a passing glimpse of the Lady Ayame, and from that hour his heart knew no rest. He could not forget the witching grace nor the modest beauty of her lovely face; sleeping or waking the vision of his lady-love was always before his eyes, and it seemed to grow more vivid as the days went by. Time after time he wrote her letters and composed poems asking her to marry him, but the Lady Ayame treated Yorimasa as she treated all her other wooers--she vouchsafed him no reply. For three long years Yorimasa waited and hoped and despaired, and waited and hoped again, content if once in a way from a respectful distance he could catch a glimpse of her. In spite of long and cold discouragement he loved her perseveringly. The Emperor had heard of the knight's constancy, and now sent for his favourite lady-in-waiting, thinking this the right time to reward Yorimasa's prowess and the Lady Ayame's merit, and to make them both happy. As soon as Ayame appeared, His Majesty said: "Lady Ayame, is it true that you have received many letters from the knight Yorimasa? Is it so?" At this the Lady Ayame blushed like a peach-blossom in the glow of dawn, and hesitating a moment she replied: "May it please the Son of Heaven to condescend to send for Yorimasa and ask him!" His Majesty then commanded her to retire, and forthwith summoned Yorimasa to his presence. It was the fifth of May, the Spring Festival, and Yorimasa came robed in gala attire. He presented himself below the dais on which the Emperor was seated and prostrated himself before the throne. "Is it true," and the Emperor smiled as he spoke, "that you love the Lady Ayame?" Yorimasa was bewildered by the suddenness of the question and knew not what to reply, for he knew it to be strictly forbidden by Court etiquette to write love-letters to any lady-in-waiting, and he had done this persistently. Now the Emperor saw Yorimasa's confusion and felt sorry for him. A bright thought struck His Majesty. He would please and puzzle Yorimasa and have some fun at his expense at the same time as well. He whispered an order to the chief master of ceremony. In a short time three ladies appeared, heralded by attendants. As they moved across the mats of the immense hall, Yorimasa saw that they were all dressed exactly alike, and that even their hair was done in the same style, so that it would be impossible for any one who did not know them well to distinguish one from the other. Who were they? Was the Lady Ayame one of them? Like maidens of Heaven (_tennin_) did the three noble damsels appear and their robes were beautiful to behold. So alike were they, and their beauty so extraordinary, that Yorimasa compared them to plum-blossoms on a branch seen through a window. "The Lady Ayame is here," said the Emperor. "Choose her from among three ladies and take her." Yorimasa bowed to the ground. He was overcome with the graciousness and kindness of the Emperor. But the task laid upon him he felt to be too difficult. Being a military man and inferior in rank to the Court circle, Yorimasa had never had an opportunity of seeing any of the Court ladies face to face. All he had seen of the Lady Ayame was sometimes a glimpse of her from the courtyard, where he was stationed, as she passed along the corridors of the Palace. Once at a poetical party, to which he had been admitted as a great favour, he had seen her, at the further end of the hall, glide with trailing robes of ceremony into her place behind the silken screen which always hid the women from view at such gatherings. That was all he had ever seen of her, so that now he could not distinguish her from the rest. [Illustration: YORIMASA COULD NOT TELL WHICH WAS THE LADY AYAME.] The Emperor was pleased at the success of his pleasantry. He saw that Yorimasa was fairly perplexed, and that he was unable to pick out his lady-love from her companions. "I am a soldier and no courtier," thought the knight, "I may not presume to lift my eyes to a lady _above the clouds_.[3] Nor can I be sure which is Ayame. Were I to make a mistake and choose the wrong lady, it would be a lifelong disgrace and disappointment to me!" The perplexity in his mind at once rose to his lips in the form of a short poem, which he repeated:-- "In the rainy season when the waters overflow the banks of the lake, who can gather the Iris?" Such is the meaning of the verse. By the rainy season Yorimasa meant his three years of hopeless courting, during which his eyes had become dim with the tears of disappointment he had shed, so that he could no longer see clearly enough to discover which was the lady of his choice. In this way he excused himself for his seeming stupidity, and showed a modest reserve which pleased all present. The aptness and quickness of Yorimasa's verse won the Emperor's admiration. The tears stood in the august eyes, for he thought of the great love wherewith Yorimasa had loved the Lady Iris, and of the sorrow and patience of his long wooing and waiting. His Majesty rose from his throne, descended the steps of the dais, and going up to Ayame took her by the hand and led her forth to Yorimasa. "This is the Lady Ayame, I give her to you!" were the golden words of the Emperor. To Yorimasa it must have seemed too wonderful almost to be true. The great desire of his life was given him by the Emperor himself! Then Yorimasa led his beautiful lady-love away and married her, and we are told that they lived as happily as fish in water; and it seemed as if they had but one heart between them, so harmonious was their union. In the Palace there was great rejoicing over the auspicious event, and all the courtiers praised the merit of the verse which had finally given Ayame to Yorimasa and won the Emperor's special commendation. The happy couple received the congratulations of the Emperor and Empress, of the courtiers and many noble people, and wedding-presents innumerable. Surely at this time there was no one happier than Yorimasa in all the land. There are many stories told of Yorimasa which show us that he was not only a brave soldier and a man of learning and a poet, but also a man of wit and tact who knew how to use men as he willed. Now one day a band of discontented turbulent priests came to the Palace Gate where Yorimasa was on guard, and demanded entrance. It must be explained that in those days the Buddhist priests of Kyoto were a set of wild and lawless men who often brought shame to their religion by their wicked lives. They lived outside the city on Mount Hiei, which they made their stronghold, and, forgetting the dignity of their religion, they took sides in war and in politics. They gave trouble to those in authority, especially to those who did not favour them. They used the smallest event as an occasion for carrying swords and bows and arrows, and it was their habit to go out equipped like soldiers going forth to war. Yorimasa saw that the priests were all well armed, and only too anxious to find a pretext for drawing their swords. They carried with them in great state the sacred palanquin of their temple. In this palanquin their patron god was supposed to dwell, and it was borne aloft on the shoulders of fifty men. With loud shoutings and a wild display of strength the priests rushed the car along, now lifting it high above their heads, now staggering under its weight, as it seemed about to crush them to the ground. Now Yorimasa was in no mood for fighting that day, and it seemed to him not worth his while to set his men--the best fighters and archers in the realm--against a handful of priests whom he could disperse in a few minutes; besides, these priests from Mount Hiei were troublesome fellows and he did not wish to earn their enmity. So laughing quietly to himself he said that he would have some fun at their expense. When the procession stopped opposite the gate, Yorimasa with his captains of the guard sallied forth to meet the noisy crowd, and coming in front of the palanquin bowed in reverence before it with slow ceremony. The priests, who had expected and were prepared for a very difficult reception, were surprised and somewhat taken aback. After some parley amongst themselves, their spokesman advanced and asked leave to enter the gate, saying they had a petition to present to the Emperor. Yorimasa sent his captain forward. "My lord bids you welcome," he said, "and wishes me to say that he worships the same god as yourselves, and he is therefore averse to shooting against the _Mikoshi_ [sacred palanquin] with his bows and arrows. Besides this, we are very few in number, so that your names will be dishonoured and you will be called cowards for having chosen the weakest post to fight. Now the next gate is guarded by the Heike soldiers, who are much stronger in numbers than we are. How would it do for you to go round and fight there? You would surely gain glory in an encounter with them." The priests were so pleased by the flattery of this speech that they did not see that it was a ruse on the part of Yorimasa to get rid of them easily, and that he was sending them round to bother his rivals. He had also appealed to their best feelings, for Japanese chivalry teaches that in the event of choosing between two enemies the weaker must always be spared. Some polite answer was made to Yorimasa, and then the priests shouldered the _Mikoshi_ and departed in the same spirited and vociferous manner that they had come. They went to the next gate, guarded by the Heike. Battle was given at once, for they were refused admittance. The priests were beaten and fled for their lives to the hills. All these stories show us that Yorimasa was a clever man in every way, but in the end he was unfortunate, and for this there was no help. When we read the story of his ill-fated death our hearts are filled with sorrow for him. It is not always as one wishes in this world, and Yorimasa did not meet with the fate his meritorious deeds and character deserved. The Heike or Taira clan were now in the ascendant (Yorimasa, it will be remembered, belonged to the Genji or Minamoto), and Kiyomori, their despotic and unprincipled leader, was Prime Minister. All the important posts in the Government he gave to his sons, grandsons, and relations, who under these circumstances, seeing that they owed everything to him, did just as the tyrant ordered. All _samurai_ who did not belong to the Heike clan he treated unjustly, even throwing those he did not like into prison, whether they were innocent or guilty of the crimes or behaviour deserving such punishment. As a general of the rival Genji clan, Yorimasa suffered much from this unfair treatment. As he watched the arrogant conduct of Kiyomori and his son Munemori, he longed to be able to punish them and to bring retribution on the whole clan, and to this end he thought and worked and planned. At last the Heike became so overbearing and so powerful that their actions passed the bounds of all reason, and Kiyomori, on a question of succession to the throne, confined the reigning Emperor in his Palace. This last step was too much for Yorimasa; he could endure this state of things no longer, and he resolved to make a bold strike for the right. He placed Prince Takakura, the son of the late Emperor, at the head of his army and set out to do battle with the Heike. But the Genji were far inferior in numbers to the Heike, and, sad to relate, Yorimasa was defeated in his good and just cause. With the remainder of his army he fled before the enemy and took refuge in the Temple of Byodoin, situated on the river Uji. The Byodoin Temple, a large edifice near Kyoto, remains to this day. Here Yorimasa made a last stand to afford time for Prince Takakura to escape. He divided his men into two parties--one division he stationed as a reserve force in the grounds of the temple, while the other he drew up in battle array along the banks of the river. In case of pursuit, to prevent the enemy from crossing the river, they tore up the planks which formed the flooring of the bridge, so that only a skeleton of posts and cross-beams remained. Then they rested and waited to see what would happen. The Heike soon came in sight following hard after them. First came the generals, then the soldiers, twenty-eight thousand strong. They approached the bridge, but stopped short when they saw what the Genji had cleverly done. In a few minutes they ranged themselves along the bank facing the enemy. Both armies now stood confronting each other on either side of the Uji. Simultaneously the order was given to fight by both the Genji and the Heike generals and a fierce discharge of arrows from both sides ensued. Then there rushed forth from the ranks of the Genji a huge priest, Tajima Bo by name (in those days the Buddhist priests often took part in battles); brandishing an enormous halberd he dashed out alone on the skeleton bridge. The Heike, thinking that he made an excellent target, shot a shower of arrows at him, but he was not in the least daunted. When the arrows were aimed at his head, he stooped and they passed over him; when they were aimed at his legs, he jumped high in the air and they flew under him; when they were aimed at his body, he swept them aside with his halberd; and in this way he escaped free from hurt. So quick was he in his movements, and so marvellous was the way in which he balanced himself in his progress across the bridge, that he seemed to be endowed with power more than human; and not only his own comrades but the enemy also looked at him in breathless admiration. Then another of Yorimasa's men, also a priest, Jomyo by name, inspired by this example, came forth and stood up at the end of the bridge, and fitting his arrows to the bow, in rapid succession shot about a dozen of the foe, in the twinkling of an eye. Crying out, "Oh, this is too much trouble!" he threw away his bow and arrow, and walked over the bridge on another beam, sweeping aside with his sword the arrows aimed at him. Yet another priest, famous for his great strength, dashed out and followed after his friends across the bridge. He soon came up with Jomyo, but as the beams of the bridge were narrow he could not pass him. Stopping for a moment to think what he should do, he stretched out his hands and touched the helmet of the man just in front of him, then lightly and quickly jumped leap-frog over his head. The bridge was now soon swarming with the Genji, who with fierce battle-cries began to attack the Heike, whose advance was entirely checked. For some minutes the Heike were greatly put out, not knowing what to do. Then one brave youth, seeing how matters stood, and that it required some one to take a dauntless lead, sprang forth in front of the Heike and called out: "Now that it comes to this, there is no other way!" and with these words he dashed his horse into the river. It was the rainy season, and the waters were higher and the current stronger than usual. Black with mud the river ran swirling and whirling on its course. Never was there a braver sight than when the young soldier drove his horse into the swollen river and made for the other side. His comrades could not stand still and watch him; fired by his courage, numbers of the Heike, shouting "I also! I also!" dashed in after him. In a few minutes, while the Genji looked on in surprise, three hundred men had followed the gallant young captain, stemmed and crossed the torrent, and landed on the other side; and with the same dashing spirit, carrying everything before them, they broke through the last lines of the Genji and entered the Byodoin Temple, where their last stand was made. The Genji, with Yorimasa at their head, were now in a desperate condition. Seeing his father hard-pressed, Kanetsuna, Yorimasa's second son, an intrepid young knight, rushed into the thickest of the fight and tried to defend his father. A Heike captain coming up with fifteen of his men seized Kanetsuna, overpowered him, and cut off his head. Not one of Yorimasa's little band turned to flee. Although they knew there was no hope, they fought on face to face with the foe, for _samurai_ traditions held it a disgrace to be even wounded in the back. One famous general in ancient history issued an order to the effect that prizes would be awarded to those who were shot in the forehead, but those who were wounded in the back should be slain. One by one, the Genji fell, slain either by sword or arrow. Yorimasa received several wounds. Then he saw that there was no use in fighting more; all was lost. Those of the Genji who were still left made a brave stand round their chief; while they kept the enemy at bay Yorimasa slipped away and hastened to Prince Takakura, in the temple, and begged him to flee in safety while there was yet time. Having seen his Imperial master safe, Yorimasa then retired to an inner part of the garden, and sitting under a large tree drew out his sword and prepared himself to commit _harakiri_, for _samurai_ honour would not let him survive defeat. Calling his retainer Watanabe, who had escaped unhurt and who never left his master's side, Yorimasa bade him act as second in the rite. Then quietly taking off his armour, he composed a poem. He likened himself to a fossil tree that never knows the joy of blossoming, for he had never attained his ambition (the destruction of his enemies), "and sad indeed is the end of my life," the last line of the verse, were the last words he uttered. He took out his short sword, and thrusting it into his side died like a brave and gallant _samurai_, without a moan. Then from behind, as was his duty as second, Watanabe cut off his master's head, and so that it should not be discovered by the enemy and carried away as a trophy of war, he tied a large stone to it, and with sorrowful reverence dropped it into the river and watched it sink beneath the water out of sight. In this way died Yorimasa; those of his followers who were not killed by the enemy died by their own hand, and Prince Takakura, fleeing to Nara, was overtaken by the Heike and put to death on the way. Yorimasa was seventy-five years of age when he died. Though, as he lamented in his last poem, he had not achieved his ambition in punishing the Heike, yet years later his work was carried on, and the Heike were completely exterminated by Yoritomo, the great chief and mighty avenger of the Genji; and the name of Gen Sanmi Yorimasa lives forever in the history of his country. [1] All Japanese poetry is regulated and counted by syllables, not by lines and feet, as with us. Many words have several meanings and the witty use of these punning facilities is greatly sought after. [2] The cuckoo in Japanese literature and fancy takes the same place as the nightingale in England. [3] "Above the clouds"--a complimentary expression used for the exalted Court circle. THE STORY OF YOSHITSUNE In old Japan more than seven hundred years ago a fierce war was raging between the two great clans, the Taira and the Minamoto, also called the Heike and the Genji. These two famous clans were always contesting together for political power and military supremacy, and the country was torn in two with the many bitter battles that were fought. Indeed it may be said that the history of Japan for many years was the history of these two mighty martial families; sometimes the Minamoto and sometimes the Taira gaining the victory, or being beaten, as the case might be; but their swords knew no rest for a period of many years. At last a strong and valiant general arose in the House of Minamoto. His name was Yoshitomo. At this time there were two aspirants for the Imperial throne and civil war was raging in the capital. One Imperial candidate was supported by the Taira, the other by the Minamoto. Yoshitomo, though a Minamoto, sided at first with the Taira against the reigning Emperor; but when he saw how cruel and relentless their chief, Kiyomori, was, he turned against him and called all his followers to rally round the Minamoto standard and fight to put down the Taira. But fate was against the gallant and doughty warrior Yoshitomo, and he suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of the Taira. He and his men, while fleeing from the vigilance of their enemies, were overtaken within the city gates, and ruthlessly slaughtered by Kiyomori and his soldiers. Yoshitomo left behind him his beautiful young wife, Tokiwa Gozen, and eight children, to mourn his untimely death. Five of the elder children were by a first wife. The third of these became Yoritomo, the great first Shogun of Japan, while the eighth and youngest child was Ushiwaka, about whom this story is written. Ushiwaka and the hero Yoshitsune were one and the same person. Ushiwaka (Young Ox--he was so called because of his wonderful strength) was his name as a boy, and Yoshitsune was the name he took when he became of age. At the time of his father's death, Ushiwaka was a babe in the arms of his mother, Tokiwa Gozen, but his tender age would not have saved his life had he been found by his father's enemies. After the defeat they had inflicted on the rival clan, the Taira were all-powerful for a time. The Minamoto clan were in dire straits and in danger of being exterminated now, for so fierce was Kiyomori's hatred against his enemies that when a Minamoto fell into his cruel hands he immediately put the captive to death. Realizing the great peril of the situation, Tokiwa Gozen, the widow of Yoshitomo, full of fear and anxiety for the safety of her little ones, quietly hid herself in the country, taking with her Ushiwaka and her two other children. So successful was Tokiwa Gozen in concealing her hiding-place that, though the Taira clan either killed or banished to a far-away island all the elder sons, relations, and partisans of the Minamoto chief, they could not discover the whereabouts of the mother and her children, notwithstanding the strict search Kiyomori had made. Determined to have his will, and angry at being thwarted by a woman, Kiyomori at last hit on a plan which he felt sure would not fail to draw the wife of Yoshitomo from her hiding-place. He gave orders that Sekiya, the mother of the fair Tokiwa, should be seized and brought before him. He told her sternly that if she would reveal her daughter's hiding-place she should be well treated, but if she refused to do as she was told she would be tortured and put to death. When the old lady declared that she did not know where Tokiwa was, as in truth she did not, Kiyomori thrust her into prison and had her treated cruelly day after day. Now the reason why Kiyomori was so set on finding Tokiwa and her sons was that while Yoshitomo's heirs lived he and his family could know no safety, for the strongest moral law in every Japanese heart was the old command, "A man may not live under the same heaven with the murderer of his father," and the Japanese warrior recked nothing of life or death, of home or love in obeying this--as he deemed--supreme commandment. Women too burned with the same zeal in avenging the wrongs of their fathers and husbands. Tokiwa Gozen, though hiding in the country, heard of what had befallen her mother, and great was her sorrow and distress. She sat down on the mats and moaned aloud: "It is wrong of me to let my poor innocent mother suffer to save myself and my children, but if I give myself up, Kiyomori will surely take my lord's sons and kill them.--What shall I do? Oh! what shall I do?" Poor Tokiwa! Her heart was torn between her love for her mother and her love for her children. Her anxiety and distraction were pitiful to see. Finally she decided that it was impossible for her to remain still and silent under the circumstances; she could not endure the thought that her mother was suffering persecution while she had the power of preventing it, so holding the infant Ushiwaka in her bosom under her kimono, she took his two elder brothers (one seven and the other five years of age) by the hand and started for the capital. There were no trains in those days and all travelling by ordinary people had to be done on foot. _Daimios_ and great and important personages were carried in palanquins, and they only could travel in comfort and in state. Tokiwa could not hope to meet with kindness or hospitality on the way, for she was a Minamoto, and the Taira being all-powerful it was death to any one to harbour a Minamoto fugitive. So the obstacles that beset Tokiwa were great; but she was a _samurai_ woman, and she quailed not at duty, however hard or stern that duty was. The greater the difficulties, the higher her courage rose to meet them. At last she set out on her momentous and celebrated journey. It was winter-time and snow lay on the ground, and the wind blew piercingly cold and the roads were bad. What Tokiwa, a delicately nurtured woman, suffered from cold and fatigue, from loneliness and fear, from anxiety for her little children, from dread lest she should reach the capital too late to save her old mother, who might die under the cruel treatment to which she was being subjected, or be put to death by Kiyomori, in his wrath, or finally lest she herself should be seized by the Taira, and her filial plan be frustrated before she could reach the capital--all this must have been greater than any words can tell. Sometimes poor distressed Tokiwa sat down by the wayside to hush the wailing babe she carried in her bosom, or to rest the two little boys, who, tired and faint and famished, clung to her robes, crying for their usual rice. On and on she went, soothing and consoling them as best she could, till at last she reached Kyoto, weary, footsore, and almost heartbroken. But though she was well-nigh overcome with physical exhaustion, yet her purpose never flagged. She went at once to the enemy's camp and asked to be admitted to the presence of General Kiyomori. When she was shown into the dread man's presence, she prostrated herself at his feet and said that she had come to give herself up and to release her mother. "I am Tokiwa--the widow of Yoshitomo. I have come with my three children to beseech you to spare my mother's life and to set her free. My poor old mother has done nothing wrong. I am guilty of hiding myself and the little ones, yet I pray humbly for your august forgiveness." She pleaded in such an agonizing way that Kiyomori, the Taira chieftain, was struck with admiration for her filial piety, a virtue more highly esteemed than any other in Japan. He felt sincerely sorry for Tokiwa in her woe, and her beauty and her tears melted his hard heart, and he promised her that if she would become his wife he would spare not only her mother's life, but her three children also. For the sake of saving her children's lives the sad-hearted woman consented to Kiyomori's proposal. It must have been terrible to her to wed with her lord's enemy, the very man who had caused his death; but the thought that by so doing she saved the lives of his sons, who would one day surely arise to avenge their father's cruel death, must have been her consolation and her recompense for the sacrifice. Kiyomori showed himself kinder to Tokiwa than he had ever shown himself to any one, for he allowed her to keep the babe Ushiwaka by her side. The two elder boys he sent to a temple to be trained as acolytes under the tutelage of priests. By placing them out of the world in the seclusion of priesthood, Kiyomori felt that he would have little to fear from them when they attained manhood. How terribly and bitterly he was mistaken we learn from history, for two of Yoshitomo's sons, banished though they had been for years and years, arose like a rushing, mighty whirlwind from the obscurity of the monastery to avenge their father, and they wiped the Taira from off the face of the earth. Time passed by, and when the little babe Ushiwaka at last reached the age of seven, Kiyomori likewise took him from his mother and sent him to the priests. The sorrow of Tokiwa, bereft of the last child of her beloved lord Yoshitomo, can better be imagined than described. But in her golden captivity even Kiyomori had not been able to deprive her of one iota of the incomparable power of motherhood, that of influencing the life of her child to the end of his days. As the little fellow had lain in her arms night and day, as she crooned him to sleep and taught him to walk, she forever whispered the name of Minamoto Yoshitomo in his ear. At last one day her patience was rewarded and Ushiwaka lisped his father's name correctly. Then Tokiwa clasped him proudly to her breast, and wept tears of thankfulness and joy and of sorrowing remembrance, for she could never even for a day banish Yoshitomo from her mind. As Ushiwaka grew older and could understand better what she said, Tokiwa would daily whisper, "Remember thy father, Minamoto Yoshitomo! Grow strong and avenge his death, for he died at the hands of the Taira!" And day by day she told him stories of his great and good father--of his martial prowess in battle, and of his great strength and wonderful wielding of the sword, and she bade her little son remember and be like his father. And the mother's words and tears, sown in long years of patience and bitter endurance, bore fruit beyond all she had ever hoped or dreamed. So Ushiwaka was taken from his mother at the age of seven, and was sent to the Tokobo Monastery, at Kuramayama, to be trained as a monk. Even at that early age he showed great intelligence, read the Sacred Books with avidity, and surprised the priests by his diligence and quickness of memory. He was naturally a very high-spirited youth, and could brook no control and hated to yield to others in anything whatsoever. As the years passed by and he grew older, he came to hear from his teachers and school friends of how his father Yoshitomo and his clan the Minamoto had been overthrown by the Taira, and this filled him with such intense sorrow and bitterness that sleeping or waking he could never banish the subject from his mind. As he listened daily to these things the words of his mother, which she had whispered in his ear as a child, now came throbbing back to his mind, and he understood their full meaning for the first time. In the lonely nights he felt again her hot tears falling on his face, and heard her repeat as clearly as a bell in the silence of the darkness: "Remember thy father, Minamoto Yoshitomo! Avenge his death, for he died at the hands of the Taira!" At last one night the lad dreamed that his mother, beautiful and sad as he remembered her in the days of his childhood, came to his bedside and said to him, while the tears streamed down her face: "Avenge thy father, Yoshitomo! Unless thou remember my last words, I cannot rest in my grave. I am dying, Ushiwaka, remember!" And Ushiwaka awoke as he cried aloud in his agony: "I will! Honourable mother, I will!" From that night his heart burned within him and the fire and love of clan-race stirred his soul. Continual brooding over the wrongs of his clan generated in his heart a fierce desire for revenge, and he finally resolved to abandon the priesthood, become a great general like his father, and punish the Taira. And as his ambition was fired and exalted and his mind thrilled back to the days when his poor unhappy mother Tokiwa prayed and wept over him, daily whispering in his ear the name of his father, his will grew to purpose strong. Tokiwa had not suffered in vain. From this time on, Ushiwaka bided his time every night till all in the temple were fast asleep. When he heard the priests snoring, and knew himself safe from observation, he would steal out from the temple, and, making his way down the hillside into the valley, he would draw his wooden sword and practise fencing by himself, and, striking the trees and the stones imagine that they were his Taira foes. As he worked in this way night after night, he felt his muscles grow strong, and this practice taught him how to wield his sword with skill. One night as usual Ushiwaka had gone out to the valley and was diligently brandishing about his wooden sword. His mind fully bent upon his self-taught lesson, he was marching up and down, chanting snatches of war-songs and striking the trees and the rocks, when suddenly a great cloud spread over the heavens, the rain fell, the thunder roared, and the lightning flashed, and a great noise went through the valley, as if all the trees were being torn up by the roots and their trunks were splitting. While Ushiwaka wondered what this could mean, a great giant over ten feet in height stood before him. He had large round glaring eyes that glinted like metal mirrors; his nose was bright red, and it must have been about a foot long; his hands were like the claws of a bird, and to each there were only two fingers. The feathers of long wings at each side peeped from under the creature's robes, and he looked like a gigantic goblin. Fearful indeed was this apparition. But Ushiwaka was a brave and spirited youth and the son of a soldier, and he was not to be daunted by anything. Without moving a muscle of his face he gripped his sword more tightly and simply asked: "Who are you, sirrah?" The goblin laughed aloud and said: "I am the King of the Tengu,[1] the elves of the mountains, and I have made this valley my home for many a long year. I have admired your perseverance in coming to this place night after night for the purpose of practising fencing all by yourself, and I have come to meet you, with the intention of teaching you all I know of the art of the sword." Ushiwaka was delighted when he heard this, for the Tengu have supernatural powers, and fortunate indeed are those whom they favour. He thanked the giant elf and expressed his readiness to begin at once. He then whirled up his sword and began to attack the Tengu, but the elf shifted his position with the quickness of lightning, and taking from his belt a fan made of seven feathers parried the showering blows right and left so cleverly that the young knight's interest became thoroughly aroused. Every night he came out for the lesson. He never missed once, summer or winter, and in this way he learned all the secrets of the art which the Tengu could teach him. The Tengu was a great master and Ushiwaka an apt pupil. He became so proficient in fencing that he could overcome ten or twenty small Tengu in the twinkling of an eye, and he acquired extraordinary skill and dexterity in the use of the sword; and the Tengu also imparted to him the wonderful adroitness and agility which made him so famous in after-life. Now Ushiwaka was about fifteen years old, a comely youth, and tall for his age. At this time there lived on Mount Hiei, just outside the capital, a wild bonze named Musashi Bo Benkei, who was such a lawless and turbulent fellow that he had become notorious for his deeds of violence. The city rang with the stories of his misdeeds, and so well known had he become that people could not hear his name without fear and trembling. [Illustration: COULD OVERCOME TEN OR TWENTY SMALL TENGU IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE] Benkei suddenly made up his mind that it would be good sport to steal a thousand swords from various knights. No sooner did the wild idea enter his head than he began to put it into practice. Every night he sauntered forth to the Gojo Bridge of Kyoto, and when a knight or any man carrying a sword passed by, Benkei would snatch the weapon from his girdle. If the owners yielded up their blades quietly, Benkei allowed them to pass unhurt, but if not, he would strike them dead with a single blow of the huge halberd he carried. So great was Benkei's strength that he always overcame his victim,--resistance was useless,--and night by night one and sometimes two men met death at his hands on the Gojo Bridge. In this way Benkei gained such a terrible reputation that everybody far and near feared to meet him, and after dark no one dared to pass near the bridge he was known to haunt, so fearful were the tales told of the dreaded robber of swords. At last this story reached the ears of Ushiwaka, and he said to himself: "What an interesting man this must be! If it is true that he is a bonze, he must be a strange one indeed; but as he only robs people of their swords, he cannot be a common highwayman. If I could make such a strong man a retainer of mine, he would be of great assistance to me when I punish my enemies, the Taira clan. Good! To-night I will go to the Gojo Bridge and try the mettle of this Benkei!" Ushiwaka, being a youth of great courage, had no sooner made up his mind to meet Benkei than he proceeded to put his plan into execution. He started out that same evening. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and taking with him his favourite flute he strolled forth through the streets of the sleeping city till he came to the Gojo Bridge. Then from the opposite direction came a tall figure which appeared to touch the clouds, so gigantic was its stature. The stranger was clad in a suit of coal-black armour and carried an immense halberd. "This must be the sword-robber! He is indeed strong!" said Ushiwaka to himself, but he was not in the least daunted, and went on playing his flute quite calmly. Presently the armed giant halted and gazed at Ushiwaka, but evidently thought him a mere youth, and decided to let him go unmolested, for he was about to pass him by without lifting a hand. This indifference on the part of Benkei not only disappointed but angered Ushiwaka. Having waited in vain for the stranger to offer violence, our hero approached Benkei, and, with the intention of picking a quarrel, suddenly kicked the latter's halberd out of his hand. Benkei, who had first thought to spare Ushiwaka on account of his youth, became very angry when he found himself insulted by a lad to whom he had been intentionally kind. In a fury he exclaimed, "Miserable stripling!" and raising his halberd struck sideways at Ushiwaka, thinking to slice him in two at the waist and to see his body fall asunder. But the young knight nimbly avoided the blow which would have killed him, and springing back a few paces he flung his fan[2] at Benkei's head and uttered a loud cry of defiance. The fan struck Benkei on the forehead right between the eyes, making him mad with pain. In a transport of rage Benkei aimed a fearful blow at Ushiwaka, as if he were splitting a log of wood with an axe. This time Ushiwaka sprang up to the parapet of the bridge, clapped his hands, and laughed in derision, saying: "Here I am! Don't you see? Here I am!" and Benkei was again thwarted thus. Benkei, who had never known his strokes miss before, had now failed twice in catching this nimble opponent. Frantic with chagrin and baffled rage, he now rushed furiously to the attack, whirling his great halberd round in all directions till it looked like a water-wheel in motion, striking wildly and blindly at Ushiwaka. But the young knight had been taught tricks innumerable by the giant Tengu of Kuramayama, and he had profited so well by his lessons that the King Tengu had at last said that even he could teach him nothing more, and now, as it may well be imagined, he was too quick for the heavy Benkei. When Benkei struck in front, Ushiwaka was behind, and when Benkei aimed a blow behind, Ushiwaka darted in front. Nimble as a monkey and swift as a swallow, Ushiwaka avoided all the blows aimed at him, and, finding himself outmatched, even the redoubtable Benkei grew tired. Ushiwaka saw that Benkei was played out. He kept up the game a little longer and then changed his tactics. Seizing his opportunity, he knocked Benkei's halberd out of his hand. When the giant stooped to pick his weapon up, Ushiwaka ran behind him and with a quick movement tripped him up. There lay the big man on all fours, while Ushiwaka nimbly strode across his back and pressing him down asked him how he liked this kind of play. All this time Benkei had wondered at the courage of the youth in attacking and challenging a man so much larger than himself, but now he was filled with amazement at Ushiwaka's wonderful strength and adroitness. "I am indeed astonished at what you have done," said Benkei. "Who in the world can you be? I have fought with many men on this bridge, but you are the first of my antagonists who has displayed such strength. Are you a god or a _tengu_? You certainly cannot be an ordinary human being!" Ushiwaka laughed and said: "Are you afraid for the first time, then?" "I am," answered Benkei. "Will you from henceforth be my retainer?" demanded Ushiwaka. "I will in very truth be your retainer, but may I know who you are?" asked Benkei meekly. Ushiwaka now felt sure that Benkei was in earnest. He therefore allowed him to get up from the ground, and then said: "I have nothing to hide from you. I am the youngest son of Minamoto Yoshitomo and my name is Ushiwaka." Benkei started with surprise when he heard these words and said: "What is this I hear? Are you in truth a son of the Lord Yoshitomo of the Minamoto clan? That is the reason I felt from the first moment of our encounter that your deeds were not those of a common person. No wonder that I thought this! I am only too happy to become the retainer of such a distinguished and spirited young knight. I will follow you as my lord and master from this very moment, if you will allow me. I can wish for no greater honour." So there and then, on the Gojo Bridge in the silver moonlight, the bonze Benkei vowed to be the true and faithful vassal of the young knight Ushiwaka and to serve him loyally till death, and thus was the compact between lord and vassal made. From that time on, Benkei gave up his wild and lawless ways and devoted his life to the service of Ushiwaka, who was highly pleased at having won such a strong liegeman to his side. Although Ushiwaka had now secured Benkei, it was impossible for only two men, however strong, to think of fighting the Taira clan, so they both decided that the cherished plan must wait till the Minamoto were stronger. While thus waiting they heard a report to the effect that a descendant of Tawara Toda Hidesato[3] named Hidehira was now a famous general in Kaiwai of the Ashu Province, and that he was so powerful that no one dared oppose him. Hearing this, Ushiwaka thought that it would be a good plan to pay the general a visit and try to interest him, if possible, in the fortunes of the House of Minamoto. He consulted with Benkei, who encouraged the young knight in his scheme of enlisting the General Hidehira as a partisan, and the two therefore left Kyoto secretly and journeyed as quickly as possible to Oshu on this errand. On the way there, Ushiwaka and Benkei came to the Temple of Atsuta, and as they considered it important that the young knight should look older now, Ushiwaka performed the ceremony of Gembuku at the shrine. This was a rite performed in olden times when youths reached the age of manhood, They then had to shave off the front part of their hair and to change their names as a sign that they had left childhood behind. Ushiwaka now took the name of Yoshitsune. As he was the eighth son, it would have been more correct for him to have assumed the name of Hachiro, but as his uncle Tametomo the Archer, of whom you have already read, was named Hachiro, he purposely did not take this name. From this time forth our hero is known as Yoshitsune, and this name he has glorified forever by his wonderful bravery and many heroic exploits. In Japanese history he is the knight without fear and without reproach, the darling of the people, to them almost an incarnation of Hachiman, the popular God of War. And as for Benkei, never can you find in all history a vassal who was more true or loyal to his master than Benkei. He was Yoshitsune's right hand in everything, and his strength and wisdom carried them successfully through many a dire emergency. From Kyoto to Oshu is a long journey of about three hundred miles, but at length Yoshitsune (as we must now call him) and Benkei reached their destination and craved the General Hidehira's assistance. They found that Hidehira was a warm adherent of the Minamoto cause, and under the late Lord Yoshitomo he and his family had enjoyed great favour. When the general learned, therefore, that Yoshitsune was the son of the illustrious Minamoto chief, his joy knew no bounds, and he made Yoshitsune and Benkei heartily welcome and treated them both as guests of honour and importance. Just at this time Yoshitsune's eldest brother, Yoritomo, who had been banished to an island in Idzu, collected a great army and raised his standard against the Taira. When the news about Yoritomo reached Yoshitsune, he rejoiced, for he felt that the hour had at last come when the Minamoto would be revenged on the Taira for all the wrongs they had suffered at the hands of the latter. With the help of Hidehira and the faithful Benkei, he collected a small army of warriors and at once marched over to his brother's camp in Idzu. He sent a messenger ahead to inform Yoritomo that his youngest brother, now named Yoshitsune, was coming to aid him in his fight against the Taira. Yoritomo was exceedingly glad at this unexpected good news, for all that helped to swell his forces now brought nearer the day when he would be able to strike his long-planned blow at the power of the hated Taira. As soon as Yoshitsune reached Idzu, Yoritomo arranged for an immediate meeting. Although the two men were brothers, it must be remembered that their father had been killed, and the family utterly scattered, when they were mere children, Yoshitsune being at that time but an infant in his mother's arms. As this was therefore the first time they had met Yoritomo knew nothing of his young brother's character. One of Yoshitsune's elder brothers had come with him, and Yoritomo being a shrewd general wished to test them both to see of what mettle they were made. He ordered his retainers to bring a brass basin full of boiling water. When it was brought, Yoritomo ordered Noriyori, the elder of the two, to carry it to him first. Now brass being a good conductor of heat, the basin was very hot and Noriyori stupidly let it fall. Yoritomo ordered it to be filled again and bade Yoshitsune bring it to him. Without moving a muscle of his handsome face Yoshitsune took hold of the almost unbearably hot vessel and carried it with due ceremony slowly across the room. This exhibition of nerve and endurance filled Yoritomo with admiration and he was favourably struck with Yoshitsune's character. As for Noriyori, who had been unable to hold a hot basin for a few moments, he had no use for him at all, except as a common soldier. Yoritomo begged Yoshitsune to become his right-hand man and zealously to espouse his cause. Yoshitsune declared that this had been his lifelong ambition ever since he could remember,--as they both were sons of the same father, so was their cause and destiny one. Yoritomo made Yoshitsune a general of part of his army and ordered him in the name of his father Yoshitomo to chastise the Taira. Delighted beyond all words at the wonderfully auspicious turn events were taking, Yoshitsune hastened his preparations for the march. The longed-for hour had come to which through his whole childhood and youth he had looked forward, and for which his whole being had thirsted for many years. He could now fulfil the last words of his unhappy mother, and punish the Taira for all the evil they had wrought against the Minamoto. All the wild restlessness of his youth, which had driven him forth to wield his wooden sword against the rocks in the Kuramayama Valley and to try his strength against Benkei on the Gojo Bridge, now found vent in action most dear to a born warrior's heart. With several thousands of troops under him, Yoshitsune marched up to Kyoto and waged war against the Taira, and defeated them in a series of brilliant engagements. The stricken Taira multitudes fled before the avenger like autumn leaves before the blast, and Yoshitsune pursued them to the sea. At Dan-no-Ura the Taira made a last stand, but all in vain. Their lion leader, Kiyomori, was dead, and there was no great chieftain to rally them in the disordered retreat that now ensued. Yoshitsune came sweeping down upon them, and they and their fleet and their infant Emperor likewise, with their women and children, sank beneath the waves. Only a scattered few lived to tell the tale of the terrible destruction that overtook them on the sea. Thus did Yoshitsune become a great warrior and general. Thus did he fulfil the ambitions of his youth and avenge his father Yoshitomo's death. He was without a rival in the whole country for his marvellous bravery and successive victories. He was adored by the people as their most popular hero and darling, and throughout the length and breadth of the land his praise was sung by every one. Even to this day there is no one in Japan who has not heard the name of Yoshitsune. The next story, "The Story of Benkei," will tell you more of Yoshitsune, for the two lives are linked together in the fame and glory of noble deeds done, of dangers passed, of troubles and reverses borne, and of honours earned and joy and victory shared together--to be told and remembered forever. [1] The Tengu are strange creatures with very long noses; sometimes they have the head of a hawk and the body of a man. [2] The fighter's fan was always made of metal and was often used as a weapon. [3] See in the story of "My Lord Bag of Rice," _The Japanese Fairy Book_ (Constable, London). THE STORY OF BENKEI SEQUEL TO THE STORY OF YOSHITSUNE Those who have read the story of the great warrior Yoshitsune will certainly remember that his retainer Benkei was a gigantic bonze as remarkable for his physical strength as he was for his original character. In the story of Yoshitsune very little was said about Benkei; you may therefore like to hear something more about the famous man who is so favourite a hero with Japanese children and so greatly respected in Japan for his faithfulness to his master. Benkei was the son of a Buddhist priest named Bensho, High Steward of the Temple of Gongen at Kumano, a famous shrine from ancient times, and his mother was the daughter of a high Court official of the second rank. Benkei was no ordinary mortal. Most children come into the world within ten months, but Benkei kept his mother waiting one year and six months for him; and when he was born he already had teeth and a luxuriant growth of hair, and was so strong and big that he could walk from the first as well as most children of two or three years of age. Seeing how extraordinarily big and strong he was, the family were lost in amazement; but their wonder quickly changed to dismay, for the mother died soon after giving birth to her son. The father, Bensho, was very angry at this, and took an aversion to the child who had brought, he said, so great a misfortune upon him. He even wished to abandon the boy altogether, believing that, as Benkei's birth had cost his mother's life, he would in after years only prove a curse to the family. Now the boy's aunt (who was married to a man named Yama-no-i), hearing this, pitied her little nephew Benkei, and going to her brother said: "If you are going to treat the child so cruelly as to cast him away, please give him to me. I have no children and will bring him up as my own child. He is not responsible for his mother's death. It is fate, and there is no help for it!" Bensho consented to her taking the child, saying that he did not care what happened to him so long as he was kept out of his sight, for he could no longer bear to see him. So Benkei was adopted by his aunt, who took him away to the capital of Kyoto. The child rewarded her care and grew to be a fine boy beyond all expectation. He was exceedingly strong and healthy; at five or six years of age he was equal in size and strength to boys of ten or twelve, and gave promise of unusual intelligence and cleverness. Unfortunately his face was as fierce as that of a demon and he looked so truly savage and ugly that he gradually earned for himself the nickname of Oni-Waka, or Demon Youth. In a few years his uncle thought that it was time to send the boy to school, and he accordingly sent Benkei to the monastery of Eizan and placed him under the tutorship of the famous priest Kwankei. In Japan as in England in those times all learning was in the hands of the priests, and the temples were the only schools. When Benkei arrived at Kwankei's temple he was taught the reading and writing of Chinese characters, and as he was at first docile and diligent, and obedient to all set over him, he made rapid progress, and not only satisfied but pleased his teacher, who commended his industry; but after a time he chafed at the restraint of his new surroundings and began to give trouble. Not content with being unruly himself, he would lead the other novices away from their studies into the mountains and play all kinds of rough games with them, and, of course, being by nature much stronger and bigger than any of them, none of his companions could stand against him. It therefore happened that in every contest he invariably gained the victory, and this elated him so much that he thought of nothing but his sports and his triumphs, and, neglecting his lessons entirely, practised athletic games day after day, quite forgetting everything else. Oni-Waka's teacher, Kwankei, hearing about the youth's wild doings, and considering them as unseemly, sent for him and told him that such behaviour not only grieved his guardians but brought disgrace upon the holy temple; but his rebuke fell upon deaf ears and did no good at all. While he was being scolded, Benkei listened respectfully enough; but as soon as the reverend teacher turned his back he would forthwith be as wild, if not wilder, than ever. His conduct grew worse and worse, till at last, losing all patience, the master priest forbade him to go out of the house, and then enforced his order by shutting him up in a monastery. This punishment Oni-Waka deeply resented, and one night, eluding the vigilance of his gaolers, he stole out quietly, and picking up a great log of wood began to destroy everything he could. First he smashed the gateway; then the fences all round the temple; then he broke the shutters and the sliding screens inside; indeed everything he could reach, he wrecked. The bonzes, roused from their slumbers by the unexpected noise, which sounded as if a troop of robbers were at work, were all so frightened that they could do nothing to stop the whirlwind of destruction. When Oni-Waka had done all the mischief he could he felt that, after this last mad prank, the Temple of Eizan was no place for him, so he fled from the spot forever. He was now just seventeen years of age, and he called himself Musashi Bo Benkei. Oni-Waka showed a sense of humour when he called himself Musashi Bo Benkei. In olden times there lived in Eizan a man named Musashi, who was turbulent and wild in his youth, and yet became a famous bonze and lived until the ripe age of sixty-one. Oni-Waka, having heard about this famous man, made up his mind to be like him, and therefore called himself Musashi Bo, or Musashi the Bonze. The first syllable--"Ben"--of _Ben_kei was taken from the first character of his father's name (Bensho), and the second--"kei"--was the last syllable of his teacher's name (Kwankei). The name Benkei was therefore a combination of the names of his father and teacher. Ashamed to return home to his uncle and aunt after his behaviour at the monastery, Benkei made up his mind to travel. This he did much after the fashion of German apprentices at about the same period in Europe. Leaving Kyoto, he came to Osaka; from Osaka he went to the province of Awa in the island of Shikoku; he then travelled all through that island, and thence wandered back to the mainland, where in the province of Harima he came at last to a monastery called Shosa. This monastery was as large as that of Eizan, and Benkei thought that he would like to stay there for a time as a student. With the consent of the abbot, Benkei was enrolled as an acolyte of this temple. Among the numerous novices in the temple there was one named Kaien, who was nearly as fond of mischief as Benkei himself, and he was known in the neighbourhood for a troublesome fellow, no one young or old being safe from his foolish pranks. One day soon after Benkei's arrival, Kaien found the newcomer taking a nap, so for fun he wrote on Benkei's cheek the Chinese character for _geta_, or "clog." When Benkei woke up and went into the courtyard he noticed that everybody he came near seemed to be laughing at him, though nobody would say why. Thinking that there must be something strange in his appearance he glanced into a bowl of water and at once discovered the cause of the merriment. Angry at the trick played on him, he seized a thick stick and rushing into the midst of his fellow novices shouted: "You rogues! I suppose you thought that you were doing something clever when you scribbled on my face. Now just come here, one by one, and kneel down and beg my pardon. If you do not you will soon be sorry for yourselves." Benkei looked so angry and spoke so fiercely that most of the acolytes were frightened. Four or five of the boldest, however, answered him back, saying: "What do you mean, you lazy fellow, by complaining about a trick played upon you while you were asleep in the middle of the day? If we hear any more of your grumbling, we will throw you out of the monastery." In this way they tried to frighten Benkei, but he did not budge an inch, and his only reply was to lift his stick and knock down the four or five who had spoken. Seeing this, Kaien, the author of all this trouble, rushed up, saying: "You are a coward to attack fellows half your size. Suppose for a change you fight with me!" Then looking round for a weapon, and seeing a large log of wood on a fire close by, he picked it up and faced the enraged Benkei, adding: "It was I who scribbled on your face. If you are angry, come on and let us fight it out!" The two closed at once and fought for some time; then Benkei grew impatient, and seizing Kaien by his collar and belt lifted him off his feet. The other novices, seeing this, cried out in alarm: "Kaien has been lifted off his feet. He can't fight now. He is helpless!" Then they shouted to Kaien to apologize and save himself. "Pardon! Pardon! Benkei! Mercy!" screamed the youth, now bitterly repenting his folly. Benkei, however, did not hear Kaien's cry for mercy, for he was like a madman now. He hardly knew what he did or said, for his blood was fired by the taunts of the young men and by the fight. "You shall die," screamed Benkei, "mannerless coward that you are; you shall die, I say, and your carcass shall be eaten by crows!" With these words he shook Kaien as mercilessly as a dog does a rat, and then flung him upon the tiled roof of the chapel, a height of some fourteen or fifteen feet. Kaien fell on the roof, rolled down the tiles, and at last, striking a rock in the garden, was killed on the spot. When the foolish and unfortunate lad was flung up on the roof by Benkei, he still held the smoking brand which he had all to no purpose used against his antagonist and this, falling on the building, flared up and set fire to the temple. Just then a breeze sprang up and fanned the flames into a fierce blaze; sparks from the roof dropped upon the curving tiers of the five-storied pagoda, and the main gateway, and the school and the houses of the bonzes, till the whole of the monastery was in a blaze. Seeing the conflagration, all the inmates were lost in consternation. Shouting "Fire! Fire!" some of them ran to draw water from the well, while others threw sand on the flames, and in the excitement and general confusion which followed, Benkei, the cause of the calamity, was forgotten. In the midst of the tremendous tumult and disturbance Benkei laughed quietly to himself. "Ha! ha!" he laughed; "look at the fire and the stir I have made! I have never seen the lazy bonzes know what it is to hurry before. It will do them good for once in a way!" Then he slipped away from the temple and made his way back to Kyoto. Benkei, wild and unruly as he was, cannot be judged by the standard of conduct of to-day. Those times were very different from these days of peace and order. Young men were encouraged to do rough violent deeds to show their strength and courage, and if they killed their antagonists in the fight, so much the more did this redound to their credit. It was the custom for a young _samurai_ on obtaining a sword to go out into the highways to try the mettle of his blade. Woe to those who passed by; their blood must baptize the knight's sword. This training bred a martial spirit in the youth of Japan, and produced brave men of dauntless courage and resolution like Benkei, who became such a hero in after-life. Benkei was, however, by this time tired of study and of living the dull life of a bonze, and he now made up his mind to rove about in search of adventures, determining that, should he find a stronger man than himself, he would become that man's vassal, turn from his wild ways and lead the life of a good _samurai_, faithful to his lord and a good patriot to his country. But first of all he must find the man stronger than he to whom he would bow his proud strong neck. He longed now to find a master worthy of respect, whom he could reverence as his superior. How was this to be done? At last an idea struck him. He had determined to be a soldier and enter the service of a _samurai_; he must therefore get a good sword. Violent and impetuous as ever, to this end he now vowed to take a thousand swords from the citizens of Kyoto. To carry out his wild scheme he went nightly to the Gojo Bridge, and when men passed along bearing swords in their girdles he would rush suddenly out, attack them furiously, and snatch away their swords. He never pursued those who ran away, for he deemed them cowards and would not waste his time or strength on such creatures; but those who opposed him he would mow down with a single sweep of his great halberd. In this way he had attacked nine hundred and ninety-nine men and taken away nine hundred and ninety-nine swords; each time he had hoped to meet his match in the numerous contests, but not one among the whole number proved a serious foe. Accordingly the swords Benkei had thus collected were all poor weapons, for weak men have like swords; they were blunt and badly tempered and of not the slightest use to him. He was heartily disappointed, and began to think that perhaps he had better abandon the enterprise as a vain one. In desperation, however, he determined to get one more sword and thus complete the total of one thousand blades, the number he had first of all set his mind upon. In spite of discouragement, he told himself that it would be stupid to give up at this point. As soon as he had decided to do this, his spirits revived, and for some unaccountable reason he felt that this time he would be lucky, and able to secure once for all a good weapon. He waited impatiently for the evening, and as soon as the twilight fell he made his preparations and went as usual to the Gojo Bridge. It happened to be the night of the fifteenth day of August, and the beautiful harvest moon sailed up into the serene heaven, above the hills and the tall dark velvety pines and cryptomerias, and the sleeping world was bathed in her soft silvery brilliance. For a long time Benkei stood leaning against the parapet of the bridge, entranced by the fair scene spread out before him in the moonlight and apparently quite forgetful for the time being of his purpose. Suddenly the stillness of the beautiful night was broken by the sound of a flute. Benkei started from his reverie. The music drew nearer and nearer, and then he saw a slight figure approaching from the other end of the bridge. The newcomer wore a kind of white veil and high black-lacquered clogs, and was playing on his flute as he strolled along. Benkei watched the approaching stranger and saw at once that this was no ordinary passer-by. At first he thought that this must be a woman, for the moonlight revealed a slender grace in walking and then on nearer view a face of extreme youth and aristocratic beauty. He could not find the heart to attack the mysterious and gentle unknown, and decided to let him or her pass unmolested; but while he was wondering who the person, so unlike all the others he had met on the bridge, could be, the supposed lady all of a sudden stepped up to Benkei and kicked the latter's halberd out of his hand. "What are you doing?" shouted Benkei, in a rage when he had recovered from his astonishment; and recovering his halberd he pulled off what he supposed to be the lady's veil. To his surprise he found that the adventurous stranger was a handsome youth who might easily be mistaken for a girl, and then Benkei's eyes fell upon a splendid gold-mounted sword which the lad carried in his girdle. He said to himself that he had not waited so long in vain, that he was verily in luck this night to have such a bird come into net. While these thoughts flashed through his mind, Benkei clutched at the sword, but the youth was far stronger than he looked, and the instant Benkei put forth his hand the young fellow flung a heavy fan in his face, saying: "How brave you think yourself, don't you?" and darted out of his reach. This made Benkei more angry than ever, and with threatening exclamations he lifted his halberd to deal a smashing blow on the young knight. But the lad was far too quick for Benkei and sprang about with the nimbleness of a monkey, and no matter how Benkei aimed his blows, they never reached the mark. Never had Benkei seen such agility and adroitness. Sometimes the youth appeared in front and sometimes behind, now on one side and again on the other, and as often as Benkei turned he would find that his opponent had shifted his position like lightning. At length Benkei grew tired and a sense of awe began to take hold of his mind, for he now felt that the youth must be a supernatural being, or a tengu, and no common mortal, and this feeling grew upon him so strongly that he began to lose heart. He knew now that he was no longer invincible as he had hitherto been. Then the lad, who had hitherto acted on the defensive, began to push his advantage, and, attacking Benkei in good earnest, beat down the latter's guard and disarmed him. When the redoubtable Benkei, who had never yet been beaten by any one in his whole life, found himself thus ignominiously defeated, he was astonished beyond words, and there and then, kneeling down on the bridge, bowed low before the young man and humbly said: "Will you condescend to tell me whose son you are, and your name? Something tells me that you are no common man!" The handsome youth laughed and replied: "I am the eighth and youngest son of Minamoto Yoshitomo, and my name is Minamoto Ushiwaka," and with these words he allowed Benkei to rise. "What do I hear?" exclaimed Benkei; "are you indeed the young knight Minamoto Ushiwaka of whom I have heard so much? I felt from the first that you were a person of distinction. As for myself, I am simply Musashi Bo Benkei. For a long time I have been looking for a man stronger than myself, to whom I could look up as my master. I have led a wild life for a long time, but if you will take me into your service I will be a good and faithful vassal." Ushiwaka, who had heard of Benkei's remarkable strength, and who had come out that night to the Gojo Bridge for the purpose of meeting the notorious man with the hope of winning him to his side, was delighted at the turn events had taken and promised to take Benkei into his service, and in this way the brave youth and the giant priest became associated as lord and vassal. From this hour Benkei was a completely changed character. He gave up his wild ways and became obedient to his young master, who was the only one he had found a match for his imposing strength and will. He served his new lord with the utmost devotion, and fought bravely in every battle which Yoshitsune (Ushiwaka's name when he came of age) waged against the Taira clan at the famous battles of Ichi-no-tani and Dan-no-Ura, of which you will have read in the story of Yoshitsune. Yoshitsune won victory after victory, driving his Taira enemies to the sea, where they miserably perished at Dan-no-Ura, and it seemed to the wondering people that he must be the impersonation of Hachiman, the God of War. So handsome and brave was he that they had never seen or heard of his like before, and throughout Japan every one praised and loved him. Now Yoritomo, when he saw his brother's popularity, became jealous, and Kajiwara, one of his generals, who hated Yoshitsune because the young knight had once openly reproved him for cowardice, seized the opportunity to poison Yoritomo's mind against his younger brother; he suggested that Yoshitsune's aim was to supplant Yoritomo in supreme authority. Sad to say, Yoritomo believed this wicked slander. Therefore, when Yoshitsune, covered with glory and honour, returned from the wars, bringing with him, as prisoners of war, Munemori, the Taira chieftain, and his son (Kiyomori was now dead), he found that Yoritomo had erected a barrier near Koshigoe, just outside Kamakura. Here he sent a guard to receive the prisoners, but on the ground that Yoshitsune was guilty of treachery, Yoritomo refused him admittance into Kamakura. In vain did Yoshitsune protest against the unjust accusation; in vain did he write a touching letter avowing his unaltered love and devotion to Yoritomo; in vain did he recount all the hardships endured on the campaigns which the young and chivalrous general had undertaken at the command of his brother. He was not believed, and ingratitude was the only reward he received for devotion to his brother's cause. At this crisis Yoshitsune found himself banished and every part of Japan rendered unsafe for his residence, for Yoritomo ordered him to be arrested. When this time of trouble came, Benkei was indefatigable in his efforts to guard Yoshitsune's person from danger. He followed him in his flight and exile and never left his master's side. Yoshitsune now returned to Kyoto for a time. Soon after he arrived there Yoritomo sent a man named Tosabo to compass his death. This man, like Benkei, had formerly been a bonze, and he gave out that he had come to visit the temples of the capital. Tosabo knew very well what a shrewd and clever warrior Yoshitsune was, and he doubted his own ability to cope with the task he had undertaken. He therefore decided that he would wait until Yoshitsune was completely off his guard, and then make a sudden attack upon the house where he was staying. He told his followers of his plan and secretly prepared for the raid. Yoshitsune soon learned of Tosabo's coming, for the people of Kyoto and its neighbourhood, where he had lived as a boy, were devoted to him. The young general, knowing that Tosabo was in Yoritomo's service, regarded him with suspicion. He told Benkei of his fears, and Benkei at once volunteered to go and summon Tosabo to the house and question him. Yoshitsune agreed to the plan, and Benkei immediately set off for Tosabo's house. "Now, Tosabo," said he, "my Lord Yoshitsune desires to see you, so you are to come back with me at once!" Benkei's manner was so fierce and determined that Tosabo felt alarmed and he therefore pretended to be ill; but Benkei was not to be balked in that stupid way, and shouting: "If you are not quick, I'll seize you and take you whether you will or not!" he grabbed Tosabo by his girdle and lifted him up as if he had been a child, tucked him under one arm, and, mounting his horse, carried him off. There were several of Tosabo's retainers present at the interview, but they were all trembling with fear and did not dare to put forth a hand to help their master. Benkei thus conducted Tosabo into the presence of Yoshitsune by force, and both master and vassal began to examine him strictly; but Tosabo was such an audacious rascal that, notwithstanding the fact that he had actually come from Yoritomo, hired as an assassin, he refused to confess anything. With great humility he feigned surprise at being suspected of entertaining designs against Yoshitsune's life, saying that he was but a poor bonze in Yoritomo's service, and as Yoshitsune was his master's brother, he (Tosabo) regarded him as his lord also. Nothing else but a religious fast and retreat had called him to Kyoto! Now Yoshitsune and Benkei had no actual proof of his guilt, so they allowed Tosabo to go free, first making him sign a document declaring that he was not a hired assassin. In truth neither of them believed the crafty man, but thought him too despicable an enemy to fear, and made up their minds that, if he and his gang planned a night assault, the party could be easily repulsed and put to flight. Tosabo on his part congratulated himself on his cleverness, returned home, armed his men, and made an attack on Yoshitsune's residence. Yoshitsune that night, thinking that at any rate for some time he was quite safe from attack, made merry with all his men. Drinking amber-coloured wine they sat up late, and when at last the young general retired to rest, having drunk much he slept a deep sleep. His beautiful young wife Shizuka, who accompanied him in all his wanderings, fearing she knew not what, that night alone kept watch beside her lord's couch. She was the first to hear the approach of Tosabo and his soldiers. Vainly she tried to rouse Yoshitsune; she called him, she shook him, but all in vain,--he slept on. Shizuka was frantic. She heard the enemy at the gate trying to batter it down. Suddenly the thought struck her, as if by inspiration, that the most thrilling call to arms to a warrior must be the sound of his armour. She rushed to the box in the hall, and heavy as it was for her slender strength, she lifted out the armour. She dragged it quickly into the room. Then over Yoshitsune's head she waved it to and fro. "Clang-clang," sounded the armour, "clang--clang." Up sprang the warrior, seized the suit of armour, and with Shizuka's help dressed himself for battle. All this took place without a single word. Benkei and the rest of his soldiers soon joined him and the enemy were put to flight. Tosabo managed to escape and hide himself in the mountains of Kurama, near Kyoto, but he was caught and put to death at last. To have been able to thwart and punish the assassins from Kamakura was a source of great satisfaction to Yoshitsune and his men; but when the story reached Yoritomo he was very wroth, and issued another decree entirely disowning Yoshitsune and declaring him an enemy to the state. Yoshitsune felt that Yoritomo was acting most unjustly towards him, for he knew himself to be entirely blameless of plotting against Yoritomo's supremacy; but as it was useless to contend against his elder brother, who as Shogun was the military ruler of Japan, he decided to leave Kyoto and escape to some other place. He therefore planned to cross from the province of Settsu to Saikoku in a ship; but when they reached Dan-no-Ura, where Yoshitsune had finally conquered and all but terminated the Taira clan, the fine weather they had hitherto experienced suddenly changed, the sky became overcast with black clouds, rain began to fall in torrents, the wind began to blow, and gradually the waves rose higher and higher, and shipwreck became imminent. As the darkness deepened about them, though they could see nothing, over the water there came weird sounds of the din of battle, the rushing of ships through the sea, the shouting and trampling of men, the whizzing of arrows in the air; all around them as the ship sped on, the tumult of the fight grew louder, till Yoshitsune felt that he was living again through that awful and never-to-be-forgotten battle. [Illustration: THE PHANTOM HOST DREW NEARER TO THE BOAT] Then from amid the rolling waves, which every moment threatened to engulf the boat, arose pale, ghastly forms whose wan faces were terrible to see. Clad in blood-stained, battle-torn armour and ravaged with gaping wounds, these warrior ghosts raised threatening hands, as if to stop the progress of the boat, while meanings of despair and hollow sobs and shrieks burst from the spectre army. Among the foremost figures was one who brandished a huge halberd, and as he approached, he addressed Yoshitsune, saying: "Aha! Revenge! Revenge! Behold in me the ghost of Taira-no-Tomomori, general of the Taira clan, ruthlessly destroyed by you! Long have I waited here for you and now I will slay you all, for not until then will the slaughtered Taira rest in their watery graves." Through the tossing, whirling waters, with the wind shrieking round them, and a weird blue phosphoric light making everything visible, the phantom host drew nearer and nearer to the boat. But Yoshitsune did not seem to be in the least alarmed. As dauntless as ever, he stood up in the prow and faced the ghosts of the men whom he had slain in that terrible battle, and flashing forth his keen blade, said: "So you are the spirits of the Taira clan, are you? And you have risen from the ocean-bed to haunt us, and to impede our progress, and to inflict evil upon us? Have you forgotten how I drove you before me as dust before the wind when you were alive? It is a pity you have not profited by past experiences! I should have thought that you would have had no wish to see me again!" With these words he was about to brandish his sword and attack the spectres, but Benkei, the wise and faithful Benkei, stepped up to his young master and stayed his hand, saying: "Not so, my lord. Swords are useless against ghosts. It is not wise to anger these poor earth-bound phantoms. The best way of dealing with them is to pacify them, so that they may find peace and go to their own place." Yoshitsune yielded to Benkei and allowed himself to be put aside. Then Benkei, who, you will remember, had formerly been a Buddhist priest, drew out a small rosary which he always carried with him, and telling his beads, and rubbing his hands together, palm to palm, began to recite prayers earnestly and reverently in a loud voice. The sacred words appointed by the Buddhist Church fell like a benediction upon the angry spirits, the wailing and the howling and the tumult of the phantom conflict ceased, and the wraiths gradually vanished into the sea from whence they had arisen; the storm ceased, and the weather cleared and became as fine and peaceful as it was before, and the travellers soon reached the land in safety. Across the mountains Yoshitsune now fled, and after endless adventures and hairbreadth escapes, he determined to seek the help of his old friend and partisan, the General Hidehira, in the province of Oshu. On the way thither they came to a guard-house at Ataka, in Kaga Province. This guard-house was one of the principal frontier stations at which in those feudal times all travellers had to give an account of themselves. Yoritomo had by this time issued a proclamation ordering the arrest of Yoshitsune, so the young general and Benkei and the handful of faithful men still left to him disguised themselves as wandering priests, wearing loose caps on their heads, carrying wallets on their backs, and grasping pilgrim staves in their hands. Yoshitsune himself was disguised as a _goriki_, or coolie, attendant on the priests. They travelled slowly until they came to the barrier, consulting together as to how they should pass it, for they heard that the sentries suspected every one and were examining passers-by very strictly. Only the previous day three mendicants had been killed, owing to the suspicion of the guards having been excited. All Yoshitsune's followers, among whom were many brave, loyal, though headstrong young fellows, wanted to storm the guard-house and cut their way through the soldiers, but Benkei was strongly opposed to this and said: "No, no, that will never do! A quarrel would cost some of our lives, and we have few enough as it is. Leave the matter to me to manage and I'll get you through." No one ever gainsaid Benkei, when he spoke with authority like that, for they all knew what a mountain of strength and resource he was in time of need. So Benkei, as ever, had his way. He disguised Yoshitsune in the dress of a servant (_goriki_), and gave him a deep broad-brimmed hat of bamboo to wear, and made him tuck up his robe into his belt; then, advancing in front of the others, he leisurely approached the guard-house, and with an air of the utmost unconcern and nonchalance said: "We are mendicant priests who are travelling throughout the various provinces for the purpose of soliciting subscriptions for the rebuilding of the shrine of the Great Buddha at the Todaiji Temple, in Nara. We ask permission to pass the barrier." Now the captain of the guard was a very clever man and a strict observer of rules, and he would not let Benkei pass without questioning him thoroughly. "Well, as you say you are visiting the various provinces soliciting subscriptions for the purpose of rebuilding the Shrine of the Great Buddha, it is possible that I may allow you to pass, but you must show me positive proof of the truth of your story," said the captain of the guard. Benkei was staggered for a moment when he heard these words. What should he do? But he was a quick-witted man, and without betraying any sign of being taken by surprise, he answered with composure: "Very good, then, I will read you my commission written by the High Priest himself in the first pages of the subscription-book." With these words, speculating upon the ignorance of the guard, with great dignity he drew out a scroll, and pressing it with reverence to his forehead, began to improvise and read out an imaginary letter from the High Priest of the Todaiji Temple for the rebuilding of a shrine for the Daibutsu, at Nara. At the first mention of the name of the priest, so famous and so highly revered throughout the country, the captain of the guard, it is said, fell respectfully upon his knees and listened, face bent to the earth in humble awe, to the contents of the letter. So well did Benkei play his part that the sentry was convinced of the genuine character of the commission and said: "I am satisfied. There is no reason to detain you. You may pass!" Benkei was overjoyed, and thought that at length all difficulties had been overcome. At the head of the fugitive band, with Yoshitsune disguised as an attendant in the rear, he was moving forward to pass through the barrier when the captain suddenly darted forward and stopped Yoshitsune, saying in a loud voice: "Wait a moment, you coolie! Wait a moment!" "We are discovered," thought Benkei; and even he, dauntless and cool in the face of all danger hitherto, felt his heart beating violently in the intense excitement of this momentous crisis. But it was no time for hesitation, and recognizing that the whole situation hung upon that very moment, Benkei, with his usual pluck and daring, pulled himself together and coolly asked: "Have you anything to say to this coolie whom you have stopped?" "Of course I have, and that is why I have stopped him," replied the sentry. "And may I ask what your business with him is?" inquired Benkei. "This coolie," answered the captain, "is said by my soldiers to resemble Lord Yoshitsune, and I stopped him so that I might examine him." "What!" shouted Benkei, pretending to be overcome with laughter at the idea, "this coolie resembles Lord Yoshitsune? Ha! ha! ha! Oh, this is indeed too comical for anything! I wondered why you arrested him, but never thought of his being stopped for such an absurd reason. But as a matter of fact he has been mistaken for Lord Yoshitsune over and over again by several people, and you are by no means the only one who has had his suspicions aroused. You see the fellow is handsome and has a very white skin like an aristocrat, and that's all the good there is about him, but on that account I have had an immense amount of trouble with him." Then Benkei turned to Yoshitsune, saying: "Wretched creature! it is all your fault that we come under suspicion all the time. You shuffle along in such a cowardly manner and put on such strange airs that people naturally suspect you. In future be more careful, and walk along like a man and not in such a mincing way, you fool!" Thus Benkei feigned to lose his temper, and after scolding Yoshitsune roughly, finally lifted his staff and gave him several blows across the back, telling him to fall upon his knees and not presume to remain standing in the presence of the guard. The captain of the guard had been watching this scene for some moments, and when he saw Benkei start in and thrash Yoshitsune, his doubts were completely allayed; for he thought that if the apparent servant were really Yoshitsune and the mendicant priest the latter's retainer, the vassal would never dare to assault his master in this fashion. "Ah! it was my fault and carelessness. Evidently it was an entire mistake on our part to think this coolie was Lord Yoshitsune, and it is not the poor fellow's fault, so pray do not beat him any more! Continue your journey at once and take him with you." Benkei's trick thus succeeded completely. The captain reentered the guard-house and the young lord and his vassals passed at last unhindered through the strictly guarded gate, saved as ever by the quick-wittedness of Benkei. Now some say that the captain of the guard was not deceived; that he knew that the disguised priests and attendant were Yoshitsune and his party, but his whole sympathy was with the hunted hero and his brave few and he allowed them to pass. For a _samurai_ must ever show mercy and sympathy, especially to his fellows and to those in distress. The strict examination he insisted upon was a farce he played to satisfy the authorities at Kamakura. Yoshitsune and his followers were filled with admiration at the wisdom of Benkei, and great were the praise and thanks they rendered him on this occasion; but Benkei, full of reverence and devotion to his master, never ceased to deplore the necessity which drove him to beat his own lord and apologized with great humility. Whenever the story was told, he would shed tears of sorrow and declare that he would rather have been beaten to death himself than have been obliged by circumstances to strike Yoshitsune. Thus once by force of arms he put to flight the would-be assassins of Yoshitsune at Kyoto; by reciting Buddhist prayers he laid the ghosts of the Taira warriors in the sea at Dan-no-Ura; and by sheer wit and sagacity he brought his party across the dangerous frontier; and at length he managed to arrive safely with his beloved master at the Oshu residence of the famous General Hidehira. He now thought that all troubles were over; but unfortunately this story soon reached Kamakura City, and Yoritomo, furious at Yoshitsune's daring, despatched a large army to chastise him. At this time Yoshitsune's camp was pitched beside the river Koromo, and the army from Kamakura, swarming up in countless thousands on the opposite bank, discharged volley after volley of arrows at the brave but ill-fated band. Yoshitsune's handful of men were entirely unable to face the overwhelming numbers, and fled in confusion, seeking shelter in the neighbouring woods and valleys or hiding themselves in the mountains. But Benkei, despising flight, refused to budge, and stood without moving while showers of arrows fell like rain around him. At length the enemy saw that Benkei stood immovable with his seven weapons on his back, grasping his great halberd in both hands. Wondering at the sight, they drew near for the purpose of solving the mystery. As they approached, the giant still remained standing; not an eyelid flinched, as his eyes, wide open, glared fiercely at the soldiers. No wonder that the giant did not stir, for arrows were sticking all over his body like quills on a porcupine, and it was evident that he had died standing with his face to the enemy. This story is known far and wide throughout Japan, and you can imagine what a brave sturdy warrior he must have been to have died in this way, fighting to the last. Another story tells how the enemy came up to the wonderful figure of Benkei and found it to be but a straw dummy, and that by this device Benkei gained time for his beloved lord, with whom he escaped into the North, leaving their enemies far behind. Such is the story of Benkei, and the story does not end here; for tradition relates with much circumstance, as traditions always do, that Benkei's master became the conqueror of Northern Asia, known to after ages as the famous Genghis Khan. [Illustration: DIED STANDING WITH HIS FACE TO THE ENEMY] THE GOBLIN OF OYEYAMA Long, long ago in Old Japan, in the reign of the Emperor Ichijo, the sixty-sixth Emperor, there lived a very brave general called Minamoto-no-Raiko. Minamoto was the name of the powerful clan to which he belonged, and in England it would be called his surname, and Raiko, or Yorimitsu,[1] was his own name. In those times it was the custom for generals to keep as a body-guard four picked knights renowned for their daring spirit, their great strength, and their skill in wielding the sword. These four braves were called Shitenno, or Four Kings of Heaven, and they participated in all the exploits and martial expeditions of their chief, and vied with one another in excelling in bravery and dexterity. Minamoto-no-Raiko was no exception to the general rule of those ancient leaders of Japan, and he had under him Usui-Sadamitsu, Sakata Kintoki, Urabe Suetake, and Watanabe Tsuna (the clan or surname comes first in Japan). Search the wide world from north to south and from east to west, and no braver warriors than the Shitenno of Minamoto-no-Raiko could you find. Each one of the four was said to be a match single-handed for a thousand men. They lived for adventure, and their delight was in war. Now it happened about this time that Kyoto, the capital, was ringing with the stories of the doings of a frightful demon that lived in the fastnesses of a high mountain called Mount Oye, in the province of Tamba. This goblin or demon's name was Shutendoji. To look upon the creature was a horrible thing, and those who once caught sight of him never forgot the sight to their dying day. He sometimes took upon him the form of a human being, and leaving his den would steal into the capital and haunt the streets and carry off precious sons and beloved daughters of the Kyoto homes. Having seized these treasures and flowers of the people, he would drag them to his castle in the wilds of Mount Oye, and there he would make them work and wait upon him till he was ready to devour them, then he would tear them limb from limb. For a long time the flower of the youth of the capital had been kidnapped in this way; many homes had been made desolate. For a long, long time no one had the least idea of what happened to the sons and daughters thus stolen, but at the period when this story begins, the dread news of the cannibal Shutendoji and his mountain den began to be noised abroad. Now at the Court there was an official, Knight Kimitaka by name, who was thrice happy in the possession of a beautiful daughter. She was his only child, and upon her he and his wife doted. One day the darling of the family disappeared, and no trace whatsoever of the beautiful girl could be found. The household was plunged into the deepest grief and misery. The mother at last determined to consult a soothsayer, and, bidding an attendant follow her, she repaired to the house of a famous fortune-teller and diviner, who revealed to her that her daughter had been stolen away by the goblin of Mount Oye. The mother hastened home terror-stricken, and the father, when he was told the dire news, was dumb with grief. He gave up going on duty at the Palace, for he was so broken-hearted that he could do nothing but weep night and day over the loss of his only daughter. To lose her was bad enough, but the thought of the horrible hands into which she had fallen was unendurable, and all who loved the poor child, even her own father, were powerless to save her. Oh! the bitter, bitter grief! At last the Emperor heard of the sorrow that had overtaken Kimitaka, and his wrath was great to think that the hateful goblin had dared to enter the precincts of the sacred capital without permission, and had dared to steal away his subjects in this manner. And in his royal indignation he sprang to his feet and threw down his tasselled fan and cried aloud: "Is there no one in my domains who will punish this goblin and destroy him utterly, and avenge the wrongs he has done my people and this city, and so set my heart at ease?" Then the Emperor called his Council together, and put the matter before them and asked them what it were best to do, for the city must at all costs be rid of this terrible scourge. "How dare he haunt my dominions and lay hands on my people in the very precincts of my Palace?" cried the distressed Emperor. Then the Ministers respectfully answered the Emperor and said: "There are numbers of brave warriors in Your Majesty's realm, but there are none so able to do your bidding as Minamoto-no-Raiko. We would humbly advise our August Emperor, the Son of Heaven, to send for the knight and command him to slay the demon. Our poor counsel may not find favour in the Son of Heaven's sight, but at the present moment we can think of nothing else to suggest!" This advice pleased the Emperor Ichijo, and he answered that he had often heard of Raiko as a valiant knight and true, who knew not what fear was, and he had no doubt that, as his Ministers said, he was just the man for the adventure. And so the Emperor summoned Raiko to the Palace at once. The warrior, on receiving the royal and unexpected summons, hastened to the Palace, wondering what it could mean. When he was told what was wanted of him, he prostrated himself before the throne in humble acquiescence to the royal command. Indeed Raiko was right glad at the thought of the adventure in store for him, for it had been quiet for some time in Kyoto, and he and his braves had chafed at the enforced idleness. The more he realized the awful difficulty of his task, the higher his courage and his spirits rose to face it and the more he determined to do it or die in the attempt. He went home and thought out a plan of action. As the enemy was no human being, but a formidable goblin, he thought that the wisest course would be to resort to stratagem instead of an open encounter, so he decided to take with him a few of his most trusted men rather than a great number of soldiers. He then called together his four braves, Kintoki, Sadamitsu, Suetake, and Tsuna, and besides these another knight, by name Hirai Yasumasa, nicknamed Hitori, which meant, as applied to him, "the only warrior." Raiko told them of the expedition, and explained that, as the demon was no common foe, he thought it wise that they should go to his mountain in disguise; in this way they would the more likely and the more easily overcome the goblin. They all agreed to what their chief said and set about making their preparations with great joy. They polished up their armour and sharpened their long swords and tried on their helmets, rejoicing in the prospect of the action confronting them. Before starting on this dangerous enterprise, they thought it wise to seek the protection and blessing of the gods, so Raiko and Yasumasa went to pray for help at the Temple of Hachiman, the God of War, at Mount Otoko, while Tsuna and Kintoki went to the Sumiyoshi Shrine of the Goddess of Mercy, and Sadamitsu and Suetake to the Temple of Gongen at Kumano. At each shrine the six knights offered up the same prayer for divine help and strength, and on bended knees and with hands laid palm to palm they besought the gods to grant them success in their expedition and a safe return to the capital. Then the brave band disguised themselves as mountain priests. They wore priests' caps and sacerdotal garments and stoles; they hid their armour and their helmets and their weapons in the knapsacks they carried on their backs; in their right hands they carried a pilgrim's staff, and in their left a rosary, and they wore rough straw sandals on their feet. No one meeting these dignified, solemn-looking priests would have thought that they were on the way to attack the goblin of Mount Oye, and no one would have dreamt that the leader of the band was the warrior Raiko, who for courage and strength had not his peer in the whole of the Island Empire. In this way Raiko and his men travelled across the country till at last they reached the province of Tamba and came to the foot of the mountain of Oye. Now as the goblin had chosen Mount Oye as his place of abode, you can imagine how difficult of access it was! Raiko and his men had often travelled in mountainous districts, but they had never experienced anything like the steepness of Mount Oye. It was indescribable. Great rocks obstructed the way, and the branches of the trees were so thickly interlaced overhead that the light of day could not penetrate through the foliage even at midday, and the shadows were so black that the warriors would have been glad of lanterns. Sometimes the path led them over precipices where they could hear the water rushing along the deep ravines beneath. So deep were these chasms that as Raiko and his men passed them they were overcome with giddiness. For the first time they realized now the dangers and difficulties of the task they had undertaken, and they were somewhat disheartened. At times they rested themselves on the roots of trees to gain breath, sometimes they stopped to quench their thirst at some trickling spring, catching the water up in their hands. They did not, however, allow themselves to be discouraged long, but pushed their way deeper and deeper into the mountain, encouraging each other with brave words of cheer when they felt their spirits flagging. But the thought sometimes crossed their minds, though they one and all kept it to themselves, "What if Shutendoji, or some of his demons, should be lurking behind any of the rocks or cliffs?" Suddenly from behind a rock three old men appeared. Now Raiko, who was as wise as he was brave, and who at that very moment had been thinking of what he should do were they to encounter the goblin unexpectedly, thought that sure enough here were some of the goblins, who had heard of his approach. They had simply disguised themselves as these venerable old men so as to deceive him and his men! But he was not to be outwitted by any such prank. He made signs with his eyes to the men behind him to be on their guard, and they in obedience to his gesture put themselves in attitudes of defence. The three old men saw at once the mistake Raiko had made, for they smiled at him and then drawing nearer, they bowed before him, and the foremost one said: "Do not be afraid of us; we are not the goblins of this mountain. I am from the province of Settsu. My friend is from Kii, and the third lives near the capital. We have all been bereft of our beloved wives and daughters by Shutendoji the goblin. Because of our great age we can do nothing to help them, though our sorrow for their loss, instead of growing less, grows greater day by day. We have heard of your coming, and we have awaited you here, so that we might ask you to help us in our distress. It is a great favour we ask, but we entreat you if you encounter Shutendoji to show him no mercy, but to slay him and so avenge the wrongs of our wives and children and many others who have been torn away from their homes in the Flower Capital." Raiko listened attentively to all the old man said, and then answered: "Now that you have told me so much, I need not reserve the truth from you"; and he went on to tell them of the order he had received from the Emperor to destroy Shutendoji and his den, and the warrior did his best to comfort the old men and to assure them that he would do all in his power to restore their kidnapped wives and daughters. Then the old men expressed great joy; their faces beamed like the sun as they thanked Raiko warmly for his kind sympathy, and they presented him with ajar of _saké_, saying as they bowed low: "As a token of our gratitude we wish to present you with this magic wine. It is called Shimben-Kidoku-Shu.' The name means, 'a cordial for men but a poison to goblins.' Therefore if a demon drinks of this wine, all his strength will go from him, and he will be as one paralyzed. Before you attack Shutendoji, give him to drink of this wine, and for the rest you will find no difficulty." And with these words the venerable spokesman handed the warrior a small white stone jar containing the wine. As soon as Raiko had taken the jar into his hands, a radiance like that of sunlight suddenly shone round the old men, and they vanished upwards from sight till their shining figures were lost in the clouds. The warriors were struck with astonishment. They gazed upwards as if stupefied. But Raiko was the first to recover from his surprise. He clapped his hands and laughed as he said: "Be not afraid at what you have seen! Be sure that the three who thus appeared to us are none other than the gods of the shrines we visited before starting on this perilous enterprise. The old man who said he was from Settsu must have been the deity of Sumiyoshi, the one from the province of Kii was the divinity of Kumano, and the one from the capital the god Hachiman of Mount Otoko. This is a most propitious sign. The three deities have taken us under their special protection. This _saké_ is their gift, and it will surely be of magic power in helping us to overcome the demons. We must, therefore, render thanks to Heaven for the protection vouchsafed to us." Then Raiko and his five knights knelt down on the mountain pass and bowed themselves to the ground and prayed for some minutes in silence, overcome with awe at the thought that the three gods whose aid they had invoked had visited them. Raiko sprang to his feet and lifted the jar of _saké_ reverently above his head, then he placed it with his armour and weapons in the box he carried on his back. Having done this, they all proceeded on their way, but oh! how safe and confident they now felt. Raiko with his magic wine felt more than a match for any demon now. There is a proverb which says, "A giant with an iron rod," which means strength added to strength, and this was fully illustrated in the case of Raiko. The goblin Shutendoji was now to be pitied; it would surely go hard with him! As they sped on their way they came to a mountain stream, and here they found a damsel washing a blood-stained garment, and as she washed and beat the garment against the current, they saw that she often had to stop and wipe the tears away with her sleeve, for she was weeping bitterly. Raiko's heart was stirred with pity at her distress, and he went up to her and said: "This is a goblin-haunted mountain; how is it that I find a damsel such as you here?" The Princess (for such she was) looked up in his face wonderingly and said: "It is indeed true that this is a goblin-haunted mountain, and hitherto inaccessible to mortals. How is it that you have managed to get here?" and she looked from Raiko to his men. Then Raiko said: "I will tell you the truth quite frankly. The Emperor has commanded us to slay the demon; that is why we are here!" Without waiting to hear any more, the Princess ran up to Raiko in her joy and clung to him, crying out in broken sentences: "Are you indeed the great Raiko of whom I have so often heard? How thankful I am that you have come. I will be your guide to the goblin's den. Hasten, Knight Raiko, and kill the demons! I already feel that I am saved!" When they heard these words the warriors knew that she was one of the goblin's victims. The Princess turned and led the way up the hill. Presently they saw a large iron gate guarded by two demons. The demon on the right was red and the demon on the left was black, and each was armed with a great iron stick or club. The Princess whispered to Raiko: "Behold the home of the demon. Enter the gates, and you will find a beautiful palace, built of black iron from the foundations to the roof. It is therefore called the Palace of Black Iron or Kurogane. It is large, and the inside is as beautiful as a great Daimio's palace. Within the walls of the Palace of Black Iron, Shutendoji holds a feast night and day. He is waited upon by maidens such as I, whom he has carried off from the capital and from the provinces to be his slaves. The wine he drinks, poured out in crimson lacquer cups, is the blood of human beings, and the food of those feasts is the flesh of his victims who are slain in turn. What numbers have I seen disappear, alas! all murdered to supply the awful food and wine of those cannibal feasts. How I have prayed to Heaven to punish this monster! But when I saw the fate of my friends, how could I hope to live? I knew not when my turn would come. But since I have met you I feel that we shall all be saved and great is my joy and gratitude!" By this time they had reached the gate, and the Princess went forward and said to the red and black demon sentinels: "These poor travellers have lost their way on this mountain. I took compassion on them and brought them here, so that they may rest for a while before going on their journey. I hope you will be kind to them." When the Princess first began to speak the demons looked and saw Raiko and his fellow priests. Little dreaming who these men were, and that in admitting them they were letting in the bravest knights in the whole of Japan, and still less suspecting their purpose, the demons laughed in their hearts. Good prey had indeed fallen into their hands; they would surely be allowed a share in the feast that these fresh victims would furnish. They grinned from ear to ear at the Princess and told her that she had done well, and bade her take the six travellers into the Palace and inform Shutendoji of their arrival. Thus the six warriors entered into the very stronghold of the demons as if they were invited guests. Triumphant glee at the success of their plan made them exchange lightning glances with each other. They passed through the great iron gate, up to the porch, and then the Princess led them through large spacious rooms and along great corridors till at last they reached the inner part of the Palace. Here they were shown into a large hall. At the upper end in the seat of honour sat the demon king Shutendoji. Never had the knights in their wildest dreams dreamt of such a hideous monster. He was ten feet in height, his skin was bright red and his wild shock of hair was like a broom. He wore a crimson _hakama_,[2] and he rested his huge arms on a stand. As the knights entered, he glared at them fiercely with eyes as big as a dish. The sight of this dread monster was enough to make any one tremble with fear, and had Raiko and his knights been weak they must have fainted away with horror. Raiko could hardly restrain himself from flying at the monster then and there, but he controlled himself and bowed humbly so as not to awaken the enemy's suspicion in any way. Shutendoji, glaring at him, said haughtily: "I do not know who you are in the least, or how you have found your way into this mountain, but make yourself at home!" Then Raiko answered meekly: "We are only humble mountain priests from Mount Haguro of Dewa. We were on our way to the capital, having been on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Omine. In travelling across these mountains we have lost our way. While wandering about and wondering which was the right path to take, we were met by one of the inmates of your palace and kindly brought here. Please pardon us for trespassing on your domains and for all the trouble we are giving you!" "Don't mention it," said Shutendoji; "I am sorry to hear of your plight. Do not stand on ceremony while you are here, and let us feast together." Then turning to the attendant demons he shouted orders for the dinner to be served, and clapped his red hands together. At this the partitions between the rooms slid apart and beautiful damsels magnificently robed came gliding in, bearing aloft in their hands large wine-cups, jars of _saké_ and dishes of fish of all kinds, which they placed before the ugly goblin and the guests. Raiko knew that all these lovely princesses had been snatched from the Flower Capital by Shutendoji, who, heedless of their tears and misery, kept them here to be his handmaidens. He said to himself fiercely that they should soon be free. Now that the wine-cups were brought in, the warrior seized his opportunity. From his satchel he took out the jar containing the enchanted wine, Shimben-Kidoku-Shu, which he had received from the gods of the three shrines, and said to Shutendoji: "Here is some wine which we have brought from Mount Haguro. It is a poor wine and unworthy of your acceptance, but we have always found it of great benefit in refreshing us when we were weary from fatigue and in cheering our drooping spirits. It will give us much pleasure if you will try a little of our humble wine, though it may not please your taste!" Shutendoji seemed pleased at this courtesy. He handed out a huge cup to be filled, saying: "Give me some of your wine. I should like to try it." The goblin drained it at one swallow and smacked his lips over it. "I have never tasted such excellent wine," he said and held out his cup to be filled again. You can imagine how delighted Raiko was, for he knew full well that the demon was given into his hand. But he dissembled cleverly and said as he filled the goblin's wine-cup: "I am delighted that the Honourable Host should deign to like our poor country wine. While you drink, I and my companions will venture to amuse you by our dancing." Then Raiko made a sign to his men and they began to chant an accompaniment, while he himself danced. Shutendoji was highly amused as well as his attendants. They had never seen men dance before, and they thought that the strangers were very entertaining. The goblins now began to pass the magic wine round and to grow merry. Others meanwhile whispered among themselves, pitying the six travellers who, all unconscious of the horrible fate which was about to overtake them, were spending their last hours of liberty and probably of life in giving wine to their slayers and in dancing and singing for their amusement! Already, however, the power of the enchanted wine had begun to work and Shutendoji grew drowsy. The wine in the jar never seemed to grow less, however much was taken from it, and by this time all the demons had helped themselves liberally. At last they all fell into a deep sleep, and stretching themselves out on the floor and on one another, some in one corner and some in another, they were soon snoring so loudly that the room shook, and were as insensible to all that was going on as logs of wood. "The time has come!" said Raiko, springing to his feet, and motioning to his men to get to work. One and all hastily opened their knapsacks. Taking out their helmets, their armour, and their long swords, they armed themselves. When they were all ready they all knelt down, and, placing their hands palm to palm, they prayed fervently to their patron gods to help them now in their hour of greatest need and peril. As they prayed, a shining light filled the room, and in a radiant cloud the three deities appeared again. "Fear not, Warrior Raiko," they said. "We have tied the hands and feet of the demon fast, so you have nothing to fear. While your knights cut off his limbs, do you cut off his head; then kill the rest of the _oni_ and your work will be done." The three old men then disappeared as mysteriously as they had come. Raiko rejoiced at the vision and worshipped with his heart full of gratitude the vanishing deities. The knights then rose from their knees, took their swords and wet the rivets with water, so as to fix the blade firmly in the hilt. Then they all stole stealthily and cautiously towards Shutendoji. No longer the timid mountain priests; clad in full armour, they were transformed into avenging warriors. With flashing eyes and dauntless mien they moved across the room. The captive princesses standing round realized that these men were deliverers, from their beloved capital. Their joy and wonder cannot be put into words. Some cried aloud with joy; others covered their faces with their sleeves and burst into soft weeping; others raised their hands to Heaven and exclaimed, "A Buddha come to Hell! Surely these brave men will kill the demons and set us free"; and with clasped hands they entreated the knights to slay their captors and take them back to their homes. Now Raiko stood over the sleeping Shutendoji with drawn sword, and raising it on high with a mighty sweep he aimed at the demon's neck, which was as big round as a barrel. The head was severed from the body at one blow, but, horrible to relate, instead of falling to the ground, it flew up into the air in a great rage. It hung over Raiko for a moment snorting flames of fire, and then swooped down as if it would bite off the warrior's head, but it was daunted by the glittering star on his helmet, and drew back and gazed in surprise at the transformed man. Raiko was scorched by the demon's flaming breath. Once more he raised his long sword and striking the terrible head brought it to the ground at last. The noise of the combat and the triumphant shouts of the warriors awoke the other demons, who roused themselves as quickly as their stupefied senses allowed them. They were in a great fright, and without waiting to get their iron clubs, they made a rush upon Raiko. But they were too late. His five braves dashed in and attacked them right and left, until in a few minutes there was not one left to tell the tale of the destruction which had come down upon them like the autumn whirlwind upon the leaves of the forest glades. The captive princesses, when they saw that their captors were all slain, jumped about with gladness, waving their long sleeves to and fro, as the tears of joy streamed down their pale faces. They ran to Raiko and caught hold of his sleeves and praised him, saying: "Oh! Raiko Sama, what a brave and noble knight you are! We are indeed grateful to you for having saved our lives. Never have we seen such a wonderful warrior." And with many such expressions of joy they gathered round the knight, and their merry voices were now heard, instead of the groans of the dying cannibals. Now that Shutendoji was vanquished with all his horde, the way was quite open for Raiko and his men to take the fair captives away from the castle of horror and make their way back to the capital as soon as possible. [Illustration: THE HEAD FLEW UP INTO THE AIR] First of all Raiko tied up the head of Shutendoji with a strong rope and told the five brave knights to carry it. Then, followed by the princesses, the little band left Mount Oye forever and set out on the homeward journey. When they reached Kyoto the news of Raiko's return spread like fire, and the people came out in crowds to welcome the heroes. When the parents of the long-lost damsels saw their daughters again, they felt as if they must be dreaming. It seemed too good to be true that the dear and cherished ones should be restored to them safe and well, and they overwhelmed Raiko with praise and with precious gifts. Raiko took the head of Shutendoji to the Emperor and told him of all that had happened to him. You may be sure that when His Majesty heard of the success which had crowned Raiko and his expedition, he awarded him great praise and merit and bestowed upon him higher Court rank than ever. In all the country, far and near, Raiko's name was in every one's mouth, and he was acknowledged to be the greatest warrior in the land. Even in the lonely country places there was not one poor farmer who did not know of the brave deeds of the great general. Ever since then his portrait is familiar to the boys of Japan, for it is often painted on their kites. [1] Raiko, or Yorimitsu. Both names are written with the same ideographs. Raiko is the Chinese pronunciation, and Yorimitsu the Japanese rendering. [2] Hakama, a divided skirt, part of the Japanese costume. KIDOMARU THE ROBBER, RAIKO THE BRAVE, AND THE GOBLIN SPIDER You have just read of the brave knight Raiko's exploits at Oyeyama and how he rid the country of the demons who haunted the city of Kyoto and terrified the inhabitants of the Flower Capital (as that city was sometimes called) by their terrible deeds. There are other interesting stories about him and his fearless warrior-retainers which you may like to hear. It was not long after Raiko's exploits at Oyeyama that the country rang with the name of Kidomaru, a robber and highwayman, who, by his notorious deeds of cruelty and robbery, had caused his name to be feared and hated by all, both young and old. One evening Raiko with his attendants was returning home from a day's hunting, when he happened to pass the house of his younger brother Yorinobu. The warrior had had a long day out; and having still a good distance to ride before he would reach his own house the thought of a good meal and friendly company, just then, when he was tired and very hungry, was pleasant to contemplate in the lonely hour of twilight. So he called a halt outside the house and sent in word to his brother that he, Raiko, was passing by, and that if Yorinobu had any refreshment to offer his brother, he would call in and stay the night there, as he was tired out on his way back from a day's hunt. Now in Japan an elder brother or sister commands respect from the younger members of the family, and so Yorinobu was very pleased that Raiko, his elder brother, had condescended to call upon him. The servant soon returned with the message that Yorinobu was only too pleased to receive Raiko; that he had ordered a feast to be prepared that evening in honour of an unusual event, and as he was alone, nothing could be more opportune or give him greater joy than that his elder brother should have chanced to come by. He humbly begged Raiko that he would deign to share the feast, such as it was, and to pardon the poorness of his hospitality. Raiko was very pleased with his brother's gracious reception. He quickly flung the reins to his groom, dismounted from his horse, and entered the house, wondering what could be the occasion of Yorinobu's ordering a banquet for himself. When the warrior was shown into the room he found Yorinobu seated on the mats drinking _saké_, as the servants were bringing in the first dishes of the dinner. When the salutations were over, Yorinobu handed Raiko his wine-cup. Raiko took it, and having drained it, asked what his brother meant by the feast he had promised him and what was the occasion of it. Yorinobu laughed as if with triumph, and wheeling round on his cushion pointed out into the garden. Raiko then looked in the direction indicated by his brother's hand, and saw, tied up to a large pine tree, a young man who could not be much over thirty and of extraordinary strength. The face of the captive expressed hate and ferocity, his body was of an enormous build, while his arms and legs were like trunks of pine trees, so large and brown and muscular were they. His hair was a rough and matted shock, and the eyes glared as if they would start from their sockets. Indeed to Raiko the wild creature looked more like a demon than a human being. "Well, Yorinobu!" said Raiko, "the occasion of your feast is to say the least unusual; it must certainly have given you some sport to catch that wild creature; but tell me who he is that you have got tied up out there." "Have you not heard of Kidomaru, the notorious robber?" answered Yorinobu. "There he is! One of my men captured him out on the hills; he found him asleep. The town has long been clamouring for him. He has a big score to settle at last. For to-night I intend to keep him tied up like that, and to-morrow I shall hand him over to the law! Come, let us be merry, for the dinner is served!" Raiko clapped his hands when he heard of the great feat Yorinobu and his men had accomplished in catching the fearful robber, the terror of whose lawless deeds had long held the people of Kyoto trembling with fear and dread. The outlaw Kidomaru was caught at last and by his own brother Yorinobu! This was an event of rejoicing and congratulation for the family. "You have certainly done a meritorious service to your country," said he, "but it is ridiculous to tie such a creature up with a rope only. You might just as well think of tying up a wild cow with a fine kite-string. It would be less dangerous. Take my advice, Yorinobu, put a strong iron chain round him, or the murderer will soon be at large again." Yorinobu thought his brother's advice wise, so he clapped his hands. When the servant came to answer the summons, he ordered him to bring an iron chain. When this was brought, he went into the garden, followed by Raiko and his men, and wound it round Kidomaru's body several times, securing it at last to a post with a padlock. Kidomaru up to this time had rejoiced at his light bonds. He was so strong that he knew he could easily break a rope, and he had waited but for the nightfall to make good his escape under cover of the darkness. You can imagine how great was his anger at Raiko's interference, which was the cause of his being treated with so much severity that his projected escape would now be difficult. "Hateful man!" muttered Kidomaru to himself. "I will surely punish you for what you have done to me! Remember!" and he threw evil glances at Raiko. But the brave warrior cared little for the wild robber's malignant glances; he only laughed when he noticed them, and, as the chain was drawn tighter round the robber, he said: "That's right! That chain will hold him sure enough! You must run no risk of his escaping this time!" Then he and Yorinobu returned to the house, and dinner was served and the two brothers made merry the whole evening, talking over old times, and it was late before they retired to rest. Now Kidomaru knew that Raiko slept in Yorinobu's house, and he made up his mind to try to slay him that night, for he was mad with wrath at what Raiko had done to him. "He shall see what I can do!" growled Kidomaru to himself, shaking his rough and shaggy head like a big long-haired terrier. He waited quietly till every one in the house had gone to rest and all was silent. Then Kidomaru arose, cramped and stiff from sitting tied up so long. With a mighty effort he flung out his great arms, laughing defiance at the chain that bound him. So great was his strength that no second effort was needed; the chain broke and fell clanking to the ground at once, and Kidomaru, like a large hound, shook himself free from his bonds. Softly as a mouse he approached the house and climbed on to the roof, and with one tremendous blow from his huge fist, he broke through the tiles and the boards to the ceiling. His plan was to jump down upon Raiko while he lay sleeping, and taking him unawares suddenly to cut off his head. But the warrior had lain down to rest expecting such an attack, and he had slept but lightly. As soon as he heard the noise above him, he was wide awake in an instant, and to warn his enemy he coughed and cleared his throat. Kidomaru was a man of fierce and dauntless character, and he was not in the least thrown back in his purpose by finding that Raiko was awake. He went on with his work of making a hole large enough in the ceiling to let himself through to the room beneath. Raiko now sat up and clapped his hands loudly to summon his men, who slept in an adjoining room. Watanabe, the chief man-at-arms, came out to see what his master wanted. "Watanabe," said Raiko, "my sleep has been disturbed by something moving in the ceiling. It may be a weasel, for weasels are noisy creatures. It cannot be a rat, for a rat is not large enough to make so much noise. At any rate, it seems impossible to sleep to-night, so saddle the horses and get all the men ready to start. I will get up and ride out to the Temple of Mount Kurama. I want all the men to accompany me." Perched between the roof and the ceiling, the robber heard all this, and said to himself: "What ho! Raiko goes to Kurama! That is good news! Instead of wasting my time here like a rat in a trap, I will set out for Kurama immediately and get there before those stupid men can, and I will waylay them and kill them all." So Kidomaru crawled out on the roof again, let himself down to the ground, and hurried with all the speed he could make to Kurama. A large plain had to be crossed in going from the city to Kurama, and here a number of wild cattle had their home. When Kidomaru, on his way to Kurama, came to this spot, a plan flashed across his mind by which he could steal a march on Raiko. He soon caught one of the big oxen a blow on the head. Three blows one after the other, and the ox fell dead at the robber's feet. Kidomaru then proceeded to strip off its skin. It was very hard work, but he managed to do it quickly, so strong was he, and then throwing the hide over himself he lay down completely disguised, a man in a bull's hide, and waited for Raiko and his men to come. He had not long to wait. Raiko, followed by his four braves, soon came in sight. The warrior reined in his horse when he came to the plain and saw the cattle. He turned to his men and said: "Here is a place where we may find some sport. Instead of going on to Kurama, let us stay here and have some hunting! Look at the wild cattle!" The four retainers with one accord all gladly agreed to their chief's proposal, for they loved sport and adventure just as much as Raiko and were glad of an excuse to show their skill as huntsmen. The sun was just rising, and the prospect of a fine morning added zest to the pastime. Each man prepared his bow and arrows in readiness to begin the chase. But the cattle, thus disturbed, did not enjoy the sport. Man's play was their death indeed. One of their number had been killed by Kidomaru, and now they were attacked by Raiko and his men, who came riding furiously into their midst, shooting at them with bows and arrows. With angry snorts, whisking their tails on high and butting with their horns, they ran to right and left. In the general stampede that followed their attack, the hunters noticed that one animal lay still in the tall grass. At first they thought it must be either lame or ill, so they took no notice of it, and left it alone till Raiko came riding up. He went up and looked at it carefully, and then ordered one of his men to shoot it. The man obeyed, and taking his bow, shot an arrow at the recumbent animal. The arrow did not hit the mark; for, to the astonishment of the four hunters, the hide was flung aside and out stepped the robber Kidomaru. "You, Raiko! It is you, is it?" exclaimed he. "Do you know that I have a spite against you?" and with these words he darted forward and attacked Raiko with a dagger. But Raiko did not even move in his saddle. He drew his sword and, adroitly guarding himself, exchanged two or three strokes with the robber, and then slashed off his head. But wonderful to relate, so strong was the will that animated Kidomaru that though his head was cut off, his body stood up straight and firm till his right arm, still holding the dagger, struck at Raiko's saddle. Then, and not till then, it collapsed. It is said that the warriors were all greatly impressed by the malevolent spirit of the robber, which was strong enough to stir the body to action even after the head had been severed from the shoulders. Such was the death of the notorious robber Kidomaru, at the hands of the brave warrior Raiko who was awarded much praise for the clever way in which he drew Kidomaru out as far as Kurama to kill him. He had understood from Kidomaru's evil glances that the robber planned to kill him, and he thus avoided causing trouble in his brother's house. In this instance, as always, Raiko displayed wisdom and bravery. No sooner, however, was Kidomaru killed, than news was brought to the capital that another man had arisen who imitated Kidomaru in his daily deeds of robbery and other wicked acts. This robber's name was Kakamadare. One bright moonlight night, Kakamadare was waiting on the plain between Kyoto and Kurama for travellers to come that way, hoping that luck would bring some rich man into his clutches. Presently he heard some one coming towards him playing on a flute. Thinking this somewhat strange, he hid himself in the grass and waited to see who would appear. The sweet music drew nearer and nearer, and then the player came in view. The light of the moon made everything as clear as day, and the robber saw a handsome _samurai_ of soldierly aspect, dressed in beautiful silken robes and wearing a long sword at his side. "Now's my opportunity; I'm in luck to-night," thought the robber, as he rose from his hiding-place and stealthily followed the flute-player. As he kept step by step behind him, Kakamadare drew his sword in readiness several times to cut down his prey, and waited for the chance to strike. All at once the _samurai_ turned and looked steadily at the robber, who began to tremble. Then the knight calmly and coolly resumed his playing, as if utterly indifferent to the danger which threatened him. Once more the robber followed, with the intention of cutting the man down, but the opportunity for which he waited never came; each time his hand went up with his sword, it as quickly fell to his side. A spirit of high and noble purpose seemed to emanate from the knight, which cowed the man behind and made him weak. For so great is the virtue of the sword that in Japan it is an acknowledged fact that all noble swordsmen had this power of subduing lesser natures by the spiritual grace which went forth from them. Indeed the belief in the occult power of the sword was great, and it was said that no bad man could keep the possession of a fine blade. Kakamadare could not strike. He could not tell the cause of his weakness. He thought that it might be the influence of the music. He found himself listening to the gentle strains of the flute, and admiring the skill with which the man played. He noticed the firm and fearless air of the knight as he walked and his great nerve. The man knew himself to be followed by a robber, yet he showed not the least concern. Kakamadare tried to turn back now, but he found that he could do nothing but follow the man in front of him. In this way the strange pair reached the town. Kakamadare now made a great effort to break the spell, and was on the point of turning back and trying to escape from the strange, compelling presence, when to his astonishment the _samurai_ suddenly wheeled round upon him and said: "Kakamadare, I thank you for your trouble! You have given me a safe escort!" At this the robber became so terrified that he fell down on his knees and was unable to move or speak for some moments. At last, so soon as his tongue found utterance, he said: "I know not who you are, but I beg you to forgive me! I would have killed you!" He then confessed everything to the knight. He told him of his many deeds of robbery and violence which had made him feared and hated by the people, who thought that he must be a demon, for so cruel and relentless was he that he never showed mercy even to the poorest peasant. "I have never met any one like you," Kakamadare went on to say. "I promise to give up my life as a robber, and I beg you to take me into your service as one of the humblest of your retainers." The knight led the man home, and gave him some good clothes, telling him that when he again got into straits and wanted money or clothes, he might come a second time to the house, but that it was unwise to show such contempt for others as to enter into an encounter where he himself might be the injured party. This kindness and mercy touched the man's heart, and from that day he became a reformed man and a law-abiding citizen. The knight was none other than Hirai, one of the warriors who accompanied Raiko in his successful expedition against the demons of Oyeyama. There is a saying that "Brave generals make brave soldiers," and it is quite true. Raiko was a man of great sagacity and courage, and his band of braves and the knight Hirai, of whom we have just read, were like their master. There were no men in the whole of Japan braver than they. This proves the truth of the old adage. There is another story about the General Raiko which you may like to hear. The sword with which Raiko slew Kidomaru was called the Kumokiri, or Spider-cutting Sword, and about the naming of this blade there is an interesting story. It happened at one time that Raiko was unwell and was obliged to keep his room. Every night at about twelve a little acolyte would come to his bedside, and in a kind and gentle way pour out and give him some medicine to take. Raiko noticed that he did not know the boy, but as there were many underlings in the servants' quarters whom he never saw, this did not strike him as strange. But Raiko, instead of recovering, found himself growing weaker and weaker, and especially after taking the medicine he always felt worse. At last one day he spoke to his head servant and asked him who it was that brought him medicine every night, but the attendant answered that he knew nothing about the medicine and that there was no acolyte in the house. Raiko now suspected some supernatural snare. "Some malevolent being is taking advantage of my illness and trying to bewitch me or to cause my death. When the boy comes again to-night I will find out his real form. He may be a fox or goblin in disguise!" said Raiko. So he waited for the appearance of the acolyte, wondering what the strange incident could mean. When midnight came, the boy, as usual, appeared, bringing with him the usual cup of medicine. The knight calmly took the cup from the boy and said, "Thank you for your trouble!" but instead of swallowing the false medicine, he threw it, cup and all, at the boy's head. Then jumping up he seized the sword that lay beside his bed and cut at the impostor. As the blade fell, the acolyte screamed with rage and pain, then, with a movement as quick as lightning, before he turned to escape from the room, he threw something at the knight, which, marvellous to relate, as he threw, spread outwards pyramidically into a large white sticky web which fell over Raiko and clung to him so that he could hardly move. Raiko whirled his sword round and cut the clinging meshes and freed himself; again the goblin threw a web over him, and again Raiko cut the enmeshing threads away; once more the huge spider's web--for such it was--was thrown over him, and then the goblin fled. Raiko called for his men and then sank exhausted on his bed. His chief retainer, answering the summons, met the acolyte in the corridor, and thinking it strange that an unknown priest, however young, should come from his master's room at that hour of the night, stopped him with drawn sword. The goblin answered not a word, but threw his entangling web over the man and mysteriously disappeared. Now thoroughly alarmed, the retainer hastened to Raiko. Great was his consternation when he saw his master, with the meshes of the goblin's web still clinging to him. "See!" exclaimed Raiko, pointing to the threads still clinging to his man and himself, "a goblin spider has been here!" He then gave orders to hunt down the goblin, but the thing could nowhere be found. On the white mats and along the corridors they found as they searched red drops of blood, which showed that the creature had been wounded. Raiko's men followed the red trail, out into the garden, across the city to the hills, till they came to a cave, and here the blood-drops ceased. Groans and cries of pain issued from the cave, so the warriors felt sure that they had come to the end of their hunt. "The goblin is surely hiding in that cave!" they all said. Drawing their swords, they entered the cave and found a monster spider writhing with pain and bleeding from a deep sword-cut on the head. They at once killed the creature and carried it to Raiko. The knight had often heard stories of these dreadful spiders, but had never seen one before. "It was this goblin spider then that wanted to prey upon me! The net that was thrown over me was a spider's web! Of all my adventures this is the strangest!" said Raiko. That night Raiko ordered a banquet to be prepared for all his retainers in honour of the event, and he drank to the health of his five brave men. From that time the acolyte never appeared and Raiko recovered his health and strength at once. Such is the story of the _Kumokiri_ Sword. _Kumo_ means "spider," and _kiri_ means "cutting," and it was so named because it cut to death the goblin spider who haunted the brave knight Raiko. [Illustration: THEY ENTERED THE CAVE AND FOUND A MONSTER SPIDER] THE STORY OF THE POTS OF PLUM, CHERRY, AND PINE Long, long ago, in the reign of the Emperor Go-Fukakusa, there lived a famous Regent of the name of Saimyoji Tokiyori. Of all the Hojo Regents he was the wisest and justest, and was known far and wide among the people for his deeds of mercy. At the age of thirty, Tokiyori resigned the regency in favour of his son Tokimune, who was only six years old. He then retired to a monastery for several years. Sometimes stories reached his ears of the miscarriage of justice, of the cruelty of the officials under him, and of the suffering of the peasants, and he determined to find out for himself if all these things were true. It was the desire of his life to see the people governed wisely and justly and impartially, to deal reward and punishment fairly alike to the rich and the poor, to the great and the lowly. After much thought he decided that the best way to achieve his end would be to find out for himself the condition of the people, so he determined that he would disguise himself and travel about amongst them unknown. He had it given out that he was dead, and had a mock funeral performed with all the pomp and ceremony due to his exalted rank. He then left Kamakura disguised as a travelling priest unknown to any one. After journeying from place to place, he came one day to Sano, in the province of Kozuki. It was in the depth of winter, and on this day he found himself overtaken by a heavy snowstorm. There were no houses near. Tokiyori then ascended a hill, but even from that height, search as he might, he could see no sign of any dwelling, near or far. Confused and lost, he wandered about for hours. The darkness began to fall when he found himself in a hilly district. Tired and hungry, he resigned himself to passing the night under the shelter of a tree, when suddenly he espied in the distance the brown line of a thatch-roofed cottage breaking the white slope at the foot of the nearest hill. He made his way quickly towards it and knocked at the closed storm-doors. Tokiyori heard some one move within and then come to the porch. The storm-shutter was pushed aside and a beautiful woman looked out. "I have lost my way in the storm, and know not what to do! Will you be so kind as to give me the shelter of your roof this night?" said Tokiyori. The woman scanned the traveller from head to foot. Then she said: "I am very sorry for you. I would willingly give you shelter, but my husband being absent I must not let you in. You had better go on to the next village of Yamamoto, which is very near, and there you will find a good inn and accommodation for travellers!" "You are right," answered Tokiyori; "but alas! I am so tired that I can walk no more. For pity's sake, let me sleep on the verandah or in your storehouse; for so much shelter I shall be grateful." "I am indeed sorry to refuse you," answered the woman; "but in the absence of my husband I must not give shelter to a strange traveller. Were he at home, he would with pleasure take you in and give you lodging for the night. Try to make your way to the next village." Tokiyori, greatly impressed by her virtuous and modest behaviour, bowed and said as he took his leave: "There is no help for it! I must try to reach Yamamoto, since you cannot shelter me to-night." So the ex-Regent of Kamakura, spent and cold and hungry, turned once more to meet the inclement weather. He took the direction pointed out to him and plodded on through the snow. But alas! the storm had increased in violence, and the snow fell faster and faster, and the wind howled across the white drifts, whirling clouds of snow in his face till at last he found it impossible to go on. He stood still in the storm, not knowing what to do. Exerting all his strength, he found it difficult to put one foot before the other. Just as he began to give himself up for lost, he heard a voice calling him from behind. "Stop! stop!" at first faintly, then gradually the cries grew nearer and more distinct. Wondering who else could be out in such merciless weather, Tokiyori turned in the direction whence the cries came and saw a man beckoning to him to turn back. "Are you calling me?" asked Tokiyori. "Yes indeed," replied the man; "I am the husband of the woman who turned you away from that cottage just now. I regret that I was not at home to offer you the poor hospitality that is all I have to give. Please turn back with me. I can at least give you shelter for the night, though my house is only a small hut. You will be frozen to death if you go on in this storm." The priest rejoiced when he heard these kind words, and as he turned back with his host he uttered many words of thanks. When they entered the porch, the woman whom he had already seen came forward and welcomed the stranger cordially, apologizing for her former behaviour. "I pray you pardon me," she said, bowing to the ground, "for my rude words a short time ago; but now that my husband has returned I hope you will pass the night under our humble roof. I beg you not to be angry with me, knowing the custom of these times." "Don't mention it, my good woman," replied the priest in disguise. "It was quite right of you to refuse me admittance in your husband's absence. I admire your prudent conduct." While the priest and the hostess were thus exchanging civilities, her husband had entered the little sitting-room and arranged some cotton cushions on the mat. Having done this, he came out to usher in the guest. "Thank you," answered the priest, taking off his snow-covered hat and rain-coat; and, slipping his feet out of the sandals, he entered the house. The host turned again to his guest and said: "Now, as you see, I am a very poor man and I cannot give you a good dinner such as the rich can offer, but to our coarse, simple fare, such as it is, you are very welcome." The priest bowed to the ground and said that he would be grateful for any food that would stay his hunger; he had walked all day in the cold and had eaten nothing since breaking his fast in the early morning. Meanwhile the wife busied herself in the kitchen, and as it was now the hour of sunset, the meal was soon ready to be served. The priest noticed that millet instead of rice filled the bowls, and that there was not a sign of fish in the soup, which was made of vegetables only. The disguised ex-Regent had never eaten such coarse food in his life before, for millet is the poorest peasant's fare; but "Hunger needs no sauce," says the proverb, and so Tokiyori was surprised to find with how great a relish he could eat what was set before him, for he was ravenously hungry. Never had food tasted so sweet to him before. He long remembered the sensation of pleasant surprise as he partook of the first mouthful. The good wife waited on them during the meal, according to Japanese custom. When supper was over, they all sat round the hearth, talking of the good old times and telling each other amusing stories to while away the time. The hours flew quickly by and it was midnight before the host and his guest knew it. The fire had burned very low without their noticing it, and they began to shiver with cold. The host turned to the fuel-box, but all the charcoal and wood had been burned up. Then the host arose, and, regardless of the falling snow and the bitter cold, went into the garden and brought thence three pots of dwarfed trees, for the training of which Japanese gardeners are famous all the world over. "On such a winter's night a good fire is necessary for the entertainment of a traveller, but, alas! all the charcoal has been used up and I have no more in the house. To warm you before you retire I will therefore bum these trees!" "What!" said the astonished guest, for he saw that the trees were of no common kind, but were of some value, for they were old, and their training showed the skill of an experienced gardener; "these pine, plum, and cherry trees are too good to be used as fuel--they are finely trained. No! no! you mustn't burn them for me--they are far too valuable!" "Don't trouble yourself," said the host. "I loved them once when I was rich and had many more such valuable trees in my possession. But now that I am ruined and living in this miserable condition, of what use are such trees to me, pray tell me?" and with these words he began to break up the trees and to put the pieces on the fire. "If they could speak, I am sure they would say how pleased they were to be used for such a good purpose as your comfort!" The disguised ex-Regent smiled as he watched the kind man break up his pet trees, and make up the fire. Since Tokiyori had first entered the house, small and poverty-stricken though it was, he had felt that his host was no common farmer as he pretended to be; that he must be a man in reduced circumstances. "I feel sure," said the priest, "that you are no farmer by birth; indeed in you I recognize the a courtesy and breeding of a _samurai_ [a knight]. Will you add one more favour to the rest you have shown me this night and tell me your real name?" "Alas," answered the farmer in disguise, "I cannot do so without shame." "Do not trifle with me," said the priest, "for I am very much in earnest. Tell me who you are. I should very much like to know." Pressed so earnestly to reveal himself, the host could no longer refuse. "Since you wish so earnestly to know, I will tell who I am, without reserve," he answered. "I am no farmer, as you rightly guessed. I am in reality a _samurai_, and my name is Sano Genzaemon Tsuneyo." "Indeed? Are you Sano Genzaemon Tsuneyo? I have heard of you. You are a _samurai_ of high rank, I know. But tell me, how is it that you are now in such reduced circumstances?" "Oh, that is a long story," replied Sano. "It was through the dishonesty of an unworthy relation. He seized my property, little by little, without my knowing it, and one day I found that he had taken everything and that I was left with nothing except this farmhouse and the land on which it stands." "I am sorry for you," said Tokiyori; "but why haven't you brought a lawsuit against your relation? Were you to do that, I am sure you would recover your lost property." "Oh yes, I have thought of that," said the farmer; "but now that Tokiyori, the just Regent, has died, and as Tokimune his successor is very young, I felt that it was useless to present my petition, so that I determined to resign myself to poverty. But though I live and work like a farmer, in heart and soul I am still a _samurai_. Should war break out or even a call to arms be sounded, I shall be the first to go to Kamakura, wearing my armour, dilapidated and torn though it may be, carrying my halberd, rusty as it is, and riding my old horse, emaciated and unpresentable though he is, and I will do glorious deeds once more and die a knight's death. I never for one moment forget my ambition. This alone buoys me up through all my trouble and poverty," he added cheerfully, looking up at his listener with a smile. "Your purpose is a good one, and worthy of a true _samurai_," said the priest, and he smiled and looked at the knight intently. "I prophesy that you will rise in life in the near future, and I feel sure that I shall see you and congratulate you at Kamakura on obtaining your heart's desire." While they were talking, the night had passed and day began to break. The snow had ceased to fall, and as Sano and his guest rose to open the storm-doors, the sun rose bright and shining on a silvered world. The priest went to put on his rain-coat and hat. "Thank you," he said, "for all the kindness and hospitality you have shown me. I will say good-bye. Now that the storm has ceased, I need trespass no longer on your goodness; I will be getting on my way!" "Oh," said the knight, "why need you hurry so? At least stay one more day with us, for you seem to me no longer a stranger but a friend, and I am loth to see you depart." "Thank you," replied the priest, "but I must hurry on. I take my leave, however, with the firm conviction that fate will give us the pleasure of meeting again ere long. Remember my words. Good-bye!" And thus speaking, with several bows the priest turned from the porch and wended his way through the snow. When he had gone the knight remembered that he had forgotten to ask the traveller's name, so he and his wife would probably never know who the sympathetic stranger was. The next spring the Government at Kamakura issued a proclamation calling upon all knights to present themselves in battle-array before the Regent. When Sano Genzaemon heard of this, he thought that some extraordinary event must have taken place. What it was he could not imagine. But he was a knight and must answer the summons promptly. Here might be the chance of proving his knightly prowess, for which he had been waiting so long, hidden away in obscurity and the poverty of his circumstances. The only thing that weighed him down was the thought that he had no money either to buy a new suit of armour or a good horse. No hesitation, however, showed itself in the despatch with which he hastened to Kamakura, clothed only in his suit of shabby armour, a rusty halberd in hand, and riding an old broken-down horse, unattended by any servant. When Sano reached Kamakura, he found the city crowded with warriors who were riding in from all parts of the country. There were thousands of great and eminent _samurai_ clothed from head to foot in beautiful armour, their suits, their helmets, and their swords glittering with ornamentation of silver and gold. It was a goodly sight that the sun shone on that day, framed by the great pine trees against the background of the glimmering sea beyond. The pride of life and race were there, the hauteur of birth and rank, the glory and parade of war, the glinting of helmet and clanking of steel,--every knight's armour was composed of fine metal scales woven and held together by silken threads of ruby, emerald, scarlet, sapphire, and gold. Each knight wore his favourite colour, and as the ranks moved into the sunlight or fell into the shade the whole formed an army of moving splendour, the brilliant and variegated colouring of which was like a river of rich and magnificent brocade. As Sano, clothed in his shabby armour and riding his broken-down horse, rode in amongst the bright phalanx of warriors, how they all jeered and scoffed at him and his horse! But Sano cared little for their scorn, the consciousness that he was a _samurai_ as good as most of them bore him up, and he laughed to himself at their pride and swagger. "These men wear fine armour, it is true," he said to himself, "but they have lost the true _samurai_ spirit; their hearts are corrupt or they would not glory so in appearance; though my armour cannot compare with theirs, yet in loyalty I can never be outdone, even by them, braggers though they be." As these thoughts passed through his mind, Sano saw a herald approaching the gay concourse of knights. He rode a richly caparisoned horse, and he held aloft a banner bearing the house-crest of the Regent. The warriors, their armour and their swords clanging as they moved, parted to the right and left, leaving a road for him to pass. As he rode up their lines he called aloud: "The Regent summons to his presence the knight who wears the shabbiest armour and who rides the most broken-down horse!" When Sano heard these words he thought: "There is no soldier here but myself clothed in old armour. Alas! the Governor will reprimand it me for daring to appear in such a state. It can't be helped; come what will, I obey the summons--such is my duty!" So with a sinking heart Sano, the dilapidated knight, followed the herald to the Governor's house. Here the messenger announced that the knight Sano Genzaemon had come in answer to the proclamation summoning the poorest-clothed knight to the Regent. "I am the poorest knight here, so the required man can be none other than myself," said Sano, as he bowed low to the retainers who came out to receive him at the porch. Sano was then ushered along endless corridors and through spacious rooms. At last the ushering officer knelt on the polished wood outside a large room, and, pushing back the white paper screen, told him to enter. The knight found himself in the presence of the handsome young General Tokimune. On his head he wore a helmet with golden horns and the small plates of his armour were woven together with silken threads of scarlet. The young General bowed to the knight in answer to his prostrations and said: "Are you the knight Sano Genzaemon Tsuneyo?" "Yes, I am he," answered Sano. "Then," answered the young man, "I have to present you to some one!" and he made a sign to an attendant. Upon this the servant pushed open the screens of an inner room, and the Regent Saimyoji Tokiyori, who had been reported dead for a year, was revealed, magnificently dressed in his robes of office. Over his armour he wore a sacerdotal robe of rich brocade, and on his head a white head-dress. Bewildered by all the strange things that were happening to him, and fearful of he knew not what, the knight had kept his face to the ground. He heard the rattle of armour and the swish of heavy silk moving towards him over the mats, and he wondered if it were not all a dream. Then a voice said: "Oh, Sano Genzaemon--is it you? It is long since I saw you! Look up! Don't be afraid! Don't you know me?" The poor knight knew at once that he had heard that voice before, and at last found courage to raise his head and to look at the resplendent figure that addressed him. An exclamation of surprise burst from the lips of Sano, for he recognized in the personage who addressed him the priest whom he had sheltered on the night of the great snowstorm a year agone. "You are surely," said Sano after a pause, "the travelling priest who passed that night of the great snowstorm under my roof last year, are you not?" "Yes, I am that priest, and also I am the Regent Saimyoji Tokiyori." "Oh!" exclaimed Sano, bowing to the ground, "pardon my rudeness to you that night, for I did not know who my august visitor was," and his heart filled with fear at the remembrance of his unceremonious behaviour on that occasion. Then the ex-Regent spoke again, and this time solemnly: "Sir Sano, you have no need to apologize, far from that. Do you remember what you said to me that night when the snowstorm took me to your house? You told me that through unfortunate circumstances you were now obliged to work like a farmer, yet if ever the occasion arose that should sound the call of knights to arms, you would, regardless of your shabby accoutrements, answer the summons and come forth in the spirit of a _samurai_ to do glorious deeds worthy of your sword once more before you died! Herewith I give you back the thirty villages in the district of Sano, of which you were robbed by your unworthy kinsman. And do you think I have forgotten your kind action when you burned your precious trees, the last relics of your prosperous past, to minister to my comfort during that terrible storm? The glow of that fire remains in my heart to this day. By way of expressing my thanks for your hospitality that cold and dreary night, in return for the _Matsu_ [pine tree], I am going to give you the village of _Matsu-ida_, in the province of Kodzuke; in the place of the _Ume_ [plum tree], the village of _Umeda_, in the province of Kaga; and for the _Sakura_ [cherry tree], you shall have _Sakurai_, a village in the province of Etchiu." As the knight listened to these golden words of fortune, which dropped like jewels from the mouth of the beneficent Regent, it seemed to him as if he must be dreaming, it was all so unexpected. He could not speak, for the tears rose to his eyes, and sobs of joy choked his utterance. When at last he looked up, he was alone. He made his way out of the mansion as in a trance, oblivious of all around him. The news of his promotion and of the favour he enjoyed in the estimation of the Regent had already spread outside, and the men who had laughed and jeered at him before now smiled graciously and bowed respectfully as he passed along the ranks. So Sano Genzaemon returned to Kodzuke, not as a poor farmer, but as a lord under the special favour of the Regent, having won the esteem of all his countrymen by his knightly conduct in adversity. All rejoiced that faithfulness, honesty, and kindness had received their just reward, and none more than the good Regent Tokiyori. SHIRAGIKU, OR WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUM On the outskirts of a remote village at the foot of Mount Aso, in Kiushiu, a bell was slowly pealing from a Buddhist temple. It was the season of autumn and the twilight was falling fast. Over the lonely place and the gloom of the deepening dusk of night the solemn music, reverberating across the hills, seemed to toll the transientness of all things earthly. Not far from the temple was a small cottage. At the door stood a young girl anxiously waiting for her father to come home. From time to time she wiped away the tears which fell from her eyes, and her face and attitude expressed great sorrow. She was but fifteen years of age, and as she stood there, a young and slender figure, she looked like a cherry-blossom of spring in the falling rain. She was alone, for her father had gone out to hunt some days before and had never returned, and she had had no tidings whatever of him since. She and her father were all in all to each other; her mother was dead and her elder brother was only a name to her; she could not remember him; he had run away from home when she was a small child, and no one knew what had become of him since. As White Chrysanthemum, her heart full of sorrow and foreboding, watched and waited for her father's return, she started at everything,--at the leaves falling from the trees, at the sighing of the wind in their branches, at the dropping of the water from the bamboo pipe which brought the hill-stream to the house; as these different sounds from time to time caught her ear expectation made her hope that they might be the footsteps of her father coming home. But the hours passed by and still he did not return. As the mists rose and the clouds began to close over the mountain, the loneliness of the scene was deepened by the plaint of insects chirruping in the grass, and by the slow pattering on the broad banana palm leaves of the rain just beginning to fall. At last the dreariness and stillness of approaching night oppressed the girl so much that she could bear it no longer, and she made up her mind to go in search of her father. It was a sad sight to see her as she ran out from the bamboo gate and turned to give a last look at the little home nestling in the shelter of the pine trees. Then resolutely she turned away and set her face towards the mountain path. On her head she wore a large mushroom-shaped rainhat, and with a stick in her hand she began to climb up the rough thorny pass into the depths of the mountains, as they towered range upon range one above the other and were lost in the distance and blackness of night. The rain fell more and more heavily, and as the girl stumbled up the steep pass she had often to wring her sleeves, which were now wet with rain as well as with tears. So absorbed was White Chrysanthemum in the thought of finding her father, whom she had watched climb this very road three mornings before, that she hardly noticed that the storm gave signs of lifting. Suddenly the rain ceased, the clouds cleared, and the moon shone brightly. The change in the weather at last roused the girl to look about her, and she saw that the path now led her downward to the valley. With a sigh of relief she quickened her pace. She had walked for about two hours when she saw at some distance in front of her a single yellow ray of light shining through the gloom. Had she come to a house where she might possibly hear tidings of her father? As this hope dawned upon her, she eagerly hastened towards the light. She soon reached an old Buddhist temple standing in the shadow of a group of pines and cryptomerias. From within came a voice chanting the Buddhist scriptures. Who could it be studying in so remote a place at that hour of the night? Shiragiku entered the gate and in the moonlight which made everything visible saw that the whole place was in a dilapidated condition; the fence was falling in many places, weeds grew all over the garden and between the flagstones, as if no one ever trod the path; even the posts which supported the gate shook in the wind. White Chrysanthemum walked up to the porch and knocked on the heavy wooden door. Not until she had knocked and called several times did she hear any stir within; then some one answered in a subdued voice, the storm-shutters were pushed aside, and a young bonze appeared. He started when his eyes fell upon the girl, and he stared at her silently as if wondering who she could be or what had brought her there at that hour. Shiragiku, seeing his scrutiny, drew near and said in a low sweet voice: "I am looking for my father. He went out hunting some days ago and has never come back. I am indeed sorry to trouble you, but will you be so kind as to tell me if any one has come to this temple either for rest or food within the last two or three days?" The girl spoke so quietly and looked at him so gently that the young bonze was reassured in a moment. Her evident distress appealed to him, and when he looked at her again he saw that she was as beautiful as a flower; her skin was white as snow, her jet-black hair, disordered by the storm through which she had passed, fell like the graceful branches of a willow tree over her shoulders; her large almond eyes were sad and full of tears, and as he gazed upon her it seemed to him that she could not belong to the earth, that she must be a _tennin_--an angel from the Buddhist Heaven. He asked her to enter the temple and said: "Tell me who you are and whence you come, and what brings you out this stormy night. I will listen to your story if you will tell it to me." The wind had risen again and was blowing in gusts round the temple and whistling through the chinks and crannies of the old building, while from the garden came the mournful cries of an owl. The desolation and strangeness of the place touched the girl's sorrow to the quick, and she burst into tears. As soon as she was able to speak, she wiped her eyes and said between her sobs: "I am the daughter of a certain _samurai_ of Kumamoto City. Our house was once rich and prosperous, and our hearts were full of joy; we lived happily, knowing nothing whatever of care or sorrow. When the war[1] broke out all was changed; the grass round our house was stained with blood, and even the wind smelt of blood; families were scattered far and wide from the homes where they were born, and the air was rent with the cries of parents seeking their lost children and of children calling for their parents who could no longer hear them. Pity is no word to express the feeling which filled the heart at these sights. My father likewise went to the war, and my mother then escaped with me as far as Mount Aso. There she found a tiny cottage in the shadow of the temple, and with the money she had managed to bring with her we lived as best we could. As we were afterward told, my father fought with the rebels. When we heard that, we were greatly astonished, and our sleeves were never dry with wiping away our tears. Day by day, morning, noon, and night, we waited, hoping that my father would return--thus the summer passed. Autumn came and the wild geese flew across the sky in flocks toward the south, but there came no news of my father. My mother pined away with grief and anxiety, till at last she died. Thus before we knew whether my father was alive or dead, I was left alone in life. I felt as if I were dreaming in a dream. Whenever I think of that time my heart is pierced with sorrow. My days were passed in weeping at my misfortunes and in bemoaning my unhappy fate. Had it not been for the kindness of neighbours in the village, I should not have been able to live. "Last spring my father came back and found me out. I told him of my mother's death. Since then he has never ceased to grieve. I tried to cheer him by telling him that it was the fate of all mortals to die, but my words brought him little comfort, and in this sad way we passed our time. The other day he went out hunting, and since then has never returned. Again, I was left alone with no one to look to for help. Unable to bear the loneliness any longer, I started out this evening to look for him and have come thus far. Our family name is Honda, my name is Shiragiku, my father's name is Akitoshi, my mother's name was Take, and my elder brother's Akihide. I can hardly remember Akihide, for when I was a small child he ran away, fearing my father's anger because of his bad conduct. But though he left us, my mother and I never forgot him. In the morning when it rained and in the winter evenings when the wind blew chill we longed for him to come again to the shelter of his home, but from that day to this we have heard nothing of him and know not what has become of him. My mother gave me many messages for him, firmly believing that one day we should meet again, and that he would yet fulfil his duty as a son and restore our house to its former prosperity and happiness. In this hope she died." As Shiragiku proceeded with her story the young bonze listened with eager attention. At these words his face changed with sudden emotion, and the tears fell from his eyes. After some moments he said to her: "Poor, poor girl! Your story is a very sad one, and I feel for you in your many troubles. You can go no further to-night; rest here in peace until the dawn!" As he spoke it seemed to Shiragiku that his voice was familiar to her, and though she could not remember having seen him before, yet for some unaccountable reason she felt that he was no stranger. His manner was so kind and gentle and sympathetic as he went and came bringing food for her supper and quilts for her to sleep upon, that memories of her early home and childhood stirred her heart. Her thoughts went out to the runaway brother; if he would only return he would be about the same age as the young bonze, and surely as good as he to any one in distress. Glad was she to have found a place of rest for the night. With many humble prostrations she thanked her host for his hospitality, and apologized for all the trouble she had given him. When he withdrew, bidding her "good-night," she knelt in supplication before the shrine at the end of the room, where Amida Buddha and Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy, reigned in peace above the lotus and the burning of incense. Only through the mercy of the gods could she hope to find her father, only through their help would her long-lost brother ever come back to those who waited for him year after year. For many minutes she knelt on, praying earnestly, then, worn out with grief and fatigue, she rose from her knees and lay down to fall fast asleep. At the hour when the hush of night is deepest, Shiragiku saw her father enter the room and draw near her pillow. The tears stood in his eyes and in a sad voice he said: "Shiragiku, I have fallen over a precipice, and now I am at the bottom of a chasm many hundred feet deep. Here the brambles and bamboo grass grow so thick that I am unable to find my way out of the jungle. I may not live till the morrow, so I came to see you for the last time in this world." As soon as he had finished speaking, White Chrysanthemum stretched out her hands and tried to catch hold of his sleeves to detain him, crying: "Father! father!" But with the sound of her own voice she awoke. She sprang up expecting to see her father, but there was nothing in the room except the night-lantern glimmering faintly. While she was wondering whether the vision were a dream or a reality, the dawn began to break and the beating of a drum throbbed through the temple. White Chrysanthemum rose soon after sunrise, ate the simple breakfast of rice and bean-soup she found slipped into her room, and quickly left the temple. She did not wait to see the kind priest, though he had asked her to do so, saying that he would do what he could to help her; for she had remembered his diffidence the night before, and thought that very likely he belonged to a sect which forbade its priests to converse with the world, and she felt sorry that she had disturbed him. Her dream was so vividly real to her that it seemed as if she heard her father calling to her for help; so making all possible speed she set but once more with the faith and simplicity of childhood to find him. Far off in the woods the bark of a fox could be heard, while along the path the cloudy tufts of the _obana_[2] rustled as she passed. Shiragiku shivered as the cold morning wind pierced through her body. As she pursued her way along the rough mountain pass wild creatures scuttled away, frightened, from before her into the woods, and overhead the birds sang to each other in the trees. At last she reached the top of the pass, to find it covered with clouds, and it seemed to White Chrysanthemum as if they must carry her away with them in their onward sweep. She sat down on a stone to recover her breath, for the climb had been steep. In a few minutes the mists began to clear away. She stood up and looked about her, hoping that she might find some trace of her father, but as far as eye could reach nothing but mountains, range after range, could be seen riding one above the other in the blue sky. Suddenly a noise in the bushes behind her made White Chrysanthemum start, and before she could flee a band of robbers rushed out upon her. They seized and bound her tightly. She cried out for help, but only the echoes answered her. Down the mountain they led her till they reached the valley; for a whole day they hurried her along till they came to a strange-looking house. This was in such a neglected condition that moss covered the walls, and it was so closely shut up that the sunbeams never entered the rooms. As they approached the place, a man who seemed to be the chief of the band came out, and as he caught sight of the maiden, said with an evil smile: "You've brought a good prize this time!" The robbers now untied Shiragiku's hands and led her into the house and then into a room where dinner was prepared, with rice and fish and wine in great quantities. Then they all sat down, and as they began to eat, it seemed to her that they were a lot of demons. The chief passed some food to her and pressed her to eat. The long walk in the bracing air of the autumn day had made Shiragiku so hungry that in spite of her fear and distress she was glad of the food. At last, when she had finished her meal, he turned to her and said: "That you We been caught by my men and brought here must be the work of fate. So now you must look upon me as your husband and serve me all your life. I have a good _koto_ [the Japanese harp] which I keep with great care, and to show your gratitude for this marriage you will have to play before me often and to cheer me with your songs, for I am fond of music. If you refuse to obey me, I will make your life as hard as climbing a mountain of swords or walking through a forest of needles." Shiragiku felt that she would rather die than marry this man, but she could not refuse to play the _koto_ for him. The _koto_ was brought by one of the men at a word of command from the chief and placed before the girl, who began to strike the chords, her tears falling fast the while. She played so well that even those hard-hearted robbers were touched by her music, and one or two of them whispered together that hers was a hard fate and they wished that they could find some means of saving her. Outside the house in the shadow of a large tree stood a young man, watching all that went on and listening to the music. By the voice of the singer as she sang, he knew that the player was she whom he sought. No sooner did the music stop than he rushed into the house and attacked the robbers with great fury. Anger gave strength to his onslaught, and the bandits were so taken by surprise that they were paralyzed with fear and offered no resistance. In a few minutes the chief was killed, while two others lay senseless on the mats, and the rest ran away. Then the young man, who was dressed in the black vestments of a priest, took the trembling girl by the hand and led her to a window, through which the moonlight streamed. As Shiragiku gazed up in gratitude and wonder at her deliverer, she saw that he was none other than the young priest of the temple, who had been so kind to her the night before. "Don't be afraid!" he said quietly and soothingly; "don't be afraid! I am no stranger, I am your brother Akihide. Now I will tell you my story, so listen to me. You cannot remember me, for you were only a little child of three when my bad conduct roused my father's anger and I ran away from home and started for the capital. I embarked on a small vessel and after sailing along for several days I reached Waka-no-ura, passing the island of Awaji on the way. From Waka-no-ura I proceeded on foot. It was the close of spring and the cherry-blossoms were falling, and the ground was covered with the pink snow of their petals; but there was nothing of the joy of spring in my heart, which was heavy at the thought of my parents' displeasure and the fearful step I had just taken. As soon as I reached the capital, I put myself under the charge of a priest and went through a severe course of study, for I had already repented of my idle ways and longed to do better. Under my good master's guidance I learned the way of virtue. My heart was softened by knowledge, and when I remembered the love of my parents, I regretted my evil past and never did the sun go down but I wept in secret over it. So the years went by. At last the pain of homesickness became so great that I determined to return home and beg my parents' forgiveness. I hoped and planned to devote myself to them in their old age and to make amends in the future for the shortcomings of the past. But insurmountable difficulties beset me in my new-formed purpose. War had broken out, and the face of the country was entirely changed. Cities were turned into wildernesses, weeds grew tall and thick all over the roads, and when I reached our province it was impossible to find either the old home or any one who could give me the slightest clue as to the whereabouts of you all. Life became a burden to me. You may imagine something of what I felt, but my tongue fails to describe my misery. I was desolate with no one belonging to me, so I resolved to forsake the world and become a priest, and after wandering about I took up my abode in that old temple where you found me. But even the religious life could not still my remorse. I was haunted by the fear of what had become of my father and mother and sister. Were they alive or were they dead? Should I ever see them again? These were the questions which tormented me ceaselessly. Morning and evening I prayed before the shrine in the room where you slept last night--prayed that I might have news of you all. Great is the mercy of Buddha! Imagine the mingled joy and sorrow I felt when you came yesterday and told me of all that had happened since I left home. I was about to make myself known to you, but I was too ashamed to do so. It was, however, harder for me to conceal my secret than it would have been to tell it, for I longed to do so with my whole heart and soul. In the morning when I came to the room and found you gone, I followed after you in fear lest you should fall into the hands of the bandits who haunt these hills and thus it was that I saved you. You can never know how glad I am to have done this for you, but alas! I am ashamed to meet my father because of the remembrance of the past! Had I done my duty as a son, had I never run away wickedly from home, how much suffering I might have saved my mother and you, poor Shiragiku! Terrible indeed is my sin!" And with these words the young man drew out a short sword and was about to take his own life. When Shiragiku saw what he was going to do, she gave a loud cry, and springing to his side seized his hands with all her strength, and stopped him from doing the dread deed. With tender sisterly words she tried to comfort him, telling him that she knew his father had forgiven him, and was living in the daily hope of his return--that the happiness and solace he could now give him in his old age would more than atone for the past; she begged him to remember his mother's dying prayer that he would establish their house and keep up the ancestral rites before the family shrine when his parents were dead. As she spoke, he desisted from his desperate purpose. The peace of night and the stillness of the moonlit world around them brought balm to both their troubled hearts, and as they bade each other good-night the silence was unbroken save for the cry of the wild geese as they flew across the sky. In the early morning the brother and sister left the house, hand in hand. They had not gone far when they heard pursuing footsteps, and looking back they saw two or three of the men who had escaped the night before coming after them. Akihide bade his sister run for her life, while he stayed behind and engaged the robbers in a fight and so gave her time to escape. Shiragiku did as she was told and fled through the woods under cover of the trees. On and on she went, till at last she reached a place of safety out of sight. But her heart, beating wildly with fear, was behind with her brother, wondering what had happened to him, whether he had vanquished the bandits or had been killed by them. Who can describe her anxiety? She had found her brother only to lose him in this sad and uncertain way. Afraid to retrace her steps, yet anxious to know what had become of him, she climbed to the nearest hill-top to try if she could see anything of him, but around her there was nothing but hills and pine woods. As she looked about her, she saw near by a little shrine, and, overcome with the terror of all that had befallen her within the last two days, she made her way towards it with trembling steps, and kneeling down offered up a fervent prayer for help and for her brother's and father's safety. An old man who was cutting down trees in the forest saw her weeping there, and his heart filled with pity for the young girl. He drew near and asked her to tell him what was the matter. On hearing her sad story he led her to his home, saying that he would take care of her. It was a quiet mountain place in the woods. The ground was covered with pine needles, the chrysanthemums round the humble cottage were fading, and the bell-insects were feebly tinkling in the grass, for the last days of autumn were passing. Here in this retired spot Shiragiku lived in peace. The old wood-cutter and his wife, having no children of their own, loved her as a daughter, for such she seemed to them, so amiable, patient, and helpful in all her ways was she, and they told her that they hoped she would remain with them to the end of their days. Shiragiku did her utmost to show her gratitude to the old couple for their kindness to her, but she never ceased to think of her father and brother and to look forward to the time when they would once more be a united family. In spite of all discouragements she cherished this hope. Now and again she implored the old man to let her go and look for them; but he would not permit this, saying that it was not safe for an unprotected girl to roam the hills, that if she did so she would be sure to fall into the hands of robbers again, and that it was far wiser for her to wait till her father and brother found her than for her to seek them, not knowing where they were. Her reverence for old age made her obey him, and she waited in patience, hoping each day she rose that her father and brother would find her before the evening came. During these quiet years she grew in beauty day by day and passed from girlhood into the bloom of early womanhood. The poor cotton robe--all that the wood-cutter could give her-in no wise hid her loveliness. She was like a fine chrysanthemum shining among the wild flowers of the plain. She was soon the acknowledged beauty of the place, and one spring the village chief sought her in marriage. The wood-cutter, out of respect to the suitor's position, at once gave his consent. When, however, the old man told Shiragiku of what he planned for her, her dismay was great. She begged him with tears to make excuses for her; she told him that she could not think of marriage till she had found her father. But he would not listen, saying that it was the best thing for her now to be settled in life. That night the girl covered her face with her sleeves and wept long and bitterly when she lay down to rest. "How can I obey the old man?" she sobbed to herself. "No, never-never! I remember now more vividly than ever what my mother told me when she was dying. 'You are not my own child, Shiragiku,' she said; 'one day many years ago I was returning from a visit to a temple. When passing through a field, I found a little baby crying in the midst of some white chrysanthemums. Who can have been so wicked as to forsake such a lovely child? I said to myself; there must be some reason for this! I carried the little one home and brought her up as my own child. You are that child. Praying for blessings on you, I named you _Shira-Giku_, because I found you in a bed of white chrysanthemums. There is also something else I must tell you before I die. There is some one in the world to whom you must look as your brother and husband; he is none other than our son, who ran away rather than meet the anger of his father. We have never heard of him since he left, but if he is still living I am sure he will come back to his family. Your father and I--your adopted parents--have always destined you for him; it is my last behest that you should refuse all other men and wait to marry our son, for come back I am sure he will one day; then live a happy life together in the old home, praying for our souls when we have left this world.' My mother's words are still in my ears. I hear them more clearly than ever," she sobbed to herself. "I owe her my life; how can I disobey her bidding? And yet how can I refuse to do as the old wood-cutter asks, for he has been as a parent to me these last three years? What shall I do? Oh! what shall I do?" Day by day the old man pressed her to accept the suitor and day by day in great perplexity she put him off. At last, seeing no way of escape from being unfilial to the memory of her mother and from fulfilling the old man's wish, she made up her mind to die and put an end to the struggle. At this time the _nakodo_ (go-between) of the marriage came and presented her with a roll of brocade for the _obi_ (wide sash) and of damask silk for the _kimono_, the betrothal gift of the bridegroom. The old man and his wife rejoiced at what they considered her good fortune and regarded the matter as settled, and the neighbours came to congratulate them and to catch a glimpse of the chosen bride of their chief. Shiragiku, however, had made up her mind. That night during a rainstorm she stole out from the wood-cutter's cottage. She looked back wistfully many times at the place which had fed and sheltered her for so long; but she told herself that there was no other way than this, for she must hold as sacred law her mother's last behest. In the despair of the last few weeks, when this unexpected marriage was being forced upon her, she had lost the hope of finding her father and brother again; but she would die rather than marry a stranger against her foster mother's dying wish. The night was dark, for the sky was clouded. Down the empty street of the village Shiragiku hurried with the tightly closed thatch-roofed cottages on either side. Out across the silent stretches of rice-fields she ran till she reached the blackness of a pine wood, seeking for some spot where she could die. The roar of water at last reached her ears, and she knew that she had come to a river. The moaning of the wind in the pine trees sounded to her like the voices of pursuers. She stopped to look around, but there was no one to be seen. The path leading down to the river grew rougher and darker as she entered the shadow of the trees, but Shiragiku never faltered in her determination to reach its bank. At last the water glimmered like a wide white ribbon in the gloom of night. "I will now die," said Shiragiku, weeping; "but alas! how sad my father and brother will be when they hear of my death. Forgive me," she cried aloud, "oh, my father, oh, elder brother, that I die first. I will await your coming beside my mother in Heaven." Shiragiku now reached the edge of the bank and was about to dash down into the river with a prayer to Buddha on her lips when she found herself caught from behind and a familiar voice said to her: "Wait a moment! Tell me who you are and why you seek to take your life." It was her brother Akihide. She gazed up at him in the dim light of the moon just coming forth from the clouds. They both clasped each other by the arms and burst into tears. "Little sister!" "Elder brother!" cried the sister and brother both together in that shock of simultaneous recognition. In the speechless moments which followed they heard the sound of a flute from the village near by break the silence of the night--they watched the rain cease and the stars shine out one by one. Akihide led Shiragiku to a large stone; here they sat down and told each other all that had happened since they last parted. [Illustration: SHIRAGIKU WAS ABOUT TO DASH DOWN INTO THE RIVER] While they were talking the day broke; together they watched the sun rise in splendour and glisten and glow in thousands of rain-drops on the trees and grass around them. "Let us go and tell the kind old wood-cutter and his wife all that has happened," said White Chrysanthemum, smiling through her tears; "I must bid him farewell and we must thank him, for indeed I owe him my life." They walked to the village and went at once to the old man and told him their story. Shiragiku begged him to forgive her for not doing as he wished. Then Akihide told him that it had been his mother's dying wish that he should marry White Chrysanthemum and keep up the family name. With tears the brother and sister thanked the old couple for their ever-to-be-remembered kindness to White Chrysanthemum in her distress. They promised to come and see them whenever they could and to let them know all that happened to them in the future, a promise which they faithfully kept. They at last took leave with many gentle words on both sides. Then Akihide and Shiragiku began a happy journey homewards, walking over the hills by day, and passing the night at some farmhouse or cottage they came to on their way. When the brother and foster sister reached the little house in the valley at the foot of Mount Aso, it was early in the month of May; the cuckoos were singing, and the air was fragrant with the scent of orange-blossoms. In spite of the years of desertion and neglect, the tiny home still stood safe and firm as when Shiragiku had left it, though the grass had grown tall and thick in the garden and moss covered the roof. The sun was shining brightly over all, and the balm and gladness of the spring morning rested on their young souls. For a moment White Chrysanthemum paused at the bamboo gate and said: "This is our home, elder brother!" Then quickly they ran down the garden, quickly they pushed back the paper screen of the entrance and entered. Were they waking or were they dreaming? Who should they see coming forward to meet them but their father, whom they had almost given up as dead. For a moment they were all silent. It seemed as if their hearts must burst with inexpressible joy. "Father! Father!" cried Akihide and Shiragiku together, "is it really you? Are you safe and well?" "Children, my children!" cried the astonished father, "have I found you at last?" Then Akihide knelt before his father, and with his face bowed to the ground, confessed everything, and begged his father's forgiveness for the past. He told him all--how bitterly he had repented his behaviour, how hard he had tried to make a new life for himself, how long he had searched for his parents in vain, his one wish being to make amends, how wonderfully he had met Shiragiku when he had at last despaired of ever finding any one of his family again, of all that had happened since her coming to the temple. The father listened gravely to the long sad story; then with gentle words he forgave his son; he bade him to cease all self-reproach, and as he spoke the kind words his eyes grew dark with unshed tears. When Shiragiku told her story he commended her filial piety, her courage, and her patience. Now that they had as by a miracle of the gods found each other again, nothing should ever separate them. Thus the little family found again the vanished happiness of other years. Shiragiku now busied herself preparing the evening meal, and as she filled her father's and her brother's wine-cup the father told them all that had happened to him. "When I went out hunting three years ago, I fell over a precipice, and found myself at the bottom of a chasm a hundred or more feet deep. I was quite unable to get out, so I lived on wild fruits and stream water for many days. "One morning I chanced to see a band of monkeys climbing the chasm by means of a large wistaria-vine which formed a bridge from side to side. I followed their example and soon found myself free on the hillside once more. I returned here with all haste, only to find that Shiragiku had disappeared. Imagine my distress. I inquired of every one in the village, but no one had seen her go away, and there was no one who could tell me anything about her. There was but one thing left for me to do and that was to try and find her. So I set out walking through province after province, looking for her, but all in vain. At last I gave up my quest as hopeless and returned here only yesterday." The joy of the little family was great beyond all words. This unexpected meeting--the utmost desire of their souls--was a happiness which took away their breath and left them silent with wonder and thankfulness. Only one thing saddened them--that the good mother, who had died of grief and anxiety, could not be present to share in this joyous reunion, and to know that her prayer was answered and that the long-lost son had returned to his family. But she was not forgotten--they spoke of her and missed her. Shiragiku rose and opened the little shrine standing in a closed recess at the end of the room, and taking some sticks of incense set them burning before the name-tablet set up in memory of her mother; for though Shiragiku now knew that she was not really her own mother, yet she always thought of her as such, for she had known no other. Father and son and adopted daughter then knelt and with hands clasped and bowed heads prayed before the little altar. Shiragiku now fetched and tuned her _koto_ (harp) and sang the songs she knew her father liked to hear. This done, she accompanied her brother, while he paced through some stately measures of the classic dance. The father, calling Akihide and Shiragiku to his side, told them that he wished them to marry, as his wife had always planned. He was now an old man, he said, and could not expect to live much longer, and before his death it was his ardent wish to see his house established. He then named an early date for the wedding. Akihide, having only entered upon a religious novitiate, was able to obey his father without breaking any vows. He bowed his willingness and Shiragiku blushed happily. She was content in fulfilling her good foster mother's last behest. Now the sun set, a crane cried on the hill at the back of the house, and the stars came out one by one in the soft and darkening turquoise of a May twilight, and peace and joy reigned in the home and the hearts of the three wanderers. [1] The war of the Restoration. [2] An autumn grass (Miscanthus sinensis). THE PRINCESS OF THE BOWL Long, long ago, in old Japan, there lived near Katano, in the Kawachi Province, a prince named Bitchu-no-Kami Minetaka or Lord Minetaka, as we should say in English. He was not only a very wealthy man, but it was reported that his house was full of rare and wonderful treasures. He was also a learned man and the master of many accomplishments. His life was passed in the luxurious leisure of the rich, and he knew nothing of care or want--perhaps he hardly realized what such words meant. But above all the treasures in his storehouse, beyond the wealth of his revenue which came pouring in year by year in bushels of rice, he prized his only child, his daughter. The prince and his wife brought this daughter up with great love and tenderness as if she were some rare flower or fragile butterfly. So beautiful indeed was the young girl that in looking at her their friends and relations wondered whether the Sun Goddess Amaterasu had not come to earth again in the form of the little Princess. Nothing came to mar the happiness of this united little family till the daughter was fifteen years of age. Then suddenly the mother, who had never known a day's illness in her whole life, was taken ill. At first it seemed to be but a slight cold, but her health, instead of getting better, only grew worse and worse. She felt that she would never recover and that her end was very near, so she called her daughter beside her pillow, and, taking a large lacquer bowl from the bedside, she placed it on her daughter's head, saying: "My poor little child, I want you always to wear this bowl. At your innocent age you can understand nothing of the world in which I must leave you motherless. I pity you with all my heart; ah! if you were at least seventeen or eighteen years old I could die with more peace of mind. I am indeed loath to go, leaving you behind so young. Try to be a good daughter and never forget your mother." The woman's tears fell fast as she spoke, and her voice was broken with sobs while she stroked her little girl's hand. But things are not as one wishes in this life. All the doctor's skill could not save the mother; she died and left her daughter behind motherless in the world. Words cannot tell the grief of the bereaved father and child, it was so great. At last, after some time had passed and the ordinary routine of life in Prince Minetaka's household was resumed, the father noticed the bowl which his daughter wore on her head and which fell so low as completely to hide her face; and calling her to him tried to take off the unsightly head gear. But his efforts were in vain. All the retainers and then the servants were summoned to see what they could do, but no one could remove the bowl; it stuck fast to the child's head. No one could understand the mystery. The bowl had been put on most simply; why could it not be as easily taken off? This was the question which the whole household asked again and again. And the young Princess, besides sorrowing for the loss of her mother, was greatly troubled at the knowledge that, though born physically perfect, she was now quite disfigured for life in having to wear the ugly bowl which her mother for some unknown reason had placed on her head. If no one succeeded in taking the bowl off, she might have to wear it her whole life. That would indeed be a terrible affliction. But in spite of all she never forgot her mother even for a moment, but carried in her heart the memory of her love and care through every hour of the livelong day. Every morning, as soon as she rose from her bed on the mats, she placed the little cup of tea and the bowl of rice before the tablet bearing her mother's name in the household shrine, and having set the incense burning she would kneel and pray for the happiness of her mother's soul. The days passed into weeks, the weeks grew into months, yet the dutiful daughter never failed morning or evening thus to pray for her lost mother. In the mean time the family relations often came to advise her father, Prince Minetaka, to marry again. "It is not good for you to be alone," they said. "Marry a suitable woman and entrust her with the keeping of your house and the care of your young daughter, who is now of an age when she most needs a woman's care." At first Prince Minetaka would not listen to them, the memory of his dead wife was too fresh and his sorrow too keen for him to be able to lend a willing ear to their persuasion. He felt that it was a reproach to her he had loved even to think of putting another woman in her place. But as the months went by he found himself much tried with the affairs of the household, and was often so perplexed that he thought perhaps it might be better to listen to the advice of his meddling relations. So without thinking much about the future he decided to take a second wife. His friends were glad to find that their persuasions were of avail at last, and with the help of go-betweens they arranged that he should marry a certain lady of noble family whom they deemed worthy and suitable in all respects. So the soothsayers were consulted and a lucky day chosen for the marriage, and the new wife was then installed in Prince Minetaka's home amidst the congratulations of both families. The little Princess alone was sorrowful in her inmost heart at seeing some one take her mother's place; but it would be unfilial to her father to show that for one instant she did not approve of his second marriage, so she hid her unhappiness and smiled. On seeing the little Princess for the first time, the stepmother was shocked at the deformity of the bowl, and said to herself that never had she even dreamed that there could be any one in the world doomed to be such an ugly cripple. She not only despised but hated her stepchild from the moment that she saw her. This new wife was indeed a very different woman from her predecessor, whose heart was so good and kind towards all who came near her that the idea of disliking, much less hating any one was impossible to her. A year passed by and the stepmother gave birth to a child. Jealousy for her own infant daughter now made her hate her stepchild more and more. It was her great desire to see her own daughter first in Prince Minetaka's affection, and in order to attain her utterly selfish end she knew she must oust her stepchild from the house. To begin with, she determined to estrange the father from the little Princess by telling him unfavourable stories of her behaviour and her character. It is needless to say that she invented these stories. The Bowl-Wearing Princess soon understood that her stepmother hated her. Her grief and anxiety seemed to her more than she could bear. There was no one in the house in whom she could confide, and she knew that to complain of her stepmother to any one, even to her father, would be undutiful. What was she to do in her trouble? To whom could she go but to her own mother? So as often as she could she went to her grave. Here she would kneel and pour out the woe that filled her heart. "O mother, why must I live on in the world with this ugly bowl on my head? My stepmother truly has a reason for hating such a child about the house. Now that she has a daughter of her own, all the more must she want to get rid of me! And my father, who used to love me so much, he too will surely soon give all his love to his new daughter and forget me! Alas! Alas! the only place that is left to me to come to without fear of dislike is the side of my own dead mother. O mother, sitting upon the lotus leaves in Paradise, receive me now upon the same leaf. Oh! that I might thus escape the sorrow of this world and enter upon the way of Buddha!" But the Boundary of Life and Death separated the mother and child, and though she prayed earnestly and with tears, lifting her whole heart and soul up in her despair, no answer came to her eagerly listening ear. As she knelt in the little graveyard only the sound of the wind sighing in the pine trees answered her. But the thought that she had told her mother everything comforted her as she returned home. The stepmother was told of her stepdaughter's frequent visits to the graveyard, and instead of being touched with pity for the motherless girl, she made use of the occasion still further to slander the child to her husband. "I am told that the Bowl-Wearer, your daughter, goes to her mother's grave and curses me and my child because of her jealousy! What do you think of that? Hasn't she a wicked heart?" Day by day she watched the little girl wend her way from the house to the graveyard and day by day she repeated in her husband's ear her pretended fears. In her heart she knew quite well that it was only love and unhappiness that sent her unfortunate stepchild to the grave of her mother. At last she said that she was afraid of the evil that might befall her and her child through the Bowl-Wearer's malice; she had decided that they could no longer live together in the same house. The father, who had hitherto never listened much to his wife's tales, was at last persuaded by her importunity into believing them true. So in an evil hour he summoned his daughter and said: "What is this I hear, wicked daughter? Your deformity has long since been a source of irritation to me, but as long as you behaved well, I put up with it. Now I am told that you go every day to the grave of your mother to curse my wife and her innocent little child. It is impossible for me to keep under my roof any one who is so crippled not only in body but in mind as you are. Go wherever you will from to-day, but longer in this house you shall not stay!" While the father was speaking these terrible words the stepmother sat behind him, smiling in derision at the poor little Princess and in triumph at the success of her wicked stratagem. "Woe to the Bowl-Wearing Princess!" The servants, at the command of her father, took off her silken robes and put on her a miserable common cotton gown, such as beggars wear, and drove her out into the road. The Princess was altogether bewildered at the suddenness of her misfortune. She felt like a wanderer in an unknown land, lost in the darkness of night. So distracted was she at first that she could only stand still in the middle of the street, not knowing which way to turn. But people, passing by, stared at her so that she soon realized that she must not stand like that all day, so she began to move whither her feet led her. In this way she came to the bank of a large river. As she stood and looked at the flowing water, she could not help thinking that it would be far better for her to become the dust of the river-bed than endure the hardships of her present lot. Would it not be better to die and so join her mother than wander about like a beggar from place to place begging her rice? With this thought she made up her mind to drown herself. But the roar of the river was so great as it dashed over the boulders of its rocky bed that the maiden hesitated at first. Then, summoning up all her courage with a desperate effort, she jumped in. Strange to say, however, the bowl, which had hitherto been such a curse to her, was now a blessing. It lifted her head clear above the water and would not let her sink. As she floated down the stream a fishing-boat came by. The fisherman, seeing a big bowl rising out of the water, lifted it up. His surprise was great when underneath the bowl he found a human being. Thinking it to be some strange monster, he threw it upon the bank. The poor girl was at first stunned by her fall. When she came to herself, she said that it was a pity she could not die as she had wished. She got up from the ground and, in a miserable plight, for her clothes were dripping with water, began to walk on, and after some time she found herself in the streets of a town. Here the people, as soon as they saw her, began to point the finger of scorn at her, and to jeer and laugh at the strange-looking bowl on her head. "Oh! oh! do you see this queer creature with the bowl coming down from the mountains? Look! Look!" Then as some of them came nearer they said: "It is strange that a monster should have such beautiful hands and feet. What a pity this creature was not born a woman!" Just then the lord of the district passed by on his way home from the hunt. Seeing the gathering of people, he stopped and inquired what was the matter. His retainers pointed out the Bowl-Wearer to him. From the grace of her slender form, and the modesty of her bearing, Lord Yamakage judged her to be a young woman, though he could not of course see her face, which was completely hidden by the bowl. He ordered the Bowl-Wearer to be brought to him. Two or three of his retainers went to execute his orders, and came back bringing the poor unhappy Princess with them. "Tell me the truth," said Lord Yamakage to the girl; "who or what are you?" "I am the daughter of one Minetaka by name, and my home is near Katano. My mother, when dying, placed this bowl on my head, and since her death it has become so firmly fixed there that no one can take it off, and I am obliged to wear it always, as you see me now. Because of the unsightliness of my appearance I have been driven away from my home. No one takes pity on me, and I am forced to wander from place to place without knowing where to lay my head at night." "Well, well!" said the kind man. "Your story is truly a pitiful one. I will take the bowl off for you!" When he had said these words, Lord Yamakage ordered his retainers to pull off the bowl from the girl's head. The men, one and all, tried to free the Princess from the obnoxious bowl, but it stuck so obstinately to her head that all their efforts were useless. It even uttered loud cries and groans of pain as they tugged at it. Every one was dumbfounded at the inexplicable mystery, and at last they all began to laugh. When Lord Yamakage saw that there was nothing to be done to help her, he spoke to the Bowl-Wearer again. "Where are you going to spend to-night?" "I am quite homeless," answered the Bowl-Wearer, in a heartbroken way, "and I do not know where I shall lay my head to-night. There is no one in the wide world to take pity on me, and every one who sees me either jeers or runs away because of the bowl on my head." Lord Yamakage felt his heart fill with pity and said: "It may bring luck to have such a strange creature in my house!" Then he turned to the girl and said: "How would you like to come home with me for the present, Bowl-Wearer?" And with these words he gave her in charge of his attendants, who took her with them to their lord's house. It was an easy matter to take her to the house, but not so easy to find her a place there. His wife objected to her becoming a waiting-maid, saying that no one could bear the sight of so strange a creature about. So the servants at last took her to the bath-room, and told her that she must fetch and carry the water and look after the fire for heating the bath. This was to be her work! As the little Princess had never done such rough work in the whole of her life, she suffered much in obeying these cruel orders; but she resigned herself to her fate and tried with all humility and patience to perform her hard task faultlessly. But her lot was far from being a happy one, even though she had found the safe shelter of Lord Yamakage's home. The young and uncouth tradesmen, coming on errands to the house, made fun of her, some even trying to peep under the bowl to get a glimpse of the beautiful face beneath. While she was thus persecuted in the daytime, in the evening the servants gave her no rest with their peremptory orders. "Hot water here!" "Cold water there!" "Get the bath ready!" and so on. The poor girl bore all this rude usage patiently; but as she went about her work she could not help remembering the old times of her happy childhood, spent under the loving care of her own dear mother, of the honoured place she had held in her father's household till within the last few days; and as she carried the hot water or stoked the bath-fire she pretended that those fast-falling tears of sadness were caused by the fumes of charcoal and the steam which rose from the hot water. When she crept weeping to bed at night it seemed to her as if the past day must be an evil dream. Lord Yamakage had four sons. The three elder ones were married to daughters of three of the leading men of the province. The youngest son, Saisho, was still unmarried. He had been away for some time in the gay smart capital of Kyoto. But now he returned to his home. Now every time he went to take his bath or called for hot water, he saw the Bowl-Wearing maiden, and, as he had a kind and compassionate heart, he could not but be touched by her unhappy appearance, and her modest and gentle behaviour and her quickness and diligence at her work. Whenever he had an opportunity he spoke to the Bowl-Wearer, and to his surprise he found that she was no servant, that she spoke in the refined language of his class, and though so young she was well read in the literature and poetry of her country, and could answer a literary allusion wittily and to the point. When at last she told him something of her sad story, he knew, though she did not tell him, that she belonged to some family of high rank. From this time on he often spoke to the girl, and he found that the stolen conversations with her grew to be the chief pleasure of the day. One day he managed to take a sly peep under the bowl. The face, even though overshadowed by the huge cover, was of such rare beauty that he fell madly in love with the Princess, and made up his mind that none other than the Bowl-Wearer should be his wife. His mother soon heard of Saisho's friendship for her husband's protege, and when she learned that he had promised to marry her she forbade him to think of such a thing. She at first thought that her son could not be in earnest, but when she sent for Saisho and asked him seriously if what she had been told was true, he answered: "I really and truly intend to make the Bowl-Wearer my wife!" His mother was not a little angry at his determined front. How could Saisho fall in love with a girl with a bowl on her head? Who ever heard of such ridiculous nonsense? Then she sent for her son's nurse, the woman who had nursed him from the day he was born, and together they tried to deter him from his purpose. Saisho was obliged to listen to all they had to say, but did not answer them. He could not say "Yes" to their demand that he should give up all idea of marrying the Bowl-Wearer, and he knew that if he firmly said "No" he would raise up such a storm of opposition that no one could tell how it would end. He knew that the life of the Bowl-Wearer was a truly pitiable one, and his determination to marry her and help her out of all her difficulties remained unchanged. His mother soon saw that her son would by no means listen to her persuasions, and her anger was great towards the Bowl-Wearer. She almost made up her mind to drive her from the house before her husband could know what happened. Saisho, on hearing this, told her that if the girl was driven away he would go with her. The mother's distraction can be imagined, for she was thwarted in every way. She at last said that the Bowl-Wearer was a wicked witch who had thrown her spells over Saisho and would not leave him till she had compassed his death. She determined if possible to separate them by fair means or foul. For a long time she pondered over the matter, and at last hit upon a stratagem which she trusted would rid the house of the presence of the obnoxious girl. Her plan she called "The Comparison of the Brides." She would hold in the house a family council of all the relations, and assemble the wives of her three elder sons, and before the whole gathering compare them with the Bowl-Wearer whom Saisho had elected to marry. If the Bowl-Wearer had any self-respect she would be too conscious of her deformity and her poverty, and too ashamed to make an appearance,--would leave the house to escape from the ordeal. What an excellent plan! Why had she never thought of this before? So the mother sent messengers post-haste to all the family and relations, requesting their presence at a "Bride Comparing Ceremony" and a feast which would close the ceremony. When Saisho heard of this he was greatly troubled, for he knew what it meant. His mother meant to drive the girl he loved from the house by comparing her with his brothers' rich and pretty wives. What was to be done? How could he help the poor Bowl-Wearer? The little Princess saw how unhappy he was, and blamed herself, she was so sorry for him. "It is all because of me that this trouble has come to you. Instead of happiness I have only brought you worry. Woe is me! It is better that I go away at once," said the girl. Saisho told her at once that he would never let her go alone; that if she went he would go with her. At last the day fixed for the ceremony of the "Comparison of the Brides" came round. Saisho and the unhappy little Bowl-Wearer rose before the dawn, and taking each other by the hand left the house together. Notwithstanding his love for the Bowl-Wearer and his resolve to marry her at whatever cost, Saisho was very sad at the thought of leaving his parents in this way. He told himself that they would never forgive his obstinacy and probably would refuse to see him again, so this parting was probably forever. He felt at each step as if his heart was torn backwards. With slow steps he and the Bowl-Wearer, hand in hand, wended their way down the garden. No sooner, however, did they put their feet outside the gate than the bowl on the girl's head burst with a loud noise and fell in a thousand pieces upon the ground. What untold joy for both of them! Saisho, too astonished to speak, looked for the first time full on the girl's face. The beauty of the damsel was so dazzling that he could compare it only to the glory of the full moon as it rides triumphantly above the clouds on the fifteenth night of September. Her figure, too, now that the dwarfing bowl had gone, was more graceful than anything he had ever seen. The young lovers, too happy for words at this unexpected deliverance, could do nothing but gaze at each other. The mother's purpose in covering her daughter's head with the hideous bowl was at last made clear. Fearing that her daughter's beauty would prove to be a peril to her, with no mother to watch over her, she had hidden it thus, and the intensity of her wish had assumed supernatural power, so that all attempts to remove it were useless till the moment came when it was no longer needed; then it broke off of its own accord. At last the lovers stooped to pick up the pieces of the bowl, when to their amazement they found the ground strewn with treasures and all that a bride could possibly need for her portion. There were many gold _kanzashi_ (ornamental pins for the hair), silver wine-cups, many precious stones and gold coins, and a wedding-garment of twelve folded _kimono_, and a _hakama_ of brilliant scarlet brocade. "Oh, surely," said the Princess, "these treasures must be what my mother prepared for my marriage portion. Indeed a mother's tender love is above everything!" She wept with mingled feelings of joy and pain,--pain of the remembrance of her mother and joy at her present unlooked-for deliverance and the certainty of future happiness. Saisho told her that there was now no need for her to leave the house. She was not only a richly dowered bride, but now that her face was no longer hidden by the hideous bowl, so beautiful that even a king would be proud to wed her. She need no longer fear to be present at the coming ceremony and feast. So they both turned back, and hastened to prepare for the trial which awaited the Bowl-Wearer, but Bowl-Wearer now no longer. As soon as day broke, the house was full of movement, servants hurrying to and fro to usher in and wait upon the relations, who now began to arrive. The murmur of their chattering was like the sound of breaking waves on a distant shore, and the object of all this talk was nothing else than the poor little Princess. The servants told every one that she was in her room getting ready for the approaching feast, and they all thought it strange that she had not fled away for shame. Little did they dream of all that had happened to her! At last the hour of the "Bride Comparing Ceremony" arrived. The family and the relations all took their places at the upper end of the big guest-hall of thirty mats. First entered the bride of the eldest son. She was only twenty-two years of age, and as it was the season of autumn, she wore a brightly coloured kimono and walked into the room in a stately fashion, with her scarlet hakama trailing over the cream mats behind her. Her costume was indeed beautiful to behold! To her parents-in-law she brought gifts of ten rolls of rich silk and two suits of the ceremonial gown called _kosode_ (each _kosode_ consisting of twelve long _kimono_ folded one over the other), all of which she placed on a fine lacquer tray to present them. Next came the bride of the second son. She was twenty years of age, and was of the aristocratic type of beauty, thin and slender, with a long pale oval face. She wore a heavy silk robe, and over this a flowing gown of gold brocade. Her _hakama_ was embroidered profusely with crimson plum-blossoms. She came into the room quietly, with a gentle bearing, and offered as her gifts of presentation thirty suits of silk robes to her husband's parents. Then came the bride of the third son. She was only eighteen years of age. Quite different from the first two proud beauties, she was very pretty and dainty, and though small had more sweetness and charm in her manner than her sisters. Her dress was of rich silk embroidered with cherry-blossoms. She presented thirty pieces of rare and handsome crape to her parents-in-law. The three sat side by side in their conscious pride and prosperity, their beauty enhanced by the sheen and splendour of their silken gowns. As the father and mother, uncles and aunts and relations, all gazed upon them, no one could say who deserved the palm of superiority, for they were all lovely. At the lower end of the room, far away from every one else, was placed a torn mat. It was the seat destined for the Bowl-Wearer. "We have seen the three elder brides of the house, and they are all so handsome and so beautifully robed that we are sure there are no women to compare with them in the whole province," said the relations. "Now it is the turn of the Bowl-Wearer, who aspires to marry the youngest son of the house. When she comes in with that ridiculous bowl on her head, let us greet her with a burst of laughter!" The roomful of people eagerly waited for the Bowl-Wearer to come, even as the birds sitting on the eaves of a house long for the morning. The three brides were also curious to see the cripple girl of whom they had heard so much. How dared such a creature aspire to become their sister? they haughtily asked each other. But the mother felt differently. She in no wise wished to see the girl appear, for she had arranged this day's ceremony, hoping that the Bowl-Wearer, knowing herself to be a deformed beggar-maid, would be too ashamed to appear before such a grand company and would flee away rather than face the trial. On asking the servants, however, she was told that she was still in the house, and she wondered what the girl could be doing, and almost regretted what she had done. Lord Yamakage and his wife at last grew impatient and sent word to the Bowl-Wearer that she was to hasten, as every one was waiting for her. The servants went to the back of the house where the Bowl-Wearer had her little room of three mats, and gave her the message. "I am coming now," she answered from within the paper screens. The Princess now came out and entered the room of the "Bride Comparing Ceremony," where every one was waiting for her. She was only sixteen years of age, but so beautiful that she reminded them of the weeping cherry-blossoms in the dew of a spring morning. Her hair was as black as the sheen on a raven's wing, and her face was lovelier far than that of any human being they had ever seen. Her under-robes were of rich white silk, and her upper kimono was purple, embroidered with white and pink plum-blossoms. As the stars pale before the fuller glory of the moon, so the three elder brides shrank into insignificance beside the dazzling beauty of this maiden. To all it seemed as if one of the _Amatsu Otome_ (heavenly virgins) who wait upon the Goddess of Mercy had glided into the room. They had expected to see a poverty-stricken girl with a large bowl stuck upside down on the top of her head, and they were lost in astonishment when they beheld the Princess in all the radiance of her loveliness and the splendour of her rich clothes. The Princess was about to sit down in the seat left for her, but Lord Yamakage made a place for her beside his wife, saying that he could not allow her to sit in such a lowly spot. She now presented to her father-in-law a silver wine-cup on a gold pedestal, with one hundred _rye_ (old _yen_ in gold), and thirty rolls of silk which she brought in on a beautiful tray. To his wife she presented the rarest and most delectable fruit of ancient Japan, Konan oranges and Kempo pears, and one hundred pieces of coloured cloth which she put upon a gold stand. In her surpassing beauty, in the grace of her carriage, in the richness of her costume, in the sumptuousness of the gifts to her parents, she left the other brides far and away behind. Speechless with wonder and admiration, every one present could not but gaze at her. Before the Bowl-Wearer had appeared, the three elder brides had seemed beautiful enough, but now the difference was as marked as when a sparkling jewel is placed side by side with a crystal; and as the crystal suffers from the comparison, so did they. Saisho's elder brothers were looking between the cracks of the sliding screens, and they were filled with envy at Saisho and his good fortune in becoming the husband of such a beautiful princess, for such they now felt she must be. Not even her rivals could deny that she was bewilderingly fair to look upon; but they whispered among themselves that unless she were skilled in all womanly accomplishments, for all her beauty she would be no better than a common man's daughter. She must play on the _koto_ at once. No one could perform on that instrument without years of instruction. If they waited till the next day, who knows, she was so clever that she might get Saisho to teach her. So the jealous brides proposed aloud that they should all play a quartette; the eldest would play the _biwa_ (lute), the second the _sho_ (flute), the third the _tsuzumi_ (a kind of a small drum beaten with the hand), and they asked the Bowl-Wearer to join them and play the _koto_ (harp). The Princess, who was very modest, at first refused; but on second thoughts, she said to herself: "They ask me to do this because they wish to try me, thinking me to be ignorant of such accomplishments. Well, then, I will play, for my mother taught me." She pulled the _koto_ near her, and slipping the ivory tips on her fingers began to stroke chords. The astonishment of every one was great, for she played with great skill. Saisho, who had hidden himself in the room behind a lacquer cabinet, and was watching with the utmost eagerness all that went on, could hardly keep in his hiding-place, he was so delighted. The three brides, who were quite put out of countenance, for their performance could in no wise be compared to that of the little Princess, now proposed that she should write a poem. "Write a poem, a _tanka_ [a poem of thirty-one syllables], which shall describe the character of each season, such as the blooming of the peach and the cherry-blossom in the spring, the orange and wistaria in summer, and the beauty of the chrysanthemum in autumn." "Oh," said the Bowl-Wearer, "this is indeed a task too difficult for me. Is there nothing else you will give me to do instead of this? I can take care of the bath-room, and pull up water from the well, and heat the bath. Since this is my daily occupation, how is it possible that I should even know how to write a poem, much less compose one?" She blushed as she spoke. But her rivals insisted, and so at last she took up a poem card and a brush and wrote:-- Haru wa hana, Natsu wa tachibana, Aki wa kiku, Izure to wakete, Tsuyu ya okuran. The cherry-blossom of spring, The orange-flower of summer, The autumn chrysanthemum, Perplexed between them all, Alike on each the dew may fall. She showed not the least hesitation in writing these lines, and her handwriting was so beautiful that even the famous Tofu[1] and her brush could not have surpassed it. The three brides retired from the room, grumbling and speaking evil of the Bowl-Wearer. "She must be a witch," they said. "Probably the spirit of the ancient Tamamono Maye!" Lord Yamakage, now quite pleased with her, handed her a cup of _saké_. He gave his full consent to her marrying his son Saisho, and bestowed upon them as a settlement twenty-three hundred _cho_ of land, together with twenty-four servants to wait upon them, and for their bridal chamber he allotted them the Hall of Bamboos. So Saisho and the Bowl-Wearer were at last married, and all their troubles ended. Never was there such a merry wedding, such a lovely bride, or such a happy bridegroom. The days flew into weeks, the weeks flew into months, for the flight of time is unnoticed when one is happy. At last one day Saisho said to his wife: "I cannot believe you to be the daughter of a common man. Will you not tell me who your father is? I should like to know. Whatever wrong you have suffered, why hide your parentage any longer?" The Princess knew that if she told her husband the truth, the name of her cruel stepmother would have to be mentioned, and it would be most unfilial to speak of the woman's cruelty, for she was her father's wife, so she decided not to tell Saisho to what family she belonged. She made some excuse, saying that he should know all in good time, and begged him to wait a little longer. [Illustration: SAISHO AND THE BOWL-WEARER WERE AT LAST MARRIED] When they had been happily married for a year, she gave birth to a son. The bliss of the faithful young couple now seemed complete. Yet with her ever-growing happiness her thoughts turned more and more to her father. What had happened to him in these past years? How she longed to show him her little son! She said to herself that if this were granted she would be the happiest woman in the whole world. Now let us turn back and see what happened to Lord Minetaka and his wicked wife. As time went on, her vicious disposition only became worse. At last it became so unbearable that all the servants took their leave. There was now no one left to care for her child or the house, and the fortunes of the family gradually declined. Lord Minetaka became poorer and poorer. Where once in the days of the first wife there had been sweet peace and harmony, discord now reigned in the house. Lord Minetaka grew weary of his life. He decided to leave his home and set out on a pilgrimage. He started at last to wander on foot from province to province and from temple to temple, learning from the priests all he could of Buddhist lore. He had plenty of time for reflection; and no longer harassed by a scolding wife, he began to ponder over his past life. No words can tell how much he regretted having listened to her slanderous stories about his little daughter; and when he thought of how he had allowed her to be driven from her home, like an outcast or a beggar, his nights were sleepless. He asked himself every day what could have happened to her all this time. He would search for her through the length and the breadth of the land, and if she were still alive, he told himself that he would surely meet with her again. In every temple he came to he prayed that he might find her, wheresoever she might be. On and on he wandered over the country, stopping for the night at the different villages he came to on his way. At last he reached the famous Kwannon of the Hatsuse Temple, of the Yamato Province. Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy, grants to mortals whatever they need the most, the greatest desire of their hearts. Here Minetaka ardently prayed for his lost daughter, prayed that she might be preserved from all ill, and that Kwannon would mercifully grant them a speedy meeting. Saisho and his wife were devoted to this very temple, and often used to visit it to offer thanksgiving for their mutual happiness, and to pray for their children. Now this day, as was their wont, they had come with their three little sons and some of their retainers. The little boys were beautifully dressed in silk and crape, and the whole party had the appearance of a nobleman and his retinue. The retainers went up the temple steps first to clear the way, and found a pilgrim before the temple shrine lost in earnest prayer. "Oh, pilgrim!" they cried, "out of the way! Our lord comes to worship, make way instantly!" The man, hearing himself spoken to in this way, got up and looked at the approaching party, moving aside at the same time to let them pass. He was travel-stained and worn out with fatigue, and it was easy to see that he was broken down by some sorrow. As the little boys passed him, he looked at them eagerly, and as he did so the tears fell from his eyes. One of the retainers, who thought his behaviour strange, asked the pilgrim why he wept. "Those children," answered Lord Minetaka, for it was he, "remind me so much of my daughter, for whom I am searching, that when I looked at their faces the tears fell in spite of myself;" and he told the man all that had happened, glad for once to find a sympathetic listener on his lonely wanderings. When the Princess heard the story, she told the retainers to bring the pilgrim to her. As soon as they led him to her a glance was enough for her to recognize that, aged and emaciated as he was, the pilgrim was none other than her father. "I am the Bowl-Wearer!" she exclaimed quickly, catching hold of her father's sleeve and bursting into tears, overcome with joy and filial affection at this unexpected meeting. Saisho congratulated his wife and her father on their happy reunion, and after many bows and salutations on both sides, he said: "I felt sure that my wife was of noble birth, though she always remained silent when I questioned her as to her parentage. Now I understand it all. So, after all, she is the daughter of Lord Minetaka of Katano." He then insisted that his father-in-law should give up his wanderings and make his home with them for the rest of his days. So Lord Minetaka at last found his good daughter married to one of his own rank, and so happy that even in dreams he could have wished for nothing better for her. What a joyous home-coming it was that day for the Bowl-Wearer, as she led her father back with her and presented her three little sons to him, and showed him her beautiful home, and told him how good and faithful her husband had been to her while she was only the unhappy and despised Bowl-Wearer! They all felt that their cup of happiness was full, and lived together more harmoniously than ever, and in their mutual joy all past sorrow was forgotten. Such is the story of the Bowl-Wearing Princess, which is told from grandmother to mother and from mother to daughter in all households in Japan. [1] Tofu. A lady famous for her beautiful handwriting. THE STORY OF LAZY TARO Long, long ago, in the province of Shinano there lived a lad called Monogusa Taro. Monogusa was not his surname. The word means "lazy," or "good-for-nothing," and he was so nicknamed because by nature he was so lazy that he would not even take the trouble to pick up anything that was lying in the way. When the neighbours asked him to do something for them, saying, "Do this," or "Do that," he would shrug his shoulders and say, "It is really too much bother," and go away without attempting to obey, or even wishing to be kind to those about him. At last all turned their backs on him, and would have nothing to do with him. Strange to say, no one knew who his father or mother was, or from where he had come. He seemed to be a waif and stray that had drifted into the province of Shinano, and yet there was an air about him which excited interest and respect. But this lazy lad, Monogusa Taro, had his dreams and ambitions. He wanted to live in a large house. In his imagination he pictured this house like a _daimio's_ palace. It was to stand in its own grounds and be closed by four high walls, with large roofed gates opening out on three sides of it. In the park-like garden he would have four miniature lakes, laid out in the four directions, north, south, east, and west, and each pond was to have an island in its centre, and dainty arched bridges were to span the distances between the islands and the shores of the little lakes. And oh! how beautiful the garden should be, with its miniature hills and valleys, its tiny bamboo forests and dwarfed pine trees, its rivulets and dells with little cascades. And he would keep all kinds of singing-birds in the garden, the nightingale and the lark and the cuckoo. And the house itself was to be large, with spacious rooms hung with costly tapestries of brocade, and the ceilings were to be inlaid with rare wood of fine markings, and the pillars supporting the corridors must be adorned with silver and gold. And he would eat off costly trays of lacquer, and the dishes and bowls should be of the finest porcelain, and the servants who glided through the rooms to serve him should be beautiful maidens clothed in silk and crape and brocade, daughters of ancient families, glad to enter his house, so that they might learn the etiquette and manners of a princely house. Such were the day-dreams and visions of Lazy Taro. Once or twice he spoke of these things to a kind neighbour who brought him food and little gifts, but he was laughed to scorn for his pains, and so he kept silent henceforth and dreamed only for himself. But he had to come down to stern reality. Instead of the grand palace that he dreamed of building, he had to content himself with a little shed by the roadside. Instead of the fine pillars of his visionary palace he put up four bamboo posts; and in place of the grand walls he hung up pieces of grass matting; and instead of the fine cream-white mats on which the foot glides softly and noiselessly, he spread a common straw mat. Here Lazy Taro lay day and night doing nothing, neither working nor begging for his living, only dreaming away the hours and building castles in the air of what he would do and have if only he were rich. One day a near neighbour who felt sorry for the lad sent him by his servant a present of five rice-dumplings. Lazy Taro was delighted. He was in one of his dreamy moods and ate up four of them, without thinking what he was about. When he came to the last one, somehow he suddenly felt unwilling to part with it. He held it in his hand, and looked at it for some minutes. It took him a long time to make up his mind whether he would eat it or keep it. At last he decided to keep it until some one was kind enough to send him something else. Lazy Taro, having made up his mind on this point, lay down on his straw mat again to dream away the hours with his foolish visions of future grandeur and to play with the remaining rice-dumpling which he still held in his hand. He was tossing it up and down when it slipped from his hand and went rolling into the road. "How tiresome!" said Taro, looking after it wistfully as it lay in the dusty road; but he was so terribly lazy that he would not stir out of his place to pick it up. "It is too much trouble," said Lazy Taro; "some one is sure to come along and pick it up for me." So he lay in his shed and watched the dumpling in the road. When a dog, however, came along or a crow flew down to steal it, he drove them away by making a noise or by flapping his sleeves at them. On the third day after this, the Governor of the District passed by on his way home from hawking. He rode a fine horse and was followed by a number of retainers. Now as Lazy Taro lay in his shed he saw the Governor and his suite coming. "Now this is lucky!" said Taro. He did not care whether the approaching man was the Governor of the Province or a daimio or not. When the Governor was opposite the door of the hut Taro raised his voice and called out to the rider, asking him to pick up his dumpling and bring it to him. No notice whatever was taken of him. The procession of riders went slowly by the hut. Then Taro called out still more loudly to make them hear. "Ho, there!" he shouted, "will no one do what I ask? It can't be much trouble to get down from your horse and pick up that dumpling for me!" Still no one heeded him. Then Taro got angry and shouted still more loudly: "What a lazy person you must be!" Thus Taro arrogantly found fault with others, entirely forgetful of his own laziness, and talked to those older and better than himself in this hateful way. Had the Governor, whose attention was now directed to the little shed by the roadside, been an ordinary man, he would have given orders to his men to kill the presumptuous fellow on the spot; for a _samurai_ of high rank in old Japan, in his domain and along the road, possessed the power of life and death over the lower classes. When a lord or any great dignitary rode abroad, the peasants and the farmers bowed themselves in the dust as he passed by. They dared not lift up their heads on pain of death. But this Governor was an unusual man, and renowned throughout the district for his goodness and mildness of disposition. His curiosity too was aroused at the queer proceeding. He had heard of the strange Monogusa Taro, and he concluded that the boy in the hut must be he. So the Governor got down from his horse, and sitting on a stool that one of his retainers placed for him opposite the hut, said: "Are you Monogusa Taro of whom the people talk?" Taro, not in the least afraid, answered boldly that he was. He did not even move from his position on the mat to bow to the great man. He behaved just as indifferently as if he were a lord speaking to a servant. "You are indeed an interesting fellow," said the Governor. "Now tell me what do you do to earn a living?" "As my name tells you," answered Lazy Taro, "I do nothing. I lie in this shed night and day. I am Lazy Taro!" "Then you must get little to eat!" said the Governor. "It is exactly as you say!" answered Taro; "when the neighbours bring me food, I eat it; but when I get nothing I lie in this shed night and day just like this, sometimes for three and four and five days without eating!" "I am very sorry for you," said the Governor. "Now if I give you a piece of ground, will you till it and grow your own rice and vegetables? What you do not want you might sell to the neighbours and so make a little money." "You are very kind," answered Taro, "and I thank you; but it is too much trouble to till the ground to get my own rice. Why should I when I can get people to give me just enough to live upon? No, thank you, I beg to be excused." "Well," said the Governor, "if you don't like the idea of tilling the ground, I will give you some money to start in business. What do you say to that?" "That would be too much trouble too, so I will remain as I am," said Taro. The kind-hearted Governor could not but be astonished at the good-for-nothing boy's answer, but he was a man of great patience, and he felt sorry for Monogusa Taro. "You are," he said, "as everyone says, the laziest man in the whole of Japan. In all my experience of all sorts and conditions of men, never have I come across such a don't-care, happy-go-lucky creature as yourself--but as it is your nature, I suppose there is no help for it. Your condition is a pitiful one. I can't let you starve in my district --which you certainly will do if you go on like this." Then the kind-hearted Governor took out a piece of paper from his sleeve, and on this paper with brush and Indian ink he wrote an order to the effect that the people of his dominion of Shinano were to provide Monogusa Taro twice daily with three go of rice and a little _saké_ once a day to cheer his spirits. Whoever disobeyed the order must quit the district at once. This order the Governor had published and made known throughout the whole province. To the people of the province it seemed a strange command, and they were lost in amazement; but however strange they thought it, they had to obey the Governor's order. So from that day on Taro was taken care of and fed by his neighbours with rice and _saké_ daily. Time slipped slowly by in the rustic place, and for three years Taro lived in ease and plenty, as free from care as the birds of the air. To all appearance he was perfectly satisfied with himself and his useless life, and he seemed to desire nothing better. At the end of three years the feudal _Daimio_ of Shinano, who always lived in the capital, advertised for a man-servant who was young and strong. One of Taro's kindest neighbours suggested that this was a good opportunity for Taro to make a beginning and that he ought to apply for the place. But others shook their heads and said that Taro was a good-for-nothing fellow, who would never do any good in the world--he would only be a trouble wherever he went. "Look," they said, "how he behaved to the good Governor, how he dared--just think of it--to ask that great man to pick up the rice-dumpling he had dropped in the road, because he was too atrociously lazy to move out of his shed to get it for himself! Had the Governor been any one else, he would have had him sworded to death on the Spot." But in spite of all the neighbours' croaking and grumbling, the first man persisted in his idea that the right thing for Taro to do was to try for the place, regardless of opposition. To every one who raised an objection, he answered wisely: "Don't you know the saying that 'Stupid people and scissors depend on the way they are used for their usefulness'; so even this Lazy Taro may change for the better if he is taken up to the capital and made to work. Let us all persuade him to go into service, and let him for pity's sake have a try at something or other. Who knows but this may prove the turning-point in his life? Taro may yet become a useful hard-working man in time, if he is given his proper chance." When the proposal was first made to Taro, he was very unwilling to do as he was told. He said he knew nothing of the ways of a lord's house; and how could he work, seeing that he was Lazy Taro, who had never done a stroke of work in his life? But his neighbours and friends were determined to make him go. Every day they came to his shed, and talked to him, persuadingly, and at last Taro came round to reason and said that, to please them, he would at any rate go and try to do his best--if he failed, he couldn't help it. When Taro said this, his friends were delighted, and said they would help him get ready. They gave him decent clothes in which to make an appearance at the _Daimio's_ house and then some money for the journey. In this way Lazy Taro left the rural province of Shinano, where he had lived for so many years, and started for the capital of Kyoto. Just as Tokyo is the seat of government nowadays, so Kyoto was in olden times. The Emperor--the Son of Heaven, as he was called--dwelt there in a magnificent palace, and all the great _daimios_ lived near him in state, surrounded by their retainers. The streets of the Imperial City were beautifully built and spotlessly clean, and the houses were far grander than Taro had ever dreamed of--with great sloping roofs and picturesque gates and park-like gardens enclosing them. Very different indeed was the capital from the province of Shinano, from which Taro had come. The Japanese have a saying, "As different as the moon and the turtle," and what can be more utterly different from the Queen of Night, riding above the clouds in her own bewitching radiance and beauty, attended by innumerable stars, than the mud-burrowing turtle, who may sometimes be seen crawling out from his slime to dry his back in the sunshine? As Taro walked through the streets of the city of Kyoto, he thought of the old proverb, and he said to himself that the Lady Moon was Kyoto and the turtle his old-fashioned Shinano. Then he noticed how fair of skin the people he met were, for the citizens of Kyoto are famous for their white complexions; and some say it is the purity of the water that gives them such fair skins, while others say that they are of a different race from the yellow-skinned people of the rest of Japan. And how elegantly every one was dressed! Taro looked down at himself, and saw how dark his skin was, how long his nails, and how rough his clothes were. For the first time in his life he felt ashamed of himself, and repented of his past laziness. Now he remembered that one of his neighbours in Shinano, kinder and more thoughtful than the rest, had put in his bamboo basket a silken suit of clothes, saying that Taro would be sure to want it in the capital, and that when Taro got on, as he felt sure, somehow or other, that he would, he might pay him back. Recollecting this, Taro stopped at a teahouse and changed his rough cotton suit for the silken one. Then he inquired for the residence of Nijo-Dainagon, the Lord of Shinano, and having made his way there, he entered the large gate and presented himself at the porch, saying that he had come in answer to an advertisement of the Lord of Shinano for a servant, and he begged to be made use of. When the lord of the house heard that a man had come from his own province to ask for the vacant place in his household, he came out himself to see Taro, and thanked him for his trouble in coming such a long way. "Work well and diligently, and you will not find service in my house hard or bad!" said Lord Nijo. Now, strange to relate, from the time that Lazy Taro was taken into the service of this _Daimio_, a great change came over him. He was from this time forth like another man. He showed great eagerness to please those set over him and worked with great industry. Before any one else was astir in the big household, he arose and swept the garden; he ran errands more quickly than the other servants, and sat up late at night to guard the gate. When Lord Nijo went out, Taro was the first to put his sandals ready, and the most eager to accompany him. So assiduous, so earnest was he in all he did, that his master was much impressed by his faithfulness and industry. "How true is the proverb," said the _Daimio_, "that even the beautiful lotus blooms in the slime of the pond, and that precious gems are found in the sand. Who would have dreamt that this rustic would turn out to be such a jewel of a servant? This Monogusa Taro is a clever fellow, quite unlike any countryman I have ever seen." In this way Lazy Taro won the favour of his master, who gradually promoted him from the position of a menial servant to the higher service of a retainer. One day, soon after his promotion, Taro had been summoned to the inner apartments to wait upon O Hime San, or the Honourable Princess, the _Daimio's_ daughter. As he moved across the room, he fell over the Princess's _koto_ and broke it. Now the Japanese have always considered it a virtue to repress their feelings, whether they be feelings of joy or feelings of sorrow. No matter what happens, one must learn to present an impassive countenance to the world, whether the heart be bounding with joy or withering with pain. Instead of making a display of your emotion, control it and compose a poem or a beautiful sentence. Such is the training and etiquette instilled by custom, and more especially amongst the upper classes are these rules rigidly observed. Now the Princess was a very high-born damsel, so, though she was sorely grieved when she saw that Taro had broken her favourite _koto_, instead of betraying any anger or impatience, she expressed her grief in an impromptu verse and repeated aloud:-- Kiyo yori wa [Oh! from to-day] Waga nagusami ni [For my amusement] Nani ka sen? [What shall I do?] Then Taro, who was very, very sorry for the accident and for the displeasure he knew he must have caused the Princess, was moved to the heart, and the words of apology and regret suddenly rose to his lips, in the form of the second half of the Princess's poem, and he said:-- Kotowari nareba Mono mo iwarezu. This has two meanings, because of the play on the first word _kotowari_, which means either a broken _koto_ or an excuse. So Taro's couplet meant first that there was indeed good reason for the Princess's sorrow, and that he had no excuse to offer; and secondly, that as the _koto_ was broken, he had no words wherewith to excuse himself. The _Daimio_ was sitting in the adjoining room and heard Taro answer his daughter in verse. His astonishment at finding that Taro was a poet was great. "Certainly, appearances are deceptive," said the _Daimio_ to himself. Now the next time that the Daimio went to Court, thinking to amuse the Palace circles with Taro's story, he told them first how he had taken a "potato-digger" (Japanese expression for a country bumpkin) into his service, and then he told of the progress of the transformation of the rough rustic, who had proved himself to be such a jewel, into a valuable retainer, and last, and most astonishing of all, how Taro had turned out to be a poet. Every one in the Palace listened to the tale with much interest, and said that Taro's story was like a novel. At last this story reached the ears of the Emperor, who felt interested in the poetical rustic, and he thought that he would like to see Taro; for literary and poetic talent has always been held in high esteem in Japan and has in a special manner enjoyed royal patronage. The Emperor sent word to Lord Nijo that he was to bring Taro to the Palace. So the next time that Lord Nijo went up to the Palace he ordered Taro to accompany him. So Taro at last had the highest honour that could befall a mortal, for he was commanded to enter the august presence of the Son of Heaven. The Emperor sat on a dais behind the closely slatted bamboo blinds, with cords and tassels of gold and purple, so that he could see and not be seen, for he was thought to be too sacred for the eyes of his subjects to fall on him. The _Daimio_ Nijo prostrated himself before the throne three times, and then presented Taro. The Emperor, from behind the screen that hid him from view, deigned at last to speak, and this is what he said:-- "I hear that you are a poet. Therefore compose a verse for me on the spot!" Taro obeyed without any hesitation whatsoever. Looking about him for a moment for inspiration, he happened to glance into the garden, where he saw a nightingale alight on a blossoming plum tree, and begin to warble. So he made the nightingale and the plum tree the subject of his poem:-- Uguisu no Nuretaru koe no Kokoyuru wa Ume no hanagasa Moru ya harusame. The meaning of this little poem of thirty-one syllables is that the nightingale's voice sounds tearful or moist because the flower-umbrella of the plum-blossoms lets through the spring rain, which damps the body of the bird sitting among the branches. The Emperor was pleasingly impressed with Taro's talent and facility in expressing his graceful thoughts, and addressed him again, saying: "I hear you came from Shinano? How do you call plum-blossoms [ume-no-hana] there?" Then Taro answered the royal question again, saying in verse:-- Shinano ni wa Baika to iu mo Ume no hana Miyako no koto wa Ikaga aruran. "In Shinano we call the plum-blossom '_baika_,' but of what they may call it in the capital I know nothing." In this way Taro humbly confessed his ignorance of the ways of the capital. "You are indeed a clever poet," said the Emperor, "and you must be descended from a good family. Tell me who was your father? Do you know?" "I have no ancestors that I know of!" said Taro. "Then I shall command that the Governor of Shinano make inquiries about you," said the Emperor; and therewith he commanded his courtiers to despatch a messenger to the far-away province of Shinano, with instructions to find out all he could about Lazy Taro and his parents. After some time the Governor of Shinano learned through an old priest who Monogusa Taro really was, and the discovery was a startling one. It appeared that many years before, a Prince of the Imperial House had been banished from Court circles and had come to the Temple of Zenkoji in Shinano. The Prince was accompanied by his consort. The royal young couple made this pilgrimage to pray Heaven for a child, for they were both sorrowful at being childless. Their prayers were answered by the birth of a son within the year. This son was Taro. When the infant was but three years old, his parents died and the child was left with no one but the old priest to take care of him. When Taro was only seven years old, he strayed away from his guardian and was lost. The royal couple had kept their secret well, and the old priest had only discovered who Taro was by finding some letters hidden away behind the Buddhist altar. Taro was the grandson of the Emperor Kusabuka, the second son of the Emperor Nimmu, the fifty-third Emperor of Japan. Taro's father had been banished for some misdemeanour at Court, and had hidden himself in disgrace in the rustic province of Shinano in the heart of the country, far from the gay capital and all who knew him. Thus it was that no one knew where Monogusa Taro had come from, who he was, or anything about him at all, and he had grown up like a common peasant, ignorant of his high estate and the exalted circle to which he belonged. You may imagine the surprise of the Emperor when he learned that Taro was descended from the Royal Family. It was no wonder that he had shown such noble qualities as faithful service to his lord and love of poetry. His Majesty now bestowed upon Taro the highest official rank, and made him Governor of the provinces of Shinano and Kai. Now Monogusa Taro returned to Shinano, the old province which had harboured him in his days of poverty--in great state he returned. No longer as Lazy Taro, the good-for-nothing rascal who lived in a straw shed, content with living upon the charity of his neighbours and friends, or whoever chose to take pity upon him, but as the new Governor, the man who through industry and faithfulness had won the esteem of Lord Nijo, and who through him was presented at Court. Once at Court, his talent for writing verses had aroused the interest of the Emperor, whose inquiries had established his high birth. And so, greater than all expectations and more wonderful than dreams, had the transformation of Lazy Taro been. No longer a despised beggar by the roadside, he was now an honoured man, created new Lord of the Province by the Emperor. Nor did he now forget in these changed circumstances the kindness that had been shown to him in former times. He repaid and rewarded all those who had ministered to his wants in the days of his vagrancy; he forgot no one--neither those who had given him rice, nor those who had interested themselves in his going to Kyoto, nor those who had prepared him for his journey. He paid a visit to his old friend and benefactor, the ex-Governor, now retired from active service, and took him many handsome gifts. His visions of a fine house were now realized, for he lived in just such a palace as he had seen in his day-dreams by the wayside. The palace had sloping roofs, just as you see in old Japanese pictures; it stood in the midst of beautiful gardens, surrounded by high walls and approached by three large gates. Lord Nijo gave him one of his daughters in marriage, and Monogusa Taro lived happily to the great age of one hundred and twenty years, and he left the world beloved, honoured, and lamented by all who knew him. Such is the wonderful and happy-ending story of Lazy Taro. 
41681	----	BRETON LEGENDS. Translated from the French. London Burns, Oates, & Co., 17 Portman Street, and 63 Paternoster Row PREFACE. The various Collections of Household and Legendary Tales of different countries which have appeared of late years sufficiently attest the popular interest which attaches to these curious and venerable relics of bygone days. Even such eminent scholars as the Messrs. Grimm have not thought it beneath them to devote their time and research to the task of collecting the old fireside Stories and Legends of Germany; and the result of their labours is a volume of tales of remarkable interest and attractiveness, distinguished no less for variety and invention than for pathos, humour, and graceful simplicity. Similar Collections have been published from time to time in relation to other countries (among others, a remarkable one on the Norse Legends, recently issued); and it seemed to the Editors of the present volume that the time had arrived when Brittany too might venture to put forward her claim in this respect to public attention. A selection of some of the best of the Breton Legends is therefore presented to the reader in this little volume. It may be remarked, that the Breton Legends, though possessing much that is common to the German and other National Tales, have yet features peculiar to themselves. They are, we may say, deeply coloured by the character of the country in which they have their home. The sea-coast of Brittany, with its rugged rocks and deep mysterious bays and inlets; the lone country heaths in which stand the Menhir and Dolmen, with their dark immemorial traditions; the gray antiquated chateaus with their fosses and turrets,--all impart a wild and severe character to its legends, and strike the reader with a kind of awe which he scarcely feels in reading those of other countries. In addition to this, the way in which the religion of the Cross, and the doctrines and rites of the Church are interwoven with the texture of almost every one of the Breton Tales, seems to mark them off with still greater distinctness, lending them at the same time a peculiar charm which can hardly fail to commend them to the sympathies of the religious reader. We may add that the moral lessons to be derived from many of these Legends are as striking as they are ingeniously wrought out. The Tales are a translation from the French; and for this the Editors are indebted to the skill and good taste of a lady, who has entered most fully into the spirit and feeling of these simple but beautiful specimens of Legendary Lore. CONTENTS. Page The Three Wayfarers 1 The Legend of St. Galonnek 14 The Korils of Plauden 31 The Blessed Mao 47 The Fate of Keris 63 The Stones of Plouhinec 74 Teuz-à-pouliet; or, the Dwarf 84 The Spectre Laundresses 96 Robin Redbreast 104 Comorre 118 The Groac'h of the Isle of Lok 132 The Four Gifts 150 The Palace of the proud King 167 The Piper 172 The White Inn 177 Peronnik the Idiot 182 Appendix 207 BRETON LEGENDS. THE THREE WAYFARERS. There dwelt in the diocese of Léon, in ancient times, two young noblemen, rich and comely as heart could desire. Their names were Tonyk and Mylio. Mylio, the elder, was almost sixteen, and Tonyk just fourteen years of age. They were both under the instruction of the ablest masters, by whose lessons they had so well profited that, but for their age, they might well have received holy orders, had such been their vocation. But in character the brothers were very unlike. Tonyk was pious, charitable to the poor, and always ready to forgive those who had offended him: he hoarded neither money in his hand nor resentment in his heart. Mylio, on the other hand, while he gave but his due to each, would drive a hard bargain too, and never failed to revenge an injury to the uttermost. It had pleased God to deprive them of their father whilst yet in their infancy, and they had been brought up by their widowed mother, a woman of singular virtue; but now that they were growing towards manhood, she deemed it time to send them to the care of an uncle, who lived at some distance, and from whom they might receive good counsels for their walk in life, besides the expectation of an ample heritage. So one day, after bestowing upon each a new cap, a pair of silver-buckled shoes, a violet mantle, [1] a well-filled purse, and a horse, she bade them set forth towards the house of their father's brother. The two boys began their journey in the highest spirits, glad that they were travelling into a new country. Their horses made such good speed, that in the course of a few days they found themselves already in another kingdom, where the trees, and even the corn, were quite different to their own. There one morning, coming to a cross-road, they saw a poor woman seated near a wayside cross, her face buried in her apron. Tonyk drew up his horse to ask her what she ailed; and the beggar told him, sobbing, that she had just lost her son, her sole support, and that she was now cast upon the charity of Christian strangers. The youth was touched with compassion; but Mylio, who waited at a little distance, cried out mockingly, "You are not going to believe the first pitiful story told you by the roadside! It is just this woman's trade to sit here and cheat travellers of their money." "Hush, hush, my brother," answered Tonyk, "in the name of God; you only make her weep the more. Do not you see that she is just the age and figure of our own dear mother, whom may God preserve." Then stooping towards the beggar-woman, he handed her his purse, saying, "Here, my good woman, I can help you but a little; but I will pray that God Himself may be your consolation." The beggar took the purse, and pressed it to her lips; then said to Tonyk, "Since my young lord has been so bountiful to a poor woman, let him not refuse to accept from her this walnut. It contains a wasp with a sting of diamond." Tonyk took the walnut with thanks, and proceeded on his way with Mylio. Ere long they came upon the borders of a forest, and saw a little child, half naked, seeking somewhat in the hollows of the trees, whilst he sung a strange and melancholy air, more mournful than the music of a requiem. He often stopped to clap his little frozen hands, saying in his song, "I am cold,--oh, so cold!" and the boys could hear his teeth chatter in his head. Tonyk was ready to weep at this spectacle, and said to his brother, "Mylio, only see how this poor child suffers from the piercing wind." "Then he must be a chilly subject," returned Mylio; "the wind does not strike me as so piercing." "That may well be, when you have on a plush doublet, a warm cloth coat, and over all your violet mantle, whilst he is wrapped round by little but the air of heaven." "Well, and what then?" observed Mylio; "after all, he is but a peasant-boy." "Alas," said Tonyk, "when I think that you, my brother, might have been born to the same hard fate, it goes to my very heart; and I cannot bear to see him suffering. For Jesus' sake let us relieve him." So saying he reined in his horse, and calling to him the little boy, asked what he was about. "I am trying," said the child, "if I can find any dragon-flies [2] asleep in the hollows of the trees." "And what do you want with the dragon-flies?" asked Mylio. "When I have found a great many, I shall sell them in the town, and buy myself a garment as warm as sunshine." "And how many have you found already?" asked the young nobleman. "One only," said the child, holding up a little rushen cage enclosing the blue fly. "Well, well, I will take it," interposed Tonyk, throwing to the boy his violet mantle. "Wrap yourself up in that nice warm cloak, my poor little fellow; and when you kneel down to your evening prayers, say every night a 'Hail Mary' for us, and another for our mother." The two brothers went forward on their journey; and Tonyk, having parted with his mantle, suffered sorely for a time from the cutting north wind; but the forest came to an end, the air grew milder, the fog dispersed, and a vein of sunshine kindled in the clouds. They presently entered a green meadow, where a fountain sprung; and there beside it sat an aged man, his clothes in tatters, and on his back the wallet which marked him as a beggar. As soon as he perceived the young riders, he called to them in beseeching tones. Tonyk approached him. "What is it, father?" said he, lifting his hand to his hat in respectful consideration of the beggar's age. "Alas, my dear young gentlemen," replied the old man, "you see how white my hair is, and how wrinkled my cheeks. By reason of my age, I have grown very feeble, and my feet can carry me no further. Therefore I must certainly sit here and die, unless one of you is willing to sell me his horse." "Sell thee one of our horses, beggar!" exclaimed Mylio, with contemptuous voice; "and wherewithal have you to pay for it?" "You see this hollow acorn," answered the mendicant: "it contains a spider capable of spinning a web stronger than steel. Let me have one of your horses, and I will give you in exchange the acorn with the spider." The elder of the two boys burst into a loud laugh. "Do you only hear that, Tonyk?" said he, turning to his brother. "By my baptism, there must be two calf's feet in that fellow's shoes." [3] But the younger answered gently, "The poor can only offer what he has." Then dismounting, he went up to the old man, and added, "I give you my horse, my honest friend, not in consideration of the price you offer for him, but in remembrance of Christ, who has declared the poor to be His chosen portion. Take and keep him as your own, and thank God, in whose name I bestow him." The old man murmured a thousand benedictions, and mounting with Tonyk's aid, went on his way, and was soon lost in the distance. But at this last alms-deed Mylio could no longer contain himself, and broke out into a storm of reproaches. "Fool!" cried he angrily to Tonyk, "are you not ashamed of the state to which you have reduced yourself by your folly? You thought no doubt that when you had stripped yourself of every thing, I would go shares with you in horse and cloak and purse. But no such thing. I hope this lesson at least will do you good, and that, by feeling the inconveniences of prodigality, you may learn to be more prudent for the future." "It is indeed a good lesson, my brother," replied Tonyk mildly; "and I willingly receive it. I never so much as thought of sharing your money, horse, or cloak; go, therefore, on your way without troubling yourself about me, and may the Queen of angels guide you." Mylio answered not a word, but trotted quickly off; whilst his young brother followed upon foot, keeping him in sight as long as he was able, without a thought of bitterness arising in his heart. And thus they went on towards the entrance of a narrow defile between two mountains, so lofty that their tops were hidden in the clouds. It was called the Accursed Strait; for a dreadful being dwelt among those heights, and there laid wait for travellers, like a huntsman watching for his game. He was a giant, blind, and without feet; but had so fine an ear for sound, that he could hear the worm working her dark way within the earth. His servants were two eagles, which he had tamed (for he was a great magician), and he sent them forth to catch his prey so soon as he could hear it coming. So the country people of the neighbourhood, when they had to thread the dreaded pass, were accustomed to carry their shoes in their hands, like the girls of Roscoff going to market at Morlaix, and held their breath lest the giant should detect their passage. But Mylio, who knew nothing of all this, went on at full trot, until the giant was awakened by the sound of horse's hoofs upon the stony way. "Ho, ho, my harriers, where are you?" cried he. The white and the red eagle hastened to him. "Go and fetch me for my supper what is passing by," exclaimed the giant. Like balls from cannon-mouth they shot down the depths of the ravine, and seizing Mylio by his violet mantle, bore him upwards to the giant's den. At that moment Tonyk came up to the entrance of the defile. He saw his brother in the act of being carried off by the two birds, and rushing towards him, uttered a loud cry; but the eagles almost instantly vanished with Mylio in the clouds that hung over the loftiest mountain. For a few seconds the boy stood rooted to the spot with horror, gazing on the sky and the straight rocks that rose above him like a wall; then sinking on his knees, with folded hands, he cried, "O God, the Almighty Maker of the world, save my brother Mylio!" "Trouble not God the Father for so small a matter," cried three little voices close beside him. Tonyk turned in amazement. "Who speaks? where are you?" he exclaimed. "In the pocket of thy doublet," replied the three voices. Tonyk searched his pocket, and drew forth the walnut, the acorn, and the rushen cage, containing the three different insects. "Is it you who will save Mylio?" said he. "We, we, we," they answered in their various tones. "And what can you do, you poor little nobodies?" continued Tonyk. "Let us out, and thou shalt see." The boy did as they desired; and immediately the spider crept to a tree, from which she began a web as strong and as shining as steel. Then mounting on the dragon-fly, which raised her gradually in the air, she still wove on her silvery network; the several threads of which assumed the form of a ladder constantly stretching upwards. Tonyk mounted step by step on this miraculous ladder, until it brought him to the summit of the mountain. Then the wasp flew before him, and led him to the giant's den. It was a grotto hollowed in the cliff, and lofty as a cathedral-nave. The blind and footless ogre, seated in the middle, swayed his vast body to and fro like a poplar rocked by winds, singing snatches of a strange song; while Mylio lay on the ground, his legs and arms tucked behind him, like a fowl trussed for the spit. The two eagles were at a little distance, by the fireplace, one ready to act as turnspit, whilst the other made up the fire. The noise which the giant made in singing, and the attention he paid to the preparations for his feast, prevented his hearing the approach of Tonyk and his three tiny attendants; but the red eagle perceived the youth, and, darting forward, would have seized him in its claws, had not the wasp at that very moment pierced its eyes with her diamond sting. The white eagle, hurrying to its fellow's aid, shared the same fate. Then the wasp flew upon the ogre, who had roused himself on hearing the cries of his two servants, and set herself to sting him without mercy. The giant roared aloud, like a bull in August. But in vain he whirled around him his huge arms, like windmill-sails; having no eyes, he could not succeed in catching the creature, and for want of feet it was equally impossible for him to escape from it. At length he flung himself, face downwards, on the earth, to find some respite from its fiery dart; but the spider then came up, and spun over him a net that held him fast imprisoned. In vain he called upon the eagles for assistance: savage with pain, and no longer fearing now they saw him vanquished, their only impulse was to revenge upon him all the bitterness of their past long slavery. Fiercely flapping their wings, they flew upon their former master, and tore him in their fury, as he lay cowering beneath the web of steel. With every stroke of their beaks they carried off a strip of flesh; nor did they stay their vengeance until they had laid bare his bones. Then they crouched down upon the mangled carcass; and as the flesh of a magician, to say nothing of an ogre, is a meat impossible of digestion, they never rose again. Meanwhile Tonyk had unbound his brother; and, after embracing him with tears of joy, led him from the cavern to the edge of the precipice. The dragon-fly and the wasp soon appeared there, harnessed to the little cage of rushes, now transformed into a coach. They invited the two brothers to seat themselves within it, whilst the spider placed herself behind like a magnificent lackey, and the equipage rolled onwards with the swiftness of the wind. In this way Tonyk and Mylio travelled untired over meadows, woods, mountains, and villages (for in the air the roads are always in good order), until they came before their uncle's castle. There the carriage came to ground, and rolled onwards towards the drawbridge, where the brothers saw both their horses in waiting for them. At the saddle-bow of Tonyk hung his purse and mantle; but the purse had grown much larger and heavier, and the mantle was now all powdered with diamonds. Astonished, the youth turned him towards the coach to ask what this might mean; but, behold, the coach had disappeared; and instead of the wasp, the spider, and the dragon-fly, there stood three angels all glorious with light. Awe-struck and bewildered, the brothers sank upon their knees. Then one of the angels, more beautiful and radiant than his fellows, drew near to Tonyk, and thus spoke: "Fear not, thou righteous one; for the woman, the child, and the old man, whom thou hast succoured were none others than our blessed Lady, her divine Son, and the holy saint Joseph. They sent us to guard thee on thy way from harm; and, now that our mission is accomplished, we return to Paradise. Only remember all that has befallen thee, and let it serve as an example for ever." At these words the angels spread their wings, and soared away like three white doves, chanting the Hosanna as it is sung in churches at the Holy Mass. THE LEGEND OF SAINT GALONNEK. Saint Galonnek was a native of Ireland, as, indeed, were almost all the teachers in Brittany of those days, and called himself Galonnus, being evidently of Roman origin. But after he had left his native land, and the fame of his good deeds had spread far and wide, the Bretons, seeing that his heart was like one of those fresh springs of water that are ever bubbling beneath unfading verdure, changed his name to Galonnek, which signifies in their language the open-hearted. And, in truth, never had any child of God a soul more tenderly awakened to the sufferings of his fellow-men. No sorrow was beneath his sympathy; but it was like the sea-breeze, springing with each tide, never failing to refresh the traveller weary on his way, or to fill the sails of the humble fishing-boat, and bring it safe to land. His father and mother were people of substance, and though themselves buried in the darkness of paganism, spared not the tenderest solicitude in the education of their son. He was placed under the instruction of the most learned masters Ireland could afford, and above all, had the honour of being a pupil of St. Patrick, then found amongst them like a nightingale in the midst of wrens, or a beech-tree towering above the ferns on a common. Under his teaching the boy grew up, learning only to regard himself in the person of God and his neighbours; and with so fervent a love for souls did the holy apostle of Ireland inspire Galonnek, that at the age of eighteen he had no higher wish than to cross over to Brittany, and preach the kingdom of Heaven to sorrowful sinners. His father and mother, who had then long since been converted, desired to throw no hindrance in the way of his accomplishing this pious work; but embracing him with tears, they bade him God speed, assured that they should meet again once more before the throne of God. Galonnek took his passage in a boat manned by evil-disposed sailors, whose design was to plunder him; but when they discovered that the holy youth was possessed of nothing but an iron crucifix and a holly-staff, they turned him out upon the coast of Cornouaille, where they abandoned him, helpless and without provisions. Galonnek walked about a long time, not knowing where he was, but perfectly tranquil in his mind, certain that he was in his Master's kingdom. The sea that roared behind him, the birds that warbled in the bushes, and the wind murmuring in the leaves, all spoke alike to him, each with its own peculiar voice, the name of that Master whose creatures and subjects they were. He came at length, towards evening, to a part of the country lying between Audierne and Plougastel-des-Montagnes, and there finding a village, he seated himself on the doorstep of the first house, awaiting an invitation to enter. But, far from that, the owner of the house bade him rise and go away. Galonnek then went to the door of the next house, and received the same inhospitable order; and so on from door to door throughout the village. And from the expression every where used to him, zevel, this village was afterwards called Plouzevel, literally, people who said, Get up. The saint was preparing to stretch his weary limbs by the roadside, when he perceived a cabin which he had not yet noticed, and drew near the door. It was the dwelling of a poor widow, possessed only of a few acres of barren land, which she had no longer strength to till. But if the fruits of her land were little worth, those of her heart were rich and plentiful. So tenderly generous was her charity, that if any one asked her for a draught of goat's milk, she would give him cream; and if one begged for cream, she would have been ready to bestow the goat itself. She received Galonnek as if he had been her dearly-beloved son, long absent, and supposed dead. She ministered to him of the best she had, listening with devotion to his holy teaching; and having already charity, the very key of true religion, she was ready to embrace with all her heart the faith of Christ. So early as the very next morning she begged the grace of baptism; and Galonnek, seeing that the love of her neighbours had already made her a Christian in intention, consented to bestow it. But water was wanted at the moment of the ceremony; and St. Galonnek going out, took a spade, and digging for a few moments in the old woman's little courtyard, there sprung out an abundant fountain; and he said, "By the aid of this water your barren land will become fertile meadows covered with rich grass, and you will be able to feed as many cows in your new pastures as you have now goats browsing on your heath." This miracle began to open the eyes of the villagers; and they gave permission to Galonnek to take up his abode in a forest which stretched in those days from Plouzevel to the sea-shore. There the holy disciple of St. Patrick built himself a hut of turf and boughs. One day whilst praying in this oratory, he heard the hoofs of a runaway horse; and leaving his devotions to see what was the matter, he saw a knight thrown from his horse amidst the thicket. Galonnek ran to his assistance; and having with much difficulty carried him to his hermitage, he began to bathe his wounds, to dress them with leaves for want of ointment, and to bind them up with strips torn from his own gown of serge. Now it chanced that this knight was the Count of Cornouaille himself; and he was found presently by the attendants, whom he had outstripped, peacefully sleeping on the saint's bed of fern. But behold, when he awakened, that saint's prayers had stood instead of remedies, and all his wounds were healed. And whilst all stood astonished at this miracle, St. Galonnek said gently, "Do not be so much surprised; for if by faith mountains may be moved, why should not charity heal death itself?" The count, filled with wonder and delight, declared that the whole forest should become the property of the man who had done so much for him; and not that only, but that he should have as much good meadow-land as could be enclosed within the strips he had torn from his gown to bind the wounds, each strip being reduced to single threads. Thus Galonnek became the owner of a whole parish; and a proverb arose, which is still current in those parts, That it is with the length of a benefit received one must measure the field of gratitude. Yet Galonnek was none the richer, notwithstanding the noble liberality of the count. All the income of his estate was given to the poor, whilst he still lived on in his leafy hermitage. But as many young men were attracted from the neighbourhood by his reputation for holiness and learning, he built many other cells beside his own; and thus from his school in that solitary glade the light of the Gospel went forth in time through all the length and breadth of the country. It was amidst the perfume of wild-flowers, beside the murmuring brook, that Galonnek taught his pupils. He would teach them to understand somewhat of the providence of God by making them observe the tender care with which the little birds prepare a downy nest for offspring yet unborn. He would point out to their attention how the earth yields moisture to the roots of trees, how the trees become a dwelling-place for thrushes and for finches, and how these again make musical the forest with their cheerful strains, to illustrate the advantage and necessity of mutual benevolence and brotherly love. And when need was to stimulate their efforts or their perseverance, he would lead them to behold the ant, unwearied in her toil, or the constant woodpecker whose tiny bill achieves the scooping of an oak. But this teaching did not confine him in one place; and wherever he went his presence was as that of a star in the midst of darkness. Now in those days the inhabitants of Brittany still exercised the right of wrecking, or in other words, reserved to themselves the privilege of plundering any unfortunate vessels thrown upon their coasts. They spoke of the sea as a cow given to their ancestors by God, and that brought forth every winter for their benefit; thus they looked on shipwrecks as a positive blessing. One night, during a heavy storm, as Galonnek was returning to his forest from the sick-bed of a poor man, he saw the dwellers on the coast leading a bull along the rocks. His head was bound down towards his fore-legs, and a beacon-light was fastened to his horns. The crippled gait of the animal gave an oscillating motion to the light, which might be well mistaken at a distance for the lantern of a ship pitching out at sea, and thus deceive bewildered vessels, uncertain in the tempest of their course, into the notion of yet being far from shore. Already one thus treacherously beguiled was on its way to ruin, and might be seen close upon the rocks, its full white sails gleaming through the night; another moment and it would have been aground among the breakers. Galonnek rushed amidst the peasants, extinguished the false beacon, and reproached them for such treachery. But they would not listen to him, and prepared to rekindle the light. Then the saint cried, "By all your hopes in this world and the next, have done! for it is your own brethren and children that you are drawing to destruction." And whilst they stood uncertain, God kindled up the sky with flashing lightning; and beholding the vessel as if it had been noonday, they saw that it was indeed a Breton ship. Terrified by the dangers to which they had exposed themselves, they all fell down at the saint's feet; the women kissed the hem of his garment with floods of tears, as if his hands had rescued their sons from the depths of the sea, and all with one voice exclaimed, "But for him we should have become the murderers of our friends and neighbours." "Alas, those whom you have already lured to death were equally your neighbours and your friends," replied St. Galonnek; "for we are all descended from Adam, and have been ransomed by the blood of the same God." The peasants, deeply moved, perceived their guilt, and promised to renounce this custom of their fathers. Much about the same time, the country of Pluguffant was ravaged by a dragon, which devoured whole flocks with their shepherds and dogs. In vain had the most courageous men banded themselves together to destroy it. The ferocious monster had put them all to flight; and now nobody dared to stir out of doors to lead his cattle to water, or go and work in the fields. As soon as Galonnek knew this sad state of things, he set out for the court of the Count of Cornouaille, and asked there which knight was the most valiant before God and man. Every voice declared him to be Messire Tanguy de Carfor, who had made a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre, and killed more than a thousand Saracens with his own hand. Galonnek desired him to gird on his sword and armour, and to come and fight the dragon, which God had given him a mission to destroy. Carfor instantly armed himself, and accompanied the saint to the monster's den, from which he came out, howling frightfully at their approach. Carfor hesitated in spite of himself at so unwonted an appearance; but Galonnek said to him, "For your soul's sake, messire, have confidence in God, and you shall kill this monster as easily as a gadfly." Thus encouraged, the knight advanced to the attack, and with scarce an effort pierced the dragon three times through with his sword, whilst the saint called upon the three Persons of the Most Holy Trinity. Galonnek also freed the country from many other scourges, such as wolves, reptiles, and mosquitoes with fiery stings; and being now old enough to receive holy orders, he was ordained by St. Pol; and built a little chapel beside his oratory, where every day he celebrated Mass. Meanwhile the leafy cells around him multiplied so fast, that at last they were united in a monastery, called by Galonnek Youlmad, or the house of good desires. He was engaged in drawing up a rule for this monastery, when he was interrupted by a disturbing rumour which arose in the neighbourhood. It was said that a woman clothed in red, and with a ghastly countenance, had taken passage in a fishing-boat from Crozon. She landed near Poullons; and when questioned as to her name on departing, she had replied that she was called the Lady of Pestilence. And, in fact, it came to pass, that within a very few days both men and animals were smitten with a contagious disease, which carried them off after a few hours' illness. So great was the mortality, that wood sufficient for the coffins could not be found; and for want of grave-diggers, the corpses were laid to rest in furrows hollowed by the plough. Those who were well off gathered all their effects together in wagons, and harnessing all the horses they possessed, drove away at full speed to the mountains, which the pallid woman had not passed. But the poorer people, who had no means of conveyance, and were unwilling to leave their little all, awaited their doom at home, like sheep lying down to rest around the butcher's door. In this extremity, however, they were not abandoned by Galonnek. He went from hut to hut, carrying aid or consolation. Linen for shrouds and wood for coffins might indeed be wanting; but he swathed the fever-spotted dead in leafy twigs, and bore them in his own arms to consecrated earth, laying them down tenderly as sleeping infants in their cradle-bed. Then planting a branch of yew, and another of blossoming broom, he entwined them in the form of a cross, and set them as an emblem on the grave; the yew symbolising the sorrow which underlies the whole course of life, and the blossoming broom the transitory joys which gleam across it. And it is said, that when at last the pestilence was stayed, these holy crosses covered a space of three days' journey. So many generous and pious acts had spread the fame of Galonnek both far and wide, and all Cornouaille was inflamed with devotion. Persons came from all parts to the convent of Good Desires to listen to his teaching, to ask his prayers, and to offer him gifts; but these the saint only accepted for the purposes of charity. "The priest," he used to say, "is only as a canal, which serves to carry water from overflowing streams to arid barren plains." Another of his sayings was, "God has given us two hands; one with which to receive His good treasures, and the other to administer the same to those who need." And thus, although the neighbouring nobles had loaded him with presents, his monastery and church were radiant only with his good actions. He was accustomed to sleep upon an osier hurdle, and wore nothing better than a gown of faded serge. But all this external poverty threw out with stronger lustre the brightness of his hidden worth; and Galonnek was like one of those caskets made of earth or bark, in which are treasured rubies and carbuncles. The see of Cornouaille becoming vacant, Galonnek was summoned with one voice to fill it. He was anxious to refuse; but St. Pol himself came to find him out, and said to him that God's stars have no right to conceal themselves in the grass, but must take their places in the firmament. Then St. Galonnek resigned himself; but when the moment came for leaving the turfen oratory, where he had spent the best part of his life, his heart became so heavy that he burst into tears, and cried aloud, "Alas, how shall I become worthy of the new office which my brethren impose upon me?" Then, falling on his knees, he prayed most fervently until God put strength into his heart. When he arose, he took the humble chalice he had been accustomed to use, his sole possession, save the memory of his good deeds, and went on foot to the capital of Cornouaille, where he was consecrated Bishop. Here began for St. Galonnek a new life of courage and self-denial. He had to fight for the poor against the rich, for the weak against the mighty. When his friends and disciples beheld him engage, all unprotected, in these dangerous struggles, even the most courageous were at times dismayed; but Galonnek would say with a smile, "Fear not, my friends, their weapons cannot touch me. God Himself has forged for me a breastplate with the tears of the sorrowful, the miseries of the poor, and the despair of the oppressed. Behind this armour I can feel no hurt. Blows can only do us mischief by glancing across us at any of those who have taken up our cause; for from our very heart distils a balsam that can heal as they come all the wounds inflicted from without." Moved by the sight of so much virtue, many powerful noblemen, who had hitherto persisted in idolatry, came to ask of Galonnek instruction and the grace of baptism; but he would only grant this favour in reward for some good work. If any one had sinned, and came to seek for absolution, Galonnek would give him for a penance some virtuous action to perform, some charitable service to his fellow-men. He taught them to regard God as the surety for recompenses merited but not received, to invest their lives in Paradise, to break every tie which holds the soul in bondage, that it may spring forward with unfettered flight in the love of God and man. About this time the Count of Cornouaille died, and was succeeded by his son Tugduval. He was a conceited, vain-glorious youth, who could not endure the least contradiction, and had not yet lived long enough to find that life is an instrument on which the first chords we strike are invariably false. So unjust had he shown himself in many instances to the townspeople and gentry, that they banded together and drove him from the city. But Tugduval asked assistance from the Count of Vannes, and soon returned with an army to which the rebels could offer no resistance. Multitudes were slain in battle, and the survivors taking refuge in the city, were besieged there by the count. He rode round the city-walls, like a hungry wolf parading a sheepfold, swearing never to forgive one of the rebels, or those who had given them shelter. So battering-rams were brought, and raised against the walls; and when once a passage was forced, he mounted his war-horse, and ordering every soldier to take a naked sword in one hand, and a lighted torch in the other, he rushed at their head into the affrighted city. But Galonnek had seen the terror of the conquered people, who only looked for fire and sword; and coming out of the cathedral, with all his priests in procession, bearing crosses and all their sacred relics, he came the first to meet Tugduval, his bald head uncovered, and his chalice in his hand. The young count, astonished, checked his horse; but Galonnek went straight up to his saddle-bow, there paused, and said in a gentle voice, "If any will devour the flock, he must begin by slaying the shepherd. I am here at your mercy, and am ready to purchase with my blood forgiveness for the rest." At the sight of this holy old man, whom he had early been taught to reverence, and at that voice which had always sounded like a benediction, Tugduval felt his rage dissolve away; and letting fall his sword, he bent over his horse's neck, and kissed devoutly the chalice carried by St. Galonnek. At that instant all the soldiers, as if touched by the same emotion, put out their torches, and turned their sword-points to the ground, crying as with one voice, "Quarter, quarter for all!" The young count waited not a repetition of this prayer; but dismounting hastily, he followed the Bishop to the cathedral, where the conquerors and the conquered joined in songs of thanksgiving to God. This was the last great act of St. Galonnek's life. A very few months after, he felt his strength decay, and knew that his end was near. He did not, however, on that account relax in his good works. Returning one day from a visit to a poor widow bereaved of her last son, he suddenly found himself unable to proceed, and sat down to rest upon a stone by the wayside. There a pedlar from the mountains found him, some time after, sitting motionless; and thinking that he slept, the man approached him, when he saw that he was dead. Judging from the poverty of his apparel, the pedlar took him for a hermit of the neighbourhood, and out of Christian charity wrapped the body in his mantle for a funeral shroud. A shoemaker's wife, who lived a few steps off, contributed an old chest to serve as a coffin, so that Bishop Galonnek came to his grave like a beggar. But the truth was soon discovered by the miracles which were wrought at his tomb; and the body being taken from the earth, was carried with great state to the city, and buried at the foot of the high altar in the cathedral. St. Pol was requested to write an epitaph upon him; but the apostle of Léon replied that none but an archangel could compose one; so they merely covered the grave with a plain granite slab, on which was carved the name of Galonnek. Ages have passed away, and yet this stone still remains, and thither the Breton mothers come to lay their new-born babes one instant on its consecrated bosom, whilst they repeat the usual form of prayer: "Saint Galonnek, bestow upon my child two hearts. Give him the heart of a lion, that he may be strong in well-doing; and give him the heart of a turtle-dove, that he may be full of brotherly love." The feast of St. Galonnek is celebrated on the 1st of April, when the buds of the hedgerows are bursting into leaf, and "the time of the singing of birds is come." THE KORILS OF PLAUDEN. There dwelt formerly in the land of White-Wheat, as well as in Cornouaille, a race of dwarfs, or Korigans, who, being divided into four nations or tribes, inhabited the woods, the commons, the valleys, and the farms. Those dwelling in the woods were called Kornikaneds, because they played on little horns, which hung suspended from their girdles; the inhabitants of the commons were called Korils, from their spending all their nights in dancing by moonlight; the dwellers in the valleys were Poulpikans, from their homes lying so low; and the Teuz were wild black men, living near the meadows and the wheat-fields; but as the other Korigans accused them of being too friendly with Christians, they were forced to take flight into Léon, where probably there may still be some of them remaining. At the time of which I speak, there were only then hereabouts the Kornikaneds, the Poulpikans, and the Korils; but they abounded in such numbers, that after dark few people cared to venture near their stony palaces. Above all, there lay in Plauden, near the little market-town of Loqueltas, a common known as Motenn-Dervenn, or place of oaks, whereon there stood an extensive Koril village, that may be seen there to this very day. The mischievous dwarfs came out to dance there every night; and any one adventurous enough to cross the common at that time was sure to be entrapped into their mazy chain, and forced to wheel about with them till earliest cockcrow; so that the place was universally avoided after nightfall. One evening, however, Benead Guilcher, returning with his wife from a field, where he had been doing a day's work in ploughing for a farmer of Cadougal, took his way across the haunted heath because it was so much the shortest road. It was still early, and he hoped that the Korigans might not have yet begun their dance; but when he came half-way over the Motenn-Dervenn, he perceived them scattered round about the blocks of stone, like birds on a field of corn. He would fain have turned him back; but the horns of the wood-dwarfs, and the call-cries of the valley-imps, already rose behind him. Benead felt his legs tremble, and said to his wife, "Saint Anne, we are done for! Here come the Kornikaneds and the Poulpikans to join the Korils for their midnight ball. They will make us dance with them till daybreak; and it is more than my poor heart can endure." And, in fact, the troops of Korigans assembling from all parts, came round about poor Guilcher and his wife like flies in August to a drop of honey, but started back on seeing in his hand the little fork Benead had been using to clear the ploughshare, and began to sing with one accord, "Let him be, let her be, The plough-fork has he! Let them go on their way, The fork carry they!" Guilcher instantly perceived that the instrument he held in his hand acted as a charm against the power of the Korigans; and he and his wife passed unmolested through the very midst of them. This was a hint to every body. From that day forward it became a universal custom to take out the little fork of an evening; and thus armed, any one might cross the heaths and valleys without fear of hindrance. But Benead was not satisfied with having rendered this service to the Bretons; he was an inquisitive as well as an intelligent man, and as merry a hunchback as any in the four Breton bishoprics. For I have omitted to tell you that Benead carried from his birth a hump betwixt his shoulders, with which he would thankfully have parted at cost-price. He was looked on also as an honest workman, who laboured conscientiously for daily bread, and moreover well deserved the character of a good Christian. One evening, unable to resist the wish, he took his little fork, commended himself devoutly to St. Anne, and set off towards the Motenn-Dervenn. The Korils saw him from a distance, and ran to him, crying, "It is Benead Guilcher!" "Yes, it is I, my little men," replied the jovial hunchback; "I have come to pay you a friendly visit." "You are welcome," replied the Korils. "Will you have a dance with us?" "Excuse me, my good folks," replied Guilcher, "but your breath is too long for a poor invalid." "We will stop whenever you like," cried the Korils. "Will you promise that?" said Benead, who was not unwilling to try a round with them, as much for the novelty of the thing as that he might have it to talk about. "We will promise thee," said the dwarfs. "By the Saviour's cross?" "By the Saviour's cross." The hunchback, satisfied that such an oath secured him from all dangers, took his place in their chain; and the Korils began their round, singing their accustomed song: "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday; Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday." [4] In a few minutes Guilcher stopped. "With all due deference to you, good gentlefolks," said he to the dwarfs, "your song and dance seem to me very monotonous. You stop too early in the week; and without having much claim to be a skilful stringer of rhymes, I fancy I can lengthen the chorus." "Let us see, let us see!" cried the dwarfs. Then the hunchback replied, "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday." A great tumult arose amongst the Korils. "Stard! stard!" [5] cried they, surrounding Guilcher; "you are a bold singer and a fine dancer. Repeat it once more." The hunchback repeated, "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday," whilst the Korils wheeled about in mad delight. At last they stopped, and pressing round about Guilcher, they cried with one voice, "What will you have? what do you want? riches or beauty? Speak a wish, and we will fulfil it for you." "Are you in earnest?" asked the labourer. "May we be doomed to pick up grain by grain all the millet in the diocese, if we deceive thee," they replied. "Well," said Guilcher, "if you want to make me a present, and leave me to choose what it shall be, I have one thing only to desire from you, and that is, that you take away what I have got here set betwixt my shoulders, and make me as straight as the flagstaff of Loqueltas." "Good, good!" replied the Korils. "Be easy, come here." And seizing Guilcher, they threw him in the air, tossing him from one to another like a worsted ball, until he had made the round of the entire circle. Then he fell upon his feet, giddy, breathless, but--without his hump! Benead had grown younger, fatter, beautiful! Except his mother, no one could have recognised him. You may guess the surprise his appearance created on his return to Loqueltas. No one could believe it was Guilcher; his wife herself was doubtful about receiving him. Before she could recognise in him her old humpback, he was compelled to tell her exactly how many headdresses she had in her press, and what was the colour of her stockings. At last, when every body knew for certain that it was he, they became wonderfully anxious to find out what had effected so strange a transformation; but Benead thought that if he told the truth, he should be looked on as an accomplice of the Korigans; and that every time an ox strayed, or a goat was lost, he should be applied to for its restoration. So he told all those who asked him questions, that it happened unknown to him whilst sleeping on the heath. Thenceforth went all the crooked folk who were silly enough to believe him, and spent their nights upon the open heath, hoping to rise like arrows in the morning; but many people suspected that there was a secret in the matter, which Guilcher was unwilling to disclose. Amongst these latter was a tailor with red hair and squinting eyes, called, from his stammering speech, Perr Balibouzik. He was not, as is usual with his craft, a rhymester, lively on his board as a robin on its twig, and one who scented pancakes from afar as dogs do game; Balibouzik never laughed, never sung, and fed upon such coarse black barley bread that one could count the straws in it. He was a miser, and, worse than that, a bad Christian; lending out his money at such heavy interest, that he ruined all the poor day-labourers of the country. Guilcher had long owed him five crowns, and had no means of paying them. Perr went in quest of him, and demanded them once more. The ci-devant hunchback excused himself, promising to pay after fair-time; but Balibouzik declared that the only condition upon which he would agree to any further delay was that of being at once put in possession of the secret how to grow young and handsome. Thus driven to extremities, Guilcher related his visit to the Korils, what words he had added to their song, and how the choice had been given him between two wishes. Perr made him repeat every detail many times over, and then went away, warning his debtor that he would give him eight days longer to lay hands on the five crowns. But what he had heard awakened within him all the rage of avarice. He resolved that very night to visit the Motenn-Dervenn, to mix in the dance of Korigans, and to gain the choice between two wishes, as proposed to Guilcher,--namely, riches and beauty. So soon, therefore, as the moon arose, behold Balibouzik the Squinter on his way towards the common, carrying a little fork in his hand. The Korils saw him, ran to meet him, and demanded whether he would dance. Perr consented, after making the same conditions as Benead, and joined the dancing company of little black men, who were all engaged in chanting the refrain which Guilcher had increased: "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday." "Wait!" cried the tailor, seized with sudden inspiration; "I also will add something to your song." "Add, add!" replied the Korils. And all once more exclaimed, "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday." They stopped, and Balibouzik stammered out alone, "And the Sun--Sun--Sunday too." The dwarfs uttered a prolonged murmur. "Well?" they cried all at once. "Sun--Sunday too," repeated the tailor. "But go on, go on." "Sun--Sunday." "Well, well, well?" "Sun--Sunday too!" The Koril chain was broken up; they ran about as if furious at not being understood. The poor stammerer, terrified, stood speechless, with his mouth wide open. At length the waves of little black heads grew calmer; they surrounded Balibouzik, and a thousand voices cried at once, "Wish a wish! wish a wish!" Perr took heart. "A wi-wi-sh," said he. "Guilcher cho-o-ose between riches and beauty." "Yes, Guilcher chose beauty, and left riches." "Well, for my part, I choose what Guilcher left." "Well done!" cried the Korils. "Come here, tailor." Perr drew near in transport. They took him up as they had done Benead; threw him from hand to hand all round their circle; and when he fell upon his feet, he had between his shoulders what Guilcher had left--that is to say, a hump. The tailor was no more Balibouzik simply, he was now Tortik-Balibouzik. The poor deformed creature came back to Loqueltas shamefaced as a dog who has had his tail cut off. As soon as what had happened to him was known, there was not a creature but longed to get sight of him. And every one beholding his back, grown round as that of a well-digger, uttered an exclamation of astonishment. Perr raged beneath his hump, and swore to himself that he would be revenged upon Guilcher; for that he alone was the cause of this misfortune, being a favourite of the Korigans, and having doubtless begged them thus to insult his creditor. So the eight days once expired, Tortik-Balibouzik said to Benead, that if he could not pay him his five crowns, he would go and send the officers of justice to sell all he had. Benead entreated in vain; the new hunchback would listen to nothing, and announced that the very next day he should send to the fair [6] all his furniture, his tools, and his pig. Guilcher's wife uttered loud cries, reiterating that they were disgraced before the parish, that nothing now was left for them but to take up the wallet and white staff of mendicants, and go begging from door to door; that it was well worth Benead's while to have become straight and noble in appearance only to take up the straw girdle; [7] and thousands of other unreasonable sayings, after the fashion of women when they are in tribulation,--and when they are not. To all these complaints Guilcher replied nothing, unless it were that submission to the will of God and His Blessed Mother was above all things necessary; but his heart was humbled to the core. He reproached himself now with not preferring wealth to beauty, when he had the choice; and he would only too willingly have taken back his hump, well garnished with gold, or even silver, crowns. After seeking in vain for a way out of his trouble, he made up his mind to revisit Motenn-Dervenn. The Korils welcomed him with shouts of joy, as before, and made him join them in their dance. Benead had no heart for merriment; but he would not damp their mirth, and began to jump with all his might. The delighted dwarfs skipped about like dead leaves driven by the winter's wind. As they ran they repeated the first line of their song, their companion took up the second; they went on to the third, and, that being the last, Guilcher was compelled to finish the tune without words, which in a short time grew tiresome to him. "If I might venture to give you my opinion, my little lords," said he, "your song has the same effect upon me as the butcher's dog, it goes upon three legs." "Right, right!" cried all the voices. "I think," said Benead, "it would be much the best way to add another foot." "Add, add!" replied the dwarfs. And all sung out with one accord, and in a piercing utterance, "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, And the Sunday too!" There was a short silence; the dwarfs waited to see what Guilcher would say. "All the week have you!" finished he gaily. Thousands of cries which made but one cry rose up from all corners of the common. The whole heath was instantly covered with jumping Korigans. They sprung out from tufts of grass, from bushes of broom, from rocky clefts,--one would have said it was a very hive of little black men; whilst all gambolling amongst the heather, they exclaimed, "Guilcherik, our saviour! he Has fulfill'd the Lord's decree!" "By my soul! what does all this mean?" cried Benead in astonishment. "It means," replied the Korigans, "that God had sentenced us to dwell here amongst men, and every night to dance upon the common, until some good Christian should finish our refrain. You first lengthened it, and we hoped that the tailor you sent would have completed it; but he stopped short on the very point of doing so, and for that we punished him. You fortunately have done what he could not; our time of trial now is over, and we shall go back to our kingdom, which spreads under ground, beneath the very sea and rivers," "If this is so," said Guilcher, "and you really are so far indebted to me, do not go away and leave a friend in trouble." "What do you want?" "The means of paying Balibouzik to-day, and the baker for ever." "Take our bags, take our bags!" exclaimed the Korigans. And they threw at Benead's feet the little bags of rusty cloth which they wore strapped on their shoulders. He gathered up as many as he possibly could carry, and ran all joyous home. "Light the resin," cried he to his wife, on entering, "and close the screen, that nobody may see us; for I bring home wealth enough to buy up three whole parishes, their judges, rectors, and all." At the same time he spread out upon the table the multitude of little bags, and set himself to open them. But, alas, he had been reckoning the price of his butter before he had bought the cow. [8] The bags enclosed nothing more than sand, dead leaves, horsehair, and a pair of scissors. On seeing this he uttered such a dreadful cry that his wife, who had gone to shut the door, came back to ask him what could be the matter. Then Benead told her of his visit to the Motenn-Dervenn, and all that had occurred there. "St. Anne have pity on us!" cried the frightened woman; "the Korigans have been making sport of you." "Alas, I see it but too well," replied Guilcher. "And you have dared, unhappy man, to touch these bags, the property of the accursed." "I thought I should find something better in them," exclaimed Benead piteously. "Nothing good can come from good-for-nothings," replied the old woman. "What you have got there will bring an evil spell upon our house. Heavens! if only I have a drop of holy water left." She ran to her bed, and taking from the wall a little earthen holy water-stoup, she steeped in it a branch of box; but scarcely had the dew of God been sprinkled on the bags, when the horsehair changed at once to necklaces of pearls, the dead leaves into gold, and the sand to diamonds. The enchantment was destroyed, and the wealth that the Korigans would fain have hidden from a Christian eye was forced to reassume its proper form. Guilcher repaid Balibouzik his five crowns. He gave to every poor person in the parish a bushel of wheat, with six ells of cloth; and he paid the rector handsomely for fifty Masses; then he set out with his wife for Josselin, where they bought a mansion, and where they reared a family who now are gentlefolks. THE BLESSED MAO. Those Christians who stand in need of heavenly aid cannot do better than apply themselves to our Lady of All-Help near Faou. In that place has been built, expressly in her honour, the very richest chapel ever yet raised for her by human hands. The whole inside is ornamented with golden images, and the belfry-tower, which is made exactly like the one at Kreisker, is perforated like a Quimper fritter. There stands also near the church a stone fountain, famed for healing the infirmities both of body and soul. It was at this chapel that Mao stopped on his road to pray. Mao came from Loperek, which is a pleasant little parish between Kimerc'h and Logoma. His friends and relations were all dead, and his guardian had sent him off to seek his living where he liked, with a good club-stick in his hand and three silver crowns in his purse. After saying devoutly at the foot of the high-altar all the prayers he had ever learned from the curé, or the old woman who had nursed him, Mao went out of church to go on his way. But as he passed the palisades, he saw a crowd of people gathered around a corpse upon the grass, and learnt upon inquiry that it was the body of a poor beggar-man, who had yielded up his soul the morning before, and who could not be buried for want of the money-payment. "Was he, then, a heathen, or a wretched reprobate who had been unfaithful to his Christian duties, that no one will do him this charitable service?" asked Mao. "He was a sheep of the true fold," replied one who stood by; "and however hardly he might be pressed by hunger, he would not pluck the three apples, or even ears of corn, which are permitted by old usage to be gathered by the passing stranger. But poor Stevan has not left the means of paying for his funeral, and so here he is allowed to lie. If I were not as poor myself, I would not have allowed him to lie here so long." "Alas," cried Mao, "are the people so cruel in this part of the world, that they suffer the poor to enter the church-doors whilst living, but not after death? If money is all that is wanted, here are three crowns; they are all I have, but I will gladly give them to unlock holy ground to one of the faithful departed." The sexton and the priest were now sent for, and the body of the poor beggar was solemnly committed to the grave. As for Mao, he made a simple cross of two yew-branches, set it on the grave of the poor beggar; and after having devoutly repeated a De profundis, he set off once more upon his journey towards Camfront. After a time, however, Mao grew both hungry and thirsty, and remembering that he had nothing left of what his guardian had bestowed, he set himself to gather blackberries, wild-sorrel, and sloes from the hedges. And whilst thus employed, he watched the birds that picked their living from the bushes, and said within himself, "After all, these birds are better off than baptised creatures. They have no need of inns, of butchers, bakers, or gardeners; God's open sky belongs to them, and His earth is stretched before them like a table always spread; the little insects are to them as game, the grass in seed their fields of corn, the fruit of the wild-rose or hawthorn their dessert; they are at liberty to gather all without payment or permission asked. No wonder that the birds are joyous, and sing from morning till night." Turning these thoughts in his mind, Mao slackened his pace, and at last sat himself down under the shade of an old oak-tree, where he fell asleep. But behold, in his sleep, a holy man appeared suddenly before him, clad in shining raiment, who thus spoke: "I am the poor beggar Stevan, for whom you purchased a consecrated grave. The Blessed Virgin Mary, whom I endeavoured to serve while on earth, now reckons me amongst her court, and has vouchsafed to me the privilege of bringing you good news. Think not the birds of the air can possibly be happier than baptised creatures; for the Son of God has shed His blood for these, and they are the favourites of the Holy Trinity. And now hear what the Three Divine Persons will do to recompense your piety. There stands hereabouts, beyond the meadows, an old manor house: you will know it by its weather-vane, which is painted red and green. A man of rank dwells there; his name is Trehouar; and he has a granddaughter, lovely as the day, and gentle as a new-born child. Go you, and knock this evening at his door, saying that 'you are come, he knows for what.' He will receive you, and you will of your own self make out the rest. Only remember, that if you are in want of help, you must say, 'Dead beggar, make haste, make haste to me; For I am sorely in need of thee.'" With these words the holy man vanished, and Mao awoke. His first impulse was to thank God for vouchsafing such protection over him; and this done, he set off across the meadows to find the manor-house. As night was coming on, he had some doubts of being able to do so; but at last he observed a flight of pigeons, which he set himself to follow, feeling certain they could only lead him to the house of a noble. And, in fact, he soon perceived the red-and-green weather-vane overtopping a little orchard of black-cherry trees laden with fruit; for this was a part of the country famous for black cherries. It is from the mountain parishes that all those cherries are brought which may be seen spread out on straw at the Léon festivals, and with which the young men fill their great beaver hats for the damsels of their choice. Mao crossed the lawn, shaded with walnut-trees, and then knocked at the most insignificant door he could find, saying, according to the directions, that "he was come for--they knew what." The master of the house was soon fetched. He came, his head shaking, for he was old and feeble, and leaning on the arm of his fresh young granddaughter. To have seen them together, you would have thought of an old tottering wall supported by a blooming honeysuckle. The old gentleman and his granddaughter welcomed the young man with the greatest politeness; a worked ottoman was drawn for him close beside the grandfather's arm-chair, and he was treated with sweet cider whilst they waited for supper. Mao was much surprised to see the way in which he was received, and found great delight in watching the young girl, who prepared every thing with tripping step, singing the while like a very lark. At last, when supper was over, and Liçzenn,--for so the old man called his grandchild,--had cleared all away, he said to Mao, "We have treated you to the best of our ability, and according to our means, young man, though not according to our wishes; for the mansion of the Trehouars has been long afflicted by a most grievous plague. Formerly you might have counted twenty horses, and full forty cows, here; but the evil spirit has taken possession of the stalls and stables; cows and horses have disappeared one after another, and that as often as they have been replaced, until the whole of my savings have been thus consumed. All religious services to rid us of this destructive demon have hitherto failed. There has been nothing for us but to submit; and for want of cattle my whole domain now lies uncultivated. I had put some confidence in my nephew Matelinn, who is gone to the war in France; but as he does not return, I have given notice throughout the country, both from the altar and elsewhere, that the man who can deliver the manor from this curse shall both marry Liçzenn, and inherit my property after me. All those who have hitherto made the attempt, by lying in wait in the stables, have disappeared like the cows and horses. I pray God that you may be more fortunate." Mao, whom the remembrance of his vision secured against all fear, replied that, by the aid of the Blessed Virgin, he hoped to triumph over the hidden foe. So, begging that he might have a fire to keep him warm, he took his club-stick, and went forth. The place to which he was conducted was a very large shed, divided in two parts for the use both of the cows and horses; but now all was empty from one end to the other, and the cobwebs hung in thick festoons from the racks. Mao kindled a fire of broom upon the broad paving-stones, and began to pray. The first quarter of an hour he heard nothing but the crackling of the flame; the second quarter of an hour he heard nothing but the wind that whistled mournfully through the broken door; the third quarter of an hour he heard nothing but the little death-watch tapping in the rafters overhead; but the fourth quarter of an hour, a dull sound rumbled beneath the pavement; and at the further end of the building, in the darkest corner, he saw the largest stone rise slowly up, and the head of a dragon coming from below. It was huge as a baker's kneading-trough, flattened like a viper's, and all round the forehead shone a row of eyes of different colours. The beast raised his two great fore-feet armed with scarlet claws upon the edge of the pavement, glared upon Mao, and then crept hissing from his hole. As he came on, his scaly body could be seen unrolling from beneath the stone like a mighty cable from a ship's hold. Courageous as was the youth, at this spectacle his blood ran cold; and just as he began to feel the dragon's breath, he cried aloud, "Dead beggar, make haste, make haste to me; For I am sorely in need of thee." In an instant the shining form he had invoked was at his side. "Fear nothing," said the saint; "those who are protected by the Mother of God are always victorious over the monsters of the earth. Raise your club and lay the dragon dead at your feet;" and with these words he raised his hand, pronouncing some words that can only be heard in heaven. Mao aimed a fearful blow at the dragon's head, and that very moment the huge monster sank dead upon its side. The next morning, when the sun rose, Mao went to awaken all the people at the manor, and led them to the stables; but at sight of the dead monster even the most courageous started back at least ten paces. "Do not be afraid," said the young man; "the Blessed Mother came to my assistance, and the beast that fed on cattle and their guardians is nothing now but lifeless clay. Only fetch some ropes, and let us drag it from this place to some lonely waste." So they did as he desired; and when the dragon was drawn forth from his den, the whole length of his body was so great that it extended twice round the black-wheat barn-floor. [9] The old man, happy in his deliverance from so dangerous an enemy, fulfilled the promise he had made to Mao, and gave to him Liçzenn in marriage. She was led to church at Camfront, her left arm circled, after the custom of the country, by as many rows of silver-lace as there were thousands of francs in her dowry; and the story goes that she had eighteen. As soon as he was married, Mao bought cattle, hired servants, and soon brought the land about the manor to a more flourishing condition than it had ever known before. Then went the grandfather to seek his recompense from God, and left all that he possessed to the young couple. So happy were they in each other and themselves, that no baptised creature ever felt the like,--so happy, that when they knelt in prayer, they could think of nothing to request from God that He had not already blest them with; so they had nothing to do but to thank Him. But one day, as they were sitting down to supper with their servants, one of their attendants introduced a soldier, so tall that his head reached the rafters; and Liçzenn knew him for her cousin Matelinn. He had come back from the French war to marry his cousin; and learning what had come to pass during his absence, he had felt the bitterest rage. Nevertheless, he betrayed nothing of his thoughts to Mao and his wife; for his was a deceitful heart. Mao, who suspected nothing, received him with affectionate kindness; set before him the best of every thing in the house; had the handsomest room prepared for his reception; and went out to show him all the fields, now ripe for harvest. But the higher Matelinn saw the flax, and the heavier the ears of corn, the more he was enraged at not being the possessor of all this; to say nothing of his cousin Liçzenn, who had grown more charming than ever. So one day he proposed to Mao that they should hunt together on the downs of Logoma, and thus contrived to lead him towards a distant heath, where he had an old deserted windmill, against which bundles of furze for the baker's oven at Daoulas had been heaped up in great piles. When they reached this place, he turned his face towards Camfront, and said suddenly to his young companion, "Ah! I can see the manor all this way off, with its great courtyard." "Which way?" asked Mao. "Behind that little beech-wood. Don't you see the great hall-windows?" "I am too short," said Mao. "Ah, you are right, so you are; and it is a pity too, for I can see my cousin Liçzenn in the little yard beside the garden." "Is she alone?" "No; there are some gentlemen with her whispering in her ear." "And what is Liçzenn doing?" "Liçzenn is listening to them, whilst she twists her apron-string." Mao raised himself upon the tips of his toes. "Ah, I wish I could see," said he. "Oh, it is easy enough," replied Matelinn "you have only to climb up to the top of the mill, and you will be higher than I am." Mao approved of this advice, and climbed up the old ladder. When he reached the top, his cousin asked him what he saw? "I see nothing but the trees, which seem as near the ground as wheat of two months' growth," said Mao, "and houses looking in the distance small as the sea-shells stranded on the shore." "Look nearer," returned Matelinn. "Nearer, I can only see the ocean, with its boats skimming the water like seagulls." "Look nearer yet," said the soldier. "Still nearer is the common, bright with rose-blossoms and the purple heath." "Look down beneath you." "Beneath me!" cried Mao, in terror. "Instead of the ladder to descend by, I see flames rushing upwards to devour me." And he saw rightly; for Matelinn had drawn away the ladder, and set fire to the surrounding fagots, so that the old mill stood as in a furnace. Mao in vain besought the giant not to leave him there to perish in so horrible a manner. He only turned his back, and went off whistling down the moor. Then the young man, feeling himself nearly suffocated, invoked the saint once more: "Dead beggar, make haste, make haste to me; For I am sorely in need of thee." Instantly the saint appeared, holding in his right hand a glittering rainbow, one end of which was resting on the sea, and in his left Jacob's mysterious ladder, that once led from heaven to earth. With the rainbow he put out the fire, and by the ladder's aid poor Mao reached the ground, and went safely home. On beholding him, Matelinn was seized with surprise and consternation, sure that his cousin would hasten to denounce him before the magistrates; and rushing to fetch his arms and war-horse, was hurrying from the courtyard, when Mao came to him, and said, "Fear nothing, cousin; for no man saw what passed upon Daoulas common. Your heart was hurt that God had given me more good things than yourself; I wish to heal its wounds. From this day forward, so long as I live, you shall share with me half of all that I possess, save and except my darling Liçzenn. So come, my cousin, harbour no more evil thoughts against me." The deed of this convention was drawn up by the notary in the usual form; and Matelinn received henceforward, every month, the half of all the produce of the fields, the courtyard, and the stables. But this noble generosity of Mao served only to increase the spite and venom of his heart; for undeserved benefits are like wine drank when one is not thirsty,--they bring us neither joy nor profit. He did not wish Mao dead, because then he would have lost his share in Mao's wealth; but he hated him, even as a caged wolf hates the hand that feeds him. What made him still more angry was, to see how every thing prospered with his cousin. To crown his felicity, he had a son born to him, both strong and beautiful, and one that wept not at his birth, the nurses said. Mao sent the news out to the first people of the neighbourhood, entreating them to come to the baptismal feast. And they came from more than six leagues round,--from Braspars, Kimerc'h, Loperek, Logoma, Faou, Irvillac, and Saint Eloi,--all mounted on handsomely-equipped horses, with their wives or daughters behind them. The baptism of a prince of Cornouaille himself could not have brought together a more goodly assembly. When all were drawn up ready in the front of the manor-house, and Mao came to Liçzenn's chamber for the new-born babe, with those who were to hold it at the font, and his nearest friends, Matelinn presented himself also, with a traitor's joy depicted on his countenance. On seeing him, the mother uttered a cry; but he, approaching, bent over her with specious words, and thanked her for the present she had made him. "What present?" asked the poor woman, in surprise. "Have you not added a new-born infant to my cousin's wealth?" said the soldier. "Certainly," replied Liçzenn. "A parchment deed confirms to me," said Matelinn, "half of every thing Mao possesses, save and except yourself; and I am consequently come to claim my share of the child." All who were present uttered a great cry; but Matelinn repeated calmly that he would have his half of the child; adding that if they refused it to him, he would take it himself, showing as he spoke a huge knife, which he had brought with him for the purpose. Mao and Liçzenn in vain, with bended knees and folded hands, besought him to renounce his rights; the giant only answered by the whetting of his knife against the steel which dangled at his waist; and at last he was about to snatch the infant from its poor young mother's arms, when Mao all at once recalled the invocation to the dead beggar, and repeated it aloud. Scarcely had he finished, when the room was lighted with a heavenly radiance, and the saint appeared upon a shining cloud, the Virgin Mary at his side. "Behold me here, my friends," said the Mother of God, "called by my faithful servant from celestial glory to come and decide between you." "If you are the Mother of God, save the child," cried Liçzenn. "If you are the Queen of Heaven, make them render me my dues," said Matelinn audaciously. "Listen to me," said Mary. "You first, Mao, and you, Liçzenn, come near me with your new-born child. Till now I have given you the joys of life; I will do more, and give you for the future the delights of death. You shall follow me into the Paradise of my Son, where neither griefs, nor treachery, nor sicknesses can enter. As for you, Goliath, you have a right to share the new benefit conferred on them; and you, like them, shall die, but only to go down twelve hundred and fifty leagues below the surface of the earth, [10] into the kingdom of the wicked one, whose servant you are." Saying these words, the Holy Mary raised her hand on high, and the giant was buried in a gulf of fire; whilst the young husband, with his wife and child, sank gently towards each other as in peaceful sleep, and disappeared, borne upwards on a cloud. KERIS. In the olden times a king named Grallon reigned over the land of Cornouaille. He was as good a man as any son of Adam, and gave a cordial welcome at his court to all who had in any way distinguished themselves, were they plebeian or noble in their birth. Unfortunately his daughter was an ill-conducted princess, who, in order to evade his parental rule, had taken herself off to live at Keris, some few leagues from Quimper. One day, whilst King Grallon was out hunting in a forest at the foot of Menéhom, he and all his followers lost their way, and came at last before the cell of the holy hermit Corentin. Grallon had often heard tell of this saintly man, and was delighted to find he had discovered his retreat; but as for the attendants, who were dying with hunger, they looked with any thing but satisfaction upon the humble cell, and whispered discontentedly amongst themselves that they should certainly have to sup on pious prayers. Corentin, enlightened by God's grace, perceived their thoughts, and asked the king whether he would accept a little refreshment. Now Grallon, who had eaten nothing since cockcrow that morning, was extremely willing; so the saint, calling the king's cupbearer and cook, desired them to prepare his majesty a good repast after his long abstinence. Then, leading them both to a fountain which bubbled near his cell, he filled with water the golden pitcher carried by the first, and cut a morsel from a little fish swimming in the basin, which he gave to the second, desiring them both to spread the board for the king and all his train. But the cupbearer and the cook began to laugh, and asked the holy man if he could possibly mistake the king's courtiers for miserable beggars, that he presumed to offer them his scraps of fish-bone and his frog-wine. Corentin quietly besought them not to be disturbed, for that God would provide for all. Consequently they resolved to follow out the saint's directions, and found, to their astonishment, his words come true. For while the water he had poured into the golden pitcher came out a wine as sweet as honey and as hot as fire, the morsel of fish became an ample meal for twice as many guests as the king's suite contained. Grallon was told by his two servants of this miracle; and they moreover showed him, as a greater wonder, the very same little fish from which Corentin had cut a portion, swimming safe and sound in the fountain, as whole as if the saint's knife had never come near him. At this sight the King of Cornouaille was struck with admiration, and exclaimed to the hermit, "Man of God, this place is not for you; for He who is my Master as well as yours has forbidden us to hide a light beneath a bushel. You must leave this hermitage, and come with me. You shall be Bishop of Quimper, my palace shall be your dwelling-place, and the whole city your possession. I will build a monastery for your disciples at Landevenec, and the abbot shall be chosen by yourself." The good king kept his promise; and giving up his capital to the new Bishop, he went to dwell himself in the town of Is. This town then stood upon the very spot now covered by the Bay of Douarnénèz. It was so large and so beautiful, that when the people of old times were seeking for a title worthy of the capital of France, they could find nothing better than to call it Par-is, that is to say, The like of Is. It was lower than the sea itself, and was defended from all fear of inundation by huge dikes, with doors to open occasionally and let the tide in or out. Grallon's daughter, the Princess Dahut, carried the silver keys which locked these doors suspended round her neck, from which fact the people generally called her Alc'huèz, or more shortly Ahèz. [11] Now she was a great magician, and had adorned the town with numberless works of art far surpassing the skill of any human hand. All the Korigans [12] throughout Cornouaille and Vannes had assembled at her call to make the dikes and forge the iron doors; they had plated the palace all over with a metal resembling gold (Korigans being clever workers in metal), and had fenced in the royal gardens with balustrades glittering like polished steel. They it was that kept Dahut's beautiful stables in such perfect order,--those stables that were paved with black, red, or white marble, according to the different colours of the horses in the stalls. And to the Korigans also was intrusted the care of the harbour, where the sea-dragons were kept; for by her powerful art had Dahut gained a wonderful ascendency over the monsters of the deep, so that she had placed one at the disposal of each inhabitant of Keris, that it should serve him like a horse, on which he might safely go across the waves to fetch rich treasure from another shore, or to attack the ships of foreign enemies. So these citizens were rich to that degree they actually measured out their corn in silver vessels. But wealth had hardened and perverted their hearts; beggars were hunted like wild-beasts from the city, for they could not endure the sight of any in their streets but merry prosperous folks dressed out in smart apparel. Our Lord Himself, had He appeared amongst them clad in sackcloth, would have been driven away. The only church remaining in the city was so forsaken, that the very beadle had lost the key of it; nettles grew upon its steps, and against the door-posts of the principal entrance birds had built their nests. The people of the place spent their days and nights in public-houses, dancing-rooms, or theatres; the one only object of their lives being apparently to ruin their immortal souls. As for Dahut, she set them the example; day and night it was a gala in the palace. Gentlemen, nobles, and princes came from the remotest lands to visit this far-famed court. Grallon received them with courtesy, and Dahut with something more. If they were good-looking, she bestowed on them a magic mask, by means of which they were enabled to keep private appointments with her in a tower standing near the floodgates. There they might remain talking with her until the hour when the sea-swallows, beginning their flight, passed before the tower-windows; when Dahut hastily bade them farewell, and, in order that they might go out, as they came, unseen, she once more brought forth her magic mask; but, alas, this time it closed upon them of its own accord with a strangling embrace. Then a black man took up the dead body, threw it across his horse like a sack of wheat, and went to fling it down the precipice between Huelgoat and Poulaouën. This is indeed only too true; for even to this day can be heard from the depths of the ravine the melancholy wailing of these wretched souls at evening hour. May all good Christians bear them in remembrance at their prayers! [13] Corentin, who heard of all the goings-on at Keris, had many a time warned Grallon that the forbearance of God was drawing to a close; [14] but the king had lost all his power, and dwelt quite solitary in one wing of his palace, like a grandfather who has made over all his property to his heirs; and as for Dahut, she cared nothing for the threats or warnings of the saint. Well, one evening, when she was keeping festival as usual, she was informed that a powerful prince from the very ends of the earth had arrived to see her, and he was instantly announced. He was a man of vast stature, clad from head to foot in scarlet, and so bearded that even his two eyes, glittering as stars, could scarcely be seen. He began by paying compliments in rhyme to the princess--no poet or minstrel could have conceived the like; and then he went on talking with such brilliant wit, that the entire assembly were struck dumb with astonishment. But what moved the friends of Dahut with the greatest wonder was to find how far more skilful than themselves this stranger was in sin. He was familiar, not only with all that human malice has invented since the creation of the world, in every region where mankind has dwelt, but with all that it ever shall invent until the moment when the dead shall rise again from their cold graves to stand before the judgment-seat of God. Ahèz and her court perceived that they had found their master, and one and all resolved to put themselves under the teaching of the bearded prince. By way of beginning, he proposed to them a new dance, danced in hell by the Seven Deadly Sins. So he called in for the purpose a musician he had brought with him. This was a little dwarf, clad in goat-skin, and carrying a sort of bagpipe under his arm. Scarcely had he begun to play before Dahut and her courtiers were seized with a sort of frenzy, and began to whirl about like the waves of the sea in a furious storm. The stranger instantly took advantage of the confusion to snatch the silver keys of the floodgates from the princess's neck, and to vanish from the saloon. Meanwhile Grallon sat all solitary in the great gloomy hall of his own lonely palace. He was near the hearth; but the fire was almost out. His heart grew every moment more and more heavy with sad thoughts, when all at once the great folding-doors flew open, and St. Corentin appeared upon the threshold, with a halo of glory round his brow, his pastoral staff in his hand, and a cloud of incense floating all about him. "Rise, great king," said he to Grallon; "take whatever precious things may still be left you, and flee away; for God has given over to the power of the demon this accursed city." Grallon, terrified, started up; and calling to some faithful old servants, took what treasure he possessed; and mounting his black horse, followed after the saint, who shot like an arrow through the air. As they passed before the dikes, they heard a wild roar of waters, and beheld the bearded stranger, now restored to his own demoniac form, opening the floodgates with the silver keys he had taken from the Princess Dahut. The sea already streamed like a torrent on towards the devoted city; and the white waves, rearing their foamy crests above the lofty roofs, seemed rushing to its overthrow. The dragons chained within the harbour roared with terror, for even the beasts could feel their end at hand. Grallon would fain have uttered a cry of warning, but St. Corentin once more entreated him to fly, and he plunged onwards at full gallop towards the shore; on, on through streets and squares and high roads, ever followed by the raging ocean, with the horse's hind hoofs always in the surge. So passed he by the palace of Dahut herself, who darted down the marble steps, her wild locks floating on the breeze, and sprang behind her father on the saddle. The horse stood still suddenly, staggered, and already the water mounted to the old king's knees. "Help, help, St. Corentin!" he cried in terror. "Shake off the iniquity you carry at your back," replied the saint, "and, by the help of God, you shall be saved." But Grallon, who was, after all, a father, hesitated what to do. Then St. Corentin touched the princess on the shoulders with his pastoral staff, and she sank downwards to the sea, disappearing in the depths of the gulf, called after her the Gulf of Ahèz. The horse, thus lightened of his load, made a spring forwards, and so gained Garrec Rock, where to this very day may be seen the print-marks of his iron shoes. [15] The first act of the king was to fall upon his knees, and pour forth thanks to God; then turning towards Keris, [16] he tried to judge how great was the danger from which he had been so miraculously rescued, but in vain he sought the ancient Queen of Ocean. There, where had stood but a few moments before a harbour, palaces, treasures of wealth, and thousands of people, was to be seen nothing now but a smooth bay, on whose unruffled surface the stars of heaven looked calmly down; but beyond, in the horizon, just over the last ruins of the submerged dikes, there appeared the great red man, holding up with a triumphant air the silver keys. Many are the forests of oak that have sprung up and withered since this awful warning; but through every generation fathers have told it to their children until this day. Up to the time of the great Revolution, the clergy of the different river-side parishes were wont to embark every year in fisher-boats, and go to say Mass over the drowned city. Since that time this custom has been lost, with many another one; but when the sea is calm, the remains of the great town may clearly be seen at the bottom of the bay, and the neighbouring downs are full of relics which bear witness to its wealth. THE STONES OF PLOUHINEC. Plouhinec is a poor little market-town beyond Hennebon, towards the sea. Bare commons or little fir-woods stretch all round it, and enough grass to fit an ox for the butcher's knife, or so much bran as would fatten one descendant of the Rohans, [17] has never yet been yielded by the entire parish. But if the people of those parts have reason to complain for want of corn and cattle, they abound in flints to that degree that they could furnish materials for the rebuilding of Lorient; and out beyond the town there lies a great wide common, whereon are set by Korigans two rows of tall stones that might be taken for an avenue, did they but lead to any thing. Near this place, hard by the banks of the River Intel, there lived in former days a man named Marzinne. He was wealthy for those parts, that is to say, he could salt down a little pig once a year, eat as much black bread as he cared for, and buy himself a pair of wooden shoes when Laurel Sunday came round. [18] And he was looked upon as proud by his neighbours, and had taken upon him to refuse the hand of his sister Rozenn to many a young fellow who laboured for his daily bread. Amongst others to Bernèz, a diligent labourer and a worthy Christian; but one whose only treasure, coming into life, had been that of a good will. Bernèz had known Rozenn as a little girl, when he first came to work in the parish from Ponscorff-Bidré; and by degrees, as Rozenn grew up, the attachment of Bernèz had grown stronger and stronger. It may be easily believed that Marzinne's refusal was a terrible heartsore for him; nevertheless he kept up his courage, for Rozenn always received him kindly. Well, Christmas-eve came round; and as a raging storm kept every one at the farm from going to the midnight Mass, they all sat round the fire together, with many young men from the neighbourhood, and amongst them Bernèz. The master of the house, willing to show off, had caused a supper of black-puddings, and hasty puddings made with wheat flour and honey, to be prepared; so that they all sat gazing towards the hearth, except Bernèz, whose eyes were fixed upon Rozenn. But just as all the benches were drawn round the table, and every wooden saucer ready to be dipped into the steaming bowl, an old man suddenly pushed open the door, and wished the assembled company a good appetite. He was a beggar from Pluvigner, one who never set his foot on the church-floor, and of whom all good folks stood in dread. It was said that he bewitched cattle, turned standing corn black, and sold to wrestlers magic herbs. He was even suspected of becoming a goblin [19] at his pleasure. However, wearing as he did the garb of a mendicant, he was welcomed by the farmer to the fireside; a three-legged stood was placed at his disposal, and he received a portion with the guests. When the beggar had done eating and drinking, he asked for a night's lodging, and Bernèz showed him his way into the stable, where a bald old ass and sorry ox were already established. The beggar stretched himself down between the two to share their warmth, and rested his head upon a pillow of turf. But just as he was dropping off to sleep the clock struck twelve. Then the old ass shook his long ears, and turned towards the ox. "Well, my cousin," said he, in friendly tones, "and how has it gone with you since last Christmas, when we talked together?" Instead of answering, the horned beast looked sideways at the beggar, and muttered, "It was hardly worth while for the Almighty to vouchsafe us speech together on a Christmas-eve, and thus to acknowledge the assistance rendered by the presence of our ancestors at the birth of the Saviour, if we are compelled to put up with this fellow as our auditor." "You are very proud, my friend," answered the ass gaily. "It is I rather who have reason to complain, I, whose noble ancestor once carried the Saviour to Jerusalem, proved by the cross imprinted ever since upon the shoulders of our family. But I can be well satisfied with whatever Providence has seen fit to grant me. Besides which, you see well enough that the sorcerer is asleep." "All his witchcrafts have been powerless to enrich him," said the ox; "and he has thrown his soul away for little enough. The devil has not even hinted to him of the lucky chance he might have hereabouts in the course of a few days." "What lucky chance?" asked the ass. "How!" cried the ox; "don't you know, then, that each hundred years the stones on Plouhinec Common go down to drink at the river Intel, and that whilst away the treasures they conceal are left exposed?" "Ah, I remember now," interrupted the ass, "but then the stones return so quickly to their places, that it is impossible to avoid being crushed to pieces by them if you have not as your safeguard a twig of cross-wort surrounded by the five-leaved clover." "And besides," continued the ox, "the treasures you may carry off all fade to dust unless you offer in return a baptised soul. A Christian must suffer death before the devil will permit you to enjoy in peace the wealth of Plouhinec." The beggar was not asleep, but had listened breathless to this conversation. "Ah, my good friends," thought he to himself, "you have made me richer than the wealthiest in all Vannes or Lorient. Be easy; the sorcerer of Pluvigner shall not lose Paradise for nothing." He slept at last; and rising at the break of day, he wandered through the country seeking for the cross-wort and the five-leafed clover." He was forced to look long and wander far, where skies are milder and plants always green, before he was successful. But on the eve of New-Year's Day he came again to Plouhinec, with the countenance of a weasel that has just found out the entrance to a dovecote. In crossing the common, he came upon Bernèz busy striking with a pointed hammer on the tallest of the stones. "Heaven preserve me!" cried the sorcerer, laughing, "are you anxious to dig yourself a dwelling in this rocky mass?" "No," answered Bernèz quietly; "but as I am just now out of work, I thought that perhaps if I carved a cross upon one of these accursed stones, I should perform an act agreeable in the sight of God, and one that may stand me in good stead some other day." "Then you have something to ask of Him?" said the old man. "All Christians need to beg from Him salvation for their souls," replied the youth. "And have you nothing too to say to Him about Rozenn?" pursued the beggar, in a lower voice. Bernèz looked full at him. "Ah, you know that?" said he. "Well, after all, there is no shame or sin in it. If I seek for the maiden, it is that I may lead her to the presence of the priest. Unhappily Marzinne is waiting for a brother-in-law who can count more reals than I have silver coins." "And if I could put you in the way of having more louis-d'or than Marzinne has reals?" said the sorcerer in an under-tone. "You!" cried Bernèz. "I!" "And how much do you ask for this?" "Only to be remembered in your prayers." "Then there will be nothing that can compromise my soul?" "Only courage is required." "Tell me, then, what must be done," cried Bernèz, letting fall his hammer. "If needs be, I am ready to encounter any difficulty." The beggar, seeing him thus disposed, related how that on that very night the treasures of the common would be all exposed; but he said nothing at the same time of the way by which the stones were to be avoided as they came trooping back. The young fellow thought nothing was wanting but boldness and a swift step; so he said, "As sure as I am a living man I will profit by this opportunity, old man; and I shall always be at your service for the notice you have given me of this great chance. Only let me finish the cross I have begun engraving on this stone; when the time comes, I will join you near the little pine-wood." Bernèz kept his word, and arrived at the appointed place an hour before midnight. He found the beggar carrying a wallet in each hand, and one suspended round his neck. "Come," said he to the young man, "sit down there, and think of all that you will do when you have silver, gold, and jewels to your heart's content." The young man sat down on the ground and answered, "If I have silver to my heart's content, I will give my gentle Rozennik [20] all that she wishes for, and all that she can wish for, from linen to silk, from bread to oranges." "And if you have gold?" added the sorcerer. "If I have gold at will," replied the youth, "I will make wealthy all my Rozennik's relations, and all the friends of her relations, to the utmost limits of the parish." "And if at last you should have jewels in plenty?" continued the old man. "Then," cried out Bernèz, "I would make all the people in the world happy, and I would tell them it was my Rozennik's desire." Whilst talking thus, the hour slipped away, and midnight came. At the same instant a great sound arose upon the heath, and by the light of the stars all the huge stones might be seen leaving their places, and hurrying towards the river Intel. They rushed down the slope, grazing the earth as they went, and jostling each other like a troop of drunken giants. So they swept pell-mell past the two men, and were lost in darkness. Then the beggar flew towards the common, followed by Bernèz; and there, in the very spots where just before huge stones had reared themselves, they now saw large holes piled to the brim with gold, with silver, and with precious stones. Bernèz uttered a cry of admiration, and made the sign of the cross; but the sorcerer made haste to cram all his wallets, turning meanwhile an attentive ear towards the river's bank. He had just finished lading the third bag, whilst the young man stuffed the pockets of his linen vest, when a dull sound like that of an approaching storm was audible in the distance. The stones had finished drinking, and were coming back once more. They rushed, stooping forwards like runners in a race, and bore down all before them. When the youth perceived them, he started upright, and exclaimed, "Ah, Blessed Virgin, we are lost!" "I am not," said the sorcerer, taking in his hand the cross-wort and the five-leaved clover, "for I have that here which will secure my safety; but a Christian must be sacrificed to make good all these treasures, and the bad angel put thee in my way. So give up Rozenn, and prepare to die." While yet he spoke the stony army was at hand; but holding forth his magic nosegay, they turned aside to right and left to fall upon Bernèz. He, feeling sure that all was over for him, sank down upon his knees and closed his eyes; when the great stone that led the troop stopped all at once, and barring the way, set itself before him as a protecting rampart. Bernèz, astonished, raised his head, and recognised the stone on which his hand had traced a cross. Being thenceforward a baptised stone, it could have no power to harm a Christian. Remaining motionless before the young man until all its fellows had regained their places, it then rushed forwards like a sea-bird to retake its own, and met upon its way the beggar hampered with his three ponderous bags of gold. Seeing it advance, he would have defied it with his magic plants; but the stone, become Christian, was no longer subject to the witchery of the demon, and hurrying onwards, crushed the sorcerer like an insect. Bernèz had not only all his own collection, but the three full wallets of the mendicant, and became thus rich enough to wed his Rozenn, to bring up a numerous family, and to succour his relations, as well as the poor of the whole country around, to the end of his long life. TEUZ-A-POULIET; [21] OR, THE DWARF. The vale of Pinard is a pleasant slope which lies behind the city of Morlaix. There are plenty of gardens, houses, shops, and bakers to be found there, besides many farms that boast their ample cowsheds and full barns. Now, in olden times, when there was neither conscription nor general taxation, there dwelt in the largest of these farms an honest man, called Jalm Riou, who had a comely daughter, Barbaik. Not only was she fair and well-fashioned, but she was the best dancer, and also the best drest, in all those parts. When she set off on Sunday to hear Mass at St. Mathieu's church, she used to wear an embroidered coif, a gay neckerchief, five petticoats one over the other, [22] and silver buckles in her shoes; so that the very butchers' wives were jealous, and tossing their heads as she went by, they asked her whether she had been selling the devil her black hen. [23] But Barbaik troubled herself not at all for all they said, so long as she continued to be the best-dressed damsel, and the most attractive at the fair of the patron saint. Barbaik had many suitors, and among them was one who really loved her more than all the rest; and this was the lad who worked upon her father's farm, a good labourer and a worthy Christian, but rough and ungainly in appearance. So Barbaik would have nothing to say to him, in spite of his good qualities, and always declared, when speaking of him, that he was a colt of Pontrieux. [24] Jégu, who loved her with all his heart, was deeply wounded, and fretted sorely at being so ill-used by the only creature that could give him either joy or trouble. One morning, when bringing home the horses from the field, he stopped to let them drink at the pond; and as he stood holding the smallest one, with his head sunk upon his breast, and uttering every now and then the heaviest sighs, for he was thinking of Barbaik, he heard suddenly a voice proceeding from the reeds, which said to him, "Why are you so miserable, Jégu? things are not yet quite so desperate." The farmer's boy raised his head astonished, and asked who was there. "It is I, the Teuz-à-pouliet," said the same voice. "I do not see you," replied Jégu. "Look closely, and you will see me in the midst of the reeds, under the form of a beautiful green frog. I take successively whatever form I like, unless I prefer making myself invisible." "But can you not show yourself under the usual appearance of your kind?" "No doubt, if that will please you." With these words the frog leaped on one of the horses' backs, and changed himself suddenly into a little dwarf, with bright green dress and smart polished gaiters, like a leather-merchant of Landivisiau. Jégu, a little scared, drew back a step or two; but the Teuz told him not to be afraid, for that, far from wishing him harm, he was ready to do him good. "And what makes you take this interest in me?" inquired the peasant, with a suspicious air. "A service which you rendered to me the last winter," said the Teuz-à-pouliet. "You doubtless are aware that the Korigans of the White-Wheat country and of Cornouaille declared war against our race, because they say we are too favourably disposed to man. [25] We were obliged to flee into the bishopric of Léon, where at first we concealed ourselves under divers animal forms. Since then, from habit or fancy, we have continued to assume them, and I became acquainted with you through one of these transformations." "And how was that?" "Do you remember, three months ago, whilst working in the alder-park, finding a robin caught in a snare?" "Yes," interrupted Jégu; "and I remember also that I let it fly, saying, 'As for thee, thou dost not eat the bread of Christians: take thy flight, thou bird of the good God.'" "Ah, well, that robin was myself. Ever since then I vowed to be your faithful friend, and I will prove it too by causing you to marry Barbaik, since you love her so well." "Ah, Teuz-à-pouliet, could you but succeed in that," cried Jégu, "there is nothing in this world, except my soul, that I would not bestow upon you." "Let me alone," replied the dwarf; "yet a few months from this time, and I will see you are the master of that farm and of the maiden too." "And how can you undertake that?" asked the youth. "You shall know all in time; all you have to do just now is to smoke your pipe, eat, drink, and take no trouble about any thing." Jégu declared that nothing could be easier than that, and he would conform exactly to the Teuz's orders; then, thanking him, and taking off his hat as he would have done to the curé or the magistrate, he went homewards to the farm. The following day happened to be Sunday. Barbaik rose earlier than usual, and went to the stables, which were under her sole charge; but to her great surprise she found them already freshly littered, the racks garnished, the cows milked, and the cream churned. Now, as she recollected having said before Jégu, on the preceding night, that she wanted to be ready in good time to go to the feast of St. Nicholas, she very naturally concluded that it was he who had done all this for her, and she told him she was much obliged. Jégu, however, replied in a peevish tone, that he did not know what she meant; but this only confirmed Barbaik in her belief. The same good service was rendered to her now every day. Never had the stable been so cleanly, nor the cows so fat. Barbaik found her earthen pans full of milk at morning and at evening, and a pound of fresh-churned butter decked with blackberry-leaves. So in a few weeks' time she got into the habit of never rising till broad daylight, to prepare breakfast and set about her household duties. But even this labour was soon spared her; for one morning, on getting out of bed, she found the house already swept, the furniture polished, the soup on the fire, and the bread cut into the bowls; so that she had nothing to do but go to the courtyard, and call the labourers from the fields. She still thought it was an attention shown to her by Jégu, and she could not help considering what a very convenient husband he would be for a woman who liked to have her time to herself. And it was a fact that Barbaik never uttered a wish before him that was not immediately fulfilled. If the wind was cold, or if the sun shone hot, and she was afraid of injuring her complexion by going to the spring, she had only to say low, "I should like to see my buckets filled, and my tub full of washed linen." Then she would go and gossip with a neighbour, and on her return she would find tub and buckets just as she had desired them to be, standing on the stone. If she found the rye-dough too hard to bake, or the oven too long in heating, she had only to say, "I should like to see my six fifteen-pound loaves all ranged upon the board above the kneading-trough," and two hours later the six loaves were there. If she found the market too far off, and the road too bad, she had only to say over-night, "Why am I not already come back from Morlaix, with my milk-can empty, my tub of butter sold out, a pound of black cherries in my wooden platter, and six reals [26] at the bottom of my apron-pocket?" and the next morning, when she rose, she would discover at the foot of her bed the empty milk-can and butter-tub, the pound of cherries in her wooden plate, and six reals in her apron-pocket. But the good offices that were rendered to her did not stop here. Did she wish to make an appointment with another damsel at some fair, to buy a ribbon in the town, or to find out the hour at which the procession at the church was to begin, Jégu was always at hand; all she had to do was to mention her wish before him, and the thing was done. When things were thus advanced, the Teuz advised the youth to ask Barbaik now in marriage; and this time she listened to all he had to say. She thought Jégu very plain and unmannerly; but yet, as a husband, he was just what she wanted. Jégu would wake for her, work for her, save for her. Jégu would be the shaft-horse, forced to draw the whole weight of the wagon; and she, the farmer's wife, seated on a heap of clover, and driving him with the whip. After having well considered all this, she answered the young man, as a well-conducted damsel should, that she would refer the matter to her father. But she knew beforehand that Jalm Riou would consent; for he had often said that only Jégu would be fit to manage the farm when he should be no more. So the marriage took place the very next month; and it seemed as if the aged father had but waited until then to go and take his rest in Paradise; for a very few days after the marriage he died, leaving the house and land to the young folks. It was a great responsibility for Jégu; but the Teuz came to his assistance. He became the ploughboy at the farm, and did more work alone than four hired labourers. He it was who kept the tools and harness in good order, who repaired omissions, who pointed out the proper time for sowing or for mowing. If by chance Jégu had occasion to expedite some work, the Teuz would go and tell his friends, and all the dwarfs would come with hoe, fork, or reaping-hook upon their shoulders; if teams were wanted, he would send the farmer to a town inhabited by some of his tribe, who would be out upon the common; and Jégu had only to say, "Little men, my good friends, lend me a pair of oxen, or a couple of horses, with all that is needed for their work," and the team would appear that very instant. Now all the Teuz-à-pouliet asked in payment of these services was a child's portion of broth, served up in a milk-measure, every day. So Jégu loved him like his own son. Barbaik, on the contrary, hated him, and not without reason; for the very next day after marriage she saw with astonishment she was no longer assisted as before; and as she was making her complaint to Jégu, who seemed as if he did not understand her, the dwarf, bursting out in laughter, confessed that he had been the author of all these good offices, in order that the damsel might consent to marry Jégu; but that now he had other things to do, and she must once more undertake the household management. Deceived thus in her expectations, the daughter of Jalm Riou treasured in her heart a furious rage against the dwarf. Every morning, when she had to rise before the break of day and milk the cows or go to market, and every evening, when she had to sit up till near midnight churning cream, she cursed the Teuz who had encouraged her to look forward to a life of ease and pleasure. However, one day, being invited to a wedding at Plouezorc'h, and not being able to take the farm-mare, as it was near foaling, she asked the Teuz-à-pouliet for a steed; and he sent her to the dwarf village, telling her to explain exactly what she wanted. So Barbaik went; and thinking she was doing for the best, she said, "Teuz, my friends, lend me a black horse, with eyes, mouth, ears, saddle, and bridle." The horse that she had asked for instantly appeared, and she set out on him towards Plouezorc'h. But soon she saw that every one was laughing as she went along. "See, see!" they cried, "the farmer's wife has sold her horse's tail." Barbaik turned quickly round, and saw indeed that her horse had no tail. She had forgotten to ask for one; and the malicious dwarf had served her to the letter. Disconcerted, she would have hastened on, but the horse refused to mend his pace; and so she was compelled to endure the jests of passers-by. The young wife came home at night more furious than ever against the Teuz-à-pouliet, accusing him of having played her this ill turn on purpose, and fully resolved to be revenged upon him at the earliest opportunity. Well, spring drew near, and as this was the time the dwarfs held festival, the Teuz asked leave of Jégu to extend an invitation to all his friends to come and spend the night on the barn-floor, where he might give them a supper and a dance. Jégu was far too much indebted to the dwarf to think of saying no; and ordered Barbaik to spread over the barn-floor her finest fringed table-cloths, and to serve up a batch of little butter-cakes, all the morning and the evening milk, and as many wheaten pancakes as could be turned out in a good day's work. Barbaik made no reply, to her husband's great surprise. She made the pancakes, prepared the milk, cooked the buttered cakes, and at evening-tide she took them all out to the barn; but at the same time she spread down, all round about the extended table-cloths, just where the dwarfs were going to place themselves, the ashes she had drawn smoking from the oven; so that when the Teuz-à-pouliet and his guests came in to seat themselves, they were every one severely burned, and fled away, uttering loud cries. They soon came back, however, carrying jugs of water, and so put out the fire; and then danced round the farm, all singing in an angry tone, "Barbe Riou, with dire deceit, Has roasted our poor little feet: Adieu! far hence away we go; On this house be grief and woe!" And, in fact, they left the country that very morning. Jégu, having lost their help, soon fell into distress and died; whilst the beautiful Barbaik became a basket-woman at Morlaix market. Since then the Teuz have never been seen in these parts. However, there are some who say that all good work-people have to this very day ten dwarfs who toil for them, and not invisibly; and these are--their ten fingers. THE SPECTRE LAUNDRESSES. The Bretons are born in sin, even as other men, but never have they been wanting in care for the souls of their faithful departed. They take tender pity upon those who burn in purgatory, and earnestly strive to redeem them from their fiery trial. Every Sunday, after Mass, they kneel and plead for their suffering souls upon the very earth in which their poor bodies are mouldering away. It is in the Black Month, [27] as they call November, that they especially attach themselves to this pious duty. When the Messenger of Winter [28] arrives, each one bethinks himself of those who are gone to the judgment-seat of God. Masses are said for them at the altar of the Dead; in their behalf are tapers kindled, and vows made to saints in highest veneration; little children are taken to offer their innocent prayers upon the grave-stones; and after Vespers the priest comes out of church to bless the earth to which their dust has been committed. On this night also is it that our Lord vouchsafes some respite to their sufferings, and permits them to return once more and pay a visit to the hearth-stones of their former homes. Then are the dead as numerous in the homesteads of the living as the yellow leaves that rustle in the deep dry lanes; and therefore it is that all good Christians leave the board spread and the fire blazing, that the unwonted guests may, if they will, refresh themselves. But if it is so with all who are truly devoted to the service of the Blessed Mother and her divine Son, there are also children of the Black Angel ("l'ange noir"), who forget those that were once nearest to their hearts. Wilherm Postik was one of these. His father had died without desiring to receive the last Sacraments; and, as the proverb has it, Kadiou is his father's own son. Wilherm gave himself up, body and soul, to forbidden pleasures, dancing during Mass-time, whenever he could find an opportunity, and drinking with rascally horse-dealers when he should have been in church. Nevertheless, God had not left him without enough of warnings. Within the same year had his mother, his sisters, and his wife been carried off by a contagious disease. Many a time, too, had the good curé exposed to him his evil deeds, showing him that he was a scandal to the whole parish, and urging him to repentance; but all was in vain. Meanwhile the fine weather went by. The feast of All Souls arrived, and all good Christians, clad in decent mourning, repaired to church to pray for the faithful departed. But for Wilherm, he dressed himself out in his best, and set out for the neighbouring town, where he was sure to find plenty of reprobate sailors and reckless women. All the time devoted by others to the solace of the suffering souls he spent there in drinking, gambling, and singing vile songs; nor did he think of returning till close upon midnight, when every body else had gone home wearied with iniquity. For him, he had a frame of iron for sinful pleasures; and he quitted the drinking-house as well disposed for a fresh bout as when he entered it. Heated with drink, he went along, singing at the top of his voice, though his songs were such as the boldest are apt to give out in an undertone. He passed the wayside crosses without dropping his voice or uncovering his head, and struck out right and left with his walking-stick amongst the tufts of broom, regardless of the holy dead who thronged every path. At last the road divided, giving him his choice of two ways homeward; the one longer about, but safer, under the blessing of God, the other more direct, but haunted by spirits. Many a one in passing by that way had heard noises and seen sights that could be only told of in a cheerful assembly, and within arm's-length of the holy-water stoup. But Wilherm feared nothing; so he struck at once into the shorter path, at a pace that made his heavy shoes ring against the stones. Neither moon nor stars cheered the night, the leaves trooped before the driving wind, the brooks trickled dismally adown the hill-sides, the bushes shivered like a man afraid, and through the midnight stillness the steps of Wilherm echoed like a giant's tread. Yet nothing daunted him, and on he went. But as he passed the ruins of the old manor-house, he plainly heard the weather-vane call to him as it creaked, "Go back, go back, go back!" Still Wilherm went on. He came up to the waterfall, and the water murmured, "Cross me not, cross me not, cross me not!" Wilherm set his foot upon the well-worn stepping stones, and crossed the stream. He came to an old hollow oak-tree, and the wind that whistled in its branches cried, "Stay here, stay here, stay here!" But he struck his staff against the dead tree in passing, and hurried onwards. At last he came into the haunted vale, and midnight struck from the three parish-church towers. Wilherm began to whistle a jovial air; but just as he came to the fourth verse, he heard the sound of tireless wheels, and saw a cart approaching covered with a funeral pall. Wilherm knew it for a hearse. It was drawn by six black horses, and driven by Ankou [29] himself, with an iron whip in his hand, and ever crying as he went, "Turn aside, or I turn thee back!" Wilherm gave him way without being disconcerted. "What are you doing here, Squire White?" [30] he questioned boldly. "I make prize, and by surprise," replied Ankou. "That is to say, you're thievish and treacherous," continued Wilherm. "I am he that strikes without distinction and without regret." "That is to say, a fool and a brute. Then I wonder no more, my fine fellow, that you're a regular inhabitant of the four bishoprics, for to you the whole proverb belongs. [31] But what are you in such haste about to-day?" "I am going to fetch Wilherm Postik," replied the phantom as he passed on. The profligate laughed aloud, and went on his way. As he came up to the little sloe-hedge leading to the washing-ground, he saw two white females hanging linen on the bushes. "On my life," said he, "here are some damsels not much afraid of the night-dews! What are you about here at this time, my little doves?" "We wash, we dry, we sew!" replied the two women both at once. "But what?" asked the young man. "The winding-sheet of one that yet walks and speaks." "A corpse! Pardieu! Tell me his name." "Wilherm Postik." Louder than before laughed Wilherm, and went down the little rugged path. But as he went on he heard more and more distinctly the beetle of the spectre laundresses striking on the douez [32] stones, and ere long they themselves were to be seen, beating at their death-shrouds, and chanting the sorrowful refrain: "If no good soul our hands will stay, We must toil till judgment-day; In stormy wind, or clear moonlight, We must wash the death-shroud white." As soon as they perceived this boon companion, they all rushed forward with loud cries, offering each her winding-sheet, that he might help them to wring out the water. "Amongst friends we must not scruple to do a good turn," replied Wilherm gaily; "but one at a time, my pretty laundresses, a man has but two hands." So laying down his walking-stick, he took the end of the shroud offered by one of the ghosts, taking care to wring the same way that she did; for he had heard of old that this was the only way to escape being shivered to atoms. But whilst they thus wrung the winding-sheet, behold, the other spectres surrounded Wilherm, who recognised amongst them his aunt, his wife, his mother, and his sisters, who cried aloud, "A thousand curses upon him who leaves his own flesh and blood to suffer torments! A thousand curses!" And they shook their streaming locks, and whirled aloft their snow-white beetles; while from all the douez of the valley, along the hedgerows, and floating over the commons far and wide, there came the sound of ghostly voices echoing the same cry, "A thousand curses! a thousand curses!" Wilherm, beside himself with terror, felt his hair stand up on end, and, forgetting in his confusion the precaution hitherto observed, he began to wring the contrary way. In the same instant the winding-sheet grasped his hands as in a vice, and he fell, brayed by the iron arms of the spectre laundress. A young girl of Henvik, named Fantik-ar-Fur, passing at daybreak near the douez, saw Wilherm stretched upon the blue stones. Thinking that he had lain down there to sleep whilst tipsy, the child drew near to wake him with a sprig of broom; but finding he remained motionless, she took fright and ran to the village to tell the news. A number of the inhabitants came with the curé, the sexton, and the notary, who was mayor of the place. The body was taken up, placed on a wagon, and drawn home by oxen; but the blessed candles that were lighted continually went out, a token of the fearful fate that had overtaken Wilherm Postik. So his body was deposited outside the church-yard walls, in the resting-place of dogs and reprobates. The belief in spectre laundresses is universal in Brittany. ROBIN REDBREAST. Long, long ago, ere the acorns were sown which have since furnished timber for the oldest vessels of the port of Brest, there lived in the parish of Guirek a poor widow called Ninorc'h Madek. Her father, who was very wealthy and of noble race, had left at his death a manor-house, with a farm, a mill, and a forge, twelve horses and twice as many oxen, twelve cows and ten times as many sheep, to say nothing of corn and flax. But Ninorc'h was a helpless widow, and her brothers took the whole for themselves. Perrik, the eldest, kept the house, the farm, and the horses; Fanche, the second, took the mill and the cows; whilst the third, whose name was Riwal, had the oxen, the forge, and the sheep. Nothing was left for Ninorc'h but a doorless shed on the open heath, which had served to shelter the sick cattle. However, as she was getting together her little matter of furniture, in order to take possession of her new abode, Fanche pretended to take pity upon her, and said, "Come, I will deal with you like a brother and a Christian. Here is a black cow; she has never come to much good, and, indeed, gives scarce milk enough to feed a new-born babe; but you may take her with you, if you will, and May-flower can look after her upon the common." May-flower [33] was the widow's daughter, now in her eleventh year, and had been called after the colourless blossom of the thickets from her unusually pale complexion. So Ninorc'h went away with her pallid little girl, who led the poor lean cow by an old cord, and she sent them out upon the common together. There May-flower stayed all day, watching her black cow, which with much ado contrived to pick a little grass between the stones. She spent her time in making little crosses with blossoms of the broom, [34] or in repeating aloud her Rosary and her favourite hymns. One day, as she was singing the "Ave Maris Stella," as she had heard it at Vespers in the church of Guirek, all at once she noticed a little bird perched upon one of the flower-crosses she had set in the earth. He was warbling sweetly, and turned his head from side to side, looking at her as if he longed to speak. Not a little surprised, she gently drew near and listened, but without being able to distinguish any meaning in his song. In vain he sang louder, flapped his wings, and fluttered about before May-flower. Not a whit the wiser was she for all this; and yet such pleasure did she take in watching and listening to him, that night came on without her being able to think of any thing else. At last the bird flew away; and when she looked up to see what had become of him, she saw the stars twinkling in the sky. With all speed she started off to look for her cow, but to her dismay it was nowhere to be found upon the common. In vain she called aloud, in vain she beat the bushes, in vain she went down into each hollow where the rainwater had formed a pool. At last she heard her mother's voice, calling her, as if some great misfortune had happened. All in a fright, she ran up to her, and there, at the edge of the heath, on the way homeward, she found the widow beside all that remained of the poor cow,--her horns, that is, and her bones, the latter well picked by the wolves, which had sallied forth from the neighbouring woods and made a meal of her. At this sight May-flower felt her blood run cold. She burst into tears, for she loved the black cow she had tended so long, and falling on her knees exclaimed, "Blessed Virgin, why did you not let me see the wolf? I would have scared him away with the sign of the cross; I would have repeated the charm that is taught to shepherd-boys who keep their flocks upon the mountains,-- 'Art thou wolf, St. Hervé shend [35] thee! Art thou Satan, God defend me!'" [36] The widow, who was a very saint for piety and resignation, seeing the sorrow of the little girl, sought to comfort her, saying, "It is not well to weep for the cow as for a fellow-creature, my poor child; if the wolves and wicked men conspire against us, the Lord God will be on our side. Come, then, help me up with my bundle of heath, and let us go home." May-flower did as she said, but sighed at every step, and the big tears trickled down her cheeks. "My poor cow!" said she to herself, "my poor, good, gentle cow! and just, too, as she was beginning to fatten a little." The little girl had no heart for supper, and many times awakened in the night, fancying that she heard the black cow lowing at the door. With very restlessness she rose before the dawn, and ran out upon the common, barefooted and but half-dressed. There, at the selfsame spot, appeared the little bird again, perched as before on her broom-flower cross. Again he sang, and seemed to call her. But, alas, she was as little able as on the preceding evening to understand him, and was turning away in vexation, when she thought she saw a piece of gold glittering on the ground. To try what it really was, she moved it with her foot; but, lo, it was the gold-herb; and no sooner had she touched it than she distinctly understood the language of the little bird, [37] saying in his warbling, "May-flower, I wish thee well. May-flower, listen to me." "Who are you?" said May-flower, wondering within herself that she could understand the language of an unbaptised creature. "I am Robin Redbreast," returned the bird. "It was I that followed the Saviour on His way to Calvary, and broke a thorn from the crown that was tearing His brow. [38] To recompense this act, it was granted to me by God the Father that I should live until the day of judgment, and that every year I might bestow a fortune upon one poor girl. This year I have chosen you." "Can this be true, Robin Redbreast?" cried May-flower, in a transport of delight. "And shall I have a silver cross for my neck, and be able to wear wooden shoes?" "A cross of gold shall you have, and silken slippers shall you wear, like a noble damsel," replied Robin Redbreast. "But what must I do, dear kind Robin?" said the little maid. "Only follow me." It may well be supposed that May-flower had no objection to make; so Robin Redbreast flew before, and she ran after him. On they went; across the heath, through the copses, and over the fields of rye, till at last they came to the open downs over against the Seven Isles. There Robin stopped, and said to the little girl, "Seest thou aught on the sands down there?" "I see," replied May-flower, "a great pair of beechen shoes that the fire has never scorched, and a holly-staff that has not been hacked by the sickle." "Put on the shoes, and take up the staff." It was done. "Now walk upon the sea to the first island, and go round it till thou shalt come to a rock on which grow sea-green rushes." "What then?" "Gather some of the rushes, and twist them into a cord." "Well, and then?" "Then strike the rock with the holly-staff, and there will come forth from it a cow. Make a halter of the rushen cord, and lead her home to console thy mother for the one just lost." All that Robin Redbreast had told her, May-flower did. She walked upon the sea; she made the cord of rushes; she struck the rock, and there came out from it a cow, with eyes as soft as a stag-hound's, and a skin sleek as that of the mole that burrows in the meadows. May-flower led her home to her poor mother, whose joy now was almost greater than her former sorrow. But what were her sensations when she began to milk Mor Vyoc'h! [39] (for so had Robin Redbreast named the creature). Behold, the milk flowed on and on beneath her fingers like water from a spring! Ninorc'h had soon filled all the earthen vessels in the house, and then all those of wood, but still the milk flowed on. "Now, holy Mother save us!" cried the widow, "certainly this beast has drunk of the waters of Languengar." [40] In fact, the milk of Mor Vyoc'h was inexhaustible; she had already yielded enough to satisfy every babe in Cornouaille. In a little time nothing was talked of throughout the country but the widow's cow, and people crowded from all parts to see it. The rector of Peros-Guirek came among the rest, to see whether it were not a snare of the evil one; but after he had laid his stole upon Mor Vyoc'h's head, he pronounced her clear of all suspicion. Before long all the richest farmers were persuading Ninorc'h to sell her cow, each one bidding against the other for so invaluable a beast; her brother Perrik among the rest. "Come," said he, "I am your brother; as a good Christian you must give me the preference. Let me have Mor Vyoc'h, and I will give you in exchange as many cows as it takes tailors to make a man." [41] "Is that your Christian dealing?" answered the widow. "Nine cows for Mor Vyoc'h! She is worth all the cows in the country, far and near. With her milk I could supply all the markets in the bishoprics of Tréguier and Cornouaille, from Dinan to Carhaix." "Well, sister, only let me have her," replied Perrik, "and I will give up to you our father's farm, on which you were born, with all the fields, ploughs, and horses." This proposal Ninorc'h accepted, and was forthwith put in possession, turning up a sod in the meadows, taking a draught of water from the well, and kindling a fire on the hearth; besides cutting a tuft of hair from the horses' tails in token of ownership. [42] She then delivered Mor Vyoc'h to Perrik, who led her away to a house which he had at some distance, towards Menez-Brée. A day of tears and sadness was that for May-flower; and as at night she went the round of the stalls to see that all was right, she could not help again and again murmuring, as she filled the mangers, "Alas, Mor Vyoc'h is gone! I shall never see Mor Vyoc'h again." With this lament still on her lips, she suddenly heard a lowing behind her, in which, as by virtue of the gold-herb her ears were now open to the language of all animals, she distinctly made out these words, "Here I am again, my little mistress," May-flower turned round in astonishment, and there indeed was Mor Vyoc'h. "Oh, can this indeed be you?" cried the little girl. "And what, then, has brought you back?" "I cannot belong to your uncle Perrik," said Mor Vyoc'h, "for my nature forbids me to remain with such as are not in a state of grace; so I am come back to be with you again as before." "But then my mother must give back the farm, the fields, and all that she has received for you." "Not so; for it was already hers by right, and had been unjustly taken from her by your uncle." "But he will come to see if you are here, and will know you again." "Go and gather three leaves of the cross-wort, [43] and I will tell you what to do." May-flower went, and soon returned with the three leaves. "Now," said Mor Vyoc'h, "pass those leaves over me, from my horns to my tail, and say 'St. Ronan of Ireland!' three times." May-flower did so; and as she called on the saint for the third time, lo, the cow became a beautiful horse. The little girl was lost in wonder. "Now," said the creature to her, "your uncle Perrik cannot possibly know me again; for I am no longer Mor Vyoc'h, but Marc'h-Mor." [44] On hearing what had come to pass, the widow was greatly rejoiced; and early on the morrow proceeded to make trial of her horse with a load of corn for Tréguier. But guess her astonishment when she found that the more sacks were laid on Marc'h-Mor's back the longer it grew; so that he alone could carry as much wheat as all the horses in the parish. The tale of the widow's wonderful horse was soon noised about the neighbourhood, and among the rest her brother Fanche heard of it. He therefore lost no time in proceeding to the farm; and when he had seen Marc'h-Mor, begged his sister to part with him, which, however, she would by no means consent to do till Fanche had offered her in exchange his cows and his mill, with all the pigs that he was fattening there. The bargain concluded, Ninorc'h took possession of her new property, as she had done at the farm; and Fanche led away Marc'h-Mor. But in the evening there he was again; and again May-flower gathered three leaves of cross-wort, stroked him over with them three times from his ears to his tail, repeating each time St. Ronan of Ireland! as she had done before to Mor Vyoc'h. And, lo, in a moment the horse changed into a sheep covered with wool as long as hemp, as red as scarlet, and as fine as dressed flax. Full of admiration at this new miracle, the widow came to behold it; and no sooner was she within sight than she called to May-flower, "Run and fetch a pair of shears; for the poor creature cannot bear this weight of wool." But when she began to shear Mor-Vawd, she found the wool grow as fast as she cut it off; so that he alone far out-valued all the flocks of Arhèz. Riwal, who chanced to come by at that moment, was witness of the wonder; and then and there parted with his forge, his sheep-walks, and all his sheep, to obtain possession of the wonderful sheep. But see! As he was leading his new purchase home along the sea-shore, the sheep suddenly plunged in the water, swam to the smallest of the seven isles, and passed into a chasm of the rocks, which opened to receive it, and straight-way closed again. This time May-flower expected him back at the usual hour in vain. Neither that night nor on the morrow did he revisit the farm. The little girl ran to the common. There she found Robin Redbreast, who thus spoke, before he flew away for ever: "I have been waiting for you, my little lady. The sheep is gone, and will return no more. Your uncles have been punished after their deserts. For you, you are now a rich heiress, and may wear a cross of gold and silken slippers, as I promised you. My work here is done, and I am about to fly away far hence. Only, do you remember always, that you have been poor, and that it was one of God's little birds that made you rich." To prove her gratitude, May-flower built a chapel on the heath, on that very spot where Robin Redbreast first addressed her. And the old men, from whom our fathers heard this tale, could remember lighting the altar-candles there when they were little boys. COMORRE. In the old times, it is said that the city of Vannes was far larger and finer than it is in our days, and that instead of a prefect, it was ruled by a king, whose will was law. I do not know what his name was; but from all I have heard, it seems that he was a man who lived in the fear of God, and of whom no one had ever found occasion to speak an evil word. He had been early left a widower; and he lived happily with his only daughter, said to be the most beautiful creature in the whole world. She was called Tryphyna, and those who knew her have asserted that she came of age unsullied by a single mortal sin. So that the king her father would have willingly sacrificed his horses, castles, and farms, rather than see Tryphyna made unhappy. However, it came to pass, that one day ambassadors from Cornouaille were announced. They came on the part of Comorre, a powerful prince of those times, who ruled over the land of Black-Wheat as Tryphyna's father ruled that of the White. [45] After offering presents of honey, flax, and a dozen of little pigs, to the king, they informed him that their master had visited the last fair at Vannes disguised as a soldier, and there beholding the beauty and modesty of the young princess, he had determined at all hazards to have her in marriage. This proposal filled both the king and Tryphyna with great grief; for the Count Comorre was a giant, and said to be the wickedest man that had ever been on the earth since the days of Cain. From his earliest youth he had been used to find his only pleasure in working mischief; and so malicious was he, that his mother herself had been accustomed to run and ring the alarm-bell whenever he left the castle, to warn the country people to take care of themselves. When older, and his own master, his cruelty was greater still. It was said that one morning, on his way out, he tried his gun upon a lad tending a colt at pasture, and killed him. And at other times, when returning unsuccessful from the chase, he would let loose his dogs upon the poor peasants in the fields, and suffer them to be pulled down like beasts of prey. But, most horrible of all, he had married four wives in succession, each of whom had died off suddenly without receiving the last Sacraments; and it was even said that he had made away with them by the knife, fire, water, or poison. So the King of Vannes replied to the ambassadors that his daughter was too young and too weak in health to think of marrying. But Comorre's people answered roughly, after their manner, that the Count Comorre would listen to no such excuses, and that they had received orders, if the young princess was not sent back with them, to declare war against the King of Vannes. The king replied, that they must do as they liked about that. Then the most aged among the envoys lighted a handful of straw, which he flung to the winds, declaring that thus should the anger of Comorre pass over the country of White-Wheat; and so they departed. [46] Tryphyna's father, being a courageous man, did not allow himself to be disheartened by this threat, and called together all the soldiers he could muster to defend his territories. But in a few days he heard that the Count of Cornouaille was advancing upon Vannes with a powerful army; and it was not long before he came in sight with trumpets and cannons. Then the king put himself at the head of his people, and the battle was on the point of beginning; when St. Veltas [47] came to find Tryphyna, who was praying in her oratory. The saint wore the cloak which had served him as a vessel for crossing the sea, and carried the walking-staff which he had fastened to it as a mast to catch the wind. A halo of glory hovered round his brow. He announced to the young princess that the men of Vannes and Cornouaille were on the point of shedding each other's blood, and asked her whether she would not stay the death of so many Christians by consenting to become the wife of Count Comorre. "Alas, then, God demands from me the death of all my peace and happiness," cried the young girl, weeping. "Why am I not a beggar? I could then at least be wedded to the beggar of my choice. Ah, if it is indeed the will of God that I espouse this giant, whom I dread so much, say for me, holy man, the Office for the Dead; for the count will kill me, as he has his other wives." But St. Veltas replied, "Fear nothing, Tryphyna. See here this ring of silver, white as milk; it shall serve you as a warning; for so surely as Comorre is plotting any thing against you, it will become as black as the crow's wing. Take courage, then, and save the Bretons from death." The young princess, reassured by this present of the ring, consented to St. Veltas's request. Then the saint hurried without loss of time towards the opposed armies, that he might announce the good tidings to their chiefs. The King of Vannes, notwithstanding his daughter's resolution, was very unwilling to consent to the marriage; but Comorre promised so fairly, that at last he accepted him as son-in-law. The nuptials were celebrated with such festivities as have never been seen since within the two dioceses. The first day six thousand noble guests sat down to table; and on the second they received as many poor, whom the bride and bridegroom, forgetful of their rank, waited on at table, with napkins on their arms. [48] Then there was dancing, at which all the musicians of Lower Brittany were engaged; and wrestling-matches, in which the men of Brévelay contended with those of Cornouaille. At last, when all was over, every one went home to his own country; and Comorre carried off with him his young bride, as a sparrow-hawk that has pounced upon a poor little yellow-hammer. However, during the first few months his affection for Tryphyna softened him more than might have been expected. The castle-dungeons remained empty, and the gibbets held no pasture for foul birds of prey. The count's people whispered low, "What ails our lord, then, that he thirsts no more for tears and blood?" But those who knew him better waited and said nothing. Tryphyna herself, notwithstanding the count's kindness towards her, could never feel easy or happy in her mind. Every day she went down to the castle-chapel, and there, praying on the tombs of Comorre's four dead wives, she besought God to preserve her from a violent death. About this time a grand assembly of Breton princes took place at Rennes, and Comorre was obliged to join it. He gave into Tryphyna's keeping all the castle keys, even those of the cellars; told her to amuse herself as she liked best, and set out with a great retinue. It was five months before he returned, full of anxiety to see Tryphyna, of whom he had thought often during his absence. And in his haste, unwilling to lose time by announcing his arrival, he rushed up into her room, where she was at that moment engaged in making an infant's cap, trimmed with silver-lace. On seeing the cap, Comorre turned pale, and asked for what it was designed. The countess, thinking to rejoice his heart, assured him that they would shortly have a child; but at this news the Prince of Cornouaille drew back in horror, and after looking at Tryphyna with a dreadful countenance, went suddenly out, not speaking a word. The princess might have taken this for one of the count's frequent caprices, had she not perceived, on casting down her eyes, that the silver ring had turned black. She uttered a cry of terror; for she remembered the words of St. Veltas, and knew that she must be in imminent peril. But she knew not wherefore, neither could she tell how to escape it. Poor woman! all day long, and during part of the night, she employed herself in pondering what could be the reason of the count's displeasure; and at last, her heart growing heavier, she went down into the chapel to pray. But scarcely had she finished her rosary, and risen to depart, when the hour of midnight struck. At that instant she beheld the four grave-stones of Comorre's four wives rise slowly up, and they themselves come out swathed in their funeral shrouds. Tryphyna, more dead than alive, would have escaped; but the phantoms called to her: "Take care, poor lost one; Comorre waits to kill thee." "Me!" cried the countess; "and how have I offended, that he seeks my death?" "You have told him you will shortly be a mother; and he knows, thanks to the evil one, that his first child will be his destroyer. Therefore it was that he took our lives also." "My God! and have I fallen into hands so cruel?" cried Tryphyna, weeping. "If it is so, what hope remains for me? what can I do?" "Go back to your father in the land of White-Wheat," said the phantoms. "How can I fly?" returned the countess; "the giant dog of Comorre guards the gate." "Give to him this poison, which killed me," said the first. "How can I get down the high wall?" asked the young wife. "Let yourself down by this cord, which strangled me," replied the second. "But who will direct me through the darkness?" asked the princess. "This fire, which consumed me," replied the third. "How can I take so long a journey?" once more asked Tryphyna. "Make use of this staff, which crushed my temples," said the last. Comorre's wife took the staff, the torch, the cord, and the poison. She silenced the dog, she scaled the lofty wall, she penetrated the darkness, and took the road to Vannes, where her father dwelt. Comorre, not being able to find her the next morning when he rose, sent his page to search for her in every chamber; but the page returned with the tidings that Tryphyna was no longer in the castle. Then the count went up the donjon-tower, and looked out to the four winds. To the north he saw a raven that croaked; to the sunrise a swallow on the wing; to the south a wailing sea-mew; and to the west a turtle-dove that sped away. He instantly exclaimed that Tryphyna was in that direction; and having his horse saddled, set out in pursuit. His unfortunate wife was still upon the border of the wood which surrounded the count's castle; but she was warned of his approach by seeing the ring grow black. Then she turned aside over the common, and came to the cabin of a poor shepherd, whose sole possession was an old magpie hanging in a cage. The poor lady lay concealed there the whole day, bemoaning herself and praying; and when night came on, she once more set forth along the paths which skirt the fields of flax and corn. Comorre, who had kept to the high road, could not find her; and after travelling two days, he returned the same way as far as the common. But there, as ill-luck would have it, he entered the shepherd's hut, and heard the magpie trying to recall the melancholy wailings it had listened to, and murmuring, "Poor Tryphyna! poor Tryphyna!" Then Comorre knew the countess had passed by that way, and calling his hunting-dog, set him on the track, and began to pursue her. Meanwhile Tryphyna, pressed by terror, had walked on unresting, and was already drawing near to Vannes. But at last she felt herself unable to proceed; and turning into a wood, lay down upon the grass, where she gave birth to a son miraculously lovely, who was afterwards called St. Trever. As she held him in her arms, and wept over him, half sorrowfully and half in joy, she perceived a falcon ornamented with a collar of gold. He was perched upon a neighbouring tree; and she knew him for her father's bird, the king of the land of White-Wheat. Calling him quickly by his name, the bird came down upon her knees; and giving him the warning-ring she had received from St. Veltas, she said, "Fly, falcon, hasten to my father's court, and carry him this ring. When he sees it, he will know I am in urgent danger, and will order his soldiers to horse. It is for you to lead them hither to save me." The bird understood, and taking the ring, flew like a flash of lightning in the direction of Vannes. But almost at the same instant Comorre came in sight with his stag-hound, who had incessantly tracked Tryphyna; and as she had no longer the ring to forewarn her of approaching danger, she remained unconscious of it till she heard the tyrant's voice cheering on his dog. Terror froze the marrow in her bones, and she had only just time to wrap the infant in her mantle and hide it in the hollow of a tree, when Comorre appeared upon his horse at the entrance of the pathway. Seeing Tryphyna, he uttered a cry like that of a wild-beast, and throwing himself upon the unhappy victim, who had sunk upon her knees, he severed her head from her shoulders by one stroke of his hunting-knife. Believing himself now at once rid of mother and child, he whistled back his dog, and set off on his return to Cornouaille. Now the falcon arrived at the court of the King of Vannes, who was then dining; and hovering over the table, let fall the silver ring into his master's cup. He had no sooner recognised it, than he exclaimed: "Woe is me, some misfortune must have befallen my daughter, since the falcon brings me back her ring. Let the horses be made ready, and let St. Veltas be our companion; for I fear we shall but too soon stand in need of his assistance." The servants obeyed promptly; and the king set forth with the saint, who had come at his prayer, and a numerous retinue. They put their horses to their full speed, and followed the course of the flying falcon, who led them to the glade where lay the dead Tryphyna and her living child. The king then threw himself from his horse, and uttered cries that might have made the very oaks to weep; but St. Veltas silenced him. "Hush!" said he, "and join with me in prayer to God; He can even yet repair all." With these words, he knelt down with all those who were present, and after addressing a fervent prayer to Heaven, he said to the dead body, "Arise!" Tryphyna obeyed. "Take thine head and thy child," added the saint, "and follow us to the castle of Comorre." It was done as he commanded. Then the terrified escort took horse once more, and spurred onwards towards Cornouaille. But however rapidly they rode, Tryphyna was ever in advance; holding her son upon her left arm, and her head on her right. And thus they came before the castle of the murderer. Comorre, who saw them coming, caused the drawbridge to be raised. St. Veltas drew near the moat, and exclaimed, with a loud voice, "Count of Cornouaille, I bring thee back thy wife, such as thy wickedness has made her; and thy son, as God has bestowed him on thee. Wilt thou receive them beneath thy roof?" Comorre was silent. St. Veltas repeated the same words a second, then a third time; but still no voice replied. Taking, therefore, the infant from his mother's arms, he placed him on the ground. Then was beheld a miracle which proved the Omnipotence of God; for the child walked alone, and boldly, to the edge of the moat, whence gathering a handful of the sand, he flung it towards the castle, crying out, "God is just!" At that instant the towers shook with a great tumult, the walls gaped open, and the whole castle sank down in ruins, burying the Count of Cornouaille, and all those who had abetted him in sin. St. Veltas then replaced the head of Tryphyna on her shoulders, and laying his hands upon her, the holy woman came back to life; to the great content of the King of Vannes, and of all who were there present. NOTE. According to the legend of Albert de Morlaix, Comorre was not buried in the castle ruins, but succeeded in making his escape; but, at the instance of Guerok, the Breton Bishops met in council "to cut off this rotten branch from the body of the Church. They assembled at the mountain called Menez-Brée, near Louargat, between Belle Isle and Guingamp, not daring to meet in any town, through the terror inspired by this tyrant; who, having killed King Johava, and his son Jugduval, did what he pleased throughout the whole of the Low Country" (Basse Bretagne). The Bishops thundered from their place of meeting a deadly excommunication against Comorre; who shortly after, according to the historian Le Bault, suffered the punishment of Arius; or, as others say, "vomited forth at the same instant his blood and his soul." THE GROAC'H OF THE ISLE OF LOK. [49] Every one who knows the land of the Church (Lanillis), knows also that it is one of the loveliest parishes in the diocese of Léon. To say nothing of green crops and corn, its orchards are famed from all time for apples sweeter than the honey of Sizun, and plum-trees of which every blossom ripens into fruit. As for the marriageable maidens, they are all models of discretion and housewifery; at least so say their nearest relations, who of course know them best. In olden times, when miracles were as common in these parts as christenings and burials now, there dwelt in Lanillis a young man called Houarn Pogamm, and a damsel whose name was Bellah Postik. They grew up together in love, as in age and stature; but every one that they had to care for them being dead, one after the other, and they left portionless, the two poor orphans were at last obliged to go into service. They ought, indeed, to have been happy, for they served the same master; but lovers are like the sea, that murmurs ever. "If we had only enough to buy a little cow and a lean pig," said Houarn, "I would take a bit of land of our master; and then the good father should marry us, and we would go and live together." "Yes," replied Bellah, with a deep sigh; "but the times are so hard. The cows and pigs were dearer than ever at Ploudalmazeau the last fair. Providence must surely have given up caring for the world." "I am afraid we shall have to wait a long time," said the young man; "for I never get the last glass of the bottle when I drink with the rest of them." "Very long," replied the maiden; "for I never can hear the cuckoo." Day after day it was the same story; till at last Houarn was quite out of patience. So one morning he came to Bellah, as she was winnowing some corn in the threshing-floor, and told her how he had made up his mind that he would set out on his travels to seek his fortune. Sadly troubled was the poor girl at this resolve, and she said all she could to dissuade him from it; but Houarn, who was a determined young fellow, would not be withheld. "The birds," said he, "fly hither and thither till they have found a field of corn, and the bees till they meet with flowers that may yield them honey; is it for man to be less reasonable than the winged creatures? I also will go forth on my quest; what I want is but the price of a little cow and a lean pig. If you love me, Bellah, you will no longer oppose a project which is to hasten our marriage." Bellah could not but acknowledge that there was reason in his words; so with a sigh and a yearning heart she said, "Go then, Houarn, with God's blessing, if it must be so; but first let me share with you my family relics." She led him to her cupboard, and took out a little bell, a knife, and a staff. "There," said she, "these are immemorial heirlooms of our family. This is the bell of St. Kolédok. Its sound can be heard at any distance, however great, and will give immediate notice to the possessor's friends should he be in any danger. The knife once belonged to St. Corentin, and its touch dissolves all spells, were they of the arch-fiend himself. Lastly, here is the staff of St. Vouga, which will lead its possessor whithersoever he may desire to go. I will give you the knife to defend you from enchantments, and the little bell to let me know if you are in peril; the staff I will keep, that I may be able to join you, should you need my presence." Houarn accepted with thanks his Bellah's gifts, wept awhile with her, as belongs to a parting, and set out towards the mountains. But it was then just as it is now, and in all the villages through which he passed, the traveller was beset by beggars, to whom any one with whole garments was a man of rank and fortune. "By my faith," thought he, "this part of the country seems fitter for spending a fortune than for making one: I must go farther." He went onwards therefore towards the west, till at last he arrived at Pontaven, a pretty town, built upon a river bordered with poplars. There, as he sat at the inn-door, he overheard two carriers, who, as they loaded their mules, were talking together of the Groac'h of the Isle of Lok. Houarn inquired who or what that might be; and was told that it was the name of a fairy who inhabited the lake in the largest of the Glénans, [50] and who was said to be as rich as all the kings of the earth together. Many had been the treasure-seekers that had visited her island, but not one of them had ever returned. The thought came suddenly into Houarn's mind that he too would try the adventure. The muleteers did all they could to dissuade him. They were so loud in their remonstrances, that they collected quite a crowd about him, crying out that it was downright unchristian to let him run into destruction in that way; and the people would even have kept him back by force. Houarn thanked them for the interest they manifested in his welfare, and declared himself ready to give up his design, if only they would make a collection amongst them which would enable him to buy a little cow and a lean pig; but at this proposition the muleteers and all the others drew back, simply repeating that he was an obstinate fellow, and that it was of no use talking to him. So Houarn repaired to the sea-shore, where he took a boat, and was carried to the Isle of Lok. He had no difficulty in finding the pond, which was in the centre of the island, its banks fringed by sea-plants with rose-coloured flowers. As he walked round, he saw lying at one end of it, shaded by a tuft of broom, a sea-green canoe, which floated on the unruffled waters. It was fashioned like a swan asleep, with its head under its wing. Houarn, who had never seen any thing like it before, drew nearer with curiosity, and stepped into the boat that he might examine it the better; but scarcely had he set foot within it when the swan seemed to awake, its head started from amongst the feathers, its wide feet spread themselves to the waters, and it swam rapidly from the bank. The young man gave a cry of alarm, but the swan only made the more swiftly for the middle of the lake; and just as Houarn had decided on throwing himself from his strange bark, and swimming for the shore, the bird plunged downward head foremost, drawing him under the water along with it. The unfortunate Léonard, who could not cry out without gulping down the unsavoury water of the pool, was silent by necessity, and soon arrived at the Groac'h's dwelling. It was a palace of shells, far surpassing in beauty all that can be imagined. It was entered by a flight of crystal steps, each stair of which, as the foot pressed it, gave forth a concert of sweet sounds, like the song of many birds. All around stretched gardens of immense extent, with forests of marine plants, and plots of green seaweed, spangled with diamonds in the place of flowers. The Groac'h was reclining in the entrance-hall upon a couch of gold. Her dress was of sea-green silk, exquisitely fine, and floating round her like the waves that wrapped her grotto. Her black locks, intertwined with coral, descended to her feet; and the white and red of her brilliant complexion blended as in the polished lining of some Indian shell. Dazzled with a sight at once so fair and unexpected, Houarn stood still; but with a winning smile the Groac'h rose, and came forward to meet him. So easy and flowing were her movements, that she seemed like a snowy billow heaving along the sea, as she advanced to greet the young Léonard. "You are welcome," said she, beckoning him with her hand to enter; "there is always room here for all comers, especially for handsome young men." At this gracious reception Houarn somewhat recovered himself, and entered the hall. "Who are you? Whence come you? What seek you?" continued the Groac'h. "My name is Houarn," replied the Léonard; "I come from Lanillis; and I am in quest of the wherewithal to buy a little cow and a lean pig." "Well, come in, Houarn," said the fairy; "and dismiss all anxiety from your mind; you shall have every thing to make you happy." While this was passing she had led him into a second hall, the walls of which were covered with pearls; where she set before him eight different kinds of wine, in eight goblets of chased silver. Houarn made trial of each, and found all so much to his taste, that he repeated his draught of each eight times; while ever as the cup left his lips, the Groac'h seemed still fairer than before. She meanwhile encouraged him to drink, telling him he need be in no fear of robbing her, for that the lake in the Isle of Lok communicated with the sea, and that all the treasures swallowed up by shipwrecks were conveyed thither by a magic current. "I do not wonder," cried Houarn, emboldened at once by the wine and the manner of his hostess, "that the people on shore speak so badly of you; in fact, it just comes to this, that you are rich, and they are envious. For my part, I should be very well content with the half of your fortune." "It shall be yours if you will, Houarn," said the fairy. "How can that be?" he asked. "My husband, the Korandon, is dead," she answered, "so that I am now a widow; if you like me well enough, I will become your wife." Houarn quite lost his breath for very wonderment. For him to marry that beautiful creature! to dwell in that splendid palace! and to drink to his heart's content of the eight sorts of wine! True, he was engaged to Bellah; but men easily forget such promises,--indeed, for that they are just like women. So he gallantly assured the fairy that one so lovely must be irresistible, and that it would be his pride and joy to become her husband. Thereupon the Groac'h exclaimed that she would forthwith make ready the wedding-feast. She spread a table, which she covered with all the delicacies that the Léonard had ever heard of, besides a great many unknown to him even by name; and then proceeding to a little fish-pond at the bottom of the garden, she began to call, and at each call up swam a fish, which she successively caught in a steel net. When the net was full, she carried it into the next room, and threw all the fish into a golden frying-pan. But it seemed to Houarn as though there was a whispering of little voices amidst the hissing of the pan. "What is that whispering in the frying-pan, Groac'h?" he asked. "It is the crackling of the wood," said she, stirring the fire. An instant after the little voices again began to murmur. "What is that murmuring, Groac'h?" asked the bridegroom. "It is the butter in the frying-pan," she answered, giving the fish a toss. But soon the little voices cried yet louder. "What is that cry, Groac'h?" said Houarn. "It is the cricket in the hearth," replied the fairy; and she began to sing, so that the Léonard could no longer hear any thing but her voice. But he could not help thinking on what he had noticed: and thought brought fear, and fear, of course, repentance. "Alas!" he cried, "can it then be possible that I have so soon forgotten Bellah for this Groac'h, who is no doubt a child of Satan? With her for my wife, I shall not even dare to say my prayers at night, and shall be as sure to go to hell as an exciseman." While he thus communed with himself, the fairy brought in the fried fish, and pressed him to eat, while she went to fetch him twelve new sorts of wine. Houarn sighed, took out his knife, and prepared to begin; but scarcely had the spell-destroying blade touched the golden dish, when all the fish rose up in the form of little men, each one clad in the proper costume of his rank and occupation. There was a lawyer with his bands, a tailor in blue stockings, a miller all white with flour, and so on; all crying out at once, as they swam in the melted butter,-- "Houarn, save us, if thou wouldst thyself be saved." "Holy Virgin! what are these little men singing out from amongst the melted butter?" cried the Léonard, in bewilderment. "We are Christians like thyself," they answered. "We too came to seek our fortunes in the Isle of Lok; we too consented to marry the Groac'h; and the day after the wedding she did with us as she had done with all our predecessors, of whom the fish-pond in the garden is full." "What!" cried Houarn, "a creature so young and fair, and yet so wicked?" "And thou wilt soon be in the same condition, subject thyself to be fried and eaten by some new-comer." Houarn gave a jump, as though he felt himself already in the golden frying-pan, and ran towards the door, thinking only how he might escape before the Groac'h should return. But she was already there, and had heard all; her net of steel was soon thrown over the Léonard, who found himself instantly transformed into a frog, in which guise the fairy carried him to the fish-pond, and threw him in, to keep her former husbands company. At this moment the little bell, which Houarn wore round his neck, tinkled of its own accord; and Bellah heard it at Lanillis, where she was busy skimming the last night's milk. The sound struck upon her heart like a funeral knell; and she cried aloud, "Houarn is in danger!" And without a moment's delay, without asking counsel of any as to what she should do, she ran and put on her Sunday clothes, her shoes and silver cross, and set out from the farm with her magic staff. Arrived where four roads met, she set the stick upright in the ground, murmuring in a low voice,-- "List, thou crab-tree staff of mine! By good St. Vouga, hear me! O'er earth and water, through air, 'tis thine Whither I will to bear me!" And lo, the stick became a bay nag, dressed, saddled, and bridled, with a rosette behind each ear, and a blue feather in front. Bellah mounted, and the horse set forward; first at a walking pace, then he trotted, and at last galloped, and that so swiftly, that ditches, trees, houses, and steeples passed before the young girl's eyes like the arms of a spindle. But she complained not, feeling that each step brought her nearer to her dear Houarn; nay, she rather urged on her beast, saying, "Less swift than the swallow is the horse, less swift the swallow than the wind, the wind than the lightning; but thou, my good steed, if thou lovest me, outstrip them all in speed: for a part of my heart is suffering; the better half of my own life is in danger." The horse understood her, and flew like a straw driven by the whirlwind till he arrived in the country of Arhés, at the foot of the rock called the Stag's Leap. But there he stood still, for never had horse scaled that precipice. Bellah, perceiving the cause of his stopping, renewed her prayer: "Once again, thou courser mine, By good St. Vouga, hear me! O'er earth and water, through air, 'tis thine Whither I will to bear me!" She had hardly finished, when a pair of wings sprang from the sides of her horse, which now became a great bird, and in this shape flew away with her to the top of the rock. Strange indeed was the sight that here met her eyes. Upon a nest made of potter's clay and dry moss squatted a little korandon, [51] all swarthy and wrinkled, who, on beholding Bellah, began to cry aloud, "Hurrah! here is the pretty maiden come to save me!" "Save thee!" said Bellah. "Who art thou, then, my little man?" "I am Jeannik, the husband of the Groac'h of the Isle of Lok. She it was that sent me here." "But what art thou doing in this nest?" "I am sitting on six stone eggs, and I cannot be free till they are hatched." Bellah could not keep herself from laughing. "Poor thing!" said she; "and how can I deliver thee?" "By first saving Houarn, who is in the Groac'h's power." "Ah, tell me how I may do that!" cried the orphan girl, "and not a moment will I lose in setting about my part in the matter, though I should have to make the circuit of the four dioceses upon my bare knees." "Well, then, there are two things to be done," said the korandon. "The first, to present thyself before the Groac'h as a young man; and the next, to take from her the steel net which she carries at her girdle, and shut her up in it till the day of judgment." "And where shall I get a suit of clothes to fit me, korandon?" "Thou shalt see." And with these words the little dwarf pulled out four hairs from his foxy poll, and blew them to the winds, muttering something in an under-tone, and lo, the four hairs became four tailors, of whom the first held in his hand a cabbage, the second a pair of scissors, the third a needle, and the last a smoothing goose. All the four seated themselves cross-legged round the nest, and began to prepare a suit of clothes for Bellah. Out of one cabbage-leaf they made a beautiful coat, laced at every seam; of another they made a waistcoat; but it took two leaves for the trunk-breeches, such as are worn in the country of Léon; lastly, the heart of the cabbage was shaped into a hat, and the stalk was converted into shoes. Thus equipped, Bellah would have passed any where for a handsome young gentleman in green velvet lined with white satin. She thanked the korandon, who added some further instructions; and then her great bird flew away with her straight to the Isle of Lok. There she commanded him to resume the form of a crab-stick; and entering the swan-shaped boat, arrived safely at the Groac'h's palace. The fairy was quite taken at first sight with the velvet-clad young Léonard. "Well," quoth she to herself, "you are the best-looking young fellow that has ever come to see me; and I do think I shall love you for three times three days." And she began to make much of her guest, calling her her darling, and heart of hearts. She treated her with a collation; and Bellah found upon the table St. Corentin's knife, which had been left there by Houarn. She took it up against the time of need, and followed the Groac'h into the garden. There the fairy showed her the grass-plots flowered with diamonds, the fountains of perfumed waters, and, above all, the fish-pond, wherein swam fishes of a thousand colours. With these last Bellah pretended to be especially taken, so that she must needs sit down upon the edge of the pond, the better to enjoy the sight of them. The Groac'h took advantage of her delight to ask her if she would not like to spend all her days in this lovely place. Bellah replied that she should like it of all things. "Well, then, so you may, and from this very hour, if you are only ready at once to marry me," proceeded the fairy. "Very well," replied Bellah; "but you must let me fetch up one of these beautiful fishes with the steel net that hangs at your girdle." The Groac'h, nothing suspecting, and taking this request for a mere boyish freak, gave her the net, saying with a smile, "Let us see, fair fisherman, what you will catch." "Thee, fiend!" cried Bellah, throwing the net over the Groac'h's head. "In the name of the Saviour of men, accursed sorceress, become in body even as thou art in soul!" The cry uttered by the Groac'h died away in a stifled murmur, for the exorcism had already taken effect; the beautiful water fay was now nothing more than the hideous queen of toadstools. In an instant Bellah drew the net, and with all speed threw it into a well, upon which she laid a stone sealed with the sign of the cross, that it might remain closed till the tombs shall be opened at the last day. She then hastened back to the pond; but all the fish were already out of it, coming forth to meet her, like a procession of many-coloured monks, crying in their little hoarse voices, "Behold our lord and master! who has delivered us from the net of steel and the golden frying-pan." "And who will also restore you to your shape of Christians," said Bellah, drawing forth the knife of St. Corentin. But as she was about to touch the first fish, she perceived close to her a frog, with the magic bell hung about his neck, and sobbing bitterly as he knelt before her. Bellah felt her bosom swell, and she exclaimed, "Is it thou, is it thou, my Houarn, thou lord of my sorrow and my joy?" "It is I," answered the youth. At a touch with the potent blade he recovered his proper form, and Bellah and he fell into each other's arms, the one eye weeping for the past, the other glistening with the present joy. She then did the like to all the fishes, who were restored each of them to his pristine shape and condition. The work of disenchantment was hardly at an end, when up came the little korandon from the Stag's-Leap rock. "Here I am, my pretty maiden," cried he to Bellah: "the spell which held me where you saw me is broken, and I am come to thank you for my deliverance." He then conducted the lovers to the Groac'h's coffers, which were filled with precious stones, of which he told them to take as many as they pleased. They both loaded their pockets, their girdles, and their hats; and when they had as much as they could carry, they departed, with all whom she had delivered from the enchantment. The banns were soon published, and Houarn and Bellah were married. But instead of a little cow and a lean pig, he bought all the land in the parish, and put in as farmers the people he had brought with him from the Isle of Lok. THE FOUR GIFTS. If I had an income of three hundred crowns, I would go and dwell at Quimper; the finest church in Cornouaille is to be found there, and all the houses have weather-vanes upon their roofs. If I had two hundred crowns a year, I would live at Carhaix, for the sake of its heath-fed sheep and its game. But if I had only one hundred, I would set up housekeeping at Pontaven, for there is the greatest abundance of every thing. At Pontaven they sell butter at the price of milk, chickens for that of eggs, and linen at the same rate as you can buy green flax. So that there are plenty of good farms there, where they dish up salt pork at least three times a week, and where the very shepherds eat as much rye-bread as they desire. In such a farm lived Barbaik Bourhis, a spirited woman, who had maintained her household like a man, and who had fields and stacks enough to have kept two sons at college. But Barbaik had only a niece, whose earnings far outweighed her keep, so that every day she laid by as much as she could save. But savings too easily acquired have always their bad side. If you hoard up wheat, you attract rats into your barns; and if you lay by crowns, you will engender avarice in your heart. Old Mother Bourhis had come at last to care for nothing but the increase of her hoards, and think nothing of any one who did not happen to pay heavy sums each month to the tax-gatherers. So she was angry when she saw Dénès, the labourer of Plover, chatting with her niece behind the gable. One morning, after thus surprising them, she cried to Tephany in step-mother tones, "Are not you ashamed to be always chattering thus with a young man who has nothing, when there are so many others who would gladly buy for you the silver ring?" "Dénès is a good workman and a thorough Christian," replied the damsel. "Some day he will be able to rent a farm where he may rear a family." "And so you would like to marry him?" interrupted the old woman. "God save us! I would sooner see you drowned in the well than married to that vagabond. No, no, it shall never be said that I brought up my own sister's child to be the wife of a man who can carry his whole fortune in his tobacco-pouch." "What matters fortune when we have good health, and can ask the Blessed Virgin to look down on our intentions?" replied Tephany gently. "What matters fortune!" replied the fermière, scandalised. "What! have you come to such a length as to despise the wealth that God has given us? May all the saints take pity on us! Since this is the case, you bold-faced thing, I forbid you ever to speak again to Dénès; and if I catch him at this farm again, it will be the worse for you both; and meanwhile go you down to the washing-place, and wash the linen, and spread it out to dry upon the hawthorn; for since you've had one ear turned towards the wind from Plover, every thing stands still at home, and your two arms are worth no more than the five fingers of a one-armed man." Tephany would have answered, but in vain. Mother Bourhis imperiously pointed out to her the bucket, the soap, and the beetle, and ordered her to set off that very instant. The girl obeyed, but her heart swelled with grief and resentment. "Old age is harder than the farm-door steps," thought she to herself; "yes, one hundred times harder, for the rain by frequent falling wears away the stones; but tears have no power to soften the will of old people. God knows that talking with Dénès was the only pleasure I had. If I am to see him no more, I might as well leave the world at once; and our good angel was always with us. Dénès has done nothing but teach me pretty songs, and talk about what we shall do when we are married, in a farm, he looking after the fields, and I managing the cattle." Thus talking to herself, Tephany had reached the douez. Whilst setting down her tub of linen upon one of the white lavatory stones, she became aware of an old woman, a stranger, sitting there, leaning her head upon a little scorched thorn-stick. Notwithstanding her vexation, Tephany saluted her. "Is my aunt [52] taking the air under the alders?" said she, moving her load farther off. "One must rest where one can, when one has the roof of heaven for a shelter," answered the old woman, in a trembling voice. "Are you, then, so desolate?" asked Tephany compassionately; "is there no relation left who can offer you a refuge at his fireside?" "Every one is long since dead," replied the stranger; "and I have no other family than all kind hearts." The maiden took the piece of rye-bread rubbed with dripping which Barbaik had given her in a bit of linen with her beetle. "Take this, poor aunt," said she, offering it to the beggar. "To-day, at least, you shall dine like a Christian on our good God's bread; only remember in your prayers my parents, who are dead." The old woman took the bread, then looked at Tephany. "Those who help others deserve help themselves," said she. "Your eyes are red, because Barbaik has forbidden you to speak to the lad from Plover; but he is a worthy youth, whose intentions are good, and I will give you the means of seeing him once every day." "You!" cried the girl, astonished that the beggar was so well informed. "Take this long copper-pin," replied the crone; "and every time you stick it in your dress, Mother Bourhis will be forced to leave the farm, and go to count her cabbages. All the time this pin remains where you stick it, you will be at liberty; and your aunt will not return until the pin is put back into this étui." With these words the beggar rose, nodded a farewell, and disappeared. Tephany was lost in astonishment. Evidently the old woman was no beggar, but a saint, or a singer of truth. [53] At any rate, the young girl treasured the pin carefully, well determined to try its power the next day. Towards the time, then, at which Dénès was accustomed to make his appearance, she set it in her collar. Barbaik instantly put on her wooden shoes, and walked off into the garden, where she set herself to count her cabbages; from the garden she went to the orchard, and from the orchard to the field, so that Tephany could talk with Dénès at her ease. It was the same the next day, and the next, through many weeks. As soon as the pin made its appearance from the étui, the good woman was off amongst her cabbages, always beginning to count once more how many little or big, embossed or curly cabbages [54] she had. Dénès at first appeared enchanted at this freedom, but by degrees he grew less eager to avail himself of it. He had taught Tephany all his songs; he had told her all his plans; now he was forced to consider what he could talk to her about, and make it up beforehand, like a preacher preparing his sermon. And more than that, he came later, and went earlier away; sometimes even, pretending cartage, weeding, or errands to the town detained him, he came not to the farm at all; and Tephany had to console herself with her pin. She understood that the love of her betrothed was cooling, and became more sorrowful than before. One day, after vainly waiting for the youth, she took her pitcher, and went all solitary to the fountain, her heart swelling with displeasure. When she reached it, she perceived the same old woman who had given her the magic pin. There she sat, near the spring; and watching Tephany as she advanced, she began with a little chuckling laugh, "Ah, ah! then the pretty girl is no longer satisfied to chatter with her humble servant any hour of the day." "Alas, to chat, I must be with him," replied Tephany mournfully; "and custom has made my company less agreeable to him. Oh, aunt, since you have given me the means of seeing him every day, you might give me at the same time wit enough to keep my hold upon him." "Is that what my daughter wants?" said the old woman. "In that case, here is a feather; let her but put it in her hair, and no one can resist her, for she will be as clever and as cunning as Master John [55] himself." Tephany, reddening with delight, carried off the feather; and just before Dénès' visit on the following day, she stuck it under her blue rozarès. [56] That very instant it appeared to her as if the sun rose in her mind; she found herself acquainted with what students spend ten years in learning, and much that even the very wisest know nothing of; for with the science of a man, she still preserved the malice of a woman. Dénès was of course astonished at her words; she talked in rhyme like the bazvalanes [57] of Cornouaille, she knew more songs than the mendicants from Scaër, and could tell all the stories current at the forges and the mills throughout the country. The young man came day after day, and Tephany found always something new to tell him. Dénès had never met man or woman with so much wit; but after enjoying it for a time, he began to be scared by it. Tephany had not been able to resist putting in her feather for others than him; her songs, her sayings, were repeated every where, and people said, "She is a mischievous creature; he who marries her is sure to be led like a bridled horse." The Plover lad repeated in his own mind the same predictions; and as he had always thought that he would rather hold than wear the bridle, he began to laugh with more constraint at Tephany's jests. One day, when he wanted to be off to a dance in a new threshing-floor, the maiden used her utmost efforts to retain him; but Dénès, who did not choose to be led, would not listen to her reasons, and repulsed her entreaties. "Ah, I see why you are so anxious to go to the new barn," said Tephany, with irritation; "you are going to see Aziliçz of Penenru there." Aziliçz was the handsomest girl in the whole canton; and, if her good friends told truth, she was the greatest flirt. "To tell the truth, Aziliçz will be there," said Dénès, who delighted in piquing the jealousy of his dearly-beloved; "and to see her any one would go a long round." "Go, then, where your heart draws you," said the wounded damsel. And she returned to the farm without hearing a word more he had to say. But seating herself, overwhelmed with sadness, on the broad hearth-stone, she gave herself up to earnest thought; and then flinging the wondrous feather from her, she exclaimed, "Of what use is wit and cleverness for maidens, since men rush towards beauty as the flies to sunshine! Ah, what I want, old aunt, is not to be the wisest, but the fairest on the earth." "Be thou also, then, the fairest," uttered an unexpected voice. Tephany turned round astonished, and saw at the door the old woman with her thorn-stick, who thus spoke: "Take this necklace, and so long as you shall wear it round your neck, you shall appear amongst all other women as the queen of the meadow amidst wild flowers." Tephany could not repress a cry of joy. She hastened to put on the necklace, rushed to her little mirror, and there stood dumb with admiration. Never had any girl been at once so fair and so rosy, so lovely to look upon. Anxious to judge instantly of the effect which her appearance would produce on Dénès, she decked herself out in her finest dress, her worsted stockings, and her buckled shoes, and took her way towards the new barn. But just as she reached the cross-road, she met a young lord in his coach, who, the instant he caught sight of her, desired the coachman to stop. "By my life," cried he, in admiration, "I had no idea there was such a beautiful creature as this in the country; and if it were to cost me my life, she must bear my name." But Tephany replied, "Go on, good sir, go on your way; I am but a poor peasant-girl, accustomed to winnow, milk, and mow." "But I will make a noble lady of you," cried the young lord; and taking her hand, he tried to lead her to his coach. The maiden drew back. "I will only be the bride of Dénès, the Plover labourer," said she, with resolution. The lord still insisted; but when he found that she went towards the ditch to fly away across the meadows, he desired his footmen to seize her, and put her by force into the coach, which then set off at full gallop. In about an hour's time they reached the castle, which was built of carved stone, and was covered with slate, like all noble mansions. The young lord ordered them to go and fetch a priest to perform the marriage ceremony; and as meanwhile Tephany would not hear a word he had to say, and kept trying to run away, he made them shut her up in a great hall closed by three doors well bolted, and desired his servants to guard her well. But by means of her pin Tephany sent them all into the garden to count cabbages; by her feather she discovered a fourth door concealed in the panneling, whereby she escaped; and then fervently committing herself to Providence, she scampered away through the woods like a hare who hears the dogs behind her. As long as she had any strength left, on she went, until the night began to close around her. Then, perceiving the turret of a convent, she went up to the little grated door, and ringing the bell, begged for a night's shelter; but on seeing her the portress shook her head. "Go away, go away," said she; "there is no place here for young girls so beautiful as you, who wander all alone at this hour of night along the roads." And closing the wicket, she went away without listening to another word. Forced to go further on, Tephany stopped at a farm-door, where there were several young men and women talking together, and made the same request as at the convent. The mistress of the house hesitated what answer to make; but all the young men, dazzled by Tephany's beauty, cried out each one that he would take her to his father's house, and every one endeavoured to outbid his neighbour in their offers. One said that he would take her in a wagon and three horses, lest she should be tired; another promised her the best bed; and a third declared that she should sit down at table with the family. At last, from promises they came to quarrelling, and from quarrelling to blows; until the women, frightened, began to abuse Tephany, telling her it was an infamous shame to come with her charms to put dissensions amongst men in that way. The poor girl, quite beside herself, tried to run away; but all the young men set off after her. Just then she all at once remembered her necklace, and taking it from her neck slipped it round that of a sow who was cropping the buttercups. In an instant the charm that drew the youths towards her died away, and they began to pursue the beast instead, which fled away in terror. Tephany still went on in spite of her fatigue, and came at last to her aunt's farm, worn out with weariness, but still more with grief. Her wishes had brought her so little satisfaction, that she passed many days without making another. However, Dénès' visits grew more and more uncertain; he had undertaken to clear a warren, and there he toiled from morning until night. When the young girl regretted seeing so little of him, he had always to reply that his labour was their sole resource; and that if people want to spend their time in talking together, they must needs have legacies or dowries. Then Tephany began to complain and to desire. "God pardon me," said she, in a low voice; "but what I ought to ask for is not liberty to see Dénès every day, for he soon gets tired of it; nor wit, for it scares him; nor beauty, for it brings upon me trouble and mistrust; but rather wealth, for then one can be master of oneself and others. Ah, if I dared to make yet one petition more of the old aunt, I would be wiser than I was before." "Be satisfied," said the voice of the old beggar, though Tephany perceived her not. "Feel in your right pocket, and you will find a little box; rub your eyes with the ointment it contains, and you will have a treasure in yourself." The young girl hastily felt in her pocket, found the box, opened it, and began to rub her eyes as she had been desired, when Barbaik Bourhis entered. She who, in spite of herself, had now for some time past consumed whole days in cabbage-counting, and who saw all the farm-work fallen into arrears, was only waiting an occasion for visiting her wrath upon somebody. Seeing her niece sitting down doing nothing, she clasped her hands and cried, "That's the way, then, that the work goes on whilst I am in the fields. Ah, I am surprised no longer that we are all going to ruin. Are you not ashamed, you wretch, to plunder food in this way from your kith and kin?" Tephany would have excused herself; but Barbaik's rage was like milk heating on a turf-fire--let but the first bubble rise, and all mounts upwards and boils over; from reproaches she came to threats, and from threats to a box on the ear. Tephany, who had borne every thing patiently till then, could no longer restrain her tears; but guess her astonishment when she perceived that every tear was a beautiful and shining fair round pearl. Mother Bourhis, who made the same discovery, uttered loud cries of admiration, and set herself to pick them up. Dénès, who came in at that instant, was no less surprised. "Pearls! real pearls!" he exclaimed, catching them. "It will make our fortune," said Barbaik, continuing to pick them up. "Ah, what fairy has bestowed this gift upon her? We must take good care lest it gets noised abroad, Dénès; I will give you a share, but only you. Go on, my girl, go on; you also shall be benefited by this opportunity." She held her apron, and Dénès his hat; the pearls were all he thought of, forgetful they were tears. Tephany, choking with emotion, would have escaped; but the old woman stopped her, reproaching her with wishing to defraud them, and saying all she could to make her cry the more. The young girl compelled herself with violent effort to control her sorrow, and to wipe her eyes. "It's all over already," cried Barbaik. "Ah, Blessed Virgin, can one be so weak-minded! If I had such a gift as that, I would no more think of stopping than the great fountain on the Green Road. Hadn't we better beat her a little, and try again?" "No," interrupted Dénès, "for fear we should exhaust her the first time. I will set forth this moment for the town, and there find out how much each pearl is worth." Barbaik and he went out together, reckoning the value as nearly as they could, and deciding beforehand how they should divide it, forgetting Tephany completely in the matter. As for her, she clasped her two hands upon her heart, and raised her eyes towards heaven; but her look was intercepted by the aged beggar, who, leaning on her staff in the duskiest corner of the hearth, was watching her with mocking eye. The maiden trembled; and seizing the pin, the feather, and the box of ointment given her by the crone, "Take back, take back," she cried, "your fatal gifts. Woe to all those who cannot be content with what they have received from God! He had gifted me according to His own wise appointment, and I madly was dissatisfied with my portion. Give others liberty, wit, beauty, and wealth. For me, I neither am, nor will be, other than the simple girl of former days, loving and serving her neighbours to the utmost of her power." "Well said, Tephany," cried the old woman. "Thou hast come out from the trial; but let it do thee good. The Almighty has sent me to bestow this lesson on thee; I am thy guardian angel. Now that thou hast learned this truth, thou wilt live more happily; for God has promised peace to hearts of good will." With these words the beggar changed into an angel glittering with light; and shedding through the farm a scent of violets and of incense, vanished like a flash of lightning. Tephany forgave Dénès his willingness to make merchandise of her tears. Become now more reasonable, she accepted happiness as we find it on this earth; and she was married to the lad of Plover, who proved through all his life a good husband and a first-rate workman. THE PALACE OF THE PROUD KING. The children slumber sweetly in their curtained beds; the brown dog snores upon the broad hearth-stone; the cows chew the cud behind their screen of broom; and the fading fire-light quivers on the grandsire's old arm-chair. This is the time, dear friends, when we should make the sign of the cross, and murmur a prayer in secret for the souls of those that we have loved. Hark! midnight is striking from St. Michael's church,--midnight of Holy Pentecost. This is the hour when all true Christians lay down their heads upon their quiet pillows, content with that which God has given them, and sleep, lulled by the gentle breathing of their slumbering children. But as for Perik Skoarn, no little children had he. He was a daring young fellow, but as yet quite solitary. When he saw the gentry from the neighbourhood coming to Mass on Sundays, he envied them their handsome horses with the silver-plated bridles, their velvet mantles, and their embroidered silken hose. He longed to be as rich as they were, that he also might have a seat covered with red leather in the church, and be able to carry the fair farmers' daughters to the fair seated on his horse's crupper. This is the reason Perik walked upon Lew-Dréz, at the foot of St. Efflam's down, whilst all good Christians slept upon their beds, watched over by the Holy Virgin. Perik is a man hungering after greatness and luxury. The longings of his heart are countless, like the nests of the sea-swallows in the sandy cliffs. The waves sighed sadly in the dark horizon; the crabs fed silently upon the bodies of the drowned; the wind that whistled in the rocks of Roch-Ellas mimicked the call-cry of the smugglers of Lew-Dréz; but Skoarn still paced the shore. He looked upon the mountain, and recalled the words of the old beggar at Yar Cross. That old man knew all that had happened in these parts, when these our ancient oaks hung yet as acorns on their parent trees, and our oldest ravens still slumbered in the egg. Now the old beggar of Yar had told him, that here, where now stretch the downs of St. Efflam, a famous city formerly extended; its ships covered the wide ocean, and it was governed by a king, whose sceptre was a hazel-wand that fashioned every thing according to his wish. But the king and all his people were punished for their pride and iniquity; for one day, by God's command, the strand rose upwards like the bubbling of a boiling flood, and so engulfed the guilty city. But every year, upon the night of Pentecost, a passage opens through the mountain with the first stroke of twelve o'clock, and shows an entrance to the monarch's palace. The all-powerful hazel-wand may be discovered hanging in the furthest hall of this magnificent abode; but those who seek it must make haste, for as the final stroke of midnight sounds upon the ear, the passage closes once again, to open no more until the following Pentecost. Skoarn had well remembered all the tale of the old beggar at the Cross of Yar, and for this reason he treads at such unwonted hour the sands of the Lew-Dréz. At length a sharp stroke came dashing from the belfrey of St. Michael. Skoarn trembled; he looked eagerly, by the pale starlight, at the granite mass which heads the mountain, and beheld it slowly open, like the jaws of an awakening dragon. Skoarn rushed into the passage, which at first seemed dark, but gradually gleamed with a blue light, like that which hovers nightly over church-yard graves; and thus he found his way into a mighty palace, the marble front of which was sculptured like the church of Folgoat or of Quimper-on-the-Odet. The first hall he entered was all full of chests heaped, like the corn-bins after harvest, with the purest silver; but Perik Skoarn wanted more than silver, and he passed it through. The clock sounded the sixth stroke of midnight. He found a second hall, set round with coffers crammed with gold, as stable-racks are crammed with blossoming grass in the sweet month of June. But Skoarn wanted something better still, and he went on. The seventh stroke sounded. The third hall to which he came had baskets flowing over with white pearls, like milk in the broad dairy-pans of Cornouaille in the early spring. Skoarn would gladly have had some of these; but he heard the eighth stroke sounding, and he hurried on. The fourth hall was all glittering with diamond caskets, shedding brighter light than all the furzy piles upon the hillocks of Douron on St. John's eve. Skoarn was dazzled, and hesitated for a moment; then rushed into the last hall as he heard the church-clock for the ninth time. But there he stood still suddenly with wondering admiration. In front of the hazel-wand, which hung in full sight at the further end, were ranged a hundred maidens most fair to look upon; they held in one hand wreaths of the green oak, and in the other cups of glowing wine. Skoarn had resisted silver, gold, pearls, and diamonds; but he was overpowered by the vision of these beauteous maidens, and he stood still to gaze at them, and at the sparkling cups they presented to him. The tenth stroke sounded, and he heard it not; the eleventh, and he still stood motionless. At last, just as he was about to hold out his hand to receive the cup from the maiden next to him, the twelfth was heard, as mournful as the great gun of a ship at wreck among the breakers. Then Perik, terrified, would fain have turned, but time for him was over. The doors all closed, the hundred fair young girls were now so many granite statues, and all was once more folded up in darkness. This is the way our fathers tell the tale of Skoarn. You see now what will happen to a youth who suffers his heart too readily to open at seduction's voice. May all the young take warning by his fate. It is well to walk sometimes with eyes cast downwards to the earth, for fear we should be led into the paths of evil and sin. THE PIPER. The sea-breeze blew from the shore of the Black Water, and the stars were rising. The young maidens had gone homewards to the little farms, carrying on their fingers the metal rings their friends had bought them at the fair. The youths went across the common, singing their songs. At last their sonorous voices could no more be heard; the light dresses of the damsels were no longer to be seen; it was night. Nevertheless, here was Lao, with a merry company, at the entrance of the lonely heath,--Lao, the celebrated piper, come expressly from the mountains to lead the dance at the fair of Armor. His face was as red as a March moon, his black locks floated as they would upon the wind, and he held under his arm the pipe whose magic sounds had even set in motion a number of old women in their sabots. When they came to the cross-road of the Warning, where there rises the granite cross all overgrown with moss, the women stopped, and said, "Let us take the pathway leading towards the sea." Master Lao pointed out the belfry-tower of Plougean over the hill, and said, "That is the point we are making for; why not go across the heath?" The women answered, "Because there rises a city of Korigans, Lao, in the middle of that heath; and one must be pure from sin to pass it without danger." But Lao laughed aloud. "By heaven!" said he, "I have travelled by night-time all these roads, yet I have never seen your little black men counting their money by moonlight, as they tell us at the chimney-corner. Show me the road leading to the Korigan city, and I will go and sing to them the days of the week." [58] But the women all exclaimed, "Don't tempt God, Lao. God has put some things in this world of which it is better to be ignorant, and others which we ought to fear. Leave the Korigans alone to dance about their granite dwellings." "To dance!" cried Lao. "Then the Korigans have pipers too?" "They have the whistling of the wind across the heath, and the singing of the night-bird." "Well, then," said the mountaineer, "I am determined that to-day at least they shall have Christian music. I will go across the common playing some of my best Cornouaille airs." So saying, he put his pipe to his lips, and striking up a cheerful strain, he set off boldly on the little footway that stretched like a white line across the gloomy heath. The women, terrified, made the sign of the cross, and hurried down the hill. But Lao walked straight on without fear, and played meanwhile upon his pipes. As he advanced, his heart grew bolder, his breath more powerful, and the music louder. Already had he crossed just half the common, when he saw the Menhir rising like a phantom in the night, and further on, the dwellings of the Korigans. Then he seemed to hear an ever-rising murmur. At first it was like the trickling of a rill, then like the rushing of a river, and then the roaring of the sea; and different sounds were mingled in this roar,--sometimes like stifled laughs, then furious hissing, the mutterings of low voices, and the rush of steps upon the withered grass. Lao began to breathe less freely, and his restless eyes glanced right and left over the common. It was as if the tufts of heath were moving, all seemed alive and whirling in the gloom, all took the form of hideous dwarfs, and voices were distinctly heard. Suddenly the moon rose, and Lao cried aloud. To left, to right, behind, before, every where, far as the eye could reach, the common was alive with running Korigans. Lao, bewildered, drew back to the Menhir, against which he leant; but the Korigans saw him, and came round with cries like those of grasshoppers. "It is the famous piper of Cornouaille come hither to play for the Korigans." Lao made the sign of the cross; but all the little men surrounded him, and shrieked, "Thou belongest to us, Lao. Pipe then, thou famous piper, and lead the dance of the Korigans." Lao in vain resisted, some magic power mastered him; he felt the pipe approach his lips; he played, he danced, in spite of himself. The Korigans surrounded him with circling bands, and every time he would have paused they cried in chorus, "Pipe, famous piper, pipe, and lead the dance of the Korigans." Lao went on thus the whole night; but as the stars grew paler in the sky, the music of his pipes waxed fainter, his feet had greater difficulty in moving from the ground. At last the dawn of day spread palely in the east, the cocks were heard crowing in the distant farms, and the Korigans disappeared. Then the mountain piper sunk down breathless at the foot of the Menhir. The mouth-piece of his pipes fell from his shrivelled lips, his arms dropped upon his knees, his head upon his breast, to rise no more; and voices murmured in the air, "Sleep, famous piper! thou hast led the dance of the Korigans; thou shalt never lead the dance for Christians more." THE WHITE INN. Once upon a time there was an inn at Ponthou, known, from its appearance, as the White Inn. The people who kept it were both good and honest. They were known to be punctual at their Easter duties, and no one ever thought of counting money after them. It was at the White Inn that travellers would stop to sleep; and horses knew the place so well, that they would draw up of their own accord before the stable-door. The headsman of the harvest [59] had brought in short gloomy days; and one evening, as Floc'h the landlord was standing at the White-Inn door, a traveller, evidently of importance, and mounted on a splendid foreign steed, reined up his horse, and lifting his hand to his hat, said courteously, "I want a supper and a bed-chamber." Floc'h drew first his pipe from his mouth, and then his hat from his head, and answered, "God bless you, sir, a supper you shall have; but as to a room, we cannot give it you; for we have now above, six muleteers on their way home to Redon, who have taken all the beds of the White Inn." The traveller then said, "For God's sake, my good man, contrive for me to sleep somewhere. The very dogs have a kennel, and it is not fitting that Christians be without a bed in such weather as this." "Sir stranger," said the host remorsefully, "I can only tell you that the inn is full, and we have no place for you but the red room." "Well, give me that," replied the stranger. But the landlord rubbed his forehead and looked grieved; for he could not let the traveller sleep in the red chamber. "Since I have been at the White Inn," said he at last, "only two men have ever occupied that room; and on the morrow, black as had been their hair the night before, they rose with it snow-white." The traveller looked full at the landlord. "Then your house is haunted by the spirits from another world?" asked he. "It is," faltered the landlord. "Then God and the Blessed Virgin be merciful to me. I will sleep there; but make me a fire, and warm my bed; for I am cold." The landlord did as he was ordered. When the traveller had finished supper, he bade good night to all at table, and went up to the red chamber. The landlord and his wife trembled, and began to pray. The stranger having reached his room began to look about him. It was a large flame-coloured chamber, with great shining stains upon the walls, that might well have been taken for the marks of fresh-spilt blood. At the further end there stood a four-post bed, surrounded by heavy curtains. The rest of the room was empty; and the mournful whistling of the wind came down the chimney and the corridors, and sounded like the cries of souls beseeching prayers. The traveller, kneeling down, prayed silently to God, then fearlessly got into bed, and soon slept soundly. But, lo, at the very moment when the hour of midnight sounded from a distant church-tower, he suddenly awoke, heard the curtain-rings sliding on their iron poles, and beheld them open at his right hand. He was going to get out of bed; but his feet striking against something cold, he recoiled in terror. There stood before him a coffin, with four lighted candles at the corners, and covered with a great black pall that glittered as with tears. The stranger turned to try the other side of his bed; but the coffin instantly changed places, and barred his way out as before. Five times he made an effort to escape, and every time the bier was there beneath his feet, with the candles and the funeral pall. The traveller then knew it was a ghost, who had some boon to ask; and kneeling up in bed, he made the holy sign, and spoke: "Who art thou, departed one? Speak. A Christian listens to thee." A voice answered from the coffin, "I am a traveller murdered here by those who kept this inn before its present owner. I died unprepared, and now I suffer in Purgatory." "What needs there, suffering soul, to give thee rest?" "I want six Masses said at the church of our Lady of Folgoat, and also a pilgrimage made for my intention by some Christian to our Lady of Rumengol." No sooner had these words been uttered than the lights went out, the curtains closed, and all was silence. The stranger spent the night in prayer. The next morning he told the landlord every thing, and said, "My good friend, I am M. de Rohan, of family as noble as the noblest now in Brittany. I will go and make the pilgrimage to Rumengol, and I will see that the six Masses shall be said. Trouble yourself no more; for this suffering soul shall rest in peace." Within the short space of one month the red room had lost its crimson hue, and become white and cheerful as the others. No sound was heard there but the swallows twittering in the chimney, and nothing could be seen but a fair white bed, a crucifix, and a vessel of holy water. The traveller had kept his word. PERONNIK THE IDIOT. [60] You cannot surely have failed, some time or other, to meet by chance some of those poor idiots, or innocents, whose utmost wisdom scarcely serves to lead them as beggars from door to door in quest of daily bread. One might almost fancy they were straying calves who have lost their way home. They stare all round with open eyes and mouth, as if in search of somewhat; but, alas, that they seek is not plentiful enough in these parts to be found upon the highways--for it is common sense. Peronnik was one of these poor idiots, to whom the charity of strangers had been in place of father or of mother. He wandered ever onwards unconscious whither; when he was thirsty, he drank from wayside springs; when hungry, he begged stale crusts from the women he saw standing at their doors; and when in need of sleep, he looked out for a heap of straw, and hollowed himself out a nest in it like a lizard. As to any knowledge of a trade, Peronnik had, indeed, never learnt one; but for all that he was skilful enough in many matters: he could go on eating as long as you desired him to do so; he could outsleep any one for any length of time; and he could imitate with his tongue the song of larks. There is many a one now in these parts who cannot do so much as this. At the time of which I am telling you (that is, many a hundred years ago and more), the land of White-Wheat was not altogether what you see it nowadays. Since then many a gentleman has devoured his inheritance, and cut up his forests into wooden shoes. Thus the forest of Paimpont extended over more than twenty parishes; some say it even crossed the river, and went as far as Elven. However that may be, Peronnik came one day to a farm built upon the border of the wood; and as the Benedicite bell had long since rung in his stomach, he drew near to ask for food. The farmer's wife happened at that moment to be kneeling down on the door-sill to scrape the soup-bowl with her flint-stone; [61] but when she heard the idiot's voice asking for food in the name of God, she stopped and held the kettle towards him. "Here," she cried, "poor fellow, eat these scrapings, and say an 'Our Father' for our pigs, that nothing on earth will fatten." Peronnik seated himself on the ground, put the kettle between his knees, and began to scrape it with his nails; but it was little enough he could succeed in finding, for all the spoons in the house had already done their duty upon it. However, he licked his fingers, and made an audible grunt of satisfaction, as if he had never tasted any thing better. "It is millet-flour," said he, in a low voice,--"millet-flour moistened with the black cow's milk, [62] and by the best cook in the whole Low Country." The farmer's wife, who was going by, turned round delighted. "Poor innocent," said she, "there is little enough of it left; but I will add a scrap of rye-bread." And she brought the lad the first cutting of a round loaf just out of the oven. Peronnik bit into it like a wolf into a lamb's leg, and declared that it must have been kneaded by the baker to his lordship the Bishop of Vannes. The flattered peasant replied, that was nothing to the taste of it when spread with fresh-churned butter; and to prove her words, she brought him some in a little covered saucer. After taking this, the idiot declared that this was living butter, not to be excelled by butter of the White Week itself; [63] and to give greater force to his words, he poured over his crust all that the saucer contained. But the satisfaction of the farmer's wife prevented her from noticing this; and she added to what she had already given him a lump of dripping left from the Sunday soup. Peronnik praised every mouthful more and more, and swallowed every thing as if it had been water from a spring; for it was very long since he had made so good a meal. The farmer's wife went and came, watching him as he ate, and adding from time to time sundry scraps, which he took, making each time the sign of the cross. Whilst thus employed in recruiting himself, behold a knight appeared at the house-door, and addressing himself to the woman, asked her which was the road to Kerglas castle. "Heavens! good gentleman," exclaimed the farmer's wife, "are you going there?" "Yes," replied the warrior; "and I have come from a land so distant for this purpose, that I have been travelling night and day these three months to get so far on my way." "And what are you come to seek at Kerglas?" asked the Breton woman. "I am come in quest of the golden basin and the diamond lance." "These two are, then, very valuable things?" asked Peronnik. "They are of more value than all the crowns on earth," replied the stranger; "for not only will the golden basin produce instantaneously all the dainties and the wealth one can desire, but it suffices to drink therefrom to be healed of every malady; and the dead themselves are raised to life by touching it with their lips. As to the diamond lance, it kills and overthrows all that it touches." "And to whom do this diamond lance and golden basin belong?" asked Peronnik, bewildered. "To a magician called Rogéar, who lives in the castle of Kerglas," answered the farmer's wife. "He is to be seen any day near the forest pathway, riding along upon his black mare followed by a colt of three months' old; but no one dares to attack him, for he holds the fearful lance in his hand." "Yes," replied the stranger; "but the command of God forbids him to make use of it within the castle of Kerglas. So soon as he arrives there, the lance and the basin are deposited at the bottom of a dark cave, which no key will open; therefore, it is in that place I propose to attack the magician." "Alas, you will never succeed, my good sir," replied the peasant woman. "More than a hundred gentlemen have already attempted it; but not one amongst them has returned." "I know that, my good woman," answered the knight; "but they had not been instructed as I have by the Hermit of Blavet." "And what did the Hermit tell you?" asked Peronnik. "He warned me of all that I shall have to do," replied the stranger. "First of all, I shall have to cross an enchanted wood, wherein every kind of magic will be put in force to terrify and bewilder me from my way. The greater number of my predecessors have lost themselves, and there died of cold, hunger, or fatigue." "And if you succeed in crossing it?" said the idiot. "If I get safely through it," continued the gentleman, "I shall meet a Korigan armed with a fiery sword, which lays all it touches in ashes. This Korigan keeps watch beside an apple-tree, from which it is necessary that I should gather one apple." "And then?" said Peronnik. "Then I shall discover the laughing flower, and this is guarded by a lion whose mane is made of vipers. This flower I must also gather; after which I must cross the lake of dragons to fight the black man, who flings an iron bowl that ever hits its mark and returns to its master of its own accord. Then I shall enter on the valley of delights, where every thing that can tempt and stay the feet of a Christian will be arrayed before me, and shall reach a river with one single ford. There I shall meet a lady clad in sable whom I shall take upon my horse's crupper, and she will tell me all that remains to be done." The farmer's wife did her best to persuade the stranger that it would be impossible for him to go through so many trials; but he replied that women were incapable of judging in so weighty a matter; and after ascertaining correctly the forest entrance, he set off at full gallop, and was soon lost among the trees. The farmer's wife heaved a deep sigh, declaring that here was another soul going before our Lord for judgment; then giving some more crusts to Peronnik, she bade him go on his way. He was about to follow her advice, when the farmer came in from the fields. He had just been turning off the lad who looked after his cows at the wood-side, and was revolving in his mind how his place should be supplied. The sight of the idiot was to him as a ray of light; he thought he had happened on the very thing he sought, and after putting a few questions to Peronnik, he asked him bluntly if he would stay at the farm to look after the cattle. Peronnik would have preferred having no one but himself to look after, for no one had a greater aptitude than he for doing nothing; but the taste of the lard, the fresh butter, the rye-bread, and the millet-flour hung still sweet upon his lips; so he suffered himself to be tempted, and accepted the farmer's proposal. The good man forthwith conducted him to the edge of the forest, counted aloud all the cows, not forgetting the heifers, cut him a hazel-switch to drive them with, and bade him bring them safely home at set of sun. Behold Peronnik now established as a keeper of cattle, watching over them to see they did no mischief, and running from the black to the red, and from the red to the white, to keep them from straying out of the appointed boundary. Now whilst he was thus running from side to side, he heard suddenly the sound of horse's hoofs, and saw in one of the forest-paths the giant Rogéar seated on his mare, followed by her three-months' colt. He carried from his neck the golden basin, and in his hand the diamond lance, which glittered like flame. Peronnik, terrified, hid himself behind a bush; the giant passed close by him and went on his way. As soon as he was gone by, the idiot came out of his hiding-place, and looked down in the direction he had taken, but without being able to see which path he had followed. Well, armed knights came on unceasingly in quest of the castle of Kerglas, and not one was ever seen to return. The giant, on the contrary, took his airing every day as usual. The idiot, who had at length grown bolder, no longer thought of concealing himself when he passed, but looked after him as long as he was in sight with envious eyes; for the desire of possessing the golden basin and the diamond lance grew stronger every day within his heart. But these things, alas, were more easily desired than obtained. One day, when Peronnik was all alone in the pasture-land as usual, he saw a man with a white beard pausing at the entrance of the forest-path. The idiot took him for some fresh adventurer, and inquired if he did not seek the road to Kerglas. "I seek it not, since I already know it," replied the stranger. "You have been there, and the magician has not killed you?" exclaimed the idiot. "Because he has nothing to fear from me," replied the white-bearded old man. "I am called the sorcerer Bryak, and am Rogéar's elder brother. When I wish to pay him a visit I come here, and as, in spite of all my power, I cannot cross the enchanted wood without losing my way, I call the black colt to carry me." With these words, he traced three circles with his finger in the dust, repeated in a low tone such words as demons teach to sorcerers, and then cried, "Colt, wild, unbroken, and with footstep free,-- Colt, I am here; come quick, I wait for thee." The little horse speedily made his appearance. Bryak put him on a halter, shackled his feet, and then mounting on his back, allowed him to return into the forest. Peronnik said nothing of this adventure to any one; but he now understood that the first step towards visiting Kerglas was to secure the colt that knew the way. Unfortunately he knew neither how to trace the three circles, nor to pronounce the magic words necessary for the colt to hear the summons. Some other method, therefore, must be hit upon for making himself master of it, and, when once it was captured, of gathering the apple, plucking the laughing flower, escaping the black man's bowl, and of crossing the valley of delights. Peronnik thought it all over for a long time, and at last he fancied himself able to succeed. Those who are strong go forth clad in their strength to meet danger, and too often perish in it; but the weak compass their ends sideways. Having no hope of braving the giant, the idiot resolved to try craft and cunning. As to difficulties, he suffered them not to scare him: he knew that medlars are hard as flint-stones when first gathered, and that a little straw and much patience softens them at length. So he made all his preparations against the time when the giant usually appeared in the forest-path. First he made a halter and a horse-shackle of black hemp; a springe for taking woodcocks, moistening the hairs of it in holy water; a cloth-bag full of birdlime and lark's feathers; a rosary, an elder-whistle, and a bit of crust rubbed with rancid lard. This done, he crumbled the bread given him for breakfast along the pathway in which Rogéar, his mare, and three months' colt would shortly pass. They all three appeared at the usual hour, and crossed the pasture as on other days; but the colt, which was walking with hanging head, snuffing the ground, smelt out the crumbs of bread, and stopped to eat them, so that it was soon left alone out of the giant's sight. Then Peronnik drew gently near, threw his halter over it, fastened the shackle on two of its feet, jumped upon its back, and left it free to follow its own course, certain that the colt, which knew its way, would carry him to the castle of Kerglas. And so it came to pass; for the young horse took unhesitatingly one of the wildest paths, and went on as rapidly as the shackle would permit. Peronnik trembled like a leaf; for all the witchery of the forest was at work to scare him. One moment it seemed as if a bottomless pit yawned suddenly before his steed; the next all the trees appeared on fire, and he found himself surrounded by flames; often whilst in the act of crossing a brook, it became as a torrent, and threatened to carry him away; at other times, whilst following a little footway beneath a gentle slope, he saw huge rocks on the point of rolling down and crushing him to pieces. In vain he assured himself these were but magical delusions, he felt his very marrow grow cold with dread. At last he resolutely pulled his hat down over his eyes, and let the colt carry him blindly onwards. Thus they both came safely to a plain where all enchantment ceased, and Peronnik pushed up his cap and looked about him. It was a barren spot, and gloomier than a cemetery. Here and there might be seen the skeletons of gentlemen who had come in quest of Kerglas Castle. There they lay, stretched beside their horses, and the gray wolves still gnawing at their bones. At length the idiot entered a meadow entirely overshadowed by one single apple-tree; and this was so heavily laden with fruit, that the branches hung to the ground. Before this tree the Korigan kept watch, grasping in his hand the fiery sword which would lay all it touched in ashes. At sight of Peronnik, he uttered a cry like that of a wild bird, and raised his weapon; but, without betraying any emotion, the lad simply touched his hat politely, and said, "Don't disturb yourself, my little prince; I am only passing by on my way to Kerglas, according to an appointment the Lord Rogéar has made with me." "With you?" replied the dwarf; "and who, then, may you be?" "I am our master's new servant," said the idiot; "you know, the one he is expecting." "I know nothing of it," replied the dwarf; "and you look to me uncommonly like a cheat." "Excuse me," returned Peronnik, "such is by no means my profession; I am only a catcher and trainer of birds. But, for God's sake, don't keep me now; for his lordship, the magician, is expecting me this very moment; and has even lent me his own colt, as you see, that I may the sooner reach the castle." The Korigan saw, in fact, that Peronnik rode the magician's young horse, and began to consider whether he might not really be speaking truth. Besides, the idiot had so simple an air, that it was not possible to suspect him of inventing such a story. However, he still felt mistrust; and asked what need the magician had of a bird-catcher? "The greatest need, it seems," said Peronnik; "for, according to his account, all that ripens, whether seed or fruit, in the garden at Kerglas, is just now eaten up by birds." "And what can you do to hinder them?" asked the dwarf. Peronnik showed the little snare which he had manufactured, and declared that no bird would be able to escape it. "That is just what I will make sure of," said the Korigan. "My apple-tree is ravaged just as much by the blackbirds and thrushes. Set your snare; and if you can catch them, I will let you pass." To this Peronnik agreed; he fastened his colt to a bush, and going up to the apple-tree, fixed therein one end of the snare, calling to the Korigan to hold the other whilst he got the skewers ready. He did as the idiot requested; and Peronnik hastily drawing the running noose, the dwarf found himself caught like a bird. He uttered a cry of rage, and struggled to get free; but the springe, having been well steeped in holy water, bade defiance to all his efforts. The idiot had time enough to run to the tree, pluck an apple from it, and remount his colt, which continued its onward course. And so they came out of the plain; and behold, there lay a thicket before them, formed of the very loveliest plants. There were to be seen roses of every hue, Spanish brooms, rose-coloured honeysuckles, and, towering above all, the mysterious laughing flower; but round about the thicket stalked a lion, with a mane of vipers, rolling his eyes, and with his teeth grinding like a couple of new mill-stones. Peronnik stopped, and bowed over and over again; for he knew that in the presence of the powerful a hat is more serviceable in the hand than on the head. He wished all sorts of prosperities to the lion and his family; and requested to know if he was without mistake upon the road to Kerglas. "And what are you going to do at Kerglas?" cried the ferocious beast with a terrible air. "May it please your worship," replied the idiot timidly, "I am in the service of a lady who is a great friend of Lord Rogéar, and she has sent him something as a present to make a lark-pasty of." "Larks!" repeated the lion, licking his moustache; "it is an age since I have tasted them. How many have you got?" "This bagful, your lordship," replied Peronnik, showing the cloth-bag which he had stuffed with feathers and birdlime. And in order to verify his words, he began to counterfeit the warbling of larks. This song aggravated the lion's appetite. "Let me see," said he, drawing near; "show me your birds; I should like to know if they are large enough to be served up at our master's table." "I desire nothing so much," replied the idiot; "but if I open the bag, I am afraid they will fly away." "Half open it, just to let me peep in," said the greedy monster. This desire fulfilled Peronnik's highest hopes; he offered the bag to the lion, who poked in his head to seize the larks, and found himself smothered in feathers and birdlime. The idiot hastily drew the strings of the bag tight round his neck, making the sign of the cross over the knot, to keep it inviolable; then, rushing to the laughing flower, he gathered it, and set off as fast as the colt could go. But it was not long before he came to the dragons' lake, which he must needs cross by swimming; and scarcely had he plunged in, when they came towards him from every side to devour him. This time Peronnik troubled not himself to pull off his hat, but he began to throw out to them the beads of his rosary, as one would scatter black wheat to ducks; and at every bead swallowed one of the dragons turned over on its back and expired; so that he at length reached the opposite shore unharmed. The valley guarded by the black man had now to be crossed. Peronnik soon perceived him, chained by one foot to the rock, and holding in his hand an iron bowl, which ever returned, of its own accord, so soon as it had struck the appointed mark. He had six eyes, ranged round his head, which generally took turns in keeping watch; but at this moment it so chanced that they were every one open. Peronnik, knowing that if seen he should be struck by the iron bowl before he had the opportunity of speaking a word, resolved to creep along the brushwood. And by this means, hiding himself carefully behind the bushes, he soon found himself within a few steps of the black man, who had just sat down, and closed two of his eyes in repose. Peronnik, guessing that he was sleepy, began to chant in a drowsy voice the beginning of the High Mass. The black man at first, taken by surprise, started, and raised his head; but, as the murmur took effect upon him, a third eye closed. Peronnik then went on to intone the Kyrie eleison, in the tone of one possessed by the sleepy demon. [64] The black man closed a fourth eye, and half the fifth. Peronnik then began Vespers; but before he had reached the Magnificat, the black man slept soundly. Then the youth, taking the colt by the bridle, led it softly over mossy places; and so, passing close by the slumbering guardian, he came into the valley of delights. This was the most-to-be-dreaded place of all; for it was no longer a question of avoiding positive danger, but of fleeing from temptation. Peronnik called all the saints of Brittany to his aid. The valley through which he was now passing bore every appearance of a garden richly filled with fruits, with flowers, and with fountains; but the fountains were of wines and delicious drinks, the flowers sang with voices as sweet as those of cherubim in Paradise, and the fruits came of their own accord and offered themselves to the hand. Then at every turning of the path Peronnik beheld huge tables, spread as for a king, could scent the tempting odour of pastry drawn fresh from the oven, and see the valets apparently expecting him; whilst further off were beautiful maidens coming to dance upon the turf, who called him by his name to come and lead the ball. In vain the idiot made the sign of the cross, insensibly he slackened the pace of his colt, involuntarily he raised his face to snuff up the delicious odour of the smoking dishes, and to gaze more fixedly upon the lovely maidens; he would possibly have stopped altogether, and there would have been an end of him, if the recollection of the golden basin and the diamond lance had not all at once crossed his mind. Then he instantly began to blow his elder-whistle, that he might hear no more those soft appeals; to eat his bread well rubbed with rancid dripping, to deaden the odour of the dainty meats; and to stare fixedly on his horse's ears, that the lovely dancers might no more attract his eyes. And so he came to the end of the garden quite safely, and caught sight at last of Kerglas Castle. But the river of which he had been told still lay between it and him, and he knew that this river could only be forded in one place. Happily the colt was familiar with this ford, and prepared to enter at the right spot. Then Peronnik looked around him in quest of the lady who was to be his guide to the castle; and soon perceived her seated on a rock, clad in black satin, and her countenance as yellow as a Moor's. The idiot pulled off his hat, and asked if it was her pleasure to cross the river. "I expected thee for that very purpose," replied the lady; "draw near, that I may seat myself behind thee." Peronnik approached, took her on his horse's crupper, and began to cross the ford. He had almost reached the middle of it, when the lady said to him, "Knowest thou who I am, poor innocent?" "I beg your pardon," replied Peronnik, "but from your dress I clearly see that you are a noble and powerful lady." "As to noble, I ought to be," replied the lady, "for I can trace back my origin to the first sin; and powerful I certainly am, for all nations give way before me." "Then what is your name, may it please you, madam?" asked Peronnik. "I am called the Plague," replied the yellow woman. The idiot made a spring as if he would have thrown himself from his horse into the water; but the Plague said to him, "Rest easy, poor innocent, thou hast nothing to fear from me; on the contrary, I can be of service to thee." "Is it possible that you will be so benevolent, Madam Plague?" said Peronnik, taking his hat off, this time for good; "by the by, I now remember that it is you who are to teach me how to rid myself of the magician Rogéar." "The magician must die," said the yellow lady. "I should like nothing better," replied Peronnik; "but he is immortal." "Listen, and try to understand," said the Plague. "The apple-tree guarded by the Korigan is a slip from the tree of good and evil, set in the earthly Paradise by God Himself. Its fruit, like that which was eaten by Adam and Eve, renders immortals susceptible of death. Try, then, to induce the magician to taste the apple, and from that moment he need only be touched by me to sink in death." "I will try," said Peronnik; "but even if I succeed, how can I obtain the golden basin and the diamond lance, since they lie hidden in a gloomy cave, which cannot be opened by any key yet forged?" "The laughing flower will open every door," replied the Plague, "and can illuminate the darkest night." As she spoke these words they reached the further bank of the river, and the idiot went onwards to the castle. Now there was before the entrance-hall a huge canopy, like that which is carried over his lordship the Bishop of Vannes at the processions of the Fête Dieu. Beneath this sat the giant, sheltered from the heat of the sun, his legs crossed, like a proprietor who has gathered in his harvest, and smoking a tobacco-pipe of virgin gold. On perceiving the colt, on which sat Peronnik and the lady clad in black satin, he lifted up his head, and cried in a voice which roared like thunder, "Why this idiot is mounted on my three-months' colt!" "The very same, O greatest of all magicians," replied Peronnik. "And how did you get possession of him?" asked Rogéar. "I repeated what your brother Bryak taught me," replied the idiot. "On reaching the forest border I said, 'Colt, wild, unbroken, and with footstep free,-- Colt, I am here; come quick, I wait for thee.' and the little horse came at once." "Then you know my brother?" said the giant. "As one knows his master," replied the youth. "And what has he sent you here for?" "To bring you a present of two curiosities he has just received from the country of the Moors,--this apple of delight, and the female slave whom you see there. If you eat the first, you will always have a heart as much at rest as that of a poor man who has found a purse of a hundred crowns in his wooden shoe; and if you take the second into your service, you will have nothing left you to desire in the world." "Give me then the apple, and make the Moorish woman dismount," replied Rogéar. The idiot obeyed; but the instant the giant had set his teeth into the fruit, the yellow lady laid her hand upon him, and he fell to the ground like a bullock in the slaughter-house. Then Peronnik entered the palace, holding the laughing flower in his hand. He traversed more than fifty halls, one after the other, and came at length before the cavern with the silver door. This opened of its own accord before the flower, which also gave the idiot sufficient light to find the golden basin and the diamond lance. But scarcely had he seized them when the earth shook under his feet; a terrible clap of thunder was heard; the palace disappeared; and Peronnik found himself once more in the midst of the forest, holding his two talismans, with which he set forward instantly to the court of the King of Brittany. He only delayed long enough at Vannes to buy the richest costume he could find there, and the finest horse that was for sale in the diocese of White-Wheat. Now when he came to Nantes, this town was besieged by the Franks, who had so mercilessly ravaged the surrounding country, that there were scarcely more trees left than would serve a single goat for forage; and more than that, famine was in the city; and those soldiers died of hunger whose wounds had spared their lives. And on the very day of Peronnik's arrival, a trumpeter proclaimed aloud in every street that the King of Brittany would adopt that man as his heir who could deliver the city, and drive the enemy out of the country. Hearing this promise, Peronnik said to the trumpeter, "Proclaim no more, but lead me to the king; for I am able to do all he asks." "Thou!" said the herald, seeing him so young and small; "go on thy way, fine goldfinch; [65] the king has now no time for taking little birds from cottage-roofs." [66] By way of reply, Peronnik touched the soldier with his lance; and that very instant he fell dead, to the infinite terror of the crowd who looked on, and would have fled away; but the idiot cried, "You have just seen what I can do against my enemies; know now what is in my power for my friends." And having touched with his golden basin the dead man's lips, he rose up instantly, restored to life. The king being informed of this wonder, gave Peronnik command of all the soldiers he had left; and as with his diamond lance the idiot killed thousands of the Franks, and with his golden basin restored to life the Bretons who were slain, a very few days sufficed him for putting an end to the enemy's army, and taking possession of all their camp contained. He then proposed to conquer all the neighbouring countries, such as Anjou, Poitou, and Normandy, which cost him but very little trouble; and finally, when all were in obedience to the king, he declared his intention of setting out to deliver the Holy Land, and embarked from Nantes in a magnificent fleet, with the first nobility of the land. On reaching Palestine, he performed great deeds of valour, compelled many Saracens to be baptised, and married a fair maiden, by whom he had many sons and daughters, to each of whom he gave wealth and lands. Some even say that, thanks to the golden basin, he and his sons are living still, and reign in this land; but others maintain that Rogéar's brother, the magician Bryak, has succeeded in regaining possession of the two talismans, and that those who wish for them have only--to seek them out. NOTE ON THE TALE OF "PERONNIK THE IDIOT." It seems almost impossible not to recognise in the story of Peronnik the Idiot traces of that tradition which has given birth to one of the epic romances of the Round Table. Disfigured and overlaid with modern details as is the Breton version, the primitive idea of the Quest of the Holy Graal may still be found there pure and entire. Some explanation must be given of this. So early as the sixth century, the Gallic bards speak of a magic vase which bestows a knowledge of the future, and universal science, on its owner; in later times a popular fable tells of a golden vase possessed by Bran the Blessed, which healed all wounds, and even restored the dead to life. Other tales are told of a basin in which every desired delicacy instantly appeared. In time all these fictions become fused, and the several properties of these different vases are found united in one; the possession of which is of course naturally sought after by all great adventurers. There is still extant a Gallic poem, composed in the beginning of the twelfth century, of which the whole burden is this quest. The hero, named Perédur, goes to war with giants, lions, serpents, sea-monsters, sorcerers, and finally becomes conqueror of the basin and the lance, which is here added to the primitive tradition. Now there can be no doubt that this Gallic legend, which found its way throughout Europe, as is proved by the attempts at imitation which have been made in every language, must have been known in Brittany above all, united as it is to Gaul by a common origin and language. It must have become popular in the very form it wore when taught by the bards to the Armoricans. But besides the successive alterations which are the speedy result of oral transmission, French imitations by degrees incorporated themselves with all the primitive versions. M. de la Villemarqué has in fact observed, in his learned work on the Popular Tales of the Ancient Bretons, that when the Gallic legends were developed by the French poets, they appeared so beautified in their new costume, that the Gauls themselves abandoned the originals in favour of the imitations. Now that which is true of them is equally so of the Armoricans; and it seems to us beyond a doubt that the tradition of Perédur, which they had originally received, must have been seriously modified by the later poem of Christian of Troyes. In order to elucidate our idea, we will give a hasty analysis of this poem, which is little known, being only extant in manuscript. [67] Perceval, the last remaining son of a poor widow, whom the miseries of war had left destitute, is simple, ignorant, and boorish. His mother carefully conceals from his sight every thing that might turn his attention to the idea of war; but one day the lad meets King Arthur's knights, learns the secret so long hidden from him, and, his mind filled with nothing now but tournaments and battles, abandons his maternal roof and sets off for Arthur's court. On the way he sees a pavilion, which, taking in his simplicity for a church, he enters. There he eats two roebuck pasties, and drinks a large flagon of wine; after which he goes once more upon his way, and soon arrives at Cardeuil, ill-clad, ill-armed, and ill-mounted. He finds Arthur buried in profound meditation, a treacherous knight having just carried off his golden cup, defying any warrior to take it from him again. Perceval accepts the challenge, pursues the thief, kills him, recovers the cup, and seizes on the slain knight's armour. He is at length admitted into the order of chivalry. But the recollection of his mother haunts him every where. What is he in quest of? He himself knows not; he wanders at random and without a purpose wherever his wild courser carries him. Thus one day he reaches a castle, and enters. A sick old man reposes there upon a bed; a servant appears with a lance from which flows one drop of blood, and then a damsel bearing a graal, or basin, of pure gold. Perceval longs to know the meaning of what he sees, but dares not ask. The following day, on leaving the castle, he is informed that the sick old man is called the fisher-king, and that he has been wounded in the thigh; Perceval is at the same time reproached for not having questioned him. He continues onwards, meeting by chance Arthur, whom he follows to court; but the day after his arrival a lady clad in black appears to him, and warmly blames him for being the cause of the fisher-king's sufferings. "His wound," said she, "has become incurable, because thou didst not question him." The knight, wishing to repair his fault, seeks in vain to find once more the king's palace; he is repulsed as by an invisible hand, until the moment when he resolves to go and find a saintly hermit, to whom he makes his confession. The priest shows him that all his errors are owing to his ingratitude towards his mother, and that sin held his tongue in bondage when he ought to have inquired the meaning of the graal; he imposes a penance on him, gives him advice, reveals to him a mysterious prayer containing certain terrible words, which he forbids him from making known; and then Perceval, absolved from his sins, fasts, adores the Cross, hears Mass, receives Holy Communion, and returns to a new life. He now sets forth in quest of the graal, and meets with a thousand obstacles. A woman, whom he has loved, White-Flower, appears, and endeavours to detain him; but he escapes from her. He fastens his horse to the golden ring of a pillar rising on a mountain called the Mount of Misery, arrives at length at the castle for which he sought, and this time fails not to inquire into the history of the lance and the graal. He is told that the lance is that with which Longus pierced the side of Christ, and that the graal is the basin in which Joseph of Arimathea received His divine blood. This has come down by inheritance to the fisher-king, who is descended from Joseph, and is Perceval's uncle. It procures all good things, both spiritual and temporal, heals all wounds, and even restores life to the dead, besides becoming filled with the most delicious dainties at its owner's desire. After the lance and the graal, they bring out a broken sword; the fisher-king presents it to his nephew, begging him to reunite the fragments; in which he succeeds. The king then tells him that, according to prophecies, the bravest and most pious knight in the whole world was to perform this act; that he himself had attempted to weld the pieces together, but had been chastised for his rashness by receiving a wound in the thigh. "I shall be healed," he added, "on the same day that sees the knight Pertiniax perish,--that treacherous knight who broke this wonderful sword in slaying my brother." Perceval kills Pertiniax, thanks to the aid of the holy graal, cuts off his head, and brings it to the fisher-king, who gets well, and abdicates in favour of his nephew. The points of accordance between this poem and the Breton story are not very difficult to trace. In the two recitals we hear of the conquest of a basin and a lance, the possession of which ensures corresponding advantages; the heroes both of the French and Armorican version are subjected to dangers and temptations, and success assures to them alike--a crown. Some points of resemblance may even perhaps be discovered between the idiot Peronnik, going ever onwards he knows not whither, and extracting from the farmer's wife his rye-bread, his fresh-churned butter, and his Sunday dripping; and this Perceval, simple, ignorant, boorish, who begins by eating two roebuck pasties, and drinking a great flagon of wine. Certainly the different details, and the trials imposed on Peronnik, are not in general much like the probation to which Perceval was subjected; but, on the other hand, they closely resemble those to which Perédur, the hero of the Gallic tradition, was exposed. It would seem, therefore, that this Armorican story has drunk successively from the two fountains of French and Breton legendary lore. Born of the Gallic tradition, modified by the French version, and finally accommodated to the popular genius of our province, it has become such as we have it at this day. Peronnik the idiot seems, moreover, to us worthy of being studied by those who seek, above all else in tradition, for traces of the popular genius. Idiotism, amongst all tribes of Celtic race, was never looked on as a degradation, but rather as a peculiar condition wherein individuals could attain to certain perceptions unknown to the vulgar; and the Celts were led to imagine that they had an acquaintance with the invisible world not permitted to other men. Thus the words of the idiot were looked on as prophetic; a hidden meaning was sought for in his acts; he was, in fact, considered, in the energetic language of an old poet, as having his feet in this world, and his eyes in the other. Brittany has preserved in part this ancient reverence for persons of weak mind. It is by no means unusual in the farms of Léon to see some of these unfortunates, clad, whatever may be their age, in a long dress with bone buttons, and holding a white wand in their hands. They are tenderly cared for, and only spoken of under the endearing title of dear innocents, unless in their absence, when they are called diskyant, that is to say, without knowledge. They stay at home with the women and little children; they are never called upon to perform any labour; and when they die, they are wept over by their relations. I remember meeting with one of these idiots one day, in the neighbourhood of Morlaix; he was seated before a farm-house door, and his sister, a young girl, was feeding him. Her caressing kindness struck me. "Then you are very fond of this poor innocent?" I asked, in Breton. "It is God who gave him to us," she replied. Words full of meaning, which hold the key to all this pious tenderness for creatures useless in themselves, but precious for His sake by whom they were confided to our care. NOTES [1] Limestra, mantle of some special material, which is highly valued by the Bretons. [2] Aiguilles ailées. The fly commonly called demoiselle in French, in Brittany is nadoz-aër; literally, "needle of the air." [3] A proverbial expression in Brittany to designate folly and impertinence. [4] The song of the Korigans runs thus: Di-lun, di-meurs, di-merc'her. The conclusion of this tale will explain the reason of their keeping only to these first three days. [5] Cry of encouragement amongst the Bretons. In the same sense they use also the word hardi! but the Celtic origin of this last word seems rather doubtful. [6] Mettre en foire. Breton expression, signifying a sale at the house of a debtor. [7] Breton expression, derived from an old custom of parading all insolvents about the parish with a girdle of straw. [8] Equivalent to the French proverb, "One must not sell the bear-skin till the bear is killed." [9] In many farms there is a small threshing-floor reserved especially for black wheat. [10] This is the exact distance at which the Bretons define Hell to lie. [11] Good or bad, these etymologies of Ahèz and Par-is are accepted by the Bretons. The last word is even treasured in a proverb, "Since the town of Is was drowned, The like of Paris is not found." [12] See the Korigans of Plauden, p. 31. [13] This legend still finds credence. The spot is shown, not far from Carhaix, whence Grallon's daughter caused her lovers' bodies to be thrown; and some antiquaries are also of opinion that Dahut often visited this town, which has received from her its name of Ker-Ahèz (town of Ahèz); at any rate, the old paved road which leads from the Bay of Douarnénèz to Carhaix proves beyond a doubt that there was frequent intercourse between Keris and this city. [14] All that follows is more properly ascribed to St. Corentin's disciple Gwenolé. [15] The peasantry still show the marks. [16] There appears to exist incontestable evidence of a city named Is lying buried beneath the Bay of Douarnénèz; and the relics which have been discovered from time to time prove beyond all doubt that art had been brought to very high perfection in those early times. It was supposed to date about the fourth century. [17] The pigs in Brittany are called, no one knows why, mab-rohan, sons of Rohan. [18] Easter Sunday. So called because blessed laurel is distributed at church upon this day. [19] Gobelinn. None other than the loup-garou, or were-wolf. [20] 'Rozennik' is the diminutive of Rosenn; so 'Guilcherik,' "Korils of Plauden," p. 43. [21] Literally 'will-o'-the-wisp.' [22] A number of petticoats is considered a mark of great elegance amongst the Breton peasant-girls around Morlaix. [23] A proverbial expression, denoting some suspicion that people have been acquiring wealth somewhat unfairly. There is an old tradition among the country people, that if you take a black hen to some cross-road, and there use certain incantations, you can summon the devil, who will pay you handsomely for your hen. [24] Heubeul-Pontréau, a Breton form of reproach to young rustics of ill address. [25] All European nations have admitted two races of dwarfs, the one mischievous and impious, the other benevolent to man. The first is represented in Brittany by the Korigans, the second by the Teuz. The Teuz is just the same as the elf or fairy of the Scotch and Irish, aiding the labourers in their toil, and resembles the mountain spirit of Germany. [26] In Brittany they reckon by reals; the Breton real is not worth one franc eight centimes, as in Spain, but only twenty-five centimes. [27] Miz-du, Breton name of November. [28] A name given to All Saints. [29] L'Ankou, literally, "the agony;" a name generally given to the spectre of death. [30] M. de Ker-Gwen. A joke on the paleness of death; gwen signifying white. [31] The allusion is to a proverbial Breton verse, in which the inhabitants of the four dioceses are facetiously characterised as thievish, false, stupid, and brutal. [32] Douez signifies in Breton the moat of a fortified town; but as these moats were formerly full of water, and served the purposes of the washerwomen, the name douez has gradually been appropriated to the washing-places. [33] Spern-gwenn ("l'épine blanche"), to this day a family name in Brittany. [34] All the Breton shepherds make these crosses with twigs of furze, on the thorns of which they stick daisies and broom-blossoms; whole rows of these flowery crosses may often be seen along the ditches. [35] Shend, 'subdue.' [36] This form of exorcism is supposed to originate in a story related of St. Hervé. A wolf having devoured an ass belonging to his uncle, the saint compelled the savage beast to dwell peaceably thenceforward in the same shed with the sheep, and to perform all the duties of the defunct ass. A similar story is told of St. Malo, another Breton saint. [37] The legend of the gold-herb (which must be gathered, according to common credence, barefooted, en chemise, without the aid of any iron tool, and whilst one is in a state of grace) comes evidently from the Druids. It is the selage of the ancients, spoken of by Pliny (lib. xiv.), and is said by the Bretons to glitter like gold before the eyes of those who at the moment may fulfil the conditions for perceiving it, and who, by touching it with the foot, are instantly enabled to understand the language of all animals, and to converse with them. [38] The tradition of the redbreast, who broke a thorn from the crown of our Lord, is current throughout Brittany. [39] Mor Vyoc'h signifies Sea-cow. [40] The Breton peasants believe that the fountain of Languengar has the property of promoting the flow of milk in those nurses who drink of it. [41] In Brittany, as in England, it takes nine tailors to make a man. [42] This form of taking possession is extremely ancient. In all the legislative systems of "the ancient world" transfer of landed property was effected by symbolical tradition; that is, by the handing over to the new owner of some visible and palpable portion or symbol of the land itself. At Rome, the sale of a field takes place standing on a turf cut from the field itself, which is handed over to the purchaser as a symbol of his new possession. In an old deed of 828 occurs the following: "I make over the underwritten goods and lands to the Church of St. Mary. And I make legal cession by straw and knife, glove and turf, and branch of tree; and so I put myself out, expel, and make myself absent."--D. Calmet, Histoire de Lorraine, Preuves, p. 524. And as Brittany is the very chosen home of old customs, it has happened that even quite lately, at a farm near Léon, all these forms of taking possession were gone through, not as having any legal efficacy, but in compliance with ancient usage. [43] The vervain. [44] Marc'h-Mor, literally, Sea-horse. [45] The Breton name for Vannes, Gwen-ed, signifies literally White Wheat. [46] This form of declaring war, preserved by tradition, is curious, and, as far as we know, peculiar to Brittany. Amongst the ancient Romans they cast upon the enemy's territory a javelin scorched at the fire; in the middle ages the iron gauntlet was thrown, or the finger was gnawed; the savages of North America sent, like the Scythians, bundles of arrows, the number of which indicated that of the combatants; but burning straw flung upon the enemy's land is a peculiar symbol, which we have never noticed elsewhere. [47] The Breton name of St. Gildas. [48] This custom still exists in Brittany. [49] The name Groac'h, or Grac'h, means literally old woman; and was given to the Druidesses, who had established themselves in an island off the south-west coast of Brittany, called thence the isle of Groac'h; by corruption Groais, or Groix. But the word gradually lost its original meaning of old woman, and came to signify a woman endowed with power over the elements, and dwelling amongst the waves, as did the island Druidesses; in fact, a sort of water-fay, but of a malevolent nature, like all the Breton fairies. Such of our readers as are not acquainted with La Motte Fouqué's beautiful tale of Undine, may require to be reminded that the sprites, sylphs, gnomes, and fairies of the popular mythologies are not necessarily, perhaps not even generally, exempt from mortality. [50] A cluster of islets off the southern coast of Brittany, near the headland of Penmarc'h. The name signifies literally summer-land. One of them is called the isle of Lok, or Lock, and contains a fish-pool, from which it seems to derive its name. [51] A dwarfish sprite. [52] Young Breton girls thus address old women from a motive of respect. [53] Chanteuse de vérité (Dion ganérez), literally qui chante droit, a name given in Brittany to fairies who foretell the future. [54] These are different kinds of cabbages cultivated in Brittany. [55] A name given by the Bretons to the tricksy sprite Maistr Yan. [56] The ribbon covered with lace worn by Breton peasant-girls in their hair. [57] Negotiators for a wedding, who improvise disputations in verse, like Virgil's shepherds. [58] See tale at p. 31. [59] Dibenn-eost, a name given to autumn in Brittany. [60] This word idiot must not lead to misconception; the idiot of popular tales is the personification of cunning weakness triumphing over strength. Idiotism, in the traditions of Christian nations, plays the same part as physical ugliness in those of the ancients. The latter take the hunchback Æsop to accomplish extraordinary actions; the former Peronnik, or some other lad of weak mind, in order that the contrast between the hero and the action may be more striking, and the result more unexpected. We refer the reader to the note which follows this story for the more particular examination which it seems to deserve. [61] On the sea-coast they scrape away the burnt part left in the porridge-kettles with a mussel-shell; in the interior they use for the same purpose a sharp stone, commonly a gun-flint. [62] The milk of the black cow is considered in Brittany to be at once the daintiest and the most wholesome. [63] The Bretons attribute to the butter of the White Week and of the Rogation weeks a special delicacy, and even medicinal properties, on account of the excellence of the pastures at this season. [64] The Bretons believe in a special demon for sending one to sleep in church, and call him ar c'houskezik, from the verb kouska, which signifies to sleep. [65] Koanta pabaour, a common form of mockery in Brittany. [66] A proverbial expression, meaning that one has no time to lose. [67] The Searcher for the Basin,--Myvyrian, t. i. p. 8. The poem of Perceval, or the Quest for the Holy Graal, is to be found in the Royal Library of Paris, Mss. No. 7523, et supp. franc. 450. We give M. de la Villemarqué's analysis, contenting ourselves with abridging his labours. 
41795	----	TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA BY THE SAME AUTHOR BORDERLAND STUDIES THE MARK O' THE DEIL THE WHITE-FACED PRIEST TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA BY HOWARD PEASE METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. LONDON 1899 TO EARL GREY EVER KEENLY INTERESTED IN WHATEVER CONCERNS HIS NATIVE COUNTY THESE SKETCHES OF NORTHUMBRIAN CHARACTER ARE DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR CONTENTS PAGE NORTHUMBERLAND 1 'A LONG MAIN' 7 THE SQUIRE'S LAST RIDE 29 À L'OUTRANCE 41 'T'OWD SQUIRE' 59 AN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE 79 'IN MEMORIOV'M' 109 'THE HECKLER' UPON WOMENFOLK 121 THE 'CALEB JAY' 133 GEORDIE ARMSTRONG 'THE JESU-YTE' 147 'GEORDIE RIDE-THE-STANG' 165 YANKEE BILL AND QUAKER JOHN 187 THE PROTÉGÉ 209 THE SPANISH DOUBLOON 243 The tales that go to make up this small volume have already appeared in print: the first part of the Introduction, 'A Long Main,' 'In Memoriov'm,' in the _National Observer_; 'The Protégé,' in the _Queen_; 'Quaker John and Yankee Bill,' 'T'Owd Squire,' 'An Ammytoor Detective,' in the _Newcastle Courant_; 'À l'Outrance,' in the _Newcastle Weekly Chronicle_; and the remaining six in the _Newcastle Daily Leader_. I desire to tender my thanks herewith to the various editors concerned. TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA NORTHUMBERLAND It is generally admitted that your Northumbrian pre-eminently possesses the quality which the pious but worldly Scotchman was used to pray for, namely, 'a guid conceit o' hissel'.' It is the more unfortunate, therefore, that of late years a considerable landslip should have taken place in the ground whereon his reputation rested. The local poet no longer hymns the 'Champions o' Tyneside,' for Chambers and Renforth and other heroes have long since departed, leaving 'no issue.' Advancing civilization, again, has, it is to be feared, made havoc of the proud insularity of the Northumbrian squirearchy. No longer are they content, like the Osbaldistones of yore, to devote themselves to cellar and stable, to stay at home, contemptuous of London and its politics, of travel and of new ideas. 'Markham's Farriery' and the 'Guide to Heraldry' have lost their pristine charm, and the Northumbrian is, as a consequence, foregoing his ancient characteristics merely to become provincial. 'Geordie Pitman' alone makes a stand against all modern innovation. Firm in his pele tower of ancient superiority, he is still convinced of the superiority of all things Northumbrian. 'Champions' may have died out elsewhere, and patriotism be decayed in the higher social ranks, but in the pit-village there still lingers an admirable quantity of the old self-love. In each separate village you may find some half-dozen self-styled 'champions' who will match themselves against 'any man in the world' for £10 or £15 a side at their own particular hobby or pastime. Defeat has little effect upon a 'champion': like Antæus, he picks himself up the stronger for a fall, and having advertised himself in the papers as 'not being satisfied' with his beating, challenges another attempt forthwith. * * * * * Now this self-satisfaction--though somewhat decayed of late--is probably one of the oldest strains in the Northumbrian character, having been developed, doubtless, in the first instance, under stress of constant raid and foray, and but little affected thereafter--owing to the remoteness of the county both from the universities and from London--by the higher standards of softer and more civilized centres. After this, the next most predominant trait is a love of sport, for which the climate, together with the physical conformation of the county, may be held responsible; for the open aspect of the plain, the crown of bare western hills, the wind-swept moorland and the sea, suggest a life of hard endurance and fatigue, the strenuous toil of the hunter, the keen excitements of the chase. Still, as of old, the wide and spreading grasslands try horse and rider with a tempting challenge, as of one who cries, 'Come, who will tire first?' The music of the hounds sweeps down the brae: 'Yoi--yoi--yoi!' quivers the cry from the streaming pack. Onward the rider gallops, the plover perchance rising at his horse's heels, the long note of the curlew sounding in his ears, the breath of the west wind racing in his nostrils; he may see on this side the purple bar of Cheviot, on the other the blue, flat line of the sea, and therewith--if ever in his life--may taste of the primeval joy of living--of the joy of the early hunter who lived with his horse as with a comrade, drew from the sea the 'sacred fish,' from the moorland the 'winged fowl,' and knew not discontent. The beauty of the southern counties is not to be met with here. The south is the well-dowered matron, the north a bare-headed gipsy-lass, freckled with sun and wind, who 'fends' for her living with strategies of hand and head. Still, in the northern blood, the heritage of the 'raid' and the 'foray' abides, and still, as of old, are the children of the Borderland nursed by the keen wind of the moorland and the sea. 'Hard and heather-bred' ran the ancient North-Tyne slogan; 'hard and heather-bred--yet--yet--yet.' 'A LONG MAIN' 'So you're a county family?' I echoed, and, though it may have been impolite, I could not forbear a smile, for never had I seen County Family so well disguised before. 'Ay,' replied Geordie Crozier, 'I is,' and forthwith proceeded to search in the pocket of his pit-knickerbockers for his 'cutty.' He had just come up to 'bank' from the 'fore-shift,' and was leaning on a waggon on the pit-heap, about to have a smoke before going home for a 'wesh,' dinner, and bed. 'The last ov us,' he continued, having lit his pipe, 'that had Crozier Hall was grandfeythor--Jake Crozier, of Crozier Hall, was his name an' address, an'--an'--I's his relics.' I glanced at the 'relics' afresh--six foot two if he was an inch, and broad in proportion, a magnificent pair of arms--he was champion hewer at the colliery--with legs to match, though slightly bowed through the constant stooping underground. Under the mask of coal-dust his eyes gleamed like pearls, and a thrusting lower lip, backed by a square jaw, gave evidence of determination and the faculty of enjoyment. A short, well-trimmed beard put the finishing touch to 'the Squire,' for so his friends styled him, half in jest. 'Well, and how was it lost?' said I. 'Was "cellar and stable," the good old Northumbrian motto, his epitaph? Or did your grandfather take an even quicker road to the bailiffs?' 'Grandfeythor was like us, I b'lieve; he was a fine spender but an ill saver, an' he had a h---- ov a time till the mortgages gave oot, for he was a tarr'ble tasteful man--lasses, greyhounds, an' horses, racin', drinkin', cockin', an' card-playin' were aal hobbies ov his at one time or another, but what was warse than aal this put togither was that he never wud be beat. Everything he had must be the best, an' the fact that anythin' belonged to him was quite enough to prove to him it was the best o' the sort i' the county. Well, for a while as a young man things went well wi' him. He win the Plate[1] two years runnin', an' many was the cock-fight an' coursin' match he pulled off wiv his cocks an' his hounds; but there was a chap came oot o' Aadcastle who was one too many for him at the finish. This chap had made a vast o' brass i' the toon at ship-buildin' or such like, an' bein' wishful to set hisself up as a big pot, had hired a big place next grandfeythor's i' the country. Well, grandfeythor couldn't abide him, for, bein' a red-hot Tory, he didn't believe i' one man bein' as good as another at aal, an' when, as happened shortlies, his neighbour's son came sweetheartin' his daughter, he says, "No Crozier lass ever yet married a shopkeeper's son, an' they never shall as long as I'm above ground--orffice boys mun marry wi' orffice gals," says he. 'Well, the lad's feythor was tarr'ble vext at this, an' he swears he'll have his revenge on the Squire--an' it wasn't long before he got his opportunity. 'He'd set hissel' up as a sportin' man, ye ken, when he come to the country, an' wes tarr'ble keen o' shootin' wiv a gun, an' occasionally he meets grandfeythor at a shootin' party, an' always takes the opportunity to differ from him i' a polite sort o' way on every topic under the sun. 'Well, after their dinners one day, grandfeythor, bein' fairly full up wi' beer, ye ken, begins sneering at all toon's folk settin' up as sportsmen. "It stan's to reason," says he, "if a man's forbears have never handled a gun, nor shot nowt mevvies[2] but a hoody crow or a seagull on a holiday, that the bairns canna shoot either, for it's bred an' born in a man--it's part o' his birthright, like a fam'ly jool," says he; "a heditary gift, the same as a proper knowledge o' horseflesh, fightin' cocks, greyhounds an' aal; money won't buy it, an' it's no use argifyin' aboot it, for it's a fact, and the will o' Providence," says he. 'Noo, when grandfeythor got on aboot Providence, most folks, I b'lieve, used to say nowt, but Smithson--that was the chap's name--he gies a sort o' tee-hee at this oot loud, which would be the same as if you or me were to say, "It's just d----d nonsense." 'Well, there was a tarr'ble tow-row at this, grandfeythor as red as a bubbly-jock an' swearin' like a drunken fishwife, and Smithson as polite as a counter-jumper wiv his "pardon me's" and "pray be seated, sirs"--aal to no effect. 'At the finish, when matters were quieted doon a bit, Smithson offers to back hissel' at a shootin' match wi' grandfeythor for £1,000 a side, an' also at a cockin' match--"a long main" it was to be--twenty battles at £100 the "battle" and £1,000 the "main." 'Well, aal the comp'ny thought it was just a bit swagger on the part o' Smithson, an' that when the time came he'd just cry off an' pay forfeit, for the match was to take place in three weeks' time, and never a cock had Smithson in his place ava, whereas grandfeythor, he had a rare breed, the best i' the county--mixed Rothbury an' Felton--an' the old Felton breed was the one the King o' England win his brass ower formerly. 'The time comes, an' the comp'ny is aal assembled i' the cock-pit at Bridgeton, grandfeythor, full o' beans an' bounce, backin' hissel' like a prize-fighter, takin' snuff an' handin' roon' the box to his friends, an' sayin' noo an' again, "Where's that dam' fellow Smithson?" 'Well, the clock on the old tower was just on the stroke of ten, when in saunters Smithson, cool as a ha'penny ice, an' behind him, in green and gold liv'ries, come ten flunkies each wi' two big bags behind his shoulder, an' in each bag a tarr'ble fine fightin' cock. 'Where he'd gathered them nobody knew save old Ned Stevison--an ancient old cock-fighter o' Bridgeton, who loved cocks more than many a man his missus. "The Moonlight Breed" he called them, but they had a strain of the famous old Lord Derby's breed i' them, and were blood uns to the bone. 'Some half dozen were Stevison's own, but the remainder 'twas said he had stolen from awa doon Sooth for Smithson, an' anyways "Captain Moonlight" was his nickname ever afterwards. 'Well, they weighs aal the cocks; from six to six and a half pounds their weight was to be, an' the fight commences. 'Bob Stevison fought Smithson's cocks for him, an' grandfeythor fought his own, kneelin' doon on the cock-pit floor wiv his coat off so as to handle them the better. 'The first two or three battles grandfeythor wins easy, Stevison using his warst cocks at the first, d'ye see, oot o' craft mevvies to get longer odds i' the bettin', so that at one time grandfeythor was five battles to two to the good; a bit later it was eight all, an' the excitement was immense, bets flyin' aboot like snowflakes at Christmas. 'Then Stevison oots wiv a beauty--a perfect picture it was ov a fighter; eyes like a furnace at night, liftin' his legs like a Derby winner, wings an' tail clipped short--aal glossy wi' health an' shinin' like mahogany. 'Stevison runs him up an' doon the floor to heat his blood, an' tweaks a feather doon from his rump--that was a clever trick he had, to madden his cock just before the start--an' holds him ready for the battle. 'Then grandfeythor, he oots wiv his champion cock--"Stingo," he called him--an old favouryte ov his, a gran' bird too, six years old, an' a little past his prime mevvies, though he'd never lost a battle in his life. 'As soon as they sees each other "Stingo" gies a bit triumphant crow, an' leans forward from his master's hand to try an' nip hold o' the other wiv his beak. The other says nowt, just looks at him wi' fiery eyes red hot wi' murder, an' as soon as ever his feet touch the sawdust bends low, then springs straight for Stingo, drivin' wiv his spur o' shinin' steel right for his heart. 'Just i' the nick o' time Stingo leaps i' the air to meet him; there's a "click, click," "click, click," as o' daggers crossin', an' pantin' from the shock, doon sinks either bird to the ground. 'Stevison's mouth was tremblin' like a bairn's as he took his favouryte up, for there was blood on his lower breast feathers, but Stingo wasn't touched ava, an' grandfeythor, puffed oot wi' pride, claps a bit mair o' the fam'ly property on to his champion. 'It was a bit lesson for the other cock; he was just as determined as ever, but a bit quieter like; round an' round Stingo he goes like a prize-fighter, clickin' in noo an' again as he thought he saw his openin', an' when they grappled tegither wi' their beaks, though his comb was almost torn in two, he hammered for Stingo's eye as a blacksmith hammers on his anvil. 'After about fifteen minutes neither cock could stand straight; at a distance you'd have said they was both as drunk as my lord; both were drippin' blood; Stingo had lost an' eye, an' neither o' t'other's were much use to him, bein' bunged up wi' bruised flesh. They staggered aboot here an' there; knocked up against each other in a blind-man's "beg-pardin" sort o' way. Every noo and again the Moonlight cock would pull himself together, hop feebly into the air, an' strike wiv his spurs, but as often as not the air was all he hit, for, his eyesight bein' aal askew, he couldn't aim straight, an' doon he would flop on his tail end, coughin' an' choakin' wi' blood--powerless, yet mad to gan on fightin'. 'At the finish he gets Stingo pinned up against the cockpit bars, an', thinkin' he has him noo, gies a feeble craw, lifts hissel' into the air, an' claps for his heart wiv his spurs. 'There was a bit clash in the held-breath stillness of the place, then a tiny moan, an', by Gox! there was Moonlight lyin' flat on his back on the sawdust wiv one leg broke in two an' danglin' wiv its spur like a watch-chain on his breast. 'Such a hullaballoo as there was, grandfeythor yellin' like an Injun! "Pick up yo'r bird," he cries, "he's a dead un!" for there was Stingo a-top o' Moonlight peckin' at what was left ov his head-piece like a blackbird at a snail. 'Stevison never moved, but his gills went flutterin' like those ov a dyin' fish; he couldn't speak, but I b'lieve he was prayin' for his favouryte. 'A minute passed, then Moonlight comes to; he beats wiv his wings, struggles, crawls an inch or two, manages to shake off Stingo, then hoistin' hissel' up once again wiv his one leg an' wings slashes wiv his spur, and by the damn'dest luck lands it in Stingo's eye. 'Doon in a motionless heap they falls, an' when they're separated Stingo's dead as a leg o' mutton. 'The rest o' the comp'ny yells and shouts; some says Moonlight's a dead un, too, an' it's a drawn battle, an' grandfeythor, he swears his bird can still fight, while Stevison, unable to find his voice, picks up Moonlight, an' finally claps a great kiss on to the middle ov his back, an' when he sets him doon again wiv a drop brandy in his mouth he sets up a feeble craw of defiance, plainly axin', "Who the deevil says I's a dead un?" 'After that it was all up wi' grandfeythor; the stuffin' seemed knocked oot o' him an' his cocks by the loss ov his favouryte, an' in the next battle another of his best birds had his heart squashed oot, like a ripe gooseberry, at the vary first encounter. 'It was a black day that for grandfeythor, but, as I was sayin' at the start, he never gies in, an' he comforts hissel' wi' thinkin' he'd make matters square up an' a bit to spare by the shootin' match which was to follow in a fortnight's time. 'Smithson had agreed to shoot off the match at Crozier Hall, for grandfeythor had aboot the best shootin' in the county at the time, an' there was one place famous for the grand shots ye got overhead between two woods planted on either side of a dene, ye ken. 'There was stubbles an' beanfields usuallies beyond, an' the pheasants, when driven off, used to fly right across the haugh below over into the woods beyond--mevvies aboot two hundred yards awa'. 'Well, the great day comes. A fine, sunshiny October day it was, wiv a bit o' wind from the west--the way the birds was to fly, ye ken, an' a tarr'ble big comp'ny was assembled to see grandfeythor gie "the furrinor" his gruel. 'Grandfeythor was i' tremendous spirits that mornin', an' as full o' gob as a torkey-cock; nothin' could hold him; the world was a toy to him--like the geography chap[3] i' the bairns' books, ye ken--he felt sae tarr'ble strong an' healthy. "Eyeball clear as a bairn's," says he, "hand steady as a rock, digestion a marvel," an' he pats hissel' on the stomach as pleased as Punch. 'They tosses as to who shoots first, an' the coin comes doon for grandfeythor, an' mighty delighted he was to be the first to shoot. There wasn't much chance o' grandfeythor's bettin' as much as he wished for, for naebody thought Smithson had a chanst, but what he could get he gobbled up like a hungry trout--fearfu' odds they was--six to one on himself he had to lay, an' often a bit more. 'The match was for £1,000 a side, a hundred shots each at the first hundred pheasants within shot, an' the referee to decide any disputed points. 'Grandfeythor takes up his stand aboot thirty yards awa' from the wood's edge; then the referee fires a pistol, the head-beater i' the wood above waves a white flag, an' there's a dead stillness as though we were aal i' church prayin'. 'There was a big clump o' fir-trees standin' right oot from the thick o' the wood's edge about fifty yards off mevvies, an' two o' the firs stood oot high above their fellows, an' that was where the pheasants always broke oot, whizzin' up like rockets as they came ower the top o' them, an' it was just at that point that grandfeythor had always nicked them clever--just as they cleared the rise of the topmost tree, ye ken, an' started on their level flight for the opposite side. If ye missed them i' front ye hadn't much chanst behind, for they swept awa' like lightnin' doon the wind before ye could get turned round. Well, aal was stillness as I said, when sudden there comes a far-away cry through the clear air--"Cock forrard, cock forrard!" an' in another two seconds there comes a clap o' wings from above. Bang! gans grandfeythor's gun, as a fine cock sweeps overhead. "D----!" says he, wiv a flush on his cheek; for aal there was to show was some half-dozen tail feathers left twirlin', as if in mock'ry, forty yards in the air above him. '"Cock forrard, cock forrard!" comes the cry again, an' grandfeythor grips a firmer stand wiv his feet, an' grasps his weapon a bit tighter than before. Bang, bang! this time, an' the cock gies a frightful lurch as though about to fall headlong, but steadies hissel', rises a bit, an' wins over to the other side. '"H----!" yells grandfeythor, trembling wi' rage, an' stamps upon the ground. "Cock forrard, cock forrard!" again comes the beater's cry, an' half a dozen come flightin' overhead at once. 'Bang! once again, an' grandfeythor wiv a groan flings his gun to the ground, for he had missed altogether that time. '"I'm fair bewitched," he cries, and aal the while the pheasants were streamin' overhead. 'He trembled aal over, an' we thought he was gannin' to have a fit, for his brow was damp wi' drops o' sweat, an' his eye wild an' glassy. "Thoo damned fellow," he cries, glancing round at Smithson, an' takes a step towards him, "thoo's cozened me somehow, thoo must have poisoned my beer!" he yells. '"Steady, sir, for God's sake, steady!" says the keeper in his ear, an' offers him his gun again ready loaded for another shot, for aal the while the pheasants came liftin' above their heads. 'Well, he takes it up again, looks at it an' feels as though he didn't recognise it, as though it had injured him somehow, an', tremblin' aal over, takes up a stand again. After a shot or two he kills one in beautiful style, an' gradually getting back a bit o' confidence he gets warmed up, an' at the finish he has seventy-five oot o' the hundred--oot o' the last twenty never missin' one. 'And noo it was Smithson's turn. 'He makes a splendid start, wipin' up the first fifteen birds wivvoot an error; after that again the pheasants come wilder, an' gettin' flurried belike, he tailors them. Then he gets steadied once more, an' at the finish has ten cartridges left an' seventy birds doon. 'A wunnerfu' chap for nerve he was, was Smithson; the mair excitement the cooler he gets. 'A hen pheasant comes sailin' awa' to the right some sixty yards off. '"In shot?" asked he, as though he were passin' the time o' day. '"Shoot," cries the referee, an' ping, ping! gans two cartridges, but he cannot stop her, she was ower far off, though she left a trail o' feathers ahint her. 'He gets another fearfu' hard one to the left this time, an' it takes two cartridges to settle number seventy-one--six cartridges left an' five birds to bag. 'Wow! but the excitement was painfu', an' folks fell to bettin' i' quick whispers, "Two to one against Smithson," an' he takes it wiv a nod, smilin' if you please. 'The next three he gets, then he misses a longish shot, two cartridges left an' two birds to knock doon. 'Here they come--two cocks high together overhead--be-eauties; suthin' seems wrang wi' trigger or cartridge, an' Smithson misses first barrel. '"I've won!" yells grandfeythor, an' tosses his cap i' the air. Bang! says Smithson's second barrel, an' doon comes the two cock pheasants togither. The first had swerved, d'ye see, an' jostled up against the second, an' Smithson cops 'em both wiv his last cartridge an' wins on the post, seventy-six to seventy-five. Gox! but it was the nearest touch an' go thing ever seen i' the North Country, I's warn'd, an' wi' that last cartridge bang gans Crozier Hall.' 'Was there any trickery?' I inquired; 'had Smithson tampered with your grandfather's cartridges, for instance?' 'No, he'd not done that; he couldn't ha' done that, but he had tricked grandfeythor a bit, though it wasn't found out till afterwards. 'The way of it was this: Smithson was a d----d clever feller, ye ken, an' knowin' as he did that grandfeythor had a wunnerfu' way o' pickin' off the pheasants just as they came over the topmost trees, he had sent two or three o' his men i' the night-time, an' had fixed up a young fir right on to the top o' the highest tree, so that Mr. Pheasant had to rise another six feet afore he cam' ower. 'Well, this was just enough to put grandfeythor oot ov his reckonin's, an' when he misses the first one, as he'd never done before, he cannot make it oot, he went clean flustered, thought he must have had a stroke, an' swore he was bewitched, or poisoned, or such like. 'It was a crool thing to do, but it wasn't exactly what ye could call a Jew's swindle--but, damn Smithson aal the same, I says; for here's me, Geordie Crozier, left a po'r orphin i' the warld wi' none o' his fam'ly property to belang to him, 'cept two gifts--the yen for drinkin' an' t'other for gamblin', an' it's damn Smithson, says I.' FOOTNOTES: [1] Northumberland Plate, or Pitmen's Derby. [2] 'Mevvies' = maybe, perhaps. The true Northumbrian is in a threefold danger of betraying his origin: phonetically, by the 'burr'; dialectically, by constant use of 'mevvies,' 'wor' (our), and 'I's warned' (I warrant you); psychologically, by a perpetual readiness to back himself, his dog, or any of his belongings, against any other man's in the world, and for any amount, at a moment's notice. [3] Atlas, presumably. THE SQUIRE'S LAST RIDE 'Ay, that's the priest, the Catholic Priest,' said Eph Milburn, after a white-haired, cassock-clad old gentleman, who had nodded slightly in reply to my companion's greeting, had passed over the bridge and departed out of hearing. 'He looks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth now,' continued Milburn, a long-legged, ruddy-bearded, hawk-eyed son of the moorlands, 'and aal his time nowadays he spends in his garden over his bees or his flowers, or thumbing his Mass-book in his library; but it wasn't so once-a-day, not he, not when the old Squire was above ground, and he came up by to stop wiv him. 'Ye'll have heard tell o' the old Squire an' aal his goin's on, I'll be bound? Ay, o' course, but there's one thing nobody kens o', not even Father Blenkinsop, and that's where the Squire's bones are lyin', for they never found his body, ye ken. 'Squire Dally was the last o' the fam'ly that had lived in the old Pele Tower o' Dally from generation to generation, and he was the wildest o' a wild lot--riders an' reivers in the old times, canny hard fox-hunters, drinkers, an' gam'lers this century. They were bound to get through their property soon or late, an' the last Squire, Tom Dally o' Dally, he says, "I leave my property tiv a South-countryman? Not I, by Gad!" says he; "why, damme, but I'll cheat him yet," an' sae he spends hissel' right an' left on any mortal thing he took a fancy for. 'The Hall--which was an old Pele wi' two wings added, ye ken--an' a good bit o' the property, had gone before that. The last Squire's grandfeythor had got shot o' that, the mortgages on it bein' far ower heavy to keep up; but there was still a fair property left, an' a nice canny house that had once been a dower-house, an' was now a farm, an' that was where Squire Tom lived with his fighting-cocks, an' his hounds, an' his hawks an' aal. 'His missus had died early, ye ken, an' that had been the ruin ov him, for she was a clivvor woman, wiv a turn o' management--just what ye would call good hands i' the matter ov a horse; that was her faculty, an' she was a bonny-featured woman for-bye. 'Ay, she could manage him fine. 'There was a grand scene, 'twas always said, when he brings her home after their furrin' tower, an' one night, bein' merry wiv his bottle, he forgets hissel', an' swears at her before company. Up she gets swiftly, pale, but determined, an' leanin' a wee bit ower the table she speaks straight at him. "Tom," she says, "you forget yourself; and until you apologize to me for your rudeness I'll sit no more at table wi' ye," an' oot she gans frae the dining-room, haughty as the Queen in Scripture, leavin' the Squire gapin' an' speechless, never havin' been treated that fashion before. 'There was two or three other men wiv him dinin' that night, an' on they sat drinkin' steadily, the Squire in a towerin' temper aal the while, noo damnin' hissel', next cursin' his neighbour, an' backin' his horses, an' hawks, an' hissel', wi' gun an' rod, against anyone, or the lot o' them together. 'They tried to soothe him a bit, but the mair they tried the hotter he got, an' had the Pope hissel' been his visitor that night, Squire Tom would have d----d him too, an' been glad o' the opportunity. After a bit mair snarling an' sneerin', an' snappin' he sits quiet for a while, then he glares round at his guest friends, an' he cries: '"Ye're nowt better than a lot o' 'momenty morries,'"--meanin' skeletons, ye ken--"the wife's worth the whole boilin' o' ye, an' I'm d----d if I don't apologize," an' he glared round to see if anyone would dare laugh at him for't; but no one spoke save a little fam'ly lawyer chap, up for the night frae the toon, an' he chirrups up an' he says, "Qui' right, qui' right," he hiccoughs, an' the Squire glares right through him as he growls, "When I ask ye for an opinion I pay ye for't, but if ye advise me unasked again, I'll fling ye oot at window," he says. 'Sae oot he strides into the hall, an' cries up the stairs: "Nell, my lass, Nell, ho-way doon, an' I'll apologize to ye, ay, d----, I will," an' doon she comes, an' on tiv his knees he gans, an' she holds oot her hand, an' the Squire he kisses it like a lover. 'Well, she manages him clivvor, but in her first child-bed she was taken ill, poor lady, an' dies vary shortly, leavin' him wiv a baby girl. 'After that the Squire was never the same man again. He turned reckless, for what was the use ov "a filly" to him, he says; an' havin' no son an' heir to live an' save for, he sets hissel' to spend aal he can an' spite his next o' kin--a barrister chap in London toon, whom he hated for bein' no sportsman--"a priest-faced, pauper chap iv a black gown an' wig," he called him, an' no love was lost between the pair o' them. He was a good bit older than the Squire, an' had a largish fam'ly, the second son bein' none other than Father Blenkinsop--the priest that's just passed us by. 'He was the only one the Squire could take up wi' at aal, an' as a boy he was often there for shootin', an' huntin', an' fishin', though his father liked ill his bein' there, for fear o' his gettin' into bad ways under the Squire's guidance, who was gettin' wilder an' wilder wiv every year that passed. He was just a boy then, was Father Blenkinsop, havin' left his schoolin', an' bein' aboot to gan tiv a college to be turned into a Jesu-yte, an' nowt pleased the Squire mair, after a long day's huntin' or hawkin', than to fill the lad up wi' liquor an' sneer at religion, an' Mass, an' priests, an' aal. '"Chuck it, my boy, chuck it," he would say, clappin' him on the shoulder, as he passed the bottle about. "Divv'nt put on the black petticoat; ye're ower much ov a man for that. Ye can ride, an' ye can shoot, an' ye can look a gal i' the face, an' ye can crack a bottle, but if ye turn priest, ye'll neither be man nor woman, but a ---- bad mixture o' both." 'So he would talk o' nights, pourin' oot his ribaldries an' drinkin' doon his wine, yet never gettin' fair drunk; for he had a marvellous stomach for liquor, had the Squire--no butt o' Malmsey wine could ever have drooned him, I's warn'd--an' the only way he betrayed himself was by gettin' a bit hotter i' the face an' fiercer i' his talk. 'Well, one night he vexed his young cousin beyond bearin'--what wi' blackguardin' his father an' his mother, an' wi' one thing an' another--an' sudden the boy leaps up--mevvies he was a little above hissel' wi' liquor that evenin'--an' he bangs wiv his fist on the table, an' he cries, "Look here, Cousin Tom, I'll stand it no longer, an' to prove I'm no coward, I'll challenge ye to ride to the big Black Stone on Glowrorum Fell an' back across the Moor this very night." '"Done wi' ye, lad, done wi' ye!" shouts the Squire, bangin' wiv his fist in his turn, "an' I'll tell ye what the stakes shall be. If I win, you chuck the Jesu-yte business an' come an' live wi' me, an' if you win, you can take your pick o' the horses i' my stable. Agreed?" '"Ay!" shouted the boy recklessly; "done wi' ye." 'Fifteen minutes after this the two o' them starts off with a wild hallo up the brae side, an' so across the Moor, the Squire "yoickin'" an' "tally-hooin'" as he went. 'The Moor was mevvies aboot two miles across--an' a tarr'ble bad place for hard gallopin', for there was a stone wall or two i' the middle o't, bogs to the left hand, an' some old workin's--pit-shafts or the like--to the right. 'So right across Towlerhirst Moor they galloped--hell-to-leather--the Squire to the right an' the boy to the left. 'Tom Brewis, the old herd up at Windyneuk, happened to be passin' along the sheep-track that leads by the Moor edge that night, an' hearin' the sound ov a horse gallopin', an' a lively hollerin' as tho' to a pack o' hounds, he comes across a bit to find oot what it might be. 'It was a dampish, daggyish sort o' night, but at times there was a drift o' moonlight, an' in one o' thae glimpses he caught a sight ov a dark figure on horseback, aboot two hundred yards from him, tryin' to jump a big black horse across one o' thae open shafts. "You won't, won't you? Then d---- ye, ye ---- black de'il, ye shall!" an' clappin' his spurs deep into his sides, an' layin' his huntin' crop aboot his ears, he forced him some paces backward an' sent him at it again. 'It was a big black stallion he was ridin'--a fiery-tempered brute, a proper match for the Squire--an' up he reared on end, fightin' him, shriekin' wi' pain an' rage; but he couldn't get shot ov his rider, so wiv a sudden bound he starts forward an' tries to clear the shaft wiv one great leap. 'Just at that moment the moonlight faded, an' Tom Brewis couldn't tell exactly what happened, but he saw a dark mass leapin', he heard a rattle o' stones, then a heavy thud deep down somewhere, a sort o' splash, an' aal was still. 'Tom stands there aal a-gliff wi' terror, half dazed, not kennin' whether he can have seen or heard aright; then, pullin' hissel' together, walks slowly thither to see if any trace can be seen of horse or rider. 'But there wasn't a one--neither o' horse nor Squire--nowt but a tramplin' o' horse's hoofs an' a white gash as o' a half horse-shoe on a big boulder o' rock two feet below the surface t'other side. Sae Tom gans slowly back, an' doon to the Squire's house to find if he can hear anything ov him doon there; for he half hoped it might be a sort o' dream after aal. 'Just as he gets to the door a figure comes up the drive leadin' to the house, draggin' a lame horse after him, an' "Ha ye seen anything o' the Squire?" it shouts at him. "No-o," says Tom, startled-like, "that was just what I was comin' to ask for myself;" an' he peers through the shadows to see who his questioner could be, an' recognises Master Fred, the Squire's cousin, bleedin' frae a wound i' the head, an' leadin' a horse wi' two fearfu' broken knees. 'He win his wager,' concluded my companion slowly, 'but after that ride he was never the lad he had been before, an' perhaps it's scarcely likely that he should be, I'm thinkin'.' À L'OUTRANCE We were standing on the fencing-room floor--Jake Carruthers and I--leaning our backs against the armoury, our foils still in our hands, slowly recovering our breath, after a rapier and dagger contest which had lasted a good half-hour. He was much less 'winded' than myself, for all his sixty-five years; and as I had positively worn myself out against his iron wrist I was delighted to gain a breathing space, and occupied the time in drawing out from my companion some old-time memories of the fencing floor. 'Have you ever seen a duel?' I inquired. 'I don't mean a semi-drunken, nose-chopping bout, or a garden-party affair, with coffee and liqueurs, as in France, but a genuine "throat-cutting, blood-letting" matter, such as Porthos or D'Artagnan would have loved?' 'No,' replied Jake reflectively, drawing the length of his foil lovingly along the soft sleeve of his jacket; 'the time's past, I doubt, for that sort of performance. The Divorce Court is what "my lord" appeals to nowadays for "satisfaction," and Trimmer Joe or Bricklayer Tom, they just "bash" the trespasser upon their family preserves on the head, and there's an end on't. 'The cleverest, best-fought fight I ever saw--and I believe there was a bit something of what you're meanin' in it--was, strange to say, twixt a man and a woman--leastways, a gentleman an' a lady. It was a fair battle, proper fightin' on her side; for she was sworn to win, and sair wishful to punish him, I's warn'd; and he, though he was tarr'ble keen to win too, found it took him all his time to keep her from letting daylight into him--an', by the way, this is the varra tale ye used always to be askin' for, an' I'll tell it ye noo, for ye've improved i' your fencin', I'm thinkin', since ye began. You'll have heard tell of Squire Dennington of Dennington Hall? A great rider he was once, and a sportsman generally--"Jockey Jack" his own private friends called him, and his horse, "Pit Laddie"--ye'll heard of him?--won the "Plate" some thirty years back. 'Well, his lady, Mrs. Dennington, was just the proudest woman in the whole county of Northumberland--scarcely what ye would call "bonny," but just tarr'ble handsome, and the Squire, he fair worships her. He had married her in Berlin, and there was some queer odds an' ends o' stories about her, but he'd never have hearkened to them any more than he would listen to anyone shoutin' to him the way to go out hunting. 'He was in the army at that time, ye ken--the Northumberland Fusiliers, "The Old and Bold," with "Where the Fates calls ye" in Latin for their motto--and I was his man-servant, joining the army along of him, as my forbears had often done with his forbears beforetime. 'The Squire had to go out to Berlin with his mother, and he gets leave for me to accompany him, and there it was that he met with his lady that was to be--Miss Maxwell as she was then. 'She was the handsomest woman in Berlin, 'twas said, but quite poor, living as a companion with the wife of one of the Ambassador's party, being a kind of cousin, and many were the stories about her. 'Gossip said that one of them grand dukes with a name a yard long had wanted her for his mistress, but when he made his proposition he got such an answer that he never dared speak to her again. Then it was reported that she was engaged to the Ambassador's chief secretary, Oxencourt his name was--Sir Henry Oxencourt as he is now--and that she had even run away with him, but that at the last moment he turned round and said that he couldn't afford to marry her till his father died, so there and then she leaves him, walks the night through till she can get a conveyance, and arrives just in time to stay the mouth of scandal from ruining her reputation. 'Well, the Squire meets her, falls desperately into love--for he cares nothing for gossips--and in three weeks' time she accepts him for good and all. 'They marries at once, and travel for a year or more, and finally settle down at Dennington Hall. 'The Squire after a bit sends for me, buys my discharge, makes me his body-servant, and sets up the old banqueting-room as a fencing hall--for he was always tarr'ble keen at fencing, boxing, single-stick, and all manly sports--and it was part of my duty to give them both a turn of fencing most mornings of the week. 'Well, one winter, after about three years of marriage, the Squire goes off to Algeria to shoot gazelle, leaving Mrs. Dennington and his sister behind at the Hall, and he hadn't been gone more than a week before Sir Henry Oxencourt turns up at the Hall. 'Well, when I see him there, I was fair dismayed, for I kenned nicely there was but one thing he could be wantin', for his repute in the matter of women was notorious. Forbye that ancient gossip at Berlin had always reported that he had been mad at missing his chance with her, and had sworn he would win her back again--get her a divorce and marry her himself at the finish. 'His father had died since then, and he was now a rich man, and as handsome and masterful a man as ever I saw in my life. 'Well, he comes and he courts her the live-long day, quiet-like and respectful, but never missing an opportunity, and she seems to enjoy his company. They go out hunting together; she dares him to jump this and he dares her to jump that, and so the play goes on, and all the while I was fearing he was getting a fast hold upon her, for she liked power and was tarr'ble ambitious, and Sir Henry, they said, might have been one of the cleverest diplomatists in the world if he could but have kept clear of women. 'It was easy to see that he was just mad keen for her, but I was not so sure after a bit that she was so keen for him. It seemed to me she was leading him on, and leading him on, but with what purpose I couldn't guess. 'Well, one afternoon she comes to me and she says, off-hand like, "Sir Henry Oxencourt would like to show me some new tricks of fence he has learnt abroad; kindly see that the fencing-room is in order to-night, and, by the way, I want to show him the pair of duelling rapiers, with the silver foxes on the hilts, that Mr. Dennington is so fond of." 'Well, all afternoon I wondered what it meant; for though her manner was cool enough, there was something curious about my mistress's expression as she gave her orders. '"If possible," I thinks to myself, "I'll have a peep also at Sir Henry's tricks to-night," and as I polished up the rapiers that afternoon I thought of the story the Squire used to tell of them. One of them had a stain on the "foible" which would not come out for any quantity of rubbing--it was the blood, the Squire said, of a certain "Black Rutherford," who had made love to the then Lady Dennington when her Knight was away fighting for King Charlie. Sir John comes back, having heard about it, but says nothing, and asks him to dinner; they have a game of cards after; Sir John accuses him of cheating, and there and then in the banqueting-hall they have a set-to with their rapiers before my lady's eyes; in five minutes Sir John disarms him, and before the rapier touches the floor, runs him clean through the right lung and out below the shoulder-blade. 'Well, after taking in coffee that evening, I went to the fencing-room, and on the pretence of looking after the fire, mending jackets, straightening masks, and so forth, stayed on there till about ten o'clock, when in comes Mrs. Dennington, followed by Sir Henry. 'She gives a sort of start when she sees me, then she says curtly, "You needn't stay, Carruthers," and walks past me into the middle of the room. 'Well, I felt bound to see that fencing, whatever it might be, and the only way I could manage it was to go round and up to the old musicians' gallery at the southern end. If I could open the door without attracting notice, I might then lie down at full length and see pretty well what was going on below. 'It took me the best part of five minutes to open the door and squeeze through, and when I had crawled to the ledge and looked over, the two combatants were just about to begin. '"Put the letters on the mantelpiece," I could hear her say with a curiously strung tone to her voice, and Sir Henry bowed in a mocking sort of way. Then he says slowly, after having walked to the chimney-piece and placed a packet on the shelf: "But it is not quite fair, of course, for you cannot see your stakes, whereas I--I have mine before my eyes at the end of my blade--the most beautiful stakes in Europe," and he bowed again to Madame with an air of gallantry and passion and arrogance all in one. 'For reply the mistress only gave a quick nod with her head, nervous, impatient, like a racehorse that must be away. 'I daren't do more than peep over now and again, for the lights were bright below, and I was afraid of being caught; but I could see that she was in a state of great excitement, while he was cool in comparison with her, and wore a proud, triumphing sort of air, as of one who knows full well he has the victory in his grasp. 'They walk to the centre of the hall and take their stands. They "take length," and then salute--she, swiftly, nervously, he in a foreign, bravado sort of fashion. '"First blood," says Sir Henry, "and the stakes are won," saluting once again in a vainglorious way he had. '"Yes, but not for a scratch," replies my lady swiftly. Then they cross rapiers, and the play begins. 'My sangs! but it wasn't a play at all, it was a reg'ler battle, a fair duello, and it was all Sir Henry could do to hold his own. They had engaged in "quatre," and no sooner had blades touched than she disengages and feints in "tierce"; then, with an amazing swiftness, she disengages again, and lunges full at him in "sixte"; carelessly he parries with "sixte," and in a flash she disengages again, "beats" his blade downwards, and, for all but a biscuit, has him disarmed. He loses hold of his weapon, his fingers slipping from the quillons, but catches it in mid-air before it drops, leaps back a yard, parrying another lunge clever with his left hand as he does so. '"'Tis a dirty Italian trick ye have learnt! they haven't improved ye abroad!" my lady sneers at him. 'Now, had she been but one flash of an eye quicker with her lunge after the "beat," she'd have had him in "quatre" nicely, but she hadn't thought she could disarm him so easy, and she just missed her chance. Sir Henry, though, had had his lesson; he drops his careless, tempting manner, such as a professor tries a beginner with, and fights cooler and more careful, chucking his bravado airs, for it's dead in earnest she is, and no mere stage-play for the gallery. 'On she comes again like a tigress, evidently trying to "rush" him, and back and back she presses him till the pair o' them's right under the gallery where I was lying. I had my head right through the bars by that time, I was so keen to see the fight, and it was only by stuffing my handkerchief into my mouth that I could stop myself from shouting advice and encouragement to her, she fought so desperate keen and with such a wild-cat pluck. 'It wasn't exactly scientific, her fencing, it was too rash and all-for-victory straight away, but it was grand to see her flashing her rapier in and out, flickering like a serpent's tongue, and all the while her graceful limbs moved softly, swiftly, like a panther's, beneath her silken evening dress. 'Once Sir Henry's foot slipped, and in she comes like a knife, and he only escapes by adopting another Italian trick--that of dropping with the left hand to the floor. She still presses him harder than ever, and I could hear her breathing hotly, "heck, heck," like an angered hawk. Then swift he "binds" with her, but he does it over-viciously and pays for it, for she's agile as a cat, and freeing herself with a leap backward, suddenly with a lightning-like "cut-over" touches him on the sword arm, and though he wouldn't acknowledge it, I knew she'd pricked him, and I could tell that it had roused him to anger in his turn. "You she-devil!" I heard him hiss between his teeth, and now he turned to the offensive himself. 'He was at a disadvantage, though, for he didn't want to hurt her badly, being a woman, so he tries to disarm her, and give her some slight wound on the sword arm, or high in "quatre" or "tierce." 'That was no good, as I could have told him nicely, for she had the strongest and supplest wrist of any woman ever I saw, and forbye that, disarming can only be done by taking your opponent unawares, and she kenned nicely what he was after. 'Then sudden he gies it up, seeing the uselessness o't, and tries a brute strength game, waits his chance till he can lift up her blade, and then thrusts sideways so as to pink her high in the shoulder, but she twists aside and it only just touches her through the sleeve. "First blood!" he shouts triumphantly, "the stakes are mine," with a low bow and a sweep o' the sword arm. "Phit!" she cries passionately; "it's only a scratch," and she comes again at him with a bound. 'Then he loses his temper a bit, I think, for his own sword arm was bleeding, as I knew well, for I saw a drop or two of blood on the floor and his hand was crimson forbye. So he comes to meet her, quickly driving her back in turn, plying his rapier this way and that fiercely, just missing her by a hair's breadth to frighten her, till he could have her at his mercy, and then he tries a "cut-over" in "tierce," swift as a meteor, pressing his "fort" strongly against her "foible," and would have been home sure as fate had not his foot slipped on a drop of blood on the floor. Up flies his rapier idly--she with a sudden flip tosses it higher still, and with a leap, by Gox! she ran him through in "seconde"--just above his right hip. '"Hurroo!" shouts I, through my handkerchief and all. "Clever, clever!" for it was splendidly done--scientific, exact, just perfection. 'There Sir Henry lay in a swoon upon the floor, for no doubt the pain and the shock together would be immense, while my mistress, she just takes one look at him, then wipes her rapier swift upon her handkerchief, takes up Sir Henry's also, and places them against the rack in the armoury, takes down two foils, throws one on the floor, breaks the other in two and flings the pieces down beside its fellow. Then swift as ever she goes to the mantelpiece, takes up the bundle of letters and chucks them into the fire. 'She watches them burn for a moment, then presses the electric bell close by, and just as John the footman walks in at the door Sir Henry comes to himself, and lifts himself up on to his elbow off the floor. '"Help Sir Henry Oxencourt up to his room," says she, cool as a cucumber, "and tell Carruthers to attend to him, and to send for the doctor, if necessary. A foil broke as we fenced, and Sir Henry, I fear, has suffered through the accident." 'John stares with an open mouth, but a peremptory "Don't you understand?" from his mistress wakes him up, and he goes and helps Sir Henry up, who therewith slowly rises, and, resting one hand on John's shoulder, without one word limps away. 'The door shuts, and Mistress Dennington turns slowly to the fire, her eyes glued to them letters burning blackly amongst the coals. As she watches she takes a cigarette from a box on the mantelshelf, lights it, and I heard her say to herself, "You fool!" then she smokes a puff or two and again she says, "You fool!" and therewith taps her foot smartly on the floor.' 'But what do you think she meant by "fool"?' I here interrupted. 'Well,' replied Jake slowly, 'I've often asked myself that very question, and what I believe she meant was something o' this sort: "Fool not to take your chance--and such a chance!--when you had it, and Fool again, for not knowing me better than to think that of me when 'twas too late."' 'And now one more question,' I said, for Jake was preluding with his weapon once again, evidently anxious to commence another bout. 'Did you ever tell the Squire?' 'No, not exactly,' replied he, 'but I gave him a hint, and bank-notes wouldn't have bought that rapier after that, and there it still hangs in Dennington Hall in the armoury, I believe, though I haven't been there since the Squire died and I set up as a Maître d'Armes in Oldcastle here. The mistress, though, she's still alive, but she never cared for Northumberland--"so dull," says she, and goes and diverts herself in London town. And now no more talk. Gardez-vous, M'sieur--en garde, s'il vous plaît,' and with a smile he struck my foil upon the floor. 'T'OWD SQUIRE' 'No, I never saw him, not the old Squire--"t'owd Squire," as they called him; but grandfather, he was thick with him, bein' the oldest farmer in the dale an' pretty nigh a gentleman hisself in those days; he was master of the 'ounds, d'ye see, when they was a trencher-fed pack--that was before Squire Heron took them over to t' new kennels at The Ford. 'Well, I done some pretty fair jumps myself at one time an' another in t' ring or steeple-chasin', but 'twas nowt to what he done, not even when a mare I was ridin' jumped over a wall an' fifteen feet into t' quarry t' other side. 'There's a pretty tidy place at t' bottom o' that field'--pointing to a low-lying, marshy expanse on the left that rose at the end to a high bank--'that he jumped one afternoon in cold blood which five out of six wouldn't have touched in warm, but at t' end of his time he was reckless--almost to touch on madness, so grandfather always said. But if ye'll bide here three minutes till I've seen the mare looked to properly I'll tell ye a tale of t' Squire--same as grandfather told it me.' So saying Jack Skelton cantered round to the farm, where he was now employed as horse-breaker and showyard rider, while I strolled down to view the leap at the end of the field till he was free to join me. I could see The Ford opposite to me as I walked along--a square keep flanked with castellated wings rising proudly amongst its trees beyond the winding river in a circle of fir-clad hills. 'The old Squire's' daughter lived there now with her husband, who had taken her name on his marriage, but they were childless, and the ancient race of Herons seemed destined to become extinct. Arrived at the bank I saw a formidable gulf open below me, with a soft and rotten landing on the further side, some fourteen feet across, the space between oozy with marsh mud and choked drains. '"All hope abandon ye who enter here,"' I quoted aloud, just as Jack Skelton came up to me. 'Ay,' he chuckled, 'it would be a job for a contractor to get a horse an' man out o' that, an' after that I'll lay odds but the laundry-maid would give her notice. 'It was a great big, seventeen hands horse he had that he jumped it with--an ugly devil to look at, light roan in colour, but up to any weight an' absolutely fearless. All ye had to do, as grandfather used to say, was to lay t' reins on his neck, and straight across country he'd go like a bird. 'He hadn't always been such a fierce one to go, hadn't t' Squire, and what changed his temper was what I was goin' to tell ye. 'There was a woman in it, d'ye see, an' that woman his wife. When first they was married no couple in broad Yorkshire was happier, as folk thought. She was a handsome lass and clever at book-larnin' an' suchlike, ambitious, too, like the clever ones usually are; but at first she was all for sport an' huntin', same as t'owd Squire, and where he went she mostly followed him, bein' as well mounted as himself. As for t'owd Squire, he was t' happiest man alive in those days--used to slap grandfather on t' back an' cry, after a steaming run, t' fox's mask in his hand ready to tie on to his missus's saddle, "By ----, Skelton, but she's the straightest woman rider in England, whether in or out o' t' shires." 'Yet for all that his happiness was short-lived, for after a son was born to him Mistress Heron seemed to lose heart for huntin'--her narves, she said, had gone wrong with her; but grandfather always upheld that she'd grown tired of her husband. She was a clever woman, as I said, an' ambitious; an' 'twas reported that she'd been forced to marry wi' t'owd Squire by her mother in Lunnon town--he bein' as rich as "Creases"--whilst the man she really favoured hadn't a penny beyond what his wits might bring him in. For a bit the excitement of huntin' had been enough for her, an' spendin' t' Squire's brass, t' big house, an' t' novelty; but after t' son was born she grew dissatisfied an' took a dislike to her life. Consequence was that she took up with a young man called Cunliffe, that lived over at The Tower--right away on that hillside over there, about two miles west of us--ye can see it against trees from Heronsford easy. 'The place had been bought by his father, who made money in trade at Ironopolis, an' he'd just got himself elected into Parliament, an' was like to get on at it, 'twas said, bein' one of them ready-witted, oily-tongued chaps that never go quite straight, but gallop along t' roads an' sneak through gates, an' then swagger on at t' kill. Ay, there's none "who-oops" an' "tally-hos" louder than them. 'T'owd Squire, on t'other hand, was one of t' owd-fashioned sort, and said what he meant always, an' clapped an oath on t' back of it; hated Lunnon, an' Lunnon ways, lived for huntin' an' shootin' an' country pursuits, an' drank a bottle of port wine reg'lar every evenin' to his own cheek. He wasn't over well educated neither, havin' all his life lived almost entirely at home; no scholar savin' a vast knowledge of the stud-book, farriery, an' horse-breedin', which was a sort o' larnin' that Mistress Heron didn't care a button about. Well, things went gradually askew between the two, she always wantin' fresh company in t' house, an' him hatin' society ways like poison. 'Amongst others she took up with was this young Member o' Parliament, Cunliffe, an' often he would be over an' dinin' with them; he could sing a bit, an' she was fond of t' piano, an' they would play on together in t' drawing-room while t' Squire sat over his mahog'ny passin' t' bottle round, talkin' over t' 'untin', layin' wagers with his own particular cronies of the red-faced, good-hearted, rough-tongued, fox-'untin' Yorkshire style. 'Well, t'owd Squire couldn't stomach young Cunliffe at all; for in the first place he was a poor rider to 'ounds, never jumped owt if he could help it, was a mean chap with his brass, an' had a supercilious way o' talk about him that angered t' Squire fearful. Add to this that he was always comin' over to sweetheart his missus, an' you can imagine how ill the two men would agree. 'Well, one night they was sitting playin' cards after dinner, an' Mistress Heron was lookin' on at them. T' Squire was nowt of a scholar, as I said before, but he had a good head for cards, an' loved to take t' shekels off young Cunliffe, who hated losin', but was generally the one who had to pay up. 'It was a game they call Pickit they were playin'; grandfather told me--for in after days t' Squire let out a good bit of his troubles to my grandfather, havin' been playmates together, an' grandfather bein' a god-child o' t'owd Squire's father beside that--an' Cunliffe bein' flustered had forgot when it came to t' last two cards--there bein' a ticklish bit at stake--what had been played previously. 'He looked this way and that, then all of a sudden he catches Mistress Heron's eye, sees something in it that tells him somewhat, claps doon t' right card an' wins. 'T'owd Squire, he keeps extraordinary quiet, just gives one swift look round under his eyelids at his wife standin' there above him, an' says softly, "Ye've a wonderful memory, Mr. Cunliffe," says he, at which the other gets very red, an' begins to talk of getting home. '"Mistress Heron and I," says t' Squire, "were talking on this afternoon about t' private steeplechase we're going to hold shortly in t' Park here, an' she was all for layin' out t' course for first two miles straight west till it almost touches Towers gates. 'It will just take inside of ten minutes from t' Ford,' says she, 'to Towers turn, and beautiful going all the way over grass with t' big jump an' t' black beck in t' middle of it.' 'Ay,' says I, 'and that will stop one or two that I know of--I'll lay a monkey.' 'Not a bit of it,' says she, 'not a bit; an' I'll take evens with ye that everybody tries it.' '"Now, as Mistress Heron is going to ask ye to ride one of her nominations for her at the race, it might be helpful to ye to have a preliminary trial, an' as t' night is bright as day wi' moonlight, perhaps ye'd like a ride home to-night across country, an' I'll lay ye double of what ye've won to-night that ye don't get to your own gate-ends in, say, twelve minutes from t' Ford's paddock. An' ye can have your pick o' what's in my stable," adds t' Squire, as he looks from one to t' other of them, "while Mistress Heron an' I will watch ye from t' battlements an' take time for ye; or, of course, if ye're afraid," he adds, as Cunliffe, hemming an' hawing, says something about "not likin' to take a horse out at that time o' night," an' dwells heavy on the words, "we can send ye home in the landau, like a lady," says t' Squire. '"If Mr. Cunliffe accepts your proposal to ride a horse for me in the steeplechase," interrupts Mistress Heron scornfully, "that is of itself sufficient to falsify your insinuation." '"I shall be only too proud," cries Cunliffe at once, with a bow, "to ride for Mistress Heron." '"Ay," says t' Squire, "an' t' night before a message will doubtless come to say that Mr. Cunliffe has suddenly been called away on important political business, an' he's much grieved to forego a pleasure he had been so much looking forward to." '"You've said quite enough, sir," cries Cunliffe, red an' passionate; "kindly have your horse saddled--t' light-roan one for choice; for I take your wager an' will ride your horse home this night." 'T' Squire goes out to t' stable himself, gives his orders, an' in fifteen minutes' time t' horse is round at t' door. '"Ye'll be wantin' a switch likely," says t' Squire, as he shows him downstairs, "an' if ye'll come into t' gun-room here, ye can take your pick o' crops, or cuttin' whips, or what ye will." 'T' room was dark, an' Cunliffe, he bumps up against a small pail o' something an' upsets it on his trousers and all over t' floor before t' Squire gets a candle lighted. '"Never mind, never mind that," says t' Squire cheerily, "it's just nowt to matter; it's just for to try my hounds with to-morrow, an' shouldn't have been there. See, there's t' whip-stand; take your choice," says he. 'Cunliffe, he takes a cuttin' whip, an' jumps on t' horse without more ado, an' goes out into t' paddock with t' stud groom, who is to show him where to start from when t' Squire shouts "off" from the roof of the house. 'A minute or two later t' Squire shows himself on t' battlements, and Mistress Heron's there too, to see the sport. '"Are ye ready?" rings out t' Squire's voice. '"Yes," comes back t' answer. '"Then off!" he shouts down and drops t' handkerchief. 'Away he goes at a full gallop straight across t' wide-spreading west park-land, then draws rein a moment as he approaches t' haha with a drop of five feet or so, perhaps. Just as he pulls up there comes a faint "you-yowin'," as of hounds upon a scent, from around t' corner of t' house. '"Whatever's that?" cries Mistress Heron quickly, as she catches the sound of it. '"Why, it's t' hounds," cries t' Squire, with a stabbing laugh. "I thowt it might help him t' jump t' black beck an' win his wager to have t' hounds after him, an' so it will, for there's a bit aniseed sprinkled on Gamecock's fetlock bandages, an' Cunliffe's stepped into some himself." '"'Tis the deed of a savage!" says my lady, and with a proud contempt of him she steps away from his side as far as t' battlements will permit. 'Away go t' hounds wi' riotous music hot upon t' scent; on, forrard on they go, right over t' haha and up and across t' pasture beyond, at t' end of which, and beside t' beck, Cunliffe was galloping up an' down trying to find an easier place. It appears he hadn't, in his excitement, taken notice of t' hounds giving tongue, or looked behind him, but all of a sudden he perceives it, and halting his horse stockstill, looks behind him. Then it seemed to flash upon him what's up, and he forces back t' horse some twenty yards or so--first hounds racing towards him about hundred yards behind--rams in t' spurs, cuts him with t' whip, and claps him at it. Gamecock tries it bravely, and leaping high into the air just lands on t' further bank, but short a bit, and on t' soft edge, and pecks forward badly on his head, sending Cunliffe somersaulting over like a shot rabbit. '"T' bet's won!" shouts the Squire, marking t' horse pick himself up before his rider and gallop away by himself over t' far field; "t' damned cockney cannot ride at all." '"Yes, you've won your bet," replies my lady, gathering her skirts together and holding them close as she passes him by, "but possibly you may have lost remembrance that you were born a gentleman," and with that she proudly turns her back and sweeps away down t' stairs. 'Well, t' hounds couldn't get across t' beck, and t' Squire's first whip was ready wi' t' horn to fetch them back again; so Cunliffe was safe enough, but sorely damaged an' bruised, an' 'twas a full week before he left his house, when straight he goes abroad on foreign travel. 'Things gradually went on from bad to worse twixt t' Squire and Mistress Heron after that night's play; she used to lament for Lunnon an' its fashions, an' on t' last night of all she set t'owd Squire's blood blazin' by sneerin' at "country yokels" and their drunken ways. '"Why, damn t' ----!" cries he, quite forgetting himself, and using a word more suitable to t' kennels than t' drawing-room, "ain't we been here since King Alfred? An' what can ye want more than that?" 'Swift as fire she answers him, "One might wish that they were gentlemen," says she, an' cold an' contemptuous she walks past him out of the drawing-room and up into her own room, where she orders her maid to pack up for her at once, an' 'tis but an hour later when she drives away in t' carriage an' never sees t'owd place again. 'Well, they separate by law, an' shortly after, when t' bairn comes to live with his father, Mistress Heron gets much taken up with one of those father parsons, famous as a preacher in Lunnon at that time. 'Finally, she goes into a sort of retirement and becomes head of a sisterhood shortly, which gets to be very famous for its Good Samaritan sort of deeds. 'Grandfather used to say that whatever she took up she would be sworn to do better than anybody else. "Fox-'untin' she learnt clever in six months' time, an' if ye can larn that ye can larn owt," says he. 'As for t'owd Squire, he hunts harder than ever he had done before; an' nowt, positively nowt, can stop him across country, nor liquor stagger him, so that many thought he was heartier an' happier than ever he had been before. 'His son, as he grew up, was a bit trouble to him, certainly, as he was a wild lad--just like himself, but with a touch of his mother's pride, so that it was just as well when he went into t' army an' was sent to t' Indies. 'Well, time sped on, and t'owd Squire's hair was turnin' gray, when news came that his wife--Sister Eva, as they called her--had died suddenly in her retreat or convent. 'Up goes t' Squire to Lunnon without a word, an' when the chief mourners--all of them ladies of t' sisterhood, in their white dresses--were liftin' up t' coffin ropes to carry it to t' graveside, an' ancient gentleman, clad in a queer, long, bottle-green tail-coat, with a high stock and beaver hat on t' back of his head, comes forward an' quietly takes hold of t' head ropes. 'T' sisters remonstrate with him, and ask him who he is. "Mesdames," says he, "I was her unworthy husband," and he doffs his hat as he speaks, and without another word spoken helps to carry her to her grave. ''Twas said that they were t' same clothes he had worn on his wedding-day. 'It would be some months after this that my grandfather was dinin' with t'owd Squire, after t' opening meet of t' season. '"Here's to fox-huntin'!" cries he, after t' cloth was removed; an' a bit later he rises solemnly in his chair, an' he says, "And here's to a saint in heaven!" an' as he drinks it down grandfather sees a tear tricklin' on his cheek. 'Little by little he tells him all about t' quarrel and what had completed it: "And she was right, by G----!" cries t' Squire at the end of it, "as she always was, though I was too proud to say so then; and now it's too late, for she's a saint in heaven." 'That was the only time he spoke of her; but for all that, grandfather said it was clear that he was just broken-hearted, was t' poor owd Squire, even though five minutes after he was challenging him to ride for a fiver when 'ounds should find on t' morrow's mornin'. 'T'owd Squire never went better in his life, they said, than he did that day; but just at t' close of it his horse made a mistake over some timber, and he came a cropper in a ploughed field, with his horse on top of him, and had three of his ribs broken. 'It was a baddish fall; but though the doctors pulled him through he never got the better of it, and was taken away before t' season was out; and he was glad to go, was poor owd Squire, for he said he believed she had forgiven him, but he couldn't rest till he knew for certain.' AN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE 'Tell me about that mysterious affair of "Tom the Scholar," and Jack Jefferson's sudden death, and how you ran him to ground when suspicion had given up the chase. If all I have heard is true, you ought to have been at Bow Street, high up in the Criminal Investigation Department. Tell me,' I said again, 'how you came to play the part of amateur detective.' 'There was nowt o' the ammytoor aboot it,' retorted 'the Heckler' with aggressive dignity, 'it was a proper perfessional bit o' wark, an' the pollis was fine put oot that they hadn't had a hand in it. Wey, there was Scott, wor pollis; he came to us an' he says, "If ye had only tell't me about it I could hev made a job on 't," says he, "'stead o' lettin' him gan an' commit a fellor, d' y' see?" '"No," says I, "I divvn't see; it was him that done it, an' it was us as copped him, an' if I hadn't taken it intiv hand, wey, thoo would have still been usin' long words an' followin' up yor clue like an aad blind man followin' efter his dog," says I, "for I've no sort o' notion o' the pollis; they nivvor finds out nowt for themselves, ye hev elwis ti tell them what it is ye want done, an' then at the finish gan an' do it yorsel'." 'No, no; the pollis is just what the lawyer chaps call "accessories efter the fac'"--meanin' they comes up ti ye when aal's ower an' done wi', like the bairns at the school-sports, each one expectin' a prize. 'Well, as I was sayin', I copped "Tom the Scholar" aal maa lane, an' I doot whether anyone else could hev done it but me. I had suspected him a while back, for he was a mistetched[4] chap, ye ken, one o' the sort that has a bit grudge against everythin', an' vicious same as horses is sometimes, unforgettin', unforgivin'--just a nasty disagreeable beggor, ye ken. 'He was a scholar, though--"Tom the Scholar" they called him--an' was aye busy wi' books, nivvor had his head oot o' them, whether at the Institute or at aad Mistress Swan's, where he lodged. 'Efter a bit he takes up wi' courtin' Mary Straughan, her who got married on Jack Jefferson, an' I b'lieve she had a mind for him once, but not for long, for he frightened her biv his strange ways, an' a passionate way o' talk he had, an' she gave up walkin' wiv him an' took up wi' Jack instead--a south-country chap that had come frae Yorkshire--a big, burly, thick-headed sort o' chap, but tarr'ble good-natured. 'Well, Tom, he takes it varry badly, an' just before they gets "called" i' church he tarrifies Mary wi' vague threats as ti what'll happen if she dares ti wed wi' Jack. Noo, Tom was a "spirritualist," ye ken, as weel as a scholar, an' he swears that the spirits forbade the match, an' would be properly savage if they was disobliged. 'She was a narvious sort, was Mary, an' she tell't Jack ov't, an' Jack, he says, iv his queer clipp't Yorkshire way o' talk, "T' spirrits be d----d!" says he; "an' if that softy Tom comes interferin' 'twixt thoo an' me, I'll make him softier than ever," he says, shakin' a great big hairy fist that looked like a bullock's head. 'Well, they gets theirsel's married wivoot askin' leave either o' the "spirrits" or o' Tom, an' as nowt happened, an' Jack forbye was tarr'ble lucky iv his cavils[5] just efter his marriage, even Mary began ti laugh at the idea o' Tom an' his "spirrits" an' aal. 'They was tarr'ble happy those two, an' I mind well hoo proud and triumphant-like Jack looked as he slapped us on the back one early summer mornin' as we went ti the pit on the fore-shift, for I was only a hewer then, same as himsel', an' not what I is now--checkweighman, an' half ov a magistrate as well, bein' vice-chairman o' wor lokil District Council[6]--an' he cries, "Geordie," he says, "Geordie, man, I's that happy I can scarcely haud myself in. There's nowt I couldn't do. I could hew as much in one shift as any five men together in two; I could lepp ower a hoos, I's that cobby. I could challenge wee Bob Aitchison, t' sprinter, to a quarter-mile, an' lay t' fortnight's wages that I'd best him too. I could sing, I b'lieve," he says, an' wiv a solemn voice on him he adds: "Ay, an' I could even put up a bit prayer--though I's not much ov a Churchman--almost as weel as t' priest himself. An' I'll tell thoo why. It's because Mary tells me that there's likely gawin' to be an addition to the fam'ly party sometime shortly. She's a rare well-bred un, too, is Mary, an' I'll lay it's twins." "I'll gie ye the best o' luck," says I, "but twins is tarr'ble expensive, for I've tried 'em," says I. "Man alive!" cries he, holdin' up his arm--a proper colossyum ov a limb--"look at that. If that cannot win bread for a dozen o' twins, then a lighted candle cannot fire gas," says he. 'He was a fine brave man,' continued 'the Heckler' slowly, 'an' I can see him still standin' on the heapstead, an' I mind hoo pleased he was that he could hear a lark singin' high i' the air ower heid just as the sun peeped up before we went doon i' the cage that mornin' for the last time together--just as full o' life an' vigour he was as thoo is noo--but for all that it was the last time I saw him alive i' this world. 'It was the vary next mornin' that he was killed, but I wasn't doon the pit that day, for I had happened a bit accident the day before through a shot that went wrang on us, an' I was laid up i' bed for a week wiv a bandage ower my eyes. I bear the marks yet,' and he pointed to some small blue punctures, not unlike shot marks, that the gunpowder had left round about his left eyelid and cheekbone. 'Aal I could hear was that he had been knocked doon biv a runaway galloway pony that a lad called Harry Nicholson used to drive. Harry, ye must ken, was a bit weak iv his intellectuals, hevin' been born iv an ower great hurry like before his bit intellect had had time ti ripen, through his mother's gettin' a gliff at an accident that had happened her man doon the pit. 'Well, Harry was a driver, as I said, an' he an' the galloway was comin' doon an incline wiv a full tub, an' the galloway, hevin' bolted, dragged the tub off the lines, an' came blindly tearin' along this side an' that smash up inti Jack as he rounded an awkward corner. He was fearfu' knocked aboot when he was picked up, they said, his head bashed in bi the tub's wheels, an' there he lay, dead as mutton. 'The crowner comes doon an' sits on the body, an' the jury bring it in "Death by mis'dventure" slap off, bein' iv a hurry likelies ti get oot for their dinners, an' there the whole thing would have ended wiv a buryin' an' a gettin' up mevvies ov a bit subscription fer his missus an' the bairn; ay, that's hoo it would have ended up had it not been for "the Heckler." 'I wasn't allowed oot by the doctor, sae I was just forced to think it oot aal maa lane--mevvies havin' my eyes blindfolded helped us a bit; anyways, I lay there quiet i' bed an' found I could think it aal oot like Gladstone; ay, an' I tell thoo that Gladstone an' Horbert Spencor together cudn't have thought harder than I did at that period o' time, nor have pieced the puzzle together bettor than us. It sounds like a bit brag, mevvies, but it isn't, by Gox! it's just the naked truth. 'Well, there I lay between the sheets wi' my "linin's" on, detarmined that if there had been any foul play nowt but death should stop us frae findin' it oot. First thing I does is ti get the wife ti ask Harry Nicholson in ti tea wiv us, so as ti hear aal aboot hoo it happened. 'Well, efter he has been well filled oot wi' tea, an' spice loaf, an' jam an' aal, I gets him ti tell the whole story, an' then I axes him a few supernumerary questions. '"Thoo'll ken 'Tom the scholar?'" I axes him--"him that's a stoneman doon the pit, an' gans in for spiritualism an' sich like for his hobby an' pastime?" "Ay," he says, "I ken him nicely. Wey, I been at some ov his 'seeantics,' or whativvor it is he calls them, an' I have the makin' ov a fine 'meejum,'" he says, "for I can parsonate folks ov aal kinds, males an' females, wivoot any distinction o' sexes." '"Ay!" says I, interruptin' him wiv a sort ov admirin' surprise i' my tone o' voice, "can thoo, noo? Wey, thoo's a clivvor one, that's what thoo is." '"Ay," says he, quite enlarged at the thought, "an' there's some folk says that I isn't quite right i' the head, but they couldn't parsonate Alexander the Great--him that the sword-dancers sing aboot--like as I can. Could they, noo?" '"No," says I, "not they. They're not scholars enough for that, an' mevvies they would be gliffed at it as weel. Dis thoo nivvor get a gliff at the spirits?" I axes, careless like. '"Not while I's parsonating, I divvn't, but whiles when I's doon the pit I gets a gliff," says he; "it's sae dark an' lonesome i' places." '"Dis Tom ivvor try to make thoo parsonate doon i' the pit?" I axes him, "for Tom, bein' stoneman, 'll come across thoo at times drivin' yor galloway." '"Ay, I've seen him doon below," he says, "though he nivvor talked on aboot parsonating, but usuallies passes us by wivoot sayin' nowt, for Tom's a vary distant sort o' chap, thoo knaas." '"But sometimes mevvies he would speak wi' thoo when he passed thoo, an' other folks wasn't aboot? Did he ivvor talk on aboot the spirits ti thoo at all? That day the galloway ran away, did he speak wi' thoo that mornin'? Mevvies he did, laddie, an' mevvies he told thoo not ti speak aboot it lest the spirits wouldn't like it, or some such kind ov argument," says I, insinuatin' it tiv him like one o' thae lawyer chaps iv a wig. '"Ay, he spoke tiv us that mornin', sure enough, sayin' as hoo he thought the spirits was vexed, for he had heard them callin' i' the pit itself through the darkness, an' he wanted ti knaa whether I had heard the voices same as himself or not. Well, I hadn't heard nowt, nor had nivvor thought aboot spirits bein' doon the pit, but I gets a bit gliffed myself at that, an' a bit later I ackshally heard them speakin' aloud--sure an' certain," says he. '"Did they gliff thoo just before the galloway ran away an' ran ower poor Jack Jefferson?" says I. '"Ay," says he, "I got a gliff then, for I heard the spirits' voices shootin'[7] oot against us." '"Gox!" says I, "to think o' that, noo! Wey, thoo gies us a gliff an' aal; an' what dis thoo hear them sayin'?" axes I. '"'Here's the parsonator,' they shoots out aloud, 'that calls us frae wor rest. Lepp oot upon him, an' torment him! At him, Annexo!' or some such ootlandish name,--'at him, spirits aal!'" '"Sae thoo starts awa' likelies wi' the galloway at a gallop, an' couldn't get him stopped on the incline?" I axes him. '"No, no, I was ower flay'd mysel' ti do owt; but the galloway must have gotten a gliff at something. I mind I thought I saw a flash o' light just at the moment, an' the galloway he couldn't abide a sudden light across his eyes, he was that narvious; or mevvies it was the voice that gliffed him same as it did us; anyways, awa' aff he goes wivvoot me, an' dashes aff doon the incline wiv us chasin' him an' shootin', 'Woa, woo-h, Paddie; woo-ah, thoo daftie!'" '"An' hoo far behind him dis thoo think thoo was when he come to the corner where he ran inti poor Jack? Did thoo see Jack theesel', or hear him shoot out as the galloway butted him?" '"No," says he, "I nivvor seen him, an' I wasn't far behind the galloway nowther, for as soon as the tub got awa' frae the lines he couldn't travel vary fast, for it was loaded. Aal I could hear was the bumpity-bump o' the tub, then smash inti the wall--smash--smash--an' a crash as the tub swung ower an' dragged the galloway wiv it. I can mind nae mair nor that, mistor," says he, at the end ov his tale, "for I fell slap ower Jack Jefferson's body i' the darkness, an' pitchin' full upon my head was knocked senseless, till they come along an' picked us up. An' that's the whole story, Mister Carnaby," says he, "an' I've done wi' the spirits, an' parsonatin', an' aal noo, for they're treacherous things, there's nae doot aboot it," says he. 'Weel, that was aal I could get oot ov him, sae I gives him some sweeties an' lets him gan, biddin' him not let on that I'd axed him any questions, ye ken, an' efter that I lay i' bed thinkin' it aal ower an' makin' up a plan o' campaign for when "the Heckler" should be up an' aboot again. 'Efter aboot another three days I was allowed oot by the doctor wiv a sort o' lampshade ower my eyelids, an' the next day bein' "pay Saturday," an' the pit idle, I detarmines within my ain mind ti gan doon maa lane an' hev a look round by myself; for it's no use trustin' anyone else when ye've got a job o' that calibry iv hand, ye ken. 'I kenned where the trajiddy had taken place, o' course, sae I detarmines ti gan ti the spot an' make a sarious of obsarvations. "First place," I says ti myself, "there winnot be much change i' the surroundin's, for it's a new drift in by there that they are drivin', wi' 'Tom the Scholar' an' his marrow, an' not many workin'; an', secondly, it's damp there wi' the salt water oozin' in through the rock, sae that footmarks will have a good chance ti stand a bit." 'Noo, "Scholar Tom" had a tarr'ble large footprint, ye ken, an' it was that I was i' search o', for I had my suspicions o' what might have happened, an' I was convinced that that d----d, mistetched beggor was at the bottom o' poor Jack Jefferson's sudden endin'--ay, an' whenivvor I thought o' that fine, brave chap an' his bright face an' his happiness, I says ti myself, "There'll be no rest nor pleasure nor nowt for 'the Heckler' till the mystery's discovered; an' it's yor job ti discover it," I says ti myself. 'He was bound ti have been there, for, o' course, it was him as shooted out that nonsense at Harry that had gliffed him, an' dootless it was him that had flashed his davy i' the galloway's eyes. 'Jack, d'ye see, would have been lousin' off frae his wark an' walkin' doon the drift at that time when the galloway started off; but what beat me was that Jack couldn't hev got oot o' the way i' time, bein' fine an' active, grand at hearin' and seein', an' ne fool forbye that. 'Noo, just when I had detarmined upon this i' maa mind a sort ov an inspiration takes us aal ov a sudden. "Wey divvn't thoo take that driver lad alang wi' thoo ti show thoo exactly where the trajiddy happened?" it says tiv us just as thoo it was a real, genu-ine voice i' my inside. "Sink me!" thinks I, "it's a tarr'ble clivvor idea, an' sae I will." '"Has thoo anything else ti add ti that, Inspiration?" I axes it, an' shortlies efter it says, "Divvn't thoo trust ower much ti what Nicholson says, nor tell him o' yor plan beforehand, for he's i' Tom's power, an' tarrified ov him," it says again. '"Gox!" thinks I, "but this is the champion; wey, I's as good a spiritualist as Tom himself." '"There's one last question I must ax thoo," says I, for I hadn't properly thought beforehand o' the difficulty o' gannin' doon the pit on "pay-Saturday," an' that is: "Hoo i' the warld can us gan in-bye? for thoo kens that naebody but the furnace-man, engine-man, an' horse-keeper gans doon that day, an' if anyone else wanted ti, wey, he would have ti get leave frae the manager, an' even then he would have ti have a deputy alang wiv him. Answer us this, Inspiration," says I, "an' it's a clagger for thoo, I's warned." 'But, mevvies efter two minutes, it whispers back two words, "drift," an' "beer." '"Drift?" I repeats, an' "beer?" An' then aal at onst I sees the implication, for I kenned the lodge-keeper at the head o' the drift nicelies, an', what's mair, I kenned what Sammy Cuthbertson, the local preacher, calls "the joint iv his harness" still better. 'Sae I gans up tiv him quietly, an' I says tiv him, "Geordy," says I, "hoo much o' the best beer will five bob procure iv an emergency?" '"Five bob," says he, vary serious, "will buy aal but two gallons o' the best bitter, an' d---- the emergency," says he. '"Dis thoo prefer it i' bottles, or iv a greyhen, or iv a pail--an' aal at onst?" says I. '"Bottles is no use," says he, "wey, the corks alone will mevvies take a pint ti theirselves. Na, na, gie it ti me iv a pail for aal-roond drinkin'." '"Well," says I, "thoo shall have it iv a pail if thoo'll just let us an' the lad here gan in doon by the drift for an hour ti investigate a private matter o' wor ain--just a visit ov inspection. No harm done, nobody need ken, an' up again within the hour, I'll promise thoo that," says I. 'Well, his face prolonged itself at that a bit. "But if it was kenned," says he, "I'd get my notice." '"Nobody will ken but us three," says I; "an', look thoo, thoo shall have the pail at yor dinner to-morrow forenoon," says I. 'That did the business for him, I's warn'd, an' he promises ti oot wiv his key an' let us gan in by. Poor chap, though, he got his notice aal the same, though it wasn't my blame: it was because he was ower-greedy an' thought he could get another pailful oot o' somebody else later. 'Well, I says nowt ti Nicholson aboot gannin' doon the pit till the vary mornin', and then I gans along an' catches ahaud on him, an' says, "Ho-way,[8] thoo mun come along wiv us doon the pit, for I wants ti see the place o' the accident myself, an' I hev arranged aboot gannin' doon," I says. Well, he turns quite white at this, an' whines an' cries not ti gan; but I was res'lute wiv him, an' tarr'fies him wiv a hint ov a gaol if he winnot come doon and show us aal I axes him. 'Well, we went by the drift and straight doon ti the "Number 3, North," or "Joan" district, as we call it worsels, an' there we gropes aboot the trolley-way, just at the corner where the accident must have taken place, an' searched for footmarks. 'The lad, ye ken, must just have started frae the putter's flat wiv a full tub, an' aboot thirty yards doon he must have been gliffed. Hereaboots, iv a fenced place, Tom must have waited on Jack's "loosin' off" frae his wark, an' another ten yards further on is where the galloway must have run awa' off frae the rails. I had it aal mapped oot ready i' my mind, an' it was just the details I had ti fit in wiv it. 'There was mair tramplin' aboot than I had expected, what wi' the galloway's stumblin', the tub ploughin' alang through the dirt, an' the footprints o' the search-party that had come up ti the scene o' the casualty; but for aal that, I could see here an' there the marks o' Tom's big shoes, wi' the extry broad plates at heel an' toes he used ti wear. 'Mevvies it wasn't ower much ti see, but it heartened us up, for it conformed us i' wor opinions, especially the fact that wherever they was visible they was close in by the wall-side, as if he had been wishful ti hide himself as far as might be--a sort o' presumptuous evidence against him, as the lawyers call it. '"I will have ti gan back ti bed again," I says ti myself, "ti think it aal oot properly, for though I haven't a doot about it myself, I'll have ti convince aal thae thick-heads o' judges at my lord's 'Size[9] before I gets him properly convicted, sae I must have it aal pieced oot an' put together like a bairn's puzzle-map." 'Well, we was slowly makin' wor way oot o' the passage when I hears something comin' up-by, creak, creakin' as it came. Weel, I's no coward, I's warn'd, an' I'll face any man livin' that ye like ti mention, but I got a fair gliff at that, for I couldn't make oot what it might mean--Nicholson an' us bein' the only folk aboot doon there. "Gox, it's Jack's ghost!" think I ti mysel iv a sudden sweat o' fear. Sae oot at once I turns my davy (lamp), an' the lad's, fearin' lest he might notice us, an' shrinks back inti the corner o' the wall as small as could be, with the lad tremblin' aal ower next us. Efter a bit I sees a wee glimmer o' light shakin' i' the darkness, then a shadow ov a man behind it, an' slowly, vary slowly, as if seekin' something, it mounts up the passage towards us. '"Hist!" says I ti the lad iv a thick whisper, "just smear your face an' hands ower wi' clarts, or the ghaist will cop us," I says, an' grabbin' a handful I clarts his face an' hands iv an instant o' time; then I scrapes up a handful for mysel' an' aal, but i' reachin' oot for a good fill o' clarts my hands struck up against a sort ov a heavy bar o' some specie or other. 'I gied a bit haul at it, an' awa it comes up inti my hands--a small, heavy, but handy bit ov iron it was, mevvies about sixteen inches long, wiv a sort o' knob at the end o't. '"I'll have a look at thoo later," says I, an' claps it inti my pocket wi' the one hand, whiles I clarts my face wi' the other. Meantime the creakin' thing was drawin' nigher an' nigher tiv us, but the light wiv it was tarr'ble dim, an' I couldn't have given it a name. 'On came the light an' the shadow, but the creakin' noise had stopped; 'stead o' that there was a squelch, squelch, as ov a man steppin' in an' oot' o' mud. 'It passed us biv a finger's breadth, an' I almost shouted aloud by way o' relief, for it was a real live flesh-an'-blood man, wiv a fouled davy, an' no ghost--for ghosts canna spit, I's warn'd. '"D---- thoo!" I was just aboot ti shoot at him, comin' flayin' folk i' that fashion. "Who is thoo, thoo ----" when he stops short on a sudden, just round the corner above us, an' talks tiv himself oot loud. "Ay, it'll be just aboot here," he muttered, "that it fell," and I could have let flee a yell o' delight that would have brought a fall o' stone doon, for it was no other voice than "Tom the Scholar's" himsel'. '"Thoo b----!" I says ti mysel', an' clenches my fist tight; "thoo b----! but I's copped thoo noo." '"Tell ti me noo, Annexo," continues Tom, usin' the same furrin' sort o' talk as he had ti the lad; "tell ti me noo where it lies--the weapon that freed my destined bride frae unlawful arms. I mun hev it back, for there's a d----d chap i' wor village that they call 'the Heckler,'" he gans on, the impittent scoondrel that he was, "a daft feller that's mad aboot dogs an' sic' like nonsense, but he has his suspicions, an' mevvies might be dangerous, for he has been questionin' my meejum, Nicholson, the driver lad. Speak then, Annexo, speak, my beauty. Where lies my trusty weapon? Speak louder," says he again, impatient like, "for I canna hear i' the darkness." 'Just on that instant I gets another inspiration i' my insides, an' wivvoot mair ado I whispers oot loud iv a fine, feminine, and superfluous voice: "Search ti the right hand a bit lower doon, canny man," says I, "an' thoo'll find what thoo is wantin'," an' I held oot my hand ready ti grasp his wi' when he stretched it oot. '"Aha!" says he, quite gratified like, "sae thoo has found a voice, has thoo?" 'It was nigh pitch darkness about us, for his davy had almost gane clean oot wi' the clogged wick, but I could feel his hands gropin' towards us, an' I says ti mysel', "Another foot, an' a murderer's copped!" 'His hands came hoverin' ower mine, for I could feel the wind o' them; in another second he touches us, an', grabbin' ahaud ov him by way o' reply, I shouts oot, "Ay, here's Annex-us, thoo b----!" 'The yell he let oot was fearfu', an', startin' back, he dragged his arm oot o' my grasp, an' then leaped forward iv a flash, ducked past us, an' awa off round the corner he fled, us efter him like the aad bitch[10] efter a started hare. 'He had dropped his lamp, an' it was darker nor Hell itself, but I could hear him dashin' along i' front ov us at wondrous speed. Mad keen I was, as I tore efter him ower bits o' balk an' stone lyin' aboot doon the rolley-way, bended double sae as ti avoid the roof-beams. Bang up against a door I comes, shakin' mysel' intiv a jelly by the shock, but when I had it opened an' was through I could still catch the sound ov his footfalls not far in front ov us. "He'll have come a big bat hissel' against the door," I thinks ti mysel' as I started off again, "ay, an' bein' before us he'll have aal the obstacles ti contend wi' first ov aal. Huzza, ho-way!" an' I tore efter him, a fair deevil for recklessness--makin' no doot he was for the main rolleyway, an' sae oot by the main drift by which we had entered the pit. 'There came the thud ov another door, an' I gans a bit mair cautious like, fendin' wi' my hands i' front ov us. Shortlies efter I notices that the footfalls sounded fainter-like; they seemed ti be comin' frae the left-hand side noo an' not i' front ov us. 'Aal ov a sudden I minds mysel' ov a return air-way that would lead oot by the main drift. "Gox!" I thinks, "thoo's hit the mark, but where the openin' is I cannot mind, for it isn't travelled biv any one barrin' the deputies. He passed the door i' front ov us, but bi the sound he's ti the left hand ov us noo;" sae I felt along the wall till I comes tiv an open way. "Ho-way," says I, mad ti think he might escape us efter aal, "ho-way, thoo'll get him yet!" 'On, on I went at a reckless speed, ti make up for my bad turn, an' iv another minute I gied tongue like a foxhound, for I heard him pat, pattin' on i' front ov us. "I's copped thoo!" I yelled through the darkness tiv him, ti tarr'fy him, for I heard him stumblin' amangst some loose props or gear o' some sort quite plainly, "I's copped the murderer!" 'Foot upon foot I gains on him; I hears him pantin' just a yard or two i' front ov us. I grasps oot wi' my hands an' touches his shoulder, an' he yells wi' terror, givin' a leap like a hare, an' slips frae under my hands. 'Doon, full length, doon I fell wiv a smash like a fall o' stone, half stunned, my head like a night o' stars. 'Suddenly there comes a yell o' horror--then a thud, a clump, clump, an' a c-clush, an' then stark silence, an' doon, right doon at the bottom ov a staple fifteen fathoms deep ten yards i' front ov us lay aal that was left o' the murderer copped, clean copped, by "the Heckler."' FOOTNOTES: [4] 'Mistetched' = spoiled; of ill habits. _Cf._ Chaucer's 'tetch,' a spot. [5] 'Cavil' = the quarterly ballot amongst coal-hewers for their places down the pit. Seams differ greatly in quality and depth of coal, and in ease of working. This is the miners' own rough-and-ready method of adjusting the inequalities. [6] The chairman of a local District Council is _ex-officio_ a magistrate. [7] 'Shootin'' (shouting). 'Shuttin',' on the other hand, would mean shooting, whereby quaint confusions have occasionally arisen. [8] Come along. [9] The Assizes. [10] Viz., Bonnie Bella, a famous greyhound of 'the Heckler's.' 'IN MEMORIOV'M' 'Ay, that's what 'tis,' replied 'the Heckler' to my query, 'it's an "in memoriov'm"--Latin, ye ken, meanin' in memory ov him. The words is alike, mevvies, but it's Latin language, I's warn'd, an' I howked it oot upon that headstone myself wiv a clasp-knife.' I knelt down upon the sandy dune and brushed aside the bents that nearly covered the squat gray stone with their long lashes, and eventually deciphered a straggling array of figures which for their illegibility would have enraptured an antiquary. 'It was just below us,' continued 'the Heckler,' 'that I found his cap, an' thinkin' him drooned, an' him bein' a favour-yte wi' me, I just put up that bit stone for him an' carved his initials on it, an' the Latin, an' G. C., that's for us, "the Heckler," ye ken, his mark. But it was a false alarm efter aal, an' noo that Jim Hedley's a Right Hon. Lord Mayor oot iv Australie, I's warn'd but when he's put under the sod he'll hev a hearse an' four horses an' a proper musulyum' (mausoleum) 'tiv hisself.' 'What made you think he was drowned?' I inquired. 'Did you think it a case of suicide?' 'Ay, o' course I did; we aal did that, an' not wivvoot reasons,' responded 'the Heckler,' 'for he was full o' misery at that time, an' wanted ti get shot o' the whole lot ov it. Jim was a fine, tall, proper lad--"bonny Jim" the lasses called him--wunnerfu' handy, too, iv aal sorts of ways, an' as for behaviour, wey, he could talk ti my lord as canny as tiv a pot-boy. 'Well, wiv aal these gifts o' fortune it wasn't surprisin' he got hisself sweetheartin' wiv a young, bonny, quiet-faced lassie, daughter ov aad Sheepshanks, the farmer, close in by the village. 'It was a bit lift for Jim, for she had some brass, but aad Sheepshanks, he tries to forbid the "callins"' (banns) 'i' church; "for what's a pitman," says he, "that a farmer's daughter should marry on?--a dirty-faced, drunken, dog-lovin', gamblin' chep," says he; an' a lot o' gob o' that kind, ye ken, bein' a red-hot Tory wiv a lot o' Noah's-ark kind ov ideas iv his head. 'The lassie didn't think that, though; she just warshipped Jim, followin' him aboot wiv her eyes everywhere, just like the aad bitch' (here he nodded towards the greyhound beside him) 'does "the Heckler." 'Well, they marries an' has a bit fam'ly, an' Jim gans ahead quick; he was marrow' (mate) 'wi' me as a hewer yence, an' then he becomes a deputy, an' bein' a great reader an' a gran' speaker, there was some talk o' makin' him wor Member o' Parlyment when he got a bit older. Well, it had aal been plain sailin' for Jim so far, an' everybody thought his success was sartin, but he soon came tarr'ble nigh makin' a tragedy ov hisself, poor chap. 'There was a young widow woman came ti live doon here at the Prospect House ower there. She'd been married on a fat old chap that had made a lot o' brass i' the toon i' publics, an' they used to come here for a bit i' the summer, an' when he died she comes doon ti the "Prospect" ti bide for good an' aal. 'I sometimes think,' continued my companion after a slight pause, 'that it's a sair pity folks isn't sometimes drooned like kittens or "put under" same as dogs that turn oot no use. It wud save a lot o' misfortunes an' misery, I's warn'd, an' unless ye drooned a Gladstone, or a John Wesley, or mevvies even a "Heckler," the world would be aal the better o't. 'Anyways, she should have been drooned slap off as a babby, for she was a rank bad un--just rank bad ti the bone--an' when a woman is bad, she's just the devil's own viewer[11] or deputy, by Gox! 'She had been on the stage, 'twas said, at one time, an' there was queer stories aboot her, so that the gentry-folk aboot here would have nowt ti do wiv her, sae she had aal the better opportunity ti play her tricks wi' Jim. 'She was free wi' the brass, ye ken, an' give subscriptions awa for the askin', providin' she had her name an' address clagged up large on the play-bills, an' was a champion at gettin' up concerts for wor Mechanic Institute an' such-like entertainments. 'That was hoo she first got a hand upon Jim, for he had a gran' voice--a perfect champion at harmony he was, an' she just buttered him up properly. It was "Oh, Mr. Hedley, an' what a fortin ye would have made in the Opera!" "Sing it again, Mr. Hedley, it's fair ravishin'," an' so she carried on till she had him awa to practise duetties wiv her at her hoos, an' made him stay ti supper wi' glasses o' wine tiv it--yellow shampain wine that'll set your brain iv a froth, I b'lieve, an' at the finish she has him just drugged wiv her enchantments. 'There was one night I mind I was oot walkin' an' chanst ti pass by alang that road there that leads past the hoos--the trees wasn't grown up then, ye ken, an' I could spy a bit in through the windie, which was open on the night--it bein' summer then, d'ye see. 'She was settin' beside the pianner playin' pretence wiv it, an' castin' up white eye-glances at Jim soft-like, noo an' again, with a sort ov insolence, too, as though she kenned her power ower him--drawin' oot the very marrow an' soul ov him wiv her perfections. 'She was aal clad i' silks an' satins, like a play-actress--her bosom gleamin' wi' jools, an' Jim was leanin' against the pianner gazin' at her, fair drunk wiv her blandishments. 'I cuddn't stand by an' just do nowt ava, sae I let fly a yell upon the night, "Ho-way home ti thy own lawfu' missus, an' leave that d----d hussy alone." 'He gave a sudden start at that, an' leaps round ti the windie, claps it ti wiv a smash, an' pulls the curtains ower it. 'Well, I kenned then by that token that it was aal ower wi' Jim. She had him fast, an' nowt could be done, for interferin' i' them cases is warse than useless; but I was sair, sair grieved for him an' his wee quiet bonny-faced wife, an' I walked awa home callin' that woman aal things I could lay my tongue ti under heaven. 'Things went gradually from warse ti warse; he neglected his work an' avoided his wife, an' he became tarr'ble violent iv his temper, an' nigh offered ti fight me yence when I tried ti argy wiv him upon his foolishness. Well, the crissis comes one night when his wife follows him ti the Prospect Hoos an' walks straight inti the drorin'-room where him an' the other woman was. He'd just been threatened by the viewer, d'ye see, wi' gettin' his notice if he didn't pull hisself tegither, an' knawin' things were aaltegither wrang wiv him, he just gans slap off ti the woman oot o' pure recklessness, for he was none o' yo'r half an' half gentlemen, an' as he was gannin' ti the deevil, wey, he wud gan wiv a brass band, ye ken. 'His wife comes in upon them like a ghost, an' never heedin' the other woman, cries tiv him, haudin' oot her arms for him, "Oh, come back, Jim, come back; divvn't break my heart!" 'Jim says nowt, but glares moodily on the ground, an' there's silence for a bit. Then the woman begins ti laugh saftly tiv herself, eyein' Jim's missus scornfu' like frae top ti toe standin' there, small an' shabby-dressed an' tearfu', an', "Wey doesn't thoo gan?" says she, "here's yo'r hooskeeper come ti fetch thoo home!" she says. 'Jim gies a start at this an' looks up wi' blazing eyes at his temptress, then he says tiv his wife, "Gan home, Mary, gan home; this is no a fit place for thoo," an' sae she gans awa softly, weepin' like a desolate bairn. 'Soon as the door shuts he turns upon the other woman, an' he says sternly, "This is the end o't, Susan; I'm gannin' awa' an' ye'll never see me mair. You've plenty brass, an' can fend for yo'rself. I've given thoo my life, an' I can do nae mair; sae good-bye, my lass, for ever an' aye." 'But she rushes tiv him, an' clasps her arms roond aboot his neck an' sweethearts him an' swears they must get married; but Jim, he puts her quietly awa', an' wiv a stone-set face gans oot o' the hoos an' straight for the shore. 'Tossin' his cap on ti the ground, he walks right inti the waters an' begins swimmin' oot, right oot inti the sea, there ti droon hissel' an' his troubles straight awa. 'Well, mevvies he was ower strong ti be easy ti droon; mevvies the cold water cleared his mind a bit, an' he thought shame on hissel' ti leave wife an' bairns ti shift for theirsels; anyhoo, as he said efter, when he saw the red light of a little schooner ridin' waitin' for the tide off the harbour, a thought cam intiv his brain, "Wey not gan right awa an' make a fresh start iv a fresh place?" 'The thought grows on him, an' he swims oot ti the schooner just as she was standin' awa for London town, an' he hails her an' is taken on board i' the nick o' time. Another minute an' she would have been oot o' sight an' hearin', an' Jim would have been a corpse in another ten minutes, I's warn'd. 'Well, nowt is heard ov him for months an' months. "The Heckler" carves an "In memoriov'm" on that headstone; his missus gans inti "blacks," an' the other woman leaves the Prospect Hoos an' gans right awa from these parts. 'One day though, Jim's missus comes alang tiv us cryin' an' laughin' aal at yence, haudin' up a letter and kissin' it between whiles. "It's from Jim! Jim!" she cries, "an' Jim, sweet Jim, he kept hissel' alive for me an' Jackie an' Sal! Oh, he loves me yet, my Jim!" 'Well, it seems as hoo he had gan oot tiv Australia, an' efter a bit wanderin' had gettened hisself a very canny sitivation at a gold mine, an' he sends aff at yence for his missus an' bairns, an' a week later awa they starts. 'They finds Jim doin' first-class when they gets there, an' he went ahead like a hoos-o'-fire as soon as he gets his missus an' bairns back tiv hissel', an' the past wiv its clartiness was just clean wiped out between them. 'An' noo he's the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor o' Ballarat, or some such place, an' cannot mak' enough ov his missus and bairns, they say. 'There's some women mevvies,' added 'the Heckler' in conclusion, 'who wouldn't have pardoned their man, but she was one o' the sort that are just faithfu' ti death--nowt can tarr'fy them aff, an' it's fair providential that it should be so, for there's many men noo livin' who wud just have been iv hell lang syne else.' FOOTNOTE: [11] Manager. 'THE HECKLER' UPON WOMENFOLK 'Men are kittle cattle enough,' replied 'the Heckler' oracularly, from his position of vantage on the top of a gate, to some question of mine concerning an indignation meeting held recently to protest against some matter about which no two people could give a like account; 'but they're nowt ti what womenfolk is. Ye can get roond most men easy enough if ye've a bit tax.' 'Tax?' I queried aloud, somewhat mystified. 'What tax? not rates an' tax----' 'Gan on wi' thoo--rates an' taxes be d----!' retorted the oracle swiftly. 'No, nowt ti do wi' them things; just tax, or tacts, mevvies it is, meanin' a pleasant way wi' ye, a bit touch o' the cap when the manager's vext wi' ye, a turn o' management when a drunken man wants ti fight ye for nowt at aal, ye ken, an' sae forth. Wow, but ye can fettle most things amangst men wiv a little o' that social lubricant, but wi' women it's different aaltigether; tax is nae use wi' them; it's just throwin' pearls before swine.' 'Holloa!' I interrupted again. 'What would the missus say to that?' 'Not hevin' heard it, she'll say nowt,' retorted 'the Heckler' severely. 'Well, as I was aboot to say when thoo forgot theeself, and disturbed the meetin' wi' yor interruptions, most men has foibles--some's dog-men like myself, some's book-men, some's gard'ners, some's beer-barrils, an' sae forth, an' if ye mind this ye can get what ye want usuallies oot o' them. But women's a different breed aaltigether. They divvn't care for the same things as men, an' ye cannet get roond them, I's warn'd, for they elwis gets roond ye instead. A man has no ambitions till he's married, Maistor John. Mevvies he's keen aboot this, an' that, an' 'tother thing, but that's nowt. Noo, woman's just chockfull ov ambitions aal her life long, an's nivvor, no, nivvor, satisfied from her cradle tiv her grave, an' even then she's wantin' fower horses tiv her hearse. Tak' a wee girlie for an instance: she's elwis wantin' new claes; then she's wantin' a man, then bairns, then a hoos ov her own, then a better cloak than Mariarann nex' door; an' when she gets them aal she's not satisfied, not one little bit, but's warse than ivvor. 'Noo I'll gie ye an instance o't. 'Ye'll dootless mind havin' seen or heard tell ov Tom Archbold, yence fore overman here i' the aad pit, a great, big, buirdly man, champion hewer o' the colliery at one time, who aye took the lead i' the village at every bit sport, an' carry-on, an' jollification that might be gannin' on at any time. 'Well, there was a little wee bit lassie ov aboot twenty-five years ov age, who had been married yence, but had lost her man iv an accident doon the pit--a fall o' stone, ye ken--an' nae sooner has she buried him than she's on the look-oot for anither mate. 'Well, bein' the littlest woman i' the village, she natorally--such bein' woman's human nature--tak's a fancy for the biggest man iv it, meanin' Tom Archbold, an' she gans for him straight awa. 'Ye'll hev seen a setter dog workin' for a partridge or a rabbit iv a rough grass field, mevvies. Weel, it was just the same method o' procedure wiv her. She gets a scent o' what she was wantin'; she draws upon him up wind; then she gets a tip-toe, steals tiv him till her breath's fair upon him, an' the man's done--fair done--clean copped, and it's "for better an' warse till death do us part." 'So it was wi' Lizzie an' Tom. 'Tom was a weeda (widower), an' on the look-out for anither missus, an' havin' had a great big woman for his first--a proper marrow ov himself i' size an' shape--an' not havin' been ower well satisfied wiv his venture, he thinks he'll try a smaller article for his second lott'ry. 'Well, Tom was elwis very free an' open wiv his conversation, an' mevvies Lizzie, she gets ti hear ov it; but she pretends ti tak' no notice o' Tom when she passes along the Raa,[12] or meets Tom i' the street. She just sails past him, noo wiv head i' the air, again wiv her eyes upon the ground, mournfu' like for the loss of her man, an' Tom becomes quite bewitched by her manners, for she was a fair contrast wiv Bella, who had ti tarrify him wiv a summons from the pollis at the finish before she could get him ti marry her i' chorch. 'Well, she bags him clivvor at the finish, an' they gets theyselves married wivoot more ado. 'A week efter comes "pay-Friday,"[13] an', natorally, quite apart from the "celebration of his nuptials," as the newspaper cheps say, he gets hissel' as boosy as can be, what wi' standin' treat, an' bein' treat an' aal, an' efter closin' time it was wi' some difficulty that me an' my marrer gets him along home. 'We knocks on the door, an' we assists him in, an' he staggers up tiv his missus, who was sittin' iv her armchair knittin', an' tries ti gie her a bit chuck under the chin. "Ho--way----," he stutters, "Lizzie, maa lass, an' put us ti bed!" an' stoopin' down iv a staggerin' way ti kiss her loses his balance, an' flops doon unexpected on the floor. "Ye needn't wait," Lizzie says tiv us, haughty-like, takin' no notice o' Tom, an' sae oot we gans, an' leaves them. But we just stops a minute ootside ti hear Lizzie gie him his gruel; an', wow! but she let him have it, an' no mistake! "Thoo great flamin' drunken lubbert!" says she, "comin' home ti my hoos at this time o' night, drunk as a lord, an' only been married a week!" she cries. "Thoo mun just get used wiv it, maa lass," says he solemnly from the floor; "for aa elwis gets drunk reg'lor on a pay-Friday; an' it'sh maa hoos thoo ----, for aa's maistor," he says, thinkin', mevvies, he mun assert hissel' even if he has had his gills. '"Put thoo ti bed?" cries she. "Wey, I'll not touch thoo, nor let thoo touch me nowther till thoo's sober again, an's begged maa pardon." '"Pardon-sh?" says Tom, an' laughs, fair amused by her impittence. "Wey, if maa legs wesn't sae wambly the night, I'd larn thoo a lesson, thoo ----" '"Get up, an' try, thoo sponge o' beer," she says, an' snaps her fingers iv his face. "Get up, an' try," cries she again. "I daur thoo ti;" an' she actually has the impittence ti stir him wiv her foot. Just fancy that! A yard an' a half o' petticoat, fair insultin' upon a proper mountain ov a man like Tom! The door was a bit open, d'ye see, an' my marrer an' me could see them two comics quite plain. 'Well, Tom, he thinks things is comin' tiv a pretty pass if his missis is gannin' ti clean her boots on him efter a week's marryin'; so, much against his will, he pulls hissel' tegither, an' by the help o' the bedpost gets on his feet. '"Wey," cries Lizzie again, lookin' him ower mair scornfu' than ever, "thoo's as unsteady on thy feet as a horse wi' the staggers!" she says. "I could knock thoo doon wi' one finger!" '"I bet-sh a sovereign thoo cannet; ay, an' anither that I'll drive yo'r lugs reet intiv yo'r heid wi' one bat o' my fist," says he; an' he puffs hissel' oot as he searches for the coin, an' spits on his hands iv a preliminary sort o' way. 'Then, sudden, she comes up tiv him, gies him a tap wiv her forefinger, unexpected like, straight on the breast, an' Tom, taken unawares, lurches backward, catches his foot iv a bracket, crashes intiv a chair, an' falls wiv a tarr'ble thump an' a racket of furniture straight on ti the flaggin'. He gies a little lift ov his head as he looks up in a dazed way for a moment from the floor. Then he says, sinkin' back again, "There's been a fall o' stone; gan an' fetch the depity," he says, then sort o' dwams (swoons) awa. 'Lizzie, she looks him ower for awhile, cool as a policeman wiv a lantern, then lifts a pillow off the bed, an' puts it under his head as he lies stretched upon the floor. Next, she takes the boots off her man, an' sae leaves him ti bide where he lies, whilst she gans ti bed her lane. 'Next mornin' Tom feels hissel' as sick as a bad bat o' the head an' a wambly stomach can make a man, an' "lies in" while his missus gies him warm things ti drink, an' tends him like a bairn. 'Well, she has him properly caught, for he has ti lie there idle the best part ov a week, an' cannet work for another week efter that, the skelp he'd got frae the fall bein' a serious affair, as it seemed. 'When he gets up again he was sae savage at the chaff he gets aboot bein' knocked doon biv his missus that he gans back tiv his hoos iv a hurry, tak's off his belt, an' is gannin' ti strap her within an inch ov her life, when she says, "Tom, an' who was it that's been nursin' thoo this last fortnight?" An' she axes it quietly, facin' him wivoot a tremor, her eyes fixed upon his. 'Tom stands there wiv his arm uplifted; but though he was hot ti strike her, somehoo or ither, as he said efter, he was fair bested if he could manage it. 'Well, that was aboot the beginnin' an' the end o't, for she'd conquered him properly, an' Mister Six-Foot-Two soon found oot he'd got a proper taskmaster for his missus, even though she was but a yard an' a half high, an' looked as though ye could have snapt her across yor arm. She didn't knock him doon again, but she was elwis surprisin' him inti startin' things, an' when he tired ov it she would scorn him a bit, an' ask, "An' what's the good o' bein' a strong man if ye cannet show yor strength? Any fool can get drunk," says she, "an' lose his brass bettin'; but thoo's a strong man, Tom, I's warn'd, an' I've bet Ned Lee's wife a dollar that thoo can walk past the Pitman's Arms on pay-Friday night wivvoot ever lookin' inside!" 'Well, that was the way o't i' Lizzie's case. She soon had her Samson's locks clipped short, an' iv a few years' time he becomes a depity, a back overman, an' finally fore overman, has a hoos ov his own, an' a whole raa (row) o' cottages. 'Some has different ways from others,' reflected my companion, further, 'but aal womenfolk's ambitious.' 'Noo, tak' my own case--"the Heckler's"--when I got married on the aad lady there was no nonsense aboot the business. "Ho-way," I says, "will ye tak' us, Betty?" for I kenned nicely beforehand she was the right sort for us, havin' obsarved her previous, an' walked oot wiv her a Sunday night or two. "Ay, an' I will, Geordie," she says thankfully, an' as meek as skim milk; but for aal that I've been got the best o' lots o' time biv her ambition, an' noo, here I is, wiv a fam'ly o' seven, an' the missus insistin' upon Harry's--that's the eldest boy, ye ken--gannin' ti the Grammar School ti parfect hissel' as a scholar. Ay, wor Harry's a proper scholar, I's warn'd, but schoolin's tarr'ble expensive. 'An' noo, I'll just gie ye this bit advice, Maistor John. Divvn't thoo get married unless thoo marries a heiress, for, I tell thoo, aal women's ambitious, an' ambition's a tarr'ble expensive hobby. 'Gox! yes, just fearful, Maistor John.' FOOTNOTES: [12] Row. [13] Pitmen are paid fortnightly on the Friday: the following day is 'pay-Saturday.' Non-pay-Saturday is known as 'baff-Saturday,' the derivation of which no man knows to this day. THE 'CALEB JAY' (THE 'QUEL OBJÊT') I. The 'Caleb Jay'[14] was not, as his nickname of itself might testify, popular in our pit village of Black Winning. His appearance was against him in the first instance, and he continued to be shy and reserved even after you might be said to have made his acquaintance. Reserve is unpopular in any society, but in the lower social grades, where life is of a freer and more hearty character than in the propriety-loving circles of the well-to-do, it may be said to be one of the 'seven deadly sins.' There was no reserve about Tom, his elder brother, who was a good-looking, idle, somewhat dissolute youth of twenty-three years of age. Tom was always ready to 'stand in' for a 'ha'penny loo,' never flinched from a 'bout at the beer,' could throw a quoit well, when his eye was clear and his hand steady, and was never at a loss with the lasses. Tom, therefore, was a general favourite, being 'well ta'en up wi'' by all save a few of the more serious-minded people; and 'Caleb Jay' suffered, I think, partly through contrast with his brother. 'Caleb Jay' had been injured when working as a putter down the pit, and consequently was 'game of one leg.' He wore the cast-off finery of his brother, the coloured scarves and embroidered waistcoats of his festive occasions--out of economy, no doubt, but some said 'oot o' foolishness.' Certainly they did not suit well with his sallow complexion and thin, peaked countenance, and with the big and weary eyes. He worked now at any odd job he could find. He had the care of the viewer's strip of kitchen garden, and went round with papers, etc.; but it was not much that he earned, apparently, for his mother, who doted on her handsome son Tom, was often heard to complain that he wasn't worth his keep. He had a strange way of mysteriously disappearing for some days on occasion, sometimes even for a week at a stretch, and sundry persons, annoyed perhaps by his reticence, hinted at secret dissipation. If closely questioned, he would admit having had a 'job i' the toon,' or 'ower away yonder,' pointing vaguely this way or that; and gossip had at least this confirmation for its uncharitable suspicion, that he always returned pale, tired and haggard-looking. Some of the boys had tried to 'nab' him either coming or going on one of these expeditions of his, but he was 'cuter nor a cushat'[15] as I overheard a sporting youth lament who had followed him in early morning all the way to Oldcastle, and there in the suburbs had suddenly lost him just on the brink of discovering the secret. Gradually we became accustomed to his flittings, and he was spied upon no more; but for my own part I thought I had, by a comparison of the times and seasons of his absences, at least discovered this much--that he was usually away at the incidence of fairs and festivals. I think I knew him more intimately than any other person in the village, except, perhaps, our Methodist minister, who never rested till he had succoured any who might be in 'sickness, sorrow, or distress'; but to neither of us, I found, on comparing notes, had he ever vouchsafed any confidences. The only way in which I eventually discovered I could be of any use to him was by lending him books. He was extremely fond of reading, and had a special taste for dramatic poetry, which he occasionally gratified by coming to my lodgings, and there devouring the historical plays and tragedies of Shakespeare. I had once or twice on these occasions endeavoured to extort from him the secret of his absences, but the only result had been an increased reserve on his part, followed by an almost immediate departure from my presence, so that I had soon desisted from further questioning him on the point. At the same time, I confess I entertained a lingering hope that I might one day be able to penetrate the mystery; for mystery of some sort I was convinced it was, though not of a vulgar kind. II. It so chanced that I was detained in Bridgeton on the day of the annual fair and hiring, and having two hours to wait for my train, I determined to pass the time away by noting the humours of the festival. Farmers' wives, laden with 'remnants' and cheap bargains in the hardware line, were slowly surging through the throng, towards the various publics, in search of their 'men' and the 'trap.' Hinds, male and female, having now 'bound their bargains' with their masters, were coasting round the booths and stalls, 'putting in' at all the ale-houses they passed in their uncertain voyaging. The men were somewhat sheepish still, not having taken sufficient beer on board as yet to lose the shyness of the countryman in town. They confined themselves to chaffing one another, to casting stray glances at their sweethearts, who tittered in their wake, and to offering, when moved to gallantry, 'anuther glass o' yel.' A squad of pitmen here and there, their customary rivalries heated with liquor, were challenging each other noisily at the various 'try-your-strengths' and 'prove-your-powers' that were anchored in the corners of the market-place. My attention was next attracted by the clash of cymbals and flamboyant drum-drubbings. ''Ere y'are, ladies and gents, 'ere y'are! Yo'r friend an' acquaintance Bob Stevens, wiv his high-class dancin', trapezin', Shakespearian an' variety entertainment!' The great flaring gas-brackets, with their smoky tongues stabbing the darkness fitfully, lit up a most delectable advertisement. I produced 'tuppence,' 'walked up,' as invited, to the tent, and found myself in the 'hall of amusement and instruction combined.' It was already crowded, but I eventually discovered a seat in the far corner. Cries of 'Back! back!'[16] were still ringing in the air, and after a moment or two a most cadaverous-looking clown reappeared and advanced to the footlights. His haggard, melancholy mien was in admirable artistic contrast to his garb and the burlesque humour of his song. '_And oh_,' sang he, at the end of each verse relating some contretemps of the bashful lover, '_it makes me very, very lively! Very, very lively!_' he repeated, as he step-danced up and down the tiny stage amidst the guffaws of his audience. It was no great thing to do, perhaps; but it was admirably done. There was no extravagance in his accompanying actions, nor exaggeration of emphasis anywhere. In short, there was something of the genuine artist in him, and it was evident that he held his quaintly assorted 'tuppeny' audience in his grasp. I grew strangely interested in the queer little figure before me. Something about him appealed strongly to the imagination. He was encored again, and as I watched him more narrowly his aspect became more and more pathetic. I grew convinced that he was suffering physical pain; the blot of vermilion on his nose glowed brighter; beneath his mask of white I could see ashen-coloured lines streaking a colourless face. 'Poor little chap,' thought I; 'he's starving!' Just at that moment he concluded at the 'wings,' bowing to the audience. His linen blouse blew open as he turned, and below a ragged shirt thus momentarily visible I saw that which made me suddenly feel sick. Before I recovered myself he had passed out on a step, humming his refrain, '_Oh, it makes me very, very lively!_' Now, what I saw was a tumour which could only mean one thing, and that was death--an early and painful death probably. 'He's not starving,' I muttered to myself; 'poor little chap, he's dying!' I thought I would go out into the fresh air, but as I prepared to rise my eye caught sight of a chink in the canvas through which the 'green room' was visible. The trapeze gentleman was now performing, and the clown was removing his 'make up.' Now that he was off the stage I could see that he had a limp. A gust of wind came suddenly, enlarging the opening. He turned, apparently to close the orifice; his eyes met mine, and in that startled second I knew him to be the 'Caleb Jay.' Repressing a cry of surprise, I came out, and went round to the back to wait for him. III. 'Now, tell me,' said I, as I led him up to the station, 'why do you do it? You know you oughtn't to, for it will kill you if you exert yourself like that.' 'Ay, an' that's why,' replied he, 'for I ken I'm dyin'; I went an' axed a doctor a while back, iv Oldcastle, an' he says, "I'll gie ye a year ti live at the ootside," says he.' 'Then, why do it?' I urged. 'Do you love it so, or is it for the sake of the money?' 'Ay,' he replied, gasping a little, as we mounted the slope to the station, 'that's it. It's for the brass. Ye ken Tom, my brother? Well, it's for him i' pairt, an' i' pairt for my mother, who wants a bit frae me for my keep, ye ken. Noo, Tom's a bonny fellow, ain't he?--just a joy ti the eye ti look upon; an' he's aye wantin' a bit mair brass for this, an' that, an' t'ither, an', man, it's a pleasure ti me ti slave a bit for him. There's nae use o' brass for me--me that' just the puir "Caleb Jay"--but Tom's like a live lord when he's plenty of brass; an', man, but he spends it weel!' I was silent for a while, thinking of the tragedy of it all. Then I inquired again: 'Well, but how did you know you had this gift of acting and singing and impersonation? and why did you hide your talent so carefully from us all?' 'It came ower us first, I think,' he answered, 'when reading Shakespeare an' tragedies an' sic like. I seemed ti see the vary actors theirselves before my eyes, an' I fair felt like them, ye ken. Ye'll think it strange, mevvies, but grandfeythor, he had a bit talent that way, an' ran awa frae his home, an' made his livin' play-acting an' piano-playin', an' singin', an' aal. He took ill somewhere aboot here, an' died, an' feythor, he took ti warkin' at the pits, an' that's the story of it,' concluded my little companion shyly. 'But with a gift like yours, why didn't you tell _me_ of it, for example, or the minister, and perhaps we could have got you a proper start somewhere?' 'Ay, I kenned that,' said he, 'an' thank ye kindlies; but I found, on tryin' it, that I wesn't strang enow for't iv a reg'lor way; an' forbye that, I didn't want the laddies ti ken aboot it, lest they might call us "Hamlet," mevvies, or "clownie," or sic like, an' my mother divvent like play-actin'; it was she as made my feythor give it up, sayin' it wes nae bettor than a mugger's[17] life, elwis wanderin' frae one place tiv anuther, an' nae brass iv it at aal.' There was no time for further talk, for the train was waiting, and, arriving at our destination, I found my companion so tired that it was all he could do to walk home. The minister and I put our heads together after this, and collected enough money to send our little friend down to a seaside home for a few weeks. On Saturday night, however, a message came from the doctor that he was rapidly sinking. His mother and brother were both out, as it happened, but the minister and I arrived just in time to bid farewell to the poor little 'Caleb Jay.' As we proceeded silently homeward, an idea came into my head. 'In an age of public testimonials and memorials,' I said, 'humble self-sacrifice goes unrewarded. Our little friend ought to have a statue at the least; but, of course, it is no good doing anything. You, therefore, should bring him into your sermon to-morrow evening, and give a few people a hint of it beforehand.' The idea seemed to strike my companion, and he said he would gladly do so. I had not seen Tom, but as I walked to my lodgings I passed him standing at the street corner amidst a knot of companions. I heard one of them mention the 'Caleb Jay,' and I stayed my steps a moment to hear the reply. 'Ay,' said Tom, 'he was a plucky little beggor iv his way, an' useful tae, an' I was often sorry for him, _he wes sae tarr'ble ugly_! But, ho-way, I's plenty brass on me, and I'll treat ye aal tiv anuthor beor!' FOOTNOTES: [14] It is said that at the time of the Napoleonic wars some French prisoners were detained in custody in the pit country not far from Durham City. It would appear that some intercourse between the inhabitants of the place and the foreigners sprang up, which resulted in the addition of one expressive phrase, at least, to the local dialect, that, namely, of 'Caleb Jay' for 'Quel objêt!' due to their strange garb, probably, or tattered appearance. The phrase is now wholly obsolete, the writer believes, but it is said it was once actually in use. [15] Wood-pigeon. [16] The Northumbrian for 'encore.' [17] 'Mugger' = beggar; literally, one who sells mugs. GEORDIE ARMSTRONG, 'THE JESU-YTE' I. Geordie Armstrong, after a somewhat stormy past, had become a steady hewer, and a local preacher of some repute. Never a Sunday but he was 'planned' to speak at this or that village, and frequently, as he found opportunity, would 'pit in a bit overtime' at a 'class-meeting' or 'knife-an'-fork tea,' when the 'asking a blessing' or a returning of thanks might furnish occasion for a 'bit extemporizin'.' He was in receipt of excellent wages down the pit; his worldly goods comprised, as he often proclaimed, a 'bonny, an' what's o' far mair importance, a godly missus, three canny bairns, a cosy hoos, a fine little librairee, an' a tarr'ble fertile garden.' As he thought upon the sum of his blessings one Saturday night when, after having 'weshed hissel' an' had his tea,' he proceeded to light his pipe, he felt he could only properly describe himself as a 'varitable corn-u-cop-ye-ar ov happiness.' Yet even then, even in that depth of felicity, an uneasy feeling would intrude: the memory of Scotty would float to the surface of his mind, and the thought of the 'parlous state' in which his old 'marrow' (mate) stood would ruffle its calm placidity. This was 'the little rift within the lute'; here was the caterpillar in the 'corn-u-cop-ye-ar,' and, like the Apostle Paul of old, he was fain to accept his trial, in the spirit of true humility, as a judgment upon him for the failings of his past life. It was not for lack of trying that Scotty refused to come to chapel; indeed, Geordie had so vexed him with his importunity that Scotty had refused to work with him any longer, and was now employed further 'in-by' with another mate. But for all that, Geordie felt certain that the cause of failure lay with himself, due probably to his weakness in faith, to lack of some essential or other, and that the blame of Scotty's not being 'brought to the Lord' lay at his door. It had been evident to him for some time that he must try other means, and, being a great reader, he had latterly come across, and been much attracted by, a remarkable account of some ancient methods of the 'Jesu-ytes' in cases of this sort. Sometimes the sinner in question had been unwittingly tempted into the 'narrow path' by the gratification of his ambitions on some point or other, conversion resulting, as in the case of Tom Appleby--once a fire-hot Socialist, now a sleek Conservative--from unexpected prosperity. At other times the same end had been attained by a crafty flattery. Suppose a man ambitious of eminence and State distinction: he might be diverted from politics to the Church, and many were the instances given of bold and ambitious men who had done great work and attained high place as the servants of St. Peter. Could Scotty not be caught hold of in some such fashion? queried Geordie to himself, as he sat by his fireside that night, deeply pondering the records he had just been studying. 'I divvn't think he's ambitious, for he cares nowt aboot politics, an' he never even thought o' stannin' for election on wor Parish Cooncil. Aal he cares for is his beer, an' his quoits, an' bettin', an'--an'--his pansies; an' I doot I cannot catch haud ov him in any one of those partic'lors, for it wouldn't be fittin' for us that's a local preacher to gan an' send him a barril o' beer, or back him at a quoitin' match. But stay--there's the pansies; he's pansy champion, dootless; but then I's leek champion, an' if I can grow leeks, I's warn'd but I can grow pansies, for flooers is easier grown nor vegetables.' Geordie puffed at his pipe vigorously for a minute or two in silence as he turned the matter over in his mind. A light kindled slowly in the back of his deep-set eye, a smile showed upon his lips, then he cuffed himself vigorously upon the knee. 'Ho-way, gan on, Geordie!' he encouraged himself aloud; 'thoo's turnin' a fair Jesu-yte, I's warn'd!' * * * * * As the day appointed for the annual meeting of the Flower Show drew near, Geordie had been heard to drop hints of the 'wonnerfu' new specie' of pansies he had become possessed of--'seedlin's' he had obtained 'doon the south-country way,' and it was not long before the rumour reached the ears of Scotty. Nothing could exceed the contempt of the latter when he heard of Geordie's trying to grow pansies--'him that's just a vegetable man, a tormut (turnip) grower, a sort o' ha'penny farmer,' and as for anything good in the way of seedlings coming out of the south-country, it was just 'bang ridi'klous, for a' folk kenned that a' the best growers lived in auld Scotland.' By-and-by some mischievous individual told Scotty that Geordie was 'full' set upon being pansy champion, and was so cock-sure about it that he was willing to back himself to win. Scotty was so annoyed at this that the next time he came across Geordie he could not refrain from jeering at his attempt at pansy growing. 'Wey, it'll be as muckle as ye can do to tell a pansy frae a vi'let!' he cried. Geordie looked at him seriously from under his bushy eyebrows as he replied, 'I's gannin' to show--an' I's gannin' to win--_wi' pansies, not vi'lets_.' 'Will ye back yorsel', then?' retorted his opponent sneeringly. 'Well, ye knaa,' replied the other slowly, with evident embarrassment, 'I's not a bettin' man, but if thoo thinks I's not in earnest, I's willin' to gie a proof that I is. What d'ye say to yor takin'--if ye beat us, that is--anythin' oot o' my hoos thoo has a fancy for; an'--an'--if I beat thoo, wey, aal I axes is that thoo should come to chapel--noo an' again, ye knaa--ov an evenin',' he hastily added, as his companion's face assumed a look of infinite scorn. 'Ha' ye got that auld double-barrelled shot-gun yet?' queried Scotty, after a pause in which he had arrived at the conclusion that the odds were 'aboot a thoosand to one' in his favour. 'Yes,' replied Geordie. 'I still have her; she's there hangin' up above the mantelshelf.' 'Well, I'll tak' up wi' yor proposal,' was Scotty's reply. 'Shake hands on't, then,' said Geordie slowly, unsuccessfully endeavouring to instil an apprehensive tremor into his voice. His companion shook hands carelessly, and swung away whistling barefacedly, 'And it's up wi' the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee.' Geordie, on his part, walked away swiftly homewards, fearing lest his exultation might betray itself too openly. 'Wow!' he thought to himself, 'but I's fair a-feard o' mysel'. I's growin' intiv a proper Jesu-yte!' The morning of the show-day came, and Geordie, having finished packing his exhibits with extraordinary care, had just returned with the small cart the grocer had lent him to convey his treasures to the show-field, about a mile and a half distant, when up came Maggie, Scotty's wife, who, notwithstanding the little difference between their respective men, had always kept up her friendship with Geordie's wife. Her arms bore a large green case, tied round with a many-knotted cord. This she hastily set down beside the cart, then turned breathlessly to Geordie, who, with his son, was just about to drive off. 'Eh noo, canny man,' she cried, as she wiped her hot face with the tail of her gown, 'do us a favour. Will thoo carry my man's pansy-case up to the show wi' yors? Wor Jimmy was to have taken it up first thing this mornin', but he went aff for his school treat an' left it--an' my man's awa playin' hissel' at quoits--an' he'll aboot kill Jimmy when he gans up to the show an' finds his pansies isn't there.' Geordie willingly acceded, and the green case was carefully deposited alongside of his own at the bottom of the cart. His nine-year-old son squatted on the seat opposite, his legs up to his chin, so as to be out of the way as much as possible in the crowded cart. The pony started off gallantly enough, and all went well till within about two or three hundred yards of the field. At that point, however, the pony suddenly shied at some stray paper on the road, and Tommy fell with a crash upon the green case below. 'Eh, Tommy, lad!' cried his father in dismay; 'what hast thoo done? Wow! but thoo's gan an' smashed Scotty's case right thro' an' thro'!' His succeeding feeling was one of joy; for, the accident having irreparably damaged a third at least of his rival's pansies, it was evident that Scotty was now 'catched,' and Geordie, with an inward acknowledgment to Providence, saw, as in a vision, Scotty sitting devoutly 'under' himself in chapel. A few moments later, however, doubt and dismay entered his soul. What if Scotty should say Tommy had done it 'o' purpose'--at his instigation? Further reflection convinced him that this was exactly what Scotty would say, and doubtless there would be some folk unkind enough to back him up in it. Scotty would likelies claim the gun. Well, he'd not mind parting with that, but he could not give up the prospect of saving Scotty's soul alive without a groan. 'Eh, Tommy, lad! Eh, Tommy! But thoo divvn't knaa what thoo's done; thoo's put us in a fine quandary,' he murmured, gazing sadly now at Tommy, who was rubbing his knee ruefully, and again at the splintered case. The problem was a 'puzzlor;' even a Jesu-yte might have found solution difficult; for Scotty, he knew, would not believe him if he told the simple story of the accident, and winning the prize would be useless in the face of Scotty's insinuations of foul play. The only way out of the difficulty, he determined sadly, was to exhibit his own pansies under Scotty's name, and withdraw from the contest himself. The contents of the two cases were sufficiently alike for his purpose, though his own were superior in size and depth of colour. It was a 'sair trial,' for his pansies were bound to win; but his character as an honest, religious man was at stake, and Scotty's triumph would be easier to endure than his sneers, if defeated, at a 'chap who caa's hissel' releegious, an' swindles ye like a Jew pedlar.' With a groan he undid the label, and tied it on to his own beloved specimens, casting aside, as a temptation of the evil one, a disturbing suggestion that he was guilty of deception in passing off his own as Scotty's pansies. * * * * * The judges had been round, and Scotty's pansies easily gained the place of pride; pansies so perfectly developed, so dark and deep in colour, had never been shown before. A crowd of admirers stood round. Scotty came lurching up, having evidently held a preliminary carouse in certain expectation of the championship, and, with a careless glance at his exhibits and the red card attached, cried triumphantly: 'Ay! an' whaur's that Geordie body noo, wi' his brags an' a'? Wey, I'm tauld he daurna even exhibit his ain puir specimens by the side o' mine! Look at thae pansies, an' think o' him wi' his yaller sheep's tormuts tryin' to vie wi' me that's the auld established pansy champion! Ay, I'm that ower an' ower again; an' what's mair, I've win his gun. Wey, I'll gang an' fetch her awa at aince!' So boasting, the proud champion reeled off in triumph, inadvertently knocking up against a silent looker-on, who was standing in melancholy guise against a tent-pole some little distance away. One morning, a day or so after the flower-show, it chanced that Tommy was late for school, and, rounding a corner hurriedly, ran up against a big boy, who was sporting a pansy in his buttonhole. The big boy, who was Scotty's son, immediately proceeded to cuff him for his carelessness, and Tommy retorted by "calling"[18] his opponent and his family connections with a ready profuseness. 'Wey, even that pansy thoo's sportin' divvn't belong thoo, nor thy feythor nowther, it's my dad's growin'; he showed his ain pansies as Scotty's, 'cos Scotty's happened an accident i' the cart. Feythor took them up for yor mither, 'cos thoo had forgottened them, an' to save thoo a strappin'; an' feythor's pansy champion, and Scotty's nowt but a beer-barril!' 'Liar!' responded the other boy, with a punch of his fist. 'Ax yor mither, then,' shouted Tommy, as he ducked and broke away from his captor's clutch. A night or two after this encounter Geordie was surprised by a visit from Scotty. 'Whatten a tale's this ye're spreadin' aboot o' yor showin' yoor pansies as mine, I'd like to ken?' demanded the intruder wrathfully. Geordie looked up quietly from his book, and: 'I've spread no tales aboot thoo or thy pansies,' he replied. 'Weel, it's either thoo or that wee, impittent son o' yoors, Tommy. Noo, I've been axin' my missus aboot it, an' she says she did gie ye my pansies to tak' up to the show wi' yoors; an' what I want to be at is what i' the deil's name ye did to them.' Geordie, in reply, exactly related what had occurred. 'Then, wey didn't ye tell us aboot it?' demanded Scotty, still dissatisfied. 'Because thoo has a tarr'ble sharp tongue i' thy mouth, an' I divvn't want to be scandalized aboot the village as one who would sharp another for the sake o' winnin' a floo'er prize.' 'Hum!' ejaculated Scotty, 'it's an extraordinar' thing this! But hoo can ye explain aboot the pansies, then? I'm pansy champion, an' therefore thae pansies that win the prize mun ha' been mine, yet here ye are sayin' that they were yoors.' Geordie got up from his seat, and, without immediately replying, went into the room at the back, and came forth again bearing in his arms a shattered green case. 'Dis thoo recognise this?' he asked quietly, as he set it down on the table in front of his visitor. 'Ay,' replied Scotty, after a minute inspection; 'it's mine dootless. But what then?' 'Wey, then, thoo has my case, an' my pansies inside ov it; an' here's yors still left i' their holes, just as they were on show-day.' Scotty bent over the broken lid incredulously, lifted a faded specimen out, and regarded it contemptuously. 'Na, na,' he asserted shortly, 'that's no my pansies; mine were champions, an' these is weeny things. Na, na, there's been a bit queer play about this. Maybe Tommy changed them frae the one case to the ither.' 'Tommy did nowt o' the sort,' retaliated Geordie quickly. 'Aal that was done was to untie the label an' clagg (stick) it on to my case instead o' yors.' 'Weel, it's a dommed queer thing aaltegither,' replied Scotty, pushing his cap from his brow, 'and beyont me; for I'm champion, nobody can deny that, an' a proper professor at floo'er growin', an' ye're but an ammytoor, d'ye see? An' it's just surprising to me that ye could e'er imagine ye could compete wi' me. But I divvn't wish to be ower hard on ye, an' I'll e'en gie ye the benefit o' the doot, as the saying is; sae I'll just send ye back yoor gun--that is,' he continued slowly, eyeing Geordie wistfully, 'if ye're wishfu' to ha' her back.' 'Thoo can keep her,' replied Geordie, 'for it's nae use to me nowadays; but I would like--I would be tarr'ble pleased if thoo would come----' Here he halted abruptly, on a sudden fear lest Scotty's suspicions of some underhand play in regard to the pansies might be again roused if he too openly requested him to come to chapel. The other hesitated a little. 'Weel,' he said finally, 'it's a canny wee gun, an' I would gey like to keep her. An' as for chapel gangin'--for I suppose that's what ye're after--if ye divvn't blab aboot us, wey, I'll just tak' a look in noo an' again.' 'That's right, noo,' responded Geordie gratefully, and his deep-set eyes glowed with a warmer light. 'Shake hands on't.' Scotty shook hands without demur and swiftly departed, fearful lest Geordie might regret the arrangement. Geordie leant back in his chair and heaved a sigh of relief as he offered up a silent thanksgiving to Providence for having softened Scotty's heart. 'It's aal right noo,' he murmured. 'Wi' the help I've had from above I've catched him at the finish, an' chapel will do the rest.' Thus for some time he reflected devoutly. Then of a sudden a smile broke upon his lips and he clapped his hand vigorously upon his thigh. 'By!' he exclaimed aloud, 'but I's a proper Jesu-yte efter aal!' FOOTNOTE: [18] Abusing. 'GEORDIE RIDE-THE-STANG' The custom of 'riding the stang' is now obsolete, so that the date of this story must be put back a number of years, though Mr. Brockett,[19] writing in his glossary of Northumbrian words, in the early part of this century, says, 'I have myself been witness to processions of this kind. Offenders of this description are mounted a-straddle on a long pole, or stang, supported upon the shoulders of their companions. On this painful and fickle seat they are borne about the neighbourhood backwards, attended by a swarm of children huzzaing and throwing all manner of filth. It is considered a mark of the highest reproach, and the person who has been thus treated seldom recovers his character in the opinion of his neighbours.' The method of divination by the puddings has been practised within living memory, and even yet may be resorted to by way of a jest upon occasion. Since writing the above the author has come across in Mr. R. Blakeborough's interesting book, 'Yorkshire Wit, Character and Customs,' a different version of 'riding the stang,' to which he is indebted for the first four lines of the 'furrinor's' song. In a footnote Mr. Blakeborough adds that the 'stang' was ridden at Thoralby, Wensleydale, as recently as October, 1896. There was French blood in Geordie Robertson's wife, Mary, and it may perhaps have been owing to her origin that she was so eager for revenge when she found herself deceived by her husband. She had begun to suspect him of infidelity even before a neighbour had given her a hint that he had a 'fancy' wife away in Bridgeton, for her husband brought home less and less with his 'pack' after his weekly tramp was over, and when she asked for explanations he 'called' her with most abusive virulence. For her further satisfaction she determined to make trial, now that the pig was to be killed, of the ancient method of divination practised by the pit-wives, of which the following is the ritual: When the animal has been slaughtered and the blood duly made into puddings, these puddings are 'set away' to boil by the inquirer of the oracle. Then, just before they are taken out of the 'pot,' the officiating priestess must say aloud that she 'gives them' to him who is suspected of infidelity. Should the puddings emerge whole, gossip is dumfoundered; should they come forth broken, the man is proved to have a 'fancy' wife. Mary, indeed, found she could scarcely control her impatience when the fatal day came, and, the pig duly slaughtered, she 'gave' the puddings to her husband, Geordie. She waited another minute to give the spell the lawful grace, then with a trembling hand plucked forth the puddings. 'Ah--ah!' she gasped, tremulous but triumphant, 'then it is so; he has a fancy wife,' and her quick brain fell to pondering a plan for discovery and revenge. The first thing to be done was to lure her 'man' into a false security by subtle commiseration with him on the 'slackness' of trade, as also by a wonderful submissiveness, even to the extent of going without bacon for breakfast in order that she might save enough to buy him tobacco. Now this form of procedure with a selfish man usually produces excellent results. If he is sufficiently selfish, he does not stay to inquire why or wherefore, but takes all he can, as a cat her cream, without delay, without a thank you--nay, unlike tabby, without even an inward purr. It was so with Geordie, who began incontinently to brag about his 'missus's trainin',' and how he was 'champion' at 'fettlin' a wife's nonsense,' and, swollen with self-satisfaction, began now to treat her with a sort of contemptuous toleration. A fortnight or so after Mary had made trial of her puddings, Geordie carelessly mentioned the fact that he would be away over the 'week-end' in and about Bridgeton, and demanded some 'brass' from her for the replenishing of his 'pack.' Outwardly submissive, she gave him five shillings from her small savings, but inwardly determined that it was the last sum of money he should have from her. On Friday night Geordie departed gaily for Bridgeton, and on the Saturday afternoon Mary followed suit, clad in a thick cloak which might serve her for a disguise upon occasion. When she arrived there, the main street and market were thickly crowded with a swarm of holiday-making pitmen, country folk, farmers and their wives, hinds, male and female, for it was the date of the annual fair and hiring, of 'the general assembly' of tramps, pedlars, 'tinklers' (tinkers), show-men, and the like, whose business it is to attend such gatherings. In such a crowd Mary felt safe from recognition, but it might be a difficult task to discover her 'man' in all that company. An hour or two passed, and she had been up and down the long street twice without success; but just as she was turning into a cheap refreshment-room, with 'Tea and coffy always redy' written in a slovenly hand upon a dirty placard in the window, she caught the sound of a voice raised in semi-drunken irritation close behind her which caused her to turn her head hurriedly in that direction. Yes, there he was without doubt, her Geordie, heavy with liquor already--not 'mortal' yet, but quarrelsome. Aha! and that was the 'fancy' wife, of course, who had him fast by the arm--a blousy, red-faced, fat-armed, big chested woman, who was evidently trying to persuade her charge to come home much against his inclination. At sight of her rival--immodest, gross, overpowering--Mary shrank back aghast, and it was only after a struggle with herself and a forcible iteration of her wrongs, that she could persuade herself slowly and reluctantly to follow the couple in front of her. 'Ho-way!' shouted Geordie; 'there's Tom Turnbull ower by there tryin' ti lift weights an' show 's strength. Wey, but Tom cannet lift weights, he's nowt but a wee bit beggor. Tom, thoo beggor!' he challenged across the intervening throng of heads, 'thoo cannet lift weights; wey, Aa'l lift weights wi' thoo for a bottle o' whisky!' 'Ho-way, then, thoo aad fightin'-cock! but Aa give thoo fair warnin' Aa can beat thoo, for Aa's champion.' At this, the 'fancy' wife seized her 'man' firmly by the sleeve, fearing doubtless lest, in his then 'muzzy' condition, Geordie would waste the scanty remainder of his brass upon a vain endeavour, and, by way of effectually dissuading him, indiscreetly praised his rival's prowess. 'No, no, Geordie, my man, come this way, an' give us my fairin'; wey, there's a mort o' things ti see yet; there's the shuttin'-gall'ry, an' the twa-headed cat, an' the giant, an' the fat woman, an' aal--ho-way. Ay, an' Geordie, hinny, Tom Turnbull's tarr'ble clivvor at liftin' they handles things an' drivin' the bolt up the stick wi' the hammer, an' Aa's warn'd but he'll bang thoo at that game.' 'Tom Turnbull!--that haalf-grown, bandy-legged beggor ov a bit tailor ov a man bang me? Gox! but Aa'll larn him a lesson. Aa'll cut his comb, Aa's warn'd!' and Geordie forthwith, murmuring maledictions, thrust blindly through the crowd till he reached the spot where his rival stood, the centre of an admiring circle of friends. 'Noo,' cried Geordie, turning up his wrist-cuffs, 'Aa'll show thoo hoo the thing's done when it's done proper. Wey, this bolt 'll hit the beam at the top when Aa gie the stump a bat!' and without more ado--amidst the jeers of some, and the encouragement of a few false friends--he seized the hammer, swung it round his head, and brought it down some feet wide of the mark--smash upon the cobble-stones of the market-place. 'That's done the business!' cried Geordie triumphantly, conscious from the stinging of his hands that he had 'gi'en it a champion bat,' and certain that he had driven up the bolt some feet above his rival's mark. Through the roar of laughter, which Geordie complacently accepted as the proper accompaniment of Tom's defeat, a voice pierced suddenly with a shrill note as of a fife. 'Thoo great clumsy lubbert, see what thoo's done! Thoo's broke the hammer's head off! That's half a crown, my man, for the hammer, an' a penny for the shot; an' if thoo disn't hand it ower, I'll call the pollis, for it's fair takin' the livin' oot ov a poor weeda woman's mouth to break her hammer thet fashion!' and a thin-faced female, with a red-lined nose, sharp cheekbones, and watery eyes, held up two skinny fists in anger against him. 'Gan on, woman, gan on!' retorted Geordie indignantly; 'wey, it's thoo sh'd pay us, or gie us a cigyar, or a cokienut; for that bat o' mine hit the bull's-eye, Aa's warned.' The shrill-voiced female renewed her protestations, and some of the bystanders joined in with additional explanations; but Geordie would have none of them. 'Gan on,' he retorted; 'gan awa home, an' wesh yor feyce! Wey, the hammer's as rotten as pash, for Aa brought her fair doon like a pick reet on top o' the stump. What else should maa hands be tinglin' for?' The proprietress of the hammer, however, continued to assail Geordie with abuse, while at the same time the 'fancy' wife upon his other side endeavoured to drag him away, so that it need not surprise us if Geordie suddenly lost his temper, and turned heavily upon his tormentors. He shook off the one, and flung down a shilling in payment of the supposed damage to the hammer; the other--the 'fancy' wife--he pushed roughly from him, with the result that she lost her balance, and fell whimpering in the mud, while Geordie lurched off to the nearest hostelry, muttering indignantly as he went, 'Aa's been fair mucked ower wi' women the day--just fair mucked ower.' A swift inspiration gleamed in Mary's mind. For the punishment of Geordie she had already made due preparation, and now, if she could only persuade the 'fancy' wife, her triumph would be complete. She noticed the woman angrily brushing the muck off her 'feast gown,' and at once made her way up to her and touched her gently on the arm. 'Ay,' she said quietly, as the other looked up with red and testy face, 'an' it's the same way he treats me;' holding her left hand loosely so that her marriage-ring was plainly conspicuous. 'So he has a lawful wife, an' yore her?' And the speaker gave a suspicious, all-embracing stare. 'Well,' she continued slowly, jealousy slipping, like some slow portcullis, from her eyes, 'he's had a change, has my lord! Forst, it was a thin lass like yorsel', an' noo it's a plump one like me. Ay, he's greedy, is Geordie; he winna be content wi' the one, like Jack Spratt, but wants both.' 'Ay, lass,' replied the other woman quietly, 'yore right: he's greedy an' selfish. That's the sort--a selfish good-like nowt, that lives on women, makes them keep him through life just as one does a babby; an' he's treated the pair ov us shameful--just shameful; but, hinny, I've a plan for a bit payment for him, an' if ye come aside a bit wi' me, I'll tell ye o't.' And she laid an appealing hand upon the other's, and affected with the disengaged one to brush the remaining dirt from the 'fancy' wife's skirt. 'Well, what is't?' said the latter, suffering herself to be led through the crowd to a quiet corner. Mary at once proceeded, but with a cautious self-effacement, to detail her schemes for Geordie's discomfiture. 'It will not hurt him,' she protested, as her rival still sat silent, 'but it will pay him a bit for the way he's treated us'--here Mary's hand again occupied itself with the soiled dress--'and it will give ye the laugh over him. I've done wiv him mysel; I'm awa to France to-night or morning--that's where Grandfeyther was bred; he came to these parts selling onions at first, an' finally settled doon here to 'scape the soldierin'. An' I've money enough to pay the expenses,' she continued; 'an' for suthin' to eat an' drink an' the ticket.' The 'fancy' wife looked at her somewhat hardly, suspicion rising to the surface of her eye. 'An' sae yore off to France, are ye?' she queried; 'ay, an' yore tired ov him? Well, mevvies he would say as he was tired o' thoo; but I've a grudge again' him for the way he's treat us to-day, spendin' aal my brass ower himsel' an' clartin' my gown an' all, an' I'll pay him for't, I's warn'd.' And her face darkened vindictively. 'That's right,' replied Mary swiftly. 'And now for the plan. Here's money for you to treat him with. Get him awa oot o' the public before he's had too much, an' bring him along wi' you by the last train from Bridgeton, an' I'll meet you wi' the "stang" ready for him, an' the lads, an' the music, an' all. Oh, but it'll all gan fine, ye-es, ye-es!' So Mary, having handed over all that she could spare to her rival, departed for the railway-station with a view to catching an earlier train, and revising her preparations at the other end. Her elation was complete. The only possible flaw in her subtly-devised plan lay in the moods of the 'fancy' wife. If Geordie continued to treat her roughly--and as he had now evidently settled down to the drink, he was almost certain to do so--she would be true to the arrangement; if not, she might relent, and keep Geordie from his house that night. * * * * * The train was overdue, and Mary waited with a feverish expectation at the station's descent amidst a small crowd of young men and boys to whom the idea of making anyone 'ride the stang' had appealed with an irresistible sense of novelty. The custom, indeed, was obsolete, but all had heard of it, and the older men had often witnessed it in their youth, and some of them had collected near the station to criticise and superintend the performance. The 'stang' itself was in readiness--having been lent to Mary on this occasion by the schoolmaster and antiquary of the village, whose father had been, as constable, its custodian in the old days. And now at last the rumble of an approaching train was audible, and the group at once assumed an alert and eager air. A crowd of tired excursionists slowly descended the narrow path from the station, men and women together, but there was no sign of Geordie or the 'fancy' wife. Mary's heart grew heavy within her; after all, then, she would have to depart without that sweet morsel--her revenge. The 'fancy' wife must have relented and informed Geordie of her plans. 'Ho-way,' cried a man in her ear, 'he's not comin' back the night; thoo's gi'en him a gliff mevvies.' 'Stay!' cried she swiftly, detaining him by the arm. 'What's that, then?' she whispered triumphantly, as at the tail of the procession of pleasure-seekers a couple became visible descending fitfully with wayward lurches. 'See there!' continued Mary eagerly, 'it's Geordie an' his "fancy" wife with him. Catch tight haud of him, an' mount him, an' carry him through the length o' the village on the "stang"--right to his very door; he canna get in though, for I've the key i' my pocket,' and Mary laughed with an inward glee. Down came the couple slowly, Geordie abusing his companion, as he lurched against her heavily, for not progressing with more even footsteps, the woman saying nothing, but tightly gripping him by the arm, in order, doubtless, to keep him upright and also to prevent any attempt at escape. The wicket-gate swung open, Geordie lurched through, and in a moment he was seized, hoisted into the air, a rough pole thrust through his legs, and the triumphal march began to the tune of a penny whistle, played by the local champion, a carter to trade, and a number of Jews' harps and toy trumpets with which a herd of small boys poured forth discordant revel. 'Gox! Aa's fallen intiv a sorcus (circus),' cried Geordie, in the first moment of astonishment, then, 'Leave haud ov us, ye great flamin' Irish---- What the devil's this Aa's astride o'?' adding with solemn dignity, 'Yore makin' a tarr'ble mistake. Aa's not Blondin, ti walk on a tight rope for ye; Aa's Geordie Campbell o' the Raa (Row), whe lives i' the hoos wi' the brass handle tiv't.' 'Ay, ay, we knaa thoo!' cried the chorus of urchins; 'thoo's Geordie, drunken Geordie, Geordie wi' the "fancy" wife. Geordie, Geordie ride-the-stang! Eh, what a clivvor rider is Geordie! Thoo's a proper jockey, Geordie, an' thoo'll mevvies ride the winner i' "the Plate"[20] before thoo's finished wiv it.' This idea tickled the carriers of the 'stang,' and Geordie's bearers were forthwith transformed into thorough-breds with a tendency to buck-jump. Hither and thither he rolled, dazed and bewildered, helplessly clutching at the heads of those near him for support, but his arms were seized, his legs tightly crossed below the 'stang,' and he swung from side to side, while the rougher boys, chanting rude doggerel over him, gathered and threw mud upon him. A trombone and a 'sarpint' here joined the noisy crowd, and to the varied strains of 'The Campbells are coming,' 'Weel may the keel row,' and 'Canny Dog Cappie,' Geordie was borne in triumph up the Row. A 'furrinor' (foreigner, stranger) here joined the medley, a 'South countryman' from Yorkshire, who, chancing to have lately come to the village after some private experience of his own in stang-riding in one of the remoter Yorkshire vales, at once placed his services at the crowd's disposal. Marching at the head of the procession, like the drum-major of a band, and beating together two saucepan-lids, he led the anthem. Between the 'cling, cling, cling' of the lids his voice rose lustily: 'Ah tinkle, ah tinkle, ah tinkle tang, It's not foor your part nor mah part 'At ah ride the stang, But foor you, Geordie Robertson, who his wife did bang.' Scarcely had he ended when the shrill trebles of the boys took up the wondrous tale, and in antiphony chanted their response: 'Up wiv a bump and down wiv a bang Gans Geordie, Geordie ride-the-stang; A bump an' a bang for his deed sae wrang, An' we'll larn him a lesson for ever sae lang.' Then, to the full chorus, with complete orchestra of flute and fife, trombone and triangle, tin whistle and 'sarpint,' brass pot, pan, and saucepan-lids, the entire procession moved slowly onward. Mary's eyes burned bright with exultation as she marched along in the crowd, not letting a single incident of the spectacle escape her notice, and as she watched she too joined in the chorus of 'Geordie, Geordie ride-the-stang' without restraint. The sound of the familiar voice roused the victim from the stupor into which the hustling, peltings, and shoutings had reduced him. 'Thoo ----,' he yelled, as he caught sight of her; 'then it's thoo that's at the bottom o' this? By, but if Aa wes free Aa'd----' But a stalk of cabbage thrown at a venture by a small boy on the skirts of the crowd here impeded his utterance, and Mary's voice rang out perhaps more triumphantly than before. The 'fancy' wife, meanwhile, who had at first discreetly retired from public view and looked on at the procession from a distance, had shortly after joined the noisy throng, moved thereto by a sense of isolation, and also by a certain smouldering compunction. She looked around her irresolutely; she felt she had acted precipitately; certainly she was not deriving any advantage from the proceedings, whereas her rival was the leader of the revelry, dancing, clapping her hands, and carrying on like a 'Maypole lass.' At this moment Mary inadvertently brushed against her, and in a moment the 'fancy' wife turned upon her like a spitfire. Clenching her fists and shouting vituperations, she tried to seize her by the hair. Foiled in this by an adroit swerve of Mary's under the 'stang,' she turned her fury upon Geordie's bearers, and with such success that to defend themselves they were forced to lower the pole to the ground. 'Noo, Geordie,' cried she, promptly thrusting the wooden weapon into his hands, 'mak' play wiv it, my man, ho-way,' and Geordie, realizing he was now free, lunged furiously in all directions, and scattered the crowd like chaff before him. Steered by his 'fancy' wife, a way grew clear about them, and Geordie marched slowly, unsteadily forward, bearing the 'stang' like a battering-ram straight in front of him, down the remaining length of the Row, accompanied at a respectful distance by a rabble of the smaller urchins. Right on past his house he went, out into the darkness beyond, and over the bridge at the end of the village, still tightly grasping the 'stang' himself, and tightly grasped in his turn by his 'fancy' wife. The last train to Oldcastle happened to pass above the bridge at that moment, and a head leant far out through a carriage window. 'Ay!' a clear voice sounded, with a touch of derision on the night air--'Ay! that's right, haud him tight, for he wants it badlies.' FOOTNOTES: [19] Mr. Brockett died in 1842. [20] The Northumberland Plate. YANKEE BILL AND QUAKER JOHN Quaker John was one of the best known figures in the small seaport town of Old Quay. Short of stature, heavy of tread, always quietly attired in a black suit, which varied not in cut from year to year; indeed, the same suit had once been known to do duty for three years together, till his wife one day, so 'twas said, handed them over to the chimney-sweep in mistaken identity. You might have told that he was of Puritan descent some yards away, but the 'letter of the law' in him had been softened down by the kindly genius of the old-fashioned Quaker. A genial twinkle lay in hiding at the back of his steadfast eye, and a smile was always 'at heel' beside his big and honest mouth. A broad and spectacled nose completed the portrait of one in whom the harmlessness as of a dove did not of necessity efface the wisdom of the serpent. At least, so said Yankee Bill, who read character 'at sight'; but then, Bill was a disciple of that cynical logic which proclaims not only all priests to be humbugs, but all men immersed in business who make pretensions to piety to be hypocrites or fools. He had happened to pass along the street one 'fourth-day' morning as John came out of the meeting-house, and overheard him address a remark about business to a Quaker friend at his side, and thereafter was merciless in ridicule. 'John's patent incubator,' he styled the meeting-house, 'for plot-hatching,' and pretended to be afraid of doing business with him on Wednesday afternoons for fear of being 'skinned.' Bill was a waif from the seas who had somehow been thrown up at Old Quay a few years back, and having 'prospected around' and 'pegged out a claim' for himself in the indiscriminate region of commission business, life insurance, advertising agencies, secretaryships, and other nebulous formative processes, was now almost as well-known a figure in the town as Quaker John himself. The chief foundation in any abiding friendship is a certain diversity of temperament which those who wondered at the mutual liking that had sprung up between the retiring stockbroker's clerk and the worldly Yankee had evidently overlooked. To John the American's audacity was a perpetual delight, tempered by occasional Puritan scruples as to whether he was justified in associating with so hardened an unbeliever. To Bill Coody the Quaker's reposefulness and quiet self-sufficiency were both a sleeping-draught and irritant. Nothing delighted him more than to get a rise out of John; but John was hard to catch, and even when craftily inveigled into a theological argument, was extremely chary of entering into definite statements. Even when his position was most hotly assailed by the other, who made unsparing use of the _argumentum ad hominem_, reinforced by a store of malicious anecdotes of religious 'professors' all the world over, John never lost his temper, but mildly suggested that his antagonist was an Anarchist in disguise. John himself, though immersed in business which some of the 'plain people' have been used to look askance at, lived after the simple fashion of the straiter sect. After his day's work at the office, where as head clerk much responsibility lay on his shoulders, he would go straight home and employ his leisure on fine days in his garden, and on wet days in his library, for John was not only a book-collector, but also a reader. One pipe of tobacco he allowed himself before going to bed on week days and two on 'first-days,' and flavoured his tobacco with a chapter of 'George,' as he styled in affectionate intimacy his favourite author (Mr. Meredith) on week-days, but a portion of Barclay's 'Apology' on 'first-day' evenings. One evening John was sitting reading as usual, when the maid-servant came in to say that Mr. Coody wished to have a few words with him. 'Very well,' replied her master, laying aside 'George' with a sigh, and wondering what business Bill might have on hand to come at such an untimely hour. In came his friend as unceremoniously as ever, and, sitting himself down on the sofa, drew vigorously at his cheroot for a minute or two before entering upon the topic that had brought him thither. 'Look here, John,' he exclaimed all at once, 'you're a confidential cuss, I guess, and I've got a scheme on hand that will "scoop the boodle" if properly carried out; and what I want to know is, whether your people will take a hand in it or no. It's a certain thing, and will go ahead like a runaway buggy anyway; but the less friction the better, so that if your people will grease the wheels a bit, so much the better for them and all consarned.' 'Tell me precisely what it is,' replied John cautiously, 'then I may be able to offer an opinion; but, of course, I can't say off-hand whether the firm will entertain the idea or not.' 'Waal,' replied Bill, 'I guess you're the firm pretty often, for your bosses are generally away huntin' or shootin' or foolin' around somewhere; anyway, your advice is generally listened to, I guess. Waal, to come to business. I'm fixin' up a new store on the most modern principles. I sell everything cheaper than anybody else anywhere in this little country of yours; any bloomin' thing that's asked for, why, it's there, delivered free to any part of the United Kingdom. Everybody comes along--Noah's Ark on a wet day ain't in it for the pushin' there'll be at our doors once we get opened out--and, another thing, everybody gets made into an automatic shareholder; for profits have to lie till they reach £5, when each man, woman, and child gets a share given them, will they, nill they--and you bet, John, they will. I tell you, the thing's fixed up, and is goin' to give Old Quay shocks. Why, I'm buyin' up here and there bankrupt stocks enough to bust the place with--pianners, hardware, bicycles, rose-trees, fam'ly Bibles, rat-traps--every taste will be suited, for I tell you cosmopolitanism ain't in it with Bill Coody. I tell you I'll be in a position to bust every single bicycle dealer in this little one-hoss place; every pianner dealer can shut up shop when I get started. Why, there won't be a pitman in Northumberland who hasn't got a demi-grand Eureka B. C. piano in his house in another three weeks' time, and every colliery village will have its Bayreuth Festival with "Canny Dog Cappie" and "Weel may the keel row" tinklin' away down each row.' 'But think of the poor shopkeeper!' John interrupted, aghast at this slaughter of the innocents. 'Now, John,' expostulated Bill, as one who reproves a child for foolishness, 'it's not "first-day," and you ain't "in meeting," so stick to business, if _you_ please. Waal, the thing's got to go, as I'm sayin', and the only question is, are your people goin' to join in or no? If not, I bust their little donkey go-cart of Supply Stores which they set up a few years back in South Street "for the mutual encouragement of thrift and the supply of the best articles at first-hand cost" as the prospectus says, combinin' philanthropy and five per cent, plus their commission on floatin' the shop. Now, I know how much they have in it, your bosses. J. B. has 10,000 shares, and young T. he has 5,000 out of a total of 30,000, so they're the largest shareholders in the concern, but Bill Coody has shares in it, too, John, he or his nominees. Likely you've noticed the shares have been jumpin' up a bit lately and been wonderin' what the jooce was up, eh?' 'Yes,' responded John quietly, endeavouring to conceal any disquietude he might feel; 'yes, I've noticed that.' 'Waal, we've got enough to bust their shop up pretty well, and if your people don't come into my showyard I'll give their shares away with a pound of tea,' and here he pulled out a handful of certificates from his trousers' pocket and flourished them in John's face, which was gradually growing longer as the other unrolled his arguments. 'But how did you get the necessary capital?' John inquired after a pause, professional curiosity piqued at this unexpected revelation of means. 'Waal,' replied the American, as he carelessly lit another cheroot, expectorating with relish into John's carefully-trimmed fire, 'I'll tell you straight out, for I'm one of them that goes straight to the point--fibbin' ain't in it with truthfulness, and bluffin's no good when the cards are on the table. Waal, I bank with the Old Bank here, and decent enough people they are, too, but a trifle slow, so no sooner did the Joint Stock Bank open out a new branch in Old Quay than in I go, and I says, "Look here, boss, I want £5,000 of the ready, and I'll bring you business," I says. Well, the boss rubs his hands in butter, and he says, "Sartinly, sartinly, Mr. Coody, we know your name well, sir; most happy to oblige, I'm sure, and much obliged if you could introduce us to a few of your friends," so after a bit more palaver and a deposit of some shares the deal's done. Waal, down the street goes Bill Coody, and into the parlour of the Old Bank, and says to the partners straight out: "Now, look here, gentlemen, there's no beatin' about the bush with me, and no frivolity in matters of business, and what I want is £5,000 straight down, which is the figure I've just been offered by the new Joint Stock Bank over the way. Now I like your style," I says, "and I should be sorry to leave you; but sentiment's not my style of doin' business, so there you have it." Waal, the old gentleman looked at me over his spectacles, same way as you do, John, and under his spectacles also, and offers me a pinch of snuff, while he and his partner waggle their heads together in a far-off corner of the room. Waal, after a bit more palaver and a little "pi" jaw thrown in gratis about the evils of speculatin', and a hope that a strange bank will not interfere with mutual friendly business relations, that deal's done, and Bill Coody has £10,000 to draw upon by feedin'-time that morning. 'Waal, John, I think you'll have the hang of it now, and will be able to advise your bosses as to what's best for them and the community, too, at large, and I want an answer--a regular business-like document--signed, sealed, and delivered, by this time to-morrow night, for there's a shipload of my goods in already and lyin' at the quay, and I can't let the thing dry-rot while two thickheads worry the situation out and try to tinker up a mind between them. So fix it up for them, John, yourself. Ta-ta; I must be off. There's a chap waitin' for me at the club on business.' And rising as he spoke, he went as unceremoniously as he came, leaving a trail of rank tobacco that was as penetrating to John's nostrils as his communications had been to his intellect. John lit his pipe again, which had gone out as he listened to Bill's scheme, and thought for a while how 'George' would have dealt with the situation; how his penetrating intellect would have pierced through Bill's armour-plating, and revealed the naked artificer within. Ah! if 'George' had only been there for five minutes, several of the questions that were troubling him might have received instant solution. He could not feel certain how far Bill meant business with his store. It was not all bluff, of course; but how much of it was bluff, how much business, he could not of himself determine. It might be that he wanted to be bought off at a price, or be offered a post upon the directorate, or was merely a 'bull' of the shares. However, one thing was certain: there must be no shilly-shallying. Either Bill must be squared or he must be defied. That was the question for him to determine. No doubt, from a strictly business point of view, the chief matter to be considered was which of the two courses was likely to prove most beneficial to his principals; but the thought of the poor shopkeepers was present in John's mind, and operated largely in influencing his mind in the direction of defiance. There was poor old Mrs. S----, for example, who kept herself and two grandchildren on the proceeds of a small florist's business, once her son-in-law's. What would happen to her if Bill were to flood the town with rose-trees at a shilling the dozen? To-morrow was Saturday, and Bill demanded an answer by the evening. The next day being 'first-day,' he would have to satisfy his conscience--that 'still small voice' which, even in the silence of the meeting, interrogated him severely on his dealings during the past week, and permitted no subterfuge or evasive answer--and it was useless to think he could do so by pleading that he was only a subordinate, not an official, in this affair of the store. Well, so be it. It must be defiance, then--war to the knife--if Bill was in earnest; for to offer to put him on the directorate of the supply stores would merely mean setting up Bill's store under the old title. John sat late as he pondered over the situation. Suddenly one of the Articles of Association of the stores flamed within the chamber of his brain, and a twinkle shone in his eye, as he reflected that it should enable him to mate Bill's cleverness at the very outset. Bill had quoted from the prospectus, but he had evidently overlooked the Articles of Association, and John chuckled to himself delightedly as he recalled Article 5. Shortly after seven next morning John might have been observed taking the air upon the quay, casting shrewd glances as he passed along. He had some suspicions concerning the amount of value of Bill's consignment of pianos, family Bibles, etc., and he thought he might possibly discover something for himself if he saw what vessels were lying at the quay. There was a green-hulled brigantine from Norway lying alongside, but she was full of battens and pit-props; a steam-collier lay next, but she must simply be waiting there for stores or sailing orders. A tramp came next, apparently from America, by the labels on some of her packages that the cranes were already swinging overhead. This, then, must be Bill's consignment, for there was nothing else in the river or at the quay that John could see that could possibly have anything on board for Bill or his stores. As he stood there immersed in thought, a figure appeared on the deck above him, and, leaning his arms on the taffrail, regarded the scene below him with a gloomy air. 'The skipper,' thought John, as he noted his blue broadcloth and peaked cap, and on the spur of a sudden inspiration immediately accosted him. 'Fine morning, captain. I happen to have heard a rumour to the effect that you were wanting an offer for your cargo. If so, I might possibly get you an offer from a friend of mine--at a reasonable figure, of course.' 'Waal,' replied the other slowly, 'I guess I'm ready for a deal, as the consignees are bust up, and only 25 per cent. of the freight paid for; but it's not a knock-out, I tell ye, for I've had a bid already for the lot.' 'Was it from a man they call Bill Coody, by any chance?' asked John, with a fine carelessness. 'Waal,' replied the skipper, as he turned his quid, 'his name's nothin' to me, so long as he has the ready. Mr. Cash is the gent I do business with; but if my memory sarves me right, I think Bill Coody was the name on his pasteboard.' 'What precisely is the cargo?' queried John. 'Is it dry-store goods--organs, pianos, and such like commodities?' 'Ay, that's about what it is--all the sort o' fixin's that make a harmonious home for the retired commercial gent--organs, melodeons, brick-a-bacs, articles of virtoo and amusement combined; and a fine variety of wood goods besides. Waal, if you're for a deal you must be sharp about it, for I've to fix up with Mr. Coody by ten o'clock this mornin', and I leave again this afternoon, havin' just signed a fresh charter party for a cargo of fireclay bricks. So name your figure, plank down the cash, and I'm ready to deal.' 'Well, what did Mr. Coody offer you?' asked John pertinently. 'Three hundred pounds in bank notes,' replied the skipper; 'but I'll take £400 to clear; and dirt cheap, too, when you think o' what a nest o' nightingales your fam'ly and friends will be at ten dollars a head.' 'Thank you,' said John, as he moved away; 'I'll just go round and have a talk with my friend, and will let you know the result before ten o'clock.' 'Right,' replied the captain, cutting himself a fresh plug of tobacco; '£400 down, coin o' the realm, before ten, mind ye, and your friend's set up for life with a "house beautiful" that Solomon in all his glory and Mrs. Sheba couldn't have fixed up better between them.' 'What a curious, profane, hard-featured set of men these Americans are!' thought John, as he stepped briskly away in the direction of his senior partner's house. 'Why, the mind of that skipper is exactly of the same temper as Bill's; his features are as irregular, even his voice has the same twanging, nasal habit. However, he means business evidently, and I think I can persuade Mr. William to buy up his cargo, which will put, I imagine, a pretty stiff spoke in Bill's wheel.' Within a quarter of an hour John was on Mr. William's doorstep, and ten minutes afterwards was explaining the strategical position to the senior partner in his dressing-gown. 'Certainly, John,' said Mr. William slowly, after listening attentively to John's recital; 'we couldn't possibly have Coody on our Board; it wouldn't do at all. Why, he's a mere adventurer, and his method of under-cutting, "busting" people up, etc., would bring discredit upon our firm and have a bad effect upon our business. No, it's quite evident, John, as you say, that we can't square him--as to how far he means business, I don't know. I incline to think he is bluffing us; but there isn't time to find out how much he has up his sleeve; and if we buy up this cargo we trump his ace, you think, and can make a profit out of it ourselves at the stores after? Well, I daresay you're right, John; and, after all, £400 won't ruin us. We buy his cargo, and as he can't "bear" the shares, he'll be like a chained dog showing his teeth, but doing no damage. Yes, I think it is an excellent idea, John,' Mr. William said in conclusion, 'and if you'll wait one minute I'll give you the cheque for £400.' By ten o'clock that morning John had completed his defences; the cargo was bought; he held an indemnity against any claims from the skipper and owners of the goods in question; he had made an inquiry at the Old Bank, and now was sitting down at the office to write a short note marked 'private' to Bill, to tell him it was to be 'war to the knife.' 'And I may tell thee, Bill, that thee had better give in with a good grace; for, in the first place, thee cannot sell the shares below par--_vide_ the Articles of Association, paragraph 10--and, in the second, we have bought up thy cargo; and, finally, I feel assured that stores managed on thy suggested lines would never bring a blessing with them. Thou saidst it was to be "war to the knife," but we hope thee will think better of it, for thy sake more than for our own,' and with a friendly warning John finished his letter, and despatched it by hand to 'William Coody, Esq.' Late that afternoon, just as John was leaving the office, a letter was brought to him in Bill's handwriting. It ran as follows: 'Ta-ta, John, I'm off, you quaint, cocked-hat old Puritan Precisian; but I couldn't leave without having tried a fall with you first, and, on totting it up, I think Bill Coody's just had a trifle the best of the mêlée. If I'd got on to the stores, I'd have stayed in this derned little one-hoss place, but those all-fired articles[21] upset that cart. I'll allow you that, John; but I have you, my boy, over that little cargo of mine. Why, the whole show was a got-up job, the cargo saw-dust, salvage stocks worth £20 at an outside figure. The skipper, being a pal of mine, lent me his duds, this morning, for I knew you'd be down there sniffing and spectacling about with the morning's sunrise, and I had the show ready for you, John, to walk into, and in you walked like blue blazes. The £400 will about pay for my trouble, and for the premiums on the store shares. Your principals will have to buy the shares back from the banks--they mustn't buy below par, though, John--you remind them of that. 'I've sold my biz., and am off with my pal, the skipper, this moment. No time to handshake. Ta-ta, John, and bear no malice. Stick to piety and 5 per cent., and don't buy up bankrupt cargoes, and you'll be Lord Mayor of Old Quay before you're finished. So long, your pardner, 'BILL COODY.' FOOTNOTE: [21] '_Article 5._--No shares shall be dealt in below their face value except with the consent of the Board of Directors.' THE PROTÉGÉ The Vale of the Frolic in the far west of Northumberland had always been a favourite retreat of mine. As I trudged the London pavements in the dog-days before the Law Courts rose, my heart panted for the green hills and the sweet silences of remotest Frolicdale. The chiefest charm of the vale perhaps for me lay in the fact that it was a track untrodden by the tourist, resembling the maid of the waters of Dove in this--that it was one which, as yet, there were 'few to know, and very few to love.' It was a pastoral, sheep-raising countryside, inhabited by shepherds almost entirely, who were at the same time farmers also, for their tenure was something after the métayer order. There was nothing to mar the quaint and antique flavour of existence. The post, like our lifeboat institution, was here supported by voluntary contributions. If anyone were 'gannin' up the wattor,' well and good; he would take the letters with him. If not, then they were left at the schoolmaster's till called for. Newspapers, again, with the exception of a weekly _Courant_ or a _Scots Mail_, were, like the woodcock, but 'occasional visitors' in that region; and when it is added that the house I usually stayed at was situated eighteen miles from a terminus of a slow branch line of the North British Railway Company, it will be evident that the ordinary tourist had a very poor chance of putting in an appearance in that favoured region. I was recalling all these little details with infinite gusto as I sat down at my desk to write to my friend the Presbyterian minister and schoolmaster of Fair-Green Haugh, suggesting a visit from myself a week ahead. The answer came just in time for me to pack up and start within the week. 'I am sorry to say,' wrote my friend in conclusion, 'that my accommodation is somewhat limited this summer, as I have had to give up my small sanctum to a protégé of mine, who, though he has just been discharged from gaol, will yet, I feel assured, become a highly useful and respectable member of society. 'I know your kind heart, my friend,' he continued, 'and feel sure you will not regret a temporary lack of comfort in so good a cause. You can always use the schoolroom, as it is holiday time, for reading, writing and smoking.' 'Heavens!' I murmured to myself, as I took in the monstrous situation; 'fancy having to spend my vacation trying to improve an infernal burglar! He knows my kind heart, he says. Well, it only proves the truth of the poet's lines: '"Not e'en the dearest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile or cry." I wonder,' I soliloquized, 'whether he is of the heavy, hang-dog, dropped-jaw type--the knifing variety, in brief--or the other species--the shifty-eyed, chinless, quick but evil brained sort. On the whole, I prefer the first, for if he cannot control his temper, at any rate you know where you are with him, whereas with the latter you never can tell what he may be up to.' Anyway, it was exasperating, for here had I been congratulating myself upon the sweet security of my proposed retreat, only to discover at the last moment that I was destined to become co-warder of a criminal. However, it was no use making myself miserable before the time, and as I was at any rate now free from the choking London atmosphere I could revel in the thought of fresh country air, liberty and leisure. I stayed the night at Heathtown (famous for the church wherein Bernard Gilpin, 'the apostle of the north,' stayed the hot Borderers from feud), and, drawing the heather-honeyed air deep into my lungs, felt my strength so renewed that the thoughts of shifting the ticket-of-leave gentleman if he didn't, in North-country phrase, 'keep a civil tongue in his heid and behave hissel' respectable,' positively inspired me with pleasure. The postman in his cart was, as it chanced, going up to the little village, styled a 'toon,' where the last post and telegraph-office this side of Scotland is situated, and insisted upon giving me a 'cast' so far upon my road. 'No, nowse is changed ava,' he replied, in answer to my query, 'syne ye were last here, save belikely that we are aal a year older, an' that Farmer Newton's missus was brought tae bed wi' anither bairn a month ago last Saterday. Ye'll mind she had her fourth bairn the last time ye were here, an' Farmer Newton, he says he'll just hae tae turn priest, an' get the Sixstanes livin',[22] an' there, ye ken, the Queen sends ye a ten-pound note for every addition tae yor fam'ly; an' though there might not be ower muckle profit in it, it wud help tae keep the pot a-boiling, says he. But I'm thinkin' mysel',' continued my informant reflectively, 'that if Farmer Newton were tae give up shootin' an' huntin' sae muckle, an' took a turn at farmin', he'd have a less reason for complaining.' And so we passed the time away, he regaling me with all the domestic gossip of the countryside, I interrupting him now and again to point out the historical objects of interest on either hand of us; for, like all true countrymen, though he knew every stick and stone by the wayside, he was entirely ignorant of the past history of his vale. We were now close on the village where my driver ended his stage, and it suddenly occurred to me to inquire, as I thanked him for his kindness to myself, if he knew anything of my friend's protégé at the Fair Green Haugh. 'Well,' he replied slowly, 'I have heard as hoo he has ta'en up wi' a convick or gaol-bord o' that description. Wey, I canna tell. He'd muckle better hae getten'd hissel' marrit; an' sartinly we divvn't want that sort o' specie up this wattor-side. We hevn't muckle gear belike, but we prefer tae keep wor ain. He'll be ain o' the lifting kind likelies, the same as thae moss-troopin' fellers ye were crackin' on aboot enoo whae divvn't seem ivvor tae hae heard on the fifth commandment. Ye'll be weel employed this holiday-time o' yors wi' lookin' efter him, I's warn'd. But yo're a lawyer chap,' he continued, 'an' dootless ye'll find an excuse tae shift him wi'. Put on yor wig, an' nae doot but it will tarrify him.' I thanked the speaker for his advice somewhat ruefully, for his words exactly fitted my own presentiment. Having bade adieu to my postman friend, and arranged for my heavier luggage to be sent forward in the next carrier's cart that might be going 'up the wattor,' I set out across the hills to The Nook on Fair Green Haugh with my knapsack on my back. Two hours' walking brought me within view of The Nook, and as I paused at the top of the brae to drink in the well-beloved aspect of the small 'bigging' that sheltered in the green coign between Windy Law and Blind Burn side, I noticed the figure of a man carrying a small child in his arms. I knew most of the inhabitants of the vale by sight, but the aspect of the individual in question was unknown to me. It was scarcely likely he could be a shepherd's extra hand, for the washing and shearing time was over, and a tramp in the ordinary sense of the term would have been, to quote from the ornithologists, a 'rare and occasional visitor.' Besides, he had not the appearance of a tramp; he walked with an easy boldness, apparently playing with the child as he strolled, for as I drew nearer I could hear the child's voice gleefully crying, 'Again, again; do it again, funny man.' As I drew nearer I looked at the stranger with interest, and noted that he was a well-made, active fellow, of good proportions. His face was slightly scarred, as though from small-pox, but not unpleasantly; it was as if the disease, suddenly repenting of spoiling a bright and healthful countenance, had incontinently left him for another victim. His eyes blue, his teeth, splendidly regular, were clean and white as a hound's. Glancing at the child, I discovered her to be Maggie, the six-year-old child of Tom Hedley, the herd at Fulhope Law, so I went straight up to her and asked for a kiss as usual. 'No,' said the diminutive flirt archly, holding her head backwards; 'no kiss for zoo. I's got a new man noo,' and forthwith she buried her curls in his neck. 'He's a nice funny man,' she continued in another moment, peeping forth from her hiding-place, 'an' he's got nae mair hair on his heid than oor little puppy-dog at home.' I glanced at her captor, and noting his cropped crown, jumped to a sure conclusion as to his identity. 'Why, 'tis none other,' thought I, 'than the protégé.' Possibly he read my thoughts; at any rate, releasing one arm, he lifted his hand to a salute, smiling, meanwhile, in the most affable way in the world. I nodded 'Good afternoon,' and learning that the minister was within and waiting my arrival, turned my steps to the house. After our first greetings were over he commenced to apologize again for the limited space at my disposal, but he was certain that when once I had got to know his 'protégé,' I should think no more about it. 'He is a beautiful character,' he concluded enthusiastically, 'one could tell that at a glance by the way in which children take to him.' 'I met him outside just a moment ago,' I replied, 'and he certainly seems to have won little Maggie's heart, but from my recollection of her half a dozen "sweeties" would explain that feat. And after all,' I continued judicially, 'some of the greatest ruffians that ever lived were extremely fond of children. There was Herod, of course, but he was the exception that proves the rule.' 'Ah,' sighed my friend, 'that terrible London atmosphere! How it cankers the human affections! The theory of the law, I believe, is that every man should be considered innocent till he has been proved guilty; but you lawyers, reversing this in practice, hold every man guilty till he prove his innocence.' 'How about his hair?' I inquired rather unkindly. 'His hair?' my friend queried, with a puzzled expression. 'Oh, I see what you mean,' he continued almost immediately, endeavouring to shed a _soupçon_ of a smile over his seriously earnest countenance. 'But don't notice that, please, or you may make him reckless. For now is the critical time,' he added solemnly, with the professional manner of a physician making his diagnosis; 'if he gets safely over this his cure may be regarded as practically assured. 'The great thing is to believe in a man, to cultivate little by little his sense of self-respect; by "believing men to be better than they are," one may even, as has been so well said, "make them better than they are." In England we have always gone on a wrong principle; we worship success, worldly success, far too much, and have scant sympathy with the unfortunate. My friend outside says that he stole a leg of mutton for his starving daughter. The result is he cannot now get a situation, and his daughter has been taken from him, and is now in a home. Well, if the man be treated with contumely, he may very likely despair and give up all hope of improvement. Treat him well, on the other hand, and you may yet turn him into a useful citizen.' 'You put a premium on wrong-doing,' said I, as I shook my head at his argument, smiling, however, at the impassioned face before me. His high, narrow forehead with the ruffled upstanding hair betrayed the enthusiast; the broad, refined, and eager lips marked a perennial emotion within; his eyes, notwithstanding their wonderful clarity, had a far-away look in the depths of them; a spare form, thin wrists, and shrunken hands completed the presentation of the idealistic, mystical, Don Quixote type of human nature. While I thus reflected, my friend continued to pour out fresh instances proving satisfactorily to any non-prejudiced mind the correctness of his theory. 'But what are you going to do with him?' I asked eventually, 'for after all that is the important thing. I mean, his being here with you may be very nice for him, but it doesn't teach him a trade, and you can't afford to keep him, I know, for long.' 'First of all,' eagerly began my friend, 'I propose to keep him long enough to re-instate him in his self-respect; secondly, to study his temperament and character thoroughly in order to discover what line of life he is best suited for, and then to get him some appropriate situation. That is the programme, and, I think, a quite practical and satisfactory one. There is no "pauperizing" here, you see; it is simply giving a man a fair chance. And now,' he continued briskly, 'come out and inspect the garden.' The protégé, it appeared, had been making himself useful therein, which my friend thought was a highly encouraging sign, 'for,' said he, 'no bad man ever cared for gardening.' The next few days I spent contentedly in absolute idleness, now strolling up the waterside, now smoking and reading peacefully in the little arbour behind the herbaceous border. I had almost forgotten the existence of my _bête-noir_; he showed, indeed, a most commendable readiness to efface himself as much as possible from observation, and when I chanced to pass him he seemed rather to avoid me than to seek my company. 'Good-morning,' I would say, if I happened to come out of the house before breakfast for a stroll, and find him chopping firewood, 'lovely weather, and looks like lasting, I think.' 'Ay,' he would usually reply, with a hurried touch to his cap, 'it's canny weather,' then muttering something about being busy, would incontinently hurry into the house. I took this as a sign of grace, and was quite favourable to the mode of intercourse thus established. But my host, I could see, was pained at my apparent lack of interest in his protégé; so the next day, finding Blythe engaged in tying up the suckers of the honeysuckle to the trellis of the arbour, I went boldly up to him, determined to try and draw him out. 'Well, and how do you like the country?' I inquired. 'A pleasant change after town life, eh?' He gave me a quick, suspicious glance in return, then muttering, 'Ay, dootless,' again devoted himself to his occupation. I tried again, but, meeting with no encouragement, became, I am bound to confess, a little nettled, as though with an insubordinate witness. The happy insouciance I thought to have marked in him at our first encounter had vanished, and ''Tis the knifing variety, after all,' I murmured to myself, and fell to scrutinizing him somewhat severely. There was something about him that somehow seemed familiar to me. I determined to probe, and see if he would wince. 'Possibly you don't care about the country?' I suggested smoothly; 'towns, perhaps, attract you more. York, for example, is a nice town, and, by chance, say September 30 for a little business in the vicinity, eh?' He looked me full in the face at this, a very ugly smile curving his lips, as he replied abruptly, 'What is it you're wanting?' 'I don't know that I want anything for myself,' said I, somewhat elated at the success of my conjecture, 'but I should like fair play for my friend inside. Pheasants are scarce hereabouts, but possibly other things might come in useful. I needn't specify,' I continued airily, 'to a gentleman of your intelligence; 'twould be superfluous.' For reply he made a bound at me, head down, and both fists outstretched. It was as the rush of the bull for the matador's flag, and my bound aside just saved me from his charge, though his right fist touched me on the chest and sent me staggering backward. He turned, and came again; this time I had more space for manoeuvre, and the memory of an old fencing trick, learned in Angelo's school of arms, swift as a flashlight, lit within my brain. I leant forward as though to meet him like a boxer, then, as he rushed upon me, turned quickly sideways, fencing fashion, and slipped half a foot backward. He missed me by a hand's breadth; a reek of tobacco touched me hotly on the cheek; another moment and I had leapt forward on a late 'time thrust,' and caught my antagonist neatly just behind the ear. I had been unable to put any strength into the blow, but it proved to be enough to upset his poise. He staggered, stooped, and then fell headlong on the path, scarce having time to break his fall with hand or arm. He lay there for a moment or two, apparently half-dazed; then, slowly picking himself up, leant back with folded arms against an apple-tree, and surveyed me with a sort of sulky resignation. 'Well, you've got the better o' me again,' said he; 'you've the luck on your side, nae doot. "Bing lay your shero,"' I overheard him mutter to himself under his breath, which, taken in conjunction with his name, amply sufficed to confirm my conjecture of his gipsy origin. 'What is 't ye want wi' me?' he continued, in a louder voice. 'As I said before,' I replied slowly, seating myself upon a wooden bench in front of the arbour, 'I only require fair play for my friend within. A man of the world like yourself can easily deceive him, even to the half of his kingdom; and if he has a fancy to cure the leopard of his spots or whitewash the Ethiopian--or perhaps I might say the "Egyptian" rather--I would like the process to be as inexpensive as possible to him--you understand?' I queried of my opposite, smiling as I spoke; for I had the whip-hand of him undoubtedly, and to be unpleasant politely is part of the lawyer's art. 'To put the matter more clearly still,' I continued, for he had made no response to my suggestion, 'I think a week of fresh air and quiet seclusion in the country should be enough for any man of active habits after a period of enforced leisure; the hair, moreover, grows quickly in a country retreat, as Joshua's messengers found of old, and, briefly, what I would advise is a moonlight flitting.' Pleased with the brevity of my peroration, I took my cigarette-case from my pocket, and, having selected a cigarette, carefully proceeded to light it with the utmost deliberation. I had taken my eyes off him for the moment, partly in order to ascertain if the cigarette were properly alight, partly to perfect the illusion of _sang froid_; and dearly I paid for my rashness, for with a bound he was upon me. I ducked; but it was too late, and over I went backward, my enemy a-top of me, crash through the arbour on to the stone flagging within. I was stunned, I suppose, for a minute or so, for I lay there wondering what had happened, and annoyed that a wasp, as I thought, should have stung me in the neck. In another moment I had discovered that the smart was due to a bit of live cigarette-ash that had chanced to drop inside my collar in my fall, and I tried to put up a hand to remove it. To my disgust, I found my hands were knotted tightly together; my legs, too, were bound, and, as I turned my head, my eyes met those of my enemy, sitting beside me on a low stool. 'The gadgi' (viz., 'gorgio,' or man of non-gipsy race) 'is but a fool in his pride and self-conceit,' said he; 'he is but a tortoise, for all his pushkin's (hare) gallop at the start.' This was what I heard him saying as I recovered consciousness, and as I knew that gipsies always hide their origin, and refrain from their language in the presence of the 'gorgios,' I felt certain he must be labouring under great excitement, and momentarily expected to see him out with his knife and finish me there and then. Here he stooped, and I thought my hour had come, but apparently it was only to pick up my fallen cigarette. Pinching off the blackened end, he put it between his lips, and, lighting it at the other end, drew in deep breaths of tobacco-smoke. 'I don't wonder you enjoy it,' said I, as I watched his proceedings with an intense annoyance; 'successful theft is pleasant to a tchor (thief), I presume?' 'And who's the tchor in the end,' retorted he--'you or me? Speak, little gutterwhelp from the toon, that art paid to lie at so many bars (sovereigns) the lie. Your kind take a man's money, plead so ill that at the finish the "stande" (gaol) has him, while the big thief's left behind in court wi' a white wig on, an' a smile on his ugly moi (mouth). Who's the tchor, then?' he repeated with a leer, as he blew a cloud of smoke in the air. 'I 'low ye got me nabbed at York 'Sizes, but it wesn't yor doin', 'twas that dirty Jack Spraggon, who turned informer an' legged me that time. Why, ye pink-eyed toon's-spawn, if I'd my rights, an' things were as they aince was, I'd hang ye tae the nearest tree. Look there,' he cried, as, stirring me with his foot, he drew up his coat-sleeve and thrust a tattoed wrist over my eyes--'look there, d'ye ken what that is?' I gazed with interest, for it was evidently an heraldic coat, excellently well punctured in his flesh. 'A lion rampant within a tressure fleury counter fleury, by Jove! debruised by a bar sinister,' I murmured aloud. My thoughts went back at a bound to memories of the 'Gaberlunzie Man' of the ballad, the errant James V., and 'ane louit Johnnie Faa, Lord and Earl of Little Egypt,' but all I said was, 'Still, people don't boast of an illegitimate origin nowadays.' 'Illegitimate!' he cried angrily; 'I'll teach ye manners, ye ----' but here a step sounded on the path outside, and in another moment my host peered in at the doorway. 'Tut--tut--tut,' said my friend, removing his glasses from his nose in his agitation, 'dear, dear! what can have happened? Speak, Ned; explain, Will.' My adversary rose to his feet, saluted our interrogator somewhat shamefacedly, and, pointing to myself, replied, 'He wes sae impiddent wi' me I'd just tae teach him a lesson, but nae harm's done.' 'Oh,' cried my little friend, and he positively wrung his hands in his distress, 'but you shouldn't,' and here he looked at us reproachfully in turn. Then a happy thought seemed to rise in his brain. 'We must forget all about this unhappy occurrence,' cried he; 'we will not inquire into it, but will shake hands all round, and begin afresh.' So saying he immediately knelt down, undid my bandages, and helped me to rise from the floor. 'Now,' he cried, and seized hold of our respective hands. 'Well,' said my antagonist, 'I bear no malice, but keep yor tongue a bit civiler i' future.' 'And refrain from pheasants and legs of mutton,' I nearly retorted, but stayed my tongue in time, and the three of us shook hands promptly all round, as desired. I was willing enough to shake hands because I felt I had been in error in taunting my antagonist, but I was not prepared for the reproof my host had in store for me, as he put his arm through mine, and led me away for a stroll up the brae. 'Oh, how could you do it?' he said. 'You must have stung him beyond endurance, and you promised, you remember, to respect him.' 'I only told him the truth,' I replied sulkily. 'As a matter of fact, I recognised in him the first individual I ever had the pleasure of getting convicted--at York Assizes--pheasant-poaching, stoning a keeper, etc. One's first conviction is like one's first love--one can't forget it.' 'Ah, but if it is so, that is just an incident in that past career of his which is quite dead and buried now; you see yourself how annoyed he was at your bringing it up against him. Of course, his conduct was inexcusable,' he hastily added, suddenly remembering doubtless that he was my host, 'but this vigour of resentment proves to my mind the genuineness of his repentance.' It was hopeless to argue, so I turned the subject, inwardly resolving that I would leave on the morrow. After supper that evening I went outside to smoke, and there lingered long, enjoying the soft, luminous northern twilight. The murmur of the stream in the valley trembled amidst the silence of the night, as of some old monk telling his beads in the solitude of a vast cathedral. Suddenly a discordant singing sounded down the vale. 'Some roysterer,' thought I with disgust. 'I suppose there must have been a wedding or some festivity of that sort.' The sounds rose and fell fitfully, but grew gradually louder. It was evident someone was coming 'up the wattor,' and I waited to see who the disturber of our quiet could be. The last corner had apparently been turned, for now I could hear the voice distinctly. 'The protégé again, by Jove!' I groaned. I meditated instant flight, but a fit of laughter caught me, and I stayed. Out of the gray twilight a toper lurched up to the gate on which I leant, and, steadying himself, momentarily peered into my face. 'No malish, little Wool-shack, eh?' quoth he with a grin. Then, becoming confidential, he leant forward and whispered, 'Drink ye for a "bar," turn an' turn about,' producing as he spoke a most suspicious-looking black bottle. 'Look here,' said I, 'why did you come to this place?' 'It's a free-sh country,' replied my opposite solemnly, 'an' wanderin's my trade, an' the wee big bairn upstairs, he's ta'en a sort o' woman's fancy for us. Noo, Wull Blythe's like his ancient forbears, royal Wull Faa, an' the lave, an' he cannot say nae to a woman, though he'll ne'er tak' a look frae a man.' 'Well, good-night,' I said, 'and don't wake the big bairn upstairs.' It was some time before I finished packing, and after that was done I sat down and had another pipe by the window. I was just dozing off when a smell of burning seemed to creep in upon my nostrils, and the atmosphere grew thicker to my sub-consciousness. 'It can't be anything,' I murmured inwardly, and tried to recede still further into the dark grove of sleep, but a step outside my door effectually roused me. A light gleamed upon me. 'Come, my friend, come quick; I fear the house is on fire,' cried my host at the doorway; 'throw on a coat, wet your blankets, and follow me upstairs at once with them.' I rushed upstairs headlong some few seconds after, and stumbled over a prostrate form on the small garret landing, a reek of whisky giving me assurance of its identity. I rose hastily, and passed into the room beyond, where, amidst heavy smoke-wreaths, I perceived my host, now beating burning bedding with his hands, and again stamping with his feet upon smouldering coverings on the floor. I did my best to help him, and we succeeded shortly in getting the better of the conflagration. After emptying buckets of water over bed and bedding, we waited for some minutes to ascertain if any hidden fire lingered anywhere. 'I think it will be all right now,' said my host; 'but come, we must look after my poor friend outside--I fear he is badly burned. Poor fellow, he was lying in bed stupefied with the smoke. I suppose he must have fallen asleep reading, and the candle must have set fire somehow to the bed-clothes or curtain.' He had scarcely finished speaking when he swayed suddenly, and before I could reach out an arm, had fallen to the ground in a dead faint. I lifted him up and carried him downstairs at once, and found that he was rather severely burnt about the hands. After I had restored him to consciousness as best I could and dressed his hurts, I proceeded, at my friend's earnest entreaty, to look after the protégé, who was still lying prostrate on the garret landing; absolutely unconscious and hopelessly intoxicated. He was badly burnt on one arm, and scorched down one side of his body. Appearances seemed to show that he must have thrown off the counterpane and blankets on to the floor, that there they must have become ignited either from his fallen pipe or candle, and eventually have set fire to one side of the bed. The doctor had to be sent for, and for a week the protégé was kept in bed; when he did come down again he was as contrite as possible, and I carefully avoided all mention of the disaster, for I had a dim feeling of guilt in the matter, suspecting that he went down the valley that evening to the alehouse in consequence of his excitement at his triumph over myself. Now that he was about again, and my friend too was quite restored, I determined to depart, and the next morning went down early to the Frolic to enjoy a last bathe. I was sitting on a shelf of rock above a deep pool, drying myself slowly after my swim, when I heard sounds below me. Looking out from my shelter, I saw Blythe, who appeared to be about to follow my example. His procedure, however, was curious; for first he cast his cap upon the waters, then carefully deposited what looked to me like a Bible on his coat on the bank, and, finally, having looked about him stealthily, took off his shoes and proceeded to ford the burn. 'He's off,' I thought to myself, then cried to him, 'Holloa! what's up?' He stood stock-still in mid-stream like one petrified, then, perceiving me, waded slowly to shore. 'Noo, don't ye blab tae Mistor Rutherford,' he said, as he came close up underneath where I was standing. 'I's awa aff. I cannot stay, but I doot the little man will be sair troubled aboot it, sae let him think on as that I'm drooned, wi' the Bible there tae show I's a convarted character, for he's been one tae many for Blythe, an' I wud'na like him tae grieve ower my disappointing him. I cam' for a bit fun, but it's turning tae seriousness noo, an' I can't bide any mair, that's a sartinty.' I don't know whether I acted wrongly or not, but I fell in with his view of the situation, and when I had finished my dressing he had already stolen out of sight. I stayed on another week after this, and during that time successfully concealed my connivance at the protégé's flight. The discovery of his cap and coat was considered proof of his having been drowned, and the Bible, borrowed from himself for the occasion, provided at once a consolation for my friend and a rebuke to my scepticism. I spent a night in Oldcastle on my way back to town, and chance took me through one of the most thickly populated, though not most aristocratic, quarters of the city. It was a fine night, and I had prolonged my stroll unconsciously. Suddenly the swing-door of a public-house was thrown back violently, and a man came hurtling through, and fell with a thud on the pavement beside me; a face peered through the aperture of the doors for a moment, and in a flash I recognised it. The gentleman who had been thus ignominiously 'chucked out' slowly pulled himself together, collected his faculties and his hat with difficulty, uttered some violent and abusive epithets, then slowly staggered off down the street with drunken dignity. I went inside the aforesaid doors. My eyes had not deceived me, for there was the protégé behind the counter in his new capacity of barman and 'chucker out.' He signed to me to follow him into the 'snug,' and there confided to me that he had got a permanent job for the first time in his life. 'Here,' said he, 'is a bar' (sovereign); 'send it along tae Mister Rutherford, an' tell him I's alive an' hearty, an' that I canna rest till I's paid for the blankets an' beddin' I burnt the other week. Mind,' says he, 'ye're not tae say where I am, but tell him I've a situation, an's givin' satisfaction.' 'Well,' thought I to myself, as I returned to my hotel, 'if my friend hasn't reformed the protégé, he has come at all events as near to success as is good for the ordinary mortal.' FOOTNOTE: [22] The author understands that this is the case in regard to some of the livings in the gift of Greenwich Hospital. THE SPANISH DOUBLOON Ransacking Jake's treasury one afternoon, I made an unexpected find--no less than a Spanish doubloon hidden away in an old sporran of a great-uncle of his. The history of the fox-marked rapier, of the blood-stained tress of hair found at Cawnpore, and of the yellow robe of the Brahmin, I knew already; but the heavy Spanish coin suggested something of a different order. 'Come,' said I, holding it up so as to attract his attention, 'tell me the tale connected with this--something to do with a pirate, or the Spanish Main, I dare swear.' Jake smiled quaintly as he fingered the coin with deliberation. 'Weel, it's a queer tale, sartinly, that's connected wi' yon coin, but all I can tell ye is what my aunt telled me langsyne, when she presented it to me on my joining the sarvice, just before I left for India. 'Noo, my aunt, ye mun ken, was a widow woman who lived on a bit property she had left her doon at the small, ootlandish-named seaport, as it was then, o' Bocca Chica, on the Northumberland coast. 'There was a man there she kenned nicely--in fact, she aye said afterwards, wi' a shudder at the thocht o't, that at one time he wanted to marry wi' her--who cut a big figure i' the place, by name Isaac Stephenson--"Black Isaac," as he was mair usually styled. It seems he had been bred and born i' the place, but had run awa to sea i' his youth, an' after many voyagings here an' there turns up again wi' pockets fu' o' siller, and a wee, misbegotten heathen dwarf o' a Malay as his attendant. 'The dwarf called hissel' Chilpo, or some such uncanny name, an' was a kind o' body-servant an' clerk an' dirty-job man to Isaac. But Isaac never let on where he picked him up, an' Chilpo was a sour-tempered little deil, whom maist folks were terrified o'; sae naebody e'er kenned muckle o' his antecedents or ancestry. 'Weel, Isaac, on his settling doon again at home, set up i' business as a shipowner an' broker, an' carried on a large business as an exporter o' coals, an' did a bit, as maist everybody did i' those days, i' the smuggling line--salt, an' lace, an' brandy, ye ken. He had siller, as I said, when he started his new trade, though naebody kenned hoo he had come by it; but it was no lang before he was the richest man i' the toon, an' folk began to talk weel o' him, an' praise him up as a good citizen as was a credit to the toon, an' ask him to open bazaars for them, an' suchlike. 'There was just one strange thing aboot him, an' that was that the womenfolk couldn't abide him. E'en after he had made hisself the richest man i' the toon, he could ne'er get hissel' married, though 'twas said my aunt, when he took up wi' religion, had aince had a thocht o' him, but no for lang, for there was suthin' aboot him that tarrified her when it came near the point. 'He was no ill-favoured neither, for I mind seein' him mysel' as a lad aince I was stayin' wi' my aunt--a tall, poo'erfu', black-haired man, wi' heavy eyebrows, an' a lustfu' sort o' eye--half hectorin', half cowardly. But he had a cruel sort o' look aboot him--thick-lipped, an' greedy, sweaty sort o' hands. 'Weel, after a good few years o' prosperity he turned sort o' sickly-like, an' for the first time i' his life began to think upon his latter end, an' at the finish takes up wi' a sect o' Bible Christians, or Christadelphians, or some such body, who were glad to get hold o' such a rich, influential sort o' person withoot askin' ower mony questions. 'Weel, he gans to his chapel, an' he prays, an' he gies his testimony, an' calls hissel' all sorts o' names, but was ay cautious no to gie ower mony details o' his sins, an' the good folk were highly edified by it, my aunt amangst them, an' asked him for subscriptions for every sort o' charity. 'But Chilpo, he couldna stand this sudden right-about-face, for there was nae releegion at aal i' his wee, misshapen anatomy, naething but love o' siller, and beastly, secretive pleasures o' opium drams an' such like. An' he mutinies against it, an' cusses an' swears to hissel' i' his pigeon-English talk, for Isaac by degrees began to hae his doots aboot the lawfu'ness o' smugglin' an' saeforth, an' Chilpo's wages an' profits dootless wud suffer by his maister's scruples. 'Consequence was, there grew to be bad blood betwixt maister an' man, an' folk could hear them quarrelling inside the office o' nights, till at the finish there's a grand flare-up, Isaac seemingly strikin' Chilpo, an' Chilpo clickin' his maister wi' his knife. 'Chilpo gets the bag for that, Isaac no daurin' to prosecute him, for he kenned ower muckle. But he disna leave the toon; just hangs aboot, doggin' Isaac's footsteps, an' cussin' to hissel' i' his queer, ootlandish way o' talk. "Him coward," he would mutter, "but Chilpo brave man. He no take no blowee. Chilpo hang Isaac--hang himselfee--no matter--Chilpo fear nozzin'," an' he would gnash wi' his white teeth savagely like a mad dog as he saw Isaac pass along the street. 'His heart was just as black as his sweaty, black phiznommy, an' he properly haunted Isaac till he fair plagued him to death. 'One Sabbath, when there was a great function on at Isaac's chapel, he actually follows him in, an' sat sneerin' an' mimickin' an' makin' game o' Isaac as he prayed an' groaned, an' confessed to bein' a muckle great sinner i' the past, till Isaac was near mad wi' rage an' terror. He tried to pray, but the words wouldn't come richt, an' the sweat poured aff his brow, they said, till folk thought he was about to hae a fit or seizure o' some sort. 'At the finish he gies it up, an', staggerin' on to his feet, points i' a frenzied sort o' way to Chilpo sittin' there below him, an' cries oot loud: "It's the deil, it's the deil! Drive him awa; drive him oot o' the holy place! I tell ye he's sin hissel'. See the sooty face on him!" '"Ugh! Black Isaac, him coward!" shouts Chilpo, standin' up on his seat. "Him sky-pilot nowee, no goodee any more. Once a timee diffelent; good pilate once, grand pilate with Chilpo; men's pilate, women's pilates, temple's pilates, all sorts pilates. Oh yez; huzza! Dam good timee then; ping-pang, click-click, plenty moneys, plenty grogs, plenty funee. O yez; Chilpo, he knowee." The little heathen chuckled to himself, makin' uncanny motions wi' his hands o' throat-cuttin' an' liquor-drinkin' an' fillin' his pockets wi' siller. '"Him hipple-clite nowee," continued Chilpo, shoutin' aloud to all the chapel-folks who hadn't recovered theirsels from their amazement; "dam hipple-clite! Why, him worship the debbil like Chilpo former timee. Him no use for prayee; him dam-ee, curs-ee; him Church's pilate, women's pilate, then burnee together. Oh yes, him lemember allight; askee him," an' wi' that he points his finger at Isaac, whose face was workin' in a frightful fashion, his eyes starin' this way an' that, wi' no meanin' i' them, his lips black, an' his mouth slobberin'; then sudden he starts to run, but catches his foot an' falls full length doon on the floor an' drums wi' his hands amangst the cushions. 'There was a panic at that; half o' the women faints dead awa, the bairns scream, and some o' the men drives Chilpo, still chucklin' to himself, oot at the door wi' blows, whilst others attend to Isaac lyin' wi' his head covered i' the dusty cushions an' his hands hard a-grip o' the seat-stanchions. 'They loosens his grasp wi' difficulty, but lifts him up at the finish wi' a shockin' face on him, an' a senseless tongue that babbled aboot a parrot. Some said it mun ha' been i' reference someway to some wicked episode i' his past life which Chilpo kenned o' an' alluded to i' the chapel. Maybe a parrot had been left the sole survivor after a sack, ye ken, an' Isaac couldna forget the scene. Anyways, Chilpo, the dam cunnin' little de'il, kenned o' the hidden sore i' Isaac's mind, an' laid a cruel finger on 't wi' the blackest malice. An' there was nae doot aboot the outcome o't, for Isaac was gone clean daft, an' died not long afterwards i' the asylum. 'Weel, they gied him a big buryin', for his brethren i' the chapel said they believed he was a true repentant sinner, an' forbye that he had left a good bit siller amangst them, which would dootless assist them to that conclusion; an' as there had been some body-snatchin' lately, they determined to form a small watch committee to keep guard at the graveside for a night or two. 'Weel, the watch was composed o' some decent elderly folk, who didn't trash theirselves ower the job; an' mevvies the funeral festivities had delayed them a bit, for they didn't arrive at the graveyard till aboot half-past ten o' the clock. 'It was ane o' thae tempestuous October nights, wi' half a gale blowin', an' clouds gallopin', wi' flittin's o' moonlight like jockeys ridin' 'em; an' when they came nigh to the graveside, an' saw a dark, misshapen sort o' a figure plyin' an axe vigorously, an' heard a thud, thud, same as ye may when passin' by a butcher's shop any day, why, they turned tail and fled, the most o' them stumblin' this way an' that amangst the headstones. 'Two o' them, though, was a bit bolder, an' pressed on up to the graveside, whereupon the little black demon figure thuds doon his axe wi' a sickenin' sound, then dives awa into the darkness, screechin' oot: "Chilpo, Chilpo! he makee sicker, he makee sicker!" and therewith vanished frae Bocca Chica. 'As for the doubloon,' concluded Jake, spinning it into the air as he spoke, 'it was found amangst some leavin's o' Chilpo's at his lodgin's, an' sold wi' some other trinkets to pay some small debts he had left behind him. 'My aunt bought it up as a memento o' the marcifu' preservation she had had frae marryin' wi' a buccaneer; an' when I said good-bye to her on startin' for India, she presented it to me, wi' an admonition ne'er to have any traffic wi' dwarfs or pirates.' THE END PRINTED BY BILLING AND SONS, GUILDFORD * * * * * TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. Obvious punctuation and spelling errors repaired. Punctuation and spelling standardized when a predominant preference was found in this book. Other possible errors retained. Page 43, "the many" changed to "them any" (he'd never have hearkened to them any more). Page 164, "Georgie" changed to "Geordie" (responded Geordie gratefully). Inconsistent hyphenation was retained. When uncertain of the author's spelling of words split across lines, hyphen was retained in such words as "chimney-piece", "god-child", "cock-sure", "well-made". Words "lampshade", "mantelpiece", "grandchildren", also split across lines in the original, are not hyphenated in this text. "GEORDIE ARMSTRONG, 'THE JESU-YTE'" tale starts with subheading I, which suggests that the tale has several parts. However, there are no other numbered subheadings in this chapter. 
36301	----	The Thousand and One Days; A COMPANION TO THE "_Arabian Nights._" WITH INTRODUCTION BY MISS PARDOE. [Illustration: P. 113.] LONDON: WILLIAM LAY, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND. 1857. INTRODUCTION. The Compiler of the graceful little volume which I have the pleasure of introducing to the public, has conferred an undeniable benefit upon the youth of England by presenting to them a collection of Oriental Tales, which, rich in the elements of interest and entertainment, are nevertheless entirely free from the licentiousness which renders so many of the fictions of the East, beautiful and brilliant as they are, most objectionable for young and ardent minds. There is indeed no lack of the wonderful in the pages before us, any more than in the Arabian and Persian Tales already so well known: but it will be seen that the supernatural agency in the narratives is used as a means to work out totally different results. There is, in truth, scarcely one of these Tales which does not inculcate a valuable moral lesson; as may be seen by reference to "The Powder of Longevity," "The Old Camel," and "The Story of the Dervise Abounadar" among several, others. The present collection of Eastern Stories has been principally derived from the works of different Oriental Scholars on the Continent, and little doubt can be entertained of the genuineness of their origin; while they have been carefully selected, and do honour to the good taste of their Compiler. An acknowledgment is also due to him for his adherence to the good old orthography to which we have all been accustomed from our childhood, in the case of such titles as "Caliph," "Vizier," "Houri," "Genii," &c.; as, however critically correct and learned the spelling of Mr. Lane may be in his magnificent version of the "Thousand and One Nights," and however appropriate to a work of so much research and value to Oriental students, it would have been alike fatiguing and out of character to have embarrassed a volume, simply intended for the amusement of youthful readers, by a number of hard and unfamiliar words, difficult of pronunciation to all save the initiated; and for the pleasure of the young requiring translation fully as much as the narrative itself. In one of the Tales there will be at once detected a portion of the favourite old story of Aladdin's Lamp, in the subterranean gem-garden discovered by the handsome youth; while in another, mention is made of the already-familiar legend of the hidden city of Ad, so popular among the ancient Arabs[1]; but these repetitions will cease to create any surprise when it is remembered that the professional story-tellers of the East are a wandering race, who travel from city to city, exhibiting their talent during seasons of festivity, in the palaces of the wealthy and the public coffee-houses. Those admitted to the women's apartments are universally aged crones, whose volubility is something marvellous; and they are always welcome guests to the indolent beauties, who listen to them for hours together without a symptom of weariness, as they pour forth their narratives in a monotonous voice strangely displeasing to European ears. The men, while reciting their tales, indulge in violent gesticulations and contortions of the body, which appear to produce great delight in their audience. Since they generally travel two or three in company; and, save in rare cases of improvisation, their stock of narrative is common to all, it is their ambition so individually to embellish, heighten, and amplify their subject-matter, as to outshine their competitors; and it is consequently to this cause that the numerous variations of the same Tale which have reached Europe must be attributed. Taken altogether, there can be no doubt that the "Thousand and One Days" merit the warm welcome which I trust awaits them. J. P. LONDON, FEB. 1857. CONTENTS. I. PAGE HASSAN ABDALLAH, OR THE ENCHANTED KEYS 1 Story of Hassan 7 Story of the Basket-Maker 11 Story of the Dervise Abounadar 21 Conclusion of the Story of Hassan 29 II. SOLIMAN BEY AND THE THREE STORY TELLERS 46 First Story Teller 47 Second Story Teller 49 Third Story Teller 55 III. PRINCE KHALAF AND THE PRINCESS OF CHINA 58 Story of Prince Al Abbas 67 Continuation of Prince Khalaf and the Princess of China 99 Story of Lin-in 106 Story of Prince Khalaf concluded 126 IV. THE WISE DEY 178 V. THE TUNISIAN SAGE 190 VI. THE NOSE FOR GOLD 203 VII. THE TREASURES OF BASRA 215 History of Aboulcassem 223 Conclusion of the Treasures of Basra 230 VIII. THE OLD CAMEL 250 IX. THE STORY OF MEDJEDDIN 263 X. KING BEDREDDIN-LOLO AND HIS VIZIR 299 Story of the Old Slippers 300 Story of Atalmulc the Sorrowful 305 Continuation of King Bedreddin-Lolo and his Vizir 338 Story of Malek and the Princess Schirine 340 Conclusion 358 [Illustration] THE "THOUSAND AND ONE DAYS;" OR, ARABIAN TALES. I. THE STORY OF HASSAN ABDALLAH; OR, THE ENCHANTED KEYS. Theilon, caliph of Egypt, died, after having bequeathed his power to his son, Mohammed, who, like a wise and good prince, proceeded to root out abuses, and finally caused peace and justice to flourish throughout his dominions. Instead of oppressing his people by new taxes, he employed the treasures, which his father had amassed by violence, in supporting learned men, rewarding the brave, and assisting the unfortunate. Every thing succeeded under his happy sway; the risings of the Nile were regular and abundant; every year the soil produced rich harvests; and commerce, honoured and protected, caused the gold of foreign nations to flow abundantly into the ports of Egypt. Mohammed determined, one day, to take the census of the officers of his army, and of all the persons in public situations whose salaries were paid out of the treasury. The vizirs, to the number of forty, first made their appearance and knelt in succession before the sovereign. They were, for the most part, men venerable from their age, and some of them had long beards of snowy whiteness. They all wore on their heads tiaras of gold, enriched with precious stones, and carried in their hands long staves as badges of their power. One enumerated the battles in which he had been engaged, and the honourable wounds he had received; another recounted the long and laborious studies he had pursued, in order to render himself master of the various sciences, and to qualify himself to serve the state by his wisdom and knowledge. After the vizirs, came the governors of provinces, the generals, and the great officers of the army; and next to them the civil magistrates, and all who were entrusted with the preservation of the peace and the awarding of justice. Behind these walked the public executioner, who, although stout and well-fed, like a man who had nothing to do, went along as if depressed with grief, and instead of carrying his sword naked on his shoulder, he kept it in its scabbard. When he came into the presence of the prince, he threw himself at his feet, and exclaimed, "O mighty prince, the day of justice and of munificence is at last about to dawn on me! Since the death of the terrible Theilon, under whose reign my life was happy and my condition prosperous, I have seen my occupation and its emoluments diminish daily. If Egypt continue thus to live in peace and plenty, I shall run great danger of perishing with hunger, and my family will be brought to misery and ruin." Mohammed listened in silence to the complaints of the headsman, and acknowledged that there was some foundation for them, for his salary was small, and the chief part of his profits arose from what he obtained from criminals, either by way of gift, or as a rightful fee. In times of trouble, quarrelling, and violence, he had lived, in fact, in a state of ease and affluence, while now, under the present prosperous reign, he had nothing better than the prospect of beggary before him. "Is it then true," exclaimed the caliph, "that the happiness of all is a dream? that what is joy to one, may be the cause of grief to another? O executioner, fear not as to your fate! May it, indeed, please God that, under my reign, your sword,--which is almost as often an instrument of vengeance as of justice,--may remain useless and covered with rust. But, in order to enable you to provide for the wants of yourself and your family, without the unhappy necessity of exercising your fatal office, you shall receive every year the sum of two hundred dinars." In this way all the officers and servants of the palace passed before the notice of the prince; he interrogated each on the nature of his occupation and his past services, on his means of existence, and on the salary which he received. When he found that any one held a situation of a painful and difficult nature, for which he was inadequately remunerated, the caliph diminished his duties and increased his pay; and, on the other hand, when he found the contrary to be the case, he lessened the salary and increased the duties of the office. After having, in this way, performed many acts of wisdom and justice, the caliph observed, among the officers of the civil service, a sheik, whose wrinkled countenance and stooping figure indicated his great age. The caliph called him up, in order to inquire what was his employment in the palace, and the sum which it yielded him. "Prince," the old man replied, "my only employment is to take care of a chest that was committed to my charge by your father, the late caliph, and for attending to which he allowed me ten pieces of gold a month." "It seems to me," replied Mohammed, "that the reward is great for so slight a service. Pray what are the contents of this chest?" "I received it," replied the sheik, "in charge forty years ago, and I solemnly swear to you that I know not what it contains." The caliph commanded the chest to be brought to him, which was of pure gold, and most richly adorned. The old man opened it. It contained a manuscript written in brilliant characters on the skin of a gazelle, painted purple and sprinkled with a red dust. Neither the prince, however, nor his ministers, nor the ulemas who were present, could decipher the writing. By the caliph's order, the wise men of Egypt were summoned, as well as others from Syria, Persia, and India, but to no purpose; not one was able to interpret the mysterious characters. The book remained open for a long time, exposed to the gaze of all, and a great reward was offered to any one who could bring forward a person of sufficient learning to read it. Some time after this, a savant who had left Egypt in the reign of Theilon, and had now returned after a long absence, chanced to hear of the mysterious book, and said that he knew what it was, and could explain its history. The caliph immediately admitted him to an audience, and the old man addressed him as follows: "O sovereign ruler, may the Almighty prolong your days! Only one man can read this book, its rightful master, the sheik Hassan Abdallah, son of El-Achaar. This man had travelled through many lands, and penetrated into the mysterious city of Aram, built on columns, from which he brought this book, which no one but himself could read. He made use of it in his experiments in alchemy, and by its aid he could transmute the most worthless metals into gold. The caliph Theilon, your father, having learned this, commanded the sage to be brought before him, with a view of compelling him to reveal the secret of his knowledge. Hassan Abdallah refused to do so, for fear of putting into the hands of the unjust an instrument of such terrible power; and the prince, in a rage, laid hold of the chest, and ordered the sage to be thrown into prison, where he still remains, unless he has died since that time, which is forty years ago." On hearing this, Mohammed immediately despatched his officers to visit the prisons, and, on their return, learned with pleasure that Hassan was still alive. The caliph ordered him to be brought forth and arrayed in a dress of honour; and, on his appearing in the audience chamber, the prince made him sit down beside him, and begged him to forgive the unjust treatment which his father had caused him to undergo. He then told him how he had accidentally discovered that he was still alive; and at last, placing the mysterious book before him, said, "Old man, if this book could make me the owner of all the treasures of the world, I would not consent to possess it, since it only belongs to me by injustice and violence." On hearing these words, Hassan burst into tears. "O God," he exclaimed, "all wisdom proceeds from Thee! Thou causest to arise from the same soil the poisonous and the wholesome plant. Every where good is placed by the side of evil. This prince, the support of the feeble, the defender of the oppressed, who has conferred on me the happiness of spending my remaining years in the light of day, is the son of the tyrant who plunged Egypt in mourning, and who kept me for forty years in a loathsome dungeon. Prince," added the old man, addressing Mohammed, "what I refused to the wrath of your father, I willingly grant to your virtues: this book contains the precepts of the true science, and I bless Heaven that I have lived long enough to teach it to you. I have often risked my life to become the master of this wonderful book, which was the only article of value that I brought from Aram, that city into which no man can enter who is not assisted by Heaven." The caliph embraced the old man, and, calling him his father, begged him to relate what he had seen in the city of Aram. "Prince," replied Hassan, "it is a long story, as long, nearly, as my whole life." He then proceeded as follows. [Illustration: Story of the Enchanted Keys, p. 7.] THE STORY OF HASSAN ABDALLAH. I am the only son of one of the richest inhabitants of Egypt. My father, who was a man of extensive knowledge, employed my youth in the study of science; and at twenty years of age I was already honourably mentioned among the ulemas, when my father bestowed a young maiden on me as my wife, with eyes brilliant as the stars, and with a form elegant and light as that of the gazelle. My nuptials were magnificent, and my days flowed on in peace and happiness. I lived thus for ten years, when at last this beautiful dream vanished. It pleased Heaven to afflict me with every kind of misfortune: the plague deprived me of my father; war destroyed my dear brothers; my house fell a prey to the flames; my richly-laden ships were buried beneath the waves. Reduced to misery and want, my only resource was in the mercy of God and the compassion of the faithful whom I met while I frequented the mosques. My sufferings, from my own wretched state of poverty, and that of my wife and children, were cruel indeed. One day when I had not received any charitable donations, my wife, weeping, took some of my clothes, and gave them to me in order to sell them at the bazaar. On the way thither I met an Arab of the desert, mounted on a red camel. He greeted me, and said, "Peace be with you, my brother! Can you tell me where the sheik Hassan Abdallah, the son of El-Achaar, resides in the city?" Being ashamed of my poverty, and thinking I was not known, I replied, "There is no man at Cairo of that name." "God is great!" exclaimed the Arab; "are you not Hassan Abdallah, and can you send away your guest by concealing your name?" Greatly confused, I then begged him to forgive me, and laid hold of his hands to kiss them, which he would not permit me to do, and I then accompanied him to my house. On the way there I was tormented by the reflection that I had nothing to set before him; and when I reached home I informed my wife of the meeting I had just had. "The stranger is sent by God," said she; "and even the children's bread shall be his. Go, sell the clothes which I gave you; buy some food for our guest with the money, and if any thing should remain over, we will partake of it ourselves." In going out it was necessary that I should pass through the apartment where the Arab was. As I concealed the clothes, he said to me, "My brother, what have you got there hid under your cloak?" I replied that it was my wife's dress, which I was carrying to the tailor. "Show it to me," he said. I showed it to him, blushing. "O merciful God," he exclaimed, "you are going to sell it in order to get money to enable you to be hospitable towards me! Stop, Hassan! here are ten pieces of gold; spend them in buying what is needful for our own wants and for those of your family." I obeyed, and plenty and happiness seemed to revisit my abode. Every day the Arab gave me the same sum, which, according to his orders, I spent in the same way; and this continued for fifteen days. On the sixteenth day my guest, after chatting on indifferent matters, said to me, "Hassan, would you like to sell yourself to me?" "My lord," I replied, "I am already yours by gratitude." "No," he replied, "that is not what I mean; I wish to make you my property, and you shall fix the price yourself." Thinking he was joking, I replied, "The price of a freeman is one thousand dinars if he is killed at a single blow; but if many wounds are inflicted upon him, or if he should be cut in many pieces, the price is then one thousand five hundred dinars." "Very well," answered my guest, "I will pay you this last-mentioned sum if you will consent to the bargain." When I saw that he was speaking seriously, I asked for time in order to consult my family. "Do so," he replied, and then went out to look after some affairs in the city. When I related the strange proposal of my guest, my mother said, "What can this man want to do with you?" The children all clung to me, and wept. My wife, who was a wise and prudent woman, remarked, "This detestable stranger wants, perhaps, to get back what he has spent here. You have nothing but this wretched house, sell it, and give him the money, but don't sell yourself." I passed the rest of the day and the following night in reflection, and was in a state of great uncertainty. With the sum offered by the stranger I could at least secure bread for my family. But why wish to purchase me? What could he intend to do? Before next morning, however, I had come to a decision. I went to the Arab and said, "I am yours." Untying his sash, he took out one thousand five hundred gold pieces, and giving them to me, said, "Fear not, my brother, I have no designs against either your life or your liberty; I only wish to secure a faithful companion during a long journey which I am about to undertake." Overwhelmed with joy, I ran with the money to my wife and mother; but they, without listening to my explanations, began weeping and crying as if they were lamenting for the dead. "It is the price of flesh and blood," they exclaimed; "neither we nor our children will eat bread procured at such a cost!" By dint of argument, however, I succeeded at length in subduing their grief; and having embraced them, together with my children, I set out to meet my new master. By order of the Arab I purchased a camel renowned for its speed, at the price of a hundred drachms; I filled our sacks with food sufficient for a long period; and then, mounting our camels, we proceeded on our journey. We soon reached the desert. Here no traces of travellers were to be seen, for the wind effaced them continually from the surface of the moving sand. The Arab was guided in his course by indications known only to himself. We travelled thus together for five days under a burning sun; each day seemed longer to me than a night of suffering or of fear. My master, who was of a lively disposition, kept up my courage by tales which I remember even now with pleasure after forty years of anguish; and you will forgive an old man for not being able to resist the pleasure of relating some of them to you. The following story, he said, had been recounted to him by the basket-maker himself, a poor man whom he had found in prison, and whom he had charitably found means to release. THE STORY OF THE BASKET-MAKER. I was born of poor and honest parents; and my father, who was a basket-maker by trade, taught me to plait all kinds of baskets. So long as I had only myself to care for, I lived tolerably well on the produce of my labour; but when I reached twenty years of age, and took a wife, who in a few years presented me with several children, my gains proved insufficient to maintain my family. A basket-maker earns but little; one day he gets a drachm, the next he may get two, or perhaps only half a drachm. In this state of things I and my children had often to endure the pangs of hunger. One day it happened that I had just finished a large basket; it was well and strongly made, and I hoped to obtain at least three drachms for it. I took it to the bazaar and through all the streets, but no purchaser appeared. Night came on and I went home. When my wife and children saw me return without any food, they began to cry and to ask for bread, but as I had none to give them, I could only weep with them: the night was long and sorrowful. At daybreak my wife awoke me, saying, "Go, and sell the basket at any price you can get for it, were it only half a drachm." I set out, and perambulated the streets and squares, but night came on again without my finding a purchaser. My wife burst out into a great rage. "What!" she said, "do you still bring back this basket? Do you wish to see us die with hunger?" I assured her that I had tried every means, but in vain, to sell the basket. She then took some articles of her own, and told me to go and sell them, and procure some bread for the children. I did as she said, and my famished family partook of a miserable repast, which my depressed state of mind prevented me from sharing with them. I slept little that night; and as soon as it was day I performed my devotions, and prayed to God to come to my assistance. I then went out again with my unsaleable basket, with which I made many weary and fruitless rounds through the whole city. At noon, overwhelmed with fatigue and famished with hunger, I sat down at the door of a mosque, where the voice of the muezzim was calling the faithful to prayer. I entered to implore of God's goodness that I might be able, by his assistance, to sell the basket. Prayer being ended, the faithful left the mosque, and I found myself alone with a venerable Persian, named Saadi, who seemed lost in contemplation. Rising to go away, he passed near me, and noticing how pale I was, he said, "Friend, you are too much addicted to wine, and your health suffers from it." "My lord," I replied, "do not believe it; I have never tasted wine; my weakness and paleness arise from my not having had any food for the last two days." I then related to him my life, my occupation, and my wretched state. Whilst listening to me the stranger shed tears; and when I had finished speaking, he said, "God be praised, my brother! for I can put an end to your troubles: take this," putting a purse of gold into my hands; "run to the market, and buy meat, bread, and fruits for the refreshment of yourself and family. What I have given you will last you for a year to come; and in exchange, I only ask you to meet me here, at the same day and hour, every year." So saying, he departed. I could scarcely think but that I had been dreaming; the purse, however, proved that I was indeed awake. I opened it, and found in it a hundred pieces of gold! Overjoyed, I ran to the bazaar, and, in pursuance of the orders of the benevolent donor, I purchased enough, not only to satisfy the calls of hunger, but also food of such a nourishing nature, as had never entered my house before. The whole I put into my basket, and hastened to return home. Having reached the door, I listened, being curious to know what was going on. My children were uttering lamentations, and their mother was endeavouring to quiet them by repeating, for the hundredth time, her advice, to be quiet, and not to weep, for that their father would be sure to return with something to eat. I then entered the room, exclaiming, that God had heard them, and had sent them a plentiful supply for a long time to come. But when I showed them the purse and its contents, my wife shouted out, "What! have you then killed and robbed some one? Are we to become the object of the inquiries and suspicions of the police?" I then related my fortunate meeting with the old man, and while embracing me with tears of joy, and a conscience at ease, my family partook, with me, of a plentiful repast, at the same time invoking blessings on our unknown benefactor. For a whole year I lived happily in this manner. The day fixed upon by the stranger having arrived, I went to the mosque, after having attired myself in a becoming manner. The Persian came and seated himself beside me. When prayers were ended, and all the worshippers had departed, he turned towards me and said, with a smiling look, "O my brother! how has the time passed with you since our last interview?" "Thanks to your generosity, my lord," I replied, "my life has been spent in a tranquil and happy manner." The stranger then questioned me as to my courage, address, and love of travelling; and to all his questions I replied in a satisfactory manner, and, in my turn, asked him if I could be of any service to him. "Noureddin," he replied, "I intend setting out on a journey, and I wish you to accompany me as my servant. I shall employ you in a respectable and becoming manner; and if you show yourself obedient and devoted to my interests, you will have no reason to repent it. The journey will last two months; look, here are thirty dinars; buy provisions, that your family may want for nothing during your absence. In eight days you must bid adieu to your wife and children, and come to meet me here, bringing a supply of rice and dates, and arming yourself with a yatagan, to defend yourself in case of our being attacked." I then went to my wife, and told her what the stranger required of me. "He is our benefactor," she replied; "it is your duty to obey him." I spent the eight days in laying in a store of food for my family and for the journey, and on the appointed day, after embracing my wife and children, I went to the mosque, where I found the Persian. The muezzim having proclaimed the hour of prayer, we joined in it; and afterwards I followed him to a desert place, where were two fine horses well harnessed and yoked, which we unloosed and mounted, and then set out on our journey. After having traversed deserts and mountains during a whole month, we arrived at a fertile plain, watered by a fine river, whose peaceful and limpid waters winding about a thick forest, formed it into peninsula: a pavilion, with a golden cupola, seemed to rise out of this mass of verdure, and shone in the sun's rays as if it had been on fire. [Illustration: The Pavilion with the golden cupola, p. 14] The Persian now said to me, "Noureddin, enter this forest, and give me an account of what you see." I obeyed, but I had scarcely walked an hour, when I saw two huge lions with manes erect. Seized with alarm, I drew back, and running away reached my master out of breath, who only laughed at my fears, and assured me that I was needlessly afraid of the monsters. He wanted me to return, but I refused, and he was obliged to come back along with me. Having approached the lions, the Persian charmed them by some magical words, on which they became as submissive as lambs, remained motionless, and permitted us to pass. We journeyed on for many hours in the recesses of the forest, meeting, to my great dread, with what appeared to be troops of horsemen, sword in hand, and giants, armed with clubs, ready to strike us. All these fantastic beings disappeared at the sight of my master, and we reached at last the pavilion which crowned the forest. My master then said to me, "Go, Noureddin, to this pavilion; remove the belt of iron chains which fastens the gates, while I go and pray to the great Solomon to be propitious to our enterprise." I did as he commanded me; but when I let the chains fall, a frightful noise was heard, which made the earth shake under my feet. More dead than alive, I returned to the Persian, who, having finished his prayer, entered the pavilion. At the end of an hour he came out, bringing a book with him written in the sacred language. He began to read it; and when he had finished, with his countenance radiant with delight he exclaimed, "O thrice fortunate Saadi! thou possessest at last this holy book,--the sum of wisdom, the mirror of the good and the terror of the wicked! May the perusal of this garden of roses lead the children of Adam back to that original innocence from which they have so fatally departed! Hearken to these maxims and sentences, worthy to be the guides of mankind from the shepherd to the king:-- 'He who learns the rules of wisdom without conforming his life to them, is like the man who tills his field but never sows any seed therein. 'Virtue does not consist in acquiring the riches of this world, but in attaching all hearts by benefits and good offices. 'If you are insensible to the sufferings of the unfortunate, you do not deserve the name of a man. 'It is better to be loaded with chains for having told the truth, than to be freed from them by means of a lie. 'A wicked person that accuses you of licentiousness should be made to blush, in his turn, by your virtues and your innocence. 'Man should remember that he is born of the earth, and that his pride will one day come to an end in it. 'Crystal is found every where; but nothing is more rare than the diamond, and hence the difference in their value. 'Instruction only bears fruit in so far as it is assisted by your own endeavours. 'The discipline of the master is of greater benefit to the child than the indulgence of the father. 'So long as the tree is young it is easy to fashion it as you please; but when it has been permitted to grow, nothing but fire can straighten it. 'Woe to the man of might, who devours the substance of the people! At last some dire calamity will, of a surety, overtake him. 'The most awful spectacle at the day of judgment will be, says the prophet, to see pious slaves in paradise, and hard and merciless masters in hell. 'Do you ask whether the ant beneath your feet has a right to complain? Yes; just as much right as you would have if crushed to atoms by an elephant. 'Encouragement towards the wicked is a wrong done to the good; and the severest attack on virtue is to be indulgent to crime. 'The perpetrator of an unjust action dies, but his memory is held in everlasting abhorrence. The just man dies, and his good actions bear fruit unto eternity. 'Be assured that thou wilt be rewarded if thine actions are good, whether thou wearest the dress of the dervise or the crown of the king. 'Would a king have nothing to fear from his enemies, let him live in peace with his subjects. 'O my brother! the world forsakes us all. Fix thy heart on the Creator of the universe, and all will be well with thee. 'What signifies it, whether we die in a stable or on a throne? 'At your morning and evening prayer be able to say, Almighty God, be pleased to remember Thy servant, who has never forgotten Thee!' "My ambition is satisfied," resumed the Persian, "by the possession of this book; but a fortune of that description would be no fortune to you, Noureddin. You stand in need of a material treasure; and this sacred volume tells me where we ought to look for it. Quick! Mount your steed, and let us proceed so long as Solomon favours us." Leaping into our saddles, therefore, we set off at full gallop, and entering the desert, journeyed thus for two days and a night. On the evening of the second day we arrived at a city situated on a high mountain, and surrounded with white walls which shone like silver. We passed the night under the trees of an adjoining wood; and next day, having offered up our prayers, looked about for some way of entering the city, the gates of which were shut, and within which there reigned a perfect stillness. My master went round the walls, and in his examination of them he discovered a stone slab, in which was fastened an iron ring. We endeavoured to move the slab, but could not. The Persian then ordered me to take the horses and to fasten them to the ring with our sashes; and by this means we succeeded in removing the stone, which discovered the entrance to a subterraneous passage. My master said to me, "Noureddin, follow me; by this passage we shall get into the city." On leaving the subterraneous passage we heard a noise like that which might be produced by the loud puffing of the bellows of a forge, and we supposed for a moment that the city was inhabited. This strange noise was nothing else than the hissing of two winged serpents, which advanced towards us at a frightful pace. With the sacred book in his hand the Persian advanced to meet them, and with one touch of this talisman laid them prostrate on the ground. This obstacle being overcome, we traversed the whole city, admiring its squares, houses, mosques, and palaces. But what had become of the inhabitants? By what scourge had they been cut off, or what reason had induced them to quit so beautiful a city? How long ago was it inhabited? My mind was lost in conjectures about what seemed so far beyond my comprehension, and my master made no reply to the questions which I addressed to him. At length we stopped at the open railing of some gardens surrounding an enormous palace, which surpassed all that the imagination could conceive. Bushy thickets; orchards covered with flowers and fruits; enamelled meads, watered by murmuring streams; parterres planted with the rarest and most variegated flowers, every where met the eye. The Persian sat down under the shadow of a tree, opened the book, and commenced reading, and when he had finished ordered me to enter the palace. I reached it by a staircase that could only have been constructed by the hands of genii; it was formed of the most rare and costly marble, as were also the statues which were placed at the sides. After having walked through many spacious and magnificent apartments richly adorned, I entered a subterranean hall, still larger and more splendid. A hundred crystal lustres, brilliant with gold and precious stones, and lit up with thousands of wax-lights, shed a refulgence more dazzling than the day. Its walls were covered with paintings, in which the spirit of evil strove in vain for the mastery over the spirit of good, and a long series of the statues of justly-renowned dead princes were ranged all around. Vacant pedestals, waiting to receive monarchs still living, whose names were inscribed on them, were also to be seen. In the centre of this subterranean apartment, a throne of gold arose, incrusted with pearls and rubies. On this throne an old man was reposing, with a countenance pale as death, but whose open eyes shone with a supernatural brilliancy. I saluted him respectfully, but he made no gesture. I spoke to him, and he made no reply. Seized with astonishment and fear, I returned to my master and told him what I had seen. "God be praised!" he said, "we are now near the end of our enterprise. Return, Noureddin, to the old man; go up to him fearlessly, and bring to me the chest on which his head rests." I obeyed, and on my return to the subterranean hall I drew near to the throne, to which three silver steps led up. When I placed my foot on the first step the old man stood up; in spite of my surprise I ascended the second step, when, seizing a bow, he placed a keen-pointed arrow in it, and aimed it at me. Without any consideration of my benefactor's orders, I jumped backwards and took to flight anew. When the Arab saw me, he said, "Is this what you promised me? cowardly man, come with me, and you will find inestimable riches!" I then conducted him to the place where the old man was to be found. When my master was near the throne, he ascended the first step, and the old man arose; at the second step he took his bow and arrow; and at the third he shot it at my master, who received it on the sacred book, from which it rebounded as from a steel cuirass, and fell broken on the ground. The old man fell back motionless on the throne, and his eyes ceased to shine. My master then laid hold of the mysterious chest of which he had spoken to me, and took from it the magic key which opened subterranean recesses where heaps of pearls, diamonds, and rubies were deposited. The Persian allowed me to take as much as I pleased. I filled my trousers and the folds of my robe and turban with the finest pearls, the largest diamonds, and many other kinds of precious stones. As Saadi the Wise passed by all these treasures without looking at them, I said to him, "O my lord, why do you leave here all this wealth, and take away with you, as the reward of so many fatigues, an article of so little value? The book of wisdom is now useless; what man is there who does not think himself wise?" "My son," replied the old man, "I am near the end of my career, and my life has been spent in the search after true wisdom. If I have done nothing to improve mankind, God, when I appear before Him, will reckon with me not only for the evil I shall have done, but also for the good I may have neglected to do. As for you, who have a wife and children, I approve of your wishing to provide for their future condition." We left the enchanted city and its treasures, which I greatly regretted not being able to carry away. When we reached the open country, I looked back to gaze upon the palace and city, but they had disappeared, at which I expressed my astonishment to my master, who replied, "Noureddin, do not seek to fathom the mysteries of knowledge, but be contented to rejoice with me at the success of our journey." We then directed our faces towards Bagdad, and at the end of a short time arrived there, without meeting with any thing else worth relating. My family were rejoiced at my return and at the good fortune I had so unexpectedly met with. The old man abode with us for some time, which he employed in reading the Gulistan and in giving me useful counsels as to my future conduct. "Noureddin," he said, "you are the possessor of great wealth; know how to make a good use of it; always remember the wretched condition in which I found you in the mosque; beware of bad company and pretended friends and flatterers; avoid covetousness, and be charitable toward the poor; remember the uncertainty of riches, and how Providence often punishes those who give way to ingratitude and pride." Besides his good advice, he would often relate to me instructive histories by way of example, and I shall not tire you too much if I repeat one of them to you. THE STORY OF THE DERVISE ABOUNADAR. A dervise, venerable from his age, fell ill at the house of a woman who was a widow, and who lived in a state of great poverty in the outskirts of Balsora. He was so affected by the care and zeal with which she had nursed him, that at the time of his departure he said to her, "I have noticed that your means are sufficient for yourself alone, and are not adequate for the additional support of your only son, the young Mujahid; but if you will entrust him to my care, I will do my utmost to repay through him the obligations which I am under to your care." The good woman received the proposal with pleasure, and the dervise took his departure with the young man, stating, at the same time, that they were to be absent two years on a journey. While travelling in various countries the widow's son lived in opulence with his protector, who gave him excellent instructions, attended to him in a dangerous illness which he had, and, in short, treated him in every respect as if he had been his only son. Mujahid often said how grateful he was for such kindness, and the old man's constant reply was, "My son, gratitude is shown by actions, not words; at the proper time and place we shall see how you estimate my conduct towards you." One day, in their journeyings, they reached a place out of the beaten road, and the dervise said to Abdallah, "We are now at the end of our travels; I am about to cause the earth to open and allow you to enter a place where you will find one of the greatest treasures in the bosom of the globe; have you courage sufficient to descend into this subterranean recess?" Mujahid declared that he might be depended upon for his obedience and zeal. The dervise then lighted a small fire, into which he threw some perfumes, and when he had pronounced some prayers the earth opened, and the dervise said to the young man, "You can now enter; remember that it is in your power to render me a great service, and that the present occasion is perhaps the only one when you can prove to me that you are not ungrateful. Do not allow yourself to be dazzled by all the wealth which you will find, but think only of getting possession of an iron chandelier with twelve branches which you will see near a door; lose no time in bringing it to me." The youth promised to attend to all that was required of him, and plunged into the subterraneous recess full of confidence in himself. Forgetting, however, what had been so expressly enjoined upon him, while he was busy filling his pockets with the gold and diamonds spread around in prodigious quantities, the entrance by which he had descended was closed. He had, however, the presence of mind to lay hold of the iron chandelier which the dervise had urged him to bring away; and although he was now, by the closing of the entrance, placed in circumstances which were enough to appal a stouter heart, he did not abandon himself to despair. While trying to discover some way of escape from a place which was likely otherwise to be his grave, he saw but too plainly that the opening had been closed upon him on account of his not having strictly followed the dervise's orders; and reflecting on the kindness and care with which he had been treated, he bitterly reproached himself for his ingratitude. At length, after a busy search and much anxiety, he was fortunate enough to discover a narrow passage that led out of this dark cavern. The opening was covered over with briers and thorns, through which he managed to struggle, and thus recovered the light of day. He looked around him every where for the dervise in order to deliver the chandelier to him, but in vain; he was not to be seen. Unable to recognize any of the places where he had been, he walked at random, and was very much astonished to find himself, after a short time, at his mother's door, from which he had thought himself at a great distance. In reply to her inquiries respecting the dervise, he frankly told her all that had happened, and the danger he had encountered in order to gratify the fancy of the dervise; and then he showed her the riches with which he was loaded. His mother concluded, on seeing all this wealth, that the dervise only wanted to try his courage and obedience, and that he ought to take advantage of his good luck, adding, that such was no doubt the intention of the holy man. While they gazed on these treasures with avidity, and framed a thousand dazzling projects for spending them, the whole vanished suddenly from their eyes. Mujahid then reproached himself again for his ingratitude and disobedience; and looking at the iron chandelier which alone remained of all his treasure, said, "What has happened is just. I have lost what I had no wish to render back; and the chandelier, which I desired to give to the dervise, remains with me,--a proof that it belongs to him, and that the rest was improperly obtained." So saying, he placed the chandelier in the middle of his mother's small house. When night came on, Mujahid thought he would put a light in the chandelier, by way of turning it to some use. No sooner had he done this, than a dervise immediately appeared, who, after turning round, vanished, and threw a small coin behind him. Mujahid, whose thoughts were occupied all next day with what he had seen the evening before, wished to see what would be the event if he placed a light in each of the twelve branches. He did so, and twelve dervises immediately appeared, who, after wheeling round, also became invisible, each of them at the same time throwing down a small coin. Every day Mujahid repeated the same ceremony with the same success; but he could only make it occur once in twenty-four hours. The moderate sum with which the dervises supplied him daily was sufficient for the subsistence of himself and his mother, and for a long time this was all that he desired. By and by, however, his imagination began to feast itself with the idea of the riches of the cavern, the sight of those which he had once thought to be safe in his possession, and the schemes which he had formed as to the use to be made of his wealth; all these things had left so deep an impression on his mind, that he found it impossible to rest. He resolved, therefore, if possible, to find out the dervise, and to take him the chandelier, in the hope of obtaining the treasure by bringing to the holy man an article for which he had shown so strong a desire. Fortunately Mujahid recollected the dervise's name, and the name of the city, Magnebi, where he dwelt. He set out on his journey as soon as possible, bidding farewell to his mother, and taking the chandelier with him, which supplied him every evening, after being lit, with the means of supporting himself, without having occasion to resort for assistance to the compassion of the faithful. When he reached Magnebi, his first inquiry was after the house where Abounadar lodged. He was so well known, that the first person he met could tell him his residence. On arriving at the house, or rather palace, he found fifty porters keeping watch at the door, each of them bearing a wand with a golden apple for its handle. The courts of the palace were crowded with slaves and domestics; indeed, no prince's residence ever displayed greater splendour. Mujahid, struck with astonishment and admiration, was reluctant to proceed further. "Either," said he to himself, "I have described the person whom I wanted imperfectly, or those to whom I spoke must have wished to make a mock of me, observing that I was a stranger. This is not the residence of a dervise, but of a king." Mujahid was in this state of embarrassment when a man came up to him and said, "You are welcome, Mujahid; my master, Abounadar, has been long expecting you;" and so saying, he conducted him into a magnificent garden, where the dervise was seated. Mujahid, struck with the riches which he saw every where around him, would have thrown himself at his feet, but Abounadar would not permit him, and interrupted him when he was about to make a merit of bringing back the chandelier which he presented to him, by saying, "You are an ungrateful wretch. Do you think to impose upon me? I know all your thoughts; and if you had known the worth of this chandelier, you would never have brought it to me. I shall now make you acquainted with its true use." In each of the branches of the chandelier he now placed a light; and when the dervises had turned round, Abounadar gave each of them a blow with a stick, and immediately they were converted into twelve heaps of sequins, diamonds, and other precious stones. "Look," he said, "at the use to be made of this wonderful chandelier. My only reason, however, for wishing to place it in my cabinet, was on account of its being a talisman composed by a sage whom I revered; and I shall be always happy to show it to persons who visit me. To prove to you," he continued, "that curiosity is the only reason which induced me to procure the lamp, take the keys of my cellars, open them, and judge for yourself of the extent of my opulence, and say if I should not be the most insatiably avaricious of all men, not to be contented with what I have." Mujahid took the keys, and made a survey of twelve magazines so filled with every description of precious stones, that he was unable to tell which of them most deserved his admiration. Regret at having restored the chandelier, and at not having discovered its uses, now wrung his heart intensely. Abounadar seemed not to perceive this, but on the contrary loaded Mujahid with caresses, kept him for some days in his palace, and desired his servants to treat him as they would himself. On the evening before the day fixed for his departure, Abounadar said to him, "Mujahid, my son, I think, from what has occurred, that you are now cured of the frightful sin of ingratitude; however, I owe you something for having undertaken so long a journey for the purpose of bringing to me an article which I wished to possess. You may now depart; I will detain you no longer. To-morrow you will find at the gate of my palace one of my horses to carry you home. I will make you a present of it, together with a slave who will bring you two camels loaded with gold and precious stones, which you can select for yourself from among my treasures." During the night Mujahid was restless and uneasy, and unable to think of any thing except the chandelier and its wonderful qualities. For a long time he said to himself, "It was in my power; Abounadar would never have obtained it but for me. What risks did I not encounter in the subterranean cave in order to secure it! Why is it that he is now the fortunate owner of this treasure of treasures? Is it not owing to my fidelity, or rather folly, in bringing it to him, that he now profits by the trouble and danger I underwent in the long journey I had to make? And what does he give me in return? only two miserable camels loaded with gold and precious stones, when in a moment the chandelier could supply me with ten times as much! It is Abounadar who is ungrateful, and not I who am so. What injury shall I do him by taking the chandelier? Not any; for he is rich, and wants nothing more." These ideas determined him, at last, to do all in his power to get possession of the chandelier; and it was not difficult to do so. He knew where to find it, and having taken it, he placed it at the bottom of one of his sacks which he had filled with the treasure given to him, and put the sack, along with the others, on the back of one of the camels. His only desire now was to get away, and after having hurriedly bid farewell to the generous Abounadar, he took his departure, with his slave and camels. When now at some considerable distance from Balsora, he sold his slave, not wishing to retain him as a witness of his former poverty, or of the source of his wealth. He purchased another, and went straight to his mother's house, whom he scarcely noticed, so absorbed was he with his treasures. His first care was to place the camels' luggage in a secure place; and, in his impatience to feast his eyes with solid riches, he placed lights in the chandelier without delay. The twelve dervises made their appearance, and he bestowed on each of them a blow with all his might, being afraid of not complying sufficiently with the laws of the talisman; but he had not noticed that Abounadar, when striking them, held his stick in his left hand. Mujahid naturally held his in his right hand, and the dervises, instead of being changed into heaps of treasure, drew from beneath their robes formidable bludgeons, with which they all belaboured him so long and so severely, that they left him nearly dead, after which they disappeared, carrying with them the camels and all their burdens, the horse, the slave, and the chandelier. Thus, for not being contented with a large fortune honestly acquired, Mujahid fell into a state of misery from which he never recovered--a suitable punishment for his ingratitude and avarice. The old man at last took his leave of us, and returned to Schiraz, his native place, bearing with him the blessings of all my family. After Saadi's departure, I unhappily neglected to follow his good advice. I purchased a new and splendid residence, where I lived in great splendour and luxury. Instead of being grateful to Heaven for its bounty, I became proud and insolent. I entertained and feasted all the gay companions I could meet with, while I refused to give alms, and drove the needy from my door; in short, I spent my money rapidly, and made the worst possible use of what I had so mysteriously acquired. My treasure soon began to run low; still I lived in the same profuse extravagance, until at last all was spent, and I found that, for some time, I had been living upon credit. The truth could no longer be concealed, and, being unable to meet the demands upon me, I had to sell off the whole of my property. A small sum would have sufficed to release me, so that I might again return to my trade, and, for this purpose, I appealed for assistance to my former friends and companions. Not one of these, however, would come forward in my behalf. The produce of the sale of my house and effects was insufficient to pay my debts, and I was consequently thrown into prison, where I have remained for three years, my family, in the mean time, living upon the casual alms of the faithful. The aid you have rendered me will suffice to set me free, and I am now resolved to labour with diligence, in order to repair, as far as possible, my past folly. [Illustration: Shooting at the Enchanted Keys, p. 29] CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF HASSAN ABDALLAH. In this manner our journey was beguiled, and on the sixth day, in the morning, we entered on an immense plain, whose glittering soil seemed composed of silver dust. In the middle of the plain arose a lofty pillar of granite, surmounted by a statue of copper, representing a young man, whose right hand was stretched out open, and to each of whose fingers was suspended a key; the first was of iron, the second of lead, the third of bronze, the fourth of copper, and the fifth of gold. This statue was the workmanship of an enchanter, and each key was a talisman; whoever was led by accident or his own free will into this desert, and became possessed of these keys, inherited the destiny attached to them. The first was the key of calamities, the second of physical sufferings, the third of death, the fourth of glory, and the last of knowledge and wealth. I was ignorant of all these matters; but my master had become acquainted with them from a learned Indian, who had also informed him that the keys could only be obtained by shooting them down with arrows. The Arab planted his foot near to the column, and then fixing an arrow in his bow, which was of a foreign make, he shot it towards the statue, but, whether from want of skill or intentionally, the arrow did not reach halfway. He then said to me, "Hassan, you have now an opportunity of discharging your debt to me, and of purchasing your liberty. You are both strong and skilful; take this bow and arrows, and bring me down those keys." I took the bow, and perceived that it was of Persian workmanship, and made by a skilful hand. In my youth, I had accustomed myself to this exercise, and had acquired great reputation in it. Desirous of displaying my attainments, I bent the bow with all my strength, and with the first arrow I brought down the first key. Overjoyed, I took it up, and presented it to my master. "Keep it," he said; "it is the reward of your skill." With a second arrow, I brought down the leaden one. The Arab would not touch it, and I took it, and put it in my belt, along with the other. With two other arrows, I brought down two more keys--the copper key and the golden key. My companion took them up, uttering exclamations of delight. "O Hassan," he said, "God be praised! blessed be he who trained your arm and practised your eye to such accuracy. I am proceeding happily towards the accomplishment of my object." I was about to aim at the last key--that of death, and had raised my bow for that purpose, but he forbade me, and struck my arm to prevent my shooting. In doing this, he caused the arrow to fall and pierce my foot, producing a painful wound. Having dressed it as well as he could, he assisted me to mount my camel, and we thereupon continued our journey. After three days and nights of laborious travelling, we arrived in the neighbourhood of a small wood, where we stopped to spend the night. I set about looking for water, and some refreshing fruits, and particularly some with whose good qualities I was acquainted, but I could find nothing eatable. At last I discovered in the crevice of a rock a small spring, which invited me, by its clear and limpid waters, to refresh myself; but stooping down to drink, I heard the voice of my companion shouting to me not to taste the water, for that it was poisoned. "What matters it," I said, "whether I die of thirst or of poison?" "This water," he said, "comes from the infernal regions, and passes through the mass of sulphur, bitumen, and metals that feed the fires in the centre of the earth; and if you drink, you will in all probability fall a victim to your imprudence." Although bitter, the water was so clear and fresh, that without heeding what he said, I drank some of it, and feeling refreshed for the time, I agreed to proceed on our journey, but I had scarcely gone on a hundred paces, when I was attacked by the most racking pains, and with many exclamations and cries to Heaven for help, I endeavoured to moderate the speed of my camel, who was following his companion at a brisk pace. My tortures became so great, that I called aloud to the Arab, and begged him to stop; he consented, when I dismounted and walked for some time, which partly relieved me. The Arab chid me for my disobedience to his commands, and taking out a small phial from his pocket, gave me a few drops of a cordial, which in a short time completely cured me. Towards evening we came near a high mountain, where we stopped to take a little rest. The Arab said, "God be praised, to-day will not be a fast day with us! by experience I have learned to collect a healthy and refreshing nourishment from a quarter where you would only find poison." He then went to a bush with leaves of a very thick and prickly nature, and having cut off some of them with his sabre, and stript them, of their skins, he extracted from them a yellow and sugary substance, similar in taste to figs, and I partook of the food until I was quite satisfied and refreshed. I was beginning to forget my sufferings, and hoped to pass the night in peaceful slumber, but when the moon arose my master said to me, "I expect you to perform a signal service for me; you have to ascend this mountain, and when at the summit, you must wait for sunrise; then, standing up and turning towards the East, you must offer up your devotions and descend; but take care, and do not allow yourself to be overtaken by sleep, for the emanations which arise from the ground in this place are extremely noxious, and you may suffer severely from them." Although overwhelmed with fatigue and pain, I obeyed the Arab's orders, remembering that he had given bread to my children; and that, perhaps, should I refuse, he would abandon me in this savage wilderness. I ascended the mountain and reached the summit about midnight. The soil was bare and stony; not a shrub, not a blade of grass was to be found upon it. The extreme cold, together with fatigue, threw me into such a state of torpor that I could not resist lying down on the earth and falling asleep. I awoke at the rising of the sun to fulfil my instructions. I stood up with difficulty; my aching limbs refused to support my body; my head hung down as if made of lead, and I was unable to lift up my paralyzed arms. Making a painful effort, and holding myself up towards the East, I invoked the name of God. I then endeavoured to descend the mountain, but it was so steep, and my weakness was so great, that at the first step my limbs tottered under me, and I fell, and rolled down the mountain with frightful rapidity; stones and thorns were the only obstacles to my descent, and they tore my dress and my skin, causing me to bleed at every pore. At length I reached the bottom of the hill, near to where my master was stretched on the ground, tracing lines on it with such attention, that he did not observe in what a state I was. "God be thanked and praised," he said, without noticing me; "we were born under a happy planet; every thing succeeds with us! Thanks to you, Hassan, I have just discovered what I wanted, by measuring the shadow projected by your head from the summit of the mountain. Assist me to dig where I have stuck my lance." He raised his head, and seeing me extended on the earth, motionless, came up to me, and exclaimed, "What! in disobedience to my orders you have slept on the mountain, and imbibed its unwholesome vapours into your blood! Do not despair, however, I will cure you;" and he took from his pocket a lancet, with which, before I could offer any resistance, he made small incisions in different parts of my body, from which I bled profusely. He then dressed my wounds and bruises carefully, and I felt a little better. Seeing that I was too weak to assist him, he began to dig in the earth himself at the place which he had marked. He soon exposed to view a tomb of white marble, which he opened; it contained some human bones, and a book written in letters of gold on the skin of the gazelle. My master began reading it with attention: at length his pale brow became lit up with pleasure, and his eyes sparkled with delight. "Hassan Abdallah," he said to me, "this book teaches me the way to the mysterious city; we shall soon enter into Aram, built on columns, where no mortal has ever as yet penetrated; it is there that we shall find the principle of earthly riches, the germ of the metallic mines which God has placed in the centre of the earth." "My lord," I replied, "I share with you in your joy; but this treasure is of little or no advantage to me; I would rather, I assure you, be poor and in good health at Cairo, than rich and in wretchedness here." "Ungrateful man!" he exclaimed; "I am labouring for your advantage as well as for my own, intending to share with you the fruit of our journey, as I have done until now." "True," I said, "but, alas! all the ill fortunes and calamities fall to me." However, after some further assurances on the part of the Arab, I became pacified, and the same day, after having laid in a stock of fruits, we reascended our camels, and continued our journey towards the East. We journeyed thus for three days and nights. The fourth day in the morning we perceived in the horizon the appearance of a large mirror, which reflected the sunbeams. On drawing near we saw that it was a river of quicksilver; it was crossed by a bridge of crystal, without balustrades, but so narrow and slippery that no man in his senses would think of attempting to pass it. My master told me to unsaddle the camels, to let them feed at liberty, and to prepare woollen slippers with thick and soft soles for both of us; and having ordered me to walk behind him without looking to the right hand or to the left, he crossed the bridge with a firm step, and I followed him trembling. After we had crossed the river and proceeded for some hours, we found ourselves at the entrance of a gloomy valley. It was surrounded on all sides with black rocks, hard as iron, and here and there on the ground were spread human bones, bleached by time. Through the dark foliage of the shrubs which grew there might be seen the undulating and scaly forms of serpents gliding along. I retreated hastily from this den of horror, but could not discover the spot at which I had entered, the rocks seeming every where to rise up like the walls of a great cavern. I began to weep, and said to my companion, "You have led me on to death by the path of suffering and misery; I shall never see my wife and children again. Why have you torn me away from my poor but peaceful home?" "Hassan," he said to me, "be a man! Have patience; we shall soon get out of this horrible place. Wait a few moments, and I will show you how we may escape." So saying, he sat down on the ground, and, opening the mysterious book, began turning over the pages and reading in it as calmly as if he had been sitting in his own house. After a short time he called to me, and said, "My friend, call up your courage, your task is easy; you are a skilful marksman; take this bow and arrows; examine the valley until you meet with a huge serpent with a black head, kill him and bring his head and heart to me." "Alas!" I said, weeping, "is this indeed a thing so easy for me? Why will you not do it yourself? We are too fortunate not to be molested by these monsters; why should we go in search of them?" Upon this he started up with a fierce aspect, and, drawing his sword, swore that he would kill me that instant if I did not obey him. "Do you see all these bones?" he said. "They are the bones of men who disobeyed me, and who died in consequence by my hand." Trembling, I took the bow and arrows, and went among the rocks where the serpents were to be found. Selecting one which appeared to me to answer the description given me, I took aim at its head, and, invoking the assistance of Heaven, discharged my arrow. The serpent, mortally wounded, sprung up, and twisting and contorting itself in a frightful manner, fell dead on the ground. When I was certain that he was dead, I took my knife, cut off his head, and took out his heart. With these bloody trophies I returned to my master, who received me with a smiling countenance. "Forgive me," he said, "for employing threats towards you; in reality I was anxious to save you from a miserable fate. The men to whom these bones belonged died here of hunger by their own fault; they proved deficient in courage, and I was compelled, in spite of myself, to abandon them to their fate." "Now," he continued, "come and assist me to make a fire." I collected dry leaves and small branches of trees, of which he made a small heap; then turning an enchanted diamond towards the sun, which was then in its meridian, a ray of light issued from the precious stone which set the materials in a blaze. He next drew from under his robe a small iron vase and three phials; the first, of ruby, contained the elements of winds; the second, of emerald, contained a ray of moonlight; and the third, which was of gold, contained the blood of a phoenix. All these substances he placed in the vase, and added the heart and brain of the serpent. He then opened the book and put the vase on the fire, pronouncing at the same time some words which to me were unintelligible. When he had finished, he uncovered his shoulders, as the pilgrims do at their departure, and dipping a portion of his garment in the mixture, handed it to me, desiring me to rub his back and shoulders with it. As I did so I observed the skin swell out and wings spring forth, which, visibly increasing in size, soon reached the ground. The Arab spread them and began to rise in the air. Fear of remaining in this doleful place lent me courage, and laying hold with all my might of the end of his girdle, I was borne up along with him, and in a few moments we bade farewell to the black rocks of this fatal valley. Presently, as we pursued this aërial tour, we found ourselves soaring above an immense plain, surrounded by a precipice of crystal, tinged with azure and purple. The earth seemed formed of golden dust, and the pebbles upon it looked like precious stones. Before us were the lofty walls of a city crowded with magnificent palaces and delicious gardens. Lost in admiration of this glorious scene, the Arab forgot to keep his wings moving, and we descended rapidly towards the ground, which I of course reached first, he falling upon me. I then perceived his wings gradually diminish, and by degrees wholly disappear. When I noticed this to him, he replied, that, unfortunately, science was limited in its powers; it enabled him to construct wings of great power, but could not avail for their preservation beyond a certain time. "To become the possessor," said he, "of the ingredients which you saw me employ in forming these wings, I have spent thirty years of my life, the lives of many men, and money sufficient for a king's ransom. The wings helped me but for a few moments, long enough, however, for my purpose; they have borne me to glory and fortune. Rejoice, Hassan Abdallah; behold Aram, the city built on columns, the mysterious city!" [Illustration: The Escape of Hassan Abdallah and the Arab from the Enchanted Valley, p. 36.] We then approached the walls; they were built of alternate layers of bricks of gold and silver. The battlements were of marble, cut and sculptured by the hands of genii. There were eight gates in the walls,--the number of the gates of paradise; the first was of silver, the second of gold, the third of agate, the fourth of coral, the fifth of pearl, the sixth of topaz, the seventh of emerald, and the eighth of ruby. The Arab informed me that this city had been built by the famous enchanter Tchedad, the son of Aad, who had exhausted upon it all the treasures of earth, sea, and sky. He wanted in his pride to rival the glory of the Almighty by this piece of workmanship; but God, to punish him, struck him and his family with lightning at the very instant he and they were solemnly taking possession of the palace. An impenetrable veil hangs over the city ever since, and no one has been able to discover it. We went forward, invoking the name of God; the streets were lined with palaces adorned with columns of marble, agate, and all kinds of costly materials; streams of odoriferous waters embalmed and refreshed the atmosphere; trees of a wondrous form furnished a delicious shelter from the rays of the sun, and in their branches birds of song produced concerts of ravishing sweetness. The very air that one breathed seemed to fascinate the mind, and to lift it up to heaven. The Arab, taking me by the hand, conducted me towards the palace of Tchedad; its construction, in point of art and splendour of adornment, was unspeakably magnificent. Terraces, formed of coloured crystal, were supported on a thousand columns of gold. In the midst of the palace was an enchanted garden, where the earth, breathing of musk, bore fruits and flowers of marvellous richness and beauty. Three rivers surrounded the garden, flowing with wine, rose-water, and honey. In the centre of the garden there was a pavilion, whose dome, formed of a single emerald, overshadowed a throne of gold covered with pearls and rubies. On the throne there was a small chest of gold; the Arab opened it, and found in it a red powder. "Throw away this dust," I said, "and fill the casket with precious stones." "Poor fool that you are," he replied; "this dust is the source of all the riches of the world; it is red sulphur. A small portion of it is sufficient to change into gold the basest metals. With it I can build palaces, found cities, purchase the life of men and the admiration of beautiful women. I can even, if I please, cause myself to become prince and king; but I cannot by it prolong my life a single day, or efface an hour from my by-past existence. God alone is great! God alone is eternal!" Whilst he thus spoke, I employed myself in collecting precious stones and pearls, filling with them my girdle, pockets, and turban. "Unhappy man!" he cried, "what are you doing? You will bring down upon us the vengeance of Heaven. We are only permitted to touch this casket; and if we should attempt to carry out of the valley a leaf from one of these trees, or a stone from off the ground, instantaneous death would be our lot." I immediately emptied my pockets, much to my regret, and followed my master, not however without often turning my head aside to look at the incalculable riches spread around me. Fearing that I should fall a prey to the seductions of wealth, my master took me by the hand and led me out of the city. We quitted it by the path by which we came, but more slowly than we approached. When we arrived at the crystal precipice it opened before us, and we passed through it; when we had done so, we looked about in vain for the wonderful plain and the city,--they could no longer be seen. We found ourselves on the brink of the river of quicksilver, and crossed the bridge. Our camels were feeding on the flowery herbage, and I ran to mine with delight, as to an old friend. After refastening our girths, we mounted and set out on the road to Egypt. We were three months in reaching Cairo. During all this time I suffered many privations; my health was destroyed, and I endured every kind of evil. From some fatality, the cause of which was unknown to me at the time, I alone was exposed to all the accidents of the journey, while my companion continued in health and comfort, passing safely through every danger. I discovered afterwards that all my misfortunes arose from my having in my possession the enchanted keys. This was one day towards the close of our journey, when the Arab confessed to me that he was aware of this fatal quality of theirs, and that it was in order to free himself from it that he purchased me. When I wanted to throw away the accursed keys, he withheld me. "Patience and resignation," said he, "and these virtues only, can exhaust their evil influence, and for your own sake I would advise you to keep them to the end. All will turn out eventually for your good." A few days after receiving this communication we arrived at Cairo, and I immediately ran to my home, the door of which was open and broken, and the interior occupied by crowds of famished and prowling dogs, who had taken up their abode there. A neighbour, who heard me calling out in an agony of despair, opened her door, and said to me, "Hassan Abdallah, is that you? Well may you be astounded! Know that some time after your departure,--that is, about five months ago,--some thieves, knowing that you were absent, and that there was no male slave left to take care of your house, broke into your house during the night, insulted the women, and went off with all the property that you had left. Your mother died a few days after, in consequence. Your wife, in her destitution, resolved to go to Alexandria, to her brother. The caravan which she accompanied was attacked by the Arabs of the desert, who, being enraged at the resistance they met with, put all to the sword without mercy." On hearing these sad tidings, I shed many tears, and returning to the Arab, accused him with being the cause of all my misfortunes. "God is the author and end of all things," he said to me, and then, taking me by the hand, led me along with him. It appeared that on the same day he had hired a magnificent palace, to this he now compelled me to repair and reside with him; and for my consolation, he told me that he would share with me the treasures of science, and teach me to read in the book of alchemy. Here we resided a long time: whenever his costly fancies caused him to be in want of money, he used to have several hundred-weight of lead conveyed secretly to him, and when it was melted he threw some small portions of red sulphur into it, and in a moment the vile metal was changed into the purest gold. In the midst of all this luxury, I continued ill and unhappy; my feeble body was unable to support the weight, or to endure the contact of the rich clothes and the precious stuffs with which I was covered. The most delicate food was served up to me in vain, and the most delicious wines; I only felt disgusted and disinclined towards them all. I had superb apartments, beds formed of sweet smelling and costly woods, and divans of purple; but sleep, in spite of all, was a stranger to my eyes. I called on death, but he refused to come to me. The Arab, on the other hand, passed his time in pleasure and feasting. The palace gardens extended to the banks of the Nile; they were planted with the rarest trees, brought at a great expense from India, Persia, China, and the isles. Machines, constructed with great skill, raised the water of the Nile, and caused it to fall in fresh and brilliant jets into marble reservoirs, "'Mid orange groves and myrtle bowers, that breathed a gale of fragrance round," mingled with the perfume of jasmines and roses; there were silken pavilions, embroidered with gold, and supported on pillars of gold and silver; brilliant lamps, enclosed in globes of crystal, shed over all a light soft and effulgent as that of the moon. There, on each returning night, the Arab received his companions, and treated them with the utmost magnificence. His liberality made every one who approached him his friend, and they styled him the Great, the Magnificent. He would sometimes come to see me at the pavilion, where my illness compelled me to remain, a solitary prisoner. On one such occasion, he paid me his visit after a night of pleasure, early in the morning. He was heated with wine, his face red, and his eyes shining with a strange lustre. He sat down beside me, and taking hold of my hand, began singing, and when he had concluded, shut his eyes, leaned his head on his breast, and appeared to fall asleep. Alarmed at length at his unnatural stillness, I leaned over to him; his breathing had ceased, he had expired. Perceiving that all help was useless, I began to rummage his pockets, his girdle, and his turban, in the hope of finding the keys of happiness and of wisdom, but could not discover them. I thereupon, in spite of my bad state of health, and without losing a moment, laid hold of the casket containing the book of alchemy and the red sulphur; and considering that I might lawfully regard myself as the legitimate proprietor, I carried it secretly to my former house, which I had previously caused to be rebuilt and provided with new furniture. Returning to the palace just as I had left it, I began to cry aloud, and to ask for help; the slaves and servants ran immediately to know what was the matter, and I then sent them to bring the best physician, even the caliph's, if he could be found. When the medical men came they declared that the stranger had died by the will of God. I then gave orders for the funeral. His body, attired in the richest vestments, was placed, exposed to view, in a coffin of aloe-wood, lined with gold. A cloth of a marvellously fine tissue, which had been manufactured for a Persian prince, served for a coverlet. Fifty servants, all dressed in mourning attire, bore, in turns, the coffin on their shoulders; and every good mussulman who passed by, hastened to lend his assistance, if it were only by a helping hand. A considerable number of women, hired for the purpose, followed the bier, uttering plaintive cries. The keepers of the mosque sung sacred verses, and the crowd repeated, "God is God! There is no God but God! He alone is eternal." In this order, accompanied by numerous friends whom the Arab had made by his generosity, we proceeded to the cemetery, southward of the city, and near to the gate of Bab-el-Masr (the gate of victory). I gave a purse of gold to a skilful architect, with orders to raise a tomb to the memory of my master. Returning to the palace, it fell to my lot, of course, to preside at the funeral repast. This painful duty was scarcely over, when I saw some officers from the caliph arrive, who were commanded by his order to take possession of the wealth contained in the palace, and which belonged to him, as a stranger's heir. I was driven away, and left the palace, taking with me, in appearance, nothing but the dress which I wore, but, in reality, the owner of an inestimable treasure. Betaking myself to my house, I resolved to live there an unknown and peaceful life, passing the time in the study of the sciences, and only using the red sulphur to impart benefit to others in secret. A curious and jealous neighbour having ascended the terrace of my house one evening, and seen me at work, effecting the transmutation of the lead into gold, told my secret to his wife, who repeated it at the bath, and next morning all Cairo was acquainted with it. The report reached the ears of the caliph, Theilon, who sent for me, and told me that he knew I possessed the great secret of knowledge, and that if I would share it with him, he would overwhelm me with honours, and associate me with him in rank. I refused to the impious man the distinguished favour which God had denied to him. Transported with rage, he caused me to be loaded with chains, and thrown into a gloomy dungeon; and being baffled in his attempts to penetrate my secret, he placed the casket and the book under the care of a person on whose fidelity he could depend, hoping to force the secret from me by the sufferings which he made me endure. In this state I have lived for forty years. By my persecutor's orders, I have been made to undergo all kinds of privations and tortures, and only knew of his death by my being relieved from punishment. This morning, when kneeling on the ground at my devotions, I put my hand on a strange and hard substance. Looking at it, I perceived that it was the fatal keys which I had years ago buried under the floor of my dungeon. They were so worn by rust and damp, that they crumbled into powder in my hand, and I then thought that God intended to have pity upon me, and that my afflictions were about to end, either by death or the alleviation of my sufferings. A few moments after, your officers came and set me at liberty. "Now, O king!" continued the old man, "I have lived long enough, since I have been permitted to approach the greatest and most upright of monarchs." Mohammed, overjoyed at performing an act of justice, thanked Heaven for having sent him such a treasure, and being desirous to prove its reality, he caused one thousand hundred-weight of lead to be melted in immense caldrons; and having mixed some of the red powder in the fiery mass, and pronounced over it the magical words dictated to him by the old man, the base metal was instantly changed into pure gold. The caliph, in order to propitiate the favour of Heaven, resolved to employ this treasure in the building of a mosque which should transcend by its magnificence every other in the world. He collected architects from all the neighbouring countries, laid before them the plan of a vast edifice, unfettered by the difficulties or expense of its execution. The architects traced out an immense quadrangle, the sides of which faced the four cardinal points of the heavens. At each corner a tower of prodigious height was placed, of admirable proportions; the top of the structure was surrounded with a gallery and crowned with a dome of gilt copper. On each side of the edifice one thousand pillars were raised, supporting arches of an elegant curve and solid construction, and on the arches terraces were laid out with balustrades of gold of exquisite workmanship. In the centre of the edifice an immense pavilion was erected, whose construction was of so light and elegant a nature, that one would have thought it reached from earth to heaven. The vault was inlaid with azure-coloured enamel and studded with golden stars. Marbles of the rarest kinds formed the pavement, and the walls consisted of a mosaic formed of jasper, porphyry, agate, mother-of-pearl, sapphires, rubies, and other precious stones. The pillars and arches were covered with arabesques and verses from the Koran, carved in relief, and painted. No wood was employed in the building of this wonderful edifice, which was therefore fire-proof. Mohammed spent seven years in erecting this celebrated mosque, and expended on it a sum of two millions of dinars. Although so old, Hassan Abdallah recovered his health and strength, and lived to be a hundred years of age, honoured with the esteem and the friendship of the caliph. The mosque built by the caliph Mohammed is still to be seen at Cairo, and is the largest and the finest of all the mosques of that great city. * * * * * One day, very shortly after the completion of the mosque, the caliph and Hassan Abdallah were absent for three days on a journey. Mohammed communicated to no one but his first vizir his intention; but on his return he assembled his whole court, and informed them that the object of the expedition had been to bury the casket, with the book and the powder, where it was impossible they could ever be discovered. "I have done," added Mohammed, "what I could to consecrate this wonderful treasure, but I would not trust even myself any longer with so dangerous a temptation." FOOTNOTES: [1] Most of our readers will also recognize in the Story of the Princess Schirine the groundwork of one of Hans Andersen's beautiful Danish Tales, "The Flying Trunk." II. SOLIMAN BEY AND THE THREE STORY-TELLERS. Soliman Bey, passing one day along a street in Cairo, saw three common-looking men seated at the door of a coffee-house and sipping their cup of mocha. From their dull and meaningless looks he conjectured that they were under the influence of haschich[2]. After looking at them attentively, the bey saluted them, and was pursuing his way, when he suddenly found himself obliged to stop, as a long train of camels, heavily laden, blocked up the street and prevented him from passing on. The bey, having nothing better to do, amused himself by scrutinizing attentively the eaters of haschich, who were old men. A warm discussion seemed to be going on among them; they raised their arms, vied with each other who should cry the loudest, and made the strangest possible grimaces; but owing to the distance at which he stood, he was unable to hear what they said. On his return home, being curious to know the subject of their dispute, he sent his officer to beg these three originals to wait upon him. When they arrived, he said to them, "What were you disputing about, my friends, when I passed you?" "May Allah prolong your days!" replied one of them; "we were disputing about which of us it was to whom the salutation belonged that your highness addressed to us, for each of us took that honour to himself." The bey burst out laughing. "I greeted," he said, after a moment's reflection, "him among you who did the greatest number of foolish things while intoxicated by the haschich." "It was I, my lord," they all at once exclaimed. "Stop," replied the bey; "let each of you tell me one of the tricks played him by the haschich, and the honour of my greeting shall be his who shall have committed the greatest act of folly; and do you begin," added the bey, pointing to one of the men. THE FIRST STORY-TELLER. "Be it known to you, my lord," said the first story-teller, "that a short time ago I had in my purse a thousand piastres, which were enough for my expenses, and I was contented with my lot. One day, however, I had been taking a walk, and on my return I sat down to rest and chewed a bit of haschich, took my coffee, and lit my pipe; in two or three hours my head began to buzz. I went out again and walked about the streets. In front of a coffee-house I noticed some men collected round an _improvisatore_, who was singing and accompanying himself on the timbrel. I sat down in the circle and asked for coffee. I lighted my pipe and commenced listening. The improvisatore depicted a young girl. Oh, how beautiful she was! it was impossible not to love her. Compared with her Iyleika[3] was but as a star in the presence of the sun, and Ablia[3] but as the dirt of the street. I was so captivated by his description of the beautiful girl, that when he ceased I gave him all the money I had about me. "Next day, at the same hour, while the haschich was boiling in my brain, I ran to the coffee-house, where the improvisatore was commencing the continuation of his yesterday's story. He now told how paladins and padishahs disputed for the possession of my adorable Haridée, and how she disdained their love and refused their offers. I became more distracted this time than before, and the improvisatore got from me twice as much as he did the day before. I gave him all that I had, even to the last farthing. "Next day I never left my little seat at the _café_. The improvisatore struck his tambourine this time with more vehemence while singing the charms of the beautiful Haridée. He then began to relate how Haridée was in love with a certain worthless fellow. At this it was impossible to tell what I felt; the hydra of jealousy devoured my heart and poured a maddening poison through my veins. I became as one deprived of all sense and feeling. But stop; the parents have separated the lovers and plunged them in an ocean of tears. I again breathed more freely, and emptied my pockets to fill the purse of the improvisatore. "Thus were passed many days in succession. The flame of love and the stings of jealousy tormented me without ceasing. The haschich did its part unremittingly, and threw me at one moment into fire, and at another into ice and snow, hurling me from the height of bliss into the depths of misery. My fortunes fell with me, and I soon became totally destitute. But my thoughts were otherwise taken up than with eating or drinking; my love for Haridée had become the only source to me of life and action. In this way, with empty stomach and purse, I went one day to the _café_ after having paid a few paras for a little haschich. I listened--the voice of the improvisatore trembled; in truth he wept, and grief was depicted on his features. "'What has happened?' I asked, drawing near to him. "'Poor Haridée!' he replied. "'What is the matter? What has taken place?' I exclaimed. "'She is dead!' he muttered. "I wept, I tore my clothes, and fled I scarce knew where. When the first transports of my despair had subsided, I saw pass before my eyes, still under the influence of the haschich, the funeral of Haridée. The mournful cry of 'There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet,' echoed in my ears, amidst the outcries and the lamentations of the women. I ran like a madman from street to street, while the crowd followed on my path with the coffin of Haridée, and the frightful groans and cries burst forth louder and louder on my ears. At length, worn out, and sore all over, I fell down in a state of complete unconsciousness, and when I came to myself, I perceived that I was at the threshold of my own home. I arose, and endeavoured to recal past events, which as they woke up in my memory caused me to feel the utmost surprise. My purse was empty, my heart broken, and the blood was flowing down my face, for in my fall I had cut open my head. After remaining a whole day in the house, I took a small piece of haschich and went to a coffee-house near at hand, where my friend the landlord poured me out a cup of mocha, and gave me a pipe. It was there that I met my two friends, and received from you, my gracious lord, a look, and a nod." "This story is not a bad one," replied Soliman Bey, "but do not too hastily take to yourself the honour of my greeting; let me hear first what the others have to say." THE SECOND STORY-TELLER. "Know, my lord," replied the second, "that I was formerly a rich and respected merchant, with a beautiful wife and fine children. My life was like a morning of spring-time--clear, peaceful, and balmy. But haschich has ruined the structure of my happiness, and destroyed it from the roof to the foundations. One day when I had imbibed a little of this fatal poison, I was reclining, after the labours of the day, on my sofa, sipping from time to time a mouthful of coffee, and inhaling a whiff of perfumed _latakia_. My wife was occupied at my side in embroidery, and my children were at play in the room, which they made ring again with their shrill voices. At length, my brain becoming overpowered by the vapours of the haschich, the thickening fancies began to chase each other in quick succession, and my imagination at length became morbidly excited. The cries of my children seemed insupportable to me. I ordered them several times to be quiet, but the brats, wild with their games and noise, paid no attention to me. At last I lost patience, laid hold of my stick, and rapped angrily on the floor, ordering them sternly to be quiet. In the midst of this fit of anger, I stopped short, all of a sudden. The floor of my apartment emitted a hollow sound, as if there were a vault beneath it. The haschich suggested to me that there might be hidden treasure down below. 'Oh, oh,' I said to myself, 'I must not be in a hurry. If I should discover the treasure in my wife's presence, she will foolishly run and trumpet it about to all our neighbours. What good would that do? Let me consider, then, what I shall do to get her away.' Intoxicated as I was, there was no need to deliberate long. I darted from my seat, exclaiming, 'Woman! thou art separated from me by a triple divorce!'[4] "My wife became pale as death. She threw aside her embroidery, and rose up. "'What is the matter, my dear husband? What has happened? Of what have I been guilty?' "'Don't say a word! And hasten this moment to leave the house, with your children.' "'But pray inform me, my lord and master, when and how I have given you any cause of complaint? We have now lived together twelve years in perfect peace and harmony, and never been but on the most affectionate terms; tell me.' "'No more explanations,' I replied; 'here are a thousand _grouches_[5]. Go to your room, and take of the furniture as much as you require, and return to your father's house.' "Sadly and sorrowfully she thereupon proceeded to collect her wearing apparel, uttering mournful cries and lamentations, and taking her children with her, left the house. "'Now!' I exclaimed, with satisfaction, 'now, I am quite alone.' "'Silence, Abou-Kalif,' whispered the haschich to me; 'don't be in such haste. Suppose you find this treasure, who knows but that at the first meeting of haschich-eaters, you will disclose your discovery to all the world. Put yourself to the proof beforehand, by some effectual means, and thus find out if your tongue have sufficient self-command to keep still, and not say one word too much.' "Faithful to the voice of my inward monitor, I arose, and taking from my chest the sum of five hundred grouches, went to pay a visit to the vali[6]. "'Here,' said I to him, 'take this money, and give me on the soles of my feet five hundred blows with a leathern thong, and, while laying them on, ask me if I have seen, found, or discovered any thing?' "The man was extremely surprised at my request, and refused to comply with it; but the people about him said that my body was my own, and that I was at liberty to dispose of it as I thought proper. 'Take his money,' they said to him, 'and give him a hearty flogging.' "The vali, shrugging his shoulders, gave the signal; I was laid on the ground, my feet were tied together, and the lash whistled and sung on my bare feet. At each blow, the question I had suggested was asked, and I replied in the negative. This system of question and answer went on till the last blow. Fairly exhausted with the pain, I fell down the moment I attempted to stand up. I therefore crawled along on my knees, and reached my ass, on whose back I managed, somehow or other, to raise myself, and thus reached my home. "A few days' rest having restored me in some measure, I resolved to prosecute my search for the hidden treasure. But the haschich, to which I had not forgotten on that day to pay my usual respects, stopped me in my intention. 'O Abou-Kalif,' it muttered in my ear, 'you have not yet put yourself sufficiently to the proof. Are you now in a fit state to resist all attempts to make you disclose your secret? Submit to another trial, my good fellow!' This suggestion was all-powerful, and I submitted forthwith. I drew from my strong-box one thousand grouches, and went to the aga of the Janissaries. 'Take this money,' I said to him, 'and give me in exchange for it a thousand stripes with a thong on the bare back; asking me between the blows, Have you seen any thing? have you found any thing? have you discovered any thing?' The aga did not keep me waiting long for a reply,--and having pocketed the money, bestowed upon me most faithfully the full complement of the lashes desired. "At the conclusion of the whipping my soul seemed hovering on my lips, as if about to leave my mutilated body, which was quite prostrated by the infliction. I was obliged to be carried to my ass, and it was many days before I could set my feet to the ground. When I had recovered a little, I recollected all the details of the strange adventure which had brought upon me the acute anguish that I felt in every part of my body; and the more I reflected on the matter, the more vividly I saw the fatal consequences that would follow from too much confidence in the suggestions inspired by the haschich. I cursed the hateful ideas produced by the vapours of this drug, and promised myself that I would amend my ways, and repair, as far as possible, my injustice to my wife. But at the very moment when this praiseworthy resolution arose in my brain and diffused its odours there, like a fresh-opening flower, my hand, from the strength of habit, sought for the tin box that lay under my pillow, and drew from it a white particle, which I placed in my mouth, as if to mock all the weak efforts of my will. In fact, while my mind was occupied in planning a final rupture with the perfidious hempen-seed, my enemy stole in on me like a midnight robber by night, imposed his yoke, and overthrew completely all my good intentions. Unwittingly I found myself again in the power of the enemy. 'Well, Abou-Kalif,' he said, 'arise. The precautions you have taken are sufficiently severe; it is time to set to work, and not allow the favourable moment to escape, otherwise you may repent it.' In this manner spake the delusive poison working within me, and I was wholly in its power, incapable of resistance. I rose from my bed with a frightful pain in my back and sides, dragged myself along towards the mysterious flag-stone, and with my heart beating violently, and my brain cloudy and obscured, I set to work to raise the stone, which speedily yielded to my efforts. In a state of the highest excitement, I sat down on the edge of the cavern with my legs hanging down into it, and my hands leaning on its sides; I scarcely dared to look downwards. The haschich, however, pushed me forwards, and seemed to press on my shoulders. My hands at last yielded, and I fell down. O my sovereign and master, do not ask where I found myself; enough that I felt myself stifled. The noisome matter into which I had fallen up to the chin, being disturbed and agitated, had emitted exhalations which fairly suffocated me. I strove to cry out, but in vain. I fainted, and lost all consciousness. "Meanwhile, whilst I, pursued by the fatal influence of the haschich, had fallen over the edge of the precipice, where I was now struggling, my disconsolate wife had begged her father to allow her to make inquiry respecting me. 'I know,' she said, weeping, 'that a sudden attack of madness has seized him, and that the real cause of his sending me away, as well as of all the evil that has just befallen us, is the haschich. Let no curse fall upon him. No doubt my husband will change his conduct with regard to me, as I cannot reproach myself with any thing; I will therefore go and see what has happened to him.' 'Well, my child, you may go,' replied her father; 'I shall not seek to hinder you.' She went, and knocked at the door, but no one replied. She then inquired of the neighbours if Abou-Kalif was at home; they said they had not seen him leave the house for the last week. On being told this, she had the door burst open, and, followed by a crowd of neighbours of both sexes, searched for me for a long time in vain. At last, however, I was discovered, half dead and stifled. They pulled me out, cleansed and sweetened me, and attired me in a fresh suit of clothes; after which I left the house to breathe the fresh air and recover myself. It was not long, however, before the haschich regained its old dominion over me, and led me to the coffee-house, where you saw me, and condescended to honour me with your greeting." "Not quite so soon," exclaimed the bey, holding his sides with laughter; "your story is also a very good one, but before I award to you the honour of my salutation, I must hear what your other companion has got to say." THE THIRD STORY-TELLER. "Sovereign and master," commenced the third eater of haschich, "no longer ago than a week I was so happy and satisfied with my lot, that in truth I would not have exchanged it even for your own. I had a house filled with every comfort, plenty of money, and a wife who was a miracle of beauty. One day this charming better half of myself, after having passed all the day in the bath, returned from it looking so clean, fresh, and rosy, that my head, where the haschich which I had been taking for the last hour and a half was breeding disorder, became on fire and was lost. My eyes grew intoxicated with my wife, as if I had then beheld her beauty for the first time, and my heart bounded like the holy waves of the Nile during a storm. "'Dear cousin,' I cried, for she was my cousin as well as my wife, 'how captivating you are to-day! I am over head and ears in love with you again!' "At this instant the haschich suggested to me to divorce her immediately in order to contract a new marriage and taste again the bliss of a first union. No sooner said than done; I pronounced the prescribed phrase, and the next day I celebrated a new marriage with her[7]. When the festivities were over, I conducted my relations and guests to the door, which, from absence of mind, I had forgotten to shut. "'Dear cousin,' said my wife to me when we were alone, 'go and shut the street door.' "'It would be strange indeed if I did,' I replied. 'Am I just made a bridegroom, clothed in silk, wearing a shawl and a dagger set with diamonds, and am I to go and shut the door? Why, my dear, you are crazy; go and shut it yourself!' "'Oh indeed!' she exclaimed; 'am I, young, robed in a satin dress, with lace and precious stones, am I to go and shut the court-yard door? No, indeed, it is you who have become crazy, and not I. Come, let us make a bargain,' she continued; 'and let the first who speaks get up and bar the door.' "'Agreed,' I replied, and straightway I became mute, and she too was silent, while we both sat down, dressed as we were in our nuptial attire, looking at each other, and seated on opposite sofas. We remained thus for one--two--hours. During this time thieves happening to pass by, and seeing the door open, entered and laid hold of whatever came to their hand. We heard footsteps in the house, but opened not our mouths; the robbers came even into our room, and saw us seated, motionless and indifferent to all that took place. They continued therefore their pillage, collecting together every thing valuable, and even dragging away the carpets from beneath us; they then laid hands on our own persons, which they despoiled of every article worth taking, while we, in the fear of losing our wager, said not a word. "Having thus cleared the house, the thieves departed quietly, but we remained on our seats, saying not a syllable. Towards morning a police officer came round on his tour of inspection, and, seeing our door opened, walked in. Having searched all the rooms and found no one, he entered the apartment where we were seated, and inquired the meaning of what he saw. Neither my wife nor I would condescend to reply. The officer became angry, and ordered our heads to be cut off. The executioner's sword was just about to perform its office, when my wife cried out, 'Sir, he is my husband, spare him!' "'Oh, oh!' I exclaimed, overjoyed and clapping my hands, 'you have lost the wager; go, shut the door.' "I then explained the whole affair to the police officer, who shrugged his shoulders and went away, leaving us in a truly dismal plight. Immediately after I went to a coffee-house, where you deigned to honour me with a salutation." * * * * * At the conclusion of this story the bey, who was ready to die with laughter, exclaimed, "This time it is you who are in the right; you are truly entitled to my respects." FOOTNOTES: [2] An intoxicating drug, like opium. [3] Personages who figure in Arabian legends. [4] This is the legal form of pronouncing a divorce among the Mahometans. [5] A small coin, in circulation in Turkey, about the value of eighteenpence of our money. It is probably from the same root as the German _groschen_. [6] The public executioner. [7] The Mahometans may immediately take back the woman whom they had divorced, but a fresh marriage ceremony must take place. III. THE STORY OF PRINCE KHALAF AND THE PRINCESS OF CHINA. Prince Khalaf was the son of an aged khan of the Nagäi-Tartars. The history of his time makes honourable mention of his name. It relates that he surpassed all the princes of the age in beauty, in wisdom, and in valour; that he was as learned as the greatest doctors of his age; that he could fathom the deepest mysteries of the commentaries on the Koran; and that he knew by heart the sayings of the prophet: it speaks of him, in short, as the hero of Asia and the wonder of the East. This prince was the soul of the councils of his father Timurtasch. When he gave advice, the most accomplished statesmen approved it, and could not sufficiently admire his prudence and wisdom. If, moreover, it were necessary to take up arms, he was immediately seen at the head of the troops of the state, seeking out the enemy, engaging them and vanquishing them. He had already won several victories, and the Nagäis had rendered themselves so formidable by their repeated successes, that the neighbouring nations did not venture to quarrel with them. Such was the prosperous state of affairs in the khan's dominions, when an ambassador from the sultan of Carisma arrived at the court of Timurtasch, and demanded in the name of his master that the Nagäis should henceforth pay him a yearly tribute; he added that in default he would come in person, with an overwhelming force, and compel them to submit, at the same time depriving their sovereign of his crown as a punishment for his refusal. On hearing this arrogant message, the khan immediately assembled his council in order to decide whether to pay the tribute rather than risk a war with so powerful an enemy, or whether to treat his menaces with contempt and prepare to repel the invaders. Khalaf, with the majority of the council, were of the latter opinion, and the ambassador being dismissed with a refusal, took his departure for Carisma. The khan lost no time in sending deputies to the neighbouring nations, in order to represent to them that it was to their interest to unite with him against the sultan of Carisma, whose ambition now exceeded all bounds, and who would undoubtedly exact the same tribute from them if he should succeed in conquering the Nagäis. The deputies succeeded in these negotiations; the neighbouring nations and tribes, and amongst them the Circassians, engaged to join in the proposed confederation, and to furnish among them a quota of fifty thousand men. On this promise, the khan proceeded to raise fresh troops, in addition to the army which he already had on foot. While the Nagäis were making these preparations, the sultan of Carisma assembled an army of two hundred thousand men, and crossed the Jaxartes at Cogende. He marched through the countries of Ilac and Saganac, where he found abundance of provisions; and had advanced as far as Jund, before the army of the khan, commanded by prince Khalaf, was able to take the field, in consequence of the Circassians and the other auxiliary troops not having been able sooner to join him. As soon as these succours arrived, Khalaf marched direct towards Jund, but he had scarcely passed Jenge Kemt, when his scouts informed him that the enemy was close at hand, and was advancing to attack him. The young prince immediately ordered his troops to halt, and proceeded to arrange them in order of battle. The two armies were nearly equal in numbers, and the men who composed them equally courageous. The battle which ensued was bloody and obstinate. The sultan did all that a warrior skilled in the conduct of armies could do; and the prince Khalaf, on his side, more than could be expected from so young a general. At one time the Nagäi-Tartars had the advantage, at another they were obliged to yield to the Carismians; at last both parties, alternately victors and vanquished, were obliged by the approach of night to sound a retreat. The combat was to have recommenced in the morning; but, in the mean time, the leader of the Circassians went secretly to the sultan, and offered to abandon the cause of the Nagäis, provided the sultan would pledge himself, on oath, never to exact tribute from the Circassians upon any pretence whatever. The sultan having consented, the treaty was confirmed, and the Circassian leader, instead of occupying his place next day in the army of the khan, detached his troops from the Nagäis, and took the road back to his own country. This treachery was a terrible blow to prince Khalaf, who, seeing himself now much weakened in numbers, would have withdrawn for the time from the conflict; but there was no possibility of retreat. The Carismians advanced furiously to the charge, and taking advantage of the ground which allowed them to extend their lines, they surrounded the Nagäis on all sides. The latter, notwithstanding that they had been deserted by their best auxiliaries, did not lose their courage. Animated by the example of their prince, they closed their ranks, and for a long time firmly sustained the terrible onset of their enemies. At last, however, resistance became hopeless, and Khalaf, seeing all hope at an end, thought of nothing but his escape, which he fortunately succeeded in effecting. The moment the sultan was apprised of his flight, he sent six thousand horsemen to endeavour to capture him, but he eluded their pursuit, by taking roads that were unknown to them; and after a few days' hard riding through unfrequented and unknown tracts, arrived at his father's court, where he spread sorrow and consternation, by the disastrous tidings he brought. If this piece of news deeply afflicted Timurtasch, the intelligence he next received drove him to despair. An officer who had escaped from the battle, brought word that the sultan of Carisma had put to the sword nearly all the Nagäis, and that he was advancing with all possible speed, fully resolved to put the whole family of the khan to death, and to absorb the nation into his own kingdom. The khan then repented of having refused to pay the tribute, but he fully recognized the force of the Arab proverb, "When the city is in ruins, what is the use of repentance?" As time pressed, and it was necessary to fly, for fear of falling into the hands of the sultan, the khan, the princess Elmaze (diamond), his wife, and Khalaf, made a selection of all their most precious treasures, and departed from the capital, Astracan, accompanied by several officers of the palace, who refused to abandon them in their need, as well as by such of the troops as had cut their way through the ranks of their enemies with the young prince. They directed their march towards Bulgaria; their object being to beg an asylum at the court of some sovereign prince. They had now been several days on their journey, and had gained the Caucasus, when a swarm of some four thousand suddenly poured down upon them from that range. Although Khalaf had scarcely a hundred men with him, he steadily received the furious attack of the robbers, of whom numbers fell; his troops, however, were by degrees overpowered and slaughtered, and he himself remained in the power of the bandits, some of whom fell upon the spoil, whilst others butchered the followers of the khan. They only spared the lives of that prince, his wife, and his son, leaving them, however, almost naked in the midst of the mountains. It is impossible to describe the grief of Timurtasch when he saw himself reduced to this extremity. He envied the fate of those whom he had seen slain before his eyes, and giving way to despair, sought to destroy himself. The princess burst into tears, and made the air resound with her lamentations and groans. Khalaf alone had strength to support the weight of their misfortunes; he was possessed of an indomitable courage. The bitter lamentations which the khan and his wife uttered were his greatest trouble. "Oh, my father! Oh, my mother!" said he, "do not succumb to your misfortunes. Remember that it is God who wills that you should be thus wretched. Let us submit ourselves without a murmur to his absolute decrees. Are we the first princes whom the rod of justice has struck? How many rulers before us have been driven from their kingdoms, and after wandering about for years in foreign lands, sharing the lot of the most abject of mortals, have been in the end restored to their thrones! If God has the power to pluck off crowns, has He not also the power to restore them? Let us hope that He will commiserate our misery, and that He will in time change into prosperity the deplorable condition in which we now are." [Illustration: Prince Khalaf holding back his father, p. 63.] With such arguments he endeavoured to console his father and mother, and to some extent succeeded; they experienced a secret consolation, and at last allowed themselves to take comfort. "So be it, my son," said the khan, "let us bow to Providence; and since these evils which encompass us are written in the book of fate, let us endure them without repining." At these words the royal party made up their minds to be firm under their misfortunes, and proceeded to continue their journey on foot, the robbers having taken their horses. They wandered on for a long time, living upon the fruits they found in the valleys; but at length they entered upon a desert, where the earth yielded nothing upon which they could subsist, and now their courage deserted them. The khan, far advanced in years, began to feel his strength fail him; and the princess, worn out with the fatigue of the journey she had made, could scarcely hold out any longer. In this predicament, Khalaf, although wofully tired himself, had no resource but to carry them by turns on his shoulders. At last all three, overwhelmed by hunger, thirst, and weariness, arrived at a spot abounding with frightful precipices. It was a hill, very steep, and intersected with deep chasms, forming what appeared to be dangerous passes. Through these, however, seemed to be the only way by which to enter upon the vast plain which stretched out beyond; for both sides of the hill were so encumbered with brambles and thorns, that it was impossible to force a way through. When the princess perceived the chasms, she uttered a piercing cry, and the khan at length lost his patience. He rushed furiously forward. "I can bear this no longer," said he to his son; "I yield to my hard destiny; I succumb to so much suffering. I will throw myself headlong into one of these deep gulfs, which, doubtless, Heaven has reserved for my tomb. I will escape the tyranny of wickedness. I prefer death to such a miserable existence." The khan, yielding himself up to the frenzy which had taken possession of him, was on the point of throwing himself down one of the precipices, when prince Khalaf seized him in his arms and held him back. "Oh, my father!" said he, "what are you doing? Why give way to this transport of fury? Is it thus that you show the submission you owe to the decrees of Heaven? Calm yourself. Instead of displaying a rebellious impatience of its will, let us endeavour to deserve by our constancy its compassion and favour. I confess that we are in a deplorable state, and that we can scarcely take a step without danger amidst these abysses; but there may be another road by which we can enter the plain: let me go and see if I can find one. In the mean time, my lord, calm the violence of your transports, and remain near the princess; I will return immediately." "Go, then, my son," replied the khan, "we will await you here; do not fear that I will any longer give way to despair." The young prince traversed the whole hill without being able to discover any path. He was oppressed with the deepest grief; he threw himself on the ground, sighed, and implored the help of Heaven. He rose up, and again searched for some track that would conduct them to the plain. At length he found one. He followed it, returning thanks to Heaven for the discovery, and advanced to the foot of a tree which stood at the entrance of the plain, and which covered with its shade a fountain of pure transparent water. He also perceived other trees laden with fruit of an extraordinary size. Delighted with this discovery, he ran to inform his father and mother, who received the news with the greater joy, since they now began to hope that Heaven had begun to compassionate their misery. Khalaf conducted them to the fountain, where all three bathed their faces and their hands and quenched the burning thirst which consumed them. They then ate of the fruits which the young prince gathered for them, and which, in their state of exhaustion from want of food, appeared to them delicious. "My lord," said Khalaf to his father, "you see the injustice of your complaints. You imagined that Heaven had forsaken us; I implored its succour, and it has succoured us. It is not deaf to the voice of the unfortunate who put their whole trust in its mercy." They remained near the fountain two or three days to repose and recruit their wasted strength. After that they collected as much of the fruit as they could carry, and advanced into the plain, hoping to find their way to some inhabited place. They were not deceived in their expectations; they soon perceived before them a town which appeared large and splendidly built. They made their way to it, and having arrived at the gates, resolved to remain there and wait for night, not wishing to enter the town during the day, covered with dust and perspiration, and with what little clothing the robbers had left them, travel-worn and rent with brambles. They selected a tree which cast a delicious shade, and stretched themselves upon the grass at its foot. They had reposed there some time, when an old man came out of the town and directed his steps to the same place, to enjoy the cool shade. He sat down near them after making them a profound obeisance. They in turn saluted him, and then inquired what was the name of the town. "It is called Jaic," replied the old man. "The king, Ileuge-Khan, makes it his residence. It is the capital of the country, and derives its name from the river which flows through it. You must be strangers since you ask me that question." "Yes," replied the khan, "we come from a country very far from here. We were born in the kingdom of Chrisnia, and we dwell upon the banks of the Caspian Sea; we are merchants. We were travelling with a number of other merchants in Captchak; a large band of robbers attacked our caravan and pillaged us; they spared our lives, but have left us in the situation in which you see us. We have traversed mount Caucasus, and found our way here without knowing where we were directing our steps." The old man, who had a compassionate heart for the distress of his neighbour, expressed his sympathy for their misfortunes, and, to assure them of his sincerity, offered them shelter in his house. He made the offer with such cordiality, that, even if they had not needed it, they would have felt some difficulty in refusing. As soon as night set in he conducted them to his home. It was a small house, very plainly furnished; but every thing was neat, and wore the appearance rather of simplicity than of poverty. As the old man entered he gave some orders in an undertone to one of his slaves, who returned in a short time followed by two boys, one of whom carried a large bundle of men's and women's clothes ready made, the other was laden with all sorts of veils, turbans, and girdles. Prince Khalaf and his father each took a caftan of cloth and a brocaded dress with a turban of Indian muslin, and the princess a complete suit. After this their host gave the boys the price of the clothes, sent them away, and ordered supper. Two slaves brought the table and placed upon it a tray covered with dishes of china, sandal, and aloe-wood, and several cups of coral perfumed with ambergris. They then served up a repast, delicate, yet without profusion. The old man endeavoured to raise the spirits of his guests; but perceiving that his endeavours were vain, "I see clearly," said he, "that the remembrance of your misfortunes is ever present to your minds. You must learn how to console yourselves for the loss of the goods of which the robbers have plundered you. Travellers and merchants often experience similar mishaps. I was myself once robbed on the road from Moussul to Bagdad. I nearly lost my life on that occasion, and I was reduced to the miserable condition in which I found you. If you please I will relate my history; the recital of my misfortunes may encourage you to support yours." Saying this, the good old man ordered his slaves to retire, and spoke as follows. THE STORY OF PRINCE AL ABBAS. I am the son of the king of Moussul, the great Ben-Ortoc. As soon as I had reached my twentieth year, my father permitted me to make a journey to Bagdad; and, to support the rank of a king's son in that great city, he ordered a splendid suite to attend me. He opened his treasures and took out for me four camel-loads of gold; he appointed officers of his own household to wait upon me, and a hundred soldiers of his guard to form my escort. I took my departure from Moussul with this numerous retinue in order to travel to Bagdad. Nothing happened the first few days; but one night, whilst we were quietly reposing in a meadow where we had encamped, we were suddenly attacked so furiously by an overwhelming body of Bedouin Arabs, that the greater part of my people were massacred almost before I was aware of the danger. After the first confusion I put myself at the head of such of the guards and officers of my father's household as had escaped the first onslaught, and charged the Bedouins. Such was the vigour of our attack, that more than three hundred fell under our blows. As the day dawned, the robbers, who were still sufficiently numerous to surround us on all sides, seeing our insignificant numbers, and ashamed and irritated by the obstinate resistance of such a handful of men, redoubled their efforts. It was in vain that we fought with the fury of desperation; they overpowered us; and at length we were forced to yield to numbers. They seized our arms and stripped off our clothes, and then, instead of reserving us for slaves, or letting us depart, as people already sufficiently wretched, in the state to which we were reduced, they resolved to revenge the deaths of their comrades; and were cowards and barbarians enough to slaughter the whole of their defenceless prisoners. All my people perished; and the same fate was on the point of being inflicted on me, when making myself known to the robbers, "Stay, rash men," I exclaimed, "respect the blood of kings. I am prince Al Abbas, only son of Ben-Ortoc, king of Moussul, and heir to his throne." "I am glad to learn who thou art," replied the chief of the Bedouins. "We have hated thy father mortally these many years; he has hanged several of our comrades who fell into his hands; thou shalt be treated after the same manner." Thereupon they bound me; and the villains, after first sharing among them all my baggage, carried me along with them to the foot of a mountain between two forests, where a great number of small grey tents were pitched. Here was their well-concealed camping ground. They placed me under the chief's tent, which was both loftier and larger than the rest. Here I was kept a whole day, after which they led me forth and bound me to a tree, where, awaiting the lingering death that was to put an end to my existence, I had to endure the mortification of finding myself surrounded by the whole gang, insulted with bitter taunts, and every feeling miserably outraged. I had been tied to the tree for some considerable time, and the last moments of my life appeared fast approaching, when a scout came galloping in to inform the chief of the Bedouins that a splendid chance offered itself seven leagues from thence; that a large caravan was to encamp the next evening in a certain spot, which he named. The chief instantly ordered his companions to prepare for the expedition; this was accomplished in a very short time. They all mounted their horses, and left me in their camp, not doubting but at their return they would find me a corpse. But Heaven, which renders useless all the resolves of men which do not agree with its eternal decrees, would not suffer me to perish so young. The wife of the robber chief had, it seems, taken pity on me; she managed to creep stealthily, during the night, to the tree where I was bound, and said to me, "Young man, I am touched by thy misfortune, and I would willingly release thee from the dangers that surround thee; but, if I were to unbind thee, dost thou think that thou hast strength enough left to escape." I replied, "The same good God who has inspired thee with these charitable feelings will give me strength to walk." The woman loosed my cords, gave me an old caftan of her husband's, and showing me the road, "Take that direction," said she, "and thou wilt speedily arrive at an inhabited place." I thanked my kind benefactress, and walked all that night without deviating from the road she had pointed out. The next day, I perceived a man on foot, who was driving before him a horse, laden with two large packages. I joined him, and, after telling him that I was an unfortunate stranger, who did not know the country, and had missed my way, I inquired of him where he was going. "I am going," replied he, "to sell my merchandise at Bagdad, and I hope to arrive there in two days." I accompanied this man, and only left him when I entered that great city; he went about his business, and I retired to a mosque, where I remained two days and two nights. I had no desire to go forth into the streets; I was afraid of meeting persons from Moussul, who might recognize me. So great was my shame at finding myself in this plight, that far from thinking of making my condition known, I wished to conceal it, even from myself. Hunger at length overcame my shame, or rather I was obliged to yield to that necessity which brooks no refusal. I resolved to beg my bread, until some better prospect presented itself. I stood before the lower window of a large house, and solicited alms with a loud voice. An old female slave appeared almost immediately, with a loaf in her hand, which she held out to me. As I advanced to take it, the wind by chance raised the curtain of the window, and allowed me to catch a glimpse of the interior of the chamber; there I saw a young lady of surpassing beauty; her loveliness burst upon my vision like a flash of lightning. I was completely dazzled. I received the bread without thinking what I was about, and stood motionless before the old slave, instead of thanking her, as I ought to have done. I was so surprised, so confused, and so violently enamoured, that doubtless she took me for a madman; she disappeared, leaving me in the street, gazing intently, though fruitlessly, at the window, for the wind did not again raise the curtain. I passed the whole day awaiting a second favourable breeze. Not until I perceived night coming on, could I make up my mind to think of retiring; but before quitting the house, I asked an old man, who was passing, if he knew to whom it belonged. "It is," replied he, "the house of Mouaffac, the son of Adbane; he is a man of rank, and, moreover, a rich man and a man of honour. It is not long since he was the governor of the city, but he quarrelled with the cadi, who found means of ruining him in the estimation of the caliph, and thereby caused him to lose his appointment." With my thoughts fully taken up by this adventure, I slowly wandered out of the city, and entering the great cemetery determined to pass the night there. I ate my bread without appetite, although my long fast ought to have given me a good one, and then lay down near a tomb, with my head resting on a pile of bricks. It was with difficulty that I composed myself to sleep: the daughter of Mouaffac had made too deep an impression upon me; the remembrance of her loveliness excited my imagination too vividly, and the little food I had eaten was not enough to cause the usual tendency to a refreshing sleep. At length, however, I dozed off, in spite of the ideas that filled my imagination; but my sleep was not destined to be of long duration; a loud noise within the tomb soon awoke me. Alarmed at the disturbance, the cause of which I did not stay to ascertain, I started up, with the intention of flying from the cemetery, when two men, who were standing at the entrance of the tomb, perceiving me, stopped me, and demanded who I was, and what I was doing there. "I am," I replied, "an unfortunate stranger, whom misfortune has reduced to live upon the bounty of the charitable, and I came here to pass the night, as I have no place to go to in the town." "Since thou art a beggar," said one of them, "thank Heaven that thou hast met with us; we will furnish thee with an excellent supper." So saying, they dragged me into the tomb, where four of their comrades were eating large radishes and dates, and washing them down with copious draughts of raki. They made me sit near them, at a long stone that served as a table, and I was obliged to eat and drink, for politeness' sake. I suspected them to be what they really were, that is to say, thieves, and they soon confirmed my suspicions by their discourse. They began to speak of a considerable theft they had just committed, and thought that it would afford me infinite pleasure to become one of their gang; they made me the offer, which threw me into great perplexity. You may imagine that I had no desire to associate myself with such fellows, but I was fearful of irritating them by a refusal. I was embarrassed, and at a loss for a reply, when a sudden event freed me from my trouble. The lieutenant of the cadi, followed by twenty or thirty _asas_ (archers) well armed, entered the tomb, seized the robbers and me, and took us all off to prison, where we passed the remainder of the night. The following day, the cadi came and interrogated the prisoners. The thieves confessed their crime, as they saw there was no use in denying it; for myself, I related to the judge how I had met with them, and, as they corroborated my statement, I was put on one side. The cadi wished to speak to me in private, before he set me free. Accordingly, he presently came over to me, and asked what took me into the cemetery where I was caught, and how I spent my time in Bagdad. In fact, he asked me a thousand questions, all of which I answered with great candour, only concealing the royalty of my birth. I recounted to him all that had happened to me, and I even told him of my having stopped before the window of Mouaffac's house to beg, and of my having seen, by chance, a young lady who had charmed me. At the name of Mouaffac I noticed the eyes of the cadi sparkle, with a curious expression. He remained a few moments immersed in thought; then, assuming a joyous countenance, he said, "Young man, it depends only on thyself to possess the lady thou sawest yesterday. It was doubtless Mouaffac's daughter; for I have been informed that he has a daughter of exquisite beauty. Though thou wert the most abject of beings, I would find means for thee to possess the object of thine ardent wishes. Thou hast but to leave it to me, and I will make thy fortune." I thanked him, without being able to penetrate his designs, and then by his orders followed the aga of his black eunuchs, who released me from the prison, and took me to the bath. Whilst I was there, the judge sent two of his _tchaous_ (guards) to Mouaffac's house, with a message that the cadi wished to speak to him upon business of the greatest importance. Mouaffac accompanied the guards back. As soon as the cadi saw him coming he went forward to meet him, saluted him, and kissed him several times. Mouaffac was in amazement at this reception. "Ho! ho!" said he to himself, "how is this, that the cadi, my greatest enemy, is become so civil to me to-day? There is something at the bottom of all this." "Friend Mouaffac," said the judge, "Heaven will not suffer us to be enemies any longer. It has furnished us with an opportunity of extinguishing that hatred which has separated our families for so many years. The prince of Bozrah arrived here last night. He left Bozrah without taking leave of his father the king. He has heard of your daughter; and from the description of her beauty which he has received, he has become so enamoured of her, that he is resolved to ask her in marriage. He wishes me to arrange the marriage,--a task which is the more agreeable to me, as it will be the means of reconciling us." "I am astounded," replied Mouaffac, "that the prince of Bozrah should have condescended to confer upon me the honour of marrying my daughter; and that you of all men should be the chosen means of communicating this happiness to me, as you have always shown yourself so anxious to injure me." "Let us not speak of the past, friend Mouaffac," returned the cadi; "pray let all recollection of what we have done to annoy each other be obliterated in our happiness at the splendid connexion which is to unite your daughter with the prince of Bozrah; let us pass the remainder of our days in good fellowship." Mouaffac was naturally as good and confiding as the cadi was crafty and bad: he allowed himself to be deceived by the false expressions of friendship that his enemy displayed. He stifled his hatred in a moment, and received without distrust the perfidious caresses of the cadi. They were in the act of embracing each other, and pledging an inviolable friendship, when I entered the room, conducted by the aga. This officer, on my coming out of the bath, had clothed me with a beautiful dress, which he had ready, and a turban of Indian muslin, with a gold fringe that hung down to my ear, and altogether my appearance was such as fully to bear out the statements of the cadi. "Great prince," said the cadi as soon as he perceived me, "blessed be your feet, and your arrival in Bagdad, since it has pleased you to take up your abode with me. What tongue can express to you the gratitude I feel for so great an honour? Here is Mouaffac, whom I have informed of the object of your visit to this city. He consents to give you in marriage his daughter, who is as beautiful as a star." Mouaffac then made me a profound obeisance, saying, "O son of the mighty, I am overwhelmed with the honour you are willing to confer upon my daughter; she would esteem herself sufficiently honoured in being made a slave to one of the princesses of your harem." Judge of the astonishment that this discourse caused me. I knew not what to answer. I saluted Mouaffac without speaking; but the cadi, perceiving my embarrassment, and fearing lest I should make some reply which would destroy his plot, instantly took up the conversation. "I venture to submit," said he, "that the sooner the marriage contract is made in presence of the proper witnesses the better." So saying, he ordered his aga to go for the witnesses, and in the mean time drew up the contract himself. When the aga arrived with the witnesses, the contract was read before them. I signed it, then Mouaffac, and then the cadi, who attached his signature the last. The judge then dismissed the witnesses, and turning to Mouaffac said, "You know that with great people these affairs are not managed as with persons of humble rank. Besides, in this case you readily perceive that silence and despatch are necessary. Conduct this prince, then, to your house, for he is now your son-in-law; give speedy orders for the consummation of the marriage, and take care that every thing is arranged as becomes his exalted rank." I left the cadi's house with Mouaffac. We found two mules richly caparisoned awaiting us at the door; the judge insisted upon our mounting them with great ceremony. Mouaffac conducted me to his house; and when we were in the court-yard dismounted first, and with a respectful air presented himself to hold my stirrup,--a ceremony to which of course I was obliged to submit. He then took me by the hand and conducted me to his daughter, with whom he left me alone, after informing her of what had passed at the cadi's. Zemroude, persuaded that her father had espoused her to a prince of Bozrah, received me as a husband who would one day place her upon the throne,--and I, the happiest of men, passed the day at her feet, striving by tender and conciliating manners to inspire her with love for me. I soon perceived that my pains were not bestowed in vain, and that my youth and ardent affection produced a favourable impression upon her. With what rapture did this discovery fill me! I redoubled my efforts, and I had the gratification of remarking that each moment I made advances in her esteem. In the mean time Mouaffac had prepared a splendid repast to celebrate his daughter's nuptials, at which several members of his family were present. The bride appeared there more brilliant and more beautiful than the houris. The sentiments with which I had already inspired her, seemed to add new lustre to her beauty. The next morning I heard a knock at my chamber-door; I got up and opened it. There stood the black aga of the cadi carrying a large bundle of clothes. I thought that perhaps the cadi had sent robes of honour to my wife and myself, but I was deceived. "Sir adventurer," said the negro in a bantering tone, "the cadi sends his salutations, and begs you to return the dress he lent you yesterday to play the part of the prince of Bozrah in. I have brought you back your own old garment, and the rest of the tatters, which are more suited to your station than the other." I was astounded at the application; my eyes were opened, and I saw through the whole malicious scheme of the cadi. However, making a virtue of necessity, I gravely restored to the aga the robe and turban of his master, and retook my own old caftan, which was a mass of rags. Zemroude had heard part of the conversation; and seeing me covered with rags, "O heavens!" she exclaimed, "what is the meaning of this change, and what has that man been saying to you?" "My princess," I replied, "the cadi is a great rascal, but he is the dupe of his own malice. He thinks he has given you a beggar for a husband, a man born in the lowest grade, but you are, indeed, the wife of a prince, and my rank is in no way inferior to that of the husband, whose hand you fancy you have received. I am to the full the equal of the prince of Bozrah, for I am the only son of the king of Moussul, and am heir to the kingdom of the great Ben-Ortoc; my name is Al Abbas." I then related my history to her, without suppressing the least circumstance. When I had finished the recital, "My prince," said she, "even were you not the son of a great king, I should love you none the less; and, believe me, that if I am overjoyed to learn the circumstance of your exalted birth, it is but out of regard to my father, who is more dazzled by the honours of the world than I; my only ambition is to possess a husband who will love me alone, and not grieve me by giving me rivals." I did not fail to protest that I would love her, and her alone, all my life, with which assurance she appeared delighted. She then summoned one of her women, and ordered her to proceed with all speed and secrecy to a merchant's, and buy a dress, ready made, of the richest materials that could be procured. The slave who was charged with this commission acquitted herself in the most satisfactory manner. She returned speedily, bringing a magnificent dress and robe, and a turban of Indian muslin as handsome, even handsomer, than what I had worn the previous day, so that I found myself even more gorgeously dressed than on the occasion of my first interview with my father-in-law. "Well, my lord," said Zemroude, "do you think the cadi has much reason to be satisfied with his work? He thought to heap reproaches on my family, and he has bestowed upon it an imperishable honour. He thinks that we are now overwhelmed with shame. What will be his grief when he knows that he has conferred such a benefit upon his enemy? But before he is made aware of your birth, we must invent some means of punishing him for his wicked designs against us. I will take that task upon me. There is in this city a dyer, who has a daughter most frightfully ugly. I will not tell you further," she continued, checking herself. "I will not deprive you of the pleasure of the surprise. I shall only let you know that I have conceived a project which will drive the cadi nearly mad, and make him the laughingstock of the court and the city." She then dressed herself in plain clothes, and covering her face with a thick veil, asked my permission to go out, which I granted her. She went alone, repaired to the cadi's house, and placed herself in one corner of the hall, where the judge gave audience. He no sooner cast his eyes upon her, than he was struck with her majestic figure; he sent an officer to ask who she was, and what she desired. She answered that she was the daughter of an artisan in the town, and that she wished to speak to the cadi on important private business. The officer having borne her answer to the cadi, the judge made a sign to Zemroude to approach, and enter his private apartment, which was on one side of the court; she complied, making a low obeisance. When she entered the cadi's private apartment, she took her seat upon the sofa, and raised her veil. The cadi had followed her, and as he seated himself near her, was astonished at her beauty. "Well! my dear child," said he, patronizingly, "of what service can I be to you?" "My lord," she replied, "you, who have the power to make the laws obeyed, who dispense justice to rich and poor alike, listen, I pray you, to my complaint, and pity the unfortunate situation in which I am placed." "Explain yourself," replied the judge, already moved, "and I swear by my head and my eyes that I will do every thing that is possible, ay, and impossible, to serve you." "Know then, my lord," replied Zemroude, "that, notwithstanding the attractions which Heaven has bestowed upon me, I live in solitude and obscurity in a house, forbidden not only to men, but even to women, so that even the conversation of my own sex is denied me. Not that advantageous proposals were at one time wanting for my hand; I should have been married long ago, if my father had not had the cruelty to refuse me to all who have asked me in marriage. To one he says, I am as withered as a dead tree; to another, that I am bloated with unnatural fat; to this one, that I am lame, and have lost the use of my hands; to that one, that I have lost my senses, that I have a cancer on my back, that I am dropsical; in fact, he wishes to make me out a creature not worthy the society of human beings, and has so decried me, that he has at length succeeded in making me the reproach of the human race; nobody inquires about me now, and I am condemned to perpetual celibacy." When she ceased speaking she pretended to weep, and played her part so well that the judge allowed himself to be deceived. "What can be the reason, my angel," said he, "that your father prevents your marrying? What can his motive be?" "I know not, my lord," replied Zemroude; "I cannot conceive what his intentions can be; but I confess my patience is exhausted. I can no longer live in this state. I have found means to leave home, and I have escaped to throw myself into your arms, and to implore your help; take pity on me, I implore you, and interpose your authority, that justice may be done to me, otherwise I will not answer for my life." "No, no," replied he, "you shall not die, neither shall you waste your youth in tears and sighs. It only remains with yourself to quit the darkness in which your perfections are buried, and to become this very day the wife of the cadi of Bagdad. Yes, lovely creature, more fair than the houris, I am ready to marry you, if you will consent." "My lord," replied the lady, "even were not your station one of the most dignified and honourable in the city, I could have no objection to give you my hand, for you appear to be one of the most amiable of men; but I fear that you will not be able to obtain the consent of my father, notwithstanding the honour of the alliance." "Don't trouble yourself upon that point," replied the judge, "I will pledge myself as to the issue; only tell me in what street your father lives, what his name is, and what his profession." "His name is Ousta Omar," replied Zemroude; "he is a dyer, he lives upon the eastern quay of the Tigris, and in front of his door is a palm-tree laden with dates." "That is enough," said the cadi; "you can return home now; you shall soon hear from me, depend upon my word." The lady, after bestowing a gracious smile upon him, covered her face again with her veil, left the private chamber, and returned to me. "We shall be revenged," she said, laughing gaily; "our enemy, who thought to make us the sport of the people, will himself become so." The judge had scarcely lost sight of Zemroude, ere he sent an officer to Ousta Omar, who was at home. "You are to come to the cadi," said the man, "he desires to speak with you, and he commanded me to bring you before him." The dyer grew pale at these words, he thought that some one had lodged a complaint against him before the judge, and that it was on that account the officer had come to fetch him. He rose, however, and followed in silence, but in great uneasiness. As soon as he appeared before the cadi, the judge ordered him into the same chamber where he had had the interview with Zemroude, and made him sit upon the same sofa. The artisan was so astonished at the honour paid him, that he changed colour several times. "Master Omar," said the cadi, "I am glad to see you; I have heard you spoken very well of this long time past. I am informed that you are a man of good character, that you regularly say your prayers five times a day, and that you never fail to attend the great mosque on Friday; besides, I know that you never eat pork, and never drink wine nor date-spirits; in fact, that whilst you are at work one of your apprentices reads the Koran." "That is true," replied the dyer; "I know above four thousand _hadits_ (sayings of Mahomet), and I am making preparations for a pilgrimage to Mecca." "I assure you," replied the cadi, "that all this gives me the greatest pleasure, for I passionately love all good mussulmen. I am also informed that you keep concealed at home a daughter of an age to marry; is that true?" "Great judge," answered Ousta Omar, "whose palace serves as a haven and refuge for the unfortunate who are tossed about by the storms of the world, they have told you true. I have a daughter who is old enough, in all conscience, to be married, for she is more than thirty years old; but the poor creature is not fit to be presented to a man, much less to so great a man as the cadi of Bagdad; she is ugly, or rather frightful, lame, covered with blotches, an idiot; in a word, she is a monster whom I cannot take too much pains to hide from the world." "Indeed," said the cadi, "that is what I expected, master Omar. I was certain that you would thus praise your daughter; but know, my friend, that this blotchy, idiotic, lame, frightful person, in short, this monster, with all her defects, is loved to distraction by a man who desires her for his wife, and that man is myself." At this speech the dyer seemed to doubt whether he were awake; he pinched himself, rubbed his eyes, and then looking the cadi full in the face, said, "If my lord, the cadi, wishes to be merry, he is master; he may make a jest of my child as much as he pleases." "No, no," replied the cadi, "I am not joking, I am in love with your daughter, and I ask her in marriage." The artisan at these words burst into a fit of laughter. "By the prophet," cried he, "somebody wants to give you something to take care of. I give you fair warning, my lord, that my daughter has lost the use of her hands, is lame, dropsical." "I know all about that," replied the judge, "I recognize her by her portrait. I have a peculiar liking for that sort of girls, they are my taste." "I tell you," insisted the dyer, "she is not a fit match for you. Her name is Cayfacattaddhari (the monster of the age), and I must confess that her name is well chosen." "Come, come!" replied the cadi, in an impatient and imperious tone, "this is enough, I am sick of all these objections. Master Omar, I ask you to give me this Cayfacattaddhari just as she is, so not another word." The dyer, seeing him determined to espouse his daughter, and more than ever persuaded that some person had made him fall in love with her upon false representations for fun, said to himself, "I must ask him a heavy _scherbeha_ (dowry): the amount may disgust him, and he will think no more of her." "My lord," said he, "I am prepared to obey you; but I will not part with Cayfacattaddhari unless you give me a dowry of a thousand golden sequins beforehand." "That is rather a large sum," said the cadi, "still I will pay it you." He immediately ordered a large bagful of sequins to be brought, a thousand were counted out, which the dyer took after weighing them, and the judge then ordered the marriage contract to be drawn out. When, moreover, it was ready for signature, the artisan protested that he would not sign it except in the presence of a hundred lawyers at least. "You are very distrustful," said the cadi; "but never mind, I will satisfy your wishes, for I don't intend to let your daughter slip through my fingers." He thereupon sent immediately for all the neighbouring doctors, alfayins, mollahs, persons connected with the mosques and courts of law, of whom far more crowded in than the dyer required. When all the witnesses had arrived at the cadi's, Ousta Omar spoke thus, "My lord cadi, I give you my daughter in marriage, since you absolutely require me to do so; but I declare before all these gentlemen that it is on condition, that if you are not satisfied with her when you see her, and you wish afterwards to repudiate her, you will give her a thousand gold sequins, such as I have received from you." "Well! so be it," replied the cadi, "I promise it before all this assembly. Art thou content?" The dyer replied in the affirmative, and departed, saying that he would send the bride. He had scarcely left the house before the enamoured judge gave orders to have an apartment furnished in the most splendid manner to receive his new bride. Velvet carpets were laid down, new draperies hung up, and sofas of silver brocade placed round the walls, whilst several braziers perfumed the chamber with delicious scents. All was at length in readiness, and the cadi impatiently awaited the arrival of Cayfacattaddhari. The fair bride, however, not making her appearance so speedily as his eagerness expected, he called his faithful aga, and said, "The lovely object of my affections ought to be here by this time, I think. What can detain her so long at her father's? How slow the moments appear which retard my happiness!" At length his impatience could brook no longer delay, and he was on the point of sending the aga to Ousta Omar's, when a porter arrived carrying a deal case covered with green taffeta. "What hast thou got there, my friend," inquired the judge. "My lord," replied the porter, placing the box on the ground, "it is your bride; you have only to take off the covering and you will see what she is like." The cadi removed the cloth and saw a girl three feet and a half high: she had a lank visage covered with blotches, eyes sunk deep in their sockets and as red as fire, not the least vestige of a nose, but above her mouth two horrid wide nostrils like those of a crocodile. He could not look at this object without horror; he hastily replaced the cover, and, turning to the porter, cried, "What am I to do with this miserable creature?" "My lord," replied the porter, "it is the daughter of master Omar, the dyer, who told me you had married her from choice." "Merciful heavens!" exclaimed the cadi, "is it possible to marry such a monster as that?" At that moment the dyer, who had foreseen the surprise of the judge, arrived. "Wretch," said the cadi, "what dost thou take me for? Thou certainly hast an amazing amount of impudence to dare to play me such a trick as this. Dost thou dare thus to treat me who have it in my power to revenge myself on my enemies; me who, when I please, can put the like of thee in fetters? Dread my wrath, wretch! Instead of the hideous monster which thou hast sent me, give me instantly thy other daughter, whose beauty is unparalleled, or thou shalt experience what an angry cadi can do!" "My lord," replied Omar, "spare your threats, I beg, and don't be angry with me. I swear by the Creator of the light that I have no other daughter but this. I told you a thousand times that she would not suit you; you would not believe--whose fault is it?" The cadi at these words felt his soul sink within him, and said to the dyer, "Master Omar, a damsel of the most exquisite loveliness came here this morning and told me that you were her father, and that you represented her to the world as a perfect monster, indeed so much so, that no one would ask her in marriage." "My lord," returned the dyer, "that girl must have been playing you a trick; you must have some enemy." The cadi bent his head on his bosom, and remained some time in deep thought. "It is a misfortune that was destined to befal me; let us say no more about it; have your daughter taken back home; keep the thousand sequins you have got, but don't ask for any more, if you wish us to be friends." Although the judge had sworn before witnesses that he would give a thousand sequins more if Omar's daughter did not please him, the artisan did not dare to endeavour to compel him to keep his word, for he knew him to be a most vindictive man, and one who would easily find an opportunity of revenging himself upon any one he disliked, and was, of course, afraid to offend him. He thought it better to be content with what he had received. "My lord," said he, "I will obey you, and relieve you of my daughter, but you must, if you please, divorce her first." "Oh! true," said the cadi; "I have not the least objection; be assured that shall soon be done." Accordingly, he instantly sent for his naib, and the divorce was made out in due form, after which master Omar took leave of the judge, and ordered the porter to bear the wretched Cayfacattaddhari back home. This adventure was speedily noised all over the city. Every body laughed at it, and warmly applauded the trick which had been played upon the cadi, who could not escape the ridicule in which the whole city indulged at his expense. We carried our revenge still further. By Mouaffac's advice, I presented myself before the prince of the faithful, to whom I told my name and related my story. I did not suppress, as you may imagine, the circumstances which put the malice of the cadi in so strong a light. The caliph, after listening to me with the greatest attention, received me very graciously. "Prince," said he, "why did you not come at once to me? Doubtless you were ashamed of your condition, but you might, without a blush, have presented yourself before my face, even in your wretched state. Does it depend upon men themselves to be happy or unhappy? Is it not Allah that spins the thread of our destiny? Ought you to have feared an ungracious reception? No! You know that I love and esteem king Ben-Ortoc, your father; my court was a safe asylum for you." The caliph embraced me, and conferred on me a _gulute_ (robe of honour) and a beautiful diamond which he wore on his finger. He regaled me with excellent sherbet, and when I returned to my father-in-law's house, I found six large bales of Persian brocade, gold and silver, two pieces of damask, and a beautiful Persian horse richly caparisoned. In addition, he reinstated Mouaffac in the government of Bagdad; and as to the cadi, by way of punishment for his malicious attempt to deceive Zemroude and her father, he deposed him, and condemned him to perpetual imprisonment, and, to crown his misery, ordered him as a companion in his confinement the daughter of Ousta Omar. A few days after my marriage, I sent a courier to Moussul, to inform my father of all that had happened to me since my departure from his court, and to assure him that I would return shortly, with the lady whom I had married. I waited most impatiently for the return of the courier; but, alas! he brought me back news which deeply afflicted me. He informed me that Ben-Ortoc having heard that four thousand Bedouin Arabs had attacked me, and that my escort had been cut to pieces, persuaded that I no longer lived, took my supposed death so much to heart that he died; that prince Amadeddin Zingui, my cousin-german, occupied the throne; that he reigned with equity; and that, nevertheless, although he was generally beloved, the people no sooner learned that I was still alive, than they gave themselves up to the greatest joy. Prince Amadeddin himself, in a letter which the courier placed in my hands, assured me of his fidelity, and expressed his impatience for my return, in order that he might restore the crown to me, and become the first subject in my dominions. This news decided me to hasten my return to Moussul. I took my leave of the prince of the faithful, who ordered a detachment of three thousand cavalry of his own guard to escort me to my kingdom, and, after embracing Mouaffac and his wife, I departed from Bagdad with my beloved Zemroude, who would almost have died of grief at the separation from her parents, if her love for me had not somewhat moderated the violence of her sorrow. About halfway between Bagdad and Moussul, the vanguard of my escort discovered a body of troops marching towards us. Concluding at once that it was a body of Bedouin Arabs, I immediately drew up my men, and was fully prepared for the attack, when my scouts brought me word, that those whom we had taken for robbers and enemies were, in fact, troops from Moussul, who had set out to meet me, with Amadeddin at their head. This prince, on his part, having learned who we were, left his little army to meet me, accompanied by the principal nobles of Moussul. When he reached the spot where I was awaiting him, he addressed me in the same tone in which his letter had been couched, submissively and respectfully, whilst all the nobles who accompanied him assured me of their zeal and fidelity. I thought it my duty to show my entire confidence in them, by dismissing the soldiers of the caliph's guard. I had no reason to repent of this step; far from being capable of forming any treacherous design, prince Amadeddin did all in his power to give me proofs of his attachment. When we came to Moussul, our safe and auspicious arrival was celebrated by gifts to the mosques, abundant alms to the poor, fêtes, and an illumination of the palace gardens with lamps of a thousand different colours. The people in general testified the delight they felt at my return by acclamations, and for a space of three days gave themselves up entirely to great rejoicings. The booths of the itinerant merchants, and the bazaars, were hung within and without with draperies, and at night they were lit up by lamps, which formed the letters of a verse of the Koran, so that every shop having its particular verse, this holy book was to be read entire in the city; and it appeared as though the angel Gabriel had brought it a second time in letters of light to our great prophet. In addition to this pious illumination, before each shop were placed large dishes, plates of pillau, of all sorts of colours, in the form of pyramids, and huge bowls of sherbet and pomegranate juice, for the passers-by to eat and drink at pleasure. In all the cross streets were to be seen dancers, displaying their graceful evolutions to the sounds of drums, lutes, and tambourines. The different trades formed a procession, consisting of cars decorated with tinsel and many-coloured flags, and with the tools used in their trades; and after traversing the principal streets, defiled to the music of pipes, cymbals, and trumpets, before my balcony, where Zemroude was sitting by my side, and after saluting us, shouted at the top of their voices, "Blessing and health to thee, Apostle of God, God give the king victory." It was not enough for me to share these honours with the daughter of Mouaffac, my study was to find out every thing that would afford her any pleasure. I caused her apartments to be adorned with every thing most rare and pleasing to the sight. Her suite was composed of twenty-five young Circassian ladies, slaves in my father's harem; some sang and played the lute exquisitely, others excelled on the harp, and the rest danced with the greatest grace and lightness. I also gave her a black aga, with twelve eunuchs, who all possessed some talent which might contribute to her amusement. I reigned over faithful and devoted subjects; every day I loved Zemroude more and more, and she as ardently reciprocated my attachment. My days passed thus in perfect happiness, till one day a young dervise appeared at my court. He introduced himself to the principal nobles, and gained their friendship by his pleasing and agreeable manners, as well as by his wit and his happy and brilliant repartees. He accompanied them to the chase, he entered into all their gaieties, and was a constant guest at their parties of pleasure. Every day some of my courtiers spoke to me of him as a man of charming manners, so that at last they excited in me a desire to see and converse with the agreeable stranger. Far from finding his portrait overdrawn, he appeared to me even more accomplished than they had represented him. His conversation charmed me, and I was disabused of an error into which many persons of quality fall, namely, that men of wit and high sentiment are only to be met with at court. I experienced so much pleasure in the company of the dervise, and he seemed so well suited to manage affairs of the greatest importance, that I wished to appoint him my minister, but he thanked me, and told me he had made a vow never to accept any employment, that he preferred a free and independent life, that he despised honours and riches, and was content with what God, who cares for the lowest animals, should provide for him; in a word, he was content with his condition. I admired a man so much raised above worldly considerations, and conceived the greatest esteem for him; I received him with pleasure each time he presented himself at court; if he was among the crowd of courtiers my eyes sought him out, and to him I most frequently addressed myself; I insensibly became so attached to him, that I made him my exclusive favourite. One day during a hunt, I had strayed from the main body of my followers, and the dervise was alone with me. He began by relating his travels, for although young he had travelled extensively. He spoke of several curious things he had seen in India, and, amongst others, of an old Bramin whom he knew. "This great man," said he, "knew an infinity of secrets, each more extraordinary than the former. Nature had no mystery but what he could fathom. He died in my arms," said the dervise, "but as he loved me, before he expired he said, 'My son, I wish to teach you a secret by which you may remember me, but it is on condition that you reveal it to no one.' I promised to keep it inviolate, and on the faith of my promise he taught me the secret." "Indeed!" said I, "what is the nature of the secret? Is it the secret of making gold?" "No, sire," replied he, "it is a greater and much more precious secret than that. It is the power of reanimating a dead body. Not that I can restore the same soul to the body it has left, Heaven alone can perform that miracle; but I can cause my soul to enter into a body deprived of life, and I will prove it to your highness whenever you shall please." "Most willingly!" said I, "now, if you please." At that moment there passed by us most opportunely a doe; I let fly an arrow, which struck her, and she fell dead. "Now let me see," said I, "if you can reanimate this creature." "Sire," replied the dervise, "your curiosity shall soon be gratified; watch well what I am about to do." He had scarcely uttered these words, when I beheld with amazement his body fall suddenly without animation, and at the same moment I saw the doe rise with great nimbleness. I will leave you to judge of my surprise. Although there was no room left to doubt what I beheld, I could hardly believe the evidence of my senses. The creature, however, came to me, fondled me, and after making several bounds, fell dead again, and immediately the body of the dervise, which lay stretched at my feet, became reanimated. I was delighted at so wonderful a secret, and entreated the dervise to impart it to me. [Illustration: The Dervise and the Prince, p. 91.] "Sire," said he, "I deeply regret that I cannot comply with your desire; for I promised the dying Bramin not to disclose it to any one, and I am a slave to my word." The more the dervise excused himself from satisfying my wishes, the more did I feel my curiosity excited. "In the name of Allah," said I, "do not refuse to comply with my entreaties. I promise thee never to divulge the secret, and I swear by Him who created us both never to employ it to a bad purpose." The dervise considered a moment, then turning to me said, "I cannot resist the wishes of a king whom I love more than my life; I will yield to your desire. It is true," added he, "that I only gave a simple promise to the Bramin. I did not bind myself by an inviolable oath. I will impart my secret to your highness. It consists only in remembering two words; it is sufficient to repeat them mentally to be able to reanimate a dead body." He then taught me the two magic words. I no sooner knew them, than I burned to test their power. I pronounced them, with the intention to make my soul pass into the body of the doe, and in a moment I found myself metamorphosed into the animal. But the delight I experienced at the success of the trial was soon converted into consternation; for no sooner had my spirit entered into the body of the doe, than the dervise caused his to pass into mine, and then suddenly drawing my bow, the traitor was on the point of shooting me with one of my own arrows, when, perceiving his intention, I took to flight, and by my speed just escaped the fatal shaft. Nevertheless, he let fly the arrow at me with so true an aim, that it just grazed my shoulder. I now beheld myself reduced to live with the beasts of the forests and mountains. Happier for me would it have been if I had resembled them more perfectly, and if in losing my human form, I had at the same time lost my power of reason. I should not then have been the prey to a thousand miserable reflections. Whilst I was deploring my misery in the forests, the dervise was occupying the throne of Moussul; and fearing that, as I possessed the secret as well as himself, I might find means to introduce myself into the palace, and take my revenge upon him, on the very day he usurped my place he ordered all the deer in the kingdom to be destroyed, wishing, as he said, to exterminate the whole species, which he mortally hated. Nay, so eager was he for my destruction, that the moment he returned from the hunting expedition, he again set out at the head of a large body of followers, intent upon the indiscriminate slaughter of all the deer they might meet. The people of Moussul, animated by the hope of gain, spread themselves all over the country with their bows and arrows; they scoured the forests, over-ran the mountains, and shot every stag and deer they met with. Happily, by this time I had nothing to fear from them; for, having seen a dead nightingale lying at the foot of a tree, I reanimated it, and under my new shape flew towards the palace of my enemy, and concealed myself among the thick foliage of a tree in the garden. This tree was not far from the apartments of the queen. There, thinking upon my misfortune, I poured forth in tender strains the melancholy that consumed me. It was one morning, as the sun rose, and already several birds, delighted to see its returning beams, expressed their joy by their minstrelsy. For my part, taken up with my griefs, I paid no attention to the brightness of the newborn day; but with my eyes sadly turned towards Zemroude's apartment, I poured forth so plaintive a song, that I attracted the attention of the princess, who came to the window. I continued my mournful notes in her presence, and I tried all the means in my power to render them more and more touching, as though I could make her comprehend the subject of my grief. But, alas! although she took pleasure in listening to me, I had the mortification to see, that instead of being moved by my piteous accents, she only laughed with one of her slaves, who had come to the window to listen to me. I did not leave the garden that day, nor for several following, and I took care to sing every morning at the same spot. Zemroude did not fail to come to the window; and at length, by the blessing of Providence, took a fancy to have me. One morning she said to her female attendants, "I wish that nightingale to be caught; let birdcatchers be sent for. I love that bird; I doat upon it; let them try every means to catch it, and bring it to me." The queen's orders were obeyed; expert birdcatchers were found, who laid traps for me, and, as I had no desire to escape, because I saw that their only object in depriving me of my liberty was to make me a slave to my princess, I allowed myself to be taken. The moment I was brought to her she took me in her hand, with every symptom of delight. "My darling," said she, caressing me, "my charming bul-bul, I will be thy rose; I already feel the greatest tenderness for thee." At these words she kissed me. I raised my beak softly to her lips. "Ah! the little rogue," cried she laughing, "he appears to know what I say." At last, after fondling me, she placed me in a gold filigree cage, which an eunuch had been sent into the city to buy for me. Every day as soon as she woke I began my song; and whenever she came to my cage to caress me or feed me, far from appearing wild, I spread out my wings, and stretched my beak towards her, to express my joy. She was surprised to see me so tame in so short a time. Sometimes she would take me out of the cage, and allow me to fly about her chamber. I always went to her to receive her caresses, and to lavish mine upon her; and if any of her slaves wished to take hold of me, I pecked at them with all my might. By these little insinuating ways I endeared myself so much to Zemroude, that she often said if by any mishap I were to die, she should be inconsolable, so strong was her attachment to me. Zemroude also had a little dog in her chamber, of which she was very fond. One day, when the dog and I were alone, it died. Its death suggested to me the idea of making a third experiment of the secret. "I will pass into the body of the dog," thought I, "for I wish to see what effect the death of her nightingale will produce upon the princess." I cannot tell what suggested the fancy, for I did not foresee what this new metamorphosis would lead to; but the thought appeared to me a suggestion of Heaven, and I followed it at all risks. When Zemroude returned to the room, her first care was to come to my cage. As soon as she perceived that the nightingale was dead, she uttered a shriek that brought all her slaves about her. "What ails you, madam?" said they in terrified accents. "Has any misfortune happened to you?" "I am in despair," replied the princess, weeping bitterly; "my nightingale is dead. My dear bird, my little husband, why art thou taken from, me so soon? I shall no more hear your sweet notes! I shall never see you again! What have I done to deserve such punishment from Heaven?" All the efforts of her women to console her were in vain. The dervise had just returned from his murderous expedition, and one of them ran to acquaint him with the state in which they had found the queen. He quickly came and told her that the death of a bird ought not to cause her so much grief; that the loss was not irreparable; that if she was so fond of nightingales, and wanted another, it was easy to get one. But all his reasoning was to no purpose, he could make no impression upon her. "Cease your endeavours," she exclaimed, "to combat my grief, you will never overcome it. I know it is a great weakness to mourn so for a bird, I am as fully persuaded of it as you can be, still I cannot bear up against the force of the blow that has overwhelmed me. I loved the little creature; he appeared sensible of the caresses I bestowed on him, and he returned them in a way that delighted me. If my women approached him, he exhibited ferocity, or rather disdain; whereas he always came eagerly on to my hand when I held it out to him. It appeared as though he felt affection for me, he looked at me in so tender and languishing a manner, that it almost seemed as though he was mortified that he had not the power of speech to express his feelings towards me. I could read it in his eyes. Ah! I shall never think of him without despair." As she finished speaking her tears gushed out afresh, and she seemed as if nothing could ever console her. I drew a favourable omen from the violence of her grief. I had laid myself down in a corner of the room, where I heard all that was said and observed all that passed without their noticing me. I had a presentiment that the dervise, in order to console the queen, would avail himself of the secret, and I was not disappointed. Finding the queen inaccessible to reason, and being deeply enamoured of her, he was moved by her tears, and instead of persevering in fruitless arguments, he ordered the queen's slaves to quit the room and leave him alone with her. "Madam," said he, thinking that no one overheard him, "since the death of your nightingale causes you so much sorrow, he must be brought to life. Do not grieve, you shall see him alive again; I pledge myself to restore him to you; to-morrow morning, when you wake, you shall hear him sing again, and you shall have the satisfaction of caressing him." "I understand you, my lord," said Zemroude; "you look upon me as crazed, and think that you must humour my sorrow; you would persuade me that I shall see my nightingale alive to-morrow; to-morrow you will postpone your miracle till the following day, and so on from one day to another; by this means you reckon on making me gradually forget my bird; or, perhaps," pursued she, "you intend to get another put in his place to deceive me." "No, my queen," replied the dervise, "no; it is that very bird which you see stretched out in his cage without life; this very nightingale, the enviable object of such poignant grief; it is that very bird himself that shall sing. I will give him new life, and you can again lavish your caresses upon him. He will better appreciate that delight, and you shall behold him still more anxious to please you, for it will be I myself who will be the object of your endearments; every morning I will myself be his fresh life in order to divert you. I can perform this miracle," continued he; "it is a secret I possess; if you have any doubts upon it, or if you are impatient to behold your favourite reanimated, I will cause him to revive now immediately." As the princess did not reply, he imagined from her silence that she was not fully persuaded he could accomplish what he professed; he seated himself on the sofa, and by virtue of the two cabalistic words left his body, or rather mine, and entered into that of the nightingale. The bird began to sing in its cage to the great amazement of Zemroude. But his song was not destined to continue long; for no sooner did he begin to warble than I quitted the body of the dog and hastened to retake my own. At the same time running to the cage, I dragged the bird out and wrung his neck. "What have you done, my lord?" cried the princess. "Why have you treated my nightingale thus? If you did not wish him to live, why did you restore him to life?" "I thank Heaven!" cried I, without paying any regard to what she said, so much were my thoughts taken up with the feeling of vengeance which possessed me at the treacherous conduct of the dervise, "I am satisfied. I have at length avenged myself on the villain whose execrable treason deserved a still greater punishment." If Zemroude was surprised to see her nightingale restored to life, she was not the less so to hear me utter these words with such fierce emotion. "My lord," said she, "whence this violent transport which agitates you, and what do those words mean which you have just spoken?" I related to her all that had happened to me, and she could not doubt that I was truly Al Abbas, because she had heard that the body of the dervise had been found in the forest, and she was also of course well acquainted with the order which he had given for destroying all the deer. But my poor princess could not recover the shock her sensitive love had sustained. A few days after she fell ill, and died in my arms, literally frightened to death by the imminence of the danger from which she had just been so happily rescued. After I had bewailed her, and erected a splendid tomb to her memory, I summoned the prince Amadeddin. "My cousin," said I, "I have no children, I resign the crown of Moussul in your favour. I give the kingdom up into your hands. I renounce the regal dignity, and wish to pass the rest of my days in repose and privacy." Amadeddin, who really loved me, spared no arguments to deter me from taking the step I proposed, but I assured him that nothing could shake my resolution. "Prince," said I, "my determination is fixed, I resign my rank to you. Fill the throne of Al Abbas, and may you be more happy than he. Reign over a people who know your merit, and have already experienced the blessings of your rule. Disgusted with pomp, I shall retire to distant climes, and live in privacy; there freed from the cares of state, I shall mourn over the memory of Zemroude, and recall the happy days we passed together." I left Amadeddin upon the throne of Moussul, and, accompanied only by a few slaves, and carrying an ample supply of riches and jewels, took the road to Bagdad, where I arrived safely. I immediately repaired to Mouaffac's house. His wife and he were not a little surprised to see me, and they were deeply affected when I informed them of the death of their daughter, whom they had tenderly loved. The recital unlocked the fountains of my own grief, and I mingled my tears with theirs. I did not stay long in Bagdad, I joined a caravan of pilgrims going to Mecca, and after paying my devotions, found, by chance, another company of pilgrims from Tartary, whom I accompanied to their native country. We arrived in this city; I found the place agreeable, and took up my abode here, where I have resided for nearly forty years. I am thought to be a stranger who was formerly concerned in trade, and whose time is now passed in study and contemplation. I lead a retired life, and rarely see strangers. Zemroude is ever present to my thoughts, and my only consolation consists in dwelling fondly upon her memory and her virtues. CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF PRINCE KHALAF AND THE PRINCESS OF CHINA. Al Abbas, having finished the recital of his adventures, thus addressed his guests: "Such is my history. You perceive by my misfortunes and your own, that human life is but as a reed, ever liable to be bent to the earth by the bleak blasts of misfortune. I will, however, confess to you that I have led a happy and quiet life ever since I have been in Jaic; and that I by no means repent having abdicated the throne of Moussul; for in the obscurity in which I now live, I have discovered peaceful and tranquil joys which I never experienced before." Timurtasch, Elmaze, and Khalaf bestowed a thousand flattering encomiums upon the son of Ben-Ortoc; the khan admired the resolution which had caused him to deprive himself of his kingdom, in order to live in privacy in a country of strangers, where the station which he had filled in the world was unknown. Elmaze praised the fidelity he displayed towards Zemroude, and the grief he experienced at her death. And Khalaf remarked, "My lord, it were to be wished that all men could display the same constancy in adversity which you have done, under your misfortunes." They continued their conversation till it was time to retire. Al Abbas then summoned his slaves, who brought wax-lights in candlesticks made of aloe-wood, and conducted the khan, the princess, and her son to a suite of apartments, where the same simplicity reigned that characterized the rest of the house. Elmaze and Timurtasch retired to sleep in a chamber appropriated to themselves, and Khalaf to another. The following morning their host entered the chamber of his guests as soon as they were up, and said, "You are not the only unfortunate persons in the world; I have just been informed that an ambassador from the sultan of Carisma arrived in the city last evening; that his master has sent him to Ileuge-Khan, to beg of him not only to refuse an asylum to the khan of the Nagäis, his enemy, but if the khan should endeavour to pass through his dominions, to arrest him. Indeed, it is reported," pursued Al Abbas, "that the unfortunate khan, for fear of falling into the hands of the sultan of Carisma, has left his capital and fled with his family." At this news, Timurtasch and Khalaf changed colour, and the princess fainted. The swoon of Elmaze, as well as the evident trouble of the father and son, instantly caused Al Abbas to suspect that his guests were not merchants. "I see," said he, as soon as the princess had recovered her senses, "that you take a deep interest in the misfortunes of the khan of the Nagäis; indeed, if I may be permitted to tell you what I think, I believe you are yourselves the objects of the sultan of Carisma's hatred." "Yes, my lord," replied Timurtasch, "we are, indeed, the victims for whose immolation he is thirsty. I am the khan of the Nagäis, you behold my wife and my son; we should, indeed, be ungrateful, if we did not discover our position to you, after your generous reception, and the confidence you have reposed in us. I am encouraged even to hope, that by your counsels you will aid us to escape from the danger which threatens us." "Your situation is most critical," replied the aged king of Moussul; "I know Ileuge-Khan well, and, as he fears the sultan of Carisma, I cannot doubt that, to please him, he will search for you every where. You will not be safe, either in my house or in any other in this city; the only resource left you, is to leave the country of Jaic as speedily as possible, cross the river Irtisch, and gain, with the utmost diligence, the frontiers of the tribe of the Berlas." This advice pleased Timurtasch, his wife, and son. Al Abbas had three horses instantly got ready, together with provisions for the journey, and giving them a purse filled with gold; "Start immediately," said he, "you have no time to lose, by to-morrow, no doubt, Ileuge-Khan will cause search to be made for you every where." They returned their heartfelt thanks to the aged monarch, and then quitted Jaic, crossed the Irtisch, and joining company with a camel-driver, who was travelling that way, arrived after several days' journey in the territories of the tribe of Berlas. They took up their quarters with the first horde they met, sold their horses, and lived quietly enough as long as their money lasted; but, as soon as it came to an end, the misery of the khan recommenced. "Why am I still in the world?" he began to exclaim. "Would it not have been better to have awaited my blood-thirsty foe in my own kingdom, and have died defending my capital, than to drag on a life which is only one continued scene of misery? It is in vain that we endure our misfortunes with patience; for, in spite of our submission to its decrees, Heaven will never restore us to happiness, but leaves us still the sport of misery." "My lord," replied Khalaf, "do not despair of our miseries coming to an end. Heaven, which decrees these events, is preparing for us, I doubt not, some relief which we cannot foresee. Let us proceed at once," added he, "to the principal horde of this tribe. I have a presentiment, that our fortunes will now assume a more favourable aspect." They all three proceeded accordingly to the horde with whom the khan of Berlas resided. They entered a large tent which served as a refuge for poor strangers. Here they laid themselves down, worn out with their journey, and at a loss at last to know how to obtain even the necessaries of life. Khalaf, however, quietly slipt out of the tent, leaving his father and mother there, and went through the horde, asking charity of the passers-by. By the evening he had collected a small sum of money, with which he bought some provisions, and carried them to his parents. When they learned that their son had actually solicited charity, they could not refrain from tears. Khalaf himself was moved by their grief, but cheerfully remarked, nevertheless, "I confess that nothing we have yet endured has appeared to me more mortifying than to be reduced to solicit alms; still, as at present I cannot procure you subsistence by any other means, is it not my duty to do it, in spite of the mortification it costs me? But," he added, as though struck with a sudden thought, "there is still another resource--sell me for a slave, and the money you will receive will last you a long time." "What do you say, my son?" cried Timurtasch, when he heard these words. "Can you propose to us that we should live at the expense of your liberty? Ah! rather let us endure for ever our present misery. But if it should come to this, that one of us must be sold, let it be myself; I do not refuse to bear the yoke of servitude for you both." "My lord," said Khalaf, "another thought strikes me; to-morrow morning I will take my station among the porters; some one may chance to employ me, and we may thus earn a living by my labour." They agreed to this, and the following day the prince stationed himself among the porters of the horde, and waited till some one should employ him; but unfortunately no one wanted him, so that half the day passed and he had not had a single job. This grieved him deeply. "If I am not more successful than this," thought he, "how am I to support my father and mother?" He grew tired of waiting among the porters on the chance of some person wanting his services. He went out of the encampment and strolled into the country, in order to turn over in his mind undisturbedly the best means of earning a livelihood. He sat down under a tree, where, after praying Heaven to have pity on his perplexity, he fell asleep. When he woke he saw near him a falcon of singular beauty: its head was adorned with a tuft of gaudy feathers, and from its neck hung a chain of gold filigree-work set with diamonds, topazes, and rubies. Khalaf, who understood falconry, held out his fist, and the bird alighted on it. The prince of the Nagäis was delighted at the circumstance. "Let us see," said he, "what this will lead to. This bird, from all appearance, belongs to the sovereign of the tribe." Nor was he wrong. It was the favourite falcon of Almguer, khan of Berlas, who had lost it the previous day. His principal huntsmen were engaged at that moment in searching every where for it with the greatest diligence and uneasiness, for their master had threatened them with the severest punishments if they returned without his bird, which he loved passionately. Prince Khalaf returned to the encampment with the falcon. As soon as the people of the horde saw it, they began to cry out, "Ha! here is the khan's falcon recovered. Blessings on the youth who will make our prince rejoice by restoring him his bird." And so it turned out, for when Khalaf arrived at the royal tent, and appeared with the falcon, the khan, transported with joy, ran to his bird and kissed it a thousand times. Then addressing the prince of the Nagäis, he asked him where he found it. Khalaf related how he had recovered the falcon. The khan then said to him, "Thou appearest to be a stranger amongst us; where wast thou born, and what is thy profession?" "My lord," replied Khalaf, prostrating himself at the khan's feet, "I am the son of a merchant of Bulgaria, who was possessed of great wealth. I was travelling with my father and mother in the country of Jaic, when we were attacked by robbers, who stripped us of every thing but our lives, and we have found our way to this encampment actually reduced to beg our bread." "Young man," replied the khan, "I am glad that it is thou who hast found my falcon; for I swore to grant to whomsoever should bring me my bird, whatever two things he might ask; so thou hast but to speak. Tell me what thou desirest me to grant thee, and doubt not that thou shalt obtain it." "Since I have permission to ask two things," returned Khalaf, "I request in the first place that my father and mother, who are in the strangers' tent, may have a tent to themselves in the quarter where your highness resides, and that they may be supported during the rest of their days at your highness's expense, and waited on by officers of your highness's household; secondly, I desire to have one of the best horses in your highness's stables and a purse full of gold, to enable me to make a journey which I have in contemplation." "Thy wishes shall be gratified," said Almguer; "thou shalt bring thy father and mother to me, and from this day forth I will begin to entertain them as thou desirest; and to-morrow, dressed in rich attire, and mounted on the best horse in my stables, thou shalt be at liberty to go wherever it shall please thee. Thy modesty, the filial love which is imprinted upon thy features, thy youth, thy noble air, please me; be my guest, come and join my festivities, and thou shalt listen to an Arabian story-teller, whose knowledge and imaginative powers instruct and amuse my tribes." The khan and the son of Timurtasch presently seated themselves at a table loaded with viands, confectionary, fruit, and flowers; gazelle venison, red-legged partridges, pheasants, and black cock were displayed as trophies of the skill of the hunter king. The Arab stationed near the khan awaited his orders. "Moustapha," said the khan at length, turning to the Arab, "I have been extolling thy knowledge and wit to my guest; surpass thyself, and let him see that I have not exaggerated. He shall give thee a subject; treat it in such a manner as to deserve his praise." "I am curious," said the prince, "to hear of China; I ask thee to instruct me concerning the government of that important kingdom, and to give me an insight into the manners and customs of its people." The Arab reflected a moment, and then, prefacing his recital with a few general remarks, proceeded to depict in glowing colours this celestial empire, whose civilization dates back to the remotest ages of the world. He described its extent as equal to one-half of the habitable globe; its population as so numerous that it might be counted by hundreds of millions; he spoke of cities, each of which alone brought a revenue to their crown, which surpassed that of entire kingdoms; of those gigantic works, the canals, whose extent equalled the course of the largest rivers, which traversed the vast empire. And he foretold that a time would come when Tartar warriors should scale that very wall which the terror of their arms had caused to be built, and should again reconquer the whole of that wealthy tract. He then began his story as follows. THE STORY OF LIN-IN. A CHINESE TALE. At Wou-si, a town dependent upon the city of Tchang-tcheou, in the province of Kiang-nan, there resided a family in the middle sphere of life. Three brothers composed the family; the name of the eldest was Lin-in (the jasper); the second Lin-pao (the precious); the youngest Lin-tchin (the pearl); this last was not yet old enough to marry; the other two had taken wives to themselves. The wife of the first was named Wang; the wife of the second Yang; and both possessed every grace which can constitute the charm of woman. Lin-pao's engrossing passions were gambling and wine; he evinced no inclination to good. His wife was of a similar disposition, and depraved in her conduct; she was very different from her sister-in-law Wang, who was a pattern of modesty and propriety. So although these two women lived together on neighbourly terms, there was but little real sympathy between them. Wang had a son named Hi-eul, that is to say, "the son of rejoicing." He was a child of six years old. One day having stopped in the street with some other children, to look at a great procession in the neighbourhood, he was lost in the crowd, and in the evening did not return to the house. This loss caused the deepest sorrow to his parents. They had handbills posted up, and there was not a street in which they did not make inquiries, but all to no purpose; they could gain no intelligence respecting their darling child. Lin-in was inconsolable; and giving way to the grief that overwhelmed him, he sought to fly from his home, where every thing brought back the remembrance of his dear Hi-eul. He borrowed a sum of money from one of his friends to enable him to carry on a small trade in the neighbourhood of the city and the adjacent villages, hoping that in one of these short excursions he might be able to recover the treasure he had lost. As his whole thoughts were taken up with his child, he took little pleasure in the circumstance that his trade flourished. He nevertheless continued to pursue it during five years, without making long journeys from home, whither he returned every year to spend the autumn. At length, being utterly unsuccessful in discovering the least trace of his son after so many years, and concluding that he was lost to him for ever, and finding moreover that his wife Wang bore him no more children, as he had now amassed a good sum of money, he determined to divert his thoughts from painful recollections by trading in another province. He joined the company of a rich merchant travelling the road he had fixed upon; and the merchant, having observed his aptitude for business, made him a very advantageous offer. The desire of becoming wealthy now took possession of him, and diverted his thoughts from their accustomed channel. Within a very short time after their arrival in the province of Chan-si every thing had succeeded to their utmost wishes. They found a quick sale for their merchandise, and the profits arising from it was considerable. The payments, however, were delayed for two years in consequence of a drought and famine which afflicted the country, as well as by a tedious illness by which Lin-in was attacked. They were detained altogether three years in the province; after which, having recovered his money and his health, he took his departure to return to his own country. He halted one day during his journey near a place named Tchin-lieou to recruit his strength, and strolling round the neighbourhood accidentally came upon a girdle of blue cloth, in the form of a long, narrow bag, such as is worn round the body, under the dress, and in which money is usually kept; as he took it up, he found the weight considerable. He retired to a quiet spot, opened the girdle, and found it contained about two hundred täels. At sight of this treasure he fell into the following train of reflection: "My good fortune has placed this sum in my hands; I might keep it and employ it for my own use without fearing any unpleasant consequences. Still the person who has dropt it, the moment he discovers his loss, will be in great distress, and will return in haste to look for it. Do they not say that our forefathers dared scarcely touch money found in this way; and if they picked it up, only did so with a view of restoring it to its owner? This appears to me a very praiseworthy custom, and I will imitate it, the more so as I am growing old and have no heir. Of what benefit would money got by such means be to me?" Whilst thus reasoning, he had wandered to some distance from the spot where he had found the money; he now, however, retraced his steps to the place, and waited there the whole day, to be ready in case the owner should return. Nobody came, however, and the next day he continued his journey. After five days' travelling, he arrived in the evening at Nan-sou-tcheou, and took up his quarters at an inn where several other merchants were staying. The conversation having turned upon the advantages of commerce, one of the company said, "Five days ago, on leaving Tchin-lieou, I lost two hundred täels, which I had in an inside girdle. I had taken it off, and placed it near me whilst I lay down to sleep, when a mandarin and his cortége chanced to pass by. I hastened to get out of the way for fear of insult, and in my hurry forgot to take up my money. It was only at night, as I was undressing to go to bed, that I discovered my loss. I felt sure that as the place where I lost my money was by the side of a well-frequented road, it would be useless to delay my journey for several days in order to look for what I should never find." Every one condoled with him on his loss. Lin-in asked him his name and place of abode. "Your servant," replied the merchant, "is named Tchin, and lives at Yang-tcheou, where he has a shop and a large warehouse. May I be so bold in return to inquire to whom I have the honour of speaking?" Lin-in told him his name, and said that he was an inhabitant of the town of Wou-si. "My shortest road there," added he, "lies through Yang-tcheou; and, if agreeable to you, I shall have much pleasure in your company so far." Tchin acknowledged this politeness in a becoming manner. "Most willingly," said he; "we will continue our journey together, and I esteem myself very fortunate in meeting with such an agreeable companion." The journey was not long, and they soon arrived at Yang-tcheou. After the usual civilities, Tchin invited his fellow-traveller to his house, and on their arrival there immediately ordered refreshments to be brought. Whilst they were discussing their meal, Lin-in managed to turn the conversation on the subject of the lost money. "What," he asked, "was the colour of the girdle which contained your money, and of what material was it made?" "It was of blue cloth," replied Tchin; "and what would enable me to identify it is, that at one end the letter Tchin, which is my name, is embroidered upon it in white silk." This description left no doubt as to the owner. Lin-in, therefore, rejoined in a cheerful tone, "If I have asked you all these questions, it was merely because passing through Tchin-lieou, I found a belt such as you describe." At the same time producing it, he added, "Look if this is yours." "The very same," said Tchin. Whereupon Lin-in politely restored it to its owner. Tchin, overwhelmed with gratitude, pressed him to accept the half of the sum which it contained; but his entreaties were in vain, Lin-in would receive nothing. "What obligations am I not under to you?" resumed Tchin; "where else should I find such honesty and generosity?" He then ordered a splendid repast to be brought, over which they pledged each other with great demonstrations of friendship. Tchin thought to himself, "Where should I find a man of such probity as Lin-in? Men of his character are very scarce in these days. What! shall I receive from him such an act of kindness, and not be able to repay him? I have a daughter twelve years old; I must form an alliance with such an honest man. But has he got a son? On this point I am entirely ignorant." "My dear friend," said he, "how old is your son?" This question brought tears into the eyes of Lin-in. "Alas!" replied he, "I had but one, who was most dear to me. It is now eight years ago since my child, having run out of the house to see a procession pass by, disappeared; and from that day to this I have never been able to learn any thing of him; and, to crown my misfortune, my wife has not borne me any more children." Upon hearing this, Tchin appeared to think for a moment, then, continuing the conversation, said, "My brother and benefactor, of what age was the child when you lost him?" "About six years old," replied Lin-in. "What was his name?" "We called him Hi-eul," returned Lin-in. "He had escaped all the dangers of the small-pox which had left no traces upon his countenance; his complexion was clear and florid." This description gave the greatest pleasure to Tchin, and he could not prevent his satisfaction from displaying itself in his looks and manner. He immediately called one of his servants, to whom he whispered a few words. The servant, having made a gesture of obedience, retired into the interior of the house. Lin-in, struck by the questions, and the joy which lit up the countenance of his host, was forming all sorts of conjectures, when he saw a youth of about fourteen years of age enter the room. He was dressed in a long gown, with a plain though neat jacket. His graceful form, his air and carriage, his face with its regular features, and his quick and piercing eyes, and finely arched black eyebrows, at once engaged the admiration and riveted the attention of Lin-in. As soon as the youth saw the stranger seated at table, he turned towards him, made a low bow, and uttered some respectful words; then approaching Tchin, and standing modestly before him, he said in a sweet and pleasing tone, "My father, you have called Hi-eul; what are you pleased to command?" "I will tell you presently," replied Tchin, "in the mean time stand beside me." The name of Hi-eul, by which the youth called himself, excited fresh suspicions in the breast of Lin-in. A secret sympathy suddenly forced itself upon him; and by one of those wonderful instincts of nature which are so unerring, recalled to his recollection the image of his lost child, his form, his face, his air, and manners; he beheld them all in the youth before him. There was but one circumstance that made him doubt the truth of his conjectures, and that was his addressing Tchin by the name of 'father.' He felt it would be rude to ask Tchin if the youth really were his son; perhaps he might truly be so, for it was not impossible that there might be two children bearing the same name, and in many respects resembling each other. Lin-in, absorbed in these reflections, paid little attention to the good cheer placed before him. Tchin could read on the countenance of Lin-in the perplexing thoughts that filled his mind. An indescribable charm seemed to attract him irresistibly towards the youth. He kept his eyes constantly fixed upon him, he could not turn them away. Hi-eul, on his part, despite his bashfulness and the timidity natural to his age, could not help gazing intently upon Lin-in; it seemed as though nature was revealing his father to him. At length Lin-in, no longer master of his feelings, suddenly broke the silence, and asked Tchin if the youth really was his son. "I am not," replied Tchin, "really his father, although I look upon him as my own child. Eight years ago, a man passing through this city, leading this child in his hand, addressed me by chance, and begged me to assist him in his great need. 'My wife,' said he, 'is dead, and has left me with this child. The impoverished state of my affairs has compelled me to leave my native place, and go to Hoaingan to my relations, from whom I hope to receive a sum of money, to enable me to set up in business again. I have not wherewith to continue my journey to that town, will you be so charitable as to lend me three täels? I will faithfully restore them on my return, and I will leave as a pledge all that I hold most dear in the world, my only son; I shall no sooner reach Hoaingan, than I will return and redeem my dear child.' "I felt gratified by this mark of confidence, and I gave him the sum he asked. As he left me he burst into tears, and gave every evidence of the grief he felt in leaving his child. I was, however, surprised that the child did not exhibit the least emotion at the separation; as, however, time wore on, and the pretended father did not return, suspicions began to rise, which I was anxious to set at rest. I called the child, and by various questions I put to him, learned that he was born in Wou-si, that having one day run out to see a procession pass by, he had strayed too far from home, and lost his way, and that he had been trepanned and carried off by a stranger. He also told me the name of his father and mother; indeed, it is that of your own family. I thus discovered that the fellow, so far from being the father of the poor child, was the identical rascal who had carried him off. Not only was my compassion excited, but the boy's pleasing manners had entirely won my heart; I treated him from that time as one of my own children, and I sent him to college with my own son, to study with him. I have often entertained the plan of going to Wou-si, to inquire after his family. But business of some kind always prevented me from undertaking the journey, of which, however, I had never fully relinquished the idea; when, happily, a few moments ago, you chanced in the course of conversation to mention your son, my suspicions were aroused, and upon the extraordinary coincidence of your tale, and the circumstances of which I was acquainted, I sent for your child to see if you would recognize him." At these words Hi-eul wept for joy, and his tears caused those of Lin-in to flow copiously. "A peculiar mark," said he, "will prove his identity; a little above the left knee you will find a small black spot, which has been there from his birth." Hi-eul pulled up the leg of his trouser, and showed the spot in question. Lin-in, on seeing it, threw himself upon the neck of the child, covered him with kisses, and folded him in his arms. "My child," cried he, "my dear child, what happiness for your father to find you after so many years' absence." It is not difficult to conceive to what transports of joy the father and son delivered themselves up, during these first moments of pleasure. After a thousand tender embraces, Lin-in at length tore himself from the arms of his son, and made a profound obeisance to Tchin. "What gratitude do I not owe you," said he, "for having received my son into your house, and brought up this dear portion of myself with so much care. But for you we should never have been united." "My kind benefactor," replied Tchin, rising, "it was the act of disinterested generosity you practised towards me, in restoring the two hundred täels, which moved the compassion of Heaven. It is Heaven that conducted you to my house, where you have found him whom you sought in vain for so many years. Now that I know that good youth is your son, I regret that I have not treated him with greater consideration." "Kneel, my son," said Lin-in, "and thank your generous benefactor." Tchin was about to return these salutations, when Lin-in himself prevented him, overcome with this excess of respect. This interchange of civilities being over they resumed their seats, and Tchin placed little Hi-eul on a seat by his father's side. Then Tchin resuming the conversation, said, "My brother (for henceforth that is the title by which I shall address you), I have a daughter twelve years of age, and it is my intention to give her in marriage to your son, in order that the union may cement our friendship more closely." This proposition was made in so sincere and ardent a manner, that Lin-in did not feel it right to make the usual excuses that good breeding prescribed. He therefore waived all ceremony, and gave his consent at once. As it was growing late, they separated for the night. Hi-eul slept in the same chamber with his father. You may imagine all the tender and affectionate conversation that passed between them during the night. The next day Lin-in prepared to take leave of his host, but he could not resist his pressing invitation to remain. Tchin had prepared a second day's festivity, in which he spared no expense to regale the future father-in-law of his daughter, and his new son-in-law, and thereby to console himself for their departure. They drank and sang, and gave themselves up fully to the hilarity of the occasion. When the repast was ended, Tchin drew out a packet of twenty täels, and looking towards Lin-in, said, "During the time my dear son-in-law has been with me, it is possible he may have suffered many things against my wish, and unknown to me; here is a little present I wish to make him, until I can give him more substantial proofs of my affection. I will not hear of a refusal." "What!" replied Lin-in, "at a time when I am contracting an alliance so honourable to me, and when I ought, according to custom, to make marriage presents for my son, presents which I am prevented from doing at this moment, only because I am travelling, do you load me with gifts? I cannot accept them; the thought covers me with confusion." "Well!" replied Tchin, "I am not dreaming of offering _you_ such a trifle. It is for my son-in-law, not the father-in-law of my daughter, that I intend this present. Indeed, if you persist in the refusal, I shall consider it as a sign that the alliance is not agreeable to you." Lin-in saw that he must yield, and that resistance would be useless. He humbly accepted the present, and making his son rise from table, ordered him to make a profound reverence to Tchin. "What I have given you," said Tchin, raising him up, "is but a trifle, and deserves no thanks." Hi-eul then went into the house to pay his respects to his mother-in-law. The whole day passed in feasting and diversions; it was only at night that they separated. When Lin-in retired to his chamber, he gave himself up entirely to the reflections to which these events gave rise. "It must be confessed," cried he, "that by restoring the two hundred täels, I have done an action pleasing to Heaven, and now I am rewarded by the happiness of finding my child, and contracting so honourable an alliance. This is, indeed, joy upon joy; it is like putting gold flowers upon a beautiful piece of silk. How can I be sufficiently grateful for so many favours? Here are the twenty täels that my friend Tchin has given me; can I do better than employ them towards the maintenance of some virtuous bonzes? It will be sowing them in a soil of blessings." The next day, after breakfast, the father and son got ready their luggage, and took leave of their host; they proceeded to the quay, hired a boat, and commenced their journey. They had scarcely gone half a league, ere they came in sight of a scene of terrible excitement; the river was full of struggling people, whose cries rent the air. A bark, full of passengers, had just sunk, and the cries of the unfortunate creatures for help were heart-rending! The people on the shore called loudly to several small boats which were near to come to the rescue. But the hard-hearted and selfish boatmen demanded that a good sum should be guaranteed them, before they would bestir themselves. At this critical moment Lin-in's boat came up. The moment he perceived what was going on, he said to himself: "It is a much more meritorious action to save the life of a man, than to adorn the temples and support bonzes. Let us consecrate the twenty täels to this good work; let us succour these poor drowning souls." He instantly proclaimed that he would give the twenty täels amongst those who would take the drowning men into their boats. At this offer all the boatmen crowded towards the scene of the disaster, and the river was, in a moment, covered with their boats; at the same time, some of the spectators on shore, who knew how to swim, threw themselves into the water, and, in a few moments, all were saved, without exception. Lin-in then distributed amongst the boatmen the promised reward. The poor creatures, snatched from a watery grave, came in a body to return thanks to their preserver. One amongst them, having looked attentively at Lin-in, suddenly cried out, "What! is that you, my eldest brother? By what good luck do I find you here?" Lin-in, turning towards him, recognized his youngest brother, Lin-tchin. Then, transported with joy, he exclaimed, clasping his hands, "O wonderful circumstance! Heaven has led me hither to save my brother's life." He instantly reached out his hand to him, and made him come into his boat, helped him off with his wet clothes, and gave him others. As soon as Lin-tchin had sufficiently recovered, he paid the respects due to an elder brother which good breeding demands from a younger, and Lin-in, having acknowledged his politeness, called Hi-eul, who was in the cabin, to come and salute his uncle; he then recounted all his adventures, which threw Lin-tchin into a state of amazement, from which he was a long time in recovering. "But tell me," said Lin-in, at length, "your motive in coming to this country." "It is not possible," replied Lin-tchin, "to tell you in a few words the reason of my travels. In the course of the three years which have elapsed since your departure from home, the melancholy news of your death from illness reached us. My second brother made every inquiry, and assured himself that the report was true. It was a thunderbolt for my sister-in-law; she was inconsolable, and put on the deepest mourning. For my part, I could not give credit to the report. After a few days had elapsed, my second brother tried all in his power to induce my sister-in-law to contract a fresh marriage. She, however, steadily rejected the proposal; at length she prevailed upon me to make a journey to Chan-si, to ascertain upon the spot what had become of you; and, when I least expected it, at the point of perishing in the water, the very person I was in search of, my well-beloved brother, has saved my life. Is not this unexpected good fortune, a blessing from Heaven? But believe me, my brother, there is no time to be lost; make all possible haste to return home, and to put an end to my sister-in-law's grief. The least delay may cause an irreparable misfortune." Lin-in, overwhelmed at this news, sent for the captain of the boat, and, although it was late, ordered him to set sail, and continue the voyage during the night. Whilst all these events were happening to Lin-in, Wang, his wife, was a prey to the most poignant grief. A thousand circumstances led her to suspect that her husband was not dead; but Lin-pao, who by that reported death became the head of the family, so positively assured her that it was true, that, at last, she had allowed herself to be persuaded into that belief, and had assumed the widow's weeds. Lin-pao possessed a bad heart, and was capable of the most unworthy acts. "I have no doubt," said he, "of my elder brother's death. My sister-in-law is young and handsome; she has, besides, no one to support her; I must force her to marry again, and I shall make money by this means." He thereupon communicated his plan to Yang, his wife, and ordered her to employ some clever matchmaker. But Wang resolutely rejected the proposal; she vowed that she would remain a widow, and honour the memory of her husband by her widowhood. Her brother-in-law, Lin-tchin, supported her in her resolution. Thus all the artifices which Lin-pao and his wife employed were useless; and, as every time they urged her on the subject it occurred to her that they had no positive proof of his death, "I am determined," said she, at length, "to know the truth; these reports are often false; it is only on the very spot that certain information can be obtained. True, the distance is nearly a hundred leagues. Still, I know that Lin-tchin is a good-hearted man; he will travel to the province of Chan-si to relieve my anxiety, and learn positively if I am so unfortunate as to have lost my husband; and, if I have, he will, at least, bring me his precious remains." Lin-tchin was asked to undertake the journey, and, without a moment's hesitation, departed. His absence, however, only rendered Lin-pao more eager in the pursuit of his project. To crown the whole, he had gambled very deeply, and, having been a heavy loser, was at his wit's end to know where to obtain money. In this state of embarrassment, he met with a merchant of Kiang-si, who had just lost his wife, and was looking for another. Lin-pao seized upon the opportunity, and proposed his sister-in-law to him. The merchant accepted the offer, taking care, however, to make secret inquiries whether the lady who was proposed to him was young and good-looking. As soon as he was satisfied on these points, he lost no time, and paid down thirty täels to clinch the bargain. Lin-pao, having taken the money, said to the merchant, "I ought to warn you, that my sister-in-law is proud and haughty. She will raise many objections to leaving the house, and you will have a great deal of trouble to force her to do it. Now this will be your best plan for managing it. This evening, as soon as it gets dark, have a palanquin and good strong bearers in readiness; come with as little noise as possible, and present yourself at the door of the house. The young woman who will come to the door, attired in the head-dress of mourners, is my sister-in-law; don't say a word to her, and don't listen to what she may say, but seize her at once, thrust her into your palanquin, carry her to your boat, and set sail at once." This plan met with the approbation of the merchant, and its execution appeared easy enough of accomplishment. In the mean time, Lin-pao returned home, and, in order to prevent his sister-in-law from suspecting any thing of the project he had planned, he assumed an air of the most perfect indifference, but as soon as she left the room, he communicated his plans to his wife, and, alluding to his sister-in-law, in a contemptuous manner, said, "That two-legged piece of goods must leave this house to-night. However, not to be a witness of her tears and sighs, I shall go out beforehand, and, as it gets dark, a merchant of Kiang-si will come, and take her away in a palanquin to his boat." He would have continued the conversation, when he heard the footsteps of some person outside the window, and went hurriedly away. In his haste he forgot to mention the circumstance of the mourning dress. It was doubtless an interposition of Providence that this circumstance was omitted. The lady Wang easily perceived that the noise she made outside the window had caused Lin-pao to break off the conversation suddenly. The tone of his voice plainly showed that he had something more to say; but she had heard enough; for having remarked by his manner that he had some secret to tell his wife when he entered the house, she had pretended to go away, but listening at the window had heard these words distinctly, "They will take her away and put her into a palanquin." These words strongly fortified her suspicions. Her resolution was taken at once. She entered the room, and approaching Yang, gave utterance to her anxiety. "My sister-in-law," said she, "you behold an unfortunate widow, who is bound to you by the strongest ties of a friendship which has been always sincere. By this long-standing friendship I conjure you to tell me candidly whether my brother-in-law still persists in his design of forcing me into a marriage that would cover me with disgrace." At these words Yang at first appeared confused, and changed colour; then, assuming a more confident expression, "What are you thinking of?" she asked, "and what fancies have you got into your head? If there were any intention of making you marry again, do you think there would be any difficulty? What is the good of throwing oneself into the water before the ship is really going to pieces?" The moment the lady Wang heard this allusion to the ship, she understood more clearly the meaning of the secret conference of her brother-in-law with his wife. She now suspected the worst, and gave vent to her lamentations and sighs; and yielding to the current of her grief, she shut herself up in her room, where she wept, groaned, and bewailed her hard lot. "Unfortunate wretch that I am," cried she, "I do not know what has become of my husband. Lin-tchin, my brother-in-law and friend, upon whom alone I can rely, is gone on a journey. My father, mother, and relations live far from hence. If this business is hurried on, how shall I be able to inform them of it? I can hope for no assistance from our neighbours. Lin-pao has made himself the terror of the whole district, and every body knows him to be capable of the greatest villany. Miserable creature that I am! how can I escape his snares? If I do not fall into them to-day, it may be to-morrow, or at any rate in a very short time." She fell to the ground half dead; her fall, and the violence of her grief, made a great noise. The lady Yang, hearing the disturbance, hastened to her room, and finding the door firmly fastened, concluded that it was a plan of her distracted sister-in-law to evade the scheme of the night; she therefore seized a bar which stood by and broke the door open. As she entered the room, the night being very dark, she caught her feet in the clothes of the lady Wang, and fell tumbling over her. In her fall she lost her head-dress, which flew to some distance, and the fright and fall brought on a faint, in which she remained for some time. When she recovered she got up, went for a light, and returned to the room, where she found the lady Wang stretched on the floor, without motion and almost without breath. At the moment she was going to procure other assistance, she heard a gentle knock at the door. She knew it must be the merchant of Kiang-si come to fetch the wife he had bought. She quickly ran to receive him and bring him into the room, that he might himself be witness of what had occurred; but remembering that she had no head-dress, and that she was unfit to present herself in that state, she hastily caught up the one she found at her feet, which was the lady Wang's head-dress of mourning, and ran to the door. It was indeed the merchant of Kiang-si, who had come to fetch away his promised bride. He had a bridal palanquin, ornamented with silk flags, festoons, flowers, and several gay lanterns; it was surrounded by servants bearing lighted torches, and by a troop of flute and hautboy-players. The whole cortége was stationed in the street in perfect silence. The merchant, having knocked gently and finding the door open, entered the house with some of those who bore torches to light him. Upon the lady Yang's appearance, the merchant, who spied at a glance the mourning head-dress, which was the mark by which he was to distinguish his bride, flew upon her like a hungry kite upon a sparrow. His followers rushed in, carried off the lady, and shut her into the palanquin, which was all ready to receive her. It was in vain she endeavoured to make herself heard, crying out, "You are mistaken; it is not me you want." The music struck up as she was forced into the palanquin, and drowned her voice, whilst the bearers flew rather than walked, and bore her to the boat. [Illustration: The lady Yang carried off in the Palanquin, p. 122.] Whilst all this was taking place, the lady Wang had gradually revived and come to her senses. The great hubbub she heard at the door of the house renewed her fears, and occasioned her the most painful anxiety; but as she found that the noise of music, and the tumult of voices, which had arisen so suddenly died gradually away in the distance, she regained her courage, and after a few minutes summoned up strength to go and inquire what was the matter. After calling her sister-in-law two or three times without effect, the truth began to dawn on her; and after considering the matter carefully, she could only come to the conclusion that the merchant had made a mistake, and had carried off the wrong lady. But now a fresh cause of uneasiness arose; she dreaded the consequences when Lin-pao should return and be informed of the mistake. She shut herself up in her room, and after picking up the head-pins, the earrings, and the head-dress, which were lying on the floor, threw herself, quite worn out with fatigue and anxiety, on her couch, and endeavoured to get a little sleep, but she was not able to close her eyes all night. At daybreak she rose and bathed her face, and proceeded to complete her toilet. As, however, she was searching about for her mourning head-dress, some one began making a great noise at the room-door, knocking loudly and crying out, "Open the door instantly!" It was, in fact, Lin-pao himself. She recognized the voice at once. She made up her mind at once what to do; she let him go on knocking without answering him. He swore, stormed and bawled, till he was hoarse. At length the lady Wang went to the door, and standing behind it without opening it, asked, "Who is knocking there, and making such a disturbance?" Lin-pao, who recognized the voice of his sister-in-law, began to shout still louder: but seeing that his storming had no effect, he had recourse to an expedient which proved successful. "Sister-in-law," said he, "I have brought you good news! Lin-tchin, my youngest brother, has come back, and our eldest brother is in excellent health; open the door at once!" Overjoyed at this intelligence, the lady Wang ran to complete her toilet, and in her haste put on the black[8] head-dress that her sister-in-law had left behind, and eagerly opened the door; but, alas! in vain did she look for her friend Lin-tchin; no one was there but Lin-pao. He entered her room hurriedly and looked round, but not seeing his wife, and perceiving a black head-dress on the head of his sister-in-law, his suspicions began to be excited in a strange manner. "Well! where is your sister-in-law?" he asked roughly. "You ought to know better than I," replied the lady Wang, "since you had the whole management of this admirable plot." "But tell me," returned Lin-pao, "why don't you still wear a white head-dress? have you left off mourning?" The lady Wang forthwith proceeded to relate to him all that had happened during his absence. Just at this moment he caught sight through the window of four or five persons hurrying towards his house. To his utter astonishment he perceived that they were his eldest brother Lin-in, his youngest brother Lin-tchin, his nephew Hi-eul, and two servants carrying their luggage. Lin-pao, thunderstruck at this sight, and not having impudence enough to face them, ran off by the back-door, and disappeared like a flash of lightning. The lady Wang was transported with joy at her husband's return. But who shall describe her ecstasies of joy when her son was presented to her? She could scarcely recognize him, so tall and handsome had he grown. "Oh!" cried she, "by what good fortune did you recover our dear child, whom I thought we had lost for ever?" Lin-in gave her in detail an account of his adventures; and the lady Wang related at length all the indignities she had endured at the hands of Lin-pao, and the extremities to which she had been reduced by his scandalous treatment. Lin-in lavished on his wife encomiums which indeed her fidelity deserved; after which, reflecting on the whole chain of events by which the present meeting had been brought about, he seemed deeply moved, and remarked, "If a blind passion for wealth had caused me to keep the two hundred täels I found by accident, how should I have ever met with our dear child? If avarice had prevented me from employing the twenty täels in saving those drowning people, my dear brother would have perished in the waves, and I should never have seen him; if by an unlooked-for chance I had not met my kind-hearted brother, how should I have discovered the trouble and confusion that reigned in this house in time to prevent its disastrous consequences? But for all this, my beloved wife, we should never have seen each other again. I recognize the special interposition of Providence in bringing about all these things. As to my other brother, that unnatural brother, who has unconsciously sold his own wife, he has drawn upon himself his own terrible punishment. Heaven rewards men according to their deserts; let them not think to escape its judgments. "Let us learn from this how profitable in the end, as well as good, it is to practise virtue; it is that alone which bestows lasting prosperity upon a house." In due course of time Hi-eul brought home his bride, the daughter of Tchin. The marriage was celebrated with great rejoicings, and proved a happy one. They had several children, and lived to see a crowd of grandchildren, several of whom became men of learning, and acquired important positions in the state. CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF PRINCE KHALAF AND THE PRINCESS OF CHINA. The prince applauded the narrative of the story-teller; and, dinner being over, he prostrated himself a second time before the khan, and, after thanking him for his goodness, returned to the tent, where Elmaze and Timurtasch were anxiously expecting him. "I bring you good news," said he to them; "our fortune has changed already." He then related to them all that had passed. This fortunate event caused them the greatest pleasure; they regarded it as an infallible sign that the hardness of their destiny was beginning to soften. They willingly followed Khalaf, who conducted them to the royal tent and presented them to the khan. This prince received them with courtesy, and renewed to them the promise he had given to their son; and he did not fail to keep his word. He appointed them a private tent, caused them to be waited on by the slaves and officers of his household, and ordered them to be treated with the same respect as himself. The next day Khalaf was arrayed in a rich dress; he received from the hand of Almguer himself a sabre with a diamond hilt and a purse full of gold sequins; they then brought him a beautiful Turcoman horse. He mounted before all the court; and to show that he understood the management of a horse, he made him go through all his paces and evolutions in a manner that charmed the prince and all his courtiers. After having thanked the khan for all his benefits, he took his leave. He then sought Elmaze and Timurtasch; and after some time spent in desultory conversation, proceeded to unfold to them a scheme which for some days past had been agitating his mind. "I have a great desire," said he, "to see the great kingdom of China; give me permission to gratify that wish. I have a presentiment that I shall signalize myself by some splendid action, and that I shall gain the friendship of the monarch who holds that vast empire under his sway. Suffer me to leave you in this asylum, where you are in perfect safety, and where you can want for nothing. I am following an impulse which inspires me, or rather, I am yielding myself to the guidance of Heaven." "Go, my son," replied Timurtasch; "yield to the noble impulse which animates you; hasten to the fortune that awaits you. Accelerate by your valour the arrival of that tardy prosperity which must one day succeed our misfortunes, or by a glorious death deserve an illustrious place in the history of unfortunate princes." The young prince of the Nagäis, after having embraced his father and mother, mounted upon his beautiful charger, took a respectful leave of the khan, received from the hand of the princess Elmaze, who came out of her tent for the purpose, the parting cup, and set out on his journey. Historians do not mention that he encountered any thing worthy notice on his route; they only say that, having arrived at the great city Canbalac, otherwise Pekin, he dismounted at a house near the gate, where a worthy woman, a widow, lived. Khalaf reined up his horse here, and on the widow presenting herself at the door, he saluted her and said, "My good mother, would you kindly receive a stranger? If you could give me a lodging in your house, I can venture to say that you will have no cause to regret it." The widow scrutinized him; and judging from his good looks, as well as from his dress, that he was no mean guest, she made him a low bow, and replied, "Young stranger of noble bearing, my house is at your service, and all that it contains." "Have you also a place where I can put my horse?" "Yes," said she, "I have," and called a young slave, who took the horse by the bridle, and led him into a small stable behind the house. Khalaf, who felt very hungry, then asked her if she would kindly send and buy something for him in the market. The widow replied, that she had a maiden who lived with her, and who would execute his orders. The prince then drew from his purse a sequin of gold and placed it in the girl's hand, who went off to the market. In the mean time, the widow had enough to do to answer the inquiries of Khalaf. He asked her a thousand questions; what were the customs of the inhabitants of the city? how many families Pekin was said to contain? and, at length, the conversation fell upon the king of China. "Tell me, I pray you," said Khalaf, "what is the character this prince bears. Is he generous, and do you think that he would pay any regard to a young stranger, who might offer to serve him against his enemies? In a word, is he a man to whose interests I could worthily attach myself?" "Doubtless," replied the widow; "he is an excellent prince, who loves his subjects as much as he is beloved by them, and I am surprised that you have never heard of our good king, Altoun-Khan, for the fame of his justice and liberality is spread far and wide." "From the favourable picture you draw of him," replied the prince of the Nagäis, "I should imagine that he ought to be the happiest and most prosperous monarch in the world." "He is not so, however," replied the widow; "indeed, he may be said to be the most wretched. In the first place, he has no prince to succeed him on his throne; a male heir is denied him, notwithstanding all the prayers of himself and his subjects, and all the good deeds he performs to that end. But I must tell you, the grief of having no son is not his greatest trouble; what principally disturbs the peace of his life is the princess Tourandocte, his only daughter." "How is it," replied Khalaf, "that she is such a source of grief to him?" "I will tell you," replied the widow; "and, indeed, I can speak upon the subject from the very best authority; for my daughter has often told me the story and she has the honour of being among the attendants on the princess." "The princess Tourandocte," continued the hostess of the prince of the Nagäis, "is in her nineteenth year; she is so beautiful, that the artists to whom she has sat for her portrait, although the most expert in the East, have all confessed that they were ashamed of their efforts; and that the most able painter in the world, and the best skilled in delineating the charms of a beautiful face, could not express those of the princess of China; nevertheless, the different portraits which have been taken of her, although infinitely inferior to the original, have produced the most disastrous consequences. "She combines, with her ravishing beauty, a mind so cultivated, that she not only understands all that is usual for persons in her station to know, but is mistress of sciences suited only for the other sex. She can trace the various characters of several languages, she is acquainted with arithmetic, geography, philosophy, mathematics, law, and, above all, theology, she knows the laws and moral philosophy of our great legislator, Berginghuzin; in fact, is as learned as all the wise men put together. But her good qualities are effaced by a hardness of heart without parallel, and all her accomplishments are tarnished by detestable cruelty. "It is now two years ago since the king of Thibet sent to ask her in marriage for his son, who had fallen in love with her from a portrait he had seen. Altoun-Khan, delighted with the prospect of this alliance, proposed it to Tourandocte. The haughty princess, to whom all men appeared despicable, so vain had her beauty rendered her, rejected the proposal with disdain. The king flew into a violent rage with her, and declared that he would be obeyed; but instead of submitting dutifully to the wishes of her father, she burst into bitter lamentations, because he showed a disposition to force her to comply; she grieved immoderately, as though it were intended to inflict a great injury upon her; in fact, she took it so much to heart that she fell seriously ill. The physicians, who soon discovered the secret of her complaint, told the king that all their remedies were useless, and that the princess would certainly lose her life, if he persisted in his resolution to make her espouse the prince of Thibet. "The king then, who loves his daughter to distraction, alarmed at the danger she was in, went to see her, and assured her that he would send back the ambassador with a refusal. 'That is not enough, my lord,' replied the princess; 'I am resolved to die, except you grant what I ask you. If you wish me to live, you must bind yourself by an inviolable oath never to try to influence my wishes in this matter, and to publish a decree declaring that of all the princes who may seek my hand, none shall be allowed to espouse me who shall not previously have replied, without hesitation, to the questions which I shall put to him before all the learned men in this city; that if his answers prove satisfactory, I will consent to his becoming my husband, but if the reverse, that he shall lose his head in the court-yard of your palace.' "'By this edict,' added she, 'of which all the foreign princes who may arrive at Pekin shall be informed, you will extinguish all desire of asking me in marriage; and that is exactly what I wish, for I hate men, and do not wish to be married.' "'But, my child,' said the king, 'if by chance some one should present himself, and reply to your questions?'-- "'Ha! I do not fear that,' she said quickly, interrupting him; 'I can put questions which would puzzle the most learned doctors; I am willing to run that risk.' "Altoun-Khan pondered over what the princess demanded of him. 'I see clearly,' thought he, 'that my daughter does not wish to marry, and the effect of this edict will be to frighten away all lovers. I run no risk, therefore, in yielding to her fancies, no evil can come of it. What prince would be mad enough to face such danger?' "At length the king, persuaded that this edict would not be followed by any bad results, and that the recovery of his daughter entirely depended upon it, caused it to be published, and swore upon the laws of Berginghuzin to see that it was observed to the letter. Tourandocte, reassured by this oath, which she knew her father dare not violate, regained her strength, and was soon restored to perfect health. "In spite of the decree, the fame of her beauty attracted several young princes to Pekin. It was in vain that they were informed of the nature of the edict; and as every body, but particularly a young prince, entertains a good opinion of himself, they had the hardihood to present themselves to reply to the questions of the princess; and not being able to fathom her deep meaning, they perished miserably one after another. "The king, to do him justice, appears deeply afflicted with their sad fate. He repents of having made the oath which binds him; and however tenderly he may love his daughter, he would now almost rather he had let her die than have saved her life at such a price. He does all in his power to prevent these evils. When a lover whom the decree cannot restrain comes to demand the hand of the princess, he strives to deter him from his purpose; and he never consents, but with the deepest regret, to his exposing himself to the chance of losing his life. But it generally happens that he is unable to dissuade these rash young men. They are infatuated with Tourandocte, and the hope of possessing her blinds them to the difficulty of obtaining her. "But if the king shows so much grief at the ruin of the unfortunate princes, it is not the case with his barbarous daughter. She takes a pride in these spectacles of blood with which her beauty periodically furnishes the Chinese. So great is her vanity, that she considers the most accomplished prince not only unworthy of her, but most insolent in daring to raise his thoughts towards her, and she looks upon his death as a just chastisement for his temerity. "But what is still more deplorable, Heaven is perpetually permitting princes to come and sacrifice themselves to this inhuman princess. Only the other day, a prince, who flattered himself that he had knowledge enough to reply to her questions, lost his life; and this very night another is to die, who, unfortunately, came to the court of China with the same hopes." Khalaf was deeply attentive to the widow's story. "I cannot understand," said he, after she had ceased speaking, "how any princes can be found sufficiently devoid of judgment to come and ask the hand of the princess of China. What man would not be terrified at the condition without which he cannot hope to obtain her? Besides, despite what the artists may say who have painted her portrait; although they may affirm that their productions are but an imperfect image of her beauty, my firm belief is that they have added charms, and that their portraits exaggerate her beauty, since they have produced such powerful effects; indeed, I cannot think that Tourandocte is so beautiful as you say." "Sir," replied the widow, "she is more lovely by far than I have described her to you; and you may believe me, for I have seen her several times when I have gone to the harem to visit my daughter. Draw upon your fancy as you please, collect in your imagination all that can possibly be brought together in order to constitute a perfect beauty, and be assured that even then you would not have pictured to yourself an object which could approach the perfections of the princess." The prince of the Nagäis could not credit the story of the widow, so overdrawn did he consider it; he felt, nevertheless, a secret pleasure for which he could not account. "But, my mother," said he, "are the questions which the king's daughter proposes so difficult of solution that it is impossible to reply to them to the satisfaction of the lawyers who are judges? For my part, I cannot help thinking that the princes who were not able to penetrate the meaning of her questions, must have been persons of very little ingenuity, if not absolutely ignorant." "No, no!" replied the widow. "There is no enigma more obscure than the questions of the princess, and it is almost impossible to reply to them." Whilst they were conversing thus of Tourandocte and her lovers, the girl arrived from the market loaded with provisions. Khalaf sat down to a table which the widow had prepared, and ate like a man famishing with hunger. Whilst thus engaged the night drew on, and they heard shortly in the town the gong of justice. The prince asked what the noise meant. "It is to give notice to the people," replied the widow, "that some person is going to be executed; and the unfortunate victim about to be immolated is the prince of whom I told you, and who is to be executed to-night for not being able to answer the princess's questions. It is customary to punish the guilty during the day, but this is an exceptional case. The king, who in his heart abhors the punishment which he causes to be inflicted upon the lovers of his daughter, will not suffer the sun to be witness of such a cruel action." The son of Timurtasch had a wish to see this execution, the cause of which appeared so singular to him. He went out of the house, and meeting a crowd of Chinese in the street animated by the same curiosity, he mixed with them, and went to the court-yard of the palace, where the tragic scene was to be enacted. He beheld in the middle of the yard a _schebt-cheraghe_, in other words a very high wooden tower, the outside of which, from the top to the bottom, was covered with branches of cypress, amongst which a prodigious quantity of lamps, tastefully arranged, spread a brilliant light around, and illuminated the whole court-yard. Fifteen cubits from the tower a scaffold was raised, covered with white satin, and around the scaffold were arranged several pavilions of taffetas of the same colour open towards the scaffold. Behind these two thousand soldiers of the guard of Altoun-Khan were stationed, with drawn swords and axes in their hands, forming a double rank, which served as a barrier against the people. Khalaf was looking with deep attention at all that presented itself to his view, when suddenly the mournful ceremony commenced. It was ushered in by a confused noise of drums and bells, which proceeded from the town, and could be heard at a great distance. At the same moment twenty mandarins and as many judges, all dressed in long robes of white woollen cloth, emerged from the palace, advanced towards the scaffold, and after walking three times around it, took their places under the pavilions. Next came the victim, crowned with flowers interwoven with cypress leaves, and with a blue fillet round his head,--not a red one, such as criminals condemned by justice wear. He was a young prince, who had scarcely reached his eighteenth year; he was accompanied by a mandarin leading him by the hand, and followed by the executioner. The three ascended the scaffold; instantly the noise of the drums and bells ceased. The mandarin then addressed the prince in a tone so loud that he was heard by nearly the whole concourse of people. "Prince," said he, "is it not true that you were apprised of the terms of the king's edict before you presented yourself to ask the princess in marriage? Is it not also true that the king himself used all his endeavours to dissuade you from your rash resolution?" The prince, having replied in the affirmative, "Acknowledge, then," continued the mandarin, "that it is by your own fault that you lose your life to-day, and that the king and princess are not guilty of your death." "I pardon them," returned the prince; "I impute my death to myself alone, and I pray Heaven not to require of them my blood which is about to be shed." He had scarcely finished these words, when the executioner swept off his head with one stroke of the sword. The air instantly resounded with the noise of the drums and the bells. Then twelve mandarins took up the body, laid it in a coffin of ivory and ebony, and placed it upon a litter, which six of them bore away upon their shoulders into the gardens of Serail. Here they deposited it under a dome of white marble, which the king had ordered to be erected purposely to be the resting-place of all those unfortunate princes who should share the same fate. He often retired there to weep upon the tombs of those who were buried within it, and tried, by honouring their ashes with his tears, in some measure to atone for the barbarity of his child. As soon as the mandarins had carried away the body of the prince who had just suffered, the people and all the councillors retired to their homes, blaming the king for having had the imprudence to sanction such barbarity by an oath that he could not break. Khalaf remained in the court-yard of the palace in a state of bewilderment; he noticed a man near him weeping bitterly; he guessed that it was some person who was deeply interested in the execution that had just taken place, and wishing to know more about it, addressed him in these words: "I am deeply moved," said he, "by the lively grief you exhibit, and I sympathize in your troubles, for I cannot doubt that you were intimately acquainted with the prince who has just suffered." "Ah! sir," replied the mourner, with a fresh outburst of grief, "I ought indeed to know him, for I was his tutor. O unhappy king of Samarcand!" added he, "what will be thy grief when thou shalt be told of the extraordinary death of thy son? and who shall dare to carry thee the news?" Khalaf asked by what means the prince of Samarcand had become enamoured of the princess of China. "I will tell you," replied the tutor: "and you will doubtless be astonished at the recital I am about to make. The prince of Samarcand," pursued he, "lived happily at his father's court. The court looked upon him as a prince who would one day be their sovereign, and they studied to please him as much as the king himself. He usually passed the day in hunting and playing at ball, and at night he assembled secretly in his apartments the distinguished youth of the court, with whom he drank all sorts of liquors. He sometimes amused himself by seeing the beautiful slaves dance, or by listening to music and singing. In a word, his life was passed in a constant round of pleasure. "One day a famous painter arrived at Samarcand with several portraits of princesses which he had painted in the different courts through which he had passed. He showed them to my prince, who, looking at the first he presented, said, 'These are very beautiful pictures; I am certain that the originals are under a deep obligation to you.' "'My lord,' replied the artist, 'I confess that in these portraits I have somewhat flattered the sitters; but I crave permission to tell you that I have one far more beautiful than these, which does not approach the original.' Saying this, he drew from the case which contained his portraits that of the princess of China. "Scarcely had my master looked at it, when not conceiving that nature was capable of producing so perfect a beauty, he exclaimed that there was not in the world a woman of such exquisite loveliness, and that the portrait of the princess of China was more flattering than the others. The artist protested that it was not, and assured him that no pencil could convey an idea of the grace and beauty which shone in the countenance of the princess Tourandocte. Upon this assurance my master bought the portrait, which made so deep an impression on him, that, leaving the court of his father, he quitted Samarcand, accompanied by me alone, and without informing any one of his intentions, took the road for China, and came to this city. He volunteered to serve Altoun-Khan against his enemies, and asked the hand of his daughter the princess. We were apprized of the severe edict connected with the proposal, but alas! my prince, instead of being dismayed by the severity of the conditions, conceived the liveliest joy. 'I will go,' said he, 'and present myself to answer the questions of Tourandocte; I am not deficient in talent or ready wit, and I shall obtain the hand of the princess.' "It is needless to tell you the rest, sir," continued the tutor, sobbing; "you may judge by the mournful spectacle you have beheld that the unfortunate prince of Samarcand was unable to answer, as he hoped, the fatal questions of this barbarous beauty, whose delight is to shed blood, and who has already been the means of sacrificing the lives of several kings' sons. A few moments before his death he gave me the portrait of this cruel princess. 'I entrust,' said he, 'this portrait to thee; guard carefully the precious deposit. Thou hast but to show it to my father when thou informest him of my sad fate, and I doubt not that when he beholds so beautiful a face, he will pardon my temerity.' But," added the old man, "let any one else who pleases carry the sad news to the king his father; for my part, borne down by the weight of my affliction, I will go far from hence and Samarcand, and mourn for my beloved charge. This is what you wished to know; and here is the dangerous portrait," pursued he, taking it from beneath his cloak and throwing it on the ground in a paroxysm of rage; "behold the cause of the sad fate of my prince. O execrable portrait! why had my master not my eyes when he took thee into his hands? O inhuman princess! may all the princes of the earth entertain for thee the same sentiments as those with which thou hast inspired me! Instead of being the object of their love, thou wouldest then be their aversion." Saying this, the tutor of the prince of Samarcand retired full of rage, regarding the palace with a furious eye and without speaking another word to the son of Timurtasch. The latter quickly picked up the portrait of Tourandocte, and turned to retrace his steps to the house of the widow; but he missed his way in the darkness, and wandered heedlessly out of the city. He impatiently awaited the daylight to enable him to contemplate the beauty of the princess of China. As soon as the approach of dawn furnished him with sufficient light to satisfy his curiosity, he opened the case which contained the portrait. Still he hesitated before he looked at it. "What am I about to do?" cried he; "ought I to disclose to my eyes so dangerous an object? Think, Khalaf, think of the direful effects it has caused; hast thou already forgotten what the tutor of the prince of Samarcand has just narrated to thee? Look not on this portrait; resist the impulse which urges thee, it is nothing more than a feeling of idle curiosity. Whilst thou retainest thy reason thou canst prevent thy destruction. But what do I say? prevent," added he, checking himself; "with what false reasoning does my timid prudence inspire me. If I am to love the princess, is not my love already written in indelible characters in the book of fate. Besides, I think that it is possible to look upon the most beautiful portrait with impunity; one must be weak, indeed, to be influenced by the sight of a vain array of colours. Never fear; let us scan these surpassing and murderous features without emotion. I will even find defects, and taste the pleasure of criticizing the charms of this too beautiful princess; and I could wish, in order to mortify her vanity, that she might learn that I have looked upon her portrait without emotion." The son of Timurtasch had fully made up his mind to look upon the portrait of Tourandocte with an indifferent eye. He now casts his eyes on it, he regards it attentively, examines it, admires the contour of the countenance, the regularity of the features, the vivacity of the eyes,--the mouth, the nose, all appear perfect; he is surprised at so rare a combination of perfect features, and although still on his guard, he allows himself to be charmed. An inconceivable uneasiness takes possession of him in spite of himself; he can no longer understand his feelings. "What fire," said he, "has suddenly kindled itself in my bosom! What tumult has this portrait produced in my thoughts! Merciful Heaven, is it the lot of all those who look upon this portrait to become enamoured of this inhuman princess? Alas! I feel but too surely that she has made the same impression upon me, as she did upon the unhappy prince of Samarcand; I yield to the charms that wounded him, and far from being terrified by his melancholy fate, I could almost envy his very misfortune. What a change, gracious Heaven! I could not conceive a short time ago, how one could be mad enough to despise the severity of the edict, and now I see nothing that frightens me, all the danger has vanished. "No! incomparable princess," pursued he, devouring the portrait with an enamoured gaze, "no obstacle can stop me, I love you spite of your barbarity; and since it is permitted to me to aspire to your possession, from this day I will strive to win you; if I perish in the bold attempt, I shall only feel in dying the grief of not being able to possess you." Khalaf, having formed the resolve of demanding the hand of the princess, returned to the widow's house, a journey which cost him no little trouble, for he had rambled to some considerable distance during the night. "Ah! my son," exclaimed his hostess, as soon as she beheld him, "I am so glad to see you, I was very uneasy about you, I feared some accident had befallen you; why did you not return earlier?" "My good mother," replied he, "I am sorry to have caused you any uneasiness, I missed my way in the darkness." He then related to her how he had met the tutor of the prince whom they had put to death, and did not fail to repeat to her all that he had told him. Then showing her the portrait of Tourandocte; "Tell me," said he, "if this portrait is only an imperfect likeness of the princess of China; for my part, I cannot conceive that it is not equal to the original." "By the soul of the prophet Jacmouny," cried the widow, after she had examined the portrait, "the princess is a thousand times more beautiful, and infinitely more charming than she is here represented. I wish you could see her, you would be of my opinion, that all the artists in the world who should undertake to paint her as she really is, could never succeed. I will not even make an exception in favour of the famous Many." "You delight me above measure," replied the prince of the Nagäis, "by assuring me that the beauty of Tourandocte surpasses all the efforts of the artist's power. How flattering the assurance! It strengthens me in my determination, and incites me to attempt at once the brilliant adventure. Oh that I were before the princess! I burn with impatience to try whether I shall be more fortunate than the prince of Samarcand." "What do you say, my son?" eagerly asked the widow, "what enterprise are you so rashly planning? And do you seriously think of carrying it into effect?" "Yes, my good mother," returned Khalaf, "I intend this very day to present myself to answer the questions of the princess. I came to China only with the intention of offering my services to the great king, Altoun-Khan, but it is better to be his son-in-law than an officer in his army." At these words the widow burst into tears. "Ah! sir, in the name of Heaven do not persist in so rash a resolution; you will certainly perish if you are bold enough to aspire to the hand of the princess; instead of allowing her beauty to charm you, let it be the object of your detestation, since it has been the cause of so many frightful tragedies; picture to yourself what the grief of your parents will be when they hear of your death; let the thoughts of the mortal grief into which you will plunge them deter you." "For pity's sake, my mother," interrupted the son of Timurtasch, "cease to present to my mind such affecting images. I cannot be ignorant, that if it be my destiny to die this day, my sad end will be a source of bitter and inexhaustible grief to my beloved parents; nay, I can conceive their misery being so excessive as to endanger their own lives, for well do I know their extreme affection for me; notwithstanding all this, however, notwithstanding the gratitude with which their love ought to inspire, and indeed does inspire me, I must yield to the passion that consumes me. But, what! Is it not in hopes of making them more happy that I am about to expose my life? Yes, doubtless, their interest is bound up with the desire that urges me on, and I feel sure that if my father were here, far from opposing my design, he would rather excite me to its speedy execution. My resolution is taken; waste no more time in trying to dissuade me; nothing shall shake my determination." When the widow found that her young guest would not heed her advice, her grief increased. "So it must be, then, sir," continued she; "you will not be restrained from rushing headlong on your destruction. Why was it ordained that you should come to lodge in my house? why did I speak of Tourandocte? You became enamoured of her from the description I gave of her; wretched woman that I am, it is I who have caused your ruin; why must I reproach myself with your death?" "No, my good mother," said the prince of the Nagäis, interrupting her a second time, "you are not the cause of my misfortune; do not blame yourself because I love the princess; I am to love her, and do but fulfil my destiny. Besides, how do you know that I shall not be able to reply to her questions? I am not without understanding, and I have studied much; and Heaven may have reserved for me the honour of delivering the king of China from the grief with which his frightful oath overwhelms him. But," added he, drawing out the purse which the khan of Berlas had given him, and which still contained a considerable quantity of gold pieces, "as my success is after all uncertain, and I may chance to die, I make you a present of this purse to console you for my death. You may sell my horse and keep the money, for it will be of no more use to me, whether the daughter of Altoun-Khan become the reward of my boldness, or my death be the mournful forfeit of my audacity." The widow took the purse from Khalaf, saying, "O my son, you are much mistaken if you imagine that these pieces of gold will console me for your loss. I will employ them in good works, I will distribute a portion among the poor in the hospitals, who bear their afflictions with patience, and whose prayers are consequently acceptable to Heaven; the remainder I will give to the ministers of our religion, that they all may pray together that Heaven may inspire you, and not suffer you to perish. All the favour I ask you is, not to go to-day and present yourself to answer the questions of Tourandocte; wait till to-morrow, the time is not long; grant me that interval to enlist the hearts of the pious in your behalf, and propitiate our Prophet in your favour, after that you can do as you think best. I pray you to grant me that favour; I am bold to say that you owe it to one who has conceived so great a friendship for you, that she would be inconsolable if you were to die." Indeed Khalaf's appearance had made a favourable impression upon her, for, besides being one of the handsomest princes in the world, his manners were so easy and pleasing that it was impossible to see him without loving him. He was moved by the grief and affection the good lady exhibited. "Well, my mother," said he, "I will do as you desire me; and I will not go to-day to ask the hand of the princess; but, to speak my sentiments frankly, I don't believe that even your prophet Jacmouny will be able to make me forego my determination." The following morning, the prince appeared more determined than ever to demand Tourandocte. "Adieu, my good mother," said he, to the widow. "I am sorry that you have given yourself so much trouble on my account; you might have spared it, for I assured you yesterday that I should be of the same mind." With these words, he left the widow, who, giving herself up to the deepest sorrow, covered her face with her veil, and sat with her head on her knees, overwhelmed with indescribable grief. The young prince of the Nagäis, perfumed with rare scents and more beautiful than the moon, repaired to the palace. He found at the gate five elephants, and, on each side, a line of two thousand soldiers, with helmets on their heads, armed with shields, and covered with plate armour. One of the principal officers in command of the troops, judging from Khalaf's air that he was a stranger, stopped him, and demanded his business at the palace. "I am a foreign prince," replied the son of Timurtasch. "I am come to present myself to the king, and pray him to grant me permission to reply to the questions of the princess his daughter." The officer, at these words, regarding him with astonishment, said to him, "Prince, do you know that you come to seek death? You would have done more wisely to have remained in your own country, than form the design which brings you hither; retrace your steps, and do not flatter yourself with the deceitful hope that you will obtain the hand of the cruel Tourandocte. Although you may have studied until you have become more learned in science than all the mandarins, you will never be able to fathom the meaning of her ambiguous questions." "Accept my heartfelt thanks," replied Khalaf; "but, believe me, I am not come thus far to retreat." "Go on to your certain death, then," returned the officer, in a tone of chagrin, "since it is impossible to restrain you." At the same moment, he allowed him to enter the palace, and then, turning towards some other officers who had been listening to their conversation, he said, "How handsome and well-grown this young prince is. It is a pity he should die so early." Khalaf traversed several saloons, and, at length, found himself in the hall where the king was accustomed to give audience to his people. In it was placed the steel throne of Cathay, made in the form of a dragon, three cubits high; four lofty columns, of the same material, supported above it a vast canopy of yellow satin, ornamented with precious stones. Altoun-Khan, dressed in a caftan of gold brocade upon a crimson ground, was seated on his throne, with an air of gravity which was in admirable keeping with his long moustache and ample beard. The monarch, after listening to some of his subjects, cast his eyes by chance to where the prince of the Nagäis stood amongst the crowd; he saw, at once, by his noble bearing and splendid dress, that he was not a man of common birth; he pointed out Khalaf to one of his mandarins, and gave an order, in an undertone, to learn his rank, and the reason of his visit to his court. The mandarin approached the son of Timurtasch, and told him that the king desired to know who he was, and whether he wished to make any request of the king. "You may tell the king, your master," replied the prince, "that I am the only son of a king, and that I am come to endeavour to merit the honour of becoming his son-in-law." Altoun-Khan no sooner learned the reply of the prince of the Nagäis, than he changed colour; his august countenance became pale as death, he broke up the audience, and dismissed all the people; he then descended from his throne, and, approaching Khalaf, "Rash young man," said he, "are you aware of the severity of my edict, and of the miserable fate of those who have hitherto persisted in their desire to obtain the hand of the princess my daughter?" "Yes, my lord," replied the son of Timurtasch, "I know all the danger I incur; my eyes have witnessed the just and severe punishment your majesty inflicted upon the prince of Samarcand; but the deplorable end of the audacious youths who have flattered themselves with the sweet, though vain, hope of possessing the princess Tourandocte, only stimulates the desire I have of deserving her." "What madness!" rejoined the king; "scarcely has one prince lost his life, than another presents himself to share the same fate; it appears as though they took a pleasure in sacrificing themselves. What blindness! Reconsider the step you are taking, and be less prodigal of your blood; you inspire me with more pity than any who have hitherto come to seek their destruction; I feel a growing inclination towards you, and wish to do all in my power to hinder you from perishing. Return to your father's kingdom, and do not inflict upon him the pain of learning from strangers' lips the sad intelligence that he will never more behold his only son." "My lord," replied Khalaf, "I am overjoyed to hear, from your majesty's own lips, that I have the honour of pleasing you; I draw a happy presage from it. It may be that Heaven, touched by the misfortunes caused by the beauty of the princess, will use me as a means of putting an end to them, and securing you, at the same time, tranquillity for the remainder of your life, which the necessity of authorizing these cruel deeds disturbs. Can you be sure that I shall not be able to answer the questions that may be put to me? What certainty have you that I shall perish? If others have been unable to fathom the depths of the obscure propositions of Tourandocte, is it to be concluded that I cannot penetrate their meaning? No, my lord, their example shall never make me renounce the brilliant honour of having you for a father-in-law." "Ah! unhappy prince," replied the king, melting into tears, "you wish to die; all the princes who have presented themselves before you, to answer the fatal questions put by my daughter, used the same language; they all hoped that they could penetrate her meaning, and not one was able to do so. Alas! you will be the dupe of your own confidence. Once more, my son, let me dissuade you. I love you, and wish to save you; do not frustrate my good intentions by your obstinacy; whatever confidence you may feel, distrust it. You deceive yourself, if you imagine that you will be able to answer upon the spot what the princess may propose to you; you will, it is true, have seven minutes to answer in; that is the rule. But if in that time you do not give a satisfactory reply, and one that shall be approved of by all the doctors and wise men who are appointed the judges, that moment you will be declared worthy of death, and on the following night will be conducted to execution. So, prince, retire; pass the rest of the day in considering what is your duty in reference to the step you propose to take; consult wise persons, reflect well, and to-morrow let me know your determination." When the king had finished speaking, he dismissed Khalaf, who immediately quitted the palace, much mortified that he was obliged to wait till the next day, for he was no way daunted by what the king had said. He returned to his hostess without exhibiting the least concern about the danger to which he had determined to expose himself. As soon as he presented himself to the widow, and had related all that had passed at the palace, she began to remonstrate with him afresh, and bring every argument she could think of into play to dissuade him from his enterprise; but her efforts were crowned with no better success, and she had the mortification of seeing that they only inflamed her young guest more, and strengthened him in his resolution. The next day the prince returned to the palace, and was announced to the king, who received him in his cabinet, not wishing any one to be present at their interview. "Well, prince," began Altoun-Khan, "am I to rejoice or grieve at your presence here to-day? What is your determination?" "My lord," replied Khalaf, "I am in the same mind as yesterday. Before I had the honour of presenting myself then before your majesty, I had thoroughly reflected upon the matter; and I am still prepared to suffer the same punishment as my rivals, if Heaven has not otherwise ordained." At these words the king smote his breast, rent his clothes, and plucked the hairs from his beard. "Wretched man that I am!" cried he, "that I should have conceived such friendship for him. The death of the others has not caused me half the pain which his will occasion me. Ah! my son," continued he, embracing the prince of the Nagäis with a tenderness that caused him deep emotion, "yield to my grief, if my arguments are not able to shake thee. I feel that the blow which takes thy life will strike my heart with deadly force. Renounce, I conjure thee, the hope of possessing my cruel daughter; thou wilt find in the world plenty of other princesses whom thou mayst gain with more ease and as much honour. Why persevere in the pursuit of an inhuman creature whom thou wilt never be able to obtain? Remain, if thou wilt, in my court; thou shalt hold the first rank after me; thou shalt have beautiful slaves; pleasures shall follow thee wherever thou goest; in a word, I will look on thee as my own son. Desist from thy pursuit of Tourandocte. Oh! let me at least have the joy of rescuing one victim from the sanguinary princess." The son of Timurtasch was deeply moved by the friendship which the king of China exhibited towards him; but he replied, "My lord, let me for pity's sake expose myself to the danger from which you seek to deter me; the greater it is, the more do I feel myself tempted to encounter it. I must avow that even the cruelty of the princess stimulates my love. I feel an inward pleasure in the thought that I am the happy mortal who is to triumph over this proud beauty. For Heaven's sake, your majesty," pursued he, "cease to oppose a design which my glory, my repose, my life even render it necessary for me to prosecute; for, truly, I cannot live unless I obtain Tourandocte." Altoun-Khan, perceiving that Khalaf was not to be moved, was overwhelmed with affliction. "Ah! rash youth," said he, "thy death-warrant is sealed, since thou art still determined to persist in demanding my daughter. Heaven is witness that I have done all in my power to inspire thee with rational thoughts. Thou rejectest my counsel, and lovest rather to perish than follow it; let us say no more; thou wilt receive the reward of thy mad constancy. I consent to thy undertaking to answer the questions of Tourandocte, but I must first pay thee the honour which I am accustomed to bestow upon princes who seek my alliance." At these words he called the chief of his first band of eunuchs; he ordered him to conduct Khalaf into the princes' palace, and to assign him two hundred eunuchs to wait upon him. The prince of the Nagäis had scarcely entered the palace to which the eunuch conducted him, before the principal mandarins came to salute him, which they did in the following manner: they placed themselves on their knees before him, bowed their heads to the ground, saying one after the other, "Prince, the perpetual servant of your illustrious race comes to make his obeisance to you." They then all made him presents and retired. The king, who felt the greatest friendship for the son of Timurtasch, and pitied him, sent for the most learned professor of the royal college, and said to him, "There is a new prince, who has come to my court to demand the hand of my daughter. I have spared no pains to induce him to renounce his intention, but without success. I wish thee to exert thine eloquence in endeavouring to make him listen to reason. It is for this I have sent for thee." The professor obeyed. He went to Khalaf and entered into a long conversation with him; after which he returned to Altoun-Khan, and said, "My lord, it is impossible to dissuade this young prince; he will absolutely deserve the princess or die. When I saw the futility of attempting to conquer his resolution, I had the curiosity to try and ascertain whether his obstinacy did not proceed from some other cause than his love. I interrogated him upon several different subjects, and I found him so well informed that I was surprised at his learning. He is a Moslem, and appears to me perfectly instructed in all that concerns his religion; in fact, to confess the truth to your majesty, I believe if any prince is capable of replying to the questions of the princess it is he." "O wise man," cried the king, "I am overjoyed at thy report. Heaven grant that he may become my son-in-law. From the moment he appeared before me I felt an affection for him; may he be more fortunate than the others who came to this city only to seek a grave." After prayers and sacrifices, the Chinese monarch sent his calao to the prince of the Nagäis with notice that he was to hold himself in readiness to reply to the princess's questions on the next day, and to tell him that the proper officers would come at the right time to conduct him to the divan; and that the persons who were to compose the assembly had already received orders to attend. Notwithstanding his inflexible determination to persevere in this adventure, Khalaf did not pass a quiet night; if at one time he dared to trust to his genius, and promise himself success, at another, losing confidence, he represented to himself the shame he should endure if his replies did not please the divan; at another time he thought of Elmaze and Timurtasch. "Alas!" said he, "if I die, what will become of my father and mother?" Day surprised him occupied with these conflicting thoughts. Presently he heard the ringing of bells and beating of drums. He concluded that this was to call to the council all those who were ordered to attend. Then raising his thoughts to Mahomet, "O great prophet," said he, "you behold my difficulties and know my doubts. Inspire me, and reveal to me whether I must go to the divan, or must confess to the king that the danger terrifies me!" He had scarcely pronounced these words, before he felt all his fears vanish and his confidence return. He rose and dressed himself in a caftan, and mantle of red silk worked with gold flowers, which Altoun-Khan had sent him, with stockings and slippers of blue silk. When he had finished dressing, six mandarins, booted and dressed in very wide robes of crimson, entered his apartment, and after having saluted him in the same manner as on the previous day, informed him that they came from the king to lead him to the divan. He immediately rose and accompanied them; they traversed a court between a double file of soldiers, and when they arrived in the first council-chamber found more than a thousand singers and players upon instruments, who performing in concert produced a wonderful noise. From thence they advanced into the hall, where the council was sitting, and which communicated with the interior palace. All the persons who were to assist at this assembly were already seated under canopies of different colours arranged round the hall. The mandarins of the highest rank were on one side, the calao with the professors of the college on the other, and several doctors, renowned for their erudition, occupied other seats. In the middle were placed two thrones of gold raised upon triangular pedestals. As soon as the prince of the Nagäis appeared, the noble and learned assembly saluted him with gestures of great respect, but without speaking a word; for every body, being in expectation of the king's arrival, preserved the strictest silence. The sun was upon the point of rising. As soon as the first rays of that brilliant luminary were perceived, two eunuchs drew aside the curtains which hung before the door of the inner palace, and immediately the king appeared, accompanied by the princess Tourandocte, who wore a long robe of silk and gold tissue, whilst her face was concealed by a veil of the same material. When the king and princess had taken their seats upon their thrones, which they ascended by five steps of silver, two young girls of perfect beauty approached and stationed themselves, one on the side of the king and the other near the princess. They were slaves of the harem of Altoun-Khan; their faces and necks were exposed; they wore large pearls in their ears; and they stood each with pen and paper, ready to transcribe what the king or the princess might desire. All this time the whole assembly, who had risen upon the entrance of Altoun-Khan, stood up with great gravity and their eyes half closed. Khalaf alone looked about him, or rather looked only at the princess, whose majestic demeanour filled him with admiration. When the powerful monarch of China had ordered the mandarins and doctors to be seated, one of the six nobles who had conducted Khalaf, and who stood with him at fifteen cubits' distance from the two thrones, kneeled down and read a petition, which contained the demand of the stranger prince for the hand of the princess Tourandocte. He then rose and told Khalaf to make three salutations to the king. The prince of the Nagäis acquitted himself with so much grace, that Altoun-Khan could not refrain from smiling and expressing the pleasure he experienced in seeing him. The calao then rose from his place and read with a loud voice the fatal edict, which condemned to death all the rash lovers who should fail to reply satisfactorily to the questions of Tourandocte. Then addressing Khalaf, "Prince," said he, "you have just heard the conditions upon which alone the princess's hand is to be obtained. If the sense of danger makes any impression upon you, there is still time to retire." "No, no!" said the prince; "the prize to be carried off is too precious to be lost by cowardice." The king, seeing Khalaf ready to reply to the questions of Tourandocte, turned towards the princess and said, "My daughter, it is for you to speak; propose to this young prince the questions which you have prepared; and may all the spirits to whom sacrifices were offered yesterday grant that he may penetrate the meaning of your words." Tourandocte thereupon said, "I take the prophet Jacmouny to witness, that I behold with sorrow the death of so many princes; but why do they persist in desiring to wed me? why will they not leave me to live in peace without making attempts on my liberty? Know then, rash young man," added she, addressing Khalaf, "that you cannot reproach me if you suffer a cruel death; you have the examples of your rivals before your eyes; you alone are the cause of your own destruction; I do not oblige you to come and ask my hand." "Lovely princess," replied the prince of the Nagäis, "I am fully alive to all that has been said upon this subject; propound, if you please, your questions, and I will endeavour to unravel their meaning." "Well then," said Tourandocte, "tell me what creature is that which belongs to every land, is a friend to the whole world, and will not brook an equal?" "Madam," replied Khalaf, "it is the sun." "He is right," exclaimed all the doctors, "it is the sun." "What is that mother," resumed the princess, "who, after having brought her children into the world, devours them when they are grown up?" "It is the sea," replied the prince of the Nagäis; "because the rivers, which draw their sources from the sea, discharge themselves into it again." Tourandocte, seeing that the prince gave correct replies to her questions, was so vexed that she resolved to spare no effort to destroy him. Exerting all her ingenuity, she next asked, "What tree is that whose leaves are white on one side and black on the other?" She was not satisfied with proposing the riddle alone; the malignant princess, in order to dazzle and confuse him, raised her veil at the same moment, and allowed the assembly to see all the beauty of her countenance, the haughty charms of which were only enhanced by the violence of her emotions. Her head was adorned with natural flowers arranged with infinite art, and her eyes shone more brilliantly than the stars. She was as lovely as the sun in all his splendour, when he emerges from a thick cloud. The son of Timurtasch, at the sight of this incomparable princess, remained mute and motionless; so much so, that all the divan, who were deeply interested in him, were seized with terror; the king himself grew pale, and thought that the prince was lost for ever. But Khalaf, recovering from the surprise that the beauty of Tourandocte had caused him, quickly reassured the assembly by resuming, "Charming princess, I pray you pardon me if I remained for some moments speechless; I could not behold so much loveliness without being disturbed. Have the goodness to repeat the question, for I no longer remember it; your charms have made me forget every thing." "I asked you," said Tourandocte, "what tree is that whose leaves are white on one side and black on the other?" "That tree," replied Khalaf, "is the year, which is composed of days and nights." This reply was again applauded in the divan. The mandarins and the doctors said that it was correct, and bestowed a thousand praises on the young prince. Altoun-Khan said to Tourandocte, "Come, my daughter, confess thyself vanquished, and consent to espouse thy conqueror; the others were not able to reply to even one of thy questions, and this one, thou seest, has answered them all." "He has _not_ gained the victory," angrily retorted the princess, replacing her veil to conceal her confusion and the tears she was not able to repress; "I have others to propose to him. But I will defer them till to-morrow." "No," replied the king, "I will certainly not permit you to propose questions without end: all that I can allow you is to ask him one more, and that immediately." The princess objected, saying that she had only prepared those which had just been answered, and entreated the king, her father, for permission to interrogate the prince on the following day. "I will certainly not grant it," cried the monarch of China, in a rage; "you are only endeavouring to perplex this young prince, while I am eagerly grasping at the prospect of escaping from the frightful oath I had the imprudence to make. Ah! cruel one, you breathe nothing but blood, and the death of your lovers is a pleasant sight to you. The queen, your mother, touched by the first misfortunes your cruelty caused, died of grief at having brought into the world so barbarous a child; and I, you know well, am plunged into a state of profound melancholy, which nothing can dissipate, whilst I behold the fatal results of the love I entertained for you; but, thanks to the sun, and the moon, and the spirits who preside in the heavens, and by whom my sacrifices have been regarded with a propitious eye, no more of those horrible executions which have rendered my name execrable shall be committed in my palace. Since this prince has answered your questions satisfactorily, I ask all this assembly if it is not right that you should become his wife?" The mandarins and the doctors expressed their assent in murmurs, and the calao took upon himself to speak. "My lord," said he, addressing the king, "your majesty is no longer bound by the oath you made, to execute your severe edict; it is for the princess to fulfil her engagement. She promised her hand to him who should answer her questions correctly; a prince has answered them, to the satisfaction of the whole divan; she must keep her promise, or we cannot doubt that the spirits who preside over the punishment of perjurers will quickly take vengeance upon her." Tourandocte kept silence during the delivery of this speech; she sat with her head on her knees, and appeared buried in deep affliction. Khalaf, perceiving this, prostrated himself before Altoun-Khan, and said, "Great king, whose justice and goodness have raised the vast empire of China to such prosperity, I beg of your majesty to grant me a favour. I see that the princess is in despair at my having been so fortunate as to reply to her questions; doubtless she would rather it had so happened that I should have deserved death. Since she exhibits so strong an aversion to me, that, in spite of her promise, she refuses to become my wife, I will renounce my right to her, on condition that she, on her part, replies correctly to a question which I shall propose." The whole assembly was surprised at this speech. "Is this young prince mad," they whispered one to another, "to risk the loss of that for which he perilled his life? Does he imagine he can propose a question that will be too difficult for Tourandocte to solve? He must have lost his senses." Altoun-Khan was also amazed at the request which Khalaf had the temerity to make. "Prince," said he, "have you reflected upon the words which have just escaped your lips?" "Yes, my lord," replied the prince of the Nagäis, "and I implore you to grant me this favour." "I grant it," returned the king; "but, whatever be the result, I declare that I am no longer bound by the oath I made, and that, henceforth, I will not cause another prince to be put to death." "Divine Tourandocte," resumed the son of Timurtasch, addressing the princess, "you have heard what I said. Although the decision of this learned assembly has awarded to me the prize of your hand, although you are mine, I will give you back your liberty, I will yield up possession of you, I will despoil myself of a treasure precious to me above all things, provided you reply at once to a question I shall ask; but, on your part, swear that if you cannot, you will consent willingly to complete my happiness and crown my love." "Yes, prince," replied Tourandocte, "I accept the conditions, and I take this assembly as witnesses of my oath." All the divan awaited, in breathless suspense, the question that Khalaf was to propose to the princess, and there was not one who did not blame the young prince for exposing himself to the risk of losing the daughter of Altoun-Khan; they were all amazed at his temerity. "Lovely princess," said Khalaf, "what is the name of that prince who, after suffering a thousand hardships, and being reduced even to beg his bread, finds himself, at this moment, overwhelmed with glory and joy?" "It is impossible," said Tourandocte, "for me to reply to that question on the spot, but I promise that to-morrow I will tell you the name of that prince." "Madam," cried Khalaf, "I asked no time for consideration, and it is not right to grant you any; still, I will grant you your wish; I hope, after that, you will look more favourably on me, and not oppose any further difficulty to your becoming my bride." "She must make up her mind to that," said Altoun-Khan, "if she cannot reply to the question proposed. Let her not think by falling ill, or pretending to do so, that she will thereby escape. Even if my rash oath should not bind me to grant him her hand, and she were not his according to the tenor of the edict, I would rather let her die, than send this young prince away. Where would it be possible for her to meet with one more perfectly worthy of her?" With these words, he rose and dismissed the assembly. He re-entered the inner palace with the princess, who retired to her own apartments. As soon as the king had left the divan, all the mandarins and doctors complimented Khalaf upon his wit and understanding. "I admire," said one, "your ready and easy conception." "No!" said another, "there is not a bachelor licentiate, or doctor even, of greater penetration than you. Not one of all the princes who has presented themselves hitherto, in the least degree approached your merit, and we feel the most heartfelt joy at your success." The prince of the Nagäis had no light task to perform in thanking all those who pressed round him to congratulate him. At length, the six mandarins who had conducted him to the council-chamber, led him back to the same palace whence they had brought him, whilst the others, together with the learned doctors retired, not without anxiety about the answer which the daughter of Altoun-Khan would return to the question. The princess Tourandocte regained her palace, followed by the two young slaves who enjoyed her confidence. No sooner had she entered into her apartment, than she tore off her veil, and throwing herself upon a couch, gave free vent to the grief and rage which agitated her; shame and sorrow were depicted on her countenance; her eyes already bedimmed with tears, overflowed afresh; she tore off the flowers that adorned her head, and allowed her hair to fall about her in confusion. Her two favourite slaves attempted to console her, but she only said bitterly, "Leave me, both of you, cease your useless attentions. I will listen to nothing but my despair; leave me alone to pour forth my tears and lamentations. Ah! how great will be my confusion to-morrow, when I shall be forced to acknowledge before the whole council, and the wisest doctors of China, that I cannot solve the question. Is that, they will say, the transcendent princess who prides herself upon knowing every thing, and to whom the solution of the most difficult enigma presented no difficulty?" "Alas!" continued she, "they all take an interest in this young prince. I noticed them grow pale with anxiety when he appeared embarrassed. I saw their faces beaming with joy when he penetrated the meaning of my questions. I shall have the bitter mortification of seeing them again rejoice at my confusion, when I shall have to confess myself conquered. How great will be their delight when I make the degrading avowal, and what agony must I endure in making it." "My princess," said one of her slaves, "instead of afflicting yourself beforehand, instead of picturing to yourself the shame you fear to suffer to-morrow, would it not be better to think of some means of preventing it? Is the question the prince has proposed so difficult, that you cannot answer it? with the genius and penetration you possess, can you not accomplish it?" "No," said Tourandocte, "it is impossible. He asks me to name the prince who, after suffering a thousand hardships, and being reduced to beg his bread, is, at this moment, overwhelmed with joy and glory? I feel assured that he is himself that prince, but not knowing him, I cannot tell his name." "Still, madam," rejoined the same slave, "you have promised to name that prince to-morrow; when you made that promise, you hoped, doubtless, to be able to fulfil it." "I had no hope," replied the princess, "and I only demanded time to die of grief, rather than be obliged to acknowledge my shame, and marry the prince." "The resolution is a violent one," said the other favourite slave. "I know well that no man is worthy of you, but you must allow that this prince possesses singular merits; his beauty, his noble bearing, and his ready wit ought to plead in his favour." "I grant it all," interrupted the princess. "If there is any prince in the world who is worthy of my regards, it is he. Indeed, I will not deny it, that I grieved for him, before I put my questions to him; I sighed when I beheld him, and--what has never happened till to-day--I almost hoped he would reply to my questions correctly. It is true that, at the same moment, I blushed at my weakness, but my pride got the better of me, and the apt answers he made excited my abhorrence towards him; all the commendations which the doctors bestowed on him so deeply mortified me, that I then felt, and still feel, the most bitter hatred against him. O unhappy Tourandocte, lay thee down and die of vexation and grief, at having found a man, and he a youth, who has been able to load thee with disgrace, and compel thee to become his wife." At these words she redoubled her tears, and in the transport of her rage spared neither her hair nor her clothes. She raised her hands more than once towards her cheeks to tear them, and punish them as the prime authors of the disgrace she had endured; but her slaves, who were watching her frenzy, prevented her. They tried, however, in vain to console her; they could not calm the fury of her agitation. Whilst she was in this fearful state of excitement, the prince of the Nagäis, charmed with the result, and overwhelmed with joy, delivered himself up to the hope of bearing off his bride the next day. The king, having returned from the council-chamber, sent for Khalaf to talk over in private the events which had taken place at the divan. The prince of the Nagäis hastened to obey the orders of the monarch, who, after embracing him with great tenderness, said, "Ah! my son, release me from the anxiety I am suffering. I fear lest my daughter should be able to answer the question you have proposed. Why have you risked the danger of losing the object of your love?" "Let not your majesty be under the least apprehension," replied Khalaf; "it is impossible that the princess can tell me who the prince is whose name I have asked, for I am that prince, and no one in your court knows me." "This gives me fresh hope," cried the king in a transport of joy; "I confess I was most anxious about you. Tourandocte is very shrewd; the subtlety of her wit made me tremble for you; but, thank Heaven, you dispel my doubts. However great her facility of penetrating the sense of enigmas, she cannot guess your name. I can no longer accuse you of temerity; and I see what appeared to me a lack of prudence, is an ingenious device you have formed to remove every pretext for my daughter's refusal." Altoun-Khan, after laughing with Khalaf at the question proposed to the princess, prepared to enjoy the diversion of the chase. He dressed himself in a light and close-fitting caftan, and enclosed his beard in a bag of black satin. He ordered the mandarins to hold themselves in readiness to accompany him, and commanded a hunting-dress to be given to the prince of the Nagäis. They partook of a slight repast, and then quitted the palace. The mandarins, in open palanquins of ivory inlaid with gold, headed the procession, each carried by six men; two men armed with whips of cord marched before each palanquin, and two others followed with tablets of silver, upon which were written in large characters all the mandarin's titles. The king and Khalaf, in an open litter of red sandalwood, carried by twenty military officers, on whose dresses were embroidered in silver the monarch's monogram and badges,--the latter consisting of several figures of animals,--appeared next. After the mandarins, two generals of Altoun-Khan's army marched on either side of the litter, carrying large fans or umbrellas to ward off the heat, and three thousand eunuchs on foot completed the cortége. When they arrived at the place where the hunters awaited the king with the falcons, the sport began by flying hawks at quails; this diversion lasted till sunset, when the king and the prince, and the persons of their suites, returned to the palace in the same order in which they had left. They found in the court several pavilions of silk of different colours, a great number of small tables, beautifully polished and covered with all sorts of viands ready cut up. As soon as the king had taken his seat, Khalaf and the mandarins sat down, each at a little separate table, near which stood another, which served as a buffet. They all began by drinking several bumpers of rice wine before touching the viands; they then proceeded to eat without drinking any more. The banquet ended, the king, Altoun-Khan, led the prince of the Nagäis into a large hall, brilliantly illuminated, and fitted up with seats arranged for seeing some spectacle, and they were followed by all the mandarins. The king appointed each his place, and made Khalaf sit near him, upon a large ebony throne, inlaid with gold tracery. As soon as the company had taken their places, singers and musicians entered, who commenced an agreeable concert. Altoun-Khan was delighted with it. Infatuated with the Chinese music, he asked the son of Timurtasch, from time to time, what he thought of it, and the young prince, out of politeness, gave it the highest rank of all the music in the world. The concert finished, the singers and musicians retired, to make room for an artificial elephant, which having advanced by secret springs into the middle of the hall, vomited forth six vaulters, who began by making some perilous leaps. They were attired in very thin dresses; they had on only drawers of Indian cloth, caps of brocade, and light shoes. After they had exhibited their agility and suppleness by a thousand extraordinary performances, they re-entered the elephant, which went away as it came. Next, there appeared players, who performed, impromptu, a piece, the subject of which the king chose. When all these diversions were finished, and the night was far advanced, Altoun-Khan and Khalaf rose, to retire to their apartments, and the mandarins followed their example. The young prince of the Nagäis, conducted by eunuchs bearing wax candles in gold candelabra, was preparing to taste the sweets of repose as well as his impatience to return to the divan would permit him, when on entering his chamber, he found a young lady, dressed in a robe of red brocade with silver flowers, and adorned with rubies and emeralds; she wore a head-dress of rose-coloured silk, ornamented with pearls and bound by a very light silver border, which only covered the top of her head, and allowed her beautiful hair to escape, which hung down in ringlets, adorned with a few artificial flowers; as to her figure and face it was impossible to see any more beautiful and perfect except that of the princess of China. The son of Timurtasch was much surprised at meeting a lady alone, and so beautiful, at midnight in his room. He could not have looked upon her with indifference, had he not seen Tourandocte; but as the lover of that princess he had no eyes for any other. As soon as the lady perceived Khalaf, she rose from the sofa where she was seated, and upon which she had laid her veil, and after making a low inclination of her head, "Prince," said she, "I doubt not that you are surprised to find a woman here; for you cannot be ignorant that it is rigorously forbidden for men and women who inhabit the harem, to have any communication together; but the importance of the matter that I have to communicate to you, has made me disregard all danger. I have had dexterity and good fortune enough to overcome all the obstacles which opposed my design. I have gained the eunuchs who wait upon you. It now only remains for me to tell you what brought me here." Khalaf felt interested; he could not doubt but that the lady who had taken so perilous a step, had something to communicate worthy his attention; he begged her to resume her seat on the sofa; they both sat down; and the lady then continued in these terms: "My lord, I believe I ought to begin by informing you that I am the daughter of a khan, one of the tributaries of Altoun-Khan. Some years ago, my father was bold enough to refuse to pay the usual tribute, and, relying too much upon his experience in the art of war, as well as upon the valour of his troops, prepared to defend himself in case he were attacked. What he expected happened. The king of China irritated by his audacity, sent the most experienced of his generals with a powerful army against him. My father, though considerably weaker in numbers, went out to meet him. After a sanguinary battle, which was fought on the banks of a river, the Chinese general remained victorious. My father, pierced with a thousand wounds, died during the battle, but before his death, he ordered all his wives and children to be thrown into the river, to preserve them from slavery. Those who were charged with the generous, though inhuman order, executed it; they threw me, together with my mother, sisters, and two brothers, whose tender age had kept them with us, into the river. The Chinese general arrived at the spot at the very moment when they had cast us in, and when we were about to finish our miserable existence. This mournful and horrible sight excited his compassion; he promised a reward to any of the soldiers who should save any of the vanquished khan's family. Several Chinese horsemen, in spite of the rapidity of the stream, dashed in, and urged their horses wherever they saw our dying bodies floating. They recovered a few, but their assistance was only of use to me. I still breathed when they brought me to shore. The general took great pains for my recovery, as though the glory acquired by my captivity would bestow a fresh lustre on his victory; he brought me to this city, and presented me to the king, after giving an account of his mission. Altoun-Khan placed me with his daughter the princess, who is two or three years younger than I am. "Although still a child, I could not help reflecting that I had become a slave, and that I ought to have sentiments conformable to my situation. I therefore studied the disposition of Tourandocte, and strove to please her, and I succeeded so well by my compliance with her wishes and my attentions, that I gained her friendship. From that time I have shared her confidence with a young person of illustrious birth, whom the misfortunes of her family have reduced to slavery. "Pardon, my lord," she continued, "this narrative which does not bear any relation to the subject that has brought me here. I thought it but right to apprize you that I am of noble blood, that you might place more reliance in me; for the important communication I have to make is such, that an ordinary slave might induce you to give but little credence to what she had to say; and I know not, that even I, though the daughter of a khan, shall be able to influence you: would a prince enamoured of Tourandocte give credit to what I am about to say of her?" "Princess," replied the son of Timurtasch, interrupting her, "keep me no longer in suspense, tell me, I pray you, at once what you have to say concerning the princess of China." "My lord," replied the lady, "Tourandocte, the barbarous Tourandocte has formed a plot to assassinate you!" At these words Khalaf, falling back on the sofa, lay for a moment in a state of horror and amazement. The slave-princess, who had foreseen the astonishment of the young prince, said, "I am not surprised that you should thus receive this frightful announcement, and I was right when I doubted that you would believe it." "Merciful Heaven," cried Khalaf, when he recovered from his stupefaction, "did I hear aright? Is it possible that the princess of China could be guilty of such an atrocious attempt? How could she conceive so base a project?" "Prince," replied the lady, "I will explain to you how she came to take this horrible resolution. When she left the divan this morning, where I had been stationed behind her throne, I saw that she was mortally enraged at what had taken place; she returned into her apartments writhing under the most bitter feelings of mortification and fury; she pondered over the question you asked her for a long time, and not being able to find a suitable answer, she abandoned herself to despair. While she was in the bath, I spared no means, in which I was seconded by the other favourite slave, to calm the violence of her transports; we tried all in our power to inspire her with sentiments favourable to you; we extolled your person and your talents; we represented to her, that she ought to determine to bestow her hand upon you; we pointed out the unseemliness of such immoderate grief; but she imposed silence upon us, with a torrent of injurious words. The most agreeable and handsome make no more impression upon her than the ugliest and most deformed. 'They are all,' said she, 'objects of my contempt, and for whom I shall always entertain the deepest aversion. As regards him who has presented himself last, I entertain a greater hatred towards him than towards the others, and if I cannot rid myself of him by any other means I will have him assassinated.' "I opposed this detestable design," continued the slave-princess, "and laid before her the terrible consequences of such a deed. I represented to her the injury she would inflict upon herself, the despair she would occasion the king, and the just horror that future ages would entertain for her memory. "The other favourite slave supported with all her eloquence the arguments I adduced, but all our persuasions were of no avail; we could not turn her from her purpose. She has entrusted her faithful eunuchs with orders to take your life to-morrow morning as you leave your palace to repair to the divan." "O inhuman princess, perfidious Tourandocte," cried the prince of the Nagäis, "is it thus you prepare to crown the affection of the unhappy son of Timurtasch? Has Khalaf indeed appeared so hateful to you, that you would rather rid yourself of him by a crime that will dishonour you, than unite your destiny with his? Great Heaven! how chequered with strange events is my life! At one moment I seem to enjoy happiness that the greatest might envy, at another I am plunged into a whirlpool of misery." "My lord," said the slave-princess, "if Heaven ordains that you should suffer misfortunes, it does not will that you should sink beneath their weight, since it warns you of the dangers that threaten you. Yes, prince, it is Heaven that has doubtless inspired me with the thought of saving you, for I come not only to point out the snare laid for your life, I come also to furnish you with means to escape. By the assistance of some eunuchs who are devoted to me, I have gained over the soldiers of the guard, who will facilitate your flight from the serail. As they will not fail to make a searching investigation, when they know of your departure, and discover that I am the author of it, I am resolved to fly with you, and escape from this court, where I have more than one cause for discontent; my state of bondage makes me hate it, and you make it still more odious to me. "Let us waste no time; come, and let to-morrow's sun, when he begins his course, find us far, far from Pekin. "In a certain spot in the town," continued she, "horses await us; let us fly, and reach if possible the territory of the tribe of Berlas." Khalaf replied, "Beautiful princess, I render you a thousand thanks for your wish to save me from the danger with which I am encompassed. Oh! that I could, to prove my gratitude, deliver you from your slavery, and conduct you in safety to the horde of the khan of Berlas your relation. With what pleasure would I place you in his hands! I should thereby repay some of the obligations I lie under to him. But I ask you, princess, ought I thus to steal away from Altoun-Khan? What would he think of me? He would believe that I came to his court for the sole purpose of carrying you off, and at the very time when I should be flying, only that I might save his daughter from perpetrating a fearful crime, he would be accusing me of violating the laws of hospitality. Ah! must I confess it, cruel though the princess of China be, I could never find in my foolish heart to hate her? Whatever misfortune may be in store for me, I cannot consent to so ignominious a flight. I acknowledge that charms like yours would amply repay your liberator, and that my days with you might pass in the greatest bliss, but I am not born to be happy, my destiny is to love Tourandocte; despite the aversion she feels towards me, I should wear out my days in endless sorrow, were they spent away from her." "Well then, ingrate, remain," cried the lady passionately, interrupting him, "and let the spot in which thy happiness is concentrated be sprinkled with thy blood." Saying these words, she replaced her veil, and quitted the apartment. The young prince, after the lady had retired, remained upon the sofa in a state of bewilderment. "Must I believe," said he, "what I have just heard? Can she carry her cruelty thus far? Alas! I dare not doubt it, for the slave-princess's expressions of horror at Tourandocte's plot were so natural--the risks she ran in coming herself to warn me of it so great, and the feelings she displayed so unquestionable,--that all are pledges of the truthfulness of her words. Ah! cruel daughter of the best of kings, is it thus that you abuse the gifts with which Heaven has endowed you? O Heaven! how couldst thou confer on this barbarous princess so much beauty, or why adorn so inhuman a soul with so many charms?" Instead of seeking a few hours' sleep, he passed the night, distracted with the most painful reflections. At length day appeared, the ringing of the bells and beating of drums was again heard, and shortly after six mandarins arrived to conduct him to the council-chamber, as on the preceding day. He traversed the court where the soldiers were arranged in two files: he expected to meet his death at this spot, and that it was here the persons who had been appointed to assassinate him were posted, in order to despatch him as he passed. Far from thinking of defending himself or putting himself upon his guard, he walked on like a man prepared to die; he even appeared to chide the delay of his assassins. He passed through the court, however, without any attack being made upon him, and reached the first hall of the divan. "Ah! doubtless it is here," thought he, "that the sanguinary order of the princess is to be put in execution." He looked around him on all sides, and thought he saw in every one he surveyed a murderer. He nevertheless advanced and entered the hall where the council was sitting, without receiving the deadly stroke which he thought awaited him. All the doctors and mandarins were already seated under their canopies, and Altoun-Khan was momentarily expected. "What can be the design of the princess?" thought he. "Can she wish to be an eye-witness of my death, and does she desire to have me assassinated before the eyes of her father? Can the king be an accomplice in the deed? What am I to think? Can he have changed his mind, and issued the order for my death?" Whilst his thoughts were occupied with these doubts, the door of the inner palace opened, and the king, accompanied by Tourandocte, entered the hall. They took their seats upon their thrones, and the prince of the Nagäis stood before them, at the same distance as on the day before. When the calao saw the king seated, he rose, and demanded of the young prince whether he remembered having promised to renounce the hand of the princess if she answered the question which he had proposed. Khalaf replied that he did, and again declared that in that event, he would renounce all claim to the honour of being the king's son-in-law. The calao then addressed Tourandocte, and said, "And you, great princess, you are aware of the oath that binds you, and of the penalty to which you are subjected if you do not this day declare the name of the prince, which you are required to give." The king, persuaded that she could not reply to the question of Khalaf, said to her, "My daughter, you have had ample time to consider the question which was proposed to you; but if you had a whole year to think of it, I believe that in spite of your sagacity you would be obliged, at the end of it, to acknowledge that it is something which even you could not reveal. So, as you cannot guess, yield with good grace to the love of this young prince, and satisfy the wish I feel that he should be your husband. He is worthy of being so, and of reigning with you, after my death, over the people of this mighty empire." "My lord," replied Tourandocte, "why do you think that I shall not be able to reply to the question of this prince? It is not so difficult as you imagine. I suffered the shame of a defeat yesterday, but to-day I look forward to the honour of a victory. I will confound this rash young man who has entertained so mean an opinion of my talents. Let him put the question, and I will answer it." "Madam," thereupon said the prince of the Nagäis, "I ask, what is the name of that prince who, after suffering a thousand hardships, and being reduced to beg his bread, finds himself at this moment covered with glory, and overwhelmed with joy?" "This prince," replied Tourandocte, "is named Khalaf, and he is the son of Timurtasch." When Khalaf heard his name he changed colour, a dark mist seemed to cover his eyes, and he fell senseless to the ground. The king and all the mandarins, judging from this that Tourandocte had answered correctly, and had given the prince's real name, grew pale, and sat in great consternation. After Khalaf had recovered from his swoon, through the attentions of the mandarins and the king himself, who had quitted his throne to come to his assistance, he thus addressed Tourandocte: "Beautiful princess, you are mistaken if you think you have given a fitting answer to my question; the son of Timurtasch is not covered with glory, and overwhelmed with joy; he is rather covered with shame, and overwhelmed with grief." "I agree with you," replied the princess, "that at this moment you are not overwhelmed with glory and joy, but you were so when you proposed this question; so, prince, instead of having recourse to vain quibbles, confess honestly that you have lost your right to Tourandocte. I therefore can, if I choose, refuse you my hand, and abandon you to the regret of having lost your prize; nevertheless, I will acknowledge to you, and declare here publicly, that I entertain different feelings towards you to what I did. The friendship my father has conceived for you, and your own merit, have determined me to take you for my husband." At these words all etiquette was for a moment forgotten; the council-chamber resounded with shouts of joy. The mandarins and doctors applauded the words of Tourandocte. The king approached her, and kissing her, said, "My child, you could not have formed a decision more agreeable to me; by this act you will efface the bad impression you have made upon the minds of my people, and you confer upon your father a joy to which he has long been a stranger, and which hitherto he had hoped for in vain. Yes, that aversion you entertained for marriage, that aversion so contrary to nature, robbed me of the sweet hope of seeing princes of my own blood spring from you. Happily, that aversion has ceased, and what crowns my wishes is, that you have extinguished it in favour of a young hero who is dear to me. But tell us," added he, "how you have been able to guess the name of a prince who was unknown to you." "My lord," replied Tourandocte, "it was not by enchantment that I learned it; it was by perfectly natural means. One of my slaves sought the prince Khalaf, and had subtlety enough to rob him of his secret, and I hope he will forgive me for taking advantage of this treachery, since I have made no worse use of it." "Ah! charming Tourandocte," hereupon cried the prince of the Nagäis, "is it possible that you entertain such favourable sentiments towards me? From what a frightful abyss do you draw me, to raise me to the height of bliss! Alas, how unjust was I! whilst you were preparing such a glorious fate for me I thought you guilty of the blackest of all treachery. Deceived by a horrible fable which darkened my reason, I repaid your good intentions with injurious doubts. Oh! what impatience do I feel to expiate my unjust suspicions at your feet." Altoun-Khan ordered the preparations for the marriage of Khalaf and Tourandocte to be set on foot, and whilst they were engaged about them he sent ambassadors to the tribe of Berlas, to inform the khan of the Nagäis of all that had taken place in China, and to beg him to come with the princess his wife. The preparations being concluded, the marriage was celebrated with all the pomp and magnificence which belonged to the high birth of the happy pair. Khalaf was raised to the rank of the highest subject, and the king himself made a public declaration that, to mark his sense of the esteem and consideration he entertained for his son-in-law, he should allow him to dispense with the customary obeisances to his bride. During a whole month nothing was seen at the court but feasting and pageants, and in the city nothing but gaiety and rejoicings. The possession of Tourandocte did not diminish the love Khalaf entertained for her, and the princess, who had hitherto regarded men with so much contempt, could not but love so perfect a prince. Some time after their marriage the ambassadors whom Altoun-Khan had sent to the country of Berlas returned, bringing with them not only the father and mother of the king's son-in-law, but also prince Almguer, who, to pay honour to Elmaze and Timurtasch, insisted on accompanying them, with the most distinguished of his nobles, and conducting them to Pekin. The young prince of the Nagäis, apprized of their arrival, immediately rode out to meet them. He found them nearly at the gate of the palace. The joy he felt on seeing his father and mother, and their transports on seeing him, can be scarcely conceived, much less described. They all three embraced each other over and over again, and the tears they shed drew forth corresponding signs of emotion from the Chinese and Tartars who were present. After these tender embraces, Khalaf saluted the khan of Berlas; he expressed to him how deeply he felt his kindness, and more especially his condescension in himself accompanying his parents to the court of China; the prince Almguer replied that, being ignorant of the rank of Timurtasch and Elmaze, he had not shown towards them the respect that was due to them, and thus to atone for any neglect they might have experienced, he thought it his duty to pay them this mark of honour; the khan of the Nagäis and his wife the princess, however, paid a high tribute to the attentive kindness of the khan of Berlas; they then all entered the palace of the king, to be presented to Altoun-Khan. They found this monarch awaiting them in the first hall. He embraced them all, one after the other, and received them very graciously; he then conducted them into his cabinet, where, after expressing the pleasure he felt at seeing Timurtasch, and his sympathy in his misfortunes, he assured him that he would employ all his power to avenge him on the sultan of Carisma. This was no empty offer, for that very day he despatched orders to the governors of the provinces to march with all speed with the soldiers who were in the towns within their jurisdiction, and to take the route to lake Baljouta, which was chosen for the rendezvous of the formidable army he proposed to assemble there. For his part, the khan of Berlas, who had foreseen this war, and who wished to assist in the re-establishment of Timurtasch in his dominions, had, previous to his departure from his tribe, ordered the general of his army to be in readiness to take the field at the first summons. He now commanded him also to repair to lake Baljouta with all possible speed. During the time the officers and soldiers who were to compose the army of Altoun-Khan, and who were dispersed throughout the kingdom, were marching to assemble at the spot indicated, this king spared no pains to express his high consideration for his new guests; he appointed a separate palace to each, with a great number of eunuchs, and a guard of two thousand men. Every day some new fête was contrived for their entertainment, and the king's whole attention seemed turned towards affording them pleasure. Khalaf, although he had now every day a thousand matters to occupy his attention, did not forget his kind hostess; he remembered with gratitude the solicitude she expressed for him; he sent for her to the palace, and begged Tourandocte to receive her amongst her attendants. The hope that Timurtasch and Elmaze entertained of reascending the throne of the Nagäi-Tartars, by the assistance of the king of China, insensibly made them forget their past troubles; and when Tourandocte gave birth to a beautiful prince, they were quite overwhelmed with joy. The birth of this child, who was named the prince of China, was celebrated in all the cities of this vast empire by public rejoicings. Whilst these festivities were taking place, news was brought by couriers, sent by the officers who had orders to collect the army, that all the troops of the kingdom, and those of the khan of Berlas, had assembled at lake Baljouta. Immediately Timurtasch, Khalaf, and Almguer set out for the camp, where they found every thing in readiness, and seven hundred thousand men ready to march; they immediately took the read to Kotan, from whence they marched to Raschar, and at length entered the dominions of the sultan of Carisma. This prince, informed of their numbers, and of the invasion of his territories, by couriers whom the governors of the frontier towns had despatched, far from being alarmed at the number of his enemies, courageously prepared to meet them. Instead even of intrenching himself, he had the boldness to take the field himself, at the head of four hundred thousand men, whom he had hastily collected. The armies met near Cogendi, where they drew up in battle array. On the side of the Chinese, Timurtasch commanded the right wing, prince Almguer the left, and Khalaf the centre. On the other side, the sultan confided the command of his right wing to the ablest of his generals, opposed the prince of Carisma to the prince of the Nagäis, and reserved the left to himself, where the elite of his cavalry were stationed. The khan of Berlas began the attack with the soldiers of his tribe, who, fighting like men who knew the eyes of their master were on them, soon turned the right wing of their enemies; the officer who commanded it, however, succeeded in reforming it almost immediately. Meanwhile the right wing, commanded by Timurtasch, was not so fortunate; the sultan broke them at the first onset, and the Chinese in disorder were on the point of taking flight, in spite of every effort of the khan of the Nagäis, when Khalaf, informed of what had taken place, confided the care of the centre to an experienced Chinese general, and rushed to the assistance of his father at the head of reinforcements. In a short time things assumed a different aspect. The left wing of the Carismians was driven back, and in turn routed; the whole of the ranks fell into disorder and were easily broken--the entire wing was put to flight. The sultan determined to conquer or die, and made incredible efforts to rally his soldiers; but Timurtasch and Khalaf gave them no time, and surrounded them on all sides, whilst prince Almguer having defeated the right wing, victory declared in favour of the Chinese. There remained but one chance of safety for the sultan of Carisma, and that was to cut his way through the ranks of his enemies, and to take refuge with some foreign prince; but he preferred not surviving his defeat to exhibiting amongst the nations his brow despoiled of the diadem; so rushing blindly into the thickest of the carnage, he fell bravely, fighting to the last, and pierced with a thousand mortal wounds, on a heap of slain. The prince of Carisma, his son, shared the same fate; two hundred thousand of their troops were killed or made prisoners, the rest seeking safety in flight. The Chinese also lost a great number of men; but if the battle had been a bloody one, it was decisive. Timurtasch, after thanking Heaven for this signal success, despatched an officer to Pekin to give an account of the battle to the king of China; he then advanced into Zagatay, and seized upon the city of Carisma. He made a proclamation in this capital that he would not touch the property, or interfere with the liberty of the Carismians; that Heaven having made him master of the throne of his enemy, he intended to take possession of it, and that henceforth, Zagatay, and the other countries which had been under the sway of the sultan, should acknowledge for their sovereign his son Khalaf. The Carismians, tired of the harsh rule of their late master, and persuaded that that of Khalaf would be milder, submitted readily, and proclaimed as sultan this young prince, with whose merits they were acquainted. Whilst the new sultan took all necessary measures to strengthen his position, Timurtasch departed with a body of Chinese troops with all possible speed to his own dominions. The Nagäi-Tartars received him like faithful subjects, and were overjoyed to see their legitimate sovereign; but he was not content with regaining his throne; he declared war against the Circassians, in order to punish them for their treachery to prince Khalaf at Jund. Instead of trying to appease him by submission, these warlike people speedily collected an army to oppose him. He attacked them, and cut them nearly all to pieces; after which he caused himself to be proclaimed king of Circassia, and then returned to Zagatay, where he found Elmaze and Tourandocte, whom Altoun-Khan had sent to Carisma in great state. Such was the end of the misfortunes of prince Khalaf, who gained by his virtues the love and esteem of the Carismians. He reigned long and peacefully over them, and never abated in his love for Tourandocte; he had a second son by her, who became afterwards the sultan of Carisma. As for the prince of China, Altoun-Khan brought him up, and chose him for his successor. Timurtasch and the princess Elmaze passed the rest of their days at Astrachan, and the khan of Berlas, after having received from them and their children all the tokens of gratitude which his generosity merited, retired to his tribe with the remainder of his troops. FOOTNOTES: [8] The Chinese mourning colour is white. IV. THE WISE DEY. Chaaban, Dey of Algiers, being dead, the Turkish janissaries bethought themselves of electing a new dey; and their intention was to place in this high station an inert, weak, and indolent man, who would allow them to be their own masters, to act as they pleased either with or without justice, and who would never inflict any punishment upon them. Passing through the streets of Algiers, they beheld Hadgi-Achmet, a man of ripe age, seated peaceably at the door of his dwelling, and carefully mending his old slippers, without taking any part either in the outcries, the conversation, or the gossiping going on all around him. Hadgi-Achmet seemed to them to be just the sort of apathetic man they were in search of, a man who would never interfere with any one, would allow them to do exactly as they pleased, and who, in short, would be but the shadow of a dey. They therefore laid hold of Hadgi-Achmet, tore him from his work, led him to the divan, and elected him dey in spite of himself. Hadgi-Achmet, thus forced to assume the reins of government, wisely examined into the duties of his new position, and set himself to fulfil them with as much assiduity and zeal as he had employed in the humbler task of mending his old slippers. He watched over the interests of the country, and over those of justice, and punished severely all misdeeds which came under his observation; having a stern, strange habit of knitting his shaggy eyebrows and flashing his brilliant eyes whenever any thing mean or wicked came under his notice. All this was very displeasing to the Turkish janissaries, and to several members of the divan. Four of these latter formed a species of plot with the design of bringing Hadgi-Achmet into contempt in the eyes of the public. Now as it was the pleasure of the dey to administer justice himself, and to enquire into the smallest matter that concerned the interests of the people, they thought to render him ridiculous, by begging him one day to judge four distinct matters, unworthy, in their opinion, to occupy the attention of a great ruler. "Hadgi-Achmet," said one of the members of the divan to the dey, "my lord, here is a culprit who can only be judged by thee, O sun of justice! He is a Tunisian merchant, who has established himself a short time since at Bab-a-Zoun street, not far from the mosque. At first he carried on his trade with tolerable honesty; but by degrees it has been shown that he is nothing better than a rogue, and has cheated a great number of his customers in the weight, the quality, and the value of his goods. Thou knowest well the law which condemns such offenders to lose an ear. This man was seized, carried before the cadi, and his rogueries being but too apparent, condemned by the cadi to lose his left ear, the right being reserved in the event of fresh misdemeanors. But when the man's turban was removed, it was discovered that his left ear was already gone. The cadi, being informed of the fact, ordered the right ear to be cut off. To execute this order, they had to pull the hand of the culprit away from his right ear, and when this had been done, it was discovered that the Tunisian's right ear was missing as well as the left. The cadi therefore sent to inform me, and I, knowing the pleasure thou takest in resolving grave and important questions, have come to submit this one to thy consummate prudence, to thy glorious justice." Hadgi-Achmet, having heard these words, knit his brows, his eyes flashed fire upon him who had just spoken, and upon all those who were present at this audience; then, turning towards the man without ears, he said, "Since thou hast always been a rogue, and that nothing could reform thee, I condemn thee all thy life long to wear neither turban nor any head-dress whatsoever to conceal the mutilation of thy ears. Purchasers, on beholding this mutilation, will shun thee if they are wise, for no one is ignorant that a merchant without ears is nothing else than a rogue." The earless Tunisian went sadly away. Being compelled to exhibit to every one and at all times the mutilation he had undergone, was a far worse punishment than the loss of five hundred ears, if he had had them. This judgment pronounced, a second member of the divan addressed the dey, "Hadgi-Achmet, our lord and master, here are two men who are quarrelling upon a question which thou only canst decide by thy profound wisdom. One of these men is the father of a beautiful and promising boy. He had this son and two others. One day, about ten years ago, Ibrahim, his neighbour, who was childless, said to him, 'Chamyl, give me thy youngest son, I will adopt him; he shall live in my house, inherit my wealth, and be happy. If thou desirest it, I will give thee in exchange for thy son my country-house at Boudjaréah; thou knowest that the north breeze is wafted there in the hottest days of summer.' "Chamyl consented to give his son, and took the house at Boudjaréah in exchange. Ormed, the son of Chamyl, went to live with Ibrahim, who soon loved him very tenderly, whilst Ormed, if only out of gratitude, soon became much attached to him. "Chamyl has now lost both his other sons, and having become rich, desires to take back Ormed, saying, 'This child is henceforth the sole hope of my race, the joy of my heart, and I wish him to become my heir.' "As for Ibrahim, he has lost nearly the half of his fortune, but he has not lost the attachment which he bears to his adopted son. On the contrary, his affection continues daily to strengthen for this child, who is endowed with the finest qualities of mind, and with a grateful and affectionate heart. "With whom dost thou decree that Ormed shall remain? with his adopted or with his real father?" Hadgi-Achmet, addressing himself to Chamyl, said, "In what does thy fortune consist?" Chamyl enumerated his possessions: a house, a ship, several country houses, and merchandise. "Can these things be removed?" asked Hadgi-Achmet. "Some of them can," replied Chamyl. "And the others," replied Hadgi-Achmet; "couldst not thou, if necessary, dispose of them, and buy others with the price?" "I could," replied Chamyl. "And the affection which thou hadst for thy sons who are dead, couldst thou transfer it, and bestow it upon other children." "Ah! that would be impossible," replied Chamyl, sorrowfully. "Then affection cannot be transferred or exchanged," said Hadgi-Achmet; "and as it forms part of the heart of man, it is of far higher consequence than material things, is it not?" "Yes, my lord," answered Chamyl. "So that," continued the dey, "we may say to a man, Sell, or give away, thy possessions; but we cannot, without absurdity, say to any one, Cease to love him whom thou lovest. For which reason, Chamyl, I condemn thee to leave with Ibrahim the child whom he loves, and whom thou voluntarily gavest him when thou hadst affection for thy two sons who are no more. As to thy possessions, thou canst bear them whithersoever thou wilt, for riches are not the heart." "But I love my son," cried Chamyl, "and I will have him, and him only, for my heir." "Ah! thou lovest thy son," rejoined Hadgi-Achmet. "It may be so, but thou gavest no proofs of it so long as thy two other children were alive. Moreover, thou hast taken a house in exchange for thy son; it is exactly the same as if thou hadst sold thy child." "I was poor," murmured Chamyl. "A lame excuse," said the dey, "for there are many more poor men than rich men, yet we do not see poor men giving up their children for any gain whatsoever." "No, no! I have not sold my son," cried Chamyl, "and my son is mine." "No, thy son is no longer thine," said the dey, "for thou art not a father after my heart, and for ten years thy son has been cared for by the man to whom thou gavest him in exchange for a house. Ibrahim has not deserved that the child whom he so tenderly loves should be taken from him, and I order him to be left with him. But since thou wilt have none other than thy son for thine heir, I decree moreover that all thy property shall revert to him after thy death, which is nothing but justice." Ibrahim then interposed. "My lord," said he to the dey, "Ormed and I have no need of the fortune of Chamyl. What Allah has left to us is sufficient for our wants. Permit Chamyl then to preserve the right of choosing for himself an heir among orphans or poor children, of whom he will now probably adopt one." "No," replied the dey, "the man who has been able to calmly select one from among his own children and barter him for a house, can never attach himself to the orphan or the unfortunate. I see no reason to alter the judgment I have pronounced. Ormed will have for his inheritance the love of his adopted father and the wealth of his real one." Chamyl withdrew, greatly incensed at this judgment, which seemed to him unjust, but which appeared highly equitable to the inhabitants of Aldgezaire. A third member of the divan then addressed Hadgi-Achmet: "All thy words bear the impress of the wisdom which illuminates thee. It suffices to hear thee, in order to know and venerate thee. If we do not abuse thy patience and thy goodness, it is because both are inexhaustible. Behold," added he, "a woman veiled, according to the law. She accuses her husband of leaving her to perish with hunger, whilst her husband here maintains that the woman tells an infamous untruth, and that he supplies her with ample means for becoming fat and strong; he adds, that the famished locusts from the desert eat not more voraciously than doth this woman, all the while remaining lean and feeble, as thou seest. The woman persists in asserting that her husband scarcely gives her sufficient to languish on like a dying tree, and she claims thy pity and thy justice." Hadgi-Achmet, having heard these words, knit his brows, his eyes flashed fire upon him who had just spoken, and upon those present at this audience. Then he said, "Mahmoud, dost thou declare that thou affordest sufficient nourishment to thy wife?" "Yes, my lord," replied Mahmoud. "And thou, woman," said the dey, "dost thou still maintain that thy husband leaves thee in want of nourishment?" "Yes, my lord," replied the poor starving woman in a faint voice, and extending her transparent hands and long thin arms, in a supplicating manner towards her master and her judge. "Art thou poor?" demanded Hadgi-Achmet of Mahmoud. "No, my lord," replied Mahmoud, "I could support several wives if I wished, but it pleases me to have only this one in my house." "Ah! thou couldst support several wives," replied the dey; "and why then dost thou not give to this one all she desires, even supposing she devoured as voraciously as the famished locusts of the desert?" "I never refuse her any thing," said Mahmoud. The poor veiled woman sighed. "Well," added Hadgi-Achmet, "since thou art both rich and generous, I will put thee in the position to repel an accusation so disgraceful to thee as that of leaving the woman whom thou hast espoused to perish of hunger. To which end I order that thy wife shall dwell in my palace in the apartments of my women and receive from thee a pension which will enable her to purchase whatever food she may desire. If at the end of a year of peace and plenty she should still possess that feeble voice and that excessive thinness which inspire my compassion, I shall regard her as inflicted with an incurable malady, and will leave her to go and die beneath thy roof; but if, on the contrary, she regains strength and voice, thou shalt be hung, not only for having violated the law which commands the husband to minister to the support of his wife, but still more for having lied before thy lord and thy judge, who knows and ever will know how to punish those who offend him." Having spoken thus, Hadgi-Achmet cast terrible looks upon all the men present at this audience. Mahmoud withdrew only too sure of being hung next year, and every one preserved a gloomy silence which lasted for several minutes. Hadgi-Achmet meanwhile resumed: "If there remains any other cause for me to judge, let it be declared." Then with less self-possession and confidence than his colleagues had displayed, a fourth member of the divan presented himself. "Here, my lord," said he, "is a strange affair which occupies us, and which thou alone canst judge. "These two men here present are twin-brothers. They have always loved each other, and have never been separated. Their father is just dead. After having deplored his loss, they said to each other: 'The roof of our father's dwelling has sheltered us to this day, let it shelter us still; and let us amicably share all that is left us by our father, arms, vestments, or jewels.' "But all at once an object presented itself which could not be divided, and for the loss of which nothing else would compensate. The article in question is a holy amulet, which it is said bestows wisdom on him who wears it upon his breast beneath his tunic. Now the two brothers equally desire wisdom, and both would fain possess the precious talisman left them by their father." Hadgi-Achmet having heard these words, knit his brows, again his eyes flashed fire, as he said to one of the twins: "Mozza, canst thou not yield to thy brother, who so earnestly desires it, the amulet left you both by your father?" "No, my lord," replied Mozza, "I could easily reconcile myself to my brother's being richer than myself, but not to his being wiser!" Hadgi-Achmet turned to the other brother: "Farzan, canst thou not yield to thy brother the amulet he wishes to possess?" "No, my lord," replied Farzan, "for wisdom not alone bestows upon its possessor the things of the earth, but those also which belong to heaven, and I desire those above all." Hadgi-Achmet then ordered Mozza to place upon his breast beneath his tunic the cherished amulet, which being done, he said to the young man: "I am charmed to find that thou preferrest wisdom to fortune, for wisdom is above all. But dost thou not see that it is wise to be at peace with thy brother, and that to obtain this peace there is no sacrifice too great? To yield to thy brother is the beginning and the end of wisdom; he who yields is ever the best and the wisest. On this ground thou wilt now, I am persuaded, yield cheerfully this amulet to thy brother." "I repeat, my lord," answered Mozza, "that I will yield every thing to my brother, slaves, diamonds, house--my entire fortune; but I will never willingly give up this sacred amulet: it is the only heritage I covet." "Ah!" said Hadgi-Achmet, "thou hast not changed thy mind then! well, give me thy father's amulet." Mozza reluctantly handed the precious talisman to the dey. "Farzan," said the dey, "place this amulet upon thy breast, and beneath thy tunic." Farzan obeyed. He had no sooner placed the amulet upon his breast than he felt so lively a joy that he would have embraced his brother had he dared, and his eyes glistened with pleasure. "Ah!" said Hadgi-Achmet, addressing himself to Farzan, "I perceive that this amulet has great power over thee. Thy heart is opened to wisdom, and thou wilt renounce foolish quarrels, wilt thou not, and yield to thy brother the talisman which he so much desires, and of which he has perhaps greater need than thou?" "I!" cried Farzan, "rather would I die than part with my father's amulet! I feel myself capable of plunging my dagger into the bosom of any one rash enough to attempt to tear it from me, whoever he might be." "In truth," rejoined Hadgi-Achmet, "I see that this amulet is far from bestowing all the wisdom of which you young men deem it capable. On the contrary it only seems to me fit to sow dissensions between you, since notwithstanding you have both worn it upon your breast, you have nevertheless preserved your animosity and unjust pretensions in the dispute in question. For which reason I ordain that this precious talisman, of whose real power we are doubtless ignorant, shall remain in my palace and be restored in ten years' time to whichever of you two shall have given by his conduct the most incontestable proofs of piety and virtue." Having heard this sentence, the two brothers sorrowfully withdrew. But they had no sooner crossed the threshold of the palace, than they were reconciled to each other, avowing that the dey had acted with justice, and thenceforth they lived happy and united as before. In the mean time, Hadgi-Achmet, having delivered these four judgments, knit his brows once more, and turning to the members of the divan, addressed them as follows: "Joyfully have I just occupied myself with the smallest things which concern the welfare and repose of my subjects, and I should not regret my time had it been employed in affairs still more trifling. Every thing appears of importance to me which in any way relates to the wellbeing of one of those over whom Allah has made me sovereign. I nothing doubt that you applaud my conduct, and that you would gladly imitate my zeal in the service of the people. Your praises prove it; but I know well that men such as you prefer proving their zeal by actions, rather than by words. I am about therefore to entrust you with a task of great importance to me, since it is for the most interesting class of my subjects, namely, the most unfortunate. I am about to distribute before the Ramadan, four sacks of rice among poor old men and widows. An unskilful hand has contrived in filling these sacks with the rice, to spill amongst it a quantity of _oats_. Now as I do not wish these poor people to think themselves treated with contempt by receiving rice mixed with oats, I wish that pious hands should carefully sift the rice and extract from it these grains. It is on you I rely for the performance of this duty, which awaits you in one of the halls of my palace. I cannot at this moment be an eye-witness of your zeal in obeying me, and serving the people; but before your task is finished, I will be with you." Having spoken these words, the dey caused the members of the divan to be respectfully conducted by his guards to a large hall, where they found four sacks of rice and several baskets. The members of the divan feeling persuaded that this was an affair which more nearly concerned their heads than the sacks of rice, set themselves silently to this unexpected work, whilst the guards remained stationary at the entrance of the hall in which the labour was being carried on. The flight of a musquito might have been heard in this hall where the members of the divan were busily engaged sifting the rice for the poor, all the while vowing to be revenged upon Hadgi-Achmet, if they ever had the power. Towards the evening the members of the divan were joined by Hadgi-Achmet, who perceiving that one of them had made less progress in his task than his three colleagues, said, "I would not accuse thee of want of zeal: man knows not always what he wishes, nor knows what he can do; I will therefore aid thee in thy task," and he began gravely to assist the four members of the divan in sifting the rice of the poor. The tasks being accomplished, the four sacks of rice were carefully closed. Hadgi-Achmet thanked his enemies, and caused them to be conducted with the greatest respect to the gates of his palace. These men left to themselves, regarded each other with consternation and shame; they then said, "We would fain have laughed at Hadgi-Achmet, and it is he who has mocked us. Let us henceforth abstain from criticizing his scrupulous exactitude in rendering justice, but let us think only of avenging ourselves." But they sought the opportunity in vain. Hadgi-Achmet, who had commenced his career by so carefully mending his old slippers, held the reins of power with a strong hand, and whilst other deys in those times almost always met a violent death by steel or poison, he died peacefully in his palace, after having lived many long years. V. THE TUNISIAN SAGE; OR, THE POWDER OF LONGEVITY. Selim-ben-Foubi had been twenty years engaged in commerce when he inherited a fortune which greatly surpassed his wants and even his desires. As he had lost all his children, his great wealth caused him but little joy, and he felt it even embarrassing to possess so much gold and so many precious things, of which he should never be able to make any use. "I am now fifty," said he, "and were I to live to a hundred, I should not spend half of what I possess. I can only take one meal at a time, dress in a single suit, and sleep in but one bed. Hence if I can but rest in peace in a substantial and commodious house, eat as much as I desire, and invite a friend to partake of my repast, that is all I need wish for. I have therefore resolved to give away the half of my fortune during my lifetime, that I may enjoy the pleasure of beholding happiness of my own creating." Having formed this generous project, Selim nevertheless wished before putting it into execution to take counsel with two of his friends. Quitting therefore his country-house at Boudjaréah, he repaired to Aldgezaire, where in the garden of the grand mosque dwelt usually a sage mufti, a grave and reverend man. Seating himself by his side beneath the shade of some flowering pomegranate trees, he thus accosted him: "Mehemet, I have come to visit thee in order to open my whole heart to thee and take counsel of thy wisdom. I am suddenly become very rich, as thou knowest, and I have no son to inherit my wealth; is it not too great for a single solitary man? speak, answer me." "That which Allah gives should never be despised," replied the sage. "I do not disdain my riches," replied Selim, "but I am thinking of sharing them with others, and of keeping only what is necessary to my existence for the remainder of my days." "Thou knowest not what the number of thy days will be." "I will suppose that I may enjoy the longest of lives, a hundred years for example, thinkest thou I shall live yet longer?" "Allah alone knows." "Let us say five hundred," continued Selim, "surely that covers all chances; well then, during this long course of years, would it not be more agreeable to me to know that my riches are useful, than to feel that they were hidden in some coffer, where they might become an object of envy to the poor, or tempt the cupidity of the ill-doer?" "May be so," said the mufti. "My thought is a good one then?" "It may be; but will it be good in practice? I cannot say. Nothing is more common than to think wisely; nothing more rare than to put wise thoughts into practice." "Advise me," said Selim, "and I shall then be sure of fulfilling the law, and of doing good. How ought I to distribute the half of my large fortune?" The mufti reflected profoundly, and then replied: "I advise thee first to take at least one year to reflect upon thy project. Time is the sun that ripens the thoughts of men. We never repent of having reflected before acting; we often regret not having done so. Reflect then, and afterwards come and consult with me." Selim quitted the mosque, and repaired to Bab-a-Zoun street, to the house of his other friend, a Moorish merchant, who laboured hard to support himself by his calling. He began thus: "We have been friends and have known each other these ten years, for which reason I come to put to thee this question: 'In what way, thinkest thou, a man who is both rich and beneficent should employ his fortune, in order to be useful?'" The Moorish merchant replied: "Thou makest a very singular demand of me. I cannot believe that a man can find any difficulty in giving, if he really possess the desire. He may found a mosque, succour the aged, support the widow and the orphan, enrich his friends, if he have any, and the rich are seldom without friends." "But thou," rejoined Selim, "if thou hadst aught to give away, what wouldst thou do?" "I? I cannot fancy myself having any thing to give away, seeing that I can scarcely pay the rent of my poor shop, and fill that shop with a few sacks of rice and a little coffee. If I had money, it is very certain that I should begin by buying a house and goods. It is of no use to say to a poor man like me, 'To whom wouldst thou give thy money?' But I repeat to thee there is no lack of good actions to be done. Happy he who has only to choose." "Thou art right," said Selim to his friend; and quitting him, he returned to his country-house at Boudjaréah. One of his neighbours, Achmet the Arab, accosted him upon the road thither; and Selim, having stopped to converse with his friend, said to him: "Thou art of a ripe age, and art not wanting in experience of the things of this life. Tell me then if thou considerest that it would be well for a man who is rich and childless to give away, while still living, the half of his fortune, reserving the other half, upon which to subsist honourably the remainder of his days." Achmet replied, "I cannot say whether it is better in the sight of Allah to give away or to retain the goods with which he has endowed thee. As for myself, I have nothing to give, for I have a very small fortune, and a great many children; but if I were rich and without heirs, I would bury my gold in some corner of my garden, sooner than bestow it to gratify men who are either wicked or ungrateful, and such they almost all are. This gold would sooner or later be discovered by some one whom Allah desired to enrich, and thus I should not be responsible for the use that was made of it." "Thy idea is not, perhaps, a bad one," said Selim, "and I will certainly reflect upon it." While Selim and his neighbour were talking together, a Tunisian of miserable aspect approached the spot. This was no other than Hussein Muley, a physician of Tunis. He was already advanced in years, and passed for a man rich in science, but poor in money. Selim requested this man to rest himself in his house, and his invitation being accepted, he saluted his neighbour Achmet, and conducted his guest into one of the fresh and salubrious halls of his smiling abode. Hussein Muley, fatigued by two hours' walk under a broiling sun, threw himself upon a divan, whilst fruits and coffee were abundantly served to him. When he had somewhat reposed and refreshed himself, Selim said to him in a friendly manner, "I am happy to receive thee at my house, because thou art a wise man, and of good renown in thy profession. Thou hast travelled, read, and seen life; thou must of necessity be able to judge wisely of the things which relate to this life. I should therefore be very glad to have thy opinion upon a project which I have formed. I have become very rich by inheritance; and having no children, I think of disposing, while yet living, of a great portion of my wealth. In what way dost thou consider it would be most desirable to employ this wealth?" Hussein Muley regarded Selim with surprise. "Thou wouldst give away a great portion of what thou hast," said he. "This is, indeed, a marvellous thing. I have, as thou sayest, travelled, read, and seen life, but never yet have I heard of any man giving away, during his lifetime, the greater part of his fortune." "Does that prove that it would be wrong to do so?" demanded Selim. "I know not," replied the Tunisian, falling into a fit of profound meditation, and looking all the while at the tips of his old slippers, instead of contemplating from afar the ever-changing sea and azure sky. "On what dost thou muse?" at length demanded Selim. "I was thinking--I was thinking that if the duration of man's life were longer, it would be better both for those who study science, and for those who are the fortunate possessors of great wealth; it would be equally good for the poor, since they might one day hope to enjoy the fruit of their toils, if they took pains to become rich." "What profits it to meditate so deeply upon a thing which all the reflections of man cannot change?" "I do not regard the prolongation of human existence as impossible. Hitherto physicians have most frequently been instrumental in abridging it. My aim is to repair the wrongs they have involuntarily committed. I would have succeeding ages regard my memory with gratitude." "What sayest thou?" cried Selim. "Thou wouldst change the order of things, the whole course of nature?" "Nothing can convince me that we follow the course of nature by dying at sixty or eighty years of age, when men formerly lived hundreds of years. On the contrary, I am certain that we were created to live longer, much longer, and I consecrate all my days, my nights, and my studies to the pursuit of a discovery which is destined to prolong the existence of mankind, and renew the state of things as they were when men married at a hundred years of age, and lived to see their sons' sons grow up and marry in their turn. Why, have I often asked myself, should our lives be shorter than those of an oak of the forests, of a serpent, or even of a vulture?" "If we lived as long as an oak," replied Selim, "the cedars and the palm trees would still live longer than we." "Thou dost but jest, but thy jesting is ill-timed; nothing is more serious than the thought which occupies me. Thou thyself, confess now, wouldst thou not be enchanted to see suns succeed suns, and to contemplate for ages to come the wonders of the heavens and the fecundity of the earth?" Selim reflected a little, and replied, "Man does not love death, it is true; nevertheless life is not so desirable as thou wouldst fain have us believe." "Then thou desirest not to prolong thy days upon the earth? For myself, I confess that I desire it greatly; so that besides my days and my nights, I consecrate all that I glean from learned researches to the accomplishment of this great end. I am already upon the track. But unfortunately gold is wanting--this gold which thou despisest, or knowest not how to employ--this gold would in my hands contribute to the happiness of future generations. With gold--with gold you can purchase books of precious value, measure the stars, dig the bowels of the earth, rend metals from her bosom, decompose substances, in short, penetrate into every mystery. Yes, gold which heretofore has been unable to bestow a day, nay an hour upon its possessor, gold in my hands would accomplish a wondrous discovery. I should certainly not keep the secret for myself alone, and I should share it first of all with the man whose wealth had helped me to the means of obtaining it." "But shouldst thou discover the means of prolonging my life for many centuries, I should not then be rich enough to give away half of my fortune." "What!" cried the physician of Tunis, "is not life preferable to all the riches in the world? and if at this moment it were said to thee, 'thou shalt die, or give up the whole of thy possessions,' wouldst thou not readily yield them to avoid the thrust of a yataghan, or the discharge of a gun in thy breast?" "Thou puzzlest me, but I think that in such a case I should give up my property to preserve my life." "Thou seest then that life is dear, even to the poor. Why not therefore endeavour to prolong thine own? Even if my profound science did not succeed, thou wouldst still be rich enough to enjoy an existence of the shorter duration." Listening thus to the learned physician, Selim fell by degrees into a profound reverie, and the Tunisian, instead of continuing his discourse, gave himself up to meditation also; so that both these two men became absorbed in their own dreams in presence of each other, but without communicating their ideas, and Allah alone knows of what they were thinking. After long and silent reflection, Selim said to Hussein Muley, "Before seeing thee I had intended to bestow while yet alive one-half of my fortune in making others happy. It will, I think, be no change of purpose, if I aid thee in pursuing those learned researches which tend to prolong the life of man. For which reason, Hussein Muley, I propose at once to present thee with the gold of which thou hast need. Come with me." The Tunisian, appearing more astonished than rejoiced at these words, gravely arose, followed Selim into another apartment in the house, and received from him a little casket filled with pieces of gold. "Employ this wisely," said Selim, "and communicate to me the result of thy labour." "I will not fail to do so," replied Hussein Muley. And clasping the precious casket to his breast, he exclaimed, "Here then is the means of satisfying my thirst for knowledge, of surmounting all obstacles, of snatching from the past the secret which shall add hundreds of years to the existence of man, and prolong his days to the space of those of his fathers. Selim," added he, "thou dost a meritorious action in giving me this. I need not thank thee, because I am going to work for thee as for myself; nevertheless I do thank thee, and with my whole heart." Having said these words the learned physician withdrew gravely, and with an air of deep abstraction. Selim was not less preoccupied. Left to himself, he meditated long and profoundly on long and short lives, and on the prodigies accomplished by science, and he ended by asking himself whether he should confide to the sage mufti, whom he was soon about to see again, what he had done for Hussein Muley, and his hope of beholding the existence of the human species prolonged to an almost indefinite period. His final resolution was to admit no one to his confidence in the matter, but to await in silence the marvellous discovery of his new friend Hussein Muley, the physician of Tunis. Several months passed by without the reappearance of the latter, but when at length he returned to Boudjaréah he was yellower, leaner, and more attenuated even than a man who had crossed on foot the mighty desert of Sahara. His limbs, in fact, could scarcely support his trembling frame. "Well," said Selim, "what has befallen thee? art thou sick, or dost thou return to me perishing of hunger?" "No, but I have travelled night and day beneath the pale light of the stars, and the burning rays of the sun, and have often forgotten to take necessary sustenance, so deeply was I absorbed in my studies." "Well, and the result?" "Alas! I have not yet succeeded as I could desire. Thus far have I attained only, that I have secured the power of prolonging our days fifty years." Having uttered these words, Hussein Muley sorrowfully clasped his withered hands upon his breast, and then added: "I know that such a discovery would afford intense joy to any other but myself, but it is far from satisfying me. To live fifty years longer than usual, what is that?" "It is something, nevertheless," replied Selim, "and wilt thou tell me what is necessary to be done, in order to add fifty years to one's existence?" "Will I tell thee?" cried the Tunisian; "I am come expressly for that purpose, and to give thee this powder. It must be taken every morning fasting, for one year, three months, a week, and a day, without fail." "I must write down these directions," said Selim. He wrote them down at once, and then asked, "Dost thou not think thou shouldst rest satisfied with thy discovery, and begin to live well, and sleep well, in order to enjoy the remaining years of thy life?" "I have no desire to repose yet from my labours. Of what account are fifty years added to sixty or eighty, soon to be over for me? No, no, I would live two centuries at the least, to enjoy the fruits of my toil, and make the fortunes of my children, and my children's children. For thou dost not imagine we shall at first give to every one for nothing this magnificent secret, which has cost us so much. It is this secret which will procure us the means of living in splendour to the end of our days. Thou canst, for heavy sums of money, dispose of the powder which I shall have composed to whomsoever thou pleasest, while I on my part equally will part with it for gold; and when at length we die, surfeited with life, we will leave our secret to the multitude that survives us." "This arrangement seems to me just, and well conceived. Nevertheless, I desire not to sell the powder, but may I bestow it, and at once, upon one or two men whom I esteem highly?" "No, let us not yet draw attention to our happy fortune; let us wait until my discovery shall be completely perfected." "Agreed; but I lament to see thee yellow, thin, and attenuated, as thou art." "Oh! that is nothing," said the Tunisian, striking his forehead with his hands; "do not let my haggard appearance disturb thee. I would rather have nothing but skin upon my bones, and keep my secret to myself. I shall soon regain my flesh and my complexion. No, my health causes me no uneasiness. I merely suffer from anxiety, which arises from not having money sufficient for the prosecution of my studies." "Dost thou require much?" demanded Selim. "Ah! yes, much," replied Hussein with a sigh; "and if I fail in procuring it, instead of living fifty years longer than the usual course of things, I will either starve myself to death, or drown myself in the well of my house." "Beware of acting thus," said Selim. "I can still give thee something; make use of that, and afterwards follow my advice, and sell to some rich man thy powder, in order to meet the expenses of thy lengthened researches." Hussein Muley appeared to meditate profoundly with his forehead buried in his hands, and seemed not to listen to Selim, but it is not improbable that he heard him very well. "Thou dost not listen to me," continued Selim. "Hussein! Hussein! I will give thee another little casket of gold; but after this casket I have nothing more to give thee. There will only remain just sufficient for me, during the time that I hope to live, thanks to thy powder. If thou discoverest another still more marvellous, thou wilt give it me, at least for my own use, wilt thou not?" Hussein Muley seemed suddenly to come to himself, and exclaimed: "Oh! I have at length found that of which I was in search! Yes, one herb alone is now wanting; I will go in quest of it, were it at the other end of the earth, and I will resolve the great problem which has occupied me for more than thirty years. Selim! Selim! entrust to my keeping what thou canst still consecrate to the happiness of mankind, and rest assured that thou wilt merit the admiration and the gratitude of ages to come." "I desire neither the one nor the other," replied Selim; "I only wish to do a little good, that is all. Shall I succeed in my purpose? I will confess to thee, Hussein Muley, that I have more than once regretted devoting my fortune to a discovery which may prove more fatal than useful to the world; for the world is already peopled enough, and what would it be, if men lived for several centuries? Would they not kill each other for want of room?" "Do they not already kill each other by sea and by land?" said Hussein Muley with a strange smile. "Come," continued he, "do not disquiet thyself about what will some day happen upon the earth; profit by what fate offers thee, and prolong thy days in peace." Having thus spoken, he took the second casket proffered him by Selim, put it under his arm, and said in a grave tone: "I am about to undertake a journey into Asia. There, near the Indies, is a high mountain, Mount Himalaya--dost thou not know it?" "No," answered Selim. "Well, nor I either; but I go to cull from its summit, covered with perpetual snows, a plant, which will complete the discoveries I have already made." "I thought that no plant was ever to be found on those mountain tops covered with perpetual snow and frost?" "There grows none, but that of which I have immediate need; I am going in quest of it, and will show it thee on my return." "It is well," said Selim, and they separated. Hussein Muley retreated with rapid strides. Selim carefully placed in a small box the powder which he was to take fasting, during one year, three months, a week, and a day, and he began from the very next day to administer to himself this drug, which happily he did not find to be very nauseous to the taste. Meanwhile the Tunisian set out from Aldgezaire with his wife, his children, and several chests, containing no doubt his books, and the papers necessary for his studies; but Selim never saw him more. He awaited his return, three, five, ten years, and, as he judged that ten years should suffice to go to Asia, and scale the highest mountain there, he began to think that the yellow, thin, and learned Tunisian was either dead, or else had taken advantage of his credulity and ignorance. Whilst these thoughts occupied his mind, an epidemic broke out in Aldgezaire; Selim was attacked by it. He therefore begged the wise mufti, who was still alive, to come and visit him; and then with that burst of confidence which seizes men in the hour of danger, he opened his heart to him, and related how he had given two caskets full of gold to Hussein Muley, in the hope of prolonging the existence of mankind for many centuries. The wise mufti stroked his venerable beard and exclaimed: "Selim, Selim, thou hast been played upon by a swindler, to whom thou hast imprudently confided thy generous thoughts. This proves the truth of what I one day said to thee, 'With the best intentions we may commit the most foolish actions.'" "Ah!" said Selim sorrowfully, "my misfortune has been in not spontaneously following the first impulse of my heart, for I had really the wish to do good, but in taking counsel of one and another I have followed the worst I received." "Yes," replied the mufti, "thou mightest perhaps have acted wisely in following thy first idea; at the same time, if thou hadst, in accordance with my advice, reflected longer upon thy projects of benevolence, it is certain that thou wouldst not have given thy gold to a cheat who has done nothing but laugh at thy credulity." Selim willingly consented to acknowledge his fault. He confessed that it is useless to take the opinion of the wise and learned, if we do not mean to profit by it; then he prostrated himself devoutly before Allah, recovered his health by degrees, and caused a large sum of money to be distributed among the poor of the mosques, for he relied no longer on the hundreds of years of existence which were to come to him from Mount Himalaya, any more than on the powder of longevity. VI. THE NOSE FOR GOLD. Mohammed and Yousouf, young Moors, born in Aldgezaire, had loved each other from infancy, and increasing years only served to strengthen the bonds of their attachment. Besides the happiness they enjoyed in their mutual affection, their friendship tended also to elevate their characters, and make them remarkable, for every body knows that constant friendships are never the lot of vulgar minds. These two young men, therefore, raised themselves above the level of the vulgar herd by the fidelity of their affection; they were cited as models in their native city; people smiled with pleasure on seeing them pass, always together, ever in good humour; and although they were far from being rich, yet their fate was envied by every one. Mohammed and Yousouf generally dressed alike, and they had recourse to the same trade to gain their living. Their only trouble,--there must always be some in this world,--arose from the shops in which they were engaged during the day being separated from each other; evening, it is true, reunited them in the same dwelling, but that was not enough for them. When they married even, they contrived that it should be to each other's relatives. One family established itself on the first floor of the house, the other immediately above, and the two friends continued to love as heretofore, and to rejoice in their common felicity. Over and over again, during their long conversations, they would repeat with the reiteration usual to those to whom a subject is dear, some such sentiments as these: "The restless periods of youth, marriage, and commercial affairs have tried our friendship without altering it; it is henceforth secure from all changes; old age will only serve to render us dearer to each other, and we shall leave to our families the record and example of an affection which a future day will doubtless see renewed in our sons." "It is probable," they would often say, "that Allah, touched by our friendship upon earth, will reunite us eternally in the paradise of true believers, beneath fresh shades, and by the side of bubbling fountains, surrounded by flowers of sweet perfume." At this prospect of an eternal union, an eternal happiness, both would smile in anticipation, and such expressions as these they were never weary of repeating to each other. These two friends were about thirty years of age, when a lucky chance gave them the opportunity of accomplishing the dearest wish of their hearts, that of occupying together two small shops adjoining each other. An old Israelite, without family and without children, had inhabited them for twenty years. In one he slept and ate, not having any other house; in the other he displayed his merchandise; essences, amber, pastilles, necklaces and bracelets for the rich Moors, small looking-glasses, and beads of coral for the slaves; all of which he sold at the dearest possible price, as if he had a dozen children to support, and as many of his co-religionists. Mohammed and Yousouf established themselves with lively satisfaction in these shops, the possession of which they had so long coveted, without at the same time desiring the death of the old Jew. They were incapable of a wicked action; but the Jew being dead, as they could not restore him to life, they saw no harm in lawfully taking possession of his domicile. This event seemed to complete their happiness. But who can say or know what is really a good or an evil? who can foresee the consequences of things? Mohammed one day, while knocking a nail into the partition wall between his shop and that of Yousouf, discovered that this wall was hollow, and that it contained some pieces of metal. His first impulse was to call, "Yousouf! Yousouf! there is gold or silver in our wall;" but the next moment he thought, "I will first assure myself of what this part of the wall contains, and if I really make a fortunate discovery, I shall give Yousouf such an agreeable surprise by calling him to partake of it." Accordingly he waited until Yousouf should be out of the way for an hour or two to give him the opportunity of exploring further into his wall, but it so happened that Yousouf was never absent at all for several days following. Mohammed then said to his friend: "I fancy that something has been stolen from my shop during the night. I shall sleep there to-night, in order to surprise the thief, if he should reappear." "I shall not leave thee alone here all night," replied Yousouf, "but shall sleep also in my shop by the side of thee." Mohammed in vain strove to oppose the resolution of his friend; he could not revisit his shop alone in the evening, and for several days following, Yousouf seeing that he appeared pensive and uneasy, quitted him less than ever, and said to him with the solicitude of true friendship: "Thou seemest sad! Thy wife and thy sons, are they ill? Regrettest thou what has been taken from thy shop? Compensate thyself for thy loss by selecting whatever thou wilt from that which I possess." Mohammed thanked Yousouf, and replied with a smile: "Rest satisfied, I have no grief." He dared not add, "I have no secret," for he had one. In order however to put an end to the feeling of intense anxiety that filled his mind, he came to his shop one night unknown to Yousouf, and hastily detaching from the partition wall first one stone, then two or three more, he discovered a hundred Spanish doubloons, and eight four-dollar pieces. This was a perfect treasure to Mohammed, who had never in his life possessed more than the half of a small house, and the few goods exposed for sale in his shop. "We are rich," said he. "Yousouf and I can now purchase a country house by the sea-side, as we have so often wished. Our wives and our children will disport themselves in our sight. My son Ali, that beautiful child whom I so tenderly love, will be delighted to run among the trees and climb up into their topmost branches. Ah! how rejoiced I am, if only for his sake." Thus thinking, Mohammed took his gold and his silver, replaced, as well as he was able, the stones in his wall, and returned to his home, his mind occupied with delightful visions, and already beholding himself in imagination enjoying the pleasures of a delightful habitation by the sea-shore, with his beautiful Ali, that dear child whom he so tenderly loved. During two days he put off from hour to hour the disclosure which he had to make to Yousouf; and during those two days he revolved all sorts of ideas in his mind. "If I made the fortune of my son, instead of that of my friend," said he at length to himself, "should I be guilty? Is not a son nearer and dearer than all the friends in the world? Yes; but then the gold and silver which I have discovered belong by rights as much to Yousouf as to myself, for the wall whence I have taken them belongs as much to his shop as to mine." Unable to resolve either to share his treasure with his friend or to keep it for himself alone, he took the resolution of carefully concealing it in the chamber in which he slept, and of waiting until the agitation caused in his mind by so important an event should have somewhat subsided, to which end he hastened to secure his newly acquired possession. "Reflection is no crime," said he. Consequently he gave himself time to reflect, instead of following the first impulse of his heart and remaining faithful to that devotion of friendship which had hitherto constituted his pride and glory, and which still bore the promise of so rich a harvest in the future. He passed all his time then, extended during the heat of the day upon a mat by the side of his merchandise, and with closed eyes feigning to sleep, while in reality he was thinking of nothing but his treasure, and of what he ought to do with it. Yousouf meanwhile, impressed with the idea that his friend was sleeping, took every care to guard his slumbers from interruption, thinking as he gently fanned his fevered brow of nothing but Mohammed, and what he could possibly invent to divert him and render him happy. One day as Yousouf and Mohammed were reposing after their labours, an old hump-backed Jew with a sallow complexion and an enormous nose accosted Yousouf, saying: "Was it not here that Nathan Cohen, the son of David, lived about two years since?" "Speak low," replied Yousouf to the Jew. "My friend is asleep, and I would not that his slumbers should be disturbed." The Jew seated himself on the edge of Yousouf's little counter, and repeated his inquiry, at the same time lowering the harsh and hollow tones of his voice. "Yes, it was here that Nathan Cohen, the son of David, dwelt," replied the young Moor. "Ah!" said the old Jew, working his large and flexible nostrils, "I was sure of it--that is why I scent gold hidden here." "Indeed!" said Yousouf, regarding somewhat incredulously the extraordinary nose of his interlocutor. "Thou dost well to talk of smelling gold or silver either. Thy olfactory nerves are of the strongest no doubt, nevertheless I fear me they are at fault in this dwelling, where gold and silver but seldom make their appearance." "They are not often to be seen here," replied the Jew; "I know that full well; they are not heard here either, for the earth conceals them both from sight and sound. But remove them from the envious ground that covers them, and they will dazzle thine eyes and charm thine ears." "Indeed!" said Yousouf, laughing. "Thou art the bearer of good news. How much dost thou demand for thy reward?" "I would have thee share with me all that I shall cause to be discovered in thy house by means of the marvellous sense of smelling with which I am endowed, and at which thou now jestest." "Share with thee!" exclaimed Yousouf. "Oh no, indeed! If I were fortunate enough to discover a treasure, it is with my friend Mohammed that I should hasten to share it." "But thou wilt have nothing to share with him if I do not disclose to thee the spot where thy treasure lies concealed." "Perhaps so. But if I put any confidence in thy nose, what prevents me from turning my whole shop topsy-turvy, digging up the floor, and pulling down the walls and the shelves?" The Jew slowly regarded the ground, the walls, and the shelves, as they were severally named by Yousouf; then he said in an ironical manner: "Thou wouldst not do much harm if thou wert to demolish all around thee; but to save thyself so much trouble and labour, thou hadst far better give me at least one-third of what I shall discover in thy dwelling. The other two-thirds can be for thyself and thy friend, if thou art fool enough not to wish to keep all for thyself." "Ah, it may suit such a man as thou to call him who prefers friendship to money a fool! But in spite of all thy arguments I shall never change, and I shall love Mohammed better than all the money in the world." "As you please. It remains to be seen if Mohammed would do the same for you." "I have not the slightest doubt of it," replied Yousouf. The Jew uttered a suppressed laugh. "And I have every doubt of it," said he. "I doubt even _thy_ future disinterestedness, notwithstanding the warmth of thy discourse. Yousouf! Yousouf! thou hast not yet beheld the dazzling brilliancy of gold! It is the lustre of this metal which charms the eyes and wins the heart of man. Once let him see gold before him, and know that he has the power to possess himself of it, and adieu to every other thought. Gold! why it is the thing to be most desired in the world. Possessed of gold, what can we not enjoy? a fine house, smiling pasturage, blooming gardens, rich stuffs, divans, perfumes, all, in short, that renders life desirable!" "That is very true," replied Yousouf. "We can procure many things with gold; but still gold cannot purchase youth, gaiety, friendship, or even a good appetite or sound sleep. Leave me then in peace with thy discoveries, and if thou art so skilled in the art of scenting gold, learn also to scan the disposition of him to whom thou addressest thyself." "Then thou wilt not consent to give me the third of what I know to be here, hidden though it may be?" "Decidedly not," replied Yousouf. "I have no faith in thy ridiculous pretensions; moreover, I do not know thee, and have never seen thee either in the public walks, the streets, or elsewhere." "I have just returned from a long journey," replied the old man; "my name is Ephraim. When I quitted this city, thou wert but sixteen years of age; my friend Nathan Cohen, son of David, was then very old: he has been dead, they say, these two years." "And so thou comest to exercise thy sense of smelling in thy accustomed haunt," said Yousouf gaily; "and seest thou not then that there is some power in friendship, since it is the memory of a friend that brings thee hither?" "Ah! it is not the memory of the past, but hope for the future," replied the old Jew. "So long as our friends are alive they may be useful, though that is a thing that very rarely happens; but when they are dead, what is the use of thinking any more of them?" Yousouf, wearied out with so much discussion, said at length to Ephraim: "Come, come, enough of this! Leave this place; thy voice will, I am sure, awaken my friend, and prevent him from sleeping, as he delights to do during the heat of the day." "Do not let us awaken him," replied the Jew, "but let us remove the ground there beneath thy feet. I will hope that a feeling of gratitude may induce thee to bestow upon me a portion of what I shall discover for thee." So saying, the Jew drew a long iron pickaxe from beneath his dirty brown tunic, and began to break up the ground around the feet of Yousouf. The latter regarded the old man--his prodigious nose inflated by the hope of gain--with a smile of derision. But in a short space of time their eyes were dazzled by a sight of the precious metal. The Jew had, indeed, succeeded in disinterring a veritable treasure. "Let us now count this gold and silver," said he. They took it, and counted it, and found that Yousouf had suddenly become the possessor of five hundred Spanish doubloons, and sixty four-dollar pieces. He could scarcely believe his eyes. "Well," said the Jew, "what sayest thou? have I lied to thee, or deceived myself? Come, let us see now what thou art going to give me in reward for my pains." "I will awaken Mohammed," said Yousouf, "and he and I will certainly give thee something as a recompense." "Yousouf!" said the Jew, arresting the young Moor by the arm, "reflect a moment before awakening thy friend. Would it not be better to keep this treasure for thyself and for thy sons? Hast thou not children, and are not children much dearer than a friend?" "If I have children," replied Yousouf, "Mohammed has them also. We loved each other before they were born, and we know how to be good fathers without being faithless friends." At this moment Mohammed, who had not awaked, for the very sufficient reason that he had not been asleep, started as if he had been stung by a thousand mosquitoes at once, and rose with a sudden bound. The concluding words of Yousouf had awakened a feeling of remorse within his breast. "Yousouf! Yousouf!" said he to his friend, "I have heard all. Yes, every thing, and thy sincere friendship, tried by time and tried by gold, is now the sole treasure I desire." "I know for how long a time thou hast thought thus," replied Yousouf. "But since Allah has chosen to make us rich, let us not disdain the blessing which he sends. He it was who first inspired us with the wish for these two little shops, and who has bestowed them upon us. It is he who has conducted hither this Jew who has been the instrument of our discovering this treasure. Let us offer our thanks to Allah, and let us give to Ephraim that which is meet and right." "Be that as thou only wilt," said Mohammed with a preoccupied air. "Thou art just and righteous, and thy thoughts are pure in the sight of Allah." Yousouf paid no great heed to this friendly eulogium, but continued gaily: "Since thou permittest me to be the sole arbiter in the affair, this is my decision." Then, turning towards Ephraim: "Thou shalt be more or less recompensed," said he, "according to the candour with which thou repliest to my question. Come, then, answer me truly, hast thou really, thanks to the singular form of thy nose, so fine a sense of smell as to be able to trace any metal whatever, either under ground or elsewhere?" "Yes," said the Jew, "I possess this rare faculty, thanks to my nose; and to give thee a farther proof of it, I declare that I can again scent in this spot in the wall a sum of gold and silver, the exact amount of which I cannot enumerate." Mohammed turned pale at these words. "In this wall?" said he. "Yes. Suffer me to make a little hole with this gimlet here, and you will see if I speak falsely." "Dig where thou wilt," replied Yousouf; "we have no right to prevent thee after the discovery thou hast just made here." The Jew instantly set to work at the wall, but it was now his turn to be astonished, for the wall, hollow it is true, was guiltless of gold or silver either. Yousouf burst out laughing at the disconcerted and stupified look of the old Jew. "Never mind," said he, "thy nose has deceived thee for once; but thou must not let that discourage thee. Still, hadst thou frankly told me that as a friend of old Nathan Cohen thou knewest where he had hidden his treasure, in return for thy confidence I should have given thee a quarter of what thou hast found; but since thou hast persisted in assuring me that thy nose is gifted with supernatural powers, I shall give thee much less. Besides, with such a nose as thine no one can doubt but thy fortune is made." "Ah!" cried the Jew, clasping his withered and wrinkled hands, "Yousouf! Yousouf! since thou art good and just, as Mohammed says, take pity on my poverty; it impelled me to deal falsely with thee; I confess it now; and spite of its singular form, my nose has nothing but what is common to other noses. Accord then to my tardy sincerity that which thou wouldst at first have given me." Yousouf consulted Mohammed again, who replied thus: "Thou art just and pious; act according to thy own desire." Yousouf then counted out to the old Jew the fourth part of what he had just found, thus rendering him happy for the remainder of his days. Then, finding himself alone with his friend, he began to divide into two equal parts the gold and silver which remained. "Give me none! give me none, Yousouf!" exclaimed Mohammed, "I am no longer deserving of thy friendship." "Thou!" said Yousouf, "art thou mad? what sayst thou?" "I speak the melancholy truth," cried Mohammed; "I have not a noble heart like thine. Some time since I discovered in the wall the gold and silver which the Jew thought to find there; but instead of saying as thou hast done, 'I will share it with my friend,' I put off from day to day the fulfilment of this sacred duty. Ah, Yousouf, I am unworthy of thy friendship, and am very unhappy!" Yousouf remained silent for a few moments, but soon his brow grew clear, and a pleasing smile diffused itself over his features and illuminated his fine dark eyes. "What man," said he, "is entirely master over his own thoughts? Thou didst hesitate, sayst thou, before confiding to me the discovery thou hadst made. That may be, but thou wouldst not have failed to do so at last. Thou wouldst never have been able to behold thyself rich, knowing me to be poor, and to sit at a feast whilst I lived upon black bread. Thou didst not thoroughly understand the wants and feelings of thy heart: that is all. Thou didst not at once perceive wherein lies true happiness, for which reason thou hast caused thyself much uneasiness. It is over now; our friendship has been tried by gold; nothing remains for us but to enjoy the good fortune that has befallen us. Let us seek to do so like wise men, and never let us forget to set apart for the poor a portion of that which Allah has bestowed upon us." The two friends agreed therefore to give a hundred doubloons to the poor of the great mosque. Then with the rest of their treasure they purchased a beautiful country house not far from the sea, on the coast of Punta Pescada. There they lived happily for many long years, always admired and esteemed for their mutual affection, and for the goodness of their hearts; for, strange to say, their sudden and unexpected change of fortune never served to render them callous to the poor, nor indifferent to the wants and troubles of their fellow-creatures. VII. THE STORY OF THE TREASURES OF BASRA. All historians agree that the caliph Haroun-al-Raschid would have been the most perfect prince of his time, as he was also the most powerful, if he had not so often given way both to anger and to an insupportable vanity. He was always saying that no prince in the world was so generous as himself. Giafar, his chief vizir, being at last quite disgusted with his boasting, took the liberty to say to him one day, "Oh, my sovereign lord, monarch of the world, pardon your slave if he dares to represent to you that you ought not thus to praise yourself. Leave that to your subjects and the crowds of strangers who frequent your court. Content yourself with the knowledge that the former thank heaven for being born in your dominions, and that the latter congratulate themselves on having quitted their country to come and live under your laws." Haroun was very angry at these words; he looked sternly at his vizir, and asked him if he knew any one who could be compared to himself in generosity. "Yes, my lord," answered Giafar, "there is in the town of Basra a young man named Aboulcassem, who, though a private individual, lives in more magnificence than kings, and without excepting even your majesty, no prince is more generous than this man." The caliph reddened at these words, his eyes flashed with anger. "Do you know," he said, "that a subject who has the audacity to lie to his master merits death?" "I have said nothing but the truth," replied the vizir. "During my last visit to Basra I saw this Aboulcassem; I stayed at his house; my eyes, though accustomed to your treasures, were surprised at his riches, and I was charmed with the generosity of his manners." At these words the impetuous Haroun could no longer contain his anger. "You are most insolent," he cried, "to place a private individual on an equality with myself! Your imprudence shall not remain unpunished." So saying, he made a sign for the captain of his guards to approach, and commanded him to arrest the vizir Giafar. He then went to the apartment of the princess Zobeide his wife, who grew pale with fear on seeing his irritated countenance. "What is the matter, my lord?" said she; "what causes you to be thus agitated?" Haroun told her all that had passed, and complained of his vizir in terms that soon made Zobeide comprehend how enraged he was with the minister. This wise princess advised him to suspend his resentment, and send some one to Basra to ascertain the truth of Giafar's assertion; if it was false, she argued, the vizir should be punished; on the contrary, if it proved true, which she could not believe, it was not just to treat him as a criminal. This discourse calmed the fury of the caliph. "I approve of this counsel, madam," said he, "and will acknowledge that I owe this justice to such a minister as Giafar. I will do still more; as any other person I charged with this office might, from an aversion to my vizir, give me a false statement, I will myself go to Basra and judge of the truth of this report. I will make acquaintance with this young man, whose generosity is thus extolled; if Giafar has told me true, I will load him with benefits instead of punishing him for his frankness; but I swear he shall forfeit his life if I find he has told me a falsehood." As soon as Haroun had formed this resolution he thought of nothing but how to execute it. One night he secretly left the palace, mounted his horse, and left the city, not wishing any one to follow him, though Zobeide entreated him not to go alone. Arriving at Basra, he dismounted at the first caravansary he found on entering the city, the landlord of which seemed a good old man. "Father," said Haroun, "is it true that there is in this city a young man called Aboulcassem, who surpasses even kings in magnificence and generosity?" "Yes, my lord," answered the landlord; "and if I had a hundred mouths, and in each mouth a hundred tongues, I could not relate to you all his generous actions." As the caliph had now need of some repose, he retired to rest after partaking of a slight refreshment. He was up very early in the morning, and walked about until sunrise. Then he approached a tailor's shop and asked for the dwelling of Aboulcassem. "From what country do you come?" said the tailor; "most certainly you have never been at Basra before, or you would have heard where the lord Aboulcassem lives; why, his house is better known than the palace of the king." The caliph answered, "I am a stranger; I know no one in this city, and I shall be obliged if you will conduct me to this lord's house." Upon that the tailor ordered one of his boys to show the caliph the way to the residence of Aboulcassem. It was a large house built of stone, with a doorway of marble and jasper. The prince entered the court, where there was a crowd of servants and liberated slaves who were amusing themselves in different ways while they awaited the orders of their master. He approached one of them and said, "Friend, I wish you would take the trouble to go to the lord Aboulcassem and tell him a stranger wishes to see him." The domestic judged from the appearance of Haroun that he was no common man. He ran to apprise his master, who coming into the court took the stranger by the hand and conducted him to a very beautiful saloon. The caliph then told the young man, that having heard him mentioned in terms of praise, he had become desirous of seeing him, and had travelled to Basra for that purpose. Aboulcassem modestly replied to this compliment, and seating his guest on a sofa, asked of what country and profession he was, and where he lodged at Basra. "I am a merchant of Bagdad," replied the caliph, "and I have taken a lodging at the first caravansary I found on my arrival." After they had conversed for a short time there entered twelve pages bearing vases of agate and rock crystal, enriched with precious stones, and full of the most exquisite beverages. They were followed by twelve very beautiful female slaves, some carrying china bowls filled with fruit and flowers, and others golden caskets containing conserves of an exquisite flavour. The pages presented their beverages to the caliph; the prince tasted them, and though accustomed to the most delicious that could be obtained in the East, he acknowledged that he had never tasted better. As it was now near the hour for dinner, Aboulcassem conducted his guest to another room, where they found a table covered with the choicest delicacies served on dishes of massive gold. The repast finished, the young man took the caliph by the hand and led him to a third room more richly furnished than the two others. Here the slaves brought a prodigious quantity of gold vases, enriched with rubies, filled with all sorts of rare wines, and china plates containing dried sweetmeats. While the host and his guest were partaking of these delicious wines there entered singers and musicians, who commenced a concert, with which Haroun was enchanted. "I have," he said to himself, "the most admirable voices in _my_ palace, but I must confess they cannot bear comparison with these. I do not understand how a private individual can live in such magnificence." Amongst the voices there was one in particular the extraordinary sweetness of which attracted the attention of the prince, and whilst he was absorbed in listening to it Aboulcassem left the room and returned a moment after holding in one hand a wand, and in the other a little tree whose stem was of silver, the branches and leaves emeralds, and the fruit rubies. On the top of this tree was a golden peacock beautifully executed, the body of which was filled with amber, essence of aloes, and other perfumes. He placed this tree at the caliph's feet; then striking the head of the peacock with his wand, the bird extended its wings and tail, and moved itself quickly to the right and left, whilst at each movement of its body the most odoriferous perfumes filled the apartment. The caliph was so astonished and delighted that he could not take his eyes off the tree and the peacock, and he was just going to express his admiration when Aboulcassem suddenly took them away. Haroun was offended at this, and said to himself, "What does all this mean? It appears to me this young man does not merit so much praise. He takes away the tree and the peacock when he sees me occupied in looking at them more than he likes. Is he afraid I want him to make me a present? I fear Giafar is mistaken in calling him a generous man." He was thus thinking when Aboulcassem returned accompanied by a little page as beautiful as the sun. This lovely child was dressed in gold brocade covered with pearls and diamonds. He held in his hand a cup made of one single ruby, and filled with wine of a purple colour. He approached the caliph, and prostrating himself to the ground, presented the cup. The prince extended his hand to receive it, but, wonderful to relate, he perceived on giving back the cup to the page, that though he had emptied the cup, it was still quite full. He put it again to his lips and emptied it to the very last drop. He then placed it again in the hands of the page, and at the same moment saw it filling without any one approaching it. The surprise of Haroun was extreme at this wonderful circumstance, which made him forget the tree and the peacock. He asked how it was accomplished. "My lord," said Aboulcassem, "it is the work of an ancient sage who was acquainted with most of the secrets of nature;" and then, taking the page by the hand, he precipitately left the apartment. The caliph was indignant at this behaviour. "I see how it is," said he, "this young man has lost his senses. He brings me all these curiosities of his own accord, he presents them to my view, and when he perceives my admiration, he instantly removes his treasures. I never experienced treatment so ridiculous or uncourteous. Ah, Giafar! I thought you a better judge of men." In this manner they continued amusing themselves till sunset. Then Haroun said to the young man, "Oh, generous Aboulcassem, I am confused with the reception you have given me; permit me now to retire and leave you to repose." The young lord of Basra not wishing to inconvenience his guest, politely saluted him, and conducted him to the door of the house, apologizing for not having received him in a more magnificent style. "I quite acknowledge," said the caliph on returning to his caravansary, "that for magnificence Aboulcassem surpasses kings, but for generosity, there my vizir was wrong in placing him in comparison with myself; for what present has he made me during my visit? I was lavish in my praises of the tree, the cup, and the page, and I should have thought my admiration would have induced him to offer me, at least, one of these things. No, this man is ostentatious; he feels a pleasure in displaying his riches to the eyes of strangers. And why? Only to satisfy his pride and vanity. In reality he is a miser, and I ought not to pardon Giafar for thus deceiving me." Whilst making these disagreeable reflections on his minister, he arrived at the caravansary. But what was his astonishment on finding there silken carpets, magnificent tents, a great number of servants, slaves, horses, mules, camels, and besides all these, the tree and the peacock, and the page with his cup? The domestics prostrated themselves before him, and presented a roll of silk paper, on which were written these words, "Dear and amiable guest, I have not, perhaps, shown you the respect which is your due; I pray you to forget any appearance of neglect in my manner of receiving you, and do not distress me by refusing the little presents I have sent you. As to the tree, the peacock, the page, and the cup, since they please you, they are yours already, for any thing that delights my guests ceases to be mine from that instant." When the caliph had finished reading this letter, he was astounded at the liberality of Aboulcassem, and remembered how wrongly he had judged the young man. "A thousand blessings," cried he, "on my vizir Giafar! He has caused me to be undeceived. Ah, Haroun, never again boast of being the most magnificent and generous of men! one of your subjects surpasses you. But how is a private individual able to make such presents? I ought to have asked where he amassed such riches; I was wrong not to have questioned him on this point: I must not return to Bagdad without investigating this affair. Besides, it concerns me to know why there is a man in my dominions who leads a more princely life than myself. I must see him again, and try to discover by what means he has acquired such an immense fortune." Impatient to satisfy his curiosity, he left his new servants in the caravansary, and returned immediately to the young man's residence. When he found himself in his presence he said, "Oh, too amiable Aboulcassem, the presents you have made me are so valuable, that I fear I cannot accept them without abusing your generosity. Permit me to send them back before I return to Bagdad, and publish to the world your magnificence and generous hospitality." "My lord," answered the young man with a mortified air, "you certainly must have had reason to complain of the unhappy Aboulcassem; I fear some of his actions have displeased you, since you reject his presents; you would not have done me this injury, if you were satisfied with me." "No," replied the prince, "heaven is my witness that I am enchanted with your politeness; but your presents are too costly; they surpass those of kings, and if I dared tell you what I think, you would be less prodigal with your riches, and remember that they may soon be exhausted." Aboulcassem smiled at these words and said to the caliph, "My lord, I am very glad to learn that it is not to punish me for having committed any fault against yourself that you wished to refuse my presents; and now to oblige you to accept them, I will tell you that every day I can make the same and even more magnificent ones without inconveniencing myself. I see," added he, "that this astonishes you, but you will cease to be surprised when I have told you all the adventures which have happened to me. It is necessary that I should thus confide in you." Upon this he conducted Haroun to a room a thousand times richer and more ornamented than any of the others. The most exquisite essences perfumed this apartment, in which was a throne of gold placed on the richest carpets. Haroun could not believe he was in the house of a subject; he imagined he must be in the abode of a prince infinitely more powerful than himself. The young man made him mount the throne, and placing himself by his side, commenced the history of his life. HISTORY OF ABOULCASSEM. I am the son of a jeweller of Cairo, named Abdelaziz. He possessed such immense riches, that fearing to draw upon himself the envy or avarice of the sultan of Egypt, he quitted his native country and established himself at Basra, where he married the only daughter of the richest merchant in that city. I am the only child of that marriage, so that inheriting the estates of both my parents I became possessed on their death of a very splendid fortune. But I was young, I liked extravagance, and having wherewith to exercise my liberal propensities, or rather my prodigality, I lived with so much profusion, that in less than three years my fortune was dissipated. Then, like all who repent of their foolish conduct, I made the most promising resolutions for the future. After the life I had led at Basra, I thought it better to leave that place, for it seemed to me my misery would be more supportable among strangers. Accordingly I sold my house, and left the city before daybreak. When it was light I perceived a caravan of merchants who had encamped on a spot of ground near me. I joined them, and as they were on their road to Bagdad, where I also wished to go, I departed with them; I arrived there without accident, but soon found myself in a very miserable situation. I was without money, and of all my large fortune there remained but one gold sequin. In order to do something for a living I changed my sequin into aspres, and purchased some preserved apples, sweetmeats, balms, and roses. With these I went every day to the house of a merchant where many persons of rank and others were accustomed to assemble and converse together. I presented to them in a basket what I had to sell. Each took what he liked, and never failed to remunerate me, so that by this little commerce I contrived to live very comfortably. One day as I was as usual selling flowers at the merchant's house, there was seated in a corner of the room an old man, of whom I took no notice, and on perceiving that I did not address him, he called me and said, "My friend, how comes it that you do not offer your merchandise to me as well as the others? Do you take me for a dishonest man, or imagine that my purse is empty?" "My lord," answered I, "I pray you pardon me. All that I have is at your service, I ask nothing for it." At the same time I offered him my basket; he took some perfume, and told me to sit down by him. I did so, and he asked me a number of questions, who I was, and what was my name. "Excuse me satisfying your curiosity," said I, sighing; "I cannot do so without reopening wounds which time is beginning to heal." These words, or the tone in which I uttered them, prevented the old man from questioning me further. He changed the discourse, and after a long conversation, on rising to depart he took out his purse and gave me ten gold sequins. I was greatly surprised at this liberality. The wealthiest lords to whom I had been accustomed to present my basket had never given me even one sequin, and I could not tell what to make of this man. On the morrow, when I returned to the merchants, I again found my old friend; and for many days he continued to attract my attention. At length, one day, as I was addressing him after he had taken a little balm from my basket, he made me again sit by him, and pressed me so earnestly to relate my history, that I could not refuse him. I informed him of all that had happened to me; after this confidence he said: "Young man, I knew your father. I am a merchant of Basra; I have no child, and have conceived a friendship for you; I will adopt you as my son, therefore console yourself for your past misfortunes. You have found a father richer by far than Abdelaziz, and who will have as much affection for you." I thanked the venerable old man for the honour he did me, and followed him as he left the house. He made me throw away my basket of flowers, and conducted me to a large mansion that he had hired. There I was lodged in a spacious apartment with slaves to wait on me, and by his order they brought me rich clothes. One would have thought my father Abdelaziz again lived, and it seemed as if I had never known sorrow. When the merchant had finished the business that detained him at Bagdad,--namely, when he had sold the merchandise he brought with him,--we both took the road to Basra. My friends, who never thought to see me again, were not a little surprised to hear I had been adopted by a man who passed for the richest merchant in the city. I did my best to please the old man. He was charmed with my behaviour. "Aboulcassem," he often said to me, "I am enchanted that I met you at Bagdad. You appear worthy of all I have done for you." I was touched with the kindness he evinced for me, and far from abusing it, endeavoured to do all I could to please my kind benefactor. Instead of seeking companions of my own age, I always kept in his company, scarcely ever leaving him. At last this good old man fell sick, and the physicians despaired of his life. When he was at the last extremity he made all but myself leave him, and then said, "Now is the time, my son, to reveal to you a most important secret. If I had only this house with all its riches to bequeath, I should leave you but a moderate fortune; but all that I have amassed during the course of my life, though considerable for a merchant, is nothing in comparison to the treasure that is concealed here, and which I am now about to reveal to you. I shall not tell you how long ago, by whom, or in what manner it was found, for I am ignorant of that myself; all I know is, that my grandfather, when dying, told the secret to my father, who also made me acquainted with it a few days before his death. But," continued he, "I have one advice to give you, and take care you do not slight it. You are naturally generous. When you are at liberty to follow your own inclinations, you will no doubt be lavish of your riches. You will receive with magnificence any strangers who may come to your house. You will load them with presents, and will do good to all who implore your assistance. This conduct, which I much approve of if you can keep it within bounds, will at last be the cause of your ruin. The splendour of your establishment will excite the envy of the king of Basra, and the avarice of his ministers. They will suspect you of having some hidden treasure. They will spare no means to discover it, and will imprison you. To prevent this misfortune, you have only to follow my example. I have always, as well as my grandfather and father, carried on my business and enjoyed this treasure without ostentation; we have never indulged in any extravagance calculated to surprise the world." I faithfully promised the merchant I would imitate his prudence. He told me where I should find the treasure, and assured me that whatever idea I might have formed of its splendour, I should find the reality far exceed my expectations. At last, when the generous old man died, I, as his sole heir, performed for him the last offices, and, taking possession of his property, of which this house is a part, proceeded at once to see this treasure. I confess to you, my lord, that I was thunderstruck. I found it to be, if not inexhaustible, at least so vast that I could never expend it, even if heaven were to permit me to live beyond the age of man. My resolution therefore was at once formed, and instead of keeping the promise I made to the old merchant, I spend my riches freely. It is my boast that there is no one in Basra who has not benefited by my generosity. My house is open to all who desire my aid, and they leave it perfectly contented. Do you call it _possessing_ a treasure if it must not be touched? And can I make a better use of it than by endeavouring to relieve the unhappy, to receive strangers with liberality, and to lead a life of generosity and charity? Every one thought I should be ruined a second time. "If Aboulcassem," said they, "had all the treasures of the commander of the faithful, he would spend them." But they were much astonished, when, instead of seeing my affairs in disorder, they, on the contrary, appeared every day to become more flourishing. No one could imagine how my fortune increased, while I was thus squandering it. As the old man predicted, a feeling of envy was excited against me. A rumour prevailed that I had found a treasure. This was sufficient to attract the attention of a number of persons greedy of gain. The lieutenant of police at Basra came to see me. "I am," said he, "the daroga, and am come to demand where the treasure is which enables you to live in such magnificence." I trembled at these words, and remained silent. He guessed from my confused air that his suspicions were not without foundation; but instead of compelling me to discover my treasure, "My lord Aboulcassem," continued he, "I exercise my office as a man of sense. Make me some present worthy of my discretion in this affair, and I will retire." "How much do you ask?" said I. "I will content myself with ten gold sequins a day." "That is not enough--I will give you a hundred. You have only to come here every day or every month, and my treasurer will count them out to you." The lieutenant of police was transported with joy at hearing these words. "My lord," said he, "I wish that you could find a thousand treasures. Enjoy your fortune in peace; I shall never dispute your possession of it." Then taking a large sum of money in advance he went his way. A short time after the vizir Aboulfatah-Waschi sent for me, and, taking me into his cabinet, said: "Young man, I hear you have discovered a treasure. You know the fifth part belongs to God; you must give it to the king. Pay the fifth, and you shall remain the quiet possessor of the other four parts." I answered him thus: "My lord, I acknowledge that I _have_ found a treasure, but I swear to you at the same time that I will confess nothing, though I should be torn in pieces. But I promise to give you every day a thousand gold sequins, provided you leave me in peace." Aboulfatah was as tractable as the lieutenant of police. He sent his confidential servant, and my treasurer gave him thirty thousand sequins for the first month. This vizir, fearing no doubt that the king of Basra would hear of what had passed, thought it better to inform him himself of the circumstance. The prince listened very attentively, and thinking the affair required investigating, sent to summon me. He received me with a smiling countenance, saying: "Approach, young man, and answer me what I shall ask you. Why do you not show me your treasure? Do you think me so unjust, that I shall take it from you?" "Sire," replied I, "may the life of your majesty be prolonged for ages; but if you commanded my flesh to be torn with burning pincers I would not discover my treasure; I consent every day to pay to your majesty two thousand gold sequins. If you refuse to accept them, and think proper that I should die, you have only to order it; but I am ready to suffer all imaginable torments, sooner than satisfy your curiosity." The king looked at his vizir as I said this, and demanded his opinion. "Sire," said the minister, "the sum he offers you is considerable--it is of itself a real treasure. Send the young man back, only let him be careful to keep his word with your majesty." The king followed this advice; he loaded me with caresses, and from that time, according to my agreement, I pay every year to the prince, the vizir, and the lieutenant of police, more than one million sixty thousand gold sequins. This, my lord, is all I have to tell you. You will now no longer be surprised at the presents I have made you, nor at what you have seen in my house. CONCLUSION OF THE STORY OF THE TREASURES OF BASRA. When Aboulcassem had finished the recital of his adventures, the caliph, animated with a violent desire to see the treasure, said to him, "Is it possible that there is in the world a treasure that your generosity can never exhaust? No! I cannot believe it, and if it was not exacting too much from you, my lord, I would ask to see what you possess, and I swear never to reveal what you may confide to me." The son of Abdelaziz appeared grieved at this speech of the caliph's. "I am sorry, my lord," he said, "that you have conceived this curiosity; I cannot satisfy it but upon very disagreeable conditions." "Never mind," said the prince, "whatever the conditions, I submit without repugnance." "It is necessary," said Aboulcassem, "that I blindfold your eyes, and conduct you unarmed and bareheaded, with my drawn scimitar in my hand, ready to cut you to pieces at any moment, if you violate the laws of hospitality. I know very well I am acting imprudently, and ought not to yield to your wishes; but I rely on your promised secrecy, and besides that, I cannot bear to send away a guest dissatisfied." "In pity then satisfy my curiosity," said the caliph. "That cannot be just yet," replied the young man, "but remain here this night, and when my domestics are gone to rest I will come and conduct you from your apartment." He then called his people, and by the light of a number of wax tapers, carried by slaves in gold flambeaux, he led the prince to a magnificent chamber, and then retired to his own. The slaves disrobed the caliph, and left him to repose, after placing at the head and foot of his bed their lighted tapers, whose perfumed wax emitted an agreeable odour. Instead of taking any rest, Haroun-al-Raschid impatiently awaited the appearance of Aboulcassem, who did not fail to come for him towards the middle of the night. "My lord," he said, "all my servants are asleep. A profound silence reigns in my house. I will now show you my treasure upon the conditions I named to you." "Let us go then," said the caliph. "I am ready to follow you, and I again swear that you will not repent thus satisfying my curiosity." The son of Abdelaziz aided the prince to dress; then putting a bandage over his eyes, he said, "I am sorry, my lord, to be obliged to treat you thus; your appearance and your manners seem worthy of confidence, but--" "I approve of these precautions," interrupted the caliph, "and I do not take them in ill part." Aboulcassem then made him descend by a winding staircase into a garden of vast extent, and after many turnings they entered the place where the treasure was concealed. It was a deep and spacious cavern closed at the entrance by a stone. Passing through this they entered a long alley, very dark and steep, at the end of which was a large saloon, brilliantly lighted by carbuncles. When they arrived at this room the young man unbound the caliph's eyes, and the latter gazed with astonishment on the scene before him. A basin of white marble, fifty feet in circumference and thirty feet deep, stood in the middle of the apartment. It was full of large pieces of gold, and ranged round it were twelve columns of the same metal, supporting as many statues composed of precious stones of admirable workmanship. Aboulcassem conducted the prince to the edge of the basin and said to him, "This basin is thirty feet deep. Look at that mass of gold pieces. They are scarcely diminished the depth of two fingers. Do you think I shall soon spend all this?" Haroun, after attentively looking at the basin, replied: "Here are, I confess, immense riches, but you still may exhaust them." "Well," said the young man, "when this basin is empty I shall have recourse to what I am now going to show you." He then proceeded to another room, more brilliant still, where on a number of red brocaded sofas were immense quantities of pearls and diamonds. Here was also another marble basin, not so large or so deep as that filled with gold pieces, but to make up for this, full of rubies, topazes, emeralds, and all sorts of precious stones. Never was surprise equal to that of the caliph's. He could scarcely believe he was awake, this new basin seemed like enchantment. His gaze was still fixed on it, when Aboulcassem made him observe two persons seated on a throne of gold, who he said were the first masters of the treasure. They were a prince and princess, having on their heads crowns of diamonds. They appeared as if still alive, and were in a reclining posture, their heads leaning against each other. At their feet was a table of ebony, on which were written these words in letters of gold: "I have amassed all these riches during the course of a long life. I have taken and pillaged towns and castles, have conquered kingdoms and overthrown my enemies. I have been the most powerful monarch in the world, but all my power has yielded to that of death. Whoever sees me in this state ought to reflect upon it. Let him remember that once I was living, and that he also must die. He need not fear diminishing this treasure: it will never be exhausted. Let him endeavour so to use it as to make friends both for this world and the next. Let him lead a life of generosity and charity, for in the end he must also die. His riches cannot save him from the fate common to all men." "I will no longer disapprove of your conduct," said Haroun to the young man on reading these words; "you are right in living as you now do, and I condemn the advice given you by the old merchant. But I should like to know the name of this prince. What king could have possessed such riches? I am sorry this inscription does not inform us." The young man next took the caliph to see another room in which also there were many rarities of even greater value than what he had seen, amongst others several trees like the one he had given the prince. Haroun would willingly have passed the remainder of the night admiring all that was contained in this wonderful cavern, but the son of Abdelaziz, fearing to be observed by his servants, wished to return before daybreak in the same manner as they came, namely, the caliph blindfolded and bareheaded, and Aboulcassem with his scimitar in his hand, ready to cut off the prince's head if he made the least resistance. In this order they traversed the garden, and ascended by the winding stairs to the room where the caliph had slept. Finding the tapers still burning, they conversed together till sunrise; the caliph then, with many thanks for the reception he had received, returned to the caravansary, from whence he took the road to Bagdad, with all the domestics and presents he had accepted from Aboulcassem. Two days after the prince's departure, the vizir Aboulfatah, hearing of the magnificent gifts that Aboulcassem made to strangers when they came to see him, and above all astonished at the regularity of his payments to the king, the lieutenant, and himself, resolved to spare no means to discover the treasure from which he drew such inexhaustible supplies. This minister was one of those wicked men to whom the greatest crimes are nothing, when they wish to gain their own ends. He had a daughter eighteen years of age, and of surpassing beauty. She was named Balkis, and possessed every good quality of heart and mind. Prince Aly, nephew of the king of Basra, passionately loved her; he had already demanded her of her father, and they were soon to be married. Aboulfatah summoned Balkis one day to his presence and said: "My daughter, I have great need of your assistance. I wish you to array yourself in your richest robes, and go this evening to the house of the young Aboulcassem. You must do every thing to charm him, and oblige him to discover the treasure he has found." Balkis trembled at this speech; her countenance expressed the horror she felt at this command. "My lord," said she, "what is it you propose to your daughter? Do you know the peril to which you may expose her? Consider the stain on your honour, and the outrage against the prince Aly." "I have considered all this," answered the vizir, "but nothing will turn me from my resolution, and I order you to prepare to obey me." The young Balkis burst into tears at these words. "For heaven's sake, my father," said the weeping girl, "stifle this feeling of avarice, seek not to despoil this man of what is his own. Leave him to enjoy his riches in peace." "Be silent, insolent girl!" said the vizir angrily, "it does not become you to blame my actions. Answer me not. I desire you to repair to the house of Aboulcassem, and I swear that if you return without having seen his treasure, I will kill you." Balkis, hearing this dreadful alternative, retired to her apartment overwhelmed with grief; she called her women, and made them attire her in the richest apparel and most costly ornaments, though in reality she needed nothing to enhance her natural beauty. No young girl was less desirous to please than Balkis. All she feared was appearing too beautiful in the eyes of the son of Abdelaziz, and not sufficiently so to prince Aly. At length, when night arrived and Aboulfatah judged it time for his daughter to go, he secretly conducted her to the door of the young man's house, where he left her, after again declaring he would kill her if she returned unsuccessful. She timidly knocked and desired to speak to the son of Abdelaziz. A slave led her to a room where his master was reposing on a sofa, musing on the vicissitudes of his past life. As soon as Balkis appeared Aboulcassem rose to receive his visitor; he gravely saluted her, and, taking her hand with a respectful air, seated her on a sofa, at the same time inquiring why she honoured him by this visit. She answered, that hearing of his agreeable manners, she had resolved to spend an evening in his company. "Beautiful lady," said he, "I must thank my lucky star for procuring me this delightful interview; I cannot express my happiness." After some conversation supper was announced. They seated themselves at a table covered with choice delicacies. A great number of officers and pages were in attendance, but Aboulcassem dismissed them that the lady might not be exposed to their curious looks. He waited on her himself, presenting her with the best of every thing, and offering her wine in a gold cup enriched with diamonds and rubies. But all these polite attentions served but to increase the lady's uneasiness; and at length, frightened at the dangers which menaced her, she suddenly changed countenance and became pale as death, whilst her eyes filled with tears. "What is it, madam?" said the young man much surprised; "why this sudden grief? Have I said or done any thing to cause your tears to flow? Speak, I implore you; inform me of the cause of your sorrow." "Oh, Mahomet!" exclaimed Balkis, "I can dissimulate no longer; the part I am acting is insupportable. I have deceived you, Aboulcassem; I am a lady of rank. My father, who knows you have a hidden treasure, wishes me to discover where you have concealed it. He has ordered me to come here and spare no means to induce you to show it me. I refused to do so, but he has sworn to kill me if I return without being able to satisfy his curiosity. What an unhappy fate is mine! If I was not beloved by a prince who will soon marry me, this cruel vow of my father's would not appear so terrible." When the daughter of Aboulfatah had thus spoken, Aboulcassem said to her, "Madam, I am very glad you have informed me of this. You will not repent your noble frankness; you shall see my treasure, and be treated with all the respect you may desire. Do not weep, therefore, or any longer afflict yourself." "Ah, my lord," exclaimed Balkis at this speech, "it is not without reason that you pass for the most generous of men. I am charmed with your noble conduct, and shall not be satisfied until I have found means to testify my gratitude." After this conversation Aboulcassem conducted the lady to the same chamber that the caliph had occupied, where they remained until all was quiet in the dwelling. Then blindfolding the eyes of Balkis he said, "Pardon me, madam, for being obliged to act thus, but it is only on this condition that I can show you my treasure." "Do what you please, my lord," answered Balkis; "I have so much confidence in your generosity that I will follow wherever you desire; I have no fear but that of not sufficiently repaying your kindness." Aboulcassem then took her by the hand, and causing her to descend to the garden by the winding stairs, he entered the cavern and removed the bandage from her eyes. If the caliph had been surprised to see such heaps of gold and precious stones, Balkis was still more so. Every thing she saw astonished her. But the objects that most attracted her attention were the ancient owners of the treasure. As the queen had on a necklace composed of pearls as large as pigeons' eggs, Balkis could not avoid expressing her admiration. Aboulcassem detached it from the neck of the princess, and placed it round that of the young lady, saying her father would judge from this that she had seen the treasure; he then, after much persuasion, made her take a large quantity of precious stones which he himself chose for her. The young man then, fearing the day would dawn whilst she was looking at the wonders of the cavern, again placed the bandage over her eyes, and conducted her to a saloon where they conversed together until sunrise. Balkis then took leave, repeatedly assuring the son of Abdelaziz that she would never forget his generous conduct. She hastened to her father's and informed him of all that had passed. The vizir had been impatiently awaiting his daughter's return. Fearing she might not be sufficiently able to charm Aboulcassem, he remained in a state of inconceivable agitation. But when he saw her enter with the necklace and precious stones that Aboulcassem had given her, he was transported with joy. "Well, my daughter," he said, "have you seen the treasure?" "Yes, my lord," answered Balkis, "and to give you a just idea of its magnitude, I tell you that if all the kings of the world were to unite their riches, they could not be compared to those of Aboulcassem. But still, however vast this young man's treasures, I am less charmed with them than with his politeness and generosity." And she then related to her father the whole of her adventure. In the mean time Haroun-al-Raschid was advancing towards Bagdad. As soon as he arrived at his palace he set his chief vizir at liberty, and restored him to his confidence. He then proceeded to relate to him the events of his journey, and ended by asking, "Giafar, what shall I do? You know the gratitude of monarchs ought to surpass the pleasures they have received. If I should send the magnificent Aboulcassem the choicest and most precious treasure I possess, it will be but a slight gift, far inferior to the presents he has made me. How then can I surpass him in generosity?" "My lord," replied the vizir, "since your majesty condescends to consult me, I should write this day to the king of Basra and order him to commit the government of the state to the young Aboulcassem. We can soon despatch the courier, and in a few days I will depart myself to Basra and present the patents to the new king." The caliph approved of this advice. "You are right," he said to his minister, "it will be the only means of acquitting myself towards Aboulcassem, and of taking vengeance on the king of Basra and his unworthy vizir, who have concealed from me the considerable sums they have extorted from this young man. It is but just to punish them for their violence against him; they are unworthy of the situations they occupy." He immediately wrote to the king of Basra and despatched the courier. He then went to the apartment of the princess Zobeide to inform her of the success of his journey, and presented her with the little page, the tree, and the peacock. He also gave her a beautiful female slave. Zobeide found this slave so charming that she smilingly told the caliph she accepted this gift with more pleasure than all his other presents. The prince kept only the cup for himself; the vizir Giafar had all the rest; and this good minister, as he had before resolved, made preparations for his departure from Bagdad. The courier of the caliph no sooner arrived in the town of Basra than he hastened to present his despatch to the king, who was greatly concerned on reading it. The prince showed it to his vizir. "Aboulfatah," said he, "see the fatal order that I have received from the commander of the faithful. Can I refuse to obey it?" "Yes, my lord," answered the minister; "do not afflict yourself. Aboulcassem must be removed from hence. Without taking his life I will make every one believe he is dead. I can keep him so well concealed that he shall never be seen again; and by this means you will always remain on the throne and possess the riches of this young man; for when we are masters of his person we can increase his sufferings until he is obliged to reveal where his treasure is concealed." "Do what you like," replied the king; "but what answer shall we send the caliph?" "Leave that to me. The commander of the faithful will be deceived as well as others. Let me execute the design I meditate, and the rest need cause you no uneasiness." Aboulfatah then, accompanied by some courtiers who were ignorant of his intention, went to pay a visit to Aboulcassem. He received them according to their rank, regaled them magnificently, seated the vizir in the place of honour, and loaded him with presents without having the least suspicion of his perfidy. Whilst they were at table and partaking of the most delicious wines, the treacherous Aboulfatah skilfully threw unperceived into the cup of the son of Abdelaziz a powder which would render him insensible, and cause his body to remain in a state of lethargy resembling that of a corpse long deprived of life. The young man had no sooner taken the cup from his lips than he fainted away. His servants hastened to support him, but soon perceiving he had all the appearance of a dead man, they placed him on a sofa and uttered the most lamentable cries. The guests, struck with sudden terror, were silent from astonishment. As for Aboulfatah, it is impossible to say how well he dissimulated. He not only feigned the most immoderate grief, but tore his clothes and excited the rest of the company to follow his example. He ordered a coffin to be made of ivory and ebony, and while they were preparing it, he collected all the effects of Aboulcassem and placed them in the king's palace. The account of the young man's death soon spread abroad. All persons, men and women, put on mourning, and came to the door of the house, their heads and feet bare; old and young men, women and girls, were bathed in tears, filling the air with their cries and lamentations. Some said they had lost in him an only son, others a brother or a husband tenderly beloved. Rich and poor were equally afflicted at his death; the rich mourned a friend who had always welcomed them, and the poor a benefactor whose charity had never been equalled. His death caused a general consternation. Meanwhile the unhappy Aboulcassem was enclosed in the coffin, and a procession having been formed, the people, by order of Aboulfatah, carried him out of the town to a large cemetery containing a number of tombs, and amongst others a magnificent one where reposed the vizir's father and many others of his family. They placed the coffin in this tomb, and the perfidious Aboulfatah, leaning his head on his knees, beat his breast, and gave way apparently to the most violent grief. Those present pitied and prayed heaven to console him. As night approached the people returned to the town, but the vizir remained with two of his slaves in the tomb, the door of which he shut and double locked. They lit a fire, warmed some water in a silver basin, and taking Aboulcassem from the coffin, bathed him with the warm water. The young man by degrees regained his senses. He cast his eyes on Aboulfatah, whom he at once recognized. "Ah, my lord," said he, "where are we, and to what state am I reduced?" "Wretch!" answered the minister, "know that it is I who have caused your misfortune. I brought you here to have you in my power, and to make you suffer a thousand torments if you will not discover to me your treasure. I will rack your body with tortures--will invent each day new sufferings to render life insupportable: in a word, I will never cease to persecute you until you deliver me those hidden treasures which enable you to live with even more magnificence than kings." "You can do what you please," replied Aboulcassem; "I will never reveal my treasure." He had scarcely uttered these words, when the cruel Aboulfatah, making his slaves seize the unfortunate son of Abdelaziz, drew from his robe a whip made of twisted lion's skin, with which he struck so long and with such violence that the young man fainted. When the vizir saw him in this state, he commanded the slaves to replace him in the coffin, and leaving him in the tomb, which he firmly secured, returned to his palace. On the morrow he went to inform the king of what he had done. "Sire," said he, "I tried yesterday, but in vain, to overcome the firmness of Aboulcassem; however, I have now prepared torments for him which I think he cannot resist." The prince, who was quite as barbarous as his minister, said, "Vizir, I am perfectly satisfied with all you have done. Ere long, I hope, we shall know where this treasure is concealed. But we must send back the courier without delay. What shall I write to the caliph?" "Tell him, my lord, that Aboulcassem, hearing he was to occupy your place, was so enchanted, and made such great rejoicings, that he died suddenly at a feast." The king approved of this advice, and writing immediately to Haroun-al-Raschid, despatched the courier. The vizir, flattering himself that he should at length be able to force Aboulcassem to reveal his treasure, left the town, resolving to extract the secret or leave him to perish. But on arriving at the tomb, he was surprised to find the door open. He entered trembling, and not seeing the son of Abdelaziz in the coffin, he nearly lost his senses. Returning instantly to the palace, he related to the king what had occurred. The monarch, seized with a mortal terror, exclaimed, "Oh, Waschi! what will become of us? Since this young man has escaped, we are lost. He will not fail to hasten to Bagdad, and acquaint the caliph with all that has taken place." Aboulfatah, on his part, in despair that the victim of his avarice was no longer in his power, said to the king his master, "What would I now give to have taken his life yesterday! He would not then have caused us such uneasiness. But we will not quite despair yet; if he has taken flight, as no doubt he has, he cannot be very far from here. Let me take some soldiers of your guard, and search in all the environs of the town; I hope still to find him." The king instantly consented to so important a step. He assembled all his soldiers, and dividing them into two bodies, gave the command of one to his vizir, and placing himself at the head of the other, prepared with his troops to search in all parts of his kingdom. Whilst they were seeking Aboulcassem in the villages, woods, and mountains, the vizir Giafar, who was already on the road to Basra, met the courier returning, who said to him, "My lord, it is useless for you to proceed further, if Aboulcassem is the sole cause of your journey, for this young man is dead; his funeral took place some days past; my eyes were witnesses of the mournful ceremony." Giafar, who had looked forward with pleasure to see the new king, and present his patents, was much afflicted at his death. He shed tears on hearing the sad news, and, thinking it was useless to continue his journey, retraced his steps. As soon as he arrived at Bagdad, he went with the courier to the palace. The sadness of his countenance informed the king he had some misfortune to announce. "Ah, Giafar!" exclaimed the prince, "you have soon returned. What are you come to tell me?' "Commander of the faithful," answered the vizir, "you do not, I am sure, expect to hear the bad news I am going to tell. Aboulcassem is no more; since your departure from Basra the young man has lost his life." Haroun-al-Raschid had no sooner heard these words than he threw himself from his throne. He remained some moments extended on the ground without giving any signs of life. At length his eyes sought the courier, who had returned from Basra, and he asked for the despatch. The prince read it with much attention. He shut himself in his cabinet with Giafar, and showed him the letter from the king of Basra. After re-reading it many times, the caliph said, "This does not appear to me natural; I begin to suspect that the king of Basra and his vizir, instead of executing my orders, have put Aboulcassem to death." "My lord," said Giafar, "the same suspicion occurred to me, and I advise that they should both be secured." "That is what I determine from this moment," said Haroun; "take ten thousand horsemen of my guard, march to Basra, seize the two guilty wretches, and bring them here. I will revenge the death of this most generous of men." "We will now return to the son of Abdelaziz, and relate why the vizir Aboulfatah did not find him in the tomb. The young man, after long remaining insensible, was beginning to recover, when he felt himself laid hold of by powerful arms, taken from the coffin, and gently laid on the earth. He thought it was the vizir and his slaves come again on their cruel errand. "Executioners!" he cried, "put me to death at once; if you have any pity spare me these useless torments, for again I declare that nothing you can do will ever tempt me to reveal my secret." "Fear not, young man," answered one of the persons who had lifted him from the coffin; "instead of ill-treating you, we are come to your assistance." At these words Aboulcassem opened his eyes, and, looking at his liberators, recognized the young lady to whom he had shown his treasure. "Ah, madam!" he said, "is it to you I owe my life?" "Yes, my lord," answered Balkis; "to myself and prince Aly, my betrothed, whom you see with me. Informed of your noble behaviour, he wished to share with me the pleasure of delivering you from death." "It is quite true," said prince Aly; "I would expose my life a thousand times, rather than leave so generous a man to perish." The son of Abdelaziz, having entirely recovered his senses by the help of some cordials they had given him, expressed to the lady and the prince his grateful thanks for the service they had rendered him, and asked how they had been informed he still lived. "My lord," said Balkis, "I am the daughter of the vizir Aboulfatah. I was not deceived by the false report of your death. I suspected my father in this affair, and, bribing one of his slaves, was informed of all concerning you. This slave is one of the two who were with him in the tomb, and as he had charge of the key he confided it to me for a few hours. I no sooner made this affair known to prince Aly than he hastened to join me with some of his confidential domestics. We lost not a moment in coming hither, and, thanks be to heaven, we did not arrive too late." "Oh, Mahomet!" said Aboulcassem, "is it possible so unworthy and cruel a father possesses such a daughter?" "Let us depart, my lord," said prince Aly; "the time is precious. I doubt not but that to-morrow the vizir, finding you have escaped, will seek you in all directions. I am going to conduct you to my house, where you will be in perfect safety, for no one will suspect me of giving you an asylum." They then covered Aboulcassem with a slave's robe, and all left the tomb. Balkis proceeded to her father's, and returned the key to the slave, whilst prince Aly took the son of Abdelaziz to his own palace, and kept him so well concealed, that it was impossible his enemies could discover him. Aboulcassem remained some time in prince Aly's house, who treated him most kindly, until the king and his vizir, despairing of finding him, gave up their search. The prince then gave him a very beautiful horse, loaded him with sequins and precious stones, and said to him: "You can now safely depart; the roads are open, and your enemies know not what is become of you. Hasten to seek a place where you will be secure from harm." The young man thanked this generous prince for his hospitality, and assured him he should ever gratefully remember it. Prince Aly embraced him, and prayed heaven to protect and watch over him on his journey. Aboulcassem then took the road to Bagdad, and arrived there in safety a few days afterwards. The first thing he did on entering the city was to hasten to the place where the merchants usually assembled. The hope of seeing there some one he had known at Basra, and of relating his misfortunes, was his only consolation. He was vexed at being unable to find this place, and traversing the town, sought in vain for the face of a friend amongst the multitudes he met. Feeling fatigued, he stopped before the caliph's palace to rest a little: the page whom he had given to his former guest was then at a window, and the child looking by chance that way, instantly recognized him. He ran to the caliph's apartment. "My lord," he exclaimed, "I have just seen my old master from Basra!" Haroun put no faith in this report. "You are mistaken," he said; "Aboulcassem no longer lives. Deceived by some fancied resemblance, you have taken another for him." "No, no, commander of the faithful; I assure you it is he: I am certain I am not mistaken." Though the caliph did not believe this assertion, still he wished to fathom the mystery, and sent one of his officers with the page to see the man the boy declared was the son of Abdelaziz. They found him in the same place, for, imagining he had recognized his little page, he waited till the child reappeared at the window. When the boy was convinced he was not deceived, he threw himself at the feet of Aboulcassem, who raised him, and asked if he had the honour of belonging to the caliph. "Yes, my lord," said the child; "it was to the commander of the faithful himself--he it was whom you entertained at Basra--it was to him that you gave me. Come with me, my lord; the caliph will be delighted to see you." The surprise of the young man at this speech was extreme. He allowed himself to be conducted into the palace by the page and the officer, and was soon ushered into the apartment of Haroun. The prince was seated on a sofa. He was extremely affected at the sight of Aboulcassem. He hastened towards the young man, and held him long embraced without uttering a word, so much was he transported with joy. When he recovered a little from his emotion he said to the son of Abdelaziz: "Young man, open your eyes, and recognize your happy guest. It was I whom you received so hospitably, and to whom you gave presents that kings could not equal." At these words Aboulcassem, who was not less moved than the caliph, and who from respect had drawn his cloak over his head, and had not yet dared to look up, now uncovered his face, and said: "Oh, my sovereign master! oh, king of the world, was it you who honoured your slave's house?" And he threw himself at the feet of Haroun, and kissed the floor before him. "How is it," said the prince, raising him, and placing him on a sofa, "that you are still alive? Tell me all that has happened to you." [Illustration: ABOULCASSEM AND THE PAGE, p. 246.] Aboulcassem then related the cruelties of Aboulfatah, and how he had been preserved from the fury of that vizir. Haroun listened attentively, and then said: "Aboulcassem, I am the cause of your misfortunes. On my return to Bagdad, wishing to repay my debt to you, I sent a courier to the king of Basra, desiring him to resign his crown to you. Instead of executing my orders, he resolved to take your life. Aboulfatah, by putting you to the most frightful tortures, hoped to induce you to reveal your treasures; that was the sole reason he delayed your death. But you would have been revenged. Giafar, with a large body of my troops, is gone to Basra. I have given him orders to seize your two persecutors, and to bring them here. In the mean time you shall remain in my palace, and be attended by my officers with as much respect as myself." After this speech he took the young man by the hand, and made him descend to a garden, filled with the choicest flowers. There he saw basins of marble, porphyry, and jasper, which served for reservoirs to multitudes of beautiful fish. In the midst of the garden, supported upon twelve lofty pillars of black marble, was a dome, the roof of sandal wood and aloes. The spaces between the columns were closed by a double trellis-work of gold, which formed an aviary containing thousands of canaries of different colours, nightingales, linnets, and other harmonious birds, who mingling their notes formed the most charming concert. The baths of Haroun-al-Raschid were under this dome. The prince and his guest took a bath, after which the attendants rubbed them with the finest towels, which had never before been used. They then clothed Aboulcassem in rich apparel. The caliph conducted him to a chamber where refreshments awaited them, such as roasted fowls and lamb, white soups, pomegranates from Amlas and Ziri, pears from Exhali, grapes from Melah and Sevise, and apples from Ispahan. After they had partaken of these delicacies, and drunk some delicious wine, the caliph conducted Aboulcassem to Zobeide's apartment. This princess was seated on a throne of gold, surrounded by her slaves, who were ranged standing on each side of her; some had tambourines, others flutes and harps. At that moment their instruments were mute, all being attentively engaged in listening to a young girl whose charming voice rang through the saloon like the warblings of a nightingale. As soon as Zobeide perceived the caliph and the son of Abdelaziz, she descended from her throne to receive them. "Madam," said Haroun, "allow me to present to you my host of Basra." The young man prostrated himself before the princess. At this moment the vizir Giafar was heard returning with the troops, and bringing with him Aboulfatah securely bound. As for the king of Basra, he was left behind dying of grief and fright at not finding Aboulcassem. Giafar had no sooner rendered an account of his mission, than the caliph ordered a scaffold to be erected before the palace, to which the wicked Aboulfatah was conducted. The people knowing the cruelty of this vizir, instead of being touched with his misfortune, testified the utmost impatience to witness his execution. The executioner was already prepared, sabre in hand, to strike off the guilty man's head, when the son of Abdelaziz prostrating himself before the caliph, exclaimed, "Oh, commander of the faithful, yield to my prayers the life of Aboulfatah! Let him live to witness my happiness, to behold all the favours you are conferring upon me, and he will be sufficiently punished." "Oh, too generous Aboulcassem," replied the caliph, "you, indeed, deserve a crown! Happy the people of Basra to have you for their king." "My lord, I have one more favour to ask. Give to the prince Aly the throne you destined for myself. Let him reign, together with the lady who had the generosity to avert from me the fury of her father; these two lovers are worthy this honour. As to myself, cherished and protected by the commander of the faithful, I have no need of a crown; I shall be superior to kings." The caliph assented to this proposal, and to recompense prince Aly for the service he had rendered the son of Abdelaziz, sent him the patents, and made him king of Basra; but finding Aboulfatah too guilty to accord him liberty as well as life, he ordered the vizir to be shut up in a dark tower for the remainder of his days. When the people of Bagdad were informed that it was Aboulcassem himself who had begged the life of his persecutor, they showered a thousand praises on the generous young man, who soon after departed for Basra, escorted by a troop of the caliph's guards, and a great number of his officers. VIII. THE OLD CAMEL. Eggadi-ben-Yousouf, a merchant at Miliana, was a mere lover of gain; he never gave away any thing in alms; his heart was dry as the earth in the hottest days of summer, and never open to pity for the unfortunate. To amass, to amass for ever was the sole desire of Eggadi. But in what did his riches consist? None could say, for he concealed them with the utmost care. One day one of his camels having died, he bought to replace it the only camel of Ali-Bénala, a poor dealer in mats. This camel was the sole heritage of which Ali came into possession at the death of his father. He sold it for much less than its value;--Eggadi, who was an adept at bargaining, depreciating it in every possible way, especially on account of its extreme age. On his next journey Eggadi added this camel to his little caravan. As he was passing a solitary place, he was surprised to see the camel betake itself with hasty steps to a spot at some distance behind some rocks, and on its arrival there kneel down and groan, as camels usually do when they expect to be unloaded. A negro, having run after the animal, brought it back to its place in the caravan. Eggadi soon took a second journey on the same road, and on this occasion too the camel sold him by Ali-Bénala again quitted the rank, and was again observed to kneel down and groan at the same place. This time Eggadi followed it, and saw with surprise that the spot at which it stopped was one where no merchant of any country had been ever known to unload his merchandise. He reflected deeply on this circumstance, and in the end resolved to revisit the spot alone with the camel, who, faithful perhaps to some recollection, might, he thought, be the means of disclosing to him some mysterious act, or perhaps the place where a treasure lay concealed. Eggadi returned, in short, soon after, to this solitary spot. He had brought with him a spade, and proceeded to dig with care around the camel, who had invariably knelt in the same place. He had scarcely laboured ten minutes ere he discovered traces of another spade; this redoubled his zeal, and soon after, to his intense satisfaction, he came upon some bags of money, then a coffer firmly shut, but which contained, he could not doubt, objects of costly value. He first took the bags, which were filled with good and true Spanish doubloons; with these he loaded his camel, who thus had gained nothing but a double burden for his pains; then, having re-covered with stones and sand the precious coffer, which he resolved upon examining another time, he returned with his mind greatly preoccupied, asking himself whether it must not have been the old father of Ali-Bénala to whom all the wealth he had just discovered formerly belonged. This question, which he could not help addressing to his conscience over and over again, prevented him from fully enjoying the possession of his treasure. Although he dearly loved money, yet Eggadi to obtain possession of it had never yet plundered the widow and the orphan. The first step in the road to evil is not accomplished without difficulty and without remorse; Eggadi painfully experienced the truth of this. "And yet," said he to himself, "I made a fair bargain with poor Ali for this very camel which has been the means of my finding a treasure." Before going to take possession of the coffer left underground behind the rocks, Eggadi, impelled by his conscience, approached the miserable shop where Ali carried on the sale of his mats, and said to him: "How comes it, Ali, that your father, rich as it is said he was, left you no fortune, only an old camel and a house in ruins?" "Ah!" replied Ali, "my father was good to the poor. Not only did he call every poor man his brother, but assisted him to the utmost of his power. At times, however, I have suspected that my father may have had riches concealed in some spot, and that he intended to bestow them upon me before he died. And I will tell you what led me to suppose so. "A few moments before his death he sent for me, and said: 'I have a great secret to confide to thee. Come close to me that my voice may reach thy ear alone: but before our conversation, my son, let us pray to Allah to grant us on this solemn day that which is best for us.' "We prayed, and in ten minutes my father was no more. Allah, no doubt, judged that that which was best for me was poverty. Allah be praised." Ali bowed his head profoundly, laying his hand upon his breast. Eggadi, much disturbed at the virtuous resignation of Ali-Bénala, rejoined: "But thinkest thou, that if good fortune befel thee, thou wouldst know how to make good use of it?" "Allah alone knows," said Ali. "Should he ever see fit to make me rich, he will know how to fit me for the change. For myself, I cannot succeed in improving the poverty of my estate. I work incessantly, but nothing succeeds with me. My oxen, if I have any, drown themselves in crossing a torrent; my goods either do not sell or are damaged. I am destined to possess upon this earth nothing but this miserable hut, which has been my only home for ten years, But what matters it, provided I fulfil the law of the prophet? I shall see Abraham, in heaven. If at times my poverty renders me uneasy, it is only for the sake of my poor children, who live miserably in a house as open to the wind and the rain as though it were without a roof." "Well," said Eggadi, "it is certainly not just that such an honest man as thou should be in such a wretched state of poverty." "How! not just!" replied Ali. "Are there not, then, many honest men who are no richer than myself?" "That may be," said Eggadi. "Nevertheless, since thy father was rich, it seems to be but just that thou shouldst be so too, and I come to propose to thee to enter into partnership with me. I have two good houses outside the town; one shall be for thy family, the other for mine. We will live as brothers, and unite our children as in the time of the patriarchs." Ali remained greatly astonished at such a proposition, coming especially from Eggadi-ben-Yousouf, who had never had any friendship for him, and who so far from evincing any generosity towards him, had bargained with him for his poor camel like the veriest Jew in the world. He therefore remained silent, neither accepting nor refusing the offer, but looking with an abstracted air upon the mats in his miserable dwelling. "Well," said Eggadi, ashamed at the bottom of his heart at making this show of generosity to one whom he was secretly despoiling, "well, thou dost not reply to me?" "Grant me time to imitate the example of my father by invoking Allah before taking a resolution," said Ali. "Allah alone can know whether it will be best for me to keep at once my poverty and the freedom of all my actions, or to accept opulence and with it the necessity of being always of thy opinion; for bringing into our partnership nothing but my two stout arms, I should be an ingrate if I did not yield in every thing to thy wishes." Eggadi involuntarily cast down his eyes before this poor man who spoke with so much wisdom. "Well," said he again, "reflect till to-morrow, and come to me in the morning under the palm trees in front of my house; I will there await thee." Then these two men separated. Ali, praying in the mosque, thought he heard his father pronounce these words. "Never associate thyself save with him who has no more than thyself, and who already knows the right way. The good are spoilt by associating with the rogue and the miser, whilst neither rogue nor miser is reformed by association with one better than himself." The next morning Ali repaired to the palm trees which grew before the house of Eggadi, where the latter awaited him uneasy and fatigued after a sleepless night. After the usual Mussulman salutation, Ali-Bénala said to the rich Eggadi: "How comes it that thou appearest sad, thou who possessest fine houses, coffers of gold, and merchandise, whilst I, I who have nothing, rise with a joyous heart, and smoke my pipe all day with pleasure, seated on the threshold of my poor shop?" "The weight of business overwhelms me," replied Eggadi; "I have great need of some one to share it." "Then why not diminish thy transactions, and live in peace?" inquired Ali. "No, no, it is impossible to set limits to one's purchases and sales. A fortunate speculation balances an unlucky one. You must accept all if you would grow rich. But come, hast thou decided? Wilt thou enter into partnership with me?" "I have reflected and prayed," said Ali. "I am very grateful for thy offers, and Allah will doubtless recompense thee; but prudence forbids me to accept them. I will never enter into partnership but with one who is as poor as myself." "Indeed!" exclaimed Eggadi-ben-Yousouf, "be no longer then surprised at thy poverty, since thou refusest the opportunity of enriching thyself. The traveller who does not stop beneath the first trees he meets runs the risk of not finding another upon his road, and of performing the whole journey without enjoying their refreshing shade. Such a man would have no right to complain of the dust of the roads, or the heat of the sun." "I do not complain," replied Ali, "I come, on the contrary, to tell thee that I live and sleep in peace." "It is well, it is well," said Eggadi, who had not closed his eyes till the morning, "it is well, remain as thou art. Instead of gold pieces, be content to receive rain-drops through thy roof, eat bread when thou hast any, and go fasting oftener; it concerns me no more." "I should be a fool," added he internally, "to trouble myself any longer about the poverty of this man." And he remembered his fine house, where gilded cakes, a delicious repast, and rich and rare fruits awaited him. He ate his meal in company with his sons; then he washed his beard and hands, rose from the table, and called his wife, his daughters, his mother, and his grandmother, and said to them, "Women, eat in your turn; this is for you." The women respectfully kissed his hands, and proceeded to make their meal, whilst he went and sat down out of doors, and smoked with his sons, to whom he spoke as follows whilst a negro waited upon him with coffee: "I am about to take another journey. During my absence see to such and such things, and do not forget any of my orders, if you would not run the risk of becoming poor, poor--" he was going to say, "as Ali, the seller of mats," but this name excited too keenly his remorse; he could not venture to pronounce it. So that in spite of the good repast of which he had just partaken, Eggadi felt ill at ease, for the thought was ever recurring to him, "Ali is poor, his father was rich, and it is I who have unjustly taken possession of his father's wealth." Meanwhile Eggadi had this very moderate relief, he might still enjoy the benefit of a doubt as to whether the father of Ali was really the possessor of the discovered treasures. However, the coffer left behind the rocks would doubtless throw a light upon this matter. Eggadi proceeded at once in search of this coffer; he opened it, and his eyes, dazzled though they were by the precious objects that met their gaze, were constrained to perceive at the same time a sheet of parchment, upon which the following words were very distinctly inscribed: "All the treasures buried in this spot have been lawfully acquired, or received in heritage by me, Mustapha Selim. I bequeath them to my only son, Ali-Bénala, who has ever been a faithful servant of Allah, and respectful towards me. May he, and his children, and his children's children inherit and enjoy these possessions, to which I add my benediction." As soon as Eggadi had read these words a profound sadness took possession of him, for he could no longer doubt that these hidden riches were the inheritance of Ali-Bénala. If therefore he appropriated them, he was a despoiler of the poor and the orphan. It would have been so delightful to have been able to keep up the illusion, and to say to himself: "This wealth was without an owner; Allah has been pleased to bestow it on me!" But if Eggadi had never as yet committed any very culpable actions, he had never done any good ones, and did not merit the protection of heaven. He dared not doubt that by keeping unlawful possession of the property of Ali he should incur the wrath of heaven; at the same time he could not bring himself to renounce it. He took the coffer, carried it home, meditating by turns on the uses to which he might turn his great fortune, and on what might be done by way of compromising his conscience for poor Ali, his children, and his children's children. Arrived at his own house, he placed his treasures in a large chest, which he kept thenceforth in the chamber where he passed his nights. By day, too, this coffer often served him for a seat; whilst scarce a day passed without his opening it, to assure himself that nothing had disappeared. He kept it carefully fastened with the aid of several locks and a master key, of which he never gave up the possession. Eggadi contemplated a thousand times these treasures acquired with so little trouble; if we can call that gained with little trouble which is purchased at the price of our peace of mind. And each time after having contemplated them, he would repeat to himself the words of Ali, "Allah will no doubt recompense thee." "Ah! if he recompenses me as I deserve," he could not help reflecting, "he will send me great disasters indeed." Pursued by the dread of a heavy chastisement, Eggadi became so miserable in the midst of his fine family and his treasures, that he formed the project of quitting his country, where the sight of Ali, his humble house and miserable shop, haunted him incessantly. So he adjusted his affairs, collected his merchandise, and then communicated his intention to his children and his servants. But whilst, spurred on by a secret terror, he was hastening the preparations for his departure, Allah, on whose will depend all things on earth and in heaven, visited him with a severe fever, accompanied with delirium, during which he spoke incessantly of the old camel of Ali, of concealed treasures, and the vengeance of Heaven. Salmanazar, an old Jew doctor, had charge of Eggadi; he heard the incoherent ravings of his patient, and immediately divined them to be the result of preceding mental anguish. Thanks to the skill acquired by medical science, and still more to the intuition engendered by the desire of self-enrichment, the old Jew was not slow in comprehending that there was a secret relating to a treasure unjustly acquired, and he saw no reason, moreover, why he should not be a partaker in the booty. He found means therefore to remove all the attendants, and constituting himself sole guardian of the sick man, seated himself by his bedside and patiently awaited the auspicious moment which should deliver into his merciless keeping a soul harassed by the stings of remorse. This moment at length arrived; Eggadi ceased to be delirious, and as though awakening from a painful dream, drew a long breath, and cast looks of inquiry around him. Salmanazar, who had been watching for this opportunity, then exclaimed: "Eggadi! Eggadi! you Mussulmans cry, 'God is great,' but you do not believe it, for if you did, how could you dare enrich yourselves at the expense of the poor man and his children? Thou art rich, Eggadi, and Ali is poor." "What sayst thou?" cried the sick man, distending his eyes with terror as dismal recollections thronged upon him. "I say that thou hast a treasure which should not belong to thee, and that this is why thou hast the fever, and why moreover thou wilt die, unless I save thy life by my profound science. Restitution must be made; nay, if indeed thou wert to do good with this treasure to poor Jews like me, God would perhaps pardon thee, but thou takest care to give us nothing. If I cure thee what will be my profit? a few miserable doubloons, which I shall have all the same if thou diest; for thy sons will give them me, and if they refused to pay me, I should summon them before the cadi. Thus, whether thou livest or whether thou diest is much the same to me. Nevertheless, if I had a mind I could easily cure thee, and cause thee still to live, that thy days might be long upon the earth. But what profit would this be to me?" "Cure me, cure me," cried the sick man, "and I will give thee far more than my sons would give thee, far more than the cadi would grant thee did my children refuse thee payment. I will give thee twenty doubloons; nay, fifty. That would be a fine thing for thee." "It would be a much better thing for thyself," chuckled Salmanazar. "Of what use will thy doubloons be to thee when thou art dead? I demand five hundred doubloons for curing thee, and I will have them at once, for in an hour's time I shall demand a thousand, and if you then delay deciding there will be no longer any time to choose." "A thousand doubloons!" exclaimed the patient; "I will not even give thee five hundred. If I did,--Allah would not pardon me the more, even supposing I really am guilty of what thou suggested." "Well, then, thou wilt die," rejoined Salmanazar, settling himself again in his chair. The chamber of the sick man was gloomy. A small lamp cast a fitful light upon one corner, while the rest seemed inhabited by nothing but dim shadows. An odour of fever and its remedies pervaded the atmosphere; out of doors,--for it was night,--the dismal cry of the jackals seeking food resounded, whilst the deep baying of the neighbouring dogs was heard without intermission. The weather was windy and tempestuous. All this but served to increase the deep depression which filled the soul of Eggadi. He threw a wistful look around his shadow-haunted room; it fell upon the old Jew who was watching him askance, his large dark eyes dimmed by ophthalmia, and he asked himself whether the old man with his prominent nose, yellow visage, long, lean and withered arms, habited in a scanty and dirty garment, were not some evil genius come thither to curse him for his crime, and drag him to the bottomless pit of perdition. Nevertheless, Eggadi contrived to raise himself up in a sitting posture on his bed. He collected all his strength, drew a long breath, sighed feebly, and said: "Well, I have decided, Salmanazar; give me the remedy which will make my days long upon the earth." "Give me first the five hundred doubloons," said Salmanazar. "I have them not here," replied the sick man. "Tell me where they are, I will go and get them." "That is impossible," said Eggadi; "but summon Bankala, my black slave, he will bring me the key of my coffer, and the coffer itself which contains my treasures." "Well and good," replied Salmanazar; and he summoned Bankala. Eggadi gave some orders to the slave in a language unknown to Salmanazar, and he disappeared. He returned shortly with two other slaves, whom he placed like two sentinels by the side of his master's bed. "Send away those men," said Salmanazar to the sick man. The latter replied, "They are needed to go and bring the coffer as soon as Bankala shall have given us the key; he and I alone know where it is hidden." "It is well," said the Jew; and he held his peace, looking alternately at the sick man and the two slaves. "What wilt thou do to effect my cure?" began Eggadi to inquire of the Jew in a doleful tone. "Thou shalt see--thou shalt see," replied the latter. And they both awaited the return of the slave with an equal anxiety, which they in vain strove to conceal. Bankala made them wait a long time, but when at length he did return, Ali, the poor seller of mats, followed upon his footsteps. "Arise quickly," had been the summons of the slave to him; "Eggadi my master summons thee in the name of Allah, and desires to see thee before he dies." Ali had hastened to obey. At sight of him the Jew trembled. Eggadi, on the contrary, felt himself happy and reassured. "Come hither, Ali," said he; "come and behold a man guilty but repentant. The example of thy virtues did not suffice to bring me back to the path of duty: it was necessary that I should be struck by misfortune. Thanks to Heaven misfortune has befallen me. Ali! Ali! it was I who bought of thee the old camel which was left thee by thy father. That camel no doubt aided him in concealing the great wealth he would fain have bestowed upon thee ere he died. I discovered this wealth, and I conceived the iniquitous design of keeping it, instead of restoring it to thee in accordance with the demands of justice. I was on the point of quitting my country to avoid the further sight of thy poverty, the unceasing reproach to my crime, when Allah visited me with a terrible malady, and a still more terrible physician. This physician, whom thou there beholdest, having discovered my secret, instead of urging me to the restitution of my ill-acquired fortune, dreamt only of sharing it with me, and threatened me with death if I refused the division of the plunder. "His horrible conduct, his avarice and cruelty combined, have inspired me with horror, and have shown me to what lengths an inordinate love of gold may lead. I have mourned for my fault, and have taken a sudden resolution to repair it. By deceiving this skilful man, I have been enabled to send for thee, and before him I declare that I render thee up joyfully all the treasures which are enclosed in the chest upon which Salmanazar is seated." Salmanazar started up on hearing these words. How! he had been actually sitting upon the treasure and had not divined it. Eggadi continued: "Consider, Ali, what will be most suitable to bestow upon this Jew. He demanded of me five hundred doubloons down, or a thousand in an hour's time, if I desired to live. I think that five hundred blows with a stick should be his recompense; at the same time I am unworthy to judge any man in this world. Thou who art just, act towards him as thou thinkest best, but deign, above all things, to grant me thy forgiveness." Ali was of course greatly surprised at all he had just heard. He took a moment to collect his thoughts and then said: "Eggadi-ben-Yousouf, I pardon thee willingly; and to prove it, I say to thee as thou once saidst to me: "Let us enter into partnership, let us live as brothers, and unite our children as in the time of the patriarchs. As for Salmanazar, let his only punishment be to behold the riches he would have forced thee to share with him, and after having seen them, let him return home without money and without blows." The wish of the wise Ali was put into execution. The coffer, the key of which Eggadi had about him, was opened; and the Jew, though still trembling with the fear of receiving the blows, could not help eagerly regarding the gold and precious stones which were revealed to his cupidity. Then he departed, filled with grief at having missed his aim, and at not having been himself the fortunate purchaser of the old camel of Ali. This event was engraven on his memory, and caused him to regard with looks of eager anxiety all the old camels whom he chanced to meet. He often stopped before them, and seemed to endeavour to trace in their movements some mysterious sign which might lead to the discovery of hidden treasures. Eggadi, having his conscience at ease, regained his health without the aid of any other physician. He became the adopted brother of Ali, who insisted on sharing with him his newly-acquired fortune; and these two men, their children, and their children's children, continued to live together wealthy and united. IX. THE STORY OF MEDJEDDIN. Many hundred years ago there lived in the famous city of Bagdad a retired merchant named El Kattab. The earlier part of his life had been assiduously devoted to commercial pursuits, in the prosecution of which he had made many a long journey, and crossed many a sea. In the course of his wanderings he had not only amassed the wealth he sought, but, what was better, had stored his mind and memory with the treasures of wisdom and general information. The property he had acquired was far from immense, yet it was amply sufficient to enable him to live in a style of substantial comfort and respectability, and to devote himself to the darling object of his declining years, the education and training of his only son. El Kattab's beard was grey, yet he had not very long passed the prime of life, and still retained most of the vigour and elasticity of his earlier years. He was wise enough to be content with the quiet enjoyments of a moderate affluence, and had no desire to wear out the rest of his life in the feverish labour of constant acquirement, for the mere sake of amassing a splendid fortune; therein differing from too many of his friends, who seemed to forget in their headlong pursuit of enormous riches, that by the time these might be acquired, life would be nigh spent, and at any rate all its charms gone, unless some higher and nobler object had been substituted for that of mere wealth-getting. The city of Mossul had been El Kattab's home in his earlier days; but he quitted it, and took up his abode in Bagdad, partly in order to be near his friend Salek, with whom he had been on the most intimate terms from his youth; partly, too, for the sake of his son's education, as he expected that a residence in the latter city would produce good and lasting impressions on the mind of the young man; for the great city of Bagdad was at this time under the rule of the far-famed caliph Haroun al Raschid, and was the resort of strangers from all parts of the globe; and here artists and sages of all countries mingled with each other. Nor had El Kattab conceived a vain expectation. His son, whose name was Medjeddin, was a young man gifted with good natural abilities, and endowed with a pure and noble heart. He used every opportunity to extend his knowledge and improve his disposition; nor was he deficient in bodily exercises and warlike accomplishments: so that through good discipline he became powerful in body and strong in mind. He was not only, therefore, as was natural enough, the joy and pride of his father, but was loved and esteemed by all who knew him, and was often pointed out by the elders, to others of his own age, as an example worthy of imitation. As the father saw his greatest treasure in the person of his son, so the latter, with all the fervour of a well-directed mind, clung affectionately to his father. Some years passed over them in this mutual love, rendered still more delightful by the companionship of their friend Salek, and their happiness was full and uninterrupted. It chanced one day that El Kattab and Salek were taking their accustomed walk in the gardens adjoining the city in front of the gate. The heat of the summer's day had been diminished by a gentle rain, and the two strolled on, in happy conversation, and extended their walk beyond its usual length. They passed the last garden, and wandered on over some green meadow-land, behind a little wood, at the entrance of which stood high palms, whose shadows invited to repose, while a fresh spring gushed from a neighbouring rock, and meandered among the verdant herbage and variegated flowers. The two friends lay down in the shade, and conversed on the perils to which even the most virtuous men are subject, particularly enlarging on the danger of an over-confidence in the rectitude of our own intentions, and on the comparative ease with which a sudden impulse will sometimes hurry even the best of men, who possesses an overweening reliance on his own firmness of purpose, into a false or even fatal step in life. "I have known men," observed Salek, "who, although among the best and noblest I have ever met in the course of my life, have been led unawares, by too great self-confidence, into an action which they might easily have avoided by moderate caution, but which has proved the beginning of a long chain of evils, ending at last in their complete ruin." El Kattab, on the contrary, maintained that a heart accustomed from early youth to virtue, would not be easily led to commit a serious fault; and even if this should happen, that it would readily find its way back from a slight error to the right road. They continued to talk on these subjects, each endeavouring to confirm his assertions by examples, whilst Medjeddin, stretched beside them, listened with attention to their conversation. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, and ran quickly up the woody hill, at the foot of which they were reposing. His father and Salek looked after him surprised, as they could not comprehend what had occasioned his sudden disappearance. They then saw that a little bird, as white as snow, was flying before him, which he was trying to catch. He was soon lost to their view among the bushes; they called to him to come back; but in vain. They waited for a quarter of an hour, and still Medjeddin did not return. Growing uneasy about him, they advanced in the direction in which he had disappeared, but could discover nothing. At last the sun set; then Salek said, "Let us return home: your son is a strong, active young man; he will easily find his way back to the city. Perhaps he has gone home some other way, and will be there before us." After much opposition, the father was persuaded to return without his son; but he was still full of anxiety which no arguments could overcome. When they arrived at the city, his friend accompanied him to his house. They entered hastily, and inquired for Medjeddin: but he had not returned. Salek's cheering suggestions were of no more avail; El Kattab would no longer listen to him, but threw himself weeping on his couch. Salek rebuked him for this weakness, and represented to him that it might easily have happened that the young man had lost his way in the pursuit of the bird, and could not recover the track all at once. "He has no doubt found a shelter where he will remain till morning," continued he; "he will return here early to-morrow, and will laugh heartily at your fears." When Salek was gone, El Kattab gave free scope to his feelings. He wept aloud, tore his beard, and dashed himself upon the ground, like a madman. The slaves stood around in motionless astonishment, surprised to see their master exhibiting such passionate emotion; others sought to console him, but fruitlessly; at length they all began to cry and bewail with him for his dear son, who was beloved by them all. After a sleepless night, the afflicted father rose not at all quieted. He wished early in the morning to send messengers in all directions; but Salek, who had come to inquire if the lost one had returned home, explained to him how foolish this step would be. "Consider," said he, "that your Medjeddin has most probably found a night's lodging, and slept better than you. Supposing him, therefore, to be at any probable distance, even if he had set out on his way at daybreak, he could hardly be here now: if you send these messengers after him, he may perhaps come home by a shorter path, while they will be searching for him in vain; wait at least till mid-day." El Kattab yielded; he appointed the messengers to be ready at noon, and in the meanwhile walked through the gardens and in the country around the city, where they had been on the preceding day. His friend accompanied him, although he pointed out that Medjeddin might, in the interval, have reached home while they were walking, and that El Kattab was thus perhaps giving himself more trouble than was necessary. "I have yielded to you in the rest," replied El Kattab; "let me at least in this instance have my own will, and walk here." They went together to the fountain in the rock near the palms; they climbed the neighbouring heights; they called the name of the lost one in all directions; but no sound was heard in reply. At noon they went home, and asked all they met if they had seen a young man, whom they accurately described. Nobody could give them any information about him. El Kattab now sent out his messengers in all directions; promising a rich reward to the one who should lead his lost son back to his arms. The messengers returned on the tenth day, and reported that all their researches had been without success. At this the parent's grief knew no bounds. His friend Salek remained almost constantly with him, comforting him; and all his friends held a consultation on the possible means of gaining tidings of Medjeddin. They agreed that he could not have been killed, for then his corpse would have been found: that he had no cause to conceal himself: that he could not have been attacked by enemies, as he had none: might he, they suggested, in the pursuit of the bird, have been led to the brink of the river, and have thrown himself in, and been carried away by the stream? scarcely had this idea presented itself, ere two messengers were despatched to each side of the river to search, from its junction with the Euphrates above Balsora to the spot where it flows into the Arabian Sea, and ascertain if the corpse of Medjeddin had been washed ashore. But these messengers also returned to the anxious parent, without having found what they sought. The parent and his friend now gave up Medjeddin for lost; El Kattab's spirit was broken; grief for his lost son shortened his life; he soon became old: all joy fled from his mind; and his sorrow was only a little alleviated when his faithful friend Salek sat by him in the evening, talking with him of his son, relating the virtues by which he had been distinguished, and telling him how it had been his darling wish that this excellent young man should marry his daughter Maryam. A few days afterwards the caliph Haroun al Raschid went, as he was accustomed, in disguise, with his grand vizier Giafar, and Mesrur his chamberlain, through the streets of Bagdad, to see with his own eyes and to hear with his own ears how justice and order were maintained by his servants, and whether his people were happy and prosperous. He had, as usual, chosen the last hour of the evening for this walk, because he thought that at this time he could look deeper into the joys and pleasures of his subjects, as they had then ended their daily toils, and were seeking comfort and repose in the bosoms of their families. In the course of his progress he came to a street remarkable for its peculiar quiet. As he approached a house, before the door of which two men were standing whispering, Haroun al Raschid addressed them with these words: "Why do you whisper, as if you were concerting a crime? is not this street lonely enough, that you cannot hold your discourse aloud? Can you tell me why this street is so quiet, as though every inhabitant were dead?" "I can easily tell you, my lord," answered one of the whisperers; "here, in the next house, lives the unfortunate El Kattab; and, as usual at this hour, his friend Salek is sitting with him to console him. Now all the inhabitants of this street respect this man, and wish not to remind him, by any outburst of joy, that happier men than himself live in his neighbourhood." Before the caliph could answer him, the man turned away, and entered the house, and the other followed him. "Have you ever heard of this unfortunate El Kattab before?" asked Haroun al Raschid of his grand vizier; and as he answered in the negative, the caliph proceeded, "Let us make an inspection of the house where this El Kattab dwells; perhaps we may discover the cause of his sorrow." They drew near, and saw the light from the inner court shining through a crevice. The caliph applied his eye to the aperture, and after he had watched for some time, beckoned his followers to him, and said, "Two grey-headed men are sitting in this court by the light of a lamp, and one seems to be comforting the other; but this latter continues to weep all the more bitterly, the more his companion endeavours to console him: both appear to be of the same rank. I am desirous of knowing what sorrow oppresses the unfortunate El Kattab: order him to appear at my palace early to-morrow morning; perhaps it may be in my power to lighten his calamity." The next day the grand vizier executed his commission. El Kattab was alarmed when he heard that his presence was required at the palace. He was led into the great hall where the divan usually assembled; but there the attendants left him quite alone. He reviewed the whole of his past life, to see if he had sinned in any way, so as to bring on him the displeasure of the caliph; for he knew that Haroun al Raschid often, in a mysterious manner, discovered the faults of his subjects, and punished them accordingly. But he could not call to mind any deed of which he felt ashamed, nor any that deserved punishment. Whilst he was thus meditating, a curtain was drawn back, and the caliph entered, followed by his vizier and his chamberlain. El Kattab rose from the ground, and bowed his head down to the carpet on which the caliph stood. "El Kattab," said the caliph, "a heavy weight of grief seems to oppress you; and by the anxiety which your neighbours manifest to show respect for your sorrow, I must consider you as a man of worth: I wish then to know the cause of your despondency; have you any objection to inform me of it before these two witnesses, or would you rather confide to me alone the reason of your tears?" "Ruler of the faithful," answered El Kattab, "sorrow is great and deep in my soul; but still the cause of it is unworthy to distract for a moment the attention of the caliph from the cares of his kingdom." The caliph replied, "That which fills the heart of the meanest of my subjects with such grief that it consumes his life, is not unworthy of my care. If I am careful for my whole kingdom, this care none the less extends to each individual; and, if I am careful for one, this one is a member of the whole, and thus my care is not lost. But speak, what is the cause of your affliction?" El Kattab then recounted the mysterious disappearance of his son; how he had sought for him every where, and how all his messengers had returned home without the least trace of him. "I must therefore weep for him as one that is dead,"--thus he ended his relation; "and in tears perhaps my sorrow might expend itself, if at the same time a spark of hope did not live in my heart, that possibly he is still alive: but ah! where? This spark of hope keeps the wound in the father's heart always open." "You have, indeed, real cause for grief," answered the caliph, "and I comprehend that the uncertainty of your son's fate must be as terrible to bear, as would be the mournful certainty of his death. You did wrong in not applying to me before; my power extends not only over believers, but also into foreign lands: other kings and rulers I have as my servants, whose eyes see for me, whose ears hear for me, and whose hands perform what is necessary in order to do my pleasure. That which was not possible to yourself, your friends, and your servants to accomplish, may perhaps prove easy for me. Now go home, and believe that you shall obtain news of your son, if he live on the earth, in any land where my power can reach." With these words he dismissed him, after he had first inquired the marks by which his lost son might be recognised. When El Kattab was sitting again with his friend Salek in the evening, he related to him the gracious and comforting words of the caliph. Salek perceived that hope was revived in his friend's heart, and that he confidently trusted to find his son. He thought it his duty, therefore, to damp somewhat this hope, and said, "Beloved friend, I have once heard a speech, which sunk deeply in my memory: it is, 'Trust not in princes; they are but men.' In truth, the mightiest on earth are subject to destiny. If the caliph have influence in distant lands, it must still be within a comparatively confined and narrow limit; whilst what is in the farthest regions of the earth, as well as what is but a span distant, are all equally under the control of all-governing fate, even from the meanest slave to the ruler of the faithful." Haroun al Raschid meanwhile resolved to do all he could to fulfil the hope he had raised in El Kattab's heart. He gave a commission to all his servants in the kingdom, high and low, and to his ambassadors in the neighbouring kingdoms, and even sent into distant lands, with the princes of which he was on terms of friendship, at the same time despatching messengers with the charge to search for Medjeddin with all diligence, giving them a description by which they might recognise him if they found him. But week after week, and month after month passed away; even a whole year elapsed, without any intelligence being received either of the life or death of the lost one. So that all hope of finding him deserted the father for ever. Medjeddin, meantime, had not perished--none of the accidents suggested by his father's advisers had befallen him; he still lived, but in such complete concealment that it was impossible for any one to discover him. He had followed the snow-white bird till evening, without clearly knowing why: he was induced to think he could catch the curious creature, particularly as it flew at such a moderate height from the ground, and at the same time so slowly. The tardiness of its flight made him conjecture that it must have hurt one of its wings; several times he succeeded in getting quite close to it, but just as he stretched out his hand to seize it, the bird again raised its wings, and flew a little in advance. Medjeddin now felt himself tired, and would have given up the pursuit, but the bird also seemed fatigued; he approached it, but again the bird flew a little farther off. In this chase he climbed a hill, and soon after found himself in a narrow meadow-valley, down which he ran; twilight came, but the snow-white colour of the bird still lighted him on. At last the pursued bird perched in a thicket; he hastened to it, but when he closed his hand to seize his prisoner, it flew away, leaving only one of its tail-feathers tightly grasped in his hand: still he saw it through the twilight flying before him, and still he hastened after it. The bird seemed now to quicken its pace; but as he had so nearly caught it once, he continued the pursuit with more eagerness; he ran through the high grass, with his strained sight fixed on this glimmering white object, he saw nothing else. Thus he came unexpectedly on a small but deep pool of water, which lay across his path; he jumped in, swam across, and tried to climb the other side, but it was so steep that he fell in with some of the crumbling earth: the water closed over his head, and he lost all consciousness. When he came to himself, he found himself lying on the turf, and a tall, grey-headed man of strange appearance by him, clothed in a long black robe reaching to his ancles, and fastened by a glittering girdle of a fiery colour. Instead of a turban, he wore a high pointed cap on his head, with a tassel of the same hue as the girdle. "Has your life returned to you?" he asked: "you deserved to be suffocated in the mud. Come, we must go farther before daylight quite leaves us." With these words the stranger raised him from the ground, passed his left arm round his body, and flew with him through the air with the speed of an arrow. Medjeddin again soon lost recollection, and did not know how long he remained in this condition. He awoke at last as from a deep sleep; and looking around, the first thing he observed was a cage of gold wire, hanging from the ceiling by a long golden chain, and within was the snow-white bird he had so long followed. He found himself alone with this bird in a hall, the roof of which was supported on pillars of white marble, and the walls were built of smooth pale-green stones. The openings which served as windows were protected by lattices so skilfully contrived with winding tracery, that even the white bird could have found no space to pass through, even if it had escaped from the cage. Beside one wall stood a crystal urn; and from this fell a stream of clear water, which passing over the curved brim of the urn, was received in a white basin beneath, from which it disappeared unseen. Whilst he was observing this, and wondering what had happened to him, and how he came there, suddenly the old man in the black robe entered from behind a curtain. He carried a small golden box in his hand, and approached him with these words: "You have now caught the white bird, and have it safe in a cage; in this box is food for it, and there is water; take diligent care of it, and mind that it does not escape." As he said this he disappeared. Medjeddin now arose and walked round the hall: he looked through the windows, and ascertained that he must be in a foreign land, as the forms of the mountains and trees were quite different from any he had before seen. The hall seemed to be high in the air, as if it were the upper story of a lofty tower. No other edifice was to be seen, and from the windows he could not distinguish what shrubs and plants bloomed beneath. He drew the curtain aside, and discovered a doorway; but there was a thick metal door which he could not open. He was now very much embarrassed, for he began to feel hungry, and could find nothing that would serve him for food. He examined the walls to see if he could discover any concealed outlet; he tried to open the lattices, that he might put his head out, and see if there were any body beneath, to whom he might cry out. There was no door; he could not open the lattices; and as far as he could strain his sight in every direction, he could see nobody: he threw himself in despair on the pillow, wrung his hands, and wept, and cried: "I am then imprisoned--imprisoned in a dungeon where splendour and riches are lavished around! Of what avail is it that these walls are built of precious stones? that this lattice is of fine gold, that this cage is of gold, and hangs on a golden chain? I am as much a prisoner behind golden lattices as I should be behind a grating of iron." Then he rose and shouted through the lattices, in hopes that his voice might be heard, and aid brought; but nobody appeared, and no one answered him. When he again threw himself weeping on his couch, after these useless efforts, he observed that the white bird fluttered restlessly in its prison, and pecked at the golden dish for its food, without finding any. "Poor brother in misfortune," said Medjeddin, "you shall not suffer want; I will take care of you; come, I will bring you what you want." He took the pans from the cage, filling one with water from the urn, and the other with grain from the gold box which the old man had given him. Scarcely had he hung the last on the cage, when, on turning round, he saw a table behind him covered with costly viands. He was astonished, and could not understand how this had happened; still it was not long before he attacked the meats with the zest of a young man who had fasted nearly all day. Although these viands were altogether different from those he had been accustomed to taste in his father's house, they all appeared excellent. He ate till he was fully satisfied, and then took from the table a golden cup, and quenched his thirst with pure water from the urn. After this he threw himself on a couch and fell asleep. When he awoke he felt strong and well. He arose and began to make another tour of the hall, and he then observed that the table with the meats had disappeared. This was a disappointment, as he had thought to make a good supper of the remainder. He did not allow this, however, to trouble him much, as he now felt pretty sure that he was not to die of hunger. He next proceeded to scrutinise his prison more closely: he examined all anew, pillars, walls, and floor; but could no where find a crevice or a fissure: all was fast and whole. His view from the windows did not allow him to make any further discovery; he only saw that he was very far above the earth, and in a spacious valley; mountains were to be seen in the distance, with curiously-pointed summits. As soon as he had completed this examination, and found there was nothing to occupy him, he turned his attention to the white bird in the cage. Here was still life; and if the cage was narrow, yet the prisoner could hop about on the different perches. Soon it remained still and gazed at him with its bright eyes, which seemed as if sense and speech lay in them, the interpretation only was wanting. Night put an end to these reflections. Next morning he observed that the bird again wanted food. He filled its seed-pan with grain from his golden box, and gave it fresh water from the urn. Scarcely had he done this, when the table covered with meats again stood in the same place as the day before. This day passed like the former, and the following in the same manner; Medjeddin wept and mourned, took care of the little bird, fed it, and was every time rewarded in the same manner with the table covered with dishes as soon as he had filled the bird's seed-pan. He could not perceive who brought the table, nor how it disappeared. It always came whilst he stood beside the cage with his back turned, and without any noise. On the ninth day the old man suddenly appeared to him, and said, "To-day is a day of rest for you; you have performed your duty during the preceding days in giving the bird its food, you may now amuse yourself in the garden till evening." He led him through a door into a narrow passage, at the end of which they descended twenty steps; he then opened a small metal trap-door, and then Medjeddin descended twenty steps more: they next came to a similar door, and descended twenty more steps to a third, and so on, till, after passing the ninth door, they found themselves in the open air. "Remain here till you are called," said the old man, who went back into the building through the same doors, which he shut after him. Medjeddin was very curious to examine more closely the building in which he had been imprisoned: he therefore went round it, and narrowly observed it. It was a tower of nine stories, each about fifteen feet in height. The tower was nine-sided, with a window in the third side of each story, so arranged that no window was directly over another, and that consequently only three altogether appeared in each side of the tower from bottom to top. This distribution of regularity and order reigned throughout the whole building. The walls were made of large pieces of gold, quite as smooth as glass; and these were so skilfully put together that, even when closely looked at, the joints could not be discovered. The lattices of the windows were all of gold, like those in the upper hall, and the lower doors through which he had passed were of a yellow metal, inclining to green. All these considerations were not calculated to lessen his conviction that no man could possibly find him out in such a prison. Suddenly a new hope awoke in him: "I am no longer shut up in the tower," said he to himself; "here I am in the open air, in a garden: I can clamber and jump like a monkey; I may possibly find some outlet from this garden, by which I can escape." He immediately turned from the tower, and hastened through the gardens, seeking freedom; but he soon discovered that this hope was vain. He found the gardens surrounded on all sides by a lofty wall, constructed of the same materials, and quite as glassy, as the tower. After making the whole circuit of the garden, he at length found a gate, consisting of a grating of strong iron bars, polished to the highest degree of smoothness, and so close together, that he could scarcely pass his arm through. He tried to climb it by holding by the upper bars with his hands; but his feet slipped on the smooth iron, and he hurt his knee so much, that he lost his hold and fell backwards on the earth. He next examined the grating closely to see if there were no means of escape; but all was in vain: every where the bars were high, thick, and like polished glass. Sorrowfully he wandered round the garden; the sun's rays darting down scorched up the grass, and he sought some shade where he might screen himself from their influence. He lay down on a mossy bank, and meditated anew on his fate. Besides his own grief at his imprisonment, the thought of his father's sorrow at his loss pained him. The exhaustion consequent on tears and loud lamentations, joined with the noontide heat, at last caused him to fall into a deep sleep. When he awoke, the table covered with meats was again before him; he ate, and wandered again mournfully through the garden, meditating whether he could not make a ladder from the trees around him, to aid him in his escape over the grating. But there was something wanting for this work; he had not even a dagger or a knife. As he thus thought, the old man appeared, and said, "Evening is drawing on; follow me in." He led him again to the upper room of the tower, and locked the metal door upon him. There was no change observable in his prison, only the bird seemed harassed and mournful; it sat quiet and still on the lowest perch, its plumage was rough, and its eyes dull. "Poor creature," said Medjeddin, "what is the matter? are you ill?" It seemed as if the bird was affected by these sympathising questions, but it soon sank again into its former dejection. He mused long upon this. The next day and the following ones passed like the former; but on the ninth the old man again appeared, led him into the garden, and at night conducted him back into the hall. He took care of the bird; and as soon as he had given it food and water, he always found the table covered with meats behind him. In the intervals he stood at the lattice of one of the three windows looking on the plain below, earnestly hoping to catch sight of some person to free him from his captivity. In such monotonous employment many months passed away: every ninth day the old man appeared, and gave him leave to walk in the garden; but he did not derive much amusement from his strolls in this narrow enclosure. In the mean time he asked the old man many times the reason of his imprisonment, and how long it was to last. No answer was vouchsafed but these words: "Every man has his own fate; this is thine." One day the old man appeared and led him into the garden as usual; but he had not been there more than a quarter of an hour, when he returned, called him in, and then quickly retired with marks of disquietude. Medjeddin also remarked that the white bird, which he had learnt to love more every day, sat at the bottom of its cage, more mournful than it usually was after the old man's visit. He drew near, and observed a little door in the cage which he had never before seen. He examined it closely, and found a fine bolt which passed into a ring of gold wire. These were made so skilfully, and worked into the ornamental parts of the cage so cunningly, that nobody could have discovered them if his attention had not been drawn to them by design or accident. Medjeddin pushed back the bolt and opened the door; the bird started up as if some sudden joy had seized it, hopped out, and as soon as it touched the floor was transformed, and in its stead a young maiden stood before Medjeddin, clothed in a white silk robe; beautiful dark locks streamed over her neck and shoulders, and a thin fragrant veil fell over them, confined by a fillet set with precious stones; her finely-formed countenance was as white as ivory, relieved by the softest shade of the rose. Surprised and astonished, Medjeddin started back and said, "By the beard of the prophet, I conjure you to tell me whether you are of human race, or whether you belong to the genii?" "I am a helpless maiden," said she, "and implore you to deliver me from the hands of this cruel magician; I will reward you handsomely for it: know, I am the only daughter of Omar, king of Zanguebar; and this wicked enchanter has cunningly carried me off from my father's palace, and shut me up in this cage. He has one son, as ugly as night, whom he wishes me to take for my husband. Every ninth day he comes, brings his son with him, and praises his excellent qualities. This he has done regularly for many months past, tormenting me at every visit for my consent to this odious union; and he now threatens me with cruel tortures if I give it not by the next new moon. On that day he will have kept me a year in imprisonment, and longer than a year he says he will not continue to entreat: then will the time of my punishment begin; I conjure you therefore to help me." At these words she burst into a flood of tears. "Noble maiden," answered Medjeddin, "how willingly would I free you! but, alas, I am as helpless as yourself, and cannot even free myself. But tell me how is it? you say the enchanter brings his hateful son with him--why, then, have I never seen him?" "He always sends you away when he comes," answered the princess. "But even then," pursued Medjeddin, "the son could not conceal himself from me on the stairs, or in the narrow passage." "Quite true," she answered, "but he carries him in his pocket." "What," exclaimed Medjeddin in astonishment, "in his pocket!--how can that be?" The princess informed him that the young man became on the occasion of each visit a white bird, like herself: that the enchanter put him into the cage with her, and that she felt such a dislike to him that she always fluttered about the cage to avoid getting near him; but that he, with the pertinacious obstinacy of a brutal affection, would follow her and settle confidingly near her. "You must," she continued, "have remarked how tired and mournful I always was on the ninth day when you returned." Medjeddin, astonished at this explanation, assured her of his willingness to free her, but bewailed his helplessness. The princess, however, would not give up hopes of their success. "It seems to me," said she, "a good omen that the enchanter has to-day received a message which caused him to leave so early, and in such haste that he did not securely close the cage, and that you returned so early to-day from the garden; this day is my birthday, the only day I can be delivered from the magician's power; on any other day I should still have remained a dumb bird, even if you had freed me from my cage; only on this day has my touching the floor had power to restore me to my natural form; the enchantment lies in the cage." Medjeddin instantly seized the cage, exclaiming, "If it be so, we will break the enchantment." He threw the cage to the ground, stamped on it with his feet till it was quite flat, and its shape no longer distinguishable, then he rolled it together, and threw it into a corner of the hall. At this moment a frightful noise like thunder resounded through the air. The whole building shook as with a furious tempest, the doors flew open with a crash, the curtains were drawn aside, and the magician stood before them with a countenance full of anger. "Ah," cried he, "weak worms, what have you presumed to do? how did you learn to break my charm in this manner? who bid you destroy the cage?" Medjeddin was so terrified he could answer nothing. The enchanter then turned to the maiden and cried, "And you, you thought this miserable worm could defend you against my power: I will show you how useless it is to oppose me." He felt in the pocket of his black robe, and pulled out thence a small box; this he opened, and a white bird flew out and perched on the table. He then took a smaller box from his girdle and opened it,--it was filled with grains of millet; from these he took one, and laid it before the bird, who had scarcely eaten it before such a distorted man stood in its place, that both Medjeddin and the princess screamed aloud. His head was large and thick, his eyes red and dark, his nose small and quite flat, his lips thick and blueish red, his chin broad and projecting, and on his head grew a few stiff white hairs; a hump grew out in front, and a similar one behind; his shoulders were quite drawn up, and his head so jammed between them that his ears could not be seen. The upper part of his body was so unwieldy, and his legs so weak and thin that it was wonderful how they supported him; he tottered about incessantly, balancing himself first on one leg, then on the other. "Come forward, my son," said the enchanter to this deformed creature; "behold, there is your bride; she does not wish to wait till the new moon which I fixed upon for your betrothal: to-day she has effected her own change by the help of this friend. Go, my son, give your bride a kiss, and then thank this young man." The deformed creature approached the princess with a horrible fiendish laugh; she averted her face with disgust, and stretched out her arms to motion him away. But by this time Medjeddin's courage had returned: resolving to venture all, he stepped before the princess and gave the deformity such a blow that he reeled and fell backwards. His head struck in the fall on the corner of the pedestal of one of the marble pillars with such violence, that his skull was broken: a stream of blood flowed from the wound, and the monster gave a hollow groan. Medjeddin thought of nothing but the father's rage and revenge, and gave up his life for lost. But the enchanter stood quite confounded as he observed his son's mortal wound, and appeared stupified with horror and amazement. Presently he threw himself down beside him, examined the injury, and wrung his hands, forgetting his revenge in his sorrow. Medjeddin quickly seized the hand of the princess, and led her through the door and down the stairs: all the doors were open, and they found their way without any obstacle into the garden. Soon they stood before the grating of the iron gate, which was closed. "Of what use is our flight?" said Medjeddin despondingly; "we are still as much as ever in the power of the enchanter; and even if we were on the other side of the gate, and concealed in the deepest cavern, he would discover us by his knowledge, and wreak his vengeance on us." "I am of a different opinion," said the princess; "I know many of the things on which the superior power of this magician depends, and I believe that if we could only get out of this place, we should be safe." They went on a little further, and came to a spot where a number of trees had been uprooted by the hurricane; one of these lay overturned with its summit resting on the top of the wall, and its boughs and branches hanging far over the other side. At this sight the young man rejoiced; he climbed quickly on to the trunk, pulling the princess after him, and guiding her with great care and tenderness into the top of the tree. They then clambered over the wall in spite of a formidable row of spikes, and let themselves down on the other side by the overhanging branches of the tree. These did not quite reach to the ground, but near enough for them to leap down; they let go accordingly, and fell gently to the earth; then jumping up, they proceeded as rapidly as the strength of the princess and the difficulties of the way would allow them, through thickets, underwood, and plains studded with prickly plants, towards the distant mountains. After the two fugitives had continued their flight for several hours without looking back on the scene of their imprisonment, the princess felt her strength exhausted, and that she could go no further; she begged her companion, therefore, to stop and rest for a short time. Medjeddin sought a place free from bushes, and clad with moss and long grass; they seated themselves there, and Medjeddin entreated the princess to relate her history. She was too much exhausted at first, but after a short pause recovered her strength and commenced thus: "My early history is very simple. I am called Jasmin, the only daughter of the sultan of Zanguebar. My mother was brought over the wide-stretching sea, from beyond Arabia and Mount Caucasus, and was sold to him as a slave. Soon attracted by her beauty and manners, he raised her to the dignity of wife. My earliest youth was spent in happy sports under my mother's eyes, who died, however, before I had passed the age of childhood, as the change from the mild climate of her land to the heat of my father's shortened her days. My father loved me as his greatest treasure, and confided me to a careful nurse. Every evening I passed several hours with him, as soon as he was released from the cares of government, and one whole day in each week he devoted to conversation with me. On that day we always went together in a light bark to a neighbouring promontory, where he had a beautiful palace and gardens. The air there was cooler and more refreshing, the trees and shrubs were clothed with fresher green than in the shut-up garden in the capital, and we passed the whole day in the open air. In the mean time I had outgrown childhood, and was beloved by a prince, the son of a neighbouring king, to whom I was betrothed, and who was to succeed my father in his kingdom. This prince, whose name was Mundiana Mesoud, often accompanied us in these visits to the castle on the promontory. "It happened one day, as we were sitting on a terrace by the sea, that a foreign ship anchored just below us. A stranger caused himself to be landed in a little boat, and asked us permission to appear before us, as he had many costly wares to offer for sale. I was desirous to see his wares, and begged my father to admit him. The man laid many costly trinkets of gold and precious stones before us; and my father bought some which pleased me the most. I remarked that the merchant watched me closely, but he did this with such evident pleasure that my vanity ascribed it to his admiration of my charms, and found no harm in it. Whilst he showed his goods, he let fall some words which intimated that he had left his most precious articles behind in the ship; he had there, he said, many curious birds, particularly a snow-white bird which was the most beautiful of all creatures of this kind. He managed thus to excite my curiosity so much that I begged my father to allow me to go with the stranger to his ship to see these rarities. My father was weak enough to comply with this unreasonable wish. A suitable train ought to have accompanied me, but the stranger prevented this; he said his boat had only room in it for three people, and that he should not like to show his wares if many strangers came into his ship. 'They are only things fit for the royal princess,' he said; 'there is no fear that I should expose her to danger. I can never forget that a powerful king has entrusted his only daughter to my care. However, the prince may accompany you as a watchful protector.' We accompanied the merchant to the ship; there we found an immense number of extraordinary things and unknown animals. In the place where in other ships the rowers sat, were great apes; on high on the mast sat an eagle; in the cabins were many large and small cages of smooth ebony with thick gold bars, behind which moved a confused multitude of animals. "My desire was now directed to the snow-white bird, about which I made inquiry. He showed it me high up in a sort of box; and as I could not see it distinctly, he took it out and placed it in my hand. 'The most wonderful circumstance,' said he, 'connected with this bird is, that, being a native of a far distant country, when removed to this it can only remain a few days alive, but I have found the corn of life of which I give it some grains each week, and it is then refreshed for nine days.' We asked for the corn of life, of which we had never heard; and he opened a little box and took out three grains. He gave me one to give the bird, the other I was to try, and the third prince Mesoud. When I offered the grain to the bird, it refused it; and when I pressed my hand closer, drew back, lost its balance and fell down with outspread wings. I hastened to it, picked it up perhaps somewhat roughly, and as it tried to escape, I held some of its tail-feathers fast, so that it lay fluttering in my hand. I was very much frightened, and the merchant seemed so also. He soon laughed, however, with a sort of malicious joy, and said that I should swallow the corn, because it would prevent the flight of the frightened prisoner; he said the same to the prince; and we swallowed the grains at the same moment. I felt a wonderful transformation pass over me, and found that I was changed into a snow-white bird; and when I looked towards the prince, in his stead I saw a black bird. Upon this the stranger, who was no other than the enchanter, seized me, and shut me up in the golden cage which you have trodden to pieces. The apes began to ply the oars, and the ship moved with unusual swiftness over the sea. I still saw my father and the attendants on the terrace, and could distinguish their gestures of wonder as they saw the ship depart; I believed even that I heard their voices calling us back. But what could I do in my cage? The black bird flew to the promontory; and from that moment I have neither heard nor seen any thing of prince Mesoud. "When my home was far in the distance, and even the summit of the mountains which overhung it could no longer be distinguished, the enchanter rose with my cage high in the air, leaving his ship behind, and bore me into the hall of the tower. How he brought the other white bird, I do not know; I only know that he took it out of his pocket and put it into the cage. 'Now you have a companion,' said he. As I took him for a real bird, I considered myself, though unfortunate, superior to him, and drew myself back into a corner. But the bird came nearer and followed me round the cage. At last I lost patience, and pecked his eyes. When the enchanter saw this, he took out a little box and took from it a grain which he laid before the bird, who picked it up immediately. It was then changed into a man, the same ugly wretch you saw in the tower. He desired me, as I have already told you, to take that deformity for my husband; and promised me that, on my consent, I should be immediately restored to my proper form, and assured me that otherwise I should always remain as a bird, except on my birthday. It was also part of my enchantment to be obliged to allure you here. I have now no other wish than to return to my father in Zanguebar, because I know he is living in great affliction." This relation vividly reminded Medjeddin of his own father; he knew, from the great love he had always shown him, that he must have pined for his loss, and his mournful countenance and bowed-down form presented themselves before his mind. "Princess," said he, "your desire cannot be greater than mine. Still, I swear to you, that I will not return to my father till I have safely conducted you to your native land, or have seen you safe into the hands of those who will bring you to your father; if I do not, may Heaven not grant my father life to receive this joy!" They journeyed on with renewed vigour. But evening was drawing near, and it was necessary to find a resting-place for the night; fortune was favourable; they soon found a nook overhung by a large and lofty bush. Medjeddin broke away the boughs, so as to form a hedge which fenced round a small spot in which he concealed the princess, leaving only a narrow entrance, before which he lay down to watch. Night passed without danger. However anxiously Medjeddin strove against sleep in order to watch over his companion, it at last weighed down his eyelids; and they both awoke with the first rays of the sun. They wandered the whole day, resting occasionally; at every step the journey became more hazardous; the thickets became thicker and higher; they were often obliged to creep between the boughs, and their clothes hung in rags. On the fourth day they reached the foot of the mountains. There they found cultivated land and human habitations. Medjeddin inquired where they were, and asked the way to the sea. The people told them the name of the country, which was unknown to Medjeddin and to the princess Jasmin, and added, that on the other side of the high mountains lay a large flat land, bordering on the sea. They received this information with great joy, and, tired and footsore as they were, addressed themselves, without loss of time, to the task of crossing the mountains, and at last, after a wearisome journey, during which they had seen the sun rise and set seven times, they arrived at the flat country and the sea-coast of which they had been told. A ship lay ready at anchor; and when they inquired its destination, the steersman answered, "We are going to Zanguebar, to fetch a cargo of cinnamon." To Medjeddin's question where they came from, and the name of the land where they were, he received for answer, "that the ship belonged to a merchant of Balsora, and that it had been cast on these unknown shores by a violent storm." When the princess perceived that the ship was going towards her native land, she was very much rejoiced. She took one of the precious stones out of the fillet on her forehead, and gave it for the passage money of herself and her companion. The following morning they weighed anchor, and, after a prosperous voyage, reached the very same place where the enchanter's ship had formerly lain at anchor, when he carried off the princess. They were landed in a small boat, and Jasmin led her deliverer through the beautiful leafy walks of the imperial gardens. In this way they came to a terrace, from which they could see the ship. Instead of pressing hastily forwards, they concealed themselves behind a bush, for on the terrace sat a venerable and noble-looking man, with the profoundest melancholy stamped on his features; he was looking seawards, and the vessel had just caught his eye; a flood of tears ran down his face, "Ah!" cried he, "it was just so on the day that my sorrows began! There lay the ship of the robber; there landed the boat which carried away my beloved daughter and her betrothed. It was even at the same hour of the day. I have sent messengers into all the neighbouring lands; I have caused the opposite sea-coasts to be searched; but all has been in vain. I must die, and never see my child again." He pronounced these words aloud, and covered his face, as he bowed himself forward on his hands. The princess Jasmin was rushing towards him, but Medjeddin held her back, and said, "Let me first prepare him for your arrival, for otherwise joy may kill him." And he came forward, and bowed himself before the sorrowing old man. The king then said, "Who are you? Are you a beggar, and do you need any gift? It shall be given you; go to my palace." Medjeddin stood up and answered, "From my appearance, you might well take me for a beggar, O great king Omar. But know that under these ragged clothes is concealed a magician, who is able to change your tears into smiles, your sobs into transports of joy." "Can any man on earth do this?" asked Omar. "I have only to speak three words," answered the other, "and it will happen. Are you strong enough to support the highest joy that your heart can feel or conceive?" At these questions, a ray of hope kindled in the soul of the mourning father. "What is it? Who are you who can promise this?" asked he; and, on Medjeddin repeating his question, he answered, "I think so," regarding him, at the same time, with eager looks. "Approach, princess Jasmin," cried the youth; and she sprang forward into her father's open arms. Medjeddin's promise was indeed fulfilled; the aged monarch's tears were changed into smiles of joy. Their embrace continued long. At last Omar raised himself, beckoned Medjeddin to approach, and said, "You are indeed a magician such as I have never seen before. By your words you have changed the mournful course of my life into the brightest sunshine. I will not now ask you who you are, and what I have to thank you for, nor inquire what chance brought you to my daughter; I shall only give myself up to joy at her return." They went back to the capital in the king's barge, and soon the joyful news of the unexpected reappearance of the princess spread every where. Crowds assembled at the palace to ascertain if the news were true, and the princess at length went out of the principal gate of the palace, and showed herself at the head of the flight of steps which led up to it. Then arose a shout of joy from ten thousand voices, and loud wishes for her health and happiness. The next day, after the king had heard from his daughter the history of her imprisonment, and of the devotion with which Medjeddin had watched over her and when Medjeddin had in turn narrated his history Omar became very thoughtful, and caused his council to assemble, to deliberate how they should reward him. "If he were not so young," said some of them "he might be made grand vizier, the next in dignity to the king, or be appointed governor of a province. But his youth prevents his being placed over the people next to the king." After longer consultation, the eldest of the councillors rose, and said, "Omar, my king and lord, the youth has certainly performed a great service to you and the princess Jasmin; it seems to me, therefore, that his reward ought to come from you. It is fitting that the king, having received from him a great benefit in his family, should reward him from his family. Were I in such a case, I would constitute him Mundiana, and give him for a wife the daughter whom he has restored." The whole assembly were of the same opinion, and the king gave them to understand that this was also his wish. "I am old," said he, "and can easily perceive that the cares of this land will soon need other hands to support them. I shall be much pleased to see my daughter with so good a husband. The prince Mundiana Mesoud, whom I had before chosen, has disappeared; and this youth, although of lower birth, is of noble soul, and will soon, under my guidance, acquire the necessary experience to enable him to promote justice and order in my kingdom." He did not delay, but immediately caused Medjeddin to be called. A costly band of gold and silver was fastened round his forehead, and the king then said, "I herewith appoint you Mundiana;" and the assembled councillors immediately added their congratulations. Medjeddin expressed his gratitude in becoming terms, but inquired, smiling, what was the precise nature of the dignity conferred on him. The eldest councillor stepped forward and said, "This name points out the highest post of honour which the king can bestow. You are found worthy of this honour, and no other lives who bears the title, because the Mundiana Prince Mesoud has disappeared." An elephant covered with costly trappings was now brought in by its keeper, and upon it was a richly ornamented seat. On this the new officer was placed, and led through the streets. Heralds went before him, and cried aloud, "Listen to what Omar makes known to all people. This youth has restored to him his dearest jewel, which he had lost. In gratitude, the king has nominated him Mundiana, and has appointed his daughter Jasmin for his wife. To-morrow the betrothal will be celebrated; and every body is invited to the court of the palace to partake of the general joy." Medjeddin hardly knew how all this had come about. He had received clothes and rich arms as a present from the king, and the king so highly favoured him, that he was not only to be husband of the princess Jasmin, but was to succeed Omar on the throne, and to reign over that beautiful and rich land. In his happiness he forgot his early life, his father's sorrow, and even his playfellow Maryam and his father's faithful friend Salek, and thought no more of his home or his father-land. The next day his betrothal with the princess was celebrated with great pomp. The princess had willingly yielded to her father's wish, without manifesting any particular joy, although, she felt a very sincere friendship for her intended husband, and treated him with great respect and attention, as she did not forget in her prosperity how much she had owed to him in the time of misfortune. The first days and weeks after the ceremony of betrothal were devoted to recreation and amusement, after which he was formally introduced by the king to the council, and instructed in the business of the state. The king and councillors had soon reason to wonder at the acuteness of his judgment in difficult cases, and above all, at his quick perception of right and order. Throughout the country, the justice and wisdom of the king's future son-in-law were praised, and it was hoped that fortune would permit him to rule over the land. A whole year had now elapsed, and the day was fast approaching when he was to marry the princess and ascend the throne. One day, as usual, he sought his betrothed, the princess Jasmin, in her apartments. He happened to enter very rapidly after his announcement by the attendant, and saw the princess hastily wiping her eyes; and as he drew nearer, he perceived the traces of her tears. Sympathising with her, he asked the cause of her grief; she tried to avoid answering him, but as he continued to urge her, she at last said, "I dare tell you why these tears flow, because you are good and compassionate, and will not consider it a crime that I have a feeling and constant heart. You know that I was formerly beloved by prince Mesoud, the son of the neighbouring king; I related to you that this prince was changed into a black bird by the enchanter, and flew from the ship to the promontory of the island where our country seat was situated. Now I must tell you that I grieve so much the more about this prince's fate, as from my own change I can compassionate his mournful condition. I could not repress the desire to ascertain his fate, and I have obtained certain news of his present condition, by the secret knowledge of a certain wise man. I have learned that he still lives in his new form, and that he has flown away, from fear of the machinations of the demon hunter, called among us Dolda Waldas, and is now in far distant regions; and that it is ordained by fate that he shall never regain his human form if I give my hand to another husband. Sorrow at his mournful destiny has drawn these tears from my eyes, the traces of which you observed." This narrative made a deep impression on Medjeddin; he discovered that Jasmin had acceded to her father's wish only from gratitude and filial obedience, whilst her affections were still fixed on the absent prince. He saw that he could purchase the good fortune of being the husband of the noble princess, and son-in-law of the great king Omar, and after him king of Zanguebar, only by the misfortunes of prince Mesoud. He asked himself if this were right, and was obliged to confess that justice and honour were opposed to it. He saw that the intoxication of good fortune had hitherto blinded him. Then the remembrance of his father came before him, and his imagination pictured him pining away at the uncertainty of his son's fate. He bitterly reproached himself for his long forgetfulness, and for not having sent an embassy to announce his safe arrival in Zanguebar. Scarcely had these thoughts and feelings arisen in his breast, than he made up his mind: he went to the king, told him all, and begged him to let him go and fulfil a son's duty to a father whom he had too long neglected. Omar sighed deeply at these disclosures of his expected son-in-law; he proposed to send a ship to bring his father, so that he might spend the rest of his life in sharing his son's good fortune and companionship. Upon this Medjeddin declared to him, with determination, that he could never be his son-in-law or successor to the throne. "I cannot purchase such good fortune at another's expense," said he; "it was otherwise before I knew the decision of fate; but now that I know that the prince Mesoud must, through my happiness, always remain in his present condition, if I thus take away the possibility of his ever returning to his human form, I should be in the highest degree culpable, if I did not voluntarily give up my good fortune." All the persuasions and arguments of Omar were useless. The councillors also, and the grand vizier and the governors of the provinces, begged him to continue in the land, and to take still more share in the government. He remained firm in his resolution; he promised the princess, who was astonished at his honourable spirit, that, as soon as he had seen and comforted his father, he would seek information about prince Mesoud from all the sages and magicians of his native land, and that he would try all means to restore him to his former condition. As he was determined to set out, the king gave him costly presents, including many precious stones from his treasury, and provided him with a ship, and all necessaries for the voyage. The heavens seemed to favour the resolution of the returning son: the finest weather and most favourable winds seconded his journey, and the ship anchored in the harbour without accident. He took some servants, bought some camels, which he loaded with the king's presents, and so went through Balsora along the river to Bagdad. One beautiful evening he came near the city, and recognised the very place where he had lain at the feet of his father and Salek, and listened to their conversation; their last discourse there returned to his memory. "Well," said he to himself, "my own experience has indeed proved how true it is that it is easy for a man to be seduced from virtue into one false step, if he be not watchful, but relies on his own power: I thought that my heart was sure to be always right, and neglected the practice of weighing carefully each action beforehand. In this manner have I so much forgotten my love for my father, and had nearly committed a great wrong, having been about to sacrifice to my vanity, in the intoxication of good fortune, the happiness of the princess and her betrothed. And you, my father, were also right when you maintained that a heart accustomed to virtue from early years would only for a short time wander from the right road. I have myself experienced the truth of these words, and I therefore thank you with tears that you brought me up to what was good." As he spoke, he espied a small solitary hut where the palm-trees used to stand. A venerable man, much marked by sorrow, appeared at the door; he stood still before the threshold, and regarded the youth with astonishment; the young man gazed earnestly at him. Then suddenly recognising the features of the old man, he threw himself on his knees before him, seized his hand, and covered it with kisses. "My father," cried he, "is it so indeed? have you become so much altered in the course of so few years? that is my fault. Father, forgive your offending son, who forgot you in the height of prosperity." El Kattab extended his other hand to him, blessed him, and said: "Rise up, my son, rise; he who feels repentance is forgiven." He rose and threw himself into his father's arms. When he looked up again, he saw a man approaching, accompanied by a maiden, whose features he recognised. It was Salek and his daughter Maryam, Medjeddin's playfellow. After welcoming him, they sat down, and Medjeddin related to them all that had happened to him since the memorable evening. He related, truly and candidly, how he had forgotten his father, and nearly fallen into greater crimes, because he had been blinded by fortune, by greatness, and by honours. As they were sitting and conversing, they observed three birds coming up from a distance, and who seemed to be chasing one another. They soon perceived that one of them was a black bird flying in great fright from a large hawk. It was obvious that the hawk would soon have seized his prey, had he not been pursued in turn by a larger bird, to avoid which, he was often compelled to dart from side to side: at last they came to close conflict. The pursued black bird fell into Medjeddin's lap; the hawk, struck by his pursuer, fell to the ground at their feet, and was, by the strong hooked bill and sharp claws of his adversary, soon killed and torn to pieces. Scarcely had this taken place, when the conqueror changed into a venerable-looking sage. He turned to Medjeddin, who was quite astonished, and said: "Dip quickly your forefinger in the blood of this slain bird, and anoint with it the beak of the black one." Medjeddin obeyed immediately; and scarcely had he touched the black bird's beak with the blood, ere it was transformed, and a handsome youth in kingly dress stood before them. "Guess who this is," said the genius. "The prince Mesoud?" asked Medjeddin. The genius answered, "It is he!" And as he stood looking at the young prince with astonishment, added, "You do not perceive how and why all this has happened. I could explain to you all these mysteries; but to what purpose? It is not necessary for weak men to know the threads by which their fates are linked together: suffice it to know that it was necessary for you to perform all this, that you might be tried: you are found worthy, and Heaven rewards you with Maryam, the early companion of your youth, now to be your wife." Then Medjeddin turned towards Maryam, and looked inquiringly at Salek, her father. This latter said, "With joy I listen to the will of fate; the highest wish of my heart will now be fulfilled." "Know," continued the genius, "that the slain bird was the enchanter who transformed the princess Jasmin and the prince Mesoud. They were also to pass through trials; thus it was decreed by fate. Because the enchanter only fulfilled the will of fate from selfish motives, and carried his revenge beyond it, and contrary to it, the king of the genii commanded me to slay him." With these words he disappeared from their sight. They returned now in happy union to the city; and El Kattab, who had built his hut at the edge of the wood to be always near the place of his sorrow, dwelt again in his house with his children. The prince proceeded to Zanguebar in the same ship that had brought Medjeddin. He was received there with great joy, and was soon married to his early love. But Medjeddin's name lived long in their memory, and in that of all the inhabitants of that island. When the caliph Haroun al Raschid heard of Medjeddin's return, he had him called before him, and made him relate his history. The caliph was so pleased with him that he took him into his palace, and gave him an important post in his court. His history he caused to be inscribed in the records of his kingdom. And when Giafar, his aged vizier, expressed a wish to end his life in quietness, the caliph raised Medjeddin to the grand viziership; and he continued long in this office, to the pleasure of his friends and the happiness of the people, by whom he was greatly beloved. VIII. THE STORY OF KING BEDREDDIN-LOLO AND HIS VIZIR ATALMULC. The city of Damascus is one of the most populous and flourishing cities of the East, and to this capital of a rich kingdom travellers and caravans arrive from all the countries of the world. Its sovereigns bear the title of "Prince of the Believers," and their person is sacred. Bedreddin-Lolo, king of Damascus, had for his grand vizir a man celebrated in history for his goodness. This minister, whose real name was Aswad, but whose great virtues had acquired for him the surname of Atalmulc[9], was in every way worthy of the high name he had so obtained; uniting to an indefatigable zeal for the king's service a vigilance that nothing could deceive, a penetrating and capacious mind, and a disinterestedness that was universally admired. But he was surnamed the "sorrowful" vizir, because he appeared to be always plunged in a profound melancholy. Whatever he did at court was performed in a grave and serious manner, and he never smiled at the wittiest remark that was made in his presence. One day the king entertained this vizir and Sedif-Elmuloak, his favourite, and related to them, laughing immoderately all the while, the following misfortunes that happened to a rich old miser. THE OLD PAIR OF SLIPPERS. There was at Bagdad a merchant very notorious for his avarice, and his name was Abou-Cassem-Tambouri. Although he was enormously rich, his clothes were constantly in rags and tatters, and his turban, made of coarse stuff, was so dirty that its colour could no longer be distinguished. Of all his garments, however, his slippers were the most remarkable; the soles were kept together by large, clumsy nails, and the upper leathers were pieced in every direction. The famous ship Argo was not made up of a greater number of separate fragments. During the ten years of their existence as slippers, the cleverest cobblers of Bagdad had exerted their utmost skill to tag together their remains, and had only succeeded by adding piece on piece, by which means they had become so heavy, that they had passed into a proverb; and when any one wished to describe something weighty, the slippers of Cassem were always the object of comparison. One day, when this merchant was taking a walk in the great bazaar of the city, a proposal was made to him to buy a considerable quantity of glass; he agreed to the offer, because it was an advantageous one; and having heard a few days afterwards, that a perfumer who had fallen into difficulties had nothing left but some rose-water, which he would of course be obliged to sell as speedily as possible, Cassem took advantage of the poor man's misfortune, and purchased it at less than half its value. This successful stroke of business had put him into good humour, and instead of giving a great feast, according to the custom of Eastern merchants, when they have made an excellent bargain, he thought it better to take a bath, a luxury which he had not enjoyed for a long time. Whilst he was taking off his clothes, one of his friends, or at least one who pretended to be a friend--for it is a rare thing for a miser to have one--remarked to him that his slippers made him the laughing-stock of the whole city, and that he certainly ought to purchase a new pair. "I have long thought of doing so," replied Cassem; "but my old ones are not so very bad, and will last me for some time even yet." While talking, he stripped off his clothes, and entered the bath. At this juncture the cadi of Bagdad came also to take one. Cassem, having finished his bath before the judge, went into the first apartment, where he found his clothes, but not his slippers, which had disappeared, and in their place was a new pair, which our miser was convinced were a present from the man who had made him such a friendly remonstrance about them. With that he made no more ado, but put the new pair on his own feet, thus sparing himself the pain of buying new ones, and left the bath overjoyed with his prize. When the cadi had finished his bath, his slaves looked about in vain, for their master's slippers, and finding only a wretched pair, which were immediately recognized as Cassem's, the police ran after the supposed sharper, and brought him back with the stolen goods upon his feet. The cadi, after having exchanged the slippers, sent Cassem to prison; and, as he was well known to be rich as well as avaricious, he was not allowed to come out of prison until he had paid a handsome fine. On returning home the afflicted Cassem threw his slippers, in a rage, into the Tigris, which flowed beneath his windows. A few days after, some fishermen, drawing up a net heavier than usual, found in it Cassem's slippers. The nails, with which they had been patched, had broken the meshes of the net. The fishermen, out of spite to Cassem and his slippers, threw them into his room by the open window, and in their passage they struck the bottles containing the rose-water, and knocking them down, the bottles were broken and the water totally lost. The grief and wrath of Cassem on seeing this may easily be conceived. He cursed his slippers, and tearing out the hair from his beard, vowed that they should cause him no more mischief; and so saying, he took a spade, and digging a hole in his garden, buried them there. One of his neighbours, however, who had borne him a grudge for a long time, perceived him turning up the earth, and ran and told the governor that Cassem had dug up a treasure in his garden. This was enough to excite the cupidity of the officer, and he sent forthwith for Cassem. In vain our miser declared that he had not found money, that he was only employed in burying his slippers. The governor had calculated on his bribe, and the afflicted Cassem could only regain his liberty by paying down a second large sum. Our friend, in an extremity of despair, consigned his slippers to Shitan[10], and went and threw them into an aqueduct at some distance from the city, thinking that this time he should hear no more of them. But as though the evil spirit he had invoked was determined to play him a trick, the slippers somehow found their way just to the very pipe of the aqueduct, by this means preventing the flowing of the water. The persons who had the care of the aqueduct having gone to ascertain the cause of the stoppage, and to remove it, carried Cassem's slippers to the governor of the city, declaring them to be the cause of all the injury. Their unfortunate owner was thrown again into prison, and condemned to pay a larger fine than before. The governor who had punished the offence, and who pretended to be indebted to no one for any thing, returned Cassem's precious slippers to him again most faithfully; and Cassem, in order to free himself from all the evils which they had brought upon him, resolved to burn them. As they were saturated with water, he first of all put them out to dry in the sun on the terrace of his house. But Cassem's evil genius had not yet quite done with his tricks, and the last which he played him was the worst of all. A neighbour's dog prowling along the terrace on the housetops spied out the slippers, and, darting at them, carried off one of them. As, however, the dog was playing with it, and tossing it about, he contrived to let it fall off the terrace on to the head of a woman who happened to be passing below. The fright and the violence of the blow together, made the poor woman quite ill; and her husband having carried his complaint before the cadi, Cassem was condemned to pay a fine proportionate to the misfortune of which he had been the cause. Going home, he took up his slippers, and returned to the cadi with them in his hands. "My lord," he exclaimed with a vehemence which excited the judge's laughter, "my lord, look at the fatal cause of all my troubles! These abominable slippers have at length reduced me to poverty; be pleased now to issue a decree, in order that the misfortunes which they will, no doubt, still continue to occasion, may not be imputed to me." The cadi could not refuse to comply with this request, and Cassem learned, at great expense, the danger there is in not changing one's slippers often enough. * * * * * The vizir listened to this story with such a serious countenance that Bedreddin was astonished. "Atalmulc," he said, "you are of a strange disposition; you seem always sad and melancholy. During ten years that you have been in my service I have never seen the slightest sign of pleasure on your countenance." "May it please your majesty," replied the vizir, "you need not be surprised at it; all have their secret sorrows; there is no man on earth who is exempt from them." "Your remark is surely untrue," replied the king. "Do you mean to say that all men have some secret anxiety preying on their minds, because you appear in that state? Do you really believe this to be the truth?" "Yes, your majesty," replied Atalmulc; "such is the condition of all the children of Adam; our bosoms are incapable of enjoying perfect ease. Judge of others by yourself. Is your majesty quite contented?" "Oh, as to me," exclaimed Bedreddin, "that is impossible! I have enemies to deal with--the weight of an empire on my hands--a thousand cares to distract my thoughts, and disturb the repose of my life; but I am convinced that there are in the world a vast number of persons whose days run on in unruffled enjoyment." The vizir Atalmulc, however, pertinaciously adhered to what he had stated, so that the king, seeing him so strongly attached to his opinion, said to him: "If no one is exempt from vexation, all the world, at any rate, is not like you, wholly overcome by affliction. You have made me, however, very curious to know what it is that has rendered you so pensive and sorrowful; tell me therefore the reason of your melancholy." "I shall comply with your majesty's wish," replied the vizir, "and reveal the cause of my secret cares to you, by relating the history of my life." THE HISTORY OF ATALMULC, SURNAMED "THE SORROWFUL VIZIR," AND THE PRINCESS ZELICA. I am the only son of a rich jeweller of Bagdad. My father, whose name was Cogia Abdallah, spared no expense in my education; having from my earliest infancy hired masters, who taught me the various sciences, philosophy, law, theology, and more particularly the different languages of Asia, in order that they might be useful to me in my travels, if I should ever make any in that part of the world. Shortly after this my father died, and when the funeral ceremony, which was magnificent, was over, I took possession of all his immense property. Instead of giving myself up to the pursuit of pleasure, I resolved to devote myself to my father's profession. Being well versed in the knowledge of precious stones, I had reason to believe that I should succeed in business, and accordingly I went into partnership with two merchant jewellers of Bagdad, friends of my father, who were about to undertake a trading expedition to Ormus. At Basra we hired a vessel, and embarked on our enterprise from the bay which bears the name of that city. Our companions on board were agreeable; the ship wafted by favourable winds glided swiftly through the waves. We passed the time in festive mirth, and our voyage promised to end as pleasantly as we could desire, when my two associates gave me a startling proof that they were not the honourable characters I had supposed. We were just at the end of our voyage, and being in good spirits on that account, we held a sort of farewell feast, and did ample justice to some exquisite wines which we had laid in at Basra. For my part, being in the highest spirits, I made copious libations, and, on retiring to rest, lay down on a sofa, without taking off my clothes. In the middle of the night, while I was buried in profound slumber, my partners took me up in their arms, and threw me over-board through the cabin window. Death would seem inevitable under the circumstances, and in truth it is still impossible for me to imagine how I was fortunate enough to survive such a catastrophe. The sea was running high at the time, but the waves, as if Heaven had commanded them to spare me, instead of overwhelming me, bore me to the foot of a mountain, and cast me violently on shore. As soon as I recovered the shock, I found myself safe and sound on the beach, where I passed the remainder of the night in thanking God for my deliverance, at which I could not sufficiently wonder. At break of day I clambered up with great difficulty to the top of the mountain, which was very steep, and met there with some peasants of the neighbourhood, who were occupied in collecting crystal, which they afterwards sold at Ormus. I related to them the danger in which my life had been placed, and my escape seemed miraculous to them, as well as to myself. These worthy people took pity on me, gave me part of their provisions, which consisted of honey and rice, and as soon as they had finished gathering their crystal, acted as my guides to the great city of Ormus. I put up at a caravansary, where the first object that met my eyes was one of my associates. His surprise was great at seeing a man whom he no doubt believed to be safely housed in some marine monster's stomach, and he ran off instantly to find his companion, in order to acquaint him with my arrival, and to plan how they should receive me. They soon settled as to their course of proceeding, and, returning to the place where I was, they took no notice of me, and studiously conducted themselves as though they had never seen me before. "O traitors!" I exclaimed, "Heaven frustrated your murderous intentions, and in spite of your cruelty I am still alive; give me back instantly all my precious stones; I will no longer associate with such vile wretches." On hearing these words, which ought to have overwhelmed them with shame and remorse, they had the impudence to reply: "O thief and rogue! who are you, and where do you come from? What precious stones do you speak of that we have belonging to you?" So saying, they set on me, and gave me several blows with a stick. I threatened to complain to the cadi, but they anticipated me by going to that judge themselves. Bowing down before him, after having previously taken care to present him with some valuable brilliants, which no doubt belonged to me, they said to him: "O lamp of justice! light which dispels the darkness of deceit! We have recourse to you. We are poor strangers, come from the ends of the earth to trade here; is it right that a thief should insult us, and will you permit that he should deprive us by an imposture of what we have acquired at the risk of our lives, and after running a thousand dangers?" "Who is the man of whom you make this complaint?" asked the cadi. "My lord," they replied, "we do not know him, we never saw him before this morning." At this moment I presented myself before the judge, to make my own complaint, but as soon as they saw me they exclaimed: "Here is the man--here is the wretch, the arrant thief! He is even impudent enough to venture into your palace, and show himself before you, the very sight of whom ought to frighten the guilty. Great judge, condescend to protect us." I now approached the cadi, in order to address him, but having no presents to make to him, I found it impossible to get him to listen to my story. The calm and unmoved aspect with which I spoke to him, proceeding from the testimony of a good conscience, was thought by the cadi's prejudiced mind to arise from impudence, and he ordered his archers to convey me instantly to prison, an order which they lost no time in executing. So that while I, an innocent man, was loaded with chains, my partners departed, not only unpunished but in triumph, and well persuaded that a new miracle would require to be wrought to deliver me from the hands of the cadi. And, indeed, my escape from my present difficulty might not have been of so fortunate a nature as that from drowning, had not an incident occurred which showed the goodness of Heaven still visibly displayed on my behalf. The peasants who had brought me to Ormus, having heard by chance that I had been put in prison, moved with compassion, went to the cadi, and told him in what way they had fallen in with me, together with all the details which they had heard from myself on the mountain. This recital began to open the eyes of the judge, and caused him to regret that he had not listened to me. He forthwith resolved to investigate the matter; and first of all sent to the caravansary to inquire for the two merchants, but they had hastily decamped, and returned on board the ship, which had put to sea; for in spite of the bias of the cadi in their favour they had taken the alarm. Their rapid flight effectually convinced the judge that I had been committed to prison unjustly, and he gave orders to set me at liberty. Such was the termination of the partnership I had entered into with the two honest jewellers. As one saved from drowning, and the hands of justice, (or rather injustice,) I might well have considered myself eminently bound to return thanks to the Almighty. My situation, however, was such as to render me rather indifferent as to what might happen to me; for I was without money, without friends, without credit, and reduced either to subsist on charity, or to perish of hunger. I quitted Ormus, without knowing what would become of me, and walked in the direction of the prairie of Lar, which is between the mountains and the Persian Gulf. On arriving there, I met a caravan of merchants from Hindostan, who were setting out for Schiras, and, joining myself to them, I gained a subsistence by rendering myself useful on trifling occasions. On our arrival at Schiras, where the shah Tahmaspe held his court, I stopped for some time in that city. One day, when returning from the great mosque to the caravansary where I lodged, I saw an officer of the king of Persia, richly dressed and very handsome; looking at me attentively, he came up to me and said, "Young man, from what country do you come; for I see you are a stranger, and evidently not in a very prosperous condition?" I replied, that I came from Bagdad, and that his conjecture was but too well founded. I then related my history more at length, to which he listened attentively, and with much feeling for my misfortunes. He next asked me how old I was; and when I told him that I was nineteen years of age, he desired me to follow him, and walking before me proceeded to the king's palace, which I entered along with him. Conducting me into a very elegant apartment, he asked me, "What is your name?" I replied, "Aswad;" he then asked many other questions, and being satisfied with my replies, said at last: "Aswad, your misfortunes have affected me greatly, and I wish to assist you as a father: I am the capi-aga[11] of the king of Persia; there is now a place vacant for a new page, and I have appointed you to it. You are young and handsome, and I cannot make a better choice, for there is not one among the present pages who surpasses you in good looks." I thanked the capi-aga for his kindness, and he forthwith took me under his command, and caused me to be equipped in the dress of a page. I was made acquainted with my duties, which I soon learned to discharge in such a manner as to gain the esteem of the zuluflis[12], and to confer honour on my protector. There was a rule that no page of the twelve chambers should, under pain of death, remain in the gardens of the seraglio after a certain hour, when the women were accustomed occasionally to walk there. The same rule extended to all the officers of the palace and the soldiers of the guard. Being in the gardens one evening quite alone, and musing on my misfortunes, I became so lost in thought that I did not perceive that the proper time for men to leave the gardens was already past: knowing that no time was to be lost, I quickened my pace in order to enter the palace, when just as I was turning the corner of one of the walks, a lady appeared before me. She was of a majestic stature, and in spite of the darkness I could see that she was both young and beautiful. "You are in a great hurry," she remarked; "what can it be that obliges you to walk so fast?" "I have very good reasons for doing so," I replied, "and if you belong to the palace, as doubtless you do, you cannot be ignorant of them. You know that men are forbidden to appear in the gardens after a certain hour, and that whoever breaks this rule suffers death." "You have been rather slow in remembering the rule," replied the lady, "for the hour is long past; however, on another account you may thank your stars you have loitered, for if you had not, you would not have met with me." "How unfortunate for me that I should have mistaken the time," I exclaimed, thinking only that I had placed my life in danger. "Don't reproach yourself," said the lady; "if you do, I shall feel offended. You ought to look on your misfortune to be rather a source of congratulation. It is very true that the danger in which you are placed presents ideas disagreeable enough, but it is not quite so certain that you will be beheaded, for the king is a good prince, who may be induced to forgive you. Who are you?" "I am one of the pages," I replied. "Indeed!" she exclaimed, "you make very wise observations for a page; the grand vizir could not make better. Well, don't distress yourself about what may happen to-morrow, the events of which are hidden from you, and are only known to Heaven, which has perhaps even now prepared a means of escape for you. Leave then the future to take care of itself, and think only of the present. If you knew who I am, and the great honour conferred upon you by this adventure, instead of poisoning the precious moments by bitter reflections, you would esteem yourself the most fortunate of mortals." By such animating language the lady at length dispelled my fears: the idea of the punishment which threatened me vanished from my mind as I abandoned myself to the flattering ideas which she held out to me, and I proceeded somewhat over ardently to ingratiate myself with my companion. The next moment, however, as if at a signal from her, I found myself surrounded by ten or a dozen women who had concealed themselves close by, in order to listen to our conversation. It was easy now to see that the woman who had played me this trick was laughing at me. I supposed she was one of the female slaves of the princess of Persia who was desirous of having a little amusement at my expense. All the other women ran quickly to her assistance, and, bursting into laughter, began to surround me, and to joke with me. One remarked that I was of a lively character, and well fitted for an amusing companion. "If I should ever walk all alone at night," said another, "I hope I shall meet with somebody quite as clever as this page." Their pleasantries put me quite out of countenance, while every now and then they laughed outrageously, and I felt as ashamed as if they had rallied me for being too bashful. They even made themselves merry at my having permitted the hour for leaving the gardens to escape me, and said that it would be a pity if I were to die on that account; and that I well deserved to live since I was so devoted to the service of the ladies. The first one then, whom I had heard addressed as Cale-Cairi, said to another, "It is for you, my princess, to determine respecting his lot: is it your wish that he should be abandoned to his fate, or shall we lend him our assistance?" "He must be saved from the danger he is in," replied the princess: "I give my consent for him to live; and, indeed, to the end that he may remember this adventure of his for a long time to come, we must make it still more agreeable to him; let him come to my apartments." When I entered the chamber of Zelica Begum--for such was her name, and she was the princess of Persia--she inquired my name, and how long I had been a page. When I had satisfied her curiosity on these points she said: "Well, Aswad, make yourself at home, and forget that you are in an apartment which is forbidden to be entered by any man: forget that I am Zelica: speak to us as if you were with a party of young ladies, the daughters of plain citizens of Schiras: look attentively at all these young women, and tell me frankly which one among us all you like best." Although Zelica's slaves were perfectly beautiful, and the princess herself might be considered to have a just claim to the preference, my heart decided at once in favour of the charming Cale-Cairi; but concealing sentiments which would seem to cast Zelica into the shade, I said to her that she ought not to place herself in the same rank with the others, or contend with her slaves for the possession of my heart, for that her beauty was such that wherever she was seen, all eyes must be directed to her, and her alone. While speaking thus, however, I could not resist looking at Cale-Cairi in a way which would make her think that my language had been dictated by courtesy alone, and not by the real feelings of my breast. Zelica noticing this, said, "Aswad, you flatter me too much: you must be more candid: I am certain that you have not spoken your real sentiments, and you must really answer me truly in reply to my question: open your inmost soul to us: we all beg you to do this, and you cannot confer a greater pleasure both on myself and all my slaves." Yielding at last to their urgent requests, I threw off my timidity, and addressing myself to Zelica, I said: "I will then endeavour to comply with your highness's wishes: it would be difficult to decide which of the exquisitely beautiful assemblage before me is the most beautiful, but I will avow to you that the amiable Cale-Cairi is the lady for whom the inclinations of my heart plead the most strongly." Zelica, instead of being offended by my boldness, replied: "I am well pleased, Aswad, that you have given the preference to Cale-Cairi; she is my favourite, and that is sufficient to prove that your taste is not bad. You do not know the full worth of the fair lady whom you have chosen: we unite in owning that she excels us all." The princess and her slaves now began to banter Cale-Cairi on the triumph which her charms had achieved--and she received all their witticisms in very good part. Zelica then ordered a lute to be brought, and placing it in Cale's hands, said to her, "Show your lover what you can do with it," and she played upon it in a style which enchanted me, accompanying it at the same time with her voice in a song which indicated that when a lover has made choice of a suitable object, he ought to love that dear one for ever. An old slave at length came to inform us that daylight was approaching, and that there was no time to be lost, if it were intended that I should quit the apartments in safety. Zelica then told me to follow the slave, who led me through many galleries, and by many windings and turnings, until we reached a little gate of which she had the key; and on the door being opened, I went out, and as it was now daylight, I saw that I was no longer in the palace. A few hours after I rejoined my companions. Eight days after this, an eunuch came to the door of the king's apartments, and said that he wished to speak with me. I went to him and inquired what he wanted. "Is not your name Aswad?" he asked. I replied that it was. He then put a note into my hands, and went away. The letter stated that if I felt inclined to pay a visit to the gardens of the seraglio next night, and would be at the same place as before, I should there see a lady who was very sensibly touched with the preference I had given to her over all the princess's women. Although I suspected that Cale-Cairi had taken a fancy to me, I had no idea of receiving such a letter as this from her. Intoxicated with my good luck, I asked leave from the oda-baschi to pay a visit to a dervise--who was a countryman of my own, and who had just arrived from Mecca. Leave being granted me, I ran, or rather flew, to the gardens of the seraglio, as soon as night was come. If, on the first occasion time fled too swiftly and surprised me into stopping after the hour for leaving the gardens, it seemed now too slow in bringing me the promised pleasure, and I thought the hour of retreat would never come. It did come, however, and I could see, shortly afterwards, approaching the place where I was concealed, a lady whom I recognized by her stature and air to be Cale-Cairi. Transported with delight, I drew near, and throwing myself at her feet, I remained for some time prostrate on the ground without speaking a word, so completely had I lost all self-possession. "Rise, Aswad," she said, "I am enraptured at having inspired you with such feelings towards me, for I will confess to you that for my part I have not been able to resist a friendly regard for you. Your youth, good looks, and lively and brilliant wit, but more than all, perhaps, your preferring me to other ladies of great beauty, have endeared you to me. My conduct proves this sufficiently; but, alas! my dear Aswad," she added, sighing, "I scarcely know whether I ought to be proud of the conquest I have made, or rather to regard it as an event which will embitter the whole course of my life." "But, madam," I replied, "why give way to such gloomy presentiments at the very time when your presence brings me such delight?" "It is not," she replied, "a foolish fear that now, at such a moment as this, causes me annoyance and disturbs the pleasure of our meeting; my fears are only too well founded, and you are ignorant of the cause of my grief. The princess Zelica loves you, and when she has freed herself, as she will do soon, from the splendid bondage in which she is held, she will inform you of your happiness. When she confesses to you that you are dear to her, how will you receive such a glorious avowal? Will your love for me hold out against the honour of having the affections of the first princess in the world?" "Yes, charming Cale-Cairi," I said, interrupting her; "I would prefer you even to Zelica. Were it to please Heaven that you should have even a still more formidable rival, you would see that nothing could shake the constancy of a heart that is devoted to you." "Unhappy Aswad!" exclaimed the lady, "whither does your love carry you? What a fatal assurance you are giving me of your fidelity! You forget that I am a slave of the princess of Persia. If you were to repay her kindness by ingratitude you would draw down her anger upon us both, and we should perish. Better it were that I should yield you up to so powerful a rival; it would be the only means of saving ourselves." "No, no," I replied hastily; "there is another means which I should rather choose in my despair, and that would be to banish myself from the court altogether. After my retreat you would be safe from the vengeance of Zelica, and you would regain your peace of mind: by degrees you would forget the unfortunate Aswad, who would retire into the deserts to seek for rest in his misfortunes." I spoke with such deep feeling and truth that the lady was herself overcome with my grief, and said: "Cease, Aswad, to yield to a needless affliction. You are mistaken; your merits are such that it would be wrong to keep you longer in the dark. I am Zelica herself, and not her slave. That night when you came to my apartment I personated Cale-Cairi, and you supposed my attendant to be myself." Zelica then called one of her women, who ran to her from amidst some cypress trees where she was concealed, and I perceived that she was the slave whom I supposed to be the princess of Persia. "Aswad," said the princess to me, "you now see the true Cale-Cairi; I give her back her name and take my own: I have no wish to disguise myself any longer. Although your love is greater than your ambition, I am certain that it will be a source of new pleasure to you to know that the lady who loves you is a princess." We passed nearly the whole night in walking about and conversing, and daylight would no doubt have found us in the gardens, had not Cale-Cairi, who was with us, taken care to inform us that it was time to withdraw. It was needful then that we should separate, but before I parted from Zelica the princess said to me: "Adieu, Aswad! do not forget me. We shall see each other again, and I will soon let you know how dear you are to me." I threw myself at her feet to thank her for so flattering a promise, after which Cale-Cairi took me out by the same winding passages as before, and I then left the seraglio. Beloved by the august princess whom I idolized, and forming an enchanting image of what she had promised me, I abandoned myself to the most pleasing fancies that the mind could depict, when an unlooked-for event deprived me all on a sudden of my proud hopes. I had heard a report that the princess Zelica was ill, and two days afterwards the rumour of her death was circulated in the palace. I was unwilling to give credit to this fatal intelligence, and refused to do so until I saw preparations going for the funeral ceremony. I did not see the whole of it, because excessive grief threw me into a succession of dangerous fainting fits which lasted for a long time. One of the officers of the palace gave directions for me to be carried into the pages' room, where great care was taken of me; my limbs were rubbed with a balm of exceeding virtue, and in spite of my overwhelming misery, such was the progress I made, that in two days my strength was restored. A stay in Schiras, however, having become insupportable, I secretly left the court of Persia three days after the interment of my beloved princess. Overwhelmed with grief, I walked all night without knowing whither I was going or where I ought to go. Next morning, having stopped to rest myself, a young man approached who was dressed in a very extraordinary manner. Coming up to me he saluted me and presented me with a green branch which he held in his hand, and after having civilly made me accept it, he began to recite some Persian verses to induce me to bestow my charity upon him. As I had no money I could not give him any. Thinking that I was ignorant of the Persian language he recited some Arabic verses, but seeing that he had no better success this way than the other, and that I did not do what he wanted, he said to me, "Brother, I cannot persuade myself that you are deficient in charity, but rather in the means wherewith to exercise it." "You are right," I said, "I have not a farthing in the world, and I know not even where to shelter my head." "Unfortunate man," he exclaimed, "what a sad plight you are in; I really pity you, and wish, moreover, to assist you." I was not a little astonished to be thus addressed by a man who had been asking alms of me a moment before, and I supposed that the assistance he offered was merely that of his prayers, when he went on to say: "I am one of those merry fellows they call fakirs; and I can tell you, that though we subsist entirely on charity, we fare none the less sumptuously for that, as we have discovered the secret of exciting the compassion of well-meaning people by an appearance of mortification and penance which we well know how to impart to ourselves. It is true there are a few fakirs fools enough to be really what they seem, and who lead a life of such austerity as sometimes to go ten whole days without the least nourishment. But we are a little less rigorous than these ascetics; we make no pretensions to the reality of their virtues, only to the appearance of them. Will you become one of our fraternity? I am now on my way to meet two of them at Bost; if you have a fancy to make the fourth, you have but to follow me." "I am afraid," I replied, "that not being accustomed to your religious exercises I shall acquit myself but clumsily." "Pray don't trouble yourself," he broke in, "on that head; I repeat to you that we are not fakirs of the austere order; in short, we have really nothing of the fakir about us but the dress." Although I guessed from what the fakir had told me, that he and his companions were in reality three libertines in disguise, I nevertheless did not hesitate to join them; for besides being reckless from sheer misery, I had not learned among the pages of the court many lessons of scrupulousness on the score of morality. As soon as I had signified to the fakir my consent, he set out with me at once for Bost, feeding me on the road with abundance of dates, rice, and other good things, which people presented to him in the towns and villages through which we passed; for the moment his little bell and his peculiar cry became heard, the good Mussulmans came running to him with provisions from all quarters. In this way we arrived at the large town of Bost; we made our way to a small house in the suburbs, where the two other fakirs resided. They received us with open arms, and appeared delighted with my resolution of joining them. They soon initiated me into their mysteries; that is to say, they showed me how to perform their antics. As soon as I was well instructed in the art of imposing on the populace, they sent me into the town to present respectable citizens with flowers or branches, and to recite verses to them. I always returned home with some pieces of silver, which enabled us to live merrily enough. I passed nearly two years with the fakirs, and should have lived there much longer had not the one who had induced me to join them, and whom I liked the best, proposed to me to travel. "Aswad," said he one day, "I am sick of this town; I begin to long to roam a little. I have heard wonderful accounts of the city of Candahar; if you will accompany me we will put the truth of these reports to the test." I consented at once, for I had a curiosity to see some new country, or rather, I was impelled by that superior power which guides our destinies. Accordingly we both quitted Bost, and passing through many cities of Segestan without stopping, we reached the noble city of Candahar, surrounded with its strong fortifications. We betook ourselves to a caravansary, where our dresses, the most commendable thing about us by the way, procured us a kind and hearty reception. We found the inhabitants of the city in a great bustle, as they were going to celebrate the feast of Giulous on the following day. We learned that at court they were no less busy, as every one was anxious to show his attachment for the king Firouzshah, who had earned by his justice the love of all good men, and still more by his rigour the fear of the wicked. The fakirs going where they please without hindrance, we proceeded next day to court to witness the festival, which however had few charms for the eyes of a man who had seen the Giulous of the king of Persia. Whilst we were attentively watching what passed, I felt myself pulled by the sleeve, and turning round, perceived close to me the very eunuch who, in the shah's palace, had been the bearer of Cale-Cairi's, or rather Zelica's letter. "My lord," he whispered, "I recognized you at once in spite of your strange dress; but indeed, though I flatter myself I am never mistaken, I am not quite sure whether on the present occasion I ought not to doubt the evidence of my own eyes. Is it possible that it is you I have met here?" "And pray," I asked in reply, "what are you doing at Candahar, and why have you left the court of Persia? Can the death of the princess Zelica have driven you away as it did me?" "That," replied he, "is exactly what I cannot tell you at this moment, but I will amply satisfy your curiosity if you will meet me here to-morrow alone at the same hour. I have a few things to tell you which will astonish you, and which--let me add--concern you not a little." I promised to return alone to the same spot the following day, and took care to keep my word. The eunuch was there, and coming up to me, proposed that we should leave the palace and seek some place better adapted for conversation. We accordingly went out into the city, and after traversing several streets, stopped at last at the door of a good-sized house, of which he had the key. We entered, and I observed suites of apartments magnificently furnished, delicious carpets and luxurious sofas, whilst through the windows I perceived a garden beautifully laid out, with a delightful piece of water in the middle, bordered with variegated marble. "My lord Aswad," said the eunuch, "I trust the house pleases you." "I am delighted with it," I replied. "I am glad to hear you say so," he returned, "for I yesterday took it, just as you see it, for _you_. You will next want slaves to wait on you. I will go and purchase some whilst you take a bath." So saying, he conducted me to a chamber, where I found baths all ready. "In Heaven's name," I exclaimed, "tell me for what purpose you have brought me here, and what the news is you have promised to tell me." "At the proper time and place," he rejoined, "you shall learn all; for the present be content to know that your lot is materially changed since I met you, and that I have my orders for every thing I am doing." As he spoke, he assisted me to undress--a process which did not take long--I entered the bath and the eunuch left me, enjoining patience. All this mystery furnished ample food for conjecture, but I wearied myself fruitlessly in endeavouring to fathom it. Schapour left me a long time in the bath, and my patience was beginning to be exhausted, when he returned, followed by four slaves, two of whom carried towels and garments, and the others all sorts of provisions. "I beg your pardon, my lord," said he, "I am extremely sorry I have kept you waiting so long." At the same time the slaves placed their bundles on the sofas and proceeded to wait on me: they rubbed me with towels of the finest texture, and then dressed me in rich garments, with a magnificent robe and turban. "What on earth is all this to end in?" said I to myself; "and by whose orders can it be that this eunuch treats me in such a manner?" My impatience to be enlightened became so lively that I could not conceal it. Schapour soon perceived it, and said: "It is with the deepest regret that I see you so restless and uneasy, but I cannot yet relieve you. Even supposing I had not been expressly forbidden to say a word, or even supposing that I betrayed my trust, and told you every thing I am now concealing from you, I should not succeed in tranquillizing you in the least; anxieties still more harassing would take the place of those which now worry you--you must wait till night, and you shall then learn all you desire to know." Though I would not but augur well from what the eunuch said, yet it was impossible to help being for the rest of the day in a state of cruel suspense. I really believe that the expectation of evil causes less real suffering than that of some great pleasure. The night however came at last, and the slaves proceeded to light up the whole house, and particularly the principal apartment, with wax candles. In this apartment I took my seat with Schapour, who, to assuage my impatience, kept saying to me, "They will be here in a moment--have but a little more patience." At last we heard knocking at the door, the eunuch went himself to open it, and returned with a lady whom, the moment she raised her veil, I recognized as Cale-Cairi. My surprise was extreme, for I believed her to be at Schiras. "My lord Aswad," said she, "however astonished you may be to see me, you will be much more so when you hear the story I have to tell you." At these words Schapour and the slaves quitted the apartment, leaving me alone with Cale-Cairi; we both sat down on the same sofa, and she commenced her narration as follows: "You recollect well, my lord, that night on which Zelica made herself known to you, nor can you yet have forgotten the promise she made you on leaving. The following day I asked her whether she had come to any resolution what course to pursue in the matter; I represented to her the absurdity of a princess of her rank dreaming of exposing herself to disgrace and death for the sake of a mere page; in short, I used every effort to overcome her passion; and you may well pardon me for doing so, as all my reasoning served but to strengthen her attachment. When I saw I was utterly unable to prevail with her, 'Madam,' I said at length, 'I cannot contemplate without shuddering the danger into which you are rushing, but since no consideration seems powerful enough to detach you from your lover, we must endeavour to contrive some plan for you to meet without endangering either your life or his. I have thought of one which would doubtless be gratifying to your affection, but it seems to me so daring that I hardly like to propose it.' "'Let me hear it at once, Cale-Cairi,' said the princess; 'whatever it may be, pray do not keep it from me.' "'If you put it in practice,' replied I, 'you must make up your mind to quit the court and live as though you had been born to the humblest lot in life. You must renounce all the honours of your rank. Do you love Aswad sufficiently to make so great a sacrifice?' "'_Do_ I love him?' returned she, drawing a deep sigh. 'Ah! the very humblest lot with him would please me far more than all the pomp and luxury with which I am now surrounded. Only point out to me what I can do in order to enjoy his society without constraint and without impropriety, and I am ready to do it without a moment's hesitation.' "'Well, madam,' I replied, 'since I perceive it is useless to endeavour to overcome your attachment, I will do all in my power to favour it. I am acquainted with the properties of a herb of singular power. One leaf of it placed in your ear will in an hour bring on so lethargic a sleep that you will appear quite dead; they will then perform the funeral rites, and carry you to your tomb, from which at nightfall I can easily release you--'" Here I interrupted Cale-Cairi, "Great Heavens!" I exclaimed, "is it possible that the princess Zelica did not die after all--what then has become of her?--" "My lord," said Cale-Cairi, "she is still alive. But pray listen patiently to my story, and you will learn all that you desire to know. My mistress," she continued, "threw herself into my arms with joy, so clever did my plan appear to her; presently, however, she began to perceive many difficulties connected with the rites and observances usual at funerals. I removed all her doubts, and thus we set about the execution of our plan. "Zelica complained of a terrible pain in her head, and went to bed. The next morning I spread a report that she was dangerously ill; the royal physician was sent for; it was no difficult matter to deceive him. He sent some remedies which of course were never taken. From day to day the princess's illness increased; and as soon as, in my judgment, her last moments ought to approach, I placed in her ear a leaf of the herb I have mentioned. I immediately after ran to the shah, and told him the princess had but a few moments to live, and desired anxiously to speak to him. He came to her at once, and, observing that, as the herb began its work, her face changed rapidly, he was deeply moved, and began to weep. "'My lord,' said his daughter, in faint accents, 'I implore you, by the love you have always borne me, to order my last wishes to be carried out to the letter. My wish is, that when I am dead, no one but Cale-Cairi shall be permitted to wash my body, and that none of my other slaves shall share that honour with her. I also beg that none but she shall watch my tomb the first night, that no tears but hers shall fall on it, and that her prayers alone shall ascend to the prophet, to avert from me the assaults of evil spirits.' "Shah Tahmaspe promised his daughter that I alone should perform for her these last sad duties. "'But this is not all, my lord,' continued she; 'I also implore you to give Cale-Cairi her liberty the moment I am no more, and to give her, with her freedom, presents worthy of yourself and of the affection she has always evinced towards me.' "'My child,' replied the shah, 'make yourself perfectly easy on all the matters you have commended to my notice; should it be my misfortune to lose you, I swear that your favourite slave, loaded with presents, shall be at liberty to go whither she pleases.' "He had hardly done speaking when the herb completed its work. Zelica lost all consciousness, and her father, supposing her to be dead, retired to his own apartments in deep grief. He gave orders that I alone should wash and embalm the body, which I pretended to do, and then wrapping it in a white cloth, laid it in the coffin. The princess was then carried in great pomp to the tomb, where by the shah's express orders I was left alone for the first night. I made a careful survey all round, to assure myself that no one was on the watch, and, not having discovered any one, I roused my mistress at once from her sleep in the coffin, made her put on a dress and veil I had concealed under my own, and we both repaired to a spot where Schapour was in waiting. The faithful eunuch conducted the princess to a small house which he had taken, and I returned to the tomb to pass the remainder of the night. I made up a bundle to represent the corpse, covered it with the same cloth in which I had previously wrapped Zelica, and placed it in the coffin. The next morning the princess's other slaves came to take my place, which I took care not to leave without previously indulging in all the expressions of inconsolable grief usual on such occasions. A faithful account of this exhibition of woe was duly carried to the king's ear, who was induced by it to make me presents far beyond what he had determined on. He ordered me ten thousand sequins out of his treasury, and granted me permission, the moment I asked it, to quit the court and carry with me the eunuch Schapour. I immediately proceeded to join my mistress, and congratulate her on the complete success of our stratagem. Next day we sent the eunuch to the royal apartments with a note asking you to come and see me. But one of your attendants told him you were ill, and could see no one. Three days after we sent him again; he brought back word that you had left the palace, and that no one knew what had become of you. We caused search to be made for you all through the city; Schapour left nothing undone in order to discover you; and when at last we gave up the search in despair and left Schiras, we took the road to the Indus, because we thought it just possible that you might have turned your steps in that direction;--and, stopping at every town on our route, we set on foot the most careful inquiries, which nevertheless proved entirely useless. "One day, on our road from one city to another, though we were travelling with a caravan, a vast horde of robbers surrounded us, and, in spite of a vigorous defence, swept down the merchants and plundered their goods. Of us, of course, they soon made themselves masters, robbed us of our money and jewels, carried us to Candahar, and sold us to a slave merchant of their acquaintance. This merchant had no sooner secured Zelica, than he resolved to show her to the king of Candahar. Firouzshah was charmed the moment he saw her, and asked her whence she came. She told him Ormus was her native place, and answered the prince's other inquiries in a similar manner. In the end he purchased us, and placed us in the palace of his wives, where the handsomest apartments were assigned to us. Passionately though she is loved by the king of Candahar, she cannot, nevertheless, forget you; and, though he sighs at her feet, he has never succeeded in obtaining the slightest proof of any return of attachment. No one ever saw any thing like the joy she exhibited yesterday when Schapour informed her he had met with you. She was quite beside herself all the rest of the day. She ordered Schapour instantly to engage a furnished house for you, to conduct you there to-day, and to suffer you to want for nothing. I am now here by her orders to inform you of the several things I have communicated, and to prepare you to see her in the course of to-morrow night. We shall leave the palace unobserved, and let ourselves in here by a small door in the garden wall, of which we have had a key made for us." As she uttered these last words the favourite slave of the princess of Persia rose and quitted the apartment, in order to return to her mistress, and Schapour accompanied her. I could do nothing all that night but think of Zelica, my love for whom seemed to return with tenfold ardour. Sleep never approached my eyelids, and the following day seemed a century. At last, as I almost began to think I should fall a victim to the agonies of suspense, I heard a knocking at the door; my slaves ran to open it, and the next moment I saw my princess entering the room. How shall I describe the feelings which her presence excited in me! and for her part what was her delight to see me once more! I threw myself at her feet and for some time could do nothing but embrace them without uttering a syllable. At length she forced me to rise, and seating me next her on the sofa, "Aswad," said she, "I render thanks to Heaven for reuniting us; let us now hope that the goodness of Providence will not stop here, but will remove the new obstacle which hinders our union. In expectation of the arrival of that happy hour we will live here in contentment; and if circumstances prevent our meeting unconstrainedly, we can at least enjoy the consolation of hearing daily news of each other, as well as of occasional secret interviews." In such conversation we passed the greater part of the night. Next day, in spite of the happy thoughts which now filled my mind, I did not forget the fakir in whose company I had come to Candahar; and picturing to myself his uneasiness at not knowing where I was, I determined to go and find him out. I met him by accident in the street and we embraced each other. "My friend," said I, "I was on my way to your caravansary to inform you of what has happened to me, and to set your mind at ease. No doubt I have occasioned you some uneasiness." "That is true enough," replied he; "I was in no small trouble about you. But what a change! What clothes are these you appear in? You seem to have been in luck. Whilst I was worrying myself about what had become of you, you were passing your time, as it seems to me, pleasantly enough." "I confess it, my dear friend," replied I; "and I can assure you, moreover, that I am a thousand times happier than it is possible for you to conceive. I want you not only to be witness of my good fortune, but to profit by it as well. Quit your caravansary and come and live with me." So saying, I led him to my house and showed him all over it. He admired the rooms and the furniture amazingly, and every now and then would exclaim, "O Heaven! what has Aswad done more than other men to deserve such an accumulation of good fortune?" "What, now, fakir," asked I, "do you view my happy condition with chagrin? It seems to me that my good fortune is positively annoying to you." "On the contrary," returned he, "it affords me the liveliest satisfaction; so far from envying my friends' happiness, I am never so happy as when I see them flourishing." As he concluded this speech he embraced me ardently, the better to persuade me of the sincerity of his words. I believed him sincere, and acting towards him myself in the most perfect good faith, betrayed myself without the least mistrust into the hands of the most envious, the most cowardly, and the most treacherous of men. In this way we continued to live for some time. Schapour or Cale-Cairi brought me daily intelligence of my beloved princess, and an occasional stolen interview elevated me to the seventh heaven of happiness. The fakir expressed the liveliest interest in the progress of my attachment, and I confided to him, as to my bosom friend, every particular of my life. One day, as I was reposing on a sofa and dreaming of Zelica, I was aroused by a great noise in my house. I rose in order to ascertain the cause, and to my great dismay, found that it was occasioned by a body of Firouzshah's own guards. "Follow me," said the officer in command; "our orders are to conduct you to the palace." "What crime have I committed?" asked I; "of what am I accused?" "We have not been informed," replied the officer; "our orders are merely to carry you before the king; we know nothing about the cause: but I may tell you for your comfort, that if you are innocent you have nothing whatever to fear, for you have to do with a prince of the strictest justice, who never lightly condemns any one who is brought before him. He requires the most convincing proofs before he will pass an adverse sentence; but it is true at the same time that he punishes the guilty with the utmost rigour, so that, if you are guilty, I pity you." There was no help for it; I was obliged to follow the officer. On my way to the palace I said to myself, "Firouzshah has no doubt discovered my correspondence with Zelica; but how can he have learned it?" As we crossed the court-yard of the palace I observed that four gibbets had been erected there. I made a shrewd guess at their destination, and apprehended that this kind of death was the least part of the punishment I had to expect from the wrath of Firouzshah. I raised my eyes to heaven and prayed that at least the princess of Persia might be saved from this. We entered the palace; the officer who had charge of me conducted me into the king's apartment. That prince was there, attended only by his grand vizir and the fakir. The moment I perceived my treacherous friend I saw that I had been betrayed. "It is you, then," said Firouzshah to me, "who has secret interviews with my favourite. Wretch! you must be bold indeed to dare to trifle with me! Speak, and reply exactly and truly to my questions:--When you came to Candahar, were you not told that I was a severe punisher of criminals?" I replied that I was informed of it. "Well," he continued, "since you knew that, why have you committed the greatest of all crimes?" "Sire," I answered, "may your majesty's days last for ever. You know that love gives courage to the dove: a man possessed by a violent passion fears nothing: I am ready to be a victim to your just wrath; and as to any tortures that may be reserved for me I shall not complain of your severity, provided you grant a pardon to your favourite. Alas! she was living peacefully in your palace before I came here, and would soon have been contented with rendering a great king happy, while gradually forgetting an unfortunate lover whom she never thought to see again. Knowing that I was in this city, her former attachment returned. It was I that separated her from your affection, and your punishment should fall on me alone." While I was thus speaking, Zelica, who had been sent for by the king's order, entered the apartment, followed by Schapour and Cale-Cairi, and hearing the last words I uttered, ran forward and threw herself at the feet of Firouzshah. "Great prince!" she exclaimed, "forgive this young man: it is on your guilty slave, who has betrayed you, that your vengeance ought to fall." "Traitors that you both are!" exclaimed the king "expect no favour either of you: die! both of you. This ungrateful woman only implores my kindness in behalf of the rash man who has offended me; while his sensibilities are only alive to the loss of her whom he loves; both of them thus parading in my very sight their amorous madness; what insolence! Vizir!" he cried, turning to his minister, "let them be led away to execution. Hang them up on gibbets, and after their death, let their carcasses be thrown to the dogs and the vultures." The officers were leading us away, when I resolved on one more desperate effort to save the princess. "Stop, sire!" I shouted at the top of my voice, "take care what you do, and do not treat with ignominy the daughter of a king! Let your jealousy even in its fury have respect to the august blood from which she has sprung!" At these words Firouzshah appeared thunderstruck, and then addressing Zelica, he inquired, "Who then is the prince who is your father?" The princess looked at me with a proud countenance, and said: "Alas! Aswad, where was your discretion? how is it that you have told what I wished to conceal, if it were possible, even from myself? I should have had the consolation in death of knowing that my rank was a secret, but in disclosing it, you have overwhelmed me with shame. Learn then who I am," she continued, addressing herself to Firouzshah; "the slave whom you have condemned to an infamous death is the daughter of shah Tahmaspe!" She then related her whole story, without omitting the slightest circumstance. When she had concluded her recital, which increased the king's astonishment, she said to him, "Now I have revealed a secret which it was my intention to bury in my own breast, and which nothing but the indiscretion of my lover could have wrung from me. After this confession, which I make with extreme humiliation, I beg that you will instantly give orders for my immediate execution. This is the only favour I now ask of your majesty." "Madam," replied the king, "I revoke the order for your death: I have too great a love for justice not to honour your faithfulness: what you have told me makes me look upon you in a different light; I have no complaint to make against you, and I set you at liberty. Live for Aswad, and may the happy Aswad live for you! Schapour also and your friend have life and liberty granted to them. Go, most faithful lovers, and may you pass the rest of your days in the enjoyment of each other's society, and may nothing interrupt the course of your happiness. As for you, traitor," he continued, turning to the fakir, "you shall be punished for your treason, for your base and envious heart, which could not endure to see the happiness of your friend, and led you to deliver him up yourself to my vengeance. Miserable wretch! You shall yourself be the victim of my jealousy!" While this villain was being led to the gallows, Zelica and I threw ourselves at the feet of the king of Candahar, and bathed them with tears of gratitude and joy. We assured him that we should ever retain a grateful sense of his generous goodness. And at length we left his palace, accompanied by Schapour and Cale-Cairi, with the intention of taking up our lodging at a caravansary. We were just about to enter, when an officer sent by the king accosted us. "I come," he said, "from my master, Firouzshah, to offer you a lodging: the grand vizir will lend you a house of his, situated at the gates of the city, where you will be very commodiously lodged. I will be your conductor thither, if you will allow me, and will take the trouble to follow me." We accompanied him, and soon arrived at a house of imposing appearance, and elegant architecture: the interior corresponded to the outside appearance. Every thing was magnificent, and in good taste. There were more than twenty slaves, who told us that their master had desired them to supply us with every thing that we wanted, and to treat us as they would himself all the time that we remained in the house. Here my marriage with the princess was duly celebrated, though with the strictest privacy. Two days after we received a visit from the grand vizir, who brought an immense quantity of presents from the king. There were bales of silk and cloth of India, with twenty purses, each containing a thousand sequins of gold. As we did not feel ourselves quite at our ease in a house which was not our own, and as the king's bounty enabled us to go elsewhere, we joined ourselves to a great caravan of merchants, who were proceeding to Bagdad, where we arrived without encountering any disaster. We took up our lodgings at my own house, where we remained for a few days after our arrival, for the purpose of recovering ourselves from the fatigue of our long journey. I then went into the city and visited my friends, who were astonished to see me, as they had been told by my associates on their return, that I was dead. As soon as I knew that they were at Bagdad, I hastened to the grand vizir, threw myself at his feet, and related their perfidious conduct towards me. He gave orders for their immediate arrest, and commanded them to be interrogated in my presence. "Is it not true," I asked them, "that I awoke when you took me up in your arms, that I asked what you intended doing with me, and that without replying you threw me out through the porthole of the ship into the sea?" They replied that I must have been dreaming, and that I must certainly have thrown myself into the sea when asleep. "Why then," said the vizir, "did you pretend not to know him at Ormus?" They replied that they had not seen me at Ormus. "Traitors!" he replied, eyeing them with a threatening aspect, "what will you say, when I show you a certificate from the cadi of Ormus, proving the contrary?" At these words, which the vizir only made use of to put them to the proof, my associates turned pale and became confused. The vizir noticed their altered looks, and bade them confess their crime, that they might not be compelled to do so, by being put to the torture. They then confessed every thing and were conveyed to prison, until the caliph should be informed of the matter, and give his orders respecting the kind of death which they were to undergo. In the mean time, however, they contrived to make their escape, either by bribing their guards, or deceiving their vigilance, and concealed themselves so carefully in Bagdad, that all search after them proved ineffectual. Their property, however, was confiscated to the caliph, excepting a small part which was bestowed upon me, by way of some compensation for the robbery. After this all my ambition consisted in living a quiet life with the princess, with whom I was perfectly united in love and affection. My constant prayer to Heaven was, that such a state of felicity might be continued to us; but alas! how vain are the wishes and hopes of man, who is never destined to enjoy unruffled repose for a long time, but whose existence is continually disturbed by contending cares and sorrows! Returning home one evening from partaking of an entertainment with some friends, I knocked at the door of my house, but could get no one to admit me, although I knocked loudly and repeatedly. I was surprised at this, and began to form the gloomiest conjectures. I redoubled my knocks at the door, but no slave came to admit me. What can have happened? I thought; can this be some new misfortune that has befallen me? Such were my surmises. At the noise I made several neighbours came out of their houses, and being as astonished as myself at none of the domestics appearing, we broke open the door, and on entering found my slaves lying on the floor, with their throats cut, and weltering in their blood. We passed from them to Zelica's apartment, and here another frightful spectacle presented itself, for we found both Schapour and Cale-Cairi stretched lifeless on the ground, bathed in their blood. I called on Zelica, but received no reply. I searched every room and corner in the house, but without finding her. Such a blow was too much for me, and I sank back in a swoon in the arms of my neighbours. Happy would it have been for me had the angel of death at that moment borne me away; but no! it was the will of Heaven that I should live to see the full horror of my fate. When my neighbours by their attentions had succeeded in recalling me to life, I asked how it was possible that so terrible a slaughter could have taken place in my house, and not the slightest sound of it have been heard by them. They replied that they were as astonished as I was at the circumstance. I then ran to the cadi, who despatched his nayb[13] into all the surrounding country with all his asas[14], but their inquiries were fruitless, and every one formed his own conjecture respecting this horrible tragedy. As for myself, I believed, as well as many others, that my former partners were the perpetrators of the crime. My grief was so intense that I fell ill, and continued in a languishing state at Bagdad for a long time. When I recovered I sold my house, and went to reside at Mossoul, carrying with me the wreck of my fortune. I adopted this course because I had a relation there of whom I was extremely fond, and who belonged to the household of the grand vizir of the king of Mossoul. My relation received me very cordially, and in a short time I became known to the minister, who, thinking that he saw in me good business talents, gave me some employment. I endeavoured to discharge effectively the duties entrusted to me, and I had the good fortune to succeed. His satisfaction with me daily increased, and I became insensibly initiated into the most secret state affairs, the weight of which I even assisted him to bear. In a few years this minister died, and the king, who was perhaps too partial to me, appointed me to his place, which I filled for two years, to the satisfaction of the king, and the contentment of the people. To mark, also, how much he was pleased with my conduct as minister, he first gave me the name of Atalmulc. And now envy soon began to be excited against me. Some of the chief nobles became my secret enemies, and plotted my ruin. The better to secure their ends, they instilled suspicions respecting me into the mind of the prince of Mossoul, who, being influenced by their unfavourable insinuations, asked the king, his father, to deprive me of power. The king at first refused, but yielded at last to the urgent requests of his son. I thereupon left Mossoul, and came to Damascus, where I had soon the honour of being presented to your majesty. I have now related to you, sire, the history of my life, and the cause of the deep grief in which I seem to be buried. The abduction of Zelica is ever present to my mind, and renders me insensible to every kind of pleasure. If I could learn that she was no more in life, I might, perhaps, lose the recollection of her, as I did before; but the uncertainty of her fate brings her ever back to my memory, and constantly feeds my grief. CONTINUATION OF THE STORY OF KING BEDREDDIN-LOLO AND HIS VIZIR. When the vizir Atalmulc had concluded the recital of his adventures, the king said to him: "I am no longer surprised at your melancholy, for you have, indeed, good reason for it; but every one has not, like you, lost a princess, and you are wrong in thinking that there is not one man in the world who is perfectly satisfied with his condition." For the purpose of proving to his grand vizir that there are men in this state, the king of Damascus said, one day, to his favourite Seyf-Elmulouk, "Go into the city, walk before the shop of the artisans, and bring me here immediately the man who seems the gayest of the gay." The favourite obeyed, and returned to Bedreddin in a few hours. "Well," said the monarch, "have you done what I commanded you?" "Yes, sire," replied the favourite, "I passed in front of several shops, and saw all descriptions of workmen who sung while at their various occupations, and seemed quite contented with their lot. I noticed one among them, a young weaver, named Malek, who laughed with his neighbours till I thought he would have split his sides, and I stopped to have some chat with him. 'Friend,' I said, 'you appear to be very merry.' 'Yes,' he replied, 'it is my way: I don't encourage melancholy.' I asked his neighbours if it was true that he was of such a happy turn of mind, and they all assured me that he did nothing but laugh from morning till night. I then told him to follow me, and I have brought him to the palace. He is now at hand: does your majesty wish him to be introduced to your presence?" "By all means," replied the king, "bring him here, for I wish to speak with him." Seyf-Elmulouk immediately left the king's cabinet and returned in an instant, followed by a good-looking young man, whom the favourite presented to the king. The weaver threw himself down at the monarch's feet, who said to him, "Rise, Malek, and tell me truly if you are as happy as you seem to be: I am told you do nothing but laugh and sing the live-long day while at your work: you are thought to be the happiest man in my dominions, and there is reason to believe that such is really the case. Tell me whether or not this is a correct judgment, and if you are contented with your condition. This is a matter that I am concerned to know; and I desire that you will speak without disguise." "Great king," replied the weaver, standing up, "may your majesty's days last to the end of the world, and be interwoven with a thousand delights, unmixed with the slightest misfortune. Excuse your slave from satisfying your curiosity. If it is forbidden to lie to kings, it must also be owned that there are truths that we dare not reveal. I can only say that a false idea is entertained respecting me: in spite of my laughter and songs, I am perhaps the most unfortunate of men. Be contented with this avowal, sire, and do not compel me to relate my misfortunes to you." "I am resolved to have them," replied the king. "Why should you be afraid to tell them? Are they not creditable to you?" "Of this your majesty must judge," replied the weaver. "I had resolved to keep them to myself, but since it is necessary I will proceed with my story." The weaver then began as follows:-- THE STORY OF MALEK AND THE PRINCESS SCHIRINE. I am the only son of a merchant of Surat, who left me at his death considerable wealth, most of which I squandered away in a very short time. I was nearly at the end of my property, when one day a stranger, who was going to the island of Serendib, happened to be dining with me. The conversation turned on voyages and travels: some who were present praised the advantages and the pleasure attending them, and others expatiated on their dangers. Among the guests there were a few persons who had travelled extensively, and who gave us detailed accounts of their experience in this adventurous kind of life. Between their accounts of the strange and curious scenes which they had witnessed and of the dangers which they had encountered, my mind was kept in suspense, as I conceived a strong desire to travel, and yet felt afraid of the accompanying risks. After listening to all that was related, I remarked: "It is impossible to hear your striking account of the pleasure experienced by you in travelling over the world without feeling a strong wish to travel also; but the dangers to which a traveller is exposed deprive me of all inclination for visiting foreign countries. If it were possible," I added, smiling, "to go from one end of the earth to the other, without meeting with any bad accident by the way, I would leave Surat to-day." These words excited universal laughter, but the stranger before alluded to remarked: "O Malek! if you have a desire to travel, and if nothing prevents you but the fear of encountering robbers and other dangers, I will teach you whenever you have a mind, a method of travelling at your pleasure, and without peril, from one kingdom to another." I thought he was joking, but after dinner he took me aside, and told me that he would pay me a visit the following morning and show me something extraordinary. He was true to his word, for the next day he came to see me, and said, "I mean to keep my promise, but some days must elapse before you can see the effect, for what I have to show you is a piece of workmanship which cannot be constructed in a day. Send therefore for a carpenter; let one of your slaves go for him, and let them both return with planks and other materials according to this list." I immediately complied with his request. When the slave and the carpenter returned, the stranger directed the latter to construct a box in the form of a bird, six feet in length and four in breadth, the upper part open, so as to admit a man to sit in it. The artisan immediately set to work, and the stranger on his part was not idle, for he made or brought from his lodging several parts of the machine, such as wings, wheels, and springs. For several days the carpenter and he worked together, and afterwards the former was dismissed, while the stranger spent one day in putting together the machinery and finishing the work. At length on the sixth day the box was finished, and covered with a Persian carpet. I observed that in this box there were several apertures, as well to admit air as to serve for look-outs. At the stranger's desire I then ordered some of my slaves to carry it into the country, whither I followed with the stranger. When we arrived at the spot he said to me, "Send away your slaves and let no one be here but ourselves. I do not wish to have other persons present beside yourself to see what I am about to do." I ordered my slaves to return home, while I remained alone with the stranger. I was very anxious to know what he intended to do with this machine, and eagerly watched his movements. He removed the carpet, and stepped inside. In a moment the box began to ascend above the earth and soared into the sky with incredible swiftness, carrying him rapidly to a great distance in the clouds; before I had recovered from my astonishment he was down again on the ground. I cannot express to you my amazement at witnessing this miracle of art. "You behold," said the stranger to me, as he stepped out of the machine, "a very quiet carriage, and you must admit that in travelling in it there is no fear of being robbed on the journey. This is the method I spoke of, and I now make you a present of the machine to be employed by you if ever you should take a fancy to visit foreign countries. Do not suppose that there is any magic or black art in what you have seen: it is neither by cabalistic words nor by virtue of a talisman that the box rises above the earth: its motion is produced merely by an ingenious adaptation of machinery. I am perfectly conversant with the mechanical arts, and know how to construct other machines quite as surprising as this one." I thanked the stranger for such a rare gift, and as a mark of my gratitude presented him with a purse of sequins. I then requested him to instruct me how to set the machine in motion. "It is very easily done," he said, and requested me to step into the box along with him: he then touched a spring and we immediately mounted up into the air; when there, he next showed me how to steer the machine. "By turning this screw," he said, "you will go to the right, and that other screw will take you to the left; by touching this spring you will ascend, and the same operation applied to another spring will cause you to descend." I wanted to make the experiment myself: I turned the screws and touched the springs, and the machine, obedient to my hand, went whither I pleased; I quickened its movements, or slackened them, just as I wished. After having taken several turns in the air, we directed our flight towards my house and alighted in the garden. We reached home before my slaves, who were astonished beyond measure when they found we had returned. I shut up the box in my room, where I watched it more carefully than any heap of gold; and the stranger departed as well satisfied with me as I was with him. I continued to amuse myself in the society of my friends until I had eaten and drunk all my fortune--was compelled to borrow money, and eventually got over head and ears in debt. As soon as it was known in Surat that I was a ruined man, I lost all credit; no one would trust me, and my creditors being impatient to get their money, sent me summonses to pay them. Finding myself almost penniless, and consequently exposed to all kinds of insults and mortifications, I had recourse to my machine, and dragging it out one night from my room into the open air, I stepped into it, taking with me some provisions and the little money I had left. I touched the spring which caused the machine to ascend; and then moving one of the screws, I turned my back upon Surat and my creditors, without any fear of their sending the officers after me. I put on as much propelling power as possible all night, and it seemed to me that my flight was swifter than the winds. At daybreak I looked out of one of the apertures in the carpet to see whereabouts I was. I could see nothing but mountains, precipices, a barren country, and a frightful desert. Wherever I looked I could discover no signs of human habitations. During all that day and the following night I continued my aërial tour, and next day I found myself above a very thick wood, near which was a fine city situated in an extensive plain. I stopped here in order to take a view of the city, as well as of a magnificent palace which I saw at some distance from it at the extremity of the plain. I was extremely anxious to know where I was, and began to ponder in what way I could satisfy my curiosity, when I observed a peasant at work in a field. I descended in the wood, left my box there, and going up to the labourer, asked the name of the city. "Young man," he replied, "it is easy to see that you are a stranger, since you do not know that this is the renowned city of Gazna, where the just and valiant king Bahaman resides." "And who lives," I asked, "in the palace at the end of the plain?" "The king of Gazna," he replied, "has built it in order to keep his daughter, the princess Schirine, shut up there; for the princess's horoscope declares that she is threatened with being deceived by a man. Bahaman, for the purpose of evading this predicted danger, has erected this palace, which is built of marble, and surrounded by a deep ditch. The gate is formed of Indian steel, and while the king himself keeps the key, a numerous body of troops keep watch round it day and night to prevent any man from gaining entrance. The king goes once a week to see his daughter, and then returns to Gazna. Schirine's only companions in the palace are a governess and a few female slaves." I thanked the peasant for his information, and directed my steps towards the city. When I was near to it, I heard the noise of an approaching multitude, and soon espied a vast crowd of horsemen magnificently attired, and mounted on very fine horses richly caparisoned. I perceived in the midst of this splendid cavalcade a tall individual, with a crown of gold on his head, and whose dress was covered with diamonds. I concluded that this person was the king of Gazna, going to visit the princess his daughter; and, in fact, I learned in the city that my conjecture was correct. After having made the circuit of the city, and somewhat satisfied my curiosity, I bethought me of my machine; and although I had left it in a spot which seemed to promise security, I became uneasy on its account. I left Gazna and had no peace of mind until I reached the place where I had left the box, which I found quite safe. I then became tranquil, and partook with a good appetite of the food which I had brought with me, and as night was coming on, I resolved to pass it in the wood. I had reason to hope that a profound sleep would soon overpower me, for latterly my debts, as well as the general complication of my affairs, had naturally caused me much uneasiness and many sleepless nights: but my wishes were in vain, I could not sleep; for what the peasant had told me respecting the princess Schirine was constantly present to my mind. The more I thought of her and her peculiar situation, the more did I become possessed with the desire of effecting an interview; at length my inclinations became ungovernable, and I resolved to convey myself to the roof of the princess's palace and endeavour to obtain an entrance into her chamber. "Perhaps," thought I, "I may have the happiness to please her, perhaps to dispel the _ennui_ she must suffer under: perhaps even I may be the mortal whose fortunate audacity was foretold by the astrologers." I was young and consequently thoughtless, and I was not deficient in courage, or such a scheme would not have occurred to me. However, having formed the rash resolution, I instantly proceeded to execute it. I raised myself up in the air and steered my machine in the direction of the palace: the night was as dark as I could wish. I passed without being seen over the heads of the soldiers, who were dispersed around the palace fosse, keeping watch, and descended on the roof near a spot where I saw a light; quitting my box I then slipped in at a window which had been left open to admit the cool night breeze. The room was furnished with the utmost magnificence; and I saw, reposing in slumber on a sofa, a young lady who, from the splendour and luxury with which she was surrounded, I could not doubt was the princess Schirine herself. I gazed for some time on her and found her to be of such dazzling beauty as exceeded the highest idea I had formed of her. I drew nearer in order to gaze upon her more intently: I could not, without an overwhelming emotion of rapture, contemplate such charms. I was quite overcome; and hardly knowing what I was about, knelt down beside her to kiss one of her beautiful hands. She awoke at that instant, and seeing a man near her, though in an attitude of respect which need have excited no alarm, uttered a cry which soon brought her governess, who slept in an adjoining room. "Help, Mahpeiker!" exclaimed the princess: "here is a man! how was it possible for him to get into my room? You must surely have admitted him, and are an accomplice in his crime." "I his accomplice!" exclaimed the governess: "the bare idea is an insult to me! I am as astonished as you can be, to see here this rash young man. Besides, if I had even been inclined to favour him in his bold attempt, how was it possible for me to deceive the vigilance of the guards who keep watch around the palace? You know also that there are twenty gates of burnished steel to be opened before any person can get in here; the seal royal is on every lock, and the king, your father, keeps the keys. I cannot imagine how this young man has been able to overcome all these obstacles." All this time I remained kneeling, overwhelmed with confusion: the governess's long speech, however, gave me time to collect my thoughts, and it occurred to me that I would endeavour to persuade them that I was a being of a superior order. "Beautiful princess," I said to Schirine, rising from my knee and making her a profound obeisance, "do not be surprised at seeing me here. I am not a lover who lavishes gold, and resorts to nefarious tricks to accomplish his wishes; far be from me any unworthy intention: I have not a wish at which your virtuous mind need be ashamed. Know then that I am the king of the genii: for a long time I have been aware of your singular position, and could not without pitying you see you condemned to pass your best days in a prison. I am come here to throw myself at your feet, and to ask you in marriage from Bahaman: as my bride it will be in my power to shield you from the danger alluded to by the prediction which has terrified your father. Deign, therefore, beautiful princess, to look kindly on my suit, and then let both your father and yourself be at rest respecting your future fate, which cannot fail to be both glorious and happy; for as soon as the news of your marriage is spread abroad in the world, all the kings of the earth will stand in awe of the father-in-law of so powerful a monarch, and every princess will envy your fate." Schirine and her governess looked at each other during this speech as if desirous of consulting together whether they should give credit to it. I confess I had reason to believe that they would give no heed to such a fable, but women are fond of the wonderful, and both Mahpeiker and her mistress believed me. After passing the greater part of the night in delightful conversation with the princess of Gazna and her governess, I left her apartment before daybreak, promising to return next day. I lost no time in getting into my machine, and ascended to a great height that I might not be seen by the soldiers. I alighted in the wood, left the box there, and went into the city, where I purchased a stock of provisions for eight days, magnificent robes, a turban of Indian woof surrounded with a golden circlet, darting forth rays of light, and a rich girdle. At the same time I did not forget the costliest perfumes and essences. I spent all my money in these purchases without troubling my head about the future; for I thought that after such a pleasant adventure as had befallen me, I should never more want for any thing. I remained all day in the wood employed in dressing and perfuming myself with the utmost care and attention. When night came on, I entered the machine and set off for the roof of Schirine's palace, where I introduced myself into her apartment as before, and spent another delightful evening in conversation with the princess and her attendant. I left the palace when night was waning, for fear lest my imposture should be discovered. I returned next day, and always conducted myself so cleverly that the princess and Mahpeiker had not the least idea that I was an impostor. True it is that the princess by degrees had acquired such a fondness for me that, on this account, she gave a more ready belief to what I said; for love is blind and, when such feelings exist in favour of a person, his sincerity is never doubted. I, too, had become deeply enamoured of the beautiful princess, and more than once regretted the imposture I was practising on her; but what was I to do? To discover it was certain destruction, and I could not summon up courage to undeceive her. After some days had elapsed, the king of Gazna, attended by some of his officers, paid his weekly visit to his daughter's palace, and finding the gates securely fastened, and his seal on the locks, said to the vizirs who accompanied him: "Every thing goes on as well as possible: so long as the palace gates continue in this state I have little fear of the evil with which my daughter is threatened." He went up to her apartment alone and unannounced, and at seeing him she could not help betraying some emotion, which he noticed and required to know the reason of. His curiosity added to her perplexity; and, finding herself at last compelled to satisfy him, she related all that had taken place. Your majesty may conceive the astonishment of king Bahaman when he learned that, without his knowledge, a proposal of marriage had been made by the king of the genii. But he was not so easily duped as his daughter. Suspecting the truth, he exclaimed: "Alas! my child, how credulous you are! O Heaven! I see that it is hopeless to endeavour to avoid the misfortunes destined for us; the horoscope of Schirine is fulfilled; some villain has deceived her!" So saying, he left the princess's room in a state of great agitation, and went over all the palace, from the top to the bottom, searching every where, and strictly examining all the attendants, but I need hardly say without success, for he found no trace of any stranger, nor the slightest circumstance to lead to the supposition that bribery had been resorted to, which increased his astonishment. "By what means," he said, "can any person, however ingenious and daring, enter this fortress? To me it is inconceivable." He resolved to get at the truth of the matter somehow, but being desirous of setting to work prudently, and of speaking himself alone, in the first instance, and without witnesses, to the pretended genius, he sent back his vizirs and courtiers to Gazna. "Withdraw," he said to them, "and I will remain alone at the palace this night with my daughter; and do you return here to-morrow." They all obeyed the king's orders: they returned to the city, and Bahaman set about questioning the princess afresh until night drew on. He asked her if I had eaten with her. She replied that I had not, for that she had in vain offered me refreshments, and that she had not seen me either eat or drink any thing since I came to her. "Tell me the whole occurrence again," he said, "and conceal nothing." Schirine related to him her story all over again, and the king, who was attentive to her recital, weighed every circumstance of it carefully. Night had now set in; Bahaman seated himself on a sofa, and ordered tapers to be lit and to be placed before him on the marble table. He then drew his sabre, to be employed, if necessary, in wiping out with my blood the insult he conceived to have been offered to his honour. He sat thus, expecting me every moment; and the idea of seeing me appear instantaneously probably agitated him not a little. That night it happened that the atmosphere was highly charged with electric matter. A brilliant flash of lightning darted across the sky before him and made him start. Approaching the window at which Schirine had told him I should enter, and observing the heavens to be on fire with vivid flashes, his imagination was excited, although nothing was taking place but what was quite natural: he thought he saw in the clouds fanciful forms, among which was prominently conspicuous that of a venerable old man, such as the prophet is represented to us. As he gazed he forgot to reflect that these meteors arose merely from exhalations of an inflammable nature that exploded in the air, and came to regard them as brilliant lights announcing to the world the descent of the king of the genii. In such a state of mind the king was disposed to receive me as really bearing the character to which I pretended, and therefore when I appeared at the window, instead of exhibiting the fury he had contemplated, he was overcome with respect and fear; he dropped his sabre, and, falling at my feet, kissed them, and said, "O great king! what am I, and what have I done to deserve the honour of being your father-in-law?" From these words I could guess what had passed between the king and the princess, and discovered that the worthy monarch was almost as easily imposed upon as his daughter. We sat down together on the sofa and conversed. I now formally renewed to him my suit for the hand of the princess. He believed all I told him, and feeling delighted at the prospect of being allied to me, again prostrated himself at my feet in sign of gratitude for my kindness. I raised him up, embraced him, and assured him of my protection, for which he could not find language sufficiently strong to thank me. It was arranged that the marriage should take place the following day. I stopped with Schirine and her father for a few hours, but however pleased I might be with our interview, I did not forget how time was flying; I was apprehensive of daylight surprising us, and of my box being seen on the roof of the palace. I therefore made haste to leave in good time and to reseat myself in the machine. The following day, on the return of the vizirs and great officers of state, a magnificent banquet was prepared at the palace, and immediately on my arrival in the evening the marriage was celebrated with great pomp and rejoicing. A month had nearly passed during which I continued to be looked on and treated as the king of the genii, and I was leading a most agreeable life, when there arrived in the city of Gazna an ambassador from a neighbouring monarch to demand Schirine in marriage. On being admitted to an audience, and detailing the object of his embassy, Bahaman said to him: "I am sorry that I am unable to give my daughter in marriage to the king, your master, for I have already bestowed her hand on the king of the genii." From such a reply the ambassador supposed that king Bahaman had lost his senses; he therefore took leave and returned to his master, who also at first thought Bahaman was mad, but on reconsidering the answer began to look on the refusal as a studied insult; he therefore raised troops, and forming a large army, entered the kingdom of Gazna in a hostile manner. This king, whose name was Cacem, was more powerful than Bahaman, who also was so slow in preparing to oppose his enemy that he could not prevent him from making great progress. Cacem defeated some troops which opposed him, and advancing rapidly towards the city of Gazna, found the army of Bahaman intrenched in the plain before the castle of the princess Schirine. The design of the irritated lover was to attack Bahaman in his intrenchments; but as his troops had need of rest, and he had only arrived that evening in the plain after a long forced march, he delayed his attack until the following morning. The king of Gazna, having been informed of the numbers and valour of Cacem's soldiers, began to tremble for the result. He assembled his privy council and asked for their advice, when one of its members spoke in the following terms: "I am astonished that the king should appear to be at all uneasy on this occasion. What alarm can all the princes of the world, to say nothing of Cacem, occasion to the father-in-law of the king of the genii? Your majesty need only address yourself to him, and beg his assistance, and he will soon confound your enemies. It is his duty to do this, indeed, since it is on his account that Cacem has come to disturb the quiet of your majesty's subjects." This speech did not fail to inspire king Bahaman with confidence. "You are right," he said to the courtier; "I shall at once go and beg of him to repulse my proud enemy, and I venture to hope that he will not reject my supplication." So saying, he went to visit his daughter, and said to her: "Schirine, to-morrow at daybreak it is Cacem's intention to attack us, and I am afraid he will carry our intrenchments. I wish to entreat of the king of the genii that he would undertake our defence. Let us unite our prayers that he would be favourable to us." "My lord and father," replied the princess, "there will be no great difficulty in engaging the king on our side; he will soon disperse the enemy's troops, and all the kings of the world will learn, at Cacem's expense, to respect you." "But," resumed king Bahaman, "night is coming on, and still the king of the genii does not appear; can he have forsaken us?" "No, no, my father," replied Schirine; "do not fear that he will fail us in time of need. He sees the army which is now besieging us, and is perhaps at this moment preparing to carry disorder and terror into all its ranks." And this, in fact, was what I was desirous of doing. I had watched during the day Cacem's troops; I had observed their arrangement, and taken particular notice of the head-quarters of the king. I collected a quantity of stones and pebbles, both large and small, with which I filled my box, and at midnight I mounted aloft. Advancing towards the tents of Cacem, I easily discovered that in which the king was reposing. It was very lofty, richly adorned with gilding, and in the form of a dome, supported on twelve columns of painted wood, fixed deep in the ground; the spaces between the columns were intertwined with branches of different kinds of trees, and towards the summit there were two windows, one at the east, and another at the south side. All the soldiers around the tent were asleep; and this circumstance permitted me to descend near one of the windows without being perceived. Through it I saw the king lying on a sofa, with his head supported on a satin cushion. Rising a little in my box, I hurled a large stone at Cacem; I struck him on the forehead, and wounded him dangerously; he uttered a cry, which soon awoke his guards and officers, who, running up to him, found him covered with blood, and almost insensible. Immediately loud cries were heard, and the alarm was communicated to the whole quarter, every one asking what had happened. A report was soon circulated that the king was wounded, and it was not known by whom the blow had been struck. Whilst the culprit was being searched for, I ascended high up among the clouds, and discharged from an immense height a shower of stones on the royal tent and all near it. The stones cut through the silk of the tent, and severely wounded the attendants; many of the soldiers who surrounded it, too, were very badly hit, and began to cry out that stones were being rained down on them from heaven. The news soon spread, and to confirm it I scattered my stony artillery in all directions. Terror took possession of the army; both officers and soldiers thinking that the Prophet was enraged with Cacem, and that his anger was too evidently declared by this miraculous interference. In short, Bahaman's enemies took to flight in a panic, and with such precipitation, that they abandoned their tents and baggage to their foes, crying out, "We are lost; Heaven is destroying us!" When day dawned the king of Gazna was not a little surprised to find, that, instead of advancing to the attack, the enemy was in full retreat. Seeing this, however, he pursued the fugitives with his best troops, who made prodigious carnage, and took prisoner Cacem himself, whose wound prevented his making a sufficiently speedy flight. "Why," asked Bahaman, when his enemy was brought before him, "why have you advanced into my dominions against all right and reason? What provocation have I given you for making war against me?" "Bahaman," replied the vanquished monarch, "I thought you had refused me your daughter out of contempt for me, and I thirsted to be revenged upon you. I believed the story of the king of the genii being your son-in-law to be a mere pretext. I have now, however, good reason to be sure of its truth, for it is he who has wounded me and dispersed my army." When the pursuit was ended Bahaman returned to Gazna with Cacem, who, however, died of his wound the same day. The spoil was divided, and it was so considerable, that even the common soldiers returned home laden with booty; and prayers were offered up in all the mosques thanking Heaven for having confounded the enemies of the state. When night arrived, the king repaired to the princess's palace. "My daughter," he said, "I have come to thank the king of the genii for a success I owe entirely to him. The courier whom I despatched to you has informed you of all that he has done for us, and I am so profoundly grateful for it, that I am dying with impatience to embrace his knees." This satisfaction was soon granted him. I entered Schirine's room by the usual window, and there, as I indeed expected, I found him. "O great king!" he exclaimed, "language is wanting to express to you what I feel on this occasion. Read yourself in my countenance the full measure of my gratitude." I raised up Bahaman, and kissed his forehead. "Prince," I said to him, "could you possibly think that I would refuse to help you in the embarrassing situation in which you were placed on my account? I have punished the proud Cacem who intended to make himself master of your kingdom, and to carry off Schirine, to place her among the slaves of his seraglio. No longer fear that any potentate on the earth will dare to make war against you; but if any one should be so bold, be assured that I will rain a fiery shower upon his troops, which will reduce them to ashes." After having again assured the king of Gazna that I would take his kingdom under my protection, I related how the enemy's army had been terrified at seeing stones showered down upon their camp. Bahaman, for his part, repeated to me what Cacem had told him, and then took his departure, leaving Schirine and myself to ourselves. The princess was as sensible as her father of the important service I had rendered to the country, and manifested the greatest gratitude, caressing me a thousand times over. Two days after the interment of Cacem, on whom, although a foe, a magnificent funeral was bestowed, the king of Gazna commanded that rejoicings should take place in the city for the defeat of the enemy's troops. I thought that a festival prepared in my honour ought to be signalized by some wonderful prodigy; and for this purpose I purchased in Gazna some combustible materials. With these I manufactured fireworks, which I let off at as great a height as possible, while the people in the streets were celebrating their victory with great rejoicings. My pyrotechnic display was very successful; and as soon as daylight appeared I left my machine, and went into the town to have the pleasure of hearing what people said about me. I was not deceived in my expectations. A thousand extravagant accounts were current among those who had been spectators of my display. Some said that the king of the genii had illuminated the whole heavens expressly to show his satisfaction with the festival; and others asserted that they had even seen him in the sky, surrounded by a blaze of meteors. All these speeches amused me exceedingly. But alas! while I was indulging in these pleasurable sensations, my box--my dear machine--the instrument by which I had worked all my wonders--was burning to ashes in the wood. A spark, which I had not perceived, had set fire to it in my absence, and consumed it, and in this state I found it on my return. A father who enters his house, and finds his only son pierced with a thousand mortal wounds, and lying bathed in his blood, could not suffer more than I did on this occasion. I tore my hair and garments, while the wood resounded with my cries and lamentations; I even wonder that I did not lay violent hands upon myself in the paroxysm of my despair. However, by degrees I became calmed, and reflecting that there was no help for my disaster, I at the same time perceived that some resolution must be formed immediately. Only one course seemed open to me, and that was to seek my fortunes elsewhere. Leaving, therefore, Bahaman and Schirine, doubtless in the deepest distress about me, I left the city of Gazna, and falling in with a caravan of Egyptian merchants, returning to their own country, I joined myself to them, and travelled to Grand Cairo, where I became a weaver in order to gain a subsistence. I lived there for some years and afterwards came to Damascus, where I have followed the same occupation. In appearance I am very well satisfied with my condition, but in reality I am not at all happy, I cannot forget my former fortunate condition, Schirine is ever present to my thoughts, and although I would wish to banish her from my recollection, and in truth make every effort to do so, yet the attempt, as painful as useless, merely causes me constant uneasiness. I have now, may it please your majesty, performed what you required of me. I know very well that you do not approve the deceit I practised towards the king of Gazna and the princess Schirine, for I have perceived oftener than once, that my story was repugnant to your feelings and that your piety shuddered at my sacrilegious audacity. But be pleased to remember that you demanded a true account from me, and condescend to forgive the confession I have made of my adventures, in consideration of the necessity I was under of obeying you. CONCLUSION. The king of Damascus made a suitable reply, and dismissed the weaver, whose story afforded a new argument in favour of the grand vizir's opinion that there is no man who is perfectly happy: however, the king would not desist. "Atalmulc," he said, "with the exception of yourself, there is no man approaches me but with a smiling countenance; it cannot be that not one of all these is perfectly happy; I shall ask my generals, courtiers, and all the officers of my household. Go, vizir, and summon them all into my presence in succession." He had the patience to speak to them all individually, and they all made the same reply; namely, that they were not exempt from grief. One complained of his wife, another of his children; the poor accused their poverty as the cause of all their misfortunes, and the rich either did not enjoy good health, or laboured under some other source of affliction. Bedreddin having questioned so many persons, not one of whom was contented with his lot, came at last to be of the same mind with Atalmulc, and was obliged to admit to his favourite vizir that perfect felicity is not to be looked for in the present life; that every lot and every station has its cares, its anxieties, and its misfortunes; and that we approach the condition of complete happiness only as we conscientiously discharge those duties which our position daily and hourly requires of us. [Illustration] THE END. FOOTNOTES: [9] A gift to the kingdom. [10] The Devil. [11] Captain of the door of the king's chamber. [12] The officer in command of the pages. [13] Lieutenant. [14] Archers. GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, PRINTERS, ST. 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41108	----	[Illustration: Legends of Longdendale By TOM MIDDLETON Author of "Annals of Hyde"; "Old Godley", &c &c] LEGENDS of LONGDENDALE Being a Series of Tales Founded upon the Folk-lore of Longdendale Valley and its Neighbourhood. BY THOMAS MIDDLETON, Author of "Annals of Hyde," "Old Godley," etc., etc. Should you ask me whence these stories? Whence these Legends and Traditions? * * * * * I should answer, I should tell you, I repeat them as I heard them From the lips of Nawadaha, The musician, the sweet singer. Should you ask where Nawadaha Found these songs so wild and wayward, Found these legends and traditions, I should answer, I should tell you, In the bird's nest of the forest. * * * * * All the wild fowl sang them to him, In the moorlands and the fenlands, In the melancholy marshes. * * * * * In the Vale of Tawasentha, In the green and silent valley.--(Longfellow). HYDE: FRED HIGHAM, PRINTER AND BOOKBINDER, "CHESHIRE POST" OFFICE, CLARENDON PRESS. MCMVI. LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. The Author desires to gratefully acknowledge the kindness and encouragement that he has received from the Ladies and Gentlemen whose names appear in the following list. It is in great measure owing to their assistance that the present effort to preserve in book form the Legends and Traditions of Longdendale has been successful. ANDREW, J. D., ESQ., Longdendale, Oswestry. ANDREW, W. J., ESQ., F.S.A., Cadster, Whaley Bridge. ASHTON, MRS. THOMAS, 37, Princess Gardens, London, S.W. (4 copies). ASHTON, THOMAS GAIR, ESQ., M.P., Of Hyde, and of Vinehall Place, Robertsbridge, Battle, Sussex. ASTLEY-CHEETHAM PUBLIC FREE LIBRARY (Stalybridge)--Thomas Swain, Esq., Librarian. ASPLAND, MRS., Werneth Lodge, Gee Cross, Hyde. BARR, JOHN, ESQ., Dinting Lodge, Dinting. BEAUMONT, MRS. T. A., Lower Market Street, Broadbottom. BEELEY, JAMES, ESQ., Derbyshire Level, Moorfield, Glossop. BENNETT, ISAAC BOOTH, ESQ., Godley Green, Hyde. BIRKENHEAD CENTRAL LIBRARY (John Shepherd, Esq., Librarian). BLACKBURN PUBLIC LIBRARY (R. Ashton, Esq.) BODELL SMITH, REV. H., The Parsonage, Mottram-in-Longdendale. BOOTH, AMOS, ESQ., Hattersley, Gee Cross, Hyde. BOOTH, D., ESQ., 4, Mottram Moor, Mottram-in-Longdendale. BOWLES, CHARLES E. B., ESQ., The Nether House, Wirksworth. BRADBURY, GEO. T., ESQ., Green Lane, Hollingworth. BRAMHALL, FREDK. J., ESQ., 56, Bank Street, Hadfield. BRIDGES, REV. W. G., M.A., Oxford (formerly Vicar of Hyde). BROWN, PERCY B., ESQ., Chisworth House, Charlesworth, near Manchester. CALDWELL, MISS C. M., Marple. CHAPMAN, CHARLES, ESQ., Carlecotes Hall, Dunford Bridge, Sheffield. CHAPMAN, GEORGE J., ESQ., Carlecotes, Dunford Bridge, Sheffield. CHEETHAM, F. H., ESQ., Triscombe House, Taunton, Somerset. CLEGG, W. E., ESQ., Printer and Publisher, Market Place, Oldham. COCKS, JOHN, ESQ., Brookside, Romiley. COCKS, JAMES, ESQ., Harden Cottage, Woodley. COLLIER, ALFRED, ESQ., Solicitor, 44, Mosley-street, Manchester. COLLIER, EDWARD, ESQ., Glen Esk, Whalley Range, Manchester. COLLIER, EDWIN, ESQ., Holly Wood, Glossop. COPPOCK, MAJOR SYDNEY, Daisy Bank, Macclesfield. DAIN, EDWARD, ESQ., Market Street, Stalybrldge. DERBY PUBLIC FREE LIBRARY, (W. Crowther, Esq.) DODDS, JAMES, ESQ., Penketh House, near Warrington. DUKINFIELD FREE LIBRARY, (E. B. Broadrick, Esq., Librarian). ELLISON, F. B., ESQ., Holly Grove, Hollingworth. EVANS, SETH, ESQ., Bradwell Villa, New Mills. FAULKNER, F. W., ESQ., 527, Hollins Road, Hollinwood, Oldham FIDLER, SAMUEL, ESQ., 26, Ashton Road, Newton Moor. FIRTH, D., ESQ., Hall Green, Dukinfield. FLINT, WILLIAM, ESQ., Woolley Lane, Hollingworth. GARTSIDE, J. E., ESQ., Moorlands, Stalybridge. GLOSSOP DALE NEW INDUSTRIAL CO-OPERATIVE SOCIETY (John Hyde, Esq., 2 copies). HAMNETT, ROBERT, ESQ., Glossop. HEAPE, C, ESQ., Hartley, High Lane, Cheshire. HIBBERT, OLIVER, ESQ., Brook Bank, Mottram Road, Godley. HOLLINWORTH, GEORGE, ESQ., 277, Crompton Road, Macclesfield. HOLLINGWORTH INDUSTRIAL CO-OPERATIVE SOCIETY, LTD. (J. Swindells, Esq., secretary, Education Committee). HOWARTH, DANIEL F., ESQ., F.S.A., 24, Villiers Street, Ashton-under-Lyne. HOWARD, JOSEPH, ESQ., Denby Grange, Burford Road, Whalley Range, Manchester. HYDE PUBLIC FREE LIBRARY (John Chorton, Esq., Librarian). KENYON AND SONS, Chapel Field Works, Dukinfield (4 copies). KENWORTHY, ORLANDO, ESQ., 106, Werneth Hall Road, Oldham. KNIGHT, MISS M. H., Brooklands. KNIGHT, RICHARD, ESQ., F.R.C.O., Hyde. LAWRANCE, REV. HENRY, Dinting Vicarage, near Manchester. LEECH, MRS., 4, Kensington Palace Gardens, London, W. (8 copies). LEES, MRS., Leesdene, Hale, Altrincham. LOMAX, HY., ESQ., School House, Mottram. MACKENZIE, DR., Glossop. MARSDEN, JOSEPH, ESQ., Solicitor, Hall Street, Glossop. MILLER, N., ESQ., 297, Buxton Road, Macclesfield. MOORHOUSE, F., ESQ., Westfield, Bramhall. MOSS, ROBERT, ESQ., Hague View, Charlesworth (5 copies). MOSSLEY INDUSTRIAL CO-OPERATIVE SOCIETY (Ed. Jackson, Esq., Librarian) MANCHESTER PUBLIC LIBRARIES (C. W. Sutton, Esq., Chief Librarian--4 copies.) NEALE, JOHN, ESQ., Borough Treasurer, Town Hall, Ashton-under-Lyne. NICHOLSON, ALBERT, ESQ., Portinscale, Arthog Road, Hale, Altrincham. OGDEN, MISS, Oldham. OGDEN, GEORGE, ESQ., Broadbottom. OLDHAM CENTRAL FREE LIBRARY (W. H. Berry, Esq.) PEARSE, PERCIVAL, ESQ., Bookseller, Warrington. PEMBERTON, REV. W. A., M.A., C.C., The Vicarage, Mottram-in-Longdendale PHILLIPS, W. G., ESQ., J.P., Ansley Hall, Atherstone, Warwickshire (2 copies). PLATT, EDWARD, ESQ., J.P., Mersey Bank, Hadfield. POMFRET, DR. H. W., M.D., F.R.C.S., Hollingworth, Cheshire (2 copies). POTTS, CHARLES, ESQ., Braehead, Great Norbury Street, Hyde (4 copies). RAMSBOTTOM, MRS., Highfield, Alderley Edge. RIDYARD, ALDERMAN JOSEPH, J.P., High Bank, Stalybridge. RINGROSE, REV. R. D., The Vicarage, Glossop. ROCHDALE PUBLIC LIBRARY (George Hanson, Esq.) ROSCOE, T., ESQ., The Old Hall, Mottram-in-Longdendale. ROSS, G. B., ESQ., Mersey Mill, Hollingworth. SALMONS, EDWARD J., ESQ., The Villa, Mottram-in-Longdendale. SHAW, WRIGHT, ESQ., 234, Stamford Street, Ashton-under-Lyne. SIDEBOTHAM, E. J., ESQ., J.P., Erlesdene, Bowdon. SIDEBOTHAM, J. W., ESQ., J.P., C.C., Merlewood, Bowdon, Cheshire. SIDEBOTTOM, T. HARROP, ESQ., J.P., Etherow House, Hollingworth. SIDEBOTTOM, COLONEL W., V.D., J.P., Harewood, Broadbottom. SIMPSON, ALDERMAN ALLWOOD, J.P., Enville Place, Stamford Street, Stalybridge. SPARROW, WALTER W., ESQ., J.P., Betton Hall, Market Drayton. STAMFORD, THE RT. HON. THE EARL OF, Dunham Hall, Cheshire. SUMMERS, H., ESQ., Stalybridge. SUMMERS, JOHN, ESQ., Inglewood, Stalybridge. TAYLOR, MISS JESSIE, A.L.C.M., West End Terrace, Harry Fields, Broadbottom. TAYLOR, HENRY, ESQ., Hollingworth Hall, Hollingworth, near Manchester. TURNER, GEORGE, ESQ., 5, Cathedral Yard, Manchester. UNDERWOOD, WM., ESQ., J.P., Albert House, Astley Street, Dukinfield WAGSTAFFE, JOHN, ESQ., Mottram House, Mottram-in-Longdendale. WAINWRIGHT, JOEL, ESQ., J.P., Finchwood, Marple Bridge. WALTON, WILLIAM, ESQ., J.P., Horsley Priory, Nailsworth, Stroud. WARD, MRS., The Hurst, Glossop. WATTS, JAMES, ESQ., J.P., Abney Hall, Cheadle (2 copies). WHEWELL, SAMUEL, ESQ., Hollingworth, Cheshire. WILKINSON, ARTHUR, ESQ., Victoria Road, Dukinfield. WIGAN PUBLIC FREE LIBRARY (H. T. Folkhard, Esq., F.S.A., Librarian) WOOD, MRS., Moorfield, Glossop (2 copies). WOOD, COLONEL JOHN, V.D., J.P., Whitfield House, Glossop. PREFACE. Hitherto, the Legends of Longdendale--although popular with the country people of the extreme north-east corner of Cheshire--have been scattered, and, to some extent, fragmentary. They are here re-told in what, I hope, is a more permanent and complete form. As far as possible I have carefully followed the original versions; but in one or two instances, it has been necessary to draw upon imagination. I have, therefore, introduced several characters and incidents for the purpose of giving local connection and completeness to those stories which were lacking in detail or were vague in location. The legends are here printed in chronological order. They were first published in the columns of the "CHESHIRE POST" during the winter of 1905-6; and it is to the kind encouragement and assistance of Mr. Frederick Higham, the proprietor and editor of that journal, that they owe their appearance in book form. If further explanation as to the publication of these stories be considered necessary, I would refer the reader to the Preface to the first series of "The Traditions of Lancashire." In it Mr. Roby quotes the following passage from a German writer:--"All genuine, popular tales, arranged with local and national reference, cannot fail to throw light upon contemporary events in history, upon the progressive cultivation of society, and upon the prevailing modes of thinking in every age. Though not consisting of a recital of bare facts, they are in most instances founded upon fact, and in so far connected with history, which occasionally, indeed, borrows from, and often reflects light upon, these familiar annals, these more private and interesting casualties of human life. It is thus that popular tradition connected with all that is most interesting in human history and human action upon a national scale, ... invariably possesses so deep a hold upon the affections, and offers so many instructive hints to the man of the world, to the statesman, the citizen, and the peasant." I may add to the above the fact that these wild and improbable tales have a fascination for me, and that I firmly believe it to be the duty of the people of the present to preserve from oblivion the traditions of the past. In the case of the County of Lancaster, this preservation has been admirably carried out by the late John Roby; and it is with the desire to perform a similar service for the County of Cheshire--or at least one corner of it,--that I have ventured to write the stories which appear in this volume. THOMAS MIDDLETON. Manchester Road, Hyde. 1906. CONTENTS. I. THE LEGEND OF COOMBS ROCKS II. THE LEGEND OF ALMAN'S DEATH: A Tale of Melandra Castle III. KING ARTHUR'S ADVENTURE IV. THE LEGEND OF WAR HILL V. SIR RO, OF STALEY HALL VI. ROBIN HOOD'S VISIT TO LONGDENDALE VII. THE ABBOT OF BASINGWERKE, or the Wehr Wolf of Longdendale VIII. THE DEVIL'S ELBOW IX. THE LEGEND OF CHARLESWORTH CHAPEL X. SIR EDMUND SHAA XI. LORD LOVEL'S FATE XII. THE RAIDERS FROM THE BORDER-SIDE XIII. THE LEGEND OF GALLOW'S CLOUGH XIV. THE KING'S EVIL: or the Wonderful Cure of the Mottram Parson XV. THE MAGIC BOOK XVI. THE PARSON'S WIFE XVII. THE DEVIL AND THE DOCTOR XVIII. THE WRITING ON THE WINDOW PANE XIX. A LEGEND OF THE CIVIL WAR XX. A TALE OF THE '))45 XXI. THE HAUNTED FARM XXII. THE SPECTRE HOUND XXIII. THE BOGGART OF GODLEY GREEN ILLUSTRATIONS. PICTORIAL TITLE, with Distant View of Mottram Church, and Author's Portrait.--(A Sketch by H. C. Jaxon and F. Redfern) ROMAN COINS, BRICKS, AND TILES FROM MELANDRA INSCRIBED ROMAN STONE FROM MELANDRA PREHISTORIC SPEARHEAD FROM MOUSELOW CASTLE "THE PRINCESS INELD" "A COUNTRY MAID OF LONGDENDALE" THE WAR-HILL, MOTTRAM--WITH VIEW OF CHURCH "IN THE MINSTREL'S GALLERY" DOORWAY TO STALEY CHAPEL, MOTTRAM CHURCH EFFIGY OF SIR RO AND HIS LADY, MOTTRAM CHURCH "THE FOREST OF LONGDENDALE":--View at Bottom's Hall "THE ROBIN HOOD STONE" "THE ABBOT'S CHAIR" BASE OF CROSS ON THE MONK'S ROAD "THE LADY GERALDINE" "THE FAIRIES" "BESS ANDREW" MOTTRAM CHURCH AND VILLAGE CROSS "A RUNNING STREAM" DUKINFIELD HALL "A PURITAN CHANT OF PRAISE" ARMS OF THE DUKINFIELD FAMILY ANCIENT DOORWAY, MOTTRAM CHURCH To FREDERICK HIGHAM, of Abbotsford, Godley Green, Hyde, in memory of Happy Hours spent together in Literary Association, and for the sake of A Friendship which ripens as the Years pass, This Book of Legends of that Wild Land we both Love, is Dedicated by THE AUTHOR. I. The Legend of Coombs Rocks. For some time after the invasion of Britain by Julius Cæsar (55 B.C.) no proper steps were taken by the Romans to reduce to submission the northern portion of the island. The civil war in Rome, which resulted in the establishment of a monarchy under Augustus, prevented the Romans from making further attempts upon Britain, for Augustus was unwilling to endanger the empire by extending its limits. At length, however, the Emperor Claudius, remembering the island, sent over an army which carried the Roman line beyond the Thames. Later in the same reign the Romans subdued an insurrection among the Brigantines--a nation which inhabited Lancashire, Yorkshire and the other Northern counties. The kingdom of the Brigantines extended to Longdendale, where it was bounded by the territory of the Cornavii, another ancient British tribe who were masters of Cheshire and several other counties to the south of the Brigantine line. These warlike tribes again rose in opposition to the Romans, but were finally subdued by Julius Agricola, who, coming to Britain about the year 79 A.D., took possession of Cheshire, and occupied the county with his own legion. He is supposed to have either led or sent a strong force of soldiers to overcome the inhabitants of Longdendale, and one outcome of this expedition was the series of incidents narrated in the following legend. It would be about the year 80 A.D. when the Romans advanced up the north-east Horn of Cheshire to attack the people of Longdendale. Agricola heralded his coming by a summons to surrender, which was met by a defiant refusal from the haughty Britons. Proud of their country and her great traditions, the local Britons determined to fight for their freedom to the last, preferring death in battle to slavery beneath the yoke of Rome. "Tell thy proud chief that the sons of Britain are warriors and free men. Free men will they live, and free men die. Never will they submit their necks to the yoke of the Eagle. Rather will they perish on the spears of the legionaires." Thus spoke Edas the son of Atli, the brave hill warrior, who was chief of the Britons in Longdendale. The Roman heard, and, proud and haughty though he was, could not help admiring the heroic audacity of the white, half naked savage who stood before him. Edas, son of Atli, was a finely built man, six feet and more in height, broad of chest and stout of limb, and standing thus, with no garment save a covering of wolf-skin about his loins, the beautiful proportions of his frame stood out with the clearness of a statue. His long hair hung loose about his shoulders, shining golden in the sunlight, and truly was it said of him that no hero of the old time was more glorious to look upon. For a moment the Roman paused. Then at length he spake. "Why battle with the legions? Why fight against fate? Why not live as free men? To be a citizen of Rome is to be a free man indeed--a citizen of an empire which rules the world. Welcome the Eagles and live. But resist the legions, and--what then?" "Then," replied Edas, "we shall at least preserve our honour; we shall at least remain free as our fathers were; we shall have the chance to emulate the deeds, and die deaths as glorious as those of the heroes of whom the bards sing, and we shall not live to see our wives and daughters dishonoured by the ruthless soldiers of Rome." He looked the Roman full in the face, and the emissary of Agricola flushed with anger at the implication contained in the chief's concluding words. "Is that all?" he asked. "Is that thy message to Agricola? Not peace but war?" "War," answered the chief fiercely. "War to the death against the Romans." "So be it. The legions will surely come. Farewell." A short time only elapsed after the dispatch of this defiant declaration ere the British outposts brought news of the Roman advance. Perfect master of the art of war, Agricola left nothing to the last moment, and the same day which brought the message from the Britons, saw the Roman army in motion. The troops marched along the course of the Mersey, and halted for a space at Stockport, where they afterwards built a strong station. Then they moved on, still following the stream, and passed up the banks of the river Etherow, until the great basin of the Coombs Valley lay before them. Meanwhile the Britons had vigorously prepared themselves for the great struggle. Over the heathery wastes of the hills--into what are now the counties of Lancashire, Yorkshire, and Derbyshire--through the thick forests where the wolves, bears, and other wild beasts of prey lurked--went the war message of Edas the chief, rallying the warriors to battle. For once the tribal jealousies were forgotten, feuds vanished in face of the common danger, and Brigantines joined with Cornavii to offer a united front to the common enemy. For days succeeding the arrival of the Roman herald there was a great massing of warriors, fleet-footed graceful men from the Cheshire plains, big wild men from the mountains which lie to the north and east of Longdendale. Day and night the forest altars and the stone circles of the Druids, which stood amid the heather on the summit of the Coombs, were constantly the scenes of sacrifices and other savage rites of Druid worship. Young men and maidens were slain by the golden knife of the Arch Druid, and their spirits passed, with the strains of weird singing, to intercede with God for the cause of Britain. All day the bards sang the songs of old, and at night the ghosts of buried heroes sailed past on the wings of the wind. Thus were the hearts of the British warriors strengthened for the battle which was to come. Night fell, and the forests of Longdendale were full of the white, fierce warriors, who moved silently yet swiftly in the direction of the Coombs. It was the last night of peace; on the morrow the songs of war would arise, and brave men would die. Also, it was the night of sacrifices, and the Druid altar--that strange group of stones now known as the Robin Hood's Picking Rods--would witness the supreme sacrifice--the offering to the Gods of that which was most dear to the hearts of the Britons. That day, just before the setting of the sun, Arwary, the fleet-footed, had bounded into the camp with the lightness of the deer, bringing tidings of the Roman advance. The legions would attack on the morrow, and so that night must be a night of sacrifice--the greatest sacrifice of all. Caledon, the ancient Druid, had summoned the Druid priests to the sacred groves of oak, and the warriors were bidden to gather about the altar shortly before the rising of the moon. In the wood, near the dwelling of Edas, stood the chief. By his side was a maid--Nesta the fair--the beloved of Edas, son of Atli. Soon, if the gods willed, she would become his bride. Meanwhile she was the fairest maid in all Britain, and even the voluptuous Romans sang her praises about the camp fires at night. Edas, son of Atli, spoke of love, and Nesta the fair drew close to his breast. Her arms were about his neck, and the lovers kissed. Edas, son of Atli, and Nesta the Fair, were happy. Presently a voice was heard, and the maiden started. It was the voice of Caledon, ancient Druid and he called for Nesta the Fair. "The gods have need of thee," he cried. "They have sent to me their message, and they ask as a sacrifice the beloved of Edas--the bride of the chief." The voice of the Druid was stern and terrible. Edas the chief stood like one bereft of reason. Only Nesta the Fair remained calm. "It is the will of the All-Giver," she said, and sighed. "Yet--I had dreamed of happiness and love." Again the voice of Caledon cried-- "What greater happiness can a maiden have than to be the chosen of the gods?" But Edas flung his arms about the maid. "She is too young, too fair to die," said he, his voice breaking with agony. "Druid, it shall not be." For a moment the priest stood silent. Then the words fell from his lips in an angry torrent. "Art thou a coward, Edas, son of Atli? Must the daughters of the poor be offered for sacrifices, and shall the mighty ones of the earth escape? Shall the gods ask the consent of Edas before they select themselves a holy bride?" "And thou, Nesta, art thou not a daughter of a race of kings? Is not the blood of Hu the Mighty in thy veins, the blood of heroes who feared nought, death least of all. Maiden, I tell thee the gods demand it. Only by thy death can the Romans be overthrown, and Britain remain free. And behold the moon is even now in the sky, the hour of sacrifice is come." Nesta the Fair flung her arms about her lover and kissed him. "Farewell, my heart," she cried. "The gods prosper thee, and give thee a hero's death at last." In another moment she was gone, and Edas, who knew the power of the Druids, fell on the ground and sobbed. The wild warriors hurried on, and gathered in silence about the altar of sacrifice. There, between the upright stones, was bound the form of Nesta the Fair. About her were the white-robed Druids, and Caledon, the priest, stood near her on the altar. The voice of Caledon rose, and the multitude drew their breaths to listen. "To thee, Dread All Giver, Master of Life, and Death, we offer now the fairest maid in all the Isle of Britain. We give to thee our best beloved. Better far is it that she should become Thy bride than fall into the power of Roman ravishers. Deign to accept her blood as the price of British victory. May our spears be dyed in the blood of the Eagles, and may the Roman legions be swept away before the rush of our warriors, even as the leaves scatter before the wind." So he chanted, and then, as the moonlight fell in a slanting beam upon the snow-white breasts of Nesta the Fair, he raised the golden knife, plunged it deep in the maiden's heart, and the spirit of the bride of Edas passed beyond the mountains to the Land of Rest. Then Caledon turned to the warriors. "Sons of Britain," he cried, "the Gods have accepted your sacrifice. Get ye to your spears. The air is thick with ghosts. The dead heroes have left their graves, and their spirits sail about the moor. Sing ye the songs of the heroes who died for Britain. For on the morrow the blood will flow like water, and it is well that ye know how to die. The victory will be as the gods decree, but end the battle as it may, see that the bards have a glorious song to sing of you, and let not the ghosts of your fathers be ashamed when they greet you in the after world." Silently the warriors filed away, and, as they laid themselves to rest, the bards sang of glorious deeds. Thus passed the night, and on the morrow Edas the Chief, pale and heavy eyed with weeping, yet loyal and true to the land he loved, led his men to meet the Roman steel. Now the British army was gathered upon the level summit of Coombs, which runs crescent shaped about the northern end of the valley, and commands the whole land beneath. One glance at this position convinced the skilful Roman leader of its impregnable character, and of the impossibility of taking it by direct assault. The rocks at the head of the basin-like vale presented an unscaleable barrier to the legions. The Roman general determined to seek some easier path to the summit. He moved his men to the right, and, working his way up the gentler slopes about Ludworth, reached the high ground which stands level with the crest of Coombs. Here, gathering his men in battle array, he prepared for a final assault upon the British line. But the British finding that the Romans were not inclined to attempt the impossible task of scaling the rocks, and seeing no further advantage in maintaining their position, moved rapidly towards the west, and met the Romans on the Ludworth moor. Chanting their wild songs of battle, the warriors charged upon the Roman line. Again and again the warriors charged, but the legions stood firm, and the slaughter was horrible to see. The Britons fought for freedom, which was dearer to them than life, and few who went to battle that day returned home to tell the tale. It is said that the British army was annihilated, and certainly that was the last great fight between the Romans and the Britons which took place in this part of the country. When the battle was ended the dead were buried in two great groups upon the field, and mighty cairns of stones were raised above their graves. These cairns still remain, and are probably the oldest monuments to British bravery in this district. The chief Edas was one of the last to fall. He led charge after charge of his warriors, shouting his wild war cry, until at length, pierced by many blades, he fell far in front of the British. For a moment or so he lay as one dead. Then a glad smile spread over his face, and he sprang to his feet. "Nesta, my beloved, I come. The gods are just. They will unite us. We shall dwell together in the Land of Rest. Thus do I win my way to thy side." So crying, he gripped his war hatchet, and, rushing full upon the line of Roman spears, slew until the soldiers made an end of him. "That was truly a brave man," said the Roman general. "He could not have died a nobler death had he been a Roman." And having learned the story of the death of Nesta, he had the two bodies of the lovers buried in one grave. The Romans encamped in the neighbourhood, and at night were startled by a wild song which came from the battlefield. It was Caswallon the bard, who sang above the grave of Edas. And thus he sang. "Now have the heroes gone beyond the veil of the Invisible, and the Land of Ghosts is thronged with the spirits of the brave." "Edas, the son of Atli, led his warriors to join the hosts of their forefathers." "Edas was of the blood of Hu the Mighty; he was glorious to look upon; fair was his countenance, even as the light of the morning; he was sturdy of stature as the oak; he was fleet of foot as the deer; his eye was as the eye of the eagle; men fell before him in the battle." "He gave his heart to Nesta the Fair. She was the fairest maid in all Britain. The Gods had need of her." "The Romans came, who are brave men. But the Britons are still braver. Every Briton is a warrior." "Edas, the son of Atli, led his men to the battle. The battle raged, and the war song of Edas arose. Many brave men died, but the Britons still fought on. Edas, son of Atli, led the way; he led his warriors through the gates of death." "The battle ended. The Romans won. But the Land of Ghosts welcomed the souls of Edas and his brave Britons." "The men sleep beneath the cairns amid the heather. But their spirits sail upon the wind. And they shall watch over Britain until new heroes shall arise. And the fame of the Eagles shall grow dim before their fame, and Britain shall conquer, and shall be mightier than Rome." Such was the song of Caswallon the bard. It is said that at certain seasons of the year, when the moonlight falls upon the Coombs Rocks, the ghosts of the ancient heroes marshall on the battlefield, waving in phantom hands their phantom axes, as though ready for the coming of the Roman foe. Thus they keep eternal vigil over the wild land they loved of old. AUTHOR'S NOTE. The foregoing story is founded upon one of the earliest traditions of the neighbourhood, which states that a great battle between the ancient Britons and the Romans was fought upon the elevated ground in the vicinity of "Coombs Tor." Several writers of local history have included this battle in their accounts of actual events. Butterworth, the historian, gives an elaborate account of it in his description of the Coombs Cairns. He first mentions the conflict as having taken place between the Romans, "who were inspired by conquest and the thirst for military glory," and the Britons, who "fought for their country's independence"; and then he continues as follows: "Though the poet and other historians are silent upon the great engagement--for such I consider it to have been--yet two prodigious mounds, barrows or tumuli, at from a quarter to half a mile distant from each other, on the field of battle, remain to attest the magnitude and consequence of the action. I have been upon them both, and observed that they each consist of some hundred tons of stone heaped together in a circular or rather an oval form, covered with the effect of time. One of them has furze or dwarf gorse growing upon it, and I have seen cows in hot weather standing on their summits for the purpose of inhaling the cooling breezes." The same writer then goes on to record the erection of a Roman trophy stone at some short distance from the field, and also deduces evidence of the Druids once existing near. In the neighbourhood of Coombs Rocks there are several relics of antiquity which are classed as Druidical. One of these, which consists of two upright stone pillars, rising from a massive stone base, is situated on Ludworth Moor. It is locally known as the "Robin Hood's Picking Rods," because Robin Hood and his men are said to have used it as a target for their arrows. But tradition states it to have been used by the Druids as an altar of sacrifice. II. The Legend of Alman's Death. A TALE OF MELANDRA CASTLE. When the Roman general, Julius Agricola completed the subjugation of the Britons, he began to prepare for a permanent occupation of the country by erecting a series of strong military stations or forts throughout the entire kingdom. A number of these fortresses were built in Cheshire, Lancashire, and Derbyshire, and among the rest was Melandra Castle, erected on the banks of the river Etherow, in what is now known as the township of Gamesley. This fort was established about the end of the first century of the Christian era; it was well built and was of considerable size; moreover its importance was increased because it commanded the hill country north and east of Longdendale. It proved an admirable means of driving back the raids which the scattered hill-tribes were fond of making on the rich lands of the valley. The Romans originally called the fort "Zedrotalia," but, on account of its standing in a district where oak trees were plentiful, it came to be known by its present name. Melandra is said to be a Roman name derived from the Greek MELANDRYON, which signifies "The heart of oak," or "The heart in the oak," and is supposed to have reference to the fact that the forests of Longdendale were noted for their splendid oaks at the time when the Romans built their station. The site of the Castle has been excavated during the years 1899-1905, and the result of this has been the securing of ample proof that Melandra was a station of great strength and importance. The foundations of walls of considerable thickness, with the masonry still solid and straight as on the day when it was laid, have been unearthed. Pieces of pottery, broken weapons, and coins have been found. There is also an inscribed stone containing the inscription--"Cohortis Primæ Frisianorum Centurio Valerius Vitalis." Dr. Watson, the eminent antiquary, translates this into "The Cohort of the First Frisians, Centurion Valerius Vitalis." The Frisians were troops attached to the renowned Twentieth Legion--the "Valiant and Victorious"--and Valerius Vitalis is the only one of the Roman commanders whose name has been handed down. Across the valley, some distance from Melandra, is a hill called Mouselow. This hill is supposed to have been a stronghold of the Ancient Britons. It forms a position of great natural strength, and was well adapted for military occupation in the days anterior to gunpowder and artillery. Several pre-historic weapons have been discovered near. For a considerable time after the erection of Melandra Castle, the Roman garrison was much harassed by the activity of a chieftain who was encamped on Mouselow. This chief watched his opportunity, and rallying to his side the few fighting men of the Britons who were left, darted down on detached bands of the Roman soldiery, and left not one alive to tell the tale. Thus from the earliest days, it seemed fated that there was to be strife and enmity between the two strongholds. Even when the Romans had finally driven out the Britons, and razed the original building of Mouselow to the ground, the struggle did not cease; for after a time the legions were forced to leave the country, and no sooner had they turned their backs than the native chiefs were quarrelling over the spoils. One chief took possession of Melandra and became prince of that place, and a rival chief rebuilt the fort on Mouselow and took the title of Prince of Mouselow. After a time came the Saxon invasion--bands of freebooters from the continent landed on these shores, and pillaged where they listed, some returning to their own land with the spoil they had won, others settling on the lands of the chiefs they had defeated and slain. Among the latter class was a Saxon chief named Alman--a brave, though ruthless warrior, who, after some fierce fighting put to death the Prince of Mouselow, and established himself in that mountain stronghold. Thereafter the country of Longdendale was never free from the depredations of this chief; his robber bands harassed the valleys, and no man's property was safe if it happened to attract the attention of the new Prince of Mouselow. He terrorised the native chiefs, who were nearly all reduced to a state of vassalage by him; indeed, of all those chiefs, the Prince of Melandra alone maintained his former state of independence, and this principally because he was fortunate enough to hold a castle built by the Romans, which, as may be readily supposed, was the strongest fortress in that part of the country. Affairs were in this state when there occurred those incidents which form the substance of this legend. Now Alman had set his heart upon winning the daughter of a neighbouring chief for his bride. She was named Ineld, and her father was the Lord of Woley--which at that time was a fair-sized town. He was a brave old man, but his forces had been defeated, and his territory ravaged by Alman's soldiers, so he was somewhat afraid of the Prince of Mouselow, and more than half inclined to bestow his daughter's hand upon Alman without ever consulting the girl's wishes at all. But it chanced that Ineld had views of her own upon the subject, and Alman and his robber ways were not to her liking. She had heard things of Alman and his doings which made the blood run cold. One day there had come to her father's gate an old woman, who craved an audience of the chief. "Why are thine eyes so heavy with mourning?" asked the Lord of Woley. And the old dame made answer: "O Chief, I am a widow, and the only stay and comfort of my old age was my son--an only child. He kept me from beggary and want. He loved a maiden, and hoped shortly to make her his wife, and even to-day they talked together by the roadside. But it chanced that the Prince of Mouselow rode by with his retinue, and, happening to catch sight of the maid, he ordered his guards to seize her and carry her to the castle. My son interfered, and in an instant the Prince of Mouselow slew him with his own hand. And now, O chief, I cry aloud to thee for justice." And another day one of her father's serfs had come in weeping. [Illustration: ROMAN COINS, BRICKS, AND TILES, FOUND AT MELANDRA CASTLE.] "My lord," he cried, "I am heavy of heart. I have suffered a great wrong, and I look to thee for redress. My farm, as thou knowest, is on the boundary of the Prince of Mouselow's territory, and to-day, in my absence, his men came and carried off my cattle and much store of corn. Also, when my wife, who is very fair, remonstrated with them, they seized her and carried her away to their prince, and my little child they slew with the sword." These things had Ineld heard, and they in no way predisposed her in favour of Alman, nor did the appearance of the chief when he came a-wooing, alter her first opinions of him. He was a rough, boisterous man, who drank deep, and swore loud oaths--fine and handsome of outward appearance, but a man lacking that refinement which most women prefer to see in men. Having disclosed his intention to the Lord of Woley, Alman made his way to the fair Ineld's side, but so used was he to wooing by force that he could not even now altogether rid himself of his blunt, repulsive manner. "Ah, my May," cried he, stealing behind the maid, and flinging his arm roughly about her waist, "one kiss from those rosy lipe of thine, and then we will talk of love." He laughed as the startled Ineld struggled to free herself from his grasp, but a scowl of anger swept over his face as, with her little hand, she struck him heavily upon the coarse lips which he had thrust near her face. Then he laughed again, and even swore. "By Woden," said he, "but you are a fit wife for any chief. Little spitfire--but I like such play. Trust me, I love thee none the less for that blow. Some day I will tame thee, and then, by the gods, we shall make a mighty pair." "Never," cried Ineld fiercely. And, breaking away, she ran to the mansion, and hid herself in the women's quarters, where even Alman dared not follow. That day the Prince of Mouselow rode away immensely pleased with himself; he loved to see a maid full of fight, so he said, and he promised himself that Ineld should love him by and by. But the days went past, and do what he would, he could never persuade the maiden to grant him an interview alone. His spirit chafed at the prolonged delay, and at length he determined upon bolder measures. He lay in wait in the woodland near the home of Ineld, and in due course his patient waiting was rewarded. The fair maiden appeared, and, first looking timidly around, as though to make sure she was unobserved, made her way through the glade to a spot near a fern-covered spring. Alman chuckled to himself with glee, and silently he kept pace with the maiden, although remaining concealed the while. When Ineld stopped, and showed unmistakable signs of going no further, the Prince of Mouselow emerged from the undergrowth behind which he had been hidden, and, with a laugh of triumph, stood before her. "Now, my little vixen," said he, "I have won you at last. Maids so coy as you must be wooed in rough fashion. And, once inside my mountain fortress, I doubt not your consent to wed Alman will soon be forthcoming." So saying, he made to carry her to the spot where his steed was tethered, for he would win his bride by force, even as he had won his wealth and lands. Ineld screamed shrilly in terror, and the Prince clapped his rough hand upon her lips to stifle the cries. "Cease such idle wailing," said he. "The wood is deserted, no one can hear, nor would it greatly matter if they could. I hold thee now, and no man in all the land shall rob me of my prize." "Be not so sure of that," said a voice at his shoulder, so suddenly and unexpectedly that Alman dropped the girl, who immediately, with a joyful cry, sprang to the side of the new comer. "Lewin--sweetheart," cried she--then could say no more by reason of the caress which her deliverer bestowed upon her. "Ah," cried Alman--a light breaking on him, as he recognised the youthful Lewin, Prince of Melandra. "So 'tis a lover's tryst I have marred by my presence. Well, let us see who is the better man--Lewin or Alman, and the winner takes the maid." He loosened the short axe at his side, and, without pause, rushed on Lewin, waving the weapon aloft. Scarce had the youth time to thrust the maid behind him and draw his blade when the axe fell; but the sword of Lewin was swift to parry, and at the same instant he sprang aside. The axe missed him by a hairsbreadth, but the sword was shattered by the stroke, and the Prince of Melandra stood weaponless--at the mercy of Alman. [Illustration: INSCRIBED ROMAN STONE FOUND AT MELANDRA CASTLE.] The Prince of Mouselow laughed, and again raised his axe to make an end, but Lewin, disdaining to fly, faced him calmly, awaiting death without a tremour. His cool and gallant bearing touched the fierce robber, and he dropped his arm. "I could slay thee easily," said he, "but I soil not my fame so. Thou art a brave man, and above all the chiefs about, hast hitherto opposed me with credit to thyself. I give thee thy life--the maiden goes with me. But this chance I give thee. Rally thy men and meet me now in battle array--Melandra against Mouselow, and we will fight for a noble prize--the lordship of all the land of Longdendale, and the fair Ineld for a queen. Thou may'st trust me. The maid stays in my keeping, but I touch her not until the battle has been fought and won." Lewin advanced and took the hand of Alman. "I trust thee, Prince." said he. "'Tis a noble act. Get thee to thy stronghold with the maiden, for soon the axe of Lewin will be knocking at thy door." Then, turning to the trembling girl, he whispered: "Fear not, Ineld, I come quickly. Ere another hour is passed the war-song of Lewin will echo through the hills." Then he was gone. An hour later Alman stood on the rampart of Mouselow, and gazed in the direction of Melandra. The warrior by his side pointed to a dancing light which played upon the distant fields and seemed to move on Mouselow. It was the sunlight reflected from a host of shields and spears. [Illustration: PREHISTORIC SPEAR HEAD FOUND NEAR MOUSELOW CASTLE] "They come, my lord," said he. And Alman answered: "This Lewin keeps his word. The fight will be such as a soldier loves. Now get to your arms." The Prince of Mouselow watched the approach of the foe with gladness. Rude and tyrannous though he might be, he was yet a brave man, and asked for nothing better than a worthy foe and a fair field. It mattered little to him if death came in the conflict. His fathers had all died fighting, and he, too, longed to die in the thick of the fray. He loved fighting for fighting's sake, and in the lust for the conflict he even forgot the fair Ineld--the prize for which he fought. Placing himself at the head of his men, he led them out of the fort, and soon the two forces were in touch with each other. The Prince of Melandra was at the head of his own troops, and as the two armies closed he gave forth his war shout and called upon his men to charge. The warriors clashed their axes and shields together, and cried aloud: "Lewin we will follow thee to death. Lead on!" And thus the great fight begun. The battle lasted through the day, and it seemed almost certain that the superior force of the Prince of Mouselow would win. But the men of Melandra fought like heroes; they stubbornly maintained their ground, and, as the day passed, the battle was still undecided. Throughout the combat Lewin seemed to bear a charmed life. He was ever in the thick of battle, and where his axe descended there death reigned in the foemen's ranks. But towards the evening he realised that his rapidly thinning ranks were in danger of being enveloped by the greater number of the foe, and that if the battle was to be saved, it would require a superhuman effort. Then, knowing that where he led his men would surely follow, he raised his war shout, and, with a mighty rush, charged single-handed on the foe. He was surrounded in an instant, and a score of blows were showered at his head. The peril of their chief so incensed the men of Melandra that they became like madmen, and swept onwards with a charge that nothing could withstand. This was exactly what Lewin had looked for, and, hoping to render the effect of the charge doubly sure, he still pushed on, making for the standard where Alman fought. The Prince of Mouselow rallied his men about him, and, shoulder to shoulder, they stood to repel the onslaught. But the rush of Lewin was too fierce, the men of Mouselow were scattered like chaff, and Alman himself fell pierced by a score of blades. [Illustration: THE PRINCESS INELD.] With the fall of Alman the battle ended, his men fled from the field, and their dying chief turned and laughed as he watched them fly. "They run," said he--"the dogs. And yet--they fought bravely. Well, let them run. Ho. Lewin, the day is thine. Ineld is thine, and I--I die. Tell her I died as a brave man should--face to the foe. Valhalla calls me. Lewin, farewell." So he died. The old chronicle tells us that he died as the sun set, and his spirit passed away with the dying beams to the eternal land of rest. It is said that so keen was the conflict, and so great was the bloodshed, that one part of the battlefield was afterwards termed Redgate in perpetual commemoration of the day. The spot whereon Alman died was called Almansdeath, a name it still retains. AUTHOR'S NOTE. There are many traditions which speak of the fierce encounters between the forces of Melandra and Mouselow. They are, however, extremely vague, and it is difficult to say whether the story of Alman refers to a battle between the Romans and the Britons, or a struggle of the later Saxon period. For the purpose of this narrative I have adopted the latter date. It may be added that Melandra has been a favourite theme with local writers. The following fragments from the pen of Thomas Barlow, the Longdendale poet, will serve as illustrations of the way in which the "castle" has been the subject of song and romance. And well I loved the roaring flood-- The wind, when whistling through the wood, Below where once Melandra stood, With turrets high; And often stray'd at eve, to brood On days gone by; In which, traditions old declare, Melandra flourish'd, free and fair, And glisten'd in the morning air, Anent the sun; Ere Time, who swept the ruins bare, His freaks begun. When lordly knight, at dawn of day, Led forth his train--a proud array Of stalwart warriors blithe and gay With martial fire; Whose arms upheld the feudal sway Of knight and squire. When martial music could entrance, And prompt the love inspiring glance, Till knights and ladies would advance, Quick-step or slow; In halls where hung the sword and lance, And good yew bow. In fancy oft I saw the throng, And heard the aged minstrel's song, As, softly sweet, he did prolong, His tender strain; With themes of love or war his tongue Could audience gain. When deeds of arms his song would claim, He sang Melandra's knightly fame, And hung with reverence on the name His chieftain bore, Till tears reveal'd the ardent flame That fired his lore. III. King Arthur's Adventure. Arthur, son of Uthyr, Pendragon of Great Britain, organised that high order of Christian chivalry, commonly known as the knighthood of the Round Table. The companions of this Order bound themselves by oath to oppose the progress of paganism, to be loyal to the British throne, to fight--not for self-glory, but for the redressing of human wrong, to protect the defenceless, to show mercy to the fallen, to honour womanhood, and never to turn their backs upon a foe in battle. It is said that God raised up King Arthur that he might render Britain free, drive out the heathen, purify his realm, and spread Christ among men. For this purpose, the Lady of the Lake, "clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful," gave to the king the huge cross-hilted sword, "Excalibur," which was forged beneath the sea, whose blade was so bright that men were blinded by it, and before whose sweep no man might stand. With this blade, Arthur led his knighthood, and in twelve great battles overcame the Saxon heathen hordes. It is said that four of these great victories of the young Pendragon were fought in Lancashire, and that after the battles the knights of the Round Table rode through the country, redressing the wrongs of the people, and putting tyrants to the sword. At this time there were great castles on the hills of Longdendale, and in one of these strongholds dwelt a cruel and treacherous knight of gigantic stature and enormous strength. On account of his many cruelties he was known as Sir Terrible. His fortress was built upon a commanding eminence; it was defended by ramparts surmounted by massive towers of stone, and was so strong a place that it had never yet been taken by a foe. Sir Terrible was not married, though he was now in the prime of life. It was said that no woman would mate with him, so black were his deeds. Strange tales were told of his love passages, and many a country maiden had mysteriously disappeared. Rumour said that the knight carried off the maidens to his dreadful dwelling under cover of the darkness, and it was certain that when morning came, the cottage of each victim was found in ashes, and the dead bodies of the kinsfolk lay around. No trace of the maids could be found, and they were never seen again, though shrieks and cries of agony floated on the air from the direction of the castle walls. Now King Arthur held Court after one of his great victories, which he won near Wigan, and to him flocked the people from far and near, laying their grievances before the King, and beseeching help at his hands. Among the rest came an old dame from Longdendale, who wept bitterly as she told her story, bewailing the loss of the fairest maid in all Cheshire. For it seemed that the maiden was the old dame's grandchild, that they two lived in a lonely spot in the valley of Longdendale, that Sir Terrible had become enamoured of the maid, and had carried her to his castle, where he kept her a prisoner, neither suffering her to go out, nor yet anyone to hold converse with her. Also he had slain two noble knight-errants to whom the dame had told her tale, and who had chivalrously sought to rescue the maiden. It was towards the close of the day when the old dame told her story, for there had been a large attendance of petitioners to see the King; moreover all the knights had left the court on some quest or other in keeping with their oaths as members of the Round Table. But when the King heard of the cruelty of Sir Terrible, he rose at once, the gentle look passed from his face, and in its place gleamed the determined light of battle. He donned his war-gear, and buckled the great sword "Excalibur" to his side. Then, accompanied only by a young squire, and dressed only as a simple knight, he rode away towards Longdendale. The King rested for the night at the hut of a poor peasant, from whom he gleaned tidings of many fresh cruelties of Sir Terrible. Early in the morning he set out and soon came in sight of the Castle. Now, as they rode, the young squire had been silent. But when the Castle towers hove in sight he spoke to the King. "My liege," said he, "My father was a knight at the court of Uthyr Pendragon, and was esteemed meet company for brave men. I, his son, have not yet done a deed worthy of mine ancestry. Grant, I pray, that this quest be mine to follow. 'Tis true I am untried, and the foe is strong, yet the cause is just, and, mayhap, God will nerve my arm." So he pleaded, for he desired above all else the chance to do some Christian deed that might win for him the fellowship of the Round Table. After much persuasion the king at last granted him his prayer, and the Squire rode with a glad heart to the castle gate, while Arthur hid himself among the trees. Reaching the gate, the squire thundered at it with his lance, and then drew back to wait. In answer to his knocking, the knight Sir Terrible appeared, ready mounted, armed with lance and sword. "Villain and treacherous knight," cried the squire. "How darest thou abduct innocent and defenceless maidens, whom all thy Order are bound to protect, keeping them as slaves within thy castle? I am come to make thee rue this foul insult to the order of our good King Arthur; for thy cruelties are a stain upon the honour of his knighthood, and a blotch upon the fair fame of his kingdom." "Thou discourteous churl," answered Sir Terrible. "Do but lead on to yon level piece of green, and I will first meet thee in fair fight, and then send thy carcase to thy base born king." Now the squire, used to the honour of noble knights, turned to ride to the greensward indicated, but no sooner was his back turned than the treacherous Sir Terrible, couching his lance, drove at him between the shoulders, striking him so fierce a blow that the squire fell senseless to the ground. Then the knight laughed loudly, and would have hacked off the head of his fallen foe, had not the king, who was now dismounted, stepped from the shelter of the trees, and stood above the prostrate squire. [Illustration: "A COUNTRY MAID OF LONGDENDALE."] "Thou cruel traitor," cried the king. "That foul stroke shall cost thee thy life. Never have I seen a blow more foul." On seeing this new foe, Sir Terrible--who did not recognise the king--again couched his lance, and, without waiting to give his opponent chance to mount, and meet him in fair combat, charged down upon the king. But Arthur stood calm and firm, and drawing Excalibur from its sheath, he stepped aside as the horseman charged, and smote with all his might. The blow cut clean through the lance close to the haft, and falling on the steed, brought it to the ground. Instantly the knight sprang up in terror. "Now I know thee," he cried. "Thou art Arthur Pendragon. No sword save the brand Excalibur could have struck so great a blow as that." "Thou speakest truly," answered the king. "I am indeed Pendragon." Then the coward knight turned to fly, for well he knew that none might stand before Excalibur and live. But the king stepped forward. He raised the great sword aloft. The blade flashed in the sunlight. It cut clean through the iron helm, and the head of Sir Terrible rolled on the sward. After slaying the tyrant--so the story tells us--King Arthur restored the squire, who was merely wounded, and then the two, mounting their steeds, rode up to the castle gates. The king rode in front, and at his saddle bow there hung the bloody head of the dead tyrant. Arthur raised his lance, and with it thundered on the outer gate. "Ho! warder," cried the king, "open instantly!" But the warder made answer-- "Who art thou who knockest so loudly? Know that I hold the castle for Sir Terrible, and that I open only when my master comes." At which the king laughed. "Then open hastily," said he, "for thy master is here even now." And swinging his arms, he hurled the gory head of the traitor knight over the iron spikes of the gate, so that it fell with a thud at the feet of the warder. The terrified fellow shrieked and fled, and his cries rang through the castle, causing the men-at-arms to grasp their weapons and stand at attention. By this time the king was hammering loudly at the gate--great blows that shook the stout oaken portal so that it trembled in its sockets, and threatened to fall into splinters. "By my troth," cried the captain of the men-at-arms, "but 'tis a mighty arm which deals such blows. No wonder our master fell before it." Then, leaning over the rampart, he called aloud: "Ho! there without. Who art thou who makest such a din; and what is thy business?" Then Arthur made answer: "I am the king," Whereupon the men were overcome with fear, and casting aside their weapons, they opened the gate, and surrendered the castle to King Arthur. The king ordered all the captives to be set at liberty, and this was immediately done, the long procession of unfortunate victims of the cruelty of Sir Terrible passing before the king, each one blessing him for having wrought their deliverance. Last of all came the maiden whose rescue had been the immediate cause of the king's visit to Longdendale. She was wondrously beautiful, and as she stood before him, Arthur was so struck by her good looks that he could not refrain from passing knightly compliments. "Such beauty as thine," said he, "would best befit a court. 'Tis wasted in these wilds. Thou shalt have a place among the maidens who wait upon the Queen." But the maiden answered: "If it please thee, sire, I would stay in fair Longdendale. I am but a country maiden. I love the free life of these hills and valleys; and at thy court I should be but as a wild bird in a cage." Whereupon the king, noticing her earnest look of supplication, smilingly bent his head, and suffered her to depart. * * * * * Now the rest of the tale is soon told. The king bestowed the castle and the lands of the dead Sir Terrible, upon the young squire who had accompanied him, and whom he now made into a knight. And then great changes took place in that part of Longdendale. Instead of being looked upon with dread by all the people of the countryside, the castle came to be regarded as the seat of a protecting power, to whose lord the poor might look for succour in time of need, and for justice in all seasons. And perhaps the greatest change of all took place in the maiden who had been rescued from the clutches of Sir Terrible by King Arthur and his squire. Formerly she had trembled at the very name of the lord of the castle, and had witnessed his approach with a terror as great as that which causes the timid to shrink from death. But now she shrank from his approach no longer, there were even whispers that she kept tryst with the new lord; and at length there arrived a day when the young knight came in state, and carried her to the castle--a willing captive--where, in the presence of the king, they were made man and wife. The two lived long and happily together, trusted by the king, respected by their equals, and beloved by all who were beneath them in station. The knight won great renown as a warrior, so much so that evil-disposed men feared to meet him, and during his lifetime, although there were wars in other parts of the kingdom, the land of Longdendale enjoyed peace. In due time the knight and his lady had several fine sons, who grew up after the pattern of the king, and long maintained the fair fame of Arthur Pendragon in Longdendale, even in days after the good king had passed from life, to sail in the black barge with the three Queens, to Avilion, the Isle of Rest. AUTHOR'S NOTE. Concerning the connection of King Arthur with Longdendale, it may be of interest to mention that Bernard Robinson, in his "History of Longdendale," writes thus:--"Traditions speak of castles and kings, and great bloody battles fought along the hills--traditions of the times of Aurelius Ambrosius, and King Arthur, that have come "Floating down the tide of years' mantled in mystery." I may further add that it is not surprising to find Longdendale associated by tradition with the great hero of English romance. Several great battles of King Arthur are said to have been fought in Lancashire and Cheshire, and the former county is very closely linked with the chief of the knights of the Round Table. The name Lancashire is said to mean "Lancelot's Shire." Lancelot of the Lake is reputed to have been monarch or ruler of this county. IV. The Legend of War Hill. It was early autumn of the year 1138, and the Valley of Longdendale was a vast tract of desolation. True, the trees were still decked with verdure, and the mellow tint of autumn clothed nature with a lovely garb. The streams still murmured with silvery splashes as they wandered through the woodland, and the birds warbled among the branches. In all this the valley was as of old--lovely, radiant, fair. But the song of the reaper was never heard; the fields were tangled and untilled, the instruments of husbandry were destroyed or abandoned, and a grievous famine reigned. For the demon of war was abroad, and the blight of his shadow had fallen on the fair Cheshire vale. King Stephen was seated on the throne which he had won by violence. As he had usurped the sovereign power without the pretence of a title, he was necessitated to tolerate in others, the same violence to which he himself had been beholden for his crown. Even in time of peace the nobles made sad havoc with the property of the people, but now that war was in the land, and the forces of the Lady Matilda, King Henry's child, sought to drive the usurper from the throne,--now, indeed, the castles poured forth bands of licensed robbers, and the homesteads of Longdendale were burned, the people driven to the woods, and the flocks and herds of the yeomen were confiscated. Had the reader been privileged to wander through the woodland glades near Mottram, he would, maybe, have seen a group of fugitives bargaining with a sturdy forester for leave to shelter themselves in the depths of the forest, without fear of molestation. "Thou hast known me all my life," said the leader of the party, "for a patient, God-fearing, and faithful husbandman. I have ever kept the forest laws, and seek not to work harm therein even now. But Mottram town is no place for me, for all my poor belongings have been seized by the King's men, and my hut has been burned to the ground. And but yesterday there came a party of the other side, and their leader had me up, and soundly thrashed me, because he said I helped the King, and was disloyal to the Princess. Helped the King, forsooth, when the King helped himself to all I had, and turned me out o' doors to shift for myself." "And I," quoth another, "come from Tingetvisie (Tintwistle), and there the townsfolk are so scared they dare not seek their beds at night. Nothing have I left to call my own, not even arms with which to protect myself. Truly the forest is a heaven to all such poor people as we." "Well, well," grumbled the bluff forester, "get into the woods and hide yourselves, but play not with the deer at your peril. A pest on these troubles. I would the great folk would settle their differences themselves, and allow the poor to live in peace. Get off, I say, and hide yourselves. Steer clear of both King's men and Queen's men, and be damned to both sides." So saying he went on his way whistling, and the fugitives hastily left the path, and were soon lost from view in the undergrowth. There, like beasts of the forest, they lay by day, and emerged when the night fell, to pick up such scraps of food as were to be had by the way. Little wonder there were robbers on the roads in those times. Days passed on, and the wanderers in the woods beheld parties of rovers, riding with lance and sword, now north, now south, as the tide of war ebbed and flowed. Rumours had reached them of an invasion of the Scots under King David, and following the rumours came bands of wild Highland men, who laid waste with fire and sword what little the robber-bands of the English knighthood had spared. The King of Scotland came south to aid his niece, the Princess Matilda, and with the appearance of his army on this side the border, the nobles who favoured the Princess arose. There was a mustering of all the able-bodied men of the Vale of Longdendale, and, glad to strike a blow to bring the state of tumult to an end, the men took sides. "Hast thou heard the news?" asked one fugitive of another. "To what news dost thou refer, good man?" was the reply. "Is it more of evil?" "Nay, that is as thou listest," was the answer. "'Tis said the King of Scots rides hither with a great following of men at arms, and that King Stephen's forces muster for the combat. In that case there may be a great struggle toward, and now, maybe, we shall see the ending of all this strife and misery." "In that case, good man, methinks I will strike a blow for one side, so that the matter may indeed be ended." "On what side art thou?" "I am for the Princess." "And I for King Stephen." "Then we are enemies, but I bear thee no ill-will. Mayhap we shall meet again in the battle." "Maybe. At least it will be better than starving in the woods. I wish thee a good-morrow." "And I thee. Farewell." Upon which the speakers went their several ways to arrange themselves beneath the banners of the cause they favoured. Soon there was a fair mustering of each faction, and with the trains of knights, who came from north and south, the rival forces grew from companies into armies. King Stephen sent a great body of horse and foot to strengthen the array of those who fought beneath his banner, whilst stray bands of Highland men swelled the ranks of the warriors of Matilda. Now the chief forester of Longdendale was a man with a kind heart, and to all those civil and respectable folk who took to the woods for a refuge, he showed such toleration and care as his position allowed; only upon the idle, thieves, and evildoers, was his anger bestowed. It was no new thing for him to meet with fugitives--particularly women--seeking shelter in the forest, and, accordingly, he gave little heed to a small band of riders in which were several females, who entered the forest of Longdendale upon a certain evening just before the hour of sunset. "Another band of fugitives," said he. "Poor souls; God have mercy on them." He would have passed on his way had not one of the band--a sturdy-looking young man, dressed in plain russet garb--thus accosted him: "Ho there, fellow," cried the youth. "Come thou hither, for I would have a word with thee." The tone in which the words were spoken was commanding, and to the forester it sounded insolent. For answer he turned, and looking the horseman straight in the face said: "Have a care, knave, what words thou usest to thy betters, or thou art likely to rue such speeches as that." The young man frowned, and, raising a light riding whip, made as though he would strike the forester. But the latter brought into position a stout oak staff which he carried, and, advancing boldly, said in a threatening voice: "Take advice from an older man, and drop thy paltry weapon. Otherwise I shall be put to the necessity of cracking thy pate. One blast of this horn now dangling at my side will speedily summon some of the stoutest lads in Cheshire, and thou and thy followers will ere long be dangling from the nearest tree." So saying, the bold forester blew upon his horn, and scarcely had the echoes died away ere five stalwart men clad in green, each armed with yew-bow and quiver, and long knives at their girdle, burst from the thickets and ranged themselves by the forester's side. What the newcomers would have done with the old forester at their head, it is difficult to say; but a diversion was created by one of the female riders, chiding the horseman who had first spoken. "Thou art over-hasty, and even rude," said she; "where is thy discernment. Seest thou not that these men are honest, and wouldst thou set them against us?". Then, advancing alone, she bent in her saddle, and whispered something to the forester. The old man started, gazed at the speaker, for a moment, then doffed his cap, and bowed low. Next turning to the five who stood behind him, he cried: "Uncover, and on your knees. It is the Queen." The Royal Matilda--for she it was, thus driven with her infant son, Henry, and a few faithful followers, to adopt the disguise of poor travellers, and to seek for a place of refuge until the coming battle should decide her fate--smiled graciously upon the old man and his companions. "Methinks there is a likeness in all your faces," said she. "Are these thy sons?" "They are my sons," answered the forester; "and withal thy loyal subjects, gracious lady, ready to give their lives for thee and thine." After a few further passages of speech, the chief forester led the way to his own dwelling--which was a strongly built and well concealed place, where, attended by his good wife, the Queen might rest secure until the battle had been fought and won. Meanwhile the forester and his sons donned their war-gear, and when the time was ripe they took their stand with the rest of those who fought beneath the banner of the Queen. It was in the gray dawning of an autumn day when the two armies met. The battle was fought on a hill in the Mottram township, where the ancient Church of Mottram now stands. But there was no sacred building there on that gray morning of long ago, when the clashing of arms awoke the echoes, and the air was heavy with the shrieks of dying men. The army of Matilda was posted on the hill. Their position was strong and commanding. From it they could note the approach of the foe, and fight him with advantage. In the midst of their array rose the standard of the Princess--the royal banner of the great Henry--and by its side the bonnie flag of Scotland floated in the breeze. As the gray light broke from the east, the watchers on the hill beheld the first line of Stephen's forces emerge from the woods. The King's army was a mighty host, the bright spears gleamed in the light of dawn, and the archers carried great quivers full of deadly goose-tipped shafts. The royal force came on, and the leading ranks broke into a battle-chant as they neared the hill foot, and bent to meet the slope. The archers winged their shafts, the axes, bills, and pikes advanced; a rain of arrows beat whistling from the ranks upon the hill, and the great fight commenced. Bit by bit the soldiers of Stephen advanced up the hill. They left many dead upon the slopes, but still the host went on. The army of Matilda hung thick and massive upon the crest, and waited with unbroken front for the closing of the foe; they rained down their flights of arrows, but kept their ranks unbroken, with bristling rows of pikes in front. At length the advancing host drew near. The foremost men rushed bravely on, they clutched the wall of pikes with their hands, and strove to hew a way to victory. But the arrows fell among them, dealing death in full measure, and the brave men fell. Others took their places, and again the goose-shafts flew. Now the advancing army remembered the trick of Norman William on the field of Senlac. At a given signal they turned and fled in apparent confusion. With a wild yell the unwary Highland men broke from their post upon the summit, and charged down to slay. Then, swift as lightning, the warriors of Stephen turned. Their archers met the onrush of the pursuers with a staggering volley of shafts. The pikes and bills charged up the slope. The axes hacked the brawny Scots, and the broken ranks upon the hill, opening wider yet to receive their retreating comrades, let in the charging body of the foe. After that there was a mingled mass of slaying men about the summit. The hosts of King Stephen girt the hill round, so that there was no escape for the men who stood upon it. Death was everywhere, death for the victors and the vanquished; for the soldiers of the Princess died as soldiers should, and they slew great numbers of the foe. [Illustration: MOTTRAM CHURCH AND THE WAR HILL, THE SITE OF THE BATTLE MENTIONED IN THE LEGEND.] That was the last stand for the Princess Matilda in that part of Cheshire, and the old chronicles say that the blood shed in the battle ran in a stream down the slopes, and formed a great pool at the foot of the hill. * * * * * As the gray of the morrow's dawn fell upon the scene of battle, the pale light fell also upon a group of living beings, who stood upon the summit of the hill among the hosts of the dead. Matilda, the Queen, was there--beaten and dismayed, since all hope was lost. The chief forester of Longdendale stood there also, and he, too, sighed, as one whose heart is broken--he had just been groping among the corpses, and had found what he sought. "Are thy fears well founded?" asked Matilda, anxiously. The old man pointed to the inert forms of five dead men. "They were all I had--and I am an old man. Now they are gone, my very name must perish." The royal lady looked at him for a moment, her whole being trembling with grief. "My heart is broken," she said. "Yet what is my loss to thine?" The old man took her hand, and kissed it. "I am a loyal man--and an Englishman. I gave them freely to the cause of my Queen. Who am I that I should complain?" Royal lady and lowly-born forester gazed into each other's eyes for a brief space--their looks conveying thoughts which were too sacred for words--and then the Queen's train moved down the hill, and the old man was left alone--alone with his sorrow and his dead. * * * * * The world is full of changes, and ever on the heels of war comes the angel form of peace. Men called the hill whereon the battle had been fought Warhill, and in after days the builders raised the sacred pile of Mottram Church, where the soldiers of Matilda and Stephen fought and died. AUTHOR'S NOTE. According to an old Longdendale tradition, the War Hill, Mottram, is the site of a battle which was fought in the twelfth century between the forces of the Princess Matilda and King Stephen. V. Sir Ro of Staley Hall. There was a noble gathering in the great banqueting room of Staley Hall, on that memorable morning when Sir Ro or Ralph de Stavelegh entertained his guests for the last time ere he set sail for the Holy Land. The message of war had been sent through all merrie England, and many of the Cheshire knights were leaving their homes, their wide and pleasant meadows, and their dear wives and children, to engage in the stern conflict of the great Crusade. Sir Ro, of Staley, was one of the first to offer his sword in the holy cause. He was a brave knight, born of a war-like ancestry, and desirous above all things to risk his life in so sacred a war. And now he had called together his friends and neighbours, that they might feast once more in the old banqueting hall, and pledge themselves as true and leal comrades before the knight said farewell. There were many brave knights and squires, many noble dames and fair maidens, seated about that hospitable board. But the lovliest of all women gathered there was the young lady of Staley, and the handsomest of men in that goodly company was the warrior knight, Sir Ro. The feasting went on well into the night. In the minstrels' gallery there were harpers who harped of war, and bards who sang of heroes' deeds and victory. The music was wild and glorious; it lured men to war, it breathed the spirit of strife, it lured the love of maidens to the man who wielded axe and sword. When the music ceased there were speeches made by the knights, and good wishes expressed, and the words of friendship passed. Then the Knight of Staley rose to bid farewell. He spoke of the true comradeship between his guests and himself. He begged them to see that no enemy laid waste his fair domain while he was distant at the war. By every tie of friendship, he prayed them to protect well his dear lady should ever the need arise. Then, turning to his wife, he asked that she should hand her wedding ring to him, and the lady complied. Holding up the ring, and in sight of all the guests, Sir Ro next snapped the golden circlet in twain, and, restoring one half to his spouse, he placed the other against his heart, swearing by that token to be a true lover and husband until death. On her part, the lady made a like vow, and thus, before all that noble company, they pledged again eternal troth. On the morrow, with many bitter tears at the pain of the parting, with many tender kisses and protestations of fidelity, Sir Ro and his lady parted--the lady to her lonely bower, the knight to his ship, his journey, and the war. * * * * * Sir Ro sailed the seas in company with many other English knights and men-at-arms. They marched across the great desert, suffering many privations, often being in peril of death by the wilderness, and at other times endangered by the craft and might of the foe. They fought many battles, winning great glory for the Christian arms, and putting numbers of the Saracens to death. In all the fighting Sir Ro of Staley played a great part. He was ever in the thickest of the battle, his helm bore the marks and dints of many blows, his breast was scarred with wounds, his sword dulled with hacking, his axe chipped with striking. Wherever he rode the foe fell like hail beaten by the wind. They were powerless before him; death came to them with the falling of his brand; and before his arm multitudes of heathen bit the dust. [Illustration: "IN THE MINSTRELS' GALLERY."] At length befell an evil day for the Christian army. Sir Ro was captured by a cunning strategy of the foe, and, bound hand and foot, was carried off to a Saracen town. There, stripped of his knightly raiment, and dressed in the poor garb of a palmer, he was cast into a filthy and dark dungeon, and there left to pine and die. For long dreary months did the brave knight suffer this cruel captivity without a murmur or complaint. His cheeks grew white, his limbs thin, his frame was wasted; the palmer's dress hung loose about his figure. None would have recognised in that feeble prisoner the once gay and handsome lord of Staley Hall. One night Sir Ro fell into a troubled sleep, in which he dreamed some horrid dream. It seemed that some great evil threatened his wife and kindred at home--an evil which he had no power to avert. So vivid was the dream that, on awakening, the force of his anguish was such as to cause his frame to tremble and his heart to languish with despair. But, like a good Christian knight, he fell upon his knees and poured forth his soul in earnest prayer to God, asking his Heavenly Father to succour his wife in the hour of peril, and, by some means--if it were His will--to restore him to his home. Having thus prayed, a calm fell upon the knight, and, repeating the Saviour's prayer, he laid himself upon his couch, and fell into a gentle sleep. * * * * * Sir Ro awoke with a start. It seemed as though a bright light from heaven blinded him. There was a warmth as of living fire about him. All the cell seemed a-flame. Then his full senses came, and he leaped and cried aloud for joy. There in front of him was the fairest scene in all the world. Gone was the cold damp cell, gone the poisonous atmosphere of the dungeon, gone were the iron fetters, his strength had returned to him, and lo!--before him, shining fair in the summer sunlight, rich in the fulsome melody of singing birds, was a fair English landscape, and beyond it his own ancestral hall of Staley. God had heard his prayer. By His own Almighty working he had bridged time and space, and Sir Ro was safe again at his old English home. "A miracle, a miracle!" exclaimed the knight. And, like a good Christian, he fell upon his knees, and gave thanks to God. When he arose Sir Ro passed along the soft and level sward of green until he came to the hall door. There he knocked long and loud. The warder who answered the knocking, failed to recognise the knight. "Who knocks so long and loudly?" asked the warder, peering curiously at the palmer. "For a holy man, friend, methinks thou hast a mighty powerful stroke." This greeting reminded Sir Ro that he was no longer dressed as a knight, but in the garb of a palmer, and that he had best put off knightly ways unless he wished to be discovered, so, in a feigned voice, he answered: "I am a humble palmer, hungry and footsore, and I crave a meal and leave to rest awhile. All of which I pray ye grant for Christ Jesu's sake." "Well, well," said the warder, somewhat mollified by the penitent tone of his visitor, "of a truth thou lookest woe-begone and travel-stained. Come thou within and eat and drink, and then, perchance, thou wilt have a tale to tell, which will help the hours to pass merrily. Hast thou any tidings? Is there any fresh news from the Holy Land?" "Little of importance," replied the supposed palmer. "But before I tell my story, perhaps thou wilt answer me a few inquiries, for I confess I am mightily curious about this same hall of thine. I had thought this was the hall of Staley." "And so it is, Sir Palmer. What belike should make thee doubt it?" "Well, friend, I have travelled in the Holy Land myself, and thy master's escutcheon is not unknown to me. He was a stout soldier of King Richard against the Paynim. And that banner which floats from the high tower bears not the same devise as that which Sir Ro of Staley bravely upheld against the Saracens." "In truth, thou art right there, Sir Palmer. 'Tis not the same banner, and, though I eat my salt beneath the new devise, I do not mind confessing that I would sooner see the old one flying overhead. 'Tis a sad story, friend. Hast thou not heard in thy wanderings that the brave knight of Staley was slain in the Holy Land?" "That is news to me," answered the other, starting. "But even so, what of his lady? Is she not alive?" The warder looked uneasily about him, as though he had no wish to talk upon such a subject. "The women can tell thee more of my lady," said he. "And thou art still hungry. Eat first, and talk afterwards." [Illustration: DOORWAY TO STALEY CHAPEL, MOTTRAM CHURCH.] Saying which he ushered Sir Ro to an apartment, and left him for a while to the attention of the waiting maids. As the warder, even so the maids--none recognised their lord, Sir Ro, in the palmer's garb which he was wearing. In accordance with the old laws of English hospitality, they brought to him a cup of methyglin, and manchets of bread to eat. As he supped, Sir Ro fell into conversation with the maids; he asked after the health of the Lady of Staley, and whether he might have an audience with her. To which the maids made answer that the Lady of Staley was sore troubled, and even then was weeping in her chamber, and would see no man. Then they related to him the circumstances of their lady's trouble. The knight of Staley, they said, had gone away to fight in the great crusade. News had come that he was dead--having been captured and put to death by the enemy--and now the kinsmen of the lady were forcing her to wed again, although her heart was still with her dead lord, and she could bear the sight of no other man. "That," said the spokeswoman, "is why Staley Hall is so much changed, and why another banner floats above the turrets." "But if your lady does not love the newcomer, why then does she submit to a marriage which must be distasteful? Did not her lord will his estates to her in case he should fall in the Crusade?" "That we know not, good sir palmer. But 'tis said that this new knight has made her understand that he hath a grant of her late husband's lands from the king, and that he will dispossess both her and her relations unless she consents to marry him. Folk do think it is more for the sake of her kinsfolk that she brings her mind to the wedding." "And when is the wedding to be?" "To-morrow." Sir Ro pondered awhile, then turning to the chief serving-maid, asked: "Would'st do thy lady a service?" Being answered in the affirmative, he took his empty drinking-cup, and dropped into it the half of his wife's broken wedding ring, which he had retained, and bade the maid carry it to her mistress. This the maid did. On seeing it, the Lady of Staley gave a great cry, and, saying that the palmer surely brought some news of her dead husband's last hours, and perchance carried his dying message, she commanded him to be brought into her presence. Sir Ro now beheld the face of his loved one, whom he had never thought to see again. At first the lady failed to recognise in the guise of the palmer, the husband whom she had never ceased to love, and Sir Ro, being anxious to learn whether she was still true to him, forebore to make himself known. The lady, with tears in her eyes, looked at the half of the wedding ring which the palmer had brought, and placing her hand in her bosom drew forth the companion half which she wore ever near her heart. Then, with many sobs, she protested that the image of her dead lord had never left her, and that she only consented to mate with another in order that her kinsfolk should not be reduced to beggary. [Illustration: EFFIGY OF SIR RO AND HIS LADY, IN STALEY CHAPEL, MOTTRAM CHURCH.] Bit by bit the knight drew from her all the story: how her new suitor had been the one to bring tidings of her lord's death, and how he, having secured the Staley estates, now offered her the choice of a union with him or beggary for herself and her people. Then Sir Ro, unable to restrain himself any longer, uttered her name in his own voice, and instantly she recognised him, and, with a great cry, fell into his arms. Now the joyful cry uttered by the Lady of Staley rang throughout the hall, and, full of wonder and fear, the retainers rushed to the chamber, feeling that they had been indiscreet to leave her alone with an unknown palmer. The treacherous knight, who, by his lying tale, sought to entrap her into marriage, also appeared upon the scene, and, in a voice of anger, demanded of the palmer what he wanted, and by what right he was there. "By the best right in the world," answered Sir Ro--"the right of master." "Insolent," cried the traitor-knight in a fury, drawing his sword as he spake. "Thou shalt pay dearly for thy folly." But Sir Ro, with a sharp action, cast from his shoulders the palmer's disguise, and, standing forth in the full glory of his warlike figure, snatched a mace from the wall, and advanced to meet his enemy. "A Staley, a Staley!" he cried, giving forth the rallying cry of his house in a voice which the retainers knew of old. Instantly he was recognised, and with shouts of joy the men-at-arms and servitors sprang to his side, whilst some of them disarmed the traitor, and without waiting for the order from their lord, hurried him to the deepest dungeon, there to await justice when the joyful celebrations anent Sir Ro's return had come to an end. Needless to say the imposter met with the punishment he deserved; he was stripped of his knightly rank, and was never afterwards seen or heard of in Longdendale. The bells of Mottram Church rang out a merry peal in honour of the homecoming of the Knight of Staley. Sir Ro and his lady lived a long and happy life together. At their death they were buried in Mottram Church, where an effigy was placed to their memory above their grave. This effigy, which represents a knight in full armour, and his lady lying side by side, may still be seen in the Staley Chapel of the old Church at Mottram, and it serves to keep green the story of Sir Ro's adventures. AUTHOR'S NOTE. In Mottram Church is an ancient monumental effigy, which is said to represent the figures of Sir Ro or Ralph de Stavelegh of Staley Hall and his wife--the hero and heroine of the foregoing legend. "Roe Cross," the name of a well-known spot in Mottram, is also attributed to the connection of the place with this popular local crusader. VI. Robin Hood's Visit to Longdendale. Robin Hood, the greatest bowman that old England ever knew, frequently visited Longdendale. Probably the "thick woods of Longden," with their wealth of wild red deer, induced him to lead his band from the haunts of merrie Sherwood to the no less merrie land of Longdendale. Old traditions tell of a "mighty forest in Longdendale, whose trees were so thick that the squirrels could leap from branch to branch from Mottram to Woodhead." Such a country might well attract a lover of the free forest life like bold Robin Hood; moreover, there ran a road over a good portion of Longdendale, along which the fat old Abbots of Basingwerke were wont to convey their treasures from their township of Glossop, to their fine abbey seat in Wales. Doubtless the Abbot dreaded a meeting with the mighty outlaw, for Robin dearly loved to pluck a fat-bellied churchman that he might place the golden nobles in the pouches of the poor. This story, however, has nothing to do with the robbing of the Abbots or Monks of Basingwerke. It is a story of skill and fabulous strength. Indeed, there are many who doubt that the incidents related ever occurred--simply because such things seem impossible. But then those incidents are recorded in the traditions of the people of Longdendale, and, consequently, they are worthy of serious consideration. He must be either an amazingly bold or an exceedingly ignorant man, who would cast a doubt on the veracity of a Longdendale tradition. However, the reader must judge for himself. The story has it that bold Robin Hood and his forest band (including the redoubtable Little John, Friar Tuck, Will Scarlet, and Much, the miller's son, and a hundred other sturdy yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, and having great long bows of English yew and good cloth-yard shafts) appeared one day in the Longdendale country. Weary of hunting the stag through the woodland glades, they were longing for some chance of adventure to present itself, when they became aware of a loud and dismal moaning hard by. The sound came from a handsome youth who, cast full length upon the sward, was bitterly bemoaning his cruel fate. It appeared that he was betrothed to a beautiful maiden, but her guardian (who was a grim old bachelor) had forbidden their union, and finally, to prevent all intercourse between them, had shut her up in his castle. On hearing the story the foresters were loud in their denunciations of such heartless conduct. They vowed it was the greatest sin that man could possibly commit--to interfere with lover's meetings. Little John was for attacking the castle, battering down the gates, and sending an arrow through the mid-rib of the guardian, which process, he thought, was calculated to end the matter at once. But Robin, though anxious enough for a fight, was of opinion that his henchman's plan might endanger the maiden, who was completely at the mercy of the tyrant. He suggested an interview, and, accordingly, the stout Friar Tuck was sent as ambassador or emissary to make terms with the maiden's guardian. [Illustration: SCENE NEAR BOTTOM'S HALL; "PART OF THE ANCIENT FOREST OF LONGDENDALE."] At first the Friar was met with an angry outburst on the part of the guardian--a bold bad baron--who loudly declaimed that he would permit no outside interference with his affairs. "Out on thee, thou fat-bellied churchman," shouted the Baron. "What hast thou to do with lovers, particularly maidens. Methinks thy vows should bid thee leave maids and love severely alone." Now this sort of talk did not at all suit Friar Tuck, who, churchman though he might be, and shaven and shorn to boot, yet loved to kiss a pretty maid on the sly as well as the best layman who ever walked. But he loved not to be twitted about it in this fashion. "Fat-bellied churchman, indeed," quoth he. "And what about thine own fat paunch. As for love and pretty maids, I warrant thou would'st have a long way to travel fore thou comest across a maiden who would fall in love with thee. Such a foul-visaged reptile I never set eyes on. As for beauty--well, as far as thou art concerned--the least said on that head the better." The Baron stared at this rejoinder, as well he might. Such language had never been hurled at him before, and for a moment he could scarcely speak, so great was his surprise. When he recovered speech, he ordered his attendants who were in the room to seize the Friar and cast him into the dungeon. But Tuck lifted the quarter-staff which he carried, and brought it down so heavily upon their crowns that the men dropped like poled oxen. At this the Baron began to swear and rave, vowing all manner of punishments for the Friar,--all of which, however, only made Tuck fall a-laughing. "Come," said he, "thou art short of wind enough, friend Baron. And if thou goest on like that thou art like to choke thyself. Moreover, if thou only so much as raises a finger to summon thy vassals to thy side with intent to lay me by the heels, I shall een clout thee on the sconce as I have served thy catiffs. So thou hadst best listen to reason." Now sorely discomfited as he was, a bright idea suddenly struck the Baron, and turning blandly to the Friar, he readily consented to set free the maiden, and to permit her marriage with her handsome lover, providing the foresters (of whose shooting prowess he had heard so much) could shoot their arrows from the tumulii now called "The Butts" to the upright Druid stones, now known by the name of "Robin Hood's Picking Rods." By setting them this (apparently impossible) task, he thought to rid himself of interference from the band; and he chuckled merrily to himself, when Tuck (who knew nothing of the distance to be covered by the archers) coolly accepted the terms. The time for the shooting display having arrived, the Baron led a gay company to the scene, that he and all his friends might witness the discomfiture of the renowned archers of Sherwood. As for the handsome youth on whose behalf Robin had interfered, he was quite dismayed, and even the assurance of the outlaw could not comfort him, for he thought the feat impossible. The archers stood at the butts, and away in the distance rose the stone target of "The Picking Rods." Robin Hood took the first shot, and he laughed inwardly as he drew the string tight and true. For he knew the secret of the "Long Bow"--(as, indeed, do the chroniclers who tell this story). The arrow left the bow with a shrill whistle of the goose-wing tip, and, greatly to the surprise of the Baron, it fell plump on the target with such force as to cut a notch in the hard stone,--a notch so deep that it may be seen to this day. Little John, Will Scarlet, and the rest of the forest band, all tried their skill, and but few failed to hit the mark, though none were quite so near the centre as their leader Robin Hood. When the shooting was finished the Baron was in a great rage, and he sought for some means of evading the fulfilment of his promise. Turning to Robin Hood he made an offer--that if the outlaw, with his own hands, cast down the great stone which stood upon Werneth Low, then the Baron would not only bestow the maiden upon her lover, but would give her a good dowry into the bargain. On the other hand, if Robin failed to accomplish the task, the whole matter must rest where it was, and the maiden remain a captive. Greatly to the surprise of all, Robin agreed to the proposal. "I will humour thee this once," said he to the Baron. "But if thou attemptest to get behind thy word when the feat is done, my good foresters shall fall upon thee and knock sparks out of thy baronial hide." "If thou doest the feat," quoth the Baron, "rest assured I shall keep my promise." For the task he had set bold Robin was, as the Baron well knew, a thousand times more difficult than that of shooting at the Picking Rods. Robin Hood conversed awhile with Friar Tuck, and then the whole company moved off to the summit of Werneth Low. The stone, or rock, as it should more properly be called, was a huge mass almost the height of a man. It had occupied its position on the summit of Werneth since the world was created. A round half-dozen of the Baron's retainers failed to lift it. But Robin Hood, casting aside his jerkin, and baring his brawny arm, raised the great stone slowly aloft, and then, with one mighty throw, cast it out westward towards the sunset, and, amid a wild shout of triumph, it disappeared in the distance. They afterwards found the stone in the bed of the River Tame, near the woods of Arden, and, under the name of "Robin Hood's Stone" it remains in that same spot to this day. [Illustration: "THE ROBIN HOOD STONE."] Now there are some who profess to believe that no mortal power could cast that stone so great a distance, and they explain the event by supposing that Robin was in league with the good fairies, who gave him strength to lift the stone, and then, (invisible to men) flew away with it, and dropped it in the Tame. And perhaps these people may be right. Be that as it may, there is no record to show that the bold bad Baron disbelieved in Robin's powers, and we may take it for granted that the lovely maiden was duly released, that she married the lad of her choice, and that they lived happy ever afterwards, as they certainly deserved to do. * * * * * It is asserted by some that there was a much smaller stone near the great Robin Hood Stone on Werneth Low, and that Little John afterwards threw this stone in the direction of the one thrown by Robin. The second stone, being lighter, travelled a few yards further than the first, but the throw being not so skilful the stone was broken in several pieces by the fall. It lies to this day near the Robin Hood Stone in the waters of the River Tame, and it still retains the name of that giant forester Little John. AUTHOR'S NOTE. The "Robin Hood relics," referred to in the foregoing legend, are objects of great local interest and curiosity. The "Robin Hood's Picking Rods" are situated on Ludworth Moor, and consist of portions of two upright stone pillars rising from a massive stone base. They are thought by many to be relics of the Druidical period, and are referred to in the "Legend of Coombs Rocks"--the first legend of the present series. It is said that they received their present name because Robin Hood and his outlaws used them as a target for their arrows, and the dents in the pillars are said to have been caused by the arrow points. The "Robin Hood Stone" is a huge rock which lies in the bed of the River Tame near the Denton Cemetery at Hulme's Wood, almost opposite the Arden Paper Mill. As stated in the legend, there are fragments of Little John's stone near it, and old traditions state that both stones were thrown to their present positions from the top of Werneth Low by the two foresters whose names they bear. Certain indentations in the larger stone are said to be the imprints of the fingers of Robin Hood, whose grip was so strong that he left the impression in the solid stone. VII. The Abbot of Basingwerke Or THE WEHR-WOLF OF LONGDENDALE. Glossop, which in the Doomsday survey was reckoned as part of Longdendale, was granted by William the Conqueror to his natural son, William Peveril--Peveril of the Peak,--whose descendant was disinherited by Henry II. for procuring the death of the Earl of Chester by poison, when the township reverted to the Crown. King Henry, however, being on a military expedition to North Wales, became acquainted with the monks of Basingwerke, and in return for their friendship and attention he bestowed the township upon Basingwerke Abbey. A road which crosses a portion of Longdendale is known as The Monk's Road, and is so called because the Monks of Basingwerke are said to have made and used it. On the wildest part of this road stands a large stone, hollowed out in the shape of a rude seat, which is said to have been the seat of the Abbot of Basingwerke, who periodically held open-air court on that spot. The stone is known as "The Abbot's Chair." On a certain day in the reign of good King Henry, the Abbot of Basingwerke sat in state upon the stone seat of "The Abbot's Chair." He was holding a court for the receipt of all his rents and tithes, for the dispensation of justice in that part of his possessions, and for the purpose of hearing any petitions which the people might wish to make. To him came an old dame, full of woe and misery, and almost blind with the falling of bitter tears. Her tale was enough to melt the stoutest heart. She had an enemy, and the enemy was a woman who dabbled in witchcraft. Through the agency of evil spirits, this witch had brought death upon the old dame's husband and on all her children, so that now she was all alone in the world, and knew not where to look for shelter or for bread. It was said, also, that the witch possessed the power of changing her shape, appearing now as a woman, now as a man, now as an animal or bird, so that it was almost impossible to catch her and bring her for punishment. The Abbot of Basingwerke, on hearing the story, was very angry. He first relieved the distress of the poor woman, and then pronounced an awful curse upon the wicked witch. "May the hand of Heaven fall upon this wicked mortal," cried the Abbot, "and in whatever shape she be at the present moment, may that shape cling to her until justice has been done." [Illustration: "THE ABBOT'S CHAIR."] Then he prophesied that ere long the righteous wrath of heaven would fall upon the witch, and that a bitter death would assuredly be her portion. And the old dame went away satisfied. Now it chanced that that very morning the witch had changed herself into a wehr-wolf, and was even then prowling about the forest in search of victims. And by further good luck it happened that good King Henry II., who was on a visit to the Baron of Ashton-under-Lyne, was out hunting in company with his son, Prince Henry, the Lord of Longdendale, the Baron of Ashton, and other noblemen and knights of the district, The Royal party hunted chiefly in the forests of Longdendale, which were noted for wild boars, deer, and game of every description. And inasmuch as it was customary at a Royal hunt for every portion of the forest to be explored, and all the game therein, great and small, driven forth before the hunters, there was--providing there was any efficacy in the Abbot's curse--every prospect of the wicked old witch being immediately laid by the heels. On former occasions when she had assumed the form of an animal, it had always been easy for her, if pursued, to fly into the nearest thicket, and there resume her human shape, or else to suddenly disappear altogether. But if the Abbot's curse took effect and compelled her to remain in the garb of a wehr-wolf, then it was almost certain that she would meet her doom before the sun set. The hunt proceeded, and the huntsmen met with good sport, but the chief success of the day fell to the lot of the Lord of Longdendale, who slew "several horrible British tigers," and after a tough struggle succeeded in killing the largest wild boar which was ever seen in Cheshire. Prince Henry, who was a valiant youth, was desirous of imitating the exploits of the Lord of Longdendale, and accordingly he repaired to a gloomy part of the forest in search of some worthy adventure. Here, to his great surprise, he was suddenly set upon by a fierce old wehr-wolf, which, taking him unawares, seemed likely to put him to death. [Illustration: BASE OF CROSS ON THE MONKS' ROAD.] At the first assault the Prince's steed, by swerving as the wehr-wolf sprang, luckily saved the rider, and Prince Henry was enabled to bring his hunting spear to bear upon the beast. He drove at it, and although he succeeded in piercing its side, so that it cried out horribly--more like a human cry than a beast's, said the Prince, when he afterwards came to recount the story of the combat--yet it seized the spear handle in its forepaws, and with a snap of its great jaws broke the spear clean in two, so that the Royal huntsman was left almost defenceless. He drew out his long hunting-knife and buried it to the hilt as the beast sprang at him, but though he fought bravely and long, the terrible thing succeeded in pulling him from his horse to the ground. Here the Prince gripped the beast by the throat, but his strength was much spent, and it seemed almost certain that he must succumb. Fortunately, however, he had been followed at a distance by the Baron of Ashton, who arrived upon the spot just in time to turn the fight, and to engage and finally slay the wehr-wolf. Great honour was, of course, bestowed upon the Baron of Ashton, and the carcase of the wolf was taken in triumph to the Castle at Ashton-under-Lyne. Upon the beast being opened, its stomach was found to contain the heads of three babes which it had devoured that morning. Much talk then ensued as to the unusual fierceness shown by the wehr-wolf, and the Prince again and again asserted that at times the cries of the beast were most human in sound. A forester, also, on hearing of the exploit, came forward and gave some strange testimony. "May it please your highness," said he, "I was to-day lying in a doze beneath the greenwood, whither I had crawled to hide, the better to enable me to watch and ambush certain forest marauders who interfere with the deer, when I was suddenly startled by a strange noise, and, on looking through the copse, beheld a wehr-wolf tearing at its own skin as though it desired to cast it off, even as a man discards his clothes. And the thing screamed and moaned piteously, and it seemed to me that a woman's cracked voice, muttering wild incantations, emerged from the beast's throat. Upon hearing which I was sore afraid, thinking I was bewitched by the evil one, and I fled." Divers others had also strange tales to tell of the wehr-wolf's actions, and that same evening, on the Abbot of Basingwerke coming to dine with the Royal hunting party at the hall of Ashton-under-Lyne, it was proved beyond doubt that the wehr-wolf was none other than the wicked witch. Thus was the curse of the Abbot speedily fulfilled and justice meted out. Needless to say that witch was never seen again. VIII. The Devil's Elbow. The traveller through the valley of the Etherow is invariably impressed with the wild grandeur of the scenery, and in nine cases out of ten his attention is especially claimed by the bold rock escarpment known as "The Devil's Elbow," which frowns high over the course of the stream. The situation of the rock is certainly romantic: the wild moorlands of bog and heather stretch away on either side, in fact the rock stands on the verge of some of the wildest mountain scenery of Great Britain. The very name of the place is suggestive of legend, and one is not surprised to learn that there are some queer stories related concerning the neighbourhood; one of these explains how the rock came to receive its name. The date of the story is uncertain--that fact, however, should not trouble the reader. At the time when the events now to be related actually occurred, there was a castle standing on one of the heights above the Etherow; it was a strong castle, fit home for a proud old feudal lord; and its owner, De Morland, was one of the most haughty of those barons who claimed descent from the great Norman lords who landed with William the Conqueror. Little is known of him beyond the fact that he was immensely proud of his long ancestry, that he was very fierce, that he was rich, and looked with scorn upon most of the gentry of the neighbourhood. These things certainly do not speak much for his good sense, for why a man should imagine that the possession of a few more pieces of gold or silver makes him a better man than his neighbour, is a mystery. For instance, a thief may by successful robbery become wealthier than an honest poor man, but surely the mere possession of greater wealth does not make him better than the poor man. The principle of this holds good with regard to wealth, no matter how it may have been secured. So, after all, the Baron de Morland had no sound base on which to build up his pride. The baron had a daughter named Geraldine, who was born on May day, and was as sweet as the month in which she was born. Her teeth were like pearls, her hair gleamed like gold, her skin was the fairest, and her figure the most beautiful ever known in Longdendale. Altogether she was a maid to set the hearts of men aflame with love. Now it should be stated at the outset that the maiden had been wooed by more than one noble suitor, but she had an eye to none save a brave young knight who came from Mottram. His name was Sir Mottram de Mossland, and he was lord of a castle--something similar in appearance to that of the Baron de Morland, but not quite so grand--which stood on a bold ridge near Mottram town. This knight had long been in love with the lady Geraldine, and on several occasions had managed to get interviews with his lady-love. We may be sure he lost no time in making known to her the state of his heart, and in ascertaining the exact condition of her own. They kissed, and swore fidelity to each other, and generally behaved like all young lovers do. But bye and bye the Baron de Morland got to hear of this lover's business, and he swore a terrible oath concerning it. [Illustration: "THE LADY GERALDINE."] "By my halidome," swore he, in the hearing of his daughter; "Who is this upstart de Mossland? Are his lands to be compared with mine? Is his name to be linked with that of de Morland? Shall one of his hated blood mate with my own superior stock. Out upon the thought. I will slay him sooner. Yea, by my halidome, and all the saints whom I adore, I swear most solemnly that if I know him to speak another word with my daughter, it shall be the last word he shall ever speak. For I will have his blood." The Lady Geraldine heard this terrible oath, and knowing the character of her furious parent well, was quite certain that he would carry out his threat. So, fearing for the safety of her lover, she had a message conveyed to him, begging him, if he really cared for her, to cease his stolen visits for a time. The lover, though sorely troubled, obeyed her requests, and the days passed by in fruitless sighing and longing. Of course, it goes without saying, that, although he might refrain from speaking to the maid, a handsome and brave gallant like Sir Mottram de Mossland would yet be on the alert to secure a glimpse of his lady-love, and would worship her with his eyes even if his lips were doomed to be closed. And so it came to pass that, day by day, often in disguise, he followed her path, and gazed longingly at her from a distance. Now, one day when she was out riding on her milk-white palfrey, her steed took fright, and ran away, and would certainly have leaped down a dreadful precipice--carrying the lady to death,--if the gallant Sir Mottram had not sprung at its head, and pulled it, by main force, to a place of safety. Now, in spite of his lady-love's message, he could no longer refrain from speaking, and, folding her in his arms, he kissed her, and asked for some token of love in return. The maid kissed him gladly, and promised to marry him in spite of her stern and cruel father. Then, full of joy, Sir Mottram went on his way singing gaily, for his heart was lifted up by the promise of his lady-love. Unfortunately, however, the Baron de Morland was riding that way, and when he beheld the transports of Sir Mottram he immediately guessed what had been toward, and he at once began to swear again. No oath was too strong for him to use concerning the family of Sir Mottram de Mossland. It should be stated in explanation, that years before, the Baron had been in love with Sir Mottram's mother--then a pretty maiden in her teens--and had been rejected by her in favour of Sir Mottram's father. Hence the Baron de Morland could never bear the sight or mention of a de Mossland, and hence his hatred of a union between Sir Mottram and his daughter Geraldine. Full of anger the Baron rode home to his castle, and there at once sent for his daughter. "You minx," cried he, "is't true that you have promised yourself to that foul de Mossland?" "It is true, my father," said Geraldine, in a low yet clear voice. "What else could I do since I love him? Moreover, he is not a foul knight, but is brave and true." Now the Baron swore again. "You witch," he cried, "know this, rather than you should wed de Mossland--yea, by all the saints I swear it!--I will send you to the devil." "Oh, my father!" shrieked Geraldine, "have mercy!" And her shrieks rang through the castle, till the serving maids and the men-at-arms came running in to see what was the matter. But the Baron took up his sword, and with the flat of it struck right and left, and drove them forth. Then, turning once more to her, he shouted: "Mark well what I say. If you speak to de Mossland again I will summon the devil's aid, and you shall be sorely punished." Then he left the room, and the lady fainted. Now, the Lady Geraldine was bold enough, as became a daughter born of a race of fighting men, and, having pledged her word to her lover, she had no intention of going from it. So, on the day appointed, she proceeded to a certain spot, where her lover met her, all prepared for flight. The lovers kissed, and then the knight began: "Dear Geraldine," said he.--But before he could proceed further, an awful thing happened. A dark form rose up between them, and, on looking at it they knew it was the Devil. He was in his own shape, with horns, hoofs, and tail complete. With a mocking laugh he bent his elbow, and made as though to seize the maid, but Sir Mottram, throwing his arms about her, turned and fled, hoping to be able to cross a running stream before the devil could touch them, and then, by the laws of sorcery, they would be free from satanic molestation. The devil, however, gained on them rapidly, and it appeared certain that he would catch them, when, just as he put out his hand to touch the maid, a strange light appeared in the sky, and a voice called out the one word--"Hold." The Devil staggered as though he had been shot, and when he recovered the light had vanished, and with it the maiden and her lover. They were never seen again, but the legends say that they were made perfectly happy by the fairies, and that they still haunt the banks of the Etherow at certain seasons of the year in the forms of two white swans. As for the devil, he received a shock. At the moment the light appeared, his right arm had been bent at the elbow for the purpose of seizing hold of his prey, but lo! when his victims had disappeared, he found that the powers which had delivered them from him had turned his right arm into stone. Not a muscle of it could he move, it would not bend, it was worse than useless, it was an encumbrance. So Satan, being a philosopher in his way, determined to make the best of a bad job. He tore the arm out by the roots, and left it there--the elbow showing prominently over Longdendale. And that is how the great rock known as the Devil's Elbow came to be perched high up above the Etherow valley. AUTHOR'S NOTE. The Devil's Elbow is the name given to a picturesque rock which stands on the brow of a high and steep hill above the valley of the Etherow. This rock is one of the landmarks of the Longdendale country. IX. The Legend of Charlesworth Chapel. An old chapel at Charlesworth is said to have owed its foundation to the circumstances narrated in the following tradition. Once upon a time--it is impossible to say exactly when, because, unfortunately, the records as to date have been lost, but it was certainly in that halcyon period of English history which is generally spoken of as "the olden time"--a traveller was on his way from the northern parts of England to London. Here again the chronicles are slightly obscure, because there is no mention of his name, and opinions differ as to his occupation. Some state that he was an Irish merchant, others that he was a priest. But be that as it may, all agree that he made the journey, that he made it on foot and alone. For the purposes of this story, therefore, it will suffice to refer to him as "The Traveller." He had reached that portion of Derbyshire known as the Peak, and was journeying over that part of the Peak which includes Coombs Rocks and the hills above the River Etherow, when he found himself overtaken by the night-fall. The track he was travelling was but ill-defined; it led through a desolate region--in fact, one of the wildest regions in all Britain--and, therefore, was but seldom used. As a consequence it was no easy task to keep to it in broad daylight, and when the darkness enveloped the moor, the danger of losing it was very great. To-day, when almost every acre of the country is cultivated and drained, the neighbourhood though savage enough is comparatively a safe one to travel, but in the time of which we speak there were treacherous bogs on every side in which the unwary might easily be swallowed up. Accustomed as he was to the perils and vicissitudes of a wandering life, the Traveller was, nevertheless, somewhat dismayed to find himself be-nighted so far from any habitation, and in a country altogether strange to him. "Now may the good saints protect me," mused he, "for of a truth I am like to need their intercession this night. Already the path grows fainter, the skies seem charged with rain, and the wind moans eerily." He wrapped his cloak tighter about his limbs, and stepped along at a brisker pace. "If only the night would clear," he said, "so that I could see distant objects, then should I be likely to make my way in safety from this desolate moor. But the darkness hangs heavy like a pall: it is damp as though the clouds were settling on the heather, and--ha!" The last exclamation was wrung from him by the slipping of his foot, and the fact that he suddenly found himself standing up to the knees in the sponge-like peat. He turned his face and tried to retrace his steps, hoping to regain the path, but this was no easy task, and presently he found that he was wandering hopelessly through the bog, with every risk of becoming engulfed if he proceeded further. To make matters worse, at that moment, a thick white choking mist settled down on the moor, and it seemed to the Traveller that his fate was indeed sealed. He stretched out his staff in despair, and by great good luck it struck on firm grit, and in another moment the Traveller had hauled himself upon solid earth. Once here, prudence told him not to stir, either to the right hand or the left, lest all the horrors from which he had just escaped should be again about him. There was nothing for it but to wait patiently for the return of day, when he might be able to thread his way through the mazy bogs in safety. But the night was chill, the mist was like the icy touch of death, and in a little while the Traveller was shaking in every joint. The keen cold went to the bone, and it seemed as though he must now perish from exposure. "Now indeed am I in a sorry plight," quoth he, "and I have need of the Divine help; else I am lost." Whereupon, being a good Christian, he fell upon his knees, and prayed aloud to God for help, vowing that if he was permitted to reach his home again he would return to those hills, and as a thankoffering erect thereon a house of prayer dedicated to his patron saint. Scarcely was the prayer ended when a great wind arose, the mists were rolled away like a curtain, the hill tops stood out in the clear night, the stars shone, and the moon-beams fell softly over the landscape, and a shepherd came along as though a heaven-sent guide to show him the path from the hills. "Friend," said the shepherd simply, as he beheld the Traveller, "Hast thou been long upon the moor? If so, thou shouldst indeed be thankful to God, for thou hast run a great risk of losing thy life upon this desolate wilderness of heather." "Thou sayest truly," replied the Traveller, who then proceeded to recount his experiences and his vow, and also asked the name of the place where they stood. Then he marked the spot, which lay upon the bleak hill-side above the present village of Charlesworth. "I will surely come here again," said he, "if my life is spared, and fulfil my vow." On concluding his journey, and having discharged his business, he immediately returned to the Peak, and on the spot of his delivery he built a small chapel or oratory of bog oak, which was specially brought over from Ireland. This building, says tradition, was erected upon the site now occupied by the present Charlesworth Chapel. Why Irish bog oak should have been the material used in building, the present writer has not been able to discover, nor does the tradition in this particular altogether agree with the following account of what is therein stated to have been the original fabric. "It was a small octagon chapel," says the historian, "the roof of which was carved; the arched rafters resting on massive buttresses, the walls rough blocks of stone, the floor earth covered with rushes, the seats and altar simple and unpretentious." Possibly the building mentioned in this account was a successor of an even earlier structure, and to judge from other sacred buildings in the neighbourhood, it is by no means unlikely that the earliest chapel of all was one mainly composed of timber. But after all, what does it really matter whether the chapel was built of wood or stone, so long as the Traveller fulfilled his vow, and so long as the chapel served the purpose for which it was erected? X. Sir Edmund Shaa. In the reign of King Henry VI. there dwelt in Longdendale a youth who bore the name of Edmund Shaa. It is claimed by some that he was a native of Longdendale, but other authorities assert that he was born in the parish of Stockport. Certain it is that he was connected with the parish of Stockport, and also with that of Mottram--a connection which he maintained up to the close of his life. Moreover, the Shaas were among the earliest of the inhabitants of Mottram of whom we have reliable record, and the name Shaa, in its modernised form of Shaw, is still found in the town, and other portions of the parish. At the period of our story, the Shaas were recognised as a family of great respectability, though not of much wealth. They probably belonged to the yeoman class, and for generations had been accustomed to live on the soil, passing their lives in the open air, varying the hours of toil with the healthy recreations then common--shooting with the bow, sword-play, or indulging in the chase. Healthy, manly lives they led, fearing God, obeying the laws, and paying their way honestly enough, with a margin left over to provide against a rainy day--but by no means able to amass any great store of wealth. Besides Edmund Shaa, his father, John Shaa, had other sons, of whom, however, little is known. The boyhood of Edmund Shaa passed like that of other Longdendale children, exhibiting no signs of extraordinary promise, unless the bright alertness and the ambitious imaginings of the lad might be accounted as such. But as he grew older, there came over the boy an unconquerable aversion to the unchanging life of the country. Not that the life itself was disagreeable, but the labour seemed all in vain, never leading to anything better than the humble respectability which was the highest mark of yeoman rank. Young Edmund Shaa had seen the trains of noble knights pass by; he had witnessed the huntings in the forests of Longdendale, when lords and ladies gay rode in grand attire, on richly-caparisoned steeds, and received every mark of respect from the country people who assembled to witness the sport. And to his young brain, it seemed that the best of them all was but a mortal of flesh and blood and intelligence, like any yeoman's son and daughter, or even as the hinds. Was not he, Edmund Shaa, as well made, as shapely, as strong, as keen of intellect as any of the rich gallants who flaunted themselves in silken attire before his eyes; and that being so, why should not he, putting his abilities to use, come to attain a position of power and affluence equal to theirs? The young lad thought the matter out many a time, and to him there seemed but one reason--the lack of opportunity. In Longdendale he had no chance of distinguishing himself. There was no wealth to be won in Longdendale,--nay, even the very abilities which he knew himself to possess were not recognised by his fellows--for is it not a worldwide truism that "a prophet is not without honour save in his own country?" Then the lad decided in his own mind that he must leave his Cheshire home, and seek occupation elsewhere, if he was to become anything better than a yeoman. He accordingly sought counsel of his elders--his relatives and friends--and made known his ambitions to them. But the elders only laughed at him, and discouraged his scheming. "Banish all such dreams from thy foolish pate," said one. "Thou art a good lad, and a clever one to boot, but the life thy fathers led is good enough for thee. Lords and ladies are above thy station; thou wilt have to work for thy living, and, as for holding thy head high, and bothering thy brains with affairs of State--why, lad, thou art a fool to think about it." Such discouragement was kindly meant, but other folk, to whom the lad told his hopes and longings, were less sympathetic. Some openly jeered at him, called him a dreamer, denounced him as a conceited fop, upbraided him with the fault of considering himself superior to other people, and finally snubbed him and treated him as a snob. Young Shaa bore all this quietly enough in the presence of his tormentors; but the bitterness of it was keenly felt by him, and when alone, he gave way to grief. Often he would seek the quiet of some secluded spot in the woodland glades of Longdendale, and sob as though his heart would break, for it seemed that the obstacles in his path were too great for him to overcome. One day when he thus lay lamenting in solitude over his fate, a great weariness stole over him, the hot summer's day overpowered him, and presently he fell into a doze. Then it was that the good fairies stole from their tiny palaces under the leaves in the forest, where no mortal may ever find them even if he looks, and, taking pity upon the handsome youth who lay sleeping near, decided to help him to achieve that goal of greatness upon which his soul was set. The little sprites gathered around him, and whispered in his ears a wondrous tale of the wealth and honour awaiting in London town all those bold English lads who dared seek fortune there. They drew phantom pictures of a young man's struggle in London, of his success by honest industry and skill, of civic functions in which the young man bore a part, of a grand procession, where the youth,--now grown to manhood's prime,--was become Lord Mayor; and to Edmund Shaa, who saw the pictures in his sleep, it seemed as though the face of that phantom Lord Mayor was his own face. Then the fairies sang a song, and the words of the dream song were these:-- "If thou would'st win great renown, Make thy way to London town; Fortune waits to greet thee there Even London's civic chair; Lord Mayor of London thou shalt be --The wielder of authority. And when thou rulest London town The King shall beg of thee his crown." Shaa awoke with a start, sat up, and rubbed his eyes, telling himself that he had been dreaming--a wondrous pleasant dream,--but to his charmed ears there still came the sweet strains of the music, and the words of the fairy song:-- "If thou would'st win great renown, Make thy way to London town. London town, London town." The lad listened awhile, then sprang to his feet with a joyful cry, and a determined look in his eyes. "To London town," quoth he. "To London town! Thither I will go, and nought shall stop me now." Then with a merry whistle, he made off homewards, and before the sun set, had completed his preparations for the long journey to the south. The rest of Shaa's story reads like some romance, and yet it is true. Once settled in London, he appears to have been successful even beyond his wildest dreams. He became a member of the goldsmith's company, and rising rapidly in wealth and civic position, was ultimately appointed jeweller to King Edward IV.--and this position he continued to hold under four successive monarchs. In the year 1482 he received the dignity of Lord Mayor of London, and henceforth he became one of the most striking and interesting figures in that most dramatic period of English history. He received the honour of knighthood, and his influence was sufficiently powerful to render him one of the most prominent factors in securing the crown of England for King Richard III. When Edward IV. died in 1483, it fell to the lot of Shaa, as Lord Mayor of London, to attend and take part in the funeral ceremonies, and to receive in great state the infant King Edward V., on his subsequent entry to the city. This occurred on May 4th, 1483, and is thus described in the old chronicle:--"When the Kynge approached nere the citie, Edmund Shaa, goldsmith, then Mayre, with William Whyte and John Matthewe, Sheriffs, and all the other Aldermene, in scarlette, with five hundred horse of the citizens in violette, received him reverentleye at Harnesey, and rydyng from thence accompanyed him into the city." Richard, Duke of Gloucester, anxious to seize upon the crown, saw that the only way to accomplish his design was to secure the sympathies and support of the city of London. Being at that time Protector, he made Lord Mayor Shaa a member of the Privy Council, and, after that, he seems to have had no difficulty in inducing him to enlist his sympathy and influence on the side of the plotters, and to secure the services of his brother,--Dr. Shaa--an Austin Friar, and a noted preacher of his day. The initial steps taken, the Shaas played conspicuous and important parts in the critical events which followed. Dr. Shaa preached at St. Paul's Cross against the legitimacy of Edward's children, and in advocacy of the claims of Richard; and Lord Mayor Shaa headed a deputation to Gloucester with an offer of the crown, and after the proclamation he attended as cup-bearer of the King. The citizens of London, however, began to suspect that the sons of their late King (Edward VI.) had been murdered, and showed signs of rebellion, upon which, Richard sent for over 5,000 soldiers to form his bodyguard, and not daring to levy money for the purpose of rewarding them, he disposed of some of the Crown property to Sir Edmund Shaa, who found means to supply the sum required. After the death of Richard at Bosworth Field, Shaa lived more the life of a private citizen, though he still continued to hold office as a magistrate and as the Royal Jeweller, and enjoyed the friendship and confidence of King Henry VII., until his death. During the latter portion of his career he had been associated with the most influential men of his time, honours had fallen thickly upon him, and his relations had become connected with families whose representatives are still to be found in the British Peerage, and among the older landed gentry. It is pleasing to know that although Sir Edmund Shaa figured so prominently in great historic events of his day, he did not forget the northern county that gave him birth. He founded the old Grammar School at Stockport, and left a considerable sum of money with which to endow it. He gave a sum of money towards the cost of the building of the tower of Mottram Church. He also built a chapel in the Longdendale valley, at Woodhead, to which he thus refers in his will. "I woll have two honest preestes, one of them to syng his mass and say his other divine service in a chapel that I have made in Longdendale, in the Countie of Chester; and to pray especially for my soule, and for the soules of my father and mother, and all Christian people; and I woll that he have for his salarie yerely for evermore, the sume of £4 6s. 8d.; and I woll that the other honest preeste be a discrete man, and coning in gramer." The will of Sir Edmund Shaa is a curious yet beautiful specimen of the old English testamentary document. It begins thus--"In the name of God be it, Amen. The xxth day of the monthe of Marche, the yeare of our Lord after tha' compt of the Church of England mcccclxxxvijth, and iijth yeare of the reigne of Kinge Henry the vijth, I, Edmund Shaa, Knight Cytezen and Goldsmith and Alderman and Late Mayor of the Citie of London etc.... First I bequeathe and reccomend my soule to my Lord Jesus Christe, my Maker and my Redeemer; to the most glorious Virgin his mother, our Lady Saint Marye; to the full glorious Confessor, Saint Dunstan, and to the Holy Company of Heaven, and my body to be buryed in the Church of St Thomas of Acres in London, between the Pyler of the same Churche, whereupon the image of Sainte Mychel, the Archangel, standeth before the Auter, there called Saint Thomas Auter, and the nether ende of the same that is to wit as nigh the same as my body may reasonably be layed.... And in consideration that I have bourne the office of Mayoralte of the said City, I will for the honour of the same City, that my body be brought from my house to the Parish Church of St. Petery's, in Chepe, where I am a Parysshen as the Manor is, and from there to my burying at St. Thomas's, of Acres aforesaid, in descrete and honest wise without pomp of the world, and I will have xxiiij (24) honest torches to be bourne by xxiiij paide persons to convey my body from my house to my said Parisshe Churche as the maner is and so to my burying aforesaid, and I will have the same xxiiij torches and my honest tapers to be holden in like wise by iiij poor persons to brenne at my exequies to be doon for my soul as well at my burying aforesaid as at my Moneth's Mynde to be done for me. And I will that eache of the torch bearers and taper holders have for their suche labours to pray for my soule after all my said Exequyes full doon xxd." The will then goes on to say--translated into modern English--"And, as the usage of the City of London, at the burial of one who hath borne the office of mayoralty is, for the mayor and aldermen, and other worshipful and honest commoners, to be present in their proper persons;--to the extent that they may understand that I was a true loving brother of theirs, and am in perfect charity with them, and each of them--if it would like the mayor and aldermen and recorder of the City of London, to be present at my Dirge and Mass of Requiem to be done for me; I would tenderly desire them, after the said Mass, to take such a repast as my executors by the sufferance of our Lord God, shall provide for them; and I will that each of them after his repast, have of my gift, from the hands of my executors, to remember my soul among their devout meditations, inasmuch as I am a brother of theirs, 6s. 8d." Among local bequests, the will contained the following--"I will that my executors, as soon as they may goodly after my decease, do buy so much Welsh frieze, half white, half black or gray, and thereof do make at my cost, 200 party gowns; and the 200 party gowns with 12d. in money along with every gown, I will be given to 200 poor persons dwelling in the parish of Stopford, in the County of Chester, whereat 'my fader and moder lyen buryed,' and within the parishes of Cheadle and Mottram in Longdendale in the said County, and in the parishes of Manchester, Ashton, Oldham, and Saddleworth, in the County of Lancaster, by the counsel and advice of the curates of the said parishes, ... such curates taking counsel with the saddest men dwelling in their parishes, to the intent that those poor persons should have them that have most need unto them." He also wills that his executors make at his cost "sixteen rings of fine gold, to be graven with the Well of Pity, the Well of Mercy, and the Well of Everlasting Life; with all other images and other things concerning the same--the rings to be distributed to certain persons named in the will." He also again refers to "the saide Church of Stopford" (Stockport) and the grave therein where the bodies of his father and mother "lyen buried." Sir Edmund Shaa died on April 20th, 1487, just a month after making his will, and was buried according to his direction in "the Church of St. Thomas of Acres in London." He left behind him a widow--Dame Juliana, one son, Hugh, and two daughters, Katherine and Margaret. Hugh Shaa did not long survive his father, and died without male issue. It only remains to be added in conclusion that Shakespeare has immortalized Sir Edmund Shaa. XI. Lord Lovel's Fate. The Lovel family came into possession of the township of Mottram at an early period. In the time of Edward III. Sir John Lovel held the lordship of Longdendale from the King (as Earl of Chester) by military service. Sir John was a warrior of great bravery and fame. He served through the French wars, and in 1368 is mentioned as a leader under the Duke of Clarence. Most of the Lovels figure in history, and Francis, Lord Viscount Lovel, was a great favourite with Richard III. He was the King's chief Butler and Chamberlain of the Household. Moreover, he exercised a great influence in shaping the course of English affairs of his day. He was the Lovel of the ancient couplet:-- The cat, the rat, and Lovel the dog, Rule all England under a hog. The cat was Catesby, the rat Ratcliffe or Radcliffe, of Ordsall Hall, Salford, and the hog represented the crookbacked King. Francis Lovel was looked upon by his tenants in Mottram as a being of almost equal importance to the King. His word was law, his favour was courted, his anger feared. There are many curious stories told concerning his connection with Mottram and its neighbourhood. It is said that he owned a hall in Mottram which was connected by a subterranean passage with the Parish Church. He is also the hero of many adventures, most of which may be set down as pure stories of imagination. Perhaps the following legend is of this class. Now it should be stated that at the period of which we speak there were witches in Longdendale. The age was one of gross superstition, and it was universally believed that certain mortals, notably old women, were in league with the evil one, and that Satan had bestowed upon them powers of evil whereby they were enabled to work harm upon the persons of any to whom they took a dislike. What particular powers these wretched women possessed will probably never be known; it is quite possible that some of them were students of magic, for in those ages some of the most learned men professed to dabble in mystic arts; but the probability is that by far the greater part of their dreaded powers existed only in the superstitious imaginings of the day. But to the people of that time the witches and their witchcraft were real enough and terrible to boot; so much so that if a man fell ill, or if some piece of bad luck befell him, to all the suffering caused thereby was added the mental torture consequent upon the belief that all the trouble had been caused by the evil schemes of some demon-possessed witch-woman. This belief was widespread, even among the better educated classes, to such an extent, that if a person lay ill of consumption, it was supposed that his waxen image was at that moment slowly melting before some witch-woman's fire, and that every fresh pang of pain was caused by the witch thrusting her sharp bodkin into the image. In Longdendale it was asserted that at night the witches sailed across the bleak moors seated on broomsticks. Often would the peasants rush in terror to the shelter of their cots as they heard a strange rustling overhead, and, on looking up, beheld the wizened forms of old hags riding on broomsticks through the air with a speed which no horse could equal. There are certain stories told which ascribe to Lord Lovel the habit of consulting and using the services of these unholy mortals, but implicit faith cannot be placed upon these stories, because other tales describe him as absolutely fearless and devoid of superstition--a man, in fact, who placed no faith in their supposed powers. On one occasion Lovel was in Longdendale. History does not tell us the cause of his visit, but he had left his hall at Mottram, and was walking in the woodland, when suddenly he found himself confronted by a woman of evil shape. She was an old hag, of bent form and wrinkled face, and she leaned heavily upon a crutch. For all that when she walked she was nimble enough, and could get about with speed. When she spoke it was in a cracked voice, like the croaking of a raven, so that her very tones caused the flesh to creep, and a shudder to pass through the frame of the listener. The nobleman would have passed on with a brief salutation, but the hag planted herself firmly in his path, and sawing the air with her fore-finger commenced to speak. "Thou art a proud man, Lord Lovel, and like all thy class thou regardest the poor as dirt beneath thy feet. But I tell thee that the hour is at hand when thou shalt be lower than they. They that live by the sword shall e'en perish by the sword, and they who scheme to entrap others shall be caught in their own net. The curse of doom is already on thee, and this night I can prophesy the end. Thy downfall shall be speedy, and thy death paltry. Nothing heroic shall there be about either. And the end shall be total. Neither child nor kindred of thine shall rule after thee in Longdendale." Lovel heard, and, despite his courage, he could not help trembling at the terrible aspect of the witch. "Out upon thee, thou whelp of Satan," he said at length, "or I will have thee in the ducking stool." But with a shriek of horrible laughter the witch vanished. Now this was the end of Lord Lovel, and the reader may decide for himself whether or not the witch's prophesy was fulfilled. It is quite certain that from that date his fortunes began to wane. He fought in the Battle of Bosworth Field on the side of the defeated King Richard III., and after the battle he took refuge for a time in Longdendale and Lancashire, but finally was forced to fly to Flanders. He returned to England with the Earl of Lincoln as a supporter of the Pretender, Lambert Simnel, and was a prominent figure at the "court" held for a brief space by that would-be King at the Pile or Peel of Fouldrey--now a picturesque ruin on Fouldrey Island off the coast of Lancashire. On behalf of Simnel he fought in the Battle of Stoke, and the last seen of him was after the defeat of the rebel army, when he was observed to join in the flight, and to swim his horse across a river, and to scramble safely up the further bank. Some say he was slain in this battle, but the popular version of his death ascribes to him a far different ending. According to this version some days after the combat, the disguised figure of a man might have been seen wending his way stealthily to a house at Minster Lovel, near Oxford. The fugitive was none other than Lord Lovel himself. With his enemies on his track, and afraid to trust even his friends, he made his way alone to his own house and entered it under cover of the darkness. Then, not daring to trust even his oldest servants, lest they might be tempted to betray him, he quietly stole to a secret underground chamber, and there immured himself, thinking to lie hidden within until he could find some means of escape from the country. What actually happened no man will ever know, but it is easy to surmise. It would appear that Lovel, from some cause or other, was unable to open the door by which he had entered his hiding-place, and having told no one of his intention to make use of the chamber--or else through treachery--he was perforce left to his fate, and died of starvation. In all probability when he found out his predicament he attempted to set some record of it down on paper, but, if so, his story was destined never to be read. He disappeared from the sight of his own generation, and the world had well-nigh forgotten him. But in the Eighteenth Century--several hundred years after his death--a party of workmen broke into the remains of an underground chamber at Minster Lovel, and to their great surprise came across a skeleton. It was thought that this skeleton was the frame of the once powerful noble--Lord Lovel. It is said that when the workmen broke into the vault, the skeleton was found sitting at a table, the hand resting on a bundle of papers, but that with the admission of air it soon crumbled into dust. After the Battle of Stoke, Lovel's lands were confiscated, and in 1409 were granted to Sir Wm. Stanley, who had turned the fortunes of the day at Bosworth Field. With this change of ownership Longdendale passed out of the hands of the Lovels for ever. XII. The Raiders from the Border-Side. There was once a time when it was considered the height of fashionable conduct for the Scotch who lived upon the border, to dash into the Northern Counties of England, put the men they met with to the sword, burn their homesteads and stores, and carry off the women and cattle. It is quite true that the English, on their part, considered it fit and proper to cross the Scottish border, to raid the lands, and carry off women and cattle from the lower shires of "Bonnie Scotland;" and so on the score of fairness neither side had any cause for complaint. But then, both parties never thought of that; the nature of their own conduct was never questioned, it was always the other side that was in the wrong. Their opponents were "thieves and marauders," their own forays were characterized by the high sounding title of "military expeditions." For such is the way of the world. There is no record to say whether the men of Longdendale ever rode north to join in expeditions across the Scottish border; but it is chronicled that "bold moss-troopers from the border-side" occasionally raided as far south as the rich country of the Longdendale valley. These Scotchmen usually came in strong and well-armed bands, consisting of picked fighting-men, and, oftener than not, led by some distinguished lord or knight who wished to reap fresh honour by reddening his blade in English blood. Sometimes the lord or knight looked upon it as a fair (and certainly the easiest and cheapest) way of securing a wife, or mayhap a mistress, together with a good fat dowry in the shape of plunder. None can blame him for holding such views, for it all came in the manner of living in the olden time. But it did not always happen that the raiders were successful. Sometimes the "raided" were on the look out, and the surprise party themselves met with a surprise. It was a bright morning in the summer, and the valley of Longdendale had never looked more beautiful than it did that morning when Jock, the steward's son, kissed his sweetheart at the end of the lane ere he entered the woods to join his father's men, who had some work to do in the forest. A fine lad was Jock, merry and free as becomes one whose life is mostly spent in the greenwood: his limbs were finely made, he was straight and strong, and there were none in all the country-side who could run, fence, or box like he, or who could shoot straighter or further with the bow. A right proper lad, such as an English maiden loves. His father was steward to the Lord of Mottram, and to that position young Jock looked one day to succeed. In the meantime he discharged such tasks as were set him with diligence, and drank his fill of happiness with that bonny yeoman's daughter, Bess Andrew. Bess knew his habits and his times of departure and homecoming right well, and thus the two found many a chance to bill and coo throughout the day. It was with a light heart that Jock sped through the lanes when he had taken leave of Bess; and with a heart as buoyant, sweet Bess returned to the homestead when the parting was over. The maid sang a snatch of a country song as she entered the farmyard and set about her tasks, wondering whether her mother had missed her during the few moments she had been absent in the lane. [Illustration: BESS ANDREW.] But Goody Andrew, the farmer's wife, was busy in the kitchen, and the farmer himself was away in the fields. His lands were broad, and on this merry morn he was busy at a distance. So Bess had the farmyard to herself save for the presence of the children, her brothers and sisters, all younger than herself. Bess busied herself with the milking-cans for some time, dreaming, as sweet maids will, of love and hope and the life that is to be. Suddenly she started, then bent her head to listen. On the wind came the sound of horses' tread, and the jingling of harness; the sound increased in volume, and it came from the lane which led to the farm. Bess left her work, and moved to the gate. Then she screamed and turned to fly to the steading. For, all gay and boldly, armed to the teeth, came galloping into the farmyard a band of fierce moss-troopers, having at their head a tall big-limbed laird, from the Lowlands over the border. "The raiders," screamed Bess, as she hurried towards the house. "God 'a mercy on us." But she never reached the door, for the leader of the band rode to her side, and with a laugh leaned down, seized her in a strong grip, and swung her to the saddle before him. "The raiders," echoed he; "and of a truth we have won a prize worth raiding. Come, kiss me, my beauty. Thou shalt be my share of the plunder." He forced his face to hers, but the maid fought fiercely, and struck him in the face, whereat the trooper laughed again. "What a spitfire of a wench" said he. "But we will tame thee ere thou art much older. Bring hither a rope my men, and tie her up. Also gag her until she has found her senses, and knows where and how to use her tongue. Now get to work and lose no time, for I have no wish to bring a hornet's nest about my ears. Ho! who comes here. Settle them off in the good old fashion." The last words were uttered as a couple of farm-hands came from an out-building to see what was astir. The poor knaves were instantly seized before they had chance to cry aloud, and in another moment were hanging by the neck from a neighbouring bough. That preliminary accomplished, the troopers proceeded to plunder the farm of all its valuables, and to get together the cattle that lay about. Poor Goody Andrew begged hard for mercy, but her plea only met with a coarse laugh from the robbers. "Thou art a well-favoured vixen," quoth the chief. "And had'st thou only been a score years younger, then I had not left thee to the embraces of the southerners. But thy daughter is fair enough, and I doubt not she will like her Scottish lover when her good humour returns. Now, my lads, set the stead ablaze, and then to horse." The men obeyed to the letter, and in a little while the farm was blazing fiercely, the troopers, loaded with plunder, were galloping towards the hills, on the saddle of the chief was the lovely form of the maiden Bess, bound and gagged; and in the farmyard sat the good dame with her younger children, wringing her arms, and weeping bitterly. * * * * * In the distant meadows, Yeoman Andrew paused at his work to wipe the sweat from his brow, and then looked up. In the direction of his home a column of smoke arose, which had not been there when last he looked. "Hallo!" quoth he, "there is surely something amiss. What ho! ye knaves, leave your work awhile, and hurry with me to the farm, for I fear the worst." Then, in company with his men, he ran to the steading, to find his weeping wife, and the ruin of what had been his home. The farmer was a practical man, so he just swore a good round English oath, and then he got to business. "Ho, there! Will Leatherbarrow, do thou slip for my good grey mare down to John the smith's, get aback, and ride for thy life on their trail. Send word by any messengers thou canst catch from time to time, how they fare. And thou, Hob, cross the fields, and set the great bell at Mottram Church a-ringing, and the rest of you scatter and bring out the archers and the men who can fight. Cease thy chatter, good dame, and see if thou canst scrape me a good meal together '))fore I set about paying my debt to the Scottish laird." In a little while the great bell at Mottram Church was clanging out its wild alarm, and from the woods and fields about, and the distant farms, the stout yeomen were hurrying into the town, bringing with them their bows and bills, their swords and axes, and their horses all ready for the chase. For they had ridden on the track of the raiders before. As the men mustered round the cross near the church, a horseman galloped into the throng, the flanks of his steed white with foam. It was the first messenger from Will Leatherbarrow, who hung like a sleuthhound on the trail. "They have e'en ta'en the Kings' high road," he shouted, "and they ride for the hills." "They will turn off at the bend before they reach Glossop town," said Jock, the steward's son, who now sat his horse at the farmer's side. "I know a short cut, and we may head them off. Do you, Farmer Andrew, ride on the trail, and I will lead a band to get before them. Then not a man of them shall escape." "To horse!" cried the yeoman, curtly assenting. And in another moment the spurs were driven deep, and the men of Longdendale were hard on the track of the foe. Grim men were they when the scent of war was in the air. Men who had learned the use of the bow from their cradle. For did not the men of Longdendale help to scatter the French at Cressy and Agincourt, and did they not in later days join in the annihilation of the Scotch at the fight of Flodden Field? On they rode, and as they went, their number was swollen by fresh recruits, and so they galloped till near the sundown. "The pace tells on the beasts," said one man at length. "It will tell more on the Scotch," said another, "since they are hampered with plunder." And the cavalcade still galloped along. The road wound up the hills, and at the top there was a level stretch of several miles. As the band of pursuers reached the top of the rise, they beheld a cloud of dust at some distance ahead, and a shout of triumph burst from their lips. "They are yonder!" said one. "Ride faster, my men. We shall catch them at the gorge." "They will never get beyond the gorge," said Farmer Andrew quietly. "Jock will ambush them there. The thieves are fairly caught." Then silence reigned again, save for the sound of the galloping horses and the rush of the wind about the horsemen. The pursuers clearly gained upon the foe, but the latter reached the next dip of the road well ahead, and disappeared from sight. A few minutes later, when the Longdendale band reached the top of the descent, a glad sight met their eyes. Across the narrow path, just where the road bent, Jock had drawn up his men, and already the archers were at work. Already several of the Scotch lay dead upon the road, and the rest were in confusion. Ere they could rally, with a wild shout the pursuing yeomen burst on them at the charge, and then there was a fray well worth the telling. It only lasted a few minutes, and Jock backed out of it the moment he found the sweet maid Bess safely in his arms. But the rest of the Longdendale lads laid lustily about them until the work was done. A palatable work it was to them--a clashing of blades, a crashing of axes, and then the great Scottish raid was over. Yeoman Andrew was avenged, and he had more in plunder from the Scots than made up the total of the damages he had sustained. It is said that many a "guid wife" in bonnie Scotland looked southwards with eager eyes for the homecoming of her "man" from the foray in Longdendale, but always looked in vain. For the ravens had a rich feast spread on the hills above the Derbyshire and Cheshire border, and those Longdendale moors were dotted white with the bleaching bones of Scottish men. XIII. The Legend of Gallow's Clough. Near Mottram, on the verge of the moors, overlooking what is now the high road to Stalybridge, is a spot known as Gallow's Clough, which, as its name implies, was in feudal times the scene of the Gibbeting of malefactors. Here in the good old days, was reared the gallows, whereon the criminal was first "hanged by the neck until he was dead," and from which his body was afterwards suspended in chains, until the weather and the birds between them had picked the flesh away, and nothing remained but a few bones--a grim reminder of the power of the law, and the folly and risk of departing from the paths of virtue. In the days when gibbetting was fashionable, it behoved almost every petty township to possess its own gallows, for there was far too great a demand for the services of rope and hangman to permit of only a few recognised places of execution, and one common hangman, as is the custom at the present time. Not that people were very much worse than they are now, but the extreme punishment of the law was meted out for what are now considered the minor crimes of sheep and cattle stealing, poaching, highway robbery, house-breaking with violence, and such like offences. The sight of a dead man dangling between earth and sky was of too common a nature to cause surprise, even so late as the early decades of the nineteenth century. Wild and lonesome as the Gallow's Clough is at the present day, it was a much bleaker and more awesome place in the days when the gibbet was standing there. Then it was considered as a place accursed, and was said to be haunted by the ghosts of all the dead men who had been strangled there. Even in the daylight folk gave the spot a wide berth, and at night when the winds moaned down the gullies from the hills, and swayed the dead men to and fro, and caused the chains to clank and rattle, then, indeed, the traveller kept as far off as his route would permit, and hurried past with beating heart, and face blanched with fear. Nor was that all the terror. Witches were said to infest the place at certain seasons, and in the darkness to hold converse with the ghosts of the malefactors, from whom they learned how to transact deeds of darkness successfully. Men forced to pass that way at these seasons had seen from a distance the crouching forms of the old hags, and had even heard their crooning voices, and the fiendish laughter with which they accompanied their terrible midnight revels. Many a timid dame added a petition to her prayers--that Providence would accord her and all belonging to her, special protection from the witches who danced and plotted and sang the hell-song round the gibbet at Gallow's Clough. On a certain day in the olden time, a throng of people might have been seen wending their way through Mottram to the place of execution at Gallow's Clough. It was a gloomy procession,--calculated to depress the beholder for the remainder of the day, and probably for many days to come. First marched a company of well-armed men--part of the retinue of the feudal lord--and in their midst was one bound, and wearing a halter dangling from his neck. Behind came a motley company of the country-folk--some weeping, some grimly silent, and some few laughing and jesting. Most of those who thus followed in the heels of the armed men were women, and in the front rank of these was a handsome peasant girl, who wrung her hands and cried aloud as though distracted. The prisoner--condemned man though he was, with only a few hundred yards between himself and death--walked with a firm tread, and head held proudly erect. Now and then he turned his head to look at the weeping, wailing girl, and at such times his eyes grew moist: when the guards somewhat roughly thrust the girl back, his lips compressed, and his chest heaved, and his arms tugged at the thongs which bound him, in a manner which indicated that it would have fared ill with the guards had the young man been free. But beyond those silent manifestations of feeling, the prisoner marched to his death as calmly and fearlessly as though the journey had been an ordinary country walk. Presently the procession reached the gibbet at Gallow's Clough, and here it halted. The guard cleared a space about the gibbet, and by means of their axes and bills kept back the crowd. The prisoner and the executioners took their place beneath the gallows, and near them stood a well-dressed man--the representative of the feudal lord. Without loss of time, and with but little ceremony, the executioners went about their business, heedless of the cries of the women, and the piteous appeals for mercy from the handsome peasant girl. Soon the preparations were complete; the well-dressed, officious-looking personage drew forth a document, and proceeded to read aloud the details of the crime for which the poor wretch had to suffer death--shooting at and killing deer in his lordship's forest of Longdendale--a crime of so serious a nature in the eyes of the authorities of that day that nothing less than the death of the offender could atone for the sin. The reading being ended, the reader nodded to the executioners, and they made as though to carry out the sentence forthwith. But at this juncture a diversion was created, for the young woman who had hitherto so persistently and closely hung upon the steps of the guard, burst through the ring and threw herself upon her knees before the lord's representative. "Mercy, mercy, Master Steward! Thou canst save him yet; and it is such a little crime. What is one deer from the forest against the life of a good man? He but shot the deer because I--his wife--and his child needed food. And if thou sparest his life we will work, and more than doubly make up the loss to his lordship." The steward--a dark man of evil countenance--looked at the girl for a moment, and hesitated; then he caught the eye of the prisoner, and instantly his face grew stern. "Get thee gone, thou baggage," said he, spurning the female. "Stop her mouth, some of you; or, if she will scream, take her to the ducking stool." Then, turning to the hangman, he curtly said: "Do your work." With a wild cry of despair, the girl sprang up, leaped towards the condemned man, flung her arms about his neck, and kissed him, and then, before any could stop her, burst from the crowd and fled, shrieking and laughing, over the wastes of the hills. In another moment the prisoner was dangling in the air, and before the night fell the gibbet at Gallow's Clough held the ghastly form of a dead man swinging in chains. * * * * * It was midnight, and the skies were inky black; not a single star showed in the heavens, and there was no moon. A cold wind moaned down the gully, and swung the dead man in his chains so that the gibbet rocked and creaked. In the distant farms the timid country folk shivered in their beds, and as the wind shook the casements, they trembled the more, and told each other they could hear the clanking of the chains and the shrieking of the witches at Gallow's Clough. It was a night on which few would care to stir out of doors, but for all that there were those who set out through the eerie darkness to wend their way to the gibbet. When night had fallen, the dead man's wife crept down from the hills and stood beneath the swaying form of her lifeless husband, and with a grim energy cast pebbles, and uttered shrill cries to scare away the birds that came to peck at the carrion that had once been man. As she kept her vigil, she sang snatches of wild songs, and ever and anon talked to the dead man as though he could understand. It was clear that the woman's grief had driven her mad. Towards midnight she slackened in her exertions, and seated herself at the foot of the gibbet, contenting herself with fearful but intermittent screams to scare away the birds. But presently nature gave out, and she fell into a troubled slumber. She was awakened by the sensation that some other mortal was near, and with a wild cry she sprang to her feet to find herself confronted by an old hag who appeared to be sawing at the dead man's wrist, as though to sever the hand from the arm. "Malediction," croaked the hag, "who art thou?" "I am his wife," answered the mad woman. "What dost thou want, witch?" "Ah!" said the hag; "now I know thee. Thou hast need of help and friendship--I will be thy friend." "What dost thou here?" said the woman, unheeding the latter part of the sentence. "I seek a dead man's hand, and a dead man's flesh. The hand I would dry and wither in the smoke of the fire, and it will point out the way by which my schemes may achieve success. Of the fat of the dead man I would make candles--witch-lights--and by their glimmer I shall see, and see, and see,--things and secrets that are hidden from mortal eyes." "Thou shalt not touch this dead man; he is my husband. Seek what thou requirest elsewhere." The witch placed a long hand on the distracted widow's shoulder. "Be not so foolish, poor wench," said she. "Trouble not over what I do. I tell thee I am thy friend, and the hand of thy dead husband once in my possession, will be of more service to thee than if left rotting here. Will not the ravens come--the birds of the air--and peck the bones clean; and is that not a greater defilement than boiling the fat in the witches' kitchen, and drying the dead man's hand in the smoke of the witches' fire? Listen!--dost know the meaning of revenge?" The poor widow's eyes glistened as though a fire burned within her brain, and she repeated the single word "Revenge." The old witch laughed, and said: "Ah--thou knowest that. Tell me thy story." Then the younger woman told the tale of want and woe and cruel wrong. "The steward cast his eyes on me," she said, "but I loved my husband, and would have nought to do with him. And one day, my man being near when the tyrant insulted me, struck him to the ground, whereupon the steward dismissed him from his post, and we were made beggars. Then my child sickened, and since we needed nourishment, and there was no chance of honest labour for my husband, he took to the forest and shot one of the deer, saying that no wife or child of his should starve as long as there were any of God's creatures to be shot in the woods of Longdendale. The steward heard of this, and, like a wicked fiend, he hounded my man to death. There his body hangs, and the man who drove him to sin walks about in pride and power." She ended her story with a wail, and commenced to tear at her hair. "Where is thy child?" asked the hag. The distracted creature pointed to a bundle, which she had previously deposited at the foot of the gallows. In the bundle was the form of a male child, lately dead. "Dead too, like its father," said the witch. "How did it die?" "It died of want and of grief. Grief poisoned my milk, and the child drank of it and died." "Does anyone know 'tis dead?" "No one but me--its mother." The witch looked intently at the eyes of the mother, as though she would read her very soul. "And thou would'st have revenge?" she asked at length. "Would I not," answered the woman; "Oh, would I not. 'Tis all I live for now. Give me vengeance and I will become thy slave." "Then listen to me." And the hag whispered something in the ears of her young companion which appeared to satisfy her, for in a little while the two left the gibbet, carrying the dead child in a bundle between them. The next day, one who passed the gibbet noticed that the corpse hanging thereon had only one hand. A short time afterwards it was reported that the infant child of the steward had been spirited away in the night. It had been set to sleep in its cradle, and when the nurse awoke the cradle was empty, and the window open. There was a great outcry, and men were sent in search; the searchers presently returned bearing the dead body of a male child, the face of which had been half eaten away. It was impossible to recognise the features, but the steward wept over the body, telling himself that his son had been devoured by some savage beast of the forest, that had made its way into the mansion, and stolen the child while the household slept. He suspected that some evil witch-wife had been at work, and he trembled with fear, for he was sore afraid of the powers of darkness, as all wicked men are. Meanwhile the dead man's widow dwelt with the old witch at a haunted hut in the forest, and it was reported that her son throve apace. * * * * * Years passed by, and the steward had no more children. The shock of his son's death had proved too much for his lady's strength, and she became an invalid. He grew more brutal and unmerciful in his conduct day by day, and the peasantry came to regard him as a fiend in human shape. As for the old witch and the poor distracted widow and her child, they lived in the haunted hut, shunned by all--for it was reported that the widow herself had also become a witch, and was in league with the powers of darkness. The lad grew up into a fine youth, and had he lived an honest life, he would have been accounted one of the handsomest and likeliest lads in all Longdendale. But the training of his mother and the old witch had led him to spend his days in all manner of evil, he robbed and plundered, and finally took to the woods as an outlaw. Inspired by his mother, he was particularly severe in his depredations upon the property of the steward, and being reckless and daring to an unusual degree, he had so far succeeded in avoiding capture. At length there came a time when an adventure more impudent and daring than all previous affairs, caused the steward to put a price upon his head, and so keen was the hunt after him that the bold rascal found it necessary to keep in hiding. The steward chafed with anger, for all his efforts to lay the robber by the heels were fruitless, and he had small hopes of ascertaining the whereabouts of the man he wanted. One day, however, an old hag presented herself at his gate, and asked for an interview. "Ah," said he, recognising the old witch, "what doest thou here. Where is that imp of Satan whom thou hast helped to rear?" "That, good Master Steward, is even what I am come to tell thee," answered the hag. "How now," said the steward; "what evil scheme is afloat now?' "Revenge," said the witch, snapping her toothless gums, and shaking her crutch. "Revenge upon the woman--my companion, and upon her evil-minded son. They have played me false, and now I mean to return the compliment. The woman is away on a journey, and to-night her son crept in from the forest for shelter and a meal. I gave him meat and drink, but I drugged the drink, and now he lies in slumber at my hut in the forest. Send thy guards, steward, and take him ere he wakes." The steward rubbed his hands with glee, and laughed joyously. "Thou devil's spawn," said he, "thou shalt be rewarded if we take him." "I seek no reward but to see him gibbetted," said the witch. "Thy wish shall be gratified," said the steward; and without more ado he called his men, and marched off to the witch's hut to effect the arrest. In those days little time was lost between the arrest of a man and his death upon the gallows; and on the following day the witch and her companion--the young widow of the earlier part of this story--accompanied a procession to the place of execution at Gallow's Clough. The steward was there with his men-at-arms--and as he beheld the widow, he turned to her and began to rail. "Ah, thou hell-cat. Dost thou love the gallows so? Thy husband died on this gibbet, and now thy son comes to the same end. Like father, like son. 'Tis in the breed. Why dost thou not weep and shriek for mercy as thou did'st when thy man was swung?" Then the woman answered with a laugh: "Because I am mad, thou fool, and cannot weep. My tears were dried up with weeping over my husband, and now I can weep no more. I must laugh, man, laugh when the gibbet creaks beneath the weight of a dead man. The days of weeping are past, the time of laughter and rejoicing is come." "Thou speakest truth," quoth the steward, turning away. "Thou art mad indeed." "Yet not so mad as thou, oh, thou wise man," said the woman,--but the steward did not hear her. The executioners did their work, and the young man was hanged by the neck until he was dead. Then the steward and his men turned to depart. But the widow stood before him, and laughed in his face. "Wise man--madman, rather," said she. "Whom, thinkest thou, is that dead man on the gallows?" "Thy son, witch, thy son," said the steward, stepping back before the wild appearance of the woman. "My son, fool! Nay, 'tis thy son, steward. The child who disappeared from his nurse's room was brought to me, was reared by me, was trained for the gallows, and hangs there dead. My son died the same day that his father was hanged--murdered by thee--and his mangled and disfigured body was found by thy servants and buried as thy son. Dost understand me now?" The steward reeled, but recovered himself with an effort. "'Tis false," said he, in a choking voice. "'Tis true," screamed the woman; "was not there a birthmark upon thy child's shoulder? Ah, thou rememberest it, I see. Look at the dead man on the gallows, and thou wilt find the birthmark there." With a wild cry the steward stripped the clothing from the dangling corpse, and there upon the lifeless shoulder, he found the mark which branded the criminal as his child. He had hanged his own son. Before his men could lend a hand to stay him he had fallen senseless to the ground. The men turned and sprang towards the woman, who was now convulsed with horrible laughter. "Seize her," cried one,--and they all made to obey. But quickly raising a phial to her lips, she drank the contents, and in an instant fell back a corpse. The old witch shook her crutch at the armed men. "The murder of an innocent man is avenged," she cried. "Is it not written that the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children? And lo--the murderer's son perishes upon the gibbet where the father's crime was done." Then, laughing shrilly, she hobbled away over the hills, and, full of fear, the men-at-arms let her go unmolested. XIV. The King's Evil Or THE WONDERFUL CURE OF THE MOTTRAM PARSON. There was a certain John Hyde appointed Vicar of Mottram in the year 1575, who continued to hold the sacred office for over 50 years. He succeeded his father, Sir Nicholas Hyde (the Vicar of Mottram from 1547 to 1575) who was buried in the Chancel of Mottram Church on the 24th day of April, 1575. John Hyde married at Mottram on February 26th, 1575-6, Alice Reddich, of Mottram, by whom he had several children: and after her death on March 21st, 1593-4, he married for a second wife, Ann Hyde, on May 22nd, 1597. In the year 1599 the Parish Registers were transcribed from the old paper books into the parchment volumes now in use, and every page of the transcripts bears the signature of John Hyde. He was also rural dean of Macclesfield. During a great portion of his life, Parson John Hyde had curates to assist in the discharge of his ministerial duties; this assistance was the more necessary on account of the wide extent of the ancient parish of Mottram, and also because there was a chapel at Woodhead dependent for its ministry upon the mother church at Mottram. The most prominent of these curates was his eldest son, Hamnet Hyde, who, as appears from the Mottram registers, was baptized at Mottram Church on May 14th, 1580, and afterwards settled in the town, marrying there on the 12th day of January, 1601, Joane Greaves, of Mottram, by whom he had three sons, John, Nicholas, and Thomas. Parson Hyde was of an ancient family of gentry, notable in both Lancashire and Cheshire; being connected with the Hydes of Denton, and the Hydes of Hyde. His great influence, however, was not alone owing to this circumstance, but was rather due to his own attainments and his proved superiority in the matter of learning and wisdom. Hamnet Hyde, his son, inherited his father's good qualities; he was a man of good parts, was distinguished for his learning, and was withal pious and devout. He made a good curate in every way. He was well liked by the parishioners of Mottram, and was, indeed, well spoken of throughout the whole of the Longdendale country. It should also be added in view of the details of this tradition, that he was a fairly robust man, steady, sober, in no way given to gluttony, and there seemed every prospect of his living to a good old age. There came a time, however, when good Master Hamnet Hyde was greatly distressed to find a grievous disease slowly yet surely creeping over him. Do what he would, it was impossible to shake the sickness off. Bit by bit the disease grew worse, and the local quacks and surgeons were entirely powerless to stay its course. One by one the local doctors tried, and each one was sorrowfully obliged to confess to failure in the end. "Nothing could be done," they said; and a complete cure seemed almost hopeless. Now, not only was Master Hamnet Hyde distressed with this intelligence, and not only did his good wife Dame Joane, weep until her good looks were impaired, but the news also gave great pain throughout the parish. The people took the matter to heart as though the parson was one of their own relations. So greatly was he beloved by the common people that some of them even went so far as to employ charms and other harmless means, whereby they hoped to remove the sickness from which the curate was suffering. The curate's condition formed the subject of gossip when the people gathered together about the cross opposite the churchgates after divine service. "Goodman Shaw," said one to his neighbour, "what think you of Master Hamnet Hyde to-day?" The man addressed shook his head sadly before he answered. "Methinks we shall not have many more sermons from him unless he alters greatly." The curate, it should be stated, had preached that morning. "Thou art right, goodman," went on the first speaker, "but it comes into my mind that there is one remedy he has not yet tried, which it were worth his while to put to the test. Someone should suggest it to him." "And what is that, pray?" "Why, the Royal Touch. Let him visit the King, and be touched for the evil. There was a pedlar called on my dame but yestereen, and he told a great tale of the marvellous cures wrought by His Majesty King James, God bless him. Why should not our curate journey up to London, and get the King to remove his sickness?" "Why not, indeed. Thou hast spoken wisely." It should be mentioned that in those days the cure of disease by the patient being "touched" by the Royal fingers was widely believed in. It was asserted that kings were specially endowed by God with the power of healing by touch; and of all the monarchs who ever ruled in England, none were believed to have received this truly royal gift in such abundance as that Most High and Mighty Prince, James the First. A suggestion of the sort mentioned by the gossip was not likely, therefore, to be neglected, and accordingly the idea was laid pertinently before the curate, who eventually made up his mind to seek the royal remedy. With this object in view, he mounted his horse, and, attended by his friends, journeyed southward to see the king. Before setting out on the journey, he commended himself to God, for the roads were infested with highwaymen, and it was a perilous venture to travel from Longdendale to London at that time. There was a goodly congregation in the old church at Mottram, and from the heart of every worshipper there went up a fervent prayer for the curate on the occasion of the last service specially held before his departure. On the morrow the whole village was early astir, for it was known that the curate would that morning set out upon his journey; and a numerous array of villagers gathered in the street before the parson's door as the hour of departure drew nigh. [Illustration: MOTTRAM CHURCH AND VILLAGE CROSS.] "Fare thee well, good Master Hamnet," cried one; "God prosper thy journey." "If the king but touch thee thou art surely healed," said another. "Look well to thy pistols, parson," quoth a third. "'Twere a pity not to put to good service the weapons God hath placed in our hands. And, of a truth, there be many rogues upon the road." "Be sure the beds whereon thou sleepest are well aired," put in an old dame. "Nothing aggravates the sickness like a damp bed." And so with numerous manifestations of good will, the sturdy Mottram folk sped their parson upon his journey. Now, after safely passing the many perils of the road, Master Hyde arrived at Greenwich in due course and, securing an audience of the King, was touched by His Majesty upon the 22nd day of May, 1610. There was a crowd of sufferers gathered about the Royal Palace, many of whom, like the curate, had travelled from a distance, and they cried aloud for joy when the King came amongst them. They fell upon their knees before him; and, with a gracious smile and many words of comfort, the monarch passed through the crowd, touching each patient as he passed, and breathing a prayer for their welfare. Immediately the fingers touched the patient, the royal virtue passed into the frame of the sufferer, and he was instantly healed. Then the crowd gave thanks to God and his Majesty, and with glad hearts set out for their homes. It is needless to dwell long over the homecoming of good Master Hamnet. The news of his return was heralded abroad, and when he entered the village, the people flocked about him, throwing up their caps and cheering lustily, so that he returned like some great conqueror to his own. After his return, he not only showed his gratitude by rendering public thanks to God for the wonderful cure performed upon him, but in order that future generations might know of the Divine goodness, and the King's most excellent kindness, he inscribed the following passage in the parish register of Mottram, where it may be read to this day. "Anno Dni, 1610. Md. that uppon the 22nd daie of Maie, 1610, I, Hamnet Hyde, of Mottram clerke was under the King's most excellent Matie. his hands (for the evill) and att Greenewiche was healed. On wch. daie three years itt is requyred by his Matie. that the ptie so cured shoulde returne (if God pmitt) to render thanks bothe to God and His Matie. God save Kinge James, p. me. Hamnettum Hyde, clericum." Hamnet Hyde lived several years after this miraculous cure. He died in 1617, and was buried at Mottram on the 3rd January, 1617-18. The entry in the register written by his father is as follows: "1617-18, January 3rd. Hamnet Hyde, my sonn, buried--." Parson John Hyde survived his son Hamnet nearly 20 years, for he continued Vicar of Mottram until the year 1637, being buried on the 17th March in that year. He left direction concerning his burial in his will as follows: "In the name of God. Amen. The 13th February, 1633, I John Hyde, Vicar of Mottram, in the County of Chester, Clerk, being aged. My body to be buried in due and decent manner under the stone where my late father lyeth buryed, in the Chancell of the Parish Church of Mottram, adjoining to the tomb of Mr. John Picton, late parson there." etc., etc. It may be added in conclusion that the sovereigns of England claimed and frequently exercised the power of healing certain diseases by touch. The curing of scrofula, or the "King's Evil," as it was called, was practised by Henry VII, Henry VIII., and Queen Elizabeth; and was also very extensively carried on by those believers in the "Divine Right" theory--the Stuart Kings. The "cure by touch" was believed in as late as the time of Queen Anne. The "Form of Healing" occurs in the older prayer books, especially those of the 17th century. XV. The Magic Book. There is a spot prettily situated near the town of Glossop, known as Mossey Lea. It is notable as having been the home of a great magician, who dwelt there in the olden time, and who was renowned far and wide. He was, perhaps, the most learned and powerful of all magicians who have lived since the days of Merlin, but unfortunately his name has been forgotten. Such is fame. So renowned was he in his own day, however, that pupils came to him, not only from all parts of England, but even from across the seas. These pupils desired to be inculcated with the mystic lore, and invested with the same degree of skill in the exercise of the magic arts, that their master possessed. Accordingly they left no stone unturned in their efforts after knowledge--that is to say, they were not over-particular as to the means they adopted to secure the end they had in view. They strove to impress upon everyone with whom they came in contact, their vast superiority to ordinary mankind, and generally they proved a big nuisance to the country side. But there were two of these pupils who were especially curious; they were constantly prying into nooks and corners which were labelled "private"; they were ever meddling with business that did not concern them. By some evil chance, the magician fixed upon these two pupils to act as his agents for the transaction of some business in a town in Staffordshire, and to bring back with them a very remarkable book, which dealt with magic, and which was, moreover, itself endowed with magical powers. Thus the two luckless youths became all unwittingly the heroes of the following Longdendale tradition. History--as is often the case in these legends of the olden time--has forgotten to record for us the names of the two notable youths, hence we are driven to the necessity of naming them ourselves, in order to distinguish them from each other. So we call one Ralph and the other Walter. It has already been said that they were two curious youths, ever ready to pry into things; and on the night preceding their journey, they indulged in this pastime to the full. While they were at supper the magician had bidden them to repair to his private chamber ere they retired to rest; and having entered therein, they were treated to the information already recorded--namely, that they would have to make a journey on his behalf, transact some business, and bring back with them a magic book--with the addition of the following piece of advice and warning. "Look to it that ye heed what I now say," said the magician; "for by the shades, 'tis a matter of mighty import. Ye shall get the book, and ye shall jealously guard it. On no account shall you open it. More I do not vouchsafe to you, but remember my warning. Open not the book at your peril. Now get ye to rest, for to-morrow you must een start with the rising of the sun." The youths left the room looking very solemn and good, with many promises that they would faithfully remember their master's charges, and what was of more consequence, that they would act upon them. But for all that they did not retire to rest. When they reached the passage leading to their apartment, Ralph said to Walter: "What thinkest thou of this quest of ours? Is our master treating us fairly in thus keeping secret this matter? We have paid a high fee for tuition in magic, and here he sends us on our first quest, and we are een to know nothing of the mission on which we go." "Thou art right," said Walter. "'Tis most unfair, and methinks our master has in view the acquisition of some potent power. If we engage in the quest, it is but fair we should share the spoil--the knowledge to be gained." To which Ralph added, "I am with thee, comrade. And I would know more of this business before I start." Here he whispered to his companion, and the latter nodded his head in acquiescence. After which the two stole together in silence to the door of the magician's room, and in turn set their eyes to the key-hole, whilst their ears drank in every sound. The magician was seated before a crucible, muttering certain incantations which are as foreign language to the unlearned. But the two students understood the meaning of the sentences quite well, and the result of their eavesdropping appeared to give them satisfaction. When the magician made signs of coming to the end of his labour, they skipped nimbly away, and sought their beds, chuckling triumphantly as they ran. It is not to the purpose of the legend to dwell upon the incidents of their next day's journey. Suffice it to say that on that day they were early astir, that they went gaily upon their way, and in due course received the magic book from its owner. Then they set out on their homeward journey, looking very good and innocent until they were well out of sight. But withal both determined to see the inside of that volume before the day was over. Soon they came to a lonely part of the country, and here they sat down, intending to gratify their curiosity. "If there is knowledge contained within, then am I determined to drink of the well thereof, and become even one of the wise." So spoke Ralph, and Walter also said: "And I am of a like mind, comrade. So bring hither the book, and let us fall to." They placed the thick volume upon their knees, and quickly undid the handsome clasp which held the sides together, when, lo! a veritable earthquake seemed to have come upon the scene. The ground shook, houses tottered, walls and fences fell down, a tremendous whirlwind arose, which uprooted trees and tossed the forest giants about like little wisps of hay. Even the students were terrified at the result of their curiosity, and as for ordinary mortals, why there is no describing the panic in which they were thrown. When the luckless students recovered from the first shock of astonishment, they could only bemoan their folly in discarding the warning of so potent a magician as their master, and they were filled with dread as to the punishment they would receive when next they stood before him. "Of a truth we are undone," said Ralph; "our master will never more trust us." "We are like to be beaten to death with the tempest," said Walter "Who can stay the power of this evil Spirit, that our mad curiosity has thus let loose?" Now, luckily, the magician no sooner beheld the tempest than he at once divined the cause of this hubbub of the elements, and with commendable promptitude he proceeded with all speed to the spot where the students lay with the magical volume. Arrived there, he pronounced an incantation, and then by magic means known to himself alone, rapidly stilled the tempest, which the ill-timed curiosity of his pupils had brought forth. In the words of the old chronicle, he "laid the evil spirit, commanding him as a punishment to make a rope of sand to reach the sky." Which venture no doubt had a salutary effect upon the spirit, for there is no later mention of any similar antics on its part. We may conclude from this circumstance, that the spirit has found the task assigned it as a punishment, greater than it can discharge, and that it is still labouring away at the sand rope, which is not much nearer reaching the sky than it was when the work first begun. XVI. The Parson's Wife, In olden time Providence often punished the sins of men and women in some remarkable fashion. The divine retribution often followed swiftly upon the violation of the sacred rules of life. We frequently read of profane men and women whose blasphemy has been instantly followed by some paralytic seizure, or who, when guilty, and protesting their innocence have called down heaven's vengeance on their heads if they were not even then stating the truth, have been at once rendered lifeless by some strange stroke of the divine power. The following story will illustrate this principle. There was once a parson of Mottram--his name and the date of his holding the benefice are for obvious reasons not mentioned--who had a peculiar wife. In many respects she was a loveable woman, but she possessed a nose formed like a pig's snout, and she was forced to eat her meals out of a silver trough specially provided for her. How she came to win the affections of the parson, is not known, it might have been that she had riches to make up for her deficiency in beauty of countenance, or it might have been that the parson saw in her compensating charms which were not obvious to the rest of mankind. This tradition only deals with the cause of her strange infirmity. Her parents were very wealthy; her mother was a haughty dame who worshipped wealth, and looked down on all people who were humble in station. To those wealthier than herself, or whose social standing was above her own, she was most polite and agreeable, and willing to go to any trouble no matter how great, to win their friendship and esteem, but to those who were poor, no matter how estimable they might be in mind, ability, or real worth, she was chilling and distant, and even insolent in bearing. True Christian love and charity were virtues she did not understand. Probably she did not believe in them; at least she did not practice them. No poor man's blessing ever ascended to heaven on her behalf, for she was never known to bestow a gift willingly upon the needy. So, no doubt, Providence considered that it was necessary she should be taught a severe lesson, that thereby mankind might be led to see that such un-Christian conduct was opposed to the highest rules of life, and could not be practised with benefit and impunity. One day, to her door, there came an old beggar woman and her children, clearly betokening by their appearances the utmost misery and destitution. Their clothes were all in rags, only just able to hang together, while here and there, through the great rents, the flesh showed bare and cold. Their faces were pinched, and their frames thin and withered from lack of proper food; and nearly all of them were shoeless. Their feet were red and blistered, cut in places by the sharp stones of the wayside. "A charity, I pray, good lady, for the love of Christ," said the beggar woman as the lady stood at the door. "Not a bite have we had this day, and we have travelled far. If thou hast children of thine own, take pity upon the starving children of the poor." But the haughty dame bade her begone. "Out on thee, thou vulgar drab," said she. "Thou art no honest woman, else had thou hadst a husband to provide for thee." "My man is dead, lady," protested the beggar, "and I am left a widow." "More likely thou art a harlot, and the children basely begotten. Away with thee from my door, or I will have the constables after thee, and thou shalt be publicly whipped for a low woman." Then, losing her temper completely, she called for her serving men. "Ho, there. Rid me of this pest. Turn out this old sow and her litter, for there is the smell of the stye about them." At this outrage the poor woman fled. Some say she called down the vengeance of heaven upon the haughty dame, others state that divine justice asserted itself of its own accord. Be that as it may, the wealthy lady was in due course with child, and she brought forth a daughter having a face shaped like an animal with a pig's snout thereon, who in after years married the parson of Mottram. Thus did pride and want of charity bring its own reward. XVII. The Devil and the Doctor. Longdendale has always been noted for the number of its inhabitants devoted to the study of magic arts. Once upon a time, or to give it in the words of an unpublished rhyme (which are quite as indefinite)-- "Long years ago, so runs the tale, A doctor dwelt in Longdendale;" and then the rhyme goes on to describe the hero of the legend-- "Well versed in mystic lore was he-- A conjuror of high degree; He read the stars that deck the sky, And told their rede of mystery." Coming down to ordinary prose, it will suffice to say that the doctor referred to was a most devoted student of magic, or, as he preferred to put it--"a keen searcher after knowledge"--a local Dr. Faustus in fact. Having tried every ordinary means of increasing his power over his fellow mortals, he finally decided to seek aid of the powers of darkness, and one day he entered into a compact with no less a personage than His Imperial Majesty, Satan, otherwise known as the Devil. The essentials of this agreement may thus be described. It was night--the black hour of midnight--and the doctor was alone in his magic chamber. He had long desired power sufficient to enable him to accomplish a certain project, and hitherto all means by which he had tried to secure that power, had been of no avail. Blank failure had attended every effort, and at last he had decided to make use of the most certain, yet withal most desperate, agency known to him. In other words, he would call up the Prince of Darkness, and ask his aid. The only thing which troubled the doctor was the thought that the price which Satan would demand, might be much greater than he would care to pay. But, after all, that was something he would have to risk. He set a lamp burning on the table, and into a small cauldron hung above it, he poured certain liquids, which he mixed with certain evil-looking powders and compounds. Some of the items which he added to this unholy brew, appeared to have once been members of the human frame. But that, of course, was known only to the doctor. When the brew began to simmer, the doctor commenced to mumble certain strange incantations, which he continued with unabated vigour for the best part of an hour, without, however, eliciting any manifestations from the dwellers in the spirit world. At length, however, his patience was rewarded, for the light beneath his cauldron suddenly went out, the mixture within boiled over, and the vapour which rose from it, spread over the room until all the objects therein were hidden as though by a thick black cloud. Then, out of the cloud, came a voice, deep and terrible in tone, which caused the very building to rock as though an earthquake had occurred. "Why hast thou summoned me from the shades, O mortal, and what dost thou require?" The doctor gasped with awe, he almost felt afraid to address the dreadful spirit, which his own incantations and rites had brought from the underworld. At length he screwed up sufficient courage to proceed, and said: "I would have the possession of certain powers, O, thou Dread spirit." "And of what nature are they?" asked the spirit. Whereupon, the worthy doctor commenced a long explanation, into which we need not enter, setting forth his evil desires, and begging the Devil to aid him. "Thou shalt have all that thou requirest, and more," said the Devil when the doctor had come to an end of his requests; "that is, providing thou art prepared to pay the price." "And the price is?" ventured the doctor, trembling. "The usual one," said the Devil. "I have but one price, which all mortals must pay. On a day which I shall name, thou shalt wait upon me, and deliver up thy soul to me." "'Tis a stiff price, good Satan," said the doctor in protest. "'Tis the only price I will listen to," said the Devil. "Then I must een pay it," said the doctor, seeing that further argument was useless, and, being by this time quite determined to have his desires no matter what the cost. "I agree," he added. And there and then he signed the bond in blood, with a pen made from a dead man's bone. Satan pocketed the bond. "Thy desires are granted," said he. "Make the most of thy opportunities. One day I shall surely call upon thee for payment." Then, with a burst of mocking laughter, he disappeared. The doctor seems to have enjoyed the results of the compact until the day drew near for the settlement. Then, indeed, he appears to have repented, But he was by no means a dull-witted individual, and in a happy moment he began to cudgel his brain for some way out of the difficulty--some plan of escape. Before long his face brightened, a gleam of hope shone on it, and at length he seemed to see his way clear. He received the formal summons of Satan with a knowing smile, and when the day at last arrived, set out in good time to keep his unholy tryst. In the language of the rhyme, "Now rapidly along he sped Unto a region waste and dead, And here at midnight hour did wait His Sable Majesty in state." The Devil appeared, seated upon a coal black charger, which was of the purest breed of racing nags kept specially for the Derby Day of the Infernal Regions. Satan was very proud of his horse; he was open to lay any odds on its beating anything in the shape of horse flesh that could be found on earth. Judge then of the Devil's surprise when the Longdendale doctor offered to race him. (It should be stated that the doctor had ridden to the place of meeting on a horse which was bred in Longdendale, though the trainer's name has unfortunately been lost). At first Satan laughed at the impudence of the proposition, but after some little haggling, he at length agreed to the doctor's conditions. The conditions were that the Devil was to give the doctor a good start, and that the latter was to have his freedom if he won the race. [Illustration: "A RUNNING STREAM."] "I am unduly favouring thee," said the Devil; "I do not as a rule allow my clients a single minute's grace when payment falls due, and I do not reckon to let them bargain as to other means of payment. But for all that, I do not see why I should not make merry at thy expense. I am not altogether as black as I am painted. And if it will give thee any comfort to imagine thou hast a chance of escape--why then get on with the race." Acting upon the above agreement, a start was made, and the course was along the road now known as Doctor's Gate. The contest was most exciting. Prose can scarcely do justice to the occasion, but we will endeavour to give some account of the strange contest. The Devil good naturedly conceded a big start, for, of course, he felt quite certain of reaching the winning post first, and when the signal was given he went full cry in pursuit. Away the coursers sped like wind, the doctor riding with grim countenance, and teeth firmly set, ever and anon casting an anxious look behind him, and now looking as anxiously in front. Meanwhile the Devil rode in approved hunting fashion, with many a loud halloa, which made the very mountains shake as though a thunder peal was sounding. His horns projected from his head, his cloven feet did away with the necessity for stirrups, and he lashed the flanks of his coal black charger with his tail in lieu of a whip. Slowly but surely the Devil gained upon the doctor. Inch by inch the black steed drew nearer the Longdendale hack, until at length the Devil, by leaning over his horse's head, was able to grasp the tail of the doctor's horse. With a loud burst of fiendish laughter, Satan began to twist the tail of the Longdendale horse, until at last the poor beast screamed with pain and terror. This greatly amused the Devil, who twisted the tail all the harder, so that the doctor's horse, goaded almost to madness, plunged along faster than before, and in its fright took a mighty leap into a running stream which dashed brawlingly across the path. All too late Satan saw his danger; he held on to the beast's tail and tugged with all his might. For a second, the contest hung in the balance, and the result seemed doubtful. But luckily for the doctor, the tail of the horse came off--torn out by the roots--the Devil's steed fell back on its haunches, and the doctor's charger plunged safely through the flood, and gained the opposite bank. Then the doctor gave a great shout of triumph, for according to the laws of sorcery--laws which even the Devil must obey--when once the pursued had crossed a running stream, the powers of evil lost all dominion over him. Thus by a combination of skill, cunning, and good luck, the Longdendale doctor outwitted the Devil. Some profane mortals state that when he found himself victorious, the doctor turned towards the Devil, and put his fingers to his nose as a sign of victory, while the Devil, sorely disgusted, rode off to hell with his tail between his legs, vowing that the mortals of Longdendale would have no place to go to when they died, for they were too bad for heaven, and too clever for hell. AUTHOR'S NOTE. The road known as "The Doctor's Gate"--mentioned in the above story--runs across a portion of Longdendale. In reality it is part of the old Roman road from Melandra Castle, Gamesley, to the Roman station at Brough in the Vale of Hope. With reference to the main incident of this legend, the following quotation from Sir Walter Scott will be found of interest:--"If you can interpose a brook between you and witches, spectres, or fiends, you are in perfect safety." No date is attached to the legend. XVIII. The Writing on the Window Pane. It was an evening in the glad month of June, of the year 1644, and the children of Longdendale were playing games on the smooth green plots before the cottage doors. At one spot not far distant from the site of the old Roman station, Melandra Castle, a group of merry little ones, lads and lassies, were swinging round hand in hand, their sweet young voices chanting an old-time rhyme. Suddenly there was a shrill cry from one of the girls, and following the direction of her gaze, the children beheld a sight that at first set their young hearts beating sharp with fear. A company of horsemen, wearing wide-brimmed and much befeathered hats, with long hair hanging about their shoulders, rode jauntily past the greensward in the direction of the Carr House Farm. The horsemen were well armed, carrying swords and pistols, and bright steel armour shone dazzling upon their breasts. As the cavalcade moved on, the jingling of stirrups, bits, and harness, made a merry music that was well adapted to the martial scene. The children, though startled at first, soon recovered from their fright, and ran gaily to see the squadron pass by. Curiosity, in their case, got the mastery of fear. For those were what the historians term "stirring times,"--days of war and tumult, of peril and death, of bloodshed and ruin, of suffering and horror; and well the children of Longdendale knew that the quarrel between King Charles and his Parliament had already made sad hearts and weeping eyes, widowed women and orphaned children, even in their own neighbourhood. But the great battles of which they had heard had all been fought at a distance, and, as is well known in the case of war, "distance lends enchantment to the view." There was something wildly romantic and fascinating to the minds of the children in those great events which were daily transpiring, and about the men who fought in the battles; and so, on the June evening of this story, the children flocked curiously about the horsemen, who were a band of gentlemen cavaliers on their way from Lancashire to join the army of King Charles at York. Accompanied by the children, the cavaliers rode up to the Carr House Farm, and, at a sign from their leader, dismounted, and, without troubling to ask consent, proceeded to stable their horses, and take possession of the best rooms for their own accommodation. It was not altogether a good mannered proceeding, but then, the people who lived in those days when war was rife, grew accustomed to such violations of the rights of property, and submitted to the indignities with as good a grace as they could assume. They knew full well that if they had not placed upon the table of their very best, the soldiers would have raided the larder and confiscated all the contents. So, in the language of modern days, "they made the best of a bad job." One stalwart trooper, throwing the reins of his steed to a comrade, was the first to stride through the farm door, and, as he came, the farmer went bareheaded to greet him,--not altogether without some qualms of doubt and fear. "Come, good man," cried the trooper merrily, "show me the way to thy best room, for our leader, Captain Oldfield, rests there this night. And if thou art of the King's party, set thy wife to work at once, and prepare him a feast right merrily, or if thou be'st of the roundhead faction, why, do the same unwillingly, and be damned to thee." History does not tell us which side of the quarrel the farmer favoured, and it does not really matter which, for in any case a visit from the Royalists would be alike unwelcome. If he was a Roundhead, then, as a matter of course, the billeting of a force of Cavaliers was bound to be distasteful; if he were loyal to the King, then against the satisfaction of providing for the King's troops, must be set the knowledge that the next force of Roundheads that came into the neighbourhood would pay him a visit and demand satisfaction for the favour he had shown their enemies. The farmer made a discreet remark. "If ye are true men, ye are welcome to such hospitality as I can afford." And then he and his servants set about doing with as good a grace as possible that which they knew themselves compelled to do. But although the soldiers might be unwelcome guests to the farmer and his wife, their coming was by no means received with a bad grace by other members of the household. The maids, in particular, seemed quite glad as they beheld the Cavaliers enter the yard, and what was more remarkable, they made scarcely any attempt to prevent the arms of the fighting-men stealing around their trim-set waists with the coming of the gloaming and the shadows. There were shy giggles and blushes and many a stolen kiss in and about the Carr House Farm that night, before the bugle sounded the hour of rest. When all the men were inside save the sentries, whose duty it was to give notice of the approach of Roundheads--if any such rebel gentlemen should chance to put in an appearance--the officer in command gathered his soldiers around the oak table in the best room, and seated himself at their head. Captain Oldfield, of Spalding (for such was his name and title), first addressed the company, which included the master and mistress of the farm, and all the pretty maids whose lips so readily lent themselves to a soldier's kiss. He reminded his hearers of the great sin of fighting against the "Lord's anointed." "For," said he, "did not God appoint kings and princes and governors, and if they are not to rule their people, wherefore are they created? Therefore it stands to reason that they who oppose the will, and set themselves in array against the authority of good King Charles, are fighting against God, and are likely ere long to suffer grievously from the displeasure of God. And I would especially urge upon ye good people of Longdendale that ye remain loyal and true to His Majesty, and have nothing to do with traitorous rebels who are prompted of the devil. So shall ye escape a felon's death here and damnation hereafter." Then, drawing from his finger a ring set with a large diamond, he continued-- "My stay will doubtless be short, yet would I leave behind a loyal sentiment which shall serve to remind you of your duty toward your royal master." Whereupon he advanced to the window, and on one of the little diamond-shaped panes, he scratched the following words in the Latin tongue:-- "May King Charles live and conquer. Thus prays John Oldfield, of Spalding, 1644." The task of writing being ended, he then called on all present to fill their cups with the farmer's best country wine, and drink deep to the sentiment which he had just inscribed. The men filled their cups and drained them to the dregs, after which they cheered for King Charles. And then the band broke up, the troopers seeking their hard couches, while Captain Oldfield retired to his room with the officers, to discuss their future movements, and to question and gossip with the farmer and such of the loyal gentry of the neighbourhood as had come to greet him on hearing of the arrival of his force. "And whither march ye, Captain Oldfield?" asked one of the gentlemen of Longdendale, as the talk went on. "Toward York, Sir Squire," replied the officer; "To join the King." "And how will the fight go? Think you the rebels will attack the city?" "That I doubt. For Rupert is there, he of the Rhine, a Prince of fire, whose hot blood can never wait in patience for an assault. Rather should I think he will sweep down on the Roundheads before they muster in force sufficient to attack the city. As for the end of the fight, why, look you, I am no prophet. Being in the struggle I do my best, and I take the outcome, be it what it may, as becomes a true soldier. There be some who pretend the seer's gift of sight so that they can foresee what is to happen, but on such things I set little importance. If the end is evil, why, then, the knowledge of it comes soon enough. And if good, why the joy is all the greater for the waiting." The farmer now raised his voice: "If it please you," he said, "there is a neighbour woman who possesses the gift of sight. She foretells events in a manner right wonderful. If your worships like, I will e'en summon her before you." "Well," quoth the Cavalier, "I have no objection to witnessing her antics, though I set no store by what she may say. So bring her within; 'twill help the time to pass." The farmer left the room, and presently returned, leading in an old beldame, whose withered and bent form seemed scarcely able to stand upright. She leaned heavily upon an old crutch, and her breath came in loud gasps as though she were a prey to asthma. "What is your will?" she asked, in a fit of coughing. "I am old; could ye not let me rest a'nights without summoning me to make sport at your revels." "Come, granny," said one of the gentlemen, "be not ill-tempered; we would let these good Cavaliers witness a sample of your skill. They ride to York to join the King, and would know what fate awaits them there." The old dame laughed shrilly. "Better had they wait. Evil comes soon enough. Why not drink and be merry while ye may?" "Why, granny, whence this croaking? What ill-fate seest thou?" "I see what ye in your pride deem impossible. Ye have just now drunk to the King. Ye have inscribed on the window-pane of this dwelling a prayer for his triumph. And a bonny sentiment it is that ye have written, ye bloody murderers of Englishmen. Upholders of a tyrant, think ye that the powers of the other world will ever smile upon your cause? Not so. Your cause is accursed. Never shall the words of the writing come to pass. King Charles shall perish. So shall ye, his myrmidons. Lo! I see a field of battle. Rupert is there and the army of King Charles--a glorious array without the walls of York. But there cometh Cromwell, the man of iron, his horsemen charge once twice, thrice, and lo! the army of the King is scattered, and the earth is red with blood. I see faces, cold and dead, turned upwards towards the sky. The faces of men slain in the battle. And behold, some of the faces are your faces, For such is your doom. And in the end your King shall perish, and old England shall be free." The frame of the old beldame shook as she delivered herself of this tirade, and when she had ended she moved feebly to the door. The company remained still, too awestruck to stay her, and presently she had disappeared. The soldiers soon recovered their spirits, and joked gaily over the occurrence. But it was destined that the words should come true. With the first streak of dawn, Captain Oldfield led his men on their long march to the city of York. There on the second day of July, they fought in the Battle of Marston Moor, and, even as the woman had prophesied, most of the band perished in the battle, and Cromwell beat back the King's army, and England was one step nearer being free. AUTHOR'S NOTE. Ralph Bernard Robinson refers to the above legend in the following passage in his little book on Longdendale. "Opposite, on the other side of the river, is Melandra Castle as the the villagers call it. Some fields here are called in old deeds 'THE CASTLE CARRS.' Hard by is an ancient homestead going to ruin called 'THE CARR HOUSE.' This old house has an historical celebrity. A party of Royalists, on their march to Yorkshire before the Battle of Marston Moor, stayed here one night. The name of the Captain, John Oldfield, of Spalding, that of King Charles, and the date (1644), long remained inscribed in Latin, with a diamond ring, on a window-pane of the old dwelling." In some way or other, the pane of glass referred to by Robinson became the property of the late A. K. Sidebottom, Esq., J.P., and after his death was purchased at a public auction by my friend, Mr. Robert Hamnett, of Glossop. To the kindness of the last-named gentleman, I am indebted for the loan of the glass, and for various particulars concerning it. When it came into Mr. Hamnett's possession, it was in two pieces, which, however, have now been cemented together. The pane is the ordinary size of small diamond panes frequently found in cottages of old date, and still largely used in the windows of our churches. The inscription is quite clear, but the glass is badly scratched, as though some sturdy member of the Cromwell faction had done his best to obliterate the Royalist writing without going to the expense of breaking the window. The inscription is as follows:-- Vivat et vincat Rex Carolus, Sic orat Johnes Oldfield de Spalding 1644. Mr. Hamnett has been at considerable pains to trace the career and family of the above John Oldfield. I am indebted to him for the following particulars. The passage given here is taken from an ancient MSS. belonging to the family, and has been supplied by the Wingfields, who are direct descendants of Captain Oldfield. "We now come to John--the Captain Oldfield of the Longdendale legend--the eldest son of the first Anthony, who, as we have sayd, succeeded to his estate November, 1635. This gentleman was a most zealous Royalist, and as the other party prevailed (he being left wealthy by his father, notwithstanding his providing so well for his other children), was at several times plundered by the parliamentarians, and sequestred as a Delinqt., and at the Siege of Newark, where he served the Royal cause gallantly as a gentleman volunteer, was shot through the body, but recovered of his wounds. He married Alice, the daughter of ---- Blythe, of Shawson, in the County of Lincoln. He added to, and very much improved the seat built here by his father, building the rooms and grand staircase in the north wing of that house, and planting many forest trees and much wood about it. This John was interred in the chancel of the Parish Church of our Lady and St. Nicholas, in Spalding, as was Alice, his wife, by whom he had three sons and as many daughters, viz., Anthony, his eldest, who succeeded him to his estate and was afterwards created a Baronet by King Charles II.... We now come to Anthony, eldest son of John, who, as we have said, succeeded to his father's estate, 1660. He married first Mary, the daughter of ---- Parker, Esq., by whom he had no issue; secondly, Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Edmond Gresham.... This gentleman was much esteemed and had a great intimacy with people of the greatest worth and quality in his neighbourhood, and particularly with Sir Robert Carr, Bart., Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, and one of His Majesty's Most Honble. Privy Council, and upon the recommendation of the Rt. Hon the Countess of Dorset, he was, by His Majesty King Charles II., by letters patent, bearing date the 6th day of August, 1660, advanced to the degree and dignity of a Baronet of England, by the title of Sir Anthony Oldfield, of Spalding, in the County of Lincoln, Bart.--he lies in the chancel under a very large grey marble, upon which is this inscription:-- "Here was interred the body of Sir Anthony Oldfield, of this town, Bart., who departed this life the fourth day of September, Anno Salutis--1668; Aetatis--42." Sir John Oldfield, son of Sir Anthony, married in 1668, but at his death in 1704, left only three daughters surviving. The baronetcy accordingly became extinct. Elizabeth, the third daughter and co-heir of the last Sir John, married John Wingfield, of Tickencote, High Sheriff of Rutland (1702). From this union spring the present family of Wingfield, which includes among its members Sir Edward Wingfield, K.C.B., and Captain John Maurice Wingfield, of the Coldstream Guards. XIX. A Legend of the Civil War. In the year 1644 the town of Stockport became the scene of some exciting incidents in the great struggle then waging between the King and his Parliament. From ancient days, Stockport had been accounted a place of military importance, commanding, as it did, the passage of the river Mersey. When the Romans took possession of the county, they established a strong fortified camp upon a site near the modern market place. The Norman lords of Stockport reared a castle upon the same site, and from that period downwards, the strategic value of the place continued to increase. When the Civil War broke out, the importance of obtaining and maintaining possession of the town, was soon recognised by both factions, and throughout the grim and prolonged contest. Stockport was held first by one party, then by the other, as the respective fortunes of the Cavaliers and Roundheads ebbed and flowed. The majority of the principal landowners and gentry--that is to say, the most powerful of the representatives of the old county families--in the vicinity of Stockport, were much inclined to Puritanism, and so the cause of Parliament received strong support in this part of the country. The Bradshawes of Marple Hall were vigorous supporters of the Roundheads--Colonel Henry Bradshawe was a distinguished Parliamentary soldier; and his brother, John Bradshawe, afterwards became President of the Council of State, acted as the Judge at the trial of King Charles, and passed the death sentence upon that unhappy monarch. The Ardernes of Arden Hall, the Dukinfields of Dukinfield, the Hydes of Hyde, and the Hydes of Denton were all resolute supporters of the Parliament; and inasmuch as all these families had property and influence in the town and parish of Stockport, it is scarcely a matter for surprise to find that in the year in which our story opens Stockport was held by a Parliamentary force under command of that staunch soldier, Colonel Dukinfield, of Dukinfield. Colonel Dukinfield is a man who deserves a few words of description. He was one of the most distinguished of the group of famous historical characters who sprang from this part of East Cheshire, and helped to mould the destinies of the nation in the 17th century. A man of Puritan ancestry, himself a great Puritan, with Republican tendencies, endowed, moreover, with many of the gifts of a great soldier, he took part at an early age in the opening stages of the great war. His exploits in the field, and his influence and ability to raise and keep together strong bodies of horse and foot, soon won for him a high place in the ranks of the Parliamentary party; and right worthily did he acquit himself, whether in the field at the head of his troops, or in the Council Chamber, where all the qualities of a statesman were called into play. Historians are unanimous as to the disinterestedness of his character, and the purity of his motives; indeed, it is generally recognised that he was one of the truest men of either party that the Civil War produced. In the year mentioned, he was sent to guard Stockport, and the bridge over the Mersey--one of the entrances from Cheshire into Lancashire--and this task he performed, until military necessity compelled him to evacuate the town, and retire before a superior force of the enemy. A strong army of Loyalists, being sent to invade Lancashire, must needs take possession of Stockport on their way; they were led by that dashing dare-devil nephew of the King--Prince Rupert of the Rhine. Recognising that the enemy was too strong for him, and deeming it imprudent to risk the lives of his soldiers in a hopeless resistance, Colonel Dukinfield withdrew his force, and vanished from Rupert's sight. He of the Rhine sent his men through the rich farm lands about Stockport, and they plundered the suffering yeomen--confiscating whatever they required for the service of the King. The Roundheads, on their part, had done the same, so no one could grumble very much about the matter. As the sufferers said, "One side was every bit as bad as the other." But not a glimpse of the Roundhead soldiers did the gay Cavaliers get, and Rupert of the Rhine, hot-headed as he was, had yet more sense in his pate than to be led astray from his direct line of march to begin a risky, fruitless, and possibly disastrous chase of the Parliamentarians. For he knew that Dukinfield, who, being a native, was acquainted with every yard of the country, had taken refuge in the wild and mountainous region of Longdendale, where it was easy enough for the Roundheads to ambush the Cavaliers, and where there was little chance for practising that dashing form of warfare--the grand charge of large masses of cavalry upon equally compact masses of the enemy--which was Rupert's favourite method, and which--until Cromwell and his Ironsides came upon the scene--was invariably successful. So after a time Rupert passed on his march. Our story, however, has to do with the troops of the Parliament, and their sojourn in Longdendale. When he left Stockport, Colonel Dukinfield led his men directly to the wild country beyond Mottram; and on the lands adjoining the old halls of Mottram, Thorncliffe, and Hollingworth, and about the homes of the wealthier inhabitants, he quartered his force. He does not seem to have met with much resistance in this matter; and it is most likely that the Longdendale landowners were themselves inclined to favour the Parliamentary cause. Be that as it may, they found food for horse and men, and supplied Dukinfield with money, cattle, and soldiers, when the time came for him to march. There are some interesting documents still preserved, which give the details of the various expenses to which the Longdendale gentry were put by the prolonged stay of the Roundhead forces on their lands. [Illustration: DUKINFIELD HALL.] As was to be expected, the arrival of so renowned a fighter as Colonel Dukinfield, and his bold band of Roundheads, caused more than a flutter of excitement in the breasts of the country folk of Longdendale. Those inclined to the Roundhead faction, were rather proud to stand by and wave their caps and cheer at the brave men who had so resolutely fought against the tyrant King; while the Royalist inhabitants surveyed the soldiers and their Puritan colonel, with feelings akin to hatred seeing in them nothing but a set of rebels who were too vile to live. Of the last-named class was a stout yeoman whom for the purpose of this story we will name Timothy Cooke. A thorough King's man at heart, he had no sympathy with any who set themselves up to fight against the "lords anointed," and as he saw the Roundheads ride past he would, had he dared, and had the opportunity presented itself, have put a bullet into the body of each rider. "A damnable set of psalm-singing rascals," muttered Tim to a companion, as the Parliamentary troops went by. "May the food and fodder they get in Longdendale, choke both man and beast. They are of the devil's spawn, every one, enemies to God as well as to the King." "Steady, Tim," whispered his companion. "They will overhear thee, and then, belike, thou wilt get into serious trouble." "Trouble!" quoth Tim. "I care mighty little for anything they can do. The King's forces will wipe them out ere long; and had I been but half the man I was in my young days, I would have ridden behind the Cavaliers, and struck a blow for His Majesty." Then, grumbling at the perversity of the times, which permitted such unseemly sights as that presented by a band of Republican soldiers marching coolly through Longdendale, he jogged off homeward, to weary his wife with his ill-humour. But the goodman had more to put up with ere long, for after a few days were passed, there came riding into his farmyard, the stalwart figure of a Roundhead. The soldier was a young man, of gentlemanly appearance, and strikingly handsome. He wore his hair cropped close, and his face was clean shaven. He sat his horse firmly, and his well-proportioned figure gave signs of strength. "Farmer," cried he; "I give you a good day. You have a grey mare, I understand, of some little fame hereabouts. My officers require the use of her for the service of the Parliament. And I am come to take her forthwith. Also a sheep from your fold would not come amiss, but that you may send to the headquarters by one of your farm hands." He spoke with the free air of one who expected that his requests, or orders, would be observed as a matter of course. Timothy stood stock still for a few moments, lost in wonder. Then his hot temper blazed forth in a volume of words. "Why you knave--you close-cropped murdering rebel--you speak and carry yourself with the bearing of an honest King's man. Get out of my yard this instant, or I'll brain you on the spot. No horse or sheep of mine goes from here to the service of the King's enemies." He flourished a large hay-fork dangerously near the horseman, and the steed began to back with alarm. "Drop that fork," cried the soldier, drawing his pistols, "I've no mind that there shall be any accident, but if you will advance, and if one of these weapons goes off, 'tis no fault of mine." But the old farmer's blood was up. "I'll spit you as I would a goose," cried he; "and all other such Republican knaves." The soldier pulled his horse aside, and levelled his pistol at the farmer's head. "Thou mad fool," he cried. "If thou wilt rush to thy death, 'tis no concern of mine." And sighting the weapon, he made ready to fire. But at that moment came a diversion, and from an unexpected quarter; for in the doorway of the farm, directly behind the irate yeoman, there appeared the figure of a maid. She was the farmer's daughter, and a maid of uncommon beauty; and the sight of so fair a daughter of Eve, bursting thus suddenly on the soldier's vision, banished for one brief second the murderous purpose from his mind. He hesitated, let his eyes wander from the farmer to rest upon the figure of the girl. That second's hesitation was fatal, for the hay-fork driven with force by the yeoman, took him in the shoulder, and tumbled him heavily to the ground. He had a confused sense of having done something very foolish and unsoldierlike, of falling with a thud from his horse, of a sharp pain in the shoulder, and then his senses left him. When he recovered consciousness, the unfortunate Roundhead found himself lying on a couch inside the farmhouse. He was at first dimly aware that a somewhat heated discussion was going on in one quarter of the room, and that some person with gentle touch bent over him and tended to his hurts. In another moment, his senses having fully returned, he could distinguish the voices of the disputants, and knew that they were talking about himself. The farmer's wife, good mistress Cooke, was denouncing her husband's folly in having wounded the soldier, and thus brought the man nigh to death, and the yeoman, himself, in grave danger of arrest, court martial, and the gallows. "'Tis thy hot temper, of which I have so often spoken, and which thou never canst control, that has led thee into this mess--and a pretty mess it is, upon my conscience," said the dame, "What harm had the poor fellow done to thee or thine, that thou must prod him with the fork, as thou dost a truss of hay, and tumble him headlong out of the saddle. A mercy it is he did not break his neck by the fall. As it is, he is not seriously hurt, though the back of his head will carry a lump for many a day, and his shoulder will be stiff enough for weeks. The next thing that will happen, I suppose, will be that thou wilt have the whole band of them--foot and horse--about the house, and they will carry thee away a prisoner, and I and the bairns will een be tumbled out upon the road-side." "Stop thy chatter," growled the farmer, his courage somewhat overawed by the volubility and sting of his wife's tongue. "Wouldst have me let a Roundhead knave, an enemy to the King, rob and plunder me of the grey mare, and a sheep from the fold, without using the hay-fork when 'tis in my hand. Death and damnation is too good for all such rogues." ..."Death and damnation," quoth the dame. "Death and damnation, forsooth. That is like to be thy reward for the business. Out of the room, man, for thy presence drives away my patience. Out thou goest, while I see if I can bring the poor fellow round, and make amends for thy fool's folly." She bundled the farmer out, and at this moment the Roundhead opened his eyes. Then he shut them suddenly, as though some bright light had dazzled him, for there, bending close above him, was the bonny face of the maiden, whose dazzling beauty had been the cause of his undoing. She had been tending to his hurts, and was gazing at him anxiously, wondering the while if he were about to die. The Roundhead did not long remain with closed eyes, for the vision of the maid was too sweet to lose for want of the effort of raising his lids. He gazed straight into her eyes, and smiled; and the girl, finding him fully alive, and conscious of her presence, blushed crimson, and drew backwards in confusion. Her movement attracted the dame, who by this time had got rid of her husband; and having no special desire to be the recipient of attentions from an old lady--no matter how estimable and kindly disposed she might be--the Roundhead, with an effort sat up. He had not been seriously injured by his fall, which had done nothing more than deprive him of his senses for a short time; and the thrust in the shoulder was nothing more serious than a flesh wound; now that the bleeding had been stopped, he was really little the worse for his misadventure. "I thank you, madam," said he to the farmer's wife, "for your kindness and attention. Doubtless your good offices, and those of the young lady, have saved my life; and I promise you they shall not be forgotten in my report to my commanding officer." Relieved as she was to find the Roundhead out of all danger, poor Dame Cooke was terribly upset on hearing the concluding words of the soldier. "Oh, sir," said she, the tears springing to her eyes, "must you indeed report the misdeeds of my hot-headed husband. If he is taken, and called to account for this mishap, I much fear that his punishment will be severe. If you could overlook--could find some excuse--could----" She broke off, utterly unable to say more, but her eyes pleaded with the soldier. Restraining an inclination to smile, with an effort, the Roundhead said solemnly: "A bandaged head and shoulder must of necessity give rise to comment. And how can I escape from the necessity of a report? Moreover, there is the matter of the grey mare, and the sheep." "They shall be sent to your camp within the hour," put in the woman eagerly; "and more likewise, if ye will only be merciful to my good man." Other talk followed, but for reasons of his own, the Roundhead omitted to assure the dame as fully as she could have wished, that she should hear no more about the matter. It was not without a feeling of great trepidation that she listened to his last words of gratitude for her personal attentions, and witnessed his departure. Mounted on his horse, he rode slowly down the lane, and not till the farmhouse had disappeared from sight--hidden by a bend in the lane, and a dip in the road--did he meet a single soul. Now, however, he reined in his charger suddenly; and he felt his heart beat quicker as he beheld the pretty maid standing in the road barring his path. Off came his hat, with a sweeping bow, that would have done credit to a Cavalier; and he bent gallantly in the saddle to converse with the fair being who had waylaid him with the evident intention of speaking to him. "Oh, sir," said the maid, her voice trembling with emotion, her face rosy with excitement and bashfulness; "you will forgive my father will you not? He is not a bad man, and if anything happened to him, it would break my heart, and my mother's also. Do not punish him, and mother and I will make amends in some way." The Roundhead looked at the maid, then cast his eyes rapidly up and down the lane, and a twinkle of merriment shone in his glance. "You are quite willing to compensate for your father's sins--to render a service if I pledge myself to silence on his misdeeds." "I will do anything," said the maid, eagerly. The Roundhead bent low in his saddle, until his face was dangerously near that of his companion. There was a look in his eyes which caused the maid to blush a deeper red, and set her heart pit-a-pat with a thrill of strange and joyous excitement. "Then kiss me," was all he said. The girl dropped her eyes a moment, then looked full into his, and finally raised her lips and kissed him. "Now," she said, "remember your promise, and keep it." Then with a mischievous nod of her head, that caused her curls to dance in the sun, she skipped out of his reach, and ran up the lane towards the farm. He turned the horse as though to pursue her, but contented himself with calling after her, "Tell your mother not to trouble about the grey mare and the sheep. I will come for them myself--another day." He doffed his hat, and the girl waved her hand; and then the Roundhead trotted off to explain in some cunning fashion how he had foolishly met with an accident, and if his colonel had no objection he would go for the grey mare and the sheep another day. The young man was a favourite officer with his superiors, and his colonel had no objection whatever, so the farmer heard no more about his attack upon the Parliamentary forager. * * * * * It is not to be supposed that human nature of the masculine gender, however much inclined to Puritanism, could, after having once tasted the sweet lips of the farmer's daughter, resist the longing for more of such delights. And so the Roundhead more than once or twice made his way towards the farm; and either, owing to his cleverness, or to the strangest coincidence, it so happened that he never returned to quarters without having held some converse with the maid. In this way the time passed, and to the two lovers it seemed as though everything was sweet and fair, and as though war, and suffering, and death were not abroad in the land. Indeed, so far, the revolution had brought nothing but fortune to the young man, for he was already promised a captaincy when next the troops were put in motion; and then he would move onward to fresh adventures, wherein he hoped to add to his laurels, so that when the wars came to an end, he would have a position of some standing to offer to his bride. At last there came a day when Colonel Dukinfield bade his men make ready to march. Messengers had ridden in on foam-flecked steeds, and it was understood that great events were about to transpire. The troops looked to their arms, burnished up their breast-plates, and head pieces, and after a busy day spent in preparations, made ready to pass their last night in Longdendale in the fashion that the Puritan soldier loved. When the night had fallen, groups of soldiers were gathered within the best rooms of the farms whose owners--being favourers of the Parliament--had gladly welcomed and billeted the Roundheads, and the host having brought forth some musical instruments, which were tuned up forthwith, soon the voices of all were joining in a Puritan chant of praise. Loud and long that night sang the Puritans, and ever and anon, in the intervals between the chants, some of them, in nasal tones, would break out into prayer--strange old-fashioned petitions, in which the Lord was asked to strengthen the arms of the Parliament, and to sweep the Royalist faction away as the leaves are scattered before the wind. Then with the first break of day the bugles sounded; and, leaving the fair Longdendale land behind them, the Roundheads passed to scenes of grim contest--some joining in the conflicts in Yorkshire, others participating in different sieges in Lancashire and Cheshire. After their departure, Longdendale was visited in turn by bands of Cavaliers, who rode towards the points of strife; and then for a time the valley was left to its rural quietness. [Illustration: "A PURITAN CHANT OF PRAISE."] For some weeks the maid heard nothing of her lover and her only consolation during his absence was to chat and talk with the wives and sweethearts of Longdendale men who had joined Colonel Dukinfield's troops, and ridden off to the fight. One day, however, when the tasks about the farm were all done, she sat in the old-fashioned seat in the advanced porch of the steading, which looked out towards the west. It was the close of a glorious day, and far away over the great levels of the Cheshire plain, the sun was setting--flooding the earth and sky with a light that seemed too beautiful to be real. It was as though one looked right into the gates of heaven. The farmer and his wife were seated near, for they, too, were weary with the toil of the day, and were resting for a space in the cool of the evening before the darkness fell. Suddenly the girl raised her head as though to listen, and then pointing towards the sunset, she uttered a loud scream. "There, there! do you not see them? the Roundheads are beaten back, and their leader falls. It is he, my love--and oh!--they have slain him----" Then she fell back into the seat and sobbed, and shivered, and moaned. The farmer took her by the shoulders, and shook her. "Art daft, my lass," said he, "or dreaming. What is it thou see'st?" For a moment the girl could not do anything but sob and moan, then, recovering herself, she told her parents that, as she gazed at the sunset, it seemed as though the western heavens were alive with the figures of men--she could see the Roundhead troops rushing to the assault, at their head was the form of her lover, and even as she looked, the Royalists repulsed the attack, and in the melee she saw her lover fall, his brain pierced by a musket ball. It seemed, too, that she could hear the noise of the piece, and the death-shriek as he fell. "Tut-tut," said the farmer, "'tis nothing but a dream. Thou hast been dozing, that is all." The mother also tried to comfort her, and the two led her inside, but that night when the farmer and his spouse sought their chamber, the latter said in an awesome whisper: "'Tis the gift of sight, good man. My grandmother had it; and I fear that the vision she has seen will prove true." * * * * * Some days passed, and nothing was heard of the great strife which waged beyond the valley; but one day a man, pale and thin from suffering, seated upon a jaded steed, rode wearily into Longdendale. Near Mottram town he met Yeoman Cooke, whom he accosted; and the latter looked at him with a start of surprise. "Why, Jack, is't thee, my man?" said the farmer. "Bless me if I knew thee. Thou art just like a ghost." "And I had nearly been turned into one, farmer," answered the man. "For I got a blow on my head in the fight just a week gone by to-day, which stretched me senseless; and other hurts about my body, have knocked out of me all the fighting for some months to come. 'Twas an evil day for Longdendale, and I trow that thy own home will be turned into a house of mourning by it. For this was how we fared. Even as the victory seemed assured, the Royalist rascals made a great rush, and by ill-luck our leader was shot dead, and other officers falling, we were beaten off. As for the Captain--well, I think he loved that lass of thine--King's man though thou art,--for in his breast, when we came to carry his body off, were certain keepsakes which I have seen thy daughter wear. There was also a letter addressed to her, and I have it with me here. Thou wilt tell her that he died as a brave man should die, and that he was worthy of her love to the last. I must ride on now, for it grows late, and I have ill-news to carry to other Longdendale women besides thy wench. This is the worst side of war." [Illustration: ARMS OF THE DUKINFIELD FAMILY.] "One moment," said the farmer, placing his hand on the bridle of the other's horse, "When did this happen?" "A week ago to-day," replied the Roundhead. "Just as the sun set; and it was too late to renew the attack that day." With that the man rode on, and the farmer was left alone. "The good wife is right after all," he said to himself. "'Twas second sight, and the lass has the gift. We must keep the matter to ourselves, or the folk will think she is a witch." Then he set his face homewards, and walked off wondering. AUTHOR'S NOTE. The following particulars from old historical documents will give the reader some idea of the part Longdendale played in the Civil War; they will also afford evidence of the unrest which was the predominant feature throughout the country, in the days of the great Rebellion. Earwaker, the learned historian of East Cheshire, quotes a series of accounts from the Harleian MSS. These relate to Hollingworth in the time of the Civil War, and are the accounts "made and sworn unto by several inhabitants of the Township of Hollingworth" in 1645. The following extract will serve as a sample of the contents of this interesting document. The accompts of Alexander Hollinworth, of Nearer Hollinworth, in the above said Townshippe. Imprimis: I paid to Collonell Duckenfield, the 15th day of Deecmber (1643), for pposicon money 5 0 0 Itm: The same tyme ye said Collonell had of me a bay gueldinge ffor to be one in his Troope, well worth 5 6 8 Wch continued in his Troope until Candlemas after, and then was soe spoyled that he was not able to do any more service. Itm: After the said horse was soe lamed I sent another horse in his roome, and a man to ride him, which horse hath beene in ye said troope ev since Candlemas after to this present tyme: the horse when I put him in was worth 8 10 0 Itm: I was att charges for the man that did ride ye said horse sev'all waies above 40tye shillings 2 0 0 Itm: When Sr William Breerton marched towards Yorke wth Cheshire fforces ffor ye assistance of that County, there was 250 horse and rydrs quartered at my house; the damage I had by them in eatinge my meadowe, killinge my sheepe, and plunderinge some of my goods privily, and consuminge my victualls they found in my house, to ye value att ye least of 20tie marks 13 6 8 Itm: The damage I sustayned in quarteringe some of Captaine Rich horse and foote ye most pte of halfe a yeare Anno 1642 att the least 10 0 0 Itm: The damage I sustayned in quarteringe div'se of Captaine Eyres Troope sev'all tymes in Ann 1642 and 1643 was att the least 5 0 0 Itm: In quarteringe some of Collonell Deukenfield souldrs, Major Bradshawes, and diverse others, the tyme when Prince Rupert came to Stockport, was att the least damages to me 3 6 8 Itm: In quarteringe of 18 Troopers of Sr William Breerton Companye when they marched towards Nottingham (as they said) about 5 or 6 weeks agoe 1 10 0 Itm: I have mainteyned one musquetyer from the beginninge of theise unhappy warres, and never had the value of one penny towards the charge thereof from the Publique 25 0 0 Item: I have been sometymes att charge of one and sometymes 3 souldrs more when any publique danger was, as div'se tymes into Darbishire, to Adlington, to ye raysinge of the siege of Namptwicke, wch I verily thinke cost me above 5 markes att the least 3 6 8 _____ Sum £82 6 8 John Hollinworth, of Hollingworth, had a similar bill of £70 16s., and the Booths and the Bretlands also sought recompense for the expense they had been put to in buying arms and quartering men. One other old document may be quoted. On the 8th of December, 1653, Colonel Dukinfield and Colonel Henry Bradshaw sat at Stockport to prepare a list of pensioners in the Stockport division in connection with the civil wars. The list contained the following names: Ellen Wagstaffe, whose husband was wounded at Adlington; Catherine Goodier, whose husband was slain at Nantwich; Ellen Heape, of Tintwistle, whose husband was slain at Nantwich; Elizabeth, wife of Hugh Wooley, slain at Chester; Jane Cooke, whose husband was slain at Middlewich; John Wylde, of Disley, wounded at Worcester; Thomas Hinchcliffe, wounded at Worcester; Elizabeth Small, whose husband was slain at Cholmondeley; Joan Small, whose husband was slain at Middlewich; John Sydebotham, wounded at Cholmondeley; Margaret Whewall, whose husband was slain at Selby; The widow of George Hopwood, wounded at Middlewich; Randal Cartwright, wounded at Hanmore; Margaret Ashton, whose husband was slain at Lichfield; Ellen Benetson, wife of William Benetson, of Dukinfield, wounded at Chester, and died. It will be noticed that several of the above are names of Longdendale men. XX. A Tale of the '))45. The year 1745 was a noteworthy year in the annals of Longdendale. In that year the valley was roused to excitement by the doings of Prince Charles Edward Stuart, the young Pretender, who, at the head of a large army, marched through Manchester and Stockport on his road to Derby. Many of the male portion of the inhabitants of Longdendale walked into either Manchester or Stockport to see the army pass, and to catch a glimpse of the romantic figure which might one day sit upon the throne of England. Most of these sightseers returned home full of the grand picture which the Scottish army presented; they told a great tale of how the Prince forded the river at Stockport, that the water took him up to the middle, that he wore a light plaid, and a blue bonnet, in which was set a milk-white rose. These accounts greatly interested the inhabitants of Mottram town, who, like most people, loved to hear of martial doings at a distance. The Mottram folk, however, were not so highly elated when, a little later in the year, they heard that portions of the flying Scottish army were likely to pass through their town during the retreat from Derby. They would gladly have had the soldiers play the part of the Levite of old, and "pass by on the other side." "A murrain on them," quoth the sexton, as he sat in the ingle of the "Black Bull's Head"--that homely tavern perched on the hillside just beneath the graveyard of Mottram Church. "Why cannot they even travel back the same gait they came, and leave our good Mottram folk in peace? Like enough if they come, there will be blows, and who knows but what my trade will flourish mightily. And that will be the only trade that will flourish if they get to fighting on this side of the border." The maid who was attending to the wants of the customers pricked her ears at the conversation, and as she filled the sexton's glass, she joined in with her sweet woman's voice. "For my part I should be glad to see them march through Mottram. They say that the Prince is a handsome gentleman, and brave as he is fair. One day he will be the King, and then, think what an honour it will be to Mottram, to have had his army billet in the town when he fought for his own. Moreover, as I hear, there be some of the best and bravest of the old families of Lancashire in his train, and we see too few of the real gentry hereabouts to throw away so fine a chance as this. As for the fighting, I see no sin in that when the good Prince but seeks to win back his own." The sexton smiled at the maid's enthusiasm. He slowly charged his pipe, lit it, and when she had done, took the stem from his lips. "You are a maid," said he; "and like all women, are easily carried away by a handsome face and a fine figure. And belike you are a supporter of the Stuarts. As for me, I am for King George. I know enough of the Stuarts never to wish them in power again. My grand-father was a youth when the great war was on, and he saw enough blood shed then through the follies of Charles the First to turn him and all his kin against the breed. I could tell you tales he told to me that would set your heart a sick at the very mention of a Stuart. And war is not the grand thing some folks think. It's all well when someone else gets the worry, and pays the price, and leaves to us the glory of it. But I've no desire to see my thatch blazing above my head, my goods and chattels carried off, and my earnings squandered to keep some hungry fighting man in trim." John the smith now took up the tale. "As for me, I'm a favourer of the Stuarts. The lad is the true King, say I, by all good right. But I'm heart and soul with you, sexton, in hoping the army of the Scots will keep clear of Mottram town." And as the talk went on the speakers were divided on questions of politics, some siding with the Prince, others with the House of Hanover; but all alike agreed in hoping that the fugitives would give the Longdendale country a wide berth. Military necessity, however, knows no law, and the Scotchmen came at last--big burly Highland men. They wore kilts, and carried claymores--for the most part they were bearded, unkempt creatures, men who followed their leaders with the blind faith of children. As soon as definite news of the retreat of the rebel army in the direction of the town became known, the householders of Mottram became greatly alarmed, and everybody grew busy in hiding his or her valuables, and in driving the cattle to places of safety. The farmers scattered about their fields, and horses, cows, sheep, and swine, were hurried into the hills, and there secreted as comfortably and well as possible. Even the poultry were collected, and hidden away, so that they should not become a prey to the hungry Scots. It is said that the sexton had a busy time among the graves, burying such pieces of plate as were owned in the neighbourhood; and in many other spots throughout the district the savings of the householders were committed to the ground. Contrary to expectation, however, the Mottramites found the Highlanders a quiet, harmless lot of mortals, who did not seem desirous of reckless plunder. When they arrived they showed no disposition to take more than was absolutely necessary to provide for their needs, nor did they turn the people out of doors, and take forcible possession of the houses. During their short halt at Mottram, they roughed it with the best, killing cattle for food, and then (through lack of proper utensils) boiling the meat in hides skewered up at the corners. [Illustration: BELFRY DOOR IN MOTTRAM CHURCH.] The kilts of the Highlanders were what interested the people most of all, and the children would often flit about, in and out, near the legs of the soldiers, looking in awe at the strange petticoats for men, and the knees all bare and bony. Sometimes the men would take the children on their knees, and tell them stories of war and panic, of the charging of horse and foot, and of the glorious deeds of the great and brave. At which the children were greatly pleased, and could have listened all day long. The soldiers did not camp together, but were divided into companies; one portion stayed in Mottram, but the bulk of them encamped near Hollingworth Hall. Some of the inhabitants took pity on the men, and treated them with great kindness, which appears to have been much appreciated by the rebels. On departing, one of the soldiers left behind as a mark of his gratitude a tinder-box--the most valuable possession he had--and this box was long preserved at Hollingworth Hall. A noticeable feature about the coming of the Highland men was the excitement and pleasure it occasioned among the female portion of the inhabitants of Longdendale. The lasses in no way showed those signs of distress and doubt which were so evident in their elders. On the contrary, they dressed themselves in their best, became gay with ribbons, and by every art known to woman sought to enhance their many charms. Even in those days a soldier's coat was a magnet of attraction to a maid. Among the rest was the pretty maid who had spoken to the sexton in the "Black Bull." She was a fair lass, of good figure, and winsome ways, and she was greatly admired by all the lads of Mottram town. One of these was one whom we will call Robin Shaw, on whom she seemed to look with favour; and already that handsome yeoman had come to consider her as especially his property. A sad surprise was in store for poor Robin when the Scotchmen came marching through the town. Robin, young though he was, had strong views upon the situation. He was a staunch "King's man," and it was with no good grace that he beheld his lady love sporting the rebel colours as the Highlanders marched by. His cup of bitterness, however, ran over when, on the next night, he came across the faithless damsel strolling down a lane, where he himself had often made love to her, in company with a handsome youth who followed the fortunes of Prince Charlie. It was an angry scene which followed. Good Robin lost his temper, and in the most approved Longdendale fashion, then and there gave forth his opinion of the heartless conduct of his lady love, and the unjustifiable meddlesomeness of the soldier. The two would have come to blows there and then (for the Scot was quite as eager for the fray as his enraged antagonist) had it not been for the presence of the maid, who placed herself between them, and firmly decided against hostilities. As it was, she commenced an onslaught with her tongue, and the unlucky Robin, on whose head she poured forth her wrath, at last beat an ignominious retreat. "I'll be even with you yet, you bare-legged rebel," he cried to the Highlander as he went. And the soldier with a light laugh replied, "At your service, my friend, whenever you are ready." But the fates were against their meeting for the present, for, eager to get back beyond the border before the English army, which was massing, should lay them by the heels, the Scots left Longdendale, and passed hurriedly northwards. The day after they left, a fine figure of a man, equipped and ready for war, strode into the bar of the "Black Bull" at Mottram. It was Robin Shaw, and he sought the maid. "Well, my lass," said he, "I'm off. I've joined the army for the north, and now I'll be on the track of the rebels. If I meet your Highland lover, there'll be blows, and the end will be that you'll have no difficulty to make a choice between us. If I live, I'll come back to claim you. One kiss now, and then good-bye." Without waiting to see if the girl would give consent, he drew her to him in a grasp that would admit of no resistance, and kissed her. Then without another word he left the inn, and went swinging on his way. The weeks passed, and the grey dawn broke upon the heath near Culloden, where the English and the Scottish armies lay. With the dawn the Duke of Cumberland set out on his march, and shortly after mid-day the roar of the English artillery told that the battle had begun. All the world knows the history of that fight, how the fierce Highlanders, rendered desperate by the play of the cannon upon their ranks, burst into that wild and ill-fated charge which met with a bloody repulse; but there are personal details of the conflict that the world knows nothing of. When the Highland line darted forward, there moved in the front rank a "braw" young Scot, whom one at least of the Royal troops welcomed with a shout of joy. For an instant the weight of the Scottish column caused the English regiment to waver before the impetus of the charge. But there was one man who never gave ground an inch--the Longdendale Loyalist--Robin Shaw. He had seen among the charging host the form of the soldier who had tampered with his love in distant Longdendale, and with a shout he set himself in front of his foe. "Now, my merry rebel," he cried; "we meet again. We will settle old scores." "Thou art welcome," cried the Highlander, crossing blades. "We fight for the love of a lass and--King James." "For the love of a lass, and King George," said honest Robin Shaw. And with that the fight began. Now, Robin was no match for his foe save in strength. In skill of sword play, the Scot was greatly the superior of the two, and the result was not long in doubt. Before he knew where he was, Robin's blade was dashed from his grasp, and the sword of the Highlander thrust him through. Robin grew sick, and a mist rose before his eyes, but in the mist he could still make out the triumphant face of his foe. With teeth firmly set, he pulled himself together, and sprang at the throat of the Scot. In vain the latter drew back. Before he could draw his dirk, the Longdendale lad had him by the throat, gripping him like a vice. The men fell to the ground, rolling over and over in the struggle, but the grip of Robin never slackened, and at length both lay still. Another moment and the beaten wave of the Highlanders swept over them, and the victorious English charged past in pursuit. The battle of Culloden was fought and won; Charles Edward was beaten, and the Stuart cause for ever lost. When the burial parties passed over the battlefield, they found two corpses firmly locked together--an Englishman run through the body by the other's sword--a Scotchman strangled to death by the grip of his foe. The dead man's grip might not be loosened, and they buried the bodies in one common grave. So Robin and his rival lay down together in the last long sleep beneath the heather at Culloden, and away in merry Longdendale a fair girl watched and waited for a lover who never came. XXI. The Haunted Farm. In the township of Godley, on the fringe of what was formerly an unenclosed common known as Godley Green, stands an old farm, stone-built, of picturesque appearance. It is pleasantly situated a short distance from the turnpike road, from which it is approached by a country lane. Its windows command some beautiful views over the farm lands of Matley and Hattersley, which stretch away eastwards with many a clough and dingle, to the bleak hill country where the old church of Mottram stands out dark against the sky. The farm is said to occupy the site of an ancient hall, and old folk tell of the remains of mullioned windows, and a curious antique mounting block, which were to be seen there in the days when they were young. Tradition says that the farm is haunted. In former times it was occupied by a family, the last survivor of which was an old dame, who is spoken of by those who remember her as being the very picture of a witch. She is said to have had a nose and chin so hooked that they almost met; and to have been very mysterious in her movements. Rumour had it that there was some treasure or secret buried in or about the farm, and that after the old dame's death, her spirit, unable to rest in the grave, commenced to wander through the farm at night, as though searching for something which was lost. Various persons who have at different times resided in the farm--some of whom are still living,--have related strange stories of their experiences of the ghostly visitant. In the dead of night, the doors--even those which were locked--have suddenly opened, footsteps have been heard, as though some unseen being walked through the rooms and up the stairs, and then the doors have closed and locked themselves as mysteriously as they opened. Sleepers have been awakened by the beds on which they lay suddenly commencing to rock violently; and at times the bed clothes have been snatched away and deposited in a heap upon the floor. The ghostly figure of an old woman has been seen moving about from room to room, and then has vanished. Fire-irons have been moved, and have tumbled and danced about mysteriously; pots and pans have rattled, and tumbled on the floor; and there has been heard a strange noise as though some one invisible was sweeping the floor. In the early and the middle decades of the nineteenth century, the appearances of the ghost were of frequent occurrence, so much so that the farmer's family became accustomed to them, and beyond the annoyance and the loss of sleep which were occasioned, ceased troubling themselves about the visits. But for guests or strangers the ghost had terrors. The farmer's daughter had a sweetheart, and one night he paid a visit to his betrothed, and sat with her before the kitchen fire. Suddenly there came a gust of wind, there was a noise as though every pot and pan in the house had been broken, and every door was flung wide open by a mysterious and invisible agency. "What on earth is that?" asked the young man, full of surprise, not unmixed with terror. "It is only the ghost of the old dame prowling about," answered his sweetheart. But the youth had seen and heard enough, and seizing his hat, he dashed outside and made off rapidly over the fields. Scarcely had he departed, when the doors shut themselves, and all was quiet as before. Some time afterwards, the farmer engaged a farm-hand from a place beyond Charlesworth. The new man took up his abode and slept one night in the haunted farm. The next morning he came downstairs with blanched face and startled eyes. "I have seen a boggart," said he; "the ghost of an old woman; and I think it must be my mother. On her deathbed I promised her to place a stone upon her grave; I have been too greedy to spare the money for the purpose. It must be her ghost come to upbraid me; and I cannot rest until I have placed the stone above her grave." Never again would the poor fellow spend a night in the farm, but for years he walked to and from his home beyond distant Charlesworth and his work at the haunted farm. Other farm-hands and servants were equally terrified by the strange noises and apparitions; and the farmer found it almost impossible to get anyone to remain long in his service. At length, so annoying did the ghost visits become that it was decided to call in the aid of some minister of the Gospel for the purpose of "laying the boggart." The Rev. James Brooks--the respected pastor of Hyde Chapel, Gee Cross, from 1805-1851--was asked to undertake the task, and he readily complied. Accompanied by other devout men, he spent several nights in the haunted rooms, reading passages from the Bible, and uttering prayers specially adapted for driving evil spirits away. The ministrations of the reverend gentleman were so far successful that the ghost did not again appear for some time, and its visits have not since been of such frequent occurrence as formerly. It was widely believed that had Mr. Brooks continued his visits and his prayers long enough, the boggart would have been effectively "laid." As it is, the strange noises and visitations have continued, and are borne witness to by several persons. Between 1880 and 1890 the following strange thing happened. It was in the middle of the afternoon, when most of the household were out of doors, and there were only the farmer's wife and a boy, and girl within the house. Presently the mother went into the yard, and the youngsters, bent on mischief, rushed into the pantry for the purpose of feasting on the jams and honey which they knew to be there, when lo! they were suddenly startled by a loud and strange noise overhead, giving them the impression that some burglars must have got in the upstairs rooms by some means or other. Full of fear, they rushed for their mother, who boldly went upstairs, the children following at her heels. When they entered the room from which the noise came, they beheld the curious sight of an old rocking-chair, violently rocking itself as though some person might have been seated in it, and the rocking continued unabated for a considerable time. A farm labourer, who was called in to stop the chair, was too terrified to do anything, and finally the farmer's wife had to sit in the chair to stop it. It is said that the old dame whose ghost haunts the place, died in her rocking-chair in that very corner of the room; and the belief was that it was her spirit, invisible to the inhabitants of the farm, which had set the chair rocking so mysteriously. To add to the mystery and the uncanny character of the place, there is a certain part of the garden connected with the farm, on which nothing will grow. Time after time have the tenants endeavoured to cultivate this little spot, but always unsuccessfully. Some years ago human bones were dug up, and the secret attached to their interment is supposed to account for the sterile nature of the soil. The present tenant of the farm asserts that he has paid special attention to the piece of ground, has applied quantities of the best manure, and in other ways has endeavoured to bring the soil to the same state of fruitfulness as the rest of the garden, but all to no purpose. So recently as the month of April, 1906, primroses growing on that part of the garden are pale and withered; while those in other parts are fine and healthy flowers. The present tenant's wife relates a strange story of a supernatural death-warning which occurred in connection with this haunted house. Her brother lay ill in the farm, and she had occasion to go to Gee Cross on business. Returning homewards, she met a black cat, which, do what she would she was unable to catch. Then, whilst walking along the lane leading to the farm, in company with her mother who had met her, a strange thing happened. It was a beautiful summer night, hot and still; not a breath of air stirred the leaves upon the trees; and there was no sound. Suddenly the high thorn hedge on their right commenced to rock violently; and behind it there sailed along from the direction of the farm a female figure draped in white. The beholders were spellbound, and they entered the house with bated breaths. There they found that the sick man had just died. The history of this haunted farm is but another testimony to the truth of the saying that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of by ordinary mortals. Things such as these are beyond human ken; and in all probability the apparition and the ghost-noises of this old farm house in Godley will baffle the wisdom and the cunning of generations yet unborn. AUTHOR'S NOTE. It is quite probable that the majority of those who read the foregoing account of "The Haunted Farm" will come to the conclusion that it is entirely the outcome of the writer's imagination. I therefore hasten to explain that there is not a single detail in the account which has been imagined by me. Every incident recorded has been supplied to me by persons who have resided in the farm, and all that I have done has been to put them in the form in which they now appear. Most of my informants are still living; indeed, I saw and interviewed four of them so recently as the last week in March, 1906. One of these was the old lady, who, as a young woman, was one of the lovers mentioned in the account; after her marriage she resided in the farm and is "the farmer's wife" referred to, who witnessed, and stopped the mysterious rocking-chair. The other individuals, who were much younger, related to me the story of the strange noises, invisible footsteps, and uncanny opening and closing of doors, which they witnessed towards the close of the nineteenth century. They are persons of the most reputable character, and of social standing, and they solemnly assure me that the things recorded in the above article are literally true. I also visited the farm in the month of April, 1906, and obtained from the present occupants their experiences, which are also embodied in the above narrative. The sterility of the "haunted" part of the garden I saw for myself; and can unhesitatingly testify that, from some cause or other, the flowers growing on it are quite withered and weak, whilst similar flowers in other parts of the garden are healthy and blooming. There is no apparent reason for this fact, inasmuch as the unfruitful portion of the ground is as advantageously situated as the rest of the garden. XXII. The Spectre Hound. Until the latter half of the nineteenth century there might have been numbered among the curious old buildings for which the township of Godley has long been famed, a low, old-world farmstead of the style that is now fast fading away. It was a small, picturesque building, and stood upon a portion of Godley Green, surrounded by a prettily laid-out cottage garden. Its occupants combined farming with other pursuits, and in one part of the building handloom weaving was carried on to a comparatively late period. The farm was pulled down, as already indicated, in the latter half of the nineteenth century; and a handsome modern residence has been erected near the site on which it stood. There is a curious legend told about this old building. It is said to have been haunted; and the ghost, in the form of a spectre hound, is still supposed to roam at nights over the fields which were formerly attached to the farm. The legend runs that some persons were done to death in some mysterious fashion in the building; and that ever since, an evil spirit, in the shape of a great yellow hound, has haunted the neighbourhood. Old people who can remember the farm, state that in it there was a certain flag on the stone floor, which bore the stains of blood; and that no amount of swilling and scrubbing could ever remove the stains. What became of the stone when the house was pulled down is not known. Many persons--residents in Godley, and others who have had occasion to be in the neighbourhood said to be haunted--have seen the spectre hound, careering over the fields and through the lanes during the night-time. The occupants of the adjoining farms have been awakened from their sleep in the dead of the night by the noises made by the cattle in the fields; and on looking from their windows have seen the terrified animals dashing wildly across the fields, chased by the horrible form of the great ghost-hound, which with hanging tongue, protruding eyes, and deep sepulchral baying, drove them round and round. Children, returning along the country lanes from school on winter evenings, have seen the hound dash past, and have reached home well-nigh frightened out of their wits. Young lovers, walking arm in arm along the quiet lanes, seeking some secluded spot wherein to dream of love and happiness, have been put to flight by the spectre; and the more timid maids from the farms have been afraid to venture out after dark. The wife of one of the farmers, when returning home one night, after delivering the milk in the neighbouring towns, was driving slowly along the lane past the site of the demolished farmstead, when the horse suddenly stood still, and began to tremble violently. At that instant the form of the giant hound, yellow in colour, with horrible staring eyes, sprang from the field, leaped over the fence into the lane, and with great strides like the galloping of a horse raced down the lane in the direction of a well which is sunk close to another farm. Full of fear the good woman reached home, and told her father what she had seen. The old man, merely shook his head, and said quietly: "The yellow hound. So you have seen the yellow hound?" "What is it--what does it mean?" asked the daughter. "Some day I will tell you," said he. "But not now. If you have seen it once, be sure you will see it again." Some time afterwards the old man himself came quietly home, and told his daughter that he, too, had just seen the hound. "It was sitting by the edge of the old well," said he, "looking into the water. Its eyes were staring wildly, and foam dropped from its lips." "What is it--what does it mean?" again asked the daughter. But the old man only shook his head, and answered: "Who can tell?" Again the woman saw the hound in the fields of their own farm, and sometimes it appeared without head. A great hound it was, life-like enough at first appearance, but clearly a spectre, terrible to see. Another lady saw the hound when she was a child, and several times during her life it has appeared before her. This is her narrative: "The first time I saw it was in the lanes, when I was walking with a relation, older than myself. I was a child at the time, and although startled was not too frightened to think of trying to scare it away. As it kept pace with us, I looked out for some stones to fling at it; but my relative caught hold of me and said: 'Don't; you mustn't throw at it, or it will attack us, and tear us to bits. It is the ghost-hound.' Since then I have seen it several times. It is not a pleasant thing to meet, and I have no wish to see it again." Yet a third lady saw the ghost-hound between the years 1890 and 1900. "I was staying at ---- Farm," said she; "and I went down to the well to get some water. It was a winter night, and on a pool near the well was a strong sheet of ice. While the buckets were filling I went towards the ice, thinking to enjoy a slide. But when I reached the pool, there stood the hound. It was about the size of a lion, its skin much the same as a lion's in colour, and it had eyes as large as saucers. At first I thought it must have been a lion that had escaped from Belle Vue, or from some menagerie; and as it came towards me I backed away. I was too terrified to turn and run, but kept my face to it, as I retreated. When I neared the house it disappeared. I shall never forget the sight as long as I live. It was a dreadful thing to see." A tradesman of Hyde--a fishmonger, who made a weekly journey round Broadbottom, and came homewards across Godley Green--once saw the spectre, and his story is equally sensational. "It was as big as a cow," said he, "its skin a light tan colour. I was walking down the lane with my basket on my shoulder, when suddenly I saw the thing beside me. It kept pace with me as I walked; if I stood still, it stopped, and if I ran, it ran also. I could not overtake it. I was not more than a yard from the hedge, and the ghost was between me and the hedge. I struck at it, but hit nothing; for my hand went clean through it as through air, and my knuckles were scratched by the hedge. My blood ran cold, and I was terribly frightened. Then it ran in front of me, and then came back, and passed me again; it did not turn round to do this, but, strange to say, its head was in front when it returned. As soon as it had passed, I took to my heels as fast as I could run, and it was a long time before I ventured down the lane again at night. When next I met the farmer whose lands were haunted by it, and whom I had formerly served with fish, he asked me where I had been lately; and I then told him I had seen the ghost. He replied that he and his family had seen it often; and that I must not be afraid." "Never mind about that," I said. "You'll have to do without fish at night, unless you like to fetch it." "It was the most hideous thing I ever saw. Its feet went pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, with a horrible clanking noise like chains. I wouldn't meet it again for twenty pounds. I never want to see it again if I live to be a hundred." And so on, the different mortals who have seen this terrible spectre of the yellow hound relate their grim experiences. The legend is that the ghost-hound must haunt the lanes and fields about the site of the old farmstead, until the crime for which it is accursed has been atoned for, when its midnight wanderings will cease, and the troubled spirit will find rest. AUTHOR'S NOTE. As in the case of the story of the "Haunted Farm," I desire to state that I have not drawn upon my imagination for any of the incidents related in the account of "The Spectre Hound." The story of the ghost came to my ears from the lips of a friend, and being filled with curiosity at so remarkable a story I determined to investigate it. For this purpose I saw and interviewed all the persons whose experiences are related in the story, and from them I received the substance and detail of the above account. They are all perfectly serious, and positively affirm that they saw with their own eyes the actions of the spectre hound as recorded. Their statements were given to me in the presence of reliable witnesses; and my informants are still alive at the time of writing (May, 1906). The fishmonger whose statement is given above is a well-known Hyde worthy, and I interviewed him at his own house on Thursday evening, March 29th, 1906. I took with me two friends--well-known public men of Hyde--as witnesses. My knock at the door was answered by the fishmonger himself. I told him who I was, and my object in calling--that it was about a ghost, a spectre hound--a great dog. "Great dog," said he; "why, man, it was as big as a blooming cow. Come inside." With that we entered the house, and he related the story which is recorded in the foregoing narrative. At the conclusion I suggested that the spectre might have been a cow. The man shook his head. "It was no cow," said he solemnly. "It was a ghost. I never want to see the thing again if I live to be a hundred years old." XXIII. The Boggart of Godley Green. It would, perhaps, be difficult to find in all England a tract of country of which so many wild stories of ghosts and boggarts are told as the old common land of Godley Green, and the picturesque cloughs and dingles which surround it. Some interesting old farmsteads still stand on and near the "Green," and there were in former times others still more quaint, which have disappeared before the march of time. Concerning most of these homesteads, ghost tales are told; indeed, one old native of Godley recently declared that "there were more boggarts at Godley Green than anywhere else in the kingdom." And perhaps this statement is true. Most of the stories are old tales, which have been handed down from former generations, no living being laying claim to any personal experience of the boggarts referred to. But in one or two cases the boggarts are said to be still haunting the scenes of their former exploits; and people still living claim to have actually seen the ghosts, as well as heard about them. The present story belongs to the latter class. There is a certain house in that part of the township of Godley known as the Green, which is said to be haunted by a boggart in the shape of an old lady, who formerly belonged to the house. The legend is not very precise as to the cause of her unrest, but it is said that she did certain things in her lifetime the memories of which will not allow her to rest quietly in her grave. Accordingly, her ghost wanders about the house and grounds, occasionally startling people by its appearance, and its peculiar actions. One old lady--still alive--gives some graphic details of the boggart. She at one time resided in the house but now she has removed to a distance. "Many a time," says she, "I have seen 'Old Nanny'--the boggart--wandering about after dark. She is generally outside the house, but occasionally peeps in at the windows. I can remember the old woman during her lifetime, and the boggart is just like her. She wears an old-fashioned cap, and a skirt kilted or tucked up in the old-fashioned style. She wears an apron, which she shakes, and makes a peculiar hissing noise. There is a gate leading from the garden into a meadow and I have seen the boggart standing there, waving her apron, and saying, 'Ish, ish, ish.'" "On one occasion a relative of the old dame, was present, and saw the boggart. 'It's owd Nanny,' said he, '))reet enough. Why the d---- can't she rest quiet in her grave. What does she want frightening people like that.'" Another night a serving man was ordered to go into the back garden, and gather a quantity of rhubarb. He was gone a short time, and then he rushed back to the house with blanched face, and terror in his countenance. "What is the matter?" asked his mistress; "where is the rhubarb?" "It's where it mun stop, missus, for me," he replied. "I've had enough of rhubarb getting in that garden." And then he related how he had proceeded to the rhubarb bed, had gathered one stick, and was about to pluck another, when he suddenly became aware of the white figure of an old woman standing before him in the midst of the rhubarb, looking at him intently. "She waved her apron at me," said he, "and then I heard her say, 'Ish, ish, ish.'" While he looked the boggart vanished, and then the man took to his heels. Another lady, who resided at the house in the last years of the nineteenth century, has also some queer tales to tell of the appearance of the boggart. Says she: "I would not live in that house again if its owner would give it to me, and the land it stands on. The place is uncanny, and the boggart is always there. I saw it more than once. I remember going into the orchard one evening with my sister. We went to pick some apples, and having got as many as we wanted, were returning to the house. At the gate, which leads into the meadow, we saw the boggart--in the form of an old lady, with a withered face. She stood there waving her apron, and saying 'Ish, ish, ish.'" "We dropped the apples, and fled." Other persons still alive assert that they have seen this boggart, and it is firmly believed by many that the ghost of the old woman will continue to haunt the house until her sins are expiated, or until some minister or holy man "lays the boggart," by using the forms laid down by law in the olden time, for exorcising evil spirits. AUTHOR'S NOTE. To the two other ghost stories relating to the township of Godley--namely, the stories of "The Haunted Farm" and "The Spectre Hound"--I have thought it necessary to append a note of explanation. I now adopt the same course with regard to the story of "The Boggart of Godley Green." I wish to repeat in this instance that nothing in the story must be credited to the imagination of the writer. All the details have been given to me by persons still living (May, 1906), who have resided in the house at one time or another, and who solemnly assert that they have seen the boggart, under the circumstances related in the above account. Their statements were given to me in the presence of witnesses, and it is impossible to doubt the earnestness and honesty of my informants. I do not wish to cast any harsh doubt upon their statements, nor do I, on the other hand, desire to give it forth that I am a convert to the belief in ghosts and boggarts. I merely record the stories as told to me by people whose honesty I know to be above suspicion, and who firmly believe that they have seen the things they describe. The houses and the fields and lanes mentioned in the three stories, as haunts of the ghosts, are all well known to me. I have walked over them alone, at all times of the night and day, and in all seasons. And with the house and grounds mentioned in the story of "The Boggart of Godley Green" I am especially familiar. The land behind the house dips down to a secluded valley; and the gate mentioned by the narrators as a favourite haunt of the ghost is half-way up the slope. It is overshadowed by tall trees, and in certain lights the darkness cast by these trees is peculiar, and almost palpable. Beyond the gate is a meadow, from which at certain times the mists rise thick and white. When seen through the trees the mist sometimes takes strange forms. My first experience of it was rather startling. I had been in the orchard alone one night, and when slowly walking up the rise I chanced to look towards the gate, and there in the gap between the trees appeared a white form, like the veiled and draped figure of a female. It seemed to be moving, and for the moment I received a shock. On proceeding towards the gate, however, I found it was nothing but a moving column of mist, framed by the thick foliage of the trees. Even then, by an abnormal imagination, it might have been taken for a spectre. But although the mist might in some degree explain away the appearance of "The Boggart" at the gate, I must candidly admit that it does not account for the spectre hound, or the strange noises, movings of furniture, and openings of doors, recorded in the two first stories. These things are as much a mystery as ever. THE END [Illustration: HYDE: FRED HIGHAM, PRINTER, "CHESHIRE POST," MARKET PLACE. MCMVI.] 
43974	----	_By Lady Gregory_ DRAMA Seven Short Plays Folk-History Plays, 2 vols. New Comedies The Image The Golden Apple Our Irish Theatre. A Chapter of Autobiography IRISH FOLK LORE AND LEGEND Visions and Beliefs, 2 vols. Cuchulain of Muirthemne Gods and Fighting Men Saints and Wonders Poets and Dreamers The Kiltartan Poetry Book [Illustration: Ballylee Castle From a sepia drawing by Robert Gregory] VISIONS AND BELIEFS IN THE WEST OF IRELAND COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY LADY GREGORY: WITH TWO ESSAYS AND NOTES BY W.B. YEATS "_There's no doubt at all but that there's the same sort of things in other countries; but you hear more about them in these parts because the Irish do be more familiar in talking of them._" _SECOND SERIES_ G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON =The Knickerbocker Press= 1920 COPYRIGHT, 1920 BY LADY GREGORY =The Knickerbocker Press, New York= CONTENTS PAGE I.--HERBS, CHARMS, AND WISE WOMEN 3 II.--ASTRAY, AND TREASURE 29 III.--BANSHEES AND WARNINGS 45 IV.--IN THE WAY 65 V.--THE FIGHTING OF THE FRIENDS 77 VI.--THE UNQUIET DEAD 89 VII.--APPEARANCES 111 VIII.--BUTTER 189 IX.--THE FOOL OF THE FORTH 195 X.--FORTHS AND SHEOGUEY PLACES 205 XI.--BLACKSMITHS 239 XII.--MONSTERS AND SHEOGUEY BEASTS 245 XIII.--FRIARS AND PRIEST CURES 281 SWEDENBORG, MEDIUMS, AND THE DESOLATE PLACES 295 NOTES 343 I HERBS, CHARMS, AND WISE WOMEN I HERBS, CHARMS, AND WISE WOMEN _There is a saying in Irish, "An old woman without learning, it is she will be doing charms"; and I have told in "Poets and Dreamers" of old Bridget Ruane who came and gave me my first knowledge of the healing power of certain plants, some it seemed having a natural and some a mysterious power. And I said that she had "died last winter, and we may be sure that among the green herbs that cover her grave there are some that are good for every bone in the body and that are very good for a sore heart."_ _As to the book she told me of that had come from the unseen and was written in Irish, I think of Mrs. Sheridan's answer when I asked in what language the strange unearthly people she had been among had talked: "Irish of course--what else would they talk?" And I remember also that when Blake told Crabb Robinson of the intercourse he had had with Voltaire and was asked in what tongue Voltaire spoke he said, "To my sensations it was English. It was like the touch of a musical key. He touched it probably in French, but to my ear it became English."_ _I was told by her:_ There is a Saint at the Oratory in London, but I don't know his name, and a girl heard of him in London, and he sent her back to Gort, and he said, "There's a woman there that will cure you," and she came to me, and I cured her in two days. And if you could find out the name of that Saint through the Press, he'd tell me his remedies, and all the world would be cured. For I can't do all cures though there are a great many I can do. I cured Pat Carty when the doctor couldn't do it, and a woman in Gort that was paralysed and her two sons that were stretched. For I can bring back the dead with the same herbs our Lord was brought back with--the _slanlus_ and the _garblus_. But there are some things I can't do. I can't help anyone that has got a stroke from the Queen or the Fool of the Forth. I know a woman that saw the Queen one time, and she said she looked like any Christian. I never heard of any that saw the Fool but one woman that was walking near Gort, and she called out, "There's the Fool of the Forth coming after me." So her friends that were with her called out though they could see nothing, and I suppose he went away at that for she got no harm. He was like a big strong man, and half-naked--that's all she said about him. It was my brother got the knowledge of cures from a book that was thrown down before him on the road. What language was it written in? What language would it be but Irish. Maybe it was God gave it to him, and maybe it was the _other people_. He was a fine strong man, and he weighed twenty-five stone--and he went to England, and then he cured all the world, so that the doctors had no way of living. So one time he got on a ship to go to America, and the doctors had bad men engaged to shipwreck him out of the ship; he wasn't drowned but he was broken to pieces on the rocks, and the book was lost along with him. But he taught me a good deal out of it. So I know all herbs, and I do a good many cures, and I have brought a great many children home, home to the world--and never lost one, or one of the women that bore them. I was never away myself, but I am a cousin of Saggarton, and his uncle was away for twenty-one years. * * * * * This is _dwareen_ (knapweed) and what you have to do with this is to put it down, with other herbs, and with a bit of threepenny sugar, and to boil it and to drink it for pains in the bones, and don't be afraid but it will cure you. Sure the Lord put it in the world for curing. And this is _corn-corn_ (small aromatic tansy); it's very good for the heart--boiled like the others. This is _atair-talam_ (wild camomile), the father of all herbs--the father of the ground. This is very hard to pull, and when you go for it, you must have a black-handled knife. And this is _camal-buide_ (loosestrife) that will keep all bad things away. This is _cuineul-Muire_ (mullein), the blessed candle of our Lady. This is _fearaban_ (water buttercup) and it's good for every bone of your body. This is _dub-cosac_ (lichen), that's good for the heart, very good for a sore heart. Here are the _slanlus_ (plantain) and the _garblus_ (dandelion) and these would cure the wide world, and it was these brought our Lord from the Cross, after the ruffians that was with the Jews did all the harm to Him. And not one could be got to pierce His heart till a dark man came and said, "Give me the spear, and I'll do it," and the blood that sprang out touched his eyes and they got their sight. And it was after that, His Mother and Mary and Joseph gathered their herbs and cured His wounds. These are the best of the herbs, but they are all good, and there isn't one among them but would cure seven diseases. I'm all the days of my life gathering them, and I know them all, but it isn't easy to make them out. Sunday evening is the best time to get them, and I was never interfered with. Seven "Hail Marys" I say when I'm gathering them, and I pray to our Lord and to St. Joseph and St. Colman. And there may be _some_ watching me, but they never meddled with me at all. _Mrs. Quaid:_ Monday is a good day for pulling herbs, or Tuesday, not Sunday. A Sunday cure is no cure. The _cosac_ (lichen) is good for the heart, there was Mineog in Gort, one time his heart was wore to a silk thread, and it cured him. The _slanugad_ (rib-grass) is very good, and it will take away lumps. You must go down when it's growing on the scraws, and pull it with three pulls, and mind would the wind change when you are pulling it or your head will be gone. Warm it on the tongs when you bring it and put it on the lump. The _lus-mor_ (mullein) is the only one that's good to bring back children that are away. But what's better than that is to save what's in the craw of a cock you'll kill on St. Martin's Eve and put it by and dry it, and give it to the child that's away. There's something in green flax I know, for my mother often told me about one night she was spinning flax, before she was married and she was up late. And a man of the faeries came in. She had no right to be sitting up so late, they don't like that. And he told her to go to bed, for he wanted to kill her, and he couldn't touch her while she was handling the flax. And every time he'd tell her to go to bed, she'd give him some answer, and she'd go on pulling a thread of the flax, or mending a broken one, for she was wise, and she knew that at the crowing of the cock he'd have to go. So at last the cock crowed, and he was gone, and she was safe then, for the cock is blessed. _Mrs. Ward:_ As to the _lus-mor_, whatever way the wind is blowing when you begin to cut it, if it changes while you're cutting it, you'll lose your mind. And if you're paid for cutting it, you can do it when you like, but if not _they_ mightn't like it. I knew a woman was cutting it one time, and a voice, an enchanted voice, called out, "Don't cut that if you're not paid, or you'll be sorry." But if you put a bit of this with every other herb you drink, you'll live for ever. My grandmother used to put a bit with everything she took, and she lived to be over a hundred. _An Old Man on the Beach:_ I wouldn't give into those things, but I'll tell you what happened to a son of my own. He was as fine and as stout a boy as ever you saw, and one day he was out with me, and a letter came and told of the death of some one's child that was in America, and all the island gathered to hear it read. And all the people were pressing to each other there. And when we were coming home, he had a bit of a kippeen in his hand, and getting over a wall he fell, and some way the kippeen went in at his throat, where it had a sharp point and hurt the palate of his mouth, and he got paralysed from the waist up. There was a woman over in Spiddal, and my wife gave me no ease till I went to her, and she gave me some herb for him. He got better after, and there's no man in the island stronger and stouter than what he is but he never got back the use of his left hand, but the strength he has in the other hand is equal to what another man would have in two. Did the woman in Spiddal say what gave him the touch? Oh well, she said all sorts of things. But I wouldn't like to meddle too much with such as her, for it's by witchcraft I believe it's done. There was a woman of the same sort over in Roundstone, and I knew a man went to her about his wife, and first she said the sickness had nothing to do with _her_ business, but he said he came too far to bring back an answer like that. So she went into a little room, and he heard her call on the name of all the devils. So he cried out that that was enough, and she came out then and made the sign of the Cross, but he wouldn't stop in it. But a priest told me that there was a woman in France used to cure all the dumb that came to her, and that it was a great loss and a great pity when she died. _Mrs. Cloonan:_ I knew some could cure with herbs; but it's not right for any one that doesn't understand them to be meddling with them. There was a woman I knew one time wanted a certain herb I knew for a cure for her daughter, and the only place that herb was to be had was down in the bottom of a spring well. She was always asking me would I go and get it for her, but I took advice, and I was advised not to do it. So then she went herself and she got it out, a very green herb it was, not watercress, but it had a bunch of green leaves. And so soon as she brought it into the house, she fell as if dead and there she lay for two hours. And not long after that she died, but she cured the daughter, and it's well I didn't go to gather the herb, or it's on me all the harm would have come. I used to be gathering an herb one time for the Bishop that lived at Loughmore, dandelion it was. There are two sorts, the white that has no harm in it, that's what I used to be gathering, and the red that has a _pishogue_ in it, but I left that alone. _Old Heffernan:_ The best herb-doctor I ever knew was Conolly up at Ballyturn. He knew every herb that grew in the earth. It was said that he was away with the faeries one time, and when I knew him he had the two thumbs turned in, and it was said that was the sign they left on him. I had a lump on the thigh one time and my father went to him, and he gave him an herb for it but he told him not to come into the house by the door the wind would be blowing in at. They thought it was the evil I had, that is given by _them_ by a touch, and that is why he said about the wind, for if it was the evil, there would be a worm in it, and if it smelled the herb that was brought in at the door, it might change to another place. I don't know what the herb was, but I would have been dead if I had it on another hour, it burned so much, and I had to get the lump lanced after, for it wasn't the evil I had. Conolly cured many a one. Jack Hall that fell into a pot of water they were after boiling potatoes in, and had the skin scalded off him and that Doctor Lynch could do nothing for, he cured. He boiled down herbs with a bit of lard, and after that was rubbed on three times, he was well. And Pat Cahel that was deaf, he cured with the _rib-mas-seala_, that herb in the potatoes that milk comes out of. His wife was against him doing the cures, she thought that it would fall on herself. And anyway, she died before him. But Connor at Oldtown gave up doing cures, and his stock began to die, and he couldn't keep a pig, and all he had wasted away till he began to do them again; and his son does cures now, but I think it's more with charms than with herbs. _John Phelan:_ The _bainne-bo-bliatain_ (wood anemone) is good for the headache, if you put the leaves of it on your head. But as for the _lus-mor_ it's best not to have anything to do with that. _Mrs. West:_ Dandelion is good for the heart, and when Father Prendergast was curate here, he had it rooted up in all the fields about, to drink it, and see what a fine man he is. _Garblus_; how did you hear of that? That is the herb for things that have to do with the faeries. And when you'd drink it for anything of that sort, if it doesn't cure you, it will kill you then and there. There was a fine young man I used to know and he got his death on the head of a pig that came at himself and another man at the gate of Ramore, and that never left them, but was at them all the time till they came to a stream of water. And when he got home, he took to his bed with a headache, and at last he was brought a drink of the _garblus_ and no sooner did he drink it than he was dead. I remember him well. Biddy Early didn't use herbs, but let people say what they like, she was a sure woman. There is something in flax, for no priest would anoint you without a bit of tow. And if a woman that was carrying was to put a basket of green flax on her back, the child would go from her, and if a mare that was in foal had a load of flax put on her, the foal would go the same way. _Mrs. Allen:_ I don't believe in faeries myself, I really don't. But all the people in Kildare believe in them, and I'll tell you what I saw there one time myself. There was a man had a splendid big white horse, and he was leading him along the road, and a woman, a next-door neighbour, got up on the wall and looked at him. And the horse fell down on his knees and began to shiver, and you'd think buckets of water were poured over him. And they led him home, but he was fit for nothing, and everyone was sorry for the poor man, and him being worth ninety pounds. And they sent to the Curragh and to every place for vets, but not one could do anything at all. And at last they sent up in to the mountains for a faery doctor, and he went into the stable and shut the door, and whatever he did there no one knows, but when he came out he said that the horse would get up on the ninth day, and be as well as ever. And so he did sure enough, but whether he kept well, I don't know, for the man that owned him sold him the first minute he could. And they say that while the faery doctor was in the stable, the woman came to ask what was he doing, and he called from inside, "Keep her away, keep her away." And a priest had lodgings in the house at the same time, and when the faery doctor saw him coming, "Let me out of this," says he, and away with him as fast as he could. And all this I saw happen, but whether the horse only got a chill or not I don't know. _James Mangan:_ My mother learned cures from an Ulster woman, for the Ulster women are the best for cures; but I don't know the half of them, and what I know I wouldn't like to be talking about or doing, unless it might be for my own family. There's a cure she had for the yellow jaundice; and it's a long way from Ennistymon to Creevagh, but I saw a man come all that way to her, and he fainted when he sat down in the chair, he was so far gone. But she gave him a drink of it, and he came in a second time and she gave it again, and he didn't come a third time for he didn't want it. But I don't mind if I tell you the cure and it is this: take a bit of the dirt of a dog that has been eating bones and meat, and put it on top of an oven till it's as fine as powder and as white as flour, and then pound it up, and put it in a glass of whiskey, in a bottle, and if a man is not too far gone with jaundice, that will cure him. There was one Carthy at Imlough did great cures with charms and his son can do them yet. He uses no herbs, but he'll go down on his knees and he'll say some words into a bit of unsalted butter, and what words he says, no one knows. There was a big man I know had a sore on his leg and the doctor couldn't cure him, and Doctor Moran said a bit of the bone would have to come out. So at last he went to Jim Carthy and he told him to bring him a bit of unsalted butter the next Monday, or Thursday, or Saturday, for there's a difference in days. And he would have to come three times, or if it was a bad case, he'd have to come nine times. But I think it was after the third time that he got well, and now he is one of the head men in Persse's Distillery in Galway. _A Slieve Echtge Woman:_ The wild parsnip is good for gravel, and for heartbeat there's nothing so good as dandelion. There was a woman I knew used to boil it down, and she'd throw out what was left on the grass. And there was a fleet of turkeys about the house and they used to be picking it up. And at Christmas they killed one of them, and when it was cut open they found a new heart growing in it with the dint of the dandelion. My father went one time to a woman at Ennis, not Biddy Early, but one of her sort, to ask her about three sheep he had lost. And she told him the very place they were brought to, a long path through the stones near Kinvara. And there he found the skins, and he heard that the man that brought them away had them sold to a butcher in Loughrea. So he followed him there, and brought the police, and they found him--a poor looking little man, but he had £60 within in his box. There was another man up near Ballylee could tell these things too. When Jack Fahy lost his wool, he went to him, and next morning there were the fleeces at his door. Those that are _away_ know these things. There was a brother of my own took to it for seven years--and we at school. And no one could beat him at the hurling and the games. But I wouldn't like to be mixed with that myself. * * * * * There was one Moyra Colum was a great one for doing cures. She was called one time to see some sick person, and the man that came for her put her up behind him, on the horse. And some youngsters began to be humbugging him, and humbugging is always bad. And there was a young horse in the field where the youngsters were and it began to gallop, and it fell over a stump and lay on the ground kicking as if in a fit. And then Moyra Colum said, "Let me get down, for I have pity for the horse." And she got down and went into the field, and she picked a blade of a herb and put it to the horse's mouth and in one minute it got up well. Another time a woman had a sick cow and she sent her little boy to Moyra Colum, and she gave him a bottle, and bade him put a drop of what was in it in the cow's ear. And so he did and in a few minutes he began to feel a great pain in his foot. So when the mother saw that, she took the bottle and threw it out into the street and broke it, and she said, "It's better to lose the cow than to lose my son." And in the morning the cow was dead. * * * * * The herbs they cure with, there's some that's natural, and you could pick them at all times of the day; there's a very good cure for the yellow jaundice I have myself, and I offered it to a woman in Ballygrah the other day, but some people are so taken up with pride and with conceit they won't believe that to cure that sickness you must take what comes from your own nature. She's dead since of it, I hear. But I'll tell you the cure, the way you'll know it. If you are attending a funeral, pick out a few little worms from the earth that's thrown up out of the grave, few or many, twenty or thirty if you like. And when you go home, boil them down in a sup of new milk and let it get cold; and believe me, that will cure the sickness. * * * * * There's one woman I knew used to take a bit of tape when you'd go to her, and she'd measure it over her thumb like this; and when she had it measured she'd know what was the matter with you. * * * * * For some sicknesses they use herbs that have no natural cure, and those must be gathered in the morning early. Before twelve o'clock? No, but before sunrise. And there's a different charm to be said over each one of them. It is for any sort of pain these are good, such as a pain in the side. There's the _meena madar_, a nice little planteen with a nice little blue flowereen above on it, that's used for a running sore or an evil. And the charm to be said when you're picking it has in it the name of some old curer or magician, and you can say that into a bit of tow three times, and put it on the person to be cured. That is a good charm. You might use that yourself if it was any one close to you was sick, but for a stranger I'd recommend you not do it. _They_ know all things and who are using it, and where's the use of putting yourself in danger? _James Mangan:_ My mother learned to do a great many cures from a woman from the North (Note 1) and some I could do myself, but I wouldn't like to be doing them unless for those that are nearest me; I don't want to be putting myself in danger. For a swelling in the throat it's an herb would be used, or for the evil a poultice you'd make of herbs. But for a pain in the ribs or in the head, it's a charm you should use, and to whisper it into a bit of tow, and to put it on the mouth of whoever would have the pain, and that would take it away. There's a herb called _rif_ in your own garden is good for cures. And this is a good charm to say in Irish: A quiet woman. A rough man. The Son of God. The husk of the flax. _The Old Man on the Beach:_ In the old times all could do _druith_--like free-masonry--and the ground was all covered with the likeness of the devil; and with _druith_ they could do anything, and could put the sea between you and the road. There's only a few can do it now, but all that live in the County Down can do it. _Mrs. Quaid:_ There was a girl in a house near this was pining away, and a travelling woman came to the house and she told the mother to bring the girl across to the graveyard that's near the house before sunrise and to pick some of the grass that's growing over the remains. And so she did, and the girl got well. But the mother told me that when the woman had told her that, she vanished away, all in a minute, and was seen no more. * * * * * I have a charm myself for the headache, I cured many with it. I used to put on a ribbon from the back of the head over the mouth, and another from the top of the head under the chin and then to press my hand on it, and I'd give them great relief and I'd say the charm. But one time I read in the Scriptures that the use of charms is forbidden, so I had it on my conscience, and the next time I went to confession I asked the priest was it any harm for me to use it, and I said it to him in Irish. And in English it means "Charm of St. Peter, Charm of St. Paul, an angel brought it from Rome. The similitude of Christ, suffering death, and all suffering goes with Him and into the flax." And the priest didn't say if I might use it or not, so I went on with it, for I didn't like to turn away so many suffering people coming to me. I know a charm a woman from the North gave to Tom Mangan's mother, she used to cure ulcers with it and cancers. It was with unsalted butter it was used, but I don't know what the words were. _John Phelan:_ If you cut a hazel rod and bring it with you, and turn it round about now and again, no bad thing can hurt you. And a cure can be made for bad eyes from the ivy that grows on a white-thorn bush. I know a boy had an ulcer on his eye and it was cured by that. _Mrs. Creevy:_ There was Leary's son in Gort had bad eyes and no doctor could cure him. And one night his mother had a dream that she got up and took a half-blanket with her, and went away to a blessed well a little outside Gort, and there she saw a woman dressed all in white, and she gave her some of the water, and when she brought it to her son he got well. So the next day she went there and got the water, and after putting it three times on his eyes, he was as well as ever he was. * * * * * There was a woman here used to do cures with herbs--a midwife she was. And if a man went for her in a hurry, and on a horse, and he'd want her to get up behind him, she'd say, "No," that she was never on horseback. But no matter how fast he'd go home, there she'd be close after him. * * * * * There was a child was sick and it was known itself wasn't in it. And a woman told the mother to go to a woman she told her of, and not to say anything about the child but to say, "The calf is sick" and to ask for a cure for it. So she did and the woman gave her some herb, and she gave it to the child and it got well. * * * * * There was a man from Cuillean was telling me how two women came from the County Down in his father's time, mother and daughter, and they brought two spinning wheels with them, and they used to be in the house spinning. But the milk went from the cow and they watched and saw it was through charms. And then all the people brought turf and made a big fire outside, and stripped the witch and the daughter to burn them. And when they were brought out to be burned the woman said, "Bring me out a bit of flax and I'll show you a pishogue." So they brought out a bit of flax and she made two skeins of it, and twisted it some way like that (interlacing his fingers) and she put the two skeins round herself and the daughter, and began to twist it, and it went up in the air round and round and the two women with it, and the people all saw them going up, but they couldn't stop them. The man's own father saw that himself. * * * * * There was a woman from the County Down was living up on that mountain beyond one time, and there was a boy in the house next to mine that had a pain in his heart, and was crying out with the pain of it. And she came down, and I was in the house myself and I saw her fill the bowl with oatenmeal, and she tied a cloth over it, and put it on the hearth. And when she took it off, all the meal was gone out of one side of the bowl, and she made a cake out of what was left on the other side, and ate it. And the boy got well. * * * * * There was a woman in Clifden did many cures and knew everything. And I knew two boys were sent to her one time, and they had a bottle of poteen to bring her, but on the road they drank the poteen. But they got her another bottle before they got to the house, but for all that she knew well, and told them what they had done. * * * * * There's some families have a charm in them, and a man of those families can do cures, just like King's blood used to cure the evil, but they couldn't teach it to you or to me or another. * * * * * There's a very good charm to stop bleeding; it will stop it in a minute when nothing else can, and there's one to take bones from the neck, and one against ulcers. _Kevin Ralph:_ I went to Macklin near Loughrea myself one time, when I had an ulcer here in my neck. But when I got to him and asked for the charm, he answered me in Irish, "The Soggarth said to me, any man that will use charms to do cures with will be damned." I persuaded him to do it after, but I never felt that it did me much good. Because he took no care to do it well after the priest saying that of him. But there's some will only let it be said in an outhouse if there's a cure to be done in the house. _A Woman in County Limerick:_ It is twenty year ago I got a pain in my side, that I could not stoop; and I tried Siegel's Syrup and a plaster and a black blister from the doctor, and every sort of thing and they did me no good. And there came in a man one day, a farmer I knew, and he said, "It's a fool you are not to go to a woman living within two miles of you that would cure you--a woman that does charms." So I went to her nine times, three days I should go and three stop away, and she would pass her hand over me, and would make me hold on to the branch of an apple tree up high, that I would hang from it, and she would be swinging me as you would swing a child. And she laid me on the grass and passed her hands over me, and what she said over me I don't know. And at the end of the nine visits I was cured, and the pain left me. At the time she died I wanted to go lay her out but my husband would not let me go. He said if I was seen going in, the neighbours would say she had left me her cures and would be calling me a witch. She said it was from an old man she got the charm that used to be called a wizard. My father knew him, and said he could bring away the wheat and bring it back again, and that he could turn the four winds of heaven to blow upon your house till they would knock it. _A Munster Midwife:_ Is it true a part of the pain can be put on the man? It is to be sure, but it would be the most pity in the world to do it; it is a thing I never did, for the man would never be the better of it, and it would not take any of the pain off the woman. And shouldn't we have pity upon men, that have enough troubles of their own to go through? _Mrs. Hollaran:_ Did I know the pain could be put on a man? Sure I seen my own mother that was a midwife do it. He was such a Molly of an old man, and he had no compassion at all on his wife. He was as if making out she had no pain at all. So my mother gave her a drink, and with that he was on the floor and around the floor crying and roaring. "The devil take you," says he, and the pain upon him; but while he had it, it went away from his wife. It did him no harm after, and my mother would not have done it but for him being so covetous. He wanted to make out that she wasn't sick. _Mrs. Stephens:_ At childbirth there are some of the old women are able to put a part of the pain upon the man, or any man. There was a woman in labour near Oran, and there were two policemen out walking that night, and one of them went into the house to light his pipe. There were two or three women in it, and the sick woman stretched beyond them, and one of them offered him a drink of the tea she had been using, and he didn't want it but he took a drink of it, and then he took a coal off the hearth and put it on his pipe to light it and went out to his comrade. And no sooner was he there than he began to roar and to catch hold of his belly and he fell down by the roadside roaring. But the other knew something of what happened, and he took the pipe, and it having a coal on it, and he put it on top of the wall and fired a shot of the gun at it and broke it; and with that the man got well of the pain and stood up again. * * * * * No woman that is carrying should go to the house where another woman is in labour; if she does, that woman's pain will come on her along with her own pain when her time comes. * * * * * A child to come with the spring tide, it will have luck. II ASTRAY, AND TREASURE II ASTRAY, AND TREASURE _Mr. Yeats in his dedication of "The Shadowy Waters" says of some of our woods:_ "_Dim Pairc-na-tarav where enchanted eyes Have seen immortal mild proud shadows walk; Dim Inchy wood that hides badger and fox And martin-cat, and borders that old wood Wise Biddy Early called the wicked wood._" _I have heard many stories of people led astray in these by invisible power, though I myself, although born at midnight, have lived many hours of many years in their shades and shelters, and as the saying is have "never seen anything worse than myself."_ _Last May a friend staying with us had gone out early in the afternoon, and had not come back by eight o'clock dinner-time. As half-hours passed we grew anxious and sent out messengers riding and on foot, searching with lanterns here and there in the woods and on Inchy marsh, towards which he had been seen going. It was not till long after the fall of darkness that he returned, tired out with so many hours of wandering, and with no better explanation than "Yeats talks of the seven woods of Coole, but I say there are seventy times seven." It was in dim Inchy and the wicked wood it borders he had gone astray; and many said that was natural, for they have a bad name, and May is a month of danger. Yet some unbelievers may carry their credulity so far as to believe that the creator of Father Keegan's dreams may himself have dreamed the whole adventure._ _I was told by An Army Man who had been through the Indian Mutiny:_ It's only yesterday I was talking to a man about _the others_, and he told me that the castle of Ballinamantane is a great place for them, for it's there a great stand was made long ago in one of their last fights. And one night he was making his way home, and only a field between him and his house, when he found himself turned around and brought to another field, and then to another--seven in all. And he remembered the saying that you should turn your coat and that they'd have no power over you, and he did so, but it did him no good. For after that he was taken again, and found himself in the field over beyond. And he had never a one drop taken, but was quite sober that night. What did they do it for? It might be that he had trespassed on one of their ways; but it's most likely that there was some sort of a rogue among them that turned and did it for sport. _Mrs. Cloonan:_ The other evening I was milking the cow over in Inchy, and a beggar-woman came by, with a sack of potatoes and such things on her back. She makes her living selling ballads in Gort, and then begging afterwards. So she sat down beside me, and she said "I don't like to go on through the wood." So I asked did she ever see anything there. "I did," says she, "three years ago, one night just where the old house is the Dooleys used to live in. There came out of the end of it a woman all in white, and she led me astray all the night, and drove me that I had no time to turn my clothes--and my feet were black with the blows she gave me, and though it was three years ago, I feel the pain in them yet." _Mrs. Coniffe_ says: I was in Inchy the other day late, and I met an old beggarman, and I asked him was he ever led astray there. And he said, "Not in this wood, but in the wood beyond, Garryland. It was one night I was passing through it, and met a great lot of them--laughing they were and running about and drinking wine and wanting me to drink with them. And they had cars with them, and an old woman sitting on a sort of an ass-car. And I had a scapular round my neck, and I thought that would make me independent, but it did not, for it was on the highroad outside I found myself put at last." _A Mason:_ My father was led astray one time, when he was coming home from a neighbour's house, and he was led here and there till he didn't know what way he was going. And then the moon began to shine out and he saw his shadow, and another shadow along with it ten feet in length. So with that he ran, and when he got to the wood of Cloon he fell down in a faint. * * * * * And I was led astray one night, going across to a neighbour's house--just the length of a field away, and where I could find my way blindfolded. Into the ditch I was led, and to some other field, and I put my hand to the ground, and it was potato ground, and the drills made, but the seed not put in. And if it wasn't at last that I saw a light from Scalp, it's away I'd have been brought altogether. _John Rivers:_ Once I was led astray in that field and went round and round and could find no way out--till at last I thought of the old Irish fashion of turning my waistcoat, and did so. And then I got out the gate in one minute. * * * * * And one night I was down at the widow Hayley's--I didn't go much there--she used to have the place full of loafers, and they playing cards. But this night I stopped a bit, and then I went out. And the way I was put I could not say, but I found myself in the field with an eight-foot wall behind me--and there I had to stop till some of the men came and found me and brought me out. _A Girl of the Feeneys:_ One time my brother when he was coming home late one evening was put asleep in spite of himself, on the grass, at this corner we're passing. None of the boys like to be coming home late, from card-playing or the like, unless there's two or three of them together. And if they go to a wake, they wouldn't for all the world come home before the cock crows. There were many led astray in that hollow beyond, where you see the haycocks. Old Tom Stafford was led astray there by something like a flock of wool that went rolling before him, and he had no power to turn but should follow it. Michael Barrett saw the coach one time driving across Kiltartan bog, and it was seen to many others besides. As to Michael Barrett, I believe it's mostly in his own head they are. But I know this that when he pulled down the chimney where he said that the piper used to be sitting and playing, he lifted out stones, and he an old man, that I could not have lifted myself when I was young and healthy. _A Clare Woman:_ As to treasure, there was a man here dreamt of some buried things--of a skeleton and a crock of money. So he went to dig, but whether he dreamed wrong or that he didn't wait for the third dream, I don't know, but he found the skeleton, skull and all, but when he found the crock there was nothing in it, but very large snail-shells. So he threw them out in the grass, and next day when he went to look at them they were all gone. Surely there's something that's watching over that treasure under ground. But it doesn't do to be always looking for money. There was Whaney the miller, he was always wishing to dream of money like other people. And so he did one night, that it was hid under the millstone. So before it was hardly light he went and began to dig and dig, but he never found the money, but he dug till the mill fell down on himself. So when any one is covetous the old people say, "Take care would you be like Whaney the miller." * * * * * Now I'll tell you a story that's all truth. There was a farmer man living there beyond over the mountains, and one day a strange man came in and asked a night's lodging. "Where do you come from?" says the farmer. "From the county Mayo," says he, and he told how he had a dream of a bush in this part of the world, and gave a description of it, and in his dream he saw treasure buried under it. "Then go home, my poor man," said the farmer, "for there's no such place as that about here." So the man went back again to Mayo. But the bush was all the time just at the back of the house, and when the stranger was gone, the farmer began to dig, and there, sure enough, he found the pot of gold, and took it for his own use. But all the children he had turned silly after that; there was one of them not long ago going about the town with long hair over his shoulders. And after that, a poor scholar, such as used to be going about in those times, came to the house, and when he had sat down, the lid of the pot the gold was found in was lying by the fire. And he took it up and rubbed it, and there was writing on it, in Irish, that no one had ever been able to read. And the poor scholar made it out, "This side of the bush is no better than the other side." So he went out to dig, and there he found another pot on the other side just the same as the first pot and he brought it away with him, and what became of him after is unknown. _John Phelan:_ There was a man in Gort, Anthony Hynes, he and two others dreamed of finding treasure within the church of Kilmacduagh. But when they got there at night to dig, something kept them back, for there's always something watching over where treasure is buried. I often heard that long ago in the nursery at Coole, at the cross, a man that was digging found a pot of gold. But just as he had the cover took off, he saw old Richard Gregory coming, and he covered it up, and was never able again to find the spot where it was. But there's dreams and dreams. I heard of a man from Mayo went to Limerick, and walked two or three times across the bridge there. And a cobbler that was sitting on the bridge took notice of him, and knew by the look of him and by the clothes he wore that he was from Mayo, and asked him what was he looking for. And he said he had a dream that under the bridge of Limerick he'd find treasure. "Well," says the cobbler, "I had a dream myself about finding treasure, but in another sort of a place than this." And he described the place where he dreamed it was, and where was that, but in the Mayo man's own garden. So he went home again, and sure enough, there he found a pot of gold with no end of riches in it. But I never heard that the cobbler found anything under the bridge at Limerick. * * * * * I met a woman coming out one day from Cloon, and she told me that when she was a young girl, she went out one day with another girl to pick up sticks near a wood. And she chanced to lay hold on a tuft of grass, and it came up in her hand and the sod with it. And there was a hole underneath full of half-crowns, and she began to fill her apron with them, and as soon as she had the full of her apron she called to the other girl, and the minute she came there wasn't one to be seen. But what she had in her apron she kept. _A Travelling Man:_ There was a sister of mine, Bridget her name was, dreamed three nights of treasure that was buried under the bush up there, by the chapel, a mile to the east; you can see the bush there, blown slantwise by the wind from the sea. So she got three men to go along with her and they brought shovels to dig for it. But it was the woman should have lifted the first sod and she didn't do it, and they saw, coming down from the mountains of Burren, horses and horses, bearing horse-soldiers on them, and they came around the bush, and the soldiers held up their shovels, and my sister and the men that were with her made away across the field. The time I was in America, I went out to the country to see Tom Scanlon, my cousin, that is a farmer there and had any amount of land and feeding for the cows, and we went out of the house and sat down on a patch of grass the same as we're sitting on now. And the first word he said to me was, "Did Bridget, your sister, ever tell you of the dream she had, and the way we went digging at the bush, for I was one of the men that was along with her?" "She did often," says I. "Well," says he, "all she told you about it was true." * * * * * There were two boys digging for razor fish near Clarenbridge, and one of them saw, as he was digging, a great lot of gold. So he said nothing, the way the other boy would know nothing about it. But when he came back for it it was gone. * * * * * There was another boy found gold under a flagstone he lifted. But when he went back next day to get it, all the strength he had wouldn't lift the flag. _The Army Man:_ There was a forth sometime or other there inside the gate, and one Kelly told me that he was coming by it one night and saw all the hollow spread with gold, and he had not the sense to take it up, but ran away. * * * * * A friend I had near Athenry had more sense. He saw the ground spread with gold and he took up the full of his pockets and paid his rent next day and prospered ever after, as everyone does that gets the faery gold. * * * * * Another man I knew of had a dream of a place where there was three crocks of gold. And in the morning he went to dig and found the crocks sure enough, and nothing in them but oyster shells. That was because he went to dig after the first dream. He had a right to wait till he had dreamed of it three times. * * * * * A girl the same way dreamt of gold hid in a rock and did not wait for the third dream, but went at once, and all she found was the full of an ass-cart near of sewing needles, and that was a queer thing to find in a rock. No, they don't always hinder you, they help you now and again. * * * * * There was a working man used to be digging potatoes for me, and whenever he was in want of money, he found it laid on his window-sill in the night. But one day he had a drop of drink taken, he told about it, and never a penny more did he find after that. * * * * * Sure, there's an old castle beyond Gort, Fiddane it's called, and there you'd see the gold out bleaching, but no one would like to go and take it. And my mother told me one time that a woman went up in the field beyond where the liss is, to milk the cow, and there she saw on the grass a crock full of gold. So she left the bit she had for holding the cow beside it, and she ran back to the house for to tell them all to come out and see it. But when they came the gold was nowhere to be seen, but had vanished away. But in every part of the field there was a bit of rope like the one she left beside the crock, so that she couldn't know what spot it was in at all. She had a right to have taken it, and told no one. They don't like to have such things told. _Mrs. Coniffe:_ That bush you took notice of, the boy told me that it is St. Bridget's bush, and there is a great lot of money buried under it; they know this from an old woman that used to be here a long time ago. Three men went one time to dig for it and they dug and dug all the day and found nothing and they went home and to bed. And in the night whatever it was came to them, they never got the better of it, but died within a week. And you'd be sorry to see--as the boy did--the three coffins carried out of the three houses. And since then no other person has ever gone to look for the money. That's no wonder for you to know a faery bush. It grows a different shape from a common one, and looks different someway. * * * * * As to hidden gold, I knew a man, Patrick Connell, dreamed he found it beneath a bush. But he wasn't willing to go look for it, and his sons and his friends were always at him to tell where it was, but he would tell them nothing. But at last his sons one day persuaded him to go with them and to dig for it. So they took their car, and they set out. But when they came to a part of the road where there's a small little ditch about a foot wide beside it, he was walking and he put his foot in it and they had to bring him home, for his leg was broke. So there was no more digging for treasure after that. _A Neighbour:_ There's crocks of gold in all the forths, but there's cats and things guarding them. And if any one does find the gold, he doesn't live long afterwards. But sometimes you might see it and think that it was only a heap of dung. It's best to leave such things alone. III BANSHEES AND WARNINGS III BANSHEES AND WARNINGS "_Then Cuchulain went on his way, and Cathbad that had followed him went with him. And presently they came to a ford, and there they saw a young girl, thin and white-skinned and having yellow hair, washing and ever washing, and wringing out clothing that was stained crimson red, and she crying and keening all the time. 'Little Hound,' said Cathbad, 'Do you see what it is that young girl is doing? It is your red clothes she is washing, and crying as she washes, because she knows you are going to your death against Maeve's great army.'_"--"Cuchulain of Muirthemne." * * * * * _From Cuchulain's day, or it may be from a yet earlier time, that keening woman of the Sidhe has been heard giving her lamentable warning for those who are about to die. Rachel had not yet been heard mourning for her children when the white-skinned girl whose keening has never ceased in Ireland washed red clothes at the ford. It was she or one of her race who told King Brian he was going to meet his death at Clontarf; though after the defeat of the old gods that warning had often been sent by a more radiant messenger, as when Columcille at the dawn of the feast of Pentecost "lifted his eyes and saw a great brightness and an angel of God waiting there above him." And Patrick himself had his warning through his angel, Victor, who met him on the road at midday and bade him go back to the barn where he had lodged the night before, for it was there he had to die. Such a messenger may have been at hand at the death of that Irish born mystic, William Blake, when he "burst out into singing of the things he saw in Heaven, and made the rafters ring." And a few years ago the woman of a thatched house at the foot of Echtge told me "There were great wonders done in the old times; and when my father that worked in the garden there above was dying, there came of a sudden three flashes of light into the room, the brightest light that ever was seen in the world; and there was an old man in the room, one Ruane, and I leaned back on him for I had like to faint. And people coming the road saw the light, and up at Mick Inerney's house they all called out that our house was in flames. And when they came and heard of the three flashes of light coming into the room and about the bed they all said it was the angels that were his friends that had come to meet him." When Raftery died, the blind poet who wandered through our townlands a hundred years ago, some say there were flames about the house all through the night, "and those were the angels waking him." Yet his warning had not been sent through these white messengers but through a vision that had come to him once in Galway, when Death himself had appeared "thin, miserable, sad and sorrowful; the shadow of night upon his face, the tracks of the tears down his cheeks" and had told him he had but seven years to live. And though Raftery spoke back to him in scornful verse, there are some who say he spent those last seven years in praying and in making his songs of religion. To some it is a shadow that brings the warning, or a noise of knocking or a dream. At the hour of a violent death nature itself will show sympathy; I have been told on a gloomy day that it had darkened because there was a man being hanged; and a woman who had travelled told me that once at Bundoran she had "seen the waves roaring and turning" and she knew later it was because at that very time two young girls had been drowned._ _I was told by Steve Simon:_ I will tell you what I saw the night my wife died. I attended the neighbours up to the road, for they had come to see her, but she said there was no fear of her, and she would not let them stop because she knew that they were up at a wake the night before. So when I left them I was going back to the house, and I saw the shadow of my wife on the road before me, and it was as white as drifted snow. And when I came into the house, there she was dying. _Mrs. Curran:_ My cousin Mary that lives in the village beyond told me that she was coming home yesterday week along the road, and she is a girl would not be afraid to walk the whole world with herself. And it was late, and suddenly there was a man walking beside her, inside the field, on the other side of the wall. And at first she was frightened, but then she felt sure it was her cousin John that was dying, and then she wasn't afraid, for she knew her cousin would do her no harm. And after a while he was gone, and when she got near home and saw the lights she was frightened, and when she got into the house she was in a sort of a faint. And next day, this day week, her cousin was dead. _Old Simon:_ I heard the Banshee crying not long ago, and within three days a boy of the Murphy's was killed by his own horse and he bringing his cart to Kinvara. And I heard it again a few nights ago, but I heard of no death since then. What is the Banshee? It is of the nature of the Hyneses. Six families it cries for, the Hyneses and the Fahys and I forget what are the others. * * * * * I heard her beside the river at Ballylee one time. I would stand barefooted in the snow listening to the tune she had, so nice and so calm and so mournful. * * * * * I would yield to dreams because of some things were dreamed to me in my lifetime and that turned out true. I dreamed one time that I saw my daughter that was in America dead, and stretched and a table laid out with the corpse. She came home after, and at the end of five months she wasted and died. And there I saw her stretched as in the dream, and it was on my own table. * * * * * One time I was walking the road and I heard a great crying and keening beside me, a woman that was keening, and she conveyed me three miles of the road. And when I got to the door of the house I looked down and saw a little woman, very broad and broad faced--about the bigness of the seat of that table--and a cloak about her. I called out to her that was my first wife--the Lord be with her--and she lighted a candle and I came in weak and lay upon the floor, and I was till 12 o'clock that night lying in the bed. A man I was talking to said it was the Banshee, and it cries for three families, the Fahys and the O'Briens and another I forget which. My grandmother was a Fahy, and I suppose, father or mother, it follows the generations. I heard it another time and my daughter from America coming into the house that night. It was the most mournful thing ever you heard, keening about the house for the same term as before, till 12 o'clock of night. And within five months my daughter from America was dead. _John Cloran:_ There was a man near us that was ploughing a field, and he found an iron box, and they say there was in it a very old Irish book with all the knowledge of the world in it. Anyway, there's no question you could ask him he couldn't answer. And what he says of the Banshee is, that it's Rachel mourning still for every innocent of the earth that is going to die, like as she did for our Lord when the king had like to kill Him. But it's only for them that's sprung from her own tribe that she'll raise her voice. _Mrs. Smith:_ As for the Banshee, where she stops is in the old castle of Esserkelly on the Roxborough estate. Many a one has seen her there and heard her wailing, wailing, and she with a red petticoat put about her head. There was a family of the name of Fox in Moneen, and never one of that family died but she'd be heard keening them. _The Spinning Woman:_ The Banshee is all I ever saw myself. It was when I was a slip of a girl picking potatoes along with the other girls, we heard crying, crying, in the graveyard beyond at Ryanrush, so we ran like foals to see who was being buried, and I was the first, and leaped up on the wall. And there she was and gave me a slap on the jaw, and she just like a countrywoman with a red petticoat. Often they hear her crying if any one is going to die in the village. _A Seaside Woman:_ One time there was a man in the village was dying and I stood at the door in the evening, and I heard a crying--the grandest cry ever you heard--and I said "Glynn's after dying and they're crying him." And they all came to the door and heard it. But my mother went out after that and found him gasping still. Sure enough it was the Banshee we heard that evening. And out there where the turf-boat is lying with its sail down, outside Aughanish, there the Banshee does always be crying, crying, for some that went down there some time. * * * * * At Fiddoon that strip of land between Tyrone and Duras something appears and cries for a month before any one dies. A great many are taken away sudden there; and they say that it's because of that thing. * * * * * The Banshee cries every time one of the Sionnacs dies. And when the old Captain died, the crows all left the place within two days, and never came back for a year. _A Connemara Woman:_ There was a boy from Kylemore I met in America used to be able to tell fortunes. He used to be telling them when the work would be done, and we would be having afternoon tea. He told me one time I would soon be at a burying, and it would be a baby's burying, and I laughed at that. But sure enough, my sister's baby, that was not born at the time, died about a month after, and I went to its burying. _A Herd:_ Crying for those that are going to die you'd hear of often enough. And when my own wife was dying, the night she went I was sitting by the fire, and I heard a noise like the blow of a flail on the door outside. And I went to see what it was, but there was nothing there. But I was not in any way frightened, and wouldn't be if she came back in a vision, but glad to see her I would be. _A Miller:_ There was a man that was out in the field and a flock of stares (starlings) came about his head, and it wasn't long after that he died. * * * * * There's many say they saw the Banshee, and that if she heard you singing loud she'd be very apt to bring you away with her. _A Connemara Woman:_ One night the clock in my room struck six and it had not struck for years, and two nights after--on Christmas night--it struck six again, and afterwards I heard that my sister in America had died just at that hour. So now I have taken the weights off the clock, that I wouldn't hear it again. _Mrs. Huntley:_ It was always said that when a Lord ---- died, a fox was seen about the house. When the last Lord ---- lay dying, his daughter heard a noise outside the house one night, and opened the hall-door, and then she saw a great number of foxes lying on the steps and barking and running about. And the next morning there was a meet at some distant covert--it had been changed there from hard by where it was to have taken place on account of his illness--and there was not a single fox to be found there or in any other covert. And that day he died. _J. Hanlon:_ There was one Costello used to be ringing the bell and pumping water and such things at Roxborough, and one day he was at the fair of Loughrea. And as he started home he sent word to my grandfather "Come to the corner of the old castle and you'll find me dead." So he set out, and when he got to the corner of the castle, there was Costello lying dead before him. * * * * * And once going to a neighbour's house to see a little girl, I saw her running along the path before me. But when I got to the house she was in bed sick, and died two days after. _Pat. Linskey:_ Well, the time my own wife died I had sent her into _Cloon_ to get some things from the market, and I was alone in the house with the dog. And what do you think but he started up and went out to the hill outside the house, and there he stood a while howling, and it was the very next day my wife died. Another time I had shut the house door at night and fastened it, and in the morning it was standing wide open. And as I knew by the dates afterwards that was the very night my brother died in India. Sure I told Stephen Green that, when he buried his mother in England, and his father lying in Kilmacduagh. "You should never separate," says I, "in death a couple that were together in life, for sure as fate, the one'll come to look for the other." And when there's one of them passing in the air you might get a blast of holy wind you wouldn't be the better of for a long time. _Mrs. Curran:_ I was in Galway yesterday, and I was told there that the night before those four poor boys were drowned, there were four women heard crying out on the rocks. Those that saw them say that they were young, and they were out of this world. And one of those boys was out at sea all day, the day before he was drowned. And when he came in to Galway in the evening, some boy said to him "I saw you today standing up on the high bridge." And he was afraid and he told his mother and said "Why did they see me on the high bridge and I out at sea?" And the next day he was drowned. And some say there was not much at all to drown them that day. _A Man near Athenry:_ There is often crying heard before a death, and in that field beside us the sound of washing clothes with a beetle is sometimes heard before a death. I heard crying in that field near the forth one night, and not long after the man it belonged to died. _An Aran Man:_ I remember one morning, St. Bridget's Eve, my son-in-law came into the house, where he had been up that little road you see above. And the wife asked him did he see any one, and he said "I saw Shamus Meagher driving cattle." And the wife said, "You couldn't see him, for he's out laying spillets since daybreak with two other men." And he said, "But I did see him, and I could have spoke with him." And the next day--St. Bridget's Day--there was confessions in the little chapel below and I was in it, and Shamus Meagher, and it was he that was kneeling next to me at the Communion. But the next morning he and two other men that had set the spillets went on in their canoe to Kilronan for salt, for they had come short of salt and had a good deal of fish taken. And that day the canoe was upset, and the three of them were drowned. _A Piper:_ My father and my mother were in the bed one night and they heard a great lowing and a noise of the cattle fighting one another, that they thought they were all killed, and they went out and they were quiet then. But they went on to the next house where they heard a lowing, and all the cattle of that house were fighting one another, and so it was at the next. And in the morning a child, one Gannon, was dead--or taken he was. _An Old Man in Aran:_ When I was in the State of Maine, I knew a woman from the County Cork, and she had a little girl sick. And one day she went out behind the house and there she saw the fields full of _those_--full of them. And the little girl died. And when I was in the same State, I was in the house where there was a child sick. And one night I heard a noise outside, as if of hammering. And I went out and I thought it came from another house that was close by that no one lived in, and I went and tried the door but it was shut up. And I went back and said to the woman, "This is the last night you'll have to watch the child." And at 12 o'clock the next evening it died. * * * * * They took my hat from me one time. One morning just at sunrise I was going down to the sea, and a little storm came, and took my hat off and brought it a good way, and then it brought it back and returned it to me again. _An Old Midwife:_ I do be dreaming, dreaming. I dreamt one night I was with my daughter and that she was dead and put in the coffin. And I heard after, the time I dreamt about her was the very time she died. _A Woman near Loughrea:_ There are houses in Cloon, and Geary's is one of them, where if the people sit up too late the warning comes; it comes as a knocking at the door. Eleven o'clock, that is the hour. It is likely it is some that lived in the house are wanting it for themselves at that time. And there is a house near the Darcys' where as soon as the potatoes are strained from the pot, they must put a plateful ready and leave it for the night, and milk and the fire on the hearth, and there is not a bit left at morning. Some poor souls that come in, looking for warmth and for food. * * * * * There is a woman seen often before a death sitting by the river and racking her hair, and she has a beetle with her and she takes it and beetles clothes in the river. And she cries like any good crier; you would be sorry to be listening to her. _Old King:_ I heard the Banshee and saw her. I and six others were card playing in the kitchen at the big house, that is sunk into the ground, and I saw her up outside of the window. She had a white dress and it was as if held over her face. They all looked up and saw it, and they were all afraid and went back but myself. Then I heard a cry that did not seem to come from her but from a good way off, and then it seemed to come from herself. She made no attempt to twist a mournful cry but all she said was, "Oh-oh, Oh-oh," but it was as mournful as the oldest of the old women could make it, that was best at crying the dead. Old Mr. Sionnac was at Lisdoonvarna at that time, and he came home a few days after and took to the bed and died. It is always the Banshee has followed the Sionnacs and cried them. _Mrs. King:_ There was a boy of the Naughtons died not far from this, a fine young man. And I set out to go to the burying, and Mrs. Burke along with me. But when we came to the gate we could hear crying for the dead, and I said "It's as good for us wait where we are, for they have brought the corp out and are crying him." So we waited a while and no one came, and so we went on to the house, and we had two hours to wait before they brought out the corp for the burying, and there had been no crying at all till he was brought out. We knew then who it was crying, for if the boy was a Naughton, it is in a house of the Kearns he died, and the Banshee always cries for the Kearns. _A Doctor:_ There's a boy I'm attending now, and the first time I went to him, the mother came out of the house with me and said "It's no use to do anything for him, I'm going to lose him." And I asked her why did she say that, and she said "Because the first night he took ill I heard the sound of a chair drawing over to the fire in the kitchen, and it empty, and it was the faeries were coming for him." The boy wouldn't have had much wrong with him, but his brother had died of phthisis, and when he got a cold he made sure he would die too, and he took to the bed. And every day his mother would go in and cry for an hour over him, and then he'd cry and then the father would cry, and he'd say "Oh, how can I leave my father and my mother! Who will there be to mind them when I'm gone?" One time he was getting a little better they sent him over on a message to Scahanagh, and there's a man there called Shanny that makes coffins for the people. And the boy saw Shanny looking at him, and he left his message undone and ran home and cried out "Oh, I'm done for now! Shanny was looking at me to see what size coffin I'd take!" And he cried and they all cried and all the village came in to see what was the matter. _The Old Army man:_ As to the invisible world, I hear enough about it, but I have seen but little myself. One night when I was at Calcutta I heard that one Connor was dead--a man that I had been friendly with--so I went to the house. There was a good many of us there, and when it came to just before midnight, I heard a great silence fall, and I looked from one to another to see the silence. And then there came a knock at the window, just as the clock was striking twelve. And Connor's wife said, "It was just at this hour last night there came a knock like that and immediately afterwards he died." And the strange thing is, it was a barrack-room and on the second story, so that no one could reach it from the street. * * * * * In India, before Delhi, there was an officer's servant lodged in the same house as me, and was thrown out of his cot every night. And as sure as midnight came, the dogs couldn't stop outside but would come shrinking and howling into the house. Yes indeed, I believe the faeries are in all countries, all over the world; but the banshee is only in Ireland, though sometimes in India I would think of her when I'd hear the hyenas laughing. Keening, keening, you can hear her, but only for the old Irish families, but she'll follow them even as far as Dublin. IV IN THE WAY IV IN THE WAY _An old Athenry man who had been as a soldier all through the Indian Mutiny and had come back to end his days here as a farmer said to me in speaking of "The Others" and those who may be among them: "There's some places of their own we should never touch such as the forths; and if ever we cross their pathways we're like to know it soon enough, for some ill turn they'll do us, and then we must draw back out of their way.... And we should above all things leave the house clean at night, with nothing about that would offend them. For we must all die some day, but God knows we're not all fit for heaven just on the minute; and what the intermediate state may be, or what friends we may want there, I don't know. No one has come back to tell us that."_ _I was told by John Donovan:_ Before I came here I was for two years in a house outside Cloon. And no one that lived there ever prospered but all they did went to loss. I sowed seeds and put in the crop each year, and if I'd stopped there I wouldn't have had enough to keep trousers to my back. _In the way_ the place must be. I had no disturbance in the house, but some nights I could hear the barrel rolling outside the door, back and forwards, with a sort of a warning to me. I knew another house in Clare where the front door is always shut up and they only use the back door, but when I asked them the reason they said if they opened the front door a sudden blast would come in, that would take the roof off the house. And there's another house in Clare built in a forth, a new one, shut up and the windows closed, for no one can live in it. _Andrew Lee:_ "In the way?" Yes that's a thing that often happens. Sure going into Clough, you might see a house that no man ever yet kept a roof on. Surely it's in the way of their coming and going. And Doctor Nolan's father began to build a barn one time, and whatever was built in the day, in the night it would be pulled down, so at last they gave over. It was only labour and wages wasted. _Mrs. Cloran:_ No, I never heard or felt anything since I came here. The old people used to tell many things, they know more than what the youngsters do. My mother saw many a thing, but they did her no harm. No, I remember none of the stories; since my children died and a weight came on my heart all those things went from me. Yes, it's true Father Boyle banished the dog; and there was a cousin of my own used to live in the house at Garryland, and she could get no sleep for what she used to feel at night. But Father Boyle came and whatever he did, "You'll feel them no more," says he, and she never did, though he was buried before her. That was a bad, bad place we lived in near the sea. The children never felt anything, but often in the night I could hear music playing and no one else in the house could hear it. But the children died one by one, passing away without pain or ache. All they saw was twice; the two last little girls I had were beside the door at night talking and laughing and they saw a big dark man pass by, but he never spoke. Some old thing out of the walls he must have been. And soon after that they died. One time when I was there a strange woman came in, and she knew everything and told me everything. "I'd give you money if I had it," said I. "I know well you haven't much of it," says she; "but take my word and go away out of this house to some other place, for you're _in the way_." She told me to tell no one she came, and that shows there was something not right about her; and I never saw her any more. But if I'd listened to her then, and if I knew then what she meant by the house being _in the way_ I wouldn't have stopped in it, and my seven fine children would be with me now. Took away they were by _them_ and without ache or pain. I never had a sign or a vision from them since, but often and often they come across me in my sleep. _Her Husband:_ The woman that came to give my wife the warning, I didn't see her, and she knew all that was in the house and all about me and what money I had, and that I would grow very poor. And she said that before I'd die, I'd go to the strand and come back again. And we couldn't know what she meant, and we thought it must mean that I'd go to America. But we knew it at last. For one day I was washing sheep down at Cahirglissane, and there is said to be the deepest water in the world in one part of that lake. And as I was standing by it, a sheep made a run and went between my two legs, and threw me into the water, and I not able to swim. And I was brought on the top of the water safe and sound to land again; and I knew well who it was helped me, and saved my life. She that had come before to give advice that would save my children, it's she that was my friend over there. To say a Mass in the house? No use at all that would have been, living in the place we did. * * * * * But they're mostly good neighbours. There was a woman they used to help, one of them used to come and help her to clean the house, but she never came when the husband was there. And one day she came and said they were going to move now, to near Clifden. And she bid the woman follow them, and whenever she'd come to a briar turned down, with a thorn stuck in the earth, to build a house there. _A Travelling Man:_ I was sleeping at a house one time and _they_ came in--the fallen angels. They were pulling the clothes off me, ten times they did that, and they were laughing like geese--just the very sound of geese--and their boots were too large for their feet and were clapping, clapping on the floor. I suppose they didn't like me to be in it, or that the house was built in one of their passages. My father was driven out of the little garden house at Castleboy one time he went to sleep in it. In the way, I suppose it must have been. And I knew of a herd's house, where five or six herds went one after another and every one of them died, and their dogs and their cow. And the gentleman that owned the place came to ask another one to go in it, and his wife said she wouldn't go, for there was some bad luck about it. But she went after, and she was a very clean woman, not like some of them that do have the house dirty. Well, one day a woman came to the door and asked for a dish of oaten meal, and she took it from the shelf, and gave it to her. "I'll bring it back to you tomorrow," says she, "it'll be easy getting it then when it's market day." "Do not," says the woman of the house, "for if you do I won't take it." "Well," says the stranger, "you'll have luck after this; only one thing I tell you, keep that door at the back shut, and if you want any opening there, let you open the window." Well, so she did, and by minding that rule, and keeping the house so clean, she was never troubled but lived there all her life. _An Island Woman:_ There are some houses that never bring luck. There is one over there, out of this village, and two or three died in it, and one night it blazed up and burned down, those that were out in the fishing boats could see it, but it was never known how it happened. There was a house over in the other village and a woman living in it that had two forths of land. And she had clever children, but the most of them died one after another, boys and girls, and then the husband died. And after that one of the boys that had died came to her and said "You'd best leave this house or you'll be as we are, and we are all now living in the Black Rock at the gable end of the house. And two of the McDaraghs are with us there." So after that she left the house--you can cut grass now in the place where it was, and it's green all through the summer and the winter--and she went up to the north side and she married a young man up there, for she was counted a rich woman. She had but two daughters left, and one of them was married, and there was a match to be made for the other, but the stepfather wouldn't allow her to give any of the land to her, so she said she'd go to America, and the priest drew up a stamped paper for her, that they'd keep a portion of money for her every year till she'd come back. It wasn't long after that the stepfather was out in one of the fields one day and two men came and knocked him down and gave him a beating. And it was his belief it was the father of the girl and one of the brothers that came to beat him. And one of the neighbours that went to the house one night saw one of the brothers standing at the window, plump and plain. And a first cousin of theirs--a Donovan--was near the Black Rock one night, and he saw them playing ball there, the whole of them that had gone, and others with them. And when they saw him they whistled to make fun of him, and he went away. The stepfather died after that, and the woman herself died, and was buried a week yesterday. And she had one son by the second husband and he was always silly-like, and the night she died he went into the room where she was, to the other side of the bed, and he called out, and then he came out walking crooked, and his face drawn up on one side; and so he is since, and a neighbour taking care of him. And you'd hardly mind what a poor silly creature like him would say, but what he says is that it was some of the boys that were gone that were in it. And now there's no one to take up the land that so many were after; the girl in America wouldn't for all the world come back to that place. V THE FIGHTING OF THE FRIENDS V THE FIGHTING OF THE FRIENDS _"One time on Hy, one Brito of Columcille's brotherhood was dying, and Columcille gave him his blessing but would not see him die, and went out into the little court of the house. And he had hardly gone out when the life went from Brito. And Columcille was out in the little court, and one of the monks saw him looking upward, and wonder on him, and he asked what was it he saw. And Columcille said, 'I have seen just at this moment the holy angels fighting in the air against the power of the enemy, and I gave thanks to Christ, the Judge, because the winning angels have carried to heaven the soul of this stranger that is the first to have died among us in this island. And do not tell his secret to any person in my lifetime,' he said."_--"Saints and Wonders." * * * * * _"With that King Arthur entereth into a great forest adventurous, and rideth the day long until he cometh about evensong into the thick of the forest. And he espied a little house beside a little chapel, and it well seemed to him to be a hermitage.... And it seemed to him that there was a strife in the chapel. The ones were weeping so tenderly and sweetly as it were angels, and the others spake so harshly as it were fiends.... The voices ceased as soon as he was within. He marvelleth how it came that this house and hermitage were solitary, and what had become of the hermit that dwelt therein. He drew nigh the altar of the chapel, and beheld in front thereof a coffin all discovered, and he saw the hermit lying therein all clad in his vestments, and his hands crossed upon his breast, and he had life in him yet, but he was nigh his end, being at the point of death.... The King departed and so returned back into the little house, and sate him down on a seat whereon the hermit wont to sit. And he heareth the strife and the noise begin again within the chapel, and the ones he heareth speaking high and the others low, and he knoweth well by the voices that the ones are angels and the others devils. And he heareth that the devils are distraining on the hermit's soul, and that judgment will presently be given in their favour, whereof make they great joy. King Arthur is grieved in his heart when he heareth that the angels' voices are stilled. And while he sitteth thus, stooping his head toward the ground, full of vexation and discontent, he heareth in the chapel the voice of a Lady that spake so sweet and clear that no man in this earthly world, were his grief and heaviness never so sore, but and he had heard the sweet voice of her pleading would again have been in joy.... The devils go their way all discomfit and aggrieved; and the sweet Mother of our Lord God taketh the soul of the hermit.... And the angels take it and begin to sing for joy 'Te Deum Laudamus.' And the Holy Lady leadeth them and goeth her way along with them."_--"The High History of the Holy Grail." Translated by Sebastian Evans. * * * * * _Before I had read this old story from "The High History of the Holy Grail" I had heard on our own roads of the fighting at the hour of death, and how the friends of the dying among the dead come and use their strength on his side, and I had been shown here and there a house where such a fight had taken place. In the old days it was a king or saint who saw and heard this unearthly battle; but now it is not those who live in palaces who are aware of it, and it is not around the roof of a fair chapel the hosts of good and evil gather in combat for the parting soul, but around the thatched and broken roof of the poor._ _I was told by An Islander:_ There are more of the Sheogue in America than what there are here, and more of other sort of spirits. There was a man from there told me that one night in America he had brought his wife's niece that was sick back from the hospital, and had put her in an upper room. And in the evening they heard a scream from her and she called out "The room is full of them, and my father is with them, and my aunt." And he drove them away and used the devil's name and cursed them. And she was left quiet that night, but the next day she said "I'll be destroyed altogether tonight with them." And he said he'd keep them out, and he locked the door of the house. And towards midnight he heard them coming to the door and trying to get in, but he kept it locked and he called to them by way of the keyhole to keep away out of that. And there was talking among them, and the girl that was upstairs said that she could hear the laugh of her father and of her aunt. And they heard the greatest fighting among them that ever was, and after that they went away, and the girl got well. That's what often happens, crying and fighting for one that's sick or going to die. _Mrs. Meagher:_ There was an old woman the other day was telling me of a little girl that was put to bake a cake, for her mother was sick in the room. And when she turned away her head for a minute the cake was gone. And that happened the second day and the third, and the mother was vexed when she heard it, thinking some of the neighbours had come and taken it away. But the next day an old man appeared, and she knew he was the grandfather, and he said "It's by me the cake was taken, for I was watching the house these three nights when I knew there was some one sick in it. And you never heard such a fight as there was for her last night, and they would have brought her away but for me that had my shoulder to the door." And the woman began to recover from that time. _Tom Smith:_ There does often be fighting when a person is dying. John Madden's wife that lived in this house before I came to it, the night she died there was a noise heard, that all the village thought that every wall of every garden round about was falling down. But in the morning there was no sign of any of them being fallen. And Hannay that lived at Cahir, the bonesetter, when I went to him one time told me that one night late he was walking the road near Ardrahan. And they heard a great noise of fighting in the castle he was passing by, and no one living in it and it open to the sky. And he turned in and was going up the stairs, and a lady in a white dress stopped him and wouldn't let him pass up. But the next day he went to look and he found the floor all covered with blood. * * * * * And before John Casey's death, John Leeson asked me one day were we fighting down at our place, for he heard a great noise of fighting the night before. _A Farmer:_ As to fighting for those that are dying, I'd believe in that. There was a girl died not far from here, and the night of her death there was heard in the air the sound of an army marching, and the drums beating, and it stopped over the house where she was lying sick. And they could see no one, but could hear the drums and the marching plain enough, and there were like little flames of lightning playing about it. * * * * * Did they fight for Johnny Casey? No, believe me it's not among the faeries Johnny Casey is. Too old he is for them to want him among them, and too cranky. * * * * * I would hardly believe they'd take the old, but we can't know what they might want of them. And it's well to have a friend among them, and it's always said you have no right to fret if your children die, for it's well to have them there before you. And when a person is dying the friends and the others will often come about the house and will give a great challenge for him. They don't want cross people, and they won't take you if you say so much as one cross word. It's only the good and the pious they want. Now isn't that very good of them? _Another:_ There was a young man I knew died, a fine young man, twenty-five years of age. He was seven or eight days ill, and the night he died they could hear fighting around the house, and they heard voices but they couldn't know what they were saying. And in the morning the ground was all covered with blood. * * * * * When Connors the young policeman died, sure the mother said she never heard such fighting as went on within the house. And there was blood splashed high up on the walls. They never let on how he got the touch, but I suppose they knew it themselves. _A Gatekeeper:_ There was a girl near Westport was _away_, and the way it came on her was, she was on the road one day and two men passed her, and one of them said, "That's a fine girl," and the other said, "She belongs to my town," and there and then she got a pain in her knee, and couldn't walk home but had to be brought in a car. And she used to be away at night, and thorns in her feet in the morning, but she never said where she went. But one time the sister brought her to Kilfenora, and when they were crossing a bog near to there, she pointed out a house in the bog, and she said "It's there I was last night." And the sister asked did she know any one she saw in it, and she said "There was one I know, that is my mother's cousin," and she told her name. And she said "But for her they'd have me ill-treated, but she fought for me and saved me." She was thought to be dying one time and given over, and my mother sent me to see her, and how was she. And she was lying on the bed and her eyes turned back, and she speechless, and I told my mother when I came home she hadn't an hour to live. And the next day she was up and about and not a thing on her. It might be the mother's cousin that fought for her again there. She went to America after. _An Aran Woman:_ There's often fighting heard about the house where one is sick, that is what we call "the fighting of the friends" for we believe it is the friends and the enemies of the sick person fighting for him. * * * * * I knew a house where there were a good many sleeping one night, and in the morning there was blood on the threshold, and the clothes of those that slept on the floor had blood on them. And it wasn't long after that the woman of the house took sick and died. * * * * * One night there was one of the boys very sick within, and in the morning the grandmother said she heard a great noise of fighting in the night about the door. And she said: "If it hadn't been for Michael and John being drowned, you'd have lost Martin last night. For they were there fighting for him; I heard them, and I saw the shadow of Michael, but when I turned to take hold of him he was gone." VI THE UNQUIET DEAD VI THE UNQUIET DEAD _A good many years ago when I was but beginning my study of the folk-lore of belief, I wrote somewhere that if by an impossible miracle every trace and memory of Christianity could be swept out of the world, it would not shake or destroy at all the belief of the people of Ireland in the invisible world, the cloud of witnesses, in immortality and the life to come. For them the veil between things seen and unseen has hardly thickened since those early days of the world when the sons of God mated with the daughters of men; when angels spoke with Abraham in Hebron or with Columcille in the oakwoods of Derry, or when as an old man at my own gate told me they came and visited the Fianna, the old heroes of Ireland, "because they were so nice and so respectable." Ireland has through the centuries kept continuity of vision, the vision it is likely all nations possessed in the early days of faith. Here in Connacht there is no doubt as to the continuance of life after death. The spirit wanders for a while in that intermediate region to which mystics and theologians have given various names, and should it return and become visible those who loved it will not be afraid, but will, as I have already told, put a light in the window to guide the mother home to her child, or go out into the barley gardens in the hope of meeting a son. And if the message brought seems hardly worth the hearing, we may call to mind what Frederic Myers wrote of more instructed ghosts:_ _"If it was absurd to listen to Kepler because he bade the planets move in no perfect circles but in undignified ellipses, because he hastened and slackened from hour to hour what ought to be a heavenly body's ideal and unwavering speed; is it not absurder still to refuse to listen to these voices from afar, because they come stammering and wandering as in a dream confusedly instead of with a trumpet's call? Because spirits that bending to earth may undergo perhaps an earthly bewilderment and suffer unknown limitations, and half remember and half forget?"_ _And should they give the message more clearly who knows if it would be welcome? For the old Scotch story goes that when S. Columcille's brother Dobhran rose up from his grave and said, "Hell is not so bad as people say," the Saint cried out, "Clay, clay on Dobhran!" before he could tell any more._ _I was told by Mrs. Dennehy:_ Those that mind the teaching of the clergy say the dead go to Limbo first and then to Purgatory and then to hell or to heaven. Hell is always burning and if you go there you never get out; but those that mind the old people don't believe, and I don't believe, that there is any hell. I don't believe God Almighty would make Christians to put them into hell afterwards. It is what the old people say, that after death the shadow goes wandering, and the soul is weak, and the body is taking a rest. The shadow wanders for a while and it pays the debts it had to pay, and when it is free it puts out wings and flies to Heaven. _An Aran Man:_ There was an old man died, and after three days he appeared in the cradle as a baby; they knew him by an old look in his face, and his face being long and other things. An old woman that came into the house saw him, and she said, "He won't be with you long, he had three deaths to die, and this is the second," and sure enough he died at the end of six years. _Mrs. Martin:_ There was a man beyond when I lived at Ballybron, and it was said of him that he was taken away--up before God Almighty. But the blessed Mother asked for grace for him for a year and a day. So he got it. I seen him myself, and many seen him, and at the end of the year and a day he died. And that man ought to be happy now anyway. When my own poor little girl was drowned in the well, I never could sleep but fretting, fretting, fretting. But one day when one of my little boys was taking his turn to serve the Mass he stopped on his knees without getting up. And Father Boyle asked him what did he see and he looking up. And he told him that he could see his little sister in the presence of God, and she shining like the sun. Sure enough that was a vision He had sent to comfort us. So from that day I never cried nor fretted any more. _A Herd:_ Do you believe Roland Joyce was seen? Well, he was. A man I know told me he saw him the night of his death, in Esserkelly where he had a farm, and a man along with him going through the stock. And all of a sudden a train came into the field, and brought them both away like a blast of wind. * * * * * And as for old Parsons Persse of Castleboy, there's thousands of people has seen him hunting at night with his horses and his hounds and his bugle blowing. There's no mistake at all about him being there. _An Aran Woman:_ There was a girl in the middle island had died, and when she was being washed, and a priest in the house, there flew by the window the whitest bird that ever was seen. And the priest said to the father: "Do not lament, unless what you like, your child's happy for ever!" _Mrs. Casey:_ Near the strand there were two little girls went out to gather cow-dung. And they sat down beside a bush to rest themselves, and there they heard a groan coming from under the ground. So they ran home as fast as they could. And they were told when they went again to bring a man with them. So the next time they went they brought a man with them, and they hadn't been sitting there long when they heard the saddest groan that ever you heard. So the man bent down and asked what was it. And a voice from below said, "Let some one shave me and get me out of this, for I was never shaved after dying." So the man went away, and the next day he brought soap and all that was needful and there he found a body lying laid out on the grass. So he shaved it, and with that wings came and carried it up to high heaven. _A Chimney-sweep:_ I don't believe in all I hear, or I'd believe in ghosts and faeries, with all the old people telling you stories about them and the priests believing in them too. Surely the priests believe in ghosts, and tell you that they are souls that died in trouble. But I have been about the country night and day, and I remember when I used to have to put my hand out at the top of every chimney in Coole House; and I seen or felt nothing to frighten me, except one night two rats caught in a trap at Roxborough; and the old butler came down and beat me with a belt for the scream I gave at that. But if I believed in any one coming back, it would be in what you often hear, of a mother coming back to care for her child. And there's many would tell you that every time you see a tree shaking there's a ghost in it. * * * * * Old Lambert of Dangan was a terror for telling stories; he told me long ago how he was near the Piper's gap on Ballybrit race-course, and he saw one riding to meet him, and it was old Michael Lynch of Ballybrista, that was dead long before, and he never would go on the race-course again. And he had heard the car with headless horses driving through Loughrea. From every part they are said to drive, and the place they are all going to is Benmore, near Loughrea, where there is a ruined dwelling-house and an old forth. And at Mount Mahon a herd told me the other day he often saw old Andrew Mahon riding about at night. But if I was a herd and saw that I'd hold my tongue about it. _Mrs. Casey:_ At the graveyard of Drumacoo often spirits do be seen. Old George Fitzgerald is seen by many. And when they go up to the stone he's sitting on, he'll be sitting somewhere else. There was a man walking in the wood near there, and he met a woman, a stranger, and he said "Is there anything I can do for you?" For he thought she was some country-woman gone astray. "There is," says she. "Then come home with me," says he, "and tell me about it." "I can't do that," says she, "but what you can do is this, go tell my friends I'm in great trouble, for twenty times in my life I missed going to church, and they must say twenty Masses for me now to deliver me, but they seem to have forgotten me. And another thing is," says she, "there's some small debts I left and they're not paid, and those are helping to keep me in trouble." Well, the man went on and he didn't know what in the world to do, for he couldn't know who she was, for they are not permitted to tell their name. But going about visiting at country houses he used to tell the story, and at last it came out she was one of the Shannons. For at a house he was telling it at they remembered that an old woman they had, died a year ago, and that she used to be running up little debts unknown to them. So they made inquiry at Findlater's and at another shop that's done away with now, and they found that sure enough she had left some small debts, not more than ten shillings in each, and when she died no more had been said about it. So they paid these and said the Masses, and shortly after she appeared to the man again. "God bless you now," she said, "for what you did for me, for now I'm at peace." _A Tinker's Daughter:_ I heard of what happened to a family in the town. One night a thing that looked like a goose came in. And when they said nothing to it, it went away up the stairs with a noise like lead. Surely if they had questioned it, they'd have found it to be some soul in trouble. And there was another soul came back that was in trouble because of a ha'porth of salt it owed. And there was a priest was in trouble and appeared after death, and they had to say Masses for him, because he had done some sort of a crime on a widow. _Mrs. Farley:_ One time myself I was at Killinan, at a house of the Clancys' where the father and mother had died, but it was well known they often come to look after the children. I was walking with another girl through the fields there one evening and I looked up and saw a tall woman dressed all in black, with a mantle of some sort, a wide one, over her head, and the waves of the wind were blowing it off her, so that I could hear the noise of it. All her clothes were black, and had the appearance of being new. And I asked the other girl did she see her, and she said she did not. For two that are together can never see such things, but only one of them. So when I heard she saw nothing I ran as if for my life, and the woman seemed to be coming after me, till I crossed a running stream and she had no power to cross that. And one time my brother was stopping in the same house, and one night about twelve o'clock there came a smell in the house like as if all the dead people were there. And one of the girls whose father and mother had died got up out of her bed, and began to put her clothes on, and they had to lock the doors to stop her from going away out of the house. * * * * * There was a woman I knew of that after her death was kept for seven years in a tree in Kinadyfe, and for seven years after that she was kept under the arch of the little bridge beyond Kilchriest, with the water running under her. And whether there was frost or snow she had no shelter from it, not so much as the size of a leaf. At the end of the second seven years she came to her husband, and he passing the bridge on the way home from Loughrea, and when he felt her near him he was afraid, and he didn't stop to question her, but hurried on. So then she came in the evening to the house of her own little girl. But she was afraid when she saw her, and fell down in a faint. And the woman's sister's child was in the house, and when the little girl told her what she saw, she said "You must surely question her when she comes again." So she came again that night, but the little girl was afraid again when she saw her and said nothing. But the third night when she came the sister's child, seeing her own little girl was afraid, said "God bless you, God bless you." And with that the woman spoke and said "God bless you for saying that." And then she told her all that had happened her and where she had been all the fourteen years. And she took out of her dress a black silk handkerchief and said: "I took that from my husband's neck the day I met him on the road from Loughrea, and this very night I would have killed him, because he hurried away and would not stop to help me, but now that you have helped me I'll not harm him. But bring with you to Kilmacduagh, to the graveyard, three cross sticks with wool on them, and three glasses full of salt, and have three Masses said for me; and I'll appear to you when I am at rest." And so she did; and it was for no great thing she had done that trouble had been put upon her. _John Cloran:_ That house with no roof was made a hospital of in the famine, and many died there. And one night my father was passing by and he saw some one standing all in white, and two men beside him, and he thought he knew one of the men and spoke to him and said "Is that you, Martin?" but he never spoke nor moved. And as to the thing in white, he could not say was it man or woman, but my father never went by that place again at night. * * * * * The last person buried in a graveyard has the care of all the other souls until another is to be buried, and then the soul can go and shift for itself. It may be a week or a month or a year, but watch the place it must till another soul comes. * * * * * There was a man used to be giving short measure, not giving the full yard, and one time after his death there was a man passing the river and the horse he had would not go into it. And he heard the voice of the tailor saying from the river he had a message to send to his wife, and to tell her not to be giving short measure, or she would be sent to the same place as himself. There was a hymn made about that. * * * * * There was a woman lived in Rathkane, alone in the house, and she told me that one night something came and lay over the bed and gave three great moans. That was all ever she heard in the house. * * * * * The shadows of the dead gather round at Samhain time to see is there any one among their friends saying a few Masses for them. _An Islander:_ Down there near the point, on the 6th of March, 1883, there was a curragh upset and five boys were drowned. And a man from County Clare told me that he was on the coast that day, and that he saw them walking towards him on the Atlantic. * * * * * There is a house down there near the sea, and one day the woman of it was sitting by the fire, and a little girl came in at the door, and a red cloak about her, and she sat down by the fire. And the woman asked her where did she come from, and she said that she had just come from Connemara. And then she went out, and when she was going out the door she made herself known to her sister that was standing in it, and she called out to the mother. And when the mother knew it was the child she had lost near a year before, she ran out to call her, for she wouldn't for all the world to have not known her when she was there. But she was gone and she never came again. * * * * * There was this boy's father took a second wife, and he was walking home one evening, and his wife behind him, and there was a great wind blowing, and he kept his head stooped down because of the seaweed coming blowing into his eyes. And she was about twenty paces behind, and she saw his first wife come and walk close beside him, and he never saw her, having his head down, but she kept with him near all the way. And when they got home, she told the husband who was with him, and with the fright she got she was bad in her bed for two or three days--do you remember that, Martin? She died after, and he has a third wife taken now. * * * * * I believe all that die are brought among them, except maybe an odd old person. _A Kildare Woman:_ There was a woman I knew sent into the Rotunda Hospital for an operation. And when she was going she cried when she was saying good-bye to her cousin that was a friend of mine, for she felt in her that she would not come back again. And she put her two arms about her going away and said, "If the dead can do any good thing for the living, I'll do it for you." And she never recovered, but died in the hospital. And within a few weeks something came on her cousin, my friend, and they said it was her side that was paralysed, and she died. And many said it was no common illness, but that it was the dead woman that had kept to her word. _A Connemara Man:_ There was a boy in New York was killed by rowdies, they killed him standing against a lamppost and he was frozen to it, and stood there till morning. And it is often since that time he was seen in the room and the passages of the house where he used to be living. And in the house beyond a woman died, and some other family came to live in it; but every night she came back and stripped the clothes off them, so at last they went away. * * * * * When some one goes that owes money, the weight of the soul is more than the weight of the body, and it can't get away and keeps wandering till some one has courage to question it. _Mrs. Casey:_ My grandmother told my mother that in her time at Cloughballymore, there was a woman used to appear in the churchyard of Rathkeale, and that many boys and girls and children died with the fright they got when they saw her. So there was a gentleman living near was very sorry for all the children dying, and he went to an old woman to ask her was there any way to do away with the spirit that appeared. So she said if any one would have courage to go and to question it, he could do away with it. So the gentleman went at midnight and waited at the churchyard, and he on his horse, and had a sword with him. So presently the shape appeared and he called to it and said, "Tell me what you are?" And it came over to him, and when he saw the face he got such a fright that he turned the horse's head and galloped away as hard as he could. But after galloping a long time he looked down and what did he see beside him but the woman running and her hand on the horse. So he took his sword and gave a slash at her, and cut through her arm, so that she gave a groan and vanished, and he went on home. And when he got to the stable and had the lantern lighted, you may think what a start he got when he saw the hand still holding on to the horse, and no power could lift it off. So he went into the house and said his prayers to Almighty God to take it off. And all night long, he could hear moaning and crying about the house. And in the morning when he went out the hand was gone, but all the stable was splashed with blood. But the woman was never seen in those parts again. _A Seaside Man:_ And many see the faeries at Knock and there was a carpenter died, and he could be heard all night in his shed making coffins and carts and all sorts of things, and the people are afraid to go near it. There were four boys from Knock drowned five years ago, and often now they are seen walking on the strand and in the fields and about the village. * * * * * There was a man used to go out fowling, and one day his sister said to him, "Whatever you do don't go out tonight and don't shoot any wild-duck or any birds you see flying--for tonight they are all poor souls travelling." _An Old Man in Galway Workhouse:_ Burke of Carpark's son died, but he used often to be seen going about afterwards. And one time a herd of his father's met with him and he said, "Come tonight and help us against the hurlers from the north, for they have us beat twice, and if they beat us a third time, it will be a bad year for Ireland." It was in the daytime they had the hurling match through the streets of Galway. No one could see them, and no one could go outside the door while it lasted, for there went such a whirlwind through the town that you could not look through the window. And he sent a message to his father that he would find some paper he was looking for a few days before, behind a certain desk, between it and the wall, and the father found it there. He would not have believed it was his son the herd met only for that. _A Munster Woman:_ I have only seen them myself like dark shadows, but there's many can see them as they are. Surely they bring away the dead among them. There was a woman in County Limerick that died after her baby being born. And all the people were in the house when the funeral was to be, crying for her. And the cars and the horses were out on the road. And there was seen among them a carriage full of ladies, and with them the woman was sitting that they were crying for, and the baby with her, and it dressed. And there was another woman I knew of died, and left a family, and often after, the people saw her in their dreams, and always in rich clothes, though all the clothes she had were given away after she died, for the good of her soul, except maybe her shawl. And her husband married a serving girl after that, and she was hard to the children, and one night the woman came back to her, and had like to throw her out of the window in her nightdress, till she gave a promise to treat the children well, and she was afraid not to treat them well after that. There was a farmer died and he had done some man out of a saddle, and he came back after to a friend, and gave him no rest till he gave a new saddle to the man he had cheated. _Mrs. Casey:_ There was a woman my brother told me about and she had a daughter that was red-haired. And the girl got married when she was under twenty, for the mother had no man to tend the land, so she thought best to let her go. And after her baby being born, she never got strong but stopped in the bed, and a great many doctors saw her but did her no good. And one day the mother was at Mass at the chapel and she got a start, for she thought she saw her daughter come in to the chapel with the same shawl and clothes on her that she had before she took to the bed, but when they came out from the chapel, she wasn't there. So she went to the house, and asked was she after going out, and what they told her was as if she got a blow, for they said the girl hadn't ten minutes to live, and she was dead before ten minutes were out. And she appears now sometimes; they see her drawing water from the well at night and bringing it into the house, but they find nothing there in the morning. _A Connemara Man:_ There was a man had come back from Boston, and one day he was out in the bay, going towards Aran with £3 worth of cable he was after getting from McDonagh's store in Galway. And he was steering the boat, and there were two turf-boats along with him, and all in a minute they saw he was gone, swept off the boat with a wave and it a dead calm. And they saw him come up once, straight up as if he was pushed, and then he was brought down again and rose no more. And it was some time after that a friend of his in Boston, and that was coming home to this place, was in a crowd of people out there. And he saw him coming to him and he said, "I heard that you were drowned," and the man said, "I am not dead, but I was brought here, and when you go home, bring these three guineas to McDonagh in Galway for it's owed him for the cable I got from him." And he put the three guineas in his hand and vanished away. _An Old Army Man:_ I have seen hell myself. I had a sight of it one time in a vision. It had a very high wall around it, all of metal, and an archway in the wall, and a straight walk into it, just like what would be leading into a gentleman's orchard, but the edges were not trimmed with box but with red-hot metal. And inside the wall there were cross walks, and I'm not sure what there was to the right, but to the left there was five great furnaces and they full of souls kept there with great chains. So I turned short and went away; and in turning I looked again at the wall and I could see no end to it. And another time I saw purgatory. It seemed to be in a level place and no walls around it, but it all one bright blaze, and the souls standing in it. And they suffer near as much as in hell, only there are no devils with them there, and they have the hope of heaven. And I heard a call to me from there "Help me to come out of this!" And when I looked it was a man I used to know in the army, an Irishman and from this country, and I believe him to be a descendant of King O'Connor of Athenry. So I stretched out my hand first but then I called out "I'd be burned in the flames before I could get within three yards of you." So then he said, "Well, help me with your prayers," and so I do. VII APPEARANCES VII APPEARANCES _When I had begun my search for folk-lore, the first to tell me he himself had seen the Sidhe was an old, perhaps half-crazed man I will call Michael Barrett_ (_for I do not give the real names either of those who are living or who have left living relatives_). _I had one day asked an old woman who had been spinning wool for me, to be made into frieze by our weavers, if she had ever seen the faery host. She said, "I never saw them myself nor I don't think much of them; it is God that takes us or leaves us as He will. But a neighbouring man was standing in my door last night, and there's no day of the year he doesn't hear them or feel them._ "_It's in his head I think it does be, and when he stood in the door last night I said 'the wind does be always in my ears and the sound of it never stops,' to make him think it was the same with him. But he said, 'I hear them singing and making music all the time, and one of them's after bringing out a little flute, and it's on it he's playing to them.' Sure he has half his chimney pulled down, where they used to be sitting and singing to him day and night. But those that are born in the daytime never have power to see or hear them all their life._" _Another neighbour talked to me of him and said, "One night he was walking across the bog, and a lurcher, a bastard hound, with him. And something ran across the path in the shape of a white cat, and the lurcher went after him, and Barrett went home and to bed and left the door open for the lurcher to come in. And in the morning they found it there, lying under the table, and it paralysed and not able to stir. But after a few months it got better, and one night they were crossing the bog again and the same thing ran across their path, and this time in the form of a deer. But the dog wouldn't follow it again, but shrank behind Barrett until such time as it had passed by."_ _My spinning woman, coming another time with chickens to sell, said, "Barrett is after telling me this morning that they were never so bad as these last two nights. 'Friday fine-day' is what they say now, in Irish, and he got no sleep till he threatened to throw dirty water over them. The poor man, they do say they are mostly in his head now, but sure he was a fine fresh man twenty years ago, the night he saw them all linked in two lots, like slips of girls walking together. And it was that very same day that Hession's little girl got a touch from them. She was as fine a little girl as ever you saw, and her mother sent her into Gort to do a message. And on the road she met a red-haired woman, with long wisps of hair as bright as silver, and she said, 'Where are you going and who are you?' 'I'm going to Gort on a message,' says she, 'and I'm Mrs. Hession's daughter of such a place.' Well, she came home, and that very night she got a pain in her thigh, with respects to you, and she and her mother have half the world walked since then, trying to get relief for her; but never a bit better did she ever get. And no doubt at all but that's the very same day Michael Barrett saw them in the field near Hession's house."_ _I asked Mr. Yeats to come with me to see the old man, and we walked up the long narrow lane, from which we could see Slieve Echtge and the Burren hills, to the little cabin with its broken chimney where Michael Barrett told us of those that had disturbed his rest. This was the first time we went together to enquire into the Hierarchy of the Sidhe, of which by degrees we have gathered so much traditional and original knowledge._ _As to old Barrett, I saw him from time to time, and he told me he was still "tormented," and that "there is one that sat and sang b-b-b all the night" til a few evenings before he had got a bit of rag and tied it to a long stick, and hit at him when he came, and drove him out with the rest. And in the next spring I heard he was ill, and that "on Saturday he had been told by three he was to die." When I visited him I found him better, and he said that since the warning on Saturday they had left him alone "and the children that used to be playing about with them have gone to some other place; found the house too cold for them maybe." That was the last time I saw him; I am glad I had been able to help him to more warmth and comfort before the end._ _I asked the old man's brother, a labourer, what he thought of Michael's visions, but he made little of them. "Old he is, and it's all in the brain the things he does be talking of. If it was a young man told us of them we might believe him, but as to him, we pay no attention to what he says at all. Those things are passed away, and you--I beg your pardon for using that word--a person--hears no more of them._ "_John Casey saw queer things? So he might. Them that travel by night, why wouldn't they see queer things? But they'd see nothing if they went to their bed quiet and regular._ "_Lydon that had the contract for the schoolhouse, we didn't mind much what he said happened him the night he slept there alone, and in the morning he couldn't stir across the floor from the place where he was. But who knows? Maybe he had too much drink taken before he went to bed. It was no wonder in the old times if there was signs and the like where murder had been. But that's come to an end, and time for it._ "_There's another man, one Doran, has the same dreams and thoughts as my brother, and he leaves pieces of silver on the wall; and when they're took--it's the faeries! But myself I believe it's the boys do be watching him._ "_No, these things are gone from the world, and there's not the same dread of death there used to be. When we die we go to judgment, and the places we'll get there, they won't be the same as what we had here. The charitable, the kind-hearted, lady or gentleman, who'd have a chance if they didn't? But the tyrants and schemers, what chance will there be for the like of them?_" "_You will have a good place there, Barrett, you and John Farrell. You have done your work better than most of us through all your life, and it's likely you'll be above us there._" "_I did my work all my life, fair and honest every day; and now that I'm old, I'll keep on the same track to the last. Like a horse that might be racing at Galway racecourse or another, there might be eight leaps or ten leaps he might be frightened at; but when he's once over the last leap there's no fear of him. Why would he fail then, with the winning post so near at hand?_" _I was told by A Gatekeeper:_ There was once a family, the O'Hagans living in Dromore Hill, that now belongs to you, well-to-do people. And one day the son that had been at college was coming back, and there was a great dinner being made in the house. And a girl was sent off to a spring by the forth to get some water, and when she passed by the forth, she heard like the crying of a child and some one said to it "Nothing given to us today, no milk spilled for us, nothing laid out for us, but tonight we'll have what we want and there will be waste and overflow." And that evening the young man that was coming home got a fall from his horse, and was killed, and all the grand things for the dinner were thrown about and went to loss. So never begrudge the drop of milk you'll spill, or the bit you'll let fall, it might turn all to good in the end. * * * * * One night at the house below it was just getting dark, and a man came in the gate and to the door and came in and fell down on a chair. And when I saw him shaking and his face so white, I thought it was the _fear gortha_ (the hungry grass) he had walked on, and I called to the wife to give him something to eat. But he would take nothing but a cup of water with salt in it, and when he got better he told us that when he was passing the big tree a man and a woman came out and came along with him. They didn't speak but they walked on each side of him, and then the woman seemed to go away, but the man's step was with him till he came in at the gate. * * * * * There was a girl of the Heniffs brought the dinner one day to where the men were working near where the river rises at Coole. And when she had left the dinner she began to gather kippeens, and put them in her shawl, and began to twist a rope of the ends of it to tie them up. And at that moment she was taken up, and where she found herself was in Galway, sitting in the Square. And she had no money, and she began to think of the friends she had there and to say, "If they knew where I was they'd give me money to bring me back." And in those days there was a coach that ran from Galway to Kiltartan, and she found herself in it, and it starting, and it left her safe and sound again at home. _Mrs. Casey:_ There was a girl at Tyrone was bringing back some apples out of the garden there. And on the road she met a man, and she thought that he was one of the old St. Georges, and he asked where did she get the apples, and bid her put them down in the road, and when she opened the bundle they were all turned to eggs. So she put them up again and brought them home, and when she and her mother looked at them in the house they were beginning to crack, and the chickens to put their beaks through them; so they put them in the corner of the kitchen for the night, and in the morning when they went to look at them they were all turned to apples again, but they thought best not to eat them. _A Munster Woman:_ There was a woman I knew in County Limerick, near Foynes--Mrs. Doolan, a nurse. She was called out of bed one night by a small man with a lamp, and he led her to a place she had never seen before, and into a house, and there was a woman in a bed and the child was born after she came. And I always heard her say it was a faery she attended. And the man led her back and gave her a sovereign, and bid her change it before sunrise. * * * * * And I know a boy lived on Lord Dunraven's property, one of a family of large farmers, and he had a settle-bed in the kitchen, and one night he saw the kitchen full of them, and they making up the fire and cooking, and they set out the table and ate at it. * * * * * I often heard they'd fight in November at the time of harvest, and my father told me that in the year of the famine there was great fighting heard up in the sky, and they were crying out, "Black potatoes, black potatoes, we'll have them now." I suppose it was one tribe of them fighting against another for them. And the oats in that year were all black as well as the potatoes. _A Clare Man:_ I saw them myself one night I was going to Ennis with a load of straw. It was when we came to Bunnahow and the moon was shining, and I was on the top of the load of straw, and I saw them in a field. Just like jockeys they were, and riding horses, red clothes and caps they had like a jockey would have, but they were small. They had a screen of bushes put up in the field and some of the horses would jump over it, and more of them would baulk when they'd be put to it. The men that were with me didn't see them, they were walking in the road, but they heard the sound of the horses. _Another Clare Man:_ I heard a churning one time in the hill up by the road beyond. I was coming back from Kinvara, and I heard it plain, no mistake about it. I was sorry after I didn't call down and ask for a drink. Johnny Moon did so, and got it. If you wish for a drink and they put it out for you, it's no harm to take it, but if you refuse it, some harm might happen to you. Johnny Henderson often told that he heard churning in that spot, but I wouldn't believe the sun rising from him, he had so many lies. But after that, I said, "Well, Johnny Henderson has told the truth for once anyhow." _A Miller:_ There was Tom Gantly one evening was going to Coole, and he heard a step behind him and it followed him every bit of the way, till he got to the hall door of Coole House; but he could see nothing. He saw a gig one night on the road there by the wall and it full of ladies laughing and grandly dressed--the best of hats and feathers they had. And it turned and passed him a second time. And with the fright he got, he never would pass that bit of road by himself again. * * * * * There were two men went one night to catch rabbits in that field you have let now to Father Fahy, and the one next it. And when they were standing there they heard a churning below. So they went on a little way, and they heard a tambourine below, music going on and the beating of a drum. So they moved a little farther on and then they heard the sound of a fiddle from below. So they came home and caught no rabbits that night. _J. Creevy:_ May is a great time with these strangers, and November is a bad month for them, and this month you're in now. I was trying the other day in the town to get a marriage made up for a girl that was seduced--and the family wouldn't have it this month because of that. * * * * * One night on the Kiltartan road I saw a flock of wool by the road side, and I gave a kick at it and it didn't move, and then another kick and it didn't move. So it can have been no natural thing. * * * * * And Lee told me that one night he saw red men riding through the country and going over ditches. * * * * * One time I was sick in the bed and I heard music, and I sat up and said: "Is it music I hear, or is it the squealing of pigs?" And they all said they could hear nothing. But I could hear it for a long time, and it the grandest I ever heard--and like a melodeon. And as to the tune, I couldn't tell what it was but I know that I had heard it before. _A Kerry Piper:_ One time in Kerry there was a coach coming after me and it passed beside me, and I saw with it Mrs. Mitchell from the big house. And when it came near the bridge it sank into the earth, and I saw no more of it. * * * * * And one time I was at Ennistymon I saw the ass-car and the woman and the man out before me. I had a little ass of my own at that time, and I followed them thinking to overtake them, but when I was in the hollow they were on the hill, and when I was on the hill they were in the hollow. And when they got near to the bridge that is over the big river, they were not to be seen. For they can never cross over a mering (boundary) that is a river. _J. Fagan:_ One time I was at a party and I didn't leave the house till 2 o'clock so you may think it was late in the night before I got home. And after a while I looked back and I saw some one coming after me, a little old woman about so high (3 feet) and she wearing a white cap with a frilled border, and a red square and a red flannel petticoat. I set off to run when I saw her, for at that time I had the run of a hare, but when I got near home I looked back and she was after me still. When I got inside the door I fell on my two knees. And it was seven years before I got the better of that fright. And from that time to this I never got the run again that I used to have. * * * * * There was a respectable woman, Mrs. Gaynor, living in Cloon, told me that whenever she went out of Cloon in the direction of Fiddane in one part of the road there was a woman sometimes met her, that she saw at no other time, and every time she'd meet her she'd spit in her face. There is a family at Tirneevan and they were having a wedding there. And when it was going on, the wine ran short, and the spirits ran out and they didn't know what to do to get more, Gort being two miles away. And two or three strange people came in that they had never seen before. And when they found what was wanting they said that they'd go get it. And in a few minutes they were back with the spirits and the wine--and no place to get it nearer than Gort. * * * * * There was a herd's house up at Burren that no one could live in. But one Holland from Tirneevan said he'd take the place, and try how would he get on there. So he went with his family, and the first day the daughter made the place clean and swept it, and then she went out for a can of milk. And when she was coming in the door, it was knocked out of her hand and spilled over her. And that evening when they sat down to their supper the door opened and eight or nine people came in, and a red man among them. And they sat down and ate. And then they showed Holland one side of the room, and bid him to keep it always clean, and spring water in it. _A Herd:_ There was a man woke about three o'clock one morning and he bade the servant girl go down and make the fire and put on the potatoes, where he had to be going out early. So she went down and there she saw one of _them_ sitting by the hearth in the kitchen. So she ran upstairs with the fright she got to where the man was in bed with his wife. So then he went down himself, and he saw one of them sure enough sitting by the fire and he asked "How did you come in?" And he said, "By the lock-hole of the door." And the man said, "There's the pot full of potatoes and you might as well have used a few of them." And he said, "We have them used already; and you think now they are potatoes, but when you put the pot down on the fire you'll see they are no more than horse dung." _Thomas Cloonan:_ One night my father was beyond on the other side of the lake, going to watch an otter where the water goes away underground. And he heard voices talking, and he thought one was the voice of Father Nagle the parish priest of Kilbecanty, and the other the voice of Father Hynes from Cloon that does be late out fishing for eels. And when he came to where the voices were, there was no one at all in it. And he went and sat in the cave, where the water goes under, and there was a great noise like as if planks were being thrown down overhead. And you may think how frightened he was when he never took off his boots to cross the river, but run through it just as he was and never stopped till he got to the house. _Mrs. Cloonan:_ Two men I saw one time over in Inchy. I was sitting milking the cow and she let a snore and I looked up and I saw the two men, small men, and their hands and their feet the smallest ever I saw, and hats turned back on their heads, but I did not see their faces. Then the cow rose her foot, and I thought, "it will be worse for me if she'll put her foot down on me," and I looked at her, and when I looked up again they were gone. Mrs. Stafford told me it was not for me they came, but for the cow, Blackberry, that died soon after. * * * * * There was a man in Gort was brought for a while to Tir-na-Og, that is a part of heaven. * * * * * McGarrity that was coming back one night to the new house beyond the lake saw two children, two little girls they were, standing beside the house. Paddy told me that, and he said they came there to foretell him he was stopping there too late. _John Phelan:_ I never saw them nor felt them all my life, and I walking the place night and day, except one time when for twelve nights I slept in the little house beyond, in the kitchen garden where the apples were being robbed that time because there was no one living at home. In the night-time in the loft above my head I used to hear a scratching and a scraping, and one time a plank that was above in it began to move about. But I had no fear but stopped there, but I did not put off my clothes nor stretch myself on the bed for twelve nights. They say that one man that slept in the same house was found in the morning choked in his bed and the door locked that they had to burst it in. And in old Richard Gregory's time there was one Horan slept there, and one night he ran out of it and out of the Gort gate and got no leave to put his clothes on. But there's some can see those things and more that can't, and I'm one of those that can't. Walking Coole demesne I am these forty years, days and nights, and never met anything worse than myself. But one night standing by the vinery and the moon shining, on a sudden a wind rose and shook the trees and rattled the glass and the slates, and no wind before, and it stopped as sudden as it came. And there were two bunches of grapes gone, and them that took them took them by the chimney and no other way. _James Hill:_ One night since I lived here I found late at night that a black jennet I had at that time had strayed away. So I took a lantern and went to look for him, and found him near Doherty's house at the bay. And when I took him by the halter, I put the light out and led him home. But surely as I walked there was a footstep behind me all the way home. I never rightly believed in them till I met a priest about two years ago coming out from the town that asked his way to Mrs. Canan's, the time she was given over, and he told me that one time his horse stopped and wouldn't pass the road, and the man that was driving said, "I can't make him pass." And the priest said, "It will be the worse for you, if I have to come down into the road." For he knew some bad thing was there. And he told me the air is full of them. But Father Dolan wouldn't talk of such things, very proud he is, and he coming of no great stock. * * * * * One night I was driving outside Coole gate--close to where the Ballinamantane farm begins. And the mare stopped, and I got off the car to lead her, but she wouldn't go on. Two or three times I made her start and she'd stop again. Something she must have seen that I didn't see. Beasts will sometimes see more than a man will. There were three young chaps I knew went up by the river to hunt coneens one evening, and they threw the dog over the wall. And when he was in the field he gave a yelp and drew back as if something frightened him. * * * * * Another time my father was going early to some place, and my mother had a noggin of turnips boiled for him the night before, to give him something to eat before he'd start. So they got up very early and she lighted the fire and put the oven hanging over it for to warm the turnips, and then she went back to bed again. And my father was in a hurry and he went out and brought in a sheaf of wheaten straw to put under the oven, the way it would make a quick blaze. And when he came in, the oven had been taken off the hook, and was put standing in the hearth, and no mortal had been there. So he was afraid to stop, and he went back to the bed, and till daybreak they could hear something that was knocking against the pot. And the servant girl that was in the house, she awoke and heard quick steps walking to the stable, and the door of it giving a screech as if it was being opened. But in the morning there was no sign there or of any harm being done to the pot. Then the girl remembered that she had washed her feet the night before, and had never thought to throw out the water. And it's well known to wash the feet and not to throw the water out, brings some harm--except you throw fire into the vessel it stands in. _Simon Niland:_ Late one night I was out walking, and a gun in my hand, and I was going down a little avenue of stones, and I heard after me the noise of a horse's steps. So I stopped and sat down on the stile, for I thought, the man that's with the horse, I'll have his company a bit of the way. But the noise got louder like as if it was twenty horses coming, and then I was knocked down, and I put out my foot to save the gun from being broken. But when I got up there was no hurt on me or on the gun, and the noise was all gone, and the place quiet. It was maybe four year after that or six, I was walking the same path with the priest and a few others, for a whale had come ashore, and the jaw-bones of it were wanted to make the piers of a gate. And the priest said to me, "Did you ever hear of the battle of Troy?" "I didn't hear but I read about it," says I. "Well," says he, "there was a man at that time called Simon, and they found that whenever he came out with them to fight there was luck with them, and when he wasn't with them, there'd be no luck. And that's why we put you in front of us, to lead us on the path, you having the same name." So that put it in my head, and I told him about what happened that night, and I said, "Now would you believe that?" "I would," says he. "And what are such things done by?" says I. "The fallen angels," he said, "for they have power to do such things and to raise wind and storm, but yet they have the hope of salvation at the last." * * * * * One clear night and the moon shining, I was walking home down this road, and I had a strong dog at that time. And just here where you stand he began to bark at something and he made rushes at it, and made as if he was worrying it, but I could see nothing, though if it had been even the size of a rat I must have seen it, the night was so clear. And I had to leave him at last and heard him barking and I was at the house-door before he came up with me. * * * * * I know a good many on the island have seen _those_, but they wouldn't say what they are like to look at, for when they see them their tongue gets like a stone. _Mrs. Hynes of Slieve Echtge:_ When you see a blast of wind pass, pick a green rush and throw it after them, and say, "God speed you." There they all are, and maybe the _stroke lad_ at the end of them. * * * * * There was a neighbour of mine in late with me one night, and when he was going home, just as he passed that little road you see, a big man came over the wall in front of him, and was growing bigger as he went, till he nearly fainted with the fright he got. * * * * * They can do everything. They can raise the wind, and draw the storm. And to Drogheda they go for wine, for the best wine is in the cellars there. _An Islander:_ One night I and another lad were coming along the road, and the dog began to fight, as if he was fighting another dog, but we could see nothing and we called him off but he wouldn't come. And when we got home he answered us, and he seemed as if tired out. * * * * * There was a strange woman came to this island one day and told some of the women down below what would happen to them. And they didn't believe her, she being a stranger, but since that time, it's all been coming true. _Mrs. Casey:_ I knew a woman that every night after she went to bed used to see some sort of a shadow that used to appear to her. So she went to some old woman, and she told her to sprinkle holy water about and to put a blackthorn stick beside her bed. So she got the stick and put it there and sprinkled the holy water, and it never appeared since then. Three sorts of holy water she got, from the priest and from the friars and from some blessed well. And she has them in three pint bottles in the window, and she'd kill you if you so much as looked at them. _A Fisherman:_ I never saw anything myself, but one day I was going over the fields near Killeen, and it the quietest day of summer you ever saw. And all of a sudden I heard a great noise like thunder, and a blast of wind passed by me that laid the thistles low, and then all was quiet again. It might be that they were changing, for they change from place to place. I would not give in to faeries myself but for one thing. There was a little boy of my own, and there was a wedding going to be here, and there was no bread in the house, and none to be had in Kilcolgan, and I bade him to go to Kinvara for bread. I pulled out the ass-car for him and he set out. And from that time he was never the same, and now he is in the asylum at Ballinasloe. Did he tell what happened? He never told me anything, but he told a neighbour that he met awful looking people on the road to Kinvara just about midnight, and that whatever they did to him, he could never recover it. _A Carter:_ Often and often I heard things. A great shouting I heard one night inside Coole demesne,--a hurling it must have been. Another time I was passing at night-time, near Reed the weaver's, and there were rocks thrown at me all along the road, but they did not touch me, and I could not see any one thing there. But I never went that road again at night-time. It's said those that die are left in the place where they lived to do their penance. Often and often when I came to that house below, I felt knocks under the bed, and like some one walking over it. Two men I know were going from Gort one night, and there near the wall of the demesne they saw two men ploughing, and they asked one another what could they be to be ploughing by night. And then they saw that as they ploughed, the land was going away from them, and they were gone themselves, and they saw them no more. _An Old Woman who was Housekeeper to the Donnellans:_ I'll tell you how the fortune of the family began. It was Tully O'Donnellan was riding home from Ballinasloe, or some other place, and it was raining, and he came to a river that was in flood, and there used to be no bridges in those times. And when he was going to ride through the river, he saw the _greasa_ leprechaun on the bank, and he offered him a lift, and he stooped down and lifted him up behind him on the horse. And when he got near where the castle was, he saw it in flames before him. And the leprechaun said, "Don't fret after it but build a new castle in the place I'll show you, about a stone's throw from the old one." "I have no money to do that," said Tully Donnellan. "Never mind that," said the leprechaun, "but do as I bid you, and you'll have plenty." So he did as he bade him, and the morning after he went to live in the new castle, when he went into that room that has the stone with his name on it now, it was full up of gold, and you could be turning it like you'd turn potatoes into a shovel. And when the children would go into the room with their father and mother, the nurses would put bits of wax on their shoes, the way bits of the gold would stick to them. And they had great riches and smothered the world with it, and they used to shoe their horses with silver. It was in racing they ran through it, and keeping hounds and horses and horns. _Old Pegs Kelly:_ I seen the Sheogue but once, and that was five or six years ago, and I walking the railway where I was looking after my little hens that do be straying. And I saw them coming along, and in a minute I was in the middle of them. Shavings, and shavings, and shavings going along the road as fast as they could go. And I knew there was no shavings to be seen this many year, since the stakes were made for the railway down at Nolan's, and the carpenter that made them dead, and the shop where he made them picked clean. And I knew well they were the horses the Sheogue did be riding. But some that saw them said they looked like bits of paper. And I threw three stones after them and I heard them cry out as they went. And that night the roof was swept off Tom Dermot's house in Ryanrush and haystacks blown down. And John Brady's daughter that was daft those many years was taken, and Tom Horan's little girl that was picking potatoes, she and her brothers together. She turned black all of a minute and three days after, she was dead. That's the only time I seen them, and that I never may again, for believe me that time I had my enough, thinking as I did that I hadn't more than three minutes to live. _A Herd's Wife:_ Martin's new wife is a fine big woman, if she is lucky. But it's not a lucky house. That's what happened the last wife that lost her baby and died. William Martin knows well _they_ are in it, but he is a dark man and would say nothing. I saw them myself about the house one time, and I met one on the forth going through the fields; he had the appearance of a man in his clothes. And sometimes when I look over at Martin's house there is a very dark look like a dark cloud over it and around it. _The other Army Man:_ The faeries are all fallen angels. Father Folan told us from the altar that they're as thick as the sands of the sea all about us, and they tempt poor mortals. But as for carrying away women and the like, there's many that says so, but they have no proof. But you have only to bid them begone and they will go. One night myself I was after walking back from Kinvara, and down by the wood beyond I felt one coming beside me, and I could feel the horse that he was riding on and the way that he lifted his legs, but they didn't make a sound like the hoofs of a horse. So I stopped and turned around and said very loud "Be off!" And he went and never troubled me after. And I knew a man that was dying, and one came up on his bed and he cried out to it, "Get out of that, you unnatural animal!" And it left him. There's a priest I heard of that was looking along the ground like as if he was hunting for something, and a voice said to him "If you want to see them you'll see enough of them," and his eyes were opened and he saw the ground thick with them. Singing they do be sometimes and dancing, but all the time they have the cloven foot. Fallen angels they are, and after they fell God said, "Let there be Hell, and there it was in a moment"--("God save us! It's a pity He said that word and there might have been no Hell today" _murmurs the wife_). And then He asked the devil what would he take for the souls of all the people. And the devil said nothing would satisfy him but the blood of a Virgin's Son. So he got that and then the gates of Hell were opened. _The Wife:_ I never seen anything, although one night I was out after a cow till 2 o'clock in the morning and old Gantly told me he wondered at me to be out in this place, by the wood near the white gate where he saw a thing himself one night passing. But it's only them that's living in mortal sin can see such things, that's so Thomas, whatever you may say. But your ladyship's own place is middling free from them, but Ratlin's full of them. And there's many say they saw the banshee, and that if she heard you singing loud, she'd be very apt to bring you away with her. _A Piper:_ There was an old priest I knew--Father McManus--and when he would go walking in the green lawn before the house, his man, Keary, would go with him, and he carrying three sticks. And after a while the priest would say, "_Cur do maide_"--Fire your stick--as far as you can, and he would throw it. And he would say the same thing a second and a third time, and after that he would say, "We have no more to protect us now," and he would go in. And another priest I was talking to the other day was telling me they are between earth and air and the grass is full of them. _Mrs. Casey:_ There was a boy I knew at Tyrone was a great card player. And one night about 10 o'clock he was coming home from a party, and he had the cards in his hands and he shuffling them as he went along. And presently he saw a man before him on the road, and the man stopped till he came up, and when he saw the cards, he says "Stop here and I'll have a game with you," for the moon was shining bright. So the boy sat down, and the stranger asked him had he any money, and he said he had five shillings after the night's play. "Well," says the man, "we'll play the first game for half-a-crown." So they sat down and put out the money on a flagstone that was much like a table, and they began to play, and the first game was won by the stranger. "Well now," says he, "we'll have another." So the boy began to shuffle the cards, but as he did, one card dropped on the ground, and he stooped down for it, and when he did, he saw the man's feet that were partly under the flagstone, and they were like the feet of a cow. So with the fright he got, he jumped up and began to run and never stopped till he got inside his house and had the door shut. And when he had been sitting there a few minutes, a knock came to the door, and he heard the voice of the stranger say, "It's well for you you ran away when you did, or you'd be where I am now." And he heard no more; it was the boy himself told me this. I hear them in this house ever since the first night I came, in the kitchen, when all are in bed. Footsteps, I wouldn't think so much of, but scraping the potatoes, that's another thing. * * * * * A daughter I had that went to America died there, and the brother that came back told me that he was with her, and she going, and surely they all heard the jennet coming to the door, and when they opened it, there was nothing there, and many people standing and waiting about it. I knew a woman died beyond in Boher and left a house full of children and the night she died there was a light seen in the sick house. * * * * * To leave a few cold potatoes, the first of them, outside, you should surely do it, and not to leave the house without spring water. I knew a boy that was sleeping up in the loft of a house and one night they had forgotten to leave water within in the kitchen. And about midnight he awoke and he saw through a hole in the loft two women, and one of them just after having a baby. And they said, "What way will we wash the child, and no water here; we must take the pan of milk down from the shelf." So the boy said out loud the way they'd hear him, "I must go for spring water. I forgot to leave it below." So he went and got it and left it there, and let on not to see them. And--for I forget what time after that--there was no morning he put his clothes on but he'd find a half-crown in his boot. To do you harm? No, but the best of neighbours they are, if you don't chance to offend them. _A Schoolmaster:_ In Donegal one night some of the people were at a still in the mountains, and on a sudden they heard a shot fired, and they thought it was a signal given to the police, and they made home to the village. And all the night they could hear like the tramp of horses and of police and the noise of cars passing by, but nothing could be seen. And next day the police came in earnest, and searched about the place where they had been at work at the still, but no one was there and they found nothing. So they knew it was a warning they were after being given. _John Madden:_ One day old Fogarty of Clough was cutting rods in Coole with a black-handled knife, and he put it in his pocket, and presently he felt for it and it was gone. But when he went home and went into the house, there was the knife lying on the table. * * * * * My wife's brother was on a cock of hay in that field beyond one time, and he sat down to rest and he saw them hurling in red caps and blue, and a crowd looking in at them. But he said nothing to the men that were with him. They are mostly in forths and lonesome places. _An old man, Kelleher, living in the Wicklow Mountains, told me and W. B. Yeats and Miss Pollexfen:_ I often saw them when I had my eyesight; one time they came about me, shouting and laughing and there were spouts of water all around me. And I thought that I was coming home, but I was not on the right path and couldn't find it and went wandering about, but at last one of them said, "Good-evening, Kelleher," and they went away, and then in a moment I saw where I was by the stile. They were very small, like little boys and girls, and had red caps. I always saw them like that, but they were bigger at the butt of the river; they go along the course of the rivers. Another time they came about me playing music and I didn't know where I was going, and at last one of them said the same way, "Good evening, Kelleher," and I knew that I was at the gate of the College; it is the sweetest music and the best that can be heard, like melodeons and fifes and whistles and every sort. _Mrs. Kelleher says_: I often hear that music too, I hear them playing drums. _K._: We had one of them in the house for a while, it was when I was living up at Ticnock, and it was just after I married that woman there that was a nice slip of a girl at that time. It was in the winter and there was snow on the ground, and I saw one of them outside, and I brought him in and put him on the dresser, and he stopped in the house for a while, for about a week. _Mrs. K._: It was more than that, it was two or three weeks. _K._: Ah! maybe it was--I'm not sure. He was about fifteen inches high. He was very friendly. It is likely he slept on the dresser at night. When the boys at the public-house were full of porter, they used to come to the house to look at him, and they would laugh to see him but I never let them hurt him. They said I would be made up, that he would bring me some riches, but I never got them. We had a cage here, I wish I had put him in it, I might have kept him till I was made up. _Mrs. K._: It was a cage we had for a thrush. We thought of putting him into it, but he would not have been able to stand in it. _K._: I'm sorry I didn't keep him--I thought sometimes to bring him into Dublin to sell him. _Mrs. K._: You wouldn't have got him there. _K._: One day I saw another of the kind not far from the house, but more like a girl and the clothes greyer than his clothes, that were red. And that evening when I was sitting beside the fire with the Missus I told her about it, and the little lad that was sitting on the dresser called out, "That's Geoffrey-a-wee that's coming for me," and he jumped down and went out of the door and I never saw him again. I thought it was a girl I saw, but Geoffrey wouldn't be the name of a girl, would it? He had never spoken before that time. Somehow I think that he liked me better than the Missus. I used to feed him with bread and milk. _Mrs. K._: I was afraid of him--I was afraid to go near him, I thought he might scratch my eyes out--I used to leave bread and milk for him but I would go away while he was eating it. _K._: I used to feed him with a spoon, I would put the spoon to his mouth. _Mrs. K._: He was fresh-looking at the first, but after a while he got an old look, a sort of wrinkled look. _K._: He was fresh-looking enough, he had a hardy look. _Mrs. K._: He was wearing a red cap and a little red cloth skirt. _K._: Just for the world like a Highlander. _Mrs. K._: He had a little short coat above that; it was checked and trousers under the skirt and long stockings all red. And as to his shoes, they were tanned, and you could hardly see the soles of them, the sole of his foot was like a baby's. _K._: The time I lost my sight, it was a Thursday evening, and I was walking through the fields. I went to bed that night, and when I rose up in the morning, the sight was gone. The boys said it was likely I had walked on one of their paths. Those small little paths you see through the fields are made by _them_. They are very often in the quarries; they have great fun up there, and about Peacock Well. The Peacock Well was blessed by a saint, and another well near, that cures the headache. I saw one time a big grey bird about the cow-house, and I went to a comrade-boy and asked him to come and to help me to catch it, but when we came back it was gone. It was very strange-looking and I thought that it had a head like a man. _Old Manning:_ I never saw them except what I told you, the dog fighting, and I heard the horses, and at that same time I saw smoke coming out of the ground near Foley's house at Corker, by the gate. My mother lived for twenty years in Coole, and she often told me that when she'd pass Shanwalla hill there would people come out and meet her and--with respects to you--they'd spit in her face. Faeries of course there are and there's many poor souls doing their penance, and how do we know where they may be doing it? _A Farmer:_ I might not believe myself there are such things but for what happened not long after I was married when my first little girl was but a week old. I had gone up to Ballybrit to tie some sheep and put fetters on them, and I was waiting for Haverty to come and help me tie them. The baby was a little unwell that day but I was not uneasy about her. But while I was waiting for Haverty, a blast of wind came through the field and I heard a voice say quite clear out of it "Katie is gone." That was the little one, we had called her Catherine, but though she wasn't a week in the world, we had it shortened already to Kate. And sure enough, the child got worse, and we attended her through the night, and before daybreak she was gone. _An Army Man:_ Two nights ago a travelling man came and knocked at John Hanlon's house at 11 o'clock, where he saw a light in the window and he asked would there be any one out hurling so late as that. For in coming by the field beyond the chapel he saw it full of people, some on horses, and hurling going on, and they were all dressed like soldiers, and you would hear their swords clinking as they ran. And he was not sure were they faeries till he asked John Hanlon was it the custom of people in this country to go hurling so late as that. But that was always a great field for them. From eleven to two, that is the time they have for play, but they must go away before the cock crows. And the cock will crow sometimes as early as 1 o'clock, a right one. * * * * * It was in the night that Christ our Saviour rose there were some Jews sitting around the fire, and a cock boiling in the pot. And one of them said, "He'll never rise again until that cock crows." And the cock rose out of the pot and crowed, and he that was speaking got scalded with the water that was splashed about. _A Connemara Man:_ One night I was sleeping over there by the dresser and I heard them ("Would you say the day of the week," _says the old woman_. "It's Thursday," said I. "Thank you," _says the old man, and goes on_)--I heard them thick all about the house--but what they were saying I couldn't know. _The Old Woman:_ It was my uncle that was away at nights and knew the time his horse fell in the ditch, and he out at sea. And another day he was working at the bridge and he said, "Before this day is over, a man will be killed here." And so it happened, and a man was killed there before 12 o'clock. He was in here one day with me, and I said, "I don't give in to you being away and such things." And he says: "Um, Um, Um," three times, and then he says, "May your own living be long." We had a horse, the grandest from this to Galway, had a foal when in this place--and before long, both horse and foal died. And I often can hear them galloping round the house, both horse and foal. And I not the only one, but many in the village even hear them too. _Young Mrs. Phelan:_ Often I saw a light in the wood at Derreen, above Ballyturn. It would rise high over the trees going round and round. I'd see it maybe for fifteen minutes at a time, and then it would fall like a lamp. * * * * * In the month of May is their chief time for changing, and it's then there's blowing away of hay and such things and great disturbance. _A Mayo Man:_ One time I was led astray in a town, in Golden Hill in Staffordshire. I was in the streets and I didn't know what way to turn all of a sudden, and every street looked like a wood before me, and so I went on until I met some man I knew, and I asked him where I was, and I went in, and stayed drinking with the others till 10 o'clock and I went home sober. I saw the white rabbit too at Golden Hill. (_One of the other men puts in_, "There is always a white rabbit seen there, that turns into a woman before any misfortune happens, such as an accident.") I was walking along the road, and it ran beside me, and then I saw a woman in white before me on the road, and when I got to her, she was gone. And that evening a woman in a house near by fell dead on her own doorstep. Another time near this, I was passing the barn where Johnny Rafferty the carpenter and his son used to be working, but it was shut and locked and no one in it. But when I came near it, I felt as if I was walking on wood, and my hair stood up on my head, and I heard the noise of tools, and hammering and sawing in it. _Pete Heffernan:_ Old Doran told me that he was near Castle Hacket one time and saw them having a fair, buying and selling for all the world like ourselves, common people. But you or I or fifty others might have been there like him and not seen them. It's only them that are born at midnight that has the second sight. Fallen angels, they say they are. And they'd do more harm than what they do but for the hope they have that some day they may get to heaven. Very small they are, and go into one another so that what you see might only be a sort of a little bundle. But to leave a couple of cold potatoes about at night one should always do it, and to sweep the hearth clean. Who knows when they might want to come in and warm themselves. Not to keep the water you wash your feet in in the house at night, not to throw it out of the door where it might go over them, but to take it a bit away from the house, and if by any means you can, to keep a bit of light burning at night, if you mind these three things you'll never be troubled with them. That woman of mine was going to Mass one day early and she met a small little man, and him with a book in his hand. "Where are you going?" says he. "To the chapel beyond," says she. "Well," says he, "you'd better take care not to be coming out at this hour and disturbing people," says he. And when she got into the chapel she saw him no more. _An Old Woman with Oysters from Tyrone:_ Oh, I wouldn't believe in the faeries, but it's no harm to believe in fallen angels! _Mrs. Day:_ My own sons are all for education and read all books and they wouldn't believe now in the stories the old people used to tell. But I know one Finnegan and his wife that went to Esserkelly churchyard to cry over her brother that was dead. And all of a sudden there came a pelt of a stone against the wall of the old church and no one there. And they never went again, and they had no business to be crying him and it not a funeral. Francis, my son that's away now, he was out one morning before the daybreak to look at a white heifer in the field. And there he saw a little old woman, and she in a red cloak--crying, crying, crying. But he wouldn't have seen that if he had kept to natural hours. There were three girls near your place, and they went out one time to gather cow-dung for firing. And they were sitting beside a small little hill, and while they were there, they heard a noise of churning, churning, in the ground beneath them. And as they listened, all of a minute, there was a naggin of milk standing beside them. And the girl that saw it first said, "I'll not drink of it lest they might get power over me." But the other girl said, "I'll bring it home and drink it." And she began to ridicule them. And because of she ridiculing them and not believing in them, that night in bed she was severely beaten so that she wasn't the better of it for a long time. * * * * * Often they'll upset a cart in the middle of the road, when there's no stone nor anything to upset it. And my father told me that sometimes after he had made the hay up into cocks, and on a day without a breath of wind, they'd find it all in the next field lying in wisps. One time too the cart he was driving went over a leprechaun--and the old woman in the cart had like to faint. _Mr. Hosty of Slieve Echtge:_ I never would have believed the shadow of a soul could have power, till that hurling match I saw that I told you about. * * * * * It was in the old time it happened, that there was war in heaven. He that was called the brightest of the angels raised himself up against God. And when they were all to be thrown out, St. Michael spoke up for them for he saw that when the heavens were weeded out they'd be left without company. So they were stopped in the falling, in the air and in the earth and in the sea. And they are about us sure enough, and whenever they'll be saved I don't know, but it is not for us to say what God will do in the end. I often heard that our winter is their summer--sure they must have some time for setting their potatoes and their oats. But I remember a very old man used to say when he saw the potatoes black, that it was to them they were gone. "Sure" he used to say, "the other world must have its way of living as well as ourselves." _Mrs. Casey:_ Dolan I was talking to the other day, and I asked him if faeries used not to be there. And he said, "They're in it yet. There where you're standing, they were singing and dancing a few nights ago. And the same evening I saw two women down by the lake, and I thought it was the ladies from the house gone out for a walk, but when I came near, it was two strange women I saw, sitting there by the lake, and their wings came, and they vanished into the air." _John Phelan:_ I was cutting trees in Inchy one time. And at 8 o'clock one morning when I got there, I saw a girl picking nuts with her hair hanging down over her shoulders, brown hair, and she had a good clean face and was tall and nothing on her head, and her dress was no way gaudy, but simple. And when she felt me coming, she gathered herself up and was gone as if the earth had swallowed her up. And I followed her and looked for her, but I never could see her again from that day to this, never again. _Mary Shannon:_ There was a herd's house near Loughrea that had a bad name; and a strange woman came in one time and told the woman of the house that she must never throw dirty water out of the back-door. "For," said she, "if you had clean linen hanging there on a line before the fire, how would you like any one to come in and to throw dirty water over it?" And she bid her leave food always on the dresser. "For," said she, "wherever you leave it we'll be able to find it." And she told how they often went into Loughrea to buy things, and provisions, and would look like any other person, and never be known, for they can make themselves visible or invisible as they like. You might be talking to one of them and never know she was different from another. At our place there used to be a good many of these people about, these Ingentry women or women from the North we sometimes call them. There was one came into the house one day and told my mother she didn't get all her butter in the milk. And she told her the servant-girl was stealing and hiding some of it, for in these days servants were cheap and we kept a couple; you'd get them for about five shillings a quarter. And my mother went to look, and then she went out of the house, and went off in a minute in a blast. And the husband that was coming into the house, he never saw her at all, and she going out of the door. Sunset is a bad hour, and just before sunrise in the morning, and about 12 o'clock in the day, it's best not to be too busy or going about too much. _An Aran Man:_ Sometimes they travel like a cloud, or like a storm. One day I was setting out the manure in my own garden and they came and rolled it in a heap and tossed it over the wall, and carried it out to sea beyond the lighthouse. _Mr. Finnerty:_ People say two days of the week, they name two days. Some say Thursday, and some say whatever day it is, and the day before it, and then they can't be heard. In the village beyond, there were a good many people in a house one night, and lights in it, and talking, and of a sudden some one opened the door--and there outside and round the house _they_ were listening to them--and when the door was open they were all seen, and made off as thick as crows to the forth near the Burren hills. * * * * * There was one Ward was walking one night near Castle Taylor, and in that big field that's near the corner where Burke was murdered he saw a big fire, and a lot of people round about it, and among them was a girl he used to know that had died. * * * * * Last week in that field beyond there, the hay was all taken up, and turned into the next field in wisps. * * * * * You must put the potatoes out for them before they are put on the table, for they would not touch them if they had been touched by common persons. * * * * * And I saw Horan that had the orchard here bought run to our house in the middle of the night naked with nothing on but his trousers, where he was after being beat out of the house in the kitchen garden. Every night when he was going to bed there did a knocking come in the loft over his head, but he gave no attention to it. But a great storm came and a great lot of the apples was blown down and he gathered them up and filled the loft with them, thinking when he showed them to get compensation. And that is the night he was beat out of bed. And John Phelan knows well what things used to be in that house. _John Creevy:_ My father? Yes indeed he saw many things, and I tell you a thing he told me, and there's no doubt in the earthly world about it. It was when they lived at Inchy they came over here one time for to settle a marriage for Murty Delvin's aunt. And when they had the business settled, they were going home again at dead of night. And a man was after getting married that day, one Delane from beyond Kilmacduagh, and the drag was after passing the road with him and his party going home. And all of a minute the road was filled with men on horses riding along, so that my father had to take shelter in Delane's big haggard by the roadside. And he heard the horsemen calling on Delane's name. And twenty-one days after, Delane lay dead. There's no doubt at all about the truth of that, and they were no riders belonging to this world that were on those horses. _Thomas Brown:_ There was a woman walking in the road that had a young child at home, and she met a very old man, having a baby in his arms. And he asked would she give it a drop of breast-milk. So she did, and gave it a drink. And the old man said: "It's well for you that you did that, for you saved your cow by it. But tomorrow look over the wall into the fields of the rich man that lives beyond the boundary, and you'll see that one of his was taken in the place of yours." And so it happened. In the old times there used to be many stories of such things, half the world seemed to be on the _other side_. I used not to believe in them myself, until one night I heard them hurling. I was coming home from town with Jamsie Flann; we were not drunk but we were hearty. Coming along the road beyond we heard them hurling in the field beside us. We could see nothing but we'd hear them hit the ball, and it fly past us like the lightning, so quick, and when they hit the goal, we heard a moan--"Oh! ah!"--that was all. But after we went a little way we sat down by a little hill to rest, and there we heard a thousand voices talking. What they said, we couldn't understand, or the language, but we knew that it was one side triumphing over the other. * * * * * But the nights are queer--surely they are queer by sea or by land. There was a friend of mine told me he was out visiting one night, and coming home across the fields he came into a great crowd of them. They did him no harm, and among them he saw a great many he knew, that were dead, five or six out of our own village. And he was in his bed for two months after that, and he told the priest of it. He said he couldn't understand the talk, it was like the hissing of geese, and there was one very big man, that seemed the master of them, and his talk was like you'll hear in a barrel when it's being rolled. There's a hill, Cruach-na-Sheogue down by the sea, and many have seen them there dancing in the moonlight. There was a man told me he was passing near it one night, and the walls on each side of the road were all covered with people sitting on them, and he walked between, and they said nothing to him. And he knew many among them that were dead before that. Is it only the young go there? Ah, how do we know what use they may have for the old as well as for the young? There are but few in these days that die right. The priests know about this more than we do, but they don't like to be talking of _them_ because they might be too big in our minds. * * * * * They are just the same in America as they are here, and my sister that came home told me they were, and the women that do cures, just like the woman at Clifden, or that woman you know of. There was one she went to out there, and when you'd come in to ask a cure she'd be lulled into a sleep, and when she woke she'd give the cure. _Away_ she was while the sleep lasted. _The Spinning Woman:_ No, I never seen them myself, and I born and bred in the same village as Michael Barrett. But the old woman that lives with me, she does be telling me that before she came to this part she was going home one night, where she was tending a girl that was sick, and she had to cross a hill forth. And when she came to it, she saw a man on a white horse, and he got to the house before her, and the horse stopped at the back-door. And when she got there and went in, sure enough the girl was gone. I never saw anything myself, but one night I was passing the boreen near Kinvara, and a tall man with a tall hat and a long coat came out of it. He didn't follow me, but he looked at me for a while, and then he went away. * * * * * And one time I saw the leprechaun. It's when I was a young woman, and there was black frieze wanting at Ballylee, and in those days they all thought there could no black frieze be spun without sending for me. So I was coming home late in the evening, and there I saw him sitting by the side of the road, in a hollow between two ridges. He was very small, about the height of my knee, and wearing a red jacket, and he went out of that so soon as he saw me. I knew nothing about him at that time. The boys say if I'd got a hold of his purse I'd be rich for ever. And they say he should have been making boots; but he was more in dread of me than I of him, and had his instruments gathered up and away with him in one second. * * * * * There used to be a lot of things seen, but someway the young people go abroad less at night, and I'm thinking the souls of some of _those_ may be delivered by this time. * * * * * There was a boy looked out of the door, and he saw a woman milking the cow. But after, when he went to milk her, he found as much milk as ever there was. _Mrs. Phelan:_ There was a woman at Kilbecanty was out one evening and she saw a woman dressed in white come after her, and when she looked again she had disappeared into a hole in the wall. Small she must have grown to get into that. And for eleven days after that, she saw the same appearance, and after eleven days she died. * * * * * There was another woman lived at Kilbecanty, just beside the churchyard, you can see the house yet. And one day she found a plate of food put in at the door, the best of food, meat and other things. So she eat it and the next day the same thing happened. And she told a neighbouring woman about it, and she left her door open, and a plate of food was left in to her that night. But when she saw it she was afraid to eat it, but took it and threw it out. And the next day she died. But the woman that eat the food, nothing happened to her. * * * * * There was one Halloran took that farm on the road beyond one time, but he locked the house up, not meaning to go and live in it yet a while, and he kept the key in his pocket. But one night late he was coming by and he saw a light in the window and looked in, and he saw a woman sitting by a fire she was after lighting. So he ran away and never went to live in the house after. One night myself coming back from Kelly's I saw a man by the side of the road, and I knew him to be one Cuniff that had died a year before. There were two men stealing apples in a garden, and when they tried to get out there was a soldier at the door with a sword in his hand. And at the door there he was still before them; so they had to leave the two bags of apples behind. _W. Sullivan:_ One night myself I was driving the jennet I had at that time to Cappagh and I went past a place one Halvey had bought and I saw a man having a white front to his shirt standing by the wall, and I said to myself, "Halvey is minding this place well," and I went on, and I saw the man following me, and the jennet let a roar and kicked at me, and at that time we passed a stile, and I saw him no more. _Mrs. Barrett:_ I don't know did old Michael see anything or was it in his head. But James, the brother that died, told me one time that he was crossing the way beyond from Brennan's, where the stones are. And there he saw a hurling going on. He never saw a field so full before. And he stood and watched them and wasn't a bit frightened, but the dog that was with him shrank between his legs and stopped there. * * * * * And my father told me that one time he was stopping with my uncle, up there near Mrs. Quaid's, in a house that's pulled down since. And he woke up and saw the night so bright that he went out. And there he saw a hurling going on, and they had boots like soldiers and were all shining with the brightness of the night. And Micky Smith, God rest his soul, saw them at midday passing in the air above Cahir, as thick as birds. _A Gate-keeper:_ Niland that met the coach that time and saw them other times, he told me that there were two sets among them. The one handsome and tall and like the gentry; the others more like ourselves, he said, and short and wide, and the body starting out in front, and wide belts about their waists. Only the women he saw, and they were wearing white caps with borders, and their hair in curls over the forehead and check aprons and plaid shawls. They are the spiteful ones that would do you a mischief, and others that are like the gentry would do nothing but to laugh and criticize you. One night myself I was outside Loughrea on the road, about 1 o'clock in the morning and the moon was shining. And I saw a lady, a true lady she was, dressed in a sort of a ball dress, white and short in the skirt, and off the shoulders. And she had long stockings and dancing shoes with short uppers. And she had a long thin face, and a cap on her head with frills, and every one of the frills was the breadth of my six fingers. As to flowers or such things, I didn't notice, for I was more fixed in looking at the cap. I suppose they wore them at balls in some ancient times. I followed her a bit, and then she crossed the road to Johnny Flanigan the joiner's house, that had a gate with piers. And I went across after her, to have a better view, and when she got to the pier she shrank into it and there was nothing left. * * * * * Johnny Kelly that lives in Loughrea was over here one evening, where he had some cattle on the land at Coole. And where the river goes away, he saw two ladies sitting, ladies he thought them to be, and they had long dresses. And they rose up and went on to that hole where the water is and the trees. And there all of a sudden they rose a storm and went up in it, with a sort of a roar or a cry and passed away through the air. And I was in the house with my wife and I heard the cry, and I thought it might be some drunken man going home, and it about 10 o'clock in the evening. And I went to the door, and presently Kelly came in and you'd have thought him a drunken man, walking and shaking as he did with the fright he got seeing them going off away in the storm. _Mrs. Casey:_ I went over to see Kate Cloran the other day, knowing that she had seen some of these things. And she told me that she was led astray by them one time--a great lot of them, they were dressed in white blouses and black skirts and some of them had crimson mantles, but none of them had any covering on their head, and they had all golden hair and were more beautiful than any one she had ever seen. And one night she met the coach and four, and it was full of ladies, letting the window up and down and laughing out at her. They had golden hair, or it looked so with the lights. They were dressed in white, and there were bunches of flowers about the horses' heads. Roses, chiefly, some pink and some blue. The coachmen were strange looking, you could not say if they were men or women--and their clothes were more like country clothes. They kept their heads down that she could not see their faces, but those in the carriage had long faces, and thin, and long noses. _Mike Martin:_ They are of the same size as we are. People only call them diminutive because they are made so when they're sent on certain errands. There was a man of Ardrahan used to see many things. But he lost his eyesight after. It often happens that those that see these things lose their earthly sight. The coach and four is seen by many. It appears in different forms, but there is always the same woman in it. Handsome I believe she is, and white; and there she will always be seen till the end of the world. It's best to be neighbourly with them anyway--best to be neighbourly. * * * * * There was a woman woke one night and she saw two women by the fire, and they came over and tried to take away her baby. But she held him and she nudged her husband with her arm, but he was fast asleep. And they tried him again, and all she could do wouldn't waken the husband, but still she had the baby tight, and she called out a curse in the devil's name. So then they went away, for they don't like cursing. One night coming home from Madden's where I was making frames with him, I began to tremble and to shake, but I could see nothing. And at night there came a knocking at the window, and the dog I had that would fight any dog in Ireland began to shrink to the wall and wouldn't come out. And I looked out the door and saw him. Little clothes he had on, but on his head a quarter cap, and a sort of a bawneen about him. And I would have followed him, but the rest wouldn't let me. * * * * * Another time I was crossing over the stile behind Kiltartan chapel into Coole, and others along with me. And a great blast of wind came, and two trees were bent and broken and fell into the river, and the splash of water out of it went up to the skies. And those that were with me saw many figures, but myself I only saw one, sitting there by the bank where the trees fell, dark clothes he had, and he was headless. * * * * * They can take all shapes and it's said a pig is the worst, but I believe if you take no notice of them and bless yourself as they pass, they'll do you no harm at all. There were two men walking by a forth that's beyond Cloon, and one of them must have been in it at some time, for he told the other to look through his arm, and when he looked he could see thousands of people about walking and driving, and ladies and gentry among them. There was a man in Cloon and he was very religious and very devout and he didn't believe in anything. But one day he was at the Punch-bowl out on the Ennis road, and there he saw two coaches coming through the thick wood and they full of people and of ladies, and they went in to the bushes on the other side. And since he saw that he'd swear to _them_ being there. * * * * * There was a woman living over near Tirneevan, and one morning three men came galloping up on three horses, and they stopped at the door and tied up the horses and walked in, and they strangers. And the woman put the tongs over the cradle where the baby was sleeping, for that is a _pishogue_. And when they saw the tongs, they looked at one another and laughed, but they did him no harm, but pulled out the table and sat down and played cards for a while, and went away again. * * * * * But if they're well treated, and if you know how to humour them, they're the best of neighbours. * * * * * There was a woman seen not long ago, all in white, and she standing in a stream washing her feet. But you need never be afraid of anything that's white. * * * * * There was a woman I know was away sometimes and used to go into a forth among them. She told me about it, and she said there were big and small among them as there are here. And they wore caps like hurling caps, all striped with blue and different colours, and their dress striped the same way. _A Seaside Man:_ There was a girl below in Spiddal was coming home from Galway with her father, and just at the bridge below she saw the coach and four. Like a van it was, with horses, and full of gentlemen. And she tried to make her father see it, and he couldn't. And it passed along the road, and then turned down into a field, over the stones, and it got to the strand and ran along it for a while, and what became of it then I don't know. My father told me that one night he came from a wake, and in the field beyond, that was all a flag then, but the man that owns it has it covered with earth now, he saw about twelve ladies all in white, and they dancing round and round and a fiddler or a flute-player or whatever he was, in the middle. And he thought they were some ladies from Spiddal, and called out to them that it was late to be out dancing. And he turned to open the door of the house, and while he was turning they were gone. * * * * * There was a man walking one night and he felt a woman come and walk behind him, and she all in white. And the two of them walked on till sunrise, and then a cock crowed, and the man said, "There's the cock crowing." And she said, "That's only a weak cock of the summer." And soon after another cock crowed, and he asked did she hear it, and she said, "That's but a poor cock of the harvest." And the third time a cock crowed and when the man asked her she said, "That's a cock of March. And you're as wise as the man that doesn't tell Friday's dream on Saturday." For if you dream on a Friday, you must never tell the dream of a Saturday. _Mrs. Swift:_ My mother told me, and she wouldn't tell a lie, that one time she went to a wake at Ardrahan. And about 12 o'clock, the night being hot, she and her sister went out to the back of the house. And there they saw a lot of people running as hard as they could to the house, and knocking down the walls as they came to them, for there were a lot of small stones. And she said to her sister, "These must be all the first cousins coming, and there won't be room to sit in the house when they come in." So they hurried back. But no one ever came in or came to the door at all. * * * * * They are said to be outside the door there often. And some see them hurling, small they are then, and with grey coats and blue caps. And the car-driver told me--he wouldn't tell a lie--that he often passed them walking like soldiers through the hollow beyond. _An Old Man on Slieve Echtge:_ One night I was walking on that mountain beyond, and a little lad with me, Martin Lehane, and we came in sight of the lake of Dairecaol. And in the middle of the lake I saw what was like the shadow of a tall fir tree, and while I was looking it grew to be like the mast of a boat. And then ropes and rigging came at the sides and I saw that it was a ship; and the boy that was with me, he began to laugh. Then I could see another boat, and then more and more till the lake was covered with them, and they moving from one side to another. So we watched for a while, and then we went away and left them there. _Mrs. Guinan:_ It's only a few days ago, I was coming through the field between this and the boreen, and I saw a man standing, a countryman you'd say he was. And when I got near him, all at once he was gone, and when I told Mrs. Raftery in the next house, she said she didn't wonder at that, for it's not very long ago she saw what seemed to be the same man, and he vanished in the same way. * * * * * There's a woman living up that road beyond, is married to a man of the Matthews, and last year she told me that a strange woman came into her house, and asked had she good potatoes. And she said she had. And the woman said: "You have them this year, but we'll have them next year." And she said: "When you go out of the house, it's your enemy you'll see standing outside," that was her near neighbour and was her worst enemy. * * * * * They'll often come in the night, and bring away the food. I wouldn't touch any food that had been lying about in the night, you wouldn't know what might have happened it. And my mother often told me, best not eat it, for the food that's cooked at night and left till the morning, they will have left none of the strength in it. * * * * * There was a hurling seen in a field near our house, little men they were in green with red caps, and a sergeant of police and his men that were going by stopped to look at them, but Johnny Roland a boy I know, was standing in the middle of them all the time in the field, and never saw anything at all. _A North Galway Woman:_ There was a man living over at Caramina, beyond Moyne, Dick Regan was his name, and one night he was walking over a little hill near that place. And when he got to the top of it, he found it like a fair green with all the people that were in it, and they buying and selling just like ourselves. And they did him no harm, but they put a basket of cakes into his hand and kept him selling them all the night. And when he got home, he told the story. And the neighbours when they heard it gave him the name of the cakes and to the day of his death he was called nothing but Richard Crackers. * * * * * There was a smith, and a man called on him late one evening, and asked him to shoe a horse for him and so he did. And then he offered him pay but he would take none. And the man took him out behind the house, and there were three hundred horses with riders on them, and a hundred without, and he said, "We want riders for those," and they went on. _An Aran Man:_ A man that came over here from Connemara named Costello told me that one night he was making poteen, and a man on a white horse came up, and the horse put his head into the place they were making it, and then they rode away again. So he put a bottle of the whiskey outside the place, and in a little time he went and looked and it was empty. And then he put another bottle out, and in a little time he looked again, and it was empty. And then he put a third, but when he looked the whiskey in it had not been stirred. And he told me he never did so much with it or made so much profit as he did in that year. * * * * * They are everywhere. Tom Deruane saw them down under the rocks hurling and they were all wearing black caps. And sometimes you'd see them coming on the sea, just like a barrel on the top of the water, and when they'd get near you, no matter how calm the day, you'd have a hurricane about you. That is when they are taking their diversions. And one evening late I was down with the wife burning kelp on the rocks, where we had a little kiln made. And we heard a talking and a whispering about us on the rocks, and my wife thought it was the child that the sister was bringing down to her, and she said, "God bless the son!" but no one came, and the talking went on again, and she got uneasy, and at last we left the kelp and came home; and we weren't the first that had to leave it for what they heard in that place. Fallen angels they are said to be. God threw a third part of them into Hell with Lucifer, and it was Michael that interceded for the rest, and then a third part was cast into the air and a third on the land and the sea. And here they are all about us as thick as grass. _A Needlewoman from North Galway Working at Coole:_ Myself and Anne (one of the maids) went up the middle avenue after dark last night and we got a fright, seeing what we thought to be faeries. They were men dressed in black clothes like evening clothes, wearing white ruffles round their necks and high black hats without brims. Two walked in front and one behind, and they seemed to walk or march stiff like as if there was no bend in the leg. They held something in each hand and they stopped before the gate pier where there is a sort of cross in white like paint, then they disappeared and we turned and ran. (_When they were going up to bed, I am told, "Anne suddenly stopped under the picture of Mary Queen of Scots and called out, 'That is like the frill they wore' and sank down on the stairs in a kind of faint."_) * * * * * One time at home I was out about dusk, and presently I heard a creaking, and a priest walked by reading his prayers. But when he came close I saw it was Father Ryan that was dead some time before. And I ran in and told a woman, who used to help in milking, what I had seen, and she said, "If it's Father Ryan you saw I don't wonder, for I saw him myself at the back of the door there only a week ago." * * * * * There was a boy was making a wall near Cruachmaa and a lot of _them_ came and helped him, and he saw many neighbours that were dead among them. And when they had the wall near built another troop of them came running and knocked it down. And the boy died not long after. _A Young Man:_ My father told me that he was down one time at the north shore gathering wrack, and he saw a man before him that was gathering wrack too and stooping down. He had a black waistcoat on him and the rest of his clothes were flannel just like the people of this island. And when my father drew near him, he stooped himself down behind a stone; and when he looked there, there was no sight or mind of him. One time myself when I was a little chap, about the size of Michael there, I was out in the fields, and I saw a woman standing on the top of a wall, and she having a child in her hand. She had a long black coat about her. And then she got down and crossed over the field, and it seemed to me all the time that she was only about so high (three feet) and that there was only about two feet between her and the ground as she walked, and the child always along with her. And then she passed over another wall and was gone. _The Spinning Woman:_ There was a new-married woman, and the husband was going out and he gave her wool to spin and to have ready for him. And she couldn't know what in the world to do, for she never learned to spin. And she was there sitting at it and a little man came in, and when she told him about it he said he'd bring it away and spin it for her and bring it back again. And she asked for his name, but he wouldn't tell that. And soon after there was a ragman going the road and he saw a hole and he looked down and there he saw the little man, and he stirring a pot of stirabout with one hand and spinning with the other hand, and he was singing while he stirred: "---- is my name (that's his name in Irish but I won't tell you the meaning of it) and she doesn't know it, and so I'll bring her along with me." So the ragman went in and came to the young woman's house, and told her what the man was singing. So when he came with the wool she called him by his name, and he threw the wool down and went away; for he had no power over her when she knew his name. _Mary Glynn of Slieve Echtge:_ That's it, that's it, _the other class_ of people don't like us to be going out late, we might be in their way, unless it's for a case, or a thing that can't be helped. And this is Monday, no, Mrs. Deruane, not Tuesday--we'll say it's Monday. It's at night they're seen, God bless them, and their music is heard, God bless them, the finest music you ever heard, like all the fifers of the world and all the instruments, and all the tunes of the world. There was one of those boys that go about from house to house on the morning of the new year, to get a bit of bread or a cup of tea or anything you'll have ready for him, and he told us that he was coming down the hill near us, and he had the full of his arm of bits of bread, and he heard the music, for it was but dawn, and he was frightened and ran and lost the bread. I heard it sometimes myself and there's no music in the world like it, but it's not all can hear it. Round the hill it comes, and you going in at the door. And they are quiet neighbours if you treat them well. God bless them and bring them all to heaven! For they were in heaven once, and heaven was the first place there was war, and they were all to be done away with, and it was St. Peter asked the Saviour to help them. So he turned His hand like this, and the sky and the earth were full of them, and they are in every place, and you know that better than I do because you read books. _Mary Glynn and Mary Irwin:_ One night there were bonavs in the house,--God bless the hearers and the place it's told in--God bless all we see and those we don't see!--And there was a man coming to rise dung in the potato field in the morning, and so, late at night, Mary Glynn was making stirabout and a cake to have ready for breakfast. Mary Irwin's brother was asleep within on the bed. And there came the sound of the grandest music you ever heard from beyond the stream, and it stopped here. And Micky awoke in the bed, and was afraid and said, "Shut up the door and quench the light," and so we did. It's likely they wanted to come into the house, and they wouldn't when they saw us up and the lights about. But one time when there were potatoes in the loft, Mary Irwin and her brothers were well pelted with them when they sat down to their supper. And Mary Glynn got a blow on the side of her face from them one night in the bed. And they have the hope of Heaven, and God grant it to them. And one day there was a priest and his servant riding along the road, and there was a hurling of _them_ going on in the field. And a man of them came and stood on the road and said to the priest, "Tell me this, for you know it, have we a chance of Heaven?" "You have not," said the priest (_"God forgive him," says Mary Glynn--"a priest to say that"_); and the man that was of them said, "Put your fingers in your ears till you have travelled two miles of the road; for when I go back and tell what you are after telling me to the rest, the crying and the bawling and the roaring will be so great that if you hear it you'll never hear a noise again in this world." So they put their fingers then in their ears, but after a while the servant said to the priest, "Let me take out my fingers now." And the priest said, "Do not." And then the servant said again, "I think I might take one finger out." And the priest said, "As you are so persevering you may take it out." So he did, and the noise of the crying and the roaring and the bawling was so great that he never had the use of that ear again. _Callan of Slieve Echtge:_ We know they are in it, for Father Hobbs that was our parish priest saw them himself one time there was a station here, and when some said they were not in it, he said, "I saw them in a field myself, more people than ever I saw at twenty fairs." It was St. Peter spoke for them, at the time of the war, when the Saviour was casting them out; he said to Him not to empty the heavens. And every Monday morning they think the Day of Judgment may be coming, and that they will see Heaven. * * * * * There's never a funeral they are not at, walking after the other people. And you can see them if you know the way, that is to take a green rush and to twist it into a ring, and to look through it. But if you do, you'll never have a stim of sight in the eye again, and that's why we don't like to do it. Resting they do be in the daytime, and going about in the night. _Old Hayden:_ One time I was coming home from a fair and it was late in the night and it was dark and I didn't know was I on the right road. And I saw a cabin in a field with a light in it, and I went and knocked at the door and a man opened the door and let me in, and he said, "Have you any strange news?" and I said, "I have not," and he said, "There is no place for you here," and he put me out again. For that was a faery hill, and when they'll ask have you strange news, and you'll say you have not, they'll do nothing for you. So I went back in the field, and there were men carrying a coffin, and they said, "Give us a hand with this." And I put my hand to it to help them to lift it. And as we walked on we came to a house, and we went in and there was a fire on the hearth, and they took the body out of the coffin and put it before the fire, and they said, "Now let you keep turning it." So I sat there and turned it, and then they took it up and we went on till we came to another house and the same thing happened there, and they put me to turn the body. And when we went out from there they all vanished, and there was the cabin before me again with the light in it. And when the man came to the door and asked me, "Is there any strange news?" I said, "There is indeed," and told him all that had happened. And then I looked round, and I was within a few yards of my own house. _Mrs. Keely:_ When you see a blast of wind, and it comes sudden and carries the dust with it, you should say, "God bless them," and throw something after them. How do we know but one of our own may be in it? Half of the world is with them. We see them often going about up and down the hill, Jack O'Lanthorn we call them. They are not the size of your two hands. They would not do you much harm, but to lead you astray. _The Spinning Woman:_ I remember one day a strange woman coming in and sitting down there--very clever looking she was, and she had a good suit of clothes. And I bid her rest herself and I'd give her a cup of tea, and she said, "I travelled far today and you're the first that offered me that." And when she had it taken she said, "If I had a bit of tobacco, and a bit of bacon for my dinner, I'd be all right." And I made a sign to the woman I have, under the table, to give her a bit of tobacco. So she got it for her and she said, "I shouldn't take it, and this the second time today you divided it." And that was true, for a neighbouring boy had come in in the morning and asked for a loan of a bit, and she had cut it for him. And I said, "Go to that house beyond and the woman will give you a bit of bacon"; and she said, "I won't go to that woman, for it was she told you that one of the neighbours was bringing away her butter from her," and so she had, sure enough. And then she said, she must be in Cruachmaa that night, and she went away and I never saw her again. _A Mayo Man:_ One time I was working in England near Warrington, and I was walking the road alone at night, and I saw a woman under an umbrella in the mist and I said, "Is it a living thing you are or dead?" And she vanished on the minute. And I sat down by the hedge for a while, and I heard feet walking, walking, up and down inside the hedge, and I am sure they were the same thing. And then two strange men passed me, dressed in working clothes, but talking gibberish that I could not understand, and I know that they were no right men. So I went in towards the town and I met a policeman, and he took up his lamp and made it shine in my face, for they carry a lamp in their belt and they will take the measurement of your face with it, the same as by daylight. And he said, "There never was a worse road for an Irishman to walk than this one." It was maybe because of the land and the rough people of it he said that. _A Gate-keeper:_ My sister and her husband were driving on the Kinvara road one day, and they saw a carriage coming behind them, and it with bright lamps about it. And they drew the car to one side to let it pass. And when it passed they saw it had no horses, and the men that were sitting up where the drivers should be were headless. There's many has seen the coach, in different shapes, and some have seen the riders going over the country. Drumconnor is a great place for these things. The Sheehans that lived in the castle had no peace or rest. Mrs. Sheehan looked up one day she was outside, and there was some person standing at the window, and in a moment it was headless. And they'd see them coming in at the gate, sometimes in the shape of a woman, and a sort of a cape in the old fashion and a handkerchief over the head, and sometimes in the shape of a cow or such things. And noises they'd hear, and things being thrown about in the house and packs of wool thrown down the stairs. And they had a good many children, and all the best and the best-looking were taken. And at last they got the owner to build them a house outside, and since that they have no trouble and have lost no more children. _Mrs. Madden:_ Rivers of Cloonmore one time when he was going to Loughrea, at the fish-pond corner saw the coach. I didn't see it, but I saw him draw aside and say to Leary not to let on they saw it. Meagher another time saw it, and it full of children all in white. But Egan beyond, he'd never let on to believe in such things and would make them out to be nothing--he has such a gift of talking. And one time in the night I and my husband woke and heard the car rattling by, and we thought it was St. George going to Ballylee Castle, till we asked in the morning. Four horses it has and they headless, and sure and certain we heard it pass that night. _Mrs. Casey:_ And I knew a boy met the coach and four one time. Drawn by four horses it was, and lights about it and music, and the horses dressed with flowers. And in it were sitting ladies, very clever-looking and wild, and their hair twisted up on their heads, and when they went on a little way they called to some man on the road to come with them, and he refused, and they laughed at that and ridiculed him. I never saw the coach and four with these two eyes; but one time I heard it pass by, about 11 o'clock at night, when I was sitting up mending the sole of a boot. Surely it passed by, but I would not look out to see what it was like. For there was a woman I knew was walking with a man one night from Kilcolgan to Oranmore. And as they were sitting by the roadside they heard the coach and four coming. And the man stood up and looked at it, but he had no right to do that, he should have turned his head away. And there were grand people in it, ladies, and flowers about them. But no sooner did he look at it than he was struck blind and never had his eyesight since. It's best not to look at them if they pass. And when you go along the road and a storm comes in the calm and raises all the dust of the road up in the air, turn your head another way, for it's they that are passing. In the month of May is the most time they do be travelling. And it's best not to go near water then, near a river or a lake. When my father was dying my mother was sitting with him, and she heard a car pass the door, going light and quick, but when it passed down the road again it went heavy, and that was the coach and four. There was Sully had the forge one time, and passing one night down the road towards Nolan's gate, he saw a brake pass full of ladies and gentlemen, as he thought, and he believed it to be St. George's carriage. But at Nolan's gate, it turned and came up again, and whatever he saw, when he got home he took to his bed for some days with the fright he got. Kelly told me one time he saw the coach and four driving through the field above Dillon's, with four horses. And wasn't that a strange place for it to be driving through all the rocks? * * * * * There was boys used to be stealing apples from the orchard at Tyrone, and something in white with a candle used to come after them, and then change to something in red. So they went to a forth, and they went to the side of it where the sun rises and there they made the mark of the cross, but after all they had to leave going after the apples. * * * * * There was a woman down at Silver's the other night, and when I was standing to go home she said, "I wonder you not to be afraid to go through these fields." So I asked her did ever she see anything, and she said, "I was with another girl one day near Inchy gate, and we heard a voice, and we saw the coach and four coming and we were afraid, and we went in under the bushes to hide ourselves. It passed by us then, it was big and long, longer than a carriage you could see now, and there were people in it, men and women dressed in all colours, blue and red and pink and black, but I could not say what had they on their heads. And there was a man on the box, not a coachman but just a Christian, and he driving the four horses. "As to the horses, the two that were in front were grey, but the two that were near the carriage were brown; it gave me a great fright at the time." * * * * * There is no light about it in the daytime, but at night it is all shining. * * * * * There was a girl saw it one time in the same way, drawn by horses that were without heads. She got a great fright and she ran home. And in the morning when she got up, she that had been a dark-haired girl was as white as snow, and her hair grey. She is living yet and is up to nearly a hundred years. _Mrs. Roche:_ My father would never believe in anything till one time he was walking near Seanmor with another smith, and he stopped and said "I can't go on with all the people that's in that field." And my father said "I don't see any people." And the other said "Put your right foot on my right foot, and your hand on my right shoulder." And he did, and he saw a great many in the field, but not so many as the other saw; fine men and all dressed in white shirts, shining they were so white. He told us about it when he came home, and he said he wished he didn't see them. He was dead within the twelvemonth, and the man that was with him was dead before that, not much time between them. VIII BUTTER VIII BUTTER _I have been told:_ Butter, that's a thing that's very much meddled with. On the first of May before sunrise it's very apt to be all taken away out of the milk. And if ever you lend your churn or your dishes to your neighbour, she'll be able to wish away your butter after that. There was a woman used to lend a drop of milk to the woman that lived next door, and one day she was churning, churning, and no butter came. And at last some person came into the house and said, "It's hard for you to have butter here, and if you want to know where it is, look into the next house." So she went in and there was her neighbour letting on to be churning in a quart bottle, and rolls of butter beside her. So she made as if to choke her, and the woman run out into the garden and picked some mullein leaves, and said, "Put these leaves in under your churn, and you'll find your butter come back again." And so she did. And she found it all in the churn after. To sprinkle a few drops of holy water about the churn, and to put a coal of fire under it, that you should always do--as was always done in the old time--and the _others_ will never touch it. * * * * * There was a woman in the town was churning, and when the butter came she went out of the house to bring some water for to wash it and to make it up. And there was a tailor sitting sewing on the table. And the woman from next door came in and asked the loan of a coal of fire, and that's a thing that's never refused from one poor person to another in the morning. So he bid her take it. And presently she came in again and said that the coal of fire had gone out, and asked another, and this she did the third time. But the tailor knew well what she was doing, and that every coal of fire she brought away, there was a roll of butter out of the churn went with it. So whatever prayers he said is not known, but he brought the butter all back again, and into a can on the floor, and no hands ever touched it. So when the woman of the house came back, "There's your butter in the can," said he. And she wondered how it came out of the churn to be in three rolls in the can. And then he told her all that had happened. * * * * * There was a man was churning, churning, every day and no butter would come only froth. So some wise woman told him to go before sunrise to a running stream and bring a bottle of the water from it. And so he did before sunrise, and had to go near four miles to it. And from that day he had rolls and rolls of butter coming every time he churned. * * * * * There was one Burke, he knew how to bring it back out of some old Irish book that has disappeared since he died. There was a woman a herd's wife lived beyond, and one time Burke had his own butter taken, and he said he knew a way to find who had done it, and he brought in the coulter of the plough and put it in the fire. And when it began to get red hot, this woman came running, and fell on her knees, for it was she did it. And after that he never lost his butter again. But she took to her bed and was there for years until her death. And she couldn't turn from one side to another without some person to lift her. Her son is now living in Dublin, and is the President of some Association. * * * * * If a woman in Aran is milking a cow and the milk is spilled, she says, "There's some are the better for it," and I think it a very nice thought, that they don't grudge it if there is any one it does good to. * * * * * There was a man, one Finnegan, had the knowledge how to bring it back. And one time Lanigan that lives below at Kilgarvan had all his butter taken and the milk nothing but froth rising to the top of the pail like barm. So he went to Finnegan and he bid him get the coulter of the plough, and a shoe of the wickedest horse that could be found and some other thing, I forget what. So he brought in the coulter of the plough, and his brother-in-law chanced to have a horse that was so wicked it took three men to hold him, and no one could get on his back. So he got a shoe off of him. But just at that time, Lanigan's wife went to confession, and what did she do but to tell the priest what they were doing to get back the butter. So the priest was mad with them, and bid them to leave such things alone. And when Finnegan heard it he said, "What call had she to go and confess that? Let her get back her own butter for herself any more, for I'll do nothing to help her." * * * * * Grass makes a difference? So it may, but believe me that's not all. I've been myself in the County Limerick, where the grass is that rich you could grease your boots in it, and I heard them say there, one quart of cream ought to bring one pound of butter. And it never does. _And where does the rest go to?_ IX THE FOOL OF THE FORTH IX THE FOOL OF THE FORTH _We had, before our quest began, heard of faeries and banshees and the walking dead; but neither Mr. Yeats in Sligo nor I in Galway had ever heard of "the worst of them all," the Fool of the Forth, the Amadán-na-Briona, he whose stroke is, as death, incurable. As to the fool in this world, the pity for him is mingled with some awe, for who knows what windows may have been opened to those who are under the moon's spell, who do not give in to our limitations, are not "bound by reason to the wheel." It is so in the East also, and I remember the surprise of the European doctor who had charge of an hospital in one of the Native States of India, because when the ruler of the State came one day to visit it, he and his high officials, while generous and pitiful to the bodily sick, bowed down and saluted a young lad who had lost his wits, as if recognizing an emissary from a greater kingdom._ _In one of my little comedies "The Full Moon," the cracked woman comforts her half-witted brother, saying of his commonsense critics, "It is as dull as themselves you would be maybe, and the world to be different and the moon to change its courses with the sun." Those commonsense people of Cloon describe a fool as "one that is laughing and mocking, and that would not have the same habits as yourself, or to have no fear of things you would be in dread of, or to be using a different class of food." May it not be the old story of the deaf man thinking all his fellow guests had suddenly lost their reason when they began to dance, and he alone could not hear the call of the pipes?_ _There is perhaps sometimes a confusion in the mind between things seen and unseen, for an old woman telling me she had often heard of the Amadán-na-Briona went on "And I knew one too, and he's not dead a twelvemonth. It's at night he used to be away with them, and they used to try to bring people away into the forth where he was._ "_Was he a fool in this world too? Well, he was mostly, and I think I know another that's living now_." I was told by: _A Woman Bringing Oysters from the Strand:_ There was a boy, one Rivers, got the touch last June, from the Amadán-na-Briona, the Fool of the Forth, and for that touch there is no cure. It came to the house in the night-time and knocked at the door, and he was in bed and he did not rise to let it in. And it knocked the second time, and even then, if he had answered it, he might have escaped. But when it knocked the third time he fell back on the bed, and one side of him as if dead, and his jaw fell on the pillow. He knew it was the Amadán-na-Briona did it, but he did not see him--he only felt him. And he used to be running in every place after that and trying to drown himself, and he was in great dread his father would say he was mad, and bring him away to Ballinasloe. He used to be asking me could his father do that to him. He was brought to Ballinasloe after and he died there, and his body was brought back and buried at Drumacoo. _Mrs. Murphy:_ Cnoc-na-Briona is full of them, near Cappard. The Amadán-na-Briona is the master of them all, I heard the priest say that. There was a man of the MacNeills passing by it one night coming back from the bog, and they brought him in, and when he came out next day--God save the mark--his face was turned to his poll. They sent then to Father Jordan, and he turned it right again. The man said they beat him while he was with them, and he saw there a great many of his friends that were dead. _The Spinning Woman:_ There are fools among them, and the fools we see like that Amadán at Ballymore go away with them at night. And so do the women fools, that we call _lenshees_, that means, an ape. It's true enough there is no cure for the stroke of the Amadán-na-Briona. There was an old man I knew long ago, he had a tape, and he could tell what disease you had with measuring you, and he knew many things. And he said to me one time "What month of the year is the worst?" And I said, "The month of May, of course." "It is not," he said, "but the month of June, for that's the month that the Amadán gives his stroke." They say he looks like any other man, but he's _leathan_--wide--and not smart. I know a boy one time got a great fright, for a lamb looked over the wall at him, and it with a big beard on it, and he knew it was the Amadán, for it was the month of June. And they brought him to that man I was telling you about, that had the tape. And when he saw him he said "Send for the priest and get a Mass said over him." And so they did, and what would you say but he's living yet, and has a family. _A Seaside Man:_ The stroke of the Fool is what there is no cure for; any one that gets that is gone. The Amadán-na-Briona we call him. It's said they are mostly good neighbours. I suppose the reason of the Amadán being wicked is he not having his wits, he strikes out at all he meets. _A Clare Man:_ They, the other sort of people, might be passing you close and they might touch you; but any one that gets the touch of the Amadán-na-Briona is done for. And it's true enough that it's in the month of June he's most likely to give the touch. I knew one that got it, and told me about it himself. He was a boy I knew well, and he told me that one night a gentleman came to him, that had been his landlord, and that was dead. And he told him to come along with him, for he wanted to fight another man. And when he went he found two great troops of them, and the other troop had a living man with them too, and he was put to fight him. And they had a great fight and at last he got the better of the other man, and then the troop on his side gave a great shout, and he was left home again. But about three years after that he was cutting bushes in a wood, and he saw the Amadán coming at him. He had a big vessel in his arms, and it shining, so that the boy could see nothing else, but he put it behind his back then, and came running; and he said he looked wide and wild, like the side of a hill. And the boy ran, and the Amadán threw the vessel after him, and it broke with a great noise, and whatever came out of it, his head was gone then and there. He lived for a while after and used to be telling us many things, but his wits were gone. He thought they mightn't have liked him to beat the other man, and he used to be afraid something would come on him. _Mrs. Staunton:_ A friend of mine saw the Amadán one time in Poul-na-shionac, low-sized and very wide, and with a big hat on him, very high, and he'd make shoes for you if you could get a hold of him. But there are some say "No, that is not the Amadán-na-Briona, that is the leprechaun." _An Old Woman:_ The Amadán-na-Briona is a bad one to meet. If you don't say, "The Lord be between us and harm," when you meet him, you are gone for ever and always. What does he look like? I suppose like any fool in a house--a sort of a clown. _A Man near Athenry:_ Biddy Early could cure nearly all things, but she said that the only thing that she could do no cure for was the touch of the Amadán. _Another:_ Biddy Early couldn't do nothing for the touch of the Amadán, because its power was greater than hers. _In the Workhouse:_ The Amadán-na-Briona, he changes his shape every two days. Sometimes he comes like a youngster, and then he'll come like the worst of beasts. Trying to give the touch he used to be. I heard it said of late that he was shot, but I think myself it would be hard to shoot him. _Ned Meehan of Killinane:_ The Amadán is the worst; I saw him myself one time, and I'd be swept if I didn't make away on the moment. It was on a race-course at Ballybrit, and no one there but myself, and I sitting with my back to the wall and smoking my pipe. And all at once the Amadán was all around me, in every place, and I ran and got out of the field or I'd be swept. And I saw others of them in the field; it was full of them, red scarfs they had on them. I came home as quick as I could, and I didn't get over the fright for a long time, but there he was all about me. _Meehan's wife says_: I remember you well coming in that night, and you trembling with the fright you got. And you told me the appearance he had, like a jockey he was, on a grey horse. "That is true indeed," _says Ned, and he goes on_: And one night I was up in that field beyond, watching sheep that were near their time to drop, and I saw a light moving through the fields beside me, and down the road and no one with it. It stopped for a while where the water is and went on again. And there was a woman in Ballygra the same night heard the coach-a-baur passing, and she not hearing at all about the lights I saw. _A Man at Kilcolgan:_ Father Callaghan that used to be in Esker was able to do great cures; he could cure even a man that had met the Amadán-na-Briona. But to meet the Amadán is to be in prison for ever. X FORTHS AND SHEOGUEY PLACES X FORTHS AND SHEOGUEY PLACES _When as children we ran up and down the green entrenchments of the big round raths, the lisses or forths, of Esserkelly or Moneen, we knew they had been made at one time for defence, and that is perhaps as much as is certainly known. Those at my old home have never been opened, but in some of their like I have gone down steps to small stone-built chambers that look too low for the habitation of any living race._ _Had we asked questions of the boys who led our donkeys they would in all likelihood have given us, from tradition or vision, news of the shadowy inhabitants, the Sidhe, whose name in the Irish is all one with a blast of wind, and of the treasures they guard. And the old writings tell us that when blessed Patrick of the Bells walked Ireland, he did not refuse the promise of heaven to some among those spirits in prison, the old divine race for whom Mannanan himself had chosen these hidden dwellings, after the great defeat in battle by the human invaders, the Gaels, or to some they had brought among them from the face of the green earth. It was one of their musicians who played to the holy Clerks till Patrick himself said, "But for some tang of the music of the Sidhe that is in it, I never heard anything nearer to the music of heaven." That music is heard yet from time to time; and it was into one of those hill dwellings that the father of McDonough the Galway piper, my friend, was taken till the Sidhe had taught him all their wild tunes and so bewitched his pipes that they would play of themselves if he threw them up among the rafters. There were great treasures there also in Saint Patrick's time, golden vats and horns, and crystal cups, and silks of the colour of the foxglove. It may be of these treasures that so many dreams are told._ _As to the women of the Sidhe, some who have seen them, as old Mrs. Sheridan, tell of their white skin and yellow hair, for age has not come on them through the centuries. When one of them came claiming the fulfilment of an old promise from Caoilte of the Fianna, Patrick wondered at her young beauty, while the man who had been her lover was withered and bent and grey. But Caoilte said that was no wonder "for she is of the Tuatha de Danaan who are unfading and whose life is lasting, while I am of the sons of Milesius who are perishable and fade away." Yet then as now, notwithstanding their beauty and grandeur, those swept away into the hill dwellings would rather have the world they know. One of Finn's men meeting a comely young man who had been his comrade but was now an inhabitant of one of those hidden houses, asked how he fared. And for all his fine clothing and his blue weapons and the hound he held in a silver chain, the young man gave the names of three drudges "who had the worst life of any who were with the Fianna," and then he said, "I would rather be living their life than the life I am leading now."_ _The name of these tribes of the goddess Dana is often confused with that of the northern invaders who were afterwards a terror to Ireland. And so it was of those unearthly tribes an old basket-maker was thinking when he said, in telling of the defeat of the Irish under James, "The Danes were dancing in the raths around Aughrim the night after the battle. Their ancestors were driven out of Ireland before, and they were glad when they saw those that had put them out put out themselves, and everyone of them skivered."_ _Many of the stories I have gathered tell how those tribes still protect their own; and even today, March 21, 1916, I have read in the "Irish Times" that "a farmer who was summoned by a road contractor for having failed to cut a portion of a hedge on the roadside, told the magistrates at Granard Petty Sessions that he objected to cutting the hedge as it grew in a fort or rath. He however had no objection to the contractor's men cutting the hedge. The magistrates allowed the case to stand till the next Court."_ _As to Knockmaa, or Cruachmaa, or, as it is called today, Castle Hacket Hill, that overlooks Lough Corrib and the plain of Moytura, and that we see as a blue cloud from our roads, it was in Saint Patrick's time the habitation of Finnbarr a king among the Sidhe and his seventeen sons, and it is to this day spoken of as "a very Sheoguey place."_ _It was in these enchanted hills that the ale of Goibniu the Smith kept whoever tasted it from sickness and from death, and there is some memory of this in a story told me by an old farmer. "There was a man one time set out from Ireland to go to America or some place; a common man looking for work he was. And something happened to the ship on the way, and they had to put to land to mend it. And in the country where they landed he saw a forth, and he went into it, and there he saw the smallest people he ever saw, and they were the Danes that went out of Ireland; and it was foxes they had for dogs, and weasels were their cats._ _"Then he went back to get into the ship, but it was gone away, and he left behind. So he went back into the forth, and a young man came to meet him, and he told him what had happened. And the young man said 'Come into the room within where my father is in the bed, for he is out of his health and you might be able to serve him.' So they went in and the father was lying in the bed, and when he heard it was a man from Ireland was in it he said, 'I will give you a great reward if you will go back and bring me a thing I want out of Castle Hacket Hill. For if I had what is there,' he said, 'I would be as young as my son.' So the man consented to go, and they got a sailing ship ready, and it is what the old man told him, to go back to Ireland. 'And buy a little pig in Galway,' he said, 'and bring it to the mouth of the forth of Castle Hacket and roast it there. And inside the forth is an enchanted cat that is keeping guard there, and it will come out; and here is a shot-gun and some cross-money that will kill any faery or any enchanted thing. And within in the forth,' he said, 'you will find a bottle and a rack-comb, and bring them back here to me.'_ _"So the man did as he was told and he bought the pig and roasted it at the mouth of the forth, and out came the enchanted cat, and it having hair seven inches long. And he fired the cross-money out of the shot-gun, and the cat went away and he saw it no more. And he got the bottle and the rack-comb and brought them back to the old man. And he drank what was in the bottle and racked his hair with the rack, and he got young again, as young as his own son."_ _It may be some of those faery treasures are still given out; for of the family who have been for a good while owners of the hill, one at least had the gift of genius. And I remember being told in childhood, and I have never known if it were fact or folk-tale, that her mother having as a bride gone to listen to some debate or royal speech in the House of Lords at Westminster, the whole assembly had stood up in homage to her beauty._ _I was told by a Miller:_ It was the Danes built these forths. They were a fair-haired race, and they married with the Irish that were dark-haired, just like those linen weavers your own great-grandfather brought up from the North, the Hevenors and the Glosters and others, married with the Roman Catholics. There was a king of the Danes called Trevenher that had a daughter that was a great beauty. And she gave a feast, and the young men of the other race dressed like girls and came to it, and sat at it till midnight, and then they threw off the women's clothes and killed all the generals and the king himself. So the Danes were driven out, that's why we have the fires and the wisps on St. John's Eve. And as for Herself there, she wouldn't for all the world let St. Martin's Day pass without killing of cocks--one for the woman and another for the man. * * * * * As to the three lisses at Ryanrush, there must have been a great deal of fighting there in the old time. There are some bushes growing on them and no one, man or woman, will ever put a hand to cut them, no more than they would touch the little bush by the well beyond, that used to have lights shining out of it. And if any one was to fall asleep within the liss himself, he would be taken away and the spirit of some old warrior would be put in his place, and it's he would know everything in the whole world. There's no doubt at all but that there's the same sort of things in other countries. Sure _these_ can go through and appear in Australia in one minute. But you hear more about them in these parts, because the Irish do be more familiar in talking of them. * * * * * Enchanters and magicians they were in the old times, and could make the birds sing and the stones and the fishes speak. * * * * * It's in the forths they mostly live. The last priest that was here told us a lot about them, but he said not to be anyway afraid of them, for they are but poor souls doing their penance. _Mary Nagle:_ That's a fine big liss at Ryanrush, and people say they hear things there, and sometimes a great light is seen--no wonder these things should be seen there, for it was a great place for fighting in the old centuries, and a great deal of bones have been turned up in the fields. There was an open passage I remember into the liss, and two girls got a candle one time and went in, but they saw nothing but the ashes of the fires the Danes used to make. The passage is closed up now I believe, with big stones no man could lift. One time a woman from the North came to our house, and she said a great deal of people is kept below there in the lisses; she had been there herself, and in the night-time in one moment they'd all be away at Cruachmaa, wherever that may be, down in the North I believe. And she knew everything that was in the house, and told us about my sister being sick, and that there was a hurling going on, as there was that day at the Isabella wood in Coole. And all about Coole House she knew as if she spent her life in it. I'd have picked a lot of stories out of her but my mother got nervous when she heard the truth coming out, and bid me be quiet. She had a red petticoat on her, the same as any country woman, and she offered to cure me, for it was that time I was delicate and your ladyship sent me to the salt water, but she asked a shilling and my mother said she hadn't got it. "You have," says she, "and heavier metal than that you have in the house." So then my mother gave her the shilling, and she put it in the fire and melted it, and says she, "After two days you'll see your shilling again." But we never did. And the cure she left, I never took it; it's not safe, and the priests forbid us to take their cures--for it must surely be from the devil their knowledge comes. But no doubt at all she was one of the Ingentry, that can take the form of a woman by day and another form at night. After that she went to Mrs. Quaid's house and asked her for a bit of tobacco. "You'll get it again" she said, "and more with it." And sure enough, that very day a bit of meat came into Mrs. Quaid's house. (_Note_ 1.) _Maurteen Joyce:_ There's a forth near Clough that wanders underneath, but a man couldn't get into it without he'd crawl on his hands and knees. Well, Kennedy's filly was brought in there, and lived there for five days without food but what she got from _them_, and no one knew where she was till a man passing by heard her neighing and then she was dug out. * * * * * There's a forth near our house, but it's not the good people that are in it, only the old inhabitants of Ireland shut up there below. * * * * * There are a few old forths about, some of them you mightn't notice unless you understood such things; but sometimes passing by you'd feel a cold wind blowing from them, would nearly rend you in two. * * * * * When I was a young chap myself I used to see a white woman walking about sometimes at midday--that's the worst hour there is--and she'd always go back into a forth, the forth of Cahir near Cloonmore, and disappear into it. She was known to be a woman that had died nine years before; and she would sometimes come into the sister's house, and bid her keep it clean. But one time the sister's husband went to burn the inside of the forth, and the next morning his barn where he had all the wheat of the harvest and near a ton of hay and two or three packs of wool, was found to be on fire. And his own little girl, about eight years of age, was in the barn, and a labouring man broke through and brought a wet cloth with him and threw it over her and carried her out. But she was as black as cinders and dead. Vexed they were at him burning the forth. _An Old Miller:_ Did _they_ get help to make those forths? You may know well that they did. There was an engineer here when that road was being made--a sort of an idolater or a foreigner he was--anyway he made it through the forth, and he didn't last long after. Those other engineers, Edgeworth and Hemans beyond at Ardrahan when the railway was made, I'm told they avoided such things. _A Slieve Echtge Man:_ There were two brothers taken away sudden, two O'Briens. They were cutting heath one day and filling the cart with it, and a voice told them to leave off cutting the heath, but they went on, and a blow struck the cart on the axle. And soon after that one of the brothers sat down in his chair and died sudden. And the other was one day going to market, I was going to it that day myself, and he wasn't far beyond the white gate when the axle of the cart broke in that same place where it had got the blow, and so he had to go home again, and near the river where they're cutting the larch he turned in to talk to a poor man that was cutting a tree, and the tree fell, and the top of it struck him and killed him. And it was last March that happened. There was one Leary in Clough had the land taken that's near Newtown racecourse. And he was out there one day building a wall, and it was time for his dinner, but he had none brought with him. And a man came to him and said "Is it home you'll be going for your dinner?" And he said "It's not worth my while to go back to Clough, I'd have the day lost." And the man said, "Well, come in and eat a bit with me." And he brought him into a forth, and there was everything that was grand, and the dinner they gave him of the best, so that he eat near two plates of it. And then he went out again to build the wall. And whether it was with lifting the heavy stones I don't know, but (with respects to you) when he was walking the road home he began to vomit, and what he vomited up was all green grass. _A Man on the Connemara Coast:_ This is a faery stream we're passing; there were some used to see them by the side of it, and washing themselves in it. And there used to be heard a faery forge here every night, and the hammering of the iron could be heard, and the blast of the furnace. There is a faery hill beyond there in the mountain, and some have seen fires in it all through the night. And one time the police were out there still-hunting, and the head of them, one Rogers, was in the middle of that place, and there he died, no one could say how, though some of his men were round about him. That's a nice flat clean place that rock we're passing--that's the sort of place they'd be seen dancing or having their play. _A Piper:_ I knew twin sons, Considines, and one was struck with madness in England, and one at home--Pat in England, Mike in Connacht--at the one time. Both were sent to Ballinasloe Asylum, and got well in eight months, and that was ten year ago, and one of them is married and rearing a family. The mother used to be doing cures with herbs; it is likely that is the reason but she gave it up after they were struck. There were three of another family went in to the Asylum, one this year, one next year, and one the year after, and no reason but that their house was close to the side of a forth. _Maurteen Joyce:_ When I was in Clare there was a forth, and two or three men went down it one time, and brought rushes and lights with them. And they came to where there was a woman washing at a river and they heard the crying of young lambs, and it November, for when we have winter, there is summer there. So they got afraid, and two of the men came back, but one of them stopped there and was never heard of after. The best of things they have, and no trouble at all but to be eating; but they have no chance of being saved till the Day of Judgment. I knew another forth that two men watched, and at night there came out of it two troops of horses, and they began to graze. But when the men came near them they made for the forths, and all they got was a foal. And they kept it, and it was a mare-horse, and it had foals, and the breed was the best that was ever seen in the country. _Mrs. Leary:_ There did strange things happen in that wood, noises would be heard, and those that went in to steal rods could never get them up on their back to bring them away. But there was one man said whatever happened he'd bring them, and he got them on to his back, and then they were lifted off it over the wood. But they fell again and he got them and carried them away; I suppose they thought well of him having so much courage. Cruachmaa is the great place for them. A man who had lost a blood mare met an old man from a forth who said "Put your right foot on my right foot." And he did so, and at once he saw the blood mare and his foal close by. _The Old Man Who Is Making a Well:_ There was a man and his wife was brought away at Cruachmaa and he was told to go dig, and he'd get her out. And he began to dig, and when he had a hole made at the side of the hill he saw her coming out, but he couldn't stop the pick that he had lifted for the stroke, and it went through her head. _J. Doran:_ Whether they are in it or not, there are many tell stories of them. And I often saw the half of Cruachmaa covered--like as if there was a mist on it. But one side of a wall is luckier than another, all the old people will tell you that. There was a big stone in the yard behind our house and my husband thought to blast it, for it was in the way, and my mother said "I'm in the house longer than you, and take my advice and never touch that stone," and he never did. But there was a man built a house close by and he wanted to close a passage, and one morning he came early and was laying hands on that stone to take it. But I was out when I heard him and drove him away. And the house never throve with him, he lost two or three children, and then he died himself. _A Gate-keeper:_ At St. Patrick's well at Burren there used to be a great pattern every year. And every year there was something lost and killed at it, a horse or a man or a woman. So at last the priest put a stop to it. And there was an old woman with me in the barracks at Burren, and she told me she remembered well when she was a young girl and the time came when the pattern used to be, the first year it was stopped her father put her up on a big high wall near the well, and bid her look down. And there she saw the whole place full of the _gentry_, and they playing and dancing and having their own games, they were in such joy to have done away with the pattern. I suppose the well belonged to them before it got the name of St. Patrick. There's a small little house not far down the road where they used to be very fond of going. And a woman in the town asked the old woman that lived in it what did they look like. And she said "For all the world like people coming in to Chapel." * * * * * There was a girl coming back here one time from Clough, and instead of coming here she went the Esserkelly road and was led astray and a man met her and says he, "Why do you say you're going to Labane and it's to Roxborough you're facing?" and he turned her around. And when she got home she took off the bundle she had on her back, and what jumped out of it but a young hare. _Mrs. Casey:_ I have a great little story about a woman--a jobber's wife that lived a mile beyond Ardrahan. She had business one time in Ballyvaughan, and when she was on the road beyond Kinvara a man came to her out of a forth and he asked her to go in and to please a child that was crying. So she went in and she pleased the child, and she saw in a corner an old man that never stopped from crying. And when she went out again she asked the man that brought her in, why was the old man roaring and crying. The man pointed to a milch cow in the meadow and he said, "Before the day is over he will be in the place of that cow, and it will be brought into the forth to give milk to the child." And she can tell herself that was true, for in the evening when she was coming back from Ballyvaughan, she saw in that field a cow dead, and being cut in pieces, and all the poor people bringing away bits of it, that was the old man that had been put in its place. There is poison in that meat, but no poison ever comes off the fire, but you must mind to throw away the top of the pot. * * * * * That forth where I heard the talking long ago, and left my can, it's only the other day I was telling Pat Stephens of it that has the land. And he told me he put a trough in it to catch the water about a month ago. And the next day one of his best bullocks died. _Mrs. O'Brien:_ It's a bad piece of the road that poor boy fell off his cart at and was killed. There's a forth near it, and it's in that forth my five children are that were swept from me. I went and I told Father Carey I knew they were there, and he said "Say your prayers, my poor woman, that's all you can do." When they were young they were small and thin enough, they grew up like a bunch of rushes, but they got strong and stout and good-looking. Too good they were, so that everyone would remark them and would say, "Oh, look at Ellen O'Brien--look at Catherine--look at Martin! So good to work and so handsome, so loyal to their mother." And they were all taken from me, all gone now but one. Consumption they were said to get, but it never was in my family or in the father's, and how would they get it without some provocation? Four of them died with that, and Martin was drowned. One of the little girls was in America and the other at home, and they both got sick and at the end of nine months both of them died. Only twice they got a warning. Michael that was the first to go was out one morning very early to bring a letter to Mr. Crowe. And he met on the road a small little woman, and she came across him and across him again, and then again, as if to be humbugging him. And he got afraid, and told me about her when he got home. And not long after that he died. And Ellen used to be going to milk the cow for the nuns morning and evening, and there's a place she had to pass, a sort of enchanted place, I forget the name of it. And when she came home one evening she said she'd go there no more, for when she was passing that place she saw a small little woman, with a little cloak about her, and her face not the size of a doll's face. And with the one look of her she got a fright and ran as fast as she could, and sat down to milk the cow. And when she was milking she looked up, and there was the small little woman coming along by the wall. And she said she'd never like to go up there again. So to move the thought out of her mind I said "Sure that's the little woman is stopping up at Shamus Mor's house." "Oh, it's not, Mother," said she; "I know well by her look she was no right person." "Then my poor girl you're lost," says I, "for I know it was the same woman that my husband saw." And sure enough, it was but a few weeks after that she died. There wasn't much change in them before their death, but there was a great change after. And Martin, the last that went, was stout and strong and nothing ailed him, but he was drowned. He'd go down sometimes to bathe in the sea and one day he said he was going, and I said, "Do not, for you have no swim." But a boy of the neighbours came after that and called to him, and I was making the little dinner for him, and I didn't see him from the door. And I never knew he was gone till when I went out of the house the girl from next door looked at me someway strange, and then she told me two boys were drowned, and then she told me one of them was my own. Held down he was, they said, by something under water. _They_ had him followed there. It wasn't long after he died I woke one night and I felt some one near, and I struck the light and then I saw his shadow. He was wearing his little cap, but under it I knew his face and the colour of his hair. And he never spoke and he was going out the door and I called to him and said "Oh, Martin, come back to me and I'll always be watching for you." And every night after that I'd hear things thrown about the house outside, and noises. So I got afraid to stop in it, and went to live in another house, and I told the priest I knew Martin was not dead but that he was living. And about eight weeks after Catherine dying, I had what I thought was a dream. I thought I dreamt that I saw her sweeping out the floor of the room, and I said, "Catherine, why are you sweeping? Sure you know I sweep the floor down and the hearth every night." And I said "Tell me where you are now?" And she said, "I'm in the forth beyond." And she said "I have a great deal of things to tell you, but I must look out and see are they watching me"; now wasn't that very sharp for a dream? And she went to look out the door, but she never came back again. And in the morning when I told it to a few respectable people they said "Take care but it might have been no dream, but herself that came back and talked to you." And I think it was, and that she came back to see me, and to keep the place well swept. * * * * * Sure we know there were some in the forths in the old times, for my aunt's husband was brought away into one, and why wouldn't they be there now? He was sent back out of it again; a girl led him home, and she told him he was brought away because he answered to the first call and that he had a right only to answer to the third. But he didn't want to come home. He said he saw more people in it than he ever saw at a hurling, and that he'd ask no better place than it in high heaven. * * * * * The Banshee always cries for the O'Briens. And Anthony O'Brien was a fine man when I married him, and handsome, and I could have had great marriages if I didn't choose him, and many wondered at me. And when he was took ill and in the bed, Johnny Rafferty came in one day, and says he "Is Anthony living?" and I said he was. "For," says he, "as I was passing, I heard crying, crying, from the hill where the forths are, and I thought it must be for Anthony, and that he was gone." And then Ellen, the little girl, came running in, and she says, "I heard the mournfullest crying that ever you heard just behind the house." And I said "It must be the Banshee." And Anthony heard me say that where he was lying in the bed, and he called out, "If it's the Banshee it's for me, and I must die today or tomorrow." And in the middle of the next day, he died. * * * * * One time I was passing by a forth down there, and I saw a thick smoke coming out of it, straight up it went and then it spread at the top. And when it was clearing away I saw two rows of birds, one on the one side and one on the other, and I stopped to look at them. They were white, and had shoulders and heads like dogs, and there was a great noise like a rattling, and a man that was passing by looked up and said "God speed you," and they flew away. _A Seaside Man:_ There were five boys of the Callinans, and they rich and well-to-do, were out in a boat, and a ship came out from the shore and touched it and it sank, and the ship was seen no more. And one of the boys held on to the boat, and some men came out and brought him to land. But the second time after that he went out, he was swept. _An Old Man in Gort Workhouse:_ I knew an old man was in here was greatly given to card-playing. And one night he was up on the hill beyond, towards Slieve Echtge, where there is a big forth, and he went into it, and there he found a lot of _them_ playing cards. Like any other card-players they looked, and he sat down and played with them, and they played fair. And when he woke in the morning, he was lying outside on the hill, and nothing under his head but a tuft of rushes. _John Mangan:_ Old Hanrahan one time went out to the forth that's in front of his house and cut a bush, and he a fresh man enough. And next morning he hadn't a blade of hair on his head--not a blade. And he had to buy a wig and to wear it for the rest of his life. I remember him and the wig well. And it was some years after that that Delane, the father of the great cricketer, was passing by that way, and the water had risen and he strayed off the road into it. And as he got farther and farther in, till he was covered to better than his waist, he heard like the voice of his wife crying, "Go on, John, go on farther." And he called out, "These are John Hanrahan's faeries that took the hair off him." "And what did you do then?" they asked him when he got safe to the house, and was telling this. And he said, "I turned my coat inside out, and after that they troubled me no more, and so I got safe to the road again." But no one ever had luck that meddled with a forth, so it's always said. * * * * * There's Mrs. Lynch's daughter was coming through the trees about eight months ago and when she came to a thicket of bushes, a short little man came, out, about three feet high, dressed all in white, and he white himself or grey, and asked her to come with him, and she ran away as fast as she could. And with the fright she got, she fell into a sickness--what they call the sickness of Peter and Paul--and you'd think she'd tear the house down when it comes on her. * * * * * I met a woman some time ago told me more about the forths in this place than ever I knew before, and well she might for she had passed seven years in them, working, working, minding children and the like all the time; no singing or dancing for her. _M. Haverty:_ There was one Rock, was brought into a forth. A three-legged horse came for him one night and brought him away; and when he got there they all called him by his name. * * * * * There was a man up there cut a tree in one of them, and he was took ill immediately after, and didn't live long. * * * * * There's a bad bit of road near Kinvara Chapel, just when you get within sight of the sea. I know a man has to pass there, and he wouldn't go on the driver's side of the car, for it's to the right side those things are to be seen. Sure there was a boy lost his life falling off a car there last Friday week. One night passing the big tree at Raheen I heard the sound of a handsaw in the air, and I looked up and there in the top of a larch tree that's near to a beech I saw a man sitting and cutting it with the handsaw. So I hurried away home. But the next time I passed that way I took a view of it to see might it have been one of the Dillons that might be stealing timber; and there was no sign of a cut or a touch in it at all. * * * * * There was a man on the road between Chevy and Marble Hill, where there is a faery plumb-stone, that stands straight up and it about five feet in height, and the man was building a house and carried it away to put above his door. And from the time he brought it away, all his stock began to die, and whenever he went in or out, night or day, he was severely beaten. So at last he took the stone down and put it back where it was before, and from that time nothing has troubled him. _John Mangan:_ Myself and two of my brothers were over at Inchy Weir to catch a horse, and growing close by the water there was a bush the form of an umbrella, very close and thick at the top. So we began fooling as boys do, and I said, "I'll bet a button none of you will make a stone go through the bush." So I took up a pebble of cow-dung and threw it, and they all threw, and no sooner did the pebble hit the bush than there came from it music, like a band playing. So we all ran for our lives, and when we had got about two hundred yards we looked back and we saw something moving round the bush, first it had the clothes of a woman and then of a man. So we stopped to see no more. Well, it was some years after that when Sir William ordered all the bushes in that part to be cut down. And one Prendergast a boy that used to be a beater here and that went to America after, went to cut them just in the same place where I had seen that sight, and a thorn ran into his eye and blinded him, and he never got the sight of it again. _An Old Woman near Ballinsloe:_ There are many forths around, and in that one beyond, there is often music heard. The smith's father heard the music one time he was passing and he could not stop from dancing till he was tired. I heard him tell that myself. And over there to the left there is a forth had an opening in it, and the steward wanted to get it closed up, and he could get no men to do it. And at last a young man said he would, and he went to work and at the end of the week he was dead. And there was a girl milking a cow not long after that, and she saw him coming to her, and she ran away, and he called to her to stop and she did not, and he said "That you may never milk another cow!" And within a week, she herself was dead. There was a woman over there in that house you can see, and she wanted to root up a forth; covetousness it was, she had plenty and she wanted more. And she tried to get a man to do it and she could not, but at last a man that had been turned out of his holding, and that was in want, said he would do it. And before he went to work he went on his two knees, and he wished that whatever harm might come from it might come on her, and not on himself. And so it did, and her hands got crippled and crappled. And they travelled the world and could get no relief for her, and her cattle began to die, and she died herself in the end. And the daughter and the son-in-law had to leave that house and to build another, for they were losing all the cattle, and they are left alone now, but the daughter lost a finger by it. _A Man near Corcomroe:_ I saw a light myself one night in the big forth over there near the sea. Like a bonfire it was, and going up about thirty feet into the air. * * * * * Ghosts are to be heard about the forths. They make a heavy noise, and there are creaks in their shoes. Doing a penance I suppose they are. And there's many see the lights in the forths at Newtown. _J. Doheny:_ One time I was cutting bushes up there near the river, and I cut a big thorn bush, I thought it no harm to do it when it wasn't standing by itself, but in a thicket, and it old and half-rotten. And when I had it cut, I heard some one talking very loud to my wife, that was gathering kippeens down in the field the other side of the wall. And I went down to know who it was talking to her. And when I asked her she said "No, it's to yourself some one was talking, for I heard his voice where you were, and I saw no one." So I said, "Surely it's one of them mourning for the bush I cut," for the sound of his voice was as if he was mad vexed. * * * * * I think it's not in the tree at the corner there's anything, it's something in the place. Not long ago there was one Greeley going to Galway with a load of barley, and when he came to that corner he heard the sound of a train crossing from inside the wall, and the horse stopped. And then he heard it a second time and the horse refused to go on, and at the end he had to turn back home again, for he had no use trying to make the horse go on. * * * * * There were ash trees growing around the blessed well at Corker, and one night Deeley, the uncle of Pat Deeley that lives beyond, and two other men went to cut them down, to get the makings of a car-body. And the next day Deeley's lip was drawn down--like this--and water running from it for the rest of his life. I often see him; and as to the two other men, they died soon after. And big Joyce that was a servant to John O'Hara, he went to cut trees one night near that hole at Raheen, near the corner of the road, and he was prevented, and never could get the handsaw near a tree, nor the other men that were with him. And there was another man went and cut a bush not far from the Kinvara road, and with the first stroke he heard a sort of a cough or a groan come from beneath it, that was a token to him to leave it alone. But he wouldn't leave off, and his mouth was drawn to one side all of a sudden and in two days after he was dead. Surely, one should leave such things alone. _A Piper:_ I had a fall myself in Galway the other day that I couldn't move my arm to play the pipes if you gave me Ireland. And a man said to me--and they are very smart people in Galway--that two or three got a fall and a hurt in that same place. "There is places in the sea where there is drowning," he said, "and places on the land as well where there do be accidents, and no man can save himself from them, for it is the will of God." _A Man Asking Alms:_ It's not safe sometimes to meddle with walls. There was a man beyond Gort knocked some old walls not long ago, and he's dead since. But it's by the big tree outside Raheen where you take the turn to Kinvara that the most things are seen. There was a boy living with Conor in Gort that was out before daylight with a load of hay in a cart, and he sitting on top of it, and he was found lying dead just beside the tree, where he fell from the top of the cart, and the horse was standing there stock-still. There was a shower of rain fell while he was lying there, and I passed the road two hours later, and saw where the dust was dry where his body had been lying. And it was only yesterday I was hearing a story of that very same place. There was a man coming from Galway with a ton weight of a load on his cart, and when he came to that tree the linching of his wheel came out, and the cart fell down. And presently a little man, about two and a half feet in height, came out from the wall and lifted up the cart, and held it up till he had the linching put up again. And he never said a word but went away as he came, and the man came in to Gort. And I remember myself, the black and white dog used to be on the road between Hanlon's gate and Gort. It was there for ten years and no one ever saw it, but one evening Father Boyle's man was going out to look at a few little sheep and lambs belonging to the priest, and when he came to the stile the dog put up its paws on it and looked at him, and he was afraid to go on. So next morning he told Father Boyle about it and he said "I think that you won't see it any more." And sure enough from that day it never was seen again. _Steve Simon:_ I don't know did I draw down to you before, your ladyship, the greatest wonder ever I saw in my life? I was passing by the forth at Corcomroe, coming back from some shopping I had done in Belharbour, and I saw twelve of the finest horses ever I saw, and riders on them racing round the forth. Many a race I saw since I lived in this world, but never a race like that, for tipping and tugging and welting the horses; the jockeys in coloured clothes, striped and blue, and little blue caps on them, and a lady in the front of them on a bayish horse and wearing a scarlet jacket. I told what I saw the same evening to an old woman living near and she said, "Whatever you saw keep it secret, or some harm will come upon you." There was another thing I saw besides the riders. There were crowds and crowds of people, standing as we would against walls or on a stage, and taking a view. They were shouting, but the men racing on the horses said nothing at all. Never a race like that one, with the swiftness and the welting and fine horses that were in it. What clothing had these people? They had coats on them, and on their back there were pictures, pictures in the form of people. Shields I think they were. Anyway there were pictures on them. Striped the coats were, and a sort of scollop on them the same as that screen in the window (a blind with Celtic design). They had little blue caps, such as wore them, but some had nothing on the head at all; and they had blue slippers--those I saw of them--but I was afeared to take more than a side view except of the racers. _An Old Army Man:_ You know the forth where the old man lost his hair? Well there's another man, Waters, that married Brian's sister, has the second sight, and there's a big bush left in that forth, and when he goes there he sees a woman sitting under it, and she lighting a fire. * * * * * Cloran's father was living over at Knockmaa one time and his wife died, and he believed it was taken into the hill she was. So he went one morning and dug a hole in the side of the hill. But the next morning when he went back to dig again, the hole was filled up and the grass growing over it as before. And this he did two or three times. And then some one told him to put his pick and his spade across the hole. And so he did, and it wasn't filled up again. But what happened after I don't know. _An Old Army Man:_ That's a bad bit of road near Kinvara where the boy lost his life last week; I know it well. And I knew him, a quiet boy, and married to a widow woman; she wanted the help of a man, and he was young. What would ail him to fall off the side of an ass-car and to be killed? XI BLACKSMITHS XI BLACKSMITHS _I have been told:_ Yes, they say blacksmiths have something about them, and if there's a seventh blacksmith in succession, from generation to generation, he can do many things, and if he gave you his curse you wouldn't be the better of it. There was one near the cliffs, Pat Doherty, but he did no harm to any one, but was as quiet as another. He is dead now and his son is a blacksmith too. (_Note_ 2.) * * * * * There was a man one time that was a blacksmith, and he used to go every night playing cards, and for all his wife could say he wouldn't leave off doing it. So one night she got a boy to go stand in the old churchyard he'd have to pass, and to frighten him. So the boy did so, and began to groan and to try to frighten him when he came near. But it's well known that nothing of that kind can do any harm to a blacksmith. So he went in and got hold of the boy, and told him he had a mind to choke him, and went his way. But no sooner was the boy left alone than there came about him something in the shape of a dog, and then a great troop of cats. And they surrounded him and he tried to get away home, but he had no power to go the way he wanted but had to go with them. And at last they came to an old forth and a faery bush, and he knelt down and made the sign of the cross and said a great many "Our Fathers," and after a time they went into the faery bush and left him. And he was going away and a woman came out of the bush, and called to him three times, to make him look back. And he saw that it was a woman that he knew before, that was dead, and so he knew that she was amongst the faeries. And she said to him, "It's well for you that I was here, and worked hard for you, or you would have been brought in among them, and be like me." So he got home. And the blacksmith got home too and his wife was surprised to see he was no way frightened. But he said, "You might know that there's nothing of that sort could harm me." For a blacksmith is safe from all, and when he goes out in the night he keeps always in his pocket a small bit of wire, and they know him by that. So he went on playing, and they grew very poor after. * * * * * And I knew a woman from the County Limerick had been _away_, and she could tell you all about the forths in this place and how she was recovered. She met a man she knew on the road, and she out riding with them all on horseback, and told him to bring a bottle of forge-water and to throw it on her, and so he did, and she came back again. * * * * * Blacksmiths surely are safe from these things. And if a blacksmith was to turn his anvil upside down and to say malicious words, he could do you great injury. * * * * * There was a child that was changed, and my mother brought it a nice bit of potato cake one time, for tradesmen often have nice things on the table. But the child wouldn't touch it, for they don't like the leavings of a smith. * * * * * Blacksmiths have power, and if you could steal the water from the trough in the forge, it would cure all things. * * * * * And as to forges, there's some can hear working and hammering in them through the night. XII MONSTERS AND SHEOGUEY BEASTS XII MONSTERS AND SHEOGUEY BEASTS _The Dragon that was the monster of the early world now appears only in the traditional folk-tales, where the hero, a new Perseus, fights for the life of the Princess who looks on crying at the brink of the sea, bound to a silver chair, while the Dragon is "put in a way he will eat no more kings' daughters." In the stories of today he has shrunk to eel or worm, for the persons and properties of the folk-lore of all countries keep being transformed or remade in the imagination, so that once in New England on the eve of George Washington's birthday, the decorated shop windows set me wondering whether the cherry tree itself might not be a remaking of the red-berried dragon-guarded rowan of the Celtic tales, or it may be of a yet more ancient apple. I ventured to hint at this in a lecture at Philadelphia, and next day one of the audience wrote me that he had looked through all the early biographies of Washington, and either the first three or the first three editions of the earliest--I have mislaid the letter--never mention the cherry tree at all._ _The monstrous beasts told of today recall the visions of Maeldune on his strange dream-voyage, where he saw the beast that was like a horse and that had "legs of a hound with rough sharp nails," and the fiery pigs that fed on golden fruit, and the cat that with one flaming leap turned a thief to a heap of ashes; for the folk-tales of the world have long roots, and there is nothing new save their reblossoming._ _I have been told by a Car-driver:_ I went to serve one Patterson at a place called Grace Dieu between Waterford and Tramore, and there were queer things in it. There was a woman lived at the lodge the other side from the gate, and one day she was looking out and she saw a woolpack coming riding down the road of itself. There was a room over the stable I was put to sleep in, and no one near me. One night I felt a great weight on my feet, and there was something very weighty coming up upon my body and I heard heavy breathing. Every night after that I used to light the fire and bring up coal and make up the fire with it that it would be near as good in the morning as it was at night. And I brought a good terrier up every night to sleep with me on the bed. Well, one night the fire was lighting and the moon was shining in at the window, and the terrier leaped off the bed and he was barking and rushing and fighting and leaping, near to the ceiling and in under the bed. And I could see the shadow of him on the walls and on the ceiling, and I could see the shadow of another thing that was about two foot long and that had a head like a pike, and that was fighting and leaping. They stopped after a while and all was quiet. But from that night the terrier never would come to sleep in the room again. _By Others:_ The worst form a monster can take is a cow or a pig. But as to a lamb, you may always be sure a lamb is honest. * * * * * A pig is the worst shape they can take. I wouldn't like to meet anything in the shape of a pig in the night. * * * * * No, I saw nothing myself, I'm not one of those that can see such things; but I heard of a man that went with the others on rent day, and because he could pay no rent but only made excuses, the landlord didn't ask him in to get a drink with the others. So as he was coming home by himself in the dark, there was something on the road before him, and he gave it a hit with the toe of his boot, and it let a squeal. So then he said to it, "Come in here to my house, for I'm not asked to drink with them; I'll give drink and food to you." So it came in, and the next morning he found by the door a barrel full of wine and another full of gold, and he never knew a day's want after that. * * * * * Walking home one night with Jack Costello, there was something before us that gave a roar, and then it rose in the air like a goose, and then it fell again. And Jackeen told me after that it had laid hold on his trousers, and he didn't sleep all night with the fright he got. * * * * * There's a monster in Lough Graney, but it's only seen once in seven years. * * * * * There is a monster of some sort down by Duras, it's called the ghost of Fiddeen. Some say it's only heard every seven years. Some say it was a flannel seller used to live there that had a short fardel. We heard it here one night, like a calf roaring. * * * * * One night my grandfather was beyond at Inchy where the lads from Gort used to be stealing rods, and he was sitting by the wall, and the dog beside him. And he heard something come running from Inchy Weir and he could see nothing, but the sound of its feet on the ground was like the sound of the feet of a deer. And when it passed by him the dog got in between him and the wall and scratched at him, but still he could see nothing but only could hear the sound of hoofs. So when it was passed he turned away home. Another time, my grandfather told me, he was in a boat out on the lake here at Coole with two or three men from Gort. And one of them had an eel-spear and he thrust it into the water and it hit something, and the man fainted, and they had to carry him in out of the boat to land. And when he came to himself he said that what he struck was like a horse or like a calf, but whatever it was, it was no fish. * * * * * There is a boy I knew, one Curtin near Ballinderreen, told me that he was going along the road one night and he saw a dog. It had claws like a cur, and a body like a person, and he couldn't see what its head was like. But it was moaning like a soul in pain, and presently it vanished, and there came most beautiful music, and a woman came out and he thought at first it was the Banshee, and she wearing a red petticoat. And a striped jacket she had on, and a white band about her waist. And to hear more beautiful singing and music he never did, but to know or to understand what she was expressing, he couldn't do it. And at last they came to a place by the roadside where there were some bushes. And she went in there and disappeared under them, and the most beautiful lights came shining where she went in. And when he got home, he himself fainted, and his mother put her beads over him, and blessed him and said prayers. So he got quiet at last. * * * * * I would easily believe about the dog having a fight with something his owner couldn't see. That often happens in this island, and that's why every man likes to have a black dog with him at night--a black one is the best for fighting such things. And a black cock everyone likes to have in their house--a March cock it should be. * * * * * I knew the captain of a ship used to go whale fishing, and he said he saw them by scores. But by his account they were no way like the ones McDaragh saw; it was I described them to him. * * * * * We don't give in to such things here as they do in the middle island; but I wouldn't doubt that about the dog. For they can see what we can't see. And there was a man here was out one night and the dog ran on and attacked something that was in front of him--a faery it was--but he could see nothing. And every now and again it would do the same thing, and seemed to be fighting something before him, and when they got home the man got safe into the house, but at the threshold the dog was killed. And a horse can see many things, and if ever you're out late, and the horse to stop as if there was something he wouldn't pass, make the sign of the cross between his ears, and he'll go on then. And it's well to have a cock always in the house, if you can have it from a March clutch, and the next year if you can have another cock from a March clutch from that one, it's the best. And if you go late out of the house, and that there is something outside it would be bad to meet, that cock will crow before you'll go out. * * * * * I'm sorry I wasn't in to meet you surely, knowing as much as I do about the faeries. One night I went with four or five others down by the mill to hunt rabbits. And when we got to the field by the river there was the sound of hundreds, some crying and the other part laughing, that we all heard them. And something came down to the river, first I thought he was a dog and then I saw he was too big and strange looking. And you'd think there wouldn't be a drop of water left in the river with all he drank. And I bid the others say nothing about it, for Patrick Green was lying sick at the mill, and it might be taken for a bad sign. And it wasn't many days after that he died. * * * * * My father told me that one night he was crossing this road, and he turned to the wall to close his shoe. And when he turned again there was something running through the field that was the size of a yearling calf, and black, and it ran across the road, and there was like the sound of chains in it. And when it came to that rock with the bush on it, it stopped and he could see a red light in its mouth. And then it disappeared. He used often to see a black dog in this road, and it used to be following him, and others saw it too. But one night the brother of the priest, Father Mitchel, saw it and he told the priest and he banished it. The lake down there (Lough Graney) is an enchanted place, and old people told me that one time they were swimming there, and a man had gone out into the middle and they saw something like a great big eel making for him, and they called out, "If ever you were a great swimmer show us now how you can swim to the shore," for they wouldn't frighten him by saying what was behind him. So he swam to the shore, and he only got there when the thing behind him was in the place where he was. For there are queer things in lakes. I never saw anything myself, but one time I was coming home late from Scariff, and I felt my hair standing up on my head, and I began to feel a sort of shy and fearful, and I could feel that there was something walking beside me. But after a while there was a little stream across the road, and after I passed that I was all right again and could feel nothing near. * * * * * I never saw anything myself but once, early in the morning and I going to the May fair of Loughrea. It was a little way outside of the town I saw something that had the appearance of a black pig, and it was running in under the cart and under the ass's feet. And the ass would keep backing away from it, that it was hardly I could bring her along, till we got to the bridge of Cloon, and once we were over that we saw it no more, for it couldn't pass the running water. And all the time it was with us I was hitting at it with my stick, and it would run from me then, for it was a hazel stick, and the hazel is blessed, and no wicked thing can stay when it is touched with it. It is likely the nuts are blessed too. Aren't they growing on the same tree? * * * * * I was over at Phayre's mill one time to get some boards sawed and they said I must wait an hour or so, where the mill wasn't free. And I had a load of turf to get, and I went along the road. And I heard something coming after me in the gutter, and it stood up over me like an elephant, and I put my hands behind me and I said, "Madad Fior," and he went away. It was just at the bridge he was, near Kilchriest, and when I was coming back after a while, just when I got to the bridge there, he was after me again. But I never saw him since then. * * * * * One time I was at the fair at Ballinasloe, and I but a young lad at the time, and a comrade with me that was but a young lad too. We brought in the sheep the Monday evening, and they were sold the Tuesday morning, and the master bid us to go home on the train. "Bad cess," said my comrade, "are we to get no good at all out of the fair? Let us stop," says he, "and get the good of it and go back by the mail train." So we went through the fair together and went to a dance, and the master never knew, and we went home on the mail train together. We got out at Woodlawn and we were going home, and we heard a sort of a groaning and we could see nothing, and the boy that was with me was frightened, for though he was a strong boy, he was a timorous man. We found then the groaning coming from beyond the wall, and I went and put my two fists on the wall and looked over it. There were two trees on the other side of the wall, and I saw walking off and down from one tree to the other, something that was like a soldier or a sentry. The body was a man's body, and there was a black suit on it, but it had the head of a bear, the very head and _puss_ of a bear. I asked what was on him. "Don't speak to me, don't speak to me," he said, and he stopped by the tree and was groaning and went away. That is all that ever I saw, and I herding sheep in the lambing season, and falling asleep as I did sometimes, and walking up and down the field in my sleep. * * * * * My father told me that in the bad times, about the year '48, he used to be watching about in the fields, where the people did be stealing the crops. And there was no field in Coole he was afraid to go into by night except one, that is number three in the Lake Farm. For the dog that was about in those times stopped the night in the clump there. And Johnny Callan told me one night passing that field he heard the noise of a cart of stones thrown against the wall. But when he went back there in the morning there was no sign of anything at all. My father never saw the dog himself but he was known to be there and he felt him. And as for the monster, I never saw it in Coole Lake, but one day I was coming home with my two brothers from Tirneevan school, and there as we passed Dhulough we heard a great splashing, and we saw some creature put up its head, with a head and a mane like a horse. And we didn't stop but ran. But I think it was not so big as the monster over here in Coole Lake, for Johnny Callan saw it, and he said it was the size of a stack of turf. But there's many could tell about that for there's many saw it, Dougherty from Gort and others. * * * * * As to the dog that used to be in the road, a friend of his own was driving Father Boyle from Kinvara late one night and there it was--first on the right side and then on the left of the car. And at last he told Father Boyle, and he said, "Look out now for it, and you'll see it no more," and no more he did, and that was the last of it. But the driver of the mail-car often seen a figure of a woman following the car till it came to the churchyard beyond Ardrahan, and there it disappeared. Father Boyle was a good man indeed--a child might speak to him. They said he had the dog or whatever it may be banished from the road, but of late I heard the driver of the mail-car saying he sees it on one spot on the road every night. And there's a very lonely hollow beyond Doran's house, and I know a man that never passed by that hollow but what he'd fall asleep. But one night he saw a sort of a muffled figure and he cried out three times some good wish--such as "God have mercy on you"--and then it gave a great laugh and vanished and he saw it no more. As to the forths or other old places, how do we know what poor soul may be shut up there, confined in pain? * * * * * Sure a man the other day coming back from your own place, Inchy, when he came to the big tree, heard a squealing, and there he saw a sort of a dog, and it white, and it followed as if holding on to him all the way home. And when he got to the house he near fainted, and asked for a glass of water. * * * * * There's some sort of a monster at Tyrone, rising and slipping up and down in the sun, and when it cries, some one will be sure to die. * * * * * I didn't believe in them myself till one night I was coming home from a wedding, and standing on the road beside me I saw John Kelly's donkey that he always used to call Neddy. So he was standing in my way and I gave a blow at him and said, "Get out of that, Neddy." And he moved off only to come across me again, and to stop me from going in. And so he did all the way, till as I was going by a bit of wood I heard come out of it two of the clearest laughs that ever you heard, and then two sorts of shouts. So I knew that it was having fun with me they were, and that it was not Neddy was there, but his likeness. I knew a priest was stopped on the road one night by something in the shape of a big dog, and he couldn't make the horse pass it. * * * * * One night I saw the dog myself, in the boreen near my house. And that was a bad bit of road, two or three were killed there. And one night I was between Kiltartan Chapel and Nolan's gate where I had some sheep to look after for the priest. And the dog I had with me ran out into the middle of the road, and there he began to yelp and to fight. I stood and watched him for a while, and surely he was fighting with another dog, but there was nothing to be seen. And in the same part of the road one night I heard horses galloping, galloping past me. I could hear their hoofs, and they shod, on the stones of the road. But though I stood aside and looked--and it was bright moonlight--there were no horses to be seen. But they were there, and believe me they were not without riders. * * * * * Well, myself I once slept in a house with some strange thing. I had my aunt then, Mrs. Leary, living near, and I but a small little girl at the time. And one day she came to our house and asked would I go sleep with her, and I said I would if she'd give me a ride on her back, and so she did. And for many a night after that she brought me to sleep with her, and my mother used to be asking why, and she'd give no reason. Well, the cause of her wanting me was this. Every night so sure as she put the candle out, _it_ would come and lie upon her feet and across her body and near smother her, and she could feel it breathing but could see nothing. I never felt anything at all myself, I being sound asleep before she quenched the light. At last she went to Father Smith--God rest his soul!--and he gave her a prayer to say at the moment of the Elevation of the Mass. So the next time she attended Mass she used it, and that night it was wickeder than ever it had been. So after that she wrote to her son in America to buy a ticket for her, and she went out to him and remained some years. And it was only after she came back she told me and my mother what used to happen on those nights, and the reason she wanted me to be beside her. * * * * * There was never any one saw so many of those things as Johnny Hardiman's father on this estate, and now he's old and got silly, and can't tell about them any more. One time he was walking into Gort along the Kiltartan road, and he saw one of them before him in the form of a tub, and it rolling along. Another time he was coming home from Kinvara, and a black and white dog came out against him from the wall, but he took no notice of it. But when he got near his own house it came out against him again and bit him in the leg, and he got hold of it and lifted it up and took it by the throat and choked it; and when he was sure it was dead he threw it by the roadside. But in the morning he went out first thing early to look at the body, and there was no sign at all of it there. * * * * * So I believe indeed that old Michael Barrett hears them and sees them. But they do him no mischief nor harm at all. They wouldn't, and he such an old resident. But there's many wouldn't believe he sees anything because they never seen them themselves. I never did but once, when I was a slip of a girl beyond at Lissatiraheely, and one time I went across to the big forth to get a can of water. And when I got near to it I heard voices, and when I came to where the water runs out they were getting louder and louder. And I stopped and looked down, and there in the passage where the water comes I seen a dog within, and there was a great noise--working I suppose they were. And I threw down the can and turned and ran, and never went back for it again. But here since I lived in Coole I never seen anything and never was afeared of anything except one time only in the evening, when I was walking down the little by-lane that leads to Ballinamantane. And there standing in the path before me I seen the very same dog that was in the old forth before. And I believe I leaped the wall to get away into the high-road. And what day was that but the very same day that Sir William--the Lord be with his soul!--was returned a Member of Parliament, and a great night it was in Kiltartan. But I'm noways afeared of anything and I give you my word I'd walk in the dead of night in the nut-wood or any other place--except only the cross beyond Inchy, I'd sooner not go by there. There's two or three has their life lost there--Heffernan of Kildesert, one of your ladyship's own tenants, he was one. He was at a fair, and there was a horse another man wanted, but he got inside him and got the horse. And when he was riding home, when he came to that spot it reared back and threw him, and he was taken up dead. And another man--one Gallagher--fell off the top of a creel of turf in the same place and lost his life. And there was a woman hurted some way another time. What's that you're saying, John--that Gallagher had a drop too much taken? That might be so indeed; and what call has a man that has drink taken to go travel upon top of a creel of turf? That dog I met in the boreen at Ballinamantane, he was the size of a calf, and black, and his paws the size of I don't know what. I was sitting in the house one day, and he came in and sat down by the dresser and looked at me. And I didn't like the look of him when I saw the big eyes of him, and the size of his legs. And just then a man came in that used to make his living by making mats, and he used to lodge with me for a night now and again. And he went out to bring his cart away where he was afraid it'd be knocked about by the people going to the big bonefire at Kiltartan cross-roads. And when he went out I looked out the door, and there was the dog sitting under the cart. So he made a hit at it with a stick, and it was in the stones the stick stuck, and there was the dog sitting at the other side of him. So he came in and gave me abuse and said I must be a strange woman to have such things about me. And he never would come to lodge with me again. But didn't the dog behave well not to do him an injury after he hitting it? It was surely some man that was in that dog, some soul in trouble. * * * * * Beasts will sometimes see more than a man will. There were three young chaps I know went up near Ballyturn to hunt coneens (young rabbits) and they threw the dog over the wall. And when he was in the field he gave a yelp and drew back as if something had struck him on the head. And with all they could do, and the rabbits and the coneens running about the field, they couldn't get him to stir from that and they had to come home with no rabbits. * * * * * One time I was helping Sully, the butcher in Loughrea, and I had to go to a country house to bring in a measly pig the people had, and that he was to allow them something for. So I got there late and had to stop the night. And in the morning at daylight I looked from the window and saw a cow eating the potatoes, so I went down to drive him off. And in the kitchen there was lying by the hearth a dog, a speckled one, with spots of black and white and yellow. And when he saw me he got up and went over to the door and went out through it. And then I saw that the door was shut and locked. So I went back again and told the people of the house what I saw and they were frightened and made me stop the next night. And in the night the clothes were taken off me and a heavy blow struck me in the chest, and the feel of it was like the feel of ice. So I covered myself up again and put my hand under the bedclothes, and I never came to that house again. * * * * * I never seen anything myself, but I remember well that when I was a young chap there was a black dog between Coole gatehouse and Gort for many a year, and many met him there. Tom Miller came running into our house one time when he was after seeing him, and at first sight he thought he was a man, where he was standing with his paws up upon the wall, and then he vanished out of sight. But there never was any common dog the size of him, and it's many a one saw him, and it was Father Boyle that banished him out of it at last. * * * * * Except that thing at Inchy Weir, I never saw anything myself. But one evening I parted from Larry Cuniffe in the yard, and he went away through the path in Shanwalla and bid me goodnight. But two hours after, there he was back again in the yard, and bid me light a candle was in the stable. And he told me that when he got into Shanwalla a little chap about as high as his knee, but having a head as big as a man's body, came beside him and led him out of the path and round about, and at last it brought him to the limekiln, and there left him. * * * * * There is a dog now at Lismara, black and bigger than a natural dog, is about the roads at night. He wouldn't be there so long if any one had the courage to question him. * * * * * Stephen O'Donnell in Connemara told me that one time he shot a hare, and it turned into a woman, a neighbour of his own. And she had his butter taken for the last two years, but she begged and prayed for life on her knees, so he spared her, and she gave him back his butter after that, a double yield. * * * * * There was a woman at Glenlough when I was young could change herself into an eel. It was in Galway Workhouse Hospital she got the knowledge. A woman that had the knowledge of doing it by witchcraft asked her would she like to learn, and she said that she would, for she didn't know what it would bring on her. For every time she did it, she'd be in bed a fortnight after with all she'd go through. Sir Martin O'Neill when he was a young lad heard of it, and he got her into a room, and made her do it for him, and when he saw her change to an eel he got frightened and tried to get away, but she got between him and the door, and showed her teeth at him and growled. She wasn't the better of that for a fortnight after. * * * * * Indeed the porter did me great good, a good that I'd hardly like to tell you, not to make a scandal. Did I drink too much of it? Not at all, I have no fancy for it, but the nights seemed to be long. But this long time I am feeling a worm in my side that is as big as an eel, and there's more of them in it than that, and I was told to put sea-grass to it, and I put it to the side the other day, and whether it was that or the porter I don't know, but there's some of them gone out of it, and I think it's the porter. * * * * * I knew a woman near Clough was out milking her cow, and when she got up to go away she saw one of those worms coming after her, and it eight feet long, and it made a jump about eight yards after her. And I heard of a man went asleep by a wall one time, and one of them went down his throat and he never could get rid of it till a woman from the North came. And what she bade him do was to get a bit of old crock butter and to make a big fire on the hearth, and to put the butter in a half round on the hearth, and to get two men to hold him over it. And when the worms got the smell of the butter they jumped out of his mouth, seven or eight one after another, and it was in the fire they fell and they were burned, and that was an end of them. * * * * * As to hares, there's something queer about them, and there's some that it's dangerous to meddle with, and that can go into any form where they like. Sure, Mrs. Madden is after having a young son, and it has a harelip. But she says that she doesn't remember that ever she met a hare or looked at one. But if she did, she had a right to rip a small bit of the seam of her dress or her petticoat, and then it would have no power to hurt her at all. * * * * * Doran the herd says, he wouldn't himself eat the flesh of a hare. There's something unnatural about it. But as to them being unlucky, that may be all talk. But there's no doubt at all that a cow is found sometimes to be run dry, and the hare to be seen coming away from her. * * * * * One time when we lived just behind Gort my father was going to a fair. And it was the custom in those days to set out a great deal earlier than what it is now. So it was not much past midnight when he got up and went out the door, and the moon shining bright. And then he saw a hare walk in from the street and turn down by the garden, and another after it, and another and another till he counted twelve. And they all went straight one after another and vanished. And my father came in and shut the door, and never went out again till it was broad daylight. * * * * * There was a man watching the fire where two hares were cooking and he heard them whistling in the pot. And when the people of the house came home they were afraid to touch them, but the man that heard the whistling ate a good meal of them and was none the worse. * * * * * There was an uncle of my own lived over near Garryland. And one day himself and another man were going through the field, and they saw a hare, and the hound that was with them gave chase, and they followed. And the hound was gaining on the hare and it made for a house, where the half-door was open. And the hound made a snap at it and touched it as it leaped the half-door. And when my uncle and the others came up, they could find no hare, but only an old woman in the house--and she bleeding. So there's no doubt at all but it was she took the form of a hare. My uncle spent too much money after, and gave up his land and went to America. * * * * * As to hares, there was a man out with his greyhound and it gave chase to a hare. And it made for a house, and went in at the window, and the hound just touched the leg. And when the man came up, he found an old woman in the house, and he asked leave to search the house and so he did in every place, but there was no hare to be seen. But when he came in she was putting a pot on the fire, so he said that he must look in the pot, and he took the cover off, and it was full of blood. And before the hound gave chase, he had seen the hare sucking the milk from a cow. * * * * * As to hares, there's no doubt at all there's some that's not natural. One night I was making pot-whiskey up in that hill beyond. Yes indeed, for three year, I did little but run to and fro to the still, and one December, I was making it for the Christmas and I was taken and got nine weeks in gaol for it--and £16 worth of whiskey spilled that night. But there's mean people in the world; and he did it for half a sovereign, and had to leave the country after and go to England. Well, one night, I was watching by the fire where it was too fierce, and it would have burned the oats. And over the hill and down the path came two hares and walked on and into the wood. And two more after that, and then by fours they came, and by sixes, and I'd want a slate and a pencil to count all I saw, and it just at sunrise. And some of them were as thin as thin. And there's no doubt at all that those were not _hares_ I saw that night. * * * * * As to hares, they're the biggest fairies of all. Last year the boys had one caught, and I put it in the pot to wash it and it after being skinned, and I heard a noise come from the pot--grr-grr--and nothing but cold water in it. And I ran to save my life, and I told the boys to have nothing to do with it, but they wouldn't mind me. And when they tried to eat it, and it boiled, they couldn't get their teeth into the flesh of it, and as for the soup, it was no different from potato-water. * * * * * The village of Lissavohalane has a great name for such things. And it's certain that once one night every year, in the month of November, all the cats of the whole country round gather together there and fight. My own two cats were nearly dead for days after it last year, and the neighbours told me the same of theirs. * * * * * There was a woman had a cat and she would feed it at the table before any other one; and if it did not get the first meat that was cooked, the hair would rise up as high as that. Well, there were priests came to dinner one day, and when they were helped the first, the hair rose up on the cat's back. And one of them said to the woman it was a queer thing to give in to a cat the way she did, and that it was a foolish thing to be giving it the first of the food. So when it heard that, it walked out of the house, and never came into it again. * * * * * There's something not right about cats. Steve Smith says he knew a keeper that shot one, and it went into a sort of a heap, and when he came near, it spoke, and he found it was some person, and it said it had to walk its seven acres. And there's some have heard them together at night talking Irish. * * * * * There was a hole over the door of the house that I used to live in, where Murphy's house is now, to let the smoke out, for there was no chimney. And one day a black cat jumped in at the hole, and stopped in the house and never left us for a year. But on the day year he came he jumped out again at the same hole and didn't go out of the door that was standing open. There was no mistake about it, it was the day year. * * * * * As to cats, they're a class in themselves. They're good to catch mice and rats, but just let them come in and out of the house for that; they're about their own business all the time. And in the old times they could talk. And it's said that the cats gave a shilling for what they have; fourpence that the housekeeper might be careless and leave the milk about that they'd get at it; and fourpence that they'd tread so light that no one would hear them, and fourpence that they'd be able to see in the dark. And I might as well throw out that drop of tea I left on the dresser to cool, for the cat is after tasting it and I wouldn't touch it after that. There might be a hair in it, and the hair of a cat is poison. * * * * * There was a man had a house full of children, and one day he was taking their measure for boots. And the cat that was sitting on the hearth said, "Take my measure for a pair of boots along with the rest." So the man did, and when he went to the shoemaker he told him of what the cat had said. And there was a man in the shop at the time, and he having two greyhounds with him, and one of them all black without a single white hair. And he said, "Bring the cat here tomorrow. You can tell it that the boots can't be made without it coming for its measure." So the next day he brought the cat in a bag, and when he got to his shop the man was there with his greyhounds, and he let the cat out, and it praying him not to loosen the bag. And it made away through the fields and the hounds after it, and whether it killed one of them I don't know, but anyhow the black hound killed it, the one that had not a white hair on its body. * * * * * You should never be too attentive to a cat, but just to be civil and to give it its share. * * * * * Cats were serpents, and they were made into cats at the time, I suppose, of some change in the world. That's why they're hard to kill and why it's dangerous to meddle with them. If you annoy a cat it might claw you or bite you in a way that would put poison in you, and that would be the serpent's tooth. * * * * * There was an uncle of mine near Galway, and one night his wife was very sick, and he had to go to the village to get something for her. And it's a very lonely road, and as he was going what should he see but a great number of cats, walking along the road, and they were carrying a young cat, and crying it. And when he was on his way home again from the village he met them again, and one of the cats turned and spoke to him like a person would, and said, "Bid Lady Betty to come to the funeral or she'll be late." So he ran on home in a great fright, and he couldn't speak for some time after getting back to the house, but sat there by the fire in a chair. And at last he began to tell his wife what had happened. And when he said that he had met a cat's funeral, his own cat that was sleeping by the hearth began to stir her tail, and looked up at him, affectionate like. But when he got to where he was bid send Lady Betty to the funeral, she made one dash at his face and scraped it, she was so mad that she wasn't told at once. And then she began to tear at the door, that they had to let her out. For cats is faeries, and every night they're obliged to travel over seven acres; that's why you hear them crying about the country. It was an old woman at the strand told me that, and she should know, for she lived to a hundred years of age. * * * * * I saw three young weasels out in the sea, squealing, squealing, for they couldn't get to land, and I put out a bunch of seaweed and brought them to the land, and they went away after. I did that for them. Weasels are not _right_, no more than cats; and I'm not sure about foxes. * * * * * Rats are very bad, because a rat if one got the chance would do his best to bite you, and I wouldn't like at all to get the bite of a rat. But weasels are serpents, and if they would spit at any part of your body it would fester, and you would get blood poisoning within two hours. I knew an old doctor--Antony Coppinger at Clifden--and he told me that if the weasels had the power of other beasts they would not leave a human living in the world. And he said the wild wide wilderness of the sea was full of beasts mostly the same as on earth, like bonavs and like cattle, and they lying at the bottom of the sea as quiet as cows in a field. * * * * * It is wrong to insult a weasel, and if you pelt them or shoot them they will watch for you forever to ruin you. For they are enchanted and understand all things. There is Mrs. Coneely that lives up the road, she had a clutch of young geese on the floor, and a weasel walked in and brought away one of them, but she said nothing to that. But it came in again, and took a hold of another of the geese and Mrs. Coneely said, "Oh, I'm not begrudging you what you have taken, but leave these to me for it is hard I earned them, and it is great trouble I had rearing them. But go," she said, "to the shoemaker's home beyond, where they have a clutch, and let you spare mine. And that I may never sin," she said, "but it walked out, for they can understand everything, and it did not leave one of the clutch that was at the shoemaker's." It is why I called to you now when I saw you sitting there so near to the sea; I thought the tide might steal up on you, or a weasel might chance to come up with a fish in its mouth, and to give you a start. It's best if you see one to speak nice to it, and to say, "I wouldn't be begrudging you a pair of boots or of shoes if I had them." If you treat them well they will treat you well. * * * * * And to see a weasel passing the road before you, there's nothing in the world like that to bring you all sorts of good luck. * * * * * I was out in the field one time tilling potatoes, and two or three more along with me, and a weasel put its head out of the wall--a double stone wall it was--and one of the lads fired a stone at it. Well, within a minute there wasn't a hole of the wall but a weasel had put its head out of it, about a thousand of them, I saw that myself. Very spiteful they are. I wouldn't like them. * * * * * The weasels, the poor creatures, they will do nothing at all on you if you behave well to them and let them alone, but if you do not, they will not leave a chicken in the yard. And magpies, let you do nothing on them, or they will suck every egg and leave nothing in the garden; but if you leave them to themselves they will do nothing but to come into the street to pick a bit with the birds. * * * * * The granyóg (hedgehog) will do no harm to chickens or the like; but if he will get into an orchard he will stick an apple on every thorn, and away with him to a scalp with them to be eating through the winter. I met with a granyóg one day on the mountain, and that I may never sin, he was running up the side of it as fast as a race-horse. * * * * * There is not much luck in killing a seal. There was a man in these parts was very fond of shooting and killing them. And seals have claws the same as cats, and he had two daughters, and when they were born, they had claws the same as seals. I believe there is one of them living yet. * * * * * But the thing it is not right to touch is the _ron_ (seal) for they are in the Sheogue. It is often I see them on the strand, sitting there and wiping themselves on the rocks. And they have a hand with five fingers, like any Christian. I seen six of them, coming in a boat one time with a man from Connemara, that is the time I saw they had the five fingers. There was a man killed one of them over there near the point. And he came to the shore and it was night, and he was near dead with the want of a blast of a pipe, and he saw a light from a house on the side of a mountain, and he went in to ask a coal of fire to kindle the pipe. And when he went in, there was a woman, and she called out to a man that was lying stretched on the bed in the room, and she said, "Look till you see who this man is." And the man that was on the bed says, "I know you, for I have the sign of your hand on me. And let you get out of this now," he said, "as fast as you can, and it will be best for you." And the daughter said to him, "I wonder you to let him go as easy as that." And you may be sure the man made off and made no delay. It was a Sheogue house that was; and the man on the bed was the _ron_ he had killed, but he was not dead, being of the Sheogues. XIII FRIARS AND PRIEST CURES XIII FRIARS AND PRIEST CURES _An old woman begging at the door one day spoke of the cures done in her early days by the Friars at Esker to the north of our county. I asked if she had ever been there, and she burst into this praise of it:_ _"Esker is a grand place; this house and the house of Lough Cutra and your own house at Roxborough, to put the three together it wouldn't be as big as it; it is as big as the whole town of Gort, in its own way; you wouldn't have it walked in a month._ _"To go there you would get cured of anything unless it might be the stroke of the Fool that does be going with_ them; _it's best not be talking of it. The clout he would give you, there is no cure for it._ _"Three barrels there are with water, and to see the first barrel boiling it is certain you will get a cure. A big friar will come out to meet us that is as big as three. Fat they do be that they can't hardly get through the door. Water there does be rushing down; you to stoop you would hear it talking; you would be afraid of the water._ _"One well for the rich and one well for the common; blue blinds to the windows like little bars of timber without. You can see where the friars are buried down dead to the end of the world._ "_They give out clothes to the poor, bedclothes and day clothes; it is the beautifullest place from heaven out; summer houses and pears; glass in the walls around._" _I have been told:_ The Esker friars used to do great cures--Father Callaghan was the best of them. They used to do it by reading, but what it was they read no one knew, some secret thing. There was a girl brought from Clare one time, that had lost her wits, and she tied on a cart with ropes. And she was brought to Father Callaghan and he began reading over her, and then he made a second reading, and at the end of that, he bid them unloose the ropes, and when they did she got up quite quiet, but very shy looking and ashamed, and would not wait for the cart but walked away. * * * * * Father Callaghan was with a man near this one time, one Tully, and they were talking about the faeries and the man said he didn't believe in them at all. And Father Callaghan called him to the door and put up his fingers and bade him look out through them, and there he saw hundreds and hundreds of the smallest little men he ever saw and they hurling and killing one another. * * * * * The friars are gone and there are missioners come in their place and all they would do for you is to bless holy water, and as long as you would keep it, it would never get bad. * * * * * My daughter, Mrs. Meehan, that lives there below, was very bad after her first baby being born, and she wasted away and the doctors could do nothing for her. My husband went to Biddy Early for her, but she said, "Mother for daughter, father for son" and she could do nothing for her because I didn't go. But I had promised God and the priest I would never go to her, and so I kept to my word. But Mrs. Meehan was so bad she kept to the bed, and one day one of the neighbours said I had a right to bring her to the friars at Esker. And he said, "It's today you should be in it, Monday, for a Monday gospel is the best, the gospel of the Holy Ghost." So I got the cart after and put her in it, and she lying down, and we had to rest and to take out the horse at Lenane, and we got to Craughwell for the night. And the man of the house where we got lodging for the night said the priest that was doing cures now was Father Blake and he showed us the way to Esker. And when we got there he was in the chapel, and my daughter was brought in and laid on a form, and I went out and waited with the cart, and within half an hour the chapel door opened, and my daughter walked out that was carried in. And she got up on the cart herself. It was a gospel had been read over her. And I said, "I wish you had asked a gospel to bring with you home." And after that we saw a priest on the other side of a dry stone wall, and he learning three children. And she asked a gospel of him, and he said, "What you had today will do you, and I haven't one made up at this time." So she came home well. She went another time there, when she had something and asked for a gospel, and Father Blake said, "We're out of doing it now, but as you were with us before, I'll do it for you." And she wanted to give him £1 but he said, "If I took it I would do nothing for you." So she said, "I'll give it to the other man," and so she did. * * * * * I often saw Father Callaghan in Esker and the people brought to him in carts. Many cures he did, but he was prevented often. And I knew another priest did many cures, but he was carried away himself after, to a lunatic asylum. And when he came back, he would do no more. * * * * * There was a little chap had but seven years, and he was doing no good, but whistling and twirling, and the father went to Father Callaghan, that was just after coming out of the gaol when he got there, for doing cures; it is a gaol of their own they had. The man asked him to do a cure on his son, and Father Callaghan said, "I wouldn't like him to be brought here, but I will go some day to your house; I will go with my dog and my hound as if fowling, and I will bring no sign of a car or a carriage at all." So he came one day to the house and knocked at the door. And when he came in he said to the father, "Go out and bring me in a bundle of sally rods that will be as thin as rushes, and divide them into six small parts," he said, "and twist every one of the six parts together." And when that was done, he took the little bundle of rods, and he beat the child on the head with them one after another till they were in flitters and the child roaring. Then he laid the child in the father's arms, and no sooner there than it fell asleep, and Father Callaghan said to the father, "What you have now is your own, but it wasn't your own that was in it before." * * * * * There used to be swarms of people going to Esker, and Father Callaghan would say in Irish, "Let the people in the Sheogue stand at one side," and he would go over and read over them what he had to read. * * * * * There was an uncle of my own was working at Ballycluan the time the Quakers were making a place there, and it was the habit when the summer was hot to put the beds out into the barn. And one night he was sleeping in the barn, and something came and lay on him in the bed; he could not see what it was, but it was about the size of the foal of a horse. And the next night it came again and the next, and lay on him, and he put out his left hand to push it from him, and it went from him quite quiet, but if it did, when he rose in the morning, he was not able to stretch out his hand, and he was a long time like that and then his father brought him to the friars at Esker, and within twelve minutes one of them had him cured, reading over him, but I'm not sure was it Father Blake or Father Callaghan. But it was not long after that till he fell off his cart as if he was knocked off it, and broke his leg. The coppinger had his leg cured, but he did not live long, for the third thing happened was, he threw up his heart's blood and died. For if you are cured of one thing that comes on you like that, another thing will come on you in its place, or if not on you, on some other person, maybe some one in your own family. It is very often I noticed that to happen. * * * * * The priests in old times used to have the power to cure strokes and madness and the like, but the Pope and the Bishops have that stopped; they said that the people will get out of witchcraft little by little. * * * * * Priests can do cures if they will, and it's not out of the Gospel they do them, but out of a book specially for the purpose, so I believe. But something falls on them or on the things belonging to them, if they do it too often. But Father Keeley for certain did cures. It was he cured Mike Madden's neck, when everyone else had failed--so they had--though Mike has never confessed to it. * * * * * The priests can do cures surely, and surely they can put harm on you. But they wouldn't do that unless they'd be sure a man would deserve it. One time at that house you see up there beyond, Roche's, there was a wedding and there was some fighting came out of it, and bad blood. And Father Boyle was priest at that time, and he was vexed and he said he'd come and have stations at the house, and they should all be reconciled. So he came on the day he appointed and the house was settled like a chapel, and some of the people there was bad blood between came, but not all of them, and Roche himself was not there. And when the stations were over Father Boyle got his book, and he read the names of those he had told to be there, and they answered, like a schoolmaster would call out the names of his scholars. And when Roche's name was read and he not there to answer, with the dint of madness Father Boyle quenched the candles on the altar, and he said this house and all that belong to it will go away to nothing, like the froth that's going down the river. And if you look at the house now you'll see the way it is, not a stable or an outhouse left standing, and not one of the whole family left in it but Roche, and he paralysed. So they can do both harm and good. * * * * * There was a man out in the mountains used to do cures, and one day on a little road the priest met him, and stopped his car and began to abuse him for the cures he was doing. And then the priest went on, and when he had gone a bit of the road his horse fell down. And he came back and called to the man and said, "Come help me now, for this is your doing, to make the horse fall." And the man said, "It's none of my doing, but it's the doing of my master, for he was vexed with the way you spoke. But go back now and you'll find the horse as he was before." So he went back and the horse had got up and was standing, and nothing wrong with him at all. And the priest said no more against him from that day. * * * * * My son is lame this long time; a fine young man he was, about seventeen years--and a pain came in his knee all of a moment. I tried doctors with him and I brought him to the friars in Loughrea, and one of them read a gospel over him, and the pain went after that, but the knee grew out to be twisted like. The friar said it was surely he had been overheated. A little old maneen he was, very ancient. I knew well it was the _drochuil_ that did it; there by the side of the road he was sitting when he got the frost. There was a needlewoman used to be sewing late on a Saturday night, and sometimes if there was a button or a thread wanting she would put it in, even if it was Sunday morning; and she lived in Loughrea that is near your own home. And one day she went to the loch to get a can of water, and it was in her hand. And in a minute a blast of wind came that rose all the dust and the straws and knocked herself. And more than that, her mouth was twisted around to her poll. There were some people saw her, and they brought her home, and within a week her mother brought her to the priest. And when he saw her he said, "You are the best mother ever there was, for if you had left her nine days without bringing her to me, all I could do would not have taken off her what is on her." He asked then up to what time did she work on the Saturday night, and she said up to one or two o'clock, and sometimes on a Sunday morning. So he took off what was on her, and bade her do that no more, and she got well, but to the last there was a sort of a twisted turn in her mouth. That woman now I am telling you of was an aunt of my own. * * * * * Father Nolan has a kind heart, and he'd do cures. But it's hard to get them, unless it would be for some they had a great interest in. But Father McConaghy is so high in himself, he wouldn't do anything of that sort. When Johnny Dunne was bad, two years ago, and all but given over, he begged and prayed Father McConaghy to do it for him. And he refused and said, "You must commit yourself to the mercy of Almighty God," and Johnny Dunne, the poor man, said, "It's a hard thing for a man that has a house full of children to be left to the mercy of Almighty God." * * * * * But there's _some_ that can help. My father told me long ago that my sister was lying sick for a long time, and one night a beggarman came to the door and asked for shelter. And he said, "I can't give you shelter, with my daughter lying sick in the room." "Let me in, it's best for you," says he. And in the morning he went away, and the sick girl rose up, as well as ever she was before. * * * * * Father Flaherty, when he was a curate, could open the eyes that were all but closed in death, but he wouldn't have such things spoken of now. Losses they may have, but that's not all. Whatever evil thing they raise, they may not have strength after to put it down again, and so they may be lost themselves in the end. * * * * * Surely they can do cures, and they can tell sometimes the hour you'd go. There was a girl I knew was sick, and when the priest came and saw her, he said, "Between the two Masses tomorrow she'll be gone," and so she was. And those that saw her after, said that it was the face of her mother that died before that was on the bed, and that it was her mother had taken her to where she was. * * * * * And Mike Barrett surely saw a man brought in a cart to Father Curley's house when he lived in Cloon, and carried upstairs to him, and he walked down out of the house again, sound and well. But they must lose something when they do cures--either their health or something else, though many say no one did so many cures as Father Fitzgerald when he was a curate. Father Airlie one time was called in to Glover's house where he was lying sick, and did a cure on him. And he had a cow at the time that was in calf. And soon after some man said to him "The cow will be apt soon to calve," though it wasn't very near the time. And Father Airlie said "She'll never live to do that." And sure enough in a couple of days after she was dead. SWEDENBORG, MEDIUMS, AND THE DESOLATE PLACES SWEDENBORG, MEDIUMS, AND THE DESOLATE PLACES I Some fifteen years ago I was in bad health and could not work, and Lady Gregory brought me from cottage to cottage while she began to collect the stories in this book, and presently when I was at work again she went on with her collection alone till it grew to be, so far as I know, the most considerable book of its kind. Except that I had heard some story of "The Battle of the Friends" at Aran and had divined that it might be the legendary common accompaniment of death, she was not guided by any theory of mine, but recorded what came, writing it out at each day's end and in the country dialect. It was at this time mainly she got the knowledge of words that makes her little comedies of country life so beautiful and so amusing. As that ancient system of belief unfolded before us, with unforeseen probabilities and plausibilities, it was as though we had begun to live in a dream, and one day Lady Gregory said to me when we had passed an old man in the wood: "That old man may know the secret of the ages." I had noticed many analogies in modern spiritism and began a more careful comparison, going a good deal to séances for the first time and reading all writers of any reputation I could find in English or French. I found much that was moving, when I had climbed to the top story of some house in Soho or Holloway, and, having paid my shilling, awaited, among servant girls, the wisdom of some fat old medium. That is an absorbing drama, though if my readers begin to seek it they will spoil it, for its gravity and simplicity depends on all, or all but all, believing that their dead are near. I did not go there for evidence of the kind the Society for Psychical Research would value, any more than I would seek it in Galway or in Aran. I was comparing one form of belief with another, and like Paracelsus, who claimed to have collected his knowledge from midwife and hangman, I was discovering a philosophy. Certain things had happened to me when alone in my own room which had convinced me that there are spiritual intelligences which can warn us and advise us, and, as Anatole France has said, if one believes that the Devil can walk the streets of Lisbon, it is not difficult to believe that he can reach his arm over the river and light Don Juan's cigarette. And yet I do not think I have been easily convinced, for I know we make a false beauty by a denial of ugliness and that if we deny the causes of doubt we make a false faith, and that we must excite the whole being into activity if we would offer to God what is, it may be, the one thing germane to the matter, a consenting of all our faculties. Not but that I doubt at times, with the animal doubt of the Middle Ages that I have found even in pious countrywomen when they have seen some life come to an end like the stopping of a clock, or that all the perceptions of the soul, or the weightiest intellectual deductions, are not at whiles but a feather in the daily show. I pieced together stray thoughts written out after questioning the familiar of a trance medium or automatic writer, by Allen Cardec, or by some American, or by myself, or arranged the fragments into some pattern, till I believed myself the discoverer of a vast generalization. I lived in excitement, amused to make Holloway interpret Aran, and constantly comparing my discoveries with what I have learned of mediæval tradition among fellow students, with the reveries of a Neo-platonist, of a seventeenth-century Platonist, of Paracelsus or a Japanese poet. Then one day I opened _The Spiritual Diary_ of Swedenborg, which I had not taken down for twenty years, and found all there, even certain thoughts I had not set on paper because they had seemed fantastic from the lack of some traditional foundation. It was strange I should have forgotten so completely a writer I had read with some care before the fascination of Blake and Boehme had led me away. II It was indeed Swedenborg who affirmed for the modern world, as against the abstract reasoning of the learned, the doctrine and practice of the desolate places, of shepherds and of midwives, and discovered a world of spirits where there was a scenery like that of earth, human forms, grotesque or beautiful, senses that knew pleasure and pain, marriage and war, all that could be painted upon canvas, or put into stories to make one's hair stand up. He had mastered the science of his time, he had written innumerable scientific works in Latin, had been the first to formulate the nebular hypothesis and wrote a cold abstract style, the result it may be of preoccupation with stones and metals, for he had been assessor of mines to the Swedish Government, and of continual composition in a dead language. In his fifty-eighth year he was sitting in an inn in London, where he had gone about the publication of a book, when a spirit appeared before him who was, he believed, Christ himself, and told him that henceforth he could commune with spirits and angels. From that moment he was a mysterious man describing distant events as if they were before his eyes, and knowing dead men's secrets, if we are to accept testimony that seemed convincing to Emmanuel Kant. The sailors who carried him upon his many voyages spoke of the charming of the waves and of favouring winds that brought them sooner than ever before to their journey's end, and an ambassador described how a queen, he himself looking on, fainted when Swedenborg whispered in her ear some secret known only to her and to her dead brother. And all this happened to a man without egotism, without drama, without a sense of the picturesque, and who wrote a dry language, lacking fire and emotion, and who to William Blake seemed but an arranger and putter away of the old Church, a Samson shorn by the churches, an author not of a book, but of an index. He considered heaven and hell and God, the angels, the whole destiny of man, as if he were sitting before a large table in a Government office putting little pieces of mineral ore into small square boxes for an assistant to pack away in drawers. All angels were once men, he says, and it is therefore men who have entered into what he calls the Celestial State and become angels, who attend us immediately after death, and communicate to us their thoughts, not by speaking, but by looking us in the face as they sit beside the head of our body. When they find their thoughts are communicated they know the time has come to separate the spiritual from the physical body. If a man begins to feel that he can endure them no longer, as he doubtless will, for in their presence he can think and feel but sees nothing, lesser angels who belong to truth more than to love take their place and he is in the light again, but in all likelihood these angels also will be too high and he will slip from state to state until he finds himself after a few days "with those who are in accord with his life in the world; with them he finds his life, and, wonderful to relate, he then leads a life similar to that he led in the world." This first state of shifting and readjustment seems to correspond with a state of sleep more modern seers discover to follow upon death. It is characteristic of his whole religious system, the slow drifting of like to like. Then follows a period which may last but a short time or many years, while the soul lives a life so like that of the world that it may not even believe that it has died, for "when what is spiritual touches and sees what is spiritual the effect is the same as when what is natural touches what is natural." It is the other world of the early races, of those whose dead are in the rath or the faery hill, of all who see no place of reward and punishment but a continuance of this life, with cattle and sheep, markets and war. He describes what he has seen, and only partly explains it, for, unlike science which is founded upon past experience, his work, by the very nature of his gift, looks for the clearing away of obscurities to unrecorded experience. He is revealing something and that which is revealed, so long as it remains modest and simple, has the same right with the child in the cradle to put off to the future the testimony of its worth. This earth-resembling life is the creation of the image-making power of the mind, plucked naked from the body, and mainly of the images in the memory. All our work has gone with us, the books we have written can be opened and read or put away for later use, even though their print and paper have been sold to the buttermen; and reading his description one notices, a discovery one had thought peculiar to the last generation, that the "most minute particulars which enter the memory remain there and are never obliterated," and there as here we do not always know all that is in our memory, but at need angelic spirits who act upon us there as here, widening and deepening the consciousness at will, can draw forth all the past, and make us live again all our transgressions and see our victims "as if they were present, together with the place, words, and motives"; and that suddenly, "as when a scene bursts upon the sight" and yet continues "for hours together," and like the transgressions, all the pleasure and pain of sensible life awaken again and again, all our passionate events rush up about us and not as seeming imagination, for imagination is now the world. And yet another impulse comes and goes, flitting through all, a preparation for the spiritual abyss, for out of the celestial world, immediately beyond the world of form, fall certain seeds as it were that exfoliate through us into forms, elaborate scenes, buildings, alterations of form that are related by "correspondence" or "signature" to celestial incomprehensible realities. Meanwhile those who have loved or fought see one another in the unfolding of a dream, believing it may be that they wound one another or kill one another, severing arms or hands, or that their lips are joined in a kiss, and the countryman has need but of Swedenborg's keen ears and eagle sight to hear a noise of swords in the empty valley, or to meet the old master hunting with all his hounds upon the stroke of midnight among the moonlit fields. But gradually we begin to change and possess only those memories we have related to our emotion or our thought; all that was accidental or habitual dies away and we begin an active present life, for apart from that calling up of the past we are not punished or rewarded for our actions when in the world but only for what we do when out of it. Up till now we have disguised our real selves and those who have lived well for fear or favour have walked with holy men and women, and the wise man and the dunce have been associated in common learning, but now the ruling love has begun to remake circumstance and our body. Swedenborg had spoken with shades that had been learned Latinists, or notable Hebrew scholars, and found, because they had done everything from the memory and nothing from thought and emotion, they had become but simple men. We have already met our friends, but if we were to meet them now for the first time we should not recognize them, for all has been kneaded up anew, arrayed in order and made one piece. "Every man has many loves, but still they all have reference to his ruling love and make one with it or together compose it," and our surrender to that love, as to supreme good, is no new thought, for Villiers de l'Isle Adam quotes Thomas Aquinas as having said, "Eternity is the possession of one's self, as in a single moment." During the fusing and rending man flits, as it were, from one flock of the dead to another, seeking always those who are like himself, for as he puts off disguise he becomes unable to endure what is unrelated to his love, even becoming insane among things that are too fine for him. So heaven and hell are built always anew and in hell or heaven all do what they please and all are surrounded by scenes and circumstance which are the expression of their natures and the creation of their thought. Swedenborg because he belongs to an eighteenth century not yet touched by the romantic revival feels horror amid rocky uninhabited places, and so believes that the evil are in such places while the good are amid smooth grass and garden walks and the clear sunlight of Claude Lorraine. He describes all in matter-of-fact words, his meeting with this or that dead man, and the place where he found him, and yet we are not to understand him literally, for space as we know it has come to an end and a difference of state has begun to take its place, and wherever a spirit's thought is, the spirit cannot help but be. Nor should we think of spirit as divided from spirit, as men are from each other, for they share each other's thoughts and life, and those whom he has called celestial angels, while themselves mediums to those above, commune with men and lower spirits, through orders of mediatorial spirits, not by a conveyance of messages, but as though a hand were thrust within a hundred gloves,[1] one glove outside another, and so there is a continual influx from God to man. It flows to us through the evil angels as through the good, for the dark fire is the perversion of God's life and the evil angels have their office in the equilibrium that is our freedom, in the building of that fabulous bridge made out of the edge of a sword. To the eyes of those that are in the high heaven "all things laugh, sport, and live," and not merely because they are beautiful things but because they arouse by a minute correspondence of form and emotion the heart's activity, and being founded, as it were, in this changing heart, all things continually change and shimmer. The garments of all befit minutely their affections, those that have most wisdom and most love being the most nobly garmented, in ascending order from shimmering white, through garments of many colours and garments that are like flame, to the angels of the highest heaven that are naked. In the west of Ireland the country people say that after death every man grows upward or downward to the likeness of thirty years, perhaps because at that age Christ began his ministry, and stays always in that likeness; and these angels move always towards "the springtime of their life" and grow more and more beautiful, "the more thousand years they live," and women who have died infirm with age, and yet lived in faith and charity, and true love towards husband or lover, come "after a succession of years" to an adolescence that was not in Helen's Mirror, "for to grow old in heaven is to grow young." There went on about Swedenborg an intermittent "Battle of the Friends" and on certain occasions had not the good fought upon his side, the evil troop, by some carriage accident or the like, would have caused his death, for all associations of good spirits have an answering mob, whose members grow more hateful to look on through the centuries. "Their faces in general are horrible, and empty of life like corpses, those of some are black, of some fiery like torches, of some hideous with pimples, boils, and ulcers; with many no face appears, but in its place a something hairy or bony, and in some one can but see the teeth." And yet among themselves they are seeming men and but show their right appearance when the light of heaven, which of all things they most dread, beats upon them; and seem to live in a malignant gaiety, and they burn always in a fire that is God's love and wisdom, changed into their own hunger and misbelief. III In Lady Gregory's stories there is a man who heard the newly dropped lambs of faery crying in November, and much evidence to show a topsy-turvydom of seasons, our spring being their autumn, our winter their summer, and Mary Battle, my Uncle George Pollexfen's old servant, was accustomed to say that no dream had a true meaning after the rise of the sap; and Lady Gregory learned somewhere on Sleive Ochta that if one told one's dreams to the trees fasting the trees would wither. Swedenborg saw some like opposition of the worlds, for what hides the spirits from our sight and touch, as he explains, is that their light and heat are darkness and cold to us and our light and heat darkness and cold to them, but they can see the world through our eyes and so make our light their light. He seems however to warn us against a movement whose philosophy he announced or created, when he tells us to seek no conscious intercourse with any that fall short of the celestial rank. At ordinary times they do not see us or know that we are near, but when we speak to them we are in danger of their deceits. "They have a passion for inventing," and do not always know that they invent. "It has been shown me many times that the spirits speaking with me did not know but that they were the men and women I was thinking of; neither did other spirits know the contrary. Thus yesterday and today one known of me in life was personated. The personation was so like him in all respects, so far as known to me, that nothing could be more like. For there are genera and species of spirits of similar faculty (? as the dead whom we seek), and when like things are called up in the memory of men and so are represented to them they think they are the same persons. At other times they enter into the fantasy of other spirits and think that they are them, and sometimes they will even believe themselves to be the Holy Spirit," and as they identify themselves with a man's affection or enthusiasm they may drive him to ruin, and even an angel will join himself so completely to a man that he scarcely knows "that he does not know of himself what the man knows," and when they speak with a man they can but speak in that man's mother tongue, and this they can do without taking thought, for "it is almost as when a man is speaking and thinks nothing about his words." Yet when they leave the man "they are in their own angelical or spiritual language and know nothing of the language of the man." They are not even permitted to talk to a man from their own memory for did they do so the man would not know "but that the things he would then think were his when yet they would belong to the spirit," and it is these sudden memories occurring sometimes by accident, and without God's permission that gave the Greeks the idea they had lived before. They have bodies as plastic as their minds that flow so readily into the mould of ours and he remembers having seen the face of a spirit change continuously and yet keep always a certain generic likeness. It had but run through the features of the individual ghosts of the fleet it belonged to, of those bound into the one mediatorial communion. He speaks too, again and again, of seeing palaces and mountain ranges and all manner of scenery built up in a moment, and even believes in imponderable troops of magicians that build the like out of some deceit or in malicious sport. IV There is in Swedenborg's manner of expression a seeming superficiality. We follow an easy narrative, sometimes incredulous, but always, as we think, understanding, for his moral conceptions are simple, his technical terms continually repeated, and for the most part we need but turn for his "correspondence," his symbolism as we would say, to the index of his _Arcana Celestia_. Presently, however, we discover that he treads upon this surface by an achievement of power almost as full of astonishment as if he should walk upon water charmed to stillness by some halcyon; while his disciple and antagonist Blake is like a man swimming in a tumbling sea, surface giving way to surface and deep showing under broken deep. A later mystic has said of Swedenborg that he but half felt, half saw, half tasted the kingdom of heaven, and his abstraction, his dryness, his habit of seeing but one element in everything, his lack of moral speculation have made him the founder of a church, while William Blake, who grows always more exciting with every year of life, grows also more obscure. An impulse towards what is definite and sensuous, and an indifference towards the abstract and the general, are the lineaments, as I understand the world, of all that comes not from the learned, but out of common antiquity, out of the "folk" as we say, and in certain languages, Irish for instance--and these languages are all poetry--it is not possible to speak an abstract thought. This impulse went out of Swedenborg when he turned from vision. It was inseparable from this primitive faculty, but was not a part of his daily bread, whereas Blake carried it to a passion and made it the foundation of his thought. Blake was put into a rage by all painting where detail is generalized away, and complained that Englishmen after the French Revolution became as like one another as the dots and lozenges in the mechanical engraving of his time, and he hated histories that gave us reasoning and deduction in place of the events, and St. Paul's Cathedral because it came from a mathematical mind, and told Crabb Robinson that he preferred to any others a happy, thoughtless person. Unlike Swedenborg he believed that the antiquities of all peoples were as sacred as those of the Jews, and so rejecting authority and claiming that the same law for the lion and the ox was oppression, he could believe "all that lives is holy," and say that a man if he but cultivated the power of vision would see the truth in a way suited "to his imaginative energy," and with only so much resemblance to the way it showed in for other men, as there is between different human forms. Born when Swedenborg was a new excitement, growing up with a Swedenborgian brother, who annoyed him "with bread and cheese advice," and having, it may be, for nearest friend the Swedenborgian Flaxman with whom he would presently quarrel, he answered the just translated _Heaven and Hell_ with the paradoxical violence of _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_. Swedenborg was but "the linen clothes folded up" or the angel sitting by the tomb, after Christ, the human imagination, had arisen. His own memory being full of images from painting and from poetry he discovered more profound "correspondences," yet always in his boys and girls walking or dancing on smooth grass and in golden light, as in pastoral scenes cut upon wood or copper by his disciples Palmer and Calvert one notices the peaceful Swedenborgian heaven. We come there, however, by no obedience but by the energy that "is eternal delight," for "the treasures of heaven are not negations of passion but realities of intellect from which the passions emanate uncurbed in their eternal glory." He would have us talk no more "of the good man and the bad," but only of "the wise man and the foolish," and he cries, "Go put off holiness and put on intellect." Higher than all souls that seem to theology to have found a final state, above good and evil, neither accused, nor yet accusing, live those, who have come to freedom, their senses sharpened by eternity, piping or dancing or "like the gay fishes on the wave when the moon sucks up the dew." Merlin, who in the verses of Chrétien de Troyes was laid in the one tomb with dead lovers, is very near and the saints are far away. Believing too that crucifixion and resurrection were the soul's diary and no mere historical events, which had been transacted in vain should a man come again from the womb and forget his salvation, he could cleave to the heroic doctrine the angel in the crystal made Sir Thomas Kelly renounce and have a "vague memory" of having been "with Christ and Socrates"; and stirred as deeply by hill and tree as by human beauty, he saw all Merlin's people, spirits "of vegetable nature" and fairies whom we "call accident and chance." He made possible a religious life to those who had seen the painters and poets of the romantic movement succeed to theology, but the shepherd and the midwife had they known him would have celebrated him in stories, and turned away from his thought, understanding that he was upon an errand to their masters. Like Swedenborg he believed that heaven came from "an improvement of sensual enjoyment," for sight and hearing, taste and touch grow with the angelic years, but unlike him he could convey to others "enlarged and numerous senses," and the mass of men know instinctively they are safer with an abstract and an index. V It was, I believe, the Frenchman Allen Cardec and an American shoemaker's clerk called Jackson Davis, who first adapted to the séance room the philosophy of Swedenborg. I find Davis whose style is vague, voluble, and pretentious, almost unreadable, and yet his books have gone to many editions and are full of stories that had been charming or exciting had he lived in Connaught or any place else, where the general mass of the people has an imaginative tongue. His mother was learned in country superstition, and had called in a knowledgeable man when she believed a neighbour had bewitched a cow, but it was not till his fifteenth year that he discovered his faculty, when his native village, Poughkeepsie, was visited by a travelling mesmerist. He was fascinated by the new marvel, and mesmerized by a neighbour he became clairvoyant, describing the diseases of those present and reading watches he could not see with his eyes. One night the neighbour failed to awake him completely from the trance and he stumbled out into the street and went to his bed ill and stupefied. In the middle of the night he heard a voice telling him to get up and dress himself and follow. He wandered for miles, now wondering at what seemed the unusual brightness of the stars and once passing a visionary shepherd and his flock of sheep, and then again stumbling in cold and darkness. He crossed the frozen Hudson and became unconscious. He awoke in a mountain valley to see once more the visionary shepherd and his flock, and a very little, handsome, old man who showed him a scroll and told him to write his name upon it. A little later he passed, as he believed, from this mesmeric condition and found that he was among the Catskill Mountains and more than forty miles from home. Having crossed the Hudson again he felt the trance coming upon him and began to run. He ran, as he thought, many miles and as he ran became unconscious. When he awoke he was sitting upon a gravestone in a graveyard surrounded by a wood and a high wall. Many of the gravestones were old and broken. After much conversation with two stately phantoms, he went stumbling on his way. Presently he found himself at home again. It was evening and the mesmerist was questioning him as to where he had been since they lost him the night before. He was very hungry and had a vague memory of his return, of country roads passing before his eyes in brief moments of wakefulness. He now seemed to know that one of the phantoms with whom he had spoken in the graveyard was the physician Galen, and the other, Swedenborg. From that hour the two phantoms came to him again and again, the one advising him in the diagnosis of disease, and the other in philosophy. He quoted a passage from Swedenborg, and it seemed impossible that any copy of the newly translated book that contained it could have come into his hands, for a Swedenborgian minister in New York traced every copy which had reached America. Swedenborg himself had gone upon more than one somnambulistic journey, and they occur a number of times in Lady Gregory's stories, one woman saying that when she was among the faeries she was often glad to eat the food from the pigs' troughs. Once in childhood, Davis, while hurrying home through a wood, heard footsteps behind him and began to run, but the footsteps, though they did not seem to come more quickly and were still the regular pace of a man walking, came nearer. Presently he saw an old, white-haired man beside him who said: "You cannot run away from life," and asked him where he was going. "I am going home," he said, and the phantom answered, "I also am going home," and then vanished. Twice in later childhood, and a third time when he had grown to be a young man, he was overtaken by the same phantom and the same words were spoken, but the last time he asked why it had vanished so suddenly. It said that it had not, but that he had supposed that "changes of state" in himself were "appearance and disappearance." It then touched him with one finger upon the side of his head, and the place where he was touched remained ever after without feeling, like those places always searched for at the witches' trials. One remembers "the touch" and "the stroke" in the Irish stories. VI Allen Cardec, whose books are much more readable than those of Davis, had himself no mediumistic gifts. He gathered the opinions, as he believed, of spirits speaking through a great number of automatists and trance speakers, and all the essential thought of Swedenborg remains, but like Davis, these spirits do not believe in an eternal Hell, and like Blake they describe unhuman races, powers of the elements, and declare that the soul is no creature of the womb, having lived many lives upon the earth. The sorrow of death, they tell us again and again, is not so bitter as the sorrow of birth, and had our ears the subtlety we could listen amid the joy of lovers and the pleasure that comes with sleep to the wailing of the spirit betrayed into a cradle. Who was it that wrote: "O Pythagoras, so good, so wise, so eloquent, upon my last voyage, I taught thee, a soft lad, to splice a rope"? This belief, common among continental spiritists, is denied by those of England and America, and if one question the voices at a séance they take sides according to the medium's nationality. I have even heard what professed to be the shade of an old English naval officer denying it with a fine phrase: "I did not leave my oars crossed; I left them side by side." VII Much as a hashish eater will discover in the folds of a curtain a figure beautifully drawn and full of delicate detail all built up out of shadows that show to other eyes, or later to his own, a different form or none, Swedenborg discovered in the Bible the personal symbolism of his vision. If the Bible was upon his side, as it seemed, he had no need of other evidence, but had he lived when modern criticism had lessened its authority, even had he been compelled to say that the primitive beliefs of all peoples were as sacred, he could but have run to his own gift for evidence. He might even have held of some importance his powers of discovering the personal secrets of the dead and set up as medium. Yet it is more likely he had refused, for the medium has his gift from no heightening of all the emotions and intellectual faculties till they seem as it were to take fire, but commonly because they are altogether or in part extinguished while another mind controls his body. He is greatly subject to trance and awakes to remember nothing, whereas the mystic and the saint plead unbroken consciousness. Indeed the author of _Sidonia the Sorceress_, a really learned authority, considered this lack of memory a certain sign of possession by the devil, though this is too absolute. Only yesterday, while walking in a field, I made up a good sentence with an emotion of triumph, and half a minute after could not even remember what it was about, and several minutes had gone by before I as suddenly found it. For the most part, though not always, it is this unconscious condition of mediumship, a dangerous condition it may be, that seems to make possible "physical phenomena" and that overshadowing of the memory by some spirit memory, which Swedenborg thought an accident and unlawful. In describing and explaining this mediumship and so making intelligible the stories of Aran and Galway I shall say very seldom, "it is said," or "Mr. So-and-So reports," or "it is claimed by the best authors." I shall write as if what I describe were everywhere established, everywhere accepted, and I had only to remind my reader of what he already knows. Even if incredulous he will give me his fancy for certain minutes, for at the worst I can show him a gorgon or chimera that has never lacked gazers, alleging nothing (and I do not write out of a little knowledge) that is not among the sober beliefs of many men, or obvious inference from those beliefs, and if he wants more--well, he will find it in the best authors.[2] VIII All spirits for some time after death, and the "earth-bound," as they are called, the larvæ, as Beaumont, the seventeenth-century Platonist, preferred to call them, those who cannot become disentangled from old habits and desires, for many years, it may be for centuries, keep the shape of their earthly bodies and carry on their old activities, wooing or quarrelling, or totting figures on a table, in a round of dull duties or passionate events. Today while the great battle in Northern France is still undecided, should I climb to the top of that old house in Soho where a medium is sitting among servant girls, some one would, it may be, ask for news of Gordon Highlander or Munster Fusilier, and the fat old woman would tell in Cockney language how the dead do not yet know they are dead, but stumble on amid visionary smoke and noise, and how angelic spirits seek to awaken them but still in vain. Those who have attained to nobler form, when they appear in the séance room, create temporary bodies, commonly like to those they wore when living, through some unconscious constraint of memory, or deliberately, that they may be recognized. Davis, in his literal way, said the first sixty feet of the atmosphere was a reflector and that in almost every case it was mere images we spoke with in the séance room, the spirit itself being far away. The images are made of a substance drawn from the medium who loses weight, and in a less degree from all present, and for this light must be extinguished or dimmed or shaded with red as in a photographer's room. The image will begin outside the medium's body as a luminous cloud, or in a sort of luminous mud forced from the body, out of the mouth it may be, from the side or from the lower parts of the body.[3] One may see a vague cloud condense and diminish into a head or arm or a whole figure of a man, or to some animal shape. I remember a story told me by a friend's steward in Galway of the faeries playing at hurley in a field and going in and out of the bodies of two men who stood at either goal. Out of the medium will come perhaps a cripple or a man bent with years and sometimes the apparition will explain that, but for some family portrait, or for what it lit on while rumaging in our memories, it had not remembered its customary clothes or features, or cough or limp or crutch. Sometimes, indeed, there is a strange regularity of feature and we suspect the presence of an image that may never have lived, an artificial beauty that may have shown itself in the Greek mysteries. Has some cast in the Vatican, or at Bloomsbury been the model? Or there may float before our eyes a mask as strange and powerful as the lineaments of the Servian's _Frowning Man_ or of Rodin's _Man with the Broken Nose_. And once a rumour ran among the séance rooms to the bewilderment of simple believers, that a heavy middle-aged man who took snuff, and wore the costume of a past time, had appeared while a French medium was in his trance, and somebody had recognized the Tartuffe of the Comédie Française. There will be few complete forms, for the dead are economical, and a head, or just enough of the body for recognition, may show itself above hanging folds of drapery that do not seem to cover solid limbs, or a hand or foot is lacking, or it may be that some _Revenant_ has seized the half-made image of another, and a young girl's arm will be thrust from the withered body of an old man. Nor is every form a breathing and pulsing thing, for some may have a distribution of light and shade not that of the séance room, flat pictures whose eyes gleam and move; and sometimes material objects are thrown together (drifted in from some neighbour's wardrobe, it may be, and drifted thither again) and an appearance kneaded up out of these and that luminous mud or vapour almost as vivid as are those pictures of Antonio Mancini which have fragments of his paint tubes embedded for the high lights into the heavy masses of the paint. Sometimes there are animals, bears frequently for some unknown reason, but most often birds and dogs. If an image speak it will seldom seem very able or alert, for they come for recognition only, and their minds are strained and fragmentary; and should the dogs bark, a man who knows the language of our dogs may not be able to say if they are hungry or afraid or glad to meet their master again. All may seem histrionic or a hollow show. We are the spectators of a phantasmagoria that affects the photographic plate or leaves its moulded image in a preparation of paraffin. We have come to understand why the Platonists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and visionaries like Boehme and Paracelsus confused imagination with magic, and why Boehme will have it that it "creates and substantiates as it goes." Most commonly, however, especially of recent years, no form will show itself, or but vaguely and faintly and in no way ponderable, and instead there will be voices flitting here and there in darkness, or in the half-light, or it will be the medium himself fallen into trance who will speak, or without a trance write from a knowledge and intelligence not his own. Glanvil, the seventeenth-century Platonist, said that the higher spirits were those least capable of showing material effects, and it seems plain from certain Polish experiments that the intelligence of the communicators increases with their economy of substance and energy. Often now among these faint effects one will seem to speak with the very dead. They will speak or write some tongue that the medium does not know and give correctly their forgotten names, or describe events one only verifies after weeks of labour. Here and there amongst them one discovers a wise and benevolent mind that knows a little of the future and can give good advice. They have made, one imagines, from some finer substance than a phosphorescent mud, or cobweb vapour that we can see or handle, images not wholly different from themselves, figures in a galanty show not too strained or too extravagant to speak their very thought. Yet we never long escape the phantasmagoria nor can long forget that we are among the shape-changers. Sometimes our own minds shape that mysterious substance, which may be life itself, according to desire or constrained by memory, and the dead no longer remembering their own names become the characters in the drama we ourselves have invented. John King, who has delighted melodramatic minds for hundreds of séances with his career on earth as Henry Morgan the buccaneer, will tell more scientific visitors that he is merely a force, while some phantom long accustomed to a decent name, questioned by some pious Catholic, will admit very cheerfully that he is the devil. Nor is it only present minds that perplex the shades with phantasy, for friends of Count Albert de Rochas once wrote out names and incidents but to discover that though the surname of the shade that spoke had been historical, Christian name and incidents were from a romance running at the time in some clerical newspaper no one there had ever opened. All these shadows have drunk from the pool of blood and become delirious. Sometimes they will use the very word and say that we force delirium upon them because we do not still our minds, or that minds not stupefied with the body force them more subtly, for now and again one will withdraw what he has said, saying that he was constrained by the neighbourhood of some more powerful shade. When I was a boy at Sligo, a stable boy met his late master going round the yard, and having told him to go and haunt the lighthouse, was dismissed by his mistress for sending her husband to haunt so inclement a spot. Ghosts, I was told, must go where they are bid, and all those threatenings by the old _grimoires_ to drown some disobedient spirit at the bottom of the Red Sea, and indeed all exorcism and conjuration affirm that our imagination is king. _Revenants_ are, to use the modern term, "suggestable," and may be studied in the "trance personalities" of hypnoses and in our dreams which are but hypnosis turned inside out, a modeller's clay for our suggestions, or, if we follow _The Spiritual Diary_, for those of invisible beings. Swedenborg has written that we are each in the midst of a group of associated spirits who sleep when we sleep and become the _dramatis personæ_ of our dreams, and are always the other will that wrestles with our thought, shaping it to our despite. IX We speak, it may be, of the Proteus of antiquity which has to be held or it will refuse its prophecy, and there are many warnings in our ears. "Stoop not down," says the Chaldæan Oracle, "to the darkly splendid world wherein continually lieth a faithless depth and Hades wrapped in cloud, delighting in unintelligible images," and amid that caprice, among those clouds, there is always legerdemain; we juggle, or lose our money with the same pack of cards that may reveal the future. The magicians who astonished the Middle Ages with power as incalculable as the fall of a meteor were not so numerous as the more amusing jugglers who could do their marvels at will; and in our own day the juggler Houdin, sent to Morocco by the French Government, was able to break the prestige of the dervishes whose fragile wonders were but worked by fasting and prayer. Sometimes, indeed, a man would be magician, jester, and juggler. In an Irish story a stranger lays three rushes upon the flat of his hand and promises to blow away the inner and leave the others unmoved, and thereupon puts two fingers of his other hand upon the outer ones and blows. However, he will do a more wonderful trick. There are many who can wag both ears, but he can wag one and not the other, and thereafter, when he has everybody's attention, he takes one ear between finger and thumb. But now that the audience are friendly and laughing the moment of miracle has come. He takes out of a bag a skein of silk thread and throws it into the air, until it seems as though one end were made fast to a cloud. Then he takes out of his bag first a hare and then a dog and then a young man and then "a beautiful, well-dressed young woman" and sends them all running up the thread. Nor, the old writers tell us, does the association of juggler and magician cease after death, which only gives to legerdemain greater power and subtlety. Those who would live again in us, becoming a part of our thoughts and passion have, it seems, their sport to keep us in good humour, and a young girl who has astonished herself and her friends in some dark séance may, when we have persuaded her to become entranced in a lighted room, tell us that some shade is touching her face, while we can see her touching it with her own hand, or we may discover her, while her eyes are still closed, in some jugglery that implies an incredible mastery of muscular movement. Perhaps too in the fragmentary middle world there are souls that remain always upon the brink, always children. Dr. Ochorowicz finds his experiments upset by a naked girl, one foot one inch high, who is constantly visible to his medium and who claims never to have lived upon the earth. He has photographed her by leaving a camera in an empty room where she had promised to show herself, but is so doubtful of her honesty that he is not sure she did not hold up a print from an illustrated paper in front of the camera. In one of Lady Gregory's stories a countryman is given by a stranger he meets upon the road what seems wholesome and pleasant food, but a little later his stomach turns and he finds that he has eaten chopped grass, and one remembers Robin Goodfellow and his joint stool, and witches' gold that is but dried cow dung. It is only, one does not doubt, because of our preoccupation with a single problem, our survival of the body, and with the affection that binds us to the dead, that all the gnomes and nymphs of antiquity have not begun their tricks again. X Plutarch, in his essay on the dæmon, describes how the souls of enlightened men return to be the schoolmasters of the living, whom they influence unseen; and the mediums, should we ask how they escape the illusions of that world, claim the protection of their guides. One will tell you that when she was a little girl she was minding geese upon some American farm and an old man came towards her with a queer coat upon him, and how at first she took him for a living man. He said perhaps a few words of pious commonplace or practical advice and vanished. He had come again and again, and now that she has to earn her living by her gift, he warns her against deceiving spirits, or if she is working too hard, but sometimes she will not listen and gets into trouble. The old witch doctor of Lady Gregory's story learned his cures from his dead sister whom he met from time to time, but especially at Hallowe'en, at the end of the garden, but he had other helpers harsher than she, and once he was beaten for disobedience. Reginald Scott gives a fine plan for picking a guide. You promise some dying man to pray for the repose of his soul if he will but come to you after death and give what help you need, while stories of mothers who come at night to be among their orphan children are as common among spiritists as in Galway or in Mayo. A French servant girl once said to a friend of mine who helped her in some love affair: "You have your studies, we have only our affections"; and this I think is why the walls are broken less often among us than among the poor. Yet according to the doctrine of Soho and Holloway and in Plutarch, those studies that have lessened in us the sap of the world may bring to us good, learned, masterful men who return to see their own or some like work carried to a finish. "I do think," wrote Sir Thomas Browne, "that many mysteries ascribed to our own invention have been the courteous revelations of spirits; for those noble essences in heaven bear a friendly regard unto their fellow creatures on earth." XI Much that Lady Gregory has gathered seems but the broken bread of old philosophers, or else of the one sort with the dough they made into their loaves. Were I not ignorant, my Greek gone and my meagre Latin all but gone, I do not doubt that I could find much to the point in Greek, perhaps in old writers on medicine, much in Renaissance or Medieval Latin. As it is, I must be content with what has been translated or with the seventeenth-century Platonists who are the handier for my purpose because they found in the affidavits and confessions of the witch trials, descriptions like those in our Connaught stories. I have Henry More in his verse and in his prose and I have Henry More's two friends, Joseph Glanvil, and Cudworth in his _Intellectual System of the Universe_, three volumes violently annotated by an opposed theologian; and two essays by Mr. G. R. S. Meade clipped out of his magazine, _The Quest_. These writers quote much from Plotinus and Porphyry and Plato and from later writers, especially Synesius and John Philoponus in whom the School of Plato came to an end in the seventh century. We should not suppose that our souls began at birth, for as Henry More has said, a man might as well think "from souls new souls" to bring as "to press the sunbeams in his fist" or "wring the rainbow till it dye his hands." We have within us an "airy body" or "spirit body" which was our only body before our birth as it will be again when we are dead and its "plastic power" has shaped our terrestrial body as some day it may shape apparition and ghost. Porphyry is quoted by Mr. Meade as saying that "Souls who love the body attach a moist spirit to them and condense it like a cloud," and so become visible, and so are all apparitions of the dead made visible; though necromancers, according to Henry More, can ease and quicken this condensation "with reek of oil, meal, milk, and such like gear, wine, water, honey." One remembers that Dr. Ochorowicz's naked imp once described how she filled out an appearance of herself by putting a piece of blotting paper where her stomach should have been and that the blotting paper became damp because, as she said, a materialization, until it is completed, is a damp vapour. This airy body which so compresses vapour, Philoponus says, "takes the shape of the physical body as water takes the shape of the vessel that it has been frozen in," but it is capable of endless transformations, for "in itself it has no especial form," but Henry More believes that it has an especial form, for "its plastic power" cannot but find the human form most "natural," though "vehemency of desire to alter the figure into another representation may make the appearance to resemble some other creature; but no forced thing can last long." "The better genii" therefore prefer to show "in a human shape yet not it may be with all the lineaments" but with such as are "fit for this separate state" (separate from the body that is) or are "requisite to perfect the visible features of a person," desire and imagination adding clothes and ornament. The materialization, as we would say, has but enough likeness for recognition. It may be that More but copies Philoponus who thought the shade's habitual form, the image that it was as it were frozen in for a time, could be again "coloured and shaped by fantasy," and that "it is probable that when the soul desires to manifest it shapes itself, setting its own imagination in movement, or even that it is probable with the help of dæmonic co-operation that it appears and again becomes invisible, becoming condensed and rarefied." Porphyry, Philoponus adds, gives Homer as his authority for the belief that souls after death live among images of their experience upon earth, phantasms impressed upon the spirit body. While Synesius, who lived at the end of the fourth century and had Hypatia among his friends, also describes the spirit body as capable of taking any form and so of enabling us after death to work out our purgation; and says that for this reason the oracles have likened the state after death to the images of a dream. The seventeenth century English translation of Cornelius Agrippa's _De Occulta Philosophia_ was once so famous that it found its way into the hands of Irish farmers and wandering Irish tinkers, and it may be that Agrippa influenced the common thought when he wrote that the evil dead see represented "in the fantastic reason" those shapes of life that are "the more turbulent and furious ... sometimes of the heavens falling upon their heads, sometimes of their being consumed with the violence of flames, sometimes of being drowned in a gulf, sometimes of being swallowed up in the earth, sometimes of being changed into divers kinds of beasts ... and sometimes of being taken and tormented by demons ... as if they were in a dream." The ancients, he writes, have called these souls "hobgoblins," and Orpheus has called them "the people of dreams" saying "the gates of Pluto cannot be unlocked; within is a people of dreams." They are a dream indeed that has place and weight and measure, and seeing that their bodies are of an actual air, they cannot, it was held, but travel in wind and set the straws and the dust twirling; though being of the wind's weight they need not, Dr. Henry More considers, so much as feel its ruffling, or if they should do so, they can shelter in a house or behind a wall, or gather into themselves as it were, out of the gross wind and vapour. But there are good dreams among the airy people, though we cannot properly name that a dream which is but analogical of the deep unimaginable virtues and has, therefore, stability and a common measure. Henry More stays himself in the midst of the dry learned and abstract writing of his treatise _The Immortality of the Soul_ to praise "their comely carriage ... their graceful dancing, their melodious singing and playing with an accent so sweet and soft as if we should imagine air itself to compose lessons and send forth musical sounds without the help of any terrestrial instrument" and imagines them at their revels in the thin upper air where the earth can but seem "a fleecy and milky light" as the moon to us, and he cries out that they "sing and play and dance together, reaping the lawful pleasures of the very animal life, in a far higher degree than we are capable of in this world, for everything here does, as it were, taste of the cask and has some measure of foulness in it." There is, however, another birth or death when we pass from the airy to the shining or ethereal body, and "in the airy the soul may inhabit for many ages and in the ethereal for ever," and indeed it is the ethereal body which is the root "of all that natural warmth in all generations" though in us it can no longer shine. It lives while in its true condition an unimaginable life and is sometimes described as of "a round or oval figure" and as always circling among gods and among the stars, and sometimes as having more dimensions than our penury can comprehend. Last winter Mr. Ezra Pound was editing the late Professor Fenollosa's translations of the Noh Drama of Japan, and read me a great deal of what he was doing. Nearly all that my fat old woman in Soho learns from her familiars is there in an unsurpassed lyric poetry and in strange and poignant fables once danced or sung in the houses of nobles. In one a priest asks his way of some girls who are gathering herbs. He asks if it is a long road to town; and the girls begin to lament over their hard lot gathering cress in a cold wet bog where they sink up to their knees and to compare themselves with ladies in the big town who only pull the cress in sport, and need not when the cold wind is flapping their sleeves. He asks what village he has come to and if a road near by leads to the village of Ono. A girl replies that nobody can know that name without knowing the road, and another says: "Who would not know that name, written on so many pictures, and know the pine trees they are always drawing." Presently the cold drives away all the girls but one and she tells the priest she is a spirit and has taken solid form that she may speak with him and ask his help. It is her tomb that has made Ono so famous. Conscience-struck at having allowed two young men to fall in love with her she refused to choose between them. Her father said he would give her to the best archer. At the match to settle it both sent their arrows through the same wing of a mallard and were declared equal. She being ashamed and miserable because she had caused so much trouble and for the death of the mallard, took her own life. That, she thought, would end the trouble, but her lovers killed themselves beside her tomb, and now she suffered all manner of horrible punishments. She had but to lay her hand upon a pillar to make it burst into flame; she was perpetually burning. The priest tells her that if she can but cease to believe in her punishments they will cease to exist. She listens in gratitude but she cannot cease to believe, and while she is speaking they come upon her and she rushes away enfolded in flames. Her imagination has created all those terrors out of a scruple, and one remembers how Lake Harris, who led Laurence Oliphant such a dance, once said to a shade, "How did you know you were damned?" and that it answered, "I saw my own thoughts going past me like blazing ships." In a play still more rich in lyric poetry a priest is wandering in a certain ancient village. He describes the journey and the scene, and from time to time the chorus sitting at the side of the stage sings its comment. He meets with two ghosts, the one holding a red stick, the other a piece of coarse cloth and both dressed in the fashion of a past age, but as he is a stranger he supposes them villagers wearing the village fashion. They sing as if muttering, "We are entangled up--whose fault was it, dear? Tangled up as the grass patterns are tangled up in this coarse cloth, or that insect which lives and chirrups in dried seaweed. We do not know where are today our tears in the undergrowth of this eternal wilderness. We neither wake nor sleep and passing our nights in sorrow, which is in the end a vision, what are these scenes of spring to us? This thinking in sleep for some one who has no thought for you, is it more than a dream? And yet surely it is the natural way of love. In our hearts there is much, and in our bodies nothing, and we do nothing at all, and only the waters of the river of tears flow quickly." To the priest they seem two married people, but he cannot understand why they carry the red stick and the coarse cloth. They ask him to listen to a story. Two young people had lived in that village long ago and night after night for three years the young man had offered a charmed red stick, the token of love, at the young girl's window, but she pretended not to see and went on weaving. So the young man died and was buried in a cave with his charmed red sticks, and presently the girl died too, and now because they were never married in life they were unmarried in their death. The priest, who does not yet understand that it is their own tale, asks to be shown the cave, and says it will be a fine tale to tell when he goes home. The chorus describes the journey to the cave. The lovers go in front, the priest follows. They are all day pushing through long grasses that hide the narrow paths. They ask the way of a farmer who is mowing. Then night falls and it is cold and frosty. It is stormy and the leaves are falling and their feet sink into the muddy places made by the autumn showers; there is a long shadow on the slope of the mountain, and an owl in the ivy of the pine tree. They have found the cave and it is dyed with the red sticks of love to the colour of "the orchids and chrysanthemums which hide the mouth of a fox's hole"; and now the two lovers have "slipped into the shadow of the cave." Left alone and too cold to sleep the priest decides to spend the night in prayer. He prays that the lovers may at last be one. Presently he sees to his wonder that the cave is lighted up "where people are talking and setting up looms for spinning and painted red sticks." The ghosts creep out and thank him for his prayer and say that through his pity "the love promises of long past incarnations" find fulfilment in a dream. Then he sees the love story unfolded in a vision and the chorus compares the sound of weaving to the clicking of crickets. A little later he is shown the bridal room and the lovers drinking from the bridal cup. The dawn is coming. It is reflected in the bridal cup and now singers, cloth, and stick break and dissolve like a dream, and there is nothing but "a deserted grave on a hill where morning winds are blowing through the pine." I remember that Aran story of the lovers who came after death to the priest for marriage. It is not uncommon for a ghost, "a control" as we say, to come to a medium to discover some old earthly link to fit into a new chain. It wishes to meet a ghostly enemy to win pardon or to renew an old friendship. Our service to the dead is not narrowed to our prayers, but may be as wide as our imagination. I have known a control to warn a medium to unsay her promise to an old man, to whom, that she might be rid of him, she had promised herself after death. What is promised here in our loves or in a witch's bond may be fulfilled in a life which is a dream. If our terrestrial condition is, as it seems the territory of choice and of cause, the one ground for all seed sowing, it is plain why our imagination has command over the dead and why they must keep from sight and earshot. At the British Museum at the end of the Egyptian Room and near the stairs are two statues, one an august decoration, one a most accurate looking naturalistic portrait. The august decoration was for a public site, the other, like all the naturalistic art of the epoch, for burial beside a mummy. So buried it was believed, the Egyptologists tell us, to be of service to the dead. I have no doubt it helped a dead man to build out of his spirit-body a recognizable apparition, and that all boats or horses or weapons or their models buried in ancient tombs were helps for a flagging memory or a too weak fancy to imagine and so substantiate the old surroundings. A shepherd at Doneraile told me some years ago of an aunt of his who showed herself after death stark naked and bid her relatives to make clothes and to give them to a beggar, the while remembering her.[4] Presently she appeared again wearing the clothes and thanked them. XII Certainly in most writings before our time the body of an apparition was held for a brief, artificial, dreamy, half-living thing. One is always meeting such phrases as Sir Thomas Browne's "they steal or contrive a body." A passage in the _Paradiso_ comes to mind describing Dante in conversation with the blessed among their spheres, although they are but in appearance there, being in truth in the petals of the yellow rose; and another in the Odyssey where Odysseus speaks not with "the mighty Heracles," but with his phantom, for he himself "hath joy at the banquet among the deathless gods and hath to wife Hebe of the fair ankles, child of Zeus, and Hero of the golden sandals," while all about the phantom "there was a clamour of the dead, as it were fowls flying everywhere in fear and he, like black night with bow uncased, and shaft upon the string, fiercely glancing around like one in the act to shoot." W.B.Y. _14th October, 1914._ FOOTNOTES: [1] The Japanese _Noh_ play _Awoi no Uye_ has for its theme the exorcism of a ghost which is itself obsessed by an evil spirit. This evil spirit, drawn forth by the exorcism, is represented by a dancer wearing a "terrible mask with golden eyes." [2] Besides the well-known books of Atsikof, Myers, Lodge, Flammarion, Flournoy, Maxwell, Albert De Rochas, Lombroso, Madame Bisson, Delanne, etc., I have made considerable use of the researches of D'Ochorowicz published during the last ten or twelve years in _Annales des Science Psychiques_ and in the English _Annals of Psychical Science_, and of those of Professor Hyslop published during the last four years in the _Journal_ and _Transactions of the American Society for Psychical Research_. I have myself been a somewhat active investigator. [3] Henry More considered that "the animal spirits" were "the immediate instruments of the soul in all vital and animal functions" and quotes Harpocrates, who was contemporary with Plato, as saying, "that the mind of man is ... not nourished from meats and drinks from the belly but by a clear and luminous substance that redounds by separation from the blood." Ochorowicz thought that certain small oval lights were perhaps the root of personality itself. [4] Herodotus has an equivalent tale. Periander, because the ghost of his wife complained that it was "cold and naked," got the women of Corinth together in their best clothes and had them stripped and their clothes burned. NOTES NOTES NOTE 1. A woman from the North would probably be a faery woman or at any rate a "knowledgeable" woman, one who was "in the faeries" and certainly not necessarily at all a woman from Ulster. The North where the old Celtic other world was thought to lie is the quarter of spells and faeries. A visionary student, who was at the Dublin Art School when I was there, described to me a waking dream of the North Pole. There were luxuriant vegetation and overflowing life though still but ice to the physical eye. He added thereto his conviction that wherever physical life was abundant, the spiritual life was vague and thin, and of the converse truth. NOTE 2. St. Patrick prayed, in _The Breastplate of St. Patrick_, to be delivered from the spells of smiths and women. Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation and spelling errors have been fixed throughout. Inconsistent hyphenation is as in the original. 
45852	----	[Illustration: EL PVENTE DEL CVERVO [See page 127.] LEGENDS OF THE CITY OF MEXICO COLLECTED BY THOMAS A. JANVIER MEMBER OF THE FOLK-LORE SOCIETY, LONDON ILLUSTRATED WITH SIX PICTURES BY WALTER APPLETON CLARK AND BY PHOTOGRAPHS OF PLACE [Illustration: logo] HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON MCMX BOOKS BY THOMAS A. JANVIER IN OLD NEW YORK. Illustrations and maps. Post 8vo $1.75 THE DUTCH FOUNDING OF NEW YORK. Illustrated. 8vo, Half-leather net 2.50 THE AZTEC TREASURE-HOUSE. Ill'd. 8vo 1.50 THE UNCLE OF AN ANGEL. Ill'd. Post 8vo 1.25 THE PASSING OF THOMAS. Illustrated. 8vo 1.25 IN THE SARGASSO SEA. Post 8vo 1.25 IN GREAT WATERS. Illustrated. Post 8vo 1.25 SANTA FE'S PARTNER. Illustrated. Post 8vo 1.50 THE CHRISTMAS KALENDS OF PROVENCE. Illustrated. Post 8vo, net 1.25 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, N. Y. Copyright, 1910, by HARPER & BROTHERS. _All rights reserved._ Published January, 1910. _Printed in the United States of America._ TO C. A. J. WITHOUT WHOSE HELP THIS BOOK COULD NOT HAVE BEEN MADE CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION ix LEGEND OF DON JUAN MANUEL 1 LEGEND OF THE OBEDIENT DEAD NUN 6 LEGEND OF THE PUENTE DEL CLÉRIGO 11 LEGEND OF THE MULATA DE CÓRDOBA 15 LEGEND OF THE CALLEJÓN DEL MUERTO 22 LEGEND OF THE ALTAR DEL PERDON 30 LEGEND OF THE CALLEJÓN DEL ARMADO 39 LEGEND OF THE ADUANA DE SANTO DOMINGO 43 LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LA QUEMADA 52 LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LA CRUZ VERDE 59 LEGEND OF THE MUJER HERRADA 64 LEGEND OF THE ACCURSED BELL 69 LEGEND OF THE CALLEJÓN DEL PADRE LECUONA 84 LEGEND OF THE LIVING SPECTRE 96 LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LOS PARADOS 108 LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LA JOYA 112 LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LA MACHINCUEPA 116 LEGEND OF THE CALLE DEL PUENTE DEL CUERVO 127 LEGEND OF LA LLORONA 134 NOTES PAGE DON JUAN MANUEL 141 ALTAR DEL PERDON 145 ADUANA DE SANTO DOMINGO 149 LA CRUZ VERDE 149 MUJER HERRADA 150 ACCURSED BELL 153 CALLEJÓN DEL PADRE LECUONA 156 LIVING SPECTRE 159 LA LLORONA 162 ILLUSTRATIONS DRAWINGS BY WALTER APPLETON CLARK LEGEND OF THE CALLE DEL PUENTE DEL CUERVO _Frontispiece_ LEGEND OF THE CALLE DEL PUENTE DEL CLÉRIGO _Facing p._ 14 LEGEND OF THE CALLEJÓN DEL ARMADO " 40 LEGEND OF THE MUJER HERRADA " 66 LEGEND OF THE CALLEJÓN DEL PADRE LECUONA " 88 LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LOS PARADOS " 108 PHOTOGRAPHS OF PLACE CAPILLA DE LA ESPIRACIÓN _Facing p._ 4 LA CRUZ VERDE " 60 HOME OF DOÑA MARÍA " 110 HOUSE OF DON JUAN MANUEL " 142 DOORWAY, HOUSE OF DON JUAN MANUEL " 144 NO. 7 PUERTA FALSA DE SANTO DOMINGO " 152 WHERE THE DEAD MAN WAS CONFESSED " 156 INTRODUCTION These legends of the City of Mexico are of my finding, not of my making. They are genuine folk-stories. Each one of them is a true folk-growth from some obscure curious or tragical ancient matter that, taking hold upon the popular imagination, has had built up from it among the people a story satisfying to the popular heart. Many of them simply are historical traditions gone wrong: being rooted in substantial facts which have been disguised by the fanciful additions, or distorted by the sheer perversions, of successive generations of narrators through the passing centuries. Others of them have for their kernel some unaccounted-for strange happening that, appealing to the popular mind for an explanation, has been explained variously by various imaginative people of varying degrees of perception and of intelligence: whose diverse elucidations of the same mystery eventually have been patched together into a single story--that betrays its composite origin by the inconsistencies and the discrepancies in which it abounds. A few of them--starting out boldly by exalting some commonplace occurrence into a marvel--practically are cut from the whole cloth. All of them--and most obviously the most incredible of them--have the quality that gives to folk-stories in general their serious value: they reflect accurately the tone of thought, and exhibit more or less clearly the customs and the conditions, of the time to which they belong. Among the older people of the City of Mexico, alike the lettered and the unlettered, they still are cherished with a warm affection and are told with a lively relish--to which is added, among the common people, a lively faith. The too-sophisticated younger generation, unhappily, is neglectful and even scornful of them. Soon, as oral tradition, they will be lost. Most fortunately, the permanent preservation in print of these legends--and of many more of the same sort--long since was assured. Because of the serious meaning that is in them, as side-lights on history and on sociology, they have been collected seriously by learned antiquarians--notably by Don Luis González Obregón and by Don Manuel Rivera Cambas--who have searched and sifted them; and who have set forth, so far as it could be discovered, their underlying germs of truth. By the poets--to whom, naturally, they have made a strong appeal--they have been preserved in a way more in keeping with their fanciful essence: as may be seen--again to cite two authors of recognized eminence--in the delightful metrical renderings of many of them by Don Vicente Riva Palacio, and in the round threescore of them that Don Juan de Dios Peza has recast into charming verse. By other writers of distinction, not antiquarians nor poets, various collections of them have been made--of which the best is the sympathetic work of Don Angel R. de Arellano--in a purely popular form. By the playwrights have been made from the more romantic of them--as the legend of Don Juan Manuel--perennially popular plays. By minor writers, in prose and in verse, their tellings and retellings are without end. While the oral transmission of the legends among the common people--by heightening always the note of the marvellous--has tended to improve them, the bandying about in print to which they have been subjected has worked a change in them that distinctly is for the worse. In their written form they have acquired an artificiality that directly is at odds with their natural simplicity; while the sleeking of their essential roughnesses, and the abatement of their equally essential inconsistencies and contradictions, has weakened precisely the qualities which give to them their especial character and their peculiar charm. The best versions of them, therefore, are those which are current among the common people: who were the makers of them in the beginning; who--passing them from heart to lip and from lip to heart again through the centuries--have retained in them the subtle pith that clearly distinguishes a built-up folk-story from a story made by one mind at a single melting; whose artless telling of them--abrupt, inconsequent, full of repetitions and of contradictions--preserves the full flavor of their patchwork origin; and, most important of all, whose simple-souled faith in their verity is of the selfsame spirit in which they were made. These are the versions which I have tried here to reproduce in feeling and in phrase. * * * * * My first winter in Mexico, twenty-five years ago, was spent in Monterey; and there, in a small way, my collection of Mexican folk-lore was begun. My gathering at that time consisted mainly of superstitious beliefs--omens, house-charms, the evil eye, the unlucky day--but it included a version of the story of La Llorona essentially identical with the version, here given, that I later found current in the City of Mexico. The sources from which I drew in Monterey were three or four old, and old-fashioned, women with whom my wife established such friendly relations as to win them into freely confidential talk with her; the most abundant yield coming from a kindly old Doña Miguelita (she was given always the affectionate diminutive), who was attached loosely as a sort of brevet grandmother to the family with whom we were lodged. Had I been alone I should not have been able to extract any information from these old people. It would have been impossible to convince them that such matters could be regarded with anything but contempt by a man. In like manner, later, from a most valuable source in the City of Mexico, my information was to be had only at second-hand. This source was our dear Joséfa Correa, who during four successive winters at once was our washer-woman and our friend. Joséfa's semi-weekly visits gave us always a warm pleasure; and her talk--of which she was no miser--gave us always much of interest to ponder upon: she being a very wise old woman, with views of life that were broad and sound. As she was precisely of the class in which the folk-stories of the city originated, she was the best of authorities for the current popular versions of them: but always was it through my wife that her tellings of them came to me. Various other old women, encountered casually, similarly were put under contribution by my wife for my purposes. One of the most useful was a draggled old seller of rebozos; another, of equal value, was a friendly old body whom we fell in with at a railway station while waiting through two hours for a vagrant train. To me all of these women would have been sealed books; I could have got nothing from them without my wife's help. For that help, and for the help that she has given me in searching and in collating my authorities for the Legends and for the Notes relating to them, I am very grateful to her. To my friend and fellow-lover of things ancient and marvellous, Gilberto Cano, I am under signal obligations. In addition to his nice appreciation and his wide knowledge of such matters, this excellent man--twenty-four years ago, and later--was the best waiter at the Hôtel del Café Anglais. (It is gone, now, that admirable little hotel over which the brave Monsieur Gatillon so admirably presided--and the City of Mexico distinctly is the worse for its loss.) Our acquaintance, that had its beginning in my encounters with him in his professional capacity, soon ripened into a real friendship--still enduring--along the line of similarity of tastes. His intelligent answers to my questions about one or another of the many old buildings which attracted our attention in the course of our walks about the city--then all new to us--early impressed upon me a serious respect for his antiquarian attainments; and this respect was increased when, after making a hesitant offer of them that I accepted eagerly, he lent to us several excellent books treating of the ancient matters in which we were interested: explaining, modestly, that these books were his own; and that he had bought them in order that he might acquire an accurate knowledge of the city in which he had been born and in which for all his life he had lived. As my own knowledge grew, I found that in every instance he had answered my questions correctly; and the books which he had lent to me were certified to, later, by my erudite friend Don José María Vigil, Director of the Biblioteca Nacional, as standard authorities--and I bought copies of all of them to add to the collection of Mexicana that I then was beginning to form. Gilberto was so obliging as to spend several afternoons in our quarters--coming to us in the dull time between luncheon and dinner when his professional duties were in abeyance--that I might write at his dictation some of the many folk-traditions with which his mind was stored. Like our dear Joséfa, he was an absolute authority on the current popular versions, and he seemed to share her faith in them; but he told them--because of his substantial knowledge of Mexican history--more precisely than she told them, and with an appreciative understanding of their antiquarian interest that was quite beyond her grasp. He was a small man, our Gilberto, with a low and gentle voice, and a manner that was gentle also--both in the literal and in the finer sense of the word. In the thrilling portions of his stories he would lean forward, his voice would deepen and gather earnestness, his bright brown eyes would grow brighter, and his gestures--never violent, and always appropriate--would enlarge the meaning of his words. With the instinct of a well-bred man he invariably addressed himself to my wife; and through his discourse ran a constant refrain of "and so it was, Señorita"--_pues si, Señorita_--that made a point of departure for each fresh turn in the narrative, and at the same time gave to what he was telling an air of affirmative finality. Usually he ended with a few words of comment--enlightening as exhibiting the popular viewpoint--either upon the matter of his story or by way of emphasizing its verity. His tellings ranged widely: from such important legends as those of Don Juan Manuel and La Llorona--his versions of which are given in my text--to such minor matters as the encounter of his own brother with a freakish ghost who carried the bed on which the brother was sleeping from one part of the house to another. All the knowledge being on his side, I could give him little guidance--and whatever happened to come into his head, in the way of the marvellous, at once came out of it again for my benefit. Some of his stories, while exhaustively complete, and undeniably logical, were almost startling in their elemental brevity--as the following: "Once some masons were pulling down an old house, and in the wall they found many boxes of money. After that, those masons were rich"! In justice I should add that this succinct narrative merely was thrown in, as a make-weight, at the end of a long and dramatic hidden-treasure story--in which a kindly old ghost-lady, the hider of the treasure, had a leading part. Because of the intelligent interest that Gilberto took in my folk-lore collecting, it was a source of keen regret to him that our meeting had not come a little earlier, only two years earlier, during the lifetime of his great-aunt: who had known--as he put it comprehensively--all the stories about the city that ever were told. I too grieved, and I shall grieve always, because that ancient person was cut off from earth before I could have the happiness of garnering the traditionary wisdom with which she was so full charged. But my grief is softened--and even is tinctured with a warm thankfulness--by the fact that a great deal of it was saved to me by my fortunate encounter with her grand-nephew: who so faithfully had treasured in his heart her ancient sayings; and who so freely--to the winning of my lasting gratitude--gave them to me for the enrichment of my own store. NEW YORK, _September 26, 1909_. LEGENDS OF THE CITY OF MEXICO LEGEND OF DON JUAN MANUEL[1] This Don Juan Manuel, Señor, was a rich and worthy gentleman who had the bad vice of killing people. Every night at eleven o'clock, when the Palace clock was striking, he went out from his magnificent house--as you know, Señor, it still is standing in the street that has been named after him--all muffled in his cloak, and under it his dagger in his hand. Then he would meet one, in the dark street, and would ask him politely: "What is the hour of the night?" And that person, having heard the striking of the clock, would answer: "It is eleven hours of the night." And Don Juan Manuel would say to him: "Señor, you are fortunate above all men, because you know precisely the hour at which you die!" Then he would thrust with his dagger--and then, leaving the dead gentleman lying in the street, he would come back again into his own home. And this bad vice of Don Juan Manuel's of killing people went on, Señor, for a great many years. Living with Don Juan Manuel was a nephew whom he dearly loved. Every night they supped together. Later, the nephew would go forth to see one or another of his friends; and, still later, Don Juan Manuel would go forth to kill some man. One night the nephew did not come home. Don Juan Manuel was uneasy because of his not coming, fearing for him. In the early morning the city watch knocked at Don Juan Manuel's door, bringing there the dead body of the nephew--with a wound in the heart of him that had killed him. And when they told where his body had been found, Don Juan Manuel knew that he himself--not knowing him in the darkness--had killed his own nephew whom he so loved. Then Don Juan Manuel saw that he had been leading a bad life: and he went to the Father to whom he confessed and confessed all the killings that he had done. Then the Father put a penance upon him: That at midnight he should go alone through the streets until he was come to the chapel of the Espiración (it faces upon the Plazuela de Santo Domingo, Señor; and, in those days, before it was a gallows); and that he should kneel in front of that chapel, beneath the gallows; and that, so kneeling, he should tell his rosary through. And Don Juan Manuel was pleased because so light a penance had been put upon him, and thought soon to have peace again in his soul. But that night, at midnight, when he set forth to do his penance, no sooner was he come out from his own door than voices sounded in his ears, and near him was the terrible ringing of a little bell. And he knew that the voices which troubled him were those of the ones whom he had killed. And the voices sounded in his ears so wofully, and the ringing of the little bell was so terrible, that he could not keep onward. Having gone a little way, his stomach was tormented by the fear that was upon him and he came back again to his own home. Then, the next day, he told the Father what had happened, and that he could not do that penance, and asked that another be put upon him. But the Father denied him any other penance; and bade him do that which was set for him--or die in his sin and go forever to hell! Then Don Juan Manuel again tried to do his penance, and that time got a half of the way to the chapel of the Espiración; and then again turned backward to his home, because of those woful voices and the terrible ringing of that little bell. And so again he asked that he be given another penance; and again it was denied to him; and again--getting that night three-quarters of the way to the chapel--he tried to do what he was bidden to do. But he could not do it, because of the woful voices and the terrible ringing of the little bell. [Illustration: CAPILLA DE LA ESPIRACIÓN] Then went he for the last time to the Father to beg for another penance; and for the last time it was denied to him; and for the last time he set forth from his house at midnight to go to the chapel of the Espiración, and in front of it, kneeling beneath the gallows, to tell his rosary through. And that night, Señor, was the very worst night of all! The voices were so loud and so very woful that he was in weak dread of them, and he shook with fear, and his stomach was tormented because of the terrible ringing of the little bell. But he pressed on--you see, Señor, it was the only way to save his soul from blistering in hell through all eternity--until he was come to the Plazuela de Santo Domingo; and there, in front of the chapel of the Espiración, beneath the gallows, he knelt down upon his knees and told his rosary through. And in the morning, Señor, all the city was astonished, and everybody--from the Viceroy down to the cargadores--came running to the Plazuela de Santo Domingo, where was a sight to see! And the sight was Don Juan Manuel hanging dead on the gallows--where the angels themselves had hung him, Señor, because of his sins! LEGEND OF THE OBEDIENT DEAD NUN It was after she was dead, Señor, that this nun did what she was told to do by the Mother Superior, and that is why it was a miracle. Also, it proved her goodness and her holiness--though, to be sure, there was no need for her to take the trouble to prove those matters, because everybody knew about them before she died. My grandmother told me that this wonder happened in the convent of Santa Brígida when her mother was a little girl; therefore you will perceive, Señor, that it did not occur yesterday. In those times the convent of Santa Brígida was most flourishing--being big, and full of nuns, and with more money than was needed for the keeping of it and for the great giving of charity that there was at its doors. And now, as you know, Señor, there is no convent at all and only the church remains. However, it was in the church that the miracle happened, and it is in the choir that Sor Teresa's bones lie buried in the coffin that was too short for her--and so it is clear that this story is true. The way of it all, Señor, was this: The Señorita Teresa Ysabel de Villavicencio--so she was called in the world, and in religion she still kept her christened name--was the daughter of a very rich hacendado of Vera Cruz. She was very tall--it was her tallness that made the whole trouble--and she also was very beautiful; and she went to Santa Brígida and took the vows there because of an undeceiving in love. The young gentleman whom she came to know was unworthy of her was the Señor Carraza, and he was the Librarian to the Doctors in the Royal and Pontifical University--which should have made him a good man. What he did that was not good, Señor, I do not know. But it was something that sent Sor Teresa in a hurry into the convent: and when she got there she was so devout and so well-behaved that the Mother Superior held her up to all the other nuns for a pattern--and especially for her humility and her obedience. Whatever she was told to do, she did; and that without one single word. Well, Señor, it happened that the convent was making ready, on a day, for the great festival of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe; and in the midst of all the whirring and buzzing Sor Teresa said suddenly--and everybody was amazed and wonder-struck when she said it--that though she was helping to make ready for that festival she would not live to take part in it, because the very last of her hours on earth was almost come. And a little later--lying on her hard wooden bed and wearing beneath her habit the wired shirt of a penitent, with all the community sorrowing around her--Sor Teresa died just as she said she would die: without there being anything the matter with her at all! Because of the festival that was coming, it was necessary that she should be buried that very night. Therefore they made ready a comfortable grave for her; and they sent to the carpenter for a coffin for her, and the coffin came. And it was then, Señor, that the trouble began. Perhaps, because she was so very tall a lady, the carpenter thought that the measure had not been taken properly. Perhaps, being all so flurried, they really had got the measure wrong. Anyhow, whatever may have set the matter crooked, Sor Teresa would not go into her coffin: and as night was near, and there was no time to make another one, they all of them were at their very wits' end to know what to do. So there they all stood, looking at Sor Teresa; and there Sor Teresa lay, with her holy feet sticking straight out far beyond the end of the coffin; and night was coming in a hurry; and next day would be the festival--and nobody could see how the matter was going to end! Then a wise old nun came to the Mother Superior and whispered to her: telling her that as in life Sor Teresa had been above all else perfect in obedience, so, probably, would she be perfect in obedience even in death; and advising that a command should be put upon her to fit into her coffin then and there. And the old nun said, what was quite true and reasonable, that even if Sor Teresa did not do what she was told to do, no harm could come of it--as but little time would be lost in making trial with her, and the case would be the same after their failure as it was before. Therefore the Mother Superior agreed to try what that wise old nun advised. And so, Señor--all the community standing round about, and the candle of Nuestro Amo being lighted--the Mother Superior said in a grave voice slowly: "Daughter, as in life thou gavest us always an example of humility and obedience, now I order and command thee, by thy vow of obedience, to retire decorously within thy coffin: that so we may bury thee, and that thou mayest rest in peace!" And then, Señor, before the eyes of all of them, Sor Teresa slowly began to shrink shorter--to the very letter of the Mother Superior's order and command! Slowly her holy feet drew in from beyond the end of the coffin; and then they drew to the very edge of it; and then they drew over the edge of it; and then they fell down briskly upon the bottom of it with a sanctified and most pious little bang. And so there she was, shrunk just as short as she had been ordered to shrink, fitting into her coffin as cozily as you please! Then they buried her, as I have told you, Señor, in the comfortable grave in the choir that was waiting for her--and there her blessed shrunken bones are lying now. LEGEND OF THE PUENTE DEL CLÉRIGO This priest who was murdered and thrown over the bridge, Señor, was a very good man, and there was very little excuse for murdering him. Moreover, he belonged to a most respectable family, and so did the gentleman who murdered him, and so did the young lady; and because of all that, and because at the best of times the killing of a priest is sacrilege, the scandal of that murder made a stir in the whole town. At that time--it was some hundreds of years ago, Señor--there lived in the street that now is called, because of it all, the street of the Puente del Clérigo, a very beautiful young lady who was named Doña Margarita Jáuregui. And she, being an orphan, dwelt with her uncle, this priest: who was named Don Juan de Nava and was a person of rank, being a caballero of the orders of Santiago and Calatrava. In those days there were few houses upon that street, which was the causeway between the City and the Indian town of Tlaltelolco; and for the greater safety of the Spaniards dwelling in the City there was a wide ditch, that this bridge crossed, between them and the Indian town. Long ago, Señor, Tlaltelolco became a part of the City; and the ditch, and the bridge over it, are gone. Now it happened that at the court of the Viceroy was a noble young Portuguese gentleman, who had great riches and two titles, named Don Duarte de Sarraza; and the Viceroy, who was the Conde de Salvatierra, very much esteemed him because he was of a loyal nature and of good heart. Therefore this noble young gentleman fell in love with Doña Margarita, and she with him; but her uncle, the Padre Don Juan, knowing that Don Duarte was a vicious young man--a gambler, and in other ways what he should not have been--forbade his niece to have anything to do with him. So things rested for a while on those terms, and Don Duarte did not like it at all. Well, it happened on a night, Señor, that Don Duarte was at the window of Doña Margarita, telling his love for her through the grating; and while he was so engaged he saw Padre Don Juan coming home along the causeway by the light of the stars. Then that wicked young man went to where the bridge was, and when the Padre was come to the bridge he sprang upon him and drove his dagger deep into his skull. The dagger was nailed so fast there, Señor, that he could not drag it loose again; and so he bundled the dead priest over the wall of the bridge and into the water with the dagger still sticking in the skull of him; and then he went his way to his home. Not wishing to have it thought that he had committed that murder, Don Duarte did not go near Doña Margarita for almost a whole year. And then--because his love for her would not suffer him to wait away from her longer--he went in the night-time to meet her once more at her window; and he had in his heart the wicked purpose to make her come out to him, and then to carry her off. That did not happen--and what did happen is a terrible mystery. All that is known about it is this: Very early in the morning the neighbors living thereabout found Don Duarte dead on the Bridge of the Cleric; and holding him fast, a bony knee on his breast and two bony hands at his throat strangling him, was a skeleton. And the skeleton, Señor, was dressed in a black cassock, such as only clerics wear, and in the skull of it a rusty dagger was nailed fast. Therefore it became generally known that Don Duarte had murdered the Padre Don Juan; and that the skeleton of the Padre Don Juan had killed Don Duarte in just revenge. LEGEND OF THE MULATA DE CÓRDOBA It is well known, Señor, that this Mulata of Córdoba, being a very beautiful woman, was in close touch with the devil. She dwelt in Córdoba--the town not far from Vera Cruz, where coffee and very good mangos are grown--and she was born so long ago that the very oldest man now living was not then alive. No one knew who was her father, or who was her mother, or where she came from. So she was called La Mulata de Córdoba--and that was all. One of the wonders of her was that the years passed her without marking her, and she never grew old. She led a very good life, helping every one who was in trouble, and giving food to the hungry ones; and she dressed in modest clothes simply, and always was most neat and clean. She was a very wicked witch--and beyond that nobody really knew anything about her at all. On the same day, and at the same hour, she would be seen by different people in different places widely apart--as here in the City, and in Córdoba, and elsewhere variously--all in precisely the same moment of time. She also was seen flying through the air, high above the roofs of the houses, with sparks flashing from her black eyes. Moreover, every night the devil visited her: as was known generally, because at night her neighbors observed that through the chinks in the tight-shut doors and windows of her house there shone a bright light--as though all the inside of the house were filled with flames. She went to mass regularly, and at the proper seasons partook of the Sacrament. She disdained everybody; and because of her disdainings it was believed that the master of her beauty was the Lord of Darkness; and that seemed reasonable. Every single one of the young men was mad about her, and she had a train of lovers from which she could pick and choose. All wonders were told of her. She was so powerful, and could work such prodigies, that she was spoken about--just as though she had been the blessed Santa Rita de Cascia--as the Advocate of Impossible Things! Old maids went to her who sought for husbands; poor ladies who longed for jewels and fine dresses that they might go to the court of the Viceroy; miners that they might find silver; old soldiers, set aside for rustiness, to get new commands--so that the saying, "_I_ am not the Mulata of Córdoba!" is the answer when any one asks an impossible favor even now. How it came about, Señor, no one ever knew. What every one did know was that, on a day, the Mulata was brought from Córdoba here to the City and was cast into the prison of the Holy Office. That was a piece of news that made a stir! Some said that a disdained lover had denounced her to the Inquisition. Others said that the Holy Office had laid hands on her less because she was a witch than because of her great riches--and it was told that when she had been seized ten barrels filled with gold-dust had been seized with her. So talk about the matter was on every tongue. Many years went by, Señor, and all of that talk was almost forgotten. Then, on a morning, the city was astonished by hearing--no one knew from where--that at the next auto de fé the witch of Córdoba would walk with the unredeemed ones, carrying the flameless green candle and wearing the high bonnet, and would be burned at the burning-place of the Holy Office--it was in front of the church of San Diego, Señor, at the western end of what now is the Alameda--and so would have burned out of her her sins. And before that astonishment was ended, there came another and a greater: when it was told that the witch, before the very eyes of her jailers, had escaped from the prison of the Inquisition and was gone free! All sorts of stories flew about the city. One said, crossing himself, that her friend the devil had helped her to her freedom; another said that Inquisitors also were of flesh and blood, and that she had been freed by her own beauty. Men talked at random--because, neither then nor later, did anybody know what really had happened. But what really did happen, Señor, was this: On a day, the chief Inquisitor went into the prison of the Mulata that he might reason her to repentance. And, being come into her prison--it was a long and lofty chamber that they had put her into, Señor, not one of the bad small cells--he stopped short in amazement: beholding before him, drawn with charcoal on the wall of the chamber, a great ship that lacked not a single rope nor a single sail nor anything whatever that a ship requires! While he stood gazing at that ship, wondering, the Mulata turned to him and looked strangely at him out of her wicked black eyes, and said in a tone of railing: "Holy Father, what does this ship need to make it perfect?" And to that he answered: "Unhappy woman! It is thou who needest much to make thee perfect, that thou mayest be cleansed of thy sins! As for this ship, it is in all other ways so wholly perfect that it needs only to sail." Then said the Mulata: "That it shall do--and very far!" and there was on her face as she spoke to him a most wicked smile. With astonishment he looked at her, and at the ship. "How can that be possible!" he asked. "In this manner!" she answered--and, as she spoke, she leaped lightly from the floor of the prison to the deck of the ship, up there on the wall, and stood with her hand upon the tiller at the ship's stern. Then happened, Señor, a very wonderful marvel! Suddenly the sails of the ship filled and bellied out as though a strong wind were blowing; and then, before the eyes of the Inquisitor, the ship went sailing away along the wall of the chamber--the Mulata laughing wickedly as she swung the tiller and steered it upon its course! Slowly it went at first, and then more and more rapidly, until, being come to the wall at the end of the chamber, it sailed right on into and through the solid stone and mortar--the Mulata still laughing wickedly as she stood there steering at the ship's stern! And then the wall closed whole and solid again behind the ship, and only a little echoing sound of that wicked laughter was heard in the chamber--and the ship had vanished, and the Mulata was out of her prison and gone! The Inquisitor, Señor, who had seen this devil's miracle, immediately lost all his senses and became a madman and was put into a mad-house: where, till death gave peace to him, he raved always of a beautiful woman in a great ship that sailed through stone walls and across the solid land. As for the Mulata, nothing more ever was heard of her. But it was generally known that her master the devil had claimed her for his own. This story is entirely true, Señor--as is proved by the fact that the Inquisition building, in which all these wonders happened, still is standing. It is the Escuela de Medicina, now. LEGEND OF THE CALLEJÓN DEL MUERTO It is an unwise thing, Señor, and there also is wickedness in it, to make a vow to the Blessed Virgin--or, for that matter, to the smallest saint in the whole calendar--and not to fulfil that vow when the Blessed Virgin, or the saint, as the case may be, has performed punctually all that the vow was made for: and so this gentleman of whom I now am speaking found out for himself, and most uncomfortably, when he died with an unfulfilled vow on his shoulders--and had to take some of the time that he otherwise would have spent pleasantly in heaven among the angels in order to do after he was dead what he had promised to do, and what he most certainly ought to have done, while he still was alive. The name of this gentleman who so badly neglected his duty, Señor, was Don Tristan de Alculer; and he was a humble but honorable Spanish merchant who came from the Filipinas to live here in the City of Mexico; and he came in the time when the Viceroy was the Marqués de Villa Manrique, and most likely as the result of that Viceroy's doings and orderings: because the Marqués de Villa Manrique gave great attention to enlarging the trade with the East through the Filipinas--as was found out by the English corsairs, so that Don Francisco Draco, who was the greatest pirate of all of them, was able to capture a galleon laden almost to sinking with nothing but silver and gold. With Don Tristan, who was of an elderliness, came his son to help him in his merchanting; and this son was named Tristan also, and was a most worthy young gentleman, very capable in the management of mercantile affairs. Having in their purses but a light lining, their commerce at its beginning was of a smallness; and they took for their home a mean house in a little street so poor and so deserted that nobody had taken the trouble to give a name to it: the very street that ever since their time has been called the Alley of the Dead Man--because of what happened as the result of Don Tristan's unfulfilled vow. That they were most respectable people is made clear by the fact that the Archbishop himself--who at that period was the illustrious Don Fray García de Santa María Mendoza--was the friend of them; and especially the friend of Don Tristan the elder, who frequently consulted with him in regard to the state of his soul. So a number of prospering years passed on, Señor, and then, on a time, Don Tristan the son went down to the coast to make some buyings: and it was in the bad season, and the fever seized him so fiercely that all in a moment the feet and half the legs of him fairly were inside of death's door. Then it was that Don Tristan, being in sore trouble because of his son's desperate illness, made the vow that I am telling you about. He made it to the Blessed Virgin of Guadalupe; and he vowed to her that if she would save his son alive to him from the fever he would walk on his bare feet from his own house to her Sanctuary, and that there in her Sanctuary he would make his thanks to her from the deep depths of his soul. And the Blessed Virgin, being full of love and of amiability, was pleased to listen to the prayer of Don Tristan, and to believe the vow that went along with it: wherefore she caused the fever immediately to leave the sick Don Tristan--and presently home he came to his father alive and well. But Don Tristan, having got from the Blessed Virgin all that he had asked of her, did not give to her what he had promised to give to her in return. Being by that time an aged gentleman, and also being much afflicted with rheumatism, the thought of taking a walk of near to three miles barefoot was most distasteful to him. And so he put his walk off for a week or two--saying to himself that the Blessed Virgin would not be in any hurry about the matter; and then he put it off for another week or two; and in that way--because each time that he was for keeping his vow shivers would come in his old feet at dread of being bare and having cold earth under them, and trembles would come in his old thin legs at dread of more rheumatism--the time slipped on and on, and the Blessed Virgin did not get her due. But his soul was not easy inside of him, Señor--and it could not be, because he was playing fast and loose with it--and so he laid the whole matter before his friend the Archbishop: hoping that for friendship's sake the Archbishop would be so obliging as to dispense him from his vow. For myself, Señor, I cannot but think that the Archbishop--for all that his position put him in close touch with heavenly matters, and gave him the right to deal with them--was not well advised in his action. At any rate, what he did was to tranquillize Don Tristan by telling him that the Blessed Virgin was too considerate to hold him to a contract that certainly would lay him up with a bad attack of rheumatism; and that even--so wearied out would he be by forcing his old thin legs to carry him all that distance--might be the death of him. And so the upshot of it was that the Archbishop, being an easy-going and a very good-natured gentleman, dispensed Don Tristan from his vow. But a vow, Señor, is a vow--and even an Archbishop cannot cast one loose from it; and so they all found out on this occasion, and in a hurry--because the Blessed Virgin, while never huffed over trifles, does not let the grass grow under her feet when her anger justly is aroused. Only three days after Don Tristan had received his dispensation--to which, as the event proved, he was not entitled--the Archbishop went on the twelfth of the month, in accordance with the custom observed in that matter, to celebrate mass at the Villa de Guadalupe in Our Lady's Sanctuary. The mass being ended, he came homeward on his mule by the causeway to the City; and as he rode along easily he was put into a great surprise by seeing Don Tristan walking toward him, and by perceiving that he was of a most dismal dead paleness and that his feet were bare. For a moment Don Tristan paused beside the Archbishop--whose mule had stopped short, all in a tremble--and clasped his hand with a hand that was of an icy coldness; then he passed onward--saying in a dismal voice, rusty and cavernous, that for his soul's saving he was fulfilling the vow that he had made to her Ladyship: because the knowledge had come to him that if this vow were not accomplished he certainly would spend the whole of Eternity blistering in hell! Having thus explained matters, not a word more did Don Tristan have to say for himself; nor did he even look backward, as he walked away slowly and painfully on his bare old feet toward Our Lady's shrine. The Archbishop trembled as much as his mule did, Señor, being sure that strange and terrible things were about him; and when the mule a little came out of her fright and could march again, but still trembling, he went straight to Don Tristan's house to find out--though in his heart he knew what his finding would be--the full meaning of this awesome prodigy. And he found at Don Tristan's house what he knew in his heart he would find there: and that was Don Tristan, the four lighted death-candles around him, lying on his bed death-struck--his death-white cold hands clasped on his breast on the black pall covering him, and on his death-white face the very look that was on it as he went to the keeping of his unkept vow! Therefore the Archbishop was seized with a hot and a cold shuddering, and his teeth rattled in the head of him; and straightway he and all who were with him--perceiving that they were in the presence of a divine mystery--fell to their knees in wondering awe of what had happened, and together prayed for the peace of Don Tristan's soul. Very possibly, Señor, the Archbishop and the rest of them did not pray hard enough; or, perhaps, Don Tristan's sin of neglect was so serious a matter that a long spell in Purgatory was required of him before he could be suffered to pass on to a more comfortable region and be at ease. At any rate, almost immediately he took to walking at midnight in the little street that for so long he had lived in--always wrapped in a long white shroud that fluttered about him in the night wind loosely, and carrying always a yellow-blazing great candle; and so being a most terrifying personage to encounter as he marched slowly up and down. Therefore everybody who dwelt in that street hurried to move away from it, and Don Tristan had it quite to himself in its desertedness--for which reason, as I have mentioned, the Alley of the Dead Man became its name. I have been told by my friend the cargador, Señor, and also by several other trustworthy persons, that Don Tristan--though more than three hundred years have passed since the death of him--has not entirely given up his marchings. Certainly, for myself, I do not think that it would be judicious to walk in the Callejón del Muerto at midnight even now. LEGEND OF THE ALTAR DEL PERDON[2] This painter, Señor, who by a miracle painted the most beautiful picture of Our Lady of Mercy that is to be found in the whole world--the very picture that ever since has adorned the Altar del Perdon in the Cathedral--in the beginning of him was a very bad sinner: being a Fleming, and a Jew, and many other things that he ought not to have been, and therefore straight in the way to pass the whole of Eternity--his wickednesses being so numerous that time would have been wasted in trying to purge him of them in Purgatory--in the hottest torments that the devil his master could contrive. He was a very agreeable young gentleman, of a cheerful and obliging nature, and both witty and interesting in his talkings--for which reason the Viceroy had a great liking for his company and had him often at the Palace to the banquets and the festivals of the court. His name, Señor, was Don Simon Peyrens; and the Viceroy his patron--in whose suite he had come from Spain expressly to beautify the Palace with his paintings--was Don Gastón de Peralta, Marqués de Falces: who was the third Viceroy of the Province, being the successor to the good Don Luis de Velasco when that most worthy gentleman ceased to be a Viceroy and became an angel in the year 1564. Well, Señor, it happened some years later--in the time of Don Martín Enriquez de Almanza, the fourth Viceroy, with whom Peyrens remained in favor--that the Chapter of the Cathedral, desiring to make splendid the Altar del Perdon, offered in competition to all the painters of Mexico a prize for the most beautiful picture of Our Lady of Mercy: which picture was to be placed in the centre of that altar and to be the chief glory of it. And, thereupon, all the painters of Mexico, save only Peyrens, entered into that competition with a reverent and an eager joy. And then it was, Señor, that Peyrens made plain the wickedness that was in him by his irreverent blasphemies. At a banquet at the Palace a very noble gentleman asked him why he alone of all the painters of Mexico--and he the best of all of them--had not entered into the competition; to which that sinful young man answered with a disdainful and impious lightness that the painting of what were called sacred pictures was but foolishness and vanity, and that he for his part could not be tempted to paint one by all the gold in the world! Talk of that sort, Señor, as you well may imagine, scalded the ears of all who heard it--and in the quarter where the punishment of such sinning was attended to it made an instant stir. In a moment information of that evil young man's utterances was carried to the Archbishop--who at that time was the venerable Fray Alonzo de Montúfar--and in another moment he found himself lodged behind iron bars in a cell in the Inquisition: that blessed constrainer to righteousness, for the comforting of the faithful, that then was proving its usefulness by mowing down the weeds of heresy with a very lively zeal. Being of an incredible hard-heartedness, neither the threats nor the pleadings of the Familiars of the Holy Office could stir Peyrens from the stand that he had taken. Resolutely he refused to recant his blasphemies; equally resolutely he refused to accept his freedom on the condition that he should paint the picture of Our Lady--and he even went so far, when they brought him the materials for the making of that picture, as to tear the canvas to shreds and rags! And so the days ran on into weeks, and the weeks into months, and nothing changed in that bad matter: save that the Archbishop, saintly man that he was, began to lose his temper; and that the Familiars of the Holy Office lost their tempers entirely--and were for settling accounts with Peyrens by burning his wickedness out of him with heavenly fire. As it happened, Señor, a great opportunity for such wholesome purifying of him was imminent: because at that time the preparations were being made for the very first auto de fé that ever was celebrated in Mexico, and all the City was on tiptoe of joyful expectation of it. Therefore everybody was looking forward with a most pleased interest to seeing that criminally stiff-necked painter--properly clad in a yellow coat with a red cross on the back and on the front of it--walking with the condemned ones; and then, on the brasero that had been set up in the market-place, to seeing him and his sins together burned to ashes; and then to seeing those sin-tainted ashes carried to the outskirts of the City and scattered pollutingly on the muddy marsh. However, Señor, none of those interesting and edifying things happened: because Our Lady of Mercy--and it was just like the good-nature of her to do so--took a hand in the affair, and by the working of a loving miracle made everything come out smoothly and well. On a night, as he lay sleeping on his pallet in his cell in the Inquisition, Peyrens was awakened suddenly he knew not how; and as he wakened he found in his nose a smell so delectable that he thought that he still was asleep and his nose dreaming it: and for him to have that thought was quite reasonable, Señor, because it was the pure fragrance of heaven--to which, of course, human noses are unaccustomed--that filled the room. Then, as he lay on his pallet wondering, a shimmering light began to glow softly in the darkness; and the light constantly grew stronger and stronger until it became a glorious radiance far brighter than any sunlight; and then in the midst of that resplendency--yet the heavenly sparkle of her making the dazzle of it seem like darkness--Our Lady of Mercy herself appeared to him: and he would have died of the glory of her, had it not been for the loving kindness that shone upon him assuringly and comfortingly from her gentle eyes. Then said to him Our Lady, in a voice sweeter than any earthly music: "Little son, why dost thou not love me?" And Peyrens--his hard heart melted by that gentle look and by that sweet voice, and all of his wickedness cured by that loving kindness--rose from his pallet and knelt before Our Lady, saying with a deep earnestness: "Queen of Heaven, I reverence and I love thee with all the heart of me and with all my soul!" Then, for a time, a serene strange happiness bemazed him dream-fully--and when his bemazement left him the resplendent presence was gone. But with him still remained the heavenly radiance that was brighter than any sunlight, and the heavenly perfume that was sweeter than spikenard and lilies; and while he pondered all these mysteries, awe-bound and wondering, again sounded in his ears that heaven-sweet voice--coming as from a great distance, but with a bell-note clearness--saying to him gently and lovingly: "Paint now thy picture of me, little son!" Quite possibly, Señor, in the hurry of the moment, Our Lady forgot that Peyrens had no canvas--because in his sinful anger he had destroyed it--on which to paint the picture that she commanded of him; but, for myself, I think that she meant to set his wits to work to find the means by which he could obey her command. At any rate, his wits did work so well that even as she spoke he saw his way out of his difficulty; and in an instant--all a-thrill with joyful eagerness to do Our Lady's bidding, and inspired by the splendor of his vision of her--he set himself to painting the portrait of her, just as his own eyes had seen her in her glory, on the oaken door of his cell. All the night long, Señor--working by the heaven-light that was brighter than any sunlight, and having in his happy nose the heaven fragrance that uplifted his soul with the sweetness of it--he painted as one who painted in a heaven-sent dream. And when the morning came, and the glimmering daylight took dimly the place of the heaven-light, he had finished there on the door of his cell the most beautiful picture of Our Lady--as I said in the beginning--that ever has been painted in this mortal world: and so it had to be--because, you see, it is the only picture of her that ever has been painted of her by one who has beheld her with mortal eyes! As usually is the case with miracles, Señor, the outcome of this one was most satisfactory. The Archbishop and the Chapter of the Cathedral, being brought in haste, instantly felt themselves compelled to adore that miraculous image; and when they had finished adoring it they equally felt themselves compelled to declare that Peyrens by his making of it had earned both his freedom and the prize. Therefore Peyrens was set at liberty and most richly rewarded; and the pictured door was taken from its hinges and, being framed in a great frame of silver, was set upon the Altar del Perdon to be the chief glory of it; and what was best of all--because it made safe the soul of him for all Eternity--the Archbishop formally confirmed to Peyrens his absolution, through Our Lady's loving kindness, from his bad heresy and from all his other sins. What became of this Peyrens later, Señor, I have not heard mentioned; but in regard to the accuracy of all that I have told you about him there can be no question: because the miracle-picture that he painted still adorns the Altar del Perdon, and is the chief glory of it--and there you may see it this very day. LEGEND OF THE CALLEJÓN DEL ARMADO This Alleyway of the Armed One, Señor, got its name because long ago--before it had any name at all--there lived in it an old man who went always clad in armor, wearing also his sword and his dagger at his side; and all that was known about him was that his name was Don Lope de Armijo y Lara, and that--for all that he lived so meanly in so mean a street in so mean a quarter of the City--he was a rich merchant, and that he came from Spain. Into his poor little house no one ever got so much as the tip of his nose, and he lived alone there in great mystery. In spite of his riches, he had not even one servant; and he himself bought his own victuals and cooked them with his own hands. Always he was seen armed to the teeth [_armado hasta los dientes_] when he went abroad. Under his mean robe was a full suit of armor, and in his belt was a long dagger and a broad and very long sword; also, when at night he went out on strange errands, he carried a great pike. Therefore, presently, people spoke of him not as Don Lope but as El Armado--and so he was called. That he was a wicked person was known generally. He was very charitable to the poor. Every morning he went to pray in the church of San Francisco; and he remained praying there for hours at a time, kneeling upon his knees. Also, at the proper seasons, he partook of the Sacrament. Some said that through the shut windows of his house, in the night-time, they had heard the sound of his scourgings as he made penance for his sins. [Illustration: EL CALLEJÓN DEL ARMADO] In the darkness of the darkest of nights--when there was no moon, and especially when a dismal drizzling rain was falling--he would be seen to come out from his house in all his armor and go stealing away in the direction of the Plazuela de Mixcalco. He would disappear into the shadows, and not come back again until midnight had passed. Then he would be heard, in his shut house, counting his money. For a long while that would go on--counting, counting, counting--there was no end to the clinking of silver coin. Then, when all his money was counted, would be heard the sound of scourging, together with most lamentable and complaining groanings. And, at the end of all, would come a heavy clanking--as of a great iron cover falling heavily upon a chest of iron. After that there would be no sign of life about the house until the morning--when the Armed One would come forth from it and go to San Francisco to pray. The life of that man was a bad mystery, Señor, that many wished to uncover by denouncing him to justice; but the uncovering came of its own accord, and was a greater mystery still! On a morning, all the neighbors saw the Armed One hanging dead--hanging dead from his own balcony by a cord! No one knew what to think; but most thought that he had hung himself there in fear that denouncement of his crimes would be made and that justice would have its hold upon him. When the Alcalde came, and made search in his house, a very great sum of money was found; and, also, were found many skulls of men who certainly must have perished at his hands. It is a most curious matter, Señor. I cannot see my way through it. But the house is gone. LEGEND OF THE ADUANA DE SANTO DOMINGO[3] This gentleman who for love's sake, Señor, conquered his coldness and his laziness and became all fire and energy, was named Don Juan Gutiérrez Rubín de Celis. He was a caballero of the Order of Santiago--some say that he wore also the habit of Calatrava--and the colonel of the regiment of the Tres Villas. He was of a lovable nature, and ostentatious and arrogant, and in all his ways dilatory and apathetic to the very last degree. So great were his riches that not even he himself knew the sum of them: as you will understand when I tell you that on an occasion of state--it was the entry into the City in the year 1716 of the new Viceroy, the Marqués de Valero--pearls to the value of thirty thousand pesos were used in the mere trimming of his casacón. Being of an age to take part so nobly in that noble ceremony, he must have been a gentleman well turned of forty, Señor, when the matters whereof I now am telling you occurred: of which the beginning--and also the middle and the ending, because everything hinged upon it--was his falling most furiously in love with a very beautiful young lady; and his falling in love in that furious fashion was the very first sign of energy that in all his lifetime, until that moment, he had shown. The name of this beautiful young lady with whom he fell in love so furiously was Doña Sara de García Somera y Acuña; and she was less than half as old as he was, but possessed of a very sensible nature that made her do more thinking than is done usually by young ladies; and she was of a noble house, and a blood relative of the Viceroy's: for which reason the Viceroy--who by that time was Don Juan de Acuña, Marqués de Casafuerte--was much interested in the whole affair. The love-making of this so notoriously lazy gentleman did not at all go upon wheels, Señor: because Doña Sara set herself--as was her habit when dealing with any matter of importance--to thinking about it very seriously; and the more that she thought about it the more she made her mind up that so dull and so apathetic a gentleman--who, moreover, was old enough to be her father--would not in the least be the sort of husband that she desired. But also, because of her good sense, she perceived that much was to be said in favor of entering into wedlock with him: because his rank and his great wealth made him one of the most important personages in the Vice-Kingdom; and, moreover, for all that he was old enough to be her father, he still was a very personable man. And so she thought very hard in both directions, and could not in either direction make up her mind. While matters were in this condition, Señor--Don Juan furiously in love with Doña Sara, and Doña Sara thinking in that sensible way of hers about being temperately in love with Don Juan--something happened that gave a new turn to the whole affair. This thing that happened was that the Viceroy--who was a great friend of Don Juan's; and who, as I have mentioned, was a kinsman of Doña Sara's, and much interested in all that was going forward--appointed Don Juan to be Prior of the Consulado; that is to say, President of the Tribunal of Commerce: which was a most honorable office, in keeping with his rank and his riches; and which also was an office--because all the work of it could be done by deputy, or even left undone--that fitted in with Don Juan's lazy apathy to a hair. Now at that time, Señor, the building of the Aduana de Santo Domingo was in progress--it ceased to be a custom-house many years ago, Señor; it is occupied by the Secretaría de Comunicaciones now--and it had been in progress, with no great result from the work that laggingly was done on it, for a number of years. The charge of the making of this edifice rested with the Consulado; and, naturally, the new Prior of the Consulado was even more content than had been his predecessors in that office to let the making of it lag on. Then it was, Señor, that there came into the sensible mind of Doña Sara a notable project for proving whether Don Juan's lazy apathy went to the very roots of him; or whether, at the very roots of him--over and above the energy that he had shown in his furious love for her--he had energy that she could arouse and could set a-going in practically useful ways. And her reasoning was this wise: that if Don Juan could be stirred by her urgence to do useful work with vigor, then was it likely that her urgence would arouse him from all his apathies--and so would recast him into the sort of husband that she desired to have. Therefore Doña Sara told Don Juan that she would marry him only on one condition; and that her condition was that he should finish completely the long-drawn-out building of the Aduana within six months from that very day! And Don Juan, Señor, was so furiously in love with Doña Sara that in the same instant that she gave him her condition he accepted it; and he--who never had done a hand's turn of work in all his lifetime--promised her that he would do the almost impossible piece of work that she had set him to do: and that the Aduana should be finished completely within six months from that very day! And then all the City was amazed--and so, for that matter, Don Juan himself was--by the fire and the force and the breathless eagerness with which he set himself to the task that Doña Sara had put upon him. In a single moment he had gone to every one of all the architects in the City urging them to take in charge for him that almost impossible piece of building; and in the very next moment--every one of all the architects in the City having made answer to him that what he wanted of them could not even by a miracle be accomplished--he himself took charge of it: and with a furiousness that matched precisely--as Doña Sara perceived with hopeful satisfaction--with the furiousness of his love. What Don Juan did in that matter, Señor, was done as though in the insides of him were tempests and volcanoes! From the Tierra Caliente he brought up as by magic myriads of negro workmen to do the digging and the heavy carrying; all the quarries around the City he crammed full of stone-cutters; every mason was set to work at wall-laying; every carpenter to making the doors and the windows; every brick-yard to making the tiles for the roof and the floors; every blacksmith to making the locks and the hinges and the window-gratings and the balcony rails. And in the midst of his swarms of laborers Don Juan himself worked harder than all of them put together; and was everywhere at once among them urging them to hurry and to hurry; and to any one of them who showed even the slightest sign of lagging there came from Don Juan's mouth a berating volleying of scorpions and snakes and toads! In very truth, Señor, such was Don Juan's raging energy that he was as a frenzied person. But it was a frenzy that had no real madness in it: because everything that he did and that he made to be done was directed by a most sensible discretion--so that not a moment of time nor the turn of a hand was wasted, and in every single instant the building grew and grew. And the upshot of it all was that he accomplished just what he had made his whole soul up he would accomplish: within the six months that Doña Sara had given him to do his work in, he did do it--and even with a little time to spare. Three full days before the last of his six months was ended the Aduana was finished to the very least part of its smallest detail; and Don Juan--all aglow over his triumphant fulfilment of Doña Sara's almost impossible condition--carried the key of that perfectly completed vast structure to the Palace, and there placed the key of it in the Viceroy's hands! Moreover--that all the world might know why it was, and for whom it was, that his great work had been accomplished--Don Juan caused to be carved on a wall of the building a most artfully contrived inscription: that seemed only to give soberly his own name, and the names of the Consules associated with him, and the date of the Aduana's completion; but that was so arranged that the first letters of the five lines of it together made the initials of Doña Sara's name. Don Juan thus having done what Doña Sara had set him to do, and what every one of all the architects in the City had declared could not be done even by a miracle, it was evident to the whole world that at the very roots of him was more blazing energy than would suffice for the equipment of a half hundred of ordinary men. Wherefore Doña Sara was well satisfied--her urgence having stirred him to do that great useful work with such masterful vigor--that her urgence equally would arouse him from all of his apathies: and so would recast him into the sort of husband that she desired to have. Therefore Doña Sara immediately gave to Don Juan her hand in marriage: and as the Aduana still is standing--and precisely where, faster than a miracle, Don Juan built it--the Señor has only to look at it, and to read the inscription showing Doña Sara's initials, to know both the truth of this curious story and that Doña Sara's choice of a husband was well made. LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LA QUEMADA Not knowing what they are talking about, Señor, many people will tell you that the Street of the Burned Woman got its name because--in the times when the Holy Office was helping the goodness of good people by making things very bad for the bad ones--a woman heretic most properly and satisfactorily was burned there. Such is not in the least the case. The Quemadero of the Inquisition--where such sinners were burned, that their sins might be burned out of them--was nowhere near the Calle de la Quemada: being at the western end of what now is the Alameda, in quite a different part of the town. Therefore it is a mistake to mix these matters: and the real truth is that this beautiful young lady did herself destroy her own beauty by setting fire to it; and she did it because she wanted to do it--that in that way she might settle some doubts which were in her heart. It all happened in the time of the good Viceroy Don Luis de Velasco: and so you will perceive, Señor, that this story is more than three hundred years old. The name of this beautiful young lady who went to such lengths for her heart's assuring was Doña Beatrice de Espinosa; and the name of her father was Don Gonzalo de Espinosa y Guevra--who was a Spanish rich merchant who came to make himself still richer by his buyings and his sellings in New Spain. Being arrived here, he took up his abode in a fine dwelling in the quarter of San Pablo, in the very street that now is called the Street of the Burned Woman because of what presently happened there; and if that street was called by some other name before that cruel happening I do not know what it was. Doña Beatrice was as beautiful, Señor, as the full moon and the best of the stars put together; and she was more virtuous than she was beautiful; and she was just twenty years old. Therefore all the young gentlemen of the City immediately fell in love with her; and great numbers of the richest and the noblest of them--their parents, or other suitable persons, making the request for them--asked her father's permission to wed her: so that Doña Beatrice might have had any one of twenty good husbands, had any one of them been to her mind. However--being a lady very particular in the matter of husbands--not one of them was to her liking: wherefore her father did as she wanted him to do and refused them all. But, on a day, matters went differently. At a great ball given by the Viceroy in the Palace Doña Beatrice found what her heart had been waiting for: and this was a noble Italian young gentleman who instantly--as all the others had done--fell in love with her; and with whom--as she never before had done with anybody--she instantly fell in love. The name of this young gentleman was Don Martín Scipoli; and he was the Marqués de Pinamonte y Frantescello; and he was as handsome as he was lovable, and of a most jealous nature, and as quarrelsome as it was possible for anybody to be. Therefore, as I have said, Señor, Doña Beatrice at once fell in love with him with all the heart of her; and Don Martín at once fell in love with her also: and so violently that his jealousy of all her other lovers set off his quarrelsomeness at such a rate that he did nothing--in his spare time, when he was not making love to Doña Beatrice--but affront and anger them, so that he might have the pleasure of finding them at the point of his sword. Now Doña Beatrice, Señor, was a young lady of a most delicate nature, and her notions about love were precisely the same as those which are entertained by the lady angels. Therefore Don Martín's continual fightings very much worried her: raising in her heart the dread that so violent a person must be of a coarse and carnal nature; and that, being of such a nature, his love for her came only from his beblindment by the outside beauty of her, and was not--as her own love was--the pure love of soul for soul. Moreover, she was pained by his being led on by his jealousy--for which there was no just occasion--to injure seriously, and even mortally, so many worthy young men. Therefore Doña Beatrice--after much thinking and a great deal of praying over the matter--made her mind up to destroy her own beauty: that in that way she might put all jealousies out of the question; and at the same time prove to her heart's satisfying that Don Martín's love for her had nothing to do with the outside beauty of her and truly was the pure love of soul for soul. And Doña Beatrice, Señor, did do that very thing. Her father being gone abroad from his home, and all of the servants of the house being on one excuse or another sent out of it, she brought into her own chamber a brazier filled with burning coals; and this she set beneath an image of the blessed Santa Lucía that she had hung upon the wall to give strength to her in case, in doing herself so cruel an injury, her own strength should fail. Santa Lucía, as you will remember, Señor, with her own hands plucked out her own wonderfully beautiful eyes and sent them on a platter to the young gentleman who had troubled her devotions by telling her that he could not live without them; and with them sent the message that, since she had given him the eyes that he could not live without, he please would let her and her devotions alone. Therefore it was clear that Santa Lucía was the saint best fitted to oversee the matter that Doña Beatrice had in hand. But in regard to her eyes Doña Beatrice did not precisely pattern herself upon Santa Lucía: knowing that without them she could not see how Don Martín stood the test that she meant to put him to; and, also, very likely remembering that Santa Lucía miraculously got her eyes back again, and got them back even more beautiful than when she lost them: because, you see, they came back filled with the light of heaven--where the angels had been taking care of them until they should be returned. Therefore Doña Beatrice bound a wet handkerchief over her eyes--that she might keep the sight in them to see how Don Martín stood his testing; and, also, that she might spare the angels the inconvenience of caring for them--and then she fanned and fanned the fire in the brazier until the purring of it made her know that the coals were in a fierce blaze. And then, Señor, she plunged her beautiful face down into the very heart of the glowing coals! And it was at that same instant--though Doña Beatrice, of course, did not know about that part of the matter--that the Street of the Burned Woman got its name. Being managed under the guidance and with the approval of Santa Lucía, the cruelty that this virtuous young lady put upon her own beauty could lead only to a good end. Presently, when the bitter pain of her burning had passed a little, Doña Beatrice bade Don Martín come to her; and he, coming, found her clad in virgin white and wearing over her poor burned face a white veil. And then the test that Doña Beatrice had planned for her heart's assuring was made. Little by little, Doña Beatrice raised her white veil slowly; and, little by little, Don Martín saw the face of her: and the face of her was more shudderingly hideous--her two beautiful eyes perfectly alight and alive amid that distorted deathliness was what made the shudder of it--than anything that ever he had dreamed of in his very worst dream! Therefore, with a great joy and thankfulness, Don Martín immediately espoused Doña Beatrice: and thence-forward and always--most reasonably ceasing to love the outside beauty of her--gave her, as she wanted him to give her, the pure love of soul for soul. For myself, Señor, I think that the conduct of that young lady was unreasonable, and that Don Martín had just occasion to be annoyed. LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LA CRUZ VERDE[4] This story is not a sad one, Señor, like the others. It is a joyful story of a gentleman and a lady who loved each other, and were married, and lived in happiness together until they died. And it was because of his happiness that the gentleman caused to be carved on the corner of his house, below the balcony on which he saw that day the sign which gave hope to him, this great green cross of stone that is there still. The house with the green cross on it, Señor, stands at the corner of the Calle de la Cruz Verde--the street, you see, was named for it--and the Calle de Migueles. It was a fine house in the days when Doña María's father built it. Now it is old and shabby, and the saint that once stood in the niche above the cross is gone. But there is an excellent pulquería there, Señor--it is called La Heroina--where pulque of the best and the freshest is to be had every morning of every day the whole year round. I do not know, Señor, when this matter happened; but I have heard it told that this gentleman, who was named Don Alvaro de Villadiego y Manrique, came to Mexico in the train of the Viceroy Don Gastón de Peralta--so it must have happened a very long while ago. This Don Alvaro was a very handsome gentleman--tall, and slender, and fair; and he wore clothes of white velvet worked with gold, and a blue cap with a white feather; and he rode always a very beautiful Arabian horse. His hair and his little pointed beard were a golden brown, Señor; and he was a sight to behold! [Illustration: LA CRUZ VERDE] It happened, on a day, that he was taking the air on his Arabian; and he was wearing--because a festival of some sort was in progress--all of his fine clothes. So he came prancing down the Calle de Migueles, and in the balcony of that corner house--the house on which the green cross now is--he saw a very beautiful young lady, who was most genteel in her appearance and as white as snow. He fell in love with her on that very instant; and she--although because of her virtue and good training she did not show it--on that very instant fell in love with him. Then he made inquiry and found that her name was Doña María de Aldarafuente y Segura. Therefore he resolved to marry her. And so, every day he rode past her balcony and looked up at her with eyes full of love. As for Doña María, she was so well brought up, and her parents watched her so narrowly, that it was a long while before she made any answering sign. And for that reason, Señor, she loved him all the more tenderly in her heart. Then it happened, at the end of a long while, that Doña María's mother fell ill; and so, the watch upon her being less close, Don Alvaro was able to get to her hands a letter in which he begged that she would give to him her love. And he told her in his letter that--if she could not answer it with another letter--she should give him one of two signs by which he would know her will. If she did not love him, she was to hang upon the railing of her balcony a cross of dry palm-leaves--and when he saw that dry cross he would most certainly, he told her, that day die. But if she did love him, she was to hang a cross of green palm-leaves upon the railing of her balcony--and when he saw that green cross he would know, he told her, that she had given him her true promise of heaven-perfect happiness for all his life long. Being a lady, Señor, Doña María let some days go by before she hung on the railing of her balcony any cross at all--and during those days Don Alvaro was within no more than a hair's breadth of going mad. And then--when madness was so close to him that with one single moment more of waiting his wits would have left him--on a day of days, when the spring-time sun was shining and all the birds were singing love-songs together, Don Alvaro saw hanging on the railing of Doña María's balcony a beautiful bright green cross! Of course, after that, Señor, things went fast and well. By the respectable intervention of a cleric--who was the friend of Don Alvaro, and who also was the friend of Doña María's parents--all the difficulties were cleared away in a hurry; and only a fortnight after the green cross was hung on the railing of Doña María's balcony--that fortnight seemed an endless time to Don Alvaro, but for such a matter it really was the least that a lady could get ready in--they went together before the altar, and at the foot of it they vowed to each other their love. And what is best of all, Señor, is that they kept faithfully their vow. Then it was, being gladly married, that Don Alvaro caused the green cross of stone--so big that it rises to the first floor from the pavement--to be carved on the corner of the house that thenceforward they lived in; and it was carved beneath the very balcony where had hung the green cross of palm-leaves that had given to him Doña María's true promise of heaven-perfect happiness for all his life long. And there the green cross still is, Señor; and the name of the street, as I have told you, is the Calle de la Cruz Verde--which of course proves that this story is true. LEGEND OF LA MUJER HERRADA[5] I do not know when this matter happened, Señor; but my grandfather, who told me about it, spoke as though all three of them--the priest, and the blacksmith, and the woman--had lived a long while before his time. However, my grandfather said that the priest and the woman, who was his housekeeper, pretty certainly lived in a house--it is gone now, Señor--that was in the street that is called the Puerta Falsa de Santo Domingo. And he said that the blacksmith certainly did live in a house in the Calle de las Rejas de la Balvanera--because he himself had seen the house, and had seen the farrier's knife and the pincers cut on the stone arching above the door. Therefore you perceive, Señor, that my grandfather was well acquainted with these people, and that this story is true. The priest was a secular, Señor, not belonging to any Order; and he and the blacksmith were compadres together--that is to say, they were close friends. It was because the blacksmith had a great liking for his compadre, and a great respect for him, that from time to time he urged him to send away the housekeeper; but his compadre always had some pleasant excuse to make about the matter, and so the blacksmith would be put off. And things went on that way for a number of years. Now it happened, on a night, that the blacksmith was wakened out of his sleep by a great pounding at the door of his house; and when he got up and went to his door he found standing there two blacks--they were men whom he never had laid eyes on--and with them was a she mule that they had brought to be shod. The blacks made their excuses to him politely for waking him at that bad hour: telling him that the mule belonged to his compadre, and had been sent to him to be shod in the night and in a hurry because his compadre of a sudden had occasion to go upon a journey, and that he must start upon his journey very early on the morning of the following day. Then the blacksmith, looking closely at the mule, saw that she really was the mule of his compadre; and so, for friendship's sake, he shod her without more words. The blacks led the mule away when the shoeing was finished; and, as they went off into the night with her, they fell to beating her so cruelly with heavy sticks that the blacksmith talked to them with great severity. But the blacks kept on beating the mule, and even after they were lost in the darkness the blacksmith continued to hear the sound of their blows. [Illustration: LA MVJER HERRADA] In some ways this whole matter seemed so strange to the blacksmith that he wanted to know more about it. Therefore he got up very early in the morning and went to his compadre's house: meaning to ask him what was the occasion of this journey that had to be taken in such a hurry, and who those strange blacks were who so cruelly had beaten his meritorious mule. But when he was come to the house he had to wait a while before the door was opened; and when at last it did open, there was his compadre half asleep--and his compadre said that he was not going on any journey, and that most certainly he had not sent his mule to be shod. And then, as he got wider awake, he began to laugh at the blacksmith because of the trick that had been put upon him; and that the woman might share in the joke of it--they all were great friends together--he knocked at the door of her room and called to her. But the woman did not answer back to him; and when he knocked louder and louder she still gave no sign. Then he, and the blacksmith too, became anxious about the woman; and together they opened the door and went into the room. And what they saw when they were come into the room, Señor, was the most terrible sight that ever was seen in this world! For there, lying upon her bed, was that unhappy woman looking all distraught and agonized; and nailed fast to the feet and to the hands of her were the very same iron shoes that the blacksmith--who well knew his own forge-work--had nailed fast to the hoofs of the mule! Moreover, upon her body were the welts and the bruises left there when the blacks had beaten the mule with their cruel blows. And the woman, Señor, was as dead as she possibly could be. So they knew that what had happened was a divine punishment, and that the blacks were two devils who had changed the woman into a mule and so had taken her to be shod. Perceiving, because of such a sign being given him, Señor, that he had committed an error, the master of that house of horror immediately went out from it--and at once disappeared completely and never was heard of again. As for the blacksmith, he was so pained by his share in the matter that always afterward, until the death of him, he was a very unhappy man. And that is the story of the Iron-shod Woman, Señor, from first to last. LEGEND OF THE ACCURSED BELL[6] This story, Señor--it is about the accursed bell that once was the clock-bell of the Palace--has so many beginnings that the only way really to get at the bones of it would be for a number of people, all talking at once, to tell the different first parts of it at the same time. For, you see, the curse that was upon this bell--that caused it to be brought to trial before the Consejo of the Inquisition, and by the Consejo to be condemned to have its wicked tongue torn out and to be banished from Spain to this country--was made up of several curses which had been in use in other ways elsewhere previously: so that one beginning is with the Moor, and another with Don Gil de Marcadante, and another with the devil-forged armor, and still another with the loosing of all the curses from the cross (wherein for some hundreds of years they were imprisoned) and the fusing of them into the one great curse wherewith this unfortunate bell was afflicted--which happened when that holy emblem was refounded, and with the metal of it this bell was made. Concerning the Moor, Señor, I can give you very little information. All that I know about him is that he had the bad name of Muslef; and that he was killed--as he deserved to be killed, being an Infidel--by a Christian knight; and that this knight cut his head off and brought it home with him as an agreeable memento of the occasion, and was very pleased with what he had done. Unfortunately, this knight also brought home with him the Moor's armor--which was of bronze, and so curiously and so beautifully wrought that it evidently had been forged by devils, and which was farther charged with devilishness because it had been worn by an Infidel; and then, still more unfortunately, he neglected to have the armor purified by causing the devils to be exorcised out of it by a Christian priest. Therefore, of course, the devils remained in the armor--ready to make trouble whenever they got the chance. How Don Gil de Marcadante came to be the owner of that accursed devil-possessed armor, Señor, I never have heard mentioned. Perhaps he bought it because it happened to fit him; and, certainly--he being a most unusually sinful young gentleman--the curse that was upon it and the devils which were a part of it fitted him to a hair. This Don Gil was a student of law in Toledo; but his studies were the very last things to which he turned his attention, and the life that he led was the shame of his respectable brother and his excellent mother's despair. Habitually, he broke every law of the Decalogue, and so brazenly that all the city rang with the stories of his evil doings and his crimes. Moreover, he was of a blusterous nature and a born brawler: ready at the slightest contradiction to burst forth with such a torrent of blasphemies and imprecations that his mouth seemed to be a den of snakes and toads and scorpions; and ever quick to snatch his sword out and to get on in a hurry from words to blows. As his nearest approach to good nature was after he had killed some one in a quarrel of his own making, and as even at those favorable times his temper was of a brittleness, he was not looked upon as an agreeable companion and had few friends. This Don Gil had most intimate relations with the devil, as was proved in various ways. Thus, a wound that he received in one of his duels instantly closed and healed itself; on a night of impenetrable darkness, as he went about his evil doings, he was seen to draw apart the heavy gratings of a window as though the thick iron bars had been silken threads; and a stone that he cast at a man in one of his rages--mercifully not hitting him--remained burning hot in the place where it had fallen for several days. Moreover, it was known generally that in the night time, in a very secret and hidden part of his dwelling, he gave himself up to hideous and most horrible sacrileges in which his master the devil had always a part. And so these facts--and others of a like nature--coming to the knowledge of the Holy Office, it was perceived that he was a sorcerer. Therefore he was marched off--wearing his devil-forged armor, to which fresh curses had come with his use of it--to a cell in the Inquisition; and to make sure of holding him fast until the next auto de fé came round, when he was to be burned properly and regularly, he was bound with a great chain, and the chain was secured firmly to a strong staple in the cell wall. But the devil, Señor, sometimes saves his own. On a morning, the jailer went as usual to Don Gil's cell with the bread and the water for him; and when he had opened the cell door he saw, as he believed, Don Gil in his armor waiting as usual for his bread and his water: but in a moment he perceived that what he saw was not Don Gil in his armor, but only the accursed armor standing upright full of emptiness; and that the staple was torn out; and that the great chain was broken; and that Don Gil was gone! And then--so much to the horror of the jailer that he immediately went mad of it--the empty armor began slowly to walk up and down the cell! After that time Don Gil never was seen, nor was he heard of, again on earth; and so on earth, when the time came for burning him at the auto de fé, he had to be burned in effigy. However--as there could be no doubt about the place to which the devil had taken him--everybody was well satisfied that he got his proper personal burning elsewhere. Then it was, Señor, that the Holy Office most wisely ordered that that devil-possessed and doubly accursed armor should be melted, and refounded into a cross: knowing that the sanctity of that blessed emblem would quiet the curses and would hold the devils still and fast. Therefore that order was executed; and the wisdom of it--which some had questioned, on the ground that devils and curses were unsuitable material to make a cross of--was apparent as soon as the bronze turned fluid in the furnace: because there came from the fiery seething midst of it--to the dazed terror of the workmen--shouts of devil-laughter, and imprecations horrible to listen to, and frightful blasphemies; and to these succeeded, as the metal was being poured into the mould, a wild outburst of defiant remonstrance; and then all this demoniac fury died away--as the metal hardened and became fixed as a cross--at first into half-choked cries of agony, and then into confused lamentations, and at the last into little whimpering moans. Thus the devils and the curses were disposed of: and then the cross--holding them imprisoned in its holy substance--was set up in a little townlet not far from Madrid in which just then a cross happened to be wanted; and there it remained usefully for some hundreds of years. At the end of that period--by which time everybody was dead who knew what was inside of it--the cross was asked for by the Prior of a little convent in that townlet near Madrid, who desired it that he might have it refounded into a bell; and as the Prior was a worthy person, and as he really needed a bell, his request was granted. So they made out of the cross a very beautiful bell: having on one side of it the two-headed eagle; and having on the other side of it a calvario; and having at the top of it, for its hanging, two imperial lions supporting a cross-bar in the shape of a crown. Then it was hung in the tower of the little convent; and the Prior, and all the Brothers with him, were very much pleased. But that worthy Prior, and those equally worthy Brothers, were not pleased for long, Señor: because the curses and the devils all were loose again--and their chance to do new wickednesses had come! On a night of blackness, without any warning whatever, the whole of the townlet was awakened by the prodigious clangor of a bell furiously ringing. In an instant--seeking the cause of this disturbance--everybody came out into the night's blackness: the Señor Cura, the Señor Alcalde, the alguaciles, the Prior, the Brothers, all the townsfolk to the very last one. And when they had looked about them they found that the cause of the disturbance was the new bell of the convent: which was ringing with such an excessive violence that the night's blackness was corrupted with its noise. Terror was upon everyone; and greater terror was upon every one when it was found out that the door of the bell-tower was locked, and that the bell was ringing of its lone self: because the bad fact then became evident that only devils could have the matter in hand. The Señor Alcalde alone--being a very valiant gentleman, and not much believing in devils--was not satisfied with that finding. Therefore the Señor Alcalde caused the door to be unlocked and, carrying a torch with him, entered the bell-tower; and there he found the bell-rope crazily flying up and down as though a dozen men were pulling it, and nobody was pulling it--which sight somewhat shook his nerves. However, because of his valorousness, he only stopped to cross himself; and then he went on bravely up the belfry stair. But what he saw when he was come into the belfry fairly brought him to a stand. For there was the bell ringing tempestuously; and never a visible hand was near it; and the only living thing that he found in the belfry was a great black cat with its tail bushed out and its fur bristling--which evil animal for a moment leered at him malignantly, with its green eyes gleaming in the torch-light, and then sprang past him and dashed down the stair. Then the Señor Alcalde, no longer doubting that the bell was being rung by devils, and himself not knowing how to manage devils, called down from the belfry to the Señor Cura to come up and take charge of the matter: whereupon the Señor Cura, holding his courage in both hands, did come up into the belfry, bringing his hisopo with him, and fell to sprinkling the bell with holy water--which seemed to him, so far as he could see his way into that difficult tangle, the best thing that he could do. But his doing it, of course, was the very worst thing that he could have done: because, you see, Señor, the devils were angered beyond all endurance by being scalded with the holy water (that being the effect that holy water has upon devils) and so only rang the bell the more furiously in their agony of pain. Then the Señor Alcalde and the Señor Cura perceived that they could not quiet the devils, and decided to give up trying to. Therefore they came down from the belfry together--and they, and everybody with them, went away through the night's blackness crossing themselves, and were glad to be safe again in their homes. The next day the Señor Alcalde made a formal inquest into the whole matter: citing to appear before him all the townsfolk and all the Brothers, and questioning them closely every one. And the result of this inquest was to make certain that the bell-ringer of the convent had not rung the bell; nor had any other of the Brothers rung it; nor had any of the townsfolk rung it. Therefore the Señor Alcalde, and with him the Señor Cura--whose opinion was of importance in such a matter--decided that the devil had rung it: and their decision was accepted by everybody, because that was what everybody from the beginning had believed. Therefore--because such devilish doings affected the welfare of the whole kingdom--a formal report of all that had happened was submitted to the Cortes; and the Cortes, after pondering the report seriously, perceived that the matter was ecclesiastical and referred it to the Consejo of the Inquisition; and the members of the Consejo, in due course, ordered that all the facts should be digested and regularized and an opinion passed upon them by their Fiscal. Being a very painstaking person, the Fiscal went at his work with so great an earnestness that for more than a year he was engaged upon it. First he read all that he could find to read about bells in all the Spanish law books, from the _Siete Partidas_ of Alonzo the Wise downward; then he read all that he could find about bells in such law books of foreign countries as were accessible to him; then, in the light of the information so obtained, he digested and regularized the facts of the case presented for his consideration and applied himself to writing his opinion upon them; and then, at last, he came before the Consejo and read to that body his opinion from beginning to end. Through the whole of a long day the Fiscal read his opinion; and through the whole of the next day, and the next, and the next; and at the end of the fourth day he finished the reading of his opinion and sat down. And the opinion of the Fiscal was that the devil had rung the bell. Then the Consejo, after debating for three days upon what had been read by the Fiscal, gave formal approval to his opinion; and in conformity with it the Consejo came to these conclusions: 1. That the ringing of the bell was a matter of no importance to good Christians. 2. That the bell, being possessed of a devil, should have its tongue torn out: so that never again should it dare to ring of its lone devilish self, to the peril of human souls. 3. That the bell, being dangerous to good Christians, should be banished from the Spanish Kingdom to the Indies, and forever should remain tongueless and exiled over seas. Thereupon, that wise sentence was executed. The devil-possessed bell was taken down from the belfry of the little convent, and its wicked tongue was torn out of it; then it was carried shamefully and with insults to the coast; then it was put on board of one of the ships of the flota bound for Mexico; and in Mexico, in due course, it arrived. Being come here, and no orders coming with it regarding its disposition, it was brought from Vera Cruz to the Capital and was placed in an odd corner of one of the corridors of the Palace: and there it remained quietly--everybody being shy of meddling with a bell that was known to be alive with witchcraft--for some hundreds of years. In that same corner it still was, Señor, when the Conde de Revillagigedo--only a little more than a century ago--became Viceroy; and as soon as that most energetic gentleman saw it he wanted to know in a hurry--being indisposed to let anything or anybody rust in idleness--why a bell that needed only a tongue in it to make it serviceable was not usefully employed. For some time no one could tell him anything more about the bell than that there was a curse upon it; and that answer did not satisfy him, because curses did not count for much in his very practical mind. In the end a very old clerk in the Secretariat gave him the bell's true story; and proved the truth of it by bringing out from deep in the archives an ancient yellowed parchment: which was precisely the royal order, following the decree of the Consejo, that the bell should have its tongue torn out, and forever should remain tongueless and exiled over seas. With that order before him, even the Conde de Revillagigedo, Señor, did not venture to have a new tongue put into the bell and to set it to regular work again; but what he did do came to much the same thing. At that very time he was engaged in pushing to a brisk completion the repairs to the Palace--that had gone on for a hundred years languishingly, following the burning of it in the time of the Viceroy Don Gaspar de la Cerda--and among his repairings was the replacement of the Palace clock. Now a clock-bell, Señor, does not need a tongue in it, being struck with hammers from the outside; and so the Conde, whose wits were of an alertness, perceived in a moment that by employing the bell as a clock-bell he could make it useful again without traversing the king's command. And that was what immediately he did with it--and that was how the Palace clock came to have foisted upon it this accursed bell. But, so far as I have heard, Señor, this bell conducted itself as a clock-bell with a perfect regularity and propriety: probably because the devils which were in it had grown too old to be dangerously hurtful, and because the curse that was upon it had weakened with time. I myself, as a boy and as a young man, have heard it doing its duty always punctually; and no doubt it still would be doing its duty had not the busybodying French seen fit--during the period of the Intervention, when they meddled with everything--to put another bell in the place of it and to have it melted down. What was done with the metal when the bell was melted, Señor, I do not know; but I have been told by an old founder of my acquaintance that nothing was done with it: because, as he very positively assured me, when the bell was melted the metal of it went sour in the furnace and refused to be recast. If that is true, Señor, it looks as though all those devils in the bell--which came to it from the Moor and from the devil-forged armor and from Don Gil de Marcadante--still had some strength for wickedness left to them even in their old age. LEGEND OF THE CALLEJÓN DEL PADRE LECUONA[7] Who Padre Lecuona was, Señor, and what he did or had done to him in this street that caused his name to be given to it, I do not know. The Padre about whom I now am telling you, who had this strange thing happen to him in this street, was named Lanza; but he was called by everybody Lanchitas--according to our custom of giving such endearing diminutives to the names of those whom we love. He deserved to be loved, this excellent Padre Lanchitas: because he himself loved everybody, and freely gave to all in sickness or in trouble his loving aid. Confessing to him was a pleasure; and his absolution was worth having, because it was given always with the approval of the good God. My own grandfather knew him well, Señor, having known a man who had seen him when he was a boy. Therefore this strange story about him is true. On a night--and it was a desponding night, because rain was falling and there was a chill wind--Padre Lanchitas was hurrying to the house of a friend of his, where every week he and three other gentlemen of a Friday evening played malilla together. It is a very serious game, Señor, and to play it well requires a large mind. He was late, and that was why he was hurrying. When he was nearly come to the house of his friend--and glad to get there because of the rain and the cold--he was stopped by an old woman plucking at his wet cloak and speaking to him. And the old woman begged him for God's mercy to come quickly and confess a dying man. Now that is a call, Señor, that a priest may not refuse; but because his not joining them would inconvenience his friends, who could not play at their game of malilla without him, he asked the woman why she did not go to the parish priest of the parish in which the dying man was. And the woman answered him that only to him would the dying man confess; and she begged him again for God's mercy to hurry with her, or the confession would not be made in time--and then the sin of his refusal would be heavy on his own soul when he himself came to die. So, then, the Padre went with her, walking behind her along the cold dark streets in the mud with the rain falling; and at last she brought him to the eastern end of this street that is called the Callejón del Padre Lecuona, and to the long old house there that faces toward the church of El Carmen and has a hump in the middle on the top of its front wall. It is a very old house, Señor. It was built in the time when we had Viceroys, instead of the President Porfírio; and it has no windows--only a great door for the entering of carriages at one end of it, and a small door in the middle of it, and another small door at the other end. A person who sells charcoal, Señor, lives there now. It was to the middle door that the woman brought Padre Lanchitas. The door was not fastened, and at a touch she pushed it open and in they went together--and the first thing that the Padre noticed when he was come through the doorway was a very bad smell. It was the sort of smell, Señor, that is found in very old houses of which all the doors and windows have been shut fast for a very long time. But the Padre had matters more important than bad smells to attend to, and all that he did about it was to hold his handkerchief close to his nose. One little poor candle, stuck on a nail in a board, was set in a far corner; and in another corner was a man lying on a mat spread upon the earth floor; and there was nothing else whatever--excepting cobwebs everywhere, and the bad smell, and the old woman, and the Padre himself--in that room. That he might see him whom he was to confess, Padre Lanchitas took the candle in his hand and went to the man on the mat and pulled aside the ragged and dirty old blanket that covered him; and then he started back with a very cold qualm in his stomach, saying to the woman: "This man already is dead! He cannot confess! And he has the look of having been dead for a very long while!" And that was true, Señor--for what he saw was a dry and bony head, with yellow skin drawn tight over it, having shut eyes deep sunken. Also, the two hands which rested crossed upon the man's breast were no more than the same dry yellow skin shrunk close over shrunken bones! And, seeing such a bad strange sight, the Padre was uneasy and alarmed. But the woman said back to him with assurance, yet also coaxingly: "This man is going to confess, Padrecito"--and, so speaking, she fetched from its far corner the board with the nail in it, and took the candle from him and set it fast again upon the nail. And then the man himself, in the light and in the shadow, sat up on the mat and began to recite in a voice that had a rusty note in it the Confiteor Deo--and after that, of course, there was nothing for the Padre to do but to listen to him till the end. [Illustration: EL CALLEJÓN DEL PADRE LECVONA] What he told, Señor, being told under the seal of confession, of course remained always a secret. But it was known, later, that he spoke of matters which had happened a good two hundred years back--as the Padre knew because he was a great reader of books of history; and that he put himself into the very middle of those matters and made the terrible crime that he had committed a part of them; and that he ended by telling that in that ancient time he had been killed in a brawl suddenly, and so had died unconfessed and unshriven, and that ever since his soul had blistered in hell. Hearing such wild talk from him, the Padre was well satisfied that the poor man's wits were wandering in his fever--as happens with many, Señor, in their dying time--and so bade him lie quietly and rest himself; and promised that he would come to him and hear his confession later on. But the man cried out very urgently that that must not be: declaring that by God's mercy he had been given one single chance to come back again out of Eternity to confess his sins and to be shriven of them; and that unless the Padre did hearken then and there to the confession of his sins, and did shrive him of them, this one chance that God's mercy had given him would be lost and wasted--and back he would go forever to the hot torments of hell. Therefore the Padre--being sure, by that time, that the man was quite crazy in his fever--let him talk on till he had told the whole story of his frightful sinnings; and then did shrive him, to quiet him--just as you promise the moon to a sick, fretful child. And the devil must have been very uneasy that night, Señor, because the good nature of that kind-hearted priest lost to him what by rights was his own! As Padre Lanchitas spoke the last words of the absolution, the man fell back again on his mat with a sharp crackling sound like that of dry bones rattling; and the woman had left the room; and the candle was sputtering out its very last sparks. Therefore the Padre went out in a hurry through the still open door into the street; and no sooner had he come there than the door closed behind him sharply, as though some one on the inside had pushed against it strongly to shut it fast. Out in the street he had expected to find the old woman waiting for him; and he looked about for her everywhere, desiring to tell her that she must send for him when the man's fever left him--that he might return and hear from the man a real confession, and really shrive him of his sins. But the old woman was quite gone. Thinking that she must have slipped past him in the darkness into the house, he knocked at the door lightly, and then loudly; but no answer came to his knocking--and when he tried to push the door open, using all his strength, it held fast against his pushing as firmly as though it had been a part of the stone wall. So the Padre, having no liking for standing there in the cold and rain uselessly, hurried onward to his friend's house--and was glad to get into the room where his friends were waiting for him, and where plenty of candles were burning, and where it was dry and warm. He had walked so fast that his forehead was wet with sweat when he took his hat off, and to dry it he put his hand into his pocket for his handkerchief; but his handkerchief was not in his pocket--and then he knew that he must have dropped it in the house where the dying man lay. It was not just a common handkerchief, Señor, but one very finely embroidered--having the letters standing for his name worked upon it, with a wreath around them--that had been made for him by a nun of his acquaintance in a convent of which he was the almoner; and so, as he did not at all like to lose it, he sent his friend's servant to that old house to get it back again. After a good long while, the servant returned: telling that the house was shut fast, and that one of the watch--seeing him knocking at the door of it--had told him that to knock there was only to wear out his knuckles, because no one had lived in that house for years and years! All of this, as well as all that had gone before it, was so strange and so full of mystery, that Padre Lanchitas then told to his three friends some part of what that evening had happened to him; and it chanced that one of the three was the notary who had in charge the estate of which that very house was a part. And the notary gave Padre Lanchitas his true word for it that the house--because of some entangling law matters--had stood locked fast and empty for as much as a lifetime; and he declared that Padre Lanchitas must be mixing that house with some other house--which would be easy, since all that had happened had been in the rainy dark. But the Padre, on his side, was sure that he had made no mistake in the matter; and they both got a little warm in their talk over it; and they ended by agreeing--so that they might come to a sure settlement--to meet at that old house, and the notary to bring with him the key of it, on the morning of the following day. So they did meet there, Señor, and they went to the middle door--the one that had opened at a touch from the old woman's hand. But all around that door, as the notary bade Padre Lanchitas observe before they opened it, were unbroken cobwebs; and the keyhole was choked with the dust that had blown into it, little by little, in the years that had passed since it had known a key. And the other two doors of the house were just the same. However, Padre Lanchitas would not admit, even with that proof against him, that he was mistaken; and the notary, smiling at him but willing to satisfy him, picked out the dust from the keyhole and got the key into it and forced back hardly the rusty bolt of the lock--and together they went inside. Coming from the bright sunshine into that dusky place--lighted only from the doorway, and the door but part way open because it was loose on its old hinges and stuck fast--they could see at first nothing more than that the room was empty and bare. What they did find, though--and the Padre well remembered it--was the bad smell. But the notary said that just such bad smells were in all old shut-up houses, and it proved nothing; while the cobwebs and the closed keyhole did prove most certainly that Padre Lanchitas had not entered that house the night before--and that nobody had entered it for years and years. To what the notary said there was nothing to be answered; and the Padre--not satisfied, but forced to give in to such strong proof that he was mistaken--was about to come away out of the house, and so have done with it. But just then, Señor, he made a very wonderful and horrifying discovery. By that time his eyes had grown accustomed to the shadows; and so he saw over in one corner--lying on the floor close beside where the man had lain whose confession he had taken--a glint of something whitish. And, Señor, it was his very own handkerchief that he had lost! That was enough to satisfy even the notary; and as nothing more was to be done there they came out, and gladly, from that bad dark place into the sunshine. As for Padre Lanchitas, Señor, he was all mazed and daunted--knowing then the terrible truth that he had confessed a dead man; and, what was worse, that he had given absolution to a sinful soul come hot to him from hell! He held his hat in his hand as he came out from the house--and never did he put it on again: bareheaded he went thenceforward until the end of his days! He was a very good man, and his life had been always a very holy life; but from that time on, till the death of him, he made it still holier by his prayings and his fastings and his endless helpings of the poorest of the poor. At last he died. And it is said, Señor, that in the walls of that old house they found dead men's bones. LEGEND OF THE LIVING SPECTRE[8] Apparitions of dead people, Señor, of course are numerous and frequent. I myself--as on other occasions I have mentioned to you--have seen several spectres, and so have various of my friends. But this spectre of which I now am telling you--that appeared on the Plaza Mayor at noonday, and was seen by everybody--was altogether out of the ordinary: being not in the least a dead person, but a person who wore his own flesh and bones in the usual manner and was alive in them; yet who certainly was walking and talking here on the Plaza Mayor of this City of Mexico in the very self-same moment that he also was walking and talking in a most remote and wholly different part of the world. Therefore--in spite of his wearing his own flesh and bones in the usual manner and being alive in them--it was certain that he was a spectre: because it was certain that his journeying could have been made only on devils' wings. The day on which this marvel happened is known most exactly: because it happened on the day after the day that the Governor of the Filipinas, Don Gómez Pérez Dasmariñas, had his head murderously split open, and died of it, in the Molucca Islands; and that gentleman was killed in that bad manner on the 25th of October in the year 1593. Therefore--since everything concerning this most extraordinary happening is known with so great an accuracy--there can be no doubt whatever but that in every particular all that I now am telling you is strictly true. Because it began in two different places at the same time, it is not easy to say certainly, Señor, which end of this story is the beginning of it; but the beginning of it is this: On a day, being the day that I have just named to you, the sentries on guard at the great doors of the Palace--and also the people who at that time happened to be walking near by on the Plaza Mayor--of a sudden saw an entirely strange sentry pacing his beat before the great doors of the Palace quite in the regular manner: marching back and forth, with his gun on his shoulder; making his turns with a soldierly propriety; saluting correctly those entitled to salutes who passed him; and in every way conducting himself as though he duly had been posted there--but making his marchings and his turnings and his salutings with a wondering look on the face of him, and having the air of one who is all bedazzled and bemazed. What made every one know that he was a stranger in this City was that the uniform which he wore was of a wholly different cut and fabric from that belonging to any regiment at that time quartered here: being, in fact--as was perceived by one of the sentries who had served in the Filipinas--the uniform worn in Manila by the Palace Guard. He was a man of forty, or thereabouts; well set up and sturdy; and he had the assured carriage--even in his bedazzlement and bemazement--of an old soldier who had seen much campaigning, and who could take care of himself through any adventure in which he might happen to land. Moreover, his talk--when the time came for him to explain himself--went with a devil-may-care touch to it that showed him to be a man who even with witches and demons was quite ready to hold his own. His explanation of himself, of course, was not long in coming: because the Captain of the Guard at once was sent for; and when the Captain of the Guard came he asked the stranger sentry most sharply what his name was, and where he came from, and what he was doing on a post to which he had not been assigned. To these questions the stranger sentry made answer--speaking with an easy confidence, and not in the least ruffled by the Captain's sharpness with him--that his name was Gil Pérez; that he came from the Filipinas; and that what he was doing was his duty as near as he could come to it: because he had been duly detailed to stand sentry that morning before the Governor's Palace--and although this was not the Governor's Palace before which he had been posted it certainly was a governor's palace, and that he therefore was doing the best that he could do. And to these very curious statements he added--quite casually, as though referring to an ordinary matter of current interest--that the Governor of the Filipinas, Don Gómez Pérez Dasmariñas, had had his head murderously split open, and was dead of it, in the Molucca Islands the evening before. Well, Señor, you may fancy what a nest of wasps was let loose when this Gil Pérez gave to the Captain of the Guard so incredible an account of himself; and, on top of it, told that the Governor of the Filipinas had been badly killed on the previous evening in islands in the Pacific Ocean thousands and thousands of miles away! It was a matter that the Viceroy himself had to look into. Therefore before the Viceroy--who at that time was the good Don Luis de Velasco--Gil Pérez was brought in a hurry: and to the Viceroy he told over again just the same story, in just the same cool manner, and in just the same words. Very naturally, the Viceroy put a great many keen questions to him; and to those questions he gave his answers--or said plainly that he could not give any answers--with the assured air of an old soldier who would not lightly suffer his word to be doubted even by a Viceroy; and who was ready, in dealing with persons of less consequence, to make good his sayings with his fists or with his sword. In part, his explanation of himself was straightforward and satisfactory. What he told about the regiment to which he belonged was known to be true; and equally known to be true was much of what he told--being in accord with the news brought thence by the latest galleon--about affairs in the Filipinas. But when it came to explaining the main matter--how he had been shifted across the ocean and the earth, and all in a single moment, from his guard-mount before the Governor's Palace in Manila to his guard-mount before the Viceroy's Palace in the City of Mexico--Gil Pérez was at a stand. How that strange thing had happened, he said, he knew no more than Don Luis himself knew. All that he could be sure of was that it _had_ happened: because, certainly, only a half hour earlier he had been in Manila; and now, just as certainly, he was in the City of Mexico--as his lordship the Viceroy could see plainly with his own eyes. As to the even greater marvel--how he knew that on the previous evening the Governor of the Filipinas had had his head murderously split open, and was dead of it, in the Molucca Islands--he said quite freely that he did not in the least know how he knew it. What alone he could be sure of, he said, was that in his heart he did know that Don Gómez had been killed on the previous evening in that bad manner; and he very stoutly asserted that the truth of what he told would be clear to Don Luis, and to everybody, when the news of the killing of Don Gómez had had time to get to Mexico in the ordinary way. And then Gil Pérez--having answered all of the Viceroy's questions which he could answer, and having said all that he had to say--stood quite at his ease before the Viceroy: with his feet firmly planted, and his right hand on his hip, and his right arm akimbo--and so waited for whatever might happen to be the next turn. Well, Señor, the one thing of which anybody really could be sure in this amazing matter--and of which, of course, everybody was sure--was that the devil was at both the bottom and the top of it; and, also, there seemed to be very good ground for believing that Gil Pérez was in much closer touch with the devil than any good Christian--even though he were an old soldier, and not much in the way of Christianity expected of him--had any right to be. Therefore the Viceroy rid himself of an affair that was much the same to him as a basket of nettles by turning Gil Pérez over to the Holy Office--and off he was carried to Santo Domingo and clapped into one of the strongest cells. Most men, of course, on finding themselves that way in the clutches of the Inquisition, would have had all the insides of them filled with terror; but Gil Pérez, Señor--being, as I have mentioned, an old campaigner--took it all as it came along to him and was not one bit disturbed. He said cheerfully that many times in the course of his soldiering he had been in much worse places; and added that--having a good roof over his head, and quite fair rations, and instead of marching and fighting only to sit at his ease and enjoy himself--he really was getting, for once in his life, as much of clear comfort as any old soldier had a right to expect would come his way. Moreover, in his dealings with the Familiars of the Holy Office his conduct was exemplary. He stuck firmly to his assertion that--whatever the devil might have had to do with him--he never had had anything to do with the devil; he seemed to take a real pleasure in confessing as many of his sins as he conveniently could remember; and in every way that was open to him his conduct was that of quite as good a Christian as any old soldier reasonably could be expected to be. Therefore--while he staid on in his cell very contentedly--the Familiars of the Holy Office put their heads together and puzzled and puzzled as to what they should do with him: because it certainly seemed as though the devil, to suit his own devilish purposes, simply had made a convenience of Gil Pérez without getting his consent in the matter; and so it did not seem quite fair--in the face of his protest that he was as much annoyed as anybody was by what the devil had done with him--to put him into a flame-covered sanbenito, and to march him off to be burned for a sorcerer at the next auto de fé. Therefore the Familiars of the Holy Office kept on putting their heads together and puzzling and puzzling as to what they should do with him; and Gil Pérez kept on enjoying himself in his cell in Santo Domingo--and so the months went on and on. And then, on a day, a new turn was given to the whole matter: when the galleon from the Filipinas arrived at Acapulco and brought with it the proof that every word that Gil Pérez had spoken was true. Because the galleon brought the news that Don Gómez Pérez Dasmariñas--the crew of the ship that he was on having mutinied--really had had his head murderously split open, and was dead of it, in the Molucca Islands; and that this bad happening had come to him at the very time that Gil Pérez had named. Moreover, one of the military officers who had come from the Filipinas in the galleon, and up from Acapulco to the City of Mexico with the conducta, recognized Gil Pérez the moment that he laid eyes on him; and this officer said that he had seen him--only a day or two before the galleon's sailing--on duty in Manila with the Palace Guard. And so the fact was settled beyond all doubting that Gil Pérez had been brought by the devil from Manila to the City of Mexico; and, also, that the devil--since only the devil could have done it--had put the knowledge of the murderous killing of Don Gómez into his heart. Wherefore the fact that Gil Pérez was in league with the devil was clear to all the world. Then the Familiars of the Holy Office for the last time put their heads together and puzzled and puzzled over the matter; and at the end of their puzzling they decided that Gil Pérez was an innocent person, and that he undoubtedly had had criminal relations with the devil and was full of wickedness. Therefore they ordered that, being innocent, he should be set free from his cell in Santo Domingo; and that, being a dangerous character whose influence was corrupting, he should be sent back to Manila in the returning galleon. And that was their decree. Gil Pérez, Señor, took that disposition of him in the same easy-going way that he had taken all the other dispositions of him: save that he grumbled a little--as was to be expected of an old soldier--over having to leave his comfortably idle life in his snug quarters and to go again to his fightings and his guard-mounts and his parades. And so back he went to the Filipinas: only his return journey was made in a slow and natural manner aboard the galleon--not, as his outward journey had been made, all in a moment on devils' wings. To my mind, Señor, it seems that there is more of this story that ought to be told. For myself, I should like to know why the Familiars of the Holy Office did not deal a little more severely with a case that certainly had the devil at both the bottom and the top of it; and, also, I should like to know what became of Gil Pérez when he got back to Manila in the galleon--and there had to tell over again about his relations with the devil in order to account for his half year's absence from duty without leave. But those are matters which I never have heard mentioned; and what I have told you is all that there is to tell. LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LOS PARADOS Two dead lovers, Señor, stand always in the Calle de los Parados, one at each end of it; and that is why--because they remain steadfastly on parade there, though it is not everybody who happens to see their yellow skeletons on those corners--the street of the Parados is so named. [Illustration: LA CALLE DE LOS PARADOS] As you may suppose, Señor, the lovers now being dry skeletons, what brought them there happened some time ago. Just when it happened, I do not know precisely; but it was when an excellent gentleman, who was an officer in the Royal Mint, lived in the fine house that is in the middle of the street on the south side of it, and had living with him a very beautiful daughter whose hair was like spun gold. This gentleman was named Don José de Vallejo y Hermosillo; and his daughter was named (because her mother was of the noble family of Vezca) Doña María Ysabel de Vallejo y Vezca; and she was of great virtue and sweetness, and was twenty-two years old. All the young men of the City sought her in marriage; but there were two who were more than any of the others in earnest about it. One of these was Don Francisco Puerto y Solis, a lieutenant of dragoons: who had to offer her only his good looks--he was a very handsome gentleman--and the hope of what he might get for himself with his sword. The other one was the Señor Don Antonio Miguel del Cardonal, Conde de Valdecebro--who also was a handsome gentleman, and who owned mills in Puebla of the Angels, and a very great hacienda, and was so rich that it was the whole business of two old notaries to count his gold. And these two posted themselves every day in the street in which was Doña María's home--one at the corner of the Calle del Reloj, the other at the corner of the Calle de Santa Catarina--that they might look at her when she came forth from her house; and that she might see them waiting to get sight of her, and so know that they loved her. It was the same custom then, Señor, as it is to-day. In that way all of our polite young men make love. And just as our young ladies nowadays wait and wait and think and think before they make their hearts up, so Doña María waited and thought then--and the time slipped on and on, and neither the Lieutenant nor the Conde knew what was in her mind. Then there happened, Señor, a very dismal thing. A pestilence fell upon the City, and of that pestilence Doña María sickened and died. But it chanced that neither of her lovers was on his corner when they took her out from her house to bury her--you see, Señor, even lovers must eat and sleep sometimes, and they could not be always on their watch for her--and in that way it happened that neither of them knew that she was dead and gone. Therefore they kept on standing on their parade quite as usual--coming steadfastly to their corners day after day, and month after month, and year after year. And although, after a while, they died too, they still stood at their posts--just as though they and Doña María still were alive. And there, on their corners, they have remained until this very day. [Illustration: HOME OF DOÑA MARÍA] It is told, Señor, that once in broad daylight half the City saw those honest waiting skeletons. It was on a day when there was a great festival for the incoming of a new Viceroy, and they were seen by the crowd that waited in the atrium of the church of Santa Catarina to see the procession pass. But that was some hundreds of years ago, Señor. Now, for the most part, it is at night and by moonlight that they are seen. I have not happened to see them myself--but then I do not often go that way. LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LA JOYA What this street was called, in very old times, Señor, no one knows: because the dreadful thing that gave to it the name of the Street of the Jewel happened a long, long while ago. It was before the Independence. It was while the Viceroys were here who were sent by the King of Spain. In those days there lived in this fine house at the corner of the Calle de Mesones and what since then has been called the Calle de la Joya--it is at the northwest corner, Señor, and a biscuit-bakery is on the lower floor--a very rich Spanish merchant: who was named Don Alonso Fernández de Bobadilla, and who was a tall and handsome man, and gentle-mannered, and at times given to fits of rage. He was married to a very rich and a very beautiful lady, who was named Doña Ysabel de la Garcide y Tovar; and she was the daughter of the Conde de Torreleal. This lady was of an ardent and a wilful nature, but Don Alonso loved her with a sincerity and humored her in all her whims and wants. When they went abroad together--always in a grand coach, with servants like flies around them--the whole City stood still and stared! Doña Ysabel was not worthy of her husband's love: and so he was told one day, by whom there was no knowing, in a letter that was thrown from the street into the room where he was sitting, on the ground floor. It was his office of affairs, Señor. It is one of the rooms where the biscuits are baked now. In that letter he was bidden to watch with care his wife's doings with the Licenciado Don José Raul de Lara, the Fiscal of the Inquisition--who was a forlorn little man (_hombrecillo_) not at all deserving of any lady's love--and Don Alonso did watch, and what came of his watching was a very terrible thing. He pretended, Señor, that he had an important affair with the Viceroy that would keep him at the Palace until far into the night; and so went his way from his home in the early evening--but went no farther than a dozen paces from his own door. There, in the dark street, huddled close into a doorway, his cloak around him--it was a night in winter--he waited in the creeping cold. After a time along came some one--he did not know who, but it was the Licenciado--and as he drew near to the house Doña Ysabel came out upon her balcony, and between them there passed a sign. Then, in a little while, the door of Don Alonso's house was opened softly and the Licenciado went in; and then, softly, the door was shut again. Presently, Don Alonso also went in, holding in his hand his dagger. What he found--and it made him so angry that he fell into one of his accustomed fits of rage over it--was the Licenciado putting on the wrist of his wife a rich golden bracelet. When they saw him, Señor, their faces at once went white--and their faces remained white always: because Don Alonso, before the blood could come back again, had killed the two of them with his dagger--and they were white in death! Then Don Alonso did what gave to this street the name of the Street of the Jewel. From Doña Ysabel's wrist he wrenched loose the bracelet, and as he left the house he pinned it fast with his bloody dagger to the door. In that way things were found the next morning by the watch; and the watch, suspecting that something wrong had happened--because to see a bracelet and a bloody dagger in such a place was unusual--called the Alcalde to come and look into the matter; and the Alcalde, coming, found Doña Ysabel and the Licenciado lying very dead upon the floor. So the street was called the Calle de la Joya, and that is its name. Don Alonso, Señor, was worried by what he had done, and became a Dieguino--it is the strict order of the Franciscans. They go barefoot--and it was in the convent of the Dieguinos, over there at the western end of the Alameda, that he ended his days. LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LA MACHINCUEPA Naturally, Señor, this matter which gave its name to the Calle de la Machincuepa created a scandal that set all the tongues in the City to buzzing about it: every one, of course, blaming the young lady--even though she did it to win such vast riches--for committing so publicly so great an impropriety; but some holding that a greater blame attached to the Marqués, her uncle, for punishing her--no matter how much she deserved punishment--by making her inheritance depend upon so strange and so outrageous a condition; and some even saying that the greatest blame of all rested upon the Viceroy: because he did not forbid an indecorum that was planned to--and that did--take place in the Plaza Mayor directly in front of his Palace, and so beneath his very nose. For myself, Señor, I think that the young lady deserved more blame than anybody: because she was free to make her own choice in the matter, and that she chose riches rather than propriety very clearly proved--though that, to be sure, was known before she did her choosing--that she had a bad heart. As the Viceroy who did not forbid that young lady to do what she did do was the Duque de Linares--who, as you know, Señor, took up the duties of his high office in the year 1714--you will perceive that the curious event about which I now am telling you occurred very nearly two full centuries ago. At that time there lived in the street that ever since that time has been called the Street of the Machincuepa a very rich and a very noble Spanish gentleman whose name was Don Mendo Quiroga y Saurez, and whose title was Marqués del Valle Salado. In his beginning he was neither rich nor noble, and not even of good blood: having been begotten by an unknown father and born of an unknown mother; and having in his young manhood gone afloat out of Spain as a common sailor to seek his fortune on the sea. What he did upon the sea was a matter that his teeth guarded his tongue from talking about in his later years: but it was known generally that--while in appearance he and his ship had been engaged in the respectable business of bringing slaves from Africa to the colonies--his real business had been that of a corsair; and that on his murdering piracies the corner-stone of his great fortune had been laid. Having in that objectionable manner accumulated a whole ship-load of money, and being arrived at an age when so bustling a life was distasteful to him, he came to Mexico; and, being come here, he bought with his ship-load of money the Valle Salado: and there he set up great salt-works out of which he coined more gold--knowing well how to grease the palms of those in the Government who could be of service to him--than could be guessed at even in a dream. Therefore it was known with certainty that he possessed a fortune of precisely three millions and a half of dollars--which is a greater sum, Señor, than a hundred men could count in a whole month of summer days. And of his millions he sent to the King such magnificent presents that the King, in simple justice to him, had to reward him; and so the King made him a marqués--and he was the Marqués del Valle Salado from that time on. Therefore--being so very rich, and a marqués--his sea-murderings of his younger days, and his sea-stealings that made the corner-stone of his great fortune, were the very last things which his teeth suffered his tongue to talk about: and he lived with a great magnificence a life that caused much scandal, and he was generally esteemed and respected, and because of his charities he was beloved by all the poor. As old age began to creep upon this good gentleman, Señor, and with it the infirmities that came of his loose way of living, he found himself in the world lonely: because, you see--never having perceived any necessity for marrying--he had no wife to care for him, nor children whose duty it was to minister to his needs. Therefore--his brother in Spain about that time dying, and leaving a daughter behind him--he brought from Spain his dead brother's daughter, whom he put at the head of his magnificent household, and equally confided himself in his infirmity to her care. And, that she might be repaid for her care of him, he heaped upon her every possible luxury and splendor that his great riches could procure. The name of this young lady, Señor, was Doña Paz de Quiroga; and the position to which she was raised by Don Mendo's munificence--and all the more because she was raised to it from the depths of poverty--was very much to her mind. Doña Paz was of a great beauty that well became the rich clothing and the rich jewels that her uncle lavished upon her; and what with her beauty, and her finery, and her recognized nobility as the lawful inheritor of her uncle's title, she knew herself to be--and made no bones of asserting herself to be--the very greatest lady at the Viceroy's court. She was of a jealous and rancorous disposition, and very charitable, and excessively selfish, and her pride was beyond all words. Every one of the young men in the City immediately fell in love with her; and she won also the respect of the most eminent clerics and the homage of the very greatest nobles of the court. So nice was her sense of her own dignity that even in the privacy of her own household her conduct at all times was marked by a rigorous elegance; and in public she carried herself with a grave stateliness that would have befitted a queen. But this young lady had a bad heart, Señor, as I have already mentioned; and toward Don Mendo, to whom she owed everything, she did not behave well at all. So far from ministering to him in his infirmities, she left him wholly to the care of hired servants; when she made her rare visits to his sick-room she carried always a scented kerchief, and held it to her nose closely--telling him that the smell of balsams and of plasters was distasteful to her; and never, by any chance whatever, did she give him one single kind look or kind word. As was most natural, Don Mendo did not like the way that Doña Paz treated him: therefore, in the inside of him, he made his mind up that he would pay her for it in the end. And in the end he did pay her for it: as she found out when, on a day, that worthy old man was called to go to heaven and they came to read his will. Doña Paz listened to the reading of the will with the greatest satisfaction, Señor, until the reading got to the very end of it: because Don Mendo uniformly styled her his beloved niece--which somewhat surprised her--and in plain words directed that every one of his three millions and a half of dollars should be hers. But at the very end of the will a condition was made that had to be fulfilled before she could touch so much as a tlaco of her great inheritance: and that condition was so monstrous--and all the more monstrous because Doña Paz was so rigorously elegant in all her doings, and so respectful of her own dignity--that the mere naming of it almost suffocated her with fright and shame. And, really, Señor, that Doña Paz felt that way about it is not be wondered at, because what Don Mendo put at the very end of his will was this: "So to Paz, my beloved niece, I leave the whole of my possessions; but only in case that she comply precisely with the condition that I now lay upon her. And the condition that I now lay upon her is this: That, being dressed in her richest ball dress, and wearing her most magnificent jewels, she shall go in an open coach to the Plaza Mayor at noonday; and that, being come to the Plaza Mayor, she shall walk to the very middle of it; and that there, in the very middle of it, she shall bow her head to the ground; and that then, so bowing, she shall make the turn which among the common people of Mexico is called a 'machincuepa.' And it is my will that if my beloved niece Paz does not comply precisely with this condition, within six months from the day on which I pass out of life, then the whole of my possessions shall be divided into two equal parts: of which one part shall belong to the Convent of Nuestra Señora de la Merced, and the other part shall belong to the Convent of San Francisco; and of my possessions my beloved niece Paz shall have no part at all. And this condition I lay upon my beloved niece Paz that, in the bitterness of the shame of it, she may taste a little of the bitterness with which her cruelties have filled my dying years." Well, Señor, you may fancy the state that that most proud and most dignified young lady was in when she knew the terms on which alone her riches would come to her! And as to making her mind up in such a case, she found it quite impossible. On the one side, she would say to herself that what was required of her to win her inheritance would be done, and done with, in no more than a moment; and that then and always--being rich beyond dreaming, and in her own right a marquésa--she would be the greatest lady in the whole of New Spain. And then, on the other side, she would say to herself that precisely because of her great wealth and her title she would be all the more sneered at for descending to an act so scandalous; and that if she did descend to that act she would be known as the Marquésa de la Machincuepa to the end of her days. And what to do, Señor, she did not know at all. And as time went on and on, and she did not do anything, the Mercedarios and the Franciscanos--being always more and more sure that they would share between them Don Mendo's great fortune--talked pleasantly about new altars in their churches and new comforts in their convents: and as they talked they rubbed their hands. And so it came to the very last day of the six months that Don Mendo had given to Doña Paz in which to make her mind up; and the morning hours of that day went slipping past, and of Doña Paz the crowds that filled the streets and the Plaza Mayor saw nothing; and the Mercedarios and the Franciscanos all had smiling faces--being at last entirely certain that Don Mendo's millions of dollars would be theirs. And then, Señor, just as the Palace clock was striking the half hour past eleven, the great doors of Don Mendo's house were opened; and out through the doorway came an open coach in which Doña Paz was seated, dressed in her richest ball dress and wearing the most magnificent of her jewels; and Doña Paz, pale as a dead woman, drove through the crowds on the streets and into the crowd on the Plaza Mayor; and then she walked, the crowd making way for her, to the very middle of it--where her servants had laid a rich carpet for her; and there, as the Palace clock struck twelve--complying precisely with Don Mendo's condition--Doña Paz bowed her head to the ground; and then, so bowing, she made the turn which among the common people of Mexico is called a machincuepa! So did Doña Paz win for herself Don Mendo's millions of dollars: and so did come into the soul of her the bitterness of shame that Don Mendo meant should come into it--in reward for the bitterness with which her cruelties had filled his dying years! What became of this young lady--who so sacrificed propriety in order to gain riches--I never have heard mentioned: but it is certain that the street in which she lived immediately got the name of the Street of the Machincuepa--and the exact truth of every detail of this curious story is attested by the fact that that is its name now. Perhaps the meaning of this word machincuepa, Señor--being, as Don Mendo said in his will, a word in use among the common people of Mexico--is unknown to you. The meaning of it, in good Spanish, is salto mortal--only it means more. And it was precisely that sort of an excessive somersault--there in the middle of the crowded Plaza Mayor at noonday--that the most proud and the most dignified Doña Paz turned! LEGEND OF THE CALLE DEL PUENTE DEL CUERVO As you know, Señor, in the street that is called the Street of the Bridge of the Raven, there nowadays is no bridge at all; also, the house is gone in which this Don Rodrigo de Ballesteros lived with his raven in the days when he was alive. As to the raven, however, matters are less certain. My grand-father long ago told me that more than once, on nights of storm, he had heard that evil bird uttering his wicked caws at midnight between the thunderclaps; and a most respectable cargador of my acquaintance has given me his word for it that he has heard those cawings too. Yet if they still go on it must be the raven's spectre that gives voice to them; because, Señor, while ravens are very long-lived birds, it is improbable that they live--and that much time has passed since these matters happened--through more than the whole of three hundred years. This Don Rodrigo in his youth, Señor, was a Captain of Arcabuceros in the Royal Army; and, it seems, he fought so well with his crossbowmen at the battle of San Quintin (what they were fighting about I do not know) that the King of Spain rewarded him--when the fighting was all over and there was no more need for his services--by making him a royal commissioner here in Mexico: that he might get rich comfortably in his declining years. It was the Encomienda of Atzcapotzalco that the King gave to him; and in those days Atzcapotzalco was a very rich place, quite away from the City westward, and yielded a great revenue for Don Rodrigo to have the fingering of. Nowadays, as you know, Señor, it is almost a part of the City, because you get to it in the electric cars so quickly; and it has lost its good fortune and is but a dreary little threadbare town. It was with the moneys which stuck to his fingers from his collectorship--just as the King meant that they should stick, in reward for his good fighting--that Don Rodrigo built for himself his fine house in the street that is now called, because of the bridge that once was a part of it, and because of the raven's doings, the Puente del Cuervo. If that street had another name, earlier, Señor, I do not know what it was. This Don Rodrigo, as was generally known, was a very wicked person; and therefore he lived in his fine house, along with his raven, in great magnificence--eating always from dishes of solid silver, and being served by pages wearing clothes embroidered with gold. But, for all his riches, he himself was clad as though he were a beggar--and a very dirty beggar at that. Over his jerkin and breeches he wore a long capellar that wrapped him from his neck to his heels loosely; and this capellar had been worn by him through so many years that it was shabby beyond all respectability, and stained with stains of all colors, and everywhere greasy and soiled. Yet on the front of it, upon his breast, he wore the Cross of Santiago that the King had given him; and wearing that cross, as you know, Señor, made him as much of a caballero as the very best. In various other ways the evil that was in him showed itself. He never went to mass, and he made fun openly of all holy things. The suspicion was entertained by many people that he had intimacies with heretics. Such conduct gives a man a very bad name now; but it gave a man a worse name then--and so he was known generally as the Excommunicate, which was the very worst name that anybody could have. As to the raven, Señor, Don Rodrigo himself named it El Diablo; and that it truly was the devil--or, at least, that it was a devil--no one ever doubted at all. The conduct of that reprobate bird was most offensive. It would soil the rich furnishings of the house; it would tear with its beak the embroidered coverings of the chairs and the silken tapestries; it would throw down and shatter valuable pieces of glass and porcelain; there was no end to its misdeeds. But when Don Rodrigo stormed at his servants about these wreckings--and he was a most violent man, Señor, and used tempestuous language--the servants had only to tell him that the raven was the guilty one to pacify him instantly. "If it is the work of the Devil," he would say without anger, "it is well done!"--and so the matter would pass. Suddenly, on a day, both Don Rodrigo and the raven disappeared. Their going, in that strange and sudden way, made a great commotion; but there was a greater commotion when the Alcalde--being called to look into the matter--entered the house to search it and found a very horrible thing. In the room that had been Don Rodrigo's bedroom, lying dishonored upon the floor, broken and blood-spattered, was the most holy image; and all about it were lying raven feathers, and they also were spattered with blood. Therefore it was known that the raven-devil and Don Rodrigo had beaten the holy image and had drawn blood from it; and that the great devil, the master of both of them, in penalty for their dreadful act of sacrilege, had snatched them suddenly home to him to burn forever in hell. That was the very proper end of them. Never were they seen again either on sea or land. Naturally, Señor, respectable people declined to live in a house where there had been such shocking doings. Even the people living in the adjoining houses, feeling the disgrace that was on the neighborhood, moved away from them. And so, slowly, as the years went on, all of those houses crumbled to pieces and fell into ruins which were carted away--and that is why they no longer are there. But it is generally known, Señor, that until Don Rodrigo's house did in that way go out of existence, Don Rodrigo continued to inhabit it; and that the raven continued to bear him company. Just a year from the time that the devil had snatched away to hell the two of them--and it was at midnight, and a storm was upon the City--the neighbors heard between the thunder-claps the clock on the Palace striking its twelve strokes; and then, between the next thunder-claps, they heard the raven caw twelve times. Then it became known that the raven nightly took up its post on the parapet of the bridge that was in that street; and that, when his cawing for midnight was ended, he habitually flew up into the balcony of Don Rodrigo's house; and that on the balcony he found Don Rodrigo--a yellow skeleton, and over the bones of it the dirty old capellar--ready and waiting for him. Don Rodrigo's skeleton would be sitting quite at its ease on the balcony; on the railing of the balcony would be perched the raven; and with his dry-bone fingers--making a little clicking sound, like that of castanets--Don Rodrigo would stroke gently the back of that intensely wicked bird. All this would show for a moment while the lightning was flashing; then darkness would come, and a crash of thunder; and after the thunder, in the black silence, the little clicking sound of Don Rodrigo's dry-bone fingers stroking the raven's back gently again would be heard. And so it all went on, Señor, my grandfather told me, until the house tumbled down with age, and these disagreeable horrors no longer were possible; and it is most reasonably evident--since the street got its name because of them--that they really must have happened, and that they must have continued for a very long time. As I have mentioned, Señor, my friend the cargador--who is a most respectable and truthful person--declares that sometimes on stormy nights he himself has heard the raven's cawings when the Palace clock has finished its twelve strokes; and from that it would appear that the raven is to be met with in the Puente del Cuervo even now. LEGEND OF LA LLORONA[9] As is generally known, Señor, many bad things are met with by night in the streets of the City; but this Wailing Woman, La Llorona, is the very worst of them all. She is worse by far than the vaca de lumbre--that at midnight comes forth from the potrero of San Pablo and goes galloping through the streets like a blazing whirlwind, breathing forth from her nostrils smoke and sparks and flames: because the Fiery Cow, Señor, while a dangerous animal to look at, really does no harm whatever--and La Llorona is as harmful as she can be! Seeing her walking quietly along the quiet street--at the times when she is not running, and shrieking for her lost children--she seems a respectable person, only odd looking because of her white petticoat and the white reboso with which her head is covered, and anybody might speak to her. But whoever does speak to her, in that very same moment dies! The beginning of her was so long ago that no one knows when was the beginning of her; nor does any one know anything about her at all. But it is known certainly that at the beginning of her, when she was a living woman, she committed bad sins. As soon as ever a child was born to her she would throw it into one of the canals which surround the City, and so would drown it; and she had a great many children, and this practice in regard to them she continued for a long time. At last her conscience began to prick her about what she did with her children; but whether it was that the priest spoke to her, or that some of the saints cautioned her in the matter, no one knows. But it is certain that because of her sinnings she began to go through the streets in the darkness weeping and wailing. And presently it was said that from night till morning there was a wailing woman in the streets; and to see her, being in terror of her, many people went forth at midnight; but none did see her, because she could be seen only when the street was deserted and she was alone. Sometimes she would come to a sleeping watchman, and would waken him by asking: "What time is it?" And he would see a woman clad in white standing beside him with her reboso drawn over her face. And he would answer: "It is twelve hours of the night." And she would say: "At twelve hours of this day I must be in Guadalajara!"--or it might be in San Luis Potosí, or in some other far-distant city--and, so speaking, she would shriek bitterly: "Where shall I find my children?"--and would vanish instantly and utterly away. And the watchman would feel as though all his senses had gone from him, and would become as a dead man. This happened many times to many watchmen, who made report of it to their officers; but their officers would not believe what they told. But it happened, on a night, that an officer of the watch was passing by the lonely street beside the church of Santa Anita. And there he met with a woman wearing a white reboso and a white petticoat; and to her he began to make love. He urged her, saying: "Throw off your reboso that I may see your pretty face!" And suddenly she uncovered her face--and what he beheld was a bare grinning skull set fast to the bare bones of a skeleton! And while he looked at her, being in horror, there came from her fleshless jaws an icy breath; and the iciness of it froze the very heart's blood in him, and he fell to the earth heavily in a deathly swoon. When his senses came back to him he was greatly troubled. In fear he returned to the Diputacion, and there told what had befallen him. And in a little while his life forsook him and he died. What is most wonderful about this Wailing Woman, Señor, is that she is seen in the same moment by different people in places widely apart: one seeing her hurrying across the atrium of the Cathedral; another beside the Arcos de San Cosme; and yet another near the Salto del Agua, over by the prison of Belen. More than that, in one single night she will be seen in Monterey and in Oaxaca and in Acapulco--the whole width and length of the land apart--and whoever speaks with her in those far cities, as here in Mexico, immediately dies in fright. Also, she is seen at times in the country. Once some travellers coming along a lonely road met with her, and asked: "Where go you on this lonely road?" And for answer she cried: "Where shall I find my children?" and, shrieking, disappeared. And one of the travellers went mad. Being come here to the City they told what they had seen; and were told that this same Wailing Woman had maddened or killed many people here also. Because the Wailing Woman is so generally known, Señor, and so greatly feared, few people now stop her when they meet with her to speak with her--therefore few now die of her, and that is fortunate. But her loud keen wailings, and the sound of her running feet, are heard often; and especially in nights of storm. I myself, Señor, have heard the running of her feet and her wailings; but I never have seen her. God forbid that I ever shall! NOTES NOTE I LEGEND OF DON JUAN MANUEL Don Juan Manuel was a real person: who lived stately in a great house, still standing, in the street that in his time was called the Calle Nueva, and that since his time has borne his name; who certainly did murder one man--in that house, not in the street--at about, probably, eleven o'clock at night; and who certainly was found hanging dead on the gallows in front of the Capilla de la Espiración, of an October morning in the year 1641, without any explanation ever being forthcoming of how he got there. What survive of the tangled curious facts on which the fancies of this legend rest have been collected by Señor Obregón, and here are summarized. Don Juan Manuel de Solórzano, a native of Burgos, a man of rank and wealth, in the year 1623 came in the train of the Viceroy the Marqués de Guadalcázar to Mexico; where for a long while he seems to have led a life prosperous and respectable. In the year 1636 he increased his fortune by making an excellent marriage--with Doña Mariana de Laguna, the daughter of a rich mine-owner of Zacatecas. His troubles had their beginning in an intimate friendship that he formed with the Viceroy (1635-1640) the Marqués de Cadereita; a friendship of so practical a sort on the side of the Viceroy as to cause remonstrance to be made in Spain against his excessive bestowal of official favors on his favorite. Moreover, "the evil speaking of the curious" was excited by the fact that Don Juan and his wife spent a great part of their time at the Palace in the Viceroy's company. Matters were brought to a crisis by Don Juan's appointment as Administrator of the Royal Hacienda; an office that gave him control of the great revenues derived from the fleets which plied annually between Mexico and Spain. The conduct of this very lucrative administration previously had been with the Audiencia; and by the members of that body vigorous protest was made against the Viceroy's action in enriching his favorite at their cost. "Odious gossip" was aroused; threats were made of a popular uprising; an appeal--duly freighted with bribes to assure its arrival at the throne--was made to the King. "But the springs put in force by the Viceroy must have been very powerful--more powerful than the money sent by the Audiencia--since Philip IV. confirmed Don Juan in the enjoyment of his concession." [Illustration: HOUSE OF DON JUAN MANUEL] While the case thus rested, an incidental scandal was introduced into it. By the fleet from Spain came one Doña Ana Porcel de Velasco: a lady of good birth, very beautiful, the widow of a naval officer, reduced by her widowhood and by other misfortunes to poverty. In her happier days she had been a beauty at Court, and there the Marqués de Cadereita had known her and had made suit to her, wherefore she had come to Mexico to seek his Viceregal protection. Housing her in the Palace being out of the question, the Viceroy begged that Don Juan would take her into his own home: and that disposition of her, accordingly, was made--with the result that more "odious gossip" was aroused. What became of the beautiful Doña Ana is unrecorded. Her episodic existence in the story seems to be due to the fact that because of her the popular ill-will against Don Juan and against the Viceroy was increased. A far-reaching ripple from the wave of the Portuguese and Catalonian revolt of the year 1640, influencing affairs in Mexico, gave opportunity for this ill-will to crystallize into action of so effective a sort that the Viceroy was recalled, and his favorite--no longer under protection--was cast into prison. Don Juan's commitment--the specific charge against him is not recorded--was signed by one Don Francisco Vélez de Pereira: who, as Señor Obregón puts it, "was not only a Judge of the criminal court but a criminal Judge" (_no era solamente un Alcalde del crímen sino un Alcalde criminal_) because he made dishonest proposals to Doña Mariana as the price of her husband's liberation. It would seem that Doña Mariana accepted the offered terms; and in so grateful a spirit that she was content to wait upon the Alcalde's pleasure for their complete ratification by Don Juan's deliverance. Pending such liquidation of the contract, news was carried to Don Juan in prison of the irregular negotiations in progress to procure his freedom: whereupon he procured it for himself, one night, by breaking jail. Going straight to his own home, he found there the Alcalde--and incontinently killed him. That one killing that Don Juan Manuel certainly did commit--out of which, probably, has come the legend of his many murders--created, because of the high estate of all concerned in it, a deplorable scandal: that the Audiencia--while resolved to bring Don Juan to justice--sought to allay by hushing up, so far as was possible, the whole affair. The Duque de Escalona, the new Viceroy (1640-1642), was at one with the Audiencia in its hushing-up policy; but was determined--for reasons of his own which are unrecorded--that Don Juan should not be executed. So, for a considerable period of time, during which Don Juan remained in prison, the matter rested. The event seems to imply that the Audiencia accomplished its stern purpose, as opposed to the lenient purpose of the Viceroy, by means as informal as they were effective. Certainly, on a morning in October, 1641, precisely as described in the legend, Don Juan Manuel was found hanging dead on the gallows in front of the Capilla de la Espiración. Señor Obregón concludes the historical portion of his narrative in these words: "The Oidores, whose orders it is reasonable to suppose brought about that dark deed, attributed it to the angels--but there history ends and legend begins." [Illustration: DOORWAY, HOUSE OF DON JUAN MANUEL] Somewhere in the course of my readings--I cannot remember where--I have come upon the seriously made suggestion that Don Juan Manuel practically was a bravo: that the favors which he received from the Viceroy were his payment for putting politically obnoxious persons out of the way. This specious explanation does account for his traditional many murders, but is not in accord with probability. Aside from the fact that bravos rarely are men of rank and wealth, a series of murders traceable to political motives during the Viceregal term of the Marqués de Cadereita--whose many enemies keenly were alive to his misdoings--almost certainly would be found, but is not found, recorded in the chronicles of his time. Such omission effectively puts this picturesque explanation of Don Juan's doings out of court. NOTE II LEGEND OF THE ALTAR DEL PERDON Simon Peyrens, a Flemish painter, came to Mexico in the suite of the third Viceroy (1566-1568) Don Gastón de Peralta, Marqués de Falces. If he painted--and, presumably, he did paint--a Virgin of Mercy for the Altar del Perdon, his picture has disappeared: doubtless having been removed from the altar when the present Cathedral (begun, 1573; dedicated, though then incomplete, 1656) replaced the primitive structure erected a few years after the Conquest. The Virgin of the Candelaria on the existing Altar del Perdon was painted by Baltasar de Echave, the Elder; a Spanish artist of eminence who came to Mexico about the end of the sixteenth century. Peyrens certainly had the opportunity to do his work under conditions akin to, but decidedly more unpleasant than, those set forth in the legend: as Señor Obregón has made clear by producing facts which exhibit the afflictions of that unfortunate artist; and which also, incidentally, account for the appearance in Mexico of a miracle-story that in varying forms is found in the saintly chronicles of many lands. Señor Obregón's source is an original document of the time of Fray Alonso de Montúfar; a Dominican brother who was the second Archbishop of Mexico (1554-1572), and who also held the office of Inquisitor--in accordance with the custom that obtained until the formal establishment (1571) of the Inquisition in Mexico. It was before him, therefore, as represented by his Provisor, that the case of Peyrens was brought. As stated in this document, Peyrens had declared in familiar talk with friends that simple incontinence was not a sin; and he farther had declared that he liked to paint portraits, and that he did not like to, and would not, paint saints nor pictures of a devotional sort. His friends admonished him that his views in regard to incontinence made him liable to arraignment before the ecclesiastical authorities; whereupon--seemingly seeking, as a measure of prudence, to forestall by his own confession any charge that might be brought against him--he "denounced himself," on September 10, 1568, to Fray Bartolomé de Ledesma, Gobernador de la Mitra. As the result of his confession--instead of being granted the absolution that he obviously expected to receive--he was arrested and cast into prison. Four days later, September 14th, he was examined formally. To the questions propounded to him, he replied, in substance: That he had been born in Antwerp, the son of Fero Peyrens and of Constanza Lira his wife; that he was not of Jewish descent; that none of his family had been dealt with by the Inquisition; that in his early manhood he had gone to Lisbon and later to Toledo, where the Court then was seated, to practice his profession as a painter; that he had come to New Spain, in the suite of the Viceroy, in the hope of bettering his fortunes. In regard to the charges against him, he explained: That what he had said about the sinlessness of simple incontinence had been spoken lightly in friendly talk, and, moreover, very well might have been misunderstood because of his imperfect knowledge of the Spanish tongue; and that what he had said about liking to paint portraits and not being willing to paint saints had been said only because portrait-painting was the better paid. His trial followed: at which nothing more was produced against him--although a number of witnesses, including "many painters," were interrogated--than the facts brought out in his own examination. In order to force from Peyrens himself a fuller and more incriminating confession, the Provisor, Don Estéban de Portillo, ordered that he should be "submitted to the test of torture." This test was applied on December 1st--when Peyrens "supported three turns of the rack and swallowed three jars of water dripped into his mouth by a linen rag," without modifying or enlarging his previous declarations. By the rules of the game--he having, in the jargon of the Inquisition, "conquered his torment"--the proceedings against him then should have ended. Mr. Lea, commenting on his case ("The Inquisition in the Spanish Dependencies," p. 198), writes: "This ought to have earned his dismissal, but on December 4th he was condemned to pay the costs of his trial and to give security that he would not leave the City until he should have painted a picture of Our Lady of Merced, as an altar-piece for the church. He complied, and it was duly hung in the Cathedral." I have not found--seemingly, Mr. Lea did find--a record of the actual painting of the picture. The sentence passed on Peyrens is given in full by Señor Obregón--in archaic Spanish, whereof much of the queer flavor evaporates in translation--and is as follows: "In the criminal plea now pending before me, preferred by the Holy Office against simon peireins fleming held in the prison of this Arcobispado in regard to the words which the said simon peireins spoke and on which he has been prosecuted, on the acts and merits of this case it is found that for the crime committed by simon peyrens using him with equity and mercy I condemn him to paint at his own cost an altar-piece (retablo) of our lady of mercy for this holy church [the Cathedral] very devout and to me pleasing, and that in the interim while he is painting this altar-piece he shall not leave this city under penalty of being punished with all rigor as one disobedient to the mandates of the holy office, and I admonish and command the said simon peireins that from this time forth he shall not speak such words as those for the speaking of which he has been arrested nor shall he question any matters touching our holy catholic faith under penalty of being rigorously punished and in addition I condemn him to pay the costs of this trial, and this is my definitive sentence so judging and I pronounce and order it in and by this writing El D^{or} Estevan de Portillo * * * * * "In Mexico the fourth of december of the year one thousand five hundred and sixty eight was given and pronounced this definitive sentence of the above tenor by the aforesaid sor doctor barbosa (_sic_) provisor and vicar general of this Archbishopric of Mexico in the presence of me joan de avendaño apostolic notary public and of the audiencia of this Archbishopric of mexico witnesses el bachiller villagomez and juan vergara johan de avendaño" The ancient record ends with the statement that this sentence was communicated to Peyrens on the day that it was pronounced, and that he "consented and did consent" with it--_y dixo que consentía y consentió_. NOTE III LEGEND OF THE ADUANA DE STO. DOMINGO Carved over an arch half-way up the main stairway of the ex-Aduana--the building no longer is used as a custom-house--still may be read Don Juan's acrostic inscription that sets forth the initials of Doña Sara de García Somera y Acuña, the lady for whom he so furiously toiled: Siendo prior del Consulado el coronel D^n Juan Gutierrez Rubin de Celis, caballero del Orden de S^ntiago, y consules D^n Garza de Alvarado del mismo Orden, y D^n Lucas Serafin Chacon, se acabó la fabrica de esta Aduana en 28 de Junio de 1731. NOTE IV LEGEND OF THE CALLE DE LA CRUZ VERDE Señor Arellano has documented the legend of the Green Cross by adding to his sympathetic version of it the following note: "Some years ago I saw in either the church of San Miguel or the church of San Pablo, set aside in a corner, a bronze tablet that once had rested upon a tomb. On it was the inscription, 'Doña María de Aldarafuente Lara y Segura de Manrique. Agosto 11 de 1573 años. R.I.P.'; and beneath the inscription was a large Latin cross. Probably the tablet was melted up. When I went to look for it, later, it was not to be found." This record testifies to the truth of the pretty legend to the extent that it proves that the hero and the heroine of it were real people, and that their wedding really took place; and it also testifies to the melancholy fact--since Don Alvaro came to Mexico in the train of the Viceroy Don Gastón de Peralta, whose entry into the Capital was made on September 17, 1566--that their wedded life lasted less than seven years. The once stately but now shabby house whereon the cross is carved is in what anciently was a dignified quarter of the City; and the niche for a saint, vacant now, above the cross is one of the characteristics of the old houses in which people of condition lived. The cross is unique. No other house in the City is ornamented in this way. NOTE V LEGEND OF THE MUJER HERRADA Doubtless this legend has for its foundation an ancient real scandal: that--being too notorious to be hushed up--of set purpose was given to the public in a highly edifying way. Certainly, the story seems to have been put in shape by the clerics--the class most interested in checking such open abuses--with the view of driving home a deterrent moral by exhibiting so exemplary a punishment of sin. Substantially as in the popular version that I have used in my text, Don Francisco Sedano (circa 1760) tells the story in his delightful "Noticias de México"--a gossiping chronicle that, on the dual ground of kindly credulity and genial inaccuracy, cannot be commended in too warm terms. "In the years 1670-1680, as I have verified," Sedano writes, "there happened in this City of Mexico a formidable and fearful matter"; and without farther prelude he tells the story practically as I have told it, but in much plainer language, until he reaches the climax: when the priest and the blacksmith try to awaken the woman that she may enjoy the joke with them. Thence he continues: "When a second call failed to arouse her they looked at her more closely, and found that she was dead; and then, examining her still more closely, they found nailed fast to her hands and to her feet the four iron shoes. Then they knew that divine justice thus had afflicted her, and that the two blacks were demons. Being overcome with horror, and not knowing what course to follow in a situation so terrible, they agreed to go together for counsel to Dr. Don Francisco Ortiz, cura of the parish church of Santa Catarina; and him they brought back with them. On their return, they found already in the house Father José Vidal, of the Company of Jesus, and with him a Carmelite monk who also had been summoned. [By whom summoned is not told.] All of them together examining the woman, they saw that she had a bit in her mouth [the iron shoes on her hands and feet are not mentioned] and that on her body were the welts left by the blows which the demons had given her when they took her to be shod in the form of a mule. The three aforesaid [the Cura, Father Vidal, and the Carmelite] then agreed that the woman should be buried in a pit, that they then dug, within the house; and that upon all concerned in the matter should be enjoined secrecy. The terrified priest, trembling with fear, declared that he would change his life--and so left the house, and never appeared again." Sedano documents the story with facts concerning the reputable clerics concerned in it, writing: "Dr. Ortiz, cura de Santa Catarina, being internally moved [by what he had seen] to enter into religion, entered the Company of Jesus; wherein he continued, greatly esteemed and respected, until his death at the age of eighty-four years. He referred always to this case with amazement. A memoir of Father José Vidal, celebrated for his virtues and for his preaching, was written by Father Juan Antonio de Oviedo, of the Company of Jesus, and was printed in the College of San Yldefonso in the year 1752. In that memoir, chapter viii, p. 41, this case is mentioned; a record of it having been found among the papers of Father Vidal." Sedano adds that he himself heard the case referred to in a Lenten sermon preached by a Jesuit Father in the church of the Profesa in the year 1760. [Illustration: NO. 7 PUERTA FALSA DE SANTO DOMINGO] Sedano farther writes: "In the Calle de las Rejas de la Balvanera is a casa de vecindad [tenement house] that formerly was called the Casa del Pujabante: because a pujabante and tenazos [farrier's knife and pincers] were carved on the stone lintel of the doorway. This carving I have seen many times. It was said to mark the house in which the blacksmith lived, in memory of the shoeing of the woman there. The house [the site is that of the present No. 5] has been repaired and the carving has been obliterated. In the street of the Puerta Falsa de Santo Domingo, along the middle of which anciently ran a ditch, facing the Puerta Falsa, was an old tumble-down house [the site is that of the present No. 7] wherein lived, as I was told by an antiquarian friend, the priest and the woman. This is probable: because Father Vidal tells that the house was near the parish church of Santa Catarina; and for that reason Dr. Ortiz, the cura of that church, would be likely to make notes of an occurrence in his own parish." NOTE VI LEGEND OF THE ACCURSED BELL This legend affords an interesting example of folk-growth. As told by Señor Obregón, the story simply is of a church bell "in a little town in Spain" that, being possessed by a devil, rang in an unseemly fashion without human aid; and for that sin was condemned to have its tongue torn out and to be banished to Mexico. As told by Señor Arellano, the story begins with armor that was devil-possessed because worn by the devil-possessed Gil de Marcadante. This armor is recast into a cross wherein the devils are held prisoners and harmless; the cross is recast into a bell of which the loosed devils have possession--and from that point the story goes on as before. As told in verse by Señor Juan de Dios Peza, the armor is devil-forged to start with; and is charged still more strongly with devilishness by being worn in succession by an Infidel and by a wicked feudal lord before it comes to Gil de Marcadante--from whose possession of it the story continues as before. A fourth, wholly Spanish, version of this legend is found in Becquer's _La Cruz del Diablo_. In this version the armor belongs in the beginning to one Señor del Segre, whose cruelties lead to a revolt of his vassals that ends in his death and in the burning of his castle--amid the ruins of which the armor remains hanging on a fire-blackened pillar. In time, bandits make their lair in the ruined castle. While a hot dispute over their leadership is in progress among them the armor detaches itself from the pillar and stalks into the midst of the wrangling company. From behind the closed visor a voice declares that their leader is found. Under that leadership the bandits commit all manner of atrocities. Again the country folk rally to fight for their lives. Many of the bandits are killed, but the leader is scatheless. Swords and lances pass through the armor without injuring him. In the blaze of burning dwellings the armor becomes white-hot, but he is unharmed. A wise hermit counsels exorcism. With this spiritual weapon the devil-leader is overcome and captured; and within the armor they find--nothing at all! In true folk-story fashion the narrative rambles on with details of the escape and recapture of the devil-armor "a hundred times." In the end, following again the wise hermit's counsel, the armor is cast into a furnace; and then, being melted, is refounded--to the accompaniment of diabolical shrieks and groans of agony--into a cross. A curious and distinctive feature of this version is that the devils imprisoned in the cross retain their power for evil. Prayers made before that cross bring down curses; criminals resort to it; in its neighborhood is peril of death by violence to honest men. So leaving the matter, Becquer's story ends. The scene of these marvels is the town of Bellver, on the river Segre, close under the southern slope of the Pyrenees.[10] Señor Obregón gives what is known of the bell's history in Mexico. It was of "medium size"; the hanger in the shape of an imperial crown supported by two lions; on one side, in relief, the two-headed eagle holding in its talons the arms of Austria; on the other side a Calvario--Christ, St. John, the Virgin; near the lip, the words "Salve Regina," and the legend: "Maese Rodrigo me fecit 1530." From the unknown time of its arrival in Mexico until the last quarter of the eighteenth century it reposed idly in one of the corridors of the Palace. There it was found by the Viceroy (1789-1794) the Conde de Revillagigedo; and by that very energetic personage, to whom idleness of any sort was abhorrent, promptly was set to work. In accordance with his orders, it was hung in a bell-gable, over the central doorway of the Palace, directly above the clock; and in that position it remained, very honestly doing its duty as a clock-bell, for more than seventy years. During the period of the French intervention, in December, 1867, a new bell was installed in place of it and orders were given that it should be melted down--possibly, though Señor Obregón gives no information on this point, to be recast into cannon, along with the many church bells that went that way in Mexico at about that time. Whatever may have been planned in regard to its transmutation did not come off--because the liquid metal became refractory and could not be recast. As this curious statement of fact has an exceptional interest in the case of a bell with so bad a record, I repeat it in Señor Obregón's own words: "_Entonces se mandó fundirla; mas al verificarlo se descompuso el metal!_" NOTE VII LEGEND OF THE CALLEJÓN DEL PADRE LECUONA By a natural confusion of the name of the street in which the dead man was confessed with the name of the priest who heard his confession, this legend frequently is told nowadays as relating not to Padre Lanza but to Padre Lecuona. An old man whom I met in the Callejón del Padre Lecuona, when I was making search for the scene of the confession, told me the story in that way--and pointed out the house to me in all sincerity. Following that telling, I so mixed the matter myself in my first publication of the legend. Who Padre Lecuona was, or why the street was named after him, I have not discovered. Probably still another legend lurks there. Señor Riva Palacio tells the story as of an unnamed friar "whom God now holds in his glory," and assigns it to the year 1731. The motive of the story is found in Spain long before the oldest date assigned to it in Mexico. The wicked hero of Calderon's play, _La devocion de la Cruz_, is permitted to purge his sinful soul by confession after death. The Padre Lanza whose name has been tacked fast to the story--probably because his well-known charitable ministrations to the poor made him a likely person to yield to the old woman's importunities--was a real man who lived in the City of Mexico, greatly loved and respected, in the early years of the nineteenth century. Señor Roa Bárcena fixes the decade 1820-1830 as the date of his strange adventure with a dead body in which was a living soul. [Illustration: WHERE THE DEAD MAN WAS CONFESSED] Aside from minor variants, two distinct versions of this legend are current. That which I have given in my text is the more popular. The other, less widely known, has for its scene an old house in the Calle de Olmedo--nearly a mile away from the Callejón del Padre Lecuona, and in a far more ancient quarter of the City. Concisely stated, the Calle de Olmedo version is to this effect: Brother Mendo, a worthy and kind-hearted friar, is met of a dark night in the street by a man who begs him to come and hear a dying person confess. The friar wears the habit of his Order, and from his girdle hangs his rosary. He is led to a house near by; and finds within the house a very beautiful woman, richly clad in silks, whose arms are bound. That she is not in a dying state is obvious, and the friar asks for an explanation. For answer, the man tells him roughly: "This woman is about to die by violence. I must give her death. As you please, wash clean her sinful soul--or leave it foul!" At that, he yields, and her confession begins. It is so prolonged that the man, losing patience, ends it abruptly by thrusting forth the friar from the house. Through the closed door he hears shrieks and tries to re-enter; but the door remains closed firmly, and his knocking is unheeded. He finds that his rosary no longer is at his girdle. In order to recover it, and to allay his fears for the woman's safety, he calls a watchman to aid him by demanding in the name of the law that the door shall be opened. No response is made from within to their violent knocking; and an old woman, aroused by it, comes out from a nearby dwelling and tells them that knocking there is useless--that through all her long lifetime she has lived beside that house, and that never through all her long lifetime has that house been inhabited. The watchman--holding his lantern close to the door, and so perceiving that what she tells is verified by the caked dust that fills its crevices and that clogs its key-hole--is for abandoning their attempt to enter. The friar insists that they must enter: that his rosary is within the house; that he is determined to recover it; that the door must be forced. Yielding to him, the watchman forces the door and together they enter: to find a yellowed skeleton upon the floor; scattered around it scraps of mouldering silk; in the eye-sockets of the skull cobwebs--and lying across that yellowed skeleton is the friar's rosary! Brother Mendo covers his face with his hands, totters for a moment, and then falls dying as he exclaims in horror: "Holy God! I have confessed a soul from the other life!" And the crowd of neighbors, by that time assembled, cries out: "Brother Mendo is dead because he has confessed the dead!" NOTE VIII LEGEND OF THE LIVING SPECTRE The theme of this legend--the transportation by supernatural means of a living person from one part of the world to another--is among the most widely distributed of folk-story motives. In _The Arabian Nights_--to name an easily accessible work of reference--it is found repeatedly in varying forms. In Irving's _Alhambra_ a version of it is given--"Governor Manco and the Old Soldier"--that has a suggestive resemblance to the version of my text. Distinction is given to the Mexican story, however, by its presentment by serious historians in association with, and as an incident of, an otherwise well-authenticated historical tragedy. That Don Gómez Pérez Dasmariñas, Governor of the Filipinas, did have his head badly split open, and died of it, in the Molucca Islands, on the 25th of October in the year 1593, and that on that same day announcement of his so-painful ending was made in the City of Mexico, are statements of natural and of supernatural fact which equally rest upon authority the most respectable: as appears from Señor Obregón's documentation of the legend, that I here present in a condensed form. Guarded testimony in support of the essential marvel of the story is found in a grave historical work of the period, _Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas_, written by the learned Dr. Antonio de Morga, a Judge of the Criminal Court of the Royal Audiencia and sometime legal adviser (_consultor_) to the Holy Office in New Spain. This eminent personage notes as a curious fact that the news of the murder of Don Gómez Pérez Dasmariñas was known on the Plaza Mayor of the City of Mexico on the very day that the murder occurred; but adds--his legal caution seemingly disposing him to hedge a little--that he is ignorant of the means by which the news was brought. Without any hedging whatever, Fray Gaspar de San Agustin, in his _Conquista de las Islas Philipinas_ (Madrid, 1698), tells the whole story in a whole-hearted way. According to Fray Gaspar, there arrived in Manila about the year 1593, Don Gómez Pérez Dasmariñas being at that time Governor, ambassadors sent by the King of Cambodia--one of them a Portuguese named Diego Belloso, and the other a Spaniard named Antonio Barrientes--whose mission was to ask the assistance of the Spaniards in repelling an invasion of Cambodia, then threatened by the King of Siam. As a present from the King to the Governor, the embassy brought "two beautiful elephants (_dos hermosos elefantes_), which were the first ever seen in Manila." Don Gómez Pérez promised readily the assistance asked for; but with the intention of using a pretended expedition to Cambodia as a cloak for a real expedition to seize the Moluccas. To this end he assembled an armada, made up of four galleys and of attendant smaller vessels, on which he embarked a considerable military force; and, along with the soldiers, certain "notable persons and venerable religious." His preparations being completed, he sailed from Manila on October 17, 1593. A week later, the capitana galley, having on board the Governor, was separated from the fleet by a storm and was driven to take shelter in the harbor of Punta de Azufre: to make which haven the two hundred and fifty Chinese rowers were kept at their work with so cruel a rigor, the climax of other cruelties, that they determined to mutiny. Accordingly, on the night of their arrival, October 25th, "putting on white tunics that they might know each other in the darkness," they rose against the Spaniards and murdered every one of them--the Governor, as he came forth from his cabin, having "his head half split open"--and tossed their dead bodies overboard into the sea. Fray Gaspar points out that Don Gómez Pérez came to that bad end as a just reward from heaven, because on various occasions he arrogantly had "contended and disputed" with the Bishop of the Filipinas; and in support of this view of the matter he declares that the Governor's deserved murder "was announced in Manila and in Mexico by supernatural signs." In Manila the announcement was symbolical: "On the very day of his killing there opened in the wall [of the Convent of San Agustin] on which his portrait was painted a crack that corresponded precisely with the splitting of his skull." Of the other announcement, that described in the legend, he writes in these assured terms: "It is worthy of deep ponderation that on the very same day on which took place the tragedy of Gómez Pérez that tragedy was known in Mexico by the art of Satan: who, making use of some women inclined to such agilities (_algunas mujeres inclinadas á semejantes agilidades_), caused them to transplant to the Plaza Mayor of the City of Mexico a soldier standing guard on the walls of Manila; and this was accomplished so unfelt by the soldier that in the morning--when he was found walking sentry, musket in hand, in that city--he asked of those who addressed him in what city he was. By the Holy Office it was ordered that he should be sent back to these islands: where many who knew him have assured me of the truth of this event." Señor Obregón's comment, at once non-committal and impartial, on Fray Gaspar's narrative admits of no improvement. I give it in his own words: "In the face of the asseveration of so brainy a chronicler (_un cronista tan sesudo_) we neither trump nor discard (_no ponemos ni quitamos rey_)"; to which he adds a jingle advising the critical that he gives the story as it was given to him: "Y si lector, dijeres, ser comento, Como me lo contaron te lo cuento." NOTE IX LEGEND OF LA LLORONA This legend is not, as all of the other legends are, of Spanish-Mexican origin: it is wholly Mexican--a direct survival from primitive times. Seemingly without perceiving--certainly without noting--the connection between an Aztec goddess and this the most widely distributed of all Mexican folk-stories, Señor Orozco y Berra wrote: "The Tloque Nahuaque [Universal Creator] created in a garden a man and a woman who were the progenitors of the human race.... The woman was called Cihuacohuatl, 'the woman snake,' 'the female snake'; Tititl, 'our mother,' or 'the womb whence we were born'; Teoyaominqui, 'the goddess who gathers the souls of the dead'; and Quilaztli, implying that she bears twins. She appears dressed in white, bearing on her shoulder a little cradle, as though she were carrying a child; and she can be heard sobbing and shrieking. This apparition was considered a bad omen." Referring to the same goddess, Fray Bernardino de Sahagun thus admonished (circa 1585) the Mexican converts to Christianity: "Your ancestors also erred in the adoration of a demon whom they represented as a woman, and to whom they gave the name of Cioacoatl. She appeared clad as a lady of the palace [clad in white?]. She terrified (_espantada_), she frightened (_asombraba_), and cried aloud at night." It is evident from these citations that La Llorona is a stray from Aztec mythology; an ancient powerful goddess living on--her power for evil lessened, but still potent--into modern times. She does not belong especially to the City of Mexico. The belief in her--once confined to, and still strongest in, the region primitively under Aztec domination--now has become localized in many other places throughout the country. This diffusion is in conformity with the recognized characteristic of folk-myths to migrate with those who believe in them; and in the case of La Llorona reasonably may be traced to the custom adopted by the Conquistadores of strengthening their frontier settlements by planting beside them settlements of loyal Aztecs: who, under their Christian veneering, would hold to--as to this day the so-called Christian Indians of Mexico hold to--their old-time faith in their old-time gods. Being transplanted, folk-myths are liable to modification by a new environment. The Fiery Cow of the City of Mexico, for instance, not improbably is a recasting of the Basque vaca de lumbre; or, possibly, of the goblin horse, El Belludo, of Grenada--who comes forth at midnight from the Siete Suelos tower of the Alhambra and scours the streets pursued by a pack of hell-hounds. But in her migrations, while given varying settings, La Llorona has remained unchanged. Always and everywhere she is the same: a woman clad in white who by night in lonely places goes wailing for her lost children; a creature of evil from whom none who hold converse with her may escape alive. Don Vicente Riva Palacio's metrical version of this legend seems to be composite: a blending of the primitive myth with a real tragedy of Viceregal times. Introductorily, he tells that for more than two hundred years a popular tale has been current in varying forms of a mysterious woman, clad in white, who runs through the streets of the City at midnight uttering wailings so keen and so woful that whoever hears them swoons in a horror of fear. Then follows the story: Luisa, the Wailer, in life was a woman of the people, very beautiful. By her lover, Don Muño de Montes Claros, she had three children. That he might make a marriage with a lady of his own rank, he deserted her. Through a window of his house she saw him at his marriage feast; and then sped homeward and killed--with a dagger that Don Muño had left in her keeping--her children as they lay sleeping. Her white garments all spattered with their blood, she left her dead children and rushed wildly through the streets of the City--shrieking in the agony of her sorrow and her sin. In the end, "a great crowd gathered to see a woman garroted because she had killed her three children"; and on that same day "a grand funeral procession" went with Don Muño to his grave. And it is this Luisa who goes shrieking at night through the streets of the City even now. My friend Gilberto Cano is my authority for the version of the legend--the popular version--that I have given in my text. It seems to me to preserve, in its awed mystery and in its vague fearsomeness, the very feeling with which the malignant Aztec goddess assuredly was regarded in primitive times. THE END FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: See Note I.] [Footnote 2: See Note II.] [Footnote 3: See Note III.] [Footnote 4: See Note IV.] [Footnote 5: See Note V.] [Footnote 6: See Note VI.] [Footnote 7: See Note VII.] [Footnote 8: See Note VIII.] [Footnote 9: See Note IX.] [Footnote 10: "La Cruz del Diablo," with other stories of a like sort by Becquer, all very well worth reading, may be read in English in the accurate translation recently made by Cornelia Frances Bates and Katharine Lee Bates under the title _Romantic Legends of Spain_ (New York, Thomas Y. Crowell & Co.); and in the original Spanish, with the assistance of scholarly notes and a vocabulary, in the collection prepared for class use by Dr. Everett Ward Olmsted under the English title _Legends and Poems by Gustavo Adolfo Becquer_ (Boston, Ginn & Co.).] * * * * * Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals. The carat character (^) indicates that the following letter is superscripted (example: S^ntiago). If two or more letters are superscripted they are enclosed in curly brackets (example: D^{or}). Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. The illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs, thus the page number of the illustration might not match the page number in the List of Illustrations. The cover for the eBook version of this book was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain. The list of drawings is incorrect. There is no drawing in the book for LEGEND OF THE CALLE DEL PUENTE DEL CLÉRIGO _Facing p._ 14, but the reference to it has been left in place. 
46960	----	_Uniform with this Volume_ CHRISTMAS TALES OF FLANDERS With Plates in Colour and many Black and White Illustrations by JEAN DE BOSSCHÈRE "This handsome and well-illustrated book is one of the most attractive we have seen this season. It gives us renderings of the popular fables and legends current in Flanders and Brabant which have a colour and quaintness of their own, yet combines adventures with an unobtrusive and so more effective moral."--_Saturday Review._ "There are delightful stories; even more attractive than the letterpress are M. de Bosschère's illustrations. Conceived with inexhaustible fancy, full of quaint detail, and set down with a fascinating naïveté they embody the characters and scenes of the tales with a fullness of particularism that should provide endless entertainment to youthful readers. They are the best and most complete series of designs yet produced by the artist."--_Connoisseur._ "The illustrations by Jean de Bosschère are of a droll fancy. The artist has a notable power of the grotesque, and both in colour and black and white he uses it."--_Daily Telegraph._ LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN FOLK TALES OF BEASTS AND MEN [Illustration] [Illustration: "HE TORE A RIB FROM HIS SIDE AND CUT OFF MY EAR" [_See page 21_]] BEASTS & MEN FOLK TALES COLLECTED IN FLANDERS AND ILLUSTRATED BY JEAN DE BOSSCHÈRE [Illustration] LONDON · WILLIAM HEINEMANN NEW YORK · DODD, MEAD & COMPANY _London: William Heinemann, 1918_ [Illustration] CONTENTS PAGE UPS AND DOWNS 1 THE THREE MONKEYS 5 HOW THE GOLDFINCH GOT HIS COLOURS 10 THE COCK AND THE FOX 14 THE MOST CUNNING ANIMAL 19 SPONSKEN AND THE GIANT 22 WHY CATS ALWAYS WASH AFTER EATING 40 THE CHORISTERS OF ST. GUDULE 41 THE TRIAL OF REYNARD THE FOX 50 THE MAGIC CAP 83 SUGAR-CANDY HOUSE 91 POOR PETER 95 THE PEASANT AND HIS ASS 103 THE KING OF THE BIRDS 109 A DRUM FULL OF BEES 116 THE DRUNKEN ROOKS 131 THE BATTLE OF THE BIRDS AND BEASTS 133 THE END OF THE WORLD 139 THE REWARD OF THE WORLD 147 ONE BAD TURN BEGETS ANOTHER 153 THE PEASANT AND THE SATYRS 159 THE TWO FRIENDS AND THE BARREL OF GREASE 163 WHY THE BEAR HAS A STUMPY TAIL 168 THE WITCH'S CAT 173 [Illustration] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR _Facing page_ "HE TORE A RIB FROM HIS SIDE AND CUT OFF MY EAR" _Frontispiece_ "I HOPE YOU WILL ENJOY YOUR DRINK. GOOD-BYE!" 2 ALL THE BIRDS WERE VERY PROUD OF THEIR APPEARANCE 12 "WHAT ELSE CAN I DO!" ASKED CHANTICLEER 44 THE TRIAL OF REYNARD THE FOX 68 "YOU HAVE MERITED DEATH A HUNDRED TIMES" 80 JAN AND JANNETTE 90 BIRDS GOING TO THE RACE 112 THE BATTLE OF THE BIRDS AND BEASTS 132 AN IMMENSE DRAGON LYING BY THE WATER-SIDE 148 THE SATYRS' VILLAGE 160 "ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS TO SIT ON THE ICE" 170 IN BLACK AND WHITE PAGE THERE HE MET MISTRESS GOAT 1 THE FARMER PUT HER IN THE FOLD 3 UP AND DOWN 4 THREE FRIENDS 5 LITTLE JAMES GOT PUSHED OVER THE SIDE 7 "PULL, BROTHER, PULL, AND WE'LL SOON HAVE HIM OUT" 8 HE HAPPENED TO LOOK IN THE MIRROR 9 BIRDS 10 THE ANGEL WHOSE MISSION IT WAS TO COLOUR THE BIRDS 11 HE TOOK A PLACE AMONG THE MOST BEAUTIFUL OF THEM ALL 12 SONG OF GRATITUDE 13 THE FOX WAS NOT A LITTLE FRIGHTENED 14 "DON'T GO AWAY, MY DEAR FRIEND," SAID THE FOX 17 "THAT IS TRUE," SAID THE COCK TO HIMSELF 18 THE SOLDIER, THE FOX, AND THE BEAR 19 THERE WAS A FLASH, A LOUD REPORT.... 21 THE TWO HEROES OF THE STORY 22 SPONSKEN, THE GIANT, AND THE PRINCESS 25 HE TOSSED THE BIRD INTO THE AIR 27 "THE THREE ANIMALS ARE A BEAR, A UNICORN, AND A WILD BOAR" 28 THE BEAR FOLLOWED HIM INTO THE HOLLOW TRUNK 29 WITH A MIGHTY CRASH HE RAN FULL TILT INTO THE TREE 31 SPONSKEN, THE PRINCESS, THE GIANT 33 ALL THE ATTENDANTS FLED AT ONCE 37 MARRIED A GIRL 39 THE CAT AND THE SPARROW 40 "I'VE JUST BEEN TURNED OUT OF HOUSE" 41 "THEY LAUGH AT ME" 43 "HUSH!" SAID CHANTICLEER 45 BREAKING THE GLASS TO SMITHEREENS 47 THE ROBBERS LOST NO TIME IN DECAMPING 49 THE KING 50 AT THE HEAD OF THE PROCESSION MARCHED CHANTICLEER 53 THE FOX'S CHÂTEAU 55 THE POOR BEAST ROARED WITH PAIN 57 HE IMMEDIATELY CALLED A COUNCIL OF HIS MINISTERS 59 "TAKE ME TO THIS HOUSE" 61 "TYBERT AND BRUIN ARE BADLY KNOCKED ABOUT" 63 "AND CAUSED HIM TO JUMP AT LEAST TWENTY FEET INTO THE AIR" 64 "I WAS MISCHIEVOUS AND UNRULY" 67 "AND PEARLS TOO?" SHE WHISPERED 69 "I SAW HIM STOP AT THE FOOT OF A GREAT TREE" 71 THE CONSPIRACY GAINED ADHERENTS EVERY DAY 73 THE SUIT OF GOLDEN ARMOUR EMRIK WORE 75 THEY WALKED IN SILENCE 77 REYNARD SPRANG AT HIS THROAT 79 THE KING OF THAT LAND CAUGHT HIM 82 CALF AND GOAT 83 "YOU WERE BEING MADE A FOOL OF" 85 JAN AND THE THREE STUDENTS 87 TWIRLED THE CAP ROUND THREE TIMES ON HIS FINGER 89 AND DIPPED THEM INTO THE HORSE-TROUGH 90 WERE CARRIED SAFELY OVER TO THE OTHER BANK 91 "GR-R-R, I'LL EAT THEM UP!" 93 WOLF'S HEAD 94 JACO PETER AND HIS FRIEND 95 "SMEAR YOURSELF FROM HEAD TO FOOT" 97 REYNARD SEIZED THE OPPORTUNITY TO WARN HIS FRIEND 99 AN EXCLAMATION OF ASTONISHMENT 100 AWAY WENT THE COACHES 102 "OH DEAR ME, THAT'S TWICE!" 103 "HALLO, MY MAN," CRIED THE LORD 105 "I CAN'T GET UP, BECAUSE I'M DEAD!" 107 SENT HIM SPRAWLING FROM TOP TO BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS 108 THE EAGLE AND THE KINGLET 109 "IS OUR KING THEN ONLY TO BE LOOKED AT?" 111 THERE WAS THE SOUND AS OF A RUSHING MIGHTY WIND 113 HE IS KNOWN AS THE KINGLET 115 DONATUS 116 THERE WAS A KNOT-HOLE IN THE WOODEN FLOOR 119 "I DID NOT HEAR YOU KNOCK" 121 THE SWARM OF BEES WITHIN BEGAN TO BUZZ ABOUT IN GREAT COMMOTION 123 BEATING ANOTHER TATTOO UPON THE DRUM 124 THE BEADLE, TOO, STUMBLED AND FELL 125 HE HAD FAITHFULLY CARRIED OUT ALL HIS INSTRUCTIONS 127 IT WAS THE LABOURER DRESSED IN THE DRUMMER'S CLOTHES 128 RODE STRAIGHT INTO A MARSH 130 WHEN THE FIFTY ROOKS BEGAN TO FLY HE COULD NOT GET FREE 131 THE ROOKS 132 FIGHTING 133 THE KINGLET WARNED HIM TO BE VERY CAREFUL NOT TO BUZZ 135 THE GREAT OFFENSIVE BEGAN 137 THE FOX 138 THE CAT RUSHED OUT OF THE ROOM 139 THE CAT, THE DOG, THE COCK, THE RABBIT, AND THE GOOSE 141 "SEE IF YOU CAN ESPY A HOUSE" 142 "JUMP ON TO MY BEAUTIFUL CURLY TAIL" 143 THE OTHER FOUR GOT ON TO THE DOG'S BACK 145 SENT ME FLYING THROUGH THE AIR 146 THE DRAGON 147 "MY SIGHT IS SO WEAK AND MY POWERS SO FEEBLE" 149 "DOES THE DRAGON MIND GETTING UNDER THE STONE AGAIN?" 151 TWO FOXES 152 NOTHING WAS LEFT OF THE FISHES 153 THE BIGGEST AND FATTEST FISH 155 STRETCHED HIMSELF OUT AT FULL LENGTH 156 "I WILLINGLY GIVE YOU YOURS!" 158 "WHY ARE YOU BLOWING YOUR SOUP?" 159 "THERE IS NO PLACE IN MY HOUSE FOR A MAN WHO CAN BLOW HOT AND COLD" 161 SATYR 162 THE TWO FRIENDS 163 "WHERE HAS ALL OUR GREASE GONE?" 165 BEGUN, HALF-DONE, ALL-DONE 167 MRS. BRUIN AND REYNARD 168 "AFTER A TIME THE FISH WILL COME TO BITE AT IT" 169 "ONE, TWO, THREE...!" 171 BORN WITH A LITTLE STUMPY TAIL 172 MARGOT AND THE CAT 173 SHE MEANT TO KEEP HER THERE UNTIL SHE HAD GROWN BIGGER AND FATTER 175 PADDLING WITH HER BROOM 177 HE WAS REALLY A PRINCE 179 [Illustration: THERE HE MET MISTRESS GOAT] UPS AND DOWNS The summer had been very hot. Not a drop of rain had fallen for many weeks, and there was drought in the valley where the animals lived. The streams had dried up and the springs had ceased to flow. Master Fox took up his pipe and went out to take a walk under the lime-trees to think things over. There he met Mistress Goat, all dressed up in her Sunday clothes. "Good morrow, cousin," said he. "You are very fine to-day." "Yes," she answered, "I put on my best dress because it helps me to think. What we are to do for water I do not know. We have finished all that we had in the barrel, and unless we can find some more very quickly I and my children will die of thirst." "To tell you the truth," said the Fox, "I was thinking the same thing. I am so dry that my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth, and I cannot even smoke my pipe with pleasure. What do you say to going together in search of water? Four eyes are better than two, any day in the week." "Agreed," said the Goat; and away they started together. For a long time they looked everywhere, but not a trace of water could they find. All of a sudden the Goat gave a cry of joy, and running up to her the Fox saw that she had discovered a well, on the brink of which she was standing gazing at the cool water far below. "Hurrah!" cried the Fox. "We are saved!" "Yes," answered the Goat, "but see how far down the water is! How are we to get at it!" "You just leave that to me," said the Fox. "I know all about wells--I've seen them before. All one has to do is to get into the bucket which is hanging by the rope and descend as smoothly and as safely as you please. I'll go first, just to show you the way." So the Fox got into the bucket, and the weight of him caused it to descend, while the empty bucket at the other end of the rope rose to the top of the well. A minute afterwards he was at the bottom, leaning over the side of the pail and greedily lapping up the water. Nothing had ever tasted so delicious. He drank and drank until he could hold no more. "Is it good?" cried Mrs. Goat from above, dancing with impatience. "It is like the purest nectar!" answered the Fox. "Get into the bucket quickly and come down and join me." So the goat stepped into the bucket, which immediately began to descend with her weight, while at the same time the bucket with Master Fox in it began to rise to the surface. The two met half-way. "How is this?" asked Mrs. Goat in surprise. "I thought you were going to wait for me!" [Illustration: "I HOPE YOU WILL ENJOY YOUR DRINK. GOOD-BYE!"] "Ah, my dear friend," answered Reynard with a wicked grin, "it is the way of the world. Some go up and some go down. I hope you will enjoy your drink. Good-bye!" [Illustration: THE FARMER PUT HER IN THE FOLD] And as soon as he got to the top he jumped out of the bucket and ran off at top speed. So poor Mrs. Goat had to stay there at the bottom of the well until the farmer came and found her, half dead with cold. When at last she was rescued she found that she had only exchanged one prison for another, for the farmer put her into the fold with his own sheep and goats, and so she lost her liberty for ever. [Illustration] [Illustration: THREE FRIENDS] THE THREE MONKEYS There were once three monkeys who were going for a voyage in a balloon. (This was in Monkey-land, far, far away and ever so long ago.) The three were so much alike that it was impossible to tell one from the other, and to make matters worse each of them answered to the name of James. Such a thing would never do in the crew of a balloon, so the old monkey who was in command decided that each of the three should have a different name. The first was to be called James, the second Jemmy, and the third Little James. So far so good. The three monkeys climbed into the balloon, the ground ropes were untied, and the voyage was begun. When they had reached a height of some hundreds of feet, the captain wished to give an order, so he called to the first monkey: "James!" "Aye aye, sir," said all the three, running up to him. "I called James," said the captain, looking from one to the other. "Well, I am James," answered the first monkey. "No, no. James is my name," said the second. "And mine too," said the third. "How can you be James if I am he?" cried the first angrily. "I tell you James is my name!" cried the second. "No, mine!" And so the three monkeys began to quarrel and dispute. Words led to blows, and soon they were tumbling about all over the car of the balloon, biting, scratching, and pummelling while the captain sat in his chair and bawled to them to stop. Every minute it seemed as though the car would overturn, and the end of it was that Little James got pushed over the side. He turned a beautiful somersault, and fell down, down, down through the air, landing in a soft bed of mud, into which he sank so that only his face and the top of his yellow cranium were visible. "Help! help!" bawled Little James at the top of his voice. Up ran a pair of monkeys belonging to the neighbourhood and stood looking at him. "He's in the mud, brother," said one. "Up to his neck," said the other. "How silly!" And they both began to grin. "Help!" cried Little James again, more faintly, for he was sinking deeper, and the mud was nearly at the level of his mouth. "Pull me out! Pull me out!" "Ah, but how?" asked the first monkey, looking at him gravely. "Wait a minute," cried the second, "I have an idea!" and he pulled out of his pocket one of those leather suckers on a string which boys use to lift stones. Moistening the disc, he clapped it on to Little James's head, and began to tug on the cord with all his might. "Hey!" cried the other monkey, running to help. "Pull, brother, pull, and we'll soon have him out!" [Illustration: LITTLE JAMES GOT PUSHED OVER THE SIDE] _Crack!_ The cord snapped suddenly, and the two monkeys tumbled head over heels. Never mind; they got another cord to repair the damage, and this time they succeeded in pulling Little James clear of the mud. Did I say Little James? Alas! it was only half of him! His rescuers had pulled so hard that he had broken off short in the middle, and his two legs were left embedded in the mud. [Illustration: "PULL, BROTHER, PULL, AND WE'LL SOON HAVE HIM OUT"] "Dear me!" said the first monkey, scratching his head. "This is very sad. The poor fellow has lost his legs. What shall we do?" "Let us make him some wooden ones!" said the other. So said, so done. They made him a beautiful pair of wooden legs, and Little James hobbled painfully home. By the time he reached his house he felt so ill that he went straight to bed. "I believe I am going to die," he said to himself. "I must make my will and set down the cause of my death." So he sent for pen and paper and began to write. Before very long, however, he stopped and began to scratch his head in perplexity. "If I am going to die," he thought, "I must be going to die of something! Now, what am I going to die of? This must be carefully considered, for above all one must write the truth in one's last testament!" So he pondered and pondered, but he could not make up his mind as to the cause of his death. Was he going to die of the fall from the balloon, or of his broken legs, or what? Just then he happened to look in the mirror by the bedside, and saw that there was a lump on his forehead, which he had got while fighting with James and Jemmy in the balloon. "Why, of course," cried he, "I am going to die of that big bruise on my forehead!" So he wrote it down in his will, and then, happy at having solved the difficulty, turned over on his side and died. And, as I said before, this all took place in Monkey-land, ever so long ago. [Illustration] [Illustration: BIRDS] HOW THE GOLDFINCH GOT HIS COLOURS When the Angel whose mission it was to colour the birds had finished his work, he began to scrape his palette and to make ready for departure. He had done his task well, for the plumage of the feathered creatures all around him glowed with a thousand glorious colours. There was the lordly eagle, arrayed in a robe of golden brown. The peacock had a tail of shimmering blue and green that looked as if it were studded with precious stones. The crow's black coat shone in the sun with a kind of steely radiance, very wonderful to behold. The canary was as yellow as a buttercup; the jay had a spot of blue sky on either wing; even the humble sparrow wore a handsome black neck-tie; while Chanticleer, the cock, was resplendent in yellow, black, and red. All the birds were very proud of their appearance, and they strutted about here and there, gazing at their reflections in the water and calling upon their neighbours to come and admire their beauties. [Illustration: THE ANGEL WHOSE MISSION IT WAS TO COLOUR THE BIRDS] Alone among the birds the little goldfinch took no part in the rejoicing. Somehow or other the Angel had overlooked him, so that he remained uncoloured, a drab little creature, in his sober grey dress, among the gaily clothed throng. More than once he had tried to draw the Angel's attention to himself, and now, seeing him cleaning his palette in readiness to depart, he stepped forward and said: "Have pity on me, good Angel, and paint my plumage as you have painted that of the others, so that I may walk among them unashamed. I have nothing to commend me--no beautiful song like the nightingale or the throstle, no grace of form such as the swallows have. If I am to go unadorned, nothing remains for me but to hide myself among the leaves." [Illustration: HE TOOK A PLACE AMONG THE MOST BEAUTIFUL OF THEM ALL] Then the Angel took pity on the little creature, and would gladly have painted him with glowing colours, but alas, he had scraped his palette clean. Therefore he took up a brush, and going from bird to bird took from each a spot of colour, which he laid upon the goldfinch, blending a score of brilliant hues with marvellous skill. When he had finished, the tiny bird was transformed, and from being the saddest in that brilliant company he took a place among the most beautiful of them all. [Illustration: ALL THE BIRDS WERE VERY PROUD OF THEIR APPEARANCE] It is not possible, by means of words, to describe the beauty of the colouring which the Angel gave to the goldfinch, but you may see him any day you like, sitting on a thistle, and chirping his song of gratitude and praise. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE FOX WAS NOT A LITTLE FRIGHTENED] THE COCK AND THE FOX This is the story that the old woman who was called Tante Sannie told to the little boy who would always be talking: A long time ago (she said) there lived in a farmyard a Cock who was very proud of himself, and with reason, too, for he was, indeed, a plump and handsome bird. Nothing could have been finer than his appearance when he strutted through the yard, lifting his feet high as he walked, and nodding his head at each step. He had a magnificent comb of coral-red, and blue-black plumage streaked with gold, which shone so brilliantly when the sun flashed on it that it was a joy to see him. No wonder that his twenty wives gazed at him admiringly and followed him wherever he went, and were quite content to let him hustle them about and gobble up all the fattest worms and the finest grains of corn. If this Cock was proud of his appearance, there was one thing of which he was even prouder, and that was his voice. He was a famous songster; he could crow you high and he could crow you low; he could utter tones as deep as the pealing of the organ in church or as shrill as the blast of a trumpet. Every morning, when the first streak of dawn appeared in the sky, he would get down off his perch, raise himself on his toes, stretch out his neck, close his eyes and crow so loudly that he roused people who were sleeping in the next parish. And this he loved to do, because it was his nature. Now in the forest close to the farmyard there lived a Fox who had often gazed with longing eyes upon the plump and handsome bird. His mouth watered every time he thought of him, and many were the artful tricks he played to try and catch him for his dinner. One day he hid himself among the bushes in the garden by the farmyard and waited patiently until the Cock happened to stray his way. After a time the bird came along, pecking here and pecking there, wandered through the gate into the garden, and made straight for the bush under which Master Fox was hidden. He was just going to run into the bush after a butterfly which was fluttering about, when he caught sight of Reynard's black snout and cunning, watchful eyes, and with a squeak of alarm he jumped aside, just in time, and hopped on to the wall. At this the Fox rose to his feet. "Don't go away, my dear friend," said he in honeyed tones. "I would not for the world do you any harm. I know that it is my bad fortune to be disliked by your family--I can't for the life of me think why, and it is a pity, because I have to hide myself for the pleasure of hearing you sing. There is no cock in all these parts has such a magnificent voice as yours, and I simply do not believe the stories they tell about you." "Eh, what is that?" said the Cock, stopping at a safe distance and looking at the Fox with his head on one side. "What do they say?" "Why," Reynard went on, edging a little nearer, "they tell me that you can only crow with your eyes open. They say that if you were to shut your eyes, that clarion call of yours would become only a feeble piping, like the clucking of a new-born chick. But of course I don't believe them. Any one can see they are merely jealous." "I should think so," cried the Cock, bristling with anger. "Crow with my eyes shut, indeed! Why, I never crow in any other way. Just look here--I'll prove it to you!" And he raised himself on his toes, stretched out his neck, closed his eyes, and was just going to crow, when, _Snap!_ the Fox sprang upon him and caught him in his teeth! Then began a great to-do! The poor cock flapped his wings and struggled as the Fox ran off with him. The hens ran about the yard clucking and squawking, and the noise they made alarmed the farmer's wife, who was cooking in the kitchen. Out she came running, with the rolling-pin in her hand, and, seeing the fox with the cock in his mouth, gave chase, shrieking as she ran. The farm-hands tumbled out of barn and byre armed with pitch-forks, spades, and sticks. All the beasts began to raise a clatter, and what with the shouting of the men, the squealing of the pigs, the neighing of the horses, and the lowing of the cows, to say nothing of the clucking of the hens and the old woman's screaming, one would have thought the end of the world was at hand. The Fox was not a little frightened by all this clatter, but he was not so frightened as the Cock, who saw that only cunning would save his life. "They will catch us in a minute," he said to the Fox, "and, as likely as not, we shall both be killed by a single blow. Why don't you call out and tell them I came with you of my own accord?" "A good idea," thought the Fox, and he opened his mouth to call out to his pursuers, thereby loosening his grip on the Cock's neck. Then, with a squirm and a twist and a flutter of his wings, the wily bird wrenched himself free and flew up to the branches of a tree near by. [Illustration: "DON'T GO AWAY, MY DEAR FRIEND," SAID THE FOX] The Fox cast a look at him and saw that he was out of reach; then he glanced over his shoulder at his pursuers, who were getting perilously near. "It seems to me," he said, grinning with rage, "I should have done better to hold my tongue." "That is true," said the Cock to himself as he smoothed his ruffled feathers. "And I would have been better advised to keep my weather-eye open." [Illustration] [Illustration: THE SOLDIER, THE FOX, AND THE BEAR] THE MOST CUNNING ANIMAL One day the Fox and the Bear began to argue as to which was the most cunning animal. The Bear said that he thought foxes and bears took first place. "You are wrong, my friend," said Reynard. "We are clever, you and I, but there is one animal that is as far above us as we are above the rest of creation." "Oh, indeed," sneered the Bear, "and what is the name of this marvellous creature?" "He is called the man-animal," answered Reynard, "and he goes on two legs instead of four, which is a wonderful thing in itself. Here are some of the cunning things he can do; first, he can swim in the water without getting wet; when he is cold he makes yellow flowers grow out of sticks to warm himself; and he can strike at an enemy a hundred yards away!" "I do not believe you," answered the Bear. "This is a fairy-tale you are telling me. If such a creature as the man-animal really exists, it is very strange that I have never seen him!" "Strange, indeed!" grinned the Fox, "but soon remedied. Would you like to see the man-animal?" "It would be a sight for sore eyes," said the Bear. "Very well," said the Fox, "come along with me." And he led the Bear through the forest until they came to a road leading to a village. "Now, then," said he, "let us lie down in the ditch and watch the road, and we shall see what we shall see." Presently a child from the village came along. "Look! Look!" whispered the Bear. "An animal walking on two legs! Is this the creature we seek?" "No," answered the Fox, "but one of these days it will become a man-animal." Shortly afterwards there came along an old woman, all bent and wrinkled. "Is that one?" asked the Bear. "No," said the Fox again, "but once upon a time that was the mother of one!" At last there came the sound of brisk footsteps on the road, and peeping out between the bushes the Bear saw a tall soldier in a red coat marching towards them. He had a sword by his side and a musket over his shoulder. "This must surely be the man-animal," said the Bear. "Ugh! what an ugly creature! I don't believe he is cunning in the least!" But the Fox made no answer, for at the first sight of the soldier he had fled into the forest. "Well, well," muttered the Bear, "I don't see anything to be afraid of here. Let us have a talk with this wonder!" And hoisting himself clumsily out of the ditch he lumbered along the road to meet the soldier. "Now then, my fine fellow," he growled, "I have heard some wonderful stories about you. Tell me...." But before he could get another word out of his mouth the soldier drew his sword and struck him such a shrewd blow that he cut off his ear. "Wow!" cried the Bear, "what's that for? Tell me...." But then, seeing the gleaming steel flash once again, he turned tail and ran off as fast as he could go. Just as he reached the edge of the wood, he looked backward and saw the soldier raise his gun to his shoulder. There was a flash, a loud report, and the Bear felt a terrific blow against his side. Down he went like a ninepin, but fortunately for him the bullet had merely glanced off his hide, and he was not seriously hurt. Picking himself up, he lost no time in gaining the shelter of the trees, and presently came limping painfully to the place where the Fox was waiting for him. "Well, my friend," said Reynard, "did you see the man-animal? And what did you think of him?" "You were right," answered poor Bruin sadly. "He is certainly the most cunning creature in the world. I went up to speak to him and he tore a rib from his side and cut off my ear. Then I ran away, but before I could reach the trees he picked up a stick and pointed it at me. Then there came thunder and lightning, and a piece of the earth heaved itself up and knocked me spinning! Beyond all doubt the man-animal takes the palm for cunning, but I never want to see him again, for I shall carry the marks of our first meeting to my dying day." And Reynard grinned, and said: "I told you so!" [Illustration] [Illustration] SPONSKEN AND THE GIANT There was once a lad whose face was so badly pitted by the smallpox that everybody called him Sponsken, which means little sponge. From the very day of his birth Sponsken had been a great cause of anxiety to his parents, and as he grew older he became more trouble still, for he was so full of whims and mischief that one never knew where one had him. He would not learn his lessons, nor work at any serious task for ten minutes on end. All he seemed to think of was cutting capers and playing practical jokes on people. At last, in despair, his parents told their trouble to the village sexton, who was a great friend of the family, and often came to smoke his pipe with Sponsken's father in the chimney corner. "Don't worry, my friends," said the sexton. "I've seen young men like your son before, and they are quite easy to manage if one only goes about it the right way. Just leave him to me. What he wants is a good fright, and I'll make it my business to see that he gets it." So far so good. Sponsken's parents were only too glad to fall in with any plan which seemed likely to reform their unruly son, so the sexton went off to make his arrangements. That night he whitened his face with flour, covered himself in a white sheet, and hid behind a tree on a road along which he knew Sponsken would have to pass. It was the dark of the moon, and the place the sexton had chosen was very lonely. For a long time he waited; then, hearing Sponsken coming along whistling a merry tune, he sprang out suddenly from behind his tree and waved his arms in a terrifying manner. "Hallo!" said Sponsken. "Who are you?" The sexton uttered a hollow groan. "What's the matter?" said the boy. "Are you ill? If you can't speak, get out of my way, for I am in a hurry." The sexton groaned again, louder than before, and waved his arms wildly. "Come, come," cried Sponsken, "I can't stay here all night. Tell me what you want at once and let me pass." Then, as the ghostly figure made no answer, he struck it a blow with the stout ash-stick which he carried, and the poor sexton fell, stunned, to the ground. Sponsken stayed long enough to take a glimpse of the ghost's face and to recognize the features of the sexton beneath the flour; then he went on his way homeward, whistling as merrily as before. When he reached home his parents gazed at him uneasily. They were very anxious about the success of their friend's plan, but Sponsken did not look at all like a lad who had been frightened--quite the contrary in fact, for he drew his chair up to the table and set to work upon his supper with an excellent appetite. "A funny thing happened to me to-night," he said carelessly between two bites of an onion. "As I was walking along the lonely road by the cemetery a white figure jumped out at me." "A wh-white figure!" stammered his father. "How terrifying! And what did you do, my son?" "Do?" said Sponsken cheerfully. "Why, I fetched him a crack on the skull with my staff. He went down like a ninepin, and I warrant he won't try to frighten travellers again!" "Base, ungrateful boy!" cried his father, rising to his feet. "It was my dear friend Jan the sexton you struck. All I hope is that you have not killed him." "Well, if I have, it is his own fault," answered Sponsken. "He should not play tricks on me." But his father continued to rage and grumble so long that Sponsken got tired of hearing him at last, and flung off to bed in a sulk. "I'll stand no more of this," he said to himself. "Since my own people do not appreciate me, I'll go out and seek my own fortune in the world, and they may go on as best they can." The next morning, therefore, having packed a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese in a bag, Sponsken set off on his travels, telling nobody where he was going, and taking nothing else with him except a sparrow which he had tamed and kept since it was a fledgling. After walking for a long time he came to a forest, and feeling rather tired he sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree to rest. Now in this forest lived a giant who was the most hideous creature one could possibly imagine. From his forehead jutted a pair of horns; his features were more like those of a beast than a man, and his finger-nails grew long and curved like the claws of a wild animal. The giant considered himself lord of the whole wood, and was very jealous lest anybody should enter his domain. When, therefore, he saw Sponsken he was very angry, and having pulled up a young tree by the roots to serve him as a club, he approached the young man, who was sitting with his eyes closed, and struck him a heavy blow on the shoulder. [Illustration: SPONSKEN, THE GIANT, AND THE PRINCESS] In spite of appearances, Sponsken was not asleep; he was far too wary a person to be caught napping under such conditions. As a matter of fact, he had seen the giant before the giant saw him, and he knew that his only chance of escape was to remain unperturbed and calm. When, therefore, the giant struck him on the shoulder, he opened his eyes sleepily, rubbed the place, and said with a yawn: "A pest on these flies! They bite so hard that a fellow can't sleep for them." "You shall sleep soundly enough in a minute!" muttered the giant, who was enraged at Sponsken's nonchalance. "See how you like this!" And he gave the lad a blow on the other shoulder, harder than before. "There they are again!" cried Sponsken, rubbing the place. "My word! They bite even harder on this side than on the other. It is time I was going!" And he rose from his seat, starting back with surprise as he affected to see the giant for the first time. "So it's you, is it?" he cried. "What do you mean by tickling me when I am trying to sleep? If I were not so kind-hearted I'd break your neck for you!" "Have a care what you say," cried the giant. "Do you know that I have the strength of twenty men and could crush you between my hands like a kitten?" "Pooh!" said Sponsken. "Words are windy things. I have no doubt you could kill a whole regiment with your breath. But words won't go with me, my man; you must give me some proof of your prowess." "Proof!" roared the giant. "See here! I can throw a stone so high into the air that it will not come down for a quarter of an hour." And he was as good as his word, for, picking up a large stone, he flung it with all his strength, and it was more than a quarter of an hour before it fell again at their feet. "Can you match that?" asked the giant with a grin. "Easily," said Sponsken. "I will throw a stone so high that it will not come down at all!" Bending to the ground he picked up a pebble and showed it to the giant, but very cleverly he managed at the last moment to exchange it for the sparrow which he carried in his pocket, and this he was able to do because the giant was rather short-sighted, and, if truth be told, slow-witted as well. [Illustration: HE TOSSED THE BIRD INTO THE AIR] "One, two, three!" cried Sponsken, and he tossed the bird into the air, and of course it flew up and up and never came down at all. "Well, well," said the giant, "I never saw such a thing as that in my life before. You are certainly a wonderful stone-thrower, little man. But can you do this?" And picking up another stone, he squeezed it so hard between his immense fists that he crushed it into a fine powder. "Yes, that is hard to do," said Sponsken, "but I think I can go one better. Any oaf, if he be strong enough, can crush a stone to powder, but it requires skill as well as strength to wring the juice out of one. Watch me!" So saying, Sponsken adroitly slipped out his piece of cheese, and squeezed it until the whey dripped from between his fingers. [Illustration: "THE THREE ANIMALS ARE A BEAR, A UNICORN, AND A WILD BOAR"] "Marvellous!" said the giant. "I confess myself beaten. Let us go into partnership, for there cannot be two others like us in the whole world." "Willingly," answered Sponsken, "but what are we to do?" "Why, as for that," said the giant, "the King of this country has promised his daughter's hand in marriage, and a great treasure besides, to anybody who can destroy three ferocious beasts which are devastating his realm. It seems to me that this is a task we can quite well do together. You, with your quickness and skill, can trap the beasts, and I can kill them with my club. That done, we will divide the spoils." So it was agreed, and without wasting a moment the two took the wood together. Before very long they reached the King's palace, and sent up a message by one of the lords in waiting that they would like to see His Majesty. "And do you mean to tell me," asked the King, when he had heard the giant's tale, "that you can overcome the three fierce animals by the help of this ugly little pock-marked fellow." "Hush! Not so loud, for the love of heaven!" whispered the giant. "My friend is very touchy about his appearance, and if he hears you making such slighting remarks it is very likely he will bring the whole of your palace down about your head!" [Illustration: THE BEAR FOLLOWED HIM INTO THE HOLLOW TRUNK] "You don't say so!" whispered the King in reply, glancing fearfully at the terrible little man. "Well, you are at liberty to try your luck. The three animals are a bear, a unicorn, and a wild boar, and at present they are hidden in the wood close by. There you will find them, but take care of yourselves, for they have already killed scores of my men." "Don't be afraid," answered the giant, "for us this is as easy as playing a game." After having partaken of a good meal the two made their way towards the wood in which the animals were hidden. "We must make a plan," said Sponsken. "Listen to what I propose. You go into the middle of the wood while I remain here on the outskirts; then when you drive the beasts out I will see that they do not escape." So it was arranged. The giant went forward into the wood, while Sponsken remained outside, waiting to see what would happen. He had not to wait long, for presently there was a crashing and a tearing of undergrowth and a great bear came lumbering towards him. Sponsken did not like the look of the creature at all, and decided to put as much space between them as possible. Looking here and there for a refuge, he spied a big oak-tree, and quickly climbed its trunk and ensconced himself among the branches. Unfortunately the bear had already seen him, and, raising himself on his hind legs with a dreadful roar, he rushed to the tree and began to climb. In another moment Sponsken would have been lost, but by good chance the tree happened to be hollow, so without hesitation the lad let himself down into the trunk, and finding at the bottom a small hole which led to the open air, he was just able to wriggle through it and escape. The bear followed him into the hollow trunk, but the hole at the bottom was too small for him to get out by, and as there was hardly room to move inside the trunk, the angry creature had to stay where he was, waking all the echoes in the forest with his growling. The next minute the giant came running out of the forest. "Have you seen the bear?" he cried. "I drove him towards you!" "Don't worry," answered Sponsken coolly; "I've shut him up in the tree there to keep him safe." The giant rushed to the tree and dispatched the bear with one blow of his great club. Then, pulling out the carcass, he shouldered it, and the two went back to the palace, congratulating each other on the excellent beginning of their enterprise. There remained now the unicorn and the wild boar. Next day Sponsken and the giant went to the forest again, and since their first plan had been so successful, it was arranged that they should follow exactly the same course. The giant went into the depths of the wood to find the unicorn and drive him out, while Sponsken remained on the borders to capture the animal when he came. This time the period of waiting was longer, and Sponsken, leaning against the oak-tree, had almost fallen asleep when a clattering of hoofs awakened him, and he sprang aside just in time to escape the unicorn, who, breathing fire from his nostrils, charged down upon him. So great was the impetus of the beast's charge that he could not stop himself, and with a mighty crash he ran full tilt into the tree, driving his horn so far into the trunk that, although he pulled and struggled, he could not wrench himself free. [Illustration: WITH A MIGHTY CRASH HE RAN FULL TILT INTO THE TREE] When the giant came up, Sponsken showed him the animal, which was quickly killed with a single blow of the club. "Didn't I manage that affair well?" asked Sponsken as they went back to the palace. "You are a wonder!" answered the giant, and he really believed what he said. Now only the wild boar remained, and on the following day the two went to the forest to capture him also. Once again the same plan was followed, but this time Sponsken kept his eyes wide open, and when the ferocious beast broke cover he ran as fast as he could in the direction of the royal chapel. The wild boar followed him, and a fearsome creature he looked, I assure you, with his wicked little eyes and his great curved tusks and the hair on his back bristling like the quills of a porcupine. Through the open door of the chapel Sponsken ran, and the boar, snorting with fury, followed him. Then began a fine chase, round and round the aisles, over the pews, and in and out of the vestries. At last Sponsken seized a chair, and dashing it against a window broke several panes, and so made good his escape. While the boar was still standing stupidly staring at the hole through which he had gone out, Sponsken ran round to the door, which he closed and locked. Then, having broken one or two more panes of glass, he sat down quietly by the chapel wall and began to pare his nails. A short time afterwards the giant came rushing up. "Where is the boar? Have you let him get away?" he cried. "Don't get so excited," answered Sponsken. "The boar is safe enough. He's in the chapel there. I had no other place to put him, so I flung him through the window!" "What a wonderful little man you are!" said the giant gleefully, and he ran off to kill the boar with one blow of his club. This done, he hoisted the carcass on to his shoulders and took the road to the palace. Half-way there the weight of the boar began to tell, for it was a massive beast, and the giant was forced to stay and rest. "It is all very well," said he, mopping his streaming brow, "but I think you ought to take a turn with me in carrying this carcass." "Not I," answered Sponsken. "We made an agreement that my work was done when I captured the beast, and I intend to keep to it." [Illustration: SPONSKEN THE PRINCESS THE GIANT] So the giant had to struggle on as best he could for the rest of the way, grumbling at every step, while Sponsken followed, laughing up his sleeve, and exceedingly thankful that he had escaped the task. When they reached the palace the two presented themselves before the King and claimed the promised reward. But now a difficulty arose. It was quite easy to divide the treasure, but which of them was to have the Princess? "I think it should be I," said the giant, "for I killed the three animals." "Not at all," said Sponsken. "The Princess should be given to me, for I captured the beasts." "A lot of good your capturing them would have been if I had not killed them!" said the giant. "How could you have killed them if I had not caught them first?" answered Sponsken. And so the two began to quarrel, and neither would give way, and high words passed between them. Truth to tell, the King was not at all sorry that the dispute had arisen, for he did not very much relish the idea of his daughter marrying either the bestial giant or the pock-marked, ugly little fellow who was his companion. "There is only one way out of the difficulty," said the King at last. "We must let fate decide. Listen to the plan I propose. You shall both of you sleep in the Princess's chamber to-night--the giant in a bed on one side of her couch, and Sponsken on the other. I also will remain in her chamber and watch her carefully. If she spends most of the night with her face turned towards Sponsken, it shall be a sign that she is to marry him; if, on the other hand, she favours the giant, he shall be her husband; but if she sleeps all night with her face towards neither of you, then you must both give her up, and be satisfied with the treasure." So it was agreed, and that night the trial took place. Sponsken, however, did not by any means intend that blind chance should settle so important a matter, and he spent the intervening time in making certain preparations. First of all he went to the palace gardens, from which he gathered certain herbs having an aromatic and beautiful perfume; these he placed in a bag and hid under his clothes. Then from the woods he gathered all the herbs he could find which had a disagreeable smell, such as garlic and stinkwort and poisonous fungus; these also he placed in a bag, and seized an early opportunity, when they came to the Princess's chamber, of hiding the bag under the pillow on which the giant's head was to rest. The Princess well knew the fateful issue which was to be decided in the night, and as she had firmly made up her mind not to marry either the one or the other of her suitors, she determined to remain awake all night and to take care to keep her face turned towards the ceiling. For a time she managed to do so, but before long drowsiness overcame her, and she slept. Presently she turned over on her left side and lay with her face turned towards the giant, who began to chuckle to himself. "Wait a minute," thought Sponsken. "I don't think the Princess will keep that position long!" And sure enough, the horrible stench of the herbs in the bag beneath the giant's pillow penetrated even to her dreams, and the Princess turned over hurriedly on the other side. What a change was there! Instead of a disgusting smell which made her dream of gloomy caverns and noisome things, she found now a delicious perfume that brought pictures of sunlit gardens all glowing with flowers and bright-winged butterflies flitting over them. The Princess gave a little sigh of content, and for the rest of the night she remained with her face turned towards Sponsken, so that the King had no choice but to declare the little man the winner. The Princess, however, refused to abide by the judgment. "I will _not_ marry that vulgar fellow," she cried. "I will die first! Oh, father, if you love me, think of a means of escape!" "Do not be afraid, my child," answered the King. "I will arrange something." And the next day he took the giant aside and proposed to him that he should rid him of Sponsken, promising a rich reward for the service. The giant's greed was aroused, and being very jealous of his companion's success, he was the more ready to fall in with the King's suggestion. Fortunately for himself, Sponsken's quick wits made him suspicious. He guessed that some treachery was afoot, and in order to be prepared for emergencies he took a heavy hammer with him when he retired to bed at night. His suspicions were justified, for towards midnight the door of his room opened and the giant entered on tiptoe, carrying a heavy axe with which he intended to dispatch our friend. No sooner was his foot inside the door, however, than Sponsken jumped out of bed and sprang at him, looking so fierce that the giant, who was a coward at heart, and had besides a healthy respect for his companion's powers, turned and fled in dismay. Then Sponsken lifted his heavy hammer and struck three resounding blows upon the floor. The noise awoke everybody in the palace, and servants, guards, and lords in waiting came flocking to the room to discover the cause. The King came last of all, a little anxious about the success of his fine plot, and when he found Sponsken sitting up in bed, quite unharmed, his face fell. "What is the matter?" he stammered. "Matter?" answered Sponsken. "Nothing very much! Some person wandered into my room, so I just gave three taps with my fingers on the wall. It is lucky for you all that I did not strike the blows with my fist, for had I done so I am afraid there would have been nothing left of your palace but a heap of dust!" At these words everybody turned pale, and the King made haste to protest his undying friendship for his terrible guest. As for the giant, he was in such fear of encountering Sponsken's resentment that he fled, and nobody ever saw him again. Now the poor King did not know what to do, for his daughter still persisted in her refusal to marry Sponsken, and he was torn two ways by love and fear. Just at that time, however, a neighbouring monarch, who was an old enemy of the King's, declared war upon him, and this offered another opportunity for delay. Calling Sponsken before him, the King proposed that he should prove his valour by challenging the enemy king to mortal combat. Sponsken agreed; but his fame had already been noised abroad, and the challenge was refused. "Very well," said the King, who was at the end of his resources. "As my prospective son-in-law you ought to lead my armies into battle. I will place my own charger at your disposal, and I look to you to save my country from defeat." Here was a pretty kettle of fish! Sponsken had never ridden a horse in his life, and he had not the slightest knowledge of warfare. To make matters worse, the steed in question was a notoriously vicious brute who would allow nobody but his own master to mount him. Already he had accounted for several grooms and stablemen, whom he had kicked to death. [Illustration: ALL THE ATTENDANTS FLED AT ONCE] Sponsken commanded that the steed should be led to the borders of the forest and tied by the bridle to a tree. He had not the slightest intention of trying to mount the brute, and his plan was to wait until the attendants had gone away and then to slip off unobserved. Fate, however, was too much for him, for hardly was the horse safely tied up than couriers came spurring along the road to say that the enemy king was advancing at the head of his army, and was at that very moment less than half a mile away. All the attendants fled at once, and Sponsken himself was so overcome by terror that, without thinking what he was doing, he jumped upon the back of the steed, and, forgetting that it was tied to the tree, dug his sharp spurs into its side. The horse plunged and reared, champing at the bit and doing its best to dislodge Sponsken from the saddle, but the lad clung on for dear life. At last, finding all its efforts unavailing, the horse dragged the tree up by the roots and charged forward in a straight line towards the advancing enemy. Almost dislodged from his seat by the sudden jerk, Sponsken stretched out his hand and grasped the branches of the tree, which swung in a terrifying manner at his side, promising every moment to hurl him from the saddle, and the result was that to the enemy army it appeared as though he were charging down upon them at full speed, bearing a tree as a club. Filled with dismay at the terrifying sight, the soldiers of the enemy king fled in all directions and hid themselves in the woods and in the crevices of the rocks. Sponsken rode on for the simple reason that he could do nothing else, right into the enemy's camp, where the steed came to a standstill and our hero was able to jump down from its back. Entering the king's tent, he helped himself to all the documents and articles of value he could find; then, having cut the tree from the bridle, he remounted the horse, which was now quite tame and docile, and rode back to the palace. When the King heard that the enemy was routed he was overjoyed, and he recognized that a man who could perform such a feat single-handed was not to be treated lightly. His daughter, however, was still firm in her refusal to marry Sponsken, and so the King made him an offer of half his kingdom if he would release him from his promise and allow the Princess to go free. Sponsken accepted his terms and married a girl who, although she was not a princess, was nevertheless very pretty. Their wedding was celebrated with great pomp and they lived together very happily for the rest of their lives. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE CAT AND THE SPARROW] WHY CATS ALWAYS WASH AFTER EATING A long time ago a cat caught a sparrow, and licked his lips in anticipation of the delight he would feel in devouring it. After playing with it for a time, as cats will, he was going to eat it, when the sparrow spoke to him. "The Emperor's cat," said the sparrow, "and all his family, never begin a meal without washing themselves first. Everybody knows that such is the custom in polite society." "Really," answered the cat, "well, I will do as the Emperor's cat does!" And he let go the sparrow and began to wash his face. Feeling itself free, the sparrow flew away, and alighted safely on the branch of a tree well out of reach. "It serves me right," muttered the cat, "for being so easily taken in." And ever since that time cats have always washed themselves after their meals. [Illustration: "I'VE JUST BEEN TURNED OUT OF HOUSE"] THE CHORISTERS OF ST. GUDULE The miller of Sandhills had a donkey which had served him well in its time, but was now too old to work. The miller was a careful man, who did not believe in feeding useless mouths, so he decided that he would sell the donkey for the price of its skin. "I do not suppose I shall get very much for the wretched beast," he said, regarding poor Greyskin as he stood with hanging head in his stall, "but I shall save the cost of his corn anyhow, and that is always something." Left alone, Greyskin reflected sadly upon the fate in store for him. "Such is the way of the world," he thought. "When I was young and hearty nothing was too good for me; now I'm old and useless I am to be cast out. But am I so useless after all? True, I can no longer pull a cart to market, but I have a magnificent voice still. There must be a place somewhere for one who can sing as beautifully as I. I'll go to the Cathedral of St. Gudule, in Brussels, and offer myself as a chorister." Greyskin lost no time in acting upon his resolve, but left his stable immediately and set out on the road to Brussels. Passing the Burgomaster's house he saw an old hound sitting disconsolately on the doorstep. "Hallo, friend!" said he. "What is the matter with you? You seem very sad this morning." "The matter is that I am tired of life," answered the dog. "I'm getting old and stiff and I can no longer hunt hares for my master as I used to do. The result is that I am reckoned good for nothing and they grudge me every morsel of food I put into my mouth." "Come, come, cheer up, my friend," said Greyskin. "Never say die! I am in a similar case to yourself and have just left my master for precisely the same reason. My plan is to go to the Cathedral of St. Gudule and offer my services to the master of the choir. If I may say so without conceit, I have a lovely voice--one must make the most of one's gifts, you know--and I ought to be able to command good pay." "Well, if it comes to that," said the dog, "I can sing too. I sang a lovely song to the moon last night, and if you'll believe me, all the people in our street opened their windows to listen. I sang for quite an hour, and I'd have gone on longer if some malicious person, who was no doubt jealous, had not thrown an old boot at my head." "Excellent," said Greyskin. "Come along with me. You shall sing tenor and I'll sing bass. We'll make a famous pair." So the dog joined company with Greyskin, and they went on together towards Brussels. A little farther down the road they saw a cat sitting on the rubbish-heap outside a miserable hovel. The creature was half blind with age, and had a face as long as a fiddle. "Why, what is the matter with you?" asked Greyskin, who had a tender heart. "Matter enough," said the cat. "I've just been turned out of house and home, and all because I took a little piece of bacon from the larder. Upon my honour, it was no bigger than a baby's fist, but they made as much fuss as though it had been a whole gammon. I was beaten, and kicked out to starve. If I could catch mice as I used to do, it would not matter so much, but the mice are too quick for me nowadays. They laugh at me. Nothing remains for me but to die, and I hope it may be soon." [Illustration: "THEY LAUGH AT ME"] "Nonsense," said Greyskin. "You shall live to laugh at all your troubles. Come along with us and sing in the choir at St. Gudule. Your voice is a little too thin for my own taste, but you'll make a very good soprano in a trio. What do you say?" "You give me new hopes," answered the cat. "Of course I'll join you," and so the three went on together. Towards nightfall they arrived at a farmyard, on the gate of which a cock was crowing lustily. "Hallo!" said Greyskin. "What's all this about?" "I am singing my last song on earth," said the cock. "An hour ago I sang a song, although it is not my usual custom to crow in the afternoon, and as I ended I heard the farmer's wife say: 'Hearken to Chanticleer. He's crowing for fine weather to-morrow. I wonder if he'd crow so loudly if he knew that we had guests coming, and that he was going into the pot to make their soup!' She has a horrid laugh, that woman. I have always hated her!" "And do you mean to tell me," said Greyskin, "that you are going to stay here quite contentedly till they come to wring your neck?" "What else can I do?" asked Chanticleer. "Join us, and turn your talents to account. We are all beautiful singers and we are going to Brussels to offer ourselves as choristers at St. Gudule. We were a trio before. With you we shall be a quartet, and that's one better!" Chanticleer was only too glad to find a means of escape, so he willingly joined the party, and they once more took the road. A little while afterwards they came to a thick wood, which was the haunt of a notorious band of robbers. There they decided to rest for the night, so Greyskin and the dog lay down beneath the shelter of a large beech-tree, while the cat climbed on to one of the branches, and Chanticleer perched himself at the very top. From this lofty post he could see over the whole wood, and it was not long before he espied a light twinkling among the trees not far away. [Illustration: "WHAT ELSE CAN I DO?" ASKED CHANTICLEER] [Illustration: "HUSH!" SAID CHANTICLEER] "There must be a house of some sort over there," he said to his companions. "Shall we go and see? We may find something to eat." "Or some straw to lie upon, at any rate," said Greyskin. "This damp ground gives me rheumatics in my old bones." "I was just thinking the same thing," said the dog. "Let us go." So the four choristers, led by the cock, walked in the direction from which the light came, and before long they found themselves in front of a little house, the windows of which were brilliantly lighted. In order to reach to the windows the animals made a tower of their bodies, with Greyskin at the bottom and Chanticleer at the top. Now this house was the abode of a band of robbers, who, at that very moment, were seated before a table laden with all kinds of food. There they sat and feasted, and poor Chanticleer's mouth watered as he watched them. "Is there anybody inside?" asked the dog, who was impatient. "Hush!" said Chanticleer. "Men! They're eating their dinner!" "I wish I was," said the dog. "What are they eating?" "All sorts of things--sausage, and fish...." "Sausage!" said the dog. "Fish!" said the cat. "And ever so many other delicacies," Chanticleer went on. "Look here, friends. Wouldn't it be a fine thing if we could get a share of their meal? I confess that my stomach aches with hunger." "And mine too," said the dog. "I've never been so hungry in my life. But how are we to get the food?" "Let us serenade them, and perhaps they'll throw us something as a reward," said Greyskin. "Music, you know, has charms to soothe the savage breast." This seemed such a good idea that the choristers lost no time in putting it into execution. All four began to sing. The donkey hee-hawed, the dog howled, the cat miaued, and the cock crowed. From the noise they made one would have thought that the heavens were falling. [Illustration: BREAKING THE GLASS TO SMITHEREENS] The effect of this marvellous quartet upon the robbers was instantaneous. Leaping from their seats, they ran from place to place in mortal terror, tumbling over one another, oversetting chairs and adding to the racket by their shrieks and cries. At that moment the cock fell against the window, breaking the glass to smithereens; the donkey gave the frame a push, and all the four precipitated themselves into the room. This was the last straw; the robbers could stand no more; half mad with fear they rushed to the door and fled into the forest. Then our four choristers drew up to the table and set to work upon the food with which it was laden. Their long walk had given them a good appetite, so that there was little left by the time they had finished. Feeling drowsy after their meal, they then settled themselves to sleep. The donkey made himself a bed on a heap of straw in the yard; the dog stretched himself out upon the mat by the house door; the cat lay among the warm cinders on the hearth; and the cock perched upon the roof-top. A few minutes more and they were all fast asleep. Meanwhile the robbers, who had retreated some distance into the forest, waited anxiously for something dreadful to happen. An hour passed by and there was neither sight nor sound to alarm them, so they began to feel a little ashamed of their cowardice. Creeping stealthily nearer to the cottage, they saw that everything was still, and that no light was showing from the windows. At last the robber chief sent his lieutenant to spy out the land, and this man, returning to the cottage without mishap, found his way into the kitchen and proceeded to light a candle. He had no matches, but he saw two sparks of fire among the cinders on the hearth, so he went forward to get a light from them. Now this light came from the cat's eyes, and as soon as puss felt the robber touch her, she sprang up, snarling and spitting, and scratched his face. With a scream of terror, he dropped his candle and rushed for the door, and as he passed the dog bit him in the leg. By this time the noise had awakened Greyskin, who got upon his feet just as the man ran by, and helped him forward with a mighty kick, which sent him flying out into the roadway. Seeing this, the cock on the housetop spread his wings and crowed in triumph, "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" I wish you could have seen the way that robber ran! He covered the ground so quickly that he seemed like a flying shadow, and I am perfectly certain that not even a hare could have overtaken him. At last, panting for breath, he rejoined his comrades in the forest, who were eagerly awaiting his return. "Well," cried the chief, "is the way clear? Can we go back?" "Not on any account," cried the robber. "There's a horrible witch in the kitchen. Directly I entered she sprang at me and tore my face with her long claws, calling out at the same time to her creatures to come and devour me. As I ran through the door one of them buried his fangs in my leg, and a little farther on, in the yard, a great black monster struck at me with an enormous club, giving me a blow that nearly broke my back-bone. On the roof a little demon with wings and eyes that shone like coals of fire cried, 'Stop him! Eat him! Stop him! Eat him!' You may guess that I did not wait for more. It is a miracle that I have escaped with my life!" When they heard this terrible story the robbers lost no time in decamping, and such was their terror that they deserted the forest altogether and went away to another part of the country. The result was that our four friends were left to dwell in the cottage, where they lived happily for the rest of their lives, and as they had now everything they wanted, they quite gave up their idea of going to St. Gudule. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE KING] THE TRIAL OF REYNARD THE FOX I. HOW CHANTICLEER THE COCK MADE COMPLAINT AGAINST REYNARD There was rejoicing among the animals, for it was said that Reynard the Fox--sly, spiteful Reynard--had at last repented him of his misdeeds and resolved to lead a new life. Such a thing was, indeed, very hard to believe, but nevertheless everybody said that it was true. Certainly he was seen no more in his usual haunts, or about the Court of King Lion. The news went round that he had put on the robe of piety and had become a hermit, endeavouring to atone, by fasting and prayer, for all the sins of which he had been guilty. At the Court of King Nobel, Reynard's change of heart was the one topic of conversation. A few of the animals frankly expressed their doubts of the sincerity of such a tardy repentance, but the majority were quite willing to accept it, for, as a rule, one believes what one wishes to believe. While the subject was still being eagerly discussed by the animals around the Lion's throne, the sound of wailing was heard, and a strange procession was seen making its way towards the King's throne. At the head of the procession marched Chanticleer the Cock, dressed in the deepest mourning and sobbing miserably, with bowed head. Behind him, borne by two hens, was a bier on which was stretched the headless body of a beautiful fowl, one of his daughters, and all the other hens of his family followed the bier, raising their voices to heaven in grievous lamentation. At this sad sight the whole Court stood in amaze, and many of the animals wept in sympathy with the bereaved father, who advanced towards the King's throne, crying for justice. "Whom do you accuse?" asked the Lion. "Whom should I accuse but that accursed Reynard, the source of untold misery to me and mine? You know, O King, none better, how we have suffered from his cruelty in the past. The tale I now have to tell is a tale of wrong that would bring tears to the eyes of a stone image--a tale of treachery such as would abash the Evil One himself, a tale so base that I can hardly bring myself to utter it!" "Say on," said the King, "and rest content, for if what you say be true, the Fox shall receive his due reward--I swear it by my crown!" "Lord," continued Chanticleer, "I had six sons and fourteen daughters. We all dwelt together in the farmyard, a peaceable and happy family. The rigours of the winter were spent; spring had come again with its flowers and perfumes. The sun shone brightly, and insects abounded in the farmyard. We dwelt in the midst of abundance; we were happy, and as we thought, safe, for the farmer's six faithful dogs guarded us from danger. Alas, for our beautiful hopes! A few days ago Reynard appeared--cruel, black-hearted Reynard--and at one fell blow changed our happiness into misery. "This is how it all happened, Sire. Reynard came to the farmyard one fine morning and brought me a letter bearing your Majesty's own seal. I opened it, and read that your Majesty had commanded that all the animals should hence-forward live together in peace. A noble ordinance, Sire, such as would make the world a beautiful place--were it not for villains. I gave the document back to Reynard, expressing my joy at the news it contained, whereupon he said: 'My heart is full, Cock, when I think of the cruelty with which I have treated you and your family in the past, but you need have no further fear, I have seen the error of my ways. Henceforth my life shall be given up to repentance and prayer. I have renounced all worldly pleasures. Even now I am on my way to a remote hermitage where, in fasting and solitude, I shall endeavour to atone for my sins.' "Then the hypocritical wretch stretched his paw over my head and gave me his blessing and departed, reading his Book of Hours. "Thinking no evil, and full of joy at the news, I called my children around me and cried: 'Rejoice, my dear ones. No more will you live in daily terror of your lives. Our noble King has given us his protection and has commanded the Fox to leave us alone. Reynard himself has just brought me the news, so I know it is true, and he himself has gone away to become a holy hermit!' "My children danced with glee when they heard my words, and I danced with them, O King! We danced in the farmyard and in the garden, and in the kitchen garden, for it was as though a black cloud had vanished from over us. [Illustration: AT THE HEAD OF THE PROCESSION MARCHED CHANTICLEER] "This was the very moment Reynard had been waiting for. He had not gone far away--no farther in fact than the shelter of the wall by the kitchen garden, and as soon as we reached there, he rushed out, fell upon the finest of my daughters and slew her before my eyes. It all happened in a flash! We ran hither and thither, trying to escape, but all in vain. Before we had gone a dozen steps the Fox was among us again, and killed fifteen of my children. Last night he returned, and slew her whose body now lies upon the bier. I have brought her here to show you, O King, that the sight of her corpse may strike pity into your heart, for I claim justice upon her murderer!" So saying, the Cock bowed his head again and wept bitterly into his handkerchief, and pitiful sobs echoed from among the beasts around. Even the King could hardly restrain his emotion. "A terrible tale, indeed," said he. "Our hearts are heavy for you, Cock, and it will go hard with this Reynard when he falls into our hands!" Then, addressing his courtiers, he asked for volunteers to go to the Fox's retreat and bring the murderer to justice. For a time there was no response, for few of the animals relished the task, but at last the Bear, who had an old grudge against Reynard, offered to go. "Leave this to me," said he. "If the Fox won't come quietly, I'll drag him here by his tail. He shall not escape!" So the Bear set off to find Reynard, who had retreated to one of his châteaux--a veritable fortress--situated many miles away in the mountains at the very end of the kingdom. To reach it the Bear had to travel over lonely paths, and through dark woods, where he lost his way a hundred times, but at length he arrived at Reynard's house, only to find the massive door locked, and the walls so high that he could not climb them. II. HOW BRUIN THE BEAR WAS SENT TO BRING REYNARD TO COURT "Open, in the name of the King!" cried Bruin, hammering at the door. "Come out, Reynard! I have been sent to bring you up for trial. You have come to the end of your rope at last! Open the door, I say, or I'll batter it down!" From his safe retreat in the very heart of the fortress Reynard heard Bruin's clamour. He stretched himself lazily and yawned. "Now who is this pestilent fellow making such a din?" said he to his wife. "Well, I suppose I'd better go and see." So he made his way through the labyrinth of passages which led from his burrow to the open air, and peeped through the crack of the door. There was Bruin, hammering away at the massive oak, and roaring: "Come out, Reynard. Come out and be hanged!" [Illustration: THE FOX'S CHÂTEAU] "What! is that you, Uncle Bruin?" said Reynard, opening the wicket. "You are in a noisy mood this morning. What is the matter?" "The matter is that the King has sent me to bring you to Court," growled the Bear. "And you had best come quietly, for I represent the law." "By all means," answered Reynard, opening the door. "My word, but I'm glad to see you, uncle! And an ambassador, too--such an honour! How are you, and what sort of a journey have you had? Very trying, I'm afraid. Really it was a shame to impose upon your good nature and send you all this way!" So saying the Fox led the way into his castle, keeping up a continual patter of talk, so that Bruin could not get a word in edgeways. "I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting at the gate," Reynard went on. "The fact is, I was dozing and did not hear you at first. I rarely sleep in the afternoon, but to-day I had such a heavy dinner that I felt extremely drowsy!" "What did you have?" asked the Bear with interest. "Oh, a simple meal enough. I am not rich, you know, and I have to eat what I can find. To-day it was a big comb of honey--not very much to my taste, but I was hungry and I ate it!" Bruin pricked up his ears. "Eh?" said he. "Did you say honey?" "Strange food for a fox, isn't it?" said Reynard. "I wish I hadn't touched the stuff now, for, to tell you the truth, it's lying on my chest like a load of lead. I swear never to eat it again, although I know a place, not far from here, where there are immense quantities of it!" By this time Bruin was all agog with excitement. "Nephew," said he, laying his paw on Reynard's shoulder, "show me the place where that honey is. My mouth is watering at the very thought of it. I love honey better than anything else in the world, and I'd give all I possess for a taste of it!" "You are joking, no doubt," said Reynard laughingly. "How can any one like such stuff?" "Joking, am I?" growled Bruin. "Just lead me to the honey and I'll show you whether I'm joking. I tell you I'd give my eyes and ears for a taste!" "Well, if that's the case," said Reynard, "you shall be satisfied. There's a carpenter not far from here who keeps bees, and from time immemorial his family have been noted for the excellence of their honey. I'll take you there, and I'm very glad to be able to render you this little service. In return, all I ask of you is that you will speak up for me when I come before the King." [Illustration: THE POOR BEAST ROARED WITH PAIN] "Of course I will," answered Bruin. "Let us go at once. I can hardly contain myself for impatience." Reynard called upon Bruin to follow him and led the way to the carpenter's yard. The afternoon was very hot, and the carpenter was taking a nap after dinner. His yard was empty and in the middle of it was the trunk of a great oak-tree which he had laid out ready to be cut up into planks. The trunk was split down the middle, and kept open by two wedges of wood. "Here you are!" said Reynard, going up to the tree-trunk. "This is the place where the carpenter keeps his honey. Put your muzzle in and root it out from the bottom. Don't eat too much!" "Never fear," answered Bruin. "I'll be moderate." And he plunged his head and his two front paws into the crack. The next moment Reynard knocked out the wedges which kept the two halves of the trunk apart. They sprang together with the force of a steel spring, catching Bruin firmly by the nose and paws. The poor beast roared with pain, making a din that echoed back like thunder from the mountains. The carpenter woke up from his slumber, and seizing an axe, ran out into the yard. His wife came tumbling out of the scullery with a broom in her hand, and people from the neighbouring village came running to see what all the noise was about. When they saw that the Bear was a prisoner they fell upon him and began to belabour him with mighty blows, while the unhappy creature gave himself up for lost. Maddened with pain, he redoubled his efforts to tear himself free, and at last succeeded in getting away, although he left most of the skin of his nose and paws behind. With the blood flowing from his muzzle, and his eyes shining red with rage, he made such a terrible picture that the people fled hither and thither, leaving him a free passage, and he limped off into the shelter of the woods, moaning and breathing out threats against his betrayer. From a safe distance Reynard watched him go, with a malicious grin. "Farewell, Uncle Bear," said he. "I hope you found the honey good!" III. TYBERT'S MISSION AND HOW HE FARED King Lion was furious when he saw the miserable state in which his ambassador returned. He immediately called a council of his ministers, to whom Bruin related all that had happened. [Illustration: HE IMMEDIATELY CALLED A COUNCIL OF HIS MINISTERS] "This recreant must be punished," said the King when the tale was ended. "It is a disgrace to our kingdom that he remains at large. Somebody else must go to bring him here. Who shall it be?" After a good deal of discussion it was decided that Tybert the Cat should undertake the task, for he was reputed to be as cunning and artful as Reynard himself. "Do not be deceived by his wiles," said the King. "No doubt he will try to flatter you, or to play upon your weaknesses, but pay no attention to his words. You must take this mission very seriously and not allow yourself to be led aside by anything. On your head be it!" The Cat promised to be very circumspect, and set off at once. He travelled quickly, and soon arrived at the door of Reynard's castle, where he found the Fox playing with his cubs on the grass, tumbling them over and over, and having fine fun. It was a touching spectacle of domestic bliss. Reynard jumped to his feet when he saw Tybert. "Why, cousin," said he, "this is a pleasant surprise! What makes you desert the gaieties of the Court for my poor home?" "I come in the King's name," answered the Cat sternly. "He has sent me to bring you to Court, where you are to answer for your revolting crimes. The Bear returned yesterday, and the tale he told has stiffened the King's anger against you. I am to say that if you refuse to accompany me, your house shall be destroyed and your family wiped off the face of the earth!" "Refuse," said Reynard, "whoever thought of refusing? I am sure the King has no more obedient subject than I. As for that Bruin, he is a bad subject, and I expect he has been telling a pack of lies about me. Do I look as if I could do anybody any harm? As a matter of fact I spend all my time here in meditation and prayer. But come in, come in! You must have a meal, for you have had a long journey. To-morrow we will set out together." "It seems to me," said the Cat, "that it would be better if we started at once." "Nonsense, my dear fellow," said Reynard. "It is bad to make a journey on an empty stomach. What difference will an hour or two make? We shall travel all the faster if we start in good condition." "Well, there's something in that," said Tybert, who, to tell the truth, was not sorry of an excuse to break a fast of many hours. "What have you got for dinner?" "What would you like?" asked Reynard. "Shall we say a comb of honey?" "Bah!" cried the Cat. "Honey indeed! I loathe the stuff. Now if you had a nice fat mouse...!" "Happy thought," said Reynard. "As it happens, I know a house close by where there are hundreds of mice, the fattest and sleekest creatures you ever saw in your life, and so tame that one can literally scoop them up by the score. I often catch a few myself when I am hungry and other game is scarce." [Illustration: "TAKE ME TO THIS HOUSE"] "Take me to this house," said Tybert. "Tame or not, I'll catch the mice if they are there. I love the creatures." And he licked his lips and stretched out his paws. Now Reynard had spoken the truth when he said that he knew a house where mice abounded, and it was true also that he often went there--not in search of mice, but of chickens. The last time he had paid a visit he had found that the farmer had put a string noose over the hole by which he was used to enter, but fortunately for himself Reynard had discovered it in time. Towards this house he now led the unsuspecting Tybert, and having shown him the hole, bade him enter and take his fill of the mice. Tybert obeyed, but no sooner had he got his head through the hole than the trap was sprung, and there he was, caught. He gave a scream of pain and fear, and from behind Reynard answered mockingly: "Sing away, cousin. I love to hear your voice. But mind you don't frighten the mice!" Then he took to his heels and ran back to his castle. A minute or two later the farmer, having heard the Cat's miaulings, arrived armed with a heavy stick. "Ah, you thief," he cried, "I've got you at last, have I?" And he began to lay the stick on the Cat's back with all his might. Tybert kicked and struggled, and managed at last to get free, but he was more dead than alive when he went limping back to the King's Court. IV. HOW BLAIREAU THE BADGER BROUGHT REYNARD TO TRIAL "This is monstrous," said King Nobel when he had heard Tybert's piteous tale. "It is no use paltering any longer. We must burn this caitiff's castle about his ears." "One moment, Sire," said Blaireau the Badger, who was a great friend of Reynard's. "Our ancient laws demand that any person accused of crime shall be called three times before extreme measures are taken against him. Now Reynard has only been called twice. I propose, therefore, that he be given one more chance to render himself peacefully before your Majesty, and to defend himself. There are two sides to every story, and so far we have only heard one." "That is all very well," said the King, "but who will be the messenger? It seems to me that the experiences of the other two will be little encouragement for a third." "If no one else will go," answered Blaireau, "I will go myself. Reynard has been a very good friend of mine in the past, and I may be able to appeal to his better self." "I doubt it," said the King; "but go by all means, and bring him back if you can. Should you fail, I will batter down his castle stone by stone." So Blaireau went off on his mission, and arriving at the château, found Reynard in the midst of his family. "Look here, uncle," said he, "there must be an end to all nonsense. The King is at the end of his patience, and unless you obey his commands he is determined to stick at nothing with you. Tybert and Bruin are both badly knocked about, and the sympathy of all the animals is with them. But for my pleadings the King would have sent an army to burn your castle about your ears. Be sensible now, and come back quietly with me. You have wits enough to defend yourself against all accusations and need not fear the issue. I tell you frankly, delay will be dangerous." [Illustration: "TYBERT AND BRUIN ARE BADLY KNOCKED ABOUT"] "Ah," said Reynard, "if those others had only spoken to me as you have spoken, my dear nephew, things would have been very different. They were insolent and they paid the price, but nobody shall say that Reynard the Fox was impervious to good counsel. Of course I will go with you--the sooner the better. I have no fear of being able to silence my calumniators. The King can't live without me--he knows it very well, and that fact alone will provide him with a good motive for giving me a free pardon." Then Reynard took a tender farewell of Hermeline, his wife, and Reynkin, his eldest son, and all the other children, and set off with Blaireau towards the King's Court. On the way Reynard said: "My dear Blaireau, this is a very solemn moment of my life! I cannot help feeling that I have not, perhaps, always lived as righteously as I might have done. It will relieve my mind somewhat if I might make confession of some of the most heinous of my crimes. Will you hear me?" [Illustration: "AND CAUSED HIM TO JUMP AT LEAST TWENTY FEET INTO THE AIR"] "Certainly," answered Blaireau. "I am glad to hear you have a contrite heart, uncle. Speak on by all means. Confession is the first step towards repentance." "I have been a sad sinner," Reynard went on. "My heart fails me when I think of all the misery I have caused! I weep for the poor Bear, whose nose and paws are skinless because of me, and for the Cat, who suffered a terrible beating at the hands of the farmer. Then there was the Wolf--did I ever tell you about the Wolf?" "No," said Blaireau, "you did not." "Well," continued Reynard, "the Wolf and I were one day walking along the road when we came to a monastery. It was the time of evensong, and the sound of the bells made such a sweet music in the air that I felt my soul grow full of enthusiasm. 'Ah,' said I, 'if I were only one of the monks in that monastery, with what joy would I sound the bells!' Isengrim thought the idea a splendid one, and wished to carry it into practice, so, as he was not a monk, I took it upon myself to introduce him into the monastery at dead of night. There I tied him to the bell-rope and bade him pull, for the good of his soul. He pulled--ah, nephew, how enthusiastically he pulled! The bells rang as they had never rung before, and all the monks in the monastery came running to see what was the matter. Isengrim would have run away if he could, but alas, I had tied him so firmly to the rope that he could not escape, and he got a sound beating for his pains. "Another time, still under the influence of his monastic ideas, Isengrim proposed to me that I should shave his head. I agreed, and when I had him in the chair, to my eternal shame be it said, I planted a burning firebrand on his pate, and caused him to jump at least twenty feet into the air. Ah, I am a miserable sinner." And Reynard broke into sobs and lamentations. "Never mind," said Blaireau consolingly, "since you are truly repentant, all will be forgiven you. See, there are the towers of the King's palace. We shall soon be there. Get ready to make your speech of defence, for you will need all your eloquence this day." V. HOW REYNARD TOLD THE KING OF A HIDDEN TREASURE When Reynard arrived at the court he found all the animals assembled to witness his trial. King Nobel sat on his throne, with the Queen by his side, and very cold and stern was the glance which the monarch cast upon Master Fox as he stepped up and made his obeisance. "Reynard," said the King, "you have been accused of crimes so many and so grievous that if only the half of all the accusations are true, you have merited death a hundred times. What have you to say?" Reynard put a paw up to his face and brushed away a tear; then, with his voice broken with emotion, he answered: "My lord the King, I have been a miserable sinner, and there is nothing left for me to do but to cast myself upon your royal mercy. Where King Nobel sits, there justice and mercy sit also. I am sure of the one; therefore I make bold to plead earnestly for the other. Perhaps, O King, I am not so bad as I have been painted. The tongues of enemies have uttered slanders before to-day, and brought upright men to ruin. All I ask, O King, is that you will let me state my case, and, when I shall have finished my tale, judge me according to my deserts. I will keep nothing back, for in this serious hour I wish to speak nothing but the naked truth. Listen to me, O King, and let these others listen also. Perchance the sad story of my wrongdoings, and of my gradual fall from righteousness, may be a lesson to many here, and by serving as an example help to keep them upon the strait and narrow path." "You have a glib tongue, Reynard," said the King. "It has saved you before to-day, but this time the count is too serious to be hidden by a mist of words. Yet speak on. The accused has a right to make his own defence, and that right I should be the last to deny, even to one forsworn and treacherous, as you have proved yourself to be." Reynard sobbed aloud. "Hard words, O King," said he, "and harder still because of the truth that is in them. I do not complain. Meekly I bow the head and make confession of my sins." At this all the animals settled themselves comfortably to listen. The idea of Reynard the Fox confessing anything was so new that not one of them would willingly have missed a word. Those of the animals who knew Reynard well regarded him a little uneasily, but nobody broke silence. Reynard remained for a time sobbing quietly with head bowed upon his paws, then, in a broken voice, he began to speak: [Illustration: "I WAS MISCHIEVOUS AND UNRULY"] "From my very earliest years, O King," said he, "I was mischievous and unruly. Had there been anybody to give me counsel and guidance I might perhaps have outgrown the errors of my youth and become a worthy subject. Unfortunately I fell into bad company, and, under the influence of evil companions went rapidly from bad to worse. Isengrim the Wolf was my friend in those early days. He it was who taught me to steal and to prey upon the defenceless creatures of the woods and fields. My first victim, I well remember, was a young lamb which had strayed from the fold. Isengrim led me to her and persuaded me to kill her, and afterwards, in the same way, a goat and two young deer fell victims to my raging thirst for blood. Soon not a hen-house, not a fold was safe from my depredations. I killed for the sake of killing, and that part of the meat which I could not devour I gave to the Wolf, who was only too willing to take it, or hid it in certain holes and crannies in the wood." All the time that Reynard had been speaking Isengrim had been making frantic efforts to speak, but a glance from the King had kept him silent. Now he could contain himself no longer. Trembling with fury, he rose to his feet and cried: "Lies! All lies, O King! Will your Majesty believe anything it pleases this slanderous dog to say?" "Silence!" cried the King. "Your turn will come later. For the present let the accused speak without interruption!" "Thanks, O King," said Reynard. "I can well understand the Wolf's wrath when his connexion with so vile a creature as I is thus brought to light. Yet I have sworn to tell the truth, and the truth I will tell without regard to persons. Sorry as I am to say it, the Wolf was not the only one to lead me into bad ways. Among my companions of those early days were also the Bear and the Cat. They made me hunt for them when I was young, and such was their voracity that there was little left for myself, and I should have died of hunger were it not for the fact that I was fortunate enough to discover a hidden treasure!" "Eh, what's that?" said the King. "Did you say a treasure?" "Aye," answered Reynard, "a treasure of gold, my lord; so great a treasure that it would take your servants many days even to count it all. And not gold alone, but precious gems--diamonds of the purest water, rubies red as blood, and emeralds green as the sea when the sun shines upon it!" The Queen leaned forward upon her throne and fixed Reynard with burning eyes. "And pearls too?" she whispered. "Pearls too, O Queen. Ropes of pearls that well would adorn your Majesty's fair neck. And jewelled crowns worthy of a royal brow! Hidden deep in the earth they lie, all those riches, and now they will lie there for ever, for nobody knows of them but myself. Perhaps it is as well. The lust of gold is the motive of many crimes, and this treasure has already been the cause of a serious attempt against the throne and the life of the King! But all this has nothing to do with my confession. With your Majesty's leave I will go on with what I was about to say." [Illustration: THE TRIAL OF REYNARD THE FOX] "One moment," said the Queen. "Those crowns you spoke of--describe them more fully. What stones had they, and how set?" "Time enough for that," cried the King. "You shall try the crowns upon your head before all is done. Let the Fox tell us where this treasure is hidden; that is the important thing!" "I had thought to carry the secret with me to the grave," said Reynard, "but in this solemn hour I can hide nothing. If it is your Majesty's will, I will tell all." [Illustration: "AND PEARLS TOO?" SHE WHISPERED] "Beware, O King!" cried the Bear. "He will deceive you now as he has deceived others. Believe not his lying words!" "Silence!" cried the King. "This matter concerns me, and me alone. Let Reynard speak!" Reynard cast a look of triumph at Bruin and Isengrim, and, smiling faintly, went on with his tale. "The treasure was discovered first of all by my father. He came upon it one day when he was hunting in the forest, among the ruins of a palace that once belonged to an ancient king. There, in a deep hole, under a big stone, he found the gold and gems, and for ever afterwards he was a changed creature. No longer blithe and care-free, he slunk about as though overburdened with responsibility. He knew himself rich beyond compare--richer than any king in all the world, and gradually into his heart there crept the desire to win, by means of his riches, a place of power. "At that time, O King, my father was bitter against your Majesty because of your disapproval of his manner of life, and I am sorry to say that he determined to wrest you from the throne and to set up another in your place. Full of this project, he took Tybert the Cat into his confidence. The two met together secretly in the forest of the Ardennes, and after much discussion they decided to offer the throne to Bruin the Bear!" "Ah!" ejaculated the King, turning his gaze upon Bruin, who was too furious to speak. "So now we know why you wished to still Reynard's tongue." "The Bear was delighted with the prospect," Reynard went on, "and strutted about the forest as though he were already crowned. He was always talking of the fine laws he would make and the splendid time he would have, but he was too stupid to be of much use as a plotter. Indeed, it was for reason of his stupidity that my father and Tybert chose him as king, for they thought they could make of him a useful tool. They had, however, to lay their plans without him, and the better to carry them out, they called Isengrim the Wolf, and Grimbard the Ape, into conference. The five met together at a certain place between Heyst and Gand, and it was there, O King, that your death was decided upon. Each of the conspirators took a solemn oath not to divulge the proceedings to a living soul, and having settled the very hour and day of your Majesty's assassination, they departed to their homes. [Illustration: "I SAW HIM STOP AT THE FOOT OF A GREAT TREE"] "Now, like all apes, Grimbard was a chatterer, and no sooner was he within his house than he told his wife all that had happened, explaining to her that it was a great secret and she was not to tell a soul. Of course she promised faithfully to keep a still tongue in her head, and as a matter of fact I believe she did manage to keep the secret for a whole day. Then she happened to meet my wife in the woods, and having sworn _her_ to secrecy, told her the whole thing. My wife, out of a feeling of love and regard to your Majesty, thought it her duty to inform me, which she did, immediately she returned home, without keeping back a single detail. "I could not believe my ears at first. 'What! Bruin, king!' I cried. 'That great fat lump of hairy stupidity, king of the animals! Is the world going mad? Would they dethrone our loved and gracious lord in favour of so base a beast?' There and then, O King, I raised my hand above my head and swore to defend your Majesty's life to the last. 'While Reynard lives,' I said, 'the King's throne shall be secure, cost what it may!' "From that moment I thought of nothing else but how best to thwart my father's base plans. It seemed to me that if I could only discover the treasure I might stop the whole thing, for the conspirators relied upon the gold to pay the armies they intended to raise. For days, therefore, I lurked about the woods, following my father wherever he went, in the hope that, sooner or later, he would betray the treasure's whereabouts. But he was far too wary to go near it, and had it not been for the stupidity of the Ape I might have remained none the wiser. One day I noticed Grimbard wheeling a barrow through the forest with an air of great secrecy, and following him unseen, at a safe distance, I saw him stop in the midst of the ruins of that ancient palace in the forest. There, at the foot of a great tree, he lifted a heavy stone, discovering a deep hole, from which he took several vases filled to the brim with golden coins. These he placed upon his barrow, and having carefully covered up the hole again, trundled off into the forest. "No sooner had he disappeared amid the shade of the trees than I ran forward and lifted the stone. What a sight met my eyes! There lay the treasure--chest upon chest of shining gold, and heaps of jewels flashing with rays of many-coloured light. My eyes were nearly blinded by the splendour. [Illustration: THE CONSPIRACY GAINED ADHERENTS EVERY DAY] "Even as I stood gazing in a sort of dazed trance, I realized what I must do. If I could get this treasure away from the place where it was hidden, and, unknown to the conspirators, transport it somewhere else, their plot would be strangled at its birth. Unfortunately the treasure was heavy and I had no means of conveyance--not even a barrow, but I took counsel of Hermeline, my wife, and she, noble soul as she is, strengthened me in my resolve. 'Though we wear our paws to the bone,' said she, 'we must take the treasure away and save the life of our noble and our beloved King.' That very night we began our task, and little by little we moved the treasure, hiding it in a safe place known only to ourselves. For the best part of a month we laboured, working only at night, and fearful every moment that we should be discovered. At last everything was finished, and the whole of the treasure removed. "In the meantime, the conspiracy gained adherents every day. My father was the life and soul of the plot. He sent messengers far and near, into every corner of the land, to win the animals over to his side. 'Those who enrol under my banner,' said he, 'shall receive a large sum of money paid in advance. I do not ask them to trust my word, but to come to me and let me pour the money into their hands.' In such circumstance what wonder that his supporters grew every hour. Before long he had gathered together an immense army, which was increased by troops raised by the Bear, the Wolf, and the Cat. Bruin, in particular, was very proud of his success in raising soldiers. He already fancied himself king, and walked about giving orders to everybody who crossed his path. "Now the time for payment had come, so my father, accompanied by Grimbard and the Cat, made his way to the hiding-place of the treasure to bring out the gold. I watched them from afar, and saw them uncover the hole, and never to my dying day shall I forget the scream my father uttered when he saw that the treasure was no longer there. Frantically the two of them dug up the soil around the place in the hope that they were mistaken, but not a single gold piece could they find. At last Grimbard, chattering with fear, turned and slunk away, while my father crept home and hanged himself with a cord to a nail just outside the back door. A terrible end, O King, but though he was my father, I cannot help feeling he deserved the misery he had brought upon himself. As for Bruin, he found himself faced with the necessity of explaining to the soldiers that no money was forthcoming, and being a coward at heart, he shirked the task. He, too, fled secretly, and Tybert the Cat soon followed. To-day, sire, these three stand among the foremost of my accusers. If I have sinned, have they not sinned too, and in greater measure?" [Illustration: THE SUIT OF GOLDEN ARMOUR EMRIK WORE] The King waved his paw impatiently. "We will deal with them presently," said he. "For the present, keep to your tale. Where is the treasure hidden? Speak, and lie not, on your life!" "Why should I lie, O King?" asked Reynard in an aggrieved tone. "Have I not sworn to tell the truth? In Western Flanders there is a little wood called Husterloo. In the midst of that wood lies a pool, which is known by the name of Krekelput.[1] It is a dreary place, O King, and solitary, for it lies among marshes where no man can pass. No sound is heard in that place save only the call of the carrion-crow by day, and the dismal hooting of the owl by night. There, close to that pool, I hid the treasure, in a hole in the earth which I covered with soil, marking the place with three great stones. Remove those stones, and dig up the soil, and you will discover three enormous golden vases, beautifully carved and modelled. In the first is the royal crown of the ancient King Emrik, which Bruin thought to wear. In the second is the crown of Emrik's queen--a thing of wonder, flashing with splendid gems; and in the third is the suit of golden armour Emrik wore. Beneath these three vases lies the rest of the treasure--chest after chest of golden coins, ropes of pearls, necklaces of diamonds and rubies, so many gems that I cannot describe them all. If your Majesty will send trusty messengers to Krekelput, they can easily prove the truth of what I say!" [1] Snail's well. During this recital the King had raised himself from his throne in his excitement, and now he turned to the assembled animals and cried: "Which of you knows Krekelput? Who will go and fetch the treasure?" Nobody answered, for, as a matter of fact, not a soul present had ever heard of Krekelput before Reynard mentioned the name. "Come, come," cried the King. "One of you must know the wood of Husterloo and the pool of which Reynard speaks!" "Be patient with them, Sire," said Reynard. "They are afraid to speak. The Hare knows the place very well. Do you not remember, friend," said he, fixing the Hare with a menacing glance, "you took refuge in the wood of Husterloo one day when the hounds were after you!" [Illustration: THEY WALKED IN SILENCE] "I cannot remember very well," stammered the Hare, who was nearly out of his senses with fright. "Perhaps I did!" "Of course you did," said Reynard, "and you could find the place again, no doubt?" "I am not sure," said the poor Hare, who indeed had never heard of Husterloo. "A truce to all this!" cried the King impatiently. "If you cannot remember, Reynard shall go with you to refresh your memory, and Bellyn the Ram shall accompany the two of you to see that you do not run away. Be off with you at once, and bring back the treasure as quickly as you can, for my eyes are aching for a sight of Emrik's crown and the suit of golden armour Emrik wore." "And forget not the ropes of pearls and the jewelled coronet!" cried the Queen. "Bring those first!" "I will bring everything in good time," said Reynard; "trust me for that. But before I set out on this journey I must go to Rome to ask absolution of the Pope for all the sins I have committed. Suffer me first of all to go on this pilgrimage, O King, and, if you will, send Bellyn and the Hare with me to see that I do not escape. Nothing is further from my thoughts, but after what has happened I cannot expect your Majesty to trust my word, and I am content to go in ward." "Be it so!" said the King. "Set off at once and return as soon as may be. And now there is another little affair to settle! Where is Bruin, our would-be king. Stand forth, Bruin, with your precious conspirators, the Wolf, the Cat, and the Ape." But nobody answered, for seeing how affairs were going all the four had quietly slipped away, fearing to stay and face the vengeance of the King. Reynard smiled maliciously as he put on a pilgrim's cloak and marched away with Bellyn and the Hare along the road that led from the Court. For several miles they walked in silence. Then Reynard sighed and said: "Ah, friends, how I long to see my dear wife and children just once more before I go on this long journey that lies before us. Let us take the road that leads past my castle of Malpertuis. It is not much out of our way, and we can enter there and refresh ourselves." The Hare was too frightened to dispute the matter, and Bellyn on his part good-humouredly agreed, so the three of them took the road to Malpertuis, and before long came to the gate of Reynard's castle. [Illustration: REYNARD SPRANG AT HIS THROAT] "Here we are at last, Cousin Bellyn," said Reynard. "Did you ever see such fine pastures! You must be famished after our long tramp. Take a rest a while and eat some of this sweet grass, while I and the Hare go into the house and console my wife for the long separation that is before her. We shall not stay more than a few minutes." "Well, hurry up," said Bellyn, who had already begun to graze. "I will wait for you, but don't stay talking all day!" So Reynard and the Hare went into the house, where they were met by Hermeline, Reynard's devoted spouse. "What, husband," said she, "are you back already? How did things go at Court?" "Just as I said they would," answered Reynard. "When the King heard my tale he acquitted me of the charges that had been brought against me, and allowed me to return here in honour. The Wolf, the Bear, and the Cat, who were my most powerful enemies, have fled the Court, so that, for the time being, they have escaped my vengeance; but I have brought with me this fellow whom you see at my side, for he was among the foremost of my accusers!" When he heard these words the poor Hare trembled with fright, and turned to flee, but in a moment Reynard sprang at his throat. One loud cry he gave for help, but Bellyn, peacefully cropping the grass outside, did not hear, and the next moment the Hare was dead. Then Reynard and Hermeline and all the little foxes had a splendid feast, and in less than half an hour nothing was left of the Hare's carcass but the head. While they were still feasting there came a loud knocking at the door. It was Bellyn, who, having eaten his fill, was now impatient with waiting. Snatching up the head of the Hare Reynard put it into a bag, which he carefully sealed. Then, running to the door, he threw it open. "You have been a long time!" grumbled Bellyn. "Where is the Hare?" "Oh, he is just inside, playing with my little ones," said Reynard. "He's a merry fellow, that one, and so fond of children that it is beautiful to watch him. Leave him alone for a time. He'll be out presently. While you are waiting, you might run back to the King with this bag, which he asked me to send him. It contains papers referring to the conspiracy--papers which involve a great many people at Court, in fact nearly all of the animals except yourself. Hurry off with it, and give it into the King's own hands, and, as you value your life, do not open the bag upon the road, or the King will suspect that you also are involved and have erased your name on the way." [Illustration: "YOU HAVE MERITED DEATH A HUNDRED TIMES"] "Did the King say I was to take back the papers?" asked Bellyn. "Of course he did!" answered Reynard. "'Send them back by my trusty Bellyn'--those were his very words, and he whispered in my ear that you were the only one among the whole court that he could trust. I should not be surprised if he gave you a handsome reward, and perhaps made you a peer of the realm!" "Give me the bag!" cried Bellyn. "I'll take it to the King. I shall not be long. Wait until I come back, and tell the Hare that he is on no account to set out without me." "Never fear," said Reynard. "He'll not stir a step out of my castle--I'll answer for that. Farewell, good Bellyn. I will be waiting here when you return!" Full of pride at his important mission, Bellyn trotted off down the road, bearing the bag very carefully with him, and Reynard, with a spiteful smile, stood and watched him till he was out of sight. In good time Bellyn returned to the Court and handed to the astonished King the bag which Reynard had sent. The King broke the seal, and gazed inside, while the Queen pressed close to him, peering over his shoulder. The next moment he gave a cry of horror, as he drew forth the head of the poor Hare. The Queen fell to the ground in a dead faint, and for a time the King remained holding the head in his hands, gazing at it vacantly. Then he cast it from him, and without a word turned his steps towards his palace, where he immediately took to his bed, for the shock of the thing had made him ill. Not for several weeks afterwards, when he had somewhat recovered, was he able to turn his thoughts to vengeance. Then he gave orders for a large army to march to Reynard's castle of Malpertuis to raze it to the ground, and bring back the Fox in chains. The army set out, but when they arrived at Malpertuis they found the birds had flown. Reynard and Hermeline and all the little foxes had left the country, and were never seen again. Some people say that they took up their abode in a distant land, where Reynard soon began once more to play his old tricks, until the King of that land caught him one day red-handed, and hanged him on the nearest tree without giving him a chance to say a word. I do not know whether this story is true, although I hope it is. All that I can say for certain is that Reynard and his family were never seen in King Nobel's dominions from that day on. [Illustration] [Illustration: CALF AND GOAT] THE MAGIC CAP There was once a poor countryman, of whom his neighbours said that he had no more wits than he was born with, and that was not many. He was, indeed a simple-minded fellow, and anybody could get the better of him. One day the countryman's wife said to him: "Jan, put on your best smock and your soundest clogs, and go to the market to try and sell our calf. She is a good calf and you ought to get at least a hundred francs for her." Away went Jan, along the road to the market town, with the calf behind him. He felt quite glad to be out on this fine spring day, and he hummed a merry tune as he plodded along. Three students who were lounging at the door of an inn saw him pass, and, marking his air of simplicity, thought it would be good fun to play a joke upon him, so one of them went up to him and said: "Good-morning, friend! How much are you asking for your goat?" "Goat?" answered the peasant in surprise. "This is not a goat, but a calf!" "Indeed!" said the student politely. "And who told you that?" "It was my wife," answered the peasant. "'Jan,' she said, 'go to the market and try to sell our calf.' I am sure she said calf. I could not make a mistake about such a thing!" "Your wife was playing a joke on you," said the student. "Anybody can see that is a goat. If you don't believe me, ask the next person you meet on the road." And he went off, laughing. Jan continued his walk, a little troubled in his mind, and before very long he saw the second of the students coming towards him. "Stay a minute, sir," he cried. "Do you mind looking at this animal of mine and telling me what sort of a creature it is?" "Why, a goat, of course," answered the student. "You're wrong," said the peasant. "It's a calf. My wife says so, and she could not be mistaken!" "Have it your own way!" replied the student, "but if you'll take my advice you won't pretend that animal is a calf when you get to the market, unless you want to be hooted out of the town!" "Ah!" said Jan, and he went on his way, muttering to himself, and casting many a troubled glance at the innocent calf who ambled along peacefully behind him. "If it is a goat it ought to have horns," he said to himself. "And it hasn't got any horns. But if it is a calf it will have horns when it grows to be a cow. Perhaps it is a goat-calf. I wonder whether goat-calves have horns!" And he continued to puzzle his poor brains about the matter until he was suddenly interrupted by a shout from the side of the road. The shout came from the third student, who had been waiting for him. "Hallo, you there!" cried the student. "How much do you want for your goat?" "Goat? Goat?" murmured the peasant in dismay. "Here, take the thing. If it's a goat, I don't want it, for I was sent to market to sell a calf. You may have it for nothing--I'll make you a present of it!" And so saying, he pushed the cord into the student's hand. Then turning his back without another word, he retraced his steps towards his home. [Illustration: "YOU WERE BEING MADE A FOOL OF"] When his wife heard what had happened she was furious. "You stupid lout!" she cried, "could you not see that you were being made a fool of?" And she called him all the names she could lay her tongue to, until the poor fellow blushed and hung his head for shame. Her anger did not last long, however, for she was a good woman and she knew that her husband's simplicity was not his fault, but his misfortune. Fortunately, she had quite enough wits for them both, and instead of wasting more time in reproaches, she set to work to think how she might pay back the practical jokers in their own coin. It did not take her long to think of a plan, and as the first step towards carrying it out, she put on her bonnet and went off to the town, where she called at three inns, paying at each of them for a dinner for four persons, the dinner to be eaten on the next market day. Returning home, she explained the plan to her husband and gave him very exact instructions as to the part he was to play. When the next market day came round Jan set off for the town, and by the door of the very first inn on the road he met the three students. They exchanged a sly smile when they saw him, and one of them said: "Good morning, good fellow. And how do you find yourself to-day? I notice that you have no goat with you this time." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Jan, "that was a good joke you played on me, but I bear you no ill-will for it. Come in and drink a glass of wine. I'm in funds this morning and I'll willingly stand treat." The students accepted Jan's offer with enthusiasm, for they belonged to that class of men who are always thirsty. Accordingly the four went into the tavern; and Jan called for wine. When the time came to pay for it, he called the serving-maid, and taking off his cap, spun it round three times on his finger. "Madam," said he, "everything is paid for, isn't it?" "Yes, sir, and thank you very much," answered the serving-maid. The three students watched this procedure with a good deal of surprise, but Jan carried off the whole affair as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Now, my friends," said he, "the doctors say it is bad to drink on an empty stomach. What do you say to a good meal?" "Excellent," cried the students. "Very well then, come along with me to the next inn, and you shall have one." Laughing in their sleeves at the peasant's simplicity, the students followed. Arrived at the inn, Jan ordered dinner for four, and a heap of good things were put upon the table. After the repast, he called the serving-maid to him, took off his cap as before, and twirled it round three times on his finger. "Now then," said he, "everything is paid for, isn't that so?" "Certainly, sir," answered the serving-maid, "and I am very much obliged to you." [Illustration: JAN AND THE THREE STUDENTS] At this the three students opened their eyes even wider than before, but Jan took not the slightest notice of their astonishment. "What do you say, friends," he asked, "shall we go on to the town together and wash the dinner down with a glass of ale apiece?" "As many as you please," answered the students joyfully, and so they followed Jan to the town, where he entered a third tavern and ordered drinks all round. Then, taking off his cap once again, he twirled it round three times on his finger, and said to the innkeeper: "Everything is paid for, isn't it, my good man?" "Certainly, sir," said the innkeeper, bowing. But this was more than the curiosity of the students could stand. "Look here, gossip," said one of them, "how is it that you are able to get food and drink for nothing everywhere you go, simply by twirling your cap in people's faces?" "Oh, that's easily explained," answered Jan, "This cap of mine is a magic cap, which was left to me by my great-great-grandmother, who was a witch, so I have heard say. If I twirl it on my finger, and say, 'Everything is paid for,'--well, everything _is_ paid for! You understand me?" "Perfectly," said the student. "My faith, but that is a wonderful cap--the very thing to have when one goes a journey! Will you sell it to me?" "How much will you give me for it?" asked Jan. "Two hundred francs!" "Nonsense! Do you think I am going to brave my wife's anger for a paltry two hundred francs?" "Well then, three hundred." "Not enough! My wife says it is worth a fortune." "Four hundred." Jan shook his head doubtfully, and, seeing his hesitation, the student cried: "Come now, we'll give you five hundred, and not a penny more. You'd better accept, or you'll lose your chance." "Well then, hand over the money. I don't know what my wife will say, but...." "She'll give you a kiss for making such a splendid bargain," cried the student, pushing a bag of coins into Jan's hand and snatching the magic cap. "Hurry off home as fast as you can to tell her the good news!" Then the three went away, laughing, slapping each other on the back in their joy at having got the better of the simple peasant. That afternoon the students, eager to take advantage of the qualities of the magic cap, invited about fifty of their friends to a splendid feast at the largest inn in the town. Everybody who was invited came, as you may imagine, and the resources of the innkeeper were taxed to the utmost to supply the hungry and thirsty crowd with all that they wanted. When the feast was ended, the student who had Jan's cap called the host, and twirling it three times round his finger, said: "Now, sir, everything is paid for, isn't it?" "Paid for?" cried the innkeeper. "What do you mean? I've not seen the colour of your money yet." [Illustration: TWIRLED THE CAP ROUND THREE TIMES ON HIS FINGER] At this reply the student's face fell, but one of his companions snatched the cap from his hands. "Idiot," said he, "you twirled the cap the wrong way! I was watching the peasant carefully, and he twisted it like this." So saying, he gave the cap a twirl and said: "Now then, my good sir, I think you will agree that everything is paid for." "I don't know whether you are trying to play a joke on me?" answered the innkeeper grimly, "but your idea of humour is not mine. You had better pay up at once, before I call the police!" "Here, let me try," cried the third; and in his turn he twirled the cap, and, fixing the host with his eye, repeated that everything was paid for. At this the innkeeper flew into a passion, and made such a fuss that the room was in an uproar. It was only by promising to pay him at once that the innkeeper could be quietened down, and prevented from putting his threat of calling the police into execution. The banquet cost a good round sum, and as the three students had no money left, their invited guests were obliged to subscribe the money between them, which they did with much grumbling. Afterwards they took their three hosts outside and dipped them into the horse-trough to punish them for their bad taste in playing practical jokes on their friends. And a few miles away, in their little cottage, Jan and his wife sat counting the five hundred francs he had got for his greasy old cap, which indeed had not been left him by his great-great-grandmother, but which was as old and ragged as though it had! [Illustration] [Illustration: JAN AND JANNETTE] [Illustration: WERE CARRIED SAFELY OVER TO THE OTHER BANK] SUGAR-CANDY HOUSE Jan and Jannette were brother and sister. They lived near a big wood, and every day they used to go to play there, fishing for sticklebacks in the streams, and making necklaces of red berries. One day they wandered farther from their home than usual, and all of a sudden they came to a brook crossed by a pretty red bridge. On the other side of the bridge, half hidden among the trees, they espied the roofs of a little pink cottage, which, when they came closer, they found to be built entirely of sugar-candy! Here was a delightful find for a little boy and girl who loved sweetstuff! They lost no time in breaking off pieces of the roof and popping them into their mouths. Now in that house there lived an old wolf whose name was Garon. He was paralysed in one leg, and could not run very fast, but in all other respects he was as fierce and strong as he had been in his youth. When he heard Jan and Jannette breaking off bits of his roof he growled out, "Who is touching my Sugar-Candy House?" Then he came limping out to see who it was, but by that time the children were safely hidden in the woods. "Who dares to touch my Sugar-Candy House?" roared the wolf again. Then Jan replied: "_It's the wind so mild, It's the wind so mild, That lovable child!_" This satisfied the old wolf, and back he went to his house, grumbling. The next day Jan and Jannette once again crossed over the little red bridge, and broke some more candy from the wolf's house. Out came Garon again, bristling all over. "Who is touching my Sugar-Candy House?" he roared. And Jan and Jannette replied: "_It's the wind so mild, It's the wind so mild, That lovable child!_" "Very well," said the wolf, and he went back again, but this time there was a gleam of suspicion in his eye. The next day was stormy, and hardly had Jan and Jannette reached the Sugar-Candy House than the wolf came out, and surprised them in the very act of breaking a piece off his window-sill. "Oho!" said he. "It was the wind so mild, was it? That lovable child, eh? Precious lovable children, I must say! Gr-r-r, I'll eat them up!" And he sprang at Jan and Jannette, who took to their heels and ran off as fast as their legs could carry them. Garon pursued them at a good speed in spite of his stiff paw, and although he never gained upon them, yet he kept them in sight, and refused to give up the chase. The children looked back once or twice, and saw that the wolf was still following them, but they were not very much afraid, because they were confident of their ability to outrun him. [Illustration:'GR-R-R, I'LL EAT THEM UP!'] All of a sudden they found their way barred by a river. There was no bridge across it, and the water was very deep. What were they to do? Nearer and nearer came the wolf! In the middle of the river some ducks were swimming, and Jan called out to them: "Little ducks! Little ducks! Carry us over the river on your backs, for if you do not the wolf will get us!" So the ducks came swimming up, and Jan and Jannette climbed each on to the back of one, and were carried safely over to the other bank. Presently the wolf, in his turn, came to the river. He had seen how the children had managed to cross, and he roared out at the ducks in a terrible voice, "Come and carry me over, or I'll eat you all up!" "Very well," answered the ducks, and they swam to the bank, and Garon balanced himself on four of them, one paw on the back of each. But they had no intention of carrying the wicked old wolf to the other side, for they did not love him or any of his tribe, and, moreover, they objected to his impolite way of asking a favour. So, at a given signal from the leader, all the ducks dived in midstream, and left old Garon struggling in the water. Three times he went down and three times he came up, but the fourth time he sank never to rise any more. That was the end of old Garon, and a good job, too, say I. I don't know what became of his Sugar-Candy House, but I dare say, if you could find the wood, and the sun had not melted the candy, or the rain washed it away, you might break a bit of it off for yourselves. [Illustration] [Illustration: JACO PETER AND HIS FRIEND] POOR PETER There was once a man named Jaco Peter who was so poor that he had not two sous to rub together. His clothes were rags, his boots were shocking, and as for his house, it was nothing but a miserable hovel hardly fit for a dog. The only friend poor Peter had in the world was a big fox who was called Reynard the Red because of the colour of his hide. One day as Poor Peter was walking along the road looking out for stray scraps of food which he could pick up for his dinner, whom should he meet but Reynard, who was going off to spy round a farmhouse where, he had been told, there were some fine fat chickens. "How now, Peter," said Reynard, "you look very miserable to-day! What is the matter?" "I have fallen on bad luck," answered Peter gloomily. "I have found nothing to-day but two cabbage-stalks and a half-gnawed bone, and to make matters worse, the bone has no marrow in it." "Why do you eat such stuff?" asked Reynard disgustedly. "Look at me--I am just as poor as you, yet I live on the fat of the land! And how do I do it, Peter? Why, by using my wits! Cheer up, my friend, you shall be a man of fortune yet, for I'll take your case in hand myself!" Reynard was as good as his word. The same day he called at the King's palace and asked if he might borrow a bushel measure. Such an unusual request from a fox caused some amazement and the matter was brought to the notice of the King himself, who sent for Reynard and asked him what he wanted with such a thing. "The fact is," answered Reynard, "that a friend of mine, a certain Lord Jaco Peter, has come by a good deal of money, and he wishes to measure it." "Very well," said the King, "you may take the measure, but I would like to have it back when you have done with it, if you do not mind." Off went Reynard with the bushel basket, and the same night, having stuck a couple of sous to the bottom of it with a bit of grease, he sent it back with a message to say that it was not large enough, and might he have another? In reply, the King sent a two-bushel measure, and after a time Reynard sent this back also, with a request for a larger one still. "If I have to measure the money with a thing like this," said he, "I shall be a month over the task." "That friend of yours must be an enormously wealthy man," said the King. "Let me see--what did you say his name was? Lord Jaco Peter? I do not seem to remember a lord of that name in my dominions!" "He is a foreign noble," said Reynard glibly, "who has only lately arrived in this country. He will shortly be coming to pay his respects to your Majesty, for it is his intention to ask for the hand of the Princess, your daughter, in marriage." "That is a thing one must consider," replied the King, "but in the meantime I will gladly give your noble friend an audience." Away went Reynard in high feather and recounted to Poor Peter all that had happened. "The affair is as good as finished," said he, "you shall marry the Princess and sit at the King's right hand!" [Illustration: "SMEAR YOURSELF FROM HEAD TO FOOT"] Peter looked down at his clothes, which indeed, were too well ventilated to be quite seemly, and made a grimace. "A fine lord I shall look!" said he, "with my toes sticking out of my boots and holes in my breeches." "Never mind about that," Reynard answered. "Just leave everything to me, and all be well." The next day, when the time came for the pair to set out for the palace, Reynard said to his friend: "Now pay great attention to what I have to say. Close by the King's palace there is a big muddy puddle in the middle of the road. When you come to that puddle I want you to trip over yourself and fall plump into it. Don't let there be any half measures! Get right into the mud--wallow in it, and smear yourself from head to foot!" "But why...?" asked Peter. "Never mind about why. Do as I tell you!" Poor Peter carried out his directions to the letter. When they reached the puddle he pretended to slip, and fell souse into it, covering himself with a thick layer of mud. At sight of the disaster Reynard began to cry out in dismay, and the guards at the King's palace, who had seen the accident, came running up to offer their aid. "Did you fall down?" asked one of them politely. Peter was wiping the mud out of his mouth and could not answer, but the fox cried: "Of course he has fallen down, oaf! Do you think he sat in the puddle for amusement. Don't stand gaping there, but run to the palace quickly, and borrow a change of clothes, for this is Lord Jaco Peter who is on his way to visit the King. And look you," he added, as the guards ran off, "see that you bring some robes worthy of my lord's great estate, or it will be the worse for you!" Away went the guards, and told the King's Chamberlain about the catastrophe. A few minutes later they returned bearing with them a magnificent robe of cloth-of-gold, beautifully embroidered and sewn with precious stones. Then they led Peter to a chamber, where he bathed himself and donned his new finery. Unfortunately the Chamberlain had forgotten to send any shoes, so there was Peter with his toes sticking out of his boots under his magnificent gown. [Illustration: REYNARD SEIZED THE OPPORTUNITY TO WARN HIS FRIEND] "Never mind," said Reynard, "you must keep your feet out of sight," and he led him before the King, who was immensely taken with his appearance. "Tell me," he said to Reynard, after greetings had been exchanged, "why does your friend keep staring at his clothes. One would think he was not used to them!" Reynard smiled. "As a matter of fact, your Majesty," he answered, "he is not. This dress of his came out of your Majesty's wardrobe, for he had the ill-fortune to spoil his own on the way here, by falling into a puddle. The gown is good enough, as it goes, of course; but my friend is used to something far finer. I would wager a thousand crowns he is thinking this very moment that he has never been so poorly clad before in his life! Is it not so, my lord?" he added, turning to Peter. [Illustration: AN EXCLAMATION OF ASTONISHMENT] Peter gave a grin and a nod of the head, and the affair passed without further comment, but on their way in to dinner Reynard seized the opportunity to warn his friend against further faults of deportment. But, as the saying goes, it is no use trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and no sooner were they seated at table, and Peter saw the magnificent golden dishes, the delicate cut glass, and the fine candlesticks, than he opened his eyes wide, and gave an exclamation of astonishment. "What is the matter now?" asked the King, staring at him. "I crave your Majesty's pardon," said Reynard. "My friend is a little overwhelmed, for your customs are new to him. In his own palace, you see, he is used to a certain degree of luxury--such a service of plate, for instance, as this on the table, would there only be found in the servant's quarters. Come, come, my lord," he added, clapping Peter on the shoulder, "it will do you good to live the simple life. Spartan fare, my lord, Spartan fare!" Peter rolled his eyes and grinned again, before falling to, with a fairly good appetite, upon the rich food spread before him. "This lord must certainly be of enormous wealth," thought the King. "True, he has certain curious tricks of manner, such as supping his gravy with a table-knife, but what does a little thing like that matter! In other countries, other ways! That is a very good proverb." After dinner was over Reynard broached the matter of Peter's marriage with the King's daughter, and the King gave his consent. He begged Reynard and his friend to remain at the palace as his guests until the ceremony should take place, and apportioned to them a magnificent suite of rooms. A week later Peter and the Princess were married. The poor man could hardly believe his good luck as he stood before the altar dressed out in gorgeous robes. All he could do was to stare like one who is dazed, and Reynard had to nudge him from behind to get him to make the responses. After the wedding a splendid feast was held, to which all the greatest and wealthiest lords in the kingdom were invited, and then the King's carriages arrived to conduct the happy pair to Peter's castle. Now what was to be done? Peter's castle was a broken-down hovel at the edge of the forest. He shivered with fear when he thought of what the Princess would say when she saw it, with its mud floor, and its furniture consisting of one chair with no back, one battered table, and a heap of brushwood covered with a ragged pallet which served as a bed. Could Reynard overcome this difficulty as he had overcome all the others? Of course he could, and he did! Away went the coaches, with Reynard sitting proudly on the box of the foremost, and presently the whole cortège halted before the gates of an enchanted castle, which Reynard had borrowed from the fairies of the forest. There Lord Jaco Peter and his bride lived for many happy years. They had six children, three boys and three girls, and Reynard was the friend of them all. [Illustration] [Illustration: "OH DEAR ME, THAT'S TWICE!"] THE PEASANT AND HIS ASS There once lived a poor peasant. I do not know his name, but he earned a living by gathering dead wood in the forest, and he had a donkey who was no bigger ass than himself. Perhaps by this you will be able to recognize him. One day the peasant hitched his donkey into the shafts of his little cart and went off as usual to the wood for his day's toil. Arrived there, he tied the donkey to a tree and then, by way of the cart, climbed the trunk in order to break off some dead branches which he had noticed above. As he sat there, legs astraddle on the branch, busily breaking away the dead wood, along through the forest came a lord dressed in fine clothes, with his manservant behind him. "Hallo! my man," cried the lord, "if you don't come down from that tree pretty soon you'll get a tumble. The branch you are sitting on is cracked." "Cracked, is it?" answered the peasant. "Well, so much the worse for me." And he went on calmly with his work. The lord went away shrugging his shoulders at the peasant's stupidity; and, sure enough, before he had gone very far, _crack! crack!_ the branch broke, and down fell the peasant to the foot of the tree, giving himself a fine blow on the nose, which immediately swelled almost to the size of a turnip. "My word," muttered the peasant, tenderly feeling the sore place, "that man must have been a sorcerer! He can foretell the future! He said I'd fall and I certainly have fallen! I must run after him and ask him to tell me something else. This is a chance not to be missed!" So off he ran as fast as his bruised limbs would allow, in pursuit of the lord, and presently came up with him. "Hi, sir, wait a minute!" he cried. "You told me the truth about the tree. The branch broke right enough and I fell on my nose. Won't you tell me something else?" "Willingly," answered the lord, "and I hope this time that you will pay heed to what I say. Take care not to load your ass too heavily, for if you do so he will bray, and if he brays three times running I predict that you will suddenly die." "Oh dear me!" sighed the peasant. "I am the most unfortunate of men. Each prediction about my future seems to be an unhappy one. Nevertheless, I am very much obliged to you, sir. Good day." And he took off his cap to the lord and bowed, and lurched off back to his tree. For a long time he worked busily, and found so much wood that his little cart soon became full. Then he remembered what the lord had told him about loading his ass too heavily, but he was so avaricious that he could not make up his mind to stop. "One more branch won't make any difference," he kept on saying as he piled more and more wood into the cart. At last the poor donkey could stand no more and, lifting his head, he uttered a loud "Hee-haw!" [Illustration: "HALLO MY MAN," CRIED THE LORD] At this the peasant turned pale with fright. "Stop, stop, what are you doing?" he cried. "Oh, my dear little ass, I beg you not to bray again. I will not put another branch into the cart. We will go home straight away and you shall have carrots for supper!" So saying, he climbed to his seat and shook the reins as a signal for departure. The donkey pulled and pulled, but not an inch would the cart budge, although he strained his muscles to the utmost. Finding all his efforts vain, he turned his head and once again gave utterance to a loud bray of protest. "Oh, dear me, that's twice!" cried the peasant, jumping down from his perch. "If he brays once more I'm a dead man. Do you hear that, little ass? For goodness' sake, remain dumb until we reach home, and I'll help you pull the cart!" Freed of the peasant's weight, the load for a time was easier to pull, but at the end of another ten minutes the weight began to tell again. The ass stopped and brayed loudly for the third time. "That's finished it!" cried the peasant. "I am dead!" And he fell flat to the ground. Left to himself, the ass wandered slowly on, dragging the load behind him. Soon he came to the gates of the town, and the guard took him and put him into the pound. After a time, as nobody claimed him, he was sold. Meanwhile the peasant lay where he had fallen. Presently a carriage drove up, and the coachman was forced to pull in his horses because of the body that lay stretched across the road. "Come," he cried, thinking that the peasant was drunk, "rouse yourself, swill-tub! Get up, unless you want to be run over!" "I can't get up!" moaned the peasant. "Why not?" "Because I'm dead!" "Dead, are you?" cried the coachman, jumping from his seat in anger. "Well I've something here that will bring you to life again!" And he took his whip and laid on to the peasant with such a will that in less than ten seconds the fellow was capering about all over the road. Having thus effectively brought the dead man to life, he remounted his box and drove off grumbling. In the roadway the peasant continued to dance about until the pain of his beating had somewhat subsided. Then he looked around, and for the first time missed his donkey. [Illustration: "I CAN'T GET UP, BECAUSE I'M DEAD!"] "Dear, dear, dear!" he cried, "one trouble after another! When I was dead I wished I was alive; now I'm alive I wish I was dead again, for I'm sore all over, and I've lost my donkey. Whatever shall I do?" And, groaning and grumbling, he set off along the road in search of his beast. After a time he came to the gates of the town, where a sentry was standing with his pike on his shoulder. "Good morning, good man," said the peasant. "Have you seen my little ass?" "Your ass!" answered the sentry, smiling. "The only ass that has passed through these gates to-day is already become burgomaster!" "What! Burgomaster!" cried the peasant. "My ass Burgomaster! Tell me quickly, where does he live? I must go to him at once!" Hardly able to control his amusement, the sentry pointed out the way to the Burgomaster's house, and thither went the peasant in all haste. Arrived at the door, he sounded the great bell--_Darlindindin!_--and a maidservant appeared. "Is the Burgomaster at home?" asked the peasant. Yes, he was at home, and the maidservant led the peasant to the room where he sat behind a big table loaded with documents. "Good morning, Ass!" said the peasant, with a grin of delight that twisted his swollen and discoloured features. "Eh! what, what!" stammered the Burgomaster, turning purple with anger. "I beg your pardon," said the peasant, "I should have said, 'Good morning, Mr. Ass, Esquire,' for you have become a great man now, while I am still a poor woodcutter. I don't envy you your good fortune, I am sure, although your promotion has left me without a donkey. Since you have become such a great lord, won't you give me back the ten florins you cost me, so that I may buy another?" At this the Burgomaster's rage exploded. Leaping over the table with one bound, he seized the hapless peasant by the collar of his coat, threw open the door, and, with one mighty kick, sent him sprawling from top to bottom of the stairs. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE EAGLE AND THE KINGLET] THE KING OF THE BIRDS At one time the birds, like the four-footed animals, were ruled over by the lion, who is the King of the Beasts, but they grew discontented with his dominion and decided to have a king of their own. It was the eagle's idea: he thought of it one day when he was standing on the lofty crag by his nest, gazing out upon the plain below, and he saw the lion, no bigger than a mouse in appearance, slinking beside a dried-up stream. "Earth-bound creature!" thought the eagle scornfully. "Who are you to reign over us, who cleave the air with wings and fly in the face of the sun! He who is lordliest among the birds should rule the feathered creatures, and surely I am he!" So thinking, the eagle spread his wings and soared high into the air, and then swooped suddenly down upon the lion, casting sand into his eyes with a harsh scream of defiance. Having thus relieved his feelings, he sent messengers near and far to assemble all the birds that he might unfold his plan to them. Such a scurry of wings as there was when the birds came to answer the summons! The sky was black with them, so that the animals on the earth below, fearing a dreadful storm, took shelter in their caves and holes. From north, south, east, and west they came; over mountain, valley, and plain; birds of all sorts and sizes, from the little humming-bird to the condor and the vulture. The ostrich left the burning plains where he loves to roam, and flapping his ridiculous wing, for he could not fly, raced to the meeting-place. All those birds that dwell in the tropical forests, and flash from tree to tree like living jewels in the green twilight; the penguins and skua-gulls from the icy north; the cormorants and shags, and all the hosts of the birds of the sea--if I were to go on naming them I should fill every page of this book and never even begin my story. And as they flew each uttered his own cry, so that what with the calling and the screaming, the whistling, warbling, chirping, and chattering, the air was filled with a mighty sound that echoed to the very ends of the world. When all the birds were duly assembled the eagle addressed them thus: "Listen, brothers," said he, "I have called you together in order that we may choose a king, for it is not fitting that the lion, that earth-bound creature, should continue to reign over the free company of the birds. We are distinguished from the beasts by our power of flight, and it therefore seems to me that the crown of sovereignty should be given to the one amongst us who possesses that power in the fullest degree. What do you say? Shall we test this matter, and let him who can fly nearest to the sun be king?" A confused chorus of cries answered his question, one bird speaking against another. "What is flight compared to song?" asked the nightingale. "Let the sweetest singer among us reign." The canary and the throstle and the blackcap all agreed with the nightingale, but they were shouted down. "Beauty, beauty!" cried the peacock. "That is the test! A king should be resplendent in gay robes!" And he spread his gorgeous tail. "Aye, there speaks wisdom," gobbled the turkey, turning red in the face, and strutting up and down. "What do you say, brother," he asked the cock. "Shall we arrange it so?" [Illustration: "IS OUR KING THEN ONLY TO BE LOOKED AT?"] "A fig for gay feathers!" cackled the ostrich. "Is our king then only to be looked at, or is he to do nothing all day but chirp and twitter foolish songs? As for flying, I found my wings of so little use that I gave up using them long ago. My idea is that we should settle this matter by a running race!" And so the birds went on quarrelling and disputing until at last the eagle called for silence, and, addressing the company again, insisted upon the adoption of his own plan. He spoke sternly and menacingly, and as all the birds went in fear of his curved beak and sharp talons, no further objections were raised. It was agreed that the trial should take place at once, and the cock was chosen to give the signal for the start. Very proud of the honour, he stationed himself on a little grassy knoll, and having ascertained that everybody was ready, gave a loud and clarion call. There was the sound as of a rushing mighty wind as all the birds sprang into the air. Only the eagle remained in his place, looking after the others a little contemptuously. So confident did he feel in his ability to outfly them all, that he allowed them at least five minutes start. Then, very leisurely, he spread his wings and soared. Up, up, up he went; he overtook the stragglers on the fringe of the crowd, passed through the thickest press, outdistanced the foremost flyer of them all. Still up and up he soared, exalting in his strength and power, until the birds flying far below were hidden by the clouds. Then he hung for a moment, motionless on extended wings, for he was a little wearied by his efforts. All of a sudden he heard, above his head, a tiny _twit, twit, twit_, and looking up, saw, to his surprise, the golden-crested wren, one of the smallest of the birds, flying merrily above him. "I have outdistanced you. I am king! I am king!" cried the wren in his joy. "We will see," said the eagle grimly; and once again he beat his mighty wings and soared. At the end of a further five minutes, he stopped again, only to hear, as before, the wren's cheerful twitter above him. Again and again the same thing happened. Try as he might, the eagle could not outdistance the tiny bird, and at last, worn out with his exertions, he was obliged to give up the contest, and to descend, crestfallen, to the earth again. [Illustration: BIRDS GOING TO THE RACE] And how did the little wren, which is certainly not famed for its powers of flight, come to be able to defeat the mighty eagle? By a very simple trick! When the eagle started on its flight the wren was safely perched upon his back. There he clung until the eagle stopped flying, when it was an easy matter to rise from his place and fly a yard or two higher. When the eagle began to fly again, the wren again took its place on his back, and this continued time after time until the great bird was exhausted. [Illustration: THERE WAS THE SOUND AS OF A RUSHING MIGHTY WIND] Although nobody suspected the trick which the wren had played, the other birds were very indignant when they heard the wren declare that he had won the contest. "You, king!" they cried. "An insignificant thing like you! It would be a disgrace to us if we were to suffer it. We would rather be ruled by the lion! At any rate, he had majesty of deportment and dignity. You have neither grace nor wisdom, strength nor beauty. Away with you before we tear you to pieces!" The wren was as perky as you please, and for only answer he flew to the boughs of a tree, whence he looked down on them all with his head on one side, chirping, "I am king! I am king. Bow down and make obeisance!" A great cry of anger arose. "Kill him! Kill him!" screamed the hawk. "Tear him to pieces!" "You will have to catch him first!" twittered the wren, and as the hawk made a rush at him, he popped into a hole in the trunk of a tree--a hole so small that nobody could get at him. From the shelter of that safe retreat he continued to gibe at the birds, issuing commands, and asserting that he was their king. What was to be done? Nobody could get at the wren, and yet all the birds felt that he should be punished for his impudence. A consultation was held, and it was finally decided to set the owl as a guard at the mouth of his hole. "Sooner or later," said the eagle, "he will have to come out in order to get food, and then we will have him. If, however, he elects to stay where he is, let him; either way our purpose will be served." So the owl mounted guard by the hole in the trunk of the tree, and having given him the most careful instructions not on any account to let the wren escape, the other birds flew away. All that day the owl remained vigilant at his post, and though the wren put his head out of the hole a hundred times, he always found his guard keeping careful watch. Night fell, and a great silence fell upon the woods, but still the owl kept awake for hour after hour, watching with unwinking eyes. At last, towards morning, his vigilance relaxed a little. His head sank forward on his breast; and he fell fast asleep. Hardly had his eyes closed than, _rip!_ the wren darted out of his hole, and the next moment he had vanished among the trees. When the birds returned the next morning they were furious to find that their prisoner had escaped. "Unfaithful servant," they cried, "you have betrayed your trust!" And they fell upon the owl to put him to death. With some difficulty he managed to escape, but ever since that time the birds chase the owl wherever they see him, for they are still angry with him. To keep out of their way he has to hide during the day and venture out only at night, when all the other birds are fast asleep. As for the golden-crested wren, he is known as the Kinglet, or little king, to this day. [Illustration] [Illustration: DONATUS] A DRUM FULL OF BEES A certain regiment had for its drummer an old man named Donatus. He was a good-for-nothing rascal, who spent most of his time in the tavern drinking and playing cards, but he was an excellent drummer for all that, and it was a fine sight to see him on parade days, marching along with the band, and playing on his drum with a flourish that was the envy of all the boys in the town. None of his companions in the regiment liked Donatus, because of his fondness for playing practical jokes. There was hardly one of them whom at some time or another he had not hoaxed, and as most of his jokes were spiteful ones, nobody pretended to be sorry when one day the drummer was found cheating at cards, and being brought before the Captain, was dismissed from the regiment. It was in vain that he pleaded for mercy, with the tears running down his face. The Captain had forgiven him many times, and was determined not to do so again. "Well," said Donatus at last, "if I must go, I beg you, Captain, to let me keep my drum. I have played on it since I was a lad of fourteen, and I know no other trade. If you take it away from me, I don't know how I am going to live, but with it I may perhaps manage to turn an honest penny or two." "Very well, you old scoundrel," answered the Captain. "Keep your drum and take yourself off; only be quick about it, or you shall be soundly thrashed." So away went Donatus with his drum on his back, and not having any particular place to go to, he just took the first road that came, and marched along it all day until he was forced to rest because his legs were so tired. Setting his drum down in the middle of the road he sat upon it and began to wonder what he should do for food and a bed for the night. First of all he turned out his pockets to see what he could find, but there was nothing there except two sous and a pack of very greasy playing cards. Donatus put them back again, with a sigh, and fell again to wondering how he was going to fare. Now the road along which he had been walking was bordered by a dense forest, and suddenly Donatus thought that if he were to get among the trees he could at least find shelter. So he shouldered his drum again and entered the wood. Hardly had he done so than he heard a loud humming noise, and proceeding in the direction from which it came, he saw a swarm of bees hanging to the branch of a big tree. "Here's fine fruit!" said he to himself, laughing. "I'll pluck them. They may come in useful one of these days!" So he took off the top skin of his drum, and having skilfully caused the swarm to drop inside the instrument, replaced the skin and went on his way. Presently he came to a little house in the wood, and knocked at the door to ask for shelter for the night. The door was opened by a peasant woman of comely appearance, but with a very disagreeable expression of face. She looked the drummer up and down very sourly. "Be off with you!" she said, "we want no soldiers here. We have seen your kind before, my man, and do not like them." And so saying, she very rudely shut the door in his face. "Now what am I to do?" thought Donatus ruefully. "Night has fallen, and I am too weary to wander any farther. A plague take that hard-hearted vixen, who will not take pity on my misfortunes!" Thus reflecting, he cast his eye about to look for a corner in which he might rest, and suddenly spied a heap of faggots piled up against the cottage wall. Climbing to the top of the heap, he found that it was possible to reach the window of the attic, which fortunately stood open, so he lost no time in crawling inside, where he stretched himself out upon the planks to sleep. Now the attic happened to be directly above the kitchen, and as there was a knot-hole in the wooden floor, the drummer could see everything that was going on in the room below. There was the peasant-woman busily preparing the supper, and the fragrant fumes which rose from the viands tickled the drummer's nose, and made the water run out of the corners of his mouth. After a time there was a loud knock at the house door, and the woman hurried to open it, admitting a man dressed in a long cloak. He was the village beadle, and a nephew of the woman's husband, but that good man had such a hatred of beadles that he could not bear to look at one, and his nephew never dared to come to the house while the husband was at home. His visits therefore were few and far between, but when he did come his aunt always feasted him right royally. This time she bade him welcome with great tenderness, helped him off with his cloak and sat him down at the table, upon which she placed a fine roast fowl, with a gammon of bacon and a bottle of wine. "Ha, ha!" cried the beadle, rubbing his hands. "You are a famous hostess, aunt! My walk has given me an appetite, and I am just in a condition to do justice to your good victuals. Here's health!" And he filled a glass with wine and drained it to the dregs. [Illustration: THERE WAS A KNOT-HOLE IN THE WOODEN FLOOR] "Gr-r, you greedy fellow!" muttered the drummer, who was lying full length in the attic above with his eye to the knot-hole. "I hope it may choke you!" And he watched eagerly while the beadle began to fall to upon the roast fowl. Suddenly the feast was interrupted by another loud knock at the door. "My husband!" cried the woman in great agitation. "He has come back unexpectedly. If he finds you here, something terrible will happen, for he cannot bear the sight of a beadle. Quick! jump into this chest and pull down the lid, while I clear away all signs of the supper!" The beadle, who was just as frightened as his hostess, lost no time in doing as she bade him. He hopped into the chest and pulled down the lid, while she hurried to clear the table. All this time the husband was thundering at the door, very impatient at being kept waiting. When at last his wife let him in, he flew into a temper and began to scold her. "I am very sorry, good man," she answered, "but I did not hear you knock, I was hard at work in the scullery." "Bring me something to eat!" growled the man. "Just as you like," answered his wife. "But if I were you I would not sup so late--you know how it always gives you indigestion. Wouldn't it be better to go straight to bed?" "Hold your peace, woman," said her spouse. "I am not sleepy!" And he sat himself down at the table. Hardly had he done so than there came a loud knocking on the floor of the attic above his head. "What is that?" he cried, jumping up. "Is there somebody in the attic?" "Not that I know of," answered his wife. "Nobody has been here all day except a soldier with a most villainous face, who came begging. I sent him away with a flea in his ear, I assure you." "Did you so?" said her husband. "Well, I believe he has managed to get into the attic. I remember now that I forgot to fasten the window." Off he went upstairs to see, and sure enough, there was the drummer, who was not slow in explaining his presence. "Well, come along downstairs and warm yourself," said the peasant. "My wife is just about to get my supper, and I expect there will be enough for two." Nothing loath, the drummer accompanied his host to the kitchen, and sat down at the table, paying no heed to the venomous glances which the woman of the house cast at him as she slammed down a loaf of black bread and a bowl of milk. "Ho, ho," said the drummer to himself. "There is fowl for the beadle and dry bread for the good man and his guest. Well, we shall see!" And he gave a kick with his foot to the drum which was under the table. [Illustration: "I DID NOT HEAR YOU KNOCK"] "What have you there?" asked the peasant, starting up at the sound. "Oh, that is my oracle," answered the drummer coolly. "Your oracle! Does he, then, speak to you?" "Certainly," answered the drummer. "He speaks to me three times a day." "Faith," said the peasant, "I should very much like to hear him." So the drummer picked up his drumsticks and beat a lively tattoo upon the drum, and, aroused by the noise and vibration, the swarm of bees within began to buzz about in great commotion. "Wonderful! Wonderful!" cried the peasant delightedly, as he listened to the humming. "And do you really understand that language? What does the oracle say?" "He says," answered the peasant, "that there is no need for us to drink sour milk, because there is a bottle of wine standing by the wall, just behind the big chest." "Ha, ha, ha! that is a good joke!" roared the peasant. "Wine in my house, indeed! I only wish it were true!" "Tell your wife to look behind the chest, and I'll warrant you she will find it." Very unwillingly the dame went to the place indicated, and came back with the bottle of wine. She tried to look as surprised as her husband, but only succeeded in pulling a very wry mouth. "Bring glasses, wife!" cried the peasant in great good humour. "We must drink the health of this famous oracle. Do you think you can make him speak again, friend?" "Certainly," said the drummer, beating another tattoo upon the drum. Once again the bees began to hum loudly, and he leant down, pretending to listen to what they had to say. "Well? Well?" cried the peasant impatiently. "He says that if your wife will look in the cupboard, she will find a roast fowl and a gammon of bacon, which we can eat instead of this dry bread." "Upon my word, that is a wonderful oracle!" cried the peasant. "Make haste, wife, and look in the cupboard." [Illustration: THE SWARM OF BEES WITHIN BEGAN TO BUZZ ABOUT IN GREAT COMMOTION] The dame could not refuse to obey, so she brought the good things and set them on the table, but if looks could have killed anybody the drummer would have been a dead man that day. Little heed he paid to her evil glances, however, but applied himself to the food with a good appetite. Before very long, between the two of them, there was nothing left of the chicken but the bones, and of the gammon but the scrag-end. [Illustration: BEATING ANOTHER TATTOO UPON THE DRUM] "Faith," said the peasant, unbuttoning his waistcoat, "that was a better meal than I expected to get this night. Has your oracle any more agreeable surprises for us, good sir. I pray you, make him speak again." "With all the will in the world," answered the drummer, "but this will be the last occasion, for he only speaks three times a day." Taking up his sticks, he played the war-march of Napoleon on the drum, and the bees accompanied him as before with their loud humming. The peasant leaned forward eagerly to listen, while his wife stood by trembling with fear. "Ah," said the drummer at last, looking at them both with a grave face. "This time my oracle tells me of a very serious matter. He says that in the big chest over there a big black demon is hidden!" "What! What!" cried the peasant, jumping up from his chair as though he had been stung. "A demon, did you say?" "Precisely," answered the drummer. "But don't be alarmed. I will get rid of him for you. Open the door and the windows and then place yourself here, by my side." [Illustration: THE BEADLE, TOO, STUMBLED AND FELL] The peasant made haste to do what he was told, and marching boldly up to the chest, the drummer seized the heavy lid and threw it open. Immediately the beadle, who had heard everything and was not a little afraid of his own skin, jumped up, his figure entirely covered with the folds of his black mantle, and ran for the door. So sudden was his appearance, and so hasty his flight, that he ran with full force into the peasant, who had no time to get out of his way, and knocked that worthy man flying head over heels. The beadle, too, stumbled and fell, but quickly recovering himself, made blindly for the door, fell over the folds of his cloak, and tumbled head foremost into the ditch by the side of the road. There was a sudden splashing sound, a muffled murmur, and then silence. "Poof!" said the peasant, when he had picked himself up and rubbed his limbs. "That was a narrow escape! I saw the demon quite plainly--he was all black, with fiery eyes, and a forked tail! Thank heaven that your oracle warned us, good sir, or he would have devoured us as we slept!" The next morning, as the drummer and the peasant sat at breakfast, the latter said: "Will you sell me that oracle of yours, drummer?" "That depends," answered his guest. "You know it is worth a great deal of money." "I will give you a hundred crowns," said the peasant, "and that is all I have in the world." "Very well," said the drummer. "It is little enough for such a wonderful oracle as this is, but I have taken a fancy to you, and I cannot refuse. Give me the money." So the bargain was concluded. Donatus received the hundred crowns, and in return handed over the drum. Then he bade farewell to his host and was just going out of the door when the latter called after him: "Stay a moment--I have just thought of something. How am I to understand the language which the oracle speaks?" "Oh, that is easy enough," answered Donatus. "Listen while I tell you what to do. At ten o'clock, precisely, not a minute before or a minute afterwards, go and plant your wife in the ground up to her armpits, then smear her face and shoulders with honey. That done, take the oracle with you into the attic where you found me, and having first bandaged your eyes, remove the top skin of the drum. Wait for a quarter of an hour; then replace the skin, and take the drum with you to the place where you left your wife. In that very moment the meaning of the oracle's language will be revealed to you, and you will know as much as I know myself!" "Many thanks!" cried the peasant delightedly. "Good day to you, soldier, and good luck!" "And to you!" answered the drummer, and he went away laughing up his sleeve at the fellow's simplicity. About a mile farther along the road he saw a man working in the fields, and went up to him. "If you like, gossip," said he, "I'll do a bit of that digging for you." "With all my heart," answered the labourer, giving up his spade. [Illustration: HE HAD FAITHFULLY CARRIED OUT ALL HIS INSTRUCTIONS] "Very well, but let us change clothes, for I do not wish to soil my uniform. Here is a crown for you. Go to the inn and buy yourself a glass of wine. When you return you will be surprised to see how much I have done." The exchange was made and the labourer departed. Less than half an hour afterwards the sound of hoofs was heard on the road, and looking up, the drummer saw his late host, mounted on horseback, spurring furiously towards him. The man's face was purple with fury and he was muttering threats as to what he would do to the drummer when he caught him. He had faithfully carried out all his instructions, and had truly enough learnt the meaning of the humming noise within the drum. So had his wife; for when he went to her in the garden, he found her with her face and shoulders black with bees! Abreast of the place where the drummer was working the peasant reined in his horse, and cried out, "Hallo, you there. Have you seen a soldier pass by this way?" "A man, master?" mumbled the drummer. "I said a soldier, you stupid oaf! A man in a red coat with a most villainous face. Have you seen him, I say?" "Why, yes," the drummer answered. "He went past here about a quarter of an hour ago and made his way into the wood yonder. You'll never find him, master!" he added, with a grin. [Illustration: IT WAS THE LABOURER DRESSED IN THE DRUMMER'S CLOTHES] "And why won't I?" "Because he's gone by a secret way. I saw the road he took, and I know how he means to go, but even if I were to show you the way, you would never overtake him, for you would lose yourself in the wood." "I'll give you a crown if you'll help me to find the rascal," cried the peasant. "A crown! Come now, that's high pay. You must want him very badly!" "I do indeed, and I'll break every bone in his body when I catch him." "Here, lend me your horse, master," said the drummer. "I'll catch him for you, and not for a crown neither, but for nothing. I'd like to see him get a good thrashing, for he called me names as he passed by." "But can you ride?" asked the peasant. "Can a duck swim?" answered the drummer scornfully. "Dismount quickly or the scoundrel will get away. Wait here for me," he added, as he rode off, "I'll be back in less than half an hour." Off he went at a gallop, smiling to himself. "First of all a hundred crowns, and now a fine steed," thought he. "Come Donatus, your luck is standing you in good stead. It's odds but you'll win through yet!" He reached the wood, entered it, and the peasant waiting by the roadside, heard the sound of his horse's hoofs grow fainter and fainter until at last they died away. A quarter of an hour passed, half an hour, an hour, but the labourer did not return. The peasant, fuming with impatience, strode up and down the road, slashing at the grass and bushes with his stick. Suddenly he heard footsteps, and saw a man in a red coat approaching. It was the labourer dressed in the drummer's clothes, who had drunk, not one, but several glasses of wine, and was now returning very pleased with himself and all the world. As he came he trilled out a merry song. "You knave! You villain!" cried the peasant, throwing himself upon him. "Where are my hundred crowns? What! you would teach me the language of the bees, would you?--and my poor wife is stung all over, and cannot see out of her eyes. Rascal! Scoundrel! Oh, you scum! Take that, and that, and that!" And with each word, he lifted his heavy stick and brought it down heavily upon the shoulders of the unfortunate labourer. "Here, hold hard, master!" cried the man, twisting and turning to get away. "What's the meaning of this? I'll have the law on you if you don't leave me alone! _Ouch_, give over I tell you! What do I know about your hundred crowns or your wife?" "What!" cried the peasant, laying on harder than before. "Do you add lying to your other crimes? You will tell me next you have never seen a drum!" And with one last mighty cut he stretched the unfortunate fellow at his feet. Then, for the first time, he had a full view of his face, and saw that he was not the man he took him for. "Was there ever such an unlucky man in all the world as I?" he moaned, as he turned wearily homeward, pursued by the curses and threats of the man he had beaten. "First I lose a hundred crowns, and then the love of my wife, who will never forgive me her injuries; and now, into the bargain, I have lost my horse! God forgive that drummer, and protect him if ever he falls into my hands!" I wish I could tell you that the unlucky peasant's desire was fulfilled, and that the drummer met with his deserts. Unhappily my story ends here, and I do not know for certain what happened to him, but people do say that he never came out of the wood, but rode straight into a marsh and was drowned. If this is true, I am sure that nobody will be sorry! [Illustration] [Illustration: WHEN THE FIFTY ROOKS BEGAN TO FLY HE COULD NOT GET FREE] THE DRUNKEN ROOKS It was the middle of winter and the ground was covered with snow. Along the high road came Mynheer Van Ash, the well-known merchant of Alost, driving to the town with two immense casks of the liquor known as Hollands, in which he traded. All unknown to the merchant, one of the casks had a hole in it, and as he drove along the liquor leaked out, and sank into the snow. In a field close by the roadside were a flock of fifty rooks, who were eagerly turning up the snow and pecking at the ground beneath in search of food. Attracted by the strong and heady smell of the spilt liquor, they flew across to investigate, and having tasted some of the gin-sodden snow, liked it so well that they followed in the train of the cart, eating more and more of it, until at last they were so drunk that they could hardly stand on their feet. Away they went to the fields again, and very soon afterwards the whole flock of them was fast asleep. Presently, Little Pol, a peasant who worked in the neighbourhood, happened to cross the field on his way homeward, and saw the crows lying stiff and silent on the snow. "Ah!" said he to himself. "Here is a funny sight! Fifty crows frozen to death with the cold. I'll take them home with me and pluck them. Rook-pie is excellent eating, and such a find is welcome these hard times!" So, taking a cord from his pocket, he set to work to gather up all the rooks, and tie them together by the legs. This done, he proceeded on his way, dragging the rooks behind him. The roughness of the motion and the friction of the snow very soon aroused the rooks from their slumber. They all woke up, and finding their legs tied, began to flap their wings together with admirable precision. Unfortunately for Little Pol, he had taken the precaution of fastening the cord to the belt round his middle, so when the fifty rooks began to fly he could not get free, and found himself being lifted into the air. Up went the fifty rooks cawing and crying, and up too went Little Pol, calling in vain for help. They reached the clouds; they penetrated the clouds; they disappeared from sight. And since that day not a sign has ever been seen either of the fifty rooks or of Little Pol. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE BATTLE OF THE BIRDS AND BEASTS] [Illustration: FIGHTING] THE BATTLE OF THE BIRDS AND BEASTS One day as Bruin the Bear and Isengrim the Wolf were taking a walk in the woods they came to a big elm-tree with a hollow trunk. Peering within in the hope of finding something to eat they espied a little nest supported by two notches in the bark. It was the tiniest and neatest little house one could wish to see, made of fresh green moss, with a small opening in the middle for a door, and was, in fact, the home of a little bird called the Golden-crested Wren. Now among the country people the golden-crested wren is often known by the name of the Kinglet, and being aware of this, Isengrim saw a chance of playing a joke upon his companion. "Look at this nest, Bruin," said he. "What would you say if I told you it was a King's palace?" "That a King's palace!" laughed Bruin scornfully. "A handful of moss in a hole! Why, with one tap of my paw I could smash it to fragments!" "I should not advise you to do any such thing," said Isengrim. "The King who lives in that palace is much more powerful than you think, and unless you are looking for trouble it would be best to leave his home alone." "What!" cried Bruin, in a rage. "Am I to be defied by a miserable little fowl in my own forest? That for your King!" And with one sweep of his paw, he reduced the nest to a shapeless heap of moss. "Now let him revenge himself if he can," he roared. "I hereby declare war upon him and upon all his tribe. Fur against feather! The four-legged animals against those that go on wings. We will put this matter to the test!" When the Kinglet came home and found his nest destroyed he danced and chattered with anger. Isengrim lost no time in letting him know who was responsible for the mischief, and took a spiteful joy in telling him of the Bear's challenge. "Very well," said the little wren. "Kinglet is my name, and King shall be my nature. I will call all the winged creatures together and we will settle the matter by the test of arms." During the next two or three weeks there was a great coming and going in the forest as the two armies assembled. The air was full of the whirl and rustle of wings. From the nests under sunny banks came the wasps in thousands, each with his shining cuirass of black and yellow, and his deadly sting. The gadfly came too, and the tiny gnat, and the mosquito from the stagnant pools, with insects of every other sort and kind--more than one could count in a day. From his eyrie on the mountain crags the lordly eagle came swooping to take his place beside the nightingale and the sparrow. In that hour of need all rivalries were forgotten; the falcon and the hawk took their place in the ranks with the thrush and the robin. [Illustration: THE KINGLET WARNED HIM TO BE VERY CAREFUL NOT TO BUZZ] The Bear, on his side, was not idle. Swift-footed messengers were sent to every part of the land to summon the four-legged animals to arms. Slinking through the undergrowth came Isengrim's kin, the grey wolves, with lean flanks and fierce eyes shining. Reynard brought his troop of foxes. Crashing through the trees came the mighty elephants, waving their trunks and trumpeting defiance to the foe. Out of the mud of river-beds, from the grassy plains, and the densest thickets of the forest, the animals came flocking--lions, tigers, camels, bulls, horses--if I were to name them all I should fill this book with their names. Never had so many animals been brought together since the days of Noah's Ark. When everything was ready, the Kinglet, who was a prudent leader, sent out a spy to try to gain information about the enemy's plans. For this purpose he chose the mosquito, who, as you may imagine, was neither easily seen nor easily caught, particularly as the Kinglet warned him to be very careful not to buzz. Under cover of the darkness he flew to the Bear's camp, and succeeded in discovering the headquarters of the general staff, where the leaders of the animal army were conferring. Just as the mosquito arrived, the Bear and the Fox were speaking together. "So it is settled," the Bear was saying. "Our great offensive will begin to-morrow. Each of you knows what to do, I think? We have discussed everything, and nothing remains to do, but to press forward to a glorious victory." "You are right, my lord," said Reynard, "but there is just one thing you have forgotten. How are we to know when the victory is won? We must have a standard-bearer." "Of course," answered the Bear, "we must have a standard-bearer. I was just going to say so. Who shall it be?" "With all respect, my lord," answered Reynard, "I propose that it should be I. My beautiful bushy tail will serve as a battle-flag. I will walk at the head of the army and hold my tail straight up in the air, as stiff as a poker. So long as I keep it like that, you will know that all is well; but if anything disastrous should happen, I will let it droop to the ground, so that our troops may have ample warning to take refuge in flight." "Excellent," said Bruin. "You have heard what Reynard proposes. Take notice that I hereby appoint him standard-bearer to our armies." [Illustration: THE GREAT OFFENSIVE BEGAN] So it was agreed, and having learnt all that he wished to know, the mosquito flew back to the Kinglet with his news. The Kinglet said nothing, but sent for the wasp, and gave him certain orders. At dawn the next morning the great offensive began, and from the very beginning things went rather badly for the armies of the winged animals. At two points of the line the Bear and the Tiger led dashing attacks against divisions commanded by the eagle and the hawk, and after long and fierce fighting, forced them to retire. High upon a knoll commanding the battlefield, in full view of the troops, stood the Fox, with his bushy tail held proudly in the air. As he watched the struggle his lips curled in a grin of triumph. Suddenly there was a piercing yell that rang out clear above the noise of battle. It came from the Fox, who drooped his tail to the ground, and ran, howling with pain, to the rear. "We are lost! We are lost!" cried the animals, seeing the standard lowered. "Traitors are amongst us! Fly for your lives!" From point to point of the swaying battle-line the panic spread, throwing the army into hopeless confusion. Before long the whole of the Bear's troops were in retreat, and the victorious army of the winged-creatures swept on and over them. Late that night Bruin the Bear and Isengrim the Wolf, both of them very bedraggled and wearied with much running, sat together gloomily in a distant part of the wood. Presently they saw Reynard the Fox limping towards them, and immediately they rose and began to heap reproaches upon him. "Traitor!" said Bruin. "Why did you lower the standard? In another hour we should have won." The Fox looked at them sulkily. "Why did I lower the standard?" said he. "Because a wasp came and stung me right at the root of my tail!" [Illustration] [Illustration: THE CAT RUSHED OUT OF THE ROOM] THE END OF THE WORLD Once upon a time an old woman sat spinning in a room at the top of a high tower. Beneath her chair Chaton, her cat, lay peacefully sleeping. All of a sudden the spinning-wheel jarred and made a loud creaking sound. Startled out of his sleep, Chaton the Cat rushed out of the room and bolted down the stairs as though a thousand demons were at his heels. In the yard he passed the house-dog who was sitting in front of his kennel. "Hallo, Chaton!" cried the dog. "Where are you going to in such a hurry?" "I am fleeing the country," answered Chaton. "I have just heard the sounding of the last trump! The end of the world is at hand!" "If that is so," said the dog, "I would like to run away too. May I come with you?" "Certainly," answered Chaton. "Seat yourself on my beautiful curly tail." So the dog perched himself on the cat's tail, and off they went together. A little farther on they came to the farm-gate, and there, perched on the topmost rail, was the cock. "Whither away, Chaton?" asked the cock. "You seem to be in haste." "Yes," said Chaton. "I have heard the last trump, which proves that the world is coming to an end, and I want to get safely away before that happens." "Take me with you, Chaton dear," said the cock. "By all means," answered the cat. "Jump on to my beautiful curly tail beside the dog." So the cock perched himself on Chaton's tail, and now there were two passengers. Away went the cat even faster than before, so as to make up for lost time, and presently they passed a rabbit who was nibbling the grass in a field. "Chaton, Chaton," cried the rabbit, "why are you running so quickly?" "Don't stop me!" answered the cat. "I've heard the last trump! The end of the world is coming!" "Oh, dear me!" cried the rabbit. "What an unfortunate thing! Don't leave me here, Chaton, for I am afraid to face the end of the world." "Very well," said Chaton. "Jump on to my beautiful curly tail with the dog and the cock, and I'll take you with me." So the rabbit also perched himself on the cat's tail, and now there were three of them riding there. Off went the cat again, but not so quickly this time, because of the weight on his tail, and before very long he came to a pond by the side of which a goose was standing. "Now then, now then, what's the hurry?" asked the goose. "If you run so fast you'll overheat your blood and die of a fever." "It's all very well to scoff," answered the cat, "but you must know that the end of the world is coming. I have heard the last trump sound!" [Illustration: THE CAT, THE DOG, THE COCK, THE RABBIT, AND THE GOOSE] "My goodness!" said the goose. "This is dreadful! Take me with you, Chaton, and I'll be grateful for ever." "Very well," said the cat. "Jump on to my beautiful curly tail with the dog and the fox and the rabbit." So the goose also perched herself on the cat's tail, so now there were four passengers, and that made five altogether who were running away to escape the end of the world. [Illustration: "SEE IF YOU CAN ESPY A HOUSE"] All that day the cat kept on running, and towards dusk they came to a forest. "This seems a good place to rest," said Chaton. "Now then, master cock, fly to the top of a tree and see if you can espy a house in which we can take shelter." The cock flew to the top of a high tree and from there he saw a number of lights twinkling in the distance. The five fugitives thereupon set off in the direction from which the lights shone, and before long they came to a little village. All the people of the village had left their houses and were gathered together in the square, round a man dressed all in red, with a big red feather in his cap, who was addressing them. Chaton and his companions pressed close to the edge of the crowd and were just in time to hear these words: "Whoever finds the ring," said the man with the red feather, "and places it on the table in my palace to-morrow before dawn, shall have the five bags of gold which hang on my saddle bow." Having said this, the man in red mounted his horse and rode away. [Illustration: "JUMP ON TO MY BEAUTIFUL CURLY TAIL"] Chaton went up to a little peasant who was standing in the crowd. "Tell me, gossip," said he, "who is the man with the red feather, and what's all this about a ring and five bags of gold?" "Why," said the peasant, "the man in red is the King of this country. He had a valuable ring which was kept in a tiny wooden case on the table by his bed. This afternoon a magpie flew in through the window, snatched up the case, and bore it away to its nest in the topmost boughs of the walnut tree on the village green. The King wants his ring back again, and will give the five bags of gold to anybody who will recover it for him." "I see," said Chaton; "and why don't _you_ climb the walnut-tree and get the ring?" "Because I have too much respect for my neck," answered the peasant, "and so has everybody else here. The boughs at the top of the tree where the nest is are so thin and slender that they would not bear the weight of a child, let alone a grown man. Gold is good, but whole limbs are better, that's what I say!" "And I!" "And I!" echoed other villagers who had been listening to this conversation. "In my belief you are quite right," said Chaton seriously. "Let the King risk his own life if he is so anxious to recover his ring." But afterwards, when he had withdrawn with his companions to the shelter of the wood, he sang a different tune. "My friends," said he, "our fortunes are made! As soon as all is quiet I will climb the tree and get the ring; then you shall sit on my tail again and we'll all go off together to the King's palace and get the bags of gold!" He danced for joy, and the dog and the cock and the goose and the rabbit danced with him. An hour afterwards the cat climbed the tree and came down safely with the little wooden box. The rabbit gnawed it open with his teeth, and sure enough there was the ring inside it. "Now," said Chaton, "we will all go to the King's palace, but I am very tired with running all day. I propose that the dog takes a turn at carrying us." This was agreed. The other four got on to the dog's back and clung there while he ambled off as fast as he could along the road towards the palace. [Illustration: THE OTHER FOUR GOT ON TO THE DOG'S BACK] Just before dawn they came to a wide river. Now it was the turn of the goose to work for the common good. She was quite used to the water, and one by one she took the other animals across on her back. Shortly afterwards they arrived at the King's palace, and the cock flew up through the open window of the King's room with the ring in his beak, and placed it on the table by the bed. Then he awoke the King with a loud crow and claimed the reward, which was willingly given. In great glee at their good fortune the animals went on their way, each with his bag of gold, and every one of them had by this time quite forgotten his fear about the coming of the end of the world. They went on and on until they came to a place where five ways met. Then Chaton said: "Here we are at the parting of the ways. Let us each choose a road, and part good friends." At this moment there came along a pig with a knife and fork stuck in his back. In his right ear was salt; in his left ear pepper, and mustard was on his tail, so that everybody who was hungry had only to cut themselves a slice of meat and sit down to feast. Our friends gladly availed themselves of this good chance, and I who tell you this story would willingly have done the same, but as soon as I went up to the pig, he ran at me with his head down and sent me flying through the air, and through the window of my house, where I fell into the chair in which I am now sitting, finishing this story of the wonderful adventures of Chaton, the Dog, the Cock, the Rabbit, and the Goose. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE DRAGON] THE REWARD OF THE WORLD In days of old, when there were dragons in the land, a youthful knight was riding along the high road. It was a beautiful summer day, and the sun shone so warmly that the rider presently began to feel thirsty, so coming to a clear stream of water, he swung himself from the saddle and went to drink. As he parted the bushes to get to the water he heard a strange rumbling and roaring sound, and looking quickly in the direction from which it came he saw to his horror an immense dragon lying by the water-side pinned down by a huge mass of rock which had rolled down upon the creature as it came to drink. The knight's first impulse was to flee, for it is better not to meddle with dragons, even when accident has rendered them helpless, but before he could regain his horse the creature saw him, and cried, "Good knight, come and help me, I pray you, to escape from my miserable position. This rock upon my back is slowly crushing me to death." The knight hesitated, and was in two minds what to do between his fear of the dragon and his pity for its unfortunate plight. Seeing this, the creature called out again, saying, "If you will only set me free I will repay you richly, for I will give you _The Reward of the World_." "_The Reward of the World_," thought the knight, "that will indeed be worth having!" for he had often heard that dragons were the guardians of immense treasures. So, overcoming his fright, he went up to the creature, and at the cost of great exertion managed to roll away the stone that was pressing on its back. "Poof! That's better," said the dragon, blowing a cloud of smoke out of its nostrils. "I had begun to think I was doomed to stay in that place for ever!" He rubbed his sore back reflectively with one scaly paw, and looked at the knight, who stood waiting. "Well?" said he. "You promised me _The Reward of the World_!" said the knight. "Did I so?" asked the dragon, still tenderly stroking his back. "Well, you shall have it!" And suddenly he launched himself upon the knight, winding his horrible coils around his body, and almost crushing him to death. The unfortunate young man struggled feebly, but he was powerless in the grip of the monster. "Your promise!" he gasped. "Is this my reward for having saved your life?" "Certainly," replied the dragon. "This is _The Reward of the World_. I am keeping my word!" "I don't believe you," said the knight. "It is a trick to excuse your treachery. What a fool I was to trust a dragon's word!" [Illustration: AN IMMENSE DRAGON LYING BY THE WATER-SIDE] "It is just as I say," the dragon replied. "But I confess I owe you something, and I should hate to eat you feeling that you had a grievance. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll submit this question to the first three people we meet along the road, and if they decide in my favour you must accept the verdict. Is it agreed?" "Agreed," said the knight, who was glad of any chance to escape from the dragon's coils, so the creature released him, and the two set off together down the road. They had not gone far before they met the dog. "Stay a moment, master dog," said the knight. "What do you understand by _The Reward of the World_?" The dog replied, "When I was young I was a splendid watch-dog, and guarded my master's house against all comers. In those days everybody made a fuss of me. I had plenty of good food to eat, and my own particular place before the fire. Now, alas! I am old. My sight is so weak and my powers so feeble that I can no longer work for my living, and in consequence everybody kicks me out of their way. I eat what I can get, which is not much. Even the children throw stones at me, knowing that my teeth are not sharp enough to bite, and wherever I go people say, 'There is that beastly hound again! Chase him away with a stick!' That is _The Reward of the World_." [Illustration: "MY SIGHT IS SO WEAK AND MY POWERS SO FEEBLE"] There was little comfort for the knight in this, nevertheless he did not give up hope, but accosted the next creature they met, which happened to be a horse. "What is _The Reward of the World_?" the knight asked him. "Listen," said the horse bitterly, "and I will tell you. All my life I have laboured diligently for one master. Day in and day out I dragged his cart to market, working myself to skin and bone in his service. Now I am grown old and my strength begins to fail, so that I can no longer earn my keep. To-day I heard him say that he was going to send me to the knackers' yard and sell my poor old carcass for a couple of crowns. That is _The Reward of the World_, young master, and may heaven preserve you from it!" "You see!" said the dragon, as the two went on, "my words are already justified. Come, be sensible and let me eat you without further ado!" "No," said the knight, "we have still one person to ask. Here comes a fox. Let us see what he has to say about the matter. Reynard, what do you understand by _The Reward of the World_?" "How do you mean?" asked the fox. "What is the case in point?" "Well, you see," explained the knight, "I found this dragon in a position of uncommon peril, and he promised, if I would rescue him, to give me _The Reward of the World_. The question now arises as to what _The Reward of the World_ is." "I see," said Reynard thoughtfully. "His life was in danger, you say? How was that?" "A huge stone had fallen on to his back, pinning him down so that he could not move. I rolled the stone away, and set him free." The fox scratched his head and pondered. "If you don't mind," said he, "I'd rather like to have this matter made a little clearer. Where did all this happen?" "A little farther back along the road, by the side of the stream." [Illustration: "DOES THE DRAGON MIND GETTING UNDER THE STONE AGAIN?"] "I'll come and look at the place!" So the knight led Reynard to the banks of the stream, where he stood gazing for a time at the big stone. "I want to be quite sure I understand all the circumstances," said he at last. "Does the dragon mind getting under the stone again for a moment, so that I can see exactly how he lay?" "Not at all," said the dragon politely, and he lay down on the bank, while the knight and the fox together rolled the stone on top of him. "Splendid!" said Reynard, when the dragon was safely pinned down. "Now everything is as it was before!" Then turning to the knight, he added, "If you, knowing what you know now, care to release him again, you are at liberty to do so, but...." And he winked slyly. There was no need to say more. "I am really very much obliged to you," said the knight, as he walked off down the road with Reynard, leaving the dragon still under the stone. "That was a capital idea of yours, and it certainly saved my life. I would like to show my gratitude in some way, and I shall be honoured if you will accept my hospitality for a few days." Reynard needed no pressing, but went home with the young man there and then, and thoroughly enjoyed the good fare with which he was provided. Since, however, a fox is always a fox, no matter what company he is in, Master Reynard could not forbear from stealing, and every night he crept into the hen-house and killed one or two chickens. When the knight discovered this he was very angry, and picking up a big stick he gave the fox a good thrashing and drove him forth. "That is _The Reward of the World_," he said to himself, as he watched Reynard disappearing into the distance. But whether he was referring to the way the fox had treated him, or to his own treatment of the fox, I cannot say. [Illustration] [Illustration: NOTHING WAS LEFT OF THE FISHES] ONE BAD TURN BEGETS ANOTHER Tybert the Cat and Courtoys the Dog were very great friends--that is to say they were as friendly as their natures would let them be. Both of them were exceedingly greedy and selfish. The Cat was spiteful and the Dog was sullen. Master Tyb was always willing to give up to the dog what he did not need himself, and on his part, Courtoys never stole the cat's food while the cat was looking. Neither was loath to play a mean trick upon the other if he could do so without injury to himself, but except for these little matters they were quite in accord, and very friendly, as I said before, and on the whole they got on very well together. There came a time when, in spite of Tybert's shyness and Courtoys' strength, they could by no means find anything to eat. For two days not a morsel of food had passed the lips of either; and this made them very bad tempered. "I wish I'd never seen you," said Courtoys to Tyb. "A fine partner you are, upon my word, when you can't find food for us. Where are those wonderful wits of yours, of which you are always boasting." "In my head," answered Tyb spitefully. "And such as they are, they have to do duty for two. If you'd talk less, and think more, and use your eyes, we would be better off. Here is a cart coming along the road; perhaps we shall find our dinner inside it!" Sure enough, a heavy wagon was rumbling along the road towards them, driven by a peasant with a round and rather stupid face. As it came nearer, Tyb and Courtoys sniffed the air, and the water ran out of the corners of their mouths. "Fish," said Tybert ravenously. "Fish!" echoed Courtoys. "Here's a chance to exercise those wits of yours. How can we get it?" "I have a plan," answered the Cat. "Come quickly and hide yourself with me in the ditch until the wagon has passed, and I will tell you all about it!" So it was done. The wagon rumbled by, the scent of the fish with which it was laden filling the air, and the driver went on calmly smoking his pipe, little dreaming that four hungry eyes were gazing at him through the bushes that bordered the side of the road. "Now then," cried Tybert, "our time has come. Follow the wagon and don't let it out of your sight for a moment, but take care that the driver does not see you. I shall go on in front and stretch myself out on the road, pretending to be dead. It's odds but what the driver, seeing me lying there, will covet my skin, and will pick me up and throw me into the cart. Once there, I'll throw the fish out to you, and you will know what to do with it." "Oh, yes, I'll know what to do with it," said Courtoys to himself, with a grin, and, keeping well out of sight of the driver, he followed the wagon. [Illustration: THE BIGGEST AND FATTEST FISH] Tybert's plan worked to perfection. He ran on for about a quarter of a mile, keeping to the fields bordering the road, and then stretched himself out at full length, with his mouth open as though he were dead. "Oho!" said the peasant, as he drove up. "What's this? A dead cat! I'll take him with me, and sell his skin for a few sous. This time next week some fine lady will be wearing him round her neck, thinking he's sable." And with that he dismounted, picked up the cat and slung him carelessly into the wagon on top of the heap of fish. [Illustration: STRETCHED HIMSELF OUT AT FULL LENGTH] Hardly was he back in his place, than Tybert arose and began to pick out the biggest and fattest fish and throw them into the road. He had to be very careful in doing this, because now and again the peasant turned his head. Once when a very big fish was tumbled out, the noise of its fall aroused the peasant, who swung round sharply, and Tybert was only just in time to avert discovery by laying himself out and pretending to be dead as before. When he had thrown out what he considered was a sufficient quantity, Tybert rested awhile, so that the dog could collect the spoils, and then jumped from the wagon to go and claim his share. When he came up to Courtoys, however, he found to his dismay that nothing was left of the fish but a heap of bones. "That was a splendid plan of yours, brother," said Courtoys, licking his lips. "The fish were delicious, and I hardly feel hungry at all now! Do make haste and take your share!" And he waved his paw invitingly towards the heap of bones. Tybert gave him one look, and then grinned as though in enjoyment of an excellent joke. Not by word or action did he give any sign of the anger which was consuming him, but he determined to have his revenge. A day or two later his chance came. Lurking in his usual stealthy way in a farmyard, he saw the farmer go into the house with a fine big ham, which he hung by a cord on a nail in the kitchen wall. Away he ran to Courtoys and told him what he had seen. "Well," said Courtoys surlily, "and what about it?" "Why," answered Tybert. "There is no reason why we should not feast on that ham, you and I. It will be the easiest thing in the world to steal it. The latch of the kitchen window is broken, and it cannot be locked. All you have to do is to go there to-night, creep through the window, pull down the ham, and throw it out to me." "Why can't you get it yourself?" asked Courtoys suspiciously. "Ah," said the cat, "I am not strong enough to pull it down." "And what about the farmer's dogs? I seem to remember hearing they are savage brutes!" "Well, of course, if you're _afraid_ ..." answered the cat disdainfully. "Afraid yourself!" cried Courtoys. "You leave this to me." So that very night, when the moon had set, the two crept into the farmyard, and the dog managed to get through the window into the kitchen unobserved. The next moment he had pulled down the ham and had thrown it out of the window to Tybert, who was waiting below. Tybert seized it in his mouth and ran off, but as soon as he reached the gate he gave a series of such blood-curdling miaows, that he roused every dog on the farm. Out they came, hair bristling, and teeth flashing, just in time to catch our friend Courtoys as he jumped down from the window. Then occurred a ferocious fight. With his back to the wall Courtoys put up a sturdy resistance, but he was very badly mangled indeed before he managed to escape. With one ear torn off and one eye closed, bleeding from many wounds and panting with his exertions, he limped painfully up to where the cat awaited him. "My poor friend," cried Tybert. "Are you badly hurt? Never mind, the ham was worth it--it simply melted in the mouth. I have already eaten my share, and I willingly give you yours!" So saying, he pointed to the greasy string by which the ham had been suspended, and which was now all that remained. Courtoys gazed at it blankly. "You see," explained Tybert calmly, as he prepared to take his departure, "a cord is worth a good many fishbones!" [Illustration] [Illustration: "WHY ARE YOU BLOWING YOUR SOUP?"] THE PEASANT AND THE SATYRS One cold winter's day a peasant set out on a journey which led him through the depths of a forest into which he had not hitherto been. The result was that he lost his way, and after wandering about for many hours in the hope of finding it again, he found himself, just as dusk was coming on, in a little clearing where he was overjoyed to see a small house with a cheerful light in the window. "Here is a chance of supper and a bed," thought the peasant, and he made haste to go up to the cottage door. Now this house in the clearing was not inhabited by men, but by some strange forest folk who were called satyrs. If you want to know what they were like, you must look at the pictures. Certainly the peasant had never seen anything like them before, although he had often heard of them, and when he nearly tumbled over the little satyr children who were playing in the snow outside the house door, he was the most surprised man in all those parts. It was too late to draw back however, so he went boldly up to the door and gave a loud knock. "Come in!" cried a gruff voice, and the peasant accordingly went in and found himself facing the Father of all the Satyrs, who had a long beard and a pair of horns jutting from his forehead. The poor fellow's knees trembled underneath him for fright, especially when he saw all the other satyrs, the mother and the uncles and the aunts, glowering at him. "Please forgive me for my intrusion," said he, "but I have lost my way in the woods, and I am half dead with hunger and cold. It would be an act of great kindness if you would give me some food and allow me to take shelter for the night." So saying, to give point to his remarks, he set to work to blow upon his chilled fingers, which indeed were blue with the cold. "Why are you blowing your fingers?" asked the Father of all the Satyrs curiously. "Why, to warm them," answered the peasant, and he blew harder than before. "Well, sit down," said the Satyr. "As it happens we are just about to have supper, and you are welcome to share it with us." So the peasant sat down to supper, and all the Satyr family sat down too, and watched him with big unblinking eyes, so that he felt very uncomfortable. A big basin of soup was set before him, and finding it very hot, he began to blow upon it. At this all the Satyr family cried out in surprise, and the Father Satyr said, "Why are you blowing your soup?" "To cool it," answered the peasant. "It is too hot, and I am afraid it may scald my mouth." [Illustration: THE SATYRS' VILLAGE] [Illustration: "THERE IS NO PLACE IN MY HOUSE FOR A MAN WHO CAN BLOW HOT AND COLD"] Another and a louder cry of surprise came from all the Satyrs, but the Father cried out loudest of all, and seemed very indignant. "Come," he said, advancing to the peasant and taking him by the collar. "Out you go! There is no place in my house for a man who can blow hot and cold with the same breath. That smells too much of sorcery or magic. Out you go, I say, and practise your spells in the forest." So the poor peasant had to go supperless and spend the night in the woods, with no shelter but the trees, and the snow for coverlet. And, if you wish to know when all this happened, all I can tell you is that it was a very long time ago, in the days when fishes flew, and cats had wings. [Illustration] [Illustration: THE TWO FRIENDS] THE TWO FRIENDS AND THE BARREL OF GREASE A dog and a wolf who were very great friends set up house together, and agreed to share equally any food they might obtain. One day they managed to steal a barrel of grease from the house of a countryman who lived close by, and having no immediate need of it, they decided to put it away until the winter, when they might be glad of anything they could get to appease their hunger. So the barrel of grease was carefully hidden away in the cellar. All went well for some time, and then the wolf began to think longingly of the hidden store. Every time he thought of the grease he imagined himself licking it up, and at last he could withstand the temptation no longer, so he went to the dog and said: "I shall be out all day to-morrow. A cousin of mine has just had a little son, and he has sent for me to go and be godfather at the christening." "Very well, my friend," answered the dog. "Go by all means. They have paid you a great honour by asking you, and of course you cannot refuse." The wolf departed, but he went no farther than the cellar, where he spent the whole of the day by the barrel of grease, eating and eating until he could hold no more. Late at night he returned, licking his chops, and the dog said: "Well, my friend, did everything go off well?" "Splendidly, thank you!" answered the wolf. "Good! And what name did they give the child?" "Oh," said the wolf, thinking of the barrel of grease, "they called him _Begun_." "What a strange name!" cried the dog, "I never heard the like of it in my life. However, every one to his taste!" A day or two later the wolf once again began to think of the delicious food in the cellar, so he told the dog that he had just received another summons from a different cousin, who also had a baby to which she wished him to stand godfather. "I wish to goodness they would leave me alone!" he said, pretending to be very much annoyed. "Anybody would think that I had nothing else to do but to stand godfather to other people's brats!" "You shouldn't be so good-natured," laughed the dog. "It is clear that you make a very good godfather, or you would not be so much in demand." Away went the wolf and spent a second satisfying day with the barrel of grease. When he returned the dog asked him the name of the child. "_Half-Done_," said the wolf. "Bah!" cried the dog, "that is an even sillier name than the other. I can't think what parents are coming to--in my time plain Jean or Jacques was good enough for anybody." The wolf made no reply, being in fact fast asleep, for he had dined very well, and was drowsy. A day or two afterwards however, he played the same trick again, and devoured the last of the fat in the barrel. This time, when asked the name of the child to whom he had stood godfather, he answered: "_All-done_." [Illustration: "WHERE HAS ALL OUR GREASE GONE?"] The dog had no suspicion of the way he had been deceived, and all went well until the winter came and food became difficult to procure. Then one day the dog said: "It seems to me that the time has come to tap our barrel of grease. What do you say, friend? Weren't we wise to put it away for a time like this!" "I believe you," answered the wolf. "Come then, let us go to the cellar and enjoy the fruits of our prudence." So off they went to the cellar, where they found the barrel in the very place they had left it, but with nothing inside it. The dog looked at the wolf, and the wolf looked at the dog, and of the two the wolf seemed the more surprised. "What's this?" cried the dog. "Where has our grease gone?" Then, looking at the wolf suspiciously: "This is some of your work, my friend!" "Oh, indeed!" said the wolf, "and since when has it been proved that dogs do not like grease?" "You mean to accuse me of stealing it?" cried the dog angrily. "One of the two of us must have taken it, for nobody else knew it was here!" "It was certainly not I." "Well," said the wolf, "it is no use squabbling over the matter. Fortunately there is a way of discovering which of us is the culprit. Obviously the one who has eaten all that grease must be absolutely full of fat. Let us both go to sleep in the sunshine. At the end of an hour or two the heat will melt the grease which will soak through and show on the body of the one who is the thief." Feeling quite secure in his innocence, the dog willingly agreed to this plan, and the two went out and lay down in a sheltered place, where the heat of the sun was strong. After a time the dog began to yawn, and in less than half an hour he was sound asleep, but the wolf had a good reason for not following his example, and although he closed his eyes to deceive his friend, he remained wide awake. Presently, having made sure that the dog was slumbering peacefully, he arose and tiptoed softly down to the cellar. There he collected with his long tongue, every bit of the grease that still remained sticking to the sides and bottom of the barrel, and returning to the sleeper, carefully smeared the grease over his jaws, back, and thighs. Several times he did this, until the dog was covered with a thin greasy film. Then he lay down again and once more pretended to sleep. A little while afterwards the dog woke up, and found the grease all over his body. He could not make out how it got there, and while he was still regarding himself with a look of blank surprise, the wolf cried: "Ah, now we know who was the thief! The grease has betrayed you, my friend!" The poor dog looked very sheepish, and had not a word to say for himself. He puzzled over the matter until his head ached, and at last he came to the conclusion that he must have been sleep-walking and have stolen the grease without knowing it--a conclusion with which the wolf entirely agreed. [Illustration] [Illustration: MRS. BRUIN AND REYNARD] WHY THE BEAR HAS A STUMPY TAIL One very cold winter, when the ground was covered with snow and the ponds and rivers were frozen hard, Reynard the Fox and all the other animals went out to enjoy themselves by sliding and skating on the ice. After a time Reynard began to feel hungry, so he wandered off by himself in search of something to eat. He nosed about here, and he nosed about there; he lay in wait behind bushes in the hope of being able to catch a bird; he lurked by the walls of farmhouses ready to spring out upon any unsuspecting chicken that might show itself, but all in vain. The birds were wary, and the fowls were all safe in the hen-houses. [Illustration: "AFTER A TIME THE FISH WILL COME TO BITE AT IT"] Disappointed with his lack of success Reynard betook himself to the river, now covered with a glistening sheet of ice, and there, under the shelter of a bank, he found a hole in the ice which had not been frozen over. He sat down to watch the hole, and presently a little fish popped up its head for a breath of air. Reynard's paw darted, and the next moment the unfortunate creature lay gasping on the ice. Fish after fish the fox caught in this way, and when he had quite satisfied his hunger he strung the remainder on a stick and took his departure, not forgetting first of all to offer up a prayer for the repose of his victims. He had not gone far before he met Mrs. Bruin, who had also come out in search of something to eat. When she saw Reynard with his fine catch of fish, she opened her eyes, I can tell you, and said: "Wherever did you get all those fine fishes from, cousin? They make my mouth water! I am so hungry that I could bite the head off an iron nail!" "Ah," said Reynard slyly, "wouldn't you just like to know!" "It is what I'm asking you," said Mrs. Bruin. "You would surely not be so mean as to keep the good news to yourself!" "I don't know so much about that," answered Reynard, "but I have a certain fondness for you, cousin, so come along with me and I will show you the place where I caught the fish." Nothing loath, the bear followed, and presently they came to the hole in the ice. "Do you see that hole, cousin?" said Reynard. "That is where the fish come up to breathe. All you have to do is to sit on the ice and let your tail hang down into the water. After a time the fish will come to bite at it, but don't you move. Sit quite still until the evening; then you will find a score of fishes on your tail and you can pull them out all together." Mrs. Bruin was delighted with the plan and immediately sat down and dipped her tail into the water. [Illustration: "ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS TO SIT ON THE ICE"] "That's the way," said Reynard. "Now I'll just be walking home to see to my dinner, but I'll be back presently. Be careful to keep quite still, or you'll spoil everything!" So for the next three hours Mrs. Bruin sat on the ice with her tail in the water, and very cold it was, but she consoled herself with the thought of the delicious meal she would have when the fish were landed. Late in the afternoon Reynard returned. "Well, cousin," said he, "how do you feel?" "Very cold," said Mrs. Bruin, with her teeth chattering. "My tail is so numb that I hardly know I've got one!" "Does it feel heavy?" asked Reynard anxiously. "Very heavy," said Mrs. Bruin. "There must be _hundreds_ of fish on it!" said Reynard. He left the bank and walked round the bear, observing that the water in the hole had frozen over, and that Mrs. Bruin's tail was held firmly in the ice. "I think you may safely pull up now," he went on, "but you must be careful to land all the fish together. There is only one way to do that: you must give a strong, sharp, sudden pull and take them by surprise. Now then, are you ready? One, two, three...!" [Illustration: "ONE, TWO, THREE...!"] At the word three Mrs. Bruin rose on her hind legs and gave a mighty jerk, but her tail was so firmly embedded in the ice that it would not come out. "My word," cried Reynard, "you have caught the whole river-full. Persevere, cousin--now then, a long pull and a strong pull!" "Ouf!" grunted Mrs. Bruin, "ouf, ouf ... ah!" And then she suddenly tumbled head over heels on the ice, as with one mighty jerk, she snapped her beautiful bushy tail clean off close to the roots. When she had gathered her scattered wits together well enough to understand what had happened, she went to look for Reynard, but he had suddenly remembered an important engagement elsewhere, and was not to be found. And from that time down to this every bear has been born with a little stumpy tail. [Illustration] [Illustration: MARGOT AND THE CAT] THE WITCH'S CAT Once upon a time there was a wicked old witch who lived all alone in the topmost chamber of a tall and gloomy tower. There she sat day after day with her ugly head resting on her hands, peering out through a slit in the wall upon the countryside. Her only companion was a big black tom-cat, who sat by her side in the darkened chamber, his eyes shining like green fire in the gloom. One day as the witch sat there, she saw a little girl gathering berries in the wood. The sight made her show her toothless gums in a malicious grin and she muttered to herself: "Wait there, wait there, my ducky, my darling, till I come to you, for your flesh will be very sweet." Then she put on a long cloak and took a walking-staff in her hand and went down the stairs. Now the little girl, whose name was Margot, had strayed very far from home in her eagerness to gather the ripe berries, and she was in a part of the country which was quite strange to her. Had she happened to meet anybody on her way they would have warned her not to go near the witch's tower, but she had not met a soul all day, and so she had no idea of the dreadful danger that was threatening her. She went on gathering her berries, light-heartedly humming a tune, until her basket was nearly full, and then she sat down at the foot of a tree to rest. Presently she saw an old woman coming towards her. It was the witch, who had muffled herself up in her cloak, so that her face could not easily be seen. "Good-day, my dear," said the witch. "Will you give me a few of those ripe berries?" "Of course I will," answered Margot. "Take as many as you like, I can easily gather some more." So the witch took a handful of berries, and sat down by Margot's side to eat them. And all the time she was eating she was gazing greedily at the little girl's white neck and rosy cheeks, but Margot could not see the hateful look in the witch's eyes because the cloak hid her face. "Where do you live, little girl?" asked the witch after a while. Margot told her, and the witch said: "You must be very tired with walking all that way. If you will come to my house I will give you a bowl of milk and a slice of currant cake, and you shall see all the wonderful things that I keep in my cupboards." So Margot went with the witch into the gloomy tower, not so much because she wanted the milk or the cake, but to see the pretty things in the cupboards, and no sooner was she within than the witch fell upon her, and bound her fast with a cord, and carried her up to the topmost room, where the cat was sitting blinking its green eyes. Then the old witch opened the door of a dark cupboard, and pushed poor Margot inside, for she meant to keep her there until she had grown bigger and fatter, so that she would make a more satisfying meal. To this end the witch brought her plenty of rich food every day, and from time to time she would feel Margot's arm to see whether she was plump enough to go into the pot. Poor child, how frightened she was, and how miserable at being kept in that dark cupboard all alone. She cried nearly all day long, but there was nobody to hear her except the witch's big black cat, and he was a silent animal who did not show his feelings. Margot was almost as sorry for him as she was for herself, for the witch often beat him unmercifully, and the girl tried to comfort him by giving him pieces from her dinner, which she pushed out through the crack under the door. [Illustration: SHE MEANT TO KEEP HER THERE UNTIL SHE HAD GROWN BIGGER AND FATTER] One day when the old witch had gone out as usual, leaving Margot a prisoner, the girl was surprised to hear a voice speaking to her from the room beyond. "Margot, Margot," said the voice, "don't cry any more, but listen to me." "Who are you?" asked the little girl. "I am the witch's cat," the voice went on. "I am going to push the key of the cupboard underneath the door. Take it and let yourself out, but make haste, for you have no time to waste!" "Thank you, thank you," said Margot, when she found herself free. "But how is it that you are able to talk? I did not know that cats could speak." "They can't, as a rule," said the witch's cat, "but never mind that now. The witch may return at any moment, and we must get you safely out of her reach." "Yes, yes," said Margot, "I must go at once. I will run like the wind!" "That is no use," said the cat. "Before you had got half-way home the witch would overtake you." "Then what must I do? Is there anywhere I can hide?" "When she returns and finds you gone she will ransack every corner of the tower. Not even a mouse could escape her keen eyes." "Oh dear! oh dear!" said Margot, beginning to cry again. "Do help me to escape, kind cat, and I will be grateful to you all my life." "Of course I will help you," answered the cat, "that is why I let you out of the cupboard. Take this piece of carpet, and when the witch has almost overtaken you, throw it on to the ground and it will turn into a wide river. That will delay her for some time, because she cannot swim, but if she manages to get across, and overtakes you again, throw down this comb, which will immediately change into a dense forest. You may plunge into it without fear, for a way will open before you between the trees, but the witch will have to cut a way through, foot by foot, with her knife; and long before she has done that you will be safely home." [Illustration: PADDLING WITH HER BROOM] Margot thanked the cat, and having taken the carpet and the comb, she fled swiftly down the stairs. A short time afterwards the witch came home, and when she discovered that her prisoner had escaped she howled with rage. Mounting to the very roof of the tower, she gazed out upon the countryside, and soon descried the figure of the little girl, running as fast as she could in the direction of her home. "I'll have you yet," muttered the witch, and away she went after her. Margot saw her coming, and redoubled her speed, but all to no avail, for the witch gained upon her rapidly. Soon she heard her hissing breath, and looking fearfully over her shoulder, saw the baleful look of triumph in her eyes. Quickly then, Margot took out the strip of carpet and laid it upon the ground. Immediately it turned into a wide and swiftly flowing river. The witch gave a cry of rage, and tried to wade after her, but the flood mounted swiftly, first to her knees, and then to her waist. Another moment and she would have been swept away, but taking a nutshell from her pocket she set it afloat upon the waters, muttering a charm as she did so. Then the nutshell turned into a little boat, into which the old crone pulled herself, and, paddling with her broom, made shift to cross the river. The delay had given Margot a good start, but the witch wore enchanted boots which enabled her to cover the ground at a wonderful rate. Ten minutes more and she was once again at Margot's heels. Then the little girl drew out the comb and flung it behind her. Immediately a dense forest sprang up, and Margot fled into it, through an alley that opened itself before her. Spluttering with anger, the witch drew her knife to hack her way through the wood, but long before she had cut a dozen yards Margot was safely home and in her mother's arms. The old witch made her way back to the tower, and the things she said were so terrible that the very air was poisoned, and the grass by the roadside withered and turned black. No sooner had she set foot within her doorway, however, than she crumbled to dust, and a wind arose and blew the dust to all quarters of the heavens. So that was the end of the old witch, for her power ceased as soon as one of her victims managed to escape. As for the black cat, nobody ever saw him again, but it was whispered that he was really a Prince whom the wicked old crone had captured years before, and given the shape of a cat by enchantment. By helping Margot to escape he had released himself from the spell that bound him, and was enabled to return to his father's kingdom. 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By THOMAS INGOLDSBY, Esq. 15s. net Also a cheaper edition with 24 selected plates, 6s. net LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN PRINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESS WEST NORWOOD LONDON Transcriber's note Words in italics were surrounded with _underscores_ and small capitals replaced with all capitals. A few errors in punctuation were corrected. Otherwise the original was preserved. Additional: "Krekelput" on page 76 was translated in the footnote with "Snail's Well", a better translation would be "Cricket's Well". Also, the chapter headers were left aligned in the original, this has not been changed. 
48605	----	THE RUSSIAN STORY BOOK CONTAINING TALES FROM THE SONG-CYCLES OF KIEV AND NOVGOROD AND OTHER EARLY SOURCES RETOLD BY RICHARD WILSON AUTHOR OF "THE INDIAN STORY BOOK" WITH SIXTEEN COLOURED PLATES AND LINE ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DRAWINGS BY FRANK C. PAPÉ MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 1916 PREFACE I have gone right into the heart of "Holy Russia," to Kiev and Novgorod and the borders of the Caspian, in an endeavour to show by means of some of the early legends the ideals and point of view of the Russian nation while it was in the process of being made. The stories of the song-cycles of Kiev and Novgorod tell of a barbaric, though not a barbarian, world, full of high colour and spirited action, of the knock-down blow followed quickly by the hand of friendship freely extended to pick up the fallen foeman--if indeed he has had the hardihood to survive. The land of Vladimir and Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck is a Christian land, with the Christianity of the Greek Church, and it is before all else an Easter land, where the Christian Festival of the Resurrection means infinitely more than it can ever do in countries which are not ice-bound for several winter months. The country is, moreover, an outpost of Christianity towards the East--uninfluenced by Renaissance or Reformation--and must therefore have developed interesting characteristics entirely different from those of Western lands. I think that such characteristics are clearly shown in these stories, but I must leave those of my older readers who are interested in this matter to find them out and to discover the Arthur, Guinevere and Galahad of Russia; for my first concern is to tell a tale which will please healthy-minded boys and girls in their early teens. This book might have been written by a Russian who thoroughly understands our language, or by an English author who has spent the best part of a lifetime in studying Russia and the Russians, illustrated by a native artist, and decorated by a Russian designer. When such a volume does appear, it will have a great interest for me. Meanwhile, I submit that there is some artistic unity, also, in a volume of Russian stories, written by an Englishman, illustrated by an English artist, and decorated by an English designer, the whole production being for an English child. One cannot delve far into these folk-lore records without becoming indebted to Miss I. F. Hapgood's English renderings from the collections of Kirshá Danilóv, P. B. Kirýeevsky, A. T. Gillferding, Rybnikof, P. A. Bezsónof and others, published in New York in 1885; to J. Curtin's literal translations from the Naródniya Rússyika Shazki of A. N. Afanásieva; to W. R. S. Ralston's books on Russian folk-song and fable; and to the writings of the Hon. Maurice Baring and Mr. Stephen Graham. To all of these I desire to express my indebtedness for help and guidance, though the responsibility for the telling and interpretation of the tales is entirely my own. If this little collection makes the British child more sympathetic towards Russia and helps it to understand the Russian people to a small degree its purpose will have been achieved. R. W. Hampstead, 1915. CONTENTS PAGE Ilya and Cloudfall 11 Ilya meets Svyatogor and parts with Him 19 Ilya and Nightingale the Robber 33 Ilya and Falcon the Hunter 51 The Adventure of the Burning White Stone 73 How Quiet Dunai had brought the Princess Apraxia to Kiev 83 The Story of Nikitich and Marina 103 How the Court of Vladimir received a Visitor from India the Glorious 119 The Story of Kasyan and the Dream Maiden 149 How Stavr the Noble was saved by a Woman's Wiles 161 The Golden Horde 175 Whirlwind the Whistler, or the Kingdoms of Copper, Silver, and Gold 195 Vasily the Turbulent 231 Nikita the Footless and the Terrible Tsar 267 Peerless Beauty the Cake-Baker 289 ILYA AND CLOUDFALL For thirty years Ilya sat upon the stove in his mother's cottage, for he was a helpless cripple without arms or legs, and really of no use to any one, either in the house or out of it. But when these quiet years were past and over, Ilya came to his own, as you shall see. One summer day his father and mother took down the wooden rakes and went out into the sunny meadow round which the tall pines stood to help to make the hay; and Ilya was left alone in the cottage with his thoughts. All at once he heard a deep voice at the door which said, "In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost." "Amen," responded Ilya at once, and three wayfarers entered after bowing at the threshold. They were old and venerable, and Ilya knew them at once to be singers of holy psalms, who never lacked food and drink among the peasants whose lives they cheered. So, when they asked him for something to drink, he spoke gently to them, partly, however, because he feared the result of their displeasure. "Venerable masters," he said, "whatever is within the house is yours, but, to my sorrow, I cannot rise to wait upon you." Then the holy men looked steadily at him, and before their steadfast gaze Ilya's eyes fell in humility as before the Holy Cross; and as he looked downwards they said to him, "Arise and wash yourself, for you shall be able to walk and to wait upon us." Somehow, Ilya seemed to obey them in spite of himself. He got down from the stove and walked with the legs of a full-grown man of mighty stature. Then stretching out his brawny arms he took the cup, filled it with the drink of the rye, and offered it to the holy guests on bended knee. They took it from him, drank one after the other, and gave it to him again, saying, "Drink in your turn, Ilya." The young man obeyed without a word, and then awaited the further pleasure of the visitors. "Ilya, son of weakness," they said, "how is it with your strength?" "I thank you with reverence, venerable sirs," he replied, bowing low before them, "my strength is now such as could surely move the earth." The old men turned from him and regarded each other with a look of wisdom so pure and clear and like a shaft of brightest sunlight that Ilya's eyes sought the earthen floor of the cottage once again. Then one of the guests, who seemed to be the leader, said in a quiet voice of authority, "Give us to drink once more," and Ilya obeyed without question. "Drink now yourself, Ilya," they said, and he did so. "Ilya, son of weakness," they said, "how is it now with your strength?" "I thank you with reverence, venerable sirs," he said, "my strength is great, but only half the strength I had." "That is well," said the old men; "if it were greater, then moist Mother Earth would be too frail to bear you." Then the old men told Ilya to go out into the summer sunlight, and he walked out of the cottage for the first time, followed by his deliverers; and there, standing in the light, the young man received his blessing and his charge. "Ilya, son of strength," they said, "it is God Himself who has redeemed you from weakness. Therefore you are bound to defend the faith of Christ against all unbelievers, however bold and daring they may be, remembering always that it is not written that you should come to your death in battle. "In the whole white world there is none stronger than you except Svyatogor, whom you will meet before long. Avoid conflict with him, and him alone; do not spend your strength on the soil or the meadow or the forest, but set out without delay for the royal city of Kiev." Having spoken these words, the old men vanished, and Ilya did not see either how or where they went. He only knew that he stood alone in the light of the sun, and he stretched out his great arms as if he had just awakened from a long refreshing sleep. Then the young giant went to seek his father and mother, and found them resting in the shade of the pine trees by the side of the meadow. The whole company was asleep, and taking up one of their axes, Ilya began to hew at the trunks of the pines. It is a matter for wonder that the sound of the crashing trunks which was soon heard did not immediately awake the sleepers, for the young man laid about him lustily during the space of an hour, and at the end of that time had felled a small wood about the extent of a field; which is really not so very marvellous after all, seeing that he had been storing up strength for thirty years. When he had finished this work he drove all the axes lying near the sleepers into a tree-stump with a quiet laugh. "Ah," he said to himself, "they must ask me for these axes if they wish to use them again." After a while the young man's parents and their labourers awoke from sleep, for by his tree-felling Ilya had taken away the shade, and the hot sunlight was now beating full upon their faces. With blinking eyes they looked around, and when they saw the fallen timber and the axes deeply embedded in the stump of a tree, they began somewhat slowly to be filled with very great wonder, and said to one another, "Who has done this?" Then Ilya came out of the forest where he had been hiding and enjoying their awakening. The men were now trying in vain to draw out the axes, and he took them easily from the stump, and handed them to the wondering servants without a word being spoken on either side; for the labourers were too much dazed to break the silence by speech. For a few moments the father and mother gazed at the tall young man, the eyes of the former dwelling upon his stature, his strong limbs, and his mighty shoulders, while the mother gazed steadfastly at the face of her son, which was radiant with a wonderful light. Then, clasping his hands and closing his eyes, the old man gave thanks to God that he should be the father of so splendid a workman; but Ilya showed no sign of continuing in his peasant's task, for with a low bow of reverence to his parents, he strode away without a word across the open plain. His mother watched him go in silence, and then she bowed her head as before the Holy Cross; for the light which she had seen in the young man's eyes never shone in the eyes of a woodman or of one content to spend the summer day making hay in the pine-encircled meadow. Now, as Ilya went on his way he saw a peasant walking heavily across a field, leading a shaggy brown foal, and, in spite of his manhood, this was the first foal that Ilya had ever seen. He suddenly felt a great desire to have this shaggy steed for himself, and having money in his pocket--though how it had got there he could not tell--he soon made the purchase. He paid little attention to the price asked by the greedy, crafty peasant, which was large enough as a plain matter of horse-dealing, for Ilya was no bargain driver. "Now," he said to himself, as he patted the shaggy mane of the little horse, "I must take three months to make this brown foal into a charger; so for that time, at least, I must dwell at home." He therefore turned back to his father's cottage, and, to the quiet delight of his mother, lived there for the time he had appointed. Ilya did not think out his plans for himself at this time, but had a curious feeling that his way was being made plain before him without his will. The foal was at once tied up in the beast-stall in his father's stable, and fed on the finest white Turkish wheat to the great surprise of the old man, who, however, made no remark, for the strange things now happening in his household were rather too much for him. When the shaggy brown foal had been fed for three months in this careful and very extravagant way, Ilya left it for three nights in the garden so that the Powers of Heaven might anoint it with three successive dews. After this, he made a trial of the horse, which was now very strong and frisky, and found that it had become a truly heroic charger, capable of trotting and galloping, and while full of fire and spirit, obedient to its master's lightest word. To this charger Ilya gave the name of Cloudfall, and he now made preparations for setting out on his adventures. ILYA MEETS SVYATOGOR AND PARTS WITH HIM Ilya rose early one morning, dressed himself in his best, and respectfully informed his parents that he wished to leave his home. The old people, who now felt that it would be very unwise, as well as useless, to interfere in the proceedings of their wonderful son, gave him their blessing. His father then went off to his duties with a grunt, and his mother turned to her cooking on the stove with a sigh; for the stove always reminded her of the cripple boy who had been of no use to any one. Meanwhile Ilya had saddled his good steed Cloudfall, and in a short time had ridden far across the open plain. As night was falling he came to a large tent of fair white linen which had been set up near a spreading oak tree. Peeping into this pavilion, he saw a huge bed with the skins turned down, the pillow smoothed, and everything ready for rest. So he fastened Cloudfall to the oak, crept into the bed, and fell into a deep slumber which lasted for three days and three nights. On the third day of the sleep of Ilya, Cloudfall raised his head from his grazing and pricked up his ears, for out of the north came a noise like an earthquake. Moist Mother Earth rocked from side to side, the tall pines shook and staggered as if they were about to fall headlong, and the water of the river suddenly heaved and then overflowed its banks. Roused by the sound, the intelligent animal beat loudly with his hoof upon the earth in the hope of rousing Ilya; but the young man slept the sleep of a tired child. Then Cloudfall put his head through the opening of the tent and snouted above the storm in the speech of Holy Russia, "Ho, ho! Ilya, do you sleep there and take your ease, unmindful of the great misfortune that threatens to o'erwhelm you? The hero Svyatogor is coming to his pavilion where you lodge unasked. Loose me, and let me take to the open plain, and as for yourself, climb up at once into the tall oak tree on the top of yonder hillock." It would have been too wonderful if Ilya had slept when this strange voice sounded in his ear. Up he sprang, fresh from his slumber and wide awake at once, as every young and healthy person must be who has slept well, loosed the thong which bound Cloudfall to the oak, and climbed without further delay into the branches of the tree on the hillock. When he looked down, he saw Svyatogor for the first time, and there could be no doubt that he was a hero. He was taller than the trees of the wood, and his flowing locks seemed to be somewhat confused with the flying clouds. Upon his broad shoulder he carried a casket of crystal, and when he drew near to the pavilion by the first oak tree, he stooped and set it gently upon the ground and opened it with a key of gold. The crystal door swung back without a sound, and out stepped the wife of the hero. In all the white world no beauty like this had ever been seen or told. She was tall and stately, but she stepped as daintily as a white hind. Her eyes were clear and steady as those of the falcon, her eyebrows were as black as a starless night, and the whiteness of her skin dazzled the eyes of Ilya in his oak. As soon as she had stepped out from the crystal casket, she prepared the table for her lord, spreading upon it a cloth of lawn with drawn thread-work as white as Russia in winter, and placing upon it sweetmeats of various kinds. Then she stepped back to her crystal casket and brought out a flagon, wondrously fashioned, containing mead, whose strength assailed the nostrils of Ilya in his oak on the hillock with a power which passed right through him. In a few moments she sat down with her husband, and the two ate and drank while the laughter of the hero shook the trunk of Ilya's oak and the gentle murmur of his fair companion's merriment rustled the leaves in a tender whisper. When Svyatogor had eaten well and drunk better, he went into the pavilion, lay down on the broad bed and fell fast asleep. But his beautiful wife roamed about in the open plain, singing softly to herself; and as she walked about she happened to look up, and saw Ilya, who was gazing at her so steadfastly that he seemed to be nothing but eyes. "Come down," cried the hero's wife; "come down, good and stately youth. Come down out of the damp oak, or I will tell my husband that you have been unkind to me." Now it was not in Ilya's nature to be unkind to any one, so without further words he slipped nimbly down the trunk of the oak; and as soon as he touched the lap of moist Mother Earth, the woman popped him into the pocket of the sleeping hero, and by so doing roused the latter from his heavy sleep. The hero stretched himself, yawned, and sat up blinking, for he was not so young as Ilya, and therefore did not wake so readily. Then he arose, placed his wife in the crystal casket, locked it with the golden key, mounted upon his horse, and took his way towards the Holy Mountains. As the hero rode onward his horse began to bend at the knees and then to stumble, whereupon Svyatogor beat him soundly with a silken whip. The animal stopped short, turned his head and said to his master in a human voice, "I was proud enough to carry a hero and his heroic wife, casket and all, but when I am obliged to add another hero to my load, it is not surprising if I stumble." Svyatogor looked round, and for the first time was aware of his bulging pocket. A little further investigation showed him that he was carrying a fine young man with broad shoulders, on which was set the unmistakable head of a hero. In a moment he had drawn Ilya from his deep pocket and was holding him aloft while he questioned him with knitted brows. "Whence come you, young man?" he cried, and at the sound of that terrible voice the mountains shook, the forests waved, and the river found that its usual channel was not steady enough to contain it, while it occurred to Ilya that it would be best to tell the truth. So he said boldly enough, though his position could scarcely be described as dignified: "It was the noble lady in the crystal casket who bade me come down from the oak, and who placed me in the pocket of your hero-ship." Then the youth's eyes were filled with terror, for a fierce frown suddenly creased the brows of Svyatogor, who turned in his saddle, after having seated Ilya before him, and hurled the crystal casket into the rushing, rocking stream. "Lie there, faithless one," he shouted; "it was surely of little avail to take you out locked up in a glass case if you were to speak to the first goodly young man you meet." Then with a huge gesture of disgust he urged on his steed and took his way along the side of a rocky mountain, talking pleasantly to Ilya as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary. He asked the young man about his parents, his home, and the dearest wish of his heart, which he found was to meet himself, the famous hero Svyatogor. "Yes, I am he," said the rider as lightly as his huge size permitted, "and I would gladly come among you people of Holy Russia, but moist Mother Earth is too soft to bear me up, and I am forced to ride on the rocky crags and high precipices of the great mountains which are strong enough to bear the weight of myself and my steed. I will take you with me to the Holy Mountains, for you are a young man after my own heart." And as they rode onward he told Ilya how a hero lived and how he did the deeds which roused the wonder and the fear of all men. Suddenly Svyatogor said to Ilya, "When we come to my home, I will present you to my father. But before you meet him you must take care to heat a piece of iron in the stove, and when he comes with outstretched hand to greet you, take further care not to place your hand within his own, but let him grasp the heated iron." Ilya promised to follow the instructions of his friend, and before long they came across the craggy peaks to the Holy Mountains, and on the summit of one of them Ilya saw a wonderful palace of white stone. The hero rode forward to the gateway, where he was met by his aged father, whose beard swept his knees like a snow-drift. "Welcome, my dear child," said the old man, to whose tenderness the giant on the mighty steed was still a loving youngster. "Welcome, and thrice welcome! Have you been far afield?" "I have been in Holy Russia, my father," was the reply. "And what saw you in Holy Russia?" asked the old man. "Nothing but melting snow and moist land," said Svyatogor, "too moist indeed for the feet of my steed. But stay, I did meet with some one of note, and I have brought him with me." The old man quickly raised his head, but the movement was merely one of habit, for his eyes were sightless. Sadly he dropped his chin once more upon his breast, and said, "Bring to me the hero of Holy Russia that I may greet him." In the meantime Ilya had found a piece of iron, and having also found a furnace near the gate-way, he quickly made the iron red-hot. Then he grasped the glowing metal in his hand and went forward to greet the blind father of his friend. The old man held out his hand, but Ilya did not clasp it. He placed in its palm the red-hot iron which the old man grasped as if it had been the hand of a friend returned after a long journey. As he felt its burning glow he said, "Thy hands are the hands of a hero, O Ilya, son of strength. Now you are indeed worthy to become the younger brother of Svyatogor. Come within the palace of white stone and rest until the call comes, which comes to all true men of deeds, to sally forth upon yet another journey of adventure." So Ilya and his elder brother went into the palace of white stone and rested as long as they could, which was not really long, for one morning the sun shone and each found the other at the gate looking with longing eyes upon the world. Now as he looked outward, Ilya saw to his surprise and pleasure that a horse was feeding near the outer wall of the palace of white stone. He looked more closely and found to his great delight that it was none other than his own good steed Cloudfall. Quickly he ran to the horse and gaily he greeted it, and before long he was mounted upon its back and racing to and fro over the moist grass before the palace of white stone. As he reached the gate for the third time, he found Svyatogor mounted also, and ready to set out with him in search of adventure. Then they rode out along the ridge of the Holy Mountains, and before long they came to a great casket with a lid lying by its side, and upon the lid was written the inscription, "This casket shall fit him for whom it has been hewn from the rock." The inscription was a plain invitation to one of adventurous spirit, and in a moment Ilya had leapt from his horse and lay at full length within the casket. But it was too long and too wide for him, and he rose saying, "It is not for me that this casket was hewn from the rock." "The casket was meant for me," said Svyatogor, quietly stepping into it and lying down. His words were true enough, for his heroic body fitted it as if he had been measured for it. "Take the cover, Ilya," he said, "and lay it over me." But his younger brother had no desire to perform an entombment of this kind and he said: "I will not lift the cover, elder brother, and shut you up in such a manner. Surely you would amuse yourself with what is to me a jest of the poorest kind, if you would prepare for your burial in this way!" Svyatogor spoke not a word, but reaching forth his hands lifted the lid and covered the casket with it. Then he tried to raise it again, but found that it was easier to get into such a casket than to get out of it. He strove with all his mighty strength to lift the lid, but even this was of no avail, and he cried out through an aperture which still remained between the cover and the side of the casket, "Alas, my brother! It is clear that Fate, who is stronger than heroes, has entangled me at last. I cannot raise the lid. Try to lift it and live to say that you have rescued the prince of heroes." Ilya thereupon put forth all his strength but, strong as he was, he could not raise the lid. "Take my great battle-sword," said Svyatogor, "and strike a blow across the cover." Ilya grasped the sword, which his brother had unbuckled, before he lay down, but was not able to raise it from the earth, so great was its weight. "I cannot lift it," he said in disgust and despair, "to say nothing of wielding it." "Bend down to this rift," replied his elder brother, "that I may breathe upon you with my heroic breath." Ilya obeyed the command, and when Svyatogor had breathed warmly upon him, he felt new strength rise within him, so that he was three times the man he had been. He was now able to raise the sword and struck the lid of the casket a mighty blow, so that all the Holy Mountains re-echoed with the sound. Sparks of flame leapt from the lid of the casket, and an iron ridge was formed upon the stone in the path of that tremendous stroke, so as to strengthen the cover rather than weaken it. "I stifle, younger brother," cried the imprisoned hero. "Try the effect of another blow upon the lid of the fatal casket." Then Ilya smote the cover lengthwise, and the sound of the blow re-echoed more loudly among the Holy Mountains; but the only effect was to raise another ridge of iron upon the lid. Again the imprisoned hero spoke imploringly. "I die, little brother. Bend down again so that I may breathe once more upon you, and this time give you all my heroic strength." Then Ilya spoke, and as the words came from his lips he felt as if a voice within him framed them in despite of his own desires. "My strength is enough, elder brother; if I had more, then moist Mother Earth would not be able to bear me." "You have done well, younger brother," said the voice of Svyatogor, "in that you have disobeyed my last command. Had I breathed upon you again, it would have been with the breath of death. And now, farewell! Take my great battle-sword, which you have fairly won, but tether my good steed to my iron-bound tomb. None but Svyatogor may ride that horse." Then Svyatogor spoke no more, and stooping to the crevice Ilya was no longer able to hear the whisper of his breathing. So he bound the good steed to the casket, girt the great battle-sword about his waist, and rode forth upon Cloudfall into the open plain. But as he turned away, he saw the tears of the imprisoned Svyatogor flowing in a crystal stream through the crevice in the iron-bound casket on the lonely hills. ILYA AND NIGHTINGALE THE ROBBER This is the story of the first of the nightingales, those sweet singers of the evening, each of whom, as the old books tell with certainty, sprang from a poppy seed. And the sower of the first seeds of the blood-red poppy was Ilya the Old Cossáck, who rode the shaggy bay steed Cloudfall. As for Cloudfall, the shaggy bay steed, it is well that you should try to picture him to yourselves. He had a mane of very great length, and a tail ten times as long as his mane, while the shaggy hair of his rough coat was of three colours or tints. He wore a bridle of leather plaited so as to be of enormous strength, twelve saddle-cloths and twelve felts (so cold it was in Holy Russia), and over these coverings a strong leather saddle bound with metal. He had twelve girths made of finest silk, not for display and youthful vanity, but for strength and easiness of movement. His stirrups were of engraved steel brought from Damascus, where the good sword blades are marked with strange devices; the buckles were of bronze which moist Mother Earth is not able to rust, and which no amount of hard wear can in the least affect. Such was Cloudfall the shaggy bay steed of Ilya the Old Cossáck. One Easter morning Ilya took his way to church to greet his risen Master; and as he stood before the altar in the warm glow which lighted up the sanctuary, he vowed a mighty vow, "I will sing at High Mass on this very Easter Day in the royal town of Kiev, and I will go to Kiev by the straight way." For a few moments Ilya stood in deep silence before the altar, as if pausing to gather strength. Then he vowed a second vow, and it was to this effect--as he took the straight way to the royal town of Kiev he would not stain his hand, nor yet the blade of his good keen sword with the blood of the accursed Tatars, the enemies of Holy Russia. A second time he stood in deep silence, as if pausing to gather still more strength. Then he vowed a third vow with his hand upon his mace of steel, and it was to the effect that though he would go by the straight way he would not make use of his fiery darts. After a third space of silence Ilya left the church and came into the courtyard, where his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall was awaiting him to take the heroic journey to the city of Prince Vladimir, the Royal Sun of Kiev. A few wondering peasants saw Ilya as he strode across the courtyard, but as soon as he was mounted upon Cloudfall they saw him no more, so swift was the movement of the shaggy bay steed. Their eyes tried to follow his flight--for it was no gallop--but they seemed to see only a smoke-wreath upon the open plain, or a swift movement like that of a swirl of snow across the wind-swept steppe. Over the grass skimmed Cloudfall, and over the lakes and rivers, while his long tail streamed behind him like that of a comet in the midnight sky; high above the lofty forests he soared, even above the oaks which had stood there since the days before history dawned, yet he kept lower than the drifting clouds; from mountain summit to mountain summit he sprang, and in leaping along the low hill-ranges he missed many of the tops in his flight; and wherever his hoofs fell, springs of water gushed forth from the rock, but when he alighted on the open plain smoke rose beneath his hoofs, wavered for a moment, and then ascended in a steady column towards the clouds. It was a ride or a flight to be remembered for all time, and Ilya himself was not forgetful of this. For he stopped his shaggy bay steed near a forest, felled two mighty trees with his mace, and erected a rough cross on which he carved with his keen sword the following inscription: "Ilya the Old Cossáck rides to Royal Kiev on his first heroic quest." Then he went again upon his wonderful way. Now when he drew near to the city of Chernigof, he saw before him a great host of Tatars, the enemies of Holy Russia, marshalled under three princes, each of whom commanded forty thousand men. From their crowd of warlike steeds there arose a cloud of steam so dense that it hid the sun by day and the moon by night. When Ilya saw this great host before him he remembered his vows, leapt quickly to the earth, and knelt at the right foot of Cloudfall. "Lend me your aid, my shaggy bay steed," he said, and the intelligent animal bowed his head in reply, after which he raised it and sniffed the air with quivering nostril. For a moment Ilya left his side to wrench from moist Mother Earth a ring-barked oak which he bound to the left stirrup of his shaggy bay steed. Then he tore up another tree by the roots, and mounting Cloudfall began to brandish it in his right hand. "Any man can vow a vow," he said grimly, "even before the high altar, but not every man can keep his vow when he has made it; and my vow was to shed no blood with my keen sword nor yet to use my fiery darts." By this time Cloudfall was again passing through the air swifter than a falcon in its flight, though his progress was somewhat stayed when he reached the outer rim of the watching host. Ilya brandished his oak, and bringing it down with one mighty blow after another cleared a path through the host as a hurricane makes a lane through a forest. Through the pathway Cloudfall passed, alighting upon the earth again and again, and leaving wherever he touched the host a heap of prostrate warriors. So did Ilya the Old Cossáck pass through the great host of Tatars, the enemies of Holy Russia. When the hero came to the gates of Chernigof he found them strongly barred, and a keen watch kept against the armies of the Tatars, who were reported to be advancing upon the city. The wall was lofty and broad, but not too high for Cloudfall, who leapt over it with ease, to the great astonishment of the guards and of the leaders who stood on one of the towers in earnest council. Ilya alighted in the broad courtyard of the church, and entering the holy place found the citizens assembled for prayer, which they hoped might avert the approaching calamity or fortify them for the endurance of a cruel death. Then Ilya stood forth amongst them and said boldly, "Ye traders of Chernigof, and citizens all, why do you pray when the time is come for action? Why do you meet together to bid farewell to the white world with all its joys?" Then one of the merchants, who was very richly dressed, explained to Ilya, as if he were quite ignorant of outside affairs, how the city was at that moment besieged by the Tatars. Ilya made a slight gesture of impatience and disgust, "Go out," he said, "upon the broad wall of your famous city, and look towards the open steppe." Then some of the men and a few of the bolder maidens went out upon the ramparts, and in the place where the Tatar banners had stood like a forest, the accursed foes lay in great heaps of slain. Upon this the men of the city bowed themselves before Ilya and begged for the honour of his name. They also besought him to stay with them and be their Tsar, and that he would accept at their hands a bowl of pure red gold, another of shining silver, and a third of fine seed pearls. "Nay, I ask no gifts from you," said Ilya, "though I may possibly have earned them, nor will I stay to be your Tsar. Go on with your lives as of old, my brothers, but grant the favour of showing me the straight way to Kiev town." Again they bowed before him, and one of them, speaking for the others, said, "It is twice as far by the circling path as it is by the straight way, but you must take the longer journey, for athwart the straight way lie three barriers; and the road is so lonely that the grey wolf and the black raven avoid it, for it is deserted even by the dead. The first mighty barrier is a range of lofty mountains; the second is a rushing river of enormous breadth, bordered by the Black Morass; and the third is Nightingale the Robber. "His enormous nest is built upon the tops of seven oaks which saw the dawn of history. When he whistles like a nightingale, roars like a lion, and hisses like a serpent, the trees bow themselves to the earth, the green leaves wither, and both horse and rider fall to the ground as if they were dead." This was enough to stir the soul of the heroic Ilya, who forthwith mounted his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall, and rode out upon the straight way. In due time he came to the lofty mountain range; but this barrier was not likely to prove insurmountable to the shaggy bay steed which soared above it like an eagle in its flight. Then they came to the broad rushing river with the Black Morass by its margin, and Ilya, dismounting, wrenched great oak trees from the trembling grasp of moist Mother Earth and flung them before him with one hand while he led Cloudfall over these bridges which he had made with the other. Soon they came to the broad water, and when Ilya had mounted, the shaggy bay steed cleared its rushing current in a single leap. At last they came to the third barrier, no less than Nightingale the Robber, who was known also as the Magic Bird. As Ilya drew near to his oak trees, Nightingale thrust his head out of the nest and sent forth tongues of flame and showers of sparks from his mouth and nostrils; but this terrible sight had no effect upon the stout heart of the heroic Ilya. Nightingale the Robber therefore began to sing like a bird, varying this entertainment with the roar of a lion and the spiteful hiss of a dragon; and at last the combination of sounds was too much even for Cloudfall. The shaggy bay steed began to tremble with great violence, and then fell upon his knees, whereupon Ilya proceeded to beat him without mercy. "You grass-bag," he cried in his anger, "you wolf-carrion, have you never passed through a gloomy forest and heard the song of a bird, the roar of a wild beast, and the hiss of a serpent? See how easily I shall overcome the Magic Bird!" Then Ilya went up to a willow tree that overhung a brook, broke off a twig, and fitted it to his bow, in order that he might keep his vow to abstain from using his fiery darts. And as he drew his bow-string he cried, "Fly, dart, fly! Pierce the left eye of Nightingale the Robber, and come out at his right ear." Swish! went the magic dart. Cloudfall rose to his feet, and Nightingale the Robber fell from his nest in the old oaks and dumped down upon the lap of moist Mother Earth like an enormous sack of wheat. Then Ilya the Old Cossáck lifted the pestilent thief from the ground by his yellow curling hair, bound him securely to his stirrup, and went on his way once more. By and by they came to the palace of the Magic Bird, where he used to retire with his spoils which he had won in the forest. It was built on seven pillars, and had a courtyard surrounded by an iron paling on each spike of which was the head of a luckless hero, for many brave men had tried to do the deed which Ilya was now performing. Round about the house were the greenest of gardens with loveliest flowers of every hue, and in the midst of these gardens was an orchard with heavily laden fruit trees. From the latticed casements of the palace looked forth the children of the Magic Bird, and when they saw Ilya approaching on his shaggy bay steed they cried out together, "See, Mother, here comes our Father leading a man at his stirrup. Shall we have the captive for dinner?" But Elena, one of the children of the Magic Bird, had only one eye and therefore was a witch; and when she looked out from her own particular latticed casement she saw what had really happened and spoke the truth. "Nay, children," she cried, "it is Ilya the Old Cossáck on his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall, and he rides towards us, bringing our Father as a prisoner." "Crick! Crock! Crack!" cried the children in a croaking chorus; "we will at once change ourselves into ravens and rend that peasant hero in pieces with our beaks of iron. Then shall the fragments of his white body be scattered on the bosom of moist Mother Earth." But Nightingale the Robber, who was not yet dead, shouted out a command that no harm was to be done to Ilya the Old Cossáck. This order, however, had no effect upon the one-eyed daughter, who ran quickly into the courtyard, tore up a heavy steel beam from the threshold, and raising it aloft, hurled it at Ilya with all her strength. So fierce was the attack of the one-eyed witch-daughter of Nightingale the Robber, that even Ilya, whose saddle-seat was so secure, wavered for a moment, and it was only with great difficulty and much skill that he was able to avoid the full force of the angry blow. Then he leapt lightly from his shaggy bay steed and, remembering his vow, raised his right foot and caught the witch with the full force of his outstretched toe. Up she went into the air, higher than the height of a great cathedral, higher than the cross upon its topmost dome, and then she fell down with a bony rattle against the rear wall of the courtyard, and her skin burst with a sharp crack. "Fools all!" shouted Nightingale the Robber. "Fools now and always! Fetch from the cellar a heaped-up waggon-load of red gold, another of white silver, and a third of fine seed pearls. Give all these treasures to Ilya the Old Cossáck, and to Cloudfall, his shaggy bay steed, and see if these fine gifts will not induce him to set me free in a trice. Ha, ha!" But Nightingale the Robber chuckled too soon, for Ilya said in a voice that showed no doubtfulness, "If I should plant my lofty spear in the bosom of moist Mother Earth, and if you were to heap up about it red gold, white silver, and fine seed pearls until not even the sharp tip of it could be seen, yet would I not set you free, Nightingale the Robber, you pestilent thief and father of stealing. You shall come with me forthwith to the glorious town of Kiev, and there you shall receive such forgiveness as you deserve." Then Ilya mounted Cloudfall once more, and the shaggy bay steed began to prance while Nightingale the Robber began to dance; and thus prancing and dancing they came to Kiev, the city of Prince Vladimir. When they arrived the Prince was in the cathedral, and hearing this, Ilya went at once to the sacred courtyard, where he fastened Cloudfall to a golden ring in a tall carven pillar, and said to him, "Keep watch and ward upon Nightingale the Robber, Cloudfall, my faithful shaggy bay steed, and see that he escapes not from my stirrup of damascened steel." Then to the Magic Bird he spoke, "Presume not, Nightingale the Robber, to depart from the side of my good charger, for there is no place in all the white world where you will be hidden from my searching." Then in fulfilment of his first vow Ilya went to the church for the Easter mass; and when he saw Prince Vladimir among the worshippers, he made obeisance to him, but not before he had devoutly crossed himself and done reverence to North, South, East, and West. When the mass had been celebrated, Prince Vladimir sent to summon the stranger hero to his Easter feast; and obedient to the invitation which was really a command, Ilya went to the royal palace, where the Prince asked him to which horde and country he belonged, and who were his parents. "Sire," said Ilya, "I am the honourable son of honourable parents who reap their own meadow to feed their own beasts in their own farm, surrounded by the pine forest of Murom. Now as I greeted my Risen Lord at matins this morning, I vowed to come hither by the straight way, and I came." The speaker ceased, and the group of heroes, warriors, notabilities, and fair ladies who stood near the Prince stared at him in unbelieving astonishment. "Good youth," said Prince Vladimir, "you are fair to look upon, but none the less you must be a son of the Father of Lies. Why, the straight way has been lost for thirty years, and all men know of it is that athwart it lie great barriers. There are in the plains great hordes of accursed Tatars, the enemies of Holy Russia; then there is a broad rushing river bordered by the Black Morass; and, last of all, among the shining birches, on the top of seven great oaks which saw the dawn of history, is raised the nest of Nightingale the Robber. Moreover, that Magic Bird hath nine strong sons and eight ugly daughters, of whom one has only a single eye, and is therefore a witch. Now Nightingale the Robber hath permitted neither horse nor man to pass by him for thirty years." "Nay, sire," said Ilya with perfect calm, "I did indeed come by the straight way, and Nightingale the Robber now sitteth as a prisoner securely bound within the sacred court of the holy temple, where all who thieve must be bound hand and foot." Now the astonishment and curiosity which fell upon the company at this announcement was so great that it overcame the hunger of the lords and ladies, who forgot also their courtly dignity as they scrambled out from the palace to see the wonder, or at least to test the truth of Ilya's words. But Prince Vladimir and Princess Apraxia went out slowly upon the railed balcony. And there they saw the wonder for themselves--Nightingale the Robber sitting securely bound to the steel stirrup of Cloudfall, the shaggy bay steed, with one eye fixed on Kiev city and the other on far-distant Chernigof, according to the habit he had acquired when awaiting the sallies of champions from those two cities within the security of his lofty nest. Then said Prince Vladimir, full of wonder mixed with curiosity, "Whistle, Nightingale the Robber, roar like a lion, and hiss like a serpent." But the Magic Bird replied with a strange smile which had a long way to travel across his face from eye to eye. "I am not your prisoner, Prince Vladimir, and do not eat from your bountiful hand. However, bring me a bowl of wine, for I am plaguily thirsty, and then we shall see what will happen." "Give him a bowl of green wine," said Ilya to the waiting attendants, "a large bowl, capable of accommodating a bucket and a half. And bring a large cake of fine wheat flour, for the mouth of the Magic Bird is parched, and his whistle, roar, and hiss will not be worth hearing if he is not refreshed." Then Vladimir himself came forward bringing three large bowls, one of green wine, the drink of princes, a second of vodka, the drink of peasants, and a third of sweet mead, the drink of fair ladies; and Nightingale the Robber drained each of the bowls at a draught. Thereupon Ilya commanded the Magic Bird to whistle, roar and hiss, but to do so under his breath lest harm should come to the royal party, of whom the ladies were now preparing to hide behind the gentlemen, while the gentlemen were trying to persuade the ladies that it was very uncourtly to stand before such peerless beauties. Then that wicked pestilent thief began to smile from one eye to the other, and it seemed as if a stormy gleam of light passed across the open steppe from Chernigof to Kiev; and out of malice of which his black heart was full, he gave his entertainment at full strength. At the sounds which he made all the ancient palaces in the royal city cracked, tottered, and tumbled to the ground; the new palaces rocked, and only kept their upright position with a great effort. The roofs of all the poorer houses moved from their places and fell into the streets, while the walls remained, for they were of a tumble-down character in their ordinary state, and not knowing which way to fall decided to remain as they were. Moist Mother Earth quivered like a man with the ague, the horses of the heroes stampeded from the palace stables, the beautiful young ladies hid themselves in corners, and the gay youths were so terrified that they ran into other corners far away, where, of course, they could not comfort them. Ilya leaned over the balcony and caught up Prince Vladimir under one arm and the Princess Apraxia under the other in order to protect them; yet the Prince fell into a swoon from which he did not emerge for three hours. Then said Ilya, son of strength, in the mightiness of his wrath, "For this base deed of thine, Nightingale the Robber, thou shalt die!" "Spare a few of his family," pleaded Prince Vladimir, who had now recovered, and who had never been of a vindictive disposition. "Spare me myself," begged the Magic Bird, "and you shall have all my money to build a monastery." "Nay," said Ilya, "I will sweep away his pestilent brood and scatter his bones to the winds. As for his ill-gotten gold, no monastery would stand or receive a blessing which was built with it." Thereupon he took Nightingale the Robber in his strong white hands and led him far out upon the open plain. There he fitted a burning arrow to his stout bow, for his vow no longer held him, seeing that he had come to Kiev by the straight way, and shot the fiery dart into the black breast of the Magic Bird. After that he struck off his pestilent head and scattered his bones to the winds. Then he sought out his family and scattered their bones to the winds also, and mounting Cloudfall, his shaggy bay steed, he went once more to Prince Vladimir. By this time the royal company had somewhat recovered their composure, and in order to hide their confusion were busily conversing about the day before yesterday. When Ilya arrived they were seated at the white tables eating savoury viands from the board and drinking green wine and sweet mead; and they complimented Ilya very prettily, as soon as he had washed himself. When the feast was over, the Prince gave the hero the supreme honour of ever henceforth styling himself Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck, for it was reckoned the highest honour that a hero should take his title from the land on which he was born, especially if it was owned by his father; and Ilya, being a true gentleman, valued this distinction infinitely higher than a heaped-up waggon-load of red gold, another of white silver, and a third of fine seed pearls. As for those bones of the Magic Bird which were scattered to the winds, as they fell to earth they became seeds of the blood-red poppy, from the flowers of which came the first sweet whistling nightingales who know nothing of the roar of the lion or the hiss of the serpent. ILYA AND FALCON THE HUNTER One day Ilya rode his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall across the open steppe; and as he went slowly onward he was thinking deeply, for he had performed many deeds of the greatest valour, and was now wondering greatly what he should do next. "I have visited many lands," he said in a brooding voice, "and have seen many strange people, but for a long time I have not visited Kiev, where I took Nightingale the Robber as a prisoner firmly bound to my stirrup of bright steel. I will go now to Kiev once more, so that I may see what is happening in the household of Prince Vladimir." Raising his head and smiling quietly like a man filled with a secret purpose, he gave Cloudfall the rein, and before he could say "Svyatogor" he was in the city of Kiev, where it was told him by a cook whom he met hurrying across the street that Prince Vladimir was holding a merry feast. Ilya at once tethered Cloudfall to the carven pillar in the cathedral court and took his way on foot to the banquet-hall of Prince Vladimir, which he entered without invitation, knowing that all wayfarers were welcome to the board of the hospitable Prince. As soon as he had passed the threshold, Ilya bowed to North, South, East, and West, and then to Prince Vladimir and Princess Apraxia in particular, thinking that the royal couple would surely have a clear remembrance of all the wonderful things that had taken place on his last visit to their town. But neither the Prince nor the Princess knew him again, and it was as a perfect stranger that Vladimir addressed him. "What is your name and to which horde do you belong?" he asked; "and have you any title of degree?" "Fair Sun Vladimir," said Ilya, who was secretly taken aback at his reception, but determined not to show it, "I am called Nikita from beyond the Forest." "Welcome, my brave and merry little fellow," said the Prince with great heartiness; "sit down at our board and eat and drink freely. You will find a little room at the lower end of yonder table. I am sorry there is not more room, but your sharp eyes will see at once that I feast to-day a noble company of princes, statesmen, wealthy merchants, and bold warrior-maids as well as sixty great Russian heroes whose adventures have been many." Now Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck did not relish the tone of the Prince's speech, and felt it a deep humiliation that the conqueror of Nightingale the Robber should break the royal bread at the lower end of the table. His anger rose, and raising his head he cried: "Fair Sun Vladimir, do you think to place me among the crows while you feast with the eagles? Nay! I will not eat bread with those beneath my degree." Such a speech from a man who had made no claim to higher rank than that of Nikita from beyond the Forest, who was clearly a nobody, roused in turn the anger of the Prince. He sprang nimbly to his feet, his face as black as a thunder-cloud, and roared like a crowded den of wild beasts: "Ho, there, ye mighty heroes of Holy Russia! Will you hear yourselves classed with carrion crows? Seize the stranger, but take care that three of you hold each arm, hale him to the courtyard and strike off his head." Then there was a great commotion, and the cooks began to wring their hands, for they knew that if they did not keep the food hot while the quarrel was proceeding, the Prince would need new cooks on the following day. Three heroes grasped the right arm of Ilya and three heroes grasped his left arm. He waved his right hand and three heroes fell breathless to the floor of red brick; then he waved his left hand and three heroes fell on top of them. Thereupon Vladimir roared out a command that twelve fresh heroes should seize him, but these champions fared like their fellows. Then twelve more rose before him and six more behind; and these met the same fate as the rest. Meanwhile the cooks had been able to snatch away the dishes from beneath the nose of the angry Prince and were now hurrying away to place them in the ovens. Then they heaved in unison such a sigh of relief that the fire burned as brightly as it burns upon a frosty night. Ilya strode forth from the banquet-hall and the anger burned fiercely within his breast. When he reached the courtyard he turned about and fitted an arrow to his bow. As he drew the cord he whispered to the shaft, "Fly, my dart, about the princely towers and strike off the spires and crosses of gold from the royal palace." Off went the arrow, but it did not travel by a straight road. It made a circuitous tour of the pinnacles and domes of the stately building, and as it went on its way spire after spire and cross after cross tumbled down upon the pavement. Ilya gathered up these golden trophies, went to the tavern in the market-place and ordered the landlord to bring out his best green wine, for which he would pay with the royal spires and crosses. Then he stood in the doorway and invited all the loafers of the market-place to come and drink the health of Prince Vladimir, who had been good enough, as he grimly remarked, to provide the means of drinking it. For once the loafers hesitated to lift the green wine to their lips. "What will the Prince do to us in the morning," they asked, "when he finds that we have drunk up all his golden spires and crosses?" "Drink, my men," said Ilya. "To-morrow I myself will reign as Prince in Kiev town, and ye shall be my chiefs." Then they drank and drank again; but Ilya of Murom did not put the bowl to his lips in such company, for he merely meant to use these men in his determination to win respect and ample apology from the Prince. In the meantime Prince Vladimir sat at the board with the hungry revellers about him; but he was so deeply wrapped in thought that he did not even notice that the cooks had taken away the dishes. "Who is this who has come to town?" he asked moodily. Then a young nobleman, whose name was Nikitich, sprang to his nimble feet and said, "I have met all the mighty heroes of Holy Russia save one, and that one is Ilya of Murom, who, I have heard, will not die in battle. This wonderful visitor is no Nikita from beyond the Forest. It must be none other than Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. I fear, my Prince, with all respect to your Highness, that you did not know how to pay worthy honour to your guest either at his coming or his going." The Prince's face lighted up, for the young nobleman who had spoken was the only man in the whole of the company who could read and write, and on that account was privileged to speak his mind when his fellows feared for their heads. "Whom shall we send," asked Prince Vladimir, "to invite the hero to our banquet?" (At these words some of the cooks hurried off to prepare fresh food.) "My royal chamberlain will not know how to address him, and my chief page is like a peacock--only fit to strut about in the sun among the women. Go you, Nikitich, for you can read and write and therefore have supernatural wisdom. Bow down before him, with your forehead upon moist Mother Earth, and invite him by his name and title thrice repeated to honour us with his presence at a worshipful feast. "Say that I did not, to my lasting sorrow, recognise him when I placed him at the lower end of the board, but that now I entreat him to honour us with his truly remarkable presence. Tell him that I bear no ill-will for what has passed, and that instead of sitting at the lower end of the board--though there is now more room in that quarter--he shall sit in the great corner near to the Princess Apraxia herself." Now Nikitich, having learnt to read and write, did not act upon rash impulse, but stood for a few moments looking supernaturally wise and weighed the matter with the utmost circumspection. "Shall I go?" he asked himself. "It may mean sudden death for me at the hands of Ilya. On the other hand, it will certainly mean slow death at the hands of Prince Vladimir if I do not obey. Perhaps I had better go." Then with a low bow to the Prince and another to the Princess, he left the banquet-hall with the step of resolution. In a few moments he came to the tavern where he saw Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck sitting grimly watching the loafers while they drank the health of Prince Vladimir. "It will be better," said Nikitich to himself, "if I come upon him from behind, for then I shall be able to deliver my message without being put in deadly fear by his eyes of terror." So he approached Ilya from behind as he sat there and, placing his hands upon the hero's mighty shoulders, told him all that Prince Vladimir had said; but being able to read and write, and therefore full of supernatural wisdom, he missed out the sentence about the Prince bearing no ill-will for what had passed. Had he been able to watch the face of Ilya as he spoke the Prince's message, Nikitich would have seen a bright gleam of laughter steal into the terrible eyes of the Old Cossáck. But when the speech was over, Ilya did not turn his head. "It is well for you, young Nikitich," he said grimly, "that you come upon me from behind. If you had approached me from before, your body would have been dust and ashes before now. Go at once and deliver to Prince Vladimir the following message in answer to his own: "Let strict orders be issued to all the inn-keepers of Kiev and Chernigof that they invite all who care to come to quaff green wine at the expense of Prince Vladimir; and for those who care not for green wine let vodka, the drink of the peasants, be provided; while those who love neither shall drink sweet mead beloved of fair ladies and their squires. By this all men shall know that Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck who led captive Nightingale the Robber is now come to town. Let the Prince also prepare an honourable banquet and reserve the great corner near the high table for me. "Otherwise," continued Ilya, at last turning his head and fixing his heroic eyes on the young man of supernatural wisdom who could both read and write, "otherwise----" But the ambassador of Prince Vladimir did not stay to enquire what would happen. The sight of Ilya's countenance was enough for him, and only the drunken loafers heard the completion of the hero's threat "--the Prince shall reign in Kiev no longer than to-morrow's morn." Then quickly, quickly, very very quickly, and with lightning speed, ran the wise young man to Prince Vladimir, and quickly, quickly, very very quickly, and with lightning speed, were the "requests" of Ilya complied with. Great crowds drew to the tavern, though they came not to drink but to see the Old Cossáck. They were however disappointed, for Ilya had gone, post-haste upon the heels of the envoy, to take his place at the banquet, taking his invitation for granted. But being a true gentleman, he bowed on entering the hall to the North, South, East, and West, and then in particular to Prince Vladimir and Princess Apraxia. Vladimir rose quickly to his feet and cried with hands extended, "Ho, there, Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. Here is a place for you beside me, in the great corner near the stove. Or if it please you to sit elsewhere it shall be as you will." So Ilya sat in the great corner, and before long the cooks and the serving men were passing to and fro like a whirlwind. Now, as they sat at meat and as the wine pails freely passed, there happened a very great wonder; for Prince Vladimir turned to pledge Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck, and behold! he no longer sat in the great corner. The Prince rubbed his eyes in astonishment, but the Princess, with a somewhat scornful smile, told him to look for Ilya under the banquet table. Then they looked, but Ilya was not there. So the Prince sent out messengers upon the broad road which ran for forty furlongs to the city of Galich; but Ilya was not upon the broad road, and the only man they met was an old pilgrim who was making his way slowly and painfully to Kiev town. His smock was tattered with use, and a ragged girdle was bound about his waist. His cap was heavy with moisture, his feet were covered with rotten straw, and he leaned so heavily upon a crooked staff that the moist earth squirted out beneath his step. The ancient pilgrim entered the town and went to the chief inn, where he asked courteously enough for a pail and a half of green wine. "You old grey dog," said the inn-keeper, "we do not trust such as you, nor can we give you green wine without your money." Then the old man took from his neck a cross of gold, wonderfully chased, of great weight, and clearly of as great antiquity. "Take this cross in payment," he said, but not one of the men dared to handle it. Then seeing that the old man was faint for want, the peasants about the place gave each a kopeck that he might have his wine; and when it was brought to him he drank it in a draught and a half and at a breath and a half. Having done this, he climbed upon the stove, lay down as if he were in his mother's cottage, and fell fast asleep. Very early in the morning, as the warm red sun arose, the old pilgrim descended from the stove, went down to the cellars, burst open the door with his foot, took a cask of wine under each arm and rolled a third before him with his right great toe. So he came out to the green meadow and then into the market-place, where he shouted out, in a voice wonderfully strong for so aged a pilgrim, "Ho, ye peasants of the village, come to the old man's feast." By this time, however, the men from the tavern were upon him; but though there were many of them they could not take the wine from the old man, so they went to make their complaint to Prince Vladimir. "Bring him before me," said the royal judge, and they did so. Then the ancient pilgrim raised his eyes, and by means of the smile in the depths of them Vladimir knew him for Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. "Plague upon my love of fun," said Ilya, "but these thick-headed varlets are easily imposed upon. Let me pay them for my fun and, Prince, give me work worthy of a hero." "The time demands a hero's help," said Prince Vladimir, "for my royal city goes in fear by day and passes sleepless nights in terror for Falcon the Hunter, who rides the heavens and can pass over the loftiest barriers to hurl his fiery darts upon every golden pinnacle which rears upward to the sky. Make a barrier, Ilya, upon the road by which he comes, and check him, if you can, with fiery shafts from your magic bow." Then Ilya's eyes gleamed with pleasure, and he called for six of the mightiest heroes to help him to form a barrier in the path of Falcon the Hunter; and among the six was Nikitich, the young man of supernatural wisdom who could both read and write, as well as Vaska Longskirt, who was very brave but hampered in his fighting by his voluminous coat in which he defied the white world. The seven made a strong barrier on the road by which Falcon the Hunter took his flight, so strong that no horseman ever so swift could gallop by, nor wayfarer circumvent it; no wild beast could break it, and if a ravening eagle or carrion crow soared above it the fiery darts of Ilya brought it down in a shower of feathers and a rain of blood. "Surely," said Princess Apraxia, whose bright eyes always closed involuntarily as Falcon the Hunter was seen riding upon the clouds, "we shall be safe from the horror that stalks in the darkness by reason of the barrier of Ilya of Murom." But late that night young Falcon the Hunter passed by, leaping from one low black cloud to another, and with a dazzling smile scorning the barrier of the seven heroes. In the early dawn Ilya went forth and traced the footsteps of his black horse--a blasted pine tree with its heart scorched to charcoal, a tall tower, and several golden pinnacles of the royal pavilion lying upon the bosom of moist Mother Earth. He went back to his brother heroes. "While we slept until the white dawn," he cried in a loud voice, "Falcon the Hunter swept by in his malignity. What a barrier is this of ours! What a fortress! Let us arm ourselves, my friends, and go out upon the steppe to seek this rash intruder whose malignant glance causes the Princess Apraxia to close her eyes in fear." Then they sat down in a circle to hold a wise council, having no immediate fear of Falcon the Hunter, who never came to the city of many golden pinnacles while the sun shone broadly upon it. "Whom shall we send against Falcon the Hunter?" asked Ilya, who did not intend to go himself until the others had failed. "It is of little use sending Vaska Longskirt, for he will get entangled in the tails of his coat. Nikitich must go, and if he finds that Falcon the Hunter is a Russian he shall swear eternal brotherhood with him on behalf of all of us. But if he finds he is an infidel he shall challenge him to mortal combat." Then Nikitich sprang to his nimble feet, saddled and mounted his good steed, and rode forth to the place where a great river met the dark-grey sea. As he looked along the straight road he saw a rider before him who sat upon his horse with the assurance of youth and victory. His black steed was full of mettle and fresh from the untamed steppe. At each leap he covered a furlong, and the marks which the hoofs of his horse made upon the bosom of moist Mother Earth were as large as a ram or a full-grown sheep. Flames flashed from the mouth of the steed, lighting up the heavy clouds which hung over the dark-grey sea, sparks of blue fire showered from his nostrils, and from his erected ears smoke curled in tiny wreaths which quivered and then vanished in mid-air. The helmet on the head of the hero glowed like fire, and blue rays of light darted from ornaments on his doublet, from his pointed spurs and his stirrups of bright steel. At his left stirrup ran a swift grey-hound, and a fire-eating dragon was chained to the right which sang and whistled with a strange music as the horse and its rider passed on towards the dark-grey sea. From shoulder to shoulder hopped the clear-eyed bird from which Falcon the Hunter took his name, and as it passed it plucked at the long yellow locks of the rider, which streamed upon his shoulders like tongues of living flame. The knight sat easily upon the back of his strange steed, and as he rode he amused himself by hurling his bright steel mace towards the lowering clouds which hung threatening over the dark-grey sea. It flashed across the cloudy barrier, making a bright reflection in the heaving water, and then returned obedient to the hand of Falcon the Hunter without touching either sea or land in its flight. As he played, Falcon the Hunter spoke to his wonderful mace: "Lightly as I now whirl this mace aloft, even so lightly will I twirl Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck." Then Nikitich called out, "Ho, there, Falcon the Hunter! Have you no fear of our barrier?" Falcon replied over his shoulder, "'Tis not for youths even of supernatural wisdom to pursue me in the open plain. It is high time that you were hiding from me in the deep depths of a feather-bed." When Falcon the Hunter spoke, the waters of the sea were troubled, flecks of foam appeared upon the deep, and the shallows were choked with sand. The charger of Nikitich trembled sorely and fell down upon its knees, while its rider sank upon the bosom of moist Mother Earth, where he lay as if in a trance for the space of three full hours. When he awoke, the sun was shining brightly, the waves upon the ocean danced in glee, and the tumbled rack of grey clouds on the horizon was all dispersed and scattered. But Falcon the Hunter was no longer to be seen, for with all his terrors he was afraid of the jolly sun with his broad and welcoming smile. Nikitich now mounted his charger and rode off at once to report to Ilya the Old Cossáck. The old man listened quietly and then said with a sigh, "I grow old, and yet there is none coming after me to take my place." Then he saddled his good charger Cloudfall and sprang upon his back without making any use of the stirrups. On the saddle-strap hung his war club, mighty in weight; on his left hip rested his sharp sword and in his hand he held his silken whip; but for this encounter he placed most reliance upon the fiery darts in the quiver upon his broad back and in the strength of his mighty bow. Thus armed he rode forth into the darkness of the mountains, where he found Falcon the Hunter leaping from summit to summit and rousing the cavernous echoes with his fear-compelling voice. But neither the flashing flames nor the rolling angry accents struck terror to the heart of Ilya, for with a quick movement he shifted his quiver, which was open at both ends, so that the points of the darts pointed heavenwards, and from these points streamed a blue radiance which enveloped the form of the hero like a protecting halo. Above the noise of the voice of Falcon the Hunter was heard the voice of the heroic Ilya. "Ho there!" he cried, "Thief, dog, braggart! Why have you passed our barrier without doing reverence to me or asking my leave?" When the Hunter heard this challenge he turned and rode at Ilya, and for a moment, though only for a moment, the heart of the hero died within him. But with a tightening of the strap of that wonderful quiver, so that even in the fight his fiery darts should point heavenwards, he rushed into the fray. First they fought with their maces until these snapped short at the hilt, but neither fighter was wounded in the least. Then their swords flashed fire until both were splintered, but still neither fighter was wounded in the least. Next they fought with their spears until both were shattered, and even yet neither fighter was wounded in the least. Last of all they lighted down upon the ground and fought hand to hand. All day they fought, till stormy even, till black midnight, till the grey dawn, and so they did the second day, and likewise the third. Then Ilya waved his right hand, and his left foot slipped from under him. Down he fell like a stack of hay, but as he fell he was able to move his quiver so that the fiery darts with their streaming blue fire pointed directly heavenwards. As he lay there Falcon the Hunter planted himself upon his breast and struck at him with a flashing dagger of steel. But the blow fell upon the upturned points of those wonderful darts and spent itself on the broad bosom of moist Mother Earth. "See!" cried Ilya with a grim laugh. "It was foretold of me that I should not die in battle. Oh, brave good youth, tell me from what horde you come and who were your parents." "It is time," growled Falcon the Hunter, "that you should shave your head and go to a monastery." At this taunt the heart of Ilya grew hot and his blood, still youthful, boiled within him. With a mighty blow of his fist he struck Falcon on his black breast, hurling him skywards, though not so high as the heavy clouds which lowered above the heroic fight. When the Hunter fell once more, Ilya sprang to his nimble feet and sat in his turn upon the breast of his enemy. "Tell me now, good youth," he said, "the name of thy land, thy horde, and thy father." "When I sat upon thy breast," growled Falcon the Hunter, "I did not enquire of thee thy land, thy horde, and thy parentage, for these things concern not me, the enemy of all mankind. And if I sat upon it again I would pierce your bosom, pluck out your heart and examine it in mere curiosity, and then scatter the fragments of your white body over the plain, to be torn by the grey wolf and picked by the black crows." Then Ilya asked his enemy no more questions but drew forth his shining dagger of steel; and at the sight of this gleaming weapon the heart of Falcon the Hunter sank within his breast and he gave the answer required of him: "I come from far across the sea, from the palace of grey stone where the sun has no power to enter, and my mother was the warrior-queen Zlatigorka. The name of my father I do not know. When I left the palace of grey stone my mother, who now is gentle, told me to meet Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck if I could, and having met him to dismount from my horse and do reverence to him, touching my forehead upon the bosom of moist Mother Earth." Then the fierce eyes of Ilya grew soft with compassion, and his mind went back to the far-off day when he crossed the deep-blue sea in the strength of his manhood to see the palace of grey stone and to talk with the warrior-queen who ruled there; for he had vowed that he would win the love of that brave Princess and take her as his bride. Now, being a hero, and the maiden a right worthy mate for him, he could not hope, nor would he care, to win the Princess except he had first proved that he was stronger than she; and for a long time the two had striven day after day until at times their hearts were sick of the eternal conflict, yet neither could bring it to an end. Then at last the warrior-queen had weakened and had yielded, and had found more joy in yielding than in conquest; and Ilya had given her his golden ring set with a ruby red as a flaming heart, while she had given him a wondrous cross of gold to wear upon his heroic breast; and the two had lived in the palace of grey stone until a son was born to them and the fighting queen had forgotten her weapons and her warrior strength in her motherhood. Then Ilya had been called away on one of his many quests, and the boy had grown up without his heroic guidance--to become a scourge to his gentle mother and to all mankind. And as he thought on these matters, the heart of Ilya was saddened beyond measure, and stooping over Falcon the Hunter he took him by his white hands, kissed his lips and called him his son, weeping greatly as he looked upon him. Then raising his hands he blessed him and said: "Ride, my son, to the margin of the waters, and then cross the grey sea until you come to the palace of grey stone and to your lady mother who lives only in her memories. Greet her lovingly from me, and say that Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck keeps her ever in his golden heart." Then Falcon the Hunter rose to his feet and prepared to do his father's bidding. But when he came to the porch of the palace of grey stone these were the words he uttered: "Ho, there, bold and evil woman! Come forth! Was it indeed the son of a peasant whom you gave me for a father?" Then his mother came out upon the porch, and though her face was grey with double grief and she stooped as if she needed the strong arm of a brave man about her shoulders, the undutiful son struck at her with his flashing sword and she fell dead upon the pavement. Even this piteous sight did not touch the cold and fiery heart of Falcon the Hunter, who shouted out so that the walls of the palace of grey stone rang again, "I go now to give the old peasant, Ilya of Murom, to speedy death." Thereupon he crossed the grey sea over which the angry clouds were lowering, mounted his charger, and rode quickly towards the fair white linen pavilion of Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. Lifting the curtain of the tent, he found his father sleeping and hurled a burning shaft at him; but it struck the wondrous cross of gleaming gold which Ilya wore upon his heroic breast and glanced harmlessly aside, though the mighty blow roused the hero from his slumber. He leapt from his couch, seized his undutiful son by his yellow curls, and laid him lifeless upon the plain. So Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck freed the people of Holy Russia from their fear of Falcon the Hunter, the enemy of all mankind. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BURNING WHITE STONE Ilya of Murom rode Cloudfall across the open steppe. For nigh three hundred years he had ridden, and he wondered at the youthfulness of his heart which constant danger had kept fresh and young. "Ah, old age, old age! Thou hast chased and overtaken even Cloudfall in the open steppe, and like a bleached raven hast alighted on my head--but not on my arm." Then with a youthful gesture he flung out his sword arm, tightened the girth of Cloudfall and gave the rein to the shaggy bay steed. Away went Cloudfall like the wind, and Ilya as he sat upon him was like the falcon clear. There was no need of bridge or ferryman for this heroic traveller, for good Cloudfall leapt over shining lake and rushing river, quivering bog and reedy swamp. And as they rode they came to a place where three roads met, and there stood a burning white stone on which was inscribed: "He who rides to the right shall gain great wealth; he who rides to the left shall gain a wife; he who rides straight forward shall gain his death." Then Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck halted and stood still with his head bowed in an attitude of the deepest thought. "I am an old man," he said to himself, "and have all the wealth I need, for it wearies me to count it. Why should an old man wish for a wife? I will take the straight road though Death should sit athwart it." Then he added, lifting his head with the light of unquenched youth still in his eyes, "It may be that Death and I shall come to grips in one more great adventure." Then the youthful Old Cossáck rode onward for leagues and leagues until at last he entered a gloomy forest into which he advanced for some distance, and then met a band of forty thousand robbers who cast eighty thousand envious eyes (save one, for the chief had lost an eye in a battle) upon the goodly proportions and intelligent appearance of Cloudfall the shaggy bay steed. "In all our lives," they said one to another, "we have never seen such a horse. Halt then, good youth, halt, thou hero of Holy Russia!" And they would have forced him to halt but Ilya said: "Ho, ye robber horde! Why kill an old man and rob him? I have no money in my wallet save five hundred roubles. The cross of gold upon my breast is worth only five hundred--to any one of your company--my cloak of sables about three thousand, my cap and my sandals about five hundred each, my bridle, set with precious stones, about a thousand. My saddle, bordered with eagle feathers,--I hunted that eagle over the blue sea on the way to the palace of grey stone--is priceless and therefore of no value to any of your company. Between the ears of Cloudfall and under his eyes are clear stones of purest jacinth, but he wears these, not for youthful vanity, but because they help him to see for thirty miles on all sides as he bounds across the open steppe. As for my faithful shaggy bay steed Cloudfall, he is worth nothing at all, except to me. Here then is my inventory. Value me I pray you for yourselves." The robber leaders jeered as they replied, "Thou art old and talkative, Cossáck. Since we took to roaming across the white world, we have never met with such a fool. Why, thou art so foolish that thou hast told us all the clear truth. Seize the old man, my brothers." But as the robbers advanced upon him, Ilya of Murom drew a fiery dart from his quiver, and fixing it to his terrible bow shot at a tree to his right hand which was the grandmother of all the oaks. The mighty trunk was shivered into fragments, and the earth was ploughed up round about by the force of that tremendous blow, at the sound of which all the robbers fell flat upon the earth, where they lay for the space of five hours before they recovered themselves. And when they arose again to an erect posture the leader said: "Good youth, noble hero of Holy Russia! Enter thou into comradeship with us. Take from our goodly store whatever pleases you of golden treasure, embroidered cloth, horses and cattle." But Ilya laughed the jolly laugh of the adventurer to whom goods and gear, however rich, are a trouble and a burden. "Ah, brothers, my brave foes," he said, "I have no wish to be troubled with guarding treasure, feeding horses, and tending cows and sheep. I must ride and ride ever onward across the open steppe and leave the guarding of treasure to shop-keepers and merchants who live in towns behind bolts and bars." Then Ilya of Murom turned Cloudfall in his tracks, and came again to the burning white stone, from which he erased the inscription and wrote in its place: I, Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck, have ridden straight forward and have not gained my death. Once more the aged hero with the heart of youth rode out into the open steppe, turning this time to the left. He rode onward for three hundred miles and then came to a smooth meadow as green as an emerald stone, and upon this meadow stood a wonder of wonders. It was too small to be called a city and too large to be called a village. It was, in truth, a beautiful palace of white stone with roofs of shining gold and strange three-cornered towers. Ilya drew rein before the golden gateway, whereupon there came forth upon the green sward forty beautiful maidens, who walked proudly behind Princess Zenira the All Fair. Ilya dismounted and bowed low, whereupon the beautiful Princess took him by his white hands, kissed him on the lips, and invited him to a feast in the banquet-hall of the palace of white stone. "I have travelled far in Holy Russia," said Ilya of Murom, "but I have never seen such a fair palace or such beautiful ladies." The maidens bowed their heads, like ears of corn before a gentle breeze, and the Princess led the hero within the palace. When they came to the banquet-hall, Ilya bowed to North, South, East, and West, and especially to the Princess Zenira, who placed him at the table of fair white oak in the big corner and brought him food of the best with sweet mead to drink. "Do not eat or drink of these things until you are satisfied, good youth," she said gently, "for there is more to come." But Ilya looked at her as she spoke, and looked at her again, and for a third time he scanned her face and found it beautiful with the beauty of the newly-fallen snow on the wide steppe when the moon rises; that was the beauty of the Princess Zenira. Then Ilya's eyes fell once more upon the fair white oak of the table and he said, speaking as one who knows his meaning, "I have ridden for three hundred miles and my hunger and thirst are as heroic as my steed." So he ate and drank his fill. Then as his head seemed to droop upon his breast, though in reality he was more wide awake than ever, the Princess Zenira led him to a rich warm chamber at one side of which stood a broad bed of yew wood and ivory with pillows of the softest down. "Here you will rest as on the lap of your mother," said the fair Princess, "but I advise you to lie near to the brick wall which is warm from the stove beneath." "Nay," said the hero, "I will lie upon the outer edge for I often rise in the night to see for myself that Cloudfall is well stabled." Then without more ado, he seized the fair Princess Zenira by the middle and flung her upon the bed of yew wood against the wall. And behold the bed of yew with pillows of softest down was false, for it turned on a pivot when the weight was cast upon the side nearer to the brick wall, and the fair Princess was hurled down into her dungeon, forty fathoms deep. Then Ilya turned and left the chamber, and coming out into the courtyard said in the voice of him who must be obeyed: "Give me the keys of gold which unlock the doors of the dungeon and show me the way to the dark vaults beneath this palace of white stone." So they pointed out the way, and he found it choked with yellow sand and barred with huge logs of wood. He had really no need of keys of gold, silver, iron, or steel; for in the strength of his heroic anger he tore the locks asunder with his hands and forced back the doors with his heels until they burst from their frames. Then came forth from the dungeons forty Tsars and Tsareviches, forty kings and princes, with their eldest sons, together with Nikitich the youth of supernatural wisdom, who could both read and write, but whose wonderful learning had not made him proof against the wiles of Princess Zenira although her beauty was only that of the newly-fallen snow upon the steppe illumined by the cold rays of the rising moon. There stood this great company, blinking their eyes in the light and looking very foolish, and as they hummed and ha'ed and wondered how to explain themselves, the fair Princess Zenira, as beautiful as ever, came round a corner of the dark passage, and her moonlight beauty lit up the darkness of the dungeon. In spite of all their experiences it was clear that her fascination still worked upon the hearts of the prisoners, and seeing this Ilya cried in a voice which shook the vaults until they re-echoed again and again, "Tsars, to your tsardoms; kings, to your kingdoms; Nikitich, to my side; and, being delivered, say a prayer for Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck." In a few moments the whole company with the exception of Nikitich was racing pell-mell across the emerald meadow, and having dismissed the youth of supernatural wisdom, Ilya advanced sternly upon the fair Princess Zenira. He took her by her lily-white hands and bound her to three Cossáck ponies fresh from the farthest steppe. Then he drove them apart and turned his head that he might not see the end of that white witch; and he divided her treasure among the prisoners, sending each man's share to his kingdom, and gave the fair white palace to the flames. Once more Ilya returned to the burning white stone, crossed out the old inscription and wrote yet another which ran: I, Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck, have ridden to the left and have not gained a wife "I will go now," said Ilya, "upon the last road, where wealth is to be won." So he rode again over the open steppe, and came at length to a green meadow where deep pits were dug, and then to a dark and gloomy forest in which there was a mountain cave filled with fair red gold, white silver, and fine seed pearls; and above the entrance to the cave, in the face of the smooth rock, were carved the words, "This treasure will fall to Ilya of Murom." For seven days Ilya sat wondering what he should do to dispose of the treasure. Then he arose and went to the nearest town, where he hired builders and carpenters, architects and workers in metal. These men he set to work to build a fair cathedral on the place where the gloomy forest had stood, and when the glorious building was completed, he instituted church singing and the sound of bells, for in these things his soul delighted. When this work had been finished--and it occupied a fair space of time--Ilya returned to Kiev city, where the courteous Prince Vladimir asked him where he had been. Sitting down in the great corner near the stove, the old man smiled gently, stretched his feet to the blaze, and told the Prince the Adventure of the Three Roads and of the Burning White Stone. Then he yawned and went to bed in the peace of accomplishment. HOW QUIET DUNAI HAD BROUGHT THE PRINCESS APRAXIA TO KIEV The tale of the wedding of Vladimir and the Princess Apraxia was one which was often told after a banquet; and here it is: Quiet Dunai was a great traveller, and one who loved to move without turbulence, leisurely and at his chosen ease. From land to land he wandered, both seeing and observing, across the green and open steppe in summer, but resting in the winter within whatever palace of fair white stone he could find a seat in the great corner and hearers who would listen quietly to his traveller's tales. At last he came to the kingdom of Lithuania, where in the palace of the monarch he served for three years as equerry with the care of the King's horses and chargers; for three more years he served as Grand Steward with the oversight of the great banquets with which the King honoured his nobles; for three more years he served as Groom of the Chambers, and knew all the King's mind. And during all these years he loved, at times somewhat turbulently but yet on the whole quietly and devotedly and faithfully and hopefully, the Princess Nastasya, who in her turn favoured him silently and kept him ever in her golden heart. Now, on a certain day, the King of Lithuania made a great feast and invited all his nobles to share his hospitality. Quiet Dunai was very busy with the preparations for the banquet, and on one of his many visits to the King's apartments he happened to meet, quite by accident, the Princess Nastasya. She looked at him quietly and said: "Go not to this banquet, quiet Dunai, for there will be much eating and more drinking, and when the boasting time comes near the end of the feast you will brag of me." "I know you will, Dunai," she added gently, and Dunai looked at her quietly, feeling in his heart that what she said could not be denied. "Then they will set upon you, Dunai, and you will lose your head." Hereupon the Princess sighed gently and looked down at the point of her golden slipper. But Dunai, quiet as he was, had no mind to avoid the feast, and declared his intention of being present; and the Princess turned and left him humming a light song which seemed to have lost its merriment. The feast was held, and when the guests had eaten well and drunk better, then came the boasting time, when quiet Dunai took his turn with the rest, telling of his far wanderings, of the King's favour and rewards, and of how the beautiful young Princess Nastasya kept him ever in her golden heart. Then the King grew very angry and cried out: "Ho, there, ye headsmen, seize quiet Dunai by his white hands, lead him out upon the open steppe and chop off his turbulent head." Without delay the pitiless headsmen bore down upon Dunai and seized him by the shoulders. "I go without help from you," he said quietly as he shook them off; "but as you lead me to the open steppe see that we pass by the window of the Princess Nastasya, who keeps me ever in her golden heart." Then there happened a great wonder, and yet it was no wonder at all. Before they had reached the window of the Princess, Dunai said quietly, "Sleepest thou, Nastasya? Wakest thou not? Lo, they are leading Dunai to the open steppe to cut off his loving head." Now the Princess lay sleeping when the whisper rustled through her casement and woke her very gently. Without delay she rose from her couch and put on a loose robe of fair white linen. But she had no time to fasten round it a girdle of gold, or to bind up her flowing tresses, before she heard the voice of Dunai once more, this time in tones of thunder, "Sleepest thou, Nastasya? Wakest thou not? Lo, they are leading Dunai to the open steppe to cut off his loving head." Then the Princess ran with her feet all bare out into the open corridor, from which she could see the prisoner and his guards, and stretching out her little hands in piteous entreaty she cried: "Ho, there, ye pitiless headsmen! Take what treasure you desire, but when you come to the open steppe set free quiet Dunai that he may wander once again. And take back to the King the head of some prisoner who has paid for his crimes with his death--some one, any one except quiet Dunai." Then the headsmen made signs to the Princess that they would obey her, and the group passed out to the open steppe where quiet Dunai was set free and wandered on as he had done before he became the officer of the King of Lithuania and loved the Princess Nastasya. On he went, quietly watching until he came to Kiev town, where he went to the inn and entered into conversation with men of the place. From these fellows he learnt that Prince Vladimir was holding a great feast, and that his guests were eating the white swan and drinking green wine of priceless value. As it happened, just at that moment the boasting time had come. One man bragged of his horse, another of his valour, a third of his sharp sword, a fourth of his young wife, and a wise man who had not drunk so well, of the goodness of his father and the tenderness of his mother. In time, Prince Vladimir grew weary of their boasting and stood up among them, whereupon all their voices were hushed. "Boast not, my brothers," he said with a show of impatience. "Glory not in your horses, your great deeds, your golden treasures. Have not I red gold, white silver, and fine seed pearls in great abundance? But in one matter most of you outstrip me. For ye have wives loving and beautiful, while I, your Prince, am still unwed. Is there no Princess who is my mate, and who will wed with me? She must be like a goddess in stature and like a goddess in the perfection of her beauty, of delicate grace, and stately of gait like the peacock. There must be a faint flush in her face like unto the white hare, while her eyes must be falcon clear and full of light. Yellow hair must she have, with eyebrows of blackest sable, and her speech must be entrancing. Then, having found her, I shall have one beside me with whom I may think my deepest thoughts and take counsel, and to whom ye mighty princes, heroes, and all Kiev may pay homage as your queen." Then all the guests grew silent, and for a long time no man spoke a word; and as often as the eye of Vladimir sought out one man, he took pains to hide himself behind some one bigger. At length there stood up in his place the bold, brave youth Nikitich, who could both read and write, and said: "My lord and master, Prince Vladimir, have I leave to speak what is in my mind without fear of speedy death or distant exile or heavy chastisement?" And Vladimir said, "Say on, Nikitich, and God may forgive you if you speak unwisely." Then the bold youth said fearlessly: "I know a fitting mate for you who is all that you have said, a beauty with whom none can compare in all the white world. For myself, I have not seen her, but of her loveliness I have often heard from my comrade, quiet Dunai, who sitteth now in the inn and hath no garments to fit him out for appearance at this honourable feast." "Take my golden keys," said Vladimir, "and open my wardrobes. Choose from thence all that quiet Dunai requires of raiment, and bring him to me." Then Nikitich went out and did all that the Prince had ordered; and as he passed through the streets with quiet Dunai by his side, the maidens and the wives, young and old, put forth their heads from the windows, asking each other across the narrow way, "Whence come such goodly youths as these?" As soon as they had come into the banquet hall, Dunai bowed to North, South, East, and West, and especially to Prince Vladimir, and they gave him a seat in the great corner by the fair white oaken table. Then they set food and wine before him, and when he had refreshed himself, Prince Vladimir poured out green wine into a crystal goblet from the East with a rim of thick gold and brought it to quiet Dunai, who took the cup in one hand and quaffed its contents at a breath. Then he stood up and said steadily: "I know a bride fit even to mate with you, Prince Vladimir, the Fair Sun of Kiev. The King of Lithuania has two fair daughters. The eldest, the Princess Nastasya, is no mate for you, for she loves best to ride abroad in the open plain seeking adventures, but her sister, the Princess Apraxia, sits at home in a fair chamber of her palace embroidering a kerchief of white linen with threads of ruddy gold. She sits behind thrice nine locks of cunning workmanship and thrice nine guards in a lofty castle, and the ruddy sun may not scorch her nor the fine and frequent rains drop upon her, nor the stormy winds disarrange her braided locks of yellow gold, while no venturesome breeze may mar the delicate flush in her face like unto the white hare. I have not yet seen her, but I know of her peerless beauty and speak of what I know." "Hear ye this, my Russian heroes!" cried Prince Vladimir, while his eyes shone brightly and his face was wreathed in smiles. "Whom shall we send as our royal envoy to far-off Lithuania?" Then one of the heroes spoke out: "Prince Vladimir," he said, "we have none of us been in strange lands with strange customs, nor talked in strange speech with strange people. In a matter where more than strength and goodwill is needed, namely, the wooing of a fair Princess, I doubt that none of your heroes would serve you well. Send quiet Dunai. He has been ambassador to royal courts and has received ambassadors also. He can talk in strange speech as well as fight; let him woo the fair Princess Apraxia for you, and when she comes here, as she surely will, we will eat the white swan and drink green wine in her honour, and crack skulls, too, if she needs such heroic help." The truth of these words could not be denied, and as the hero who had spoken, suddenly realising that he had made a wise speech, hid in confusion behind his neighbour at the table, Prince Vladimir rose to his feet and said: "Go in my name, quiet Dunai, to the far-famed Lithuanian kingdom and woo the Princess Apraxia for me with all the skill at your command." "I go at your bidding," said quiet Dunai, with a bow, "but it is not fitting that I should go alone." "Take a great army with you, if you will," said the Prince, "and if the King will not send his daughter with his blessing take her with his curse." "I need no army," said quiet Dunai, "nor yet rich store of treasure to tempt the King to sell his daughter. Send Nikitich with me. He is my beloved comrade, a man of good birth who knows how to read and write, and therefore understands how to deal with people. Give us only two shaggy colts, fresh from the steppe, which have never borne saddle or bridle, and prepare a parchment scroll setting forth to the King that you desire the Princess Apraxia, not for youthful vanity, but for helpfulness that you may make her your wife, to whom all your thoughts will be made known, and who will share in all your counsels." These things were done in exact accordance with the wishes of quiet Dunai, who then left the palace in the company of Nikitich. In the courtyard they found awaiting them two shaggy colts, fresh from the steppe, which had never borne saddle or bridle. Upon these they fitted plaited bridles of many-coloured silks and saddle-cloths of silk, not for youthful vanity but for ease to their steeds. Over these they laid thick felts, and then their saddles of stout leather secured by twelve girths with silver buckles, while the buckles of the stirrups were of fine ruddy gold. Then they dressed themselves in silken robes and Saracen caps, took up their maces of steel from Damascus, their mighty bows, and their silken whips, and, mounting their frisky chargers, rode quickly through the narrow streets of Kiev city. Before long they came to the outskirts and then out upon the open plain, when they urged on their shaggy steeds, spurring them gently and persuading them further with their whips of braided silk. Past deep lakes they rode and through dense forests, crashing through the undergrowth where the hoof of horse had never trodden, until they came at last, and after a long journey, to the brave land of Lithuania and the royal palace of its King. Quiet Dunai asked no leave of guards, porters, or gate-keepers, but flung the barriers wide and led the horses into the spacious courtyard, where they dismounted. Leaving Nikitich on guard over the chargers, Dunai took the bridles in his left hand, and in his right his club of elm-wood. "Stand there, Nikitich," said quiet Dunai, "and look steadfastly towards the hall of royal audience. When I call, come!" Then quiet Dunai crossed the courtyard and went into the hall of royal audience, where he found the King sitting upon his throne, and said to him in a quiet tone: "Hail, little father, King of brave Lithuania!" "Hail, quiet Dunai!" said the King. "Whither do you wander? Have you come to fight against us or to serve us as before? But before you answer, eat your fill and drink all that you need." Then he set him in the great corner, and when he had refreshed himself somewhat hastily, Dunai said: "My errand is peaceful, little father. I come on behalf of the Fair Sun, Vladimir of Kiev, to woo your daughter the Princess Apraxia." Then he laid the parchment scroll upon the table, and the King spelled out a little of it, a little and no more, but that was enough to make him tear in anger at the black curls upon his forehead and stamp his feet upon the floor of red brick. "Stupid and dolt is Prince Vladimir of Kiev, who sends as his envoy such a slave as you. Ho there, my merciless jailors! Seize quiet Dunai by his white hands and by his flowing curls, and lead him down to the deepest dungeon. Shut him in, bar the door, heap up against it logs of wood and iron gratings, and then over all pile up the yellow sand. Feed him on frozen oats and let him drink cold spring water until he returns to his senses." Quiet Dunai hung his head for a moment, and dropped his clear eyes to the floor of red brick. Then he raised his white hand and smote the table with his fist so that the wine was spilled, the dishes rolled upon the floor, the tables tumbled down and the pillars of the hall leaned this way and that, while the roof groaned and creaked. The servants of the King fled this way and the other, while their master gathered up the skirts of his royal robe and ran at great speed up the winding stairway to the top of his lofty tower, never pausing even to take a deep breath until he was safely hidden beneath a thick rug of marten skins. Then quiet Dunai took one light leap over the King's golden chair, seized one of the stout attendants by the heels, and using him as a club, began to slay the rest. "This club is tough," he said quietly but a little grimly to himself, as he went on with his work. "He will not break. He is wiry and will not tear." Then raising his voice he called through the window, "Ho, there, Nikitich!" and the young man entered the hall, snatched up another attendant by the heels, and began to assist quiet Dunai in the first part of his strange wooing of the Princess Apraxia. But by and by the two friends heard the voice of the King through the window of the topmost apartment of his lofty tower. "Ho, there, quiet little Dunai!" he cried. "Forget not my kindness towards you of old. Let us sit again together, you in the big corner, to discuss the wooing of Prince Vladimir. Take my elder daughter the Princess Nastasya, for I know little of her seeing that she loves adventure on the open steppe, and I shall not miss her so much." "I will not," said quiet Dunai, and went on with his work, Nikitich also ceasing not to assist him. "Take, then, the Princess Apraxia," cried the King in great haste, and the two friends paused to gather breath. Then quiet Dunai went to the great castle and began to knock off the thrice nine locks, and to force open the doors. He entered the tower with the golden roof and came to the apartment where the Princess Apraxia was pacing to and fro clad in a fine robe without a girdle, her golden hair all unbound and her feet all bare. "Hail, Princess," said the royal envoy, bowing courteously, "and pardon my coming without announcement. Will you wed with Prince Vladimir, the Fair Sun of Kiev?" "For three years," said the Princess, "have I longed and prayed that Vladimir might be my husband." Then quiet Dunai took her by the small white hands, kissed her golden ring, and led her at once into the courtyard where they met the King. "Take with the Princess," he said, "her royal dowry," and he gave immediate orders for the loading of thirty wagons with red gold, white silver, and fine seed pearls. Then the Princess arrayed herself, and coming forth again rode away with the goodly youths over the smiling, far-reaching, green and open plain; and as they rode she sang softly to herself of love and freedom and a fair white throne. When the dark night fell the two youths set up a white linen pavilion, in which the Princess Apraxia rested, while they lay down near the entrance with their shaggy steeds at their feet, their sharp spears at their heads, their stout swords at their right hands and their daggers of steel at their left. Both slept, for their steeds were their sentinels, and the dark night passed by with nothing seen except the stars, nothing heard except the rustle of the breeze round the curtains of the fair white linen bower of the Princess Apraxia. While it was still early morning they arose, and were setting out again upon their way, when, looking back, they saw a Tatar horseman in pursuit of them, his steed all bespattered with the mire of the plain. When Dunai was aware of this, he sent Nikitich forward to Kiev town with the Princess Apraxia, but remained himself to meet the bold adventurer, who surely had not heard how quiet Dunai had wooed the Princess Apraxia for his royal master. In the midst of the plain the combatants met, and, without taking time to observe each other closely, but each taking the other for an accursed Tatar, they fell to resounding blows. In a few moments quiet Dunai was unhorsed, but he sprang at once to his nimble feet and fought his foe with mace and spear and sword, until he laid him prone upon the broad bosom of moist Mother Earth. Then quiet Dunai drew his dagger: "Tell me now," he said, as he brushed the dew of onset from his eyes with his left sleeve, "the name that you bear and the name of the accursed horde from whence you come." "If I sat on your white breast," said the stranger, "I would not ask your name and horde, but would stab you to the heart." Then quiet Dunai raised his dagger and would have pierced the heart of his foe, but with his will, or without his will, his arm stiffened at the shoulder and that blow never fell, for now he saw in the prostrate figure before him the form of a woman--while the fallen headgear revealed the parted, flowing hair and the low brow of the Princess Nastasya who loved quiet Dunai and kept him ever in her golden heart. Without a word of speech, but with a heart full of deep and tender reproach, quiet Dunai took Nastasya by her lily-white hands, and raising her to her nimble feet, looked at her until he knew of her forgiveness and then kissed her sugar mouth. "Let us go," he said quietly, "to Kiev town and take the golden crowns." Then he placed her upon his good steed, took from her the mace of steel and the sharp sword which she bore, and, mounting behind her, rode onward to the city of Prince Vladimir. "I came to seek my sister," said the Princess, as if suddenly remembering the cause of her ride. "You shall find her in Kiev town," said Dunai, "and there she and Prince Vladimir will also take the golden crowns." Then Nastasya spoke no further, for she was too contented for speech, and they rode ever onward across the open steppe, the glorious far-reaching, sun-lit, boundless plain. Thus they came to Kiev town, and went at once to the great church. In the outer porch they met Prince Vladimir and the Princess Apraxia who had also come thither to take the golden crowns. The sisters greeted each other with love, and the company went into the dim coolness of the great church and up to the high altar where a priest awaited them. And there Prince Vladimir was wedded to the Princess Apraxia while the singing boys held the golden crowns above their heads, and quiet Dunai was wedded to the Princess Nastasya while the singing boys held in turn the golden crowns above their heads; and when that was done the whole company went to the palace of Prince Vladimir, where such a feast was laid as had not been prepared since the coming of the Prince to his royal city; and quiet Dunai sat in the great corner. For three years they lived in mirth and joy, the Princess Apraxia keeping to her palace, her fine embroidery and her household and knowing all her husband's thoughts; the Princess Nastasya sharing her husband's life of quiet wandering, both of them being quite content in the summer with the life on the boundless steppe and in winter returning to the palace of white stone in fair Kiev city. Then Prince Vladimir made another great feast, and when it came to the boasting time quiet Dunai bragged with the loudest: "In all this royal city," he said, "there is no such hero as quiet Dunai. From the land of Lithuania he carried away two white swans of glorious plumage, one of whom he took for himself while he gave away the other with ungrudging hand." The Princess Nastasya looked at him, and a world of wisdom was in her glance. "Your boast is emptiness, Dunai," she said. "I have not dwelt long in this city, but I have learnt much. There are handsomer, braver, more courteous heroes in Kiev town whom I could name. Neither in deeds nor promise are these men lacking, and, apart from them, even I, the wife of a boaster, have some skill with the bow. Let us take a stout bow and set up a sharp dagger on the open steppe a mile away, and before the dagger a silver ring. Then let us shoot through the ring of silver at the sharp dagger in such a skilful way that the shaft may fall into two equal parts against the dagger, into two parts exactly equal both to the eye and to the discerning hand which can tell weight from weight." Thereupon quiet Dunai was very angry, but he said steadily, "It is well, little Nastasya. Let us go to the open steppe, set up a sharp dagger a mile away with a silver ring before it, and shoot our fiery darts as you have said." So they went out to put the matter to the trial. Nastasya shot a flaming arrow, which passed through the ring as through the open air, fell upon the sharp blade and was cut into two parts exactly equal both to the eye and to the discerning hand. Then quiet Dunai shot a flaming arrow, and it sped too far; he shot a second, and it sped not far enough; he shot a third, which came not near the silver ring and was not seen again. Then he shot a fourth into the breast of Nastasya, and she fell upon the open plain where she had loved to wander. And still in the moment of her death she loved quiet Dunai and kept him ever in her golden heart. "Forgive, my lord, my foolish woman's words," she said, "and tend with care the son of mine whom I leave in Kiev town, for such a boy is not to be found in all the world. His little legs are silver to the knee, his arms to the elbow are of purest gold; upon his open forehead glows the fair round sun, upon his golden head glitter countless stars, and at the back of his head the bright moon shineth." So she spoke in her death-pain, and the heart of quiet Dunai burned within his breast for deep grief and scorching remorse and torturing pity. "Where the white swan fell," he said, "there shall fall the falcon bright." Then he placed the handle of his sword in the bosom of moist Mother Earth and fell with his white breast upon the sharp point. And from that spot far away across the boundless plain flowed two gently wandering streams. The greater was the Dnieper, deep and full and quiet, yet resistless in its noiseless might, which ran past Kiev town; the lesser was the Dwina, which flowed to the kingdom of Lithuania. And where the two streams met, two cypress trees sprang up, and their branches twined lovingly together, whispering when the breeze arose in tender tones of love and pity of the steadfastness of the Princess Nastasya, who loved quiet Dunai and kept him ever in her golden heart. THE STORY OF NIKITICH AND MARINA The day of the birth of Nikitich had been a day of trouble for wide distances across the open steppe. For upon that wonderful day a great storm seemed to arise, and yet not a great storm but a strange commotion, unseen, unheard, but keenly felt. From far across the open plain came a herd of beasts, wild beasts and fearsome dragons large and small, and sought the shallow valley of the Dnieper river. At their head ran the Skiper-beast, with woolly fleece, twisted horn, and hoofs which struck sparks from the pebbles of flint. Then the waters of the Dnieper were strangely troubled, the banks of the river quaked and fell, and trees which once had waved upright now spanned the stream. Such had been the day of the birth of Nikitich. Now when he grew up to youthful manhood, Nikitich sought service in the royal household of Prince Vladimir, and though he was of supernatural wisdom, having learnt to read and write, he served with the rest, for three years in the palace, for three years in the royal gardens, and for three years as keeper of the gate; but for all his faithful service he won no praise of Vladimir and no reward except a horse of the finest mettle, and he was kept always within the confines of the royal palace. But at a certain princely banquet Nikitich rose to his feet in his place at one end of the oaken board, and said: "Prince Vladimir, Fair Sun of royal Kiev, I have served thee long and faithfully, but always within the confines of the royal palace. Give me leave to wander farther, and first of all through the narrow lanes of Kiev town." "Young nestling," said Prince Vladimir, "fly not from the nest. Young colt of the open steppe, gallop not away." But the heroes of Holy Russia who sat at the board of Prince Vladimir had pity upon the young man and they said, "Go, Nikitich, and ask your mother." Then Vladimir laughed and gave the young man leave. And the counsel of the mother of Nikitich ran thus: "Walk at will through all the streets of Kiev town and roam through all the little by-ways. But avoid a certain little lane where dwells the Princess Marina, for she is a witch of the vilest who has brought to their death many Tsars and Tsareviches, Kings, and Crown Princes, nobles and their heirs. If you go near the Princess Marina you will lose your life." But, sad to tell, the counsel had this effect upon the young man, that he longed most of all to go to the certain little lane where dwelt the Princess Marina. On the next day he rose very early and washed himself very white in clear water from the spring. Then he took his stout bow in his hand and slung his quiver of gleaming arrows upon his back. He wandered on through the streets and narrow lanes and came at length to a certain little lane where he found the palace of the Princess Marina. It was finely built and richly adorned, while in the window of one apartment sat a mated pair of dark-blue doves cooing lovingly with yellow bill to yellow bill and wing enfolding wing. Then Nikitich fitted a flaming arrow to his stout bow and shot at the cooing doves, but as the shaft was leaving the string his left foot slipped and his right hand shook so that the arrow missed the loving birds, went singing through the lattice-window and slew the favourite of the Princess Marina who was known as the Son of the Dragon and was known for nothing good. "If I go into the palace," said Nikitich to himself, "I shall lose my head. If I do not go, I shall lose my arrow." So he called to his page, who always walked or stood three paces behind him, and sent him into the palace to seek for the arrow. "Thou witch and sorceress," said the bold page to the Princess, "return to us our burning arrow." "Nay," said Marina, "let him who sent it come to ask for it." And when this was told to Nikitich he ran quickly into the courtyard of the palace and from thence to the apartment of the Princess Marina and took the shaft from the body of the Son of the Dragon. Marina lay upon a couch which was covered with a broad mantle of marten skins and fondled a fiery dragon with her right hand, while she played with two poisonous serpents with her left. As soon as Nikitich entered the room she sprang to her nimble feet and stretched out her lily-white hands to him: "Sweet Nikitich," she said looking at him with honey eyes and sugar lips, "stay with me always and I will teach you to calm the fiery dragon and charm the poisonous serpent. You shall rest all day and no foe, however powerful, will be able to harm you." "Sweet Marina," answered the young man, who was really in a very great hurry, "I will not. I have no desire to calm the fiery dragon and charm the poisonous serpent but to fight and kill them. Nor would rest without labour have any charms for me. Besides I know your guile, for you have brought nine brave Russian heroes to their end and now are minded to put an end to me." Then he turned abruptly from the apartment in spite of all the sweet glances of Marina, who was really very lovely, and went home again to his mother with his fiery dart in his hand. As soon as he was gone, Marina seized her dagger, and from the clay floor of the apartment she hacked out the footprints of Nikitich. Then she painted the pieces of earth with many devices in various colours and said her verses over them as she placed them in an oven to bake: "Burn ye footsteps of Nikitich, burn in this oven, burn, burn; and as his footsteps burn may his heart burn to return to me." Now as the witch spoke these words Nikitich felt a strange longing and uneasiness fall upon his spirit. He sat down at night by the fair white oaken table but he could eat no food; when he went to rest he could not sleep but lay tossing about and waiting with impatience for the coming of the white dawn. At the first bell for prayers he rose, dressed himself, went first to the cathedral service, and then took his way to a certain little lane in Kiev town where lived the Princess Marina. He entered the apartment of the Princess slowly and with downcast eyes; but she turned her white shoulders upon him and did not reply to his greeting. "Ah, sweet Marina," said the enchanted youth, "I have come to stay with you always, for since yesterday I have had no peace of mind apart from you." "I asked you yesterday to stay with me, Nikitich," said the enchantress, "and you would not. So now you are in my power. If I wish, I can turn you into a raven, a magpie, a pig, or a heroic ox with golden horns, silver hoofs, and a coat as sleek as velvet, or even into a loathsome frog. And if I change you into a frog no power on earth or in the sky or in the sea, or in the underworld can change you again so that your spiteful mother will know you." Then by a slight movement of her lily-white hand she turned the young man into a heroic ox with golden horns, silver hoofs, and a coat as sleek as velvet. And she drove him out into the open steppe to drink swamp water and to eat marsh grass and to be lord over the nine brown oxen which had once been Russian heroes, strong and mighty. Now as he roamed about the plain not far away from the dwellings of Kiev, he saw a flock of geese which belonged to his aunt; and wickedness entered into his heart, so that he trampled the whole gabbling flock to death down to the very last gosling. Then the goose-girls went to their mistress and with much shaking of dark locks and heaving of white shoulders they told their tale. As soon as they had finished their story the swan-keepers came with a similar tale, and then the shepherds, and after these the herdsmen. Not a living creature of all the flocks and herds had the golden-horned monster spared. "I know," said the aunt of Nikitich, "whence comes this fierce beast. It is my well-beloved Nikitich whom the vile witch Marina has changed by her sorcery." Even as she spoke the horse-keepers came to tell how the animal had driven the steeds before him so that all had been lost far over the open steppe, dispersed and driven away many miles from Kiev city. Then the aunt of Nikitich rose in white anger, and by means of a secret charm she knew she changed herself into a chattering magpie and flew away to the palace of Marina, where she perched herself upon the sill of the lattice-window and began to scold with all her might and to say: "Wicked Marina, the ugly! Why have you turned my nephew Nikitich into a golden-horned heroic ox, and set him free to roam across the open steppe? Take off your charm from my nephew or I will turn you into a long-tailed dog to be chased through the lanes of Kiev by the children, or into a chattering magpie full of guile and spleen." Now at the game of changes no one could excel Marina, and when she heard the threat of the aunt of Nikitich she changed herself into a grey swallow and flew over the head of the chattering magpie far away across the open steppe. After a long flight she came to the golden-horned heroic ox, and alighting upon his head said in his ear: "Promise me now, Nikitich, promise me with a great oath that you will take the golden crowns with me, and I will turn you back into your own shape again. Swear now, for you have roamed the wild steppe and must needs be weary, and have wandered far by the bubbling marshes and must needs be tired." "Ah, sweet Marina," said Nikitich, glancing upward with a piteous look, "only deliver me from the form of this heroic beast and I will take the golden crowns with you. I will marry you, Marina, and will teach you the little lessons which a wise husband imparts to an obedient wife for her advantage." Then Marina believed him and turned him into a goodly youth as he had been when he first entered her apartment in search of his fiery dart; and she changed herself into a lovely bride, but she could not change the emerald hue of her eyes. "Now I will wed you, Marina," said the wise Nikitich. "Round this bush we go, three times round this willow bush, and then you may call Nikitich your husband if you will." So round the bush they went, hand in hand, three times round the willow bush, while the eyes of the beautiful bride gleamed greener than ever before. So the bride and bridegroom came, side by side, to the palace of Marina, where Nikitich called to one of the servants: "Ho, there, bring me a cup of green wine, and a sword of damascened steel, sharp and bright." At these words the witch bride put forth her spells again and turned her bridegroom into a little ermine and began to frighten him. Then she turned him into a falcon, but by her witchcraft she was able to prevent him from flying anywhere except round and round her head. "I cannot fly like the falcon clear," said Nikitich, "I can only flap my wings up and down. Give me, I beg of you, a cup of green wine to drink." Then as if to delight her own eyes and tease him still further, the witch bride turned him once more into a goodly young man who shouted out again: "Ho, there, bring me a cup of green wine and a sword of damascened steel, sharp and bright." Once more Marina raised her lily-white hands and began to perform her enchantments. But before she could change her bridegroom again the servant stood at his side with the cup of wine in one hand and the sword in the other. Nikitich set aside the wine and taking the sword in his hands cut off the head of Marina with one sharp stroke. In the morning, as the young man went to his bath, a great company of princes and nobles met him in the passage: "Hail, Nikitich," they cried courteously. "How is it with your bride?" "Hail, princes and nobles, heroes and courtiers of Vladimir," said the young man with a jolly laugh. "Last night I was wedded and no longer alone. This morning I am alone and no longer wedded, for I have cut off the head of my troublesome bride, who had brought to their death many heroes and princes of Holy Russia." Then he went to his bath, and returning to the court of Vladimir was given a seat in the great corner while he told his wonderful adventure. "There is no need," said the Prince, "to cross the boundless plain for strange happenings, for to the adventurous the adventure may come in a narrow lane." But in spite of the words of his Prince, Nikitich now longed to roam the open plain to seek fresh adventures. So he set out on the very next day and wandered on and on until he came to a wide-spreading oak on which a pied raven, half of whose wings were white, sat croaking, croaking, croaking. So harsh was its voice that Nikitich strung his bow, fitted a flaming arrow to the cord and prepared to shoot the croaking bird. But as he did so the raven put its head on one side and spoke to him in the speech of Holy Russia. "Hail now, little Nikitich, the adventurer. Do not kill me and I will make known to you all kinds of secrets. Do not the little ones of the lanes and streets say to one another, 'There is no wisdom in killing an old man, and he who shoots a raven makes no broth.' Now that I see your bow unstrung I will tell you something worth knowing in return for your forbearance. By the lofty mountain across the steppe there are three wonders, even three marvellous damsels. The first is a lily for whiteness, the second is a rose for redness, and the third is a violet for darkness. More beautiful are they than the spring flowers on the steppe. How is this for an adventure on a fine morning for Nikitich the slayer of dragon brides?" Now Nikitich had succeeded so well in his first adventure that he was burning to try a second. So he lowered his bow and reflected a little before he spoke. Then he said: "What you have quoted of the children's wisdom must be true and I will try the adventure. It is better to go to the lofty mountain and see with my own eyes the lily, the rose, and the violet, those three marvels of beauty, than that I should prove my valour by shooting a raven." Then the pied bird flew away, croaking, croaking, croaking. Nikitich turned his horse and rode, quickly, very quickly, very, very quickly, and with heroic speed, towards the lofty mountain far away across the open steppe, and at the foot of this mountain he found a pavilion of fair white linen embroidered with gold. "This is a fitting dwelling for three marvellous damsels," said the young man to himself, "the first a lily for whiteness, the second a rose for redness, and the third a violet for darkness. But it seems to me that either they are not at home or they have locked up their beauty very securely;" for the entrance to the pavilion was secured by a stout bar on which was a lock of damascened steel. The young man alighted, spread fine wheat for his horse near the entrance of the pavilion, planted his spear in the bosom of moist Mother Earth, and went forward to look more closely at the lock, upon which he found this inscription: "Whoso enters this pavilion shall not come thence alive." This was, of course, a direct invitation to an adventurous youth, and with one blow of his fist Nikitich struck the lock from its place and it fell to the earth at his feet. Then he removed the beam and pushed his way into the pavilion, where he saw tables set with food of the richest and wine of the greenest. He looked round warily, his hand upon his sword, and even searched beneath the tables, but found neither hero nor damsels in all the place. So he sat down at one table and ate well and drank too well, for as soon as he was satisfied he began to throw food and wine about the floor. When he was weary of this foolish exercise, he lay down to sleep. For a long time he slept, dreaming of lilies, roses, and violets, and knew not that even as he slumbered the owner of that fair pavilion was speeding across the open steppe. This was the hero Alyosha of the court of Prince Vladimir, who arrived breathless to find a steed feeding quietly before his pavilion, and a sleeper within who had eaten well and drunk too well and then had thrown food and wine about the floor. Now at this sight Alyosha grew very angry, and his turbulent heart boiled within him. His pointed spear was in his hand, and in a moment his anger suggested to him that he could easily punish Nikitich for his fault. But he put aside the idea with disgust, for he was a hero and a gentleman. "I shall win no honour," he said to himself, "if I kill a sleeping man who is no better than a dead one." Then he reflected for a few moments, smiled gently, went out of the pavilion and mounted not his own horse but the good steed of Nikitich. Holding his spear reversed, he rode into the pavilion and struck the sleeper on the breast with the butt end of it. Nikitich sat up suddenly, sprang to his nimble feet, from which he had cast his shoes before falling asleep, and grasping his mace in his right hand prepared to defend himself against all comers. Then a stern fight began within the pavilion to the sound of tumbling tables, breaking crockery and crashing glass. All day they fought without ceasing even to snatch up a bite of food; all night the fight went on with never a draught of wine to slake their thirst. For two more days and two more nights the combat continued, and then there came a clap of thunder loud enough to wake Svyatogor from his sleep among the Holy Mountains. Now Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck heard that sound and he said to himself, "Somewhere in the white world Russian heroes are fighting one another. That is not well, for their strength must be kept for battle with accursed Tatars." So he saddled his good steed Cloudfall, and those who watched his preparations for his ride saw him mount, but they did not see him as he rode, so quickly sped the shaggy bay steed across the open steppe. In a short space of time he came to the lofty mountain, and entering the pavilion saw the two young men fighting amidst the remnants of a feast. Then he seized Nikitich by his right hand and Alyosha by his left and shouted in a heroic voice, "Why fight against each other, ye heroes of Holy Russia?" Alyosha was the first to speak. "Ah," he said, "thou Old Cossáck, Ilya of Murom, how could I refrain from punishing Nikitich? For I prepared a banquet within my own pavilion and this fellow unbarred the door, sat down by himself to eat well and drink too well, and then scattered the rich food and green wine about the floor!" As he spoke, the voice of Alyosha rose higher and higher with indignation until the last words were like the scream of a peacock in the garden of the Princess Apraxia. "You did well, Alyosha," said Ilya with a fatherly smile about his lips, "for a man is no man who is not able to defend his own. And as for you, Nikitich, how does it stand with your case?" "I could do nothing in honour but fight," was the reply. "For the inscription on the lock denied life to those who entered this pavilion. It was but an invitation to an adventurer from the court of Vladimir." "You did well, Nikitich," said Ilya with a deep laugh in his eyes, "to defend yourself against such odds, for a hero is no hero who is not able to defend his own." Then he paused and looked at both of the combatants, who presented a sorry spectacle. After that he looked round about the wrecked pavilion which had been intended as a place of entertainment for heroes and bold warrior maids. "It will be well, Nikitich," he said quietly, "if you stay to be invited to the next feast that is laid in this pavilion, and well for you, Alyosha, if you do not tempt brave men by forbidding them. Come now, calm your heroic turbulent hearts and swear brotherhood with exchange of crosses." Then the two heroes swore eternal friendship with the exchange of crosses, and they all set out for the court of Vladimir, who when he saw them and heard their story laughed in his beard. "It is not wise, Nikitich," he said, "to expect to win a bride in each day's adventure." Then they went in to supper, and Ilya of Murom sat in the great corner that night and it was he who told the tale. HOW THE COURT OF VLADIMIR RECEIVED A VISITOR FROM INDIA THE GLORIOUS From far beyond the deep blue sea, from India the Glorious, came Lord Diuk the son of Stephen. Like a white hawk his ship skimmed lightly across the heaving waters, and like a white ermine coursing he rode across the boundless open plain. As he rode jauntily onward his bow-case and his quiver beat against his hips, and like a flaming arrow from that same bow was the speed of his good steed, Rough-Coat. His helmet and his armour were of gleaming silver, his shirt of mail, close fitting, was of ruddy gold woven in chains as fine as silk from Samarcand. When he came to a river he asked for no bridge or ford, for Rough-Coat leapt from shore to shore at a single bound. Now as Lord Diuk rode onward he hunted, and the foxes, martens, eagles, geese, white swans and downy ducks knew and told each other by their cries that a practised hunter was abroad. When an arrow sped from his bow a shaft of light seemed to rend the heavens, and where the flaming darts fell to earth a radiance streamed as from the pale cold moon shining across the white world of the snowy steppe. He shot three times a hundred arrows and three times one, and though he found the three hundred shafts he did not find the three; and this appeared to him to be a very great wonder. "The three arrows which I have lost," he said to himself, "are of priceless value. They were made of the graceful reeds and were covered with gold beaten finer than the parchment of the holy monks, and set with precious stones so that in their flight they shone like the rays of the sun at early dawn. The feathers were those of the blue-grey eagle, which is swifter in its flight than all the birds of the air, and flies across the deep blue sea to visit its eyrie on the tall burning white stone which flashes for a thousand miles. Its feathers are hard to come by, being more precious than satin or cut velvet, or silk from Samarcand." Thinking deeply and somewhat depressed at his heavy loss, Diuk once more mounted Rough-Coat and gave him the rein for home. As he sped onward he overtook a company of one and thirty wandering pilgrims, and reining in his horse demanded: "Ho, there, you greybeards, are you thieves or robbers or travellers, midnight prowlers or plunderers of churches?" Then the psalm-singers replied: "Young Diuk, we are neither thieves, nor robbers, prowlers nor plunderers of churches, but pilgrims on the long journey from Kiev town to India the Glorious." "Is the journey long?" asked Diuk in a more respectful tone. "We have indeed come a long way from Kiev town," was the quiet answer. "It is a journey of a year on foot and then three months on the bosom of the deep blue sea." With a low reverence to the holy pilgrims, Diuk rode to his home, which he reached in a short space of time; and on the next day after having been to vespers he sought out his lady mother. "Mother mine," he said, "must I stay always at home engaged in childish pursuits while my manhood calls me, calls me ever and ever more loudly across the boundless plain? I ought to ride with head aloft and shoulders squared upon my dapple bay steed Rough-Coat, and prove my manhood by my fearless deeds. I have seen some fair cities, but never have I seen Kiev the Great nor beheld with my own eyes the beauty of the Princess Apraxia whom all men praise. Give me leave, lady mother, leave and your good blessing, and let me go to Kiev town at once and now." Then the mother's heart grew tender, and in her eagerness to keep him by her side she magnified the dangers of the way and thus, all unknowing, added to his eagerness to go. "Alas, my dear son," she said, "you have not yet ridden far across the boundless plain nor heard the roar of the wild beast and the fierce cry of the accursed Tatar. Never will you return in safety from the dangers of the open steppe. As for Kiev, the city of Vladimir, the people of that place are not worthy to keep company with such as you. They will look upon you as a purse to be picked, for they are traders, sons of merchants, traffickers in goods which your forefathers would win with sword and mace and lance. I will not give you leave and blessing to go to the Court of Vladimir, that ruler of shop-keepers." Diuk's eyes had gleamed as his mother spoke of the way in which his ancestors had won their wealth; and seeing this she tried another course. "Besides," she went on quickly, "there are three great barriers on the way to Kiev city. The first is the barrier of the moving mountains, which clash together and catch the unwary traveller in their strong grip. The second is the barrier of the ravenous birds, which will tear thee and thy good steed to a thousand pieces. The third barrier is the Mountain Dragon with twelve tails, each with a sting in it. He will devour you if indeed you have been fortunate enough to pass the clashing mountains and the ravenous birds." Each fresh terror which she described added to the young man's eagerness to set out upon the journey to Kiev town; and having done reverence to his weeping mother he went to the stable and combed the coat of his faithful steed with a fine comb of fishes' teeth, as well as the mane and tail, which brushed the bosom of moist Mother Earth as he passed on his flight and swept away all traces of his hoofs. Then he saddled his good horse and plaited bright jewels in his mane, standing off to admire his handiwork, speaking meanwhile to the animal in human speech; and in human speech the horse replied to him saying: "Tear not my sides with spurs, dear master; lash me not with your whip of silk; tighten not the bridle upon my faithful head; but when I speed cling to my mane and fear not when I leap from mountain-top to mountain-top, when I clear a great lake at a bound and a river at an easy jump. So shall I be your friend and helper as was Cloudfall to Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck." Then Diuk prepared himself for the heroic journey and went to say farewell to his lady mother, who had wept till her eyes were bright again, and she was ready to give both leave and blessing to her bold and fearless son. She gave him also a warning. "My dear son," she said, "when you come to Kiev town and to the Court of Prince Vladimir and he makes a banquet in your honour, boast not of your wealth, or of me your mother." Then she kissed him upon his honey mouth and he rode away with happy heart. They saw him as he mounted Rough-Coat but they did not see him as he rode, so swift was his flight--it was only a wreath of smoke, a pillar of dust far off upon the boundless plain, and he was gone. Now in due time he came to the first barrier of the moving mountains, which, of course, could not always be meeting, but must also part to meet once more; and watching for the time when they parted, Rough-Coat darted between them so quickly that they only caught a long hair from his flowing tail. Then they came to the second barrier of the ravenous birds, which swooped down upon them. But Rough-Coat dipped his head and flung up his hind feet so that they pecked only at his hoofs and found no sweetness in that meal; and with two heroic leaps the brave steed was far beyond the reach of the pecking birds. Last of all they came so suddenly upon the barrier of the dragon that before he could rouse himself and uncoil his stinging tails one by one Rough-Coat was far beyond the reach of their malice. So the three terrible barriers were safely passed without the loss of a single arrow, and Diuk rode onward singing gaily of the great deeds of Svyatogor and Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. On he went across the boundless open plain until he came to a ring-barked oak on which sat a raven as black as night, croaking, croaking, croaking. Diuk looked up with impatience, for in his heart he feared an omen more than clashing mountains, pecking birds, or dragons with twelve stinging tails. "Thou bird of evil," he cried, "I will scatter thy sable feathers upon the open plain. I will spill thy blood upon the ring-barked oak and give thee over to croaking Death." But the raven answered him in the speech of Holy Russia, "Shed not my blood, young Lord Diuk. Ride on across the open steppe and you will find an adversary worthy of your stout bow and your shining arrows." This speech filled the heart of the young hero with gladness and with the hope of meeting an adventure worthy of his ancestry. He rode on again until he came upon the hoof-prints of a horse deeply marked on the broad lap of moist Mother Earth, so deeply that it was clear to all eyes that a hero of mighty stature had recently passed that way. A few more leaps of Rough-Coat, and Diuk came to a pavilion of fair white linen embroidered with gold, beside which strayed a shaggy charger eating fine white Turkish wheat, which was heaped freely upon the ground for his solace and entertainment. When Diuk saw this his heart failed him and he said to himself, "My courage leaves me and I dare not enter that pavilion, for the hero who sits therein will assuredly cut off my head. But I will place Rough-Coat by the side of this charger and he also shall stoop to the wheat. If the two horses eat together in peace, I will take it as a sign that the hero will do me no harm. But if the horses begin to quarrel I shall know that it is time for me to return to my lady mother." For a strange dread and fear was upon the young man who had set out so boldly but who now felt that he was within the circle of a spell. And well he might, as we shall see. The two chargers ate in peace, and Diuk, taking heart again, entered the pavilion, bowing as he passed the threshold to North, South, East, and West, and especially to--the owner who slept in one corner with a terrible snore. Diuk came forward, and looking closer knew at once that the sleeper was none other than Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck, wrapt in one of the deep sleeps for which he was as famous as for heroic deeds. "Rouse ye, Ilya of Murom," cried Diuk; "it is time to go to royal Kiev town so as to be present at matins on Easter morn." But Ilya slept on and snored and stirred not. Again Diuk shouted, and again without result; but at his third shout the great warrior unclosed his eyes in a manner which seemed to suggest that he had been sleeping a hound's sleep and said: "Ho, stranger, tell me your name and horde." Then Diuk told him all the truth. "Why, then," asked Ilya, "have you roused me from my heroic sleep. Do you wish to go with me out upon the open plain and see which of us shall carry home the head of the other?" "Nay," said Diuk in great haste. "Why should I fight with Ilya upon the open plain? Death will not come to you in battle. As there is one sun in the daylight sky and one moon in the dark blue heavens, so there is one Ilya of Murom in Holy Russia." This speech was courteous enough and fitting for the mouth of a young hero, and it pleased Ilya mightily. He sprang at once to his nimble feet, caught Diuk by his white hands, kissed him upon his sugar lips, and swore with him eternal friendship, making the solemn exchange of the cross. And Diuk thought no more of home or of his lady mother and her tears of loneliness. Then the young hero and the old sat down in the fair pavilion and ate and drank well but not too well; and when that memorable feast was ended, Ilya said to Diuk: "Go now alone upon your way to Kiev town, and if any one there shall mock at you send me word of it. But do not take your part when the boasting time shall come." With a heart full of hope and youthful expectation, Diuk rode on alone to Kiev town; and when he came there Rough-Coat leapt over the walls and flew like a whirlwind to the palace of white stone. In the courtyard Diuk leapt lightly to the ground, planted the butt end of his spear in the soil, and flung his bridle over the point. Then he looked up and saw the Princess Apraxia looking out of the window and said out loudly, "The washerwoman, I suppose." But he also bowed to her and asked, "Where is Prince Vladimir, the Fair Sun of Kiev?" Thereupon the Princess Apraxia raised her head with a look of scorn and passed into the shadow of her apartment; and it was the serving men in the courtyard who answered the young man's question. "Royal Vladimir," they said, "is on his way to the Easter Mass." So Diuk mounted Rough-Coat once again and rode off to the Cathedral. At the great door he let his horse go free and entered the hall of the ambassadors, but he did not bow to North, South, East, and West and especially to any one, but gazed about and scanned the faces of all the congregation. When the service was over the courteous prince sent a messenger to invite the strange youth to the palace, and to this man Diuk replied lightly and by no means courteously: "You have lately been favoured in these parts with spring weather and my embroidered garments are befouled with the mire of the plain." This he said to show his magnificence, for he was splendidly clad, as befitted his ancestry, and he knew it. So he went to the banquet-hall, his steed following after him; and when he came within the place he bowed to Prince Vladimir until his golden curls swept the red brick floor. Then he stood upright and looked about him, and having looked he shook his head doubtfully and slightingly, for to his eyes accustomed to the shining splendour of India the Glorious the palace was mean beyond compare. But he sat down with another shake of his head, wondering upon what meal of frozen oats his fine steed was being regaled and eyeing with scorn the tables of white oak with their cloths patterned with drawn-work of white thread, the handiwork of the Princess Apraxia. He ate and drank well, however, and when he showed more contentment, Vladimir asked him courteously if it were a long journey from India the Glorious to Kiev town. "I set out at vespers on Holy Saturday," said Diuk lightly, "and as you know, I have been at early Mass in Kiev town this Easter day." "And can you buy such steeds as yours cheaply in India the Glorious?" asked Prince Vladimir still courteously. "Oh," said Diuk lightly still, "we have them at a rouble, or two roubles, or six roubles, or even seven, but Rough-Coat is priceless and not to be purchased by the wealthiest trader." Then he thrust his hands into his belt and stared about the room, while a great hush fell upon the company. But one of the heroes of Holy Russia rose slowly to his feet and said heavily: "My lord, Prince Vladimir, I have travelled far from Kiev town and have been even to India the Glorious. And I know without hearsay that by the straight way for heroic travellers it is a journey of three months, but by the round way for merchants it is a six months' passage and more, indeed, unless on the way the traveller springs from horse to horse, making no delay." To this speech courteous Prince Vladimir said nothing in reply. The guests looked at each other at a loss for the next event, and then feeling hungry and thirsty again fell upon the banquet with heroic strength. But Diuk sat at the board sad and silent until Vladimir spoke to him. "What ails your sad heart, bold youth?" he asked gently. "Is the feast not to your taste? Or do you fear the boasting time which is surely coming, when you shall have nothing of which you may brag?" "Prince Vladimir," said Diuk, "I am wealthier far than you are. For my father left me great riches, and I am used to fine white bread made from flour of Turkish wheat." Then courteous Prince Vladimir ordered his servants to bring wine of the greenest and cakes of wheaten flour. Diuk drank one half of the wine and poured out the rest upon the table as if its value were of no account, and some of the dogs licked the drops and then lay down to sleep. He took off the top crust of the fine wheaten cakes, ate the middle, and flung the rest to the other dogs. And even yet courteous Prince Vladimir blamed him not at all. But another Russian hero sprang to his nimble feet and cried, "What boorish fellow is this? He is not really Lord Diuk from India the Glorious, and for the first time to-day this fellow has drunk green wine and eaten fine wheaten cakes. He is a cow-herd, a fugitive serf from the castle of some nobleman, who has done his master to death, dressed himself in his embroidered garments, and stolen his goodly steed. He is not of noble birth, for as he walked I noticed that he looked not straight before him but at the shoes upon his feet. He has come here in order that you, Prince Vladimir, may feast him honourably and then give him a rich gift in accordance with your courteous custom." "I desire no treasure which can be given to me here," cried Diuk, "for I have wealth untold at home, and rich food and green wine in abundance. I had heard tales of wonder concerning Kiev city and came here to test the truth of what I had heard. But it is not with you as it is with us in India the Glorious." And even yet Prince Vladimir parted not from his courteous bearing but said gently: "Why did you stare about the church at Mass this Easter morning, instead of reverently bowing your head in the company?" "I stared about, Prince Vladimir," said the young man, "because I had heard tales of Kiev churches and of the richness of their beauty. But in this matter also, it is not with you as it is with us in India the Glorious. Your churches are of wooden beams with domes of timber, but ours are of stone with roofs of beaten gold. Our meanest houses are finer than your palaces of white stone. Your streets are foul with mire, but ours are cleanly swept and strewn with dry yellow sand. "The steps of your royal palace," went on Diuk, "are of black stone with railings of turned wood fastened together with pegs of wood, and these rough pegs, as I know to my annoyance, catch the flowing robes of those who mount the steps. But the steps of my palace in India the Glorious are of smoothest ivory, and are spread with rugs of silk from Samarcand, while the railings are of polished ruddy gold on which no speck of dust is allowed to settle. "The floor of this banquet-hall is of rough, uneven pine planks, and even these rough boards are a luxury for the high table and the great corner, while the rest of the hall is paved with coarse red brick. Your walls and ceiling are unpainted, your tables are of oak, and the cloths laid upon the most exalted are patterned with drawn threads. But the floors of our hall are of smooth ash timber in every part, laid with great evenness, our walls and ceiling are painted in the richest colours, while our tables are of gold when they are not of ivory. Over my lady mother's doorway are seventy pictures of holy saints shining in glorious colours, while you have only ten. From our churches to the palace are laid pavements of hard smooth wood, spread with scarlet cloth, but your pathways are so miry that they soil the embroidered garments of a Prince." Even yet Prince Vladimir remained courteous, and all he said in reply was: "Why did you throw away some of my green wine and a portion of my wheaten cakes?" "For a good reason," returned the young lord; "I could not eat your cakes, for the upper crust has a flavour of pine wood, while the lower tastes of clay, so that I knew at once that your ovens are built of brick and your oven brooms are made of pine twigs. But in our palace in India the Glorious the ovens of my lady mother, which are under her own care, are made of hard glazed tiles, while her oven brooms are of silk dipped in honey dew. If a man eats one of my mother's cakes he leaves no crumb behind, and his whole desire is to eat more. Your wines taste of damp and their flavour is foul. But my mother's wine-cellars and their contents are the wonder of India the Glorious. She has wines which saw the dawn of history, and these are kept in casks of silver with hoops of gold, which are hung on chains of brass in bricked-out caves of forty fathoms' depth; and from these great caves run open pipes underground to let in the fresh sweet air from the plain; and when the strong winds play about the open ends of these pipes the silver casks swing to and fro and make a murmur like that of snowy birds playing upon the bosom of a peaceful lake. So we have wine which cannot be described but must be tasted, and if a man drinks one cup thereof he leaves no drop behind, for there are no dregs in this liquor, and his whole desire is to drink more. "As for the embroidered garments of my lady mother, the store in her presses and cupboards cannot be valued. At all times the sewing women are busy, stitching, stitching, stitching, and when one group grows weary, another takes up the work. My lady mother's under-robe is set with precious stones, while the bodice is of cloth of gold; her cap is covered with fair seed pearls with jewels of marvellous lustre and priceless value set in front, and as for myself I wear a dress one day, but woe unto my body-servant if I see it again. Your horses are fed on frozen oats, but ours are regaled on fine Turkish wheat. Beneath our palace are twelve deep cellars filled with ruddy gold, white silver, and fine seed pearls, and the contents of one cellar alone would be sufficient to buy up the whole of Kiev town and Chernigof as well." At last Vladimir was a little moved. "I wish that Churilo the Exquisite were here, for he would know how to reply to your boasting." Even as he spoke the white oaken doors of the banquet-hall were flung open, and Churilo the Exquisite entered with a graceful bow to North, South, East, and West, and especially to Prince Vladimir, but not at all to Diuk from India the Glorious. But that young man was not thereby abashed. "I have heard," he said, "even in far-away India, the fame of Churilo's beauty, and truly Rumour was no lying wench, for his face is like the rosebud for redness and his neck like the driven snow for whiteness. But Rumour lied when she praised his courtesy; for he has not learnt how to salute his betters." Then the face of Churilo grew redder than the full-blown rose, and he cried in anger: "Braggart and boaster, son of a slave. Let us lay a wager of roubles, a wager of thirty thousand. For the space of three years you and I shall live in Kiev, and upon every single day of the year each shall wear fresh clothes of the richest, and upon every single day ride a horse of a different hue. And the wager shall pass to him whom all men acclaim as the most glorious. This can I do to uphold the honour of the court of Prince Vladimir, the Fair Sun of Kiev." "It is easy for you to wager such a sum and to propose such a test," said Diuk somewhat wearily, "for you live at home where your clothes presses and your stables are full; but I am far from home and have only one travelling suit which is foul from the mire of the dirty ways of Kiev town. But I accept your wager." Then the young lord sat down at the oaken table and called for a parchment scroll on which he wrote a letter and a list, a letter and a list for his lady mother far away in India the Glorious. Having rolled the scroll and sealed it he went out into the court where Rough-Coat stood pawing the ground impatiently, and placed it in one of the saddle-bags. "Haste thee home," he said in the quivering ear of the faithful steed, "home to India the Glorious, and when you reach the palace of my lady mother neigh loudly so that all may hear." They saw the good steed while Diuk spoke in his quivering ear, but they did not see him when he had finished speaking--there was only a wreath of smoke on the open boundless plain, and he was gone. And when the good steed came to the palace of his master he neighed loudly, and the lady mother came out upon the ivory steps holding the railing of ruddy gold with her right hand and her own heart with her left, for she saw the empty saddle of Rough-Coat, and thought instantly of the worst. But the horse neighed again with a joyful note, and when the grooms felt in the saddle-bag they found the scroll which they gave to their mistress on bended knee. Holding herself proudly erect, she read the words which Diuk had written, and the colour came back to her face and the light of love to her eyes. "The foolish boy has boasted as I warned him that he must not do, for there is no need for one to boast whose splendour is beyond doubt or rival. But I must do what I can to redeem his pledged word--and it may be that his precious life is endangered." Then she unbound her golden keys and taking with her a band of sewing maidens, she unlocked the doors of spacious wardrobes, and packed changes of lawn and silken raiment sufficient for three years and three days, and so as to afford three changes for each day; and though the number of garments was so great the weight of the bales were not too heavy a burden for Rough-Coat, so fine was the texture of lawn and silk, each garment having stood the test of being drawn through a finger ring before it was embroidered with gold or silver or fine seed pearls. When Rough-Coat was duly loaded, the lady mother threw an old and much-worn garment over all and said: "Haste to my precious son, good Rough-Coat, and warn him of your coming with a neigh." Before long the young Lord Diuk and Churilo the Exquisite began their strange contest, riding about Kiev town in new garments and upon a fresh horse every day. Churilo ordered great herds of horses to be driven into Kiev from Chernigof, and took much pains to select one of different hue every morning; but Diuk anointed Rough-Coat each morning with dew and so changed the colour of its coat. For three years this peaceful warfare lasted, and then on Easter morning the two combatants went to early Mass and stood in the porch of the cathedral side by side, but not too close together. The garments of Churilo the Exquisite were slashed with ruddy burning gold and with white gleaming silver. In place of buttons he had clasps made in the likeness of handsome youths with loops fashioned in the semblance of lovely maidens. So high were the insteps of his slippers of green morocco that swallows swooping to the earth might easily pass under them, while their tips were as sharp as the shoemaker's awl. His cap was of softest down overshadowing his eyes in front and his white neck behind. His over-mantle flung back in youthful vanity was of sables of the richest gloss. But his opponent stood by his side in the worn garment which his lady mother had placed on the back of Rough-Coat to protect the bales from the weather; only, beneath this beggar's robe shone jewels on his footgear of value greater than that of all Kiev, except for the gems upon the statues of the Virgin and the Saints in the great cathedral. Vladimir came and looked at the young men, while Churilo fingered his clasps and loops as if to draw attention to their exquisite fashioning; but Diuk looked straight ahead as if he saw right across the open steppe to the palace of his lady mother in India the Glorious. Then the Prince spoke in tones of quiet judgment: "To our mind," he said, "the young Lord Diuk from India the Glorious has forfeited his wager; for such inventions as these clasps and loops have never been equalled in the eyes of men." "The value of the wager," cried Diuk, "is nothing to me, but for my renown I am jealous enough." Then he threw his worn garment aside and stood forth in apparel so wondrous that all the watchers fell to the earth, stunned with the sight of its shining beauty. At the fore peak of his cap shone the sun like ruddy gold; at the back was the moon with shining silver rays; between the two points shone a light as from pearls heaped up in the darkness. Then he fingered the clasps in front of his embroidered doublet which were fashioned in the shape of singing birds, and at the touch of his caressing fingers the birds began to sing. He pulled the loops at the edges of his coat which were fashioned in the shape of lions and dragons, and at the touch of his caressing fingers they began to crawl and leap and hiss and roar. When he had finished the whole of the company, including Churilo the Exquisite, lay prone upon the floor. Vladimir was the first to rise, and he gasped out with his hand to his forehead: "The wager and the renown are yours, goodly youth. Now cover up your birds and beasts with a garment to which my people are more accustomed." And Diuk did so; whereupon the people recovered from their stupefied astonishment and began to praise Diuk for having outdone Churilo the Exquisite in the ingenuity and richness of his apparel. And the victor spent the thirty thousand roubles on green wine for the applauding crowds, which made them applaud him still more loudly. Now Churilo the Exquisite was a young man of determination, and even this defeat did not quench his spirit or his ingenuity. As soon as he had recovered himself he approached Diuk once again and said with great respect: "My Lord Diuk, let us make another wager of another kind. Let us prove whose horse can leap the broad stream of Mother Dnieper, which measures two miles across, and let our heads be the stake; the winner to cut off the head of the loser." "I have only my travelling nag with me," said Diuk, "but I accept the challenge." Then he went to Rough-Coat in the stable and told the good horse in what danger he stood of losing his head. "That is well," said Rough-Coat, in the speech of Holy Russia, "for not only will I leap over Mother Dnieper, but I will carry you an even distance upon the farther shore. I belong to a heroic family, and my eldest brother is Cloudfall, the shaggy bay steed ridden by Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck, while my second brother bears Nikitich upon his adventures, but my youngest brother is the steed of Churilo the Exquisite." Without loss of time Diuk saddled Rough-Coat and rode far out across the open plain with Churilo by his side, riding step by step but not too near. Behind them flocked a great crowd of mighty heroes of Holy Russia, as well as of the townsfolk of Kiev, who had come to watch the manly contest, which was much more to their taste than an exhibition of clothing and decoration, however ingenious and splendid they might be. At last they came to the shore of broad Mother Dnieper, and both the combatants stood for a moment with their hands to their foreheads gazing out across the deep water to discover a possible landing-place on the farther bank. Then said Churilo the Exquisite: "Do thou leap first, Lord Diuk." "Nay," answered the other, "do thou leap first, and when we leap together in India, then will I take the lead." So Churilo put his horse to the stream. The younger brother of Rough-Coat left the shore with a courageous leap, but came down with a great splash in mid-stream. Then Diuk put his horse to the stream. The younger brother of Cloudfall left the shore with a courageous leap, cleared the river and an even space on the farther shore, and then turning quickly leapt back again; and as Rough-Coat soared across the broad bosom of Mother Dnieper, Diuk stooped and caught Churilo by his yellow curls. On the banks of the stream the victor prepared to cut off the head of the Exquisite; but all the ladies, young and not quite so young, lovely and not quite so lovely, who had come out from Kiev, implored him to spare the life of the young man. So Diuk merely gave him a mighty kick and said: "Go, Exquisite, to the women to whom you owe your life, and stay with them; for the men of Holy Russia, to say naught of India the Glorious, have no need of such as you." Churilo the Exquisite had not yet parted with the whole of his ingenuity, and he turned to Prince Vladimir: "My Lord," he said, "if this young man is a truth-teller, let us send talesmen who can compute and count to India the Glorious, to make lists of all his boasted possessions in treasure and goods and herds and flocks." "Whom shall we send?" asked Prince Vladimir. "Let Alyosha go," answered Churilo. "Nay," said Diuk quickly, "Alyosha shall not go; for he hath greedy eyes and pilfering fingers, and he will never, I assure you, come back again to Kiev town." Then he sat down at the table of the banquet hall, where the whole company was now gathered, and wrote a message upon a parchment and fastened it to one of his flaming arrows. To this he whispered a word of direction, and then, fitting it to his bow, he shot it forth from the open window across the boundless plain. The winged messenger found Ilya of Murom near the door of his pavilion where he was resting with Nikitich, and as soon as he had read the scroll the Old Cossáck said to his wise companion: "Go thou to Diuk in Kiev town and tell him that, if Nikitich is not an army in himself, then Ilya will come who is a host." As soon as he saw Nikitich, Diuk's eyes shone with welcoming pleasure. "Ah, Nikitich," he said, "you shall go as talesman with two others to India the Glorious, to make lists of all my possessions in treasure and goods and herds and flocks. "Take parchment sufficient for three years and three days," the young man went on, "and I promise you in prophecy that you will do homage to my servant-maids, mistaking each of them in turn for my lady mother." Then he laughed gently as one who wins a fight by putting aside with naked arm the ponderous mace of his adversary. The three talesmen set out at once, followed by three waggons heaped with parchment; and after many wanderings and not a few adventures Nikitich came to India the Glorious, on the verge of which they climbed a lofty mountain, from whence they beheld the land lying before them. "Why, the country burns!" cried Nikitich in fearful amazement. But when they drew nearer they saw that it was only the glow of the golden roofs and the temple domes, blended with the colour of the yellow pathways spread with ruddy scarlet cloth. In the midst they saw the white stone palace of Diuk, which had three-and-thirty towers, whose rounded roofs were covered with green copper which is more precious than fine gold. Round about the gleaming palace spread a lovely garden, delicious in the coolness of its greenery, planted with all kinds of fruit trees, and surrounded by a high railing of gold pillars, set with knots of green copper and broken here and there with gates of brass. About the pathways of this pleasure-ground and in the verandahs of the palace walked the loveliest of maidens, attended by resplendent gallants, who played upon their musical instruments and sang gay songs of love and valour. The talesmen were so much struck with wonder and amazement that it was a long time before they could summon up their courage to enter the palace garden, at whose gates no guards were set. At last they did so, and came to the first of the three-and-thirty towers, where they found an aged woman who looked as if she was the mother of a goodly son. Her dress was of silver thread mixed with a little silk, and her bearing had so much dignity that the visitors from Kiev found themselves bowing down before her almost without knowing what they were doing. "Hail to thee!" said Nikitich, "thou honourable mother of the young Lord Diuk." "I am not my lord's mother," said the ancient woman, "I am the keeper of his cows." Then the talesmen were so much filled with vexation and shame that they left the palace garden and went out into the open plain, where they pitched a tent and went to bed without saying a word to each other. On the next morning they came again and drew near to the second of the three-and-thirty towers, where they found an aged woman of comely face clad in cloth of silver and gold. "Hail to thee!" said Nikitich brightly, "thou honourable mother of the young Lord Diuk." "I am not my lord's mother," said the aged woman, "I am his washerwoman." Swallowing their confusion the three talesmen went on, wondering no longer that Diuk had mistaken the Princess Apraxia for the washerwoman of Prince Vladimir; and they fared in the same manner before the cook, the women of the bedchamber, the baker of cakes, and the nurse, until the last took pity upon their despair and told them that the lady mother of their lord had gone to High Mass, and that they would be able to distinguish her when she left the church by three certain signs. Before her would come a great army of men armed with shovels, and then another army with brooms to make all clean on the pathway, and then a third army laying cloth of brilliant scarlet upon the tawny sand. Last of all would come the mother of young Lord Diuk, with a great company of lovely maidens round about her. "And when you go into the town," the nurse concluded, "you must not salute all the ancient ladies in fine raiment like mine, for there are so many of us thus arrayed that we pay little heed to it. And if you do reverence to all of us your back will remain bent like the bow of Ilya of Murom." The talesmen went on their wondering way and in due time met the mother of the young Lord Diuk, preceded and attended as the nurse had told, and dressed in garments of rich but quiet beauty. Before her the three men bowed, and in pleasant tones she asked why they had come to the city. "Your son sent us as talesmen," was the answer, "to make lists of all his possessions in treasure and goods and herds and flocks." "That is beyond your powers," said the lady; "but come first of all to partake of my hospitality, and then I will show you whatever you choose to see." So they went to the feast of rich food and richer wine, and they ate of the fine wheaten cakes baked by the mother of the young Lord Diuk, and left no crumb behind. When they were well satisfied, the lady mother showed them her son's horses; and they took parchment and tried to count up their value in roubles, but the figures confused their eyes and vexed them so that they gave up the task. Then she showed them the shoes of her son; and they took parchment again and tried to tell the tale of their value, but once more they gave up in despair. After that she led them to the wine-cellars and to the treasury of trappings for horses with the same result. At last Nikitich said: "Leave us here, seated before this single saddle ornamented with all the jewels of India, and let us compute the value of it alone." The lady graciously gave her consent; and they stayed three years over their task of computation, but at the end of that time they had not finished one tenth of the work. Then they sent a message to Vladimir which ran: "Sell Kiev for parchment and Chernigof for ink, and then we shall perhaps be able to make a beginning of computing the possessions of the young Lord Diuk." When Vladimir had read this message he set out with a great company for India the Glorious, and Diuk went in his train; and when they came to the palace of the lady mother, they found that not one-tenth of its splendour had been told to them. As they stood there, three men came before them whose forms were withered up like shavings; and they looked long upon them and very earnestly before they saw that these men were Nikitich and his companions, who had shrunken from grief at the greatness of their task and their inability to perform it. But the young Lord Diuk consoled them and feasted the company right well before they set out, still in quiet wonder, on their way back to Kiev town. When they were gone the lady mother turned to her son and asked: "Did I not speak truth? Was there aught in Kiev or in the train of Vladimir to compare with India the Glorious?" "Only one thing, lady mother," said Diuk, who had seen enough of splendour, "a man and a hero, Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. And for his renown I would barter all the wealth of India the Glorious." THE STORY OF KASYAN AND THE DREAM MAIDEN Of all the mighty heroes of Holy Russia one of the mightiest was young Kasyan, the leader of a band of forty. Brave he was, without equal, who had fought against the accursed Tatars, and had won great renown in battle against infidel hordes; but he had never taken the golden crowns nor loved any lady except the Dream Maiden, whose image he kept ever in his golden heart. For she had come to him in a vision; and whether she were a lily for whiteness, a rose for redness, or a violet for darkness he could not tell. He knew only that he would know her when he met her among the warrior-maids or gentle hearth-dwellers of Holy Russia, and that she would know him also. But in all his wanderings and among all the fair maidens of palace and plain, he had seen no living lady who could compare with the Dream Maiden; though many a Princess and noble-woman of high descent had favoured him secretly or openly, and had longed to be hailed as the beauty of his vision. On the broad and open plain he assembled his band of forty, and they came to a halt in a green meadow, dismounted from their nimble steeds, and sat down in a ring to tell of adventure and to take counsel as to the next journey to be made across the boundless steppe. They told many tales of far journeys and bold deeds, and boasted of death as if it were a pretty plaything. Then when silence fell upon them young Kasyan spoke: "Greatly have ye sinned against the Most High, ye mighty heroes of Holy Russia; for though ye are bold and fearless, ye have made a plaything of death and shed much blood without cause. Will you agree, one and all, to follow out my plan? It would be better that each of us should now go on a pilgrimage to the holy city of Jerusalem, to pray in the Holy of Holies, to visit the grave of the Risen Lord, and to bathe in Jordan river, for in this way only shall we win pardon for our sins. But before we go, it will be well if we take a vow--the keeping of which will prove our heroic strength--not to rob or steal, not to look with love upon the face of any maiden, and not to stain our hands with blood. And if any of our band shall break his vow then shall his nimble feet be hewn off at the knee, and his white hands at the elbow, his far-seeing eyes shall be darkened, and his tongue cut out, and he shall be buried up to the breast in moist Mother Earth." The heroes agreed at once to the word of Kasyan, and rising to their feet loosed their good steeds and gave them their freedom. Then they dressed themselves in pilgrims' dress of the hue of the scarlet poppy, and slung over their shoulders the beggars' wallets of black velvet embroidered in thread of red gold and set with fine seed pearls, while on their heads they placed the pilgrims' caps. With curving staves of walrus tusks in their hands, they set out upon their way, travelling by day in the light of the glorious sun, and at night in the radiance which came from the jewels set thickly in their shoes of fine leather. So they passed onward from town to town and from city to city until they came to Kiev. In the open plain near the city they met Prince Vladimir hunting the martens, black sables, white swans, grey geese, and downy ducks, and as the royal party drew near to them the pilgrims shouted: "Vladimir, Fair Sun of Kiev, give alms to the wandering pilgrims. Not a pittance but a royal gift will we take from such as you, even a noble benefaction of forty thousand roubles." Then the Prince lifted his hand to stay the hunt, and dismounting from his horse, greeted the holy pilgrims with the reverence which he paid to the Saints, and begged them to sing in his hearing the sweetest of the holy songs, even the psalm of Elena, which he was longing to hear. So the one-and-forty pilgrims placed their staves in damp Mother Earth and hung their wallets upon them. Then standing in a circle they sang the sweetest of the holy songs, even the psalm of Elena; and as the sound welled upward to the heavens the bosom of moist Mother Earth heaved and trembled as if with mingled joy and grief, the pine trees shook in a neighbouring wood, far away the oak trees upon the mountains bowed their heads, and the birds were hushed into silence. The Prince was strangely moved, and at length could listen no longer, for the sound of the holy psalm showed him all that he might be as a King and a Leader; so he held up his hand to cause the music to cease, and the one-and-forty pilgrims took their wallets from their staves and made ready to pursue their journey. "I have no roubles with me," said the courteous Prince, "nor can I refresh you as you deserve and as I desire. But go onward to Kiev town to the Princess Apraxia, who in my name will give you food and drink and lodging." So they journeyed on until they came to Kiev town, where they went to the palace and gave the pilgrims' cry; and at this piercing sound from so many heroic throats the Princess Apraxia came in haste to the window of her apartment, with her golden hair all unbound, and thrust herself from the window to her waist. Then she saw the young Kasyan among the foremost, and knew him for the dreamer who had troubled the hearts of so many fair ladies; and there came into her heart a burning desire that he should find her as beautiful as the Dream Maiden and should tell her so. The one-and-forty pilgrims were now conducted to an ante-chamber and from thence, after a little time, to the great hall, where they bowed to North, South, East, and West, and particularly to the Princess Apraxia, who was now arrayed more splendidly than ever before. She gave them a gracious welcome and ordered the cloths with drawn-thread work to be laid upon the white oaken tables, and the richest of food with the sweetest of drinks to be set before her guests. The Princess herself sat at the high table with her nurses and ladies and a host of bold warrior maids, and Kasyan sat in the great corner. He had laid aside his cap and from his fair hair the sun seemed to shine, while his eyes rested upon the company of ladies for a while, searching diligently, after his manner, for the Dream Maiden; but though all the beauty of Holy Russia was now before his eyes he turned away, after a while, to contemplate the painted pictures of holy saints. When the feast was over the pilgrims were conducted each to his own apartment, where he might pray before retiring to rest. Now as Kasyan sat in holy meditation the door was opened and the Princess Apraxia entered softly. She was dressed in a simple robe of gleaming whiteness with a girdle of ruddy gold, and holding out her hands she cried in quivering tones: "Am I not fair as the Dream Maiden, young Kasyan?" "Nay, not so," was the cold answer. "Princess, ask Vladimir for his thoughts on your beauty." Then the young pilgrim turned aside, and with anger in her heart the Princess Apraxia left the room. But while he slept she came again very quietly, took down his pilgrim's wallet from the place where it hung, cut it open and placed within it the silver loving-cup from which Prince Vladimir always drank when he returned from his hunting. Then she sewed up the velvet once more, so neatly, that the place of the rent could not be seen. Next morning, as the early sun was rising, the one-and-forty pilgrims arose, washed themselves in cold spring water and prayed to God. The Princess was already astir and saw that her guests were well supplied. Then having satisfied their heroic hunger, they called down a blessing upon Prince Vladimir and upon Princess Apraxia, swung their wallets over their shoulders and set out for the holy city of Jerusalem. A short time after their departure Vladimir returned from his hunting, and sat down to appease his mighty hunger. Then he called for his silver loving-cup, and the stewards searched for it in all corners of the palace, but were not able to find it. The Prince was very angry, and looking round upon his household he asked sternly, "Which of you hath taken the royal cup?" None spoke for a moment, and then the clear, cold voice of the Princess was heard. "My Prince and Lord," she said, "we feasted yesterday a band of one-and-forty pilgrims, in accordance with your own desires. It may be that they have stolen the royal cup." Thereupon Prince Vladimir gave the word, and a company of heroes sprang to their feet, eager to ride after the pilgrim band. But as they prepared themselves the voice of Ilya of Murom was heard from the great corner: "These were no psalm-singers," he said, "but heroes of the boldest. Whom have we worthy to go and outface them." "I will send Alyosha alone," said Vladimir, and it was done in accordance with his word, the messenger being commanded to speak gently to the pilgrims. But when he overtook them he called out in an angry voice: "Ho, there, ye thieves and robbers. Restore to me now without dispute the royal cup which you have stolen." At this discourteous speech young Kasyan sprang to his nimble feet, grasped his travelling staff of walrus ivory as if it were his heroic mace and flourished it about his head. "Think you," he cried in righteous anger, "that we went to Kiev town for the royal cup? Come nigh to me and I will punish you as you richly deserve." But Alyosha did not dare to come within the whirling circle of that ivory cudgel. He wheeled his horse about and returning in haste to Kiev told how the robbers had set upon him when he asked for the cup, and how he had escaped with difficulty from their heroic turbulence. "Alyosha is a fool of an ambassador," said Ilya of Murom, "send Nikitich. He knows how to sweeten valour with courtesy." So Nikitich mounted his horse at once, and when he came to the pilgrims, who were seated in a ring on the open plain, he said: "All hail, ye one-and-forty holy men. I ask for your hospitality." "All hail, goodly youth," was the reply, "sit with us here and share our humble fare." Then Nikitich sat with them, and in hesitation began his message. "There is great trouble," he said gently, "in the palace of Prince Vladimir, for the royal loving-cup is mislaid and without it the Prince cannot refresh himself after his hunting. Let me therefore beg of you, good youths, to look within your pilgrims' wallets and see whether it has strayed into one of them in error." The one-and-forty looked at each other, and then forty turned and looked at Kasyan. "It is well, good comrades," said their leader, "to satisfy the courteous youth. Open your wallets and show him what they contain, for we can do this without fear." Thereupon all the pilgrims sprang to their nimble feet, opened their wallets and showed Nikitich what they contained, but the royal cup was not to be found among the forty. Last of all Kasyan opened his velvet wallet and, lo! the loving-cup was found within. Then the forty pilgrims looked in anger and sadness upon Kasyan. "What shall we do to you now, young Kasyan?" they asked sternly. "Did you not impose the great vow upon us of your own choice?" "Beloved comrades," said their leader, "I did not steal the royal cup. Nevertheless do now what has been agreed amongst us, and break not your great vow for me." Then they wept sorely, but they took Kasyan and did with him in accordance with their terrible vow. After that they prayed to God and went on their way once more to the holy city of Jerusalem. Young Nikitich stood in silence while the vow was performed, and then rode back at great speed to Kiev town, where he gave the cup to Prince Vladimir and told of all he had seen. When he had finished the Princess Apraxia fell in her place to the floor; and when her ladies had restored her she spoke no word, but unloosing her golden hair and unbinding her golden girdle she went unto the courtyard and lay upon the great dung-heap. Prince Vladimir now prepared himself to go and see the wonder of the fulfilment of the vow. But before he could reach the place where Kasyan had been buried to the breast in moist Mother Earth there passed over the boundless white plain an aged saint with flowing beard, ruddy cheeks, and eyes which shone with the laughter of boys and girls. With his holy hands he restored Kasyan to his completeness, his manly strength and youthful beauty, and set him again upon his nimble feet, saying: "Go thy way, young Kasyan, and thou shalt overtake the forty at the first inn upon the way to the holy city of Jerusalem. Pray in that holy city, visit the grave of the risen Lord and bathe in Jordan river. And when you come home again build a cathedral church to St. Nicholas, who loves all men and especially youths and maidens." Then the old man vanished from sight; it was only a snow-wreath driven before the winter wind across the white world and he was gone. Young Kasyan went on his way and late on that same evening he overtook his companions, who, when they saw that he was much more comely than he had ever been, rejoiced over him and praised God for His goodness. Meanwhile Prince Vladimir had come to the place where young Kasyan had been buried and found a deep pit only, whereupon he and his company returned in wondering amazement to Kiev town. Once more the one-and-forty pilgrims home returning stood at the gateway of Prince Vladimir's palace, asking alms in the name of the Risen Lord. Then the Prince begged them with reverence to enter his great hall and partake of his hospitality, and they came within the portals. But before they sat down to meat Kasyan asked that he might be taken to the Princess, who still lay upon the dung-heap, and whom when he saw in her sorrow and debasement he breathed upon with his holy breath. Then he laid his white hand upon her lowly head and pardoned her, and she arose, arrayed herself, and had never seemed so fair in the eyes of her lord, Prince Vladimir. Then after feasting and quiet merriment the one-and-forty pilgrims went to their own home; and young Kasyan raised a cathedral church to St. Nicholas, who loved all men and especially youths and maidens; and for himself he spent his time in holy deeds and in ministration to the poor, loving always the Dream Maiden only and keeping her ever in his golden heart. HOW STAVR THE NOBLE WAS SAVED BY A WOMAN'S WILES Stavr the Noble lived in Chernigof, and when the daughter of Prince Vladimir was honoured at her father's feast he was among the guests but took no part in the boasting. For he sat all silent while the heroes praised their heroic chargers, their mighty strength, or their rich store of treasure, and while the merchants bragged of their great wealth of Siberian fox-skins or sables. Now when the Prince saw Stavr sitting all silent, he poured out with his own royal hands a cup of green wine and brought it to him, courteously inquiring why he would neither eat nor drink. "You do not eat of the white swan, Lord Stavr," he said, "nor do you make any boast along with the others. Have you then no towns with wide suburbs, or villages with subject hamlets, nor yet a good mother, nor a beautiful young wife of whom you may make your boast?" "I have enough of which I might boast," said Stavr. "What petty town is this of Kiev? My palace alone covers five miles, my halls of white oak are hung with pelts of the grey beaver, the roof with skins of the black sable. The floors are of silver and the locks and bars are of steel. "Furthermore, Prince Vladimir, I have thirty young men in my hire, each one a master shoemaker. With never a pause the thirty continue making shoes, and I wear a pair for one day and only by a chance wear them a second day. After I have cast off a pair of these shoes they are taken to the market and sold to some prince or nobleman for their full value. I have another thirty young men in my hire, each one a master tailor. With never a pause the thirty continue making coats, and I wear a coat for one day and only by a chance wear it for a second day. After I have cast off one of these coats it is taken to the market and sold to some prince or nobleman for its full value. But I am no boaster." "Moreover," he went on, after a short pause for breath, "I have a mare with a golden coat which cost at a market price five hundred roubles. On the best of her foals I ride abroad myself, while the worst are sold to princes and nobles, who are delighted when they get them. But I am no boaster." "Yet there is one treasure," he continued, "of which I will boast, and that is my wife Vasilissa, who could buy all Kiev town in one market and sell it in the next, who could by her wiles deceive the most dignified princes and nobles, and drive even Prince Vladimir out of his mind." For a moment no one among the guests spoke a single word, but Prince Vladimir sat in his place with ever darkening brow. Then some of the men about him said: "Prince Vladimir, Fair Sun of Kiev, it is not meet to permit this boaster to flout us all. Let him be cast into a cold, dark dungeon, and then let his young wife Vasilissa buy all Kiev town in one market and sell it in the next, let her by her wiles deceive us all, and let her, if she can, drive even Prince Vladimir out of his mind." The counsel seemed wise to the Prince, and he ordered his guards to fasten iron fetters on the feet and hands of Stavr, and to place him in a cold, dark dungeon, with doors of iron and locks of steel, and there feed him on frozen oats and cold spring water. This was done forthwith, but while the Prince's command was being performed the body-servant of Stavr took horse and rode homeward to Chernigof, where he found Vasilissa presiding at a great feast which she had made for the wives of the rich traders and the councillors of the town, including also the wife of the Elder, who was of great consequence. When the young Vasilissa heard the news from Kiev town she rose in her place at the board and said: "It is time, good dames, that ye went to your own dwellings." Then they all did so without a word, and Vasilissa sat pondering for the space of three full hours. "It is not a matter of ransom, however high the offer," she said to herself, "nor of force, however great and courageous, but it is a matter for a woman's wit." Then she rose in her place, went to her own apartment and summoned the ladies of her wardrobe. "My trusty maids," she said, "cut off my red gold hair, dress me like an envoy to a prince and prepare for me a heroic steed. I go now as ambassador from Kodol Island to Prince Vladimir, the Fair Sun of Kiev, asking the hand of his daughter Lovely in honourable marriage." In a short space of time she was ready, shorn and dressed like a goodly gallant and a prince's envoy. Then they brought her heroic steed, and she rode off, surrounded by a brave body-guard of forty youths of the stoutest, across the open, boundless glorious plain, and as she rode she trilled a merry song. Half of the journey was accomplished when the party met a rider whose face was sternly set towards the city of Chernigof. They greeted him courteously, and reining in his horse he asked the leader of the party who he was and where he was going. "I am the ambassador of King Yetmanuila Yetmanuilovich," was the answer, "and I am on my way to collect tribute from any princes who value their lives above roubles. Whither away, yourself?" "I am the messenger of Prince Vladimir," returned the other, "and I am on my way to lock the doors of Stavr's palace of white stone, and to conduct his young wife Vasilissa to Kiev town." "You are too late," said the youths of the bodyguard, "for the Lady Vasilissa has left the palace of her husband and has gone away to a distant land." The messenger thanked the young men for their news, and turning his steed, rode swiftly back to Kiev town, where he informed his royal master that an ambassador from the stern King Yetmanuila Yetmanuilovich was on his way, with a strong body-guard, to collect tribute from any prince who valued his life above roubles. At this intelligence Vladimir was sorely troubled, but gave orders that the streets of Kiev should be cleaned without delay, and that logs of wood should be placed across the muddy holes, so that a fair passage might be afforded to the body-guard. When Vasilissa reached the outskirts of Kiev town she put her good steed to the walls and leapt lightly over them into the courtyard of Vladimir's palace of white stone. Then she leapt from her horse, thrust the butt end of her spear into moist Mother Earth, and flung the bridle over the point. With the stride of a bold envoy she passed the guards without greeting, and came into the royal hall, where she bowed to North, South, East, and West, and especially to Prince Vladimir. Then she turned to the Prince, and making known her name as Vasily Mikulich, the envoy of King Yetmanuila Yetmanuilovich, she demanded the hand of Prince Vladimir's daughter Lovely in honourable marriage. The Prince looked earnestly at the bold wooer and then said: "It is well. I will give you the hand of my daughter Lovely in honourable marriage." Then, after due notice had been given, he went in state to his daughter's apartment to tell her with all the solemnity which the occasion demanded, that he had chosen for her a goodly husband whose claim upon her love was supported by a strong body-guard of forty good youths. But Lovely looked with a smile at her royal father, and then looked again with a laugh. "Why, father," she said, "this is no bold ambassador from the Island of Kodol or elsewhere; from King Yetmanuila Yetmanuilovich or any other stern-eyed monarch. It is a woman. Why, when he walks in the courtyard I think of a duck in the pond. When he speaks I think of the note of a flute. When he walks in the palace I think of the dance, and when he sits on the bench of white oak he presses his feet close together. His hands are lily white with taper fingers, and upon them the marks of rings are plainly to be discovered." Then Lovely laughed and laughed again, and the sound was not pleasant to Prince Vladimir, the Fair Sun of Kiev, who walked away to the window. "I will prove her," he said, after pondering for a time. Then he left the apartment and came to the ambassador. "Will it please you," he said courteously, "to accept the challenge of my heroes to a shooting match?" "I have longed for many things," was the quick reply, "but for none so much as to receive such a challenge." Then without further delay they went out upon the open plain and began to shoot at an oak tree standing at a distance of about a mile. One shot and another shot, one struck and another missed, the shooting was good and not so good, and the old oak merely shook its smaller boughs as if a summer breeze were blowing. Then it came to the turn of the ambassador from the stern King Yetmanuila Yetmanuilovich, and stepping forward the envoy said, "I will not shoot with one of the heroic bows of Kiev. I have within the fair white linen pavilion in which I have lodged my brave body-guard a little bow which I always carry with me when my royal master sends me upon an embassy across the open steppe." Then at a hail from the envoy the brave body-guard brought out the bow. Five of them carried it at one end and five at the other, while the remaining thirty bold youths dragged along the quiver filled full of flaming arrows. Then the ambassador took the little travelling bow in her hand and fitted to the bow-string a flaming shaft of steel. The cord twanged, Prince Vladimir stepped quickly aside, the arrow sang a journeying song and shivered the trunk of the ancient oak, so that the sun streamed through it. "I will prove this ambassador once again," murmured Prince Vladimir in his royal beard. "If he (she) be a woman he (she) will have no taste for a wrestling match." Then he got together his strong wrestlers and assembled them in a brave company. "Will it please you," he said courteously, "bold ambassador of the stern King Yetmanuila Yetmanuilovich, to try a bout of wrestling." "Have you then bold wrestlers, as well as expert bowmen?" asked the envoy. "I have often wrestled with children during my childhood, and I can but make a bold man's effort." Then the ambassador grasped two brave wrestlers in one heroic arm and three brave wrestlers in the other heroic arm, and cracked their skulls together until the Prince begged the wrestler with children to spare his brave heroes. Then said the ambassador: "I came to woo your daughter Lovely, Prince Vladimir, and if you will not give her to me with your blessing, I will take her with your curse." "You shall have her by my own consent," said the King, "for with such a wooer her own consent does not greatly matter." Then Prince Vladimir seized the occasion to make a great wedding-feast, which lasted with intervals for resting for the full space of three days. When the feast was over the bride and bridegroom were about to be led to the church to take the golden crowns, but the ambassador sat sad and silent in the hall. "What ails you on your wedding morning?" asked the father of the bride. "I know not," was the reply. "It may be that my father has died or my mother, and my heaviness is the sign of grief. Perchance I need some music. Call the harp players, and let us see if they can dispel my heaviness." So the harpers were called, and they sang of the great deeds of Svyatogor, of Ilya of Murom, and of Ivan the son of Golden Tress, but for all their skill and sweetness the heaviness of the ambassador was not dispelled. "I heard in my own home," he said, when the music ceased, "of a skilful player upon the harp of maple wood whose name was Stavr of Chernigof. Send for him, and let us see if he can dispel my heaviness." "If I do it not," said Vladimir in his royal beard, "I shall anger the stern King Yetmanuila Yetmanuilovich. If I do it, Stavr may be freed from my prison." Yet he did it. Then Stavr came, and, standing before the ambassador, plucked the strings of his harp of maple wood. And he sang brave songs of heroic victory, and gentle songs of constancy in love. As he sang, the ambassador began to sleep and dream, and from these signs the royal host knew well that his guest was pleased and delighted and thankful beyond measure. Then with a gentle sigh the envoy woke and the music ceased. "A boon, O Prince," cried he; "let Stavr go to my white pavilion to entertain my brave body-guard as he has entertained me." Such a request from one who had paid the musician the high honour of dreaming to his music could not be refused, and Stavr was allowed to go out of the banquet-hall with the ambassador by his side. Now when they came out into the bright sunlight and had almost reached the pavilion, Vasilissa looked up at her husband and said: "Do you not know me, Stavr?" "Alas and alack!" said he, rubbing his eyes, "after such a time in such a dungeon I cannot recall the faces of far-off years." "Stupid," said she. "Do you not know your own young wife Vasilissa, of whom you made your boast?" "I would know Vasilissa if I had not seen her for thirteen years," said Stavr, with a great deal of certainty and not a little vexation. "Stupider and stupider," said Vasilissa, turning away. "I am certain that you would not know her after three months." Then she went into the pavilion, where she put off her ambassador's garments and dressed herself as Vasilissa, placing a coif upon her head to hide her shortened hair. When she came forth Stavr dropped his harp of maple wood upon the lap of moist Mother Earth, and taking his young wife by her lily-white hands, he kissed her sugar mouth. "Let us ride, my fair one," he said, "ride fast and far." "Not so," was the reply; "we shall not steal away but march away from royal Kiev town. Let us go back to Prince Vladimir, and to Lovely, my promised bride." So they went back to the Prince and told him all their tale. "With good reason did Stavr boast of his young wife," he said, with a laugh, and then with a frown he added, "but what of Lovely the forsaken bride, for whom I chose a husband?" "She will doubtless be easily consoled," said Vasilissa, "and will choose her next bridegroom for herself. May he harp as well and boast not so well as Stavr of Chernigof." THE GOLDEN HORDE Prince Vladimir lost no occasion of making a royal feast, and his banquets were the admiration of Holy Russia and of all the white world. To one banquet he invited a large number of princes, nobles, mighty heroes and their body-guards, as well as a company of merchant princes who had bought land with their wealth in order that they might be accounted gentlemen. The host made good cheer, the food was of the richest, the wine of the greenest, and the white oak tables gleamed like the newly fallen snow on the wide steppe. The stove glowed fiercely, and Ilya sat in the great corner honoured of all. As the wine-cup passed, the heart of Prince Vladimir grew more and more generous, and he gave cities to one prince, towns to a second, villages to a third, and hamlets to another; but to Ilya he gave a cloak of marten skins with a collar of sables. Then the hero arose, left the banquet-hall with the cloak held out at arm's length from him, and came at last to the kitchen. There he dragged the cloak about the brick floor by one sleeve as if he wished to defoul it and said savagely: "Just as I drag about this cloak of marten skins with its collar of sables, I will drag about that poisonous serpent Tsar Kalin by his yellow curls. As I pour green wine upon this cloak," suiting the action to the word, "I will pour out his heart's blood." Then a kitchenmaid came with unwashed face into the presence of Prince Vladimir, and said without preface: "Ilya hath been in my kitchen and hath dragged about the brick floor the mantle of marten skins with the collar of sables, saying that even so would he drag Vladimir by his yellow curls. And he has poured green wine upon the mantle, saying that even so would he pour out the heart's blood of Prince Vladimir." Then wiping her hands upon her apron she added, "And I know not what to do in the matter." Prince Vladimir rose to his feet and his face was black with anger. "Ye mighty heroes!" he cried, raising his right hand aloft, "lead Ilya to our dungeon and place him behind the iron grating. Pile up trunks of oak trees against the door and heap yellow sand over all." At once a great company of heroes left the banquet-hall, and coming to the kitchen stood in a ring round Ilya, who smiled at them as a father might smile at his boys; and no man laid hands upon him, for he was the pride of them all. "Help us now, Ilya of Murom," they said, "or Prince Vladimir will visit upon us his sore displeasure." So Ilya, smiling still, called Cloudfall, saddled him and rode himself to the entrance of the dungeon. There he dismounted and let the shaggy bay steed go free, after having taken from him his saddle and plaited bridle. Then Ilya went down into the dungeon, and the heroes set up the iron grating, piled up trunks of oak trees at the door, and heaped yellow sand over all, as the prince had commanded. After that they went back to their host, who praised them for their obedience and their expedition; but Princess Apraxia dug a deep passage underground, and with her own fair hands carried food of the richest and drink of the sweetest to Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. And this went on for three years, until Tsar Kalin heard of it, and he was head of the Golden Horde, who in all his wanderings had seen no fairer lady than the Princess Apraxia, whom he meant to take as his own in spite of Prince Vladimir and all his band of well-fed heroes. Tsar Kalin assembled the Golden Horde, which was in number like the yellow sands upon the seashore, to ride against the royal town of Kiev. Under him were forty Tsars and Tsareviches, and forty Kings and their heirs, each with a company of forty thousand men, and when the host was all assembled it stood along the banks of swift-flowing Mother Dnieper and round about Kiev town on all sides for a distance of a hundred miles all told--a goodly escort for a fair princess. When all was ready Tsar Kalin sat down upon an armless chair in his gold-embroidered tent of white linen, and wrote a letter in great haste, using a swan-quill pen with molten gold in place of ink, and crimson velvet in place of parchment. Then he called his best and favourite runner and gave the royal letter into his hands. "Go," he said, "to the town of Kiev, falsely styled 'royal.' Enter not by the gates of shining white oak, but leap over the city wall. Dismount not, but riding your charger enter without announcement the palace of white stone. Set the door wide open, but do not close it behind you. Bow not to North, South, East, or West, and do no special reverence to Prince Vladimir. But stand right over against him, and fling this letter upon the table, saying to him: "Take this letter and ask Nikitich, the young man of supernatural wisdom who can both read and write, to tell thee what it contains, for it disposes in set terms of all your pretensions to royalty. Clean all the streets of Kiev town, take down the wonder-working crosses of the Holy Temples--but leave upon the domes the tall fiery darts of Ilya lest Falcon the Hunter should still be alive--and build stalls for horses in the churches. Cleanse also your palaces of white stone and prepare beds without number, for our host is great. Brew sweet liquors, for our thirst is also great, and let cask stand upon cask in noble array. For in less than two days Tsar Kalin and his great host shall walk the streets of Kiev, and our master shall wed the Princess Apraxia." The boldness and the careful detail of the command caused the heart of Prince Vladimir to sink very low, and the best he could imagine was to gain time. So he caused Nikitich to write a letter in reply, saying: "Cleaning and fermenting are both slow processes. I shall need a space of three months to prepare this city for its coming guests." Then the favourite runner of Tsar Kalin brought this submissive reply to his master, and the truce was granted. Prince Vladimir paced to and fro in his chamber, chewing his moustache, and occasionally heaving a heavy sigh when no one was near. Meanwhile, the cleaning and the brewing were proceeding apace, for as Princess Apraxia said quietly, "There is nothing lost by cleanliness, and a good store in the larders and the cellar, for who knows which of our friends will sleep in the clean beds and partake of our cheer." "Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck is no more," said Prince Vladimir bitterly. "There is no hero to fight for our faith and fatherland. There is none to defend Prince Vladimir." When the busy Princess heard these words she paused for a moment in her work and said, "Little father, command thy trusty servants to go to the deep dungeon and see whether Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck be even yet alive." Then she went on with her dusting, for the china bowls and cups from Farthest East were always her own particular care. "Foolish princess," said her husband, pausing in his pacing to and fro. "If I cut off your light head, will it grow again? How can the youthful aged one be alive after three years' starvation?" The Princess said nothing, but went on with her work, and in a few moments Vladimir himself went off to the dungeon on the desperate chance. And there, to his wonder, he found Ilya lying on cushions of down, with food of the richest and wine of the greenest on a table beside him, on which was also spread a wonderful written parchment of the Holy Gospels. Vladimir was so much astonished to find Ilya not only alive and well, but to all appearance very comfortable and happy, that he bowed to North, South, East, and West, and then particularly to the hero. "Come forth, Ilya," he said, as if he had taken no share in the Old Cossáck's imprisonment. "Come forth, and defend us against the Golden Horde, for the sake of the widows and orphans which are to be." Ilya smiled gently and rose slowly from his seat of comfort, for three years' restraint had somewhat stiffened him. Then Vladimir hastened to take him by the hands, as if he had quite forgiven him for a crime which he had never committed, and leading him to his own table, placed him in the great corner and heaped food of the best before him. But Ilya was not hungry, and he left the table without a word, for he wanted heroic exercise most of all. In the open field he saw Cloudfall grazing quietly as though his master had ridden him only yesterday; and you may be quite certain and absolutely sure that no other rider had during the past three years sat on the back of the faithful shaggy bay steed. The horse gave a joyful chuckle when Ilya once more drew near to him, and as his master proceeded to saddle him he turned his head about and gazed upon him with heroic approbation. Certain of the people of Vladimir's palace saw Ilya mount upon Cloudfall, but they did not see him as he rode away, so swift was his flight--there was but a smoke wreath on the open steppe and streams of water burst forth where good Cloudfall's hoofs beat upon the ground. He gave a great leap upwards and alighted on the crest of a lofty mountain, from whence he looked out across the open plain to see if any of the heroes were within sight who had come out to defend Holy Russia against the Golden Horde of the Tatars. Far away in the east he saw the white linen pavilions of the heroes who had helped him to form the barrier against Falcon the Hunter, and the sun shone brightly on their golden embroideries. At the opening of one snowy tent his keen eyes could descry even at that distance how the fine wheat had been shaken out upon the earth for the delight of a hero's charger, and how that same hero had planted upright a spear of heroic height and hung upon it a golden tassel, not for vanity of youthfulness, but as a signal to all the enemies of Holy Russia that a champion abode within that pavilion. As he stood there with his hand shading his eyes Ilya saw another hero come to that vicinity and, even at that far distance, he knew him for the young man of supernatural wisdom--Nikitich, who could both read and write. He saw how the new-comer pitched his pavilion, shook out fine wheat for his charger's delight, planted a lofty spear and displayed two tassels, not for vanity of youthfulness, but to show that a hero and a scholar abode in that pavilion. Then Ilya came down from the mountain-top, and before you could say Svyatogor he had arrived in the space between the two upright staffs, where he gave Cloudfall the rein that he might take his share of the fine wheat, planted his own lofty spear and hung three tassels upon it, as a sign that a hero, a scholar, and a landed gentleman had come to the assistance of Holy Russia against the Golden Horde. He now entered one of the snowy pavilions, where he found twelve Russian heroes sitting at meat, who all rose to their feet, kissed him and bade him welcome, whereupon they sat down again to go forward with the business of eating. But as he was not yet hungry Ilya did not join them. He hastened to explain his mission, and asked for their help in defending Kiev town, Vladimir, and Princess Apraxia. But one of them said: "Nay, nay, Ilya of Murom, we will not mount our steeds to defend Kiev town, Vladimir, and his Princess. For he has many princely nobles, whom he feasts right heroically and upon whom he bestows the richest gifts." "It will be the worse for all of you," said Ilya, in great anger, and their voices rose in wrath so that the good steeds raised their heads from the fine wheat and looked with intelligent wonder through the opening of the pavilion. Meanwhile Vladimir wrapped himself in his black velvet mantle, which was trimmed with marten, and paced to and fro in his palace in Kiev town, for the time of the truce was almost over, and so far the heroes had not made their appearance. Now as he paced up and down to soothe his anxiety his nephew Yermak came to him and begged that he might have a warrior's charger, a coat of heavy chain mail and a ponderous mace, as well as leave to ride against the Golden Horde. "You are a mere boaster," said Vladimir carelessly. "Why, you have never yet handled a mace." "If you do not give me the charger, uncle," said Yermak, "I will set out on foot." The youth's quiet determination had more effect upon Vladimir than weeks of persuasion, and he bade Yermak choose what charger he desired from the royal stables as well as the armour which suited him best from the armoury. Off went the youth in great glee and equal haste, but the chain mail which he found was so rusty that he flung it down with impatience upon the brick floor, whereupon all the rust flew from it; so he picked it up, selected weapons to his taste, ran to the stables, saddled a horse, mounted it and rode at topmost speed to the pavilion of the heroes. And what did he find in that hour of anxiety and the direst peril? Why, the twelve heroes contentedly sitting playing at draughts upon a board of gold and Ilya sound asleep upon a couch under a heavy coverlet of sables. Then the anger of Yermak was very great indeed, and he shouted with all his might. "Ho, there, you Old Cossáck, Ilya of Murom. Yonder in Kiev city there is bread to eat and to spare, but no one to defend the place against the Golden Horde." Now Ilya, from force of habit and long practice, slept always with one ear open, and he knew also that it was a fatal mistake to lose his calmness, especially when others about him had lost their own. So he turned slowly on his couch and said quietly, "Climb up into the damp oak, young Yermak, and make an effort to number the host which comes against us by counting the standards which are displayed." So Yermak climbed up into the damp oak, and Ilya turning upon his other side went to sleep once more. From his perch in the damp oak Yermak saw a vast host of the Golden Horde, and how at that moment the leaders were marshalling their men in battle array; and he knew that the shaking of the bough on which he sat came from the trembling of moist Mother Earth at the tramp of their myriad feet. So great was the army that the swift grey wolf could not trot round it in the space of a long spring day; the black raven could not fly about it in the longest day of summer; the grey bird could not wing its flight across it in the longest light of autumn. Now Yermak had in him some of the qualities of a hero, for the size of the host roused his courage to such a height that he felt impelled to advance against it by himself, single and alone. So he leapt quickly from the damp oak, sprang upon his charger, and rode fiercely across the open steppe against the vanguard of that great host. Meanwhile the game of draughts went quietly on in the fair pavilion of white linen, and Ilya slept. For three days and three nights this went on while Yermak hurled himself again and again against the forefront of the Golden Horde. Then Ilya awoke and said to Nikitich: "Mount into the damp oak, young man of supernatural wisdom. Perhaps young Yermak has fallen down from the branch for no longer do I see him there." Then Nikitich climbed up into the tree-top and looked out upon the Golden Horde. He saw the vast host and he saw more than that--not the black raven flying, nor the bright falcon soaring, but that heroic youth galloping boldly against the heathen horde; and he made his report to Ilya, who rose deliberately from his couch: "Rise, ye draught players, and mount your good steeds. Then in the first place let one of you take grappling hooks and catch young Yermak by the shoulders. Say to him when he is stayed in his headlong flight, 'Thou hast breakfasted to-day. Now let the heroes dine.'" So one of the company went out with strong grappling irons. Thrice he caught Yermak by the shoulders and thrice did the young man break away, rending his chain mail in the action. Then the messenger returned to report his failure and Nikitich made the attempt with as little success. So Ilya went himself. He sat on Cloudfall as the grandfather of all the oaks stood upon the lap of moist Mother Earth, and caught Yermak by the shoulder with his heroic hand saying to him, "Rest your heroic heart and let us labour now." Then Ilya rode against that mighty host as the swift eagle swoops down upon the swans and geese or the falcon darts upon the wild duck; and at the place against which Yermak had beaten in vain he made a breach in the line and began to hew a path through the host as the mower makes a way through the thick standing wheat. Then Cloudfall addressed him with the voice of a man: "Ho, thou mighty hero of Holy Russia! with a heart of steel thou hast advanced against this mighty host, but even your great might may not overcome it, for that pestilent robber, Tsar Kalin, is served by many men of great renown and warrior-maids of heroic strength and feminine fierceness. Moreover, he is a wily leader, for he has dug three trenches across the open steppe and into these you will fall. I can lift you out of the first and likewise out of the second, but out of the third I may not lift you though I should succeed in rising from it myself. For I watched them digging the trenches while you were sleeping, and, indeed, I missed a great deal of the fine wheat while I served you in this manner." Such a counsel of despair was not pleasing to the heroic Ilya, who grasped his silken whip in his right hand and beat Cloudfall soundly upon the flanks. "Traitor and renegade," he cried in heroic anger, "I feed thee on white wheat and give you water from crystal springs and yet you will forsake me in the deep ditches of the open steppe." And he paid no heed to the warning of the intelligent animal, but rolling up the sleeve of his right arm advanced with unabated fury against the foe. In a few moments he came to the first trench, into which he fell forthwith and from which Cloudfall bore him forth in safety. On he rode, fighting all the way, until he came to a second ditch, and from that also he escaped in like manner. Then he advanced again, fighting all the way, until he came to the third ditch from which Cloudfall leapt nimbly. But he left Ilya behind. Thereupon the accursed Tatars leapt down into the trench and fell upon Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. They bound his swift feet and his strong white hands and led him to where Tsar Kalin sat in his pavilion of fair white linen embroidered with gold. "Ah, ho! Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck," cried the pestilent leader of the Golden Horde. "How could you hope, you old dog, to prevail against my mighty host?" Then to his guards he said, "Unfetter his swift feet and unbind his strong white hands." This was done at once, and then Tsar Kalin said in a voice of honey: "Now sit down at my table, Ilya of Murom. Eat of my food and drink of my mead, put on an embroidered robe, and marry my daughter. Serve Prince Vladimir no longer but be vassal to me." Then Ilya's eyes flashed fire like the fire of Falcon the Hunter, whose father he was. "If I had by me my good sword," he said, "thou dog, Kalin the Tsar, it should woo thy neck. I will do none of these things, for my duty is to fight for the Christian temples which my darts have protected even against my own son Falcon the Hunter, for Prince Vladimir and Princess Apraxia and the city of Kiev." Then Ilya raised his eyes and listened and a voice sounded in his ears, "Lift up thy hands, Ilya." He raised them heavenward and into his heroic arms came the strength of twenty heroes; and in that strength he fell upon Tsar Kalin and laid his lifeless body upon the floor of the fair pavilion. Snatching up the monarch's sword he ran from the pavilion to turn it against his host, and company after company fell before him until his sword edge turned and the weapon was useless. Then he flung it aside in impatience, and picking up a Tatar by the ankles he used him as a club with which he cleared a path through the host of astonished warriors. "It is a stout club, this of mine," he cried grimly as he dealt blows to right and left; "and it has a hard end to it with which to crack infidel pates." At last he won his way to the edge of the host, where he flung his human club from him with a last great effort, and seizing the horn which hung at his side he sounded a mighty blast; for the heroic efforts he had made had dimmed the clearness of his eyes, so that he could not distinguish either the white day or the black night. From far away Cloudfall heard the sound of that familiar horn and in two heroic leaps was once more at his master's side. In a trice Ilya had mounted him and then he rode away to a lofty mountain upon the summit of which he stood and, raising his hand to his brow, gazed far away to the eastward. There he saw again the white pavilion of the heroes and the horses feeding on the fine wheat which was strewn for them. "I will send them a swift messenger," said Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. As he fitted a fiery dart to his stout bow, Ilya conjured it saying, "Fly, little dart, to yonder pavilion. Tear through the roof and pierce the white breast of my brother-in-arms, Samson, that glorious hero of Holy Russia, and make a small scratch--not a wound which you would bestow upon one of the Golden Horde,--for the hero Samson sleepeth and taketh his ease while I stand here alone and have need of his help." The shaft made a stream of blue light through the air, and reaching the pavilion tore a flaming path through the roof, but too quickly for the linen to catch fire, and made a small scratch upon the white breast of Samson, rousing him from his heavy sleep. He opened his eyes, gazed upwards, and saw the rent in the roof of the pavilion. Then he was aware of a slight discomfort on his breast, looked down, saw the scratch, and leapt lightly to his nimble feet. "Ho, there," he cried aloud, "ye mighty heroes of Holy Russia, saddle your good steeds without delay and mount with speed. A message of distress has come from my brother-in-arms, and had it not been for the cross upon my breast it would have honoured me with a wound fit only for one of the Golden Horde." Roused at last the heroes took their chargers from the scattered wheat, saddled them and rode them towards Kiev town; and Ilya noting this from his point of vantage came down from the mountain to join his twelve brethren, and in a long line of strength and swiftness the thirteen heroes rode against the Golden Horde. For the space of five hours they mowed down young and old, and they left at the end of that heroic period not so many as one single soul to continue the accursed race. Flushed with victory and self-confidence, they came together in one place, and all except Ilya began to boast and to say, "If there were steps raised up to Heaven we would climb them and wage war against the sacred hosts." As these impious words were spoken there happened a wonder of wonders. For the Tatars rose up from the field of the slain, and where there had been one man there were now three, and they all stood up strong and well upon their feet; and if Ilya had not accounted for Tsar Kalin their advance upon Kiev town would have been sudden and overwhelming; but they turned hither and thither like the sands of the desert, having no leader. Now as the heroes saw them rise, man after man, three in place of one, they rubbed their eyes in wonder, and the impious words which they had spoken dazzled their sense and confused their wits, so that they turned their arms against each other and fought with the fury of sundered friends. But Ilya took no part in that unnatural fight. Sadly and dazedly he watched until the twelve lay dead upon the plain. Then he slowly turned his shaggy bay steed Cloudfall and rode towards a mountain cave which no man has ever seen or shall see till the end of Holy Russia; and sitting in that cavern with his sword across his knees he slowly turned to stone. Cloudfall also became a lifeless statue, and there the two heroic friends sit on, waiting, waiting, waiting for the touch of life which will come when Holy Russia is in direst need and calls aloud in distress for the courage and skill, the patience and the fiery valour of Ilya of Murom the Old Cossáck. WHIRLWIND THE WHISTLER, OR THE KINGDOMS OF COPPER, SILVER, AND GOLD In a certain kingdom in a certain land known to all of us lived the Great White Tsar and his wife Golden Tress, who was so beautiful that twice each day she caused the sun to blush a rosy red, once in the morning as he rose across the steppe, and once in the evening as he bade farewell to the white world; but for the rest of the day he asserted his kingship even over Golden Tress, and looked at her boldly and whenever he wished. Now the Great White Tsar and his Tsaritza, Golden Tress, had three sons, Peter, Vasily, and Ivan, and one great enemy, Whirlwind the Whistler, whom he feared greatly, because this impetuous foe had vowed with a shriek and a howl to come at sunset and whirl away Golden Tress from the palace of the Little Father. One evening Golden Tress went out with a company of maidens and nurses to walk in the gardens of the palace, and Whirlwind saw his chance. He rushed down upon the palace garden, blinding the eyes of all so that they could not see what tricks he was playing; and when the maidens and nurses opened their eyes they saw nothing at all and heard nothing at all except a far-off call of distress and a shriek of spiteful fury; for Whirlwind the Whistler had carried away Golden Tress to his den among the fastnesses of the mountains, while the trees bowed in fear before him as he took his way across the open steppe. The Great White Tsar was now in deep distress, and knew not what to do. Years went by and still he knew not what to do, but one day it occurred to him to ask the help of his sons, who were now grown into fine young men. "My dear boys," he said, "which of you will go and seek Golden Tress?" "We will go, and at once, father," said the two elder brothers, and without delay they set out upon their quest. When they had been gone for some time the youngest son, Ivan, said to his father, "Let me go also, my father, to seek Golden Tress." "No," said the Tsar, "for you are all I have in the white world." "Do let me go also," said Ivan, "for I long to wander over the white world and seek my mother." The father did his best to persuade his boy to stay with him, for he was now very lonely, but when he saw that Ivan could no longer rest at home he yielded to his entreaties, saying to him, "Well, there is no help for it; go, and may the God of Holy Russia be good to you." Ivan without delay saddled his good steed, entered the audience chamber of his father, bowed to North, South, East, and West, and particularly to the Great White Tsar, mounted his horse and rode on and ever onward across the steppe, whether it was long or short. By and by he came to a forest in the heart of which stood a lordly castle protected from the keen winds by a ring of encircling pines. Ivan rode into the broad courtyard, where he met an old man and greeted him kindly with the words, "Many years and years of health to you." "Who are you, goodly youth?" asked the old man, and Ivan said quietly and proudly, "I am Ivan Tsarevich, son of the Great White Tsar and his Tsaritza, Golden Tress." "Oh, my very, very own nephew," said the old man; "and whither is God leading you?" "I am in search of my mother, Golden Tress," said Ivan. "Can you tell me, uncle, where she may be found?" "No, nephew, I cannot," returned the old man, "and that to my sorrow and discomfiture. But what I am able to do I will do willingly. Here is a ball. Throw it before you as you ride. It will roll onward and lead you to a range of steep rugged mountains. In the side of this range of mountains you will find a cave which you must enter, and having entered you will find within a pair of iron claws." "Take these iron claws," the old man went on, "and place them upon your hands and your feet. This will enable you to climb up the steep face of the mountain, and having done so, perhaps you will find there your mother, Golden Tress." This was good advice so far as Ivan was able to judge, so he took the ball in his hand, thanked his uncle courteously, and, starting his horse on the path which led through the pine forest, threw the ball before him. Onward and ever onward it rolled, but it seemed something more than a mere ball, for occasionally it came to a parting of the ways and then appeared to pause for a moment and consider. Then onward and ever onward it rolled, while Ivan rode behind it until he came out at last upon an open plain where a great horde was encamped; and in the midst of the horde stood a fair pavilion of white linen embroidered with gold. The ball made a path through the ranks of the men-at-arms, who stood nimbly aside to let it pass, until it rested, but impatiently rested, by the opening of the pavilion, near which two stout chargers were feeding on wheat of the finest which was scattered thickly for their sustenance and comfort. Then two leaders came forth shoulder to shoulder and hand to hand from that fair pavilion, and Ivan saw that they were his two elder brothers. "Where are you going, Ivan, son of the Great White Tsar?" they asked, and the young man answered, "I grew weary at home and thought of going to seek my mother, Golden Tress. Send these men of yours to their homes and let us go together." The two brothers assented, and in a short space of time the great army was disbanded, and the two brothers sat across their chargers ready to go forward after the ball which was bouncing in great impatience. As soon as the three put spurs to their horses it rolled on again and went onward and ever onward until it came to a cave in a steep mountain. At the opening of this cave Ivan slipped down from his horse and said to his brothers, "Take care of my horse while I go on up the face of this mountain, where perhaps I shall find my mother. Remain here and wait for me for the space of just three months. If I do not come back within that time then you may conclude that it is of no use waiting for me any longer." The brothers looked up the face of the steep mountain and thought in their hearts, "How can a man climb that mountain-side? He will merely fall and crack his skull." But they did not give utterance to their thoughts. They merely said, "Well, brother, go, and God be with you. We will wait for you here." Ivan now stepped forward to the cave, after giving his charger an affectionate pat upon its glossy neck, and saw that it was closed with a door of iron. He raised his hand and struck a hearty blow upon the door, which opened, and he went in. As he stood in the middle of the dark earthen floor, iron claws came upon his hands and feet of themselves, and, coming forth from the place into the light of day, he began to climb up the steep face of the mountain--climb, climb, climb. For a whole month he toiled upward, resting at night beneath some friendly bush, and at the end of the month reached the summit with a sigh of relief. "Well," he said, "well, well, glory be to God!" For a little while he rested, and then walked onward on the summit of the mountain--walked and walked, walked and walked, until he came to a castle of copper. At the gateway sat terrible wriggling serpents fastened with copper chains, crowds of them writhing in a mass upon the earth; and not far away was a well, at the mouth of which was a copper bucket fastened with a copper chain. Now Ivan watched the writhing serpents for a moment, and then, obeying an impulse of kindliness, he drew water in the copper bucket and gave to them to drink. When they had quenched their thirst they lay down in quiet, and Ivan was able to enter the castle unmolested. At the doorway and just over the threshold the young man was met by a Tsaritza who was clothed in a cloth of a coppery red, warm and brilliant, and whose hair was of a deep auburn tinged with light and shining with the early gloss of youthfulness. She looked coolly at Ivan as if she thought little of him, but her greeting was courteous enough. "Who are you, gallant youth?" she asked, and the young man replied simply: "I am Ivan, youngest son of the Great White Tsar." "How did you come here?" asked the Copper Tsaritza, "with your own will or against your will?" "With my own will," said Ivan. "I am in search of my mother. For, while she walked in the green palace garden, Whirlwind the Whistler came with a shriek and bore her away to an unknown land. Can you tell me where I may find her?" "No, I cannot," was the reply, "but far away from here lives my second sister the Silver Tsaritza--perhaps she will be able to tell you where you may find Golden Tress. But I pray you, good youth, when you have killed Whirlwind the Whistler, do not forget me, poor unfortunate, but rescue me from this place and take me out into the free white world. Whirlwind the Whistler holds me here as a captive and comes to visit me once in three months to torment me with his doleful whining." Then she gave the good youth a copper ball and a copper ring as a token. "This ball," she said, "will lead you to my second sister, and within this ring lies the whole of the Kingdom of Copper." Then Ivan set the copper ball rolling and followed it until he came to a castle all of silver and finer than the first. At the gateway were terrible writhing serpents fastened with silver chains, and near them was a well with a silver bucket. Remembering the previous reward for his impulse of kindliness, Ivan drew water and gave it to the serpents to drink. When they had quenched their thirst they lay down in quiet, and Ivan was able to enter the castle unmolested. At the doorway, and just over the threshold, he was met by a Tsaritza, who was clothed in cloth of silver and whose hair was of fine white silver, which yet did not take away from the beauty of her youthfulness. At first she did not see Ivan, and she spoke to herself. "It will soon be three years," she said, "since Whirlwind the Whistler first imprisoned me in this silver castle, and during that time I have not seen or spoken with a dweller in Holy Russia. But by my lost Kingdom I see a Russian now and a goodly one." Then she bent her beautiful eyes upon Ivan and said in a voice like a silver bell, "Who are you, good youth?" "I am Ivan, youngest son of the Great White Tsar," was the simple answer. "How did you come here?" asked the Silver Tsaritza, "with your own will or against your will?" "With my own will," said Ivan. "I am in search of my mother. For, while she walked in the green palace garden, Whirlwind the Whistler came with a shriek and bore her away to an unknown land. Can you tell me where I may find her?" "No, I cannot," was the reply, "but not far away from here lives my eldest sister the Golden Tsaritza, Elena the Lovely--perhaps she will be able to tell you where you may find Golden Tress. But I pray you, good youth, when you have killed Whirlwind the Whistler, do not forget me, poor unfortunate, but rescue me from this place and take me out into the free white world. Whirlwind the Whistler holds me here as a captive, and comes once in two months to torment me with his hideous voice." Then she gave the good youth a silver ball and a silver ring as a token and said to him, "Within this little circle lies the whole of the Kingdom of Silver." Once more Ivan set the ball rolling, and wherever it went, there he followed it, and he came at last across many leagues of open country to a castle of gold. At the gateway sat terrible wriggling serpents fastened with golden chains, crowds of them writhing in a mass upon the earth; and not far away was a well at the mouth of which was a golden bucket fastened with a golden chain. Again Ivan watched the writhing serpents for a moment and then drew water in the golden bucket and gave to them to drink. When they had quenched their thirst they lay down in quiet, and Ivan was able to enter the castle unmolested. At the doorway, and just over the threshold, he was met by a Tsaritza, who was clothed in cloth of gold and whose hair was of fine red gold glowing with the fire of youthfulness. At once she saw Ivan and said to him: "Who are you, good youth?" "I am Ivan, youngest son of the Great White Tsar," was the simple answer. "How did you come here?" asked the Golden Tsaritza, "with your own will, or against your will?" "With my own will," said Ivan. "I am in search of my mother. For, while she walked in the green palace garden, Whirlwind the Whistler came with a shriek and bore her away to an unknown land. Can you tell me where I may find her?" "I can indeed tell you," said the Golden Tsaritza. "She lives not far from here. Whirlwind the Whistler flies to her once a week and to me once a month, and he wearies both of us with his shrieks and his moans. Here is a golden ball for you. Throw it before you and follow it. It will lead you to your mother." Then she gave the good youth a golden ring as a token and said to him: "Within this little circle lies the whole of the Kingdom of Gold. I pray you, good youth, when you have conquered Whirlwind the Whistler, do not forget me, poor unfortunate, but rescue me from this place and take me out into the free white world." "I will take you," promised Ivan. Then he rolled the golden ball before him and wherever it went, there he followed it, until he came at last to such a palace as he could scarcely bear to look upon, it blazed so brightly with diamonds and precious stones. At the gateway six-headed serpents were hissing, but when Ivan had given them water from a well with a diamond bucket, fastened with a chain of fine seed pearls, they sank down in quiet and allowed him to pass into the castle. He walked quickly through one lofty chamber after another and in the last chamber he found his mother. She was sitting on a great throne of a single emerald clad in the festal robes of a Tsaritza, and crowned with a dazzling crown, beneath which her golden tresses flowed downward over the emerald steps. Raising her sad clear eyes, she looked at the stranger, and as she looked the mist of memory cleared, a smile played about her beautiful ruddy lips, and she said eagerly, holding her hands forward, "Ah, is it you, my dear, dear son? How have you found out the place of my concealment?" "That is so and so and by the way and matterless," said Ivan. "Suffice it to say that I have come to fetch you home." "But, my dear, dear son," said Golden Tress, "that will be indeed a hard matter for you. In these mountains the king of all is mighty Whirlwind, whom all the spirits of the air obey. It was he who bore me away, and it is against him that you must fight. Come quickly to the cellar." Golden Tress stepped with the step of youthfulness down from the emerald throne, and taking her son by the hand led him down a dark stairway into the cellar beneath the palace. Now in the cellar there were two tubs of water, one on the right hand and the other on the left. Golden Tress led Ivan forward and said to him, "Drink from the tub on your right hand." Ivan drank and drank deeply while his beautiful mother watched him closely, and when he was finished she asked, "Well, what strength is in thee?" "I am so strong," said the youth, "that I could turn over the whole castle with one hand." "Drink again," said Golden Tress, very quietly. Ivan drank again and drank deeply. "What strength is in thee now?" asked his mother. "I am so strong," said he, "that, if I wished, I could turn the whole world over." "That is very great strength," said Golden Tress. "Now move these tubs of water so as to make them change positions. Place the right-hand tub on the left and the left-hand tub on the right." Ivan did so with perfect ease. "Now," said Golden Tress, "let me tell you why I asked you to do this. In one of these tubs is water of strength, but in the other, water of weakness. Whirlwind always drinks the water of strength, and puts it on the right side, so we must mislead him or you will never be able to overcome him." Thereupon they made their way up the winding stairway to the apartment of Golden Tress, in which stood the shining throne made from a single emerald. Golden Tress sat down upon this throne and composed herself, as if she were expecting a visitor. "In a short time," she said, "Whirlwind will fly home. Come and hide beneath my purple robe so that he may not be able to see you, and when he enters and runs to try to embrace me reach out your hand, which is now a hand of heroic strength, and seize his club. He will rise high and ever higher, but do not therefore release your hold upon his club. He will fly out of the window in the roof, and will carry you over seas and over precipices, but do not in dizziness release your hold upon his club. After a while Whirlwind will grow weak and will return to this palace and go down to the cellar, but do not release your hold upon his club. He will drink of the water in the tub on the right hand, but see that you drink meanwhile of the water in the other tub. "When he has drunk well, he will grow weak, and then you must take his sharp sword from his girdle and hew off his head with it. As soon as his head falls to the ground you will hear voices behind you crying, 'Strike again, strike again.' But these will be the voices of tempters, and your answer to them must be, 'A hero's hand strikes once to kill, but never once to maim.'" Ivan had scarcely disposed himself under the flowing purple robe which swept down upon the green and translucent base of the throne of Golden Tress, when suddenly the room grew dark and everything within it trembled and creaked. Whirlwind flew to his castle, and no one saw his form until he struck the courtyard stones. Then he became a goodly young man with a changeful restless face, and strode quickly into the castle carrying his club with a flourish, until he came before the emerald throne. "Tfu, Tfu, Tfu," he said, sniffing disgustedly. "There is an odour of Russia here. Have you had visitors?" "I cannot tell why you should think so," said Golden Tress. Then Whirlwind came forward and held out his arms to embrace the mother of Ivan, but with a quick movement the heroic youth stretched out his hand and seized his club. "I'll eat you," cried Whirlwind in a passion of anger, and Ivan replied, "Well, either you will or you won't." With a piercing shriek Whirlwind turned and mounted quickly upward. He passed with a howl through the open window in the roof, and then his form was changed, but what it was now no one knew or was able to describe, for as often as any one opened eyes to look at him he filled them with dust and water; if any one sniffed him he made them sneeze; if any one tried to lay hands upon him he buffeted them in the chest and turned them about like weather vanes, all the while crying out, "What is my shape?" Only pigs could see him and knew of what shape he was and they had no powers of description. It was well for Ivan that in this furious flight he kept a firm hold on Whirlwind's club, for as he rushed on over the world he kept shrieking, "I will smash you! I will lay you low! I will drown you!" But as his club was firmly held he was powerless to give a knock-down blow, and presently, wearied out with his own fury, he grew weak and began to sink. Then he turned homeward, and alighted gently and wearily upon the stones of the courtyard, where he became a young man with a restless peevish face, listlessly bearing his club, which would have trailed upon the ground if the heroic hand of Ivan had not upheld it. He made what speed he could to the cellar, and at once took a deep draught of the water of weakness, while Ivan, dropping the club, ran to the water of strength, of which he drank long and contentedly, and so became the first mighty hero in the whole white world. Seeing that Whirlwind had now become weak to extremity he took his sharp sword from his girdle and cut off his head with it. Then from behind him he heard voices crying, "Strike again, strike again, or he will come to life." "No," cried Ivan in a heroic voice which in spite of himself seemed to echo throughout the world. "A hero's hand strikes once to kill, but never once to maim." Then without loss of time he made a fire, burned the body of Whirlwind as well as the head, and scattered his ashes from the ramparts of the castle to North, South, East, and West. Then Golden Tress was glad and embraced her son. "Now let us eat," she said, "and then go home together. It is very wearisome here--for of what use is a throne of a single emerald if there are no people? What are fine couches and sideboards and flagons and furniture if there is no love?" "Are there not even servants to wait upon you?" asked Ivan. "How are you served?" "You will see in a moment," was the reply. "Think of dinner." So Ivan thought of the nicest dinner he could imagine--thick soup, white fish with pink sharp sauce, meat, potatoes and spinach with rich brown gravy, iced pudding and apples and nuts for dessert--and before he could have written out the list all these things were upon the sideboard where they kept hot until they were needed, all of course except the pudding which stayed outside upon the window-sill to keep cool. But with all this there was no sound, not even the cheerful clatter of plates or the chink of a jug upon a tumbler, for the plates came floating singly through the air and settled down quietly before the diners, while the wine rose from the bottom of the glasses as you have seen it do at the conjuror's. Ivan and his mother ate in silence, and the young man was surprised to find the meal somewhat disappointing. His lovely mother watched him closely with a wise smile upon her face. "When we get home," she promised herself, "he shall have hot cakes fresh from the oven with plenty of butter and--I shall make them myself." Then she laughed inwardly and sniffed gently through her delicate nostrils as if she smelt the kitchen smell of newly made bread and cakes, and that is better even than a throne of a single emerald or a couch with a cover of sable skins lined with softest silk from Samarcand. When mother and son had rested for a while and talked of many things, Golden Tress enquiring particularly how the stoves were drawing in the palace of the Great White Tsar, the young man said, "Mother, let us go home now, for it is time, and besides, under the mountains my brothers are waiting for me. And on the way I must rescue three Tsaritzas who are living in the castles of Whirlwind the Whistler." In a short time mother and son were ready for the journey, and though the castle was full of untold treasure they carried away with them not even a diamond of the size of a pin point. But they carried as many linen sheets as they could bear, not for vanity of housewifery but for a useful purpose. After a long journey they came to the Golden Tsaritza, Elena the Beautiful, and led her forth, asking her to carry with her as many linen sheets as she could comfortably bear. In a similar manner they led forth the Silver Tsaritza and the Copper Tsaritza, and these also brought linen sheets for the device which Ivan had designed. When they came to the top of the precipice they tore the sheets into broad strips, knotted them together, and made a long linen rope of them; and by means of this stout rope, one end of which they fastened to the trunk of a lofty pine which had seen the dawn of history, they let themselves down to the plain below, first the Copper Tsaritza, then the Silver Tsaritza, then the Golden Tsaritza, Elena the Beautiful, and last of all Golden Tress, the Tsaritza of the Great White Tsar. Now the two elder brothers of Ivan were standing below, waiting and watching, and when they saw the lovely ladies step daintily one after the other upon the earth they said to each other: "Let us leave Ivan up there and let us take the three lovely maidens and our mother to our father, and tell him that we rescued them from Whirlwind the Whistler." "Right and just," said Peter quickly, "I will take the Golden Tsaritza, Elena the Beautiful, for myself, and you, Vasily, take the Silver Tsaritza for yourself, and we will give the Copper Tsaritza to some general." Meanwhile Golden Tress was looking steadily up the face of the precipice, waiting impatiently for Ivan to come down by the ladder of linen. But the two brothers ran forward, seized the linen, pulled it and tore it away. And when Ivan heard it snap near the trunk of the great pine, he sat down and in spite of his strength and manliness wept so sorely, and for such a long time, that his tears made a cascade down the face of the precipice, where the ladder of linen had wavered in the breeze. Then he arose somewhat refreshed and relieved, and turning back walked aimlessly through the Copper Kingdom, the Silver Kingdom, and the Golden Kingdom, but he met no living person. Then he came to the Diamond Kingdom, but even here he met no living person. He was now weary almost to death, and in the midst of wealth untold yearned for the sound of a human voice. In the Diamond Palace, from which he had rescued his mother, he wandered disconsolate not knowing what to do when, all at once, he saw a whistle lying on the window ledge. He took it up, and, being a good musician, began to play a tune, but as soon as he had sounded only one note Lame and Crooked stood before him, who seemed to be bowing all the time. "What is your pleasure?" he asked. "Get a bed ready," said Ivan, and as soon as the words were spoken the bed stood near him with the pillows smoothed and the quilt turned down a little, so as to show the sheets of the finest linen. Ivan crept into the bed, in which he found a warming pan, settled down cosily and was soon in a deep sleep. After a time, the exact length of which does not matter, he awoke refreshed and whistled again. Before he could say Elena, Lame and Crooked stood before him. "What is your pleasure?" he asked. "Can everything be done, then?" asked Ivan. "Everything is possible," was the reply. "Whoever blows that whistle has everything done for him. As we served Whirlwind the Whistler before, so now we are glad to serve the man who conquered him by bracing himself with draughts of the water which comes from the stinging East. It is only necessary to keep the whistle by you at all times." "Well, then," said Ivan, "let me be in my own city this very moment." He had no sooner spoken than he found himself in his own city, and standing in the middle of the market square. As he stood looking around him a jolly old shoemaker came up and Ivan said to him, "Where are you going, my good man?" "I am going to sell my shoes," was the reply, "for I am a shoemaker." "Take me into your employment," said the son of the Great White Tsar. "But do you know how to make shoes?" was the cautious enquiry. "Oh yes," said Ivan, with such confidence that the man could do nothing but believe him. "I have the means of doing everything--not only making shoes but clothes as well." "Come along, then," said the jolly shoemaker, and they went to his house. As soon as they had entered, the man took Ivan to the workshop and pointing to a seat near a bench he said: "Sit down there and get to work. I will go out to sell my wares, and when I return to-morrow I shall be able to judge exactly of your skill." As soon as the man was gone Ivan took out his whistle and summoned Lame and Crooked. "What is your pleasure?" asked he. "To have shoes ready by to-morrow." Lame and Crooked smiled a smile which seemed to wander round the room. "That is not work," he said, "but recreation." "Here is the leather," said Ivan, and Lame and Crooked looked at it with a curving upper lip. "That is poor stuff," he said, "and the proper place for it is out of the window." Then he jumped out very nimbly after it and Ivan saw him no more; but when the young man awoke next morning he saw on the table beside his bed several pairs of shoes of the very best. He had scarcely dressed himself when the jolly old shoemaker came into his room and said, "Well, young man, are the shoes ready?" "They are ready for sale," said Ivan quietly, pointing to the shoes on the table beside his bed. The shoemaker inspected them very closely, and his eyes opened wide in wonder. "Why, young man," he said, with a jolly smile, "you are not a shoemaker but a magician. I must go at once to the market and turn these fine shoes into good red gold." Off he went to the market, and while he waited for customers to arrive he heard all the gossip of the city, which was greatly moved to curiosity over three forthcoming weddings at the palace of the Great White Tsar. He heard that Prince Peter was to marry the Golden Tsaritza, Elena the Beautiful, that Prince Vasily was to marry the Silver Tsaritza, and that the Copper Tsaritza was to marry a general. Dresses were being made for the wedding, said the good dames of the market-place, such as had never yet been designed or embroidered within the memory of the oldest in Holy Russia. Then came a royal messenger seeking shoes for Elena the Beautiful, and after searching the whole market he came to the stall of the jolly old shoemaker and easily concluded that his wares were finer and more delicate than any others; so he told the man to pack up his entire stock and come with him to the apartments of the Golden Tsaritza, Elena the Beautiful, in the palace of the Great White Tsar. The Golden Tsaritza was seated among her maidens, who were so busy and excited and trembling that they sewed many of the lovely garments quite wrong; and as the shoemaker entered the room the Lady-of-Honour, who bore the high title of Golden Scissors, was scolding a pretty young dressmaker for putting the right sleeve in the place of the left. As for Elena the Beautiful herself, she sat looking straight before her with the expression on her face of a person who is obliged to do one thing but would rather do something else. When she saw the shoes spread out on a table before her she looked at them in a listless manner; then, all at once, her beautiful eyes moistened and brightened, and she said to the shoemaker who stood near with his cap of rough fur in his hand, "What is the meaning of this? They make shoes of this pattern only in the mountains." At once an idea for gaining time came into her mind, and turning to the somewhat bewildered shoemaker, whose jolly face was clouded and anxious owing to his good fortune, she said to him in a voice which sounded hard and cold like the ring of steel upon an anvil, "Make me, without measure, another pair of shoes cunningly sewn, set with precious stones and glittering with diamonds. They must be ready for to-morrow, otherwise my servants will hale you to the gallows." The shoemaker was then taken to the Tsar's treasury, where he chose the precious stones required, and was given money to buy leather of the richest and softest kind that could be obtained. He had received the most exalted order he had ever been honoured with, and might have put upon his signboard, "Shoemaker by Royal Appointment to the Golden Tsaritza," but still he was far from happy--in fact he was utterly miserable. "By Svyatogor, Ilya, and Vladimir and all the heroes," he said, "but greatness means great worry. Whatever shall I do? How can I make shoes by to-morrow when I am not allowed to measure the exalted foot of the beautiful Tsaritza? I shall make nothing by to-morrow but an end to my life, for it is very clear that I shall make acquaintance with the gallows--say about ten o'clock. However, seeing that it cannot be helped, let me have a last jollification with my companions." Off he went to the inn where he had more friends than was good for him, and when they saw his face so gloomy which was usually so jolly and generous they eagerly asked him the cause of his trouble. "Oh, my dear friends," he said, "I have been honoured with a Court order and as a consequence they are going to hang me to-morrow, and only the lucky man who succeeds to my business will reap the benefit of being able to call himself 'Shoemaker by Royal Appointment to the Golden Tsaritza.'" "Why so?" asked his companions, who were so thirsty that they thought the shoemaker might have made a much shorter speech. Then the man told his trouble as shortly as possible, concluding with the words, "What think you, friends, of an order like that? I may as well enjoy myself with you for the last time, for they will surely come for me to-morrow morning--say about ten o'clock." So they drank and drank and sang and joked and danced and then drank again, by which time the shoemaker was by no means steady upon his legs. "Well," he said, as the town clock struck twelve, "I will take home a keg of spirits and lie down to sleep, and to-morrow when they come to take me to the gallows I will drink a gallon and a half at one draught, and if they hang me drunk I may be able to look and feel jolly until the last." Then he staggered home with the keg under his arm. He had scarcely passed the threshold when he saw Ivan and began at once to upbraid him. "You abandoned rascal," he cried, "see what your fine shoes have done for me." Then he told him as much of the story as he could remember, and staggered off to bed saying, "When they come for me in the morning, wake me up." As soon as all was quiet Ivan took out his whistle and blew, whereupon Lame and Crooked appeared as before. "What is your pleasure?" he asked, and the young Prince told him what was required. "We obey!" said Lame and Crooked, who did not even ask for the precious stones from the Tsar's treasury which the shoemaker had used to wipe out his score at the inn. Ivan lay down to sleep, and when he awoke next morning he thought that the sun had risen two hours too soon for his room was filled with fiery golden light. But it was only the brilliance of the precious stones set in the dainty shoes on the table by his bedside. He jumped up, dressed himself in the light of the shining gems which shone not by reflected radiance, but from the depth of their glowing hearts. Then he picked up the dainty shoes, kissed them lightly, and took them to his master whom he roused with a shake. "It is time to rise," he said in the man's ear. "What!" cried the shoemaker, sitting bolt upright with a tremendous start. "Have they come for me? Bring me the keg quickly and draw the blind to keep out the light, which shines too cheerfully for a poor fellow who is to be hanged about ten o'clock. Here is a cup. Pour the spirits in. They shall hang me drunk." "But the shoes are made," said Ivan quietly, looking at the man with amusement almost conquered by disgust. "Made? How made? Who made them? Where are they? Can't you draw the blind and keep out that silly light?" Ivan drew the blind but the light was not thereby diminished, and now the bewildered shoemaker saw that the radiance came from the precious stones in the shoes which Ivan held in his hand. The man rubbed his eyes in a dazed manner and then said, "They are made sure enough and look small enough even for Elena the Beautiful. When did we make them?" "They were made in the night," said Ivan quietly, "but it is possible that you do not remember. Do you really find yourself unable to recall having cut and sewed them. Do try to remember--think it over very hard." "Oh, brother," said the bewildered shoemaker, "it must have been working over these brilliant gems that has dazed my wits. I barely remember, but only very barely. But I must make haste to carry them to Elena the Beautiful. Thank goodness we have been able to execute her exalted order." "And that you have been saved from occupying a still more exalted position," said Ivan, who being a prince had a great sense of humour. "Yes, indeed," said the shoemaker as he left the house at great speed. Before Ivan could say Elena, which, by the way, he was continually saying to himself, the jolly shoemaker was standing in the apartment of the Golden Tsaritza where the preparations for the wedding seemed to be as busy as ever. Elena the Beautiful looked at the shoes, and something to which she dared not give a name told her heart what had taken place. "Surely," she said to herself, very very softly, "the good Spirits made these for Ivan." Then aloud she said to the grinning shoemaker, "How did you make these?" "Oh," said the man, "I am able to do everything." The reply of the Tsaritza came quickly upon this boast. "If you can do everything, make me a wedding robe embroidered with gold and ornamented with diamonds and precious stones, which will fit my body as exactly as these shoes fit my feet. Let it be ready by to-morrow morning, for, if it is not, off goes your head." The face of the shoemaker fell, and he went out into the street and walked a long, long way thinking very hard. "Well, well," he said at last, "it is of no use mourning. To-day will be my last day, that is quite certain, and I may as well spend it in jollification. For though a shoemaker may by great industry make a wonderful pair of shoes, he cannot make a wonderful wedding robe for a beautiful Tsaritza without measurements, to say nothing of trying on." Then he went off to the inn, where he found his companions, who seemed to live there. "Well, what is wrong now?" they asked him as soon as they saw his gloomy face. "Nothing but contradiction," he said. "My high-born patron has now made me Court Dressmaker and has ordered me to make her a wedding-robe embroidered with gold and ornamented with diamonds and precious stones, which will fit her body as exactly as my shoes fit her feet, and the whole contraption is to be ready by to-morrow morning, for, if it is not, off goes my head." "Ah, brother," said the loafers, "it is clearly impossible that you should execute the order, and as we suppose you have the stones on your person we may as well go and frolic for to-day." The face of the shoemaker fell still lower, for in his consternation he had forgotten to ask for the jewels from the royal treasury. But he had in his pocket the large price paid for the shoes, and, as his previous score was paid, the inn-keeper allowed the topers to have a good supply of spirits. Once more they caroused and once more the shoemaker-dressmaker took a keg of spirits home with him and told Ivan all his tale, concluding with the words, "Wake me in the morning. I'm off to bed." In a few minutes he was sound asleep. Ivan at once blew the whistle, and Lame and Crooked appeared before him. "What is your pleasure?" "Make me a robe which will fit Elena the Beautiful to perfection. Let it be embroidered with gold and ornamented with diamonds and precious stones, and deliver it here before dawn." "We obey," said Lame and Crooked. "The wedding robe shall be ready." Ivan slept and woke before dawn. He knew at once that the light in his chamber came from the shining gems on the bodice of the beautiful robe which lay across a chair by his bedside. He jumped up, dressed himself quickly, and taking up the dress kissed the corsage where the heart of Elena would beat, and carried the wonderful garment to the chamber of his snoring master. The light from the gems roused the man, who groaned, sat up slowly, and rubbed his eyes. "What!" he cried in a trembling voice, "is it broad day already, and have they come to cut off my head? Give me that keg of spirits and a can. I will drink three gallons at a draught and then I shall be so full of courage that I shall not feel the axe." "But the robe is ready," said Ivan very quietly. "What?" roared the Court Shoemaker-Dressmaker. "When did we make it?" "It was made in the night, of course, and it is not the first time that a Court Dressmaker has had to work until the small hours. Do you not remember cutting the cloth?" "Ah, brother," said the man who was now weeping like a crocodile for sheer relief, "it must have been the sheen of the gold embroidery that dazzled my wits. I barely remember, but only very barely. But I must make haste to carry this robe to Elena the Beautiful. Thank goodness I have been able to rise to the occasion once more." "Yes, thank goodness," said Ivan, "but it is to be hoped that you will not be honoured with any more Court appointments." His employer, however, did not hear this last remark, for by the time that Ivan had finished speaking he was standing in the apartment of Elena the Beautiful, where the preparations seemed to be as busy as ever. The Golden Tsaritza looked at the robe and something to which she dared not give a name told her heart what had taken place. "Surely," she said to herself, "the good Spirits made this robe for Ivan." Then aloud she said to the prinking shoemaker, "How did you make this?" "Oh," said the unlucky man, "I can make anything." The reply of the Tsaritza came like a flash of lightning. "See that at to-morrow's dawn," she said, "the Kingdom of Gold be on the sea, seven miles from shore, and across the blue waters stretching from that Kingdom to our palace let there be a bridge of gold with costly crimson velvet laid upon it and set at each side with wonderful trees to form an avenue full of love-birds singing sweetest songs of dawn with varied voices. If this is not done by to-morrow morning I will have you cut up into four quarters." As the Tsaritza spoke, the face of the shoemaker took on an expression of wonder worthy of a large audience at the most wonderful conjuring entertainment you can imagine. Then he turned slowly and left the apartment of Elena the Beautiful, muttering to himself, "Court Shoemaker, Court Dressmaker, and now Court Magician. I may as well have another day's frolic, for though a man may rise twice in drowning he does not rise thrice and live." He walked slowly off to the inn, heavily weighed down with greatness and cursing the day when he had forsaken his simple life. But he had the price of the robe in his pouch and the third carousal was as jolly as the others, and he swore to drink six gallons of spirits on the following morning. His friends gave him a drunken cheer, sang "He's a jolly good fellow," and saw him home with the keg under his arm. As before Ivan was waiting for him, and as good luck would have it, the poor man for all his intoxication was able to remember what was required of him; and as for Lame and Crooked he smiled a crooked but very intelligent smile when the task was detailed to him. "At last," he said, "you give me real work to do." Ivan went to sleep and woke early thinking that he had overslept himself and that it was now broad noon, for a bright light as of the sun was shining in at his chamber window which, as he knew very well, faced due south. He sprang from his bed, and, drawing aside the blind, saw across the sea the Kingdom of Gold in all its splendour lying like a shining island seven miles from the shore, and across the waters stretching from that Kingdom to the palace of the Great White Tsar there was a bridge of gold with costly crimson velvet laid upon it, at each side of which were set wonderful trees to form an avenue full of love-birds singing sweetest songs of dawn with varied voices. Ivan dropped the blind, dressed himself with particular care in the golden light which filled his chamber, went into his master's room and roused him from his heavy sleep. "Have they come for me?" cried the man in great terror, "give me the keg and-----" But Ivan said quietly: "But the Kingdom of Gold is upon the sea." "Ah," said the shoemaker. "How did we do that?" "Don't you remember how we fixed it?" said Ivan. "Yes, yes," was the hasty reply. "I dimly remember, very, very dimly. Let us go out to see if we have finished the work with the care expected of our exalted appointments." In a few moments they were upon the shore and found everything prepared in a manner which seemed to be fit even for Elena the Beautiful, but one thing did not please the fastidious taste of Ivan. "Here, master," he said, "here is a peacock feather duster. Go and dust the railing of the pathway to the kingdom. And if you meet any persons in the avenue give them this letter." The man at once went off to do the bidding of his journeyman, and was soon busily engaged in delicately dusting the golden railing of the bridge. Meanwhile Elena the Beautiful arose, and drawing the curtains of her chamber which looked towards the sea saw the Kingdom of Gold lying like a shining island on the bosom of the deep blue waters. Her maids dressed her in a simple robe of white lawn, with a girdle of gold, and then she went to the Great White Tsar, who sat at breakfast with Golden Tress, and told him what she had seen across the sea. At once the mighty monarch sent out royal messengers and these men walked along the bridge until they met the shoemaker, who was busily engaged in the task which Ivan had set him. When they accosted him he did not cease his work, but taking a letter from his pouch handed it with his left hand to the men whose duty it would have been to hang, behead, and quarter him if it had not been for his wonderful assistant who could get everything done. The men went away and brought the letter to the Great White Tsar just as he was beginning on toast and marmalade. He propped it up against the diamond teapot and read it as he finished his morning meal, and as he did so he made such strange exclamations that Golden Tress thought with concern that a crumb of toast must surely have gone down the wrong way. Then he arose and ordered out the golden State coach for himself and Golden Tress, as well as a simple waggon of dark wood drawn by a small shaggy pony for the Golden Tsaritza, and in this way they came to the end of the bridge which led to the Kingdom of Gold, where stood Ivan with Peter on one side of him and Vasily on the other. The Tsar frowned when he caught sight of his two elder sons, for Ivan's letter had told him all the truth, but as he looked Ivan embraced both of them as a sign that on this golden morning he could forgive any one. The State carriage came to a stop, and Ivan ran forward to greet his parents, but hearing a low cry of gladness from the simple waggon behind he ran forward, lifted Elena the Beautiful to the ground, and leading her to his mother knelt to receive her blessing. You have not paid much attention to the details of this story if you cannot imagine what followed; but even the most careful reader cannot measure the bliss of the lovers who had known that they loved each other since their first meeting without a word being spoken; and that is really a greater wonder than the magic feats performed by Lame and Crooked, when you come to think about it soberly. As for Peter, he was married to the Silver Tsaritza, while Vasily wedded the Copper Tsaritza, and the shoemaker was made a general on the retired list, which meant that he had fine uniforms and a grand house, but was not expected to do any fighting. He was given a coat of arms by Golden Tress which bore three spirit kegs, as a reminder that he was to be a temperate man for the rest of his life, and for all I know, he really was. VASILY THE TURBULENT Peace had no charm for Vasily of Novgorod the Great, but where there was fighting to be done there he was at his best and happiest. Rest and ease had no attraction for him, but where the rover wandered there was the place of his journeying. His father, however, had lived in peace with the men of Novgorod the Great, and had died leaving to his widow and his only son a great store of treasure, a wide palace with a lofty tower, and a cellar full of green wine without price. When Vasily had reached the age of seven years his mother sent him to learn to read and write, for she longed to curb his fiery spirit with the rein of reflection which learning places upon the violent; and Vasily, being of a determined disposition, applied himself to learning with a will so that he succeeded better than all the scholars who studied by his side. But reading and writing did not curb his fiery spirit, nor even church singing in which he also excelled, and he could pass from the cathedral and the singing of holy songs to noisy brawls in the city streets in which he cracked heads as if they were nuts. He was so strong and thoughtless that even his friends ran down side paths to avoid meeting him, for it was said that he had one day torn out a young man's arm in the act of shaking hands with him, and had stricken another to the ground by clapping him playfully upon the back. As Vasily grew up his vigorous pranks began to terrify the good people of Novgorod, who came to his widow mother to beg for protection against her son. She was a peaceable, gentle lady, who was greatly alarmed at the strength which her son was developing, and she upbraided him with tears in her eyes. "My son," she said, "why do you delight in going about the city making cripples? At your age your father had no treasure to speak of, but he had a band of brave bodyguards, and was a wise leader among men and a judge among the people of Novgorod the Great." These gentle words displeased Vasily greatly, and instead of restraining him moved him to greater mischief. "Men shall speak of my might" he muttered as he left his mother, "and in after years shall boast even in Novgorod of the heroic deeds of their own townsman, aye, even if I crack hundreds of their own thick skulls for them. They will remember me when they have forgotten men of wisdom and of safe judgment." Then he proceeded to win his reputation. He went up to his own room in the top of his lofty tower and sat down at the table to write on a scroll of parchment, but it was no psalm or cathedral hymn which the turbulent scholar wrote. It was an invitation to a feast and ran thus: "Whosoever wishes to eat savoury viands ready to his hand and without cost to himself, as well as to drink green wine of priceless value and to wear embroidered robes of the best, let him come to the court of Vasily at once and instantly." He wrote out this invitation many times and then gathering up the scrolls went to the open window. Here he fitted each of the parchments to a stout arrow and shot them into the city, which was about two miles away; and as the men of Novgorod came from church they gathered up these strange missives in the streets and lanes and broad paven courtyards. Many of them wondered, and they came together in groups gravely discussing the marvellous matter, until a priest came along from the church and read one of the scrolls which was attached to the arrow. Then the word buzzed round the town, "Vasily the Turbulent commandeth us to an honourable feast." And the men of Novgorod the Great thought that now their chance had surely come to pay off the long score against the man who troubled the peace of their trading city. Meanwhile Vasily was making preparation for his guests, and he meant to use the occasion to select for himself a brave bodyguard. The test for admission to this very select and honourable company was to be so severe that Vasily would be perfectly sure of gaining protectors of the bravest. He rolled a great cask of green wine from the vaults and set it up in the middle of the banquet-hall, saying to himself, "Whoever shall lift in one hand a cup of this wine and shall drain it at one breath, and shall likewise stand upright after a blow from my cudgel of red elm, shall make one of my brave bodyguard." Then he went to his room in the top of the lofty tower and lying down upon his heroic bed of smooth planks slept the sleep of Ilya the Old Cossáck. The next morning, very early, his widow mother paced the passages of her palace and chanced to look out upon the broad courtyard. To her surprise she saw that it was crowded with a great company of the men of Novgorod. In trembling haste she ascended the tall tower and roused her unruly son from his heavy sleep. "Do you sleep, Vasily," she said, "and take your ease and care nothing for the peril which is even now at your gates? See, a company of angry men make your courtyard as black as a raven's wing." The young man at once sprang to his nimble feet, grasped his great club of red elm in his white hands, and went out into the wide courtyard. "Ho, there, Vasily the Turbulent," shouted some of the foremost of the guests. "We have come to your banquet and are determined to eat up all your stores of food, to drink up your green wine, to wear your embroidered robes, and then drag forth your golden treasures." The tone of the acceptance of the invitation could scarcely be described as polite, and it roused the hot blood of Vasily the Turbulent. He leapt forth into the courtyard, grasped his club of red elm with a firm grip and began to brandish it. Wherever he swung it forward an open lane appeared among the crowd, and when he drew it backward he made an alley. Soon the men of Novgorod were lying in great heaps in the courtyard, while the rest went back to the town; and Vasily climbed once more to his chamber at the top of the tall tower. After a while there came a black-browed handmaid to the door of the chamber, and calling Vasily outside she told him that the New Trader wished to join his bodyguard; and Vasily came down to the hall where the young man stood near the great vat of green wine. He was a comely youth with black curls upon a white brow, and blue eyes which looked ever into the distance, as if he sighted new lands afar off and cared not for the trodden ways. As soon as he saw him standing there proudly erect, Vasily advanced swiftly upon him, grasping his great club of red elm, and smote him a stunning, staggering blow. But the young man was neither stunned nor did he stagger. He stood firm under that heavy blow, the black curls upon his forehead did not move, and the wine from the full cup in his hand was not spilt. "Is my strength waning?" cried Vasily in despair, and then as if to test it he raised the club again and brought it down upon a white and burning stone which lay at his feet. The hard stone was shivered to atoms and Vasily laughed grimly, as he turned to the New Trader. "Drain off the green wine at a breath," he commanded, and the young man did so. "Hail, New Trader!" cried Vasily the Turbulent, "you shall be of my bodyguard from this day forward." Then there entered the hall two young men of the town, one of whom was known as the Lame and the other as the Hunchback, and in spite of their infirmities these two stood the severe tests of Vasily and were admitted to his bodyguard. In this strange manner did Vasily the Turbulent choose his brave bodyguard of three men only, three men and no more. "Enter now my palace of white stone," said the hero, "and there we will feast on the best that my larders can afford; and while we eat together I will tell you how I shall entertain the men of Novgorod." The four heroes sat down to the white tables and Vasily sat in the great corner. They were waited upon by the black-browed maiden, and when the meal was nearly over Vasily unfolded his plan for his next banquet. His bodyguard laughed gently as they heard of his purpose; and the next day they went out into Novgorod to invite the leading men to come and partake of the hospitality of Vasily the Turbulent. They came in a great crowd and found the tables prepared for a banquet, being filled with dishes and huge cups, but there was only one waiting-maid, the girl of the black brows, to attend upon this great company. As soon as the guests were seated and Vasily had taken his place in the big corner, the black-browed maid brought steaming dishes and foaming tankards and placed them before her master and his bodyguard, but she placed neither food nor drink before the men of Novgorod, who were very hungry, for the wind was keen and the world was white. Now when the citizens saw that they were mocked by Vasily and his bodyguard, and even by the black-browed servant maid, they were spitefully angry and cursed their host and his men, but this only made the four jokers laugh the louder; whereupon the guests arose and crowded out into the snow-covered courtyard rather more hungry than when they came in. "We will not forget this vile insult," piped one small citizen in a mantle of marten skins with a collar of sables; "why, my neighbour was full of spleen because of my invitation to the lord's castle, and when the story is known his pity and scorn will be much worse to bear than his spleen. But we shall repay Vasily in his own bad coin. Let us make such a feast as the citizens of Novgorod have never seen before, and we will not send Vasily an invitation." "That is a good thought," said two stout citizens, and they all went home with their heads so high in the air that some of them slipped down on the way upon some slides that certain wicked boys--who would assuredly never grow up to be councillors--had made in the roadway. In a few days the feast was prepared and the invitations were issued, but there was no bidding for Vasily and his contemptible bodyguard. It was impossible that the preparations for the banquet should escape the vigilance of Vasily, and indeed the merchants agreed that it would be well if he did hear of it. "Otherwise," said one of them, who had made a great fortune by buying and selling rags and bones, "how can he be humbled, for, look you, neighbours, if he does not know of the feast he will not miss our invitation." "That is so," said the others, "that is indeed so, and true, and wise, and intelligent. Our friend must be the next Elder of Novgorod the Great." So the servant maid of the rag-merchant told the servant maid of another trader, who told the black-browed maid at the castle, only to find that she knew all about it already, for her master had told her two days before. "Mother," said Vasily that morning, "I shall go to the feast of the men of Novgorod." "My dear child," said the old lady, "there is always room for the guest who is bidden, but none for the guest who is unbidden." But her gentle counsel placed no restraint upon Vasily who, when the time came, summoned his bodyguard and walked straight into the banquet-hall, asking no leave of the gatekeepers nor yet of the lackeys at the doors. He strode forward to the wall-bench in the great corner by the stove and sat down there to wait his turn to be served. No man present dared withstand him, and he glared down the table in such a ferocious manner that many of the citizens burnt their tongues by forgetting to blow upon their broth. "Ah, well," said one of them, as he made a brave attack upon a great sirloin of beef, "Vasily may be here but he wasn't invited, while we were invited,--in fact I invited myself." "Ah, yes," piped the small rag-merchant, who wore a coat of greater value than any, "we were invited but he wasn't." And with this consolation they went on with their feasting, Vasily being served as nobly as the rest with meat of the richest and wine of the greenest. As the banquet went on the spirits of the citizens arose, and the small rag-merchant began to think that he might some day be bold enough to challenge even Vasily to mortal combat. As for the turbulent lord himself, he stood up when the merriment was at its height and issued a mighty challenge. He would go, he said, with his brave bodyguard on the following day to the bridge over the Volkof river, and would hold his own against all the men of Novgorod. Then he stalked from the room and across the snow-covered streets to his own palace. At the doorway he was met by his widow mother, who noticed at once that he was aroused to turbulent anger. "Did they pass you with the dishes," she asked, "or did they jeer at you?" Vasily was too much moved to reply, but the bodyguard told her all the truth. Then the widow mother put her shoes upon her bare feet, cast her mantle of fine sables over her cold shoulders and went her way down, down into the deep vaults below the palace. There she heaped up a bowl with rich red gold, another with white silver, and a third with fine seed pearls; and having called the black-browed maiden, who came from her room with hair unbound and feet all bare, the two women crossed the white courtyard and passed along the silent streets until they came to the hall where the citizens were finishing their banquet. The widow mother went forward to the great corner with the black-browed maid close behind her, and holding out the glittering bowls, said to the chief citizens: "Hail, ye men of Novgorod! Forgive now the fault of Vasily my turbulent son." But the citizens were now so filled with the courage born of rich food and green wine that they thought themselves superior to bribes, and with drunken scorn they refused the gifts of the peace-loving mother, and said with a great show of spirit: "If we shall be able to take Vasily, we will ride his good steed, wear his embroidered garments, and take, but not as a gift, all his rich red gold, his white silver, and his fine seed pearls. We will pardon him freely when we shall have cut off his turbulent head." Then the widow mother went home in great grief and sadness, scattering as she went upon the frozen snow the rich red gold, the white silver, and the fine seed pearls, saying to herself as she went, "Not these things are dear to me, but the turbulent head of my own dear son." Now when she came once more to her own house she gave Vasily to drink of the cup of forgetfulness, led him down into the deepest dungeon, and locked him securely within. Then she went out into the stables and set his wild shaggy charger free to wander over the wide steppe, and taking his great cudgel of red elm, his sharp sword, and his coat of mail, she hid them where she thought no one would ever be able to find them. Early the next morning Vasily's brave bodyguard took their stand at one end of the bridge over the Volkof river, and the men of Novgorod came against them in a great crowd. All that day they fought without pause for refreshment, and for a second day and a night and yet a third day without pause for taking breath. In the meantime Vasily slept and took his ease, knowing nothing of the straits to which his brave bodyguard was reduced. But as the black-browed maiden went to the stream for fresh water, with her buckets fastened on a maple yoke, she saw the fight by the bridge. Then she set down the buckets, and taking the yoke from her white shoulders entered into the fray and cracked the skulls of many more citizens than she could count. After that she ran quickly home, and coming to the door of Vasily's dungeon cried out: "Do you sleep, Vasily, and take your ease? Up there upon Volkof bridge your brave bodyguard stand as prisoners of the men of Novgorod, their feet in blood, their heads broken with whips, and their hands bound with their own girdles." "Open this pestilent door," roared Vasily, "and I will give you as much treasure as you desire in return for the displeasure of your mistress." The black-browed maiden needed no bribe to urge her to obey. With one stout blow of her maple yoke she broke the heavy lock, whereupon she set her white shoulder against the door, which creaked and then gave way under her young strength. So Vasily came out once more into the white world, and as he could not find his warlike gear he wrenched the iron axle from a cart which stood in the empty stable, threw it over his shoulder and said, "I thank you, maiden, that you did not let my brave bodyguard perish. Hereafter I will repay you, but now I must not tarry." "Haste, oh haste," said the black-browed maid, "and give no thought to reward for me. It is enough for me to be the handmaid of a man who loves a fight against odds." In a short time Vasily came to the Volkof bridge and found all as the black-browed maid had told him. "Ah, my brave bodyguard," he cried, "you have breakfasted well; now let me dine. It was not I, my band of brothers, who betrayed you but my own mother." With a mighty forward sweep of the iron axle he made a lane through the crowd of citizens and with a backward stroke he made an alley. Then he loosed the bonds of his brave bodyguard and said to them, "Go now, my brothers, and rest, while I play with these children from Novgorod." Thereupon he began to stride about upon the bridge, brandishing his axle, and the men of Novgorod fell in great heaps about him. At this the leaders drew off unobserved and went with the Elder at their head to the peace-loving widow mother, begging her to calm her wild son before he had completely wiped out all the citizens of Novgorod; but she said, "I dare not do that, you men of Novgorod, for I did him grievous wrong by confining him in a dungeon and sowing distrust of his valour in the hearts of his brave bodyguard. But my son has a godfather who is known as the Ancient Pilgrim, and who dwells in the monastery upon the hill. He is a man of discretion--for what can a woman do alone in such a strait? Ask him for help against my turbulent son." So the men of Novgorod with the Elder at their head went to the Ancient Pilgrim and told him all their trouble, at which he sorrowed greatly; and he made ready at once to leave the peace of his monastery and go with them to see what he could do. Now he was known as the Ancient Pilgrim, but he was really a great Russian hero who was spending some time in quiet, but who had known what it was in the earlier days to stand up against a host. Hearing that there was stern fighting going on, it came into his mind that he might possibly need protection, and having no armour or helmet at hand he climbed up very nimbly for an Ancient Pilgrim into the belfry, loosed the great service bell and put it upon his heroic head. "This will serve me in good stead," he said, "in the place where heads are being broken." Then finding the clapper of the bell somewhat in his way, he detached it and used it as a staff; and as he stepped across the great drawbridge which led from the monastery it bent and groaned beneath his weight. He walked straightway to Vasily and looked him squarely in the eyes. "My godson," he said in a coaxing voice, "curb your heroic turbulence. Spare at least a few of these men to carry on the business of the town." These words added fuel to the fire within the breast of Vasily, and he replied: "Hail, godfather! If I gave you no white peace egg at Easter yet take this red one from me on St. Peter's Day." Then he heaved up the great axle and brought it down with a resounding clang upon the great service bell on the heroic head of the Ancient Pilgrim; and with that single blow the life of the hero of old time was ended. His staff now served Vasily for a new weapon, and he continued to strike down the men of Novgorod in dozens and twenties. The Elder and his companions kept carefully upon the outside of the throng, and when they saw the fall of the Ancient Pilgrim they went again to the widow mother and asked her to make intercession for them with her turbulent son. So she dressed herself in a robe of black, threw a cloak of fine sables about her shoulders, set a helmet from her husband's armoury upon her aged head, and went to plead with her son. She did not, however, as the Ancient Pilgrim had done, walk straight up to Vasily and look him squarely in the eyes; she crept up behind him and laid her trembling hands upon his mighty shoulders, entreating him to spare the men of Novgorod in his wild anger. And at the sound of her gentle voice Vasily dropped his arms, the bell clapper fell from his hands upon the lap of moist Mother Earth, and he said in a gentle voice: "Lady mother, you are a cunning old woman and a wise one too. Well you knew how to break my power by coming at me from behind, for if you had approached me from before I should not have spared even you in my anger, so blinded was I with fury against these traders of Novgorod." The Elder and the councillors now took heart, and having conceived a tremendous respect for Vasily came forward and prayed that he would be their honoured guest at a banquet, where he should sit in the great corner and eat and drink of the best. Vasily consented to go with them, but he felt ill at ease at the banquet, for he was the only fighting man there and had no conversation for traders. So he slipped away from the feast as soon as he could, and went home to his widow mother and his brave body-guard; and he sat among them by the stove until long past midnight, talking of many things which had happened and of things which were to come. "When our wounds are healed," said Vasily, "I will build me a red ship with delicate sails of white linen and launch it upon the bosom of Ilmen Lake; and with my brave bodyguard I will go to pray in Jerusalem city, to worship at the holy of holies, to visit the grave of the Risen Christ, and to bathe in the Jordan river." In a short time the red ship was built and sailed proudly upon the bosom of Ilmen Lake. Vasily walked the decks while his brave bodyguard managed the sailing, and as the sun shone on the sails of white linen the heart of the hero filled with pride. "Set the sails towards the town of Novgorod," he cried, and in a short space of time they caught the shore, threw out gangways to the bank, and having left a watch behind on the ship came into the town and thence to the palace of Vasily. The hero sought out his widow mother and gently folded his strong arms about her trembling form. "Lady mother," he said in persuasive tones, "give me your sacred blessing, for with my brave bodyguard I will go to pray in Jerusalem city, to worship at the holy of holies, to visit the grave of the Risen Christ, and to bathe in the Jordan river." "Ah, my son," his mother made answer, "if you go with a good purpose I will give you my good blessing, but if you go to rob I will not give it. If that is your purpose may moist Mother Earth no longer bear you." "That is to be discovered and found out," said Vasily, and he persuaded his mother so that she gave him freely from the armoury great stores of weapons, and from the kitchen and larder as much bread and other food as the black-browed maid had prepared in a month of Holy Days. Then she said good-bye with tears, and the black-browed maid stood upon the bank as the red ship with sails of fair white linen sailed away from Novgorod and ran out like a full-breasted water-bird upon the bosom of Lake Ilmen. For a long time the black-browed maid stood shading her eyes with her hand while her white shoulders heaved. Then when the ship could no more be seen, she turned and went back to the kitchen, where she wrapped the widow mother in her cloak of sables; for though the sun shone the mother of Vasily was cold as with the breath of winter from the broad white world. For two days the red ship sailed onward, and on the second day they met a ship which they spoke in a friendly fashion. "Whither away, Vasily?" asked the sailors, who hailed from Novgorod the Great. "I am going, my mariners," said Vasily, "upon an unwilling path. Young as I am I am blood-guilty, and I must save my soul; so now I go to pray in Jerusalem city, to worship at the holy of holies, to visit the grave of the Risen Christ, and to bathe in the Jordan river. Tell me, good youths, where is the straight way to the Sacred City?" Then they told him that the straight way would lead him by a seven weeks' journey, but that the way about would take a year and a half to traverse. But if he took the straight way he would meet with a stout barrier, for the chieftains of the Cossacks, in number about three thousand, made their lair upon the island of Kuminsk, robbing merchant vessels and destroying red ships with sails of fair white linen. "I trust in my cudgel of the red elm," said Vasily. "Haste now, my bodyguard, and steer my red beauty by the straight way." So they sailed onward, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, until they came to a lofty mountain which sloped down steeply to the water. Tired of his confinement Vasily ran in to the shore and ascended the steep hill with his brave bodyguard at his heels. Half-way up the ascent they found a human skull and human bones lying in the pathway. Vasily cast them aside with spurning foot, and from the hollow skull came a human voice. "Hey, Vasily the Turbulent, why do you spurn me? There was a time, O youth, when I was such as you are, and even yet I know how to defend myself. Upon this lofty mountain, in the days that are to come, shall lie the skull of Vasily the Turbulent." The young man made a gesture of disgust and passed on, saying, "Surely a spirit unclean speaks from this hollow skull." At the top of the mountain he found a huge stone on which was carved the inscription: "He who shall comfort himself at this stone and divert himself by leaping along it shall break his turbulent head." Vasily scoffed at the warning and began to divert himself by leaping across the great stone, his brave bodyguard following his example. But, somehow, they did not feel inclined to leap lengthwise. After spending some time in this diversion and stretching their cramped limbs thereby, they came down from the mountain and embarked once more upon the red ship. Then they hoisted the sails of fair white linen and sped swiftly over the heaving bosom of the Caspian Sea until they came to that great barrier feared of merchantmen where the robber Cossacks hid in the island of Kuminsk, robbing merchant vessels and destroying red ships with sails of fair white linen. At the landing stood a hundred fierce warriors, but neither their height nor their girth nor their weapons had any terrors for Vasily. He drew near to the shore, his men cast out landing-stages, and he crossed over into the midst of the Cossack guard, flourishing his cudgel of red elm. As soon as the brave hundred saw Vasily coming they trembled, turned and fled to their chieftains, who did not seem to be greatly surprised at the news brought by the young men. "Surely," they said quietly, "it is Vasily the Turbulent from Novgorod the Great who comes upon us with the flight of the falcon." They had no sooner spoken these words than the young man stepped boldly among them with his club of red elm in his hand. But instead of making a lane with a forward stroke and an alley with a backward, Vasily bowed courteously before the Cossack chiefs and said, "Hail, masters! Show me now the straight road to the holy city of Jerusalem." The chieftains bowed in return saying, "Hail, Vasily of Novgorod! We entreat you to eat bread and drink green wine with us." Then they poured out green wine without price, and Vasily, grasping the cup in one hand, emptied it at a single draught, though it contained a bucket and a half. At this the chieftains wondered greatly but said nothing, and when they had broken bread together, Vasily went back to the red ship with fair white linen sails, taking with him rich gifts from the Cossack chieftains--a bowl of red gold, another of white silver, and a third of fine seed pearls. He was also accompanied by a young Cossack chieftain who had undertaken to be his guide to the holy city of Jerusalem. Without loss of time Vasily and his brave bodyguard hoisted their sails of fair white linen and ran out upon the Caspian Sea. After much journeying they came to the Jordan river, where they threw out strong anchors and landing-stages upon the steep banks; and Vasily with his brave bodyguard entered in all peacefulness the holy city of Jerusalem. They came to the cathedral church and attended mass, where Vasily prayed for his mother, himself, and all his family, and as he prayed the thought of Novgorod the Great softened his turbulent heart. On the next day a service was held for the bold travellers, and the priests begged forgiveness for all their guilt in the matter of violence and headstrong wilfulness. Then Vasily prayed before the holy of holies, bathed in the sacred river Jordan, gave gold without stint to the priests of the city as well as to the aged people, and embarked once more on his red ship with sails of fair white linen. Now before they put off again the brave bodyguard went also to bathe in the sacred Jordan river, and as they did so an aged woman came down to them. "Why do you bathe," she said, "in Jordan river? None must bathe therein save Vasily only, whom you shall lose on your way home. Do you not know that your master will be taken from your head as you go homewards?" And the youths answered curtly: "Be silent." In a short time the sails were hoisted, and they put out once more on the broad bosom of the Caspian Sea, and came at last to the island of Kuminsk, where they sought out the Cossack chieftains and bowed down before them. But Vasily was somehow disinclined to talk of his travels or of his early days of violence and headiness. He gave to the chieftains a parchment scroll which he had brought from Jerusalem, in which were written many hard commandments that he enjoined the Cossack chiefs to follow. When these men invited him to a banquet Vasily declined, and taking leave of them very quietly for a man of such a turbulent heart, he set out once more across the Caspian Sea for Novgorod the Great. When they had sailed for two weeks they came to the steep mountain, and being weary of confinement on the ship they landed to stretch their legs. The young man went up the steep face of the mountain with springing step and came at last to the great stone upon the summit across which they all leapt in much merriment of heart. Then Vasily in his height of spirits tried to leap lengthwise along the stone, but fell in a heap upon it and was taken up dead; and his brave bodyguard buried him at the place where the hollow skull had lain. Then the sad youths hoisted the fair white sails upon the masts of the red ship and came at last to the city of Novgorod the Great. They sought out the widow mother of Vasily who sat huddled by the stove in the kitchen and who gave no sign of surprise when the brave bodyguard entered, bowed before her, and gave her a letter which Vasily had written upon the voyage. She read the scroll without tears, surprise, or cries of desolation, and then holding up her head in the pride of sacred grief she said: "Thanks to you, good and noble youths. Go now into the treasure-house and take from thence whatever your hearts desire." Then the black-browed maiden came forward and led them to the vaults, turning her white shoulders from them as they chose whatever seemed good to them. When they returned to the kitchen they found the dry-eyed widow mother preparing clothes and boots and food and wine for them that they might clothe themselves afresh and feast well before they went into the city to speak with the men of Novgorod. After supper they sat quietly near the stove and the widow mother was the first to break the silence. "Yet Sadko came back to Novgorod the Great," she said; "Sadko came back to take his ease in his own city." "But Sadko was a trader," said the black-browed maid with quiet scorn. "Tell on," said the brave bodyguard. And the maiden said, "It will pass the time till morning if I tell you the tale of Merchant Sadko which has been told in Novgorod since you went away in your red ship with fair white linen sails." So she seated herself at the feet of the widow mother on the red bricks of the floor for humility, and told her story to the listening youths, the tale of Merchant Sadko, the Rich Guest of Novgorod. In Novgorod the Great dwelt Sadko the harpist, who had no store of treasure except the golden tones of his harp of maple-wood. He went about to the great feasts of the nobles and made all merry with his playing. Now for three days Sadko had not been bidden to any merry feast, and his heart grew sad within him. So he went down to the shore of Lake Ilmen and sat down upon a blue stone. And there, to soothe his spirit, he began to play upon his harp of maple-wood, and played from early morning until far into the night. Then a great storm arose; the waves lashed up the shore to the blue stone on which Sadko sat, and great terror seized upon the heart of the minstrel so that he returned to Novgorod in haste and disquiet. The stormy night passed, another day dawned fair and peaceful, but still Sadko was not bidden to a merry feast. So he went again to the shore of the lake, again a storm arose, and again he returned to Novgorod in haste and disquiet. The stormy night passed, another day dawned fair and peaceful, but even yet Sadko was not bidden to a merry feast. So he went again to the shore of the lake, again a storm arose, but this time the heart of Sadko grew stout, and he went on with his playing though his fingers trembled sorely. Then the Water Tsar arose from the lake and said to Sadko: "We thank you, Sadko the Musician, for your diversion, for the sweet sounds of your harp came down to the ears of the worshipful guests at my banquet; and I am at a loss, Sadko, for means of granting reward to you. "But go back, Sadko, to Novgorod the Great, where to-morrow you shall be called to a merry feast, at which many merchants of Novgorod shall be present. Now when they have eaten well and drunk better, they will begin to boast. One shall brag of his good horse as if it were another Cloudfall; another of the great deeds of his youth as if Svyatogor were puny beside him; a third of the beauty of his young wife as if she were another Golden Tress; and a fourth, a wise man, of the goodness of his aged father and the tenderness of his mother. "Then boast in your own turn, Sadko, and say: 'I know something which is known to none of this worshipful company. I know that there are in Lake Ilmen fishes with golden fins.' Then they will argue with you and say that such fishes do not exist, but you must wager your head upon the truth of your word, in return for their pledge of all their shops and their precious wares. "Then you shall buy a net of the finest silk, not for youthful vanity, but for strength, and come and cast it into the waters of Lake Ilmen. You must cast the net three times in the lake, and at each cast I will place within it a fish with fins of gold. So shall you win your wager, even the rich shops of Novgorod, and become Sadko the Rich Guest. But in wealth forget not your sweet playing, nor the golden tones of your harp of maple-wood." Then the Water Tsar vanished from Sadko's sight. The harper went back to Novgorod the Great, and it all happened as the Water Tsar had spoken up to the time when the boasters had said their say. Then one of them said to Sadko: "Why do you sit there, musician, and utter never a single word of boasting?" "What shall I boast of?" asked Sadko. "I have no treasure except the golden tones of my harp of maple-wood. But there is one thing I know right well; there are in Ilmen Lake fishes with fins of gold." "You lie, Sadko," cried the merchants. But Sadko said: "I will wager my head against all the wealth of your shops." "It is done," said they, and at once they went down to Lake Ilmen, Sadko carrying a net of fine silk, not for youthful vanity but for strength; and it all fell out as the Water Tsar had promised. Then the merchants gave Sadko the treasures they had wagered, and he took to trading. He prospered well, for he did not forget his sweet playing nor the golden tones of his harp of maple-wood, and so wherever he went he was welcomed among the merchants of distant lands and won great profit thereby. In a short time he married a beautiful young wife, and built a palace of white stone, wherein all things were heavenly. His young wife moved among treasures of which even Elena the Beautiful would have been envious. After a while Sadko made a merry feast, to which he invited a great company, including the brave heroes Laka and Thoma. Now when they had eaten well and drunk better they began to boast. One bragged of his good horse as if it were a second Cloudfall; another of the great deeds of his youth as if Svyatogor were puny beside him; a third of the beauty of his young wife as if she were another Golden Tress; and a fourth, a wise man, of the goodness of his aged father and the tenderness of his mother. Then Sadko, not to be outdone, boasted of his wealth, and swore to buy up all the wares of the shops of Novgorod, both good and bad, day after day, until there should not be any more for sale in all that city of busy traders. And upon his oath he named a great wager of countless treasure. The next day he sent his servants to the markets of Novgorod, who bought up all the wares, both good and bad. On the second day the markets were full again, but Sadko sent his servants, who bought up all the wares, both good and bad. On the third day he found the markets full of precious merchandise from Moscow, and felt a merchant's pride in the enterprise of his city; and he made a pause while he went home, sat down in his own chamber and softly played upon his harp of maple-wood, which seemed to speak the golden tones of wisdom. "If you buy all these goods from Moscow," it seemed to whisper, "others will flow into Novgorod the Great from far away across the sea; and even Sadko the Rich Guest cannot buy all the treasures of the whole white world. Sadko is rich but Novgorod the Great is still richer. Yield your wager and venture forth upon the merchant path of lake and river and broad grey sea where the Water Tsar will be your friend." Then Sadko yielded his wager, which was an enormous sum of gold, and built a great fleet of thirty-three red ships with sails of fair white linen. The prows of these scarlet vessels were in the likeness of fearful dragons, whose eyes were precious jacinths, whose brows were Siberian sables and whose ears were the dark-brown skins of Siberian foxes. Soon these ships were filled with the rich wares of Novgorod, and Sadko sailed away to Lake Ladoga and thence into the Neva and through that river to the deep-blue sea. At the ports upon the shore he sold his wares, making great gain and filling many casks of forty buckets with red gold, white silver, and fair seed pearls. Then they sailed away with Sadko in the Falcon ship which was ever foremost and the finest in all that scarlet fleet. But suddenly the blue sea turned to grey and the ships, now almost black in the shadow, halted and stood still. The waves rose like mountains, the sails flapped, the ships began to rock while men whispered of Whirlwind the Whistler and said that surely Ivan the son of Golden Tress had not killed him. Then Sadko, the Rich Guest, shouted from his ship: "Ho, there, my brave mariners! I hear the voice of the mighty Water Tsar, to whom we have paid no tribute. Cast into the waters a cask of red gold." And they did so, but still the dark-red ships rocked, the waves beat, the sails tore, and the hearts of the mariners longed for Novgorod the Great. Again Sadko the Rich Guest shouted from his ship: "Ho there, my brave mariners! A cask of red gold is but a small gift for the Water Tsar. Cast into the waves a cask of fine seed pearls." And they did so, but still the dark-red ships rocked, the waves beat, the sails tore, and the hearts of the mariners longed for Novgorod the Great. Once again Sadko the Rich Guest shouted from his ship: "Ho, there, my brave mariners! It is plain that the Water Tsar asks the tribute of a living man. Make therefore slips of alder-wood and let each man write his name upon his own lot and cast them all into the dark-grey sea, and the lots of all who are to see their homes once again shall float. But that man among us whose lot sinketh shall be cast into the sea." Then the command of Sadko was obeyed, but Sadko's lot was a bunch of hop flowers. And all the lots swam like ducks, but the bunch of hop flowers sank like a stone. Yet again Sadko the Rich Guest shouted from his ship: "Those lots were not just. Make other lots of willow-wood and try again." Then the command of Sadko was obeyed, but Sadko's lot was a piece of blue steel from Damascus, wondrously wrought and heavy in weight. And all the lots swam like wild ducks, but the piece of blue steel sank like a stone. Then Sadko said, "It is plain that the Water Tsar asks for Sadko himself." So he told his servants to fetch him his massive inkstand, his swan-quill pen, and his paper, and they did so. Whereupon Sadko seated himself in his folding chair at his table of oak and began to apportion his goods. He gave much to God's churches, much for the improvement of choir singing, much to the poor, and much to his young wife, and the remainder of his goods he divided among his faithful mariners. Having done this in due order he wept and said to those about him: "Ho, my brave mariners! Place an oaken plank upon the heaving dark-grey sea upon which I shall journey; and fill a bowl with red gold, another with white silver and a third with fine seed pearls and place them upon the plank." After that Sadko took in his right hand an iron image of a saint of God, and in his left hand his harp of maple-wood. He wore a mantle of rich sables over all, and he stepped upon the oaken plank and was borne away upon the waves while the dark-red ships sped on and flew as if they had been ravens over the field of the slain. Now as his strange raft floated turbulently upon the surface of the water, Sadko at first was greatly terrified, but after a while he fell into a gentle sleep, and when he awoke he was in the crystal kingdom of the Water Tsar. He looked about him and saw the red sun burning though it gave no heat, and he saw also before him a palace of white stone in which sat the Water Tsar with a head like a heap of yellow hay. "Welcome, Sadko, the Rich Guest of Novgorod," he said. "You have long sailed upon the waters, but have paid no tribute to the Water Tsar. I have sent for you that you may solve this riddle which is a matter of dispute between me and my Tsaritza. Which is now of greatest worth in Russia, gold or silver or damascened steel?" "Gold and silver are of great worth in Russia," said Sadko, "but damascened steel is of great value also. For without gold and silver a man may contrive to live, but without the ore of iron no man can live at ease." "What do you hold in your right hand and in your left?" asked the Water Tsar. "In my right hand is a holy image," replied Sadko, "and in my left my harp of maple-wood." "I am told," said the Water Tsar, whose memory must, of course, have been washed quite clean each day by living in the sea, "that you are, in spite of your trading, a master player upon the harp. Play for me upon your harp of maple-wood." Sadko at once commenced to finger his harp, and forgetting all his trading and golden prosperity--perhaps the water washed his memory clean also--he played such music as the sea fairies with the pink conch shells could not surpass. Then he struck up a merry dance-tune, and at once the Tsar rose from his throne and began to jump about, beating time with the skirts of his royal robe and swinging his mantle of white fleece round him like an encircling cloud, while above all gleamed his hair as yellow as a bunch of hay. At the sound a troop of lovely sea fairies, clad in transparent garments of the most beautiful colours, joined in a choral dance, while strange sea creatures squatted and leapt about the oozy floor of the ocean sea. But the merriment at the bottom of the Water Tsar's kingdom made sad havoc at the top. For the upper waters of the sea were churned into yeasty foam, heaving into great billows, breaking ships asunder, drowning many mariners, and swallowing up rich stores of merchandise. For three hours did Sadko play, and then the quiet-eyed Water Tsaritza said to him in a compelling voice: "Break thy harp of maple-wood, Sadko the Rich Guest, for though the Water Tsar makes merry in his palace below, in the upper borders of his realm there is trouble enough and to spare." All at once Sadko stopped playing, broke his harp and snapped its golden strings, and when the Water Tsar commanded him to play for two hours more, he told him boldly that the instrument was broken. "But I have sea-smiths here," said His Watery Majesty, "who can mend a broken pearl, so that it would be an easy thing for them to restore a harp-string." "All the sea-smiths of your ocean realm," said Sadko, "could not revive music that is lost. That can only be done in Holy Russia, when the maker of the music comes once more to his own home." "Talk not of land kingdoms," said the Tsar, whirling round Sadko in the hope of regaining the step which he had lost, but finding it impossible to dance without music. "Stay with me and wed some beautiful sea-maiden. Take your choice from the maids in the train of my queen." Seeing that he was in the power of the Water Tsar, Sadko promised to do so, and asked the advice of the quiet-eyed Water Tsaritza, who gave it in her own compelling voice, so that Sadko felt that it was a command. "Do not choose," she said, "any sea-maid from the first three hundred which the Tsar will marshal before you, but let them pass by in all their beauty. Do not choose from the second three hundred, but let them pass in all their loveliness. But from the third three hundred choose the Princess who shall come last of all, and who is smaller and blacker than all the rest. But when you have chosen her do not kiss her, for if you do, you shall never more dwell in Holy Russia, nor see the fair white world and the round and ruddy sun." Therefore Sadko allowed the first three hundred maidens to pass him by in all their beauty; and he let the second three hundred pass him by in all their loveliness; but from the third three hundred he chose the Princess who came last of all, and who was smaller and blacker than all the rest. But when he chose her he did not kiss her, for he longed once more to dwell in Holy Russia, to see the fair white world and the round and ruddy sun. At the wedding feast the Water Tsar made a great banquet, after which Sadko lay down and fell into a heavy sleep; and when he awoke he found himself on the steep banks of a river near Novgorod. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and saw far away on the Volkof river his fleet of bright-red ships with their sails of fair white linen on the decks of which his men were standing thoughtful, thinking of Sadko in the depths of the deep-blue sea. But when they saw their master standing upon the steep bank, they rubbed their eyes in astonishment. Then they hailed him, and took him on board with great rejoicing. He carried with him a broken harp, and lo, as he entered his palace and saw his young wife again the harp-strings were suddenly restored to all their strength and flexibility, and the body of maple-wood rang as sound as the great bell of St. Sophia. Thenceforth Sadko sailed no more upon seas, either blue or grey, but lived at home in Novgorod the Great, and delighted all with the golden tones of his harp of maple-wood. The stove was growing cold, the black-browed maiden rose to her feet, and stretching herself to ease her limbs stooped tenderly to wrap the great mantle of sables more closely about the widow mother of Vasily the Turbulent, who murmured gently but not complainingly, "Yet Sadko came home again." "We thank you for your tale, maiden," said the brave bodyguard of Vasily. Then they went to their rest; and on the next day they sought out the men of Novgorod, and the Sea Trader told them of new routes for rich merchandise which their turbulent lord had opened out for their enrichment; and they equipped the brave bodyguard with more scarlet ships to go out again upon those routes and win more glory for Novgorod the Great. As for Vasily, they made a great image of him, and set it up in their market, telling all men how his valour had earned for him the praise of all his townsmen. But the black-browed maiden smiled with upturned scarlet lip when she saw it, and shrugged her white shoulders as she turned away to wait upon the mother of Vasily the Turbulent. NIKITA THE FOOTLESS AND THE TERRIBLE TSAR In a certain kingdom of Holy Russia there reigned a ruler so fierce that he was known as the Terrible Tsar, and the way in which he won his title was this. One day he frowned such an angry frown at his body-servant, who had brought him diamond shoes instead of those set with fine seed pearls, that the man ran out of the room in great terror; and he told the chambermaid, who told the butler, who told the cook, who told the soldiers of the guard, who told the generals, who told the people that their master was indeed the Terrible Tsar. So this ruler became the terror of all the neighbouring princes; and when he heard of his reputation he took great care not to lose it for it proved very useful to him. By-and-by the Terrible Tsar made up his mind to marry, and he wrote a proclamation in golden ink on a large piece of crimson velvet, and sent a herald into every town and village to read the announcement, which was to this effect--that whoever should find for him a bride who was ruddier than the sun, fairer than the moon, and whiter than snow should be given a reward so great that he would be forced to spend most of his time in computing its value. This was a prize worth trying for, and before long the people of all the cities with their suburbs and towns with their villages, as well as the goose-herds, swan-herds, cow-herds, and keepers of downy ducks on the open steppe, were wagging their heads over the matter and counting up enormous numbers upon their finger-tips. Now not far from the Tsar's palace there was a large brewery, and when the workers in this place met together to eat their food they began to talk of the matter which was exercising the minds of the people throughout the kingdom. "Well, my brothers," said a certain man among them, who was known as Nikita Koltoma, "I am quite certain of this. No one can find such a bride as the Terrible Tsar desires without my help; and if I promise to find her, found she shall be, though whether the Tsar enjoys his good fortune when he finds her is another matter." "You are a fool and a boaster," said the other workmen. "How can one of us do such a great deed as this? Why all the bravest heroes of Holy Russia will attempt it, and even they have small chance of success. Let us go back to make more beer. Why, Nikita, you could not do it in a dream, to say nothing of your waking hours." "Well, brothers," said Nikita firmly and cheerfully, "say what it may please you to say; but I have faith in myself, and if any man can find the bride I can do so." "Hush, Nikita," said the others in warning voices. "Have you not heard how terrible our Tsar really is? Why if he hears of your boasting he will surely put you to death." "Not so," said Nikita quite cheerfully, "he will not put me to death. He will give me much money, and some day, indeed, he may make me his first minister." The workmen looked at him in dismay and terror, for over the wall they saw the head of one of the Tsar's soldiers, and they could tell quite plainly from the tilt of his headgear that the man had heard all the boastful speeches of Nikita. Before long a strong guard came to take the boaster away to the Tsar's palace. "That is the last of him," said one of the workmen as the poor fellow was marched off. And so it was, at least as far as the brewery was concerned. For the Terrible Tsar received Nikita with great delight. "Are you the man," he asked, "who boasted that you could find me a bride ruddier than the sun, fairer than the moon, and whiter than snow?" "I am, Your Majesty," said Nikita firmly. "That is well," said the Terrible Tsar. "If you can do this, I will give you such and such a reward and make you first minister. But if, after boasting, you cannot do it, I will cut off your head." "I am honoured by Your Majesty's august commands," said Nikita; "but I beg of you that you will first give orders that I should be given a holiday for a month." The Terrible Tsar consented to this, and ordered his steward to give Nikita a paper commanding all keepers of inns and eating-houses to place before him food and drink of their best without stint and without charge. Then Nikita went out, and for three complete weeks he enjoyed himself as he had never done before. Meanwhile the Terrible Tsar waited patiently, and when Nikita presented himself at the palace he scarcely knew him he was so well favoured, so vigorous, and so cheerful and confident of success. To him even the Terrible Tsar seemed to have lost his terror. "May it please Your Majesty," said Nikita, "to choose for me twelve brave youths exactly the same in height, in breadth, in the colour of their hair and the pitch of their voice; and let your workmen make thirteen tents of fair white linen embroidered with gold." In a very short space of time the youths and the tents were ready, and Nikita said to his royal employer: "Now Great Tsar, prepare yourself, and we will go to find a bride ruddier than the sun, fairer than the moon, and whiter than snow." Without further delay they saddled their good steeds and packed the white linen tents on horseback. Then after saying a prayer in the cathedral they gave the rein to their chargers. So fast they rode that it was only a pillar of dust on the open plain and they were gone. For three days they travelled onward, and then they came to a smith's forge. "Go ahead now," said Nikita, "and may good go with you. I will go into this forge to smoke a pipe with the blacksmiths." Then he went in and found fifteen smiths making the anvils ring. "Good-day to you, brothers," he bellowed, and at the sound of his great voice they ceased their hammering and returned his greeting with proper courtesy. "Make me a staff of wrought iron," he said, "of five hundred pounds in weight." "We are willing enough to make such a staff," said the master smith, "but who will turn the iron? Five hundred pounds is no light weight even for a hero." "Beat away, my merry men," said Nikita, "and I will turn the iron." So they beat away and Nikita turned the iron; and when the staff was ready Nikita took it out into the open field. There he threw it skyward to a height of ninety feet and let it fall into his hand. As he grasped it with his heroic strength, it bent and broke. Then Nikita went back to the forge, paid the men for their work, threw the broken pieces of rod away, and rode off with a pleased look upon his face. Before long he caught up again with his companions, and they rode onward for three days longer, when once more they came to a forge in the open field. "Go ahead again," said Nikita, "and may good go with you. I will go into this forge to smoke a pipe with the blacksmiths." Then he went in and found twenty-five smiths making the anvils ring. "Good-day to you, brothers," he bellowed, and at the sound of his great voice they ceased their hammering and returned his greeting with proper courtesy. "Make me a staff of wrought iron," he said, "of a thousand pounds in weight." "We are willing enough," said the master smith, "to make such a staff, but who will turn the iron?" "Beat away, my merry men," said Nikita, "and I will turn the iron." So they beat away and Nikita turned the iron; and when the staff was ready, Nikita took it out into the open field. There he threw it skyward to a height of one hundred and fifty feet and let it fall into his hand. As he grasped it with his heroic strength, it bent and broke. Then Nikita went back to the forge, paid the men for their work, threw the broken pieces of the rod away, and rode off with a pleased look upon his face. Before long he caught up again with his companions, and they rode onward for three days longer, whence once more they came to a forge in the open field. "Go ahead a third time," said Nikita, "and may good go with you. I will go into this forge to smoke a pipe with the blacksmiths." Within the third forge he found fifty blacksmiths tormenting an old man whom they had stretched out upon a large anvil. Ten of these great fellows were holding him by the beard with pincers and the forty were pounding him on his body with hammers. "Have mercy, have mercy, good brothers," the old man was screaming. "Leave some life in me to allow me to show how sorry I am." "Good-day to you all," roared Nikita above the din. "Good-day to you, brother," replied the blacksmiths, pausing in their work. "Why do you use this old man in such a cruel manner?" asked Nikita. "Because he owes each one of us a rouble," was the answer, "and he will not pay. Why should he not be beaten?" "It is a great deal to suffer for fifty roubles," said Nikita. "Here is the money. Let the old fellow go in peace." "Very good, brother," said the blacksmiths. "We do not care who pays the money so long as we get it somewhere, somehow." Then they let the old man free, and as soon as they stood aside from the anvil he vanished from their sight. Nikita rubbed his eyes and looked round in blank amazement. "Why, where is the old man?" he asked. "Oh," replied one of the blacksmiths, "you may look for him in vain now. He is a wizard, and can wriggle out of anything." Nikita laughed, and then ordered the blacksmiths to make him a staff of iron weighing two thousand pounds. When it was ready he went out into the field and threw it upward to a height of three hundred feet. The staff fell into his outstretched hand, which never shook, and remained there firmly held. "This will do," said Nikita. Thereupon he paid the men for their work, and rode off quickly after his companions. But as he rode onward he heard some one behind him lustily calling out his name, and turning in his saddle he saw the old man running quickly after him. "Thanks, thanks, many thanks and more thanks again for your help," said the old man. "For thirty years I lay upon that anvil and was tortured by those fifty fiends. Now will you accept a present from me in return? Here is a wonderful cap for you. When you put it on your head no man will be able to see you, for it is a cap of darkness." Nikita thanked the old man warmly, took the cap, and once more galloped on after his companions, whom he overtook after a short space of time. By-and-by they came to a castle which was surrounded by a stout iron paling through which there was no gateway. "Well," said the Terrible Tsar, "what shall we do now? It is very plain, Nikita, that the people of this castle do not intend that any one should enter." "Why not?" asked Nikita. "That is surely a small difficulty--with all due respect to Your Majesty. Now, boys, tear down the paling and let us through." So the good fellows got down from their horses and began to tug and push at the railings with all their heroic strength; but they could not make them budge an inch. "Oh, brothers," said Nikita. "I find I am a deep-sea captain of a crew of river sailors. What I wish to have done I must do for myself. No matter; after all it was I myself who promised to find for the Terrible Tsar a bride who is ruddier than the sun, fairer than the moon, and whiter than snow." Nikita leapt from his horse, put his heroic hand to the paling and a full length of it lay upon the ground. Through the opening thus made the company rode boldly forward. On the green lawn before the great door of the castle they quietly set up their white gold-embroidered tents, ate a good meal, and then, lying down, slept soundly. But Nikita did not enter one of the tents. He took three old mats, made a little shelter for himself, and lay down on the cold hard ground; and Nikita did not sleep, but waited watchfully for what might turn out. Now when morning dawned, Yelena the Haughty Beauty woke with a sigh and looked out through the lattice-window of her room which was decked with ruddy gold, white silver, and fine seed pearls. There she saw upon the lawn the thirteen white tents of the Terrible Tsar, and in front of them all a small shelter made of old mats, from which a pair of very sharp eyes were looking out. "Whatever can have happened?" said Yelena to herself. "Who are my new guests and whence have they come? Why the strong iron paling which was better than a whole army of guards is broken and thrown to the ground." Then she put her haughty head out of the window and cried in a voice of heroic rage: "Ho, there, guards and protectors! To my rescue! Put these intruders to a speedy and cruel death while I watch you at your work. Throw their carcases over the iron paling and bring their white gold-embroidered tents to me." Then the hero who lived in the castle as the special protector of Yelena the Haughty Beauty, saddled his great steed and put on his battle armour, on which the morning sun shone brightly, and rode towards the unbidden guests, while the Princess watched from her lattice-window to see that her orders were strictly carried out. Nikita sprang from his little shelter and stood boldly in the path of the horseman. "Who goes?" he asked. "Who asks?" was the angry reply. Then Nikita sprang forward, and seizing the hero by the foot, dragged him from his horse. Raising his iron staff he gave him one all-sufficient blow and said, "Go now to Yelena the Haughty Beauty; tell her to hide her haughtiness and prepare to marry my master the Terrible Tsar without further delay." Meanwhile the would-be bridegroom and his young men slept on. The bold hero was glad enough to obey the brave wooer, and rode up to the castle, where he saluted his mistress with reverence and said: "These are men whose might cannot be measured, O Princess. Their leader is plainly a man of great weight, and told me to bid you hide your haughtiness and prepare to marry the Terrible Tsar without further delay." The lady looked down from the window, and as she looked her scorn seemed to wither up the hero, horse and all. Then she turned haughtily from the window, attired herself in her most beautiful garments, and went down to the great hall, where she summoned a band of generals and leaders. "My brave men," she cried in tones of passionate anger, "get together a great array and sweep these intruders out of my lawn as the serving maids sweep the court before the great door." Then quickly, very quickly, and with lightning speed, the horsemen rode forth from the castle and swept down with a sound of rushing water upon the tents of the Terrible Tsar. But they drew rein when Nikita stood before them waving his mighty staff; and quickly, very quickly, and with lightning speed, they fell and lay dead upon the green lawn. Meanwhile the would-be bridegroom and his young men slept on. "Go back," cried Nikita to the first hero, who had kept well out of reach of that terrible staff. "Go back to Yelena the Haughty Beauty and tell her not to resist us further. See how I have dealt with your men alone and all by myself! What will it be when the Terrible Tsar and his young men awake from sleep? We shall not leave one stone of your castle upon another. You would do well to go back and tell the bride to prepare for her wedding." So the hero went back and told his mistress all that had happened. "What is to be, must be," she said with outward graciousness. "I will go to meet this heroic bridegroom in a manner fitting to his warlike ways." So she summoned her heroic bodyguard, and, surrounded by these youths, who carried battle-bows in their hands, she walked proudly from the front door of the castle towards the tents of white linen standing upon her own green lawn. Nikita saw them coming, and knew without instruction that the kiss of the bride would be sharp and stinging. So he put on the Cap of Darkness, bent his own bow, shot off a flaming shaft, and knocked off the top story of the castle. Yelena the Haughty Beauty bowed to her fate, advanced with stately step towards the Terrible Tsar, took him by the hand, and led him within the banquet-hall, where he and his company were feasted on the best. When his master had eaten well and drunk just as well, Nikita said in his ear, "Does the bride please you, or shall we set out to seek a better?" "No, Nikita," said the Terrible Tsar with a smile of satisfaction, "let us not go on any more, for the whole white world cannot contain better fortune than is granted to us here." "Well, then," said Nikita, "haste to your wedding, but beware of your bride." So the wedding was hastened, and when the feast was over the bride came to the bridegroom and laid her hand in affection upon his shoulder. But if this were affection it was heavy affection, for at the weight of her hand the Terrible Tsar felt as if he were being pushed down bodily into the lap of moist Mother Earth. "Is my hand heavy, my lord and master?" asked the bride sweetly. "It is as heavy as a feather on the bosom of the summer lake," was the polite reply. "But, stay, my bride. I have to give an order to my brave troops." Then with a great effort he freed himself, and went out into the next room where Nikita was awaiting him. "Ah, Nikita," said the Terrible Tsar in great distress, "what shall I do? The hand of my bride is heavier than the staff of Ilya of Murom." Then Nikita put on his Cap of Darkness and went back into the room with the Terrible Tsar, and as often as Yelena laid her hand upon his master in affection, he stepped in the way and bore the weight of it. So they went on all the time that the Terrible Tsar stayed in the castle for the wedding festivity, which lasted for a week. But before the week was over Yelena the Haughty Beauty knew that her people were laughing at her because she had married a man whose strength was as nothing but who relied always upon Nikita; and she planned in her heart a terrible revenge. "We have feasted enough," said the Terrible Tsar at the end of the festival week. "It is time for us to go homeward and we shall go by water." So a glorious ship was prepared, and the bridal party went on board. The sails were set, and the ship put out from the harbour with a fair wind and a bright sun. The Terrible Tsar was very happy in his good fortune, but the haughty bride made merry to his face and plotted behind his back. As for Nikita he fell into a heroic sleep and slept for twelve whole days and nights. When Yelena saw him sleeping she summoned her trusty bodyguard and ordered them to cut off his legs to the knee, put him all maimed into a boat, and cast it out upon the open sea. They did so; and on the thirteenth day Nikita awoke from his heroic sleep to find himself lying footless in an open boat far out upon the sea with no ship in sight anywhere. Meanwhile the bridal ship sailed on its way with a fair wind and a bright sun, and at last it entered the harbour of the royal city of the Terrible Tsar. Then the cannon gave the sign, and the people ran down to the wharves, where the nobles and the chief merchants, with the Elder at their head, offered bread and salt to their royal master, and greeted him with compliments on his marriage with a bride so beautiful and so stately. And the Terrible Tsar was so busy for a long time in feasting and smiling, giving presents and receiving them, that he forgot all about Nikita. But when the feast was over the haughty bride took the rule of the kingdom upon herself, and forced the Terrible Tsar to go out into the fields to herd the pigs! Then she gave orders that all the relatives of Nikita should be brought before her at the royal palace. Her soldiers found only one, Timothy, the brother of Nikita, and by order of the Terrible Tsaritza his eyes were put out and he was driven from the town into the green fields. The blind man went on with his hands spread out before him, onward and ever onward until he came to the seashore and found the water beneath his feet. Then he halted and stood still, fearing to go forward. But as he stood there with his sightless eyes turned towards the heaving waters of the deep blue sea a boat was quickly borne towards the beach and a cheery voice called out: "Ho, good fellow! Help me to land in your fine country." "I would gladly do so, friend," was the sad reply, "but, truth to tell, I am without sight and see nothing." "But who are you and whence do you come?" asked Nikita. "I am Timothy, the brother of Nikita," said the blind man, "whose eyes have been darkened by Yelena the Haughty Beauty." "My own and very true brother," said Nikita cheerily. "Turn, Timothy, to the right hand where you will find a tall oak growing. Pull out the oak, bring it here, and stretch it from the shore across the water. Then I will mount upon it and so come to you in safety." Timothy did as his brother directed and made a bridge of the tall oak so that Nikita could creep on shore, where he took Timothy in his arms and kissed him heartily. "Ah, brother," he said, "how is it now with the Terrible Tsar?" "He found his bride," said Timothy, "and she is indeed ruddier than the sun, fairer than the moon, and whiter than snow, but her heart is as black as night. The Terrible Tsar is now in great misfortune for he is herding his own pigs in the field! Each morning he has for breakfast a pound of sour bread, a jug of frozen water, and three stripes upon his back!" "Alas," said Nikita. "We now have indeed a Terrible Tsaritza." Then the two brothers began to discuss their present condition and their future plans, and of course Nikita was full of ideas. "Brother of mine," he said brightly, "you cannot see my condition so I must tell you that I am footless. Now as you are blind it seems to me that there is only one sound man between us. My plan is that you should carry me upon your back while I will tell you where to go." "It is well," said the blind man, kneeling down at once so that his brother could get upon his back. Then he walked onward with his new burden, onward and ever onward, turning to the right hand or to the left as his brother directed him. After a long time they came to a dense forest in which stood the pine-wood cabin of the wicked Baba-Yaga. Nikita directed his brother towards this hut, and the two in one entered the home of the wicked Baba-Yaga, but found no one inside. "Feel in the oven, brother," said Nikita, "perhaps there is some food there." Sure enough they found hot savoury food in the oven and they sat down to the table and had a good meal, for the sea air had made them both very hungry. When they were fully satisfied Nikita asked his brother to carry him round the cabin in order that he might examine everything that was to be found in it. On the window-sill he found a small whistle, and, putting this to his lips, began to blow. The shrill sound had a marvellous effect, for, whether he would or would not, Timothy began to dance, the cabin also began to dance, the table danced, the chairs danced, and even the stove took to its nimble feet. "Stop, Nikita," cried Timothy at last, for he was utterly exhausted, "I can no longer dance with such a burden upon my back." So Nikita stopped whistling, and as the last note died away everything settled down in quiet once again. Then when all was still the door was suddenly opened and the wicked Baba-Yaga entered her cottage. When she saw the two in one she screamed out with a loud voice: "You beggars and thieves! Up to this time not even a bird or a beast had come to my lonely dwelling, and now you have come to devour my food and loosen the very props of my little cottage. But very soon, and indeed sooner than that, I will settle with you." "Hold the wicked old witch, Timothy," cried Nikita, and the blind man caught her in his arms and squeezed her very hard. Then Nikita seized her by the hair, and she was ready enough to make all kinds of promises to win her freedom. "We want nothing," said Nikita, who had still more ideas in his head, "but your whistle and healing and living water. I have the whistle already, and if you will give us the water, you shall go free once more into the white world." "That I can, and will since I must," said the Baba-Yaga. "That you shall and are obliged to," replied Nikita. Then the old witch led them to two springs and said: "Here for your benefit is healing and living water." Nikita took of the healing water and sprinkled his stumps, whereupon his feet grew out as they had been before, but they would not move. So he sprinkled them next with living water, and they were made sound and whole as they had been before. Guided by his brother, the blind man stooped to the spring of healing water and bathed the hollow sockets of his eyes. Then eyeballs came into them as they had been before, but they could not see. So he sprinkled them next with living water and they were made sound and useful as they had been before. The brothers thanked the wicked Baba-Yaga and gave her a gift in exchange for her help and her whistle of which Nikita had need, but she grunted and said, "I could, and I would, and I did because I must." Then she went off to her cottage and the restored men took their way to the city of the Terrible Tsar for Nikita had another bright idea. In a field outside the palace they found the Terrible Tsar herding pigs, whereupon Nikita began to blow on the whistle and the pigs began to dance, for their ancestors had come from the herd of the wicked Baba-Yaga. Yelena the Haughty Beauty saw what was happening from the window, but she did not laugh, for she was not a woman of that kind. She only rose in all her haughty beauty and gave a stern command to her servants to take a bunch of rods and beat the pig-herd and the two strangers who were standing near him. At once the guards ran out and brought them to the castle to give them the punishment they deserved for their lack of gravity. This was just what Nikita desired, for he ran forward and seizing Yelena by her lily-white hands in a grasp no man or woman could ever resist, he cried: "Now, Terrible Tsar, what shall I do with the Terrible Tsaritza?" "Send her home," said the poor worried monarch, "out of my sight." So they sent her away to her own castle, where she spent all her time in admiring her beauty in the mirror until she died of dulness. But Nikita was made chief minister, and Timothy a general, and the Terrible Tsar did whatever they wished him to do from that day forward. PEERLESS BEAUTY THE CAKE-BAKER In a far-off land lived a Tsar and a Tsaritza who had one son, whom they named Ivan. They were very glad when he was born, and placed him in a beautiful oaken cradle among pillows of the softest down, covering him with a little eider-down quilt of silk from Samarcand. The pillow on which rested his little head was ornamented with drawn-thread work and all was cosy and comfortable, but try as they would the nurse-maidens--and they were pretty ladies of the highest degree--could not rock Ivan Tsarevich to sleep. Softly they sang and sweetly they crooned, but the young prince roared lustily, tossed off the coverlet, kicked out the pillow, and beat the sides of the cradle with his little fists. At last the nurse-maidens lost all patience and they cried out to the Tsar, "Little Father, Little Father, come and rock your own son." So the Tsar sat down by the side of the cradle, placed his great toe upon the rocker, and said: "Sleep, little son, sleep, sleep, sleep. Soon you will be a man, and then I will get you Peerless Beauty as a bride. She is the daughter of three mothers, the granddaughter of three grandmothers, and the sister of nine brothers." He made this promise once only, and it had such a soothing effect upon the restless Tsarevich that he went to sleep and continued sleeping for three days and three nights, during which time the nurse-maidens sat and praised his beauty among themselves. But they ceased talking as soon as he woke up again, for now he cried more loudly than ever, tossed off the coverlet, kicked out the pillow, and beat the sides of the cradle with his little fists. Once again the nurse-maidens tried to console him and to rock him to sleep, for they loved and admired him best in his slumbers; but he refused to sleep, and they were forced to call out, "Little Father, Little Father, come and rock your own son." The Tsar came once more to the cradle of his son and made the wonderful promise, whereupon the child fell asleep again and slept for three days and three nights. But when he woke up he was as naughty as before, and for a third time the nurse-maidens had to call in the help of the Little Father. When the Tsarevich awoke the third time he stood upon his cradle and said, "Bless me, Little Father, for I am going to my wedding." "My dear son," said the Tsar in great wonderment, "you are altogether only nine days old. How can you marry?" "That shall be as it is," said the Tsarevich, "and if you will not give me your blessing I fear I must marry without it." "Well, well," said the Tsar, "may all good go with you." Then he was not in the least surprised to see his son step down from the cradle a full-grown youth of goodly shape, call for clothes suitable to his age--they were all ready to hand--and then go forth to the stable. On the way across the courtyard he met an old man who looked at him and said: "Young man, where are you going?" "Mind your own business," said the young prince. But when he had gone forward a little he stopped and said to himself, "That was a mistake. Old people know many useful things." So he turned again and went after the old man. "Stop, stop, grandfather," he said, "what was the question which you put to me?" "I asked you," said the ancient, "where you were going, and now I add to my question. Are you going there of your own free will or against your will?" "I am going of my own free will," said the Tsarevich, "and twice as much against my will. I was in my cradle when my father came to me and promised to get me Peerless Beauty as a bride. She is the daughter of three mothers, the granddaughter of three grandmothers, and the sister of nine brothers. So I suppose I must go to seek her." "You are a courteous youth," said the old man, "and deserve to take advantage of the knowledge of the aged. You cannot go on foot to seek out Peerless Beauty, for she lives at the edge of the white world at the place where the sun peeps up. It is called the Golden Kingdom of the East." "What shall I do?" asked the Tsarevich, thrusting his hands into his belt and standing with feet wide apart. "I have no horse of mettle or whip of silk for such a ride." "Why, your father has thirty horses of the best," said the old man, "and the trouble with you will be to make a wise choice. Go to the stables and tell the grooms to take the thirty to bathe in the deep blue sea. When they come to the shore you will see one of them push forward into the water up to its neck and drink. When this happens watch with care to see if the waves rise high and break in foam upon the beach. If so, take that horse, for it will bear you safely to the edge of the white world and to the place where the sun peeps up, which is called the Golden Kingdom of the East." "Thanks and thanks again, good grandfather," said the Tsarevich, who went on to the stables and selected his heroic steed in the manner described by the old man. On the following morning the Tsarevich was preparing this horse for the journey when it turned its head and spoke to him in the speech of Holy Russia: "Ivan Tsarevich," it said, "fall down upon the lap of moist Mother Earth and I will push you three times." The youth was so much astonished to hear the horse speak that he found it no difficult matter to fall down. Then the horse pushed him once and pushed him a second time, but after that it looked at the youth for a little time and said, "That will suffice, for if I push you a third time moist Mother Earth will not be able to bear you." So the Tsarevich rose to his feet, saddled his horse, and set out. His father and those about him saw him as he mounted, but they did not see him as he rode. It was only a smoke wreath on the open boundless plain and he was gone. Far, far away he rode until the day grew short and the long night came on. As the darkness fell the rider came to a house as large as a town, with rooms each as big as a village. At the great door he got down from his horse and tied the bridle to a copper ring in the door-post. Then he went into the first room and said to an old woman whom he found there: "May God be good to this house. I should be glad to be permitted to spend the night here." "Where are you journeying?" asked the old woman. "That is not the first question," said the Tsarevich. "Give me food to eat and wine to drink, then put me next into a warm sleeping chamber. In the morning ask me whether I have slept in peace and then ask where I may be journeying." And the old woman did so, just as the Tsarevich had said. Next morning she asked him the second question and he replied, "I was in my cradle when my father came to me and promised to get me Peerless Beauty as a bride. She is the daughter of three mothers, the granddaughter of three grandmothers, and the sister of nine brothers." "Good youth," said the old woman, "I am nearly seventy years of age, but of Peerless Beauty I have never heard. But farther on the way lives my elder sister. Perhaps she knows." Then Ivan Tsarevich went out of the great house, and, after taking courteous leave of the old woman, rode far away across the open steppe. All day he rode, and as night was coming on he came to a second house as large as a town, with each room as large as a village. He dismounted from his horse, tied the bridle to a silver ring in the door-post, and asked an old woman whom he met in the first room if he might have a night's lodging. And here it happened as it had happened before, only the old woman was eighty years of age. "Farther on the road," she said, "lives my elder sister and she has givers of answers. The first givers of answers are the fishes and other dwellers in the heaving restless sea; the second givers of answers are the wild beasts of the dark forests; and the third givers of answers are the birds of the open air. Whatever is in the whole white world is obedient to the will of my elder sister." Once again Ivan Tsarevich set out and came to a house where he tied his horse to a golden ring, and was received by an old, old woman who screamed at him in a voice like a flock of peacocks: "O you man of boldness, why have you tied your horse to a golden ring when an iron ring would be too good for you?" "Patience, good grandmother," said the Tsarevich gently, "it is easy to loose the bridle and tie the horse to another ring." "Ah, my good youth," said the old woman gently, and as one would speak to a child, "did I frighten you? Sit down now on the bench and take food and drink." Ivan did so, and then without being asked he told the old woman where he was going and what was his quest. "Go to your rest," she said shortly. "In the morning I will call my givers of answers." Next morning the old woman and the young man sat in the porch, and the former gave a heroic whistle, whereupon the blue sea heaved in a great heap, and the fishes, large and small, sea-serpents and sea-dragons, rose upon the surface and made for the shore. "Come no farther," said the old woman, raising her right hand. "Tell me where this good youth can find Peerless Beauty." Then the answer came from a million mouths, "We have not seen or heard of her." The old woman blew her whistle and the forests echoed to the sound of a million voices of wild beasts, but the answer to her question was, "We have not seen or heard of her." "Come hither," said the grandmother, "all ye birds of the air." And in a moment the light of the sun was hidden and the sound of flapping wings was like a tempest. But the answer of the birds to the question was, "We have not seen or heard of her." "My givers of answers fail me," said the ancient woman as she took Ivan by the lily-white hand and led him into the house. Then there flew through the open window the Mogol Bird which fell to the ground at her feet. "Ah, Mogol Bird," said the old woman, "whither hast thou come?" "I come from the home of Peerless Beauty," was the tired reply, "and I have been dressing her for Mass in the Cathedral." The old woman clapped her hands in delight. "That is the news I seek," she said. "Now, Mogol Bird, do me a favour. Carry this young man, Ivan Tsarevich, to the home of Peerless the Beauty." "That I will," was the reply, "but we shall need a great deal of food." "How much?" asked the old woman. "Three hundredweight of beef," was the answer, "and a keg full of water." Ivan filled a large keg with water and placed it upon the back of the Mogol Bird with the heaped-up piles of beef round about it. Then he ran to the forge and told the smith to make him a long iron lance, and with this weapon in his hand he sat on the edge of the keg with the beef all round about him. Up rose the Mogol Bird and once it was under way it flew so steadily that the top of the water in the keg remained always level, but now and again the bird would slowly turn its head and look at Ivan, when he would at once give it a large piece of beef upon the point of his long iron lance. Onward, and ever onward, flew the Mogol Bird, feeding on the beef and drinking the water from Ivan's cap, which he extended at the point of his lance, until all the meat and water were finished, whereupon the Tsarevich threw the keg overboard. "O Mogol Bird," he said, "haste to finish your journey, for there is no more beef and there is no more water." "I cannot go down to earth in this spot," said the bird, "for beneath us there is nothing but a bog like glue. And I must have more meat. If you cannot get beef, veal will do." So Ivan cut off the calves of his own legs, and when the bird had refreshed itself it flew on till it came to a green meadow with tall silken grass and blue flowers. Here it flew down to earth, and Ivan alighted, but, of course, walked very lame. "What makes you halt, Ivan Tsarevich?" asked the Mogol Bird, and when the young man told what he had done the bird blew upon the back of his legs and restored him to his former condition. On went the young man, eager to finish his quest, until he came to a great town, where he entered a narrow street and found an old woman in a poor, mean house, who seemed to be expecting him. "Go to bed and sleep soundly after your flight, Ivan," she said, "and when the bell rings I will call you." The young man lay down and slept soundly, so soundly that when the bell rang for early morning prayers not all the calling nor all the shaking, nor all the shouting nor all the beating could rouse him. Then the bell rang again for Mass, and the old grandmother tried once more, calling, shaking, shouting, beating, but all with no result, until she took a tiny feather and tickled the sleeper's nose. Then he awoke with a start, washed himself very clean, dressed himself very carefully, and went to Mass in the cathedral. He bowed first to the high altar, then to North, South, East, and West, and especially to Peerless Beauty, who knelt alone in the church. So Ivan Tsarevich knelt beside her and then stood beside her while she prayed. When the service was over the young man looked at Peerless Beauty, and looked again and yet again without speaking, and while he looked six brave heroes came up from the sea-shore and stood at the great door of the cathedral. Peerless Beauty went to meet them with Ivan Tsarevich close behind her. "What country clown is this?" cried the brave heroes, but Ivan stepped before Peerless Beauty and swung his right arm in a circle three times round; and when he stopped the heroes were lying at the feet of the Princess in a heap of confusion. Then Ivan Tsarevich went back to the old grandmother, who put him to bed. On the second day it all fell out as on the first occasion. Peerless Beauty looked at Ivan as he knelt in silence by her side, and as she looked she blushed. On the third day it all fell out as on the first in every particular except that when Ivan entered the church Peerless Beauty gave him a silent salutation and then came and stood at his left hand; and when the young man had laid low six more scornful heroes Peerless Beauty took him by the hand, and together, without a word, they went up to the priest and took the golden crowns. After that they went home and feasted, and then prepared to set out for the home of Ivan Tsarevich. Over the open boundless plain they rode, speaking little, but looking much and smiling frequently, until Peerless Beauty grew weary and lay down to rest, while Ivan Tsarevich guarded her slumber. When she awoke refreshed the bridegroom said: "Now guard my slumbers, Peerless Beauty, for I am very weary." "Will your sleep be short or long?" asked the bride. "I shall sleep," said Ivan, "for no longer and no shorter than nine days and nine nights. If you try to arouse me I shall not wake, but when the end of the time comes I shall wake without any arousing." "I shall be weary of waiting and watching, Ivan Tsarevich," said Peerless Beauty with a sigh. "Weary or not, it cannot be set aside or gainsaid or altered," said Ivan Tsarevich. Then he lay down and slept for nine days and nine nights. And while he slept there came a rushing whirlwind across the open steppe, and in the heart of the whirlwind, where was the point of peace, rested Koschei Who Never Dies, who bore away Peerless Beauty to his kingdom beyond the sea. And Ivan Tsarevich awoke without any arousing to find himself alone. Sadly he gazed across the empty boundless plain, and when he arose, went back to the town, sought out the old woman in the poor, mean house, who seemed to be expecting him, and told her all his tale of sadness. "I had all things," he said, "and now I have nothing." "Go to bed and sleep soundly after your sorrow, Ivan," she said, and he went to bed, but could sleep neither soundly nor restlessly. But at midnight there came a rushing whirlwind across the open steppe, and in the heart of the whirlwind, where was the point of peace, rested Koschei Who Never Dies, who bore away Ivan Tsarevich to his kingdom beyond the sea. At the gate of the palace Ivan knocked--tock, tock--and the wicket-gate in the large gate was opened by Peerless Beauty, who peeped out with eyes like violets wet with the rain, and cheeks like roses in the morning sun, and a brow like a seed pearl of priceless lustre. She opened the little wicket-gate wide, and Ivan stepped in. Then they went to an upper room, where the bridegroom said to the bride: "When Koschei comes home, ask him where his death is." Then Koschei came in at one door and Ivan went out at another door. "Phu! phu!" said Koschei Who Never Dies, "I smell the blood of a Russian. Was it Ivan Tsarevich who was with you just now, at this moment, and recently?" "Why, Koschei Who Never Dies," said Peerless Beauty clasping her hands, "Ivan Tsarevich has long ago been devoured by wild beasts of the plain, at least it must have been so and not otherwise." So they sat down to supper, and when Koschei had eaten well and drunk better Peerless Beauty said to him, "Tell me, now, Koschei, where is your death?" "It is tied up in the broom, silly one," said Koschei; "why do you wish to know?" Next morning Koschei Who Never Dies went out at the head of his men to fight, and as soon as he had gone Ivan Tsarevich came to Peerless Beauty and kissed her sugar lips. Then she took the broom from the corner near the stove and gilded it all over with pure beaten gold. When this was done--and it took a long time to cover each twig of the birch boughs with the gold--Ivan left his bride and Koschei Who Never Dies came in by another door. "Phu! phu!" he said, "I smell the blood of a Russian. Was it Ivan Tsarevich who was with you just now, at this moment, and recently?" "Why, Koschei Who Never Dies," said Peerless Beauty clasping her hands, "you have been flying through Russia and have caught up the odour of the country on your own garments. Where should I see Ivan Tsarevich?" Then they sat down to supper, and Koschei saw the gilded broom lying across the threshold. "What does this mean?" he asked sternly. "See how I honour you," said Peerless Beauty, "for I gild even Death for you." "Little simpleton, I fooled you," said Koschei. "My death is not in the broom, but is concealed in the oak fence." Next day it fell out as before. Peerless Beauty, helped by Ivan Tsarevich, gilded the fence, and when Koschei saw it burning like fire in the evening sun, he laughed and said to Peerless Beauty: "Little simpleton, I fooled you. My death is in an egg, the egg is in a downy duck, and the duck is in the stump of a tree which floats upon the open sea." Next day Peerless Beauty rose very early, before the sun was up, and went to the stove in the kitchen. "I must send Ivan Tsarevich," she said, "on the long search for that downy duck. He has a long way to go, so I must bake him a love cake." So she baked him not one love cake but three, and as she kneaded the dough, she spoke a love-spell into it so that Ivan Tsarevich should fare well on his journey. The cakes were browned and buttered and wrapped in a napkin of fine white linen, with edges of drawn thread-work, when Ivan came into the kitchen just as the sun rose. Then he put his arms about the cake-baker, and she whispered into his ear where to look for the death of Koschei. And Ivan kissed her honey mouth and went out with the cakes in his pouch. Onward he went and ever onward, until he came to the margin of the ocean sea, and then he knew not how to go farther. He had eaten all the cakes and was very hungry, so very hungry that when a hawk flew up above his head, he cried: "Hawk, hawk, I will shoot you dead and eat you without cooking." "Why eat me?" asked the hawk in the speech of Holy Russia, "I can be of good service to you." Then a great bear came shambling along with its fore-paws turned inwards to show that it was a bear of good breeding. "Bear, bear," said Ivan, "I will shoot you dead and eat you without cooking." "Why eat me?" asked the bear in the speech of Holy Russia, "I can be of good service to you." Then Ivan saw a great pike leap from the ocean sea and lie floundering upon the shingle shore. "Pike, pike," said he, "I will kill you and eat you without cooking." "Better, far better, and much the best," said the pike, "if you cast me into the sea." "It seems to me," said Ivan Tsarevich, "that the cakes of Peerless Beauty have wrought a spell, and that I am to have nothing further to eat. Well, then, in the strength of those cakes I will go on with it." So he flung the floundering pike back into the ocean sea, and when it splashed the great water boiled up and began to race along and up the shore so quickly that Ivan was forced to run before it with all his might and main. Onward he ran and ever onward, with the water racing at his heels and occasionally washing them. [1] Onward he ran and ever upward, until he came to a tall tree upon a high bank of sand. Upward he climbed and ever upward, and then saw that now the waters of the ocean sea were quickly falling; and when they had gone back within their own boundaries Ivan saw that they had left high up on the shore a huge stump of a tree. The bear ran up, raised the stump in its arms, and hugged it until it cracked--snap, smash--and from the inside of it flew out a downy duck, which soared high and ever higher, until it looked like a dark green bottle with a long neck. Then the hawk flew up and caught it, whereupon an egg fell into the sea, which was caught by the pike, which swam to the beach and laid it gently at Ivan's feet. The young man placed the egg in the warm napkin within his pouch and ran forward, ever forward, until he came to Peerless Beauty, who was stooping over the stove in the kitchen. Ivan put his arms about the cake-baker, who grasped his hands and pressed them; and when she stood upright the egg was in her left palm. Ivan turned and saw Koschei sitting on the window ledge and scowling at him, because he expected that the cakes and baked meats that Peerless Beauty was cooking were all for him. But as the two rushed to the grip, Peerless Beauty dropped the egg upon the stove. It broke, and as the shell cracked, Koschei's heart broke also, and he fell down dead. Then the bride and bridegroom went to the eating room, and Ivan Tsarevich feasted on cakes and baked meats which Peerless Beauty had prepared when he was on his journey to the ocean sea; and after that they went to the country of Ivan's father, who rubbed his eyes when he saw them and said, "Why, Ivan Tsarevich left home when he was only nine days old, and now he brings Peerless Beauty to me as my daughter. Well, I never!" "Well, we never!" cried the nurse-maidens in a chorus, as they ran to get ready for the second wedding, which was to be celebrated with great splendour. "Really, we never did! Whoever would have thought it?" There is very little doubt that Ivan Tsarevich was the first "nine days' wonder" that ever was. THE END NOTE [1] No doubt this was the first person who ever showed "a clean pair of heels." 
38571	----	HERO TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE SERBIANS By WOISLAV M. PETROVITCH Late attaché to the Serbian Royal Legation to the Court of St. James With a preface by CHEDO MIYATOVICH Formerly Serbian Minister to the Court of St. James And thirty-two illustrations In colour by WILLIAM SEWELL & GILBERT JAMES To that most Eminent Serbian Patriot and Statesman His Excellency Nicholas P. Pashitch This book is respectfully inscribed by the author PREFACE Serbians attach the utmost value and importance to the sympathies of such a highly cultured, great, and therefore legitimately influential people as is the British nation. Since the beginning of the twentieth century there have been two critical occasions [1]--the annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina by Austria and the war against the Turks--when we have had opportunities to note how British sympathies, even when apparently only platonic, can be of great practical importance for our nation. It is quite natural that we should desire to retain and if possible deepen and increase those sympathies. We are proud of our army, but we flatter ourselves that our nation may win sympathy and respect by other than military features of its national character. We wish that our British friends should know our nation such as it is. We wish them to be acquainted with our national psychology. And nothing could give a better insight into the very soul of the Serbian nation than this book. The Serbians belong ethnologically to the great family of the Slavonic nations. They are first cousins to the Russians, Poles, Czechs, Slovaks, and Bulgars, and they are brothers to the Croats and Slovenes. Since the Church has ceased to be the discordant and disuniting element in the life of the nations, the Orthodox Serbians and the Roman Catholic Croats are practically one and the same people. But of all Slavonic nations the Serbians can legitimately claim to be the most poetical one. Their language is the richest and the most musical among all the Slavonic languages. The late Professor Morfill, a man who was something of a Panslavist, repeatedly said to me: "I wish you Serbians, as well as all other Slavonic nations, to join Russia in a political union, but I do not wish you to surrender your beautiful and well-developed language to be exchanged for the Russian!" On one occasion he went even so far as to suggest that the future United States of the Slavs should adopt as their literary and official language the Serbian, as by far the finest and most musical of all the Slavonic tongues. When our ancestors occupied the western part of the Balkan Peninsula, they found there numerous Latin colonies and Greek towns and settlements. In the course of twelve centuries we have through intermarriage absorbed much Greek and Latin blood. That influence, and the influence of the commercial and political intercourse with Italy, has softened our language and our manners and intensified our original Slavonic love of what is beautiful, poetical, and noble. We are a special Slavonic type, modified by Latin and Greek influences. The Bulgars are a Slavonic nation of a quite different type, created by the circulation of Tartar blood in Slavonian veins. This simple fact throws much light on the conflicts between the Serbians and Bulgarians during the Middle Ages, and even in our own days. Now what are the Serbian national songs? They are not songs made by cultured or highly educated poets--songs which, becoming popular, are sung by common people. They are songs made by the common people themselves. Up to the middle of the nineteenth century the Serbian peasantry lived mostly in agricultural and family associations called Zadrooga. As M. Petrovitch has stated, the sons of a peasant did not leave their father's house when they got married, but built a wooden cottage on the land surrounding the father's house. Very often a large settlement arose around the original home, with often more than a hundred persons, men and women, working together, considering the land and houses as their common property, enjoying the fruits of their work as the common property too. All the members of the Zadrooga considered the oldest member of such family association as their chief, and it was the usual custom to gather round him every evening in the original house. After questions of farming or other business had been disposed of, the family gathering would be enlivened by the chieftain or some other male member reciting an epic song, or several such songs, describing historic events or events which had lately happened. At the public gatherings around the churches and monasteries groups of men and women would similarly gather about the reciters of songs on old kings and heroes or on some great and important event. In Hungarian Serbia (Syrmia, Banat, Bachka) poor blind men often make it a lucrative profession to sing old or new songs, mostly on old heroes and historical events or on contemporary events. But in other parts of Serbia (Shumadiya, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Montenegro, Dalmatia) very often well-to-do peasants recite the hero songs to crowds of listeners of both sexes. It is a curious fact noticed already by Vouk S. Karadgitch that the reciters of the heroic songs are hardly ever young men, but generally men of middle age, and still more frequently old men. It is as if old men considered it their duty to acquaint the young generation with the principal events of the nation's history and their principal heroes. You may find still many an illiterate person in Serbia, but you will not find one who would not be able to tell you something about Stephan Nemanya, the first king of mediæval Serbia, about his son St. Sava, Tsar Doushan, his young son Ourosh, King Voukashin, the Royal Prince Kralyevitch Marko, Tsar Lazar, and the heroes who fell in the famous battle at Kossovo (1389). It can be said that the Serbian peasants wrote their own national history by composing and reciting it from one generation to another in the rhythmical ten-syllabic blank verse. The gooslari and the monks kept the national political consciousness and the national Church fully alive through the five centuries in which they were only Turkish Rayah, a mass of common people doomed to be nothing better than slaves to their master, the Turk. We would to-day not have known anything about the persistent guerilla war, which the best and boldest men of the nation were relentlessly carrying on against the nation's oppressor since the beginning of the sixteenth century until the first rising of Shumadia under Karageorge in 1804, if we had not the so-called Haïdoochke Pesme (the Songs on Haïdooks). Long before the history of The Resurrection of the Serbian National State had been written by Stoyan Novakovich, the learned President of the Serbian Academy, the bard Vishnyich described that resurrection in songs of great beauty and power. And the victories of the Serbian army over the Turks and Bulgars in the war of 1912-13 are already sung by the improvized bards in the inns and at the great gatherings of the people at the village fairs and around the churches on great church festivals. Of course, a Serbian who has heard on hundreds of occasions national songs recited learns to recite them himself, although he may not be able to accompany his recitation on the goussle. Nor does he find it difficult, by using many stereotyped lines of old and well-known songs, to tell the story of a recent event. When in 1873, as Minister of Finance, I was defeated in the Budget debate at the Skoupshtina, my defeat was recited to the people in blank verse the same evening, and the next day. Besides the songs which relate, more or less accurately, actual events, many a national song relates a legend or a tradition. They have been created, no doubt, under the influence of the priests and monks, and are appropriate recitations to the crowds who come to the church festivals. I am glad to see that M. Petrovitch has included in his collection the song which is probably the oldest among all Serbian songs. It is called "The Saints partition [or divide] the Treasures," and it gives expression to an evidently very old tradition, which remembers a sort of catastrophe which befell India, and which probably was the cause of the ancient ancestors of the Slavs leaving India. It is most remarkable to find an echo of an Indian catastrophe in the national songs of the Serbians. That the Serbians had national songs in which they described the exploits of their national heroes was noted in the fourteenth century. Nicephoras Gregoras, sent by the Byzantine Emperor on a diplomatic mission to Serbia, relates having heard the Serbians sing their national songs on their heroes. The records of several diplomatic missions, going from Vienna or Buda to Constantinople during the sixteenth century, relate that the members heard people sing heroic songs. In that century we have the first attempt to reproduce in print some of those national songs, as, for instance, by the Ragusan poet Hectorovich. In the eighteenth century fuller efforts were made by the Franciscan monk Kachich-Mioshich and by Abbé Fortis. But it is to the self-taught founder of modern Serbian literature, Vouk Stephanovitch Karadgitch, that the greatest honour is due, as has been shown by M. Petrovitch in his Introduction and elsewhere. M. Petrovitch must have experienced what the French call embarras de richesses. It was not so easy to select the songs for an English translation. But he has given us some of the finest Serbian epic songs as samples of what the Serbian national poetry is capable of creating. I regret only that he has not included a few samples of what the Serbian village women and girls are able to produce in the way of lyrical poetry. Perhaps on some other occasion he will make an amende honorable to our countrywomen. I wish to add yet a few words to what M. Petrovitch has said about our greatest national hero, the Royal Prince (Kralyevitch) Marko. As he has pointed out, Marko is a historical personality. But what history has to say about him is not much, and certainly not of the nature to explain how he became the favourite hero of the Serbian people. He was a loyal and faithful vassal of the Sultan, a fact hardly likely to win him the respect and admiration of the Serbians. Yet the Serbians throughout the last five centuries have respected, admired, loved their Royal Prince Marko, and were and are now and will ever be proud of him. This psychological puzzle has stirred up the best Serbian and some other historical students and authors to investigate the matter. It is evident to all that most of the songs on Marko must have been composed under the mighty influence of his personality upon his contemporary countrymen. Dr. Yagich, Dr. Maretich, Professor Stoykovich and St. Novakovich all believe that his athletic strength and personal appearance were responsible for much of the impression he made. All agree that his conduct in everyday life and on all occasions was that of a true knight, a cavaliere servente, a chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. Even his attachment and unfailing readiness to serve the Sultan was counted in his favour, as proof of his absolute loyalty of character. Probably that very loyalty was appreciated by the Sultan and enabled Marko not rarely to appeal to the Sultan in favour of his people, especially when some prisoners or slaves were to be liberated and saved. He was certainly the protector of poor and suffering men and women, and went to their rescue at all and every personal risk and cost. He must have given real proofs of his devotion to the cause of justice; that is what endeared him to his generation as well as to the generations which followed. He must have been known during his life for his fear of God and his respect and tender love for his mother. The Serbians painted him from the model which his own personality and his actual deeds offered to the nation. One of the most beautiful features of his knightly character as described by the national bards is his love of and pity for suffering animals. I regret that my friend Petrovitch did not give a sample of the songs which glorify that feature of our national hero, as, for instance, the song "Marko and the Falcon" (Vouk. ii. 53), or "Marko and the Eagle" (Vouk. ii. 54), in each of which it is described how when once Marko fell ill on a field, an intense thirst tormenting him and the scorching sun-rays burning his face, those birds out of gratitude for the kindness Marko showed them once, brought to him water in their beaks and spread their wings to shade his face against the sun. By far the best study on the Serbian national hero has been written by the Russian professor M. Halanski, who explains the puzzle by the natural sympathy of the people for a 'tragic hero.' The historical Marko was certainly a 'tragic hero.' Nothing proves that better than his last words before the battle of Rovina began (1399), and which M. Petrovitch quotes in the text. I ought to add that there is also a theory that the Serbian nation, so to say, projected itself in the Royal Prince Marko, depicting its own tragic fate, its own virtues and weaknesses, in the popular yet tragic personality of Marko. No doubt Marko must have been in some way the representative type of a noble Serbian, otherwise he could not have found the way to the soul and heart of his people. Yet that theory is hardly modest, for my taste. It may interest our British friends to know that a relation of the dynasty of which Marko was the last representative, a certain Prince John Mussachi, in a historical memoir stated that Marko's father, King Voukashin, was the descendant of a certain nobleman named Britanius or Britanicus! [2] We should be proud if it could be proved that the ancestors of our national hero were in some way connected with the Britons. Chedo Miyatovich Member of the Royal Serbian Academy of Sciences Belgrade June 28, 1914 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE Introduction xvii I Historical Retrospect 1 II Superstitious Beliefs and National Customs 13 III Serbian National Epic Poetry 54 IV Kralyevitch Marko; or, the Royal Prince Marko 59 V Banovitch Strahinya 119 VI The Tsarina Militza and the Zmay of Yastrebatz 129 VII The Marriage of Maximus Tzrnoyevitch 134 VIII The Marriage of Tsar Doushan the Mighty 150 IX Tsar Lazarus and the Tsarina Militza 170 X The Captivity and Marriage of Stephan Yakshitch 177 XI The Marriage of King Voukashin 186 XII The Saints Divide the Treasures 195 XIII Three Serbian Ballads 1. The Building of Skadar 198 2. The Stepsisters 206 3. The Abduction of the Beautiful Iconia 210 XIV Folk Lore 1. The Ram with the Golden Fleece 213 2. A Pavilion neither in the Sky nor on the Earth 220 3. Pepelyouga 224 4. Animals' Language 230 5. The Stepmother and her Stepdaughter 235 6. Justice and Injustice 240 7. He who Asks Little Receives Much 243 8. Bash Tchelik or Real Steel 247 9. The Golden Apple-tree and the Nine Pea-hens 267 10. The Bird Maiden 280 11. Lying for a Wager 283 12. The Maiden Wiser than the Tsar 287 13. Good Deeds Never Perish 291 14. He whom God Helps no one can Harm 300 15. Animals as Friends and as Enemies 305 16. The Three Suitors 316 17. The Dream of the King's Son 322 18. The Biter Bit 328 19. The Trade that no one Knows 340 20. The Golden-haired Twins 353 XV Some Serbian Popular Anecdotes 362 Glossary and Index 371 INTRODUCTION More than once in the following pages I have lamented my inability to translate into English verse the spirited ballads of our national bards; never until now have I realized the error involved in the dictum of my teachers of literature--true as it may be from one point of view--that beautiful thoughts are to be more freely expressed in prose than in a poetic form, which is necessarily hampered by rules of prosody and metre. Undoubtedly, good prose is worth more than mediocre verse, but how if the author be a master poet? Serbian epic poetry undoubtedly deserves the attention of the English literary world, and I venture to express the hope that some day another English poet will be attracted as was Sir John Bowring by the charm of our ballads, and like him will endeavour to communicate to readers of English the alluring rhythmic qualities of the originals. In the first half of the nineteenth century various German poets transversified some of our national ballads, and I cannot but boast that among the number was even Goethe himself. Alas! he was compelled to use Italian versions, for he was ignorant of the Serbian language, unlike his worthy countryman Jacob Grimm, who, after having learnt our musical tongue that he might acquaint himself with the treasures written in it, wrote: "The Serbian national poetry deserves indeed a general attention.... On account of these ballads I think the Serbian will now be universally studied." A Tcheque [3] writer, Lyoodevit Schtur, speaking of the Slav poetry, wrote: "The Indo-European peoples express each in their own manner what they contain in themselves and what elevates their souls. The Indian manifests this in his huge temples; the Persian in his holy books; the Egyptian in pyramids, obelisks and immeasurable, mysterious labyrinths; the Hellene in his magnificent statues; the Roman in his enchanting pictures; the German in his beautiful music--the Slavs have poured out their soul and their intimate thoughts in ballads and tales." I think that it is not too much to claim that of all the Slavs, Serbians have most profusely poured out their souls in their poetry, which is thoroughly and essentially national. So much could not safely be said about their tales and legends, which, to my mind, seem less characteristic. Indeed, by their striking analogy with the folk lore of other nations they help to demonstrate the prehistoric oneness of the entire Aryan race. For example, it would be ridiculous for any nation to lay exclusive claim, as 'national property,' to such legends as "Cinderella" [4] and certain others, which are found more or less alike in many languages, as is well known to those who have any considerable acquaintance with European folk lore. From time immemorial the Serbian has possessed an exceptional natural gift for composing heroic ballads. That gift was brought from his ancient abode in the North; and the beautiful scenery of his new surroundings, and contact with the civilized Byzantine, influenced it very considerably and provided food for its development, so that it came to resemble the Homeric epic rather than any product of the genius of the Northern Slav. The treasure of his mental productions was continually augmented by new impressions, and the national poetry thus grew opulent in its form and more beautiful in its composition. The glorious forests of the Balkans, instinct with legend and romance, to which truly no other forests in Europe can compare; the ever-smiling sky of Southern Macedonia; the gigantic Black Rocks of Montenegro and Herzegovina, are well calculated to inspire even a less talented people than the Serbian inhabitants of those romantic regions for the last thirteen centuries. The untiring Serbian muse pursued her mission alike upon the battlefield or in the forest, in pleasant pastures amid the flocks, or beneath the frowning walls of princely castles and sacred monasteries. The entire nation participated in her gracious gifts; and whenever a poet chanted of the exploits of some favourite national hero, or of the pious deeds of monk or saint, or, indeed, of any subject which appeals closely to the people, there were never lacking other bards who could make such poetic creations their own and pass them on with the modifications which must always accompany oral transmission, and which serve to bring them ever more intimately near to the heart of the nation. This characteristic of oral transmission explains the existence of varying versions of some of the most popular songs. Through many centuries, and more especially during the blighting domination of the Turk, Serbian national literature was limited to a merely oral form, save that the untiring monks, inviolable within the sacred walls of their monasteries, spent their leisure, not in inscribing the popular ballads and lyric songs of their nation, but in recording the biographies of other monks or of this or that princely patron. Those Serbians who could not endure the oppressive rule of the Ottoman, and who in the seventeenth century emigrated with their Patriarch Arsen Tcharnoyevitch to the level fields of Southern Hungary--there to adopt in the course of the two subsequent centuries the pseudo-classicism of the West--considered it infra dignitatem to write about such vulgar subjects as popular poetry and tradition. The gifted descendants of those lamentable slaves of the cunning Austrian and Pan-Russian influences wasted their talents in vain and empty imitation of pseudo-classic productions from Italy and France, and, by conjugating zealously the Serbian and Old-Slavonic verbs in the Russian fashion they created a monstrous literary jargon which they termed Slavyano-Serbski (i.e. Slavo-Serbian). And if any Serbian author should have presumed to write in the melodious and genuine Serbian as universally spoken throughout his fatherland, he would have been anathematized by those misguided Slavo-Serbian 'classicists' who fondly believed that by writing in a language hardly comprehensible even to themselves, because of its utter inconsequence and arbitrary changes, they would surely become distinguished in the history of their nation's literature. The 'classicists' received their deserts in the first half of the nineteenth century, when they were overwhelmed by the irresistible torrent of the popular movement headed by the self-taught Serbian peasant, Vouk Stephanovitch-Karadgitch, whose name will remain for ever great in the history of Serbian literature. Karadgitch has been called justly "the father of Serbian modern literature." His numberless opponents, who began by heaping upon him every opprobrious epithet which their pens or tongues could command, ended, after more than fifty years of fruitless resistance, by opening wide their arms to him. Karadgitch framed a grammar of the popular Serbian language, banishing all unnecessary graphic signs and adapting his thirty-lettered alphabet to the thirty sounds (five vowels and twenty-five consonants) of his mother tongue--thus giving it an ideal phonetic orthography, and establishing the golden rule, "Spell as you speak and speak as you spell." [5] He also travelled from one village to another throughout Serbia, zealously collecting and inscribing the epic and lyric poems, legends, and traditions as he heard them from the lips of bards and story-tellers, professional and amateur. In his endeavours he was powerfully seconded by the Serbian ruling princes, and he had the good fortune to acquire the intimate friendship of those distinguished philologers and scientists of the last century, Bartholemy Kopitar, Schaffarik, and Grimm. Helped by Kopitar, Karadgitch succeeded in compiling an academic dictionary of the Serbian language interpreted by Latin and German equivalents. This remains to this day the only reliable Serbian dictionary approaching to the Western standard of such books. His first collection of Serbian popular poems was published in Vienna in 1814. It contained 200 lyric songs, which he called zenske pyesme (i.e. 'women-songs'), and 23 heroic ballads, and the book created a stir in literary circles in Austria, Serbia, Germany, Russia, and other countries. Seven years later Karadgitch published at Leipzig a second edition in three books. This contained 406 lyric songs and 117 heroic poems. From this edition Sir John Bowring made his metrical translation of certain of the lyric and epic poems, which he published in 1827 under the title Servian Popular Poetry. He dedicated the book to Karadgitch, who was his intimate friend and teacher of Serbian. I have reproduced three of Bowring's ballads in this book that English readers may have a better idea than they can obtain from a mere prose rendering of the original verse. As to the poetic merits of these metrical translations I will not presume to offer an opinion, but I may be permitted to say that I have not seen a more faithful translation of our national ballads and lyric songs in English or in any other language. Considering the difficulties to the Anglo-Saxon student of any Slavonic language (more especially Serbian) it is surprising that there should be so few defects in Bowring's work. Sir John must have possessed an uncommon gift for acquiring languages, as he has also translated from each of the other Slavonic tongues with--so I am informed--similar accuracy and precision. The third edition of Karadgitch's work appeared in Vienna at intervals between the years 1841 and 1866. It had now grown to five volumes and contained 1112 lyric songs and 313 heroic ballads. It is from this edition that I have selected the hero-tales in this book; and if I should succeed in interesting a new generation of English readers in the literature of my country it will be my further ambition to attempt the immeasurably harder task of introducing them in a subsequent volume to our popular lyric poetry. It remains only to tender my most grateful acknowledgment to my esteemed friend M. Chedo Miyatovich for his invaluable advice and encouragement, and for his generous willingness to contribute the preface which adorns my book. W. M. P. CHAPTER I: HISTORICAL RETROSPECT The Coming of the Serb Prior to their incursion into the Balkan Peninsula during the seventh century, the Serbians [6] lived as a patriarchal people in the country now known as Galicia. Ptolemy, the ancient Greek geographer, describes them as living on the banks of the River Don, to the north-east of the sea of Azov. They settled mostly in those Balkan territories which they inhabit at the present day, namely, the present kingdom of Serbia, Old Serbia, Macedonia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro, Dalmatia, Batchka, Banat, Croatia, Sirmia and Istria. The ancient inhabitants of those regions, Latins, Illyrians, Thracians, Greeks and Albanians, were easily driven by the newcomers toward the Adriatic coast. Their Emperor, Heraclius (A.D. 610-641), unable to oppose an effective resistance, ceded to the Serbians all the provinces which they had occupied, and peace was thus purchased. The pagan and uncultured Serbian tribes now came into constant intercourse with the civilized Byzantines, and soon were converted to Christianity; for it is an almost invariable fact that when one people conquers or subjects another people, the more civilized of the two, whether the vanquished or the victorious, must necessarily impose its civilization and customs on the more barbarous. But the Serbians only embraced Christianity to any large extent with the beginning of the ninth century, when the two brothers Cyrillos and Methodius--the so-called Slavonic apostles--translated and preached the teaching of Christ in the ancient Slav language, then in common use among all southern Slavs of that time. Early Struggles As the Serbians, during the seventh and eighth centuries, were divided into tribes, they became an easy prey to the attacks of the Byzantines, the Bulgars and the Francs, although they never were subjugated by any of those neighbours. The Serbians, however, were forced to realize that only by concentration of their power could they offer resistance as a nation, and a serious effort was made to found a State on the banks of the River Morava, with Horea Margi (now called Tyoupriya) as its capital, in the early part of the ninth century. Owing to Bulgarian hostility, however, this proved abortive. A fresh attempt to form an independent State was made by the Djoupan (Count) Vlastimir, who had succeeded in emancipating himself from Byzantine suzerainty. This province was called Rashka and extended around the Rivers Piva, Tara, and Lim, touching the basin of the River Ibar in the east and that of Vrbas in the west. But in the very beginning of its civil life there were dissensions amongst the leaders which facilitated the interference of the Bulgarian Tsar Siméon. Tchaslav, the djoupan of another Serbian tribe, though he possessed no rights to it, claimed the throne, and was supported by Siméon, who successfully invaded Rashka. The Bulgarians retained possession of the country for seven years (924-931), when Tchaslav succeeded in wresting from them a new state which comprised, together with Rashka, the territories of Zetta, Trebinye, Neretva and Houm. After his death, great disorder reigned in this principality. In the course of the next century the Byzantine Empire, having again brought the now enfeebled Bulgaria within its rule, also overpowered Rashka, whose Grand Djoupan fled. The ruler of Zetta, Stephen Voïslav (1034-1051), son of Dragomir, djoupan of Trebinye, took the opportunity of declaring himself independent of his suzerain the Grand Djoupan of Rashka, and appropriated Zahoumlye (Herzegovina) and some other regions. His son Michaylo (1053-1081) succeeded further in bringing Rashka under his authority, and obtained the title of king (rex Sclavorum) from Pope Gregory VII in the year 1077. Under the rule of King Bodin, the son of Michaylo, the Serbia of Tchaslav was restored; furthermore Bosnia was added to his state. But after Bodin's death new disorder ensued, caused mainly by the struggles amongst the several pretenders to the throne. Internecine Strife Internecine strife is an unfortunate feature to be noticed throughout Serbian history, and constantly we see energy wasted in futile dissensions among various members of ruling families, who criminally and fatally neglected national interests, in pursuit by legitimate or illegitimate means of their personal ambitions. This has at all times hindered the Serbian nation from becoming a powerful political unit, although efforts were made by many of the rulers to realize this policy. In 1169 a dynasty destined to rule Serbia for more than two centuries (1169-1372) within ever-changing political boundaries, was founded by the celebrated Grand Djoupan Stephan Nemanya (1169-1196) who was created Duke (grand djoupan) of Serbia by the Byzantine Emperor after he had instigated a revolution, the result of which was favourable to his pretensions. By his bravery and wisdom he succeeded not only in uniting under his rule the provinces held by his predecessors, but also in adding those which never had been Serbian before, and he placed Ban Koulin, an ally, upon the throne of Bosnia. Furthermore he strengthened the orthodox religion in his state by building numerous churches and monasteries, and by banishing the heretic Bogoumils. [7] Feeling the weakness of advanced age, and wishing to give fresh proof of his religious faith to his people, the aged Nemanya abdicated in 1196, in favour of his able second son Stevan, and withdrew into a monastery. On his accession in the year 1217 Stevan assumed the title of King of Serbia. When the crusaders vanquished Constantinople, Sava, Stevan's youngest brother, obtained from the Greek patriarch the autonomy of the Serbian Church (1219), and became the first Serbian archbishop. Stevan was succeeded by his son Radoslav (1223-1233), who was dethroned by his brother Vladislav (1233-1242), who was removed from the throne by his third brother Ourosh the Great (1242-1276). Ourosh increased his territory and established the reputation of Serbia abroad. In his turn, he was dethroned by his son Dragoutin (1276-1281), who, owing to the failure of a campaign against the Greeks, retired from the throne in favour of a younger brother Miloutin (1281-1321), reserving, however, for himself a province in the north of the State. Soon afterward Dragoutin received from his mother-in-law, the queen of Hungary, the lands between the Rivers Danube Sava and Drina, and assumed the title of King of Sirmia. Dragoutin, while still alive, yielded his throne and a part of his lands to Miloutin, and another part remained under the suzerainty of the King of Hungary. Miloutin is considered one of the most remarkable descendants of Nemanya. After his death the usual discord obtained concerning the succession to the throne. Order was re-established by Miloutin's son, Stevan Detchanski (1321-1331), who defeated the Bulgarians in the famous battle of Velbouzd, and brought the whole of Bulgaria under his sway. Bulgaria remained a province of Serbia until the Ottoman hordes overpowered both. Doushan the Powerful Stevan Detchanski was dethroned by his son Doushan the Powerful (1331-1355), the most notable and most glorious of all Serbian sovereigns. He aimed to establish his rule over the entire Balkan Peninsula, and having succeeded in overpowering nearly the whole of the Byzantine Empire, except Constantinople, he proclaimed himself, in agreement with the Vlastela (Assembly of Nobles), Tsar of Serbia. He elevated the Serbian archbishopric to the dignity of the patriarchate. He subdued the whole of Albania and a part of Greece, while Bulgaria obeyed him almost as a vassal state. His premature death (some historians assert that he was poisoned by his own ministers) did not permit him to realize the whole of his great plan for Serbia, and under the rule of his younger son Ourosh (1355-1371) nearly all his magnificent work was undone owing to the incessant and insatiable greed of the powerful nobles, who thus paved the way for the Ottoman invasion. Among those who rebelled against the new Tsar was King Voukashin. Together with his brother and other lords, he held almost independently the whole territory adjoining Prizrend to the south of the mountain Shar. [8] King Voukashin and his brother were defeated in a battle with the Turks on the banks of the River Maritza (1371), and all Serbian lands to the south of Skoplye (Üsküb) were occupied by the Turks. The Royal Prince Marko The same year Tsar Ourosh died, and Marko, the eldest son of King Voukashin, the national hero of whom we shall hear much in this book, proclaimed himself King of the Serbians, but the Vlastela and the clergy did not recognize his accession. They elected (A.D. 1371) Knez [9] (later Tsar) Lazar, a relative of Tsar Doushan the Powerful, to be the ruler of Serbia, and Marko, from his principality of Prilip, as a vassal of the Sultan, aided the Turks in their campaigns against the Christians. In the year 1399 he met his death in the battle of Rovina, in Roumania, and he is said to have pronounced these memorable words: "May God grant the victory to the Christians, even if I have to perish amongst the first!" The Serbian people, as we shall see, believe that he did not die, but lives even to-day. Knez Lazar ruled from 1371 to 1389, and during his reign he made an alliance with Ban [10] Tvrtko of Bosnia against the Turks. Ban Tvrtko proclaimed himself King of Bosnia, and endeavoured to extend his power in Hungary, whilst Knez Lazar, with the help of a number of Serbian princes, prepared for a great war against the Turks. But Sultan Amourath, informed of Lazar's intentions, suddenly attacked the Serbians on June 15 1389, on the field of Kossovo. The battle was furious on both sides, and at noon the position of the Serbians promised ultimate success to their arms. The Treachery of Brankovitch. There was, however, treachery in the Serbian camp. Vook (Wolf) Brankovitch, one of the great lords, to whom was entrusted one wing of the Serbian army, had long been jealous of his sovereign. Some historians state that he had arranged with Sultan Amourath to betray his master, in return for the promise of the imperial crown of Serbia, subject to the Sultan's overlordship. At a critical moment in the battle, the traitor turned his horse and fled from the field, followed by 12,000 of his troops, who believed this to be a stratagem intended to deceive the Turks. This was a great blow to the Serbians, and when, later in the day the Turks were reinforced by fresh troops under the command of the Sultan's son, Bajazet, the Turkish victory was complete. Knez Lazar was taken prisoner and beheaded, and the Sultan himself perished by the hand of a Serbian voïvode, [11] Milosh Obilitch. Notwithstanding the disaster, in which Brankovitch also perished, the Serbian state did not succumb to the Turks, thanks to the wisdom and bravery of Lazar's son, Stevan Lazarevitch (1389-1427). His nephew, Dyourady Brankovitch (1427-1456), also fought heroically, but was compelled, inch by inch, to cede his state to the Turks. The Final Success of the Turks After the death of Dyourady the Serbian nobles could not agree concerning his successor, and in the disorder that ensued the Turks were able to complete their conquest of Serbia, which they finally achieved by 1459. Their statesmen now set themselves the task of inducing the Serbian peasantry in Bosnia, by promises of future prosperity, to take the oath of allegiance to the Sultan, and in this they were successful during the reign of the King of Bosnia, Stevan Tomashevitch, who endeavoured in vain to secure help from the Pope. The subjugation of Bosnia was an accomplished fact by 1463, and Herzegovina followed by 1482. An Albanian chief of Serbian origin, George Kastriotovitch-Skander-Beg (1443-1468), successfully fought, with great heroism, for the liberty of Albania. Eventually, however, the Turks made themselves master of the country as well as of all Serbian lands, with the exception of Montenegro, which they never could subdue, owing partly to the incomparable heroism of the bravest Serbians--who objected to live under Turkish rule--and partly to the mountainous nature of the country. Many noble Serbian families found a safe refuge in that land of the free; many more went to Ragusa as well as to the Christian Princes of Valahia and Moldavia. The cruel and tyrannous nature of Turkish rule forced thousands of families to emigrate to Hungary, and the descendants of these people may be found to-day in Batchka, Banat, Sirmia and Croatia. Those who remained in Serbia were either forced to embrace Islam or to live as raya (slaves), for the Turkish spahis (land-lords) not only oppressed the Christian population, but confiscated the land hitherto belonging to the natives of the soil. The Miseries of Turkish Rule We should be lengthening this retrospect unduly if we were to describe in full the miserable position of the vanquished Christians, and so we must conclude by giving merely an outline of the modern period. When it happens that a certain thing, or state of things, becomes too sharp, or acute, a change of some sort must necessarily take place. As the Turkish atrocities reached their culmination at the end of the XVIIth century, the Serbians, following the example of their brothers in Hungary and Montenegro, gathered around a leader who was sent apparently by Providence to save them from the shameful oppression of their Asiatic lords. That leader, a gifted Serbian, George Petrovitch--designated by the Turks Karageorge ('Black George')--gathered around him other Serbian notables, and a general insurrection occurred in 1804. The Serbians fought successfully, and established the independence of that part of Serbia comprised in the pashalik of Belgrade and some neighbouring territory. This was accomplished only by dint of great sacrifices and through the characteristic courage of Serbian warriors, and it was fated to endure for less than ten years. Serbia again Subjugated When Europe (and more particularly Russia) was engaged in the war against Napoleon, the Turks found in the pre-occupation of the Great Powers the opportunity to retrieve their losses and Serbia was again subjugated in 1813. George Petrovitch and other Serbian leaders left the country to seek aid, first in Austria, and later in Russia. In their absence, Milosh Obrenovitch, one of Karageorge Petrovitch's lieutenants, made a fresh attempt to liberate the Serbian people from the Turkish yoke, and in 1815 was successful in re-establishing the autonomy of the Belgrade pashalik. During the progress of his operations, George Petrovitch returned to Serbia and was cruelly assassinated by order of Milosh who then proclaimed himself hereditary prince and was approved as such by the Sublime Porte in October 1815. Milosh was a great opponent of Russian policy and he incurred the hostility of that power and was forced to abdicate in 1839 in favour of his son Michel (Serbian 'Mihaylo'). Michel was an excellent diplomat, and had previously incorporated within the independent state of Serbia several districts without shedding blood. He was succeeded by Alexandre Karageorgevitch (1842-1860) son of Karageorge Petrovitch. Under the prudent rule of that prince, Serbia obtained some of the features of a modern constitution and a foundation was laid for further and rapid development. But an unfortunate foreign policy, the corruption existing among the high dignitaries of the state and especially the treachery of Milosh's apparent friends, who hoped to supplant him, forced that enlightened prince to abandon the throne and to leave his country. The Skoupshtina (National Assembly) restored Milosh but the same year the prince died and was succeeded once again by his son Michel (1860-1868). At the assassination of this prince his young cousin, Milan (1868-1889), ruled with the aid, during his minority, of three regents, in conformity of a Constitution voted in 1869. The principal events during the rule of Milan were: the war against Turkey (1876-1878) and the annexation of four new districts; the acknowledgment of Serbian independence by the famous Treaty of Berlin; the proclamation of Serbia as a kingdom in 1882; the unfortunate war against Bulgaria, which was instigated by Austria, and the promulgation of a new Constitution, which, slightly modified, is still in force. After the abdication of King Milan, his unworthy son, Alexander, ascended the throne. Despite the vigorous advices of his friends and the severe admonishments of his personal friend M. Chedo Miyatovich, he married his former mistress, Draga Mashin, under whose influence he entered upon a period of tyranny almost Neronian in type. He went so far as to endeavour to abolish the Constitution, thus completely alienating his people and playing into the hands of his personal enemies, who finally murdered him (1903). King Peter I The Skoupshtina now elected the son of Alexander Karageorgevitch, the present King Peter I Karageorgevitch, whose glorious rule will be marked with golden letters in modern Serbian history, for it is to him that Christendom owes the formation of the league whereby the Turk was all but driven from Europe in 1913. But, alas! the Serbians have only about one-half of their lands free, the rest of their brethren being still under the foreign yoke. Brief as is this retrospect it will suffice to show the circumstances and conditions from which sprung the Serbian national poetry with which we shall be largely concerned in the following pages. The legends have their roots in disasters due as much to the self-seeking of Serbian leaders as to foreign oppressors; but national calamities have not repressed the passionate striving of a high-souled people for freedom, and these dearly loved hero tales of the Balkans express the ideals which have inspired the Serbian race in its long agony, and which will continue to sustain the common people in whatever further disappointments they may be fated to suffer ere they gain the place among the great nations which their persistence and suffering must surely win in the end. CHAPTER II: SUPERSTITIOUS BELIEFS & NATIONAL CUSTOMS General Characteristics The Serbians inhabiting the present kingdom of Serbia, having been mixed with the ancient indigenous population of the Balkan Peninsula, have not conserved their true national type. They have mostly brown visages and dark hair; very rarely are blonde or other complexions to be seen. Boshnyaks (Serbians inhabiting Bosnia) are considered to be the most typical Serbians, they having most strongly retained the national characteristics of the pure Southern-Slavonic race. The average Serbian has a rather lively temperament; he is highly sensitive and very emotional. His enthusiasm is quickly roused, but most emotions with him are, as a rule, of short duration. However, he is extremely active and sometimes persistent. Truly patriotic, he is always ready to sacrifice his life and property for national interests, which he understands particularly well, thanks to his intimate knowledge of the ancient history of his people, transmitted to him from generation to generation through the pleasing medium of popular epic poetry composed in very simple decasyllabic blank verse--entirely Serbian in its origin. He is extremely courageous and always ready for war. Although patriarchal and conservative in everything national, he is ready and willing to accept new ideas. But he has remained behind other countries in agricultural and industrial pursuits. Very submissive in his Zadrooga [12] and obedient to his superiors, he is often despotic when elevated to power. The history of all the Southern Slavs pictures a series of violations, depositions, political upheavals, achieved sometimes by the most cruel means and acts of treachery; all mainly due to the innate and hitherto inexpugnable faults characteristic of the race, such as jealousy and an inordinate desire for power. These faults, of course, have been most apparent in the nobles, hence the decay of the ancient aristocracy throughout the Balkans. Paganism and Religion There is available but slender material concerning the pre-Christian history of the Southern-Slavonic races, and their worship of Nature has not been adequately studied. Immediately after the Slavonic immigration into the Balkan Peninsula during the seventh and eighth centuries, Christianity, which was already deeply rooted in the Byzantines, easily destroyed the ancient faith. The last survivors of paganism lived in the western part of the peninsula, in the regions round the river Neretva, and these were converted to Christianity during the reign of Basil I. A number of Croatians had been converted to Christianity as early even as the seventh century, and had established an episcopate at Agram (Zagreb). In the course of some thousand years Græco-Oriental myths and legends, ancient Illyrian and Roman propaganda and Christian legends and apocryphal writings exercised so great an influence upon the ancient religions of the Southern-Slavonic peoples that it is impossible to unravel from the tangled skein of such evidence as is available a purely Southern-Slavonic mythology. The God Peroon Of Peroon, the Russian God of Thunder, by whom the Russian pagans used to swear in their treaties and conventions concluded with the Byzantines during the tenth century, only a few insignificant traces remain. There is a village named 'Peroon' near Spalato; a small number of persons in Montenegro bear the name; [13] and it is preserved also in the name of a plant, 'Peroonika' (iris), which is dedicated to the god. There is hardly a cottage-garden in the Serbian villages where one does not see the iris growing by the side of the house-leek (Tchuvar-Koutchye). The Serbians say that the god lives still in the person of St. Elias (Elijah), and Serbian peasants believe that this saint possesses the power of controlling lightning and thunder. They also believe that St. Elias has a sister 'Ognyena Maria' (Mary the Fiery One), who frequently acts as his counsellor. The God Volos From the Russian God of Cattle, 'Volos,' the city 'Veless' has obtained its name; also a village in the western part of Serbia, and there is a small village on the lower Danube called 'Velessnitza.' But the closest derivative appears in the Serbian word 'Vo,' or 'Voll' (in the singular) 'Volovi' (in the plural) which means 'Ox.' The Sun God Other phenomena of Nature were also personified and venerated as gods. The Sun god, 'Daybog' (in Russian 'Daszbog,' meaning literally 'Give, O God!'), whose idols are found in the group of idols in Kief, and whose name reappears as a proper name of persons in Russia, Moldavia and Poland, is to the Serbians the personification of sunshine, life, prosperity and, indeed, of everything good. But there have been found no remains of idols representing the god 'Daybog' among the Southern-Slavonic nations, as with the Russians, who made figures of him in wood, with head of silver and moustache of gold. The Veele The Serbian legends preserve to this day interesting traces of the worship of those pagan gods and of minor deities--which still occupy a considerable place in the national superstition. The "nymphai" and "potami" mentioned by the Greek historian Procope, as inferior female divinities inhabiting groves, forests, fountains, springs or lakes, seem to have been retained in the Serbian popular Veela (or Vila--in the singular; Veele or Vile--in the plural). There are several fountains called "Vilin Izvor" in Montenegro (e.g. on Mount Kom), as also in the district of Rudnik in Serbia. During the Renaissance the Serbian poets of Ragusa and other cities of Dalmatia made frequent reference to the nymphs, dryads, and oreads beloved by them as "veele." The Serbian bards or troubadours from the early fourteenth century to our day have ever glorified and sung of the veele, describing them as very beautiful and eternally young, robed in the whitest and finest gauze, with shimmering golden hair flowing down over snow-white bosoms. Veele were said to have the most sweet voices and were sometimes armed with bows and arrows. Their melodious songs were often heard on the borders of the lakes or in the meadows hidden deep in the forests, or on high mountain-peaks beyond the clouds. They also loved to dance, and their rings are called 'Vrzino (or Vilino) Kollo.' In Mount Kom in Montenegro, there is one of these rings which measures about twenty metres across and is called 'Vilino Kollo.' The Treaty of Berlin mentions another situated between Vranya and Küstandil, through which ran the Serbo-Bulgarian frontier. When veele were dancing nobody dare disturb them, for they could be very hostile to men. Like the Greek nymphs, veele could also be amicably disposed; and on occasions they assisted the heroes. They could become the sisters of men and of women, and could even marry and have off-springs. But they were not by any means invulnerable. Prince Marko, the favourite hero of the Serbians, was endowed with superhuman strength by a veela who also presented him with a most wonderful courser, 'Sharatz,' which was, indeed, almost human. A veela also became his possestrima (Spiritual sister, or 'sister-in-God') and when Marko was in urgent need of help, she would descend from the clouds and assist him. But she refused to aid him if he fought in duels on Sundays. On one occasion [14] Marko all but slew the Veela Raviyoyla who wounded his pobratim (brother-in-God) Voïvode Milosh. The veele were wise in the use of herbs, and knew the properties of every flower and berry, therefore Raviyoyla could heal the wounds of Milosh, and his pierced heart was "sounder than ever before." They believed in God and St. John, and abhorred the Turk. The veele also possessed the power of clairvoyance, and Prince Marko's 'sister-in-God' prophesied his death and that of Sharatz. [15] Veele had power to control tempests and other phenomena of nature; they could change themselves into snakes or swans. When they were offended they could be very cruel; they could kill or take away the senses of any who threatened them with violence; they would lead men into deep waters or raze in a night magnificent buildings and fortresses. [16] To veele was attributed also the power of deciding the destiny of newly born children. On the seventh night after the birth of a child the Serbian peasant woman watches carefully for the Oossood, a veela who will pronounce the destiny of her infant, and it is the mother only who can hear the voice of the fairy. Predestination and Immortality The Serbians believe firmly in predestination, and they say that "there is no death without the appointed day" (Nema smrti bez soodyena dana). They believe universally in the immortality of the soul, of which even otherwise inanimate objects, such as forests, lakes, mountains, sometimes partake. After the death of a man, the soul delays its departure to the higher or lower spheres until the expiration of a certain period (usually forty days), during which time it floats in the air, and can perhaps enter into the body of some animal or insect. Good and Evil Spirits Spirits are usually good; in Montenegro the people believe that each house has its Guardian-Spirit, whom they call syen or syenovik. Such syens can enter into the body of a man, a dog, a snake, or even a hen. In the like manner every forest, lake, and mountain has each its syen, which is called by a Turkish word djin. So, for example, the djin of the mountain Riyetchki Kom, near the northern side of the lake of Scutari, does not allow passers-by to touch a branch or a leaf in the perpetually green woods on the mountain side, and if any traveller should gather as much as a flower or a leaf he is instantly pursued by a dense fog and perceives miraculous and terrifying visions in the air. The Albanians dread similar spirits of the woods in the region round Lurya, where they do not dare touch even the dry branches of fallen firs and larches. This recalls the worship of sacred bushes common among the ancient Lithuanians. Besides the good spirits there appear evil spirits (byess), demons, and devils (dyavo), whom the Christians considered as pagan gods, and other evil spirits (zli doossi) too, who exist in the bodies of dead or of living men. These last are called vookodlaks or Vlkodlaks (i.e. vook, meaning 'wolf,' and dlaka, meaning 'hair'), and, according to the popular belief, they cause solar and lunar eclipses. This recalls the old Norse belief that the sun and moon were continually pursued by hungry wolves, a similar attempt to explain the same natural phenomena. Even to-day Serbian peasants believe that eclipses of the sun and moon are caused by their becoming the prey of a hungry dragon, who tries to swallow them. In other parts of Serbia it is generally believed that such dragons are female beings. These mischievous and very powerful creatures are credited with the destruction of cornfields and vineyards, for they are responsible for the havoc wrought by the hail-carrying clouds. When the peasants observe a partial eclipse of the moon or the sun, believing that a hailstorm is imminent, they gather in the village streets, and all--men, women, and children--beat pots and pans together, fire pistols, and ring bells in order to frighten away the threatening monster. In Montenegro, Herzegovina, and Bocca Cattaro the people believe that the soul of a sleeping man is wafted by the winds to the summit of a mountain, and, when a number of such has assembled, they become fierce giants who uproot trees to use as clubs and hurl rocks and stones at one another. Their hissing and groans are heard especially during the nights in spring and autumn. Those struggling crowds are not composed merely of human souls, but include the spirits of many animals, such as oxen, dogs, and even cocks, but oxen especially join in the struggles. Witches Female evil spirits are generally called veshtitze (singular, veshtitza, derived obviously from the ancient Bohemian word ved, which means 'to know'), and are supposed to be old women possessed by an evil spirit, irreconcilably hostile to men, to other women, and most of all to children. They correspond more or less to the English conception of 'witches.' When an old woman goes to sleep, her soul leaves her body and wanders about till it enters the body of a hen or, more frequently, that of a black moth. Flying about, it enters those houses where there are a number of children, for its favourite food is the heart of an infant. From time to time veshtitze meet to take their supper together in the branches of some tree. An old woman having the attributes of a witch may join such meetings after having complied with the rules prescribed by the experienced veshtitze, and this is usually done by pronouncing certain stereotyped phrases. The peasants endeavour to discover such creatures, and, if they succeed in finding out a witch, a jury is hastily formed and is given full power to sentence her to death. One of the most certain methods used to discover whether the object of suspicion is really a witch or not, is to throw the victim into the water, for if she floats she is surely a witch. In this case she is usually burnt to death. This test was not unknown in England. Vampires The belief in the existence of vampires is universal throughout the Balkans, and indeed it is not uncommon in certain parts of western Europe. Some assert that this superstition must be connected with the belief generally held in the Orthodox Church that the bodies of those who have died while under excommunication by the Church are incorruptible, and such bodies, being taken possession of by evil spirits, appear before men in lonely places and murder them. In Montenegro vampires are called lampirs or tenatz, and it is thought that they suck the blood of sleeping men, and also of cattle and other animals, returning to their graves after their nocturnal excursions changed into mice. In order to discover the grave where the vampire is, the Montenegrins take out a black horse, without blemish, and lead it to the cemetery. The suspected corpse is dug up, pierced with stakes and burnt. The authorities, of course, are opposed to such superstitious practices, but some communities have threatened to abandon their dwellings, and thus leave whole villages deserted, unless allowed to ensure their safety in their own way. The code of the Emperor Doushan the Powerful provides that a village in which bodies of dead persons have been exhumed and burnt shall be punished as severely as if a murder had been committed; and that a resnik, that is, the priest who officiates at a ceremony of that kind, shall be anathematized. Militchevitch, a famous Serbian ethnographist, relates an incident where a resnik, as late as the beginning of the nineteenth century, read prayers out of the apocrypha of Peroon when an exorcism was required. The revolting custom has been completely suppressed in Serbia. In Montenegro the Archbishop Peter II. endeavoured to uproot it, but without entire success. In Bosnia, Istria and Bulgaria it is also sometimes heard of. The belief in vampires is a superstition widely spread throughout Roumania, Albania and Greece. [17] Nature Worship Even in our own day there are traces of sun and moon worship, and many Serbian and Bulgarian poems celebrate the marriage of the sun and the moon, and sing Danitza (the morning star) and Sedmoro Bratye ('The Seven Brothers'--evidently The Pleiades). [18] Every man has his own star, which appears in the firmament at the moment of his birth and is extinguished when he dies. Fire and lightning are also worshipped. It is common belief that the earth rests on water, that the water reposes on a fire and that that fire again is upon another fire, which is called Zmayevska Vatra ('Fire of the Dragons'). Similarly the worship of animals has been preserved to our times. The Serbians consider the bear to be no less than a man who has been punished and turned into an animal. This they believe because the bear can walk upright as a man does. The Montenegrins consider the jackal (canis aureus) a semi-human being, because its howls at night sound like the wails of a child. The roedeer (capreolus caprea) is supposed to be guarded by veele, and therefore she so often escapes the hunter. In some parts of Serbia and throughout Montenegro it is a sin to kill a fox, or a bee. The worship of certain snakes is common throughout the Balkans. In Montenegro the people believe that a black snake lives in a hole under every house, and if anybody should kill it, the head of the house is sure to die. Certain water-snakes with fiery heads were also considered of the same importance as the evil dragons (or hydra) who, at one time, threatened ships sailing on the Lake of Scutari. One of these hydras is still supposed to live in the Lake of Rikavatz, in the deserted mountains of Eastern Montenegro, from the bottom of which the hidden monster rises out of the water from time to time, and returns heralded by great peals of thunder and flashes of lightning. But the Southern Slavs do not represent the dragon as the Hellenes did, that is to say as a monster in the form of a huge lizard or serpent, with crested head, wings and great strong claws, for they know this outward form is merely used as a misleading mask. In his true character a dragon is a handsome youth, possessing superhuman strength and courage, and he is usually represented as in love with some beautiful princess or empress. [19] Enchanters Among celebrants of the various pagan rites, there is mention of tcharobnitzi (enchanters), who are known to have lived also in Russia, where, during the eleventh century, they sapped the new Christianity. The Slavonic translation of the Gospel recognized by the Church in the ninth century applies the name 'tcharobnitzi' to the three Holy Kings. To this same category belong the resnitzi who, as is apparent in the Emperor Doushan's Code referred to previously, used to burn the bodies of the dead. Resnik, which appears as a proper name in Serbia, Bosnia and Croatia, means, according to all evidence, "the one who is searching for truth." Sacrificial Rites From translations of the Greek legends of the saints, the exact terminology of the sacrificial ceremonies and the places where they had been made is well known. Procopius mentions oxen as the animals generally offered for sacrifice, but we find that calves, goats, and sheep, in addition to oxen, were used by the Polapic Slavs and Lithuanians, and that, according to Byzantine authorities, the Russians used even birds as well. In Montenegro, on the occasion of raising a new building, a ram or a cock is usually slaughtered in order that a corner-stone may be besprinkled with its blood, and, at the ceremony of inaugurating a new fountain, a goat is killed. Tradition tells of how Prince Ivan Tzrnoyevitch once shot in front of a cavern an uncommonly big wild goat that, being quite wet, shook water from its coat so that instantly a river began to flow thence. This stream is called even now the River of Tzrnoyevitch. The story reminds one of the goats' horns and bodies of goats which are seen on the altar dedicated to the Illyrian god, Bind, near a fountain in the province of Yapod. It is a fact that Russians and Polapic Slavs used to offer human sacrifices. Mention of such sacrifices among the Southern Slavs is found only in the cycle of myths relating to certain buildings, which, it was superstitiously believed, could be completed only if a living human being were buried or immured. Such legends exist among the Serbians and Montenegrins concerning the building of the fortress Skadar (Scutari) and the bridge near Vishegrad; with the Bulgarians in reference to building the fort Lidga-Hyssar, near Plovdiv, and the Kadi-Köpri (Turkish for 'the bridge of the judge') on the river Struma; and again among modern Greeks in their history of the bridge on the river Arta, and the Roumanians of the church 'Curtea de Ardyesh.' It seems very likely that certain enigmatic bas-reliefs, representing oval human faces with just the eyes, nose and mouth, which are found concealed under the cemented surface of the walls of old buildings have some connexion with the sacrificial practice referred to. There are three such heads in the fortress of Prince Dyouragy Brankovitch at Smederevo (Semendria), not far from Belgrade, on the inner side of the middle donjon fronting the Danube, and two others in the monastery Rila on the exterior wall close to the Doupitchka Kapiya. Funeral Customs During the siege of Constantinople in the year 626, the Southern Slavs burnt the bodies of their dead. The Russians did the same during the battles near Silistria, 971, and subsequently commemorative services were held in all parts of Russia, and the remains of the dead were buried. The Slavs of north Russia used to keep the ashes of the dead in a small vessel, which they would place on a pillar by the side of a public road; that custom persisted with the Vyatitchs of southern Russia as late as 1100. These funeral customs have been retained longest by the Lithuanians; the last recorded instance of a pagan burial was when Keystut, brother of the Grand Duke Olgerd, was interred in the year 1382, that is to say, he was burnt together with his horses and arms, falcons and hounds. There are in existence upright stones, mostly heavy slabs of stone, many of them broken, or square blocks and even columns, which were called in the Middle Ages kami, or bileg, and now stetyak or mramor. Such stones are to be found in large numbers close together; for example, there are over 6000 in the province of Vlassenitza, and some 22,000 in the whole of Herzegovina; some can be seen also in Dalmatia, for instance, in Kanovli, and in Montenegro, at Nikshitch; in Serbia, however, they are found only in Podrigne. These stones are usually decorated with figures, which appear to be primitive imitations of the work of Roman sculptors: arcades on columns, plant designs, trees, swords and shields, figures of warriors carrying their bows, horsemen, deer, bears, wild-boars, and falcons; there are also oblong representations of male and female figures dancing together and playing games. The symbol of the Cross indicates the presence of Christianity. Inscriptions appear only after the eleventh century. But many tombstones plainly had their origin in the Middle Ages. Some tombs, situated far from villages, are described by man's personal name in the chronicles relating to the demarcations of territories, for example, Bolestino Groblye (the cemetery of Bolestino) near Ipek; Druzetin Grob (the tomb of Druzet). In Konavla, near Ragusa, there was in the year 1420 a certain point where important cross-roads met, known as 'Obugonov Grob.' Even in our day there is a tombstone here without inscription, called 'Obugagn Greb.' It is the grave of the Governor Obuganitch, a descendant of the family of Lyoubibratitch, famous in the fourteenth century. Classic and Mediæval Influence When paganism had disappeared, the Southern-Slavonic legends received many elements from the Greeks and Romans. There are references to the Emperors Trajan and Diocletian as well as to mythical personages. In the Balkans, Trajan is often confused with the Greek king Midas. In the year 1433 Chevalier Bertrandon de la Broquière heard from the Greeks at Trajanople that this city had been built by the Emperor Trajan, who had goat's ears. The historian Tzetzes also mentions that emperor's goat's ears otia tragou. In Serbian legends the Emperor Trajan seems also to be confused with Dædalus, for he is given war-wings in addition to the ears. To the cycle of mediæval myths we owe also the djins (giants) who dwelt in caverns, and who are known by the Turkish name div--originally Persian. Notable of the divs were those having only one eye--who may be called a variety of cyclops--mentioned also in Bulgarian, Croatian and Slovenian mythology. On the shores of the river Moratcha, in Montenegro, there is a meadow called 'Psoglavlya Livada' with a cavern in which such creatures are said to have lived at one time. The Spread of Christianity When the pagan Slavs occupied the Roman provinces, the Christian region was limited to parts of the Byzantine provinces. In Dalmatia after the fall of Salona, the archbishopric of Salona was transferred to Spalato (Splyet), but in the papal bulls of the ninth century it continued always to be styled Salonitana ecclesia, and it claimed jurisdiction over the entire lands as far as the Danube. According to Constantine Porphyrogenete, the Serbians adopted the Christian faith at two different periods, first during the reign of the Emperor Heraclius, who had requested the Pope to send a number of priests to convert those peoples to the Christian faith. It is well known, however, that the Slavs in Dalmatia even during the reign of Pope John IV (640-642) remained pagans. No doubt Christianity spread gradually from the Roman cities of Dalmatia to the various Slav provinces. The Croatians already belonged to the Roman Church at the time when its priests were converting the Serbians to Christianity between the years 642 and 731, i.e., after the death of Pope John IV and before Leon of Isauria had broken off his relations with Rome. The second conversion of those of the Southern Slavs who had remained pagans was effected, about 879, by the Emperor Basil I. At first the Christian faith spread amongst the Southern Slavs only superficially, because the people could not understand Latin prayers and ecclesiastical books. It took root much more firmly and rapidly when the ancient Slavonic language was used in the church services. Owing to the differences arising over icons and the form their worship should take, enthusiasm for the conversion of the pagans by the Latin Church considerably lessened. In the Byzantine provinces, however, there was no need for a special effort to be made to the people, for the Slavs came in constant contact with the Greek Christians, whose beliefs they adopted spontaneously. From the Slavonic appellations of places appearing in certain official lists, one can see that new episcopates were established exclusively for the Slavs by the Greek Church. The bishops conducted their services in Greek, but the priests and monks, who were born Slavs, preached and instructed the people in their own languages. Thus they prepared the ground for the great Slav apostles. The Slav apostles of Salonica, Cyrillos and his elder brother Methodius, were very learned men and philosophers. The principal of the two, Cyrillos, was a priest and the librarian of the Patriarchate; in addition he was a professor of philosophy in the University of the Imperial Palace at Constantinople, and he was much esteemed on account of his ecclesiastical erudition. Their great work began in 862 with the mission to the Emperor Michel III., with which the Moravian Princes Rastislav and Svetopluk entrusted them. The Moravians were already converted to Christianity, but they wished to have teachers among them acquainted with the Slav language. Before the brothers started on their journey, Cyrillos composed the Slav alphabet and translated the Gospel. Thus the Serbians obtained these Holy Books written in a language familiar to them, and the doctrines of the great Master gradually, but steadily, ousted the old, primitive religion which had taken the form of pure Naturalism. But the worship of Nature could not completely disappear, and has not, even to our day, vanished from the popular creed of the Balkans. The folk-lore of those nations embodies an abundance of religious and superstitious sentiment and rites handed down from pre-Christian times, for after many years' struggle paganism was only partially abolished by the ritual of the Latin and afterwards of the Greek Christian Church, to which all Serbians, including the natives of Montenegro, Macedonia and parts of Bosnia, belong. Superstition The foundations of the Christian faith were never laid properly in the Balkans owing to the lack of cultured priests, and this reason, and the fact that the people love to cling to their old traditions, probably accounts for religion having never taken a very deep hold on them. Even to this day superstition is often stronger than religion, or sometimes replaces it altogether. The whole daily life of the Southern Slav is interwoven with all kinds of superstition. He is superstitious about the manner in which he rises in the morning and as to what he sees first; for instance, if he sees a monk, he is sure to have an unfortunate day; when he builds a house, a 'lucky spot' must be found for its foundation. At night he is superstitious about the way he lies down; he listens to hear if the cocks crow in time, and if the dogs bark much, and how they are barking. He pays great attention to the moment when thunder is first heard, what kind of rain falls, how the stars shine--whether or not they shine at all, and looks anxiously to see if the moon has a halo, and if the sun shines through a cloud. All these things are portents and omens to his superstitious mind, and they play a considerable part in all his actions. When he intends to join a hunting expedition, for example, he decides from them whether there will be game or not; he believes that he is sure to shoot something if his wife, or sister (or any other good-natured person) jumps over his gun before he calls up his dogs. Especially there are numberless superstitions connected with husbandry, for some of which fairly plausible explanations could be given; for others, however, explanations are hopelessly unavailing, and the reasons for their origin are totally forgotten. Nevertheless, all superstitions are zealously observed because, the people say, "it is well to do so," or "our ancestors always did so and were happy, why should we not do the same?" The planting of fruit-trees and the growing of fruit must be aided by charms, and numerous feasts are organized to secure a fruitful year, or to prevent floods, hail, drought, frost, and other disasters. But undoubtedly the greatest number of superstitions exist regarding the daily customs, most of which refer to birth, marriage and death. Charms are used to discover a future bridegroom or bride; to make a young man fall in love with a maid or vice versâ; also, if it seems desirable, to make them hate each other. Sorcery is resorted to to ensure the fulfilment of the bride's wishes with regard to children; their number and sex are decided upon, their health is ensured in advance, favourable conditions are arranged for their appearance. Death can come, it is believed, only when the Archangel Michael removes a soul from its body, and that can only happen on the appointed day. The chief national customs of the Southern Slavs are involved in a mass of superstition. As the Serbians are the most representative of the Balkan Slavs, we shall consider a few of their customs in order to show how little of the true spirit of religion is to be found in some of their religious observances. Marriage When a child is born in a Serbian family, the friends congratulate the parents and wish for them: "that they may live to see the green wreaths," which means living to see their child married. Marriages are most frequent in autumn, especially towards Christmas, and more rare in summer. When parents intend to find a bridegroom for their daughter or a bride for their son, they generally consider the question thoroughly for a whole year beforehand. They take their daughter or son to various social gatherings, in order that they may meet one suited to become the husband of their daughter or the wife of their son. When a daughter is informed of her parents' decision she must hasten her preparations: she must see that the bochtchaluks [20] (wedding presents) which she has to distribute among the wedding guests (svati or svatovi) be finished soon. These presents are articles mostly made by her own hands, such as socks, stockings, shirts, towels, and rugs. Usually the house is put into good order and perhaps enlarged before the marriage, and when all the preparations are ready the rumour of her approaching marriage is allowed to spread through the village. As marriages are usually settled by the parents, love-matches, unfortunately, are rare, and elopements are regarded as phenomenal. There are, however, cases where young people are not docile to the will of their parents with regard to marriage. If a girl has fallen in love with a young man, she may have recourse, besides usual ways and methods, to professional enchantresses. Among the devices recommended by these friends of lovers are the following: The maiden looks through the muzzle of a roast sucking-pig (which has been killed for the Christmas festivities) at her beloved, whereupon he is sure to grow madly in love with her; her lover is bound to die of love for her if she sees him through a hole made in a cherry or certain other fruit; she is equally sure to gain his affection if she can succeed in finding the trace of his right foot-print and turns the earth under it. These and many other kinds of sorcery are usually practised on or about St. George's Day (23rd of April, O.S.). Young men, too, have recourse on occasion to witchcraft when they desire the love of some obdurate maiden. For instance, if at midnight on a certain Friday the young man goes to the courtyard of the dwelling of the lady of his heart and there shakes a tree three times, uttering as many times her Christian name, she is absolutely certain to answer his call and to reciprocate his love. Another equally infallible method is for him to catch a certain fish and to let it die near his heart; then to roast its flesh until it is burnt to a cinder, then to pound this, and to place the powder secretly in water or some other beverage. If the girl can be induced to taste of it, she is as a matter of course constrained to love him. These expedients recall the famous exploit of the French troubadour Pierre Vidal undertaken to win the love of his beautiful patroness Donna Azalais de Baux. A magical recipe for success in love, taken from an Arabic monument, was given to the poet by Hugues de Baux, a mischievous young knight and brother-in-law of the fair Donna Azalais; the credulous Vidal was induced to ride on a pig one moonlight night three times round the castle of his lady-love, all unconscious that his waggish friend had brought all the inmates to a terrace to witness his ridiculous exhibition. Marriage Negotiations When parents have chosen their son's bride they send to her parents a fully qualified delegate (navodagjya) to inquire whether or not they would consent to give their daughter to the young man. As marriages are rarely concluded without the aid of these delegates there are numerous persons who make it their regular profession to negotiate marriages, and they receive a sum of money when their offices are successful. In addition to this fee the navodagjya receives from the future bride at least one pair of socks. If the father of the girl is not agreeable to the proposal, he generally does not give a decisive reply, but finds some pretext, stating, for example, that his daughter is still too young, or that she is not quite ready with her preparations for marriage; but if the young man appears to be eligible and the father is willing to give his consent, he generally answers that he would like to see his daughter married to such an excellent man, provided the couple be fond of each other. Then a meeting is arranged, although in fact this is merely a matter of form, since the final decision must come from the parents themselves, irrespective of the mutual feelings of the prospective husband and wife. The parents ask the young people if they like one another; usually an affirmative answer is given, whereupon all present embrace each other, and presents are exchanged, both between the parents and between the future husband and bride. This event is often celebrated by the firing of pistols and guns, in order to make it known all over the village that marriage festivities are soon to follow. Soon after the ceremony, which may be called a preliminary betrothal, the parents of the bridegroom, together with the young man and a few most intimate friends, pay an official visit to the house of the bride. The visit usually takes place in the evening, and, after the bridegroom has given the bride a ring, festivities begin and last until the next morning. A few days later the bride and the bridegroom go to church, accompanied by a few friends, and the priest asks them some stereotyped questions, such as: "Do you wish to marry of your own free will?" to which they are, so to speak, compelled to answer "Yes." The Wedding Procession A week before the wedding-day both families prepare their houses for numerous guests, whom they will entertain most hospitably for several days. Until very recent times, if the bride lived in some distant village the wedding procession had to travel for several days to fetch her, and, in the absence of good roads for carriages, the entire party had to ride on horseback. The wedding party includes the dever [21] (that is, leader of the bride), who remains in constant attendance upon the bride throughout the ceremonies, being, in a sense, her guardian; the koom (principal witness, who in due course becomes a sort of sponsor or godfather to the children); and the stari-svat, who is the second witness of the wedding ceremony. Throughout the wedding ceremonies the koom has to stand behind the bridegroom and the stari-svat behind the bride. The stari-svat is also a kind of master of the ceremonies on the wedding-day; he keeps order among the guests and presides at the nuptial banquets. With the dever come also his parents, and the koom and stari-svat must bring one servant each, to attend them during the ceremony. These two witnesses must provide themselves with two large wax candles, generally adorned with transparent silk lace and flowers, which they must present to the bride in addition to many other gifts. Before the procession sets out, the young people fire pistols, sing, and dance, whilst the elders sit and take refreshment. The appearance of the bridegroom in his bridal garments, and wearing flowers in his hat, is the signal for the traditional nuptial songs from a chorus of girls. When the carriages are ready to start they sing the following: "A falcon flew from the castle Bearing a letter under its wing, Drops the letter on the father's knee See! Father! The letter tells you That thy son will travel far, Beyond many running rivers, Through many verdant forests, Till he brings you a daughter[-in-law]." The Tzigan (Gipsy) band begins its joyful melodies; the bridegroom, the standard-bearer, and other young people mount their horses, all gaily bedecked with flowers, and the procession starts for the bride's house, the equestrians riding, generally, two and two, firing pistols and singing. The procession is always led by a frolicsome youth who carries a tchoutoura (a flat wooden vessel) containing red wine. It is his duty to offer this to every person the wedding party may meet on the road, and he is privileged to make, during the wedding festival, jokes and witticisms at the expense of everybody. He enjoys the licence of a court jester for that day, and nobody must resent his witticisms, which are, at times, indelicate and coarse. A few steps behind the tchoutoura-bearer ride the voivode (general, or leader), whose office it is to support the former in his sallies, and the standard-bearer, who carries the national flag; after them, in one of the carriages profusely decorated with flowers, ride the bridesmaids, who are selected from among the relatives of the bridegroom. With other presents the maidens carry the wedding dress and flowers which the bridegroom's father has bought for his future daughter-in-law. Immediately following the bridesmaids rides the bridegroom between the koom and the stari-svat. Then come other relatives and guests, two and two in procession. At times these wedding processions offer a very impressive sight. The Arrival When the wedding procession approaches the house of the bride, its arrival is announced by firing off pistols and guns, whereupon a number of girls appear and sing various songs expressive of sorrow at the bride's departure from her old home. In some parts of Serbia there still survives a strange old custom; the bride's father requires that certain conditions should be fulfilled before the gates of the courtyard are opened for the procession. For example, he sends a good wrestler to challenge any or every man of the bridegroom's party, and one of the wedding guests must overpower the challenger before the gates are opened. Of course, the wrestling bout is not serious, as a rule. Another condition, obtaining in ether parts, is that the newcomers are not be to admitted before one of them, by firing his pistol, has destroyed a pot or other terra-cotta vessel fastened at the top of the chimney. When such, or other, conditions have been successfully negotiated, the wedding party is admitted to the house and led to tables loaded with roast lamb or pork, cakes, fruit, wine and brandy. The bride's father places the father of the bridegroom in the seat of honour, and immediately next to him the stari-svat, then the koom and then the bridegroom. When the guests are seated, a large flat cake (pogatcha) is placed before the bridegroom's father, and he lays upon it some gold coins; it may be a whole chain made of golden ducats, which the bride is to wear later round her neck. His example is followed immediately by the stari-svat, the koom, and all the other guests. Finally the bride's father brings the dowry which he has determined to give to his daughter and lays it on the cake. All the money thus collected is handed over to the stari-svat, who will give it in due course to the bride. Next the bridesmaids take the wedding dress to the bride's apartment, where they adorn her with great care and ceremony. Her toilet finished, one of her brothers, or, in the absence of a brother, one of her nearest male relatives, takes her by the hand and leads her to the assembled family and friends. The moment she appears, the wedding guests greet her with a lively fire from their pistols, and the bridesmaids conduct her to the bridegroom, to whom she presents a wreath of flowers. She is then led to the stari-svat and the koom, whose hands she kisses. That ordeal concluded, she goes into the house, where, in front of the hearth, sit her parents on low wooden chairs. There she prostrates herself, kissing the floor in front of the fire. This is obviously a relic of fire-worship; now, however, symbolical of the veneration of the centre of family life. When she rises, the maiden kisses the hands of her father and mother, who, embracing her, give her their blessing. Now her brother, or relative--as the case may be--escorts her back to the bridegroom's party and there delivers her formally to the dever, who from that moment takes charge of her, in the first place presenting to her the gifts he has brought. The Return from Church After they have feasted the guests mount their horses and, firing tirelessly their pistols, set out with the bride for the nearest church. When the religious ceremony is over the wedding party returns to the bridegroom's home, and the bride has to alight from her horse (or carriage) upon a sack of oats. While the others enter the courtyard through the principal gate, the bride usually selects some other entrance, for she fears lest she may be bewitched. Immediately she enters, the members of the bridegroom's family bring to her a vessel filled with various kinds of corn, which she pours out on the ground "in order that the year may be fruitful." Next they bring her a male child whom she kisses and raises aloft three times. She then passes into the house holding under her arms loaves of bread, and in her hands bottles of red wine--emblems of wealth and prosperity. Although the wedding guests have been well feasted at the bride's house, the journey has renewed their appetites, therefore they seat themselves at tables in the same order as we have already seen, and are regaled with a grand banquet. Throughout the meal, as at the previous one, the voivodes and the tchoutoura-bearer poke fun and satire at the expense of everybody. These mirthful effusions are, as we have already said, not generally in very good taste, but no one takes offence, and everybody laughs heartily, provided there be wit in the jokes. After this feast, during which the young people perform the national dances (kollo) and sing the traditional wedding songs, the dever brings the bride to the threshold of her apartment (vayat) and delivers her to the koom, who, in his turn, leads her in, places her hand in that of the bridegroom and leaves them alone. The guests, however, often remain in the house, until dawn, drinking and singing. Slava (or Krsno Ime) This custom is considered to be a survival of the times when the Serbians were first converted to Christianity. Every Serbian family has one day in the year, known as slava, generally some saint's day, when there are performed certain ceremonies partly of a religious and partly of a social character. The saint whom the head of the family celebrates as his patron, or tutelary saint, is also celebrated by his children and their descendants. A few days before the celebration the priest comes to the house of every svetchar--the man who as the chief of the family celebrates the saint--in order to bless the water which has been prepared beforehand for that purpose in a special vessel; after this he besprinkles the heads of all the members of the family with the holy water, into which he has dipped a small sprig of basil. Then he proceeds from room to room performing the same ceremony in each. In order to please their tutelary saint, all the members of the family fast for at least a week before the feast. On the eve of the saint's day a taper is lit before the saint's image, and remains burning for two days. One or two days before the festival the women prepare a kolatch (a special cake made of wheat-flour) which measures about fifteen inches in diameter, and is about three inches thick. Its surface is divided into quarters by being marked with a cross, each quarter bearing a shield with the letters I.N.R.I. In the centre there is a circle in which is a poskurnik (monogram of these initials). Besides the kolatch, another cake of white wheat well boiled and mixed with powdered sugar, chopped nuts, and almonds, is made. This is called kolyivo (literally "something which has been killed with the knife"). This is obviously a relic of the pagan times when kolyivo was the name given to animals sacrificed on the altar. When the Serbians were converted to the Christian faith, they were told that the Christian God and His saints did not call for animal, and still less for human sacrifice, and that boiled wheat might serve as a substitute. And it is interesting to find that kolyivo is prepared only for those saints whom the people believe to be dead, and not for those who are believed to be still living, such as St. Elias (Elijah), the patron Saint of Thunder, or the "Thunderer," the Archangel Michael and certain others, for it is emphatically a symbolic offering for the dead. The Slava Eve Reception On the eve of the Slava day enough food is prepared to last for the two following days, and toward sunset, all the tables are well loaded with refreshments in readiness for the arrival of numerous guests. Friends and relations are invited to come by a messenger especially sent out from the house. There are several stereotyped forms of this invitation, one of which is the following: "My father (or my uncle, as the case may be) has sent me to bring you his greetings and to invite you to our house this evening to drink a glass of brandy. We wish to share with you the blessings bestowed upon us by God, and our patron-saint. We entreat you to come!" At these words the messenger hands to the invited guest a tchoutoura filled with red wine and decorated with flowers, out of which the guest is obliged to take a little. He then makes the sign of the Cross, and says: "I thank you, and may your Slava be a happy and prosperous one!" After tasting the wine, he continues: "We will do our best to come. It is simple to comply with your wish, since we are invited to share such an honour." He invariably pronounces these words whether he really intends to accept the invitation or not. In the meantime, while the messenger was away inviting guests, the women of the household have been making all the preparations necessary for their reception. Each guest, as he reaches the threshold exclaims: "O master of the house, art thou willing to receive guests?" Hearing this the Svetchar rushes to meet the guest and greets him in these words: "Certainly I am, and may there be many more good guests such as thou art!" Then the guest enters, embraces the Svetchar and says: "I wish thee a most pleasant evening and a happy Slava!" And then as a matter of course the host answers: "I thank thee, and welcome thee to my house!" In the same manner the other guests are greeted. When they have all arrived, the host invites them to wash their hands--for no Serbian peasant would ever sit down to take food without first doing so. Then the host shows to each one his place at the table, always strictly observing precedence due to seniority. The girls of the house first pass round brandy to the assembled guests and this, at least in the winter, has generally been warmed, and honey or sugar has been added. While that is being served all the guests stand, and in silence wait reverently for the ceremonies of the Slava to begin. The host places in the middle of the table a large wax candle, which he does not light until he has made the sign of the Cross three times. Next he takes an earthen vessel containing a few embers, places in it a few small pieces of incense and then lets the fragrance ascend to the icon, which is, according to custom, occupying the place of honour in the room, then still holding the censer he stops for a few moments before each guest. That ceremony being ended, and if there be no priest present, the host himself invites his guests to say their prayers to themselves. A great many Serbian peasants are gifted with the power of offering extempore prayers and they are always in request at these ceremonies. The host passes the censer to his wife, whose duty it is to see that the fumes of the incense reach into every part of the house. Next the host breaks silence with the following prayer: "Let us pray, O brethren, most reverently to the Almighty Lord, our God, and to the Holy Trinity! O Lord, Thou omnipotent and gracious Creator of Heaven and Earth, deliver us, we pray Thee, from all unforeseen evil! O, St. George! (here he adds the name of the saint whose festival they are celebrating), our holy patron-saint, protect us and plead for us with the Lord, our God, we here gathered together do pray Thee. Ye Holy Apostles, ye, the four Evangelists and pillars upon whom rest the Heavens and the Earth, we, being sinners, do conjure ye to intercede for us," and so on. When his prayer is finished, the guests make the sign of the Cross several times and then supper begins. Slava Toasts During the first two or three courses, the guests continue to drink brandy, and wine is not served until they have partaken of meat. At the drinking of the first glass of wine the oldest guest or whoever enjoys the highest dignity of position (generally it is the village priest or the mayor) proposes the first toast, of which--as well as of all the subsequent ones--it may be said that tradition has ordered the exact programme to be followed in all these proceedings, and even prescribed the very words to be used. In some parts of Serbia the host himself proposes the first toast to the most distinguished of his guests, addressing him with: "I beg to thank you, as well as all your brethren, for the honour which you graciously show me in coming to my Slava! Let us drink the first glass to the glory of the gracious God! Where wine is drunk in His name, may prosperity always be!" The principal guest accepts the toast, makes the sign of the Cross and answers in such words as the following: "I thank you, most kind and hospitable host! May your Slava bring you prosperity, let us drink this second glass 'for the better hour.'" The third toast is generally "To the glory of the Holy Trinity!" (In Serbian: Tretya-sretya, sve u slavu Svete Troyitze!) In some parts of Serbia there are commonly seven or even more toasts to be drunk, but this custom shows, fortunately, a tendency to disappear. The Ceremony at Church Next morning all the members of the family rise very early in order to restore order in the house, and the Svetchar goes to the nearest church, taking with him the kolyivo, the kolatch, some wine, incense and a wax candle. All these things he places in front of the altar where they must remain during the morning service, after which the officiating priest cuts the Slava cake from underneath so that his cuts correspond with the lines of the cross shown on the upper surface. Then he breaks the cake and turns it in a circle with the help of the Svetchar, while they pronounce certain prayers together. This ceremony ended, the host takes one half of the cake home and leaves the other half to the priest. If it happens that the church is far away, and time does not allow the host to absent himself long from home, the Slava cake may be cut in halves by him in his own house with the help of his male guests, chanting all the while certain formal prayers: and standing in a circle they hold the cake so that a thumb of each guest should be placed on the top of the cake, whilst they each support it with four fingers. The Slava Feast Toward noon, a few minutes before the sun reaches his zenith, a part of the Slava cake is placed upon the table together with a lighted wax candle. To this midday meal many more guests are usually invited than had attended the supper on the previous evening; furthermore, on this day even a stranger--whatever his religion may be--has the right to enter the house and to claim hospitality. For instance, the Royal Prince Marko had many friends amongst the Turks, and they would invariably come to him as guests on his Slava day. All the guests rise together, cross themselves with great reverence, and, in perfect silence, with glasses filled, they await the address to be made by the Svetchar. Again three, or perhaps more, toasts are proposed and accepted, and, of course, as many times are the glasses again emptied and re-filled before the 'midday' meal is even begun. Eating and drinking, in all cases, "to the glory of God, the Holy Trinity, to the Holy Slava" and so forth continue till late at night, when the guests remember that it is time to go home. Many, however, remain in the house all night and for the next day. Some devotees of good wine used actually to remain, on occasions, for three whole consecutive days and nights. This very extreme devotion to the saints has been practised more especially at Nish, and in that neighbourhood, and has furnished the celebrated Serbian novelist Stefan Strematz with abundant material for one of the finest, as it is undoubtedly one of the wittiest, novels that have been written in Serbian. Christmas Eve Another festival, which the Serbians, like other nations, conduct with many rites and customs of unmistakably pagan origin and which fills the hearts of all with joy, is Christmas. It is a saying of the Serbian people that "there is no day without light--neither is there any real joy without Christmas." The Serbian peasant is, as a general rule, an early riser, but on Christmas Eve (Badgni dan) everybody is up earlier than usual, for it is a day when each member of the household has his hands full of work to be done. Two or more of the young men are sent out from every house to the nearest forest [22] to cut, and bring home, a young oak tree, which is called Badgnak. (The etymology of this word is obscure, but it is probably the name, or derived from the name, of a pagan god.) When the young man who is to cut the tree has selected it, he kneels down, and murmuring words of greeting and uttering a special prayer, he throws at it a handful of wheat or corn; then he makes the sign of the Cross three times and begins carefully to cut in such a direction that the tree must necessarily fall toward the East, and at just about the moment when the sun first shows himself above the horizon. He has also to see that the tree does not touch, in falling to earth, the branches of any tree near it, otherwise the prosperity of his house would most surely be disturbed during the ensuing year. The trunk of the tree is now cut into three logs, one of which is rather longer than the others. Toward evening, when everything is ready and all the members of the family are assembled in the kitchen, the chief room in the dwelling, a large fire is lit, and the head of the family solemnly carries in the Badgnak, and, placing it on the fire, so that the thicker end is left about twelve inches beyond the hearth, he pronounces in a loud voice his good wishes for the prosperity of the house and all within it. In the same way he brings in the other parts of the Badgnak, and, when all are in a blaze, the young shepherds embrace across the largest log, for they believe that by doing so they will ensure the attachment of the sheep to their lambs, of the cows to their calves, and of all other animals to their young. At this point of the proceedings the oldest member of the family brings in a bundle of straw and hands it over to the housewife, to whom he wishes at the same time "a good evening and a happy Badgni dan." She then throws a handful of corn at him, thanks him for the straw and starts walking about the kitchen and the adjoining rooms, scattering straw on the floor and imitating the clucking of hens, while the children gleefully follow her and imitate the sounds made by young chicks. This finished, the mother has next to bring a yellow wax candle and an earthen vessel filled with burning coal. The father again reverently makes the sign of the Cross, lights the candle and places some incense on the embers. Meanwhile the rest of the family have already formed themselves into a semi-circle, with the men standing on the right and the women on the left. The father now proceeds to say prayers aloud, walking from one end of the semi-circle to the other and stopping in front of each person for a short space of time that the fumes of smoking incense, in the censer, held in his right hand, should rise to the face of every one in turn. The prayers which they utter on these occasions last for about fifteen or twenty minutes, and vary in nearly every district. After the prayers they all sit down to supper, which is laid, not upon a table, but on the floor, for it is considered a good orthodox custom to lay sacks over the stone or clay of which the floor is formed, and to use cushions instead of chairs, on Christmas Eve. During supper, at which no meat is served, the father of the family enthusiastically toasts the Badgnak, expressing at the same time his wishes for their common prosperity for the new year, and pours a glass of wine over the protruding end of the log. In many parts of Serbia all the peasants--men, women, and even small children--fast for the forty-five days immediately before Christmas. They abstain from meat, eggs, and milk-food, and eat simply vegetables and fruit. When the supper is over the whole family retires to bed, except one of the young men, who remains near the fire to see that the Badgnak does not burn off completely, and that the fire is not extinguished. Christmas Day It is generally believed that the rites and customs concerning this Church festival, which we Serbians call in our own language Bojitch, meaning 'the little God,' is nothing but the modified worship of the pagan god Dabog (or Daybog), to whom we have already referred, or perhaps represents several forms of that worship. Our pagan ancestors used to sacrifice a pig to their Sun-god, and in our day there is not a single house throughout Serbia in which "roast pork" is not served on Christmas Day as a matter of course. The men and boys of each household rise very early in the morning that day to make a big fire in the courtyard, and to roast a sucking-pig on a spit, for which all preparations are made on Badgni dan. The moment each little pig is placed at the fire there is a vigorous firing of pistols or rifles to greet it, showing by the sound of shot after shot that the whole village is astir. As nearly all the houses in a village practise the same custom most zealously, and as naturally every youth considers it a part of his duty to fire a pistol, the neighbouring hills echo again and again as if persistent skirmishing were going on. Still early in the morning one of the maidens goes to the public well to fetch some drinking water, and when she reaches the well she greets it, wishing it a happy Christmas, throwing at the same time into it a handful of corn and a bunch, or perhaps merely a sprig, of basil. She throws the corn in the hope that the crops may be as abundant as water, and the basil is to keep the water always limpid and pure. The first cupful of the water she draws is used to make a cake (Thesnitza) to be broken at the midday meal into as many pieces as there are members of the household. A silver coin has been put into the dough, and the person who finds it in his piece of cake is considered as the favourite of fortune for the year to come. During the morning every house expects a visitor (polaznik), who is usually a young boy from a neighbouring house. When the polaznik enters the house he breaks off a small branch of the Badgnak's smouldering end, and while he is greeting the head of the house with 'Christ is born!' and all the others are answering him with a cry of 'In truth He is born!' the mother throws at him a handful of wheat. He then approaches the hearth, and strikes the Badgnak with his own piece of tree repeatedly, so that thousands of sparks fly up into the chimney, and he pronounces his good wishes: "May the holy Christmas bring to this house as many sheep, as many horses, as many cows, as many beehives, [and so forth,] as there are sparks in this fire!" Then he places on the Badgnak either a silver or a gold coin, which the head of the family keeps to give to the blacksmith to smelt in with the steel when making his new plough--for, as he believes, this cannot fail to make the ground more fertile and all go well. The polaznik is, of course, made to stay and share the meal with them, and afterwards he is presented with a special cake also containing a coin, sometimes a gold one, sometimes silver. After the repast all the youths go out of doors for sports, especially for sleighing, while the older people gather together around a gooslar (a national bard), and take much, even endless, delight in listening to his recitals of their ancient ballads. The Dodola Rite The disasters which Serbian peasants most fear are of two kinds--drought and very violent storms. In pagan times there was a goddess who, it is believed, ruled the waters and the rain. When the Serbians were first converted to Christianity, the power of controlling the ocean, rivers, and storms, and the sailing of ships at sea, was attributed to St. Nicholas, and the Dalmatians, sea-going men, still pray only to him; whereas in the heart of Serbia, where the peasants have no conception of what large navigable rivers are, still less of what seas and lakes are like, recourse is taken to the favourite goddess Doda or Dodola whenever there is an unduly long spell of dry weather. The Dodola rite is a peculiar one. A maiden, generally a Gipsy, is divested of her usual garments and then thickly wrapped round with grass and flowers so that she is almost concealed beneath them. She wears a wide wreath of willow branches interwoven with wild flowers around her waist and hips, and in such fantastic attire she has to go from house to house in the village dancing, while each housewife pours over her a pailful of water, and her companions chant a prayer having the refrain, Oy Dodo, oy Dodole, after every single line: Fall, O rain! and gentlest dew! Oy, Dodo! Oy, Dodole! Refresh our pasture-lands and fields! Oy, Dodo! Oy, Dodole! In each verse that follows mention is made of a cereal or other plant, imploring Doda that rain may soon be shed upon it. Then the cottage women give them presents, either food or money, and the maidens sing other songs for them, always in the same rhythm, give their thanks, offer good wishes, and are gone. Whitsuntide During the Whitsuntide festivities, about fifteen young girls, mostly Christian Gipsies, one of whom personates the Standard-bearer, another the King, and another the Queen (kralyitza), veiled and attended by a number of Maids of Honour, pass from door to door through the village, singing and dancing. Their songs relate to such subjects as marriage, the choice of a husband or wife, the happiness of wedded life, the blessing of having children. After each verse of their songs follows a refrain, Lado, oy, Lado-leh! which is probably the name of the ancient Slavonic Deity of Love. Palm Sunday "In winter, just before Lent, the great festival in honour of the Dead is celebrated, at which every one solemnizes the memory of departed relations and friends, and no sooner does Palm Sunday arrive than the people join in commemorating the renovation of life. "On the preceding Saturday the maidens assemble on a hill, and recite poems on the resurrection of Lazarus; and on Sunday, before sunrise, they meet at the place where they draw water and dance their country dance (kolllo), chanting a song, which relates how the water becomes dull by the antlers of a stag, and bright by his eye." [23] St. George's Day On St. George's Day, April 23rd (Dyourdyev Dan), long before dawn, all the members of a Serbian family rise and take a bath in the water, in which a number of herbs and flowers--each possessing its own peculiar signification--have been cast before sunset the preceding day. He who fails to get up in good time, and whom the sun surprises in bed, is said to have fallen in disgrace with St. George, and he will consequently have little or no luck in any of his undertakings for the next twelve months. This rite is taken as a sign that the Serbian peasants yield to the many influences of newly awakened nature. It will be seen by anyone who studies the matter that each season in turn prompts the Serbians, as it must prompt any simple primitive people, to observe rites pointing to the mysterious relation in which man finds that he stands to nature. CHAPTER III: SERBIAN NATIONAL EPIC POETRY The Importance of the Ballads That the Serbian people--as a distinct Slav and Christian nationality--did not succumb altogether to the Ottoman oppressor; that through nearly five centuries of subjection to the Turk the Southern Slavs retained a deep consciousness of their national ideals, is due in a very large measure to the Serbian national poetry, which has kept alive in the hearts of the Balkan Christians deep hatred of the Turk, and has given birth, among the oppressed Slavs, to the sentiment of a common misfortune and led to the possibility of a collective effort which issued in the defeat of the Turk on the battlefields of Koumanovo, Monastir, Prilip, Prizrend, Kirk-Kilisse, and Scutari. Who has written those poems? We might as well ask, who is the author of the Iliad and the Odyssey? If Homer be the collective pseudonym of an entire cycle of Hellenic national bards, 'The Serbian people' is that of the national bards who chanted those Serbian epic poems during the centuries, and to whom it was nothing that their names should be attached to them. The task of the learned Diascevastes of Pisistrate's epoch, which they performed with such ability in the old Hellade, has been done in Serbia by a self-taught peasant, the famous Vouk Stephanovitch-Karadgitch, in the beginning of the nineteenth century. Vouk's first collection of Serbian national poems, which he wrote down as he heard them from the lips of the gousslari (i.e. Serbian national bards), was published for the first time at Vienna in 1814, and was not only eagerly read throughout Serbia and in the literary circles of Austria and Germany, but also in other parts of Europe. Goethe himself translated one of the ballads, and his example was quickly followed by others. Those poems--as may be seen from the examples given in this volume--dwell upon the glory of the Serbian mediæval empire, lost on the fatal field of Kossovo (1389). When the Turks conquered the Serbian lands and drove away the flower of the Serbian aristocracy, these men took refuge in the monasteries and villages, where the Turkish horsemen never came. There they remained through centuries undisturbed, inspired by the eloquence of the Serbian monks, who considered it their sacred duty to preserve for the nation behind their old walls the memory of ancient kings and tzars and of the glorious past in which they flourished. Professional bards went from one village to another, chanting in an easy decasyllabic verse the exploits of Serbian heroes and Haïdooks (knight-brigands), who were the only check upon the Turkish atrocities. The bards carried news of political and other interesting events, often correct, sometimes more or less distorted, and the gifted Serbians--for gifted they were and still are--did not find it difficult to remember, and to repeat to others, the stories thus brought to them in poetic form. As the rhythm of the poems is easy, and as the national ballads have become interwoven with the spirit of every true Serbian, it is not rare that a peasant who has heard a poem but once can not only repeat it as he heard it, but also improvise passages; nay, he can at times even compose entire original ballads on the spur of inspirational moments. In Serbian Hungary there are schools in which the blind learn these national ballads, and go from one fair to another to recite them before the peasants who come from all Serbian lands. But this is not the true method. In the mountains of Serbia, Montenegro, Bosnia and Herzegovina there is no occasion to learn them mechanically: they are familiar to all from infancy. When, in the winter evening, the members of a Serbian family assemble around the fire, and the women are engaged with their spinning, poems are recited by those who happen to know them best. The Goussle The ballads are recited invariably to the accompaniment of a primitive instrument with a single string, called a goussle, which is to be met with in almost every house. The popular Serbian poet, Peter Petrovitch, in his masterpiece, Gorsky Viyenatz ('The Mountain Wreath') uttered the following lines, which have become proverbial: Dye se goussle u kutyi ne tchuyu Tu su mrtva i kutya i lyoudi. (The house in which the goussle is not heard Is dead, as well as the people in it.) The old men, with grown-up sons, who are excused from hard labour, recite to their grandchildren, who yield themselves with delight to the rhythmic verse through which they receive their first knowledge of the past. Even the abbots of the monasteries do not deem it derogatory to recite those ballads and to accompany their voices by the monotonous notes of the goussle. But the performance has more of the character of a recitation than of singing: the string is struck only at the end of each verse. In some parts of Serbia, however, each syllable is accentuated by a stroke of the bow, and the final syllable is somewhat prolonged. The heroic decasyllabic lines have invariably five trochees, with the fixed cæsura after the second foot; and almost every line is in itself a complete sentence. There is hardly a tavern or inn in any Serbian village where one could see an assembly of peasants without a gousslar, around whom all are gathered, listening with delight to his recitals. At the festivals near the cloisters, where the peasants meet together in great numbers, professional gousslars recite the heroic songs and emphasize the pathetic passages in such an expressive manner that there is hardly a listener whose cheeks are not bedewed with copious tears. The music is extremely simple, but its simplicity is a powerful and majestic contrast to the exuberance of romance manifested in the exploits and deeds of some favourite hero--as, for example, the Royal Prince Marko. There are many bold hyperboles in those national songs, and little wonder if they are discredited by Western critics, especially in the ballads concerning the exploits of the beloved Marko--who "throws his heavy mace aloft as high as the clouds and catches it again in his right hand, without dismounting from his trusty courser Sharatz." Now and then an English reader may find passages which may seem somewhat coarse, but he must bear in mind that the ballads have usually been composed and transmitted from generation to generation by simple and illiterate peasants. Most of those concerning the Royal Prince Marko date from the early fourteenth century, when the customs, even in Western Europe, were different from those prevailing now. My translations have, however, been carefully revised by Mrs. C. H. Farnam, who has taken a great interest in this book, and has endeavoured to do no injustice to the rugged originals. Having passed some time in Serbia--as many noble English ladies have done--nursing the wounded heroes of the Balkan War, of 1912-13, and softening their pain with unspeakable tenderness and devotion, she was attracted by the natural, innate sense of honesty and the bravery which her cultivated mind discovered in those simple Serbians and her interest has since extended to their history and literature. It is worthy of consideration that the history of the Serbian and other Southern Slavonic nations, developed by its poetry--if not even replaced by it altogether--has through it been converted into a national property, and is thus preserved in the memory of the entire people so vividly that a Western traveller must be surprised when he hears even the most ignorant Serbian peasant relate to him something at least of the old kings and tsars of the glorious dynasty of Nemagnitch, and of the feats and deeds of national heroes of all epochs. CHAPTER IV: KRALYEVITCH MARKO; OR, THE ROYAL PRINCE MARKO The Marko Legends Marko was, as we have already seen, the son of King Voukashin; and his mother was Queen Helen, whom the Serbian troubadours called by the pleasing and poetic name Yevrossima (Euphrosyne) in their songs and poems. According to the popular tradition, the Prince was born in the castle of Skadar (Scutari), and his mother, being the sister of that most glorious and adventurous knight Momchilo, fortunately transmitted much of the heroism, and many of the other virtues, characteristic of her own family, to her son. But there is also another tradition, equally popular, which maintains that Marko was the child of a veela (fairy-queen) and a zmay (dragon). The fact that his father was a dragon is believed, by those who accept this tradition, to explain and in every way to account for, Marko's tremendous strength and his astonishing powers of endurance. Truly Prince Marko possessed a striking and extraordinarily attractive personality: he so vividly impressed the minds of the Serbian people, people of all ranks and localities, that he has always been, remains to this day, and promises ever to remain, our most beloved hero. Indeed there is no Serbian to be found, even in the most remote districts, who has not a great love for Kralyevitch Marko, and who cannot tell his story. This Prince's brave deeds and all his exploits have luckily been immortalized by the national bards, who are never weary of describing him in their ballads and legends as a lover of justice, the hater of all oppression, and the avenger of every wrong. He is always represented as the possessor of great physical strength: his principal weapon was his heavy war-club (it weighed one hundred pounds--sixty pounds of steel, thirty pounds of silver, and the remainder was pure gold) and it must be borne in mind that the swords and clubs wielded by the merely human hands of his antagonists can never kill him; they never injure him, for they scarcely ever even touch this hero. Marko is always thought to have had much of the supernatural in him. Marko, who was often rough and ready in his behaviour, and more especially so to the Turks, whose very Sultan, indeed, he mightily terrified with the tales he told of his many bloodthirsty and warlike deeds, was invariably a most dutiful, loving and tender-hearted son to his mother: and there were occasions when he willingly consulted her, and followed the advice she gave him. Prince Marko was fearless: It was said that "he feared no one but God"; and it was his rule to be courteous to all women. In Serbia it was the usual custom to drink a great deal of wine, the red wine of which we so often hear, and this custom was one which Marko upheld: but it is always said, and universally believed, that he was never drunk. The ballads also sing of King Voukashin. Voukashin had been the Councillor of State during the reign of Doushan the Powerful. The capital of the Empire was Prizrend, and Marko was brought up then at the Court, by his father Voukashin. According to the generally accepted belief it was Marko who, a little later on, attended the Emperor as secretary and councillor of State, and was entrusted by Doushan, on the approach of death, with his young son Ourosh. The Bad Faith of Voukashin One ballad relates that the Emperor Doushan had bequeathed the crown to Voukashin and stipulated in his will that that monarch should reign for seven years, and at the end of that time he should give up the rule to the Tsarevitch Ourosh. King Voukashin not only prolonged his haughty rule to sixteen years, but absolutely refused to yield the sceptre even then, and moreover proclaimed himself sovereign Tsar. The ballad further depicts the incessant struggles which were in the end to cause the downfall of the Serbian mediæval State. And so tradition, earnestly sympathizing with the just anger felt by the people against the rebels, and their lamentation over the lost tsardom, charges Voukashin with all the blame and responsibility--curses him as a usurper and a traitor, and execrates him for his cunning and inconsistency: whilst on the other hand tradition ever extols and glorifies his son Marko as the faithful defender of Prince Ourosh, as the great avenger of national wrongs, and praises him at all times for his good heart, his generous foresight in politics and private affairs, his humanity, and above all his readiness to perish in the cause of justice. The Horse Sharatz The story of Marko cannot be told without some account of Sharatz, his much-loved piebald steed, from whom he was never parted. Sharatz was undoubtedly unique. There are several versions of the story as to how Marko became possessed of him: Some of the bards assert that Sharatz was given to Marko by the same veela who had from the first endowed him with his marvellous strength; but there are others who affirm that Marko once bought a foal suffering from leprosy, and that the Prince tended him himself and completely cured him, taught him to drink wine, and finally made him the fine horse that he became. And there are others again who say that at one time, in his youth, Marko served a master for three years, and that for his sole reward he asked permission to choose a horse from among those then grazing in the meadow. His master gladly consented, and Marko, according to his custom, tested each horse in turn, by taking it by the tail and whirling it round and round. At last, when he came to a certain piebald foal he seized it by the tail: but this animal did not stir, and Marko, with all his vast strength, could not make it move one step. Marko chose that foal, and it became his beloved Sharatz. The Serbians of Veles still call a great plain near Demir-Kapi 'Markova Livada' (Marko's meadow). Sharatz means 'piebald,' and it is said that the skin of Marko's horse was more like the hide of an ox in appearance than like the skin of an ordinary horse. The Prince called him by various endearing names, such as Sharin or Sharo, and was devoted to him for the hundred and sixty years they were together. This wonderful beast was the strongest and swiftest horse ever known, and he often overtook the flying veela. He was so well trained that he knew the very moment when to kneel down to save his master from an adversary's lance; he knew just how to rear and strike the adversary's charger with his fore-feet. When his spirit was thoroughly roused Sharatz would spring up to the height of three lengths of a lance and to the distance of four lance-lengths forward; beneath his hoofs glittering sparks shone forth, and the very earth he trod would crack and stones and fragments fly in all directions; and his nostrils exhaled a quivering blue flame, terrifying to all beholders. He often bit off the ears of enemies' horses and crushed and trampled to death numbers of Turkish soldiers. Marko might peacefully doze, and sometimes even go to sleep, when riding through the mountains; and all the time he was safe, for Sharatz would keep careful guard. Therefore the Prince would feed his steed, with bread and wine, from the vessels that he used himself and loved him more than he loved his own brother; and Sharatz shared, as he deserved to share, the glory of many a victory with his master. Marko never rode upon another horse, and together they were described as "a dragon mounted upon a dragon." There are in existence about thirty-eight poems and perhaps twice as many prose-legends containing detailed descriptions of Marko's thrilling exploits, and there is hardly a Serb or a Bulgar anywhere to be found who cannot recite at least a few of them. In the Balkans-Turkish War, 1912-13, a gouslar, when not fighting, would take his goussle [24] and recite to his comrades heroic poems of which the greater number related to Marko. The intense veneration felt by Serbians for this beloved Prince proves an unfailing bond between them in their own country and in all parts of the world. There are, naturally enough, various accounts of the death of Marko. The story that has most appealed to his countrymen and taken a specially firm hold of their poets' imaginations is that he never died. It is believed that he withdrew to a cave, near his castle at Prilip, which is still standing, to rest, and that he is there, now, asleep. From time to time he awakes and looks to see if his sword has yet come out of a rock into which he had thrust it to the very hilt. When the sword is out of the rock Marko will know that the time has come for him to appear among the Serbians once more, to re-establish the mediæval empire, lost at the battle of Kossovo. [25] As for Sharatz, he is still feeding, but he has now nearly finished his portion of hay. PRINCE MARKO TELLS WHOSE THE EMPIRE SHALL BE Four tabors [26] met together on the beautiful field of Kossovo near the white church Samodrezja: [27] One tabor was headed by King Voukashin; the second by Despot Ouglesha; [28] the third by Voïvode Goyko, and the fourth by Tsarevitch Ourosh. The first three of these were disputing over the inheritance of the Empire and were ready to stab one another, so eager were they all to reign. They did not know who had been appointed the Tsar's successor and who was the rightful heir to the throne. King Voukashin announced: "The Empire was left to me!" Voïvode Goyko cried out: "Not so! The Empire is mine!" and Despot Ouglesha interposed angrily, "You are both wrong, for know that the Empire is mine." The youthful Tsarevitch remained silent, for he was not bold enough to proffer a single word in the presence of his haughty elders. King Voukashin prepared a message and sent it by a faithful servant to the Archdeacon Nedelyko, at Prizrend, summoning him to come at once to the field of Kossovo and state without delay to whom the Empire had been left--for he must surely know, having received the last confession of the illustrious Tsar Doushan the Mighty and been in attendance upon him up to his death. Besides, it was known that the Archdeacon had the archives under his care, and could at least produce the Emperor's will. Despot Ouglesha also sent a missive to the Archdeacon by his swiftest messenger; a third was written by Voïvode Goyko, who dispatched it by his special courier, and a fourth was inscribed and sent off by Ourosh. The messages were all dispatched secretly, but the couriers reached Prizrend and met at the gates of Nedelyko's dwelling. But Nedelyko had gone, as Court Chaplain, to officiate at the morning service in the Cathedral. The men were enraged at the delay, and without even alighting from their horses, they rushed infuriated, into the sacred edifice, raised their whips and brutally struck the good Archdeacon, commanding him: "Behold, O Archdeacon Nedelyko! Hasten now, this very hour, to the plain of Kossovo. Thou must state to whom the Empire belongs, for thou hast received the confession from the illustrious Tsar and administered the last sacrament to him, and it is thou who hast the state records in thy care. Hasten, hasten, lest we, in our fierce impatience, do sever thy head from thy body!" Archdeacon Nedelyko wept with grief and mortification and thus replied: "Begone, ye servants of the most mighty princes! Begone from the House of God! Suffer first that we end God's service, then will I make known into whose hands the Empire is to fall!" The couriers then went out and awaited the coming of the Archdeacon. Presently the Archdeacon came to them and spake in this wise: "O my children, messengers from the King himself, and from the Princes! I received the last confession of our glorious Tsar, and gave him the sacrament; but about the Empire and affairs of state he spoke never a word, for we were concerned only with the sins that he had committed. Ye must go to the city of Prilip, for there is the castle of the Royal Prince Marko. Marko, as ye may remember, learned from me how to read and write; later he was secretary to the Emperor and he was then entrusted with the care of the records, and he will surely know to whom the empire was entrusted. Call Marko to the field of Kossovo to say who is now the Tsar. Marko will tell the truth, for he fears none but God!" Marko is Summoned The messenger set out at once, and, arriving at Prilip, they smote on the portals of the castle. The knocking was heard by Yevrossima, and she spoke thus to her son: "O Marko, my dearest son! who are they who knock at the gates below? They may be messengers from thy father!" Marko commanded that the gates should be opened, and when the messengers entered they bowed with profoundest respect, and said: "May God always help thee, O noble Lord Marko!" The Prince laid his hand upon their heads with kindness and said: "Be welcome, ye my dear children! Are the Serbian knights in good health? And is all well with the glorious Tsar and King!" The couriers again made humble obeisance, saying: "O noble Lord, thou most Royal Prince Marko! All are well, though not, we fear, upon friendly terms together! The King, thy father, and other princes are seriously contending for the Empire upon Kossovo, that vast field which is near the church Samodrezja; they are ready to stab each other at any moment with their blades, for they know not to whom the Empire rightly belongs. Thou art now called upon, O noble Prince, to proclaim the heir to the Imperial crown." The bard goes on to narrate how Marko went to Yevrossima and asked her advice, and although it was well known that Marko himself loved the truth, his good mother implored him with the following words: "O Marko, thy mother's only son! May the food on which thou wert nourished be not cursed! Speak not falsely either to please thy father, or to satisfy the ambitions of thine uncles, but tell, I beg of thee, the truth before God lest thou shouldest lose thy soul. It were better that thou shouldst perish than sin against thy soul!" Marko took the ancient documents, mounted Sharatz and rode forthwith to the plain of Kossovo. As he approached his father's tent King Voukashin saw him and exclaimed: "Oh, how fortunate am I! Here is my son Marko; he will say that the Empire was left to me, for of course he knows that it will pass from father to son!" Marko heard this, but said not one single word, neither would he turn his head towards the King's tent. When Despot Ouglesha saw Marko, he spoke in this wise: "Oh, what a lucky thing for me! here is my nephew Marko; he is certain to say the Empire is mine! Say, O Marko, the Empire is mine! We would reign together, you and I, like brothers!" Marko still kept silent and did not even turn his head in the direction of his uncle's tent. As Voïvode Goyko perceived his coming, he exclaimed: "Oh, here is a stroke of good fortune for me! here is my dear nephew Marko: he is sure to say that the Empire was left to me. When Marko was a little child I used to caress him fondly, for he was dear to me as a golden apple, and always most precious. Whenever I rode out on horseback I always used to take Marko with me. O Marko! dear Marko, thou must say that the Empire is mine! It will be virtually thou who shalt reign as Tsar, and I shall be at thy right hand, at all times ready, as thy counsellor!" Marko, still without a word, and completely ignoring Voïvode Goyko, went straight on to the tent where Tsarevitch Ourosh was, and there he alighted from his Sharatz. When the young Ourosh saw him, he sprang from his silken couch, and exclaimed: "Hurrah! Behold my godfather Marko! Now he is going to tell us who the true Tsar is!" They embraced each other, inquired after each other's health, and seated themselves upon the couch from which Ourosh had just risen. Marko tells the Truth Some time elapsed and the sun had set, the night passed, morning dawned, and church bells called all to morning prayers, and after the service the King, the Princes and great Lords went out into the churchyard, where they took their places at tables, and ate sweet-meats and drank brandy. Marko at last opened the ancient documents, and said aloud: "O my father, thou King Voukashin! Art thou not content with thy Kingdom? May it be turned into a desert if thou art not. Oh! that thou shouldst wish to seize another's Empire! And thou, my uncle, Despot Ouglesha! Art thou not satisfied within thine own territory? Is it indeed too small for thee that thou must struggle for the Empire that belongs to another? May it also turn into a desert! And thou, my uncle, thou Voïvode Goyko! Is thy Dukedom not vast enough for thee? May it likewise become a desert if it is not! Oh that thou too shouldst strive for another's Tsardom? Do ye not all see and understand? If ye fail to see may God not see ye! It is clearly stated in the records that the Empire was left to Ourosh. From father shall it pass to son. To this youth now belongs the Imperial Crown of his ancestors. It was Ourosh whom our late Tsar, on his dying day, named as his successor!" When King Voukashin heard this, he sprang to his feet, drew out his golden yatagan and would have pierced his son with it. The Prince, pursued by his father, fled, for, indeed, it would have been unseemly for Marko to fight with and perhaps mortally strike his own father. Marko ran round the church Samodrezja, his father closely following, till they had run round the building three times, and then, when Voukashin was on the point of getting within reach of his son, all at once a mysterious voice from within the church uttered these words: "Run into the church, O, thou Royal Prince Marko! Seest thou not that otherwise thou shalt perish by thy father's hand, because thou hast spoken the truth so dear to God?" The doors suddenly opened of themselves and Marko passed inside; then they closed and interposed themselves between the two men. King Voukashin began to strike violently upon the doors with his short hanging sword until he noticed that there were drops of blood trickling down the beam, whereupon he was seized with remorse and sighed in lowly penance, saying: "Alas! Unfortunate man that I am! O, thou infinite and divine God! Hear me! I have killed my son Marko!" But the mysterious voice from the church answered: "Behold! Voukashin thou most mighty King! Lo, thou hast not even wounded thy son Marko, but thou hast injured the angel of the true God!" At these words the King grew again enraged with Marko and cursed him in these words: "O Marko, my only son, may God kill thee! Mayest thou never be entombed! Mayest thou have no son to come after thee! May thy family end with thee! And, worse than all, may thy soul depart not from thy body before thou hast served as vassal to the Turk!" In these bitter words the King cursed Marko, but the new Tsar, Ourosh, blessed him, saying: "O my beloved god-father, Marko! May God ever support thee! May thy word be always respected and accepted by all just men for ever in the divan! [29] May thy bright sabre prosper in all battles and combats! May there never be a hero to overpower thee! May it please God that thy name shall at all times be remembered with honour, for so long as the sun and the moon continue to shine." PRINCE MARKO AND A MOORISH CHIEFTAIN A great and powerful Moorish chieftain had built for himself a magnificent castle, rising to the height of twenty storeys. The place he had chosen for the castle was by the sea, and when it was quite completed he had panes of the most beautiful glass put in for windows; he hung all the rooms and halls with the richest silks and velvets and then soliloquized thus: "O my koula, [30] why have I erected thee? for there is no one but I who is there to tread, with gentle footsteps, upon these fine rugs, and behold from these windows the blue and shining sea. I have no mother, no sister, and I have not yet found a wife. But I will assuredly go at once and seek the Sultan's daughter in marriage. The Sultan must either give me his daughter or meet me in single combat." As soon as the Moor, gazing at his castle, had uttered these words, he wrote a most emphatic letter to the Sultan at Istamboul, [31] the contents of which ran thus: "O Sire, I have built a beautiful castle near the shore of the azure sea, but as yet it has no mistress, for I have no wife. I ask thee, therefore, to bestow upon me thy beloved daughter! In truth, I demand this; for if thou dost not give thy daughter to me, then prepare thyself at once to meet me face to face with thy sword. To this fight I now challenge thee!" The letter reached the Sultan and he read it through. Immediately he sought for one who would accept the challenge in his stead, promising untold gold to the knight who would show himself willing to meet the Moor. Many a bold man went forth to fight the Moor, but not one ever returned to Istamboul. Alas! the Sultan soon found himself in a most embarrassing position for all his best fighters had lost their lives at the hand of the haughty Moor. But even this misfortune was not the worst. The Moor prepared himself in all his splendour, not omitting his finest sabre; then he proceeded to saddle his steed Bedevia, securely fastening the seven belts and put on her a golden curb. On one side of the saddle he fastened his tent, and this he balanced on the other side with his heaviest club. He sprang like lightning on to his charger, and holding before him, defiantly, his sharpest lance, he rode straight to Istamboul. The instant he reached the walls of the fort, he spread his tent, struck his lance well into the earth, bound his Bedevia to the lance and forthwith imposed on the inhabitants a daily tax, consisting of: one sheep, one batch of white loaves, one keg of pure brandy, two barrels of red wine, and a beautiful maiden. Each maiden, after being his slave and attending on him for twenty-four hours, he would sell in Talia for large sums of money. This imposition went on for three months, for none could stop it. But even yet there was a greater evil to be met. The Entrance of the Moor The inhabitants of Istamboul were terrorized one day when the haughty Moor mounted upon his dashing steed entered the city. He went to the Palace, and cried loudly: "Lo! Sultan, wilt thou now, once and for ever, give me thy daughter?" As he received no answer he struck the walls of the Palace with his club so violently that the shattered glass poured down from the windows like rain. When the Sultan saw that the Moor might easily destroy the Palace and even the whole city in this way, he was greatly alarmed, for he knew that there was no alternative open to him in this horrible predicament but to give up his only daughter. Although overwhelmed with shame, therefore, he promised to do this. Pleased with his success, the Moor asked for fifteen days' delay before his marriage took place that he might go back to his castle and make the necessary preparations. When the Sultan's daughter heard of her father's desperate resolution, she shrieked and exclaimed bitterly: "Alas! Behold my sorrow, O almighty Allah! For whom have I been taught to prize my beauty? For a Moor? Can it be true that a Moor shall imprint a kiss upon my visage?" The Sultana's Dream That night the Sultana had a strange dream, in which the figure of a man appeared before her, saying: "There is within the Empire of Serbia a vast plain Kossovo; in that plain there is a city Prilip; and in that city dwells the Royal Prince Marko who is known among all men as a truly great hero." And the man went on to advise the Sultana to send, without delay, a message to Prince Marko and beg him to become her son-in-God, and at the same time to offer him immense fortune, for he was without doubt the only one living likely to vanquish the terrible Moor and save her daughter from a shameful fate. The next morning she sped to the Sultan's apartments and told him of her dream. The Sultan immediately wrote a firman [32] and sent it to Prince Marko at Prilip, beseeching him to journey with all speed to Istamboul and accept the challenge of the Moor, and if he should succeed in saving the Princess the Sultan would give him three tovars [33] of pure golden ducats. When Marko read the firman, he said to the Sultan's young courier, a native of Tartary: "In the name of God go back, thou Sultan's messenger, and greet thy master--my father-in-God--tell him that I dare not face the Moor. Do we not, all of us, know that he is invincible? If he should cleave my head asunder, of what avail would three tovars, or three thousand tovars, of gold be to me?" The young Tartar brought back Marko's answer which caused the Sultana so much grief, that she determined to send a letter to him herself, once more beseeching him to accept the challenge and this time increasing the reward to five tovars of pure gold. But Marko, though generally so chivalrous and courteous to all women, remained inexorable, replying that he would not meet the Moor in combat even if he were to be presented with all the treasure the Sultan possessed; for he did not dare. The Princess appeals to Marko When the broken-hearted bride heard that this answer had come from Marko she sprang to her feet, took a pen and some paper, struck her rosy cheek with the pen and with her own blood traced the following: "Hail, my dear brother-in-God, O, thou Royal Prince Marko! Be a true brother to me! May God and Saint John be our witnesses! I implore thee, do not suffer me to become the wife of the Moor! I promise thee seven tovars of pure gold, seven boshtchaluks, which have been neither woven nor spun, but are embroidered with pure gold. Moreover, I shall give thee a golden plate decorated with a golden snake, whose raised head is holding in its mouth a priceless gem, from which is shed a light of such brilliance, that by it alone you can see at the darkest hour of midnight as well as you can at noon. In addition to these I shall present thee with a finely tempered sabre; this sabre has three hilts, all of pure gold, and in each of them is set a precious stone. The sabre alone is worth three cities. I shall affix to this weapon the Sultan's seal so that the Grand Vizir may never put thee to death without first receiving his Majesty's special command." When he had read this missive, Marko reflected thus: "Alas! O my dear sister-in-God! It would be but to my great misfortune if I came to serve thee, and to my still greater misfortune if I stayed away. For, although I fear neither the Sultan nor the Sultana, I do in all truth fear God and Saint John, by whom thou hast adjured me! Therefore I now resolve to come and, if necessary, to face certain death!" Marko prepares to succour the Princess Having sent away the Princess' messenger without telling him what he had resolved to do, Marko entered his castle and put on his cloak and a cap, made of wolves' skins; next he girded on his sabre, selected his most piercing lance, and went to the stables. For greater safety he fastened the seven belts under the saddle of his Sharatz with his own hands; he then attached a leathern bottle filled with red wine on one side of his saddle and his weightiest war-club on the other. Now he was ready and threw himself upon Sharatz and rode off to Istamboul. Upon reaching his destination he did not go to pay his respects either to the Sultan or to the Grand Vizir, but quietly took up his abode in a new inn. That same evening, soon after sun-set, he led his horse to a lake near by to be refreshed: but to his master's surprise Sharatz would not even taste the water, but kept turning his head first to the right, then to the left, till Marko noticed the approach of a Turkish maiden covered with a long gold-embroidered veil. When she reached the edge of the water she bowed profoundly toward the lake and said aloud: "God bless thee, O beauteous green lake! God bless thee, for thou art to be my home for ever more! Within thy bosom am I henceforth to dwell; I am now to die, O beauteous lake; rather would I choose such a fate than become the bride of the cruel Moor!" Marko greets the Princess Marko went nearer to the maiden and spoke thus: "O, thou unhappy Turkish maiden! What is thy trouble? What is it that has made thee wish to drown thyself?" She answered: "Leave me in peace, thou ugly dervish, [34] why dost thou ask me, when there is nought that thou canst do to help me?" Then the maiden related the story of her coming marriage with the Moorish chieftain, of the messages sent to Marko, and finally she bitterly cursed that Prince for the hardness of his heart. Thereupon Marko said: "O, curse me not, dear sister-in-God! Marko is here and is now speaking to thee himself!" Hearing these words the maiden turned toward the famous knight, embraced him and earnestly pleaded: "For God's sake, O my brother Marko! Suffer not the Moor to wed me!" Marko was greatly affected, and declared: "O dear sister-in-God! I swear that so long as my head remains upon my shoulders, I shall never let the Moor have thee! Do not tell others that thou hast seen me here, but request the Sultan and thy mother to have supper prepared and sent to the inn for me, and, above all things, beg them to send me plenty of wine. Meanwhile I shall await the Moor's coming at the inn. When the Moor arrives at the Palace, thy parents should welcome him graciously, and they should go so far as to yield thee to him in order to avoid a quarrel. And I know exactly the spot where I shall be able to rescue thee, if it may so please the true God, and if my customary good luck, and my strength, do not desert me." The Prince returned to the inn, and the maiden hastened back to the Palace. When the Sultan and the Sultana knew that Marko had come to their aid, they were much comforted, and immediately ordered a sumptuous repast to be sent to him, especially good red wine in abundance. Now all the shops in Istamboul were closed, and there was silence everywhere as Marko sat drinking the delicious wine in peace. The landlord of the inn came presently to close his doors and windows, and, questioned by Marko as to why the citizens were all shutting up their dwellings so early that day, he answered: "By my faith, you are indeed a stranger here! The Moorish chieftain has asked for our Sultan's daughter in marriage, and as, to our shame, she is to be yielded to him, he is coming to the Palace to fetch her this day. Therefore, owing to our terror of the Moor, we are forced to close our shops." But Marko did not allow the man to close the door of the inn, for he wished to see the Moor and his gorgeous train pass by. The Moor in Istamboul At that very moment, as they were speaking, Marko could hear from the city the clangour caused by the Moorish chieftain and his black followers, numbering at least five hundred, and all in glittering armour. The Moor had roused his Bedevia, and she trotted in such a lively manner that the stones, which she threw up with her hoofs, whizzed through the air in all directions, and broke windows and doors in all the shops she passed! When the cavalcade came up to the inn, the Moor thought: "Allah! I am struck with wonder and astonishment! The windows and doors of all the shops and houses throughout the entire city of Istamboul are closed from the great fear the people have of me, except, I see, the doors of this inn. There must either be nobody within, or if there is anybody inside, he is assuredly a great fool; or perhaps he is a stranger, and has not yet been told how terrible I am." The Moor and his retinue passed that night in tents before the Palace. Next morning the Sultan himself presented his daughter to the Moorish chieftain, together with all the wedding gifts, which were known to weigh twelve tovars. As the wedding procession passed the inn where Marko waited, the Moor again noticed the open door, but this time he urged Bedevia right up to it to see who might be there. Sharatz and Bedevia Marko was seated at his ease in the most comfortable room the inn could boast, leisurely drinking his favourite red wine; he was not drinking from an ordinary goblet, but from a bowl which held twelve litres; and each time he filled the bowl he would drink only one half of its contents, giving, according to his habit, the other half to his Sharatz. The Moor was on the point of attacking Marko, when Sharatz barred his way and kicked viciously at Bedevia. The Moor, meeting such unexpected resistance, promptly turned to rejoin the procession. Then Marko rose to his feet, and, turning his cloak and cap inside out, so that to the first glance of those who saw him he presented the terrifying appearance of a wolf, inspected his weapons and Sharatz's belts carefully, and dashed on his charger after the procession. He felled horsemen right and left, till he reached the dever and the second witness, and killed them both. The Moorish chieftain was immediately told of the stranger who had forced his way into the midst of the procession, and of those whom he had killed, also that he did not look like other knights, being clad in wolves' skins. Marko and the Moor The Moor astride his Bedevia, wheeled round and addressed Marko thus: "Ill fortune is indeed overtaking thee to-day, O stranger! Thou must have been driven here by Satan to disturb my guests and even kill my dever and second witness; thou must be either a fool, knowing nothing of to-day's events, or thou must be extremely fierce and hast gone mad; but maybe thou art merely tired of life? By my faith, I shall draw in the reins of my Bedevia, and shall spring over thy body seven times; then shall I strike off thy head!" Thereupon Marko answered: "Cease these lies, O Moor! If God, and my usual luck, do but attend me now, thou shalt not even spring near to me; still less can I imagine thee carrying out thy intention of springing over my body!" But, behold! The Moor drew in his Bedevia, spurred her violently forward and indeed he would have sprung over Marko, had not Sharatz been the well-trained fighter that he was, and in a trice he reared so as to receive the adversary against his forefeet and swiftly bit off Bedevia's right ear, from which blood gushed forth profusely and streamed down over her neck and chest. In this way Marko and the Moor struggled for four hours. Neither would give way, and when finally the Moor saw that Marko was overpowering him, he wheeled his steed Bedevia round and fled along the main street of Istamboul, Marko after him. But the Moor's Bedevia was swift as a veela of the forest, and would certainly have escaped from Sharatz if Marko had not suddenly recollected his club, and flung it after his adversary, striking him between his shoulders. The Moor fell from his horse and the Prince severed his head from his body. Next he captured Bedevia, returned to the street where he had left the bride, and found, to his astonishment, that she with her twelve tovars of presents, was alone, awaiting him, for all the wedding-guests and the retinue of the Moorish chieftain had fled at full gallop. Marko escorted the Princess back to the Sultan, and cast the head of the Moorish chieftain at his feet. The hero now took his leave and started at once on his journey back to Prilip, and the following morning he received the seven tovars of gold which had been promised to him, the many precious gifts which the Princess had described, and last of all a message thanking him for the marvellous deeds he had done, and telling him that the vast stores of gold belonging to his father-in-God, the Sultan, would for ever be at his disposal. PRINCE MARKO ABOLISHES THE WEDDING TAX Early one morning the Royal Prince Marko rode across the plain of Kossovo. When he reached the river a maiden from Kossovo met him, and Marko greeted her in the usual Serbian custom: "May God aid thee, O maiden of Kossovo!" The maiden bowed very profoundly, and answered: "Hail! thou unknown hero!" Marko, after having looked for a while at her, said: "Dear sister, thou maiden of Kossovo, thou art beauteous, though thou mightest well be a little younger! Thou art tall, strong and graceful; thy cheeks look healthful and thou hast a pleasing and dignified appearance. But, alas! dear sister, thy hair is grey and becomes thee not. Who caused thy sorrow? Tell me, is it thyself, thy mother or thy aged father." The maiden shed many bitter tears, and amidst her sobs answered Marko thus: "O dear brother, thou unknown knight! I am not the cause of mine own misfortune, and it is neither my mother nor yet my father who has brought great trouble upon me; but I have lost all happiness through the evil-doing of a Moor who dwells beyond the sea. He has taken possession of the whole field of Kossovo and has imposed, among other extortions, a terrible tax of thirty ducats to be paid by all brides, and thirty-four ducats by all bridegrooms. My brothers are poor and have not the money necessary to pay my tax, therefore I am unable to wed my sweetheart and have thus lost all happiness. Merciful God, should I not go and take my life?" Thereupon Prince Marko said: "Dear sister, thou maiden of Kossovo! Do not trifle with thy life; abandon every such idea, else thou shalt bring sin upon thy soul! Tell me, where is the castle where the Moorish Lord may be found? I think I have something to say to him!" To this the maiden answered: "O my brother, thou unknown knight! Why dost thou inquire about his castle? How I wish it could be razed to the ground! Thou hast, perhaps, found a maiden according to thy heart and thou goest now to pay the wedding tax, or art thou the only son of thy dear mother? I fear for thee, O brother, for thou mayest perish there, and what then would thy sorrowful and lonely mother do?" Marko plunged his hand into his pocket, took out a purse and handed it to the maiden saying: "O sister! take these thirty ducats, go home and await in peace for what may befall thee; [35] only kindly point out to me the castle of the Moor, for I am going to pay him thy wedding tax!" Thereupon the maiden, glowing with unexpected happiness spoke thus: "It is not a castle, but tents (and may they be cursed!). Seest thou not upon the plain where flutters that silken flag? There is the Moor's own pavilion; around it grows a pleasant garden which he has dared to decorate with the heads of seventy-seven Christian heroes, and he has forty servants, who are, day and night, on guard near by." Marko visits the Moor Upon hearing these words Marko took leave of the maiden and rode toward the tents. He urged his steed so violently that under his hoofs living fire shone, and from his nostrils appeared a bright blue flame. Mad with anger Marko rode fiercely across the camp and, with tears streaming from his eyes which were fixed upon the plain of Kossovo he exclaimed: "Alas, O plain of Kossovo! Oh! to think that thou shouldst have remained to see this day! And, after the reign of our great Emperor, [36] that thou shouldst be here to witness the tyranny of a Moor! Can I endure such shame and sorrow: Oh! that the Moors should be allowed to ravage thee! Now shall I either avenge thee, or perish!" The sentinels observed Marko's arrival and went to inform their Lord: "O Master, thou Moor! A strange and fierce hero, riding a piebald steed, is approaching; and it is plain that he intends to attack us." But the Moor answered indifferently: "O my children, ye forty true servants of mine! That hero will not attack us. He is undoubtedly bringing his wedding tax and, because he regrets the amount of money he has to give up, he is impatiently urging on his charger. You had better go forth and welcome him; take his steed and his weapons from him and show him to my tent. I do not care for his treasure, but I am quite willing to cleave his head and seize his courser, which would suit me well!" The servants went forth to obey, but when they saw Marko near, they were so terrified that they did not dare face him, but fled to hide themselves behind their chieftain, concealing their yataghans under their cloaks at the sight of Marko. As the fierce Prince came up, he alighted in front of the opening of the tent and spoke aside to his trusty courser: "Walk about alone, my Sharo," said he, "for I am going into this tent to see the Moor; go not too far from this spot, as should evil happen I may have need of thee!" Then Marko entered the pavilion. The Moorish chieftain sat enjoying cool wine which was poured out for him by a Christian woman and a maiden. The princely Marko saluted the Moor: "May God help thee, my Lord!" The Moorish chieftain answered: "Hail, thou unknown knight! Be seated, that we may drink wine together ere thou dost tell me why thou hast come hither!" Prince Marko answered: "I have no time to drink with thee; but I have come with the intention of seeing thee. I have found a maiden after my own heart, my guests and their horses await me a little way down the road, while I came to pay thee my wedding tax. I shall at once give thee the gold so that nothing may hinder my happiness. Tell me now, what must I pay?" The Moor answered in a very friendly manner: "Well, thou oughtest to have known that long ago: it was thirty ducats for brides and thirty-four for bridegrooms; but as thou appearest to be a distinguished knight, it would not hurt either of us if thou gavest me a round hundred ducats!" Prince Marko took out of his pocket three ducats and laid them before the haughty Moor, saying: "Believe me I have no more money; I should be grateful if thou wouldest wait till I reach my bride's house, for there we shall certainly receive many rich presents. I shall give thee all the presents and will retain the bride only for myself!" Marko pays for All Thereupon the mighty Moor shouted out, bitterly enraged: "I allow no credit, thou wretch! Thou art bold enough to laugh at me!" Then he sprang to his feet, raised his club and struck Marko's shoulders three or four times. Marko smiling, said: "Heroic Moor, dost thou strike in earnest or dost thou merely strike in jest?" The Moor, continuing the assault, hissed: "I beat thee in earnest!" Marko smiled again, and remarked: "Oh, then, I pity thee! Since thou art striking with serious intent, know then that I too have a club. Now I shall smite thee as many times as thou hast struck me, no more than that! Let us make it a fair fight!" With this, Marko raised his mace and smote the Moor with such force that his head fell from his shoulders! At this Marko burst into laughter: "Merciful God, mayest thou be thanked! How quickly the Moorish hero's head was cleft asunder! It now lies just as if it had never been upon his shoulders!" He now unsheathed his sword, and caught the Moor's bodyguard, cleaving also their heads one after the other, except four of their number, whom he left to tell the tale to all who wished to hear the truth. Then he took down the heads of the Christian heroes and carefully buried them, that wolves and vultures might not devour them. He next instructed the four remaining servants to run across the field of Kossovo, north, east, south, and west, and to proclaim to all that maids and youths were henceforth free to marry without paying the hated tax, for had not the Royal Prince Marko come and paid once for all? When the oppressed Christians learned the news, they all, young and old, joined in the joyful cry: "May God grant Royal Prince Marko long life! For Marko has freed our land of a monster! We pray to God that his soul may be purified of all sin." PRINCE MARKO AND BOGDAN THE BULLY Early one morning three Serbian knights rode out from Kossovo; one was Prince Marko of Prilip; the second was Relya of Bazar, and the third was Milosh of Potzerye. They were bound for the seashore, and their way lay through the vineyards of Bogdan the Bully. Relya of Bazar was a joyous young knight, and he encouraged his steed to prance gaily through the vineyard, whereby he broke some of the tall vines loaded with sweet grapes. Marko admonished his friend thus: "Thou hadst better leave these vineyards alone, O my Relya! If thou only knewest whose they are thou wouldst keep thy courser under careful control: for they belong to Bogdan the Bully. Once I, myself, was riding through these very vineyards, and as I was young then, I also made my Sharatz prance along, as thou art doing. But, alas! I was seen by Bogdan riding on his slender mare Bedevia. I knew that I was at fault and, as the true God does not support guilty men, I dared not face him, but fled up the rocky coast. He pursued me, and if I had not had my trusty Sharatz he would indeed have caught me. But thanks to Sharatz I at last got farther and farther from him. When Bogdan saw that at the rate I was fleeting he could never reach me, he swiftly threw his club after me and just touched my back with its handle, so that I fell forward over on the ears of my Sharatz and regained my seat only by a great effort. However, I did escape him. This happened some seven years ago, since when I have not come this way until to-day." As Marko said this, the three knights noticed in the distance a cloud of dust, in the midst of which they recognized Bogdan with twelve attendants on horseback. Marko exclaimed: "Hark ye, my two brothers-in-God! Here he is! and he will surely kill all three of us if we do not make our escape." To this Milosh of Potzerye answered: "O my brother-in-God, thou Royal Prince Marko! The whole people believe that there are no greater heroes living than we three Serbian knights; it would be far better for us all to perish than shamefully to flee!" When Marko heard this, he said: "Listen to me, my brothers-in-God! Since that is so, let us divide the enemy. Will ye face Bogdan alone or his twelve knights?" Milosh and Relya chose to fight Bogdan alone, leaving Marko to meet the twelve followers. This division was quite agreeable to Marko, and it was hardly arranged than Bogdan came up at the head of his troop. He was immediately engaged by Milosh and Relya, while Marko turned his attention to the twelve attendants. Swinging his heavy mace he urged Sharatz against his foes, and in a very short time all were hurled to the ground. Marko then alighted from his horse, bound their hands behind them, and drove them through the vineyards. He had gone but a little distance when he saw Bogdan driving toward him his two friends, their arms bound in the same manner as those of Bogdan's followers. At this Marko was seized with fear and looked around for a means of escape. The next moment he remembered that the three brothers-in-God had sworn faithfulness one to another, and that they were pledged at all times to help one another. So tightening Sharatz's reins he drew his helmet over his forehead, furiously unsheathed his trusty sabre, and cast one fierce, dark glance at Bogdan. The Bully fears to meet Marko When the Bully saw the terrific fury and determination in Marko's eyes his legs shook beneath him, and he turned his mare away, not daring to meet Marko face to face. He could not, however, hope to escape the vengeance of the Prince, and so after a short silence he called out: "Come, O Marko, let us be reconciled. Wilt thou release my twelve attendants? If thou art willing to do that I shall in turn set free thy brothers-in-God." Marko agreed to this, and alighting from Sharatz, he unhooked from his saddle a skin of wine, and they all sat down to refresh themselves with the cool wine and to partake of freshly gathered grapes. When they had rested, the three friends mounted their horses and prepared to depart. As they were about to ride off Marko thus addressed Bogdan: "Mayest thou prosper with God's help, O Bogdan! And may we meet again some day in good health and once more drink together!" To this Bogdan replied: "Farewell! and may God ever help thee, O thou Royal Prince Marko! But may my eyes never again behold thee! Seeing how thou hast terrified me this day, I do not think that I shall wish ever to meet thee again!" PRINCE MARKO AND GENERAL VOUTCHA Hark! Is it thunder or is it an earthquake? Neither, but guns are roaring from fort Varadin: General Voutcha is feasting in triumph, for he has captured three Serbian heroes; the first is Milosh of Potzerye, the second is Milan of Toplitza, and the third is Ivan Kosantchitch. The General has thrown them into the deepest dungeons of his castle, noisome holes where stagnant water lies knee-deep and the bones of warriors lie piled as high as the shoulders of a hero. Milosh of Potzerye is of noble lineage, unaccustomed to privation and suffering, and he bitterly laments and deplores his fate, as he peers anxiously through the grating of the massive door into the dark passage by which alone succour might come. And, indeed, after three days he saw a messenger, to whom he called: "O, my brother-in-God! Bring me that whereon I may inscribe a missive!" The man was pleased to be called a brother-in-God of such a famous hero and swiftly brought a roll to Milosh, who inscribed on it the following words: "To the Royal Prince Marko of Prilip: O brother-in-God, thou princely Marko! Either thou dost not want to hear more of me or thou hast ceased to care for me! Fate has been hard, and I have fallen, O brother, into the hands of a foe. The Magyar Voutcha has captured me and my two brothers-in-arms. We have been immured in this vile dungeon for three whole days, and it is impossible that we should remain for another three days and live. Therefore, if thou wouldst see us again, rescue us, O brother, either by heroic deeds or by ransom!" Milosh scratched his cheek and sealed the missive with his blood; he then handed it to the man, together with twelve ducats, and implored him to hasten with it to Prilip. The messenger rode with all speed, arriving at the city of Prilip on a Sunday morning. Prince Marko was coming out of church when the courier dashed up to him with the missive. As the Prince read of the terrible straits in which his friends found themselves tears ran down his cheeks, and he swore that he would save his noble brothers-in-God. The bard here describes Marko's preparations in much the same manner as in the ballad, "Prince Marko and the Moorish Chieftain." Next he tells of the journey from Prilip to Varadin, but not without exaggerating as a matter of course, the wonderful alertness of Sharatz, who, on this occasion, swam across the Danube. The Arrival of Marko Arrived on the plain before the castle of Varadin, Marko spread his tent, unhooked his skin of wine, the contents of which he drank from a bowl 'containing twelve okas' (about forty-eight pints), never forgetting to have half the quantity of wine each time he filled the bowl, for his beloved Sharatz. This action was observed by a fair Magyar lady, the wife of General Voutcha's son Velimir, and being alarmed at seeing such a strange hero, she was suddenly seized with a fever ('which will torture her for three years') and hastened to tell the General what she had seen, and described to him every detail of Marko's attire. But General Voutcha, feigning indifference, comforted his beloved daughter-in-law, promising that he would capture him as easily as he had captured the three knights already lying in his dungeons. Voutcha called his son, whom he ordered to take three hundred horsemen, and seize the haughty stranger immediately. Marko sitting and enjoying his wine, did not see the approach of Velimir, but the faithful Sharatz began striking the earth with his right forefoot, thus warning his unobservant master. Marko understood, turned his head, and saw that a whole squadron was surrounding him; so he drank one more bowl of wine, threw the vessel on the grass, sprang on to his horse and fiercely attacked the army, 'as a falcon attacks the timid pigeons.' One portion he cut to pieces, the second he ran down with his Sharatz, and the third he drowned in the Danube. But Velimir nearly escaped him, thanks to his own speedy charger. When Marko saw that Sharatz, tired out, could not possibly come up with Velimir's horse, he remembered his mace, which he now hurled so skilfully that the heavy handle only touched the youth with sufficient force to fling him to the earth. Marko was by his side immediately and he had Velimir securely bound, whereupon he threw him down on to the soft, green grass, and went on drinking more of his wine. Velimir's wife had witnessed the whole of the proceedings, and she now ran swiftly to the General, who was furious at the intelligence and ordered all the siege-guns to be fired. Then he collected three thousand warriors and mounting his mare he led this host against Marko. The Magyars completely surrounded the hero, but Marko saw nothing of it as he went on sipping his wine. Sharatz, however, was watchful and came to the side of his master, who, realizing his critical position, sprang to the saddle and, more furious than before, rushed fiercely at the Magyars, with his sabre in his right hand, his lance in his left, and Sharatz's reins held firmly in his teeth. Those whom he struck with his sabre, he cut in two; those he touched with his lance, were thrown over his head. Marko captures General Voutcha After three or four encounters Marko had killed so many Magyars that those who were left, filled with horror, fled in disorder. Marko next captured General Voutcha in the same manner as he had his son, and after tying his hands, bound him to his Sharatz's saddle and carried him off to where Velimir lay groaning. Making the two of them fast to the General's mare, he proceeded to Prilip and cast them prisoners into a dungeon. A few days later he received a letter from Voutcha's wife, beseeching him not to destroy Velimir and his father, and offering him vast sums of gold as ransom. And Marko sent the following answer: "Behold! thou faithful consort of General Voutcha! If thou desireth that I should release my prisoners, thou hast but to release my old friends Milan of Toplitza and Ivan Kosantchitch and give to each three tovars of gold to compensate for the time he has wasted in prison; and thou must also give me a like sum, for I have had to overwork my good Sharatz. And there is still my friend Milosh of Potzerye within your castle, but I authorize him to settle his own affairs with you in person, for I agree to whatsoever he may arrange." The wife of the General lost no time in sending the required quantity of gold. Then she took the keys of the dungeons, and released the heroes; sent for a number of barbers to shave their beards, and to attend to their hair and nails. She next ordered a large quantity of the finest wines and most costly dishes to be served to the noble Serbians, and after the feast, she narrated to them Marko's wonderful deeds, beseeching Milosh of Potzerye to use all his influence and persuade the princely Marko to have mercy on her husband and her son. Thereupon Milosh promised that her wish should be gratified, and that she had no need to fear. Only he requested her to give him: first, the best horse from General Voutcha's stables, the one that Voutcha rode once a year to go in state to the church at Tekiye; secondly, the gilded coach, harnessed with twelve Arabian coursers used by General Voutcha when travelling to Vienna on his visits to the Emperor, for in that carriage Milosh wished to drive home the aged hero, Milan of Toplitza. And finally he asked that his friend Toplitza might be allowed to wear the fine attire which the General wore on Easter day. To all this Voutcha's wife agreed and, moreover, she gave each of the friends one thousand ducats in order that they might not be short of wine on their journey to Prilip. Marko greeted the knights in a warm brotherly manner, and then released General Voutcha and his son Velimir, ordering a powerful convoy to escort them to Varadin. When the noble Serbian voïvodes had enjoyed Marko's hospitality for several days (consuming during that time a formidable quantity of his red wine) they embraced and kissed each other on the cheek; the friends, in addition, kissing Marko's uncovered hand. Then each proceeded in peace to his own domains. PRINCE MARKO'S WEDDING PROCESSION One evening as Prince Marko sat at meat with his aged mother, she requested him to seek a maiden of his heart, that she might enjoy the companionship and support of a daughter-in-law. Thereupon Marko answered: "May God be my witness, O mother dear! I have journeyed through nine kingdoms and through the whole Turkish empire, and whenever I found the maiden I wished to make my bride, I never found that thou wert of the same mind with me. Sometimes it was that thou didst not feel friendly toward her family; and when I chanced to find a family to thy liking there was never the maiden thou didst desire for me! Howbeit, when I was wandering through Bulgaria I once reined my Sharatz near a well, and lo! there I saw a maiden so fair and gentle, that all at once it seemed to me as if the grass near where we stood were turning round us again and again. Later I learned that this maiden was the daughter of King Shishman of Bulgaria: assuredly this would be the very maiden for me and a family which would please thee! If thou approvest, therefore, I will at once go and ask her in marriage." Marko's mother, delighted with this choice of her son, hastened to prepare the usual presents that very night, for she feared her son might change his mind before the morrow. Next morning, however, Marko ordered Sharatz to be saddled, and slinging the necessary skin of wine on one side of the saddle and his war-club on the other, he took leave of his mother and rode straight to the castle of King Shishman. The Bulgarian sovereign saw Marko while he was still a long way off, and walked forth to greet him. When he was quite close, Marko alighted from Sharatz, stretched out his arms and the two embraced, each inquiring after the state of the other's health. The King then led Marko into the castle while Sharatz was taken by the grooms to the royal stables. A little later, in the course of the gorgeous banquet which had been immediately arranged in honour of the princely guest, Marko sprang to his feet, bowed deeply before the King and asked his daughter's hand in marriage. The King was so pleased to have such a noble and valiant son-in-law that he consented without hesitation. Marko expended three tovars of gold on the ring to be worn by his future bride, for her wedding-robe and other presents. Next he asked if he might return to Prilip to gather his wedding guests and friends, and as he was on the point of leaving the Palace, the Queen specially advised the Prince not to select as the bride's leader one whom he could not trust implicitly, but rather to choose his own brother or at least a cousin, for, said she, a stranger might possibly prove a rival, so charming and beauteous was her daughter. When Marko came near to Prilip, his mother walked forth to greet him, and, after embracing him warmly on both cheeks and giving him her fair hands to kiss, she inquired if he had had a prosperous journey and had become betrothed to the Princess. Marko narrated all that had happened, and did not forget to repeat the Queen's words at parting, complaining of his great misfortune in that his brothers were dead, neither had he a cousin. His mother, filled with joy, advised Marko not to lament because of that, but to send at once a message to the Doge of Venice, inviting him to come with a company of five hundred and to act as koom; also to send to Styepan Zemlyitch, asking him to join the wedding party with five hundred followers and to be the bride's leader. Marko thought the counsel good and dispatched couriers forthwith, as his mother advised. The Doge soon appeared with his five hundred horsemen and Styepan Zemlyitch likewise. Marko welcomed them cordially and hospitably, and there was no lack of good red wine. The company now proceeded to the court of the Bulgarian King, who received them most heartily and feasted them for three days. On the fourth day the wedding party prepared to return for it was evident that if the guests were to remain for another three days the King would have no wine left. Shishman presented all with royal gifts: to some he gave silks, to others costly shirts, to others again golden dishes and plates; to the bride's leader was presented a special shirt embroidered in gold. When the bride was mounted, her royal father presented her to the bride's leader with these words: "Here are now, in thy keeping, the bride and her horse till thou arrivest at Marko's castle; once there thou shalt give Marko the bride, but her courser thou mayst retain for thyself!" The Wedding Procession The procession rode on through the Bulgarian woodland and meadows, and as there is no happiness without some misfortune, a gust of wind blew aside for a moment the bride's veil. The Doge of Venice, riding close by her side, beheld the maiden's fair face and was so fascinated by her wondrous beauty that he fell violently in love with her. When the whole party of wedding guests halted for the night, he went unperceived to the tent of Styepan Zemlyitch, addressing him thus: "O thou bride's leader! Wilt thou yield to me thy charge that we may flee together: I will give thee a bootful of golden ducats!" Styepan Zemlyitch answered indignantly: "Keep silent, thou Doge of Venice! Mayest thou be turned to stone! Hast thou made up thy mind to perish!" When they reached the halting-place on the second day, the Doge again went secretly to the tent of Styepan Zemlyitch and once more asked for the bride, but this time he offered two bootfuls of ducats. Again the bride's leader refused, saying: "Begone, O Doge! Lest thou shouldst have thy head cleft asunder! Has anybody ever heard of a koom taking his kooma from her bridegroom?" The Unfaithful Koom When the third night came, the Doge offered to the bride's leader three bootfuls of pure golden ducats. This enormous sum of money was too great a temptation for the bride's leader, and he gave up the bride to the Doge, who conducted her to his own tent. Then he declared his love to the maiden, and in impassioned tones implored her to fly with him to Venice, where he could offer her all that heart could desire. But the Bulgarian maiden turned from him with loathing. "For pity's sake, O thou Doge of Venice!" said she, "the earth under us would surely crack to swallow us and the skies above us would burst asunder if a kooma should thus be false to her bridegroom." But the Doge persisted: "Oh do not be so foolish, my sweet kooma! I have kissed and caressed many koomas, but never once did the earth open under us, or the heavens burst asunder. Come, let us embrace!" The maiden thought it well to dissemble, and she replied: "O my koom, thou Doge of Venice! My aged mother told me that I should have her curse if I ever kissed a bearded hero; and I swore to her that I should love only a shaven knight such as is the Royal Prince Marko." Upon this the Doge called two barbers: one to shave his beard and the other to wash his face clean. As they were thus engaged the maiden stooped and gathered up, unnoticed, the Doge's beard and wrapped it in the folds of her silken robe. The Doge now dismissed the barbers and endeavoured afresh to make love to the bride, who feigned coyness and said that she feared that they both would surely perish when Marko learned of what had taken place. But the Doge protested: "Oh do not be so foolish. I have five hundred followers with me! Marko's tent stands far away. Dost thou not see it in the distance? On its top is fixed a golden apple. In the apple are placed two large diamonds which shed a light so far and wide that the neighbouring tents need no candles at night." The Escape of the Maiden The maiden pretended that she wished to have a clear view of this wonder, and the Doge gallantly raised the hanging at the door that she might see more clearly. The next moment she was running swiftly as a deer toward Prince Marko's pavilion. Marko was sleeping, and was greatly astonished when suddenly he was awakened by the entrance of his unexpected visitor. When he recognized in the maiden his future wife he addressed her angrily: "Thou maiden of low birth! Is it seemly that thou shouldst visit me contrary to all our Christian customs?" The maiden bowed low and replied: "O my Lord, thou Royal Prince Marko! I am not a girl of low birth, but of most noble lineage. Thou hast brought with thee guests of most evil dispositions. Know then, that my leader Styepan Zemlyitch sold me, thy bride, to the Doge of Venice for three bootfuls of gold! If thou canst not believe this, look! Here is the Doge's beard!" and she unfastened her robe and took out the Doge's beard and showed it to him. Marko's wrath was now directed against his perfidious friends, and at break of day, wrapping himself in his wolf-skin cloak, and taking his heavy mace, he went straight to the bride's leader and to the koom, saying: "Good morning to ye, O bride's leader and koom! Thou leader, where is thy sister-in-law? And thou, O koom, where is thy kooma?" Styepan Zemlyitch kept as silent as a stone, but the Doge said: "O thou Royal Prince Marko! There are such strange people about that one cannot even make a joke without being misunderstood!" But Marko answered: "Ill is thy joke, O thou Doge of Venice! Where is thy beard? It is a very strange joke to shave one's beard!" The Doge would have answered, but before he could do so Prince Marko had unsheathed his sabre and cleft his head in twain. Styepan Zemlyitch attempted to escape, but Marko rushed after him and struck him so neatly with his keen sabre that he fell to earth in two pieces. This done, Marko returned to his tent, ordered the procession to advance, and arrived without mishap at Prilip. PRINCE MARKO AND THE MOORISH PRINCESS One day the mother of Prince Marko spoke thus to her son: "O, my darling son, thou Royal Prince Marko! Why dost thou erect so many churches and shrines? Either thou hast sinned gravely before God and thou art in lowly penance, or thou must have piled somewhere superabundant wealth?" Then Marko of Prilip answered her: "My beloved, aged mother! I will tell thee the truth. Once while I travelled through the Moorish country I rose early one morning in order to go and refresh my Sharatz at the well. When I arrived there I found twelve Moors who had come for the same purpose, and, as I, in my pride, would not await my turn, the twelve Moors opposed me because they had come first. At once we began to quarrel. I lifted my heavy club and felled one of the Moors, to the earth; his companions attacked me and I struck another to the ground; ten assailed me and I killed a third; nine engaged me and a fourth bit the dust; the other eight rushed on me and I knocked down the fifth; seven strove with me and I sent to eternity the sixth; but I had to face the remaining six, who overpowered me; they bound my arms to my back and carried me to their Sultan, who flung me in prison. There I dwelt for eight years knowing nothing of the seasons, save that in winter girls would play with snow-balls and sometimes fling them through my prison bars, wherefore I knew that it was winter; or maidens flung me bunches of basil, and thus I knew when it was early summer." The Moorish Princess "When the eighth year broke upon me, it was not my dungeon that distressed me so much as a Moorish maiden, the beloved daughter of the Sultan. She annoyed me by coming every morning and every evening and calling to me through my dungeon-window: 'Why shouldst thou perish in this prison, O Marko? Give me thy word that thou art willing to marry me and I will release thee, and thy Sharatz too, I would take with me, also, heaps of golden ducats; as much, O Mark, as thou canst ever wish to have.' "At that time I was in very great misery and despair, O my mother, and so taking off my cap and placing it upon my knee I addressed it thus: 'By my firm faith! I shall never abandon thee; neither shall I ever forget thee, upon my soul! The sun itself has often changed, shining not in winter as in summer, but my promise shall be unbroken for ever!' "The maiden believed, in pleasant delusion, that I had sworn faithfulness to her, and so at dusk one evening she opened the doors of my prison, led me along to my spirited Sharatz, having got ready for herself a fine noble charger. Both steeds bore on their backs bags filled with ducats. The Moorish maiden brought in addition my best tempered sabre and we sped swiftly through the Moorish lands. "When darkness came upon us and I flung myself on the ground to slumber, the Moorish princess did likewise, and lo! she threw her arms around me. And I looked at her, O my mother, and I saw how black her face was and how white were her teeth! I shuddered with horror and hardly knowing what I did, I sprang to my feet, mounted my Sharatz, and galloped away madly, leaving her alone. The maiden called after me in anguish: 'O my brother-in-God, thou Royal Prince Marko! Leave me not thus!' But I would not stay my flight. "Then and there, O my mother, I sinned before God! Then it was that I obtained gold in profusion, and therefore is it that I have built numberless churches and shrines to expiate my sin!" PRINCE MARKO AND THE VEELA Prince Marko and Milosh of Potzerye rode early one morning across the beauteous mountain Mirotch, carrying their lances and trotting their steeds. They loved each other so dearly that they would now and then embrace. Suddenly Marko began to doze on his Sharatz, and tried to persuade his companion to sing something in order to keep him awake. Thereupon Milosh answered: "O dear brother-in-God, thou Royal Prince Marko! I would gladly sing a song for thee, but last night when I was with veela Raviyoyla, I drank far too much wine, and she threatened, in truth she promised, to pierce both my heart and my throat with arrows if she ever heard me sing again." But Marko insisted: "Oh do sing, brother dear! Fear not the veela as long as I, Prince Marko, live; and as long as I have Sharatz and my six-edged club!" So Milosh to please his pobratim, began to sing a beautiful song telling of their valiant and virtuous ancestors; how they had held kingdoms and ruled in succession over the much-honoured land of Macedonia; and how every one of those good sovereigns had erected a shrine or a church. The song pleased Marko so much that, lulled by Milosh's melodious voice, he fell asleep. But it happened that the veela also heard the song, and began to sing in turn with Milosh, doing all the time her very best to show him that she sang better than he did. Milosh really sang better, for he possessed a magnificent voice, and this fact much irritated the veela; she took two slim arrows, twanged her bow, and transfixed first Milosh's throat and then his heart. Milosh uttered a piercing cry: "Alas, O my mother! Alas, Marko, my brother-in-God! The veela has shot me with her arrows! Did I not tell thee, O pobratim, that I must not sing on the mountain Mirotch?" The Pursuit of the Veela This lamentation awoke Marko at once. He leaped lightly from the saddle, tightly fastened his Sharatz's girths, embraced him, and thus whispered in his ear: "Lo, Sharo, thou on whom I depend for speed! Oh, thou must overtake, now, the veela Raviyoyla; and I shall shoe thy hoofs with pure silver and gild them with the finest gold; I shall cover thee with a silken cloak reaching to thy knees, and on it I shall fasten fine silk tassels to hang from thy knees to thy hoofs; thy mane shall I intertwine with threads of gold and adorn it with rare pearls. But, woe to thee if thou reachest not the veela! Both thy eyes shall I tear out; thy four legs shall I break; and I shall abandon thee here and thou shalt for ever creep from one fir-tree to another, exactly as I should do if I lost my dear brother Milosh!" Then Marko sprang upon Sharatz, and rode swiftly after the veela. Raviyoyla was already flying over the mountain top, and when Sharatz caught sight of her he bounded fiercely forward, leaping to the height of three lances in the air, and covering the length of four lances at each bound. In a few moments Sharatz came up with the veela, who, greatly affrighted, flew upward to the clouds. But Marko pitilessly hurled his far-reaching club and struck her between the white shoulders, and she fell instantly to the earth. Marko struck her several times as she lay on the earth, exclaiming: "O Veela! May God requite thee! Why didst thou pierce my dear pobratim's throat and heart? Thou hadst better give him healing herbs, else thou shalt not carry thy head much longer upon thy shoulders!" The veela implored Marko to forgive her, and to become her brother-in-God. "For God's sake, O my brother Marko, and by the memory of St. John," she cried, "spare my life, and I will go through the mountain and gather herbs to heal thy pobratim's wounds!" Marko was very easily moved by the mention of the divine's name, and he released the veela, who went at once, but never out of hearing and answering to Marko's frequent calls. When the veela had collected herbs she brought them to Milosh and healed his wounds; his voice was not only quite restored, but it was finer than before and his heart was sounder. Then the brothers-in-God rode straight to the district of Poretch, where they crossed the River Timok, and soon arrived at the town of Bregovo, whence, after tarrying awhile, they departed to the district of Vidin. When the veela rejoined her sisters she admonished them, saying: "Hark, ye veelas, my sisters! Do not shoot any heroes in the mountains with your bows and arrows, so long as the Royal Prince Marko and his Sharatz are alive. Oh, what I, much to be pitied, have suffered at his hands to-day! I marvel, indeed, that I still live!" PRINCE MARKO AND THE TURKISH HUNTSMEN Amouradh, the grand Vizir once arranged a hunting party of twelve Turkish warriors to which he also invited Prince Marko. They hunted for three days and found nothing in the mountain-forest. But, behold! they suddenly discovered a green-bosomed lake upon which a team of wild ducks was swimming! The Vizir let loose his falcon and bade him pounce upon a gold-winged duck, but the duck did not even allow the falcon to see it, so swiftly it flew toward the clouds; as for the falcon it fell on the branches of a fir-tree. Then Prince Marko spoke thus to the Vizir: "Am I permitted, O Vizir Amouradh, to release my falcon and try to secure the gold-winged duck?" "Surely you may, Prince Marko," answered the Vizir. Then the princely Marko let loose his falcon, and the bird ascended to the clouds, sprang upon the gold-winged prey, and bore it down to the foot of the green fir-tree. When Amouradh's falcon saw this it became greatly excited and, according to its natural habit of seizing others' spoil, it turned violently upon its rival and tried to pluck the duck from its claws. But Marko's falcon was exceedingly valiant, worthy of its master, and would yield its well-earned trophy to none but its master. So it turned sharply on Amouradh's falcon and vehemently tore at its proud feathers. When the Vizir saw this, he too became excited and in great rage rushed to the combatants and flung Prince Marko's falcon fiercely against a fir-tree so that its right wing was broken. He then took horse with his followers and fled from the scene of his violence. The noble falcon, as it lay upon the ground, wailed in its pain and Prince Marko ran quickly and caught it to his breast, for he loved it very dearly. Then very tenderly he bound its wounded pinion and addressed the bird with emotion: "Woe to me and to thee, my falcon, that ever we went hunting with the Turk without our dear Serbians, for the Turk must ever violate the rights of others!" After having bound his falcon's wing, Marko sprang upon Sharatz and sped through the forest swift as a veela. Soon he left the mountain behind and he observed the fleeing Turks in front of him. The Vizir turned in his saddle and saw Marko in the distance, wherefore he spoke thus to his twelve valiant companions: "Ye, my children, ye twelve valiant heroes! See ye yonder mountain-mist approaching, and in it the Royal Prince Marko? Hark! how fiercely he enrages his Sharatz! God alone knows, what will befall us!" The Vengeance of Marko He had barely uttered these words when Prince Marko came up flourishing his bright sabre. Instantly the twelve Turks dispersed like a flock of sparrows startled by a vulture. Marko made for the Vizir and with one thrust of his sabre cleft his head asunder. Next he pursued the twelve Turkish warriors, each of whom he cut in two, striking them through their Turkish sashes. Then he stood for a while in doubt: "Oh, what am I to do now? Ought I to go to the Sultan at Yedrenet or had I perhaps better return to my white castle at Prilip?" After long thought he decided that it would be far better to go to the Sultan and give an account of what had happened than to give an opportunity to his foes to calumniate him to the Padishah. When Prince Marko arrived at Yedrenet he was at once received in divan by the Sultan. A poet describes Marko's eyes as being as bright and fierce as those of a hungry wolf; and the Sultan was terrified by the lightning flashing from his eyes. He deemed it well to temporize and so spoke gently to the hero: "O my dear son Marko, why art thou so enraged to-day? Art thou, perchance, short of gold?" Prince Marko narrated to the Sultan what had happened to his Vizir Amouradh, not omitting to mention one single incident. When he had heard the tale, the Sultan, convulsed with laughter, comforted Prince Marko: "May Blessings fall upon thee, my dearest son Marko!" said he. "If thou hadst not behaved thus, I would no longer call thee a son of mine; any Turk may become Vizir, but there is no hero to equal Marko!" With these words the Sultan plunged his hand in his silk-lined pocket, drew out a purse containing one thousand ducats and proffered it to Prince Marko, exclaiming: "Accept this as a gift from me, O my dearest son Marko, take some wine and go in peace!" Marko, nothing loth, accepted the purse and left the divan. The Sultan, however, was not moved to this seeming generosity by friendliness to Marko; on the contrary he feared him exceedingly and was anxious only for his speedy departure. PRINCE MARKO AND MOUSSA KESSEDJIYA [37] "Moussa Arbanass [38] was one day drinking wine in a white tavern in Istamboul. Presently, when he had drunk a good deal he began to talk thus: 'It is just about nine years since I entered the service of the Sultan at Istamboul, yet he has never given me a horse, or arms, or even a velvet cloak! By my faith, I shall rebel! I shall go down to the coast, seize the harbours and all the roads leading to them: and then build myself a koula, around which I shall erect gibbets with iron hooks and hang his hodjas (priests) and hadjis (pilgrims) upon them.'" The threats the Albanian made in his drunkenness he actually carried out when he became possessed of his senses. He turned rebel, seized the sea-ports and the main roads, captured and robbed the rich merchants, and hanged the Sultan's hodjas and hadjis. When the Sultan heard of all these misdeeds, he sent the Grand Vizir Tyouprilitch with three thousand men to undertake a campaign against Moussa. But, alas! no sooner had the Turkish army reached the sea-coast than Moussa dispersed it and took the Grand Vizir prisoner. Next he bound the Vizir hand and foot and sent him back thus ignominiously to his master at Istamboul. Now the Sultan, in despair, published a proclamation all over his vast empire, promising untold riches to any knight who would vanquish the rebel. And many a brave knight went to fight the rebel, but, alas! not one ever returned to Istamboul to claim the promised gold! This humiliation threw the Sultan into unspeakable distress and anxiety. At length the Grand Vizir Tyouprilitch came to him and said: "Sire, thou Glorious Sultan! If only we had now with us the Royal Prince Marko! He would surely overcome Moussa the Bully!" The Sultan cast at his Vizir a reproachful glance, and, with tears in his eyes, said: "Oh, torture not my soul, by speaking of the princely knight Marko! His very bones must have rotted long before this day, for at least three years have flown since I threw him into my darkest dungeon, the door of which has remained fast bolted." Thereupon the Vizir asked: "Gracious master, what wouldst thou give to the man who could bring Marko into thy presence alive?" And the mighty Sultan answered: "I would give him the vizirate of Bosnia, with power there to remain for nine years without recall, and I would not demand from him even a dinar of the revenues and taxes which he might collect." Marko is Sent for Hearing this, the cunning Vizir hastened to the prison, opened the door of the dungeon, brought out the Royal Prince Marko and led him before the Sultan. Marko's hair had grown to the ground, one-half of it he had used to sleep upon, and with the other part he covered himself at night; his nails were so long that he could plough with them; the dampness and dirt in the dungeon had changed him so that he was as black as a black stone. When the Sultan saw him, he exclaimed: "Dost thou still live, Marko?" "Yea, I am still alive, but hardly can I move my limbs," the hero answered. And the Sultan went on to tell Marko about the evil doings of Moussa, and asked him: "Couldst thou undertake, O Marko, to go to the sea-coast and kill Moussa Kessedjiya? If thou wouldst do this, I would gladly give thee as much gold as thou canst desire." Thereupon Prince Marko answered: "Alas, O Sire! The dampness of the stone dungeon has ruined my bones and much hurt my eyes. How could I venture to fight a duel with Moussa? But, if thou wishest me to try that feat, place me in a good inn somewhere, supply me with plenty of wine and brandy, fat mutton and good white bread, that I may perhaps regain my strength. I shall then tell thee as soon as I feel myself able to fight a duel." Hearing this, the Sultan summoned attendants to wash Marko, to cut his hair, to shave him and to trim his nails. Then he had him conducted with honour to the New Inn, where there was abundance of everything to satisfy his needs. Marko remained in the inn for three months, zealously eating and drinking, and he had thus considerably restored his strength, when the Sultan asked him: "Dost thou yet feel thyself able to go and overcome Moussa, for my poor subjects are incessantly sending me complaints against that accursed brigand?" And Marko answered the Sultan thus: "Let a piece of perfectly dry wood of a medlar-tree, which has been cut off nine years be brought to me, that I may test my strength!" When the piece of wood was brought, Marko took it in his right hand and squeezed it so hard that it broke in three. "By my faith, Sire, it is not yet time for me to venture a duel with such a dangerous adversary as Moussa!" So Marko remained in the New Inn for another month, eating, drinking, and resting, till he felt a little stronger. Then he asked again for a dry stick from a medlar-tree. When the wood was brought to him, he squeezed it with his right hand till it broke in pieces, and this time two drops of water came from it. Then Marko said to the Sultan: "Sire, now I am ready to fight the duel." Marko orders a Sword From the palace Marko went straight to Novak, the famous maker of swords. "Make me a finer sword than any thou hast ever made before, O Novak!" said Marko, and he gave the smith thirty ducats and went back to the inn. There he stayed to drink red wine for the next few days, and then went again to the smith's. "Hast thou finished my sword, O Novak?" And the swordsmith brought forth the blade and gave it to Marko, who asked: "Is it good?" "There is the sword and here is the anvil; thou canst try on it the quality of thy sword!" answered Novak timidly. Thereupon Marko lifted his sword and struck the anvil with it so hard that he cut right through it. "O Novak, the swordsmith, tell me now, truthfully--and may God help thee--hast thou ever made a better sword?" And Novak answered: "Since thou didst call upon the name of the true God, I must tell thee truthfully that I did once make a better sword; yea, and it was for a better warrior. When Moussa turned rebel and went to the sea-coast, he ordered me to make him a sword, with which he cut right through the anvil as thou hast done, and through the trunk of an oak-tree upon which it was standing, as well." This enraged Marko. "Hold out thy hand, Novak, that I may pay thee for my sword!" No sooner had the man stretched forth his right arm, than Marko by a swift stroke cut it off from the shoulder. "Now, O Novak, from this day thou shalt not make either a better or a worse sword than mine! And take these hundred ducats as thy reward!" Marko meets Moussa Then Marko mounted his Sharatz and rode off to the sea, seeking and inquiring all the way for Moussa. One morning early he rode up the defile Katchanik, when suddenly he saw Moussa Kessedjiya, calmly seated on his black steed with his legs crossed, throwing his mace to the clouds and catching it again in his right hand. When the two knights met, Marko said to Moussa: "Knightly Moussa, move aside and leave the path free for my Sharatz to pass! Move aside or bow before me!" To this Moussa answered: "Pass on quietly, Marko, do not start a quarrel. Better still, let us dismount and take refreshment together. I shall never move aside to make way for thee. I know well that thou wert born of a queen in a palace, and wert laid upon silken cushions. Doubtless thy mother wrapped thee in pure silk, and fastened the silk with golden thread, and gave thee honey and sugar; my mother was a poor, wild Albanian, and I was born on the cold rocks near the sheep she was tending, and she wrapped me in a rough, black cloth, tying it on to me with bramble twigs; she fed me on oatmeal--but above all things she always made me swear that I should never move aside for anybody." Hearing this, Marko of Prilip aimed his lance at Moussa's breast, but the fierce Albanian received it on his warrior-mace, and it glanced off, whizzing high above his head. Then Moussa threw his own lance, aiming at Marko's breast, but the princely hero received it on his club and it broke in three. They next unsheathed their swords and attacked each other at close quarters. Marko gave a great stroke, but Moussa interposed his mace and the sword was shattered. Instantly Moussa raised his own sword to strike his adversary, but Marko, in the like manner, received it upon his club and the weapon snapped in two near its hilt. Then they began labouring each other with their maces until these broke too. They next dismounted and seized each other fiercely. The famous heroes were equally matched for once, the knightly Moussa against the princely Marko. Moussa could neither throw Marko down, nor could Marko overcome Moussa. For a whole summer's morning did they wrestle together. At about noon, white foam rose on Moussa's lips, and Marko's lips were covered with blood and foam. Then Moussa exclaimed: "Do throw me down, O Marko! or, if you cannot do it, let me throw you down!" Marko did all he could, but his attempts were vain. Seeing this, Moussa exerted his last remnants of strength and, lifting Marko from the ground, he threw him on to the grass and pressed his knees on his breast. Marko, in great danger, exclaimed: "Where art thou now, my sister-in-God, thou Veela? Where art thou to-day, mayst thou live no longer! Now I see thine oath was false when thou didst sware to me that whenever I should be in distress, thou wouldst help me!" The veela appeared from behind the clouds, saying: "O my brother, Royal Prince Marko! Hast thou forgotten my words: That thou shouldst never fight on Sunday? I cannot help thee, for it would not be fair that two should fight against one. Where are thy secret poniards?" Moussa cast a glance to the clouds to see where the voice came from, and this was his undoing, for Marko seized the moment, drew out a secret blade, and with a sudden fierce stroke cut Moussa so that his body was opened from his waist to his neck. Marko disengaged himself with difficulty from the embraces of the horrible Moussa, and as the body lay upon its back the Prince discovered through the gaping wound that his adversary had three rows of ribs and three hearts. One of the hearts had collapsed; another was still beating excitedly; on the third a serpent was just awaking, and as it saw Marko it hissed: "Praise God, O Royal Prince Marko, that I still slept while Moussa was alive--for a three hundred fold misfortune would surely otherwise have befallen thee!" When Marko heard this, tears poured down his cheeks and he lamented: "Alas! Gracious God forgive me, I have killed a better knight than I am!" Then he struck off Moussa's head with his sword, put it into Sharatz's nose-bag and returned triumphantly to Istamboul. When he flung the head of Moussa before the Sultan the monarch was so horrified that he sprang to his feet. "Do not fear the dead, O gracious Sultan! If thou art frightened by the sight of Moussa's head, what wouldst thou have done if thou hadst met him alive?" The Sultan gave three tovars of gold to Marko, who returned to his castle at Prilip. As for Moussa the Bully, he remained on the top of Katchanik Mountain. THE DEATH OF PRINCE MARKO In the early dawn of a Sabbath morning Prince Marko paced the sea-shore. Soon he came to a bridle path that led up the slopes of the Ourvinian mountain, and as he got near to the mountain top, his faithful Sharatz suddenly stumbled and began to shed tears. His moans fell sadly upon Marko's heart and he addressed his favourite thus: "Alas! dear Sharo, my most precious treasure! Lo! we have dwelt happily together these many summers as beloved companions; till now thou hast never stumbled, and to-day for the first time thine eyes do weep: God alone knows what fate awaits us, but I can see that my life or thine is in great peril and that one of us is surely doomed to die." When Marko had spoken to his Sharatz thus, the veela from the Ourvinian mountain called to him: "My dear brother-in-God! O Royal Prince Marko! Knowest thou not, brother, why thy horse is stumbling? Thy Sharatz is grieving for thee, his master. Know that ere long ye must be divided!" Marko answered: "O thou white veela! May thy throat cause thee pain for speaking thus: How in this world could I ever part from Sharatz, who through many a land and many a city hath borne me from dawn till sunset; better steed never trod our earth than Sharatz, and Marko never better hero. While my head is on my shoulders, never will I be severed from my beloved steed!" And the veela called again: "O my brother, Royal Prince Marko, there is no force which can tear thy Sharatz from thee; thou canst not die from any hero's shining sabre, or battle-club, or lance of warrior; thou fearest no hero on earth--but, alas! thou must die, O Marko! Death, the ancient slayer, will smite thee. If thou wilt not believe me, hasten to the summit of the mountain, look to the right and to the left, and thou wilt presently see two tall fir-trees covered with fresh green leaves and towering high above the other trees of the forest. Between those fir-trees there is a spring; there alight, and bind thy Sharatz to one of the fir-trees; then bend thee down and the water will mirror thy face. Look and thou shalt see when death awaits thee!" Marko learns his Fate Marko followed the veela's instruction, and when he arrived upon the mountain top, he looked to the right and to the left, and truly, he saw the two tall straight fir-trees just as she described them, and he did everything she had counselled him to do. When he looked into the spring he saw his face reflected in the water, and lo! his fate was written on its surface!... Then he shed many bitter tears, and spoke in this wise: "O thou treacherous world, once my fairy flower! Thou wert lovely--but I sojourned for too short a time with thee: yea for about three hundred years! The hour has come for me to depart!" Then he drew his sabre and hastened to Sharatz; with one stroke he smote off his head. Never should he be mounted by the Turk; never should a Turkish burden be placed upon his proud shoulders; never should he carry the dyugoom [39] from the well for the hated Moslem! Marko now dug a grave for his faithful Sharatz and interred him with more honour than he had buried Andreas, his own brother. Then he broke his sabre in four that it might not fall into the hands of a Moslem, and that the Turk might not brandish it with something of his own power, lest the curse of Christendom should fall upon him. Marko next broke his lance in seven pieces throwing the fragments into the branches of the fir-tree. Then he took his terrible club in his right hand, and swiftly flung it from the Ourvinian mountain far into the dark sapphire sea, with the words: "When my club returns from the depths of the ocean, then shall come a hero as great as Marko!" When he had scattered thus all his weapons, he drew from his belt a golden tablet upon which he inscribed this message: "To him who passes over this mountain, and to him who seeks the spring by the fir-trees and finds Marko's body: know that Marko is dead. There are here three purses filled with golden ducats. One shall be Marko's gift to him who digs his grave: the second shall be used to adorn churches; the gold in the third shall be distributed among the blind and maimed, that they may wander in peace through the land and with hymns laud Marko's deeds and feats of glory!" When Marko had thus written he bound the tablet to a branch that it might be seen by the passers-by. He spread his cloak on the grass beneath the fir-trees, made the sign of the holy cross, drew over his eyes his fur cap and laid himself down.... The Finding of Marko The body of Marko lay beside the spring day after day till a whole week had passed. Meanwhile many a traveller passed over the broad path and saw the knightly Marko, but one and all believed him to be slumbering and kept a safe distance, fearing to disturb or awake the sleeping hero. Fortune is the leader of misfortune, as misfortune often leads to fortune: and it befell that Vasso the igouman (abbot) of Mount Athos, rode that way from the white church Vilindar attended by the youthful Issaya his deacon. When the igouman noticed Marko, he beckoned to Issaya. "O my son," he said, "be cautious, lest thou wake the hero, for Marko is furious when disturbed and may destroy us both." Then he looked anxiously round and saw the inscription which Marko had fixed above his head. He drew near cautiously and read the message. Then he dismounted hastily from his horse and seized Marko's hand--but the hero moved not! Tears rushed from the eyes of Vasso, and he lamented loudly the fate of Marko. After a time he took the three purses from the hero's girdle and hid them beneath his belt. Long he pondered as to where he should entomb Marko; at length he placed the hero's body on his horse and brought it to the shore. In due course he arrived safely with it at the white church Vilindar, and having sung the customary hymns and performed those rites which are fitting he interred Marko's body beneath the centre of the church. There the aged igouman buried Marko but he raised no monument over the tomb, lest foes should learn the whereabouts of the hero's grave and take vengeance on the dead. CHAPTER V: BANOVITCH STRAHINYA Historical Data The ballad relating to Banovitch Strahinya is one of the finest and most famous which the anonymous Serbian bards composed during the Middle Ages. The author was probably a dependent of the descendants of Banovitch, and utilized a few historical and biographical data, which he must have found among the manuscripts and other records belonging to his lord or in the other castles he visited from time to time. Prince Ourosh (of the Nemanya dynasty) married Helen, a French princess of the house de Courtenay, and through her he kept up friendly relations with the French Court of Charles of Anjou in Naples, and he endeavoured to negotiate an alliance between Serbs and French for the overthrow and partition of the Byzantine Empire. Some Serbian historians believe that Banovitch Strahinya was really the glorious Strashimir Balshitch-Nemanyitch (who reigned conjointly with his two brothers from 1360-1370 in Skadar, the capital of Northern Albania) and a descendant of the old Provençal family of des Baux. In early local records the name Baux is latinized Balcius, and members of the family who attended the Court at Naples changed the name, in Italian fashion, into Balza. And it is supposed that these Italianized Seigneurs des Baux, who were permitted to marry into the Royal House of Nemanyitch, and who settled in Serbian lands, then further changed their patronymic to Balsha or Balshitch--itch, or ich, or ic being the characteristic termination of most Serbian family names. It may here be stated that Skadar was at that time still the capital of Zeta (the Montenegro of modern times). The valiant Nicholas I Petrovitch, the present King of Montenegro, and an indirect descendant out of Balshitch, was obliged by the Great Powers to evacuate the town after he had obtained possession of it by the heroism of his troops, and Serbian bards throughout the kingdom are now improvising ballads, in which they may transmit to future generations the story of the sad events of the present time, just as their ancestors recorded the exploits of Strahinya. But let us turn to the story of Banovitch as it was given in the old ballad. The Falcon Banovitch In the opening verses the bard describes the hero and eulogizes him as "a falcon without equal." He tells of the orders given by Banovitch to his servants and pages relative to the preparations to be made for himself, Dyogo his faithful steed, and the greyhound Caraman, his inseparable companion. He is not going to the hunt, however; he intends to visit the aged Youg Bogdan, and is clad in pure silk and velvet embroidered with fine gold. Bogdan, his beloved father-in-law, resides at his sumptuous castle in Kroushevatz. The old man rejoiced to see him, and his nine sons and their wives, as well as Bogdan's sons-in-law, of whom one was a direct descendant of King Nemanya, greeted him warmly. As they were feasting, a letter was brought from Banovitch's mother, telling him that innumerable hordes of Turks had encamped on the field of Kossovo. Strahinya seized the letter and read in horror his mother's malediction: "Woe to thee and thy feasting in the accursed castle of thy wife's father!" The letter went on to say that a certain chieftain named Vlah-Ali, proud, haughty, and independent not only of Mehmed, the Grand Vizir, but of Sultan Amourath himself, had attacked, conquered, and pillaged his castle, captured his servants, and taken his wife away to his tent on a mountain near the field of Kossovo, where she was seemingly quite content to remain. Youg Bogdan, observing Strahinya's grief, asked him in alarm what was amiss, if he lacked anything in his castle, or if any one of his family had offended him. Banovitch thanked his father-in-law, and assured him that other misfortunes were troubling him, and he read the letter aloud. Banovitch then begged Youg Bogdan to allow his sons to accompany him to the field of Kossovo, as he had resolved to rescue his wife from the hands of the foe. But Youg Bogdan, thinking that it would be foolish for so few to go and face the many thousands of bloodthirsty Turks, disapproved altogether of this, and strongly advised Banovitch to abandon the idea. He even promised to find him a bride fairer and more worthy of him than his own faithless daughter. But Strahinya remained unshaken in his resolution, and convinced of his father-in-law's lack of chivalry, ran hurriedly to the stables, refusing in scorn the help of Bogdan's servants, saddled Dyogo, and indignant and sorrowful mounted forthwith. As he was riding out of the courtyard he suddenly remembered Caraman, so he whistled, and instantly Caraman ran to his master and comforted him. Banovitch seeks the Turk So over fields and over mountains, straight to Kossovo, Banovitch rode forth with courage and gladness, for his dog was even dearer to him than his steed. At Kossovo he saw the plain crowded with tents and soldiers, and as he looked he felt something like dread within him; nevertheless, he called on the name of the true God and taking the precaution of disguising himself as a Turk, he rode over the plain. For several days he sought, but alas! in vain, the tent of Vlah-Ali. At last from the banks of Sitnitza, he beheld a spacious green tent upon the pole of which a golden apple shone; before the entrance stood an Arab steed stamping sharply with his forefeet upon the ground. Strahinya thought that this must surely be the tent of Vlah-Ali, and he fiercely spurred on his Dyogo. Reaching the tent in a moment, spear in hand, he boldly drew aside the silken curtain which veiled the entrance. To his disappointment he saw that the only occupant of the pavilion was an old dervish with a white beard reaching to his knees. The old man was drinking wine, a thing forbidden to him by the laws of his order, and he returned the greeting of Strahinya, who spoke good Turkish, with a profound salaam. Then, to Strahinya's astonishment, the dervish said: "Hail! O Banovitch Strahinya, Lord of Little Banyska near Kossovo!" Banovitch was taken aback, but he tried to put a good face upon it and asked in apparent surprise: "Who is the man thou hast called Banovitch Strahinya?" The half-drunken dervish laughed aloud. "Thou canst not deceive me," said he, "I would instantly recognize thee, yea, even wert thou on the top of the mountain Goletch." Then he told Banovitch how that he had been a captive in his castle a few years previously, and had been treated most humanely, even receiving a daily measure of wine. Finally Banovitch had let him go to his estates to collect his ransom. Upon reaching his home he discovered that his estates had been appropriated by the Sultan, and his house and other possessions had been given to Pashas' daughters as dowries. All was dreariness and desolation; he had lost his fortune--and, he added bitterly, consequently all his friends--so he was reduced to ride to Yedrenet [40] to offer his services to the Sultan. The Vizir, he continued, told the Sultan that he looked as if he might quite likely be of use as a soldier, whereupon the Sultan had given him good clothes and better weapons and the Vizir added his name to the roll of warriors sworn to fight for the Sultan. "Now," he concluded, "I do not possess so much as even a dinar, give me, I pray thee, time for my fortunes to improve." Strahinya was deeply touched by the dervish's misfortunes and, alighting from his steed, he embraced him and spoke to him in the following friendly manner: "Thou art my brother-in-God! I forgive thee gladly thy ransom, neither shall I ever ask even a dinar from thee, but thou canst repay me! I am now seeking the haughty Vlah-Ali, who demolished my castle and robbed me of my wife. Tell me, O aged dervish! Where shall I find my foe? I beseech thee as my brother-in-God, not to let the Turks know of my presence here, and not to suffer them to take me by guile." The dervish was glad to become brother-in-God of such a valiant hero as Strahinya, and he pledged his unalterable faith that, even if Strahinya should destroy half of the Sultan's army, he would never betray him; but at the same time, he tried to persuade Banovitch to give up all intention of attacking such an unconquerable and terrible foe, whose mere name was enough to strike terror into the heart of the best and bravest. He went on to describe the warlike character of the invincible rebel of the Padishah, and finished by assuring Banovitch that neither his sharp sword, nor his poisoned spear, nor his steed would avail to protect him, for the terrible Vlah-Ali would surely seize him alive in his iron grasp, break his limbs to pieces and pluck out his eyes. Strahinya laughed aloud when he heard all this; "O my brother," said he, "thou aged dervish! Thou needest not warn me against one warrior, only do not bring upon me the Sultan's whole army! Since thou goest to water thy horses every evening and every morning at the River Sitnitza, thou must know where the fords are, and thou couldst save me from riding my steed into muddy depths!" At this the dervish repeated his oath, and exclaimed: Strahni-Bane, ti sokole Srpski! Tvome Dyogu i tvome junashtvu Svud su brodi, dyegody dodyesh vodi! [41] Banovitch crossed the river, and rode without haste to mount Goletch. He was still at the foot of the mountain when the morning sun shone out upon the field of Kossovo, making the tents and the soldiers' armour gleam. The Faithless Wife What was the mighty Vlah-Ali doing when dawn came? The Turk's custom was to seek slumber only at sunrise. "How very dear to him was his new slave, Strahinya's wife," recites the bard, "may be understood when I tell that he had closed his eyes with his head on her ivory shoulder." The faithless woman was not sleeping; through the door of the tent she gazed over the sleeping camp. Suddenly she roused her new lord and pointed in terror to the figure of an advancing horseman in whom she had recognized her true husband. At first the Turk laughed at her fears and said that it was only an ambassador from the Sultan. "Verily," said he, composing himself again to rest, "Strahinya will not dare to come near the tent!" Presently his companion again roused Vlah-Ali and told him that the horseman was no messenger from Amouradh, but her own husband, Banovitch Strahinya himself, and she warned Vlah-Ali that he was in peril of his life. Upon this, the mighty Vlah-Ali leapt to his feet, girded on a long silken sash, fastened in it a sharp gleaming yataghan, quickly belted on his shining sabre, and was soon firmly seated in his saddle. The Combat A moment later Banovitch came up, and a fearful contest began between the two champions--heroes of almost equal renown, though not equal in strength. Strahinya addressed his opponent with reproachful and taunting words, and Vlah-Ali replied in equally offensive terms. But they did not fight only with words. Banovitch spurred Dyogo and furiously cast his spear, which the mighty Turk, stretching out his hands, caught and broke into pieces. "O Strahinya," he shouted derisively, "thou callest me a poltroon, indeed! Dost thou know to whom thou didst speak? Here is no woman of thy Serbian land whom thy threats might alarm; thou hast here to deal with the mighty Vlah-Ali who fears neither the Sultan nor his Grand Vizir, yea, not even the countless horde which they command! One and all, they are to me but a swarm of ants!" Speaking thus, he alertly reined in his sturdy horse and sent his spear whistling through the air. So straight it went to Strahinya's breast that he surely would have been stricken had the just God not helped him. Dyogo, accustomed to duels, knelt swiftly in the nick of time, so that the Turk's weapon flew over Banovitch's head and struck against a rock behind him, breaking into three pieces. Their spears being thus destroyed, the fierce warriors next grasped their heavy clubs, and rushed to close quarters. Their blows fell thick and fast until Vlah-Ali struck Strahinya so violently that he was stunned and fell forward upon Dyogo's neck. Again the true God stood by Strahinya; his beloved grey steed, trained for such a struggle, moved his head and his neck so cleverly that he threw his master back into the saddle. Strahinya, in his turn, now struck his adversary's shoulder with great force, but the mighty Turk sat unshaken, although by this time his horse's legs were sunk in the black earth up to the knees. And so the battle went on until the combatants broke each other's clubs, when they took to their sharp sabres, hoping to decide the combat very soon. But lo! Banovitch's sabre was not a common one; two strong smiths had spent a week in shaping it and in smelting the finest of fine steel for its blade. The Turk made a swift slash at his foe, but Strahinya caught the gleaming steel on his own blade, and the sabre was instantly severed above the hilt. This pleased Banovitch greatly, and, fiercely pressing the Turk, he now tried to hack off his adversary's arms. But the heroes were well matched; Vlah-Ali guarded his head most deftly with the remaining stump of his sabre, and, bit by bit, he broke away his adversary's weapon, until once more the two were on equal terms. They now dismounted, and grasping each other firmly, they heaved and wrestled with all their strength. Finally Strahinya, feeling that he was almost spent, called upon his wife to take the other part of the Turk's sabre and to settle the contest by striking either his head or that of Vlah-Ali. Thereupon Vlah-Ali called out: "My darling! O thou wife of Strahinya! Strike me not, but rather strike Banovitch as thou canst never again be dear to him; he will blame and scorn thee for ever and ever. But thou shalt be always most dear to me. I will escort thee to Yedrenet, thirty maids shall there be to wait upon thee: to carry thy robes and wide sleeves. With sweet-meats will I feed thee and will cover thee with golden ducats from head to foot!" Women may easily be misled by fair words: and so the wife of Strahinya sprang forward and picked up a piece of the sharp blade, wrapping it carefully in fine silk, for she feared it might wound her hand. Then she ran swiftly to the fighting heroes, and taking all care not to hurt Ali, she violently struck the head of Banovitch, and cut through the golden crest and the white helmet. The blade but slightly gashed Strahinya's head, but down rushed the blood over his face fast and thick and all but blinded him. At this bitter moment, Strahinya thought of his faithful Caraman and called to him twice. The dog rushed furiously at the faithless woman and held her fast, [42] whereupon she was much terrified and screaming loudly, she threw the blade afar and seized the dog by its ears. The Turk, alarmed and distracted, turned round to see what had happened. So encouraged was Strahinya at this new proof of his dog's intelligence and faithfulness, that new strength came to him and seizing the opportunity he threw his adversary on the ground and slew him with his teeth "as wolves slaughter lambs." Then he carried away his wife (whom the intelligent Caraman had left unhurt) to her father's castle. The return of the Falcon When Youg Bogdan and his sons saw Strahinya covered with blood, they were greatly astonished that there should be a Turk valiant enough to wound a hero such as Strahinya. But Strahinya narrated to them the shameful conduct of his wife, and the story made Youg Bogdan so incensed that he commanded his sons to pierce their sister with their swords. But the ever chivalrous Strahinya protested, exclaiming: "O my brothers-in-law, ye nine Yougovitch! Why, O brothers would ye cover yourselves with shame to-day? On whom would ye draw your blades? Since ye are, O brothers, so blood-thirsty and so courageous, where were all your knives and your bright sabres when I went to the field of Kossovo? Why did ye not accompany me then, and exhibit your bravery before the fierce Turks? Why did ye not then prove yourselves to be my friends? I will not let ye kill your sister; without your help I could have slain her myself. She is but a frail and easily misguided woman! But I shall not kill her: on the contrary she will henceforth be dear to me as ever." The bard ends his poem: Pomalo ye takiyeh younaka, Ka' shto beshe Strahinyityou Bane! ("Few are the heroes fit to be compared with Banovitch Strahinya!") CHAPTER VI: THE TSARINA MILITZA AND THE ZMAY [43] OF YASTREBATZ Militza tells the Tsar "O thou one and indivisible God! Mayest thou be glorified!".... Tsar Lazar sat at supper, and with him sat the Tsarina Militza, sorrowful and depressed. This unusual aspect of his beloved consort alarmed the Tsar, and he asked her tenderly: "O Militza, thou my Tsarina! If I put a question to thee, wouldst thou answer me with the truth? Why art thou so gloomy, so sorrowful and pale to-night? Is anything thou desirest lacking in our castle?" The Tsarina replied: "O Tsar Lazar, thou Serbian golden crown! Verily whensoever thou speakest to me I answer but the truth. Nothing is lacking in our palace; but truly a great misfortune has befallen me, for the Zmay of Yastrebatz is accustomed, ever since last year to come to my tower each night to embrace me." Tsar Lazar, astounded, said: "Listen to me, O Tsarina Militza! When thou hast retired to thine apartment in the white tower to-night and thy magic lover hath come, ask him if there be any besides God whom he fears, and if there is to be found on this earth a hero whom he deems superior to himself!" Soon after supper the Tsar went to his narrow and many-storied tchardack, [44] and the Tsarina retired to her tower. And it was seen how the mountain Yastrebatz glowed suddenly as if on fire, and how out of the flames flew the Zmay straight over the level plain of Kroushevo to the Tsarina's tower. When he entered the Tsarina's apartment he took off his fairy garment and looked tenderly upon the fair woman. The Tsarina affected to welcome her lover, and after a time she said: "I pray thee, O Zmay of Yastrebatz, since thou comest so daringly to my tower, tell me is there any besides God whom thou dreadest? and lives there in the whole world any hero whom thou deemest superior to thyself?" Thereupon the Zmay answered in surprise: "Keep silent, O Militza! (or mayest thou remain speechless for ever!) Surely thou askest me this question because thou hast been instructed by Lazar!" But Militza swore to him, saying: "No, not so! May I perish if I speak not the truth! I ask thee because I see thou art such an excellent hero." When the Zmay heard this he trusted to the false oath (less dangerous it would have been for him if a viper had bitten him!) and spoke in this wise: "O Militza, dearest Tsarina! Since thou askest me truly, truly shall I answer thee. On the whole of this earth I dread none but God; neither is there hero whom I fear, save only that on a plain called Sirmia there is a village known as Koopinovo, and in that village lives a Zmay-Despot Vook; him I fear, for I have known him ever since our foolish childhood. We often used to play together on the summit of the high mountain Yastrebatz, and Vook would always get the better of me in our contests. It is Vook only whom I dread, for he is the champion Zmay on this earth." As the Zmay pronounced the last of these words, Danitza--the morning star--appeared on the horizon and the Zmay instantly took flight to his castle. The Tsarina hastened to Lazar's tchardack and informed him of what she had learnt from the Zmay. Hearing the story the Tsar decided to write in 'slender characters' a message to Zmay-Despot Vook telling what he had learned beseeching him to come to Kroushevatz and kill his detested enemy the Zmay of Yastrebatz. For rendering that service Vook should receive three tovars of ducats and the kingdom of Sirmia to be his for life. Vook as Champion The message duly reached the hands of Zmay-Despot Vook, and, having perused it he considered for a while as to what he should do. He loved the friend of his childhood, but he could not condone his shameful conduct. Finally he decided to battle with the Zmay of Yastrebatz, so he saddled his black steed, presented to him by the veela, and that very night he reached the plain of Kroushevo; there he alighted; spread his tent in the wheat-fields of Lazar and drank cool wine. Meantime the sun rose and as the Tsar slowly paced his balcony, he suddenly noticed a tent in his fields, and a strange and very wonderful knight within it. He immediately called the Tsarina and pointed out to her what he saw. Militza exclaimed that this must be none other than Zmay-Despot Vook, for he much resembled her magic lover the Zmay of Yastrebatz. The Tsar immediately sent a messenger to the stranger bidding him come at once to the palace, where a noble feast awaited him. But Vook sent word that he desired to remain in his tent and he requested that the Tsarina should not close fast the doors of her apartments that night but should quietly await the coming of the Zmay of Yastrebatz and leave the issue to her new protector. Upon receiving Vook's reply the Tsar ordered a fine repast to be prepared and taken to his tent, not omitting a large quantity of red wine. The day passed uneventfully, and when night came the fair Militza retired. As usual Mount Yastrebatz burst into its customary light, and its lord flew from the flames straight to the Tsarina's tower and stole into her chamber, where he doffed his magic garment. Suddenly he heard the voice of Zmay-Despot Vook saying: "Thou who hath presumed to embrace the Serbian Tsarina, come forth this instant from the white tower!" Greatly alarmed, the Zmay of Yastrebatz cursed the Tsarina thus: "Lo, Militza, may God destroy thee! Thou hast betrayed me to Lazar!" Saying this he donned his magic garment and made haste to depart. Instead of as usual, directing his flight to his castle on Yastrebatz, he ascended straight into the clouds. Vook pursued him very closely and coming up with him at an extreme height, he struck him violently with his heavy club and broke both his wings. Down fell the Zmay of Yastrebatz, swift as a stone to the earth, where he lay writhing like a snake and moaning piteously--"May a similar misfortune befall every hero who entrusts his mistress with his secrets!" He had not a long time in which to indulge his bitter reflections for Vook was following and the instant he alighted he struck off the head of the Zmay. Then he went to Lazar and threw the head upon the ground before him. The Tsar was so terrified at the mere sight of the ghastly object that he was seized suddenly by a severe fever. But he gave the promised gold to Vook as well as an imperial decree empowering him to rule independently over Sirmia for the remainder of his life. Moreover, he promised that should Vook ever be without gold, he need but apply to the Tsar, and he should have his needs supplied. The bard ends: "And they long lived happily, always helping each other, as fellow-countrymen should do; and the glory of the hero became a tradition; we now remember the anniversary of the slaying of the Zmay of Yastrebatz as the happiest day in the year!" CHAPTER VII: THE MARRIAGE OF MAXIMUS TZRNOYEVITCH The Ballad This ballad from which the King of Montenegro--Nicholas Petrovitch--drew inspiration for his drama The Empress of the Balkans is undoubtedly the finest Serbian national poem ever composed and chanted in Montenegro. To render it satisfactorily in its poetic form into another language, compact as it is of intensely national characteristics, metaphors and other figures of speech, religious conceptions, customs and superstitions, would be impossible for even the greatest of our poets. A French proverb says quand on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, ou aime ce que l'on a, and the hope may here be expressed that the philosophic English reader will make the best of the following prose version, such as it is, of a most interesting national poem. The Story Ivan Tzrnoyevitch [45] sailed across the Adriatic to Venice, in order to pay a visit to the doge and to ask his daughter in marriage for his son Maximus. He remained there three years, during which he spent three tovars of gold and upon his departure at the end of this period he arranged to return the following year with his son and with one thousand, or more, guests for the marriage festivities. The doge and his two sons, as well as a hundred of the doge's high dignitaries, accompanied Ivan to his galley and the Montenegrin prince repeated his promise to come again the next year with his guests and with his son, than whom, he averred, no finer hero or handsomer youth could be found in any gathering of one thousand Montenegrins or one thousand Venetians. The doge, exceedingly pleased to have for his son-in-law such a fine hero, embraced Ivan, saying: "I thank thee, my friend, for such words! How happy I am to have gained such a dear son-in-law, whose equal should in vain be sought among thousands! I shall love him more than the sight of my eyes; and shall prepare precious gifts for him: horses and falcons, helmets with golden crests and round him cloaks to wrap such as he may be proud to wear. But if he be not as handsome as thou hast said; woe to thee!" After this Ivan sailed for Zablak. As he neared his castle he felt very happy and urged on his steed Zdral the sooner to reach home. His faithful consort perceived him from afar, and at once gave orders to the servants to make the necessary preparations for the arrival of their lord. She judged from the gay appearance of her husband that he must have succeeded in his mission. When Ivan arrived in the courtyard of his castle, some of his servants helped him to alight from his steed, others took off his armour and arms, and his son Maximus brought him a silver settle that he might be seated and rest. Ivan turned to thank his son, but behold! A misfortune had befallen him! During his father's absence Maximus had been stricken with small-pox--that terrible scourge!--and his once handsome face was so pitted and seamed that it was now horrible to look upon. The bard assures us that it was hardly possible to find an uglier fellow than Maximus had become. The prince immediately recollected his boast to the doge, that there could not be found amongst thousands a handsomer youth than his son, and he felt very sad; his long moustache drooped down on to his shoulders, [46] and, with eyes fixed on the ground he sat silent and gloomy. His consort saw with concern her husband's despondency and she endeavoured to raise his spirits. Gathering up the folds of her flowing robe and the ends of her long sleeves, she came close and, bending, kissed his hand. "Pray, my lord," she said, "why art thou so sad? Hast thou, perhaps, not been successful in thy mission? Hast thou not betrothed the doge's daughter to our son? Is she perhaps not fair enough to become thy daughter-in-law? Dost thou regret the three tovars of gold which thou hast spent?" Thereupon Ivan roused himself and replied that it was quite another misfortune which was troubling him. He told how he had successfully betrothed the doge's daughter, and that she was so beautiful that even the veele could not be compared with her; that it was not the thought of the gold he had spent that tormented him--for his castle was heaped up with treasure, and the abstraction of three tovars of ducats had hardly affected the size of the store. No, the real cause of his misfortune was that he had promised the doge to give him for his son-in-law a youth who was the handsomest to be found amongst thousands, and that if he were to present his son Maximus as he now was, the doge would surely be angry and a war would ensue. When the princess heard this, she reproached Ivan with having gone so far away for a bride, when he could have found in Montenegro itself a much finer maiden whose family would be worthy of an alliance with his own. Prince Ivan was persuaded that he had acted unwisely, and he decided to abandon the betrothal, and forbade his friends to congratulate him. The Message from the Doge Nine years elapsed, and it seemed that the betrothal had been forgotten by all, and that the doge's daughter, having heard nothing from Ivan, had surely wedded another prince. But one day a message from the doge arrived, in which he reproached the Montenegrin prince with having allowed nine years to pass without sending a word to his daughter--who, "from only a bud, had developed into a beauteous rose." He further requested Ivan to write to his still patient daughter, and to tell her plainly what he had decided with regard to the proposed marriage; for if he did not now deem his son worthy of such a precious maiden, he must at once tell her so, that a prince deserving of her might be found. The prince was seized with great grief as he read the doge's message. What could he say or do? After pondering long he sought his princely consort and addressed her in this wise: "O my sweet-eyed darling! I pray you counsel me now what to do! Shall I despatch a message to the maiden and tell her that she is at liberty to seek another in marriage, or how otherwise shall I write?" The princess was a wise woman, and she advised her husband prudently: [47] "O my lord, thou Tzrnoyevitch Ivo! Has ever any man been counselled by a wife? This has never been and never shall be. For we women have long hair, but little brains. But as thou hast asked for my opinion, I will venture to say that it would be a sin before God, and before the world a shame, to deprive a maiden of happiness by releasing her from a suitably arranged betrothal. Listen to me, dear lord! What an insignificant reason alarms thee! If the small-pox has damaged thy son's visage, thy distant friends should make allowance for such misfortune resulting from illness--for who is exempt? Furthermore, if thou dreadest a conflict when thou comest to Venice, I would remind thee that thou hast dungeons full of pure golden ducats; in thy cellars there is old wine in abundance; thy granaries are overfilled with wheat and other grain; consequently thou art well able to gather a great number of svats. Thou hast promised the doge to go thither with one thousand svats, but why shouldest thou not take two thousand chosen heroes and equerries with thee? When the Venetians see with how great a force thou journeyest, they will not dare to attack thee, even if thy son were blind. Therefore, gather the svats, and hasten to bring the bride. O my lord, lose no more time in vain musing." At these bold words, the prince expressed his great satisfaction in a burst of laughter. He immediately inscribed a missive and despatched it by a speedy courier. Its contents ran thus: "O my friend, thou Doge of Venice! Thou could'st hear, if thou didst but listen, the roaring of my thirty cannons, which I am about to fire from my fortress! O friend, do not lose a single moment, but send at once galleys to meet me, my son and all our svats. Farewell!" Ivan then sent to Milosh Obrenbegovitch, inviting him to be the stari-svat and to attend with as many chosen heroes as he could possibly find within the provinces of Antivari and Dulzigno. He wrote also to his cousin, Captain Yovan, inviting him to come to the wedding with as many of his friends as possible. Couriers were sent to other friends, who received Ivan's invitation gladly, and before long the plain of Zablak was studded with their innumerable tents. One morning Ivan noticed Captain Yovan, the bride's leader, pacing sadly the ramparts of the castle, and casting frequent glances at the spearmen, equerries and standards in the encampment below. Prince Ivan would not suffer anybody to be unhappy in the midst of his festive preparations, and so asked Captain Yovan the cause of his gloom. Yovan said, that if he might speak of what was lying upon his heart, he would counsel the prince to prepare a great feast for those numberless Montenegrins encamped before his castle, after which couriers should be sent throughout the camp telling all to return home that their fields should not be ruined by neglect. Thus the land would not be deprived of defenders against their persistent foe, the Turk, who might attack the country at any moment while they were away. Then Yovan went on to relate to the prince how the previous night he had seen in a dream the sky suddenly covered with dark clouds; from those clouds a thunderbolt had fallen upon his princely castle and razed every single stone of it to the ground; a fire had then broken out and consumed the beautiful capital Zablak. When the castle fell a tower had struck Maximus but without doing him serious hurt. "Nevertheless," continued Yovan, "if there be any truth in dreams, Maximus would either perish or be severely wounded in Venice, and if I should be offended by a Venetian, all my followers, five hundred men of Podgoritza, would die in my defence." Prince Ivan laughed heartily when Yovan had ended, and said that his good friend owed his bad dreams to the fact that his pillows were either too high or too low. Then saying, "dreams are false, but God is true," he turned away to give orders to fire thirty guns from the fortress as the signal for departure. When the cannon roared, especially the two famous guns Krgno and Zelenko, the whole valley quaked, the black mountains resounded and the water of Zetina was stirred to its depths. Some equerries were shaken from their steeds and those standing fell on their knees on the grass, for it is no light matter when siege-guns roar! The Wedding Procession sets out The svats started on the journey in the best of spirits; some urged and raced their coursers, others were drinking and singing gay wedding songs as they marched. In their midst rode Prince Ivan on his courser Zdral, with two proud falcons on his shoulders; on his right rode Maximus, and on his left Milosh Obrenbegovitch. Prince Ivan glanced often at his companions, and involuntarily drew a comparison between the two. All at once he ordered a halt and spake aloud, saying: "Listen, O my brothers, ye glorious svats! I have a plan to propose, and hope that you will think it good. We are on the point of embarking, O brothers, and will soon arrive in Venice. But look upon my son Maximus, how much spoilt is his appearance by horrible disease; he is unquestionably the ugliest of us all! Alas! when I was in Venice nine years ago I praised him as the handsomest youth to be found amongst one thousand Montenegrins; yea, even amongst one thousand Venetians. Therefore, O brothers, I am very sad this morning, and have no pleasure in the thought of meeting the doge. Hear that the Venetians may attack us, so great will be their disappointment. But behold! O ye my valiant svats! We have here with us a hero whose equal in manly beauty must be vainly sought amongst us, as also amongst the proud Venetians. I speak of Voïvode Milosh Obrenbegovitch. Let us, then, take off the plumed helmet from the head of my son and place it upon Milosh's head, and thus make him the bridegroom for the time being, until we have peacefully gained possession of the maiden!" The svats were greatly impressed by Ivan's scheme, but they hesitated to speak, fearing to hurt the feelings of Maximus, who was a spirited youth and might resent the proposal. But Voïvode Milosh said graciously: "O Ivan, our lord! Why dost thou make vain appeal to the svats? Rather give me thy hand as a sign of firm faith that the plan does not in any way offend thy noble son. Swear to me by the true God that thou hast suggested this after an understanding with thy son, and I will in return pledge my honour that I shall obtain the bride for Maximus without a fight. You shall consent, however, to cede to me as my reward for playing a false part all the presents that may be given to me as the bridegroom, and I shall not be expected to divide them with anybody, but shall retain them all for myself!" Ivan burst into laughter, and exclaimed: "O Milosh, thou Serbian Voïvode! As to the presents thou namest, I give thee my faith, firmer and harder than stone itself, that nobody shall seek to have a share in them with thee! Only secure the bride and honourably escort her till we reach our city of Zablak, and I promise to give thee two bootfuls of golden ducats, a golden cup to hold nine litres of wine, a mare 'Bedevia,' the mother of studs like my Zdral, and I shall girdle on thee a sabre worth thirty purses of golden ducats." So they all agreed, and having placed the distinctive hat and ornaments of the bridegroom on the head of Voïvode Milosh they resumed their journey, and after some tossing upon the waters of the Adriatic they reached Venice without misadventure. There came large numbers of people curious to see the Montenegrins and especially to discover for themselves if Maximus was really the fine and handsome prince that they had heard he was. When the Venetian princes heard from their servants that their future brother-in-law was really as handsome as his father had described him nine years earlier, they came eagerly with outstretched arms to embrace and welcome him. They showed him the apartments in their palace which had been prepared for the princely guests, and all were lodged in comfort. The wedding festivities lasted for three days and then came the hour of departure. At the sound of cannon the svats assembled in the great courtyard awaiting the commands of Prince Ivan, and his noble son. They felt uneasy when they saw the gate of the palace closed, and on each side of it two Moorish and two Venetian soldiers standing with drawn swords the blades of which, and even their own arms, were covered with blood. Their uneasiness became alarm when after some time they saw no sign of their prince and the bride and bridegroom. They were beginning to murmur loudly when suddenly they heard the sound of horses' hoofs on the marble pavement and they saw Voïvode Milosh trying to curb his destrier with his bit as he spurred him gently in order to make him bound and prance. The Wedding Gifts Behind Milosh rode his two brothers-in-law bringing gifts. The elder of them led a black steed without a single blemish, bearing a silver saddle adorned with heavy gold, upon which sat the fair bride holding a grey falcon. "Accept, O my dear and noble Maximus," said the prince, "this fair maiden, together with her black steed and her grey falcon as a token of our love, for thou art in truth the pride of thy brothers!" Milosh bowed deeply over his horse's neck as he thanked the prince for his gracious words and accepted the bride with the gifts which she brought. The second brother now bestowed upon the bridegroom a sabre in a golden scabbard, saying: "Wear this, O brother, and be proud of it!" Next came the father of the bride. What a beautiful present he placed in his hands! A helmet in the crest of which shone a precious stone dazzling like the sun so that one could not look at it long. But the gift which was given to him by the mother of the bride was more magnificent than all! This gift was a shirt of pure gold, which was neither woven nor twined, but had been made entirely with fingers; in its collar, representing a viper ('and a viper will finally bite him') there was fixed a brilliant diamond shedding forth such a blaze of light that he would never need a candle when he went to visit his bride in her bed-chamber. All the svats were astonished at the magnificence of the present. Now came the aged brother of the doge, Yesdimir, with his beard reaching to his waist, walking slowly and supporting himself with a golden staff. Bitter tears streamed from his eyes. He wept, it is true, with good reason. Seven wives he had had in turn during his long life, but no sons or daughters had been born to him. Therefore he bestowed all his affections upon his niece, whom he looked upon as a daughter, and who took in his heart the place of the children he had once hoped to be blessed with, and now that the beloved maiden was to depart to a far-away land he was greatly grieved. He had some 'wonder' folded under his arm, and as he approached the svats, he called the bridegroom by name. The latter appeared at once and the venerable lord laid upon the young man's shoulders a magnificent cloak which reached from his shoulders down to the grass. Indeed when Milosh remounted his horse, the cloak concealed not only himself, but also his steed down to its very hoofs. How precious it was! and oh! that it might never be the cause of anything but happiness to the hero! It was said that thirty purses of gold had been spent on its lining alone, and what a sum of money the cloth itself must have cost! Prince Maximus watched and saw with envious eyes how Voïvode Milosh received the presents which were intended for him, the real bridegroom. When the large gateways of the courtyard were opened, the svats, passing out in procession, received from the doge's servants each a piece of precious silk and a box containing various presents, and then they sailed away in galleys. Soon they arrived on the field of Zablak, where they had met on starting out for their journey, and where they were now to separate. Prince Maximus had ridden a little ahead with his ten brothers-in-arms in order to hasten and communicate the joyful news to his mother and Voïvode Milosh, being aware that Prince Maximus was out of sight, spurred forward his courser and coming up with the bride and the dever, he boldly took the hand of the noble maiden. The bride, thinking in her innocence that he was Prince Maximus, removed her veil and stretched out her hands to the pretended bridegroom. The Princess learns of the Deception Those who were near feigned not to have noticed the incident, but Prince Ivan himself happened to see what had occurred and it troubled him, and he rode up and addressed the bride thus: "Touch him not with thy hands, O my dear daughter-in-law! or may they be struck with a palsy! Veil thine eyes! or may thy sight for ever fail thee! How canst thou act so in the presence of all the svats? Dost thou see that hero riding his black steed, and holding his lance? Dost thou see his shining shield and his face disfigured by small-pox? That is my son Maximus, whom I praised to thy father--when I asked your hand for him--saying that there was no handsomer youth than he to be found amongst thousands. But I was afraid to present my son with his ugly face to you and to your father, and so we had recourse to a stratagem and made Voïvode your groom temporarily in order to succeed in bringing thee away in peace. For acting so Milosh is entitled to all the presents which were assigned to the bridegroom!" To the noble maiden her father-in-law's words came as a thunderbolt. She halted her horse and refused to go any farther, saying: "O my dear father-in-law, thou Prince Ivan! Thou hast caused thine own son's misfortune by having made Milosh the alleged bridegroom. Why hast thou done so? May the true God give thee thy deserts for that! What matters it if his face is pitted? All are subject to disease, and might have to suffer even worse consequences. If his face is damaged, his eyes are certainly bright and his heart is as sound as ever. If thou hadst considered thy son to be still too young to be my husband, thou shouldest have told me so, and I would have waited in my father's palace for another nine years--but even then I would certainly never have caused you to blush with shame before your own nobles in Zablak. Now thou hadst better give up the presents to their rightful owner, thy son Maximus, else I shall not go a step further, even if thou shouldest threaten to put out my eyes." Hearing this firm speech, Prince Ivan was greatly disturbed, and he called friends and Voïvodes to counsel him as to what he should do. But none of them dared say one word, for they well remembered the arrangement made before sailing across the sea. Milosh's Offer Voïvode Milosh saw that no one would speak, and he spurred his steed and addressed Prince Ivan in this wise: "O Ivan, thou our lord! Where is thy firm faith? If it fails now, may you yourself live to be betrayed! Hast thou not given me thy word that the wedding gifts should be mine intact? But now you frame a plan to break thy faith! Since thou art so little to be depended on, I agree--for the sake of peace among our brothers and svats--to give up the first two presents: I return to your son the fair bride and her steed with all its gold and silver trappings. In justice, and according to impartial judgment, I should be fully entitled even to marry the fair maiden--for she was presented to me by all, her parents and her brothers--but I shall say no more about that, and simply cede to you these two presents, together with the grey falcon. Here! I return to your son even the golden scabbard and the bright sabre, but I shall never consent to yield the helmet, the cloak, and the golden shirt; for I am determined to carry them to my own land, and show them to my friends and brothers, who, I am certain, will be proud of them. I swear by my faith in the true God that I shall not give up these three presents." All the svats, moved by Milosh's fairness, agreed to the offer, and thanked him for his noble sacrifice for the sake of peace, but they were strongly opposed by the bride, who could not reconcile herself to the loss of the precious gifts, and especially the golden shirt. So she called aloud for Prince Maximus. This alarmed Prince Ivan very much, and he tried to quieten the maiden in these words: "O my sweet daughter-in-law, thou Venetian maiden! Do not call my son, for we have done him great injustice. Prince Maximus has a high sense of honour and is a brave man. I dread a fight above everything, and our festivities may so easily turn into mourning. I possess in Zablak a dungeon full of golden treasure, which I shall present to thee, and thou canst do with it whatever pleases thee!" But the maiden was not easy to persuade, and she once more called Prince Maximus, who came with all speed to the scene. "O Maximus, thou only son of thy mother!" began his bride, "may she lose thee! May the warriors make a handbier of thy lance and with thy shield may they cover thy tomb! May thy visage blush with shame on the day of judgment, as it does to-day at the contest with Voïvode Milosh! Why didst thou agree to yield to another the presents which rightly belong to the bridegroom? I care nothing for all the other presents, let Milosh take them away, and may a torrent take him away with them! but I cannot suffer the loss of the golden shirt, which I made for thee myself, and which took me three years to make, with three maidens assisting me. I nearly lost my sight before I finished working at this shirt, and all the time I was thinking of thee. Thou hadst better recover the shirt from Voïvode Milosh at once, for I swear by the name of the true God that otherwise I will not take a step forward; but I shall rein back my steed, and, when I reach the sea-coast, I shall pluck a leaf of aloe and shall scratch my face with its thorns till blood flows; then I shall write and send a message by my falcon to my aged father, beseeching him to call to arms all his force, to come and conquer and pillage thy Zablak and repay thee thus with mourning for thy shameful conduct!" The Violence of Maximus The moment Prince Maximus heard this, he reined back his black courser, spurred it so vehemently that the skin of his courser's stifle-joint burst and blood besprinkled its hoofs. The frantic animal sprang the height of three lances in the air and the length of four lances forward, so that he sped like lightning. Milosh burst into laughter, saying: "God be praised! What was suddenly the matter with that boy!" But his mirth was short-lived, for Prince Maximus now turned his horse straight toward Milosh furiously throwing his lance at his head. [48] He struck Milosh so vigorously that both his eyes burst and he fell from his steed. Maximus rushed in and cleft his head asunder; then he took his bride from her leader and sped into the castle. [49] When Voïvode Milosh's warriors saw their chief fall, they fiercely attacked the followers of Prince Maximus, and a fight ensued from which but very few returned home. Maximus becomes a Turk Prince Maximus, it is said, was so disgusted with what had occurred that he wrote to the doge, inviting him to invade Zablak with a large force and to conquer Montenegro; as for him, he would go to Istamboul and embrace Islamism. This he did. Now a brother of Milosh, namely, Yovan Obrenbegovitch, suspecting that Maximus's intention was to obtain from the Sultan a great force with which to conquer Montenegro, decided to go to the Sultan for the same purpose. But it was his intention, should he also succeed in obtaining an army from the Sultan, to use it, not against his fatherland, Montenegro, but against Prince Maximus. On their way to Istamboul the two men met and they appeared together before the Sultan, who, knowing well who they were and deeming that they could be usefully employed in his service against the Christians, like many other malcontents from Christian courts, received them most kindly. They adopted the Mohammedan religion and were given Turkish names: Voïvode Yovan was called Mehmed-Bey Obrenbegovitch, and Prince Maximus, Scander-beg Ivanbegovitch. Having served as faithful Turks for nine years, the Sultan, pleased with their conduct, granted them both vizirates: to Mehmed-bey Obrenbegovitch he gave as fief the plain of Ducadyin, and Scander-beg (Prince Ivan's son) he granted Scutari on the River Boyana. CHAPTER VIII: THE MARRIAGE OF TSAR DOUSHAN THE MIGHTY Doushan sends Theodor to Ledyen King Michael of Ledyen had a beautiful daughter, Roksanda, and when Tsar Doushan asked her hand in marriage the king immediately consented. The betrothal was arranged by means of couriers, and Doushan had not seen the princess; he therefore summoned Theodor, his counsellor of State: "Listen to me, my trusty Theodor!" said he, "thou shalt go to the white city Ledyen to King Michael, and thou shalt ask him to fix the date for the wedding festivities. Thou shalt also settle with him other customary preliminaries and satisfy thyself that the peerless Roksanda is a fitting tsarina for our Serbian lands." Theodor promised to fulfil his mission faithfully and, having made the necessary preparations, he set out for the Venetian province. When he arrived at the white city Ledyen the king welcomed him courteously and lavished hospitality upon him for a full week. Then Theodor spoke to the king in this wise: "O my master's friend, thou gallant King Michael! My tsar has not sent me here only that I should drink thy wine; he desires that I should arrange his marriage; tell me, when shall my master come? what time of the year will suit you best to receive him? how many svats shall he bring with him when he comes to take from thee the beautiful maiden Roksanda? My master also instructed me that I should desire of thee to be permitted the happiness of seeing the fair princess." To this the king answered: "O my friend, Theodor! take my greetings to the tsar and tell him that he is at liberty to bring with him as many svats as he may please; also tell him that he may come for the maiden whenever he may choose; but request him in my name that under no circumstances shall he bring with him his nephews the two Voïnovitchs, Voukashin and Petrashin, for indeed I have heard that they are very quarrelsome when in their cups, and I fear that they may disturb the harmony of our festivities. As to the princess, she shall come to thee at due time and receive at thy hands the ring of thy master, as is the well-established custom." The Princess Roksanda At nightfall Theodor was conducted into an unlighted room and while he wondered when the candles would be brought, lo! the princess stood before him, shrouded in the thick gloom. Theodor was grieved at the trick played upon him, but he did not despair. He had with him the magnificent ring of his august master; it was so richly studded with precious stones that as he produced it the whole room was lighted up and the rays shone upon the maiden, who seemed to the ambassador more beautiful than the white veela herself. Theodor presented the betrothal ring and gave the princess also one thousand ducats; her brothers then conducted her back to her apartments. Next morning Theodor took leave of the king and set out upon his homeward journey; when he arrived at Prisrend the tsar asked eagerly: "O my trusty Theodor! Didst thou see the maiden Roksanda and didst thou give her my ring? What greetings dost thou bring me from King Michael?" And Theodor answered: "Yea, my Lord, I saw thy bride and presented her with thy ring; but words fail me to describe the enchanting beauty of the Princess Roksanda! Vain would it be to search for her equal throughout Serbia! And fair and well spoke King Michael: Thou canst go for the maiden whensoever thou choosest, and thou mayest take as many svats as thou pleasest. But the king prays this one thing of thee: that thou shouldest under no circumstances take with thee, the Voinovitchs, thy two nephews, for they are lovers of the wine-cup and are quick to take offence; they may enter into drunken quarrels, and it may be difficult to settle their disputes in a peaceable manner." When he heard this the tsar struck his knee with his right hand, and exclaimed: "Alas! May God help me! Has the ill fame of my nephews spread as far as that! By my unshakable faith, I shall, immediately after the wedding festivities, have them both hung on the gates of their castle Voutchitrn that they may not any longer bring shame to my name throughout the world." The Procession Starts Soon afterward the tsar proceeded to call his svats together and when they had all assembled they presented a brilliant spectacle. The wedding procession rode on its way through the field of Kossovo and as it passed by the walls of the castle Voutchitrn, the two youthful Voinovitchs looked upon the cavalcade and spoke sadly to each other thus: "Our uncle must be angry with us, otherwise he would surely have invited us also to join his wedding party? Some churl must have uttered ill words against us. May a hundred evils befall him who has done so! Our tsar is going to the Venetian land and has not a single hero in his train, neither has he any close relative who might be depended upon in case of dire misfortune. The Venetians are known from ancient times to be very cunning and sly and they may kill our glorious tsar! And yet to accompany him uninvited is more than we dare do." Thereupon their aged mother spoke thus: "O my children, ye two Voïnovitchs! Ye have a brother in the mountains, Milosh-the-shepherd; though the youngest, he is the greatest hero of ye all and will find some way to uphold the honour of our name. The tsar has never heard about him. I counsel you to send him a message and bid him come to the castle Voutchitrn, mention not the true reason but tell him that his mother, being aged, may die at any moment and that she wishes to give him her blessings. Tell him to make haste if he would find his mother alive!" This advice seemed good to the two brothers. They wrote a missive and dispatched it with haste to the mountain Shar where Milosh-the-shepherd tarried with his flocks. As Milosh read the message his countenance changed and he shed bitter tears. His grief was observed by thirty shepherds who were around him: "O Milosh, our valiant chieftain!" they exclaimed, "Many messages have reached thee, but never yet have we seen thee shed tears when thou didst read them. Whence came this letter and what evil tidings does it bring? Tell us quickly, we beseech thee!" Milosh sprang to his feet and addressed his shepherds in this wise: "Hearken, O shepherds, my dearest brethren! This message comes from the castle: my mother is on her death-bed and she summons me that she may give me her blessing, that damnation should not fall upon my soul. I must hasten to her side and while I am absent from the mountain I charge ye to watch well the sheep." When Milosh came near to his white castle, his brothers saw him from a tower and sallied out to meet him; their aged mother also followed. Milosh was astonished to see her and said reproachfully: "Why, O brothers dear, do ye make misfortune when there is no reason, and when all is well with ye! May the Almighty forgive your deception!" And his brothers answered: "Come within, dear brother, there is nevertheless great misfortune!" The young men embraced each other and Milosh kissed his mother's hand. Then his brothers related the story of their uncle's betrothal and how he was proceeding to the Venetian land without having invited his two nephews to ride in the wedding procession, and they besought him in this wise: "O, our dear brother Milosh! Go thou with the tsar, yea, although thou art not invited. Misfortune may befall, and haply thou shalt succour your uncle. Thou canst go and come back again without making thyself known to anyone!" Milosh was no less eager than his brothers, and he answered gladly: "I will go, O my brothers! Indeed how could I do otherwise? If I were not willing to help our dear uncle, whom else should I be willing to aid?" Thereupon his brothers began to make all the necessary preparations. Peter went to the stables to saddle his steed Koulash, while Vankashin remained to see that Milosh was fittingly attired. He first put on him a fine shirt which was embroidered with gold from the neck to the waist; downward from the waist it was woven of white silk. Over the shirt he placed three thin, elegant ribbons; then a waistcoat adorned with thirty golden buttons; then a golden cuirasse weighing some fifteen pounds. And in all details he attired him with garments worthy of a prince. Finally he hung upon his broad shoulders a coarse Bulgar shepherd's cloak, which entirely enveloped him, and placed on his head a Bulgarian fur-cap with high point, thus making him look so like a black Bulgar that his own mother would not have recognized him. The brothers now fetched a warrior's lance and mace and the trusty sword of their old father Voïn. Then Peter brought forward Koulash, upon whom he had fastened a bear's skin in order that the tsar might not recognize the well-known steed. Milosh Joins the Procession Milosh was now ready to set out, and as he took leave of his brothers they counselled him thus: "When thou comest up with the wedding-guests they will ask thee who thou art and whence thou comest. Thou shalt answer that thou art coming from the Karavallahian land, where thou hast been serving a Turkish lord, Radoul-bey, who would not pay thee thy wages, wherefore thou art looking for a more generous master. Say, moreover, that having received chance tidings of the tsar's wedding, thou has ridden to join thyself to the servants of the party, not for any wages, for thou wilt gladly serve for a piece of bread and a glass of red wine. Thou must, meantime, hold firmly the reins of thy steed, for Koulash is accustomed to go in the line with the tsar's own chargers, and he may betray thee!" When the brothers had made an end of their counsel Milosh took leave of them and of his mother and turned his steed in the direction of the wedding party, and he came up with them in the mountain Zagoryé. Upon seeing the stranger the svats hailed him: "Whence are thou coming, little young Bulgar?" And Milosh answered from afar as his brothers had counselled. Then the svats welcomed him readily, saying: "Mayest thou be happy with us, little young Bulgar! We are always glad to have one more in our company!" The princely company, all aglow with the brilliant colours of the resplendent uniforms, their lances and cuirasses gleaming in the sun, rode on until they came to a valley. Now Milosh had a bad habit, acquired in the mountain Shar while watching his sheep, to slumber toward mid-day, and as his Koulash stepped proudly on he fell into a deep sleep and his hand suddenly relaxed on the rein. No sooner did Koulash feel the curb loosen than he arched his neck and flew like an arrow from a bow through the ranks of the cavalcade, overturning horses and riders, till he reached the horses of the tsar, when he ranged himself in line with them and fell into the same slow, measured pace. By this time the whole procession had fallen into disorder, and a crowd of Lale [50] would have fallen upon the innocent cause of the commotion, had not Doushan intervened to protect him, saying, "Do not strike this youthful Bulgarian, he is a shepherd, and shepherds have a habit of dozing toward noon while watching their sheep; do not be violent, but awaken him gently." Thereupon the svats awakened Milosh, shouting: "Rise, O foolish young Bulgarian! May the Almighty spare thy old mother who could not give thee a better understanding but thou must needs venture to join the company of the tsar!" The Leap of Koulash Milosh awoke with a start, and saw the tsar looking upon him with his deep black eyes, and lo! his Koulash was in the royal line! Not a moment did he pause, but, gathering the reins firmly in his hand, he spurred his steed sharply. Koulash for one brief instant quivered from head to heel, then with a frantic bound he sprang into the air the height of three lances; for the length of four lances sideways did he spring, and as for the number of lengths covered by his leap onward, no one could number them! Fire issued from his mouth and tongues of blue flame came out from his nostrils! Twelve thousand svats beheld with awe and admiration the wonderful leap of the Bulgar's steed, and exclaimed as one man: "Father of Mercies, what a mighty wonder!" Then some said to others: "O that so good a horse should be possessed by such a fellow! We have never before seen such a marvel." Others said: "There was, indeed, one charger like this in the stables of our tsar's son-in-law and now is possessed by his nephews the brothers Voïnovitchs." Among the heroes who admired the steed were Voutché of Dyakovitza, Yanko of Nestopolyé and a youth from Priepolyé; these spake one to another thus: "What a beautiful steed that Bulgar has! There is not its equal to be found in this wedding cavalcade, not even our own tsar has one like it. Let us fall behind and seek an opportunity to deprive him of it." As they reached Klissoura the three horsemen were far behind the other svats, and Milosh was also riding alone in that place. Then the heroes came near to him and addressed him in seeming courtesy: "Listen to us, thou youthful Bulgar! Wilt thou exchange thy horse for a better one? We shall give thee also one hundred ducats as a bargain-gift, and moreover we shall give thee a plough and a pair of oxen that thou mayest plough thy fields and feed thyself in peace for the rest of thy days!" But Milosh answered: "Leave me alone, O ye three mighty horsemen! I do not wish for a better horse than the one I have already; for did ye not see that I cannot keep even this one quiet? As to your bargain-gift, what should I do with so many ducats? I do not know how to weigh them, neither am I able to count as high as one hundred. What should I do with your plough and your oxen? My father has never used a plough on his fields and yet his children have never known hunger!" The Fight for Koulash At this answer the three horsemen said angrily: "Thou hadst better consider our proposal, O haughty Bulgar, lest we take thy horse by force!" To this menace Milosh answered: "Truly, by force men take lands and cities, and much more easily can three men by force take from me my steed! Therefore I prefer to exchange it, for I am unable to travel on foot." Saying this, Milosh made a pretence to give up his Koulash peaceably, and inserted his right hand under his coarse cloak. They thought he intended to take off his spurs, but they were greatly mistaken, for in a flash out came his six-angled club, and before they had gathered their wits Milosh gave Voutché a gentle tap that tumbled him over and over three times in succession. Milosh then addressed him ironically: "May thy vineyards in thy peaceful estate of Dyakovitza be as fertile as thou art brave!" Seeing what had befallen his companion, Yanko was in full flight, but it took scarce a moment for Koulash to reach the flying steed, and Milosh let fall upon the shoulders of his rider such a blow that he, too, was hurled to the ground, where he turned over four times ere finding anchorage. "Hold on! O Yanko!" scoffed Milosh, "May the apple-trees in thy peaceful estate bear as abundant fruit as thou art brave to-day!" There now only remained the young man from Priepolyé who by now had fled to some distance. But his horse's speed could not avail against the swiftness of Koulash, and Milosh soon reached him and with his warrior club gave him a tap that tumbled him over and over no less than seven times. Whether he could hear or not Milosh called aloud: "Hold fast, O young man from Priepolyé! And when thou goest back to thy Priepolyé, I give thee leave to boast before the fair maidens there of how thou hast to-day taken away by force a Bulgar's steed!" This done, Milosh turned his charger and soon reached the wedding cavalcade. In due course the procession arrived at the white city of Ledyen, and the Serbians put up their white tents beneath its walls. The equerries gave the horses barley, but none did they give to Koulash. When Milosh saw this he took in his left hand a nose-bag and went from horse to horse, taking with his right hand from each a handful until he had filled the bag of his trusty Koulash. Next he went to the principal wine-keeper and prayed that he would give him a glass of wine. But the keeper of the wine refused, saying: "Go away, thou black Bulgar! If thou hadst brought thy rough Bulgarian wooden cup, I might perhaps have poured in it a draught; but these golden cups are not for thee!" Milosh turned on the churlish wine-keeper a dark look and followed it with a tender blow on his cheek that sent three sound teeth into his throat. Then the man, thoroughly cowed, besought Milosh thus: "Stay thy hand, O mighty Bulgar! There is wine in abundance for thee, even if our tsar should thereby go short." But Milosh paid no attention to the fellow, and proceeded to help himself. Then, as his spirits mounted with the generous wine, day dawned and the sun began to shine. The First Test As Milosh stood drinking in the fresh beauty of the early morning a page of King Michael called loudly from a tower of the royal castle: "Listen, O Serbian Tsar Doushan! Behold, in the valley beneath the walls of the city is the champion of our king! Thou must fight a duel with him, either thyself or by a substitute. If thou dost not overcome him thou shalt not go from this place safely, neither shalt thou take back with thee so much as one of thy wedding-guests! Still less shalt thou take with thee the princess Roksanda!" Doushan heard the haughty message and sent a strong-voiced crier among the wedding-guests. Here and there he stood shouting loudly the tsar's message: "Has any mother given birth to a fearless hero who will take up the challenge in our tsar's stead? To him who is brave enough to fight the champion the tsar will grant nobility." But alas! when the crier had gone through the camp no hero had come forward to claim the honour of doing battle for the tsar. When Doushan heard this, he struck his knee with his right hand, exclaiming: "Woe is me! O mighty Creator! If I had now my darling nephews, the two Voïnovitchs, I should not lack a champion." The tsar had hardly ended his lamentation when Milosh, leading his steed, appeared before the tsar's tent. "O my Lord, thou mighty tsar!" said he, "have I thy leave to fight this duel?" The tsar answered: "Thou art welcome, O youthful Bulgar! But, alas, there is slender likelihood that thou canst overpower the haughty hector of the king. If, however, thou dost succeed, verily I will ennoble thee!" Milosh leaped to his saddle, and as he turned his fiery Koulash from the tsar's tent, he carelessly threw his lance on his shoulder with its point turned backward. Seeing this, Doushan called to him: "Do not carry, O my son, thy lance so! Turn the point forward, lest the proud Venetians laugh at thee!" But Milosh answered: "Attend, O my tsar, unto thine own dignity, and be not anxious concerning mine! If need arise I shall easily turn my lance correctly; if not, I may just as well bring it back in this wrong wise!" As Milosh rode on through the field of Ledyen, the ladies and maidens of Ledyen looked upon him, and, laughing, they exclaimed: "Saints in heaven! a marvel! What a substitute for a Serbian emperor! The young man has even no decent clothes upon him! Be merry, thou hector of the king, for hardly shalt thou need to unsheath thy sword!" Meantime Milosh reached the tent in which sat the champion of the Venetian king. Before the entrance he had stuck his lance deep into the ground, and to this he had tethered his grey steed. Milosh addressed the hector thus: "Rise up! thou little white Venetian gentleman, we will fight together for the honour of our masters!" But the hector answered angrily: "Away with thee, thou ugly black Bulgar! My sword is not for such as thee! I would not soil my steel on such a ragged fellow!" This remark made Milosh very angry, and he exclaimed: "Rise up, haughty Venetian! Thou hast indeed richer attire; I shall take it from thee, and then who will have the finer feathers?" At this the hector sprang to his feet and mounted his grey charger, which he caused to prance and curvet across the field. Milosh stood quietly looking on until suddenly the Venetian fiercely hurled his lance straight to the breast of Milosh. The wary Serbian received it on his golden-headed club and jerked the weapon over his head, breaking it into three pieces as he did so. This sleight-of-hand alarmed the hector and he exclaimed: "Wait a minute, thou ugly black Bulgar! My lance was faulty, wait till I get a better one!" With this he put spurs to his steed, but Milosh shouted after him: "Stop, thou white Venetian! Thou shalt not escape me!" And with this he spurred his Koulash after the cowardly hector and pursued close to the gates of Ledyen. Alas for the fugitive, the gates were closed! For a moment the hector paused irresolute and this moment was his last. Milosh let loose his unerring lance; it whistled though the morning air and the hector was transfixed to the gate. Then Milosh alighted from his steed, struck off the Venetian's head and threw it in Koulash's nose-bag. Next he caught the grey steed and rode with him to the tsar. "Here, O mighty tsar," said he, "is the head of the king's hector!" Doushan was overjoyed at his prowess and gave him much gold. "Go, my son," said he, kindly, "drink some good wine, and presently I shall make thee noble!" The Second Test Milosh had hardly seated himself at his wine when a page again called loudly from the royal castle: "Behold, O Serbian tsar! In the meadow below thou mayest see three fiery horses saddled, on the back of each there is fastened a flaming sword with point upward. If thou wouldst go in peace from here taking with thee the king's daughter, thou must thyself or by deputy leap over these flaming swords." Again the tsar sent a crier throughout his camp. "O Serbians," he cried, "has not any mother given birth to a hero who will venture to leap over the three horses and the flaming swords fixed on their backs?" Again he traversed the entire camp, taking care that his words should come to the ear of every svat, but again no hero came forward to offer himself. Then as the tsar was anxiously meditating on the problem he looked up and, lo! Milosh again stood before him. "O glorious tsar!" said he, "Have I thy permission to essay this feat?" And the tsar readily answered: "Thou mayest surely go, my dear son! But first take off this clumsy Bulgarian cloak! (may God punish the stupid tailor who made it so!)" But Milosh said: "Sit in peace, O mighty tsar, and drink thy cool wine! Do not be anxious concerning my coarse cloak. If there be a heart in the hero his cloak will not be in his way: if a sheep finds her wool too heavy for her there is no sheep in her nor any wool!" So saying he rode down to the meadow of Ledyen where stood the three steeds tethered side by side fiercely pawing the ground. The young man dismounted from his Koulash and stationed him several paces from the third steed, by his side, then patting Koulash gently on his proud neck, he said: "Thou shalt stay here quietly until I come again to the saddle!" He passed over to the first steed and went on a little distance, then turned, and dancing first on one foot then on the other, he ran like a swift deer and, leaping high, jumped over the three steeds, over the flaming swords, and alighted safely on the saddle of his own Koulash. This done he gathered the reins of the three chargers and rode with them in triumph to the Serbian tsar. The Third Test Very soon the page of the Venetian king came again to the tower of the royal castle and proclaimed: "Hearken, thou tsar of the Serbs! Under the topmost tower of this castle is a slender lance whereon a golden apple is stuck; twelve paces distant is set a ring: thou must shoot an arrow through the ring and transfix the apple--thou or thy deputy!" This time Milosh would not wait for the crier to do his errand, but straightway went to the tsar and obtained his permission to essay the task. Then, taking his golden bow and arrow, he went to the place indicated, fixed his arrow on the bow string, and the shaft sped straight through the ring to the heart of the apple which he caught in his hand as it fell. Again the tsar bestowed upon him golden ducats beyond number. The Fourth Test No sooner was this wonderful exploit completed than the royal page again proclaimed from the castle turret: "Behold, O tsar of the Serbs! The two royal princes have brought out in front of the king's palace three beautiful maidens, all exactly alike and attired in similar robes. The king bids thee guess which of the three is the princess Roksanda. Woe to thee if thou touchest other maiden but Roksanda! Thou shalt not have the princess for thy bride; neither shalt thou go out with thy head upon thy shoulders; still less shall thy guests leave this place!" When Doushan heard the message he summoned immediately his councillor Theodor and commanded: "Go, Theodor, and tell which is Roksanda!" But Theodor declared that he had seen her but for so brief a time that it would be impossible that he should be able to choose between three maidens all exactly like the one he had seen by the light from his master's ring. Hearing this the tsar, in despair, struck his knee with his hand, exclaiming: "Alas! alas! After performing many wonderful exploits, must we return without the bride and be the shame of our people?" Just then Milosh, who had become aware of the tsar's difficulty, entered into the imperial presence and spake thus: "Have I thy leave, O tsar, to try to guess which of the maidens is the princess Roksanda?" And the tsar answered joyfully: "Indeed thou hast, O darling son of mine! But slender is the hope that thou shalt guess rightly, since thou hast never seen the princess before!" Thereupon Milosh answered: "Be not fearful, my glorious Lord! When I was a shepherd in the mountain Shar watching twelve thousand sheep, there have been born in a night three hundred lambs and I have been able to recognize and tell which sheep was dam to each lamb. How much easier will it be to choose Roksanda by her resemblance to her brothers!" "Go, go then, my darling son! May God help thee to guess rightly! If thou art successful I shall grant thee the whole land of Skender that thou be its lord for thy lifetime!" Milosh went forth through the wide field until he came to the place where the three maidens stood waiting. With a swift and sudden motion he swept the coarse fur-cap from his head and threw from off his shoulder his heavy cloak, revealing the scarlet velvet and the golden cuirasse which had been hidden underneath. Truly he shone in the verdant field like the setting sun behind a forest! Milosh now spread his cloak on the grass and cast upon it rings, pearls, and precious stones. Then he unsheathed his finely-tempered sword and addressed the three fair maidens thus: "Let her who is the princess Roksanda gather her train and sleeves together and collect these rings, pearls, and precious stones! If any but Roksanda should dare to touch these beautiful things, I swear by my firm faith that I shall instantly cut off her two hands, yea, even as far as her elbows!" The three beautiful maidens were terrified, and two of them looked meaningly at their companion who stood in the middle. This was the princess, and after a moment's hesitation Roksanda gathered her silky train and sleeves and began to collect the rings, pearls, and precious stones. The two other maidens were about to flee, but Milosh took them gently by their hands and escorted all three to the presence of the tsar, to whom he presented princess Roksanda together with one of her companions who might be her lady-in-waiting; the third maiden, however, he retained for himself. The tsar kissed Milosh between his fiery eyes, still not knowing who he was or whence he came. The Departure of the Serbians The masters of the ceremonies now called aloud: "Get ready, all ye svats! It is high time we should hurry homeward!" And the svats made ready for the journey, and soon they set out, taking with them the beautiful princess Roksanda. As they departed from the gates of the city, Milosh approached the tsar and said: "O my lord, thou Serbian Tsar Doushan, listen to me! There is in the city of Ledyen a terrible hero named Balatchko the Voïvode; I know him and he knows me. Balatchko has three heads: from one of them issues a blue flame, from another rushes a freezing wind. Woe to him against whom these are directed! But if a hero withstands them it is not difficult to slay Balatchko when his wind and flame have left him. The Venetian king has been training him these seven years, for it has been his intention to make use of him to annihilate the royal wedding-party and to rescue princess Roksanda, supposing that thou shouldst succeed in obtaining possession of her. Now it is certain that he will send him to pursue us. Go thou thy way and I will remain behind with three hundred well-chosen heroes, to stop the monster from pursuing thee." Therefore, while the svats went on with the beautiful Princess Roksanda, Milosh, with his three hundred comrades, remained in the verdant forest. The svats had hardly struck their tents when King Michael summoned Voïvode Balatchko. "O Balatchko, my trusty servant," said he, "canst thou rely upon thy valour and go out against the tsar's svats to bring back my daughter Roksanda?" And Balatchko replied: "My lord, thou King of Ledyen! First tell me, who was that valorous hero who achieved the great feats to which thou didst challenge the Serbian tsar?" The king of Ledyen answered him: "O Balatchko, our trusty servant! He is no hero; he is only a youthful black Bulgarian." And Balatchko replied: "Nay, thou art mistaken; no black Bulgar is he. I know him well; he is the Prince Milosh Voïnovitch himself, whom not even the Serbian tsar was able to recognize through his shepherd's disguise. Truly he is no ordinary hero, and not to be lightly esteemed by any warrior, however fearless." Nevertheless the king insisted: "Go thou against the svats, O Voïvode Balatchko! If thou dost regain the princess, I will give her to thee for wife!" The Contest with Balatchko Hearing this promise, Balatchko saddled his mare Bedevia and went in pursuit of the svats, accompanied by six hundred Venetian cuirassiers. When they reached the forest they saw Koulash standing in the middle of the main road and Milosh on foot behind him. Balatchko addressed the prince, saying: "O Milosh, evidently thou hast waited for me!" With this he loosed his blue flame, which, however, only singed Milosh's furs; whereupon, seeing that he had not greatly harmed the hero, he breathed his freezing wind upon him. Koulash tumbled over and over in the dust three times, but the wind did not affect his master. Exclaiming: "There is something thou didst not expect!" Milosh hurled his six-cornered mace and it gave Balatchko a gentle knock that tumbled him out of his saddle. Then Milosh threw his lance and transfixed the fellow to the ground, after which he cut off all three of his heads and threw them in Koulash's bag. This done, he mounted his steed and led his three hundred Serbians against the Venetian cuirassiers and cleft three hundred heads, the survivors being put to flight. He then hurried on and soon came up with the tsar, at whose feet he cast the three grim heads of Balatchko. The tsar rejoiced to hear of his victory and gave him one thousand ducats; then the procession resumed its march to Prisrend. In the middle of the plain Kossovo, Milosh's way to the fortress of Voutchitrn lay to the right, and he came to the tsar to take leave of him. "May God be with thee, my dear uncle!" said he. Only then did the tsar come to know that the seeming Bulgarian was none else than his nephew Prince Milosh Voïnovitch! Overwhelmed with joy he exclaimed: "Is it thou, my dear Milosh? Is it thou, my dearest nephew? Happy is the mother who gave thee birth and happy the uncle who has such a valiant nephew! Why didst thou not reveal thyself before? verily I should not have excluded thee from my company." Woe to him who overlooks his own relatives! CHAPTER IX: TSAR LAZARUS AND THE TSARINA MILITZA The Tsarina's Forebodings As they sat at supper together one evening the Tsarina Militza spoke thus unto Tsar Lazarus: "O Lazarus, thou Serbian Golden Crown! Thou art to go to-morrow to the battlefield of Kossovo together with thy dukes and servants, but, alas! thou wilt leave in the palace none who can carry to thee my missives and bring thine from Kossovo to me. Thou takest also with thee my nine brothers Yougovitchs; I pray thee, leave me at least one of my brothers that I may swear [51] by him!" And the tsar returned answer: "O my lady, thou Tsarina Militza! Which one of thy brothers wouldst thou best like me to leave at home." Thereupon the tsaritza said: "Leave me, I pray, Boshko Yougovitch!" To this the tsar assented: "O my lady, Tsarina Militza! When the morrow dawns and the sun begins to rise and the gates of the fortress are opened, thou mayest walk out to the main gate whence the whole army will defile with the ensigns--all cavaliers with warrior-lances, headed by Boshko Yougovitch, who will be carrying the flag adorned with a golden cross. Greet him in my name and tell him that I give him leave to remain with thee at our white castle and to yield his flag to whomsoever he may choose!" Accordingly, when the morrow dawned and the sun shone, the fortress-gates opened and Tsarina Militza appeared at the main gate of the city, and lo! the mighty army was preparing to defile with, in the van, the glorious cavaliers headed by Boshko Yougovitch. Boshko was in the act of mounting his brown horse, a splendid creature, caparisoned with golden trappings; the dropping folds of the flag fell upon his shoulders and over his steed's back. Upon the flag pole was fixed a golden apple and from the great cross hung golden thustles which were knocking gently against Boshko's shoulders. Tsarina Militza approached her brother and flinging her tender arms around his neck addressed him in her sweet voice thus: "O my darling brother, our tsar has presented thee to me, and desires that thou shalt not go to Kossovo in the war. His charge to thee is: that thou shalt give thy flag to whom thou choosest and remain at Kroushevatz that I may have a brother to swear by!" But Boshko Yougovitch answered: "Go back, O sister dear, to thy white castle! I would not return, neither would I give up from my hands this flag for the price of Kroushevatz. [52] How could I suffer my comrades to say: 'Look at the coward Boshko Yougovitch! He dares not go to Kossovo, to shed his blood in the cause of the Holy Cross and his orthodox faith!'" Saying this he disengaged himself from his sister's embraces and leapt into his saddle. Lo! there now comes the aged Youg-Bogdan at the head of a line of his seven other sons! The tsarina endeavoured to stop each one in turn, but in vain. Voïn Yougovitch, the eighth brother, was last in the line; he like the rest of his brothers would not listen, and as he passed on, the poor tsarina fell down at the feet of the horses and swooned. The glorious Lazarus saw his loving consort fall, and understanding the cause of her grief, he shed tears. Glancing quickly right and left he beheld Golouban, his trusty servant, and called to him: "O Golouban, my faithful servant! Dismount from thy charger, and take the tsarina gently in thy heroic arms to her slender tower. God and I will hold thee excused from service in the war, do thou remain at our white castle near the tsarina!" Hearing this Golouban turned pale, and tears poured down his cheeks as he dismounted from his Laboud. [53] He took the tsarina in his arms and carried her into her slender high tower as the tsar had commanded; but this done he could not resist the desire of his heart to go to Kossovo, so he hurried back to his charger and spurred him swiftly on after his comrades. News of Battle Next day, when morning dawned, lo! two ill-omened ravens from the battlefield of Kossovo alighted upon the white tower of the glorious Tsar Lazarus. One spake to the other: "Is this the home of the famed prince, Lazarus? Is there no living soul in the castle?" One only within the castle heard this. Tsarina Militza walked out upon the balcony of her tower and besought the two black ravens thus: "For the sake of all that ye hold dear, O ye two dark ravens! Whence do ye come? Do ye not fly from the field of Kossovo? Saw ye there two mighty armies? O tell me! Have they met together? Which of them is victorious?" Thereupon the two ravens answered: "Evil overtake us if we do not speak truth to thee, O fair empress Militza! We fly indeed from the level plain of Kossovo! Yea! There we did see two mighty armies; there did we see two tsars perish! [54] Of the Turkish horde but few remain in life; of the Serbs, those who live are covered with wounds and blood!" The Trusty Miloutin The ravens had hardly spoken when the tsarina perceived a horseman approaching whom she recognized. His left arm hung helpless; he was covered with seventeen wounds; blood ran over his steed. The tsarina called to him in accents of terror: "Alas, alas! Is it thou, my trusty Miloutin? Hast thou then betrayed thy tsar on Kossovo the level field?" But Miloutin answered slowly and with pain: "Help me, O my lady, to alight from my brave steed! Bathe my face with cooling water and refresh me with rosy wine, for heavy wounds have overwhelmed me!" And the tsarina went to him and helped him to dismount from his bloody steed, bathed his face with some cooling water and brought wine unto his dried lips. When she had thus restored him somewhat, she spake again: "What dreadful thing has happened, O thou trusty servant, in Kossovo that level field? Where perished the glorious Prince Lazarus? Where perished the aged Youg Bogdan? Where perished the nine Yougovitchs? Where perished Voïvode Milosh? Where perished Vouk Brankovitch? Where perished Ban Strahinya?" Thereat the warrior groaned heavily: "All remain on Kossovo, O my lady! Where the glorious Prince Lazarus perished, there were broken many, many lances, both Turkish and Serbian, but more Serbian than Turkish: defending, O my lady, their beloved lord, their lord the glorious Prince Lazarus. And thy father, O lady, perished in the first onset. Thy nine brothers perished too--faithful did they abide to one another. Till all perished, there mightest thou have seen the valiant Boshko, his flag fluttering in the breeze as he rushed hither and thither, scattering the Turks like a falcon amongst timid doves. There, by the streamlet Sitnitza, where blood was running above a hero's knees, perished Ban Strahinya. "But our heroes did not die alone! Twelve thousand Turks lie prone upon the plain. Sultan Mourat [55] was slain by Voïvode Milosh. May God forgive all his sins! The hero has bequeathed to the Serbian race a memory of noble deeds that shall be recounted by the bards as long as men live and Kossovo stays. As for the traitor Vouk, accursed be she who gave him birth! He betrayed our tsar on Kossovo, leading astray, O my lady! twelve thousand fierce cuirassiers of our people! Accursed for ever be his progeny!" Historical Note The bards invariably throw all responsibility for the great calamity to the Serbian arms, inflicted upon them in that celebrated battle on Kossovo, upon Vouk Brankovitch, who was one of the sons-in-law of Tsar Lazarus. Some of our historians are convinced that there is a great deal of truth in this licencia poetica, and they point to the fact that the mediæval history of Serbia contains many instances of such malcontents as Vouk Brankovitch who, seduced by fair promises from cunning Turkish statesmen, went to Stamboul to become useful tools in the hands of Ottoman generals, who were thereby aided in their conquests of the Slavs of the Balkans. But the truth is that our calamity was due mainly to the disobedience of the Serbian Lords who ruled almost independently over Bosnia and Herzegovina. These lords failed to comply with Tsar Lazarus' mobilisation proclamation, and it was due to this that the Serbian army was considerably smaller than the Turkish. Be this as it may, the defeat which the Serbians sustained in that memorable battle left a very deep impression upon the nation, and Serbians have believed ever since that it was solely due to this disaster that the Serbian empire was crushed by the Turk. This feeling persisted in the hearts of the oppressed Serbians through four centuries and was manifested in repeated insurrections against their oppressors in the beginning of the last century under the leadership of two Serbian princes, George Petrovitch, grandfather of the present King Peter I Karageorgevitch, in the year 1804, and Milosh Obrenovitch in 1815. But another century had to pass ere the opportunity came for a decisive battle by which satisfaction could be obtained for the battle on Kossovo. This opportunity offered on the famous field of Koumanovo in 1913, where perished more Turks than did Serbians five centuries ago. Only then was Serbia happy! The present writer went through the Balkan Campaigns of 1912-1913, and was a witness of glorious deeds and feats of arms by his countrymen which, relatively speaking, by no means yield to those of their mediæval ancestors led by Milosh Obilitch, Marko Kralyevitch, Ban Strahinya, and others. It was an imposing sight when the victorious Serbian army returned to Belgrade at the conclusion of the war. The soldiers entered through numberless triumphal gates, over some of which were huge inscriptions: "For Kossovo: Koumanovo" and "For Slivnitza: Bregalnitza." The untiring Serbian bards have now turned their attention to the exploits of modern heroes at Monastir, Koumanovo, Perlep (Prilip), Scutari (Skadar), &c., and they will thus immortalize for the delight of future generations the final triumph of the Serb over the oppressor of his race, from whom he has wrested the empire of his valiant ancestors--if not in its entirety as under the rule of Tsar Doushan the Powerful, yet as it was in extent in the time of Tsar Lazarus. What Tsar Lazarus lost, therefore, has now been virtually regained by his brave countrymen under the wise leadership of our present King Peter I. CHAPTER X: THE CAPTIVITY AND MARRIAGE OF STEPHAN YAKSHITCH [56] The Veela's Warning Dawn had not appeared, neither had Danitza [57] yet shown her face when from the heights of the mountain Avala by Belgrade a veela called aloud upon Demitrius and Stephan, the two brothers Yakshitchs: "O ye brothers Yakshitchs! Ill fate hath this morn brought to ye! See ye not that the mighty Turk has made ready to assail the glorious town Belgrade from three sides? Hearken! I will tell ye the pashas by name. The Vizier of Tyoopria is come with forty thousand troops; the Pasha of Vidin leads an army of thirty thousand; and the Pasha of Novi Bazar has brought with him twenty thousand fierce Yanissaries! If ye will not believe, climb ye to the top of your towers and look over upon the broad field of Belgrade!" Hearing this adjuration Demitrius looked out, and saw, indeed, all that the veela had said. If rain had fallen from the skies, no drop would have fallen on the ground, so thick was the multitude of Turks and their horses! He was seized with terror at the sight, and, without pausing a moment, he ran to his stable, saddled his steed, and, unlocking the main gates of the fortress, rushed out, leaving the keys in the gate. He did not slacken rein until he reached a great forest, and by this time the sun was already high in the heavens. Dismounting from the saddle he seated himself on the banks of the cooling river Yahorika, and soliloquized thus: "Alas, Demitrius, mayst thou perish! To whose care hast thou left thy only brother Stephan?" Overcome with remorse for his cowardice he would have returned to Belgrade, but it was too late. The Turks had already entered the city through the open gates. There was none to oppose them, and after indulging in outrage and pillage they had carried away many captives, among whom was Stephan Yakshitch. Him they did not behead because of his unusual beauty, and because they were well acquainted with his heroism, the fame of which was known far and near. They brought Stephan to the presence of the Vizier of Tyoopria, who was so pleased to see him that he ordered his hands to be freed, and gave him back his horse and arms. He also held a great feast and accompanied it with the firing of innumerable cannon. After this the Vizier of Tyoopria returned with the whole army in triumph to Stamboul, where he brought his distinguished prisoner into the sultan's presence. Stephan and the Sultan The mighty Padishah was seated on his sidjadé, [58] and after presenting Stephan the vizier took a seat near by. Stephan made a profound obeisance and kissed the slipper and the knee of the sultan. The sultan then invited him to a seat near to him and spake thus: "O heroic Stephan Yakshitch! If thou wilt become a Turk! (may Allah favour thee!) I will make thee my Grand Vizier of Bosnia in the City of Travnik! Thou shalt have seven other viziers to obey thy orders; I will give thee in marriage my only daughter, and will care for thee as for my own son!" To this Stephan answered firmly: "O Great Padishah! Thou mighty ruler of the world! I shall never turn Turk and renounce the Holy Cross. Yea, even if thou offered me thy own throne! I am ready to give my life for the holy Christian faith!" At these bold words the sultan was very angry, and gave orders that Stephan should be executed. But Stephan had a good friend in the Vizier of Tyoopria, who at this juncture prayed the sultan not to give way to his wrath. "Do not, in the name of Allah, O my Padishah," said he, "have so valorous a young man beheaded! I have given him my word of honour that thou, O Sultan, will not take his life! Deliver him to me for ransom! I will give thee as many golden ducats as he weighs on thy balance, and will keep him safely in my castle at Tyoopria where, I give thee my firm faith, I will make him love the creed of Mohammed." The sultan graciously acceded to his vizier's request and Stephan departed with the Turk to his province. Stephan at Tyoopria When the vizier came to Tyoopria he invited Stephan to participate in all the luxury of his castle, and during one whole year he endeavoured by courtesy and kindness to convert the Serbian prince to the Mussulman faith. Then, as all his efforts had failed, he called together his hodjas [59] and kadis, [60] as well as all the noblemen of his district, and these men spoke to Stephan thus: "O Stephan, the vizier has ordered us to convert thee unto the true faith; if thou wilt submit to us in this thing he will give thee in marriage his only daughter--she is more beautiful than the white veela herself--and he will have thee to be appointed the Grand Vizier of Novi Bazar. But if thou refused to become a Turk, his djelat [61] will cleave thy head asunder." Thereupon Stephan answered: "I thank ye, venerable hodgas and kadis! But I would rather lose my life for the sake of our holy faith and the law of our Lord Jhesu, than live to become a Turk!" The vizier turned sadly away and ordered his djelat to behead Prince Stephan. But again Stephan's good fortune befriended him. The Grand Vizier of Novi Bazar came to the Vizier of Tyoopria and implored him not to behead the young man. "Dost thou not remember," said he, "that thou didst promise that his life should not be taken from him? 'Twere better to deliver him to me on ransom: I will give twice his weight in golden ducats, and I declare solemnly that when I have him in my province of Novi Bazar, I shall not fail to induce him to embrace Islam!" The Vizier of Tyoopria agreed to his friend's offer and Stephan was thus a second time delivered from death. Stephan at Novi Bazar Arriving at Novi Bazar the vizier summoned his servant Hoossein. "Listen, Hoossein, my trusty servant!" said he. "Take thou this dearly bought prisoner, and conduct him through the donjons, until thou comest to the twelfth; there leave him and shut the twelve doors behind thee carefully, so that he shall see neither the sun nor the moon. Methinks he will soon be willing to adopt our Mussulman faith!" Hoossein did as he was commanded, and Stephan remained a prisoner for half a year, when the vizier took pity on him. Summoning his only daughter Haykoona, he said to her: "My darling daughter, my pure gold! Hearken to thy father's words! Go back to thy tower, open thy golden cupboards, and adorn thyself with thy richest apparel. Put on thy prettiest dress of rosy silk adorned with velvet ribbons and golden threads, and cover all with thy gold-woven cloak. In thy right hand take a golden apple and under thy arm take this bottle; in it is a beverage prepared from forest plants and flowerets. It is called 'water of oblivion'; I have been told that he who washes his face with it and drinks of it must hate his relatives and his religion. Take ye these to the lowest seraïs and open the twelve doors, closing carefully each of them in turn after thee. When thou comest to Prince Stephan give him this wonderful bottle. He will surely bathe his face with its contents and drink: then he will forget his faith, embrace Islam and marry thee!" The Turkish maiden could have wished for no greater good fortune, for ever since she first saw the handsome Serbian prince she had felt strange pains. In her dreams she saw nobody but him, and in the daytime she was consumed with fevers. Stephan and the Vizier's Daughter Therefore she complied with her father's wish with alacrity, and when she reached Stephan she greeted him tenderly: "Hail, O Serbian Hero! May God be with thee!" And the chivalrous prince returned the greeting: "May God help thee, O peerless Haykoona!" The beautiful maiden then said: "O Prince Stephan, I value thee more than my black eyes! I sorrow to see thy face thus darkened and thy life so miserable in the prison-donjons of my father. Take this bottle of cooling water; bathe thy heroic visage with the liquid and drink a little of it!" The hero took the bottle from those beauteous hands; but he was wise! Without hesitation he shattered it against the stony wall, taking great care that not a drop of the liquid should besprinkle him. The Turkish maiden flushed with anger, but a moment later she composed herself, and casting upon the prince a tender glance, she said to him sweetly: "Do, I pray thee, become a Turk and marry me! I love thee more than my black eyes." But Stephan answered: "I beseech thee, in thy Allah's name, speak not so, O Princess Haykoona. I shall never turn Turk and forget my Christian faith! Yea, I am ready always to give my life for it!" The beauteous lady turned aside impatiently, but her anger soon passed, and again looking tenderly at the young prince, she exclaimed with sudden passion, "Kiss me, O my beloved!" But Stephan was proof against temptation, and he answered sternly: "O Turkish lady, may misfortune attend thee! Thou knowest that my faith forbids that a Christian should kiss a Turk! The skies above would burst asunder and stones would fall upon our heads!" The vizier's daughter really loved the prince, and although it was not easy for her haughty spirit to brook such a refusal of her advances, she presently spake again in this wise: "O Prince Stephan, truly I love thee more than my own eyes! I would not for the entire wealth of this world be baptized, but if thou wilt promise me thy love and wilt marry me I will even embrace the Christian faith! Let us take much gold from my father's treasury and flee together to thy glorious Belgrade." Hearing this, the young prince sprang joyfully to his feet and opened his arms to the beauteous maiden. He was by no means insensible to her charms, and he exclaimed with fervour: "Thou hast my princely promise that I shall love thee and be faithful to thee--as it is the duty of a true knight so to be. May the Lord Jhesu in Heaven be my witness!" Then the vizier's daughter opened the twelve doors one after the other and the young couple soon stood in the glorious fresh air under the sky, which was bespangled with silver stars, and radiant with the light of the moon. From the vizier's treasury they took three tovars of gold, and from his stables his two best horses. And the maiden gave Stephan a sabre studded with large diamonds--it was worth half of Novi Bazar--saying: "Take this sword, my darling lord: that thou mayest not be compelled to give way to inferior heroes, if we should be molested on our way!" Then they mounted the horses and urged them swiftly away: in one night they put a distance between them and the vizier's castle which a caravan could not cover in less than three days and three nights. At dawn of the next day they reached Belgrade, and Prince Stephan immediately summoned twelve monks, who baptized the fair Turkish maiden, after which the young couple were happily united. The Ending of the Ballad The bard finishes his ballad with the following stereotyped ending very usual with Montenegrins: "This happened once upon a time; let us, O brethren, pray of God to grant our holy Vladika [62] good health! Amen, O God, to whom we always pray!" Serbian bards did not as a rule end in this manner, but contented themselves with wishing good health to their audiences. Historical Note During the long course of the imposition of Ottoman dominion upon the suffering Christian races of the Balkans there were always at the courts of the Christian princes malcontents whom the cunning Turkish statesmen easily seduced from their allegiance to their rightful lords, and to whom they extended hospitality in Constantinople, often overwhelming them with riches and honours. In return they have rendered most important services to the sultans in their many campaigns, being, of course, well acquainted with the strategic dispositions of their countrymen, and often with important state secrets. Sometimes such traitorous men have served the Turk in their own country by sowing the seed of dissatisfaction with their rulers among the peasantry, assuring them that they would be better off under Ottoman rule. The influence of such renegades prevailed upon the peasantry in Bosnia and Herzegovina, at the time of the Battle of Kossovo (1389), to rise against their rulers, and they did not participate in that memorable battle. Very few instances of such treachery, however, occurred in Montenegro, which has been from the earliest times the home of the noblest of Serbian aristocrats and heroes, and where the adoption of the faith of Islam, no matter for what reason, or from what motive, was considered as the greatest cowardice of which a Christian could be guilty. CHAPTER XI: THE MARRIAGE OF KING VOUKASHIN The Message to Vidossava King Voukashin [63] of Skadar on Boyana [64] wrote a book [65] and dispatched it to Herzegovina, to the white city of Pirlitor [66] opposite the mountain Dourmitor. He wrote it secretly, and secretly he dispatched it to the hands of beauteous Vidossava, the lonely consort of Voïvode Momtchilo. These were the words in the book: "Hail Vidossava, Momtchilo's consort! Why dost thou dwell in the midst of ice and snow? When thou lookest up from thy castle walls thou seest Mount Dourmitor adorned with ice and snow, yea, even in summer as in mid-winter; when thou lookest down, lo! thither rushes thy turbulent River Tarra carrying on its waves wood and stones. There are no fords, neither are there bridges to span it; around it are only pine-trees and fragments of rock. Why shouldst thou not give poison to thy husband or betray him unto me? Then mightest thou fly to me on this level sea-coast in my white city on Boyana. I will gladly espouse thee and thou shalt become my queen. Thou shalt spin silk upon a golden spindle, sit upon silk cushions and wear velvet embroidered with gold. And how glorious is this city of Skadar on Boyana! When thou lookest upon the fertile slopes above the walls thou wilt see innumerable fig-trees and olive-trees, and vineyards full of grapes; when thou lookest beneath, behold! the plain will be white with nodding wheat, and green with the verdure of the meadows. Through the meadows green-limpid Boyana is flowing; in its stream are all kinds of fish which thou wilt have served fresh at table when thou dost so desire." Vidossava's Treachery When Vidossava had read the book she wrote a reply in fine characters: "My Lord, thou King Voukashin! It is not an easy task to betray Voïvode Momtchilo, still less is it easy to poison him. Momtchilo has a sister, by name Yevrossima, who prepares his dishes and partakes of each before him. He has nine brothers and twelve first cousins who pour wine into his golden cup; they always drink before him of each draught. Also, O king! Voïvode Momtchilo possesses a steed named Yaboutchilo; it has wings and can fly any distance its master wishes. Nor is this all! My spouse has a sword adorned with diamonds as big as a maiden's eyes; with this, he fears no one but God. But attend to me, O King Voukashin! Gather a numberless army together; bring thy heroes to the lake, and hide there in the woods. It is Momtchilo's custom to hunt each Sunday morning; he rides out with his nine brothers and his twelve cousins, and attended by forty guards from his castle. On the eve of next Sunday I will burn off Yaboutchilo's wings; the jewelled sword I will dip in salted blood that Momtchilo may not be able to unsheath it: thus thou shalt be able to vanquish him." When this book reached King Voukashin's hands, his heart rejoiced and he assembled a large force and marched to Herzegovina. He marched to the lake by Momtchilo's castle, where he hid in the neighbouring woods. On the eve of Sunday, Momtchilo retired to his bed-chamber to rest upon the silken cushions, when lo! his consort came to him. She did not lay on the cushions, but stood by her spouse and her tears fell upon his head. Feeling the warm tears upon his knightly cheeks, the Voïvode looked up and said: "O Vidossava, my faithful consort! What great trouble afflicts thee, that thou shouldst shed tears upon my head?" And Vidossava answered: "My Lord, thou Voïvode Momtchilo! I have no trouble but for thee! I have heard tell of a marvel which I have not seen with my own eyes. It is said that thou hast a wondrous winged steed but I cannot believe the story. It is some evil portent, and I fear thou wilt perish!" The Winged Horse Momtchilo was usually cautious, but this time he fell into the trap. "Vidossava, my dear consort," said he, tenderly, "if that be all thy trouble I will easily console thee. Thou shalt see the wings of my steed Tchile: [67] when the first cocks crow go down to the new stables, Tchile will then unfold his wings, as thou wilt see." Saying this, he composed himself once more to slumber. But not so Vidossava. She watched to hear the first rooster's crow, and at the sound she sprang to her feet, lit a lantern and a candle, took some fat of mutton and some tar, and hurried to the stables. And behold! she saw Yaboutchilo unfold a pair of wings which reached down to his hoofs. Vidossava anointed the pinions with the fat and tar and set fire to them with the flame of her candle. What did not burn she bound tightly under the belt of the steed. This done, she, the youthful one, went to the armoury and dipped Momtchilo's favourite sword into salted blood. Then she returned to her consort's chamber. Momtchilo's Dream At daybreak Momtchilo awoke and spake thus to Vidossava: "Vidossava, my beloved spouse! I have had this night a strange dream: there appeared suddenly a cloud of fog from the accursed land of Vassoye and wrapped itself round Dourmitor. I rode through the cloud with my nine darling brothers and twelve first-cousins, together with my forty guards. In that fog, O my darling Vidossava! we lost sight of each other, never to meet again! God alone knows what this dream means, but I have a presentiment that some evil will befall us soon!" Vidossava endeavoured to reassure her lord. "Do not fear, my darling lord!" she said; "dreams are false, God is true!" The Ambuscade Momtchilo attired himself for hunting and walked out from his white tower to the courtyard, where his nine brothers, twelve cousins, and forty guards awaited him. His spouse led to him his Yaboutchilo; he sprang to the saddle, and without more ado rode with his followers to the hunt. All unsuspecting, they reached the lake, when suddenly a great force surrounded them. Momtchilo grasped his sword, but, alas! he was unable to unsheathe it. Then he exclaimed bitterly: "Hark, my beloved brethren! My consort Vidossava has betrayed me; give me a sword!" Speedily his brothers obeyed; they gave him the best sword they had. Then Momtchilo said again: "Listen, my beloved brothers: ye shall attack the wings of the army and I will storm it in the centre." God adored, what a mighty wonder! 'Would that some from among ye, brethren, [68] could have been there to see: how Voïvode Momtchilo wielded his sword and cleared his way through the press of his foes!' Howbeit, more were crushed by Yaboutchilo than by the hero's sword! But, alas! a sad misfortune had befallen him: when he had gained clear of the foe his brothers' nine black steeds followed after him; but their saddles were empty! When Momtchilo saw this his heroic heart burst from great sorrow for the loss of his nine beloved brothers: his sword-arm dropped limp at his side, and knowing that he could fight no more, he spurred Yaboutchilo, intending that he should unfold his wings and fly to his castle. But, alas! for the first time his charger did not respond to the spur. Then Momtchilo spake reproachfully thus: "O Yaboutchilo, may wolves devour thee! Many times hast thou flown from here merely in pastime, and now when I am in sore straits thou wilt not fly!" And the steed answered, neighing: "My Lord, mighty Voïvode Momtchilo! Do not curse me, nor try to force me further. To-day I cannot fly! May God punish thy Vidossava! Last night she burnt the pinions of my two wings. What did not burn she tied tightly under my belt. O my beloved master! thou hadst better escape as thou mayest. I cannot help thee!" When Momtchilo heard this, tears fell down his heroic visage. He alighted heavily from his well-loved Yaboutchilo; after a last caress he gathered himself together, and in three leaps he found himself before the portals of his castle. And lo! the massive gates were closed and locked. Brother and Sister Seeing this, Momtchilo called aloud upon his sister: "O Yevrossima, my darling sister! Stretch down to me a roll of linen that I may climb the castle wall and escape ere my pursuers come up with me!" Yevrossima heard the appeal and answered through copious tears: "Alas, my darling brother, thou Voïvode Momtchilo! How can I drop down to thee a length of white linen, seeing that my sister-in-law, thine own faithless Vidossava, hath bound my hair to a beam?" But sisters have soft hearts for their brothers, [69] and Yevrossima, for the sake of her only brother, jerked her head with such force that she left her hair on the beam; then she seized a length of linen, made one end fast, and threw the other end over the wall from the rampart. Momtchilo seized the linen and quickly climbed almost to the top of the rampart. He was on the point of springing into the fortress when his faithless spouse ran thither swiftly and, with a sharp sword, cut the linen above Momtchilo's hands. By this time the forces of Voukashin had come up, and Momtchilo was precipitated upon their swords and lances. Seeing the hero fall, the king hastened to the spot, and with a fierce thrust ran him through the heart. So fiercely did he lunge that the end of the sword penetrated the wall. The Death of Momtchilo Voïvode Momtchilo was a rare hero, and he was able to speak these last words to King Voukashin: "My last request to thee, O King Voukashin, is that thou shouldst not marry my faithless Vidossava, for she will betray thee also. To-day she hath betrayed me to thee; to-morrow she will deal with thee in like manner! Far better would it be to marry my dear sister Yevrossima, the loveliest of maidens. She will always be faithful to thee and will bear thee a hero like unto myself." This spake Voïvode Momtchilo, struggling with pale death: this he said and his soul flew heavenward. The gates of the castle were now opened, and the faithless Vidossava came out to welcome King Voukashin. After she had greeted him she led the way to her white tower and gave him a seat at her golden table. She offered him fine wines and many lordly dishes. Then she went to the armoury and brought Momtchilo's armour and weapons. But, marvellous to relate! Momtchilo's helmet, which fitted him closely, fell down to King Voukashin's shoulders. One of Momtchilo's top-boots was big enough for King Voukashin's two feet. Momtchilo's golden rings were too large for three of King Voukashin's fingers together. Momtchilo's sabre was one whole yard too long when King Voukashin tried it on his belt! The Punishment of Vidossava Seeing all this, King Voukashin exclaimed: "Alas! Woe is me! May God forgive me! What a faithless monster this youthful Vidossava must be to betray such a hero, whose equal would be vainly sought throughout the whole world! How could I, the wretched one, expect such a woman to be faithful to me?" So saying, he called loudly to his servants, who took Vidossava and bound her fair limbs to the tails of four horses and drove them from the castle Pirlitor. Thus, dreadful fate! she was torn to pieces alive. Then the king pillaged Voïvode Momtchilo's castle and led away Yevrossima to his palace at Skadar on Boyana. Later, he deserved her love and married her, and she bore unto him Marko and Andrias. Truly Marko inherited the heroism of Voïvode Momtchilo, and thus his uncle's prediction was fulfilled. Historical Note Primitive as may be the customs illustrated in this ballad of the fourteenth century, it is undoubtedly worthy of a place in my collection. It was taken down by Vouk St. Karadgitch from the lips of the Serbian bard, and I cannot sufficiently express my regret for my inability to convey in English the beautiful and audacious similes and the eloquent figures of speech which adorn the original. The French mediæval troubadour rarely chose as his theme the faithlessness of women; probably because incidents like the one described in our ballad were either unknown or too common to be considered interesting. But if the Serbian bards did not, excepting in this rare instance, sing of the fickleness and treachery of the weaker sex, it was that Serbian public opinion could not suffer the contemplation of faithlessness on the part of either husband or wife. No doubt the bard, wandering from one monastery to another, found in some chronicle a few facts concerning the marriage of King Voukashin which he elaborated much as did the French troubadour who dealt similarly with the slender historic fact relative to the battle at Ronceval. The public opinion of the epoch is reflected in the barbarous punishment which the bard, moved by his austerity, inflicts upon Vidossava. It is interesting to note that in my researches I have not found one ballad in which faithlessness on the part of a husband occurs. In the ballads concerning the royal Prince Marko we see that he was always chivalrous toward women, especially toward widows and oppressed maidens, irrespective of their social position or their religion. He is willing to succour Turkish maidens, for whom he is ready to jeopardize his life. In the ballad entitled "The Captivity and Marriage of Stephan Yakshitch" the bard tells of advances made to Stephan by a passionate Turkish maiden, which he repels with indignation at the mere idea of an alliance between a Christian and a Mussulman woman. King Voukashin might have corresponded with Voïvode Momtchilo's wife previous to her marriage, but if so it must have been rather a political attachment than an affair of the heart. CHAPTER XII: THE SAINTS DIVIDE THE TREASURES [70] The Bard begins! Merciful Creator! Does it thunder, or is the earth quaking? Or can it be the tempestuous ocean hurling its waves against the shore? [71] Nay! It is not thunder, neither is the earth quaking, nor is the stormy ocean beating upon the shore! Lo! the saints are dividing among themselves the treasures of Heaven, of Earth and of Sea: Saint Peter and St. Nicholas, St. John and St. Elias; with them, too, is St. Panthelias. Suddenly there comes Beata Maria, tears streaming down her white face. "Dear sister ours," spake St. Elias, "thou Beata Maria! What great misfortune hath befallen thee that thou shouldst shed tears down thy cheeks?" Thereupon, amid her sobs, Beata Maria said: "O my dear brother, thou Thunderer Elias! How could I refrain from shedding tears, since I am just come from India--from India, that accursed country? In that degraded land there is utter lawlessness: the common people do not respect their superiors; children do not obey their parents; parents crush their own children under their feet (may their cheeks blush at the divan [72] before the very God of truth!) A koom prosecutes a brother koom before the judge and bears false witness against him--thus losing his own soul, and damaging one who has acted as a witness at his wedding or baptism; brother challenges brother to duels; a bride is not to be entrusted with safety to the care of a dever, and, alas! even more dreadful things have I seen!" The Thunderer Elias returned answer: "O sister dear, thou Beata Maria! Wipe those tears from thy tender face! When we have divided these treasures we will go to the divan unto our Almighty creator. Him we will pray, the Truthful One, that He may, in His Infinite Grace, grant us the Keys of the Seven Heavens, with which we may lock them. I will seal the clouds that no drop of rain may fall therefrom, neither abundant rain nor soft dew. Also, the silvery moonbeams shall not shine at night. Thus for three full years there shall be a heavy drought, and neither wheat nor wine shall grow, yea, not as much as is needful for the Holy Mass." Beata Maria was comforted, and wiped away the tears from her milk-white face. And the saints turned again to the division of the treasures: Peter chose wine and wheat and the Keys of the Heavenly Empire; Elias chose the lightning and thunder; Panthelias, great heats; John chose brotherhood and koomhood as well as the Holy Cross; Nicholas chose the seas with the galleys upon them. The Wrath of God Then one and all went to divan with the Almighty, to Whom for three white days and three obscure nights they prayed incessantly. They prayed and, indeed, their prayers were heard: God gave them the Keys of the Heavens. They locked the Seven Heavens; they affixed seals upon the clouds and lo, for full three years, there fell no drop of rain, neither rain nor silent dew! Neither shone the silvery moonlight, nor did wine grow or wheat spring up from the parched ground,--not even as much as is requisite for the needs of Holy Church. Behold! The black earth cracked; the living dropped in it. God sent an awful plague which smote both old and young, severing those who were dear to each other. The small remnant who remained alive bitterly repented and turned to the Lord God in whom they truly believed, and who now blessed them. And God's benediction which He gave to those people yet remains: there should be winter and summer once in each year! As it was long ago, so it is nowadays. "God Adored, may our thanks reach Thee! What has been, may it never happen again!" CHAPTER XIII: THREE SERBIAN BALLADS I. THE BUILDING OF SKADAR (SCUTARI) [73] The following poems are reprinted here from Sir John Bowring's Servian Popular Poetry, London, 1827. These translations will serve to give to English readers some idea of the form of the national decasyllabic verse from which the matter of the greater part of this book is taken. Brothers three combined to build a fortress, Brothers three, the brothers Mrnyavtchevitch, Kraly Vukashin [74] was the eldest brother; And the second was Uglesha-Voivode; And the third, the youngest brother Goïko. Full three years they labour'd at the fortress, Skadra's fortress on Boyana's river; Full three years three hundred workmen labour'd. Vain th' attempt to fix the wall's foundation. Vainer still to elevate the fortress: Whatsoe'er at eve had raised the workmen Did the veela raze ere dawn of morning. When the fourth year had begun its labours, Lo! the veela from the forest-mountain Call'd--"Thou King Vukashin! vain thine efforts! Vain thine efforts--all thy treasures wasting! Never, never, wilt thou build the fortress, If thou find not two same-titled beings, If thou find not Stoyan and Stoyana: And these two--these two young twins so loving, They must be immured in the foundation. Thus alone will the foundations serve thee: Thus alone can ye erect your fortress." When Vukashin heard the veela's language, Soon he call'd to Dessimir, his servant: "Listen, Dessimir, my trusty servant! Thou hast been my trusty servant ever; Thou shalt be my son from this day onward. Fasten thou my coursers to my chariot: Load it with six lasts of golden treasures: Travel through the whole wide world, and bring me, Bring me back those two same-titled beings: Bring me back that pair of twins so loving: Bring me hither Stoyan and Stoyana: Steal them, if with gold thou canst not buy them. Bring them here to Skadar on Boyana [75] We'll inter them in the wall's foundation: So the wall's foundations will be strengthened: So we shall build up our Skadra's fortress." Dessimir obey'd his master's mandate; Fasten'd, straight, the horses to the chariot; Fill'd it with six lasts of golden treasures; Through the whole wide world the trusty servant Wander'd--asking for these same-named beings-- For the twins--for Stoyan and Stoyana; Full three years he sought them,--sought them vainly: Nowhere could he find these same-named beings: Nowhere found he Stoyan and Stoyana. Then he hasten'd homeward to his master; Gave the king his horses and his chariot; Gave him his six lasts of golden treasures: "Here, my sov'reign, are thy steeds and chariot: Here thou hast thy lasts of golden treasures: Nowhere could I find those same-named beings: Nowhere found I Stoyan and Stoyana." When Vukashin had dismiss'd his servant, Straight he call'd his builder master Rado. Rado call'd on his three hundred workmen; And they built up Skadar on Boyana; But, at even did the veela raze it: Vainly did they raise the wall's foundation; Vainly seek to build up Skadra's fortress. And the veela, from the mountain-forest, Cried, "Vukashin, listen! listen to me! Thou dost spill thy wealth, and waste thy labour: Vainly seek'st to fix the wall's foundations; Vainly seek'st to elevate the fortress. Listen now to me! Ye are three brothers: Each a faithful wife at home possesses:-- Her who comes to-morrow to Boyana, Her who brings the rations to the workmen-- Her immure deep, down, in the wall's foundations:-- So shall the foundations fix them firmly: So shall thou erect Boyana's fortress." When the king Vukashin heard the veela, Both his brothers speedily he summon'd: "Hear my words, now hear my words, my brothers! From the forest-hill the veela told me, That we should no longer waste our treasures In the vain attempt to raise the fortress On a shifting, insecure foundation. Said the veela of the forest-mountain, Each of you a faithful wife possesses; Each a faithful bride that keeps your dwellings: Her who to the fortress comes to-morrow, Her who brings their rations to the workmen-- Her immure within the wall's foundations; So will the foundations bear the fortress: So Boyana's fortress be erected. Now then, brothers! in God's holy presence Let each swear to keep the awful secret; Leave to chance whose fate 'twill be to-morrow First to wend her way to Skadar's river." And each brother swore, in God's high presence. From his wife to keep the awful secret. When the night had on the earth descended, Each one hastened to his own white dwelling; Each one shared the sweet repast of evening; Each one sought his bed of quiet slumber. Lo! there happen'd then a wond'rous marvel! First, Vukashin on his oath he trampled, Whisp'ring to his wife the awful secret: "Shelter thee! my faithful wife! be shelter'd! Go not thou to-morrow to Boyana! Bring not to the workmen food to-morrow! Else, my fair! thy early life 'twill cost thee: And beneath the walls they will immure thee!" On his oath, too, did Uglesha trample! And he gave his wife this early warning: "Be not thou betray'd, sweet love! to danger! Go not thou to-morrow to Boyana! Carry not their rations to the workmen! Else in earliest youth thy friend might lose thee! Thou might be immured in the foundation!" Faithful to his oath, young Goïko whisper'd Not a breath to warn his lovely consort. When the morning dawn'd upon the morrow, All the brothers roused them at the day-break, And each sped, as wont, to the Boyana. Now, behold! two young and noble women; They--half-sisters--they, the eldest sisters-- One is bringing up her snow-bleach'd linen, Yet once more in summer sun to bleach it. See! she comes on to the bleaching meadows; There she stops--she comes not one step further. Lo! the second, with a red-clay pitcher; Lo! she comes--she fills it at the streamlet; There she talks with other women--lingers-- Yes! she lingers--comes not one step farther. Goïko's youthful wife at home is tarrying, For she has an infant in the cradle Not a full moon old; the little nursling: But the moment of repast approaches; And her aged mother then bestirs her; Fain would call the serving-maid, and bid her Take the noon-tide meal to the Boyana. "Nay, not so!" said the young wife of Goïko; "Stay, sit down in peace, I pray thee, mother! Rock the little infant in his cradle: I myself will bear the food to Skadra. In the sight of God it were a scandal, An affront and shame among all people, If, of three, no one were found to bear it." So she staid at home, the aged mother, And she rock'd the nursling in the cradle. Then arose the youthful wife of Goïko; Gave them the repast, and bade them forward. Call'd around her all the serving maidens; When they reach'd Boyana's flowing river, They were seen by Mrnyavtchevitch Goïko, On his youthful wife, heart-rent, he threw him; Flung his strong right arm around her body; Kiss'd a thousand times her snowy forehead: Burning tears stream'd swiftly from his eyelids, And he spoke in melancholy language: "O my wife, my own! my full heart's-sorrow! Didst thou never dream that thou must perish? Why hast thou our little one abandoned? Who will bathe our little one, thou absent? Who will bare the breast to feed the nursling?" More, and more, and more, he fain would utter; But the king allow'd it not. Vukashin, By her white hand seizes her, and summons Master Rado,--he the master-builder; And he summons his three hundred workmen. But the young espoused one smiles, and dreams it All a laughing jest,--no fear o'ercame her. Gathering round her, the three hundred workmen Pile the stones and pile the beams about her. They have now immured her to the girdle. Higher rose the walls and beams, and higher; Then the wretch first saw the fate prepared her, And she shriek'd aloud in her despair; In her woe implored her husband's brothers: "Can ye think of God?--have ye no pity? Can ye thus immure me, young and healthful?" But in vain, in vain were her entreaties; And her brothers left her thus imploring. Shame and fear succeeded then to censure, And she piteously invoked her husband: "Can it, can it be, my lord and husband, That so young, thou, reckless, would'st immure me? Let us go and seek my aged mother: Let us go--my mother she is wealthy: She will buy a slave,--a man or woman, To be buried in the wall's foundations." When the mother-wife--the wife and mother, Found her earnest plaints and prayers neglected, She address'd herself to Neimar Rado: [76] "In God's name, my brother, Neimar Rado, Leave a window for this snowy bosom, Let this snowy bosom heave it freely; When my voiceless Yovo shall come near me, When he comes, O let him drain my bosom!" Rado bade the workmen all obey her, Leave a window for that snowy bosom, Let that snowy bosom heave it freely When her voiceless Yovo shall come near her, When he comes, he'll drink from out her bosom. Once again she cried to Neimar Rado, "Neimar Rado! In God's name, my brother! Leave for these mine eyes a little window, That these eyes may see our own white dwelling, When my Yovo shall be brought toward me, When my Yovo shall be carried homeward." Rado bade the workmen all obey her, Leave for those bright eyes a little window, That her eyes may see her own white dwelling, When they bring her infant Yovo to her, When they take the infant Yovo homeward. So they built the heavy wall about her, And then brought the infant in his cradle, Which a long, long while his mother suckled. Then her voice grew feeble--then was silent: Still the stream flow'd forth and nursed the infant: Full a year he hung upon her bosom; Still the stream flow'd forth--and still it floweth. [77] Women, when the life-stream dries within them, Thither come--the place retains its virtue-- Thither come, to still their crying infants! II. THE STEPSISTERS Near each other grew two verdant larches, And, between, a high and slender fir-tree: Not two larches were they--not two larches, Not a high and slender fir between them-- They were brothers, children of one mother. One was Paul; the other brother, Radool, And, between them, Yelitza, their sister. Cordial was the love her brothers bore her; Many a token of affection gave her, Many a splendid gift and many a trifle, And at last a knife, in silver hafted, And adorn'd with gold, they gave their sister. When the youthful wife of Paul had heard it, Jealousy swell'd up within her bosom: And she call'd, enraged, to Radool's lady: "Sister mine! thou in the Lord my sister, Dost thou know some plant of demon-virtue, Which may bring our sister to perdition?" Radool's wife her sister swiftly answered: "In the name of God, what mean'st thou, sister? Of such cursed weeds I know not.--Did I, Never would I tell thee of them, never; For my brothers love me; yes! they love me-- To their love full many a gift bears witness." When Paul's youthful wife had heard her sister, To the steed she hastened in the meadow, Gave the steed a mortal wound, and hurried To her husband, whom she thus accosted:-- "Evil is the love thou bear'st thy sister, And thy gifts are worse than wasted to her; She has stabb'd thy courser in the meadow." Paul inquired of Yelitza, his sister, "Why this deed, as God shall recompense thee?" High and loudly, then the maid protested: "By my life, it was not I, my brother; By my life and by thy life, I swear it!" And the brother doubted not his sister. Which when Paul's young wife perceived, at even To the garden secretly she hasten'd, Wrung the neck of Paul's grey noble falcon,-- To her husband sped she then and told him: "Evil is the love thou bear'st thy sister, And thy gifts to her are worse than wasted; Lo! she has destroy'd thy favourite falcon." Paul inquired of Yelitza, his sister, "Tell me why, and so may God reward thee!" But his sister swore both high and loudly: "'Twas not I, upon my life, my brother; On my life and thine, I did not do it!" And the brother still believed his sister. When the youthful bride of Paul discover'd This, she slunk at evening,--evening's meal-time, Stole the golden knife, and with it murder'd, Murder'd her poor infant in the cradle! And when morning's dawning brought the morning, She aroused her husband by her screaming Shrieking woe; she tore her cheeks, exclaiming: "Evil is the love thou bear'st thy sister, And thy gifts to her are worst than wasted; She has stabb'd our infant in the cradle! Will thine incredulity now doubt me? Lo! the knife is in thy sister's girdle." Up sprang Paul, like one possess'd by madness: To the upper floor he hastened wildly; There his sister on her mats was sleeping, And the golden knife beneath her pillow Swift he seized the golden knife,--and drew it-- Drew it, panting, from its silver scabbard;-- It was damp with blood--'twas red and gory! When the noble Paul saw this, he seized her,-- Seized her by her own bright hand and cursed her: "Let the curse of God be on thee, sister! Thou didst murder, too, my favourite courser; Thou didst murder, too, my noble falcon; But thou should'st have spared the helpless baby." Higher yet his sister swore, and louder-- "'Twas not I, upon my life, my brother; On my life and on thy life, I swear it! But if thou wilt disregard my swearing, Take me to the open fields--the desert; Bind thy sister to the tails of horses; Let four horses tear my limbs asunder." But the brother trusted not his sister: Furiously he seized her white hand--bore her To the distant fields--the open desert: To the tails of four fierce steeds he bound her, And he drove them forth across the desert;-- But, where'er a drop of blood fell from her, There a flower sprang up,--a fragrant flow'ret; Where her body fell when dead and mangled, There a church arose from out the desert. Little time was spent, ere fatal sickness Fell upon Paul's youthful wife;--the sickness Nine long years lay on her,--heavy sickness! 'Midst her bones the matted dog-grass sprouted, And amidst it nestled angry serpents, Which, though hidden, drank her eyelight's brightness. Then she mourn'd her misery--mourn'd despairing; Thus she spoke unto her lord and husband: "O convey me, Paul, my lord and husband! To thy sister's church convey me swiftly; For that church, perchance, may heal and save me." So, when Paul had heard his wife's petition, To his sister's church he swiftly bore her. Hardly had they reach'd the church's portal, When a most mysterious voice address'd them: "Come not here, young woman! come not hither! For this church can neither heal nor save thee." Bitter was her anguish when she heard it; And her lord the woman thus entreated: "In the name of God! my lord! my husband! Never, never bear me to our dwelling. Bind me to the wild steeds' tails, and drive them; Drive them in the immeasurable desert; Let them tear my wretched limbs asunder." Paul then listened to his wife's entreaties: To the tails of four wild steeds he bound her; Drove them forth across the mighty desert. Wheresoe'er a drop of blood fell from her, There sprang up the rankest thorns and nettles. Where her body fell, when dead, the waters Rush'd and formed a lake both still and stagnant. O'er the lake there swam a small black courser: By his side a golden cradle floated: On the cradle sat a young grey falcon: In the cradle, slumbering, lay an infant: On its throat the white hand of its mother: And that hand a golden knife was holding. III. THE ABDUCTION OF THE BEAUTIFUL ICONIA Golden wine drinks Theodore of Stalatch [78] In his Castle Stalatch, on Morava; Pours him out the wine his aged mother. While the wine-fumes to his head were rising, Thus his mother spoke unto the hero: "Son of mine! thou Theodore of Stalatch! Tell me, wherefore hast thou not espoused thee? Thou art in thy youthful days of beauty: In thy dwelling now thine aged mother Fain would see thy children play around her." And he answer'd--Theodore of Stalatch-- "God is witness, O my aged mother! I have roamed through many a land and city, But I never found the sought-for maiden; Or, when found the maiden, found I never Friendly feelings in thy mind towards her; And where thou hast shown thy friendly feeling, There I found the maiden false and faithless. But, as yesterday, at hour of sunset, I was wandering near Ressava's river, Lo! I glanced on thirty lovely maidens On its banks their yarn and linen bleaching: 'Midst them was the beauteous Iconia, Fairest daughter of the Prince Miloutin, He the princely sovereign of Resseva. She, indeed, would be a bride to cherish; She, indeed, were worthy of thy friendship: But that maiden is betrothed already; She is promised unto George Irene-- To Irene, for Sredoi, his kinsman. But I'll win that maiden--I will win her, Or will perish in the deed, my mother!" But his mother counsell'd him and warn'd him-- "Say not so, my son! the maid is promised; 'Tis no jest! she is of monarchs' kindred." But the hero cared not for his mother: Loud he called to Dobrivoy, his servant-- "Dobrivoy! come hither, trusty servant! Bring my brown steed forth, and make him ready-- Make him ready with the silver saddle; Rein him with the gold-embroider'd bridle." When the steed was ready, forth he hasten'd, Flung him on his back, and spurr'd him onward To the gentle river of Morava, Flowing through Ressava's quiet levels. And he reach'd Ressava's gentle river: There again he saw the thirty maidens-- There he saw the beauteous Iconia. Then the hero feign'd a sudden sickness; Ask'd for help; and sped her courteous greeting-- "God above be with thee, lovely maiden!" And the loveliest to his words made answer, "And with thee be bliss, thou stranger-warrior!" "Lovely maiden! for the love of heaven, Wilt thou give me one cup of cooling water? For a fiery fever glows within me; From my steed I dare not rise, fair maiden! For my steed, he hath a trick of evil-- Twice he will not let his rider mount him." Warm and earnest was the maiden's pity, And, with gentle voice, she thus addressed him: "Nay! not so--not so, thou unknown warrior! Harsh and heavy is Ressava's water; Harsh and heavy e'en for healthful warriors; How much worse for fever-sickening tired ones! Wait, and I a cup of wine will bring thee." Swiftly tripp'd the maiden to her dwelling; With a golden cup of wine return'd she, Which she reach'd to Theodore of Stalatch. Out he stretch'd his hand; but not the wine cup, But the maiden's hand, he seized, and flung her, Flung her on his chestnut steed behind him: Thrice he girt her with his leathern girdle, And the fourth time with his sword-belt bound her; And he bore her to his own white dwelling. CHAPTER XIV: FOLK LORE I. THE RAM WITH THE GOLDEN FLEECE Once upon a time when a certain hunter went to the mountains to hunt, there came toward him a ram with golden fleece. The hunter took his rifle to shoot it, but the ram rushed at him and, before he could fire, pierced him with its horns and he fell dead. A few days later some of his friends found his body; they knew not who had killed him and they took the body home and interred it. The hunter's wife hung up the rifle on the wall in her cottage, and when her son grew up he begged his mother to let him take it and go hunting. She, however, would not consent, saying: "You must never ask me again to give you that rifle! It did not save your father's life, and do you wish that it should be the cause of your death?" One day, however, the youth took the rifle secretly and went out into the forest to hunt. Very soon the same ram rushed out of a thicket and said: "I killed your father; now it is your turn!" This frightened the youth, and ejaculating: "God help me!" he pressed the trigger of his rifle and, lo! the ram fell dead. The youth was exceedingly glad to have killed the golden-fleeced ram, for there was not another like it throughout the land. He took off its skin and carried the fleece home, feeling very proud of his prowess. By and by the news spread over the country till it reached the Court, and the king ordered the young hunter to bring him the ram's skin, so that he might see what kind of beasts were to be found in his forests. When the youth brought the skin to the king, the latter said to him: "Ask whatever you like for this skin, and I will give you what you ask!" But the youth answered: "I would not sell it for anything." It happened that the prime minister was an uncle of the young hunter, but he was not his friend; on the contrary, he was his greatest enemy. So he said to the king: "As he does not wish to sell you the skin, set him something to do which is surely impossible!" The king called the youth back and ordered him to plant a vineyard and to bring him, in seven days' time, some new wine from it. The youth began to weep and implored that he might be excused from such an impossible task; but the king insisted, saying: "If you do not obey me within seven days, your head shall be cut off!" The Youth finds a Friend Still weeping, the youth went home and told his mother all about his audience with the king, and she answered: "Did I not tell you, my son, that that rifle would cost you your life?" In deep sorrow and bewilderment the youth went out of the village and walked a long way into the wood. Suddenly a girl appeared before him and asked: "Why do you weep, my brother?" And he answered, somewhat angrily: "Go your way! You cannot help me!" He then went on, but the maiden followed him, and again begged him to tell her the reason of his tears, "for perhaps," she added, "I may, after all, be able to help you." Then he stopped and said: "I will tell you, but I know that God alone can help me." And then he told her all that had happened to him, and about the task he had been set to do. When she heard the story, she said: "Do not fear, my brother, but go and ask the king to say exactly where he would like the vineyard planted, and then have it dug in perfectly straight lines. Next you must go and take a bag with a sprig of basil in it, and lie down to sleep in the place where the vineyard is to be, and in seven days you will see that there are ripe grapes." He returned home and told his mother how he had met a maiden who had told him to do a ridiculous thing. His mother, however, said earnestly: "Go, go, my son, do as the maiden bade; you cannot be in a worse case anyhow." So he went to the king as the girl had directed him, and the king gratified his wish. However, he was still very sad when he went to lie down in the indicated place with his sprig of basil. When he awoke next morning he saw that the vines were already planted; on the second morning they were clothed with leaves; and, by the seventh day, they bore ripe grapes. Notwithstanding the girl's promise the youth was surprised to find ripe grapes at a time of year when they were nowhere to be found; but he gathered them, made wine, and taking a basketful of the ripe fruit with him, went to the king. The Second Task When he reached the palace, the king and the whole court were amazed. The prime minister said: "We must order him to do something absolutely impossible!" and advised the king to command the youth to build a castle of elephants' tusks. Upon hearing this cruel order the youth went home weeping and told his mother what had transpired, adding: "This, my mother, is utterly impossible!" But the mother again advised him, and said: "Go, my son, beyond the village; may be you will again meet that maiden!" The youth obeyed, and, indeed, as soon as he came to the place where he had found the girl before, she appeared before him and said: "You are again sad and tearful, my brother!" And he began to complain of the second impossible task which the king had set him to perform. Hearing this, the girl said: "This will also be easy; but first go to the king and ask him to give you a ship with three hundred barrels of wine and as many kegs of brandy, and also twenty carpenters. Then, when you arrive at such and such a place, which you will find between two mountains, dam the water there, and pour into it all the wine and brandy. Elephants will come down to that spot to drink water, and will get drunk and fall on the ground. Then your carpenters must at once cut off their tusks, and carry them to the place where the king wishes his castle to be built. There you may all lie down to sleep, and within seven days the castle will be ready." When the youth heard this, he hurried home, and told his mother all about the plan of the maiden. The mother was quite confident, and counselled her son to do everything as directed by the maiden. So he went to the king and asked him for the ship, the three hundred barrels of wine and brandy, as well as the twenty carpenters; and the king gave him all he wanted. Next he went where the girl had told him, and did everything she had advised. Indeed, the elephants came as was expected, drank, and then duly fell down intoxicated. The carpenters cut off the innumerable tusks, took them to the chosen place, and began building, and in seven days the castle was ready. When the king saw this, he was again amazed, and said to his prime minister: "Now what shall I do with him? He is not an ordinary youth! God alone knows who he is!" Thereupon the officer answered: "Give him one more order, and if he executes it successfully, he will prove that he is a supernatural being." The Third Task Thus he again advised the king, who called the youth and said to him: "I command you to go and bring me the princess of a certain kingdom, who is living in such and such a castle. If you do not bring her to me, you will surely lose your life!" When the youth heard this, he went straight to his mother and told her of this new task; whereupon the mother advised him to seek his girl friend once more. He hurried to where beyond the village he had met the girl before, and as he came to the spot she reappeared. She listened intently to the youth's account of his last visit to the court, and then said: "Go and ask the king to give you a galley; in the galley there must be made twenty shops with different merchandise in each; in each shop there must, also, be a handsome youth to sell the wares. On your voyage you will meet a man who carries an eagle; you must buy his eagle and pay for it whatever price he may ask. Then you will meet a second man, in a boat carrying in his net a carp with golden scales; you must buy the carp at any cost. The third man whom you will meet, will be carrying a dove, which you must also buy. Then you must take a feather from the eagle's tail, a scale from the carp, and a feather from the left wing of the dove, and give the creatures their freedom. When you reach that distant kingdom and are near the castle in which the princess resides, you must open all shops and order each youth to stand at his door. And the girls who come down to the shore to fetch water are sure to say that no one ever saw a ship loaded with such wonderful and beautiful things in their town before; and then they will go and spread the news all over the place. The news will reach the ears of the princess, who will at once ask her father's permission to go and visit the galley. When she comes on board with her ladies-in-waiting, you must lead the party from one shop to another, and bring out and exhibit before her all the finest merchandise you have; thus divert her and keep her on board your galley until evening, then you must suddenly set sail; for by that time it will be so dark that your departure will be unnoticed. The princess will have a favourite bird on her shoulder, and, when she perceives that the galley is sailing off, she will turn the bird loose and it will fly to the palace with a message to her father of what has befallen her. When you see that the bird has flown you must burn the eagle's feather; the eagle will appear, and, when you command it to catch the bird, it will instantly do so. Next, the princess will throw a pebble into the sea, and the galley will immediately be still. Upon this you must burn the scale of the carp at once; the carp will come to you and you must instruct it to find the pebble and swallow it. As soon as this is done, the galley will sail on again. Then you will proceed in peace for a while; but, when you reach a certain spot between two mountains, your galley will be suddenly petrified and you will be greatly alarmed. The princess will then order you to bring her some water of life, whereupon you must burn the feather of the dove, and when the bird appears you must give it a small flask in which it will bring you the elixir, after which your galley will sail on again and you will arrive home with the princess without further adventure." The youth returned to his mother and she advised him to do as the girl counselled him. So he went to the king and asked for all that was necessary for his undertaking, and the king again gave him all he asked for. On his voyage everything was accomplished as the girl had foretold, and he succeeded in bringing home the princess in triumph. The king and his prime minister from the balcony of the palace saw the galley returning, and the prime minister said: "Now you really must have him killed as soon as he lands; otherwise you will never be able to get rid of him!" When the galley reached the port, the princess first came ashore with her ladies-in-waiting; then the handsome young men who had sold the wares, and finally the youth himself. The king had ordered an executioner to be in readiness, and as soon as the youth stepped on shore he was seized by the king's servants and his head was chopped off. It was the king's intention to espouse the beautiful princess, and, as soon as he saw her, he approached her with compliments and flattery. But the princess would not listen to his honeyed words; she turned away and asked: "Where is my captor, who did so much for me?" And, when she saw that his head had been cut off, she immediately took the small flask and poured some of its contents over the body and, lo! the youth arose in perfect health. When the king and his minister saw this marvellous thing, the latter said: "This young man must now be wiser than ever, for was he not dead, and has he not returned to life?" Whereupon the king, desirous of knowing if it were true that one who has been dead knows all things when he returns to life, ordered the executioner to chop off his head, that the princess might bring him to life again by the power of her wonderful water of life. But, when the king's head was off, the princess would not hear of restoring him to life, but immediately wrote to her father, telling him of her love for the youth and declaring her wish to marry him, and described to her father all that had happened. Her father replied, saying that he approved of his daughter's choice, and he issued a proclamation which stated that, unless the people would elect the youth to be their ruler, he would declare war against them. The men of that country immediately recognized that this would be only just, and so the youth became king, wedded the fair princess, and gave large estates and titles to all the handsome youths who had helped him on his expedition. II. A PAVILION NEITHER IN THE SKY NOR ON THE EARTH [79] Once upon a time there lived a tsar, who had three sons and one daughter. The latter was kept in a cage by her father, for he loved her as he loved his own eyes. When the girl grew up she begged her father's permission to go out one evening with her brothers, and the tsar granted her wish. No sooner had she left the palace than a dragon flew down, seized the princess and, despite her brothers, disappeared with her into the clouds. The princes hastened to tell their father what had happened, and they implored him to let them go in search of their sister. Thereupon their unhappy father gave each of them a horse and other necessary equipment for a long journey, and they started out upon their quest. After journeying a long way, they sighted in the distance a pavilion, which was neither in the sky nor on the earth, but was hanging midway between. When they came underneath this, it occurred to them that their sister might be hidden in it, and they began to consider how best they might reach it. Finally they decided that one of them must kill his horse, cut its hide into strips, make a thong, and, fastening one end to an arrow, shoot it from the bow so strongly that it should strike deeply into the framework of the pavilion, thus making a way up which they could climb. The two younger brothers proposed to the eldest that he should kill his horse, but he refused. Neither would the second brother consent to do so; then the youngest brother, seeing that it could not be helped, killed his horse, made its hide into a lengthy thong, fixed one end to his arrow, and shot straight up to the pavilion, where the arrow stuck firmly. Next they had to discuss who should climb up the thong; again the two elder brothers refused, so it fell to the youngest to perform this exploit. Being very agile, he soon reached the pavilion; wandering from one room to another, he finally came to an apartment where, to his great joy, he saw his sister sitting with the sleeping dragon's head on her knee. When the princess beheld her brother, she feared exceedingly for his life, and implored him to escape before the dragon awoke. The Prince slays the Dragon The courageous youth, however, would not obey his sister, but seized his mace and struck the dragon on the head. The monster pointed with one of his claws to the place where he had been struck and said to the maiden: "Something bit me here!" Again the prince raised his mace and delivered a blow upon the monster's head; but the dragon apparently did not mind, for he pointed again indifferently to the place, saying: "Again something has bitten me!" The young prince was on the point of striking the third time, when his sister pointed to a spot where only the dragon might receive a mortal wound, and directing his blow upon the place indicated, the dragon instantly succumbed. The princess at once freed herself of the dragon's head, ran swiftly to kiss her brother, and then was eager to show him the different rooms. First, she took him into a room in which stood a black steed fastened to a stall and decked with a saddle and harness adorned with pure silver. Next she led him into a second room, where they found a white horse, also ready to be mounted, but its harness was of pure gold. Then she took him into a third room, where was a beautiful Arab steed whose saddle, stirrups and bridle were studded with precious stones. The princess next conducted her brother to a chamber in which a maiden was sitting at a golden tambourette engaged in embroidering with golden threads. From thence she led him into a second apartment where a girl was spinning gold threads. At last they entered a third room in which a maiden sat threading pearls, and before her, upon a golden plate, was a golden hen with its chickens, sorting the pearls. Having satisfied his curiosity, the prince returned to the room where he had left the dead dragon, and threw the carcass down to earth; and at the mere sight of the dragon's body the two brothers were terrified out of their wits. Next the prince slowly let down his sister, and, after her, the three maidens, together with their work. While he was thus engaged he shouted to his brothers and made gestures indicating to whom each of the girls should belong. He reserved for himself the one who had been threading pearls, not forgetting the golden hen and the chickens. The Perfidy of the Brothers His brothers, envying the heroism of the young prince and jealous of his successful exploits, were now guilty of a dastardly trick; they cut the thong in order that he might not be able to reach the earth, and taking their sister with all the booty they hurriedly decamped. On the way home the princes met a shepherd watching his sheep, and they prevailed upon him to disguise himself and to impersonate their youngest brother, ordering their sister and the three maidens to keep strictly their secret. Some time elapsed, and one day the youngest prince had tidings that his brothers and the disguised shepherd were on the point of marrying the three maidens. This information seems to have been singularly complete, for on the day of his eldest brother's wedding, mounted on the black steed, he flew down and alighted in front of the church. There he awaited the moment for the procession to come out, and, as his brother was preparing to mount his horse, he approached him swiftly, raised his club and struck him a heavy blow so that he fell instantly. The young prince then remounted the black horse and was instantly transported to the mysterious pavilion. On the wedding-day of his second brother the feat, this time on the white horse, was repeated, none guessing who the strange aggressor was. Next came the turn of the shepherd. On the day of his wedding with the third maiden, the young prince, mounted on the Arab, alighted in the churchyard just at the moment when the wedding procession started to return. This time he struck the bridegroom on the head so heavily that he fell dead. The guests hurriedly alighted from their horses and surrounded the prince, who made no attempt to escape, but revealed himself as the third son of their tsar. He told them that the pretended prince, whom he had just sent to the other world, was but a common shepherd, and that his brothers, out of envy, had caused him to remain in the magic pavilion where he had discovered his sister and killed the dragon. All that he said was immediately confirmed by his sister and the three maidens. When the tsar heard this he was very angry with his two elder sons, and drove them for ever from his palace. But as for his valiant youngest son, he united him to the third maiden and left him the crown and all he possessed when he died. III. PEPELYOUGA On a high pasture land, near by an immense precipice, some maidens were occupied in spinning and attending to their grazing cattle, when an old strange-looking man with a white beard reaching down to his girdle approached, and said: "O fair maidens, beware of the abyss, for if one of you should drop her spindle down the cliff, her mother would be turned into a cow that very moment!" So saying the aged man disappeared, and the girls, bewildered by his words, and discussing the strange incident, approached near to the ravine which had suddenly become interesting to them. They peered curiously over the edge, as though expecting to see some unaccustomed sight, when suddenly the most beautiful of the maidens let her spindle drop from her hand, and ere she could recover it, it was bounding from rock to rock into the depths beneath. When she returned home that evening she found her worst fears realized, for her mother stood before the door transformed into a cow. A short time later her father married again. His new wife was a widow, and brought a daughter of her own into her new home. This girl was not particularly well-favoured, and her mother immediately began to hate her stepdaughter because of the latter's good looks. She forebade her henceforth to wash her face, to comb her hair or to change her clothes, and in every way she could think of she sought to make her miserable. One morning she gave her a bag filled with hemp, saying: "If you do not spin this and make a fine top of it by to-night, you need not return home, for I intend to kill you." The poor girl, deeply dejected, walked behind the cattle, industriously spinning as she went, but by noon when the cattle lay down in the shade to rest, she observed that she had made but little progress and she began to weep bitterly. Now, her mother was driven daily to pasture with the other cows, and seeing her daughter's tears she drew near and asked why she wept, whereupon the maiden told her all. Then the cow comforted her daughter, saying: "My darling child, be consoled! Let me take the hemp into my mouth and chew it; through my ear a thread will come out. You must take the end of this and wind it into a top." So this was done; the hemp was soon spun, and when the girl gave it to her stepmother that evening, she was greatly surprised. Next morning the woman roughly ordered the maiden to spin a still larger bag of hemp, and as the girl, thanks to her mother, spun and wound it all her stepmother, on the following day, gave her twice the quantity to spin. Nevertheless, the girl brought home at night even that unusually large quantity well spun, and her stepmother concluded that the poor girl was not spinning alone, but that other maidens, her friends, were giving her help. Therefore she, next morning, sent her own daughter to spy upon the poor girl and to report what she saw. The girl soon noticed that the cow helped the poor orphan by chewing the hemp, while she drew the thread and wound it on a top, and she ran back home and informed her mother of what she had seen. Upon this, the stepmother insisted that her husband should order that particular cow to be slaughtered. Her husband at first hesitated, but as his wife urged him more and more, he finally decided to do as she wished. The Promise On learning what had been decided, the stepdaughter wept more than ever, and when her mother asked what was the matter, she told her tearfully all that had been arranged. Thereupon the cow said to her daughter: "Wipe away your tears, and do not cry any more. When they slaughter me, you must take great care not to eat any of the meat, but after the repast, carefully collect my bones and inter them behind the house under a certain stone; then, should you ever be in need of help, come to my grave and there you will find it." The cow was killed, and when the meat was served the poor girl declined to eat of it, pretending that she had no appetite; after the meal she gathered with great care all the bones and buried them on the spot indicated by her mother. Now, the name of the maiden was 'Marra,' but, as she had to do the roughest work of the house, such as carrying water, washing and sweeping, she was called by her stepmother and stepsister 'Pepelyouga' (Cinderella). One Sunday, when the stepmother and her daughter had dressed themselves for church, the woman spread about the house the contents of a basketful of millet, and said: "Listen, Pepelyouga; if you do not gather up all this millet and have dinner ready by the time we return from church, I will kill you!" When they had gone, the poor girl began to weep, reflecting, "As to the dinner I can easily prepare it, but how can I possibly gather up all this millet?" But that very moment she recalled the words of the cow, that, if she ever should be struck by misfortune, she need but walk to the grave behind the house, when she would find instant help there. Immediately she ran out, and, when she approached the grave, lo! a chest was lying on the grave wide open, and inside were beautiful dresses and everything necessary for a lady's toilet. Two doves were sitting on the lid of the chest, and as the girl drew near, they said to her: "Marra, take from the chest the dress you like the best, clothe yourself and go to church; as to the millet and other work, we ourselves will attend to that and see that everything is in good order!" Marra goes to Church Marra needed no second invitation; she took the first silk dress she touched, made her toilet and went to church, where her entrance created quite a sensation. Everybody, men and women, greatly admired her beauty and her costly attire, but they were puzzled as to who she was, and whence she came. A prince happened to be in the church on that day, and he, too, admired the beautiful maiden. Just before the service ended, the girl stole from the church, went hurriedly home, took off her beautiful clothes and placed them back in the chest, which instantly shut and became invisible. She then rushed to the kitchen, where she discovered that the dinner was quite ready, and that the millet was gathered into the basket. Soon the stepmother came back with her daughter and they were astounded to find the millet gathered up, dinner prepared, and everything else in order. A desire to learn the secret now began to torment the stepmother mightily. Next Sunday everything happened as before, except that the girl found in the chest a silver dress, and that the prince felt a greater admiration for her, so much so that he was unable, even for a moment, to take his eyes from her. On the third Sunday, the mother and daughter again prepared to go to church, and, having scattered the millet as before, she repeated her previous threats. As soon as they disappeared, the girl ran straight to her mother's grave, where she found, as on the previous occasions, the open chest and the same two doves. This time she found a dress made of gold lace, and she hastily clad herself in it and went to church, where she was admired by all, even more than before. As for the tsar's son, he had come with the intention not to let her this time out of his sight, but to follow and see whither she went. Accordingly, as the service drew near to its close, and the maiden withdrew quietly as before, the enamoured prince followed after her. Marra hurried along, for she had none too much time, and, as she went, one of her golden slippers came off, and she was too agitated to stop and pick it up. The prince, however, who had lost sight of the maiden, saw the slipper and put it in his pocket. Reaching home, Marra took off her golden dress, laid it in the chest, and rushed back to the house. The Prince's Quest The prince now resolved to go from house to house throughout his father's realm in search of the owner of the slipper, inviting all fair maidens to try on the golden slipper. But, alas! his efforts seemed to be doomed to failure; for some girls the slipper was too long, for others too short, for others, again, too narrow. There was no one whom it would fit. Wandering from door to door, the sad prince at length came to the house of Marra's father. The stepmother was expecting him, and she had hidden her stepdaughter under a large trough in the courtyard. When the prince asked whether she had any daughters, the stepmother answered that she had but one, and she presented the girl to him. The prince requested the girl to try on the slipper, but, squeeze as she would, there was not room in it even for her toes! Thereupon the prince asked whether it was true that there were no other girls in the house, and the stepmother replied that indeed it was quite true. That very moment a cock flew on to the trough and crowed out lustily: "Kook-oo-ryeh-koooo! Here she is under this very trough!" The stepmother, enraged, exclaimed: "Sh----! Go away! May an eagle seize you and fly off with you!" The curiosity of the prince was aroused; he approached the trough, lifted it up, and, to his great surprise, there was the maiden whom he had seen thrice in church, clad in the very same golden dress she had last worn, and having only one golden slipper. When the prince recognized the maiden he was overcome with joy. Quickly he tried the slipper on her dainty foot; it not only fitted her admirably, but it exactly matched the one she already wore on her left foot. He lifted her up tenderly and escorted her to his palace. Later he won her love, and they were happily married. IV. ANIMALS' LANGUAGE The universality of folk-lore is curiously illustrated in the following tale which is strikingly like a story native to the negroes of Western Africa. In this the hero is granted, as a boon by the King of the Animals, the gift of understanding animal language; he is warned that if he divulges to any that he possesses this gift he will die on the instant; he is made rich by the possession of it; he laughs at a conversation between animals which he overhears; his wife demands to know the cause of his laughter. To this point the two stories are identical, but in the West African tale the man divulges the secret and pays the penalty with his life, whereas the Serbian conclusion is very much less tame, as will be seen. A wealthy peasant had a shepherd, who served him for a great number of years most honestly and faithfully. One day, as he drove his sheep through a forest to the pasture, he heard a hissing sound, and wondered what it could be. Listening carefully he went nearer and nearer to the spot whence the sound came, and he saw that the forest was on fire and that the hissing proceeded from a snake that was surrounded by flames. The shepherd watched to see what the poor creature would do in its trouble: and when the snake saw the shepherd, it exclaimed from the midst of the flames: "O shepherd, I pray of you, save me from this fire!" Then the shepherd reached out his crook and the snake entwined itself swiftly round the stick, round his arm, on to his shoulders and round his neck. When the shepherd realized what was happening he was seized with horror, and cried out: "What are you about to do, ungrateful creature! Did I save your life only to lose my own?" And the snake answered him: "Have no fear, my saviour! But take me to my father's house! My father is the king of the snake-world." The shepherd endeavoured to move the snake to pity and prayed it to excuse him, for he could not leave his sheep. Thereupon the snake said to him: "Be comforted, my friend! Do not trouble about your sheep; nothing amiss will happen to them, but now do hasten to my father's house!" So the shepherd went with the snake round his neck through the forest, till he came at length to a doorway constructed entirely of serpents. When they came near the gate, the shepherd's guide hissed to its servants, whereupon all the snakes instantly untwined themselves, leaving a way open for the shepherd, who passed through unmolested. Then the snake said to its preserver: "When we come before my father he will surely give you, as reward for your kindness to me, whatever you may wish: gold, silver and precious stones; but you should not accept anything of that kind. I would advise you to ask for the language of animals. He will undoubtedly be opposed to your wish, but finally he will yield." They now entered the apartments of the king, who, with evident relief, inquired: "My son, where have you been all this time?" The reptile then told all about the fire in the forest and of the kindness of the shepherd, who had saved his life. At this the snake-king turned with emotion to the shepherd: "What reward can I give you for having saved the life of my son?" he said. The shepherd answered: "I desire nothing but the power of understanding and speaking the language of animals." But the monarch said: "That is not for you, for if I give you that power, and you should impart the secret to another, you will instantly die. Therefore choose some other gift." But the shepherd insisted: "If you wish to reward me, give me the language of animals: if you do not care to gratify my wish, no more need be said; I bid you farewell!" And indeed he turned to go, but the king, seeing his determination, stopped him, exclaiming: "Come here, my friend! Since you so strongly desire the language of animals, the gift shall not be withheld; open your mouth!" The shepherd obeyed, and the snake-king blew into his mouth, and said: "Now, blow into my mouth!" The shepherd did as he was told, and the snake-king blew a second time in the shepherd's mouth, and then said: "Now you have the language of animals. Go in peace; but be sure not to impart your secret to another, else you will die that very moment!" The shepherd took leave of his friends and as he returned through the woods he heard and understood everything the birds, plants and other living creatures were saying to each other. When he reached his flock and found all his sheep safe as had been promised, he lay on the grass to rest. The Buried Treasure Hardly had he settled himself, than two ravens alighted on a tree near by and began to converse: "If this shepherd knew what is under the spot where that black lamb is lying, he would surely dig in the earth; he would discover a cave full of silver and gold." The shepherd at once went to his master and told him of the buried treasure. The latter drove a cart to the place indicated, dug deeply in the earth and lo! he found a cave full of silver and gold, the contents of which he placed in his cart and carried home. This master was an honest and generous man, and he gave the entire treasure to his shepherd, saying: "Take this, my son; it was to you that God gave it! I would advise you to build a house, to marry and start some good business with this gold." The shepherd did as his kindly master advised him, and, little by little he multiplied his wealth and became the richest man, not only in his village, but in the whole district. He now hired his own shepherds, cattle-drivers and swineherds to keep his great property in good order. One day, just before Christmas, he said to his wife: "Prepare wine and food, for to-morrow we will go to our farms and feast our servants." His wife did as he bade, and the next morning they went to their farms, and the master said to his men: "Now come one and all, eat and drink together; as for the sheep I will myself watch them to-night." So the kind man went to guard his sheep. About midnight, wolves began to howl and his dogs barked a defiance. Said the wolves in their own language to the dogs: "Can we come and kill the sheep? There will be enough for you also." Thereupon the dogs answered in their own tongue: "O come by all means, we also would like to have a feast!" But amongst the dogs there was a very old one who had only two teeth left. That faithful animal barked furiously at the wolves: "To the devil with you all! So long as I have these two teeth, you shall not touch my master's sheep!" And the master heard and understood every word they uttered. Next morning he ordered his servants to kill all his dogs, except the old one. The servants began to implore their master, saying: "Dear master, it is a pity to kill them!" But the master would not suffer any remonstrance, and sternly ordered: "Do as I bid you!" Then he and his wife mounted their horses and started for home, he on a horse and she on a mare. As they journeyed, the horse left the mare a little behind and he neighed, saying: "Hurry up, why do you dawdle behind?" And the mare answered: "Eh, it is not hard for you--you are carrying only your master, and I am carrying a despotic woman whose rules are a burden to the whole household." The Importunate Wife Hearing this, the master turned his head and burst into laughter. His wife noticing his sudden mirth, spurred on her mare, and when she reached her husband she asked him why he had laughed. He answered: "There is no reason, I just laughed." But the woman was not satisfied with this reply and would not give her husband any peace. He endeavoured in vain to excuse himself, saying: "Don't keep on asking me; if I tell you the true reason why I laughed, I shall instantly die!" But she did not believe her husband, and the more he refused to tell her, the more she insisted that he should do so, until at last the poor man was worn out by her persistence. Directly they arrived home, therefore, the man ordered a coffin to be made, and, when it was ready and he had it placed in front of the house-door, he said to his wife: "I shall lie down in this coffin, for the moment I tell you why I laughed, I shall die." So he laid himself in the coffin, and as he took a last look around, he saw his faithful old dog, coming from the fields. The poor animal approached his master's coffin and sat near his head howling with grief. When the master saw this, he requested his wife to give it food. The woman brought bread and gave it to the dog, who would not even look at it, still less eat it. The piece of bread attracted a cock, which came forward and began to peck at it; the dog reproached him saying: "You insatiable creature! You think of nothing but food, and you fail to see that our dear master is about to die!" To this reprimand the cock retorted: "Let him die, since he is such a foolish man! I have a hundred wives, and I gather them all round a grain of corn, which I happen to find; and then, when they have all assembled, I swallow it myself! If any of them should protest, I just peck at them; but he, the fool, is not able to rule a single wife." At this the man jumped out of the coffin, took a stick and called to his wife: "Come in the house, wife, and I shall tell you why I laughed!" Seeing the obvious intention of her husband, the woman begged him to desist, and promised that nevermore would she be curious, or try to pry into his affairs. V. THE STEPMOTHER AND HER STEPDAUGHTER Once upon a time there was a girl who lived with her stepmother. The woman hated her stepdaughter exceedingly, because she was more beautiful than her own daughter, whom she had brought with her to the house. She did her utmost to turn the poor girl's own father against her, and with such success that he soon began to scold and even to hate his own child. One day the woman said to her husband: "We must send your daughter away. She must go into the world to seek her fortune!" And he answered: "How can we send the poor girl away? Where could she go alone?" But the wicked stepmother replied: "To-morrow you must take her far into the woods, leave her there and hurry home, or I will no longer live with you." The unfortunate father at length gave way, and said: "At least prepare the girl something for her journey, that she may not die of hunger." The stepmother therefore made a cake, and gave it to the girl next morning as she was leaving the house. The man and his daughter trudged on until they were right in the depth of the woods, and then the father stole away and returned home. The girl, alone in the woods, wandered all the rest of that day in search of a path, but could not find one. Meanwhile it grew darker and darker, and at length she climbed a tree, fearing lest some wild beast should devour her if she remained through the night on the ground. And indeed, all night long the wolves howled under the tree so ravenously that the poor girl, in her nervous terror, could hardly keep from falling. Next morning she descended the tree and wandered on again in search of some way out, but the more she walked the denser grew the forest, and there seemed to be no end to it. When it grew dark again, she looked about for another suitable tree in the branches of which she might safely pass the night, but suddenly she noticed something shining through the darkness. She thought it might, perhaps, be a dwelling, and she went toward it. And indeed, she came soon to a large fine house, the doors of which were open. She entered, and saw many elegant rooms, in one of which was a large table with lights burning on it. She thought this must be the dwelling of brigands, but she had no fear at all, for she reasoned with herself: "Only rich people need fear robbers; I, a poor simple girl, have nothing to be afraid of; I shall tell them that I am ready to work for them gladly if they will give me something to eat." A Strange Dwelling Then she took the cake from her bag, made the sign of the cross [80] and began her meal. No sooner had she begun to eat than a cock appeared and flew near her as if begging for a share. The good girl crumbled a piece of her cake and fed him. Shortly afterward a little dog came and began in his own way to express friendly feeling toward her. The girl broke another piece of her cake, gently took the little dog in her lap, and began feeding and caressing it. After that a cat came in too, and she did the same with her. Suddenly she heard a loud growling, and she was terrified to see a lion coming toward her. The great beast waved his tail in such a friendly manner, and looked so very kind, however, that her courage revived, and she gave him a piece of her cake, which the lion ate; and then he began to lick her hand. This proof of gratitude reassured the girl completely, and she stroked the lion gently, and gave him more of the cake. All at once the girl heard a great clashing of weapons, and nearly swooned as a creature in a bear-skin entered the room. The cock, the dog, the cat and the lion all ran to meet it, and frisked about it affectionately, showing many signs of pleasure and rejoicing. She, poor creature, did not think this strange being could be anything but cruel, and expected it would spring upon her and devour her. But the seeming monster threw the bear-skin from its head and shoulders, and at once the whole room gleamed with the magnificence of its golden garments. The girl almost lost her senses when she saw before her a handsome man of noble appearance. He approached her and said: "Do not fear! I am not a lawless man, I am the tsar's son; and when I wish to hunt, I usually come here, disguised in this bear-skin, lest the people should recognize me. Save you, no one knows that I am a man; people think I am an apparition, and flee from me. No one dares to pass near this house, still less to enter it, for it is known that I dwell in it. You are the first who has ventured to come in; probably you knew that I was not a ghost?" Thereupon the girl told the prince all about her wicked stepmother, and declared that she knew nothing of this dwelling or who lived in it. When the young prince heard her story, moved with indignation and pity, he said: "Your stepmother hated you, but God loved you. I love you very much, too, and if you feel you could return my love, I would like to marry you--will you be my wife?" "Yes," replied the maiden. Next morning the prince took the girl to his father's palace and they were married. After some time the prince's bride begged to be allowed to go and pay a visit to her father. The prince gladly allowed her to do as she wished, and donning a fine robe embroidered with gold she went to her old home. Her father happened to be absent, and her stepmother, seeing her coming, feared that she had come to revenge herself; therefore she hurried out to meet her, saying: "You see now that I sent you on the road of happiness?" The stepdaughter embraced the woman and kissed her; she also embraced her stepsister. Then she sat down to await her father's return, but at length, as he did not come, she was compelled reluctantly to leave without seeing him. On going away she gave much money to her stepmother, nevertheless when she had got some distance from the house, the ungrateful woman steathily shook her fist at her, muttering: "Wait a little, you accursed creature, you shall certainly not be the only one so elegantly dressed; to-morrow I shall send my own daughter the same way!" The Envy of the Stepmother The husband did not return until late in the evening, when his wife met him, saying: "Listen, husband! I propose that my own daughter should be sent out into the world that she may also seek her fortune; for your girl came back to visit us to-day and lo! she was glittering in gold." The man sighed and agreed. Next morning the woman prepared for her daughter several cakes and some roast meat and sent her with the father into the forest. The unfortunate man guided her as he had led his own daughter, into the heart of the forest, and then stole off leaving her alone. When the girl saw that her father had disappeared she walked on slowly through the woods, till she came to the gates of the same house in which her stepsister had found happiness. She entered, closed the door and resolved not to open it for anybody. Then she took a cake out of her bag and began her meal. Meanwhile the cock, the dog and the cat came in, and began to frisk about her playfully expecting that she would give them something to eat, but she exclaimed angrily: "Get away, you ugly creatures! I have hardly enough for myself; I will not give you any!" Then she began to beat them; whereat the dog howled, and the lion, hearing his friend's lamentation, rushed in furiously and killed the unkind girl. Next morning the prince rode out with his wife to hunt. They came to the house, and saw what had happened, and when the princess recognized her stepsister's dress, she gathered up the torn garment and carried it to her father's house. This time she found her father at home, and he was indeed very happy to learn that his dear daughter was married to a handsome prince. When, however, he heard what had befallen his wife's daughter he was sad indeed, and exclaimed: "Her mother has deserved this punishment from the hand of God, because she hated you without reason. She is at the well, I will go and tell her the sad news." When his wife heard what had happened, she said: "O husband! I cannot bear the sight of your daughter; let us kill both her and the tsar's son! Do this thing or I will jump at once into the well." The man indignantly answered: "Well then, jump! I shall not murder my own child!" And the wicked woman said: "If you cannot kill her, I cannot bear to look at her!" Thereupon she jumped into the well and was killed. VI. JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE There was a king who had two sons, one of whom was cunning and unjust, and the other good and just. In due time the king died, and the unjust son said to his brother: "As you are younger than I, you cannot expect me to share the throne with you, so you had better go away from the palace. Take these three hundred tzechins [81] and a horse to ride: this is to be your share of the inheritance." The younger brother took the gold and his horse, and reflecting he said: "God be praised! How much of the entire kingdom has fallen to me!" Some time later the two brothers met by chance on a road, and the younger saluted the elder thus: "God help you, brother!" And the elder answered: "May God send you a misfortune! Why do you for ever mention the name of God to me? Injustice is better than justice." Thereupon the good brother said: "I wager that injustice is not better than justice!" So they laid as a wager one hundred tzechins and agreed to accept the decision of the first passer-by whom they should happen to meet. Riding on a little farther they met Satan, who had disguised himself as a monk, and they requested him to decide their contest. Satan immediately answered that injustice is better than justice; so the just brother lost one hundred tzechins. Then they made another wager in the same sum, and again a third; and each time the Devil--differently disguised on each occasion--pronounced for injustice. Finally the good brother lost even his horse; but he was quite unconvinced and he reflected: "Ah, well! I have lost all my tzechins, it is true, but I have still my eyes, and I shall wager my eyes this time." So they made the bet once more, but the unjust brother did not even wait anybody's arbitration, he took out his poniard and pierced his brother's eyes, saying: "Now, let justice help you, when you have no eyes!" The poor youth said to his cruel brother: "I have lost my eyes for the sake of God's justice, but I pray you, my brother, give me a little water in a vessel that I may wash my wounds and take me under the pine-tree, near the spring!" The unjust brother did as he was asked and then departed. The Healing Water The unfortunate youth sat without moving until late in the night, when some veele came to the spring to bathe, and he heard one of them say to her sisters: "Do you know, O sisters, that the royal princess suffers from leprosy, and the king, her father, has consulted all the famous physicians, but no one can cure her? But if the king knew the healing qualities of this water, he would surely take a little and bathe his daughter with it, and she would recover perfect health." When the cocks began to crow, the veele disappeared and the prince crept to the spring to test its wonderful properties. He bathed his eyes, and lo! his sight was instantly restored; then he filled his vessel with the water, and hurried to the king, whose daughter was suffering from leprosy. Arriving at the palace he told the officers on guard that he could cure the princess in a day and a night. The officers informed the king, who at once allowed him to try his method and the suffering princess was restored. This pleased the king so much that he gave the young prince half of his kingdom, as well as his daughter for his wife. So the just brother became the king's son-in-law, and a Councillor of State. The tidings of this great event spread all over the kingdom, and finally came to the ears of the unjust prince. He thought that his brother must have found his good fortune under the pine-tree, so he went there himself to try his luck. Arrived there, he pierced his own eyes. Late in the night, the veele came to bathe, and the prince heard them discuss with astonishment the recovery of the royal princess. "Some one must have spied upon us," said one of them, "when we discussed about the qualities which this water possesses; perhaps somebody is watching us even now. Let us look around us!" When they came under the pine-tree, they found there the young man who had come seeking good fortune, and they immediately tore him into four. And thus was the wicked prince recompensed for his injustice. VII. HE WHO ASKS LITTLE RECEIVES MUCH Once upon a time there lived three brothers, who instead of much property had only a pear-tree. Each would watch that tree in turn, whilst the other two went away from home to work for hire. One night God sent His angel to see how the brothers lived, and, should they be in misery, to improve their position. The angel came disguised as a beggar, and when he found one of the brothers watching the tree, he went forward and asked him for a pear. The youth plucked some of the fruit from his own part of the tree, handed them to the beggar, and said: "Accept these pears from my share of the tree, but I cannot give you those belonging to my brothers." The angel took the fruit, thanked the youth, and disappeared. The next day it was the turn of the second brother to watch the fruit, and the angel, again in the semblance of a beggar, came and asked for a pear. This brother likewise gave from his own part of the tree, saying: "Take these, they are my own; but of those belonging to my brothers I dare not offer you." The angel took the fruit gratefully and departed. The third brother had a similar experience. When the fourth day came, the angel disguised himself as a monk, and came very early so that he could find all three brothers at home, and he said to the youths: "Come with me, I shall improve your state of life," whereupon they obeyed without question. Soon they arrived at a river where the water was flowing in torrents, and the angel asked the eldest brother: "What would you like to have?" He answered: "I should like all this water to be changed into wine and to belong to me." The angel made the sign of the cross with his stick, and lo! wine was flowing instead of water, and that very moment there appeared on the banks of the streamlet many barrels, and men filling them with wine; in one word, there was a whole village. Then the angel turned again to the young man and said: "Here is what you wished; farewell!" and he continued his journey with the others. The three went on till they came to a field where they saw numbers of doves, and the angel asked the second brother: "Now, what is it that you would like?" And he answered: "I should like all these doves to be changed into sheep, and to be mine!" The angel again made the sign of the cross in the air, and lo! sheep instead of doves covered the field. Suddenly there appeared many dairies; maidens were busy milking the sheep, others pouring out the milk, others again making cream. There was also a slaughter-house, and men busy, some cutting the meat into joints, others weighing it, others again selling the meat and receiving the money for it. Then the angel said: "Here is all you wished for; farewell!" The angel now proceeded with the youngest brother, and having crossed the field he asked him what he would like to have. The young man answered: "I should consider myself the happiest of men if God were graciously pleased to grant me a wife of pure Christian blood!" Thereupon the angel replied: "Oh, that is rather difficult to find; in the whole world there are but three such women, two of whom are married. The youngest is a maid, it is true, but she is already sought in marriage by two wooers." Journeying on, they came to a city where a mighty tsar dwelt with his daughter. She, indeed, was of pure Christian blood. The travellers entered the palace and found two princes already there with their wedding apples [82] laid upon a table. Then the young man also placed his apple on the table. When the tsar saw the newcomers he said to those around him: "What shall we do now? Those are imperial princes, and these men look like beggars!" Thereupon the angel said: "Let the contest be decided thus: the princess shall plant three vines in the garden, dedicating one to each of the three wooers; and he on whose vine grapes are found next morning, is to be the one whom the princess shall marry!" This plan was agreed to by all, and the princess accordingly planted three vines. When the next morning dawned, lo! grapes hung in clusters on the vine dedicated to the poor man. So the tsar could not refuse his daughter to the youngest brother. After the marriage, the angel led the young couple to the forest, where he left them for a full year. The Angel Returns Then God sent again His angel, saying: "Go down to earth and see how those poor ones are living now: if they are in misery, it may be you will be able to improve their condition!" The angel obeyed immediately, and disguising himself again as a beggar, he went first to the eldest brother and asked him for a glass of wine. But the rich man refused, saying: "If I were to give every one a glass of wine, there would be none left for myself!" Upon this the angel made the sign of the cross with his stick, and the stream began instantly to flow with water as before. Then he turned to the man and said: "This was not for you; go back under the pear-tree and continue to guard it!" Then the angel went on to the second brother, whose fields were covered with sheep, and asked him for a slice of cheese; but the rich man refused, saying: "If I were to give everybody a slice of cheese, there would be none left for myself!" Again the angel made the sign of the cross with his stick, and lo! all the sheep turned instantly into doves, who flew away. Then he said to the second brother: "Of a surety that was not for you, go under the pear-tree and watch it!" Finally the angel went to the youngest brother in order to see how he was living, and found him with his wife in the forest, dwelling as a poor man in a hut. He begged to be admitted into their hut, and to pass the night there. They welcomed him very cordially, but they explained that they could not entertain him as well as they would like to do. "We are," they added, "very poor people." To which the angel answered: "Do not speak so, I shall be quite content with what you have!" They wondered then what to do, for there was no corn in their hut to make real bread; they usually ground the bark of certain trees and made bread from it. Such bread the wife now made for their guest, and placed it in the oven to bake. When she came later to inspect her baking, she was pleasantly surprised to find a fine loaf of real bread. When the couple saw this wonder they lifted their hands toward heaven and gave thanks: "We thank thee, O God! that we are now able to entertain our guest!" After they had placed the bread before their guest, they brought a vessel of water, and lo! when they came to drink, they found it was wine. Then the angel once more made the sign of the cross with his stick over the hut, and on that spot instantly rose a beautiful palace, containing an abundance of everything. Then the angel blessed the couple and disappeared. The modest and pious man and woman lived there happily ever after. VIII. BASH TCHELIK OR REAL STEEL There lived once a tsar who had three sons and three daughters. When old age overtook him and the hour came for him to die he called his children to him, and desired his sons to give their sisters to the first wooers who might ask them in marriage. "Do as I tell you," added the dying tsar, "or dread my curse!" Shortly after the tsar had passed away there came one night a fearful knocking at the palace gate, so that the whole building shook, and a great roaring, screaming, and blowing was heard; it seemed as if the palace was assailed by some awful tempest. All the courtiers were seized with unspeakable fear, and suddenly a voice from outside was heard: "O princes, open the door!" Thereupon the eldest brother exclaimed: "Do not open!" The second brother added: "Do not open for anything!" But the youngest brother said: "I must open the door!" and he sprang to the door and flung it open. As he did so something came in, but the brothers could see only a bright light, out of which proceeded these urgent words: "I have come to ask your eldest sister in marriage, and to take her away this moment; for I have no time to lose, neither shall I come a second time to demand her! Answer quickly, will you give her or not? That is what I must know." The eldest brother answered: "I will not give her. I cannot see you, and do not know who you are or even whence you came. To-night is the first time I have heard your voice, and you insist upon taking my sister away at once. Should I not know where I could visit my sister sometimes?" The second brother also said: "I will not consent that my sister should be taken away to-night!" But the youngest brother protested, saying: "If you will not give her, I will. Do you not remember our father's words?" Thereupon he took his sister by the hand, [83] and presented her to the invisible wooer, saying: "May she be a loyal and dutiful wife!" The moment the princess passed over the threshold every one in the palace fell to the ground in terror, so fearsome was the lightning and so loud the peals of thunder. The whole building shook as if about to fall. The storm, however, passed and daybreak came. That morning close search was made to see if any trace could be found of the strange visitant or the way it had gone; but, alas! all their efforts were vain. The second night, about the same time, a similar noise was heard again round the palace, and a voice at the door exclaimed: "O princes, open the door!" Seized with fear they dared not disobey. Then the pitiless voice spake again: "Give me your second sister; I have come to ask her in marriage!" The eldest brother protested: "I will not consent!" The second brother said: "I will not give away our sister!" But the youngest brother was willing. "I will give her!" said he; "have you already forgotten what our father commanded at the hour of his death?" Thereupon the youngest prince took his sister by the hand and presented her to the unseen visitor, saying: "Take her, may she be loyal and dutiful to you!" So the visitant departed with the princess, and next morning no trace of him could be found. The third night at the same hour the earth quaked and the palace rocked on its foundations, so mighty was the tumult around it. And again a mysterious voice was heard from without. The princes opened the door, and the unseen presence entered and said: "I come to ask your youngest sister in marriage!" The two elder brothers exclaimed simultaneously: "We will not give our sister by night; we must know to whom we are giving her, so that we may visit her when we wish to do so!" But once more the youngest brother exclaimed: "I will give her, if you will not! Have you, then, forgotten what our father told us? It is not so very long ago!" So saying, he took the maiden and presented her to the invisible power, saying: "Take her with you! And may she bring you joy and happiness!" The Princes set Out Next morning the brothers debated the fate of their sisters, and sorrow filled their hearts. "Great Heaven!" they said, "what a mighty wonder! We know not what has befallen our sisters; neither do we know where they have gone nor whom they have married!" At length they decided to go in search of their beloved sisters, and making the necessary preparations for their journey they set out on the quest. They journeyed for some time and then lost their way in a dense forest, in which they wandered for a whole day. When darkness fell, they agreed that they must pass the night at some place where they could find water, so when they came to a lake, they decided to pass the night there, and sat down to eat. When they were ready to compose themselves to sleep, the eldest proposed to his brothers that they should sleep while he kept guard. So the two younger brothers went to sleep, and the eldest watched. About midnight the lake became agitated, and the watcher was seized with horror when he saw in the middle of it something moving straight toward him. As it came nearer, he saw clearly that it was a monstrous alligator with two huge ears. The monster attacked the prince with all its strength, but the gallant young man received it on the point of his sword and swiftly cleft its head asunder. Then he cut off the ears, placed them in his bag, but threw the carcass back into the lake. Soon after this, morning broke; but the two younger brothers slept quietly on, unconscious of their brother's exploit. In due time the prince awakened the young men and, without mentioning what had happened, he recommended that they should continue their journey. They travelled the whole day long and, having again lost their way in another dense forest, they decided to pass the coming night by a small lake, and they quickly made a fire. After they had eaten, the second brother said: "To-night you two sleep, and I shall watch." And so the eldest and the youngest brothers slept, while the second kept guard. Suddenly the water of the lake began to stir, and lo! an alligator with two heads appeared and rushed furiously upon the three brothers. But the second brother was no coward; he gave the monster a fearful blow with his gleaming sabre and the alligator fell dead. Then the prince cut off its four ears, placed them in his bag, and threw the horrible carcass into the lake. The two sleeping brothers knew nothing of all this and slept till sun-rise. Then the gallant prince exclaimed: "Get up, my brothers, it is high time!" And they instantly arose, and prepared to continue their journey, without knowing whither they should go. A great fear seized their hearts when they found themselves in a horrible desert; they wandered in this for three long days, and, as their food was consumed, they feared now lest they should die of hunger in this strange land, which seemed to have no end. Then they addressed their fervent prayers to the Almighty that He might be pleased to afford them some guidance, and lo! they saw at length a large sheet of water. Great was now their joy, and they took counsel with each other and agreed to pass the night on the shores of that lake. Having quenched their thirst, they made a bright fire, and when the hour for sleep approached, the youngest brother proposed: "To-night it is my turn; you two go to sleep and I shall watch!" So the two elder brothers went to sleep, and the youngest brother kept awake, looking sharply about him, often casting his eyes over the lake. Toward midnight he noticed a disturbance in the water, and as he looked in wonder the lake grew so agitated that a wave overflowed the shore and nearly extinguished the fire. The next moment a horrible alligator with three heads appeared and rushed furiously on the brothers, obviously intending to devour them. But the youngest prince was no less brave than his two brothers; he unsheathed his sword, and as the monster came on with jaws wide agape, he gave it three fearful blows in rapid succession, slashing off its three heads. Then he cut off the six ears and placed them in his bag, and threw the body and the heads back into the lake. The Nine Giants Meantime the fire had smouldered out, and having no materials with which to make a fresh fire, and not wishing to awake his brothers, the prince went a short distance into the desert in the hope of finding some fuel, but without success. He climbed upon a rock, and looking around he saw at length the glare of a fire. As it seemed that the fire was not very far off, he decided to go and get brands with which to relight his own fire. So he descended from the rock and hastening for some time through the desert, he came at last to a cave in which he saw nine giants sitting round a big fire and roasting on spits two men, one on each side. Upon the fire there stood a caldron full of the limbs of men. When the prince saw all this, he was seized with horror, and would readily have gone back, but it was too late. So he saluted the giants thus: "Good evening, my comrades, I have been in search of you for a long time!" They welcomed him in a friendly manner and returned the greeting, saying: "May God favour you, since you are one of us!" The wily prince added: "Why, I shall remain one of your faithful friends for ever, and would give my life for your sake!" "Eh!" exclaimed the giants, "since you intend to join us, no doubt you are ready to eat man's flesh, and to join our company when we go in search of prey?" Thereupon the tsar's son answered: "Most decidedly! I shall do willingly everything that you, yourselves, do." Hearing this the giants retorted: "That is well for you then! Come and sit here with us!" Then the whole company, sitting round the fire, and taking the meat out of the caldron, began to eat. The tsar's son pretended to eat, but he deceived them cleverly, for instead of eating he threw the meat behind him. After supper the giants exclaimed: "Now let us go to hunt, for we must have something to eat to-morrow!" So they started out, all nine of them, the prince being the tenth of the party. "Come with us," said the giants to the prince, "we will go to a neighbouring city in which lives a tsar: for from that city we have been supplying ourselves with food for many years!" When they arrived at that place, the giants uprooted two fir-trees, and, reaching the walls of the city, they placed one tree against it and ordered the prince: "Go up to the top of the wall, and we will hand you the second tree, which you will fix on the other side of the wall, so that we can climb down the stem of it into the city." The prince obeyed, and, when he was on the top of the wall, he said: "I do not know how to do it, I am not familiar with this place, and I cannot manage to throw the tree over the wall; please come up, one of you, and show me how to do it!" Thereupon one of the giants climbed up, took the top of the tree and threw the stem over the wall, holding fast the highest branch in his hands. The prince utilised this opportunity to draw his sword, and, unseen by those below, with one stroke he cut off the giant's head, and pushed his body over the wall. Then he said to the others: "Now come up one by one, so that I can let you down into the city as I did our first comrade." The giants, suspecting nothing, climbed up one after the other; and the prince cut off their heads till he had killed the whole nine. Then he slowly descended the pine-tree and reached the ground within the city walls. Walking through the streets he was surprised to see no living soul there, and the whole city seemed to be deserted! So he reasoned to himself: "Those ugly giants must have annihilated all the inhabitants of this city!" The Sleeping Princess He continued wandering about till he saw at length a very tall tower, through one of the vent-holes of which shone a light. He opened the door and went straight to the room from which he judged the light to have come. It was magnificently decorated with gold and velvet, and lying on a resplendent couch, was a maiden sleeping. The girl was exceedingly beautiful, and as the prince devoured her with his eyes he was horrified to see a snake on the wall; it poised its hideous head with the obvious intention of striking the girl on her forehead between the eyes, but the prince rushed swiftly forward with drawn poniard and pierced the serpent's head so that it was nailed to the wall, exclaiming as he did so: "May God grant that my poniard cannot be drawn out of the wall by any hand but mine!" He then hurried away, climbing the city wall by the same way as he had come. When he arrived at the giants' cave, he took a brand from the fire, and hastened to the place where he had left his brothers, and found them still sleeping. He made a fresh fire, and, as meantime the sun had risen, he now awoke his brothers and they immediately continued their journey. That same day they came to a road which led to the city of which we have heard. It was the custom of the tsar who lived in that city to walk abroad every morning and to lament the great destruction of his people by the giants. His greatest anxiety was lest his only daughter would one day be their prey. On this particular morning he walked unusually early through the streets, which were all empty. After a time he came to a part of the city wall against which the tall pine-tree of the giants leaned. He approached closely and found the bodies of the nine giants, the terrible enemies of his people, lying upon the ground with their heads cut off. When the tsar saw this wonder he rejoiced exceedingly, and the people soon gathered around him and prayed that God might grant happiness and long life to the hero who had killed the giants. At that very moment servants came hurriedly from the palace and informed the tsar that a snake had very nearly caused the death of his daughter. Hearing this the tsar ran to his daughter, and entering her room he was amazed to see a large, hideous serpent nailed to the wall. He tried at once to pluck out the poniard, but was not able to do so. Then the tsar issued a proclamation throughout his vast empire to the effect that if the hero who had killed the nine giants and pierced the snake would come to court he should receive great gifts and the hand of the tsar's daughter in marriage. This proclamation spread quickly all over the land, and by the tsar's orders, in every inn on the principal roads an official was stationed whose duty it was to ask every traveller if he had heard of the hero who had killed the nine giants. If any man should know anything about the matter, he was at once to come before the tsar and tell what he knew, and was to be rewarded. And the tsar's commands were strictly carried out. After some time the three princes in search of their sisters came to pass the night at one of the inns of that country, and, after supper, they began an animated conversation with the inn-keeper, in the course of which the witty host boasted of his exploits, and at length asked the princes: "Tell me now, what heroic deeds have you young men performed?" Thereupon the eldest brother started thus: "When my brothers and I set out on our expedition in search of our sisters, we decided to pass the first night on the shores of a lake in the midst of a deserted forest. There I proposed that my brothers should go to sleep while I remained to keep watch. As soon as they fell asleep, a terrible alligator rose from the lake to devour my brothers, but I received it on the point of my sword and cleft its hideous head asunder: if you do not believe, here are the ears of the monster!" Saying this, the eldest brother took out of his bag the ears of the alligator and placed them on the table. When the second brother heard this, he said: "And I was on guard, my brothers, while you were sleeping the second night; and from the lake appeared an alligator with two heads. I rushed at it with my sword and cut off both its heads: if you do not believe me, see! here are the four ears of the monster!" Saying this, he produced the ears from his bag and placed them on the table to the great astonishment of the listeners. The Hero Found But the youngest brother kept silent. And the inn-keeper asked him: "By my faith, young man, your brothers are veritable heroes, let us hear whether you have performed any heroic exploit?" Then the youngest brother began to relate: "I have also done a little. When we arrived at the shores of a lake on the third night in that desert to pass the night, you, my brothers, went to rest, and I remained awake to keep watch. About midnight, the lake was greatly agitated and an alligator with three heads rushed out with the intention of swallowing you, but I received it on the point of my sword and successfully cleft its three heads asunder: if you do not believe me, see! here are the six ears of the monster!" This astounded even his brothers, and the young man continued: "Meantime our fire was extinguished, and I went in search of fuel. Wandering over the desert, I came across nine giants ..." and so he proceeded to relate to them all his surprising deeds. When the story came to an end the inn-keeper hurried off and told everything to the tsar, who gave him money and ordered that the brothers should be brought to him. When they appeared the tsar asked the youngest prince: "Is it really you who have done all those wonders in my city, and saved the life of my only daughter?" "Yes, your Majesty!" answered the prince. Thereupon the tsar moved with great joy and gratitude, gave his daughter in marriage to the gallant prince and appointed him his prime minister. As to his brothers, the tsar said: "If you wish to remain with your brother, I shall find you wives and shall order castles to be built for you!" But the two princes thanked his Majesty and declared that they were already married and that they wished to continue their search for their lost sisters. The tsar approved of this resolution, and having been supplied with two mules loaded with gold the two brothers said their farewells and departed. The youngest brother soon began to think of his three sisters; he would have been sorry to leave his wife to go in search of them, and in any case the tsar, his father-in-law, would not permit him to leave the court. Nevertheless the prince wasted away slowly in grief for his sisters. One day the tsar went forth to hunt, and said to the prince: "Remain in the palace, and take these nine keys and keep them in your pocket. You can open three or four rooms with those keys, there you will find unbounded gold, silver and precious stones. In fact, if you wish to do so, you can open even the eight rooms, but do not dare to open the ninth. Ill indeed will be your fate if you do!" Bash Tchelik As soon as the tsar had left the palace, the young prince began to open the doors, one after the other, of all the eight rooms, and truly he saw much gold, silver and other precious things. At length he came to the ninth room, and reasoned to himself: "I have survived many extraordinary adventures, nothing ever surprised me; why should I now be afraid to venture into this room?" Saying this, he opened the door, and what do you think he saw there? In the middle of the room stood a strange man, whose legs were bound in iron up to the knees and his arms up to the elbows; in the four corners of the room there were chains fastened to thick beams, and all the chains met in a ring round the man's neck, so that he could not make the slightest movement. In front of him was a fountain from which the water streamed through a golden pipe into a golden basin. Near him stood a golden mug, incrusted with precious stones. Despite his longing to drink the water, the man could not move to reach the mug. When the prince saw all this, he was indeed astounded, and drew back, but the man groaned: "For heaven's sake, come to me!" The prince approached him and the man said: "Do a good deed! Give me now a cup of water, and know for certain, that I will reward you with another life!" The prince thought within himself: "Is there anything better than to possess two lives?" So he took the mug, filled it with water, and handed it to the man, who drank eagerly. Then the prince asked him: "Tell me now, what is your name?" The man answered: "My name is Bash Tchelik (Real Steel)." The prince made a movement toward the door, but the man again implored him: "Give me another mug of water, and I shall give you a second life!" The prince thought: "Now, if he gives me a second life, I shall have, together with my own, three lives! This will be quite wonderful!" So he again filled the mug and handed it to the strange prisoner, who emptied it greedily. The prince turned toward the door, but the man exclaimed: "O hero, do not go! Come back a moment! Since you have done two good deeds, do yet a third, and I will give you a third life as reward. Take this mug, fill it with water, and pour it over my head!" The prince had no desire to refuse; he filled the cup with water, and poured it over the man's head. No sooner had he done this than Bash Tchelik broke the iron chains around his neck, jumped up with the speed of lightning, and, lo! he had wings. He rushed through the door before the surprised prince could make a movement, and, having snatched up the daughter of the tsar, the wife of his deliverer, he flew into the air and disappeared. When the tsar returned from the hunt, his son-in-law told him all that had happened, and the tsar was indeed greatly saddened, and exclaimed: "Why did you do this? Did I not tell you not to open the ninth room?" The prince humbly answered: "Do not be angry, I shall go in search of Bash Tchelik, for I must fetch my wife." But the tsar tried to dissuade him, saying: "Do not go, for anything in the world! You do not yet know this man; it cost me many an army before I succeeded in taking him prisoner. Remain in peace where you are, and I will find for you a still better wife than my daughter was, and rest assured that I shall continue to love you as my own son!" However, the young prince would not listen to his father-in-law's advice, but took money for his travelling expenses, saddled a horse and went in search of Bash Tchelik. The Prince finds his Sister Some time later the young man came to a city. From the window of a castle a girl cried out: "O prince, alight from your charger and come into our courtyard!" The prince did as he was invited; the girl met him in the courtyard, and he was greatly astonished to recognize in her his eldest sister. They embraced and kissed each other, and his sister said: "Come within, my brother." When they were inside, the prince asked his sister who her husband was, and she answered: "I have married the king of dragons, and he has sworn that he will kill my brothers the first time he comes across them. Therefore, I will hide you, and shall ask him first what he would do to you if you appeared. Should he declare that he would do you no harm, I would tell him of your presence." So she hid both her brother and his horse. Toward evening the dragon flew home, and the whole castle shone. As soon as he entered, he called his wife: "My dear, there is a smell of human bones! Tell me at once who is here!" She answered: "There is nobody!" But the dragon added: "That cannot be!" Then his wife asked him: "Please answer truly, would you harm my brothers if one of them should come here to see me?" And the king of dragons said: "Your eldest and your second brother I would slaughter and roast, but your youngest brother I would not harm." Then she said: "My youngest brother, and your brother-in-law, is here." Thereupon the king said: "Let him come in." And when the prince appeared, the king of dragons stretched forth his arms, embraced his brother-in-law, and said: "Welcome, O brother!" And the prince answered: "I hope you are well?" Then they related to each other all their adventures from beginning to end, and sat down to supper. At length the prince told his brother-in-law that he was searching for Bash Tchelik, and the dragon advised him, saying, "Do not go any further! I will tell you all about him; the very day when he escaped from his prison, I met him with five thousand of my dragons, and, after a severe battle, he escaped victorious. So you see, there is slender hope for you, alone, to overpower him. Therefore I advise you, as a friend, to abandon your plan, and return home in peace; and if you are in need of money I will give you any amount of it." But the prince answered: "I thank you very much for all your good wishes and advice, but I cannot do otherwise than go in search of Bash Tchelik!" And he thought: "Why should I not do so, since I have three superfluous lives?" When the king of dragons saw that he could not dissuade the prince, he handed a feather he was wearing to him, and said: "Take this, and if you are ever in need of my help, you have only to burn it, and I will come at once to your aid with all my forces." The prince thankfully took the feather and started once more in pursuit of Bash Tchelik. The Second Sister Wandering for some time he came at length to another city, and, as he was riding under the tower of a magnificent castle, a window opened and he heard a voice calling him: "Alight from your steed, O prince, and come into our courtyard!" The prince complied immediately, and when he entered the courtyard, he was greatly surprised to see his second sister, who threw herself into his arms, weeping for joy. Then she showed her brother into her private apartment, and he asked: "To whom are you married, sister dear?" And she answered: "My husband is the king of the eagles." When the king returned home his loving wife welcomed him, but he exclaimed at once: "Who is the daring man now in my castle? Tell me directly!" She lied and said: "No one!" Then they began their supper, and the princess asked her husband: "Tell me truly, would you do any harm to my brothers if one of them should dare to come here to see me?" And the eagle-king answered: "As to your eldest and your second brother, I declare that I would kill them; but your third brother I would welcome and help as much as I could." Then she took heart and told him: "Here is my youngest brother, and your brother-in-law, who has come to see us!" Then the king ordered his servants to bring the prince before him, and when the servants obeyed and the prince appeared, he stood up and embraced and kissed his brother-in-law, saying: "Welcome, my dear brother-in-law!" And the prince, touched by his kindness, answered most courteously: "Thank you, my brother! I hope you are well!" The king at once bade him be seated at table, and after supper the prince related his wonderful adventures, and finished by telling them about his search for Bash Tchelik. Hearing this, the eagle-king counselled his brother-in-law most urgently to give up his hazardous plan, adding: "Leave that fiend alone, O dear brother-in-law! I would advise you to remain here; you will find everything you desire in my castle." But the adventurous prince would not listen to this advice for a moment, and on the morrow he prepared to resume his search for Bash Tchelik. Then the eagle-king, seeing that the prince's resolution was unshakable, plucked out of his garment a beautiful feather, handed it to his brother-in-law, and said: "Take this feather, O brother, and if you ever should need my help you will have but to burn it, and I will at once come to your aid with the whole of my army." The prince accepted the feather most gratefully, took his leave, and went away in pursuit of his enemy. The Third Sister After some time he came to a third city, in which he found in the same manner his youngest sister. She was married to the king of the falcons, who also welcomed him in a friendly manner, and gave him a feather to burn in case of need. The Prince finds his Wife After wandering from one place to another, he finally found his wife in a cave. When his wife saw him she exclaimed: "How in the world did you come here, my dear husband?" And he told her all about his adventures and said: "Let us flee together, my wife!" But she replied: "How could we flee, when Bash Tchelik will surely overtake us: he would kill you, and he would take me back and punish me." Nevertheless, the prince, knowing well that he had three additional lives, persuaded his wife to go with him. No sooner had they left the cavern than Bash Tchelik heard of their departure and hurried after them. In a short time he reached them, took back the princess, and reproached the prince; "O prince, you have stolen your wife! This time I forgive you, because I recollect having granted you three lives. So you can go, but if you dare come again for your wife I shall kill you!" Thereupon Bash Tchelik disappeared with the princess, and her husband remained to wonder what he should do next. At length he decided to try his luck again, and when he was near the cave he chose a moment when Bash Tchelik was absent, and again took away his wife. But Bash Tchelik again learnt of their departure quickly, and in a short time reached them again. Now he drew his bow at the prince, saying: "Do you prefer to be shot by this arrow, or to be beheaded by my sabre?" The prince asked to be pardoned again, and Bash Tchelik forgave him, saying: "I pardon you this time also, but know surely that should you dare come again to take away your wife I shall kill you without mercy." The prince tried his luck yet a third time, and, being again caught by Bash Tchelik, once more implored to be pardoned. Because he had given him of his own free will three lives, Bash Tchelik listened to his plea, but said: "Be warned; do not risk losing the one life God gave you!" The prince, seeing that against such a power he could do nothing, started homeward, pondering in his mind, however, how he could free his wife from Bash Tchelik. Suddenly an idea came to him: he recalled what his brothers-in-law had said when giving him a feather from their garments. So he thought: "I must go once more and try to rescue my wife; if I come to any harm I will burn the feathers and my brothers-in-law will come to my aid." Thereupon the prince returned to the cave of Bash Tchelik, and his wife was greatly surprised to see him and exclaimed: "So, you are tired of life, since you have come back a fourth time for me!" But the prince showed his wife the feathers and explained their uses, and prevailed upon her to try once more to escape. No sooner had they left the cavern, however, than Bash Tchelik rushed after them shouting: "Stop, prince! You cannot escape me!" The prince, seeing that they were in imminent peril, hastily burnt all three feathers, and when Bash Tchelik came up with drawn sabre ready to kill him, oh! what a mighty wonder! At the same moment came flying to the rescue the dragon-king with his host of dragons, the eagle-king with all his fierce eagles, and the falcon-king with all his falcons. One and all fell furiously upon Bash Tchelik, but despite the shedding of much blood Bash Tchelik seemed to be invincible, and at length he seized the princess and fled. After the battle the three brothers-in-law found the prince dead, and immediately decided to recall him to life. They asked three dragons which of them could bring, in the shortest possible time, some water from the Jordan. The first said: "I could bring it in half an hour!" The second declared: "I will bring it in ten minutes!" The third asserted: "I can bring it in nine seconds!" Thereupon the king dispatched the third dragon, and, indeed, he used all his fiery might and returned in nine seconds. The king took the healing water, poured it upon the gaping wounds of their brother-in-law, and, as they did so, the wounds were healed up and the prince sprang to his feet alive. Then the kings counselled him: "Since you have been saved from death go home in peace." But the prince declared that he would once more try to regain his beloved wife. The kings endeavoured to dissuade him, saying: "Do not go, for you will be lost if you do! You know well that you have now only the one life which God gave you." But the prince would not listen. Thereupon the kings said: "Since it cannot be otherwise, then go! But do not vainly think to flee with your wife! Request your wife to ask Bash Tchelik where his strength lies, and then come and tell us, in order that we may help you to conquer him." The Secret of Strength This time the prince went stealthily to the cavern and, as counselled by the kings, told his wife to inquire from Bash Tchelik wherein lay his strength. When Bash Tchelik returned home that evening, the princess asked: "I pray you, tell me where lies your strength?" Bash Tchelik, hearing this laughed and said: "My strength is in my sabre!" The princess knelt before the sabre and began to pray. Thereupon Bash Tchelik burst into louder laughter, exclaiming: "O foolish woman! My strength is not in my sabre, but in my bow and my arrows!" Then the princess knelt before the bow and the arrows, and Bash Tchelik, shouting with laughter, said: "O foolish woman! My strength is neither in my bow nor in my arrows! But tell me who instructed you to ask me where my force lies? If your husband were alive I could guess it was he who demanded it!" But the princess protested that no one urged her, and he believed what she said. After some time the prince came, and when his wife told him that she could not learn anything from Bash Tchelik, he said: "Try again!" and went away. When Bash Tchelik returned home the princess began again to ask him to tell the secret of his strength. Then he answered: "Since you esteem my heroism so much, I will tell you the truth about it." And he began: "Far away from here is a high mountain, in that mountain there lives a fox, in the fox is a heart, in that heart there lives a bird: in that bird lies my whole strength. But it is very hard to catch that fox, for it can turn itself into anything!" Next morning, when Bash Tchelik left the cave, the prince came and learned the secret from his wife. Then he went straight to his brothers-in-law who, upon hearing his tale, went at once with him to find the mountain. This they were not long in doing, and they loosed eagles to chase the fox, whereat the fox quickly ran into a lake and there it transformed itself into a six-winged duck. Then the falcons flew to the duck and it mounted into the clouds. Seeing this, the dragons pursued it; the duck changed again into a fox; the other eagles surrounded it, and at length it was caught. Then the three kings ordered the fox to be cut open and its heart taken out. This done, they made a great fire and from the fox's heart took a bird which they threw into the fire, and it was burnt to death. So perished Bash Tchelik, and thus did the prince finally regain his beloved and loyal wife. IX. THE GOLDEN APPLE-TREE AND THE NINE PEAHENS Once there was a king who had three sons. In the garden of the palace grew a golden apple-tree, which, in one and the same night would blossom and bear ripe fruit. But during the night a thief would come and pluck the golden apples, and none could detect him. One day the king deliberating with his sons, said: "I would give much to know what happens to the fruit of our apple-tree!" Thereupon the eldest son answered: "I will mount guard to-night under the apple-tree, and we will see who gathers the fruit." When evening came, the prince laid himself under the apple-tree to watch; but as the apples ripened, he fell asleep and did not wake until next morning, when the apples had vanished. He told his father what had happened, and his brother, the second son, then offered to keep guard that night. But he had no more success than his elder brother. It was now the turn of the youngest son to try his luck, and, when night came on, he placed a bed under the tree, and lay down and went to sleep. About midnight he awoke and glanced at the apple-tree. And lo! the apples were just ripening and the whole castle was lit up with their shining. At that moment nine peahens flew to the tree and settled on its branches, where eight remained to pluck the fruit. The ninth, however, flew to the ground and was instantly transformed into a maiden so beautiful that one might in vain search for her equal throughout the kingdom. The prince immediately fell madly in love with his visitor and the fair maiden was not at all unwilling to stay and converse with the young man. An hour or two soon passed but at last the maiden said that she might stay no longer. She thanked the prince for the apples which her sisters had plucked, but he asked that they would give him at least one to carry home. The maiden smiled sweetly and handed the young man two apples, one for himself, the other for his father, the king. She then turned again into a peahen, joined her sisters and all flew away. Next morning the prince carried the two apples to his father. The king, very pleased, praised his son, and on the following night, the happy prince placed himself under the tree, as before, next morning again bringing two apples to his father. After this had happened for several nights, his two brothers grew envious, because they had not been able to do what he had done. Then a wicked old woman offered her services to the malcontent princes, promising that she would reveal the secret to them. So on the next evening the old woman stole softly under the bed of the young prince and hid herself there. Soon afterward the prince came and at once went to sleep just as before. When midnight came, lo! the peahens flew down as usual; eight of them settling on the branches of the apple-tree, but the ninth, descending on the bed of the prince, instantly turned into a maiden. The old woman, seeing this strange metamorphosis, crept softly near and cut off a lock of the maiden's hair, whereupon the girl immediately arose, changed again into a peahen, and disappeared together with her sisters. Then the young prince jumped up and wondering what had been the reason for the sudden departure of his beloved began to look around. He then saw the old woman, dragged her from under his bed, and ordered his servants to fasten her to the tails of four horses and so to destroy her. But the peahens never came again, to the great sorrow of the prince, and for all that he mourned and wept. Weeping will not move any mountain, and at length the prince resolved to go through the wide world in search of his sweetheart and not return home until he had found her. As a good son, he asked leave of his father who tried hard to make him give up such a hazardous scheme and promised him a much more beautiful bride in his own vast kingdom--for he was very sure that any maiden would be glad to marry such a valiant prince. The Prince's Quest But all his fatherly advice was vain, so the king finally allowed his son to do what his heart bade, and the sorrowful prince departed with only one servant to seek his love. Journeying on for a long time, he came at length to the shore of a large lake, near which was a magnificent castle in which there lived a very old woman, a queen, with her only daughter. The prince implored the aged queen, "I pray thee, grandmother, tell me what you can about the nine golden peahens?" The queen answered: "O, my son, I know those peahens well, for they come every day at noon to this lake and bathe. But had you not better forget the peahens, and rather consider this beautiful girl, she is my daughter and will inherit my wealth and treasures, and you can share all with her." But the prince, impatient to find the peahens, did not even listen to what the queen was saying. Seeing his indifference, the old lady bribed his servant and gave him a pair of bellows, saying: "Do you see this? When you go to-morrow to the lake, blow secretly behind your master's neck, and he will fall asleep and will not be able to speak to the peahens." The faithless servant agreed to do exactly as the queen bade, and when they went to the lake, he used the first favourable occasion and blew with the bellows behind his poor master's neck, whereupon the prince fell so soundly asleep that he resembled a dead man. Soon after, the eight peahens flew to the lake, and the ninth alighted on the prince's horse and began to embrace him, saying: "Arise, sweetheart! Arise, beloved one! Ah, do!" Alas! the poor prince remained as if dead. Then after the peahens had bathed, all disappeared. Shortly after their departure the prince woke up and asked his servant: "What has happened? Have they been here?" The servant answered that they had indeed been there; that eight of them bathed in the lake, while the ninth caressed and kissed him, trying to arouse him from slumber. Hearing this, the poor prince was so angry that he was almost ready to kill himself. Next morning the same thing happened. But on this occasion the peahen bade the servant tell the prince that she would come again the following day for the last time. When the third day dawned the prince went again to the lake, and fearing to fall asleep he decided to gallop along the marge instead of pacing slowly as before. His deceitful servant, however, pursuing him closely, again found an opportunity for using the bellows, and yet again the prince fell asleep. Shortly afterward the peahens came; eight of them went as usual to bathe, and the ninth alighted on the prince's horse and tried to awaken him. She embraced him and spoke thus: "Awake, my darling! Sweetheart, arise! Ah, my soul!" But her efforts were futile; the prince was sleeping as if he were dead. Then she said to the servant: "When thy master awakes tell him to cut off the head of the nail; then only he may be able to find me again." Saying this the peahen disappeared with her sisters, and they had hardly disappeared when the prince awoke and asked his servant: "Have they been here?" And the malicious fellow answered: "Yes; the one who alighted on your horse ordered me to tell you that, if you wish to find her again, you must first cut off the head of the nail." Hearing this the prince unsheathed his sword and struck off his faithless servant's head. The Quest Resumed The prince now resumed his pilgrimage alone, and after long journeying he came to a mountain where he met a hermit, who offered hospitality to him. In the course of conversation the prince asked his host whether he knew anything about the nine peahens; the hermit replied: "O my son, you are really fortunate! God himself has shown you the right way. From here to their dwelling is but half a day's walk; to-morrow I will point you the way." The prince rose very early the next morning, prepared himself for the journey, thanked the hermit for giving him shelter, and went on as he was directed. He came to a large gate, and, passing through it, he turned to the right; toward noon he observed some white walls, the sight of which rejoiced him very much. Arriving at this castle he asked the way to the palace of the nine peahens, and proceeding he soon came to it. He was, of course, challenged by the guards, who asked his name and whence he came. When the queen heard that he had arrived, she was overwhelmed with joy, and turning into a maiden she ran swiftly to the gate and led the prince into the palace. There was great feasting and rejoicing when, later, their nuptials were solemnized, and after the wedding the prince remained within the palace and lived in peace. Now one day the queen went for a walk in the palace grounds accompanied by an attendant, the prince remaining in the palace. Before starting the queen gave her spouse the keys of twelve cellars, saying: "You may go into the cellars, all but one; do not on any account go into the twelfth; you must not even open the door!" The prince soon began to speculate upon what there could possibly be in the twelfth cellar; and having opened one cellar after the other, he stood hesitatingly at the door of the twelfth. He who hesitates is lost, and so the prince finally inserted the key in the lock and the next moment had passed into the forbidden place. In the middle of the floor was a huge cask bound tightly round with three strong iron hoops. The bung-hole was open and from within the cask came a muffled voice which said: "I pray thee, brother, give me a drink of water, else I shall die of thirst!" The prince took a glass of water and poured it through the bung-hole; immediately one hoop burst. Then the voice spake again: "O brother give me more water lest I should die of thirst!" The good-hearted prince emptied a second glass into the cask, and a second hoop instantly came asunder. Again the voice implored: "O brother, give me yet a third glass! I am still consumed by thirst!" The prince made haste to gratify the unseen speaker, and as he poured in the water the third hoop burst, the cask fell in pieces, and a great dragon struggled out from the wreck, rushed through the door and flew into the open. Very soon he fell in with the queen, who was on her way back to the palace, and carried her off. Her attendant, affrighted, rushed to the prince with the intelligence, and the news came as a thunderbolt. For a time the prince was as one distraught, but then he became more calm and he resolved to set out again in search of his beloved queen. In his wanderings he came to a river, and, walking along its bank, he noticed in a little hole a small fish leaping and struggling. When the fish saw the prince it began to beseech him piteously: "Be my brother-in-God! Throw me back into the stream; some day I may, perhaps, be useful to you! But be sure to take a scale from me, and when you are in need of help rub it gently." The prince picked up the fish, took a scale from it, and threw the poor creature into the water; then he carefully wrapped the scale in his handkerchief. Continuing his wanderings, he came to a place where he saw a fox caught in an iron trap, and the animal addressed him, saying: "Be my brother-in-God! Release me, I pray, from this cruel trap; and some day, perhaps, I may be helpful to you. Only take a hair from my brush, and, if you are in need, rub it gently!" The prince took a hair from the fox's tail and set him free. Journeying on, he came upon a wolf caught in a trap. And the wolf besought him in these words: "Be my brother-in-God, and release me! One day you may need my help, therefore, take just one hair from my coat, and if you should ever need my assistance, you will have but to rub it a little!" This likewise the prince did. Some days elapsed and then, as the prince went wearily on his way, he met a man in the mountains, to whom he said: "O my brother-in-God! Can you direct me to the castle of the king of the dragons?" Luckily the man knew of this castle and was able to tell the way to it; he also informed the prince exactly how long the journey would take. The Prince finds his Wife The prince thanked the stranger and continued his journey with fresh vigour until he came to where the king of the dragons lived. He entered the castle boldly and found his wife there; after their first joy of meeting, they began to consider how they could escape. Finally, they took swift horses from the stables, but they had hardly set out before the dragon came back. When he found that the queen had escaped, he took counsel with his courser: "What do you advise? Shall we first eat and drink, or shall we pursue at once!" The horse answered: "Let us first refresh ourselves, for we shall surely catch them." After the meal, the dragon mounted his horse and in a very few minutes they reached the fugitives. Then he seized the queen and said to the prince: "Go in peace! I pardon you this time, because you released me from that cellar: but do not venture to cross my path again, for you will not be forgiven a second time." The poor prince started sadly on his way, but he soon found that he could not abandon his wife. Whatever the cost he must make another attempt to rescue her, and so he retraced his steps, and on the following day entered the castle again and found his wife in tears. It was evident that they must use guile if they were to elude the magical powers of the dragon-king, and after they had thought upon the matter, the prince said: "When the dragon comes home to-night, ask where he got his horse; perchance I may be able to procure a steed that is equally swift: only then could we hopefully make another attempt to escape." Saying this he left his wife for a time. When the dragon-king returned, the queen began to caress him and to pleasantly converse; at length she said: "How I admire your fine horse! Certainly he is of no ordinary breed! Where did you find such a swift courser?" And the dragon-king replied: "Ah! his like is not to be got by every one! In a certain mountain lives an old woman, who has in her stables twelve wondrous horses; none could easily tell which is the finest! But in a corner stands one that is apparently leprous; he is, in fact, the best of the stable, and whoever becomes his master, may ride even higher than the clouds. My steed is a brother of those horses, and if anyone would get a horse from that old woman he must serve her for three days. She has a mare and a foal, and he who is her servant must tend them for three days and three nights; if he succeeds in guarding them and returns them to the old woman, he is entitled to choose a horse from her stable. But, if the servant does not watch well over the mare and its foal, he will indeed lose his life." The old Woman and her Horses Next morning, when the dragon had left the castle, the prince came and the queen told him what she had heard. Hastily bidding his wife farewell, he went with all speed to the mountain, and finding the old woman, he said to her: "God help you, grandmother!" And she returned the greeting: "May God help you also, my son! What good wind brought you here, and what do you wish?" He answered: "I should like to serve you." Thereupon the old woman said: "Very well, my son! If you successfully watch my mare and its foal for three days, I shall reward you with a horse which you yourself are at liberty to choose from my stable; but if you do not keep them safe, you must die." Then she led the prince into her courtyard, where he saw stakes all around placed close together, and on each save one was stuck a human head. The one stake kept shouting out to the old woman: "Give me a head, O grandmother! Give me a head!" The old woman said: "All these are heads of those who once served me; they did not succeed in keeping my mare and its foal safe, so they had to pay with their heads!" But the prince was not to be frightened at what he saw, and he readily accepted the old woman's conditions. When evening came, he mounted the mare and rode it to pasture, the foal following. He remained seated on the mare, but, toward midnight, he dozed a little and finally fell fast asleep. When he awoke he saw, to his great consternation, that he was sitting upon the trunk of a tree holding the mare's bridle in his hand. He sprang down and went immediately in search of the tricky animal. Soon he came to a river, the sight of which reminded him of the little fish, and taking the scale from his handkerchief, he rubbed it gently between his fingers, when lo! the fish instantly appeared and asked: "What is the matter, my brother-in-God?" The prince answered: "My mare has fled, and I do not know where to look for her!" And the fish answered: "Here she is with us, turned into a fish, and her foal into a small one! Strike once upon the water with the bridle and shout: 'Doora! Mare of the old woman!'" The prince did as the fish told him; at once the mare and her foal came out of the water; he bridled the mare, mounted and rode home; the young foal trotting after. The old woman brought the prince some food without a word; then she took the mare into the stable, beat her with a poker, and said: "Did I not tell you to go down among the fish?" The mare answered: "I have been down to the fish, but the fish are his friends and they betrayed me to him." Thereupon the old woman said: "To-night you go among the foxes!" When evening came, the prince mounted the mare again and rode to the field, the foal following its mother. He determined again to remain in the saddle and to keep watch, but, toward midnight, he was again overcome by drowsiness and became unconscious. When he awoke next morning, lo! he was seated on a tree-trunk holding fast the bridle. This alarmed him greatly, and he looked here and he looked there. But search as he would, he could find no trace of the mare and her foal. Then he remembered his friend the fox, and taking the hair from the fox's tail out of his handkerchief, he rubbed it gently between his fingers, and the fox instantly stood before him. "What is the matter, my brother-in-God?" said he. The prince complained of his misfortune, saying that he had hopelessly lost his mare. The fox soon reassured him: "The mare is with us, changed to a fox, and her foal into a cub; just strike once with the bridle on the earth, and shout out 'Doora, the old woman's mare!'" He did so, and sure enough the mare at once appeared before him with the foal. So he bridled her and mounted, and when he reached home the old woman gave him food, and took the mare to the stable and beat her with a poker, saying: "Why did you not turn into a fox, you disobedient creature?" And the mare protested: "I did turn into a fox; but the foxes are his friends, so they betrayed me!" At this the old woman commanded: "Next time you go to the wolves!" When evening came the prince set out on the mare and the same things befell as before. He found himself, the next morning, sitting on a tree-trunk, and this time he called the wolf, who said: "The mare of the old woman is with us in the likeness of a she-wolf, and the foal of a wolf's cub; strike the ground once with the bridle and exclaim: 'Doora! the mare of the old woman!'" The prince did as the wolf counselled, and the mare reappeared with her foal standing behind her. He mounted once again and proceeded to the old woman's house, where, on his arrival, he found her preparing a meal. Having set food before him, she took the mare to the stable and beat her with a poker. "Did I not tell you to go to the wolves, you wretched creature?" she scolded. But the mare protested again, saying: "I did go to the wolves, but they are also his friends and they betrayed me!" Then the old woman went back to the house and the prince said to her: "Well, grandmother, I think I have served you honestly; now I hope you will give me what you promised me!" The old woman replied: "O my son, verily a promise must be fulfilled! Come to the stable; there are twelve horses; you are at liberty to choose whichever you like best!" The Prince's Choice Thereupon the prince said firmly: "Well, why should I be particular? Give me the leprous horse, standing in that corner." The old woman tried by all means in her power to deter him from taking that ugly horse, saying: "Why be so foolish as to take that leprous jade when you can have a fine horse?" But the prince kept to his choice, and said: "Give me rather the one I selected, as it was agreed between us!" The old woman, seeing that he would not yield, gave way, and the prince took leave of her and led away his choice. When they came to a forest he curried and groomed the horse, and it shone as if its skin were of pure gold. Then he mounted, and, the horse flying like a bird, they reached the dragon-king's castle in a few seconds. The prince immediately entered and greeted the queen with: "Hasten, all is ready for our flight!" The queen was ready, and in a few seconds they were speeding away, swift as the wind, on the back of the wonderful horse. Shortly after they had gone, the dragon-king came home, and finding that the queen had again disappeared, he addressed the following words to his horse: "What shall we do now? Shall we refresh ourselves, or shall we go after the fugitives at once?" And his horse replied: "We may do as you will, but we shall never reach them!" Upon hearing this the dragon-king at once flung himself upon his horse and they were gone in a flash. After a time the prince looked behind him and saw the dragon-king in the distance. He urged his horse, but it said: "Be not afraid! There is no need to run quicker." But the dragon-king drew nearer, so close that his horse was able to speak thus to its brother: "O brother dear, tarry, I beseech you! else I shall perish in running at this speed!" But the prince's horse answered: "Nay, why be so foolish as to carry that monster? Fling up your hoofs and throw him against a rock, then come with me!" At these words the dragon-king's horse shook its head, curved its back, and kicked up its hoofs so furiously that its rider was flung on to a rock and killed. Seeing this, the prince's horse stood still, its brother trotted up, and the queen mounted on it. So they arrived happily in her own land, where they lived and ruled in great prosperity ever after. X. THE BIRD MAIDEN There was once a king who had an only son, whom, when he had grown up, he sent abroad to seek a suitable wife. The prince set out on his journey, but, although he travelled over the whole world, he did not succeed in finding a bride. Finally, after having exhausted his patience and his purse, he decided to die, and, that there should not remain any trace of him, he climbed a high mountain, intending to throw himself from the summit. He was on the point of jumping from the pinnacle, when a voice uttered these mysterious words: "Stop! Stop! O man! Do not kill yourself, for the sake of three hundred and sixty-five which are in the year!" The prince endeavoured in vain to discover whence the voice came, and, seeing no one, he asked: "Who are you that speak to me? Show yourself! If you knew of my troubles, you would surely not hinder me!" Thereupon an old man appeared, with hair as white as snow, and said to the unfortunate prince: "I am well aware of all you suffer; but listen to me. Do you see yonder high hill?" The king's son answered: "Yes, indeed." "Very well," continued the old man, "seated day and night in the same spot on the summit of that hill there is an old woman with golden hair, and she holds a bird in her lap. He who succeeds in securing that bird will be the happiest man in the world. But if you wish to try your luck you must be cautious; you must approach the old woman quietly, and, before she sees you, you must take her by the hair. Should she see you before you seize her, you will be turned to stone then and there, just as it has happened to many young men whom you will see there in the form of blocks of marble." The Old Witch When the prince heard these words, he reflected: "It is all one to me; I shall go, and, if I succeed in seizing her, so much the better for me; but if she should see me before I catch her, I can but die, as I had already resolved to do." So he thanked the old man, and went cheerfully to try his luck. He soon climbed the other hill and saw the old woman, whom he approached very warily from behind. Fortunately the old woman was absorbed in playing with the bird, and so the prince was able to get quite near without being perceived. Then he sprang suddenly forward and seized the old woman by her golden hair; whereupon she screamed so loudly that the whole hill shook as with an earthquake. But the courageous prince held her fast. Then the old woman exclaimed: "Release me, and ask whatever you wish!" And the prince answered: "I will do so if you let me have that bird, and if you at once recall to life all these young men whom you have bewitched." The old woman was forced to consent, and she gave up the bird. Then from her lips she breathed a blue wind toward the petrified figures, so that instantly they became living men once more. The noble prince expressed the joy in his heart by kissing the bird in his hands, whereupon it was transformed into a most beautiful girl, whom, it appeared, the enchantress had bewitched in order to lure young men to a horrid fate. The king's son was so pleased with his companion that he promptly fell in love with her. On their way from that place the maiden gave him a stick, and told him that it would do everything he might wish. Presently the prince wished that he had the wherewithal to travel as befitted a prince and his bride; he struck a rock with the stick, and out poured a torrent of golden coins, from which they took all they needed for their journey. When they came to a river, the prince touched the water with his stick, and a dry path appeared, upon which they crossed dryshod. A little farther on they were attacked by a pack of wolves, but the prince protected his bride with his stick, and one by one the wolves were turned into ants. And many other adventures they had, but in the end they arrived safely at the prince's home. Then they married and they lived happily ever after. XI. LYING FOR A WAGER One day a father sent his boy to the mill with corn to be ground, and, at the moment of his departure, he warned him not to grind it in any mill where he should happen to find a beardless man. [84] When the boy came to a mill, he was therefore disappointed to find that the miller was beardless. "God bless you, Beardless!" saluted the boy. "May God help you!" returned the miller. "May I grind my corn here?" asked the boy. "Yes, why not?" responded the beardless one, "my corn will be soon ground; you can then grind yours as long as you please." But the boy, remembering his father's warning, left this mill and went to another up the brook. But Beardless took some grain and, hurrying by a shorter way, reached the second mill first and put some of his corn there to be ground. When the boy arrived and saw that the miller was again a beardless man, he hastened to a third mill; but again Beardless hurried by a short cut, and reached it before the boy. He did the same at a fourth mill, so that the boy concluded that all millers are beardless men. He therefore put down his sack, and when the corn of Beardless was ground he took his turn at the mill. When all of his grain had been ground Beardless proposed: "Listen, my boy! Let us make a loaf of your flour." The boy had not forgotten his father's injunction to have nothing to do with beardless millers, but as he saw no way out of it, he accepted the proposal. So Beardless now took all the flour, mixed it with water, which the boy brought him, and thus made a very large loaf. Then they fired the oven and baked the loaf, which, when finished, they placed against the wall. Then the miller proposed: "Listen, my boy! If we were now to divide this loaf between us, there would be little enough for either of us, let us therefore tell each other stories, and whoever tells the greatest lie shall have the whole loaf for himself." The boy reflected a little and, seeing no way of helping himself, said: "Very well, but you must begin." Then Beardless told various stories till he got quite tired. Then the boy said: "Eh, my dear Beardless, it is a pity if you do not know any more, for what you have said is really nothing; only listen, and I shall tell you now the real truth." The Boy's Story "In my young days, when I was an old man, we possessed many beehives, and I used to count the bees every morning; I counted them easily enough, but I could never contrive to count the beehives. Well, one morning, as I was counting the bees, I was greatly surprised to find that the best bee was missing, so I saddled a cock, mounted it, and started in search of my bee. I traced it to the sea-shore, and saw that it had gone over the sea, so I decided to follow it. When I had crossed the water, I discovered that a peasant had caught my bee; he was ploughing his fields with it and was about to sow millet. So I exclaimed: 'That is my bee! How did you get it?' And the ploughman answered: 'Brother, if this is really your bee, come here and take it!' So I went to him and he gave me back my bee, and a sack full of millet on account of the services my bee had rendered him. Then I put the sack on my back, and moved the saddle from the cock to the bee. Then I mounted, and led the cock behind me that it might rest a little. As I was crossing the sea, one of the strings of my sack burst, and all the millet poured into the water. When I had got across, it was already night, so I alighted and let the bee loose to graze; as to the cock, I fastened him near me, and gave him some hay. After that I laid myself down to sleep. When I rose next morning, great was my surprise to see that during the night, the wolves had slaughtered and devoured my bee; and the honey was spread about the valley, knee-deep and ankle-deep on the hills. Then I was puzzled to know in what vessel I could gather up all the honey. Meantime I remembered I had a little axe with me, so I went into the woods to catch a beast, in order to make a bag of its skin. When I reached the forest, I saw two deer dancing on one leg; so I threw my axe, broke their only leg and caught them both. From those two deer I drew three skins and made a bag of each, and in them gathered up all the honey. Then I loaded the cock with the bags and hurried homeward. When I arrived home I found that my father had just been born, and I was told to go to heaven to fetch some holy water. I did not know how to get there, but as I pondered the matter I remembered the millet which had fallen into the sea. I went back to that place and found that the grain had grown up quite to heaven, for the place where it had fallen was rather damp, so I climbed up by one of the stems. Upon reaching heaven I found that the millet had ripened, and an angel had harvested the grain and had made a loaf of it, and was eating it with some warm milk. I greeted him, saying: 'God bless you!' The angel responded: 'May God help you!' and gave me some holy water. On my way back I found that there had been a great rain, so that the sea had risen so high that my millet was carried away! I was frightened as to how I should descend again to earth, but at length I remembered that I had long hair--it is so long that when I am standing upright it reaches down to the ground, and when I sit it reaches to my ears. Well, I took out my knife and cut off one hair after another, tying them end to end as I descended on them. Meantime darkness overtook me before I got to the bottom, and so I decided to make a large knot and to pass the night on it. But what was I to do without a fire! The tinder-box I had with me, but I had no wood. Suddenly I remembered that I had in my vest a sewing needle, so I found it, split it and made a big fire, which warmed me nicely; then I laid myself down to sleep. When I fell asleep, unfortunately a flame burnt the hair through, and, head over heels, I fell to the ground, and sank into the earth up to my girdle. I moved about to see how I could get out, and, when I found that I was tightly interred, I hurried home for a spade and came back and dug myself out. As soon as I was freed, I took the holy water and started for home. When I arrived reapers were working in the field. It was such a hot day, that I feared the poor men would burn to death, and called to them: 'Why do you not bring here our mare which is two days' journey long and half a day broad, and on whose back large willows are growing; she could make some shade where you are working?' My father hearing this, quickly brought the mare, and the reapers continued working in the shade. Then I took a jug in which to fetch some water. When I came to the well, I found the water was quite frozen, so I took my head off and broke the ice with it; then I filled the jug and carried the water to the reapers. When they saw me they asked me: 'Where is your head?' I lifted my hand, and, to my great surprise, my head was not upon my shoulders, and then I remembered having left it by the well. I went back at once, but found that a fox was there before me, and was busy devouring my head. I approached slowly and struck the beast fiercely with my foot, so that in great fear, it dropped a little book. This I picked up and on opening it, found written in it these words: 'The whole loaf is for thee, and Beardless is to get nothing!'" Saying this, the boy took hold of the loaf and made off. As for Beardless, he was speechless, and remained gazing after the boy in astonishment. XII. THE MAIDEN WISER THAN THE TSAR Long ago there lived an old man, who dwelt in a poor cottage. He possessed one thing only in the world, and that was a daughter who was so wise that she could teach even her old father. One day the man went to the tsar to beg, and the tsar, astonished at his cultivated speech, asked him whence he came and who had taught him to converse so well. He told the tsar where he lived, and that it was his daughter who had taught him to speak with eloquence. "And where was your daughter taught?" asked the tsar. "God and our poverty have made her wise," answered the poor man. Thereupon the tsar gave him thirty eggs and said: "Take these to your daughter, and command her in my name to bring forth chickens from them. If she does this successfully I will give her rich presents, but if she fails you shall be tortured." The poor man, weeping, returned to his cottage and told all this to his daughter. The maiden saw at once that the eggs which the tsar had sent were boiled, and bade her father rest while she considered what was to be done. Then while the old man was sleeping the girl filled a pot with water and boiled some beans. Next morning she woke her father and begged him to take a plough and oxen and plough near the road where the tsar would pass. "When you see him coming," said she, "take a handful of beans, and while you are sowing them you must shout: 'Go on, my oxen, and may God grant that the boiled beans may bear fruit!' Then," she went on, "when the tsar asks you, 'How can you expect boiled beans to bear fruit?' answer him: 'just as from boiled eggs one can produce chicks!'" The old man did as his daughter told him, and went forth to plough. When he saw the tsar he took out a handful of beans, and exclaimed: "Go on, my oxen! And may God grant that the boiled beans may bear fruit!" Upon hearing these words the tsar stopped his carriage, and said to the man: "My poor fellow, how can you expect boiled beans to bear fruit?" "Just as from boiled eggs one can produce chicks!" answered the apparently simple old man. The tsar laughed and passed on, but he had recognized the old man, and guessed that his daughter had instructed him to say this. He therefore sent officers to bring the peasant into his presence. When the old man came, the tsar gave him a bunch of flax, saying: "Take this, and make out of it all the sails necessary for a ship; if you do not, you shall lose your life." The poor man took the flax with great fear, and went home in tears to tell his daughter of his new task. The wise maiden soothed him, and said that if he would rest she would contrive some plan. Next morning she gave her father a small piece of wood, and bade him take it to the tsar with the demand that from it should be made all the necessary tools for spinning and weaving, that he should thereby be enabled to execute his Majesty's order. The old man obeyed, and when the tsar heard the extraordinary request he was greatly astounded at the astuteness of the girl, and, not to be outdone, he took a small glass, saying: "Take this little glass to your daughter, and tell her she must empty the sea with it, so that dry land shall be where the ocean now is." The old man went home heavily to tell this to his daughter. But the girl again reassured him, and next morning she gave him a pound of tow, saying: "Take this to the tsar and say, that when with this tow he dams the sources of all rivers and streams I will dry up the sea." The Tsar Sends for the Girl The father went back to the tsar and told him what his daughter had said, and the tsar, seeing that the girl was wiser than himself, ordered that she should be brought before him. When she appeared the tsar asked her: "Can you guess what it is that can be heard at the greatest distance?" and the girl answered: "Your Majesty, there are two things: the thunder and the lie can be heard at the greatest distance!" The astonished tsar grasped his beard, and, turning to his attendants, exclaimed: "Guess what my beard is worth?" Some said so much, others again so much; but the maiden observed to the tsar that none of his courtiers had guessed right. "His Majesty's beard is worth as much as three summer rains," she said. The tsar, more astonished than ever, said: "The maiden has guessed rightly!" Then he asked her to become his wife, for "I love you," said he. The girl had become enamoured of the tsar, and she bowed low before him and said: "Your glorious Majesty! Let it be as you wish! But I pray that your Majesty may be graciously pleased to write with your own hand on a piece of parchment that should you or any of your courtiers ever be displeased with me, and in consequence banish me from the palace, I shall be allowed to take with me any one thing which I like best." The tsar gladly consented, wrote out this declaration and affixed his signature. Some years passed by happily but there came at last a day when the tsar was offended with the tsarina and he said angrily: "You shall be no longer my wife, I command you to leave my palace!" The tsarina answered dutifully: "O most glorious tsar, I will obey; permit me to pass but one night in the palace, and to-morrow I will depart." To this the tsar assented. That evening, at supper, the tsarina mixed certain herbs in wine and gave the cup to the tsar, saying: "Drink, O most glorious tsar! And be of good cheer! I am to go away, but, believe me, I shall be happier than when I first met you!" The tsar, having drunk the potion fell asleep. Then the tsarina who had a coach in readiness, placed the tsar in it and carried him off to her father's cottage. When his Majesty awoke next morning and saw that he was in a cottage, he exclaimed: "Who brought me here?" "I did," answered the tsarina. The tsar protested, saying: "How have you dared do so? Did I not tell you that you are no longer my wife?" Instead of answering the tsarina produced the parchment containing the tsar's promise and he could not find a word to say. Then the tsarina said: "As you see, you promised that should I be banished from your palace I should be at liberty to take with me that which I liked best!" Hearing this, the tsar's love for his spouse returned, he took her in his arms, and they returned to the palace together. XIII. GOOD DEEDS NEVER PERISH Once upon a time there lived a man and woman who had one son. When the boy grew up his parents endeavoured to give him a suitable education which would be useful in his after life. He was a good, quiet boy, and above all he feared God. After he had completed his studies, his father intrusted him with a galley laden with various goods, so that he might trade with distant countries, and be the support of his parents' old age. The First Voyage On his first voyage he one day met with a Turkish ship, in which he heard weeping. So he called to the sailors on the Turkish vessel: "I pray you, tell me why there is such sorrow on board your ship!" And they answered: "We have many slaves whom we have captured in various parts of the world, and those who are chained are weeping and lamenting." Thereupon the young man said: "Pray, O brethren, ask your captain if he will allow me to ransom the slaves for a sum of money?" The sailors gladly called their captain, who was willing to bargain, and in the end the young man gave his ship with all its cargo to the Turk, in exchange for his vessel containing the slaves. The young man asked each slave whence he came, and gave to all their freedom, and said that each might return to his own country. Among the slaves was an old woman who held a most beautiful maiden by the arm. When he asked whence they came, the old woman answered through her tears: "We come from a far-away country. This young girl is the only daughter of the tsar, whom I have brought up from her infancy. One unlucky day she was walking in the palace gardens, and wandered to a lonely spot, where those accursed Turks saw her and seized her. She began to scream, and I, who happened to be near, ran to help her, but alas! I could not save her, and the Turks carried us both on board this galley." Then the good nurse and the beautiful girl, not knowing the way to their own country, and having no means of returning thither, implored the young man to take them with him. And this he was quite willing to do; indeed, he had immediately fallen in love with the princess, and he now married the poor homeless maiden, and, together with her and the old woman, returned home. On their arrival, his father asked where his galley and its cargo were, and he told him how he had ransomed the slaves and set them at liberty. "This girl," said he, "is the daughter of a tsar, and this old woman is her nurse; as they could not return to their country I took them with me, and I have married the maiden." Thereupon his father grew very angry, and said: "O foolish son, what have you done? Why did you dispose so stupidly of my property without my permission?" and he drove him out of the house. Fortunately for the young man, a good neighbour offered him hospitality, and, with his wife and her old nurse, he resided for a long time near by, endeavouring, through the influence of his mother and friends, to persuade his father to forgive him. The Second Voyage After some time the father relented, and received his son again in his house, together with his young wife and her nurse. Soon after, he purchased a second galley, larger and finer than the first, and loaded it with merchandise wherewith his son might trade to great profit, if so be that he were wise. The young man sailed in this new vessel, leaving his wife and her nurse in the house of his parents, and soon came to a certain city, where he beheld a sorrowful sight. He saw soldiers busied in seizing poor peasants and throwing them into prison, and he asked: "Why, brethren, are you showing such cruelty to these unfortunate people?" And the soldiers replied: "Because they have not paid the tsar's taxes." The young man at once went to the officer and said: "I pray you, tell me how much these poor people must pay." The officer told him the amount due, and, without hesitation, the young man sold his galley and the cargo, and discharged the debts of all the prisoners. He now returned home, and, falling at the feet of his father, he told him the story and begged that he might be forgiven. But his father grew exceedingly angry this time, and drove him away from his house. What could the unhappy son do in this fresh trouble? How could he beg, he whose parents were so well-to-do? Old friends of the family again used their influence with his father, urging that he should take pity on his son and receive him back, "for," said they, "it is certain that suffering has made him wiser, and that he will never again act so foolishly." At length his father yielded, took him again into his house, and prepared a third galley for him, much larger and finer than the two former ones. The Third Voyage The young man was overjoyed at his good fortune, and he had the portrait of his beloved wife painted on the helm, and that of the old nurse on the stern. When all the preparations for a new voyage were completed, he took leave of his parents, his wife, and other members of the family, and weighed anchor. After sailing for some time he arrived at a great city, in which there lived a tsar, and, dropping anchor, he fired his guns as a salute to the city. Toward evening the tsar sent one of his ministers to learn who the stranger was and whence he came, and to inform him that his master would come at nine o'clock next morning to visit the galley. The minister was astounded to see on the helm the portrait of the imperial princess--whom the tsar had promised to him in marriage when she was still a child--and on the stern that of the old nurse; but he did not make any remark, nor did he tell anyone at the palace what he had seen. At nine o'clock next morning the tsar came on board the galley with his ministers, and, as he paced the deck, conversing with the captain, he also saw the portrait of the maiden painted on the helm and that of the old woman on the stern, and he recognized at once the features of his only daughter and her nurse, whom the Turks had captured. At once he conceived the hope that his beloved child was alive and well, but he could not trust himself to speak, so great was his emotion. Composing himself as best he could, he invited the captain to come at two o'clock that afternoon to his palace, intending to question him, hoping thus to confirm the hopes of his heart. Punctually at two o'clock the captain appeared at the palace, and the tsar at once began to question him in a roundabout manner as to the maiden whose portrait he had seen on the helm of his galley. Was she one of his relations, and, if so, in what degree? He was also curious concerning the old woman whose likeness was painted on the stern. The young captain guessed at once that the tsar must be his wife's father, and he related to him word by word all his adventures, not omitting to say that, having found that the young maiden and her nurse had forgotten the way back to their country, he had taken pity on them and later had espoused the maiden. Hearing this the tsar exclaimed: "That girl is my only child and the old woman is her nurse; hasten and bring my daughter here that I may see her once more before I die. Bring here also your parents and all your family; your father will be my brother and your mother my sister, for you are my son and the heir to my crown. Go and sell all your property and come that we may live together in my palace!" Then he called the tsarina, his wife, and all his ministers, that they might hear the joyful news, and there was great joy in the court. After this the tsar gave the captain a magnificent ship requesting him to leave his own galley behind. The young man was, of course, very grateful, but he said: "O glorious tsar! My parents will not believe me, if you do not send one of your ministers to accompany me." Thereupon the tsar appointed as his companion for the voyage, the very minister to whom he had formerly promised his daughter in marriage. The captain's father was greatly surprised to see his son return so soon and in such a magnificent ship. Then the young man related to his father and others all that had happened, and the imperial minister confirmed all his statements. When the princess saw the minister she exclaimed joyfully: "Yes, indeed, all that he has said is true; this is my father's minister, who was to be my betrothed." Then the man and his family sold all their property and went on board the ship. The Treacherous Minister Now the minister was a wicked man, and he had formed a design to kill the young husband of the princess that he might espouse her and one day become tsar. Accordingly during the voyage he called the young man on deck one night to confer with him. The captain had a quiet conscience and did not suspect evil, wherefore he was entirely unprepared when the minister seized him and threw him swiftly overboard. The ship was sailing fast; it was impossible that he could reach it, so he fell gradually behind. By great good luck he was very near to land and soon he was cast ashore by the waves. But, alas! this land was but a bare uninhabited rock. Meantime the minister had stolen back to his cabin and next morning when it was found that the captain had disappeared, all began to weep and wail, thinking that he had fallen overboard in the night and been drowned. His family would not be consoled, more especially his wife, who loved him so much. When they arrived at the tsar's palace and reported that the young man had been accidentally drowned, the entire court mourned with them. For fifteen days the tsar's unhappy son-in-law was condemned to a bare subsistence upon the scanty grass which grew upon the rocky islet. His skin was tanned by the hot sun and his garments became soiled and torn, so that no one could have recognized him. On the morrow of the fifteenth day, he had the good fortune to perceive an old man on the shore, leaning on a stick, engaged in fishing. He began at once to hail the old man and to beseech him to help him off the rock. The old fisherman said: "I will save you, if you will pay me!" "How can I pay you," answered the castaway, "when, as you see, I have only these rags, and nothing more?" "Oh, as for that," replied the old man, "you can write and sign a promise to give me a half of everything that you may ever possess." The young man gladly made this promise. Then the old man produced writing materials and the young man signed the agreement, after which they both sailed in the old man's fishing boat to the mainland. After that the young man wandered from house to house and from village to village, a barefoot beggar, in rags, sunburnt, and hungry. The Young Man's Return After thirty days' journeying, good luck led him to the city of the tsar and he sat him down, staff in hand, at the gates of the palace, still wearing on his finger his wedding-ring, on which was engraved his name and that of his wife. The servants of the tsar, pitying his sad plight, offered him shelter for the night in the palace and gave him to eat fragments from their own dinner. Next morning he went to the garden of the palace, but the gardener came and drove him away, saying that the tsar and his family were soon coming by. He moved from that spot and sat down in a corner on the grass, when suddenly he saw the tsar walking with his own mother and father, who had remained at the court as the tsar's guests, and his beloved wife walking arm in arm with his enemy, the minister. He did not yet wish to reveal himself, but as the tsar and his train passed by and gave him alms, he stretched out his hand to receive it and the wedding-ring upon his finger caught the princess's eye. She recognized it at once, but it was incredible that the beggar could be her husband, and she said to him: "Pray, give me your hand that I may see your ring!" The minister protested, but the princess did not pay any attention to him, and proceeded to examine the ring, to find there her own name and that of her husband. Her heart was greatly agitated at the sight, but she made an effort to control her feelings and said nothing. Upon her return to the palace she appeared before her father and told him what she had seen. "Please send for him," said she, "and we may find out how the ring came into his possession!" The tsar immediately sent an attendant to fetch the beggar. The order was executed at once, and, when the stranger appeared the tsar asked him his name, whence he came, and in what manner he obtained the ring. The unfortunate young man could no longer maintain his disguise, so telling the tsar who he was, he went on to relate all his adventures since the minister treacherously threw him into the sea. "Behold!" said he at last, "Our gracious Lord and my right-dealing has brought me back to my parents and my wife." Almost beside themselves for joy, the tsar called for the young man's parents and imparted to them the good news. Who could express the joy of the aged couple when they identified their son? Words fail, also, to describe adequately the rejoicing which filled the hearts of the entire court. The servants prepared perfumed baths for the young man and brought him sumptuous new garments. The tsar gave orders that he should be crowned as tsar, and for several days there were wonderful festivities, in which the whole city joined; everywhere was singing, dancing and feasting. The old tsar summoned the wicked minister to appear before his son-in-law, to be dealt with according to his will. But the young tsar had a kind heart, so he forgave him upon the condition that he should leave the tsardom without delay, and never come back during his reign. The new tsar had hardly began to rule, when the old fisherman who had saved him from the rocky isle came and craved audience. The tsar at once received his deliverer who produced the written promise. "Very well, old man," said the tsar; "to-day I am ruler, but I will as readily fulfil my word as if I were a beggar with little to share; so let us divide my possessions in two equal parts." Then the tsar took the books and began to divide the cities, saying: "This is for you--this is for me." So he marked all on a map, till the whole tsardom was divided between them, from the greatest city to the poorest hut. When the tsar had finished the old man said: "Take all back! I am not a man of this world; I am an angel from God, who sent me to save you on account of your good deeds. Now reign and be happy, and may you live long in complete prosperity!" So saying, he vanished suddenly, and the young tsar ruled in great happiness ever after. XIV. HE WHOM GOD HELPS NO ONE CAN HARM Once upon a time there lived a man and his wife, and they were blessed with three sons. The youngest son was the most handsome, and he possessed a better heart than his brothers, who thought him a fool. When the three brothers had arrived at the man's estate, they came together to their father, each of them asking permission to marry. The father was embarrassed with this sudden wish of his sons, and said he would first take counsel with his wife as to his answer. The First Quest A few days later the man called his sons together and told them to go to the neighbouring town and seek for employment. "He who brings me the finest rug will obtain my permission to marry first," he said. The brothers started off to the neighbouring town together. On the way the two elder brothers began to make fun of the youngest, mocking his simplicity, and finally they forced him to take a different road. Abandoned by his malicious brothers, the young man prayed God to grant him good fortune. At length he came to a lake, on the further shore of which was a magnificent castle. The castle belonged to the daughter of a tyrannous and cruel prince who had died long ago. The young princess was uncommonly beautiful, and many a suitor had come there to ask for her hand. The suitors were always made very welcome, but when they went to their rooms at night the late master of the castle would invariably come as a vampire and suffocate them. As the youngest brother stood upon the shore wondering how to cross the lake, the princess noticed him from her window and at once gave an order to the servants to take a boat and bring the young man before her. When he appeared he was a little confused, but the noble maiden reassured him with some kind words--for he had, indeed, made a good impression upon her and she liked him at first sight. She asked him whence he came and where he intended to go, and the young man told her all about his father's command. When the princess heard that, she said to the young man: "You will remain here for the night, and to-morrow morning we will see what we can do about your rug." After they had supped, the princess conducted her guest to a green room, and bidding him "good-night," said: "This is your room. Do not be alarmed if during the night anything unusual should appear to disturb you." Being a simple youth, he could not even close his eyes, so deep was the impression made by the beautiful things which surrounded him, when suddenly, toward midnight, there was a great noise. In the midst of the commotion he heard distinctly a mysterious voice whisper: "This youth will inherit the princely crown, no one can do him harm!" The young man took refuge in earnest prayer, and, when day dawned, he arose safe and sound. When the princess awoke, she sent a servant to summon the young man to her presence, and he was greatly astonished to find the young man alive; so also was the princess and every one in the castle. After breakfast the princess gave her guest a rich rug, saying: "Take this rug to your father, and if he desires aught else you have only to come back." The young man thanked his fair hostess and with a deep bow took his leave of her. When he arrived home he found his two brothers already there; they were showing their father the rugs they had brought. When the youngest exhibited his they were astounded, and exclaimed: "How did you get hold of such a costly rug? You must have stolen it!" The Second Quest At length the father, in order to quieten them, said: "Go once more into the world, and he who brings back a chain long enough to encircle our house nine times shall have my permission to marry first!" Thus the father succeeded in pacifying his sons. The two elder brothers went their way, and the youngest hurried back to the princess. When he appeared she asked him: "What has your father ordered you to do now?" And he answered: "That each of us should bring a chain long enough to encircle our house nine times." The princess again made him welcome and, after supper, she showed him into a yellow room, saying: "Somebody will come again to frighten you during the night, but you must not pay any attention to him, and to-morrow we will see what we can do about your chain." And sure enough, about midnight there came many ghosts dancing round his bed and making fearful noises, but he followed the advice of the princess and remained calm and quiet. Next morning a servant came once more to conduct him to the princess, and, after breakfast, she gave him a fine box, saying: "Take this to your father, and if he should desire anything more, you have but to come to me." The young man thanked her, and took his leave. Again he found that his brothers had reached home first with their chains, but these were not long enough to encircle the house even once, and they were greatly astonished when their youngest brother produced from the box the princess had given an enormous gold chain of the required length. Filled with envy, they exclaimed: "You will ruin the reputation of our house, for you must have stolen this chain!" The Third Quest At length the father, tired of their jangling, sent them away, saying: "Go; bring each of you his sweetheart, and I will give you permission to marry." Thereupon the two elder brothers went joyfully to fetch the girls they loved, and the youngest hurried away to the princess to tell her what was now his father's desire. When she heard, the princess said: "You must pass a third night here, and then we shall see what we can do." So, after supping together, she took him into a red room. During the night he heard again a blood-curdling noise, and from the darkness a mysterious voice said: "This young man is about to take possession of my estates and crown!" He was assaulted by ghosts and vampires, and was dragged from his bed; but through all the young man strove earnestly in prayer, and God saved him. Next morning when he appeared before the princess, she congratulated him on his bravery, and declared that he had won her love. The young man was overwhelmed with happiness, for although he would never have dared to reveal the secret of his heart, he also loved the princess. A barber was now summoned to attend upon the young man, and a tailor to dress him like a prince. This done, the couple went together to the castle chapel and were wedded. A few days later they drove to the young man's village, and as they stopped outside his home they heard great rejoicing and music, whereat they understood that his two elder brothers were celebrating their marriage feasts. The youngest brother knocked on the gate, and when his father came he did not recognize his son in the richly attired prince who stood before him. He was surprised that such distinguished guests should pay him a visit, and still more so when the prince said: "Good man, will you give us your hospitality for to-night?" The father answered: "Most gladly, but we are having festivities in our house, and I fear that these common people will disturb you with their singing and music." To this the young prince said: "Oh, no; it would please me to see the peasants feasting, and my wife would like it even more than I." They now entered the house, and as the hostess curtsied deeply before them the prince congratulated her, saying: "How happy you must be to see your two sons wedded on the same day!" The woman sighed. "Ah," said she, "on one hand I have joy and on the other mourning: I had a third son, who went out in the world, and who knows what ill fate may have befallen him?" After a time the young prince found an opportunity to step into his old room, and put on one of his old suits over his costly attire. He then returned to the room where the feast was spread and stood behind the door. Soon his two brothers saw him, and they called out: "Come here, father, and see your much-praised son, who went and stole like a thief!" The father turned, and seeing the young man, he exclaimed: "Where have you been for so long, and where is your sweetheart?" Then the youngest son said: "Do not reproach me; all is well with me and with you!" As he spake he took off his old garments and stood revealed in his princely dress. Then he told his story and introduced his wife to his parents. The brothers now expressed contrition for their conduct, and received the prince's pardon, after which they all embraced; the feasting was renewed, and the festivities went on for several days. Finally the young prince distributed amongst his father and brothers large portions of his new lands, and they all lived long and happily together. XV. ANIMALS AS FRIENDS AND AS ENEMIES [85] Once upon a time, a long while ago, there lived in a very far-off country, a young nobleman who was so exceedingly poor that all his property was an old castle, a handsome horse, a trusty hound, and a good rifle. This nobleman spent all his time in hunting and shooting, and lived entirely on the produce of the chase. One day he mounted his well-kept horse and rode off to the neighbouring forest, accompanied, as usual, by his faithful hound. When he came to the forest he dismounted, fastened his horse securely to a young tree, and then went deep into the thicket in search of game. The hound ran on at a distance before his master, and the horse remained all alone, grazing quietly. Now it happened that a hungry fox came by that way and, seeing how well-fed and well-trimmed the horse was, stopped a while to admire him. By and by she was so charmed with the handsome horse, that she lay down in the grass near him to bear him company. Some time afterward the young nobleman came back out of the forest, carrying a stag that he had killed, and was extremely surprised to see the fox lying so near his horse. So he raised his rifle with the intention of shooting her; but the fox ran up to him quickly and said, "Do not kill me! Take me with you, and I will serve you faithfully. I will take care of your fine horse whilst you are in the forest." The fox spoke so pitifully that the nobleman was sorry for her, and agreed to her proposal. Thereupon he mounted his horse, placed the stag he had shot before him, and rode back to his old castle, followed closely by his hound and his new servant, the fox. When the young nobleman prepared his supper, he did not forget to give the fox a due share, and she congratulated herself that she was never likely to be hungry again, at least so long as she served so skilful a hunter. The next morning the nobleman went out again to the chase; the fox also accompanied him. When the young man dismounted and bound his horse, as usual, to a tree, the fox lay down near it to keep it company. Now, whilst the hunter was far off in the depth of the forest looking for game, a hungry bear came by the place where the horse was tied, and, seeing how invitingly fat it looked, ran up to kill it. The fox hereupon sprang up and begged the bear not to hurt the horse, telling him if he was hungry he had only to wait patiently until her master came back from the forest, and then she was quite sure that the good nobleman would take him also to his castle and feed him, and care for him, as he did for his horse, his hound, and herself. The bear pondered over the matter very wisely and deeply for some time, and at length resolved to follow the fox's advice. Accordingly he lay down quietly near the horse, and waited for the return of the huntsman. When the young noble came out of the forest he was greatly surprised to see so large a bear near his horse, and, dropping the stag he had shot from his shoulders, he raised his trusty rifle and was about to shoot the beast. The fox, however, ran up to the huntsman and entreated him to spare the bear's life, and to take him, also, into his service. This the nobleman agreed to do; and, mounting his horse, rode back to his castle, followed by the hound, the fox, and the bear. The next morning, when the young man had gone again with his dog into the forest, and the fox and the bear lay quietly near the horse, a hungry wolf, seeing the horse, sprang out of a thicket to kill it. The fox and the bear, however, jumped up quickly and begged him not to hurt the animal, telling him to what a good master it belonged, and that they were sure, if he would only wait, he also would be taken into the same service, and would be well cared for. Thereupon the wolf, hungry though he was, thought it best to accept their counsel, and he also lay down with them in the grass until their master come out of the forest. You can imagine how surprised the young nobleman was when he saw a great gaunt wolf lying so near his horse! However, when the fox had explained the matter to him, he consented to take the wolf also into his service. Thus it happened that this day he rode home followed by the dog, the fox, the bear, and the wolf. As they were all hungry, the stag he had killed was not too large to furnish their suppers that night, and their breakfasts next morning. Not many days afterward a mouse was added to the company, and after that a mole begged so hard for admission that the good nobleman could not find in his heart to refuse her. Last of all came the great bird, the kumrekusha--so strong a bird that she can carry in her claws a horse with his rider! Soon after a hare was added to the company, and the nobleman took great care of all his animals and fed them regularly and well, so that they were all exceedingly fond of him. The Animals' Council One day the fox said to the bear, "My good Bruin, pray run into the forest and bring me a nice large log, on which I can sit whilst I preside at a very important council we are going to hold." Bruin, who had a great respect for the quick wit and good management of the fox, went out at once to seek the log, and soon came back bringing a heavy one, with which the fox expressed herself quite satisfied. Then she called all the animals about her, and, having mounted the log, addressed them in these words: "You know all of you, my friends, how very kind and good a master we have. But, though he is very kind, he is also very lonely. I propose, therefore, that we find a fitting wife for him." The assembly was evidently well pleased with this idea, and responded unanimously, "Very good, indeed, if we only knew any girl worthy to be the wife of our master; which, however, we do not." Then the fox said, "I know that the king has a most beautiful daughter, and I think it will be a good thing to take her for our lord; and therefore I propose, further, that our friend the kumrekusha should fly at once to the king's palace, and hover about there until the princess comes out to take her walk. Then she must catch her up at once, and bring her here." As the kumrekusha was glad to do anything for her kind master, she flew away at once, without even waiting to hear the decision of the assembly on this proposal. Just before evening set in, the princess came out to walk before her father's palace: whereupon the great bird seized her and placed her gently on her outspread wings, and thus carried her off swiftly to the young nobleman's castle. The king was exceedingly grieved when he heard that his daughter had been carried off, and sent out everywhere proclamations promising rich rewards to any one who should bring her back, or even tell him where he might look for her. For a long time, however, all his promises were of no avail, for no one in the kingdom knew anything at all about the princess. At last, however, when the king was well-nigh in despair, an old gipsy woman came to the palace and asked the king, "What will you give me if I bring back to you your daughter, the princess?" The king answered quickly, "I will gladly give you whatever you like to ask, if only you bring me back my daughter!" Then the old gipsy went back to her hut in the forest, and tried all her magical spells to find out where the princess was. At last she found out that she was living in an old castle, in a very distant country, with a young nobleman who had married her. The Magic Carpet The gipsy was greatly pleased when she knew this, and taking a whip in her hand seated herself at once in the middle of a small carpet, and lashed it with her whip. Then the carpet rose up from the ground and bore her swiftly through the air, toward the far country where the young nobleman lived, in his lonely old castle, with his beautiful wife, and all his faithful company of beasts. When the gipsy came near the castle she made the carpet descend on the grass among some tress, and leaving it there went to look about until she could meet the princess walking about the grounds. By and by the beautiful young lady came out of the castle, and immediately the ugly old woman went up to her, and began to fawn on her and to tell her all kinds of strange stories. Indeed, she was such a good story-teller that the princess grew quite tired of walking before she was tired of listening; so, seeing the soft carpet lying nicely on the green grass, she sat down on it to rest awhile. The moment she was seated the cunning old gipsy sat down by her, and, seizing her whip, lashed the carpet furiously. In the next minute the princess found herself borne upon the carpet far away from her husband's castle, and before long the gipsy made it descend into the garden of the king's palace. You can easily guess how glad he was to see his lost daughter, and how he generously gave the gipsy even more than she asked as a reward. Then the king made the princess live from that time in a very secluded tower with only two waiting-women, so afraid was he lest she would again be stolen from him. Meanwhile the fox, seeing how miserable and melancholy her young master appeared after his wife had so strangely been taken from him, and having heard of the great precautions which the king was using in order to prevent the princess being carried off again, summoned once more all the animals to a general council. When all of them were gathered about her, the fox thus began: "You know all of you, my dear friends, how happily our kind master was married; but you know, also, that his wife has been unhappily stolen from him, and that he is now far worse off than he was before we found the princess for him. Then he was lonely; now he is more than lonely--he is desolate! This being the case, it is clearly our duty, as his faithful servants, to try in some way to bring her back to him. This, however, is not a very easy matter, seeing that the king has placed his daughter for safety in a strong tower. Nevertheless, I do not despair, and my plan is this: I will turn myself into a beautiful cat, and play about in the palace gardens under the windows of the tower in which the princess lives. I dare say she will long for me greatly the moment she sees me, and will send her waiting-women down to catch me and take me up to her. But I will take good care that the maids do not catch me, so that, at last, the princess will forget her father's orders not to leave the tower, and will come down herself into the gardens to see if she may not be more successful. I will then make believe to let her catch me, and at this moment our friend, the kumrekusha, who must be hovering over about the palace, must fly down quickly, seize the princess, and carry her off as before. In this way, my dear friends, I hope we shall be able to bring back to our kind master his beautiful wife. Do you approve of my plan?" Of course, the assembly were only too glad to have such a wise counsellor, and to be able to prove their gratitude to their considerate master. So the fox ran up to the kumrekusha, who flew away with her under her wing, both being equally eager to carry out the project, and thus to bring back the old cheerful look to the face of their lord. When the kumrekusha came to the tower wherein the princess dwelt she set the fox down quietly among the trees, where it at once changed into a most beautiful cat, and commenced to play all sorts of graceful antics under the window at which the princess sat. The cat was striped all over the body with many different colours, and before long the king's daughter noticed her, and sent down her two women to catch her and bring her up in the tower. The two waiting-women came down into the garden, and called, "Pussy! pussy!" in their sweetest voices; they offered her bread and milk, but they offered it all in vain. The cat sprang merrily about the garden, and ran round and round them, but would on no account consent to be caught. At length the princess, who stood watching them at one of the windows of her tower, became impatient, and descended herself into the garden, saying petulantly, "You only frighten the cat; let me try to catch her!" As she approached the cat, who seemed now willing to be caught, the kumrekusha darted down quickly, seized the princess by the waist, and carried her high up into the air. The frightened waiting-women ran to report to the king what had happened to the princess; whereupon the king immediately let loose all his greyhounds to seize the cat which had been the cause of his daughter's being carried off a second time. The dogs followed the cat closely, and were on the point of catching her, when she, just in the nick of time, saw a cave with a very narrow entrance and ran into it for shelter. There the dogs tried to follow her, or to widen the mouth of the cave with their claws, but all in vain; so, after barking a long time very furiously, they at length grew weary, and stole back ashamed and afraid to the king's stables. When all the greyhounds were out of sight the cat changed herself back into a fox, and ran off in a straight line toward the castle, where she found her young master very joyful, for the kumrekusha had already brought back to him his beautiful wife. The King makes War on the Animals Now the king was exceedingly angry to think that he had again lost his daughter, and he was all the more angry to think that such poor creatures as a bird and a cat had succeeded in carrying her off after all his precautions. So, in his great wrath, he resolved to make a general war on the animals, and entirely exterminate them. To this end he gathered together a very large army, and determined to be himself their leader. The news of the king's intention spread swiftly over the whole kingdom, whereupon for the third time the fox called together all her friends--the bear, the wolf, the kumrekusha, the mouse, the mole, and the hare--to a general council. When all were assembled the fox addressed them thus: "My friends, the king has declared war against us, and intends to destroy us all. Now it is our duty to defend ourselves in the best way we can. Let us each see what number of animals we are able to muster. How many of your brother bears do you think you can bring to our help, my good Bruin?" The bear got up as quickly as he could on his hind legs and called out, "I am sure I can bring a hundred." "And how many of your friends can you bring, my good wolf?" asked the fox anxiously. "I can bring at least five hundred wolves with me," said the wolf with an air of importance. The fox nodded her satisfaction and continued, "And what can you do for us, dear master hare?" "Well, I think, I can bring about eight hundred," said the hare cautiously. "And what can you do, you dear little mouse?" "Oh, I can certainly bring three thousand mice." "Very well, indeed!--and you Mr. Mole?" "I am sure I can gather eight thousand." "And now what number do you think you can bring us, my great friend, kumrekusha?" "I fear not more than two or three hundred, at the very best," said the kumrekusha sadly. "Very good; now all of you go at once and collect your friends; when you have brought all you can, we will decide what is to be done," said the fox; whereupon the council broke up, and the animals dispersed in different directions throughout the forest. Not very long after, very unusual noises were heard in the neighbourhood of the castle. There was a great shaking of trees; and the growling of bears and the short sharp barking of wolves broke the usual quiet of the forest. The army of animals was gathering from all sides at the appointed place. When all were gathered together the fox explained to them her plans in these words: "When the king's army stops on its march to rest the first night, then you, bears and wolves, must be prepared to attack and kill all the horses. If, notwithstanding this, the army proceeds farther, you mice must be ready to bite and destroy all the saddle-straps and belts while the soldiers are resting the second night, and you hares must gnaw through the ropes with which the men draw the cannon. If the king still persists in his march, you moles must go the third night and dig out the earth under the road they will take the next day, and must make a ditch full fifteen yards in breadth and twenty yards in depth all round their camp. Next morning, when the army begins to march over this ground which has been hollowed out, you kumrekushas must throw down on them from above heavy stones while the earth will give way under them." The plan was approved, and all the animals went off briskly to attend to their allotted duties. When the king's army awoke, after their first night's rest on their march, they beheld, to their great consternation, that all the horses were killed. This sad news was reported at once to the king; but he only sent back for more horses, and, when they came late in the day, pursued his march. The second night the mice crept quietly into the camp, and nibbled diligently at the horses' saddles and at the soldiers' belts, while the hares as busily gnawed at the ropes with which the men drew the cannon. Next morning the soldiers were terrified, seeing the mischief the animals had done. The king, however, reassured them, and sent back to the city for new saddles and belts. When they were at length brought he resolutely pursued his march, only the more determined to revenge himself on these presumptuous and despised enemies. On the third night, while the soldiers were sleeping, the moles worked incessantly in digging round the camp a wide and deep trench underground. About midnight the fox sent the bears to help the moles, and to carry away the loads of earth. Next morning the king's soldiers were delighted to find that no harm seemed to have been done on the previous night to their horses or straps, and started with new courage on their march. But their march was quickly arrested, for soon the heavy horsemen and artillery began to fall through the hollow ground, and the king, when he observed that, called out, "Let us turn back. I see God himself is against us, since we have declared war against the animals. I will give up my daughter." Then the army turned back, amidst the rejoicings of the soldiers. The men found, however, to their great surprise and fear, that whichever way they turned, they fell through the earth. To make their consternation yet more complete, the kumrekushas now began to throw down heavy stones on them, which crushed them completely. In this way the king, as well as his whole army, perished. Very soon afterward the young nobleman, who had married the king's daughter, went to the enemy's capital and took possession of the king's palace, taking with him all his animals; and there they all lived long and happily together. XVI. THE THREE SUITORS In a very remote country there formerly lived a king who had only one child--an exceedingly beautiful daughter. The princess had a great number of suitors, and amongst them were three young noblemen, whom the king loved much. As, however, the king liked the three nobles equally well, he could not decide to which of the three he should give his daughter as wife. One day, therefore, he called the three young noblemen to him, and said, "Go, all of you, and travel about the world. The one of you who brings home the most remarkable thing shall be my son-in-law!" The three suitors started at once on their travels, each of them taking opposite ways, and going in search of remarkable things into far different countries. A long time had not passed before one of the young nobles found a wonderful carpet which would carry rapidly through the air whoever sat upon it. Another of them found a marvellous telescope, through which he could see everybody and everything in the world, and even the many-coloured sands at the bottom of the great deep sea. The third found a wonder-working ointment, which could cure every disease in the world, and even bring dead people back to life again. Now the three noble travellers were far distant from each other when they found these wonderful things. But when the young man who had found the telescope looked through it, he saw one of his former friends and present rivals walking with a carpet on his shoulder, and so he set out to join him. As he could always see, by means of his marvellous telescope, where the other nobleman was, he had no great difficulty in finding him, and when the two had met, they sat side by side on the wonderful carpet, and it carried them through the air until they had joined the third traveller. One day, when each of them had been telling of the remarkable things he had seen in his travels, one of them exclaimed suddenly, "Now let us see what the beautiful princess is doing, and where she is." Then the noble who had found the telescope, looked through it and saw, to his great surprise and dismay, that the king's daughter was lying very sick and at the point of death. He told this to his two friends and rivals, and they, too, were thunderstruck at the bad news--until the one who had found the wonder-working ointment, remembering it suddenly, exclaimed, "I am sure I could cure her, if I could only reach the palace soon enough!" On hearing this the noble who had found the wonderful carpet cried out, "Let us sit down on my carpet, and it will quickly carry us to the king's palace!" Thereupon the three nobles gently placed themselves in the carpet, which rose instantly in the air, and carried them direct to the king's palace. The king received them immediately; but said very sadly, "I am sorry for you: for all your travels have been in vain. My daughter is just dying, so she can marry none of you!" But the nobleman who possessed the wonder-working ointment said respectfully, "Do not fear, sire, the princess will not die!" And on being permitted to enter the apartment where she lay sick, he placed the ointment so that she could smell it. In a few moments the princess revived, and when her waiting-women had rubbed a little of the ointment in her skin she recovered so quickly that in a few days she was better than she had been before she was taken ill. The king was so glad to have his daughter given back to him, as he thought, from the grave, that he declared that she should marry no one but the young nobleman whose wonderful ointment had cured her. The Dispute But now a great dispute arose between the three young nobles: the one who possessed the ointment affirmed that had he not found it the princess would have died, and could not, therefore, have married any one; the noble who owned the telescope declared that had he not found the wonderful telescope they would never have known that the princess was dying, and so his friend would not have brought the ointment to cure her; whilst the third noble proved to them that had he not found the wonderful carpet neither the finding of the ointment nor the telescope would have helped the princess, since they could not have travelled such a great distance in time to save her. The king, overhearing this dispute, called the young noblemen to him, and said to them, "My lords, from what you have said, I see that I cannot, with justice, give my daughter to any of you; therefore, I pray you to give up altogether the idea of marrying her, and that you continue friends as you always were before you became rivals." The three young nobles saw that the king had decided justly; so they all left their native country, and went into a far-off desert to live like hermits. And the king gave the princess to another of his great nobles. Many, many years had passed away since the marriage of the princess, when her husband was sent by her father to a distant country with which the king was waging war. The nobleman took his wife, the princess, with him, as he was uncertain how long he might be forced to remain abroad. Now it happened that a violent storm arose just as the vessel which carried the princess and her husband was approaching a strange coast; and in the height of the great tempest the ship dashed on some rocks, and went to pieces instantly. All the people on board perished in the waves, excepting only the princess, who clung very fast to a boat and was carried by the wind and the tide to the shore. There she found what seemed to be an uninhabited country, and, discovering a small cave in a rock, she lived alone in it for three years, feeding on wild herbs and fruits. She searched every day to find some way out of the forest which surrounded her cave, but could find none. One day, however, when she had wandered farther than usual from the cave where she lived, she came suddenly on another cave which, to her great astonishment, had a small door. She tried over and over again to open the door, thinking she would pass the night in the cave; but all her efforts were unavailing, it was shut so fast. At length, however, a deep voice from within the cave called out, "Who is at the door?" At this the princess was so surprised that she could not answer for some moments; when, however, she had recovered a little, she said, "Open me the door!" Immediately the door was opened from within, and she saw, with sudden terror, an old man with a thick grey beard reaching below his waist and long white hair flowing over his shoulders. What frightened the princess the more was her finding a man living here in the same desert where she had lived herself three years without seeing a single soul. The hermit and the princess looked at each long and earnestly without saying a word. At length, however, the old man said, "Tell me, are you an angel or a daughter of this world?" Then the princess answered, "Old man, let me rest a moment, and then I will tell you all about myself, and what brought me here." So the hermit brought out some wild pears, and when the princess had taken some of them, she began to tell him who she was, and how she came in that desert. She said, "I am a king's daughter, and once, many years ago, three young nobles of my father's court asked the king for my hand in marriage. Now the king had such an equal affection for all these three young men that he was unwilling to give pain to any of them, so he sent them to travel into distant countries, and promised to decide between them when they returned. "The three noblemen remained a long time away; and whilst they were still abroad somewhere, I fell dangerously ill. I was just at the point of death, when they all three returned suddenly; one of them bringing a wonderful ointment, which cured me at once; the two others brought each equally remarkable things--a carpet that would carry whoever sat on it through the air, and a telescope with which one could see everybody and everything in the world, even to the sands at the bottom of the sea." The Recognition The princess had gone on thus far with her story, when the hermit suddenly interrupted her, saying: "All that happened afterward I know as well as you can tell me. Look at me, my daughter! I am one of those noblemen who sought to win your hand, and here is the wonderful telescope." And the hermit brought out the instrument from a recess in the side of his cave before he continued; "My two friends and rivals came with me to this desert. We parted, however, immediately, and have never met since. I know not whether they are living or dead, but I will look for them." Then the hermit looked through his telescope, and saw that the other two noblemen were living in caves like his, in different parts of the same desert. Having found this out, he took the princess by the hand, and led her on until they found the other hermits. When all were re-united, the princess related her adventures since the foundering of the ship, in which her husband had gone down, and from which she alone had been saved. The three noble hermits were pleased to see her alive once again, but at once decided that they ought to send her back to the king, her father. Then they made the princess a present of the wonderful telescope, and the wonder-working ointment, and placed her on the wonderful carpet, which carried her and her treasures quickly and safely to her father's palace. As for the three noblemen, they remained, still living like hermits, in the desert, only they visited each other now and then, so that the years seemed no longer so tedious to them. For they had many adventures to relate to each other. The king was exceedingly glad to receive his only child back safely, and the princess lived with her father many years; but neither the king nor his daughter could entirely forget the three noble friends who, for her sake, lived like hermits in a wild desert in a far-off land. XVII. THE DREAM OF THE KING'S SON There was once a king who had three sons. One evening, when the young princes were going to sleep, the king ordered them to take good note of their dreams and come and tell them to him next morning. So, the next day the princes went to their father as soon as they awoke, and the moment the king saw them he asked of the eldest, "Well, what have you dreamt?" The prince answered, "I dreamt that I should be the heir to your throne." And the second said, "And I dreamt that I should be the first subject in the kingdom." Then the youngest said, "I dreamt that I was going to wash my hands, and that the princes, my brothers, held the basin, whilst the queen, my mother, held fine towels for me to dry my hands with, and your majesty's self poured water over them from a golden ewer." The king, hearing this last dream, became very angry, and exclaimed, "What! I--the king--pour water over the hands of my own son! Go away this instant out of my palace, and out of my kingdom! You are no longer my son." The poor young prince tried hard to make his peace with his father, saying that he was really not to be blamed for what he had only dreamed; but the king grew more and more furious, and at last actually thrust the prince out of the palace. So the young prince was obliged to wander up and down in different countries, until one day, being in a large forest, he saw a cave, and entered it to rest. There, to his great surprise and joy, he found a large kettle full of Indian corn, boiling over a fire: and, being exceedingly hungry, began to help himself to the corn. In this way he went until he was shocked to see he had nearly eaten up all the maize, and then, being afraid some mischief would come of it, he looked about for a place in which to hide himself. At this moment, however, a great noise was heard at the cave-mouth, and he had only time to hide himself in a dark corner before a blind old man entered, riding on a great goat and driving a number of goats before him. The old man rode straight up to the kettle, but as soon as he found that the corn was nearly all gone, he began to suspect some one was there, and groped about the cave until he caught hold of the prince. "Who are you?" asked he sharply; and the prince answered, "I am a poor, homeless wanderer about the world, and have come now to beg you to be good enough to receive me." "Well," said the old man, "why not? I shall at least have some one to mind my corn whilst I am out with my goats in the forest." So they lived together for some time; the prince remaining in the cave to boil the maize, whilst the old man drove out his goats every morning into the forest. One day, however, the old man said to the prince, "I think you shall take out the goats to-day, and I will stay at home to mind the corn." This the prince consented to very gladly, as he was tired of living so long quietly in the cave. But the old man added, "Mind only one thing! There are nine different mountains, and you can let the goats go freely over eight of them, but you must on no account go on the ninth. The veele live there, and they will certainly put out your eyes as they have put out mine, if you venture on their mountain." The prince thanked the old man for his warning, and then, mounting the great goat, drove the rest of the goats before him out of the cave. Following the goats, he had passed over all the mountains to the eighth, and from this he could see the ninth mountain, and could not resist the temptation he felt to go upon it. So he said to himself, "I will venture up, whatever happens!" The Prince and the Veele Hardly had he stepped on the ninth mountain before the fairies surrounded him, and prepared to put out his eyes. But, happily, a thought came into his head, and he exclaimed, quickly, "Dear veele, why take this sin on your heads? Better let us make a bargain, that if you spring over a tree that I will place ready to jump over, you shall put out my eyes, and I will not blame you!" So the veele consented to this, and the prince went and brought a large tree, which he cleft down the middle almost to the root; this done, he placed a wedge to keep the two halves of the trunk open a little. When it was fixed upright, he himself first jumped over it, and then he said to the veele, "Now it is your turn. Let us see if you can spring over the tree!" One veele attempted to spring over, but the same moment the prince knocked the wedge out, and the trunk closing at once held the veele fast. Then all the other fairies were alarmed, and begged him to open the trunk and let their sister free, promising, in return, to give him anything he might ask. The prince said, "I want nothing except to keep my own eyes, and to restore eyesight to that poor old man." So the fairies gave him a certain herb, and told him to lay it over the old man's eyes, and then he would recover his sight. The prince took the herb, opened the tree a little so as to let the fairy free, and then rode back on the goat to the cave, driving the other goats before him. When he arrived there he placed at once the herb on the old man's eyes, and in a moment his eyesight came back, to his exceeding surprise and joy. Next morning the old man, before he drove out his goats, gave the prince the keys of eight closets in the cave, but warned him on no account to open the ninth closet, although the key hung directly over the door. Then he went out, telling the prince to take good care that the corn was ready for their suppers. Left alone in the cave, the young man began to wonder what might be in the ninth closet, and at last he could not resist the temptation to take down the key and open the door to look in. The Golden Horse What was his surprise to see there a golden horse, with a golden greyhound beside him, and near them a golden hen and golden chickens were busy picking up golden millet-seeds. The young prince gazed at them for some time, admiring their beauty, and then he spoke to the golden horse, "Friend, I think we had better leave this place before the old man comes back again." "Very well," answered the golden horse, "I am quite willing to go away, only you must take heed to what I am going to tell. Go and find linen cloth enough to spread over the stones at the mouth of the cave, for if the old man hears the ring of my hoofs he will be certain to kill you. Then you must take with you a little stone, a drop of water, and a pair of scissors, and the moment I tell you to throw them down you must obey me quickly, or you are lost." The prince did everything that the golden horse had ordered him, and then, taking up the golden hen with her chickens in a bag, he placed it under his arm, and mounted the horse and rode quickly out of the cave, leading with him, in a leash, the golden greyhound. But the moment they were in the open air the old man, although he was very far off, tending his goats on a distant mountain, heard the clang of the golden hoofs, and cried to his great goat, "They have run away. Let us follow them at once." In a wonderfully short time the old man on his great goat came so near the prince on his golden horse, that the latter shouted, "Throw now the little stone!" The moment the prince had thrown it down, a high rocky mountain rose up between him and the old man, and before the goat had climbed over it, the golden horse had gained much ground. Very soon, however, the old man was so nearly catching them that the horse shouted, "Throw, now, the drop of water!" The prince obeyed instantly, and immediately saw a broad river flowing between him and his pursuer. It took the old man on his goat so long to cross the river that the prince on his golden horse was far away before them; but for all that it was not very long before the horse heard the goat so near behind him that he shouted, "Throw the scissors." The prince threw them, and the goat, running over them, injured one of his fore legs very badly. When the old man saw this, he exclaimed, "Now I see I cannot catch you, so you may keep what you have taken. But you will do wisely to listen to my counsel. People will be sure to kill you for the sake of your golden horse, so you had better buy at once a donkey, and take the hide to cover your horse. And do the same with your golden greyhound." Having said this, the old man turned and rode back to his cave; and the prince lost no time in attending to his advice, and covered with donkey-hide his golden horse and his golden hound. After travelling a long time the prince came unawares to the kingdom of his father. There he heard that the king had had a ditch dug, three hundred yards wide and four hundred yards deep, and had proclaimed that whosoever should leap his horse over it, should have the princess, his daughter, for wife. Almost a whole year had elapsed since the proclamation was issued, but as yet no one had dared to risk the leap. When the prince heard this, he said, "I will leap over it with my donkey and my dog!" and he leapt over it. But the king was very angry when he heard that a poorly dressed man, on a donkey, had dared to leap over the great ditch which had frightened back his bravest knights; so he had the disguised prince thrown into one of his deepest dungeons, together with his donkey and his dog. Next morning the king sent some of his servants to see if the man was still living, and these soon ran back to him, full of wonder, and told him that they had found in the dungeon, instead of a poor man and his donkey, a young man, beautifully dressed, a golden horse, a golden greyhound, and a golden hen, surrounded by golden chickens, which were picking up golden millet-seeds from the ground. Then the king said, "That must be some powerful prince." So he ordered the queen, and the princes, his sons, to prepare all things for the stranger to wash his hands. Then he went down himself into the dungeon, and led the prince up with much courtesy, desiring to make thus amends for the past ill-treatment. The king himself took a golden ewer full of water, and poured some over the prince's hands, whilst the two princes held the basin under them, and the queen held out fine towels to dry them on. This done, the young prince exclaimed, "Now, my dream is fulfilled"; and they all at once recognized him, and were very glad to see him once again amongst them. XVIII. THE BITER BIT Once upon a time there was an old man who, whenever he heard anyone complain how many sons he had to care for, always laughed and said, "I wish that it would please God to give me a hundred sons!" This he said in jest; as time went on, however, he had, in reality, neither more nor less than a hundred sons. He had trouble enough to find different trades for his sons, but when they were once all started in life they worked diligently and gained plenty of money. Now, however, came a fresh difficulty. One day the eldest son came in to his father and said, "My dear father, I think it is quite time that I should marry." Hardly had he said these words before the second son came in, saying, "Dear father, I think it is already time that you were looking out for a wife for me." A moment later came in the third son, asking, "Dear father, don't you think it is high time that you should find me a wife?" In like manner came the fourth and fifth, until the whole hundred had made a similar request. All of them wished to marry, and desired their father to find wives for them as soon as he could. The old man was not a little troubled at these requests; he said, however, to his sons, "Very well, my sons, I have nothing to say against your marrying; there is, however, I foresee, one great difficulty in the way. There are one hundred of you asking for wives, and I hardly think we can find one hundred marriageable girls in all the fifteen villages which are in our neighbourhood." To this the sons, however, answered, "Don't be anxious about that, but mount your horse and take in your sack sufficient engagement-cakes. You must take, also, a stick in your hand so that you can cut a notch in it for every girl you see. It does not signify whether she be handsome or ugly, or lame or blind, just cut a notch in your stick for every one you meet with." The old man said, "Very wisely spoken, my sons! I will do exactly as you tell me." Accordingly he mounted his horse, took a sack full of cakes on his shoulder and a long stick in his hand, and started off at once to beat up the neighbourhood for girls to marry his sons. The old man had travelled from village to village during a whole month, and whenever he had seen a girl he cut a notch in his stick. But he was getting pretty well tired, and he began to count how many notches he had already made. When he had counted them carefully over and over again, to be certain that he had counted all, he could only make out seventy-four, so that still twenty-six were wanting to complete the number required. He was, however, so weary with his month's ride that he determined to return home. As he rode along, he saw a priest driving oxen yoked to a plough, and seemingly very deep in anxious thought about something. Now the old man wondered a little to see the priest ploughing his own corn-fields without even a boy to help him; he therefore shouted to ask him why he drove his oxen himself. The priest, however, did not even turn his head to see who called to him, so intent was he in urging on his oxen and in guiding his plough. The old man thought he had not spoken loud enough, so he shouted out again as loud as he could, "Stop your oxen a little, and tell me why you are ploughing yourself without even a lad to help you, and this, too, on a holy-day!" Now the priest--who was in a perspiration with his hard work--answered testily, "I conjure you by your old age leave me in peace! I cannot tell you my ill-luck." The Hundred Daughters At this answer, however, the old man was only the more curious, and persisted all the more earnestly in asking questions to find out why the priest ploughed on a saint's day. At last the priest, tired with his importunity, sighed deeply and said, "Well, if you will know: I am the only man in my household, and God has blessed me with a hundred daughters!" The old man was overjoyed at hearing this, and exclaimed cheerfully, "That's very good! It is just what I want, for I have a hundred sons, and so, as you have a hundred daughters, we can be friends!" The moment the priest heard this he became pleasant and talkative, and invited the old man to pass the night in his house. Then, leaving his plough in the field, he drove the oxen back to the village. Just before reaching his house, however, he said to the old man, "Go yourself into the house whilst I tie up my oxen." No sooner, however, had the old man entered the yard than the wife of the priest rushed at him with a big stick, crying out, "We have not bread enough for our hundred daughters, and we want neither beggars nor visitors," and with these words she drove him away. Shortly afterwards the priest came out of the barn, and, finding the old man sitting on the road before the gate, asked him why he had not gone into the house as he had told him to do. Whereupon the old man replied, "I went in, but your wife drove me away!" Then the priest said, "Only wait here a moment till I come back to fetch you." He then went quickly into his house and scolded his wife right well, saying, "What have you done? What a fine chance you have spoiled! The man who came in was going to be our friend, for he has a hundred sons who would gladly have married our hundred daughters!" When the wife heard this she changed her dress hastily, and arranged her hair and head-dress in a different fashion. Then she smiled very sweetly, and welcomed with the greatest possible politeness the old man, when her husband led him into the house. In fact, she pretended that she knew nothing at all of anyone having been driven away from their door. And as the old man wanted much to find wives for his sons, he also pretended that he did not know that the smiling house-mistress and the woman who drove him away with a stick were one and the selfsame person. So the old man passed the night in the house, and next morning asked the priest formally to give him his hundred daughters for wives for his hundred sons. Thereupon the priest answered that he was quite willing, and had already spoken to his daughters about the matter, and that they, too, were all quite willing. Then the old man took out his "engagement-cakes," and put them on the table beside him, and gave each of the girls a piece of money to mark. Then each of the engaged girls sent a small present by him to that one of his sons to whom she was thus betrothed. These gifts the old man put in the bag wherein he had carried the "engagement-cakes." He then mounted his horse, and rode off merrily homewards. There were great rejoicings in his household when he told how successful he had been in his search, and that he really had found a hundred girls ready and willing to be married; and these hundred, too, a priest's daughters. The sons insisted that they should begin to make the wedding preparations without delay, and commenced at once to invite the guests who were to form part of the wedding procession to go to the priest's house and bring home the brides. Here, however, another difficulty occurred. The old father must find two hundred bride-leaders (two for each bride); one hundred kooms; one hundred starisvats; one hundred chaious (running footmen who go before the processions); and three hundred vojvodes (standard-bearers); and, besides these, a respectable number of other non-official guests. To find all these persons the father had to hunt throughout the neighbourhood for three years; at last, however, they were all found, and a day was appointed when they were to meet at his house, and go thence in procession to the house of the priest. The Wedding Procession On the appointed day all the invited guests gathered at the old man's house. With great noise and confusion, after a fair amount of feasting, the wedding procession was formed properly, and set out for the house of the priest, where the hundred brides were already prepared for their departure for their new home. So great was the confusion, indeed, that the old man quite forgot to take with him one of the hundred sons, and never missed him in the greeting and talking and drinking he was obliged, as father of the bridegrooms, to go through. Now the young man had worked so long and so hard in preparing for the wedding-day that he never woke up till long after the procession had started; and every one had had, like his father, too much to do and too many things to think of to miss him. The wedding procession arrived in good order at the priest's house, where a feast was already spread out for them. Having done honour to the various good things, and having gone through all the ceremonies usual on such occasions, the hundred brides were given over to their "leaders," and the procession started on its return to the old man's house. But, as they did not set off until pretty late in the afternoon, it was decided that the night should be spent somewhere on the road. When they came, therefore, to a certain river named "Luckless," as it was already dark, some of the men proposed that the party should pass the night by the side of the water without crossing over. However, some others of the chief of the party so warmly advised the crossing the river and encamping on the other bank, that this course was at length, after a very lively discussion, determined on; accordingly the procession began to move over the bridge. Just, however, as the wedding party were half-way across the bridge its two sides began to draw nearer each other, and pressed the people so close together that they had hardly room to breathe--much less could they move forwards or backwards. The Black Giant They were kept for some time in this position, some shouting and scolding, others quiet because frightened, until at length a black giant appeared, and shouted to them in a terribly loud voice, "Who are you all? Where do you come from? Where are you going?" Some of the bolder among them answered, "We are going to our old friend's house, taking home the hundred brides for his hundred sons; but unluckily we ventured on this bridge after nightfall, and it has pressed us so tightly together that we cannot move one way or the other." "And where is your old friend?" inquired the black giant. Now all the wedding guests turned their eyes towards the old man. Thereupon he turned towards the giant, who instantly said to him, "Listen, old man! Will you give me what you have forgotten at home, if I let your friends pass over the bridge?" The old man considered some time what it might be that he had forgotten at home, but, at last, not being able to recollect anything in particular that he had left, and hearing on all sides the groans and moans of his guests, he replied, "Well, I will give it you, if you will only let the procession pass over." Then the black giant said to the party, "You all hear what he has promised, and are all my witnesses to the bargain. In three days I shall come to fetch what I have bargained for." Having said this, the black giant widened the bridge and the whole procession passed on to the other bank in safety. The people, however, no longer wished to spend the night on the way, so they moved on as fast as they could, and early in the morning reached the old man's house. As everybody talked of the strange adventure they had met with, the eldest son, who had been left at home, soon began to understand how the matter stood, and went to his father saying, "O my father! you have sold me to the black giant!" Then the old man was very sorry, and troubled; but his friends comforted him, saying, "Don't be frightened! nothing will come of it." The marriage ceremonies were celebrated with great rejoicings. Just, however, as the festivities were at their height, on the third day, the black giant appeared at the gate and shouted, "Now, give me at once what you have promised." The old man, trembling all over, went forward and asked him, "What do you want?" "Nothing but what you have promised me!" returned the black giant. As he could not break his promise, the old man, very distressed, was then obliged to deliver up his eldest son to the giant, who thereupon said, "Now I shall take your son with me, but after three years have passed you can come to the Luckless River and take him away." Having said this the black giant disappeared, taking with him the young man, whom he carried off to his workshop as an apprentice to the trade of witchcraft. From that time the poor old man had not a single moment of happiness. He was always sad and anxious, and counted every year, and month, and week, and even every day, until the dawn of the last day of the three years. Then he took a staff in his hand and hurried off to the bank of the river Luckless. As soon as he reached the river, he was met by the black giant, who asked him, "Why are you come?" The old man answered that he come to take home his son, according to his agreement. Thereupon the giant brought out a tray on which stood a sparrow, a turtle-dove, and a quail, and said to the old man, "Now, if you can tell which of these is your son, you may take him away." The poor old father looked intently at the three birds, one after the other, and over and over again, but at last he was forced to own that he could not tell which of them was his son. So he was obliged to go away by himself, and was far more miserable than before. He had hardly, however, got half-way home when he thought he would go back to the river and take one of the birds which remembered and looked at him intently. When he reached the river Luckless he was again met by the black giant, who brought out the tray again, and placed on it this time a partridge, a tit-mouse, and a thrush, saying, 'Now, my old man, find out which is your son!' The anxious father again looked at one bird after the other, but he felt more uncertain than before, and so, crying bitterly, again went away. The Old Woman Just as the old man was going through a forest, which was between the river Luckless and his house, an old woman met him, and said, "Stop a moment! Where are you hurrying to? And why are you in such trouble?" Now, the old man was so deeply musing over his great unhappiness that he did not at first attend to the old woman; but she followed him, calling after him, and repeating her questions with more earnestness. So he stopped at last, and told her what a terrible misfortune had fallen upon him. When the old woman had listened to the whole story, she said cheerfully, "Don't be cast down! Don't be afraid! Go back again to the river, and, when the giant brings out the three birds, look into their eyes sharply. When you see that one of the birds has a tear in one of its eyes, seize that bird and hold it fast, for it has a human soul." The old man thanked her heartily for her advice, and turned back, for the third time, towards the Luckless River. Again the black giant appeared, and looked very merry whilst he brought out his tray and put upon it a sparrow, a dove, and a woodpecker, saying, "My old man! find out which is your son!" Then the father looked sharply into the eyes of the birds, and saw that from the right eye of the dove a tear dropped slowly down. In a moment he grasped the bird tightly, saying, "This is my son!" The next moment he found himself holding fast his eldest son by the shoulder, and so, singing and shouting in his great joy, took him quickly home, and gave him over to his eldest daughter-in-law, the wife of his son. Now, for some time they all lived together very happily. One day, however, the young man said to his father, "Whilst I was apprentice in the workshop of the black giant, I learned a great many tricks of witchcraft. Now I intend to change myself into a fine horse, and you shall take me to market and sell me for a good sum of money. But be sure not to give up the halter." The father did as the son had said. Next market day he went to the city with a fine horse which he offered for sale. Many buyers came round him, admiring the horse, and bidding some sums for it, so that at last the old man was able to sell it for two thousand ducats. When he received the money, he took good care not to let go the halter, and he returned home far richer than he ever dreamt of being. A few days later, the man who had bought the horse sent his servant with it to the river to bathe, and, whilst in the water, the horse got loose from the servant and galloped off into the neighbouring forest. There he changed himself back into his real shape, and returned to his father's house. After some time had passed, the young man said one day to his father, "Now I will change myself into an ox, and you can take me to market to sell me; but take care not to give up the rope with which you lead me." So next market-day the old man went to the city leading a very fine ox, and soon found a buyer, who offered ten times the usual price paid for an ox. The buyer asked also for the rope to lead the animal home, but the old man said, "What do you want with such an old thing? You had better buy a new one!" and he went off taking with him the rope. That evening, whilst the servants of the buyer were driving the ox to the field, he ran away into a wood near, and, having taken there his human shape, returned home to his father's house. On the eve of the next market-day, the young man said to his father: "Now I will change myself into a cow with golden horns, and you can sell me as before, only take care not to give up the string." Accordingly he changed himself next morning into a cow, and the old man took it to the market-place, and asked for it three hundred crowns. But the black giant had learnt that his former apprentice was making a great deal of money by practising the trade he had taught him, and, being jealous at this, he determined to put an end to the young man's gains. The Giant buys the Cow Therefore, on the third day he came to the market himself as a buyer, and the moment he saw the beautiful cow with golden horns he knew that it could be no other than his former apprentice. So he came up to the old man, and, having outbid all the other would-be purchasers, paid at once the price he had agreed on. Having done this, he caught the string in his hand, and tried to wrench it from the terrified old man, who called out, "I have not sold you the string, but the cow!" and held the string as fast as he could with both hands. "Oh, no!" said the buyer, "I have the law and custom on my side! Whoever buys a cow, buys also the string with which it is led!" Some of the amused and astonished lookers-on said that this was quite true, therefore the old man was obliged to give up the string. The black giant, well satisfied with his purchase, took the cow with him to his castle, and, after having put iron chains on her legs, fastened her in a cellar. Every morning the giant gave the cow some water and hay, but he never unchained her. One evening, however, the cow, with incessant struggles, managed to get free from the chains, and immediately opened the cellar-door with her horns and ran away. Next morning the black giant went as usual into the cellar, carrying the hay and water for the cow; but seeing she had got free and run away, he threw the hay down, and started off at once to pursue her. When he came within sight of her, he turned himself into a wolf and ran at her with great fury; but his clever apprentice changed himself instantly from a cow into a bear, whereupon the giant turned himself from a wolf into a lion; the bear then turned into a tiger, and the lion changed into a crocodile, whereupon the tiger turned into a sparrow. Upon this the giant changed from the form of a crocodile into a hawk, and the apprentice immediately changed into a hare; on seeing which the hawk became a greyhound. Then the apprentice changed from a hare into a falcon, and the greyhound into an eagle; whereupon the apprentice changed into a fish. The giant then turned from an eagle into a mouse, and immediately the apprentice, as a cat, ran after him; then the giant turned himself into a heap of millet, and the apprentice transformed himself into a hen and chickens, which very greedily picked up all the millet except one single seed, in which the master was, who changed himself into a squirrel; instantly, however, the apprentice became a hawk, and, pouncing on the squirrel, killed it. In this way the apprentice beat his master, the black giant, and revenged himself for all the sufferings he had endured whilst learning the trade of witchcraft. Having killed the squirrel, the hawk took his proper shape again, and the young man returned joyfully to his father, whom he made immensely rich. XIX. THE TRADE THAT NO ONE KNOWS A long while ago there lived a poor old couple, who had an only son. The old man and his wife worked very hard to nourish their child well and bring him up properly, hoping that he, in return, would take care of them in their old age. When, however, the boy had grown up, he said to his parents, "I am a man now, and I intend to marry, so I wish you to go at once to the king and ask him to give me his daughter for wife." The astonished parents rebuked him, saying: "What can you be thinking of? We have only this poor hut to shelter us, and hardly bread enough to eat, and we dare not presume to go into the king's presence, much less can we venture to ask for his daughter to be your wife." The son, however, insisted that they should do as he said, threatening that if they did not comply with his wishes he would leave them, and go away into the world. Seeing that he was really in earnest in what he said, the unhappy parents promised him they would go and ask for the king's daughter. Then the old mother made a wedding cake in her son's presence, and, when it was ready, she put it in a bag, took her staff in her hand, and went straight to the palace where the king lived. There the king's servants bade her come in, and led her into the hall where his Majesty was accustomed to receive the poor people who came to ask alms or to present petitions. The poor old woman stood in the hall, confused and ashamed at her worn-out, shabby clothes, and looking as if she were made of stone, until the king said to her kindly: "What do you want from me, old mother?" She dared not, however, tell his Majesty why she had come, so she stammered out in her confusion: "Nothing, your Majesty." Then the king smiled a little and said, "Perhaps you come to ask alms?" Then the old woman, much abashed, replied: "Yes, your Majesty, if you please!" Thereupon the king called his servants and ordered them to give the old woman ten crowns, which they did. Having received this money, she thanked his Majesty, and returned home, saying to herself: "I dare say when my son sees all this money he will not think any more of going away from us." In this thought, however, she was quite mistaken, for no sooner had she entered the hut than the son came to her and asked impatiently: "Well, mother, have you done as I asked you?" At this she exclaimed: "Do give up, once for all, this silly fancy, my son. How could you expect me to ask the king for his daughter to be your wife? That would be a bold thing for a rich nobleman to do, how then can we think of such a thing? Anyhow, I dared not say one word to the king about it. But only look what a lot of money I have brought back. Now you can look for a wife suitable for you, and then you will forget the king's daughter." When the young man heard his mother speak thus, he grew very angry, and said to her: "What do I want with the king's money? I don't want his money, but I do want his daughter! I see you are only playing with me, so I shall leave you. I will go away somewhere--anywhere--wherever my eyes lead me." Then the poor old parents prayed and begged him not to go away from them, and leave them alone in their old age; but they could only quiet him by promising faithfully that the mother should go again next day to the king, and this time really ask him to give his daughter to her son for a wife. In the morning, therefore, the old woman went again to the palace, and the servants showed her into the same hall she had been in before. The king, seeing her stand there, inquired: "What want you, my old woman, now?" She was, however, so ashamed that she could hardly stammer, "Nothing, please your Majesty." The king, supposing that she came again to beg, ordered his servants to give this time also ten crowns. With this money the poor woman returned to her hut, where her son met her, asking: "Well, mother, this time I hope you have done what I asked you?" But she replied: "Now, my dear son, do leave the king's daughter in peace. How can you really think of such a thing? Even if she would marry you, where is the house to bring her to? So be quiet, and take this money which I have brought you." At these words the son was more angry than before, and said sharply: "As I see you will not let me marry the king's daughter, I will leave you this moment and never come back again;" and, rushing out of the hut, he ran away. His parents hurried after him, and at length prevailed on him to return, by swearing to him that his mother should go again to the king next morning, and really and in truth ask his Majesty this time for his daughter. So the young man agreed to go back home and wait until the next day. On the morrow the old woman, with a heavy heart, went to the palace, and was shown as before into the king's presence. Seeing her there for the third time, his Majesty asked her impatiently: "What do you want this time, old woman?" And she, trembling all over, said: "Please your Majesty--nothing." Then the king exclaimed: "But it cannot be nothing. Something you must want, so tell me truth at once, if you value your life!" Thereupon the old woman was forced to tell all the story to the king; how her son had a great desire to marry the princess, and so had forced her to come and ask the king to give her him to wife. When the king had heard everything, he said: "Well, after all, I shall say nothing against it if my daughter will consent to it." He then told his servants to lead the princess into his presence. When she came he told her all about the affair, and asked her, "Are you willing to marry the son of this old woman?" The Condition The princess answered: "Why not? If only he learns first the trade that no one knows!" Thereupon the king bade his attendants give money to the poor woman, who now went back to her hut with a light heart. The moment she entered her son asked her: "Have you engaged her?" And she returned: "Do let me get my breath a little! Well, now I have really asked the king: but it is of no use, for the princess declares she will not marry you until you have learnt the trade that no one knows!" "Oh, that matters nothing!" exclaimed the son. "Now I only know the condition, it's all right!" The next morning the young man set out on his travels through the world in search of a man who could teach him the trade that no one knows. He wandered about a long time without being able to find out where he could learn such a trade. At length one day, being quite tired out with walking and very sad, he sat down on a fallen log by the wayside. After he had sat thus a little while, an old woman came up to him, and asked: "Why art thou so sad, my son?" And he answered: "What is the use of your asking, when you cannot help me?" But she continued: "Only tell me what is the matter, and perhaps I can help you." Then he said: "Well, if you must know, the matter is this: I have been travelling about the world a long time to find a master who can teach me the trade that no one knows." "Oh, if it is only that," cried the old woman, "just listen to me! Don't be afraid, but go straight into the forest which lies before you, and there you will find what you want." The young man was very glad to hear this, and got up at once and went to the forest. When he had gone pretty far in the wood he saw a large castle, and whilst he stood looking at it and wondering what it was, four giants came out of it and ran up to him, shouting: "Do you wish to learn the trade that no one knows?" He said: "Yes; that is just the reason why I come here." Whereupon they took him into the castle. Next morning the giants prepared to go out hunting, and, before leaving, they said to him: "You must on no account go into the first room by the dining-hall." Hardly, however, were the giants well out of sight before the young man began to reason thus with himself: "I see very well that I have come into a place from which I shall never go out alive with my head, so I may as well see what is in the room, come what may afterwards." So he went and opened the door a little and peeped in. There stood a golden ass, bound to a golden manger. He looked at it a little, and was just going to shut the door when the ass said: "Come and take the halter from my head, and keep it hidden about you. It will serve you well if you only understand how to use it." So he took the halter, and, after fastening the room-door, quickly concealed it under his clothes. He had not sat very long before the giants came home. They asked him at once if he had been in the first room, and he, much frightened, replied: "No, I have not been in." "But we know that you have been!" said the giants in great anger, and seizing some large sticks they beat him so severely that he could hardly stand on his feet. It was very lucky for him that he had the halter wound round his body under his clothes, or else he would certainly have been killed. The next day the giants again prepared to go out hunting, but before leaving him they ordered him on no account to enter the second room. Almost as soon as the giants had gone away he became so very curious to see what might be in the second room, that he could not resist going to the door. He stood there a little, thinking within himself, "Well, I am already more dead than alive, much worse cannot happen to me!" and so he opened the door and looked in. There he was surprised to see a very beautiful girl, dressed all in gold and silver, who sat combing her hair, and setting in every tress a large diamond. He stood admiring her a little while, and was just going to shut the door again, when she spoke, "Wait a minute, young man. Come and take this key, and mind you keep it safely. It will serve you some time, if you only know how to use it." So he went in and took the key from the girl, and then, going out, fastened the door and went and sat down in the same place he had sat before. He had not remained there very long before the giants came home from hunting. The moment they entered the house they took up their large sticks to beat him, asking, at the same time, whether he had been in the second room. Shaking all over with fear, he answered them, "No, I have not!" "But we know you have been," shouted the giants in great anger, and they then beat him worse than on the first day. The Third Room The next morning, as the giants went out as usual to hunt, they said to him: "Do not go into the third room, for anything in the world; for if you do go in we shall not forgive you as we did yesterday, and the day before! We shall kill you outright!" No sooner, however, had the giants gone out of sight, than the young man began to say to himself, "Most likely they will kill me, whether I go into the room or not. Besides, if they do not kill me, they have beaten me so badly already that I am sure I cannot live long, so, anyhow, I will go and see what is in the third room." Then he got up and went and opened the door. He was quite shocked, however, when he saw that the room was full of human heads! These heads belonged to young men who had come, like himself, to learn the trade that no one knows, and who, having obeyed faithfully and strictly the orders of the giants, had been killed by them. The young man was turning quickly to go away when one of the heads called out: "Don't be afraid, but come in!" Thereupon he went into the room. Then the head gave him an iron chain, and said: "Take care of this chain, for it will serve you some time if you know how to use it!" So he took the chain, and going out fastened the door. He went and sat down in the usual place to wait for the coming home of the giants, and, as he waited, he grew quite frightened, for he fully expected that they would really kill him this time. The instant the giants came home they took up their thick sticks and began to beat him without stopping to ask anything. They beat him so terribly that he was all but dead; then they threw him out of the house, saying to him: "Go away now, since you have learnt the trade that no one knows!" When he had lain a long time on the ground where they had thrown him, feeling very sore and miserable, at length he tried to move away, saying to himself: "Well, if they really have taught me the trade that no one knows for the sake of the king's daughter I can suffer gladly all this pain, if I can only win her." After travelling for a long time, the young man came at last to the palace of the king whose daughter he wished to marry. When he saw the palace, he was exceedingly sad, and remembered the words of the princess; for, after all his wanderings and sufferings, he had learnt no trade, and had never been able to find what trade it was "that no one knows." Whilst considering what he had better do, he suddenly recollected the halter, the key and the iron chain, which he had carried concealed about him ever since he left the castle of the four giants. He then said to himself, "Let me see what these things can do!" So he took the halter and struck the earth with it, and immediately a handsome horse, beautifully caparisoned, stood before him. Then he struck the ground with the iron chain, and instantly a hare and a greyhound appeared, and the hare began to run quickly and the greyhound to follow her. In a moment the young man hardly knew himself, for he found himself in a fine hunting-dress, riding on the horse after the hare, which took a path that passed immediately under the windows of the king's palace. Now, it happened that the king stood at a window looking out, and noticed at once the beautiful greyhound which was chasing the hare, and the very handsome horse which a huntsman in a splendid dress was mounted on. The king was so pleased with the appearance of the horse and the greyhound that he called instantly some of his servants, and, sending them after the strange rider, bade them invite him to come to the palace. The young man, however, hearing some people coming behind him calling and shouting, rode quickly behind a thick bush, and shook a little the halter and the iron chain. In a moment the horse, the greyhound, and the hare had vanished, and he found himself sitting on the ground under the trees dressed in his old shabby clothes. By this time the king's servants had come up, and, seeing him sit there, they asked him whether he had seen a fine huntsman on a beautiful horse pass that way. But he answered them rudely: "No! I have not seen any one pass, neither do I care to look to see who passes!" Then the king's servants went on and searched the forest, calling and shouting as loudly as they could, but it was all in vain; they could neither see nor hear anything of the hunter. At length they went back to the king, and told him that the horse the huntsman rode was so exceedingly quick that they could not hear anything of him in the forest. The Son Returns The young man now resolved to go to the hut where his old parents lived; and they were glad to see that he had come back to them once more. Next morning, the son said to his father: "Now, father, I will show you what I have learned. I will change myself into a beautiful horse, and you must lead me into the city and sell me, but be very careful not to give away the halter, or else I shall remain always a horse!" Accordingly, in a moment he changed himself into a horse of extraordinary beauty, and the father took him to the market-place to sell him. Very soon a great number of people gathered round the horse, wondering at his unusual beauty, and very high prices were offered for him; the old man, however, raised the price higher and higher at every offer. The news spread quickly about the city that a wonderfully handsome horse was for sale in the market-place, and at length the king himself heard of it, and sent some servants to bring the horse, that he might see it. The old man led the horse at once before the palace, and the king, after looking at it for some time with great admiration, could not help exclaiming, "By my word, though I am a king, I never yet saw, much less rode, so handsome a horse!" Then he asked the old man if he would sell it him. "I will sell it to your Majesty, very willingly," said the old man; "but I will sell only the horse, and not the halter." Thereupon the king laughed, saying: "What should I want with your dirty halter? For such a horse I will have a halter of gold made!" So the horse was sold to the king for a very high price, and the old man returned home with the money. Next morning, however, there was a great stir and much consternation in the royal stables, for the beautiful horse had vanished somehow during the night. And at the time when the horse disappeared, the young man returned to his parents' hut. A day or two afterwards the young man said to his father: "Now I will turn myself into a fine church not far from the king's palace, and if the king wishes to buy it you may sell it him, only be sure not to part with the key or else I must remain always a church!" When the king got up that morning, and went to his window to look out, he saw a beautiful church which he had never noticed before. Then he sent his servants out to see what it was, and soon after they came back saying, that "the church belonged to an old pilgrim, who told them that he was willing to sell it if the king wished to buy it." Then the king sent to ask what price he would sell it for, and the pilgrim replied: "It is worth a great deal of money." The King Outbid Whilst the servants were bargaining with the father an old woman came up. Now this was the same old woman who had sent the young man to the castle of the four giants, and she herself had been there and had learnt the trade that no one knew. As she understood at once all about the church, and had no mind to have a rival in the trade, she resolved to put an end to the young man. For this purpose she began to outbid the king, and offered, at last, so very large a sum of ready money, that the old man was quite astonished and confused at seeing the money which she showed him. He accordingly accepted her offer, but whilst he was counting the money, quite forgot about the key. Before long, however, he recollected what his son had said, and then, fearing some mischief, he ran after old woman and demanded the key back. But the woman could not be persuaded to give back the key, and said it belonged to the church which she had bought and paid for. Seeing she would not give up the key, the old man grew more and more alarmed, lest some ill should befall his son, so he took hold of the old woman by the neck and forced her to drop the key. She struggled very hard to get it back again, and, whilst the old man and she wrestled together, the key changed itself suddenly into a dove and flew away high in the air over the palace gardens. When the old woman saw this, she changed herself into a hawk, and chased the dove. Just, however, as the hawk was about to pounce upon it, the dove turned itself into a beautiful bouquet, and dropped down into the hand of the king's daughter, who happened to be walking in the garden. Then the hawk changed again into the old woman, who went to the gate of the palace and begged very hard that the princess would give that bouquet, or, at least, one single flower from it. But the princess said, "No! not for anything in the world! These flowers fell to me from heaven!" The old woman, however, was determined to get one flower from the bouquet, so, seeing the princess would not hear her, she went straight to the king, and begged piteously that he would order his daughter to give her one of the flowers from her bouquet. The king, thinking the old woman wanted one of the flowers to cure some disease, called his daughter to him, and told her to give one to the beggar. But just as the king said this, the bouquet changed itself into a heap of millet-seed and scattered itself all over the ground. Then the old woman quickly changed herself into a hen and chickens, and began greedily to pick up the seeds. Suddenly, however, the millet vanished, and in its place appeared a fox, which sprang on the hen and killed her. Then the fox changed into the young man, who explained to the astonished king and princess that he it was who had demanded the hand of the princess, and that, in order to obtain it he had wandered all over the world in search of some one who could teach him "the trade that no one knows." When the king and his daughter heard this, they gladly fulfilled their part of the bargain, seeing how well the young man had fulfilled his. Then, shortly afterwards, the king's daughter married the son of the poor old couple; and the king built for the princess and her husband a palace close to his own. There they lived long and had plenty of children, and people say that some of their descendants are living at present, and that these go constantly to pray in the church, which is always open because the key of it turned itself into a young man who married the king's daughter, after he had shown to her that he had done as she wished, and learnt, for her sake, "the trade that no one knows." XX. THE GOLDEN-HAIRED TWINS Once upon a time, a long, long while ago, there lived a young king who wished very much to marry, but could not decide where he had better look for a wife. One evening as he was walking disguised through the streets of his capital, as it was his frequent custom to do, he stopped to listen near an open window where he heard three young girls chatting gaily together. The girls were talking about a report which had been lately spread through the city, that the king intended soon to marry. One of the girls exclaimed: "If the king would marry me I would give him a son who should be the greatest hero in the world." The second girl said: "And if I were to be his wife I would present him with two sons at once--the twins with golden hair." And the third girl declared that were the king to marry her, she would give him a daughter so beautiful that there should not be her equal in the whole wide world! The young king listened to all this, and for some time thought over their words, and tried to make up his mind which of the three girls he should choose for a wife. At last he decided that he would marry the one who had said she would bring him twins with golden hair. Having once settled this in his own mind, he ordered that all preparations for his marriage should be made forthwith, and shortly after, when all was ready, he married the second girl of the three. Several months after his marriage the young king, who was at war with one of the neighbouring princes, received tidings of the defeat of his army, and heard that his presence was immediately required in the camp. He accordingly left his capital and went to his army, leaving the young queen in his palace to the care of his stepmother. Now the king's stepmother hated her daughter-in-law very much indeed, so when the young queen was near her confinement, the old queen told her that it was always customary in the royal family for the heirs to the throne to be born in a garret. The young queen (who knew nothing about the customs in royal families except what she had learnt from hearing or seeing since her marriage to the king) believed implicitly what her mother-in-law told her, although she thought it a great pity to leave her splendid apartments and go up into a miserable attic. Now when the golden-haired twins were born, the old queen contrived to steal them out of their cradle, and put in their place two ugly little dogs. She then caused the two beautiful golden-haired boys to be buried alive in an out-of-the-way spot in the palace gardens, and then sent word to the king that the young queen had given him two little dogs instead of the heirs he was hoping for. The wicked stepmother said in her letter to the king that she herself was not surprised at this, though she was very sorry for his disappointment. As to herself, she had a long time suspected the young queen of having too great a friendship for goblins and elves, and all kinds of evil spirits. When the king received this letter, he fell into a frightful rage, because he had only married the young girl in order to have the golden-haired twins she had promised him as heirs to his throne. So he sent word back to the old queen that his wife should be put at once into the dampest dungeon in the castle, an order which the wicked woman took good care to see carried out without delay. Accordingly the poor young queen was thrown into a miserably dark dungeon under the palace, and kept on bread and water. The Plight of the Young Queen Now there was only a very small hole in this prison--hardly enough to let in light and air--yet the old queen managed to cause a great many people to pass by this hole, and whoever passed was ordered to spit at and abuse the unhappy young queen, calling out to her, "Are you really the queen? Are you the girl who cheated the king in order to be a queen? Where are your golden-haired twins? You cheated the king and your friends, and now the witches have cheated you!" But the young king, though terribly angry and mortified at his great disappointment, was, at the same time, too sad and troubled to be willing to return to his palace. So he remained away for fully nine years. When he at last consented to return, the first thing he noticed in the palace gardens were two fine young trees, exactly the same size and the same shape. These trees had both golden leaves and golden blossoms, and had grown up of themselves from the very spot where the stepmother of the king had buried the two golden-haired boys she had stolen from their cradle. The king admired these two trees exceedingly, and was never weary of looking at them. This, however, did not at all please the old queen, for she knew that the two young princes were buried just where the trees grew, and she always feared that by some means what she had done would come to the king's ears. She therefore pretended that she was very sick, and declared that she was sure she should die unless her stepson, the king, ordered the two golden-leaved trees to be cut down, and a bed made for her out of their wood. As the king was not willing to be the cause of her death, he ordered that her wishes should be attended to, notwithstanding he was exceedingly sorry to lose his favourite trees. A bed was soon made from the two trees, and the seemingly sick old queen was laid on it as she desired. She was quite delighted that the golden-leaved trees had disappeared from the garden; but when midnight came, she could not sleep a bit, for it seemed to her that she heard the boards of which her bed was made in conversation with each other! At last it seemed to her, that one board said, quite plainly, "How are you, my brother?" And the other board answered: "Thank you, I am very well; how are you?" "Oh, I am all right," returned the first board; "but I wonder how our poor mother is in her dark dungeon! Perhaps she is hungry and thirsty!" The wicked old queen could not sleep a minute all night, after hearing this conversation between the boards of her new bed; so next morning she got up very early and went to see the king. She thanked him for attending to her wish, and said she already was much better, but she felt quite sure she would never recover thoroughly unless the boards of her new bed were cut up and thrown into a fire. The king was sorry to lose entirely even the boards made out of his two favourite trees, nevertheless he could not refuse to use the means pointed out for his step-mother's perfect recovery. So the new bed was cut to pieces and thrown into the fire. But whilst the boards were blazing and crackling, two sparks from the fire flew into the courtyard, and in the next moment two beautiful lambs with golden fleeces and golden horns were seen gambolling about the yard. The king admired them greatly, and made many inquiries who had sent them there, and to whom they belonged. He even sent the public crier many times through the city, calling on the owners of the golden-fleeced lambs to appear and claim them; but no one came, so at length he thought he might fairly take them as his own property. The king took very great care of these two beautiful lambs, and every day directed that they should be well fed and attended to; this, however, did not at all please his stepmother. She could not endure even to look on the lambs with their golden fleeces and golden horns, for they always reminded her of the golden-haired twins. So, in a little while she pretended again to be dangerously sick, and declared she felt sure that she should soon die unless the two lambs were killed and cooked for her. The king was even fonder of his golden-fleeced lambs than he had been of the golden-leaved trees, but he could not long resist the tears and prayers of the old queen, especially as she seemed to be very ill. Accordingly, the lambs were killed, and a servant was ordered to carry their golden fleeces down to the river and to wash the blood well out of them. But whilst the servant held them under the water, they slipped, in some way or other, out of his fingers, and floated down the stream, which just at that place flowed very rapidly. Now it happened that a hunter was passing near the river a little lower down, and, as he chanced to look in the water, he saw something strange in it. So he stepped into the stream, and soon fished out a small box which he carried to his house, and there opened it. To his unspeakably great surprise, he found in the box two golden-haired boys. Now the hunter had no children of his own; he therefore adopted the twins he had fished out of the river, and brought them up just as if they had been his own sons. When the twins were grown up into handsome young men, one of them said to his foster-father, "Make us two suits of beggar's clothes, and let us go and wander a little about the world!" The hunter, however, replied and said: "No, I will have a fine suit made for each of you, such as is fitting for two such noble-looking young men." But as the twins begged hard that he should not spend his money uselessly in buying fine clothes, telling him that they wished to travel about as beggars, the hunter--who always liked to do as his two handsome foster-sons wished--did as they desired, and ordered two suit of clothes, like those worn by beggars, to be prepared for them. The two sons then dressed themselves up as beggars, and as well as they could hid their beautiful golden locks, and then set out to see the world. They took with them a goussle and cymbal, and maintained themselves with their singing and playing. The King's Sons They had wandered about in this way some time when one day they came to the king's palace. As the afternoon was already pretty far advanced, the young musicians begged to allowed to pass the night in one of the out-buildings belonging to the court, as they were poor men, and quite strangers in the city. The old queen, however, who happened to be just then in the courtyard, saw them, and hearing their request said sharply that beggars could not be permitted to enter any part of the king's palace. The two travellers said they had hoped to pay for their night's lodging by their songs and music, as one of them played and sung to the goussle, and the other to the cymbal. The old queen, however, was not moved by this, but insisted on their going away at once. Happily for the two brothers, the king himself came out into the courtyard just as his stepmother angrily ordered them to go away, and at once directed his servants to find a place for the musicians to sleep in, and ordered them to provide the brothers with a good supper. After they had supped, the king commanded them to be brought before him that he might judge of their skill as musicians, and that their singing might help him to pass the time more pleasantly. Accordingly, after the two young men had taken the refreshment provided for them, the servants took them into the king's presence, and they began to sing this ballad:-- "The pretty bird, the swallow, built her nest with care in the palace of the king. In the nest she reared up happily two of her little ones. A black, ugly-looking bird, however came to the swallow's nest to mar her happiness and to kill her two little ones. And the ugly black bird succeeded in destroying the happiness of the poor little swallow; the little ones, however, although yet weak and unfledged were saved, and, when they were grown up and able to fly, they came to look at the palace where their mother, the pretty swallow, had built her nest." This strange song the two minstrels sung so very sweetly that the king was quite charmed, and asked them the meaning of the words. Whereupon the two meanly dressed young men took off their hats, so that the rich tresses of their golden hair fell down over their shoulders, and the light glanced so brightly upon it that the whole hall was illuminated by the shining. They then stepped forward together, and told the king all that had happened to them and to their mother, and convinced him that they were really his own sons. The king was exceedingly angry when he heard all the cruel things his stepmother had done, and he gave orders that she should be burnt to death. He then went with the two golden-haired princes to the miserable dungeon wherein his unfortunate wife had been confined so many years, and brought her once more into her beautiful palace. There, looking on her golden-haired sons, and seeing how much the king, their father, loved them, she soon forgot all her long years of misery. As to the king, he felt that he could never do enough to make amends for all the misfortunes his queen had lived through, and all the dangers to which his twin sons had been exposed. He felt that he had too easily believed the stories of the old queen, because he would not trouble himself to inquire more particularly into the truth or falsehood of the strange things she had told him. After all this mortification, and trouble, and misery, everything came right at last. So the king and his wife, with their golden-haired twins, lived together long and happily. CHAPTER XV: SOME SERBIAN POPULAR ANECDOTES St. Peter and the Sand A townsman went one day to the country to hunt and came at noon to the house of a peasant whom he knew. The man asked him to share his dinner, and while they were eating, the townsman looked around him and noticed that there was but little arable land to be seen. There were rocks and stones in abundance, however. Surprised at this, the townsman exclaimed: "In the name of all that is good, my friend, how on earth can you good people of this village exist without arable land! and whence these heaps of rocks and stones?" "It is, indeed, a great misfortune!" answered the peasant. "People say that our ancestors heard from their fore-fathers that when our Lord walked on this earth, St. Peter accompanied Him carrying on his back a sack full of sand. Occasionally our Lord would take a grain of sand and throw it down to make a mountain, saying: 'May this grain multiply!' When they arrived here St. Peter's sack burst and half of its contents poured out in our village." Why the Serbian People are Poor The nations of the world met together one day on the middle of the earth to divide between themselves the good things in life. First they deliberated upon the methods of procedure. Some recommended a lottery, but the Christians, well knowing that they, as the cleverest, would be able to obtain the most desirable gifts, and not wishing to be at the mercy of fortune, suggested (and the idea was instantly adopted by all) that each should express a wish for some good thing and it would be granted to him. The men of Italy were allowed to express their wish first, and they desired Wisdom. The Britons said: "We will take the sea." The Turks: "And we will take fields." The Russians: "We will take the forests and mines." The French: "And we will have money and war." "And what about you Serbians?" asked the nations, "What do you wish for?" "Wait till we make up our mind!" answered the Serbians; and they have not yet agreed upon their reply. The Gipsies and the Nobleman A very rich and powerful nobleman was one day driving through his vast estates. From afar four Tzigans [86] noted that he was alone, and greedily coveting his fine carriage horses, determined to deprive him of them. As the carriage approached, they rushed on to the road, respectfully took off their hats, knelt before him, and one of them began to speak, saying: "O how happy we are to have an opportunity of manifesting to you, O most gracious lord, our deep gratitude for the noble deeds and many acts of kindness with which your late and generous father used to overwhelm us! As we have no valuable presents to offer you, allow us to harness ourselves to your carriage and draw you home." The haughty nobleman, proud of his father's good deeds, was pleased to assent to this unusual form of courtesy. Two gipsies thereupon detached the horses, harnessed themselves to the carriage and drew it for some distance. Suddenly, however, they cut themselves loose and ran back to the two other rascals who by this time had got clear away with the horses. Why the Priest was drowned A few peasants and a priest were once crossing a river. Suddenly a tempest arose and overturned the boat. All were good swimmers except the poor priest, and when the peasants regained their boat and righted it, which they did very soon, they approached the struggling preacher and called to him to give them his hand that they might save him; but he hesitated and was drowned. The peasants went to impart the sad news to the priest's widow who, hearing it, exclaimed: "What a pity! But had you offered him your hands, he would surely have accepted them, and thus his precious life would have been saved--for it was ever his custom to receive." The Era from the other World [87] A Turk and his wife halted in the shadow of a tree. The Turk went to the river to water his horse, and his wife remained to await his return. Just then an Era passed by and saluted the Turkish woman: "Allah help you, noble lady." "May God aid you," she returned; "whence do you come?" "I come from the Other World, noble lady." "As you have been in the Other World, have you not, perchance, seen there my son Mouyo, who died a few months ago?" "Oh, how could I help seeing him? He is my immediate neighbour." "Happy me! How is he, then?" "He is well, may God be praised! But he could stand just a little more tobacco and some more pocket-money to pay for black coffee." "Are you going back again? And if so, would you be so kind as to deliver to him this purse with his parent's greetings?" The Era took the money protesting that he would be only too glad to convey so pleasant a surprise to the youth, and hurried away. Soon the Turk came back, and his wife told him what had transpired. He perceived at once that she had been victimized and without stopping to reproach her, he mounted his horse and galloped after the Era, who, observing the pursuit, and guessing at once that the horseman was the husband of the credulous woman, made all the speed that he could. There was a mill near by and making for it, the Era rushed in and addressed the miller with: "For Goodness' sake, brother, fly! There is a Turkish horseman coming with drawn sword; he will kill you. I heard him say so and have hurried to warn you in time." The miller had no time to ask for particulars; he knew how cruel the Turks were, and without a word he dashed out of the mill and fled up the adjacent rocks. Meantime the Era placed the miller's hat upon his own head and sprinkled flour copiously over his clothes, that he might look like a miller. No sooner was this done than the Turk came up. Alighting from his horse, he rushed into the mill and hurriedly asked the Era where he had hidden the thief. The Era pointed indifferently to the flying miller on the rock, whereupon the Turk requested him to take care of his horse while he ran and caught the swindler. When the Turk was gone some distance up the hill our Era brushed his clothes, swiftly mounted the horse and galloped away. The Turk caught the real miller, and demanded: "Where is the money you took from my wife, swindler?" The poor miller made the sign of the cross [88] and said: "God forbid! I never saw your noble lady, still less did I take her money." After about half an hour of futile discussion, the Turk was convinced of the miller's innocence, and returned to where he had left his horse. But lo! There was no sign of a horse! He walked sadly back to his wife, and she, seeing that her husband had no horse, asked in surprise: "Where did you go, and what became of your horse?" The Turk replied: "You sent money to our darling son; so I thought I had better send him the horse that he need not go on foot in the Other World!" A Trade before Everything Once upon a time a king set out in his luxurious pleasure-galley accompanied by his queen and a daughter. They had proceeded a very little way from the shore when a powerful wind drove the galley far out to sea, where at last it was dashed upon a barren rock. Fortunately there was a small boat upon the galley, and the king, being a good sailor, was able to launch this frail bark, and he rescued his wife and daughter from the waves. After long tossing and drifting, good fortune smiled upon the wanderers; they began to see birds and floating leaves, which indicated that they were approaching dry land. And, indeed, they soon came in sight of shore, and, as the sea was now calm, were able to land without further adventure. But, alas, the king knew no trade, and had no money upon his person. Consequently he was forced to offer his services as a shepherd to a rich landowner, who gave him a hut and a flock of sheep to tend. In these idyllic and simple conditions they lived contentedly for several years, undisturbed by regrets for the magnificence of their past circumstances. One day the only son of the ruler of that strange country lost his way while riding in the neighbourhood after a fox, and presently he beheld the beautiful daughter of our shepherd. No sooner did his eyes fall upon the maiden than he fell violently in love with her, and she was not unwilling to receive the protestations of undying affection which he poured into her ears. They met again and again, and the maiden consented to marry the prince, provided her parents would approve the match. The prince first declared his wish to his own parents, who, of course, were greatly astonished at their son's apparently foolish selection, and would not give their consent. But the prince protested solemnly that his resolution was unshakable; he would either marry the girl he loved or remain single all his days. Finally his royal father took pity on him, and sent his first adjutant to the shepherd secretly to ask the hand of his daughter for the prince. The Condition When the adjutant came and communicated the royal message, the shepherd asked him: "Is there any trade with which the royal prince is familiar?" The adjutant was amazed at such a question. "Lord forbid, foolish man!" he exclaimed, "how could you expect the heir-apparent to know a trade? People learn trades in order to earn their daily bread; princes possess lands and cities, and so do not need to work." But the shepherd persisted, saying: "If the prince knows no trade, he cannot become my son-in-law." The royal courier returned to the palace and reported to the king his conversation with the shepherd, and great was the astonishment throughout the palace when the news became known, for all expected that the shepherd would be highly flattered that the king had chosen his daughter's hand for the prince in preference to the many royal and imperial princesses who would have been willing to marry him for the asking. The king sent again to the shepherd, but the man remained firm in his resolution. "As long as the prince," said he, "does not know any trade, I shall not grant him the hand of my daughter." When this second official brought back to the palace the same answer, the king informed his son of the shepherd's condition, and the royal prince resolved to put himself in the way of complying with it. His first step was to go through the city from door to door in order to select some simple and easy trade. As he walked through the streets he beheld various craftsmen at their work, but he did not stay until he came to the workshop of a carpet-maker, and this trade appeared to him both easy and lucrative. He therefore offered his services to the master, who gladly undertook to teach him the trade. In due time the prince obtained a certificate of efficiency, and he went to the shepherd and showed it to him, together with samples of his hand work. The shepherd examined these and asked the prince: "How much could you get for this carpet?" The prince replied: "If it is made of grass, I could sell it for threepence." "Why, that is a splendid trade," answered the shepherd, "threepence to-day and another threepence to-morrow would make sixpence, and in two other days you would have earned a shilling! If I only had known this trade a few years ago I would not have been a shepherd." Thereupon he related to the prince and his suite the story of his past life, and what ill fate had befallen him, to the greatest surprise of all. You may be sure that the prince rejoiced to learn that his beloved was highly born, and the worthy mate of a king's son. As for his father, he was especially glad that his son had fallen in love, not with the daughter of a simple shepherd, but with a royal princess. The marriage was now celebrated with great magnificence, and when the festivities came to an end, the king gave the shepherd a fine ship, together with a powerful escort, that he might go back to his country and reassume possession of his royal throne. GLOSSARY & INDEX There are thirty characters in the Serbian alphabet for the thirty corresponding sounds, of which five are vowels--all open sounds, viz. a, e, u, o, y. a as in "father" e as in "met" u as e in "be" o as in "note" y as oo in "boot." ou is pronounced also as oo in "boot." Closed or semi-closed vowels are unknown to the Serbian tongue. The twenty-five consonants are pronounced as in English, with the following exceptions: h at the beginning of words or syllables is always aspirated. r is always rolled. In a Serbian monosyllable it sometimes plays the part of a vowel between two consonants, e.g. vrt (garden). The combinations ts or tz, as in "tsar," "tzarina," etc., are pronounced like ts in "its." y has been used in the English forms of Serbian names not as a vowel but invariably as a consonant, as in "year." This consonantal y has been used often after the consonants d, l, n, and t, and y is then merged into the preceding consonant to form one sound. For example, dy becomes very like the sound of j in "jaw," as in the word "Dyourady," which is pronounced Joo-radg. z in the names "Zdral" and "Zabylak" is pronounced like s in "pleasure"; elsewhere it is pronounced as in English. The Serbian language being phonetic does not employ double consonants, diphthongs or triphthongs. The thirty letters represent always the same thirty sounds, and the position of the written symbol does not affect or qualify its sound. A Adrianople. Equivalent, Yedrenet, 123 Adriatic. Ivan Tzrnoyevitch sails across, to Venice, 134, 142 Adriatic Coast. The Latins, Illyrians, Thracians, Greeks, and Albanians driven by the Serbians toward the, 1 Africa-n, West. A Serbian folk-tale dealing with Animals' Language; similarity of, to a story native to the negroes of, 230 Ages, Middle. Banovitch Strahinya, one of the finest and most famous ballads composed by Serbian bards of the, 119 Agram (Zagreb). Croatians establish an episcopate at, in eleventh century, 14 Albania. Subdued by Doushan the Powerful, 5; George Kastriotovitch-Skander-Beg fights for liberty of, 8; Skadar the capital of Northern, 119 Albanian-s, The. Driven by Serbians toward the Adriatic coast, 1; spirits of the wood dreaded by, 19; Arbanass an appellation for, 108 Alexander. Unworthy son of Milan; ascends throne of Serbia, 11; marries his former mistress, Draga Mashin, but is murdered, 11 Amouradh. A Turkish Grand Vizir; Prince Marko and, 105-108 Amourath, Sultan (Mourat, corrupted form). Defeats Knez Lazar on field of Kossovo, 7; Vlah-Ali independent of, 121; slain by Serbian hero, Voïvode Milosh, 173 Anecdotes. Some Serbian popular, 362-369; "St. Peter and the Sand," 362; "Why the Serbian People are Poor," 362; "The Gipsies and the Nobleman," 363; "Why the Priest was Drowned," 364; "The Era from the other World," 364; "A Trade before Everything," 366 Animals. The king makes war on the; described in the Serbian folk-tale "Animals as Friends and Enemies," 313-316 "Animals as Friends and Enemies." A Serbian folk-tale, 305-316 Animals' Council, The. Described in the Serbian folk-tale "Animals as Friends and Enemies," 308, 309 Animals, King of The. Hero in a Serbian folk-tale, 230 Animals' Language. A Serbian folk-tale dealing with, 230-235 Anjou, Charles of. Prince Ourosh maintains friendly relations with French Court of, 119 Antivari. Ivan Tzrnoyevitch invites all heroes in the province of, to his son's wedding, 139 Apostles. The Greek priests and monks prepare the ground for the great Slav, 29; Cyrillos and Methodius, the two Slav, 29 Apple. The, a symbolic gift, which a Serbian wooer offers to the maiden of his choice, 245 "Apple-tree, The Golden." A Serbian folk-tale, 267-280 Arbanass. Appellation for Albanian, 108 Archangel Michael. Death and, 31; Kolyivo not prepared for, 41 Athos, Mount. Vasso, the abbot of, finds Marko's dead body, 118 Austria. War between Serbia and Bulgaria instigated by, 11 Avala. A mountain by Belgrade, 177 Azov, Sea of. Serbians lived to the north-east of, 1 B "Badgnak." The oak tree used at Christmas by the Serbians, 47 "Badgni Dan." Serbian equivalent for Christmas Eve, 46 Bajazet. Son of Sultan Amourath, 7 Balcius. Latinized form of Baux, in early records, 119; name changed at the Court at Naples into Balza, 119 Balkan Peninsula. Incursion of the Serbians into, 1 Balkan Territories. Kingdoms embraced in, 1 Balkan War. Mrs. C. H. Farnam's devotion to the wounded during the, 57, 58; reference to the feats of arms performed by the Serbians during the, 175 Balkans. Hero tales of the, express the ideals which have inspired the Serbian race, 12; explanation of the decay of the ancient aristocracy throughout the, 14 "Balkans, the Empress of the." Drama by King Nicholas I Petrovitch of Montenegro, 134 Ballad-s. Serbian bards improvise, to record deeds of King Nicholas I Petrovitch of Montenegro, 120; "The Marriage of Maximus Tzrnoyevitch," the finest and most famous Serbian, 134; usual ending to ballads by Serbian and Montenegrin bards, 184; historical note on that of "King Voukashin's Marriage," 193, 194; observation regarding motif of "The Captivity and Marriage of Stephan Kakshitch," 194; "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 195-197; three Serbian--(1) "The Building of "Skadar" (Scutari), etc., 198; (2) "The Stepsisters," 206; and (3) "The Abduction of the Beautiful Iconia," 210 Balshitch. Nicholas I Petrovitch, King of Montenegro, and an indirect descendant out of, 120 Balza. Italianized form of Balcius (Baux), 119 Ban. The original title of the rulers of Bosnia, 6 Banat. One of the Serbian provinces in Austria-Hungary Banovitch Strahinya. The ballad relating to, one of the finest composed by anonymous bards of Middle Ages, 119; historical data, 119, 120; some Serbian historians believe identical with the glorious Strashimir Balshitch-Nemanyitch, 119; eulogized as "a falcon without equal," 120; Dyogo the faithful steed of, 120; Caraman the faithful greyhound of, 120; visits Youg Bogdan, 120-121 Banyska (Lord of Little). Title by which a dervish hails Banovitch Strahinya, 122 Bards. (1) Serbian. Attention now turned to the exploits of modern heroes at Monastir, Koumanovo, Perlep (Prilip), Scutari (Skadar), etc., 176; usual ending to ballads of, 184; word 'book' invariably used by those of fourteenth century when speaking of a letter, 186. (2) Montenegrin. Stereotyped ending to ballads of, 184 Bash Tchelik (Real Steel). A Serbian folk-tale, 247-267; his promise of three lives to the Prince, and his abduction of his deliverer's wife, 258-267 Basil I, Emperor. The second conversion of Southern Slavs to Christianity was effected by, 28 Batchka. One of the Serbian provinces in Austria-Hungary Baux, Des. Strashimir Balshitch-Nemanyitch a descendant of the old Provençal family of, 119; in early records the name is latinized Balcius, 119; supposition that the Italianized Seigneurs des Baux, who married into royal house of Nemanyitch and who settled in Serbian lands, further changed their patronymic to Balsha or Balshitch, 119 Baux, Hughes de. A French knight; reference to, 33 Bazar, Relya of. A Serbian knight; Bogdan the Bully and, 87-89 Beardless. A name used as the personification of craftiness and sharpness, applied to man in Serbian folk-tale "Lying for a Wager," 283 Beata Maria. St. Elias inquires the reason of her great grief, 195; St. Elias comforts, 196 Bedevia. The Moorish chieftain's mare, 79; Sharatz and, 79, 80, 81; Bogdan the Bully's mare, 87; name of mare given by Ivan Tzrnoyevitch to Milosh Obrenbegovitch, 141; Voïvode Balatchko's mare, 168 Belgrade. Reference to the triumphal return of the Serbian army to, at the conclusion of the Balkan campaigns, 1912-13, 176; a veela warns Stephan and Demitrius Yakshitch of the intention of the Turks to assail, 177; Stephan Yakshitch and Haykoona escape to, 183 Beliefs. Superstitions of Serbians, and national customs, 13-53 Berlin. Famous Treaty of, acknowledged the independence of Serbia during rule of Milan, 10, 11; mention of a Veele ring in Treaty of, 17 Bertrandon de la Broquière, Chevalier. Told in 1433 that Trajanople had been built by the Emperor Trajan, 27 Bind. Illyrian god; a reminder of, in the tradition regarding Prince Ivan Tzrnoyevitch, 25 "Bird Maiden, The." A Serbian folk-tale, 280-283 "Biter Bit, The." A Serbian folk-tale, 328-340; the hundred daughters in, 330; the wedding procession, 333; the Black Giant in, 334; the old woman meets the old man in a forest by the river Luckless, 336; the Black Giant buys the cow, 339 Blind. In Serbian Hungary there are schools for, in which national ballads are taught, 55, 56 "Bochtchaluks." Serbian equivalent for wedding presents, 32 Bodin, King. Son of Michaylo; obtains title from Pope Gregory VII, 3; restores the Serbia of Tchaslav, and adds Bosnia to his State, 3 Bogdan the Bully. Marko and, 87-89 Bogdan, Youg. Aged father-in-law of Banovitch, 120, 121; castle in Kroushevatz the residence of, 120; one of his sons-in-law a direct descendant of King Nemanya, 120; Strahinya returns to, after his slaying of Vlah-Ali, 128 Bogoumils. Protestants of the Greek Orthodox Church who settled in Bosnia, 4 "Bojitch." Equivalent, "the little God." The Christmas Day church service, 49 Boshko Yougovitch. One of Tsarina Militza's nine brothers, 170; refuses to remain with her while Tsar Lazarus departs to battlefield of Kossovo, 171 Boshnyaks. Serbians inhabiting Bosnia; considered to be the most typical Serbians, 13 Bosnia. King Bodin adds to his State, 3; Ban Koulin placed on the throne of, 4; Stevan Tomashevitch king of, 8; subjugation of, complete by 1463, 8; the Padishah offers to make Stephan Yakshitch Grand Vizier of, if he will renounce the Holy Cross, 179 Bosnia and Herzegovina. One of the kingdoms in the Balkan territories, 1; Serbian calamity on Kossovo due mainly to the disobedience of the Serbian lords who ruled over, 175 Bowring, Sir John. Quotations of three poems from his Servian Popular Poetry, 198-212 Boyana. River on which Skadar's fortress stands, 186, 198 Brankovitch, Dyourady. Nephew of Vook Brankovitch, 7; reference to death of, 8 Brankovitch, Vook (Wolf). The treachery of, against Knez Lazar, 7; his death, 7; Tsarina Militza and death of, 173; responsibility for great calamity to the Serbian army on Kossovo assigned by bards to, 174 Bregalnitza. Reference to, as a set-off to Slivnitza, 176 Bregovo. Town of; Marko and Milosh at, 105 Bride. The custom with the Serbians for one of her brothers to present the bride to her wooer, 248 Bulgaria. A province of Serbia under Stevan Detchanski, 5; war against, by Serbia, 11; Shishman king of, 94 Bulgars. Serbians an easy prey to attacks of, 2 Bully, The. Alternative for Bogdan, 87-89; Albanian equivalent, Kessedjiya, 108; his death on the top of Katchanik mountain, 114 Byzantines. Serbians an easy prey to attack of, 2; Christianity deeply rooted in the, 14; Peroon, the Russian God of Thunder, concluded with the, 15 Byzantine Empire. Incorporates Bulgaria and overpowers Rashka, 3; Doushan the Powerful subdues almost the whole of the, 5; Prince Ourosh endeavours to negotiate an alliance between Serbs and French for overthrow of, 119 C Caraman. The greyhound of Banovitch, 120, 121; assists Banovitch against Vlah-Ali, 127 Carpet, The Magic. Described in the Serbian folk-tale "Animals as Friends and Enemies," 309-313 Charles of Anjou. Prince Ourosh through his wife Helen, a French princess, maintains friendly relations with French Court of, 119 Christ. Teachings of; translated into Serb language by Cyrillos and Methodius, 2 Christianity. Conversion of pagan Serbian tribes to, 1; Paganism and, of Southern-Slavonic races, 14-53; as early as the eleventh century a number of Croatians converted to, 14; the new, sapped in Russia by the Enchanters, 24; indicated by the Cross, 26; the spread of, 28-32; Moravians converted to, 29; superstition stronger in the Balkans than, 30 Christians. Reference to campaigns between Turks and the, 6; miseries of, under Turkish rule, 8, 9; evil spirits and, 19; Prince Maximus and Yovan Obrenbegovitch to be used in service against, 149; historical note re the cunning efforts of Ottoman statesmen to seduce malcontents from their allegiance to their rightful lords, 184, 185 Christmas. Serbian customs at, 46-51 Church. The Greek Christian, to which all Serbians, including the natives of Montenegro, Macedonia, etc., belong, 30; reference to the, in the Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 197 Cinderella. See Pepelyouga and Marra, 226-229 Cock, The. Retort of, regarding the man who had been granted the gift of animals' language, 235 Constantinople. Vanquished by crusaders, 4; dead bodies burnt during siege of, 25; Cyrillos a professor of philosophy in University of the Imperial Palace of, 29; Turkish alternative Istamboul, 72 Courtenay, House de. Helen, wife of Ourosh, a French princess of the, 119 Cow. The Black Giant buys the; described in the Serbian folk-tale "The Biter Bit," 339 Croatia. One of the provinces in Austria-Hungary, 1 Croatians. A number of, converted to Christianity as early as the eleventh century, 14 Cross, The. Indicates the presence of Christianity, 26; the Slava and the sign of, 42, 44; Christmas customs and the sign of, 47, 48; Boshko Yougovitch's devotion to, 171; Stephan Yakshitch's devotion to, 179; St. John chooses, 196; Christians of the Balkans and the sign of, before and after every meal, 237; the Serbians when greatly surprised at anything, involuntarily make the sign of, 366 Curse of Christendom. Marko takes steps to avoid the, 117 Customs, National. The chief of the Serbians, 31-53; marriage, 32-40; Slava (or Krsno Ime), 40-49 Customs, Serbian. Superstitious beliefs and, 13-53; a brother to present a bride to her wooer, 248 Cyrillos. Methodius and, the so-called Slavonic apostles who translated the teaching of Christ into the ancient Slav language, 2, 29 D Daedalus. Confused in Serbian legends with Emperor Trajan, 27 Dalmatians. Sea-going men who pray only to St. Nicholas, 51 Dance Rings (Vrzino kollo). The Veele and their, 17; one on Mount Kom in Montenegro called Vilino Kollo, 17 Danitza. The morning star; its appearance puts Zmay of Yastrebatz to flight, 130; reference to, in "The Captivity and Marriage of Stephan Yakshitch," 177 Danube. Allusion to Sharatz's swim across the, 91; Marko drowns part of Voutcha's army in, 92 Daughters. The hundred, in the Serbian folk-tale "The Biter Bit," 330 Daybog (The Sun God). Russian equivalent, Daszbog--literally "Give, O God!" 16; to the Serbians the personification of sunshine, life and prosperity, 16; remains of idols representing, among Southern-Slavonic nations, 16; Christmas festivities and, 49 Dead. Festival in honour of, during Lent, 52 Death. The Archangel Michael and, 31 "Deeds, Good, Never Perish." The Serbian folk-tale, 291-299 Dessimir. King Vukashin's trusty servant, 199 "Dever." The leader of the Serbian bride, 35 Devil-s (dyavo). Considered as pagan gods, 19 Diascevastes. The learned, of Pisistrate's epoch, 54 Diocletian, Emperor. References in Southern-Slavonic legends to, 27 "Divan." Means, in Serbian, any State gathering. As used in the Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures" it means the Supreme Judgment, 195 Djelat (executioner). Stephan Yakshitch threatened with the, 180 Dobrivoy. Servant of Theodore of Stalatch, 211 "Doda or Dodola." The rite connected with the favourite goddess of Rain, 51, 52 Don, The River. Serbians lived on banks of, 1 Dourmitor. The mountain, 186 Doushan the Powerful (Mighty). Dethrones his father Stevan Detchanski, 5; vampires and the Code of, 21, 22, 24; Voukashin's bad faith toward, 61; attended by Archdeacon Nedelyko till death, 66; the marriage of, 150-169; sends Theodor, Councillor of State, to King Michael of Ledyen, 150; sues for the hand of Princess Roksanda, 150, 151; the two Voïnovitchs, Voukashin and Petrashin, nephews of, 151; Milosh-the-Shepherd joins the wedding procession of, 153, 154; the four tests undertaken by Milosh-the-Shepherd on behalf of, in order to win the Princess Roksanda, 160-166; reference to the wresting of the Empire from the Turk by the Serb, until it is in extent almost equivalent to Empire under, 176 Dragomir. Djoupan of Trebinye, father of Stephen Voïslav, 3 Dragoutin. Son of Ourosh the Great; deposes his father and becomes king of Serbia, 4; retires in favour of his brother Miloutin, 4; assumes title of King of Sirmia, 5; yields his throne to Miloutin, 5 "Dream of the King's Son, The." A Serbian folk-tale, 322-328 Ducadyin, Plain of. Given as fief to Mehmed-Bey Obrenbegovitch, 149 Dulzigno. Ivan Tzrnoyevitch invites all heroes in province of, to his son's wedding, 134, 139 Dyakovitza. Voutché of, admires Koulash the steed of Milosh-the-Shepherd, 157 "Dyavo." See Devils. Dyogo. Faithful steed of Banovitch, 120, 121, 122; enables Banovitch to escape Vlah-Ali's spear, 126 E Earth. The Saints divide the treasures of, 195-197 Elias, St. (Elijah). Serbian peasants believe that the god Peroon still lives in person of, 15; Kolyivo not prepared for, 41; mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 195, 196; lightning and thunder chosen by, 196 Enchanters (tcharobnitzi). Celebrants of the various pagan rites, 24 Enemies. "Animals as Friends and," a Serbian folk-tale, 305-316 Era. The name given to the peasants of the district of Ouzitze (Western Serbia); they are supposed to be very witty and shrewd, and might be called the Irishmen of Serbia, 364; "The Era from the Other World," a Serbian popular anecdote, 364-366 Europe. The Turk almost driven from, during the golden rule of King Peter I, 11 F Falcon, The. Banovitch eulogized as, "without equal," 120 Farnam, Mrs. C. H. Her interest in Vouk's book of Serbian national poems, 57, 58 Feast. The Slava, 45, 46 Folk-Lore. Tales of Serbian, 213-328; "The Ram with the Golden Fleece," 213-220; "A Pavilion neither in the Sky nor on the Earth," 220-224; "Pepelyouga," 224-230; "Animals' Language," 230-235; "The Stepmother and her Stepdaughter," 235-240; "Justice and Injustice," 240-243; "He who asks Little receives Much," 243-247; "Bash Tchelik" (Real Steel), 247-267; "The Golden Apple-tree and the Nine Pea-hens," 267-280; "The Bird Maiden," 280-283; "Lying for a Wager," 283-287; "The Maiden Wiser than the Tsar," 287-291; "Good Deeds never Perish," 291-299; "He whom God helps no one can harm," 300-305, etc.; "Animals as Friends and Enemies," 305-316; "The Three Suitors," 316-322; "The Dream of the King's Son," 322-328; "The Biter Bit," 328-340; "The Trade that no one Knows," 340-353; "The Golden-haired Twins," 353-361 Francs. Serbians an easy prey to attacks of, 2 French. Princess; Helen wife of Ourosh a, 119; Court of Charles of Anjou and Prince Ourosh, 119; Ourosh negotiates an alliance between Serbs and the, 119 Friends. "Animals as Enemies and," a Serbian folk-tale, 305-316 Funeral Customs. Description of, among Slavs, Serbians, etc., 25-27 G Galicia. Serbians lived as a patriarchal people in country now known as, 1 George's Day, St. Serbian equivalent, Dyourdyev Dan. Strange sorceries practised on, 53 Giants. Serbian equivalent, Djins: Turkish equivalent, Div. Those in Bulgarian, Croatian, etc., mythology, we owe to the cycle of mediæval myths, 27; the nine, in the Serbian folk-tale "Bash Tchelik," 247, 252, 253, 254, 255; the Black, in the Serbian folk-tale "The Biter Bit," 328; the, in the Serbian folk-tale "The Trade that no one Knows," 345 Gipsies. Serbian equivalent, Tzigans, 363; "The Nobleman and the," a Serbian popular anecdote, 363; stealing and selling horses their main occupation, 363 God. The Veele believed in, and St. John, 17; Keys of the Heavens given to the Saints by, 196; the wrath of, 197; "He whom God helps no one can harm," a Serbian folk-tale, 300-305, etc. God-s. Peroon, the God of Thunder, 15; Volos, the God of Cattle, 15; Daybog, the Sun god, 15, 16 Goethe. One of Vouk's national ballads was translated by, 55 Goletch. The mountain of, the dervish declares he would recognize Banovitch Strahinya even on top of, 122; Banovitch rides to Mount, 124 Goïko. Youngest of three brothers who built Skadar (Scutari), 198; his young wife immured in the foundation of Skadar, 198-205 Golouban. Tsar Lazarus' servant who succours Tsarina Militza, 172 "Good Deeds Never Perish." A Serbian folk-tale, 291-299 Gooslar. A Serbian national bard, 50, 63 "Gorsky Viyenatz" (The Mountain Wreath). The masterpiece of the Serbian poet Peter Petrovitch, 56; mention of the goussle in, 56 Gospel. The Slavonic translation of, applies name tcharobnitzi to the three Holy Kings, 24; Cyrillos translates the, 29 "Goussle." A primitive instrument with a single string, found in every Serbian home, 56; used during Balkans-Turkish War, 1912-13, in reciting poems relating to Marko, 63 Goyko, Voïvode. Inheritance of the Empire disputed by, 65-71 Great Powers, The. King Nicholas I Petrovitch of Montenegro obliged to evacuate Skadar by, 120 Greeks, The. Driven by the Serbians toward the Adriatic coast, 1 Greek Nymphs. The Veele compared with, 17 Gregory VII, Pope. Bestows title of King upon Michaylo, 3 Guns. Krgno and Zelenko, Ivan Tzrnoyevitch's two famous, 140 H "Hadjis." Turkish equivalent for pilgrims, 108 "Haïdooks." Knight-brigands; exploits of, sung by professional bards, 55 Haykoona. Daughter of the vizier of Novi Bazar, 180; Stephan Yakshitch declines the 'water of oblivion' offered by, 181, 182; confesses her real love for Stephan Yakshitch and enables him to escape, 182, 183 Heaven-s. The Saints divide the treasures of, 195-197; the keys of, given by God to the Saints, 196; the Saints lock the Seven, 197 Helen. A French princess of the house of Courtenay, wife of Prince Ourosh, 119 Helen, Queen. Serbian alternative, Yevrossima (Euphrosyne); mother of the Royal Prince Marko, 59 Heraclius, Emperor. Cedes provinces to the Serbians, 1; Serbians first adopt Christian faith during reign of, 28 Heroes. Attention of Serbian bards now turned to exploits of modern, at Monastir, Koumanovo, Perlep (Prilip), Scutari (Skadar), etc., 176 Herzegovina. Subjugation complete by 1482, 8; King Voukashin dispatches book (letter) to, 186 Historical Note. On "Tsar Lazarus and the Tsarina Militza," 174-176; On "The Captivity and Marriage of Stephan Yakshitch," 184, 185; on "The Marriage of King Voukashin," 193, 194 Historical Retrospect. Of the Serbians, 1-12 "Hodjas." Turkish equivalent for priest, 108, 179 Homer. Reference to, 54 Hoossein. The trusty servant of the vizier of Novi Bazar, 180 Horea Margi. Capital of the state which the Serbians failed to form in ninth century, 2 Horse-s. Sharatz, Prince Marko's wonderful, 17, 57, 61-65, 68, 69, 76; Koulash, the steed of Prince Voïnovitch, 154, 155, 157-159; Bedevia, name of the Moorish chieftain's, 79-81; Dyogo, the name of the faithful steed of Banovitch, 120, 121, 122, 126; Bedevia, name of Milosh Obrenbegovitch's, 141; Zdral, name of Ivan Tzrnoyevitch's steed, 135, 140, 142; Bedevia, name of Voïvode Balatchko's, 168; the old woman and her, in the Serbian folk-tale "The Golden Apple-tree and the Nine Pea-hens," 276-280; the golden, in the Serbian folk-tale "The Dream of the King's Son," 325-328 Human Sacrifices. Legends regarding, among Russians, Slavs, Serbians, etc., 25 Hungary. Thousands of Serbian families emigrate to, through tyrannous Turkish rule, 8 Huntsmen. Prince Marko and the Turkish, 105-108 I "Ich, Itch, or Ic." The characteristic termination of most Serbian family names, 119 Iconia. Daughter of Prince Miloutin; Theodore of Stalatch abducts, 210-212; betrothed to George Irene, for Sredoi, 211 "Iconia, the Abduction of the Beautiful." A Serbian national ballad from Sir John Bowring's Servian Popular Poetry, 210-212 Iliad. Reference to, 54 Illyrians, The. Driven by Serbians toward Adriatic coast, 1 Immortality. Serbians believe in Predestination and, 18 India. Beata Maria relates to St. Elias her recent arrival from, 195. Irene, George. Iconia betrothed to, for Sredoi, 211 Irishmen. Of Serbia; the peasants of the district of Ouzitze (Western Serbia) might be termed the, 364 Islam. Remnant of Serbians under Turkish rule forced to embrace, 8; Maximus Tzrnoyevitch threatens to embrace, 149; Stephan Yakshitch declines to embrace faith of, 181, 182 Issaya. The deacon of Abbot Vasso, 118 Istamboul. Turkish equivalent for Constantinople, 72; Moorish chieftain demands daughter of Sultan at, 72-81; Moussa Kessedjiya at, 108; Prince Maximus threatens to go to, in order to embrace Islam, 149 Istria. One of the provinces in Austria-Hungary, 1 Ivanbegovitch, Scander-Beg. Turkish alternative for Prince Maximus Tzrnoyevitch, 149 Ivan Kosantchitch. See Kosantchitch. Ivan Tzrnoyevitch (see Tzrnoyevitch). Tradition regarding the river of Tzrnoyevitch and, 24, 25 J Jhesu, Lord. Stephan Yakshitch prefers to lose his life for the sake of, rather than become a Turk, 180; Stephan Yakshitch plights his troth to Haykoona in the name of, 183 John, St. The Veele believed in, 17; the princess appeals to Prince Marko in name of, 75, 76; the veela Raviyoyla appeals to Marko by memory of, 104; mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 195; brotherhood and koomhood as well as the Holy Cross, chosen by, 196 "Justice and Injustice." A Serbian folk-tale, 240-243 K Kadi. Equivalent, Ottoman judge, 179 "Kami" (or bileg). Term applied in Middle Ages to gravestones still found in large numbers in Herzegovina, Dalmatia, etc., now known as stetyak or mramor, 26, 27 Karadgitch, Vouk Stephanovitch. See Vouk Stephanovitch Karadgitch Karageorgevitch, Alexander. Son of Karageorge Petrovitch, 10 Karavallahian Land. Milosh-the-Shepherd instructed to declare that he hails from the, 155 Kastriotovitch-Skander-Beg, George. An Albanian chief who fought successfully for the liberty of Albania, 8 Katchanik. A defile up which Prince Marko rides to meet Moussa, 112; Moussa the Bully's death on mountain of, 114 "Kessedjiya." Equivalent, fighter or bully. The nickname of an Albanian chevalier-brigand, Moussa, who rebelled against the Sultan, 108 Keys. The, of the Heavenly Empire, chosen by St. Peter, 196; the Keys of the Heavens given by God to the Saints, 196 Keystut. Brother of the Grand Duke Olgerd; his interment the last recorded instance of a pagan burial, 26 Klissoura. The wedding procession of Tsar Doushan reaches, 157; the fight for Koulash at, 158, 159 Knez. The title corresponding to "Prince," 6 "Kolatch." A special cake eaten on Saints' days, 41 "Kollo." The Serbian national dances, 40, 52 Kollo, Vrzino. Name applied to the Veele rings, 17 "Kolyivo." Lit. something which has been killed with the knife; the Slava cake, 41 "Koom." The principal witness at Serbian weddings, 35; Beata Maria complains of a brother koom bearing false witness against, 196 Koopinovo. A village on plain of Sirmia, in which Zmay-Despot Vook lived, 130 Kosantchitch, Ivan. General Voutcha and, 89-94 Kossovo. Vouk's national poems dwell on the glory of the Serbian mediæval Empire, lost on fatal field of, 55; four tabors meet on field of, disputing over the inheritance of the Empire, 65; the Sultana's dream concerning, 74; Marko and the maiden from, 82-86; Marko, Relya, and Milosh ride out from, 87; Banovitch hears of encampment of hordes of Turks on field of, 120; Banovitch seeks and attacks the Turks on field of, 120-128; Tsar Doushan's wedding procession rides through field of, 152; Milosh takes farewell of Tsar Doushan in middle of plain of, 168; Tsar Lazarus does battle on field of, 170-172; death of Tsar Lazarus on field of, 172-174; historical note on battle of, 174-176; historical note re Ottoman influence upon the peasantry in Bosnia and Herzegovina at the time (1389) of the battle of, 184, 185 Koulash. Steed of Petroshin Voïnovitch, ridden by Milosh-the-Shepherd to join wedding procession of Tsar Doushan, 154, 155; the wonderful leap of, admired by Voutché of Dyakovitza, Yanko of Nestopolyé and others, 156, 157; the fight for, at Klissoura, 157, 158, 159 Koulin, Ban. Placed on throne of Bosnia, 4 Koumanovo. Famous battlefield on which in 1913 more Turks perished than did Serbians five centuries ago, 175; reference to, as a set-off to Kossovo, 176 "Kraly." Serbian equivalent for king, 198 "Krgno" and "Zelenko." Ivan Tzrnoyevitch's two famous guns, 140 Kroushevatz. I. Castle in, the residence of Youg Bogdan, 120; II. Castle in, the residence of Tsar Lazar, 129; Tsar Lazar beseeches Zmay-Despot Vook to come to, 131; III. The capital of the vast Serbian Empire during the reign of Tsar Hrebélianovitch at time of famous battle of Kossovo (A.D. 1389), 171; Bosko Yougovitch declares he would not forgo battle of Kossovo for the price of, 171 Kroushevo. A plain, over which Zmay of Yastrebatz flies toward the Tsarina's tower, 130; Zmay-Despot Vook reaches, 131 Kustandil. Veele ring between Vranya and, mentioned in the Treaty of Berlin, 17 L Lale. The popular appellation of Serbians living in Batchka and Banat, 156 Language, Animals'. A Serbian folk-tale dealing with, 230-235 Latins, The. Driven by Serbians toward Adriatic coast, 1 Lazar, Knez. Elected ruler of Serbia, 6; makes an alliance with Ban Tvrtko against the Turks, 6, 7; slain by Sultan Amourath, 7 Lazar, Tsar. The Tsarina Militza confesses to the embraces of her magic lover, the Zmay of Yastrebatz, 129-133; Zmay-Despot Vook in the wheatfields of, 131 Lazarus. I. Of Bethany. Poems recited on the resurrection of, 52. II. Tsar. The Tsarina Militza and, 170-176; his departure to the battlefield of Kossovo, 170-172; his glorious death, 173, 174; historical note regarding, 174-176; reference to Empire lost by, regained under King Peter I, 176 Ledyen. Tsar Doushan sends Theodor to King Michael of, 150; Milosh-the-Shepherd pursues champion of the Venetian king to gates of, 162; Milosh rides to perform the second test in the meadow of, 163; Voïvode Balatchko ordered to fight Milosh by the king of, 167 Legends. Influence on Southern-Slavonic peoples, of Græco-Oriental and Christian myths and, 14; influence from Greeks and Romans on Southern-Slavonic, 27-30 Love. Lado, oy, Lado-deh, refrain which is probably the name of the ancient Slavonic Deity of Love, 52 Love. The, of sister for her brother is proverbial in Serbia, 170 Luckless, The River. Mention of, in the Serbian folk-tale "The Biter Bit," 336 "Lying for a Wager." A Serbian folk-tale, 283-287 M Macedonia. One of the provinces in the Balkan territories, 1 Magyar-s. Prince Marko and, 92-94 "Maiden, The Bird-." A Serbian folk-tale, 280-283 "Maiden Wiser than the Tsar, The." A Serbian folk-tale, 287-291 Marko, Krazyevitch. Pro-claimed himself King of the Serbians; eldest son of King Voukashin, 6, 59; aids Turks against the Christians, 6; killed in battle of Rovina, 6; endowed with superhuman strength, and presented with a wonderful courser, Sharatz, by a veela, 17; his guests on his Slava day, 45; the goussle and exploits of, 57; Queen Helen mother of, 59; traditional son of a veela and a Zmay, 59; the most beloved of Serbian heroes, 59, 60; virtues of, 59; tradition extols him as faithful defender of Prince Ourosh, 61; Serbian belief that he will reappear to reestablish the mediæval Empire, 64; his supposed appearance at the battle of Prilip (1912), 64, 65; tells whose the Empire shall be, 65-71; cursed by his father, 71; the Moor and, 72-81; the Sultana's dream concerning, 74; wedding tax abolished by, 82-86; Bogdan the Bully and, 87-89; General Voutcha and, 89-94; wedding procession of, 94-100; the Moorish princess and, 100-102; the veela Raviyoyla and, 102-105; the Turkish huntsmen and, 105-108; Moussa Kessedjiya and, 108-114; his death, 115-118 Marra. Alternative, Pepelyouga (Cinderella), 226-229 Marriage. The customs obtaining at Serbian, 32-40 Mass, The Holy. Mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 196 Maximus Tzrnoyevitch. See Tzrnoyevitch Mehmed. Turkish Grand Vizier; Vlah-Ali independent of, 121 Methodius. Cyrillos and, the so-called Slavonic apostles who translated the teaching of Christ into the ancient Slav language, 2, 29 Michael. King of Ledyen, father of Princess Roksanda; Tsar Doushan sues for the hand of Roksanda, 150; Theodor reports to the Tsar result of his mission to King of Ledyen, 151, 152 Michael, Archangel. Death and, 31; kolyivo not prepared for, 41 Michaylo. Son of Stephen Voïslav; obtains title of King from Pope Gregory VII, 3; King Bodin son of, 3 Michel (Serbian Mihaylo). Son of Milosh Obrenovitch; succeeds his father as prince of Serbia, 10 Michel III, Emperor. Mission of Cyrillos and Methodius to, 29 Middle Ages. "Banovitch Strahinya," one of the finest ballads composed anonymously by Serbian bards during the, 119 Mijatovitch, Madame C. Reference to Serbian Folk-lore, by, 305 Milan. Succeeds his cousin Michel as prince of Serbia, 10; war of 1876-8 against Turkey by, 10; acknowledgment of Serbian independence by Treaty of Berlin during rule of, 10; his abdication, 11 Milan of Toplitza. General Voutcha and, 89-94 Militchevitch. A famous Serbian ethnographist relates incident re a resnik (priest) who read prayers out of the apocrypha of Peroon, 22 Militza, Tsarina. The Zmay of Yastrebatz and the, 129-133; deceives the Zmay, 130; recognizes Zmay-Despot Vook, 131; Tsar Lazarus and the, 170-176; as her nine brothers Yougovitchs are to accompany Tsar Lazarus to battle on field of Kossovo she pleads for one brother to be left behind with her, 170; her brother Boshko Yougovitch refuses to remain behind, 171; succoured by Golouban, 172; news of battle brought by two ravens to, 172, 173; death of Lazarus and her brothers described by Miloutin, 173, 174 Milosh Obilitch. The Sultan Amourath perishes by the hand of, 7, 175 Milosh Obrenbegovitch, Voïvode. Ivan Tzrnoyevitch invites to be the stari-svat in connexion with his son's wedding, 138-149; Maximus Tzrnoyevitch slays, 148; Yovan Obrenbegovitch brother of, 149 Milosh Obrenovitch. Succeeds in re-establishing the Belgrade pashalik, 10; forced to abdicate, 10; restored by the Skoupshtina, 10; his death, 10; Michel son of, 10 Milosh of Potzerye. A Serbian knight; Bogdan the Bully and, 87-89; General Voutcha and, 89-94; the veela Raviyoyla and, 102-105 Milosh-the-Shepherd. The mother of the two Voïnovitchs counsels them to send for, 153; his meeting with his two brothers, 154; joins the wedding procession of Tsar Doushan, 155; rides the steed Koulash, 154, 155; his fight for Koulash, 158, 159; he undertakes the first test on behalf of Tsar Doushan, in order to win Roksanda, 160-162; the second test undertaken by, 162, 163; succeeds in the third test, 164; succeeds in the fourth test by discovering the identity of Princess Roksanda, 164-166; his contest with Balatchko, 167-169; Balatchko slain by, 168; discloses his identity to Tsar Doushan, 168 Milosh, Voïvode. The veela Raviyoyla wounds, 17; the great Serbian hero who slays the Turkish sultan, Amourath I, 173 Miloutin. I. Dragoutin, his brother, king of Serbia, retires in favour of, 4; one of the most remarkable descendants of Nemanya, 5; Stevan Datchanski son of, 5. II. Servant of Prince Lazarus; relates to Tsarina Militza death of Tsar Lazarus and her nine brothers on field of Kossovo, 173, 174. III. Prince of Ressava; Iconia daughter of, 211-212. Minister. The treacherous, in the Serbian folk-tale "Good Deeds Never Perish," 294 Mirotch. Prince Marko and Milosh of Potzerye ride across the mountain of, 102 Mission. Of Cyrillos and Methodius to the Emperor Michel III, 29 Miyatovich, M. Chedo. Personal friend of King Alexander, 11 Mohammed. The vizier of Tyoopria undertakes to make Stephan Yakshitch love the creed of, 179 Mohammedanism. Prince Maximus and Yovan Obrenbegovitch embrace, 149 Moldavia. Many noble Serbian families take refuge with Christian princes of, 8 Momchilo. Queen Helen, sister of the adventurous knight, 59 Momtchilo, Voïvode. Vidossava the lonely consort of, 186; Yaboutchilo the steed of, 187-191; King Voukashin marches an army against, 187; the strange dream of, 189; falls into an ambuscade, 189; his valiant fight, 190; Yevrossima vainly attempts to rescue, 191; the death of, 192; his castle pillaged, 193 Montenegro. Never subdued by Turks, 8; belief in, that each house has its guardian spirit, 18; belief in vampires in, 21, 22; Nicholas I Petrovitch king of, 120; "The Marriage of Maximus Tzrnoyevitch" the source of the drama "The Empress of the Balkans" by king of, 134; Vladika Danilo Petrovitch, uncle of the present king of, who first assumed the title of Prince as a hereditary one, 184; few instances of treachery in, 185 Moor, The. Wedding tax inflicted by, 82-86 Moorish Chieftain, A. Prince Marko and, 72-80 Morava. The river of, 2; Theodore of Stalatch at, 210 Moravians. Their conversion to Christianity, 29 Moussa Arbanass. See Moussa Kessedjiya Moussa Kessedjiya. Prince Marko and, 108-114 Mouyo. His welfare in the Other World described in the Serbian popular anecdote "The Era from the Other World," 331-333 Mrnyavtchevitch. Three brothers who built Skadar (Scutari), 198 Mussulman Faith. The vizier of Tyoopria tries to convert Stephan Yakshitch to the, 179 Mythology. Giants (djins) in Bulgarian, Croatian, and Slavonian, we owe to the mediæval cycle of myths, 27, 28 Myths. Influence on Southern-Slavonic peoples of Græco-Oriental and Christian legends and, 14 N Naples. Prince Ourosh keeps up friendly relations with French Court of Charles of Anjou in, 119 Naturalism. Ousted from the Serbians by the doctrines of the Great Master, 29, 30 Nature. The worship of, by Southern-Slavonic races not adequately studied, 14; has not yet vanished from the creed of the Balkans, 30 Nedelyko, Archdeacon. King Voukashin summons to the field of Kossovo, 66, 67 "Neimar." Equivalent, architect, 204 Nemagnitch. Reference to the glorious dynasty of, 58 Nemanya, Stephan. Grand Djoupan; created Duke of Serbia by the Byzantine emperor, 4; Stevan second son of, 4; one of Youg Bogdan's, sons-in-law a direct descendant of, 120 Nestopolyé, Yanko of. Milosh-the-Shepherd's steed, Koulash, admired by, 157 New Inn. Prince Marko placed in, to recuperate his strength for his duel with Moussa, 110, 111 Nicholas I Petrovitch. King of Montenegro, an indirect descendant out of Balshitchi; forced by the Great Powers to evacuate Skadar, 120; Serbian bards improvise ballads to record deeds of, 120; source of inspiration of his drama "The Empress of the Balkans," 134 Nicholas, St. Power of controlling ocean, etc., attributed by the Serbians to, 51; mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 195; the seas with the galleys upon them chosen by, 196 Nish. Extreme devotion to the Saints practised at, 46 Novak. A famous maker of swords, 111; makes a sword for Prince Marko, 111, 112 Novi Bazar. The pasha of, one of the leaders in the assault on Belgrade, 177-184; the vizier of Tyoopria wishes to have Stephan Yakshitch appointed vizier of, 180; Stephan Yakshitch's life redeemed by the vizier of, 180 O Obrenbegovitch, Mehmed-Bey. Turkish alternative for Yovan Obrenbegovitch, 149 Obrenovitch III, Prince Michel. The Serbian legend of "A Pavilion neither in the Sky nor on the Earth," contributed to Vouk Stephanovitch Karadgitch by, 220 Obugagn Greb. Name borne by the grave of Governor Obuganitch, in Konavla, 27 Odyssey. Reference to, 54 Ognyena Maria (Mary the Fiery One). Serbian peasants believe her to be the sister of the god Peroon (St. Elias), 15 Old Serbia. One of the provinces in the Balkan territories, 1 Oossood. A veela who pronounced the destiny of Serbian infants, 18 Ottoman Generals. Mediæval history of Serbia contains many instances of malcontents who became tools in hands of, 174, 175 Ottoman Invasion. Ourosh and his nobles pave the way for the, 5 Ottoman Statesmen. Historical note re the cunning efforts of, to seduce malcontents from their allegiance to their rightful lords at the Courts of the Christian princes of the Balkans, 184, 185 Ouglesha. Inheritance of the Empire disputed by, 65, 70 Ourosh. Younger son of Doushan the Powerful, 5; Voukashin's bad faith toward, 61; inheritance of the Empire disputed by, 65-71; Marko blessed by, 71 Ourosh, Prince. Belonged to the Nemanya dynasty, 119; Helen (a princess of the house de Courtenay) wife of, 119; maintained friendly relations with the French Court of Charles of Anjou in Naples through his wife, 119 Ourosh the Great. Dethrones his brother Vladislav, 4; dethroned by his son Dragoutin, 4 Ourvinian Mountain. Prince Marko's death on, 115-118 P Padishah (Sultan). Marko fears his foes will calumniate him to, 107; Vlah-Ali the rebel of the, 123; Stephan Yakshitch taken before the, 178; Stephan Yakshitch tempted to abjure the Holy Cross by, 178 Paganism. The religion and the, of the Serbians, 14-53; only partially abolished from the Balkans, 30 Palm Sunday. Serbian festivities on, 52 Panthelias, St. Mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 195; great heats chosen by, 196 Paul. One of the brothers in the Serbian ballad "The Stepsisters," 206-210 "Pavilion neither in the Sky nor on the Earth, A." A Serbian legend, 220-224 "Pea-hens, The Nine." A Serbian folk-tale, 267-280 "Pepelyouga" (Cinderella). A Serbian legend, 226-230; alternative name of, Marra, 226-229 Peroon. The Russian God of Thunder, 15; name preserved in village "Peroon," and in plant "Peroonika," 15 Peter I, King. Son of Alexandre Karageorgevitch; his glorious rule, 11; George Petrovitch grandfather of, 175; Empire lost by Tsar Lazarus regained under, 176 Peter II. Archbishop of Montenegro, and belief in vampires, 22 Peter, St. Mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 195; wine, wheat and the Keys of the Heavenly Empire chosen by, 196; "St. Peter and the Sand," a Serbian popular anecdote, 362 Petrovitch, George. Turkish designation Karageorge ('Black George'). A gifted Serbian who led a successful insurrection against the Turks in 1804, 9, 175; cruelly assassinated by order of Milosh, 10 Petrovitch, Nicholas I. See Nicholas Petrovitch, Peter. The popular Serbian poet; reference to his masterpiece on Gorsky Viyenatz ("The Mountain Wreath"), 56 Petrovitch, Vladika Danilo. Uncle of present king of Montenegro; first assumed the title of Prince as a hereditary one, 184 Pirlitor. Alternative, Piritor. The white city opposite the mountain Dourmitor, the walls of the castle of which it is said still exist in Herzegovina, 186; Vidossava punished by the castle, 193 Pisistrate's Epoch. The learned Diascevastes of, 54 Pleiades. Serbian equivalent, Sedmoro Bratye ('The Seven Brothers'), 22 Podgoritza. Captain Yovan's five hundred men of, 139 Poetry, Epic. The Serbian national, 54-58 Pogatcha. The Serbian wedding cake, 38 Polaznik. A Serbian visitor, 50 Pope, The. Stevan Tomashevitch fails to get help from, 8 Poretch. The district of; Milo and Milosh arrive at, 105 Porphyrogenete, Constantine. According to, the Serbians adopted the Christian faith at two different periods, 28 Potzerye, Milosh of. Bogdan the Bully and, 87-89; General Voutcha and, 89-94; the veela Raviyoyla and, 102-105 Predestination. Serbians believe in immortality and, 18 Priepolyé. A youth from, admires Milosh-the-Shepherd's steed, Koulash, 157 "Priest, The, why drowned." A Serbian popular anecdote, 364 Prilip. Serbian belief that Prince Marko is asleep in castle at, 64; Prince Marko's appearance at battle of, in November, 1912, 64; Archdeacon Nedelyko bids the four tabors appeal to Marko at, 67; the Sultana's dream concerning, 74; Milosh sends a messenger to, 90; Marko imprisons Voutcha and Velimir in, 93, 94 Prisrend. Theodor arrives at, and reports to Tsar Doushan the result of his mission, 151, 152; Tsar Doushan's return to, 168 Ptolemy. Greek geographer, describes the Serbians, 1 Q Quests. The, of the three sons in the Serbian folk-tale "He whom God helps no one can harm," 300-305 R Rado. The architect (neimar) who builds Skadar, 200-205 Radool. One of the brothers in the Serbian ballad "The Stepsisters," 206-210 Radoslav. Son of Stevan, becomes King of Serbia; deposed by his brother Vladislav, 4 Radoul-bey. A Turkish lord, the supposed master of Milosh-the-Shepherd, 155 Ragusa. Many noble Serbian families find a safe refuge in, 8 "Ram with the Golden Fleece, The." A Serbian folk-lore story, 213-220 Rashka. Name of the independent State that Djoupan Vlastimir attempted to form, 2; Tsar Siméon invades, to support Djoupan Tchaslav, 2; overpowered by Byzantine Empire, 3 Rastislav, Prince. Cyrillos and Methodius entrusted with a mission to Emperor Michel III by, 29 Raviyoyla, Veela. Prince Marko all but slays the, 17; the story of Prince Marko and, 102-105 Religion. Paganism and the, of the Serbians, 14-53; naturalism and the Serbians, 29, 30 Relya of Bazar. A Serbian knight; Bogdan the Bully and, 87 Renaissance. The Serbian poets of Ragusa made frequent reference during the, to nymphs and dryads as 'Veele,' 16 "Resnik." A proper name in Serbia, etc., which means "the one who is searching for truth," 24 Ressava. Theodore of Stalatch wanders by river of, and sees Iconia, 210, 211 Roksanda, Princess. Daughter of King Michael of Ledyen; Tsar Doushan sues for hand of, 150; the four tests undertaken by Milosh-the-Shepherd on behalf of Tsar Doushan in order to win, 160-166 Ronceval. Reference to the French troubadour's ballad of battle at, in comparison with the method of elaboration employed in connexion with "King Voukashin's Marriage," 193, 194 Roumania. Battle of Rovina in, 6 Rovina. Marko killed in battle of, 6 Russians. Funeral customs among the, 26, 27 S Sacrificial Rites. The exact terminology of well-known, from translations of the Greek legends of the Saints, 24; legends of human, among Russians, Polapic Slavs, Serbians, etc., 25 St. Elias (Elijah). Serbian peasants believe that the god Peroon still lives in the person of, 15; kolyivo not prepared for, 41; mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 195; comforts Beata Maria, 196 St. George's Day. Serbian equivalent, Dyourdyev Dan. Strange sorceries practised on, 33, 53 St. John. The princess appeals to Prince Marko in name of, 75, 76; the veela Raviyoyla appeals to Marko by memory of, 104; mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 195; brotherhood, koomhood, and the Holy Cross chosen by, 196 St. Nicholas. Power of controlling ocean, etc., attributed by the Serbians to, 51; mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 195 St. Panthelias. Mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 195; great heats chosen by, 196 St. Peter. Mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 195; wine, wheat, and the Keys of the Heavenly Empire chosen by, 196 "Saints Divide the Treasures, The." Serbian ballad, 195-197; "The Sand and," a Serbian popular anecdote, 362 Salonica. The Slav apostles of, Cyrillos and Methodius two of, 29 Samodrezja. White church of, on field of Kossovo, 65; Marko chased by Voukashin round church of, 70, 71 Sand "St. Peter and the." A Serbian popular anecdote, 362 Sava. Youngest son of Grand Djoupan Stephan Nemanya, 4; becomes first Servian archbishop, 4 Scutari. Modern alternative for Skadar. See Skadar. Sir John Bowring and the token on the walls of, confirming the story of Goïko's wife being immured, 205 Sea. The Saints divide the treasures of, 195-197 Serb-s. The coming of the, 1; Prince Ourosh seeks to promote an alliance between the French and, 119 Serbia. Use of the solecism Servia in English language, 1; one of the kingdoms in the Balkan territories, 1; ruled by dynasty founded by Grand Djoupan Stephan Nemanya, 3, 4; Stevan assumes title of King of, 4; Bulgaria a province of, 5; Doushan the Powerful Tsar of, 5; Knez Lazar elected ruler of, 6; fresh subjugation of, in year 1813, 9; Treaty of Berlin acknowledges independence of, 10, 11; Princess Roksanda's excellence unmatched throughout, 152; the love of a sister for her brother is proverbial in, 170 Serbian-s. Galicia occupied by, prior to their incursion into the Balkan Peninsula, 1; described by Ptolemy as living on banks of Don, 1; Heraclius cedes provinces to the, 1; an easy prey to the Byzantines, the Bulgars, and the Francs, 2; attempt to form a State on banks of River Morava in ninth century, 2; nation hindered by internecine strife from becoming a powerful political unit, 3; church, Sava obtains autonomy of, 4; archbishop, Sava becomes the first, 4; lands occupied by the Turks, 6; struggle between Turks and, 7; final defeat of, 8; emigration of, to Hungary, 8; superstitious beliefs of, and national customs, 13-53; mixed with the indigenous population of the Balkan Peninsula, 13; the Boshnyaks considered the most typical, 13; bards, the Veele glorified by, 16; national customs of the, 31-53; national epic poetry, 54-58; "Banovitch Strahinya" one of the finest ballads composed by anonymous bards during Middle Ages, 119; the departure of, from Ledyen, bearing Princess Roksanda, 166; "People, Why Poor," a Serbian popular anecdote, 362 "Servian Popular Poetry." Sir John Bowring's, quotations of three poems from, 198-212 Shar. The mountain where Milosh-the-Shepherd tarried with his flocks, 153 Sharatz (Piebald). Prince Marko's wonderful courser, 17, 57; story how Marko became possessed of the wonderful steed, 61-65; alternatives, Sharin or Sharo, 62; Marko rides to Kossovo, 68, 69; prepared for fight against a Moor, 76; Marko rides, to Istamboul, 76, 77; Bedevia and, 79, 80, 81; Marko rides, in his conflict with the Moor to abolish his wedding tax, 82-86; how Marko escaped Bogdan the Bully on, 87; Marko attacks General Voutcha on, 91-94; Marko flees from Moorish princes on, 102; the veela Raviyoyla overtaken by, 103, 104; Marko pursues the Turkish Grand Vizir on, 106; Marko rides forth on, to meet Moussa, 112; Marko returns triumphantly to the Sultan at Istamboul on, 114; Marko slays and buries, 116, 117 Shishman, King. Marko and daughter of, 95-97 Siméon. A Bulgarian Tsar; Rashka invaded by, 2 Sirmia. I. One of the kingdoms in the Balkan territories, 1; Dragoutin king of, 5. II. A plain containing village of Koopinovo, in which Zmay-Despot Vook lived, 130. Sitnitza. Strahinya beholds supposed tent of Vlah-Ali from the banks of, 122; Banovitch crosses the river, 124; Ban Strahinya's death by the streamlet, 174 Skadar or Skadra. Modern alternative, Scutari; birthplace of Prince Marko, 59; the capital of Northern Albania, where Strashimir Balshitch-Nemanyitch reigned (1360-1370), 119; the capital of Zeta (the Montenegro of modern times), 120; name derived from the Italian appellation Scodra, otherwise Scutari, 198; belonged to Serbians from time immemorial, 198; Serbian ballad "The Building of," 198-205; on river Boyana, 186 Skoupshtina, The (National Assembly). Milosh restored by, 10; elects King Peter I, 11 Slav-s. Language, teachings of Christ translated into, by Cyrillos and Methodius, 2; apostles, Cyrillos and Methodius two of, 29; explanation of conquest of Ottoman generals over the Balkan, 175 Slava. Alternative, Krsno Ime. The Serbian tutelary Saint-day, 40-46 Slavonic Races. Paganism and religion of, 14-53; influence of Græco-Oriental myths and legends, Illyrian and Roman propaganda, Christian legends and apocryphal writings, on the, 14; remains of idols of the Sun god 'Daybog' among the, 16 Southern Slavs. At first the Christian faith spread only superficially, 28; life of, interwoven with superstition, 30-53; national customs of, 31-53; allusion to frescoes illustrating duel between Marko and Moussa on tavern walls in villages of, 108 Spirits, Good and Evil. Serbian belief in, 18, 22 Sredoi. A kinsman of George Irene; Iconia promised to, for Irene, 211 Stalatch. A ruined fortress on the banks of the river Morava, 210; Theodore of, 210 Stamboul. Mediæval history of Serbia contains many instances of malcontents going to, and becoming tools of Ottoman generals, 174, 175; return in triumph of the vizier of Tyoopria to, 178 "Steel, True." The Serbian folk-tale of "Bash Tchelik" or, 247-267 Stefan Strematz. The celebrated Serbian novelist, and Slava customs, 46 "Stepmother and her Step-Daughter, The." A Serbian folk-tale, 235-240 "Stepsisters, The." A Serbian ballad from Sir John Bowring's Servian Popular Poetry, 206-210 Stevan. Second son of Grand Djoupan Stephan Nemanya, 3, 4; on abdication of his father he assumes title of King of Servia, 4; Radoslav son of, 4 Stevan Detchanski. Miloutin's son; by victory at Velbouzd brings whole of Bulgaria under his sway, 5; dethroned by Doushan, 5 Stevan Tomashevitch. King of Bosnia, 8 Stoyan and Stoyana. Twins whom it was attempted to immure in the foundation of Skadar, 198-205 Strahinya, Banovitch. Serbian bards improvise ballads to tell story of Nicholas I Petrovitch just as their ancestors recorded exploits of, 120; Vlah-Ali attacks castle and captures wife of, 120-128; slays Vlah-Ali and returns to Kroushevatz, 128 Strashimir Balshitch-Nemanyitch. Some Serbian historians believe identical with Banovitch Strahinya, 119; a descendant of the old Provençal family of des Baux, 119; reigned conjointly with two brothers in Skadar, the capital of Northern Albania (1360-1370), 119 Strength. The secret of Bash Tchelik's, 266 Strhigna, Ban. Tsarina Militza and death of, 173 Sublime Porte. Accepts Milosh as hereditary Prince of Serbia, 10 "Suitors, The Three." A Servian folk-tale, 316-322 Sun and Moon. Serbian beliefs regarding eclipses recall Norse belief of a similar nature, 19 Sun-God. Pagan sacrifices to, in Serbia, 49 Sunday. Veela discountenances fighting on, 17, 113, 114 Superstition. Christianity and, in the Balkans, 30 "Svati" (or svatovi). Serbian equivalent for wedding guests, 32 Svetchar. The chief man of the family in connexion with the Slava, 40, 42 Svetopluk, Prince. Cyrillos and Methodius entrusted with a mission to Emperor Michel III by, 29 Sword. Novak makes a celebrated one for Prince Marko, 111, 112 T Tarra. The river, 186 Tasks, The Three. Named in the Serbian ballad "The Ram with the Golden Fleece," 213-220 Tchardack. A Turkish word signifying a tower provided with balconies, 129 Tchaslav. The Djoupan of a Serbian tribe; claims the Rashka State, 2; wrests also the territories of Zetta, Trebinye, Neretva, and Housa, 2, 3 Tchile. Diminutive for Yaboutchilo. The steed of Voïvode Momtchilo, 186-191 Tekiye. Allusion to the church at, 93 Theodor. Tsar Doushan's Councillor of State; sent to sue for hand of Roksanda, daughter of King Michael of Ledyen, 150; reports result of his mission, 151, 152; his inability to undergo the fourth test in order to win Princess Roksanda, 164, 165 Theodore of Stalatch. Hero in the Serbian ballad "The Abduction of the Beautiful Iconia," 210-212; Dobrivoy servant of, 211 Thracians, The. Driven by Serbians toward Adriatic coast, 1 Thunderer, The. Appellation for St. Elias, 196 Timok. River of, crossed by Marko and Milosh, 105 Toasts. The Slava and, 44 Toplitza, Milan of. General Voutcha and, 89-94 "Trade, A, before Everything." A Serbian popular anecdote, 366-369 "Trade that no one Knows, The." A Serbian folk-tale, 340-353 Trajan, Emperor. Confused in the Balkans with the Greek King Midas, 27; confused in Serbian legends with Dædalus, 27 Travnik. The city of, 179 Treachery. Vook Brankovitch's, against Knez Lazar, 7 Treasures, "The Saints Divide the," 195-197 Treaty of Berlin. The famous, acknowledged the independence of Serbia during the rule of Milan, 10, 11; mention of a Veele ring in the, 17 "Tsar, The Maiden Wiser Than The." Serbian folk-tale, 287-291 Turk-s. Reference to campaigns between Christians and, 6; struggle between Serbians and, 7; final success of, 8; almost driven from Europe under glorious rule of King Peter I, 11; abhorred by the Veele, 17; defeat of, on battlefields of Koumanovo, Monastir, Prilip, Prizrend, Kirk-Kilisse and Scutari, 54; sought and attacked by Banovitch on field of Kossovo, 121-128; Prince Maximus and Yovan Obrenbegovitch become, 149; Belgrade assailed by a great host of, 177-184; Stephan Yakshitch resists the temptation to become a, 179-182; historical note re the cunning efforts of, to seduce malcontents from their allegiance to their rightful lords at courts of the Christian princes of the Balkans, 184, 185 Turkish Atrocities. Their culmination reached in seventeenth century, 9 Turkish Huntsmen, The. Prince Marko and, 105-108 Turkish Rule. The miseries of, 8, 9 Tvrtko, Ban. Of Bosnia; alliance against the Turks between Knez Lazar and, 6 "Twins, The Golden-Haired." A Serbian folk-tale, 353-361 Tyoopria. I. Vizier of; one of the leaders in the assault on Belgrade, 177-183; Stephan Yakshitch led as prisoner to, 178; kindness of, to Stephan Yakshitch, 178-180; his return in triumph to Stamboul, 178; his wish to make Stephan Yakshitch vizier of Novi Bazar, 180. II. Castle of, the vizier of Tyoopria offers to retain Stephan Yakshitch as prisoner in, 179. Tyouprilitch, Grand Vizir. Undertakes a campaign against Moussa, 108; Moussa takes prisoner and sends ignominiously bound to Istamboul, 108, 109; advises Sultan to send for Prince Marko, 109 Tyoupriya. Modern alternative for Horea Margi, 2 "Tzechin." A golden coin worth about ten shillings, 240 Tzigan-s. Serbian equivalent for gipsies, 36, 363; their main occupation is stealing and selling horses, 363 Tzrnoyevitch, Ivan. Sails across the Adriatic to Venice to secure wife for his son Maximus, 134; sails for Zablak, 135; Zdral steed of, 135; invites Voïvode Milosh Obrenbegovitch to be the stari-svat in connexion with his son's wedding, 138-149; invites Captain Yovan to the wedding of his son, 139; Krgno and Zelenko, two famous guns of, 140 Tzrnoyevitch, Maximus. The marriage of, 134-149; son of Ivan Tzrnoyevitch, 134; stricken with small-pox, 135; Yovan in a dream sees a falling tower strike, 139; Milosh Obrenbegovitch slain by, 148; Turkish alternative, Scanderbeg Ivanbegovitch, 149; Scutari on river Boyana granted to, by Sultan, 149 U Uglesha-Voïvode. Second of three brothers who built Skadar (Scutari), 198-205 V Valahia. Many noble Serbian families take refuge with Christian princes of, 8 Vampires. The belief in, universal throughout the Balkans, 21, 22 Varadin, Fort. Guns of, signal General Voutcha's triumph, 89; Prince Marko on the plain before, 91, 92; Marko sends Voutcha and Velimir to, 94 Vasso. The igouman (abbot) of Mount Athos; finds the body of Marko and mourns his death, 118; Issaya the deacon of, 118 Vassoye, Land of. Momtchilo dreams that a cloud of fog from, wraps itself round Dourmitor mountain, 189 Veela. Marko endued with superhuman strength by a, 17; presented with Sharatz by a, 17; Raviyoyla a, allusion to incident of Marko and, 17; Oossood a, who pronounced the destiny of Serbian infants, 18; Raviyoyla and Marko, 102-105; Marko calls for aid from his sister-in-God the, 113, 114; Marko hears the call of the, on the top of Ourvinian mountain, 115-118 Veele or Vile (singular, Veela or Vila). Minor deities in Serbian superstition identical with the nymphai and potami mentioned by the Greek historian Procope, 16-18; Stephan Yakshitch and a, 177; Skadra's fortress and the, 198; the prince and the, in the Serbian folk-tale "The Dream of the King's Son," 324, 325 Velbouzd. Famous battle of, 5 Veless. The city of; derived name from Russian God of Cattle, Volos, 15 Velessnitza. A village on the lower Danube; derived name from the Russian God of Cattle, Volos, 15 Velimir. Son of General Voutcha; Marko and, 91-94 Venetian King. The four tests put by the, to Tsar Doushan in order to win the Princess Roksanda, 160-166 Venetian Land. Tsar Doushan journeys to the, 152 Venetians, The. Their cunning known from ancient times, 152, 153 Venice. Maximus Tzrnoyevitch's wedding and, 140, 142 Venice, Doge of. Marko invites to act as koom the, 96-100; Ivan Tzrnoyevitch asks daughter of, in marriage for his son Maximus, 134-149 Vidal, Pierre. A French troubadour; Donna Azalais de Baux his patroness, 33 Vidin, The Pasha of. One of the leaders in the assault on Belgrade, 177-184 Vidossava. The lonely consort of Voivode Momtchilo; letter sent secretly to, by King Voukashin, 186; the treachery of, 187; destroys wings of steed Yaboutchilo, 188; her punishment, 192, 193 Vienna. Vouk Stephanovitch-Karadgitch's first collection of Serbian national poems published at, 54 Vilindar. Vasso the Abbot of Mount Athos rides from the white church of, 118; Prince Marko's body interred within the white church of, 118 Vladika. Meaning in Serbian, 'bishop,' 184 Vladislav. Radoslav dethroned by, 4; Ourosh the Great dethrones, 4 Vlah-Ali. A haughty chieftain who attacks Strahinya's castle and captures his wife, 120-128; independent of the Grand Vizir Mehmed and of Sultan Amourath, 121; Strahinya seeks out and attacks, 121-128; his slaying by Banovitch, 128 Vlastela (Assembly of Nobles). Doushan the Powerful proclaimed Tsar of Serbia in agreement with, 5 Vlastimir, Djoupan (Great). Attempts to form an independent State, 2 Vo or Voll. Equivalent, Ox, 15. See Volos Voïnovitch, Milosh, Prince. Identical with Milosh-the Shepherd, 168, 169 Voïnovitch, Petrashin. Nephew of Tsar Doushan, 151; Doushan swears to hang, 152; Milosh-the-Shepherd brother of, 153, 154 Voïnovitch, Voukashin. Nephew of Tsar Doushan, 151; Doushan swears to hang, 152; Milosh-the-Shepherd brother of, 153, 154 Voïslav, Stephen. Ruler of Zetta, son of Dragomir, declares his independence and appropriates Zahoumlye (Hertzegovina), 3 Voïvode. As a title of nobility corresponds to English 'Duke,' 7 Voïvode, Balatchko the. The contest with Milosh-the-Shepherd, 167-169; Milosh slays, 168 Volos. The Russian God of Cattle; derivative appears in the Serbian word vo or voll ('ox'), 15 Vook, Zmay-Despot. The Zmay of Yastrebatz and, 130-133; fear of Zmay of Yastrebatz of, 130; village of Koopinovo on plain of Sirmia, his abode, 130; his fight with Zmay of Yastrebatz, 131, 132; the Zmay slain by, 132; ruled over Sirmia, 132 Vouk Stephanovitch-Karadgitch. Serbian national poet, 54, 55; takes down from lips of Serbian bard the ballad of "The Marriage of King Voukashin," 193; records the belief of the Serbian people that no great building can be successfully erected without immuring some human being, 205; Serbian legend "A Pavilion neither in the Sky nor on the Earth," contributed by Prince Michel Obrenovitch III to, 220 Voukashin, King. Defeated by Ourosh on banks of river Maritza, 6; Prince Marko son of, 59; Serbian ballads sing of, 60; the bad faith of, toward Emperor Doushan, 61; disputes the inheritance of the Empire, 65-71; curses Marko, 71; the marriage of, 186-194; vassal king to the Emperor Doushan the Powerful, 186; writes a book (letter) to Vidossava and dispatches it to Herzegovina, 186; on the advice of Vidossava he marches a large force to Herzegovina against Momtchilo, 187-192; his woe concerning the death of Momtchilo, 192; weds Yevrossima 192; Marko and Andrias born to, 193; historical note on, 193, 194 Voutcha, General. Prince Marko and, 89-94 Voutché of Dyakovitza. Admires the steed Koulash, 157 Voutchitrn, Castle of. Tsar Doushan swears to hang his nephews, the Voïnovitchs, on the gates of the, 152; Tsar Doushan's wedding procession passes by walls of, 152; Milosh takes farewell of Tsar Doushan in order to return to, 168 Voyages. The three, of the good son in the Serbian folk-tale "Good Deeds Never Perish," 291-299 Vrzino (or Vilino) Kollo. Dance rings of the Veele, 17 Vukashin Kraly. Eldest of three brothers who built Skadar (Scutari), 198-205 W "Wager, Lying for a." A Serbian folk-tale, 283-287 Wedding Procession. The, in the Serbian folk-tale "The Biter Bit," 333 Wedding Tax. Prince Marko abolishes, 82-86 Whitsuntide. Serbian festivities during, 52 Witch-es (veshtitze). Female evil spirits, who are irreconcilably hostile to men and children, 20, 21; the old, in the Serbian folk-tale "The Bird-Maiden," 281-283 Worship. Of the sun and moon, 22; of fire and lightning, 22; of animals, 22, 23; of snakes, 23; of the dragon--that of Southern Slavs contrasted with that of the Hellenes, 23 Wrath of God, The. Mention of, in Serbian ballad "The Saints Divide the Treasures," 197 Y Yaboutchilo (diminutive, Tchile). The steed of Voïvode Momtchilo, 187-191; Momtchilo reproaches, 190 Yahorika. Demitrius Yakshitch rests by river, 178 Yakshitch, Demitrius. Brother of Stephan Yakshitch; the Veela's warning to, 177; his remorse by the river Yahorika, 178 Yakshitch, Stephan. The captivity and marriage of (a ballad of Montenegro), 177-185; Demitrius the brother of, 177; the veela's warning to, 177; taken prisoner and led to the presence of the Vizier of Tyoopria, 178; led to the presence of the mighty Padishah, 178; the Padishah tempts him to renounce the Holy Cross, 179; declines the "water of oblivion" offered by Haykoona, 181, 182; Haykoona confesses her real love for, and enables him to escape, 182, 183 Yanissaries. The pasha of Novi Bazar in the assault on Belgrade brings twenty thousand fierce, 177 Yanko of Nestopolyé. Admires the steed Koulash, 157 Yastrebatz, the Zmay of. The Tsarina Militza and, 129-133; his fear of Zmay-Despot Vook, 130; Vook attacks and slays, 131, 132 Yedrenet. Equivalent, Adrianople. Prince Marko received by the Sultan at, 107, 108 Yelitza. Sister of Paul and Radool, in the Serbian ballad "The Stepsisters," 207-210 Yesdimir. The aged brother of the doge of Venice, 143 Yevrossima (Euphrosyne). I. Alternative name for Queen Helen, mother of Prince Marko, 59, 67. II. Sister of Voïvode Momtchilo, 187; vainly attempts to rescue her brother Momtchilo, 191; King Voukashin weds, to whom she bears Marko and Andrias, 193; historical note on, 193, 194 Youg Bogdan. Aged father-in-law of Banovitch, 120; visited by Banovitch, 120, 121; castle in Kroushevatz the residence of, 120; Strahinya returns to, after his slaying of Vlah-Ali, 128; Tsarina Militza and death of, 173 Yougovitch-s. I. The nine brothers-in-law of Strahinya; Strahinya urges them not to slay their sister, 128. II. The nine brothers of Tsarina Militza, 170-174 Yovan, Captain. Ivan Tzrnoyevitch invites, to the wedding of his son, 139-149 Yovan Obrenbegovitch. Brother of Milosh Obrenbegovitch, 149; meets Prince Maximus, 149; Turkish alternative Mehmed-Bey Obrenbegovitch, 149; plain of Ducadyin given as fief to, 149 Yovo. Infant son of Goïko, 204, 205 Z Zablak. Ivan Tzrnoyevitch sails for, 135; wedding attendants invited by Ivan Tzrnoyevitch encamp on plain of, 139; Yovan in a dream beholds fire consume the beautiful capital of, 139; Milosh to escort Maximus' bride to, 141, 144 "Zadrooga." Designation of Serbian family associations, 13, 14 Zagoryé. Mountain on which Milosh-the-Shepherd overtakes wedding procession of Tsar Doushan, 155 Zagreb (Agram). Croatians had established an episcopate at, as early as the eleventh century, 14 Zahoumlye (Herzegovina). Appropriated by Stephen Voïslav, 3 Zdral. Steed of Ivan Tzrnoyevitch, 135, 140, 142 "Zelenko" and "Krgno." Ivan Tzrnoyevitch's two famous guns, 140 Zemlyitch, Styepan. Accompanies the doge of Venice, who acts as Marko's koom, 96-100 Zeta. The Montenegro of modern times, Skadar the capital of, 119, 120 Zetina. Waters of, stirred by explosion of Ivan Tzrnoyevitch's guns, 140 Zmay. The Serbian word for dragon, 129; the, of Yastrebatz, and the Tsarina Militza, 129 NOTES [1] This was written one month before an even more critical situation confronted the Serbian nation. [2] Mussachi's memoir in Karl Hopf's Chroniques Græco-Romaines. [3] Tcheque is a better synonym for the solecism Bohemian. [4] In Serbian Pepelyouga, where pepel, or--with vocalized l--pepeo, means 'cinder' or 'ashes'; ouga being the idiomatic suffix corresponding to the Italian one or English ella, etc. [5] See Servian Conversation Grammar, by Woislav M. Petrovitch, ed. Julius Groos, Heidelberg, 1914 (London: David Nutt, 212 Shaftesbury Avenue, W.C.), Introduction, pp. 1-8. [6] The English language is the only one which, instead of the correct forms 'Serbian,' 'Serbia,' uses the solecism 'Servia,' etc. Suggesting a false derivation from the Latin root which furnished the English words 'serf,' 'servant,' 'servitude,' this corrupted form is, of course, extremely offensive to the people to whom it is applied and should be abandoned. [7] Protestants of the Greek Orthodox Church who later settled in Bosnia. [8] See the poem: "Tsar Ourosh and his Nobles, or, The Royal Prince Marko tells whose the Empire will be." [9] This title corresponds to 'prince.' [10] 'Ban' is the original title of the rulers of Bosnia. [11] Voïvode originally meant 'leader of an army' or 'General.' As a title of nobility it corresponds with the English 'Duke,' which, derived from the Latin, dux, possesses the same root meaning. [12] The male members of a Serbian family continue to live after marriage in the paternal home. If the house is too small to accommodate the young couple, an annexe is built. The home may be frequently enlarged in this way, and as many as eighty members of a family have been known to reside together. Such family associations are called 'zadrooga.' [13] One of the principal characters in King Nicholas's drama The Empress of the Balkans is a warrior called 'Peroon.' [14] See "Prince Marko and the Veela," page 102. [15] See "The Death of Marko," page 117. [16] See "The Building of Skadar," page 198. [17] Monk Marcus of Seres, Zetesis peri boulcholachon, ed. Lambros; Neos Hellenomnemon, I (1904), 336-352. [18] 'Pleiades' are otherwise known under the name of Sedam Vlashitya. [19] See "The Tsarina Militza and the Zmay of Yastrebatz." page 129. [20] A Serbian word of Turkish origin. [21] This personage is usually a brother or very intimate friend of the bridegroom. He corresponds somewhat to the 'best man' at an English wedding, but his functions are more important, as will be seen. [22] Forests have been considered until recently as the common property of all. Even in our day every peasant is at liberty to cut a Badgnak-tree in any forest he chooses, though it may be the property of strangers. [23] Quoted from the historian Leopold von Ranke. [24] An instrument which emits droning monotonous sounds, and which resembles in many points the hurdy-gurdy. In olden times, in Serbia, this instrument was played by minstrels thirty years of age or more; younger men played the flute, violin, and a kind of bagpipes. [25] In order to illustrate how firmly rooted is that belief throughout Serbia, the author quotes from his article (condensed): "How a Fourteenth Century Serbian Prince achieved a Miraculous Victory in the Late War," The International Psychic Gazette, May 1913. "... When we arrived on the 15th of November last year, at Skoplye (Uskub), the Serbian officers gave a comparatively sumptuous banquet at their barracks in honour of Surgeon-General Bourke and the two units of the British Red Cross, on which occasion the aged General Mishitch related to us the following incident from the battle of Prilip, fought a few days previously. "... Our infantry was ordered to make a forced march on the eve of that battle, which is unique in the history of warfare. They were to wait at the foot of the mount of Prilip on which stood the Castle of Marko for the effect of our artillery, which was superior both in numbers and quality to that of the Turks. They were especially cautioned against storming the fort before they received the order from their commander-in-chief. This was necessary, for our soldiers had won recently several battles at the point of the bayonet, and were convinced that there was nothing that would frighten the Turks more than the sight of the shining bayonets of the Serbian troops. They knew well that the mere exclamation of Bulgarians, Na noge! put the Turks to flight at Kirk-Klissé and Lülé Bourgass. "During the early morning the infantry kept quiet, but at the first cannon-shots we noticed an effervescence among our troops, and soon afterward we heard them shouting frantically and saw them running like wolves straight to the castle of the Royal Prince Marko. I could hear the voice of our Captain Agatonovitch, commanding them to stop and await the General's order. When the immediate commanders saw that discipline proved futile, they essayed in vain to appeal to the soldiers' reason, assuring them of certain death if they would not await at least the effect of our artillery. Our warriors, deafened by the roaring of the Turkish siege-cannon and mitrailleuses, ran straight into the fire, and appeared to fall in dozens! The sight was horrible. I was unable to stop my soldiers. My blood froze, I closed my eyes. Disastrous defeat! Demoralisation of other troops! My own degradation was certain! "In a little while our artillery ceased firing, lest they should kill their own comrades, who were now crossing bayonets with the Turkish infantry. A few minutes later we saw the Serbian national colours fluttering on the donjon of Kralyevitch Marko's castle. The Turks were fleeing in greatest disorder. The Serbian victory was as complete as it was rapid! "When we arrived on the scene a little later, a parade was ordered. After calling together the troops we found our loss had been comparatively insignificant. I praised my heroes for their brave conduct, but reproached them bitterly for their disobedience. At my last admonishing words, I heard from thousands of soldiers in majestic unison: "'Kralyevitch Marko commanded us all the time: FORWARD! Did you not see him on his Sharatz?' "It was clear to me that the tradition of Kralyevitch Marko was so deeply engraved on the hearts of those honest and heroic men that, in their vivid enthusiasm, they had seen the incarnation of their hero. "I dismissed the troops and ordered double portions of food and wine to be given to all for a week. Every tenth man obtained a 'Medalya za Hrabrost' (medal for courage)." [26] Tabor is a Turkish word meaning an army, or a camp. [27] Other bards mention 'Gratchanitza.' [28] Despot was an honorary title of the Byzantine emperors, then of members of their families, and was later conferred as a title of office on vassal rulers and governors. The rank of Despot was next to that of the king. [29] Divan, a Turkish word for "senate." [30] Koula is a Serbo-Turkish word for "castle." [31] Istamboul is the Turkish name for Constantinople. [32] Firman is a Turkish word for an imperial "letter" or "decree." [33] Tovar is a Serbian measure, representing what a normal horse can carry on its back. It is now an obsolete term. [34] Dervish is an ecclesiastic official amongst the Mohammedans. When applied to the laity it is used as a term of reproach. [35] Literally, "until thy good luck calls thee," and means in Serbia until she marries. [36] This is a reference to Lazar, who fell at the battle of Kossovo. [37] Kessedjiya means 'fighter' or 'bully,' and is the nickname of an Albanian chevalier-brigand Moussa, who defied for years the distant power of the Sultan. The incident described in the poem here referred to recounts--according to some Serbian historians--an event which actually took place in the beginning of the fourteenth century. There is hardly any inn or tavern in the villages of the Southern Slavs on the front wall of which one cannot see a rough fresco illustrating the duel between Marko and Moussa. [38] Arbanass is another appellation for Albanian. [39] Dyugoom, a water vessel made of copper and enamelled inside. [40] Adrianople. [41] The lines are considered to be the finest composed by any Serbian bard, and may be freely translated: "O Lord Strahinya, thou Serbian glorious falcon! Depending ever upon thy true steed Dyogo and upon thine own courage, wherever thou goest, there thou shalt find a way free of all danger." [42] Here the bard in his naïve meditations on the psychology of women, states that the fair sex is always alarmed by true dogs. [43] Zmay is the Serbian word for 'dragon,' but in this poem it is employed metaphorically to suggest the superhuman attributes supposed to be possessed by the heroes. [44] Tchardack is a Turkish word and signifies: a tower provided with balconies. [45] Ruler of Zetta and Montenegro, which were separate states at the beginning of the fifteenth century. [46] This expression occurs in several of the poems and implies the most deeply felt depression of spirits, and disappointment. [47] In this verse the troubadour expresses the opinion--not at all complimentary to women, but universally prevailing in the Balkans--that "women have long hair and short brains" (Dooge kosse a pameti kratke). [48] Other renderings of this ballad have it that Maximus challenged Milosh to a duel in which the prince was victorious. [49] Others state that Maximus did not flee but remained and fought till he was nearly exhausted by his numberless wounds, and that then he made a superhuman effort and succeeded in rescuing his bride. [50] This is the popular appellation of Serbians living in Batchka and Banat, which provinces are now under Austro-Hungarian rule. [51] The love of a sister for her brother in Serbia is proverbial. Entire ballads are devoted to beautiful examples of such love. There is no greater and more solemn oath for a sister in Serbia than that sworn by the name of her brother. [52] Kroushevatz was the capital of the vast Serbian empire during the reign of Tsar Lazarus Hrebélianovitch at the time of the famous battle of Kossovo (A.D. 1389). [53] Laboud means white swan in Serbian. [54] The Turkish sultan, Amourath I, perished by the hand of Voïvode Milosh. That great Serbian hero stabbed him with his secret poniard when conducted as an alleged traitor to the sultan's presence. [55] Corrupted form of Amourad or Amourath. [56] A ballad of Montenegro, county Byelopavlitch. [57] Danitza is the Morning Star. The Serbian bards often begin their poems with a reference to the dawn and "Danitza." Several well-known ballads begin thus: "The Moon scolds the star Danitza: Where hast thou been? Wherefore hast thou wasted much time?" And Danitza in order to exonerate herself, invariably relates to the Moon something she has seen in the night during her absence; usually some wrongful deed by a Turk or dishonourable conduct on the part of a young man to his brother or other relatives, such as an unjust division of patrimony, &c. [58] Sidjadé, a divan. [59] Hodja, a Mussulman priest. [60] Kadi, an Ottoman judge. [61] Djelat, an executioner. [62] Vladika means in Serbian 'Bishop.' In Montenegro members of the Petrovitch-Niegosh family were bishops as well as political rulers. It was Vladika Danilo Petrovitch, uncle of the present king of Montenegro, who first assumed the title of prince as an hereditary one. [63] King Voukashin, the father of Prince Marko, was a vassal king to the Emperor Doushan the Powerful. [64] Boyana is the river upon the banks of which Scutari is built. [65] The Serbian bards of the fourteenth century invariably use the word "book" when speaking of a letter. [66] Or, according to some bards, Piritor. It is said that the walls of the castle still exist in Herzegovina. [67] Tchile, diminutive of Yaboutchilo, the full name of the steed. [68] It must be remembered that these ballads are recited by bards before great gatherings of people of all ages and both sexes, hence such direct addresses. [69] This is one more instance of the intensity of sisterly love to which we have previously referred. [70] This ballad is in all probability a remnant of the mythologic traces of a great prehistoric catastrophe, and it illustrates more than any other ancient memorial of the poetic Serbian people, the striking similarity in the beliefs of nations. [71] This opening might perplex many readers if it were not explained that the commotion is not caused by the saints, but is due to the device, familiar to a Serbian audience, whereby the bard gives his ballad an effective start, and obtains the close attention of his peasant hearers. [72] Divan means in Serbian any state gathering. In this passage it means the Supreme Judgment. [73] Skadar or Skadra, derived from the Italian appellation Scodra, otherwise Scutari, the present capital of Albania. Scutari has belonged from time immemorial to the Serbians. [74] Kraly means King. [75] Boyana is the name of the river washing the wall of Skadar. [76] Neimar means 'architect.' [77] Sir John Bowring, writing in 1827, states that a small stream of liquid carbonate of lime is shown on the walls of Scutari as evidence of the truth of this story. Vouk St. Karadjitch, says that the Serbian people even to-day believe that no great building can be successfully erected without the immuring of some human being. Therefore they avoid the neighbourhood of such buildings while they are being erected, for it is said that even the spirit of such an unfortunate being can be immured, whereby a speedy death would ensue. Srpske Narodne Pyesme, Vienna, 1875, vol. ii. p. 124, footnote 20. [78] A ruined fortress on the banks of the River Morava. The same name is borne by a city in Central Serbia, situated not far from the castle of Theodore. [79] This legend was written and contributed to Vouk St. Karadgitch by Prince Michel Obrenovitch III, who had heard it in his childhood from the lips of his nurse. [80] The Christians of the Balkans usually make the sign of the cross before and after every meal. [81] A golden coin worth about 10s. [82] The apple is a symbolic gift, which a wooer offers to the maiden of his choice. [83] It is the custom with Serbians, for one of her brothers to present the bride to her wooer. [84] Beardless is used as the personification of craftiness and sharpness. [85] This and the remaining stories in this chapter are reprinted from Serbian Folk-Lore, by Madame C. Mijatovitch, by kind permission of M. Chedo Miyatovich. [86] Tzigans or Gipsies in Serbia, and indeed in the whole Balkan Peninsula, deal mostly with horses. Stealing and selling horses is their main occupation. [87] Era is a name given to the peasants of the district of Ouzitze (Western Serbia). They are supposed to be very witty and shrewd, and might be called the Irishmen of Serbia. [88] When Serbians are greatly surprised at anything they involuntarily make the sign of the cross. 
40402	----	SAGAS FROM THE FAR EAST; Or, Kalmouk and Mongolian Traditionary Tales. With Historical Preface and Explanatory Notes. By the Author of "Patrañas," "Household Stories from the Land of Hofer," &c. London: Griffith and Farran, Successors to Newbery and Harris, Corner of St. Paul's Churchyard. MDCCCLXXIII. "It singularly happens that the Sagas of the ancient Indians are preserved to us in much fuller measure than their authentic history, which is scanty enough. Moreover to them their Sagas served as actual statements of facts, so that we can neither form a right conception of their mind, nor arrive at any knowledge of their history, without studying their Sagas." Lassen, "Pref. to Ind. Alterthumskunde," p. vii. "The Mongol is candid and credulous as an infant, and passionately loves to listen to marvellous myths and tales." Huc, "Travels in China and Tibet," vol. ii. ch. xii. PREFACE. The origin and migrations of myths have of late been the subject of so much sifting and study, the elaborate results of which are already before the world, that there is no need in this place to offer more than a few condensed remarks in allusion to the particular collections now, I believe, for the first time put into English. Translations of some chapters of the "Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan" have been made by Benj. Bergmann, Riga, 1804; by Golstunski, St. Petersburg, 1864; and by H. Osterley, in 1867. Of "Ardschi-Bordschi," by Emil Schlaginweit; by Benfey, in "Ausland," Nos. 34-36, and the whole of both by Professor Jülg, 1865-68; of these I have availed myself in preparing the following pages; I know of no other translation into any European language except one into Russ by Galsan Gombojew, published at S. Petersburg in 1865-68 [1]. The first thirteen chapters of the "Well-and-wise-walking Khan" are a Kalmouk (1) collection, all the rest Mongolian; and though traceable to Indian sources, they yet have received an entire transformation in the course of their adoption by their new country. In giving them another new home, some further alterations, though of a different nature, have been necessary. However much one may regret them such transformations are inevitable. It seems a law of nature that history should to a certain extent write itself. We know the age of a tree by its knots and rings; and we trace the age of a building by its alterations and repairs--and that equally well whether these be made in a style later prevailing, utterly different from that of the original design, or in the most careful imitation of the same; for the age of the workman's hand cannot choose but write itself on whatever he chisels. It is just the same with these myths. They cannot remain as if stereotyped from the first; the hand that passes them on must mould them anew in the process. You might say, they have been already altered enough during their wanderings, give them to us now at least as the Mongolians left them. But it is not possible, most of them are too coarse to meet an eye trained by Christianity and modern cultivation. The habit of mind in which they are framed is in places as foreign as the idiom in which they are written; I have, however, made it an undeviating rule to let such alterations be as few and as slight as the case admitted, and that they should go no farther than was necessary to make them readable, or occasionally give them point. As I have said these stories have an 'Indian' source, it becomes incumbent to spend a few lines on defining the use and reach of the word [2]. The words >'Indoc and Indik`h occur for the first time among writers of classical antiquity in the fragments that have come down to us of the writings of Hecatæus, B.C. 500. Herodotus also uses the same; from these they descended to us through the Romans. They both received it through Persian means and used it in the most comprehensive sense, though the Persian use of their equivalent at the time seems to have been more limited. It is probable, however, that later the Persian use became further extended; and through the Arabians, who also adopted it from them, it became the Muhammedan designation of the whole country. When they, in 713, conquered the country watered by the lower course of the Indus, namely, Sinde, they confirmed the use of this more extended application of the Persian word Hind, reserving Sind, the local form of the same word--apparently without perceiving it was the same--to this particular province. The later Persian designation is Hindustan--the country of the Hindu--and this is generally adopted in India itself to denote the whole country, though many Europeans have restricted it to the Northern half, in contradistinction from the Dekhan, or country south of the Vindha-range (2), often excluding even Bengal. The original native names are different. In the epic mythology occur, Gambudvîpa, the island of the gambu-tree (Eugenia Jambolana), for the central or known world of which India was part, and Sudarsana, "of beautiful appearance," to denote both the tree and the "island" named from it. The Buddhist cosmography uses Gampudvîpa for India Proper. Within this the Brahmanical portion, lying to the south of the Himâlajas, is designated as Bhârata or Bhâratavarsha. In the great epic poem called the Mahâ Bhârata, the name is derived from Bhârata, son of Dusjanta, the first known ruler of the country, and several dynasties are called after him Bhâratides, though it is more probable his name rather accrued to him from that of the country, the word being derived from bhri, "to bring forth" or "nourish," hence, "the fruitful," "life-nourishing" land. Bhârata is also called (Rig-Ved. i. 96, 3) "the nourisher," sustentator. The native historical name is undoubtedly "Ârjâvata," the district of the Ârja--"the venerable men"--or more literally, "worthy to be sought after," keepers of the sacred laws, the people of honourable ancestry; calling themselves so in contradistinction to the Mlêk'ha, barbarous despisers of the sacred laws (Manu, i. 22; x. 45), also Ârja-bhûmi, land of the Ârja. The Manu defines rigidly the original boundaries of this sacred country; it lies between the Himâlaja and Vindhja mountains, and stretches from the eastern to the western seas. Though Ptolemy (Geog. vii. I) calls the people of the west coast, south of the Vindhja, Âriaka, this was a later extension of the original term. What gives the word a great historical importance is the circumstance which must not be passed over here, that the original native name of the inhabitants of Iran was either the same or similarly derived. Airja in Zend stood both for "honourable" and for the name of the Iranian, people. Concerning the Medes we have the testimony of Herodotus that they originally called themselves >'Arioi, and we owe him the information also that the original Persian name was >Artaio`i, a word which has the same root as Ârja, or at least can have no very different meaning. They do not seem ever to have actually called themselves Ârja, although the word existed in their ancient tongue with the sense of "noble," "honourable." The earliest Indian Sagas speak of the Arja as already established in Central India, and give no help to the discovery of when or how they settled there. Like most other peoples of the old world, they believed themselves aborigines, and they placed the Creation and the origin of species in the very land where they found themselves living, nor do their myths bear a trace of allusion to any earlier dwelling-place or country outside their Bhâratavarsha (4). It is true, that the sanctity they ascribe to the north country, and the mysterious allusions to the sacred mountain-country of Meerû, the dwelling of the gods in the far, far north, over the Himâlajas, is calculated to mislead for a moment with the suggestion that they point to a possible immigration from that north, but a closer observation shows that that very sacred regard more probably arose from the very fact of its being an unknown country; while the effect of the majestic and inaccessible heights, with their glorious colouring and their peculiar natural productions, was enough to suggest them the seat of a superior and divine race of beings. The fact that Sanskrit, the ancient tongue of the Aryan Indians, is so closely allied to the languages of so many western nations, establishes with certainty the identity of origin of these people, and lays on us the burden of deciding whether the Aryan Indians migrated to India as the allied peoples migrated to their countries from a common aboriginal home, or whether that aboriginal home was India, and all the allied peoples migrated from it, the Indians alone remaining at home. Reason points to the adoption of the former of these two solutions. In the first place, it is altogether unlikely that in the case of a great migration all should have migrated rigidly in one direction. It is only natural to expect they should have poured themselves out every way, and to look for the original home in a locality which should have formed a central base of operations. The very feuds which would in many cases lead to such outpourings would necessitate the striking out in ever new directions. Then, there is nothing in the manners, ideas, speech--in the names of articles of primary importance to support life, in which at least we might expect to find such a trace--of the other peoples to connect them in any way with India. Had they ever been at home there, some remnants of local influence would have been retained; but we find none. Besides this, we have, on the other hand, very satisfactory evidence of at least the later journeyings of the Indian family. Their warlike and conquering entrance into the Dekhan and crossing of the Vindhja range is matter of positive history. Some help for ascertaining their earlier route may be found in the necessity established by the laws and limits of possibility. Encumbered with flocks and herds, and unassisted by appliances of transport, we cannot believe them to have traversed the steep peaks of the Himâlajas. The road through eastern Caboolistan and the valley of the Pangkora, or that leading from the Gilgit by way of Attok, or over the table-land of Deotsu through Cashmere, are all known to us as most difficult of access, and do not appear at any period to have been willingly adopted. But the western passes of Hindukutsch, skirting round the steep Himâlajas--the way trod by the armies of Alexander and other warlike hosts, no less than by the more peaceful trains of merchants, with whom it was doubtless traditional--affords a highly probable line of march for the first great immigration. We are reminded here of the fact already alluded to, of the common origin of the earliest name of both Indians and Persians, leading us to suppose they long inhabited one country in common. For this supposition we find further support in other similarities: e. g. between the older Sanskrit of the Vêda and the oldest poems of the Iranian tongue; also between the teaching, mythology, the sagas, and the spoken language of the two peoples. On the other hand, we find also the most diverse uses given to similar expressions, pointing to a period of absolute separation between them, and at a remote date: e.g. the Indian word for the Supreme Being is dêva; in Zend, daêva, as also dêv in modern Persian, stands for the Evil Principle. Again, in Zend dagju means a province (and its use implies orderly division of government and the tranquil exercise of authority); but in the Brahmanical code dasju is used for a turbulent horde, who set law and authority at defiance. Such transpositions seem the result of some fierce variance, leading to division and hatred between peoples long united. Proceeding now to trace the original wandering farther on, we find some help from Iranian traditions. The Zendavesta distinctly tells of a so-called Aîrjanem Vaêgo as a sacred country, the seat of creation, and place it in the farthest east of the highest Iranian table-land, the district of the source of the Oxus and Jaxartes; by the death-bringing Ahriman it was stricken with cold and barrenness (3), and only saw the sun thenceforth for two months of the year. The particularity with which it is described would point to the fact that the locality treated of was a distant one, with which the race had a traditional acquaintance; while at the same time it cannot be adopted too precisely in every detail, because details may be altered by a poetical imagination--merits may be exaggerated by regret for absence, and defects magnified by vexation, or invented in proof of the effects of a predicated curse. If we may conclude that we have rightly traced up the Indians and Persians to a common home between the easternmost Iranian highlands and the Caspian Sea, it follows from the linguistic analogies of the so-called Indo-European peoples that this same home was also theirs at a time when they were not yet broken up into distinct families. This common local origin gives at once the reason for the analogies in the grammatical structure of their languages, and no less of their mythical traditions, which are far too widely spread, and have entered too radically into the universal teaching of both, to be supposed for a moment to have been borrowed by either from the other within the historical period, or at all since their separation. It remains only to say a few words on the scope and object of the work, and the profit that may be derived from its perusal. I know there are many who think that mere amusement is profit enough to expect from a tale, and that to look for the extraction of any more serious result is tedious. But I will give my young readers--or at least a large proportion of them--credit for possessing sufficient love of improvement to prefer that class of amusement which furthers their desire for information and edification. The collections of myths with which I have heretofore presented them have all had either a Christian origin, or at least have passed through a Christian mould, and have thus almost unconsciously subserved the purpose of illustrating some phase of Christian teaching, which is specially distinguished by keeping in view, not spasmodically and arbitrarily, as in the best of other systems, but uniformly, in its sublimest reach and in its humblest detail, the belief that an eternal purpose and consequence pervades the whole length and breadth of human existence. Whether the story of "Juanita the Bald" was originally drawn by a Christian desirous of inculcating the sacred principles of the new covenant, or adapted to the purpose by such an one from the myth of OEdipus and Antigone; whether that of "St. Peter's Three Loaves" was really a traditional incident of our Lord's wanderings on earth too insignificant to find place in the pages of Holy Writ, or adapted from the myth of Baucis and Philemon; or whether all were adaptations according to the special convictions of various narrators of great primeval traditions, mattered very little, as each had an intrinsic purpose and an interest of its own quite distinct from that accruing to it through ascertaining its place in the history of the world's beliefs. In telling them, it needed not to point a moral, for the moral--i.e. some more or less remote application of the sacred and civilizing teaching of the Gospel--was of the very essence of each. With the Tales given in the following pages, however, it is quite different. They come direct from the far East, and in most of them nothing further has been aimed at than the amusement of the weary hours of disoccupation, whether forced or voluntary, of a people indisposed by climate, natural temperament, or want of cultivation from finding recreation in the healthy exercise of mental effort. To me it seems that before we can take pleasure in giving our time to the perusal of such stories, we must invest them with, or discover in them some sort of purpose. Nor is this so far to seek, perhaps, as might appear at first sight. Some, it must be observed, belong to the class which deals with the deeds of heroes--fabling forth the grand all-time lesson of the vigorous struggle of good with evil; the nobility of unflinching self-sacrifice and of devotion to an exalted cause, setting the model for the lowly sister of charity as much as for the victorious leader of armies, and each all the while typical of Him who gave Himself to be the servant of all, and the ransom of all. A German writer rises so inspired from their study that he bursts forth into this pæan:--"Eine Fülle der Göttergeschichte thut sich hier auf, und nirgends lässt sich der eigenthümliche Naturcharacter in Fortbildung des Mythus vollständiger erkennen, als an diesen Alterthümern. Götter und vergötterte Menschen ragen hier, wie an den Wänden der Tempel von Thebe hoch über das gewöhnliche Menschengestalt. Alles hat einen riesenhaften Aufschwung zur himmlischen Welt [3]." Subsidiarily to these conceptions of them, stories of this class have the further merit of being one chief means of conveying the scanty data we possess concerning the early history of the people of whose literature they form part (5). Others again may be placed in a useful light by endeavouring to trace in them the journeyings they have made in their transmigration. Benfey, a modern German writer who has employed much time and study "in tracing the Mährchen in their ever-varying forms," while pointing out as many others have also done (6), that the great bulk of our household tales have come to us from the East, and have been spread over Europe in various ways, points out that this was done for the South in great measure through the agency of the Turks; but for the North it was by the Mongolians during their two centuries of ascendancy in Eastern Europe; the Slaves received them from them, and communicated them to the German peoples (7). If therefore you find some tales in one collection bearing a close resemblance with those you have read in another, you should make it a matter of interest to observe what is individual in the character of each, and to trace the points both of diversity and analogy in the mode of expression in which they are clothed, and which will be found just as marked as the difference in costume of the respective peoples who have told them each after their own fashion. All of them have at least the merit of being, in the main, pictures of life, however overwrought with the fantastic or supernatural element, not ideal embodiments of the perfect motives by which people ought to be actuated, but genre pictures of the modes in which they commonly do act. As such they cannot fail to contain the means of edification, though we are left to look for and discover and apply it for ourselves. To take one instance. The Christian hagiographer could never have written of a hero he was celebrating, as we find it said of Vikramâditja, that as part of his preparation for the battle of life "while learning wisdom with the wise, and the use of arms from men of valour," "of the robber bands he acquired the art of stealing, and of fraudulent dealers, to lie." If he had been illustrating the actual biography of a Christian hero, it is a detail which could not have entered, and if drawing an ideal picture, it would have been entirely at variance with the system he was illustrating. Circumstances like this which fail to serve as subject for imitation, must be turned to account in exercising the powers of judgment, as well in distinguishing what to avoid from what to admire, as in taking note of these very variances between Christian and the best non-christian morality. * * * The author feels bound to apologize for any inaccuracies which may have crept into these pages owing to being abroad while preparing them for the press. CONTENTS. THE SAGA OF THE WELL-AND-WISE-WALKING KHAN. Page Dedication 1 Tales I.--The Woman who sought her Husband in the Palace of Erlik-Khan 10 II.--The Gold-spitting Prince 17 III.--How the Schimnu-Khan was slain 36 IV.--The Pig's-head Soothsayer 54 V.--How the Serpent-gods were propitiated 71 VI.--The Turbulent Subject 82 VII.--The White Bird and his Wife 89 VIII.--How Ânanda the Woodcarver and Ânanda the Painter strove together 97 IX.--Five to One 105 X.--The Biting Corpse 115 XI.--The Prayer making suddenly Rich 120 XII.--"Child-intellect" and "Bright-intellect" 130 XIII.--The Fortunes of Shrikantha 135 XIV.--The Avaricious Brother 146 XV.--The Use of Magic Language 157 XVI.--The Wife who loved Butter 165 XVII.--The Simple Husband and the Prudent Wife 173 XVIII.--How Shanggasba buried his Father 178 XIX.--The Perfidious Friend 192 XX.--Bhîxu Life 198 XXI.--How the Widow saved her Son's Life 206 XXII.--The White Serpent-king 213 XXIII.--What became of the Red-coloured Dog 221 Conclusion of the Adventures of the Well-and-Wise-Walking Khan 229 THE SAGA OF ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI AND VIKRAMÂDITJA'S THRONE. Historical Notice of Vikramâditja 230 The Boy-King 252 The False Friend 253 The Pretended Son 257 Ardschi-Bordschi discovers Vikramâditja's Throne 262 The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja's Birth 266 The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja's Youth 273 Schalû the Wolf-boy 277 Vikramâditja and Schalû conquer the Schimnus 284 The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning Vikramâditja's Deeds 291 Vikramâditja acquires another Kingdom ib. Vikramâditja makes the Silent speak 294 Who invented Woman? 298 The Voice-charmer 304 The Sûta tells Ardschi-Bordschi concerning the Seventy-one Parrots and their Adviser 309 How Naran Gerel swore falsely and yet told the Truth 315 Notes 325 THE SAGA OF THE WELL-AND-WISE-WALKING KHAN. DEDICATION. O thou most perfect Master and Teacher of Wisdom and Goodness! Teacher, second only to the incomparable Shâkjamuni (1)! Thou accomplished Nâgârg'una (2)! Thou who wast intimately acquainted with the Most-pure Tripîtaka (3), and didst evolve from it thy wise madhjamika (4), containing the excellent paramârtha (5)! Before thee I prostrate myself! Hail! Nâgârg'una O! It is even the wonderful and astounding history of the deeds of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, which he performed under the help and direction of this same Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una, that I propose to relate in the form of the following series of narratives. In the kingdom of Magadha (6) there once lived seven brothers who were magicians. At the distance of a mile from their abode lived two brothers, sons of a Khan. The elder of these went to the seven magicians, saying, "Teach me to understand your art," and abode with them seven years. But though they were always setting him to learn difficult tasks, yet they never taught him the true key to their mystic knowledge. His brother, however, coming to visit him one day, by merely looking through a crack in the door of the apartment where the seven brothers were at work acquired perfectly the whole krijâvidja (7). After this they both went home together, the elder because he perceived he would never learn any thing of the magicians, and the younger because he had learnt every thing they had to impart. As they went along the younger brother said, "Now that we know all their art the seven magicians will probably seek to do us some mischief. Go thou, therefore, to our stable, which we left empty, and thou shalt find there a splendid steed. Put a rein on him and lead him forth to sell him, only take care thou go not in the direction of the dwelling of the seven magicians; and, having sold him, bring back the price thou shalt have received." When he had made an end of speaking he transformed himself into a horse, and went and placed himself in the stable against his brother arrived. But the elder brother, knowing the magicians had taught him nothing, stood in no fear of them. Therefore he did not according to the words of his brother; but saying within himself, "As my brother is so clever that he could conjure this fine horse into the stable, let him conjure thither another if he wants it sold. This one I will ride myself." Accordingly he saddled and mounted the horse. All his efforts to guide him were vain, however, and in spite of his best endeavours the horse, impelled by the power of the magic of them from whom the art had been learnt, carried him straight to the door of the magicians' dwelling. Once there he was equally unable to induce him to stir away; the horse persistently stood still before the magicians' door. When he found he could not in any way command the horse, he determined to sell it to these same magicians, and he offered it to them, asking a great price for it. The magicians at once recognized that it was a magic horse, and they said, among themselves, "If our art is to become thus common, and every body can produce a magic horse, no one will come to our market for wonders. We had best buy the horse up and destroy it." Accordingly they paid the high price required and took possession of the horse and shut it up in a dark stall. When the time came to slaughter it, one held it down by the tail, another by the head, other four by the four legs, so that it should in nowise break away, while the seventh bared his arm ready to strike it with death. When the Khan's son, who was transformed into the horse, had learnt what was the intention of the magicians, he said, "Would that any sort of a living being would appear into which I might transform myself." Hardly had he formed the wish when a little fish was seen swimming down the stream: into this the Khan transformed himself. The seven magicians knew what had occurred, and immediately transformed themselves into seven larger fish and pursued it. When they were very close to the little fish, with their gullets wide open, the Khan said, within himself, "Would that any sort of living being would appear into which I might transform myself." Immediately a dove was seen flying in the heavens, and the Khan transformed himself into the dove. The seven magicians, seeing what was done, transformed themselves into seven hawks, pursuing the dove over hill and dale. Once again they were near overtaking him, when the dove took refuge in the Land Bede (8). Southward in Bede was a shining mountain and a cave within it called "Giver of Rest." Hither the dove took refuge, even in the very bosom of the Great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una. The seven hawks came thither also, fast flying behind the dove; but, arrived at the entrance of Nâgârg'una's cave, they showed themselves once more as men, clothed in cotton garments. Then spoke the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una, "Wherefore, O dove, flutterest thou so full of terror, and what are these seven hawks to thee?" So the Khan's son told the Master all that had happened between himself, his brother, and the seven magicians; and he added these words, "Even now there stand before the entrance of this cave seven men clothed in cotton garments. These men will come in unto the Master and pray for the boon of the ârâmela he holds in his hand. Meantime, I will transform myself into the large bead of the ârâmela, and when the Master would reach the chaplet to the seven men, I pray him that, putting one end of it in his mouth, he bite in twain the string of the same, whereby all the beads shall be set free." The Master benevolently did even as he had been prayed. Moreover, when all the beads fell showering on the ground, behold they were all turned into little worms, and the seven men clothed in cotton garments transformed themselves into seven fowls, who pecked up the worms. But when the Master dropped the large bead out of his mouth on to the ground it was transformed into the form of a man having a staff in his hand. With this staff the Khan's son killed the seven fowls, but the moment they were dead they bore the forms of men's corpses. Then spoke the Master. "This is evil of thee. Behold, while I gave thee protection for thy one life, thou hast taken the lives of these men, even of these seven. In this hast thou done evil." But the Khan's son answered, "To protect my life there was no other means save to take the life of these seven, who had vowed to kill me. Nevertheless, to testify my thanks to the Master for his protection, and to take this sin from off my head, behold I am ready to devote myself to whatever painful and difficult enterprise the Master will be pleased to lay upon me." "Then," said the Master, "if this is so, betake thyself to the cool grove, even to the cîtavana (9), where is the Siddhî-kür (10). From his waist upwards he is of gold, from his waist downwards of emerald; his head is of mother-of-pearl, decked with a shining crown. Thus is he made. Him if thou bring unto me from his Mango-tree (11), thou shalt have testified thy gratitude for my protection and shalt have taken this sin that thou hast committed from off thy head; for so shall I be able, when I have the Siddhî-kür in subjection under me, to bring forth gold in abundance, to give lives of a thousand years' duration to the men of Gambudvîpa (12), and to perform all manner of wonderful works." "Behold, I am ready to do even as according to thy word," answered the Khan's son. "Tell me only the way I have to take and the manner and device whereby I must proceed." Then spoke the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una, again, saying,-- "When thou shalt have wandered forth hence for the distance of about an hundred miles, thou shalt come to a dark and fearsome ravine where lie the bodies of the giant-dead. At thy approach they shall all rise up and surround thee. But thou call out to them, 'Ye giant-dead, hala hala svâhâ (13)!' scattering abroad at the same time these barley-corns, consecrated by the power of magic art, and pass on thy way without fear. About another hundred miles' space farther hence thou shalt come to a smooth mead by the side of a river where lie the bodies of the pigmy-dead. At thy approach they shall all rise up and surround thee. But thou cry out to them, 'Ye pigmy-dead, hulu hulu svâhâ!' and, strewing thine offering of barley-corns, again pass on thy way without fear. At a hundred miles' space farther along thou shalt come to a garden of flowers having a grove of trees and a fountain in the midst; here lie the bodies of the child-dead. At thy approach they shall rise up and running together surround thee. But thou cry out to them, 'Ye child-dead, rira phad!' and, strewing thine offering of barley-corns, again pass on thy way without fear. Out of the midst of these the Siddhî-kür will rise and will run away from before thee till he reaches his mango-tree, climbing up to the summit thereof. Then thou swing on high the axe which I will give thee, even the axe White Moon (14), and make as though thou wouldst hew down the tree in very truth. Rather than let thee hew the mango-tree he will come down. Then seize him and bind him in this sack of many colours, in which is place for to stow away an hundred, enclose the mouth thereof tight with this cord, twisted of an hundred threads of different colours, make thy meal off this cake which never grows less, place the sack upon thy shoulder, and bring him hither to me. Only beware that by the way thou open not thy lips to speak! "And now, hitherto hast thou been called the Khan's son, but now, since thou hast found thy way even to the cave 'Giver of Rest,' thou shalt be called no more the Khan's son, but 'the Well-and-wise-walking Khan.' Go now thy way." When the Master, Nâgârg'una, had given him this new name, he further provided him with all the provisions for the undertaking which he had promised him, and, pointing out the way, dismissed him in peace. When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had overcome all the alarms and difficulties of the way, and come in sight of the Siddhî-kür, he set out swiftly to pursue him; but the Siddhî-kür was swifter than he, and, reaching the mango-tree, clambered up to the summit. Then said the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, "Behold, I come in the name of the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una. My axe is the axe 'White Moon,' my provision for the journey is the cake which never diminishes, my prison is the sack of many colours, in which is place to stow away an hundred, my cord is the cord twisted of an hundred threads of different colours, I myself am called the Well-and-wise-walking Khan; I command thee, therefore, Siddhî-kür, that thou come down hither to me, otherwise with my axe 'White Moon' will I fell the mango-tree." At these words the Siddhî-kür cried, in answer, "Fell not the mango-tree. Rather will I come down to thee." With that he came down, and the Khan, taking him, put him in his sack of many colours, in which was place to stow away an hundred, then he made the mouth fast with the cord twisted of an hundred threads of various colours, made his meal off his cake which never diminished, and proceeded on his way to take him to the great Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una. As they journeyed on thus day after day, and had grown weary, thus spoke the Siddhî-kür, "Long is the journey, and both of us are weary, tell thou now a story to enliven it." But, remembering the words of Nâgârg'una, "Beware thou open not thy lips to speak," he answered him never a word. Then said the Siddhî-kür again, "If thou wilt not tell a story to lighten the journey, at least listen to one from me, and to this thou canst give assent without opening thy lips, if only thou nod thy head backwards towards me. At this sign I will tell a tale." So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards the Siddhî-kür, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale:-- TALE I. THE WOMAN WHO SOUGHT HER HUSBAND IN THE PALACE OF ERLIK KHAN. Long ages ago there reigned a young Khan whose father had died early and left him in possession of the kingdom. He was a youth comely to look upon, and dazzling in the glory of his might. To him had been given for his chief wife the daughter of a Khan of the South. But the young Khan loved not this wife. At a mile's distance from his palace there lived in her father's house a well-grown, beautiful maiden, of whom he had made his second wife; as she was not a Khan's daughter he feared to take her home to his palace, lest he should displease his mother, but he came often to visit her, and as they loved each other very much, she asked no more. One night, when the moon was brightly shining, some one knocked at the window, the maiden knew it was the Khan's manner of knocking, so she opened to him,--but with trembling, for he had never been wont to come at that hour; yet by the light of the moonbeam she saw that it was indeed himself, only instead of his usual garments, he was habited in shining apparel, which she could hardly look upon for its brightness, and he, himself, too, looked more exceeding beautiful than usual. When he had partaken of her rice-brandy and cakes, he rose and stood upon the doorstep, saying, "Come, sweet wife, come out together with me;" and when she had gone a little way with him, he said, "Come, sweet wife, come a little farther with me." And when she had gone a little farther with him, he said again, "Come, sweet wife, come yet a little farther." So she went yet a little farther till they had reached nearly to the gates of the palace, and from within the courts of the palace there came a noise of shouting and playing on instruments. Then inquired she, "To what end is this shouting and this music?" And he replied, "It is the noise of the sacrifice for the rites of the burial of the Khan (1)." "And why do they celebrate the rites of the burial of the Khan?" she asked, now beginning to fear in earnest. "Because I am dead, sweet wife, and am even now on my way to the deva's kingdom. But thou listen to me, and do according to my word, and all shall be well for thee and for our son. Behold, even now, within the palace, my mother and my chief wife strive together concerning a jewel which is lost. But I have purposely hid the jewel under a god's image in the apartment. Thou, therefore, pass the night in this elephant-stable of the palace hard by, and there shall our son be born; and in the morning, the elephant-tamers finding thee shall bring thee to my mother and my chief wife. But thou, take the jewel and give it to the chief wife and send her away to her own people. Then shall my mother have joy in thee alone and in the child, and you two together shall direct the Government till he be come to man's estate." Thus spoke the Khan. While he spoke these words, the wife was so stricken with fear and grief that she fell to the ground senseless, nor knew that he bore her into the elephant-stable, and went up to the deva's kingdom. In the night their son was born; and in the morning, the elephant-tamers coming in, said, "Here is a woman and a babe lying in the elephant-stable; this must not be, who knows but that it might bring evil to the elephants (2)?" so they raised her up, with her infant, and took her to the Khan's mother. Then she told the Khan's mother all that had befallen her, and as the jewel was found in the place the Khan had told her, it was taken for proof of her truth. Accordingly, the jewel was given to the chief wife, and she was dismissed to her own people; and as the Khan had left no other child, the boy born in the elephant-stable was declared heir, and his mother and the Khan's mother directed the Government together till he should come to man's estate. Thus the lowly maiden was established in the palace as the Khan had promised. Moreover, every month, on the fifteenth of the month, the Khan came in the night to visit her, disappearing again with the morning light. When she told this to the Khan's mother, she would not believe her, because he was invisible to all eyes but hers. And when she protested that she spoke only words of truth, the Khan's mother said, "If it be very truth, then obtain of him that his mother may see him also." On the fifteenth of the month, when he came again, she said therefore to him, "That thou shouldst come thus to see me every month, on the fifteenth of the month, is good; but that thou shouldst go away and leave me all alone again, this is sad, very sad. Why canst thou not come back and stay with us altogether, without going away any more?" And he made answer: "Of a truth there would be one way, but it is difficult and terrible, and it is not given to woman to endure so much fear and pain." But she replied, "If there were but any means to have thee back, always by my side, I would find strength to endure any terror or pain, even to the tearing out of the bones from the midst of my flesh." "This is the means that must be taken then," said the Khan: "Next month, on the fifteenth of the month, thou must rise when the moon's light is at the full, and go forth abroad a mile's distance towards the regions of the South. There shalt thou meet with an ancient man of iron, standing on the watch, who, when he shall have drank much molten metal, shall yet cry, 'Yet am I thirsty.' To him give rice-brandy and pass on. Farther on thou shalt find two he-goats fighting together mightily, to them give barm-cakes to eat and pass on. Farther along thou shalt find a band of armed men who shall bar thy way; to them distribute meat and pass on. Farther on thou shalt come to a frightful massive black building round which runs a moat filled with human blood, and from its portal waves a man's skin for a banner. At its door stand on guard two terrible erliks (3), servants of Erlik Khan (4); to each, offer an offering of blood and pass within the building. "In the very midst of the building thou shalt find a Mandala (5) formed by eight awful sorcerers, and at the feet of each will lie a heart which will cry to thee, 'Take me! take me!' In the midst of all will be a ninth heart which must cry 'Take me not!' "If thou fortified by thy love shall be neither rendered afraid by the aspect of the place, nor terrified by the might of the sorcerers, nor confounded by the wailing of the voices, but shalt take up and bear away that ninth heart, neither looking backwards nor tarrying by the way, then shall it be granted us to live for evermore on earth together." Thus he spoke; and the morning light breaking, she saw him no more. The wife, however, laid up all his words in her heart; and on the fifteenth of the next month, when the moon shone, she went forth all alone without seeking help or counsel from any one, content to rely on her husband's words. Nor letting her heart be cast down by fear or pain, she distributed to each of those she met by the way the portion he had appointed. At last she reached the Mandala of sorcerers, and, regardless of the conflicting cries by which she was assailed, boldly carried off the ninth heart, though it said, "Take me not!" No sooner had she turned back with her prize than the eight sorcerers ran calling after her, "A thief has been in here, and has stolen the heart! Guards! Up, and seize her!" But the Erliks before the door answered, "Us she propitiated with a blood-offering; we arrest her not. See you to it." So the word was passed on to the company of armed men who had barred her passage; but they answered, "Us hath she propitiated with a meat-offering; we arrest her not. See you to it." Then the word was passed on to the two he-goats. But the he-goats answered, "Us hath she propitiated with a barm-cake-offering; we arrest her not. See you to it." Finally, the word was passed on to the ancient man of iron; but he answered, "Me hath she propitiated with a brandy-offering; I arrest her not." Thus with fearless tread she continued all the way to the palace. On opening the door of his apartment, the Khan himself came forward to meet her in his beauty and might, and in tenfold glory, never to go away from her again any more, and they fell into each other's arms in a loving embrace. "Scarcely could a man have held out as bravely as did this woman!" exclaimed the Khan. And as he uttered these words, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift, out of sight. Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the first chapter, concerning the Woman who brought back her Husband from the palace of Erlik-Khan. TALE II. When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had missed the end and object of his journey, he forthwith set out again, without loss of time, or so much as returning to his Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una, but taking only a meal of his cake which never diminished; thus, with similar toils and fears as the first time, he came again at last to the cool grove where lay the child-dead, and among them the Siddhî-kür. And the Siddhî-kür rose up before him, and clambered up the mango-tree. And when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had summoned him with proud sounding words to come down, threatening that otherwise he would hew down the tree with his axe "White Moon," the Siddhî-kür came down, rather than that he should destroy the mango-tree. Then he bound him again in his bag of many colours, in which was place to stow away an hundred, and bound the mouth thereof with the cord woven of an hundred threads of different tints, and bore him along to offer to his Master and Teacher, Nâgârg'una. But at the end of many days' journey, the Siddhî-kür said,-- "Now, in truth, is the length of this journey like to weary us even to death, as we go along thus without speaking. Wherefore, O Prince! let me entreat thee beguile the way by telling a tale." But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, remembering the words of his Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una, which he spoke, saying, "See thou open not thy lips to speak by the way," remained silent, and answered him never a word. Then the Siddhî-kür, when he found that he could not be brought to answer him, spake again in this wise: "If thou wilt not tell a tale, then, at least, give some token by which I may know if thou willest that I should tell one, and if thou speak not, at least nod thine head backwards towards me; then will I tell a tale." So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards the Siddhî-kür, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,-- THE GOLD-SPITTING PRINCE. Long ages ago there was a far-off country where a mighty Khan ruled. Near the source of the chief river of this country was a pool, where lived two Serpent-gods (1), who had command of the water; and as they could shut off the water of the river when they pleased, and prevent it from overflowing and fertilizing the country, the people were obliged to obey their behest, be it what it might. Now, the tribute they exacted of the country was that of a full grown man, to be chosen by lot, every year; and on whoso the lot fell, he had to go, without redemption, whatever his condition in life. Thus it happened one year that the lot fell on the Khan himself. In all the kingdom there was no one of equal rank who could be received instead of him, unless it had been his only son. When his son would have gone in his stead, he answered him, "What is it to me if the Serpents devour me, so that thou, my son, reignest in peace?" But the son said, "Never shall it be that thou, my Khan and father, shouldst suffer this cruel death, while I remain at home. The thought be far from me. Neither will the land receive harm by my death; is not my mother yet alive? and other sons may be born to thee, who shall reign over the land." So he went to offer himself as food to the Serpent-gods. As he went along, the people followed him for a long stretch of the way, bewailing him; and then they turned them back. But one there was who turned not back: it was a poor man's son whom the Prince had all his life had for his friend; he continued following him. Then the Prince turned and said to him, "Walk thou according to the counsels of thy father and thy mother, and be prosperous and happy on the earth. To defend this noble, princely country, and to fulfil the royal word of the Khan, my father, I go forth to be food to the Serpent-gods." But the poor man's son refused to forsake him. "Thou hast loaded me with goodness and favours," he said, as he wept; "if I may not go instead of thee, at least I will go with thee." And he continued following the Prince. When they got near the pool, they heard a low, rumbling, horrible sound: it was the two Serpent-gods talking together, and talking about them, for they were on the look-out to see who would be sent to them this year for the tribute. The old gold-yellow Serpent was telling the young emerald-green Serpent how the Prince had come instead of his father, and how the poor man, who had no need to come at all, had insisted on accompanying him. "And these people are so devoted in giving their lives for one another," said the young emerald-green Serpent, "and have not the courage to come out and fight us, and make an end of paying this tribute at all." "They don't know the one only way to fight us," answered the gold-yellow old Serpent; "and as all the modes they have tried have always failed, they imagine it cannot be done, and they try no more." "And what is the one only way by which they could prevail against us?" inquired the young emerald-green Serpent. "They have only to cut off our heads with a blow of a stout staff," replied the old gold-yellow Serpent, "for so has Shêsa, the Serpent-dæmon, appointed." "But these men carry shining swords that look sharp and fearful," urged the young emerald-green Serpent. "That is it!" rejoined the other: "their swords avail nothing against us, and so they never think that a mere staff should kill us. Also, if after cutting off our heads they were to eat them, they would be able to spit as much gold and precious stones as ever they liked. But they know nothing of all this," chuckled the old gold-yellow Serpent. Meantime, the Prince had not lost a word of all that the two Serpents had said to each other, for his mother had taught him the speech of all manner of creatures. So when he first heard the noise of the Serpents talking together, he had stood still, and listened to their words. Now, therefore, he told it all again to his follower, and they cut two stout staves in the wood, and then drew near, and cut off the heads of the Serpents with the staves--each of them one; and when they had cut them off, the Prince ate the head of the gold-yellow Serpent, and, see! he could spit out as much gold money as ever he liked; and his follower ate the head of the emerald-green Serpent, and he could spit out emeralds as many as ever he pleased. Then spoke the poor man's son: "Now that we have killed the Serpents, and restored the due course of the water to our native country, let us return home and live at peace." But the Khan's son answered, "Not so, for if we went back to our own land, the people would only mock us, saying, 'The dead return not to the living!' and we should find no place among them. It is better we betake ourselves to another country afar off, which knows us not." So they journeyed on through a mountain pass. At the foot of the mountains they came to the habitation of a beautiful woman and her daughter, selling strong drink to travellers. Here they stopped, and would have refreshed themselves, but the women asked them what means they had to pay them withal, for they saw they looked soiled with travel. "We will pay whatever you desire," replied the Prince; and he began to spit out gold coin upon the table. When the women saw that he spat out as much gold coin as ever he would, they took them inside, and gave them as much drink as they could take, making them pay in gold, and at many times the worth of the drink, for they no longer knew what they did; only when they had made them quite intoxicated, and they could not get any thing more from them, in despite of all sense of gratitude or hospitality, they turned them out to pass the night on the road. When they woke in the morning, they journeyed farther till they came to a broad river; on its banks was a palm-grove, and a band of boys were gathered together under it quarrelling. "Boys! what are you disputing about?" inquired the Prince. "We found a cap on this palm-tree," answered one of the boys, "and we are disputing whose it shall be, because we all want it." "And what use would the cap be to you? What is it good for?" asked the Prince. "Why, that whichever of us gets it has only to put it on," replied the boy, "and he immediately becomes invisible to gods, men, and dæmons." "I will settle the dispute for you," rejoined the Prince. "You all of you get you to the far end of this palm-grove, and start back running, all fair, together. Whichever wins the race shall be reckoned to have won the cap. Give it to me to hold the while." The boys said, "It is well spoken;" and giving the cap to the Prince, they set off to go to the other end of the grove. But they were no sooner well on their way, than the Prince put on the cap, and then joining hands with his companion, both became invisible to gods, men, and dæmons; so that when the boys came back at full speed, though they were both yet standing in the same place, none of them could see them. After wandering about to look for them in vain, they at last gave it up in despair, and went away crying with disappointment. The Prince and his follower continued their journey by the side of the stream till they came to a broad road, and here at the cross-way was a crowd of dæmons assembled, who were all chattering aloud, and disputing vehemently. "Dæmons! What are you quarrelling about?" asked the Prince. "We found this pair of boots here," answered the dæmons, "and whoever puts these boots on has only to wish that he might be in a particular place, and immediately arrives there; and we cannot agree which of us is to have the boots." "I will settle the dispute for you," replied the Prince. "You all go up to the end of this road, and run back hither all of you together, and whichever of you wins the race, he shall be reckoned to have won the boots. Give them to me to hold the while." So the dæmons answered, "It is well spoken;" and giving the boots to the Prince, they set off to go to the far end of the road. But by the time they got back the Prince had put on the invisible cap, and joining hands with his companion had become invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, so that for all their looking there was no trace of them to be found. Thus they had to give up the lucky boots, and went their way howling for disappointment. As soon as they were gone the Prince and his follower began to examine the boots, and to ponder what they should do with their treasure. "A great gift and a valuable," said the latter, "hath been given thee, O Prince, by the favour of fortune, and thy wisdom in acquiring it. Wish now to reach a prosperous place to be happy; but for me I shall not know where thou art gone, and I shall see thy face no more." But the Prince said, "Nay, but wheresoever I go, thou shalt go too. Here is one boot for me, and the other for thee, and when we have both put them on we will wish to be in the place where at this moment there is no Khan, and we will then see what is further to be done." So the Prince put on the right boot, and his follower the left boot, and they laid them down to sleep, and both wished that they might come to a land where there was no Khan. When they woke in the morning they found themselves lying in the hollow of an ancient tree, in the outskirts of a great city, overshadowing the place where the election of the Khan was wont to be made. As soon as day broke the people began to assemble, and many ceremonies were performed. At last the people said, "Let us take one of the Baling-cakes out of the straw sacrifice, and throw it up into the air, and on to whosoever's head it falls he shall be our Khan. So they took the Baling-cake out of the straw sacrifice, and it fell into the hollow tree. And the people said, "We must choose some other mode of divination, for the Baling-cake has failed. Shall a hollow tree reign over us?" But others said, "Let us see what there may be inside the hollow tree." Thus when they came to look into the tree they found the Prince and his follower. So they drew them out and said, "These shall rule over us." But others said, "How shall we know which of these two is the Khan?" While others again cried, "These men are but strangers and vagabonds. How then shall they reign over us?" But to the Prince and his follower they said, "Whence are ye? and how came ye in the hollow tree?" Then the Prince began spitting gold coin, and his follower precious emeralds. And while the people were busied in gathering the gold and the emeralds they installed themselves in the palace, and made themselves Khan and Chief Minister, and all the people paid them homage. When they had learned the ways of the kingdom and established themselves well in it, the new Khan said to his Minister that he must employ himself to find a wife worthy of the Khan. To whom the Minister made answer,-- "Behold, beautiful among women is the daughter of the last Khan. Shall not she be the Khan's wife?" The Khan found his word good, and desired that she should be brought to him; when he found she was fair to see, he took her into the palace, and she became his wife. But she was with him as one whose thoughts were fixed on another. Now on the outskirts of the city was a noble palace, well kept and furnished, and surrounded with delicious gardens; but no one lodged there. Only the Minister took note that every third day the Khan's wife went out softly and unattended, and betook herself to this palace. "Now," thought the Minister to himself, "wherefore goes the Khan's wife every third day to this palace, softly and unattended? I must see this thing." So he put on the cap which they had of the boys in the palm-grove, and followed the Khan's wife as he saw her go the palace, and having found a ladder he entered by a window as she came up the stairs. Then he followed her into a sumptuous apartment all fitted with carpets and soft cushions, and a table spread with delicious viands and cooling drinks. The Khan's wife, however, reclined her on none of these cushions, but went out by a private door for a little space, and when she returned she was decked as never she had been when she went before the Khan. The room was filled with perfume as she approached, her hair was powdered with glittering jewels, and her attire was all of broidered silk, while her throat, and arms, and ankles were wreathed with pearls. The Minister hardly knew her again; and with his cap, which made him invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, he approached quite near to look at her, while she, having no suspicion of his presence, continued busy with preparations as for some coming event. On a vast circle of porphyry she lighted a fire of sandal wood, over which she scattered a quantity of odoriferous powders, uttering words the while which it was beyond the power of the Minister to understand. While she was thus occupied, there came a most beautiful bird with many-coloured wings swiftly flying through the open window, and when he had soared round three times in the soft vapour of the sweet-scented gums the Princess had been burning, there appeared a bird no longer, but Cuklaketu, the beautiful son of the gods, surpassing all words in his beauty. The transformation was no sooner effected, than they embraced each other, and reclining together on the silken couches, feasted on the banquet that was laid out. After a time, Cuklaketu rose to take leave, but before he went, he said, "Now you are married to the husband heaven has appointed you, tell me how it is with him." At these words the Minister, jealous for his master, grew very attentive that he might learn what opinion the Khan's wife had of his master and what love she had for him. But she answered prudently, "How it will be with him I know not yet, for he is still young; I cannot as yet know any thing of either his merits or defects." And with that they parted; Cuklaketu flying away in the form of a beautiful bird with many-coloured wings as he had come, and the Khan's wife exchanging her glittering apparel for the mantle in which she came from the Khan's palace. The next time that she went out to this palace, the Minister put on his cap and followed her again and witnessed the same scene, only when Cuklaketu was about to take leave this time, he said, "To-morrow, I shall come and see what your husband is like." And when she asked him, "By what token shall I know you?" he answered, "I will come under the form of a swallow, and will perch upon his throne." With that they parted; but the Minister went and stood before the Khan and told him all that he had seen. "But thou, O Khan," proceeded the Minister, "Cause thou a great fire to be kept burning before the throne; and I, standing there with the cap rendering me invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, on my head, will be on the look out for the swallow, and when he appears, I will seize him by the feathers of his tail and dash him into the fire; then must thou, O Khan, slay him, and hew him in pieces with thy sword." And so it was, for the next morning early, while the Khan and his Consort were seated with all their Court in due order of rank, there came a swallow, all smirk and sprightly, fluttering around them, and at last it perched on the Khan's throne. The Princess watched his every movement with delighted eyes, but the Minister, who waited there wearing his cap which made him invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, no sooner saw him perch on the throne, than he seized him by the feathers of his tail and flung him on the fire. The swallow succeeded in fluttering out of the fire, but as the Khan had drawn his sword to slay him and hew him in pieces, the Princess caught his arm and held it tight, so that the swallow just managed to fly away with his singed wings through the open window. Meantime, the Princess was so overcome with fear and excitement that she fainted away into the arms of the attendants, who were struck with wonder that she should care so much about an injury done to a little bird. As soon as the day came round for her to go to the palace in the outskirts of the city, again the Minister did not fail to follow closely on her steps. He observed that she prepared every thing with greater attention than before and decked herself out with more costly robes and more glittering gems. But when the minutes passed by and the beautiful bird still appeared not, her fear waxed stronger and stronger, and she stood gazing, without taking her eyes off the sky. At last, and only when it was already late, Cuklaketu came flying painfully and feebly, and when he had exchanged his bird disguise for the human form, the traces of the treatment the Minister had given him were plainly visible in many frightful blisters and scars. When the Princess saw him in this evil plight, she lifted up her voice, and wept aloud. But the Prince comforted her with his great steadfastness under the infliction, only he was obliged to tell her that both his human body and his bird feathers being thus marred, it would be impossible for him to come and visit her more. "But," he said, "the Khan, thy husband, has proved himself to exceed me in his might, therefore he has won thee from me." So after much leave-taking, they parted; and Cuklaketu flew away as well as his damaged wings would carry him. It was observed that after this the Princess grew much more attached to her husband, and the Khan rejoiced in the sagacity and faithfulness of his Minister. Nor was this the only use the Minister made of his cap, which made him invisible to gods, men, and dæmons. He was enabled by its means to see many things that were not rightly conducted, to correct many evils, punish many offenders who thought to escape justice, and learn many useful arts. One day as he was walking with this cap upon his head, he came to a temple where, the door being closed, a servant of the temple, thinking himself alone, began disporting himself after the following manner: First, he took out from under a statue of Buddha a large roll of paper, on which was painted a donkey. Having spread it out flat on the floor of the temple, he danced round it five times; and immediately on completing the fifth turn, he became transformed into a donkey like the one that was painted on the paper. In this form he pranced about for some time, and brayed till he was tired, then he got on to the paper again, on his hind legs, and danced round five times as before, and immediately he appeared again in his natural form. When at last he grew tired of the amusement he rolled up his paper, and replaced it under the image of Buddha, whence he had taken it. He had no sooner done so than the Minister, under cover of his cap, which made him invisible to gods, men, and dæmons, possessed himself of the paper which had such mysterious properties, and betook himself with it to the dwelling of the beautiful woman and her daughter who sold strong drink to travellers, who had treated his master and him so shamefully at the outset of their travels. When they saw him approach, for he now no longer wore the invisible cap, they began to fear he had come to bring them retribution, and they asked him with the best grace they could assume what was his pleasure. But he, to win their confidence, that he might the better carry out his scheme, replied,-- "To reward you for your handsome treatment of me and my companion, therefore am I come." And at the same time he gave them a handful of gold coin. And they, recollecting what profit they had derived from his companion before, and deeming it likely there might be means for turning the present visit to similar good account, asked him what were his means for being able to be so lavish of the precious metal. "Oh, that is easily told," replied the Minister. "It is true I have not the faculty of spitting gold coin out of my mouth like my companion, as you doubtless remember, but I have another way, equally efficacious, of coming into possession of all the money I can possibly desire." "And what may that way be?" inquired mother and daughter together in their eagerness. "I have only to spread out this roll of paper on the ground," and he showed them the roll that he had taken from under the image of Buddha in the temple, "and dance five times round it, and immediately I find myself in possession of as much gold as I can carry." "What a treasure to possess is that same roll of paper," cried the women, and they exchanged looks expressing the determination each had immediately conceived, of possessing themselves of it. "But now," proceeded the Minister, not appearing to heed their mutual signs, though inwardly rejoicing that they had shown themselves so ready to fall into his snare," but now pour me out to drink, for I am weary with the journey, and thirsty, and your drink I remember is excellent." The women, on their part, were equally rejoiced that he had given them the opportunity of plying him, and did not wait to be asked twice. The Minister continued to drink, and the women to pour out drink to him, till he was in a state of complete unconsciousness. They no sooner found him arrived at this helpless condition than they took possession of the mysterious roll, and forthwith spreading it out on the ground, proceeded to dance round it five times after the manner prescribed. When the Minister came to himself, therefore, he found his scheme had fully taken effect, and the woman and her daughter were standing heavy and chapfallen in the form of two asses. The Minister put a bridle in their mouth, and led them off to the Khan, saying,-- "These, O Khan, are the women who sell strong drink to travellers, and who entreated us so shamefully at the time when having slain the dragons we went forth on our travels. I have transformed them by my art into two asses. Now, therefore, shall there not be given them burdens of wood, and burdens of stone to carry, heavy burdens, so that they may be punished for their naughtiness?" And the Khan gave orders that it should be done as he had said. But when at the end of five years, they were well weighed down with the heavy burdens, and the Khan saw them wearied and trembling, and human tears running down from their eyes, he called the Minister to him, and said,-- "Take these women, and do them no more harm, for their punishment is enough." So the Minister fetched the paper, and having spread it out on the ground, placed the women on it, making them stand on their hind legs, and led them round it five several times till they resumed their natural form. But with the treatment they had undergone, both were now so bowed, and shrunk, and withered, that no one could know them for the beautiful women they had been. "As well might he have left them under the form of asses, as restore their own shape in such evil plight," here exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied,-- "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the second chapter, concerning the deeds of the Gold-spitting Prince and his Minister. TALE III. When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that once again he had missed the end and object of his labour, he set out anew without loss of time and without hesitation, and journeyed through toil and terror till he came to the cool grove where rested the bodies of the dead. The Siddhî-kür at his approach ran away before his face, and clambered up the mango-tree; but when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had threatened to fell it, the Siddhî-kür came down to him rather than that he should destroy the precious mango-tree. Then he bound him in his bag and laded him on to his shoulder, and bore him away to offer to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una. But after they had journeyed many days and spoken nothing, the Siddhî-kür said, "See, we are like to die of weariness if we go on journeying thus day by day without conversing. Tell now thou, therefore, a tale to relieve the weariness of the way." The Well-and-wise-walking Khan, however, mindful of the word of his Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una, saying, "See thou speak never a word by the way," answered him nothing, neither spake at all. Then said the Siddhî-kür, "If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least give me some token by which I may know that thou willest I should tell one, and without speaking, nod thy head backwards towards me, and I will tell a tale." So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale saying,-- HOW THE SCHIMNU-KHAN WAS SLAIN. Long ages ago there lived on the banks of a mighty river a man who had no wife, and no family, and no possessions, but only one cow; and when he mourned because he had no children, and his cow had no calf, and that he had no milk and no butter to live upon, his cow one day gave birth, not to a calf, but to a monster, which seemed only to be sent to mock him in his misery and distress; for while it had the head, and horns, and long tail of a bull, it had the body of a man. Never was such an ugly monster seen, and when the poor man considered it he said, "What shall I now do with this monster? It is not good for him to live; I will fetch my bow and arrows, and will make an end of him." But when he had strung his bow and fixed his arrow, Massang of the bull's head, seeing what he was going to do, cried out, "Master, slay me not; and doubt not but that your clemency shall have its reward." At these words the poor man was moved to clemency, and he put up his arrows again, and let Massang live, but he turned away his face from beholding him. When Massang saw that his master could not look upon him, he turned him and fled into the woods, and wandered on till he came to a place where was a black-coloured man sitting at the foot of a tree. Seeing him, Massang said, "Who and whence art thou?" And the black-coloured man made answer, "I am a full-grown man of good understanding, born of the dark woods." And Massang said, "Whither goest thou? I will go with thee and be thy companion." And the black-coloured man got up, and they wandered on together till they came to a place in the open meadow, where they saw a green-coloured man sitting on the grass. Seeing him, Massang said, "Who and whence art thou?" And the green-coloured man replied, "I am a full-grown man of good understanding, born of the green meadows; take me with you too, and I will be your companion." And he wandered on with the other two, Massang and the black-coloured man, till they came to a place where was a white-coloured man sitting on a crystal rock. Seeing him, Massang said, "Who and whence art thou?" And the white-coloured man replied, "I am a full-grown man of good understanding, born of the crystal rock; take me with you, and let me be your companion." And he wandered on with the other three, Massang, and the black-coloured man, and the green-coloured man, till they came to a stream flowing between barren sandy banks; and farther along was a grass-clad hill with a little dwelling on the top. Of this dwelling they took possession, and inside it they found provisions of every kind; and in the yard cattle and all that was required to maintain life. Here, therefore, they dwelt; three of them going out every day to hunt, and one staying at home to keep guard over the place. Now the first day, Massang went to the hunt, and took with him the white-coloured man and the green-coloured man; the black-coloured man being thus left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare the dinner. He had made the butter, and sat with the milk simmering, cooking the meat (1), when he heard a rustling sound as of one approaching stealthily. Looking round to discover who came there, he saw a little old woman not more than a span high, carrying a bundle no bigger than an apple on her back, coming up a ladder she had set ready for herself, without asking leave or making any sort of ceremony. "Lackaday!" cried the little old woman, speaking to herself, "methinks I see a youngster cooking good food." But to him she said in a commanding tone, "Listen to me now, and give me some of thy milk and meat to taste." Though she was so small, she wore such a weird, uncanny air that the black-coloured man, though he had boasted of being a full-grown man of good understanding, durst not say her "Nay;" though he contented himself with keeping to the letter of her behest, and only gave her the smallest possible morsel of the food he had prepared, only just enough, as she had said, "to taste." But lo and behold! no sooner had she put the morsel to her lips than the whole portion disappeared, meat, milk, pot and all; and, more marvellous still, the little old wife had disappeared with them. Ashamed at finding himself thus overmatched by such a little old wench, he reasoned with himself that he must invent something to tell his companions which should have a more imposing sound than the sorry story of what had actually occurred. Turning over all his belongings to help himself to an idea, he found two horse's-hoofs, and with these he made the marks as of many horsemen all round the dwelling, and then shot his own arrow into the middle of the yard. He had hardly finished these preparations when his companions came home from the hunt. "Where is our meal?" inquired they. "Where is the butter you were to have made, and the meat you were to have cooked?" "Scarcely had I made all ready," replied the black-coloured man, "than a hundred strange men, on a hundred wild horses, came tearing through the place; and what could I do to withstand a hundred? Thus they have taken all the butter, and milk, and meat, and me they beat and bound, so that I have had enough to do to set myself free, and scarcely can I move from the effect of their blows. Go out now and see for yourselves." So they went out; and when they saw the marks of the horses'-hoofs all round the dwelling, and the arrow shot into the middle of the courtyard, they said, "He hath spoken true things." The next day Massang went to the hunt, and took with him the black-coloured man and the white-coloured man. The green-coloured man being thus left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare the dinner; and it was no sooner ready than the little old wife came in, as she had done the day before, and played the same game. "This is doubtless how it fell out with the black-coloured man," said he to himself, as soon as she was gone; "but neither can I own that I was matched by such a little old wife, nor yet can I tell the same story about the horsemen. I know what I will do: I will fetch up a yoke of oxen, and make them tramp about the place, and when the others come home, I will say some men came by with a herd of cattle, and, overpowering me, carried off the victuals." All this he did; and when his companions came home, and saw for themselves the marks the oxen had made in tramping up the soil, they said, "He hath spoken true things." The day after, Massang went hunting, and took with him the black-coloured man and the green-coloured man. The white-coloured man being left in charge of the homestead, set himself to prepare the dinner. Nor was it long before the same little old woman who had visited his companions made her appearance; and soon she had made an end of all the provisions. "This is doubtless how it fell out with the green-coloured man yesterday, and the black-coloured man the day before," said the white-coloured man to himself; "but neither can I own any more than they that I was overmatched by such a little old wife, nor yet can I tell the same story as they." So he fetched a mule in from the field, and made it trot all round the dwelling, that when his companions came in he might tell them that a party of merchants had been by, with a file of mules carrying their packs of merchandize, who had held him bound, and eaten up the provisions. All this he did; and when his companions came home, and saw for themselves the marks of the mule-hoofs all round the dwelling, they said, "He hath spoken true things." The next day it was Massang's turn to stay at home, nor did he neglect the duty which fell upon him of cooking the food against the return of the rest. As he sat thus occupied, up came the little old woman, as on all the other days. "Lackaday!" she exclaimed, as she set eyes on him. "Methinks I see a youngster cooking good food!" And to him she cried, in her imperious tone, "Listen to me now, and give me some of thy milk and meat to taste." When Massang saw her, he said within himself, "Surely now this is she who hath appeared to the other three; and when they said that strangers had broken in, and overpowered them, and stolen the food, was it not that she is a witch-woman and enchanted it away. She only asks to taste it; but if I do her bidding, who knows what may follow?" So he observed her, that he might discover what way there was of over-matching her; thus he espied her bundle, and bethought him it contained the means of her witcheries. To possess himself of it he had first to devise the means of getting her to go an errand, and leave it behind her. "Belike you could help me to some fresh water, good wife," he said, in a simple, coaxing tone; and she, thinking to serve her purpose by keeping on good terms with him, replied,-- "That can I; but give me wherewithal to fetch it." To keep her longer absent, he gave her a pail with a hole in it, with which she went out. Looking after her, he saw that she made her way straight up to the clouds, and squeezed one into her pail, but no sooner was it poured in, than it ran out again. Meantime, he possessed himself of her bundle, and turned it over; withal it was not so big as an apple, it contained many things: a hank of catgut, which he exchanged for a hank of hempen cord; an iron hammer, which he exchanged for a wooden mallet; and a pair of iron pincers, which he exchanged for wooden ones. He had hardly tied up the bundle again, when the old woman came back, very angry with the trick that had been played upon her with the leaking pail, and exclaiming, "How shall water be brought in a pail where there is a hole?" Then she added further, and in a yet angrier key, "If thou wilt not give me to taste of thy food, beware! for then all that thou hast becomes mine." And when she found that he heeded her not, but went on with what he was doing, just as if she had not spoken, she cried out, furiously,-- "If we are not to be on good terms, we must e'en match our strength; if we are not to have peace, we must have war; if I may not eat with you, I will fight you." "That I am ready for," answered Massang, as one sure of an easy victory. "Not so confident!" replied the old one. "Though I am small and thou so big, yet have I overcome mightier ones than thou." "In what shall we match our strength?" said Massang, not heeding her banter. "We will have three trials," replied the old one; "the cord proof, the hammer proof, and the pincers proof. And first the cord proof. I will first bind thee, and if thou canst burst my bonds, well; then thou shalt also bind me." Then Massang saw that he had done well to possess himself of her instruments, but he gave assent to her mode of proof, and let her bind him as tight as ever she would; but as she had only the hempen cord to bind him with, which he had put in her bundle in place of the catgut, he broke it easily with his strength, and set himself free again. Then he bound her with the catgut, so that she was not able by any means to unloose herself. "True, herein thou hast conquered," she owned, as she lay bound and unable to move, "but now we will have the pincers proof." And as he had promised to wage three trials with her, he set her free. Then with her pincers she took him by the breast; but, as he had changed her iron pincers for the wooden ones, he hardly felt the pinch, and she did him no harm. But when, with her iron pincers, he seized her, she writhed and struggled so that he pulled out a piece of flesh as big as an earthen pot, and she cried out in great pain.-- "Of a truth thou art a formidable fellow, but now we will have the hammer proof," and she made Massang lie down; but when she would have given him a powerful blow on the chest with her iron hammer, the handle of the wooden mallet Massang had given her in its stead broke short off, and she was not able to hurt him. But Massang made her iron hammer glowing hot in the fire, and belaboured her both on the head and body so that she was glad to escape at the top of her speed and howling wildly. As she flew past, Massang's three companions came in from hunting and said, "Surely now you have had a trial to endure." And Massang answered,-- "Of a truth you are miserable fellows all, and moreover have spoken that which is not true. Was it like men to let yourselves be overmatched by a little old wife? But now I have tamed her, let be. Let us go and seek for her corpse; maybe we shall find treasure in the place where she lays it." When they heard him speak of treasure they willingly went out after him, and, following the track of blood which had fallen from the witch-woman's wounds as she went along, they came to a place where was an awful cleft in a mighty rock, and peeping through they saw, far below, the bloody body of the old witch-woman, lying on a heap of gold and jewels and shining adamant armour and countless precious things. Then Massang said, "Shall you three go down and hand me up the spoil by means of a rope of which I will hold the end, or shall I go down and hand it up to you?" But they three all made answer together, "This woman is manifestly none other but a Schimnu (2). We dare not go near her. Go you down." So Massang let himself down by the rope, and sent up the spoil by the same means to his companions, who when they had possession of it said thus to one another,-- "If we draw Massang up again, we cannot deny in verity that the spoil is his, as he has won it in every way, but if we leave him down below it becomes ours." So they left him below, and when he looked that they should have hauled him up they gave never a sign or sound. When he saw that, he said thus to himself, "My three companions have left me here that they may enjoy the spoil alone. For me nothing is left but to die!" But as it grieved him so to die in his health and strength, he cast about him to see whether in all that cave which had been so full of valuables there was not something stored that was good for food, yet found he nothing save three cherry-stones. So he took the cherry-stones and planted them in the earth, saying, "If I be truly Massang, may these be three full-grown cherry-trees by the time I wake; but if not, then let me die the death." And with that he laid him down to sleep with the body of the Schimnu for a pillow. Being thus defiled by contact with the corpse, he slept for many years. When at last he woke, he found that three cherry-trees had sprung up from the seeds he planted and now reached to the top of the rock. Rejoicing greatly therefore, he climbed up by their means and reached the earth. First he bent his steps to his late dwelling, to look for his companions, but it was deserted, and no one lived therein. So, taking his iron bow and his arrows, he journeyed farther. Presently he came to a place where there were three fine houses, with gardens and fields and cattle and all that could be desired by the heart of man. These were the houses which his three companions had built for themselves out of the spoil of the cave. And when he would have gone in, their wives said--for they had taken to them wives also--"Thy companions are not here; they are gone out hunting." So he took up his iron bow and his arrows again, and went on to seek them, and as he went by the way he saw them coming towards him with the game they had taken with their bows. Then he strung his iron bow and would have shot at them; but they, falling down before him, cried out, "Slay us not. Only let us live, and behold our houses, and our wives, and our cattle, and all that we have is in thine hand, to do with it as it seemeth good to thee." Then he put up his arrows again, and said to them only these words, "In truth, friends, ye dealt evilly with me in that ye left me to perish in the cave." But they, owning their fault, again begged him that he would stay with them and let their house be his house, and they entreated him. But he would not stay with them, saying,-- "A promise is upon me, which I made when my master would have killed me and I entreated him to spare my life, for I said to him that I would repay his clemency to him if he spared me. Now, therefore, let me go that I may seek him out." Then, when they heard those words, they let him go, and he journeyed on farther to find out his master. One day of his journey, as he was wearied with walking, he sat down towards evening by the side of a well, and as he sat an enchantingly beautiful maiden came towards the well as if to draw water, and as she came along he saw with astonishment that at every footstep as she lifted up her feet a fragrant flower sprang up out of the ground (3), one after another wherever she touched the ground. Massang stretched out his hand to offer to draw water for her, but she stopped not at the fountain but passed on, and Massang, in awe at her beauty and power, durst not speak to her, but rose up and followed behind her the whole way she went. On went the maiden, and ever on followed Massang, over burning plain and through fearful forest, past the sources of mighty rivers and over the snow-clad peaks of the everlasting mountains (4), till they reached the dwelling of the gods and the footstool of dread Churmusta (5). Then spoke Churmusta,-- "That thou art come hither is good. Every day now we have to sustain the fight with the black Schimnu; to-morrow thou shalt be spectator of the fray, and the next day thou shall take part in it." The next day Massang stood at the foot of Churmusta's throne, and the gods waited around in silence. Massang saw a great herd as of black oxen, as it were early in the morning, driven with terror to the east side by a herd as of white oxen; and again he saw as it were late in the evening, the herd as of white oxen driven to the west side by the herd as of black oxen. Then spoke the great Churmusta,-- "Behold the white oxen are the gods. The black oxen are the Schimnus. To-morrow, when thou seest the herd as of black oxen driving back the white, then string thine iron bow, and search out for thy mark a black ox, bearing a white star on his forehead. Then send thine arrow through the white star, for he is the Schimnu-Khan. Thus spoke the dread Churmusta. The next day Massang stood ready with his bow, and did even as Churmusta had commanded. With an arrow from his iron bow he pierced through the white star on the forehead of the black ox, and sent him away roaring and bellowing with pain. Then spake the dread Churmusta,-- "Bravely hast thou dealt, and well hast thou deserved of me. Therefore thou shalt have thy portion with me, and dwell with me for ever." But Massang answered,-- "Nay, for though I tarried at thy behest to do thy bidding, a promise is upon me which I made when my master would have taken my life. For I said, 'Spare me now, and be assured I will repay thy clemency.'" Then Churmusta commended him, and bid him do even as he had said. Furthermore he gave him a talisman to preserve him by the way, and gave him this counsel,-- "Journeying, thou shalt be overcome by sleep, and having through sleeping forgotten the way, thou shalt arrive at the gate of the Schimnu-Khan. Then beware that thou think not to save thyself by flight. Knock, rather, boldly at the door, saying, 'I am a physician.' When they hear that they will bring thee to the Schimnu-Khan that thou mayest try thine art in drawing out the arrow from his forehead. Then place thyself as though thou wouldst remove it, but rather with a firm grasp drive it farther in, so that it enter his brain, first offering up with thine hand seven barley-corns to heaven; and after this manner thou shalt kill the Schimnu-Khan." Thus commanded the dread Churmusta. Then Massang came down from the footstool of Churmusta and the dwelling of the gods, and went forth to seek out his master. But growing weary with the length of the day, and lying down to sleep, when he woke he had forgotten the direction he had to take, so he pursued the path which lay before him, and it led him to the portal of the Schimnu palace. When he saw it was the Schimnu palace, he would have made good his escape from its precincts, but remembering the words of Churmusta, he knocked boldly at the door. Then the Schimnus flocked round him, and told him he must die unless he could do some service whereby his life might be redeemed; and Massang made answer, "I am a physician." Hearing that, they took him in to the Schimnu-Khan, that he might pluck the arrow out of his forehead. Massang stood before the Schimnu-Khan; but when he should have pulled out the arrow, he only pulled it out a little way, and the Schimnu-Khan said,-- "Thus far is the pang diminished." Then, however, first casting seven barley-corns on high towards heaven, he plunged it in again even to the centre of his brain, so that he fell down at his feet dead. And as the seven barley-corns reached the heavens, there came down by their track an iron chain with a thundering clang which the dread Churmusta sent down to Massang, and Massang climbed up by the chain to the dwelling of the gods. But there stood by the throne of the Schimnu-Khan a female Schimnu, out of whose mouth came forth forked flames of fire, and when she saw Massang ascending to heaven by the chain, she raised an iron hammer high in air to strike it, and cleave it in two. But when she struck it, there issued seven bright sparks, which floated up to heaven, and remained fixed in the sky; and men called them the constellation of the Pleiades. "Thus, for all his promise, and after all his sacrifices, Massang never went back to repay his master's clemency!" exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips!" And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift, out of sight. Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the third chapter, showing how the Schimnu-Khan was slain. TALE IV. Then, when he saw he had again missed the end and object of his journey, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan again set out as at the first, till with toil and terror he reached the cool grove where lay the dead. At his approach the Siddhî-kür clambered up into the mango-tree, but rather than let the tree be destroyed he came down at the word of the Khan threatening to fell it. Then the Khan bound him in his bag and bore him away to offer to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una. But when they had proceeded many days the Siddhî-kür said, "Tell, now, a tale, seeing the way is long and weary, and we are like to die of weariness if we go on thus speaking never a word between us." But the Khan, mindful of the monition of his Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una, answered him nothing. Then said the Siddhî-kür, "If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least give me the token by which I may know that thou willest I should tell one." So the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards towards him, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,-- THE PIG'S HEAD SOOTHSAYER. Long ages ago a man and his wife were living on the borders of a flourishing kingdom. The wife was a good housewife, who occupied herself with looking after the land and the herds; but the husband was a dull, idle man, who did nothing but eat, drink, and sleep from morning to night and from night to morning. One day, when his wife could no longer endure to see him going on thus indolently, she cried out to him, "Leave off thus idling thyself; get up and gird thyself like a man, and seek employment. Behold, thy father's inheritance is well nigh spent; the time is come that thou find the means to eke it out." And when he weakly asked her in return, "Wherein shall I seek to eke it out?" she answered him, "How should I be able to tell this thing, but at least get thee up and make some endeavour; get thee up and look round the place and see what thou canst find," and with that she went out to her work in the field. When she had repeated these words many days, he at last went out one day, and, not taking the trouble to bethink him what he should do, he did just what his wife had said, and went to look round the place to see what he could find. As he wandered about, he came to a spot on which a tribe of cattle-herds had lately been encamped (1), and a fox, a dog, and a bird were there fighting about something. Approaching to see for what they contended, they all escaped in fear, and he was left in possession of their booty, which was a sheep's paunch full of butter (2). This he brought home and laid up in store. When his wife came home and asked him whence it was, he told her he had found it left on the camping-place of a family of herdsmen who had passed that way seeking pasturage. "Well it is to be a man!" exclaimed his wife. "I may toil all day without making so much; but you go but out one day of your whole life for one moment of time, and straightway you find all this wealth." When the man heard these words, he took courage and thought he should be fit to find better fortune still; so he said to his wife, "Give me now only a good horse and clothes meet, and a dog, and a bow and arrows, and you shall see what I can do." The woman was glad to hear him show so much resolution, so she made haste and gave him all the things that he required, and added a thick felt cloak to keep out the rain, and a cap for his head, and helped him to get on his horse, and slung his bow over his shoulder. Thus he rode out over many a broad plain, but without purpose or knowledge of whither he went, nor did he fall in with any living creature whatever for many days. At last, riding over a vast steppe, he espied at some distance a fox. "Ha!" he exclaimed, "there is one of my friends of last time. To be sure, there is no sheep's paunch of butter this time, but if I could only kill him his skin would make a nice warm cap." As he had never learnt to draw a bow, his arrows were of no service, so he set his horse trotting after the fox; but the fox got away faster than he could follow, and took refuge in the hole of a marmot (3). "Now I have you!" he cried, and, dismounting from his horse, he took off all his clothes to have freer use of his limbs and bound them on his saddle; the dog he tied to the bridle of the horse, and stopped the mouth of the hole with his cap; then he took a great stone and endeavoured with heavy blows on the earth to crush the fox. But the fox, taking fright at the noise, rushed out with such impetus that it carried off the cap on its head. The dog, seeing it run, gave chase, and the horse was forced to follow the dog, as they were both tied together; so off he galloped, carrying on his saddle every thing the man had in the world, and leaving him stretched on the ground without a thread of covering. Getting up, he wandered on to the banks of a river which formed the boundary of the kingdom of a rich and powerful Khan. Going into this Khan's stable, he laid himself down under the straw and covered himself completely, so that no one could see him. Here he was warmed and well rested. As he lay there the Khan's beautiful daughter came out to take the air, and before she went in again she dropped the Khan's talisman and passed on without perceiving her loss. Though the bauble was precious in itself for the jewels which adorned it, and precious also to the Khan for its powers in preserving his life (4), and worthy therefore to claim a reward, the man was too indolent to get up out of the straw to pick it up, so he let it lie. After sunset the Khan's herds came in from grazing, and the cow-wench, when she had shut them into the stable, swept up the yard without heeding the talisman, which thus got thrown on to a dung-heap. This the man saw, but still bestirred him not to recover it. The next day there was great stir and noise in the place; the Khan sent out messengers into every district far and near to say that the Khan's beautiful daughter had lost his talisman, and promising rewards to whoso should restore it. After this too, he ordered the great trumpet, which was only blown on occasion of promulgating the laws of the kingdom, to be sounded and proclamation to be made, calling on all the wise men and soothsayers of the kingdom to exercise their cunning art, and divine the place where the talisman should lay concealed. All this the man heard as he lay under the straw, but yet he bestirred him not. Early in the morning, however, men came to litter the place for the kine with fresh straw; and these men, finding him, bid him turn out. Now that it became a necessity to stir himself, he bethought him of the talisman; and when the men asked him whence he was, he answered "I am a soothsayer come to divine the place where lies the Khan's talisman." Hearing that, they told him to come along to the Khan. "But I have no clothes," replied the man. So they went and told the Khan, saying, "Here is a soothsayer lying in the straw of the stable, who is come to divine where the Khan's talisman lies hid, but he cannot appear before the Khan because he has no clothes." "Take this apparel to him," said the Khan, "and bring him hither to me." When he came before the Khan, the Khan asked him what he required to perform his divination. "Let there be given me," answered the man, "a pig's head, a piece of silk stuff woven of five colours, (5) and a large Baling (6); these are the things which I require for the divination." All these things being given him, he set up the pig's head on a pedestal of wood, and adorned it with the silk stuff woven of five colours, and put the Baling-cake in its mouth. Then he sat down over against it, as if sunk in earnest contemplation. Then on the day which had been named in the Khan's proclamation for the day of divination, which was the third day, all the people being assembled, assuming the air of a diviner of dreams, he wrapped himself in a long mantle, and made as though he was questioning the pig's head. As all the people passed, he seemed to gain the answer from the pig's head,-- "The talisman is not with this one," and "The talisman is not with that one," so that he had many people on his side glad to be thus pronounced free from all charge of harbouring the Khan's talisman. At last he made a sign that this kind of divination was ended; and pronounced that the Khan's talisman was not in possession of any man. "And now," said he, "let us try the divination of the earth." With that, he set out to make a circuit of the Khan's dwelling. Stepping on and on from place to place, he continued to seem consulting the pig's head, till he came to the place in the yard where the dung-heap was; and here, assuming an imposing attitude, he turned round, and said mysteriously, "Here somewhere must be found the Khan's talisman." But when he had turned the heap over, and brought the talisman itself to light, the people knew not how to contain themselves for wonderment, and went about crying,-- "The Pig's head diviner hath divined wonderful things! The Pig's head diviner hath divined wonderful things!" But the Khan called to him, and said,-- "Tell me how I shall reward thee for that thou hast restored my talisman to me." But he, who did not exert himself to think of any thing but just of what was most present to his mind, answered,-- "Let there be given me, O Khan, the raiment, and the horse, the fox, the dog, and the bow and arrows which I have lost." When the Khan heard him ask for nothing save his horse and dog, and raiment, and a fox, and bows and arrows, he said,-- "Of a truth this is a singular soothsayer. Nevertheless, let there be given him over and above the things that he hath required of us two elephants laden with meal and butter." So they gave him all the things he had required and two elephants laden with meal and butter to boot. Thus they brought him back unto his own home. Seeing him yet afar, his wife came out to meet him, carrying brandy. She opened her eyes when she saw the two elephants laden with butter and meal; but knowing that he loved to be left at ease, forbore to question him that night. The next morning she made him tell her the whole story before they got up; but when she heard what little demands he had made after rendering the Khan so great a service as restoring his talisman, she exclaimed,-- "If a man would be called a man, he ought to know better how to use his opportunities." And with that she sat to work to write a letter in her husband's name to the Khan. The letter was conceived in these words:-- "During the brief moment that thy life-talisman was in my hands, I well recognized that thou hast a bodily infirmity. It was in order that I might conjure it from thee that I required at thy hands the dog and the fox. What reward the Khan is pleased to bestow, this shall be according to the mind of the Khan." This letter she took with her own hands to the Khan. When the Khan had read the letter, he was pleased to think the soothsayer had undertaken to free him of a malady against which he could never have made provision himself, as he had no knowledge of its existence; so he ordered two elephant's-loads of treasure to be given to the woman, who went back to her husband, and they had therewith enough to live in ease and plenty. Now this Khan had had six brethren, and it happened that once they had gone out to divert themselves, and in a thick wood they saw a most beautiful maiden playing with a he-goat, whom they stood looking at till they were tired of standing, for of looking at one so beautiful they could never be weary. At last one of them said to her,-- "Whence comest thou, beautiful maiden?" And she answered him,-- "By following after this he-goat, thus I came hither." "Will you come with us seven brethren, and be our wife," rejoined the brother, who had spoken first; and when she willingly agreed they took her home with them. But they both were evil Râkshasas (7), who had only come out to find men whose lives to devour; the male Manggus (8), had taken the form of a he-goat, and the female Manggus that of a beautiful maiden, the better to deceive. When therefore the seven took her home and the goat with her, the two Manggus had ample scope to carry out their design, and every year they devoured the life of one of the brothers, till now there was only the Khan left, and they began to consume the life of him also. When the ministers saw that all the brothers were dead, and only the Khan left, they held a council, and they said, "Behold, all the other Khans are dead, notwithstanding all the means we have at our command, and despite the arts of all the physicians of this country." Now there remains no other means for us but to send for the Pig's head soothsayer who found the Khan's talisman, and get him to restore the Khan to health." This counsel was found good, and they all said, "Let us send for the Pig's head soothsayer." Four men were sent off on horseback to call the Pig's head soothsayer, who laid all the case before him. When he heard it he was greatly embarrassed, and knew not what to answer, but his vacancy passed, with them, for his being immersed in deep contemplation, and they reverenced him the more. Meantime his wife bid them put up their horses and stay the night. In the night-time she asked of him what the men had come about, and he told her all his embarrassment. "True, last time you exerted yourself a little and had good luck," she replied, "but now that you have been sitting here doing nothing, and looking so stupid all this time, whether you will cut as good a figure, who shall say? But go you must, seeing the Khan has sent for you." The next morning he said to the messengers, "In the visions of the night I have learned even how I may help the Khan, and presently I will come with you." Then he enveloped himself in a mantle, laid his hair over the crown of his head, took a large string of beads in his left hand, bound the silk stuff woven of five colours round his right arm, and carrying the pigs' head set out with them. When he arrived with this strange aspect at the Khan's dwelling both the Manggus were much alarmed. They thought he must be some cunning soothsayer who knew all about them; they had heard, too, of his success in finding the Khan's talisman. But the man continuing to support his character of soothsayer, ordered a Baling as big as a man to be brought to the head of the Khan's bed, and placed the pig's head on top of it, and then sat himself down over against it, murmuring words of incantation (9). The Manggus, thinking all these preparations showed that he was a cunning soothsayer, went away to take counsel together, and the Khan being thus delivered for the time from their evil arts, his pains began to yield and he fell into a tranquil sleep. Seeing this his attendants thought favourably of the cure, and trusting therefore the more in the soothsayer's powers they left him in entire charge of the patient. Being thus freed from observation he ventured to leave his position of apparent absorption in contemplation, and to take a stolen glance at the Khan. When he saw him in such a deep sleep a great fear took him, thinking he must be very bad indeed, and he did all he could to wake him, crying aloud,-- "O great Khan! O mighty Khan!" Finding that the Khan remained speechless he thought he must be dead, and resolved that his best part was to run away. This was not so easy, for the first open door he found to take refuge in was that of the Treasury, and the guard called out "Stop thief!" and when from thence he tried to bestow himself in the store-chamber, the guard sang out "Stop thief!" At last he went into the stable, to hide himself there, but close by the door-way stood the he-goat, whom he feared to pass, lest he should goad him with his horns. However, summoning up all his courage, he got behind him, and sprang on his back, and gave him three blows on his head; but instantly, even as the blue smoke column is carried in a straight direction by the wind, so sped the he-goat straight off to the Khanin leaving his rider stretched upon the ground. As soon as he had got up again he ran after the he-goat, to see whither he went so fast; following him, he came to the door of the Khanin's apartment, and heard the he-goat talking to her within. The two Manggus spoke thus:-- "The Pig's head soothsayer is a soothsayer indeed," said the he-goat; "he divined that I was in the stable, and he came there after me, and sprang upon my back, giving me three mighty blows, by which I know the weight of his arm. The best thing we can do is to make good our escape." The Khanin made answer, "I, also, am of the same mind. I saw when he first came in that he recognized us for what we are. We have had good fortune hitherto, but it has forsaken us now; it were better we got away. I know what he will do; in a day or two, when he has cured the Khan by not letting us approach him to devour his life, he will assemble together all the men of the place with their arms, and all the women, telling them to bring each a faggot of wood for burning. When all are assembled he will say, 'Let that he-goat be brought to me,' so they will bind thee and take thee before him. Then will he say to thee, 'Lay aside thine assumed form,' and it will be impossible for thee not to obey. When he has shown thee thus in thine own shape they will all fall upon thee, and put thee to death with swords and arrows, and burn thee in the fire. And afterwards with me will he deal after the same manner. Now, therefore, to-morrow or the next day we will be beforehand with him, and will go where we shall be safe from his designs." When the man heard all this, he left off from following the goat, and went back with good courage, to take up his place again over against the pig's head by the side of the Khan's couch. In the morning the Khan woke, refreshed with his slumber; and when they inquired how he felt, the Khan replied that the soothsayer's power had diminished the force of the malady. "If this be even so," here interposed the soothsayer, "and if the Khan has confidence in the word of his servant, command now thy ministers that they call together all thy subjects--the men with their arms, and the women each with a faggot of wood for burning." Then the Khan ordered that it should be done according to his word. When they were all assembled, the pretended soothsayer, having set up his pig's head, commanded further that they should bring the he-goat out of the stable before him; and when they had bound him and brought him, that they should put his saddle on him. Then he sprang on to his back, and gave him three blows with all his strength, and dismounted. Then with all the power of voice he could command, he cried out to him, "Lay aside thine assumed form!" At these words the he-goat was changed before the eyes of all present into a horrible Manggus, deformed and hideous to behold. With swords and sticks, lances and stones, the whole people fell upon him, and disabled him, and then burnt him with fire till he was dead. Then said the soothsayer, "Now, bring hither the Khanin." So they went and dragged down the Khanin to the place where he stood, with yelling and cries of contempt. With one hand on the pig's head, as if taking his authority from it, the soothsayer cried out to her, in a commanding voice,-- "Resume thine own form!" Then she too became a frightful Manggus, and they put her to death like the other. The soothsayer now rode back to the Khan's palace, all the people making obeisance to him as he went along--some crying, "Hail!" some strewing the way with barley, and some bringing him rich offerings. It took him nearly the space of a day to make his way through such a throng. When at last he arrived, the Khan received him with a grateful welcome, and asked him what present he desired of him. The soothsayer answered, with his usual simplicity, "In our part of the country we have none of those pieces of wood which I see you put here into the noses of the oxen: let there be given me a quantity of them to take back with me." The Khan then ordered there should be given him three sacks of the pieces of wood for the oxen, and seven elephants laden with meal and butter to boot. When he arrived home, his wife came out to meet him with brandy, and when she saw the seven elephants with their loads, she extolled him highly; but when she came to learn how great was the deliverance he had rendered to the Khan, she was indignant that he had not asked for higher reward, and determined to go the next day herself to the Khan. The next day she went accordingly, disguised, and sent in a letter of the following purport to the Khan:-- "Although I, the Pig's head soothsayer, brought the Khan round from his malady, yet some remains of it still hang about him. It was in order to remove these that I asked for the pieces of wood for the oxen; what guerdon has been earned by this further service it is for the Khan to decide." Such a letter she sent in to the Khan. "The man has spoken the truth," said the Khan, on reading the letter. "For his reward, let him and his wife, his parents and friends, all come over hither and dwell with me." When they arrived, the Khan said, "When one has to show his gratitude, and dismisses him to whom he is indebted with presents, that does not make an end of the matter. That I was not put to death by the Manggus is thy doing; that the kingdom was not given over to destruction was thy doing; that the ministers were not eaten up by the Manggus was thy doing: it is meet, therefore, that we share between us the inheritance, even between us two, and reign in perfect equality." With such words he gave him half his authority over the kingdom, and to all his family he gave rich fortunes and appointments of state. And thus his wife became Khanin; so that while he could indulge himself in the same idle life as before, she also enjoyed rest from her household and pastoral cares (10). "Though the woman despised her husband's understanding," exclaimed the Khan, "yet was it always his doings which brought them wealth after all!" And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips. "And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. TALE V. When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his journey, without hesitation or loss of time he once more betook himself to the cool grove, and summoned the Siddhî-kür to come with him, threatening to hew down the mango-tree. But as he bore him along, bound in his bag of many colours, in which was place to stow away an hundred, the Siddhî-kür spoke thus, saying, "Tell thou now a tale to beguile the weariness of the way." But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan answered him nothing. Then said the Siddhî-kür again, "If thou wilt not tell a tale, at least give the token that I may know thou willest I should tell one." So the Khan nodded his head backwards and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,-- HOW THE SERPENT-GODS WERE PROPITIATED. Long ages ago there reigned over a flourishing province, a Khan named Kun-snang (1). He had a son named "Sunshine" by his first wife who afterwards died. He also had a second son named "Moonshine," by his second wife. Now the second wife thought within herself, "If Sunshine is allowed to live, there is no chance of Moonshine ever coming to the throne. Some means must be found of putting Sunshine out of the way." With this object in view she threw herself down upon her couch and tossed to and fro as though in an agony of pain. All the night through also instead of sleeping, she tossed about and writhed with pain. Then the Khan spake to her, saying, "My beautiful one! what is it that pains thee, and with what manner of ailment art thou stricken?" And she made answer,-- "Even when I was at home I suffered oftwhiles after the same manner, but now is it much more violent; all remedies have I exhausted previous times, there remains only one when the pain is of this degree, and that means is not available." "Say not that it is not available," answered the Khan, "for all means are available to me. Speak but what it is that is required, and whatever it be shall be done, even to the renouncing of my kingdom. For there is nothing that I would not give in exchange for thy life." But for a long time she made as though she would not tell him, then finally yielding to his repeated inquiries, she said, "If there were given me the heart of a Prince, stewed in sesame-oil (2), I should recover: it matters not whether the heart of Sunshine or of Moonshine, but that Moonshine being my own son, his heart would not pass through my throat. This means, O Khan, is manifestly not available, for how should it be done to take the life of Prince Sunshine? Therefore say no more, and let me die." But the Khan answered, "Of a truth it would grieve me to take the life of Prince Sunshine. Nevertheless, if there be no other means of saving thy life, the thing must be done. I have not to consider 'Shall the life of the Prince be spared or not?' but, 'Which shall be spared, the life of the Prince, or the life of the Khanin?' And in this strait who could doubt, but that it is the life of the Khanin that must be spared by me? Therefore, be of good cheer, beautiful one, for that the heart of Prince Sunshine shall be given thee cooked in sesame-oil." This, he said, intending in his own mind to have the heart of a kid of the goats prepared for her in sesame-oil, saying, "Behold, here is the heart of Prince Sunshine," but to send away the Prince into a far country that she might not know he was not dead. Only when she was restored to health again, then he purposed to fetch back his son. But Moonshine being in his mother's apartments overheard this promise which the Khan had given, and he ran and told his brother all that the Khan, his father, had said, saying, "When the Khan rises he will give the order to put thee to death; how shall this thing be averted?" and he wept sore, for he loved his brother Sunshine even as his own life. Then Sunshine answered, saying, "Seeing this is so, remain thou with our parents, loving and honouring them, and being loved by them. For me, it is clear the time is come that I must get me away to a far country. Farewell, my brother!" But Moonshine answered, "Nay, brother, for if thou goest, I also go with thee. How should I live alone here, without thee, my brother?" Therefore they rose quickly before the Khan could get up, and going privately to a priest in a temple hard by, that no one else might hear of their design and betray it to the Khan, they begged of him a good provision of baling-cakes (3), to support life by the way; and he gave them a good provision, even a bag-full, and they set out on their journey while it was yet night. It was the fifteenth of the month, while the moon shed abroad her light, and they journeyed towards the East, not knowing whither they went. But after they had journeyed many days over mountain and plain, and come to a land where was no water, but a muddy river the water whereof could not be drunk, and where was no habitation of man, Moonshine fell down fainting by the way. Sunshine therefore ran to the top of a high hill to see if he could discern any stream of water, but found none. When he came back Moonshine was dead! Then he fell down on the ground, and wept a long space upon his body, and at nightfall he buried it with solicitude under a heap of stones, crying, "Ah! my brother, how shall I live without thee, my brother?" And he prayed that at Moonshine's next re-birth (4) they might again live together. Journeying farther on, he came to a pass between two steep rocks, and in one of them was a red door. Going up to the door, he found an ancient Hermit living in a cave within, who addressed him, saying, "Whence art thou, O youth, who seemest oppressed with recent grief?" And Sunshine told him all that had befallen him. Without again speaking the Hermit put into the folds of his girdle a bottle containing a life-restoring cordial, and going to the spot where Moonshine lay buried, restored him to life. Then said he to the two princes, "Live now with me, and be as my two sons." So they lived with him, and were unto him as his two sons. The desert where this Hermit lived belonged to the kingdom of a Khan dazzling in his glory and resistless in might. Now it was about the season when the Khan and his subjects went every year to direct the flowing of water over the country for fructifying the grain-seeds; but it was the custom every year at this season first, in order to make the Serpent-gods (5) who lived at the water-head propitious, to sacrifice to them a youth of a certain age; and on this occasion it fell to the lot of a youth born in the Tiger-year (6). When the Khan had caused search to be made through all the people no youth was found among them all born in the Tiger-year. At last certain herdsmen came before him, saying, "While we were out tending our cattle, behold we saw in a cave nigh to a pass between two steep rocks a Hermit who has with him two sons, and one of them born in the Tiger-year." When the Khan had listened to their word he immediately sent three envoys to fetch the Hermit's son for the sacrifice (7). When the three envoys of the Khan had come and stood knocking before the red door of the Hermit's cave, the Hermit cried out to them, asking what they wanted of him. Then answered the chief of them, "Because thou hast a son living with thee born in the Tiger-year, and the Khan hath need of him for the sacrifice; therefore are we come, even that we may bring him to the Khan." When the Hermit had heard their embassage, he answered them, "How should a Hermit have a son with him out here in the desert?" But he took Sunshine, who was the youth born in the Tiger-year, and motioned him into a farther hole of the cave where was a great vessel of pottery; into this vessel he made him creep, then fastening the mouth of the vessel with earth, he made it to appear like to a jar of rice-brandy (8). Meantime, however, the Khan's envoys had broken down the door, and began searching through every recess of the cave. Finding nothing, they were filled with fury, and in their anger beat the Hermit on whose account they had come a bootless errand. But when Sunshine heard the men ill-treating the Hermit who had been to him as a father, he could not refrain himself, and called out from within the brandy-jar, "Unhand my father!" Then the envoys immediately left off beating his father, but they turned and seized him and carried him off to the Khan, while the Hermit was left weeping with great grief at the loss of his adopted son, even as one like to die. As the envoys dragged Sunshine along before the palace, the Khan's daughter was looking out of window, and when she heard that the handsome youth was destined for the Serpent-sacrifice, she was filled with compassion. She went therefore to the men who had the charge to throw him into the water, saying, "See how comely he is! He is worthy to be saved, throw him not into the water. Or else if you will throw him in, throw me in also with him." Then the men went and showed the Khan her words; whereupon the king was wroth, and said, "She is not worthy to be called the Khan's daughter; let them therefore be both sewn up into one bullock's skin, and so cast into the water." The men therefore did according to the Khan's bidding, and sewing them both up in one bullock-hide together, cast them into the water to the Serpent-gods. Then began Sunshine to say, "That they should throw me to the Serpent-gods, because I was the only youth to be found who was born in the Tiger-year, was not so bad; but that this beautiful maiden, who hath deigned to lift her eyes on me, and to love me, should be so sacrificed also, this is unbearable!" And the Khan's daughter in like manner cried, "That I who am only a woman should be thrown to the Serpent-gods, is not so bad; but that this noble and beautiful youth should be so sacrificed also, this is unbearable!" When the Serpent-gods heard these laments, and saw how the prince and the maiden vied with each other in generosity, they sent and fetched them both out of the water, and gave them freedom. Also as soon as they were set free, they let the water gently flow over the whole country, just as the people desired for their rice irrigation. Meantime, Sunshine said to the Khan's daughter, "Princess, let us each now return home. Go thou to thy father's palace, while I go back to the Hermitage, and visit my adopted father, who is like to die of grief for the loss of me. After I have fulfilled this filial duty, I will return to thee, and we will live for ever after for each other alone." The princess then praised his filial love, and bid him go console his father, only begging him to come to her right soon, for she should have no joy till he came back. Sunshine went therefore to the Hermit, whom he found so worn with grief, that he was but just in time to save him from dying; so having first washed him with milk and water, he consoled him with many words of kindness. The princess, too, went home to the palace, where all were so astonished at her deliverance that at first she could hardly obtain admission. When they had made sure it was herself in very truth, the people all came round her, and congratulated her with joy, for never had any one before been delivered from the sacrifice to the Serpent-gods. Then said the Khan, "That the Khan's daughter should be spared by the Serpent-gods was to be expected. They have the youth born in the Tiger-year for their sacrifice." But the princess answered, "Neither has he fallen sacrifice. Him also they let free; and indeed was it in great part out of regard for his abnegation and distress over my suffering that we were both let free." Then answered the Khan, "In that case is our debt great unto this youth. Let him be sought after, and besought that he come to visit us in our palace." So they went again to the cave in the rocky pass, and fetched Sunshine; and when he came near, the Khan went out to meet him, and caused costly seats to be brought, and made him sit down thereon beside him. Then he said to him, "That thou hast delivered this country from the fear of drought, is matter for which we owe thee our highest gratitude; but that thou and this my daughter also have escaped from death is a marvellous wonder. Tell me now, art thou in very truth the son of the Hermit?" "No," replied Sunshine, "I am the son of a mighty Khan; but my step-mother, seeking to make a difference between me and this my brother standing beside me, who was her own born son, and to put me to death, we fled away both together; and thus fleeing we came to the Hermit, and were taken in by his hospitality." When the Khan had heard his words, he promised him his daughter in marriage, and her sister, to be wife to Moonshine. Moreover, he endowed them with immeasurable riches, and gave them an escort of four detachments of fighting-men to accompany them home. When they had arrived near the capital of the kingdom, they sent an embassage before them to the Khan, saying,-- "We, thy two sons, Sunshine and Moonshine, are returned to thee." The Khan and the Khanin, who had for many years past quite lost their reason out of grief for the loss of their children, and held no more converse with men, were at once restored to sense and animation at this news, and sent out a large troop of horsemen to meet them, and conduct them to their palace. Thus the two princes returned in honour to their home. When they came in, the Khan was full of joy and glory, sitting on his throne; but the Khanin, full of remorse and shame at the thought of the crime she had meditated, fell down dead before their face. "That wretched woman got the end that she deserved!" exclaimed the Khan. "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips," said the Siddhî-kür. And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the fifth chapter, showing how the Serpent-gods were appeased. TALE VI. When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his journey, he proceeded once more by the same manner and means to the cool grove. And, having bound the Siddhî-kür in his bag, bore him on his shoulder to present to his Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una. But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not answer begged for the token of his assent that he should tell one, which when the Khan had given he told this tale, saying,-- THE TURBULENT SUBJECT. Long ages ago there lived in a district called Brschiss (1) a haughty, turbulent man. As he feared no man and obeyed no laws, the Khan of that country sent to him, saying, "Since thou wilt obey no laws, thou canst not remain in my country. Get thee gone hence, or else submit to the laws!" But the turbulent man chose rather to go forth in exile than submit to the laws. So he went wandering forth till he came to a vast plain covered with feather-grass, and a palm-tree standing in the midst, with a dead horse lying beneath it. Under the shade of the palm-tree (2) he sat down, saying, "The head of this horse will be useful for food when my provisions are exhausted." So he bound it into his waist-scarf and climbed up into the palm-tree to pass the night. He had scarcely composed himself to sleep when there was a great noise of shouting and yelling, which woke him up; and behold there came thither towards the palm-tree, from the southern side of the steppe, a herd of dæmons, having ox-hide caps on their heads, and riding on horses covered with ox-hides. Nor had they long settled themselves before another herd of dæmons came trooping towards the palm-tree from the northern side of the steppe, and these wore paper caps and rode on horses wearing paper coverings. All these dæmons now danced and feasted together with great howling and shouting. The man looked down upon them from the tree-top full of terror, but also full of envy at their enjoyment. As he leant over to watch them, the horse's head tumbled out of his girdle right into their midst and scattered them in dire alarm in every direction, not one of them daring to look up to see whence it came. It was not till the morning light broke, however, that the man ventured to come down. When he did so, he said, "Last night there was much feasting and drinking going on here, surely there must be something left from such a banquet." Searching through the long feather-grass all about, he discovered a gold goblet full of brandy (3), from which he drank long draughts, but it continued always full. At last he turned it down upon the ground, and immediately all manner of meats and cakes appeared. "This goblet is indeed larder and cellar!" said the man, and taking it with him he went on his way. Farther on he met a man brandishing a thick stick as he walked. "What is your stick good for that you brandish it so proudly?" asked the turbulent man. "My stick is so much good that when I say to it, 'Fly, that man has stolen somewhat of me, fly after him and kill him and bring me back my goods,' it instantly flies at the man and brings my things back." "Yours is a good stick, but see my goblet; whatsoever you desire of meat or drink this same goblet provides for the wishing. Will you exchange your stick against my goblet?" "That will I gladly," rejoined the traveller. But the turbulent man, having once effected the exchange, cried to the stick, "Fly, that man has stolen my goblet, fly after him and kill him and bring me back my goblet! "Before the words had left his lips the stick flew through the air, killed the man, and brought back the goblet. Thus he had both the stick and the goblet. Farther on he saw a man coming who carried an iron hammer. "What is your hammer good for?" inquired he as they met. "My hammer is so good," replied the traveller, "that when I strike it nine times on the ground immediately there rises up an iron tower nine storeys high." "Yours is a good hammer," replied the turbulent man, "but look at my goblet; whatever you desire of meat or drink this same goblet provides for the wishing. Will you change your hammer against my goblet?" "That will I gladly," replied the wayfarer. But the turbulent man, having once effected the exchange, cried to the stick, "Fly, that man has stolen my goblet, fly after him and kill him and bring me back the goblet." The command was executed as soon as spoken, and the turbulent man thus became possessed of the hammer as well as the stick and the goblet. Farther on he saw a man carrying a goat's leather bag. "What is your bag good for?" inquired he as they met. "My bag is so good that I have but to shake it and there comes a shower of rain, but if I shake it hard then it rains in torrents." "Yours is a good bag," replied the turbulent man, "but see my goblet; whatsoever you desire of meat or drink it provides you for the wishing. Will you exchange your bag against my goblet?" "That will I gladly," answered the traveller. But no sooner had the turbulent man possession of the bag than he sent his stick as before to recover the goblet also. Provided with all these magic articles, he had no fear in returning to his own country in spite of the prohibition of the Khan. Arrived there about midnight, he established himself behind the Khan's palace, and, striking the earth nine times with his iron hammer, there immediately appeared an iron fortress nine storeys high, towering far above the palace. In the morning the Khan said, "Last night I heard 'knock, knock, knock,' several times. What will it have been?" So the Khanin rose and looked out and answered him, saying, "Behold, a great iron fortress, nine storeys high, stands right over against the palace." "This is some work of that turbulent rebel, I would wager!" replied the Khan, full of wrath. "And he has brought it to that pass that we must now measure our strength to the uttermost." Then he rose and called together all his subjects, and bid them each bring their share of fuel to a great fire which he kindled all round the iron fortress; all the smiths, too, he summoned to bring their bellows and blow it, and thus it was turned into a fearful furnace. Meantime the turbulent man sat quite unconcerned in the ninth storey with his mother and his son, occupied with discussing the viands which the golden goblet provided. When the fire began to reach the eighth storey, the man's mother caught a little alarm, saying, "Evil will befall us if this fire which the Khan has kindled round us be left unchecked." But he answered, "Mother! fear nothing; I have the means of settling that." Then he drew out his goat's-leather bag, went with it up to the highest turret of the fortress, and shook it till the rain flowed and pretty well extinguished the fire; but he also went on shaking it till the rain fell in such torrents that presently the whole neighbourhood was inundated, and not only the embers of the fire but the smiths' bellows were washed away, and the people and the Khan himself had much ado to escape with their lives. At last the gushing waters had worked a deep moat round the fortress, in which the turbulent man dwelt henceforth secure, and the Khan durst admonish him no more. "Thus the power of magic prevailed over sovereign might and majesty," exclaimed the Khan; and as he uttered these words the Siddhî-kür said, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the sixth chapter, of how it fell out with the Turbulent Subject. TALE VII. When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his labour, he proceeded again by the same manner and means to the cool grove, and having bound the Siddhî-kür in his bag, bore him on his shoulder to present to his Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una. But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale; and when he would not answer, craved the token of his assent that he should tell one, which when the Khan had given, he told this tale, saying,-- THE WHITE BIRD AND HIS WIFE. Long ages ago, there lived in a land called Fair-flower-garden, a man, who had three daughters, who minded his herds of goats (1), the three alternately. One day, when it was the turn of the eldest sister to go with them, she fell asleep during the mid-day heat, and when she awoke, she found that one of the goats was missing. While she wandered about seeking it, she came to a place where was a great red door. When she had opened this, she found behind it, a little farther on, a great gold door. And when she had opened this, she found farther on another door all of shining mother-o'-pearl. She opened this, and beyond it again there was an emerald door, which gave entrance to a splendid palace full of gold and precious stones, dazzling to behold. Yet in all the whole palace there was no living thing save one white bird perched upon a costly table in a cage. The bird espying the maiden, said to her, "Maiden, how camest thou hither?" And she replied, "One of my father's goats has escaped from the flock, and as I dare not go home without it, I have been seeking it every where; thus came I hither." Then the White Bird said, "If thou wilt consent to be my wife (2), I will not only tell thee where the goat is, but restore it to thee. If, however, thou refuse to render me this service, the goat is lost to thy father's flock for ever." But the maiden answered, "How can I be thy wife, seeing thou art a bird? Therefore is my father's goat lost to his flock for ever." And she went away weeping for sorrow. The next day, when the second daughter took her turn with the herds, another goat escaped from the flock; and when she went to seek it, she also came to the strange palace and the white bird; but neither could she enter into his idea of her becoming his wife; and she therefore came home, sorrowing over the loss to the herd under her care. The day following, the youngest daughter went forth with the goats, and a goat also strayed from her. But she, when she had come to the palace, and the white bird asked her to become his wife, with the promise of restoring her goat in case of her consent, answered him, "As a rule, creatures of the male gender keep their promises; therefore, O bird! I accept thy conditions." Thus she agreed to become his wife. One day there was to be a great gathering, lasting thirteen days, in a temple in the neighbourhood. And when all the people were assembled together, it was found that it was just this woman, the wife of the white bird, who was more comely than all the other women. And among the men there was a mighty rider, mounted on a dappled grey horse, who was so far superior to all the rest, that when he had trotted thrice round the assembly and ridden away again, they could not cease talking of his grace and comeliness, and his mastery of his steed. When the wife came back home again to the palace in the rock, the white bird said to her, "Among all the men and women at the festival, who was regarded to have given the proofs of superiority?" And she answered, "Among the men, it was one riding on a dappled grey horse; and among the women, it was I." Thus it happened every day of the festival, neither was there any, of men or women, that could compete with these two. On the twelfth day, when the woman that was married to the white bird went again to the festival, she had for her next neighbour an ancient woman, who asked her how it had befallen the other days of the feast; and she told her, saying, "Among all the women none has overmatched me; but among the men, there is none to compare with the mighty rider on the dappled grey horse. If I could but have such a man for my husband, there would be nothing left to wish for all the days of my life!" Then said the ancient woman, "And why shouldst thou not have such a man for thy husband?" But she began to weep, and said, "Because I have already promised to be the wife of a white bird." "That is just right!" answered the ancient woman. "Behold, to-morrow is the thirteenth day of the assembly; but come not thou to the feast, only make as though thou wert going: hide thyself behind the emerald door. When thou seemest to be gone, the white bird will leave his perch, and assuming his man's form, will go into the stable, and saddle his dappled grey steed, and ride to the festival as usual. Then come thou out of thy hiding-place, and burn his perch, and cage, and feathers; so will he have henceforth to wear his natural form." Thus the ancient woman instructed the wife of the white bird. The next day the woman did all that she had been told, even according to the words of the ancient woman. But as she longed exceedingly to see her husband return, she placed herself behind a pillar where she could see him coming a long way. At last, as the sun began to sink quite red towards the horizon, she saw him coming on his dapple-grey horse. "How is this?" he exclaimed, as he espied her. "You got back sooner than I, then?" And she answered, "Yes, I got home the first." Then inquired he further, "Where is my perch and cage?" And she made answer, "Those have I burned in the fire, in order that thou mightest henceforth appear only in thy natural form." Then he exclaimed, "Knowest thou what thou hast done? In that cage had I left not my feathers only, but also my soul (3)!" And when she heard that, she wept sore, and besought him, saying, "Is there no means of restoration? Behold there is nothing that I could not endure to recover thy soul." And the man answered, "There is one only remedy. The gods and dæmons will come to-night to fetch me, because my soul is gone from me; but I can keep them in perpetual contest for seven days and seven nights. Thou, meantime, take this stick, and with it hew and hew on at the mother-o'-pearl door without stopping or resting day or night. By the close of the seventh night thou shalt have hewn through the door, and I shall be free from the gods and dæmons; but, bear in mind, that if thou cease from hewing for one single instant, or if weariness overtake thee for one moment, then the gods and dæmons will carry me away with them--away from thee." Thus he spoke. Then the woman went and fetched little motes of the feather-grass, and fixed her eyelids open with them, that she might not be overtaken by slumber; and with the stick that her husband had given her she set to work, when night fell, to hew and hew on at the mother-o'-pearl door. Thus she hewed on and on, nor wearied, seven days and seven nights: only the seventh night, the motes of grass having fallen out of one of her eyes so that she could not keep the lid from closing once, in that instant the gods and dæmons prevailed against her husband, and carried him off. Inconsolable, she set forth to wander after him, crying, "Ah! my beloved husband. My husband of the bird form!" Notwithstanding that she had not slept or left off toiling for seven days and seven nights, she set out, without stopping to take rest, searching for him every where in earth and heaven (4). At last, as she continued walking and crying out, she heard his voice answering her from the top of a mountain. And when she had toiled up to the top of the mountain, crying aloud after him, she heard him answer her from the bottom of a stream. When she came down again to the banks of the stream, still calling loudly upon him, there she found him by a sacred Obö, raised to the gods by the wayside (5). He sat there with a great bundle of old boots upon his back, as many as he could carry. When they had met, he said to her, "This meeting with thee once more rejoices my heart. The gods and dæmons have made me their water-carrier; and in toiling up and down from the river to their mountain (6) so many times, I have worn out all these pairs of boots." But she answered, "Tell me, O beloved, what can I do to deliver thee from this bondage?" And he answered, "There is only this remedy, O faithful one. Even that thou return now home, and build another cage like to the one that was burned, and that having built it, thou woo my soul back into it. Which when thou hast done, I myself must come back thither, nor can gods or dæmons withhold me." So she went back home, and built a cage like to the one that was burned, and wooed the soul of her husband back into it; and thus was her husband delivered from the power of the gods and dæmons, and came back to her to live with her always. "In truth that was a glorious woman for a wife!" exclaimed the Khan. "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips," replied the Siddhî-kür. And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. Thus far of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the seventh chapter, of how it befell the White Bird and his Wife. TALE VIII. When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his labour, he proceeded yet again as heretofore to the cool grove, and having taken captive the Siddhî-kür bore him along to present to the Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una. But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not speak, craved of him the token that he willed he should tell one; which, when he had given, he told this tale, saying,-- HOW ÂNANDA THE WOOD-CARVER AND ÂNANDA THE PAINTER STROVE AGAINST EACH OTHER. Long ages ago there lived in a kingdom which was called Kun-smon (1), a Khan named Kun-snang (2). When this Khan departed this life his son named Chamut Ssakiktschi (3) succeeded to the throne. In the same kingdom lived a painter named Ânanda (4), and a wood-carver also named Ânanda. These men were friends of each other apparently, but jealousy reigned in their hearts. One day, now, it befell that Ânanda the painter, whom to distinguish from the other, we will call by his Tibetian name of Kun-dgah instead of by his Sanskrit name of Ânanda, appeared before the Khan, and spoke in this wise: "O Khan, thy father, born anew into the kingdom of the gods, called me thither unto him, and straightway hearing his behest, I obeyed it." As he spoke he handed to "All-protecting" the Khan, a forged strip of writing which was conceived after this manner:-- "To my son Chotolo (5) Ssakiktschi! "When I last parted from thee, I took my flight out of the lower life, and was born again into the kingdom of the gods (6). Here I have my abode in plenitude, yea, superabundance of all that I require. Only one thing is wanting. In order to complete a temple I am building, I find not one to adorn it cunning in his art like unto Ânanda our wood-carver. Wherefore, I charge thee, son Chotolo-Ssakiktschi, call unto thee Ânanda the wood-carver, and send him up hither to me. The way and means of his coming shall be explained unto thee by Kun-dgah the painter." Such was the letter that Kun-dgah the painter, with crafty art, delivered to Kun-tschong (7), the Khan. Which when the Khan had read he said to him--"That the Khan, my father, is in truth born anew into the gods' kingdom is very good." And forthwith he sent for Ânanda the wood-carver, and spoke thus to him: "My father, the Khan, is new born into the gods' kingdom, and is there building a temple. For this purpose he has need of a wood-carver; but can find none cunning in his art like unto thee. Now, therefore, he has written unto me to send thee straightway above unto him." With these words he handed the strip of writing into his hands. But the Wood-carver when he had read it thought within himself, "This is indeed contrary to all rule and precedent. Do I not scent here some craft of Kun-dgah the painter? Nevertheless, shall I not find a means to provide against his mischievous intent?" Then he raised his voice, and spoke thus aloud to the Khan:-- "Tell me, O Khan, how shall I a poor Wood-carver attain to the gods' kingdom?" "In this," replied the Khan, "shall the Painter instruct thee." And while the Wood-carver said within himself, "Have I not smelt thee out, thou crafty one?" the Khan sent and fetched the Painter into his presence. Then having commanded him to declare the way and manner of the journey into the gods' kingdom, the Painter answered in this wise,-- "When thou hast collected all the materials and instruments appertaining to thy calling, and hast gathered them at thy feet, thou shalt order a pile of beams of wood well steeped in spirit distilled from sesame grain to be heaped around thee. Then to the accompaniment of every solemn-sounding instrument kindle the pile, and rise to the gods' kingdom borne on obedient clouds of smoke as on a swift charger." The Wood-carver durst not refuse the behest of the Khan; but obtained an interval of seven days in order to collect the materials and instruments of his calling, but also to consider and find out a means of avenging the astuteness of the Painter. Then he went home, and told his wife all that had befallen him. His wife, without hesitating, proposed to him a means of evading while seeming to fulfil the decree. In a field belonging to him at a short distance from his house, she caused a large flat stone to be placed, on which the sacrifice was to be consummated. But under it by night she had an underground passage made, communicating with the house. When the eighth day had arrived the Khan rose and said, "This is the day that the Wood-carver is to go up to my father into the gods' kingdom." And all the people were assembled round the pile of wood steeped in spirit distilled from sesame grain, in the Wood-carver's field. It was a pile of the height of a man, well heaped up, and in its midst stood the Wood-carver calm and impassible, while all kinds of musical instruments sent up their solemn-sounding tones. When the smoke of the spirit-steeped wood began to rise in concealing density, the Wood-carver pushed aside the stone with his feet, and returned to his home by the underground way his wife had had made for him. But the Painter, never doubting but that he must have fallen a prey to the flames, rubbed his hands and pointing with his finger in joy and triumph to the curling smoke, cried out to the people,-- "Behold the spirit of our brother Ânanda the wood-carver, ascending on the obedient clouds as on a swift charger to the kingdom of the gods!" And all the people followed the point of his finger with their eyes and believing his words, they cried out,-- "Behold the spirit of Ânanda the wood-carver, ascending to adorn the temple of the gods' kingdom." And now for the space of a whole month the Wood-carver remained closely at home letting himself be seen by no one save his wife only. Daily he washed himself over with milk, and sat in the shade out of the coloured light of the sun. At the end of the month his wife brought him a garment of white gauze, with which he covered himself; and he wrote, he also, a feigned letter, and went up with it to "All-protecting" the Khan. As soon as the Khan saw him he cried out,-- "How art thou returned from the gods' kingdom? And how didst thou leave my father 'All-knowing' the Khan?" Then Ânanda the wood-carver handed to him the forged letter which he had prepared, and he caused it to be read aloud before the people in these words:-- "To my son, Chotolo-Ssakiktschi. "That thou occupiest thyself without wearying in leading thy people in the way of prosperity and happiness is well. As regards the erection of the temple up here, concerning which I wrote thee in my former letter, Ânanda the wood-carver hath well executed the part we committed to him, and we charge thee that thou recompense him richly for his labour. But in order to the entire completion of the same, we stand in need of a painter to adorn with cunning art the sculpture he hath executed. When this cometh into thy hands, therefore, send straightway for Kun-dgah the painter, for there is none other like to him, and let him come up to us forthwith; according to the same way and manner that thou heretofore sendedst unto us Ânanda the wood-carver, shall he come." When the Khan had heard the letter, he rejoiced greatly, and said, "These are in truth the words of my father, 'All-knowing' the Khan." And he loaded Ânanda the wood-carver with rich rewards, but sent and called unto him Kun-dgah the painter. Kun-dgah the painter came with all haste into the presence of the Khan, who caused the letter of his father to be read out to him; and he as he heard it was seized with great fear and trembling; but when he saw Ânanda the wood-carver standing whole before him, all white from the milk-washing and clad in the costly garment of gauze as if the light of the gods' kingdom yet clove to him, he said within himself,-- "Surely the fire hath not burnt him, as I see him before mine eyes, so neither shall it burn me; and if I refuse to go a worse death will be allotted me, while if I accept the charge I shall receive rich rewards like unto Ânanda," So he consented to have his painter's gear in readiness in seven days, and to go up to the gods' kingdom by means of the pile burnt with fire. When the seven days were passed, all the people assembled in the field of Kun-dgah the painter, and the Khan came in his robes of state surrounded by the officers of his palace, and the ministers of the kingdom. The pile was well heaped up of beams of wood steeped in spirit distilled from sesame grain; in the midst they placed Kun-dgah the painter, and with the melody of every solemn-sounding instrument they set fire to the pile. Kun-dgah fortified himself for the torture by the expectation that soon he would begin to rise on the clouds of smoke; but when he found that, instead of this, his body sank to the ground with unendurable pain, he shouted out to the people to come and release him. But the device whereby he had intended to drown the cries of the Wood-carver prevailed against him. No one could hear his voice for the noise of the resounding instruments; and thus he perished miserably in the flames. "Truly that bad man was rewarded according to his deserts!" exclaimed the Prince. And as he let these words escape him thoughtlessly, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Prince hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. TALE IX. When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had again missed the end and object of his labour, he proceeded yet again to the cool grove, and having in the same manner as heretofore taken captive the Siddhî-kür, bore him along to present to his Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una. But by the way the Siddhî-kür asked him to tell a tale, and when he would not speak craved the token that he willed he should tell one, which when the Prince had given he told this tale, saying,-- FIVE TO ONE. Long ages ago there lived among the subjects of a great kingdom six youths who were all boon companions. One was a smith's son, and one was a wood-carver's son; one was a painter's son, and one was a doctor's son; one was an accountant's son, and one was a rich man's son, who had no trade or profession, but plenty of money. These six determined on taking a journey to find the opportunity of establishing themselves in life; so they all six set out together, having taken leave of their friends, and the rich man's son providing the cost. When they had journeyed on a long way together without any thing particular befalling them, as they were beginning to weary of carrying on the same sort of life day by day, they came to a place where the waters of six streams met, flowing thither from various directions, and they said, "All these days we have journeyed together, and none of us have met with the opportunity of settling or making a living. Let us now each go forth alone, each one following back the course of one of these rivers to its source, and see what befalls us then." So each planted a tree at the head of the stream he chose, and they agreed that all should meet again at the same spot, and if any failed to appear, and his tree had withered away, it should be taken as a token that evil had befallen him, and that then his companions should follow his river, and search for him and deliver him. Having come to this agreement, each one went his way. The rich man's son followed the wanderings of his stream without falling in with any one till he had reached the very source of the river-head; here was a meadow skirting a forest, and on the border of the forest a dwelling. Towards this dwelling the youth directed his steps. There lived here an ancient man along with his ancient wife, who when they saw the youth opening the gate cried out to him,-- "Young man! wherefore comest thou hither, and whence comest thou?" "I come from a far country," answered the youth, "and I am journeying to find the occasion of settling myself in life; and thus journeying, my steps have brought me hither." When the ancient man and his wife saw that he was a comely youth and well-spoken, they said, "If this is indeed so, it is well that thy steps have brought thee hither, for we have here a beautiful daughter, charming in form and delightful in conversation; take her and become our son." As they said these words the daughter appeared on the threshold of the dwelling, and when the youth saw her he said within himself, "This is no common child of earth, but one of the daughters of the heavenly gods (1). What better can befall me than that I should marry her and live here the rest of my days in her company?" The maiden, too, said to him, "It is well, O youth, that thy steps have brought thee hither." Thus they began conversing together, and the youth established himself on the spot and lived with his wife in peace and happiness. This dwelling, however, was within the dominions of a mighty Khan. One day, as his minions were disporting themselves in the river, they found a ring all set with curious jewels, in cunning workmanship, which the rich youth's wife had dropped while bathing, and the stream had carried it along to where the Khan's minions were. As the ring was wonderful to behold, they brought it to the Khan. The eyes of the Khan, who was a man of understanding, no sooner lighted on the ring than he turned and said to his attendants,-- "Somewhere on the borders of this stream, and higher up its course, lives a most beautiful woman, more beautiful than all the wives of the Khan; go fetch her and bring her to me." The Khan's attendants set out on their mission, and visited all the dwellers on the banks of the stream, but they found no woman exceeding in beauty all the wives of the Khan till they came to the wife of the rich youth. When they saw her, they had no doubt it must be she that the Khan had meant. Saying, therefore, "The Khan hath sent for thee," they carried her off to the palace; but the rich youth followed mourning, as near as he could approach. When the Khan saw her, he said, "This is of a truth no child of earth; she must be the daughter of the heavenly gods. Beside of her all my other wives are but as dogs and swine," and he took her and placed her far above them all. But she only wept, and could think of nothing but the rich youth. When the Khan saw how she wept and thought only of the rich youth, he said to his courtiers, "Rid me of this fellow." And so, to please the Khan, they treacherously invited him to a lone place on the bank of the river, as if to join in some game; but when they had got him there they thrust him into a hole in the ground, and then rolled a piece of rock on the top of it, and so put him to death. In the meantime, the day came round on which the six companions had agreed to come together at the spot where the six streams met; and there the five others arrived in due course, but the rich youth came not; and when they looked at the tree he had planted by the side of his stream, behold, it had withered away. In accordance with their promise, therefore, they all set out to follow the course of his stream and to search him out. But when they had wandered on a long way and found no trace of him, the accountant's son sat down to reckon, and by his reckoning he discovered that he must have gone so far into such a kingdom, and that he must lie buried under a rock. Following the course of his reckoning, the five soon came upon the spot where the rich youth lay buried under the rock. But when they saw how big the rock was, they said, "Who shall suffice to remove the rock and uncover the body of our companion?" "That will I!" cried the smith's son, and, taking his hammer, he broke the rock in pieces and brought to light the body of the rich youth. When his companions saw him they were filled with compassion and cried aloud, "Who shall give back to us our friend, the companion of our youth?" "That will I!" cried the doctor's son, and he mixed a potion which, when he had given it to the corpse to drink, gave him power to rise up as if no harm had ever befallen him. When they saw him all well again, and free to speak, they every one came round him, assailing him with manifold questions upon how he had fallen into this evil plight, and upon all that had happened to him since they parted. But when he had told them all his story from beginning to end, they all agreed his wife must have been a wonderful maiden indeed, and they cried out, "Who shall be able to restore his wife to our brother?" "That will I!" cried the wood-carver's son. "And I!" cried the painter's son. So the wood-carver's son set to work, and of the log of a tree he hewed out a Garuda-bird (2), and fashioned it with springs, so that when a man sat in it he could direct it this way or that whithersoever he listed to go; and the painter's son adorned it with every pleasant colour. Thus together they perfected a most beautiful bird. The rich youth lost no time in placing himself inside the beautiful garuda-bird, and, touching the spring, flew straight away right over the royal palace. The king was in the royal gardens, with all his court about him, and quickly espied the garuda-bird, and esteemed himself fortunate that the beautiful garuda-bird, the king of birds, the bearer of Vishnu, should have deigned to visit his residence; and because he reckoned no one else was worthy of the office, he appointed the most beautiful of his wives to go up and offer it food. Accordingly, the wife of the rich youth herself went up on to the roof of the palace with food to the royal bird. But the rich youth, when he saw her approach, opened the door of the wooden garuda and showed himself to her. Nor did she know how to contain herself for delight when she found he was therein. "Never had I dared hope that these eyes should light on thee again, joy of my heart!" she exclaimed. "How madest thou then the garuda-bird obedient to thy word to bring thee hither?" But he, full only of the joy of finding her again, and that she still loved him as before, could only reply,-- "Though thou reignest now in a palace as the Khan's wife in splendour and wealth, if thine heart yet belongeth to me thine husband, come up into the garuda-bird, and we will fly away out of the power of the Khan for ever." To which she made answer, "Truly, though I reign now in the palace as the Khan's wife in splendour and wealth, yet is my heart and my joy with thee alone, my husband. Of what have my thoughts been filled all through these days of absence, but of thee only, and for whom else do I live?" With that she mounted into the wooden garuda-bird into the arms of her husband, and full of joy they flew away together. But the Khan and his court, when they saw what had happened, were dismayed. "Because I sent my most beautiful wife to carry food to the garuda-bird, behold she is taken from me," cried the Khan, and he threw himself on the ground as if he would have died of grief. But the rich youth directed the flight of the wooden garuda-bird, so that it regained the place where his five companions awaited him. "Have your affairs succeeded?" inquired they, as he descended. "That they have abundantly," answered the rich youth. While he spoke, his wife had also descended out of the wooden garuda-bird, whom when his five companions saw, they were all as madly smitten in love with her as the Khan himself had been, and they all began to reason with one another about it. But the rich youth said, "True it is to you, my dear and faithful companions, I owe it that by means of what you have done for me, I have been delivered from the power of cruel death, and still more that there has been restored to me my wife, who is yet dearer far to me. For this, my gratitude will not be withheld; but what shall all this be to me if you now talk of tearing her from mine arms again?" Upon which the accountant's son stood forward and said, "It is to me thou owest all. What could these have done for thee without the aid of my reckoning? They wandered hither and thither and found not the place of thy burial, until I had reckoned the thing, and told them whither to go. To me thou owest thy salvation, so give me thy wife for my guerdon." But the smith's son stood forward and said, "It is to me thou owest all. What could all these have done for thee without the aid of mine arm? It was very well that they should come and find the spot where thou wert held bound by the rock; but all they could do was to stand gazing at it. Only the might of my arm shattered it. It is to me thou owest all, so give me thy wife for my guerdon." Then the doctor's son stood forward and said, "It is to me thou owest all. What could all these have done without the aid of my knowledge? It was well that they should find thee, and deliver thee from under the rock; but what would it have availed had not my potion restored thee to life? It is to me thou owest all, so give me thy wife for my guerdon." "Nay!" interposed the wood-carver's son, "nay, but it is to my craft thou owest all. The woman had never been rescued from the power of the Khan but by means of my wooden garuda-bird. Behold, are we six unarmed men able to have laid siege to the Khan's palace? And as no man is suffered to pass within its portal, never had she been reached, but by means of my bird. So it is I clearly who have most claim to her." "Not so!" cried the painter's son. "It is to my art the whole is due. What would the garuda-bird have availed had I not painted it divinely? Unless adorned by my art never had the Khan sent his most beautiful wife to offer it food. To me is due the deliverance, and to me the prize, therefore." Thus they all strove together; and as they could not agree which should have her, and she would go with none of them but only the rich youth, her husband, they all seized her to gain possession of her, till in the end she was torn in pieces. "Then if each one had given her up to the other he would have been no worse off," cried the Prince. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. Of the Adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the ninth chapter, of the story of Five to One. TALE X. When the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that the Siddhî-kür had once more escaped, he went forth yet another time to the cool grove, and sought him out as before; and having been solicited by him to give the sign of consent to his telling a tale, the Siddhî-kür commenced after the following manner:-- THE BITING CORPSE. Long ages ago, there lived two brothers who had married two sisters. Nevertheless, from some cause, the hearts of the two brothers were estranged from each other. Moreover, the elder brother was exceeding miserly and morose of disposition. The elder brother also had amassed great riches; but he gave no portion of them unto his younger brother. One day the elder brother made preparations for a great feast, and invited to it all the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. The younger brother said privately to his wife on this occasion, "Although my brother has never behaved as a brother unto us, yet surely now that he is going to have such a great gathering of neighbours and acquaintances, it beseemeth not that he should fail to invite also his own flesh and blood." Nevertheless he invited him not. The next day, however, he said again to his wife, "Though he invited us not yesterday, yet surely this second day of the feast he will not fail to send and call us." Nevertheless he invited him not. Yet the third day likewise he expected that he should have sent and called him; but he invited him not the third day either. When he saw that he invited him not the third day either, he grew angry, and said within himself, "Since he has not invited me, I will even go and steal my portion of the feast." As soon as it was dark, therefore--when all the people of his brother's house, having well drunk of the brandy he had provided, were deeply sunk in slumber,--the younger brother glided stealthily into his brother's house, and hid himself in the store-chamber. But it was so, that the elder brother, having himself well drank of the brandy, and being overcome with sound slumbers (1), his wife supported him along, and then put herself to sleep with him in the store-chamber. After a while, however, she rose up again, chose of the best meat and dainties, cooked them with great care, and went out, taking with her what she had prepared. When the brother saw this, he was astonished, and, abandoning for the moment his intention of possessing himself of a share of the good things, went out, that he might follow his brother's wife. Behind the house was a steep rock, and on the other side of the rock a dismal, dreary burying-place. Hither it was that she betook herself. In the midst of a patch of grass in this burying-place was a piece of paved floor; on this lay the body of a man, withered and dried--it was the body of her former husband (2); to him, therefore, she brought all these good dishes. After kissing and hugging him, and calling upon him by name, she opened his mouth, and tried to put the food into it. Then, see! suddenly the dead man's mouth was jerked to again, breaking the copper spoon in two. And when she had opened it again, trying once more to feed him, it closed again as violently as before, this time snapping off the tip of the woman's nose. After this, she gathered her dishes together, and went home, and went to bed again. Presently she made as though she had woke up, with a lamentable cry, and accused her husband of having bitten off her nose in his sleep. The man declared he had never done any such thing; but as the woman had to account for the damage to her nose, she felt bound to go on asseverating that he had done it. The dispute grew more and more violent between them, and the woman in the morning took the case before the Khan, accusing her husband of having bitten off the tip of her nose. As all the neighbours bore witness that the nose was quite right on the previous night, and the tip was now certainly bitten off, the Khan had no alternative but to decide in favour of the woman; and the husband was accordingly condemned to the stake for the wilful and malicious injury. Before many hours it reached the ears of the younger brother that his elder brother had been condemned to the stake; and when he had heard the whole matter, in spite of his former ill-treatment of him, he ran forthwith before the Khan, and gave information of how the woman had really come by the injury, and how that his brother had no fault in the matter. Then said the Khan, "That thou shouldst seek to save the life of thy brother is well; but this story that thou hast brought before us, who shall believe? Do dead men gnash their teeth and bite the living? Therefore in that thou hast brought false testimony against the woman, behold, thou also hast fallen into the jaws of punishment." And he gave sentence that all that he possessed should be confiscated, and that he should be a beggar at the gate of his enemies (3), with his head shorn (4). "Let it be permitted to me to speak again," said the younger brother, "and I will prove to the Khan the truth of what I have advanced." And the Khan having given him permission to speak, he said, "Let the Khan now send to the burying-place on the other side of the rock, and there in the mouth of the corpse shall be found the tip of this woman's nose." Then the Khan sent, and found it was even as he had said. So he ordered both brothers to be set at liberty, and the woman to be tied to the stake. "It were well if a Khan had always such good proof to guide his judgments," exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good," he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. TALE XI. Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again, and fetched the Siddhî-kür. And as he brought him along, the Siddhî-kür told this tale:-- THE PRAYER MAKING SUDDENLY RICH. Long ages ago, there was situated in the midst of a mighty kingdom a god's temple, exactly one day's journey distant from every part of the kingdom. Here was a statue of the Chongschim Bodhisattva (1) wrought in clay. Hard by this temple was the lowly dwelling of an ancient couple with their only daughter. At the mouth of a stream which watered the place, was a village where lived a poor man. One day this man went up as far as the source of the stream to sell his fruit, which he carried in a basket. On his way home he passed the night under shelter of the temple. As he lay there on the ground, he overheard, through the open door of the lowly dwelling, the aged couple reasoning thus with one another: "Now that we are both old and well-stricken in years, it were well that we married our only daughter to some good man," said the father. "Thy words are words of truth," replied the mother. "Behold, all that we have in this world is our daughter and our store of jewels. Have we not all our lives through offered sacrifice at the shrine of the Chongschim Bodhisattva? have we not promoted his worship, and spread his renown? shall he not therefore direct us aright in our doings? To-morrow, which is the eighth day of the new moon, therefore, we will offer him sacrifice, and inquire of him what we shall do with our daughter Suvarnadharî (2): whether we shall devote her to the secular or religious condition of life." When the man had heard this, he determined what to do. Having found a way into the temple, he made a hole in the Buddha-image, and placed himself inside it. Early in the morning, the old man and his wife came, with their daughter, and offered their sacrifice. Then said the father, "Divine Chongschim Bodhisattva! let it now be made known to us, whether is better, that we choose for our daughter the secular or religious condition of life? And if it be the secular, then show us to whom we shall give her for a husband." When he had spoken these words the poor man inside the Buddha-image crept up near the mouth of the same, and spoke thus in solemn tones:-- "For your daughter the secular state is preferable. Give her for wife to the man who shall knock at your gate early in the morning." At these words both the man and his wife fell into great joy, exclaiming, "Chutuktu (3) hath spoken! Chutuktu hath spoken!" Having watched well from the earliest dawn that no one should call before him, the man now knocked at the gate of the old couple. When the father saw a stranger standing before the door, he cried, "Here in very truth is he whom Buddha hath sent!" So they entreated him to come in with great joy; prepared a great feast to entertain him, and, having given him their daughter in marriage, sent them away with all their store of gold and precious stones. As the man drew near his home he said within himself, "I have got all these things out of the old people, through craft and treachery. Now I must hide the maiden and the treasure, and invent a new story." Then he shut up the maiden and the treasure in a wooden box, and buried it in the sand of the steppe (4). When he came home he said to all his friends and neighbours, "With all the labour of my life riches have not been my portion. I must now undertake certain practices of devotion to appease the dæmons of hunger; give me alms to enable me to fulfil them." So the people gave him alms. Then said he the next day, "Now go I to offer up 'the Prayer which makes suddenly rich.'" And again they gave him alms. While he was thus engaged it befell that a Khan's son went out hunting with two companions, with their bows and arrows, having with them a tiger as a pastime to amuse them while journeying. They rode across the steppe, just over the track which the poor man had followed; and seeing there the sand heaped up the Prince's attention fell on it, and he shot an arrow right into the midst of the heap. But the arrow, instead of striking into the sand, fell down, because it had glanced against the top of the box. Then said the Khan's son, "Let us draw near and see how this befell." So they drew near; and when the servants had dug away the sand they found the wooden box which the man had buried. The Khan's son then ordered the servants to open the box; and when they had opened it they found the maiden and the jewels. Then said the Khan's son, "Who art thou, beautiful maiden?" And the maiden answered, "I am the daughter of a serpent-god." Then said the Khan's son, "Come out of the box, and I will take thee to be my wife." But the maiden answered, "I come not out of the box except some other be put into the same." To which the Prince replied, "That shall be done," and he commanded that they put the tiger into the box; but the maiden and the jewels he took with him. Meantime the poor man had completed the prayers and the ceremonies 'to make suddenly rich,' and he said, "Now will I go and fetch the maiden and the treasure." With that he traced his way back over the steppe to the place where he had buried the box, and dug it out of the sand, not perceiving that the Prince's servants had taken it up and buried it again. Then, lading it on to his shoulder, he brought the same into his inner apartment. But to his wife he said, "To-night is the last of the ceremony 'for making suddenly rich.' I must shut myself up in my inner apartment to perform it, and go through it all alone. What noise soever thou mayst hear, therefore, beware, on thy peril, that thou open not the door, neither approach it." This he said, being minded to rid himself of the maiden, who might have betrayed the real means by which he became possessed of the treasure, by killing her and hiding her body under the earth. Then having taken off all his clothes, that they might not be soiled with the blood he was about to spill, and prepared himself thus to put the woman to death, he lifted up the lid of the box, saying, "Maiden, fear nothing!" But on the instant the tiger sprang out upon him and threw him to the ground. In vain he cried aloud with piteous cries. All the time that his bare flesh was delivered over to the teeth and claws of the unpitying tiger his wife and children were laughing, and saying, "How is our father diligent in offering up 'the Prayer which makes suddenly rich!'" But when, the next morning, he came not out, all the neighbours came and opened the door of the inner apartment, and they found only his bones which the tiger had well cleaned; but having so well satisfied its appetite, it walked out through their midst without hurting any of them. In process of time, however, the maiden whom the Khan's son had taken to his palace had lived happily with him, and they had a family of three children; and she was blameless and honoured before all. Nevertheless, envious people spread the gossip that she had come no one knew whence; and when they brought the matter before the king's council it was said, "How shall a Khan's son whose mother was found in a box under the sand reign over us? And what will be thought of a Khan's son who has no uncles?" These things reached the ears of the Khanin, and, fearing lest they should take her sons from her and put them to death that they might not reign, she resolved to take them with her and go home to her parents. On the fifteenth of the month, while the light of the moon shone abroad, she took her three sons and set out on her way. When it was about midday she had arrived nigh to the habitation of her parents; but at a place where formerly all had been waste she found many labourers at work ploughing the land, directing them was a noble youth of comely presence. When the youth saw the Khan's wife coming over the field he asked her whence she came; answering, she told him she had journeyed from afar to see her parents, who lived by the temple of Chongschim Bodhisattva on the other side of the mountain. "And you are their daughter?" pursued the young man. "Even so; and out of filial regard am I come to visit them," answered the Khanin. "Then you are my sister," returned the youth, "for I am their son; and they have always told me I had an elder sister who was gone afar off." Then he invited her to partake of his midday meal, and after they had dined they set out together to find the lowly dwelling of their parents. But when they had come round to the other side of the mountain in the place where the lowly habitation had stood, behold there was now a whole congeries of palaces, each finer than the residence of the husband of the Khanin! All over they were hung with floating streamers of gay-coloured silks. The temple of the Chongschim Bodhisattva itself had been rebuilt with greater magnificence than before, and was resplendent with gold, and diamonds, and streamers of silk, and furnished with mellow-toned bells whose sound chimed far out into the waste. "To whom does all this magnificence belong?" inquired the Khanin. "It all belongs to us," replied the youth. "Our parents, too, are well and happy; come and see them." As they drew near their parents came out to meet them, looking hale and hearty and riding on horses. Behind them came a train of attendants leading horses for the Khanin and her brother. They all returned to the palace where the parents dwelt, all being furnished with elegance and luxury. When they had talked over all the events that had befallen each since they parted, they went to rest on soft couches. When the Khanin saw the magnificence in which her parents were living she bethought her that it would be well to invite the Khan to come and visit them. Accordingly she sent a splendid train of attendants to ask him to betake himself thither. Soon after, the Khan arrived, together with his ministers, and they were all of them struck with the condition of pomp and state in which the Khanin was living, far exceeding that of the Khan himself, the ministers owned, saying, "The report we heard, saying that the Khanin had no relations but the poor and unknown, was manifestly false;" and the Khan was all desire that she should return home. To this request she gave her cordial assent, only, as her parents were now well-stricken in years, and it was not likely she should have the opportunity of seeing them more, she desired to spend a few days more by their side. It was agreed, therefore, that the Khan and his ministers should return home, and that after three days the Khanin also should come and join him. Having taken affectionate leave of the Khan and seen him depart, she betook herself to rest on her soft couch. When she woke in the morning, behold, all the magnificence of the place was departed! There were no stately palaces; the temple of the Chongschim Bodhisattva was the same unpretending structure it had always been of old, only a little more worn down by time and weather; the lowly habitation of her parents was a shapeless ruin, and she was lying on the bare ground in one corner of it, with a heap of broken stones for a pillow. Her parents were dead long ago, and as for a brother there was no trace of one. Then she understood that the devas had sent the transformation to satisfy the Khan and his ministers, and, that done, every thing had returned to its natural condition. Grateful for the result, she now returned home, where the Khan received her with greater fondness than before. The ministers were satisfied as to the honour of the throne, all the gossips were put to silence from that day forward, and her three sons were brought up and trained that they might reign in state after the Khan their father. "Truly, that was a woman favoured by fortune beyond expectation!" exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. Thus far of the adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the eleventh chapter, concerning "The Prayer making suddenly Rich." TALE XII. Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again and fetched the Siddhî-kür; and as he brought him along the Siddhî-kür told this tale:-- "CHILD-INTELLECT" AND "BRIGHT-INTELLECT." Long ages ago there lived a Khan who was called Küwôn-ojôtu (1). He reigned over a country so fruitful that it was surnamed "Flower-clad." All round its borders grew mango-trees and groves of sandalwood (2), and vines and fruit-trees, and within there was of corn of every kind no lack, and copious streams of water, and a mighty river called "The Golden," with flourishing cities all along its banks. Among the subjects of this Khan was one named Gegên-uchâtu (3), renowned for his wit and understanding. For him the Khan sent one day, and spoke to him, saying, "Men call thee 'him of bright understanding.' Now let us see whether the name becomes thee. To this end let us see if thou hast the wit to steal the Khan's talisman, defying the jealous care of the Khan and all his guards. If thou succeedest I will recompense thee with presents making glad the heart; but if not, then I will pronounce thee unworthily named, and in consequence will lay waste thy dwelling and put out both thine eyes." Although the man ventured to prefer the remark, "Stealing have I never learned," yet the Khan maintained the sentence that he had set forth. In the night of the fifteenth of the month, therefore, the man made himself ready to try the venture. But the king, to make more sure, bound the talisman fast to a marble pillar of his bed-chamber, against which he lay, and leaving the door open the better to hear the approach of the thief, surrounded the same with a strong watch of guards. Gegên-uchâtu now took good provision of rice-brandy, and going in to talk as if for pastime with the Khan's guards and servants, gave to every one of them abundantly to drink thereof, and then went his way. At the end of an hour he returned, when the rice-brandy had done its work. The guards before the gate were fast asleep on their horses; these he carried off their horses and set them astride on a ruined wall. In the kitchen were the cooks waiting to strike a light to light the fire: over the head of the one nearest the fire he drew a cap woven of grass (4), and in the sleeve of the other he put three stones. Then going softly on into the Khan's apartment, without waking him, he put over his head and face a dried bladder as hard as a stone; and the guards that slept around him he tied their hair together. Then he took down the talisman from the marble pillar to which it was bound and made off with it. Instantly, the Khan rose and raised the cry, "A thief has been in here!" But the guards could not move because their hair was tied together, and cries of "Don't pull my hair!" drowned the Khan's cries of "Stop thief!" As it was yet dark the Khan cried, yet more loudly, "Kindle me a light!" And he cried, further, "Not only is my talisman stolen, but my head is enclosed in a wall of stone! Bring me light that I may see what it is made of." When the cook, in his hurry to obey the Khan, began to blow the fire, the flame caught the cap woven of grass and blazed up and burnt his head off; and when his fellow raised his arm to help him put out the fire the three stones, falling from his sleeve, hit his head and made the blood flow, giving him too much to attend to for him to be able to pursue the thief. Then the Khan called through the window to the outer guards, who ought to have been on horseback before the gate, to stop the thief; and they, waking up at his voice, began vainly spurring at the ruined wall on which Gegên-uchâtu had set them astride, and which, of course, brought them no nearer the subject of their pursuit, who thus made good his escape with the talisman, no man hindering him, all the way to his own dwelling. The next day he came and stood before the Khan. The Khan sat on his throne full of wrath and moody thoughts. "Let not the Khan be angry," spoke the man of bright understanding, "here is the talisman, which I sought not to retain for myself, but only to take possession of according to the word of the Khan." The Khan, however, answered him, saying, "The talisman is at thy disposition, nor do I wish to have it back from thee. Nevertheless, thy dealings this night, in that thou didst draw a stone-like bladder over the head of the Khan, were evil, for the fear came therefrom upon me lest thou hadst even pulled off my head; therefore my sentence upon thee is that thou be taken hence to the place of execution and be beheaded by the headsman." Hearing this sentence, Gegên-uchâtu said, within himself, "In this sentence that he hath passed the Khan hath not acted according to the dictates of justice." Therefore he took the Khan's talisman in his hand and dashed it against a stone, and, behold, doing so, the blood poured out of the nose of the Khan until he died! "That was a Khan not fit to reign!" exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan. And as he let these words escape him the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. TALE XIII. Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan went forth yet again and fetched the Siddhî-kür, and as he brought him along the Siddhî-kür told him, according to the former manner, this tale, saying,-- THE FORTUNES OF SHRIKANTHA. Long ages ago there was a Brahman's son whose name was Shrikantha (1). This man sold all his inheritance for three pieces of cloth-stuff. Lading the three pieces of cloth-stuff on to the back of an ass, he went his way into a far country to trade with the same (2). As he went along he met a party of boys who had caught a mouse and were tormenting it. Having tied a string about its neck, they were dragging it through the water. The Brahman's son could not bear to see this proceeding and chid the boys, but they refused to listen to his words. When he found that they would pay no heed to his words, he bought the mouse of them for one of his pieces of stuff, and delivered it thus out of their hands. When he had gone a little farther he met another party of boys who had caught a young ape (3) and were tormenting it. Because it did not understand the game they were playing, they hit it with their fists, and when it implored them to play in a rational manner and not be so hasty and revengeful, they but hit it again. At the sight the Brahman was moved with compassion and chid the boys, and when they would not listen to him he bought it of them for another of his pieces of stuff, and set it at liberty. Farther along, in the neighbourhood of a city, he met another party of boys who had caught a young bear and were tormenting it, riding upon it like a horse and otherwise teasing it; and when by his chiding he could not induce them to desist, he bought it of them for his last piece of stuff, and set it at liberty. By this means he was left entirely without merchandize to trade with, and he thought within himself, as he drove his donkey along, what he should do; and he found in his mind no better remedy than to steal something out of the palace of the Khan wherewith to commence trading. Having thus resolved, he tied his donkey fast in the thick jungle and made his way with precaution into the store-chambers of the Khan's palace. Here he possessed himself of a good provision of pieces of silk-stuff, and was well nigh to have escaped with the same when the Khan's wife, espying him, raised the cry, "This fellow hath stolen somewhat from the Khan's store-chamber!" At the cry the people all ran out and stopped Shrikantha and brought him to the Khan. As he was found with the stuffs he had stolen still upon him, there was no doubt concerning his guilt, so the Khan ordered a great coffer to be brought, and that he should be put inside it, and, with the lid nailed down, be cast into the water. The force of the current, however, carried the coffer into the midst of the branches of an overhanging tree on an island, where it remained fixed; nevertheless, as the lid was tightly nailed down, it soon became difficult to breathe inside the box. Just as Shrikantha was near to die for want of air, suddenly a little chink appeared, through which plenty of air could enter. It was the mouse he had delivered from its tormentors who had brought him this timely aid (4). "Wait a bit," said the mouse, as soon as he could get his mouth through the aperture, "I will go fetch the ape to bring better help." The ape came immediately on being summoned, and tore away at the box with all his strength till he had made a hole big enough for the man to have crept out; but as the box was surrounded by the water he was still a prisoner. "Stop a bit!" cried the ape, when he saw this dilemma; "I will go and call the bear." The bear came immediately on being summoned, and dragged the coffer on to the bank of the island, where Shrikantha alighted, and all three animals waited on him, bringing him fruits and roots to eat. While he was living here water-bound, but abundantly supplied by the mouse, the ape, and the bear with fruits to sustain life, he one day saw shining in a shallow part of the water a brilliant jewel as big as a pigeon's egg. The ape soon fetched it at his command, and when he saw how big and lustrous it was he resolved that it must be a talisman. To put its powers to the test, he wished himself removed to terra firma. Nor had he sooner uttered the wish than he found himself in the midst of a fertile plain. Having thus succeeded so well, he next wished that he might find on waking in the morning a flourishing city in the plain, and a shining palace in its midst for his residence, with plenty of horses in the stable, and provisions of all kinds in abundance in the store-chamber; shady groves were to surround it, with streams of water meandering through them. When he woke in the morning he found all prepared even as he had wished. Here, therefore, he lived in peace and prosperity, free from care. Before many months had passed there came by that way a caravan of merchants travelling home who had passed over the spot on their outward-bound journey. "How is this!" exclaimed the leader of the caravan. "Here, where a few months ago grew nothing but grass; here is there now sprung up a city in all this magnificence!" So they came and inquired concerning it of the Brahman's son. Then Shrikantha told them the whole story of how it had come to pass, and moreover showed them the talisman. Then said the leader of the caravan, "Behold! we will give thee all our camels and horses and mules, together with all our merchandize and our stores, only give us thou the talisman in exchange." So he gave them the talisman in exchange, and they went on their way. But the Brahman's son went to sleep in his palace, on his soft couch with silken pillows. In the morning, when he woke, behold the couch with the silken pillows was no more there, and he was lying on the ground in the island in the midst of the water! Then came the mouse, the ape, and the bear to him, saying-- "What misfortune is this that hath happened to thee this second time?" So he told them the whole story of how it had come to pass. And they, answering, said to him, "Surely now it was foolish thus to part with the talisman; nevertheless, maybe we three may find it." And they set out to follow the track of the travelling merchants. They were not long before they came to a flourishing city with a shining palace in its midst, surrounded by shady groves, and streams meandering through them. Here the merchants had established themselves. When night fell, the ape and the bear took up their post in a grove near the palace, while the mouse crept within the same, till she came to the apartment where the leader of the caravan slept--here she crept in through the keyhole. The leader of the caravan lay asleep on a soft couch with silken pillows. In a corner of the apartment was a heap of rice, in which was an arrow stuck upright, to which the talisman was bound, but two stout cats were chained to the spot to guard it. This report the mouse brought to the ape and the bear. "If it is as thou hast said," answered the bear, "there is nothing to be done. Let us return to our master." "Not so!" interposed the ape. "There is yet one means to be tried. When it is dark to-night, thou mouse, go again to the caravan leader's apartment, and, having crept in through the keyhole, gnaw at the man's hair. Then the next night, to save his hair, he will have the cats chained to his pillow, when the talisman being unguarded, thou canst go in and fetch it away." Thus he instructed the mouse. The next night, therefore, the mouse crept in again through the keyhole, and gnawed at the man's hair. When the man got up in the morning, and saw that his hair fell off by handfuls, he said within himself, "A mouse hath done this. To-night, to save what hair remains, the two cats must be chained to my pillow." And so it was done. When the mouse came again, therefore, the cats being chained to the caravan leader's pillow, she could work away at the heap of rice till the arrow fell; then she gnawed off the string which bound the talisman to it, and rolled it before her all the way to the door. Arrived here, she was obliged to leave it, for by no manner of means could she get it up to the keyhole. Full of sorrow, she came and showed this strait to her companions. "If it is as thou hast said," answered the bear, "there is nothing to be done. Let us return to our master." "Not so!" interposed the ape; "there is yet one means to be tried. I will first tie a string to the tail of the mouse, then let her go down through the keyhole, and hold the talisman tightly with all her four feet, and I will draw her up through the keyhole." This they did; and thus obtained possession of the talisman. They now set out on the return journey, the ape sitting on the back of the bear, carrying the mouse in his ear and the talisman in his mouth. Travelling thus, they came to a place where there was a stream to cross. The bear, who all along had been fearing the other two animals would tell the master how little part he had had in recovering the talisman, now determined to vaunt his services. Stopping therefore in the midst of the stream, he said, "Is it not my back which has carried ye all--ape, mouse, and talisman--over all this ground? Is not my strength great? and are not my services more than all of yours?" But the mouse was asleep snugly in the ear of the ape, and the ape feared to open his mouth lest he should drop the talisman; so there was no answer given. Then the bear was angry when he found there was no answer given, and, having growled, he said, "Since it pleases you not, either of you, to answer, I will even cast you both into the water." At that the ape could not forbear exclaiming, "Oh! cast us not into the water!" And as he opened his mouth to speak, the talisman dropped into the water. When he saw the talisman was lost, he was full dismayed; but for fear lest the bear should drop him in the water, he durst not reproach him till they were once more on land. Arrived at the bank, he cried out, "Of a surety thou art a cross-grained, ungainly sort of a beast; for in that thou madest me to answer while I had the talisman in my mouth, it has fallen into the water, and is more surely lost to the master than before." "If it is even as thou hast said," answered the bear, "there is nothing to be done. Let us return to the master." But the mouse waking up at the noise of the strife of words, inquired what it all meant. When therefore the ape had told her how it had fallen out, and how that they were now without hope of recovering the talisman, the mouse replied, "Nay, but I know one means yet. Sit you here in the distance and wait, and let me go to work." So they sat down and waited, and the mouse went back to the edge of the stream. At the edge of the stream she paced up and down, crying out as if in great fear. At the noise of her pacing and her cries, the inhabitants of the water all came up, and asked her the cause of her distress. "The cause of my distress," replied the mouse, "is my care for you. Behold there is even now, at scarcely a night's distance, an army on the march which comes to destroy you all; neither can you escape from it, for though it marches over dry land, in a moment it can plunge in the water and live there equally well." "If that is so," answered the inhabitants of the water, "then there is no help for us." "The means of help there is," replied the mouse. "If we could between us construct a pier along the edge of the water, on which you could take refuge, you would be safe, for half in and half out of the water this army lives not, and could not pursue you thither." So the inhabitants of the water replied, "Let us construct a pier." "Hand me up then all the biggest pebbles you can find," said the mouse, "and I will build the pier." So the inhabitants of the water handed up the pebbles, and the mouse built of the pebbles a pier. When the pier was about a span long, there came a frog bringing the talisman, saying, "Bigger than this one is there no pebble here!" So the mouse took the talisman with great joy, and calling out, "Here it is!" brought the same to the ape. The ape put the talisman once more in his mouth, and the mouse in his ear; and having mounted on to the back of the bear, they brought the talisman safely to Shrikantha (5). Shrikantha not having had his three attendants to provide him with fruits for so many days was as one like to die; nevertheless, when he saw the talisman again, he revived, and said, "Truly the services are great that I have to thank you three for." No sooner, however, had he the talisman in his hand, than all the former magnificence came back at a word--a more flourishing city, a more shining palace, trees bending under the weight of luscious fruits, and birds of beautiful plumage singing melodiously in the branches. Then said Shrikantha again to his talisman, "If thou art really a good and clever talisman, make that to me, who have no wife, a daughter of the devas should come down and live with me, and be a wife to me." And, even as he spoke, a deva maiden came down to him, surrounded with a hundred maidens, her companions, and was his wife, and they lived a life of delights together, and a hundred sons were born to him." "Of a truth that was a Brahman's son whom fortune delighted to honour," exclaimed the Well-and-wise-walking Khan. And as he had marched fast, and they were already far on their journey when the Siddhî-kür began his tale, they had reached even close to the precincts of the dwelling of the great Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una, when he spoke these words. Nevertheless, the Siddhî-kür had time to exclaim, "Excellent! Excellent!" and to escape swift out of sight. But the Well-and-wise-walking Khan stood before Nâgârg'una. Then spoke the great Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una, unto him, saying,-- "Seeing thou hast not succeeded in thine enterprise, thou hast not procured the happiness of all the inhabitants of Gambudvîpa, nor promoted the well-being of the six classes of living beings (6). Nevertheless, seeing thou hast exercised unexampled courage and perseverance, and through much terror and travail hast fetched the Siddhî-kür these thirteen times, behold, the stain of blood is removed from off thee, though thou fetch him not again. Moreover, this that thou hast done shall turn to thy profit, for henceforth thou shalt not only be called the Well-and-wise-walking Khan, but thou shalt exceed in good fortune and in happiness all the Khans of the earth." TALE XIV. Notwithstanding this generous promise and bountiful remission of his master Nâgârg'una, the Khan set out on his journey once again, even as before, determined this time to command his utterance and fulfil his task to the end. Treading his path with patience and earnestness he arrived at the cool grove, even to the foot of the mango-tree. There he raised his axe "White Moon," as though he would have felled it. Then spoke the Siddhî-kür, saying, "Spare the leafy mango-tree, and I will come down to thee." So the Khan put up his axe again and bound the Siddhî-kür on his back, to carry him off to Nâgârg'una. Now as the day was long, and the air oppressive, so that they were well weary, the Siddhî-kür began to tempt the Khan to speak, saying,-- "Lighten now the journey by telling a tale of interest." But how weary soever the Khan was, he pressed his lips together and answered him never a word. Then the Siddhî-kür finding he could not make him speak, continued, "If thou wilt not lighten the journey by telling a tale of interest, tell me whether I shall tell one to thee." And when he found that he still answered him not, he said, "If thou wilt that I tell the tale, make me a sign of consent by nodding thine head backwards." Then the Well-and-wise-walking Khan nodded his head backwards, and the Siddhî-kür proceeded to tell the tale in these words:-- THE AVARICIOUS BROTHER. Long ages ago there dwelt in a city of Western India two brothers. As the elder brother had no inheritance, and made a poor living by selling herbs and wood, he suffered the common fate of those in needy circumstances, and received no great consideration from his fellow-men. The younger brother on the other hand was wealthy, yet gave he no portion of his riches to his brother. One day he gave a great entertainment, to which he invited all his rich neighbours and acquaintances, but to his brother he sent no invitation. Then spoke the brother's wife to her husband, saying,-- "It were better that thou shouldst die than live thus dishonoured by all. Behold, now, thou art not even invited to thy brother's entertainment." "Thy words which thou hast spoken are true," replied the husband. "I will even go forth and die." Thus saying, he took up his hatchet and cord, and went out into the forest, passing over many mountains by the way. On the banks of a stream, running through the forest, he saw a number of lions and tigers (1), and other savage beasts, so he forbore to go near that water, but continued his way till he came to the head of the stream, and here in the sheltering shade of a huge rock were a number of Dakinis (2), dancing and disporting themselves to tones of dulcet music. Presently one of the Dakinis flew up on high out of the midst of those dancing, and took out of a cleft in the rock a large sack, which she brought down to the grassy bank where the dancing was going on. Having spread it out on the ground in the presence of them all, she took a hammer out of it, and began hammering lustily into the bag. As she did so, all kinds of articles of food and drink that could be desired presented themselves at the mouth of the sack. The Dakinis now left off dancing, and began laying out the meal; but ever as they removed one dish from the mouth of the bag, another and another took its place. When they had well eaten and drank, the first Dakini hammered away again upon the bag, and forthwith there came thereout gold and silver trinkets, diadems, arm-bands, nûpuras (3), and ornaments for all parts of the body. With these the Dakinis decked themselves, till they were covered from head to foot with pearls and precious stones, and their hair sparkling with a powdering of gems (4). Then they flew away, the first Dakini taking care to lay up the bag and hammer in the cleft of the rock before taking her flight. When they were far, far on their way, and only showed as specks in the distant sky, then the man came forth from his hiding-place, and having felled several trees with his axe, bound them together one on to the end of the other with his cord, and by this means climbed up to the cleft in the rock, where the Dakini had laid up the hammer and bag, and brought them away. He had no sooner got down to the ground again, than to make proof of his treasure even more than to satisfy his ravenous appetite, he took the hammer out of the bag, and banged away with it on to the bag, wishing the while that it might bring him all manner of good things to eat. All sorts of delicious viands came for him as quickly as for the Dakinis, of which he made the best meal he had ever had in his life, and then hasted off home with his treasure. When he came back he found his wife bemoaning his supposed death. "Weep not for me!" he exclaimed, as soon as he was near enough for her to hear him; "I have that with me which will help us to live with ease to the end of our days." And without keeping her in suspense, he hammered away on his bag, wishing for clothes, and household furniture, and food, and every thing that could be desired. After this they gave up their miserable trade in wood and herbs, and led an easy and pleasant life. The neighbours, however, laid their heads together and said,-- "How comes it that this fellow has thus suddenly come into such easy circumstances?" But his brother's wife said to her husband,-- "How can thine elder brother have come by all this wealth unless he hath stolen of our riches?" As she continued saying this often, the man believed it, and called his elder brother to him and asked him, "Whence hast thou all this wealth; who hath given it to thee?" And when he found he hesitated to answer, he added, "Now know I that thou must have stolen of my treasure; therefore, if thou tell me not how otherwise thou hast come by it, I will even drag thee before the Khan, who shall put out both thine eyes." When the elder brother had heard this threat, he answered, "Going afar off to a place unknown to thee, having purposed in my mind to die, I found in a cleft of a rock this sack and this hammer (5)." "And how shall this rusty iron hammer and this dirty sack give thee wealth?" again inquired his brother; and thus he pursued his inquiries until by degrees he made him tell the whole story. Nor would he be satisfied till he had explained to him exactly the situation of the place and the way to it. No sooner had he acquainted himself well of this than, taking with him a cord and an axe, he set out to go there. When he arrived, he saw an immense number of deformed, ugly spirits, standing against the rock in eight rows, howling piteously. As he crept along to observe if there was any thing he could take of them to make his fortune as his brother had done, one of them happened to look that way and espied him, after which it was no more possible to escape. "Of a surety this must be the fellow who stole our bag and hammer!" exclaimed the ugly spirit. "Let us at him and put him to death." The Dakinis were thoroughly out of temper, and did not want any urging. The words were no soon uttered than, like a flock of birds, they all flew round him and seized him. "How shall we kill him?" asked one, as she held him tight by the hair of his head till every single hair seemed as if forced out by the roots. "Fly with him up to the top of the rock, and then dash him down!" cried some. "Drop him in the middle of the sea!" cried others. "Cut him in pieces, and give him to the dogs!" cried others again. But the sharp one who had first espied him said, "His punishment is too soon over with killing him; shall we not rather set a hideous mark upon him, so that he shall be afraid to venture near the habitations of his kind for ever?" "Well spoken!" cried the Dakinis in chorus, something like good-humour returning at the thought of such retribution. "What mark shall we set upon him?" "Let us draw his nose out five ells long, and then make nine knots upon it," answered the sharp-witted Dakini. This they did, and then the whole number of them flew away without leaving a trace of their flight. Fully crestfallen and ashamed, the avaricious brother determined to wait till nightfall before he ventured home, meantime hiding himself in a cave lest any should chance to pass that way and see him with his knotted nose. When darkness had well closed in only he ventured to slink home, trembling in every limb both from remaining fright at the life-peril he had passed through, and from fear of some inopportune accident having kept any neighbour abroad who might come across his path. Before he came in sight of his wife he began calling out most piteously,-- "Flee not from before me! I am indeed thine own, very own husband. Changed as I am, I am yet indeed the very self-same. Yet a few days I will endeavour to endure my misery, and then I will lay me down and die." When his neighbours and friends found that he came out of his house no more, nor invited them to him, nor gave entertainments more, they began to inquire what ailed him; but he, without letting any of them enter, only answered them from within, "Woe is me! woe is me!" Now there was in that neighbourhood a Lama (6), living in contemplation in a tirtha (7) on the river bank. "I will call in the same," thought the man, "and take his blessing ere I die." So he sent to the tirtha and called the Lama. When the Lama came, the man bowed himself and asked his blessing, but would by no means look up, lest he should see his knotted nose. Then said the Lama, "Let me see what hath befallen thee; show it me." But he answered, "It is impossible to show it!" Then the Lama said again, "Let me see it; showing it will not harm thee." But when he looked up and let him see his knotted nose, the sight was so frightful that a shudder seized the Lama, and he ran away for very horror." However, the man called after him and entreated him to come back, offering him rich presents; and when he had prevailed on him to sit down again, he told him the whole story of what had befallen him. To his question, whether he could find any remedy, the Lama made answer that he knew none; but, remembering his rich presents, he thought better to turn the matter over in case any useful thought should present itself to his mind, and said he would consult his books. "Till to-morrow I will wait, then, to hear if thy books have any remedy; and if not, then will I die." The next morning the Lama came again. "I have found one remedy," he said, "but there is only one. The hammer and bag of which your brother is possessed could loose the knots; there is nothing else." How elated so ever he had been to hear that a remedy had been found, by so much cast down was he when he learnt that he would have to send and ask the assistance of his brother. "After all that I have said to him, I could never do this thing," he said mournfully, "nor would he hear me." But his wife would not leave any chance of remedying the evil untried; so she went herself to the elder brother and asked for the loan of the sack and hammer. Knowing how anxious his brother had been to be possessed of such a treasure, however, the brother thought the alleged misfortune was an excuse to rob him of it; therefore he would not give it into her hand. Nevertheless, he went to his brother's house with it, and asked him what was the service he required of his sack. Then he was obliged to tell him all that had befallen, and to show him his knotted nose. "But," said he, "if with thy hammer thou will but loose the knots, behold the half of all I have shall be thine." His brother accepted the terms; but not trusting to the promise of one so avaricious, he stipulated to have the terms put in order under hand and seal. When this was done he set to work immediately to swing his hammer, and let it touch one by one the knots in his brother's nose, saying as he did so,-- "May the knots which the eight rows of evil Dakinis made so strong be loosed." And with each touch and invocation the knots began to disappear one after the other. But his wife began to regret the loss of half their wealth, and she determined on a scheme to save it, and yet that her husband should be cured. "If," said she, "I stop him before he has undone the last knot he cannot claim the reward, because he will not have removed all the knots, and it will be a strange matter if I find not the means of obtaining the hammer long enough to remedy one knot myself." As she reasoned thus he had loosed the eighth knot. "Stop!" she cried. "That will do now. For one knot we will not make much ado. He can bear as much disfigurement as that." Then the elder brother was grieved because they had broken the contract, and went his way carrying the sack, and with the hammer stuck in his girdle. As he went, the younger brother's wife went stealthily behind him, and when he had just reached his own door, she sprang upon him, and snatched the hammer from out his girdle. He turned to follow her, but she had already reached her own house before he came up with her, and entering closed the door against him: then in triumph over her success, she proceeded to attempt loosing the ninth knot. Only swinging it as she had seen her brother-in-law do, and not knowing how to temper the force so that it should only just have touched the nose, the blow carried with it so much moment that the hammer went through the man's skull, even to his brain, so that he fell down and died. By this means, not the half, but the whole of his possessions passed to his elder brother. "If the man was avaricious, the woman was doubly avaricious," here exclaimed the Khan, "and by straining to grasp too much, she lost all." "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips," cried the Siddhî-kür. And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good," he sped him through the air once again, swift out of sight. TALE XV. When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan found that he had once more failed in the end and object of his mission, he once more took the way of the shady grove, and once more in the same fashion as before he took the Siddhî-kür captive in his sack. As he bore him along weary with the journey through the desert country, the Siddhî-kür asked if he would not tell a tale to enliven the way, and when he steadfastly held his tongue, the Siddhî-kür bid him, if he would that he should tell one, but give a token of nodding his head backwards, without opening his lips. Then he nodded his head backwards, and the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,-- THE USE OF MAGIC LANGUAGE. Long ages ago there lived in Western India a King who had a very clever son. In order to make the best advantage of his understanding, and to fit him in every way to become an accomplished sovereign, the King sent him into the Diamond-kingdom (1), that he might be thoroughly instructed in all kinds of knowledge. He was accompanied in his journey by the son of the king's chief minister, who was also to share his studies, but who was as dull as he was intelligent. On their arrival in the Diamond-kingdom, they gave each of them the sum with which they had been provided by their parents to two Lamas to conduct their education, and spent twelve years with them. At the end of the twelve years the minister's son proposed to the king's son that they should now return home, and as the Lamas allowed that the king's son had made such progress in the five kinds of knowledge that there was nothing more he could learn, he agreed to the proposal, and they set out on their homeward way. All went well at first; but one day passed, and then another, and yet another, that they came to no source of water, and being parched nigh unto death with thirst, the minister's son would have laid him down to die. As he stood hesitating about going on, a crow passed and made his cry of "ikerek." The prince now encouraged his companion, saying, "Come but a little way farther, and we shall find water." "Nay, you deceive me not like an infant of days," answered the minister's son. "How shall we find water? Have we not laboured over the journey these three days, and found none; neither shall we find it now? Why should we add to this death of thirst the pangs of useless fatigue also?" But the king's son said again, "Nay, but of a certainty we shall now find it." And when he asked, "How knowest thou this of a certainty?" he replied, "I heard yon crow cry as he passed, 'Go forward five hundred paces in a southerly direction, and you will come to a source of pure, bright fresh water.'" The king's son spoke with so much certainty that he had not strength to resist him; and so they went on five hundred paces farther in a southerly direction, and then they indeed came upon a pure, bright spring of water, where they sat down, and drank, and refreshed themselves. As they sat there, the minister's son was moved with jealousy, for, thought he within himself, in every art this prince has exceeded me, and when we return to our own country, all shall see how superior he is to me in every kind of attainment. Then he said aloud to the king's son,-- "If we keep along this road, which leads over the level plain, where we can be seen ever so far off, may be robbers will see us, and, coming upon us, will slay us. Shall we not rather take the path which leads over the mountain, where the trees will hide us, and pass the night under cover of the wood?" And this he said in order to lead the prince into the forest, that he might slay him there unperceived. But the prince, who had no evil suspicion, willingly agreed to his words, and they took the path of the mountain. When they had well entered the thick wood, the minister's son fell upon the prince from behind, and slew him. The prince in dying said nothing but the one word, "Abaraschika (2)." As soon as he had well hidden the body, the minister's son continued on his way. As he came near the city, the King went out to greet him, accompanied by all his ministers, and followed by much people; but when he found that his son was not there, he fell into great anxiety, and eagerly inquired after him. "Thy son," answered the minister's son, "died on the journey." At these words, the King burst into an agony of grief, crying, "Alas, my son! mine only son! Without thee, what shall all my royal power and state, what shall all my hundred cities, profit me?" Amid these bitter cries he made his way back to the palace. As he dwelt on his grief, the thought came to him, "Shall not my son when dying at least have left some word expressive of his last thoughts and wishes?" Then he sent and inquired this thing of his companion, to which, the minister's son made answer, "Thy son was overtaken with a quick and sudden malady, and as he breathed out his life, he had only time to utter the single word, Abaraschika." Hearing this the King was fully persuaded the word must have some deep and hidden meaning; but as he was unable to think it out, he summoned all the seers, soothsayers, magicians, and astrologers (3) of his kingdom, and inquired of them what this same word Abaraschika could mean. There was not, however, one of them all that could help him to the meaning. Then said the King, "The last word that my son uttered, even mine only son, this is dear to me. There is no doubt that it is a word in which by all the arts that he had studied and acquired he knew how to express much, though he had not time to utter many words. Ye, therefore, who are also learned in cunning arts ought to be able to tell the interpretation of the same, but if not, then of what use are ye? It were better that ye were dead from off the face of the earth. Wherefore, I give you the space of seven days to search in all your writings and to exercise all your arts, and if at the end of seven days ye are none of you able to tell me the interpretation, then shall I deliver you over to death." With that he commanded that they should be all secured in an exceeding high fortress for the space of seven days, and well watched that they might not escape. The seven days passed away, and not one of them was at all nearer telling the interpretation of Abaraschika than on the first day. "Of a certainty we shall all be put to death to-morrow," was repeated all through the place, and some cried to the devas and some sat still and wept, speaking only of the relations and friends they would leave behind. Meantime, a student of an inferior sort, who waited on the others and learned between whiles, had contrived to escape, not being under such strict guard as his more important brethren. At night-time he took shelter under a leafy tree. As he lay there a bird and its young ones came to roost on the boughs above him. One of the young ones instead of going to sleep went on complaining through the night, "I'm so hungry! I'm so hungry!" At last the old bird began to console it, saying, "Cry not, my son; for to-morrow there will be plenty of food." "And why should there be more food to-morrow than to-day?" asked the young bird. "Because to-morrow," answered the mother, "the Khan has made preparations to put a thousand men to death. That will be a feast indeed!" "And why should he put so many men to death?" persisted the young bird. "Because," interposed the father, "though they are all wise men, not one of them can tell him such a simple thing as the meaning of the word Abaraschika." "What does it mean, then?" inquired the young bird. "The meaning of the word is this: 'This, my bosom friend, hath enticed me into a thick grove, and there, wounding me with a sharp knife, hath taken away my life, and is even now preparing to cut off my head.'" This the old bird told to his young. The young student, however, hearing these words waited to hear no more, but set off at his best speed towards the tower where all his companions were confined. About daybreak he reached the gates, and made his way in all haste in to them. In the midst of their weeping and lamenting over the morning which they reckoned that of their day of death, he cried out,-- "Weep no more! I have discovered the meaning of the word." Just then the Khan's guard came to conduct them to the Khan for examination preparatory to their being given over to execution. Here the young student declared to the Khan the meaning of the word Abaraschika. Having heard which the Khan dismissed them all with rich presents, but privately bid them declare to no man the meaning of the word. Then he sent for the minister's son, and without giving him any hint of his intention, bid him go before him and show him where lay the bones of his son, which when he had seen and built a tomb over them, he ordered the minister and his son both to be put to death. "That Khan's son, so well versed in the five kinds of knowledge, would have been an honour and ornament to his kingdom, had he not been thus untimely cut off," exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. TALE XVI. When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan saw that he had again failed in the end and object of his journey, he once more took the way of the cool grove; and having taken the Siddhî-kür captive as before in his bag, in which there was place for a hundred, and made fast the mouth of the same with his cord woven of a hundred threads of different colours, he bore him along to present to his Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una. And as they went the Siddhî-kür asked him to beguile the way with a tale, or else give the signal that he should tell one. And when the Well-and-wise-walking Khan had given the signal that the Siddhî-kür should tell one, he began after this wise, saying,-- THE WIFE WHO LOVED BUTTER. Long ages ago there dwelt in the neighbourhood of a city in the north part of India called Taban-Minggan (1) a man and his wife who had no children, and nine cows (2) for all possessions. As the man was very fond of meat he used to kill all the calves as soon as they were born that he might eat them, but the wife cared only for butter. One day when there were no more calves the man took it into his head to slaughter one of the cows; "What does it signify," said he to himself, "whether there are nine or eight?" So he killed one of the cows and ate it. When the meat of this cow was all at an end, he said to himself, "What does it matter whether there are eight cows or seven?" And with that he slaughtered another cow and ate it. When the meat of this cow had come to an end, he said within himself again, "What does it matter whether there are seven cows or six?" and with that he slaughtered another cow and ate it. This he continued doing till there was one only cow left. At last, when the wife saw that there was but one only cow left, she could refrain herself no longer. Determined to save this only cow from being slaughtered, she never let it out of her sight, but wherever she went led it after her by a string. One day, however, when the man had been drinking well of rice-brandy, and was sound asleep, the wife having to go out to fetch water, she thought it would be safe to leave the cow behind this once; but scarcely was she gone out when the man woke up, and, seeing the cow left alone behind, slaughtered it to eat. When the woman came back and found the last remaining cow was killed, she lifted up her voice and wept, saying, "What is there now left to me wherewithal to support life, seeing that the last and only cow that remained to us is killed." As she said these words, she turned her in anger and went away, and as she went the man cut off one of the teats of the cow and threw it after her. The woman picked up the teat and took it along with her; but she went along still crying till she came to a cave in a mountain side, where she took shelter. There she cast herself down on the ground, addressing herself in earnest prayer to the Three Precious Treasures (3) and the Ruler of Heaven and Earth, saying, "Now that my old man has brought me to the last extremity, depriving me of all that I had to support life, grant now, ye Three Precious Treasures, and thou Ruler of Heaven and Earth, that I may have in some way that which is needful to support life!" Thus she prayed. Also, she flung from her the teat of the cow which she had in her hand, and behold! it clove to the side of the cave, and when she would have removed it, it would no more be removed, but milk ran therefrom as from the living cow. And the milk thereof was good for making butter, which her soul loved. Thus she lived in the cave, and was provided with all she desired to support life. One day it befell that the memory of her husband coming over her, she said within herself, "Perhaps, now that the last cow is slaughtered and eaten, my old man may be suffering hunger; who knows!" Thus musing, she filled a sheep's paunch (4) with butter, and went her way to the place where her husband lived, and having climbed on to the roof, she looked down upon him through the smoke-hole (5). He sat there in his usual place, but nothing was set before him to eat saving only a pan of ashes, which he was dividing with a spoon, saying the while, "This is my portion for to-day;" and "That much I reserve for the portion of to-morrow." Seeing this, the wife threw her paunch of butter hastily through the roof, and then went back to her cave. Then thought the husband within himself, "Who is there in heaven or earth who would have brought me this butter-paunch but my very wife? who surely has said within herself, 'Perhaps, now that the last cow is slaughtered, my old man is suffering hunger.'" And as every night she thus supplied him with a butter-paunch, he got up at last and followed her by the track of her feet on the snow till he came to the cave where she dwelt. Nevertheless, seeing the teat cleaving to the side of the cave, he could not resist cutting it off to eat the meat thereof. Then he took to him all the store of butter the woman had laid up and returned home; but the wife, finding her place of refuge was known to him, and that he had taken all her store, left the cave and wandered on farther. Presently she came to a vast meadow well watered by streams, and herds of hinds grazing amid the grass; nor did they flee at her approach, so that she could milk them at will, and once more she could make butter as much as ever she would. One day it befell that, the memory of her husband coming over her, she said within herself, "Perhaps, now that he will have exhausted all the store of cow-milk-butter, my old man may be suffering hunger; who knows!" So she took a sheep's paunch of the butter made of hind's milk and went to the place where her husband lived. As she looked down upon him through the smoke-hole in the roof, she found him once more engaged sparingly dividing his portions of ashes. So she threw the butter-paunch to him through the smoke-hole and went her way. When she had done this several days, her husband rose and followed her by her track on the snow till he came to where the herd of hinds were grazing. But when he saw so many hinds, he could not resist satisfying his love of meat; only when he had slaughtered many of the hinds, these said one to another, "If we remain here, of a surety we shall all be put to death;" therefore they arose in the night and betook them afar, far off, whither neither the man nor his wife could follow them. When the wife found her place of refuge was known to her husband, and that he had dispersed her herd of hinds, she left the grassy meadow and wandered on farther. Presently, a storm coming on, she took shelter in a hole in a rock where straw was littered down; so she laid herself to sleep amid the straw. But the hole was the den of a company of lions, tigers, and bears, and all manner of wild beasts; but they had a hare for watchman at the opening of the hole. At night, therefore, they all came home and laid down, but they perceived not the woman in the straw; only in the night, the woman happening to move, a straw tickled the nose of the hare. Then said the hare to a tiger who lay near him, "What was that?" But the tiger said, "We will examine into the matter when the morning light breaks." When the morning light broke, therefore, they turned up all the straw and found the woman lying. When the tiger and the other beasts saw the woman lying in their straw, they were exceeding wroth, and would have torn her in pieces. But the hare said, "What good will it do you to tear the woman in pieces? Women are faithful and vigilant animals; give her now to me, and I will make her help me watch the cave." So they gave her to the hare, and the hare bade her keep strict watch over the cave, and by no means let any one of any sort enter it; and he treated her well and gave her plenty of game to eat, which the wild beasts brought home to their lair. Thus she lived in the den of the wild beasts and did the bidding of the hare. One day, however, it befell that, the memory of her husband coming over her, she said within herself, "Perhaps, now that the hinds are all dispersed, my old man may be suffering hunger; who knows!" So she took with her a good provision of game, of which the wild beasts brought in abundance, and went to the place where her husband lived. He sat as before, dividing his portions of ashes; so she threw the game she had brought down through the smoke-hole. When she had thus provisioned him many days, he said within himself, "Who is there in heaven or earth who should thus provide for me, but only my loving wife?" So the next night he rose up and tracked her by the snow till he came to the den of the wild beasts. When the wife saw him, she cried, "Wherefore camest thou hither? This is even a wild beasts' lair. Behold, seeing thee they will tear thee in pieces!" But the man would not listen to her word, answering, "If they have not torn thee in pieces, neither will they tear me." Then, when she found that he would not escape, she took him and hid him in the straw. At night, when the wild beasts came home, the hare said to the tiger, "Of a certainty I perceive the scent of some creature which was not here before;" and the tiger answered, "When morning breaks we will examine into the matter." Accordingly, when morning broke they looked over the place, and there in the straw they found the woman's husband. When they saw the man they were all exceedingly wroth, nor could the hare by any means restrain them that they should not tear them both in pieces. "For," said they, "if of one comes two, of two will come four, and of four will come sixteen, and in the end we shall be outnumbered and destroyed, and our place taken from us." So they tore them both in pieces, both the wife and her husband. "That woman fell a sacrifice to her devotion to her husband, who deserved it not at her hand!" exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. TALE XVII. Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove, and brought thence bound the Siddhî-kür, who by the way told him this story, saying--, THE SIMPLE HUSBAND AND THE PRUDENT WIFE. In the southern part of India lived a man who had a very large fortune and a very notable wife, but possessing little sense or capacity himself, nor sufficient understanding to think of trading with his fortune. One day a caravan of merchants came by, with whom the wife made some exchanges of merchandize while the husband stood by and looked on. When they were gone, the wife said to him, "Why should not you also go forth and trade even as these merchants trade?" And he willing to do her a pleasure made answer, "Give me wherewithal to trade, and I will see what I can do." "This is but reasonable," thought the wife. "For how shall he trade except he have some sort of merchandize to trade withal." So she made ready for him an ass to ride, and a camel's burden of rice to trade with, and arms to defend him from robbers, and provisions to sustain him by the way. Thus she sent him forth. On he rode till he came to the sea-shore, and as he could go no farther he laid him down here at the foot of a high cliff to sleep. Just where he lay was the entrance to a cave which he failed to discover. Towards evening a caravan of merchants travelling by, took shelter in this cave, leaving a bugle lying on the ground near the entrance, that in case of an attack of robbers the first who heard their approach might warn the others. The man's face being turned, as he lay also towards the entrance of the cave, came very near the mouthpiece of the bugle. About the middle of the night when he was sleeping very heavily he began also to snore, and his breath accidentally entering the bugle gave forth so powerful a note (1), that it woke all the merchants together. "Who sounded the bugle?" asked each. "Not I," "Nor I," "Nor I," answered one and all. "Then it must be the thieves themselves who did it in defiance," said one. "They must be in strong force thus to defy us!" answered another. "We had better therefore make good our escape before they really attack us," cried all. And without waiting to look after their goods, they all ran off for the dear life without so much as looking behind them. In the morning, finding the merchants did not return, the simple man put together all the merchandize they had left behind them and returned home with it. All the neighbours ran out to see him pass with his train of mules and cried aloud, "Only see what a clever trader! Only see how fortune has prospered him!" Quite proud of his success and not considering how little merit he had had in the matter, he said, "To-morrow I will go out hunting!" But his wife knowing he had not capacity to have come by all the merchandize except through some lucky chance, and thinking some equally strange adventure might befall him when out hunting, determined to be even with him and to know all that might come to pass. Accordingly the next day she provided him with a horse and dog, and bow and arrows, and provisions for the way. Only as he went forth, she said, "Beware, a stronger than thou fall not upon thee!" But he, puffed up by his yesterday's success, answered her, "Never fear! There is none can stand against me." And she, smiling to see him thus highminded, made reply, "Nevertheless, the horseman Surja-Bagatur (2) is terrible to deal with. Shouldst thou meet him, stand aside and engage him not, for surely he would slay thee." Thus she warned him. But he mounted his horse and rode away, crying, "Him I fear no more than the rest!" As soon as she had seen him start the wife dressed herself in man's clothes, and mounting a swift horse (3) she rode round till she came by a different path to the same place as her husband. Seeing him trot across a vast open plain she bore down right upon him at full gallop. The man, too much afraid of so bold a rider to recognize that it was his wife, turned him and fled from before her. Soon overtaking him, however, she challenged him to fight, at the same time drawing her sword. "Slay me not!" exclaimed the simple man, slipping off his horse, "Slay me not, most mighty rider, Surja-Bagatur! Take now my horse and mine arms, and all that I have. Leave me only my life, most mighty Surja-Bagatur!" So his wife took the horse and the arms, and all that he had and rode home. At night the simple man came limping home footsore and in sorry plight. "Where is the horse and the arms?" inquired his wife as she saw him arrive on foot. "To-day I encountered the mighty rider, Surja-Bagatur, and having challenged him to fight," answered he, "I overcame him and humbled him utterly. Only that the wrath of the hero at what I had done might not be visited on us, I propitiated him by making him an offering of the horse and the arms and all that I had." So the woman prepared roasted corn and set it before him; and when he had well eaten she said to him, "Tell me now, what manner of man is the hero Surja-Bagatur, and to what is he like (4)?" And the simple man made answer, "But that he wore never a beard, even such a man would he have been as thy father." And the wife laughed to herself, but told him nothing of all she had done. "That was a prudent woman, who humbled not her husband by triumphing over him!" exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. Of the adventures of the Well-and-wise-walking Khan the seventeenth chapter, of the Simple Husband and the Prudent Wife. TALE XVIII. When therefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan saw that the Siddhî-kür had again made good his escape, he set out and came to the cool grove, and took him captive and brought him, bound in his bag. And by the way the Siddhî-kür told this tale, saying,-- HOW SHANGGASBA BURIED HIS FATHER. Long ages ago, there lived in a city of Northern India a father and son. Both bore the same name, and a strangely inappropriate name it was. Though they were the poorest of men without any thing in the world to call their own, and without even possessing the knowledge of any trade or handicraft whereby to make a livelihood to support them at ease, they were yet called by the name of Shanggasba, that is "Renowned possessor of treasure (1)." As I have already said, they knew no trade or handicraft; but to earn a scanty means of subsistence to keep body and soul together, they used to lead a wandering sort of life, gathering and hawking wood. One day as they were coming down the steep side of a mountain forest, worn and footsore, bending under the heavy burden of wood on their backs, Shanggasba, the father, suddenly hastened his tired, tottering steps, and, leading the way through the thickly-meeting branches to a little clear space of level ground, where the grass grew green and bright, called to his son to come after him with more of animation in his voice than he had shown for many a weary day. Shanggasba, the son, curious enough to know what stirred his father's mind, and glad indeed at the least indication of any glimpse of a new interest in life, increased his pace too, and soon both were sitting on the green grass with their bundles of wood laid beside them. "Listen, my son!" said Shanggasba, the father, "to what I have here to impart to thee, and forget not my instructions." "Just as this spot of sward, on which we are now seated, is bared of the rich growth of trees covering the thicket all around it, so are my fortunes now barren compared with the opulence and power our ancestor Shanggasba, 'Renowned possessor of treasure,' enjoyed. Know, moreover, that it was just on this very spot that he lived in the midst of his power and glory. Therefore now that our wanderings have brought us hither, I lay this charge upon thee that when I die thou bring hither my bones, and lay them under the ground in this place. And so doing, thou too shalt enjoy fulness of might and magnificence like to the portion of a king's son. For it was because my father's bones were laid to rest in a poor, mean, and shameful place, that I have been brought to this state of destitution in which we now exist. But thou, if thou keep this my word, doubt not but that thou also shalt become a renowned possessor of treasure." Thus spoke Shanggasba, the father; and then, lifting their faggots on to their shoulder, they journeyed on again as before. Not long after the day that they had held this discourse, Shanggasba, the father, was taken grievously ill, so that the son had to go out alone to gather wood, and it so befell that when he returned home again the father was already dead. So remembering his father's admonition, he laded his bones upon his back, and carried them out to burial in the cleared spot in the forest, as his father had said. But when he looked that the great wealth and honour of which his father had spoken should have fallen to his lot, he was disappointed to find that he remained as poor as before. Then, because he was weary of the life of a woodman, he went into the city, and bought a hand-loom and yarn, and set himself to weave linen cloths which he hawked about from place to place. Now, one day, as he was journeying back from a town where he had been selling his cloths, his way brought him through the forest where his father lay buried. So he tarried a while at the place and sat down to his weaving, and as he sat a lark came and perched on the loom. With his weaving-stick he gave the lark a blow and killed it, and then roasted and ate it. But as he ate it he mused, "Of a certainty the words of my father have failed, which he spoke, saying, 'If thou bury my bones in this place thou shalt enjoy fulness of might and magnificence.' And because this weaving brings me a more miserable profit even than hawking wood, I will arise now and go and sue for the hand of the daughter of the King of India, and become his son-in-law." Having taken this resolution, he burnt his hand-loom, and set out on his journey. Now it so happened that just at this time the Princess, daughter of the King of India, having been absent for a long time from the capital, great festivities of thanksgiving were being celebrated in gratitude for her return in safety, as Shanggasba arrived there; and notably, on a high hill, before the image of a Garuda-bird (2), the king of birds, Vishnu's bearer, all decked with choice silk rich in colour. Shanggasba arrived, fainting from hunger, for the journey had been long, and he had nothing to eat by the way, having no money to buy food, but now he saw things were beginning to go well with him, for when he saw the festival he knew there would be an offering of baling cakes of rice-flour before the garuda-bird, and he already saw them in imagination surrounded with the yellow flames of the sacrifice. As soon as he approached the place therefore he climbed up the high hill, and satisfied his hunger with the baling; and then, as a provision for the future, he took down the costly silk stuffs with which the garuda-bird was adorned and hid them in his boots. His hunger thus appeased, he made his way to the King's palace, where he called out lustily to the porter in a tone of authority, "Open the gate for me!" But the porter, when he saw what manner of man it was summoned him, would pay no heed to his words, but rather chid him and bid him be silent. Then Shanggasba, when he found the porter would pay no heed to his words, but rather bid him be silent, blew a note on the great princely trumpet, which was only sounded for promulgating the King's decrees. This the King heard, who immediately sent for the porter, and inquired of him who had dared to sound the great princely trumpet. To whom the porter made answer,-- "Behold now, O King, there stands without at the gate a vagabond calling on me to admit him because he has a communication to make to the King." "The fellow is bold; let him be brought in," replied the King. So they brought Shanggasba before the King's majesty. "What seekest thou of me?" inquired the King. And Shanggasba, nothing abashed, answered plainly-- "To sue for the hand of the Princess am I come, and to be the King's son-in-law." The ministers of state, who stood round about the King, when they heard these words, were filled with indignation, and counselled the King that he should put him to death. But the King, tickled in his fancy with the man's daring, answered,-- "Nay, let us not put him to death. He can do us no harm. A beggar may sue for a king's daughter, and a king may choose a beggar's daughter, out of that no harm can come," and he ordered that he should be taken care of in the palace, and not let to go forth. Now all this was told to the Queen, who took a very different view of the thing from the King's. And coming to him in fury and indignation, she cried out,-- "It is not good for such a man to live. He must be already deprived of his senses; let him die the death!" But the King gave for all answer, "The thing is not of that import that he should die for it." The Princess also heard of it; and she too came to complain to the King that he should cause such a man to be kept in the palace; but before she could open her complaint, the King, joking, said to her,-- "Such and such a man is come to sue for thy hand; and I am about to give thee to him." But she answered, "This shall never be; surely the King hath spoken this thing in jest. Shall a princess now marry a beggar?" "If thou wilt not have him, what manner of man wouldst thou marry?" asked the King. "A man who has gold and precious things enough that he should carry silk stuff (3) in his boots, such a one would I marry, and not a wayfarer and a beggar," answered the Princess. When the people heard that, they went and pulled off Shanggasba's boots, and when they found in them the pieces of silk he had taken from the image of the garuda-bird, they all marvelled, and said never a word more. But the King thought thereupon, and said, "This one is not after the manner of common men." And he gave orders that he should be lodged in the palace. The Queen, however, was more and more dismayed when she saw the token, and thus she reasoned, "If the man is here entertained after this manner, and if he has means thus to gain over to him the mind of the King, who shall say but that he may yet contrive to carry his point, and to marry my daughter?" And as she found she prevailed nothing with the King by argument, she said, "I must devise some means of subtlety to be rid of him." Then she had the man called into her, and inquired of him thus,-- "Upon what terms comest thou hither to sue for the hand of my daughter? Tell me, now, hast thou great treasures to endow her with as thy name would import, or wilt thou win thy right to pay court to her by thy valour and bravery?" And this she said, for she thought within herself, of a surety now the man is so poor he can offer no dowry, and so he needs must elect to win her by the might of his bravery, which if he do I shall know how to over-match his strength, and show he is but a mean-spirited wretch. But Shanggasba made answer, "Of a truth, though I be called 'Renowned possessor of treasure,' no treasure have I to endow her with; but let some task be appointed me by the King and Queen, and I will win her hand by my valour." The Queen was glad when she heard this answer, for she said, "Now I have in my hands the means to be rid of him." At this time, while they were yet speaking, it happened that a Prince of the Unbelievers advanced to the borders of the kingdom to make war upon the King. Therefore the Queen said to Shanggasba,-- "Behold thine affair! Go out now against the enemy, and if thou canst drive back his hordes thou shalt marry our daughter, and become the King's son-in-law. "Even so let it be!" answered Shanggasba. "Only let there be given to me a good horse and armour, and a bow and arrows." All this the Queen gave him, and good wine to boot, and appointed an army in brave array to serve under him. With these he rode out to encounter the enemy. They had hardly got out of sight of the city, however, when the captain of the army rode up to him and said, "We are not soldiers to fight under command of a beggar: ride thou forth alone." So they went their way, and he rode on alone. He had no sooner come to the borders of the forest, however, where the ground was rough and uneven, than he found he could in no wise govern his charger, and after pulling at the reins for a long time in vain, the beast dashed with him furiously into the thicket. "What can I do now?" mourned Shanggasba to himself as, encumbered by the unwonted weight of his armour, he made fruitless efforts to extricate himself from the interlacing branches; "surely death hath overtaken me!" And even as he spoke the enemy's army appeared riding down towards him. Nevertheless, catching hold of the overhanging bows of a tree, by which to save himself from the plungings of the horse, and as the soil was loose and the movement of the steed impetuous, as he clung to the tree the roots were set free by his struggles, and rebounding in the face of the advancing enemy, laid many of his riders low in the dust. The prince who commanded them when he saw this, exclaimed, "This one cannot be after the manner of common men. Is he not rather one of the heroes making trial of his prowess who has assumed this outward form?" And a great panic seized them all, so that they turned and fled from before him, riding each other down in the confusion, and casting away their weapons and their armour. As soon as they were well out of sight, and only the clouds of dust whirling round behind them, Shanggasba rose from the ground where he had fallen in his fear, and catching by the bridle one of the horses whose rider had been thrown, laded on to him all that he could carry of the spoil with which the way was strewn, and brought it up to the King as the proof and trophy of his victory. The King was well pleased to have so valiant a son-in-law, and commended him and promised him the hand of the Princess in marriage. But the Queen, though her first scheme for delivering her daughter had failed, was not slow to devise another, and she said, "It is not enough that he should be valiant in the field, but a mighty hunter must he also be." And thus she said to Shanggasba, "Wilt thou also give proof of thy might in hunting?" And Shanggasba made answer, "Wherein shall I show my might in hunting?" And the Queen said, "Behold now, there is in our mountains a great fox, nine spans in length, the fur of whose back is striped with stripes; him shalt thou kill and bring his skin hither to me, if thou wouldst have the hand of the Princess and become the King's son-in-law." "Even so let it be," replied Shanggasba; "only let there be given me a bow and arrow, and provisions for many days." All this the Queen commanded should be given to him; and he went out to seek for the great fox measuring nine spans in length, and the fur of his back striped with stripes. Many days he wandered over the mountains till his provisions were all used and his clothes torn, and, what was a worse evil, he had lost his bow by the way. "Without a bow I can do nothing," reasoned Shanggasba to himself, "even though I fall in with the fox. It is of no use that I wait for death here. I had better return to the palace and see what fortune does for me." But as he had wandered about up and down without knowing his way, it so happened that as he now directed his steps back to the road, he came upon the spot where he had laid down to sleep the night before, and there it was he had left the bow lying. But in the meantime the great fox nine spans long, with the fur of his back striped with stripes, had come by that way, and finding the bow lying had striven to gnaw it through. In so doing he had passed his neck through the string, and the string had strangled him. So in this way Shanggasba obtained possession of his skin, which he forthwith carried in triumph to the King and Queen. The King when he saw it exclaimed, "Of a truth now is Shanggasba a mighty hunter, for he has killed the great fox nine spans long, and with the fur of his back striped with stripes. Therefore shall the hand of the Princess be given to him in marriage." But the Queen would not yet give up the cause of her daughter, and she said, "Not only in fighting and hunting must he give proof of might, but also over the spirits he must show his power." Then Shanggasba made answer, "Wherein shall I show my power over the spirits?" And the Queen said, "In the regions of the North, among the Mongols, are seven dæmons who ride on horses: these shalt thou slay and bring hither, if thou wouldst ask for the hand of the Princess and become the King's son-in-law." "Even so let it be," replied Shanggasba; "only point me out the way, and give me provisions for the journey." So the Queen commanded that the way should be shown him, and appointed him provisions for the journey, which she prepared with her own hand, namely, seven pieces of black rye-bread that he was to eat on his way out, and seven pieces of white wheaten-bread that he was to eat on his way home. Thus provided, he went forth towards the region of the North, among the Mongols, to seek for the seven dæmons who rode on horses. Before night he reached the land of the Mongols, and finding a hillock, he halted and sat down on it, and took out his provisions: and it well-nigh befell that he had eaten the white wheaten-bread first; but he said, "Nay, I had best get through the black bread first." So he left the white wheaten-bread lying beside him, and began to eat a piece of the black rye-bread. But as he was hungry and ate fast, the hiccups took him; and then, before he had time to put the bread up again into his wallet, suddenly the seven dæmons of the country of the Mongols came upon him, riding on their horses. So he rose and ran away in great fear, leaving the bread upon the ground. But they, after they had chased him a good space, stopped and took counsel of each other what they should do with him, and though for a while they could not agree, finally they all exclaimed together, "Let us be satisfied with taking away his victuals." So they turned back and took his victuals; and the black rye-bread they threw away, but the white wheaten-bread they ate, every one of them a piece. The Queen, however, had put poison in the white wheaten-bread, which was to serve Shanggasba on his homeward journey; and now that the seven dæmons ate thereof, they were all killed with the poison that was prepared for him, and they all laid them down on the hillock and died, while their horses grazed beside them (4). But in the morning, Shanggasba hearing nothing more of the trampling of the dæmons chasing him, left off running, and plucked up courage to turn round and look after them; and when he saw them not, he turned stealthily back, looking warily on this side and on that, lest they should be lying in wait for him. And when he had satisfied himself the way was clear of them, he bethought him to go back and look after his provisions. When he got back to the hillock, however, he found the seven dæmons lying dead, and their horses grazing beside them. The sight gave him great joy; and having packed each one on the back of his horse, he led them all up to the King and Queen. The King was so pleased that the seven dæmons were slain, that he would not let him be put on his trial any more. So he delivered the Princess to him, and he became the King's son-in-law. Moreover, he gave him a portion like to the portion of a King's son, and erected a throne for him as high as his own throne, and appointed to him half his kingdom, and made all his subjects pay him homage as to himself. "This man thought that his father's words had failed, and owned not that it was because he buried his bones in a prosperous place that good fortune happened unto him," exclaimed the Prince. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, fleet out of sight. TALE XIX. Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove, and having brought thence the Siddhî-kür bound in his bag, and having eaten of his cake that never diminished to strengthen him for the journey, as they went along the Siddhî-kür told him this tale, saying,-- THE PERFIDIOUS FRIEND. Long ages ago there lived in a northern country of India a lioness who had her den in the side of a snow-capped mountain. One day she had been so long without food that she was near to have devoured her cub; determining, however, to make one effort first to spare it, she went out on a long journey till she came to a fair plain where there were a number of cows grazing. When she saw the herd of cows she could not refrain a terrible roar; but the cows, hearing the roar of the lioness, said one to another, "Let us make haste to escape from the lioness," and they all went their way. But there was one of the cows which had a calf, and because she could neither make the calf go fast enough to escape the lioness, nor could bring herself to forsake it, she remained behind and fell a prey to the wild beast. The lioness accordingly made a great feast, chiefly on the blood of the cow, and carried the flesh and the bones to her den. The calf followed the traces of its mother's flesh, and when the lioness lay down to sleep the calf came along with her own cub to suck, and the lioness being overcome, and as it were drunken with the blood she had taken, failed to perceive what the calf did. In the morning, as the calf had drunk her milk, she forbore to slay it, and the calf and the cub were suckled together. After two or three days, when there was nothing left for the lioness to eat but a few bones of the cow, she devoured them so greedily in her hunger that one big knuckle-bone stuck in her throat, and as she could by no means get it out again, she was throttled by it till she died. Before dying she spoke thus to the calf and the cub, "You two, who have been suckled with the same milk, must live at peace with each other. If some day an enemy comes to you and tries to set you one against the other, pay no heed to his words, but remain at one as before." Thus she charged them. When the lioness was dead the cub betook himself into the forest, and the calf found its way to the sunny slope of a mountain side; but at the hour of evening they went down to the stream together to drink, and after that they disported themselves together. There was a fox, however, who had been used to feed on the remnants of the lion's meals, and continued now to profit by those of the cub; he saw with a jealous eye this growing intimacy with the calf, and determined to set them at variance (2). One day, therefore, when the cub had just killed a beast and lay sucking its blood, the fox came to him with his tail no longer cockily curled up on his back, but low, sweeping the ground, and his ears drooping. When the cub saw him in this plight, he exclaimed, "Fox! what hath befallen thee? Tell me thy grief, and console thyself the while with a bite of this hind." But the fox, putting on a doleful tone, answered him, "How should I, thine uncle, take pleasure in eating flesh when thou hast an enemy? hence is all pleasure gone from me." But the cub answered carelessly, "It is not likely any one should be my enemy, fox; therefore set to and eat this hind's flesh." "If thou refusest in this lighthearted way to listen to the words of thine uncle," answered the fox, "so shall the day come when thou wilt berue it." "Who then, pray, is this mine enemy?" at last inquired the cub. "Who should it be but this calf? Saith he not always, 'The lioness killed my mother; therefore when I am strong enough I will kill the cub.'" "Nay, but we two are brothers," replied the cub; "the calf has no bad thoughts towards me." "Knowest thou then really not that thy mother killed his mother?" exclaimed the fox. And the cub thought within himself, "What the fox says is nevertheless true; and, further, is he not mine uncle, and what gain should he have to deceive me?" Then said he aloud, "By what manner of means does the calf purpose to kill me? tell me, I pray." And the fox made answer, "When he wakes to-morrow morning, observe thou him, and if he stretches himself and then digs his horns into the earth, and shakes his tail and bellows, know that it is a sure token he is minded to kill thee." The cub, his suspicions beginning to be excited, promised to be upon his guard and to observe the calf. Having succeeded thus far the fox went his way, directing his steps to the sunny side of the mountain slope where the calf was grazing. With his tail trailing on the ground, and his ears drooping, he stood before the calf. "Fox! what aileth thee?" inquired the calf cheerily; "come and tell me thy grief." But the fox answered, "Not for myself do I grieve. It is because thou, O calf! hast an enemy; therefore do I grieve." But the calf answered, "Be comforted, fox, for it is not likely any should be an enemy to me." Then replied the fox, "Beware thou disregard not my words, for if thou do, of a certainty a day shall come when thou shalt berue it." But the calf inquired, saying, "Who then could this enemy possibly be?" And the fox told him, saying, "Who should it be other than the lion-cub in the forest on the other side the mountain? Behold! doth he not use to say, 'Even as my mother killed and devoured his mother, so also will I kill and devour him.'" "Let not this disturb thee, fox," interposed the calf, "for we two are brothers; he hath no bad thoughts against me." But the fox warned him again, saying, "Of a surety, if thou disregard my words thou shalt berue it. Behold! I have warned thee." Then the calf began to think within himself, "Is it not true what he says that the cub's mother killed my mother; and, further, what gain should he, mine uncle, have in deceiving me?" Then said he aloud, "If thy warning be so true, tell me further, I pray thee, by what manner of means doth he design to put me to death?" And the fox told him, saying, "When he wakes to-morrow morning observe thou him, and if he stretch himself and shake his mane, if he draws his claws out and in, and scratches up the earth with them, then know that it is a sure token he is minded to slay thee." The calf, his suspicions beginning to be awakened, promised to be upon his guard and to observe the cub. The next morning, when they woke, each observed the other as he had promised the fox, and each by natural habit, which the fox had observed of old, but they not, gave the signs he had set before them for a token. At this each was filled with wrath and suspicion against the other, and when at sunrise they both went down to the stream to drink, the cub growled at the calf, and the calf bellowed at the cub. Hence further convinced of each other's bad intentions, they each determined at the same instant to be beforehand with the other. The calf dug his horns into the breast of the cub and gored it open, and the cub sprang upon the calf's throat and made a formidable wound, from whence the blood poured out. Thus they contended together till all the blood of both was poured out, and they died there before the face of the fox. Then came a voice out of svarga (3), saying, "Put never thy trust in a false friend, for so doing he shall put thee at enmity with him who is thy friend in truth." "Nevertheless, as the cub was killed as well as the calf, the perfidy of the fox profited him nothing as soon as he had made an end of eating their flesh!" exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. TALE XX. Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove; and having brought thence the Siddhî-kür bound in his bag, and having eaten of his cake that never diminished, to strengthen him for the journey, as they went along the Siddhî-kür told him this tale, saying,-- BHIXU LIFE. Long ages ago there lived in a country in the north of India, namely Nepaul, on the banks of a river named the Hiranjâvati (1), an old man and his old wife, who had no sons, but only one daughter. But this one daughter was all in all to them; and they had only one care in life, and that care was, how to establish her safely and well, that she might not be left alone in the world when they were on it no more. Nevertheless, though the maiden was fair to see, and wise and prudent in her ways, and though her parents had laid by a rich dowry for her portion, it so chanced that no one offered to marry her. Yet the years went by, and the man and his wife were both growing old, and they said, "If we marry her not now, soon will she be left all alone in the world." In a hut at some distance lived another aged couple, who were very poor; but they had one only son. Then said the father of the maiden to her mother, "We must give our daughter to the son of this poor couple for a wife, otherwise she will be left alone in the world." So they married the maiden to the son of this poor old couple, and they took him into their house, and he lived together with them. After a time, the husband felt a desire to return and see his parents; so he took his wife with him, and they went to seek his parents. At home, however, they were not, for they led a Bhixu life, and were gone on a begging expedition through all the tribes; therefore they went on, seeking them. About this time, a mighty Khan had given orders for a great distribution of alms (2). All that any one asked for, it was given him, whatsoever it might be. Only concerning the measure of rice-brandy distributed to any one person was there any restriction; but of all the rest there was no stint. The man and his wife therefore came with the rest of the people, and obtained their portion, according to their desire. When all had been well served, and had returned every one to his home, the man said to his wife, "If we would really be rich, and enjoy life, the way to do it is to go round through all the tribes, living on alms. So living, we have all we need desire. Moreover we need stand in no fear of thieves and robbers; our strength will not be brought down by labour by day, nor our sleep disturbed with anxiety by night; in drought and murrain we shall have no loss to suffer, for the herds of which we shall live will not be our own. To travel about ever among new people is itself no small pleasure. Moreover we shall never be vexed with paying tribute of that we have earned with the toil of our arms. If even we go back and take to us the inheritance thy parents promised to us, in how many days would it be all spent, and we become again even as now! But by going from tribe to tribe, living on alms, our store is never diminished, and there is nothing we shall lack (3)." Thus they lived many months, begging alms and lacking nothing, even as the man had said. Nevertheless, in the midst of their wanderings, a son was born to them. Then said the woman, "These wild tribes among whom we now are, give us nothing but rice-brandy, which is no food for me; neither have I strength to carry the child as he gets older." And as she knew her husband loved a vagabond life, and could not hear of going to live at home with her parents, she added, "Let us now go see my parents, and beg of them that they give us of their herds an ass, on which the infant may ride withal when we go round among the tribes seeking alms." To this proposition the man did not say "Nay," and they journeyed towards the house of the woman's parents, along the bank of the river Hiranjâvati. When they arrived at home, they found that the woman's parents were dead, nor was there the least remnant left of all their possessions: the herds were dispersed, and the flocks had fallen a prey to the wolves and the jackals; nothing remained but a few tufts of wool, which had got caught on the ant-heaps (4). The wife picked up the tufts, saying, "We will collect all these, and weave a piece of stuff out of them." But her husband pointed out that, at no great distance, was a plain with many tents, where, by asking alms, they could have plenty of barley and rice, without the trouble of weaving. They continued their way therefore towards the tents; but the woman continued saying, "When we have woven our piece of stuff, we will sell it, and buy a bigger piece, and then we will sell that and buy a bigger; and so on, till we have enough to buy an ass, then we will set our little one on it instead of carrying him. Then perhaps our ass will have a foal, and then we shall have two asses." "Certainly," answered her husband, "if our ass has a foal we shall have two asses." But the child said, "If our ass has a foal, I will take the foal, and will ride him, going about among the tribes, I also, asking alms even as you (5)." When his mother heard him speak thus, she was angry, and bid him hold his peace; she also went to correct him by hitting him with a stick, but the boy tried to escape from her, and the blow fell upon his head and killed him. Thus their child died. At the time that the woman's parents died, and the herds were dispersed, and the flocks devoured by wolves and jackals, one only lamb had escaped from the destruction, and had taken refuge in a hole in the ground, where it remained hid all day, and only came out at night to graze (6). One day a hare came by, and as the lamb was not afraid of the hare, she did not hide herself from him; therefore the hare said to her, "O lamb, who art thou?" And the lamb answered, "I belong to a flock whose master died of grief because his children went away and forsook him; and when he died, the wolves and the jackals came and devoured all his flock, and I, even I only, escaped of them all, and I have hid myself in this hole. Thou, O hare, then, be my protector." Thus spoke the lamb. But the hare answered, "Must not a lamb live in a flock? How shall a lamb live in a hole all alone? Behold, I will even bring thee to a place where are flocks of sheep, with whom thou mayest live as becometh a lamb." "It were better we stayed here," replied the lamb trembling; "for if we meet the wolf in the open country, how shall we escape him?" "For that will I provide," answered the hare; "only come thou with me." So they set out, the lamb and the hare together, for to seek a place where grazed flocks in goodly company. As they went along, they saw on the ground a hand-loom, which some one sitting out there to weave had left behind. The hare bid the lamb put it on her back, and bring it along with her. The lamb did as she was bid. A little farther they saw a piece of yellow stuff lying on the ground: this also the hare bid the lamb pick up and bring with her. The lamb did as she was bid. And a little farther on they saw a piece of paper, with something written on it, blown along by the wind; this likewise the hare bid the lamb bring with her. And the lamb did as she was bid. A little farther on they saw a wolf coming. As he drew near them, the hare said to the lamb, "Bring me now my throne." Then the lamb understood that he meant the hand-loom, and she set it in the way. Then the hare continued, "Spread abroad over me my gold-coloured royal mantle." Then the lamb understood that he meant the piece of yellow stuff he had bid her pick up, and she spread it over him as he sat on the hand-loom for a throne. Then said the hare again "Reach me the document which the moon sent down to me on the fifteenth of the month (7)." So the lamb understood that he meant the piece of written paper he had bid her pick up, and she gave it into his hand. By this time the wolf had come up with them, and when he saw the hare seated so majestically on the hand-loom for a throne, and with the royal mantle of yellow stuff about him, and the written document in his hand, the lamb moreover standing quietly by his side, he said within himself, "These must be very extraordinary beasts, who do not run away at my approach, after the manner of common beasts." Therefore he stood still, and said to the hare, "Who and whence art thou?" But the hare, still holding the piece of written paper in his hand, made as though he were reading from it as follows:--"This is the all high command of the god Churmusta (8) unto the most noble and honourable hare, delivered unto him by the hands of the moon, on the fifteenth of the month. On the same most noble and honourable hare I lay this charge, that he do bring me, before the fifteenth of the next moon, the skins of a thousand rapacious, flock-scattering wolves." And as the hare read these words, he erected his ears with great importance and determination of manner, and made as though he would have come down from his throne to attack the wolf. The wolf, still more alarmed at this proceeding, took flight, nor so much as looked back to see whether the hare was really pursuing him. As soon as he was well on his way, the hare and the lamb set out once more on their journey, taking another direction from the wolf, and arrived happily at one of the most fertile pastures in the kingdom of Nepaul. "The prudence of that hare was equal to his good feeling," exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. TALE XXI. Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove; and having brought thence the Siddhî-kür bound in his bag, the Siddhî-kür as they went along told him this tale, saying,-- HOW THE WIDOW SAVED HER SON'S LIFE (1). Long ages ago there lived in Chara Kitad (2), which lieth to the east of India, a king named Daibang (3), who had one only son. But this son never showed himself to the people. No one in the whole empire had once set his eyes on him. Every day he sent and fetched a handsome youth of the people to come and comb his hair for him, and immediately that he had made an end of combing him he had him put to death. Every day one. This went on for many years, and no one dared to withhold their son from the king's command. At last it came to the turn of a youth who was a widow's son. The widow, therefore, full of anguish at the thought of her son, her eldest stay and consolation, being taken from her and slain, made cakes of dough kneaded with her own milk, and gave them to her son, saying, "Manage so that while thou art combing the hair of the Khan, he shall eat one of these cakes." The widow's son, therefore, came and stood before the Khan; and as he combed the Khan's hair with the Khan's golden comb, he saw that the ears of the Khan were formed like to the ears of an ass, and that it was that his subjects might not know he had ears like to the ears of an ass, that he put to death every day the young men, who, combing his hair, had seen them. Nevertheless, the widow's son went on combing the Khan's hair, and eating the cakes his mother had given him the while. At last the Khan said, "What eatest thou?" And he answered, "Cakes kneaded of rice-flour and milk; such cakes do I eat." And when the Khan asked for some to taste, he gave him one, and the Khan ate it. When the Khan had eaten the cake, he said, "The scent and the flavour of these cakes is good. How are they composed? tell me." The widow's son answered, "My mother made them for me with milk of her own breast, and kneaded them with rice-flour." When the Khan heard that, he said within himself, "How shall I put this youth to death, seeing he and I have both partaken of one mother's milk? That were unnatural and unheard of." Then said he aloud, "If that be so, I will not put thee to death this day; but only take an oath of thee that thou tell no man that I have ears like to asses' ears. Shouldst thou, however, break thine oath, then, know that thou shalt surely be put to death." "Unto no man, O Khan," swore the youth, "will I declare this thing. Neither unto my mother herself." And having thanked the Khan for sparing his life he went his way. Day after day, however, all the youths who went in to comb the Khan's hair were put to death as before, and all the people wondered greatly why the widow's son had been spared. Nevertheless, remembering the oath which he had given the Khan, he told no man how it had befallen for all their wondering and inquiring, nor even his own mother. But as he continued thus keeping his own counsel, and telling no man the reason why the Khan killed all the other youths who combed his hair and spared him, the secret vexed his heart, nor could he stand against the oppression of his desire to speak it, so that he fell ill, and like to die. Nor were medicaments nor yet offerings in sacrifice (4) of any avail to heal him of that sickness, though many Lamas were called to see him. At last a Lama came, who having felt his pulse said, "In this kind of sickness medicaments avail nothing; only tell what it is thou hast on thine heart, and as soon as thou shalt have told it, to whomsoever it may be, thou shalt be relieved, and be well again. Other remedy is there none." Thus spoke the Lama. Then all they that stood by the bed spoke to him, saying, "If it be that thou hast any thing on thy mind, as the Lama has said, even though it be the least matter, speak it now and recover. Of what good shall it be to thee to keep the secret if, after all, thou diest?" But neither so would he break his oath to the Khan. But at night when they were all gone, and his mother only was with him, and she urged him much, he told her, saying, "Of a truth have I a secret; but I have sworn to the Khan that I will tell it to no man, nor yet even to thee, my mother." Then spoke his mother again, saying, "If this be so, then go out far from the habitations of men, and hiding thy face in a crack of the earth where the soil is parched for want of moisture; or else, in the hollow of an ancient tree, or in a narrow cleft of the everlasting rock, and speak it there." And the youth listened to her word; and he went out far from the habitations of men till he came where there was a hole of a marmot in the ground. Putting his mouth into the hole he cried, "Our Khan, Daibang, has ears even like to the ears of an ass!" and he repeated the same four times, and was well again. But the marmot living in the hole, had heard the words, and she repeated them to the echo, and the echo told them to the wind, and the wind brought them to the Khan. So the Khan sent, and called the youth, even the widow's son, before him, saying, "Charged I thee not that thou told no man this thing, and swarest thou not unto me that thou wouldst declare it to no man, nor even to thine own mother? How then hast thou gone and spoken it abroad?" But the youth answered, saying, "To no man either at home or abroad have I spoken the thing, O Khan!" "How then came the words back to me unless it be that thou hast spoken them, seeing that none other knows the thing save thee?" again asked the Khan. "I know not," replied the youth, "unless it be that through refraining of myself that I might keep the secret I fell ill, and when all medicaments and offerings of sacrifice failed, there came a Lama who said there was no remedy save that I should unburden that which oppressed my mind. Then to save my life, and yet not betray the Khan's confidence, I spoke it in the hole of a marmot in the waste, far from the habitations of men." Then when the Khan found he was so faithful and discreet he believed his word, and forbore to put him to death. Further he said to him, "Tell me, now, canst thou devise any means by which these asses' ears may be concealed, so that I may go forth among my subjects like other Khans?" "If the Khan would listen to the word of one so humble, even now a means of concealment is plain to my mind," replied the youth. And the Khan answered him, "Speak, and I will listen to what thou hast to advise." The youth therefore spoke, saying, "O mighty Khan! Let now a high-fashioned cap be made to cover thine head, and let there be on either side lappets to the cap, covering the ears. Then shall all men when they see the Khan wearing such a cap deem it beseeming to wear such a cap likewise." Thus the youth counselled the Khan. And the Khan found the counsel good, and he made him a high-fashioned cap with lappets covering the ears; and when the ministers of state and the counsellors and nobles saw the Khan wearing such a cap, they made to themselves caps like unto it, and all men wore it, and it was known by the name of "the lappet cap." But no man knew that the king's ears were like to asses' ears. Furthermore, the Khan no longer had need to put to death the youths who combed his hair, and all the people rejoiced greatly. But for the youth, even the widow's son, he made him steward over all his household, and whatsoever he did, he did with prudence and judgment, his mother advising him. "The Khan who put so many youths to death to save his own reputation did not deserve so good a counsel!" exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. TALE XXII. Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove, and, having brought thence the Siddhî-kür as on the other times, bound in his bag with the cord woven of a hundred threads, as they went along the Siddhî-kür told him this tale, saying,-- THE WHITE SERPENT-KING. Long ages ago there lived in the east part of India a Khan whose possessions were so large that he had ten thousand cities, and for the administration of the affairs of the same he had not less than thirty ministers. He had also a gold frog that could dance, and a parrot that spoke wisely. A tamer was also appointed to have care of them, and every day this keeper brought them before the Khan to divert him. The frog danced every day a new dance, and the parrot now gave wise answers to the questions he proposed, now sang melodious songs with accomplished art. One day there came to the court of this King a minstrel from a strange land, in whose playing and singing the Khan took so great pleasure that he gave him many rich presents, and the man went about saying, "In all his dominions the King has no favourite in whom he takes so great delight as in me who am a stranger; neither is there any other who knows how to please him as I." When the keeper of the gold frog and the parrot heard him make this boast, he answered him saying, "Nay, much greater pleasure hath the Khan in his gold frog and his parrot, of whom I am keeper." And they strove together. In the end the minstrel said, "To-morrow we will both go up to the Khan together, and while your gold frog dances his most elaborate dance, and your parrot sings his most melodious songs, I also will play and sing my sagas to the Khan; and behold! to whichever the Khan gives ear while he regards not the other, he shall be accounted to have most pleased the Khan." The next day they did even as the minstrel had said, and when the minstrel began to sing the Khan paid no more heed at all to the frog or the parrot, but listened only to the strange minstrel's words. Then the tamer who had charge of the frog and the parrot, when he saw that the strange minstrel was preferred, lost heart and came no more before the Khan, but went and let fly the parrot, and threw the gold frog out of a window of the palace. As he threw the gold frog out of the window of the palace a crow was flying by, and seeing the frog thrown out, and that it knew not which way to turn, he caught it in his beak and flew away to a ledge of a rock. As he was about to devour her, the frog said,-- "O crow! if thou art minded to devour me, first wash me in water, and then come and devour me." And the remark pleased the crow, and he said to the frog,-- "Well spoken, O frog! What is thy name?" And the frog made answer,-- "Bagatur-Ssedkiltu (1). That is my name." So the crow took her down to wash her in the streamlet which flowed ceaselessly out of a hole in the rock. But the frog had no sooner gained the water than she crept into the hole. The crow called after her,-- "Bagatur-Ssedkiltu! Bagatur-Ssedkiltu, come thou here!" But the frog answered him,-- "I should be foolish indeed if I came of my own account to give up my sweet life to your voracity. The Three Precious Treasures (2) may decide whether I have so little courage and pride as that!" So saying, she leapt into a cleft of the rock out of reach of the crow. Meantime her former tamer had come up, and began searching about, trying to recover her, having bethought him he might incur the King's anger in having let her go. And when he saw her not he began digging up the earth and hewing the rock all round the streamlet. When the frog saw him digging up the earth and breaking the rock all round the streamlet, she cried out to him,-- "Dig not up the source of this spring. The King of the same hath given me charge over it, and I will not that thou lay it bare by digging round it." She said further, "Though now thou art in sorrow and distress, I will presently render thee a gift that shall be a gift of wonder. Listen and I will tell thee. I am the daughter of the Serpent-king, reigning over the white mother-o'-pearl shells (3). One day I went out to see the King's daughter bathe, and she, seeing me, sent and had me fished out of the stream with a mother-o'-pearl pail, and took me with her." Meantime, the King began to notice that the parrot and the frog came no more to entertain him, so he sent for the tamer, and inquired what had become of his charges. "The frog is gone her way in the stream," answered the man, "and the parrot must have been taken by a hawk." The Khan was wroth at this answer, and ordered that the man should be taken and put to death. Then came the first of the thirty ministers to the Khan, saying,-- "If we put this man to death, no more dancers or singers will come any more to this court." And the Khan answered,-- "It is well spoken; let him not be put to death." He sent him into banishment, however, with three men to see him over the border of his dominions, and a goat to carry his provisions. But he also had him shod with a pair of shoes made out of stone, forbidding him to return until the stone shoes should be worn through. As soon as his guards had left him, the tamer sat down by the side of the stream, and after soaking the stone shoes with water, rubbed them with a piece of rough stone till they were all in holes. Then he came back to his own country, with the goat that had carried his provisions, and made him dig roots out of the earth for him to eat. And he lived upon the roots. One day he saw an owl flying by, which held in its mouth a white serpent. The tamer knew him to be a serpent-prince, and to make the owl release him, took off his girdle and held it in his mouth, after the manner in which the owl held the serpent, and, standing over against the owl, he cried out, "The thing held in the mouth burns with fire!" at the same time dropping the girdle from his mouth suddenly, as if it scorched him. When the owl had heard his words, she also let the serpent fall out of her beak. Then the tamer took up the serpent, and put it on a piece of grass near, and covered it with his cap. He had hardly done so, when there came up out of the water a whole train of princes of the serpent-dæmons, riding on horses, on to the bank of the stream, where they dispersed themselves, searching about every where for the white serpent, which was a serpent-prince. After they had searched long and found nothing, there came up out of the water, riding on a white horse, a white serpent, having on a white mantle and a white crown (4). He, seeing the tamer, said to him,-- "I am the Serpent-king, reigning over the white mother-o'-pearl shells. I have lost my son. O man! say if thine eyes have lighted on him." The tamer asked of him, "What was thy son like?" And the Serpent-king answered,-- "Even a white serpent was my son." "If that is so," answered the tamer, thy son is with me. Even now a mighty Garuda-bird had him in his beak and prepared to devour him. But I, who am a tamer of all living creatures, knew how to entreat him so that he should give the white serpent up to me." Then he lifted his cap from off the grass and delivered the White Serpent-prince unto the Serpent-king, his father. The Serpent-king was full of delight at getting back his son, and called a great feast of all his friends and acquaintance among the serpent-princes to celebrate his joy. And the tamer he took into his palace, and he dwelt with him. After a time, however, the man desired to return to his own country, and spoke to the Serpent-king to let him go. Then said the White Serpent-king, who reigned over the white mother-o'-pearl shells-- "Behold, as thou hast dealt well with me, I will not let thee go without bestowing somewhat on thee, and telling thee what good fortune shall befall thee. Behold these two times hast thou served me well; and long time have I sought thee to reward thee, for first thou didst release my daughter, the Princess Goldfrog, from servitude, putting her out of the window of the palace, and now thou hast restored my son, even mine only son, to me. Know, therefore, that of thee shall be born four sons, every one of whom shall be a king in Gambudvîpa. Nevertheless, seeing it will befall that, ere that time come, thou shalt pass through a season of trial, and be in need, I give unto thee this Mirjalaktschi (5) and this wand. Whensoever thou wantest for food, touch but this Mirjalaktschi with the wand, and immediately every kind of viand shall be spread out before thee." Then he brought him up to the edge of the water to let him depart, giving him a brightly painted Mirjalaktschi and a mother-o'-pearl wand; moreover, he gave him a red-coloured dog also. Then the White Serpent-king went his way down under the water again to his palace, and the tamer turned him towards his own country, the red-coloured dog following behind him. "Thus was the promise of Princess Goldfrog fulfilled," exclaimed the Khan. And as he let these words escape him, the Siddhî-kür replied, "Forgetting his health, the Well-and-wise-walking Khan hath opened his lips." And with the cry, "To escape out of this world is good!" he sped him through the air, swift out of sight. TALE XXIII. Wherefore the Well-and-wise-walking Khan once more took the way of the cool grove; and having taken the Siddhî-kür, and bound him in his bag, as at other times, he brought him along to the great Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una. As they went along by the way, the Siddhî-kür told him this tale, of how it fell out with the red-coloured dog, saying,-- WHAT BECAME OF THE RED-COLOURED DOG. When it was evening they went, the tamer and the red-coloured dog together, into a grove to sleep, and by day they journeyed on. One day, when they made their evening halt, the red-coloured dog laid aside her dog's form, and appeared as a beautiful maiden, clothed in shining robes of white, and with a crown of white flowers on her head; and, when the tamer saw her, he loved her. Moreover, she said to him, "Me hath the Serpent-king given to thee to be thy wife." And he married her, and she was his wife. Every morning she put on the form of the red-coloured dog again, and they journeyed on. One morning, however, before she put on the dog form, she went down to bathe in the river, and while she was gone, the man burnt the dog form, saying, "Now must she always remain as a beautiful woman." But when she came up from bathing, and found what he had done, she said, with many other moving and sorrowful words, "Now can I no more walk with thee, and share thy wanderings." So they remained in that place. Again, another day she went down to bathe in the river, and as she bathed some of her hairs falling off, were carried down the stream. At a place near the mouth of the stream, a maid belonging to the service of the Khan had gone down to fetch water, and these hairs came out of the water clinging to her water-jar. And as the hairs were wonderful to behold, being adorned with the five colours and the seven precious things (1), she wondered at them, and brought them to the Khan for him to see. The Khan had no sooner examined them than he came to this conclusion, saying,-- "Somewhere along the course of this stream it is evident there must be living a surpassingly beautiful woman. Only to such an one could these hairs belong." Then he called the captain of his guard, and bid him take of armed men as many as ever he would, and by all means to bring unto him the woman to whom these hairs belonged. Thus he instructed him. But the woman had knowledge of what was going forward, and she came weeping to her husband, and showed the thing to him, "And now," she said, "the Khan's soldiers will surround the place, neither is there any way of escape, nor any that can withstand the orders of the Khan. Hadst thou not burnt the red dog form, then had I had a means of refuge." Then the man wept too, and would have persuaded her to escape, but she said,-- "It skills not, for they would pursue us and overtake us, and put you to death out of revenge. By going at their command without resistance, at least they will save you alive." While they were speaking the captain of the Khan's guard came with his men-at-arms, and posted them about the place. Then, while they were taking their measures to completely surround the inclosure that the woman might by no means break through, she said to her husband,-- "The only remedy that remains is that thou wait quietly for the space of a year, and in the meantime I will arrange a stratagem. Then on the fifteenth day of the month Pushja (2), I will go up on to the edge of a mountain with the Khan. But thou, meantime, make to thyself a garment of magpie's feathers, then come and dance before us, in it; and I will invent some plan for escaping with thee." Thus she advised him. And the soldiers came and took her to the Khan; the husband making no resistance, even as she had counselled him. Also, he let a year pass according to her word; but being alone, and in distress for the loss of his wife, he neglected his work and his business, and came to poverty. Then bethought he him of the word of the White Serpent-king, saying, "There shall come a season when thou shalt be in poverty." So he took out his Mirjalaktschi, and touched it with the mother-o'pearl-wand, and it gave him all manner of food, and he lived in abundance. Then he set snares, and caught magpies, exceeding many, and made to himself a covering out of their feathers, and practised himself in dancing grotesque dances. On the fifteenth day of the month Pushja, the Khanin arranged to go with the Khan to visit the mountain. On the same day the husband came there also, dressed even as she had directed him, in a costume made of magpie's feathers. Having first attracted the attention of the Khan by his extraordinary appearance, he began dancing and performing ludicrous antics. The Khan, who was by this time tired of the songs of the foreign minstrel, nor had found any to replace the gold frog and the parrot, observed him with great attention. But the Khanin seeing how exact and expert her husband was in following out her advice for recovering her, felt quite happy as she had never done before since she was taken from him; and to encourage him to go on dancing she laughed loud and merrily. The Khan was astonished, when he saw her laugh thus, and he said, "Although for a whole year past I have devised every variety of means to endeavour to make thee at least bear some appearance of cheerfulness, it has profited nothing; for thou hast sat and mourned all the day long, nor has any thing had power to divert thee. Yet now that this man, who is more like a monster than a man, has come and made all these ridiculous contortions, at this thou hast laughed!" And she, having fixed in her own mind the part she had to play, continued laughing, as she answered him,-- "All this year, even as thou sayest, thou hast laboured to make me laugh; and now that I have laughed, it would seem almost that it pleaseth thee not." And the Khan hasted to make answer, "Nay, for in that thou hast laughed thou hast given me pleasure; but in that it was at a diversion which another prepared for thee, and not I, this is what pleased me not. I would that thou hadst laughed at a sport devised for thee by me." Then answered the Khanin, "Wouldst thou in very truth prepare for me a sport at which I would surely laugh?" And the Khan hasted to make answer, "That would I in very truth; thou knowest that there is nothing I would not do to fulfil thy bidding and desire." "If that be so," replied the Khanin. "Know that there is one thing at which I would laugh in right good earnest; and that is, if it were thou who worest this monstrous costume. That this fellow weareth it is well enough, but we know not how monstrous he may be by nature. But if thou, O Khan, who art so comely of form and stature, didst put it on, then would it be a sight to make one laugh indeed." And her words pleased the Khan. So he called the man aside into a solitary place that the courtiers and people might not see what he did, and so become a laughing-stock to them. Then he made the man exchange his costume of magpie's feathers against his royal attire and mantle, and went to dance before the Khanin, bidding the man take his place by her side. No sooner, however, did the Khanin see him thus caught in her snare than she returned with her own husband, habited in the Khan's royal habiliments, to the palace. She also gave strict charge to her guard, saying,-- "That juggler who was dancing just now upon the hill, dressed in a fantastic costume of magpie's feathers, has the design of giving himself out for being the Khan. Should he make the attempt, set dogs (3) on him and drive him forth out of the country. Of all things, on peril of your lives, suffer him not to enter the palace." Scarcely had she made an end of speaking and conducted her husband into the palace, when the Khan appeared, still wearing the magpie costume, because the Khanin's husband had gone off with her, wearing his royal habiliments, and would have made his way to his own apartments; but the guards seeing him, and recognizing the man in the magpie disguise the Khanin had designated, ordered him out. The Khan asserted his khanship, and paid no heed to the guards; but the more he strove to prove himself the Khan, the more were the guards convinced he was the man the Khanin had ordered them to eject, and they continued barring the way against him and preventing his ingress. Then he grew angry and began to strive against them till they, wearied with his resistance, called out the dogs and set them on him. The dogs, taking him for a monstrous wild bird, eagerly ran towards him, so that he was forced to turn and flee that he might by any means save his life. But the dogs were swifter than he and overtook him, and, springing upon him, tore him in pieces and devoured him. Thus the husband of the Khanin became installed in all his governments and possessions. Moreover, that night there were born to the Khan four sons, who were every one exceeding great rulers in Gambudvîpa, even as the White Serpent-king, reigning over the white mother-o'-pearl shells, had foretold. The eldest of these four was renowned as the spiritual ruler of all India (4). In one night he translated all the sacred books into a thousand different languages for the use of devas and men, and in one other night he erected a hundred thousand sacred temples all over his dominions. The brother next to him was endowed with all kinds of power and strength in his earliest youth, and with every capacity. This Prince was renowned as ruler of the Mongols by the name of Barin Tochedaktschi Erdektu (5), for so expert and mighty was he in the use of the bow that if he shot his arrow at four men standing side by side together, every one of them was certain to fall to the earth, transfixed through the centre of the heart. The next brother raised up to himself a mighty host of a hundred thousand men by pulling out a single hair of his head, and he led them forth to battle, and was known to the whole earth by the name of Gesser-Khan (6). The fourth brother fitted out four caravans of merchandise all in one day, and sent them forth to the four quarters of heaven. By these means he obtained possession of the All-desire-supplying talisman, Tschin-tâmani, and was Ruler of the Treasures of the earth, with the title of Barss-Irbiss (7), Shah of Persia. CONCLUSION OF THE ADVENTURES OF THE WELL-AND-WISE-WALKING KHAN. The Well-and-wise-walking Khan listened till the Siddhî-kür had made an end of speaking, but opened never his lips. Though he heaped up wonders upon wonders as a man heaps up faggots on a funeral pile, yet spake he never a word. Therefore the sack remained fast bound with the cord of a hundred threads of different colours, nor could the Siddhî-kür find means to escape out of the same; but the Well-and-wise-walking Khan bore him along to his journey's end, even to the feet of his great Master and Teacher Nâgârg'una. And Nâgârg'una took the mighty dead, even him endowed with perfection of capacity and fulness of power, and laid him up in the cool grove on the shining mountain of Southern India, venerated by all men as the Siddhitu-Altan even unto this day. By this means also great prosperity crowned the whole land of Gambudvîpa. To all the men thereof were given knowledge and length of days. The laws were obeyed and religion honoured, and happiness had her abode among them. THE SAGA OF ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI AND VIKRAMÂDITJA'S THRONE. HISTORICAL NOTICE OF VIKRAMÂDITJA. The name of Vikramâditja is a household word in the epic mythology of India; and freely it seems to have been adopted by or conferred upon those who emulated the heroic acts of some first great bearer. But as the legendary chroniclers are more occupied with extolling the merits of their favourites, than with establishing their place in the page of history, it becomes a well-nigh impossible task for the modern investigator to trace out and fix the times and seasons of all those who, either in fact or in fiction, have borne the name, or even to distinguish with certainty how many there have been, still less, what are the peculiar deeds and attributes of each. A writer (1), who has examined painstakingly into the matter, tells us that the popular mind is only conscious of one Vikramâditja, so that without troubling itself to consider the insufficiency of one life to embrace all the aggregate of wonderful works it has to tell of him, it supposes him rather to have had a prolonged or recurring existence as marvellous in itself as the events of which it is composed. On the other hand, he found that native writers made out the number variously from four to nine, though he could not find that they determined with precision the existence of more than two. An additional difficulty arises from this, that the very distinctive super-appellations derived from their deeds by heroes bearing the name seem to have passed over to others along with the name itself; as, for instance, Gardabharâpa = "donkey-form," given to one of them on account of his being temporarily transformed into a donkey by his father; the name of Sakjaditja is similarly given indiscriminately to others who lived at different periods, though the origin of the word can only be found in an exploit of one of them, who with the aid of Shêsa, the serpent-god, destroyed an oppressor named Sâkja (2). While the name Vikramaâditja itself seems rather a descriptive appellation than a name, being composed of the two Sanskrit words, vikrama and âditja--the sun, or bright exposition of heroic virtue. You may form some idea of the uncertainty thus created if you imagine the Roman historians to have been silent, and suppose, that nothing remained to us of the lives of the Emperors, for instance, but certain panegyrics of bards and traditions of the people, eked out by a little scanty assistance from inscriptions and coins, and unsystematic and untrustworthy chronicles. You may then conceive, how with no fixed dates marked out for determining the period of the reign of each, and no literary criterion to distinguish incongruities, a fertile imagination, aiming rather at exciting admiration than conveying information, could run riot with the mass of the acts and adventures, the victories and achievements of the whole number, because the names or titles of "Augustus" and "Cæsar" could be applied to many or all. There is also the further difficulty that the heroic myths of India have travelled on from tribe to tribe, and from province to province (3), the character of the hero and his exploits incurring many transformations and fresh identifications under the process (4). Not to go into the elaborate discussion which the intricate study of the Indian dynasties has called forth, it may suffice in this place to observe that, in the absence of more regular records, the greatest aid we have in arriving at some fixed knowledge of the events of a remote age in India is derived from inscriptions and coins (5). And, as a specimen of the thought and care that has been brought to bear on the matter, to specify the interesting circumstance connected with this particular instance, that the nearest approach to a satisfactory determination of the date of the chief bearer of the name of Vikramâditja that is likely to be attained has been arrived at from the observation of the influence of Greek art on the execution of certain of the coins (6) which have been preserved and collected, connecting them with the period succeeding Alexander's invasion. A careful collation of these specimens with the most authentic list of the kings has given tolerable authority for asserting that the date of 57 B.C. may be assumed for the date of the first historic (7) Vikramâditja, whose chief honour lies in having overcome and superseded the descendants of the foreign race of rulers who had been in possession of his native country before his time. In pursuing the history of his dynasty, however, the help so far afforded by the coins ceases, and the only written records of him are the collections of popular fables of his deeds. Only one of these collections, and of that the date is unknown, has any pretension to rank as history; and even this is full of wonders and manifest exaggerations. Its author, Ravipati Gurumûrti by name, informs the reader, however, that he had brought together and compared many Sanskrit manuscripts, and sifted much oral tradition in its compilation. According to this account, Vikramâditja was the son of a Brahman named Kandrasarman, the fourth son of Vishnusarman, inhabiting a city called Vedanârâjanapura, a name not found in any other writer. Dissatisfied with the ordinary occupations on which he was kept employed by his parents, he ran away from home and after many adventures came to Uggajini, where he married the daughter of Dhvagakîrti, the reigning sovereign of Malâva (8). His son Vikramâditja was the more celebrated hero, and according to another MS. (quoted in W. Taylor's Examination of the Mackenzie MSS.) the former of these two was not called Vikramâditja at all, but Govinda. Feeling an interior conviction of his great destiny, Vikramâditja (the son) determined on obtaining supernatural aid in fulfilling it; and, with this view, he devoted himself to prayer and retirement, until he had obtained an apparition of the goddess Kali, the chosen wife of Shiva, who gave him the solemn promise that he should be invulnerable to all enemies with the exception of one who should be supernaturally born; and that he should rejoice in a happy reign of a thousand years (9). By the shrewd advice of his half-brother Bhatti, whom he made his minister, he contrived to obtain out of this promise double the length of years actually named, for he arranged to reign for only six months at a time, spending six months in contemplation in the jungle, so that it took two thousand years to make up a thousand years' reign (10). In another account, he is made to reign 949 years; and, on the other hand, in another (11) only a hundred and six years. It might have been expected that a people who raised themselves at so remote a period to a comparatively high degree of civilization, and in other departments of mental exertion distinguished themselves in so marked a manner, should of all things have possessed a copious historical literature, but there are other things to take into account which explain why the contrary is the case (12). A German writer (13) has put the case very summarily. "Their religion," he says, "has destroyed all history for the Hindus. They are taught to look on life as a mere passing condition of probation and sorrow, and its incidents, consequently, as unworthy to be recorded." But this is a hardly fair statement, and only true to a certain extent. Benfey (14) perhaps reaches nearer the mark when he says,--"The life of man was for them but a small portion of the immense divine life pervading the whole universe. It lay, so to speak, rolled up in a fold of the mantle of the godhead. Viewed thus, history became a theme so vast that the infinitesimal human element of it was lost to view. Theosophies, idealisms, allegories, myths, filled up the place of the record of the doings of mortals." Troyer (15) takes nearly the same view, but further calls attention to the influence exercised by the religious teaching concerning re-births and transmigration of souls in working against history becoming a science. Historical characters lost their positive identity, and the effect a man's acts under a previous existence were taught to exercise on his fate diminished the responsibility and merit of, and consequently the interest in, his actions. To arrive at a more exact view, however, it is necessary to distinguish between the parts which Brahman and Buddhist teaching have respectively to bear in the matter. The Brahmanical castes became subdivided into groups composed of many families, with no common founder, the preservation of whose name and deeds would have afforded an instigation to building up the materials of a national history. Only at a comparatively late period some traditions were kept up of the heads of these groups, but this in such a way as to serve rather to throw back attention on to the past and restrain it from the contemplation and record of contemporary events, Caste took the place of country, and the interest of the individual was drawn away from national to local interest. Next, the history of the gods possessed a much higher importance in their eyes than that of the kings of the earth, while at the same time the humanistic conception of their character rendered the myths concerning them of a nature to clash with and supersede the records of earthly notabilities. Their wars and their loves and their undertakings were indeed often superhuman in scale, but they were yet for the most part no more exalted in nature, than the occupations of men. But from this habit of making their divinities actors in gigantic human incidents, their mind grew used to regard the marvellous and unreal as possible and true, and was at no pains to fix any data with exactness. Then their contemplative mode of life kept them out of actual contact with what was going on in the world around them. Most Brahmans lived engrossed by the service of the temple, or else occupied with their families or their disciples. Very few are the examples of their acting as ministers or judges, or taking any part in public life. Further, many elements of history may be said to have scarcely existed at all. All changes of manners and customs, all growth of arts and sciences, were impeded by the appointment of fixed laws, and remained pretty much the same for long periods. Again, the subdivision of the country into multitudinous governments, and the comparatively short duration of any large union of them under one dynasty--as, for instance, the Maurja or the Gupta--further weakened any tendency to the formation of a national spirit. The best preserved attempts at history are those of Lankâ (Ceylon), Orissa, Cashmere, the Dekhan, and other kingdoms or provinces which have all along preserved their identity. Where one country fell under the empire of another its history naturally lapsed in that of the conquering state, or became altogether lost; and as such annexations were mostly effected by violence, it is only to be expected that the conqueror should discourage any thing that would keep up the memory of the rulers he had superseded. The Chronicle of Cashmere, called the Râga Taraginî, or "Stream of Kings," is perhaps the best written. It was compiled by Kalhana Pandita, who lived, however, as late as 1150 of our era, and is carried down to the year 1125. He appears to have laboured to make it as complete and reliable as the vague and scattered materials at his disposal admitted; yet so little was even he capable of appreciating the value of accuracy, that he ascribes to a reign (removed from his own date by no more remote period than 600 years) a length of 300 years. And this is but a small fable by comparison with others of his statements. This Chronicle possesses the peculiarity of being almost the only work of an historical nature compiled under Brahman influence. The only work which has any pretension to universality in its scope is the Karnâtaka Râgakula. But though it begins with an account of the creation of the world and the incarnations of Vishnu, and narrates the deeds of typical heroes like Pandarva and Vikramâditja, it yet only contains the history of the Dekhan, and is, after all, a modern work edited at the bidding of English rulers. The only earlier work of the same character is one professing to give the general history of India from Ashokja to Pratîtasena, written in the fourteenth century. This, however, is believed not to have been compiled by a native Indian, and is, at any rate, not the work of a Brahman, though possibly of a Buddhist. In the matter of historical compilation we have in general more to thank Buddhism than Brahmanism for. The simple Sûtra, or colloquies of Shâkjamuni with his disciples, written in masajja, a poetical prose pleasingly broken into a sort of cadence, themselves form a kind of history of the country contained in this sort of memoir of its great religionist. The simple Sûtra are of two classes. The first class consists of an account of Buddha's own wanderings and personal dealings both with his disciples and others, and were probably compiled (16) by the first great Sangha, or Synod, within 100 years after his death (17), though bearing marks in many places of having been reconstructed at a later period. The other class takes notice of events and persons belonging to a subsequent period. Besides these there are the Mâhajâna-Sûtra, a more detailed and developed continuation of the same species of chronicle, but bearing marks of having been compiled at a much more advanced date still, for they introduce ideas which do not belong to the early teaching of Buddhism, but to a very late development. These writings possess great historical importance, but yet are by no means free from the faults of inaccuracy of date and arrangement; of idealizations of the persons treated of; the introduction of fabulous incidents, transmigrations, and such like. The very desire of the Buddhists to make their records more complete and useful than the Brahmans', often led to additional complications, because it induced all manner of interpolations--as for instance, whole series of kingly personages, the account of whose lives is not even to be set down to the exaggerations of ill-preserved tradition, but to pure fabrication of the imagination. More reliance on the whole is to be placed on the great epic poems, and, chiefly, the Purâna and Mahâ Bhârata. The works which we now find extant, with the title of Purâna (ancient)--eighteen in number,--are, however, at best but the reproduction of six older compilations, either collected from the recitations of Sûtas (bards), or themselves reproductions of still older compilations, which have probably perished for ever. They contain pretty well all that is known concerning the origin, mode of life, heroic deeds, and ways of theological thought, of those Indian nations who acknowledged either Vishnu or Shiva for their highest god; and traces are to be distinguished by which the statement of earlier and purer belief has been distorted or biassed according to the tenets of the later compiler. The Mahâ Bhârata concerns itself more exclusively with the deeds of the gods and heroes, and is itself often referred to in the Purânas. Both of them bear witness that it was the frequent custom, on occasions of great gatherings of the people for public sacrifices and popular festivals, and also in the places of retirement of religious teachers round whom disciples gathered, that the stories of gods and heroes should be sung or told, and eagerly listened to. Such stories were collected into the Mahâ Bhârata by Vjâsa = "the Arranger" (who also occupied himself with the recompilation of the Vêda), son of Satjavati = "the truthful one," daughter to Vasu, king of Magadha. Vasu had conferred great benefits on his subjects, and was held in proportionate honour. His great work was the construction of a canal, of which mythology has thus preserved the memory. The mountain-god, Kôlâhola, fell in love with the stream-goddess, Shirktimatî. As she sported past the tower of Kêdi, he barred her further progress by here damming her course with a mountain. Vasu saw her distress, and came to rescue her by striking the mountain with his foot, and thus delivering her from her imprisonment. The goddess in gratitude devoted her twin children to his service. He made her son the leader of his armies, and married her daughter Girikâ, by whom he also had twins--a son, whom he made king of Matsja; and a daughter, Satjavati, who, as we have seen, married the father of Yjâsa. This was the Rishi Parâsara who obtained for her the name of Gandha, and the corresponding character of "sweet-scented," as heretofore, from the occupation to which she had been devoted by her father of ferrying people across the Jamuna, she had acquired a smell of fish. She is also called, Gandhahali = "the sweet-scented dark one," which latter appellation is explained by the story that she made Parâsara observe that the other Rishis were in the habit of watching her from the other side of the river, on which he constructed a mist to conceal her, or make her "dark" to them. Why "the Arranger" of legends should have "the truthful one" ascribed to him for his mother, is easy enough to see. Parâsra was reckoned his father because he was the inventor of chronology, which ought to precede any attempt to make chronicles out of traditions. The legend further says that Parasâra made acquaintance with Satjavati while on a pilgrimage, which may be taken as an embodiment of the fact that it was such gatherings which afforded opportunity for collecting Sagas. Of somewhat similar nature is the Râmâjana--a collection of Sagas concerning Rama, sometimes called the brother, and sometimes an incarnation of Vishnu, but also containing stories of other gods, as well as a variety of quasi-religious episodes. While displaying the usual exaggerations common to the Sagas of all nations, these Indian Sagas have one leading peculiarity in the frequent Avatâra, or incorporation of Vishnu or Rama in the persons of their heroes (18). Lassen (19) reckons both the Mahâ Bhârata and the Râmâjana to have been compiled about 300--50 B.C.; but it is impossible to fix the dates of any of them with absolute certainty. One theory for arriving at it is, that they possess strong inherent evidence of being Brahmanical productions; and as they contain no allusion to so great an event as the establishment of Buddhism, while they yet make allusions to certain predictions of the wane of Brahmanism (seemingly suggested by details of the mode of the sudden spread of the teaching of Shâkjamuni), it may be inferred that the latest date for their compilation (which in any case must have extended over a prolonged period) would be coeval with the period of the greatest development in Central India of the latter school. It is evident, however, that none of these poems are of a nature to supply any sound basis for the historiographer. The very lists of the kings that they supply, carry with them inherent evidence of untrustworthiness in the readiness with which recourse is had to the introduction of supernatural means for supplying missing links in the fabulous periods of their chronology. In the tenth century and later, several Muhammedan writers undertook the history of India; but they are very untrustworthy. For this place, it may suffice to mention that, by the most important of them, Vikramâditja is made out to be a grandson of Porus, and his name transformed into that of Barkamaris (20). I will now give you a specimen of what are considered the purely legendary accounts of Vikramâditja's origin, and you will see that they are barely more extravagant than the historical one I have introduced above (21). In a jungle (22) situated between the rivers Subhramatî and Mahi, in Gurgâramandala, lived the Rishi Tâmralipta, who gave his daughter Tamrasena for a wife to King Sadasvasena. They lived happily, and had a family of six sons, but only one daughter, Madanrekhâ. One day, when a servant of theirs named Devasarman was working in the forest, he heard the voice of some invisible being speaking to him, and bidding him go and demand for it the hand of Madanrekhâ in marriage. When he hesitated, not daring to ask so great a matter of his master, the voice threatened him with fearful penalties if he failed to obey its behest. As the voice continued day after day to admonish him, he at last begged his master to come and listen to it for himself; who, recognizing it for that of King Gandharva, whom Indra had transformed into an ass, he felt constrained to comply, and he accordingly bestowed his daughter on him. Though proud of the alliance of so great a king as Gandharva, Tâmrasena was nevertheless distressed that her daughter's husband should wear so ungainly an appearance. What was her joy when she one day discovered that, whenever he went to visit her, he left his donkey's form outside the door, and appeared like other men. She was not slow to take advantage of the circumstance by burning the donkey's form: the spell was thus destroyed, and Gandharva delivered from the operation of the curse. After a time they had a son, whom Gandharva desired his wife to call Vikramâditja, telling her at the same time that her handmaid would also have a son, who was to be called Bhartrihari, and who should devote himself to his service. Having uttered these counsels, he went up to the deva's paradise. Meantime, Madanrekhâ, having heard that her father designed to kill the infant, delivered it to the care of a gardener's wife, with the charge to conceal it, and then put an end to her own life. The gardener's wife fled with the young prince to Uggajini, where he passed his youth. The incidents of the burning of a form temporarily laid aside, of danger threatening the life of the infant, of a flight from his birthplace, and of a half-brother, in some way inferior to himself, yet devoted to him, pervade, not only both these accounts, but also the more detailed legend which is to follow in the text. While all this uncertainty surrounds the circumstances of Vikramâditja's birth, his mode of attaining the throne, and the extent and even the locality of his dominions, are narrated with equal diversity; while, though an important era still in use is dated from him, extending from 57 B.C. to 319 A.C. when commences the Ballabhi-Gupta dynasty, the particular event by which he deserved so distinguished a commemoration has been by no means determined with certainty (23). In a version of his story called Vikramakaritra, it is said simply, that King Prasena of Uggajinî dying without heirs, Vikramâditja was chosen king (24). According to another, the last king of the Greco-Indian dynasty abdicated in his favour out of disgust with life after the death of his wife. According to the legends a Vetâla (25) obtained possession of the throne and every night strangled the king, who had been raised to it in the course of the day by the ministers, until Vikramâditja undertook to maintain himself in power, and succeeded in propitiating the Vetâla. It is easy to read under cover of this imagery the original fact of a hero delivering his people from an oppressor. What people or country it was that Vikramâditja delivered is difficult to decide, as he is named in the sagas of many nations as belonging to each (26). We have already seen him seated king in the capital of Malwa. The more legendary accounts ascribe to him the widest range of dominion. In the Ganamegaja-Râgavansâvali (27) we find him in possession of Bengal, Hindostan, the Dekhan, and Western India; and in the Bhogaprabandha (28) he is reckoned conqueror of the whole of India; while in the Bhavishja-Purâna (29) it is told that he had 800 kings tributaries under him, though whether the list could be authentically made out is more than questionable. What can be proved with some certainty is, that he reigned over Malwa, Cashmere, and Orissa, from which it may perhaps be inferred that he was also master of the intervening country--namely, the Punjaub and the eastern portion of Rajputana (30). Besides his glories as a warrior and deliverer of his country, the honour is also ascribed to him of being the patron of science and art. There is reason to think he promoted the study of architecture, though no monuments actually remain which can with certainty be ascribed to his reign. He attracted to his court the most distinguished poets and learned men of his epoch, and an obscure poem concerning nine jewels said to have adorned his throne is generally understood to represent the votaries of a certain cycle of the arts and sciences whom he had under his protection. It is true some of those he is said to have protected are found to have actually lived at a subsequent period; but this is only one of the chronological inaccuracies to which I have already adverted as so common--the fact remains that he did actually promote the pursuit of letters, not only on the testimony of these exaggerated accounts, but also in the improvement which may be observed from his time forward in the condition of public muniments. One of the most fantastic stories about him, in which (31) Indra defers to him to decide between the respective claims to perfection in dancing of two apsarasas, or nymphs, shows at least that he was considered an authority in matters of taste. The oldest Sanskrit dictionary extant is reckoned the work of Amarasinha, or Amaradeva, his minister, and one of the six of the above-named nine jewels who are believed to have had an historical existence (32); in this dictionary the Ram and the Bull of the Zodiac are mentioned in such a way that it may be inferred he was familiar with the present nomenclature of the twelve signs, giving support to the theory that the Greeks received that terminology from the Chaldees, and did not originate it, as was long supposed (33). An inscription found at Buddha-Gaja, and copied by Wilmot in the year 1783, is preserved in As. Res. i. 284, though the original stone has since been lost, in which a curious legend is told of him, showing that as early as A.D. 948 (fixed by experts for the date of the inscription) an undisputed tradition taught that the oldest Sanskrit dictionary was written by one of the nine jewels of Vikramâditja's throne. This legend says, "This Amaradeva, one of the nine jewels of Vikramâditja's throne, and his first minister, was a man of great talent and learning. Once, when on a journey, this famous man found in the uninhabited forest the place where Vishnu was incarnate in the person of Buddha. Here, therefore, he determined to remain in prayer till Buddha should show himself to him. At the end of twelve years of austerities he heard a voice calling to him and asking what he desired. On his reply that he desired the god should appear to him, he was told that in the then degenerate condition of the world such a favour was impossible; but that he might set up an image of him, which would answer the same purpose as an apparition. In consequence of this communication he erected a stately temple, which he furnished with images of Vishnu and his avatars, or incarnations, Pândava, Brahma, Buddha, and the rest. One of the earliest dramatists of India, Kâlidâsa, many of whose plays possess great literary merit,--though some ascribed to him are manifestly by inferior hands,--may have been, it is thought, one of those who wrote under Vikramâditja's protection. In a play called Maghadûta, he describes his capital of Uggajini with an enthusiasm which suggests it was his own favourite place of residence. His plays contain valuable pictures of the manners of the times. And from these, among other details, it appears it was not only considered an indispensable qualification of a well-bred man, that he should be conversant with the great heroic poems, but that they were commonly in the mouth of the people also. Other details imply the attainment of a degree of civilization and refinement, which it would probably surprise most of us to find existing at this date. His two most meritorious pieces are entitled Abhignana-Shukuntalâ ("The finding of Shukuntalâ"), and Vikramorvashi-Urvashi ("Urvashi won by Heroism.") We have also three hundred short poems by Vikramâditja's brother or by some courtier poet who gave him the honour of the composition; these poems display unusual powers of description and delicacy of sentiment. The first shataka, or hundred poems, is entitled shringâra, containing love-songs; the second, niti, on the government of the world; and the third, vairâgja, the suppression of human passions. It is probable that the writer of a justly celebrated drama named Mrikkhakatika, whose name has been merged in that of King Shûdraka, King of Bidisha (now Bhilsa), his patron to whose pen he modestly ascribed his work, lived also not long after this time. The length of Vikramâditja's reign is as difficult to fix as any other circumstance of his history, and it is not clear whether the æra which dates from him was originally reckoned from the commencement or the end of his reign; we have already seen the duration which fable ascribes to it; to this may be added the further fabled promise which, it is told, the great gods Vishnu and Shiva made concerning him, that he should come back to earth in the latter times to deliver his people from the oppression of the Mussulman invaders, just as the Mongols expect Ghengis Khan and Timour (34), and just as in Europe similar promises of a future return as a deliverer linger round the memories of King Arthur, Charlemagne, and Frederick Barbarossa. The legend of the Wisdom of Vikramâditja being so mysteriously connected with his throne, that whosoever sat on it was endowed with some measure of his excellences; and that the figures with which it was adorned guarded it from the approach of the unworthy, is brought forward in the story of more than one Indian sovereign. Travelling in the wake of Buddhist literature, the myth came to the far East, where Mongolian bards have worked out of it a saga connected with one of their own rulers (35), with such variations in the treatment as might be expected at their hands. THE SAGA OF ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI AND VIKRAMÂDITJA'S THRONE. THE BOY-KING. Long ages ago there lived a mighty king called Ardschi-Bordschi (1). In the neighbourhood of his residence was a hill where the boys who were tending the calves were wont to pass away the time by racing up and down. But they had also another custom, and it was, that whichever of them won the race was king for the day--an ordinary game enough, only that when it was played in this place the Boy-king thus constituted was at once endowed with such extraordinary importance and majesty that every one was constrained to treat him as a real king. He had not only ministers and dignitaries among his playfellows, who prostrated themselves before him and fulfilled all his behests, but whoever passed that way could not choose but pay him homage also. At last the report of the matter filled all the land, and came also to the ears of the King himself. Ardschi-Bordschi had the whole matter exposed before him, and he inquired into all the manners and ways of the boys; then he said,-- "If this thing happened every day to one and the same boy, then would I acknowledge in him a Bodhisattva (2); but as every day a different boy may win the race, and it would seem that whichever of them is called king is clothed with equal majesty, it appears manifestly to me that the virtue is not in the boy, but in the hill of which he makes his throne." Nevertheless the matter troubled the King, and he desired above all things to obtain some certain knowledge concerning it, not seeing how to search it out. THE FALSE FRIEND (1) In the meantime, it had come to pass that one of Ardschi-Bordschi's subjects had gone out over the sea to search for precious stones. Being detained on his journey beyond the allotted time, he was desirous of making provision for his wife and children whom he had left behind, and, finding that a friend of his company purposed to return home, he trusted to him one of the jewels of which he had become possessed, saying, "When thou comest to the place, deliver this jewel into the hands of my wife, that she may be provided withal until the time of my return. The man, however, sold the jewel and spent the proceeds on his own purposes. When, therefore, the jewel-merchant came home, he inquired of his wife, saying, "By a man named Dsük I sent unto you a jewel so-and-so;" and when he learnt of his wife that the man had brought no jewel, he took the matter before the King. The King commanded the man called Dsük to be brought before him. But the man having got wind that he would have to appear before the King to be judged for the matter, he gave presents to two chief men of the court, and agreed with them, saying, "You will stand witness for me that in presence of you two I delivered the jewel to the man's wife (2)." When, therefore, they were all before the King, the King spoke to the man named Dsük, saying, "Did you, or did you not, give the jewel to the man's wife?" And he boldly made answer, "In presence of these two witnesses I delivered the jewel to her;" while the two great men of the court stood forward and deposed, they also, "Yea, O King! even in our presence he delivered over the jewel." As the King could not gainsay the word of the witnesses, he decided the case according to their testimony, and the man named Dsük was released and went away to his home rejoicing at having been so successful in his stratagem to deceive the King, and the two great men of the court and the jewel-merchant went down every one to his home. It so happened, however, that their way home lay past the hill where the Boy-king sat enthroned. Now as they passed by, the four together, the Boy-king sent and called them into his presence, nor could they fail of compliance with his word. When they had paid him their obeisance, bowing themselves many times before him, the Boy-king, rising in his majesty, thus spoke,-- "The decision of your King is hasty, and can never stand. I will judge your cause. Do you promise to abide by my decision?" But the majesty of the Boy-king was upon him, and they could not choose but accept. The Boy-king therefore set the four men apart in four several places, and to each one of them he gave a lump of clay, saying, "Fashion this lump of clay like to the form of the jewel which was sent." When they had all finished the task, it was found that the model of the man who sent the jewel and that of the man who was the bearer of it were alike; but the two great men of the court, who had never seen the jewel, were thrown into great embarrassment by this means, and their models were neither like those of the sender and bearer, nor were they like each other's. When the Boy-king saw this he thus pronounced judgment:-- "Because both these men saw and knew the jewel, they could make its image in clay; but it is manifest the two witnesses have never seen the jewel, but have made up their minds to deceive the King by false testimony. Such conduct is most unworthy of all in great men of the King's court." Then he ordered the two false witnesses and the man named Dsük to be secured and taken to the King, all three confessing their crime; and he sent with them this declaration, written in due form of law:-- "According to the principles of earthly might and the sacred maxims of religion hast thou not decided. O Ardschi-Bordschi! thus should not an upright and noble ruler deal. Unless it is given thee to discern good from evil, truth from falsehood, it were better thou shouldst lay aside thy kingly dignity. But if thou desirest to remain king, then judge nothing without duly investigating the matter, even as I." With such a letter the Boy-king sent the prisoners to Ardschi-Bordschi. When the King read the letter, he exclaimed, "What manner of boy is this who writes thus to the King? He must be a being highly endowed with wisdom. If it was the same boy who appeared every day so gifted, I should hold him to be a Bodhisattva, or indeed a very Buddha; but as on different days different boys attain to the same sagacity, the source must remain one and the same for all. Shall it not be that in the foundations of their hill or mound is some stupa (3), where Buddhas or Bodhisattvas have propounded sacred teaching to men? Or shall it be that there lies hidden therein some jewel (4), gifted to impart wisdom to mortals? In some such way, of a certainty, the spot is endowed with singular gifts." Thus he spoke, and concluded the affair of the jewel in accordance with the Boy-king's judgment, delivering the two witnesses over to punishment, and condemning the man named Dsük to pay double the value of the jewel to the merchant whom he had defrauded. THE PRETENDED SON. King Ardschi-Bordschi's minister had one only son. This son went out to the wars, and returned home again after two years' absence. Just while the minister was engaged with preparations for a festival of joy to celebrate the return of his son, there appeared before him suddenly another son in all respects exactly like his own. In form, colour, and gait there was no sort of difference to be discerned between them. Moreover, the horses they rode, their clothing, their quivers, their mode of speech, were so perfectly similar that none of the minister's friends, nor the very mother of the young man, nor yet his wife herself, could take upon them to decide which of the two was his very son. It was not very long before there was open feud in the house between the two; both youths declaring with equal energy and determination, "These are my parents, my wife, my children...." Finding the case quite beyond his own capacity to decide the minister brought the whole before the King. As the King found himself similarly embarrassed he sent and called all the relations; and to the mother he said, "Which of these two is your son?" and to the wife, "Which of these two is your husband?" and to the children, "Which of these two is your father?" But they all answered with one consent, "We are not in a condition to decide, for no man can tell which is which." Then King Ardschi-Bordschi thought within himself, "How shall I do to bring this matter to an end? It is clear not even the man's nearest relations can tell which of these two is the right man; how then can I, who never saw either of them before? Yet if I let them go without deciding the matter, the Boy-king will send and tell me I am not gifted to discern the true from the false, and counsel me before all the people to lay aside my kingly dignity. Now then, therefore, let us prove the matter even as the Boy-king would have it proved. We will call the men hither before us, and will examine them concerning their family and ancestors; he that is really the man's son will know the names of his generations, but he that merely pretendeth, shall he not be a stranger to these things?" So he sent and called the men before him again separately and inquired of them, saying, "Tell me now the names of thy father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather up to the earliest times, so shall I distinguish which of you is really this man's son." But the one of them who had come the last from the wars, was no man but a Schimnu (1), who had taken the son's form to deceive his parents, he by his demoniacal knowledge could answer all these things so that the very father was astonished to hear him, while the real son could go no farther back than to give the name of his grandfather. When Ardschi-Bordschi therefore found how much the Schimnu exceeded the real son in knowledge of his family, he pronounced that he was the rightful son, and the wife and parents and friends and all the people praised the sagacity of the king in settling the matter. Thus the Schimnu was taken home with joy in the midst of the gathering of the family, and the real son not knowing whither to betake himself, followed afar off, mourning as he went. It so happened that their homeward way lay past the mound, where the Boy-king sat enthroned, who, hearing the feet of many people, and the voice of the minister's son wailing behind, called them all unto him, nor could they fail of compliance with the word of the Boy-king in his majesty. When they had paid him their obeisance, bowing themselves many times before him, the Boy-king, rising in his majesty, thus spoke:-- "The decision of your King is hasty, and can never stand. I will judge your cause. Do you promise to abide by my decision?" Then they could not choose but accept; and he made them state their whole case before him, and explain how Ardschi-Bordschi had decided, which when he had heard, he said,-- "I will set you the proof of whether of you two is the rightful son; let there be brought me hither a water-jug." And one of the boys who stood in waiting that day upon the Boy-king's throne, ran and fetched a water-jug, holding in measure about a pint. When he had brought it, the Boy-king ordered him to place it before the throne; then said he, "Let me see now whether of you two can enter into this water-jug; then shall we know which is the rightful son." Then the rightful son turned away sorrowful and mourned more than before, "For," said he, "how should I ever find place for so much as my foot in this water-jug?" But the Schimnu, by his demoniacal power easily transformed himself, and entered the jug. The Boy-king, therefore, no sooner saw him enclosed in the water-jug, than he bound him fast within it by sealing the mouth with the diamond-seal, which he might not pass (2), undismayed by the appalling howling with which the Schimnu rent the air, at finding himself thus taken captive. Thus bound he sent him back to Ardschi-Bordschi, together with all the family concerned in the case, and with them this declaration written in due form of law:-- "According to the principles of earthly might, and the sacred maxims of religion hast thou not decided, O Ardschi-Bordschi! Thus should not an upright and noble ruler deal. The wife and children of thine own subject hast thou given over to the power of a wicked Schimnu; and sent the rightful and innocent away lamenting. Unless it is given thee to discern good from evil, truth from falsehood, it were better thou shouldst lay aside thy kingly dignity. But if thou desirest to remain king, then judge nothing without duly investigating the matter even as I." With such a letter the Boy-king sent the men back to Ardschi-Bordschi. When the King read the letter, he exclaimed, "What manner of boy is this, who writes thus to the King? He must be a being highly endowed with wisdom. If it was the same boy who appeared every day so gifted, I should hold him to be a Bodhisattva or indeed a very Buddha; but as on different days different boys attain to the same sagacity, the source must remain one and the same for all. Shall it not be that on the foundations of this hill or mound is a stupa, where Buddhas or Bodhisattvas have propounded sacred teaching to men. Or shall it be that there lies hidden therein some treasure gifted to impart wisdom to mortals? In some way of a certainty the spot is endowed with singular gifts." Thus he spoke; and concluded the affair of the two sons in accordance with the Boy-king's judgment, giving over the rightful one to his family, and delivering the Schimnu to be burned. ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI DISCOVERS VIKRAMÂDITJA'S THRONE. Ardschi-Bordschi could not rest, because of this matter of the Boy-king. "For," said he, "if there is in my dominions a stupa where so great wisdom is to be acquired, is it not to the King that it should belong, that he may rule the people with sagacity? Let Us at least see this thing, and perhaps We may discover what is the source of the prodigy." Very early in the morning, therefore, he arose, and calling all his ministers, and counsellors, and all the great men of his court to him, he went forth to the mound, and there he found all even as it had been told him. There were the boys tending the calves; and when they had leisure to play, they all ran a race over the hill, and he who won the race was installed king on top of the mound, the other boys paying him homage, and making obeisance to him as to a real king. Then the most mighty king, even Ardschi-Bordschi himself, propounded the question to the Boy-king, saying, "Tell us whence is it that thou, who art only a boy and a herd of the calves, hast this wisdom, surpassing the wisdom of the King. The wisdom by which it is given thee to discern between right and wrong, truth and falsehood, shall it not also tell thee what is the source of this prodigy?" Then the Boy-king, rising in his majesty, made answer,-- "Let the King cause labourers to be fetched, and let them dig under this mound, from the time of the rising of the sun even until the setting thereof again; thus shall it be found whence ariseth the prodigy." With these words the Boy-king came down from the mound, and Ardschi-Bordschi caused labourers to be fetched, and they began digging at the mound as the sun rose above the mountains, and ceased not till the setting thereof again; but then they came upon a throne of gold, all dazzling with brightness, and by its light (1) they went on working through the night, till the whole was delivered from its covering of earth. So great was its splendour when the morning sun rose upon it again, that all beholders were struck with awe, and the people prostrated themselves before it. Ardschi-Bordschi was filled with surpassing joy when he saw it, for now he saw he had attained the desired seat of wisdom, by means of which he should rule his people aright (2). Heading a procession of all that was great and noble in his realm, he had the throne brought, amid many ceremonies, to his own residence. Then having called the wise men of the kingdom, and inquired of them a lucky day, he summoned a great gathering of all his subjects, to attend his mounting of this throne of prodigy, amid singing, and offering of incense, and sounding of trumpet-shells (3). The throne, which had been set up in his dwelling, meantime, was all of pure and shining gold. The foundation of it rested on four terrible lions of gold; and it was reached by sixteen steps of precious stones, on every one of which were two figures of cunning workmanship--the one a warrior, the other a Sûta (4)--sculptured in wood, standing to guard the approach thereof. No such beautiful work had ever before been seen in all the dominions of Ardschi-Bordschi. When therefore the ministers and people were all arranged in order of rank, and a great silence had been proclaimed on the shell-trumpets, the King, habited in raiment of state, proceeded to mount the throne. Ere he had set foot on the lowest step, however, the two figures of sculptured wood that stood upon it, abandoning their guardant attitude, suddenly came forward, and placed themselves before him, as in defiance--the warrior striking him in the breast, while the Sûta addressed him thus:-- "Surely, O Ardschi-Bordschi! it is not in earnest that thou art minded to ascend the steps of this sacred throne?" And all the thirty-two sculptured figures answered together,-- "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!" But the Sûta proceeded,-- "Knowest thou not, O Ardschi-Bordschi, that this throne in the days of old was the seat of the god Churmusta, and that after him it was given to none to set upon it, till Vikramâditja rose. Wherefore, O Ardschi-Bordschi, approach not to occupy it. Unless thou also art prepared to devote thy days, not to thine own pleasure, but to the service of the six classes of living beings (5), renounce the attempt to set foot on it." And all the thirty-two sculptured figures answered together,-- "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!" But the Sûta proceeded,-- "Art thou such a king as the great Vikramâditja? then come and sit upon his throne; but if not, then desist from the attempt." And all the thirty-two sculptured figures answered together,-- "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!" When they cried the third time, "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!" the King himself, and all who stood there with him, fell on their faces before the throne, and worshipped it. Then spoke another Sûta,-- "Listen, O Ardschi-Bordschi, and all ye people give ear, and I will tell you out of the days of old what manner of king was the hero Vikramâditja." THE SÛTA TELLS ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI CONCERNING VIKRAMÂDITJA'S BIRTH. Long ages ago there lived a King named Gandharva. To him was wedded Udsesskülengtu-Gôa-Chatun (1), the all-charming daughter of the mighty king Galindari. Gandharva was a noble King, and ruled the world with justice and piety. Nevertheless Gandharva had no heir, though he prayed continually to Buddha that he might have a son. And as he thus prayed and mourned continually, Udsesskülengtu-Gôa came to him one day, and said, "My lord, since thou art thus grieved at heart because no heir is given to us, take now unto thee another wife, even a wife from among thy people, and perhaps so shalt thou be blessed with succession to the throne." And her words pleased the King, and he chose a wife of low degree, and married her, and in due time she bore him a son. But when Udsesskülengtu-Gôa, the all-charming one, saw that the heart of the King was taken from her, and given to the wife of low degree, because she had borne him a son, while she was less favoured by heaven, she was grieved in spirit, and said within herself, "What shall I do now that the heart of my lord is taken from me? Was it not by my father's aid that he attained the throne? And was it not even by my advice that he took this wife who has borne him a son? And yet his heart is taken from me." Nevertheless she complained not to him, but mourned by herself apart. Then one of her maidens, when she saw her thus mourning apart, came to her, and said, "Is there not living by the kaitja (2), on the other side of the mountain, a lama, possessed of prodigious powers? Who shall say but that he might find a remedy for the grief of the Khan's wife." And Udsesskülengtu-Gôa listened to the maiden's words, and leaving off from mourning, she rose, and called to her four of the maidens, and prepared her to make the journey to visit the holy man at the kaitja, on the other side the mountain, taking with her good provision of tea (3) and other things needful for the journey. Arrived at the kaitja, she made the usual obeisance, and would have opened her suit; but the hermit was at that moment sunk in his meditations, and paid her no heed until she had three times changed (4) her place of kneeling. Then he said, "Exalted Queen! what grief or what necessity brings thee hither to this kaitja thus devoutly?" And when she had told him all her story, he replied,-- "Mayst thou be blessed with succession to the throne and with many children to gladden thee." At the same time he gave her a handful of earth, bidding her boil it in oil--sesame oil (5)--in a porcelain vessel, and eat it all up. The Queen returned home, and, believing in the promise of the hermit, she boiled the earth in sesame oil in a new porcelain vessel, when behold it was changed into barley porridge; but she neglected to eat up the whole of it. Some time after the maiden who had counselled the visit to the hermit, seeing that some of the porridge still remained in the porcelain vessel, she also ate of it, saying, "Who knows what blessing it may bring to me also?" Many months had not passed when all manner of propitious tokens appeared upon the land. Showers of brilliant blossoms fell in place of rain from heaven, the melodious voice of the kalavinka (6) made itself heard, and delicious perfumes filled the air. In the midst of this rejoicing of nature the Queen bore the King a son. The gladness of the King knew no bounds that now he had an heir to the throne who was born of a princess and not of a wife of low degree, and he ordered public rejoicings throughout the whole kingdom. Further, in his joy he sent an expedition, with the younger wife at its head, and many great men of state, to go to the lama of the kaitja, on the other side of the mountain, and learn what should be the fate of the child. When they came to him he was again sunk in his meditations; but when they had opened their matter to him, almost without looking up, he replied,-- "Tell the King your master that there be got ready for the child against he grow up fifteen thousand waggon-loads of salt, for that will be but small compared with what will be required for the use of his kitchen." With such a message the expedition returned to the King. When Gandharva heard the prognostics of the hermit, he was struck with astonishment, and with indignation against the child, not understanding the intention of the words. Then he called together the people and announced the thing to them, adding these words, "Of a truth the child must be a hundredfold a schimnu; how could a man use fifteen thousand waggon-loads of salt for the seasoning of his food? It is not good for such an one to live. Let him be taken forth and slain!" But his ministers interceded with him and said, "Nay, shall the son of the King and the heir to his royal throne be slain? Shall we not rather take him to some solitary place and leave him to his fate in a thick wood?" And the King found their words good; so two of his ministers took the child a long way off to a solitary place, and left him exposed in a thick wood. But as they turned to go away, and one of them yet lingered, the child called after him, saying,-- "Wait a little space, sir minister; I have a word to say to you!" And the minister stood still in great astonishment. But the child said, "Bear these words faithfully unto the King:-- "It is said that when the young of the peacock are first fledged their feathers are all of one blue colour, but afterwards, as they increase in proportions, their plumage assumes the splendid hues admired by men. Even so when a King's son is born. For a while he remains under the tutelage of his parents; but if, when he has come to man's estate, he would be a great king, worthy to be called king of the four parts of the universe (7), it will behove him to call together the princes of the four parts of the universe to a great assemblage and prepare for them a sacred festival (8), at which such may be their number who may come together to honour it, that fifteen thousand waggon-loads of salt may even fall short of what is required! "So the parrots, when they first break through their egg-shell, appear very much like any other birds, but when they are full grown they learn the speech of man and grow in sagacity and wisdom (9). Even so when a King's son is born. For a while he remains under the tutelage of his parents; but when he comes to man's estate, if he would be a mighty king, worthy of being called king of the four parts of the universe, it will behove him to call together all kings and devas and princes of the earth, with all the countless Bodhisattvas, and all the priests of religion, and prepare for them a great religious banquet. At such a banquet it is well if fifteen thousand waggon-loads of salt suffice for the seasoning. This for your King." The minister took the message of the child word for word to the Gandharva, who when he heard it clasped his hands in agony and rose up, saying,-- "What is this that I have done! Of a certainty the child was a Bodhisattva (10). But it is the truth that what I did to him I did in ignorance. Run now swiftly and fetch me back my son." The minister therefore set out on his way without stopping to take breath; but what haste soever he made the King's eagerness was greater, and at the head of a great body of the people Gandharva himself took his way in all speed to the place in the thick grove where they had laid the child. And since he did not find him at the first, he broke out into loud lamentations, saying,-- "0 thou, mine own Bodhisattva! who so young yet speakest words of wisdom, even young as thou art exercise also mercy and forgiveness. O how was I mistaken in thee! Set it not down to me that I knew thee not!" While he wandered about searching and thus lamenting, the cry of a child made itself heard from the depths of a grotto there was in the grove, which when the King had entered he found eight princes of the serpent-gods (11) busy tending the child. Some had woven for him a covering of lotus-blossoms; others were dropping honey into his mouth; others were on their knees, bowing their foreheads to the ground before him. Thus he saw them engaged, only when he entered the cave they all at once disappeared without leaving a trace behind (12). Then the King laid the child on a litter borne by eight principal men, and amid continual lamenting of his fault, saying, "O my son, Bodhisattva, be merciful; I indeed am thy father," he brought him to his dwelling, where he proclaimed him before all the people the most high and mighty Prince Vikramâditja. When the Sûta had concluded this narrative, he turned to Ardschi-Bordschi and said,-- "Thus was Vikramâditja wise in his earliest youth; thus even in infancy he earned the homage of his own father; thus was he innately great and lofty and full of majesty. If thou, O Ardschi-Bordschi! art thus nobly born, thus indwelt with power and might, then come and mount this throne; but, if otherwise, then on thy peril desist from the attempt." Then Ardschi-Bordschi once more approached to ascend the throne; but as he did so two other of the sculptured figures, relinquishing their guardant attitude, stood forward to bar the way, the warrior-figure striking him on the breast, and the Sûta thus addressing him,-- "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi! as yet hast thou but heard the manner of the wonderful birth of Vikramâditja; as yet knowest thou not what was the manner of his youth." And all the thirty-two sculptured figures answered and said,-- "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!" But the Sûta continued, saying, "Hearken, O Ardschi-Bordschi! and ye, O people, give ear, and I will tell you out of the days of old concerning the youth of Vikramâditja. THE SÛTA TELLS ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI CONCERNING VIKRAMÂDITJA'S YOUTH. Gandharva, the hero's father, was himself also a mighty man of valour, and a prince devoting himself to the well-being of his people. He not only carried on wars against the enemies of his country, but exerted himself to the utmost to deliver his subjects from the onslaught of the wicked Schimnus. One day, therefore, he went forth alone to do battle with a prince of the Schimnus; and in order that he might be in a condition the better adapted to match him, he left his body behind him, under shadow of an image of Buddha. His younger wife, even the wife of low degree, happening by chance to see him leaving the temple without his body, was so delighted with the wonderfully beauteous appearance he thus presented that she went to Udsessküleng-Gôa-Chatun, saying, "Our master, so long as he went in and out among us, always was clothed in human form like other men; but to-day, when he started on his expedition against the Schimnus, he wore such a brilliant and beautiful appearance that it would be a joy if he looked the same when he is with us." But Udsessküleng-Chatun replied, "Because you are young you understand not these things. It is only to preserve his body from the fine piercing swords of the Schimnus that he left it behind him." The younger wife, however, was not satisfied with the explanation, and said within herself, "If I go and burn the body which the King has left behind him, then must he wear his beautiful spirit-appearance when he comes back to us." She called together, therefore, all the other maidens, and having kindled a great fire of sandal-wood, went back to the temple, and fetched Gandharva's body from beneath the image of Buddha, and burned it. While this was going on the King appeared in his radiant form in the heavens, and spoke thus to Udsessküleng-Gôa-Chatun, saying,-- "From my beloved subjects, for whom I have laboured so untiringly, and from my dear wives and children and friends, and from my body which has served me so faithfully that I cannot but love it also--I am called to part. As my body is burnt, I cannot more visit the earth. My only concern, however, is this, that I know within seven days the host of the Schimnus will come down upon you, and I shall not be there to defend you. Take, therefore, this counsel, giving which is all I can do for you more, for I go to Nirvâna (1). Get you up then, and escape with the young prince, even with the Bodhisattva Vikramâditja, within these seven days, so that the Schimnus' host coming may not find you." After these words they saw him no more, for he entered then upon Nirvâna. The officers and ministers and household and subjects gave themselves to distressful grief when they knew that they should see their good master Gandharva no more, but Udsessküleng-Chatun said, "If I give myself over thus to grief it will not bring back my lord the Khan; it were better that I stir myself to fulfil his all-wise counsel, and bear his son to a place of safety." Having thus spoken, she called all her maidens together and the child, and went to seek safety from the Schimnus in her own country. As they journeyed, the young maiden who had given her the counsel to visit the hermit of the kaitja, and who had eaten what was left of the porridge made of earth boiled in sesame oil in the porcelain vessel, she also had a child, and when the Khanin was astonished at the thing, the maid confessed that she had eaten of the porridge which the hermit gave her that was left behind in the porcelain vessel, and the Khanin remembered that she had neglected to fulfil the counsel of the hermit, saying to her, "Eat it all up." The other maidens now objected to the burden of having another infant to take care of on a perilous journey, and would have put it to death. But the Khanin said, "Nay, but shall a child that came of the hermit's blessing be slain?" And when she found she could not prevail with them to take it she bid them not slay it, but leave it in shelter of a cave which there was by the way. Then they journeyed farther amid many dangers and privations till they came to the capital of the mighty King Kütschün-Tschidaktschi (2) in the outskirts of which they encamped. All the people gathered, however, on the other side of the way, struck with admiration by the wondrous beauty of Udsessküleng-Chatun, all inquiring whence she could be, and flocking to gain a sight of her (3). The Khan, seeing this gathering of people from the terrace of his palace, sent to inquire what it was, and a man of the train of the Khanin sent answer, "It is the wife of a mighty King who is escaping from the fear of the Schimnus, her lord having entered Nirvâna." The King, therefore, went down, and spoke with the Khanin, and having learnt from her that such was really the case, the younger wife having burnt his body, and he having appeared in the sky to bid her escape with their son from before the fury of the Schimnus, ordered his ministers to appoint her a dwelling for her and her son, and her train of followers, and to provide them richly with all things befitting their rank. All this the ministers did, and the Khanin and her son were hospitably entertained. Thus Vikramâditja was brought up in a strange land, but was exercised in all kinds of arts; and increased in strength, well-favoured in mind and body. He learned wisdom of the wise, and the use of arms from men of valour; from the soothsayer learned he cunning arts, and trading from sagacious traders; from robber bands learned he the art of robbery, and from fraudulent dealers to lie. It happened that while they were yet dwelling in this place, a caravan of five hundred merchants came by, and encamped on the banks of a stream near at hand. As these men had journeyed along they had found a boy at play in a wolf's den. "How can a child live thus in a wolf's den?" said one of the merchants; and with that they set themselves to lure the child to them. "How canst thou, a child of men, live thus in common with a wolf's cubs?" inquired they. "It were better thou camest with us." But the child answered, "I am in truth a wolf-child, and had rather remain with my wolf-parents." But Galbischa, the chief of the merchants, said, "It must not be. A child of men must be brought up with men, and not with wolves." So the merchants took the boy with them, and gave him the name of Schalû (4). Thus it came to pass that the child was with them, when they encamped the night after they had taken him, in the neighbourhood of the city where Vikramâditja and his mother lived. In the night the wolves came near, and began to howl (5). Therefore, the merchants asked Schalû in sport, "What are the wolves saying?" But Schalû answered in all seriousness, "These wolves that you hear are my parents; and they are saying to me, 'Years ago a party of women passed by this way, and left thee with us as soon as thou wert born; and we have nurtured thee, and made thee strong and brave; and thou, without regard to our affection to thee, hast gone away with strangers. Nevertheless, because we love thee, we will give thee yet this piece of advice. To-night, there will be heavy torrents of rain, and the river by which your caravan is encamped, will overflow its banks. While the merchants, therefore, are engaged in hurry and confusion seeking shelter, then break thou away from them, darling, and come back to us. This further warning give we thee, that in the neighbourhood prowls a robber.'" Now it was so that Prince Vikramâditja, having seen the encampment of the merchants, was lurking in the thicket, to exercise his prowess in robbing them. Thus when he overheard how Schalû expounded all that the wolves said, he thought within himself, "This is no ordinary youth. That torrents of rain are about to fall might be a guess, even though the sky presents no indication of a coming storm; but how could he guess that I was prowling about to rob the caravan? this, at least, shows he has command of some sort of supernatural knowledge." Determining therefore to discover some means of possessing himself of the boy, he went away for that night, because the merchants having been warned by the wolves of his designs, they would be on the watch to take him had he attempted an attack. The merchants, meantime, believing the words of the wolves expounded to them by Schalû, removed their encampment to a high hill, out of the way of chances of damage by inundation. When night had fallen thick around, the rain began to fall in heavy torrents, and the river overflowed its banks, making particular havock of the very spot on which their tent had been pitched. When the merchants in the morning saw this part of the plain all under water, and the floods pouring over it, they said one to another, "Without Schalû's aid we had certainly all been washed away (6)," and out of gratitude they loaded him with rich presents. At the end of the next day's journey they selected the dry bank of a small tributary of the river for their camping-place. Prince Vikramâditja, who, in pursuance of his determination of overnight, had watched their movements from afar, drew near, under cover of the shades of evening, and set himself once more to overhear what Schalû might have to say. By-and-by two wolves approached, and began howling. Then the merchants asked Schalû, saying, "What do the wolves say?" And Schalû answered, "These are the wolves who have been to me from my birth up in the place of parents, and they say, 'Behold, we have watched over thee ever since thou wast born, and made thee brave and strong, nevertheless, unmindful of our aid, thou hast forsaken us, and betaken thyself to men, who are our enemies. This is the last time that we can come after thee (7); but of our affection we give thee this counsel: sleep not this night, for there is a robber again lurking about the camp. Early in the morning also, if thou goest out to the banks of the stream, thou shalt find a dead body brought down by the waters; fish it out, and cut it open, for in the right thigh is enclosed the jewel Tschin-tâmani (8), and whoso is in possession of this talisman, has only to desire it, and he will become a mighty King, ruler of the four parts of the earth.'" When Vikramâditja had heard these words, he gave up his marauding intention for that night also, his victims having been set upon their guard. But he was satisfied with the prospect of having the talisman for his booty. Going higher up the stream, therefore, he fished out the dead body as it floated down before it came to the merchants' encampment, opened the thigh, and took out the jewel, and then committed it to the waters again, so that when the merchants and Schalû took it, they found the treasure was gone. But he thought within himself the while, "This Schalû is no common boy; some pretext I must find to possess myself of him before the caravan leaves the neighbourhood." The next morning, therefore, before they struck their tents, he came to them in the disguise of a travelling merchant, he also bringing with him stuffs and other objects of barter, on which he had set a private mark. While pretending to trade, he contrived to pick a quarrel, as also to leave some of his wares unperceived hidden in one of the tents. Then he went to King Kütschün-Tschidaktschi, and laid this complaint before him:-- "Behold, O King, I was engaged in trading with a company of five hundred merchants who are encamped outside this city, but a dispute arising, they fell upon me, and used me contumeliously, and drove me forth from among them, and, what is worst of all, they have retained among them the half of my stuffs." In answer to this complaint, the King sent two officers of the court, and an escort of two hundred fighting-men, with instructions to investigate the matter, and if they found that the five hundred merchants had really stolen the stuffs, to put them all to the edge of the sword; but if they found this was not the case, then to bring Vikramâditja to him for judgment. Then Vikramâditja once more prostrated himself before the King, and said, "Upon all my things have I set a mark (so and so), whereby they may be recognized, so that clearly may it be established whether they have my stuffs in possession or not." When the King's envoys came to the encampment of the five hundred merchants, they arraigned them, saying-- "Young Vikramâditja lays this complaint against ye before the King, namely, that you have used him shamefully, driving him away from you contumeliously, and laying violent hands on his stuffs, wherewith he sought to trade with you. Know therefore that the command of our all-powerful King is, that if the stuffs of Vikramâditja are found in your tents, you be all put to the edge of the sword." And the merchants answered cheerfully, "Come in and search our tents, for we have no man's goods with us, saving only our own." Then the King's envoys searched through all the tents, no man hindering them, so persuaded were the good merchants that none of their company had defrauded any man. As they searched, behold, they found hidden in one of the tents, where Vikramâditja had concealed them, the stuffs bearing his marks, so and so, even as he had testified before the King. When the merchants saw this they cried, saying, "Surely some evil demon hath done this thing, for in our company is none who ever took any man's goods;" and they all began to weep with one accord. The King's envoys, however, said, "Weeping will bring you no help; we must do according to the words of our all-powerful king." And they called on the two hundred fighting-men to put the whole company of merchants to the edge of the sword. When the commotion was at the highest--the merchants entreating mercy and protesting their innocence, and the envoys declaring the urgency of the King's decree, and the fighting-men sharpening their swords--there stood forward young Vikramâditja, and spoke, saying, "Nay, let not so many men be put to death. Leave them their lives if they give me in exchange the boy Schalû, whom they have in their company." Then the merchants said to Schalû, "Already hast thou once saved our lives; go now with this man, and save them for us even this second time." And Schalû made answer, "To have saved the lives of five hundred men twice over, shall it not bring me good fortune?" So he went with Vikramâditja, and the merchants loaded him with rich merchandize out of gratitude, for his reward. When Vikramâditja came home, bringing the boy with him, his mother inquired of him, saying, "Vikramâditja, beloved son, where hast thou been, and whence hast thou the child which thou hast brought?" And Vikramâditja answered, "Beloved mother, when thou wast on thy way hither fleeing from before the face of the Schimnus, did not one of thy maidens leave a new-born infant in a wolves' den?" And his mother answered, "Even so did one of my maidens, and the child would now be about this age." So they took Schalû to them, and he was unto Udsessküleng-Chatun as a son, but unto Vikramâditja as a brother; and he went with him whithersoever he went. One day Vikramâditja came to his mother, and said to her, "Beloved mother! Live on here in tranquillity, while I, in company with Schalû, will go to the capital where my father, the immortal Gandharva, reigned, and see what is the fate of our people, and how I may recover the inheritance." But Udsessküleng-Chatun made answer, "Vikramâditja, beloved son! Is not the way long, and beset with evil men, who are so many and so bold? How then wilt thou ever arrive, or escape their wiles?" Vikramâditja said to her, "How great soever the distance may be, by hard walking I will set it behind me; and how many soever the enemy may be, I shall overcome them, defying the violent with strength, and the crafty with craftiness." Thus he and Schalû set out to go to the immortal Gandharva's capital. Inquiring by the way what fate had befallen the kingdom, he found that Gandharva had no sooner entered Nirvâna, than his neighbour King Galischa, had made the design to obtain possession of his throne; but that the Schimnus' host had been beforehand with him, and had already commenced to take possession. They made a compact, however, by which the government was left to King Galischa, on condition of his sending to the Schimnus in Gandharva's palace, a tribute of a hundred men daily with a nobleman at their head. Then Vikramâditja was grieved when he learned that it was thus the usurping prince dealt with his subjects, and he proceeded farther on his way. When he had come nigh the capital, he heard sounds of wailing, proceeding from a hut on the outskirts; going in to discover the cause, Vikramâditja found lying, with her face upon the floor, a woman all disconsolate, and weeping piteously. "Mother! What is thy grief wherewith thou art so terribly oppressed?" inquired Vikramâditja of her. "Ah!" replied the woman, "there is no cure for my grief. This King Galischa, who has seized the kingdom of the immortal Gandharva, has entered into a compact with the Schimnus to pay them a tribute of a hundred men every day with a nobleman at their head. I had two sons, one of them is gone I know not whither, and now to-day they have come and taken the other to send in the tribute to the Schimnus, nor can I by any means resist the will of the King. That is why I wail, and that is why I am inconsolable." And she went on with her loud lament (9). But Vikramâditja bid her arise and be of good cheer, saying, "I will bring back thy son to thee alive this day, for I will go forth to the Schimnus in his stead." Then the woman said, "Nay, neither must this be. Thou art brave with the valour of youth, even as a young horse snorting to get him away to the battle. But when thou art devoured by the Schimnus, then shall thy mother grieve even as I; and belike she is young and has many years before her, whereas my life is well-nigh spent, and what matter if I go down to the grave in sorrow? Who am I that I should bring grief to the mother of thee, noble youth!" But Vikramâditja said, "Leave that to me, and if I send not back to thee thine own son as I have promised, then will I send back to thee this youth, Schalû, who is my younger brother, and he shall be thy son." When he drew near the dwelling of King Galischa, the King was just marshalling one hundred subjects, with a nobleman at their head, who were to be sent that day to the Schimnus in tribute in Gandharva's palace. But the King, espying him, inquired who and whence he was. Then Vikramâditja answered him, "I am Vikramâditja, son of Gandharva. When he died, my mother carried me, being an infant of days, far away for fear of the Schimnus. But now that I have grown to man's estate, I am come together with my younger brother to see after the state of my father's kingdom." Galischa then said, "It is well for thee that Heaven preserved thee from coming before, otherwise thou mightest have had all the travail which has fallen upon me; nevertheless, as I came first, I am in possession. But I have every day in sorrow and agony to send a tribute of one hundred subjects, with a nobleman at their head, to be devoured by the Schimnus." "This have I learnt," replied Vikramâditja, "and it is even on that account that I am here. For have I not seen the grief of a mother mourning over her son, and it is to take his place, and to go in his stead, that I came hither to thee." And Galischa said, "How canst thou, youth that thou art, defy all the might of the Schimnus, doubt not now but that they will devour thee before thou art aware." "Then," replied the magnanimous prince, "if I do not prevail against the Schimnus, this I shall gain, that because I have given my life for another, I shall in my next birth rise to a higher place (10) than at present." "If that is thy mind," replied the King, "then do even as thou hast said." So Vikramâditja went out with the tribute of blood, and sent back the youth whom he had come to replace, to his mother. When the King saw him go forth with firm step, and as it were dancing with joy over his undertaking, he said, "There is one case in which he might turn out to be our deliverer; but if that case does not befall, then will he but have come to swell the number of victims of the Schimnus. Let us, however, all wait here together through the day, to see what may befall." Vikramâditja and his companions meantime arrived at Gandharva's palace; and Vikramâditja, as if he had known the place all his life, went straight up to the throne-room, where was the great and dazzling Sinhâsana (11). Ascending it, therefore, he sat himself in it, and, while his tears flowed down, he cried, "Oh for the days of my father, the immortal Gandharva; for he reigned gloriously! But since he hath entered Nirvâna we have had nothing but weariness. What would my father have said had he seen his subjects made by hundreds at a time food for the Schimnus? Schimnus, beware! lest I destroy your whole race from off the face of the earth." Thus spoke Vikramâditja, till, inspired by his royal courage, he had sent all the hundred victims of this tribute back to their homes, defying the anger of the Schimnus. But to the King he sent word, "The Schimnus of whom thou standest in mortal dread will I curb and tame. Meantime, let there be four hundred vessels of brandy prepared." And the King did as he said, and sent and put out four hundred vessels filled with strong brandy in the way. When, therefore, the Schimnus came that they might devour their victims as usual, they first came upon the four hundred vessels of brandy, and seeing them, they set upon them greedily, and drank up their contents. Overcome by the strong spirit, they lay about on the ground half-senseless, and Vikramâditja came upon them and slew them, and hewed them in pieces. He had hardly despatched the last of them when their Schimnu-king, informed of what had been done, came down in wrath and fury, flourishing his drawn sword. But Vikramâditja said to him, "Halt! King of the Schimnus; taste first of my brandy, and if it overcome thee, then shalt thou be my slave; but if not, then will I serve thee. Then the King of the Schimnus drank up all the brandy, and, overpowered by the strong spirit, fell down senseless on the earth. As he was about to slay him like the others, Vikramâditja thought within himself, "After all, it will bring greater fame to overcome him in fair fight than to slay him by stratagem." So he sat down and waited till he came to himself; then he defied him to combat; and when he stood up to fight, he raised his sword and cut him in two. Then see! of the two halves there arose two men; and when he cut each of these in two, there were four men; and when he cut these in two, there were eight men, who all rushed upon him. Then the Prince transformed himself into eight lions, which roared terribly, and tore the eight men in pieces, and destroyed them utterly. While this terrible combat was going on, there were frightful convulsions of nature (12): mountains fell in, and in the place where they had stood were level plains; and plains were raised up, and appeared as mountains, water gushed out of them and overran the land, and all the subjects of Gandharva fell senseless on the earth. But when Vikramâditja had made an end of the Schimnus, and resumed his own form again, he made a great offering of incense, and the earth resumed her stability; the people were called back to life, and all was gladness and thanksgiving. All the people, and King Galischa at their head, acknowledged Vikramâditja as their lawful sovereign, and he ascended the throne of his father Gandharva. Then he sent for the Queen-mother, and made the joy of all his people. When the Sûta had made an end of the narrative of Vikramâditja's youth, he addressed himself to Ardschi-Bordschi, saying,-- "If thou canst boast of being such a King as Vikramâditja, then come and ascend this throne; but if not, then beware, at thy peril, that thou approach it not." Ardschi-Bordschi then drew near once more to ascend the throne, but two other of the sculptured figures, forsaking their guardant attitude, came forward and warned him back. Then another Sûta addressed him, saying, "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi! As yet thou hast only heard concerning the birth and the youth of Vikramâditja; now hearken, and I will tell thee some of his mighty deeds." And all the sculptured figures answered together,-- "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!" THE SÛTA TELLS ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI CONCERNING VIKRAMÂDITJA'S DEEDS. VIKRAMÂDITJA ACQUIRES ANOTHER KINGDOM. While Vikramâditja continued to rule over his subjects in justice, and to make them prosperous and happy, another mighty king entered Nirvâna. As he left no son, and as there was no one of his family left, nor any one with any title to be his heir, a youth of the people was elected to fill the throne. The same night that he had been installed on the throne, however, he came to die. The next day another youth was elected, and he also died the same night. And so it was the next night, and the next, and yet no one could divine of what malady all these kings died. At last the thing reached the ears of Vikramâditja. Then Vikramâditja arose, and Schalû with him, and disguising themselves as two beggars, they took the way to the capital of this sorely-tried kingdom, to bring it deliverance. When they came near the entrance of the city, they turned in to rest at a small house by the wayside. Within they found an aged couple, who were preparing splendid raiment for a handsome youth, who was their son; but they cried the while with bitter tears. Then said Vikramâditja,-- "Why do you mourn so bitterly, good people?" "Our King is dead," replied they, "and as he has left no succession, one of the people was chosen by lot to fill the office of King, but he died the same night; and when another was similarly chosen, he likewise died. Thus it happens every night. Now, to-day the lot has fallen on our son; he will therefore of a certainty die to-night: therefore do we mourn." Then answered Vikramâditja, "To me and my companion, who are but two miserable beggars, it matters little whether we live or die. Keep your son with you, therefore, and we two will ascend the throne this morning in his place and die to-night in his stead." But the parents replied, "It is not for us to decide the thing. Behold, the matter stands in the hands of three prudent and experienced ministers, but we will go and bring the proposal before them." The parents went, therefore, and laid the proposal of the beggars before the three prudent and experienced ministers, who answered them, saying, "If these men are willing to die after reigning but twenty-four hours why should we say them nay? Let them be brought hither to us." Then the beggars were brought in, and the ministers installed them on the throne, saying to the people, "Hitherto we have been accustomed to meet together early in the morning to bury our King. But this time, as we shall have two kings to bury instead of one, see that you come together right early." Vikramâditja meantime set himself to examine all the affairs of the kingdom, that he might discover to what was to be ascribed the death of the King every night. And when he had well inquired into every matter, he found that it had formerly been the custom of the King to make every night a secret offering (1) to the devas, and to the genii of earth and water, and to the eight kinds of spirits, but that the succeeding kings had neglected the sacrifice, and therefore the spirits had slain them. Then the most high and magnanimous king Vikramâditja appointed out of the royal treasury what was necessary to pay for the accustomed offering; then he called upon the spirits and offered the sacrifice. The spirits, delighted to see their honour return, made the king a present of a handsome Mongolian tent and went up again. The people, too, who had come together early in the morning, with much wood to make the funeral obsequies of the Kings, were filled with delight to find the spell broken, and in return they gave him the jewel Dsching, filling the air with their cries of gladness and gratitude, calling him the King decreed by fate to rule over them. Thus Vikramâditja became their King. VIKRAMÂDITJA MAKES THE SILENT SPEAK. While now Vikramâditja reigned over all his people in justice and equity complaint was brought before him against one of his ministers, that he oppressed the people and dealt fraudulently with them; and Vikramâditja, having tried his cause, judged him worthy of death. But when he was brought before him to receive sentence he pleaded for life so earnestly that the magnanimous King answered him, "Why should the life of the most abject be taken? Let him but be driven forth from the habitation of men." So they drove him forth from the habitation of men. Now it had been the minister's custom, in pursuance of a vow, to observe three fast-days every month (1). And so it happened, that one day after they had driven him forth from the habitations of men, on the day succeeding one of his fasts, he found himself quite without any thing to eat; nor could he discover any fruit or any herb which could serve as a means of subsistence. Recollecting, then, that one day he had made four little offering-tapers out of wax and bread crumbs, he went and searched out the shrine where he had offered them, that he might take them to eat. But see! when he stretched forth his hand to take one of them it glided away from before him and hid itself behind another of the offering-tapers; and when he would have taken that one, they both hid themselves behind the third. And when he stretched forth his hand to have taken the third, the three together, in like manner, glided behind the fourth. And when he stretched forth his hand to have taken the four together, they all glided away together from off the altar and out of the shrine altogether, and so swiftly that it was as much as he could do to follow after them and keep them in sight. Going on steadily behind them he came at last to a cave of a rock, and brushwood growing over it. Herein they disappeared. Then when he would have crept in after them into the cave of the rock, two he-goats, standing over the portal of the cave, sculptured in stone, spoke to him, saying, "Beware, and enter not! for this is a place of bad omen. Within this cave sits the beauteous Dâkinî (2) Tegrijin Nâran (3) sunk in deep contemplation and speaketh never. Whoso can make her open her lips twice to speak to man, to him is the joy given to bear her home for his own. But let it not occur to thee to make the bold attempt of inducing her to open her lips to speak, for already five hundred sons of kings have tried and failed; and behold they all languish in interminable prison at the feet of the Silent Haughty One, sunk in deep contemplation." And as they spoke they bent low their heads, and pointed their horns at him, to forbid him the entrance. The minister, however, had no mind to try the issue, but rather seized with a great panic he turned him and fled without so much as heeding whither his steps led him. Thus running he chanced to come with his head at full butt against the magnanimous King Vikramâditja, just then taking his walk abroad. "How now, evil man?" exclaimed the magnanimous King. "Whence comest thou, fleeing as from an evil conscience?" Then the minister prostrated himself before him, and told him all he had learnt from the two he-goats sculptured in stone, concerning Naran-Dâkinî. When Vikramâditja had heard the story, he commanded that the evil minister should be guarded, to see whether the event proved that he had spoken the truth; but, taking with him Schalû and three far-sighted and experienced ministers, he went on till he came to the cave and saw the two he-goats sculptured in stone standing over the portal. The he-goats would have made the same discourse to him as to the evil minister, but he commanded them silence. Then he transformed Schalû into an aramâlâ (4) in his hand, but the three ministers into the altar that stood before the Dâkinî, and the lamp that burned thereon, and the granite vessel for burning incense placed at the foot of the same (5); laying this charge upon them: "I will come in," said he, "as though a wayfarer who knew you not, and sitting down I will tell a saga of olden time. Then all of you four give an interpretation of my saga quite perverse from the real meaning, and if the Dâkinî be prudent and full of understanding she will open her lips to speak to vindicate the right meaning of the story." Presently, therefore, after he had completed the transformation of Schalû and the three far-seeing and experienced ministers, and having himself assumed the appearance of a king on his travels, he entered the cave and sat down over against the altar which stood before the Dâkinî Naran, the Silent Haughty One, sunk in deep contemplation. Then said he, "In that it was told me in this place dwells the all-fair Tegrijin Naran-Dâkinî, I, who am King of Gambudvîpa, am come hither to visit her;" and as he spoke he looked furtively up towards the Dâkinî, to see whether he had moved her to open her lips to speak. But the all-beauteous Naran-Dâkinî, the Silent Haughty One, sat still and gave forth no sign. Then spoke the King again, saying, "On occasion of this my coming, O Naran-Dâkinî, tell thou me one of the sagas of old; or else, if thou prefer to hold thy peace, then will I tell one to thee!" Again he looked up, but Naran-Dâkinî Tegrijin, the Silent Haughty One, sat sunk in deep contemplation and gave forth no sign. As the King paused, one of the far-seeing and experienced ministers, even the one whom he had transformed into the altar that stood before the Dâkinî, spoke, saying,-- "While from the lips of the all-beauteous Naran-Chatun (6) no word of answer proceeds, how should it beseem me, the Altar, a non-souled object, to speak. Nevertheless, seeing that so great and magnanimous a King has come hither and has propounded a question, I will yet dare, even I, to answer him. For, seeing that Naran-Chatun is so immersed in her own contemplations, she cannot give ear to the words of the King, I who, standing all the day before her in silence, and hearing no word of wisdom in any of the sagas of old, even I would fain be instructed by the words of the King." And as the altar thus spoke, Naran Tegrijin Dâkinî cast a glance of scorn upon it, but the Silent Haughty One opened never her lips to speak. Then the King took up his parable and poured forth one of the sagas of old after this manner, saying,-- WHO INVENTED WOMAN? (7) "Long ages ago there went forth daily into one place four youths out of four tribes, to mind their flocks, one youth out of each tribe, and when their flocks left them leisure they amused themselves with pastimes together. Now it came to pass that one day one of them rising earlier than the rest, and finding himself at the place all alone, said within himself,-- "'How is the time weary, being here all alone!' "And he took wood and sculptured it with loving care until he had fashioned a form like to his own, and yet not alike. And when he saw how brave a form he had fashioned, he cared no more to sport with the other shepherd youths, but went his way. "The next morning the second of the youths rose earlier than the rest, and, coming to the place all alone, said within himself,-- "'How is the time weary, being here all alone!' "And he cast about him for some pastime, and thus he found the form which the first youth had fashioned, and, finding it exceeding brave, he painted it over with the five colours, and when he saw how fair a form he had painted he cared no more to sport with the other shepherd youths, but went his way. "The next morning the third of the youths rose earlier than the rest, and, coming to the place all alone, said within himself,-- "'How is the time weary, being here all alone!' "And he cast about him for some pastime, and thus he discovered the form which the first youth had fashioned and the second youth had painted, and he said,-- "'This figure is beautiful in form and colour, but it has no wit or understanding' So he infused into it wit and understanding. "And when he saw how clever was the form he had endowed with wit and understanding, he cared no more to sport with the shepherd youths, and he went his way. "The fourth morning the fourth of the youths rose up the earliest, and, finding himself all alone at the trysting-place, said within himself,-- "'How is the time weary, being here all alone!' "And, casting about to find some pastime, he discovered the form which the first youth had fashioned so brave, and the second youth had painted so fair, and the third youth had made so clever in wit and understanding, and he said,-- "'Behold the figure is beautiful in form and fair to behold in colour, and admirable for wit and understanding, but what skills all this when it hath not life?' And he put his lips to the lips of the figure and breathed softly into them, and behold it had a soul (8) that could be loved, and was woman. "And when he saw her he loved her, and he cared no more to sport with the shepherd youths, but left all for her, that he might be with her and love her. "But when the other shepherd youths saw that the figure had acquired a soul that could be loved, and was woman, they came back all the three and demanded possession of her by right of invention. "The first youth said, 'She is mine by right of invention, because I fashioned her out of a block of wood that had had no form but for me.' "The second said, 'She is mine by right of invention, because I painted her, and she had worn no tints fair to behold but for me.' "The third said, 'She is mine by right of invention, because I gave her wit and understanding, and she had had no capacity for companionship but for me.' "But the fourth said, 'She is mine by right of invention, because I breathed into her a soul that could be loved, nor was there any enjoyment in her but for me.' "And while they all joyed in the thought of possessing her, they continued to strive on that they might see which should prevail. And when they found that none prevailed against the rest, they brought the matter before the King for him to decide. "Say now therefore, O Naran-Dâkinî, I charge thee, in favour of which of these four was the King bound to decide that he had invented woman?" And as the King left off from speaking he looked towards Naran-Dâkinî as challenging her to answer. But Naran-Dâkinî, the Silent Haughty One, sat immersed in deep contemplation and held her peace, speaking never a word. Then when the far-sighted and experienced ministers saw that she held her peace, one of them, even the one whom Vikramâditja had transformed into the lamp before the altar, spoke, saying,-- "It were meet indeed that an unsouled object such as I, the Lamp, should not venture to speak in presence of our mistress, Naran-Chatun. But as so great a King has come to visit us, and has propounded to us a question to which Naran-Chatun does not see fit to reply, even I, the Lamp, will attempt to answer him. To me, then, it seems that the answer is clear, for by whom could the figure be said to be invented saving by the youth who first fashioned it? He who gave a mere block of wood a beautiful form must be allowed to have invented it." Naran-Dâkinî cast a glance of disgust and scorn upon the lamp, yet spoke she never a word. Then spoke the far-seeing and experienced minister whom Vikramâditja had transformed into the thurible at the foot of the altar, saying,-- "It were meet indeed that an unsouled object such as I, the Incense-burner, should not venture to speak in presence of our mistress, Naran-Chatun. But as so great a King has come to visit us, and has propounded a question to us to which Naran-Chatun does not see fit to reply, even I, the Thurible, will attempt to answer him. And to me indeed the answer is plain, for to whom could the figure be said to belong, if not to the youth who painted it and made a mere stump beautiful and lifelike with fair tints of colour?" At these words of the incense-vessel Naran-Dâkinî cast upon it a look of scorn and contempt, but opened not her lips to speak. Then spoke Schalû, whom Vikramâditja had transformed into his aramâlâ, with impetuosity, saying, "Nay, but surely he alone could have the right of invention who endowed a painted log with wit and understanding. Surely he who made a stump of a tree to think must be allowed to have invented it." When Naran-Dâkinî saw with what a confident air the aramâlâ pronounced this sentence, even as though he had settled the whole matter, she could contain herself no longer, and then burst from her lips these words, while her eyes lighted on the objects that had spoken with exceeding indignation,-- "Of miserable understanding are ye all! How then venture ye, unsouled objects, to expound the matter when I, a reasonable being, scarcely dare pronounce upon the question? What other interpretation of this parable, however, can there be than this:--The youth who first fashioned the figure of a block of wood, did not he stand in place of the father? He who painted it with tints fair to behold, did not he stand in place of the mother? He who gave wit and understanding, is not he the Lama? But he who gave a soul that could be loved, was it not he alone who made woman? To whom, therefore, else should she have belonged by right of invention? And to whom should woman belong if not to her husband?" Thus Tegrijin Naran Dâkinî had been brought to speak once; but the proposition requiring that the Silent Haughty One should speak twice to man, the magnanimous King proceeded without making allusion to his first success, saying,-- "Now that I have told a saga of old, it is the turn that one of you should also tell us a tale to entertain the mind." And as he spoke he addressed himself to Naran-Dâkinî. Nevertheless Naran-Dâkinî had entered again into her deep contemplation, and held her peace, saying never a word. Then said the far-seeing and experienced minister whom the King had transformed into the altar,-- "As Naran-Chatun continues to sit in her place and to utter no sound in answer to the word of the high King who has come so far to visit us, even I, though I be an unsouled object, will venture to reply, asking him that he will again open to us the treasures of story." At these words Naran-Dâkinî cast a meaning glance upon her altar, but spoke not. Then opened the magnanimous King again the treasures of story. THE VOICE-CHARMER (9). "Long ages ago two were travelling through a mountainous country, a man and his wife. And behold as they journeyed there reached them from the other side of a rock a voice of such surpassing sweetness that the two stood still to listen, the man and his wife; and not they only, but their very beasts pricked up their ears erect to drink in the sound. "Then spoke the woman,-- "'A man with a voice so melodious must be a man goodly to see. Shall we not stop and find him out?'" "But the saying pleased not her husband, nor was he minded that she should see who it was that sang so sweetly; therefore he answered her,-- "'Wherefore should we search him out; is it not enough that we hear his voice?' "When the wife had heard his answer, she said no more about searching out whence the voice proceeded; only the first time they passed a mountain-rill she said to her husband,-- "'Behold, I faint for thirst in this heat. Now, as thou lovest me, fetch me a draught of that cool water from the mountain-rill.' So the man got down from his horse, and, taking his wife's cup (10), went to the rill to fetch water. "While he was thus occupied, the wife slid down from off her horse also, and, going silently behind him, pushed him over the precipice and killed him. Then she set out to find out who it was sang so melodiously. When she had followed up the sound she found herself in presence, not of a man goodly to behold, but of a wretched, loathsome object, sunk down against the foot of the rock, deformed in person and covered with sores. Notwithstanding that the undeception was so revolting, she yet took him up on her back and carried him with her; but as the man was heavy and the way steep, the fatigue so wearied her that at the end of a little time she died. "Was this woman to be counted a good woman or a bad?" When the King had made an end of telling the tale, he looked towards Naran-Dâkinî as challenging her to answer. But Naran-Dâkinî held her peace and spoke never a word. Then, when the far-seeing and experienced minister whom Vikramâditja had transformed into the lamp saw that she yet held her peace, he said,-- "How should an unsouled being such as I, the Lamp, find out the right meaning? nevertheless, not to leave the words of the high King without an answer, I will even venture to suggest that to me it seemeth she must be counted a good woman; because though she killed her husband, yet she made atonement for her fault by raising the sick man and carrying him with her--" But before he could make an end of speaking Naran-Dâkinî cast at him a glance of contempt and scorn, and she exclaimed,-- "How should there be any good in a woman who killed her lawful husband, and that only because her ears were tickled with the artful melody of an harmonious voice? Of a truth she must have been a veritable schimnu, and if she took the sick man with her, was it not only that she might devour him at leisure?" Then spoke Vikramâditja,-- "Naran-Chatun! being he who hath induced thee to open thy lips to speak these two times to man, give me my guerdon that thou accompany me home to be my wife." Very willingly coming down from her altar, Tegrijin Naran Dâkinî at these words gave herself to Vikramâditja to accompany him home to be his wife. Vikramâditja having then given back to Schalû and to his three far-seeing and experienced ministers their natural shapes, and to the five hundred sons of kings who had failed in winning Naran-Dâkinî theirs, with Naran-Dâkinî by his side, and all the rest in a long procession behind him, the King arrived at his capital. Here he called together all his people Tai-tsing (11) to a great assembly, where he promulgated rules of faith and religion. By his good government he made all his people so happy as no other sovereign ever did, sitting upon his throne with his consort Tegrijin Naran as the fate-appointed rulers. When the Sûta had made an end of this narration of Vikramâditja's deeds, he addressed himself to Ardschi-Bordschi, saying,-- "If thou canst boast, of being such a King as Vikramâditja, then come and ascend this throne, but if not, then beware at thy peril that thou approach it not." Now Ardschi-Bordschi had seventy-one wives; taking by the hand the chief of them therefore, he bid her make obeisance before the throne and ascend it with him. Ere they had set foot on the first step two other of the sculptured figures came forward, forsaking their guardant attitude, and warned him back, the warrior smiting him in the breast, and the Sûta thus addressing him,-- "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi, and thou his wife! nor touch so much as with thy prostrate heads the sacred steps. But first know what manner of woman was the chief wife of Vikramâditja. "The chief wife of Vikramâditja was Tsetsen Budschiktschi (12), and she never had a word, or look, or thought but for her husband. If thy wife be such a princess as she, then draw near to ascend the throne together, but if otherwise, then at your peril draw not near it. "But," he said furthermore, "hearken, and I will tell you, who have seventy-one wives, the story of what befell seventy-one parrots and the wife of another high King to whom one of them was counsellor." And all the sculptured figures answered together,-- "Halt! O Ardschi-Bordschi!" THE SÛTA TELLS ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI CONCERNING THE SEVENTY-ONE PARROTS AND THEIR ADVISER. Long ages ago the wife of a high King was ill with a dire illness, nor could the art of any physician suffice to cure her till one came who said, "Let there be given her parrots' brains to eat." When, therefore, the high King saw that eating parrots' brains brought health it seemed good to him to take a tribute of parrots' brains from his subjects. He called unto him, therefore, the governor of a tributary province and commanded him, saying, "Let there be delivered to me a tribute of the brains of seventy-one parrots, otherwise thou must die the death." That governor went out therefore trembling with fear, and he called unto him immediately a birdcatcher and agreed with him for the price of the brains of seventy-one parrots. Now the birdcatcher knew a certain tree in which there roosted every night seventy-one parrots, and he said within himself, "If I could spread one net over the whole tree, with one haul the whole affair would be finished." So he went and bought a great net ready to spread over the whole tree. But among these seventy-one parrots was one parrot exceeding wise, who was always on the watch to see what the birdcatcher was about. When, therefore, he saw him buy so great a net he said to his companions, "To what end can the man have bought so big a net if not to spread round the whole tree? let us, therefore, in future roost on yonder rock." After this they went to roost on the rock. After they had roosted four or five nights on the rock the wise parrot caught sight of the birdcatcher prowling about, having followed them thither and being engaged in settling in his own mind how he should lay his nets. Then the wise parrot said to his companions, "The man has come hither after us even to this rock; let us now, therefore, avoid his snares by roosting in some other place." But his companions, instead of accepting his counsel were provoked, and answered him, saying, "How are we to endure thus changing our place of roosting every night. We left our tree which sheltered us well and came to this rock to please thy fancy; and now thou wouldst have us make another change. But we will no more listen to thy suspicions." They roosted, therefore, still upon the rock, and that night the birdcatcher came with his nets and encompassed them all. When they woke and found themselves imprisoned, loud were their shrieks of lamentation as they fluttered and beat their wings fruitlessly against the net; calling also on the wise parrot, saying, "You who were so wise in foreseeing the danger, have you no means for delivering us out of it?" "Yes," replied the wise parrot, "I have thought of that. Leave off every one of you from shrieking and fluttering about, and beating your wings against the net, which is a new one and not the least likely to give way. On the contrary, lie all of you on your backs with your heads hanging as if you were dead. The birdcatcher being satisfied you are dead will not kill you over again. Then observe and see that the approach to this one rock is very narrow, and when a man comes up it there is only just room for one foot-hold at the ledge whence he can reach us, and it is as much as he can do to get up and down with the use of both his hands as well as his feet; he will not, therefore, go to carry us down or put us in a bag, but will throw us one by one over the cliff, and sure enough he will say out the number as he throws each down. Let, therefore, those who are thrown down first remain still lying without motion so that he may not suspect any of the rest are alive, only when he says out the number, 'Seventy-one!' then up and away, as at a signal of a race." The other parrots did not venture to dispute the word of the wise parrot this time, but all did exactly as he had said. When the birdcatcher came and found what a steep rugged path he had to climb he vowed all sorts of vengeance on the parrots for giving him so much fatigue, and swore that he would break all their bones, for the brain was the only part he cared to keep uninjured. When he had got up to the ledge of rock by which he could reach them, however, and found that they seemed already stone dead, seeing that to wreak any vengeance on creatures that could not feel would be childish, he contented himself with throwing them below one by one, calling out as he did so the number to each. In this way he had thrown over the seventy; last of all there remained the wise parrot, but the net having fallen upon him he was rather longer loosing him than the rest, so that he had called out "Seventy-one" before he was ready to throw him down, moreover, his whetstone happening at that same instant to tumble out of his girdle, the other parrots took the sound of its fall for that of the wise parrot, and all of them together they spread their wings and flew far away. The birdcatcher saw this in time before he had let go his hold of the wise parrot. "Ah! vile, cunning parrots," he exclaimed in great wrath and indignation, "what labour have you given me, and at last I have no benefit for my exertion! One, at least, of you is still in my power, and on him will I be avenged for the mischief of all the rest; I will take him home and torture him at leisure, and then cook him alive. The wise parrot heard all this, but thought to wait till his fury was a little spent. But finding as time wore on the man only got more and more wroth; and the matter beginning to get serious, as they were coming near his dwelling, the wise parrot at last said, "What end will it serve that thou kill me? It will not bring the other parrots back--and, indeed, what grudge hast thou against me? I never killed thee at any former time (1) that thou shouldst now kill me. Thou hast attacked my life, and I have defended it by fair dealing. Other grudge against me hast thou none; then why shouldst thou seek to maim and injure me? Moreover, if thou do, be sure that the day will come (2) when I should repay thee. But now, if thou sell me who am a wise and understanding parrot, thou shalt receive for my price 100 ounces of silver, and if with seventy-one ounces thou buy seventy-one other parrots for him who hired thee there will still remain twenty-nine ounces with which thou mayest make merry with all thy friends and acquaintance." When, therefore, the birdcatcher found he was a wise and understanding parrot, he took him and sold him to a rich merchant for 100 ounces of silver. The merchant also, who bought the parrot, finding him so wise and full of understanding, employed him in all sorts of ways to watch over his belongings. At last, one day he came and said to the parrot, "Hitherto thou hast done me good service in watching over the merchandize, and I have regarded thee as my brother, now, therefore, that I go on a journey of seventy-one days I entreat thee to watch over, as a sister-in-law, my wife, who is very gay and thoughtless. The wise parrot answered, "Be of good heart, brother, all shall be right in thine absence." At which the merchant replied, "If thou sayest so, brother Parrot, I can go forth on my journey without anxieties." He had not been gone long when his young wife rose up, saying, "Now indeed I am for once my own mistress: I will go out and see all my friends, and particularly those I dare not visit when my husband is here." So she arrayed herself in all her gayest attire. But when she would have gone out the parrot stopped her, saying, "Wait, sister-in-law. A wife behoves it rather to set her household affairs in order, than to go abroad paying visits when her husband is absent." "Bad parrot!" exclaimed the wife, "what hast thou to do to hinder my taking a little pleasure?" The parrot answered, "Thy husband when he went away gave me strict charge over thee, saying, 'I command thee that thou hinder her from going forth alone.' This, however, it is not in me to do, for thou art greater in might than I; and if I command thee not to go thou wilt not obey by words. Only now, therefore, before thou goest out sit down first and listen to the story that I will tell thee." When the wife heard him promise to tell a story, she sat down, for she loved to listen to the stories of the wise parrot. Then the parrot began to tell her a story in this wise. HOW NARAN GEREL SWORE FALSELY AND YET TOLD THE TRUTH. "Long ages ago there lived a King named Tsoktu Ilagukssan (3), who had one only daughter, whom he kept as the apple of his eye, and guarded so jealously that she never saw any thing or any body. If any man went near her apartment his legs were immediately broken and his eyes put out. So relentless was the command of the King. "One day Naran Gerel (4), such was the daughter's name, however, came to her father, saying, "Being shut up here all day seeing nothing and no man, my life is weariness unto me. Let me now go abroad on the fifteenth of the month, that I may see something." "But the King would not listen to her; only as she continued day by day urging her request, the King at last gave permission that on a certain day she might go abroad; but he gave orders also at the same time that on that day every bazaar should be shut, every window closed, and that all men, women, and beasts should be shut up close out of sight of the Princess; and that whoso walked abroad, or but looked out of window should be punished with death. "On the fifteenth of the month, therefore, a new chariot was appointed to Naran Gerel, and she went forth surrounded by a train of her maidens, and drove all through the city; every bazaar being shut up, every window closed, and all men, women, and beasts within doors out of sight. "Nevertheless, the King's minister Ssaran (5), overcome by his curiosity to see the Princess, had gone up to the highest window of his house, to obtain a glimpse of her unperceived. But what care soever he took to be seen of none, the Princess, in her anxiety to make the best use of her eyes on this her one opportunity of seeing the world, discerned him. "Never having seen any man but her father, who was already well stricken in years, the appearance of the Minister, who was still young, so charmed her that she instantly conceived a desire to see more of him, and accordingly made a sign to him by raising the first finger of her right hand and marking a circle round it with the other hand; then clasping both hands tight together and throwing them open again, finally laying one finger of each hand together and pointing with them towards the palace. "Very much perplexed at finding himself discovered by the Princess, Ssaran came down; and when his wife saw him looking so bewildered, she inquired of him, saying, 'Hast thou seen the Princess?' "'Not only have I seen the Princess,' replied Ssaran, 'but she hath seen me; and made all manners of signs, of which I understand nothing, but that of course they were to threaten some dreadful chastisement.' "'And of what nature were the signs, then?' further inquired his wife; and when he had described them to her, she replied,-- "'These signs by no means betoken threatening. Listen, and I will tell thee the interpretation of the same. In that she raised the first finger of the right hand on high, she signified that in the neighbourhood of her dwelling is a shady tree; that with the other hand she described a circle round it, showed that the garden where the tree stands is surrounded by a high wall; that she clasped both hands together and then threw them open again, said, "Come unto me in the garden of flowers;" and the laying of one finger of each hand together, said, "May we be able to meet?"' "'This were very well,' replied Ssaran, 'were the King's decree not so terrible, and his wrath so unsparing.' "But his wife answered him, 'When a King's daughter calls, can fear stand in the way? Go now at her bidding, only take this jewel with thee.' "Ssaran accepted his wife's counsel, and, stowing the jewel away in a safe place in the folds of his robe, betook himself to the shady tree in the garden of the Princess. Here he found the Princess awaiting him, and they spent the day happily together. "Towards evening, just as Ssaran was about to take leave of the Princess, they suddenly found themselves surrounded by a hundred armed men, whom the captain that the King had set over the garden had sent to take them both prisoners. Into a dark dungeon they were accordingly thrown to await the King's decree saying by what manner of means they should be put to death. "Naran Gerel, who had been used to see every one obey her and bow before her, desired the men to let her go home to her father; but the captain said, 'How many men have suffered maiming and death for nothing but because they have ventured near the precincts of thine apartment! Now therefore it is thy turn that thou be put to death also. So will there be an end of this peril to the King's subjects.' "When Naran Gerel found she could prevail nothing with the captain, she turned to Ssaran and entreated him that he should devise some way of escape; but, sunk in fear and apprehension of the King's terrible anger, he could not collect his ideas. "'How comes it,' then inquired the Princess, 'that if thou hast so little presence of mind as thou now displayest, thou wert able to distinguish and unravel, and find courage to follow, the tokens that I gave thee with my hands as I drove along the way?' "'That,' said he, 'I discovered by the sharp wit of my wife, who also gave me courage to obey thy call.' "'And did she furnish thee with knowledge and courage, and yet send thee forth with no sort of talisman?' said Naran Gerel. "'She gave me nothing but this jewel,' replied the minister; 'and of what use can that be?' "The Princess, however, took the jewel, and, throwing it out of window, cried to the guard, 'Ye men who are set to guard us, give ear. To persons sentenced to death is a jewel of no further use; take it one of you to whom it is permitted to live, only let whichever of you takes it in possession do us this service, that he go to the house of the minister Ssaran, and knock three times at the door.' "One of the guard therefore took the jewel, and went and knocked three times at the door of the minister Ssaran. But the wife of the minister, knowing by this token that her husband was thrown into prison together with Naran Gerel, the King's daughter, made haste and attired herself in her finest apparel, and filled a basket with all manner of juice-giving fruits. With these she came to the gate of the prison where her husband was held bound, and spoke thus to the captain of the guard,-- "'My husband being stricken with the fever, the physician hath ordered that I take these fruits to him;' and the captain of the guard made answer, 'If this be so, then take the fruits in to him, but loiter not; return in all speed.' As soon as the wife entered the prison she changed dresses hastily with Naran Gerel, bidding her escape and go hence privately to her own apartment, while she remained beside her husband. "In the meantime morning had come, and the King and all his court and his judges were astir, and before all other causes the captain of the guard went to give account of the arrest of Naran Gerel and the minister Ssaran. The high King was very wroth when he heard what his daughter had done and the minister, and commanded that they should instantly be brought before him. So the captain of the guard went straight to the prison, and without waiting so much as to look at them brought the two prisoners before the throne of the King. "When the King saw the minister and his wife standing before him, he asked them in a voice of thunder,-- "'Where is Naran Gerel?' "And the minister's wife made answer,-- "'How can we tell thee this thing, seeing we have been kept in durance all through the night?' "'And wherefore have ye been kept in durance all through the night?' pursued the King. "'Concerning that also we know nothing further than that the captain of the guard told us it was by the King's decree,' replied the woman. "'Explain this matter,' then said the King, addressing the minister. And he, his wife telling him what to say, made answer, 'Most high King, how shall I explain the matter, seeing that I myself fail to know why we were arrested? My wife desired to see the garden of the King, and I, thinking it was not beyond a minister's privilege, took her yesterday to walk there, and we spent the day together under the shady tree. For this were we put in prison.' "The King then spoke to the captain of the guard, saying, 'Shall not a man pass the day in a garden with his wife? Wherefore should they be put in prison? Behold, since thou hast done this thing, thy life is in this man's hand.' And he delivered the captain of the guard to the minister to deal with him as he listed. "But the captain of the guard said, 'For observing the King's decree am I to be put to death? Before I die, however, let this justice be done. Let Naran Gerel be summoned hither, and let her say on the trial of barley-corns whether it was not she whom I arrested in the King's garden.' "So the King sent and called Naran Gerel and bid her say on the trial of barley-corns whether it were not she whom the captain of the guard had arrested in the King's garden. "But Naran Gerel answered, 'Am I not then the King's daughter? How should I, then, make the trial of barley-corns like one of the common herd of the people? But call me an assembly, and before the assembly I will swear. Shall not that suffice for the King's daughter?' But this she said because in the trial of barley-corns if one speak falsely the barley-corns will surely spring into the air and burst with a loud noise; but if truth, then only they remain quiet. Naran Gerel therefore feared to make the trial of barley-corns. "But the King said, 'The words that Naran Gerel hath spoken are words of justice. Let an assembly be called.' So they called together an assembly, Naran Gerel having exchanged glances with the minister's wife agreeing how they should proceed. "Meantime the minister and his wife went home. The wife therefore stained her husband all over with a black stain so that he looked quite black, and she said to him, 'When the time comes that the Princess has to take the oath in the assembly, do thou find thyself there doubled up and making unmeaning grimaces and uncouth antics with an empty water-pitcher. Perhaps the Princess will find the means to escape hereby out of the judgment that threatens her.' "The assembly was now gathered. The King was on his throne, and Naran Gerel stood at its foot; and the minister, under the form of a crippled beggar, black and loathsome to behold, was there also. "Then the King called upon Naran Gerel to take the oath. And first espying the pretended cripple, he commanded, saying, 'Let that revolting object be removed;' and all the people loathed him. But the minister, who acted the part of a cripple, only mouthed and wriggled the more, and would not be removed, and as he threatened to make a disturbance the King bid them unhand him again. "But Naran Gerel stood forward, saying, 'Whereon shall I take this oath? On the barley-corns it beseemeth not the King's daughter to swear even as a common wench. And if I swear on any well-looking man in this assembly, I shall run danger of having the former accusation brought against me again. I will therefore swear by this cripple whom all have loathed. Those who would accuse me to the utmost cannot see any offence if I swear by an object so ungainly and revolting.' "By this means, as she had sworn by a cripple who was no cripple, she counted that it was no oath, while the King and all the people were satisfied she had spoken the truth. The captain of the guard was handed over to the minister's pleasure, who let him go free, and the minister and Naran Gerel were pronounced innocent." "The wife of the minister Ssaran was a devoted wife, well-being and true to her husband," said the wise parrot when he had finished this tale. "If, therefore, thou art devoted and brave even as the wife of the minister Ssaran, then go abroad and pay visits according to thy desire; but if not, then beware that thou set not foot outside the door." After these words the merchant's wife gave up her intention of going out, and remained at home. And thus the wise parrot dealt with her every day of the seventy-one days that the merchant was absent. Then said the Sûta further to Ardschi-Bordschi, "If thy wife, O Ardschi-Bordschi! is worthy to be compared to the wife of the minister Ssaran, not to mention the comparison with Tsetsen Büdschiktschi, wife of the magnanimous King Vikramâditja, then may she prostrate herself with her forehead upon the foot of this throne; but if not, then on her peril let her not approach it." NOTES. PREFACE. 1. Kalmuck. "The Khalmoucks or Calmuks, are very far from enjoying in Asia the importance our books of geography assign them. In the Khalmoukia of our imagining, no one knew of the Khalmouks. At last we met with a Lama who had travelled in Eastern Tibet, and he told us that one of the Kolo tribes is called Khalmouk." The Kolos are a nomad people of Eastern Tibet, of predatory habits, living in inaccessible gorges of the Bayen Kharet mountains, guarded by impassable torrents and frightful precipices, towards the sources of the Yellow River; they only leave their abode to scour the steppes on a mission of pillage upon the Mongolians. The Mongolians of the Koukou-Noor (Blue Lake) hold them in such terror, that there is no monstrous practice they do not ascribe to them. They profess Buddhism equally with the Mongolians. See "Missionary Travels in Tartary, Tibet, and China," by Abbé Huc, vol. i. chap. iv. 2. "The various Dekhan dialects, i.e. of the Tuluvas, Malabars, Tamuls, Cingalese, of the Carnatic, &c., though greatly enriched from Sanskrit, would appear to have an entirely independent origin. The same may be said of the popular traditions." Lassen, vol. i. 362-364. 3. The Tirolean legend of the Curse of the Marmolata, which I have given at pp. 278-335 of "Household Stories from the Land of Hofer," may well be thought to be a reproduction and reapplication of this, one of the most ancient of myths. 4. Even the Mahâ Bhârata, however, gives no consecutive and reliable account of the original settlement in the country. Franz Bopp, one of the earliest to attempt its translation, thus happily describes it. He likens it to an Egyptian obelisk covered with hieroglyphics, "an dem die Grundform von der Erde zum Himmel strebe, aber eine Fülle von Gestalten, (von denen eine auf die andre deute, eine ohne die andre räthselhaft bleibe,) neben und durch einander hinziehe und Irdisches und Himmlisches wundersam verbinde."--The pervading plan of the work is one straining from earth upwards to heaven, but overlaid with a multiplicity of figures, each one so intimately related with the other, that any would be incomprehensible without the rest; the thread of the life of one interwoven with those of the others, and all of them together creating a wondrous bond between the things of this world and the things which are above. 5. "The only way to gain acquaintance with the early history of India is by making use of its Sagas." Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, vol. i., pref. p. vii. But I shall have more to say on this head when I come to the story of Vikramâditja. 6. Some, however, seem to go too far, when they labour to prove that this is the case with every individual European legend, many of which are manifestly created by Christianity; and write as if every accidental similarity of incident necessarily implied parentage or connexion. 7. See introduction to his Translation of Pantschatantra. I have thought it worth while to mention this on account of the present collection being Mongolian. DEDICATION. 1. Shâkjamuni--the family name of Buddha, the originator of Buddhism. It means "Hermit of the tribe of Shâkja," the Shâkja being one of the earliest Indian dynasties of which there are any records. His great-grandfather was Gajasena, whose son Sinahânu married Kâkkanâ, also of the Shâkja lineage. Their son Shuddhodana married Mahâpragâpatî (more commonly called by her subsequently received name of Mâja = "the creative power of the godhead") a daughter of Angana, Kâkkanâ's brother, and became the father of Buddha [4]. According to the Mahavansha, Gajasena was descended from Ixvâku, through the fabulous number of eighty-two thousand ancestors! He was also wont to call himself Shramana-Gautama, to mark his alliance with a certain priestly family of Brahmans and thereby disarm any animosity on their part toward his teaching. He was also called Shâkjasinha = "Lion of the tribe of Shâkja," to show that he belonged to the warrior caste. He was brought up as heir to the crown, and was trained in the use of arms and in all matters appertaining to the duties of a ruler. At the age of sixteen he was married, and we have the names of his three wives--Utpalavarnâ, Jashodharâ, and Bhadrakâkkanâ. Up to the age of twenty-eight he lived a life entirely devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, his time being passed between the respective attractions of three splendid palaces built for him by his father. At about this age he appears to have grown weary of this desultory kind of life, and one day, meeting in his walks with an old man, a sick man, a corpse, and a priest, he was led to turn his thoughts upon the evils and the evanescence of life. Rambling on instead of returning home he sat down to rest under the shade of a gambu-tree, and here he found fresh food for his melancholy reflections in the miserable condition of the country people living around. The legend says the Devatâ, or gods, appeared to him in the shape of these suffering people in order further to instruct him in his new views of existence. In all probability his previous mode of life never having brought him in contact with the actual miseries of the needy this sight appeared to him in the light of an apparition. The result of his deliberations was the resolve to withdraw to a place of solitude, where he might be free to consider by what means human beings could be relieved from their miseries [5]. With this view he forsook his family and his palatial residences, and having laid aside his rich clothing he wandered forth unknown to all, begging his food by the way till he found the retirement he sought in the hermitages of various Brahmans of Gajâshira, a hill in the neighbourhood of Gaja [6], whence he is sometimes called Gajashiras. He first placed himself under the teaching of the Brahman Arâda Kâlâma, afterwards under that of another called Rudraka, who was so struck with the progress he made in the acquisition of every kind of knowledge that he soon associated him with himself in the direction of his disciples. Five of these (four of them belonging to the royal Shâkja family), Âgnâta, Ashvagit, Bhadraka, Vashpa, and Mahârâta, grew so much attached to him and his views that they subsequently became the first followers of his separate school of teaching. Having after some years exhausted the satisfaction he found in the pursuit of study he set out restlessly on a new search after happiness, followed by the five disciples I have named, and retired with them to a more exclusive solitude still, where for six years he gave himself up to unbroken contemplation amid the most rigid austerities. After this he seems to have somewhat alienated his companions by relaxing his severe mode of life, for they forsook him about this time and took up their abode in the neighbourhood of Vârânasî [7], where they continued to live as he had shown them at the first [8]. This mode of life even he, however, does not appear to have altered except in the matter of abridging his fasts, for his habitual meditations went on as before, and they were believed to have so illumined his understanding that he finally received the appellation of Buddha = "the enlightened one," while from his favourite habit of making these meditations under the shade of the ashvattha, the "trembling leaf" fig-tree, that tree, which has acquired so prominent a place in Buddhist records, legends, and institutions, came to be called the bodhiruma, literally, "tree of knowledge," and it has even been distinguished by naturalists from the ficus indica, of which it is a variety, by the title of ficus religiosa. It became so inseparable an adjunct of Buddhism that wherever the teaching of Shâkjamuni was spread this tree was transplanted too [9]. The oppression of solitude appears to have overcome Shâkjamuni at last, and he consequently took the resolution of journeying to Vâranasî to seek out his former companions. At their first meeting they were so scandalized to see him look so well and hearty instead of emaciated by austerities that they refused to pay him any respect. But when he showed them that he had attained to the illumination of a Buddha they accepted his teaching and put themselves entirely under his guidance. The number of his disciples increased meantime amazingly. As they lived by alms they received the name of Bhixu as a term of reproach. Ere long we find him sending out sixty of them, whom he invested with a certain high dignity he called Arhat [10], to spread his teaching wherever they came. He himself wandered for nineteen years over the central and eastern districts of the country, teaching,--his agreeable presence and benevolence of manner, and, the legends say, the wonderful things he did, winning him numerous converts wherever he went [11]. Some gave themselves up to a life of contemplation in the jungle, others associated themselves with him in his travels. When the rainy season set in they had to find shelter for the four months in such colleges of Brahmans or houses of families as they found well inclined towards them. This Varshavasana, as it was called, afforded them additional opportunity of making known their ideas. Shâkjamuni himself seems to have won over several kings to his way of thinking; one of them, king of Pankâla, he made an Arhat; another, the king of Koshala, stirred himself very much to awaken Shuddodana to a sense of the merit of his son, sending to congratulate him because one of whom he was progenitor had found the means by which mortals might attain to unending happiness. For once, making an exception to the proverb that a prophet meets with little honour in his own country, fortune favoured him in this matter also, and his father, who violently opposed his withdrawal from his due mode of life in the first instance, sent eight messengers one after the other to beg him to come and adorn his court with his wisdom. Each one of these, however, was so won by his teaching that he never returned to the king, but remained at the feet of Shâkjamuni. Last of all the king sent his minister Karka, who, though he also adopted his views, prevailed on him to let him take back the message that he would satisfy his father's requests. The king meantime built a vihâra for him under a grove of his favourite Njagrodha, or sacred fig-tree. His return home happened in the twelfth year after his departure, but when he had made his teaching known among his kindred he set out on his travels again, only returning at intervals, as to any other vihâra, for the rainy season. A great many of his family joined themselves to him, among them his son Râhula, and his nephew Ânanda, who became one of his most celebrated followers. In the twentieth year of his Buddhahood and the fifty-sixth of his age, he was seized with a serious illness, during which he announced his conviction that his end, or nirvâna, was at hand, that is, his entering on that state which was the ultimate object which he bid his followers strive to attain--the completion of all possible knowledge and the consequent dissolution of personal individuality [12]; further, that it should take place at Kushinagara, the capital of the Malla people [13]. Soon after, he accomplished his prediction by setting out for this place, visiting by the way many of the spots where he had establishments of disciples, and arriving there in a state of utter exhaustion and prostration. On this journey he made more converts, but after his arrival gave himself up to contemplation which he considered necessary to perfect his fifth or highest degree of knowledge, until his death. This took place under a Shala-grove, or grove of sal-trees. His body was by his own desire treated with the honours only to be paid to a Kakravartin [14], or supreme ruler. After burning his body the ashes were preserved in an urn of gold. His death is reckoned to have taken place in the year 543 B.C. [15], according to the Buddhists of Ceylon and Southern India generally. Those of the northern provinces, the Japanese and Mongolians, have a very different chronology, and place his birth about the year 950 B.C. The Chinese are divided among themselves about it and say variously, 688, 1070, and 1122 [16]. A great number of claimants demanded his ashes in memorial of him, and finally, by the advice of a Brahman named Drona, they were partitioned among eight cities, in each of which a kaitja, or shrine [17], was erected to receive them. A great gathering of his followers was held at Kushinagara, of which Kâshjapa was sanghasthavira, or president, Buddha having himself previously designated him for his successor. He had been a distinguished Brahman. It is said by one of the exaggerations common in all Indian records that there were seven hundred thousand of the new religionists present. Five hundred were selected from among the most trustworthy to draw up the Sanghiti, or good laws of Buddha. Then they broke up, determining to travel over Gambudvîpa, consoling the scattered Bhixu for the loss of their master, and to meet again at Râgagriha at the beginning of the month Ashâdha (answering to the end of our June) for the Varshavasana. This synod lasted seven months. Its chief work was the compilation of the Tripitaka--"the three baskets" or "vessels" supposed to contain all Shâkjamuni's teaching: 1. The Sutra-pitaka, containing the conversation of Shâkjamuni (of these I have had occasion to speak in another place [18]); 2. The Vinaja-pitaka, containing maxims by which the disciple's life was to be guided; and the Ahidharma-pitaka, containing an exposition of religious and philosophical teaching. The first was under the revision of Ânanda; the second under that of Upâli; and the third under that of Kâcjapa. The Tripitaka also bears the name of Sthavira, because only such took part in its compilation; also "of the five hundred," because so many were charged with its compilation. It is important, however, to bear in mind, because of the monstrous exaggerations and extravagant incidents subsequently introduced [19] that these were only compilations preserved by word of mouth; the art of writing was scarcely known in India at this time. "After the Nirvâna of Buddha, for the space of 450 years, the text and commentaries and all the words of the Tathâgato were preserved and transmitted by wise priests orally. But having seen the evils attendant upon this mode of transmission, 550 rahats of great authority, in the cave called Alôka (Alu) in the province of Malaya, in Lankâ, under the guardianship of the chief of that province caused the sacred books to be written [20]." As this "text and commentaries" are reckoned to consist of 6,000,000 words, and the Bible of about 500,000, we may form some idea of the impossibility of so vast a body of language being in any way faithfully preserved by so treacherous a medium as memory. Megasthenes (Fragm. 27, p. 421, b.) and Nearchos (Fragm. 7, p. 60, b.) particularly mention that the Indians had no written laws, but their code was preserved in the memory of their judges; thus testifying to the practice of trusting to memory in the most important matters. Schwanbeck (Megast. Ind. p. 51) remarks that the Sanskrit word for a collection of laws--Smriti--means also memory. J. Prinsep (in his paper on the Inscriptions of the Rocks of Girnar, in Journ. of As. Soc. of Beng. vii. 271) is inclined to think some of the rock-cut inscriptions are as early as 500 B.C.; which would show they had some knowledge of a written character then; Lassen, however, is of opinion that this is altogether too early; but there seems no doubt that there are some both of and anterior to the reign of Ashoka, 246 B.C. Megasthenes indeed mentions that he had heard they used a kind of indurated cotton for writing on. But the use, neither of this material nor of a written character, could have been very common or extended, for Nearchos (Strabo, xvi. § 67) wrote, "It is said by some, the Indians write on indurated cotton stuff, but others say they have not even the use of a written alphabet." Though thus disfigured and overlaid as time went by, the great intention which Shâkjamuni himself seems to have had in view in the preparation of his doctrine was to destroy the exclusiveness of the Brahmanical castes, and that most especially in its influence on the future and final condition of every man, and thus he accepted men of all castes, even the very lowest [21], and the out-caste too, among not only his disciples but among his priesthood. It was thus in its origin a system of morals rather than of faith. It was full of maxims inculcating virtue to be pursued--not indeed out of obedience to the will of a Divine and all perfect Creator--but with the object of escaping the necessity of the number of re-births taught by the Brahmans and of sooner attaining to nirvâna. It set up, therefore, no mythology of its own [22], nor put forward any statement of what gods were to be honoured. Nevertheless it was grafted on to the mythology prevailing at the time, and many of the gods then honoured are incidentally mentioned in the Sutra as accepted objects of veneration. The Vêda, or sacred teaching of the Brahmans, is quoted in almost every page [23]. The gods who thus come in for mention in the simple Sutra are the following [24]:--The three gods of the later mythology bear here the names of (1) Brahmâ and Pelâmaha; (2) Hari, Ganârdana, Nârâjana, and Upêndra (it is important to note that the name of Krishna does not appear at this period at all); (3) Shiva and Shankara. Indra was now placed at the head of gods of the second rank. We have also Shakra, Vâsava, and Shakipati, called the husband of Shaki. Of the other Lôkapâla, Kuvera and Varunna are named. It is doubtless only by accident that more do not find mention. Of the demigods Visvakarman, the Gandharba, Kinnara, Garuda, Jaxa the Serpent-god, Asura, and Danava, along with other evil genii and serpent-gods. The most often named--particularly in the colloquies between Buddha and his disciples--is Indra with the adjunctive appellation of Kaushika. Indra was at the time of Shâkjamuni himself the favourite god; the other great gods had not yet received the importance they afterwards acquired, nor had any thing like the idea of a trine unity or equality been broached [25] as we shall presently see; even these allusions were but scanty [26]. It was long before the whole Brahmanical system of divinities came to form an integral part of the Buddhist theosophy [27]. Hence Shâkjamuni, as well as his contemporary and earliest succeeding disciples, lived for the most part [28] on good terms with the Brahmans, some of whom were among the most zealous in securing the custody of some part of his ashes. But they were not long ere they perceived that as this new teaching developed itself its tendency was to supersede their order. Then, a life and death struggle for the upper-hand ensued which lasted for centuries, for while the Buddhists were on the one side fighting against the attempted extermination, on the other side they were spreading their doctrines over an ever-fresh field by the journeyings of their missionaries, a proceeding the more exclusive Brahmans had never adopted. This went on till by the one means and the other Buddhism had been almost entirely banished from Central India, where it took its rise, but had established itself on an enduring basis as remote from its original centre as Ceylon, Mongolia, China, Japan, the Indian Archipelago, and perhaps even Mexico [29]. This state of things was hardly established before the 14th century [30]. But from information on the condition of religion in India preserved by the Chinese pilgrim Fahien, who traversed a great part of Asia, A.D. 399-414, Buddhism had already at that time suffered great losses, for at Gaja itself the temple of Buddha was a deserted ruin. From the writings of another Chinese pilgrim, Hiuen Thsang, whose travels took place in the 7th century, it would seem that the greatest Brahmanical persecution of the Buddhists did not take place before 670 [31]. That it had cleared them out of Central India by the date I have named above is further confirmed by Mâdhava, a writer of the 14th century, quoted by Professor Wilson, who "declares that at his date not a follower of Buddha was to be found in all Hindustan, and he had only met some few old men of that faith in Kashmir." "At the present day," adds Wilson, "I never met with a person who had met with natives of India Proper of that faith, and it appears that an utter extirpation of the Buddha religion in India Proper was effected between the 12th and 16th centuries." Nevertheless it is the system of religion which next after the Catholic Church counts the greatest number of followers. Dr. Gützlaff (in his "Remarks on the Present State of Buddhism," in "Journ. of R. As. Soc." xvi. 73.) tells us two-thirds of the population of China is Buddhist. In Ungewitter's Neueste Erdebeschreibung, the whole population is stated from native official statistics at 360,000,000; whence it would follow that there are 240,000,000 Buddhists in China alone; probably, however, the Chinese figures are to some extent an exaggeration. Before concluding this brief notice of Buddhism it remains to say a few words on the later developments of the system which have too often been identified with its original utterances. It does not appear to have been before the 10th century that Shâkjamuni was reckoned to be an incarnation of a heavenly being; at least the earliest record of such an idea is found in an inscription at Gaya, ascribed to the year 948 [32], while much of his own teaching bears traces of a lingering belief in a great primeval tradition of the unity of the Godhead and the promise of redemption [33], as well as the great primary laws of obedience and sacrifice more perfectly preserved to us in the inspired writings committed to the Hebrews. The history of the deluge, as given by Weber from the Mahâ Bhârata, is almost identical in its leading features with the account in Genesis, bearing of course some additions. A great ship was laden with pairs of beasts, and seeds of every kind of plants, and was steered safely through the floods by Vishnu under the form of a great fish, who ultimately moored it on the mountain Naubandhana, one of the Himâlajas in Eastern Kashmere. The early Vêda hymns, too, had thus spoken of the Creation, "At that time there was neither being nor no being; no world, no air, nor any thing beyond it. Death was not, neither immortality; nor distinction of day and night. But It (tad) respired alone, and without breathing; alone in Its self-consciousness (Svadha, which hence came to be used for 'Heaven'). Besides It was nothing, only darkness. All was wrapt in darkness, and undistinguishable fluid. But the bulk thus enveloped was brought forth by the power of contemplation. Love (Kama) was first formed in Its mind, and this was the original creative germ [34]." And the Vêda was, we have seen, adopted in the main by Shâkjamuni; but the development of his views came to imply that there was no Creator at all, existences being only a series of necessary evolutions [35]. And when later a Creator came again to be spoken of, the term was involved in the most inconceivable contradictions [36]. A distinguished Roman Orientalist also writes:--"The Vêda, and principally the Jazur-Vêda and the Isa-Upanishad, contain not only many golden maxims, but distinct traces of the primitive Monotheism. But these books exercise little influence on the religion of the people, which is a mass of idolatry and superstition; moreover, they are themselves filled with the most absurd stories and fables. The Jazur-Vêda, which is the freest from these defects, is a comparatively recent production, and the author has manifestly drawn upon not only both Old and New Testament, but also the Koran [37]." An infusion of the revealed doctrines taught by Christianity was also received into it from the teaching of the missionaries of the first ages after the birth of Christ, though similarly disfigured and overwrought. To distinguish the influence of the one and the other would be a fascinating study, but one too vast for the limits of the present pages. When we come presently to the history of Vikramâditja we shall find it presents us with a striking idea of the facility with which various ideals can be heaped upon one personality; this will serve as a key to the mode in which an unenlightened admiration for the story of our Divine Redeemer's life on earth may be supposed to have induced the ascribing of His supernatural manifestations to another being, already accepted as Divine. It is true that certain appearances of Vishnu and Shiva on earth would seem to have been believed before the Christian era; and apart from the Indian writings, the dates of which are so difficult to fix, the testimony of Megasthenes (the Historian of Seleucus Nicanor, who wrote B.C. 300) is quoted in proof that at his time such incarnations were already held. But the passages in Megasthenes, by the very fact that he identifies Vishnu with Hercules, tend only to demonstrate a belief in a different kind of manifestation of Divine power. Those who labour most to prove that the Brahmanical idea of incarnation preceded the Christian have to allow that it was only subsequently to the spread of Christian teaching that it was fully developed. Thus Lassen writes, "I have, therefore (i. e. in consequence of the allusions in Megasthenes), no hesitation in maintaining that the dogma of Vishnu's incarnations was in existence 300 years before the birth of Christ; still, however, it only received its full development at a subsequent period [38]." And in another place, speaking of the Avatâra (incarnations) of Vishnu, in the persons of the heroes of the epic poems, he adds, "this dogma is unknown (fremd) to the Vêda, and the few allusions to such an idea existing in some of its myths, and which were later reckoned among the incarnations of Vishnu, show that in the earliest ages the recurring appearance in man's nature of 'the preserving god' for the destruction of evil was not yet invented. [39]" And even of the early epic poems he writes, that though such ideas are introduced, yet the heroes still maintain their individuality. They are actuated and indwelt by Vishnu, but they are not he. This, it will be seen, is very different from the Christian dogma of the Incarnation. Whether the extremely interesting and ancient tradition be genuine (as maintained by Tillemont) or not, that Abgarus, king of Edessa, sent messengers to our Lord in Judæa, begging Him to come and visit him and heal him of his sickness, and that our Lord in reply sent him word that He must do the work of Him Who sent Him and then return to Him above, but that after His Ascension He would send an Apostle to him, and that in consequence of this promise St. Thomas received the far East for the field of his labours--and, however much be chronologically correct of the mass of records and traditions which tell that this Apostle travelled over the whole Asian continent, from Edessa to Tibet, and perhaps China--it would appear to be intrinsically probable and as well attested as most facts of equally remote date, that both this Apostle and Thaddæus, one of the seventy-two disciples, preached the Gospel in countries east of Syria, and that his successors, more or less immediate, extended their travels farther and farther east. It is mentioned in Eusebius (Book v. c. 10), that S. Pantæus, going to India to preach the Gospel early in the 3rd century (Eusebius himself wrote at the end of the same century), met with Brahmans who showed him a copy of the Gospel of St. Matthew in Hebrew, which they said had been given to their forerunners by St. Bartholomew [40]. Lassen himself allows, that in all probability certain Brahmans, at a very early date, fell in with Christian teachers, and brought them back home with them. Further, that the idea of there being any merit in bhakti, or pious faith, and a development in the teaching concerning the duty of prayer may be traced to this circumstance. Nor does he deny that when in 435, Eustathius, Bp. of Antioch, with the help of Thomas Kama, a rich local merchant, went to found a mission at Mahâdevapatma (Cranganore), he found Christians who dated their conversion from St. Thomas living there. His further efforts to disprove that St. Thomas himself penetrated very far east, and that the early Christian establishments at Taprobane and Ceylon were founded by Persian Christians, though far from conclusive, tend as far as they go but to support all the more the theory of an admixture of Christian with Brahmanical and Buddhist teaching; because, the less pure the source of teaching the more likely it was to have resulted in producing such an admixture in place of actual conversion. Nor does the circumstance on which he lays much weight, that the Brahmans resented the inroads of Christian teaching on their domain, even with severe persecutions, at all afford any proof that there were not Brahmanical teachers, who either through sincere admiration (for which they were prepared by their early monotheistic tradition), or from a conviction of the advantage to be derived in increase of influence by its means, or other cause, may have thought fit, or been even unconsciously led to incorporate certain ideas of the new school with their own. I have only space left to touch upon two of the most important of these identifications. And first the imitation of the doctrine of the Holy Trinity. Lassen (i. 784 and iv. 570) fixes as late a date as 1420-1445 for the introduction of the Trimurti worship, or, as he expresses it, the bootless attempt to unite various schools by propounding the equality and unity of the three great rival gods, Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, who were the chief gods favoured by each respectively. Devarâja of Vigajanagara erected the first temple to the Trimurti about this date. Ganesha, the god of wisdom and knowledge, appeared to his minister Laxmana and bid him build a temple on the banks of the Penar to the Hiranjagarbha, called Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva; this is the first example of any inscription of honour paid to the Trimurti [41]. Secondly, the worship of the god Crishna, whose name and attributes as well as his substitution for Vishnu, the second god of the Trimurti, present so many analogies with the teaching concerning our Divine Lord [42]. Whatever difficulty there may be in fixing the date of the origin of the great Pânkarâtra sect, there appears none in affirming that the full development of its teaching in the direction of these analogies was subsequent to the establishment of Christianity. This is how A. Weber speaks of it [43]. Brahmans, who had travelled to Alexandria, and perhaps Asia Minor, at a time when Christianity was in its first bloom, brought back its teaching respecting a Supreme God and a Christ whom they identified with and fastened upon their sage or hero, who had already in some measure received Divine honours--Crishna Devakiputra (Son of the divine woman). He also dwells on the influence exercised by the teaching of Christian missionaries. The importance given to Devaki would point to an incorporation of Christian teaching concerning the Virgin Mary. Weber, in a paper entitled "Einige Data auf das Geburtsfest Krishna's," instances many passages in the Bavrishjottara-Purana (one of the latest Puranas), which it is impossible to read without being reminded of the place of "the Virgin and Child" in Christian tradition, and which find no counterpart in earlier Indian writings. Similarly it was the later schools which dwelt on the fact of his having Nanda the herdsman for his father, seemingly suggested by our Lord's character of "the good Shepherd," because in the earlier Crishna Legends [44] this fact is sunk in the view that (though sprung from the herdsmen) he was a warrior and a hero. Nor was the teaching concerning this character of Crishna at all rapid in its extension. Its chief seat, according to Lassen [45], in what he expresses as "the earliest times," was Madura; but the first date he mentions in connexion with it is 1017, when a Crishna temple was destroyed by Mahmûd of Ghazna, Lalitâditja, king of Cashmere, built him a temple containing a statue of solid silver, and he reigned from 695 to 732; but the gold armour the image bore would point to his warrior character still prevailing down to this time. Lassen even finds [46] the introduction of the worship of Crishna [47] a subject of opposition by certain Brahmans as late as the tenth century. The great epic poem concerning him, the Gitagovinda, by Gajadeva (still sung at the present day at the Resa festival), was not written till the end of the 12th century [48]. In an inscription at Gajanagara, not very far from Madura, Crishna is mentioned as an incarnation of Vishnu, but the date of this is 1288; and the idea does not seem to have reached Orissa till the end of the 15th century [49]. 2. From this exordium we must plainly gather that the original collector of these Tales was himself a Madhjamika, since he begins his work with an invocation of Nâgârg'una, founder of that school. He calls him "second teacher" because his undertaking was, not to supersede, but to develope and perfect the teaching of Shâkjamuni, whom he himself reverenced as first teacher [50]. Nâgârg'una was the 15th Patriarch in the Buddhist succession, born in South India, and educated a Brahman; he wrote a Treatise, in 100 chapters, on the Wisdom of the Buddhist Theology, and died B.C. 212 (Lassen, "Indische Alterthumskunde," ii., Appendix, p. vi.); but at p. 887 of the same volume, and again at p. 1072, he tells us he lived in the reign of Abhimanju, king of Cashmere, and that it was by the assistance of his sage advice that the Buddhists were enabled for a while successfully to withstand opposition dictated by the Brahmanical proclivities of this king, whose date he fixes at 45-65 A.C. The difference between the two dates arises out of that existing between the computations of the northern and southern Buddhists [51]. In the Raga-Tarangini, ii. v. 172-177 (a chronicle of Cashmere, written not later than A.D. 1148) Nâgârg'una is thus alluded to: "When 150 years had passed by, since sacred Shâkjamuni had completed his time in this world of sufferers, there was a Bodhisattva [52], who was supreme head of all the earth. This was Nâgârg'una, who possessed in himself the power of six Archats [53].... Protected by Nâgârg'una the Buddhists obtained the chief influence in the country." Among the Chinese Buddhists he is called Lung-shu, which name Abel Rémusat tells us was given him because after death he was taken up into the serpent-Paradise [54]. The following legend has been told concerning the manner of his conversion from Brahmanism; but it is probable that what is historically true in it belongs to the life of another and much later Buddhist patriarch. A Samanaer [55] came wandering by his residence. Seeing it to be nobly built, and pleasantly situated amid trees and fountains, and provided with all that was needful and desirable for the life of man, made up his mind to obtain admission to it. Nâgârg'una, before admitting him, required to know whence, and what manner of man he was. On his declaring himself a teacher of Buddhism the door was immediately closed against him. Determined not to be so easily repulsed the Samanaer knocked again and again, till Nâgârg'una, provoked by his pertinacity, appeared on the terrace above, and cried out to him, "It is useless for you to go on knocking. In this house is nothing." "Nothing!" retorted the Samanaer; "what sort of a thing is that, pray?" Nâgârg'una saw by this answer the man must be of a philosophical turn of mind, and was thus induced to break his rule, which forbid him intercourse with Buddhists, and let him in that he might have more discourse with him. The Samanaer by degrees fascinated his mind with the whole Buddhist doctrine, and ultimately told him that Buddha had left a prophecy, saying, that long years after he had departed this life there should arise a great teacher out of Southern India, who by the wisdom of his teaching should renew the face of the earth; that this prophecy he was destined to accomplish. Nâgârg'una believed his words, and subsequently fulfilled them. His peculiar school received the name of Mâdhjamika, because of three prevailing interpretations of the earlier Buddhist teaching he chose the one which steered its course midway (madhjana) between two extremes, one of which held that the Buddhist nirvâna, implied the return and absorption of the soul at death into the creative essence whence it had emanated; and the other, its total annihilation. He left his ideas to posterity in a treatise, bearing the name of Kârikâ, denoting an exposition of a theory in verse [56]. Some idea of its intricacy may be formed from the fact that the shortest edition of it contains eight thousand sections; while the most complete has a hundred thousand. His teaching was followed up by two chief disciples, Ârjadeva, a Cingalese, and Buddhapâlita, and still holds sway in the higher schools of Tibet, which accounts for the homage of the editor of these Mongolian tales. He is honoured almost everywhere where Buddhism is honoured; near Gajâ is a kaitja, or rock-cut temple, called Nâgârgunî, probably commemorating some visit of his to the shrine of Shâkjamuni. 3. The whole of Buddhist literature is spoken of by its followers as contained in three "vessels," or "baskets"--tripîtaka (Wassiljew, p. 118, quoted by Jülg); in Tibetian called samatog (Köppen, Die Lamaische Hierarchie, p. 57). 4. Madhjamika. See above, Note 2. 5. Paramârtha (true, exact, perfect understanding), and sanvrti (imperfect, dubious understanding), were party words, arising out of the philosophical disputes of the Madhjamika and Jogâtschârja schools. Wassiljew, pp. 321-367. 6. Magadha. The legend is in this instance more precise than often falls to the lot of works of this nature. Instead of transferring the scene of action to a locality within the limits of the country of the narrator however, he makes Nâgârg'una to have lived on the borders of Magadha [57]. Lassen, speaking in allusion to the kaitja named after him, mentioned above, says there is no allusion in any authentic account of him to his ever being in this part of the country; this Mongolian tradition however corroborates the local tradition of the kaitja. I have already had occasion to mention how Magadha came to receive its modern name of Behar [58]. The word Magadha is also used to designate a bard; as this meaning rests on no etymological foundation, it is natural to suppose that it arises from the fact of the country being rich in sagas, and that successful bards sprang from its people. The office of the Magadha, also called Vandin, the Speaker of praises, consisted chiefly in singing before the king the deeds of his ancestors. In several places the Magadha is named along with the Sûta [59]. It is quite in accordance with this view that Vjâsa's [60] mother was reckoned a daughter of a king of Magadha. It is curious that the poetical occupation of bard came to be combined with the sordid occupation of pedlar, or travelling trader, who is also called a Magadha in Manu x. 47, and other places. 7. Krijâvidja. Writings concerning the study of magic.--Jülg. 8. Bede = Bhota, or Bothanga, the Indian name of Tibet. See Schmidt's translation of the "History of the Mongols," by the native historian, sSanang sSetsen. Before proceeding farther it is necessary to say a few words concerning the history, religions, and customs of Tibet and Mongolia, to illustrate the local colouring the following Tales have received by passing into Mongolia. Buddhism nowhere took so firm a grasp of the popular mind as in Tibet, where it was established as early as the 7th century by its greatest king, Ssrong-Tsan-Gampo. No where, except in China, was its influence on literature so powerful and so useful, for not only have we thus preserved to us very early translations from the Sanskrit of most of the sacred writings, but also original treatises of history, geography, and philosophy. Nowhere, either, did it possess so many colleges and teachers; it was by means of these that it was spread over Mongolia in the 13th century; the very indistinct notions of religion there prevailing previously, with no hierarchy to maintain them, readily yielding at its approach. Mang-ku, grandson of Ginghis Khan [61], added to the immense sovereignty his warlike ancestor had left him, the whole of Tibet about the year 1248. His brother and successor, Kublai Khan, who reigned from 1259 to 1290, occupied himself with the internal development of his empire. He appears to have regarded Christ, Moses, Muhammed, and Buddha as prophets of equal authority, and to have finally adopted the religion of the last-named, because he discerned the advantages to be derived in the consolidation of his power from the assistance of the Buddhist priests already possessing so great influence in Tibet. He was seconded in his design by the eager assistance of a young Lama, named sSkja Pandita, and surnamed Matidhvaga = "the ensign of penetration," whom he not only set over the whole priesthood of the Mongolian empire, but made him also tributary ruler of Tibet, with the grandiloquent titles of "King of the great and precious teaching; the most excellent Lama; King of teaching in the three countries of the Rhaghân (empire)." Among other rich insignia of his dignity which he conferred on him was a precious jasper seal. He is most commonly mentioned by the appellation, Phagss-pa = "the most excellent," which has hence often been taken erroneously for his name; his chief office was the coronation of the Emperor. The title, Dalai Lama [62], the head of Tibetian Buddhism, is half Mongolian, and half Tibetian. Dalai is Mongolian for "ocean," and Lama Tibetian for "priest;" making, "a priest whose rule is vast as the ocean." Of the four Khânats or kingdoms into which the Mongolian Empire was divided, that called Juan bordered on Tibet, and to its Khâns consequently was committed the government of that country; but they interfered very little with it, so that the power of the people was left to strengthen itself. The last of them, Shan-ti, or Tokatmar-Khân, was turned out in 1368 by Hong-vu, the founder of the Ming dynasty, who sought to extend his power by weakening that of the Lamas. In order to this he set up four chief ones in place of one. Jong-lo who reigned from 1403 to 1425, further divided the power among eight; but this very subdivision tended to a return to the original supremacy of one; for, while all bore the similar title of Vang = "little king," or "sub-king," it became gradually necessary that among so many one should take the lead, and for this one the title of Garma or patriarch was coined ere long. The Tibetians and Mongolians receiving thus late the doctrines of Shâkjamuni received a version of it very different from his original teaching. The meditations and mystifications of his followers had invested him with ever new prerogatives, and step by step he had come to be considered no longer in the light of an extraordinary teacher, or even a heaven-sent founder of religion, but as himself the essence of truth and the object of supreme adoration. Out of this theory again ramified developments so complicated as almost to defy condensation. Thus Addi-Buddha, as he was now called, it was taught was possessed of five kinds of gnâna or knowledge; and by five operations of his dhjâna or contemplative power he was supposed to have produced five Dhjâni-Buddhas, each of which received a special name, and in process of time became personified and deified too, and each by virtue of an emanation of the supreme power indwelling him had brought forth a Dhjâni-Bodhisattva. The fourth of these, distinguished as Dhjâni-Bodhisattva-Padmapâni, was the Creator, not only of the universe, but also of Brahma and other gods whom Shâkjamuni or his earlier followers had acknowledged as more or less supreme. And as if this strange theogony was not perplexing enough, there had come to be added to the cycle of objects of worship a multitude of other deifications too numerous even to name here in detail. Among all these, Dhjâni-Bodhisattva-Padmapâni is reckoned the chief god by the Mongolians. The principal tribute of worship paid him is the endless repetition of the ejaculation, "Om Manipadmi hum" = "Hail Manipadmi O!" Every one has heard of the prayer-machine, the revolutions of whose wheel set going by the worshipper count as so many exclamations to his account. "The instrument is called Tchu-Kor (turning prayer)," writes Abbé Huc. "You see a number of them in every brook" (in the neighbourhood of a Lamaseri) "turned by the current.... The Tartars suspend them also over the fireplace to send up prayer for the peace and prosperity of the household;" he mentions also many most curious incidents in connexion with this practice. Another similar institution is printing the formulary an immense number of times on numbers of sheets of paper, and fixing them in a barrel similarly turned by running water. Baron Schilling de Kanstadt has given us (in "Bulletin Hist. Phil. de l'Ac. des Sciences de S. Petersburg," iv. No. 22) an interesting account of the bargain he struck with certain Mongolian priests at Kiakhtu, on the Russo-Chinese frontier. It was their great aim to multiply this ejaculation a hundred million times, a feat they had never been able to accomplish. They showed him a sheet which was the utmost reach of their efforts, but the sum total of which was only 250. The Baron sent to St. Petersburg and had a sheet printed, in which the words were repeated seventy times one way and forty-one times the other, giving 2870 times, but being printed in red they counted for 25 times as many, or 71,750; then he had twenty-four such sheets rolled together, making 1,793,750, so that about seventy revolutions of the barrel would give the required number. In return for this help the Mongolian Lama gave him a complete collection of the sacred writings in the Tibetian language; Tibetian being the educated, or at least the sacred, language of Mongolia. Concerning the meaning of this ejaculation, Abbé Huc has the following:--"According to the opinion of the celebrated Orientalist Klaproth, the 'Om mani padme houm' is merely the Tibetian transcription of a Sanskrit formula brought from India to Tibet with the introduction of Buddhism and letters.... This formula has in the Sanskrit a distinct and complete meaning which cannot be traced in the Tibetian idiom. Om is among the Hindoos, the mystic name of the Divinity, and all their prayers begin with it. It is composed of A, standing for Vishnu, O, for Siva, and M, for Brahma. This mystic particle is also equivalent to the interjection O! It expresses a profound religious conviction, and is a sort of act of faith; mani signifies a gem, a precious thing; padma, the lotus, padme, vocative case. Lastly, houm is a particle expressing a wish, and is equivalent to the use of the word Amen. The literal sense then of this phrase is "Om mani padme houm." O the gem in the lotus. Amen. In the Ramajana, where Vasichta destroys the sons of Visvamitra [63] he is said to do so by his hungkara, his breathing forth of his desire of vengeance, but literally by his breathing the interjection 'hum.' "The Buddhists of Tibet and Mongolia, however, have tortured their imagination to find a mystic interpretation of each of these six syllables. They say the doctrine contained in them is so immense that a life is insufficient to measure it. Among other things, they say the six classes of living beings [64] correspond to these six syllables.... By continual transmigrations according to merit, living beings pass through these six classes till they have attained the height of perfection, absorbed into the essence of Buddha.... Those who repeat the formula very frequently escape passing after death into these six classes.... The gem being the emblem of perfection, and the lotus of Buddha, it may perhaps be considered that these words express desire to acquire perfection in order to be united with Buddha--absorbed in the one universal soul: "Oh, the gem of the lotus, Amen," might then be paraphrased thus:--"O may I obtain perfection, and be absorbed in Buddha, Amen!" making it a summary of a vast system of Pantheism. Buddhism, however, received its greatest and most remarkable modification in this part of the world from the teaching of an extraordinary Lama, named bThong-kha-pa, who rose to eminence in the reign of Jong-lo, and is regarded with greatest veneration among not only the Tibetians and Mongolians, including the remotest tribes of the Khalmouks, but also by the more polished Chinese, and more or less wherever Buddhism prevails. Though subsequently pronounced to be an incarnation of Shiva he was born in the year 1357, in the Lamaseri of ssKu-bun = "a hundred thousand images," on the Kuku-noor, or Blue Lake, in the south-west part of the Amdo country, several days' journey from the city of Sining-fu. In his youth he travelled to gTsang-lschhn, or Lhassa, in order to gain the most perfect knowledge of Buddhist teaching, and during his studies there determined on effecting various reforms in the prevailing ideas. He met with many partisans, who adopted a yellow cap as their badge, in contradistinction from the red cap heretofore worn, and styled themselves the dGe-luges-pa = "the Virtuous." Besides introducing a stricter discipline his chief development of the Buddhist doctrines consisted in teaching distinctly that Buddha was possessed of a threefold nature, which was to be recognized, the first in his laws, the second in his perfections, the third in his incarnations. The supreme rule of the Buddhist religion in Tibet also received its present form under the impulse of his labours. His nephew, dGe-dun-grub-pa (born circa 1390, died 1475), was the first Dalai Lama. He built the celebrated Lama Palace of bKra-schiss-Lhun-po, thirty miles N. of Lhassa, in 1445. Under him, too, was established the institution of the Pan-tschhen-Rin-po-tsche (the great venerable jewel of teaching), or Contemplative Lama. Tsching-Hva, the eighth Emperor of the Ming Dynasty, established their joint authority as superior to all the eight princely Lamas set up by Jo-long [65]. Abbé Huc, in the course of his enterprising missionary travels, visited all the places I have had occasion to mention, spending a considerable time at some of them. By local traditions, collected by word of mouth and from Lamaistic records, he gives us a most fantastic and entertaining narrative of Tsong-Kaba, as he calls the Buddhist reformer: of the fables concerning his birth; of the marvellous tree that grew from his hair when his mother cut it; of his mature intelligence in his tenderest years; his supernatural call to Lha-sa (Land of Spirits); and of the very peculiar mode of argument by which he converted Buddha Chakdja, the Lama of the Red Cap. More important than all this, however, is the light he throws on the mode in which the great incorporation of Christian ideas and ceremonial into Buddhist teaching came about. During his years of retirement Tsong-Kaba became acquainted with a mysterious teacher "from the far West," almost beyond question "one of those Catholic missionaries who at this precise period penetrated in such numbers into Upper Asia." The very description preserved of his face and person is that of a European. This strange teacher died, we know not by what means, while Tsong-kaba was yet in the desert; and he appears to have accepted as much of his doctrine as either he had only time to learn or as suited his purpose, and this in the main had reference "to the introduction of a new Liturgy. The feeble opposition which he encountered in his reformation would seem to indicate that already the progress of Christian ideas in these countries had materially shaken the faith in Buddha.... The tribe of Amdo, previously altogether obscure, has since this reformation acquired a prodigious celebrity.... The mountain at the foot of which Tsong-Kaba was born became a famous place of pilgrimage; Lamas assembled there from all parts to build their cells [66]; and thus by degrees was formed that flourishing Lamasery, the fame of which extends to the remotest confines of Tartary. It is called Komboun, from two Tibetian words, signifying ten thousand images. He died at the Lamasery of Khaldan ('celestial beatitude'), situated on the top of a mountain about four leagues east of Lha-Ssa, said to have been founded by him in 1409. The Tibetians pretend that they still see his marvellous body there fresh and incorruptible, sometimes speaking, and by a permanent prodigy always holding itself in the air without any support. "Mongolia is at present divided into several sovereignties, whose chiefs are subject to the Emperor of China, himself a Tartar, but of the Mantchu race. These chiefs bear titles corresponding to those of kings, dukes, earls, barons, &c. They govern their states according to their own pleasure. They acknowledge as sovereign only the Emperor of China. Whenever any difference arises between them they appeal to Pekin and submit to its decisions implicitly. Though the Mongol sovereigns consider it their duty to prostrate themselves once a year before the 'Sun of Heaven,' they nevertheless do not concede to him the right of dethroning their reigning families. He may, they say, cashier a king for gross misconduct, but he is bound to fill up the vacant place with one of the superseded prince's sons.... Nothing can be more vague and indefinite than these relations.... In practice the will of the Emperor is never disputed.... All families related to any reigning family form a patrician caste and are proprietors of the soil.... They are called Taitsi, and are distinguished by a blue button surmounting their cap. It is from these that the sovereigns of the different states select their ministers, who are distinguished by a red button.... In the country of the Khalkhas, to the north of the desert of Gobi, there is a district entirely occupied by Taitsi, said to be descendants of Tchen-kis-Khan.... They live in the greatest independence, recognizing no sovereign. Their wealth consists in tents and cattle. Of all the Mongolian regions it is this district in which are to be found most accurately preserved patriarchal manners, just as the Bible describes them, though every where also more or less prevailing.... The Tartars who are not Taitsi are slaves, bound to keep their master's herds, but not forbidden to herd cattle of their own. The noble families differ little from the slave families ... both live in tents and both occupy themselves with pasturing their flocks. When the slave enters the master's tent he never fails to offer him tea and milk; they smoke together and exchange pipes. Round the tents young slaves and young noblemen romp and wrestle together without distinction. We met with many slaves who were richer than their masters.... Lamas born of slave families become free in some degree as soon as they enter the sacerdotal life; they are no longer liable to enforced labour, and can travel without interference." He further describes the Mongols in general as a hardy, laborious, peace-loving people, usually simple and upright in their dealings, devout and punctual in such religious faith and observances as they have been taught, caring, however, little for mental studies, occupied only with their flocks and herds, and continually overreached by the Chinese in all their dealings with them. 9. Cîtavana, a burying-place.--Jülg. 10. Siddhî-kür, a dead body endowed with supernatural or magic powers (Siddhi, Sanskr., perfection of power). 11. Mango-tree, Mangifera indica. Lassen (Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 276) calls it "the Indians' favourite tree; their household companion; rejoicing their existence; the cool and cheerful shade of whose groves embowers their villages, surrounds their fountains and pools with freshness, and affords delicious coolness to the Karavan-halt: one of the mightiest of their kings (Ashôka, 246 B.C.) makes it his boast (in an Inscription given in "Journal of Asiatic Soc. of Bengal," vi. 595) that besides the wide-spreading shade of the fig-tree he had also planted the leafy mango." In Sanskrit, âmra, kûta, rasâla (rich in juice). Crawford (Ind. Arch. i. 424) says the fruit is called in Sanskrit mahâphala, "the great fruit," whence the Telingu word Mahampala and the Malay Mamplans and Manga, whence the European Mango. It grows more or less all over India from Ceylon to the Himâlajas, except perhaps in the arid north-east highland of the Dekhan, but it reaches its most luxuriant development in Malabar and over the whole west coast. Besides its luxuriant shade its blossoms bear the most delicious scent, and its glorious gold-coloured fruit often attains a pound in weight, though its quality is much acted upon by site and climate. In Malabar it ripens in April; in Bengal, in May; in Bhotan, not till August. There are also many kinds--some affording nourishment to the poorest, and some appearing only on the tables of the opulent. Bp. Heber ("Journey," i. 522) pronounces it the largest of all fruit-bearing trees. To the high regard in which this tree was held it is to be ascribed that the story makes the Siddhî-kür prefer giving himself up to the Khan rather than let it be felled. 12. Gambudvîpa, native name for India. See infra, Note 6, Tale XXII., and Note 6 to "Vikramâditja's Birth." 13. Only magic words of no meaning. 14. The "white moon," designated the moon in the waxing quarter; meaning that the axe had the form of a sickle.--Jülg. TALE I. 1. Songs commemorating the deeds of the departed, were sung at their funeral rites, often instead of erecting monuments to them; the fixing their acts in the memory of the living being considered a more lasting memorial than a tablet of stone. Probably the custom originated before the discovery of the art of writing; it seems, however, to have been continued afterwards. Gâthâ was the name given to these songs in praise of ancestry, particularly the ancestors of kings, usually accompanied by the lute. Weber, Indische Studien, i. p. 186, gives specimen translations from such. 2. The elephant is the subject of frequent mention in the very oldest writings of India. He is mentioned as a useful and companionable beast just as at the present day, in the Vêda, and the Manu (e. g. Rig-Vêda, i. 84, 17, "Whoso calls upon Indra in any need concerning his sons, his elephants, his goods and possessions, himself or his people, &c."). In the epic poems, he is constantly mentioned as the ordinary mount of warriors. There is no tradition, however, as to his being first tamed and brought under the service of man, though the art penetrated so little into the islands of Borneo and Sumatra, that the inhabitants used to smear themselves and their plants with poison as the best protection against being devoured by him as a wild beast. The elephant is distributed over the whole of India from Ceylon to China, wherever there is sufficient growth of foliage. In a domestic state he may live to 120 years, probably nearly double that time when left wild; he is reckoned at his strongest prime in his sixtieth year. His habit is to live in herds. A beast so intelligent and available as an aid to man, and particularly to a primitive people, naturally took an important place in the mythology of the country. We find this saliently impressed on the architectural decorations of the country; constantly he is to be seen used as a karyatyd; the world is again seen resting on the backs of four huge elephants, or the king of gods carried along by one. It is a curious instance of appreciativeness of the acuteness of the sensibility of the elephant's trunk, that Ganesha, the god who personifies the sense of touch, is represented gifted with such an appendage. It is among the Buddhistic peoples we find him most especially honoured. In Ceylon the white elephant (a variety actually found in the most easterly provinces) is regarded as a divine incarnation; "Ruler of the white elephant," is one of the titles of the Birmese Emperor; in Siam also it is counted sacred. In war he was an invaluable ally: they called him the Eightfold-armed one, because his four tramping feet, his two formidable tusks, his hard frontal bone and his tusk supply eight weapons. The number of elephants a king could bring into the field was counted among his most important munitions of war and constituted one principal element of his power. The derivation of the word elephant does not seem easy to fix, but the best supported opinion is that it is a Greek adoption of the Sanskrit word for ivory ibhadanta, compounded with the Arabic article al from its having been received along with the article itself through Arabian traders; the transition from alibhadanta to >El'eyac, >El'eyantoc, is easily conceived [67]. Among the Brahmanical writers the most ordinary designation was gag'a; also ibha, probably from ibhja, mighty, but they had an infinite number of others; such as râg avâhja, "the king-bearer;" matanga, "doing that which (he) is meant (to do); dvirada, "the two-toothed;" hastin or karin, "the handed" (beast), or beast with a hand, for the Indians, like the Romans, call his trunk a hand; dvipa, dvipâjin, anêkapa, "the twice drinking," or "more than once drinking," in allusion to his taking water first into his trunk and then pouring it down his throat. Among the facts and early notions concerning him, collected and handed down by Ælianus, are the following:--that elephants were employed by various kings to keep watch over them by night, an office which their power of withstanding sleep facilitated; that in a wild state, they frequently had encounters with the larger serpents, whose first plan was to climb up into the trees and then dart upon and throttle them. But the most curious remark of all is, that they were endowed with a certain kind of religion, and that when wounded, overladen, or injured, it was their custom to look up to heaven, asking why they had been thus dealt with. (Ælianus, De Nat. Anim. v. 49 and vii. 44; also Pliny, viii. 12. 2.) There are also legends about their paying divine honours to the sun and moon, and in the Indian collection of fables called the Hitopadesha, there is one of an elephant being conducted by a hare to worship the reflection of the moon in a lake. In peace they were equally serviceable as in war, and were employed not only for riding, but for ploughing. A beast so useful was naturally treated with great regard, and we read of Indian princes keeping a special physician to attend to the ailments of their elephants, and particularly to have care of their eyesight (Ælianus, De Nat. Anim. xiii. 7). 3. The office of the erliks or servants of Erlik-Khan, (see next note) was to bring every soul before this judge to receive from him the sentence determining their state in their next re-birth, according to the merits or demerits of their last past existence. (Schmidt's translation of sSanang sSetsen, 417-421, quoted by Jülg.) 4. Erlik-Khan is the Tibetian name of Jama (Sanskrit), the Judge of the Dead and Ruler over the abode of the Departed; he is son of Vivasvat or the Sun considered as "the bringer forth and nourisher of all the produce of the earth and seer of all that is on it." Vivasvat has another son, Manu, the founder of social life and source of all kingly dynasties. (Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 19, 20.) As with all mythological personages or embodiments, however, the characteristics of Jama have undergone considerable modifications under the handling of different teachers and peoples in different ages, and in some Indian writings he is spoken of as if he were the personification of conscience. Thus, in the ancient collection of laws called the Manu (viii. 92) occurs the following passage, "Within thine heart dwells the god Jama, the son of Vivasvat: when thou hast no variance with him, thou hast no need to repair to the Gangâ, nor the Kuruxêtra;" meaning clearly, "If thou hast nothing on thy conscience, thou hast no object in making a pilgrimage." Muni, "who keepeth watch over virtue and over sin," however, more properly represents conscience. Sir William Jones, in quoting the above passage, inserts the words "subduer of all" after "Jama," probably not without some good reason or authority for assigning to him that character. Lassen finds early mention of a people living on the westernmost borders of the valley of the Indus (iii. 352, 353) who paid special honour to Jama as god of death, deprecating his wrath with offerings of beasts; and he connects with it a passage in Ælianus, who wrote on India in the 3rd century of our era, making mention of a bottomless pit or cave of Pluto, "in the land of the Aryan Indians," into which "every one who had heard a divine voice or met with an evil omen, threw a beast according to the measure of his possessions; thousands of sheep, goats, oxen and horses being sacrificed in this way. He says further that there was no need to bind or drive them, as a supernatural power constrained them to go without resistance. He appears also to have believed that notwithstanding the height from which they were thrown, they continued a mysterious existence in the regions beneath. "To walk the path of Jama," is an expression for dying, in the very early poems; and a battle-field was called the camp of Jama (Lassen, i. 767). In the Vêda, the South, which is also reckoned the place of the infernal regions, is spoken of as the kingdom of Jama (i. 772). 5. Mandala, a magic circle. (Wassiljew, 202, 205, 212, 216, quoted by Jülg.) TALE II. 1. Dragons, serpents, serpent-gods, serpent-dæmons (nâga), play a great part in Indian mythology. Their king is Shesa. Serpent-cultus was of very ancient observance and is practised by both followers of Brahmanism and Buddhism. The Brahmans seem to have desired to show their disapproval of it by placing the serpent-gods in the lower ranks of their mythology (Lassen, i. 707 and 544, n. 2). This cultus, however, seems to have received a fresh development about the time of Ashoka, circa 250 B.C. (ii. 467). When Madhjantika went into Cashmere and Gandhâra to teach Buddhism after the holding of the third Synod, it is mentioned that he found sacrifices to serpents practised there (ii. 234, 235). There is a passage in Plutarch from which it appears the custom to sacrifice an old woman (previously condemned to death for some crime) in honour of the serpent-gods by burying her alive on the banks of the Indus (ii. 467, and note 4). Ktesias also mentions the serpent-worship (ii. 642). In Buddhist legends, serpents are often mentioned as protecting-patrons of certain towns (ii. 467). Among the many kinds of serpents which India possesses, it is the gigantic Cobra di capello which is the object of worship (ii. 679). (See further notice of the serpent-worship, iv. 109.) It would seem that the Buddhist teachers, too, discouraged the worship at the beginning of their career at least, for when the Sthavira Madhjantika was sent to convert Cashmere, as above mentioned he was so indignant at the extent to which he found serpent-worship carried, that it is recorded in the Mahâvansha, xii. p. 72, that he caused himself to be carried through the air dispersing them; that they sought by every means to scare him away--by thunder and storm, and by changing themselves into all manner of hideous shapes, but finding the attempt vain, they gave in and accepted the teaching of the Sthavira, like the rest of the country. Under which last image, we can easily read the fact that the Buddhist teacher suffered his followers to continue the worship, while he set limits to it and delivered them from the extreme awe in which they had previously stood of the serpents. See also note 4 to Tale XXII. 2. Strong drink. See note 8 to Tale V., and note 3 to Tale VI. 3. Baling-cakes. See notes 6 and 9 to Tale IV. 4. On the custom adopted by priests of hiding precious objects in the sacred images of the gods, see Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, iii. 351. TALE III. 1. Milk-broth is mentioned by Abbé Huc repeatedly in his travels as a staple article of food in Mongolia. 2. Schimnu or Schumnu (in Sanskrit, Kâma or Mâra) is the Buddhist Devil, or personified evil. He is also the God of Love, Sin, and Death, the Prince of the third or lower world. Sensuality is called his kingdom. The Schumnus are represented as tempters and doing all in their power to hinder mortals in their struggle after perfection, and in this view, take every sort of forms according to their design at the time. They as often appear in female as in male form. Schmidt's translation of sSanang sSetsen. 3. As an instance of the migration of myths, I may mention here, that I met in Spain with a ballad, which I am sorry I have mislaid and cannot therefore quote the verse, in which the love-lorn swain in singing the praises of his mistress, among other charms enumerates, that the flowers spring from the stones as she treads her way through the streets. The present story, too, reminds forcibly in all its leading details of the legend I have entitled "The Ill-tempered Princess," in "Patrañas," though so unlike in the dénouement. 4. I have had occasion to speak in another place of the early Indian's belief in the dwelling of the gods being situated among the inaccessible heights which bound his sight and his fancy. The mountain of Meerû was a spot so sacred that it was fabled the sun might not pass it. Consult Lassen, i. 847, &c. &c. 5. Churmusta = Indra. The ruler of the lower gods, king of the earth and of the spirits of the air; his heaven is the place of earthly pleasures. Dæmons often go to war with him to obtain entrance into his paradise, and he can only fight them through the agency of an earthly hero (Brockhaus, Somadeva Bhatta, i. 213); hence it is that he calls Massang to fight the Schimnu-Khan for him. According to Abbé Huc's spelling, Hormoustha. TALE IV. 1. Here is one of the numerous instances where the Mongolian tale-repeater introduces into the Indian story details drawn to the life from the manners and customs around him of his own people. Compare with it the following sketch from personal observation in Mongolia, given in Abbé Huc's "Travels:"--"You sometimes come upon a plain covered with animation; tents and herds dotted all over it.... It is a place whither the greater supply of water and the choicer pastures have attracted for a time a number of nomadic families; you see rising in all directions tents of various dimensions, looking like balloons newly inflated and just about to take flight; children with a sort of hod upon their backs run about collecting argols (dried dung for fuel), which they pile up in heaps round their respective tents. The women look after the calves, make tea in the open air, or prepare milk in various ways; the men, mounted on fiery horses, armed with a long pole, gallop about, guiding to the best pastures the great herds of cattle which undulate over the surrounding country like waves of the sea. All of a sudden these pictures, anon so full of animation, disappear. Men, tents, herds, all have vanished in the twinkling of an eye. You see nothing left behind but deserted heaps of embers, half-extinguished fires, and a few bones of which birds of prey are disputing the possession. Such are the sole vestiges that a Mongol tribe has just passed that way. The animals having devoured all the grass around, the chief gives the signal for departure, and all the herdsmen, folding their tents, drive their herds before them, no matter whither, in search of fresh pastures." This nomadic life, characteristic of the Mongols, would seem never at any time to have entered into Indian manners and customs. Though in early times pastoral occupations so engrossed them that they have left deep traces in their language (e. g. gotra, meaning originally a breed of cows, came to stand for a family lineage; and gôpa, gôpala, originally a cowherd, for a prince), and the hymns of the Rig-Vêda are full of invocations of blessings on the herds (Rig V. 1. 42, 8. 67, 3. 118, 2); yet wherever they came they occupied themselves with agriculture also, and settled themselves down with social habits which early led to the foundation of cities. Consult Lassen, i. 494, 685, 815, &c. 2. Abbé Huc incidentally mentions also this practice of carrying the produce of the flocks and herds stored in sheep's paunches, as the present common usage of the Mongolians, and adopted by himself among the provisions for his journeyings among them (vol. ii. chap. iii., and other places). 3. Marmot. The sandy plains of Tibet are frequently inhabited by marmots, who live together in holes, and whose fur is at the present day an important article of the Tibetian trade both with India and China. It is now generally allowed that it must be these beasts which were intended in the marvellous accounts of the old Greek writers of the gold-digging ants. Though the Indians themselves gave them the name of ants, pipîlika (e. g. Mahâ Bhârata, i. p. 375, v. 1860), the description of them would pass exactly for that of this little animal--in size somewhat smaller than a fox, covered with fur, in habits social, living in holes underground in the winter. 4. See note 3 to "The False Friend." 5. The number five is a favourite number in Buddhistic teaching, ritual and ceremonies. (Wassiljew, quoted by Jülg.) To Bodhidsarma, the last Indian patriarch, on his removal to China, is ascribed this sentence: "I came to this country to make known the law and to free men from their passions. Every blossom that brings forth fruit hath five petals, and thus have I fulfilled my undertaking." (Abel Remusat, Mel. As. p. 125.) One of Buddha, or at least, Âdi-Buddha's titles, particularly in Tibet, is Pankagnânâtmaka, or "him possessed of five kinds of gnâna" or knowledge (Notices of the Religion of the Bouddhas, by B. Hodgson), and this formed the basis of the complicated system of the later Buddhists. The Brahmans, too, had five sacred observances which they aimed at exercising; the study of their sacred books, to offer sacrifice to the manes, the gods and all creatures, hospitality, and thereby increase as well their own virtue and renown as that of their fathers and mothers. The five necessary things are clothes, food, drink, coverlets for sleeping, and medicine. The five colours are blue, white, green, yellow, and red. (Köppen, ii. 307, note 3.) 6. Baling-cakes are figures made of dough or rice paste, generally pyramidal in form, covered with cotton wool or some inflammable material smeared over with brown colour and then set fire to. (Jülg.) 7. Râkschasas, Bopp (note to his translation of the Ramajana) calls them giants. In the mythology they are evil demons inimical to man; vampires in human form, generally of hideous aspect, but capable of assuming beautiful appearances in order to tempt and deceive. There is no doubt, however, it was the Raxasas, the wild people inhabiting the country south of the Vindhja range at the time of the immigration of the Aryan Indians, whose fierce disposition, and cruel treatment of the Brahmans gave rise to the above conception of the word. Consult Lassen, Ind. Altert. i. 535, where passages giving them this character are quoted; also pp. 582, 583. 8. Manggus, Mongolian name for Râkschasas. (Jülg.) 9. The present mode of treating the sick in Mongolia would seem much the same. Abbé Huc thus describes what he himself witnessed:--"Medicine is exclusively practised by the Lamas. When any one is ill the friends run for a Lama, whose first proceeding is to run his fingers over the pulse of both wrists simultaneously.... All illness is owing to the visitation of a tchatgour or demon, but its expulsion is a matter of medicine.... He next prescribes a specific ... the medical assault being applied, the Lama next proceeds to spiritual artillery. If the patient be poor the tchatgour visiting him can only be an inferior spirit, to be dislodged by an interjectional exorcism ... and the patient may get better or die according to the decree of Hormoustha.... But a devil who presumes to visit an eminent personage must be a potent devil and cannot be expected to travel away like a mere sprite; the family are accordingly directed to prepare for him a handsome suit of clothes, a pair of rich boots, a fine horse, sometimes also a number of attendants.... The aunt of Toukuna was seized one evening with an intermittent fever.... The Lama pronounced that a demon of considerable rank was present. Eight other Lamas were called in, who set about the construction of a great puppet (baling) which they entitled 'Demon of Intermittent Fevers,' and which they placed erect by means of a stick in the patient's tent. The Lamas then ranged themselves in a circle with cymbals, shells, bells, tambourines, and other noisy instruments, the family squatting on the ground opposite the puppet. The chief Lama had before him a large copper basin, filled with millet and some more little puppets.... A diabolical discordant concert then commenced, the chief Lama now and then scattering grains of millet towards the four quarters of the compass ... ultimately he rose and set the puppet on fire. As soon as the flames rose he uttered a great cry, repeated with interest by the rest, who then also rose, seized the burning figure, carried it away to the plain, and consumed it.... The patient was then removed to another tent.... The probability is that the Lamas having ascertained the time at which the fever-fit would recur meet it by a counter excitement." 10. The respective occupations of men and women seem to remain at the present pretty much the same in Mongolia as here introduced by the tale-repeater. Abbé Huc writes: "Household and family cares rest entirely upon the women; it is she who milks the cows and prepares the butter, cheese, &c.; who goes no matter how far to draw water; who collects the argols (dried dung for fuel), dries it and piles it round the tent. The tanning skins, fulling cloth, making clothes, all appertains to her.... Mongol women are perfect mistresses of the needle; it is quite unintelligible how, with implements so rude, they can manufacture articles so durable; they excel, too, in embroidery, which for taste and variety of design and excellence of manipulation excited our astonishment. The occupations of the men are of very limited range; they consist wholly in conducting flocks and herds to pasture. This to men accustomed from infancy to the saddle is a mere amusement. The nearest approach to fatigue they ever incur is in pursuing cattle which escape. They sometimes hunt; when they go after roebucks, deer, or pheasants, as presents for their chiefs, they take their bow and matchlock. Foxes they always course. They squat all day in their tents, drinking tea and smoking. When the fancy takes them they take down their whip, mount their horse, always ready saddled at the door, and dash off across the broad plains, no matter whither. When one sees another horseman he rides up to him; when he sees a tent he puts up at it, the only object being to have a gossip with a new person." TALE V. 1. Kun-Snang = "All-enlightening." (Jülg.) The Mongolian tale-repeater here gives the Khan a Tibetian name (Tibetian being the learned and liturgical language of Mongolia), making one of the instances of which the tales are full, of their transformation in process of transmission. 2. Sesame-oil is mentioned by Pliny in many places as in use in India for medicinal purposes: as, xiii. 2, 7: xv. 9, 4: xvii. 10, 1, &c. 3. Baling-cakes.--See note 6, and note 9 to Tale IV. 4. The Brahmanical system of re-births was followed to a great extent by Buddhists, notwithstanding that it had been one chief aim and object of Shâkjamuni's teaching to provide mankind with a remedy against their necessity. (See Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, ii. 60, and other places. Burnouf, Introd. à l'Hist. du Buddh. Ind. i. 153.) By its teaching, every living being had to be born again a countless number of times, leading them to higher or lower regions according to their dealings under each earlier form. The gods themselves were not exempt from the operation of this law. 5. Serpent-god. See note 1 to Tale II., and note 4 to Tale XXII. 6. Tiger-year. The Mongols reckon time by a cycle of sixty years, designated by a subdivision under the names of five necessary articles, and twelve beasts with the further adjuncts of male and female. The present cycle began in 1864 and will consequently go on till 1923. The following may serve as a specimen:-- 1864, male Wood-mouse-year, Mato khouloukhana po. 1865, female Wood-bullock-year, Moto oukhere mo. 1866, male Fire-tiger-year, Gal bara po. 1867, female Fire-hare-year, Gal tole mo. 1868, male Earth-dragon-year, Sheree lou po. 1869, female Earth-serpent-year, Sheree Mokhee mo. 1870, male Iron-horse-year, Temur mori po. 1871, female Iron-sheep-year, Temur knoui mo. 1872, male Water-ape-year, Oussou betchi po. 1873, female Water-fowl-year, Oussou takia mo. 1874, male Wood-dog-year, Moto nokhee po. 1875, female Wood-pig-year, Moto khakhee mo. 1876, male Fire-mouse-year, Gal khouloukhana po. 1877, female Fire-bullock-year, Gal oukhere mo. 1878, male Earth-tiger-year, Sheree bara po. 1879, female Earth-hare-year, Sheree tolee mo. 1880, male Iron-dragon-year, Temur lou po. 1881, female Iron-serpent-year, Temur mokhee mo. And so on to the end. The date always being quoted in connexion with the year of each sovereign reigning at the time, to make the distinction more definite. 7. Nothing can be much more revolting to our minds than the idea of human sacrifices. Nevertheless, one of the grandest episodes of the great epic poem called the Ramajana, is that in which King Ashokja goes all the world over in search of a youth possessing all the marks which prove him worthy to be sacrificed: "wandering through tracts of country and villages, through town and wilderness alike, holy hermitages also of high fame." When at last he has found one in the person of Sunasepha, son of Ritschika, a great prince of seers, Visvamitra, the great model penitent, calls on his own son to take his place, crying up the honour of the thing in the most ardent language. "When a father desires to have sons," he says to him, "it is in order that they may adorn the world with their virtue and be worthy of eternal fame. The opportunity for earning that fame has now come to thee." And when his son refuses the exchange, he pronounces on him the following curse, "Henceforth shalt thou be for many years a wanderer and outcast, and despised like to a dealer in dog's flesh." Concerning the serpent-cultus in general, see note 1, Tale II., and note 4, Tale XXII. 8. Rice is the most ancient and most widespread object of Indian agriculture; it is only not cultivated in those districts where either the heat or the means of natural or artificial irrigation do not suffice for its production; and in easternmost islands of the Archipelago, where the sago-palm replaces it. (Ritter iv. 1, 800.) The name, coming from vrih, to grow, to spread (whence also vrihat, great), suggests, that it was regarded as the principal kind of corn. All the Greek writers on India mention that an intoxicating drink was made from rice, and the custom still prevails. TALE VI. 1. Brschiss. I know not what country it is which is thus designated, unless the word be derived from brizi, the ancient Persian for rice, and is intended to denote a rice-producing territory. 2. Palm-tree. India grows a vast number of varieties of the palm-tree; the general name is trinadruma, "grass-tree" (Ritter iv. 1, 827). The date-palm was only introduced by the Arabians (Lassen, iii. 312). The fan-palm (borassus flabelliformis) is called trinarâga = "the grass-king," in Sanskrit also tâla; the Buddhist priests in Dekhan and also in China and Mongolia use its leaves as fans and sunshades, and hence are often called tâlapatri, palm-bearers. Tâlânka and Tâladhvaga are also titles of Krishna, when he carries a banner bearing a palm-tree in memory of a legend which makes him the discoverer of the means of utilizing the fruit of the cocoa-nut palm. "The mountain Gôvardhana on the banks of the Jamunâ was thickly grown over with the cocoa-nut palm, but it was kept in guard by a dæmon, named Dhênuka, in the form of an ass, at the head of a great herd of asses, so that no one could approach it. Krishna, however, in company with Rama, went through the wood unarmed, but when they would have shaken down the fruit from the trees, Dhênuka, who was sitting in its branches, kicked them with his hoofs and bit them. Krishna pulled him down from off the tree, and wrestled with him till he had crushed him to death; in the same way he dealt with the whole herd. A lurid light gleamed through the whole wood from the bodies of the dead asses, but from that time forward, all the people had free use of the trees." (Hari, v. 70, v. 3702 et seq. p. 577.) 3. The brandy spoken of is, probably, koumis, distilled from mare's milk, and makes a very intoxicating drink. Concerning its preparation, see Pallas, Sammlung historischer Nachrichten über die Mongolen. TALE VII. 1. Compare note 10, Tale IV. 2. Legends of transformed maidens being delivered from the power of enchantment and married by heroes and knights are common enough, but we less frequently meet with stories presenting a reversed plot. I have met with one, however, nearly identical with that given in the text, attached to a ruined castle of Wâlsch-Tirol. 3. The Buddhist idea of the soul is very difficult to define. In other legends given later in the present volume (e. g. the episode of the burying of Vikramâditja's body and the action of the fourth youth in "Who invented Women?") we find it, just as in the present one, spoken of as a quite superfluous and fantastic adjunct without which a man was to all intents and purposes the same as when he had it. Spence Hardy affirms as the result of conversations with Buddhists during half a life passed among them in Ceylon, as well as from the study of their writings, that "according to Buddhism there is no soul." 4. Compare note 7 to "Vikramâditja's Birth." 5. Obö. "A heap of stones on which every traveller is expected of his piety to throw one or more as he goes by." (Jülg.) Abbé Huc describes them thus: "They consist simply of an enormous pile of stones heaped up without any order, surmounted with dried branches of trees, while from them hang other branches and strips of cloth on which are inscribed verses in the Tibet and Mongol languages. At its base is a large granite urn in which the devotees burn incense. They offer besides pieces of money which the next Chinese traveller, after sundry ceremonious genuflexions before the Obö, carefully collects and pockets. These Obös are very numerous." 6. The sacred mountain of Meerû. See note 4, Tale III. TALE VIII. 1. Kun-smon, all-wishing (Tibetian). } } 2. Kun-snang, all-enlightening (Tibetian). } } 3. Chamuk-Ssakiktschi, all-protecting (Mongolian). } (Jülg.) } 4. Ananda, gladness (Sanskrit). } } 5. Kun-dgah, all-rejoicing (Tibetian). } 6. Chotolo has the same meaning as Chamuk, the one in Kalmuck and the other in Tibetian. 7. See note 4 to Tale V., and note 7 to "Vikramâditja's Birth." 8. Kun-tschong = all-protecting (Tibetian). (Jülg.) TALE IX. 1. Heaven-gods, sky-gods, devas. They hold a transition position between men and gods, between human and Buddha nature. Their etherial body enables these lowest of gods, or genii, to withstand the effects of age better than mortals; also they can assume other forms and make themselves invisible, powers seldom allotted to mortals, but they are subject to illusion, sin, and metempsychosis like every other creature. (Schott, Buddhaismus in Hoch-Asien, p. 5, quoted by Jülg.) 2. Garudâ.--Garut'man (whence Garudâ), means the winged one. In the epic mythology of India Garudâ was son of Kashjapa and Vinatâ, daughter of Daxa, king of the Suparn'a ("beautiful winged ones"), divine birds, whose habitation was in the lower heavens. They were the standing foes of the serpent-gods, on whose flesh they fed. In the Vêda it is spoken of as a bird with beautiful golden wings. A Gaudharba of high degree, bearing shining weapons, was placed over the higher heaven. It is said that inhaling the balmy vapours, he gave birth to the refreshing rain; and that when gazing through space with his eagle eye he broods over the ocean, the rays of the sun pierce through the third heaven. From this it may be gathered that the Garudâ originally represented the morning mist preceding the sunrise over land and sea. The Garudâ, was also the bearer of Vishnu, as the following legend from the Mâha Bhârata tells:--"Mâtali, Indra's charioteer, had fixed his eyes on Sumuka, grandson of the serpent-god Arjaka, to make him his son-in-law by marrying his daughter, Gun'aka'shi, to him. Garudâ, however, had already devoted him for his food, purposing to kill him in a month's time; but at Mâtali's request Indra had given promise of long life to Sumukha. When Garudâ heard this he went and stood before Indra and told him that by such a promise he had destroyed himself and his race; that he Garudâ, alone possessed the strength to bear him up through all worlds, even as he bore up Vishnu, and that by his means he might become lord of all and as great as Vishnu. But Vishnu made him feel the weight of (only) his left arm, and straightway he fell down senseless before him. After this he acknowledged that he was only the servant of Vishnu, and promised not to talk rebellious words any more." The descriptions of him do not give him entirely the form of a bird, but rather of some combination with the human form; in what he resembles a bird he seems to partake of the eagle, the vulture, and the crane. (Schlegel, Ind. Bibl. i. 81.) TALE X. 1. That the Indians were apt to yield to the temptation of drink is asserted by the Greek writers on India, who also mention that, in spite of the prohibition of their religion, wine was an article of their import trade. See Lassen, ii. 606; iii. 50, and 345, 346. 2. That the wife should give herself to be burned with the body of her husband was a very ancient custom, as it is alluded to as such by the Greek writers on India. Nevertheless it was far from universal. 3. Comp. Mânu, dh. sh. viii. 29, concerning the punishment of the false witness. 4. Shaving off the hair was reckoned the most degrading of punishments. (Lassen, vi. 344.) TALE XI. 1. Chongschim Bôdhisattva. Chongschim is probably derived from the Chinese, Kuan-schi-in, also by the Mongols, called Chutuku niduber usek tschi (He looking with the sacred eye), the present representative of Shâkjamuni, the spiritual guardian and patron of the breathing world in general; but, as Lamaism teaches, the Particular Protector of the northern countries of Asia; and each succeeding Dalai Lama is an incarnation of him. (Schott, Buddhaismus, and Köppen, Die Religion des Buddha, i. 312; ii. 127.) Bôdhisattva, from Bôdhi, the highest wisdom or knowledge, and Sattva, being. It is the last but one in the long chain of re-births. (See Schott, Buddhaismus, quoted by Jülg.; also Köppen, i. 312 et seq., 422-426, and ii. 18 et seq.; Wassiljew, p. 6, 106, 134.) It designates a man who has reached the intelligence of a Buddha and destined to be re-born as such when the actual Buddha dies. This intermediate time some have to pass in the Tushita-heaven, and none of those thus dignified can appear on earth so long as his predecessor lives. (Burnouf, Introduction à l'Histoire du Buddhisme Ind. i. 109.) 2. Suvarnadharî (Sanskr.), possessed of gold. (Jülg.) 3. Chutuktu, holy, consecrated, reverend, honourable--the Mongolian designation of the priesthood in general. (Schott, Buddhaismus, p. 36.) 4. It requires nothing less than the creative power of an Eastern imagination first to see a difficulty in a situation simple enough in itself, and then set to work to remove it by means of a proceeding calculated to create the most actual difficulties: it is a leading characteristic of Indian tales. It would seem much more rational to have made the poor man keep up the original story of Buddha having designated him for the girl's husband, which the people at the mouth of the stream would have been as prone to believe as those at its source, than to resort to the preposterous expedient of leaving her buried in a box. TALE XII. 1. Küwön-ojôtu, of child intellect. (Jülg.) 2. Sandal-wood is a principal production of India. The finest grows on the Malabar coast. Among its many names goshirsha is the only one in use in the Buddhistic writings, being derived from a cow's head, the smell of which its scent was supposed to resemble. (Burnouf, Introd. à l'Hist. du Buddhisme i. 619.) Kandana is the vulgar name. It was also called valguka = beautiful, and bhadrashri = surpassingly beautiful. Its use, both as incense in the temples and for scent in private houses, particularly by spreading a fine powdering of it on damp mats before the windows, is very ancient and widespread. 3. Gegên uchâtu, of bright intellect. (Jülg.) 4. Cap woven of grass. Probably the Urtica (Boehmeria) utilis, which is used for weaving and imported into Europe under the name of China-grass. See Revue Horticole, vol. iv. ann. 1855. TALE XIII. 1. Shrikantha, "one whose cup contains good fortune" = born with a silver spoon in his mouth. 2. The merchant class acquired an important position in India at an early date, as the Manu concerns itself with laws for their guidance. The Manu, however, distinctly defines trading as the occupation of the third caste (i. 90), "The care of cattle, sacrifice, reading the Vêda, the career of a merchant, the lending of gold and silver, and the pursuit of agriculture shall be the occupation of the Vaishja." Similarly in the Jalimâlâ legend given in Colebrooke's "Miscellaneous Essays," it is said "The Lord of Creation viewing them (the various castes) said, 'What shall be your occupation?' These replied, 'We are not our own masters, O God. Command what we shall undertake.' Viewing and comparing their labours he made the first tribe superior over the rest. As the first had great inclination for the divine sciences (brahmaveda) it was called Brahmana. The protector from ill was Kshatriga (warrior). Him whose profession (vesa) consists in commerce, and in husbandry, and attendance on cattle he called Vaisga. The other should voluntarily serve the three tribes, and therefore he became Sudra." That a Brahman's son, therefore, should condescend to engage in trade must be ascribed either to the degeneracy of later times or to the ignorance of or indifference to Brahmanical peculiarities of the Buddhist tale-repeater; or else his parents were of mixed castes. In legendary tales Banig is a typical merchant, and the name ultimately came to designate the subdivision of the Vaishja caste, in which trading had become hereditary. The word is derived from pani, which means both to buy and to play games of hazard, and ga, born or descended; hence Banig meant, literally, merchant's son. This designation later became corrupted into Banyan. It is not possible to learn very much about the merchant's early status, as the subject of trade would naturally seem unworthy of frequent mention in the great epic poems; nevertheless the Ramajana (ii. 83, v. 11) speaks of "the honourable merchants" (naigamâh). Mercantile expeditions, especially by sea, however, partook of the heroic, and as such find a place even in the Mâha Bhârata; and there is a hymn in the Vêda (Rig. V. i. 116, 5) praising Asvin for protecting Bhugju's hundred-oared ship through the immeasurable, fathomless ocean, and bringing it back safely to land. 3. Apes enter frequently not only into the fables but into the epic poetry of India. The Ramajana, narrating the spreading of the Aryan Indians over the south and far-east, speaks of the country as inhabited by apes, and of Rama taking apes for his allies; also, on one occasion, of his re-establishing an ape-king in possession of his previous dominions. Consult Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 534, 535. Megasthenes mentions various kinds of apes and monkeys, with, however, scarcely recognizable descriptions, in his enumeration of the wild animals of India (Fragm. x. p. 410). Kleitarchos tells that when Alexander had reached a hill in the neighbourhood of the Hydaspes, he came upon a tribe of apes arranged in battle array, looking so formidable that he was about to give the signal for attacking them, but was withheld by the representations of Taxiles, king of the neighbouring country of Taxila, who accompanied him (Fragm. xvi. p. 80). The Pantcha-Tantra contains a fable in which the King of Kamanapura establishes an ape for his bodyguard as more faithful and efficient than man; a thief, however, brings a serpent into the apartment, and at sight of the mortal enemy of his kind, the ape runs away. Another fable of the same collection tells of a Brahman who, having succeeded in rearing a flourishing garden of melons, found them all devoured as soon as ripe by a party of apes, nor was he able by any means to get rid of them. One day he laid himself down hid amid the leafage as if he had been dead, but with a stick in his hand ready to attack them when they approached. At first they indeed took him for dead and were venturing close up to him, when one of them espied the stick and cried to the others, "Dead men do not carry arms," and with that they all escaped; and it was the same with every trap he laid for them, by their wariness they evaded them all. 4. The Indian world of story abounds in tales in which the low notion of expecting some advantage to accrue in this life is proposed as the object and reward of good actions. Instances will doubtless occur to the reader. The Pantcha-Tantra Collection contains one in which an elephant is caught by a Khan out hunting, by being driven into a deep dyke. He asks advice of a Brahman who passes that way, as to how he is to extricate himself. "Now is the time," answers the Brahman, "to recall if you have ever done good to any one, and if so to call him to your aid." The elephant thereupon recalls that he once delivered a number of rats whom a Khan had hunted and caught and shut up in earthen jars by lifting the earthen jars with his trunk and gently breaking them. He accordingly invokes the aid of these rats, who come and gnaw away at the earth surrounding the dyke, till they have made so easy a slope of it that the elephant can walk out. Christianity fortunately proposes a higher motive for our good actions, and the experience of life would make that derived from results to be expected from gratitude a very poor one. 5. A story, with a precisely similar episode of the recovery of a jewel by ancillary beasts, comes into the legend of another ruin of the Italian Tirol. 6. See note 4 to "Vikramâditja's Throne discovered." TALE XIV. 1. I know not whether this placing together of lions and tigers is to be ascribed to unacquaintance with their habits, or to idealism. Though both natives of parts of India they have not even the same districts assigned them by nature. So inimical are they also to each other, and so unlikely to herd together, that it has been supposed the tiger has exterminated the lion wherever they have met. (Ritter, Asien, vol. iv. zweite Hälfte, 689, 703, 723.) Indian fable established the lion as the king of beasts--Mrigarâga. Amara, the Indian Lexicographer, places him at the head of all beasts. The ordinary Sanskrit name is Sinha, which some translate "the killer," from sibh, to kill. The same word (sinhanâda) stands for the roaring of the lion and for a war cry. Sinhâsana, literally a lion-seat, stands for a throne; for the lion was the typical ruler. The fables always make him out as powerful, just, temperate, and willing to take the advice of others, but often deceived by his counsellors. The lion also gave its name to the island of Ceylon, which to the Greeks was known as Taprobane, from Tâmbapanni or Tâmrapani, the capital built by Vigaja, its first historical settler (said by the natives to come from tâmra, red, and pâni, hand, because he and his companions being worn out with fatigue on their arrival lay down upon the ground and found it made their hands red; but tamra (neut.) means also red sandalwood, and parna is a leaf, which makes a more probable interpretation, but there is also another deriving from "a red swamp"). But this name passed quite out of use both among native and Greek writers in the early part of the first century. Ptolemy calls it Salik`h, the Indian word being Sinhala, the Pali, Sîhala = "resting-place of the lion" (i.e. the courageous warriors, the companions of Vigaja). Kosmas has S'ieled'iba = Sinhaladvipa, "the island Sinhala." In the writings of the Chinese pilgrims it is called Sengkiolo, which they render "lion's kingdom." In the southern dialects of India l is often changed into r, and thus in Marcellinus Ammianus we find the name has become Serendivus. Out of this came zeilau and our Ceylon. In our word "Singhalese" we have a plainer trace of the lion's share in the appellation. The writers of the time of Alexander do not appear to have come across any authentic account of the tiger, and his people seem to have known it only from its skin bought as merchandize. Nearchos and Megasthenes both quite overstate its size, as "twice as big as a lion," and "as big as a horse." Augustus exhibited a tiger in Rome in the year 11 B.C., and that seems the first seen there. Claudius imported four. Pliny remarks on the extreme swiftness and wariness of the tiger and the difficulty of capturing him. His place in the fable world is generally as representative of unmitigated cruelty. The Pantcha-Tantra contains a tale, however, in which a Brahman, wearied of his existence by many reverses, goes to a tiger who has a reputation for great ferocity and begs him to rid him of his life. The tiger in this instance is so moved by the recital of the man's afflictions that he not only spares his life, but nurtures him in his den, enriching him also with the jewelled spoil of the many travellers who fall victims to his voracity. In the end, however, the inevitable fox comes in as a bad counsellor, and persuades him the Brahman is intending to poison him, and thus overcoming his leniency, induces him to break faith with the Brahman and devour him. 2. Dakinis were female evil genii, who committed all sorts of horrible pranks, chiefly among the graves and at night. In this place it is more probably Raginis that are intended, beautiful beings who filled the air with melody. (Schmidt, trans, of sSanang sSetsen, p. 438, quoted by Jülg.) 3. Nûpuras, gold rings set with jewels, worn by women of rank, and also by dancing girls. 4. The custom of wearing quantities of jewelled ornaments seems to have passed into Rome, along with the jewels themselves, and to such an extent that Pliny tells us (book ix.), that Roman women would have their feet covered with pearls, and a woman of rank would not go out without having so many pearls dangling from her feet as to make a noise as she walked along. The long-shaped pearls of India, too, were specially prized for ear-rings; he particularly mentions their being made to bear the form of an alabaster vase, just as lately revived in Rome. They particularly delighted in the noise of two or more of these pendants together as a token of wealth, and gave it the name of crotalia, which, however, they borrowed from the Greeks. They also wore them pendant from their rings. The Singhalese pearls are the most esteemed. The dangerous fishery of these forms the occupation of a special division of the Parawa or Fisher-Caste of the Southern Indians. The pearl-oysters were said to swim in swarms, led by a king-oyster, distinguished by his superiority in size and colouring. Fishers aimed at capturing the "king," as then the whole swarm was dispersed and easily caught; as long as the king was free, he knew how to guide the major part of his swarm of subjects out of danger (Pliny, ix. 55, 1). They thought the pearl was more directly under the influence of the heavens than of the sea, so that if it was cloudy at the time of their birth, they grew dull and tinted; but if born under a bright sky, then they were lustrous and well-tinted; if it thundered at the time, they were startled and grew small and stunted. Concerning the actualities of pearl-fishery, see Colebrook's "Account" of the same in Trans. of R. As. Soc. ii. 452, et seq. Megasthenes, Diodorus, Arrianus, and others (quoted by Lassen, 1, 649, n. 2), tell a curious legend by which Hercules as he parted from earth gave to his young daughter Pandaia the whole of Southern India for her portion, and that from her sprang the celebrated hero dynasty of the Pândava; Hercules found a beautiful female ornament called pearls on his travels, and he collected them all and endowed his daughter's kingdom with them. 5. It is impossible not to be struck by the similarity of construction between this tale and that of the Spanish colonial one I have given in "Patrañas" with the title of "Matanzas," thus bringing the sagas of the East and West Indies curiously together. 6. Lama, Buddhist priest: the tale-repeater again grafts a word of his own language on to the Indian tale. 7. Tîrtha, from tri, to cross a river. It denoted originally a ford; then, a bathing-place on the borders of sacred streams; later its use became extended to all manner of pilgrimage-places, but more frequently those situated at the water's edge. They were the hermitages of Brahmans who gave themselves to the contemplative life before the rise of Buddhism, while to many of them also were attached legends of having been the dwellings of the mysterious Rishi, similarly before the rise of Brahmanism. The fruits of the earth and beasts brought to them as offerings at these holy places, as also the mere visiting such spots, was taught to be among the most meritorious of acts. "From the poor can the sacrifice, O king, not be offered, for it needs to have great possessions, and to make great preparations. By kings and rich men can it be offered. But not by the mean and needy and possessing nothing. But hear, and I will tell thee what is the pious dealing which is equal in its fruits to the holy sacrifice, and can be carried out even by the poorest. This is the deepest secret of the Rishi. Visits paid to the tîrtha are more meritorious than even offerings" (made elsewhere). "He who has never fasted for three nights, has never visited a tîrtha, and never made offerings of gold and cows, he will live in poor estate" (at his next re-birth). "But so great advantage is not gained by the Agnishtoma or other most costly sacrifice as by visiting tîrthas." (Tirthagâtrâ, iii. 82, v. 4055 et seq.) In other places it is prescribed that visits paid to some one particular tîrtha are equal to an offering of one hundred cows; to another, a thousand. To visiting another, is attached the reward of being beautiful at the next rebirth; a visit to another, cleansed from the stain of murder, even the murder of a Brahman; that to the source of the Ganges, brings good luck to a whole generation. Whoso passes a month at that on the Kanshiki, where Vishvamitra attained the highest perfection, does equivalent to the offering of a horse-offering and obtains the same advantage (phala = fruit). Several spots on the Indus or Sindhu, reckon among the holiest of tîrthas pointing to the course of the immigration of the Aryan race into India. Uggana on its west bank is named as the dwelling-place of the earliest Rishis and the scene of acts of the gods. A visit to Gandharba at its source, or Sindhûttama the northern-most tîrtha on its banks, was equivalent to a horse-offering. The Puranas are full of stories and legends concerning tîrthas noteworthy for the deeds of ancient kings and gods. They tell us of one on the Jumna, where Brahma himself offered sacrifice. At the Vârâha-tîrtha Vishnu had once appeared in the form of a wild boar. The Mahâ Bhârata and other epic poems speak of these visits being made by princes as a matter of constant occurrence, as well as of numbers of Brahmans making the occasion of their visits answer the purpose of an armed escort, to pay their devotions at the same time without incurring unnecessary danger by the way. The Manu also contains prescriptions concerning these visits. In consequence of the amount of travelling they entailed the tîrthânusartri or tîrtha-visitor was quoted as a geographical authority. The Horse-sacrifice mentioned above was part of the early Vedic religion. In the songs of Dirghatamas, Rig-Veda i. 22, 6 and 7, it is described with great particularity. And instances are mentioned of horse-sacrifices being performed, in the Ramajana, i. 13, 34, and Mahâ Bhârata, xiv. 89 v. 2644. There is also a medal existing struck by a king of the Gupta dynasty, in the 3rd century of our era, commemorative of one at that date. There do not appear altogether to be many instances named however. The Zendavesta (quoted by Burnouf, Yacna, i. p. 444) mentions that it was common among the Turanian people, on the other hand, to sacrifices horses to propitiate victory. TALE XV. 1. "Diamond kingdom." It is probably Magadha (now Behar) that is here thus designated (Jülg.); though it might stand for any part of Central India: "Diamonds were only found in India of all the kingdoms of antiquity" (Lassen, iii. 18), and (Lassen i. 240), "in India between 14° and 25°;" a wide range, but the fields are limited in extent and sparsely scattered. The old world only knew the diamond through the medium of India. In India itself they were the choicest ornaments of the kings and of the statues of the gods. They thus became stored up in great masses in royal and ecclesiastical treasuries; and became the highest standard of value. The vast quantities of diamonds made booty of during the Muhammedan invasion borders on the incredible. It was thus that they first found their way in any quantity to the West of Europe. Since the discovery of the diamond-fields of Brazil, they have been little sought for in India. In Sanskrit, they were called vag'ra, "lightning;" also abhêdja, "infrangible." It would appear, however, that the Muhammedans were not the first to despoil the Eastern treasuries, for Pliny (book ix.) tells us that Lollia, wife of Claudius, was wont to show herself, on all public occasions, literally covered from head to foot with jewels, which her father, Marcus Lollius, had taken from the kings of the East, and which were valued at forty million sesterces. He adds, however, this noteworthy instance of retribution of rapacity, that he ended by taking his own life to appease the Emperor's animosity, which he had thereby incurred. Hiuen Thsang, the Chinese pilgrim who visited India about A.D. 640, particularly mentions that in Maláva and Magadha were chief seats of learned studies. 2. Abaraschika; magic word of no meaning. (Jülg.) 3. Astrologers. Colebrooke ("Miscellaneous Essays," ii. 440) is of opinion that astrology was a late introduction into India. Divination by the relative position of the planets seems to have been in part at least of foreign growth and comparatively recent introduction among the Hindus; (he explains this to refer to the Alexandrian Greeks). "The belief in the influence of the planets and stars upon human affairs is with them indeed remotely ancient, and was a natural consequence of their early creed making the sun and planets gods. But the notion that the tendency of that supposed influence and the manner in which it is to be exerted, may be foreseen by man, and the effect to be produced by it foretold through a knowledge of the position of the planets at a given moment, is no necessary result of that belief; for it takes from beings believed divine their free agency." See also Weber, "Geschichte der Indischen Astrologie," in his Indische Studien, ii. 236 et seq. TALE XVI. 1. Tabun Minggan = "containing five thousand." (Jülg.) The tale-repeater again gives a name of his own language to a town which he places in India. 2. Cows and oxen were always held in high estimation by the ancient Indians. The same word that stood for "cow" expressed also "the earth," and both stand equally in the Vêda for symbols of fruitfulness and patient labouring for the benefit of others. The ox stands in the Manu for "uprightness" and "obedience to the laws." In the Ramajana (ii. 74, 12) Surabhi, the cow-divinity (see the curious accounts of her origin in Lassen, i. 792 and note), is represented as lamenting that over the whole world her children are made to labour from morning to night at the plough under the burning sun. Cows were frequently devoted to the gods and left to go whithersoever they would, even in the midst of towns, their lives being held sacred (Lassen, i. 298). Kühn (Jahrbuch f. w. K. 1844, p. 102) quotes two or three instances of sacrifices of cows but they were very rare; either as sacrifices to the gods or as rigagna ("sacrifices to the living") i. e. the offerings of hospitality to the living. The ox was reckoned peculiarly sacred to Shiva, and images were set up to him in the temples (see Lassen, i. 299). Butter was the most frequent object of sacrifice (ib. 298). The Manu (iii. 70) orders the Hôma or butter-sacrifice to be offered daily to the gods, and the custom still subsists (see Lassen, iii. 325). Other names for the cow were Gharmadhug = "giver of warm milk;" and Aghnjâ = "the not to be slain;" also Kâmadhênu or Kâmaduh = "the fulfiller of wishes," and (in the Mahâ Bhârata) Nandunî = "the making to rejoice" (Lassen, i. 721). See also the story of Sabala, the heavenly cow of the Ramajana, in note 8 to "Vikramâditja's Youth." Oxen were not only used for ploughing, but also for charioteering and riding, and were trained to great swiftness. Ælianus (De Nat Anim. xv. 24) mentions that kings and great men did not think it beneath them to strive together in the oxen-races, and that the oxen were better racers than the horses, for the latter needed the spur while the former did not. An ox and a horse, and two oxen with a horse between them were often harnessed together in a chariot. He also mentions that there was a great deal of betting both by those whose animals were engaged in the race and by the spectators. The Manu, however (d. p. c. ix. 221--225), forbids every kind of betting under severe penalties. Ælianus mentions further the Kâmara, the long-haired ox or yak, which the Indians received from Tibet. 3. The "Three Precious Treasures" or "jewels" of Buddhism are Adi-buddha, Dharma, and Sangha, which in later Buddhism became a sort of triad, called triratna, of supreme divinities; but, at the first, were only honoured according to the actual meaning of the words (Schmidt, Grundlehre der Buddhaismus, in Mem. de l'Ac. des Sciences de S. Petersbourg, i. 114), viz. Sangha, sacred assembly or synod; Dharma, laws (or more correctly perhaps, necessity, fate, Lassen, iii. 397), and Buddha, the expounder of the same. (Burnouf, Introd. à l'Hist. du Budd. i. 221.) Consult Schott, Buddhaismus, pp. 39, 127, and C. F. Köppen, Die Religion des Buddha, i. 373, 550-553, and ii. 292-294. 4. See note 2, Tale IV. 5. Abbé Huc describes the huts of the Tibetian herdsmen as thus constructed with a hole in the roof for the smoke. The Mongolians live entirely in tents which, if more primitive, seem cleaner and altogether preferable. TALE XVII. 1. Probably it was some version of this story that had travelled to Spain, which suggested to Yriarte the following one of his many fables directed against ignorant writers and bad critics. 1. 1. Esta fabulilla, This fablette I know it Salga bien ó mal, Is not erudite; Me he occorrida ahora It occurr'd to my mind now Por casualidad. By accident quite. 2. 2. Cerca de unos prados Through a meadow whose verdure Que hay en mi lugar, Fresh, seem'd to invite, Passaba un borrico A donkey pass'd browsing Por casualidad. By accident quite. 3. 3. Una flauta en ellos A flute lay in the grass, which Halló que un zagal, A swain over night Se dexó olvidado Had left there forgotten Por casualidad. By accident quite. 4. 4. Acercóse á olerla, Approaching to smell it El dicho animal This quadruped wight Y dió un resoplido Just happen'd to bray then Por casualidad. By accident quite. 5. 5. En la flauta el ayre The air ent'ring the mouthpiece Se hubo de colar Pass'd through as of right, Y sonó la flauta And gave forth a cadence Por casualidad. By accident quite. 6. 6. "O!" dixó el borrico "Only hear my fine playing!" "Que bien sé tocar! Cries Moke in delight, Y diran que es mala "That dull folks vote my braying La musica asnal." A nuisance, despite." 7. 7. Sin reglas del arte It may happen some once, thus Borriquitos hay Although they can't write, Que una vez aciertan Human asses may hit off Por casualidad! By accident quite! 2. The woman invents a name to frighten, and also as a trap for, her husband. "Sûrja, is Sanskrit, and Bagatur, Mongolian for a 'Hero.' Such combinations are not infrequent." (Jülg.) "Shura means a Hero in Sanscrit, agreeing not only in sense with the Greek word , but also in derivation; thus revealing a primeval agreement in the estimation in which hero-nature was held. It is more properly written Sura, because it comes from Svar, heaven, and means literally 'heavenly.' It is used in that form as an appellation of the Sun. Heroes are so called, because when they fell in battle, Svarga, the heaven of deified kings, was given them for their dwelling-place. 'Indra shall give to those who fall in battle the world where all wishes are fulfilled, for their portion. Neither by sacrifices, nor offerings to the Brahmans, nor by contemplation, nor knowledge can mortals attain to Svarga as securely as do heroes falling in battle.' Mahâ Bhârata, xi. 2, v. 60." (Lassen, i. 69.) 3. "The women of Tibet are not indeed taught the use of the bow and the matchlock, but in riding they are as expert and fearless as the men, yet it is only on occasion that they mount a horse, such as when travelling; or when there chances to be no man about the place to look after a stray animal." (Abbé Huc's "Travels in China and Tibet," vol. i. ch. iii.) 4. A very similar story may be found in Barbazan's, "Fabliaux et Contes des Poètes Français des XI-XV Siècles," in 4 vols., Paris 1808, vol. iv. pp. 287-295. (Jülg.) TALE XVIII. 1. Shanggasba is possibly a Tibetian word, bsang, grags, pa = "of good fame," but more probably it is compounded from the Mongolian sSang, "treasure." (Jülg.) 2. Garudâ: see note 2, Tale I. The allusion in this place is to an image of him over a shrine. 3. Silk was cultivated in India at a very early date, probably much earlier than any records that remain to us can show; there are twelve indigenous species of silkworm. That of China was not introduced into India before the year 419 of our era (Ritter, vol. vi. pt. 1, 698). The indigenous silkworms fed upon other trees besides the mulberry and notably on the ficus religiosa. The Greeks would seem to have learnt the use of silk from the Indians, or at least from the Persians. Nearchos is the first Greek writer in whom mention of it is found; he describes it as like the finest weft of cotton-stuff, and says it was made from fibre scraped from the bark of a tree; an error in which he was followed by other writers; others again wrote that the fibres were combed off the leaf of a tree; yet Pausanias had mentioned the worm as the intermediary of its production (C. Müller, Pref. to his Edition of Strabo, and notes). The Romans also carried on a considerable trade in silk with India, and Pliny, vi. 20, 2, mentions one kind of Indian silk texture that was so fine and light, you could see through it, "ut in publico matrona transluceat." Horace also alludes to the same, Sat. i. 2, 101. Pliny also complains of the luxury whereby this costly stuff was used, not only for dresses, but for coverings of cushions. [68] Vopiscus, in his life of the Emperor Aurelian, tells us that at that time a pound weight of silk was worth a pound weight of gold. In India itself the luxurious use of silk has restrictions put upon it in the Manu. It was also prescribed that when men devoted themselves to the hermit life in the jungle, they should lay aside their silken clothing; and we find Râma (Râmajana, ii. 37, 14) putting on a penitential habit over his silken robe. The Mâha Bhârata (ii. cap. 50) contains a passage in which among the objects brought in tribute to Judhishthira is kîtaga, or the "insect-product," a word used to designate both silk and cochineal. 4. A similar episode occurs in a tale collected in the neighbourhood of Schwaz in North Tirol which I have given under the name of "Prince Radpot" in "Household Stories from the Land of Hofer." The rest of the story recalls that called "The three Black Dogs" in the same collection, but there is much more grace and pathos about the Tirolean version. TALE XIX. 1. See note 2, Tale XVII. 2. The fox plays a similar part in many an Eastern fable. The first book of the Pantscha Tantra Collection is entitled Mitrabheda, or the Art of Mischief-making. A lion-king who has two foxes for his ministers falls into great alarm one day, because he hears for the first time in his life the roaring of an ox, which some merchants had left behind them because it was lame and sick. The lion consults his two ministers in this strait, and the two while laughing at his fears determine to entertain them in order to enhance their own usefulness. First they visit the ox and make sure he is quite infirm and harmless, and then they go to the lion, and tell him it is the terrible Ox-king, the bearer of Shiva, and that Shiva has sent him down into that forest to devour all the animals in it small and great. The lion is not surprised to hear his fears confirmed and entreats his ministers to find him a way out of the difficulty. The foxes pretend to undertake the negotiation and then go back to the ox and tell him it is the command of the king that he quit the forest. The ox pleads his age and infirmities and desolate condition, and the foxes having made him believe in the value of their services as intermediaries bring him to the lion. Both parties are immensely grateful to the ministers for having as each thinks softened the heart of the other, but the foxes begin to see they have taken a false step in bringing the ox to the lion, as they become such fast friends, that there is danger of their companionship being no longer sought by their master. They determine, therefore, the ox must be killed; but how are they to kill so disproportioned a victim? They must make the lion do the execution himself. But how? they are such sworn friends. They find the lion alone and fill his mind with alarm, assure him the ox is plotting to kill him. They hardly gain credit, but the lion promises to be on his guard; while they are on the watch also for any accident which may give colour to their design. Meantime, they keep up each other's courage by the narration of fables showing how by perseverance in cunning any perfidy may be accomplished. At last it happens one day that a frightful storm comes on while the ox is out grazing. He comes galloping back to seek the cover of the forest, shaking his head and sides to get rid of the heavy raindrops, tearing up the ground with his heavy hoofs in his speed, and his tail stretched out wildly behind. "See!" say the foxes to the lion; "see if we were not right. Behold how he comes tramping along ready to devour thee; see how his eyes glisten with fury, see how he gnashes his teeth, see how he tears up the earth with his powerful hoofs!" The lion cannot remain unconvinced in presence of such evidence. "Now is your moment," cry the foxes; "be beforehand with him before he reaches you." Thus instigated the lion falls upon the ox. The ox surprised at this extraordinary reception, and already out of breath, is thrown upon the defensive, and in his efforts to save himself the lion sees the proof of his intention to attack. Accordingly he sets no bounds to his fury, and has soon torn him in pieces. The foxes get the benefit of a feast for many days on his flesh, besides being reinstated in the full empire over their master. In one of the fables, however, the tables are cleverly turned on Reynard by "the sagacity of the bearded goat." An old he-goat having remained behind on the mountains, one day, when the rest of the herd went home, found himself suddenly in presence of a lion. Remembering that a moment's hesitation would be his death, he assumed a bold countenance and walked straight up to the lion. The lion, astonished at this unwonted procedure, thinks it must be some very extraordinary beast; and instead of setting upon it, after his wont, speaks civilly to it, saying, "Thou of the long beard, whence art thou?" The goat answered, "I am a devout servant of Shiva to whom I have promised to make sacrifice of twenty-one tigers, twenty-five elephants, and ten lions; the tigers and the elephants have I already slain, and now I am seeking for ten lions to slay." The lion hearing this formidable declaration, without waiting for more, turned him and fled. As he ran he fell in with a fox, who asked him whither he ran so fast. The lion gives a ridiculous description of the goat, dictated by his terror; the fox recognizes that it is only a goat, and thinking to profit by the remains of his flesh perfidiously urges him to go back and slaughter him. He accordingly goes back with this intention, but the goat is equal to the occasion, and turning sharply upon the fox, exclaims, "Did I not send thee out to fetch me ten lions for the sacrifice? How then darest thou to appear before me having only snared me one?" The lion thinking his reproaches genuine, once more turns tail and makes good his escape. It has much similarity with the episode of the hare and the wolf in the next tale. 3. Svarga. See note 2, Tale XVII. TALE XX. 1. Hiranjavatî, "the gold-coloured river," also called Svarnavati, "the yellow river," both names occurring only in Buddhist writers: one of the northern tributaries of the Ganges, into which it falls not far from Patna, and the chief river of Nepaul. Its name was properly Gandakavatî = "Rhinoceros-river," or simply Gan'da'kî, whence its modern name of the Goondook, as also that of Kondochates, into which it was transformed by the Greek geographers. In its upper course it often brings down ammonite petrifactions, which are believed to be incarnations or manifestations of Vishnu, hence it has a sacred character, and on its banks are numerous spots of pilgrimage. 2. Concerning such distributions of alms, see Koppen, i. 581 et seq. 3. The story affords no data on which to decide whether this cynical speech is supposed to be a serious utterance representing the actual motives on which the mendicant life was actually adopted under the teaching of Buddhism, affording a strong contrast from those which have prompted to it under Christianity, or whether it is intended as a satire on the Bhixu. (For Bhixu, see pp. 330, 332.) 4. I know not how the tufts of wool could have got caught off the sheeps' backs on to ant-heaps, unless it be that the marmots being as we have already seen (note 3, Tale IV.) called ants, the tale-repeater takes it for granted there are marmot-holes in Nepaul like those familiar to him in Mongolia, which Abbé Huc thus describes (vol. i. ch. ii.), "These animals construct over the opening of their little dens a sort of miniature dome composed of grass artistically twisted, designed as a shelter from wind and rain. These little heaps of dried grass are of the size and shape of mole-hills. Cold made us cruel, and we proceeded to level the house-domes of these poor little animals, which retreated into their holes below, as we approached. By means of this Vandalism we managed to collect a sackful of efficient fuel, and so warmed the water which was our only aliment that day." 5. "Though there is so much gold and silver there is great destitution in Tibet. At Lha-Ssa, for instance, the number of mendicants is enormous. They go from door to door soliciting a handful of tsamba (barley-meal), and enter any one's house without ceremony. The manner of asking alms is to hold out the closed hand with the thumb raised. We must add in commendation of the Tibetians that they are generally very kind and compassionate, rarely sending the mendicant away unassisted." (Abbé Huc, vol. ii. ch. v.) 6. Indian tales often remind one of the frequent web of a dream in which one imagines oneself starting in pursuit of a particular object, but another and another fancy intervenes and the first purpose becomes altogether lost sight of. This was particularly observable in the tale entitled "How the Schimnu-Khan was slain," in which, after many times intending it, Massang never goes back to thank his master at last. The present is a still more striking instance, in its consequence and repeated change of purport. In pursuing the mendicant's life, the search for the man's parents is forgotten; and the man and his wife are themselves lost sight of in the episode of the lamb. 7. Concerning the combination of the Moon and the hare, see Liebrecht, in Lazarus and Steinthal, Zeitschrift, vol. i. pt. 1. The Mongols see in the spots in the moon the figure of a hare, and imagine it was placed there in memory of Shâkjamuni having once transformed himself into a hare out of self-sacrifice, that he might serve a hungry wayfarer for a meal. (Bergman, Nomadische Streifereien unter den Kalmüken, in 1802-3, quoted by Jülg.) 8. See note 5, Tale III. TALE XXI. 1. Compare this story with the "Wunderharfe" in the "Mährchensaal" of Kletke. (Jülg.) Its similarity with the story of King Midas will strike every reader. 2. Chara Kitad = Black China; the term designates the north of China. 3. Daibang (in Chinese, Tai-ping = peace and happiness), the usual Mongolian designation for the Chinese Emperor. (Jülg.) 4. See note 9, Tale IV. TALE XXII. 1. Bagatur-Ssedkiltu, "of heroic capacity." (Jülg.) See Note 2, Tale XVII. 2. The Three Precious Treasures, see note 3, Tale XVI. 3. Pearls. Arrianus (Ind. viii. 8) quotes from Megasthenes, a legend in which the discovery of pearls is ascribed to Crishna. The passage further implies that the Greek name margar'ithc was received from an Indian name, which may be the case through the Dekhan dialect, though there is nothing like it in Sanskrit, unless it be traced from markarâ, a hollow vessel. The Sanskrit word for pearls is muktá, "dropt" or "set free," "dropt by the rain-clouds." (See Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 244 n. 1. See also note 4, Tale XIV.) How the Preserver of mother-o'-pearl shells comes to live up a river, I know not, unless in his royal character he was supposed to have an outlying country-villa. However Megasthenes (quoted by Lassen, ii. 680, n. 2) tells us not only that there were many crocodiles and alligators in the Indus, but also that many fishes and molluscs came up the stream out of the sea as far as the confluence of the Akesines, and small ones as far as the mountains. Onesikritos mentions the same concerning other rivers. 4. The serpent-gods are spoken of sometimes as if they were supposed to wear a human form and as often as in their reptile form. In the present place in the text there is a strange confusion between the two ideas, the "son" whom the White Serpent king comes to seek evidently wore a reptile form, as when he was in the owl's mouth he resembled the Tamer's girdle, yet the king himself and his companion are said to be riding on horses; as it is also said they come out of the water it was probably a crocodile that the story-teller had in his mind's eye, and which might fancifully be conceived to be a serpent riding on horseback, as a centaur represents a man on horseback. The serpent-gods generally would seem to be more properly termed reptile-gods, as not only ophidians and saurians seem to belong to their empire, but batrachians also; in this very story the gold frog is reckoned the actual daughter of the White Serpent-king, probably even emydians also, though I do not recall an example. Water-snakes, however, are common in Asia, and there is also there a group of batrachians called cæliciæ, which are cylindrical in form, without feet and moving like serpents, and considered to form a link between that family and their own. I do not know if this in any way explains the symbolism whereby a creature that had any right to be reckoned a frog could be called the daughter of a serpent-king. When the stories of encounters of heroes with huge malevolent serpents, or crocodiles, passed into the mythology of Europe, these were generally replaced by "dragons," or monsters, such as "Grendel" in our Anglo-Saxon "Lay of Beowulf." There are some, however, in which a bonâ fide serpent figures. In parts of Tirol, a white serpent is spoken of as a "serpent-queen" and as more dangerous than the others; various are the legends in which the release of a spell-bound princess depends on the deliverer suffering himself to be three times encircled, and the third time, kissed by a serpent; the trial frequently fails at the third attempt. Sir Lancelot, if I remember right, accomplished it in the end. Every collection of mediæval legends contains stories of combats with dragons, the groundwork probably brought from the East, and the detail made to fit the hero of some local deliverance; the mythology of Tirol is particularly rich in this class, almost every valley has its own; at Wilten, near Innsbruck, the sting of a dragon is shown as of that killed by the Christian giant Haymon; the one I have given in "Zovanin senza paura," from the Italian Tirol (p. 348, "Household Stories from the Land of Hofer"), has this similarity with Tales II. and V., that it is actually the water supply of the infested district which is stopped by the dragon. There is this great difference, however, between the Eastern and later Western versions of serpent myths. The Indians having deified the serpent, their heroic tales have no further aim than that of propitiating him. On the other hand, it was not long before the religious influence under which the Christian myths were moulded had connected and by degrees identified the serpent-exterior, under the parable of which they set forth their local plague, with that under which the adversary of souls is named in the sacred story of the garden of Eden; and thus it became a necessity of the case that the Christian hero should destroy or at least vanquish it. Though the Indian serpent-gods seem to have been generally feared and hated, we have instances--and that even in this little volume--of their harmlessness also and even beneficence. An innocuous and benevolent phase of dragon-character seems to have been adopted also in the early heathen mythology of Europe. Nork (Mythologie der Volkssagen) tells us the dragon was held sacred to Wodin, and its image was placed over houses, town-gates, and towers, as a talisman against evil influences; and I have met with a popular superstition lingering yet in Tirol that to meet a crested adder (the European representative, I believe, of the Cobra di capello, which is, as we have seen, the species specially worshipped in India) brings good luck. I have said I do not remember an instance in Indian mythology in which any member of the emydian family comes under the empire of the serpent-god; I should expect there are such instances, however, as the counterpart exists in Tirol, where there are stories of mysterious fascination exercised by sacred shrines upon the little land-tortoises and which have in consequence been regarded by the peasantry as representing wandering souls waiting for the completion of their purgatorial penance. See also concerning the serpent-gods, note 1 to Tale II. 5. Mirjalaktschi. Jülg says, "Fettmacher" (fat-maker) is the best equivalent he can give, but he is not convinced of its correctness, and then exposes what he understands by "Fettmacher" by two German expressions, one, meaning "pot-bellied," and the other not renderable in English to ears polite. It would seem more in accordance with the use of the name in the text to understand his own word Fettmacher, as "he giving abundance," "he making fat." 6. Gambudvîpa. I have already (page viii.) had occasion to explain this native name of India; otherwise spelt Dschambudvîpa and Jambudvîpa and Jambudîpa. But as I only there spoke of the actual species of the gambu-tree, one of the indigenous productions of India, I ought further to mention that the name is rather derived from a fabulous specimen of it, supposed to grow on the sacred mountain of Meru. Spence Hardy ("Legends and Theories of the Buddhists," p. 95) quotes the following description of it from one of the late commentaries of the Sutras: "From the root to the highest part is a thousand miles; the space covered by its outspreading branches is three thousand miles in circumference. The trunk is one hundred and fifty miles round, and five hundred miles in height from the root to the place where the branches begin to extend; the four great branches of it are each five hundred miles long, and from between these flow four great rivers. Where the fruit of the tree falls, small plants of gold arise which are washed into one of the rivers." Earlier descriptions are less exaggerated; details remaining in this one suggest that it has not been invented without aid from some lingering remnant of an early tradition of the Tree of Life and the four rivers of Paradise, "the gold of" one of which "is good." The great continent of India being called an island is explained in a parable from the Jinâlankâra, given at p. 87 of the same work, likening the outer Sakwala ridge or boundary of the universe to the rim of a jar or vessel; the vessel filled with sauce representing the ocean and the continents, like masses of cooked rice floating in the same. At p. 82, he quotes from the first-mentioned commentary a description of the mountain of Méru itself, illustrative of the habitual exaggeration of the Indian sacred writers. "Between Maha Méru and the Sakwala ridge are seven circles of rocks with seven seas between them. They are circular because of the shape of Maha Méru. The first or innermost, Yugandhara, is 210,000 miles broad; its inner circumference is 7,560,000 miles, and its outer, 8,220,000 miles; from Maha Méru to Yugandhara is 840,000 miles. Near Maha Méru, the depth of the sea is 840,000 miles, &c.," the seven circles being all described with analogous dimensions. Also p. 42, "Buddha knows how many atoms there are in Maha Méru, although it is a million miles in height." TALE XXIII. 1. "The five colours," see note 5, Tale IV. "The seven precious things," are variously stated. Sometimes they are gold, silver, lapis lazuli, crystal, red pearls, diamond and coral. Sometimes gold and silver are left out of the reckoning, and rubies and emeralds substituted. See Köppen, i. 540 et seq. The extravagant and incongruous description in the text is not artistic. 2. The month Pushja. Before the time of Vikramâditja astronomy was not studied in India as a science; the course of the heavenly bodies was observed, but only for the sake of determining the times and seasons of feasts and sacrifices. The moon was the chief subject of observation and of the more correct results of the same. Her path was divided into twenty-eight "houses" or "mansions" called naxatra. This division was invented by the Chinese, and India received it from them about 1100 B.C. The naxatravidjâ or the knowledge of the moon-mansions, is set down in one of the oldest Upanishad as a special kind of knowledge. In the oldest enumeration extant of the moon-mansions only twenty-seven are mentioned, and the first of them is called Krittikâ, and Abhigit, which is the 20th, according to the latest enumeration, is wanting; other lists have other discrepancies. It is worthy of notice that Kandramas, the earliest name by which the moon is invoked in the Vêda, is composed of kandra, "shining," and mas, "to measure," because the moon measured time, and the various names of the moon in all the so-called Indo-European languages are supposed to come from this last word. There were also four moon-divinities invoked, as Kuhû, Sinivali, Râkâ, and Anumati, in the Rig Vêda hymns; these are all feminine deities. Soma, the later moon-divinity, however, was masculine, and had twenty-seven of the fifty daughters of Daxa for his wives. Kandramas was also a male divinity. The worship of the four goddesses I have named was afterwards superseded by four (also feminine) deifications of the phases of the moon. There seems a little difficulty, however, about fitting their names to them. Pushja, with which we are more particularly concerned, would properly imply "waxing," but she presided nevertheless over the last quarter; Krita, meaning the "finished" course, over the new moon; the appellations of the others fit better. Drapura (derived from dva, two) designated the second quarter, and Khârvâ, "the beginning to wane," the full moon. In the list given by Amarasinha of the moon-mansions, Pushja is the name of the eighth, in the Mahâ Bhârata it stands for the sixth. The month Pauscha answers to our December. (Lassen, iii. 819.) 3. We have many early proofs that India possessed an indigenous breed of hunting-dogs of noble and somewhat fierce character. They were much esteemed as hunting-dogs by the Persians, and formed an important article of commerce. Herodotus (i. 192) mentions their being imported into Babylon; whether the mighty hunter Nimrod had a high opinion of them, there is perhaps no means of ascertaining. Strabo (xv. i. § 31) says they were not afraid to hunt lions. In the Ramajana, (ii. 70, 21) Ashvapati gives Rama a present of "swift asses and dogs bred in the palace, large in stature, with the strength of tigers, and teeth meet to fight withal." Alexander found them sufficiently superior to his own to take with him a present of them offered him by Sopeithes. Aristobulos, Megasthenes, and Ælianus mention their qualities with admiration. Their strength and courage led to the erroneous tradition that they were suckled by tigers (see Pliny, viii. 65, I). Plutarch (De Soc. Anim. x. 4) quotes a passage from an earlier Greek writer, saying they were so noble, that though when they caught a hare they gladly sucked his blood, yet that if one lay down exhausted with the course, they would not kill it, but stood round it in a circle, wagging their tails to show their enjoyment was not in the blood, but in the victory. The house-dog and herd-dog, however, was rather looked down upon; it and the ass were the only animals the Kandala or lowest caste were allowed to possess (Manu, x. 51), and it is still called Paria-dog (Bp Heber's "Journey," i. 490). 4. A functionary invented by the Mongolian tale-repeater. The idea evidently borrowed from his knowledge of the paramount authority of the Talé Lama of Tibet, leading him to suppose there must exist a corresponding dignity in India. 5. Barin Tschidaktschi Erdekctu, "The mighty one at taking distant aim." (Jülg.) 6. Gesser Khan, the great hero of Mongolian tales; called also "The mighty Destroyer of the root of the seven evils in the seven places of the earth." (Jülg.) 7. Tschin-tâmani, Sanskrit, "Thought-jewel," is a jewel possessing the magic power of producing whatever object the possessor of it sets his heart upon. (Böhtlingk and Roth, Sanskrit Dict.) See infra, note 2, to "The False Friend," and note 8 to "Vikramâditja's Youth." 8. Barss-Irbiss, "leopard-tiger." (Jülg.) HISTORICAL NOTICE OF VIKRAMÂDITJA. 1. Professor Wilson. 2. Reinaud, Fragments relatifs à l'Inde. 3. See a most extraordinary instance of this noticed in note 11 of the Tale in this volume entitled "Vikramâditja makes the Silent Speak." 4. Thus Reinaud (Mémoire Géographique sur l'Inde, p. 80) speaks of a king of this name who governed Cashmere A.D. 517, as if he were the original Vikramâditja. 5. The honour of being the first to work this mine of information belongs to H. Todd; see his "Account of Indian Medals," in Trans. of As. Soc. 6. The art of coining at all was, in all probability, introduced by the Greeks.--Wilson, Ariana Antiqua, p. 403; also Prinsep, in Journ. of As. Soc. i. 394. 7. In the list of kings given by Lassen, iv. 969, 970, there are eight kings called Vikramâditja, either as a name or a surname, between A.D. 500 and 1000. 8. The kingdom of Malâva answers to the present province of Malwa, comprising the table-land enclosed between the Vindhja and Haravatî ranges. The amenity of its climate made it the favourite residence of the rulers of this part of India, and we find in it a number of former capitals of great empires. It lay near the commercial coast of Guzerat, and through it were highways from Northern India over the Vindhja range into the Dekhan. It is also well watered; its chief river, the Kharmanvati (now Kumbal), rises in the Vindhja mountains, and falls into the Jumna. At its confluence with the Siprâ, a little tributary, was situated Uggajini = "the Victorious," now called Uggeni, Ozene, and Oojein, and still the first meridian of Indian astronomers. It also bore the name of Avantî = "the Protecting," from the circumstance of its having given refuge to this Vikramâditja in his infancy. 9. This length of reign is actually ascribed to him in the Chronological Table out of the Kalijuga-Râgakaritra, given in Journ. of the As. Soc. p. 496. 10. This resolution was quite in conformity with the prevailing religious teaching. In the collection of laws and precepts called the Manû, many rules are laid down for this kind of life, and were followed to a prodigious extent both by solitaries and communities; e.g. "When the grihastha = 'father of the house,' finds wrinkles and grey hairs coming, and when children's children are begotten to him, then it is time for him to forsake inhabited places for the jungle." It is further prescribed that he should expose himself there to all kinds of perils, privations, and hardships. He is not to shrink from encounters with inimical tribes; he is to live on wild fruits, roots, and water. In summer he is to expose himself to the heat of fierce fires, and in the rainy season to the wet, without seeking shelter; in the coldest winter he is to go clothed in damp raiment. By these, and such means, he was to acquire indifference to all corporeal considerations, and reach after union with the Highest Being. Manû, v. 29; vii. 1-30; viii. 28; x. 5; xi. 48, 53; xvii. 5, 7, 24; xviii. 3-5, &c., &c. It is impossible not to be struck, in studying such passages as these, with a reflection of the inferiority which every other religious system, even in its sublimest aims, presents to Christianity. If, indeed, there were a first uniform limit appointed to the hand of death at the age of threescore years and ten, then it might be a clever rule to fix the appearance of wrinkles, grey hairs, and children's children as the period for beginning to contemplate what is to come after it; but, as the number of those who are summoned to actual acquaintance with that futurity before that age is pretty nearly as great as that of those who surpass it, the maxim carries on the face of it that it is dictated by a very fallible, however well-intentioned, guide. Christianity knows no such limit, but opens its perfect teaching to the contemplation of "babes;" while, practically, experience shows that those who are called early to a life of religion are far more numerous than those in advanced years. 11. Given in W. Taylor's Orient. Hist. MSS., i. 199. 12. "The Indians have no actual history written by themselves." (Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 357, note 1.) 13. Klaproth, Würdigung der Asiatischen Geschichtschreiber. 14. Indien, p. 17. 15. Examen Critique, p. 347. 16. But only committed to memory. See supra, p. 333. 17. Burnouf, Introduction à l'Hist. du Buddh., vol i. 18. Concerning the late introduction of this idea, see supra, pp. 337-8. 19. Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 839. 20. Lassen, iii., p. 44. 21. Mommsen (History of Rome, book iv., ch. viii.), writing of Mithridates Eupator, who died within a few years of the date ascribed to Vikramâditja's birth, says, "Although our accounts regarding him are, in substance, traceable to written records of contemporaries, yet the legendary tradition, which is generated with lightning expedition in the East, early adorned the mighty king with many superhuman traits. These traits, however, belong to his character just as the crown of clouds belongs to the character of the highest mountain peaks; the outline of the figure appears in both cases, only more coloured and fantastic, not disturbed or essentially altered." 22. The legend from which the following is gathered has been given by Wilford, in a paper entitled "Vikramâditja and Salivâhâna, their respective eras." 23. See Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, ii. 49-56. 24. Wilson, in Mackenzie Collection, p. 343. 25. A vetâla is a kind of sprite, not always bad-natured, usually carrying on a kind of weird existence in burial-places. "They can possess themselves of the forms of those who die by the hand of justice, and assume them. By the power of magic men can make them obedient, and use them for all manner of difficult tasks above their own strength and sufficiency." Brockhaus' Report of the R. Saxon Scientific Soc. Philologico-historical Class, 1863, p. 181. "The Vetâlas were a late introduction among the gods of popular veneration." (Lassen, iv. 570.) "They came also to be regarded as incarnations of both Vishnu and Shiva." (Lassen, iv. 159.) 26. Two interesting instances of the way in which traditionary legends become attached to various persons as they float along the current of time, have been brought to my notice while preparing these sheets for the press. I cannot now recall where I picked up the story of "The Balladmaker and the Bootmaker," which I have given in "Patrañas," but I am sure it was told of a wandering minstrel, and as occurring on Spanish soil, as I have given it. I have since met it in "The Hundred Novels" of Sacchetti (written little after the time of Boccacio) as an episode in a no less celebrated life than that of Dante, thus: "... Going out and passing by Porta S. Piero (Florence), he (Dante) heard a blacksmith beating on his anvil, and singing 'Dante' just as one sings a common ballad; mutilating here, and mixing in verses of his own there; by which means Dante perceived that he sustained great injury. He said nothing, however, but went into the workshop, to where were laid ready many tools for use in the trade. Dante first took up the hammer and flung it into the road; took up the pincers and flung them into the road; took up the scales and flung them out into the road. When he had thus flung many tools into the road, the blacksmith turned round with a brutal air, crying out, 'Che diavol' fate voi? Are you mad?' But Dante said, 'And thou; what hast thou done?' 'I am busied about my craft,' said the blacksmith; 'and you are spoiling my gear, throwing it out into the road like that.' Said Dante, 'If you don't want me to spoil your things, don't you spoil mine.' Said the smith. 'What have I spoilt of yours?' Said Dante, 'You sing my book, and you say it not as I made it; poem-making is my trade, and you have spoilt it.' Then the blacksmith was full of fury, but he had nothing to say; so he went out and picked up his tools, and went on with his work, And the next time he felt inclined to sing, he sang Tristano and Lancellotte, and left Dante alone." "... Another day Dante was walking along, wearing the gorget and the bracciaiuola, according to the custom of the time, when he met a man driving an ass having a load of street sweepings, who, as he walked behind his ass, ever and anon sang Dante's book, and when he had sung a line or two, gave the donkey a hit, and cried 'Arrri!' Dante, coming up with him, gave him a blow on his shoulder with his armlet ('con la bracciaiuola gli diede una grande batacchiata,' literally 'bastonnade:' bracciaiuola stands for both the armour covering the arm, and for the tolerably formidable wooden instrument, fixed to the arm, with which pallone-players strike the ball), saying, as he did so, 'That "arrri" was never put in by me.' As soon as the ass-driver had got out of his way, he turned and made faces at Dante, saying, 'Take that!' But Dante, without suffering himself to be led into an altercation with such a man, replied, amid the applause of all, 'I would not give one of mine for a hundred of thine!'" (2.) It was lately mentioned to me that there is a narrow mountain-pass in the Lechthal, in Tirol, which is sometimes called Mangtritt (or St. Magnus' step), and sometimes Jusalte (Saltus Julii, the leap of Julius), because one tradition says Julius Cæsar leapt through it on horseback, and another that it opened to let St. Magnus pass through when escaping from a heathen horde. 27. Quoted by W. Taylor, in Journ. of As. Soc. vii. p. 391. 28. Quoted by Wilford, as above. 29. Quoted in Wilford's "Sacred Isles of the West." 30. Lassen. 31. Roth, Extrait du Vikrama-Charitram, p. 279. 32. Lassen, ii. p. 1154. 33. Lassen, ii. 1122-1129. 34. Abbé Huc narrates how enthusiastically the young Mongol toolholos, or bard, sang to him the Invocation of Timour, of which he gives the refrain as follows:--"We have burned the sweet-smelling wood at the feet of the divine Timour. Our foreheads bent to the earth, we have offered to him the green leaf of tea, and the milk of our herds. We are ready: the Mongols are on foot, O Timour! "O Divine Timour, when will thy great soul revive? Return! Return! We await thee, O Timour!" 35. See Note 11 to "Vikramâditja makes the Silent Speak." THE BOY-KING. 1. Ardschi-Bordschi is a Mongolian corruption of King Bhoga. (Jülg.) The name of Bhoga (also written Noe, Nauge, and Noza; the N having entered from a careless following of the Persian historian Abulfazl, n and b being only distinguished by a point in Persian writing; and the z through the Portuguese, who habitually rendered the Indian g thus) seems to have been almost as favourite an appellation as that of Vikramâditja itself, and pretty equally surrounded with confusion of fabulous incident. The Bhoga were one of the mightiest dynasties of ancient India, and the name was given to the family on account of their unbounded prosperity; being derived from bhug = enjoyment. The most celebrated king of the race bore a name which in our own day has become associated with prosperous rule, Bhoga Bismarka, or Bhismarka, is celebrated in ancient Sagas for his resistless might in the field, and was also accounted the type of a prudent and far-sighted sovereign. Many glories are fabled of him which I have not space to narrate, and even he only reigned over a fourth part of the Bhoga. The individual Bhoga, however, who is probably the subject of the present story, and the details of whose virtues and wisdom present particular analogies with the life of Vikramâditja is, comparatively speaking, modern, as he reigned from A.D. 1037 to 1093 according to some, or from 997 to 1053 according to others. He was likewise originally King of Maláva or Malwa, and fabulous conquests and extensions of dominion are likewise ascribed to him. He was the greatest king of the Prâmâra dynasty, one of the four so-called Agnikula, or "from-the-god-Agni-descended," or "fire-born" tribes, and traced up his pedigree to a certain Paramâra, "The destroyer of adversaries," born at the prayer of the Hermit Rishi Vasichta on the lofty mountain of Arbuda (Arboo). The story of this Bhoga is contained in two somewhat legendary accounts, called (1) the Bhogaprabandha, or poetical narrative concerning Bhoga; and (2) the Bhogakaritra, or the deeds of Bhoga. The first was written or collected by the Pandit Vallabha about 1340. The first part relates the circumstances concerning Bhoga's mounting the throne, and the second part is a history of the poets and learned men who flocked from all parts of India to his court. It tells an intricate fable about his having been persecuted in youth by a treacherous uncle who preceded him on the throne, but who afterwards came to repentance, while a supernatural interposition delivered Bhoga from all his machinations and made him master of Gauda or Bengal, and many other parts of India. Other legends mention his discovery of the throne of Vikramâditja, and make the figures on the steps Apsarasas, or nymphs, who were delivered and set free by him when he took possession of it and removed it to Dhara, whither he had transferred his capital from Uggajini. An Inscription (given at length, viii. 5, 6, in Journ. of As. Soc. of Bengal, v. p. 376) speaks thus of him:--"The most prosperous king Bhogadeva was the most illustrious of the whole generation of the Prâmâra. He attained to glory as great as that of the destroyer (Crishna) and traversed the universe to its utmost boundaries. His fame rose like the moonbeams over the mountains and rivers of the regions of the earth, and before it the renown of the inimical rulers faded away as the pale lotus-blossom is closed up." The Persian historian Abulfazl testifies in somewhat more sober language, that he greatly extended the frontiers of his kingdom. His career was not one of unchecked prosperity however. According to an Inscription he was at last subdued by his enemy, and it thus gently tells the tale of his reverse:--"After he had attained to equality with Vâsava (Indra) and the land was well watered with streams, his relation Udajâditja became Ruler of the earth." His adversary being a relation, and a Prâmâra like himself, the feud between them was considered a scandal, and the inscription avoids perpetuating the details of it. A legend in the Bhogakaritra supplies some. A hermit had been rather severely judged by King Bhoga for a misdemeanour, and condemned to ride through the streets of the capital on an ass. To punish the king for this scandal he went into Cashmere till he had acquired the power of making the soul of a man pass into another body. Then he came back and constrained the soul of the king to pass into the body of a parrot while he made his own soul pass into the king's body; then he issued a decree commanding the slaughter of all the parrots in the kingdom. The royal parrot, however, who was the object of the decree, effected his escape and came to the court of Kandrasena, where he became the pet bird of the princess his daughter; to her he revealed the story of his transformation. At her instigation the hermit-king was persuaded to come to Kandrasena's court to sue for her hand, and there, by means of an intrigue of hers he was put to death. Bhoga thus regained his original form and his kingdom. Abulfazl celebrates his moderation and uprightness, as well as his liberality and the encouragement he gave to men of learning, of whom he had not less than five hundred at one time lodged in his palace. This similarity of pursuits helped so to foster the tendency of which I have already spoken, to confuse the deeds of one hero with another, that one poet at least (Vararuki by name), who flourished under Bhoga, is reckoned among the nine "jewels" of Vikramâditja's court! Kalidasa, who was not very much, if at all later, is also put among the protégés of Bhoga in the Bhogaprabandha. The actual writers of any note belonging to Bhoga's age, whose names and works have come down to us are chiefly Subandhu and Vâna, authors of two poems entitled respectively Vâsavadattâ and Kâdambarî, of which a reprint was issued at Calcutta in 1850. Dandi, who wrote a celebrated drama called Dashakumârakaritra, affording a useful picture of the manners prevailing in Hindustan and the Dekhan in his time; he also left a treatise on the art of poetry, called Kâvjadarshâ. Another poet of this date, named Shankara, has often been confounded with a philosophical writer of the same name in the eighth century. The Harivansha, a mythological poem in continuation of the Mâha Bhârata, also belongs to this reign. Among numerous other works ascribed to it, many of which have not yet been examined into by Europeans, are several treatises of mathematics and astronomy. Bhoga himself is entered in a list of the astronomers of his time, and he was said to be the author of a treatise on medicine, called Vriddha Bhoga, and of one on jurisprudence, called Smritishâstra. 2. Boddhisattva. See p. 342 and p. 365. THE FALSE FRIEND. 1. Compare this story with that given Nights 589-593 of Arabian Nights. (Jülg.) 2. That the jewel-merchant had no written proof of the trust he had committed to his friend would appear quite in conformity with actual custom, at least in primitive times. Megasthenes has left testimony (Strabo xv. i. 53, p. 709), quoted by Schwanbeck (Megas. Ind. p. 113), in favour of the general uprightness of the Indians and their little inclination to litigation, which he bases on the fact that it was the custom to take no acknowledgment under seal or writing of money or jewels entrusted to another, or even to call witnesses to the fact; that the word of the man who had entrusted another with such sufficed; also Ælianus, V. H. iv. i. This, notwithstanding that the Manu (dh. c. viii. 180) contains provisions for regulating such transactions in due form and order; the man accordingly does not think of denying that he received the jewel, which would seem the easier way of concealing his fraud, because he knew the word of the jewel-merchant would be taken against his. 3. Stupa, a shrine; often a natural cave; often one artificially hewn; containing relics, or commemorating some incident considered sacred in the life of a noted Buddhist teacher. We read of stupas instituted at a spot where there was a tradition Shâkjamuni had left a foot-print; and another at Kapilvastu, his native place, over the spot where, as we saw in his life, he was led to devote himself to serious contemplations by meeting a sick man, &c. When of imposing proportion it was called a mâhastûpa. When such monuments on the other hand were put together with stones (usually pyramidal in form) they were called dhâtugopa, whence Europeans give them the name of Dagobas. The word Pagoda, with which we are familiar, is probably derived from the Sanskrit bhâgavata = "Worthy to be venerated." The syllable ava was transformed in Prakrit into o, and the ta into da. The Portuguese took the word as applied to religious edifices as distinguished from the kaitja [69], or rock-hewn temples. The word pagoda, however, is usually reserved for Brahmanical temples. The word stupa has now become corrupted into tope, by which word you will find it designated by modern writers on India. The etymology of the word makes it mean much the same as tumulus, but kaitja conveys further the meaning that it was a sacred place. 4. The notion of jewels being endowed with talismanic properties is common in Eastern story. Ktesias (Fragm. lvii. 2, p. 79) mentions a celebrated Indian magic jewelled seal-ring called Pantarba, which had the property when thrown into the water of attracting to it other jewels, and that a merchant once drew out one hundred and seventy-seven other jewels and seals by its means. THE PRETENDED SON. 1. Schimnu. See supra, note 2, Tale III. 2. Diamond, Sanskrit, vadschra, originally the thunderbolt, Indra's sceptre; then the praying-sceptre of the priests; the symbol of durability, immovability, and indestructibility. (Köppen i. 251, and ii. 271, quoted by Jülg.) It was permitted to none but kings to possess them. (Lassen, iii. 18.) See also note 1, Tale XV. ARDSCHI-BORDSCHI DISCOVERS VIKRAMÂDITJA'S THRONE. 1. We read of a silver statue in one of the many temples founded by Lalitâditja, King of Cashmere, whose bright golden cuirass "gave forth a stream of light like a river of milk." Mentioned in Lassen, iii. p. 1000, and iv. 575. 2. It will be perceived the story is not without a certain meaning. It inculcates regard for the example and experience of the ancient and wise--the wisdom of the hero Vikramâditja (typified by his throne) was to be the model and guide of other kings and dynasties. 3. Sounding of trumpet-shells. The shankha or concha seems to have been the earliest form of trumpet used in war. It often finds mention in the heroic poems. Crishna used one in his warrior character; and Vishnu, from bearing one, had the appellation shankha and shankhin. To the present day it is used in announcing festivals in Mongolia. 4. Sûta, bard. To this order it is that we are indebted for the preservation of so many myths and heroic tales. He was also the charioteer of the kings. 5. The six classes, states, or stages of living beings, by passing through which Buddhahood was to be attained--(1) Pure spirit or the devas gods (Skr. Surâs; Mongolian, Tegri; Kalm. Tenggeri); (2) the unclean spirits, enemies of the gods (Skr. Asurâs); (3) men; (4) beasts; (5) Pretâs, monsters surrounding the entrance of hell; (6) the hell-gods. (Köppen, i. 238, et seq., quoted by Jülg.) VIKRAMÂDITJA'S BIRTH. 1. Udsesskülengtu-Gôa-Chatun, a heaping up of synonyms of which we had an example, note 2, Tale XVII. Both words mean "beautiful," "charming." Goâ is a Mongolian expression by which royal women are called (as also chatun). Thus we sometimes meet with Udsessküleng, sometimes Udsesskülengtu (the adjunct tu forming the adjective use of the word); Udsesskülengtu-Goa, Udsesskülengtu-Chatun, or Udessküleng-Gôa-Chatun. (Jülg.) 2. Kaitja or Chaitga is a sacred grotto where relics were preserved, or marking a spot where some remarkable event of ancient date had taken place. We are told that King Ashokja (246 B.C.) caused kaitjas to be built, or rather hewn, in every spot in his dominions rendered sacred by any act of Shâkjamuni's life [70]; as also over the relics of many of the first teachers (p. 390). The number of these is fabled in the Mahâvansha (v. p. 26) to have been not less than 84,000! He opened seven of the shrines in which the relics of Shâkjamuni were originally placed, and divided them into so many caskets of gold, silver, crystal, and lapis lazuli, endowing every town of his dominion with one, and building a kaitja over it. These were all completed by one given day at one and the same time, and the authority of the Dharma (law) of Buddha was proclaimed in all. In process of time great labour came to be spent on their decoration, till whole temples were hewn out of the living stone, forming almost imperishable records of the earliest architecture of the country, and to some extent of its history and religion too. The most astonishing remains are to be seen of works of this kind, with files of columns and elaborate bas-reliefs sculptured out of the solid rock. 3. Abbé Huc tells us that the Mongolians prepare their tea quite differently from the Chinese. The leaves, instead of being carefully picked as in China, are pressed all together along with the smaller tendrils and stalks into a mould resembling an ordinary brick. When required for use a piece of the brick is broken off, pulverized, and boiled in a kettle until the water receives a reddish hue, some salt is then thrown in, and when it has become almost black milk is added. It is a great Tartar luxury, and also an article of commerce with Russia; but the Chinese never touch it. 4. An accepted token of veneration and homage. (Jülg.) 5. Sesame-oil. See note 2, Tale V. 6. Kalavinka = Sanskrit, Sperling, belongs to the sacred order of birds and scenes, in this place to be intended for the Kokila. (Jülg.) The Kokila, or India cuckoo, is as favourite a bird with Indians as the nightingale is with us. For a description of it see "A Monograph of Indian and Malayan Species of Cuculidæ," in Journal of As. Soc. of Bengal, xi. 908, by Edward Blyth. 7. You are not to imagine that by "four parts of the universe" is meant any thing like what we have been used to call "the four quarters of the globe." The division of the Indian cosmogony was very different and refers to the distribution of the (supposed) known universe between gods of various orders and men, to the latter being assigned the fourth and lowest called Gambudvîpa [71]. 8. Concerning such religious gatherings, see Köppen, i. 396, 579-583; ii. 115, 311. At such a festival held by Aravâla, King of Cashmere, on occasion of celebrating the acceptance of the teaching of Shâkjamuni as the religion of his dominion, it is said in a legend that there were present 84,000 of each order of the demigods, 100,000 priests, and 800,000 people. 9. The parrot naturally takes a prominent place in Indian fable, both on account of his sagacity, his companionable nature, and his extraordinary length of days. He did not fail to attract much notice on the part of the Greek writers on India; and Ktesias, who wrote about 370 B.C., seems to have caught some of the peculiar Indian regard for his powers, when he wrote that though he ordinarily spoke the Indian's language, he could talk Greek if taught it. Ælianus says they were esteemed by the Brahmans above all other birds, and that the princes kept many of them in their gardens and houses. 10. Bodhisattva. See p. 346 and note 1, Tale XI. 11. Concerning the serpent-gods, see supra, note 1 to Tale II.; and note 4, Tale XXII. 12. A legend containing curiously similar details is told in the Mahâvansha of Shishunâga, founder of an early dynasty of Magadha (Behar). The king had married his chief dancer, and afterwards sent her away. Partly out of distress and partly as a reproach she left her infant son exposed on the dunghill of the royal dwelling. A serpent-god, who was the tutelar genius of the place, took pity on the child, and was found winding its body round the basket in which it was cradled, holding its head raised over the same and spreading out its hood (it was the Cobra di capello species of serpent, which was the object of divine honours) to protect him from the sun. The people drove away the serpent-god (Nâga) with the cry of Shu! Shu! whence they gave the name of Shishunâga to the child, who, on opening the basket, was found to be endowed with qualities promising his future greatness. In this case, however, the serpent-god seems to have borne his serpent-shape, and in that of Vikramâditja, the eight are spoken of as in human form. VIKRAMÂDITJA'S YOUTH. 1. Nirvâna. See supra, p. 330, note, p. 334, and p. 343. The word is sometimes used however poetically, simply as an equivalent for death. 2. Kütschun Tschindaktschi = "One provided with might." (Jülg.) 3. "The custom of requiring women to go abroad veiled was only introduced after the Mussulman invasion, and was nearly the only important circumstance in which Muhammedan influenced Indian manners." See Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, iii. p. 1157. In Mongolia, however, Abbé Huc found that women have completely preserved their independence. "Far from being kept down as among other Asiatic nations they come and go at pleasure, ride out on horseback, and pay visits to each other from tent to tent. In place of the soft languishing physiognomy of the Chinese women, they present in their bearing and manners a sense of power and free will in accordance with their active life and nomad habits. Their attire augments the effect of their masculine haughty mien." In chapter v. of vol. ii., however, he tells of a custom prevailing in part of Tibet of a much more objectionable nature than the use of a veil:--"Nearly 200 years ago the Nome-Khan, who ruled over Hither-Tibet, was a man of rigid manners.... To meet the libertinism prevailing at his day he published an edict prohibiting women from appearing in public otherwise than with their faces bedaubed with a hideous black varnish.... The most extraordinary circumstance connected with it is that the women are perfectly resigned to it.... The women who bedaub their faces most disgustingly are deemed the most pious.... In country places the edict is still observed with exactitude, but at Lha-Ssa it is not unusual to meet women who set it at defiance, ... they are, however, unfavourably regarded. In other respects they enjoy great liberty. Instead of vegetating prisoners in the depths of their houses they lead an active and laborious life.... Besides household duties, they concentrate in their own hands all the retail trade of the country, and in rural districts perform most of the labours of agriculture." 4. Schalû. In another version of the legend he is called Sakori, the soothsayer, because he made these predictions. (Journal of As. Soc. of Bengal, vi. 350, in a paper by Lieut. W. Postans.) 5. The wolf-nurtured prince has a prominent place in Mongolian chronicles. Their dynasty was founded by Bürte-Tschinoa = the Wolf in winter-clothing. See I. J. Schmidt's Die Völker Mittel-Asiens, vorzüglich die Mongolen und Tibeter, St. Petersburg, 1824, pp. 11-18, 33 et seq.; 70-75; and sSanang sSetsen, 56 and 372. 6. I cannot forbear reference to notices of such sudden storms and inundations in Mongolia made from personal experience by Abbé Huc "Travels in China and Tartary," chapters vi. and vii. 7. The persistent removal of the child after such tender entreaties and such faithful unrequited service carries an idea of heartlessness, but in extenuation it should be mentioned that while the Indians honoured every kind of animal by reason of their doctrine of metempsychosis, the wolf was just the only beast with which they seem to have had no sympathy, and they reckoned the sight of one brought ill-luck, a prejudice probably derived from the days of their pastoral existence when their approach was fraught with so much danger to their flocks. In Mongolia, where the pastoral mode of life still continues in vogue, the dread of the wolf was not likely to have diminished. Thus Abbé Huc says, "Although the want of population might seem to abandon the interminable deserts of Tartary to wild beasts, wolves are rarely met, owing to the incessant and vindictive warfare the Mongolians wage against them. They pursue them every where to the death, regarding them as their capital enemy on account of the great damage they may inflict upon their flocks. The announcement that a wolf has been seen is a signal for every one to mount his horse ... the wolf in vain attempts to flee in every direction; it meets horsemen from every side. There is no mountain so rugged that the Tartar horses, agile as goats, cannot pursue it. The horseman who has caught it with his lasso gallops off, dragging it behind, to the nearest tent; there they strongly bind its muzzle, so that they may torture it securely, and by way of finale skin it alive. In summer the wretched brute will live in this condition several days; in winter it soon dies frozen." The wolf seems fully to return the antipathy, for (chapter xi.) he says, "It is remarkable wolves in Mongolia attack men rather than animals. They may be seen sometimes passing at full gallop through a flock of sheep in order to attack the shepherd." 8. Tschin-tâmani, Sanskrit, "thought-jewel," a jewel having the magic power of supplying all the possessor wishes for. Indian fable writers revel in the idea of the possession of a talisman which can satisfy all desire. The grandest and perhaps earliest remaining example of it occurs in the Ramajana, where King Visvamitra = the universal friend, who from a Xatrija (warrior caste) merited to become a Brahman, visits Vasichtha, the chief of hermits, and finds him in possession of Sabala, a beautiful cow, which has the quality of providing Vasichtha with every thing whatever he may wish for. He wants to provide a banquet for Visvamitra, and he has only to tell Sabala to lay the board with worthy food, with food according to the six kinds of taste and drinks worthy of a king of the world. She immediately provides sugar, and honey, and rice, maireja or nectar, and wine, besides all manner of other drinks and various kinds of food heaped up like mountains; sweet fruits, and cakes, and jars of milk; all these things Sabala showered down for the use of the hosts who accompanied Visvamitra. Visvamitra covets the precious cow, and offers a hundred thousand cows of earth in barter for her. But Vasichtha refuses to part with her for a hundred million other cows or for fulness of silver. The king offers him next all manner of ornaments of gold, fourteen thousand elephants, gold chariots with four white steeds and eight hundred bells to them, eleven thousand horses of noble race, full of courage, and a million cows. The seer still remaining deaf to his offers the king carries her off by force. The heavenly cow, however, in virtue of her extraordinary qualities, helps herself out of the difficulty. It is her part to fulfil her master's wishes, and as it is his wish to have her by him she gallops back to him, knocking over the soldiers of the earthly king by hundreds in her career. Returned to her master, the Brahman hermit, she reproaches him tenderly for letting her be removed by the earthly king. He answers her with equal affection, explaining that the earthly king has so much earthly strength that it is vain for him to resist him. At this Sabala is fired with holy indignation. She declares it must not be said that earthly power should triumph over spiritual strength. She reminds him that the power of Brahma, whom he represents, is unfailing in might, and begs him only to desire of her that she should destroy the Xatrija's host. He desires it, and she forthwith furnishes a terrible army, and another, and another, till Visvamitra is quite undone, all his hosts, and allies, and children killed in the fray. Then he goes into the wilderness and prays to Mahâdeva, the great god, to come to his aid and give him divine weapons, spending a hundred years standing on the tips of his feet, and living on air like the serpent. Mahâdeva at last brings him weapons from heaven, at sight of which he is so elated that "his heroic courage rises like the tide of the ocean when the moon is at the full." With these burning arrows he devastates the whole of the beautiful garden surrounding Vasichta's dwelling. Vasichta, in high indignation at this wanton cruelty, raises his vadschra, the Brahma sceptre or staff, and all Visvamitra's weapons serve him no more. Then owning the fault he has committed in fighting against Brahma he goes into the wilderness and lives a life of penance a thousand years or two, after which he is permitted to become a Brahman. 9. Those who can see one and the same hero in the Sagas of Wodin, the Wild Huntsman, and William Tell [72], might well trace a connexion between such a legend as this and the working of the modern law of conscription. There is no country exposed to its action where such scenes as that described in the text might not be found. There have been plenty such brought under my own notice in Rome since this "tribute of blood," as the Romans bitterly call it, was first established there last year. 10. I have spoken elsewhere in these pages of the question of rebirth in the Buddhist system. Though not holding so cardinal a place as in Brahmanism the necessity for it remained to a certain extent. All virtues were recommended in the one case as a means to obtaining a higher degree at the next re-birth, and in the other the same, but less as an end, than as a means to earlier attaining to Nirvâna. Of all virtues the most serviceable for this purpose was the sacrifice of self for the good of the species. 11. Sinhâsana, lit. Lion-throne; a throne resting on lions, as before described in the text. 12. At the exercise of such heaven-given powers nature was supposed to testify her astonishment, and thus we are told of sacrifices and incense offered for the pacification of the same. (Jülg.) VIKRAMÂDITJA ACQUIRES ANOTHER KINGDOM. 1. Concerning such sacrifices, see Köppen, i. 246 and 560, and Trans. of sSanang sSetzen, p. 352. VIKRAMÂDITJA MAKES THE SILENT SPEAK. 1. The Kalmucks make the 8th, 15th, and 30th of every month fast-days; the Mongolians, the 13th, 14th, and 15th. (Köppen, i. 564-566; ii. 307-316, quoted by Jülg.) 2. Dakini. See note 2, Tale XIV., infra. 3. Dakini Tegrijin Naran = the Dakini sun of the gods. (Jülg.) 4. Aramâlâ, a string of beads used by Buddhists in their devotions. 5. Abbé Huc mentions frequently meeting with such wayside shrines, furnished just as here described. 6. Chatun. See note 1 to "Vikramâditja's Birth." 7. This beautiful story, which does not profess to be original, but a reproduction of one of the sagas of old, is to be found under various versions in many Indian collections of myths. 8. Compare note 3, Tale VII. 9. This story also holds a certain place among Indian legends, but is not so popular as the last. 10. Cup. No one travels or indeed goes about at all in Tibet and Mongolia without a wooden cup stuck in his breast or in his girdle. At every visit the guest holds out his cup and the host fills it with tea. Abbé Huc supplies many details concerning their use. They are so indispensable that they form a staple article of industry; their value varies from a few pence up to as much as 40l. 11. Tai-tsing = the all-purest, the name of the Mandschu or Mantschou dynasty (or Mangu, according to the spelling of Lassen, iv. 742), who, from being called in by the last emperor of the Ming dynasty to help in suppressing a rebellion, subsequently seized the throne (1644). This dynasty has reigned in China ever since, while the Mantchou nationality has become actually forced on the Chinese. Previously, however, the Mantchous were a tribe of Eastern Tartars long formidable to the Chinese. The introduction of a king of the Mantchous, therefore, as identical with Vikramâditja, presents the most remarkable instance that could be met with of what may be called the confusion of heroes, in the migration of myths. 12. Tsetsen Budschiktschi = the clever dancer. (Jülg.) THE WISE PARROT. 1. "At any former time," i. e. in a previous state of existence, according to the doctrine of metempsychosis. 2. "The day will come"--similarly on occasion of a subsequent rebirth. 3. Tsoktu Ilagukssan = brilliant majesty. (Jülg.) 4. Naran Gerel = sunshine. (Jülg.) 5. Ssaran = moon. (Jülg.) FOOTNOTES [1] The few notes I have taken from Jülg's translation, I have acknowledged by putting his name to them. [2] The following paragraphs are chiefly gathered and translated from Lassen's work on the Geography of Ancient India, vol. i. [3] Heeren, Indische Literatur. [4] Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, ii. 67, 68. [5] Mahavansha, ii. v. 11. [6] Now called Gaya, still an important town in the province of Behar. Vihara, whence Behar (for B and V are allied sounds in Sanskrit), is the Buddhist word for a college of priests, and the substitution of Behar for Magadha, the more ancient name of the province, points to a time when Buddhism flourished there and had many such colleges (see Wilson in Journal of As. Soc. v. p. 124). [7] Benares. [8] Burnouf, Introd. à l'Hist. du Buddhisme, i. 157. [9] In the far east of India and in Ceylon, where it is not indigenous, we have historical evidence that it was introduced by the Buddhists; also in Java. Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 257; also p. 260, note 1, where he gives the following comparative descriptions of the two species, though he also points out that in ancient descriptions the characteristics of the two trees are often confused. The ficus indica or banian (it received the name of banyan from the Indian merchants, Banjans, by whose means it was propagated), is called in Bengal Njagrôdha and Vata (the Dutch call it "the devil's tree"). The ficus religiosa is called ashvattha, and pippala. They plant the one by the side of the other with marriage ceremonies in the belief that otherwise the banian would not complete its peculiar mode of growth. Hence arises a most pleasing contrast between the elegant lightness of the shining foliage of the ficus religiosa and the solemn grandeur of the ficus indica with its picturesque trunks, its abundant leafage, its spangling of golden fruits, its pendulous roots, enabling it to reproduce itself after the fashion of a temple with countless aisles. It affords cool salubrious shade, a single one forming in time a forest to itself, and sufficing to house thousands of persons. The leaves of both supply excellent food for elephants, and birds and monkeys delight in its fruit, which, however, is not edible by man, nor is its wood of much use as timber. The pippala does not grow to nearly so great a size as the other, never attaining so many stems, but nothing can be more graceful than its appearance when, overgrowing from a building or another tree; its leaves tremble like those of the aspen (Lassen, i. 255-261, and notes). Under its overarching shade altars were erected and sacrifice offered up. To injure it wilfully was counted a sin (an instance is mentioned in Bp. Heber's "Journey," i. 621). A most prodigious Boddhi-tree, or rather five such growing together, still exists in Ceylon, which tradition says was transplanted thither with most extraordinary pomp and ceremonies at the time of the introduction of Buddhism into the island. They grow upon the fourth terrace of an edifice built up of successive rows of terraces, forming the most sacred spot in the whole island. Upon the above supposition this Boddhi-grove would be something like 2000 years old. Several very curious legends concerning it are given in a paper called "Remarks on the Ancient City of Anarâjapura," by Captain Chapman, in Trans. of R. As. of Gr. Br. i. and iii. The Brahmans honoured it as well as the Buddhists, and made it a parable of the universe, its stem typifying the connexion of the visible world with a divine invisible spirit, and the up and-down growth of the branches and roots the restless striving of all creatures after an unattainable perfection; but it was the Buddhists for whom it became in the first instance actually sacred by reason of the conviction said to have been received by Shâkjamuni while observing its growth (reminding forcibly of the tradition about Sir I. Newton and the apple), that the perpetual struggles of this changeful life could only find ultimate satisfaction in that reunion with the source whence they emanated, which he termed Nirvâna. [10] Burnouf, i. 295. [11] Burnouf, p. 194. [12] Nirvâna means literally in Sanskrit "the breathing out," "extinction"--extinction of the flame of life, eternal happiness, united with the Deity. Böhtlingk and Roth's Sanskrit Dictionary, iv. 208. In Buddhist writings, however, it is difficult to make out any idea of it distinct from annihilation. Consult Schmidt's Trans. of sSanang sSetzen, pp. 307-331; Schott. Buddhaismus, p. 10 and 127; Köppen, i. 304-309. "Existence in the eye of Buddhism is nothing but misery.... Nothing remained to be devised as deliverance from this evil but the destruction of existence. This is what Buddhists call Nirwana." (Alwis' Lectures on Buddhism, p. 29.) [13] Concerning the locality of the Malla people, see Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 549. [14] This word is a favourite with Buddhist writers, and means literally "him of the rolling wheel," primarily used to denote a conqueror riding on his chariot. See Lassen, Indische Alterthumskunde, i. 810, n. 2. [15] Lassen, ii. 52, n. 1, and 74, n. 6; and i. 356, n. 1. [16] Professor Wilson seems to have been so much perplexed by these divergencies of chronology, that in a paper by him, published in Journ. of R. As. Soc. vol. xvi. art. 13, he endeavours to show on this (and also on other grounds) that it is possible no such person ever existed at all! [17] See Burnouf, p. 348, n. 3; see also infra, n. 3 to "The False Friend;" also note 2 to "Vikramâditja's Birth." [18] Supra, Notice of Vikramâditja, pp. 238, 239. [19] "Only about a hundred years elapsed between the visit of Fa-Hian to India and that of Soung-yun, and in the interval the absurd traditions respecting Sâkya-Muni's life and actions would appear to have been infinitely multiplied, enlarged, and distorted." (Lieut.-Col. Sykes' Notes on the Religious, Moral, and Political State of Ancient India, in Journ. of R. As. Soc. No. xii. p. 280.) [20] Turnour, in Journ. of As. Soc. of Bengal, 722. [21] Lassen, ii. 440. [22] Lassen, ii. 453, 454. [23] Burnouf, Introd. a l'Hist. du Buddh. i. 137. [24] Burnouf, Introd. &c. i. 131 et seq. [25] "There is no reference even in the earlier Vêda to the Trimurti: to Donga, Kali, or Rama." (Wilson, Rig-Vêda Sanhîta.) [26] Burnouf, i. 90, 108. [27] Lassen, ii. 426, 454, 455 and other places. [28] "No hostile feeling against the Brahmans finds utterance in the Buddhist Canon." (Max Müller, Anc. Sanskr. Literature.) [29] Lassen, iv. 644, 710. [30] Lassen, ii. 440. [31] Lassen, iv. 646-709. [32] As. Rec. i. 285. [33] Genesis iii. 15. [34] Rig-Vêda, bk. x. ch. xi. [35] Burnouf, Introd. i. 618. [36] See infra, Note 8 of this "Dedication;" on the word "Bede," p. 346. [37] Verità della Religione Cristiana-Cattolica sistematicamente dimostrata, da Monsignor Francesco Nardi U. di S. Rota. Roma, 1868. [38] Lassen, ii. 1107. [39] Lassen, i. 488. [40] A great number of early authorities are quoted in Butler's "Lives," vol. xii., pp. 329-334. The subject has also been handled by Gieseler, Lehrbuch der Kirchengeschichte; Wilson's "Sketch of the Religious Sects of the Hindus;" Swainson's "Memoir of the Syrian Christians;" most ably by A. Weber, and by many others. [41] In note 2 of p. 182, vol. iv., Lassen quotes several authors on the meaning of the word and its identity with the triratna, as Wilson calls the Buddhist Trinity of Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha. See also infra, n. 1, Tale XVII. [42] At the same time it presents also, of course, many frightful divergencies, and of these it may suffice to mention that the number of wives ascribed to Crishna is not less than 16,000. Lassen, vol. i. Appendix p. xxix. [43] Indische Studien, i. 400-421, and ii. 168. [44] The very earliest, however, do not go very far back; he was never heard of at all till within 200 B.C., and seems then to have been set up by certain Brahmans to attract popular worship, and to counteract the at that period rapidly-spreading influence of the Buddhists. See Lassen, i. 831--839. See also note 1, p. 335, supra. [45] Lassen, iv. 575. [46] Lassen, p. 576. [47] "On trouvera plus tard que l'extension considérable qu'a prise le culte du Krishna n'a été qu'une réaction populaire contre celui du Buddha; réaction qui a été dirigée, ou pleinement acceptée par les Brahmanes." Burnouf, Introd. i. p. 136, n. 1. [48] Lassen, iv. 815-817. [49] Lassen, iv. 576. [50] The best account of his life and teaching is given by S. Wassiljew, of St. Petersburg, "Der Buddhismus; aus dem Russischen übersetzt," to which I have not had access. [51] See supra, p. 332. [52] See infra, Note 1, Tale XI. [53] See supra, p. 330. [54] Concerning Serpent-worship see infra, Note 1, Tale II. [55] Travelling Buddhist teacher. Lassen. [56] Burnouf, Introduction à l'Histoire du Buddhisme, ii. 359. [57] "Southward in Bede." See Note 8. [58] Spence Hardy, "Legends and Theories of the Buddhists," p. 243, when mentioning this circumstance, makes the strange mistake of confounding Behar with Berar. [59] See Note 4, "Vikramâditja's Throne discovered." [60] See supra, p. 241. [61] According to Abbé Huc's spelling, Tchen-kis Khan. [62] According to Abbé Huc's spelling, Tale Lama. [63] See the story in Note 8 to "Vikramâditja's Youth." [64] See Note 4 to "Vikramâditja's Throne discovered." [65] Consult C. F. Köppen, Die Lamaische Hierarchie. [66] According to Huc's version of his history he was not born in a Lamasery, but in the hut of a herdsman of Eastern Tibet, in the county of Amdo, south of the Kouku-Noor. [67] This elaborate derivation, however, has been disputed, and it is more probable the name is derived from two words, signifying "the Indian ox." In Tibet it has no name but "great ox." [68] Virgil, Georg. ii. 121, "Velleraque ut foliis depectant tenuia Seres;" and Pliny, H. N. vi. 20, 2, "Seres, lanicio silvarum nobiles, perfusam aqua depectentes frondium canitiem." Also 24, 8; and xi. 26, 1. [69] See infra, note 2 to "Vikramâditja's Birth." [70] Burnouf, i. 265. [71] See supra, p. 351 and p. 385. [72] See Max Müller's "Chips from a German Workshop." 
35060	----	SANTAL FOLK TALES. Translated from the Santali By A. CAMPBELL, Free Church of Scotland Santal Mission, Santal Mission Press, Pokhuria. Printed at the Santal Mission Press, Pokhuria. 1891. PREFACE. Of late years the Folk tales of India have been the subject of much study and research, and several interesting collections of them have been published. But I am not aware that as yet the folk lore of the Santals, has received the attention which it deserves. The Santals as a people, have, to a remarkable degree, succeeded in resisting the subtle Hinduising influences to which they have long been exposed, and to which such a large number of aboriginal tribes have succumbed. They have retained their language, institutions, tribal organization, and religion almost intact. Their traditions show the jealousy with which these have been guarded, and the suspicion and distrust with which contact with their Aryan neighbours was regarded. The point at which they have been most accessible to outward influence and example, is in their relations with the aboriginal tribes, who in a more or less degree have merged themselves in Hinduism. Hindu ideas, customs and beliefs, filtering through these tribes, became considerably modified before they reached the Santals, and were therefore less potent in their effects than if they had been drawn from the fountain head of Hinduism itself. Still, in respect to their aboriginal neighbours they are always on their guard, ready to repel any innovation on their customs or religion with which they may be threatened. In the folk tales of such a people we may well expect to find something, if not altogether new, still interesting and instructive from an ethnological point of view, and this expectation, I believe, would be abundantly gratified if they were only made accessible to those who, by training and study, are competent to deal with them. Santal folk-tales may be divided into two classes--those apparently purely Santal in their origin, and those obtained from other sources. Those of the first class are by far the more numerous, and besides showing the superstitious awe with which the Santals regard the creations of their own fancy, they throw a flood of light upon the social customs and usages of this most interesting people. The second class embraces a large number of the more popular tales current among the Hindus and semi-Hinduised aborigines. These, although adapted and modified by the Santals to suit their language, modes of thought, and social usages, may generally be detected by the presence of proper names, or untranslatable phrases which unmistakably indicate the source from which they have been derived. These tales were taken down in Santali at first hand, and are therefore genuine and redolent of the soil. In translating them I have allowed myself considerable latitude without in any way diverging so far from the original as to in any degree impair their value to the student of Indian Folk-lore. It was to be expected that in the popular tales of a simple, unpolished people like the Santals, expressions and allusions unfitted for ears polite would be found. In all such cases the changes which have been made are in accord with Santal thought and usage, so that the tales are, notwithstanding these alterations, thoroughly Santali. I have aimed at making these Santal Folk-tales, in their English dress, true to the forests and hills of their nativity. I am not without hope, that in this I have succeeded in some small degree. A number of the tales included in this volume have already appeared in the Indian Evangelical Review, but in this collected form they are more likely to prove of service to those who take an interest in the subject. This volume of Santal Folk-Tales is offered as a humble contribution to the Folk-lore of India. CONTENTS. Page. The Magic Lamp 1 The Two Brothers, Jhorea and Jhore 6 The Boy and his Stepmother 15 The Story of Kara and Guja 18 The King and his inquisitive Queen 22 The Story of Bitaram 25 The Story of Sit and Bosont 33 The Story of a Tiger 40 Story of a Lizard, a Tiger, and a lame Man 42 The Story of a Simpleton 45 A Thief and a Tiger 49 The Magic Fiddle 52 Gumda the Hero 57 Lipi and Lapra 62 The Story of Lelha 65 The Story of Sindura Gand Garur 89 The Tiger and Ulta's Mother 93 The Greatest Cheat of Seven 98 The Story of Two Princesses 102 Seven Brothers and their Sister 106 The Story of Jhore 111 The Girl who always found helpers 119 A Simple Thief 125 SANTAL FOLK-TALES. THE MAGIC LAMP. In the capital of a certain raja, there lived a poor widow. She had an only son who was of comely form and handsome countenance. One day a merchant from a far country came to her house, and standing in front of the door called out, "dada, dada," (elder brother). The widow replied, "He is no more, he died many years ago." On hearing this the merchant wept bitterly, mourning the loss of his younger brother. He remained some days in his sister-in-law's house, at the end of which he said to her, "This lad and I will go in quest of the golden flowers, prepare food for our journey." Early next morning they set out taking provisions with them for the way. After they had gone a considerable distance, the boy being fatigued said, "Oh! uncle I can go no further." The merchant scolded him, and walked along as fast as he could. After some time the boy again said, "I am so tired I can go no further." His uncle turned back and beat him, and he, nerved by fear, walked rapidly along the road. At length they reached a hill, to the summit of which they climbed, and gathered a large pile of firewood. They had no fire with them, but the merchant ordered his nephew to blow with his mouth as if he were kindling the embers of a fire. He blew until he was exhausted, and then said, "What use is there in blowing when there is no fire?" The merchant replied "Blow, or I shall beat you." He again blew with all his might for a short time, and then stopping, said, "There is no fire, how can it possibly burn?" on which the merchant struck him. The lad then redoubled his efforts, and presently the pile of firewood burst into a blaze. On the firewood being consumed, an iron trap-door appeared underneath the ashes, and the merchant ordered his nephew to pull it up. He pulled, but finding himself unable to open it, said, "It will not open." The merchant told him to pull with greater force, and he, being afraid lest he should be again beaten, pulled with all his might, but could not raise it. He again said, "It will not open," whereupon the merchant struck him, and ordered him to try again. Applying himself with all his might, he at length succeeded. On the door being raised, they saw a lamp burning, and beside it an immense quantity of golden flowers. The merchant then said to the boy, "As you enter do not touch any of the gold flowers, but put out the lamp, and heap on the gold tray as many of the gold flowers as you can, and bring them away with you." He did as he was ordered, and on reaching the door again requested his uncle to relieve him of the gold flowers, but he refused, saying, "Climb up as best as you can." The boy replied, "How can I do so, when my hands are full?" The merchant then shut the iron trap door on him, and went away to a distant country. The boy being imprisoned in the dark vault, wept bitterly, and having no food, in a few days he became very weak. Taking the lamp in his hand, he sat down in a corner, and without knowing what he was doing, began to rub the lamp with his hand. A ring, which he wore on his finger, came into contact with the lamp, and immediately a fairy issued from it, and asked, "What is it you want with me?" He replied, "Open the door and let me out." The fairy opened the door, and the boy went home taking the lamp with him. Being hungry, he asked for food, but his mother replied, "There is nothing in the house that I can give you." He then went for his lamp, saying, "I will clean it, and then sell it, and with the money buy food." Taking the lamp in his hand he began to rub it, and his ring again touching it, a fairy issued from it and said "What do you wish for?" The boy said "Cooked rice and uncooked rice." The fairy immediately brought him an immense quantity of both kinds of rice. Sometime after this, certain merchants brought horses for sale, and the boy seeing them wished to buy one. Having no money, he remembered his lamp, and taking it up, pressed his ring against it, and the fairy instantly appeared, and asked him what he wanted. He said, "Bring me a horse," and immediately the fairy presented to him an immense number of horses. When the boy had become a young man, it so happened, that one day the raja's daughter was being carried to the ghat to bathe, and he seeing her palki with the attendants passing, went to his mother and said, "I am going to see the princess." She tried to dissuade him, but he insisted on her giving him permission, so at length she gave him leave. He went secretly, and saw her as she was bathing, and on returning home, said to his mother, "I have seen the princess, and I am in love with her. Go, and inform the raja that your son loves his daughter, and begs her hand in marriage." His mother said, "Do you think the raja will consider us as on an equality with him?" He would not, however, be gainsaid, but kept urging her daily to carry his message to the raja, until she being wearied with his importunity went to the palace, and being admitted to an audience, informed the raja that her son was enamoured of the princess, his daughter, and begged that she might be given to him in marriage. The raja made answer that on her son giving him a large sum of money which he named, and which would have been beyond the means of the raja himself, he would be prepared to give his daughter in marriage to her son. The young man had recourse to his lamp and ring, and the fairy supplied him with a much larger sum of money than the raja had demanded. He took it all, and gave it to the raja, who was astonished beyond measure at the sight of such immense wealth. After a reasonable time the old mother was sent to the raja to request him to fulfil his promise, but he, being reluctant to see his daughter united to one so much her inferior in station, in hope of being relieved from the obligation to fulfil his promise, demanded that a palace suited to her rank and station in life be prepared for her, after which he would no longer delay the nuptials. The would-be bridegroom applied to his never failing friends, his lamp and ring, and on the fairy appearing begged him to build a large castle in one night, and to furnish and adorn it as befitted the residence of a raja's daughter. The fairy complied with the request, and the whole city was amazed next morning at the sight of a lordly castle, where the evening before there had not been even a hut. The dewan tried to dissuade the raja, but without effect, and in due time the marriage was celebrated amid great rejoicings. On a certain day, some time after the marriage, the raja and his son-in-law went to the forest to hunt. During their absence, the merchant to whom reference has already been made, arrived at the castle gate, bearing in his hand a new lamp which he offered in exchange to the princess for any old lamp she might possess. She thought it a good opportunity to obtain a new lamp in place of her husband's old one, and without knowing what she did, gave the magic lamp to the merchant, and received a new one in return. The merchant rubbed his ring on the magic lamp, and the fairy obeyed the summons, and desired to know what he wanted. He said, "Convey the castle as it stands with the princess in it, to my own country," and instantly his wish was gratified. When the raja and his son-in-law returned from the chase, they were surprised and alarmed to find that the palace with its fair occupant had vanished, and had not left a trace behind. The dewan reminded his master that he had tried to dissuade him from rashly giving his daughter in marriage to an unknown person, and had foretold that some calamity was sure to follow. The raja being grieved and angry at the loss of his daughter, sent for her husband, and said to him, "I give you thirteen days during which to find my daughter. If you fail, on the morning of the fourteenth, I shall surely cause you to be executed." The thirteenth day arrived, and although her husband had sought her every where, the princess had not been found. Her unhappy husband resigned himself to his fate, saying, "I shall go and rest, to-morrow morning I shall be killed." So he climbed to the top of a high hill, and lay down to sleep upon a rock. At noon he accidentally rubbed his finger ring upon the rock on which he lay, and a fairy issued from it, and awaking him, demanded what he wanted. In reply he said, "I have lost my wife and my palace, if you know where they are, take me to them." The fairy immediately transported him to the gate of his castle in the merchant's country, and then left him to his own devices. Assuming the form of a dog, he entered the palace, and the princess at once recognized him. The merchant had gone out on business, and had taken the lamp with him, suspended by a chain round his neck. After consultation, it was determined that the princess should put poison in the merchant's food that evening. When he returned, he called for his supper, and the princess set before him the poisoned rice, after eating which he quickly died. The rightful owner repossessed himself of the magic lamp, and an application of the ring brought out the attendant fairy who demanded to know why he had been summoned. "Transport my castle with the princess and myself in it back to the king's country, and place it where it stood before," said the young man; and instantly the castle occupied its former position. So that before the morning of the fourteenth day dawned, not only had the princess been found, but her palace had been restored to its former place. The raja was delighted at receiving his daughter back again. He divided his kingdom with his son-in-law, giving him one-half, and they ruled the country peacefully and prosperously for many years. THE TWO BROTHERS, JHOREA, AND JHORE. There were two brothers, whose parents died, leaving them orphans when very young. The name of the elder was Jhorea, and of the younger Jhore. On the death of their parents, the two brothers went to seek employment, which they found in a certain village, far from where their home had been. The elder, Jhorea, was engaged as a farm servant, and the younger, Jhore, as village goat-herd. After some time, it so happened that one day the brothers had no rice for their dinner, and Jhorea said to his brother, "Go to the owners of the goats you herd, and ask them for the hire they promised you. One will give you a pai, another a pawa, and a third a paila, and so on, according to the number of animals they have in your charge; some will give you more and others less, bring what you get, and cook some for dinner." The boy went as he was ordered, and entering the first house he came to, said, "Give me a pai." They said: "What do you want with a pai?" "Never mind what I want with it, give it," he replied. So they gave him a pai. Then he went to another house and said, "Give me a pawa." "What do you want with a pawa?" they said. "Never you mind, give it to me," and they gave him a pawa. He then went to a third house and asked for a paila. "What do you want with a paila?" they enquired. "Never you mind, give it to me," he replied. Instead of bringing rice he brought the wooden measures, and breaking them into small pieces, put them into the pot to cook. The elder brother was ploughing, and being very hungry, he kept calling out, "Cook the rice quickly, cook the rice quickly." His brother being impatient, he stirred the contents of the pot with all his might, at the same time exclaiming, "What can be the matter brother? it is very hard." The elder brother came to see what was wrong, and on looking into the pot saw only pieces of wood. He became very angry, and said, "I sent you to bring rice, why did you bring measures?" To which he replied, "You told me to ask a pai from one, a pawa from another, and a paila from a third, and I did so." The elder then said to the younger, "You go and plough, and if the plough catch in a root on the right hand, cut the root on the left hand, and if it catch in a root on the left side, cut the root on the right side, and in the meantime I will cook." He went and began to plough, and in a short time the plough caught in a root on the right, and not understanding the directions given to him, he struck the left hand bullock a blow on the leg with his axe. The bullock limped along a short distance. When the plough caught in a root on the left, he smote the bullock on the right, wounding it as he had done the other. Both of the bullocks then lay down, and although he beat them they did not get up. He therefore called to his brother, "These bullocks have lain down, and will not get up, what shall I do?" "Beat them," was the reply. Again he beat them, but with no better result. The elder brother then came, and found that the oxen had been maimed, and were unable to stand, at which he became greatly alarmed, and said, "Why did you maim the oxen? The owners will beat us to death to-day." He then gave him some parched grain to eat, and sent him to look after his goats. The sun being hot, the goats were lying in the shade chewing their cud. He sat down near them, and began to eat the parched grain. Seeing the goats moving their jaws as if eating, he said, "These goats are eating nothing, they are lying there mocking me," and becoming enraged, he killed them all with his axe. Then going to his brother, he said, "Oh! brother, I have killed all the goats." His brother asked, "Why did you kill them?" He replied, "While I was watching them and eating the parched grain which you gave me, I saw them chewing, and as they were eating nothing I knew they were mocking me, and so I killed them all." The elder brother became greatly alarmed, and calling to the younger to come, they quickly ate their dinner, and then went to where the goats were lying dead. From among them they chose the fattest, and carried it off to the jungle, where they flayed, and cut it into pieces. Jhore then said, "I shall take the stomach as my share," but his brother said, "No, let us take the flesh." Jhore, however, would not agree to that, and at length his brother said, "Well you take the stomach, I shall take the flesh." So each took what he fancied most, and they set off. After travelling a long distance, they came to a large tree growing on the side of the road, into which they climbed for safety. After they had been some time on the tree, a raja on his way to be married, lay down to rest in its shade, and when he and his attendants had fallen asleep, Jhore let the goat's stomach fall down on the raja. The raja having his rest thus rudely disturbed, sprang to his feet, and calling out, awoke his servants, who seeing the goat's stomach, and not knowing what had happened, thought the raja himself had burst. They fled in terror followed by the raja, and did not halt till they were many miles away from the scene of the raja's discomfiture. After waiting a little while, the brothers descended, and began to help themselves to the raja's property. Jhore said, "I shall take the drum." His brother said, "No, let us take the brass vessels and the clothes." Jhore, however, insisted, and after considerable wrangling, his brother said, "Well, take the drum if you will have it, I shall take the brass vessels and the clothes." So each took what pleased him best, and then they went away and hid in the jungle. While walking about in the jungle, they collected bees, wasps, and other stinging insects, and put them into the drum. Having filled the drum, they emerged from the forest at a place where a washerman was washing clothes. Jhore tore all his clothes into strips, and scattered them about. The washerman went and told the raja that two persons had come out from the jungle, and had destroyed all his clothes. On hearing this, the raja said to his servants, "Come, and let us fight with these two men." So arming themselves with guns, they went to the tank where Jhorea and Jhore were sitting, and began to shoot at them, but the bullets did them no harm. When their ammunition was exhausted, they said, "Will you still fight?" The brothers answered, "Yes, we will fight." So they began to fire their guns, and beat their drum, and the bees and wasps issued from it like a rope, and began to sting the raja and his soldiers, who to save themselves, lay down and rolled on the ground. The raja, in anguish from the stings of the bees, exclaimed, "I will give you my daughter, and half of my kingdom, if you will call off the bees." Hearing this they beat the drum, and calling to the bees and wasps, ordered them all to enter the drum again, and the raja and his people went to their homes. The brothers however, could not agree as to who should marry the princess. One said, "You marry her." The other said, "No, you marry her." The younger at length said to the elder, "You are the elder, you should take her, as it is not fitting that you should beg. If I were to marry her, I could no longer go about begging." So the elder brother married the princess, and became the raja's son-in-law. The two settled down there, and cultivated all kinds of crops. One day the elder brother sent his younger brother to bring a certain kind of grain. Taking a sickle and a rope to tie his sheaves with, he went to the field. Arrived there, he found that the grain was covered with insects. So he set fire to it, and while it was burning he kept calling out, "Whoever desires to feast on roasted insects, let him come here." When his brother knew what he had done, he reprimanded him severely. Some time afterwards, when the black rice was ripe, he again ordered him to go and reap some, so getting a sickle, and rope to bind his sheaves with, he went to the rice field. On looking about to see where he would begin, he discovered that each stalk of rice was covered with flies. "There is nothing here but flies. How can I reap this?" Saying this, he set fire to the growing rice and burnt it all to the ground. His brother, when he knew what had happened, was very much displeased and threatened to beat him. On another day he was sent to cut jari [1] to make ropes, so taking his sickle, he set off to the field of jari. As soon as he began to cut the stalks, the seeds rattled in the pods, hearing which he stopped and called out, "Who is calling me?" After listening awhile and hearing nothing he began again, and the same noise issuing from the plant he was cutting, he said, "These plants are remonstrating with me for cutting them." So being offended, he set fire to and burnt down the whole crop of jari. On being informed of his brother's action, Jhorea seized a stick, and ran after him to beat him, but could not overtake him. In the direction Jhore was running, there were some men flaying an ox, and Jhorea called to them to lay hold of his brother. They could not, however, accomplish this, but as he passed, they threw the stomach of the ox at him, which he caught in his arms and carried away with him. Finding a drain that was open at both ends, he crept in at one end, and passed out at the other, but left the ox's stomach behind him. His brother soon arrived at the drain, and thinking he was still there, tried to drive him out by pushing in a stick, the sharp point of which perforated the ox's stomach. On withdrawing the stick, and seeing the contents of the ox's stomach adhering to it, he thought he had pierced and killed his brother, but he having passed out at the other end had run swiftly home, and hid himself among the rafters of the house. Jhorea returned home weeping, and immediately began to make the preparations necessary for Jhore's funeral ceremonies. He caused a sumptuous feast to be got ready, and invited all his relations and friends. When they were all assembled, he went into the house to offer Jhore his portion. Presenting it, he said: "Oh! my brother Jhore, I offer this to you, take it, and eat it." Jhore, from among the rafters said, "Give it to me brother, and I shall eat it." His brother, not expecting an answer, was alarmed, and fled to his friends without, exclaiming, "Do the spirits of dead men speak? Jhore's speaks." It now being dark, Jhore descended from his perch, and taking up the food which had been cooked for his funeral feast, left the house by another door. Passing on to the high way, he kept calling out, "Travellers by the road, or dwellers in the jungle, if you require food, come here." Some thieves hearing him, said, "Come, let us go and ask some." So going to him they said, "Give us some too, Jhore." But he replied, "It is for me alone." On their asking a second time, he give it to them. After they had eaten it all, they said to him, "Come, let us go a thieving." So they went to a house, and while the thieves were searching for money, Jhore went and picked up small pieces of pottery, and tied them up in his cloth. When they met afterwards, seeing Jhore's bundle of what appeared like rupees, they said, "You were not with us, where did you get the money?" Opening his parcel, he shewed them the pieces of pottery, seeing which they said, "We will not have you as our comrade." He replied, "Then return the food which you ate." As they could not comply, they agreed to take him with them. Jhore then said, "Where shall we go now?" They replied, "To steal cloth." So they went to a house, and while the robbers were searching for cloth, Jhore began to pull the clothes from off the sleeping inmates. This awoke them, and starting up, they began to call loudly for help. The thieves made off, and Jhore with them. Seeing Jhore had spoiled their game, they said to him, "We will not allow you to go with us again." He said, "Then give me back the food you ate." Not being able to do so, they said, "Well, we will allow you to accompany us this once." Jhore then said, "What shall we steal now?" The thieves answered, "We shall now go to steal horses." So they went to a stable, and each of the thieves helped himself to a horse; but Jhore going behind the house, found a large tiger which he saddled and mounted. The thieves also mounted each on the horse he had stolen. As they rode along, Jhore's tiger sometimes went first, and sometimes the thieves' horses. When the thieves were in front, Jhore's tiger bit and scratched their horses, so they said to him, "You ride first, we shall follow." But Jhore said, "No, my horse is a Hindu horse, he cannot run in front, your horses are Santal horses, they run well and straight, so you ride ahead." When day began to dawn, Jhore's tiger evinced a tendency to leave the road and take to the jungle, but Jhore holding him in, exclaimed, "Ha! ha! my Hindu steed, ha! ha! my Hindu steed." When it was fully light, the tiger ran into the jungle, and Jhore got caught in the branch of a tree, and continued dangling there for some days. It so happened that one morning a demon passing that way spied Jhore dangling from the tree, and seizing him, put him in a bag and carried him away. Being thirsty, he laid the bag down, and went to a spring to drink. While he was absent, Jhore got out of the bag, and putting a stone in instead, ran away. The demon having quenched his thirst, returned, and lifting the bag carried it home. His daughter came to welcome him, and he said to her, "Jhore is in the bag, cook him, and we shall have a feast." He then went to invite his friends to share it with him. When the demon's daughter had opened the bag, she found the stone, and was angry, because her father had deceived her. In a short time her father returned, bringing a large number of jackals with him. He said to her, "Have you cooked Jhore?" She replied, "Tush! tush! you brought me a stone." The demon was highly incensed at having been outwitted, and exclaimed, "I will track Jhore till I find him, and this time I shall bring him home without laying him down." He then left, and before long found Jhore swinging in the same branch as before. Catching hold of him, he put him into a bag, the mouth of which he tied. This time he brought him home without once laying him down. Calling to his daughter, he said, "Cook Jhore, while I go to invite my friends." She untied the bag, and took Jhore out, and seeing his long hair, she said, "How is it that your hair has grown so long?" "I pounded it in the dhenki," he replied, "Will you pound mine, so that it may become long like yours," said the demon's daughter. Jhore replied, "I shall do so with pleasure, put your head in the dhenki, and I shall pound it." So she put in her head, and he pounded it so that he killed her. He then possessed himself of all her jewellery, and dressing in her clothes, cooked her body. When the demon returned, accompanied by his friends, he said, "Well! daughter, have you cooked Jhore?" Jhore replied, "Yes, I have cooked him." On hearing this, the demon and the jackals who had come with him, were delighted, and setting to, they devoured the body of the demon's daughter. After some days, the demon went to visit a friend, and Jhore divesting himself of the demon girl's clothes, went to where the demon had at first found him, and began to swing as before. Presently a tigress approached him and said, "Oh! brother, the hair of my cubs has grown very long, I wish you to shave them to-day." Jhore replied, "Oh! sister, boil some water, and then go to the spring to bring more." The tigress having boiled the water, went to the spring. While she was away, Jhore poured the boiling water over the two cubs, and scalded them to death. He made them grin by fixing the lips apart, and propped them up at the door of the tigress' house. On her return as she drew near, she saw her cubs, as she fancied, laughing, and said to herself. "They are delighted because their uncle has shaved them." Setting down her water pot, she went to look at them, and found them dead. Just then the demon came up, and she asked him, "Whom are you seeking to-day uncle?" He replied "I am seeking Jhore, he has caused me to eat my own daughter. Whom are you seeking?" The tigress replied, "I also am seeking Jhore; he has scalded my cubs to death." The two then went in search of Jhore. They found him in a lonely part of the forest preparing birdlime, and said to him, "What are you doing, Jhore?" He replied, "I look high up, and then I look deep down." They said, "Teach us to do it too." He answered, "Only I can do it." They asked him a second time, and received the same reply. On their begging him a third time to teach them, he said, "Well, I shall do it." He then put some of the birdlime into their eyes, and fixed their eyelids together, so that they could not open them. While they were washing their eyes, he ran away. As soon as they had rid themselves of the birdlime, they followed him and found him distilling oil from the fruit of the marking-nut tree. They said to him, "What are you doing, Jhore?" He replied, "I look deep down, and then high up." They said, "Teach us also." He replied, "Only I can do it." They asked him again, and he said, "Well I will do it." He then poured some of the oil he had distilled into their eyes. It burned them so, that they became stone-blind. Jhore was next seen seated in a fig-tree eating the fruit. Some cattle merchants, passing under the tree with a large herd of cattle, saw him eating the figs, and asked him what it was he was eating. He replied, "Beat the bullock that is going last, and you shall find it." So they beat the bullock till it fell down. In the meantime, the herd had gone on ahead, and Jhore running after them drove them to his own house. His brother seeing the large herd of cattle, asked to whom they belonged. Jhore replied, "They are Jhore's property." Jhorea then said, "I killed my brother Jhore, what Jhore is it?" He made answer, "Your brother Jhore whom you thought you had killed." Jhorea was delighted to find his brother alive, and said to him, "Let us live together after this." So they lived peacefully together ever after. THE BOY AND HIS STEPMOTHER. A certain boy had charge of a cow which he used to tend while grazing. One day the cow said to him, "How is it that you are becoming so emaciated?" The boy replied, "My stepmother does not give me sufficient food." The cow then said to him, "Do not tell any one, and I will give you food. Go to the jungle and get leaves with which to make a plate and cup." The boy did as he was ordered, and behold, the cow from one horn shook boiled rice into the leaf plate, and from the other a relish for the rice into the cup. This continued daily for a considerable time, until the boy became sleek and fat. The stepmother came to know of the relation which existed between the cow and her herd-boy, and to be revenged upon them she feigned illness. To her attendants she said, "I cannot possibly live." They asked, "What would make you live?" She replied, "If you kill the cow, I will recover." They said, "If killing the cow will cure you, we will kill it." The boy hearing that the life of the cow which supplied him with food was threatened, ran to her and said, "They are about to kill you." Hearing this the cow said, "You go and make a rope of rice straw, make some parts thick, and some thin, and put it in such a place as they can easily find it. When they are about to kill me, you seize hold of my tail and pull." The next day they proceeded to make arrangements to kill the cow, and finding the rope prepared by the boy the day before, they tied her with it to a stake. After she was tied the boy laid hold of her tail, and pulled so that the rope by which she was secured was made taut. A man now raised an axe, and felled her by a blow on the forehead. As the cow staggered the rope broke, and she and the boy were borne away on the wind, and alighted in an unexplored jungle. From the one cow other cows sprang, in number equal to a large herd, and from them another large herd was produced. The boy then drove his two herds of cows to a place where they could graze, and afterwards took them to the river to drink. The cows having quenched their thirst, lay down to rest, and the boy bathed, and afterwards combed and dressed his hair. During this latter operation a hair from his head fell into the river, and was carried away by the current. Some distance lower down, a princess with her female companions and attendants came to bathe. While the princess was in the water she noticed the hair floating down stream, and ordered some one to take it out, which when done they measured, and found it to be twelve cubits long. The princess on returning home went to the king, her father, and showing him the hair she had found in the river said, "I have made up my mind to marry the man to whom this hair belonged." The king gave his consent, and commanded his servants to search for the object of his daughter's affection. They having received the king's command went to a certain barber and said to him, "You dress the hair and beards of all the men in this part of the country, tell us where the man with hair twelve cubits long is to be found." The barber, after many days, returned unsuccessful. The king's servants after a long consultation as to whom they should next apply to, decided upon laying the matter before a tame parrot belonging to the king. Going to the parrot they said, "Oh parrot, can you find the man whose hair is twelve cubits long?" The parrot replied, "Yes, I can find him." After flying here and there the parrot was fortunate enough to find the boy. It was evening, and having driven his two herds of cattle into their pen, he had sat down, and was employed in dressing his long hair. His flute was hanging on a bush by his side. The parrot sat awhile considering how she might take him to the king's palace. Seeing the flute the idea was suggested to her, that by means of it she might contrive to lead him where she desired. So taking it up in her beak, she flew forward a little and alighted in a small bush. To regain possession of his flute the boy followed, but on his approach the bird flew away, and alighted on another bush a short distance ahead. In this way she continued to lead him by flying from bush to bush until at length she brought him to the king's palace. He was then brought before his majesty, and his hair measured, and found to be twelve cubits in length. The king then ordered food to be set before him, and after he was refreshed the betrothal ceremony was performed. As it was now late they prevailed upon him to pass the night as the guest of the king. Early in the morning he set out, but, as he had a long distance to go, the day was far advanced before he reached the place where his cattle were. They were angry at having been kept penned up to so late an hour, and as he removed the bars to let them out, they knocked him down, and trampled upon his hair in such a way, as to pull it all out leaving him bald. Nothing daunted, he collected his cows, and started on his return journey, but us he drove them along, one after another vanished, so that only a few remained when he reached the king's palace. On his arrival they noticed that he had lost all his hair, and on being questioned he related to the king all that had fallen him. His hair being gone the princess refused to marry him, so instead of becoming the king's son-in-law, he became one of his hired servants. THE STORY OF KARA AND GUJA. There were two brothers named Kara and Guja. Guja, who was the elder did the work at home, and Kara was ploughman. One day the two went to the forest to dig edible roots. After they had been thus engaged for some hours, Kara said to Guja, "Look up and see the sun's position in the heavens." Looking up he said, "Oh brother, one is rising and another is setting." They then said, "The day is not yet past, let us bestir ourselves, and lose no time." So they dug with all their might. After digging a long time Kara looked up and became aware that it was night. He then exclaimed, "Oh brother, it is now night, what shall we do? Come let us seek some place where we can remain until the morning." After they had wandered awhile in the forest they spied a light in the distance, and on drawing near they found that a tiger had kindled a fire, and was warming himself. Going up to the entrance to the cave they called out to the tiger, "Oh uncle, give us a place to sleep in." He answered, "Come in." So the two went in, and being hungry began to roast and eat the roots they had brought with them. The tiger hearing them eating, enquired what it was. They replied, "Oh uncle, we are roasting and eating the roots which we dug up in the forest." He then said, "Oh my nephews, I will also try how they taste." So they handed him a piece of charcoal, and as he munched it he said, "Oh my nephews, how is it that I feel it grating between my teeth?" They replied, "It is an old one that you have got, uncle." He then said, "Give me another, and I will try it." So they gave him another piece of charcoal, and after he had crunched it awhile he said, "Oh my nephews, this is as bad as the other," to which they rejoined, "Oh uncle, your mouth is old, therefore what is good to us, is the reverse to you." The tiger did not wish to try his grinders on another piece of charcoal, so the brothers were left to enjoy their repast alone. After they had eaten all the roots, Guja said to Kara, "What shall we eat now? Come let us eat this old tiger's tail." Kara replied, "Do not talk in that way, brother, the tiger will devour us." "Not so, brother," said Guja, "I have a great desire to eat flesh." The old tiger understood their conversation, and being afraid tried to get out of the cave, but the brothers caught hold of him, and wrenched off his tail, which they roasted in the ashes, and then ate. The tiger after losing his tail summoned a council of all the tigers inhabiting that part of the forest, at which they decided to kill and eat the two brothers. So they went to the cave, but Kara and Guja had fled, and had taken refuge in a palm tree which grew on the edge of a large deep tank. Not finding them in the cave the tigers, headed by him who had lost his tail, went in quest of them, and coming to the tank saw them reflected in the water, and one after another they dived in, thinking they would be able to seize them, but of course they could not catch a shadow. One of the tigers, when in the act of yawning, looked upwards, and seeing them in the tree exclaimed, "There they are. There they are." They then asked the brothers how they had managed to climb up, to which they replied, "We stood on each other's shoulders." The tigers then said, "Come, let us do the same, and we shall soon reach them." As the tailless tiger was most interested in their capture, they made him stand lowest, and a tiger climbed up and stood on his shoulders, and another on his, and so on; but before they reached the brothers, Kara called out to Guja, "Give me your sharp battle-axe, and I shall hamstring the tailless tiger." The tailless tiger forgetting himself jumped to one side, and the whole pillar of tigers fell in a heap on the ground. They now began to abuse the old tailless tiger, who fearing lest they should tear him in pieces fled into the forest. After the tigers had left, the two brothers descended from the palm tree, and walked rapidly away as they dreaded that the tigers might yet follow them. Towards evening they came to a village, and entering into the house of an old woman lay down to sleep. The owner of the house observing them said, "Oh my children, do not sleep to-night, for there is a demon who visits in rotation each house in the village, and each time he comes carries off some one and eats him; it is my turn to receive a visit to-night." They said, "Do not trouble us now, let us sleep, as we are tired." So they slept, but kept their weather eye open. During the night the old woman came quietly, and began to bite their arms, which they had laid aside before retiring to rest. Hearing a sound as if some one were crunching iron between his teeth, the brothers called out, "Old woman, what are you eating?" She replied "Only a few roasted peas which I brought from the chief's house." About midnight the demon came, and as he was entering the house Kara and Guja shot at him with their bows and arrows, and he fell down dead. Then they cut out his claws and tongue, and placed them in a bag. Afterwards they threw out the body of the demon into the garden behind the house. Now it so happened that the king had promised to give his daughter and half of his kingdom to the man who should slay the demon. Early in the morning a Dome, who was passing, discovered the body of the demon, and said within himself, "I will take it to the king and claim the reward." So running home he broke all the furniture in his house and beat his old woman saying, "Get out of this. I am about to bring the king's daughter home as my bride." He then returned quickly, and taking up the body of the demon carried it to the king, and said, "Oh sir king, I have slain the demon." The king replied, "Very well, we will enquire into it." So he commanded some of his servants to examine the body, and on doing so they found that the claws had been extracted and the tongue cut out. They reported the condition of the body to the king, who ordered the Dome to state the weapon with which he killed him. The Dome replied, "I hit him with a club on the head." On the head being examined no mark whatever was seen, so in order to arrive at the truth the king ordered all the inhabitants of the village to be brought together to the palace. He then enquired of them as to who killed the demon. The old woman, in whose house Kara and Guja had passed the night, stepped forward and said, "Oh sir king, two strangers came to my house yesterday evening, and during the night they slew the demon." The king said, "Where are those two men?" The old woman replied, "There they are, the two walking together." So the king sent and brought them back, and questioned them as to the slaying of the demon. They pointed out the arrow-marks on the body, and produced his claws and tongue from their bag. This evidence convinced the king that they, and not the Dome, had slain the demon. Kara and Guja were received with great favour by the king, and received the promised reward. The king sentenced the Dome to be beaten and driven from the village. After receiving his stripes, the Dome returned home, and gathered the shreds of his property together. He also went in search of his Dome wife and children, but they mocked him saying, "You went to marry the king's daughter, why do you come again seeking us." Thus Kara and Guja gained a kingdom. THE KING AND HIS INQUISITIVE QUEEN. There was a certain king known by the name of Huntsman, on account of his expertness in the chase. One day when returning from the forest where he had been hunting he found a serpent and a lizard fighting on the path along which he was moving. As they were blocking the way he ordered them to stand aside and allow him to pass, but they gave no heed to what he said. King Huntsman then began to beat them with his staff. He killed the lizard, but the serpent fled, and so escaped. The serpent then went to Monsha, the king of the serpents, and complained of the treatment the lizard and himself had received at the hands of king Huntsman. The next day king Monsha went and met king Huntsman on his way home from the forest, and blocked his way so that he could not pass. King Huntsman being angry said, "Clear the way, and allow me to pass, or else I shall send an arrow into you. Why do you block my way?" King Monsha replied, "Why did you assault the lizard and the serpent, with intent to kill them both?" King Huntsman answered, "I ordered them to get out of my way, but they would not, I therefore assaulted them, and killed one. The other saved himself by flight." King Monsha hearing this explanation said, "Very good, the fault was theirs, not yours." King Huntsman then petitioned the king of the serpents to bestow upon him the gift of understanding the language of animals and insects. King Monsha acceded to his request, and gave him the gift he desired. A few days after this event King Huntsman went to the forest, and after hunting all day returned home in the evening Having washed his hands and feet, he sat down to his meal of boiled rice. When the rice was being served to the king a few grains fell on the ground, and a fly and an ant began to dispute as to who should carry them away. The fly said, "I will take them to my children." The ant replied, "No, I will take them to mine." Hearing the two talk thus, the king was amused, and began to smile. The queen, who was standing by, said to him, "Tell me what has made you laugh." On being thus addressed the king became greatly confused, for at the time the gift of understanding the language of animals and insects was bestowed upon him, King Monsha had forbidden him to make it known to any one. He had said, "If you tell this to any one, I shall eat you." Remembering this the king feared to answer the question put to him by the queen. He tried to deceive her by saying, "I did not laugh, you must have been mistaken." She would not, however, be thus put off, so the king was obliged to tell her that if he answered her question his life would be forfeited. The queen was inexorable, and said, "Whether you forfeit your life or not, you must tell me." The king then said, "Well, if it must be so, let us make ready to go to the bank of the Ganges. There I shall tell you, and when I have done so you must push me into the river, and then return home." The king armed himself, and the two set out for the river. When they had reached it, they sat down to rest under the shade of a tree. A flock of goats was grazing near to where they were seated, and the king's attention was arrested by a conversation which was being carried on between an old she-goat and a young he-goat. The former addressed the latter thus, "There is an island in the middle of the Ganges, and on that island there is a large quantity of good sweet grass. Get the grass for me, and I shall give you my daughter in marriage." The he-goat was not thus to be imposed upon. He angrily addressed his female friend as follows, "Do not think to make me like this foolish king, who vainly tries to please a woman. He has come here to lose his own life at the bidding of one. You tell me to go and bring you grass out of such a flood as this. I am no such fool. I do not care to die yet. There are many more quite as good as your daughter." The king understood what passed between them, and admitted to himself the truth of what the he-goat had said. After considering a short time he arose, and having made a rude sacrificial altar, said to the queen, "Kneel down, and do me obeisance, and I shall tell you what made me laugh." She knelt down, and the king struck off her head and burnt her body upon the altar. Returning home he performed her funeral ceremonies, after which he married another wife. He reigned prosperously for many years, and decided all disputes that were brought before him by animals or insects. THE STORY OF BITARAM. In a certain village there lived seven brothers. The youngest of them planted a certain vegetable, and went every day to examine it to see how it was growing. For a long time there were only the stalk and leaves, but at length a flower appeared, and from it a fruit. This fruit he measured daily to mark its growth. It grew continuously until it became exactly a span long, after which it remained stationary. One day he said to his sisters-in-law, "Do not eat my fruit, for whoever does so will give birth to a child only one span long." He continued his daily visits to his plant as usual, and was pleased to note that the fruit was evidently ripening. One day, during his absence, one of his sisters-in-law plucked the fruit and ate it. On returning from the field where he had been ploughing, he went to look at and measure his fruit, but it was gone, it had been stolen. Suspecting that some one of his sisters-in-law was the thief, he accused each of them in turn, but they all denied having touched it. When he found that no one would confess to having taken it, he said to them, "Do not tell upon yourselves, the thief will be caught before long." And so it happened, for one of them gave birth to a baby one span long. The first time he saw his sister-in-law after the child was born he laughed, and said to her, "You denied having stolen my fruit, now you see I have found you out." When the time came that the child should receive a name, Bitaram [2] was given to him, because he was only a span in height. Bitaram's mother used to take food to the brothers to the field when they were ploughing, and when Bitaram was able to walk so far he accompanied her. One day he surprised his mother by saying, "Let me take the food to my father and uncles to-day." She replied, "What a fancy! You, child, are only a span high, how can you carry it?" But Bitaram insisted saying, "I can carry it well enough, and carry it I will." His mother being unable to resist his pertinacity said, "Then, child, take it, and be off." So she placed the basket on his head and he set out. Arrived at the field he went up a furrow, but the ground was so uneven that before he reached his destination, he had lost nearly all the rice, which had been shaken out of the basket. On his coming near, one of his uncles called out, "Is that you Bitaram?" He replied, "Yes, it is I, Bitaram." Climbing up out of the furrow, he put down the basket saying, "Help yourselves, and I will take the oxen and buffaloes to the water." So saying, he drove off the cattle to the river. When they had quenched their thirst he gathered them together, and began to drive them back again to where he had left his father and uncles. While following them up the sandy back of the river, he fell into a depression made by the hoof of a buffalo, and was soon covered up by the loose sand sent rolling down by the herd as they ascended. When the cattle returned without Bitaram, his father and uncles became alarmed for his safety, and immediately went in search of him. They went here and there calling out "Bitaram, where are you?" But failing to find him they concluded that he had been devoured by some wild animal, and returned sorrowfully home. Rain fell during the night, and washed the sand from off Bitaram, so that he was able to get up, and climb out. On his way home he encountered some thieves who were dividing their booty in a lonely part of the forest. Bitaram hearing them disputing called out "Kehe kere" at the pitch of his voice. The thieves hearing the sound, looked round on all sides to see who was near, but the night being dark, and they not directing their eyes near enough to the ground to see Bitaram, they could discern no one. Then they said to each other, "Let us seek safety in flight. A spirit has been sent to watch us." So they all made off leaving behind them the brass vessels they had stolen. Bitaram gathered these up, and hid them among some prickly bushes, and then went home. It was now past midnight, and all had retired to rest, and as Bitaram stood shivering with cold at the closed door, he called out, "Open the door and let me in." His father hearing him said, "Is that you Bitaram?" He replied, "Yes, open the door." They then enquired where he had been, and he related all that had happened to him after he had driven the cattle to the river. Having warmed himself at the fire, he told his father of his adventure with the thieves in the forest. He said, "I despoiled some thieves, whom I met in the jungle, of the brass vessels they had stolen." His father replied, "Foolish child, do not tell lies, you yourself are not the height of a brass lota" (drinking-cup). "No father," said Bitaram, "I am telling the truth, come and I will shew you where they are." His father and uncles went with him, and he pointed out to them the vessels hidden among the prickly bushes. They picked them all up and brought them home. Early next morning some sepoys, who were searching for the thieves, happened to pass that way, and seeing the stolen property lying out side of the house, recognized it, and apprehended Bitaram's father and uncles and dragged them off to prison. After this Bitaram and his mother were obliged to beg their bread from house to house. She often attributed to him the misery which had befallen them, saying, "Had it not been for your pertinacity, your father and uncles would not have been deprived of their liberty." One day, as they were following their usual avocation, they entered a certain house, and Bitaram said to his mother, "Ask the people of the house to give me a tumki. [3]" She did not at first comply, but he kept urging her until being irritated she said, "It was through your pertinacity in insisting upon being allowed to carry the food to your father and uncles that they are now bound and in prison, and yet you will not give up the bad habit." Bitaram said, "No, mother, do ask it for me." As he would not be silenced she begged it for him, and the people kindly gave it. At the next house they came to, they saw a cat walking about, and Bitaram said, "Oh mother, ask the people to give me the cat." As before, she at first refused, but he continued to press her, and she becoming annoyed scolded him saying, "The young gentleman insists on obtaining this and that. It was your pertinacity that caused your father and uncles to be dragged to prison in bonds." Bitaram replied, "Not so, mother, do ask them to give me the cat." As the only way to silence him she said to the people of the house, "Give my boy your cat, he will hold it in his arms for a few minutes, and then set it down, but he carried it away with him." Bitaram then begged his mother to make him a bag, and fill it with flour, saying, "I am going to obtain the release of my father and uncles." She mockingly replied, "Much you can do." She made him a bag, however, and filling it with flour said, "Be off." Bitaram then strapped the bag of flour on the cat's back as a saddle, and mounted. Puss, however, refused to go in the direction desired, and it was with great difficulty that he prevailed upon her to take the road. As he rode along he observed a swarm of bees on an ant hill, and dismounting he addressed them as follows, "Come bees, go in, come bees, go in." The bees swarmed into the tumki, and Bitaram having covered them up with a leaf continued his journey. Before he had gone far he came to a large tank, which belonged to the raja who had imprisoned his father. A number of women had come to the tank for water, and Bitaram taking his stand upon the embankment began to shoot arrows at their waterpots. After he had broken several, the women espied him mounted on his cat with his bow and arrows in his hand, and believing him to be an elf from the forest fled in terror to the city. Going to the raja they said "Oh raja, come and see. Some one is on the tank embankment. We do not know who or what he is, but he is only a span high." The raja then summoned his soldiers, and commanded them to take their bows and arrows, and go and shoot him whoever he was. The soldiers went within range, but although they shot away all their arrows, they failed to hit him. So returning to the raja they said, "He cannot be shot." Hearing this the raja became angry, and calling for his bow and arrows, went to the tank and began to shoot at Bitaram, but although he persevered until his right side ached with drawing the bow, he could not hit him. When he desisted, Bitaram called out "Are you exhausted?" The raja answered "Yes." Then said Bitaram "It is my turn now," and taking the leaf from off the mouth of the basket called to the bees, "Go into the battle, bees." The bees issued from the basket like a black rope, and stung the raja and those who were with him. No way of escape offering, the raja called out to Bitaram, "Call off your bees, and I will give you the half of my kingdom and my daughter, and I will also set at liberty your father and uncles." Bitaram gathered the bees into the basket, and after his father and uncles had been released, took them back to the ant hill from whence he had brought them. On his return he wedded the princess and received half of her father's kingdom. Bitaram and his wife lived happily together, and every thing they took in hand prospered, so that before long they were richer than the king himself. One great source of Bitaram's wealth was a cow which the princess had brought him as part of her dowry. Being envious of their good fortune, the raja and his sons resolved to kill the cow, and thus obtain possession of all the gold and silver. So they put the cow to death, but when they had cut her up they were disappointed as neither gold nor silver were found in her stomach. Bitaram placed his cow's hide in the sun, and when it was dry carried it away to sell it. Darkness coming on he climbed into a tree for safety, as wild beasts infested the forest through which he was passing. During the night some thieves came under the tree in which he was, and began to divide the money they had stolen. Bitaram then relaxed his hold of the dry hide, which made such a noise as it fell from branch to branch that the thieves fled terror-stricken, and left all their booty behind them. In the morning Bitaram descended, and collecting all the rupees carried them home. He then shewed the money to his wife, and said "Go and ask the loan of your father's paila, that I may measure them." So she went and brought the measure, which had several cracks in it. Having measured his money he sent back the raja's paila, but he had not noticed that one or two pieces were left sticking in the cracks. So they said to him, "Where did you get the money?" He replied "By the sale of my cow's hide." Hearing this they said, "Will the merchant who bought yours, buy any more?" He said, "Yes. I received all this money for my one hide, how much more may not you receive seeing you have such large herds of cattle! If you dispose of their hides at the same rate as I have done, you will secure immense wealth." So they killed all their cattle, but when they offered the hides for sale they found they had been hoaxed. They were ashamed and angry at having allowed themselves to be thus imposed upon by Bitaram, and in revenge they set fire to his house at night, but he crept into a rat's hole and so escaped injury. In the morning he emerged from his hiding place, and carefully gathering up the ashes of his house tied them up in a cloth, and carried them away. As he walked along he met a merchant, to whom he said, "What have you in your bag?" He replied "Gold-pieces only." The merchant then enquired of Bitaram what he had tied up in his cloth, to which he answered, "Gold-dust only." Bitaram then said, "Will you exchange?" The merchant said, "Yes." So they exchanged, and Bitaram returned laden with gold. Not being able to count it, he again sent his wife to borrow her father's paila, and having measured the gold-pieces returned it to him. This time a few pieces of gold remained in the cracks in the paila, and the raja, being informed of it, went and asked Bitaram where he got the gold. He replied, "I sold the ashes of my house which you burnt over my head, and received the gold in return." The raja and his sons then enquired if the merchant, who bought the ashes from him, would buy any more. Bitaram replied, "Yes, he will buy all he can get." "Do you think," said they, "he will buy from us?" Bitaram advised them to burn their houses, and like him, turn the ashes into gold. "I had only one small house," he said, "and I obtained all this money. You have larger houses, and should therefore receive a correspondingly large amount." So they set fire to, and burnt their houses, and gathering up the ashes took them to the bazar, and there offered them for sale. After they had gone the whole length of the bazar, and had met with no buyers, some one advised them to go to where the washermen lived, saying, they might possibly take them. The washermen, however, refused, and as they could not find a purchaser, they threw away the ashes, and returned home determined to be revenged upon Bitaram. This time they decided upon drowning him, so one day they seized him, and putting him into a bag they carried him to the river. Arrived there they put him down, and went to some little distance to cook their food. In the meantime a herd boy came up and asked Bitaram why he was tied up in the bag. He replied, "They are taking me away to marry me against my will." The herd boy said, "I will go instead of you. I wish to be married." Bitaram replied, "Open the bag and let me out, and you get in, and I will tie it up again." So Bitaram was released, and the herd boy took his place, and was afterwards thrown into the river and drowned. Bitaram on escaping collected all the herd boy's cattle, and drove them home. When the raja and his sons returned, they found Bitaram with a large herd of cows and buffaloes. Going near, they enquired where he had got them. He replied, "At some distance below the spot where you threw me into the river, I found numerous herds of cattle, so I brought away as many as one person could drive. If you all go, you will be able to bring a very much larger number." So they said, "Very well, put us into bags, and tie us up as we did you." Bitaram replied, "It is impossible for me to carry you as you did me. Walk to the river bank, and there get into the bags, and I will push you into the river." They did as he suggested, and when all was in readiness, he pushed them into the river, and they were all drowned. Bitaram returned alone, and took possession of all that had belonged to them. The whole kingdom became his, and he reigned peacefully as long as he lived. THE STORY OF SIT AND BOSONT. There was a certain raja who had two sons named Sit and Bosont. Their mother the rani had been long ill, and the raja was greatly dejected on her account. From the bed on which she lay, the rani could see two sparrows who had made their nest in a hole in the wall of the palace, and she had remarked the great love and tenderness which the hen-sparrow bore towards her young ones. One day she saw both sparrows sitting in front of their nest, and the sight of them set her a-thinking, and she came to the conclusion that the hen-sparrow was a model mother. The raja also had his attention attracted daily by the sparrows. One day, very suddenly, the hen-sparrow took ill, and died. The next day the cock-sparrow appeared with another mate, and sat in front of the nest with her, as he had done with the other. But the new mother took no notice of the young ones in the nest, but left them to die of hunger. The rani, who was greatly grieved to see such want of compassion, said to the raja, "This is how it is, one has no pity for those who belong to another. Remember what you have been a witness of, and should I die take care of the two children." Shortly after this the rani died, and the raja mourned over her, and continued most solicitous for the welfare of their two boys. Some months after the rani's death, the raja's subjects prayed him to take another wife, saying, "Without a rani your kingdom is incomplete." The raja refused to comply, saying, "I shall never take another wife." His subjects would not, however, be silenced, but continued to press the matter upon him with such persistency that eventually he had to accede to their wishes, and take to himself another partner. He continued, however, to love and cherish his two sons Sit and Bosont. Some time after their marriage the rani took a dislike to the elder son Sit, and was determined that he should no longer be allowed to remain within the precincts of the palace. So she feigned sickness, and the raja summoned physicians from all parts of his dominions, but without avail, as none of them could tell what the disease was from which the rani was suffering. One day when Sit and Bosont were out of the way, and the raja and she were alone together, she said to him, "Doctors and medicines will not save my life, but if you will listen to me, and do what I tell you, I shall completely recover." The raja said, "Let me hear what it is, and I shall try what effect it may have." The rani said, "If you will promise to do for me what I shall request, I will tell you, and not otherwise." The raja replied, "I shall certainly comply with your wishes." The rani again said, "Will you without doubt, do what I wish?" The raja replied, "Yes, I shall." After she had made him promise a third time she said, "Will you take oath that you will not seek to evade fulfilling my desire?" The raja said, "I take my oath that I shall carry out your wishes to the full extent of my ability." Having thus prevailed upon the raja to pledge his word of honour, she said, "Do not allow your eldest son, Sit, to remain any longer in the palace. Order him to leave, and go somewhere else, so that I may not see his face, and never to return." On hearing this the raja was greatly distressed. But what could he do? The rani had said, "If you permit him to remain, I shall die, and if you fulfil my wishes I shall live," and in his anxiety to save the life of his rani, he had bound himself by an oath before he knew what it was he would be required to do. After much consideration as to how he could best communicate the order to leave the palace to his son, he decided to write it on a sheet of paper and fix it, during his absence, to the door of his room. When the brothers returned, they found the paper placed there by the raja, and on reading it, were greatly troubled. After some time, during which Sit had been considering the position in which he found himself, he said to his brother, "You must remain, and I must go." On hearing his brother's words, Bosont's heart was filled with sorrow, and he replied, "Not so, I cannot see you go away alone. You have been guilty of no fault for which our parents could send you away. I cannot remain here alone. I will accompany you. We are children of the same mother, and we should not part." His brother replied, "Let us leave the house to-day. We can pass the night in some place close at hand." So they left their father's house, and concealed themselves in its vicinity. On the approach of evening they began to feel the pangs of hunger, and the younger said to the elder, "What shall we do? We have no food." After a minute's thought, the elder replied, "Although we have been sent adrift, we will take our elephants, and horses, and clothes, and money along with us." So when night had fallen, they entered the palace and brought out all that belonged to them, and at cock-crow, set forth on their journey. They travelled all day, and as the sun began to decline, they reached a dense jungle, and passing through it they came to a large city where they put up for the night. The city pleased them much, and they hired quarters in the Sarai. After they had gained a little acquaintance with their surroundings, Sit, attired in gorgeous apparel, and mounted on a splendid horse, rode every evening through the principal streets of the city. One evening the daughter of the raja of that country, from the roof of the palace, saw him ride past, and fell deeply in love with him. She immediately descended to her room, and feigning sickness, threw herself upon her couch. Her parents, on entering, found her weeping bitterly, and on enquiring the cause were informed by her attendants that she had been suddenly seized with a dangerous illness, the nature of which they did not know. The raja at once summoned the most famed physicians that could be found, to cure his daughter. One after another, however, failed to understand her complaint, and she grew worse daily. She was heard continually wailing, "I shall never recover; I shall die." After the doctors had retired baffled, she addressed her parents as follows; "You, who gave me life, listen to my entreaty. There is one expedient still, which if you will agree to put into execution, I shall recover, and be as well as formerly, and should you refuse to do as I say, and call it foolishness, then you shall never see my face again, I shall depart this life at once." On hearing these words, her parents said, "Tell us, what it is, we will surely act agreeably to your wishes." She replied, "Oh! father, promise me that you will carry them out without reserve." Her parents then promised with an oath, that they would do all she desired. Then she told her story, "Of late we have daily seen a young man in dazzling white apparel, riding and curveting his horse through the city; if you betroth me to that young prince, I shall enjoy my accustomed health again." On hearing this, her parents became greatly distressed, as they were averse to betrothing their daughter to a stranger of whom they knew nothing. After consulting together they said, "He comes this way in the evening, let us look out for him, and see what he is like." About sunset, Sit, mounted on his horse, rode in the direction of the palace. The raja had given orders to some of his attendants to arrest the man who, every evening dressed in white, rode past the palace. So, on his appearing, they laid hold of him and led him into the presence of the raja, who being pleased with his appearance, at once introduced him to his daughter's room. She, on beholding him, instantly became well, and that same evening the two were married. Bosont having charge of the property remained in the Sarai, while his brother went out riding. Sit not returning at his usual time, Bosont was alarmed and waited anxiously for his return. At length, being wearied, he fell asleep. During the night a gang of thieves entered his room, and began to carry off all his valuables. Bosont slept so soundly that they had time to take away everything save his bed-clothes. To obtain possession of these they had to lift him, on which he awoke and gave the alarm. The thieves beat him with their clubs till he was half dead; then, senseless and with a broken leg, they threw him into the dry bed of a river. In the morning his servants became aware of the robbery, and also that their master was missing. His groom found him some time after in the river bed, and carried him to a doctor who bound up his limb, and took care of him. He was soon well enough to move about, but doomed to halt through life. The raja of that country was very wealthy, and had ships on the sea. Whenever a ship left the port on its outward voyage, it was customary to carry a man on board, who, on the rising of a storm at sea, was cast over board to appease to wrath of the Spirit of the mighty Deep. Without such a victim on board, no ship could leave the harbour. Now, it so happened that one of the raja's vessels was about to sail to a foreign port, but no man suitable for the sacrifice could be obtained. At last the raja ordered them to take the lame man, whom he had seen limping about the city. He, not knowing the purpose they had in view in asking him to accompany them on their voyage, gladly embraced the opportunity of seeing foreign lands. No sooner was he on board than the ship began to move, and to obtain a better view he climbed up the mast, and sat on the top of it. In twelve days they reached a port. Bosont, however, did not decend from his elevated station, but continued gazing on the country lying around. The daughter of the raja of that city, while walking on the roof of the palace, enjoying the cool of the evening, saw Bosont seated on the ship's mast. She at once fell violently in love with him, and descending to her room, feigned sickness. Her parents called in the most famed physicians, but their skill was of no avail, the young lady's illness increased in intensity. At last, when her parents began to give up hope of saving her life, she said, "The doctors cannot do me any good, but if you will do as I direct you, I shall recover." They said, "Tell us what it is that we can do for you." She replied, "Before I can make it known to you, you must take oath that you will not seek to evade the performance of it." To this they agreed, and the princess said, "If you will betroth me to the man sitting on the top of the mast of the vessel in the harbour, I shall immediately regain my health." The raja despatched messengers to the ship, and had Bosont brought to the palace, and solemnized their marriage that same evening. A few days after the above occurrence, the ship was ready to set sail on her homeward voyage, so they took the lame man on board, his wife also following. After they had been a few days at sea, the vessel was in danger of foundering in a storm. The sailors searched for the victim, but he could nowhere be found. At last one of the crew looking up, spied him seated on the mast and climbing swiftly up, pushed him into the sea. His wife had brought a tumba with her, and seeing her husband in the sea, threw it to him. With this assistance he was able to swim to the vessel, and laying hold of the stern, followed swimming all the way to port. When the vessel was brought to anchor, he climbed up into it, and disguised himself as a fakir. The people of the city noticed him daily walking on the shore in front of the ship, and believed him to be in reality a fakir. One day the raja seeing Bosont's wife took a fancy to her, and caused her to be brought to his palace. She had apartments assigned to her in the best part of it, and was treated with great distinction. On the raja offering her marriage, she declined, saying, "Speak not to me of it." After several days the raja enquired, "Why do you still refuse to become my wife." She replied, "Ask the fakir who is always to be seen pacing the shore in front of a vessel lying in the harbour." The raja gave orders immediately to have the fakir brought to the palace. On his being ushered into his presence, the raja said, "What do you know regarding the woman, who on declining to be my wife, referred me to you for an explanation?" In reply Bosont related in the form of a fable, the history of Sit and himself, and also what befell him after they were parted from each other. Sit, who was now raja recognized his brother in the fakir before him, and falling on his neck, wept for joy. The two brothers continued ever after to live together. THE STORY OF A TIGER. A certain man had charge of a number of cattle. One day he took them to graze near a quagmire, and leaving them there went in search of jungle fruits. It so happened that one of the bullocks was browsing on the edge of the quagmire when a tiger came creeping stealthily up, and sprang upon it, but somehow or other missed his mark, and fell into the quagmire and there stuck fast. When the herd come to drive his cattle home, he found the tiger fast in the mud, and called a large number of people to come and see him. The tiger addressed those who came to gaze upon him as follows, "Oh men, pull me out. I am in great straits." They replied, "We will not pull you out even to save your life. You are a ravenous animal." The tiger said, "I will not eat you." So they pulled him out. When he was again on dry land, he said, "I will devour you, for it is my nature to do so." They replied, "Will you really eat us?" "Yes, I will," said the tiger. "Well," they rejoined, "if you will devour us, what can we do to prevent you? But let us first ask the opinion of some others as to whether it is right for you to eat us or not." So they requested the opinion of all the trees in the forest, and each said, "Human beings are all bad." On asking the Mohwa tree, it replied, "Men are not good. Behold every year I give them my flowers to eat, and my fruit from which to make oil. In the hot weather I give them shade, and on leaving, when they have rested, they give me a parting slash with their axes, therefore it is right to eat these people, as they return evil for good." So said all the trees. From this forest they went to another in which they found a cow to whom they said, "We are come to ask your opinion on a certain matter about which we are at variance. This tiger was up to the neck in a quagmire, and we pulled him out. Now he wishes to return evil for good. Is it right for him to do so?" The cow replied, "Yes, yes, I have heard what you have got to say. You human beings are not the correct thing. Behold me, how much I have contributed to the health and comfort of my master, yet he does not recognize my merit. Now that I am old, he has turned me out, and should I improve a little in condition, he will say, 'I will take this cow to the market and sell it. I will at least get a few pence for it.' Behold, when a man is well to do, he has many friends, but when he is poor, no one knows him. Verily, you are worthy to be devoured." The tiger then said to the men, "Well, have you heard all this? Are you convinced?" They said, "Hold on, let us ask one person more." So as they walked along they saw a jackal and called to him, "Oh uncle, stand still." The jackal said, "No I cannot wait, my companions, who are on their way to see the swinging festival, are far ahead of me, and I am hurrying to overtake them." They said to him, "Wait a little and settle this matter for us. We pulled this tiger out of a quagmire, and now he wishes to devour us." The jackal then said to the tiger, "Is this true? I cannot believe that a famed individual like yourself would be fool enough to jump into a quagmire. Come, shew me the place, and how it happened." So the tiger led him to the quagmire, and said, "This is the place from which I sprang, and this is how I did it," and he leaped into the quagmire. The jackal turning to the men, said, "What are you staring at? Pelt him with stones." So they all set to and stoned the tiger to death. STORY OF A LIZARD, A TIGER, AND A LAME MAN. Once upon a time in a certain jungle, a lizard and a tiger were fighting, and a lame man, who was tending goats near by, saw them. The tiger being beaten by the lizard was ashamed to own it, and coming to the lame man said, "Tell me which of us won." The lame man being in great fear lest the tiger should eat him, said, "You won." On another occasion the lizard was compelled to flee, and took refuge in an ant hill. The tiger pursued him, but not being able to get him out, sat down to watch. The lizard seeing his opportunity, crept stealthily up to his inveterate enemy, and climbing up his tail, fixed his teeth into his haunch, and held firmly on. The tiger felt the pain of the lizard's bite, but could not reach him to knock him off, so he ran to the lame man, and said, "Release me from this lizard." When he had caused the lizard to let go his grip, the tiger said, "Oh lame man, which of us won in the encounter?" The poor man in great fear said, "You won." The same scene was enacted daily for many days. The tiger always came to the lame man and said, "Knock off this lizard," and after he had done so, would say, "Which of us won?" The lame man invariably replied, "You won." This had happened so often that the lame man began to feel annoyed at having to tell a lie every day to please the tiger. So one day after an ignominious flight on the part of the tiger, he being, as usual, requested to give his opinion as to who won, said, "The lizard had the best of it." On hearing this the tiger became angry, and said, "I shall eat you, my fine fellow, because you say the lizard defeated me. Tell me where you sleep." The poor lame man on hearing the tiger threaten him thus, trembled with fear, and was silent. But the tiger pressed him. He said, "Tell at once, for I shall certainly devour you." The lame man replied, "I sleep in the wall press." When night fell, the tiger set off to eat the lame man, but after searching in the wall press failed to find him. In the morning the lame man led his goats out to graze, and again met the tiger, who addressed him as follows, "You are a great cheat. I did not find you in the wall press last night." The lame man replied, "How is it you did not find me? I was sleeping there." "No," said the tiger, "you were not, you have deceived me. Now, tell me truly where you sleep." "I sleep on a rafter," said the lame man. About midnight the tiger went again in search of him to eat him, but did not find him on the rafter, so he returned home. In the morning the lame man as usual led his goats out to graze, and again encountered the tiger, who said to him, "How now! Where do you sleep? I could not find you last night." The lame man rejoined, "That is strange, I was there all the same." The tiger said, "You are a consummate liar. Now tell me plainly where you sleep at night, for I shall without doubt eat you." The lame man replied, "I sleep in the fire-place." Again the tiger went at night, but could not find him. Next morning he met the lame man, and said to him, "No more tricks, tell me where you sleep." He, thrown off his guard, said, "In the gongo." [4] The tiger then withdrew to his den to wait till night came on, and the lame man, cursing his indiscretion, with a heavy heart, drove his goats homewards. Having made his charge safe for the night, he sat down feeling very miserable. He refused the food that was set before him, and continued bewailing his hard lot. In the hope of inducing him to eat, they gave him some mohwa wrapped in a sal leaf. This also failed to tempt him to eat; but he carried it with him when he crept into the gongo to sleep. At night the tiger came and lifting up the gongo felt it heavy, and said, "Well, are you inside?" He replied, "Yes, I am." So the tiger carried off the gongo with the lame man in it. By the time the tiger had gone a considerable distance, the lame man became hungry and said within himself, "I shall have to die in the end, but in the meantime I will appease my hunger." So he opened his small parcel of mohwa, and the dry leaf crackled as he did so. The noise frightened the tiger and he said, "What is it you are opening?" The lame man replied, "It is yesterday's lizard." "Hold! hold!" exclaimed the tiger, "Do not let him out yet, let me get clear away first." The lame man said, "Not so, I will not wait, but will let him out at once." The tiger being terrified at the prospect of again meeting his mortal enemy, the redoubtable lizard, threw down the gongo and fled, calling out, "I will not eat you. You have got the lizard with you." In this way the lame man by means of the lizard saved his life. THE STORY OF A SIMPLETON. There was once a certain simpleton who had never seen a horse, but had heard that there was such an animal, and that men rode on his back. His curiosity was greatly excited, and he went here and there searching for a horse, so that he might ride on its back. On his way he fell in with a wag, and asked him, what horses were like, where they could be found, and whence were they produced. The wag replied, "They are very large, they are to be had at the weekly market, and they are hatched from eggs." He then asked, "What is the price of the eggs?" The other replied, "Price! They are cheap, one pice each." So one day he went to the market and bought four eggs which he saw exposed for sale, and brought them home with him. He then made preparations for a lengthened absence from his house, and started for the jungle, taking with him rice, a cooking pot and fire, to get the eggs hatched. Having reached the jungle, he placed the eggs to hatch in what turned out to be a tiger's den, and then went some distance off and sat down. After a short time he went to have a look at the eggs, and found one was missing. He was greatly distressed, at having as he fancied lost his horse, and cried out, "It has hatched, and run away somewhere. But what has happened, has happened. What can I do? I'll look out for the next one when it hatches." He then went to cook his rice, and returning after some time missed another of the eggs. He was very much grieved over the loss of the two eggs, and mourning his misfortune, cried, "Where have the two gone, after they came out of the shell? There still, however, remain two eggs." So saying, he returned to finish his cooking. After a few minutes' interval, he went to have a look at the eggs, and saw that another had disappeared; only one remained. His grief at the loss of three horses, was intense. He cried out, "Oh! where shall I find them? Three horses have been hatched, and they have all run away." He then went to where his cooking had been performed, and quickly ate his rice, and returned in all haste to look at his egg. It too was gone. On seeing this, his sorrow and disappointment were acute. He bemoaned his ill luck as follows, "After all the trouble I was at to procure my eggs, they have all hatched, and the horses are lost. But what is, must be. I shall relieve my mind by taking a chew of tobacco." After putting the tobacco into his mouth he noticed the tiger's den, and said, "It is in here, the horses have gone." So he went and broke from a tree a long stick with which he tried to poke his horses out. For some time his labours met with no reward, but at last he succeeded in forcing the tiger out of his den. Just as he was coming out, the simpleton by some chance or other got astride of his back, and called out, "At last I have found a horse." His delight was boundless. But the tiger would not go in the direction of his rider's house, but kept going further into the jungle. The simpleton then struck him about the head and ears saying, "As ghur ghur, as ghur ghur;" [5] nevertheless the tiger plunged deeper into the jungle. At last he bolted into a thicket of trailing plants, where he unseated the simpleton. The tiger having got rid of his rider fled. Afterwards he met a jackal who said to him, "Where away, in such hot haste?" "Uh!" he said, "how much of it can I tell you! I have been greatly harassed, and distressed by As ghur ghur. It was with great difficulty I succeeded in giving him the slip, and now I am fleeing for dear life." The jackal said, "Come along and shew him to me, and I shall soon eat him up." The tiger replied, "Oh dear! no. I cannot go. If he finds me again he will do for me altogether." "Nonsense," said the jackal, "lead me to where he is, and I shall devour him." The tiger was persuaded, and led the way, and the jackal followed. After some little time they met a bear, who said, "Where are you two going?" The jackal gave answer, "This person has somewhere seen As ghur ghur and I am saying to him, 'Take me to where he is, and I shall eat him,' but he will not push ahead." Then the bear said, "Come let us all go together, and I shall eat him up." The tiger said, "I will go no further." The jackal then said, "Listen to me, I will put you upon a plan. Let us hold on by each other's tails, in this way you will have no cause to fear any evil." This suggestion pleased them well, and they cried out, "Yes, let us do that. You have hit upon a first rate expedient." Then the bear took hold of the tiger's tail, and the jackal that of the bear, and in this way they pursued their journey. But just as they drew near the thicket in which the simpleton had been left, the tiger exclaimed, "Look there, he is coming towards us," and being terribly frightened, fled at his utmost speed dragging the bear and jackal after him tearing the skin from off their bodies on the rough stones and gravel. At length the jackal cried out, "Hold on uncle, hold on uncle, you have rubbed all the skin off my body." But he would not halt, but kept dashing on through wood and brake, dragging them after him, until the bear's tail broke, and the jackal was released. His body by this time was all raw flesh, and he was swollen into a round mass. However, he managed to pick himself up, and run for his life. Afterwards they met in with a pack of wild dogs who said, "Hulloo! what's up, that you are fleeing in such a plight?" They replied, "We are fleeing from As ghur ghur." "Where is he?" said they, "We will eat him." The tiger said, "There just in front of you, where you see the dark spot in the forest." So they went in the direction indicated, and while they were yet some distance off, they saw the simpleton standing in the shade of the trees. He also saw them, and being afraid hid himself in a hollow tree. On coming up to the tree in which he was, they surrounded it, and one of their number essayed to poke him out of his hiding place with his tail. The simpleton, however, taking hold of it twisted it round his hands, and pulled with all his might. The pain caused by his tail being pulled, caused the wild dog to grin. On seeing this, one of his companions said, "Oh! Brother, wherefore do you grin." He said, "I have got hold of him, and I am smiling with pleasure." The simpleton from within the tree continued to pull, till the tail of the wild dog broke, and he fell to the ground with a thud. The others on looking at him noticed that he had lost his tail. So they all became panic stricken, and fled from the place with all possible speed. The simpleton took up his residence in that part of the jungle in which the above occurred. He is said to be the ancestor of the Bir hors, or jungle Santals. A THIEF AND A TIGER. In a certain country there lived a very wealthy man whose cattle grazed on a wide plain. One day a tiger noticed them, and so did three thieves. At night the tiger came to where they were lying, and so did the three thieves, but the tiger arrived first. The night was pitch dark, and the cows getting frightened fled to their owner's premises, and all entered the cattle shed. When the tiger saw the cattle flee he ran after them, and entered the shed along with them. The thieves, coming to where they expected to find the cattle, and not seeing them, also went to the cattle shed; but the people of the house not having yet retired to rest, they hid themselves in the vicinity. When all became still, they entered the cattle shed, and began feeling for the largest and fattest oxen. Two of the thieves, each finding one to his mind, drove them away. But one man being more difficult to please than his neighbours continued to go from one to another groping for a good fat one. In this way he laid his hands on the tiger, it seemed a fat one, but lest there should be one still fatter, he left him for a little. However, as he did not find one better than the tiger he returned to him, and felt him all over again. He was without doubt the fattest in the shed, so he drove him out. On reaching the open field, the tiger went in the direction of the jungle, and his driver had great difficulty in getting him to go the road he wished. In this way,--the tiger going one direction, and the man pulling him another,--they spent the night. At cock-crow the thief became aware, that it was a tiger he had been contending with in the dark, and not an ox. He then said to the tiger, "It is you then, whom I have taken possession of." He then released the tiger, who fled to the jungle at full speed. The thief having been awake all night felt tired, and lying down in the shade of a ridge of a rice field to rest, fell asleep. The tiger as he ran encountered a jackal who exclaimed, "Ho! Ho! uncle, where are you off to, at such a break-neck pace?" The tiger replied, "I am going in this direction. A mite kept me awake all night, I am fleeing through fear of him." The jackal then said, "It is very strange, uncle, that you did not vanquish him. We eat such as he. Tell me where he is, and I shall soon snap him up." The tiger said, "He is over in the direction of those rice fields, asleep somewhere." The jackal then went in search of him, and soon found him asleep in the shade of a ridge of a rice field. He then went all round him reconnoitring, and when he had completed the circuit exclaimed, "The tiger said he was a mite, but he turns out to be of immense size, I cannot eat him all myself. I will gather my friends together to assist me, and then we shall devour him in no time." So he sat down with his back towards the sleeping thief, so near that his tail touched his neck, and began to yell as only a hungry jackal can. The noise awoke the sleeper, and seeing the jackal sitting so near to him, he quietly caught him by the tail, and springing on to his feet swung him round and round above his head, and then flung him from him. The jackal was severely stunned, but picking himself up, fled as fast as his legs could carry him. After he had gone some little distance he met a bear, who said, "Where away in such hot haste?" He made answer, "Uh! What can I tell you more than that that barren tiger grossly deceived me. He told me he was a mite, I went to see him and found he was a ghur pank, [6] and without doubt he ghur panked me." The bear then said, "Oh! I'll eat him. Tell me where he is." The jackal said, "You will find him over in these rice fields." So the bear went to find him and eat him. When still some distance off he spied him laying asleep, and was greatly delighted, exclaiming, "My belly will be swollen with eating him before long." The thief accidentally lifted his head, and saw the bear coming straight for him, so he jumped up and ran to the nearest tree into which he climbed. The bear saw him, and went up after him, and tried to get hold of him, but he jumped from one branch to another as the bear followed him. After this had gone on for some time, it so happened that the bear missed his footing and fell heavily to the ground. The thief immediately jumped on to his back. The bear was frightened, and getting to his feet fled as fast as he could; the thief clasped him tightly round the neck, saying, "If I let go my hold he will eat me." The bear of course ran to the jungle, where the thief was caught by the branches of the trees, and dragged off his back. He did not return to the rice fields to sleep, as he feared some other animal might come to eat him, but went to his own home. As the bear fled, he again met the jackal who asked him, "Well! did you eat him?" The bear replied, "You Sir, are a great cheat, you told me he was ghur pank. He is kara upar chap." [7] The two quarrelled over the matter, and the bear tried to catch the jackal to eat him, but he managed to escape. THE MAGIC FIDDLE Once upon a time there lived seven brothers and a sister. The brothers were married, but their wives did not do the cooking for the family. It was done by their sister. The wives for this reason bore their sister-in-law much ill will, and at length they combined together to oust her from the office of cook and general provider, so that one of themselves might obtain it. They said, "She does not go out to the fields to work, but remains quietly at home, and yet she has not the meals ready at the proper time." They then called upon their Bad Bonga, [8] and vowing vows unto him they secured his good will and assistance; then they said to the Bad Bonga, "At mid-day when our sister-in-law goes to bring water, cause it thus to happen, that on seeing her pitcher the water shall vanish, and again slowly re-appear. In this way she will be delayed. May the water not flow into her pitcher, and you keep the maiden as your own." At noon when she went to bring water, it suddenly dried up before her, and she began to weep. Then after a while the water began slowly to rise. When it reached her ankles she tried to fill her pitcher, but it would not go under the water. Being frightened she began to wail as follows;-- "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my ankles, Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my ankles, Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip, Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip." The water continued to rise until it reached her knee, when she began to wail as follows;-- "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my knee, Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my knee, Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip, Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip." The water continued to rise, and when it reached her waist, she wailed as follows;-- "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my waist, "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my waist, "Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip, "Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip." The water in the tank continued to rise, and when it reached her breast, she wailed as follows;-- "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my breast, "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my breast, "Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not fill, "Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not fill." The water still rose, and when it reached her neck she wailed as follows;-- "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my neck, "Oh! my brother, the water reaches to my neck, "Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip, "Still, Oh! my brother, the pitcher will not dip." At length the water became so deep that she felt herself to be drowning, then she wailed as follows;-- "Oh! my brother, the water measures a man's height, "Oh! my brother, the water measures a man's height, "Oh! my brother, the pitcher begins to fill, "Oh! my brother, the pitcher begins to fill." The pitcher filled with water, and along with it she sank and was drowned. The bonga then transformed her into a bonga like himself, and carried her off. After a time she re-appeared as a bamboo growing on the embankment of the tank in which she had been drowned. When the bamboo had grown to an immense size, a Jugi, who was in the habit of passing that way, seeing it, said to himself, this will make a splendid fiddle. So one day he brought an axe to cut it down; but when he was about to begin, the bamboo exclaimed, "Do not cut at the root, cut higher up." When he lifted his axe to cut high up the stem, the bamboo cried out, "Do not cut near the top, cut at the root." When the Jugi again prepared himself to cut at the root as requested, the bamboo said, "Do not cut at the root, cut higher up;" and when he was about to cut higher up, it again called out to him, "Do not cut high up, cut at the root." The Jugi by this time was aware that a bonga was trying to frighten him, so becoming angry he cut down the bamboo at the root, and taking it away made a fiddle out of it. The instrument had a superior tone and delighted all who heard it. The Jugi carried it with him when he went a-begging, and through the influence of its sweet music he returned home every evening with a full wallet. He now and again visited, when on his rounds, the house of the bonga girl's brothers, and the strains of the fiddle affected them greatly. Some of them were moved even to tears, for the fiddle seemed to wail as one in bitter anguish. The elder brother wished to purchase it, and offered to support the Jugi for a whole year, if he would consent to part with his magical instrument. The Jugi, however, knew its value, and refused to sell it. It so happened that the Jugi sometime after went to the house of a village chief, and after playing a tune or two on his fiddle asked something to eat. They offered to buy his fiddle and promised a high price for it, but he rejected all such overtures, his fiddle being to him his means of livelihood. When they saw that he was not to be prevailed upon, they gave him food and a plentiful supply of liquor. Of the latter he partook so freely that he presently became intoxicated. While he was in this condition, they took away his fiddle, and substituted their own old one for it. When the Jugi recovered, he missed his instrument, and suspecting that it had been stolen requested them to return it to him. They denied having taken it, so he had to depart, leaving his fiddle behind him. The chief's son being a musician, used to play on the Jugi's fiddle, and in his hands the music it gave forth delighted the ears of all within hearing. When all the household were absent at their labours in the fields, the bonga girl emerged from the bamboo fiddle, and prepared the family meal. Having partaken of her own share, she placed that of the chiefs son under his bed, and covering it up to keep off the dust, re-entered the fiddle. This happening every day the other members of the household were under the impression that some female neighbour of theirs was in this manner showing her interest in the young man, so they did not trouble themselves to find out how it came about. The young chief, however, was determined to watch, and see which of his lady friends was so attentive to his comfort. He said in his own mind, "I will catch her to-day, and give her a sound beating. She is causing me to be ashamed before the others." So saying, he hid himself in a corner in a pile of firewood. In a short time the girl came out of the bamboo fiddle, and began to dress her hair. Having completed her toilet, she cooked the meal of rice as usual, and having partaken herself, she placed the young man's portion under his bed, as she was wont, and was about to enter the fiddle again, when he running out from his hiding place caught her in his arms. The bonga girl exclaimed, "Fie! Fie! you may be a Dom, or you may be a Hadi." [9] He said, "No. But from to-day, you and I are one." So they began lovingly to hold converse with each other. When the others returned home in the evening, they saw that she was both a human being and a bonga, and they rejoiced exceedingly. Through course of time the bonga girl's family became very poor, and her brothers on one occasion came to the chief's house on a visit. The bonga girl recognised them at once, but they did not know who she was. She brought them water on their arrival, and afterwards set cooked rice before them. Then sitting down near them, she began in wailing tones to upbraid them on account of the treatment she had been subjected to by their wives. She related all that had befallen her, and wound up by saying, "It is probable that you knew it all, and yet you did not interfere to save me." After a time she became reconciled to her sisters-in-law, and no longer harboured enmity in her mind against them, for the injury they had done her. GUMDA, THE HERO. There was once a certain fatherless lad named Gumda. His occupation was to tend the raja's goats. He, and his mother lived in a small house at the end of the street in which the raja's palace was situated. The raja's mahout was in the habit of taking his elephant along that street, and every time it passed, it rubbed itself against the wall of Gumda's house. One day at noon it so happened that Gumda was at home when the elephant was being taken to the tank to drink, and as usual he rubbed his side against the house as he passed. Gumda was incensed with the elephant for thus destroying his house, and coming out quickly, said to the mahout, "What although it is the raja's elephant! I could take hold of any person's elephant by the trunk, and throw it across seven seas." The elephant understood what Gumda had said, and he refused to go down into the water, and would not even drink. On being brought home he would not eat his grain, nor would he so much as look at water. He continued thus so long that he began to grow lean and weak. The mahout knew that it was Gumda's curse that had so affected his charge. The raja one day noticing the altered condition of his elephant, said to the mahout, "Why has the elephant become so emaciated?" The mahout replied, "Oh! raja, one day at noon Gumda abused him. He said, 'If you were not the raja's elephant, I would take you by the trunk and throw you across seven seas.' 'Every day,' he said, 'he rubs himself against my house.' Since then the elephant has refused his food and water." The raja, on hearing this, commanded that Gumda be brought before him. The messenger found him at home, and brought him into the presence of the raja who asked him, "Is it true, Gumda, that you said you would throw the elephant as you would a stone?" Gumda replied, "Yes, it is quite true that I said so. The elephant every time it passes along the street rubs itself against the wall of my house, and being angry, I said these words. Now, do with me whatsoever you please." The raja marvelled greatly on hearing Gumda's reply, and addressing him said, "Now my lad, prove your words, for prove them you must. If you succeed in thus throwing an elephant, I shall present you with a large estate." The raja appointed the tenth day following as that on which Gumda should wrestle with the elephant; and he, after receiving permission from the raja, returned home. The raja in the interval caused proclamation to be made to all his subjects, ordering them to be present on the day when Gumda was to meet the elephant in mortal combat. On the morning of the appointed day Gumda was found baking bread. As he did not appear punctually in the arena, the raja sent a messenger to bring him. On arriving at Gumda's house, he found him baking bread. He said to him, "Come along, the raja has asked for you." Gumda said, "Wait a little till I partake of some refreshment." He invited the messenger to be seated, and he also sat down as if to eat, but instead of eating the bread, he began to throw it at the man, and continued doing so until he had buried him under eight maunds of loaves. The poor fellow cried out, "Oh Gumda, come and release me, of a truth I am almost crushed to death under this heap of bread." He removed the bread from above him, and he immediately returned to the raja. As he was leaving the house he saw 12 maunds of cooked rice, evidently intended for Gumda's dinner. Coming into the presence of the raja he said, "Oh! raja, I saw in Gumda's house twelve maunds of cooked rice, and he threw a loaf of bread weighing eight maunds at me, which almost crushed me to death. It is quite possible that he may win." At length Gumda came bringing with him a sledge hammer weighing twelve maunds, and a shield of the same weight. The contest was to take place on a plain sufficiently large to accommodate an immense number of spectators. Then the fight began. The two combatants attacked each other so furiously that they raised such a cloud of dust as to completely conceal them from the onlookers. The elephant could not long sustain the unequal combat, and when he was beaten, Gumda seized him by the trunk, and threw him over the seas. Owing to the darkness caused by the clouds of dust, none of the thousands present noticed the elephant as he went, flying over their heads high up in the air. When the dust subsided, Gumda was found sitting alone, the elephant was nowhere to be seen. The raja called the victor to him, and said, "What have you done with the elephant?" Gumda replied "I flung him early in the forenoon over seven seas." Hearing his answer and not seeing the elephant, they all marvelled greatly. The raja then said to Gumda, "Well, you have thrown the elephant somewhere. You must now go in search of its bones." Gumda went home and said to his mother, "Make up a parcel of food for me, I am going to find the elephant's bones." She complied with his request and he set out. As he hurried along intent upon his quest, he found a man fishing with a Palmyra palm tree as a rod, and a full grown elephant as a bait. On seeing him Gumda exclaimed, "You are indeed a great hero." The man replied, "I am no hero, the widow's son Gumda is the great hero, for did not he fling the raja's elephant across seven seas?" Gumda said, "I am he." The fisherman said," I will go with you." Gumda replied, "Come along!" As Gumda and his attendant went on their way, they came to a field in which a number of men were hoeing, and their master, to shield them from the heat of the sun, stood holding over them, as an umbrella, a large Pepul tree. [10] Gumda seeing him said, "You are a hero and no mistake." The man replied, "No indeed, I am no hero. Gumda, the widow's son, threw the raja's elephant across seven seas. He is the hero." Gumda said, "I am he." "Then," said the man, "I also will go with you." "Follow me," said Gumda, and the three proceeded on their way. As they journeyed they fell in with two men, who were raising water from a tank for irrigating purposes by merely singing. When Gumda saw them, he exclaimed, "You two are heroes indeed." They answered, "What do you see heroic in us? There is one hero, Gumda by name, he threw a raja's elephant across seven seas." Gumda said, "I am he." The men exclaimed, "We also will follow you." Gumda said, "Follow." And the five men went forth to search for the elephant's bones. On and on they went until they reached the sea, which they crossed, and entered the primeval forest beyond. Selecting a suitable place they encamped, and began the search for the elephant's bones. The first day the fisherman was left in the camp to cook the food, while the others went out into the forest. Near by a certain jugi raja resided in a cave in a rock. He came to the camp just as the food was cooked, and said to the fisherman, "Give me some rice to eat." He declined, and the jugi raja then said, "Will you give me rice, or will you fight with me?" He replied, "I have prepared this food with difficulty and prefer fighting to giving it up." So they fought, and the jugi raja was victor. He laid a heavy stone on the breast of the cook, and then devoured all the food. There had been twelve maunds of rice prepared, and he left none. After a long time he released his victim, and then went his way. Being released the fisherman set about preparing more food, but before it was ready, his companions returned and seeing the pot still on the fire, they enquired why he had not made haste with his cooking. He replied, "I have not been idle, I have spent all the time in cooking." He did not tell them about the jugi raja having been at the camp. The next day another of the company remained as cook, while the others went out to search in the forest for the elephant's bones. The jugi raja again visited the camp, and the scene of the previous day was re-enacted. But he also did not speak of the visit of the jugi raja to the others when they returned. In this way the jugi raja encountered each in turn till only Gumda was left, and he remained in the camp to cook. When he had got the rice cooked, the jugi raja made his appearance and said, "Will you fight with me, or will you give up the food?" Gumda replied, "I will not give you the food. I have spent much time in cooking it, and when those who have gone in search of the elephant's bones return, what shall I set before them, if I give it to you now? You have played this trick every day, and have put my companions to much trouble, but to-day we have met." So they fought. Gumda overpowered the jugi raja, and killed him with the stone he used to put upon the breast of those whom he vanquished. He then espoused the jugi raja's wife, and took possession of his kingdom. Gumda's companions held him in great awe, because each in turn had been conquered by the jugi raja, but Gumda had experienced little difficulty in putting him to death. Gumda became raja of that country, and when he had settled his affairs, he sent for his mother to come and reside with him. The raja, whom Gumda had previously served, sought his friendship, and withdrew his command to Gumda to search for the elephant's bones until he found them. The prowess of Gumda caused him to deprecate his anger. He said, "If I offend him, he will kill me as he did the jugi raja, and take my wife and kingdom, as he did his." LIPI, AND LAPRA. Once upon a time there were seven brothers. At first they were very poor, but afterwards they became comparatively rich, and were in position to lay out a little money at usury. The affairs of the youngest prospered most, so that before long he became the wealthiest of them all. Each of the seven brothers planted fruit trees, and every day after they returned from their work, before they sat down to meat, they watered them. In process of time all the trees flowered, but the flowers on the eldest brother's trees withered and dropped off the day they appeared. The trees of the other brothers failed to ripen their fruit, but those of the youngest brother were laden with delicious fruit which ripened to perfection. Five of the brothers said to him, "You are very fortunate in having such a splendid crop;" but the eldest brother was envious of his good fortune, and resolved to be revenged upon him. The youngest brother brought up two puppies, whom he named Lipi and Lapra. They turned out good hunting dogs, and by their aid their master used to keep the family larder well supplied. The others were pleased to see so much game brought to the house. One day they said to him, "Take us also to where you get your large game." To this he agreed, and they accompanied him to his usual hunting ground. Game was plentiful, but they could kill nothing, although every time he shot an arrow he brought down his animal. Five of his brothers praised him for his skill, and accuracy of aim, but the eldest brother, not having succeeded in bagging anything himself, envied him still more, and was confirmed in his desire for revenge. It so happened that one day all the brothers, with the exception of the eldest and the youngest, went out to their work. The eldest brother finding himself alone with his youngest brother proposed that they should go together to the hill for the purpose of procuring fibre to make ropes. He said, "Come let us go to the hill to cut lar." [11] His brother replied, "Come, let us set out." He, however, wished to take his dogs with him, but his brother said, "Why should you tire them by taking them so far? Leave them behind." But he replied, "I shall not go, unless you allow me to take them with me. How shall we be able to bring home venison if they do not accompany us? They may kill some game on the way." As he insisted, he was permitted to do as he desired, and they set out for the hill. As they went on their way they came to a spring, and the elder said, "Tie up the two dogs here. I know all this forest, and there is no game to be found in it." The younger was averse to leaving his dogs behind him, but as his brother seemed determined he should do so, he tied them with a stout rope to a tree. His brother said, "See that you make them secure, so that they may not break loose and run away, and be lost." A low hill lay between them, and the high one on which the trees grew which yielded the lar. This they surmounted, and descending into the valley that divided them began the ascent, and soon reached the place where their work was to be. They soon cut and peeled sufficient lar, and sitting down twisted it into strong ropes. Just as they had prepared to return home, the elder brother seized the younger, and bound him with the ropes they had made. He then grasped his sickle with the intention of putting him to death. The helpless young man thought of his dogs, and in a loud voice wailed as follows;-- Come, come, Lipi and Lapra, Cross the low hill On to the slope of the high. He called them again and again. The dogs heard the voice, and struggled to get loose, and at length, by a great effort, they succeeded in breaking the ropes with which they were bound, and ran in the direction from which the sound proceeded. Now and again the cries ceased, and they stood still until they again heard them, when they ran as before. Having reached the valley that separated the two hills, they could no longer hear the wailing as before, and they were greatly perplexed. They ran hither and thither, hoping to catch it again, but not doing so they directed their course to the large hill, on reaching the foot of which it again became audible. They now recognized the voice of their master, and ran rapidly forward. When the elder brother saw the dogs approaching, he quickly aimed a blow with the sickle at his younger brother's head, but he, jerking aside, escaped. Before there was time for him to strike again, the dogs had arrived, and their master hounded them upon his assailant and they quickly tore him to pieces. They then bit through the ropes with which his brother had bound him, and set him at liberty. He then returned home accompanied by his dogs, and when they enquired of him where his brother was, he replied, "He left me to follow a deer, I cannot say what direction he took. We did not meet again." He wept as he related this, and they enquired, "Why do you weep?" He said, "My two dogs lay down on the ground, and howled, and fear possesses me that some wild beast has devoured my brother." The next day a party went in search of him, and found him as the dogs had left him. When they saw him lying torn and bloody, they said, "Some wild beast has done this." They brought the body home, and committed it to the flames of the funeral pile, and sorrowfully performed all the ceremonies usual on such occasions. After the death of the elder brother, they all lived together in peace and harmony. THE STORY OF LELHA. I. There once lived a certain raja, who had three wives. The two elder had two sons each, and the younger only one, whose name was Lelha. [12] The four sons of the first two wives were very friendly with each other, being seldom separate, but they despised Lelha, and never permitted him to join them in any of their pastimes or sports. The raja had a plot of ground set apart for a flower garden, but there was nothing in it. One day a certain Jugi came to him, and said, "Oh! raja, if you fill your garden with all kinds of flowering plants, your whole city will appear enchanting." Having said this, the Jugi went to his home. The raja was greatly affected by what the Jugi had said, and was immediately seized with a fit of the sulks. There was an apartment in the palace set apart for the exclusive use of those who happened to be in that state of mind. Such an one shut himself up in this chamber until the fit wore off, or until he was persuaded to be himself again. The raja refused his evening meal, and as was his wont, when in this frame of mind, retired to the sulking apartment, and lay down. The two elder ranis having been informed of what had occurred, hasted to the raja, and said, "Oh! raja, why are you sulking?" He replied, "This morning a Jugi came to me and said, that if I planted flowering shrubs in my garden the whole city would appear enchanting. If any one will do this work for me, I will rise, if not, I shall remain here." The ranis then addressed him thus, "Oh! raja, rise up, and eat and drink." The raja replied, "Let the young men come to me, I will do as you desire." The two ranis then left, and calling their sons, sent them to their father. Coming into the presence of the raja they said, "Wherefore father are you sulking?" The raja replied, "If you plant flowers in my flower garden I shall be comforted, and shall leave my couch." They said, "Is it on this account you are distressed? We shall cause the garden to be filled with flowers in a short time." On receiving this assurance the raja left his bed, and partook of food, and was refreshed. Lelha's mother now appeared on the scene, and addressing the raja, said, "Wherefore, raja are you sulky?" He replied, "Who told you I was sulky?" She replied, "A shopkeeper gave me the information." Then the raja got angry, and ordered her to leave, but she said, "If you do not tell me why you are sulking I will not depart, am not I also your humble maidservant? Unless you tell me, I will not go, I will die here rather than leave." The raja relented, and related to her all the words of the Jugi. She then returned home. Her son Lelha entered the house soon after her arrival. He had been engaged in some field sports, and being wearied and hungry, said to his mother, "Give me some cooked rice." She was annoyed with him and said, "Although the raja is ill, your first cry is for boiled rice." Lelha on hearing this went to his father, and enquired what was wrong. But the raja flying into a rage scolded him, saying, "Go away Lelha. What do you want here? Never come near me again. Did not I build a house for your mother and you at the extreme end of the street, away from here? Be off, or I shall beat you." To which Lelha replied, "Oh! father raja, am not I also a son of yours? Let me be foolish or otherwise, still, I am your son, and unless you inform me of what has grieved you, I shall die rather than leave this." Then the raja told him also. He said, "It is because I do not see flowers in the garden." "Oh!" said Lelha, "Is that what distresses you?" He then left. The raja's four elder sons caused all manner of flowering shrubs and trees to be planted in the garden, and in a short time it was in a blaze of colour, so much so, that the whole city was as if lighted thereby. Just at this time, when every tree, shrub and plant was covered with blossom another Jugi, named Koema Jugi, came to the city and said to one and another, "You, the citizens of this city, are covering yourselves with renown, but if you attach hiras [13] and manis [14] to the branches, you will add renown to renown." The Jugi's words reached the raja, and he was so much affected by them, that he immediately began to sulk, and on being questioned by his two ranis, he replied, "Do you not remember the words of the Koema Jugi?" They said, "Yes, we remember. He said, 'if you place hiras and manis in this garden the whole country will be resplendent'." "On that account then, I am sulking, and if I do not see hiras and manis, I shall not partake of any food." At the raja's words the two ranis returned sorrowfully to their apartments. At that moment their four sons entered the house and asked for food. The ranis were annoyed, and said, "The raja, your father, is sulking, and you must have food and drink." On learning their father's state the youths were distressed on his account, and went to him weeping, and enquired why he was sulking. He related to them the words of Koema Jugi, and added, "Unless I see hiras and manis attached to the branches of the trees in my flower garden, I shall not rise from my couch." His four sons replied, "Is it for this reason you are grieving? We will search for, and bring them, and if we fail, then sulk again, and refuse your food, and die of hunger, and we will not prevent you, only listen to us this time and get up." The raja was persuaded to rise, and having partaken of food he was refreshed. II. The raja had planted flowering shrubs in his garden, but the Indarpuri Sadoms [15] ate up all the flowers as they appeared, and so he again began to sulk. He said, "I planted bushes, but I see no flowers. What reason is there for my remaining alive?" And going to the sulking chamber he lay down, and as usual refused to eat. Then there was confusion in the household, and running hither and thither. The two ranis went to him, but he was annoyed, and ordered them to leave, saying, "I will not rise, by your telling me," so they returned weeping, each to her own apartment. Just then their four sons returned from hunting, and demanded food. Their mothers were annoyed, and said, "You young gentlemen are hungry, and must have food, that the raja is sulking is nothing to you, if you are fasting." On hearing this the sons went to their father, and enquired, "Oh! father, wherefore are you sulking?" The raja replied, "Oh! my sons, I am sulking because I see no flowers in my garden. Unless I see flowers in my garden, I shall not remain in this world." His sons replied, "Give us three days, and if at the end of that time you see no flowers, then you may sulk." He was persuaded to rise, and having bathed, and partaken of food, he was refreshed. Just then Lelha arrived, and addressing the raja said, "Oh! raja, what ails you?" The raja on seeing Lelha was angry, and scolded him severely. He said, "Has Lelha come here? Drive him away at once." Lelha left without uttering another word. After three days the raja began again to sulk, because there were still no flowers to be seen in his garden. The Indarpuri Sadoms came about mid-night and ate up all the buds. The raja's four elder sons when watching could not remain awake for one hour, and so the Indarpuri Sadoms came nightly and devoured all the buds that should have burst into flower in the morning, so that not one solitary blossom was to be seen. For this reason the raja again began to sulk, and no one dared to say anything to him. At this juncture Lelha's mother went from her own house to a shop to buy rice. The shopkeeper refused to supply her. He said, "The raja is sulking, and she comes here to buy rice. I will not weigh it, so go." Lelha's mother went hastily home, and encountered Lelha returning from a stroll. Lelha asked for food. He said, "Oh! mother, give me cooked rice quickly." She rebuked him, and said, "The raja is sulking. The shopkeeper refused to give me rice, how can I give you food? I am a prey to grief, and here my young gentleman is hungry. Go to the raja." Lelha did as his mother ordered him, and went to the apartment where the raja was, and called several times, "Oh! father, get up." At length the raja asked, "Who are you? Do not irritate me. Go away at once." Lelha replied, "I am your humble slave and son, Lelha." His father said, "Wherefore have you come here? Lelha, Go home, or else I shall beat you. What do you want here? If you go, go at once, if not, I shall have you chastised." Lelha replied, "Because you, Oh! raja, are sulking. The shopkeeper in the bazaar refused to sell to my mother rice, saying, 'something is amiss with the raja, I cannot let you have it.'" The raja then said, "Go, and bring the shopkeeper here." To which Lelha replied, "Why are you sulking? If you do not tell me, it were better for me to die here. I cannot leave you. I have come here fasting, not having eaten anything to-day." The raja said, "Your four brothers have not been able to do anything, and what can I hope from telling you about it, Lelha?" Lelha replied, "It is still possible that I may accomplish something, but although I should not, yet I am a son of yours. Do tell me. If you die, I shall die also. We will depart this life together. I cannot return home." The raja then thought within himself, I will tell him, and let him go. If I do not do so, Lelha may die along with me. Then addressing Lelha, he said, "It is nothing child, only I see no flowers in my garden, and therefore I am sulking. Although your four brothers watched three nights, still I see no flowers." Lelha then said, "If my brothers watched three nights, see me watch one." The raja replied, "Very good my son, let us leave this apartment." The raja went to bathe, and Lelha going to the shopkeeper bought several kinds of grain, which he carried home and gave to his mother, saying, "Roast a seer of each, and cook some rice for me. I have succeeded in persuading my father to rise. He has bathed and dined, and is refreshed. He was sulking because he can see no flowers in his garden. It was with great difficulty that I prevailed upon him to get up." His mother said, "What does my Lord want with roasted grain?" Lelha replied, "Let me do with it as I chose, you prepare it. I will take it with me at night when I go to watch in the flower garden." His mother said, "Have you forgotten your brothers' threats to beat you?" Lelha replied, "My brothers may beat me, but no other person. What help is there for it?" At nightfall, Lelha, having supped, tied up in the four corners of his plaid four kinds of roasted grain, and entering the garden climbed up on a raised platform, and began his vigil. After a short time he untied one of his parcels of roasted grain, and began leisurely to eat it, one grain at a time. Just as he had consumed the last one, an Indarpuri Sadom descended from the East and alighted in the garden to browse upon the flowers. Lelha seeing it, crept noiselessly up, and laid hold of it, and at the same instant its rider, an Indarpuri Kuri, [16] exclaimed, "Hands off! Lelha. Hands off! Lelha. Touch me not." Lelha replied, to the Indarpuri Kuri, "Besides touching you, I will bind and detain you till morning. You have become bold. You have caused my father to fast; but I have captured you to-night. Where will you go?" "Let me go," she said, "I will bless you." Lelha rejoined, "You are deceiving me." The Indarpuri Kuri made answer, "I am not deceiving you. I shall give you whatever blessing you may desire. Place your hand upon my head, Lelha." He did so, and a lock of hair adhered to his hand, when he withdrew it. The Indarpuri Kuri then said, "When you desire anything, take that lock of hair into your hand, and say, Oh! Indarpuri Kuri, give me this or that, and instantly you shall receive it. Of a truth it shall be so. I shall never fail you." Lelha then released the Indarpuri Sadom, and it mounted up into the air, and he and his Indarpuri Rider vanished into space. By the time Lelha had eaten all the roasted grain from another corner of his plaid, another Indarpuri Sadom with his Indarpuri Kuri rider descended from the West. Lelha caught these as he had done the first. This Kuri was a younger sister of the other, and she gave a like blessing to Lelha before he released her horse. Lelha now began to eat his third parcel of roasted grain, and just as he had finished it he saw another Indarpuri Sadom with an Indarpuri Kuri rider descend from the North, and alight in the garden. Lelha also captured these. The rider was a younger sister of the last. She also gave Lelha a blessing, and was allowed to go. At cockcrow, Lelha, having eaten the last grain of his fourth parcel, looked up and beheld an Indarpuri Sadom with an Indarpuri Kuri rider descend into the garden from the North. She was the youngest of the sisters. Lelha crept stealthily up, and laid hold of the horse's mane. The Indarpuri Kuri then exclaimed, "Hands off! Lelha. Hands off! Lelha." Then Lelha replied, "You Lelha greatly this morning. It is almost dawn, where can you go to escape punishment?" Then the Indarpuri Kuri said, "Oh! Lelha, We are four sisters, daughters of one mother, I will give you a blessing." Lelha replied, "In this way three persons have fled. You also appear the same." The Indarpuri Kuri said, "We four sisters have one blessing. Place your hand upon my head, and release me." Lelha did so, and the Indarpuri Sadom on being liberated sailed off into the sky with his Indarpuri rider. Lelha tied the four locks of hair of the Indarpuri Kuris each in a corner of his plaid, as he had before done with the roasted grain. When the day fully dawned he returned to his home weeping, for his four brothers seeing the bushes laden with blossom were envious of him, and had hurled him headlong to the ground from off the raised platform on which he sat. On reaching home his mother said to him, "You see your brothers have beaten you. I warned you against going." Lelha replied, "What help is there for it? My brothers beat me. No one else did. I must bear it." His mother said, "Then, why do you let others know?" In the morning the raja said, "Last night Lelha was watching. I will go and take a look at the garden." He went and found a perfect sea of blossom, the sight of which almost overcame him. It so happened that as the raja gazed upon the fairy scene around him, Koema Jugi turned up, and addressing the raja said, "You are lost in wonder, but if you hang hiras and manis on the branches the whole country will be resplendent. Then your wonder and amazement will be increased twentyfold." III. The raja's garden was without an equal in the world, but the words of Koema Jugi had caused him to become discontented with it, and because there were neither hiras nor manis hanging from the branches he, as before, began to sulk. They reasoned with him saying, "Do not grieve over it. We will bring hiras and manis." So he rose, and having bathed partook of some refreshment. About this time Lelha's mother went to a shop to purchase food. On seeing her the shopkeeper said, "Something is amiss with the raja, and she is hungry, and comes here giving annoyance. Go away. I will not weigh anything for you." So she returned home empty-handed. As she entered the house she encountered Lelha just returned from hunting, who said, "Oh! mother, give me cooked rice." His mother replied, "Something is wrong with the raja, and here my young lord is fasting, and cries for food. He is greatly concerned about his own affairs." Lelha went at once to the raja, and enquired "What ails you, father?" The raja replied, "Is there anything ailing me? Has Lelha come here? I will beat him shortly." Lelha said, "Do with me what you please. Why are you sulking? If you do not tell me, although it should cost me my life, I will not leave, rather slay me here at once." The raja thought within himself, "He annoys me, I will tell him to get rid of him." So he said, "Your brothers have gone in search of hiras and manis, and it is because I do not see the trees in my garden adorned with these precious stones that I am sulking. Lelha said, "I will also go." His father said, "Do not go child." But Lelha was determined, and disregarded his father's command. Lelha went to the bazaar and purchased rice and dal, and his mother when she saw him bringing them home with him, said, "What is wrong? You are completely out of breath." Lelha replied, "My brothers have gone to search for hiras and manis, and I also am busy preparing to follow them." She tried to dissuade him saying, "Although the mean fellows beat you, still you will not keep away from them." Lelha quickly replied, "What help is there for it, mother? Let my brothers beat me or not, what is that to me? I must bear it all." So his mother prepared food, and Lelha, having partaken of it, set out. He went to the stable, and saddled the lame horse, as his brothers had taken away the good ones, and mounting rode to the outskirts of the city. He then dismounted, and turned the lame horse loose, and went into the raja's flower garden, and said, "Oh! Indarpuri Kuri, give me a horse instantly. My brothers have left me behind, and gone I know not where. Give me such a horse as will enable me to reach them at once." Immediately a horse was at his side, and in a few seconds he was in sight of his brothers. He then alighted from his horse, and said "Oh! Indarpuri Kuri, I return your horse," and instantly it disappeared, and he overtook his brothers on foot. When his brothers saw him, they said, "He has overtaken us." Some of them said, "Catch him and beat him," others said, "No, let him alone, he will do our cooking. We can go in search of hiras and manis, and leave him to guard our camp. Come let us push on, we have now got a good guard for our camp." This pleased all, and they said, "It is now evening, let us pitch our camp for the night." They did so, and Lelha soon had supper ready, of which having partaken they all retired to rest. In the morning Lelha again acted as cook, and while it was yet early set breakfast before his brothers, and they having eaten, mounted their horses, and went in search of hiras and manis. They were now a month's journey distant from their own home, and the raja of the country in which they were, had just opened a new bazaar. It was a large and beautiful bazaar, and an Indarpuri Kuri had a stall it. This Indarpuri Kuri had given out, that whoever would go and come twelve kos seven times within an hour should be her husband. The four sons of the raja, who had come in search of hiras and manis hearing this said, "Some one from amongst us four brothers must marry this girl. Let us exercise our horses, it is possible that some one of them may do the distance in the specified time." They had left home in search of hiras and manis, and now were scheming to secure the Indarpuri Kuri as the wife of one of them. So they returned to camp, and sitting down began to discuss the subject. They said, "If our horses are well exercised, no doubt, but that they will be able to run the distance in the time. Therefore, let us diligently train our horses, so that they may be able to accomplish the task." While they were thus engaged, Lelha said, "What is it, brothers, that you are discussing?" His brothers rebuked him, saying, "Why are you eavesdropping? We will beat you." They did not, however, beat him, as they feared he would return home, and leave them without a cook. So he cooked the supper and set it before them, and when they had eaten, they retired to rest. In the morning Lelha again prepared the food, and his four brothers having breakfasted, mounted and rode off to the bazaar, and there exercised their horses. After they had left Lelha collected all the brass vessels, and what other property there was, and carefully hid them away. Then he called to the Indarpuri Kuri, "Oh! Indarpuri Kuri, give me a horse," and instantly, just such a horse as he desired stood beside him. He mounted and galloping away soon overtook his brothers. He saluted them, but they did not recognize him. He said to them, "Wherefore, brothers, have you brought your horses to a standstill? Make them race." They replied, "We were waiting for you. We are tired. It is your turn now." Lelha immediately switched up his horse, and away it flew at such a pace, that it could scarcely be seen. That day his horse ran twelve kos there and back three times within an hour. At the end of the race soldiers tried to lay hold of Lelha's horse, but he called out, "Do not touch him. He will not allow you to lay a finger on me." The soldiers said, "The raja has given orders, that the horse that ran three, or five, or seven times is to be brought before him." Lelha replied, "Go, and tell the raja, that the horse bites, so we could not stop him. The raja will not be displeased with you." He then rode away to the camp, and having returned the horse to the Indarpuri Kuri he began to prepare the evening meal, which was ready by the time his four brothers arrived. After supper they began to talk over the events of the day, wondering who owned the horse that had run so well. Lelha drew near, and said, "What is it, brothers, that you are talking about?" Some said, "Beat him, what has he got to do listening?" Others said, "Do not beat him, he cooks for us." So the matter ended, and all lay down for the night. In the morning Lelha again prepared the food, and his brothers having breakfasted, mounted their horses, and rode off to the bazaar, where they raced as usual. After they had gone, Lelha gathered all their property together, and hid it as he had done on the day previous. Then, mounting an Indarpuri Sadom, he followed his brothers, and on coming up with them saluted them, but they did not recognize him as their brother. Then a conversation similar to that of the previous day passed between Lelha and his brothers. This time Lelha's horse ran the distance, there and back, five times within the hour. The raja's soldiers again attempted to stop Lelha's horse, but he told them that it was in the habit of biting, so they allowed him to pass, and he galloped off to the camp, and returning the horse to the Indarpuri Kuri began to prepare the evening meal. When his brothers arrived Lelha set food before them, and they ate and drank. After they had supped they sat and talked about the wonderful horse, and its feat that day. Lelha again enquired what they were talking about, but they rebuked him saying, "Do not listen. It is not necessary for you to know what we are speaking about." They all then retired for the night. Early next morning Lelha set about preparing breakfast, and his brothers, having partaken of it, set out for the bazaar. After their departure Lelha gathered everything together, and hid them as before, and then called upon Indarpuri Kuri for a horse. The horse came, and Lelha mounted and galloped after his brothers. On overtaking them he saluted, and then said, "Wherefore, brothers, do you stand still? Race your horses." They replied, "It is your turn now. We have run, and our horses are tired." Lelha then started his horse, and it ran twelve kos there, and twelve kos back, seven times within the hour. The raja's soldiers again attempted to capture Lelha's horse, but he prevented them, and so returned to the camp. When he had returned the horse to the Indarpuri Kuri he resumed his office of cook, and had supper ready by the time his brothers returned. They sat down together, and began to discuss the wonderful performance of the horse which had that day done the distance seven times in one hour. Lelha again enquired, "What is it that you are talking about, brothers?" Some one said, "Beat him. He has no right to be listening," but another said, "Do not beat him, he cooks our food." When the four brothers were tired talking Lelha set supper before them, and having supped, they lay down to sleep. Next morning Lelha cooked the breakfast as usual, and his brothers having partaken of it, mounted their horses, and rode off to the bazaar. After they had left Lelha put everything out of sight, as usual. Then he desired the Indarpuri Kuri to give him a horse, and having mounted, he followed his brothers, and on coming near saluted them as before, but again they failed to recognize him. IV. On the seventh day Lelha again followed his brothers to the bazaar. He begged the Indarpuri Kuri to give him a horse that would do the distance there and back seven times within the hour, and at the end would fall down dead, and also to have another horse ready for him to mount. The Indarpuri Kuri gave him his desire and he rode off to the bazaar, and again saluted his brothers, and at the same time pushed his horse close up to them. They called out, "Keep your horse back, he will crush us." Lelha then enquired why they were standing still. They replied, "We were waiting for you." So Lelha put his horse to the gallop, and did the distance there and back seven times within an hour. On his return the last time the soldiers attempted to lay hold of the horse, but Lelha said, "Let him alone, I will go myself." At the same instant his horse fell, and he leapt from it, and having returned it to the Indarpuri Kuri, he mounted the other, and rode from the race course to the bazaar, and was united in wedlock to the Indarpuri Kuri. After the marriage he informed his bride that he was in search of hiras and manis for his father's flower garden. She informed him, that lying on the breast of her elder sister, who had been sleeping for twelve years, was a large quantity of hiras. "To obtain them you must first," she said, "buy two bundles of grass, two goats, and a pair of shoes, and make two ropes each two hundred cubits long. My sister is guarded by an elephant, a tiger, and a dog. On entering you will first encounter the elephant, and you must throw him a bundle of grass. A little farther on you will meet the tiger, you must give him a goat. Then you will see the dog, and you must throw him a shoe. When you are returning you must do the same. Throw a shoe to the dog, a goat to the tiger, and a sheaf of grass to the elephant. You must lose no time in possessing yourself of the hiras you will find on my sister's breast. If you delay, her army may take you prisoner." She also said, "My sister's house is situated on an island in a large lake, and you can only reach it by hiring a boat. The door of her house is a large heavy stone, which you must remove before gaining an entrance. On the island there is a Sinjo tree, [17] with branches on the North side, and on the South. On the branches of the South side there are the young of hiras and manis, but on those of the North side there is nothing. On the South side there are five branches, and within the fruit there are manis. Do not forget this. The large hira, which glitters on my sister's breast, is the mother hira." Just as she concluded the foregoing instructions the cock crew, and she added, "See that you remember all I have told you." Then Lelha left his bride to return to his brothers. As he went he remembered that they would be sure to abuse him for having been absent, so he collected a large number of shells, and stringing them together, hung them round his neck, and went dancing to the camp. When his brothers saw him, in the dress of a merryandrew they rebuked him severely. V. Lelha's excuse for his absence was as follows. He said, "You, my brothers, always leave me here alone in the camp. Yesterday several shepherds came, and forcibly carried me away. They kept me awake all night. They tied these shells round my neck and made me dance. They also made me drive cattle round and round. I had no rest all night. They also shewed me hiras and manis." Lelha's brothers eagerly enquired, "Where did you see the hiras and manis? Come, show us the place at once." Lelha replied, "We must first buy food for the hiras and manis." So they went to the bazaar to buy food for the hiras and manis. Lelha first bought two goats, and his brothers abused him, and said, "Will hiras and manis eat these?" Some one of them said, "Slap him." Another said, "Do not slap him, they may perhaps eat them." Then he bought a pair of shoes, at which again they reviled him. Then he bought two ropes, when they again reviled him. Lastly he purchased two bundles of grass, and having provided these necessary articles, they went and hired a boat. The horses of the four brothers were dead, so they had to proceed on foot to where the boat lay. After sailing for some time they reached an island, and landed. They quickly found the house of the Indarpuri Kuri. It was closed by a large stone lying over the entrance. Lelha ordered his brothers to remove it, but they were displeased and said, "How do you expect to find hiras and manis under this stone." Lelha said, "Truly, my brothers, they are under the stone." He pressed them to attempt the removal of the stone, so they, and others to the number of fifty tried their strength but the stone seemed immovable. Then Lelha said, "Stand by, and allow me to try." So putting to his hand, he easily removed it, and revealed the entrance to the mansion of the Indarpuri Kuri. His brothers were so astounded at the strength he displayed that they lost the power of speech. Lelha then said to his brothers, "Take one of these ropes, and bind it round me, and lower me down, and when you feel me shaking the rope, then quickly pull me up. I go to find hiras." His brothers quickly bound the rope round his body, and he, taking the goats, the pair of shoes, and the bundles of grass, descended. A short distance from where he reached the ground, he found a door, which was guarded by an elephant bound by the foot to a stake. To him he threw a bundle of grass and passed on. At the next door he found a tiger, likewise chained, and as he approached, it opened its jaws as if to devour him. To it, he gave a goat, and was allowed to pass. At the third door was a dog. He threw a shoe to it, and when the dog was engaged biting it, he passed through. Then he saw the hira sparkling upon the bosom of the sleeping Indarpuri Kuri. Going near, he snatched it up, and fled. The dog, however, barred his exit but he threw the other shoe to it, and passed on. The tiger had devoured the goat he had given to it, and was now alert. To it he gave the other goat, and hurried on. The elephant then opposed him, but the remaining bundle of grass was sufficient to divert his attention, and he passed through the last door. Then violently shaking the rope his brothers speedily hauled him up. Then they went to their boat, and rowed to another part of the island, where the Sinjo tree grew. They all climbed the tree, but Lelha plucked the five fruits on the branch to the South, while his brothers plucked a large number from the North side. They then returned to their boat and rowed back to the place from which they had started. From there they went to the house of Lelha's bride. When she heard of their arrival she ordered refreshments to be prepared for them. Her servants also all came, and gave Lelha and his brothers oil, and sent them to bathe. On their return from bathing, their feet were washed by servants, and they were then taken into the house. After they were seated Lelha's brothers began to whisper to each other, saying, "We do not know of what caste these people are, to whose house he has brought us to eat food. He will cause us to lose caste." Lelha heard what they were saying, and in explanation said, "Not so, brothers. This is my wife's house." They replied, "It is all right then." So they ate and drank heartily, and afterwards prepared to return home. VI. The journey was to be by boat. Lelha sent his brothers on ahead in one boat, and he and his wife followed in another. There was a distance of two or three kos between the boats. Lelha's brothers as they sailed along came to a certain ghat at which a raja was bathing. He was raja of the country through which they were passing. He demanded from Lelha's brothers to know what they had in their boat. They replied, "We have hiras and manis with us." Then the raja said, "Shew them to me. You may be thieves." They replied, "No, they are inside these Sinjo fruits." The raja said, "Break one, I wish to see what they are like." So the brothers broke one, but nothing was found in it. Then the raja called his soldiers, and ordered them to bind the four brothers. So the soldiers seized and bound them, and carried them off to prison. Just then Lelha's boat arrived. He was in time to see his brothers pass within the prison doors. Having seen the four brothers in safe custody the raja returned to the bathing ghat, and seeing Lelha he demanded to know what he had in his boat. Lelha answered, "We have hiras and manis as our cargo." The raja then said, "Shew them to me, I would fain look upon them." Lelha said, "You wish to see hiras and manis without any trouble to yourself. If I show you them, what will you give me in return? There are hiras and manis in this Sinjo fruit." The raja replied, "Those who came before you deceived me. I have no doubt, but that you will do so also." Lelha said, "What will you give me? Make an offer, and I shall shew you them at once." The raja replied, "I have one daughter, her I will give to you, and along with her an estate, if there are hiras and manis in that Sinjo fruit, and if there are none in it, I will keep you prisoner all your lifetime." Lelha immediately broke one of the Sinjo fruits, and five hiras and manis rolled out. When the raja saw it he was confounded, but what could he do? According to his promise, he gave him his daughter and an estate. The marriage ceremony being over, Lelha was invited to partake of the raja's hospitality, but he refused, saying, "If you set my brothers at liberty I shall eat, but not unless you do so." So the brothers were released, and taken to the bath. After they had bathed, their feet were washed, and they were led into the palace to the feast. The brothers, after they were seated, began to whisper to each other, saying, "Whose house is this? Of what caste are the people? Does he wish to make us lose our caste?" But Lelha reassured them by saying, "Not so, my brothers. I have espoused the raja's daughter." Hearing this they were relieved, and all enjoyed the marriage feast. VII. Then they made preparations to continue their journey. Lelha again sent his four brothers first, and he followed with his two wives. After a sail of a few hours they entered the territory of another raja, and came upon his bathing ghat. The raja was bathing there at the time, and the boat passing, he enquired what her cargo was. The brothers answered, "We have hiras and manis on board." The raja said, "I would see them." They replied, "They are in the boat following us." The raja was displeased with their answer, and ordered them to be seized as vagrants. Lelha's boat came alongside the bathing ghat just as his four brothers were led off to prison, and the raja seeing it, asked Lelha what cargo he carried. Lelha replied, "Our cargo is hiras and manis." The raja begged Lelha to shew them to him, but he refused saying, "What will you give for a sight of them? Promise something, and you can see them." The raja said, "Of a truth, if you can shew me hiras and manis I will give you my daughter. I have one, a virgin, her I will give you, and I will also confer upon you an estate." Then Lelha, seizing a Sinjo fruit, broke it, and out rolled five hiras and manis, which when the raja saw he marvelled greatly. He honourably fulfilled his engagement, and Lelha's marriage with his daughter was celebrated forthwith. The wedding over Lelha was conducted to the bath, and afterwards invited to a banquet; but he declined saying, "So long as you detain my brothers in confinement, I cannot partake of your hospitality." So they were brought to the palace, and their feet bathed, and then ushered into the banqueting room. After they were seated they began to whisper to each other, "What caste do these people belong to, with whom he expects us to eat? Does he intend to make us break our caste?" Lelha hearing them, said, "Not so, my brothers. This is my father-in-law's house." Thus were their doubts removed, and they ate and drank with much pleasure. VIII. The journey homewards was resumed in the morning, the boats in the same order as previously. Lelha's four brothers were envious of his good fortune, and on the way they talked about him, and decided that he must be put to death. They said, "How can we put him out of the way? If we do not make away with him, on our return home, he will be sure to secure the succession to our father's kingdom." Having come to this conclusion the next thing was, how could it be accomplished, for Lelha was far more powerful than they were. It was only by stratagem that they could hope to accomplish their purpose, so they said, "We will invite him to a feast and when he stands with a foot on either boat, before stepping into ours, we will push the boats apart and he will fall into the river and be drowned. We must get his wives to join in the plot, for without their aid we cannot carry it into execution." During the day they found means to communicate with Lelha's wives. They said to them, "We will make a feast on our boat. Make him come on board first, and when he has a foot on each boat you push yours back, and we will do the same to ours, and he will fall into the water, and be drowned. We are the sons of a raja, and our country is very large. We will take you with us and make you ranis." Lelha's wives pretended to agree to their proposal; but they afterwards told him all. They said, "Do as they wish, but you will not be drowned. We will remain faithful to you, and you will reach home before us." So the four brothers prepared a sumptuous feast, and the boats were brought close to each other to enable Lelha and his wives to go on board. One of Lelha's wives tied a knot on his waist cloth, as a token that they would remain true to him. He then preceded them in going into the other boat, and just as he had a foot on each gunwale, the boats were pushed asunder, and Lelha fell into the water. Having thus got rid, as they thought, of Lelha, the brothers made all possible speed homewards. IX. At the bottom of the river a bell sprang into existence, and Lelha was found lying asleep in it. Then he awoke and sat up, and loosening the knot which his wife had tied on his waist cloth, said, "Oh! Indarpuri Kuri, give me at once food and drink, tobacco and fire," and on the instant his wants were supplied. So he ate and drank, and was refreshed. Then he prepared his pipe, and when he had lit it he said, "Oh! Indarpuri Kuri, give me a fully equipped horse that will carry me home before the tobacco in this pipe is consumed." The last word had scarcely escaped his lips when a horse stood beside him. It was a fierce animal, of a blue colour, and no fly could alight on its skin. It was fully equipped, and impatient to start. Lelha, still smoking his pipe, mounted, and his steed at one bound cleared the river, although it was seven or eight kos broad, and flying like the wind, landed him at home before the tobacco in his pipe was consumed. The hiras and manis were in the possession of Lelha's wives. His brothers wheedled them into giving them up, saying they will be safer with us. Lelha went to his mother's house and said to her, "Tell no one of my being here." He had alighted from his horse on the outskirts of the city, and returned it to the Indarpuri Kuri. A period of ten days elapsed before Lelha's brothers and his wives arrived. The latter declined to accompany the former at once to the raja's palace. They said, "Let your mothers come, and conduct us, as is usual when a bride enters her husband's house." The two elder ranis then came, and the four sons went to the raja's flower garden and hung the hiras and manis on the branches of the trees, and the whole countryside was instantly lighted up by the sheen of the precious stones. The saying of the Koema Jugi was fulfilled to the letter. Lelha also sent his mother to welcome his wives, but when the elder ranis saw her coming, they reviled her and drove her away. They would not permit her to come near. She returned home weeping. "You told me," she said, "to go and welcome your wives, and I have been abused. When will you learn wisdom?" Lelha ran into the house, and brought a ring, and giving it to his mother, said, "Take this ring, and place it in the lap of one of them." She took the ring, and gave it to one of Lelha's wives, and immediately they all rose, and followed her laughing, to their new home. The elder ranis went and informed their sons of what had happened, but they said, "They are Lelha's wives. What can we do?" X. The Indarpuri Kuri whom Lelha had robbed of her hira now awoke, and at once missed her precious jewel. She knew that Lelha had stolen it from her, and summoning her army to her standard marched upon Lelha's father's capital, to which she laid siege, and before many hours had elapsed, the raja was a prisoner in her hands. This Indarpuri Kuri said to him, "Will you give up the hiras and manis, or will you fight?" The raja sent the following message to his four sons, "Will you fight to retain possession of the hiras and manis, or will you deliver them up?" They were afraid, so they gave answer, "We will not. Lelha knows all about the hiras and manis. We do not." The raja then sent and called Lelha, and enquired, "Will you shew fight, Lelha, or will you give up the hiras and manis?" Lelha replied, "I will fight. I will not part with the hiras and manis. I obtained them only after much painful toil, so I cannot deliver them up. Ask them to agree to delay hostilities for a short time, but inform them that Lelha will fight." Lelha hurried to the further end of the garden, and taking the hair of the first Indarpuri Kuri in his hand said, "Oh! Indarpuri Kuri. Give me an army four times stronger than the one brought against me, so that I may make short work of my enemies." Immediately an army of 44,000 men stood in military array, awaiting his orders. The two armies joined battle, and Lelha discomfited the host of the Indarpuri Kuri, and she herself became his prize. She became his wife, and returned no more to her cavernous home in the solitary island. Lelha thus became the husband of four wives. Then the raja called his five sons together and said, "In my estimation Lelha is the one best qualified to became raja of this kingdom. I therefore resign all power and authority into his hands." Lelha replied, "Yes, father, you have judged righteously. My brothers have caused me much distress. First, they pushed off the raised platform in your flower garden, but of that I did not inform you. Then they caused me, who was the finder of the hiras and manis, to fall into the river. You saw how they refused to fight, and threw all the responsibility upon me. They have used me spitefully. They have tried to make a cat's paw of me." So Lelha was raja of all the country, and his brothers were his servants. One was in charge of Lelha's pipe and tobacco, another ploughed his fields, and the other two had like menial offices assigned to them. THE STORY OF SINDURA GAND GARUR. In a certain village there lived a mother and her son. The boy tended goats in the forest. One day he found a spot of ground, where he thought rice would grow well. So he went home, and asked his mother to give him some seed to sow there. She said, "If you sow rice there it will all be destroyed. The elephants, or the wild jungle cattle, will eat it." But he begged so hard that at length she gave him some seed rice, which he sowed on the small plot of ground in the jungle. It sprang up and grew luxuriantly. Every day he drove his goats there, and spent the long hours in driving the birds and insects away from his little farm. When the rice had grown to a good height the raja's son with his companion came and set up a mark near by at which they shot with their bows and arrows. The orphan boy was asked to join them, which he did, and so accurate was his aim, that he hit the mark every time he shot. The raja's son and his companion were astonished to see such good shooting, and they said, "The fatherless boy hits the mark every time." The boy ran home to his mother weeping, and said, "Oh! mother, where is my father?" To keep him from grieving, she told a lie. "Your father," she said, "has gone on a visit to his relations." The next day after he had again shown great skill with the bow and arrow the raja's son and his companion said, "The fatherless boy hits the mark every time." Hearing this he again went home weeping, and said to his mother, "Oh! mother, where is my father?" She replied, "He has gone to visit his friends." Every day the boy came crying to his mother asking where his father was, so at last she told him. She said, "Your father, child, was carried away on the horns of a Gand Garur [18]." The boy then said to his mother, "Prepare me some flour. I will go in search of him." His mother tried to dissuade him, saying, "Where can you go in such a jungle as this?" He, however, insisted, and she prepared flour for him, and he set out. After travelling many hours he entered the primeval forest, and presently darkness came upon him. After a short time he came to the dwelling of Huti [19] Budhi, and requested permission to pass the night there. This was accorded to him, and he lay down and fell asleep. During the night he was awakened by the Huti Budhi eating his bow and arrows. He called out to her "Oh! old woman, What have you been nibbling at since evening?" The Huti Budhi replied, "It is only some roasted grain, which I brought a while ago from the house of the Chief." In a short time the nibbling sound was again heard, and he again enquired what she was eating. She returned the same answer as before. "Oh! my son, it is only roasted grain which the chief's people gave me." He did not know that all the time she was eating his bow and arrows. When morning dawned he requested her to give him his weapons, and on his attempting to string the bow it broke in his hands. The Huti Budhi had eaten the heart out of the wood, and had left only the outer shell. He left her house planning revenge. During the day he had an iron bow and iron arrows made. All was iron like the arrow heads. In the evening he returned to sleep at the Huti Budhi's house. During the night he heard the Huti Budhi trying to nibble his bow and arrows. So he enquired what she was doing. The answer she gave was, "Do you think the Huti Budhi can eat iron." When morning dawned he demanded his bow and arrows, and received them uninjured, but the lower part of the Huti Budhi's face was all swollen. She had been trying to eat the iron bow and arrows. Her lodger strung his bow, and having saluted her, went his way. As he journeyed he entered another unexplored forest in the midst of which he discovered a lake, to which all the birds and beasts resorted to quench their thirst. He obtained this information by an examination of its banks, on which he saw the footprints of the various beasts and birds. He now took some flour from his bag, and having moistened it with water made a hearty meal, and then sat down to wait for evening. As the sun went down the denizens of the forest began to come to the lake to drink. They came in quick succession, and as each made its appearance, he sang assurance to it, that he harboured no evil design against it. The quail led the way, and to it he sang, "Oh! quail, you need not fear to drink, I'll not harm you, I you assure; But I will slay on this lake's brink, Cruel Sindura Gand Garur. He sang in a similar strain to each bird as it came, naming it by its name. At length the Gand Garur alighted on the edge of the lake to drink, and he at once drew his bow, and sent an arrow to its heart, for he had seen the dried and shrivelled corpse of his father still adhering to its horns. The Gand Garur being dead, he detached what remained of his parent's body from its horns, and taking it in his arms pressed it to his bosom and wept bitterly. As he wept, Bidi and Bidhati descended from the sky and asked him the reason of his sorrow. So he told them all. They spoke words of comfort to him, and said, "Dip your gamcha cloth in the lake, and cover the corpse with it. And don't you cry, rather bathe and cook some food. And do not cook for one only, but prepare portions for two. And when the food is ready, you partake of one portion, and set the other aside. Then tap your father on the back and say, 'Rise father, here is your food.'" He did as his kind friends bade him, and the dead came to life again. The father sat up and said, "Oh! my son, what a lengthened sleep I have had." The son replied, "A sleep? you must be demented, you were pierced through by the horns of the Gand Garur, and your dried carcase was adhering to them. See I have killed it. It is lying here. Bidi and Bidhati instructed me how to proceed, and I have brought you to life again. So they returned joyfully home singing the praises of Bidi and Bidhati. THE TIGER AND ULTA'S MOTHER. A tiger cub was in the habit of playing under the shade of a certain tree, in which was a crane's nest with a young one in it. The parent cranes brought frogs and lizards to their young one, and what it could not eat it used to throw down to the young tiger, and in this way the two became greatly attached to each other. After a time the tigress died, and left the cub alone in the world. The young crane felt much pity for its afflicted friend, and could not bear the thought of itself being in a better position. So one day it said to the tiger, "Let us kill my mother." The tiger replied, "Just as you please. I cannot say do it, nor can I say do not do it." When the mother crane came to give its young one food, the latter set upon her and killed her. The friendship between the two increased so that they could not be separated from each other. Day and night they spent in each other's society. After a time the two said, "Come let us make a garden, and plant in it turmeric." So they prepared a piece of ground, and the crane brought roots of turmeric from a distance. They then discussed the matter as to which part of the crop each would take. The crane said to the tiger, "You, my brother, choose first." The tiger said, "If I must speak first, I will take the leaves." Then, said the crane, "I will take the roots." Having settled this point to their satisfaction, they began to plant. The tiger dug holes, and the crane put in the roots, and covered them over with earth. A year passed, and they again said to each other, "Which of us will take the roots, and which the leaves?" The tiger said, "I will take the leaves." The crane replied, "I will take the roots." So they began to dig up the plants, and cutting the leaves from the roots, placed each by themselves. The tiger collected an immense bulk of leaves, and the crane a large heap of roots. This done each surveyed the other's portion. That of the crane was of a beautiful, reddish tinge, and excited the envy of the tiger, who said to the crane, "Give me half of yours, and I will give you half of mine." The crane refused, saying, "I will not share with you. Why did you at first chose the leaves? I gave you your choice." The tiger insisted, but the crane was obdurate, and before long they were quarrelling as if they had been lifelong enemies. The crane seeing it was being worsted in the wrangle, flew in the face of the tiger, and pecked its eyes, so that it became blind. It then flew away, and left the tiger lamenting its sad fate. Having lost its sight it could not find its way about, so remained there weeping. One day, hearing the voice of a man near by, the tiger called out, "Oh! man, are you a doctor?" The man stupefied with fear stared at the tiger, and gave no reply. The tiger again said, "Oh! man, why do you not reply to my question? Although you are a human being, have you no pity?" The man then said, "Oh! renowned hero, what did you ask me? I am terror stricken, so did not reply. You may devour me." The tiger replied, "If I had wished to kill you, I could have done so, but I mean you no harm." The tiger again asked the man if he possessed a knowledge of medicine, but he replied, "I do not." The tiger then asked, "Is there one amongst you who does know?" The man replied, "Yes." The tiger enquired, "Who is he?" The man said, "There is a certain widow with two sons, the name of one of whom is Ulta, who possesses a knowledge of medicine, she will be able to cure you." Having given the tiger this information the man went away. The tiger went to the house of Ulta's mother, and hid himself behind a hedge. He said within himself, "When I hear any one call Ulta then I will go forward." Shortly after the tiger arrived Ulta's mother called Ulta, "Ulta, come to your supper." Then the tiger ran hastily forward, and cried, "Oh! Ulta's mother, Oh! Ulta's mother." But she was afraid, and exclaimed, "This tiger has done for us to-day." The tiger said to the woman, "Do you know medicine?" She replied, "Yes, Wait till I bring it." So hastily running out she said to her neighbours, "A tiger has come to my house. He is blind, and wishes me to cure his blindness." The neighbours said to her, "Give him some of the juice of the Akauna [20] tree. It will increase his blindness." So she quickly brought Akauna juice, and giving it to the tiger, said, "Go to some dense jungle and apply it to your eyes. Do not apply it here, or it will have no effect. Take it away. We are about to sit down to supper, and then my children will go to sleep. The medicine will cause you pain at first, but it will effect a complete cure." The tiger hurried away to the jungle, and poured the akauna juice into his eyes. The pain it caused was as if his eyeballs were being torn out. He tossed himself about in agony, and at last struck his head against a tree. In a short time, his blindness was gone. He could see everything plainly, and was delighted beyond expression. One day several traders were passing along a pathway through the jungle in which the tiger hunted. He was lying concealed watching for prey, and when the traders were passing he jumped out upon them. Seeing the tiger they fled, and left behind them their silver, and gold, and brass vessels. The tiger collected all and carried them to Ulta's mother's house, and presenting them to her said, "All this I give to you, for through you I have again seen the earth. Had it not been for you, who knows whether I should ever have been cured or not." Ulta's mother was delighted with the generosity of the tiger. He had made her rich at once. But she was anxious to get rid of him, and said "Go away. May you always find a living somewhere." So the tiger returned to the jungle again. Sometime afterwards the tiger was minded to take a wife, and sought his old friend Ulta's mother. On arriving at her house he called out, "Oh! Ulta's mother, where are you? Are you in your house?" She replied, "Who are you?" The tiger answered, "It is I, the forest hero. You cured my blindness." So Ulta's mother came out of her house, and said, "Wherefore, Sir, have you come here?" "I wish you," replied the tiger, "to find a bride for me." Ulta's mother said, "Come to-morrow and I will tell you. Do not stay to-day." So the tiger left. Ulta's mother then went to her neighbours and said, "The tiger has put me in a great difficulty. He wishes me to find a bride for him." They said to her, "Is he not blind?" She replied, "No. He sees now, and it is that, which distresses me. What can I do?" They said, "Get a bag, and order him to go into it, and then tie up the mouth tightly, and tell him to remain still. Say to him, If you move, or make a noise, I will not seek a bride for you. And when you have him tied securely in the bag, call us." The next day the tiger appeared, and Ulta's mother told him to get into the bag, and allow her to tie it. So he went in, and she tied the bag's mouth, and said, "You must not move, lie still, or I shall not be your go-between." Having secured him, Ulta's mother called her neighbours, who came armed with clubs, and began to beat the helpless animal. He called out, "Oh! Ulta's mother, what are you doing?" She said, "Keep quiet. They are beating the marriage drums. Lie still a little longer." The tiger remained motionless, while they continued to beat him. At length they said, "He must be dead now, let us throw him out." So they carried him to a river, and having thrown him in, returned home. The current bore the tiger far down the river, but at length he stranded in a cove. A short time afterwards a tigress came down to the river to drink and seeing the bag, and thinking it might contain something edible she seized it and dragged it up on to the bank. The tigress then cut the bag open with her teeth, and the tiger sprang out, exclaiming, "Of a truth she has given me a bride. Ulta's mother has done me a good turn, and I shall remember her as long as I live." The tiger and the tigress being of one mind on the subject agreed never to separate. One day the two tigers said "Come let us go and pay a visit to Ulta's mother, who has proved so helpful to us. As we cannot go empty handed, let us rob some one to get money to take with us." So they went and lay in wait near a path which passed through the forest in which they lived. Presently a party of merchants came up, and the tigers with a loud roar sprang from their ambush on to the road. The merchants seeing them, fled, and left behind them all their property in money and cloth. Those they carried to Ulta's mother. When she saw the tigers approaching her throat became dry through terror. Before entering the court-yard they called out to Ulta's mother announcing their approach. Ulta's mother addressed the tiger thus, "Why do you come here frightening one in this way?" The tiger replied, "There is no fear. It is I who am afraid of you. Why should you dread my coming? It was you who found this partner for me. Do you not yet know me?" Ulta's mother replied, "What can you do Sir? Do you not remember that we give and receive gifts on the Karam festival day? On the days for giving and receiving, we give and receive. Now, that you are happily wedded, may you live in peace and comfort; but do not come here again." The tiger then gave Ulta's mother a large amount of money and much cloth, after which the two tigers took their leave, and Ulta's mother entered her house loaded with rupees and clothing. THE GREATEST CHEAT OF SEVEN. A great cheat married the cheating sister of seven cheats. One day his father-in-law and seven brothers-in-law came on a visit to his house. After conversing with them for a little, he invited them to accompany him to the river to bathe. He carried a fishing rod with him, and on arriving at the river cast his line into a pool, saying, "Now, fish, if you do not instantly repair to my house, I shall not be able to speak well of you." This he said to deceive the others, as before leaving home he had given a fish to his wife telling her to prepare it for dinner. When seated at table he said to his guests, "the fish we are now eating is the one I, in your presence, ordered to proceed from the river to my house this forenoon." They were greatly astonished at the wonderful properties possessed by the fishing rod, and expressed a desire to purchase it, and offered to pay five rupees for it. He accepted their offer, and they carried the wonderful fishing rod home with them. Next day they arranged to go a-fishing. They cast the line into a pool as they had seen the cheat do, and said, "Now fish, if you do not repair at once to our home we shall not be able to speak well of you." Having bathed they returned home, and asked to see the fish. Their wives said, "What fish? You gave us no fish. We have seen no fish. Where did you throw it down?" They now knew that their sister's husband was a cheat, so they decided to go and charge him with having deceived them. The cheat had notice of their coming, and quickly taking his dog with him went to hunt. He caught a hare and bringing it home gave it to his wife, and said, "When we reach the end of the street on our way home from hunting, you make the dog stand near the house with the dead hare in his mouth." He invited his visitors to accompany him for an hour's hunting, saying, "Come, let us go and kill a hare for dinner." So they went to the jungle, and presently started a hare. The cheat threw a stone at his dog, and frightened it so that it ran home. He called after it, "If you do not catch and take that hare home, it will not be well for you." He then said to his friends, "Come, let us return, we will find the dog there with the hare before us." They replied, "We doubt it much." "There is no mistake about it," he said, "We are certain to find both dog and hare." On reaching home they found the dog standing waiting for them with a hare in his mouth. His brothers-in-law were astonished beyond measure at the sagacity of the dog, and they said, "Sell this dog to us, we will pay a good price for it." He demanded ten rupees, which they gladly paid. So they returned home, and said nothing to him about his having cheated them in the matter of the fishing rod. One day, taking the dog with them, they went to hunt. It caught five hares, and its masters were greatly delighted with its performance. After this the cheat's house was accidentally burnt, and he gathering the ashes together, set out for the bazaar, there to sell them. On the way he fell in with a party of merchants who had a large bag full of silver with them. They enquired what his bag contained, to which he replied, "Gold." They agreed to pass the night in the same encampment, so having partaken of their evening meal, they lay down to sleep. At midnight the merchants rose, and exchanged the bags, and then lay down again. The cheat saw them, and chuckled within himself. In the morning the merchants made haste to leave, as they feared the cheat might find out the theft of his bag. The cheat asked them before they left to help him to lift his bag on to his bullock's back, saying, "It was to receive assistance from you that I encamped here last night." So having helped him to load his bullock they hurried away lest they should be caught. The cheat carried his treasure home, but being unable to count so much money borrowed a measure from his father-in-law, and found he had four maunds of silver. On returning the measure he sent along with it five seers of silver, saying, "For the ashes of my house I received four maunds of silver, if you reduce your houses to ashes and sell them, you will obtain very much more." So they foolishly burnt their houses, and collecting the ashes went to the bazaar to dispose of them. The merchants to whom they offered them directed them to go to the washermen, saying, "They will possibly buy." But they also refused, and they were compelled to return home without having effected a sale. They vowed vengeance on the cheat, and set out to find him. When they reached his house the cheat was on the point of starting on a journey. After mutual salutations he said, "I have just killed my second wife. I go to receive eight maunds of silver for her corpse. Dead bodies bring high prices." They said to him, "How about the ashes? We could not sell them." He replied, "You did not go far enough from home. Had you gone to a distance you would have made a good bargain." The cheat's youngest wife having died he washed the body, and anointed it with oil. He then put it in a large bag, and loaded it on the back of a bullock, and set out. On the way he came to a field of wheat, into which he drove the animal, and then hid himself near by. The owner of the field finding the bullock eating his wheat, beat it unmercifully with a cudgel. The cheat then came from his hiding place, and said, "Have you not done wrong in beating my bullock? If you have killed my wife, where will you flee to? I fell behind, and for that reason my ox got into your field. My wife, whom I have newly married, is weak and unable to go on foot, so I put her into a bag to carry her home on my bullock." Having opened the bag the wife was found dead, and her assailant stood self convicted of her murder. He gave her husband six maunds of rupees as hush money, so the cheat burnt the corpse and returned home laden with spoil. The cheat next sent for his brothers-in-law, and shewing them the money, said, "I killed my second wife, and got all this money by selling the corpse." They enquired, "Who are the people who buy dead bodies?" He replied, "They reside in the Rakas country." Then the seven brothers killed each his youngest wife, and carried the bodies to a distant country to dispose of them. When the people of that country knew the object for which they had come they said to them, "What sort of men are you hawking corpses about the towns and villages? You must be the worst, or else most stupid of men." Hearing this the brothers were dismayed, and began to take in the situation. They perceived that the cheat had again deceived them, and they retraced their steps homewards bitterly lamenting their folly. On reaching their village they cremated the remains of their wives, and from that day had no more dealings with the cheat. THE STORY OF TWO PRINCESSES. A certain raja had two daughters, who were in the habit of amusing themselves out side of the palace walls. One day they saw a crow flying towards them with a ripe Terel [21] fruit in his beak. They then said to each other, "What fruit is it? It looks nice and sweet." The crow let the fruit fall in front of them. They ran and picked it up, and ate it. It tasted deliciously sweet. Then they said, "From whence did the crow bring such a good fruit?" Then they remembered the direction from which they had seen it coming, and said, "If we go this way we shall find it." So they went, but it was only after they had travelled a great distance from home that they found the Terel tree with the ripe luscious fruit. The elder of the two girls climbed up into the tree, and shook down a large quantity of the fruit. They then feasted to their heart's content. Presently they began to feel thirsty, and the elder said to the younger, "You remain here while I go to drink, and I will also bring you water in a leaf cup." Having said this she went away to the tank, and her sister remained under the Terel tree. The day was extremely hot, and they were very thirsty. The elder having quenched her thirst was returning carrying water for her sister in a cup made of the leaves of a Terel tree, when a bhut came flying along, and fell into the cup of water. Presently she became aware that there was a hole in the bottom of her cup through which all the water had run out. What could she do now? There was no help for it but to return to the tank, make another leaf cup, and filling it with water return to her sister. As she was returning with the cup full of water the bhut again came flying up, and entering the water passed through the leaf, making a hole by which all the water escaped. Again she made a leaf cup, and having filled it with water was returning when the bhut again came, and destroyed her cup, and caused her to lose the water. In this way she was detained till very late. A raja who happened to be in the vicinity saw a beautiful girl carrying water in a leaf cup, and a bhut come and make a hole in the cup, so that it soon became empty. Having seen this several times repeated, he drew near, and feasted his eyes on her beauty. Then he carried her away to his palace, where they were joined in wedlock, and the princess, now the rani, cooked the food for herself and her husband. The younger princess remained near the Terel tree, and although she had given up hope of again meeting her sister, still she continued to wait. At length a herd of Hanuman monkeys came to feed upon the Terel fruit. When the girl saw them coming she was terrified and crept into the hollow of the tree. The monkeys with the exception of an old frail one, climbed into the tree and began to eat the fruit. The old monkey remained below and picked up the fruit shells which the others threw down. The old monkey having noticed the girl hiding in the hollow of the tree called to the others, "Throw me down some. If you do not I shall not share the Setke chopot I have found." The monkeys in the tree said, "Do not give him any. He is deceiving us. When his hunger is satisfied he will run and leave us." So no fruit was thrown down to him, and he was forced to be content with the shells. The monkeys in the tree having fared sumptuously, left. The old monkey waited till they were out of sight, and then entered the hollow of the tree, where the girl was, and ate her up. He then went to the tank to drink, and afterwards went in the direction of the raja's garden, on reaching which he lay down and died. One of the gardeners finding him dead threw him on the dunghill. From the place where the monkey decayed a gourd sprang, and grew, and bore a fruit which ripened. One day a jugi, when on his rounds begging, saw this fruit and plucking it took it away with him. Out of the shell he made a banjo, which when played upon emitted wonderful music. The words which seemed to proceed from the banjo were as follows: Ripe terels, ripe terels, Oh! Sister mine. Went in search of water, Oh! Sister mine. Raja and Rani they became. Seven hundred monkeys old, Ate me up, ate me up. Oh! Sister mine. The jugi was greatly pleased with the music of his new banjo, and determined to take it with him when he went a begging. So one day he set out with his banjo the music of which so pleased the people that they gave him large gifts of money and clothes. In course of time he arrived at the palace where the elder sister was now rani, and, being admitted, began to play on his banjo. The instrument again produced most wonderful music. It seemed to wail as follows: Ripe terels, ripe terels, Oh! Sister mine. Went in search of water, Oh! Sister mine. Raja and Rani they became. Seven hundred monkeys old, Ate me up, ate me up. Oh! Sister mine. Having listened to the music the rani said, "It is wonderfully sweet," and she fancied she heard her sister's voice in every note. She thought it possible that it was she who sang in the banjo, and she desired to obtain possession of it. So she invited the jugi to pass the night in the palace, saying, I would hear more of this entrancing music." The jugi listened to the words of the rani and agreed to remain till morning. So the rani made much of him with the intention of at length obtaining possession of his banjo. She caused a goat to be killed, and she cooked a splendid supper for the jugi, who finding the food so toothsome ate heartily. Wine was not withheld, and the jugi being in a festive frame of mind drank deeply, so that he soon lay as one dead. The rani took the banjo, and placed another in its stead. She then threw filth over the unconscious jugi and retired to her own apartment. The jugi on awaking before sunrise found himself in a pitiable plight. He felt so thoroughly disgusted with himself that, hastily picking up his staff, cloth, and banjo, he fled with the utmost possible speed from the palace. When dawn broke he saw that the banjo he had was not his own, and although he felt keenly its loss he was too much ashamed of the condition he had been in to go back to seek it. The rani hid the jugi's banjo in her own room, because she knew her sister to be in it. Whenever the raja and rani went out to walk the girl left the banjo and having bathed and dressed her hair, cooked the family meal, and then returned to the banjo. This happened so often that at last, it came to the knowledge of the raja that a fairy lived in the banjo, and when the way was clear used to come out and prepare food for the rani and himself. So he determined to lie in wait for the fairy cook. He then sent the rani somewhere on an errand, and hid himself in a corner of the room from whence he could see the banjo. In a short time the princess emerged from the banjo, and began to dress her hair, and anoint herself with oil, after which she cooked rice. She divided the food into three portions, one of which she ate. As she was about to re-enter the banjo the raja sprang out and caught hold of her. She exclaimed, "Chi! Chi! you may be a Hadi, or you may be a Dom." The raja replied, "Chi! Chi! whether I be a Dom, or a Hadi, from to-day you and I are one." SEVEN BROTHERS AND THEIR SISTER. In a certain village there lived seven brothers and a sister. Their family was wealthy. Their father was dead. The brothers agreed to dig a tank so that whatever happened their name would continue. So they began the work, but although they dug deep they found no water. Then they said to each other, "Why is there no water?" While they were speaking thus among themselves a jugi gosae on his rounds, came to the tank in the hope of finding water, but he was disappointed. The seven brothers on seeing the jugi gosae went and sat down near him, and said, "We have been working for many days, and have dug so deep, still we have not reached water. You, who are a jugi gosae, tell us why water does not come." He replied, "Unless you give a gift you will never get water." They enquired, "What should we give." The jugi gosae replied, "Not gold, or silver, or an elephant, or a horse, but you have a sister?" They said, "Yes, we have one sister." He replied, "Then make a gift of her to the spirit of the tank." The girl was betrothed, and her family had received the amount that had been fixed as her price. The brothers argued thus, "We have laboured so long to make a name for ourselves, but have not found water, so where is our name? If we do not sacrifice our sister we shall never obtain the fulfilment of our wishes, let us all agree to it." So they all said, "Agreed," but the youngest did not fully approve of their design. In the evening they said to their mother, "Let our sister wash her clothes, dress her hair, and put on all her ornaments to-morrow when she brings us our breakfast to the tank." They did not, however, enlighten their mother as to why they desired their sister to be so careful with her toilet. The following day the mother addressed her daughter as follows, "Oh! my daughter, your brothers yesterday said to me, let the daughter, when she brings us our breakfast come with clean clothes, her hair dressed and all her ornaments on. So as it is nearly time, go and dress, and put on all your ornaments, and take your brothers' breakfast to where they are working." She complied with her mother's order, and set out for the tank, dressed in her best with all her ornaments on, carrying boiled rice in a new basket. When she arrived at the tank her brothers said to her, "Oh! daughter, set down the basket under yonder tree." She did so, and the brothers came to where she was. They then said to her, "Go bring us water from the tank to drink." She took her water-pot under her arm, and went into the tank, but did not at once find water. Presently, however, she saw the sheen of water in the centre, and went to fill her pitcher, but she could not do so, as the water rose so rapidly. The tank was soon full to the brim, and the girl was drowned. The brothers having seen their sister perish, went home. Their mother enquired, "Oh! my sons, where is the daughter?" They replied, "We have given her to the tank. A certain jugi gosae said to us, 'Unless you offer up your sister you will never get water'." On hearing this she loudly wailed the loss of her daughter. Her sons strove to mitigate her grief by saying, "Look mother, we undertook the excavation of the tank to perpetuate our name, and to gain the fruit of a meritorious work. And unless there be water in the tank for men and cattle to drink, where is the perpetuation of our name? By our offering up the daughter the tank is full to overflowing. So the cattle can now quench their thirst, and travellers, when they encamp near by and drink the water, will say, 'The excavators of this tank deserve the thanks of all. We, and others who pass by are recipients of their bounty. Their merit is indeed great'." In this way with many such like arguments they sought to allay their mother's grief. Right in the centre of the tank, where the girl was drowned, there sprang up an Upel flower the purple, sheen of which filled the beholder with delight. It has already been stated that the girl had been betrothed, and that her family had received the money for her. The day appointed for the marriage arrived, and the bridegroom's party with drums, elephants and horses, set out for the bride's house. On arrival they were informed that she had left her home, and that all efforts to trace her had proved fruitless. So they returned home greatly disappointed. It so happened that their way lay past the tank in which the girl had been sacrificed, and the bridegroom, from his palki, saw the Upel flower in the centre. As he wished to possess himself of it, he ordered his bearers to set down the palki, and stepping out prepared to swim out to pluck the flower. His companions tried to dissuade him, but as he insisted he was permitted to enter the water. He swam to within a short distance of the flower, but as he stretched out his hand to pluck it, the Upel flower, moving away, said, "Chi! Chi! Chi! Chi! You may be either a Dom or a Hadi, do not touch me." The bridegroom replied, "Not so. Are not we two one?" He made another effort to seize the flower, but it again moved away, saying, "Chi! Chi! Chi! Chi! you may be a Dom or a Hadi, so do not touch me." To which he replied, "Not so. You and I are one." He swam after it again, but the flower eluded his grasp, and said, "Chi! Chi! Chi! Chi! You may be a Dom, or you may be a Hadi, so do not touch me." He said, "Not so. You and I are bride and bridegroom for ever." Then the Upel flower allowed itself to be plucked, and the bridegroom returned to his company bearing it with him. He entered his palki and the cortege started. They had not proceeded far before the bearers were convinced that the palki was increasing in weight. They said, "How is it that it is now so heavy? A short time ago it was light." So they pushed aside the panel, and beheld the bride and bridegroom sitting side by side. The marriage party on hearing the glad news rejoiced exceedingly. They beat drums, shouted, danced, and fired off guns. Thus they proceeded on their homeward way. When the bridegroom's family heard the noise, they said, one to the other "Sister, they have arrived." Then they went forth to meet the bridegroom, and brought them in with great rejoicing. The bride was she who had been the Upel flower, and was exceedingly beautiful. In form she was both human and divine. The village people, as well as the marriage guests, when they saw her, exclaimed, "What a beautiful bride! She is the fairest bride that we have seen. She has no peer." Thus they all praised her beauty. It so happened that in the meantime the mother and brothers of the girl had become poor. They were reduced to such straits as to be compelled to sell firewood for a living. So one day the brothers went to the bridegroom's village with firewood for sale. They offered it to one and another, but no one would buy. At last some one said, "Take it to the house in which the marriage party is assembled. They may require it." So the brothers went there, and asked, "Will you buy firewood?" They replied, "Yes. We will take it." Some one informed the bride, that some men from somewhere had brought firewood for sale. So she went out, and at once recognised her brothers, and said to them, "Put down your loads," and when they had done so she placed beds for them to sit on, and brought them water; but they did not know that she was their sister, as she was so greatly changed. Then she gave them vessels of oil, and said, "Go bathe, for you will dine here to-day." So they took the oil, and went to bathe, but they were so hungry that they drank the oil on the way. So they bathed, and returned to the house. She then brought them water to wash their hands, and they sat down in a row to eat. The bride gave her youngest brother food on a brass plate, because he had not approved of what had been done to her, but to the others she gave it on leaf plates. They had only eaten one handful of rice when the girl placed herself in front of them, and putting a hand upon her head, began to weep bitterly. She exclaimed, "Oh! my brothers, you had no pity upon me. You threw me away as an offering to the tank. You saw me lost, and then went home." When the brothers heard this they felt as if their breasts were torn open. If they looked up to heaven, heaven was high. Then they saw an axe which they seized, and with it they struck the ground with all their might. It opened like the mouth of a large tiger, and the brothers plunged in. The girl caught the youngest brother by the hair to pull him up, but it came away in her hand, and they all disappeared into the bowels of the earth, which closed over them. The girl held the hair in her hand and wept over it. She then planted it, and from it sprang the hair like Bachkom [22] grass, and from that time Bachkom grass grows in the jungles. The sister had pity on her youngest brother because he did not join heartily with the others in causing her death. So she tried to rescue him from the fate which was about to overtake him, but in this she failed, and he suffered for the sins of his brothers. THE STORY OF JHORE. There was a lad named Jhore, who herded goats, and every day while with his flock he saw a tiger and a lizard fight. The lizard always vanquished the tiger, and the latter after each encounter came to Jhore and said, "Which of us won?" Jhore through fear every time replied, "You won," and the tiger went away pleased. One day Jhore said to his mother, give me some roasted matkom in a leaf, and put me into a bag and I will tell you something. So she wrapped up some matkom in a leaf, and Jhore crept into the bag and she tied its mouth. Then she said, "What is it, my son, which you wish to tell me?" Jhore replied, "Every day when I am tending my goats I see a tiger and a lizard fight, and the tiger is vanquished by the lizard. The tiger then comes to me and asks, 'which of us won?' Through fear I say, you won, then the tiger goes away satisfied." While Jhore was relating the foregoing to his mother the tiger was listening at the door, and as he finished his story it rushed in, and seizing the bag carried it off to a dense unexplored forest, on a hill in the middle of which he placed it. Jhore was very uncomfortable, and was considering how he could best free himself from the bag. As he was hungry he was reminded of the matkom he had with him wrapped in a leaf, so he began to open it, and the dried leaf crackled. The tiger hearing the noise, asked what produced it. Jhore replied, "It is yesterday's lizard." The tidings of the presence of his mortal enemy so terrified the tiger that he exclaimed, "Stop, stop, Jhore. Do not release him. Let me first escape." After the tiger left Jhore rolled down the hill side, and away into a still denser forest, in an open spot of which he came to a stop. The fastening of the bag was loosed by this time, and Jhore crawled out. All round this open glade in which our hero found himself was dense forest never trodden by the foot of man, and tenanted by a herd of wild buffaloes. Jhore took up his residence there, and subsisted on the roasted matkom as long as it lasted. Jhore in his explorations found a number of buffaloe calves left behind by their mothers who had gone to graze. He tended these daily, cleaning the place where they lived, and taking them to the water, where he washed them. In this way a bond of friendship was established between him and the wild buffaloe calves. Before the buffaloe cows left for their grazing grounds in the mornings the calves said, "You stay away till so late at night that, we are almost famished before you return. Leave some milk with us, so that when hungry we may drink it." So they left a supply of milk with them, which they gave to Jhore. He took such care of his charges that he soon became a great favourite with them. Matters went on thus for many days till at last the buffaloe cows said among themselves, "We must watch for, and catch whoever it is who keeps our calves so clean." So a very powerful wild buffaloe was appointed to lie in wait, but he missed seeing Jhore when he led the calves to the water and bathed them, and cleaned and swept out their stall. The next day another took his place, but he succeeded no better. The calves were taken to the water, bathed, brought back, and their stall cleaned and swept as usual without his seeing who did it. When the others returned in the evening he informed them that he had failed to solve the mystery. So they said, "What shall we do now? How shall we catch him? Who will watch to-morrow?" A old buffaloe cow replied, "I will accept the responsibility." Hearing her speak thus the others said, "What a good elephant and a good horse could not do, will ten asses accomplish?" By this they meant, that two of the strongest of their number having failed, this weak old cow could not possibly succeed. However, she persisted, and in the morning the others went to graze leaving her behind. In a short time she saw Jhore emerge from the dunghill, in which he resided, and loose the calves, and take them to the water. When he brought them back he cleaned and swept their stall, and then re-entered the dunghill. In the evening the others enquired, "Well, did you see him?" The old buffaloe cow replied, "Yes, I saw him, but I will not tell you, for you will kill him." They pressed her, but she refused, saying, "You will kill him." They said, "Why should we kill him who takes so much care of our young ones?" The old buffaloe cow led them to the dunghill, and said, "He is in here." So they called to him to come out, which he did, and when they saw him they were all greatly pleased, so much so that they there and then hired him to continue to do the work he had been doing so well. They arranged also to give him a regular daily supply of milk, so he was duly installed by the herd of wild buffaloes as care-taker of their calves. Long after this, he one day took his calves to the river and after he had bathed them he said to the buffaloe calves, "Wait for me till I also bathe." They replied, "Bathe, we will graze close by." He having performed his ablutions sat down on the river bank to comb and dress his hair, which was twelve cubits long. In combing his tangled tresses a quantity was wrenched out, this he wrapped up in a leaf and threw into the stream. It was carried by the current a great distance down to where a raja's daughter and her companions were bathing. The raja's daughter saw the leaf floating towards her, and ordered one of her attendants to bring it to her. When the leaf was opened it was found to contain hair twelve cubits in length. Immediately after measuring the hair the raja's daughter complained of fever, and hasted home to her couch. The raja being informed of his daughter's illness sent for the most skilled physicians, who prescribed all the remedies their pharmacopoeia contained, but failed to afford the sufferer any relief. The grief of the raja was therefore intense. Then his daughter said to him, "Oh! father, I have one word to say to you. If you do as I wish, I shall recover." The raja replied, "Tell me what it is, I shall do my best to please you." So she said, "If you find me one with hair twelve cubits long and bring him to me, I shall rally at once." The raja said, "It is well." The raja caused diligent search to be made for the person with hair twelve cubits long. He said to a certain jugi, "You traverse the country far and near, find me the man with hair twelve cubits long." The jugi enquired everywhere, but could obtain no intelligence concerning him. They then made up a parcel of flour and gave it to a crow, whom they sent to try and find him. The crow flew caw cawing all over the district, but returned at last and reported failure, saying, "there is not such a man in the world." After this they again made up a small parcel of flour, and giving it to a tame paroquet, said, "Find a man with hair twelve cubits long." The paroquet, having received his orders, flew away screeching, and mounting high up into the sky, directed his course straight for the unexplored forest. In the meantime the dunghill in which Jhore resided had become a palace. The paroquet alighted on a tree near Jhore's palace, and began to whistle. On hearing the unusual sound Jhore came out and saw the paroquet who was speaking and whistling. The paroquet also eyed him narrowly, and was delighted to see his hair trailing on the ground. By this he knew that he had found the object of his search, and with a scream of delight, he flew away to communicate the tidings to the raja. The raja was overjoyed with his messenger's report, and ordered the bariat to set out immediately. In a short time they were on their way accompanied by elephants, horses, drums, and fifes. On reaching Jhore's palace they were about to enter for the purpose of seizing him, when he exclaimed, "Do not pass my threshold." They replied, "We will carry you away with us." He said, "Do not come near." "We will certainly carry you away," they replied. Jhore then ran into his house, and seizing his flute mounted to the roof, and began to play. As the notes of the flute resounded through the forest it seemed to say, A staff of Pader [23] wood A flute of Erandom [24] Return, return, return, Oh! wild buffaloe cows. The sound of the flute startled the wild buffaloes, and they said one to another, "Sister. What has happened to Jhore?" Then he played again the same as before; A staff of Pader wood A flute of Erandom Return, return, return, Oh! wild buffaloe cows. As the echoes of Jhore's flute died away in the forest glades the wild buffaloes sprang forward, and rushed to his assistance. On arrival they found the house and courtyard full of people, and large numbers outside who could not gain admittance. They immediately charged them with all their force, goring many to death, and scattering the remainder, who flung away their drums and fifes, and fled as for dear life. When the raja heard of their discomfiture he sent again for the paroquet, and giving a small parcel of flour to him said, "Stay some time with him until you gain his confidence, and watch your chance to bring away his flute." Having received his orders he flew off to Jhore's palace, and having gained access to where the flute was, when Jhore was out of the way he brought it away, and gave it to the raja. The raja was delighted at the sight of the flute, and again ordered the bariat to go to fetch Jhore. A still more imposing array than the former started with elephants, horses, drums, fifes, and palkis, and in due course arrived at Jhore's residence. On seeing them Jhore called out, "Do not approach, or you will rue it presently." They replied, "You beat us off the first time, therefore you now crow, but you will not now be able to balk us, we shall take you with us." Again he warned them to stay where they were, saying, "Do not come near me, or you will rue it presently." They replied, "We will take you with us this time, we will not leave you behind." Jhore then ran into his house, and searched for his flute, but as it had been carried away by the paroquet he could not find it, so seizing another he mounted to the roof, and began to play. The flute seemed to say; A staff of Pader wood A flute of Erandom Return, return, return, Oh! wild buffaloe cows. The sound startled the wild buffaloes who said one to another "Sister. What is it Jhore says?" Again the music of the flute reached their ears, and the entire herd rushed off to Jhore's rescue. They charged the crowd in and around the palace of their favourite with such determination that in a few minutes many lay gored to death, and those who were so fortunate as to escape threw down drums, fifes, and palkis, and fled pell mell from the place. The raja, being informed of the catastrophe that had befallen the bariat, again called the paroquet, and after he had given him careful instructions as to how he should proceed, dismissed him. He said, "This time you must stay many days with him, and secure his entire confidence and friendship. Then you must bring away all his flutes, do not leave him one." So the paroquet flew swiftly, and alighted on a tree near to Jhore's house, and began to whistle. Jhore seeing it was a paroquet brought it food, and induced it to come down, and allow him to take it in his hand. The two, it is said, lived together many days, and greatly enjoyed each other's society. The paroquet when he had informed himself as to where all Jhore's flutes were kept, one day tied them all up in a bundle, and carried them to the raja. The sight of the flutes revived the drooping spirits of his Majesty. He gave orders a third time for the bariat to go and bring Jhore, so they started with greater pomp and show than before. Elephants, horses, and an immense number of men with drums and fifes, and palkis formed the procession. On their arrival Jhore came out of his palace and said to them, "Do not come near, or you will rue it." They replied, "This time we will have you. We will take you with us." Again Jhore warning them said, "Come no nearer. If you do, you will see something as good as a show. Do you not remember how you fared the other day?" But they said, "We will carry you away with us." Jhore ran inside to get his flute, so that he might call the wild buffaloes to his assistance; but no flute was to be found. Without the help of his powerful friends he could offer no resistance, so they seized him, and bore him away in triumph to the raja. When the raja's daughter heard of his arrival the fever suddenly left her, and she was once more in excellent health. She and Jhore were united in the bonds of marriage forthwith; but Jhore was kept a close prisoner in the palace. In course of time a son blessed the union, and when the child was able to walk Jhore's wife said to him, "Where is the large herd of buffaloes which you boast so much about? If they were here "Sonny" would have milk and curds daily." Jhore plucking up courage, replied, "If you do not believe me order a stockade to be constructed thirty-two miles long and thirty-two miles broad, and you shall soon behold my buffaloes." So they made a pen thirty-two miles long and thirty-two miles broad. Then Jhore said, "Give me my old flute, and you all remain within doors." So they brought him his flute, and he went up on to the roof of the palace, and played. The music seemed to call as follows: A staff of Pader wood A flute of Erandom Return, return, return, Oh! wild buffaloe cows. The sound startled the wild buffaloes in their forest home, and they said one to another, "Sister. What does Jhore say?" Again the music seemed to say, A staff of Pader wood A flute of Erandom Return, return, return, Oh! wild buffaloe cows. At Jhore's second call the herd of wild buffaloes dashed off at their utmost speed, and never halted till they reached the raja's palace. They came in such numbers that the pen could not contain them all, many remained outside. Those that entered the pen are the domesticated buffaloes of to-day, and those who were without are the wild buffaloes still found in the forests of India. THE GIRL WHO ALWAYS FOUND HELPERS. There were once upon a time, six brothers and a sister. The brothers were married. They were merchants, and their business often took them to a distance from home. On such occasions the wives were left alone with their sister-in-law. For some reason or other they hated the girl, and took every opportunity to harass and worry her. One day when the brothers were away on a journey they said to her, "Oh! girl, go to the forest and bring a load of firewood without tying it." What could the girl do? She must obey her sisters-in-law, or else they would beat her, and give her no food. So she went to the forest with a heavy heart, bewailing her unhappy lot in the following plaintive song, Woe is me! For I must bring Unbound a fagot on my head. Oh! brothers dear, I weeping sing While business you far hence hath led. Seeing her grief a Jambro snake asked, "Why daughter, do you cry?" She replied, "My brothers have gone away on business, and my sisters-in-law persecute me. They have sent me to bring a bundle of firewood on my head without tying it." The Jambro took pity on her and said, "Gather firewood." Then the Jambro stretched himself full length upon the ground and said to the girl, "Lay the sticks on me." When she had done so the serpent twined itself round the fagot like a rope, and said, "Now lift it on to your head, but when you reach home, lay your burden down gently." When her sisters-in-law knew that she had done what they considered impossible, they were still more angry with her, and ordered her to go to the forest and get milk from a tigress. They gave her a small earthen vessel, saying, "Go, bring us the milk of a tigress." What could the girl do? She went to the forest with a heavy heart, bewailing her unhappy lot in the following plaintive song, Woe is me! For I must bring A brimful cup of tigress' milk Oh! brothers dear, I weeping sing While you far hence by trade are lured. She went to the tiger's den, but only found two cubs, who seeing her sitting weeping at the entrance said, "What are you seeking?" She replied, "My sisters-in-law have sent me to bring some of your mother's milk." The cubs took pity on her and hid her in the cave. They said to her, "Our mother will devour you, so you must not shew yourself." In a short time the tigress returned, and entering the den said, "I smell a human being. Where is he?" The cubs replied, "There is no one here." The cubs milked a little of their mother's milk into the girl's vessel, and when the way was clear they gave it to her, and sent her home. Her sisters-in-law were greatly disappointed when she brought home the milk, they had expected that the tiger would have devoured her, on that she would return home empty handed, and so give them the opportunity of abusing her for not carrying out their order. Another day when the brothers were absent they called her, and said, "Go to the forest and bring us some bear's milk." What could the girl do? If she did not do as she was bidden her sisters-in-law would beat her, and give her nothing to eat. So taking the vessel in her hand, she went to the forest, bewailing her unhappy lot in the following plaintive strains; Woe is me! For I must bring A brimful cup of she bear's milk Oh! brothers dear, I weeping sing While you far hence by trade are lured. Going to the bear's den she sat down and wept. The she-bear was not in the den, only two cubs were there, who, when they saw the girl, took pity upon her, and asked why she wept. She replied, "My brothers have gone away on business, and my sisters-in-law, who hate me, have sent me to procure bear's milk in order to harass and annoy me." The bear cubs then said, "Our mother will eat you, if she finds you, so we will hide you, and you must keep quiet while she is here." The she-bear on entering the cave said, "I smell a human being." The cubs replied, "There is no one here." The young ones succeeded in obtaining a small quantity of their mother's milk in the girl's earthen vessel, and after the mother bear had left, the cubs dismissed her with their best wishes for her welfare. Her sisters-in-law were extremely annoyed when she presented the bear's milk to them. They had expected that the bear would have torn her to pieces, or that she would have returned empty handed, and thus give them another chance to abuse and reproach her. The girl's sisters-in-law again took advantage of their husbands' absence to send her to bring water from the spring in a water-pot with a hole in it. They said, "Go bring water in this water-pot." What could the girl do? She placed it on her head, and went towards the spring bewailing her unhappy lot in the following plaintive song, Woe is me! For I must bring Spring water in a leaking jar Oh! brothers dear, I weeping sing While business you far hence hath lured. She seated herself near the well, and exclaimed, "How can I carry water in this pot?" At that moment a frog raised his head above the reeds, and said, "Why do you sit here lamenting?" The girl replied, "My sisters-in-law, who hate me, have ordered me to bring water in this pot which has a large hole in the bottom. How is it possible for me to obey their order?" The frog replied, "Do not worry yourself over it, I will help you." So he pressed himself tightly over the hole, and she filled her pot, and carried it home on her head. Her sisters-in-law, when they saw her place the water-pot on the ground, full to the brim, were intensely mortified. They had looked for her returning with an empty pitcher, thus affording them an ostensible reason for maliciously upbraiding her. Another time they scattered a large basketful of Mustard seed on the ground, and ordered her to pick up every seed. They said to her, "You must gather it all into the basket again." What could she do? If she failed they would beat her, entreat her spitefully, and deprive her of food. As she gazed upon the seeds scattered all around her, she bewailed her unhappy condition as follows: Woe is me! I must refill This basket with these scattered seeds Oh! brothers dear, I weeping sing While business you far hence hath lured. The plaintive murmur of her song had scarcely died away when a large flock of pigeons alighted near her. They said, "Why do you weep?" She replied, "My sisters-in-law, who hate me, have scattered all this mustard seed on the ground, and have ordered me to pick it all up. One solitary seed must not be left." The pigeons said, "Do not vex yourself, we will soon pick it up for you." As the pigeons were very numerous they soon collected it all into the basket. They did not leave one seed on the ground. When she called her sisters-in-law to come and see how efficiently the work had been done, they were furious at being again balked by her, and vowed vengeance. Once again, when the brothers were from home, her sisters-in-law ordered her to go to the jungle, and bring a bale of leaves with which to make the family cups and plates. They said to her, "Go to the jungle and bring a large bale of leaves, but do so without in anyway tying them." What could the girl do? She had been ordered to perform an impossibility. If she refused, or failed to do it, her sisters-in-law would beat her, and deprive her of food. So she went to the forest bewailing her unhappy lot in the following plaintive song; Woe is me! For I must bring Of forest leaves an unbound bale Oh! brothers dear, I weeping sing While business you far hence hath lured. As she was sitting in the forest weeping a Horhorang serpent drew near and said, "Wherefore daughter do you grieve?" She replied, "My sisters-in-law hate me and have ordered me to bring leaves without tying them into a bundle. I cannot do this, and I fear their resentment, so I cannot help weeping." The Horhorang said, "Vex not yourself. Go and pluck your leaves and bring them here." She did so, and the Horhorang twined himself round them binding them into a sheaf, which the girl placed upon her head, and carried home. When her sisters-in-law saw the leaves, and had looked to see that none had fallen by the way they were greatly chagrined. They had expected an opportunity to reproach her with disobedience, and a reason for punishing her. Although her sisters-in-law had imposed so many impossibilities upon her, yet they had been unable to defeat her. Just at the proper time some one had appeared to help her. They had seen a bunch of flowers on the top of a high tree, and one day when their husbands were away, they said to her, "Climb up into the tree and pluck the flowers, we wish to dress our hair with them on the occasion of your marriage." No sooner had she clambered up into the tree than her sisters-in-law placed thorny bushes all round in such a manner as to prevent her coming down again. They then went home. A few days afterwards, the brothers, when returning from a distant market to which they had gone rested for a little under this tree. A tear drop fell on the hand of one of them. Looking at it he said, "Look brothers, this tear drop resembles those of the daughter." Then they looked and saw her high up in the tree. They quickly brought her down, and she related how in time past she had been persecuted by her sisters-in-law whenever they were absent. The brothers were wroth with their wives for having used her so cruelly. The brothers put their sister into a bag, and carried her home on a bullock's back. When the wives came out to welcome them, they asked, "Where is the daughter?" They gave no reply. Afterwards the brothers dug a deep well, and on the pretence of propitiating the water spirit induced their wives to stand round the well with offerings of rice, &c., in their hands. At a given signal each hurled his wife head foremost into the well. They then placed a cart over the opening. In return for the persecution she had endured at their hands, the girl used to go to the well and looking in, say, "You treated me cruelly once, but now, boo sisters boo." A SIMPLE THIEF. Once upon a time a man had some money given to him, and was told to go and buy a foal with it. So he set out to search for one. After a time he came to a village, and going to a house asked the people if they had a foal to sell, as he wished to buy one. They replied, "There are no foals here, but we have mare's eggs. If you will take them we will give them to you." He said, "I will not take eggs, I want a foal." He went to every house in the village asking if they had a foal to sell, but none was to be had; but at each they offered to sell to him mare's eggs. He then thought within himself, wherever I have gone they have told me that they have not got a foal, but that they can let me have eggs. This being so, why should I give myself any further trouble? I will buy an egg. So he was given a large gourd, and told it was a mare's egg. Having got, as he thought a mare's egg, he joyfully started to return to his home. The man who sold him the gourd informed him, that a foal was certain to be hatched on the way. He was still far from home when the sun set, so he entered a village, and passed the night there. In the morning he set out betimes, and about breakfast time he came to a tank, on the embankment of which he laid down his gourd. He then went into the water to clean his teeth, after which he began to wash his face. While he was thus engaged a jackal came and pushed the gourd down the embankment. The noise frightening the animal it ran away, but the man having caught a glimpse of it called out, "My foal has hatched, and is galloping off." He pursued the jackal, which being terror stricken fled to the jungle, and took refuge in his burrow. The man was pleased to see the creature enter his hole, and he said, "He will soon come out again, and then I shall mount him, and gallop him home." Having said this, he placed himself in such a position that when the jackal came out he could sit down on its back. He continued standing thus until nightfall, but even then he had no intention of relinquishing his chance of capturing his foal. Late at night some thieves came that way, and seeing him alone in the jungle asked him what he did there. He replied, "I was sent by my friends to buy a foal, but as I could not get one, I bought a mare's egg. I was informed that the egg would hatch on my way home. I spent last night in a village on the way side, and resumed my homeward journey in the morning. On arriving at a tank I laid down my egg on the embankment, and went down into the water, and having cleaned my teeth was washing my hands and face, when the egg hatched and the foal immediately ran away. I followed it, and saw it enter this hole, and I am waiting till it comes out, when I shall mount, and canter it home." The thieves said, "Leave it alone. Let it remain there. Will you kill yourself for this foal? Come with us, and we will give you a strong, beautiful horse. This one has through fear of you riding on his back gone into this hole. Why should you wait for him? He will stay where he is. Come with us, and we will supply you with a good one presently." After a little time spent in considering the offer the thieves had made him, he decided to accompany them. The thieves were pleased to receive him into their gang, and at once they proceeded towards a certain village. Having arrived there they went to a rich man's house, and dug a hole through the wall. They then said to our hero of the mare's egg, "You creep in." He raised no objection, but went willingly. They said to him, "Bring out all the heavy articles you can find, they are sure to be the most valuable." When inside he lifted up all he found to test the weight, but nothing seemed to be sufficiently heavy to be worth stealing. He said, "everything is light, what can I take out to them?" At length he came across a millstone, which he pushed through the hole in the wall to his confederates out side. Judging from its weight he expected they would be delighted to receive it, but they said, "Not this, Not this. Bring something worth stealing." So he went back, and finding a drum hanging from the roof he took it down, and began to beat it. When the thieves heard the sound of the drum they decamped, saying, "This fool is certain to betray us to-night." When he brought out the drum to make it over to them, they were nowhere to be seen, so he re-entered the house and placed the drum again where he had found it. He then saw some milk near the fireplace, and being hungry he determined to cook some food. So helping himself to some rice he began to prepare it by boiling it in the milk. When it was nearly cooked, one of the household turned over in his sleep, saying, "I will eat. I will eat." So he filled a ladle with the boiling rice and milk, and poured it into the sleeper's mouth. The hot food scalded him terribly, and he sprang up howling with the pain. The other members of the family also jumped to their feet, and laid hold of the intruder, and bound him hand and foot. When the day broke a large number of people came to see the thief, and began to question him, as to who were his companions. So he related all that had occurred. Then they said, "Of a truth, this man has been the means of protecting us. Had he not acted as he did, we would have been robbed of all we have." So they loosed his bonds, and set him free. They also allowed him to eat the rice and milk he had cooked, which having done, he went home. NOTES [1] Jari is the Santali name for Crotalaria Juncea, a fibre yielding plant the seeds of which when ripe, rattle in the pods when the plant is shaken. [2] Bita is Santali for span, and Bitaram is span Ram, or span-long Ram. [3] A small basket with a contracted opening. [4] Covering for the head and shoulders made of leaves pinned together, worn as a protection from the rain by women, while planting rice. [5] Said to bullocks when ploughing to cause them to turn at the end of a furrow. [6] Ghur pank is a phrase used by ploughmen when turning their bullocks at the end of a furrow. [7] Mount the buffalo. [8] The spirit believed to preside over a certain class of rice land. [9] Semi-Hinduised aborigines, whose touch is considered polluting. [10] Ficus religiosa, Willd. one of the hugest of India's many huge trees. [11] The fibre yielded by Bauhinia Vahlii, W. and A. goes under that name among the Santals. [12] Lelha in Santali means foolish. [13] Diamonds. [14] A mythical gem, said to be found in the heads of certain snakes. [15] Celestial horses. [16] Celestial Maiden. [17] �gle Marmelos, Correa. [18] A mythical bird which figures largely in Indian folk lore. [19] Huti is the name given by Santals to a certain timber boring insect. Budhi is an old woman. [20] Calotropis gigantea, R. Br. [21] Diospyros tomentosa. [22] Ischoemum agustifolium, Hack. [23] Stereospermum suaveolens, D. C. [24] Recinus communis, Linn. 
45321	----	SERBIAN FOLK-LORE _TRANSLATED FROM THE SERBIAN_ BY MADAME ELODIE L. MIJATOVICH AUTHOR OF THE "HISTORY OF MODERN SERBIA," "KOSSOVO BALLADS" ETC. ETC. ETC. _WITH AN INTRODUCTION_ BY THE LATE REV. W. DENTON, M.A. _SECOND EDITION_ 1899 The Columbus Printing, Publishing and Advertising Company, Limited, Amberley House, Norfolk Street, W.C. _Preparing for Publication_, SERBIAN POPULAR CUSTOMS, _A Further Contribution to Serbian Folk-Lore_, BY MADAME ELODIE L. MIJATOVICH. CONTENTS. PAGE. INTRODUCTION 1 THE BEAR'S SON 23 THE WONDERFUL KIOSK 31 THE SNAKE'S GIFT. LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS 36 THE GOLDEN APPLE-TREE, AND THE NINE PEAHENS 42 PAPALLUGA; OR, THE GOLDEN SLIPPER 58 THE GOLDEN-FLEECED RAM 65 WHO ASKS LITTLE, GETS MUCH 74 JUSTICE OR INJUSTICE? WHICH IS BEST 80 SATAN'S JUGGLINGS AND GOD'S MIGHT 84 THE WISE GIRL 88 GOOD DEEDS ARE NEVER LOST 93 LYING FOR A WAGER 103 THE WICKED STEPMOTHER 108 BIRD GIRL 114 SIR PEPPERCORN 117 BASH-CHALEK; OR, TRUE STEEL 139 THE SHEPHERD AND THE KING'S DAUGHTER 165 ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER 180 THE BITER BIT 191 THE TRADE THAT NO ONE KNOWS 206 THE THREE SUITORS 221 THE GOLDEN-HAIRED TWINS 228 THE DREAM OF THE KING'S SON 237 THE THREE BROTHERS 245 ANIMALS AS FRIENDS AND AS ENEMIES 282 THE LEGEND OF ST. GEORGE 295 INTRODUCTION. It is only within the last few years that the importance of folk-lore, the popular legends, tales, drolls, and extravagances which have been handed down from generation to generation among the labourers, peasants and youth of a nation, has been frankly recognised. It is now, however, generally acknowledged that this kind of literature, which more than all other deserves the name of popular, possesses a value beyond any momentary amusement which the tales themselves may afford, and it has assumed an honourable post side by side with other and graver materials, and has obtained a recognised use in deciding the conclusions of the historian and ethnologist. It is fortunate that the utility of these 'tales and old wives' fables' should have been thus recognised, otherwise the dull utilitarianism of modern educators would soon have trampled out these fragments of the 'elder time,' and have left to our children no alternative than that of 'being crammed with geography and natural history.'[1] The collection of Serbian popular tales, now translated into English and here published, is an additional contribution to our knowledge of such literature--the most venerable secular literature, it may be, which has come down to our times. [1] Charles Lamb, in a letter to Coleridge, October, 1802. At the wish of the lady who has selected and translated these tales, I have undertaken to edit them. In doing so I have, however, preserved, as far as possible, the literality of her version, and have limited myself to the addition of a few notes to the text. The tales included in this volume have been selected from two collections of Serbian folk-lore; the greater part from the well-known 'Srpske narodne pripovijetke,' of Vuk Stefanovich Karadjich, published at Vienna, in 1853, and others from the 'Bosniacke narodne pripovijetke,' collected by the 'Society of Young Bosnia,' the first part of which collection was printed at Sissek, in Croatia, in 1870. The collection of Vuk Stefanovich Karadjich was translated into German by his daughter Wilhelmina, and printed at Berlin, in 1854.[2] To this volume, which is dedicated to the Princess Julia, widow of the late Prince Michael Obrenovich III., Jacob Grimm, who suggested to Karadjich the utility of making the original collection, has contributed a short but interesting preface. [2] 'Volksmärchen der Serben, gesammelt und herausgegeben von Vuk Stephanowitsch Karadschitsch.' Berlin, 1854. The collection of Vuk Karadjich was gathered by him from the lips of professional story-tellers, and of old peasant women in Serbia and the Herzégovina. One of these stories, translated in the present volume, and here called 'The Wonderful Kiosk,' or 'The Kiosk in the Sky,' was however written out and contributed to this collection by Prince Michael, the late and lamented ruler of Serbia, who had heard it, in childhood, from the lips of his nurse. The Bosniac collection was made by young theological students from that country--members of the college at Dyakovo, in Croatia. The taste for this species of literature has, during the last few years, led to the publication of various collections of traditional folk-tales, legends, and sagas, from all countries including and lying between Iceland and the southern extremity of Africa and of Polynesia, until a very ample body of such stories have been made accessible even to the mere English reader. Whilst Mr. Thorpe[3] and Mr. Dasent[4] have directed their attention to Iceland and the Scandinavian kingdoms, Mr. Campbell has rendered important service by his large collection of West Highland stories.[5] Indian legends, and folk-lore in general, has been illustrated by the volumes of Mr. W. H. Wilson, Dr. Muir[6], Colonel Jacob, Mr. Kelly[7], and Miss Frere[8]; and the Cingalese traditions by the writings of Mr. Turnour, and especially by the volumes of Mr. Spence Hardy.[9] Russian and North Slavonic folk-lore has been made accessible and arranged in the valuable volumes of Mr. Ralston, on 'The Songs of the Russian People,' and on 'Russian Folk-Lore.' Dr. Bleek has collected some of the myths and popular tales of the tribes in the neighbourhood of the Cape of Good Hope[10]; and Sir George Grey has done the same good service in preserving specimens of the folk-tales of the people of New Zealand.[11] Whilst foreign countries have given up their stores of popular literature to these investigations, similar industry has been shown in collecting the traditions and folk-lore of our own country. The songs collected in Sir Walter Scott's 'Border Minstrelsy,' illustrated as they are by the notes which he added, are a store-house alike for the northern counties of England and the southern counties of Scotland. Mr. Wright and Mr. Cockayne, in their volumes, that on the 'Literature of the Middle Ages,' by the former gentleman, and that of the 'Leechdoms of Early England,' by the latter, have brought together the folk-lore of our forefathers; and in the pages of Baker[12], Chambers[13], Hone[14], Henderson[15], Hunt[16], and others, are stored up much of the local folk-lore and tales which still exist amongst us, and which we have inherited from our Aryan ancestors,--echoes of stories first heard by them in their home in Central Asia. [3] 'Northern Mythology,' 3 vols. [4] 'Popular Tales from the Norse.' [5] 'Popular Tales of the West Highlands,' 4 vols. Edinb. 1860-62. [6] 'Original Sanskrit Texts on the Origin and History of the People of India, &c.' [7] 'Indo-European Traditions.' [8] 'Old Deccan Days.' [9] 'Manual of Buddhism' and 'Legends and Theories of the Buddhists.' London. 1866. [10] 'Reynard, the Fox, in South Africa.' [11] 'Polynesian Mythology and Traditions of New Zealand.' [12] 'Folk-Lore of Northamptonshire.' [13] 'The Book of Days.' [14] 'Table Book' and 'Year Book.' [15] 'Notes on the Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders.' [16] 'Drolls of Old Cornwall.' 2 vols. By means of these and similar collections, we are enabled to trace and compare the folk-tale in the various stages of its growth, and note its modifications, according to the religion of the people who have received it, and the climate of the countries in which it has been naturalised. In the pages of Professor Max Müller, of Mr. Baring Gould, and of Mr. Cox, we have attempts, more or less successful, to treat these stories scientifically, and to trace and explain the origin and motive of the various popular tales and legends which are comprehended under the name of folk-lore. An examination of these collections leads to the conclusion that--apart at least from the legends of history--the number of strictly original folk-tales is but small; and that people, settled for ages in countries separated geographically, have yet possessed from remote antiquity a popular literature, which must have been the common property of the race before it branched into nations; but that the natural accretions, the growth of time, together with local colouring, fragments of historical facts, the influence of popular religious belief, and, above all, the exigencies and ingenuity of professional story-tellers, have so modified these primitive tales and legends, that an appearance of originality has been imparted to current popular tales, which, however, a larger acquaintance with folk-lore, and a more extended investigation, are now gradually dispelling. It is at length evident that various primitive legendary and traditionary elements have been combined in most of these tales; and that the only originality consists in such combination. They resemble a piece of tesselated work made up of cubes of coloured stone, the tints of which are really few in number, though they admit of being arranged into a variety of figures after the fancy of the artist. In the appendix to Mr. Henderson's 'Notes on the Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties of England,' under the appropriate name of 'Story-radicals,' the reader will find a useful and suggestive classification of the elements which enter into the composition of various popular tales borrowed from Von Hahn's introduction to his collection of Greek and Albanian folk-tales; and although this classification is rendered imperfect by the recent large increase of such stories, yet it suffices to explain the manner in which fragments selected from other popular fictions have been built up and agglutinated together. Philological research is day by day illustrating more clearly the original oneness of the language of mankind; and collections of household stories and popular legends are showing that much of the really popular literature, especially such as lingers in lands uninvaded by modern civilisation, and in sequestered spots in the midst of such civilisation, was possessed in common, before mankind was parted off into races, and subdivided into tribes and nations; so that they also furnish another proof of the unity of the human race. We are still able, at least to some extent, to trace the genealogy of many popular stories, and to ascend to their fountain-head, or at least to such a distance as to indicate the time when they originated, and the land where they were first told. Thus we may feel sure that had some of the tales in this volume been the original fancies of Slavonic minstrels and story-tellers they would not have been garnished with crocodiles, alligators, elephants, and the fauna and flora of Hindoostan, and that the germ of such stories must therefore have existed before the Slav made his home in Europe. Such accessories are sufficient proof that the tales themselves could not have been indigenous to the banks of the Danube, but must have been brought thither by a race which had migrated from a more southern and eastern home. Whilst the original home of these stories may thus be satisfactorily proved to have been in other lands than that in which they are now found, the growth of the tale, story, legend, or droll may be traced by an examination of the stories themselves. They are, in most instances, composite--an agglutination of fragments such as is seen in the breccias and similar stones of igneous origin. The desire of being credited with originality--a common weakness of humanity--the necessity of lengthening out a tale so as to fill up a definite amount of time in its recitation, and the wish to amuse by novel combinations--all tended to the structural growth of these tales. This was effected in part by the unexpected arrangements of old and well-known incidents, in part by the easier and coarser expedient of mere repetition. Thus, a common trick of the story-teller was to repeat all the details of the events which happened to one of the personages in his story, and to attribute them to each of the three, or even the seven heroes who had started in search of adventures, and whom he makes meet with precisely similar fortunes. These repetitions sometimes appear and are sometimes dispensed with, according to the exigencies of time, or the skill of the narrator. The other expedient of adding to the original tale incidents taken from other stories, admits of the exercise of much ingenuity on the part of the story-teller, and entitled him, in some degree, to the credit of originality. The fact remains, however, that the materials out of which such stories are constructed are less numerous than the stories themselves; which have for thousands of years delighted and amused, and sometimes instructed, both old and young alike, the peasant and the prince, the rude Hottentot of Southern Africa, the stolid boor of Russia, and the quick-witted and intelligent Greek. It is comparatively an easy task to trace the popular stories which are familiar to us, to the countries where they were originally told; or, at least, to decide approximately as to the land of their birth. Still more easy to decompose them, and separate the original germ from the accretions which have gathered around it in its course. It is not so easy, however, to determine the motive of the original story. According to one school of writers, these popular folk-tales embody profound mythological dogmas, and were even purposely constructed to convey, by means of symbolical or histrionic teaching, the maxims of ancient religions and philosophies. To some extent this is possibly true; apart, however, from the fact, and the speculations which the facts may give rise to, the truth or falsity of this is of but little practical value. No skill which we possess can decide with any certainty as to the mythological or non-mythological origin of a folk-tale, or families of such tales, and the attempts which have been made to interpret such tales in accordance with mythology, have ended in absurd failures. Much confusion of thought, as it appears to me, exists as to the mythological motive which is claimed for many of these folk-tales; and men have confounded the mythological explanation of a tale with its mythological origin and motive. We shall, however, have done but little in the way of clearing up this question when we have adjusted the various incidents of a folk-tale to the teaching of ancient mythology. The attempt to do so resembles the labours of the neo-Platonic expounders of declining Paganism, in their endeavours to make it appear more reasonable by giving to the gross and material incidents of ancient polytheism a subtle and recondite spiritual interpretation. The question--too frequently lost sight of--being not whether the incidents of Pagan mythology might by any such process be reconciled with the intellect of a philosopher, but whether the incidents themselves originated in the intent to present spiritual truth to the mind, and were bodied forth in order to convey such spiritual lessons to the apprehension of the worshipper. There is a similar order to be observed in the examination and interpretation of these tales; and the most ingenious interpretation of a folk-tale, and its adjustment to the incidents of mythology, do not advance us one step towards determining its motive, and clearing up the obscurities which surround its origin. Again, the presence of mythological incidents in a tale in no degree accounts for its origin; nor does it assist us in proving these tales to possess a mythological character. In popular literature--especially in such a literature as that of which I am speaking--the tone of the popular mind must needs be reflected; and if mythology had, at the date of the creation of the tale, or during its growth, any considerable hold over the popular mind, this fact would be indicated by the characters introduced, as well as by the general colouring given to the tale itself; just as a profoundly religious mind tinges the creations of the imagination or the productions of the intellect with the religious convictions which possess it. But tales and scientific treatises may be profoundly Christian in their _ethos_, without it being necessary for us to attribute to their authors the intention of presenting, by this means, an esoteric explanation of the articles of the Creed. Now it is to be borne in mind, that at the time when most of the primary materials, out of which these folk-tales are constructed, originated, polytheism had peopled the groves and streams, the mountains and the valleys, the hills and plains, the sky above and the deep sea below, and even the centre of the earth, with supernatural beings. Every day and every fraction of life had its tutelary; every family its special _lar_; and every individual its _genius_, or guardian spirit. Omnipresence was subdivided into atoms, and an atom was everywhere present. Under such circumstances it would hardly have been possible to construct a tale or to rearrange the fragments of older tales without introducing these elements of the popular belief. Without doing so, indeed, a tale would not--could not have become a folk-tale. This, however, in no way makes probable the mythological signification and origin of such tales, any more than the introduction of guns and pistols, of gas or the telegraph, into a modern tale, would prove it to have a military or a scientific motive. A specimen of the way in which folk-tales are interpreted mythologically will, I think, show at once the ingenuity of the interpreter and the baselessness of the interpretation. The tale which I cite as a specimen of this kind of treatment is one which, like folk-tales in general, occurs in several forms in England, in Southern Italy, in Germany, in the Tyrol, in Hungary, in Iceland, Swabia, Wallachia, and Greece, and probably in other countries. I give it in the form in which it appears in the 'Modern Greek Household Tales,' edited by Von Hahn, because the Greek version of this tale has the merit of being 'shorter than most of its variants.' The ingenious though fanciful explanation will be found in the appendix to Mr. Henderson's 'Notes on the Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties of England':-- 'A man and a woman had no children; the woman prayed that she might be granted one, even though it were a serpent; and in due course of time she brought forth a serpent, which left the house and took up its abode in a hole. 'The woman is a terrible shrew, and a bad woman to boot; she brings the house to poverty, and then goes to the serpent to ask for relief. The serpent gives his mother a gold-dropping ass, warning her never to let it touch water. The couple live on the gold for some while, but at last the woman leads the ass to the water, and it runs away and is lost. She goes once more to her child, who gives her a pitcher, which does all she wants; she sells this to the king, and is reduced to poverty. The old man now goes to the serpent's lair and obtains a stick, to which he says, "Up stick, and do your duty!" whereupon it knocks the woman on the head and kills her; so the man lives in happiness ever after.' On this, the writer who undertakes to interpret this tale observes-- 'That these stories rest upon a common mythological foundation, there is strong evidence to prove. The gold-dropping animal, the magic table or napkin, the self-acting cudgel, appear in some of the tales of ancient India, and their original signification is made apparent. 'The master, who gives the three precious gifts, is the All Father--the Supreme Spirit. The gold and jewel dropping ass is the spring cloud hanging in the sky, and shedding the bright productive Vernal showers. The table which covers itself is the earth becoming covered with flowers and fruit at the bidding of the New Year. But there is a check; rain is withheld, the process of vegetation is stayed, by some evil influence. Then comes the Thunder cloud, out of which leaps the bolt and rains pour down, the earth receives them, and is covered with abundance--all that was lost is restored.' The incident of the dropping of jewels only appears in the Neapolitan version, given in the 'Pentamerone' of Giambattista Basile,[17] and is apparently an addition made by him to the original story. The explanation of the meaning of the tale, it appears to me, might as fittingly have been taken from the region of science, or of history, and might have been as easily interpreted in a thousand and one other ways as in this. So that if, originally, the folk-tale embodied a mythological truth, which, however, may be affirmed or denied with equal right, the fact is of no value in aiding us to determine what the intentions of the inventor of the tale must have been. [17] Naples, 1837. Mythological symbolism, like very much of what passes current as ecclesiastical symbolism, is a testimony to the ingenuity of the interpreter; it has, oftentimes, no existence in the object interpreted. We may, to our own satisfaction, perhaps, resolve the sternest facts into impalpable fancies; the fact remains, and will remain when the fancy has faded into its original nothingness or lingers only as a beautiful freak of fancy. The twelve Cæsars were living and historical personages, though an ingenious apologist has reduced them into mythological non-existences, and has traced in them a likeness to the twelve signs of the Zodiac. Mythological and legendary incidents, it is true, have a tendency to fasten themselves upon real men and women until, like parasitical plants round the trunk of a tree, they conceal the true character of those who are thus clothed. Sir Richard Whittington, however, was Lord Mayor of London, though the sounds heard from the brow of Highgate Hill-- 'When he, a friendless and a drooping boy, Sat on a stone, and heard the bells speak out-- Articulate music'--[18] had no more real existence than his famous cat, and though we are indebted for the means by which his great wealth was acquired only to the pleasant invention of the popular-romance writer. [18] Wordsworth, 'The Prelude.' Probably many of these stories possess an historical origin, and could we recover their original form, they might be found to record real incidents in the life of an historical personage or of a nation. The original form, however, can now hardly be even guessed at. Successive generations of story-tellers have added to the original tale, and have changed archaic incidents for those better understood by the audience, and therefore appealing the readier to their sympathies. When transplanted from its home to a distant land the local colouring has been changed, unintelligible customs have been made to give place to vernacular ones, until so little remains of the old tale that even with the help of comparative analysis it is now impossible to recover the form in which it was given out at the first. Even with a written literature and with diffused information, Shakespeare found it necessary to the stories which he dramatized to interweave appliances made known by modern discoveries, and, accordingly, anachronisms abound in his plays. If this has been the case even where the national literature was a written one, we might be confident beforehand that we should find the story-teller of the Southern Slavs lengthening out and giving variety to his tale, not from the stores of archæology, but from such common, every-day customs as would appeal forcibly to his simple audience. The reader who is familiar with the stories accumulated by recent collectors, will trace, without difficulty, in the present volume, those fragments of the primary tales out of which story-tellers in all parts of the world have for many generations constructed or expanded their own tales. It is, therefore, unnecessary for me to do this. I add, however, a few notices of some of the tales included in this volume, merely as illustrations of the way in which they have been built up out of older materials: like the palaces of the modern Roman nobility, out of the marbles which were originally intended to perpetuate the memory of the victories of the Republic and the magnificence of the ministers of the Empire. In the tale which is entitled 'Justice or Injustice,'[19] the manner in which the king's daughter is enticed on ship-board, and carried off with her attendant maidens, will at once recall the incident related in the opening paragraph of the history of Herodotus. The resemblance between the narrative of the abduction of the daughter of Inachus by the Phoenician merchants, and that in the tale, is so close that it can hardly be accidental. Some will think that this lends some support to the notion that the account in Herodotus is mythological; others that the Serb tale is probably based on an historical fact. That the tale in this volume is not of Serbian origin, is evident from the introduction of the elephants, and the description of their capture after being intoxicated. The restoration of the hero by means of 'the water of life,' is an incident common to very many of these folk-tales, and may fairly be regarded as a 'story-radical.' In the tale of 'Bash-Chalek,' this water of life is changed and christianized into 'the water of Jordan,' whereas in its North Slavonic variant it is still the 'water of life' which is retained as the means by which the hero is recalled from death. In most particulars the Serbian tale closely follows the Russian type, and may be compared with the tale which Mr. Ralston has translated under the title of 'Marya Morevna.'[20] The 'True Steel' of the Serbian tale is the Koshchei the Deathless of the Russian story; and the younger brother of the North Slavonic story is evidently the Prince Ivan of the South Slavonic tale. Again, two of the wooers are the same in both stories, the chief variation being that in the Serbian folk-tale the raven is introduced instead of the dragon of the Russian story. [19] Ralston's 'Russian Folk-Tales,' p. 85. [20] Ralston's 'Russian Folk-Tales,' p. 85. The Bosniac story of 'The Three Brothers' is a good example of the way in which the expansion of these stories is effected. We have here three separate stories thrown into one; the various incidents of which are to be sought for in a variety of tales and in different countries. In part the tale seems to be an echo of the Egyptian story, which, written on papyrus and believed to be of the date of the Exodus of the Israelites, is preserved in the Bibliothèque Impériale. Of this story, Mr. Goodwin has given an abstract in the Cambridge Essays of 1858. The astonishing leap made by the horse of the younger brother is but an exaggeration of the sufficiently exaggerated exploit of Buddha's horse, Kantako, which was thirty-six feet long, was able to go three hundred miles in one night, and, when impeded by the Déwas, overcame the obstacles interposed in the way of its progress by leaping across the river Anoma, a distance of two hundred and ten feet.[21] In part, however, the details of this part of the story accords with the account of the leap made by the horse Rama Rajah which took three successive leaps, not only over a wide river, but also over four thick and tall groves of copal, soparee, guava, and cocoa-nut trees, as told in the story of 'Rama and Luxman.'[22] Again, the iron teeth of the sister in the Bosniac story make part of the marvels in the Russian story of 'The Witch,'[23] and has its counterpart in the incident of the Syriote story of 'The Striga.'[24] The way in which the old woman destroys her victims by throwing around them a hair of her head is also common to these folk-tales, and to several which may be found in the collections of similar tales told in widely separated countries. [21] Hardy's 'Legends and Theories of the Buddhists,' p. 134. [22] Frere's 'Old Deccan Days,' p. 76. [23] Ralston's 'Russian Folk-Tales,' p. 163. [24] Hahn's 'Modern Greek Household Tales,' No. lxv. The incident of the tree growing out of the grave in the Serb story of 'The Golden-haired Twins,' makes also part of the story of 'Punchkin' in the collection of stories from the Deccan, where a pomelo tree which springs from the grave of a murdered person leads to the knowledge of the murder.[25] The same incident again occurs in 'Truth's Triumph' in the same collection,[26] where the hundred and one children of the king and Guzra Bai, after having been destroyed by the ranee, their stepmother, and buried by her orders, have their grave marked by a tree springing spontaneously from it; and when the mango tree has been cut down by the orders of the ranee and directed to be burnt, a sudden rising of the water prevents the order from being carried out, and the trunk is floated down to a place of security, stranded on a bank, and again changed into children. [25] 'Old Deccan Days,' p. 4. [26] _Ibid_, p. 54. Another of what I have ventured to call 'primitive fragments,' because commonly made use of in the construction of the folk-tales of various races, makes its appearance in the story of 'The Biter Bit.' In that story the giant demands as his reward that he should receive what the old man had 'forgotten at home;' and obtains one of his sons, who had been left behind when his numerous brothers had set out on their bride-seeking expedition. This reappears in the Russian tale of 'The Water King and Vasilissa the Wise,'[27] and also in the story of 'The Youth' from the same lands.[28] The latter part of the story resembles the incidents in the Indian tale of 'Sringabhuja.' In 'Peppercorn' the episode of the maces which the hero requires, and with which he is unsatisfied until the third has been made to stand the test of being thrown into the air and descending on the forehead of 'Peppercorn' without breaking the mace, but merely bruising the forehead of the hero, occurs not only in the Serbian tale of 'The Bear's Son,' but also the Russian story of 'Ivan Popyalof,' of which Mr. Ralston has given us a translation; whilst the fraud practised on 'Peppercorn' by his two companions who leave him in the deep hole down which he has descended, and his subsequent adventures both below and on the earth, are almost identical with incidents in another Russian folk-tale, 'The Norka.'[29] [27] Ralston's 'Russian Folk-Tales,' p. 120. [28] _Ibid_, p. 139. [29] _Ibid_, p. 73. I have noted these various resemblances and borrowings, or rather variations from one and the same original, because they illustrate the way in which the tales found in all parts of the world have been built up of fragments which are the common property of mankind. I have not thought it necessary to trace out all the resemblances to other tales--all the borrowings from the common stock. Most of my readers will be able to do that for themselves. I have but adduced them by way of example of story-building. They, however, show us that the stock of original materials out of which these folk-tales have been constructed is, comparatively speaking, of but limited extent, and also that the large number of tales which compose the popular literature of the world are but evidences of the skill with which these scanty materials have been combined by the folk-teachers. The literature of a nation is after all but the result of the combination of some five-and-twenty sounds and letters. In Serbia there is a curious distinction in the use of prose and rhythm in these folk-stories. Prose is the vehicle for tales related by women; rhythm the prerogative of men. Prose stories are usually told in the domestic circle, and in gatherings of women at Selo or Prelo. During the summer evenings when field labour and household occupations have come to a close, it was, and indeed still is, customary in Serbian villages for young girls, accompanied by some older female friends, to gather in groups under the branches of some wide-spreading tree, and then, whilst the younger people occupy themselves in spinning, some of the older women interest the rest of the company by relating these traditionary stories. Men are excluded from these gatherings, and the story-telling which fills up the chief part of these evenings is looked on as exclusively a feminine occupation. These stories are always in prose. There are, indeed, men story-tellers. Their tales or stories, however, invariably assume the character of poems, and they are generally--indeed almost always--accompanied by the monotonous sounds of the "gusle." Generally speaking, these poems relate to historical or mythical incidents in the life of the nation; though sometimes they are of the same kind as the folk-tales which are given in this volume, and which are related in the feminine circle. When this is the case the distinction already noted is, however, strictly observed. The folk-tale related by a woman is in prose; the same tale told by a man is cast into the form of a poem. Even the purely Christian legends, of which the reader is presented in this volume with a specimen popular in Bosnia and the Herzégovina, 'The Legend of St. George,' is related with the aid of rhythm. Legends of the latter kind may have been, as some suppose, originally related by priests in their churches, and possibly in prose. Now, however, that they have passed into the possession of the professional story-tellers they have put on the masculine garb of verse. This Homeric feature of Serb customs is indeed now dying out with other national peculiarities. It is, however, far from being dead, nor are such verses employed only in celebrating the glories of the reign of Stephen Dushan, the heroism of George Brankovich, or the mournful defeat of Kossovo. Long tedious debates in the National Parliament, or Skoupshtina, of 1870, on the liberty of opening and keeping shops in villages as distinguished from towns, were summed up and reported throughout the country in a way which would astonish the readers of the debates in our English Parliament. The whole discussion, with the arguments of the various speakers, took the form of a long song or poem, which was recited in the open air before the villagers assembled to hear the course and result of the debate. Perhaps in a similar manner the military and naval incidents, the contentions of mighty chiefs, the debates before the tent of Agamemnon, or in the council-house of Troy, were thrown into verse by the Father of poetry, the Prince of story-tellers, or, if the reader holds to the Wolfian theory, by the professional rhapsodists, and thus made known throughout Greece in the form of the Iliad. At any rate we have, in the practice still living in Serbia, an instance of the way in which a Serbian Homer would naturally have communicated to his countrymen all the details of meetings at the council-board and skirmishes in the plain which diversified the history of a siege, in the varying fortunes of which their interest was enlisted. W. DENTON. THE BEAR'S SON. Once upon a time a bear married a woman, and they had one son. When the boy was yet a little fellow he begged very hard to be allowed to leave the bear's cave, and to go out into the world to see what was in it. His father, however, the Bear, would not consent to this, saying, 'You are too young yet, and not strong enough. In the world there are multitudes of wicked beasts, called men, who will kill you.' So the boy was quieted for a while, and remained in the cave. But, after some time, the boy prayed so earnestly that the Bear, his father, would let him go into the world, that the Bear brought him into the wood, and showed him a beech-tree, saying, 'If you can pull up that beech by the roots, I will let you go; but if you cannot, then this is a proof that you are still too weak, and must remain with me.' The boy tried to pull up the tree, but, after long trying, had to give it up, and go home again to the cave. Again some time passed, and he then begged again to be allowed to go into the world, and his father told him, as before, if he could pull up the beech-tree he might go out into the world. This time the boy pulled up the tree, so the Bear consented to let him go, first, however, making him cut away the branches from the beech, so that he might use the trunk for a club. The boy now started on his journey, carrying the trunk of the beech over his shoulder. One day as the Bear's son was journeying, he came to a field where he found hundreds of ploughmen working for their master. He asked them to give him something to eat, and they told him to wait a bit till their dinner was brought them, when he should have some--for, they said, 'Where so many are dining one mouth more or less matters but little.' Whilst they were speaking there came carts, horses, mules, and asses, all carrying the dinner. But when the meats were spread out the Bear's son declared he could eat all that up himself. The workmen wondered greatly at his words, not believing it possible that one man could consume as great a quantity of victuals as would satisfy several hundred men. This, however, the Bear's son persisted in affirming he could do, and offered to bet with them that he would do this. He proposed that the stakes should be all the iron of their ploughshares and other agricultural implements. To this they assented. No sooner had they made the wager than he fell upon the provisions, and in a short time consumed the whole. Not a fragment was left. Hereupon the labourers, in accordance with their wager, gave him all the iron which they possessed. When the Bear's son had collected all the iron, he tore up a young birch-tree, twisted it into a band and tied up the iron into a bundle, which he hung at the end of his staff, and throwing it across his shoulder, trudged off from the astonished and affrighted labourers. Going on a short distance, he arrived at a forge in which a smith was employed making a ploughshare. This man he requested to make him a mace with the iron which he was carrying. This the smith undertook to do; but putting aside half the iron, he made of the rest a small, coarsely-finished mace. Bear's son saw at a glance that he had been cheated by the smith. Moreover, he was disgusted at the roughness of the workmanship. He however took it, and declared his intention of testing it. Then fastening it to the end of his club and throwing it into the air high above the clouds he stood still and allowed it to fall on his shoulder. It had no sooner struck him than the mace shivered into fragments, some of which fell on and destroyed the forge. Taking up his staff, Bear's son reproached the smith for his dishonesty, and killed him on the spot. Having collected the whole of the iron, the Bear's son went to another smithy, and desired the smith whom he found there to make him a mace, saying to him, 'Please play no tricks on me. I bring you these fragments of iron for you to use in making a mace. Beware that you do not attempt to cheat me as I was cheated before!' As the smith had heard what had happened to the other one, he collected his workpeople, threw all the iron on his fire, and welded the whole together and made a large mace of perfect workmanship. When it was fastened on the head of his club the Bear's son, to prove it, threw it up high, and caught it on his back. This time the mace did not break, but rebounded. Then the Bear's son got up and said, 'This work is well done!' and, putting it on his shoulder, walked away. A little farther on he came to a field wherein a man was ploughing with two oxen, and he went up to him and asked for something to eat. The man said, 'I expect every moment my daughter to come with my dinner, then we shall see what God has given us!' The Bear's son told him how he had eaten up all the dinner prepared for many hundreds of ploughmen, and asked, 'From a dinner prepared for one person how much can come to me or to you?' Meanwhile the girl brought the dinner. The moment she put it down, Bear's son stretched out his hand to begin to eat, but the man stopped him. 'No!' said he, 'you must first say grace, as I do!' The Bear's son, hungry as he was, obeyed, and, having said grace, they both began to eat. The Bear's son, looking at the girl who brought the dinner (she was a tall, strong, beautiful girl), became very fond of her, and said to the father, 'Will you give me your daughter for a wife?' The man answered, 'I would give her to you very gladly but I have promised her already to the Moustached.' The Bear's son exclaimed, 'What do I care for Moustachio? I have my mace for him!' But the man answered, 'Hush! hush! Moustachio is also somebody! You will see him here soon.' Shortly after a noise was heard afar off, and lo! behind a hill a moustache showed itself, and in it were three hundred and sixty-five birds' nests. Shortly after appeared the other moustache, and then came Moustachio himself. Having reached them, he lay down on the ground immediately, to rest. He put his head on the girl's knee and told her to scratch his head a little. The girl obeyed him, and the Bear's son, getting up, struck him with his club over the head. Whereupon Moustachio, pointing to the place with his finger, said, 'Something bit me here!' The Bear's son struck with his mace on another spot, and Moustachio again pointed to the place, saying to the girl, 'Something has bitten me here!' When he was struck a third time, he said to the girl angrily, 'Look you! something bites me here!' Then the girl said, 'Nothing has bitten you; a man struck you!' When Moustachio heard that he jumped up, but Bear's son had thrown away his mace and ran away. Moustachio pursued him, and though the Bear's son was lighter than he, and had gotten the start of him a considerable distance, he would not give up pursuing him. At length the Bear's son, in the course of his flight, came to a wide river, and found, near it, some men threshing corn. 'Help me, my brothers, help--for God's sake!' he cried; 'help! Moustachio is pursuing me! What shall I do? How can I get across the river?' One of the men stretched out his shovel, saying, 'Here! sit down on it, and I will throw you over the river!' The Bear's son sat on the shovel, and the man threw him over the water to the other shore. Soon after Moustachio came up, and asked, 'Has any one passed here?' The threshers replied that a man had passed. Moustachio demanded, 'How did he cross the river?' They answered, 'He sprang over.' Then Moustachio went back a little to take a start, and with a hop he sprang to the other side, and continued to pursue the Bear's son. Meanwhile this last, running hastily up a hill, got very tired. At the top of the hill he found a man sowing, and the sack with seeds was hanging on his neck. After every handful of seed sown in the ground, the man put a handful in his mouth and eat them. The Bear's son shouted to him, 'Help, brother, help!--for God's sake! Moustachio is following me, and will soon catch me! Hide me somewhere!' Then the man said, 'Indeed, it is no joke to have Moustachio pursuing you. But I have nowhere to hide you, unless in this sack among the seeds.' So he put him in the sack. When Moustachio came up to the sower he asked him if he had seen the Bear's son anywhere? The man replied, 'Yes, he passed by long ago, and God knows where he has got before this!' Then Moustachio went back again. By-and-by the sower forgot that Bear's son was in his sack, and he took him out with a handful of seeds, and put him in his mouth. Then Bear's son was afraid of being swallowed, so he looked round the mouth quickly, and, seeing a hollow tooth, hid himself in it. When the sower returned home in the evening, he called to his sisters-in-law, 'Children, give me my toothpick! There is something in my broken tooth.' The sisters-in-law brought him two iron picks, and, standing one on each side, they poked about with the two picks in his tooth till the Bear's son jumped out. Then the man remembered him, and said, 'What bad luck you have! I had nearly swallowed you.' After they had taken supper they talked about many different things, till at last the Bear's son asked what had happened to break that one tooth, whilst the others were all strong and healthy. Then the man told him in these words: 'Once upon a time ten of us started with thirty horses to the sea-shore to buy some salt. We found a girl in a field watching sheep, and she asked us where we were going. We said we were going to the sea-shore to buy salt. She said, "Why go so far? I have in the bag in my hand here some salt which remained over after feeding the sheep. I think it will be enough for you." So we settled about the price, and then she took the salt from her bag, whilst we took the sacks from the thirty horses, and we weighed the salt and filled the sacks with it till all the thirty sacks were full. We then paid the girl, and returned home. It was a very fine autumn day but as we were crossing a high mountain, the sky became very cloudy and it began to snow, and there was a cold north wind, so that we could not see our path and wandered about here and there. At last, by good luck, one of us shouted, "Here, brothers! Here is a dry place!" So we went in one after the other till we were all, with the thirty horses, under shelter. Then we took the sacks from the horses, made a good fire, and passed the night there as if it were a house. Next morning, just think what we saw! We were all in one man's head, which lay in the midst of some vineyards; and whilst we were yet wondering and loading our horses, the keeper of the vineyards came and picked the head up. He put it in a sling and slinging it about several times, threw it over his head, and cast it far away over the vines to frighten the starlings away from his grapes. So we rolled down a hill, and it was then that I broke my tooth.' THE WONDERFUL KIOSK. Once upon a time there lived a king, who had three sons and one daughter. The daughter was kept by her father for safety in a cage, since he cared for her as for his own eyes. When the girl grew up, she one evening asked her father to let her walk a little with her brothers in the front of the palace, and her father granted her request. She had hardly, however, taken a step outside the door of the palace before a dragon came down, caught her away from her brothers, and flew up with her into the clouds. The three brothers ran as quickly as they could, and told their father what had happened to their sister, and asked him to let them go in search of her. To this their father consented, and gave each of them a horse, and other needful things for their travelling, and they went away to find their sister. After they had travelled a long time, they came in sight of a kiosk, which was neither in the sky nor yet on the earth, but hung mid-way between both. On coming near it, they began to think that their sister might be in it, and they consulted together how they might contrive to reach it. After much deliberation they settled that one of them should kill his horse, make a thong out of the hide, and fastening one end of the thong to an arrow, shoot it from the bow so that it should strike deep in the side of the kiosk, and that thus they might be able to climb up to it. The youngest brother proposed to the eldest that he should kill his horse, but this he refused to do. In like manner the second brother refused, so that nothing remained but that the youngest should kill his horse, which he did and made a long thong out of the hide; to this he tied an arrow, which he shot towards the kiosk. The question was then asked, who would climb up the thong? The eldest brother declared that he would not; the second also refused, and thus it was the youngest was forced to climb up. When he had reached the kiosk he went from room to room, until at length he found his sister sitting with the dragon sleeping with his head upon her knee, while she passed her fingers through the hair of his head. When she saw her brother she was very much frightened, and made signs for him to go away before the dragon woke up. But this her brother would not do, and instead of going away took his mace and struck with all his might on the head of the dragon. The dragon moved his paw a little towards the place where he had been struck, and said to the maiden, 'I felt something bite me just here.' As he spoke the king's son gave him another blow, and the dragon said again, 'I felt something bite me just here.' When the brother lifted his mace to strike the third time, the sister pointed and showed him where to strike at the life of the dragon. So he struck at the life, and the dragon immediately fell down dead, and the king's daughter pushed him from her knee and ran quickly to her brother and kissed him. Then she took him by the hand and began to show him the various rooms of the kiosk. First, she took him into a room where a black horse stood ready to be mounted, with all his riding-gear on him, and the whole of the harness was of pure silver. She then led him to a second room, and in it stood a white horse, also saddled and bridled, and his harness was entirely of pure gold. At last the sister took her brother into a third room, and there stood a cream-coloured horse, and the reins and stirrups and saddle, which were on him, were all thickly studded with precious stones. After passing through these three rooms, she led him to a room where a young maiden sat behind a golden tambourette, busily engaged in embroidering with golden thread. From this room they went into another, where a girl was spinning gold thread, and again into another room where a girl sat threading pearls, and before her, on a golden plate, was a golden hen with her chickens, sorting the pearls. Having seen all these things, the brother went back to the room where the dragon lay dead, and threw him down to the earth, and the two brothers, who were below, were almost frightened to death at the sight of the dragon's carcass. The young prince then let his sister slowly down, and, after her, the three young maidens, each of them with the work on which she was employed. As he let them down, one after the other, he shouted to his brothers and told them to whom each of the maidens should belong--reserving for himself the third one, whom he also let down to the ground. This was the maiden who was engaged in threading pearls with the help of the golden hen and chickens. His brothers, however, were envious at the success of his courage, and at his having found his sister and saved her from the dragon, so they cut the thong in order that he might not be able to get down from the kiosk. Then they found, in the fields near, a young shepherd, whom they disguised and took to their father, but forbad their sister and the three maidens, with many threats, to tell what they had done. After some time the youngest brother, who had been left in the kiosk, received the news that his two brothers and the shepherd were to marry the three maidens. On the day when his eldest brother was married, the youngest brother mounted his black horse, and just as the wedding party came back from the church, the young prince came down from the kiosk, rushed into the midst, and struck his eldest brother slightly in the back, so that he fell down from his horse; he then immediately flew back again to the kiosk. On the day that his second brother was married, the youngest again came down among the wedding party, as they left the church. He was mounted on the white horse, and he struck his second brother as he had done the eldest, so that he also fell down, and then he returned again to the kiosk. At last, on hearing that the young shepherd was going to be married to the maiden whom the prince had selected for himself, he mounted on the cream-coloured horse, descended again, and rode among the wedding guests as they came out of the church, and struck the bridegroom with his mace on his head so that he at once fell down dead. When the guests gathered round him to catch him, which he permitted them to do, making no attempt to escape from them, he soon proved to them that he himself was the third son of the king, and that the shepherd was an imposter, and that his brothers, out of envy, had left him in the kiosk, when he had found his sister and killed the dragon. His sister and the three young maidens confirmed all that he said, so that the king, in his anger at the two elder brothers, drove them away from his court; however, he married the youngest brother to the third maiden, and, at his death, left him his kingdom. THE SNAKE'S GIFT. LANGUAGE OF ANIMALS. Once upon a time there lived a shepherd who served his master faithfully and honestly. One day, whilst keeping the sheep in the forest, he heard a hissing, and wondered what the noise could be. So he went farther into the wood to try and find out. There he saw that the forest was on fire, and a snake was hissing in the midst of the flames. The shepherd watched to see what the snake would do, for it was quite surrounded by the fire, which approached it nearer and nearer. Then the snake cried out, 'For God's sake, good shepherd, save me from the fire!' So the shepherd stretched his crook across the flames and the snake glided rapidly over the staff and up his arm on to his shoulder, till at last it wound itself round his neck. Then the shepherd was terrified and exclaimed, 'What shall I do? What an unlucky wretch I am! I saved you, and now you are about to kill me!' The snake answered, 'Do not be afraid; only take me to the house of my father. My father is the king of snakes.' But the shepherd, being already in great fear, began to excuse himself, saying he must not leave his sheep. Then the snake said, 'Nothing will happen to your sheep. Do not be anxious about them. But let us hurry home.' So the shepherd went on with the snake through the forest, until they came to a gate made entirely of snakes. Then the snake on the neck of the shepherd hissed, and instantly the snakes untwined themselves, so that the man could pass through. As soon as they had gone through, the snake said to him, 'When you reach my father's house he will offer to give you whatever you like--gold, silver, or precious stones. Do not, however, take any of these things. Choose, instead, the language of animals. He will hesitate at first, but at last he will give it you.' Meanwhile they arrived at the palace, and the king of snakes said, weeping, 'For God's sake, my child, where were you?' Thereupon the snake told him all that had happened, how he had been surrounded by fire, and how the shepherd had saved him. Then the snake king said to the shepherd, 'What do you wish that I should give you for saving my son?' The shepherd answered, 'I desire nothing but the language of animals.' The snake king, however, said, 'That is not good for you, for if I give it you, and you tell any one about it, you will instantly die. Therefore it is better that you ask me for something else.' 'If you wish to give me anything,' replied the shepherd, 'give me the language of animals; if you will not give me that, I want nothing--so good-bye,' and he turned to go away. Then the snake king called him back, saying, 'If you indeed wish it so much, take it. Open your mouth.' The shepherd did so, and the snake king blew into his mouth and said, 'Now blow once yourself in my mouth.' The shepherd did so, and then the snake king blew again into his mouth, and this they did three times. After that the snake said, 'Now, you possess the language of animals; go, in God's name, but do not for the world tell any one about it. If you tell any one you will instantly die.' The shepherd returned across the forest, and, passing through it, he understood everything the birds and animals, and even the plants, were saying to each other. When he came to his sheep he found them all there, safe and sound, so he laid himself down to rest a little. Hardly had he done so before two or three ravens settled on a tree near him, and began to converse together, saying, 'If that shepherd only knew that just on the spot where the black sheep is lying there is, deep in the earth, a cave full of gold and silver!' When the shepherd heard that he went off to his master and told him. The master brought a cart, and dug down to the cave, and carried the treasure away home. But the master was honest, so he gave up the whole of the treasure to the shepherd, saying, 'Here my son, all this wealth belongs to you. For to you God gave it. Build a house, marry, and live upon the treasure.' So the shepherd took the money, built a house, and married, and by-and-by he became the richest man in the whole neighbourhood. He kept his own shepherd, and cattle-driver, and swineherd; in short, he had great property and made much money. Once, just at Christmas, he said to his wife, 'Get ready some wine and other food, and to-morrow we will feast the shepherds.' The wife did so, and in the morning they went to their farm. Towards evening the master said to the shepherds, 'Come here, all of you; you shall eat, drink, and make merry together, and I will go myself this night to watch the sheep.' So the master went to watch his sheep, and, about midnight, the wolves began to howl and the dogs to bark. The wolves spoke, in wolf language, 'May we come and take something? You, also, shall get a part of the prey.' And the dogs answered, in dog language, 'Come! we also are ready to eat something.' But there was one old dog there who had only two teeth left. This old dog shouted furiously, 'Come on, you miserable wretches, if you dare. So long as I have these two teeth left you shall not do any damage to my master's property.' All this the master heard and understood. Next day he ordered all the dogs to be killed except that old one. The servants began to remonstrate, saying, 'For God's sake, master, it is a pity to do this.' But the master answered, 'Do as I have ordered you,' and started with his wife to go home. They rode on horseback, he on a fine horse and his wife on a handsome mare. But the master's horse went so fast that the wife remained a little behind. Then the master's horse neighed, and said to the mare, 'Come on, why do you stay behind?' And the mare answered, 'Ah, to you it is easy--you are carrying only one weight, and I am carrying three.' Thereupon the man turned his head and laughed. The wife saw him laughing, and urged the mare on quicker till she came up to her husband, and asked him, 'Why were you laughing?' He said merely, 'I had good reason to laugh!' But the wife was not satisfied, and again begged he would tell her why he laughed. He excused himself, exclaiming, 'Give up questioning me; what has come to you, my wife? I forget now why it was I laughed.' But the more he refused to tell her, the more she wished to know. At last the man said, 'If I tell you I shall die immediately!' That, however, did not quiet her, and she kept on asking, saying to him, 'You must tell me.' In the meantime they reached their house. When they had done so the man ordered a coffin to be made, and, when it was ready, had it placed in front of the house, and laid himself down in it. Then he said to his wife, 'Now I will tell you why I laughed, but the moment I tell you I shall die.' So he looked around once more, and saw that the old dog had come from the field, and had taken his stand over his head, and was howling. When the man noticed this he said to his wife, 'Bring a piece of bread for this poor dog.' The wife brought a piece and threw it to the dog, but the dog did not even look at it, and a cock came near and began to peck at it. Then the dog said to the cock, 'You think only about eating. Do you know that our master is going to die?' And the cock answered, 'Well, let him die, since he is such a fool. I have a hundred wives, and often at nights I gather them all round a grain of corn, and, when they are all there, I pick it up myself. If any of them are angry, I peck them; that is my way of keeping them quiet. Only look at the master, however; he is not able to rule one single wife!' The man, hearing that, got out of the coffin, took a stick, and called his wife to him, saying, 'Come now, and I will tell you what you want to know.' The wife, seeing she was in danger of getting a beating, left him in peace, and never asked him again why it was he laughed. THE GOLDEN APPLE-TREE, AND THE NINE PEAHENS. Once upon a time there lived a king who had three sons. Now, before the king's palace grew a golden apple-tree, which in one and the same night blossomed, bore fruit, and lost all its fruit, though no one could tell who took the apples. One day the king, speaking to his eldest son, said, 'I should like to know who takes the fruit from our apple-tree!' And the son said, 'I will keep guard to-night, and will see who gathers the apples.' So when the evening came he went and laid himself down, under the apple-tree, upon the ground to watch. Just, however, as the apples ripened, he fell asleep, and when he awoke in the morning, there was not a single one left on the tree. Whereupon he went and told his father what had happened. Then the second son offered to keep watch by the tree, but he had no better success than his eldest brother. So the turn came to the king's youngest son to keep guard. He made his preparations, brought his bed under the tree, and immediately went to sleep. Before midnight he awoke and looked up at the tree, and saw how the apples ripened, and how the whole palace was lit up by their shining. At that minute nine peahens flew towards the tree, and eight of them settled on its branches, but the ninth alighted near him and turned instantly into a beautiful girl--so beautiful, indeed, that the whole kingdom could not produce one who could in any way compare with her. She stayed, conversing kindly with him, till after midnight, then thanking him for the golden apples, she prepared to depart; but, as he begged she would leave him one, she gave him two, one for himself and one for the king his father. Then the girl turned again into a peahen, and flew away with the other eight. Next morning, the king's son took the two apples to his father, and the king was much pleased, and praised his son. When the evening came, the king's youngest son took his place again under the apple-tree to keep guard over it. He again conversed as he had done the night before with the beautiful girl, and brought to his father, the next morning, two apples as before. But, after he had succeeded so well several nights, his two elder brothers grew envious because he had been able to do what they could not. At length they found an old woman, who promised to discover how the youngest brother had succeeded in saving the two apples. So, as the evening came, the old woman stole softly under the bed which stood under the apple-tree, and hid herself. And after a while, came also the king's son, and laid himself down as usual to sleep. When it was near midnight the nine peahens flew up as before, and eight of them settled on the branches, and the ninth stood by his bed, and turned into a most beautiful girl. Then the old woman slowly took hold of one of the girl's curls, and cut it off, and the girl immediately rose up, changed again into a peahen and flew away, and the other peahens followed her, and so they all disappeared. Then the king's son jumped up, and cried out, 'What is that?' and, looking under the bed, he saw the old woman, and drew her out. Next morning he ordered her to be tied to a horse's tail, and so torn to pieces. But the peahens never came back, so the king's son was very sad for a long time, and wept at his loss. At length he resolved to go and look after his peahen, and never to come back again unless he should find her. When he told the king his father of his intention, the king begged him not to go away, and said that he would find him another beautiful girl, and that he might choose out of the whole kingdom. But all the king's persuasions were useless. His son went into the world to search everywhere for his peahen, taking only one servant to serve him. After many travels he came one day to a lake. Now by the lake stood a large and beautiful palace. In the palace lived an old woman as queen, and with the queen lived a girl, her daughter. He said to the old woman, 'For heaven's sake, grandmother, do you know anything about nine golden peahens?' and the old woman answered, 'Oh, my son, I know all about them; they come every mid-day to bathe in the lake. But what do you want with them? Let them be, think nothing about them. Here is my daughter. Such a beautiful girl! and such a heiress! All my wealth will remain to you if you marry her.' But he, burning with desire to see the peahens, would not listen to what the old woman spoke about her daughter. Next morning, when day dawned, the prince prepared to go down to the lake to wait for the peahens. Then the old queen bribed the servant and gave him a little pair of bellows, and said, 'Do you see these bellows? When you come to the lake you must blow secretly with them behind his neck, and then he will fall asleep, and not be able to speak to the peahens.' The mischievous servant did as the old woman told him; when he went with his master down to the lake, he took occasion to blow with the bellows behind his neck, and the poor prince fell asleep just as though he were dead. Shortly after, the nine peahens came flying, and eight of them alighted by the lake, but the ninth flew towards him, as he sat on horseback, and caressed him, and tried to awaken him. 'Awake, my darling! Awake, my heart! Awake, my soul!' But for all that he knew nothing, just as if he were dead. After they had bathed, all the peahens flew away together, and after they were gone the prince woke up, and said to his servant, 'What has happened? Did they not come?' The servant told him they had been there, and that eight of them had bathed, but the ninth had sat by him on his horse, and caressed and tried to awaken him. Then the king's son was so angry that he almost killed himself in his rage. Next morning he went down again to the shore to wait for the peahens, and rode about a long time till the servant again found an opportunity of blowing with the bellows behind his neck, so that he again fell asleep as though dead. Hardly had he fallen asleep when the nine peahens came flying, and eight of them alighted by the water, but the ninth settled down by the side of his horse and caressed him, and cried out to awaken him, 'Arise, my darling! Arise, my heart! Arise, my soul!' But it was of no use; the prince slept on as if he were dead. Then she said to the servant, 'Tell your master to-morrow he can see us here again, but never more.' With these words the peahens flew away. Immediately after the king's son woke up, and asked his servant, 'Have they not been here?' And the man answered, 'Yes, they have been, and say that you can see them again to-morrow, at this place, but after that they will not return again.' When the unhappy prince heard that, he knew not what to do with himself, and in his great trouble and misery tore the hair from his head. The third day he went down again to the shore, but, fearing to fall asleep, instead of riding slowly, galloped along the shore. His servant, however, found an opportunity of blowing with the bellows behind his neck, and again the prince fell asleep. A moment after came the nine peahens, and the eight alighted on the lake and the ninth by him, on his horse, and sought to awaken him, caressing him. 'Arise, my darling! Arise, my heart! Arise, my soul!' But it was of no use, he slept on as if dead. Then the peahen said to the servant, 'When your master awakens tell him he ought to strike off the head of the nail from the lower part, and then he will find me.' Thereupon all the peahens fled away. Immediately the king's son awoke, and said to his servant, 'Have they been here?' And the servant answered, 'They have been, and the one which alighted on your horse, ordered me to tell you to strike off the head of the nail from the lower part, and then you will find her.' When the prince heard that, he drew his sword and cut off his servant's head. After that he travelled alone about the world, and, after long travelling, came to a mountain and remained all night there with a hermit, whom he asked if he knew anything about nine golden peahens. The hermit said, 'Eh! my son, you are lucky; God has led you in the right path. From this place it is only half a day's walk. But you must go straight on, then you will come to a large gate, which you must pass through; and, after that, you must keep always to the right hand, and so you will come to the peahens' city, and there find their palace.' So next morning the king's son arose, and prepared to go. He thanked the hermit, and went as he had told him. After a while he came to the great gate, and, having passed it, turned to the right, so that at mid-day he saw the city, and beholding how white it shone, rejoiced very much. When he came into the city he found the palace where lived the nine golden peahens. But at the gate he was stopped by the guard, who demanded who he was, and whence he came. After he had answered these questions, the guards went to announce him to the queen. When the queen heard who he was, she came running out to the gate and took him by the hand to lead him into the palace. She was a young and beautiful maiden, and so there was a great rejoicing when, after a few days, he married her and remained there with her. One day, some time after their marriage, the queen went out to walk, and the king's son remained in the palace. Before going out, however, the queen gave him the keys of twelve cellars, telling him, 'You may go down into all the cellars except the twelfth--that you must on no account open, or it will cost you your head.' She then went away. The king's son whilst remaining in the palace began to wonder what there could be in the twelfth cellar, and soon commenced opening one cellar after the other. When he came to the twelfth he would not at first open it, but again began to wonder very much why he was forbidden to go into it. 'What _can_ be in this cellar?' he exclaimed to himself. At last he opened it. In the middle of the cellar lay a big barrel with an open bung-hole, but bound fast round with three iron hoops. Out of the barrel came a voice, saying, 'For God's sake, my brother--I am dying with thirst--please give me a cup of water!' Then the king's son took a cup and filled it with water, and emptied it into the barrel. Immediately he had done so one of the hoops burst asunder. Again came the voice from the barrel, 'For God's sake, my brother--I am dying of thirst--please give me a cup of water!' The king's son again filled the cup, and took it, and emptied it into the barrel, and instantly another hoop burst asunder. The third time the voice came out of the barrel, 'For God's sake, my brother--I am dying of thirst--please give me a cup of water!' The king's son again took the cup and filled it, and poured the water into the barrel--and the third hoop burst. Then the barrel fell to pieces, and a dragon flew out of the cellar, and caught the queen on the road and carried her away. Then the servant, who went out with the queen, came back quickly, and told the king's son what had happened, and the poor prince knew not what to do with himself, so desperate was he, and full of self-reproaches. At length, however, he resolved to set out and travel through the world in search of her. After long journeying, one day he came to a lake, and near it, in a little hole, he saw a little fish jumping about. When the fish saw the king's son, she began to beg pitifully, 'For God's sake, be my brother, and throw me into the water. Some day I may be of use to you, so take now a little scale from me, and when you need me, rub it gently.' Then the king's son lifted the little fish from the hole and threw her into the water, after he had taken one small scale, which he wrapped up carefully in a handkerchief. Some time afterwards, as he travelled about the world, he came upon a fox, caught in an iron trap. When the fox saw the prince, he spoke: 'In God's name, be a brother to me, and help me to get out of this trap. One day you will need me, so take just one hair from my tail, and when you want me, rub it gently.' Then the king's son took a hair from the tail of the fox, and let him free. Again, as he crossed a mountain, he found a wolf fast in a trap; and when the wolf saw him, it spoke: 'Be a brother to me; in God's name, set me free, and one day I will help you. Only take a hair from me, and when you need me, rub it gently.' So he took a hair, and let the wolf free. After that, the king's son travelled about a very long time, till one day he met a man, to whom he said, 'For God's sake, brother, have you ever heard any one say where is the palace of the dragon king?' The man gave him very particular directions which way to take, and in what length of time he could get there. Then the king's son thanked him and continued his journey until he came to the city where the dragon lived. When there, he went into the palace and found therein his wife, and both of them were exceedingly pleased to meet each other, and began to take counsel how they could escape. They resolved to run away, and prepared hastily for the journey. When all was ready they mounted on horseback and galloped away. As soon as they were gone the dragon came home, also on horseback, and, entering his palace, found that the queen had gone away. Then he said to his horse, 'What shall we do now? Shall we eat and drink, or go at once after them?' The horse answered, 'Let us eat and drink first, we shall anyway catch them; do not be anxious.' After the dragon had dined he mounted his horse, and in a few moments came up with the runaways. Then he took the queen from the king's son and said to him, 'Go now, in God's name! This time I forgive you because you gave me water in the cellar; but if your life is dear to you do not come back here any more!' The unhappy young prince went on his way a little, but could not long resist, so he came back next day to the dragon's palace, and found the queen sitting alone and weeping. Then they began again to consult how they could get away. And the prince said, 'When the dragon comes, ask him where he got that horse, and then you will tell me so that I can look for such another one; perhaps in this way we can escape.' He then went away, lest the dragon should come and find him with the queen. By-and-by the dragon came home, and the queen began to pet him, and speak lovingly to him about many things, till at last she said, 'Ah! what a fine horse you have! where did you get such a splendid horse?' And he answered, 'Eh! where I got it every one cannot get one! In such and such a mountain lives an old woman who has twelve horses in her stable, and no one can say which is the finest, they are all so beautiful. But in one corner of the stable stands a horse which looks as if he were leprous, but, in truth, he is the very best horse in the whole world. He is the brother of my horse, and whoever gets him may ride to the sky. But whoever wishes to get a horse from that old woman, must serve her three days and three nights. She has a mare with a foal, and whoever during three nights guards and keeps for her this mare and this foal, has a right to claim the best horse from the old woman's stable. But whoever engages to keep watch over the mare and does not, must lose his head!' Next day, when the dragon went out, the king's son came, and the queen told him all she had learned from the dragon. Then the king's son went away to the mountain and found the old woman, and entered her house greeting: 'God help you, grandmother!' And she answered, 'God help you, too, my son! what do you wish?' 'I should like to serve you,' said the king's son. Then the old woman said, 'Well, my son, if you keep my mare safe for three days and three nights I will give you the best horse, and you can choose him yourself; but if you do not keep the mare safe you shall lose your head.' Then she led him into the courtyard, where all around stakes were ranged. Each of them had on it a man's head, except one stake, which had no head on it, and shouted incessantly, 'Oh, grandmother, give me a head!' The old woman showed all this to the prince, and said, 'Look here! all these were heads of those who tried to keep my mare, and they have lost their heads for their pains!' But the prince was not a bit afraid, so he stayed to serve the old woman. When the evening came he mounted the mare and rode her into the field, and the foal followed. He sat still on her back, having made up his mind not to dismount, that he might be sure of her. But before midnight he slumbered a little, and when he awoke he found himself sitting on a rail and holding the bridle in his hand. Then he was greatly alarmed, and went instantly to look about to find the mare, and whilst looking for her, he came to a piece of water. When he saw the water he remembered the little fish, and took the scale from the handkerchief and rubbed it a little. Then immediately the little fish appeared and said, 'What is the matter, my half-brother?' And he replied, 'The mare of the old woman ran away whilst under my charge, and now I do not know where she is!' And the fish answered, 'Here she is, turned to a fish, and the foal to a smaller one. But strike once upon the water with the bridle and cry out, "Heigh! mare of the old woman!"' The prince did as he was told, and immediately the mare came, with the foal, out of the water to the shore. Then he put on her the bridle and mounted and rode away to the old woman's house, and the foal followed. When he got there the old woman gave him his breakfast; she, however, took the mare into the stable and beat her with a poker, saying, 'Why did you not go down among the fishes, you cursed mare?' And the mare answered, 'I have been down to the fishes, but the fish are his friends and they told him about me.' Then the old woman said, 'Then go among the foxes!' When evening came the king's son mounted the mare and rode to the field, and the foal followed the mare. Again he sat on the mare's back until near midnight, when he fell asleep as before. When he awoke, he found himself riding on the rail and holding the bridle in his hand. So he was much frightened, and went to look after the mare. As he went he remembered the words the old woman had said to the mare, and he took from the handkerchief the fox's hair and rubbed it a little between his fingers. All at once the fox stood before him, and asked, 'What is the matter, half-brother?' And he said, 'The old woman's mare has run away, and I do not know where she can be.' Then the fox answered, 'Here she is with us; she has turned into a fox, and the foal into a cub; but strike once with the bridle on the earth and cry out, "Heigh! you old woman's mare!"' So the king's son struck with the bridle on the earth and cried, 'Heigh! old woman's mare!' and the mare came and stood, with her foal, near him. He put on the bridle, and mounted and rode off home, and the foal followed the mare. When he arrived the old woman gave him his breakfast, but took the mare into the stable and beat her with the poker, crying, 'To the foxes, cursed one! to the foxes!' And the mare answered, 'I have been with the foxes, but they are his friends, and told him I was there!' Then the old woman cried, 'If that is so, you must go among the wolves!' When it grew dark again the king's son mounted the mare and rode out to the field, and the foal galloped by the side of the mare. Again he sat still on the mare's back till about midnight, when he grew very sleepy and fell into a slumber, as on the former evenings, and when he awoke he found himself riding on the rail, holding the bridle in his hand, just as before. Then, as before, he went in a hurry to look after the mare. As he went he remembered the words the old woman had said to the mare, and took the wolf's hair from the handkerchief and rubbed it a little. Then the wolf came up to him and asked, 'What is the matter, half-brother?' And he answered, 'The old woman's mare has run away, and I cannot tell where she is.' The wolf said, 'Here she is with us; she has turned herself into a wolf, and the foal into a wolf's cub. Strike once with the bridle on the earth and cry out, "Heigh! old woman's mare!"' And the king's son did so, and instantly the mare came again and stood with the foal beside him. So he bridled her, and galloped home, and the foal followed. When he arrived the old woman gave him his breakfast, but she led the mare into the stable and beat her with the poker, crying, 'To the wolves, I said, miserable one!' Then the mare answered, 'I have been to the wolves; but they are his friends, and told him all about me!' Then the old woman came out of the stable, and the king's son said to her, 'Eh! grandmother, I have served you honestly; now give me what you promised me.' And the old woman answered, 'My son, what is promised must be fulfilled. So look here: here are the twelve horses, choose which you like!' And the prince said, 'Why should I be too particular? Give me only that leprous horse in the corner! fine horses are not fitting for me!' But the old woman tried to persuade him to choose another horse, saying, 'How can you be so foolish as to choose that leprous thing whilst there are such very fine horses here?' But he remained firm by his first choice, and said to the old woman, 'You ought to give me which I choose, for so you promised.' So, when the old woman found she could not make him change his mind, she gave him the scabby horse, and he took leave of her, and went away, leading the horse by the halter. When he came to a forest he curried and rubbed down the horse, when it shone as bright as gold. He then mounted, and the horse flew as quickly as a bird, and in a few seconds brought him to the dragon's palace. The king's son went in and said to the queen, 'Get ready as soon as possible!' She was soon ready, when they both mounted the horse, and began their journey home. Soon after the dragon came home, and when he saw the queen had disappeared, said to his horse, 'What shall we do? Shall we eat and drink first, or shall we pursue them at once?' The horse answered, 'Whether we eat and drink or not it is all one, we shall never reach them.' When the dragon heard that, he got quickly on his horse and galloped after them. When they saw the dragon following them they pushed on quicker, but their horse said, 'Do not be afraid! there is no need to run away.' In a very few moments the dragon came very near to them, and his horse said to their horse, 'For God's sake, my brother, wait a moment! I shall kill myself running after you!' Their horse answered, 'Why are you so stupid as to carry that monster. Fling your heels up and throw him off, and come along with me!' When the dragon's horse heard that he shook his head angrily and flung his feet high in the air, so that the dragon fell off and brake in pieces, and his horse came up to them. Then the queen mounted him and returned with the king's son happily to her kingdom, where they reigned together in great prosperity until the day of their death. PAPALLUGA;[30] OR, THE GOLDEN SLIPPER. [30] Servian name for "Cinderella." As some village girls were spinning whilst they tended the cattle grazing in the neighbourhood of a ravine, an old man with a long white beard--so long a beard that it reached to his girdle--approached them, and said, 'Girls, girls, take care of that ravine! If one of you should drop her spindle down the cliff, her mother will be turned into a cow that very moment!' Having warned them thus, the old man went away again. The girls, wondering very much at what he had told them, came nearer and nearer to the ravine, and leant over to look in; whilst doing so one of the girls--and she the most beautiful of them all--let her spindle fall from her hand, and it fell to the bottom of the ravine. When she went home in the evening she found her mother, changed into a cow, standing before the house; and from that time forth she had to drive this cow to the pasture with the other cattle. In a little time the father of the girl married a widow, who brought with her into the house her own daughter. The stepmother immediately began to hate the step-daughter, because the girl was incomparably more beautiful than her own daughter. She forbade her to wash herself, to comb her hair, or to change her clothes, and sought by every possible way to torment and scold her. One day she gave her a bag full of hemp, and said, 'If you do not spin all this well and wind it, you need not return home, for if you do I shall kill you.' The poor girl walked behind the cattle and spun as fast as possible; but at mid-day, seeing how very little she had been able to spin, she began to weep. When the cow, her mother, saw her weeping, she asked her what was the matter, and the girl told her all about it. Then the cow consoled her, and told her not to be anxious. 'I will take the hemp in my mouth and chew it,' she said, 'and it will come out of my ear as thread, so that you can draw it out and wind it at once upon the stick;' and so it happened. The cow began to chew the hemp and the girl drew the thread from her ear and wound it, so that very soon they had quite finished the task. When the girl went home in the evening, and took all the hemp, worked up, to her stepmother, she was greatly astonished, and next morning gave her yet more hemp to spin and wind. When at night she brought that home ready the stepmother thought she must be helped by some other girls, her friends; therefore the third day she gave her much more hemp than before. But when the girl had gone with the cow to the pasture, the woman sent her own daughter after her to find out who was helping her. This girl went quietly towards her step-sister so as not to be heard, and saw the cow chewing the hemp and the girl drawing the thread from her ear and winding it, so she hastened home and told all to her mother. Then the stepmother urged the husband to kill the cow. At first he resisted; but, seeing his wife would give him no peace, he at last consented to do as she wished, and fixed the day on which he would kill it. As soon as the step-daughter heard this she began to weep, and when the cow asked her why she wept she told her all about it. But the cow said, 'Be quiet! do not cry! Only when they kill me take care not to eat any of the meat, and be sure to gather all my bones and bury them behind the house, and whenever you need anything come to my grave and you will find help.' So when they killed the cow the girl refused to eat any of the flesh, saying she was not hungry, and afterwards carefully gathered all the bones and buried them behind the house, on the spot the cow had told her. The real name of this girl was Mary, but as she had worked so much in the house, carrying water, cooking, washing dishes, sweeping the house, and doing all sorts of house-work, and had very much to do about the fire and cinders, her stepmother and half-sister called her 'Papalluga' (Cinderella). One day the stepmother got ready to go with her own daughter to church, but before she went she spread over the house a basketful of millet, and said to her step-daughter, 'You Papalluga! If you do not gather up all this millet and get the dinner ready before we come back from church, I will kill you!' When they had gone to church the poor girl began to weep, saying to herself: 'It is easy to see after the dinner; I shall soon have that ready; but who can gather up all this quantity of millet!' At that moment she remembered what the cow had told her, that in case of need she should go to her grave and would there find help, so she ran quickly to the spot, and what do you think she saw there? On the grave stood a large box full of valuable clothes of different kinds, and on the top of the box sat two white doves, who said, 'Mary, take out of this box the clothes which you like best and put them on, and then go to church; meanwhile we will pick up the millet seeds and put everything in order.' The girl was greatly pleased, and took the first clothes which came to hand. These were all of silk, and having put them on she went away to church. In the church every one, men and women, wondered much at her beauty and her splendid clothes, but no one knew who she was or whence she came. The king's son, who happened to be there, looked at her all the time and admired her greatly. Before the service was ended she stood up and quietly left the church. She then ran away home, and as soon as she got there took off her fine clothes and again laid them in the box, which instantly shut itself and disappeared. Then she hurried to the hearth and found the dinner quite ready, all the millet gathered up, and everything in very good order. Soon after the stepmother came back with her daughter from the church, and was extremely surprised to find all the millet picked up and everything so well arranged. Next Sunday the stepmother and her daughter again dressed themselves to go to church, and, before she went away, the stepmother threw much more millet about the floor, and said to her step-daughter, 'If you do not gather up all this millet, prepare the dinner, and get everything into the best order, I shall kill you.' When they were gone, the girl instantly ran to her mother's grave, and there found the box open as before, with the two doves sitting on its lid. The doves said to her, 'Dress yourself, Mary, and go to church; we will pick up all the millet and arrange everything.' Then she took from the box silver clothes, and having dressed herself, went to church. In the church everyone, as before, admired her very much, and the king's son never moved his eyes from her. Just before the end of the service the girl again got up very quietly and stole through the crowd. When she got out of church she ran away very quickly, took off the clothes, laid them in the box, and went into the kitchen. When the stepmother and her daughter came home, they were more surprised than before; the millet was gathered up, dinner was ready, and everything in the very best order. They wondered very much how it was all done. On the third Sunday the stepmother dressed herself to go with her daughter to church, and again scattered millet about on the ground, but this time far more than on the other Sundays. Before she went out she said to her step-daughter, 'If you do not gather up all this millet, prepare the dinner, and have everything in order when I come from church, I will kill you!' The instant they were gone, the girl ran to her mother's grave, and found the box open with the two white doves sitting on the lid. The doves told her to dress herself and go to church, and to have no care about the millet or dinner. This time she took clothes of all real gold out of the box, and, having put them on, went away to the church. In the church all the people looked at her and admired her exceedingly. Now the king's son had resolved not to let her slip away as before, but to watch where she went. So, when the service was nearly ended, and she stood up to leave the church, the king's son followed her, but was not able to reach her. In pushing through the crowd, however, Mary somehow in her hurry lost the slipper from her right foot and had no time to look for it. This slipper the king's son found, and took care of it. When the girl got home she took off the golden clothes and laid them in the box, and went immediately to the fire in the kitchen. The king's son, having determined to find the maiden, went all over the kingdom, and tried the slipper on every girl, but in some cases it was too long, in others too short, and, in fact, it did not fit any of them. As he was thus going about from one house to the other, the king's son came at last to the house of the girl's father, and the stepmother, seeing the king's son coming, hid her step-daughter in a wash-trough before the house. When the king's son came in with the slipper and asked if there were any girl in the house, the woman answered 'Yes,' and brought out her own daughter. But when the slipper was tried it was found it would not go even over the girl's toes. Then the king's son asked if no other girl was there, and the stepmother said, 'No, there is no other in the house.' At that moment the cock sprung upon the wash-trough, and crowed out 'Cock-a-doodle-do!--here she is under the wash-trough!' The stepmother shouted, 'Go away! may the eagle fly away with you!' But the king's son, hearing that, hurried to the wash-trough, and lifted it up, and what did he see there! The same girl who had been in the church, in the same golden clothes in which she had appeared the third time there, but lying under the trough, and with only one slipper on. When the king's son saw her, he nearly lost his senses for the moment, he was so very glad. Then he quickly tried to place the slipper he carried on her right foot, and it fitted her exactly, besides perfectly matching with the other slipper on her left foot. Then he took her away with him to his palace and married her. THE GOLDEN-FLEECED RAM. Once upon a time a hunter went to the mountains to hunt, and met there a golden-fleeced ram. The moment he saw it he took up his rifle to shoot it; before, however, he could do so, the ram rushed at him and killed him with its horns. His friends found him lying dead, and took him home and buried him, without knowing how he had been killed. The hunter's wife hung up his rifle on a nail. When her son grew old enough, he one day asked his mother for the rifle, that he might go hunting. The mother, however, refused to give it him. 'Nothing in the world, my son,' cried she, 'shall induce me to do so. Your father lost his life through that gun, and do you wish, also, to lose your life because of it?' However the youth managed to steal the rifle one day, and went away to the mountains to hunt. When he came to the forest, the golden-fleeced ram appeared also to him, and said, 'I killed your father, and I will kill you!' The son was shocked, and said, 'God help me!' Then he levelled at the ram with the rifle and killed it. Greatly rejoiced that he had killed the golden-fleeced ram, (for there was not another like it in all the kingdom) he now took the fleece home. In a very short time the news of this spread all over the country, and reached even the king's ears. Then the king ordered the young lad to bring the ram's fleece to him, that he might see what different animals lived in his kingdom. When the young lad took it to the king, and exhibited it, the king asked, 'How much money do you want for that fleece?' To which the young man answered, 'I will not sell it for any money.' Now the king's first minister happened to be the uncle of the young man; instead, however, of being his friend, he was his greatest enemy. So the minister said to the king, 'If he will not give you the fleece, set him something to do which will cost him his life. The best plan would be to order him to do something which it is impossible for him to do.' Accordingly he advised the king to order the young man to plant a vineyard, and to bring him, within seven days, new wine from it. The young man hearing this, began to weep, and begged to be excused from such a task as he could not work a miracle. But the king said, 'If you don't do that in seven days, you shall lose your life.' Then the youth returned weeping to his mother, and told her about it. And the mother said, 'Did I not tell you, my son, that the golden fleece would cost you your life as it cost your father his?' Weeping and wondering what to do, since he got no rest at home, he thus walked out of the village a good distance, when, suddenly, a little girl appeared before him and said, 'Why are you weeping, my brother?' He answered, somewhat angrily, 'Go your way, in God's name! you cannot help me.' He then went on his way, but the little girl followed him, and begged much that he would tell her why he wept, 'for, perhaps,' said she, 'I may be able to help you.' 'Well, then, I will tell you,' said he, 'though I am sure no one except God can help me.' So he told her all that had happened to him, and what the king had ordered him to do. When she had heard all, she said, 'Be not tearful, my brother, but go and demand from the king that he should appoint the place where the vineyard shall be planted, and order it to be dug in straight lines; then go yourself, and take a sack, with a branch of basilicum in it, and lie down to sleep in the place where the vineyard has been marked out. Take courage! Don't be afraid! In seven days you will have ripe grapes.' Thereupon he returned home and told his mother how he had met the little girl, and what she had told him; not, however, as having any belief in what she had said. The mother, however, when she had heard his words, said, 'Go, my son, and try; anyhow you are a lost man. You can but try.' He went then to the king and demanded land for the vineyard, and begged that it should be dug in straight rows. The king ordered everything to be done as the young man demanded, who forthwith took a sack on his shoulder, and a sprig of basilicum, and went full of fear and sorrow to lie down in the place. When he awoke next morning the vines were already planted; the second morning the leaves were on the vines; and, in short, on the seventh day there were ripe grapes, and that, too, in a season when grapes were to be found nowhere else. He gathered some grapes, and made sweet wine; and took also a cluster of grapes in a handkerchief, and went to the king. The king and the whole court were exceedingly surprised, but the young man's uncle said, 'Now we will order him to do something which it is quite impossible that he should do.' He then advised the king to call the young man, and order him to make a palace of elephants' tusks. The young man heard the king's order, and went home weeping. He told his mother the order which the king had given him, and said, 'Mother, this is a task which neither I nor any one else can fulfil.' Then the mother advised him to take a walk beyond the village. 'Perhaps,' said she, 'you will again meet the little girl.' Accordingly he went; and when he reached the place where he had before seen the maiden, she again appeared to him, and said, 'You are sad and troubled as before, my brother.' Then he told her what a task the king had set him to perform. She, however, no sooner heard this than she said, 'This will also be easy; but first go to the king, and demand from him a ship with three hundred barrels of wine, and three hundred barrels of brandy, and twenty carpenters. Then, when you arrive at a place which you will find between the mountains, dam up the water there, and pour into it the wine and the brandy. The elephants will soon come there to drink water, and will get drunk and fall down. Then your twenty carpenters must cut off their tusks, and carry them to the spot where the king desires to have the palace built. Then lie down there to sleep, and in seven days the palace will be ready.' The young man returned home and told his mother what the young maiden had said to him. The mother advised him to follow the girl's counsel. 'Go, my son,' she said, 'perhaps God will again help you.' So the young man went to the king, and demanded the barrels of wine and brandy, and the twenty carpenters. The king furnished him with all he desired; and he went immediately where the girl had told him, and did as she had ordered. And, even as she had foretold, the elephants came to drink, and got tipsy, and fell down; and the carpenters sawed their tusks, and carried them to the spot where the palace was to be built. Then, at evening, the young man took his sack and a branch of basilicum, and went and lay down to sleep in the place. And on the seventh day the palace was ready. When the king saw it, he marvelled, and said to his first minister, the uncle of the young man, 'Now what shall we do with him? Indeed he is not a man; God knows only what he is.' To this, the minister answered, 'Yet one thing you ought to order him to do, and if he fulfils that, also, indeed he must be something more than man.' So, in accordance with the advice of his minister, the king called the young man again, and said, 'Now, go and bring me the king's daughter from such and such a kingdom, and out of such a city. If you should fail to bring her, you will lose your head.' The young man went home and told his mother the new task which the king had set him to do, and the mother said, 'Go, my son, and look for that young maiden. Perhaps God will grant that she may save you a third time!' So, as before, he went outside the village, and met the young maiden, and told her what he had now to do. The girl listened to him, and then said, 'Go and demand from the king a ship; in the ship must be made twenty shops, and in each shop must be a different kind of ware, each one better than the other. Then demand that the twenty handsomest young men should be chosen, and finely dressed, and put one in each shop as salesman. Then sail yourself with the ship, and you will first meet a man who carries a large eagle. You must ask him if he will sell it you, and he will answer "Yes." Then give him anything he demands in return for the eagle. After that you will meet a man carrying in his fishing-net a carp with golden scales; you must buy the carp, whatever it may cost you. Thirdly, you will meet a man carrying a live dove, and this dove you must also buy, whatever the price may be. Then, take a feather from the eagle's tail, a scale from the carp, and a little feather from the left wing of the dove, and let the eagle, carp, and dove go away free. When you arrive in the kingdom, and at the city where the princess resides, you must open all the twenty shops, and order each young man to stand before his shop-door. Then the citizens will come and admire the wares; and the maidens, who come to fetch water, will go back into the city and say, "Such a ship and such wares were never before seen since this was a city!" This news will reach the ears of the king's daughter, and she will beg permission from her father to go and see the ship herself. When she comes, with her friends, on board, you must lead her from one shop to the other, and bring out and show her the finest wares which you have. Thus you must contrive to engage her attention and to keep her on board till it gets dusk, and then let the ship sail. In that moment it will be so dark that nothing can be seen. The girl will have a bird on her shoulder, and, when she sees the ship is sailing away, she will let the bird fly to take tiding to the palace of what has happened to her. Then you must burn the eagle's plume, and the old eagle will instantly come to you. You must order him to catch the bird, and he will quickly do so. Then the girl will throw a small stone into the water, and the ship will at once stand still; but you will immediately burn the carp's scale, and the carp will come to you. You must order him to find and swallow that little water of life, and when he does so the ship will sail on. After sailing some time you will arrive between two mountains; there the ship will turn to stone and you will be greatly terrified. The girl will urge you to fetch some water of life, and you must then burn the dove's feather, and the bird will immediately appear. You will give him a little bottle that he may bring you some water of life, and when he does so the ship will sail on again, and you will come happily home with the king's daughter.' The young man listened to the advice of the maiden, and then returned home and told all to his mother. After that he went to the king and demanded all the things that the maiden had counselled him to procure. The king could not refuse, so all that he asked was given him, and he sailed away. All things happened exactly as the young maiden had foretold, and the young man came back with the king's daughter happily to his own country. The king and his first minister, the uncle of the young man, saw, from the windows of the palace, the ship whilst yet it was far from the city; and the minister said to the king, 'Now there is nothing left to do but to kill him as he comes out of the ship!' When the ship reached the port, the king's daughter first came ashore with her companions; then the handsome young shopmen, and, lastly, the young man alone. But the king had had the headsman placed there, and when the young man stepped on the shore the executioner cut his head off. The king intended to marry the king's daughter; accordingly, as soon as she came on land he ran to her, and began to caress her, but she turned away her head from him, and said, 'Where is he who has been working for me?' And when she saw that his head was cut off she rushed to the body, took out some water of life and poured over it, so he arose alive and well as ever. When the king and his minister saw this wonder, the minister said to the king, 'This man will know now more than ever he did, since he has been dead and is come back to life!' Then the king began to wonder if it were true that a man who has been dead knows more when he returns to life, and, in order to satisfy his curiosity, he ordered the headsman to cut off his head, and directed that the girl with the water of life should bring him again to life. But, after the king's head was cut off, the girl refused to restore him to life. Instead of doing so, she wrote a letter to her father, told him all that had happened, and told him her wish to marry the young man. So the king, her father, sent forth a proclamation that the people should take the young man for their king, and threatened to declare war against them if they refused to do so. The people recognised immediately the merits of the young man, and owned that he deserved to be their king, and to marry the king's daughter. Accordingly they made him king, and he married the king's daughter. Then the handsome young men, who had sailed with him in the ship as shopmen, married the companions of the king's daughter who was now queen, and thus all of them became great dignitaries in the kingdom. WHO ASKS LITTLE, GETS MUCH. Once on a time there lived three brothers, who had no property except one pear-tree. This they watched carefully, each of them in turn guarding it, whilst the other two worked for wages away from home. One day God sent an angel to see how these brothers were living; and ordered the angel, if they lived very poorly, to give them better food. When the angel came down to the earth, he changed himself into the form of a beggar; and when he saw one of the brothers watching the pear-tree, asked him to give him a pear. Then the brother plucked some pears, and gave them to the beggar, and said, 'Here, take these from my share of the pears; I cannot give you any of those which belong to my brothers.' So the angel thanked the man and went away. Next morning the second brother remained to guard the pear-tree; and the angel came again, and begged him to give him a pear. The man took some of the pears and gave them to the angel, saying, 'Take these from my pears; but from the pears of my brothers I dare not give you any.' The third day the third brother stayed at home to watch the pear-tree, and the angel came as before, and asked only for one pear. And this brother said also, 'Here are some of my pears; from the pears of my brothers I cannot give you any.' The day after, the angel changed himself into a monk, and came very early, so that he found all three brothers at home, and said to them, 'Come with me; I will give you better nourishment than you have at present.' The three brothers followed him without saying a word. At last they came to a large torrent, where the water flowed in great streams, and made a loud noise. Then the angel asked the eldest brother, 'What would you like?' And the man answered, 'I should like all this water to be changed into wine, and to belong to me.' Then the angel made the sign of the cross in the air with his stick, and, in a moment, wine was flowing instead of water. On the banks of the river heaps of barrels were being made, and men were working very diligently--in short, there was quite a village. The angel then left the eldest brother there, saying, 'Here is all you wished! now keep yourself!' and he continued his journey with the other two brothers. Then they came to a field covered over with a multitude of doves, and the angel asked the second brother, 'What would you like?' 'I should like all these doves to be sheep, and to belong to me!' replied the man. The angel again made the sign of the cross in the air with his stick, and, instantly, sheep were there instead of doves. There were dairies also, and women milking the sheep; some were pouring out the milk, and others collecting the cream; some were making cheese, others churning butter. There was also a slaughter-house, with men cutting the meat into joints, whilst others were weighing it, and others receiving money as they sold the meat. Then the angel said to the second brother, 'Here is what you wished for; now live.' The angel now took with him the youngest brother, walked with him across the field, and then asked, 'And what would _you_ like?' The man answered, 'I wish for nothing, except that God may give me a wife of pure Christian blood!' Then the angel said, 'Oh, that is difficult to find! In the whole world there are but three such, and two of them are already married. The third is a maid still, but she is asked in marriage by two wooers.' So the angel and the young man set out, and, having journeyed a long way, at length came to the city where the king dwelt whose daughter was of pure Christian blood. As soon as they arrived, they went to the palace to ask for the girl. When they entered the palace, they found two kings already there, and their wedding gifts laid out upon a table. Then they also placed there the presents they had brought. When the king saw them, he said to all those who were standing before him, 'What shall we do now? Those are the presents of kings, but these look, in comparison, like the gifts of a beggar!' Then the angel said, 'I will tell you what to do. Let the matter be decided in this way--the maid shall take three vines, and plant them in the garden, dedicating each of them to one of the three wooers. The man on whose vine grapes are found next day is the one the girl ought to marry.' So all agreed to this, and the maid planted three vines in the garden, dedicating each of them to one of her three wooers. The next morning, when they looked, grapes were found on the vine dedicated to the poor man. So the king could not help himself, and was obliged to give his daughter to the youngest brother, and let them at once be married in the church. After the wedding, the angel took them to a forest, and left them there, where they lived for a whole year. At the end of a year, God again sent the angel, saying, 'Go down and see how those poor men are living. If their food be scanty, give them better nourishment.' The angel came down to earth as before, in the likeness of a beggar, and went first to the brother who had the torrent overflowing with wine. The beggar asked for a cup of wine, but the man refused, saying, 'If I were to give every one who asks a cup of wine, I should have none for myself!' When the angel heard this, he made the sign of the cross with his stick, and the torrent began to flow with water as at first. Then the angel said to the eldest brother, 'That was not for thee! go back under the pear-tree and guard it!' After that the angel went to the second brother who had the field quite covered with sheep, and begged him to give him a morsel of cheese; but he refused, saying, 'If I were to give every one a little bit of cheese, I should have none left!' When the angel heard this, he made the sign of the cross in the air, and the sheep turned in an instant into doves, and flew away. Then the angel said to the second brother, 'That was not for thee! go back under the pear-tree and guard it!' At last the angel went to see how the youngest brother was living, and found him with his wife in the forest, dwelling in a little hut, and living poorly. He begged to be allowed to sleep there that night, and they received him with great willingness, only excusing themselves that they could not serve him as they would. 'We are only poor people,' they said. The angel answered, 'Do not speak about that! I shall be quite content with what you have for yourselves.' Then these poor people asked themselves what they must do. They had no corn to make real bread; for they usually ground the bark of certain trees, and made bread from it. Such bread, therefore, the wife made now for their guest, and put it to the fire to bake. Whilst it baked, they talked with him. In a little while, when they looked to see whether the cake was baked, they found that there was a loaf of real bread quite ready for the table, and very large. When they saw that, they lifted up their hands and thanked God, saying, 'Thank thee, O God! that we are now able to give food to our guest.' So they placed the bread before the angel, and also filled a vessel with water, and when they came to drink they found it was wine. Then the angel made a sign of the cross with his staff over the hut, and on that spot rose a royal palace, filled with abundance of everything. And the angel blessed the youngest brother and his wife, and left them, and they lived there long and very happily. JUSTICE OR INJUSTICE? WHICH IS BEST. A king had two sons; of these, one was cunning and unjust, the other, just and gentle. After the death of the father the elder son said to the younger, 'Depart; I will not live with you any longer. Here are three hundred zechins and a horse; this is your portion of our father's property. Take it, for I owe you nothing more than this.' The younger son took the money and the horse which were offered him, and said, 'Thank God! See only how much of the kingdom has fallen to me!' Some time afterwards the two brothers, both of whom were riding, met by chance in a road. The younger brother greeted the elder one, saying, 'God help thee, brother!' and the elder answered, 'Why do you speak always about God? Nowadays, injustice is better than justice.' The younger brother, however, said to him, 'I will wager with you that injustice is not, as you say, better than justice.' So they betted one hundred golden zechins, and it was arranged that they should leave the decision to the first man they met in the road. Riding together a little farther they met with Satan, who had disguised himself as a monk, and they asked him to decide which was better, justice or injustice? Satan answered, 'Injustice!' And the good brother paid the bad one the hundred golden zechins which he had wagered. Then they betted for another hundred zechins, and again a third time for a third hundred, and each time Satan--who managed to disguise himself in different ways and meet them--decided that injustice was better than justice. Thus the younger brother lost all his money, and his horse into the bargain. Then he said, 'Thank God! I have no more money, but I have eyes, and I wager my eyes that justice is better than injustice.' Thereupon the unjust brother, without waiting for any one's decision, drew his knife and cut both his brother's eyes out, saying, 'Now you have no eyes, let justice help you.' But the younger brother in his trouble only thanked God and said, 'I have lost my eyes for the sake of God's justice, but I pray you, my brother, give me a little water in some vessel to wash my wounds and wet my mouth, and bring me away from this place to the pine-tree just about the spring, before you leave me.' The unjust brother did so, gave him water, and left him alone under the pine-tree near the spring of water. There the unfortunate remained, sitting on the ground. Late, however, in the night, some fairies came to the spring to bathe, and one of them said to the others, 'Do you know, my sisters, that the king's daughter has got the leprosy? The king has summoned all the physicians, but no one can possibly help her. But if the king only knew, he would take a little of this water in which we are bathing, and wash his daughter therewith! and then in a day and a night she would recover completely from her leprosy. Just as any one deaf, or dumb, or blind, could be cured by this same water.' Then, as the cocks began to crow, the fairies hurried away. As soon as they were gone, the unfortunate man felt his way slowly with his outstretched hands till he came to the spring of water. There he bathed his eyes, and in an instant recovered his sight. After that he filled the vessel with water, and hurried away to the king, whose daughter was leprous, and said to the servants, 'I am come to cure the king's daughter, if he will only let me try. I guarantee that she will become healthy in a day and night.' When the king heard that, he ordered him to be led into the room where the girl was, and made her immediately bathe in the water. After a day and a night the the girl came out pure and healthy. Then the king was greatly pleased, and gave the young prince the half of his kingdom, and also his daughter for a wife, so that he became the king's son-in-law, and the first man after him in the kingdom. The tidings of this great event spread all over the world, and so came to the ears of the unjust brother. He guessed directly that his blind brother must have met with good fortune under the pine-tree, so he went himself to try to find it also. He carried with him a vessel full of water, and then carved out his own eyes with his knife. When it was dark the fairies came again, and, as they bathed, spoke about the recovery of the king's daughter. 'It cannot be otherwise,' they said, 'someone must have been listening to our last conversation here. Perhaps someone is listening now. Let us see.' So they searched all around, and when they came to the pine-tree they found there the unjust brother who had come to seek after good fortune, and who declared always that injustice was better than justice. They immediately caught him, and tore him into four parts. And so, at the last, his wickedness did not help him, and he found to his cost that justice is better than injustice. SATAN'S JUGGLINGS AND GOD'S MIGHT. One morning the son of the king went out to hunt. Whilst walking through the snow he cut himself a little, and the drops of blood fell on the snow. When he saw how pretty the red blood looked on the white snow, he thought, 'Oh, if I could only marry a girl as white as snow and as rosy red as this blood!' Whilst he was thus thinking, he met an old woman and asked her if there were such maidens anywhere to be found. The old woman told him that on the mountain he saw before him he would find a house without doors, and the only entrance and outlet of this house was a single window. And she added, 'In that house, my son, there is living a girl such as you desire; but of the young men who have gone to ask her to be their wife none have returned.' 'That may all be as you say,' answered the prince, 'I will go, nevertheless! Only tell me the way that I must take to get to the house.' When the old woman heard this resolve, she was sorry for the young man, and, taking a piece of bread from her pouch, she gave it to him, saying, 'Take this bread and keep it safe as the apple of your eye!' The prince took the bread, and continued his journey. Very soon afterwards he met another old woman, and she asked him where he was going. He told her he was going to demand the girl who lived in the doorless house on the mountain. Then the old woman tried to dissuade him, telling him just the same things as the former one had done. He said, however, 'That may be quite true, nevertheless I will go, even if I never return.' Then the old woman gave to the prince a little nut, saying, 'Keep this nut always by you; it may help you some time or other!' The prince took the nut and went on his way, till he came to where an old woman was sitting by the roadside. She asked him, 'Where are you going?' Then he told her he was going to demand the girl who lived in the house on the mountain before him. Upon this the old woman wept, and prayed him to give up all thoughts of the girl, and she gave him the very same warnings as the other old women had done. All this however was of no use, the prince was resolved to go on, so the old woman gave him a walnut, saying, 'Take this walnut, and keep it carefully until you want it.' He wondered at these presents, and asked her to tell him why the first old woman had given him a piece of bread, the second a nut, and she herself now a walnut. The old woman answered, 'The bread is to throw to the beasts before the house, that they may not eat you; and, when you find yourself in the greatest danger, ask counsel, first from the nut, and then from the walnut.' Then the king's son continued his wandering, till he came at last to a thick forest, in the midst of which he saw the house with only a single window. When he came near it he was attacked by a multitude of beasts of all kinds, and, following the advice of the old woman, he threw the bit of bread towards them. Then the beasts came and smelt at the bread one after the other, and, upon doing so, each drew his tail between his legs and lay down quietly. The house had no door, and but one window, which was very high above the ground, so high that do what he could he was not able to reach it. Suddenly he saw a woman letting down her golden hair; so he rushed and caught hold of it, and she drew him up thereby into the house. Then he saw that the woman was she for whose sake he had come to this place. The prince and the girl were equally pleased to see each other, and she said, 'Thank God that my mother happened to be from home! She is gone into the forest to gather the plants by the aid of which she transforms into beasts all the young men who venture here to ask me to be their wife. Those are the beasts who would have killed you, if God had not helped you. But let us fly away from this place.' So they fled away through the forest as quickly as they could. As they happened to look back, however, they saw that the girl's mother was pursuing them, and they became frightened. The old woman was already very near them before the prince remembered his nut. He took it out quickly and asked, 'For God's sake! tell me what we must do now?' The nut replied, 'Open me!' The prince opened it, and from the little nut flowed out a large river, which stopped the way, so that for a time the girl's mother could not pass. However, she touched the waters with her staff, and they immediately divided and left her a dry path, so that she could run on quickly after the prince and the girl. When the prince saw she would soon come up with them, he took out the walnut and asked, 'Tell me, what we must do now?' And the walnut replied, 'Break me!' The king's son broke the walnut, and a great fire flamed out from it--so great a fire that the whole forest barely escaped being consumed by it. But the girl's mother spat on the fire, and it extinguished itself in a moment. Then the king's son saw that these were nothing but the jugglings of the devil, so he turned eastward, made the sign of the cross, and called on the mighty God to help him. Then it suddenly thundered and lightened, and from heaven flashed a thunderbolt which struck the mother of the girl, and she fell dead upon the ground. Thus at length the king's son arrived safely at home, and when the girl had been made a Christian, he married her. THE WISE GIRL. Once upon a time a poor man lived in a small and mean cottage. He possessed nothing in the world except a daughter who was very wise indeed. She taught her father how to beg, and how to speak wisely. One day the poor man went to the king to beg, and the king asked him whence he came, and who had taught him to speak so well. He told the king where he lived, and that he had a daughter who told him what to say. 'And who taught your daughter all this wisdom?' demanded the king. The poor man answered, 'God and our poverty have made her wise.' Then the king gave him thirty eggs and said, 'Take these eggs to your daughter, and tell her that if she bring forth chickens from the eggs, I will make her rich presents; but if she fails, then I will have you tortured.' The poor man went back to his cottage weeping, and told all this to his daughter. The girl saw at once that the eggs which the king had sent had been boiled, but she told her father to go to sleep quietly, and she would take care for everything. The father did as she said, and, whilst he slept, she took a pot, filled it with water and beans, and boiled them. Next morning she told her father to take a plough and oxen, and go to plough in a wood near to which the king would pass. 'When you see the king coming,' said she, 'take a handful of beans, and begin to sow, shouting, "Go on, my oxen, and God grant that the boiled beans may bear fruit!" When the king asks you, "How can you expect boiled beans to grow?" answer him, "Just as much as from boiled eggs to hatch chickens!"' The poor man listened to his daughter, and went to plough. When the king came near, he began to shout, 'Ho ho, my oxen! go on! and God grant that these boiled beans may bring me a good crop!' The king, hearing these words, stopped his carriage, and said to the poor man, 'Poor fellow, how can boiled beans bear a crop?' 'Just as well as boiled eggs can bring forth chickens,' answered the man. The king saw that his daughter had taught him what to say, and he ordered his servants to bring the man before him. Then the king gave him a bunch of flax, saying, 'Take this, and make from it all the sails a ship needs. If you do not, you shall lose your life.' The poor man took the bunch of flax with great fear, and returned weeping to the cottage to tell his daughter, who bade him go to sleep quietly. Next morning she gave him a small piece of wood, and told him to take it to the king and demand that, from this piece of wood, all the tools needful for spinning and weaving should be made. 'Then,' continued she, 'I will make all that he has ordered me.' The king was surprised, and considered a moment what to do. At last he said, 'Take this little glass to your daughter, and tell her she must empty the sea with it, so that dry land shall be where the water now is.' The poor man took the little cup to his daughter, and, weeping, told her all the king required. The girl bade him be quiet till morning, and then she would do all that was needed. Next morning she called her father, gave him a pound of tow, and said, 'Take this to the king, and tell him that with this tow he must first stop all the sources of the rivers and lakes, and then I will dry up the sea.' So the poor man went to the king and told him what his daughter had said. The king, seeing that the girl was wiser than himself, ordered that she should be brought before him. When she bent before the king, he said, 'Guess, maiden! what can be heard at the greatest distance?' The girl answered, 'Your majesty, the thunder and the lie can be heard at the greatest distance.' Then the king grasped his beard, and, turning to his courtiers, put to them the question, 'Guess what my beard is worth?' Some of them said so much, others again so much; but the girl observed to the king that none of the courtiers had guessed right, and said, 'The king's beard is worth as much as three summer rains.' The king, greatly astonished, said, 'It is so; the girl has guessed rightly!' Then he asked her if she were willing to be his wife; and added that, if she were willing, he would marry her. The girl bent low and said, 'Let it be as your majesty commands! But I pray you write with your hand on a scrap of paper this promise, that if you should ever be displeased with me, and should send me away from you, I shall be allowed to take with me from the palace any one thing which I like best.' The king consented, and gave the promise. After they had lived happily together for some time, one day the king was angry, and said to his wife, 'I will not have you any longer for my wife, and I bid you leave the palace!' The queen answered, 'I will obey your majesty, but permit me to pass one night more in the palace. To-morrow I will go.' This, the king could not well refuse. That evening, at supper, the queen mixed something with the wine, and offered it to the king to drink, saying, 'Be of good cheer, O king! To-morrow we shall separate and, believe me, I shall be happier than I was when I first met you.' The king drank, and soon after fell asleep. Then the queen ordered her carriage, and carried the king away with her to the cottage. Next morning, when the king awoke in the cottage and saw where he was, he exclaimed, 'Who brought me here?' The queen answered, 'I brought you.' Then the king asked, 'How have you dared to do so? Did I not tell you I will not have you any longer for my wife?' But the queen took out the king's written promise, and said, 'Yes, indeed, you told me so; but see, you have written and promised that I "shall be allowed to take with me from the palace that which I like best, whenever I must leave the court."' The king, seeing the paper, kissed his wife, and returned with her to the palace. GOOD DEEDS ARE NEVER LOST. In days gone by there lived a married couple who had one only son. When he grew up they made him learn something which would be of use to him in after-life. He was a kind, quiet boy, and feared God greatly. After his schooling was finished his father gave him a ship, freighted with various sorts of merchandise, so that he might go and trade about the world, and grow rich, and become a help to his parents in their old age. The son put to sea, and one day the ship he was in met with a Turkish vessel in which he heard great weeping and wailing. So he demanded of the Turkish sailors, 'Pray, tell me why there is so much wailing on board your ship?' and they answered, 'We are carrying slaves which we have captured in different countries, and those who are chained are weeping.' Then he said, 'Please, brothers, ask your captain if he would give me the slaves for ready cash?' The captain gladly agreed to the proposal, and after much bargaining the young man gave to the captain his vessel full of merchandise, and received in exchange the ship full of slaves. Then he called the slaves before him, and demanded of each whence he came, and told them all they were free to return to their own countries. At last he came to an old woman who held close to her side a very beautiful girl, and he asked them from what country they came. The old woman told him, weeping, that they came from a very distant land, saying, 'This young girl is the only daughter of the king, and I am her nurse, and have taken care of her from her childhood. One day, unhappily, she went to walk in a garden far away from the palace, and these wicked Turks saw her and caught her. Luckily I happened to be near, and, hearing her scream, ran to her help, and so the Turks caught me too, and brought us both on board of this ship.' Then the old woman and the beautiful girl, being so far from their own country, and having no means of getting there, begged him that he would take them with him. So he married the girl, took her with him, and returned home. When he arrived his father asked him about his ship and merchandise, and he told him what had happened, how he had given his vessel with its cargo, and had bought the slaves and set them free. 'This girl,' continued he, 'is a king's daughter, and the old woman her nurse; as they could not get back to their country, they prayed to remain with me, so I married the girl.' Thereupon the father was very angry, and said, 'My foolish son! what have you done? Why have you made away with my property without cause and of your own will?' and he drove him out of the house. Then the son lived with his wife and her old nurse a long time in the same village, trying always, through the good offices of his mother and other friends, to obtain his father's forgiveness, and, begging him to let him have a second ship full of merchandise, promised to be wiser in future. After some time the father took pity on him, and received him again into his house, with his wife and her old nurse. Shortly after he fitted him out another ship, larger than the first one, and filled with more valuable merchandise. In this he sailed, leaving his wife and her nurse in the house of his parents. He came one day to a city where he found the soldiers very busy carrying some unlucky villagers away to prison. So he asked them, 'Why are you doing this my brethren? Why are you driving these poor people to prison?' and the soldiers answered: 'They have not paid the king's taxes, that is why we take them to prison.' Then he went to the magistrate and asked, 'Please tell me how much these poor prisoners owe?' When the magistrate told him he sold his goods and ship, and paid the debts of all the prisoners, and returned home without anything. Falling at the feet of his father, he told him what he had done, and begged him to forgive him. But the father was exceedingly angry, more so than before, and drove him away from his presence. What could the unhappy son do in this great strait? How could he go begging, he whose parents were so rich? After some time his friends again prevailed upon the father to receive him back, because, as they urged, so much suffering had made him wiser. At last the father yielded, took him again into his house, and prepared a ship for him finer and richer than the two former ones. Then the son had the portrait of his wife painted on the helm, and that of the old nurse on the stern, and, after taking leave of his father and mother, and wife, he sailed away the third time. After sailing for some days he came near a large city, in which there lived a king, and, dropping anchor, he fired a salute to the city. All the citizens wondered, as did also their king, and no one could say who the captain of the strange ship might be. In the afternoon the king sent one of his ministers to ask who he was, and why he came; and the minister brought a message that the king himself would come at nine o'clock the next morning to see the ship. When the minister came he saw on the helm the portrait of the king's daughter, and on the stern that of her old nurse, and in his surprise and joy dared not believe his own eyes. For the princess had been promised to him in marriage while she was yet a child, and long before she was captured by the Turks. But the minister did not tell any one what he had seen. Next morning, at nine o'clock, the king came with his ministers on board the ship, and asked the captain who he was, and whence he came? Whilst walking about the vessel he saw there the portrait of the girl on the helm and that of the old woman on the stern, and recognised the features of his own daughter and her old nurse who had been captured by the Turks. But his joy was so great, he dared not believe his eyes, so he invited the captain to come that afternoon to his palace to relate his adventures, hoping thus to find out if his hopes were well founded. In the afternoon, in obedience to the king's wish, he went to the palace, and the king at once began to inquire why the figure of the girl was painted on the helm and that of the old woman on the stern. The captain guessed at once that this king must be his wife's father, so he told him everything that had happened--how he had met the Turkish ship filled with slaves, and had ransomed them and set them free. 'This girl, alone,' he continued, 'with her old nurse, had nowhere to go, as her country was so far off, so they asked to remain with me, and I married the girl.' When the king heard this he exclaimed, 'That girl is my only child, and the accursed Turks took her and her old nurse. You, since you are her husband, will be the heir to my crown. But go--go at once to your home and bring me your wife that I may see her--my only daughter, before I die. Bring your father, your mother, bring all your family. Let your property be all sold in that country, and come all of you here. Your father shall be my brother, and your mother my sister, as you are my son and the heir to my crown. We will all live together here in one palace.' Then he called the queen, and all his ministers, and told them all about his daughter. And there was great rejoicing and festivity in the whole court. After this the king gave his son-in-law his own large ship to bring back the princess and the whole family. So the captain left his own ship there, but he asked the king to send one of his ministers with him, 'Lest they should not believe me,' he said; and the king gave him as a companion for his voyage the same minister to whom he had formerly promised the princess in marriage. They arrived safely in port, and the captain's father was surprised to see his son return so soon, and with such a splendid vessel. Then he told all that had happened and his mother and wife, and especially the old nurse, rejoiced greatly when they heard the good news. As the king's minister was there to witness the truth of this strange news, no one could doubt it. So the father and mother consented to sell all their property and go to live in the king's palace. But the minister resolved to kill this new heir to the king and husband of the princess who had been promised to him for wife; so, when they had sailed a long distance, he called him on deck to confer with him. The captain had a quiet conscience, and did not suspect any evil, so he came up at once, and the minister caught him quickly and threw him overboard. The ship was sailing fast, and it was rather dark, so the captain could not overtake her, but was left behind in the deep waters. The minister, however, went quietly to sleep. Fortunately the waves carried the king's young heir to a rock near the shore; it was, however, a desert country, and no one was near to help him. Those he had left on board the ship, seeing next morning that he had disappeared, began to weep and wail, thinking he had fallen overboard in the night and been drowned. His wife especially lamented him, because they had loved each other very much. When the ship arrived at the king's city, and reported to him the great disaster that had befallen them, the king was troubled, and the whole court mourned greatly. The king kept the parents and family of the young man by him as he had engaged to do, but they could not console themselves for their great loss. Meanwhile, the king's unhappy son-in-law sat on the rock, and lived on the moss which grew there, and was scorched by the hot sun, from which he had no shelter; his garments were soiled and torn, and no one would have recognised him. Still not a living soul was to be seen anywhere to help him. At last, after fifteen days and fifteen nights, he noticed an old man on the shore, leaning on a staff, and engaged in fishing. Then the king's heir shouted to the old man, and begged him to help him off the rock. The old fisherman consented-- 'If you will pay me for it,' said he. 'How can I pay you when, as you see, I have nothing, and even my clothes are only rags?' answered the young man sadly. 'Oh, that matters nothing,' exclaimed the old man; 'I have here pen and paper, so, if you know how to use them, write a promise to give me half of everything you may ever possess, and then sign the paper.' To that the young man gladly consented; so the old man walked through the water to him, and he signed the paper, and then the old man took him over to the shore. After that he journeyed from village to village, barefoot, hungry, and sorrowful, and begged some garments to cover him. After thirty days' wandering, his good luck led him to the city of the king, and he went and sat at the door of the palace, wearing on his finger his wedding-ring, on which was his own name and the name of his wife. At eventide, the king's servants took him into the courtyard, and gave him to eat what remained of their supper. Next morning he took his stand by the garden-door, but the gardener came and drove him away, saying that the king and his family were soon coming that way. So he moved away a little, and sat down near a corner of the garden and shortly afterward he saw the king walking with his mother, his father leading the queen, and his wife walking with the minister, his great enemy. He did not yet desire to show himself to them, but as they passed near him and gave him alms, his wife saw the wedding-ring on a finger of the hand which he held out to take the money. Still she could not think the beggar could be her husband, so she said-- 'Let me see the ring you have on your finger.' The minister, who was walking by her, was a little frightened, and said-- 'Go on, how can you speak to that ragged beggar?' But she would not hear him. She took the ring, and read thereon her own and her husband's names. Her heart was greatly troubled by the sight of the ring, but she controlled her feelings and said nothing. As soon as they returned to the palace, she told the king, her father, that she had recognised her husband's ring on the hand of the beggar who sat by the side of the garden. 'So please send for him,' said she, 'that we may find out how the ring came into his hands.' Then the king sent his servants to find the beggar, and they brought him to the palace. And the king asked him whence he came, and how he got that ring. Then he could no longer restrain himself, but told them how he had been thrown overboard by the treacherous minister, and spent fifteen days and nights on the naked rock, and how he had been saved. 'You see now how God and my right-dealing have brought me back to my parents and my wife.' When they heard that, they could hardly speak, so rejoiced were they. Then the king summoned the father and mother, and related what had happened to their son. The servants quickly brought him fine new garments, and bathed and clothed him. Then for many days there was great rejoicings, not only in the palace, but also in all the city, and he was crowned as king. The minister was seized by the king's order, and given up to the king's son-in-law, that he might punish him after his own will. But the young king would not permit him to be put to death, but forgave him, on condition that he left the kingdom instantly. A few days after, the old man who had saved the young king came, bringing with him his written promise. The young king took the paper, and reading it, said-- 'My old man, sit down. To-day I am king, but if I were a beggar I would fulfil my word, and acknowledge my signature. Therefore we will divide all that I have.' So he took out the book and began to divide the cities. 'This is for me--that is for you.' So saying, he wrote all on a chart, till all were divided between them, from the greatest city to the poorest barrack. The old man accepted his half, but immediately made a present of it again to the young king, saying-- 'Take it! I am not an old man, but an angel from God! I was sent by God to save thee, for the sake of thy good deeds. Now reign and be happy, and may thy prosperity last long.' The angel disappeared; and the king reigned there in great happiness. LYING FOR A WAGER. One day a father sent his son to the mill with corn to grind; but before he went he recommended him not to grind it in the mill in which he should happen to meet with a man named 'Beardless.'[31] The boy came to a mill, but there he found Beardless. [31] The 'Beardless,' in Serbian national tales, is the personification of craft and sharpness. 'God bless you, Beardless,' said he. 'God bless you too, my son,' replied the man. 'Can I grind my corn here?' asked the boy. 'Why not?' responded Beardless; 'my corn will be soon ready, and you can grind yours as long as you like.' But the boy recollected his father's advice, and left the mill and went to another. But Beardless took some corn, and hurried by a shorter way, to the mill towards which the boy had gone, and reached there before him, and put some of his corn into the mill to be ground. When the boy arrived, he was greatly surprised to find Beardless there, and so he went away from this and approached a third mill. But Beardless hurried by a short cut, and reached this mill also before the boy, and gave some of his corn to be ground. He did the same at a fourth mill; so the boy got tired, and, thinking that he should find Beardless in every mill, put down his sack, and resolved to grind in this mill, although Beardless was there. When the boy's corn came to be ground, Beardless said to him, 'Hearken, my son. Let us make a cake of your flour.' The boy was thinking all the time of his father's words, but he could not help himself. So he said, 'Very good, we will make one.' Beardless got up and began to mix the flour with water, which the boy brought him, and he kept mixing till all the corn was ground, and all the flour made into a very large loaf. Then they made a fire, put the bread to bake, and, when it was baked, took it and placed it against a wall. Then Beardless said, 'My son, listen to me. If we were to divide the loaf between us, it would not be enough for either of us, so let us tell each other some lies, and whoever tells the greatest lie shall have the whole loaf for himself.' The boy thought, 'I cannot now draw back, so I may as well do my best and go on.' So he said aloud to Beardless, 'Very well, but you must begin.' Then Beardless told many different lies, and when he got quite tired of lying, the boy said to him, 'Eh! my dear Beardless, if that is all you know, it is not much. Only listen, and have patience a little, whilst I tell you a real truth. In my _young_ days, when I was an _old_ man, we had very many beehives, and it was my business every morning to count them. Now I always counted the bees easily enough, but I never could count the beehives. One morning, whilst counting the bees, I saw that the best bee was missing, so I put a saddle on the cock and mounted, and started in search of my bee. I traced it to the sea-shore, and saw that it had gone over the sea, so I followed it. When I got over, I saw that a man had caught my bee, and was ploughing a field with it in which he was about to sow millet. I called to him, "That is my bee! How did you get her?" And the man said, "Well, brother, if it is yours, take it." And he gave me back my bee, and also a sack full of millet. Then I put the sack on my back, and moved the saddle from the cock to the bee. Then I mounted it, and led the cock behind me, that he might rest a little. Whilst I was crossing the sea, somehow one of the strings of the sack broke, and all the millet fell into the water. 'When I had got over it was already night, so I dismounted and let the bee loose to graze. The cock I fastened near me, and gave him some hay; after that I lay down to sleep. When I awoke in the morning, I found the wolves had killed my bee and eaten it up; and the honey was lying all about the valley ankle-deep; and on the hills it lay knee-deep. Then I began to think in what I could gather up all the honey. I remembered I had a little axe by me, so I went into the forest to try to kill some beast, in order to make a sack from its skin. In the forest I saw two deer dancing on one leg; so I broke the leg with my little axe and caught them both. From the two deer I drew three skins and made three bags, wherein I gathered up all the honey. I put the sacks full of honey on the cock's back, and hastened home. When I reached home I found that my father had just been born, and they sent me to heaven to bring some holy water. Whilst I was thinking how I should go up to heaven, I remembered the millet which had fallen into the sea. When I reached the sea I found the millet had grown up quite to heaven, so I climbed it and reached the sky. And on getting into heaven I saw the millet was quite ripe, and that one whom I met there had reaped it, and had already made a loaf from it, and had broken some pieces into warm milk, which he was eating. I greeted him, saying, "God help you!" and he answered, "God help thee also!" and then he gave me holy water and I returned. But I found that meanwhile there had been a great rain, so that the sea had risen and carried away my millet. Then I grew very anxious as to how I should get down again to earth. At last I remembered that I have long hair, so long that when I stand upright it reaches down to the ground, and when I sit it reaches to my ears; so I took my knife and cut one hair after another, and tied them together as I went down them. Meanwhile it grew dark, so I tied a knot in the hair, and resolved to rest on that knot through the night. But how should I do without a fire? The tinder-box I had by me, but I had no wood! Then I remembered I had somewhere in my overcoat a sewing-needle, so I found it, cut it in pieces and made a great fire, and when I was well warmed laid myself down near the fire to sleep. I slept soundly, but, unfortunately, a spark of fire burnt the hair through, and so head over heels I fell to the ground, and sank into the earth up to my girdle. I looked about to see how I could get out, and, seeing no help near, I hurried home for a spade and came back and dug myself out. Then I took the holy water to my father. When I arrived at home I found the reapers working in the corn-field. The corn was so high, that the reapers were almost burnt up. Then I shouted to them, "Why do you not bring our mare here which is two days' long and a day and a half broad, and on whose back large trees are growing? Bring her that she may make a little shadow on the field!" My father quickly brought the mare, and the reapers worked on quite pleasantly in her shadow. Then I took a vessel to bring some water. But the water was frozen, so I took my head and broke the ice with it. Then I filled the vessel with water, and carried it to the reapers. When they saw me they all shouted, "But where is your head?" I put up my hand to feel for my head, and found, alas, that I had no head on my shoulders. I had forgotten it, and had left it by the water. So I returned quickly, but a fox had got there before me, and was drawing the brains from my head to eat. Then I approached slowly and struck the fox furiously, and he began to run, and, in running, dropped a little book from his pocket. I opened the book, and there I read, "The whole loaf is for me, and Beardless is to get nothing!"' So the boy caught up the loaf and ran off home, and Beardless remained looking after him. THE WICKED STEPMOTHER. There was once on a time a stepmother who hated her step-daughter exceedingly, because she was more beautiful than her own daughter whom she had brought with her into the house. By-and-by, the father learned also to hate his own child: he scolded her, and beat her, in order to please his wife. One day his wife said to him, 'Let us send your daughter away! Let her look out for herself in the world!' Upon this the man asked, 'Where can we send her? Where can the poor girl go alone?' To this the wife answered, 'If you will not do this, husband, I will no longer live with you. You had better take her to-morrow out of the house. You can lead her into the forest, and then steal away from her and hurry home!' She repeated this so often that at length he consented, but said, 'At least prepare the girl something for her journey, that she may not die the first day of hunger.' The stepmother thereupon made a cake, and, the next morning early, the father led the girl far away into the very heart of the forest, and there left her and went back home. The poor girl, thus left alone, wandered all day about the wood seeking for a path, but could find no way out of it. When it grew dark she got up into a tree to pass the night, fearing lest some wild beasts would eat her if she remained on the ground. And, indeed, all night long the wolves were howling under the tree, so that the poor girl trembled so much that she could hardly keep her herself from falling. When day dawned she descended from the tree and walked on again, hoping to find some way out of the forest. But the wood grew thicker and thicker, and seemed to have no end. In the evening whilst she was looking for a tree in which she might remain safely over the night, all at once she saw something shining in the forest. So she went on, hoping to find some shelter, and at length came to a fine large house. The gates were open, so she went in, and walked through a great many rooms, each one more beautiful than the other. On a table in one room she found a candle burning. She thought this must be the house of some robbers; but she was not afraid, for she reasoned with herself, 'Rich men have reason to fear robbers, but I have none--I will tell them that I will serve them gladly for a piece of bread.' She then took the cake from her bag, said grace, and began to eat. Just as she had begun to eat a cock came into the room, and sprung upon the table to reach the cake, so the girl crumbled some of it for him. Then a little dog came in and jumped quite friendly upon her, so she broke a piece from her cake for the little dog, and took him on her knee, and petted and fed him. After that came in a cat also, and the girl fed her too. At length the girl heard a loud noise as if some great beast was coming, and was greatly frightened when a lion came into the room. But the lion moved his tail in such a friendly way, and looked so very kindly, that she took heart, and offered him a piece of her cake. The lion took it and began to lick her hand, and the girl had no longer any fear of him, so she stroked him gently and fed him with the rest of the cake. Suddenly she heard a great noise of weapons, and almost swooned as a creature in a bear-skin entered the room. The cock, the dog, the cat, and the lion, all ran to it, and jumped about it affectionately, showing in all possible ways their great joy. The poor girl thought it a very strange beast, and expected it would jump upon her and kill her. But the fearful thing threw the bear-skin from its head and shoulders, and all the room shone and glittered with its golden garments. The poor girl almost lost her senses when she saw before her a handsome man, beautifully dressed. But he came up to her and said, 'Don't be afraid, my dear! I am not a bad man, I am the son of the king, and when I wish to hunt I come here and use this bear-skin as a disguise lest the people should recognise me. Those who see me believe that I am a ghost and run away from me. No one dares to come into this house, knowing that I often come here. You are the only person who has ventured in. How did you know that I am not a ghost?' Then she told him she had never heard of him nor of the house, but that her stepmother had driven her away from home, and she told him all that had happened to her. When he heard this, he was very sorry, and said, 'Your stepmother hated you, but God has been kind to you. I will marry you if you are willing to be my wife--will you consent?' 'Yes!' she replied. Next day he took her to his father's palace and married her. After some time she begged to be allowed to go to see her father. So her husband allowed her to go, and she dressed herself all in gold and went to her father's house. The father happened to be away from home, and the stepmother, seeing her coming, was afraid lest she had come to revenge herself. So she hurried to meet her and said, 'You see that it was I who sent you on the road to happiness.' The step-daughter kissed her, and embraced her step-sister. Then the girl said she was very sorry that she had not found her father at home, and, on her going away, she gave plenty of money to her stepmother. When, however, she had gone away the stepmother shook her fist after her and cried, 'Wait a little, you shall not be the only one so dressed out; to-morrow I will send my own daughter after you the same way!' When her husband came home at night she told him all that had happened, and said, 'What do you think, husband? would it not be a good thing to send my girl also into the wood to try her fortune; for your girl, whom we sent there, never came back until now, and now she has come glittering in gold?' The man sighed and agreed to the proposal. Next day the stepmother prepared for her daughter plenty of cakes and roasted meats, and then sent her with the father into the forest. The man led her deep into the forest, as he had done his own daughter, and there left her. Finding the father did not return, she began to seek a way to get home, and soon came in sight of the house in the forest. She entered it, and seeing no one, fastened the door inside, saying as she did so, 'If God himself comes I will not open to Him.' Then she took out of her bag the baked meats and cakes and began to eat. Whilst she was eating, the cock, the dog, and the cat came in suddenly, and began to play about her affectionately, hoping she would give them something; but she became quite angry, and exclaimed, 'The devil take you! I have hardly enough for myself: do you think I will give any to you?' Then she began to beat them; whereat the dog howled, and the lion hearing it rushed in furiously, caught the girl and killed her. Next day the king's son came with his wife to hunt. She immediately recognised her sister's dress, and gathered together the fragments of the body, which she took to her stepmother. She found her father at home this time, and he was greatly pleased to hear that his daughter was married to the king's son. When, however, he heard what had happened with the daughter of his wife, he was very sorry, but said, 'Her mother has deserved this from the hand of God, because she hated you without a cause. There she is at the well, I will go and tell her.' When the stepmother heard what had happened to her daughter, she said to her husband, 'I cannot bear your daughter! I cannot bear to look at her! Let us kill her and her husband. If you will not consent, I will jump down into this well!' 'I cannot kill my own child,' returned he. 'Well, then,' cried she, 'if _you_ will not kill her, _I_ cannot endure her!' and so she jumped down into the well. BIRD GIRL. Once upon a time lived a king, who had only one son; and when this son grew up, his father sent him to travel about the world, in order that he might find a maiden who would make him a suitable wife. The king's son started on his journey, and travelled through the whole world without finding anywhere a maiden whom he loved well enough to marry. Seeing then that he had taken so much trouble, and had spent so much time and money, and all to no purpose, he resolved to kill himself. With this intention, he climbed to the top of a high mountain, that he might throw himself from its summit; for he wished that even his bones might never be found. Having arrived at the top of the mountain, he saw a sharp rock jutting out from one side of it, and was climbing up to throw himself from it, when he heard a voice behind him calling, 'Stop! stop! O man! Stop for the sake of three hundred and sixty-five which are in the year!' He looked back, and seeing no one, asked, 'Who are you that speak to me? Let me see you? When you know how miserable I am, you will not prevent me killing myself!' He had scarcely said these words when there appeared to him an old man, with hair as white as wool, who said, 'I know all about you. But listen! Do you see that high hill?' 'Yes, I do,' said the prince. 'And do you see the multitude of marble blocks which are on it?' said the old man. 'Yes, I do,' rejoined the prince. 'Well, then,' continued the old man, 'on the summit of that hill there is an old woman with golden hair, who sits night and day on that very spot, and holds a bird in her bosom. Whoever can get this bird into his hands, will be the happiest man in the world. But, be careful. If you are willing to try and get the bird, you must take the old woman by her hair before she sees you. If she sees you before you catch her by her hair, you will be changed into a stone on the spot. Thus it happened to all those young men you see standing there, as if they were blocks of marble.' When the king's son heard this, he thought, 'It is all one to me whether I die here or there. If I succeed, so much the better for me; if I fail, I can but die as I had resolved.' So he went up the hill. When he arrived near the old woman, he walked very cautiously towards her, hoping to reach her unseen; for, luckily, the old woman was lying with her back towards him, sunning herself, and playing with the bird. When near enough, he sprang suddenly and caught her by the hair. Then the old woman cried out, so that the whole hill shook as with a great earthquake; but the king's son held fast by her hair, and when she found that she could not escape she said, 'What do you desire from me?' He replied, 'That you should give me the bird in your bosom, and that you call back to life all these Christian souls!' The old woman consented, and gave him the bird. Then from her mouth she breathed a blue wind towards the men of stone, and immediately they again became alive. The king's son, having the bird in his hands, was so rejoiced, that he began to kiss it; and, as he kissed it, the bird was transformed into a most beautiful maiden. This girl the enchantress had turned into a bird, in order that she might allure the young men to her. The girl pleased the king's son exceedingly, and he took her with him, and prepared to return home. As he was going down the hill, the girl gave him a stick, and told him the stick would do everything that he desired of it. So the king's son struck with it once upon the rock, and in a moment there came out a mass of golden coin, of which they took plenty for use on their journey. As they were travelling they came to a great river, and could find no place by which they could pass over; so the king's son touched the surface of the river with his stick, and the water divided, so that a dry path lay before them, and they were able to cross over the river dryshod. A little farther they came to a herd of wolves, and the wolves attacked them, and seemed about to tear them to pieces; but the prince struck at them with his stick, and one by one the wolves were turned into ants. Thus, at length, the king's son reached home safely with his beloved, and they were shortly after married, and lived long and happily together. SIR PEPPERCORN. Three brothers once upon a time went out into the neighbouring forest to choose some trees fit for building. Before going, however, they told their mother not to forget to send their sister into the wood after them with their dinners. The mother sent the girl as she had been told to do; but as the girl was on her way a giant met her in the wood, and carried her off to a cave, where he lived. All day long the brothers waited, expecting their sister, and wondering why their mother had forgotten to send them food. At length, after remaining two days in the forest, and becoming anxious and angry at the delay, they went home. When they arrived there they asked their mother why she had not sent their sister with their food, as she had promised to do; she replied that she had sent the girl three days ago, and had been wondering greatly why she had not come back. When the three brothers heard this they were exceedingly troubled, and the eldest said, 'I will go back into the forest and look for my sister.' Accordingly he went. After wandering about some time he came to a shepherdess, who was minding a flock of sheep. He asked her anxiously if she had seen his sister in the wood, or whether she could tell him anything about her. The shepherdess replied that she had indeed seen a girl carrying food, but a giant had met her and carried her off to his cave. Then the young man asked her to tell him the way to the giant's cave; which she did. The cave was hidden in a deep ravine. The brother at once went down, and called aloud on his sister by name. In a short time the girl came to the mouth of the cave, and, seeing her eldest brother, invited him to come in. This he did, and was exceedingly surprised to see that the seeming cave was in reality a magnificent palace. Whilst he stood there, talking to his sister, and inquiring how she liked her new home, he heard a loud whirring in the air overhead, and, immediately afterwards, saw a heavy mace fall on the ground just in front of the cave. Greatly terrified and astonished, he asked his sister what this meant, and she told him not to be afraid, for it was only the way the giant let her know of his return three hours before he came, that she might begin to prepare his supper. When it grew dark the giant came home, and was at once aware that a stranger was in his place. In reply to his angry questions, his wife told him it was 'only her brother, who had come to visit them.' When the giant heard this he went to the mouth of the cave, and calling a shepherd, ordered him to kill the largest sheep in his flock and roast it. When the meat was ready the giant called his brother-in-law, and said, as he cut the sheep in two equal parts, 'My dear brother-in-law, listen well to what I say; if you eat your half of the meat sooner than I eat mine, I will give you leave to kill me; but if I eat my half quicker than you eat yours, I shall certainly kill you.' Thereupon the poor brother-in-law began to shake all over with fright; and, fearing the worst, tried to eat as fast as he could. But he had hardly swallowed three mouthfuls before the giant finished his share of the sheep, and killed him, according to his threat. For some time the other two brothers and their old mother waited impatiently to see if the elder brother would come back. At last, hearing nothing either of the brother or of the sister, the second son said, 'I will go and look after them.' So he went into the same forest where his brother had gone, and, meeting there the same shepherdess minding her sheep, he inquired if he had seen his brother or sister. The shepherdess answered him as she had answered the elder brother, and he, too, asked the way to the giant's cave, and, on being told, went down the ravine until he reached the place. There he called on his sister by name, and she came out and invited him to enter the cave. This he did, and shared the fate of his brother; for, being unable to eat his part of the sheep as quickly as the giant ate his, he was also killed. Not long after, the third brother went forth the same road, to look after his two elder brothers and sister, and, having found the giant's cave, was likewise invited to eat half a sheep, or be put to death. He, however, failed like his brothers had done before him, and being unable to eat his part of the sheep as quickly as the giant ate his, he was also killed. Now the parents being alone in their house, prayed that God would give them another son, even were he no bigger than a peppercorn. As they prayed so it came to pass, and not very long after a little boy was born to them, who was so extremely small that they christened him 'Peppercorn.' When the boy was old enough he went out to play with other boys; and one day, in a quarrel, one of these said to him, 'May you share the fate of your three elder brothers!' Hearing this, Peppercorn ran off home at once, and asked his mother what these words meant. So the mother was forced to tell him how his three brothers had gone into the forest to look after their lost sister, and had never come back again. As soon as he heard this, Peppercorn began to search the house for pieces of old iron, and, having found some scraps, carried them off in the evening to a blacksmith, that with them he might make him a mace. Next morning, Peppercorn went to the smith to ask for his mace, which the man gave him, saying at the same time, 'Now, pay me for making it.' To this, Peppercorn replied, 'First, let me see if it is strong enough;' and he threw it up in the air and held his head so that the mace might fall upon it. As soon as the mace struck his head, it broke into pieces; and Peppercorn, seeing how badly it was made, fell into a passion and killed the smith. Then he gathered up the pieces of iron, and went off to look for a better workman. He soon found another blacksmith who was willing to make him a mace, but demanded a ducat for the work. Peppercorn said he would willingly pay the ducat if the smith made him a really strong serviceable mace. So next morning he went to ask if it was ready, and the smith said 'Yes; but you must first pay me the ducat, and then I will give it you.' Peppercorn, however, answered, 'The ducat is ready in my pocket, but I must first see if the mace is good before I pay for it.' Thereupon he caught it, flung it up in the air, and held his head under it as it fell. As soon as the mace struck his head it broke into pieces; and he, again falling into a great passion, killed this smith also. Gathering up the pieces of iron, he now carried them to a third smith, who undertook to make him a good strong mace, and demanded a ducat for doing so. Next morning Peppercorn went for the mace, and, after trying it three times, each time throwing it up higher in the air and letting it fall on his head, where it raised great bumps, he owned that he was satisfied with it, and accordingly paid the smith the ducat as he had promised. Having now a good strong mace, Peppercorn started off at once for the forest, in which his three elder brothers and his sister had been lost. After wandering about for some time, he came to the place where the shepherdess sat watching her sheep, and, in reply to his questions, she told him that she had seen his three brothers go down the ravine in search of their sister, but had never seen them come up again. Notwithstanding this, Peppercorn went resolutely down the ravine, calling aloud upon his sister by name. When she heard this she was exceedingly surprised, and said to herself, 'Who can this be calling me by name, now that all my brothers are killed? I have no other relations to come and look for me!' Then she went to the entrance of the cave and called out, 'Who is it that calls me; I have no longer any brothers?' Peppercorn said to her, 'I am your brother who was born after you left home, and my name is Peppercorn!' On hearing this, his sister led him into the palace, but he had hardly had time to say a few words to her before a loud whirring was heard in the air, and the giant's mace fell to the ground. For a moment Peppercorn was terrified at this, but he recovered himself quickly, and, pulling the mace out of the ground, flung it back to the giant, who, in astonishment, said to himself, 'Who is this who throws my mace back to me? Methinks I have at last found someone able to fight with me!' When the giant came home, he immediately asked his wife who had been in the cave, and she answered him, 'It is my youngest brother!' Thereupon the giant ordered the shepherd to bring the largest sheep in his flock. When this was brought, the giant killed it himself, and, whilst preparing it for roasting, said to Peppercorn, 'Will you turn the meat, or will you take care of the fire?' Peppercorn said he would rather gather wood and make the fire; so he went out and tumbled down some large trees with his mace. These he carried to the mouth of the cave, and made a large fire ready for the meat. When the sheep was roasted, the giant cut it in two parts, and gave one half to Peppercorn, saying, 'Take this half, and if you eat it before I eat my half you are free to kill me; but if you don't, I shall surely kill you!' So Peppercorn and the giant began to eat as fast as they could, swallowing down large pieces of meat, and, in their haste, almost choking themselves. At last, Peppercorn, by trickery, managed to get rid of his share of the sheep, and, according to the arrangement, killed the giant. This done, with the help of his sister, he collected all the treasures the giant had heaped up in his palace, and, taking them with him, returned home with his sister, to the great joy of their parents. Peppercorn remained some time after this with his father, mother, and sister, and they lived very merrily on the treasures he had brought from the giant's cave. At length, however, he saw that the riches were coming to an end, so he resolved to go into the world to seek his fortune. After travelling about a good while he came one day to a large city where he saw a great crowd gathered about a man who held an iron pike in his hand, and every now and then squeezed drops of water out of the iron. Whilst the people watched, wondering and admiring his great strength, Peppercorn went up and asked him, 'Do you think there is any man in the world stronger than yourself?' 'There is only one man alive who is stronger than myself, and that one is a certain person called Peppercorn,' answered he. 'Peppercorn can receive a mace on his head without being hurt!' Thereupon Peppercorn told the man who he was, and proposed to him that they should travel about the world together. 'That will I right gladly,' said the Pikeman. 'How can I help being glad to go with a trusty fellow like you!' Travelling together they came one day to a certain city, and, finding a concourse of people assembled, they went to see what was the matter. They found a man sitting on the bank of a river turning the wheels of nine mills with his little finger. So they said to him, 'Is there any one stronger than you in the world?' And he answered them, 'There are only two men stronger than I am--a certain person named Peppercorn and a certain Pikeman.' Hearing this, Peppercorn and the Pikeman told him who they were, and proposed that he should join them in their travels about the world. The Mill-turner very gladly accepted the offer, and so all three continued their journey together. After travelling some time they came to a city where they found all the people greatly excited because some one had stolen the three daughters of the king, and, notwithstanding the immense rewards his majesty had offered, no one had as yet dared to go out to look for the princesses. As soon as Peppercorn and his two comrades heard this they went to the king and offered to search for his three daughters. But in order to accomplish the task they demanded that the king should give them a hundred thousand loads of wood. The king gave them what they wanted, and they made a fence all around the city with the timber. This done they began to watch. The first morning they prepared a whole ox for their dinners, and discussed the question which of the three should stay behind to mind the meat whilst the other two watched the fence. The Pikeman said, 'I think I will stay here and take care of the meat, and I will have dinner ready for you when you come back from looking after the fence.' So it was thus settled. Just, however, as the Pikeman thought the ox was well roasted he was frightened by the sudden approach of a man with a forehead a yard high and a beard a span long. This man said to the Pikeman, 'Good morning!' but the latter ran away instead of answering, he was so shocked by the strange appearance of the man. Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard was quite content at this, and, sitting down, soon finished the whole ox. When he had ended his dinner he got up and went away. Shortly afterwards Sir Peppercorn and the Mill-turner came for their dinners, and, being very hungry, shouted from afar to the Pikeman, 'Let us dine at once!' But the Pikeman, keeping himself hidden among the bushes, called out to them, 'There is nothing left for us to eat! A little while ago Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard came up and ate up the whole ox to the very last morsel! I was afraid of him, and so I did not say one word against it.' Peppercorn and the Mill-turner reproached their companion bitterly for allowing all their dinner to be stolen without once trying to prevent it, and the Mill-turner said scornfully, 'Well, I will stop to-morrow and look after the meat, and Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard may come if he likes!' So the next day the Mill-turner stayed to roast the ox, and his two comrades went to look after the fence they had built round about the city. Just before dinner-time Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard came out of the forest and walked straight up to the ox, and stretched his hands out greedily to grasp it. The Mill-turner was so frightened by his strange appearance that he ran off as hard as he could to look for a place to hide in. By-and-by Peppercorn and the Pikeman came for their dinners and asked angrily where the meat was. Whereupon the Mill-turner answered, 'There is no meat! It has all been eaten by that horrible Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard, and his looks frightened me so that I dared not say a single word to him.' It was no use complaining, so Peppercorn only said, 'To-morrow I will stay to mind the ox, and you two shall go and look after the fence. I will see if we are to remain the third day without dinner.' The next morning the Pikeman and the Mill-turner went to see if all was right round about the city, and Peppercorn remained to roast the ox. Exactly as on the two former days, just before dinner was ready, Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard made his appearance, and went up to seize the meat. But Peppercorn pushed him roughly back, saying, 'Two days I have been dinnerless on your account, but the third day I will not be so, as long as my head stands on my shoulders!' Much astonished at his boldness, Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard exclaimed, 'Take care you don't begin to quarrel with me. There is no one in all the world who can conquer me, except a fellow called Peppercorn!' Peppercorn was very pleased to hear this, and, without more hesitation, sprang at once on Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard, and, after some struggling, pulled him down to the earth and bound him. This done, he tied him fast to a tall pine-tree. Now the Pikeman and Mill-turner came up and were exceedingly glad to find their dinners safe. Just as they were in the middle of their dinners, however, Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard, with a sudden jerk, pulled up the pine-tree by the roots and ran off with tree and all, making furrows in the earth with it just as if three ploughs had been passing over the ground. Seeing him run off, the Pikeman and Mill-turner jumped up quickly and ran after him, but Peppercorn called them back and told them to finish their dinners first, for there would be plenty of time to catch him after they had dined! So they all three went on eating, and when they had done they followed the furrows which Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard had made in the ground. After a while they came to a deep dark hole in the earth, and when they had examined it all round and tried in vain on account of the darkness to look down into it, they returned to the king and asked him to give them a thousand miles of strong rope so that they could go down into the pit. The king at once ordered his servants to give them what they required, and when they had got the great cable they went back to the hole. On the way, as they were going, they discussed which of the three should venture down first, and it was at last settled that the Pikeman should be let down. However, he made them solemnly promise him that they should pull him up again the instant he shook the rope. He had been let down but a very little way before he shook the rope, and so they pulled him up as they had promised. Then the Mill-turner said, 'Let _me_ go down.' And so the other two lowered him, but in a moment or two he shook the rope violently; and so he, too, was pulled up. Now Peppercorn grew angry, and exclaimed, 'I did not think you were such cowards as to be afraid of a dark hole! Now let _me_ down!' So they let him down and down until his foot touched solid ground. Finding that he had reached the bottom, he looked round him, and saw that he stood just in the very middle of a most beautiful green plain--a plain so beautiful that it was a real pleasure to look on it. At one end of the plain stood a large handsome palace, and Peppercorn went nearer to look at it. There, in the gardens, walking, he met two young girls, and asked them if they were not the daughters of the king? When they said that they were, he inquired what had become of the other sister; and the princesses told him that their youngest sister was in the palace very busy binding up the wounds that Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard had lately received from a certain knight called Peppercorn. Then Peppercorn told them who he was, and that he had come down on purpose to release them, and to take them back to the king, their father. On hearing this good news, the two princesses rejoiced greatly, and told Peppercorn where he would find Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard and their youngest sister. But they warned him not to rush in on the giant, but rather to go softly, and first try to get hold of the sabre which hung on the wall over his bed, for this sabre possessed the wonderful power of killing a man when he was a whole day's journey from it. Peppercorn took care to do as the princesses had told him. He stole very quietly into the room where Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard was lying, and when he was near the bed he sprang up suddenly and seized the sword. The moment the wounded giant saw his sabre in the hands of Peppercorn he jumped up quickly and ran out of the palace. Peppercorn followed him some time before he remembered what the two princesses had told him of the wonderful properties of the sword, but as soon as he recollected this he made a sharp cut with it in the air, as if he were cutting off a man's head, and the moment he did so Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard fell down dead. Then Peppercorn went back to the palace, and, taking with him the three princesses, prepared to return to the upper world. When he came to the place where the rope was hanging he took a large basket, and, placing the eldest princess in it, fastened it to the rope, then, giving her a note, in which he said that he sent her for the Pikeman, he made the signal agreed upon for the rope to be drawn up. So his comrades pulled up the rope, and when it came down again with the empty basket, Peppercorn sent up the second princess, after giving her a paper, in which he had written, 'This one is for the Mill-turner.' When the rope descended the third time he sent up the youngest princess, who was by far the most beautiful of the three. He gave her a paper which said that this one he meant to keep for himself. Just as the Pikeman and the Mill-turner began to pull up the rope the princess gave Peppercorn a little box, saying, 'Open it when you have need of anything!' Now, when the Pikeman and Mill-turner drew up the youngest princess, and saw how very beautiful she was, they determined to leave Peppercorn down in the pit, and go back without delay to the king's palace, and there see which of them could get the youngest princess for his wife. Peppercorn waited patiently some time for the rope to be let down that he might be drawn up but no rope appeared. At last he was obliged to own to himself that his two comrades had deceived and deserted him, and, seeing how useless it was to remain standing still any longer, he walked off without knowing where the road would take him. Walking on, after a long time, he came to the shore of a large lake, and heard a great noise of crying and shouting. Very soon a multitude of people, looking like a wedding party, made their appearance. After placing a young girl in bridal attire on the shore of the lake, the people left her there alone and went away. Peppercorn, seeing the girl left by herself, and noticing how sad she looked, went up to her, and asked her why her friends had left her there, and why she was so sad? The girl answered, 'In this lake is a dragon who, every year, swallows up a young girl. It is now my turn; and our people have brought me as a bride to the dragon, and left me to be swallowed up.' Peppercorn, on hearing this, asked her to let him rest near her a little, because he was very tired, but she answered, 'You had far better fly away, my good knight; if it is necessary that I should die, it is not needful that you should die also.' But Peppercorn said to her, 'Don't trouble yourself about me, only let me rest near you a little, for I am very tired. It will be time enough for me to run away when the dragon comes.' Having said this he sat down near the girl, and in a little while fell asleep. He had not slept long before the surface of the lake became agitated, and the water rose up in large waves; presently the dragon lifted its head, and swam straight to the shore where the girl sat, evidently intending to swallow her at once. The maiden cried bitterly, and a tear falling on Peppercorn's face, awakened him. He sprang up quickly, grasped his sword, and, smiting fiercely, with one stroke, cut off the dragon's head. Then he took the girl by the hand, and led her back to the city, where he found that she was the only daughter of the king of that country. The king was overjoyed at hearing that the dragon was killed, and also at seeing his daughter brought back to him safe and sound. So he insisted that Peppercorn should marry the princess, which he did, and they all lived together very happily for a long time. After a while, however, Peppercorn began to long greatly for the other world, and grew sadder and sadder every day. When his wife noticed this change in his appearance she asked him very often what ailed him, but he would not tell her for a long time, because he did not wish to trouble her. At last, however, he could keep his secret no longer, and confessed to the princess how much he longed to go back to the upper world. Though she was very sorry to hear this, she promised him that she herself would beg the king to let him go, since he so greatly wished it. This she did; and when the king objected, not wishing to lose so good a son-in-law, the princess said, 'Let him go; he has saved my life, and why should we keep him against his will? My three sons will still remain to comfort us!' Then the king consented, saying, 'Very well; let it be as he wishes, since you have nothing to say against it. Tell your benefactor to go to the lake-shore, and to say to the giant-bird he will find there, that the king sends her his greetings, and desires her to take the bearer of them up to the other world.' The princess returned to her husband and told him what her father had said, and then began to prepare some provisions for the journey. When these were ready, and the king had sent the letter for the bird, Peppercorn took a kind leave of his wife, and went down to the lake-shore, where he soon found the nest of the giant-bird and her little ones in it, though she herself was not there. So he sat down to wait under the tree where the nest was. As he sat there, he heard the little birds chirping very restlessly and anxiously. Then he saw that the lake was beginning to throw up high waves, and soon a monster came out of the water and made straight for the nest to swallow the young birds. Peppercorn, however, did not stop long to think about the matter, but quickly drew his wonderful sword and killed the monster. It happened that the giant-bird was just coming back, and when she saw Peppercorn under the tree, she shrieked as she ran up to kill him, 'Now I have caught you--you who have been killing all my little ones for so many years! Now you shall pay me for it, for I will kill you!' But the little birds from their nest high in the tree, cried out to her, 'Don't do him any harm! he has saved us from being swallowed by a monster who came out of the lake to kill us.' Meanwhile, Peppercorn went to her, and presented the king's letter. The giant-bird read it through carefully, and then said to him, 'Go home and kill twelve sheep. Fill their skins with water, and bring them here, together with the flesh of the sheep.' Peppercorn went back to the king, who at once ordered that he should be supplied with the flesh of twelve sheep, as well as with twelve sheep-skins full of fresh water. With this provision Peppercorn returned to the shore of the lake. Then the giant-bird placed the twelve skins full of water under her left wing, and the flesh of the twelve sheep under her right, and took Peppercorn on her back. This done, she told him that he must watch well her movements, and when she turned her beak to the left side, he must give her water, and when she turned it to the right he must give her meat. After impressing these directions upon Peppercorn, the giant-bird rose with her triple load in the air, and flew straight up towards the other world. As she flew she turned, from time to time, her beak, now to the left and then to the right, and Peppercorn gave her water or meat, as she had directed him to do. At last, however, all the meat disappeared. So, when the giant-bird turned her beak once more to the right, Sir Peppercorn, having no more meat to give her, and fearing some evil might happen if he did not satisfy her, took out his knife, and, cutting a piece of flesh from the sole of his right foot, gave it to her. But the bird knew by the taste that he had cut it from his own foot, so she did not swallow it, but hid it under her tongue, and held it there until she reached the other world. Then she set Peppercorn down on the earth and told him to walk, and when he tried to do so he was forced to limp, because of the loss of part of his foot. When the giant-bird noticed this, she asked him, 'Why do you limp so?' To this Peppercorn answered, 'Oh, it is nothing! Do not trouble yourself about it!' But the bird told him to lift his right foot, and when he did so, she took the piece of flesh she had kept hidden under her tongue, and laid it on the place where he had cut it from. Then she tapped it two or three times with her beak to make it grow to the rest of the foot. Peppercorn walked on some time before he remembered the little box which the youngest of the three daughters of the king had given him. Now, however, he opened it, and a bee and a fly flew out and asked him what he desired. He said, 'I want a good horse to carry me to the king's residence, and a decent suit of clothes to wear.' Next moment a suit of good clothes lay before him, and a handsome horse stood ready saddled for him to mount. Then he took the clothes, and, mounting the horse, rode off to the city where the king dwelt. Before entering the city, however, he opened his little box, and said to the fly and the bee, 'I do not want the horse any more at present.' Accordingly they took it with them into their little box. Peppercorn went to live in the house of an old woman in the city. Next morning he heard the public crier shouting in the street, 'Is there any one bold enough to fight with the mighty Pikeman, the king's son-in-law?' Peppercorn was very pleased to hear this challenge, and, opening his box without delay, told the bee and fly, who flew out to receive his orders, that he wanted at once a fine suit of clothes and a strong charger, so that he might go to fight with the Pikeman. The bee and fly instantly gave him what he required, and he dressed himself and rode off to the field, where he found the Pikeman proudly awaiting any one who might presume to accept his challenge. So Peppercorn and the Pikeman fought, and before very long the first son-in-law of the king was slain. Then Peppercorn returned home quickly, and opening his box, bade the bee and fly take away the horse and the fine clothes. The king sought everywhere for the stranger who had killed his son-in-law, but no one knew anything about him. So, after some days, the city crier went round again, proclaiming that the Mill-turner, the second son-in-law of the king, would fight any one who dared to meet him. Peppercorn again let out his bee and his fly, and asked for a finer horse and handsomer clothes than the last. So they brought him a very gorgeous suit, and a most beautiful coal-black charger, and with these he went on the field to meet the Mill-turner. They fought, but Peppercorn soon killed the king's second son-in-law, and again went to his lodgings, where he ordered the bee and fly to take the horse and clothes with them into their little box. Now, not only the king, but all his people were very much puzzled as to who the powerful knight could be, who had killed the two valiant sons-in-law of the king. So a strict search was made, and he was sought everywhere. But no one could tell anything about him; while such horses as he rode, and such clothes as he wore were not to be found in the whole kingdom. Some time had passed since the king's sons-in-law had been killed, and people had begun to be a little quieter and had given up all hope of finding out who the stronger knight might be. Then Peppercorn wrote a letter to the king's youngest daughter, and sent it to her by the old woman in whose house he lived. In the letter he told the princess everything that had happened to him since he had sent up in the basket to his false comrades, and told her also that he himself had slain both of the traitors in fair fight. The young princess, as soon as she had read the letter, quickly ran to her father and begged him to pardon Peppercorn. The king saw he could not justly deny her this favour, since the two men who had been killed had deceived and deserted their friend, without whose superior courage they would never have been themselves his sons-in-law, seeing that all the three princesses, but for Peppercorn, must have remained in the other world where Yard-high-forehead-and-span-long-beard had carried them. So, after thinking all this over in his mind, the king told his daughter that he willingly forgave Peppercorn, and that she might invite him to the palace. This the princess did at once, and very soon after Peppercorn made his appearance before the king in splendid attire, and was received very kindly. Not long afterwards, the marriage of Peppercorn with the beautiful princess, the king's youngest daughter, was celebrated with great rejoicings, and the king built them a fine house near his palace to live in. There Peppercorn and his princess lived long and happily, and he never had any wish to wander again about the world. BASH-CHALEK; OR, TRUE STEEL. Once upon a time there was a king who had three sons and three daughters. At length old age overtook him, and the hour came for him to die. While dying he called to him his three sons and three daughters, and told his sons to let their sisters marry the very first men who came to ask them in marriage. 'Do this, or dread my curse!' said he, and soon after expired. Some time after his death there came one night a great knocking at the gate; the whole palace shook, and outside was heard a great noise of squeaking, singing, and shouting, whilst lightnings played round the whole court of the palace. The people in the palace were very much frightened, so that they shook for fear, when all at once some one shouted from the outside, 'O princes! open the door!' Thereupon the king's eldest son said, 'Do not open!' The second son added, 'Do not open, for anything in the world!' But the youngest son said, 'I will open the door!' and he jumped up and opened it. The moment he had opened the door something came in, but the brother could see nothing except a bright light in one part of the room; out of this light came these words: 'I have come to demand your eldest sister for wife, and I shall take her away this moment, without any delay; for I wait for nothing, neither will I come a second time to ask her! Therefore answer me quickly--will you give her or not?' The eldest brother said, 'I will not give her. How can I give her when I cannot see you, and do not know who you are, nor whence you come? You come to-night for the first time, and wish to take her away instantly! Should I not know where I can visit my sister sometimes?' The second said, 'I will not give my sister to-night to be taken away!' But the youngest said, 'I will give her if you will not. Have you forgotten what our father commanded us?' and, with these words, taking his sister by the hand, he gave her away, saying, 'May she be to you a happy and honest wife!' As the sister passed over the threshold every one in the palace fell to the ground from fear, so vivid was the lightning and loud the claps of thunder. The heavens seemed to be on fire and the whole sky rumbled, so that the whole palace shook as if about to fall. All this however passed over, and soon after the day dawned; when it grew light enough, the brothers went to see if any trace was left of the mighty power, to whom they had given their sister, so that they might be able to trace the road by which it had gone. There was, however, nothing which they could either see or hear. The second night, about the same time, there was heard again round the whole palace a great noise, as if an army was whistling and hissing, and at length some one at the door cried out, 'Open the door, O princes!' They were afraid to disobey, and opened the door, and some dreadful power began to speak, 'Give here the girl, your second sister! I am come to demand her!' The eldest brother answered, 'I will not give her away!' The second brother said, 'I will not give you my sister!' But the youngest said, 'I will give her! Have you forgotten what our father told us to do?' So he took his sister by the hand and gave her over, saying, 'Take her! may she be honest and bring you happiness!' Then the unseen noises departed with the girl. Next day, as soon as it dawned, all three brothers walked round the palace, and for some distance beyond, looking everywhere for some trace where the power had gone, but nothing could be seen nor heard. The third night, at the same hour as before, again the palace rocked from its very foundations, and there was a mighty uproar outside. Then a voice shouted, 'Open the door!' The sons of the king arose and opened the door, and a great power passed by them and said, 'I am come to demand your youngest sister!' The eldest and the second son shouted, 'No! we will not give our sister this third night! At any rate, we will know before our youngest sister goes away from our house to whom we are giving her, and where she is going, so that we can come to visit her whenever we wish to do so!' Thereupon the youngest brother said, 'Then I will give her! Have you forgotten what our father on his death-bed recommended us? It is not so very long ago!' Then he took the girl by the hand and said, 'Here she is! Take her! and may she bring you happiness and be happy herself!' Then instantly the power went away with a great noise. When the day dawned the brothers were very anxious about the fate of their sister, but could find no trace of the way in which she had gone. Some time after the brothers, speaking together, said, 'Good God! it is really very wonderful what has happened to our sisters! We have no news--no trace of them! We do not know where they are gone, nor whom they have married!' At last they said to each other, 'Let us go and try to find our sisters!' So they prepared immediately for their journey, took money for their travelling expenses, and went away in search of their three sisters. They had travelled some time when they lost their way in a forest, and wandered about a whole day. When it grew dark they thought they would stop for the night at some place where they could find water. So, having come to a lake, they decided to sleep near it, and sat down to take some supper. When the time for sleep came the eldest brother said, 'I will keep watch while you sleep!' and so the two younger brothers went to sleep and the eldest watched. In the middle of the night the lake began to be greatly agitated, and the brother who was watching grew quite frightened, especially when he saw something was coming towards him from the middle of the lake. When it came near he saw that it was a terrific alligator with two ears, and it ran at him; but he drew his knife and struck it, and cut off its head. When he had done this he cut off the ears also, and put them in his pocket, the body and the head, however, he threw back into the lake. Meanwhile the day began to dawn, but the two brothers slept on and knew nothing of what their eldest brother had done. At length he awakened them, but told them nothing, so they went on their travels together. When the next day was closing, and it began again to grow dark, they took counsel with each other where they should rest for the night, and where they should find water. They felt also afraid, because they were approaching some dangerous mountains. Coming to a small lake they resolved to rest there that night; and having made a fire they placed their things near it, and prepared to sleep. Then the second brother said, 'This night I will keep guard whilst you sleep!' So the two others fell asleep, and the second brother remained watching. All at once the lake began to move, and lo! an alligator, with two heads, came running to swallow up the three. But the brother who watched grasped his knife, felled the alligator to the ground with one blow, and cut off both the heads. Having done this he cut off the two pairs of ears, put them in his pocket, and threw the body into the water, and the two heads after it. The other brothers, however, knew nothing about the danger which they had escaped, and continued to sleep very soundly till the morning dawned. Then the second brother awoke them, saying, 'Arise, my brothers! It is day!' and they instantly jumped up, and prepared to continue their journey. But they knew not in what country they now were, and as they had eaten up nearly all their food, they feared greatly lest they should die of hunger in that unknown land. So they prayed God to give them sight of some city or village or, at least, that they might meet some one to guide them, for they had already been wandering three days up and down in a wilderness, and could see no end to it. Pretty early in the morning they came to a large lake and resolved to go no further, but remain there all the day, and also to spend the night there. 'For if we go on,' said they, 'we are not sure that we shall find any more water near which we can rest.' So they remained there. When evening came they made a great fire, took their frugal supper, and prepared to sleep. Then the youngest brother said, 'This night I will keep guard whilst you sleep;' and so the other two went to sleep, and the youngest brother kept awake, looking sharply about him, his eyes being turned often towards the lake. Part of the night had already passed, when suddenly the whole lake began to move, the waves dashed over the fire and half quenched it. Then he drew his sword and placed himself near the fire, as there appeared a great alligator with three heads, which rushed upon the brothers as if about to swallow them all three. But the youngest brother had a brave heart, and would not awaken his brothers, so he met the alligator, and gave him three blows in succession, and at each blow he cut off one of the three heads. Then he cut off the six ears and put them in his pocket, and threw the body and the three heads into the lake. Whilst he was thus busy the fire had quite gone out, so he--having nothing there with which he could light the fire, and not wishing to awaken his brothers from their deep slumbers--stepped a little way into the forest, with the hope of seeing something with which he might rekindle the fire. There was, however, no trace of any fire anywhere. At last, in his search, he climbed up a very high tree, and, having reached the top, looked about on all sides. After much looking he thought he saw the glare of a fire not very far off. So he came down from the tree and went in the direction in which he had seen the fire, in order to get some brand with which he might again light the fire. He walked very far on this errand, and though the glare seemed always near him, it was a very long time before he reached it. Suddenly, however, he came upon a cave, and in the cave a great fire was burning. Round it sat nine giants, and two men were being roasted, one on each side of the fire. Besides that, there stood upon the fire a great kettle full of the limbs of men ready to be cooked. When the king's son saw that, he was terrified and would gladly have gone back, but it was no longer possible. Then he shouted as loud and cheerfully as he could, 'Good evening, my dear comrades! I have been a very long time in search of you!' They received him well, saying, 'Welcome! if thou art of our company!' He answered, 'I shall remain yours for ever, and would give my life for your sake!' 'Eh!' said they, 'if you intend to be one of us, you know, you must also eat man's flesh, and go out with us in search of prey?' The king's son answered, 'Certainly; I shall do everything that you do!' 'Then come and sit with us!' cried the giants; and the whole company, sitting round the fire, took meat out of the kettle and began to eat. The king's son pretended to eat, also, but instead of eating he always threw the meat behind him, and thus deceived them. When they had eaten up the whole of the roasted meat, the giants got up and said, 'Let us now go to hunt, that we may have meat for to-morrow.' So they went away, all nine of them, the king's son making the tenth. 'Come along!' they said to him, 'there is a city near in which a great king lives. We have been supplying ourselves with food from that city a great many years.' As they came near the city they pulled two tall pine-trees up by the roots, and carried them along with them. Having come to the city wall, they reared one pine-tree up against it, and said to the king's son, 'Go up, now, to the top of the wall, so that we may be able to give you the other pine-tree, which you must take by the top and throw down into the city. Take care, however,' they said, 'to keep the top of the tree in your hands, so that we can go down the stem of it into the city.' Thereupon the king's son climbed up on the wall and then cried out to them, 'I don't know what to do; I am not acquainted with this place, and I don't understand how to throw the tree over the wall; please one of you come up and show me what I must do.' Then one of the giants climbed up the tree placed against the wall, caught the top of the other pine-tree, and threw it over the wall, keeping the top all the time safe in his hand. Whilst he was thus standing, the king's son drew his sword, struck him on the neck, and cut his head off, so that the giant fell down into the city. Then he called to the other eight giants, 'Your brother is in the city; come, one after the other, so that I can let you also down into the city!' And the giants, not knowing what had happened to the first one, climbed up one after the other, and thus the king's son cut off their heads till he had killed all the nine. After that, he himself slowly descended the pine-tree and went into the city, walking through all the streets, but there was not one living creature to be seen. The city seemed quite deserted. Then he said to himself, 'Surely those giants have made this great devastation and carried all the people away.' After walking about a very long time, he came to a tall tower, and, looking up, he saw a light in one of the rooms. So he opened the door, and went up the steps, into the room. And what a beautiful room it was in which he had entered! It was decorated with gold and silk and velvet, and there was no one there except a girl lying on a couch, sleeping. As soon as the king's son entered, his eyes fell upon the girl, who was exceedingly beautiful. Just then he saw a large serpent coming down the wall, and it had stretched out its head and was ready to strike the girl on the forehead, between the eyes. So he drew his dagger very quickly, and nailed the snake's head to the wall, exclaiming, 'God grant that my dagger may not be taken out of the wall by any hand but my own!' and thereupon he hurried away, and passed over the city wall, climbing up and going down the pine-trees. When he got back to the cavern where the giants had been, he plucked a brand from the fire, and ran away very quickly to the spot where he had left his two brothers, and found them still sleeping. He soon lighted the fire again, and meanwhile the sun having arisen he awoke his brothers, and they arose and all three continued their journey. The same day they came to the road leading to the city. In that city lived a mighty king, who used to walk about the streets every morning, weeping over the great destruction of his people by the giants. The king feared greatly that one day his own daughter might also be eaten up by one of them. That morning he rose very early, and went to look about the city; the streets were all empty, because most of the people of the city had been eaten up by the giants. Walking about, at last he observed a tall pine-tree, pulled up quite by the roots, and leaning against the city wall. He drew near, and saw a great wonder. Nine giants, the frightful enemies of his people, were lying there with their heads off. When the king saw that he rejoiced exceedingly, and all the people who were left, gathered round and praised God, and prayed for good health and good luck to those who had killed the giants. At that moment a servant came running, to tell the king that a serpent had very nearly killed his daughter. So the king hurried back to the palace, and went quickly to the room wherein his daughter was, and there he saw the snake pinned to the wall, with a dagger through its head. He tried to draw the knife out, but he was not able to do so. Then the king sent a proclamation to all the corners of the kingdom, announcing that whoever had killed the nine giants and nailed the snake to the wall, should come to the king, who would make him great presents and give him his daughter for a wife. This was proclaimed throughout the whole kingdom. The king ordered, moreover, that large inns should be built on all the principal roads, and that every traveller who passed by should be asked if he had ever heard of the man who had killed the nine giants, and any traveller who knew anything about the matter should come and tell what he knew to the king, when he should be well rewarded. After some time the three brothers, travelling in search of their sisters, came one night to sleep at one of those inns. After supper the master of the inn came in to speak to them, and, after boasting very much what great things he had himself done, he asked them if they themselves had ever done any great thing? Then the eldest brother began to speak, and said, 'After I started with my brothers on this journey, one night we stopped to sleep by a lake in the midst of a great forest; whilst my two brothers slept I watched, and, suddenly, an alligator came out of the lake to swallow us, but I took my knife and cut off its head; if you don't believe me, see! here are the two ears from his head!' And he took the ears from his pocket and threw them on the table. When the second brother heard that, he said, 'I kept guard the second night, and I killed an alligator with two heads; if you do not believe me, look! here are its four ears!' and he took the ears out of his pocket and showed them. But the youngest brother kept silence. The master of the inn began then to speak, to him, saying, 'Well, my boy, your brothers are brave men; let us hear if you have not done some bold deed.' Then the youngest brother began, 'I have also done something, though it may not be a great thing. When we stayed to rest the third night in the great wilderness on the shore of the lake, my brothers lay down to sleep, for it was my turn to keep guard. In the middle of the night the water stirred mightily, and a three-headed alligator came out and wished to swallow us, but I drew my sword and cut off all the three heads; if you do not believe, see! here are the six ears of the alligator!' The brothers themselves were greatly surprised, and he continued: 'Meanwhile the fire had gone out, and I went in search of fire. Wandering about the mountain I met nine giants in one cave;' and so he went on, telling all that had happened and what he had done. When the innkeeper heard that he hurried off and told everything to the king. The king gave him plenty of money, and sent some of his men to bring the three brothers to him. When they came to the king, he asked the youngest, 'Have you really done all these wonders in this city--killed the giants and saved my daughter from death?' 'Yes, your majesty,' answered the king's son. Then the king gave him his daughter to wife, and allowed him to take the first place after him in the kingdom. After that he said to the two elder brothers, 'If you like I will also find wives for you two, and build palaces for you.' But they thanked him, saying they were already married, and so told him how they had left home to search for their sisters. When the king heard that, he kept by him only the youngest brother, his son-in-law, and gave the other two each a mule loaded with sacks full of money; and so the two elder brothers went back to their kingdom. All the time, however, the youngest brother was thinking of his three sisters, and many a time he wished to go in search of them again, though he was also sorry to leave his wife. The king would never consent to his going, so the prince wasted away slowly without speaking about his grief. One day the king went out hunting, and said to his son-in-law, 'Remain here in the palace, and take these nine keys, and keep them carefully. If you wish, however,' added he, 'you can open three or four rooms, wherein you will see plenty of gold and silver, and other precious things. Indeed, if you much wish to do so, you can open eight of the rooms, but let nothing in the world tempt you to open the ninth. If you open that, woe to you!' The king went away, leaving his son-in-law in the palace, who immediately began to open one room after another, till he had opened the whole eight, and he saw in all masses of all sorts of precious things. When he stood before the door of the ninth room, he said to himself, 'I have passed luckily through all kinds of adventures, and now I must not dare to open this door!' thereupon he opened it. And what did he see? In the room was a man, whose legs were bound in iron up to the knees, and his arms to the elbows; in the four corners of the chamber there were four columns, and from each an iron chain, and all the chains met in a ring round the man's neck. So fast was he bound that he could not move at all any way. In the front of him was a reservoir, and from it water was streaming through a golden pipe into a golden basin, just before him. Near him stood, also, a golden mug, all covered with precious stones. The man looked at the water and longed to drink, but he could not move to reach the cup. When the king's son saw that, he was greatly surprised, and stepped back; but the man cried, 'Come in, I conjure you in the name of the living God!' Then the prince again approached, and the man said, 'Do a good deed for the sake of the life hereafter. Give me a cup of water to drink, and be assured you will receive, as a recompense from me, another life.' The king's son thought, 'It is well, after all, to have two lives,' so he took the mug and filled it, and gave it to the man, who emptied it at once. Then the prince asked him, 'Now tell me, what is your name?' And the man answered, 'My name is True Steel.' The king's son moved to go away, but the man begged again, 'Give me yet one cup of water, and I will give you in addition a second life.' The prince said to himself, 'One life is mine already, and he offers to give me another--that is, indeed, wonderful!' So he took the mug and gave it to him, and the man drank it up. The prince began already to fasten the door, while the man called to him, 'Oh, my brave one, come back a moment! You have done two good deeds, do yet a third one, and I will give you a third life. Take the mug, fill it with water, and pour the water on my head, and for that I will give you a third life.' When the king's son heard that, he turned, filled the beaker with water, and poured it over the man's head, the moment the water met his head all the fastenings around the man's neck broke, all the iron chains burst asunder. True Steel jumped up like lightning, spread his wings, and started to fly, taking with him the king's daughter, the wife of his deliverer, with whom he disappeared. What was to be done now? The prince was afraid of the king's anger. When the king returned from the chase, his son-in-law told him all that had happened, and the king was very sorry and said to him, 'Why did you do this? I told you not to open the ninth room!' The king's son answered, 'Don't be angry with me! I will go and find True Steel and bring my wife back!' Then the king attempted to persuade him not to go away: 'Do not go, for anything in the world!' he said; 'you do not know True Steel. It cost me very many soldiers and much money to catch him! Better remain here, and I will find you some other maiden for a wife; do not fear, for I love you as my own son, notwithstanding all that has happened!' The prince, however, would not hear of remaining there, so taking some money for his journey he saddled and bridled his horse, and started on his travels in search of True Steel. After travelling a long time, he one day entered a strange city, and, as he was looking about, a girl called to him from a kiosk, 'O son of the king, dismount from your horse and come into the forecourt.' When he entered the courtyard the girl met him, and on looking at her he recognised his eldest sister. They greeted each other, and the sister said to him, 'Come, my brother--come with me into the kiosk.' When they came into the kiosk, he asked her who her husband was, and she answered, 'I am married to the King of Dragons, who is also a dragon. I must hide you well, my dear brother, for my husband has often said that he would kill his brothers-in-law if he could only meet them. I will try him first, and if he will promise not to injure you, I will tell him you are here.' So she hid her brother and his horse as well as she could. At night, supper was prepared in readiness for her husband, and at last he came. When he came flying into the courtyard, the whole palace shone. The moment he came in, he called his wife and said, 'Wife, there is a smell of human bones here! Tell me directly what it is!' 'There is no one here!' said she. But he exclaimed, 'That is not true!' Then his wife said, 'My dear, will you answer me truly what I am going to ask you? Would you do any harm to my brothers, if one of them came here to see me?' And the dragon answered, 'Your eldest and your second brother I would kill and roast, but I would do no harm to the youngest.' Then his wife said, 'Well, then, I will tell you that my youngest brother, and your brother-in-law, is here.' When the Dragon King heard that he said, 'Let him come to me!' So the sister led the brother before the king, her husband, and he embraced him. They kissed each other, and the king exclaimed: 'Welcome, brother-in-law!' 'I hope I find you well?' returned the prince courteously, and he told the Dragon King all his adventures from the beginning to the end. Then the Dragon King cried out, 'And where are you going, my poor fellow? The day before yesterday True Steel passed here carrying away your wife. I assailed him with seven thousand dragons, yet could do him no harm. Leave the devil in peace; I will give you as much money as you like and then go home quietly.' But the king's son would not hear of going back, and proposed next morning to continue his journey. When the Dragon King saw that he could not change his intention, he took one of his feathers, and gave it into his hand, saying, 'Remember what I now say to you. Here you have one of my feathers, and if you find True Steel and are greatly pressed, burn this feather, and I will come in an instant to your help with all my forces.' The king's son took the feather and continued his journey. After long travelling about the world he arrived at a great city, and, as he rode through the streets, a girl called to him from a kiosk: 'Here, son of the king! Dismount and come into the courtyard!' The prince led his horse into the yard, and behold! the second sister came to meet him. They embraced and kissed each other, and the sister led the brother up into the kiosk, and had his horse taken to a stable. When they were in the kiosk, the sister asked her brother how he came there, and he told her all his adventures. He then asked her who her husband was. 'I am married to the King of the Falcons,' she said, 'and he will come home to-night, so I must hide you somewhere, for he often threatens my brothers.' Shortly after she had concealed her brother, the Falcon King came home. As soon as he alighted all the house shook. Immediately his supper was set before him, but he said to his wife, 'There are human bones somewhere!' The wife answered, 'No, my husband, there is nothing;' after long talking, however, she asked him, 'Would you harm my brothers if they came to see me?' The Falcon King answered, 'The eldest brother and the second I would delight in torturing, but to the youngest I would do no harm.' So she told him about her brother. Then he ordered that they should bring him immediately; and when he saw him, he rose up and they embraced and kissed each other. 'Welcome, brother-in-law!' said the King of Falcons. 'I hope you are happy, brother?' returned the prince, and then they sat down to sup together. After supper, the Falcon King asked his brother-in-law where he was travelling. He replied that he was going in search of True Steel, and told the king all that had happened. On hearing this the Falcon King began to advise him to go no farther. 'It is no use going on,' said he. 'I will tell you something of True Steel. The day he stole your wife, I assaulted him with four thousand falcons. We had a terrible battle with him, blood was shed till it reached the knees, but yet we could do him no harm! Do you think now, that you alone could do anything with him? I advise you to return home. Here is my treasure: take with you as much as you like.' But the king's son answered, 'I thank you for all your kindness, but I cannot return. I shall go at all events in search of True Steel!' For he thought to himself, 'Why should I not go, seeing I have three lives?' When the Falcon King saw that he could not persuade him to go back, he took a little feather and gave it him, saying, 'Take this feather, and when you find yourself in great need, burn it and I will instantly come with all my powers to help you!' So the king's son took the feather and continued his journey, hoping to find True Steel. After travelling for a long time about the world he came to a third city. As he entered, a girl called to him from a kiosk, 'Dismount, and come into the courtyard.' The king's son went into the yard, and was surprised to find his youngest sister, who came to meet him. When they had embraced and kissed each other, the sister led her brother to the kiosk and sent his horse to the stables. The brother asked her, 'Dear sister, whom have you married? What is your husband?' She answered, 'My husband is the King of Eagles.' When the Eagle King returned home in the evening his wife received him, but he exclaimed immediately, 'What man has come into my palace? Tell me the truth instantly!' She answered, 'No one is here;' and they began their supper. By-and-by the wife said, 'Tell me truly: would you do any harm to my brothers if they came here?' The Eagle King answered, 'The eldest and second brother I would kill, but to the youngest I would do no harm! I would help him whenever I could!' Then the wife said, 'My youngest brother, and your brother-in-law, is here; he came to see me.' The Eagle King ordered that they should bring the prince instantly, received him standing, kissed him, and said, 'Welcome, brother-in-law!' and the king's son answered, 'I hope you are well?' They then sat down to their supper. During the repast they conversed about many things, and at last the prince told the king he was travelling in search of True Steel. When the Eagle King heard that, he tried to dissuade him from going on, adding, 'Leave the devil in peace, my brother-in-law; give up that journey and stay with me! I will do everything to satisfy you!' The king's son however, would not hear of remaining, but next day, as soon as it dawned, prepared to set out in search of True Steel. Then the Eagle King, seeing that he could not persuade him to give up his journey, plucked out one of his feathers and gave it him, saying, 'If you find yourself in great danger, my brother, make a fire and burn this feather; I will then come to your help immediately with all my eagles.' So the prince took the feather and went away. After travelling for a very long time about the world, roaming from one city to another, and always going farther and farther from his home, he found his wife in a cavern. When the wife saw him she was greatly astonished, and cried, 'In God's name, my husband, how did you come here?' He told her how it all happened, and then added, 'Now let us fly!' 'How can we fly,' she asked, 'when True Steel will reach us instantly? and when he does he will kill you, and carry me back.' But the prince, knowing he had three other lives to live, persuaded his wife to flee, and so they did. As soon, however, as they started, True Steel heard it, and followed immediately. When he reached them, he shouted to the king's son, 'So, prince, you have stolen your wife!' Then, after taking the wife back, he added, 'Now, I forgive you this life, because I recollect that I promised to give you three lives; but go away directly, and never come here again after your wife, else you will be lost!' Thus saying, he carried the wife away, and the prince remained alone on the spot, not knowing what to do. At length the prince resolved to go back to his wife. When he came near the cave he found an opportunity when True Steel was absent, and took his wife again and tried to escape with her. But True Steel learned their flight directly, and ran after them. When he reached them, he fixed an arrow to his bow, and cried to the king's son, 'Do you prefer to die by the arrow or by the sword?' The king's son asked pardon, and True Steel said, 'I pardon you also the second life; but I warn you! never come here again after your wife, for I will not pardon you any more! I shall kill you on the spot!' Saying that, he carried the wife back to the cave, and the prince remained thinking all the time how he could save her. At last he said to himself, 'Why should I fear True Steel, when I have yet two lives? One of which he has made me a present, and one which is my own?' So he decided to return again to the cave next morning, when True Steel was absent. He saw his wife, and said to her, 'Let us fly!' She objected, saying, 'It is of no use to fly, when True Steel would certainly overtake us.' However, her husband forced her to go with him, and they went away. True Steel, however, overtook them quickly, and shouted, 'Wait a bit! This time I will not pardon you!' The prince became afraid, and begged him to pardon him also this time, and True Steel said to him, 'You know I promised to give you three lives, so now I give you this one, but it is the third and last. Now you have only one life, so go home, and do not risk losing the one life God gave you!' Then the prince, seeing he could do nothing against this great power, turned back, reflecting, however, all the time, as to the best way of getting his wife back from True Steel. At last, he remembered what his brothers-in-law had said to him when they gave him their feathers. Then he said to himself, 'I will try this fourth time to get my wife back; if I come to trouble, I will burn the feathers, and see if my brothers-in-law will come to help me.' Hereupon he went back once more towards the cavern wherein his wife was kept, and, as he saw from a distance that True Steel was just leaving the cave, he went near and showed himself to his wife. She was surprised and terrified, and exclaimed, 'Are you so tired of your life that you come back again to me?' Then he told her about his brothers-in-law, and how each of them had given him one of their feathers, and had promised to come to help him whenever he needed their assistance. 'Therefore,' added he, 'I am come once more to take you away; let us start at once.' This they did. The same moment, however, True Steel heard of it, and shouted from afar, 'Stop, prince! You cannot run away!' And then the king's son, seeing True Steel so near him, quickly took out a flint and tinder-box, struck some sparks, and burned all three feathers. Whilst he was doing this, however, True Steel reached him, and, with his sword, cut the prince in two parts. That moment came the King of Dragons, rushing with his whole army of dragons, the King of Falcons, with all his falcons, and the King of Eagles, with his mighty host of eagles, and they all attacked True Steel. Torrents of blood were shed, but after all True Steel caught up the woman and fled away. Then the three kings gave all their attention to their brother-in-law, and determined to bring him back to life. Thereupon they asked three of the most active dragons which of them could bring them, in the shortest time, some water from the river Jordan. One said, 'I could bring it in half an hour.' The second said, 'I can go and return in ten minutes.' The third dragon said, 'I can bring it in nine seconds.' Then the three kings said to the last one, 'Go, dragon; and make haste!' Then this dragon exhibited all his fiery might, and in nine seconds, as he had promised, he came back with water from the Jordan. The kings took the water and poured it on the places where the prince was wounded, and, as they did so, the wound closed up, the body joined together, and the king's son sprang up alive. Then the three kings counselled him: 'Now that you are saved from death, go home!' But the prince answered, he would at all events yet once more try to get his wife back. The kings, his brothers-in-law, again spoke, 'Do not try again! Indeed, you will be lost if you go, for now you have only one life which God gave you!' The king's son, however, would not listen to their advice. So the kings told him, 'Well then, if you are still determined to go, at least do not take your wife away immediately, but tell her to ask True Steel where his strength lies, and then come and tell us, in order that we may help you to conquer him!' So the prince went secretly and saw his wife, and told her how she could persuade True Steel to tell her where his strength was. He then left her and went away. When True Steel came home, the wife of the king's son asked him, 'Tell me, now, where is your great strength?' He answered, 'My wife, my strength is in my sword!' Then she began to pray, and turned to his sword. When True Steel saw that, he burst out laughing, and said, 'O foolish woman! my strength is not in my sword, but in my bow and arrows!' Then she turned towards the bow and arrows and prayed. Then True Steel said, 'I see, my wife, you have a clever teacher who has taught you to find out where my strength lies! I could almost say that your husband is living, and it is he who teaches you!' But she assured him that no one taught her, for she had no longer any one to do so. After some days her husband came, and when she told him she could not learn anything from True Steel, he said, 'Try again!' and went away. When True Steel came home she began again to ask him the secret of his strength. Then he answered her, 'Since you think so much of my strength, I will tell you truly where it is.' And he continued, 'Far away from this place there is a very high mountain; in the mountain there is a fox; in the fox there is a heart; in the heart there is a bird, and in this bird is my strength. It is no easy task, however, to catch that fox, for she can transform herself into a multitude of creatures.' Next day, as soon as True Steel left the cave, the king's son came to his wife, and she told him all she had learned. Then the prince hurried away to his brothers-in-law, who waited, all three impatient to see him, and to hear where was the strength of True Steel. When they heard, all three went away at once with the prince to find the mountain. Having got there, they set the eagles to chase the fox, but the fox ran to a lake, which was in the midst of the mountain, and changed herself into a six-winged golden bird. Then the falcons pursued her, and drove her out of the lake, and she flew into the clouds, but there the dragons hurried after her. So she changed herself again into a fox, and began to run along the earth, but the rest of the eagles stopped her, surrounded, and caught her. The three kings then ordered the fox to be killed, and her heart to be taken out. A great fire was made, and the bird was taken out of the heart and burnt. That very moment True Steel fell down dead, and the prince took his wife and returned home with her. THE SHEPHERD AND THE KING'S DAUGHTER. A long time ago there lived a poor woman who possessed nothing in the world except one son and four lambs. The boy took the lambs out to graze every morning, and brought them home every night. One day it happened that the lambs were grazing in a field not far from the summer palace of the king, and the king's daughter came out to the young shepherd and asked him to give her one of them. The boy refused, saying, 'I cannot give you one, for my mother will scold me if I do, as we have nothing in the world except these four lambs.' The princess, however, had taken so great a fancy for a lamb that she would not be refused, and at last said, 'Only let me have this one and I will give you any price you like to ask.' The boy, seeing that the princess would not go away without a lamb, considered a little how he could get rid of her, and then he told her that he would give her one if she would show him one of her shoulders. To his great surprise the princess, without any hesitation, pushed her mantle aside and showed him her bare white arm, and he noticed that on the shoulder there was a mark like a star. He was obliged now to give her one of his lambs, and when he went home in the evening he told his mother that he had fallen asleep at noon, and that when he awoke, one of the lambs had vanished, and he could not find it anywhere. Then his mother scolded him very much, saying, 'I see you will bring me to the beggar's staff with your carelessness! To-morrow you must take these three lambs out to graze very early, and look well about for the lost one. And if you don't find it you had better never let me set eyes on you again.' At dawn the next day the boy took the three lambs to graze in the same field, and sat down to consider how he could get back the lamb he had lost. At noon, when no one was about, the king's daughter came out of the palace and said to him, 'Young shepherd, give me another lamb, and ask what you please in return.' But the boy answered, 'No! I dare not give you another; I have suffered enough for the one I gave you yesterday! So please go and bring me my lamb back.' This the princess refused to do, and said, 'It is quite useless to speak of such a thing. But tell me, did you notice anything particular on my shoulder?' The youth answered, 'Yes, I saw a star!' 'Ah!' exclaimed the princess; 'for that you can never pay me enough, and yet you want your lamb back!' So they almost quarrelled, for the king's daughter persisted in begging him to give her another lamb, and the young shepherd insisted that she should bring him the first one back again. At last, seeing there was no end to her begging, the boy said, 'Well! I will give you one if you uncover before me your other shoulder.' This the princess did instantly, and he remarked that she had the mark of a star on that arm also. In this way he lost a second lamb; and when the evening came he went home very sadly, feeling sure his mother would scold him. And so she did, far more than at the first time, calling him ill names and threatening to beat him. The boy was really sorry that he had given way to the princess's prayers, but he could not help it now. Next day, again, the princess came to him and begged so hard and so long for a third lamb that he became impatient, and, thinking to shame her, said he would give her one if she showed him her neck. To his great surprise, however, the king's daughter at once let her mantle fall, and he saw that she had the mark of a crescent on her throat. So the poor boy lost a third lamb, and hardly dared go home to his mother at night with the one lamb left them. Indeed the poor old woman was so angry at her son's carelessness in losing one lamb after another whilst he slept--for he did not dare to tell her the truth about the princess--that she cursed him as 'a good-for-nothing who would bring her to beggary.' Notwithstanding all his mother's reproaches and threats the boy could not refuse the princess the next day when she came out to ask for the fourth lamb. However, he tried to get her to go away a long time, and not until quite tired out with her begging, did he exclaim, 'Well, I will give you the lamb if you will show me your breast!' Then the princess pushed her robe aside, and the boy noticed that she had the mark of a sun on her bosom. In this way the young shepherd lost all the four lambs, and he lived a long time with his mother in great poverty. A long, long time afterwards the king sent out a proclamation that he intended to let his daughter marry, and would give her to that man who could tell him what particular birth-marks she had about her. The young shepherd heard this proclamation, and when he went home in the evening he said to his mother, 'Mother, I intend to go to the king's palace to-morrow, so get me my best linen ready.' 'And what do _you_ want in the king's palace?' asked the poor old woman wondering. 'I intend, God helping me, to marry the king's daughter,' replied the young man boldly. 'Oh! you had better give up that fancy,' cried the mother. 'It will be better for you to go and work and gain a piaster than to go, like a fly without a head, dreaming about things that are as high as the sky above you.' But the young man would not be persuaded, and went the next day to the king's palace. Before going out of the hut, however, he said to his anxious old mother, 'Good-bye, mother.' He had not walked very far before a gipsy met him, and asked, 'Where are you going, my young man?' 'I am going to the king's palace,' answered the youth, 'and I mean, God helping me, to marry the king's daughter.' 'But, my dear comrade,' said the gipsy, keeping near him, 'how can you really expect that she will marry you, when you are so poor? Only a shepherd!' 'Eh!' returned the young man; 'but I know what birth-marks she has, and the king has sent out a proclamation that whoever guesses these shall have her for his wife.' 'If it is so,' rejoined the cunning gipsy, 'I myself will also go to the palace with you.' The young man was glad to have company on the road, and so he and the gipsy travelled on together until they came to the residence of the king. When they came to the palace they found a large number of people who had come to 'try their luck,' and guess what birth-marks the princess had. But it was lost time, for every one of them, after going past the king and guessing 'by good luck' at the marks of the princess, was obliged to go away, having lost his time and gained nothing. At length the turn came for the young shepherd to pass before the king, and the gipsy kept close to him to hear what he would say. So the youth stepped before the king and said, 'The princess has a star on each shoulder, and a crescent on the throat----' At this moment the gipsy shouted loudly, 'Look there! that is just what I was going to say!' 'Be quiet!' said the young shepherd; 'or, if you really know what other marks she has, speak out.' 'No, no!' cried the gipsy, 'go on, go on! When _you_ have done, _I_ will speak what I know!' Then the youth turned again to the king and continued, 'The princess has the mark of a sun on her bosom----' 'That is exactly what I was going to say!' cried the gipsy, coming up quickly; 'she has the mark of a sun on her breast.' Now the king was exceeding surprised, and confessed to his counsellors that the young shepherd had really guessed the truth. But as neither the king nor the counsellors at all liked the idea of the princess marrying a poor shepherd, they consulted how they could get rid of him without giving the lie to the king's proclamation. At length it was decided that his Majesty should say, 'As both the shepherd and the gipsy have guessed the princess's birth-marks, I cannot justly decide which of them should marry her. But I will give to each of them seventy piasters, and they must both go and trade with this money for a year. At the end of the year, that one which brings back the most money shall have the princess for his wife.' The young shepherd and the gipsy, having received the money, went off in opposite directions to seek their fortunes. After having travelled about some time, like a fly without a head, not knowing where--the shepherd stopped one night to rest in the hut of an old woman, who was even poorer than his own mother. As he sat with the old woman in the hut that evening, the lad thought he might just as well ask her advice as to the best way to invest his capital of seventy piasters, so he said: 'I have seventy piasters to trade with, can you tell me some good way in which I may employ them profitably?' The old woman considered the matter for some time before she answered, and then said, 'To-morrow is market-day in the next city; go there yourself, and when a man brings a very poor cow for sale, go up and try to buy it. The cow will be of many different colours, but very thin and ill fed, but you must buy her at whatever price the man asks for her. When you have bought her, bring her here at once.' The young man agreed to follow the old woman's counsel, and so next day he went to the city and really found there a man who had brought a poor, but variously coloured, cow to sell. Many people wished to buy the cow, but the young man outbid them all, and at length offered all his seventy piasters for her. So he got the cow, and drove it to the hut where he had passed the night. When the old woman came out to see who was coming, he called out to her, 'Now, my old mother, I have bought the cow, and what shall we do with her? She has cost me all my capital!' The old woman answered at once, 'Kill the cow, my son, and cut it in pieces.' 'But how will that bring me back my money with profit?' asked the young shepherd, hesitating whether he should follow her advice or no. 'Don't be afraid, my son, but do as I say,' returned the old woman. Accordingly he did as she advised him, killed the cow and cut her into pieces. This done, he asked again, 'And now, what shall I do?' The old woman said quietly, 'Well, now we will eat the meat, and the suet we will melt down and put into a pot to keep for some other occasion.' The shepherd did not at all like this proposal, for he could not see what return he could hope to get for such an investment of his capital. However, he thought within himself, 'Well, since I have been foolish enough to follow her counsel on the two former occasions, I may as well follow it also this third time.' So he remained with the old woman many days, until the last piece of meat had been eaten up. When, however, he thought over all that had happened, he grew very sad, and, seeing no sign of anything better, said one morning to the old woman reproachfully, 'Now you see by following your counsel I have spent all the king's money, and am now a ruined man!' 'Don't be afraid, my son,' said the old woman; 'you can now take that pot of suet with you and go to the black world, where all the people are black as chimney-pots, and there you can sell for a good deal of money your suet, for it has the power to make the black skin white.' The poor shepherd was very glad at hearing this, and next morning took the pot of suet on his shoulder and started on his journey. After he had travelled many, many days, he came to a strange-looking country, and, going a little farther, he saw a man who was quite black, just as the old woman had said--as black as a chimney-pot. He was immediately going to offer to sell some of his fat to the black man, when the latter, frightened at the sight of a white man, ran away. Many other black men who saw him did the same, but after a while, when they saw that he went on quietly carrying his pot on his shoulder, they took courage, and came to him one by one, until at last quite a large crowd had gathered about him. At length, one of them ventured to say to him, 'You strange-looking man, tell us who you are, and where you come from, and why did you come here?' The shepherd answered, 'I am a white man from a white world, and I come to bring you some fat which will make you also white--that is, of course, if you choose to buy it from me and pay me for it well.' Now the black men, though they had been quite shocked at first to see the white man, began to think they also would like to be white; so they said they were willing to pay him as much as he liked to ask for his wonderful fat, because they were very rich. However, they doubted a little if the fat would really make them white as he said, and wished to see it tried before they bought it. Thereupon he set the pot on the ground, and walked round and round it, saying some queer words as if he were charming it. Then he took out of the pot a little of the fat, and with it smeared one of the black men. In a moment the black skin became quite white, and the other blacks, seeing that he had told them the truth, crowded eagerly round him, begging that he would make them white also, and outbidding each other in offers of money, provided only that he made them white in a short time. The young shepherd worked hard, smearing one black skin after the other, until he got quite weary and had become very rich, for they gave him a good deal of money, and there were a great many of them who wished to be made white. Just as he had thus whitened the last of the black men about him, one of them said to him, 'Wonder-working man! We have a king who, being our chief, is the blackest of us all; therefore, if you think you can make him white also, we are sure he will be very glad to get rid of his blackness, and will pay you more money than you ever dreamt of.' 'I will do it very gladly,' answered the shepherd; 'for you must know I am doing this not so much for the sake of money as for charity; only, show me at once the way to your king.' So they all ran off before him to show him the way, and he followed them carrying his pot on his shoulder. When they arrived at the door of the king's palace, one of the men said to him, 'Wait a moment here, whilst I go and tell his Majesty all about your wonderful fat, and ask him to receive you.' The shepherd waited quietly, though crowds gathered round him to stare at him and his great pot, until the man came back and said the king was waiting impatiently to see him. So he lifted his pot again on his shoulder--for he had set it down that he might rest the better--and followed the messenger to the king's presence. Now the king of the black men was far blacker than anything the shepherd had ever seen in his life; he had no doubt, however, after all he had seen, but that his fat would whiten him also. So he said cheerfully, 'Good morning, your Majesty!' 'Good morning, my dear fellow,' returned the black king; 'I have heard that you can do wonders, and I have seen that you have already whitened many of my subjects, so, for Heaven's sake, deliver me also from this my blackness, and ask in return whatever you like, even the half of my kingdom!' 'What your Majesty has heard is quite true,' said the shepherd; 'and I will very gladly try to make you also white!' and he took a great lump of fat and rubbed it well all over the king's face and neck. In a moment the king became as white as snow, to the great rejoicings of all his people. But no one was so pleased as the king himself, so he said again, 'Only ask! I will give you whatever you wish, even if it be my throne!' 'I thank your Majesty very humbly for offering me your throne, but I don't want it,' replied the shepherd; 'but if you will give me three ships full of gold and silver, and some good sailors to manage the ships, and some good soldiers and cannons to defend them against the pirates, I shall think myself more than repaid, and I will send you back the ships and cannons when the gold and silver are landed safely in my country.' Then the king at once gave the necessary orders, and in a very few days his servants came to report to him, that the ships were then filled with gold and silver, and that the cannons were ready loaded and posted for action, and all the sailors and soldiers prepared to fight if any sea-robber came in their way. Then the young shepherd took a courteous leave of the king, and of all those other people who were so thankful to him for having changed them from black men into white ones. He now went on board one of the ships, very glad to go back to his own country, and the two other ships full of gold and silver followed the first one across the seas. After having sailed a long time the three ships reached at last the coast of the kingdom where the king was waiting, daily expecting the return of the gipsy and shepherd to claim his daughter. The shepherd let his ships lay quietly in the harbour one day, and then, noticing much tumult and disturbance in the city, went ashore to see what had happened. There he found a great crowd, and on asking some of the people what they were going to do, they told him that they were going to hang a gipsy who had come to the city with seventy piasters capital, and who had not only spent all his money in drinking and revellings, but had even got into debt for seventy other piasters, which he was quite unable to pay, and that this was the reason they were about to hang him. In a few moments the hangman appeared, leading the gipsy, who was no other than the very man who had tried to cheat the shepherd out of the princess. The young shepherd recognised his rival at once, and, going near him, said, 'What is this, my old friend? Have you really come to this?' The instant the gipsy saw the shepherd he stopped and began to whine and wail, begging him to save him from the gibbet, and he would be his faithful servant all his life. 'As for the princess,' he added cunningly, 'I have given her up a long time ago, and don't care for anything if only my life is spared.' Then the young shepherd was sorry for the poor trembling, whining wretch, and offered to pay the debt for the gipsy if the people would let him off. So they agreed to this, and the young man not only paid the seventy piasters the gipsy owed, but bought him besides a suit of good clothes as well as a carriage and a pair of fine horses. Then he left him and went back to his ships, and they sailed on slowly along the coast towards the king's residence. Now when the gipsy had dressed himself out smartly in his fine new clothes, he got into his carriage and drove off quickly to the king's palace. Arrived there, he left his carriage and horses in the courtyard, and went at once to the presence of the king, whom he addressed thus: 'Your Majesty knows it is not yet quite a year since you gave me seventy piasters to trade with, and see! I come back already handsomely dressed, and have a fine carriage with a pair of beautiful horses below in the yard. As for the young shepherd, I have heard that he has not only spent all your Majesty's money in rioting, but that he had also got in debt, for which he has been hung. So it is no use waiting for him! Let us keep my wedding at once!' The king did not fancy the gipsy for his son-in-law, and was thinking what he could say to put him off a little time, when, looking by chance through his window, he saw three strange-looking ships sailing slowly towards the shore. At this he exclaimed, 'I see some foreign visitors are coming to visit me, and I shall have enough to do to receive them with due honours, so we must put off the marriage for some days, at least!' But the gipsy pressed the king more and more to let him marry the princess at once; he was even bold enough to tell his Majesty that he could not wait any longer, and that the wedding would be all over in an hour. The king, however, refused to hear anything of this; so the gipsy, seeing that his plan had failed, went out from the presence of the king in great anger. A few hours later the three strange-looking ships dropped their anchors just opposite the palace, and the young shepherd, landing, came into the presence of the king, who was greatly astonished to see him alive, and still more astonished to hear that in return for his seventy piasters he had brought three vessels full of gold and silver. The king was now very well content to accept him as his son-in-law, and told him, in the course of conversation, what the gipsy had said about his having gone in debt and been hung. Then the young shepherd told his Majesty how he had found the gipsy, and had saved his life by paying his debt for him. The king was exceedingly angry, and ordered his servants to go after the gipsy and bring him at once into his presence. The servants looked about and around the palace on all sides, but nowhere could they find any trace of the gipsy. Then the king commanded that some of them should go in search of him without delay, and armed men were speedily scattered over the whole country, so that at last he was caught, and brought before the king, who condemned him to be hung for having so shamefully tried to injure the man who had saved his life and treated him so generously, and for having, at the same time, attempted to cheat the king. The young shepherd spent a few days in the palace, telling the king all the things he had seen in the black world, and then, all preparations having been made, he was married to the princess, with great pomp and rejoicings. Then the king with his daughter and son-in-law lived for a great many years very happily. ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER. It happened once upon a time, many years ago, that a certain king went into his forest to hunt, when instead of the usual game he caught a wild man. This wild man the king had taken to his castle, and locked up, for safety, in a dungeon. This done, he put out a proclamation that whosoever should dare to set the wild man free should be put to death. As luck would have it, the dungeon where the creature was confined was just below the sleeping-room of the king's youngest son. Now the wild man cried and groaned incessantly to be set free, and these unceasing lamentations at length so moved the young prince that one night he went down and opened the dungeon door, and let out the prisoner. Next morning the king and all the courtiers and servants were exceedingly astonished to hear no longer the usual sounds of wailing from the dungeon, and the king, suspecting something amiss, went down himself to see what had become of his captive. When he found the den empty he flew into a great passion, and demanded fiercely who had presumed to disobey his commands and let out the wild man. All the courtiers were so terrified at the sight of the king's angry countenance, that not one of them dared speak, not even to assert their innocence. However, the young prince, the king's son, went forward at last and confessed that the pitiful crying of the poor creature had so disturbed him day and night, that at length he himself had opened the door. When the king heard this, it was his turn to be sorry, for he found himself compelled to put his own son to death or give his own proclamation the lie. However, some of his old counsellors, seeing how greatly the king was perplexed and troubled, came and assured his Majesty that the proclamation would in reality be carried out if the prince, instead of being put to death, was simply banished from the kingdom for ever. The king was very glad to find this way of getting out of the dilemma, and so ordered his son to leave the country, and never come back to it, at the same time he gave him many letters of recommendation to the king of a very distant kingdom, and directed one of the court servants to go with the young prince to wait upon him. Then the unhappy young prince and his servant started on their long journey. After travelling some time, the young prince became very thirsty, and, seeing a well not far off, went up to it to drink. However, there happened to be no bucket at the well, nor anything in which to draw water, though the well was pretty full. Seeing this, the young prince said to his servant, 'Hold me fast by the heels, and let me down into the pit that I may drink.' So saying, he bent over the well, and the servant let him down as he was directed. When the prince had quenched his thirst, and wished to be pulled back, the servant refused, saying, 'Now I can let you fall into the pit in a moment, and I shall do so unless you consent at once to change clothes and places with me. I will be the prince henceforth, and you shall be my servant.' The king's son, seeing that he had foolishly placed himself in the power of the servant, promised readily everything his servant asked, and begged only to be drawn up. But the faithless servant, without noticing his master's prayers, said roughly, 'You must make a solemn oath that you will not speak a word to any one about the change we are going to make.' Of course, since the prince could not help himself, he took the oath at once, and then the servant drew him up, and they changed clothes. Then the wicked servant dressed himself in his master's fine clothes, mounted his master's horse, and rode forward on the journey, whilst the unfortunate prince, disguised in his servant's dress, walked beside him. In this way they went on until they came to the court of the king to which the exiled son had been recommended by his father. Faithful to his promise, the unfortunate prince saw his false servant received at the court with great honours as the son of a great king, whilst he himself, all unnoticed, stood in the waiting-room with the servants, and was treated by them with all familiarity as their equal. After having some time enjoyed to his heart's content the hospitalities the king lavished upon him, the false servant began to be afraid that his master's patience might be wearied out soon, under all the indignities to which he was exposed, and that one day he might be tempted to forget his oath and proclaim himself in his true character. Filled with these misgivings, the wicked man thought over all possible ways by which he could do away with his betrayed master without any danger to himself. One day he thought he had found out a way to do this, and took the first opportunity to carry out his cruel plan. Now you must know that the king at whose court this unhappy prince and the false servant were staying, kept in his gardens a great number of wild beasts fastened up in large cages. One morning, as the pretended prince was walking in these gardens with the king, he said suddenly, 'Your Majesty has a large number of very fine wild beasts, and I admire them very much; I think, however, it is a pity that you keep them always fastened up, and spend so much money over their food. Why not send them under a keeper to find their own food in the forest? I dare say your Majesty would be very glad if I recommended a man to you who could take them out in the morning and bring them back safely at night?' The king asked, 'Do you really think, prince, that you can find me such a man?' 'Of course, I can,' replied unhesitatingly the cruel man; 'such a man is now in your Majesty's court. I mean my own servant. Only call him and threaten that you will have his head cut off if he does not do it, and compel him to accept the task. I dare say he will try to excuse himself, and say the thing is impossible, but only threaten him with the loss of his head whether he refuses or fails. For my part, I am quite willing your Majesty should have him put to death, if he disobeys.' When the king heard this, he summoned the disguised prince before him, and said, 'I hear that you can do wonders: that you are able to drive wild beasts out like cattle to find their own food in the forest, and bring them back safely at night into their cages. Therefore, I order you this morning to drive all my bears into the forest, and to bring them back again in the evening. If you don't do this, your head will pay for it; so beware!' The unlucky prince answered, 'I am not able to do this thing, so your Majesty had better cut off my head at once.' But the king would not listen to him, only saying, 'We will wait until evening; _then_ I shall surely have your head cut off unless you bring back all my bears safely to their cages.' Now nothing was left for the poor prince to do but open the cage-doors and try his luck in driving the bears to the forest. The moment he opened the doors all the bears rushed out wildly, and disappeared quickly among the trees. The prince followed them sadly into the forest, and sat down on a fallen tree to think over his hard fortunes. As he sat thus, he began to weep bitterly, for he saw no better prospect before him than to lose his head at night. As he sat thus crying, a creature in form like a man, but covered all over with thick hair, came out of a neighbouring thicket, and asked him what he was crying for. Then the prince told him all that had happened to him, and that as all the bears had run away he expected to be beheaded at night when he returned without them. Hearing this, the wild man gave him a little bell, and said kindly, 'Don't be afraid! Only take care of this bell, and when you wish the bears to return, just ring it gently, and they will all come back and follow you quietly into their cages.' And having said this he went away. When the sun began to go down, the prince rang the little bell gently, and, to his great joy, all the bears came dancing awkwardly round him, and let him lead them back to the gardens, following him like a flock of sheep, whilst he, pleased with his success, took out a flute and played little airs as he walked before them. In this way he was able to fasten them up again in their dens without the least trouble. Every one at the court was astonished at this, and the false servant more than all the others, though he concealed his surprise, and said to the king, 'Your Majesty sees now that I told you the truth. I am quite sure the man can manage the wolves just as well as the bears, if you only threaten him as before.' Thereupon, the next morning the king called the poor prince, and ordered him to lead out the wolves to find their food in the forest and to bring them back to their cages at night. 'Unless you do this,' said his Majesty, as before, 'you will lose your head.' The prince pleaded vainly the impossibility of his doing such a thing; but the king would not hear him, only saying, 'You may as well try, for whether you refuse or fail you will certainly lose your head.' So the prince was obliged to open the cages of the wolves, and the moment he did this the wild animals sprang past him into the thickets just as the bears had done, and he, following them slowly, went and sat down to bewail his ill-luck. Whilst he sat thus weeping, the wild man came out of the wood and asked him, just as he had done the day before, what he was crying for. The prince told him, whereupon the creature gave him another little bell, and said, 'When you want the wolves to come back, just ring this bell, and they will all come and follow you.' Having said this he went back into the wood, and left the prince alone. Just before it grew dark, the prince rang his bell, and to his great joy all the wolves came rushing up to him from all quarters of the forest, and followed him quietly back to their cages. Seeing this, the false servant advised the king to send out the birds also, and to threaten the disguised prince with the loss of his head if he failed to bring them also back in the evening. Accordingly the next morning the king ordered the prince to let out all the wild doves, and to bring them all safely to their different cages before night set in. The instant the poor young man opened the cage-doors the wild doves rose like a cloud into the air, and vanished over the tops of the trees. So the prince went into the forest and sat down again on the fallen tree. As he sat there, thinking how hopeless a task he had now before him, he could not help crying aloud and bewailing all his past misfortunes and present miserable fate. Hardly had he begun to lament, however, before the same wild man came from the bushes near him and asked what fresh trouble had befallen him. Then the prince told him. Thereupon the wild man gave him a third bell, saying, 'When you wish the wild doves to return to their cages you have only to ring this little bell.' And so it indeed happened, for the moment the prince began ringing softly, all the doves came flying about him, and he walked back to the palace gardens and shut them up in their different cages without the least trouble. Now, happily for the prince, the king had just at this time much more important business on his hands than finding his wild beasts and birds in food without paying for it. No less a matter, in fact, began to occupy him than the finding a suitable husband for his daughter. For this purpose he sent out a proclamation that he would hold races during three days, and would reward the victor of each day with a golden apple. Whosoever should succeed in winning all three apples should have the young princess for his wife. Now this princess was far more beautiful than any other princess in the world, and an exceeding great number of knights prepared to try and win her. This, the poor prince in his servant's dress watched with great dismay; for he had fallen deeply in love with the fair daughter of the king. So he puzzled himself day and night with plans how he, too, could try his luck in the great race. At last he determined to go into the forest and ask the wild man to help him. When the wild man heard the prince calling, he came out of the thicket, and listened to all he had to say about the matter. Seeing how much the prince was interested in the young princess, who was to be the prize of the victor, the wild man brought out some handsome clothes and a fine horse, and gave them to the prince, saying, 'When you start in a race, do not urge your horse too much, but at the end, when you are getting near the goal, spur him, and then you will be sure to win. Don't forget, however, to bring me the golden apple as soon as you receive it.' All came to pass just as the wild man had said. The prince won the apples the two first days; but as he disappeared as soon as he received them from the king, no one in the court recognised him in his fine attire, and all wondered greatly who the stranger knight might be. As for the king, he was more perplexed and curious than all the rest, and determined not to let the stranger escape so easily the third day. So he ordered a deep, wide ditch to be dug at the end of the race-course, and a high wall built beyond it, thinking thus to stop the victor and find out who he was. The prince, hearing of the king's orders, and guessing the reason of them, went once again into the forest to ask help from his wild friend. The wild man, thereupon, brought out to him a still more beautiful racer, and a suit of splendid clothes; and, thus prepared, the prince took his place as before among the knights who were going to try for the prize. He won the golden apple this third time also; but, to the surprise of the king and the whole court, who hoped now to find out who he was, he made his horse spring lightly over the ditch, and the great wall, and vanished again in the forest. The king tried every way to find out who had won the three golden apples, but all in vain. At last, one day, the princess, walking in the gardens of the palace, met the prince disguised in his servant's dress, and saw the shining of the three apples which he carried concealed in his bosom. Thereupon she ran at once to her father, and told him what she had seen, and the king, wondering very much, called the servant before him. Now the prince thought it time to put an end to all his troubles, and therefore told the king frankly all his misfortunes. He related how he had offended the king, his father, and been exiled for life; how his false servant had betrayed him; and how the wild man he had set free had come to help him out of the fearful snares the wicked servant had spread for him. After hearing all this, the king very gladly gave him the princess for wife, and ordered the false servant to be put to death immediately. As for the prince, he lived with his beautiful princess very happily for many years after this, and when the king, his father-in-law, died, he left to them both the kingdom. THE BITER BIT. Once upon a time there was an old man who, whenever he heard anyone complain how many sons he had to care for, always laughed and said, 'I wish that it would please God to give me a hundred sons!' This he said in jest; as time, however, went on he had, in reality, neither more nor less than a hundred sons. He had trouble enough to find different trades for his sons, but when they were once all started in life they worked diligently and gained plenty of money. Now, however, came a fresh difficulty. One day the eldest son came in to his father and said, 'My dear father, I think it is quite time that I should marry.' Hardly had he said these words before the second son came in, saying, 'Dear father, I think it is already time that you were looking out for a wife for me.' A moment later came in the third son, asking, 'Dear father, don't you think it is high time that you should find me a wife?' In like manner came the fourth and fifth, until the whole hundred had made a similar request. All of them wished to marry, and desired their father to find wives for them as soon as he could. The old man was not a little troubled at these requests; he said, however, to his sons, 'Very well, my sons, _I_ have nothing to say against your marrying; there is, however, I foresee, one great difficulty in the way. There are one hundred of you asking for wives, and I hardly think we can find one hundred marriageable girls in all the fifteen villages which are in our neighbourhood.' To this the sons, however, answered, 'Don't be anxious about that, but mount your horse and take in your sack sufficient engagement-cakes. You must take, also, a stick in your hand so that you can cut a notch in it for every girl you see. It does not signify whether she be handsome or ugly, or lame or blind, just cut a notch in your stick for every one you meet with.' The old man said, 'Very wisely spoken, my sons! I will do exactly as you tell me.' Accordingly he mounted his horse, took a sack full of cakes on his shoulder and a long stick in his hand, and started off at once to beat up the neighbourhood for girls to marry his sons. The old man had travelled from village to village during a whole month, and whenever he had seen a girl he cut a notch in his stick. But he was getting pretty well tired, and he began to count how many notches he had already made. When he had counted them carefully over and over again, to be certain that he had counted all, he could only make out seventy-four, so that still twenty-six were wanting to complete the number required. He was, however, so weary with his month's ride, that he determined to return home. As he rode along, he saw a priest driving oxen yoked to a plough, and seemingly very deep in anxious thought about something. Now the old man wondered a little to see the priest ploughing his own corn-fields without even a boy to help him, he therefore shouted to ask him why he drove his oxen himself. The priest, however, did not even turn his head to see who called to him, so intent was he in urging on his oxen and in guiding his plough. The old man thought he had not spoken loud enough, so he shouted out again as loud as he could, 'Stop your oxen a little, and tell me why you are ploughing yourself without even a lad to help you, and this, too, on a holy-day?' Now the priest--who was in a perspiration with his hard work--answered testily, 'I conjure you by your old age, leave me in peace! I cannot tell you my ill-luck.' At this answer, however, the old man was only the more curious, and persisted all the more earnestly in asking questions to find out why the priest ploughed on a Saint's day. At last the priest, tired with his importunity, sighed deeply and said, 'Well, if you _will_ know: I am the only man in my household, and God has blessed me with a hundred daughters!' The old man was overjoyed at hearing this, and exclaimed cheerfully, 'That's very good! It is just what I want, for _I_ have a hundred sons, and so, as you have a hundred daughters, we can be friends!' The moment the priest heard this he became pleasant and talkative, and invited the old man to pass the night in his house. Then, leaving his plough in the field, he drove the oxen back to the village. Just before reaching his house, however, he said to the old man, 'Go yourself into the house whilst I tie up my oxen.' No sooner, however, had the old man entered the yard than the wife of the priest rushed at him with a big stick, crying out, 'We have not bread enough for our hundred daughters, and we want neither beggars nor visitors,' and with these words she drove him away. Shortly afterwards the priest came out of the barn, and, finding the old man sitting on the road before the gate, asked him why he had not gone into the house as he had told him to do. Whereupon the old man replied, 'I went in, but your wife drove me away!' Then the priest said, 'Only wait here a moment till I come back to fetch you.' He then went quickly into his house and scolded his wife right well, saying, 'What have you done? What a fine chance you have spoiled! The man who came in was going to be our friend, for he has a hundred sons who would gladly have married our hundred daughters!' When the wife heard this she changed her dress hastily, and arranged her hair and head-dress in a different fashion. Then she smiled very sweetly, and welcomed with the greatest possible politeness the old man, when her husband led him into the house. In fact, she pretended that she knew nothing at all of any one having been driven away from their door. And as the old man wanted much to find wives for his sons, he also pretended that he did not know that the smiling house-mistress and the woman who drove him away with a stick were one and the self-same person. So the old man passed the night in the house, and next morning asked the priest formally to give him his hundred daughters for wives for his hundred sons. Thereupon the priest answered that he was quite willing, and had already spoken to his daughters about the matter, and that they, too, were all quite willing. Then the old man took out his 'engagement-cakes,' and put them on the table beside him, and gave each of the girls a piece of money to _mark_ them. Then each of the engaged girls sent a small present by him to that one of his sons to whom she was thus betrothed. These gifts the old man put in the bag wherein he had carried the 'engagement-cakes.' He then mounted his horse, and rode off merrily homewards. There were great rejoicings in his household when he told how successful he had been in his search, and that he really had found a hundred girls ready and willing to be married; and these hundred, too, a priest's daughters. The sons insisted that they should begin to make the wedding preparations without delay and commenced at once to invite the guests who were to form part of the wedding procession to go to the priest's house and bring home the brides. Here, however, another difficulty occurred. The old father must find two hundred _brideleaders_ (two for each bride); one hundred _kooms_ (first witnesses); one hundred _starisvats_ (second witnesses); one hundred _chaious_ (running footmen who go before the processions) and three hundred _vojvodes_ (standard-bearers); and, besides these, a respectable number of other non-official guests.[32] [32] See 'Popular Customs of Serbia,' by the same author. To find all these persons the father had to hunt throughout the neighbourhood for three years; at last, however, they were all found, and a day was appointed when they were to meet at his house and go thence in procession to the house of the priest. On the appointed day all the invited guests gathered at the old man's house. With great noise and confusion, after a fair amount of feasting, the wedding procession was formed properly, and set out for the house of the priest where the hundred brides were already prepared for their departure for their new home. So great was the confusion, indeed, that the old man quite forgot to take with him one of the hundred sons, and never missed him in the greeting and talking and drinking he was obliged, as father of the bridegrooms, to go through. Now the young man had worked so long and so hard in preparing for the wedding-day that he never woke up till long after the procession had started and every one had had, like his father, too much to do and too many things to think of to miss him. The wedding procession arrived in good order at the priest's house, where a feast was already spread out for them. Having done honour to the various good things, and having gone through all the ceremonies usual on such occasions, the hundred brides were given over to their 'leaders,' and the procession started on its return to the old man's house. But, as they did not set off until pretty late in the afternoon, it was decided that the night should be spent somewhere on the road. When they came, therefore, to a certain river named 'Luckless,' as it was already dark, some of the men proposed that the party should pass the night by the side of the water without crossing over. However, some others of the chief of the party so warmly advised the crossing the river and encamping on the other bank, that this course was at length, after a very lively discussion, determined on; accordingly the procession began to move over the bridge. Just, however, as the wedding party were half-way across the bridge its two sides began to draw nearer each other, and pressed the people so close together that they had hardly room to breathe--much less could they move forwards or backwards. They were kept for some time in this position, some shouting and scolding, others quiet because frightened, until at length a black giant appeared, and shouted to them in a terribly loud voice, 'Who are you all? Where do you come from? Where are you going?' Some of the bolder among them answered, 'We are going to our old friend's house, taking home the hundred brides for his hundred sons; but unluckily we ventured on this bridge after nightfall, and it has pressed us so tightly together that we cannot move one way or the other.' 'And where is your old friend?' inquired the black giant. Now all the wedding guests turned their eyes towards the old man. Thereupon he turned towards the giant, who instantly said to him, 'Listen, old man! Will you give me what you have forgotten at home, if I let your friends pass over the bridge?' The old man considered some time what it might be that he had forgotten at home, but, at last, not being able to recollect anything in particular that he had left, and hearing on all sides the groans and moans of his guests, he replied, 'Well, I will give it you, if you will only let the procession pass over.' Then the black giant said to the party, 'You all hear what he has promised, and are all my witnesses to the bargain. In three days I shall come to fetch what I have bargained for.' Having said this, the black giant widened the bridge and the whole procession passed on to the other bank in safety. The people, however, no longer wished to spend the night on the way, so they moved on as fast as they could, and early in the morning reached the old man's house. As everybody talked of the strange adventure they had met with, the eldest son, who had been left at home, soon began to understand how the matter stood, and went to his father saying, 'O my father! you have sold _me_ to the black giant!' Then the old man was very sorry, and troubled; but his friends comforted him, saying, 'Don't be frightened! nothing will come of it.' The marriage ceremonies were celebrated with great rejoicings. Just, however, as the festivities were at their height, on the third day, the black giant appeared at the gate and shouted, 'Now, give me at once what you have promised.' The old man, trembling all over, went forward and asked him, 'What do you want?' 'Nothing but what you have promised me!' returned the black giant. As he could not break his promise, the old man, very much distressed, was then obliged to deliver up his eldest son to the giant, who thereupon said, 'Now I shall take your son with me, but after three years have passed you can come to the Luckless River and take him away.' Having said this the black giant disappeared, taking with him the young man, whom he carried off to his workshop as an apprentice to the trade of witchcraft. From that time the poor old man had not a single moment of happiness. He was always sad and anxious, and counted every year, and month, and week, and even every day, until the dawn of the last day of the three years. Then he took a staff in his hand and hurried off to the bank of the river Luckless. As soon as he reached the river, he was met by the black giant, who asked him, 'Why are you come?' The old man answered that he had come to take home his son, according to his agreement. Thereupon the giant brought out a tray on which stood a sparrow, a turtle-dove, and a quail, and said to the old man, 'Now, if you can tell which of these is your son, you may take him away.' The poor old father looked intently at the three birds, one after the other, and over and over again, but at last he was forced to own that he could not tell which of them was his son. So he was obliged to go away by himself, and was far more miserable than before. He had hardly, however, got half-way home when he thought he would go back to the river and take one of the birds which he remembered had looked at him intently. When he reached the river Luckless he was again met by the black giant, who brought out the tray again, and placed on it this time a partridge, a tit-mouse, and a thrush, saying, 'Now, my old man, find out which is your son!' The anxious father again looked at one bird after the other, but he felt more uncertain than before, and so, crying bitterly, again went away. Just as the old man was going through a forest, which was between the river Luckless and his house, an old woman met him, and said, 'Stop a moment! Where are you hurrying to? And why are you in such trouble?' Now, the old man was so deeply musing over his great unhappiness that he did not at first attend to the old woman; but she followed him, calling after him, and repeating her questions with more earnestness. So he stopped at last, and told her what a terrible misfortune had fallen upon him. When the old woman had listened to the whole story, she said cheerfully, 'Don't be cast down! Don't be afraid! Go back again to the river, and, when the giant brings out the three birds, look into their eyes sharply. When you see that one of the birds has a tear in one of its eyes, seize that bird and hold it fast, for it has a human soul.' The old man thanked her heartily for her advice, and turned back, for the third time, towards the Luckless River. Again the black giant appeared, and looked very merry whilst he brought out his tray and put upon it a sparrow, a dove, and a woodpecker, saying, 'My old man! find out which is your son!' Then the father looked sharply into the eyes of the birds, and saw that from the right eye of the dove a tear dropped slowly down. In a moment he grasped the bird tightly, saying, 'This is my son!' The next moment he found himself holding fast his eldest son by the shoulder, and so, singing and shouting in his great joy, took him quickly home, and gave him over to his eldest daughter-in-law, the wife of his son. Now, for some time they all lived together very happily. One day, however, the young man said to his father, 'Whilst I was apprentice in the workshop of the black giant, I learned a great many tricks of witchcraft. Now I intend to change myself into a fine horse, and you shall take me to market and sell me for a good sum of money. But be sure not to give up the halter.' The father did as the son had said. Next market-day he went to the city with a fine horse which he offered for sale. Many buyers came round him, admiring the horse, and bidding large sums for it, so that at last the old man was able to sell it for two thousand ducats. When he received the money, he took good care not to let go the halter, and he returned home far richer than he ever dreamt of being. A few days later, the man who had bought the horse sent his servant with it to the river to bathe, and, whilst in the water, the horse got loose from the servant and galloped off into the neighbouring forest. There he changed himself back into his real shape, and returned to his father's house. After some time had passed, the young man said one day to his father, 'Now I will change myself into an ox, and you can take me to market to sell me; but take care not to give up the rope with which you lead me.' So next market-day the old man went to the city leading a very fine ox, and soon found a buyer, who offered him ten times the usual price paid for an ox. The buyer asked also for the rope to lead the animal home, but the old man said, 'What do you want with such an old thing? You had better buy a new one!' and he went off taking with him the rope. That evening, whilst the servants of the buyer were driving the ox to the field, he ran away into a wood near, and, having taken there his human shape, returned home to his father's house. On the eve of the next market-day, the young man said to his father, 'Now I will change myself into a cow with golden horns, and you can sell me as before, only take care not to give up the string.' Accordingly he changed himself next morning into a cow, and the old man took it to the market-place, and asked for it three hundred crowns. But the black giant had learnt that his former apprentice was making a great deal of money by practising the trade he had taught him, and, being jealous at this, he determined to put an end to the young man's gains. Therefore, on the third day he came to the market himself as a buyer, and the moment he saw the beautiful cow with golden horns he knew that it could be no other than his former apprentice. So he came up to the old man, and, having outbid all the other would-be purchasers, paid at once the price he had agreed on. Having done this, he caught the string in his hand, and tried to wrench it from the terrified old man, who called out, 'I have not sold you the string, but the cow!' and held the string as fast as he could with both hands. 'Oh, no!' said the buyer, 'I have the law and custom on my side! Whoever buys a cow, buys also the string with which it is led!' Some of the amused and astonished lookers-on said that this was quite true, therefore the old man was obliged to give up the string. The black giant, well satisfied with his purchase, took the cow with him to his castle, and, after having put iron chains on her legs, fastened her in a cellar. Every morning the giant gave the cow some water and hay, but he never unchained her. One evening, however, the cow, with incessant struggles, managed to get free from the chains, and immediately opened the cellar-door with her horns and ran away. Next morning the black giant went as usual into the cellar, carrying the hay and water for the cow; but seeing she had got free and run away, he threw the hay down, and started off at once to pursue her. When he came within sight of her, he turned himself into a wolf and ran at her with great fury; but his clever apprentice changed himself instantly from a cow into a bear, whereupon the giant turned himself from a wolf into a lion; the bear then turned into a tiger, and the lion changed into a crocodile, whereupon the tiger turned into a sparrow. Upon this the giant changed from the form of a crocodile into a hawk, and the apprentice immediately changed into a hare; on seeing which, the hawk became a greyhound. Then the apprentice changed from a hare into a falcon, and the greyhound into an eagle; whereupon the apprentice changed into a fish. The giant then turned from an eagle into a mouse, and immediately the apprentice, as a cat, ran after him; then the giant turned himself into a heap of millet, and the apprentice transformed himself into a hen and chickens, which very greedily picked up all the millet except one single seed, in which the master was, who changed himself into a squirrel; instantly, however, the apprentice became a hawk, and, pouncing on the squirrel, killed it. In this way the apprentice beat his master, the black giant, and revenged himself for all the sufferings he had endured whilst learning the trade of witchcraft. Having killed the squirrel, the hawk took his proper shape again, and the young man returned joyfully to his father, whom he made immensely rich. THE TRADE THAT NO ONE KNOWS. A long while ago there lived a poor old couple, who had an only son. The old man and his wife worked very hard to nourish their child well and bring him up properly, hoping that he, in return, would take care of them in their old age. When, however, the boy had grown up, he said to his parents, 'I am a man now, and I intend to marry, so I wish you to go at once to the king and ask him to give me his daughter for wife.' The astonished parents rebuked him, saying, 'What can you be thinking of? We have only this poor hut to shelter us, and hardly bread enough to eat, and we dare not presume to go into the king's presence, much less can we venture to ask for his daughter to be your wife.' The son, however, insisted that they should do as he said, threatening that if they did not comply with his wishes he would leave them, and go away into the world. Seeing that he was really in earnest in what he said, the unhappy parents promised him they would go and ask for the king's daughter. Then the old mother made a wedding cake in her son's presence, and, when it was ready, she put it in a bag, took her staff in her hand, and went straight to the palace where the king lived. There the king's servants bade her come in, and led her into the hall where his Majesty was accustomed to receive the poor people who came to ask alms or to present petitions. The poor old woman stood in the hall, confused and ashamed at her worn-out, shabby clothes, and looking as if she were made of stone, until the king said to her kindly, 'What do _you_ want from me, old mother?' She dared not, however, tell his Majesty why she had come, so she stammered out in her confusion, 'Nothing, your Majesty.' Then the king smiled a little and said, 'Perhaps you come to ask alms?' Then the old woman, much abashed, replied, 'Yes, your Majesty, if you please!' Thereupon the king called his servants and ordered them to give the old woman ten crowns, which they did. Having received this money, she thanked his Majesty, and returned home, saying to herself, 'I dare say when my son sees all this money he will not think any more of going away from us.' In this thought, however, she was quite mistaken, for no sooner had she entered the hut than the son came to her and asked impatiently, 'Well, mother, have you done as I asked you?' At this she exclaimed, 'Do give up, once for all, this silly fancy, my son. How could you expect me to ask the king for his daughter to be your wife? That would be a bold thing for a rich nobleman to do, how then can _we_ think of such a thing? Anyhow, _I_ dared not say one word to the king about it. But only look what a lot of money I have brought back. Now you can look for a wife suitable for you, and then you will forget the king's daughter.' When the young man heard his mother speak thus, he grew very angry, and said to her, 'What do I want with the king's money? I don't want his money, but I _do_ want his daughter! I see you are only playing with me, so I shall leave you. I will go away somewhere--anywhere--wherever my eyes lead me.' Then the poor old parents prayed and begged him not to go away from them, and leave them alone in their old age; but they could only quiet him by promising faithfully that the mother should go again next day to the king, and this time really ask him to give his daughter to her son for a wife. In the morning, therefore, the old woman went again to the palace, and the servants showed her into the same hall she had been in before. The king, seeing her stand there, inquired, 'What want you, my old woman, now?' She was, however, so ashamed that she could hardly stammer, 'Nothing, please your Majesty.' The king, supposing that she came again to beg, ordered his servants to give her this time also ten crowns. With this money the poor woman returned to her hut, where her son met her, asking, 'Well, mother, _this_ time I hope you have done what I asked you?' But she replied, 'Now, my dear son, do leave the king's daughter in peace. How can you really think of such a thing? Even if she would marry you, where is the house to bring her to? So be quiet, and take this money which I have brought you.' At these words the son was more angry than before, and said sharply, 'As I see you will not let me marry the king's daughter, I will leave you this moment and never come back again;' and, rushing out of the hut, he ran away. His parents hurried after him, and at length prevailed on him to return, by swearing to him that his mother should go again to the king next morning, and really and in truth ask his Majesty this time for his daughter. So the young man agreed to go back home and wait until the next day. On the morrow the old woman, with a heavy heart, went to the palace, and was shown as before into the king's presence. Seeing her there for the third time, his Majesty asked her impatiently, 'What do you want this time, old woman?' And she, trembling all over, said, 'Please your Majesty--nothing.' Then the king exclaimed, 'But it cannot be nothing. Something you must want, so tell me the truth at once, if you value your life!' Thereupon the old woman was forced to tell all the story to the king; how her son had a great desire to marry the princess, and so had forced her to come and ask the king to give her to him for wife. When the king had heard everything, he said, 'Well, after all, _I_ shall say nothing against it if my daughter will consent to it.' He then told his servants to lead the princess into his presence. When she came he told her all about the affair, and asked her, 'Are you willing to marry the son of this old woman?' The princess answered, 'Why not? If only he learns first the trade that no one knows!' Thereupon the king bade his attendants give money to the poor woman, who now went back to her hut with a light heart. The moment she entered, her son asked her, 'Have you engaged her?' And she returned, 'Do let me get my breath a little! Well, _now_ I have really asked the king; but it is of no use, for the princess declares she will not marry you until you have learnt the trade that no one knows!' 'Oh, that matters nothing!' exclaimed the son. 'Now I only know the condition, it's all right!' The next morning the young man set out on his travels through the world in search of a man who could teach him the trade that no one knows. He wandered about a long time without being able to find out where he could learn such a trade. At length one day, being quite tired out with walking and very sad, he sat down on a fallen log by the wayside. After he had sat thus a little while, an old woman came up to him, and asked, 'Why art thou so sad, my son?' And he answered, 'What is the use of your asking, when you cannot help me?' But she continued, 'Only tell me what is the matter, and perhaps I can help you.' Then he said, 'Well, if you must know, the matter is this: I have been travelling about the world a long time to find a master who can teach me the trade which no one knows.' 'Oh, if it is only that,' cried the old woman, 'just listen to me! Don't be afraid, but go straight into the forest which lies before you, and there you will find what you want.' The young man was very glad to hear this, and got up at once and went to the forest. When he had gone pretty far in the wood, he saw a large castle, and, whilst he stood looking at it and wondering what it was, four giants came out of it and ran up to him, shouting, 'Do you wish to learn the trade that no one knows?' He said, 'Yes; that is just the reason why I come here.' Whereupon they took him into the castle. Next morning the giants prepared to go out hunting, and, before leaving, they said to him, 'You must on no account go into the first room by the dining-hall.' Hardly, however, were the giants well out of sight before the young man began to reason thus with himself: 'I see very well that I have come into a place from which I shall never go out alive with my head, so I may as well see what is in the room, come what may afterwards.' So he went and opened the door a little and peeped in. There stood a golden ass, bound to a golden manger. He looked at it a little, and was just going to shut the door when the ass said, 'Come and take the halter from my head, and keep it hidden about you. It will serve you well if you only understand how to use it.' So he took the halter, and, after fastening the room door, quickly concealed it under his clothes. He had not sat very long before the giants came home. They asked him at once if he had been in the first room, and he, much frightened, replied, 'No, I have not been in.' 'But we know that you have been!' said the giants in great anger, and seizing some large sticks, they beat him so severely that he could hardly stand on his feet. It was very lucky for him that he had the halter wound round his body under his clothes, or else he would certainly have been killed. The next day the giants again prepared to go out hunting, but before leaving him they ordered him on no account to enter the second room. Almost as soon as the giants had gone away he became so very curious to see what might be in the second room, that he could not resist going to the door. He stood there a little, thinking within himself, 'Well, I am already more dead than alive, much worse cannot happen to me!' and so he opened the door and looked in. There he was surprised to see a very beautiful girl, dressed all in gold and silver, who sat combing her hair, and setting in every tress a large diamond. He stood admiring her a little while, and was just going to shut the door again, when she spoke, 'Wait a minute, young man. Come and take this key, and mind you keep it safely. It will serve you some time, if you only know how to use it.' So he went in and took the key from the girl, and then, going out, fastened the door and went and sat down in the same place he had sat before. He had not remained there very long before the giants came home from hunting. The moment they entered the house they took up their large sticks to beat him, asking, at the same time, whether he had been in the second room. Shaking all over with fear, he answered them, 'No, I have not!' 'But we know that you have been,' shouted the giants in great anger, and they then beat him worse than on the first day. The next morning, as the giants went out as usual to hunt, they said to him, 'Do not go into the third room, for anything in the world; for if you do go in we shall not forgive you as we did yesterday, and the day before! We shall kill you outright!' No sooner, however, had the giants gone out of sight, than the young man began to say to himself, 'Most likely they will kill me, whether I go into the room or not. Besides, if they do not kill me, they have beaten me so badly already that I am sure I cannot live long, so, anyhow, I will go and see what is in the third room.' Then he got up and went and opened the door. He was quite shocked, however, when he saw that the room was full of human heads! These heads belonged to young men who had come, like himself, to learn the trade that no one knows, and who, having obeyed faithfully and strictly the orders of the giants, had been killed by them. The young man was turning quickly to go away, when one of the heads called out, 'Don't be afraid, but come in!' Thereupon he went into the room. Then the head gave him an iron chain, and said, 'Take care of this chain, for it will serve you some time if you know how to use it!' So he took the chain, and going out fastened the door. He went and sat down in the usual place to wait for the coming home of the giants, and, as he waited, he grew quite frightened, for he fully expected that they would really kill him this time. The instant the giants came home they took up their thick sticks and began to beat him without stopping to ask anything. They beat him so terribly that he was all but dead; then they threw him out of the house, saying to him, 'Go away now, since you have learnt the trade that no one knows!' When he had lain a long time on the ground where they had thrown him, feeling very sore and miserable, at length he tried to move away, saying to himself, 'Well, if they really have taught me the trade that no one knows, for the sake of the king's daughter I can suffer gladly all this pain, if I can only win her!' After travelling for a long time, the young man came at last to the palace of the king whose daughter he wished to marry. When he saw the palace, he was exceedingly sad, and remembered the words of the princess; for, after all his wanderings and sufferings, he had learnt no trade, and had never been able to find what trade it was 'that no one knows.' Whilst considering what he had better do, he suddenly recollected the halter, the key, and the iron chain, which he had carried concealed about him ever since he left the castle of the four giants. He then said to himself, 'Let me see what these things can do!' So he took the halter and struck the earth with it, and immediately a handsome horse, beautifully caparisoned, stood before him. Then he struck the ground with the iron chain, and instantly a hare and a greyhound appeared, and the hare began to run quickly and the greyhound to follow her. In a moment the young man hardly knew himself, for he found himself in a fine hunting-dress, riding on the horse after the hare, which took a path that passed immediately under the windows of the king's palace. Now, it happened that the king stood at a window looking out, and noticed at once the beautiful greyhound which was chasing the hare, and the very handsome horse which a huntsman in a splendid dress was mounted on. The king was so pleased with the appearance of the horse and the greyhound, that he called instantly some of his servants, and, sending them after the strange rider, bade them invite him to come to the palace. The young man, however, hearing some people coming behind him calling and shouting, rode quickly behind a thick bush, and shook a little the halter and the iron chain. In a moment the horse, the greyhound, and the hare had vanished, and he found himself sitting on the ground under the trees dressed in his old shabby clothes. By this time the king's servants had come up, and, seeing him sit there, they asked him whether he had seen a fine huntsman on a beautiful horse pass that way. But he answered them rudely, 'No! I have not seen anyone pass, neither do I care to look to see who passes!' Then the king's servants went on and searched the forest, calling and shouting as loudly as they could, but it was all in vain; they could neither see nor hear anything of the hunter. At length they went back to the king, and told him that the horse the huntsman rode was so exceedingly quick that they could not hear anything of him in the forest. The young man now resolved to go to the hut where his old parents lived; and they were glad to see that he had come back to them once more. Next morning, the son said to his father, 'Now, father, I will show you what I have learned. I will change myself into a beautiful horse, and you must lead me into the city and sell me, but be very careful not to give away the halter, or else I shall remain always a horse!' Accordingly, in a moment he changed himself into a horse of extraordinary beauty, and the father took him to the market-place to sell him. Very soon a great number of people gathered round the horse, wondering at his unusual beauty, and very high prices were offered for him; the old man, however, raised the price higher and higher at every offer. The news spread quickly about the city that a wonderfully handsome horse was for sale in the market-place, and at length the king himself heard of it, and sent some servants to bring the horse, that he might see it. The old man led the horse at once before the palace, and the king, after looking at it for some time with great admiration, could not help exclaiming, 'By my word, though I am a king, I never yet saw, much less rode, so handsome a horse!' Then he asked the old man if he would sell it him. 'I will sell it to your Majesty, very willingly,' said the old man; 'but I will sell only the horse, and not the halter.' Thereupon the king laughed, saying, 'What should I want with your dirty halter? For such a horse I will have a halter of gold made!' So the horse was sold to the king for a very high price, and the old man returned home with the money. Next morning, however, there was a great stir and much consternation in the royal stables, for the beautiful horse had vanished somehow during the night. And at the time when the horse disappeared, the young man returned to his parents' hut. A day or two afterwards the young man said to his father, 'Now I will turn myself into a fine church not far from the king's palace, and if the king wishes to buy it you may sell it him, only be sure not to part with the key or else I must remain always a church!' When the king got up that morning, and went to his window to look out, he saw a beautiful church which he had never noticed before. Then he sent his servants out to see what it was, and soon after they came back saying, that 'the church belonged to an old pilgrim, who told them that he was willing to sell it if the king wished to buy it.' Then the king sent to ask what price he would sell it for, and the pilgrim replied, 'It is worth a great deal of money.' Whilst the servants were bargaining with the father an old woman came up. Now this was the same old woman who had sent the young man to the castle of the four giants, and she herself had been there and had learnt the trade that no one knew. As she understood at once all about the church, and had no mind to have a rival in the trade, she resolved to put an end to the young man. For this purpose she began to outbid the king, and offered, at last, so very large a sum of ready money, that the old man was quite astonished and confused at seeing the money which she showed him. He accordingly accepted her offer, but whilst he was counting the money, quite forgot about the key. Before long, however, he recollected what his son had said, and then, fearing some mischief, he ran after the old woman and demanded the key back. But the old woman could not be persuaded to give back the key, and said it belonged to the church which she had bought and paid for. Seeing she would not give up the key, the old man grew more and more alarmed, lest some ill should befall his son, so he took hold of the old woman by the neck and forced her to drop the key. She struggled very hard to get it back again, and, whilst the old man and she wrestled together, the key changed itself suddenly into a dove and flew away high in the air over the palace gardens. When the old woman saw this, she changed herself into a hawk and chased the dove. Just, however, as the hawk was about to pounce upon it, the dove turned itself into a beautiful bouquet, and dropped down into the hand of the king's daughter who happened to be walking in the garden. Then the hawk changed again into the old woman, who went to the gate of the palace and begged very hard that the princess would give her that bouquet, or, at least, one single flower from it. But the princess said, 'No! not for anything in the world! These flowers fell to me from heaven!' The old woman, however, was determined to get one flower from the bouquet, so, seeing the princess would not hear her, she went straight to the king, and begged piteously that he would order his daughter to give her one of the flowers from her bouquet. The king, thinking the old woman wanted one of the flowers to cure some disease, called his daughter to him, and told her to give one to the beggar. But just as the king said this, the bouquet changed itself into a heap of millet-seed and scattered itself all over the ground. Then the old woman quickly changed herself into a hen and chickens, and began greedily to pick up the seeds. Suddenly, however, the millet vanished, and in its place appeared a fox, which sprang on the hen and killed her. Then the fox changed into the young man, who explained to the astonished king and princess that he it was who had demanded the hand of the princess, and that, in order to obtain it, he had wandered all over the world in search of some one who could teach him 'the trade that no one knows.' When the king and his daughter heard this, they gladly fulfilled their part of the bargain, seeing how well the young man had fulfilled his. Then, shortly afterwards, the king's daughter married the son of the poor old couple; and the king built for the princess and her husband a palace close to his own. There they lived long and had plenty of children, and people say that some of their descendants are living at present, and that these go constantly to pray in the church, which is always open because the key of it turned itself into a young man who married the king's daughter, after he had shown to her that he had done as she wished, and learnt, for her sake, 'the trade that no one knows.' THE THREE SUITORS. In a very remote country there formerly lived a king who had only one child,--an exceedingly beautiful daughter. The princess had a great number of suitors, and amongst them were three young noblemen, whom the king loved much. As, however, the king liked the three nobles equally well, he could not decide to which of the three he should give his daughter as a wife. One day, therefore, he called the three young noblemen to him, and said, 'Go all of you and travel about the world. The one of you who brings home the most remarkable thing shall become my son-in-law!' The three suitors started at once on their travels, each of them taking opposite ways, and going in search of remarkable things into distant and different countries. A long time had not passed before one of the young nobles found a wonderful carpet which would carry rapidly through the air whoever sat upon it. Another of them found a marvellous telescope, through which he could see everybody and everything in the world, and even the many-coloured sands at the bottom of the great deep sea. The third found a wonder-working ointment, which could cure every disease in the world, and even bring dead people back to life again. Now the three noble travellers were far distant from each other when they found these wonderful things. But when the young man who had found the telescope looked through it he saw one of his former friends and present rivals walking with a carpet on his shoulder, and so he set out to join him. As he could always see, by means of his marvellous telescope, where the other nobleman was, he had no great difficulty in finding him, and when the two had met, they sat side by side on the wonderful carpet, and it carried them through the air until they had joined the third traveller. One day, when each of them had been telling of the remarkable things he had seen in his travels, one of them exclaimed suddenly, 'Now let us see what the beautiful princess is doing, and where she is.' Then the noble who had found the telescope looked through it and saw, to his great surprise and dismay, that the king's daughter was lying very sick, and at the point of death. He told this to his two friends and rivals, and they, too, were as thunderstruck at the bad news--until the one who had found the wonder-working ointment, remembering it suddenly, exclaimed, 'I am sure I could cure her, if I could only reach the palace soon enough!' On hearing this, the noble who had found the wonderful carpet, cried out, 'Let us sit down on my carpet, and it will quickly carry us to the king's palace!' Thereupon the three nobles gently placed themselves on the carpet, which rose instantly in the air, and carried them direct to the king's palace. The king received them immediately; but said very sadly, 'I am sorry for you; for all your travels have been in vain. My daughter is just dying, so she can marry none of you!' But the nobleman who possessed the wonder-working ointment said respectfully, 'Do not fear, sire, the princess will not die!' And on being permitted to enter the apartment where she lay sick, he placed the ointment so that she could smell it. In a few moments the princess revived, and when her waiting-women had rubbed a little of the ointment in her skin she recovered so quickly that in a few days she was better than she had been before she was taken ill. The king was so glad to have his daughter given back to him, as he thought, from the grave, that he declared that she should marry no one but the young nobleman whose wonderful ointment had cured her. But now a great dispute arose between the three young nobles; the one who possessed the ointment affirmed that had he not found it the princess would have died, and could not, therefore, have married any one; the noble who owned the telescope declared that had he not found the wonderful telescope they would never have known that the princess was dying, and so his friend would not have brought the ointment to cure her; whilst the third noble proved to them that had he not found the wonderful carpet, neither the finding of the ointment nor the telescope would have helped the princess, since they could not have travelled such a great distance in time to save her. The king, overhearing this dispute, called the young noblemen to him, and said to them, 'My lords, from what you have said, I see that I cannot, with justice, give my daughter to any of you; therefore, I pray you to give up altogether the idea of marrying her, and that you continue friends as you always were before you became rivals.' The three young nobles saw that the king had decided justly; so they all left their native country, and went into a far-off desert to live like hermits. And the king gave the princess to another of his great nobles. Many, many years had passed away since the marriage of the princess, when her husband was sent by her father to a distant country with which the king was waging war. The nobleman took his wife, the princess, with him, as he was uncertain how long he might be forced to remain abroad. Now it happened that a violent storm arose just as the vessel, in which the princess and her husband were, was approaching a strange coast, and in the height of the great tempest the ship dashed on some rocks, and went to pieces instantly. All the people on board perished in the waves, excepting only the princess, who clung very fast to a boat, and was carried by the wind and the tide to the sea-shore. There she found what seemed to be an uninhabited country, and, finding a small cave in a rock, she lived in it alone three years, feeding on wild herbs and fruits. She searched every day to find some way out of the forest which surrounded her cave, but could find none. One day, however, when she had wandered farther than usual from the cave where she lived, she came suddenly on another cave, which had, to her great astonishment, a small door. She tried over and over again to open the door, thinking she would pass the night in the cave; but all her efforts were unavailing, it was shut so fast. At length, however, a deep voice from within the cave called out, 'Who is at the door?' At this the princess was so surprised that she could not answer for some moments; when, however, she had recovered a little, she said, 'Open me the door!' Immediately the door was opened from within, and she saw, with sudden terror, an old man with a thick grey beard reaching below his waist, and long white hair flowing over his shoulders. What frightened the princess the more was her finding a man living here in the same desert where she had lived herself three years without seeing a single soul. The hermit and the princess looked at each long and earnestly without saying a word. At length, however, the old man said, 'Tell me, are you an angel or a daughter of this world?' Then the princess answered, 'Old man, let me rest a moment, and then I will tell you all about myself, and what brought me here!' So the hermit brought out some wild pears, and when the princess had taken some of them, she began to tell him who she was, and how she came in that desert. She said, 'I am a king's daughter, and once, many years ago, three young nobles of my father's court asked the king for my hand in marriage. Now the king had such an equal affection for all these three young men that he was unwilling to give pain to any of them, so he sent them to travel into distant countries, and promised to decide between them when they returned. 'The three noblemen remained a long time away; and whilst they were still abroad somewhere, I fell dangerously ill. I was just at the point of death, when they all three returned suddenly; one of them bringing a wonderful ointment which cured me at once; the two others brought each equally remarkable things--a carpet that would carry whoever sat on it through the air, and a telescope with which one could see everybody and everything in the world, even to the sands at the bottom of the sea.' The princess had gone on thus far with her story, when the hermit suddenly interrupted her, saying, 'All that happened afterwards I know as well as you can tell me. Look at me, my daughter! I am one of those noblemen who sought to win your hand, and here is the wonderful telescope.' And the hermit brought out the instrument from a recess in the side of his cave before he continued, 'My two friends and rivals came with me to this desert. We parted, however, immediately, and have never met since. I know not whether they are living or dead, but I will look for them.' Then the hermit looked through his telescope, and saw that the other two noblemen were living in caves like his, in different parts of the same desert. Having found this out, he took the princess by the hand, and led her on until they found the other hermits. When all were re-united, the princess related her adventures since the ship, in which her husband was, had gone down, and she alone had been saved. The three noble hermits were pleased to see her alive once again, but at once decided that they ought to send her back to the king, her father. Then they made the princess a present of the wonderful telescope, and the wonder-working ointment, and placed her on the wonderful carpet, which carried her and her treasures quickly and safely to her father's palace. As for the three noblemen, they remained, still living like hermits, in the desert, only they visited each other now and then, so that the years seemed no longer so tedious to them. For they had many adventures to relate to each other. The king was exceedingly glad to receive his only child back safely, and the princess lived with her father many years but neither the king nor his daughter could entirely forget the three noble friends who, for her sake, lived like hermits in a wild desert in a far-off land. THE GOLDEN-HAIRED TWINS. Once upon a time, a long, long while ago, there lived a young king who wished very much to marry, but could not decide where he had better look for a wife. One evening as he was walking disguised through the streets of his capital, as it was his frequent custom to do, he stopped to listen near an open window where he heard three young girls chatting gaily together. The girls were talking about a report which had been lately spread through the city, that the king intended soon to marry. One of the girls exclaimed, 'If the king would marry me I would give him a son who should be the greatest hero in the world.' The second girl said, 'And if I were to be his wife I would present him with two sons at once. Two twins with golden hair.' And the third girl declared that were the king to marry _her_ she would give him a daughter so beautiful that there should not be her equal in the whole wide world! The young king listened to all this, and for some time thought over their words, and tried to make up his mind which of the three girls he should choose for his wife. At last he decided that he would marry the one who had said she would bring him twins with golden hair. Having once settled this in his own mind, he ordered that all preparations for his marriage should be made forthwith, and shortly after, when all was ready, he married the second girl of the three. Several months after his marriage, the young king, who was at war with one of the neighbouring princes, received tidings of the defeat of his army, and heard that his presence was immediately required in the camp. He accordingly left his capital and went to his army, leaving the young queen in his palace to the care of his stepmother. Now the king's stepmother hated her daughter-in-law very much indeed, so when the young queen was near her confinement, the old queen told her that it was always customary in the royal family for the heirs to the throne to be born in a garret. The young queen (who knew nothing about the customs in royal families except what she had learnt from hearing or seeing since her marriage to the king) believed implicitly what her mother-in-law told her, although she thought it a great pity to leave her splendid apartments and go up into a miserable attic. Now when the golden-haired twins were born, the old queen contrived to steal them out of their cradle, and put in their place two ugly little dogs. She then caused the two beautiful golden-haired boys to be buried alive in an out-of-the-way spot in the palace gardens, and then sent word to the king that the young queen had given him two little dogs instead of the heirs he was hoping for. The wicked stepmother said in her letter to the king that she herself was not surprised at this, though she was very sorry for his disappointment. As to herself, she had a long time suspected the young queen of having too great a friendship for goblins and elves, and all kinds of evil spirits. When the king received this letter, he fell into a frightful rage, because he had only married the young girl in order to have the golden-haired twins she had promised him as heirs to his throne. So he sent word back to the old queen that his wife should be put at once into the dampest dungeon in the castle, an order which the wicked woman took good care to see carried out without delay. Accordingly the poor young queen was thrown into a miserably dark dungeon under the palace, and kept on bread and water. Now there was only a very small hole in this prison--hardly large enough to let in light and air--yet the old queen managed to cause a great many people to pass by this hole, and whoever passed was ordered to spit at and abuse the unhappy young queen, calling out to her, 'Are you really the queen? Are you the girl who cheated the king in order to be a queen? Where are your golden-haired twins? You cheated the king and your friends, and now the witches have cheated you!' But the young king, though terribly angry and mortified at his great disappointment, was, at the same time, too sad and troubled to be willing to return to his palace. So he remained away for fully nine years. When he at last consented to return, the first thing he noticed in the palace gardens were two fine young trees, exactly the same size and the same shape. These trees had both golden leaves and golden blossoms, and had grown up of themselves from the very spot where the stepmother of the king had buried the two golden-haired boys she had stolen from their cradle. The king admired these two trees exceedingly, and was never weary of looking at them. This, however, did not at all please the old queen, for she knew that the two young princes were buried just where the trees grew, and she always feared that by some means what she had done would come to the king's ears. She therefore pretended that she was very sick, and declared that she was sure she should die unless her stepson, the king, ordered the two golden-leaved trees to be cut down, and a bed made for her out of their wood. As the king was not willing to be the cause of her death, he ordered that her wishes should be attended to, notwithstanding he was exceedingly sorry to lose his favourite trees. A bed was soon made from the two trees, and the seemingly sick old queen was laid on it as she desired. She was quite delighted that the golden-leaved trees had disappeared from the garden; but when midnight came, she could not sleep a bit, for it seemed to her that she heard the boards of which her bed was made in conversation with each other! At last it seemed to her, that one board said, quite plainly, 'How are you, my brother?' And the other board answered, 'Thank you, I am very well; how are you?' 'Oh, I am all right,' returned the first board; 'but I wonder how our poor mother is in her dark dungeon! Perhaps she is hungry and thirsty!' The wicked old queen could not sleep a minute all night, after hearing this conversation between the boards of her new bed; so next morning she got up very early and went to see the king. She thanked him for attending to her wish, and said she already was much better, but she felt quite sure she would never recover thoroughly unless the boards of her new bed were cut up and thrown into a fire. The king was sorry to lose entirely even the boards made out of his two favourite trees, nevertheless he could not refuse to use the means pointed out for his stepmother's perfect recovery. So the new bed was cut to pieces and thrown into the fire. But whilst the boards were blazing and crackling, two sparks from the fire flew into the courtyard, and in the next moment two beautiful lambs with golden fleeces and golden horns were seen gambolling about the yard. The king admired them greatly, and made many inquiries who had sent them there, and to whom they belonged. He even sent the public crier many times through the city, calling on the owners of the golden-fleeced lambs to appear and claim them; but no one came, so at length he thought he might fairly take them as his own property. The king took very great care of these two beautiful lambs, and every day directed that they should be well fed and attended to; this, however, did not at all please his stepmother. She could not endure even to look on the lambs with their golden fleeces and golden horns, for they always reminded her of the golden-haired twins. So, in a little while she pretended again to be dangerously sick, and declared she felt sure she should soon die unless the two lambs were killed and cooked for her. The king was even fonder of his golden-fleeced lambs than he had been of the golden-leaved trees, but he could not long resist the tears and prayers of the old queen, especially as she seemed to be very ill. Accordingly, the lambs were killed, and a servant was ordered to carry their golden fleeces down to the river and to wash the blood well out of them. But whilst the servant held them under the water, they slipped, in some way or another, out of his fingers, and floated down the stream, which just at that place flowed very rapidly. Now it happened that a hunter was passing near the river a little lower down, and, as he chanced to look in the water, he saw something strange in it. So he stepped into the stream, and soon fished out a small box which he carried to his house, and there opened it. To his unspeakably great surprise, he found in the box two golden-haired boys. Now the hunter had no children of his own; he therefore adopted the twins he had fished out of the river, and brought them up just as if they had been his own sons. When the twins were grown up into handsome young men, one of them said to his foster-father, 'Make us two suits of beggar's clothes, and let us go and wander a little about the world!' The hunter, however, replied and said, 'No, I will have a fine suit made for each of you, such as is fitting for two such noble-looking young men.' But as the twins begged hard that he should not spend his money uselessly in buying fine clothes, telling him that they wished to travel about as beggars, the hunter--who always liked to do as his two handsome foster-sons wished--did as they desired, and ordered two suits of clothes, like those worn by beggars, to be prepared for them. The two sons then dressed themselves up as beggars, and as well as they could hid their beautiful golden locks, and then set out to see the world. They took with them a gusle[33] and a cymbal, and maintained themselves with their singing and playing. [33] 'Gusle,' one-stringed instrument on which the Servian bards accompany their recitation of ballads. They had wandered about in this way some time when one day they came to the king's palace. As the afternoon was already pretty far advanced, the young musicians begged to be allowed to pass the night in one of the outbuildings belonging to the court, as they were poor men, and quite strangers in the city. The old queen, however, who happened to be just then in the courtyard saw them, and hearing their request, said sharply that beggars could not be permitted to enter any part of the king's palace. The two travellers said they had hoped to pay for their night's lodging by their songs and music, as one of them played and sung to the gusle, and the other to the cymbal. The old queen, however, was not moved by this, but insisted on their going away at once. Happily for the two brothers the king himself came out into the courtyard just as his stepmother angrily ordered them to go away, and at once directed his servants to find a place for the musicians to sleep in, and ordered them to provide the brothers with a good supper. After they had supped, the king commanded them to be brought before him that he might judge of their skill as musicians, and that their singing might help him to pass the time more pleasantly. Accordingly, after the two young men had taken the refreshment provided for them, the servants took them into the king's presence, and they began to sing this ballad:-- 'The pretty bird, the swallow, built her nest with care, in the palace of the king. In the nest she reared up happily two of her little ones. A black, ugly-looking bird, however, came to the swallow's nest to mar her happiness, and to kill her two little ones. And the ugly black bird succeeded in destroying the happiness of the poor little swallow; the little ones, however, although yet weak and unfledged, were saved, and, when they were grown up and able to fly, they came to look at the palace where their mother, the pretty swallow, had built her nest.' This strange song the two minstrels sung so very sweetly that the king was quite charmed, and asked them the meaning of the words. Whereupon the two meanly dressed young men took off their hats, so that the rich tresses of their golden hair fell down over their shoulders, and the light glanced so brightly upon it that the whole hall was illuminated by the shining. They then stepped forward together, and told the king all that had happened to them and to their mother, and convinced him that they were really his own sons. The king was exceedingly angry when he heard all the cruel things his stepmother had done, and he gave orders that she should be burnt to death. He then went with the two golden-haired princes to the miserable dungeon wherein his unfortunate wife had been confined so many years, and brought her once more into her beautiful palace. There, looking on her golden-haired sons, and seeing how much the king, their father, loved them, she soon forgot all her long years of misery. As to the king, he felt that he could never do enough to make amends for all the misfortunes his queen had lived through, and all the dangers to which his twins sons had been exposed. He felt that he had too easily believed the stories of the old queen, because he would not trouble himself to inquire more particularly into the truth or falsehood of the strange things she had told him. After all this mortification, and trouble, and misery, everything came right at last. So the king and his wife, with their golden-haired twins, lived together long and happily. THE DREAM OF THE KING'S SON. There was once a king who had three sons. One evening, when the young princes were going to sleep, the king ordered them to take good note of their dreams and come and tell them to him next morning. So, the next day the princes went to their father as soon as they awoke, and the moment the king saw them he asked of the eldest, 'Well, what have you dreamt?' The prince answered, 'I dreamt that I should be the heir to your throne.' And the second said, 'And I dreamt that I should be the first subject in the kingdom.' Then the youngest said, '_I_ dreamt that I was going to wash my hands, and that the princes, my brothers, held the basin, whilst the queen, my mother, held fine towels for me to dry my hands with, and your majesty's self poured water over them from a golden ewer.' The king, hearing this last dream, became very angry, and exclaimed, 'What! I--the king--pour water over the hands of my own son! Go away this instant out of my palace, and out of my kingdom! You are no longer my son.' The poor young prince tried hard to make his peace with his father, saying that he was really not to be blamed for what he had only dreamed; but the king grew more and more furious, and at last actually thrust the prince out of the palace. So the young prince was obliged to wander up and down in different countries, until one day, being in a large forest, he saw a cave, and entered it to rest. There, to his great surprise and joy, he found a large kettle full of Indian corn, boiling over a fire and, being exceedingly hungry, began to help himself to the corn. In this way he went until he was shocked to see he had nearly eaten up all the maize, and then, being afraid some mischief would come of it, he looked about for a place in which to hide himself. At this moment, however, a great noise was heard at the cave-mouth, and he had only time to hide himself in a dark corner before a blind old man entered, riding on a great goat and driving a number of goats before him. The old man rode straight up to the kettle, but as soon as he found that the corn was nearly all gone, he began to suspect some one was there, and groped about the cave until he caught hold of the prince. 'Who are you?' asked he sharply; and the prince answered, 'I am a poor, homeless wanderer about the world, and have come now to beg you to be good enough to receive me.' 'Well,' said the old man, 'why not? I shall at least have some one to mind my corn whilst I am out with my goats in the forest.' So they lived together for some time; the prince remaining in the cave to boil the maize, whilst the old man drove out his goats every morning into the forest. One day, however, the old man said to the prince, 'I think you shall take out the goats to-day, and I will stay at home to mind the corn.' This the prince consented to very gladly, as he was tired of living so long quietly in the cave. But the old man added, 'Mind only one thing! There are nine different mountains, and you can let the goats go freely over eight of them, but you must on no account go on the ninth. The Vilas (_fairies_) live there, and they will certainly put out your eyes as they have put out mine, if you venture on their mountain.' The prince thanked the old man for his warning, and then, mounting the great goat, drove the rest of the goats before him out of the cave. Following the goats, he had passed over all the mountains to the eighth, and from this he could see the ninth mountain, and could not resist the temptation he felt to go upon it. So he said to himself, 'I will venture up, whatever happens!' Hardly had he stepped on the ninth mountain before the fairies surrounded him, and prepared to put out his eyes. But, happily a thought came into his head, and he exclaimed, quickly, 'Dear Vilas, why take this sin on your heads? Better let us make a bargain, that if you spring over a tree that I will place ready to jump over, you shall put out my eyes, and I will not blame you!' So the Vilas consented to this, and the prince went and brought a large tree, which he cleft down the middle almost to the root; this done, he placed a wedge to keep the two halves of the trunk open a little. When it was fixed upright, he himself first jumped over it, and then he said to the Vilas, 'Now it is your turn. Let us see if you can spring over the tree!' One Vila attempted to spring over, but the same moment the prince knocked the wedge out, and the trunk closing, at once held the Vila fast. Then all the other fairies were alarmed, and begged him to open the trunk and let their sister free, promising, in return, to give him anything he might ask. The prince said, 'I want nothing except to keep my own eyes, and to restore eyesight to that poor old man.' So the fairies gave him a certain herb, and told him to lay it over the old man's eyes, and then he would recover his sight. The prince took the herb, opened the tree a little so as to let the fairy free, and then rode back on the goat to the cave, driving the other goats before him. When he arrived there he placed at once the herb on the old man's eyes, and in a moment his eyesight came back, to his exceeding surprise and joy. Next morning the old man, before he drove out his goats, gave the prince the keys of eight closets in the cave, but warned him on no account to open the ninth closet, although the key hung directly over the door. Then he went out, telling the prince to take good care that the corn was ready for their suppers. Left alone in the cave, the young man began to wonder what might be in the ninth closet, and at last he could not resist the temptation to take down the key and open the door to look in. What was his surprise to see there a golden horse, with a golden greyhound beside him, and near them a golden hen and golden chickens were busy picking up golden millet-seeds. The young prince gazed at them for some time, admiring their beauty, and then he spoke to the golden horse, 'Friend, I think we had better leave this place before the old man comes back again.' 'Very well,' answered the golden horse, 'I am quite willing to go away, only you must take heed to what I am going to tell. Go and find linen cloth enough to spread over the stones at the mouth of the cave, for if the old man hears the ring of my hoofs he will be certain to kill you. Then you must take with you a little stone, a drop of water, and a pair of scissors, and the moment I tell you to throw them down you must obey me quickly, or you are lost.' The prince did everything that the golden horse had ordered him, and then, taking up the golden hen with her chickens in a bag, he placed it under his arm, and mounted the horse and rode quickly out of the cave, leading with him, in a leash, the golden greyhound. But the moment they were in the open air the old man, although he was very far off, tending his goats on a distant mountain, heard the clang of the golden hoofs, and cried to his great goat, 'They have run away. Let us follow them at once.' In a wonderfully short time the old man on his great goat came so near the prince on his golden horse, that the latter shouted, 'Throw now the little stone!' The moment the prince had thrown it down, a high rocky mountain rose up between him and the old man and before the goat had climbed over it, the golden horse had gained much ground. Very soon, however, the old man was so nearly catching them that the horse shouted, 'Throw, now, the drop of water!' The prince obeyed instantly, and immediately saw a broad river flowing between him and his pursuer. It took the old man on his goat so long to cross the river that the prince on his golden horse was far away before them; but for all that it was not very long before the horse heard the goat so near behind him that he shouted, 'Throw the scissors.' The prince threw them, and the goat, running over them, injured one of his forelegs very badly. When the old man saw this, he exclaimed, 'Now I see I cannot catch you, so you may keep what you have taken. But you will do wisely to listen to my counsel. People will be sure to kill you for the sake of your golden horse, so you had better buy at once a donkey, and take the hide to cover your horse. And do the same with your golden greyhound.' Having said this, the old man turned and rode back to his cave; and the prince lost no time in attending to his advice, and covered with donkey-hide his golden horse and his golden hound. After travelling a long time the prince came unawares to the kingdom of his father. There he heard that the king had had a ditch--three hundred yards wide and four hundred yards deep--dug, and had proclaimed that whosoever should leap his horse over it, should have the princess, his daughter, for wife. Almost a whole year had elapsed since the proclamation was issued, but as yet no one had dared to risk the leap. When the prince heard this, he said, 'I will leap over it with my donkey and my dog!' and he leapt over it. But the king was very angry when he heard that a poorly dressed man, on a donkey, had dared to leap over the great ditch which had frightened back his bravest knights; so he had the disguised prince thrown into one of his deepest dungeons, together with his donkey and his dog. Next morning the king sent some of his servants to see if the man was still living, and these soon ran back to him, full of wonder, and told him that they had found in the dungeon, instead of a poor man and his donkey, a young man, beautifully dressed, a golden horse, a golden greyhound, and a golden hen, surrounded by golden chickens, which were picking up golden millet-seeds from the ground. Then the king said, 'That must be some powerful prince.' So he ordered the queen, and the princes, his sons, to prepare all things for the stranger to wash his hands. Then he went down himself into the dungeon, and led the prince up with much courtesy, desiring to make thus amends for the past ill-treatment. The king himself took a golden ewer full of water, and poured some over the prince's hands, whilst the two princes held the basin under them, and the queen held out fine towels to dry them on. This done, the young prince exclaimed, 'Now, my dream is fulfilled;' and they all at once recognised him, and were very glad to see him once again amongst them. THE THREE BROTHERS. There was once upon a time an old man whose family consisted of his wife, three sons, and a daughter. They were exceedingly poor, and finding that they could not possibly all live at home, the three sons and the daughter went out into the world in different directions to find some means of living. Thus the old man and his wife remained alone. Having neither horses nor oxen, the old man was obliged to go every day to the forest for fuel, and carry home the firewood on his back. On one occasion it was nearly evening when he started to go to the forest, and his wife, who was afraid to remain alone in the house, begged very hard to be permitted to go with him. He objected very much at first, but as she persisted in her entreaties, he at length consented to her following him, first bidding her, however, take good care to make the house-door safe, lest some one should break into the house. The old woman thought the door would be safest if she took it off its hinges, and carried it away on her back. So she took it off and followed her husband as fast as she was able. The old man, however, was not angry when he saw how she had mistaken his words, and the manner she had chosen to make sure of the door; for, he reflected, there was little or nothing at all in the house for any one to steal. When they had reached the forest the husband began to cut wood, and his wife gathered the branches together in a heap. Meanwhile it had got very late, and they were anxious as to how they should pass the night, seeing their own house was so far off that they would be unable to reach it before morning, and there were no houses in the neighbourhood where they could sleep. At last they observed a very tall and widely spreading pine-tree, and they resolved to climb up and pass the night on one of its branches. The man got up first, and his wife followed him, drawing, with great difficulty, the door after her. Her husband advised her to leave the door on the ground under the tree; but she would not listen to him, and could not be persuaded to remain in the tree without her house-door. Hardly had they settled themselves on a branch, the old woman holding fast her door, before they heard a great noise, which came nearer and nearer. They were excessively frightened at the noise, and dared neither speak nor move. In a short time they saw a captain of robbers followed by twelve of his men, approach the tree; the robbers were dressed all alike, in gold and silver, and one of them carried a sheep killed and ready for roasting. When the old man and woman saw the band of robbers come and settle under the pine-tree in which they had themselves taken refuge they thought their time was come, and gave themselves up for lost. As soon as the robbers had settled themselves, the youngest of them made a fire and put the sheep down to roast, whilst the captain conversed with the others. The sheep was already roasted and cut up, and the robbers had begun with great gaiety to eat it, when the old woman told her husband that she could not possibly hold the door any longer, but must let it fall. The old man begged her piteously not to let it go, but to hold it fast and keep quiet, lest the robbers should discover and kill them. The old woman said, however, that she was so exceedingly tired she could no longer by any possibility hold it. The old man, seeing it was no good talking about it, declared that, as he could not hold his corner of the door any longer when she had let go her corner, it was not worth while to complain, 'since,' as he said, 'what must be must be, and it is no use to be sorry for anything in this world.' Thereupon they both loosened their holds of the door at once, and it fell down, making a great noise--especially with its iron lock--as it fell from branch to branch. The door made so much noise in falling, that the whole forest re-echoed with the sound. The robbers, greatly astonished at the noise, and too frightened by the unexpected clashing above their heads to see what was the cause, took to their heels, without once thinking of the roast sheep they left behind, or of any of the treasures which they had brought with them. One of them alone did not run away far from the spot, but hid himself behind a tree, and waited to see what might come of so much noise. The old couple, seeing the robbers did not return, came down from the tree, and, being exceedingly hungry, began to eat heartily; the old man all the time praising the wisdom of his wife in throwing down the door. The robber who had hidden himself, seeing only the old people near the fire, came up to them, and begged to be allowed to share their meal, as he had not eaten anything for the last twenty-four hours. This they permitted, and spoke of all kinds of things, until the old man exclaimed suddenly to the robber, 'Take care! you have a hair on your tongue! Do not choke yourself, for I have no means to bury you here!' The brigand took this joke in earnest, and begged the old man to take the hair out of his mouth, and he would in return show him a cave wherein a great treasure was hidden. As he was describing the great heaps of gold ducats, thalers, shillings, and other coins which he said were in the cave, the old woman interrupted him, saying, 'I will take the hair out of your mouth, without pay! Only put your tongue out and shut your eyes!' The robber very gladly did as she told him, and she caught up a knife and in a moment cut off a piece of his tongue. Then she said, 'Well, now! I have taken the hair out!' When the robber felt what had been done to him he jumped up and down in pain, and at length ran away without hat or coat in the same direction as his companions had gone, shouting all the time, 'Help! help! give me some plaster!' His companions, hearing imperfectly these words, misunderstood him, and thought he cried to them, 'Help yourselves; here is the police-master!' especially as he ran as if the captain of police with a large force was at his heels. Accordingly, the robbers themselves ran faster and farther away. Meanwhile the old couple thought it no longer safe to stay under the pine-tree, so they gathered up quickly all the money, whether gold or silver, which they could carry, and hurried back to their home. When they got there they found the hens of the neighbours had pulled off the thatch of their house; they were, however, the less sorry for this, since they had now money enough to build another and a better home. And this they did, and continued to live in their fine new house without once remembering their sons and daughter, who had been wandering about the world already some nine long years. In the meantime the sons and the daughter had been working each in a different part of the world. When, however, they had been away from their home nine years, they all, as if by common consent, conceived an ardent desire to go back once more to their father's house. So they took the whole of the savings which they had laid up in their nine years' service, and commenced their journeys homewards. On his travels the eldest brother met with three gipsies, who were teaching a young bear to dance by putting him on a red-hot plate of iron. He felt compassion for the creature in its sufferings, and asked the gipsies why they were thus tormenting the animal. 'Better,' he said, 'let me have it, and I will give you three pieces of silver for it!' The gipsies accepted the offer eagerly, took the three pieces of silver, and gave him the bear. Travelling farther on he met with some huntsmen who had caught a young wolf, which they were about to kill. He offered them, also, three pieces of silver for the animal, and they, pleased to get so much, readily sold it. A little further still he met some shepherds, who were about to hang a little dog. He was sorry for the poor brute, and offered to give them two pieces of silver if they would give the dog to him, and this they very gladly agreed to. So he travelled on homeward, attended by the young bear, the wolf-cub, and the little dog. As all his nine years' savings had amounted only to nine pieces of silver, he had now but a single piece left. Before he reached his father's house he met some boys who were about to drown a cat. He offered them his last piece of money if they would give him the cat, and they were content with the bargain and gave it up to him. So, at last, he arrived at his home without any money, but with a bear, a wolf, a dog, and a cat. Just so, it had happened with the other two brothers. By their nine years' work they had only saved nine pieces of silver, and on their way home they had spent them in ransoming animals, exactly as the eldest brother had done. The sister, in her nine years' service, had saved only five pieces of money. As she travelled homeward she met with a hedgehog who was buying from a mouse its iron teeth, offering in exchange for them its bone teeth and two pieces of money besides. When she had listened a while to their bargaining, she said to the mouse, 'My dear little mouse, I offer you the hedgehog's teeth and three pieces of silver besides!' The mouse instantly agreed to this bargain. So she caught the hedgehog, drew its teeth, and gave them, with three pieces of silver, to the mouse, who gave her in return its iron teeth. As she went on her journey she began to suspect that the mouse had deceived her. To see if this was so or not she determined to make trial of the teeth, and, going a little aside from the road, she found a thick oak-tree and began to bite at it. It seemed to her that she had hardly begun to gnaw at the tree when it already commenced shaking, and threatened to fall. Seeing this, she was satisfied that she had really got the iron teeth, and so went on her journey quite contented. Before she reached her father's house she observed a mouse sharpening its teeth upon a stone. So she begged the mouse to lend her the stone, that she might sharpen her teeth also. The mouse, however, refused to do this unless she gave two pence. Without much reflection, she took out her last two pieces of money and handed them to the mouse, which gave her in return the stone to sharpen her teeth with. Then she resumed her journey homeward. As she walked, however, she reflected upon what she should say when her parents and brothers asked her where she had been, and how much she had saved during the nine years she had been from home. When she reached home she found her three brothers already there with their treasures--that is to say, with their bears, wolves, dogs, and cats. Luckily for her, her brothers did not ask her how much she had saved, for they felt sure that she must have made large savings. They asked her only about her health, and how she had travelled, and were all very glad that they were once again united together as a family. This joy, however, did not last long. Soon after they had returned, the old father died. Then the three brothers consulted together, and decided to invest part of the money, which their father and mother had got from the robbers, in the purchase of four horses and one grass-field. But their affairs did not go on very smoothly. One morning, instead of three horses in the stable they found only two; the third horse had been killed. Something had bitten it, sucked its blood, and devoured half of its body! And it was the finest of the three horses which had been killed. After this, the brothers resolved for the future to keep watch every night in the stable. When night came, they consulted as to which of them should first keep guard, and the youngest brother said, '_I_ will do so.' Accordingly, after having supped, he went to the stable to sleep there. Just about midnight came into the stable a creature all in white, and jumped at once on the youngest horse and began to gnaw it. When the brother who was watching saw that, he was in a great fright; so much so, indeed, that without stopping to find the doors, he got out through a hole in the roof. Whilst he was thus making his escape, the monster killed the horse, sucked its blood, and ate up half the body. Next day, when the elder brothers saw what had happened, they made a great lamentation over their loss. At night the eldest brother said to the second, 'Now do you go and keep a good watch; it is your horse that is in danger!' So the second brother went at once into the stable and lay down. Again, about midnight, the thing in white came in, and the watcher, as much frightened as his younger brother had been the night before, jumped up and escaped just as he had done. The monster, having bitten the horse, sucked its blood, and ate up half of it. Next morning, when he saw what had happened, the eldest brother said that _he_ would keep guard at night over the remaining horse. So at night he went into the stable, gave his horse plenty of hay, and placed himself in a corner to watch. Again, when it was about midnight, the same creature in white came in. Seeing it coming he was first frightened, but soon rallied his spirits and stood, holding his breath, to see what would follow. He saw that the thing in white looked something like his sister, and carried in its hand a whetstone. Coming up to the horse the monster bit it, sucked its blood, and, after having eaten up half the body, left the stable. All that time the eldest brother had remained quiet, never stirring at all. Perhaps he did this from fear; perhaps, however, because he had resolved to be quiet, whatever might happen. Next morning, when the younger brothers found that the horse had been killed and half devoured, during their eldest brother's watch, they began to laugh and to tease him with his loss. He told them that _he_, however, knew what they did not--who it was that had killed and eaten their horses; but that they must not speak a word about it to any one. He then told them that their own sister had slain their horse, and had sucked the blood. At first they refused to believe this; soon, however, they were convinced that it was true. And the proof came in this way. One morning the two elder brothers went into the fields to work, and the younger remained at home. Their sister likewise remained at home, without knowing, however, that her youngest brother was also in the house. The eldest brother on going out had directed the youngest to place a kettle with water on the fire to boil, and to keep stirring the fire under it. In case the water should turn to blood he was immediately to open the cellar, let out a little dog, and bid it follow the way which they had taken when they went into the fields. When the two brothers were gone, the youngest went to walk in the yard, and on coming back heard a great noise and wailing in the house. So he went to the house-door and looked in through the keyhole; and what do you think he saw? His sister had cut her old mother's throat, and was just about to put the body on a spit to roast. On seeing this, he was terribly frightened, and ran to hide himself behind a large tub which stood in the kitchen. Shortly afterward his sister brought the spit out of doors, and put it before the fire to roast, speaking aloud, 'I shall do the same with my three brothers, one after the other, and then I shall remain alone the mistress of the entire property.' When the roasting was done, she carried the spit with the body into the room, and leaning it against a wall, brought out the whetstone and began to sharpen the teeth. The moment she went inside the house, the youngest brother jumped up from his hiding-place, rushed to the door, and from the outside watched what she was doing. When he had seen this, he filled the kettle, stirred up the fire, and then hid himself near the furnace. Having sharpened her teeth, his sister ate up the body of her mother, all except the head. After she had finished her meal, taking the head in her hand, she went out to the kitchen. On seeing the fire burning so well, and the kettle filled with water, she became angry, and began to look about to discover whether any one was in the house. Suspecting one of her brothers might be there, she shouted aloud, calling her brothers by their names, and searched everywhere in the house. Luckily, however, she forgot to look by the side of the furnace, where her younger brother lay hidden. Not finding any one in the house, she then took her mother's head in her hand and ran out, following the way her brothers had gone to their work in the fields. As she ran she shouted, 'Wait a little! Don't think you have escaped me!' The youngest brother, seeing his sister had run away, came out of his concealment to look at the water in the kettle. He saw the water had turned to blood, so he went quickly to the cellar and let out one of the little dogs which his sister feared more than all her brothers. Having let the dog free, the youngest brother came back to the kettle, to see what would happen to the water on the fire. By this time all the water, which had turned to blood, was boiling quickly, and throwing up a great number of bubbles; these bubbles rose the quicker the nearer the sister came to her two brothers in the field. When she was not more than five steps from them, however, she suddenly heard a noise, as if someone was running behind her; so she turned to look, and, seeing the dog coming, was terrified, and tried to save herself by climbing a tree which was close by. When, however, she caught at a branch, it broke in her hand, and she fell to the ground, and the same instant the dog rushed at her, and bit her into two pieces. The two brothers saw all this, but they were afraid to come near her lest she should again revive and attack them. Soon, however, seeing the dog was tearing her to pieces, they became convinced that she was really dead, so they came to the spot where she was, and took up her body and buried it, together with their mother's head, under the tree by which she had fallen. After they had done this, the two brothers returned home, and told their youngest brother all that had happened. He, on his part, told them how the boiling water had turned to blood and at first bubbled up quicker and quicker, but how, after some time, it grew quieter, and, at length, turned again to water. Then the three brothers congratulated themselves at having got rid of their terrible sister. A few days later they all went into the fields to bring in the hay which the two elder ones had mown. They found, however, hardly the third part of the hay which they had left. At this they wondered greatly, and looked about to see who had stolen it; but, finding no one, after a little while they took up what was left and returned home. At length the year, on which all this had happened, passed away. The next year, however, they dared not leave their mown grass unwatched. So they discussed which of them should first keep guard. Each of them offered to do it; but, at last, they agreed that the youngest brother should begin to watch. So he prepared himself, and, at night, went out into the field. Having come there, he climbed up into the tree under which his sister's body and his mother's head lay buried, and resolved to remain there until daybreak. About midnight he heard a great noise and shouting, which frightened him so much that he dared not stir at all. Some creatures came into the field and eat up most of the hay, and what they did not eat they tossed about and spoiled, so that it was fit for nothing. When daylight came, the youngest brother came down from the tree and went home, to tell what he had seen. So that year they had no hay. Next year, when hay harvest came, the three brothers took counsel together how to preserve their hay. The second brother now volunteered to watch in the field, and seemed quite sure he would be able to save the hay. Accordingly he went, and climbed into the tree, just as his brother had done the previous year. About midnight three winged horses came into the field with a company of fairies. The winged horses began to eat the newly mown hay, and the fairies danced over it. After the greater part of the hay had been eaten by the horses, and all the rest had been spoiled by the dancing of the fairies, the whole company left the field, just as day began to dawn. The watcher in the tree had witnessed all this; he was, however, too frightened to do anything--indeed, he hardly dared to move. When he went home, he told his brothers all that he had seen; at which they were sad, since this year again they would have no hay. However, the time passed, and the third summer came on. Again the three brothers cut the grass in their meadow, and consulted together anxiously how they should manage to keep their new hay. At length it was settled that it was now the turn of the eldest brother to keep watch. If he, also, failed to save the hay, it was agreed that they should divide amongst them the little property which they had left, and go out again, separately, to seek their fortunes in the world, seeing they had no luck in their own country. As had been agreed upon, the eldest brother now went out into the field at night; but, instead of going up into the tree as his brothers had done, he lay quietly down on a heap of hay, and waited to see what would happen. About midnight he heard a great noise, afar off, and, by-and-by, a troop of fairies, with three winged horses, came straight towards the place where he lay. Having got there, the fairies began to dance, and the horses to eat the hay, and canter about. The eldest brother looked on, and, at first, felt much afraid, and wished heartily the whole company would go away without seeing him. As, however, they seemed in no hurry to do this, he considered what he should do, and, at length, decided that it would be worth while to try to catch one of the three horses. So, when they came near him, he jumped on the back of one of them, and clung fast to it. The other two horses instantly ran away, and the fairies with them. The horse which the eldest brother had caught tried all sorts of tricks to throw off his unwelcome rider, but he could not succeed. Finding all his attempts to free himself quite useless, at last he said, 'Let me go, my good man, and I will be of use to you some other time.' The man answered, 'I will set you free on one condition; that is, you must promise never more to come in this field; and you must give me some pledge that you will keep your promise.' The horse gladly agreed to this condition, and gave the man a hair from his tail, saying, 'Whenever you happen to be in need, hold this hair to a fire, and I will instantly be at your service.' Thereupon the horse went off, and the eldest brother returned home. His brothers had waited impatiently for his return, and, when they saw him, pressed him immediately to tell them all that had happened. So he told everything, except that he had got a hair from the horse's tail, because he did not believe that the horse would keep his promise and come to him in his need. The two younger brothers, however, had no confidence that the fairies and winged horses would fulfil their promise and never come again to ruin their hay-field, so they proposed that the property should be at once divided, and that they should separate. The eldest brother tried to persuade them to remain at least one other year longer, to see what would happen; he was not able, however, to succeed in this. Accordingly they divided the remnant of their property, took each their animals, that is, each his bear, his wolf, his dog, and his cat, and left their home, for the second time, to seek their fortunes in the world. The first day they travelled together, but the second day they were obliged to separate, because having come to a crossway, and trying to keep on the same path, they found they could not take a step forward so long as they were together. They therefore left that path and tried another; it was, however, of no use, for they could not move a step forward as long as they were together; and when they tried the third path, the same happened there also. So they tried if two of them could go on in one road if one of them went before and the other behind. But this also they were unable to do; they could not get on one step, try as hard as they would, so nothing was left them but to separate and each of them to go alone by a different road. They were exceedingly sorry to part, but could not help themselves. Before the brothers separated, the eldest brother said, 'Now, brothers, before we part, let us stick our knives in this oak-tree; as long as we live our knives will remain where we stick them; when one of us dies, his knife will fall out. Let us, then, come here every third year to see if the knives are still in their places. Thus we shall know something, at least, about each other.' The other two agreed to this, and, having stuck their knives in the oak-tree, and kissed each other, went, each one his own way, taking his animals with him. Let us first follow the youngest brother in his wanderings. He travelled, with his attendant animals, all that day and the following night without stopping, and the next day saw before him a king's palace, and went straight towards it. Having been taken into the presence of the king, he begged his majesty to employ him in watching his goats. The king consented to take him as goat-herd, and from that day he had the charge of the king's goats and lived on thus quietly for a long time. One day the new goat-herd chanced to drive his flock to a high hill, not far from the king's palace. On the summit of the hill there was a very tall pine-tree, and the instant he saw it he resolved to climb up and look about from its top on the surrounding country. Accordingly, he climbed up, and enjoyed exceedingly the extensive and beautiful prospect. As he looked in one direction he saw, a long way off, a great smoke arising from a mountain. The moment he saw the smoke he fancied that one of his brothers must be there, as he thought it unlikely that any one else would be in such a wilderness. So he resolved at once to give up his place of goat-herd, and travel to the mountain which he had seen in the distance. Coming down from the tree, therefore, he immediately collected his goats, which was a very easy task for him to do, since he had such good help in his bear, his wolf, his dog, and his cat. No sooner had he reached the palace than he went straight to the king and said, 'Sir, I can no longer be your Majesty's goat-herd. I must go away, for I saw to-day a smoking mountain, and I believe that one of my brothers is there, and I wish to go and see if this be so. I therefore beg your Majesty to pay me what you owe me, and to let me go!' All this time he thought the king knew nothing about the smoking mountain. When he had said this, however, the king immediately began to advise him on no account to go to the mountain--for, as he assured him, whoever went there never came back again. He told him that all who had gone thither seemed at once to have sunk into the earth, for no one ever heard anything more about them. All the king's warnings and counsels, however, availed nothing; the goat-herd was bent on going to the smoking mountain, and looking after his two brothers. After he had made all preparations for the journey he set out, accompanied, as usual, by his four animals. He went straight to the mountain; but, having got there, he could not at first find the fire. Indeed, he had trouble enough before he discovered it. At length, however, he found a large fire burning under a beech-tree, and went near it to warm himself. At the same time he looked about on all sides to see who had made the fire. After looking about some time he heard a woman's voice, and upon his looking up to see whence the sound came, he saw an old woman sitting on one of the branches above his head. She sat huddled together all of a heap, and shaking with cold. No sooner had he discovered her than the old woman begged him to allow her to come down to the fire and warm herself a little. So he told her she might come down and warm herself as soon as she pleased. She answered, however, 'Oh, my son, I dare not come down because of your company. I am afraid of the animals you have with you--your bear, and wolf, and dog, and cat.' At this he tried to re-assure her and said, 'Don't be afraid! They will do you no harm.' However she would not trust them, so she plucked a hair from her head, and threw it down, saying, 'Put that hair on their necks and then I shall not be afraid to come down.' Accordingly the man took the hair and threw it over his animals, and in a moment the hair was turned into an iron chain which kept his four-footed followers bound fast together. When the old woman saw that he had done as she desired, she came down from the tree and took her place by the fire. She seemed at first a very little woman; as she sat by the fire, however, she began to grow larger. When he saw this he was greatly astonished, and said to her, 'But, my old woman, it seems to me that you grow bigger and bigger!' Thereupon she answered, shivering, 'Ha! ha! no, no, my son! I am only warming myself!' But, nevertheless, she continued to grow taller and taller, and had already grown half as tall as the beech-tree. The goat-herd watched her growing with wide-open eyes, and, beginning to get frightened, said again, 'But really you are getting a fearful size, and are growing taller and taller every moment.' 'Ha, ha, my son,' she coughed and shivered, 'I am only warming myself!' Seeing, however, that she was now as tall as the tallest beech-tree, and, fearing that his life was in danger, he called anxiously to his companions, 'Hold her fast, my bear! Hold her fast, my wolf! Hold her fast, my dog! Hold her fast, my cat!' But it was all in vain that he called to them; none of them could move a step from their places. When he saw that, he endeavoured to run away, but found that he could no more move from his place than if he were fast chained to it. Then the old woman, seeing everything had gone on just as she wished, bent down a little, and, touching him with her little finger, said, 'Go, you have lost your head!' and the self-same moment he turned to ashes. After that, she touched, with the little toe of her left foot, all his animals, one after the other, and they also turned at once to ashes as their master had done. Having collected all the ashes she buried them under an oak-tree. Then as soon as she took the iron chain in her hand, it turned again into a hair, which she put back into its place on her head. She had before done with many young and noble knights just as she had now done with this poor goat-herd. The second brother, after serving a long time in a strange place, was seized with a great desire to go to the oak-tree at the cross-roads, where he had parted with his brothers, in order to see if their knives were still sticking in the tree. When he got there, he found the knife of his eldest brother still firmly fixed in the trunk of the oak, but his youngest brother's knife had fallen to the ground. Then he knew that his younger brother was dead, or in great danger of death, and he resolved at once to follow the way he had gone and try to discover what had become of him. Going then along the same road which his younger brother had travelled, he came, on the third day, to the king's palace, and went in and begged the king to take him into his service. Whereupon the king took him as goat-herd, exactly as he had taken before the youngest brother. When the second brother had tended the king's goats a long time, he one day drove them up a high hill, and, finding there a very tall pine-tree, resolved at once to climb up to its top and look about to see what kind of a country lay on the other side of the hill. When he had looked round a while from the tree he noticed a great volume of smoke rising from a mountain afar off, and the thought came at once to his mind that his brothers might be there. Accordingly, he came down quickly, collected his goats, and went back to the king's palace, followed by his four companions, that is to say, by his bear, his wolf, his dog, and his cat. When he had reached the palace he went straight to the king, and begged him to pay him his wages at once, and to let him go to look after his brothers; for he had seen a smoke upon a mountain, and he believed they were there. The king tried in vain to dissuade him by telling him that none who went there ever came back; but all his Majesty's words availed nothing. Thereupon, seeing he was decided on going, the king paid him what he owed him, and let him go. He at once set out, and went straight to the mountain; but, when he got there, he was a long time before he could find any fire. At last, however, he found one burning under a beech-tree, and he went up to it to warm himself, wondering all the time who had made it, since he saw no one near. As he warmed himself he heard a woman's voice in the tree above his head, and, looking up, saw there an old woman huddled up on a branch, and shaking with cold. As soon as he saw her, the old woman asked him to let her come down and warm herself by the fire, and he told her she might come and warm herself as long as she liked. She said, however, 'I am afraid of the company which you have with you. Take this hair and lay it over your bear, and wolf, and dog, and cat, and then I shall be able to come down.' So saying, she pulled a hair out of her head and threw it down. He laughed at her fears, and assured her that his companions would not hurt her; finding, however, notwithstanding all he said, that she was still afraid to come down from the tree, he, at last, took the hair and laid it on the beasts as she had directed. In an instant the hair turned into an iron chain, and bound the four animals fast together. Then the old woman came down, and took a place by the fire to warm herself. As the second brother watched her warming herself, he saw her grow bigger and bigger, until she had grown half as tall as the beech-tree. Wondering greatly, he exclaimed, 'Old woman, you are growing bigger and bigger.' 'Hy, hy! my son,' said she, coughing and shivering, 'I am only warming myself.' But when he saw that she was already as tall as the beech-tree, he became frightened, and called to his companions, 'Hold her, my bear! hold her, my wolf! hold her, my dog! hold her, my cat!' They were none of them, however, able to move, so fast were they held together by the iron chain. Seeing that, the old woman stooped down and touched him with her little finger, and he fell immediately into ashes. Then she touched the four animals, one after the other, with the little toe of her left foot, and they, also, crumbled to ashes. No sooner had the old woman done this than she collected all the ashes in a heap and buried them under an oak-tree. As she had before done with the ashes of many a youthful knight and gentleman, so she did now with those of this poor simple man. Pity, if they were to die, that some more worthy means than one hair from the head of a miserable old woman had not brought about their deaths! A very long time had passed, and yet the eldest brother never once thought of going back to the cross-roads where he had parted with his brothers. He was engaged in the service of a good and honest master, and, finding himself so well off, fancied that his brothers were the same. His master was an innkeeper, and the whole work of the servant was to prepare, morning and evening, the beds of the guests. He did his duty so well that his master thought of adopting him for his son, as he himself was childless. One day a gentleman of great distinction came to pass the night at the inn, and the servant thought that the stranger looked remarkably like his youngest brother. He wished to ask him his name, but could not for shame; partly because he feared his brother would reproach him for having forgotten to go to the cross-roads; partly because the guest's manners were so polished and his clothes were of fine silk and velvet; whereas he had left his brother very poorly clad, and of rustic manners. As he thought of the likeness which the guest bore to his youngest brother, he considered that, in his travels about the world, his brother might have found wisdom, and by his wisdom might have succeeded in some way of business, and by his business might have gained money; and then, having got money, that it would be easy for him to get as fine clothes as the stranger wore. Reasoning thus, he took courage at last to ask the gentleman about his family, and at length grew bold enough to ask him plainly if he was not his brother. This, however, the stranger quickly and positively denied, and asked, in return, about the servant's family. To all the particulars which the servant gave him he listened with a smile. Next morning, the guest left the inn very early; and when the servant went to arrange the bed in which he had slept, he found, under the pillow, a little stone. He thought the stone must be valuable, having been in the possession of so rich a man, and yet he considered its loss could hardly be felt by one who went clothed in silks and velvets. He lifted it to his lips to kiss it, before putting it in his pocket; but the moment his lips touched it, two negroes started out and asked him, 'What are your orders, sir?' He was frightened by the suddenness of their appearance, and answered, 'I do not order anything.' Then the negroes disappeared, and he put the stone in his pocket. The more he thought of this, the more he marvelled at the wonderful stone, and considered what he should do with it. By-and-by, in order to find out what the negroes could do, he took the stone out of his pocket, and raised it again to his lips. The moment he did so, the negroes re-appeared, and asked him again, 'What do you demand, sir?' He replied quickly, 'I desire to have the finest clothes prepared for me, of which no two pieces must be made from the same kind of stuff.' In a very few moments the negroes brought him the most beautiful clothes possible; so fine indeed were they all, that he could not decide which piece was the most beautiful. Then, dismissing the negroes, who disappeared in the stone, he dressed himself. He was admiring the fine fit of his clothes, when his master came to the door of his room, and, seeing a stranger in such an exceedingly rich dress, said humbly, 'Excuse me, sir, where do you come from?' 'From not far off,' the servant answered. 'Wait a moment, sir,' said the innkeeper; 'I will call my servant to take your orders;' and, going outside, he called loudly for his servant. Meanwhile, the servant quickly threw off his fine clothes and gave them back to the negroes. Dressing himself hurriedly in his old clothes, he rushed out of his room. Then, finding the pantry open, he began to arrange the things. His master found him employed in this way, and ordered him at once to leave that business, and to go into the house to make coffee for a distinguished guest who had that moment arrived. The strange guest, however, was nowhere to be found. The innkeeper looked, with his servant, into all the rooms, but there was no sign of a guest anywhere. Then the master, greatly astonished, thought that some thieves had been playing him a trick, and bid the servant in future to look more sharply who came in and who went out of the inn. The servant listened quietly to his master; but, having once remembered his brothers, he had now an irresistible desire to look after them, and so he told the innkeeper that he had resolved to go away, and desired that he might be paid his wages. The innkeeper was very sad at hearing this, and offered to raise his wages, and tried all means to keep him; but it was of no use. Seeing that the servant was resolved to go away, the master then paid him, and let him leave the inn. Then the eldest brother took with him his four animals--his bear, wolf, dog, and cat, and went away. After travelling a very long time, his good fortune brought him to the cross-roads where he had parted with his brothers. Instantly he rushed to the oak to see if the knives were still sticking in it, but his own knife alone stood in the tree. The two others had fallen out, and he was much grieved at this, believing that his brothers were dead or that they were in great danger. In his trouble he had quite forgotten the wonderful hair and stone which he possessed. He resolved to go and search after his brothers, and therefore went along the same road his youngest brother had taken when they parted. As he travelled he remembered the hair which the winged horse had given him, and the stone which he had found at the inn; but these did not much console him, he was so exceedingly sorry for his brothers. After travelling some time he found himself before a large palace, the door-keepers of which asked him if he would take charge of the king's goats. He said he would, if the king could only tell him something about his two brothers, who had travelled that way with a similar company to that which he had. The king said that no men with such a company had passed that way during his reign; and this was quite true, inasmuch as he had only recently mounted the throne, the old king, under whom the two brothers had served, having lately died. However, though the eldest brother could learn nothing of his two younger brothers, he decided to stay some time there, and so engaged himself to the king as goat-keeper. As he drove the goats out, day by day, he looked about on all sides for some trace of his brothers; for, although their knives had fallen out of the oak-tree, he tried to believe that they were not dead. One day, as he thus wandered about with his goats, he met an old man, who was going to the forest, with his axe on his shoulder, to cut wood. So he asked him if he had seen anything of his two brothers. The old man answered, 'Who knows? Perhaps they have been lost on that mountain where so many other men have lost their lives. Drive your goats up that high hill; from its top you will see a much higher mountain, which smokes, and never ceases to smoke. On that mountain many people have been lost; perhaps your brothers also have perished there. I will, however, give you one piece of good advice. Do not go, for anything in the world, to the place where it smokes. I am now an old man, but I never remember to have seen one man return who went there. Therefore, if your life is dear to you, do not go up that mountain.' So saying the old man went off. The goat-keeper drove his goats up the hill, and, from its top he saw, as he had been told, a very high mountain which smoked. He tried to discover if any living creature was thereon, but he could not see the traces of a single one there. He considered within himself whether he should go there or not, and, after revolving it over in his mind, he at length determined to go. In the evening, when he drove the goats home, he told the king of his intention. The king tried hard to dissuade him, and promised to raise his wages if he would stay with him; however, nothing could turn him from his resolution. So the king paid him, and he went away. Having come to the mountain he found the fire, and wondered who lit it. As he thought over this he heard a woman's voice, saying, 'Hy, hy!' So he looked up, and was astonished at seeing, in the branches of the beech-tree over his head, an old woman huddled together. Her hair was longer than her body, and as white as snow. When he looked up, she said to him, 'My son, I am so cold. I should like to warm myself, but I am afraid of your beasts. I made that fire myself, but, seeing you coming with your animals, I was frightened, and got up here to save myself.' 'Well, you can now come down again, and warm yourself as much as you please,' said he. However, she protested, 'I dare not--your beasts would bite me. But I will throw you a hair, and you shall bind them with it. _Then_ I can come down.' The eldest brother thought to himself: the hair must be a very singular hair indeed, if it could bind his bear, his wolf, his dog, and his cat. So, instead of throwing it over the animals, he threw it into the fire. Meanwhile the old woman came down from the tree, and they both sat by the fire. But he never moved his eyes from her. Very soon she began to grow, and grow, and in a short time she was ten yards high. Then he remembered the words of the old wood-cutter, and trembled. However, he only said to her, 'How you are growing, auntie.' 'Oh, no, my son,' she answered, 'I am only warming myself.' She still grew taller and taller, and had grown as tall as the beech-tree, when he again exclaimed, 'But how you _are_ growing, old woman!' 'Oh, no, my son. I am only warming myself,' she repeated as before. But he saw that she meant him mischief, so he shouted to his companions, 'Hold her, my dog! hold her, my little bear! hold her, my little wolf! hold her, my pussy!' Thereupon they all jumped on the old woman, and began to tear her. Seeing she was unable to help herself, she begged him to save her from her furious enemies, and promised she would give him whatever he asked. 'Well,' said he, 'I demand that you bring back to life my two brothers, with their companions, and all those you have destroyed. Besides that, I demand ten loads of ducats. If you will not comply with these demands, I shall leave you to be torn to pieces by my animals.' The old woman agreed to do all this, only she begged hard that one man should not be brought back to life, because she had said, when she had turned him to ashes, 'When _you_ arise, may _I_ lie down in your place!' and, therefore, she was afraid she should be turned to ashes herself if _he_ came back to life. As the eldest brother, however, thought that she was trying to cheat him, he would not comply with her request. Finding that she could not otherwise help herself, she at length said to him, 'Take some ashes from that heap under the tree, and throw them over yourself and your company, and whilst you do so say, "Arise up, dust and ashes--what I am now may you also be!"' Wonder of wonders! The moment he did as she told him, there arose up crowds of men--more than ten thousand of them. On seeing such a multitude of people coming from under the tree, he was almost struck senseless with astonishment. But he explained to them briefly what had happened. Most of them thanked him heartily; some, however, of them would not believe him, and said with anger, 'We would rather you had not awakened us.' Then they went away in crowds; some took one way, some another, until they were all dispersed. Only his two brothers remained behind; though they, too, for some time could not believe that he was their brother. However, when they saw that their animals recognised his, they remembered that no one but themselves had had such a strange company of beasts. Having recognised each other, the brothers fell into each other's arms, and embraced affectionately. Then they divided the ducats which the old woman had given to the eldest, loaded their animals with their treasures, and went straight away towards the place where they were born, and where their parents had died. As for the old woman, when the last man arose from the ashes under the oak-tree, she herself crumbled into ashes under it. The three brothers built three fine palaces for themselves, and lived therein some time unmarried. At length, however, they began to think what would become of all their property after their deaths, and said to each other that it would be a pity for them to die without heirs. So they resolved to marry, that their wealth might be left to their sons and daughters. The eldest brother said, 'Let me go and find the best wives I can for all three of us; meantime you two will remain here, and take care of our property.' The others gladly agreed to this, as the eldest brother had given proofs enough that he was by far the wisest of the three, and they felt sure that he would be able also to bring this important business to a successful issue. So he made the needful preparations, and started on his journey to look out for three wives for himself and the two younger brothers who remained at home. After long travelling he arrived at a large city, and resolved to remain there all night, and to continue his journey in the morning. It happened that the king of that place had just arranged a horse-race, and promised his only daughter as the prize, and, with her, ten loads of treasure to the winner. The very evening the eldest brother arrived he heard the public bell-man proclaiming aloud through the streets, that every one who had a horse should come to-morrow to the royal field, and whoever should spring first over the ditch should be rewarded with the king's daughter, and should receive, with her, ten loads of gold. He listened to the proclamation without saying anything. Next morning he went out into the king's field in order to see the racing, and found there already innumerable horses of all kinds. A little later came also the princess, the king's daughter, and behind her were brought ten loads of treasures. When he saw the king's daughter he thought her so exceedingly beautiful that he went instantly a little aside from the crowd to get a better sight of her. He then remembered his wonderful stone. Taking it out he now lifted it to his lips, and immediately the two negroes appeared, and said, 'Master what do you command?' He replied, 'Bring me clothes of silk and velvet, together with precious stones, and ten good horses! and bring them as soon as possible!' He had not winked twice before the negroes had placed before him everything which he had demanded. Then he took out the hair, and striking fire with a flint, held the hair near it. The moment he did this, the same cream-coloured horse that had given him the hair stood beside him, and asked, 'Master, what do you command?' He answered, 'I wish that to-day we leave all the other horses behind us in the race, so that I may gain the king's daughter. Therefore prepare yourself, and let us go at once, as the other horses are now ready for starting.' The instant he had spoken these words, the cream-coloured horse stood, pawing the earth, ready and eager to begin the race. The man then mounted it, and off they went. The other racers, having started a few moments before, were already pretty far from the starting-point; in an instant, however, he had reached them, and in another had passed and left them far behind. When he reached the ditch--which was a hundred and five yards deep, and a hundred yards wide--the horse made so great a spring that it touched ground some fifty yards beyond the ditch, broad as it was. Then he rode back and took the maiden, the king's daughter, and, placing her behind him on his horse, carried her off, together with the loads of gold. All the people, seeing this, wondered greatly who the strange knight could be who had left all the best horses so far behind in the race, and had won the beautiful princess, with all her rich treasures. He rode along until he came to a wood pretty far from the city, and there he let his wonderful horse go until he should want him again. He then took off all his beautiful clothes, and put on his old dress, and in this manner went on with the maiden and the loads of gold. About evening he arrived at a strange city, and decided to remain there. After he had rested a little while, the people in the inn told him that all day long the city bell-man had proclaimed, that whoever had a good horse should go to-morrow to the horse-race, for the king of the palace had offered his only daughter as a prize, together with a hundredweight of gold and jewels; but that there was a ditch to be sprung over which was three hundred and fifty yards deep and a hundred and fifty yards wide. When he heard this he was greatly pleased, for he was quite sure that he should win this race also. Next morning, by the help of the little stone and the wonderful hair, he was again dressed in the finest clothes, and mounted on his cream-coloured horse, and so took his place amongst the racers. Every one wondered from what country this knight came, and were delighted at his rich dress; as for the horse, the people were never tired of admiring it. When the race-horses were arranged for the start he remained purposely behind. He knew well enough that this was of no consequence to him, as in one moment he could reach and pass them all. At length he started, and in a moment distanced the fleetest horse, arriving at the ditch, and leaping over it as if it were nothing. Then, without waiting a minute, he took possession of the king's daughter and her treasures, and went straight to the city where he had left the first king's daughter and her loads of gold. Taking the two princesses and all the wealth with him, he now thought that it was time for him to go back home. On his way, however, he had the great good luck to come again to a large city, where he resolved to remain during the night. There, also, the public crier had been proclaiming all day long, that the king had determined to give his only daughter and fifteen hundredweight of gold to whoever should win the race which was to be run on the morrow. In this instance, however, the horses would have to leap over a ditch one thousand yards deep and four hundred and fifty yards wide. On hearing this proclamation, the eldest brother became very joyful, for he knew that no racer had any chance of beating his wonderful horse. On the morrow, therefore, by means of his little stone and the hair, he ordered fifteen horses to be ready, to carry away the treasures he felt sure of winning, and, at the same time, directed the negroes to bring him his fairy courser and dresses so splendid that not even a king could buy them. Richly dressed in this way, and mounted, as he was, on his marvellous horse, all the world, who had gathered to see the great race, could look at nothing except at him. When all the racers were arranged for the start, he lingered behind and let them all speed off like falcons. He wished every one to see that he was the last to start, that they might not charge him afterwards with having in any way cheated. When they had already gone pretty far, he started himself, and in a moment he had reached them, passed them, and left them all a long, long distance behind. How could it be otherwise? When did the crow outfly the falcon? Coming to the ditch, he touched the bridle a little, and, in an instant, his horse had leaped over the ditch, and they were safe on the other side. So, without any delay, he took away the maiden, together with all the gold, and went back to the city. Having collected his immense treasures, he now took with him the three princesses, and went straight home. As he travelled along with his company, every one who met him asked him, 'Where are you going? are the girls for sale?' For you see the princesses were exceedingly beautiful. But beyond all others his two brothers, when he reached home, wondered and were delighted at the sight of the three beautiful princesses. They did not rejoice half so much over the great riches he had gained for them as over the marvellous fairness of the kings' daughters whom he had brought to be their wives. Thus each of the three brothers married a beautiful princess; the eldest brother, however, who had shown himself so much the bravest and wisest of them, married the youngest and most beautiful of the three. ANIMALS AS FRIENDS AND AS ENEMIES. Once upon a time, a long while ago, there lived in a very far-off country, a young nobleman who was so exceedingly poor that all his property was an old castle, a handsome horse, a trusty hound, and a good rifle. This nobleman spent all his time in hunting and shooting, and lived entirely on the produce of the chase. One day he mounted his well-kept horse and rode off to the neighbouring forest, accompanied, as usual, by his faithful hound. When he came to the forest he dismounted, fastened his horse securely to a young tree, and then went deep into the thicket in search of game. The hound ran on at a distance before his master, and the horse remained all alone, grazing quietly. Now it happened that a hungry fox came by that way, and seeing how well-fed and well-trimmed the horse was, stopped a while to admire him. By-and-by she was so charmed with the handsome horse, that she lay down in the grass near him to bear him company. Some time afterwards the young nobleman came back out of the forest, carrying a stag that he had killed, and was extremely surprised to see the fox lying so near his horse. So he raised his rifle with the intention of shooting her; but the fox ran up to him quickly and said, 'Do not kill me! Take me with you, and I will serve you faithfully. I will take care of your fine horse whilst you are in the forest.' The fox spoke so pitifully that the nobleman was sorry for her, and agreed to her proposal. Thereupon he mounted his horse, placed the stag he had shot before him, and rode back to his old castle, followed closely by his hound and his new servant, the fox. When the young nobleman prepared his supper, he did not forget to give the fox a due share, and she congratulated herself that she was never likely to be hungry again, at least so long as she served so skilful a hunter. The next morning the nobleman went out again to the chase, the fox also accompanied him. When the young man dismounted and bound his horse, as usual, to a tree, the fox lay down near it to bear it company. Now, whilst the hunter was far off in the depth of the forest looking for game, a hungry bear came by the place where the horse was tied, and, seeing how invitingly fat it looked, ran up to kill it. The fox hereupon sprang up and begged the bear not to hurt the horse, telling him if he was hungry he had only to wait patiently until her master came back from the forest, and then she was quite sure that the good nobleman would take him also to his castle and feed him, and care for him, as he did for his horse, his hound, and herself. The bear pondered over the matter very wisely and deeply for some time, and at length resolved to follow the fox's advice. Accordingly he lay down quietly near the horse, and waited for the return of the huntsman. When the young noble came out of the forest he was greatly surprised to see so large a bear near his horse, and, dropping the stag he had shot from his shoulders, he raised his trusty rifle and was about to shoot the beast. The fox, however, ran up to the huntsman and entreated him to spare the bear's life, and to take him, also, into his service. This the nobleman agreed to do; and, mounting his horse, rode back to his castle, followed by the hound, the fox, and the bear. The next morning, when the young man had gone again with his dog into the forest, and the fox and the bear lay quietly near the horse, a hungry wolf, seeing the horse, sprang out of a thicket to kill it. The fox and the bear, however, jumped up quickly and begged him not to hurt the horse, telling him to what a good master it belonged, and that they were sure, if he would only wait, he also would be taken into the same service, and would be well cared for. Thereupon the wolf, hungry though he was, thought it best to accept their counsel, and he also lay down with them in the grass until their master came out of the forest. You can imagine how surprised the young nobleman was when he saw a great gaunt wolf lying so near his horse! However, when the fox had explained the matter to him, he consented to take the wolf, also, into his service. Thus it happened this day that he rode home followed by the dog, the fox, the bear, and the wolf. As they were all hungry, the stag he had killed was not too large to furnish their suppers that night, and their breakfasts next morning. Not many days afterwards a mouse was added to the company, and after that a mole begged so hard for admission that the good nobleman could not find it in his heart to refuse her. Last of all came the great bird, the kumrekusha--so strong a bird that she can carry in her claws a horse with his rider! Soon after a hare was added to the company, and the nobleman took great care of all his animals and fed them regularly and well, so that they were all exceedingly fond of him. One day the fox said to the bear, 'My good Bruin, pray run into the forest and bring me a nice large log, on which I can sit whilst I preside at a very important council we are going to hold.' Bruin, who had a great respect for the quick wit and good management of the fox, went out at once to seek the log, and soon came back bringing a heavy one, with which the fox expressed herself quite satisfied. Then she called all the animals about her, and, having mounted the log, addressed them in these words:-- 'You know all of you, my friends, how very kind and good a master we have. But, though he is very kind, he is also very lonely. I propose, therefore, that we find a fitting wife for him.' The assembly was evidently well pleased with this idea, and responded unanimously, 'Very good, indeed, if we only knew any girl worthy to be the wife of our master; which, however, we do not.' Then the fox said, '_I_ know that the king has a most beautiful daughter, and I think it will be a good thing to take her for our lord; and therefore I propose, further, that our friend the kumrekusha should fly at once to the king's palace, and hover about there until the princess comes out to take her walk. Then she must catch her up at once, and bring her here.' As the kumrekusha was glad to do anything for her kind master, she flew away at once, without even waiting to hear the decision of the assembly on this proposal. Just before evening set in, the princess came out to walk before her father's palace; whereupon the great bird seized her and placed her gently on her outspread wings, and thus carried her off swiftly to the young nobleman's castle. The king was exceedingly grieved when he heard that his daughter had been carried off, and sent out everywhere proclamations promising rich rewards to any one who should bring her back, or even tell him where he might look for her. For a long time, however, all his promises were of no avail, for no one in the kingdom knew anything at all about the princess. At last, however, when the king was well-nigh in despair, an old gipsy woman came to the palace and asked the king, 'What will you give me if I bring back to you your daughter, the princess?' The king answered quickly, 'I will gladly give you whatever you like to ask, if only you bring me back my daughter!' Then the old gipsy went back to her hut in the forest, and tried all her magical spells to find out where the princess was. At last she found out that she was living in an old castle, in a very distant country, with a young nobleman who had married her. The gipsy was greatly pleased when she knew this, and taking a whip in her hand seated herself at once in the middle of a small carpet, and lashed it with her whip. Then the carpet rose up from the ground and bore her swiftly through the air, towards the far country where the young nobleman lived, in his lonely old castle, with his beautiful wife, and all his faithful company of beasts. When the gipsy came near the castle she made the carpet descend on the grass among some trees, and leaving it there went to look about until she could meet the princess walking about the grounds. By-and-by the beautiful young lady came out of the castle, and immediately the ugly old woman went up to her, and began to fawn on her and to tell her all kinds of strange stories. Indeed, she was such a good story-teller that the princess grew quite tired of walking before she was tired of listening; so, seeing the soft carpet lying nicely on the green grass, she sat down on it to rest awhile. The moment she was seated the cunning old gipsy sat down by her, and, seizing her whip, lashed the carpet furiously. In the next minute the princess found herself borne upon the carpet far away from her husband's castle, and before long the gipsy made it descend into the garden of the king's palace. You can easily guess how glad he was to see his lost daughter, and how generously he gave the gipsy even more than she asked as a reward. Then the king made the princess live from that time in a very secluded tower with only two waiting-women, so afraid was he lest she would again be stolen from him. Meanwhile the fox, seeing how miserable and melancholy her young master appeared after his wife had so strangely been taken from him, and having heard of the great precautions which the king was using in order to prevent the princess being carried off again, summoned once more all the animals to a general council. When all of them were gathered about her, the fox thus began: 'You know all of you, my dear friends, how happily our kind master was married; but you know, also, that his wife has been unhappily stolen from him, and that he is now far worse off than he was before we found the princess for him. _Then_ he was lonely; _now_ he is more than lonely--he is desolate! This being the case, it is clearly our duty, as his faithful servants, to try in some way to bring her back to him. This, however, is not a very easy matter, seeing that the king has placed his daughter for safety in a strong tower. Nevertheless, I do not despair, and my plan is this: I will turn myself into a beautiful cat, and play about in the palace gardens under the windows of the tower in which the princess lives. I dare say she will long for me greatly the moment she sees me, and will send her waiting-women down to catch me and take me up to her. But I will take good care that the maids do not catch me, so that, at last, the princess will forget her father's orders not to leave the tower, and will come down herself into the gardens to see if she may not be more successful. I will then make believe to let her catch me, and at this moment our friend, the kumrekusha, who must be hovering over about the palace, must fly down quickly, seize the princess, and carry her off as before. In this way, my dear friends, I hope we shall be able to bring back to our kind master his beautiful wife. Do you approve of my plan?' Of course, the assembly were only too glad to have such a wise councillor, and to be able to prove their gratitude to their considerate master. So the fox ran up to the kumrekusha, who flew away with her under her wing, both being equally eager to carry out the project, and thus to bring back the old cheerful look to the face of their lord. When the kumrekusha came to the tower wherein the princess dwelt she set the fox down quietly among the trees, where it at once changed into a most beautiful cat, and commenced to play all sorts of graceful antics under the window at which the princess sat. The cat was striped all over the body with many different colours, and before long the king's daughter noticed her, and sent down her two women to catch her and bring her up in the tower. The two waiting-women came down into the garden, and called, 'Pussy! pussy!' in their sweetest voices; they offered her bread and milk, but they offered it all in vain. The cat sprang merrily about the garden, and ran round and round them, but would on no account consent to be caught. At length the princess, who stood watching them at one of the windows of her tower, became impatient, and descended herself into the garden, saying petulantly, 'You only frighten the cat: let me try to catch her!' As she approached the cat, who seemed now willing to be caught, the kumrekusha darted down quickly, seized the princess by the waist, and carried her high up into the air. The frightened waiting-women ran to report to the king what had happened to the princess; whereupon the king immediately let loose all his greyhounds to seize the cat which had been the cause of his daughter being carried off a second time. The dogs followed the cat closely, and were on the point of catching her, when she, just in the nick of time, saw a cave, with a very narrow entrance, and ran into it for shelter. There the dogs tried to follow her, or to widen the mouth of the cave with their claws, but all in vain; so, after barking a long time very furiously, they at length grew weary, and stole back ashamed and afraid to the king's stables. When all the greyhounds were out of sight the cat changed herself back into a fox, and ran off in a straight line towards the castle, where she found her young master very joyful, for the kumrekusha had already brought back to him his beautiful wife. Now the king was exceedingly angry to think that he had again lost his daughter, and he was all the more angry to think that such poor creatures as a bird and a cat had succeeded in carrying her off after all his precautions. So, in his great wrath, he resolved to make a general war on the animals, and entirely exterminate them. To this end he gathered together a very large army, and determined to be himself their leader. The news of the king's intention spread swiftly over the whole kingdom, whereupon the fox called, for the third time, all her friends--the bear, the wolf, the kumrekusha, the mouse, the mole, and the hare--together, to a general council. When all were assembled the fox addressed them thus: 'My friends, the king has declared war against us, and intends to destroy us all. Now it is our duty to defend ourselves in the best way we can. Let us each see what number of animals we are able to muster. How many of your brother bears do you think _you_ can bring to our help, my good Bruin?' The bear got up as quickly as he could on his hind legs, and brummed out, 'I am sure I can bring a hundred.' 'And how many of your friends can _you_ bring, my good wolf?' asked the fox anxiously. 'I can bring at least five hundred wolves with me,' said the wolf with an air of importance. The fox nodded her satisfaction and continued, 'And what can _you_ do for us, dear master hare?' 'Well, I think I can bring about eight hundred,' said the hare cautiously. 'And what can _you_ do, you dear little mouse?' 'Oh, _I_ can certainly bring three thousand mice.' 'Very well, indeed!--and you, Mr. Mole?' 'I am sure I can gather eight thousand.' 'And now what number do you think you can bring us, my great friend, kumrekusha?' 'I fear not more than two or three hundred, at the very best,' said the kumrekusha sadly. 'Very good; now all of you go at once and collect your friends; when you have brought all you can, we will decide what is to be done,' said the fox; whereupon the council broke up, and the animals dispersed in different directions throughout the forest. Not very long after, very unusual noises were heard in the neighbourhood of the castle. There was a great shaking of trees; and the growling of bears and the short sharp barking of wolves broke the usual quiet of the forest. The army of animals was gathering from all sides at the appointed place. When all were gathered together the fox explained to them her plans in these words:--'When the king's army stops on its march to rest the first night, then you, bears and wolves, must be prepared to attack and kill all the horses. If, notwithstanding this, the army proceeds further, you mice must be ready to bite and destroy all the saddle-straps and belts while the soldiers are resting the second night, and you hares must gnaw through the ropes with which the men draw the cannon. If the king still persists in his march, you moles must go the third night and dig out the earth under the road they will take the next day, and must make a ditch full fifteen yards in breadth and twenty yards in depth all round their camp. Next morning, when the army begins to march over this ground which has been hollowed out, you kumrekushas must throw down on them from above heavy stones while the earth will give way under them.' The plan was approved, and all the animals went off briskly to attend to their allotted duties. When the king's army awoke, after their first night's rest on their march, they beheld, to their great consternation, that all the horses were killed. This sad news was reported at once to the king; but he only sent back for more horses, and, when they came late in the day, pursued his march. The second night the mice crept quietly into the camp, and nibbled diligently at the horses' saddles and at the soldiers' belts, while the hares as busily gnawed at the ropes with which the men drew the cannon. Next morning the soldiers were terrified, seeing the mischief the animals had done. The king, however, reassured them, and sent back to the city for new saddles and belts. When they were at length brought he resolutely pursued his march, only the more determined to revenge himself on these presumptuous and despised enemies. On the third night, while the soldiers were sleeping, the moles worked incessantly in digging round the camp a wide and deep trench underground. About midnight the fox sent the bears to help the moles, and to carry away the loads of earth. Next morning the king's soldiers were delighted to find that no harm seemed to have been done on the previous night to their horses or straps, and started with new courage on their march. But their march was quickly arrested, for soon the heavy horsemen and artillery began to fall through the hollow ground, and the king, when he observed that, called out, 'Let us turn back. I see God himself is against us, since we have declared war against the animals. I will give up my daughter.' Then the army turned back, amidst the rejoicings of the soldiers. The men found, however, to their great surprise and fear, that whichever way they turned, they fell through the earth. To make their consternation yet more complete, the kumrekushas now began to throw down heavy stones on them, which crushed them completely. In this way the king, as well as his whole army, perished. Very soon afterwards the young nobleman, who had married the king's daughter, went to the enemy's capital and took possession of the king's palace, taking with him all his animals; and there they all lived long and happily together. THE LEGEND OF ST. GEORGE. Once upon a time all the saints assembled in order to divide amongst themselves the treasures of the world. And, in this division, each saint obtained something which satisfied him. The beautiful summer, with all its wealth of flowers, fell to the lot of St. George: to St. Elias fell the clouds and the thunder; and to St. Pantelija the tempest. St. Peter obtained the keys of heaven: to St. Nicholas fell the seas, and the ships upon them; and to the Archangel Michael fell the right of gathering and guarding the souls of the dying. St. John was chosen to preside over friendship and '_koom-ship_,'[34] and to the holy Lady Mary the saints committed the charge of the lawless country of the cursed Troyan,[35] in order that she might bring it to a state of peace, and establish therein the true religion. [34] The 'koom' is a sort of godfather or sponsor. See 'Popular Customs of Serbia.' [35] In some versions of this poem this 'Troyan' is changed into 'India.' Probably there is here a reference to the theory that the Turks and Troyans were the same people. Knolles, in the opening chapter of his 'General Historie of the Turkes,' says, 'Some, after the manner of most nations, derive them from the Troians, led thereunto by the affinity of the words Turci and Teucri; supposing--but with what probability I know not--the word Turci or Turks to have been made of the corruption of the word Teucri, the common name of the Trojans; as also for that the Turks have of long most inhabited the lesser Asia, wherein the antient and most famous city of Troy sometime stood.'--_Edit._ About a year had passed away since the saints had thus divided amongst themselves the treasures of the world, when one day the holy Lady Mary entered the assembly, evidently greatly afflicted, and with large tears falling over her white cheeks. She greeted '_in the name of God!_' her brethren the saints, and these gave her back her greeting. Then St. Elias addressed her, saying, '_Our_ sister, holy Mary, wherefore are you grieving? Why are you shedding these tears? You are, perhaps, dissatisfied with the lot which fell to you when we divided the treasures?' But the holy Mary answered, 'My brethren, ye who are the righteousness of God, when you divided the treasures you gave me also a share therein, and therewith I am satisfied. Yet I have good cause, nevertheless, to be sorely grieved. I come but now from the city of the Troyan, and I have been unable to bring it to peace and the true faith. There the young people do not reverence their elders--there the brother challenges his own brother to mortal combat,--there the _koom_ is pursuing his _koom_ in the law courts,--there the brother intermarries with his own sister, and the _koom_ with his _kooma_,--there the holy Sabbath is violated, and, worst of all, there they do not pray to the true God. The people have made to themselves a god of silver, and to this idol do they pray. Now, what can I do, my dear brethren, except to pray that the true God should send his lightnings from heaven to destroy the fortress and fortifications, and to burn down the cities and villages? Then, perhaps, the people of the Troyan country may come to see the great wickedness and repent.' St. Elias said to her these words, 'Our sister, holy Mary, do not do this thing! Rather let us all pray God to allow us to give some warning to the people--that He orders snow to fall on Mitrovdan, and remain until St. George's day;[36] and another snow to fall on St. George's day, and lie on the earth until Mitrovdan;[37] so that no seeds can be sown, and no ewes can rear their lambs. In this way, perhaps, the pride of the earth may be subdued, and the people brought at last to repentance.' [36] 'George's day,' 25th April, O. S. [37] Mitrovdan, 25th October, O. S. All the saints approved the proposal of St. Elias, and acted as he had said. Then a great snow fell on Mitrovdan, and remained until St. George's day, and a second snowfall came on St. George's day, and lay on the earth until Mitrovdan. No seed could be sown, therefore, and no lambs could be reared. The people suffered greatly throughout the year; they would not, however, repent and mend their ways. Some of them had part of last year's corn in their garners, and shiploads of grain were brought from countries beyond the seas, and so they got somehow through the year, and went on living just as wickedly as before. The holy Mary, seeing this, went a second time to the assembled saints weeping. After the exchange of the customary greeting, St. Elias asked her what was the reason of her tears, and she told him that she was sorely grieved because the people of the Troyan country, notwithstanding the chastisement they had suffered, still continued living in wickedness. Then the saints resolved to send down a second warning. So they prayed God to send down the curse of the small-pox. Thereupon the small-pox appeared amongst the Troyans, and raged in their country for three full years, carrying off all the strength and beauty of the people, so that only the old remained to cough, and the little babes to cry. But, when the children grew up, they behaved just as their parents had done, and neither improved nor repented. Weeping bitter tears over her white cheeks, the holy Mary went the third time to the assembly of the saints, and reported how disorderly and madly the people of the Troyan land were still living. She said, it was quite evident that they could not be brought to repentance, and that, therefore, she intended now to pray God to send down his lightnings and destroy the cities and villages. But St. Elias said again, 'Not so, my dear sister! not so! Let us give them yet a third warning.' So the saints prayed to God for the third warning, and God granted their request. Next morning, close by the king's palace in the chief city of the Troyans a green lake appeared, and therein was an insatiable dragon feeding on young men and maidens. Every morning, for breakfast, the monster required a young man who had never been wedded; and every evening, for supper, he demanded a youthful and blooming maiden. This went on for seven years, until, at length, the turn came to the only daughter of the king. Then the queen cried loudly and bitterly, and clasped her arms closely round the neck of her child. Mother and daughter wept together three days, and when the fourth day dawned, the queen fell into a light slumber by her daughter's side. As she slept, she dreamed that a man appeared to her, and said, 'O queen of the Troyan city! do not send your daughter this evening to the lake; but send her to-morrow, when the day dawns, and the sun shines. Tell her, when she goes to the lake, she must bathe her face, and then, turning towards the east, let her call on the name of the true God. She must, however, be careful not to mention the idol of silver. This done, she must wait patiently, ready to accept whatsoever the true God ordereth for her.' The queen, awakening from her sleep, related at once her dream to her daughter, and impressed on her the necessity of carrying out faithfully her instructions. Weeping bitterly, the king's daughter took leave of her mother at daybreak, begging the queen to forgive her the milk with which she had been nourished in her babyhood. Then she went down to the lake shore, bathed her face, and, turning eastwards, prayed to the true God. This done, according to her mother's instructions, she sat down and awaited whatever might happen to her. Suddenly there appeared a strange knight mounted on a magnificent charger. He greeted the maiden 'in the name of God!' and she, springing up quickly, returned the greeting courteously. Then the strange knight, seeing she had been weeping, asked what it was that troubled her, and wherefore she sat waiting there alone. In answer to these questions the maiden related the whole sad story of the dragon, and the fearful fate which seemed to await her. When she had finished her narration, the knight dismounted, and, removing his kalpak from his head, said, 'Now I desire to sleep a little, and I wish you to pass your hand through my hair that I may sleep more pleasantly.' The girl tried to dissuade him from this, lest the dragon should come whilst he slept, and devour him also. She said it would be a pity for him to perish thus needlessly. However, she could not prevail on him to abandon his purpose, and he fell at once into a gentle slumber, and slept as quietly as a young lamb. Very soon, however, the waters of the lake were agitated, and the terrible dragon appeared coming towards them. Then the unknown knight sprang up quickly into his saddle, and, stretching out his arms, lifted the maiden up and placed her behind him on his charger. This done, with one stroke of his lance, he pinned the dragon down to the bottom of the lake, where it remained bleeding, but not dead. Then the knight took the girl back to the palace of the king, her father, and the queen, who had been watching anxiously everything that passed, met him at the gate and delivered up to him the keys of the city. The knight, who was no other than St. George, now walked through the streets of the Troyan city, and, having gathered the people around him, spoke to them thus, 'Listen to me, my children! Pray no more to the idol of silver, pray only to the one true God! And you, young people, reverence your elders. All of you remember that near relatives cannot be permitted to intermarry. Keep holy the Sabbath, as well as all the other holy days and saint days.' Having thus admonished them, the holy knight ordered that the temple should be opened, and when his commands had been obeyed, he took out of it the silver idol, and melted it into a variety of ornaments. In the place of the silver idol he placed a holy picture, and then consecrated the temple, and it became a church. When this was done, he turned again to the people, and said, 'If you will promise to do as I have told you, I will kill the dragon in the lake; but if you refuse to do what I have asked of you I will let him loose again, and I think he will soon make an end of you.' Then all the people bowed themselves to the earth before the holy knight, and shouted aloud, 'O good and unknown knight! our brother in God! Deliver us from the dragon in the lake, and we will do and live just as you have counselled us!' Whereupon they received the true faith. When they had so done, St. George returned to the lake, and made the sign of the cross over it with a stick, and at that very moment both the lake and dragon disappeared as if they had never been. Having done all this, St. George went back to the heavenly kingdom to recount to the saints there assembled the conversion of the Troyan people. THE END. The Columbus Printing, Publishing and Advertising Company, Ltd., Amberley House, Norfolk Street, London, W.C. Transcriber's Note Minor punctuation errors have been repaired. Hyphenation and accent usage has been made consistent. The following amendments have been made: Page 2--Michel amended to Michael--... widow of the late Prince Michael Obrenovich III., ... Page 5--conprehended amended to comprehended--... popular tales and legends which are comprehended ... Page 29--sisters-in-lay amended to sisters-in-law--... he called to his sisters-in-law, ... Page 29--me amended to him--Then the man told him in these words: ... Page 89--kings amended to king--When the king asks you, ... Page 90--has amended to his--... and told him what his daughter had said. Page 156--oftens amended to often--'... for he often threatens my brothers.' Page 182--price amended to prince--Faithful to his promise, the unfortunate prince ... Page 264--beach-tree amended to beech-tree--... she was now as tall as the tallest beech-tree, ... Page 287--her-herself amended to herself--... the princess found herself borne upon the carpet ... 
38488	----	FOLK-TALES OF BENGAL By the Rev. LAL BEHARI DAY Author of 'Bengal Peasant Life,' etc. With 32 illustrations in colour By Warwick Goble Macmillan and Co., Limited St. Martin's Street, London 1912 TO RICHARD CARNAC TEMPLE CAPTAIN, BENGAL STAFF CORPS F.R.G.S., M.R.A.S., M.A.I., ETC. WHO FIRST SUGGESTED TO THE WRITER THE IDEA OF COLLECTING THESE TALES AND WHO IS DOING SO MUCH IN THE CAUSE OF INDIAN FOLK-LORE THIS LITTLE BOOK IS INSCRIBED PREFACE In my Peasant Life in Bengal I make the peasant boy Govinda spend some hours every evening in listening to stories told by an old woman, who was called Sambhu's mother, and who was the best story-teller in the village. On reading that passage, Captain R. C. Temple, of the Bengal Staff Corps, son of the distinguished Indian administrator Sir Richard Temple, wrote to me to say how interesting it would be to get a collection of those unwritten stories which old women in India recite to little children in the evenings, and to ask whether I could not make such a collection. As I was no stranger to the Mährchen of the Brothers Grimm, to the Norse Tales so admirably told by Dasent, to Arnason's Icelandic Stories translated by Powell, to the Highland Stories done into English by Campbell, and to the fairy stories collected by other writers, and as I believed that the collection suggested would be a contribution, however slight, to that daily increasing literature of folk-lore and comparative mythology which, like comparative philosophy, proves that the swarthy and half-naked peasant on the banks of the Ganges is a cousin, albeit of the hundredth remove, to the fair-skinned and well-dressed Englishman on the banks of the Thames, I readily caught up the idea and cast about for materials. But where was an old story-telling woman to be got? I had myself, when a little boy, heard hundreds--it would be no exaggeration to say thousands--of fairy tales from that same old woman, Sambhu's mother--for she was no fictitious person; she actually lived in the flesh and bore that name; but I had nearly forgotten those stories, at any rate they had all got confused in my head, the tail of one story being joined to the head of another, and the head of a third to the tail of a fourth. How I wished that poor Sambhu's mother had been alive! But she had gone long, long ago, to that bourne from which no traveller returns, and her son Sambhu, too, had followed her thither. After a great deal of search I found my Gammer Grethel--though not half so old as the Frau Viehmännin of Hesse-Cassel--in the person of a Bengali Christian woman, who, when a little girl and living in her heathen home, had heard many stories from her old grandmother. She was a good story-teller, but her stock was not large; and after I had heard ten from her I had to look about for fresh sources. An old Brahman told me two stories; an old barber, three; an old servant of mine told me two; and the rest I heard from another old Brahman. None of my authorities knew English; they all told the stories in Bengali, and I translated them into English when I came home. I heard many more stories than those contained in the following pages; but I rejected a great many, as they appeared to me to contain spurious additions to the original stories which I had heard when a boy. I have reason to believe that the stories given in this book are a genuine sample of the old old stories told by old Bengali women from age to age through a hundred generations. Sambhu's mother used always to end every one of her stories--and every orthodox Bengali story-teller does the same--with repeating the following formula:-- Thus my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth. "Why, O Natiya-thorn, dost wither?" "Why does thy cow on me browse?" "Why, O cow, dost thou browse?" "Why does thy neat-herd not tend me?" "Why, O neat-herd, dost not tend the cow?" "Why does thy daughter-in-law not give me rice?" "Why, O daughter-in-law, dost not give rice?" "Why does my child cry?" "Why, O child, dost thou cry?" "Why does the ant bite me?" "Why, O ant, dost thou bite?" Koot! koot! koot! What these lines mean, why they are repeated at the end of every story, and what the connection is of the several parts to one another, I do not know. Perhaps the whole is a string of nonsense purposely put together to amuse little children. Lal Behari Day. Hooghly College, February 27, 1883. CONTENTS PAGE 1. Life's Secret 1 2. Phakir Chand 16 3. The Indigent Brahman 51 4. The Story of the Rakshasas 61 5. The Story of Swet-Basanta 89 6. The Evil Eye of Sani 104 7. The Boy whom Seven Mothers suckled 113 8. The Story of Prince Sobur 119 9. The Origin of Opium 132 10. Strike but Hear 140 11. The Adventures of Two Thieves and of their Sons 152 12. The Ghost-Brahman 173 13. The Man who wished to be Perfect 178 14. A Ghostly Wife 188 15. The Story of a Brahmadaitya 192 16. The Story of a Hiraman 200 17. The Origin of Rubies 211 18. The Match-making Jackal 217 19. The Boy with the Moon on his Forehead 227 20. The Ghost who was Afraid of being Bagged 247 21. The Field of Bones 251 22. The Bald Wife 269 ILLUSTRATIONS Facing page "She rushed out of the palace ... and came to the upper world" (p. 26) Frontispiece "The Suo queen went to the door with a handful of rice" 1 "The prince revived, and, walking about, saw a human figure near the gate" 9 "She took up the jewel in her hand, left the palace, and successfully reached the upper world" 22 "He rushed out of his hiding-place and killed the serpent" 43 "Instead of sweetmeats about a score of demons" 56 "At the door of which stood a lady of exquisite beauty" 62 "In a trice she woke up, sat up in her bed, and eyeing the stranger, inquired who he was" 77 The Girl of the Wall-Almirah 90 "On a sudden an elephant gorgeously caparisoned shot across his path" 95 "They then set out on their journey" 106 "A monstrous bird comes out apparently from the palace" 117 "Hundreds of peacocks of gorgeous plumes came to the embankments to eat the khai" 123 "'You would adorn the palace of the mightiest sovereign'" 138 "He saw a beautiful woman coming out of the palace" 141 "'Husband, take up all this large quantity of gold and these precious stones'" 145 "They ran away in great fear, leaving behind them the money and jewels" 162 "The camel-driver alighted, tied the camel to a tree on the spot, and began smoking" 170 "'How is it that you have returned so soon?'" 174 "At dawn he used to cull flowers in the forest" 181 "The Brahman's wife had occasion to go to the tank, and as she went she brushed by a Sankchinni" 188 "The moment the first stroke was given, a great many ghosts rushed towards the Brahman" 194 "The lady, king, and hiraman all reached the king's capital safe and sound" 210 "'What princess ever puts only one ruby in her hair?'" 214 "Coming up to the surface they climbed into the boat" 216 "The jackal ... opened his bundle of betel-leaves, put some into his mouth, and began chewing them" 218 "A bright light, like that of the moon, was seen shining on his forehead" 237 "The six queens tried to comfort him" 238 "'Now, barber, I am going to destroy you. Who will protect you?'" 248 "They approached a magnificent pile of buildings" 259 "Thus the princess was deserted" 266 "When she got out of the water, what a change was seen in her!" 271 I LIFE'S SECRET There was a king who had two queens, Duo and Suo. [1] Both of them were childless. One day a Faquir (mendicant) came to the palace-gate to ask for alms. The Suo queen went to the door with a handful of rice. The mendicant asked whether she had any children. On being answered in the negative, the holy mendicant refused to take alms, as the hands of a woman unblessed with child are regarded as ceremonially unclean. He offered her a drug for removing her barrenness, and she expressing her willingness to receive it, he gave it to her with the following directions:--"Take this nostrum, swallow it with the juice of the pomegranate flower; if you do this, you will have a son in due time. The son will be exceedingly handsome, and his complexion will be of the colour of the pomegranate flower; and you shall call him Dalim Kumar. [2] As enemies will try to take away the life of your son, I may as well tell you that the life of the boy will be bound up in the life of a big boal fish which is in your tank, in front of the palace. In the heart of the fish is a small box of wood, in the box is a necklace of gold, that necklace is the life of your son. Farewell." In the course of a month or so it was whispered in the palace that the Suo queen had hopes of an heir. Great was the joy of the king. Visions of an heir to the throne, and of a never-ending succession of powerful monarchs perpetuating his dynasty to the latest generations, floated before his mind, and made him glad as he had never been in his life. The usual ceremonies performed on such occasions were celebrated with great pomp; and the subjects made loud demonstrations of their joy at the anticipation of so auspicious an event as the birth of a prince. In the fulness of time the Suo queen gave birth to a son of uncommon beauty. When the king the first time saw the face of the infant, his heart leaped with joy. The ceremony of the child's first rice was celebrated with extraordinary pomp, and the whole kingdom was filled with gladness. In course of time Dalim Kumar grew up a fine boy. Of all sports he was most addicted to playing with pigeons. This brought him into frequent contact with his stepmother, the Duo queen, into whose apartments Dalim's pigeons had a trick of always flying. The first time the pigeons flew into her rooms, she readily gave them up to the owner; but the second time she gave them up with some reluctance. The fact is that the Duo queen, perceiving that Dalim's pigeons had this happy knack of flying into her apartments, wished to take advantage of it for the furtherance of her own selfish views. She naturally hated the child, as the king, since his birth, neglected her more than ever, and idolised the fortunate mother of Dalim. She had heard, it is not known how, that the holy mendicant that had given the famous pill to the Suo queen had also told her of a secret connected with the child's life. She had heard that the child's life was bound up with something--she did not know with what. She determined to extort that secret from the boy. Accordingly, the next time the pigeons flew into her rooms, she refused to give them up, addressing the child thus:--"I won't give the pigeons up unless you tell me one thing." Dalim. What thing, mamma? Duo. Nothing particular, my darling; I only want to know in what your life is. Dalim. What is that, mamma? Where can my life be except in me? Duo. No, child; that is not what I mean. A holy mendicant told your mother that your life is bound up with something. I wish to know what that thing is. Dalim. I never heard of any such thing, mamma. Duo. If you promise to inquire of your mother in what thing your life is, and if you tell me what your mother says, then I will let you have the pigeons, otherwise not. Dalim. Very well, I'll inquire, and let you know. Now, please, give me my pigeons. Duo. I'll give them on one condition more. Promise to me that you will not tell your mother that I want the information. Dalim. I promise. The Duo queen let go the pigeons, and Dalim, overjoyed to find again his beloved birds, forgot every syllable of the conversation he had had with his stepmother. The next day, however, the pigeons again flew into the Duo queen's rooms. Dalim went to his stepmother, who asked him for the required information. The boy promised to ask his mother that very day, and begged hard for the release of the pigeons. The pigeons were at last delivered. After play, Dalim went to his mother and said--"Mamma, please tell me in what my life is contained." "What do you mean, child?" asked the mother, astonished beyond measure at the child's extraordinary question. "Yes, mamma," rejoined the child, "I have heard that a holy mendicant told you that my life is contained in something. Tell me what that thing is." "My pet, my darling, my treasure, my golden moon, do not ask such an inauspicious question. Let the mouth of my enemies be covered with ashes, and let my Dalim live for ever," said the mother, earnestly. But the child insisted on being informed of the secret. He said he would not eat or drink anything unless the information were given him. The Suo queen, pressed by the importunity of her son, in an evil hour told the child the secret of his life. The next day the pigeons again, as fate would have it, flew into the Duo queen's rooms. Dalim went for them; the stepmother plied the boy with sugared words, and obtained the knowledge of the secret. The Duo queen, on learning the secret of Dalim Kumar's life, lost no time in using it for the prosecution of her malicious design. She told her maid-servants to get for her some dried stalks of the hemp plant, which are very brittle, and which, when pressed upon, make a peculiar noise, not unlike the cracking of joints of bones in the human body. These hemp stalks she put under her bed, upon which she laid herself down and gave out that she was dangerously ill. The king, though he did not love her so well as his other queen, was in duty bound to visit her in her illness. The queen pretended that her bones were all cracking; and sure enough, when she tossed from one side of her bed to the other, the hemp stalks made the noise wanted. The king, believing that the Duo queen was seriously ill, ordered his best physician to attend her. With that physician the Duo queen was in collusion. The physician said to the king that for the queen's complaint there was but one remedy, which consisted in the outward application of something to be found inside a large boal fish which was in the tank before the palace. The king's fisherman was accordingly called and ordered to catch the boal in question. On the first throw of the net the fish was caught. It so happened that Dalim Kumar, along with other boys, was playing not far from the tank. The moment the boal fish was caught in the net, that moment Dalim felt unwell; and when the fish was brought up to land, Dalim fell down on the ground, and made as if he was about to breathe his last. He was immediately taken into his mother's room, and the king was astonished on hearing of the sudden illness of his son and heir. The fish was by the order of the physician taken into the room of the Duo queen, and as it lay on the floor striking its fins on the ground, Dalim in his mother's room was given up for lost. When the fish was cut open, a casket was found in it; and in the casket lay a necklace of gold. The moment the necklace was worn by the queen, that very moment Dalim died in his mother's room. When the news of the death of his son and heir reached the king he was plunged into an ocean of grief, which was not lessened in any degree by the intelligence of the recovery of the Duo queen. He wept over his dead Dalim so bitterly that his courtiers were apprehensive of a permanent derangement of his mental powers. The king would not allow the dead body of his son to be either buried or burnt. He could not realise the fact of his son's death; it was so entirely causeless and so terribly sudden. He ordered the dead body to be removed to one of his garden-houses in the suburbs of the city, and to be laid there in state. He ordered that all sorts of provisions should be stowed away in that house, as if the young prince needed them for his refection. Orders were issued that the house should be kept locked up day and night, and that no one should go into it except Dalim's most intimate friend, the son of the king's prime minister, who was intrusted with the key of the house, and who obtained the privilege of entering it once in twenty-four hours. As, owing to her great loss, the Suo queen lived in retirement, the king gave up his nights entirely to the Duo queen. The latter, in order to allay suspicion, used to put aside the gold necklace at night; and, as fate had ordained that Dalim should be in the state of death only during the time that the necklace was round the neck of the queen, he passed into the state of life whenever the necklace was laid aside. Accordingly Dalim revived every night, as the Duo queen every night put away the necklace, and died again the next morning when the queen put it on. When Dalim became reanimated at night he ate whatever food he liked, for of such there was a plentiful stock in the garden-house, walked about on the premises, and meditated on the singularity of his lot. Dalim's friend, who visited him only during the day, found him always lying a lifeless corpse; but what struck him after some days was the singular fact that the body remained in the same state in which he saw it on the first day of his visit. There was no sign of putrefaction. Except that it was lifeless and pale, there were no symptoms of corruption--it was apparently quite fresh. Unable to account for so strange a phenomenon, he determined to watch the corpse more closely, and to visit it not only during the day but sometimes also at night. The first night that he paid his visit he was astounded to see his dead friend sauntering about in the garden. At first he thought the figure might be only the ghost of his friend, but on feeling him and otherwise examining him, he found the apparition to be veritable flesh and blood. Dalim related to his friend all the circumstances connected with his death; and they both concluded that he revived at nights only because the Duo queen put aside her necklace when the king visited her. As the life of the prince depended on the necklace, the two friends laid their heads together to devise if possible some plans by which they might get possession of it. Night after night they consulted together, but they could not think of any feasible scheme. At length the gods brought about the deliverance of Dalim Kumar in a wonderful manner. Some years before the time of which we are speaking, the sister of Bidhata-Purusha [3] was delivered of a daughter. The anxious mother asked her brother what he had written on her child's forehead; to which Bidhata-Purusha replied that she should get married to a dead bridegroom. Maddened as she became with grief at the prospect of such a dreary destiny for her daughter, she yet thought it useless to remonstrate with her brother, for she well knew that he never changed what he once wrote. As the child grew in years she became exceedingly beautiful, but the mother could not look upon her with pleasure in consequence of the portion allotted to her by her divine brother. When the girl came to marriageable age, the mother resolved to flee from the country with her, and thus avert her dreadful destiny. But the decrees of fate cannot thus be overruled. In the course of their wanderings the mother and daughter arrived at the gate of that very garden-house in which Dalim Kumar lay. It was evening. The girl said she was thirsty and wanted to drink water. The mother told her daughter to sit at the gate, while she went to search for drinking water in some neighbouring hut. In the meantime the girl through curiosity pushed the door of the garden-house, which opened of itself. She then went in and saw a beautiful palace, and was wishing to come out when the door shut itself of its own accord, so that she could not get out. As night came on the prince revived, and, walking about, saw a human figure near the gate. He went up to it, and found it was a girl of surpassing beauty. On being asked who she was, she told Dalim Kumar all the details of her little history,--how her uncle, the divine Bidhata-Purusha, wrote on her forehead at her birth that she should get married to a dead bridegroom, how her mother had no pleasure in her life at the prospect of so terrible a destiny, and how, therefore, on the approach of her womanhood, with a view to avert so dreadful a catastrophe, she had left her house with her and wandered in various places, how they came to the gate of the garden-house, and how her mother had now gone in search of drinking water for her. Dalim Kumar, hearing her simple and pathetic story, said, "I am the dead bridegroom, and you must get married to me, come with me to the house." "How can you be said to be a dead bridegroom when you are standing and speaking to me?" said the girl. "You will understand it afterwards," rejoined the prince, "come now and follow me." The girl followed the prince into the house. As she had been fasting the whole day the prince hospitably entertained her. As for the mother of the girl, the sister of the divine Bidhata-Purusha, she returned to the gate of the garden-house after it was dark, cried out for her daughter, and getting no answer, went away in search of her in the huts in the neighbourhood. It is said that after this she was not seen anywhere. While the niece of the divine Bidhata-Purusha was partaking of the hospitality of Dalim Kumar, his friend as usual made his appearance. He was surprised not a little at the sight of the fair stranger; and his surprise became greater when he heard the story of the young lady from her own lips. It was forthwith resolved that very night to unite the young couple in the bonds of matrimony. As priests were out of the question, the hymeneal rites were performed à la Gandharva. [4] The friend of the bridegroom took leave of the newly-married couple and went away to his house. As the happy pair had spent the greater part of the night in wakefulness, it was long after sunrise that they awoke from their sleep;--I should have said that the young wife woke from her sleep, for the prince had become a cold corpse, life having departed from him. The feelings of the young wife may be easily imagined. She shook her husband, imprinted warm kisses on his cold lips, but in vain. He was as lifeless as a marble statue. Stricken with horror, she smote her breast, struck her forehead with the palms of her hands, tore her hair and went about in the house and in the garden as if she had gone mad. Dalim's friend did not come into the house during the day, as he deemed it improper to pay a visit to her while her husband was lying dead. The day seemed to the poor girl as long as a year, but the longest day has its end, and when the shades of evening were descending upon the landscape, her dead husband was awakened into consciousness; he rose up from his bed, embraced his disconsolate wife, ate, drank, and became merry. His friend made his appearance as usual, and the whole night was spent in gaiety and festivity. Amid this alternation of life and death did the prince and his lady spend some seven or eight years, during which time the princess presented her husband with two lovely boys who were the exact image of their father. It is superfluous to remark that the king, the two queens, and other members of the royal household did not know that Dalim Kumar was living, at any rate, was living at night. They all thought that he was long ago dead and his corpse burnt. But the heart of Dalim's wife was yearning after her mother-in-law, whom she had never seen. She conceived a plan by which she might be able not only to have a sight of her mother-in-law, but also to get hold of the Duo queen's necklace, on which her husband's life was dependent. With the consent of her husband and of his friend she disguised herself as a female barber. Like every female barber she took a bundle containing the following articles:--an iron instrument for paring nails, another iron instrument for scraping off the superfluous flesh of the soles of the feet, a piece of jhama or burnt brick for rubbing the soles of the feet with, and alakta [5] for painting the edges of the feet and toes with. Taking this bundle in her hand she stood at the gate of the king's palace with her two boys. She declared herself to be a barber, and expressed a desire to see the Suo queen, who readily gave her an interview. The queen was quite taken up with the two little boys, who, she declared, strongly reminded her of her darling Dalim Kumar. Tears fell profusely from her eyes at the recollection of her lost treasure; but she of course had not the remotest idea that the two little boys were the sons of her own dear Dalim. She told the supposed barber that she did not require her services, as, since the death of her son, she had given up all terrestrial vanities, and among others the practice of dyeing her feet red; but she added that, nevertheless, she would be glad now and then to see her and her two fine boys. The female barber, for so we must now call her, then went to the quarters of the Duo queen and offered her services. The queen allowed her to pare her nails, to scrape off the superfluous flesh of her feet, and to paint them with alakta and was so pleased with her skill, and the sweetness of her disposition, that she ordered her to wait upon her periodically. The female barber noticed with no little concern the necklace round the queen's neck. The day of her second visit came on, and she instructed the elder of her two sons to set up a loud cry in the palace, and not to stop crying till he got into his hands the Duo queen's necklace. The female barber, accordingly, went again on the appointed day to the Duo queen's apartments. While she was engaged in painting the queen's feet, the elder boy set up a loud cry. On being asked the reason of the cry, the boy, as previously instructed, said that he wanted the queen's necklace. The queen said that it was impossible for her to part with that particular necklace, for it was the best and most valuable of all her jewels. To gratify the boy, however, she took it off her neck, and put it into the boy's hand. The boy stopped crying and held the necklace tight in his hand. As the female barber after she had done her work was about to go away, the queen wanted the necklace back. But the boy would not part with it. When his mother attempted to snatch it from him, he wept bitterly, and showed as if his heart would break. On which the female barber said--"Will your Majesty be gracious enough to let the boy take the necklace home with him? When he falls asleep after drinking his milk, which he is sure to do in the course of an hour, I will carefully bring it back to you." The queen, seeing that the boy would not allow it to be taken away from him, agreed to the proposal of the female barber, especially reflecting that Dalim, whose life depended on it, had long ago gone to the abodes of death. Thus possessed of the treasure on which the life of her husband depended, the woman went with breathless haste to the garden-house and presented the necklace to Dalim, who had been restored to life. Their joy knew no bounds, and by the advice of their friend they determined the next day to go to the palace in state, and present themselves to the king and the Suo queen. Due preparations were made; an elephant, richly caparisoned, was brought for the prince Dalim Kumar, a pair of ponies for the two little boys, and a chaturdala [6] furnished with curtains of gold lace for the princess. Word was sent to the king and the Suo queen that the prince Dalim Kumar was not only alive, but that he was coming to visit his royal parents with his wife and sons. The king and Suo queen could hardly believe in the report, but being assured of its truth they were entranced with joy; while the Duo queen, anticipating the disclosure of all her wiles, became overwhelmed with grief. The procession of Dalim Kumar, which was attended by a band of musicians, approached the palace-gate; and the king and Suo queen went out to receive their long-lost son. It is needless to say that their joy was intense. They fell on each other's neck and wept. Dalim then related all the circumstances connected with his death. The king, inflamed with rage, ordered the Duo queen into his presence. A large hole, as deep as the height of a man, was dug in the ground. The Duo queen was put into it in a standing posture. Prickly thorn was heaped around her up to the crown of her head; and in this manner she was buried alive. Thus my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth; "Why, O Natiya-thorn, dost wither?" "Why does thy cow on me browse?" "Why, O cow, dost thou browse?" "Why does thy neat-herd not tend me?" "Why, O neat-herd, dost not tend the cow?" "Why does thy daughter-in-law not give me rice?" "Why, O daughter-in-law, dost not give rice?" "Why does my child cry?" "Why, O child, dost thou cry?" "Why does the ant bite me?" "Why, O ant, dost thou bite?" Koot! koot! koot! II PHAKIR CHAND There was a king's son, and there was a minister's son. They loved each other dearly; they sat together, they stood up together, they walked together, they ate together, they slept together, they got up together. In this way they spent many years in each other's company, till they both felt a desire to see foreign lands. So one day they set out on their journey. Though very rich, the one being the son of a king and the other the son of his chief minister, they did not take any servants with them; they went by themselves on horseback. The horses were beautiful to look at; they were pakshirajes, or kings of birds. The king's son and the minister's son rode together many days. They passed through extensive plains covered with paddy; through cities, towns, and villages; through waterless, treeless deserts; through dense forests which were the abode of the tiger and the bear. One evening they were overtaken by night in a region where human habitations were not seen; and as it was getting darker and darker, they dismounted beneath a lofty tree, tied their horses to its trunk, and, climbing up, sat on its branches covered with thick foliage. The tree grew near a large tank, the water of which was as clear as the eye of a crow. The king's son and the minister's son made themselves as comfortable as they could on the tree, being determined to spend on its branches the livelong night. They sometimes chatted together in whispers on account of the lonely terrors of the region; they sometimes sat demurely silent for some minutes; and anon they were falling into a doze, when their attention was arrested by a terrible sight. A sound like the rush of many waters was heard from the middle of the tank. A huge serpent was seen leaping up from under the water with its hood of enormous size. It "lay floating many a rood"; then it swam ashore, and went about hissing. But what most of all attracted the attention of the king's son and the minister's son was a brilliant manikya (jewel) on the crested hood of the serpent. It shone like a thousand diamonds. It lit up the tank, its embankments, and the objects round about. The serpent doffed the jewel from its crest and threw it on the ground, and then it went about hissing in search of food. The two friends sitting on the tree greatly admired the wonderful brilliant, shedding ineffable lustre on everything around. They had never before seen anything like it; they had only heard of it as equalling the treasures of seven kings. Their admiration, however, was soon changed into sorrow and fear; for the serpent came hissing to the foot of the tree on the branches of which they were seated, and swallowed up, one by one, the horses tied to the trunk. They feared that they themselves would be the next victims, when, to their infinite relief, the gigantic cobra turned away from the tree, and went about roaming to a great distance. The minister's son, seeing this, bethought himself of taking possession of the lustrous stone. He had heard that the only way to hide the brilliant light of the jewel was to cover it with cow-dung or horse-dung, a quantity of which latter article he perceived lying at the foot of the tree. He came down from the tree softly, picked up the horse-dung, threw it upon the precious stone, and again climbed into the tree. The serpent, not perceiving the light of its head-jewel, rushed with great fury to the spot where it had been left. Its hissings, groans, and convulsions were terrible. It went round and round the jewel covered with horse-dung, and then breathed its last. Early next morning the king's son and the minister's son alighted from the tree, and went to the spot where the crest-jewel was. The mighty serpent lay there perfectly lifeless. The minister's son took up in his hand the jewel covered with horse-dung; and both of them went to the tank to wash it. When all the horse-dung had been washed off, the jewel shone as brilliantly as before. It lit up the entire bed of the tank, and exposed to their view the innumerable fishes swimming about in the waters. But what was their astonishment when they saw, by the light of the jewel, in the bottom of the tank, the lofty walls of what seemed a magnificent palace. The venturesome son of the minister proposed to the prince that they should dive into the waters and get at the palace below. They both dived into the waters--the jewel being in the hand of the minister's son--and in a moment stood at the gate of the palace. The gate was open. They saw no being, human or superhuman. They went inside the gate, and saw a beautiful garden laid out on the ample grounds round about the house which was in the centre. The king's son and the minister's son had never seen such a profusion of flowers. The rose with its many varieties, the jessamine, the bel, the mallika, the king of smells, the lily of the valley, the Champaka, and a thousand other sorts of sweet-scented flowers were there. And of each of these flowers there seemed to be a large number. Here were a hundred rose-bushes, there many acres covered with the delicious jessamine, while yonder were extensive plantations of all sorts of flowers. As all the plants were begemmed with flowers, and as the flowers were in full bloom, the air was loaded with rich perfume. It was a wilderness of sweets. Through this paradise of perfumery they proceeded towards the house, which was surrounded by banks of lofty trees. They stood at the door of the house. It was a fairy palace. The walls were of burnished gold, and here and there shone diamonds of dazzling hue which were stuck into the walls. They did not meet with any beings, human or other. They went inside, which was richly furnished. They went from room to room, but they did not see any one. It seemed to be a deserted house. At last, however, they found in one room a young lady lying down, apparently in sleep, on a bed of golden framework. She was of exquisite beauty; her complexion was a mixture of red and white; and her age was apparently about sixteen. The king's son and the minister's son gazed upon her with rapture; but they had not stood long when this young lady of superb beauty opened her eyes, which seemed like those of a gazelle. On seeing the strangers she said: "How have you come here, ye unfortunate men? Begone, begone! This is the abode of a mighty serpent, which has devoured my father, my mother, my brothers, and all my relatives; I am the only one of my family that he has spared. Flee for your lives, or else the serpent will put you both in its capacious maw." The minister's son told the princess how the serpent had breathed its last; how he and his friend had got possession of its head-jewel, and by its light had come to her palace. She thanked the strangers for delivering her from the infernal serpent, and begged of them to live in the house, and never to desert her. The king's son and the minister's son gladly accepted the invitation. The king's son, smitten with the charms of the peerless princess, married her after a short time; and as there was no priest there, the hymeneal knot was tied by a simple exchange of garlands of flowers. The king's son became inexpressibly happy in the company of the princess, who was as amiable in her disposition as she was beautiful in her person; and though the wife of the minister's son was living in the upper world, he too participated in his friend's happiness. Time thus passed merrily, when the king's son bethought himself of returning to his native country; and as it was fit that he should go with his princess in due pomp, it was determined that the minister's son should first ascend from the subaqueous regions, go to the king, and bring with him attendants, horses, and elephants for the happy pair. The snake-jewel was therefore had in requisition. The prince, with the jewel in hand, accompanied the minister's son to the upper world, and bidding adieu to his friend returned to his lovely wife in the enchanted palace. Before leaving, the minister's son appointed the day and the hour when he would stand on the high embankments of the tank with horses, elephants, and attendants, and wait upon the prince and the princess, who were to join him in the upper world by means of the jewel. Leaving the minister's son to wend his way to his country and to make preparations for the return of his king's son, let us see how the happy couple in the subterranean palace were passing their time. One day, while the prince was sleeping after his noonday meal, the princess, who had never seen the upper regions, felt the desire of visiting them, and the rather as the snake-jewel, which alone could give her safe conduct through the waters, was at that moment shedding its bright effulgence in the room. She took up the jewel in her hand, left the palace, and successfully reached the upper world. No mortal caught her sight. She sat on the flight of steps with which the tank was furnished for the convenience of bathers, scrubbed her body, washed her hair, disported in the waters, walked about on the water's edge, admired all the scenery around, and returned to her palace, where she found her husband still locked in the embrace of sleep. When the prince woke up, she did not tell him a word about her adventure. The following day at the same hour, when her husband was asleep, she paid a second visit to the upper world, and went back unnoticed by mortal man. As success made her bold, she repeated her adventure a third time. It so chanced that on that day the son of the Rajah, in whose territories the tank was situated, was out on a hunting excursion, and had pitched his tent not far from the place. While his attendants were engaged in cooking their noon-day meal, the Rajah's son sauntered about on the embankments of the tank, near which an old woman was gathering sticks and dried branches of trees for purposes of fuel. It was while the Rajah's son and the old woman were near the tank that the princess paid her third visit to the upper world. She rose up from the waters, gazed around, and seeing a man and a woman on the banks again went down. The Rajah's son caught a momentary glimpse of the princess, and so did the old woman gathering sticks. The Rajah's son stood gazing on the waters. He had never seen such a beauty. She seemed to him to be one of those deva-kanyas, heavenly goddesses, of whom he had read in old books, and who are said now and then to favour the lower world with their visits, which, like angel visits, are "few and far between." The unearthly beauty of the princess, though he had seen her only for a moment, made a deep impression on his heart, and distracted his mind. He stood there like a statue, for hours, gazing on the waters, in the hope of seeing the lovely figure again. But in vain. The princess did not appear again. The Rajah's son became mad with love. He kept muttering--"Now here, now gone! Now here, now gone!" He would not leave the place till he was forcibly removed by the attendants who had now come to him. He was taken to his father's palace in a state of hopeless insanity. He spoke to nobody; he always sobbed heavily; and the only words which proceeded out of his mouth--and he was muttering them every minute--were, "Now here, now gone! Now here, now gone!" The Rajah's grief may well be conceived. He could not imagine what should have deranged his son's mind. The words, "Now here, now gone," which ever and anon issued from his son's lips, were a mystery to him; he could not unravel their meaning; neither could the attendants throw any light on the subject. The best physicians of the country were consulted, but to no effect. The sons of Æsculapius could not ascertain the cause of the madness, far less could they cure it. To the many inquiries of the physicians, the only reply made by the Rajah's son was the stereotyped words--"Now here, now gone! Now here, now gone!" The Rajah, distracted with grief on account of the obscuration of his son's intellects, caused a proclamation to be made in the capital by beat of drum, to the effect that, if any person could explain the cause of his son's madness and cure it, such a person would be rewarded with the hand of the Rajah's daughter, and with the possession of half his kingdom. The drum was beaten round most parts of the city, but no one touched it, as no one knew the cause of the madness of the Rajah's son. At last an old woman touched the drum, and declared that she would not only discover the cause of the madness, but cure it. This woman, who was the identical woman that was gathering sticks near the tank at the time the Rajah's son lost his reason, had a crack-brained son of the name of Phakir Chand, and was in consequence called Phakir's mother, or more familiarly Phakre's mother. When the woman was brought before the Rajah, the following conversation took place:-- Rajah. You are the woman that touched the drum.--You know the cause of my son's madness? Phakir's Mother. Yes, O incarnation of justice! I know the cause, but I will not mention it till I have cured your son. Rajah. How can I believe that you are able to cure my son, when the best physicians of the land have failed? Phakir's Mother. You need not now believe, my lord, till I have performed the cure. Many an old woman knows secrets with which wise men are unacquainted. Rajah. Very well, let me see what you can do. In what time will you perform the cure? Phakir's Mother. It is impossible to fix the time at present; but I will begin work immediately with your lordship's assistance. Rajah. What help do you require from me? Phakir's Mother. Your lordship will please order a hut to be raised on the embankment of the tank where your son first caught the disease. I mean to live in that hut for a few days. And your lordship will also please order some of your servants to be in attendance at a distance of about a hundred yards from the hut, so that they might be within call. Rajah. Very well; I will order that to be immediately done. Do you want anything else? Phakir's Mother. Nothing else, my lord, in the way of preparations. But it is as well to remind your lordship of the conditions on which I undertake the cure. Your lordship has promised to give to the performer of the cure the hand of your daughter and half your kingdom. As I am a woman and cannot marry your daughter, I beg that, in case I perform the cure, my son Phakir Chand may marry your daughter and take possession of half your kingdom. Rajah. Agreed, agreed. A temporary hut was in a few hours erected on the embankment of the tank, and Phakir's mother took up her abode in it. An outpost was also erected at some distance for servants in attendance who might be required to give help to the woman. Strict orders were given by Phakir's mother that no human being should go near the tank excepting herself. Let us leave Phakir's mother keeping watch at the tank, and hasten down into the subterranean palace to see what the prince and the princess are about. After the mishap which had occurred on her last visit to the upper world, the princess had given up the idea of a fourth visit. But women generally have greater curiosity than men; and the princess of the underground palace was no exception to the general rule. One day, while her husband was asleep as usual after his noonday meal, she rushed out of the palace with the snake-jewel in her hand, and came to the upper world. The moment the upheaval of the waters in the middle of the tank took place, Phakir's mother, who was on the alert, concealed herself in the hut and began looking through the chinks of the matted wall. The princess, seeing no mortal near, came to the bank, and sitting there began to scrub her body. Phakir's mother showed herself outside the hut, and addressing the princess, said in a winning tone--"Come, my child, thou queen of beauty, come to me, and I will help you to bathe." So saying, she approached the princess, who, seeing that it was only a woman, made no resistance. The old woman, while in the act of washing the hair of the princess, noticed the bright jewel in her hand, and said--"Put the jewel here till you are bathed." In a moment the jewel was in the possession of Phakir's mother, who wrapped it up in the cloth that was round her waist. Knowing the princess to be unable to escape, she gave the signal to the attendants in waiting, who rushed to the tank and made the princess a captive. Great were the rejoicings of the people when the tidings reached the city that Phakir's mother had captured a water-nymph from the nether regions. The whole city came to see the "daughter of the immortals," as they called the princess. When she was brought to the palace and confronted with the Rajah's son of obscured intellect, the latter said with a shout of exultation--"I have found! I have found!" The cloud which had settled on his brain was dissipated in a moment. The eyes, erewhile vacant and lustreless, now glowed with the fire of intelligence; his tongue, of which he had almost lost the use--the only words which he used to utter being, "Now here, now gone!"--was now relaxed: in a word, he was restored to his senses. The joy of the Rajah knew no bounds. There was great festivity in the city; and the people who showered benedictions on the head of Phakir Chand's mother, expected the speedy celebration of the marriage of the Rajah's son with the beauty of the nether world. The princess, however, told the Rajah, through Phakir's mother, that she had made a vow to the effect that she would not, for one whole year, look at the face of another man than that of her husband who was dwelling beneath the waters, and that therefore the marriage could not be performed during that period. Though the Rajah's son was somewhat disappointed, he readily agreed to the delay, believing, agreeably to the proverb, that delay would greatly enhance the sweetness of those pleasures which were in store for him. It is scarcely necessary to say that the princess spent her days and her nights in sorrowing and sighing. She lamented that idle curiosity which had led her to come to the upper world, leaving her husband below. When she recollected that her husband was all alone below the waters she wept bitter tears. She wished she could run away. But that was impossible, as she was immured within walls, and there were walls within walls. Besides, if she could get out of the palace and of the city, of what avail would it be? She could not gain her husband, as the serpent jewel was not in her possession. The ladies of the palace and Phakir's mother tried to divert her mind, but in vain. She took pleasure in nothing; she would hardly speak to any one; she wept day and night. The year of her vow was drawing to a close, and yet she was disconsolate. The marriage, however, must be celebrated. The Rajah consulted the astrologers, and the day and the hour in which the nuptial knot was to be tied were fixed. Great preparations were made. The confectioners of the city busied themselves day and night in preparing sweetmeats; milkmen took contracts for supplying the palace with tanks of curds; gunpowder was being manufactured for a grand display of fireworks; bands of musicians were placed on sheds erected over the palace gate, who ever and anon sent forth many "a bout of linked sweetness"; and the whole city assumed an air of mirth and festivity. It is time we should think of the minister's son, who, leaving his friend in the subterranean palace, had gone to his country to bring horses, elephants, and attendants for the return of the king's son and his lovely princess with due pomp. The preparations took him many months; and when everything was ready he started on his journey, accompanied by a long train of elephants, horses, and attendants. He reached the tank two or three days before the appointed day. Tents were pitched in the mango-topes adjoining the tank for the accommodation of men and cattle; and the minister's son always kept his eyes fixed on the tank. The sun of the appointed day sank below the horizon; but the prince and the princess dwelling beneath the waters made no sign. He waited two or three days longer; still the prince did not make his appearance. What could have happened to his friend and his beautiful wife? Were they dead? Had another serpent, possibly the mate of the one that had died, beaten the prince and the princess to death? Had they somehow lost the serpent-jewel? Or had they been captured when they were once on a visit to the upper world? Such were the reflections of the minister's son. He was overwhelmed with grief. Ever since he had come to the tank he had heard at regular intervals the sound of music coming from the city which was not distant. He inquired of passers-by what that music meant. He was told that the Rajah's son was about to be married to some wonderful young lady, who had come out of the waters of that very tank on the bank of which he was now seated, and that the marriage ceremony was to be performed on the day following the next. The minister's son immediately concluded that the wonderful young lady of the lake that was to be married was none other than the wife of his friend, the king's son. He resolved therefore to go into the city to learn the details of the affair, and try if possible to rescue the princess. He told the attendants to go home, taking with them the elephants and the horses; and he himself went to the city, and took up his abode in the house of a Brahman. After he had rested and taken his dinner, the minister's son asked the Brahman what the meaning was of the music that was heard in the city at regular intervals. The Brahman asked, "From what part of the world have you come that you have not heard of the wonderful circumstance that a young lady of heavenly beauty rose out of the waters of a tank in the suburbs, and that she is going to be married the day after to-morrow to the son of our Rajah?" Minister's Son. No, I have heard nothing. I have come from a distant country whither the story has not reached. Will you kindly tell me the particulars? Brahman. The Rajah's son went out a-hunting about this time last year. He pitched his tents close to a tank in the suburbs. One day, while the Rajah's son was walking near the tank, he saw a young woman, or rather goddess, of uncommon beauty rise from the waters of the tank. She gazed about for a minute or two and disappeared. The Rajah's son, however, who had seen her, was so struck with her heavenly beauty that he became desperately enamoured of her. Indeed, so intense was his passion, that his reason gave way; and he was carried home hopelessly mad. The only words he uttered day and night were--"Now here, now gone!" The Rajah sent for all the best physicians of the country for restoring his son to his reason; but the physicians were powerless. At last he caused a proclamation to be made by beat of drum to the effect that if any one could cure the Rajah's son, he should be the Rajah's son-in-law and the owner of half his kingdom. An old woman, who went by the name of Phakir's mother, took hold of the drum, and declared her ability to cure the Rajah's son. On the tank where the princess had appeared was raised for Phakir's mother a hut in which she took up her abode; and not far from her hut another hut was erected for the accommodation of attendants who might be required to help her. It seems the goddess rose from the waters; Phakir's mother seized her with the help of the attendants, and carried her in a palki to the palace. At the sight of her the Rajah's son was restored to his senses; and the marriage would have been celebrated at that time but for a vow which the goddess had made that she would not look at the face of any male person till the lapse of a year. The year of the vow is now over; and the music which you have heard is from the gate of the Rajah's palace. This, in brief, is the story. Minister's Son. A truly wonderful story! And has Phakir's mother, or rather Phakir Chand himself, been rewarded with the hand of the Rajah's daughter and with the possession of half the kingdom? Brahman. No, not yet. Phakir has not been got hold of. He is a half-witted lad, or rather quite mad. He has been away for more than a year from his home, and no one knows where he is. That is his manner; he stays away for a long time, suddenly comes home, and again disappears. I believe his mother expects him soon. Minister's Son. What like is he? and what does he do when he returns home? Brahman. Why, he is about your height, though he is somewhat younger than you. He puts on a small piece of cloth round his waist, rubs his body with ashes, takes the branch of a tree in his hand, and, at the door of the hut in which his mother lives, dances to the tune of dhoop! dhoop! dhoop! His articulation is very indistinct; and when his mother says--"Phakir! stay with me for some days," he invariably answers in his usual unintelligible manner, "No, I won't remain, I won't remain." And when he wishes to give an affirmative answer, he says, "Hoom," which means "Yes." The above conversation with the Brahman poured a flood of light into the mind of the minister's son. He saw how matters stood. He perceived that the princess of the subterranean palace must have alone ventured out into the tank by means of the snake-jewel; that she must have been captured alone without the king's son; that the snake-jewel must be in the possession of Phakir's mother; and that his friend, the king's son, must be alone below the waters without any means of escape. The desolate and apparently hopeless state of his friend filled him with unutterable grief. He was in deep musings during most part of the night. Is it impossible, thought he, to rescue the king's son from the nether regions? What if, by some means or other, I contrive to get the jewel from the old woman? And can I not do it by personating Phakir Chand himself, who is expected by his mother shortly? And possibly by the same means I may be able to rescue the princess from the Rajah's palace. He resolved to act the rôle of Phakir Chand the following day. In the morning he left the Brahman's house, went to the outskirts of the city, divested himself of his usual clothing, put round his waist a short and narrow piece of cloth which scarcely reached his knee-joints, rubbed his body well with ashes, took in his hand a twig which he broke off a tree, and thus accoutred, presented himself before the door of the hut of Phakir's mother. He commenced operations by dancing, in a most violent manner, to the tune of dhoop! dhoop! dhoop! The dancing attracted the notice of the old woman, who, supposing that her son had come, said--"My son Phakir, are you come? Come, my darling; the gods have at last become propitious to us." The supposed Phakir Chand uttered the monosyllable "hoom," and went on dancing in a still more violent manner than before, waving the twig in his hand. "This time you must not go away," said the old woman, "you must remain with me." "No, I won't remain, I won't remain," said the minister's son. "Remain with me, and I'll get you married to the Rajah's daughter. Will you marry, Phakir Chand?" The minister's son replied--"Hoom, hoom," and danced on like a madman. "Will you come with me to the Rajah's house? I'll show you a princess of uncommon beauty who has risen from the waters." "Hoom, hoom," was the answer that issued from his lips, while his feet tripped it violently to the sound of dhoop! dhoop! "Do you wish to see a manik, Phakir, the crest jewel of the serpent, the treasure of seven kings?" "Hoom, hoom," was the reply. The old woman brought out of the hut the snake-jewel, and put it into the hand of her supposed son. The minister's son took it, and carefully wrapped it up in the piece of cloth round his waist. Phakir's mother, delighted beyond measure at the opportune appearance of her son, went to the Rajah's house, partly to announce to the Rajah the news of Phakir's appearance, and partly to show Phakir the princess of the waters. The supposed Phakir and his mother found ready access to the Rajah's palace, for the old woman had, since the capture of the princess, become the most important person in the kingdom. She took him into the room where the princess was, and introduced him to her. It is superfluous to remark that the princess was by no means pleased with the company of a madcap, who was in a state of semi-nudity, whose body was rubbed with ashes, and who was ever and anon dancing in a wild manner. At sunset the old woman proposed to her son that they should leave the palace and go to their own house. But the supposed Phakir Chand refused to comply with the request; he said he would stay there that night. His mother tried to persuade him to return with her, but he persisted in his determination. He said he would remain with the princess. Phakir's mother therefore went away, after giving instructions to the guards and attendants to take care of her son. When all in the palace had retired to rest, the supposed Phakir, coming towards the princess, said in his own usual voice--"Princess! do you not recognise me? I am the minister's son, the friend of your princely husband." The princess, astonished at the announcement, said--"Who? The minister's son? Oh, my husband's best friend, do rescue me from this terrible captivity, from this worse than death. O fate! it is by my own fault that I am reduced to this wretched state. Oh, rescue me, rescue me, thou best of friends!" She then burst into tears. The minister's son said, "Do not be disconsolate. I will try my best to rescue you this very night; only you must do whatever I tell you." "I will do anything you tell me, minister's son; anything you tell me." After this the supposed Phakir left the room, and passed through the courtyard of the palace. Some of the guards challenged him, to whom he replied, "Hoom, hoom; I will just go out for a minute and again come in presently." They understood that it was the madcap Phakir. True to his word he did come back shortly, and went to the princess. An hour afterwards he again went out and was again challenged, on which he made the same reply as at the first time. The guards who challenged him began to mutter between their teeth--"This madcap of a Phakir will, we suppose, go out and come in all night. Let the fellow alone; let him do what he likes. Who can be sitting up all night for him?" The minister's son was going out and coming in with the view of accustoming the guards to his constant egress and ingress, and also of watching for a favourable opportunity to escape with the princess. About three o'clock in the morning the minister's son again passed through the courtyard, but this time no one challenged him, as all the guards had fallen asleep. Overjoyed at the auspicious circumstance, he went to the princess. "Now, princess, is the time for escape. The guards are all asleep. Mount on my back, and tie the locks of your hair round my neck, and keep tight hold of me." The princess did as she was told. He passed unchallenged through the courtyard with the lovely burden on his back, passed out of the gate of the palace--no one challenging him, passed on to the outskirts of the city, and reached the tank from which the princess had risen. The princess stood on her legs, rejoicing at her escape, and at the same time trembling. The minister's son untied the snake-jewel from his waist-cloth, and descending into the waters, both he and she found their way to the subterranean palace. The reception which the prince in the subaqueous palace gave to his wife and his friend may be easily imagined. He had nearly died of grief; but now he suffered a resurrection. The three were now mad with joy. During the three days that they remained in the palace they again and again told the story of the egress of the princess into the upper world, of her seizure, of her captivity in the palace, of the preparations for marriage, of the old woman, of the minister's son personating Phakir Chand, and of the successful deliverance. It is unnecessary to add that the prince and the princess expressed their gratitude to the minister's son in the warmest terms, declared him to be their best and greatest friend, and vowed to abide always, till the day of their death, by his advice, and to follow his counsel. Being resolved to return to their native country, the king's son, the minister's son, and the princess left the subterranean palace, and, lighted in the passage by the snake-jewel, made their way good to the upper world. As they had neither elephants nor horses, they were under the necessity of travelling on foot; and though this mode of travelling was troublesome to both the king's son and the minister's son, as they were bred in the lap of luxury, it was infinitely more troublesome to the princess, as the stones of the rough road "Wounded the invisible Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell." When her feet became very sore, the king's son sometimes took her up on his broad shoulders, on which she sat astride; but the load, however lovely, was too heavy to be carried any great distance. She therefore, for the most part, travelled on foot. One evening they bivouacked beneath a tree, as no human habitations were visible. The minister's son said to the prince and princess, "Both of you go to sleep, and I will keep watch in order to prevent any danger." The royal couple were soon locked in the arms of sleep. The faithful son of the minister did not sleep, but sat up watching. It so happened that on that tree swung the nest of the two immortal birds, Bihangama and Bihangami, who were not only endowed with the power of human speech, but who could see into the future. To the no little astonishment of the minister's son the two prophetical birds joined in the following conversation:-- Bihangama. The minister's son has already risked his own life for the safety of his friend, the king's son; but he will find it difficult to save the prince at last. Bihangami. Why so? Bihangama. Many dangers await the king's son. The prince's father, when he hears of the approach of his son, will send for him an elephant, some horses, and attendants. When the king's son rides on the elephant he will fall down and die. Bihangami. But suppose some one prevents the king's son from riding on the elephant, and makes him ride on horseback, will he not in that case be saved? Bihangama. Yes, he will in that case escape that danger, but a fresh danger awaits him. When the king's son is in sight of his father's palace, and when he is in the act of passing through its lion-gate, the lion-gate will fall upon him and crush him to death. Bihangami. But suppose some one destroys the lion-gate before the king's son goes up to it; will not the king's son in that case be saved? Bihangama. Yes, in that case he will escape that particular danger; but a fresh danger awaits him. When the king's son reaches the palace and sits at a feast prepared for him, and when he takes into his mouth the head of a fish cooked for him, the head of the fish will stick in his throat and choke him to death. Bihangami. But suppose some one sitting at the feast snatches the head of the fish from the prince's plate, and thus prevents him from putting it into his mouth, will not the king's son in that case be saved? Bihangama. Yes, in that case he will escape that particular danger; but a fresh danger awaits him. When the prince and princess after dinner retire into their sleeping apartment, and they lie together in bed, a terrible cobra will come into the room and bite the king's son to death. Bihangami. But suppose some one lying in wait in the room cut the snake into pieces, will not the king's son in that case be saved? Bihangama. Yes, in that case the life of the king's son will be saved; but if the man who kills the snake repeats to the king's son the conversation between you and me, that man will be turned into a marble statue. Bihangami. But is there no means of restoring the marble statue to life? Bihangama. Yes, the marble statue may be restored to life if it is washed with the life-blood of the infant which the princess will give birth to, immediately after it is ushered into the world. The conversation of the prophetical birds had extended thus far when the crows began to caw, the east put on a reddish hue, and the travellers beneath the tree bestirred themselves. The conversation stopped, but the minister's son had heard it all. The prince, the princess, and the minister's son pursued their journey in the morning; but they had not walked many hours when they met a procession consisting of an elephant, a horse, a palki, and a large number of attendants. These animals and men had been sent by the king, who had heard that his son, together with his newly married wife and his friend the minister's son, were not far from the capital on their journey homewards. The elephant, which was richly caparisoned, was intended for the prince; the palki the framework of which was silver and was gaudily adorned, was meant for the princess; and the horse for the minister's son. As the prince was about to mount on the elephant, the minister's son went up to him and said--"Allow me to ride on the elephant, and you please ride on horseback." The prince was not a little surprised at the coolness of the proposal. He thought his friend was presuming too much on the services he had rendered; he was therefore nettled, but remembering that his friend had saved both him and his wife, he said nothing, but quietly mounted the horse, though his mind became somewhat alienated from him. The procession started, and after some time came in sight of the palace, the lion-gate of which had been gaily adorned for the reception of the prince and the princess. The minister's son told the prince that the lion-gate should be broken down before the prince could enter the palace. The prince was astounded at the proposal, especially as the minister's son gave no reasons for so extraordinary a request. His mind became still more estranged from him; but in consideration of the services the minister's son had rendered, his request was complied with, and the beautiful lion-gate, with its gay decorations, was broken down. The party now went into the palace, where the king gave a warm reception to his son, to his daughter-in-law, and to the minister's son. When the story of their adventures was related, the king and his courtiers expressed great astonishment, and they all with one voice extolled the sagacity, prudence, and devotedness of the minister's son. The ladies of the palace were struck with the extraordinary beauty of the new-comer; her complexion was milk and vermilion mixed together; her neck was like that of a swan; her eyes were like those of a gazelle; her lips were as red as the berry bimba; her cheeks were lovely; her nose was straight and high; her hair reached her ankles; her walk was as graceful as that of a young elephant--such were the terms in which the connoisseurs of beauty praised the princess whom destiny had brought into the midst of them. They sat around her and put her a thousand questions regarding her parents, regarding the subterranean palace in which she formerly lived, and the serpent which had killed all her relatives. It was now time that the new arrivals should have their dinner. The dinner was served up in dishes of gold. All sorts of delicacies were there, amongst which the most conspicuous was the large head of a rohita fish placed in a golden cup near the prince's plate. While they were eating, the minister's son suddenly snatched the head of the fish from the prince's plate, and said, "Let me, prince, eat this rohita's head." The king's son was quite indignant. He said nothing, however. The minister's son perceived that his friend was in a terrible rage; but he could not help it, as his conduct, however strange, was necessary to the safety of his friend's life; neither could he clear himself by stating the reason of his behaviour, as in that case he himself would be transformed into a marble statue. The dinner over, the minister's son expressed his desire to go to his own house. At other times the king's son would not allow his friend to go away in that fashion; but being shocked at his strange conduct, he readily agreed to the proposal. The minister's son, however, had not the slightest notion of going to his own house; he was resolved to avert the last peril that was to threaten the life of his friend. Accordingly, with a sword in his hand, he stealthily entered the room in which the prince and the princess were to sleep that night, and ensconced himself under the bedstead, which was furnished with mattresses of down and canopied with mosquito curtains of the richest silk and gold lace. Soon after dinner the prince and princess came into the bedroom, and undressing themselves went to bed. At midnight, while the royal couple were asleep, the minister's son perceived a snake of gigantic size enter the room through one of the water-passages, and climb up the tester-frame of the bed. He rushed out of his hiding-place, killed the serpent, cut it up in pieces, and put the pieces in the dish for holding betel-leaves and spices. It so happened, however, that as the minister's son was cutting the serpent into pieces, a drop of blood fell on the breast of the princess, and the rather as the mosquito curtains had not been let down. Thinking that the drop of blood might injure the fair princess, he resolved to lick it up. But as he regarded it as a great sin to look upon a young woman lying asleep half naked, he blindfolded himself with seven-fold cloth, and licked up the drop of blood. But while he was in the act of licking it, the princess awoke and screamed, and her scream roused her husband lying beside her. The prince seeing the minister's son, who he thought had gone away to his own house, bending over the body of his wife, fell into a great rage, and would have got up and killed him, had not the minister's son besought him to restrain his anger, adding--"Friend, I have done this only in order to save your life." "I do not understand what you mean," said the prince; "ever since we came out of the subterranean palace you have been behaving in a most extraordinary way. In the first place, you prevented me from getting upon the richly caparisoned elephant, though my father, the king, had purposely sent it for me. I thought, however, that a sense of the services you had rendered to me had made you exceedingly vain; I therefore let the matter pass, and mounted the horse. In the second place, you insisted on the destruction of the fine lion-gate, which my father had adorned with gay decorations; and I let that matter also pass. Then, again, at dinner you snatched away, in a most shameful manner, the rohita's head which was on my plate, and devoured it yourself, thinking, no doubt, that you were entitled to higher honours than I. You then pretended that you were going home, for which I was not at all sorry, as you had made yourself very disagreeable to me. And now you are actually in my bedroom, bending over the naked bosom of my wife. You must have had some evil design; and you pretend that you have done this to save my life. I fancy it was not for saving my life, but for destroying my wife's chastity." "Oh, do not harbour such thoughts in your mind against me. The gods know that I have done all this for the preservation of your life. You would see the reasonableness of my conduct throughout if I had the liberty of stating my reasons." "And why are you not at liberty?" asked the prince; "who has shut up your mouth?" "It is destiny that has shut up my mouth," answered the minister's son; "if I were to tell it all, I should be transformed into a marble statue." "You would be transformed into a marble statue!" exclaimed the prince; "you must take me to be a simpleton to believe this nonsense." "Do you wish me then, friend," said the minister's son, "to tell you all? You must then make up your mind to see your friend turned into stone." "Come, out with it," said the prince, "or else you are a dead man." The minister's son, in order to clear himself of the foul accusation brought against him, deemed it his duty to reveal the secret at the risk of his life. He again and again warned the prince not to press him. But the prince remained inexorable. The minister's son then went on to say that, while bivouacking under a lofty tree one night, he had overheard a conversation between Bihangama and Bihangami, in which the former predicted all the dangers that were to threaten the life of the prince. When the minister's son had related the prediction concerning the mounting upon the elephant, his lower parts were turned into stone. He then, turning to the prince, said, "See, friend, my lower parts have already turned into stone." "Go on, go on," said the prince, "with your story." The minister's son then related the prophecy regarding the destruction of the lion-gate, when half of his body was converted into stone. He then related the prediction regarding the eating of the head of the fish, when his body up to his neck was petrified. "Now, friend," said the minister's son, "the whole of my body, excepting my neck and head, is petrified; if I tell the rest, I shall assuredly become a man of stone. Do you wish me still to go on?" "Go on," answered the prince, "go on." "Very well, I will go on to the end," said the minister's son; "but in case you repent after I have become turned into stone, and wish me to be restored to life, I will tell you of the manner in which it may be effected. The princess after a few months will be delivered of a child; if immediately after the birth of the infant you kill it and besmear my marble body with its blood, I shall be restored to life." He then related the prediction regarding the serpent in the bedroom; and when the last word was on his lips the rest of his body was turned into stone, and he dropped on the floor a marble image. The princess jumped out of bed, opened the vessel for betel-leaves and spices, and saw there pieces of a serpent. Both the prince and the princess now became convinced of the good faith and benevolence of their departed friend. They went to the marble figure, but it was lifeless. They set up a loud lamentation; but it was to no purpose, for the marble moved not. They then resolved to keep the marble figure concealed in a safe place, and to besmear it with the blood of their first-born child when it should be ushered into existence. In process of time the hour of the princess's travail came on, and she was delivered of a beautiful boy, the perfect image of his mother. Both father and mother were struck with the beauty of their child, and would fain have spared its life; but recollecting the vows they had made on behalf of their best friend, now lying in a corner of the room a lifeless stone, and the inestimable services he had rendered to both of them, they cut the child into two, and besmeared the marble figure of the minister's son with its blood. The marble became animated in a moment. The minister's son stood before the prince and princess, who became exceedingly glad to see their old friend again in life. But the minister's son, who saw the lovely new-born babe lying in a pool of blood, was overwhelmed with grief. He took up the dead infant, carefully wrapped it up in a towel, and resolved to get it restored to life. The minister's son, intent on the reanimation of his friend's child, consulted all the physicians of the country; but they said that they would undertake to cure any person of any disease so long as life was in him, but when life was extinct, the case was beyond their jurisdiction. The minister's son at last bethought himself of his own wife, who was living in a distant town, and who was a devoted worshipper of the goddess Kali, who, through his wife's intercession, might be prevailed upon to give life to the dead child. He, accordingly, set out on a journey to the town in which his wife was living in her father's house. Adjoining that house there was a garden where upon a tree he hung the dead child wrapped up in a towel. His wife was overjoyed to see her husband after so long a time; but to her surprise she found that he was very melancholy, that he spoke very little, and that he was brooding over something in his mind. She asked the reason of his melancholy, but he kept quiet. One night while they were lying together in bed, the wife got up and opening the door went out. The husband, who had little sleep any night in consequence of the weight of anxiety regarding the reanimation of his friend's child, perceiving his wife go out at that dead hour of night, determined to follow her without being noticed. She went to a temple of the goddess Kali, which was at no great distance from her house. She worshipped the goddess with flowers and sandal-wood perfume, and said, "O mother Kali! have mercy upon me, and deliver me out of all my troubles." The goddess replied, "Why, what further grievance have you? You long prayed for the return of your husband, and he has returned; what aileth thee now?" The woman answered, "True, O Mother, my husband has come to me, but he is very moody and melancholy, hardly speaks to me, takes no delight in me, only sits moping in a corner." To which the goddess rejoined, "Ask your husband what the reason of his melancholy is, and let me know it." The minister's son overheard the conversation between the goddess and his wife, but he did not make his appearance; he quietly slunk away before his wife and went to bed. The following day the wife asked her husband of the cause of his melancholy; and he related all the particulars regarding the killing of the infant child of the prince. Next night at the same dead hour the wife proceeded to Kali's temple and mentioned to the goddess the reason of her husband's melancholy; on which the goddess said, "Bring the child here and I will restore it to life." On the succeeding night the child was produced before the goddess Kali, and she called it back to life. Entranced with joy, the minister's son took up the reanimated child, went as fast as his legs could carry him to the prince and princess, and presented to them their child alive and well. They all rejoiced with exceeding great joy, and lived together happily till the day of their death. Thus my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. III THE INDIGENT BRAHMAN There was a Brahman who had a wife and four children. He was very poor. With no resources in the world, he lived chiefly on the benefactions of the rich. His gains were considerable when marriages were celebrated or funeral ceremonies were performed; but as his parishioners did not marry every day, neither did they die every day, he found it difficult to make the two ends meet. His wife often rebuked him for his inability to give her adequate support, and his children often went about naked and hungry. But though poor he was a good man. He was diligent in his devotions; and there was not a single day in his life in which he did not say his prayers at stated hours. His tutelary deity was the goddess Durga, the consort of Siva, the creative Energy of the Universe. On no day did he either drink water or taste food till he had written in red ink the name of Durga at least one hundred and eight times; while throughout the day he incessantly uttered the ejaculation, "O Durga! O Durga! have mercy upon me." Whenever he felt anxious on account of his poverty and his inability to support his wife and children, he groaned out--"Durga! Durga! Durga!" One day, being very sad, he went to a forest many miles distant from the village in which he lived, and indulging his grief wept bitter tears. He prayed in the following manner:--"O Durga! O Mother Bhagavati! wilt thou not make an end of my misery? Were I alone in the world, I should not have been sad on account of poverty; but thou hast given me a wife and children. Give me, O Mother, the means to support them." It so happened that on that day and on that very spot the god Siva and his wife Durga were taking their morning walk. The goddess Durga, on seeing the Brahman at a distance, said to her divine husband--"O Lord of Kailas! do you see that Brahman? He is always taking my name on his lips and offering the prayer that I should deliver him out of his troubles. Can we not, my lord, do something for the poor Brahman, oppressed as he is with the cares of a growing family? We should give him enough to make him comfortable. As the poor man and his family have never enough to eat, I propose that you give him a handi [7] which should yield him an inexhaustible supply of mudki." [8] The lord of Kailas readily agreed to the proposal of his divine consort, and by his decree created on the spot a handi possessing the required quality. Durga then, calling the Brahman to her, said,--"O Brahman! I have often thought of your pitiable case. Your repeated prayers have at last moved my compassion. Here is a handi for you. When you turn it upside down and shake it, it will pour down a never-ceasing shower of the finest mudki, which will not end till you restore the handi to its proper position. Yourself, your wife, and your children can eat as much mudki as you like, and you can also sell as much as you like." The Brahman, delighted beyond measure at obtaining so inestimable a treasure, made obeisance to the goddess, and, taking the handi in his hand, proceeded towards his house as fast as his legs could carry him. But he had not gone many yards when he thought of testing the efficacy of the wonderful vessel. Accordingly he turned the handi upside down and shook it, when, lo, and behold! a quantity of the finest mudki he had ever seen fell to the ground. He tied the sweetmeat in his sheet and walked on. It was now noon, and the Brahman was hungry; but he could not eat without his ablutions and his prayers. As he saw in the way an inn, and not far from it a tank, he purposed to halt there that he might bathe, say his prayers, and then eat the much-desired mudki. The Brahman sat at the innkeeper's shop, put the handi near him, smoked tobacco, besmeared his body with mustard oil, and before proceeding to bathe in the adjacent tank gave the handi in charge to the innkeeper, begging him again and again to take especial care of it. When the Brahman went to his bath and his devotions, the innkeeper thought it strange that he should be so careful as to the safety of his earthen vessel. There must be something valuable in the handi, he thought, otherwise why should the Brahman take so much thought about it? His curiosity being excited he opened the handi, and to his surprise found that it contained nothing. What can be the meaning of this? thought the innkeeper within himself. Why should the Brahman care so much for an empty handi? He took up the vessel, and began to examine it carefully; and when, in the course of examination, he turned the handi upside down, a quantity of the finest mudki fell from it, and went on falling without intermission. The innkeeper called his wife and children to witness this unexpected stroke of good fortune. The showers of the sugared fried paddy were so copious that they filled all the vessels and jars of the innkeeper. He resolved to appropriate to himself this precious handi, and accordingly put in its place another handi of the same size and make. The ablutions and devotions of the Brahman being now over, he came to the shop in wet clothes reciting holy texts of the Vedas. Putting on dry clothes, he wrote on a sheet of paper the name of Durga one hundred and eight times in red ink; after which he broke his fast on the mudki his handi had already given him. Thus refreshed, and being about to resume his journey homewards, he called for his handi, which the innkeeper delivered to him, adding--"There, sir, is your handi; it is just where you put it; no one has touched it." The Brahman, without suspecting anything, took up the handi and proceeded on his journey; and as he walked on, he congratulated himself on his singular good fortune. "How agreeably," he thought within himself, "will my poor wife be surprised! How greedily the children will devour the mudki of heaven's own manufacture! I shall soon become rich, and lift up my head with the best of them all." The pains of travelling were considerably alleviated by these joyful anticipations. He reached his house, and calling his wife and children, said--"Look now at what I have brought. This handi that you see is an unfailing source of wealth and contentment. You will see what a stream of the finest mudki will flow from it when I turn it upside down." The Brahman's good wife, hearing of mudki falling from the handi unceasingly, thought that her husband must have gone mad; and she was confirmed in her opinion when she found that nothing fell from the vessel though it was turned upside down again and again. Overwhelmed with grief, the Brahman concluded that the innkeeper must have played a trick with him; he must have stolen the handi Durga had given him, and put a common one in its stead. He went back the next day to the innkeeper, and charged him with having changed his handi. The innkeeper put on a fit of anger, expressed surprise at the Brahman's impudence in charging him with theft, and drove him away from his shop. The Brahman then bethought himself of an interview with the goddess Durga who had given him the handi, and accordingly went to the forest where he had met her. Siva and Durga again favoured the Brahman with an interview. Durga said--"So, you have lost the handi I gave you. Here is another, take it and make good use of it." The Brahman, elated with joy, made obeisance to the divine couple, took up the vessel, and went on his way. He had not gone far when he turned it upside down, and shook it in order to see whether any mudki would fall from it. Horror of horrors! instead of sweetmeats about a score of demons, of gigantic size and grim visage, jumped out of the handi, and began to belabour the astonished Brahman with blows, fisticuffs and kicks. He had the presence of mind to turn up the handi and to cover it, when the demons forthwith disappeared. He concluded that this new handi had been given him only for the punishment of the innkeeper. He accordingly went to the innkeeper, gave him the new handi in charge, begged of him carefully to keep it till he returned from his ablutions and prayers. The innkeeper, delighted with this second godsend, called his wife and children, and said--"This is another handi brought here by the same Brahman who brought the handi of mudki. This time, I hope, it is not mudki but sandesa. [9] Come, be ready with baskets and vessels, and I'll turn the handi upside down and shake it." This was no sooner done than scores of fierce demons started up, who caught hold of the innkeeper and his family and belaboured them mercilessly. They also began upsetting the shop, and would have completely destroyed it, if the victims had not besought the Brahman, who had by this time returned from his ablutions, to show mercy to them and send away the terrible demons. The Brahman acceded to the innkeeper's request, he dismissed the demons by shutting up the vessel; he got the former handi, and with the two handis went to his native village. On reaching home the Brahman shut the door of his house, turned the mudki-handi upside down, and shook it; the result was an unceasing stream of the finest mudki that any confectioner in the country could produce. The man, his wife, and their children devoured the sweetmeat to their hearts' content; all the available earthen pots and pans of the house were filled with it; and the Brahman resolved the next day to turn confectioner, to open a shop in his house, and sell mudki. On the very day the shop was opened, the whole village came to the Brahman's house to buy the wonderful mudki. They had never seen such mudki in their life, it was so sweet, so white, so large, so luscious; no confectioner in the village or any town in the country had ever manufactured anything like it. The reputation of the Brahman's mudki extended, in a few days, beyond the bounds of the village, and people came from remote parts to purchase it. Cartloads of the sweetmeat were sold every day, and the Brahman in a short time became very rich. He built a large brick house, and lived like a nobleman of the land. Once, however, his property was about to go to wreck and ruin. His children one day by mistake shook the wrong handi, when a large number of demons dropped down and caught hold of the Brahman's wife and children and were striking them mercilessly, when happily the Brahman came into the house and turned up the handi. In order to prevent a similar catastrophe in future, the Brahman shut up the demon-handi in a private room to which his children had no access. Pure and uninterrupted prosperity, however, is not the lot of mortals; and though the demon-handi was put aside, what security was there that an accident might not befall the mudki-handi? One day, during the absence of the Brahman and his wife from the house, the children decided upon shaking the handi; but as each of them wished to enjoy the pleasure of shaking it there was a general struggle to get it, and in the mêlée the handi fell to the ground and broke. It is needless to say that the Brahman, when on reaching home he heard of the disaster, became inexpressibly sad. The children were of course well cudgelled, but no flogging of children could replace the magical handi. After some days he again went to the forest, and offered many a prayer for Durga's favour. At last Siva and Durga again appeared to him, and heard how the handi had been broken. Durga gave him another handi, accompanied with the following caution--"Brahman, take care of this handi; if you again break it or lose it, I'll not give you another." The Brahman made obeisance, and went away to his house at one stretch without halting anywhere. On reaching home he shut the door of his house, called his wife to him, turned the handi upside down, and began to shake it. They were only expecting mudki to drop from it, but instead of mudki a perennial stream of beautiful sandesa issued from it. And such sandesa! No confectioner of Burra Bazar ever made its like. It was more the food of gods than of men. The Brahman forthwith set up a shop for selling sandesa, the fame of which soon drew crowds of customers from all parts of the country. At all festivals, at all marriage feasts, at all funeral celebrations, at all Pujas, no one bought any other sandesa than the Brahman's. Every day, and every hour, many jars of gigantic size, filled with the delicious sweetmeat, were sent to all parts of the country. The wealth of the Brahman excited the envy of the Zemindar of the village, who, having heard that the sandesa was not manufactured but dropped from a handi, devised a plan for getting possession of the miraculous vessel. At the celebration of his son's marriage he held a great feast, to which were invited hundreds of people. As many mountain-loads of sandesa would be required for the purpose, the Zemindar proposed that the Brahman should bring the magical handi to the house in which the feast was held. The Brahman at first refused to take it there; but as the Zemindar insisted on its being carried to his own house, he reluctantly consented to take it there. After many Himalayas of sandesa had been shaken out, the handi was taken possession of by the Zemindar, and the Brahman was insulted and driven out of the house. The Brahman, without giving vent to anger in the least, quietly went to his house, and taking the demon-handi in his hand, came back to the door of the Zemindar's house. He turned the handi upside down and shook it, on which a hundred demons started up as from the vasty deep and enacted a scene which it is impossible to describe. The hundreds of guests that had been bidden to the feast were caught hold of by the unearthly visitants and beaten; the women were dragged by their hair from the Zenana and dashed about amongst the men; while the big and burly Zemindar was driven about from room to room like a bale of cotton. If the demons had been allowed to do their will only for a few minutes longer, all the men would have been killed, and the very house razed to the ground. The Zemindar fell prostrate at the feet of the Brahman and begged for mercy. Mercy was shown him, and the demons were removed. After that the Brahman was no more disturbed by the Zemindar or by any one else; and he lived many years in great happiness and enjoyment. Thus my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. IV THE STORY OF THE RAKSHASAS There was a poor half-witted Brahman who had a wife but no children. It was only with difficulty he could supply the wants of himself and his wife. And the worst of it was that he was rather lazily inclined. He was averse to taking long journeys, otherwise he might always have had enough, in the shape of presents from rich men, to enable him and his wife to live comfortably. There was at that time a king in a neighbouring country who was celebrating the funeral obsequies of his mother with great pomp. Brahmans and beggars were going from different parts with the expectation of receiving rich presents. Our Brahman was requested by his wife to seize this opportunity and get a little money; but his constitutional indolence stood in the way. The woman, however, gave her husband no rest till she extorted from him the promise that he would go. The good woman, accordingly, cut down a plantain tree and burnt it to ashes, with which ashes she cleaned the clothes of her husband, and made them as white as any fuller could make them. She did this because her husband was going to the palace of a great king, who could not be approached by men clothed in dirty rags; besides, as a Brahman, he was bound to appear neat and clean. The Brahman at last one morning left his house for the palace of the great king. As he was somewhat imbecile, he did not inquire of any one which road he should take; but he went on and on, and proceeded whithersoever his two eyes directed him. He was of course not on the right road, indeed he had reached a region where he did not meet with a single human being for many miles, and where he saw sights which he had never seen in his life. He saw hillocks of cowries (shells used as money) on the roadside: he had not proceeded far from them when he saw hillocks of pice, then successively hillocks of four-anna pieces, hillocks of eight-anna pieces, and hillocks of rupees. To the infinite surprise of the poor Brahman, these hillocks of shining silver coins were succeeded by a large hill of burnished gold-mohurs, which were all as bright as if they had been just issued from the mint. Close to this hill of gold-mohurs was a large house which seemed to be the palace of a powerful and rich king, at the door of which stood a lady of exquisite beauty. The lady, seeing the Brahman, said, "Come, my beloved husband; you married me when I was young, and you never came once after our marriage, though I have been daily expecting you. Blessed be this day which has made me see the face of my husband. Come, my sweet, come in, wash your feet and rest after the fatigues of your journey; eat and drink, and after that we shall make ourselves merry." The Brahman was astonished beyond measure. He had no recollection of having been married in early youth to any other woman than the woman who was now keeping house with him. But being a Kulin Brahman, he thought it was quite possible that his father had got him married when he was a little child, though the fact had made no impression on his mind. But whether he remembered it or not, the fact was certain, for the woman declared that she was his wedded wife,--and such a wife! as beautiful as the goddesses of Indra's heaven, and no doubt as wealthy as she was beautiful. While these thoughts were passing through the Brahman's mind, the lady said again, "Are you doubting in your mind whether I am your wife? Is it possible that all recollection of that happy event has been effaced from your mind--all the pomp and circumstance of our nuptials? Come in, beloved; this is your own house, for whatever is mine is thine." The Brahman succumbed to the loving entreaties of the fair lady, and went into the house. The house was not an ordinary one--it was a magnificent palace, all the apartments being large and lofty and richly furnished. But one thing surprised the Brahman very much, and that was that there was no other person in the house besides the lady herself. He could not account for so singular a phenomenon; neither could he explain how it was that he did not meet with any human being in his morning and evening walks. The fact was that the lady was not a human being. She was a Rakshasi. [10] She had eaten up the king, the queen, and all the members of the royal family, and gradually all his subjects. This was the reason why human beings were not seen in those parts. The Rakshasi and the Brahman lived together for about a week, when the former said to the latter, "I am very anxious to see my sister, your other wife. You must go and fetch her, and we shall all live together happily in this large and beautiful house. You must go early to-morrow, and I will give you clothes and jewels for her." Next morning the Brahman, furnished with fine clothes and costly ornaments, set out for his home. The poor woman was in great distress; all the Brahmans and Pandits that had been to the funeral ceremony of the king's mother had returned home loaded with largesses; but her husband had not returned,--and no one could give any news of him, for no one had seen him there. The woman therefore concluded that he must have been murdered on the road by highwaymen. She was in this terrible suspense, when one day she heard a rumour in the village that her husband was seen coming home with fine clothes and costly jewels for his wife. And sure enough the Brahman soon appeared with his valuable load. On seeing his wife the Brahman thus accosted her:--"Come with me, my dearest wife; I have found my first wife. She lives in a stately palace, near which are hillocks of rupees and a large hill of gold-mohurs. Why should you pine away in wretchedness and misery in this horrible place? Come with me to the house of my first wife, and we shall all live together happily." When the woman heard her husband speak of his first wife, of hillocks of rupees and of a hill of gold-mohurs, she thought in her mind that her half-witted good man had become quite mad; but when she saw the exquisitely beautiful silks and satins and the ornaments set with diamonds and precious stones, which only queens and princesses were in the habit of putting on, she concluded in her mind that her poor husband had fallen into the meshes of a Rakshasi. The Brahman, however, insisted on his wife's going with him, and declared that if she did not come she was at liberty to pine away in poverty, but that for himself he meant to return forthwith to his first and rich wife. The good woman, after a great deal of altercation with her husband, resolved to go with him and judge for herself how matters stood. They set out accordingly the next morning, and went by the same road on which the Brahman had travelled. The woman was not a little surprised to see hillocks of cowries, of pice, of eight-anna pieces, of rupees, and last of all a lofty hill of gold-mohurs. She saw also an exceedingly beautiful lady coming out of the palace hard by, and hastening towards her. The lady fell on the neck of the Brahman woman, wept tears of joy, and said, "Welcome, beloved sister! this is the happiest day of my life! I have seen the face of my dearest sister!" The party then entered the palace. What with the stately mansion in which he was lodged, with the most delectable provisions which seemed to rise as if by enchantment, what with the caresses and endearments of his two wives, the one human and the other demoniac, who vied with each other in making him happy and comfortable, the Brahman had a jolly time of it. He was steeped as it were in an ocean of enjoyment. Some fifteen or sixteen years were spent by the Brahman in this state of Elysian pleasure, during which period his two wives presented him with two sons. The Rakshasi's son, who was the elder, and who looked more like a god than a human being, was named Sahasra Dal, literally the Thousand-Branched; and the son of the Brahman woman, who was a year younger, was named Champa Dal, that is, branch of a champaka tree. The two boys loved each other dearly. They were both sent to a school which was several miles distant, to which they used every day to go riding on two little ponies of extraordinary fleetness. The Brahman woman had all along suspected from a thousand little circumstances that her sister-in-law was not a human being but a Rakshasi; but her suspicion had not yet ripened into certainty, for the Rakshasi exercised great self-restraint on herself, and never did anything which human beings did not do. But the demoniac nature, like murder, will out. The Brahman having nothing to do, in order to pass his time had recourse to hunting. The first day he returned from the hunt, he had bagged an antelope. The antelope was laid in the courtyard of the palace. At the sight of the antelope the mouth of the raw-eating Rakshasi began to water. Before the animal was dressed for the kitchen, she took it away into a room, and began devouring it. The Brahman woman, who was watching the whole scene from a secret place, saw her Rakshasi sister tear off a leg of the antelope, and opening her tremendous jaws, which seemed to her imagination to extend from earth to heaven, swallow it up. In this manner the body and other limbs of the antelope were devoured, till only a little bit of the meat was kept for the kitchen. The second day another antelope was bagged, and the third day another; and the Rakshasi, unable to restrain her appetite for raw flesh, devoured these two as she had devoured the first. On the third day the Brahman woman expressed to the Rakshasi her surprise at the disappearance of nearly the whole of the antelope with the exception of a little bit. The Rakshasi looked fierce and said, "Do I eat raw flesh?" To which the Brahman woman replied, "Perhaps you do, for aught I know to the contrary." The Rakshasi, knowing herself to be discovered, looked fiercer than before, and vowed revenge. The Brahman woman concluded in her mind that the doom of herself, of her husband, and of her son was sealed. She spent a miserable night, believing that next day she would be killed and eaten up, and that her husband and son would share the same fate. Early next morning, before her son Champa Dal went to school, she gave him in a small golden vessel a little quantity of her own breast milk, and told him to be constantly watching its colour. "Should you," she said, "see the milk get a little red, then conclude that your father has been killed; and should you see it grow still redder, then conclude that I am killed: when you see this, gallop away for your life as fast as your horse can carry you, for if you do not, you also will be devoured." The Rakshasi on getting up from bed--and she had prevented the Brahman overnight from having any communication with his wife--proposed that she and the Brahman should go to bathe in the river, which was at some distance. She would take no denial; the Brahman had therefore to follow her as meekly as a lamb. The Brahman woman at once saw from the proposal that ruin was impending; but it was beyond her power to avert the catastrophe. The Rakshasi, on the river-side, assuming her own proper gigantic dimensions, took hold of the ill-fated Brahman, tore him limb by limb, and devoured him up. She then ran to her house, and seized the Brahman woman, and put her into her capacious stomach, clothes, hair and all. Young Champa Dal, who, agreeably to his mother's instructions, was diligently watching the milk in the small golden vessel, was horror-struck to find the milk redden a little. He set up a cry and said that his father was killed; a few minutes after, finding the milk become completely red, he cried yet louder, and rushing to his pony, mounted it. His half-brother, Sahasra Dal, surprised at Champa Dal's conduct, said, "Where are you going, Champa? Why are you crying? Let me accompany you." "Oh! do not come to me. Your mother has devoured my father and mother; don't you come and devour me." "I will not devour you; I'll save you." Scarcely had he uttered these words and galloped away after Champa Dal, when he saw his mother in her own Rakshasi form appearing at a distance, and demanding that Champa Dal should come to her. He said, "I will come to you, not Champa." So saying, he went to his mother, and with his sword, which he always wore as a young prince, cut off her head. Champa Dal had, in the meantime, galloped off a good distance, as he was running for his life; but Sahasra Dal, by pricking his horse repeatedly, soon overtook him, and told him that his mother was no more. This was small consolation to Champa Dal, as the Rakshasi, before being killed, had devoured both his father and mother; still he could not but feel that Sahasra Dal's friendship was sincere. They both rode fast, and as their horses were of the breed of pakshirajes (literally, kings of birds), they travelled over hundreds of miles. An hour or two before sundown they descried a village, to which they made up, and became guests in the house of one of its most respectable inhabitants. The two friends found the members of that respectable family in deep gloom. Evidently there was something agitating them very much. Some of them held private consultations, and others were weeping. The eldest lady of the house, the mother of its head, said aloud, "Let me go, as I am the eldest. I have lived long enough; at the utmost my life would be cut short only by a year or two." The youngest member of the house, who was a little girl, said, "Let me go, as I am young and useless to the family; if I die I shall not be missed." The head of the house, the son of the old lady, said, "I am the head and representative of the family; it is but reasonable that I should give up my life." His younger brother said, "You are the main prop and pillar of the family; if you go the whole family is ruined. It is not reasonable that you should go; let me go, as I shall not be much missed." The two strangers listened to all this conversation with no little curiosity. They wondered what it all meant. Sahasra Dal at last, at the risk of being thought meddlesome, ventured to ask the head of the house the subject of their consultations, and the reason of the deep misery but too visible in their countenances and words. The head of the house gave the following answer: "Know then, worthy guests, that this part of the country is infested by a terrible Rakshasi, who has depopulated all the regions round. This town, too, would have been depopulated, but that our king became a suppliant before the Rakshasi, and begged her to show mercy to us his subjects. The Rakshasi replied, 'I will consent to show mercy to you and to your subjects only on this condition, that you every night put a human being, either male or female, in a certain temple for me to feast upon. If I get a human being every night I will rest satisfied, and not commit any further depredations on your subjects.' Our king had no other alternative than to agree to this condition, for what human beings can ever hope to contend against a Rakshasi? From that day the king made it a rule that every family in the town should in its turn send one of its members to the temple as a victim to appease the wrath and to satisfy the hunger of the terrible Rakshasi. All the families in this neighbourhood have had their turn, and this night it is the turn for one of us to devote himself to destruction. We are therefore discussing who should go. You must now perceive the cause of our distress." The two friends consulted together for a few minutes, and at the conclusion of their consultations, Sahasra Dal, who was the spokesman of the party, said, "Most worthy host, do not any longer be sad: as you have been very kind to us, we have resolved to requite your hospitality by ourselves going to the temple and becoming the food of the Rakshasi. We go as your representatives." The whole family protested against the proposal. They declared that guests were like gods, and that it was the duty of the host to endure all sorts of privation for the comfort of the guest, and not the duty of the guest to suffer for the host. But the two strangers insisted on standing proxy to the family, who, after a great deal of yea and nay, at last consented to the arrangement. Immediately after candle-light, Sahasra Dal and Champa Dal, with their two horses, installed themselves in the temple, and shut the door. Sahasra told his brother to go to sleep, as he himself was determined to sit up the whole night and watch against the coming of the terrible Rakshasi. Champa was soon in a fine sleep, while Sahasra lay awake. Nothing happened during the early hours of the night, but no sooner had the gong of the king's palace announced the dead hour of midnight than Sahasra heard the sound as of a rushing tempest, and immediately concluded, from his knowledge of Rakshasas, that the Rakshasi was nigh. A thundering knock was heard at the door, accompanied with the following words:-- "How, mow, khow! A human being I smell; Who watches inside?" To this question Sahasra Dal made the following reply:-- "Sahasra Dal watcheth, Champa Dal watcheth, Two winged horses watch." On hearing this answer the Rakshasi turned away with a groan, knowing that Sahasra Dal had Rakshasa blood in his veins. An hour after, the Rakshasi returned, thundered at the door, and called out-- "How, mow, khow! A human being I smell; Who watcheth inside?" Sahasra Dal again replied-- "Sahasra Dal watcheth, Champa Dal watcheth, Two winged horses watch." The Rakshasi again groaned and went away. At two o'clock and at three o'clock the Rakshasi again and again made her appearance, and made the usual inquiry, and obtaining the same answer, went away with a groan. After three o'clock, however, Sahasra Dal felt very sleepy: he could not any longer keep awake. He therefore roused Champa, told him to watch, and strictly enjoined upon him, in reply to the query of the Rakshasi, to mention Sahasra's name first. With these instructions he went to sleep. At four o'clock the Rakshasi again made her appearance, thundered at the door, and said-- "How, mow, khow! A human being I smell; Who watches inside?" As Champa Dal was in a terrible fright, he forgot the instructions of his brother for the moment, and answered-- "Champa Dal watcheth, Sahasra Dal watcheth, Two winged horses watch." On hearing this reply the Rakshasi uttered a shout of exultation, laughed such a laugh as only demons can, and with a dreadful noise broke open the door. The noise roused Sahasra, who in a moment sprung to his feet, and with his sword, which was as supple as a palm-leaf, cut off the head of the Rakshasi. The huge mountain of a body fell to the ground, making a great noise, and lay covering many an acre. Sahasra Dal kept the severed head of the Rakshasi near him, and went to sleep. Early in the morning some wood-cutters, who were passing near the temple, saw the huge body on the ground. They could not from a distance make out what it was, but on coming near they knew that it was the carcase of the terrible Rakshasi, who had by her voracity nearly depopulated the country. Remembering the promise made by the king that the killer of the Rakshasi should be rewarded by the hand of his daughter and with a share of the kingdom, each of the wood-cutters, seeing no claimant at hand, thought of obtaining the reward. Accordingly each of them cut off a part of a limb of the huge carcase, went to the king, and represented himself to be the destroyer of the great raw-eater, and claimed the reward. The king, in order to find out the real hero and deliverer, inquired of his minister the name of the family whose turn it was on the preceding night to offer a victim to the Rakshasi. The head of that family, on being brought before the king, related how two youthful travellers, who were guests in his house, volunteered to go into the temple in the room of a member of his family. The door of the temple was broken open; Sahasra Dal and Champa Dal and their horses were found all safe; and the head of the Rakshasi, which was with them, proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that they had killed the monster. The king kept his word. He gave his daughter in marriage to Sahasra Dal and the sovereignty of half his dominions. Champa Dal remained with his friend in the king's palace, and rejoiced in his prosperity. Sahasra Dal and Champa Dal lived together happily for some time, when a misunderstanding arose between them in this wise. There was in the service of the queen-mother a certain maid-servant who was the most useful domestic in the palace. There was nothing which she could not put her hands to and perform. She had uncommon strength for a woman; neither was her intelligence of a mean order. She was a woman of immense activity and energy; and if she were absent one day from the palace, the affairs of the zenana would be in perfect disorder. Hence her services were highly valued by the queen-mother and all the ladies of the palace. But this woman was not a woman; she was a Rakshasi, who had put on the appearance of a woman to serve some purposes of her own, and then taken service in the royal household. At night, when every one in the palace was asleep, she used to assume her own real form, and go about in quest of food, for the quantity of food that is sufficient for either man or woman was not sufficient for a Rakshasi. Now Champa Dal, having no wife, was in the habit of sleeping outside the zenana, and not far from the outer gate of the palace. He had noticed her going about on the premises and devouring sundry goats and sheep, horses and elephants. The maid-servant, finding that Champa Dal was in the way of her supper, determined to get rid of him. She accordingly went one day to the queen-mother, and said, "Queen-mother! I am unable any longer to work in the palace." "Why? what is the matter, Dasi? [11] How can I get on without you? Tell me your reasons. What ails you?" "Why," said the woman, "nowadays it is impossible for a poor woman like me to preserve my honour in the palace. There is that Champa Dal, the friend of your son-in-law; he always cracks indecent jokes with me. It is better for me to beg for my rice than to lose my honour. If Champa Dal remains in the palace I must go away." As the maid-servant was an absolute necessity in the palace, the queen-mother resolved to sacrifice Champa Dal to her. She therefore told Sahasra Dal that Champa Dal was a bad man, that his character was loose, and that therefore he must leave the palace. Sahasra Dal earnestly pleaded on behalf of his friend, but in vain; the queen-mother had made up her mind to drive him out of the palace. Sahasra Dal had not the courage to speak personally to his friend on the subject; he therefore wrote a letter to him, in which he simply said that for certain reasons Champa must leave the palace immediately. The letter was put in his room after he had gone to bathe. On reading the letter Champa Dal, exceedingly grieved, mounted his fleet horse and left the palace. As Champa's horse was uncommonly fleet, in a few hours he traversed thousands of miles, and at last found himself at the gateway of what seemed a magnificent palace. Dismounting from his horse, he entered the house, where he did not meet with a single creature. He went from apartment to apartment, but though they were all richly furnished he did not see a single human being. At last, in one of the side rooms, he found a young lady of heavenly beauty lying down on a splendid bedstead. She was asleep. Champa Dal looked upon the sleeping beauty with rapture--he had not seen any woman so beautiful. Upon the bed, near the head of the young lady, were two sticks, one of silver and the other of gold. Champa took the silver stick into his hand, and touched with it the body of the lady; but no change was perceptible. He then took up the gold stick and laid it upon the lady, when in a trice she woke up, sat in her bed, and eyeing the stranger, inquired who he was. Champa Dal briefly told his story. The young lady, or rather princess--for she was nothing less--said, "Unhappy man! why have you come here? This is the country of Rakshasas, and in this house and round about there live no less than seven hundred Rakshasas. They all go away to the other side of the ocean every morning in search of provisions; and they all return every evening before dusk. My father was formerly king in these regions, and had millions of subjects, who lived in flourishing towns and cities. But some years ago the invasion of the Rakshasas took place, and they devoured all his subjects, and himself and my mother, and my brothers and sisters. They devoured also all the cattle of the country. There is no living human being in these regions excepting myself; and I too should long ago have been devoured had not an old Rakshasi, conceiving strange affection for me, prevented the other Rakshasas from eating me up. You see those sticks of silver and gold; the old Rakshasi, when she goes away in the morning, kills me with the silver stick, and on her return in the evening re-animates me with the gold stick. I do not know how to advise you; if the Rakshasas see you, you are a dead man." Then they both talked to each other in a very affectionate manner, and laid their heads together to devise if possible some means of escape from the hands of the Rakshasas. The hour of the return of the seven hundred raw-eaters was fast approaching; and Keshavati--for that was the name of the princess, so called from the abundance of her hair--told Champa to hide himself in the heaps of the sacred trefoil which were lying in the temple of Siva in the central part of the palace. Before Champa went to his place of concealment, he touched Keshavati with the silver stick, on which she instantly died. Shortly after sunset Champa Dal heard from beneath the heaps of the sacred trefoil the sound as of a mighty rushing wind. Presently he heard terrible noises in the palace. The Rakshasas had come home from cruising, after having filled their stomachs, each one, with sundry goats, sheep, cows, horses, buffaloes, and elephants. The old Rakshasi, of whom we have already spoken, came to Keshavati's room, roused her by touching her body with the gold stick, and said-- "Hye, mye, khye! A human being I smell." On which Keshavati said, "I am the only human being here; eat me if you like." To which the raw-eater replied, "Let me eat up your enemies; why should I eat you?" She laid herself down on the ground, as long and as high as the Vindhya Hills, and presently fell asleep. The other Rakshasas and Rakshasis also soon fell asleep, being all tired out on account of their gigantic labours in the day. Keshavati also composed herself to sleep; while Champa, not daring to come out of the heaps of leaves, tried his best to court the god of repose. At daybreak all the raw-eaters, seven hundred in number, got up and went as usual to their hunting and predatory excursions, and along with them went the old Rakshasi, after touching Keshavati with the silver stick. When Champa Dal saw that the coast was clear, he came out of the temple, walked into Keshavati's room, and touched her with the gold stick, on which she woke up. They sauntered about in the gardens, enjoying the cool breeze of the morning; they bathed in a lucid tank which was in the grounds; they ate and drank, and spent the day in sweet converse. They concocted a plan for their deliverance. They settled that Keshavati should ask the old Rakshasi on what the life of a Rakshasa depended, and when the secret should be made known they would adopt measures accordingly. As on the preceding evening, Champa, after touching his fair friend with the silver stick, took refuge in the temple beneath the heaps of the sacred trefoil. At dusk the Rakshasas as usual came home; and the old Rakshasi, rousing her pet, said-- "Hye, mye, khye! A human being I smell." Keshavati answered, "What other human being is here excepting myself? Eat me up, if you like." "Why should I eat you, my darling? Let me eat up all your enemies." Then she laid down on the ground her huge body, which looked like a part of the Himalaya mountains. Keshavati, with a phial of heated mustard oil, went towards the feet of the Rakshasi, and said, "Mother, your feet are sore with walking; let me rub them with oil." So saying, she began to rub with oil the Rakshasi's feet; and while she was in the act of doing so, a few tear-drops from her eyes fell on the monster's leg. The Rakshasi smacked the tear-drops with her lips, and finding the taste briny, said, "Why are you weeping, darling? What aileth thee?" To which the princess replied, "Mother, I am weeping because you are old, and when you die I shall certainly be devoured by one of the Rakshasas." "When I die! Know, foolish girl, that we Rakshasas never die. We are not naturally immortal, but our life depends on a secret which no human being can unravel. Let me tell you what it is that you may be comforted. You know yonder tank; there is in the middle of it a Sphatikasthambha, [12] on the top of which in deep waters are two bees. If any human being can dive into the waters, and bring up to land the two bees from the pillar in one breath, and destroy them so that not a drop of their blood falls to the ground, then we Rakshasas shall certainly die; but if a single drop of blood falls to the ground, then from it will start up a thousand Rakshasas. But what human being will find out this secret, or, finding it, will be able to achieve the feat? You need not, therefore, darling, be sad; I am practically immortal." Keshavati treasured up the secret in her memory, and went to sleep. Early next morning the Rakshasas as usual went away; Champa came out of his hiding-place, roused Keshavati, and fell a-talking. The princess told him the secret she had learnt from the Rakshasi. Champa immediately made preparations for accomplishing the mighty deed. He brought to the side of the tank a knife and a quantity of ashes. He disrobed himself, put a drop or two of mustard oil into each of his ears to prevent water from entering in, and dived into the waters. In a moment he got to the top of the crystal pillar in the middle of the tank, caught hold of the two bees he found there, and came up in one breath. Taking the knife, he cut up the bees over the ashes, a drop or two of the blood fell, not on the ground, but on the ashes. When Champa caught hold of the bees, a terrible scream was heard at a distance. This was the wailing of the Rakshasas, who were all running home to prevent the bees from being killed; but before they could reach the palace, the bees had perished. The moment the bees were killed, all the Rakshasas died, and their carcases fell on the very spot on which they were standing. Champa and the princess afterwards found that the gateway of the palace was blocked up by the huge carcases of the Rakshasas--some of them having nearly succeeded in getting to the palace. In this manner was effected the destruction of the seven hundred Rakshasas. After the destruction of the seven hundred raw-eating monsters, Champa Dal and Keshavati got married together by the exchange of garlands of flowers. The princess, who had never been out of the house, naturally expressed a desire to see the outer world. They used every day to take long walks both morning and evening, and as a large river was hard by Keshavati wished to bathe in it. The first day they went to bathe, one of Keshavati's hairs came off, and as it is the custom with women never to throw away a hair unaccompanied with something else, she tied the hair to a shell which was floating on the water; after which they returned home. In the meantime the shell with the hair tied to it floated down the stream, and in course of time reached that ghat [13] at which Sahasra Dal and his companions were in the habit of performing their ablutions. The shell passed by when Sahasra Dal and his friends were bathing; and he, seeing it at some distance, said to them, "Whoever succeeds in catching hold of yonder shell shall be rewarded with a hundred rupees." They all swam towards it, and Sahasra Dal, being the fleetest swimmer, got it. On examining it he found a hair tied to it. But such hair! He had never seen so long a hair. It was exactly seven cubits long. "The owner of this hair must be a remarkable woman, and I must see her"--such was the resolution of Sahasra Dal. He went home from the river in a pensive mood, and instead of proceeding to the zenana for breakfast, remained in the outer part of the palace. The queen-mother, on hearing that Sahasra Dal was looking melancholy and had not come to breakfast, went to him and asked the reason. He showed her the hair, and said he must see the woman whose head it had adorned. The queen-mother said, "Very well, you shall have that lady in the palace as soon as possible. I promise you to bring her here." The queen-mother told her favourite maid-servant, whom she knew to be full of resources--the same who was a Rakshasi in disguise--that she must, as soon as possible, bring to the palace that lady who was the owner of the hair seven cubits long. The maid-servant said she would be quite able to fetch her. By her directions a boat was built of Hajol wood, the oars of which were of Mon Paban wood. The boat was launched on the stream, and she went on board of it with some baskets of wicker-work of curious workmanship; she also took with her some sweetmeats into which some poison had been mixed. She snapped her fingers thrice, and uttered the following charm:-- "Boat of Hajol! Oars of Mon Paban! Take me to the Ghat, In which Keshavati bathes." No sooner had the words been uttered than the boat flew like lightning over the waters. It went on and on, leaving behind many a town and city. At last it stopped at a bathing-place, which the Rakshasi maid-servant concluded was the bathing ghat of Keshavati. She landed with the sweetmeats in her hand. She went to the gate of the palace, and cried aloud, "O Keshavati! Keshavati! I am your aunt, your mother's sister. I am come to see you, my darling, after so many years. Are you in, Keshavati?" The princess, on hearing these words, came out of her room, and making no doubt that she was her aunt, embraced and kissed her. They both wept rivers of joy--at least the Rakshasi maid-servant did, and Keshavati followed suit through sympathy. Champa Dal also thought that she was the aunt of his newly married wife. They all ate and drank and took rest in the middle of the day. Champa Dal, as was his habit, went to sleep after breakfast. Towards afternoon, the supposed aunt said to Keshavati, "Let us both go to the river and wash ourselves." Keshavati replied, "How can we go now? my husband is sleeping." "Never mind," said the aunt, "let him sleep on; let me put these sweetmeats, that I have brought, near his bedside, that he may eat them when he gets up." They then went to the river-side close to the spot where the boat was. Keshavati, when she saw from some distance the baskets of wicker-work in the boat, said, "Aunt, what beautiful things are those! I wish I could get some of them." "Come, my child, come and look at them; and you can have as many as you like." Keshavati at first refused to go into the boat, but on being pressed by her aunt, she went. The moment they two were on board, the aunt snapped her fingers thrice and said:-- "Boat of Hajol! Oars of Mon Paban! Take me to the Ghat, In which Sahasra Dal bathes." As soon as these magical words were uttered the boat moved and flew like an arrow over the waters. Keshavati was frightened and began to cry, but the boat went on and on, leaving behind many towns and cities, and in a trice reached the ghat where Sahasra Dal was in the habit of bathing. Keshavati was taken to the palace; Sahasra Dal admired her beauty and the length of her hair; and the ladies of the palace tried their best to comfort her. But she set up a loud cry, and wanted to be taken back to her husband. At last when she saw that she was a captive, she told the ladies of the palace that she had taken a vow that she would not see the face of any strange man for six months. She was then lodged apart from the rest in a small house, the window of which overlooked the road; there she spent the livelong day and also the livelong night--for she had very little sleep--in sighing and weeping. In the meantime when Champa Dal awoke from sleep, he was distracted with grief at not finding his wife. He now thought that the woman, who pretended to be his wife's aunt, was a cheat and an impostor, and that she must have carried away Keshavati. He did not eat the sweetmeats, suspecting they might be poisoned. He threw one of them to a crow which, the moment it ate it, dropped down dead. He was now the more confirmed in his unfavourable opinion of the pretended aunt. Maddened with grief, he rushed out of the house, and determined to go whithersoever his eyes might lead him. Like a madman, always blubbering "O Keshavati! O Keshavati!" he travelled on foot day after day, not knowing whither he went. Six months were spent in this wearisome travelling when, at the end of that period, he reached the capital of Sahasra Dal. He was passing by the palace-gate when the sighs and wailings of a woman sitting at the window of a house, on the road-side, attracted his attention. One moment's look, and they recognised each other. They continued to hold secret communications. Champa Dal heard everything, including the story of her vow, the period of which was to terminate the following day. It is customary, on the fulfilment of a vow, for some learned Brahman to make public recitations of events connected with the vow and the person who makes it. It was settled that Champa Dal should take upon himself the functions of the reciter. Accordingly, next morning, when it was proclaimed by beat of drum that the king wanted a learned Brahman who could recite the story of Keshavati on the fulfilment of her vow, Champa Dal touched the drum and said that he would make the recitation. Next morning a gorgeous assembly was held in the courtyard of the palace under a huge canopy of silk. The old king, Sahasra Dal, all the courtiers and the learned Brahmans of the country, were present there. Keshavati was also there behind a screen that she might not be exposed to the rude gaze of the people. Champa Dal, the reciter, sitting on a dais, began the story of Keshavati, as we have related it, from the beginning, commencing with the words--"There was a poor and half-witted Brahman, etc." As he was going on with the story, the reciter every now and then asked Keshavati behind the screen whether the story was correct; to which question she as often replied, "Quite correct; go on, Brahman." During the recitation of the story the Rakshasi maid-servant grew pale, as she perceived that her real character was discovered; and Sahasra Dal was astonished at the knowledge of the reciter regarding the history of his own life. The moment the story was finished, Sahasra Dal jumped up from his seat, and embracing the reciter, said, "You can be none other than my brother Champa Dal." Then the prince, inflamed with rage, ordered the maid-servant into his presence. A large hole, as deep as the height of a man, was dug in the ground; the maid-servant was put into it in a standing posture; prickly thorn was heaped around her up to the crown of her head: in this wise was the maid-servant buried alive. After this Sahasra Dal and his princess, and Champa Dal and Keshavati, lived happily together many years. Thus my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. V THE STORY OF SWET-BASANTA There was a rich merchant who had an only son whom he loved passionately. He gave to his son whatever he wanted. His son wanted a beautiful house in the midst of a large garden. The house was built for him, and the grounds were laid out into a fine garden. One day as the merchant's son was walking in his garden, he put his hand into the nest of a small bird called toontooni, and found in it an egg, which he took and put in an almirah which was dug into the wall of his house. He closed the door of the almirah, and thought no more of the egg. Though the merchant's son had a house of his own, he had no separate establishment; at any rate he kept no cook, for his mother used to send him regularly his breakfast and dinner every day. The egg which he deposited in the wall-almirah one day burst, and out of it came a beautiful infant, a girl. But the merchant's son knew nothing about it. He had forgotten everything about the egg, and the door of the wall-almirah had been kept closed, though not locked, ever since the day the egg was put there. The child grew up within the wall-almirah without the knowledge of the merchant's son or of any one else. When the child could walk, it had the curiosity one day to open the door; and seeing some food on the floor (the breakfast of the merchant's son sent by his mother), it came out, and ate a little of it, and returned to its cell in the wall-almirah. As the mother of the merchant's son sent him always more than he could himself eat, he perceived no diminution in the quantity. The girl of the wall-almirah used every day to come out and eat a part of the food, and after eating used to return to her place in the almirah. But as the girl got older and older, she began to eat more and more; hence the merchant's son began to perceive a diminution in the quantity of his food. Not dreaming of the existence of the wall-almirah girl, he wondered that his mother should send him such a small quantity of food. He sent word to his mother, complaining of the insufficiency of his meals, and of the slovenly manner in which the food was served up in the dish; for the girl of the wall-almirah used to finger the rice, curry, and other articles of food, and as she always went in a hurry back into the almirah that she might not be perceived by any one, she had no time to put the rice and the other things into proper order after she had eaten part of them. The mother was astonished at her son's complaint, for she gave always a much larger quantity than she knew her son could consume, and the food was served up on a silver plate neatly by her own hand. But as her son repeated the same complaint day after day, she began to suspect foul play. She told her son to watch and see whether any one ate part of it unperceived. Accordingly, one day when the servant brought the breakfast and laid it in a clean place on the floor, the merchant's son, instead of going to bathe as it had hitherto been his custom, hid himself in a secret place and began to watch. In a few minutes he saw the door of the wall-almirah open; a beautiful damsel of sweet sixteen stepped out of it, sat on the carpet spread before the breakfast, and began to eat. The merchant's son came out of his hiding-place, and the damsel could not escape. "Who are you, beautiful creature? You do not seem to be earth-born. Are you one of the daughters of the gods?" asked the merchant's son. The girl replied, "I do not know who I am. This I know, that one day I found myself in yonder almirah, and have been ever since living in it." The merchant's son thought it strange. He now remembered that sixteen years before he had put in the almirah an egg he had found in the nest of a toontooni bird. The uncommon beauty of the wall-almirah girl made a deep impression on the mind of the merchant's son, and he resolved in his mind to marry her. The girl no more went into the almirah, but lived in one of the rooms of the spacious house of the merchant's son. The next day the merchant's son sent word to his mother to the effect that he would like to get married. His mother reproached herself for not having long before thought of her son's marriage, and sent a message to her son to the effect that she and his father would the next day send ghataks [14] to different countries to seek for a suitable bride. The merchant's son sent word that he had secured for himself a most lovable young lady, and that if his parents had no objections he would produce her before them. Accordingly the young lady of the wall-almirah was taken to the merchant's house; and the merchant and his wife were so struck with the matchless beauty, grace, and loveliness of the stranger, that, without asking any questions as to her birth, the nuptials were celebrated. In course of time the merchant's son had two sons; the elder he named Swet and the younger Basanta. The old merchant died and so did his wife. Swet and Basanta grew up fine lads, and the elder was in due time married. Some time after Swet's marriage his mother, the wall-almirah lady, also died, and the widower lost no time in marrying a young and beautiful wife. As Swet's wife was older than his stepmother, she became the mistress of the house. The stepmother, like all stepmothers, hated Swet and Basanta with a perfect hatred; and the two ladies were naturally often at loggerheads with each other. It so happened one day that a fisherman brought to the merchant (we shall no longer call him the merchant's son, as his father had died) a fish of singular beauty. It was unlike any other fish that had been seen. The fish had marvellous qualities ascribed to it by the fisherman. If any one eats it, said he, when he laughs maniks [15] will drop from his mouth, and when he weeps pearls will drop from his eyes. The merchant, hearing of the wonderful properties of the fish, bought it at one thousand rupees, and put it into the hands of Swet's wife, who was the mistress of the house, strictly enjoining on her to cook it well and to give it to him alone to eat. The mistress, or house-mother, who had overheard the conversation between her father-in-law and the fisherman, secretly resolved in her mind to give the cooked fish to her husband and to his brother to eat, and to give to her father-in-law instead a frog daintily cooked. When she had finished cooking both the fish and the frog, she heard the noise of a squabble between her stepmother-in-law and her husband's brother. It appears that Basanta, who was but a lad yet, was passionately fond of pigeons, which he tamed. One of these pigeons had flown into the room of his stepmother, who had secreted it in her clothes. Basanta rushed into the room, and loudly demanded the pigeon. His stepmother denied any knowledge of the pigeon, on which the elder brother, Swet, forcibly took out the bird from her clothes and gave it to his brother. The stepmother cursed and swore, and added, "Wait, when the head of the house comes home I will make him shed the blood of you both before I give him water to drink." Swet's wife called her husband and said to him, "My dearest lord, that woman is a most wicked woman, and has boundless influence over my father-in-law. She will make him do what she has threatened. Our life is in imminent danger. Let us first eat a little, and let us all three run away from this place." Swet forthwith called Basanta to him, and told him what he had heard from his wife. They resolved to run away before nightfall. The woman placed before her husband and her brother-in-law the fish of wonderful properties, and they ate of it heartily. The woman packed up all her jewels in a box. As there was only one horse, and it was of uncommon fleetness, the three sat upon it; Swet held the reins, the woman sat in the middle with the jewel-box in her lap, and Basanta brought up the rear. The horse galloped with the utmost swiftness. They passed through many a plain and many a noted town, till after midnight they found themselves in a forest not far from the bank of a river. Here the most untoward event took place. Swet's wife began to feel the pains of child-birth. They dismounted, and in an hour or two Swet's wife gave birth to a son. What were the two brothers to do in this forest? A fire must be kindled to give heat both to the mother and the new-born baby. But where was the fire to be got? There were no human habitations visible. Still fire must be procured--and it was the month of December--or else both the mother and the baby would certainly perish. Swet told Basanta to sit beside his wife, while he set out in the darkness of the night in search of fire. Swet walked many a mile in darkness. Still he saw no human habitations. At last the genial light of Sukra [16] somewhat illumined his path, and he saw at a distance what seemed a large city. He was congratulating himself on his journey's end and on his being able to obtain fire for the benefit of his poor wife lying cold in the forest with the new-born babe, when on a sudden an elephant, gorgeously caparisoned, shot across his path, and gently taking him up by his trunk, placed him on the rich howdah [17] on its back. It then walked rapidly towards the city. Swet was quite taken aback. He did not understand the meaning of the elephant's action, and wondered what was in store for him. A crown was in store for him. In that kingdom, the chief city of which he was approaching, every morning a king was elected, for the king of the previous day was always found dead in the morning in the room of the queen. What caused the death of the king no one knew; neither did the queen herself (for every successive king took her to wife) know the cause. And the elephant who took hold of Swet was the king-maker. Early in the morning it went about, sometimes to distant places, and whosoever was brought on its back was acknowledged king by the people. The elephant majestically marched through the crowded streets of the city, amid the acclamations of the people, the meaning of which Swet did not understand, entered the palace, and placed him on the throne. He was proclaimed king amid the rejoicings of some and the lamentations of others. In the course of the day he heard of the strange fatality which overtook every night the elected king of those realms, but being possessed of great discretion and courage, he took every precaution to avert the dreadful catastrophe. Yet he hardly knew what expedients to adopt, as he was unacquainted with the nature of the danger. He resolved, however, upon two things, and these were, to go armed into the queen's bedchamber, and to sit up awake the whole night. The queen was young and of exquisite beauty, and so guileless and benevolent was the expression of her face that it was impossible from looking at her to suppose that she could use any foul means of taking away the life of her nightly consort. In the queen's chamber Swet spent a very agreeable evening; as the night advanced the queen fell asleep, but Swet kept awake, and was on the alert, looking at every creek and corner of the room, and expecting every minute to be murdered. In the dead of night he perceived something like a thread coming out of the left nostril of the queen. The thread was so thin that it was almost invisible. As he watched it he found it several yards long, and yet it was coming out. When the whole of it had come out, it began to grow thick, and in a few minutes it assumed the form of a huge serpent. In a moment Swet cut off the head of the serpent, the body of which wriggled violently. He sat quiet in the room, expecting other adventures. But nothing else happened. The queen slept longer than usual as she had been relieved of the huge snake which had made her stomach its den. Early next morning the ministers came expecting as usual to hear of the king's death; but when the ladies of the bedchamber knocked at the door of the queen they were astonished to see Swet come out. It was then known to all the people how that every night a terrible snake issued from the queen's nostrils, how it devoured the king every night, and how it had at last been killed by the fortunate Swet. The whole country rejoiced in the prospect of a permanent king. It is a strange thing, nevertheless it is true, that Swet did not remember his poor wife with the new-born babe lying in the forest, nor his brother attending on her. With the possession of the throne he seemed to forget the whole of his past history. Basanta, to whom his brother had entrusted his wife and child, sat watching for many a weary hour, expecting every moment to see Swet return with fire. The whole night passed away without his return. At sunrise he went to the bank of the river which was close by, and anxiously looked about for his brother, but in vain. Distressed beyond measure, he sat on the river side and wept. A boat was passing by in which a merchant was returning to his country. As the boat was not far from the shore the merchant saw Basanta weeping; and what struck the attention of the merchant was the heap of what looked like pearls near the weeping man. At the request of the merchant the boatman took his vessel towards the bank; the merchant went to the weeping man, and found that the heap was a heap of real pearls of the finest lustre: and what astonished him most of all was that the heap was increasing every second, for the tear-drops that were falling from his eyes fell to the ground not as tears but as pearls. The merchant stowed away the heap of pearls into his boat, and with the help of his servants caught hold of Basanta himself, put him on board the vessel, and tied him to a post. Basanta, of course, resisted; but what could he do against so many? Thinking of his brother, his brother's wife and baby, and his own captivity, Basanta wept more bitterly than before, which mightily pleased the merchant, as the more tears his captive shed the richer he himself became. When the merchant reached his native town he confined Basanta in a room, and at stated hours every day scourged him in order to make him shed tears, every one of which was converted into a bright pearl. The merchant one day said to his servants, "As the fellow is making me rich by his weeping, let us see what he gives me by laughing." Accordingly he began to tickle his captive, on which Basanta laughed, and as he laughed a great many maniks dropped from his mouth. After this poor Basanta was alternately whipped and tickled all the day and far into the night; and the merchant, in consequence, became the wealthiest man in the land. Leaving Basanta subjected to the alternate processes of castigation and titillation, let us attend to the fortunes of the poor wife of Swet, alone in the forest, with a child just born. Swet's wife, apparently deserted by her husband and her brother-in-law, was overwhelmed with grief. A woman, but a few hours since delivered of a child--and her first child, alone, and in a forest, far from the habitations of men,--her case was indeed pitiable. She wept rivers of tears. Excessive grief, however, brought her relief. She fell asleep with the new-born baby in her arms. It so happened that at that hour the Kotwal (prefect of the police) of the country was passing that way. He had been very unfortunate with regard to his offspring; every child his wife presented him with died shortly after birth, and he was now going to bury the last infant on the banks of the river. As he was going, he saw in the forest a woman sleeping with a baby in her arms. It was a lively and beautiful boy. The Kotwal coveted the lovely infant. He quietly took it up, put in its place his own dead child, and returning home, told his wife that the child had not really died and had revived. Swet's wife, unconscious of the deceit practised upon her by the Kotwal, on waking found her child dead. The distress of her mind may be imagined. The whole world became dark to her. She was distracted with grief, and in her distraction she formed the resolution of committing suicide. The river was not far from the spot, and she determined to drown herself in it. She took in her hand the bundle of jewels and proceeded to the river-side. An old Brahman was at no great distance, performing his morning ablutions. He noticed the woman going into the water, and naturally thought that she was going to bathe; but when he saw her going far into deep waters, some suspicion arose in his mind. Discontinuing his devotions, he bawled out and ordered the woman to come to him. Swet's wife seeing that it was an old man that was calling her, retraced her steps and came to him. On being asked what she was about to do, she said that she was going to make an end of herself, and that as she had some jewels with her she would be obliged if he would accept them as a present. At the request of the old Brahman she related to him her whole story. The upshot was, that she was prevented from drowning herself, and that she was received into the Brahman's family, where she was treated by the Brahman's wife as her own daughter. Years passed on. The reputed son of the Kotwal grew up a vigorous, robust lad. As the house of the old Brahman was not far from the Kotwal's, the Kotwal's son used accidentally to meet the handsome strange woman who passed for the Brahman's daughter. The lad liked the woman, and wanted to marry her. He spoke to his father about the woman, and the father spoke to the Brahman. The Brahman's rage knew no bounds. What! the infidel Kotwal's son aspiring to the hand of a Brahman's daughter! A dwarf may as well aspire to catch hold of the moon! But the Kotwal's son determined to have her by force. With this wicked object he one day scaled the wall that encompassed the Brahman's house, and got upon the thatched roof of the Brahman's cow-house. While he was reconnoitering from that lofty position, he heard the following conversation between two calves in the cow-house:-- First Calf. Men accuse us of brutish ignorance and immorality; but in my opinion men are fifty times worse. Second Calf. What makes you say so, brother? Have you witnessed to-day any instance of human depravity? First Calf. Who can be a greater monster of crime than the same lad who is at this moment standing on the thatched roof of this hut over our head? Second Calf. Why, I thought it was only the son of our Kotwal; and I never heard that he was exceptionally vicious. First Calf. You never heard, but now you hear from me. This wicked lad is now wishing to get married to his own mother! The First Calf then related to the inquisitive Second Calf in full the story of Swet and Basanta; how they and Swet's wife fled from the vengeance of their stepmother; how Swet's wife was delivered of a child in the forest by the river-side; how Swet was made king by the elephant, and how he succeeded in killing the serpent which issued out of the queen's nostrils; how Basanta was carried away by the merchant, confined in a dungeon, and alternately flogged and tickled for pearls and maniks; how the Kotwal exchanged his dead child for the living one of Swet; how Swet's wife was prevented from drowning herself in the river by the Brahman; how she was received into the Brahman's family and treated as his daughter; how the Kotwal's son grew up a hardy, lusty youth, and fell in love with her; and how at that very moment he was intent on accomplishing his brutal object. All this story the Kotwal's son heard from the thatched roof of the cow-house, and was struck with horror. He forthwith got down from the thatch, and went home and told his father that he must have an interview with the king. Notwithstanding his reputed father's protestations to the contrary, he had an interview with the king, to whom he repeated the whole story as he had overheard it from the thatch of the cow-house. The king now remembered his poor wife's case. She was brought from the house of the Brahman, whom he richly rewarded, and put her in her proper position as the queen of the kingdom; the reputed son of the Kotwal was acknowledged as his own son, and proclaimed the heir-apparent to the throne; Basanta was brought out of the dungeon, and the wicked merchant who had maltreated him was buried alive in the earth surrounded with thorns. After this, Swet, his wife and son, and Basanta, lived together happily for many years. Now my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. VI THE EVIL EYE OF SANI Once upon a time Sani, or Saturn, the god of bad luck, and Lakshmi, the goddess of good luck, fell out with each other in heaven. Sani said he was higher in rank than Lakshmi, and Lakshmi said she was higher in rank than Sani. As all the gods and goddesses of heaven were equally ranged on either side, the contending deities agreed to refer the matter to some human being who had a name for wisdom and justice. Now, there lived at that time upon earth a man of the name of Sribatsa, [18] who was as wise and just as he was rich. Him, therefore, both the god and the goddess chose as the settler of their dispute. One day, accordingly, Sribatsa was told that Sani and Lakshmi were wishing to pay him a visit to get their dispute settled. Sribatsa was in a fix. If he said Sani was higher in rank than Lakshmi, she would be angry with him and forsake him. If he said Lakshmi was higher in rank than Sani, Sani would cast his evil eye upon him. Hence he made up his mind not to say anything directly, but to leave the god and the goddess to gather his opinion from his action. He got two stools made, the one of gold and the other of silver, and placed them beside him. When Sani and Lakshmi came to Sribatsa, he told Sani to sit upon the silver stool, and Lakshmi upon the gold stool. Sani became mad with rage, and said in an angry tone to Sribatsa, "Well, as you consider me lower in rank than Lakshmi, I will cast my eye on you for three years; and I should like to see how you fare at the end of that period." The god then went away in high dudgeon. Lakshmi, before going away, said to Sribatsa, "My child, do not fear. I'll befriend you." The god and the goddess then went away. Sribatsa said to his wife, whose name was Chintamani, "Dearest, as the evil eye of Sani will be upon me at once, I had better go away from the house; for if I remain in the house with you, evil will befall you and me; but if I go away, it will overtake me only." Chintamani said, "That cannot be; wherever you go, I will go, your lot shall be my lot." The husband tried hard to persuade his wife to remain at home; but it was of no use. She would go with her husband. Sribatsa accordingly told his wife to make an opening in their mattress, and to stow away in it all the money and jewels they had. On the eve of leaving their house, Sribatsa invoked Lakshmi, who forthwith appeared. He then said to her, "Mother Lakshmi! as the evil eye of Sani is upon us, we are going away into exile; but do thou befriend us, and take care of our house and property." The goddess of good luck answered, "Do not fear; I'll befriend you; all will be right at last." They then set out on their journey. Sribatsa rolled up the mattress and put it on his head. They had not gone many miles when they saw a river before them. It was not fordable; but there was a canoe there with a man sitting in it. The travellers requested the ferryman to take them across. The ferryman said, "I can take only one at a time; but you are three--yourself, your wife, and the mattress." Sribatsa proposed that first his wife and the mattress should be taken across, and then he; but the ferryman would not hear of it. "Only one at a time," repeated he; "first let me take across the mattress." When the canoe with the mattress was in the middle of the stream, a fierce gale arose, and carried away the mattress, the canoe, and the ferryman, no one knows whither. And it was strange the stream also disappeared, for the place, where they saw a few minutes since the rush of waters, had now become firm ground. Sribatsa then knew that this was nothing but the evil eye of Sani. Sribatsa and his wife, without a pice in their pocket, went to a village which was hard by. It was dwelt in for the most part by wood-cutters, who used to go at sunrise to the forest to cut wood, which they sold in a town not far from the village. Sribatsa proposed to the wood-cutters that he should go along with them to cut wood. They agreed. So he began to fell trees as well as the best of them; but there was this difference between Sribatsa and the other wood-cutters, that whereas the latter cut any and every sort of wood, the former cut only precious wood like sandal-wood. The wood-cutters used to bring to market large loads of common wood, and Sribatsa only a few pieces of sandal-wood, for which he got a great deal more money than the others. As this was going on day after day, the wood-cutters through envy plotted together, and drove away from the village Sribatsa and his wife. The next place they went to was a village of weavers, or rather cotton-spinners. Here Chintamani, the wife of Sribatsa, made herself useful by spinning cotton. And as she was an intelligent and skilful woman, she spun finer thread than the other women; and she got more money. This roused the envy of the native women of the village. But this was not all. Sribatsa, in order to gain the good grace of the weavers, asked them to a feast, the dishes of which were all cooked by his wife. As Chintamani excelled in cooking, the barbarous weavers of the village were quite charmed by the delicacies set before them. When the men went to their homes, they reproached their wives for not being able to cook so well as the wife of Sribatsa, and called them good-for-nothing women. This thing made the women of the village hate Chintamani the more. One day Chintamani went to the river-side to bathe along with the other women of the village. A boat had been lying on the bank stranded on the sand for many days; they had tried to move it, but in vain. It so happened that as Chintamani by accident touched the boat, it moved off to the river. The boatmen, astonished at the event, thought that the woman had uncommon power, and might be useful on similar occasions in future. They therefore caught hold of her, put her in the boat, and rowed off. The women of the village, who were present, did not offer any resistance as they hated Chintamani. When Sribatsa heard how his wife had been carried away by boatmen, he became mad with grief. He left the village, went to the river-side, and resolved to follow the course of the stream till he should meet the boat where his wife was a prisoner. He travelled on and on, along the side of the river, till it became dark. As there were no huts to be seen, he climbed into a tree for the night. Next morning as he got down from the tree he saw at the foot of it a cow called a Kapila-cow, which never calves, but which gives milk at all hours of the day whenever it is milked. Sribatsa milked the cow, and drank its milk to his heart's content. He was astonished to find that the cow-dung which lay on the ground was of a bright yellow colour; indeed, he found it was pure gold. While it was in a soft state he wrote his own name upon it, and when in the course of the day it became hardened, it looked like a brick of gold--and so it was. As the tree grew on the river-side, and as the Kapila-cow came morning and evening to supply him with milk, Sribatsa resolved to stay there till he should meet the boat. In the meantime the gold-bricks were increasing in number every day, for the cow both morning and evening deposited there the precious article. He put the gold-bricks, upon all of which his name was engraved, one upon another in rows, so that from a distance they looked like a hillock of gold. Leaving Sribatsa to arrange his gold-bricks under the tree on the river-side we must follow the fortunes of his wife. Chintamani was a woman of great beauty; and thinking that her beauty might be her ruin, she, when seized by the boatmen, offered to Lakshmi the following prayer----"O Mother Lakshmi! have pity upon me. Thou hast made me beautiful, but now my beauty will undoubtedly prove my ruin by the loss of honour and chastity. I therefore beseech thee, gracious Mother, to make me ugly, and to cover my body with some loathsome disease, that the boatmen may not touch me." Lakshmi heard Chintamani's prayer; and in the twinkling of an eye, while she was in the arms of the boatmen, her naturally beautiful form was turned into a vile carcase. The boatmen, on putting her down in the boat, found her body covered with loathsome sores which were giving out a disgusting stench. They therefore threw her into the hold of the boat amongst the cargo, where they used morning and evening to send her a little boiled rice and some water. In that hold Chintamani had a miserable life of it; but she greatly preferred that misery to the loss of chastity. The boatmen went to some port, sold the cargo, and were returning to their country when the sight of what seemed a hillock of gold, not far from the river-side, attracted their attention. Sribatsa, whose eyes were ever directed towards the river, was delighted when he saw a boat turn towards the bank, as he fondly imagined his wife might be in it. The boatmen went to the hillock of gold, when Sribatsa said that the gold was his. They put all the gold-bricks on board their vessel, took Sribatsa prisoner, and put him into the hold not far from the woman covered with sores. They of course immediately recognised each other, in spite of the change Chintamani had undergone, but thought it prudent not to speak to each other. They communicated their ideas, therefore, by signs and gestures. Now, the boatmen were fond of playing at dice, and as Sribatsa appeared to them from his looks to be a respectable man, they always asked him to join in the game. As he was an expert player, he almost always won the game, on which the boatmen, envying his superior skill, threw him overboard. Chintamani had the presence of mind, at that moment, to throw into the water a pillow which she had for resting her head upon. Sribatsa took hold of the pillow, by means of which he floated down the stream till he was carried at nightfall to what seemed a garden on the water's edge. There he stuck among the trees, where he remained the whole night, wet and shivering. Now, the garden belonged to an old widow who was in former years the chief flower-supplier to the king of that country. Through some cause or other a blight seemed to have come over her garden, as almost all the trees and plants ceased flowering; she had therefore given up her place as the flower-supplier of the royal household. On the morning following the night on which Sribatsa had stuck among the trees, however, the old woman on getting up from her bed could scarcely believe her eyes when she saw the whole garden ablaze with flowers. There was not a single tree or plant which was not begemmed with flowers. Not understanding the cause of such a miraculous sight, she took a walk through the garden, and found on the river's brink, stuck among the trees, a man shivering and almost dying with cold. She brought him to her cottage, lighted a fire to give him warmth, and showed him every attention, as she ascribed the wonderful flowering of her trees to his presence. After making him as comfortable as she could, she ran to the king's palace, and told his chief servants that she was again in a position to supply the palace with flowers; so she was restored to her former office as the flower-woman of the royal household. Sribatsa, who stopped a few days with the woman, requested her to recommend him to one of the king's ministers for a berth. He was accordingly sent for to the palace, and as he was at once found to be a man of intelligence, the king's minister asked him what post he would like to have. Agreeably to his wish he was appointed collector of tolls on the river. While discharging his duties as river toll-gatherer, in the course of a few days he saw the very boat in which his wife was a prisoner. He detained the boat, and charged the boatmen with the theft of gold-bricks which he claimed as his own. At the mention of gold-bricks the king himself came to the river-side, and was astonished beyond measure to see bricks made of gold, every one of which had the inscription--Sribatsa. At the same time Sribatsa rescued from the boatmen his wife, who, the moment she came out of the vessel, became as lovely as before. The king heard the story of Sribatsa's misfortunes from his lips, entertained him in a princely style for many days, and at last sent him and his wife to their own country with presents of horses and elephants. The evil eye of Sani was now turned away from Sribatsa, and he again became what he formerly was, the Child of Fortune. Thus my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. VII THE BOY WHOM SEVEN MOTHERS SUCKLED Once on a time there reigned a king who had seven queens. He was very sad, for the seven queens were all barren. A holy mendicant, however, one day told the king that in a certain forest there grew a tree, on a branch of which hung seven mangoes; if the king himself plucked those mangoes and gave one to each of the queens they would all become mothers. So the king went to the forest, plucked the seven mangoes that grew upon one branch, and gave a mango to each of the queens to eat. In a short time the king's heart was filled with joy, as he heard that the seven queens were all with child. One day the king was out hunting, when he saw a young lady of peerless beauty cross his path. He fell in love with her, brought her to his palace, and married her. This lady was, however, not a human being, but a Rakshasi; but the king of course did not know it. The king became dotingly fond of her; he did whatever she told him. She said one day to the king, "You say that you love me more than any one else. Let me see whether you really love me so. If you love me, make your seven other queens blind, and let them be killed." The king became very sad at the request of his best-beloved queen, the more so as the seven queens were all with child. But there was nothing for it but to comply with the Rakshasi-queen's request. The eyes of the seven queens were plucked out of their sockets, and the queens themselves were delivered up to the chief minister to be destroyed. But the chief minister was a merciful man. Instead of killing the seven queens he hid them in a cave which was on the side of a hill. In course of time the eldest of the seven queens gave birth to a child. "What shall I do with the child," said she, "now that we are blind and are dying for want of food? Let me kill the child, and let us all eat of its flesh." So saying she killed the infant, and gave to each of her sister-queens a part of the child to eat. The six ate their portion, but the seventh or youngest queen did not eat her share, but laid it beside her. In a few days the second queen also was delivered of a child, and she did with it as her eldest sister had done with hers. So did the third, the fourth, the fifth, and the sixth queen. At last the seventh queen gave birth to a son; but she, instead of following the example of her sister-queens, resolved to nurse the child. The other queens demanded their portions of the newly-born babe. She gave each of them the portion she had got of the six children which had been killed, and which she had not eaten but laid aside. The other queens at once perceived that their portions were dry, and could not therefore be the parts of the child just born. The seventh queen told them that she had made up her mind not to kill the child but to nurse it. The others were glad to hear this, and they all said that they would help her in nursing the child. So the child was suckled by seven mothers, and it became after some years the hardiest and strongest boy that ever lived. In the meantime the Rakshasi-wife of the king was doing infinite mischief to the royal household and to the capital. What she ate at the royal table did not fill her capacious stomach. She therefore, in the darkness of night, gradually ate up all the members of the royal family, all the king's servants and attendants, all his horses, elephants, and cattle; till none remained in the palace except she herself and her royal consort. After that she used to go out in the evenings into the city and eat up a stray human being here and there. The king was left unattended by servants; there was no person left to cook for him, for no one would take his service. At last the boy who had been suckled by seven mothers, and who had now grown up to a stalwart youth, volunteered his services. He attended on the king, and took every care to prevent the queen from swallowing him up, for he went away home long before nightfall; and the Rakshasi-queen never seized her victims except at night. Hence the queen determined in some other way to get rid of the boy. As the boy always boasted that he was equal to any work, however hard, the queen told him that she was suffering from some disease which could be cured only by eating a certain species of melon, which was twelve cubits long, but the stone of which was thirteen cubits long, and that that fruit could be had only from her mother, who lived on the other side of the ocean. She gave him a letter of introduction to her mother, in which she requested her to devour the boy the moment he put the letter into her hands. The boy, suspecting foul play, tore up the letter and proceeded on his journey. The dauntless youth passed through many lands, and at last stood on the shore of the ocean, on the other side of which was the country of the Rakshasis. He then bawled as loud as he could, and said, "Granny! granny! come and save your daughter; she is dangerously ill." An old Rakshasi on the other side of the ocean heard the words, crossed the ocean, came to the boy, and on hearing the message took the boy on her back and re-crossed the ocean. So the boy was in the country of the Rakshasis. The twelve-cubit melon with its thirteen-cubit stone was given to the boy at once, and he was told to perform the journey back. But the boy pleaded fatigue, and begged to be allowed to rest one day. To this the old Rakshasi consented. Observing a stout club and a rope hanging in the Rakshasi's room, the boy inquired what they were there for. She replied, "Child, by that club and rope I cross the ocean. If any one takes the club and the rope in his hands, and addresses them in the following magical words-- "O stout club! O strong rope! Take me at once to the other side," then immediately the club and rope will take him to the other side of the ocean." Observing a bird in a cage hanging in one corner of the room, the boy inquired what it was. The old Rakshasi replied, "It contains a secret, child, which must not be disclosed to mortals, and yet how can I hide it from my own grandchild? That bird, child, contains the life of your mother. If the bird is killed, your mother will at once die." Armed with these secrets, the boy went to bed that night. Next morning the old Rakshasi, together with all the other Rakshasis, went to distant countries for forage. The boy took down the cage from the ceiling, as well as the club and rope. Having well secured the bird, he addressed the club and rope thus-- "O stout club! O strong rope! Take me at once to the other side." In the twinkling of an eye the boy was put on this side of the ocean. He then retraced his steps, came to the queen, and gave her, to her astonishment, the twelve-cubit melon with its thirteen-cubit stone; but the cage with the bird in it he kept carefully concealed. In the course of time the people of the city came to the king and said, "A monstrous bird comes out apparently from the palace every evening, and seizes the passengers in the streets and swallows them up. This has been going on for so long a time that the city has become almost desolate." The king could not make out what this monstrous bird was. The king's servant, the boy, replied that he knew the monstrous bird, and that he would kill it provided the queen stood beside the king. By royal command the queen was made to stand beside the king. The boy then took the bird from the cage which he had brought from the other side of the ocean, on seeing which she fell into a fainting fit. Turning to the king the boy said, "Sire, you will soon perceive who the monstrous bird is that devours your subjects every evening. As I tear off each limb of this bird, the corresponding limb of the man-devourer will fall off." The boy then tore off one leg of the bird in his hand; immediately, to the astonishment of the whole assembly, for the citizens were all present, one of the legs of the queen fell off. And when the boy squeezed the throat of the bird, the queen gave up the ghost. The boy then related his own history and that of his mother and his stepmothers. The seven queens, whose eyesight was miraculously restored, were brought back to the palace; and the boy that was suckled by seven mothers was recognised by the king as his rightful heir. So they lived together happily. Thus my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, &c. VIII THE STORY OF PRINCE SOBUR Once upon a time there lived a certain merchant who had seven daughters. One day the merchant put to his daughters the question: "By whose fortune do you get your living?" The eldest daughter answered--"Papa, I get my living by your fortune." The same answer was given by the second daughter, the third, the fourth, the fifth, and the sixth; but his youngest daughter said--"I get my living by my own fortune." The merchant got very angry with the youngest daughter, and said to her--"As you are so ungrateful as to say that you get your living by your own fortune, let me see how you fare alone. This very day you shall leave my house without a pice in your pocket." He forthwith called his palki-bearers, and ordered them to take away the girl and leave her in the midst of a forest. The girl begged hard to be allowed to take with her her work-box containing her needles and threads. She was allowed to do so. She then got into the palki, which the bearers lifted on their shoulders. The bearers had not gone many hundred yards to the tune of "Hoon! hoon! hoon! hoon! hoon! hoon!" when an old woman bawled out to them and bid them stop. On coming up to the palki, she said, "Where are you taking away my daughter?" for she was the nurse of the merchant's youngest child. The bearers replied, "The merchant has ordered us to take her away and leave her in the midst of a forest; and we are going to do his bidding." "I must go with her," said the old woman. "How will you be able to keep pace with us, as we must needs run?" said the bearers. "Anyhow I must go where my daughter goes," rejoined the old woman. The upshot was that, at the entreaty of the merchant's youngest daughter, the old woman was put inside the palki along with her. In the afternoon the palki-bearers reached a dense forest. They went far into it; and towards sunset they put down the girl and the old woman at the foot of a large tree, and retraced their steps homewards. The case of the merchant's youngest daughter was truly pitiable. She was scarcely fourteen years old; she had been bred in the lap of luxury; and she was now here at sundown in the heart of what seemed an interminable forest, with not a penny in her pocket, and with no other protection than what could be given her by an old, decrepit, imbecile woman. The very trees of the forest looked upon her with pity. The gigantic tree, at whose foot she was mingling her tears with those of the old woman, said to her (for trees could speak in those days)--"Unhappy girl! I much pity you. In a short time the wild beasts of the forest will come out of their lairs and roam about for their prey; and they are sure to devour you and your companion. But I can help you; I will make an opening for you in my trunk. When you see the opening go into it; I will then close it up; and you will remain safe inside; nor can the wild beasts touch you." In a moment the trunk of the tree was split into two. The merchant's daughter and the old woman went inside the hollow, on which the tree resumed its natural shape. When the shades of night darkened the forest the wild beasts came out of their lairs. The fierce tiger was there; the wild bear was there; the hard-skinned rhinoceros was there; the bushy bear was there; the musty elephant was there; and the horned buffalo was there. They all growled round about the tree, for they got the scent of human blood. The merchant's daughter and the old woman heard from within the tree the growl of the beasts. The beasts came dashing against the tree; they broke its branches; they pierced its trunk with their horns; they scratched its bark with their claws: but in vain. The merchant's daughter and her old nurse were safe within. Towards dawn the wild beasts went away. After sunrise the good tree said to her two inmates, "Unhappy women, the wild beasts have gone into their lairs after greatly tormenting me. The sun is up; you can now come out." So saying the tree split itself into two, and the merchant's daughter and the old woman came out. They saw the extent of the mischief done by the wild beasts to the tree. Many of its branches had been broken down; in many places the trunk had been pierced; and in other places the bark had been stripped off. The merchant's daughter said to the tree, "Good mother, you are truly good to give us shelter at such a fearful cost. You must be in great pain from the torture to which the wild beasts subjected you last night." So saying she went to the tank which was near the tree, and bringing thence a quantity of mud, she besmeared the trunk with it, especially those parts which had been pierced and scratched. After she had done this, the tree said, "Thank you, my good girl, I am now greatly relieved of my pain. I am, however, concerned not so much about myself as about you both. You must be hungry, not having eaten the whole of yesterday. And what can I give you? I have no fruit of my own to give you. Give to the old woman whatever money you have, and let her go into the city hard by and buy some food." They said they had no money. On searching, however, in the work-box she found five cowries. [19] The tree then told the old woman to go with the cowries to the city and buy some khai. [20] The old woman went to the city, which was not far, and said to one confectioner, "Please give me five cowries' worth of khai." The confectioner laughed at her and said, "Be off, you old hag, do you think khai can be had for five cowries?" She tried another shop, and the shopkeeper, thinking the woman to be in great distress, compassionately gave her a large quantity of khai for the five cowries. When the old woman returned with the khai, the tree said to the merchant's daughter, "Each of you eat a little of the khai, lay by more than half, and strew the rest on the embankments of the tank all round." They did as they were bidden, though they did not understand the reason why they were told to scatter the khai on the sides of the tank. They spent the day in bewailing their fate, and at night they were housed inside the trunk of the tree as on the previous night. The wild beasts came as before, further mutilated the tree, and tortured it as in the preceding night. But during the night a scene was being enacted on the embankments of the tank of which the two women saw the outcome only on the following morning. Hundreds of peacocks of gorgeous plumes came to the embankments to eat the khai which had been strewed on them; and as they strove with each other for the tempting food many of their plumes fell off their bodies. Early in the morning the tree told the two women to gather the plumes together, out of which the merchant's daughter made a beautiful fan. This fan was taken into the city to the palace, where the son of the king admired it greatly and paid for it a large sum of money. As each morning a quantity of plumes was collected, every day one fan was made and sold. So that in a short time the two women got rich. The tree then advised them to employ men in building a house for them to live in. Accordingly bricks were burnt, trees were cut down for beams and rafters, bricks were reduced to powder, lime was manufactured, and in a few months a stately, palace-like house was built for the merchant's daughter and her old nurse. It was thought advisable to lay out the adjoining grounds as a garden, and to dig a tank for supplying them with water. In the meantime the merchant himself with his wife and six daughters had been frowned upon by the goddess of wealth. By a sudden stroke of misfortune he lost all his money, his house and property were sold, and he, his wife, and six daughters, were turned adrift penniless into the world. It so happened that they lived in a village not far from the place where the two strange women had built a palace and were digging a tank. As the once rich merchant was now supporting his family by the pittance which he obtained every day for his manual labour, he bethought himself of employing himself as a day labourer in digging the tank of the strange lady on the skirts of the forest. His wife said she would also go to dig the tank with him. So one day while the strange lady was amusing herself from the window of her palace with looking at the labourers digging her tank, to her utter surprise she saw her father and mother coming towards the palace, apparently to engage themselves as day labourers. Tears ran down her cheeks as she looked at them, for they were clothed in rags. She immediately sent servants to bring them inside the house. The poor man and woman were frightened beyond measure. They saw that the tank was all ready; and as it was customary in those days to offer a human sacrifice when the digging was over, they thought that they were called inside in order to be sacrificed. Their fears increased when they were told to throw away their rags and to put on fine clothes which were given to them. The strange lady of the palace, however, soon dispelled their fears; for she told them that she was their daughter, fell on their necks and wept. The rich daughter related her adventures, and the father felt she was right when she said that she lived upon her own fortune and not on that of her father. She gave her father a large fortune, which enabled him to go to the city in which he formerly lived, and to set himself up again as a merchant. The merchant now bethought himself of going in his ship to distant countries for purposes of trade. All was ready. He got on board, ready to start, but, strange to say, the ship would not move. The merchant was at a loss what to make of this. At last the idea occurred to him that he had asked each of his six daughters, who were living with him, what thing she wished he should bring for her; but he had not asked that question of his seventh daughter who had made him rich. He therefore immediately despatched a messenger to his youngest daughter, asking her what she wished her father to bring for her on his return from his mercantile travels. When the messenger arrived she was engaged in her devotions, and hearing that a messenger had arrived from her father she said to him "Sobur," meaning "wait." The messenger understood that she wanted her father to bring for her something called Sobur. He returned to the merchant and told him that she wanted him to bring for her Sobur. The ship now moved of itself, and the merchant started on his travels. He visited many ports, and by selling his goods obtained immense profit. The things his six daughters wanted him to bring for them he easily got, but Sobur, the thing which he understood his youngest daughter wished to have, he could get nowhere. He asked at every port whether Sobur could be had there, but the merchants all told him that they had never heard of such an article of commerce. At the last port he went through the streets bawling out--"Wanted Sobur! wanted Sobur!" The cry attracted the notice of the son of the king of that country whose name was Sobur. The prince, hearing from the merchant that his daughter wanted Sobur, said that he had the article in question, and bringing out a small box of wood containing a magical fan with a looking-glass in it, said--"This is Sobur which your daughter wishes to have." The merchant having obtained the long-wished-for Sobur weighed anchor, and sailed for his native land. On his arrival he sent to his youngest daughter the said wonderful box. The daughter, thinking it to be a common wooden box, laid it aside. Some days after when she was at leisure she bethought herself of opening the box which her father had sent her. When she opened it she saw in it a beautiful fan, and in it a looking-glass. As she shook the fan, in a moment the Prince Sobur stood before her, and said--"You called me, here I am. What's your wish?" The merchant's daughter, astonished at the sudden appearance of a prince of such exquisite beauty, asked who he was, and how he had made his appearance there. The prince told her of the circumstances under which he gave the box to her father, and informed her of the secret that whenever the fan would be shaken he would make his appearance. The prince lived for a day or two in the house of the merchant's daughter, who entertained him hospitably. The upshot was, that they fell in love with each other, and vowed to each other to be husband and wife. The prince returned to his royal father and told him that he had selected a wife for himself. The day for the wedding was fixed. The merchant and his six daughters were invited. The nuptial knot was tied. But there was death in the marriage-bed. The six daughters of the merchant, envying the happy lot of their youngest sister, had determined to put an end to the life of her newly-wedded husband. They broke several bottles, reduced the broken pieces into fine powder, and scattered it profusely on the bed. The prince, suspecting no danger, laid himself down in the bed; but he had scarcely been there two minutes when he felt acute pain through his whole system, for the fine bottle-powder had gone through every pore of his body. As the prince became restless through pain, and was shrieking aloud, his attendants hastily took him away to his own country. The king and queen, the parents of Prince Sobur, consulted all the physicians and surgeons of the kingdom; but in vain. The young prince was day and night screaming with pain, and no one could ascertain the disease, far less give him relief. The grief of the merchant's daughter may be imagined. The marriage knot had been scarcely tied when her husband was attacked, as she thought, by a terrible disease and carried away many hundreds of miles off. Though she had never seen her husband's country she determined to go there and nurse him. She put on the garb of a Sannyasi, and with a dagger in her hand set out on her journey. Of tender years, and unaccustomed to make long journeys on foot, she soon got weary and sat under a tree to rest. On the top of the tree was the nest of the divine bird Bihangama and his mate Bihangami. They were not in their nest at the time, but two of their young ones were in it. Suddenly the young ones on the top of the tree gave a scream which roused the half-drowsy merchant's daughter whom we shall now call the young Sannyasi. He saw near him a huge serpent raising its hood and about to climb into the tree. In a moment he cut the serpent into two, on which the young birds left off screaming. Shortly after the Bihangama and Bihangami came sailing through the air; and the latter said to the former--"I suppose our offspring as usual have been devoured by our great enemy the serpent. Ah me! I do not hear the cries of my young ones." On nearing the nest, however, they were agreeably surprised to find their offspring alive. The young ones told their dams how the young Sannyasi under the tree had destroyed the serpent. And sure enough the snake was lying there cut into two. The Bihangami then said to her mate--"The young Sannyasi has saved our offspring from death, I wish we could do him some service in return." The Bihangama replied, "We shall presently do her service, for the person under the tree is not a man but a woman. She got married only last night to Prince Sobur, who, a few hours after, when jumping into his bed, had every pore of his body pierced with fine particles of ground bottles which had been spread over his bed by his envious sisters-in-law. He is still suffering pain in his native land, and, indeed, is at the point of death. And his heroic bride taking the garb of a Sannyasi is going to nurse him." "But," asked the Bihangami, "is there no cure for the prince?" "Yes, there is," replied the Bihangama: "if our dung which is lying on the ground round about, and which is hardened, be reduced to powder, and applied by means of a brush to the body of the prince after bathing him seven times with seven jars of water and seven jars of milk, Prince Sobur will undoubtedly get well." "But," asked the Bihangami, "how can the poor daughter of the merchant walk such a distance? It must take her many days, by which time the poor prince will have died." "I can," replied the Bihangama, "take the young lady on my back, and put her in the capital of Prince Sobur, and bring her back, provided she does not take any presents there." The merchant's daughter, in the garb of a Sannyasi, heard this conversation between the two birds, and begged the Bihangama to take her on his back. To this the bird readily consented. Before mounting on her aerial car she gathered a quantity of birds' dung and reduced it to fine powder. Armed with this potent drug she got up on the back of the kind bird, and sailing through the air with the rapidity of lightning, soon reached the capital of Prince Sobur. The young Sannyasi went up to the gate of the palace, and sent word to the king that he was acquainted with potent drugs and would cure the prince in a few hours. The king, who had tried all the best doctors in the kingdom without success, looked upon the Sannyasi as a mere pretender, but on the advice of his councillors agreed to give him a trial. The Sannyasi ordered seven jars of water and seven jars of milk to be brought to him. He poured the contents of all the jars on the body of the prince. He then applied, by means of a feather, the dung-powder he had already prepared to every pore of the prince's body. Thereafter seven jars of water and seven jars of milk were again six times poured upon him. When the prince's body was wiped, he felt perfectly well. The king ordered that the richest treasures he had should be presented to the wonderful doctor; but the Sannyasi refused to take any. He only wanted a ring from the prince's finger to preserve as a memorial. The ring was readily given him. The merchant's daughter hastened to the sea-shore where the Bihangama was awaiting her. In a moment they reached the tree of the divine birds. Hence the young bride walked to her house on the skirts of the forest. The following day she shook the magical fan, and forthwith Prince Sobur appeared before her. When the lady showed him the ring, he learnt with infinite surprise that his own wife was the doctor that cured him. The prince took away his bride to his palace in his far-off kingdom, forgave his sisters-in-law, lived happily for scores of years, and was blessed with children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Thus my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. IX THE ORIGIN OF OPIUM [21] Once on a time there lived on the banks of the holy Ganga a Rishi, [22] who spent his days and nights in the performance of religious rites and in meditation upon God. From sunrise to sunset he sat on the river bank engaged in devotion, and at night he took shelter in a hut of palm-leaves which his own hand had raised in a bush hard by. There were no men and women for miles round. In the hut, however, there was a mouse, which used to live upon the leavings of the Rishi's supper. As it was not in the nature of the sage to hurt any living thing, our mouse never ran away from him, but, on the contrary, went to him, touched his feet, and played with him. The Rishi, partly in kindness to the little brute, and partly to have some one by to talk to at times, gave the mouse the power of speech. One night the mouse, standing on its hind-legs and joining together its fore-legs reverently, said to the Rishi, "Holy sage, you have been so kind as to give me the power to speak like men. If it will not displease your reverence, I have one more boon to ask." "What is it?" said the Rishi. "What is it, little mousie? Say what you want." The mouse answered--"When your reverence goes in the day to the river-side for devotion, a cat comes to the hut to catch me. And had it not been for fear of your reverence, the cat would have eaten me up long ago; and I fear it will eat me some day. My prayer is that I may be changed into a cat that I may prove a match for my foe." The Rishi became propitious to the mouse, and threw some holy water on its body, and it was at once changed into a cat. Some nights after, the Rishi asked his pet, "Well, little puss, how do you like your present life?" "Not much, your reverence," answered the cat. "Why not?" demanded the sage. "Are you not strong enough to hold your own against all the cats in the world?" "Yes," rejoined the cat. "Your reverence has made me a strong cat, able to cope with all the cats in the world. But I do not now fear cats; I have got a new foe. Whenever your reverence goes to the river-side, a pack of dogs comes to the hut, and sets up such a loud barking that I am frightened out of my life. If your reverence will not be displeased with me, I beg you to change me into a dog." The Rishi said, "Be turned into a dog," and the cat forthwith became a dog. Some days passed, when one night the dog said thus to the Rishi: "I cannot thank your reverence enough for your kindness to me. I was but a poor mouse, and you not only gave me speech but turned me into a cat; and again you were kind enough to change me into a dog. As a dog, however, I suffer a great deal of trouble, I do not get enough food: my only food is the leavings of your supper, but that is not sufficient to fill the maw of such a large beast as you have made me. O how I envy those apes who jump about from tree to tree, and eat all sorts of delicious fruits! If your reverence will not get angry with me, I pray that I be changed into an ape." The kind-hearted sage readily granted his pet's wish, and the dog became an ape. Our ape was at first wild with joy. He leaped from one tree to another, and sucked every luscious fruit he could find. But his joy was short-lived. Summer came on with its drought. As a monkey he found it hard to drink water out of a river or of a pool; and he saw the wild boars splashing in the water all the day long. He envied their lot, and exclaimed, "O how happy those boars are! All day their bodies are cooled and refreshed by water. I wish I were a boar." Accordingly at night he recounted to the Rishi the troubles of the life of an ape and the pleasures of that of a boar, and begged of him to change him into a boar. The sage, whose kindness knew no bounds, complied with his pet's request, and turned him into a wild boar. For two whole days our boar kept his body soaking wet, and on the third day, as he was splashing about in his favourite element, whom should he see but the king of the country riding on a richly caparisoned elephant. The king was out hunting, and it was only by a lucky chance that our boar escaped being bagged. He dwelt in his own mind on the dangers attending the life of a wild boar, and envied the lot of the stately elephant who was so fortunate as to carry about the king of the country on his back. He longed to be an elephant, and at night besought the Rishi to make him one. Our elephant was roaming about in the wilderness, when he saw the king out hunting. The elephant went towards the king's suite with the view of being caught. The king, seeing the elephant at a distance, admired it on account of its beauty, and gave orders that it should be caught and tamed. Our elephant was easily caught, and taken into the royal stables, and was soon tamed. It so chanced that the queen expressed a wish to bathe in the waters of the holy Ganga. The king, who wished to accompany his royal consort, ordered that the newly-caught elephant should be brought to him. The king and queen mounted on his back. One would suppose that the elephant had now got his wishes, as the king had mounted on his back. But no. There was a fly in the ointment. The elephant, who looked upon himself as a lordly beast, could not brook the idea that a woman, though a queen, should ride on his back. He thought himself degraded. He jumped up so violently that both the king and queen fell to the ground. The king carefully picked up the queen, took her in his arms, asked her whether she had been much hurt, wiped off the dust from her clothes with his handkerchief, and tenderly kissed her a hundred times. Our elephant, after witnessing the king's caresses, scampered off to the woods as fast as his legs could carry him. As he ran he thought within himself thus: "After all, I see that a queen is the happiest of all creatures. Of what infinite regard is she the object! The king lifted her up, took her in his arms, made many tender inquiries, wiped off the dust from her clothes with his own royal hands, and kissed her a hundred times! O the happiness of being a queen! I must tell the Rishi to make me a queen!" So saying the elephant, after traversing the woods, went at sunset to the Rishi's hut, and fell prostrate on the ground at the feet of the holy sage. The Rishi said, "Well, what's the news? Why have you left the king's stud?" "What shall I say to your reverence? You have been very kind to me; you have granted every wish of mine. I have one more boon to ask, and it will be the last. By becoming an elephant I have got only my bulk increased, but not my happiness. I see that of all creatures a queen is the happiest in the world. Do, holy father, make me a queen." "Silly child," answered the Rishi, "how can I make you a queen? Where can I get a kingdom for you, and a royal husband to boot? All I can do is to change you into an exquisitely beautiful girl, possessed of charms to captivate the heart of a prince, if ever the gods grant you an interview with some great prince! "Our elephant agreed to the change; and in a moment the sagacious beast was transformed into a beautiful young lady, to whom the holy sage gave the name of Postomani, or the poppy-seed lady. Postomani lived in the Rishi's hut, and spent her time in tending the flowers and watering the plants. One day, as she was sitting at the door of the hut during the Rishi's absence, she saw a man dressed in a very rich garb come towards the cottage. She stood up and asked the stranger who he was, and what he had come there for. The stranger answered that he had come a-hunting in those parts, that he had been chasing in vain a deer, that he felt thirsty, and that he came to the hut of the hermit for refreshment. Postomani. Stranger, look upon this cot as your own house. I'll do everything I can to make you comfortable; I am only sorry we are too poor suitably to entertain, a man of your rank, for if I mistake not you are the king of this country. The king smiled. Postomani then brought out a water-pot, and made as if she would wash the feet of her royal guest with her own hands, when the king said, "Holy maid, do not touch my feet, for I am only a Kshatriya, and you are the daughter of a holy sage." Postomani. Noble sir, I am not the daughter of the Rishi, neither am I a Brahmani girl; so there can be no harm in my touching your feet. Besides, you are my guest, and I am bound to wash your feet. King. Forgive my impertinence. What caste do you belong to? Postomani. I have heard from the sage that my parents were Kshatriyas. King. May I ask you whether your father was a king, for your uncommon beauty and your stately demeanour show that you are a born princess. Postomani, without answering the question, went inside the hut, brought out a tray of the most delicious fruits, and set it before the king. The king, however, would not touch the fruits till the maid had answered his questions. When pressed hard Postomani gave the following answer: "The holy sage says that my father was a king. Having been overcome in battle, he, along with my mother, fled into the woods. My poor father was eaten up by a tiger, and my mother at that time was brought to bed of me, and she closed her eyes as I opened mine. Strange to say, there was a bee-hive on the tree at the foot of which I lay; drops of honey fell into my mouth and kept alive the spark of life till the kind Rishi found me and brought me into his hut. This is the simple story of the wretched girl who now stands before the king." King. Call not yourself wretched. You are the loveliest and most beautiful of women. You would adorn the palace of the mightiest sovereign. The upshot was, that the king made love to the girl and they were joined in marriage by the Rishi. Postomani was treated as the favourite queen, and the former queen was in disgrace. Postomani's happiness, however, was short-lived. One day as she was standing by a well, she became giddy, fell into the water, and died. The Rishi then appeared before the king and said: "O king, grieve not over the past. What is fixed by fate must come to pass. The queen, who has just been drowned, was not of royal blood. She was born a mouse; I then changed her successively, according to her own wish, into a cat, a dog, an ape, a boar, an elephant, and a beautiful girl. Now that she is gone, do you again take into favour your former queen. As for my reputed daughter, through the favour of the gods I'll make her name immortal. Let her body remain in the well; fill the well up with earth. Out of her flesh and bones will grow a tree which shall be called after her Posto, that is, the Poppy tree. From this tree will be obtained a drug called opium, which will be celebrated as a powerful medicine through all ages, and which will always be either swallowed or smoked as a wonderful narcotic to the end of time. The opium swallower or smoker will have one quality of each of the animals to which Postomani was transformed. He will be mischievous like a mouse, fond of milk like a cat, quarrelsome like a dog, filthy like an ape, savage like a boar, and high-tempered like a queen." Thus my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. X STRIKE BUT HEAR Once upon a time there reigned a king who had three sons. His subjects one day came to him and said, "O incarnation of justice! the kingdom is infested with thieves and robbers. Our property is not safe. We pray your majesty to catch hold of these thieves and punish them." The king said to his sons, "O my sons, I am old, but you are all in the prime of manhood. How is it that my kingdom is full of thieves? I look to you to catch hold of these thieves." The three princes then made up their minds to patrol the city every night. With this view they set up a station in the outskirts of the city, where they kept their horses. In the early part of the night the eldest prince rode upon his horse and went through the whole city, but did not see a single thief. He came back to the station. About midnight the second prince got upon his horse and rode through every part of the city, but he did not see or hear of a single thief. He came also back to the station. Some hours after midnight the youngest prince went the rounds, and when he came near the gate of the palace where his father lived, he saw a beautiful woman coming out of the palace. The prince accosted the woman, and asked who she was and where she was going at that hour of the night. The woman answered, "I am Rajlakshmi, [23] the guardian deity of this palace. The king will be killed this night. I am therefore not needed here. I am going away." The prince did not know what to make of this message. After a moment's reflection he said to the goddess, "But suppose the king is not killed to-night, then have you any objection to return to the palace and stay there?" "I have no objection," replied the goddess. The prince then begged the goddess to go in, promising to do his best to prevent the king from being killed. Then the goddess entered the palace again, and in a moment went the prince knew not whither. The prince went straight into the bedroom of his royal father. There he lay immersed in deep sleep. His second and young wife, the stepmother of our prince, was sleeping in another bed in the room. A light was burning dimly. What was his surprise when the prince saw a huge cobra going round and round the golden bedstead on which his father was sleeping. The prince with his sword cut the serpent in two. Not satisfied with killing the cobra, he cut it up into a hundred pieces, and put them inside the pan dish [24] which was in the room. While the prince was cutting up the serpent a drop of blood fell on the breast of his stepmother who was sleeping hard by. The prince was in great distress. He said to himself, "I have saved my father but killed my mother." How was the drop of blood to be taken out of his mother's breast? He wrapped round his tongue a piece of cloth sevenfold, and with it licked up the drop of blood. But while he was in the act of doing this, his stepmother woke up, and opening her eyes saw that it was her stepson, the youngest prince. The young prince rushed out of the room. The queen, intending to ruin the youngest prince, whom she hated, called out to her husband, "My lord, my lord, are you awake? are you awake? Rouse yourself up. Here is a nice piece of business." The king on awaking inquired what the matter was. "The matter, my lord? Your worthy son, the youngest prince, of whom you speak so highly, was just here. I caught him in the act of touching my breast. Doubtless he came with a wicked intent. And this is your worthy son!" The king was horror-struck. The prince went to the station to his brothers, but told them nothing. Early in the morning the king called his eldest son to him and said, "If a man to whom I intrust my honour and my life prove faithless, how should he be punished?" The eldest prince replied, "Doubtless such a man's head should be cut off; but before you kill, you should see whether the man is really faithless." "What do you mean?" inquired the king. "Let your majesty be pleased to listen," answered the prince. "Once on a time there lived a goldsmith who had a grown-up son. And this son had a wife who had the rare faculty of understanding the language of beasts; but neither her husband nor any one else knew that she had this uncommon gift. One night she was lying in bed beside her husband in their house, which was close to a river, when she heard a jackal howl out, 'There goes a carcase floating on the river; is there any one who will take off the diamond ring from the finger of the dead man and give me the corpse to eat?' The woman understood the jackal's language, got up from bed and went to the river-side. The husband, who was not asleep, followed his wife at some distance so as not to be observed by her. The woman went into the water, tugged the floating corpse towards the shore, and saw the diamond ring on the finger. Unable to loosen it with her hand, as the fingers of the dead body had swelled, she bit it off with her teeth, and put the dead body upon land. She then went to her bed, whither she had been preceded by her husband. The young goldsmith lay beside his wife almost petrified with fear, for he concluded after what he saw that his wife was not a human being but a Rakshasi. He spent the rest of the night in tossing in his bed, and early in the morning spoke to his father in the following manner: 'Father, the woman whom thou hast given me to wife is not a real woman but a Rakshasi. Last night as I was lying in bed with her, I heard outside the house, towards the river-side, a jackal set up a fearful howl. On this she, thinking that I was asleep, got up from bed, opened the door, and went out to the river-side. Surprised to see her go out alone at the dead hour of night, I suspected evil and followed her, but so that she could not see me. What did she do, do you think? O horror of horrors! She went into the stream, dragged towards the shore the dead body of a man which was floating by, and began to eat it! I saw this with mine own eyes. I then returned home while she was feasting upon the carcase, and jumped into bed. In a few minutes she also returned, bolted the door, and lay beside me. O my father, how can I live with a Rakshasi? She will certainly kill me and eat me up one night.' The old goldsmith was not a little shocked to hear this account. Both father and son agreed that the woman should be taken into the forest and there left to be devoured by wild beasts. Accordingly the young goldsmith spoke to his wife thus: 'My dear love, you had better not cook much this morning; only boil rice and burn a brinjal, for I must take you to-day to see your father and mother, who are dying to see you.' At the mention of her father's house she became full of joy, and finished the cooking in no time. The husband and wife snatched a hasty breakfast and started on their journey. The way lay through a dense jungle, in which the goldsmith bethought himself of leaving his wife alone to be eaten up by wild beasts. But while they were passing through this jungle the woman heard a serpent hiss, the meaning of which hissing, as understood by her, was as follows: 'O passer-by, how thankful should I be to you if you would catch hold of that croaking frog in yonder hole, which is full of gold and precious stones, and give me the frog to swallow, and you take the gold and precious stones.' The woman forthwith made for the frog, and began digging the hole with a stick. The young goldsmith was now quaking with fear, thinking his Rakshasi-wife was about to kill him. She called out to him and said, 'Husband, take up all this large quantity of gold and these precious stones.' The goldsmith, not knowing what to make of it, timidly went to the place, and to his infinite surprise saw the gold and the precious stones. They took up as much as they could. On the husband's asking his wife how she came to know of the existence of all this riches, she said that she understood the language of animals, and that the snake coiled up hard by had informed her of it. The goldsmith, on finding out what an accomplished wife he was blessed with, said to her, 'My love, it has got very late to-day; it would be impossible to reach your father's house before nightfall, and we may be devoured by wild beasts in the jungle; I propose therefore that we both return home.' It took them a long time to reach home, for they were laden with a large quantity of gold and precious stones. On coming near the house, the goldsmith said to his wife, 'My dear, you go by the back door, while I go by the front door and see my father in his shop and show him all this gold and these precious stones.' So she entered the house by the back door, and the moment she entered she was met by the old goldsmith, who had come that minute into the house for some purpose with a hammer in his hand. The old goldsmith, when he saw his Rakshasi daughter-in-law, concluded in his mind that she had killed and swallowed up his son. He therefore struck her on the head with the hammer, and she immediately died. That moment the son came into the house, but it was too late. Hence it is that I told your majesty that before you cut off a man's head you should inquire whether the man is really guilty." The king then called his second son to him, and said, "If a man to whom I intrust my honour and my life prove faithless, how should he be punished?" The second prince replied, "Doubtless such a man's head should be cut off, but before you kill you should see whether the man is really faithless." "What do you mean?" inquired the king. "Let your majesty be pleased to listen," answered the prince. "Once on a time there reigned a king who was very fond of going out a-hunting. Once while he was out hunting his horse took him into a dense forest far from his followers. He rode on and on, and did not see either villages or towns. He became very thirsty, but he could see neither pond, lake, nor stream. At last he found something dripping from the top of a tree. Concluding it to be rain-water which had rested in some cavity of the tree, he stood on horseback under the tree and caught the dripping contents in a small cup. It was, however, no rain-water. A huge cobra, which was on the top of the tree, was dashing in rage its fangs against the tree; and its poison was coming out and was falling in drops. The king, however, thought it was rain-water; though his horse knew better. When the cup was nearly filled with the liquid snake-poison, and the king was about to drink it off, the horse, to save the life of his royal master, so moved about that the cup fell from the king's hand and all the liquid spilled about. The king became very angry with his horse, and with his sword gave a cut to the horse's neck, and the horse died immediately. Hence it is that I told your majesty that before you cut off a man's head you should inquire whether the man is really guilty." The king then called to him his third and youngest son, and said, "If a man to whom I intrust my honour and my life prove faithless, how should he be punished?" The youngest prince replied, "Doubtless such a man's head should be cut off, but before you kill you should see whether the man is really faithless." "What do you mean?" inquired the king. "Let your majesty be pleased to listen," answered the prince. "Once on a time there reigned a king who had in his palace a remarkable bird of the Suka species. One day as the Suka went out to the fields for an airing, he saw his dad and dam, who pressed him to come and spend some days with them in their nest in some far-off land. The Suka answered he would be very happy to come, but he could not go without the king's leave; he added that he would speak to the king that very day, and would be ready to go the following morning if his dad and dam would come to that very spot. The Suka spoke to the king, and the king gave leave with reluctance as he was very fond of the bird. So the next morning the Suka met his dad and dam at the place appointed, and went with them to his paternal nest on the top of some high tree in a far-off land. The three birds lived happily together for a fortnight, at the end of which period the Suka said to his dad and dam, 'My beloved parents, the king granted me leave only for a fortnight, and to-day the fortnight is over: to-morrow I must start for the city of the king.' His dad and dam readily agreed to the reasonable proposal, and told him to take a present to the king. After laying their heads together for some time they agreed that the present should be a fruit of the tree of Immortality. So early next morning the Suka plucked a fruit off the tree of Immortality, and carefully catching it in his beak, started on his aerial journey. As he had a heavy weight to carry, the Suka was not able to reach the city of the king that day, and was benighted on the road. He took shelter in a tree, and was at a loss to know where to keep the fruit. If he kept it in his beak it was sure, he thought, to fall out when he fell asleep. Fortunately he saw a hole in the trunk of the tree in which he had taken shelter, and accordingly put the fruit in it. It so happened that in that hole there was a snake; in the course of the night the snake darted its fangs on the fruit, and thus besmeared it with its poison. Early before crow-cawing the Suka, suspecting nothing, took up the fruit of Immortality in its beak, and began his aerial voyage. The Suka reached the palace while the king was sitting with his ministers. The king was delighted to see his pet bird come again, and greatly admired the beautiful fruit which the Suka had brought as a present. The fruit was very fair to look at; it was the loveliest fruit in all the earth; and as its name implies it makes the eater of it immortal. The king was going to eat it, but his courtiers said that it was not advisable for the king to eat it, as it might be a poisonous fruit. He accordingly threw it to a crow which was perched on the wall; the crow ate a part of it; but in a moment the crow fell down and died. The king, imagining that the Suka had intended to take away his life, took hold of the bird and killed it. The king ordered the stone of the deadly fruit, as it was thought to be, to be planted in a garden outside the city. The stone in course of time became a large tree bearing lovely fruit. The king ordered a fence to be put round the tree, and placed a guard lest people should eat of the fruit and die. There lived in that city an old Brahman and his wife, who used to live upon charity. The Brahman one day mourned his hard lot, and told his wife that instead of leading the wretched life of a beggar he would eat the fruit of the poisonous tree in the king's garden and thus end his days. So that very night he got up from his bed in order to get into the king's garden. His wife, suspecting her husband's intention, followed him, resolved also to eat of the fruit and die with her husband. As at that dead hour of night the guard was asleep, the old Brahman plucked a fruit and ate it. The woman said to her husband, 'If you die what is the use of my life? I'll also eat and die.' So saying she plucked a fruit and ate it. Thinking that the poison would take some time to produce its due effect, they both went home and lay in bed, supposing that they would never rise again. To their infinite surprise next morning they found themselves to be not only alive, but young and vigorous. Their neighbours could scarcely recognise them--they had become so changed. The old Brahman had become handsome and vigorous, no grey hairs, no wrinkles on his cheeks; and as for his wife, she had become as beautiful as any lady in the king's household. The king, hearing of this wonderful change, sent for the old Brahman, who told him all the circumstances. The king then greatly lamented the sad fate of his pet bird, and blamed himself for having killed it without fully inquiring into the case. "Hence it is," continued the youngest prince, "that I told your majesty that before you cut off a man's head you should inquire whether the man is really guilty. I know your majesty thinks that last night I entered your chamber with wicked intent. Be pleased to hear me before you strike. Last night as I was on my rounds I saw a female figure come out of the palace. On challenging her she said that she was Rajlakshmi, the guardian deity of the palace; and that she was leaving the palace as the king would be killed that night. I told her to come in, and that I would prevent the king from being killed. I went straight into your bedroom, and saw a large cobra going round and round your golden bedstead. I killed the cobra, cut it up into a hundred pieces, and put them in the pan dish. But while I was cutting up the snake, a drop of its blood fell on the breast of my mother; and then I thought that while I had saved my father I had killed my mother. I wrapped round my tongue a piece of cloth sevenfold and licked up the drop of blood. While I was licking up the blood, my mother opened her eyes and noticed me. This is what I have done; now cut off my head if your majesty wishes it." The king filled with joy and gratitude embraced his son, and from that time loved him more even than he had loved him before. Thus my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XI THE ADVENTURES OF TWO THIEVES AND OF THEIR SONS PART I Once on a time there lived two thieves in a village who earned their livelihood by stealing. As they were well-known thieves, every act of theft in the village was ascribed to them whether they committed it or not; they therefore left the village, and, being resolved to support themselves by honest labour, went to a neighbouring town for service. Both of them were engaged by a householder; the one had to tend a cow, and the other to water a champaka plant. The elder thief began watering the plant early in the morning, and as he had been told to go on pouring water till some of it collected itself round the foot of the plant he went on pouring bucketful after bucketful: but to no purpose. No sooner was the water poured on the foot of the plant than it was forthwith sucked up by the thirsty earth; and it was late in the afternoon when the thief, tired with drawing water, laid himself down on the ground, and fell asleep. The younger thief fared no better. The cow which he had to tend was the most vicious in the whole country. When taken out of the village for pasturage it galloped away to a great distance with its tail erect; it ran from one paddy-field to another, and ate the corn and trod upon it; it entered into sugar-cane plantations and destroyed the sweet cane;--for all which damage and acts of trespass the neat-herd was soundly rated by the owners of the fields. What with running after the cow from field to field, from pool to pool; what with the abusive language poured not only upon him, but upon his forefathers up to the fourteenth generation, by the owners of the fields in which the corn had been destroyed,--the younger thief had a miserable day of it. After a world of trouble he succeeded about sunset in catching hold of the cow, which he brought back to the house of his master. The elder thief had just roused himself from sleep when he saw the younger one bringing in the cow. Then the elder said to the younger--"Brother, why are you so late in coming from the fields?" Younger. What shall I say, brother? I took the cow to that part of the meadow where there is a tank, near which there is a large tree. I let the cow loose, and it began to graze about without giving the least trouble. I spread my gamchha [25] upon the grass under the tree; and there was such a delicious breeze that I soon fell asleep, and I did not wake till after sunset; and when I awoke I saw my good cow grazing contentedly at the distance of a few paces. But how did you fare, brother? Elder. Oh, as for me, I had a jolly time of it. I had poured only one bucketful of water on the plant, when a large quantity rested round it. So my work was done, and I had the whole day to myself. I laid myself down on the ground; I meditated on the joys of this new mode of life; I whistled; I sang; and at last fell asleep. And I am up only this moment. When this talk was ended, the elder thief, believing that what the younger thief had said was true, thought that tending the cow was more comfortable than watering the plant; and the younger thief, for the same reason, thought that watering the plant was more comfortable than tending the cow: each therefore resolved to exchange his own work for that of the other. Elder. Well, brother, I have a wish to tend the cow. Suppose to-morrow you take my work, and I yours. Have you any objection? Younger. Not the slightest, brother. I shall be glad to take up your work, and you are quite welcome to take up mine. Only let me give you a bit of advice. I felt it rather uncomfortable to sleep nearly the whole of the day on the bare ground. If you take a charpoy [26] with you, you will have a merry time of it. Early the following morning the elder thief went out with the cow to the fields, not forgetting to take with him a charpoy for his ease and comfort; and the younger thief began watering the plant. The latter had thought that one bucketful, or at the outside two bucketfuls, of water would be enough. But what was his surprise when he found that even a hundred bucketfuls were not sufficient to saturate the ground around the roots of the plant. He was dead tired with drawing water. The sun was almost going down, and yet his work was not over. At last he gave it up through sheer weariness. The elder thief in the fields was in no better case. He took the cow beside the tank which the younger thief had spoken of, put his charpoy under the large tree hard by, and then let the cow loose. As soon as the cow was let loose it went scampering about in the meadow, jumping over hedges and ditches, running through paddy-fields, and injuring sugar-cane plantations. The elder thief was not a little put about. He had to run about the whole day, and to be insulted by the people whose fields had been trespassed upon. But the worst of it was, that our thief had to run about the meadow with the charpoy on his head, for he could not put it anywhere for fear it should be taken away. When the other neat-herds who were in the meadow saw the elder thief running about in breathless haste after the cow with the charpoy on his head, they clapped their hands and raised shouts of derision. The poor fellow, hungry and angry, bitterly repented of the exchange he had made. After infinite trouble, and with the help of the other neat-herds, he at last caught hold of the precious cow, and brought it home long after the village lamps had been lit. When the two thieves met in the house of their master, they merely laughed at each other without speaking a word. Their dinner over, they laid themselves to rest, when there took place the following conversation:-- Younger. Well, how did you fare, brother? Elder. Just as you fared, and perhaps some degrees better. Younger. I am of opinion that our former trade of thieving was infinitely preferable to this sort of honest labour, as people call it. Elder. What doubt is there of that? But, by the gods, I have never seen a cow which can be compared to this. It has no second in the world in point of viciousness. Younger. A vicious cow is not a rare thing. I have seen some cows as vicious. But have you ever seen a plant like this champaka plant which you were told to water? I wonder what becomes of all the water that is poured round about it. Is there a tank below its roots? Elder. I have a good mind to dig round it and see what is beneath it. Younger. We had better do so this night when the good man of the house and his wife are asleep. At about midnight the two thieves took spades and shovels and began digging round the plant. After digging a good deal the younger thief lighted upon some hard thing against which the shovel struck. The curiosity of both was excited. The younger thief saw that it was a large jar; he thrust his hand into it and found that it was full of gold mohurs. But he said to the elder thief--"Oh, it is nothing; it is only a large stone." The elder thief, however, suspected that it was something else; but he took care not to give vent to his suspicion. Both agreed to give up digging as they had found nothing; and they went to sleep. An hour or two after, when the elder thief saw that the younger thief was asleep, he quietly got up and went to the spot which had been digged. He saw the jar filled with gold mohurs. Digging a little near it, he found another jar also filled with gold mohurs. Overjoyed to find the treasure, he resolved to secure it. He took up both the jars, went to the tank which was near, and from which water used to be drawn for the plant, and buried them in the mud of its bank. He then returned to the house, and quietly laid himself down beside the younger thief, who was then fast asleep. The younger thief, who had first found the jar of gold mohurs, now woke, and softly stealing out of bed, went to secure the treasure he had seen. On going to the spot he did not see any jar; he therefore naturally thought that his companion the elder thief had secreted it somewhere. He went to his sleeping partner, with a view to discover if possible by any marks on his body the place where the treasure had been hidden. He examined the person of his friend with the eye of a detective, and saw mud on his feet and near the ankles. He immediately concluded the treasure must have been concealed somewhere in the tank. But in what part of the tank? on which bank? His ingenuity did not forsake him here. He walked round all the four banks of the tank. When he walked round three sides, the frogs on them jumped into the water; but no frogs jumped from the fourth bank. He therefore concluded that the treasure must have been buried on the fourth bank. In a little he found the two jars filled with gold mohurs; he took them up, and going into the cow-house brought out the vicious cow he had tended, and put the two jars on its back. He left the house and started for his native village. When the elder thief at crow-cawing got up from sleep, he was surprised not to find his companion beside him. He hastened to the tank and found that the jars were not there. He went to the cow-house, and did not see the vicious cow. He immediately concluded the younger thief must have run away with the treasure on the back of the cow. And where could he think of going? He must be going to his native village. No sooner did this process of reasoning pass through his mind than he resolved forthwith to set out and overtake the younger thief. As he passed through the town, he invested all the money he had in a costly pair of shoes covered with gold lace. He walked very fast, avoiding the public road and making short cuts. He descried the younger thief trudging on slowly with his cow. He went before him in the highway about a distance of 200 yards, and threw down on the road one shoe. He walked on another 200 yards and threw the other shoe at a place near which was a large tree; amid the thick leaves of that tree he hid himself. The younger thief coming along the public road saw the first shoe and said to himself--"What a beautiful shoe that is! It is of gold lace. It would have suited me in my present circumstances now that I have got rich. But what shall I do with one shoe?" So he passed on. In a short time he came to the place where the other shoe was lying. The younger thief said within himself--"Ah, here is the other shoe! What a fool I was, that I did not pick up the one I first saw! However it is not too late. I'll tie the cow to yonder tree and go for the other shoe." He tied the cow to the tree, and taking up the second shoe went for the first, lying at a distance of about 200 yards. In the meantime the elder thief got down from the tree, loosened the cow, and drove it towards his native village, avoiding the king's highway. The younger thief on returning to the tree found that the cow was gone. He of course concluded that it could have been done only by the elder thief. He walked as fast as his legs could carry him, and reached his native village long before the elder thief with the cow. He hid himself near the door of the elder thief's house. The moment the elder thief arrived with the cow, the younger thief accosted him, saying--"So you are come safe, brother. Let us go in and divide the money." To this proposal the elder thief readily agreed. In the inner yard of the house the two jars were taken down from the back of the cow; they went to a room, bolted the door, and began dividing. Two mohurs were taken up by the hand, one was put in one place, and the other in another; and they went on doing that till the jars became empty. But last of all one gold mohur remained. The question was--Who was to take it? Both agreed that it should be changed the next morning, and the silver cash equally divided. But with whom was the single mohur to remain? There was not a little wrangling about the matter. After a great deal of yea and nay, it was settled that it should remain with the elder thief, and that next morning it should be changed and equally divided. At night the elder thief said to his wife and the other women of the house, "Look here, ladies, the younger thief will come to-morrow morning to demand the share of the remaining gold mohur; but I don't mean to give it to him. You do one thing to-morrow. Spread a cloth on the ground in the yard. I will lay myself on the cloth pretending to be dead; and to convince people that I am dead, put a tulasi [27] plant near my head. And when you see the younger thief coming to the door, you set up a loud cry and lamentation. Then he will of course go away, and I shall not have to pay his share of the gold mohur." To this proposal the women readily agreed. Accordingly the next day, about noon, the elder thief laid himself down in the yard like a corpse with the sacred basil near his head. When the younger thief was seen coming near the house, the women set up a loud cry, and when he came nearer and nearer, wondering what it all meant, they said, "Oh, where did you both go? What did you bring? What did you do to him? Look, he is dead!" So saying they rent the air with their cries. The younger thief, seeing through the whole, said, "Well, I am sorry my friend and brother is gone. I must now attend to his funeral. You all go away from this place, you are but women. I'll see to it that the remains are well burnt." He brought a quantity of straw and twisted it into a rope, which he fastened to the legs of the deceased man, and began tugging him, saying that he was going to take him to the place of burning. While the elder thief was being dragged through the streets, his body was getting dreadfully scratched and bruised, but he held his peace, being resolved to act his part out, and thus escape giving the share of the gold mohur. The sun had gone down when the younger thief with the corpse reached the place of burning. But as he was making preparations for a funeral pile, he remembered that he had not brought fire with him. If he went for fire leaving the elder thief behind, he would undoubtedly run away. What then was to be done? At last he tied the straw rope to the branch of a tree, and kept the pretended corpse hanging in the air, and he himself climbed into the tree and sat on that branch, keeping tight hold of the rope lest it should break, and the elder thief run away. While they were in this state, a gang of robbers passed by. On seeing the corpse hanging, the head of the gang said, "This raid of ours has begun very auspiciously. Brahmans and Pandits say that if on starting on a journey one sees a corpse, it is a good omen. Well, we have seen a corpse, it is therefore likely that we shall meet with success this night. If we do, I propose one thing: on our return let us first burn this dead body and then return home." All the robbers agreed to this proposal. The robbers then entered into the house of a rich man in the village, put its inmates to the sword, robbed it of all its treasures, and withal managed it so cleverly that not a mouse stirred in the village. As they were successful beyond measure, they resolved on their return to burn the dead body they had seen. When they came to the place of burning they found the corpse hanging as before, for the elder thief had not yet opened his mouth lest he should be obliged to give half of the gold mohur. The thieves dug a hollow in the ground, brought fuel, and laid it upon the hollow. They took down the corpse from the tree, and laid it upon the pile; and as they were going to set it on fire, the corpse gave out an unearthly scream and jumped up. That very moment the younger thief jumped down from the tree with a similar scream. The robbers were frightened beyond measure. They thought that a Dana (evil spirit) had possessed the corpse, and that a ghost jumped down from the tree. They ran away in great fear, leaving behind them the money and the jewels which they had obtained by robbery. The two thieves laughed heartily, took up all the riches of the robbers, went home, and lived merrily for a long time. PART II The elder thief and the younger thief had one son each. As they had been so far successful in life by practising the art of thieving, they resolved to train up their sons to the same profession. There was in the village a Professor of the Science of Roguery, who took pupils, and gave them lessons in that difficult science. The two thieves put their sons under this renowned Professor. The son of the elder thief distinguished himself very much, and bade fair to surpass his father in the art of stealing. The lad's cleverness was tested in the following manner. Not far from the Professor's house there lived a poor man in a hut, upon the thatch of which climbed a creeper of the gourd kind. In the middle of the thatch, which was also its topmost part, there was a splendid gourd, which the man and his wife watched day and night. They certainly slept at night, but then the thatch was so old and rickety that if even a mouse went up to it bits of straw and particles of earth used to fall inside the hut, and the man and his wife slept right below the spot where the gourd was; so that it was next to impossible to steal the gourd without the knowledge of its owners. The Professor said to his pupils--for he had many--that any one who stole the gourd without being caught would be pronounced the dux of the school. Our elder thief's son at once accepted the offer. He said he would steal away the gourd if he were allowed the use of three things, namely, a string, a cat, and a knife. The Professor allowed him the use of these three things. Two or three hours after nightfall, the lad, furnished with the three things mentioned above, sat behind the thatch under the eaves, listening to the conversation carried on by the man and his wife lying in bed inside the hut. In a short time the conversation ceased. The lad then concluded that they must both have fallen asleep. He waited half an hour longer, and hearing no sound inside, gently climbed up on the thatch. Chips of straw and particles of earth fell upon the couple sleeping inside. The woman woke up, and rousing her husband said, "Look there, some one is stealing the gourd!" That moment the lad squeezed the throat of the cat, and puss immediately gave out her usual "Mew! mew! mew!" The husband said, "Don't you hear the cat mewing? There is no thief; it is only a cat." The lad in the meantime cut the gourd from the plant with his knife, and tied the string which he had with him to its stalk. But how was he to get down without being discovered and caught, especially as the man and the woman were now awake? The woman was not convinced that it was only a cat; the shaking of the thatch, and the constant falling of bits of straw and particles of dust, made her think that it was a human being that was upon the thatch. She was telling her husband to go out and see whether a man was not there; but he maintained that it was only a cat. While the man and woman were thus disputing with each other, the lad with great force threw down the cat upon the ground, on which the poor animal purred most vociferously; and the man said aloud to his wife, "There it is; you are now convinced that it was only a cat." In the meantime, during the confusion created by the clamour of the cat and the loud talk of the man, the lad quietly came down from the thatch with the gourd tied to the string. Next morning the lad produced the gourd before his teacher, and described to him and to his admiring comrades the manner in which he had committed the theft. The Professor was in ecstasy, and remarked, "The worthy son of a worthy father." But the elder thief, the father of our hopeful genius, was by no means satisfied that his son was as yet fit to enter the world. He wanted to prove him still further. Addressing his son he said, "My son, if you can do what I tell you, I'll think you fit to enter the world. If you can steal the gold chain of the queen of this country from her neck, and bring it to me, I'll think you fit to enter the world." The gifted son readily agreed to do the daring deed. The young thief--for so we shall now call the son of the elder thief--made a reconnaissance of the palace in which the king and queen lived. He reconnoitred all the four gates, and all the outer and inner walls as far as he could; and gathered incidentally a good deal of information, from people living in the neighbourhood, regarding the habits of the king and queen, in what part of the palace they slept, what guards there were near the bedchamber, and who, if any, slept in the antechamber. Armed with all this knowledge the young thief fixed upon one dark night for doing the daring deed. He took with him a sword, a hammer and some large nails, and put on very dark clothes. Thus accoutred he went prowling about the Lion gate of the palace. Before the zenana [28] could be got at, four doors, including the Lion gate, had to be passed; and each of these doors had a guard of sixteen stalwart men. The same men, however, did not remain all night at their post. As the king had an infinite number of soldiers at his command, the guards at the doors were relieved every hour; so that once every hour at each door there were thirty-two men present, consisting of the relieving party and of the relieved. The young thief chose that particular moment of time for entering each of the four doors. At the time of relief when he saw the Lion gate crowded with thirty-two men, he joined the crowd without being taken notice of; he then spent the hour preceding the next relief in the large open space and garden between two doors; and he could not be taken notice of, as the night as well as his clothes was pitch dark. In a similar manner he passed the second door, the third door, and the fourth door. And now the queen's bedchamber stared him in the face. It was in the third loft; there was a bright light in it; and a low voice was heard as that of a woman saying something in a humdrum manner. The young thief thought that the voice must be the voice of a maid-servant reciting a story, as he had learnt was the custom in the palace every night, for composing the king and queen to sleep. But how to get up into the third loft? The inner doors were all closed, and there were guards everywhere. But the young thief had with him nails and a hammer: why not drive the nails into the wall and climb up by them? True; but the driving of nails into the wall would make a great noise which would rouse the guards, and possibly the king and queen,--at any rate the maid-servant reciting stories would give the alarm. Our erratic genius had considered that matter well before engaging in the work. There is a water-clock in the palace which shows the hours; and at the end of every hour a very large Chinese gong is struck, the sound of which is so loud that it is not only heard all over the palace, but over most part of the city; and the peculiarity of the gong, as of every Chinese gong, was that nearly one minute must elapse after the first stroke before the second stroke could be made, to allow the gong to give out the whole of its sound. The thief fixed upon the minutes when the gong was struck at the end of every hour for driving nails into the wall. At ten o'clock when the gong was struck ten times, the thief found it easy to drive ten nails into the wall. When the gong stopped, the thief also stopped, and either sat or stood quiet on the ninth nail catching hold of the tenth which was above the other. At eleven o'clock he drove into the wall in a similar manner eleven nails, and got a little higher than the second story; and by twelve o'clock he was in the loft where the royal bedchamber was. Peeping in he saw a drowsy maid-servant drowsily reciting a story, and the king and queen apparently asleep. He went stealthily behind the story-telling maid-servant and took his seat. The queen was lying down on a richly furnished bedstead of gold beside the king. The massive chain of gold round the neck of the queen was gleaming in candle-light. The thief quietly listened to the story of the drowsy maid-servant. She was becoming more and more sleepy. She stopped for a second, nodded her head, and again resumed the story. It was plain she was under the influence of sleep. In a moment the thief cut off the head of the maid-servant with his sword, and himself went on reciting for some minutes the story which the woman was telling. The king and queen were unconscious of any change as to the person of the story-teller, for they were both in deep sleep. He stripped the murdered woman of her clothes, put them on himself, tied up his own clothes in a bundle, and walking softly, gently took off the chain from the neck of the queen. He then went through the rooms down stairs, ordered the inner guard to open the door, as she was obliged to go out of the palace for purposes of necessity. The guards, seeing that it was the queen's maid-servant, readily allowed her to go out. In the same manner, and with the same pretext, he got through the other doors, and at last out into the street. That very night, or rather morning, the young thief put into his father's hand the gold chain of the queen. The elder thief could scarcely believe his own eyes. It was so like a dream. His joy knew no bounds. Addressing his son he said--"Well done, my son; you are not only as clever as your father, but you have beaten me hollow. The gods give you long life, my son." Next morning when the king and queen got up from bed, they were shocked to see the maid-servant lying in a pool of blood. The queen also found that her gold chain was not round her neck. They could not make out how all this could have taken place. How could any thief manage to elude the vigilance of so many guards? How could he get into the queen's bedchamber? And how could he again escape? The king found from the reports of the guards that a person calling herself the royal maid-servant had gone out of the palace some hours before dawn. All sorts of inquiries were made, but in vain. Proclamation was made in the city; a large reward was offered to any one who would give information tending to the apprehension of the thief and murderer. But no one responded to the call. At last the king ordered a camel to be brought to him. On the back of the animal was placed two large bags filled with gold mohurs. The man taking charge of the bags upon the camel was ordered to go through every part of the city making the following challenge:--"As the thief was daring enough to steal away a gold chain from the neck of the queen, let him further show his daring by stealing the gold mohurs from the back of this camel." Two days and nights the camel paraded through the city, but nothing happened. On the third night as the camel-driver was going his rounds he was accosted by a sannyasi, [29] who sat on a tiger's skin before a fire, and near whom was a monstrous pair of tongs. This sannyasi was no other than the young thief in disguise. The sannyasi said to the camel-driver--"Brother, why are you going through the city in this manner? Who is there so daring as to steal from the back of the king's camel? Come down, friend, and smoke with me." The camel-driver alighted, tied the camel to a tree on the spot, and began smoking. The mendicant supplied him not only with tobacco, but with ganja and other intoxicating drugs, so that in a short time the camel-driver became quite intoxicated and fell asleep. The young thief led away the camel with the treasure on its back in the dead of night, through narrow lanes and bye-paths to his own house. That very night the camel was killed, and its carcase buried in deep pits in the earth, and the thing was so managed that no one could discover any trace of it. The next morning when the king heard that the camel-driver was lying drunk in the street, and that the camel had been made away with together with the treasure, he was almost beside himself with anger. Proclamation was made in the city to the effect that whoever caught the thief would get the reward of a lakh of rupees. The son of the younger thief--who, by the way, was in the same school of roguery with the son of the elder thief, though he did not distinguish himself so much--now came to the front and said that he would apprehend the thief. He of course suspected that the son of the elder thief must have done it--for who so daring and clever as he? In the evening of the following day the son of the younger thief disguised himself as a woman, and coming to that part of the town where the young thief lived, began to weep very much, and went from door to door saying--"O sirs, can any of you give me a bit of camel's flesh, for my son is dying, and the doctors say nothing but eating camel's meat can save his life. O for pity's sake, do give me a bit of camel's flesh." At last he went to the house of the young thief, and begged of the wife--for the young thief himself was out--to tell him where he could get hold of camel's flesh, as his son would assuredly perish if it could not be got. Saying this he rent the air with his cries, and fell down at the feet of the young thief's wife. Woman as she was, though the wife of a thief, she felt pity for the supposed woman, and said--"Wait, and I will try and get some camel's flesh for your son." So saying, she secretly went to the spot where the dead camel had been buried, brought a small quantity of flesh, and gave it to the party. The son of the younger thief was now entranced with joy. He went and told the king that he had succeeded in tracing the thief, and would be ready to deliver him up at night if the king would send some constables with him. At night the elder thief and his son were captured, the body of the camel dug out, and all the treasures in the house seized. The following morning the king sat in judgment. The son of the elder thief confessed that he had stolen the queen's gold chain, and killed the maid-servant, and had taken away the camel; but he added that the person who had detected him and his father--the younger thief--were also thieves and murderers, of which fact he gave undoubted proofs. As the king had promised to give a lakh of rupees to the detective, that sum was placed before the son of the younger thief. But soon after he ordered four pits to be dug in the earth in which were buried alive, with all sorts of thorns and thistles, the elder thief and the younger thief, and their two sons. Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XII THE GHOST-BRAHMAN Once on a time there lived a poor Brahman, who not being a Kulin, found it the hardest thing in the world to get married. He went to rich people and begged of them to give him money that he might marry a wife. And a large sum of money was needed, not so much for the expenses of the wedding, as for giving to the parents of the bride. He begged from door to door, flattered many rich folk, and at last succeeded in scraping together the sum needed. The wedding took place in due time; and he brought home his wife to his mother. After a short time he said to his mother--"Mother, I have no means to support you and my wife; I must therefore go to distant countries to get money somehow or other. I may be away for years, for I won't return till I get a good sum. In the meantime I'll give you what I have; you make the best of it, and take care of my wife." The Brahman receiving his mother's blessing set out on his travels. In the evening of that very day, a ghost assuming the exact appearance of the Brahman came into the house. The newly married woman, thinking it was her husband, said to him--"How is it that you have returned so soon? You said you might be away for years; why have you changed your mind?" The ghost said--"To-day is not a lucky day, I have therefore returned home; besides, I have already got some money." The mother did not doubt but that it was her son. So the ghost lived in the house as if he was its owner, and as if he was the son of the old woman and the husband of the young woman. As the ghost and the Brahman were exactly like each other in everything, like two peas, the people in the neighbourhood all thought that the ghost was the real Brahman. After some years the Brahman returned from his travels; and what was his surprise when he found another like him in the house. The ghost said to the Brahman--"Who are you? what business have you to come to my house?" "Who am I?" replied the Brahman, "let me ask who you are. This is my house; that is my mother, and this is my wife." The ghost said--"Why herein is a strange thing. Every one knows that this is my house, that is my wife, and yonder is my mother; and I have lived here for years. And you pretend this is your house, and that woman is your wife. Your head must have got turned, Brahman." So saying the ghost drove away the Brahman from his house. The Brahman became mute with wonder. He did not know what to do. At last he bethought himself of going to the king and of laying his case before him. The king saw the ghost-Brahman as well as the Brahman, and the one was the picture of the other; so he was in a fix, and did not know how to decide the quarrel. Day after day the Brahman went to the king and besought him to give him back his house, his wife, and his mother; and the king, not knowing what to say every time, put him off to the following day. Every day the king tells him to--"Come to-morrow"; and every day the Brahman goes away from the palace weeping and striking his forehead with the palm of his hand, and saying--"What a wicked world this is! I am driven from my own house, and another fellow has taken possession of my house and of my wife! And what a king this is! He does not do justice." Now, it came to pass that as the Brahman went away every day from the court outside the town, he passed a spot at which a great many cowboys used to play. They let the cows graze on the meadow, while they themselves met together under a large tree to play. And they played at royalty. One cowboy was elected king; another, prime minister or vizier; another, kotwal, or prefect of the police; and others, constables. Every day for several days together they saw the Brahman passing by weeping. One day the cowboy king asked his vizier whether he knew why the Brahman wept every day. On the vizier not being able to answer the question, the cowboy king ordered one of his constables to bring the Brahman to him. One of them went and said to the Brahman--"The king requires your immediate attendance." The Brahman replied--"What for? I have just come from the king, and he put me off till to-morrow. Why does he want me again?" "It is our king that wants you--our neat-herd king," rejoined the constable. "Who is neat-herd king?" asked the Brahman. "Come and see," was the reply. The neat-herd king then asked the Brahman why he every day went away weeping. The Brahman then told him his sad story. The neat-herd king, after hearing the whole, said, "I understand your case; I will give you again all your rights. Only go to the king and ask his permission for me to decide your case." The Brahman went back to the king of the country, and begged his Majesty to send his case to the neat-herd king, who had offered to decide it. The king, whom the case had greatly puzzled, granted the permission sought. The following morning was fixed for the trial. The neat-herd king, who saw through the whole, brought with him next day a phial with a narrow neck. The Brahman and the ghost-Brahman both appeared at the bar. After a great deal of examination of witnesses and of speech-making, the neat-herd king said--"Well, I have heard enough. I'll decide the case at once. Here is this phial. Whichever of you will enter into it shall be declared by the court to be the rightful owner of the house the title of which is in dispute. Now, let me see, which of you will enter." The Brahman said--"You are a neat-herd, and your intellect is that of a neat-herd. What man can enter into such a small phial?" "If you cannot enter," said the neat-herd king, "then you are not the rightful owner. What do you say, sir, to this?" turning to the ghost-Brahman and addressing him. "If you can enter into the phial, then the house and the wife and the mother become yours." "Of course I will enter," said the ghost. And true to his word, to the wonder of all, he made himself into a small creature like an insect, and entered into the phial. The neat-herd king forthwith corked up the phial, and the ghost could not get out. Then, addressing the Brahman, the neat-herd king said, "Throw this phial into the bottom of the sea, and take possession of your house, wife, and mother." The Brahman did so, and lived happily for many years and begat sons and daughters. Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XIII THE MAN WHO WISHED TO BE PERFECT Once on a time a religious mendicant came to a king who had no issue, and said to him, "As you are anxious to have a son, I can give to the queen a drug, by swallowing which she will give birth to twin sons; but I will give the medicine on this condition, that of those twins you will give one to me, and keep the other yourself." The king thought the condition somewhat hard, but as he was anxious to have a son to bear his name, and inherit his wealth and kingdom, he at last agreed to the terms. Accordingly the queen swallowed the drug, and in due time gave birth to two sons. The twin brothers became one year old, two years old, three years old, four years old, five years old, and still the mendicant did not appear to claim his share; the king and queen therefore thought that the mendicant, who was old, was dead, and dismissed all fears from their minds. But the mendicant was not dead, but living; he was counting the years carefully. The young princes were put under tutors, and made rapid progress in learning, as well as in the arts of riding and shooting with the bow; and as they were uncommonly handsome, they were admired by all the people. When the princes were sixteen years old the mendicant made his appearance at the palace gate, and demanded the fulfilment of the king's promise. The hearts of the king and of the queen were dried up within them. They had thought that the mendicant was no more in the land of the living; but what was their surprise when they saw him standing at the gate in flesh and blood, and demanding one of the young princes for himself? The king and queen were plunged into a sea of grief. There was nothing for it, however, but to part with one of the princes; for the mendicant might by his curse turn into ashes not only both the princes, but also the king, queen, palace, and the whole of the kingdom to boot. But which one was to be given away? The one was as dear as the other. A fearful struggle arose in the hearts of the king and queen. As for the young princes, each of them said, "I'll go," "I'll go." The younger one said to the elder, "You are older, if only by a few minutes; you are the pride of my father; you remain at home, I'll go with the mendicant." The elder said to the younger, "You are younger than I am; you are the joy of my mother; you remain at home, I'll go with the mendicant." After a great deal of yea and nay, after a great deal of mourning and lamentation, after the queen had wetted her clothes with her tears, the elder prince was let go with the mendicant. But before the prince left his father's roof he planted with his own hands a tree in the courtyard of the palace, and said to his parents and brother, "This tree is my life. When you see the tree green and fresh, then know that it is well with me; when you see the tree fade in some parts, then know that I am in an ill case; and when you see the whole tree fade, then know that I am dead and gone." Then kissing and embracing the king and queen and his brother, he followed the mendicant. As the mendicant and the prince were wending their way towards the forest they saw some dog's whelps on the roadside. One of the whelps said to its dam, "Mother, I wish to go with that handsome young man, who must be a prince." The dam said, "Go"; and the prince gladly took the puppy as his companion. They had not gone far when upon a tree on the roadside they saw a hawk and its young ones. One of the young ones said to its dam, "Mother, I wish to go with that handsome young man, who must be the son of a king." The hawk said, "Go"; and the prince gladly took the young hawk as his companion. So the mendicant, the prince, with the puppy and the young hawk, went on their journey. At last they went into the depth of the forest far away from the houses of men, where they stopped before a hut thatched with leaves. That was the mendicant's cell. The mendicant said to the prince, "You are to live in this hut with me. Your chief work will be to cull flowers from the forest for my devotions. You can go on every side except the north. If you go towards the north evil will betide you. You can eat whatever fruit or root you like; and for your drink, you will get it from the brook." The prince disliked neither the place nor his work. At dawn he used to cull flowers in the forest and give them to the mendicant; after which the mendicant went away somewhere the whole day and did not return till sundown; so the prince had the whole day to himself. He used to walk about in the forest with his two companions--the puppy and the young hawk. He used to shoot arrows at the deer, of which there was a great number; and thus made the best of his time. One day as he pierced a stag with an arrow, the wounded stag ran towards the north, and the prince, not thinking of the mendicant's behest, followed the stag, which entered into a fine-looking house that stood close by. The prince entered, but instead of finding the deer he saw a young woman of matchless beauty sitting near the door with a dice-table set before her. The prince was rooted to the spot while he admired the heaven-born beauty of the lady. "Come in, stranger," said the lady; "chance has brought you here, but don't go away without having with me a game of dice." The prince gladly agreed to the proposal. As it was a game of risk they agreed that if the prince lost the game he should give his young hawk to the lady; and that if the lady lost it, she should give to the prince a young hawk just like that of the prince. The lady won the game; she therefore took the prince's young hawk and kept it in a hole covered with a plank. The prince offered to play a second time, and the lady agreeing to it, they fell to it again, on the condition that if the lady won the game she should take the prince's puppy, and if she lost it she should give to the prince a puppy just like that of the prince. The lady won again, and stowed away the puppy in another hole with a plank upon it. The prince offered to play a third time, and the wager was that, if the prince lost the game, he should give himself up to the lady to be done to by her anything she pleased; and that if he won, the lady should give him a young man exactly like himself. The lady won the game a third time; she therefore caught hold of the prince and put him in a hole covered over with a plank. Now, the beautiful lady was not a woman at all; she was a Rakshasi who lived upon human flesh, and her mouth watered at the sight of the tender body of the young prince. But as she had had her food that day she reserved the prince for the meal of the following day. Meantime there was great weeping in the house of the prince's father. His brother used every day to look at the tree planted in the courtyard by his own hand. Hitherto he had found the leaves of a living green colour; but suddenly he found some leaves fading. He gave the alarm to the king and queen, and told them how the leaves were fading. They concluded that the life of the elder prince must be in great danger. The younger prince therefore resolved to go to the help of his brother, but before going he planted a tree in the courtyard of the palace, similar to the one his brother had planted, and which was to be the index of the manner of his life. He chose the swiftest steed in the king's stables, and galloped towards the forest. In the way he saw a dog with a puppy, and the puppy thinking that the rider was the same that had taken away his fellow-cub--for the two princes were exactly like each other--said, "As you have taken away my brother, take me also with you." The younger prince understanding that his brother had taken away a puppy, he took up that cub as a companion. Further on, a young hawk, which was perched on a tree on the roadside, said to the prince, "You have taken away my brother; take me also, I beseech you"; on which the younger prince readily took it up. With these companions he went into the heart of the forest, where he saw a hut which he supposed to be the mendicant's. But neither the mendicant nor his brother was there. Not knowing what to do or where to go, he dismounted from his horse, allowed it to graze, while he himself sat inside the house. At sunset the mendicant returned to his hut, and seeing the younger prince, said, "I am glad to see you. I told your brother never to go towards the north, for evil in that case would betide him; but it seems that, disobeying my orders, he has gone to the north and has fallen into the toils of a Rakshasi who lives there. There is no hope of rescuing him; perhaps he has already been devoured." The younger prince forthwith went towards the north, where he saw a stag which he pierced with an arrow. The stag ran into a house which stood by, and the younger prince followed it. He was not a little astonished when, instead of seeing a stag, he saw a woman of exquisite beauty. He immediately concluded, from what he had heard from the mendicant, that the pretended woman was none other than the Rakshasi in whose power his brother was. The lady asked him to play a game of dice with her. He complied with the request, and on the same conditions on which the elder prince had played. The younger prince won; on which the lady produced the young hawk from the hole and gave it to the prince. The joy of the two hawks on meeting each other was great. The lady and the prince played a second time, and the prince won again. The lady therefore brought to the prince the young puppy lying in the hole. They played a third time, and the prince won a third time. The lady demurred to producing a young man exactly like the prince, pretending that it was impossible to get one; but on the prince insisting upon the fulfilment of the condition, his brother was produced. The joy of the two brothers on meeting each other was great. The Rakshasi said to the princes, "Don't kill me, and I will tell you a secret which will save the life of the elder prince." She then told them that the mendicant was a worshipper of the goddess Kali, who had a temple not far off; that he belonged to that sect of Hindus who seek perfection from intercourse with the spirits of departed men; that he had already sacrificed at the altar of Kali six human victims whose skulls could be seen in niches inside her temple; that he would become perfect when the seventh victim was sacrificed; and that the elder prince was intended for the seventh victim. The Rakshasi then told the prince to go immediately to the temple to find out the truth of what she had said. To the temple they accordingly went. When the elder prince went inside the temple, the skulls in the niches laughed a ghastly laugh. Horror-struck at the sight and sound, he inquired the cause of the laughter; and the skulls told him that they were glad because they were about to get another added to their number. One of the skulls, as spokesman of the rest, said, "Young prince, in a few days the mendicant's devotions will be completed, and you will be brought into this temple and your head will be cut off, and you will keep company with us. But there is one way by which you can escape that fate and do us good." "Oh, do tell me," said the prince, "what that way is, and I promise to do you all the good I can." The skull replied, "When the mendicant brings you into this temple to offer you up as a sacrifice, before cutting off your head he will tell you to prostrate yourself before Mother Kali, and while you prostrate yourself he will cut off your head. But take our advice, when he tells you to bow down before Kali, you tell him that as a prince you never bowed down to any one, that you never knew what bowing down was, and that the mendicant should show it to you by himself doing it in your presence. And when he bows down to show you how it is done, you take up your sword and separate his head from his body. And when you do that we shall all be restored to life, as the mendicant's vows will be unfulfilled." The elder prince thanked the skulls for their advice, and went into the hut of the mendicant along with his younger brother. In the course of a few days the mendicant's devotions were completed. On the following day he told the prince to go along with him to the temple of Kali, for what reason he did not mention; but the prince knew it was to offer him up as a victim to the goddess. The younger prince also went with them, but he was not allowed to go inside the temple. The mendicant then stood in the presence of Kali and said to the prince, "Bow down to the goddess." The prince replied, "I have not, as a prince, bowed to any one; I do not know how to perform the act of prostration. Please show me the way first, and I'll gladly do it." The mendicant then prostrated himself before the goddess; and while he was doing so the prince at one stroke of his sword separated his head from his body. Immediately the skulls in the niches of the temple laughed aloud, and the goddess herself became propitious to the prince and gave him that virtue of perfection which the mendicant had sought to obtain. The skulls were again united to their respective bodies and became living men, and the two princes returned to their country. Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XIV A GHOSTLY WIFE Once on a time there lived a Brahman who had married a wife, and who lived in the same house with his mother. Near his house was a tank, on the embankment of which stood a tree, on the boughs of which lived a ghost of the kind called Sankchinni. [30] One night the Brahman's wife had occasion to go to the tank, and as she went she brushed by a Sankchinni who stood near; on which the she-ghost got very angry with the woman, seized her by the throat, climbed into her tree, and thrust her into a hole in the trunk. There the woman lay almost dead with fear. The ghost put on the clothes of the woman and went into the house of the Brahman. Neither the Brahman nor his mother had any inkling of the change. The Brahman thought his wife returned from the tank, and the mother thought that it was her daughter-in-law. Next morning the mother-in-law discovered some change in her daughter-in-law. Her daughter-in-law, she knew, was constitutionally weak and languid, and took a long time to do the work of the house. But she had apparently become quite a different person. All of a sudden she had become very active. She now did the work of the house in an incredibly short time. Suspecting nothing, the old woman said nothing either to her son or to her daughter-in-law; on the contrary, she inly rejoiced that her daughter-in-law had turned over a new leaf. But her surprise became every day greater and greater. The cooking of the household was done in much less time than before. When the mother-in-law wanted the daughter-in-law to bring anything from the next room, it was brought in much less time than was required in walking from one room to the other. The ghost, instead of going inside the next room, would stretch a long arm--for ghosts can lengthen or shorten any limb of their bodies--from the door and get the thing. One day the old woman observed the ghost doing this. She ordered her to bring a vessel from some distance, and the ghost unconsciously stretched her hand to several yards' distance, and brought it in a trice. The old woman was struck with wonder at the sight. She said nothing to her, but spoke to her son. Both mother and son began to watch the ghost more narrowly. One day the old woman knew that there was no fire in the house, and she knew also that her daughter-in-law had not gone out of doors to get it; and yet, strange to say, the hearth in the kitchen-room was quite in a blaze. She went in, and, to her infinite surprise, found that her daughter-in-law was not using any fuel for cooking, but had thrust into the oven her foot, which was blazing brightly. The old mother told her son what she had seen, and they both concluded that the young woman in the house was not his real wife but a she-ghost. The son witnessed those very acts of the ghost which his mother had seen. An Ojha [31] was therefore sent for. The exorcist came, and wanted in the first instance to ascertain whether the woman was a real woman or a ghost. For this purpose he lighted a piece of turmeric and set it below the nose of the supposed woman. Now this was an infallible test, as no ghost, whether male or female, can put up with the smell of burnt turmeric. The moment the lighted turmeric was taken near her, she screamed aloud and ran away from the room. It was now plain that she was either a ghost or a woman possessed by a ghost. The woman was caught hold of by main force and asked who she was. At first she refused to make any disclosures, on which the Ojha took up his slippers and began belabouring her with them. Then the ghost said with a strong nasal accent--for all ghosts speak through the nose--that she was a Sankchinni, that she lived on a tree by the side of the tank, that she had seized the young Brahmani and put her in the hollow of her tree because one night she had touched her, and that if any person went to the hole the woman would be found. The woman was brought from the tree almost dead; the ghost was again shoebeaten, after which process, on her declaring solemnly that she would not again do any harm to the Brahman and his family, she was released from the spell of the Ojha and sent away; and the wife of the Brahman recovered slowly. After which the Brahman and his wife lived many years happily together and begat many sons and daughters. Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XV THE STORY OF A BRAHMADAITYA [32] Once on a time there lived a poor Brahman who had a wife. As he had no means of livelihood, he used every day to beg from door to door, and thus got some rice which they boiled and ate, together with some greens which they gleaned from the fields. After some time it chanced that the village changed its owner, and the Brahman bethought himself of asking some boon of the new laird. So one morning the Brahman went to the laird's house to pay him court. It so happened that at that time the laird was making inquiries of his servants about the village and its various parts. The laird was told that a certain banyan-tree in the outskirts of the village was haunted by a number of ghosts; and that no man had ever the boldness to go to that tree at night. In bygone days some rash fellows went to the tree at night, but the necks of them all were wrung, and they all died. Since that time no man had ventured to go to the tree at night, though in the day some neat-herds took their cows to the spot. The new laird on hearing this said, that if any one would go at night to the tree, cut one of its branches and bring it to him, he would make him a present of a hundred bighas [33] of rent-free land. None of the servants of the laird accepted the challenge, as they were sure they would be throttled by the ghosts. The Brahman, who was sitting there, thought within himself thus--"I am almost starved to death now, as I never get my bellyful. If I go to the tree at night and succeed in cutting off one of its branches I shall get one hundred bighas of rent-free land, and become independent for life. If the ghosts kill me, my case will not be worse, for to die of hunger is no better than to be killed by ghosts." He then offered to go to the tree and cut off a branch that night. The laird renewed his promise, and said to the Brahman that if he succeeded in bringing one of the branches of that haunted tree at night he would certainly give him one hundred bighas of rent-free land. In the course of the day when the people of the village heard of the laird's promise and of the Brahman's offer, they all pitied the poor man. They blamed him for his foolhardiness, as they were sure the ghosts would kill him, as they had killed so many before. His wife tried to dissuade him from the rash undertaking; but in vain. He said he would die in any case; but there was some chance of his escaping, and of thus becoming independent for life. Accordingly, one hour after sundown, the Brahman set out. He went to the outskirts of the village without the slightest fear as far as a certain vakula-tree (Mimusops Elengi), from which the haunted tree was about one rope distant. But under the vakula-tree the Brahman's heart misgave him. He began to quake with fear, and the heaving of his heart was like the upward and downward motion of the paddy-husking pedal. The vakula-tree was the haunt of a Brahmadaitya, who, seeing the Brahman stop under the tree, spoke to him, and said, "Are you afraid, Brahman? Tell me what you wish to do, and I'll help you. I am a Brahmadaitya." The Brahman replied, "O blessed spirit, I wish to go to yonder banyan-tree, and cut off one of its branches for the zemindar, who has promised to give me one hundred bighas of rent-free land for it. But my courage is failing me. I shall thank you very much for helping me." The Brahmadaitya answered, "Certainly I'll help you, Brahman. Go on towards the tree, and I'll come with you." The Brahman, relying on the supernatural strength of his invisible patron, who is the object of the fear and reverence of common ghosts, fearlessly walked towards the haunted tree, on reaching which he began to cut a branch with the bill which was in his hand. But the moment the first stroke was given, a great many ghosts rushed towards the Brahman, who would have been torn to pieces but for the interference of the Brahmadaitya. The Brahmadaitya said in a commanding tone, "Ghosts, listen. This is a poor Brahman. He wishes to get a branch of this tree which will be of great use to him. It is my will that you let him cut a branch." The ghosts, hearing the voice of the Brahmadaitya, replied, "Be it according to thy will, lord. At thy bidding we are ready to do anything. Let not the Brahman take the trouble of cutting; we ourselves will cut a branch for him." So saying, in the twinkling of an eye, the ghosts put into the hands of the Brahman a branch of the tree, with which he went as fast as his legs could carry him to the house of the zemindar. The zemindar and his people were not a little surprised to see the branch; but he said, "Well, I must see to-morrow whether this branch is a branch of the haunted tree or not; if it be, you will get the promised reward." Next morning the zemindar himself went along with his servants to the haunted tree, and found to their infinite surprise that the branch in their hands was really a branch of that tree, as they saw the part from which it had been cut off. Being thus satisfied, the zemindar ordered a deed to be drawn up, by which he gave to the Brahman for ever one hundred bighas of rent-free land. Thus in one night the Brahman became a rich man. It so happened that the fields, of which the Brahman became the owner, were covered with ripe paddy, ready for the sickle. But the Brahman had not the means to reap the golden harvest. He had not a pice in his pocket for paying the wages of the reapers. What was the Brahman to do? He went to his spirit-friend the Brahmadaitya, and said, "Oh, Brahmadaitya, I am in great distress. Through your kindness I got the rent-free land all covered with ripe paddy. But I have not the means of cutting the paddy, as I am a poor man. What shall I do?" The kind Brahmadaitya answered, "Oh, Brahman, don't be troubled in your mind about the matter. I'll see to it that the paddy is not only cut, but that the corn is threshed and stored up in granaries, and the straw piled up in ricks. Only you do one thing. Borrow from men in the village one hundred sickles, and put them all at the foot of this tree at night. Prepare also the exact spot on which the grain and the straw are to be stored up." The joy of the Brahman knew no bounds. He easily got a hundred sickles, as the husbandmen of the village, knowing that he had become rich, readily lent him what he wanted. At sunset he took the hundred sickles and put them beneath the vakula-tree. He also selected a spot of ground near his hut for his magazine of paddy and for his ricks of straw; and washed the spot with a solution of cow-dung and water. After making these preparations he went to sleep. In the meantime, soon after nightfall, when the villagers had all retired to their houses, the Brahmadaitya called to him the ghosts of the haunted tree, who were one hundred in number, and said to them, "You must to-night do some work for the poor Brahman whom I am befriending. The hundred bighas of land which he has got from the zemindar are all covered with standing ripe corn. He has not the means to reap it. This night you all must do the work for him. Here are, you see, a hundred sickles; let each of you take a sickle in hand and come to the field I shall show him. There are a hundred of you. Let each ghost cut the paddy of one bigha, bring the sheaves on his back to the Brahman's house, thresh the corn, put the corn in one large granary, and pile up the straw in separate ricks. Now, don't lose time. You must do it all this very night." The hundred ghosts at once said to the Brahmadaitya, "We are ready to do whatever your lordship commands us." The Brahmadaitya showed the ghosts the Brahman's house, and the spot prepared for receiving the grain and the straw, and then took them to the Brahman's fields, all waving with the golden harvest. The ghosts at once fell to it. A ghost harvest-reaper is different from a human harvest-reaper. What a man cuts in a whole day, a ghost cuts in a minute. Mash, mash, mash, the sickles went round, and the long stalks of paddy fell to the ground. The reaping over, the ghosts took up the sheaves on their huge backs and carried them all to the Brahman's house. The ghosts then separated the grain from the straw, stored up the grain in one huge store-house, and piled up the straw in many a fantastic rick. It was full two hours before sunrise when the ghosts finished their work and retired to rest on their tree. No words can tell either the joy of the Brahman and his wife when early next morning they opened the door of their hut, or the surprise of the villagers, when they saw the huge granary and the fantastic ricks of straw. The villagers did not understand it. They at once ascribed it to the gods. A few days after this the Brahman went to the vakula-tree and said to the Brahmadaitya, "I have one more favour to ask of you, Brahmadaitya. As the gods have been very gracious to me, I wish to feed one thousand Brahmans; and I shall thank you for providing me with the materials of the feast." "With the greatest pleasure," said the polite Brahmadaitya; "I'll supply you with the requirements of a feast for a thousand Brahmans; only show me the cellars in which the provisions are to be stored away." The Brahman improvised a store-room. The day before the feast the store-room was overflowing with provisions. There were one hundred jars of ghi (clarified butter), one hill of flour, one hundred jars of sugar, one hundred jars of milk, curds, and congealed milk, and the other thousand and one things required in a great Brahmanical feast. The next morning one hundred Brahman pastrycooks were employed; the thousand Brahmans ate their fill; but the host, the Brahman of the story, did not eat. He thought he would eat with the Brahmadaitya. But the Brahmadaitya, who was present there though unseen, told him that he could not gratify him on that point, as by befriending the Brahman the Brahmadaitya's allotted period had come to an end, and the pushpaka [34] chariot had been sent to him from heaven. The Brahmadaitya, being released from his ghostly life, was taken up into heaven; and the Brahman lived happily for many years, begetting sons and grandsons. Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XVI THE STORY OF A HIRAMAN [35] There was a fowler who had a wife. The fowler's wife said to her husband one day, "My dear, I'll tell you the reason why we are always in want. It is because you sell every bird you catch by your rods, whereas if we sometimes eat some of the birds you catch, we are sure to have better luck. I propose therefore that whatever bird or birds you bag to-day we do not sell, but dress and eat." The fowler agreed to his wife's proposal, and went out a-bird-catching. He went about from wood to wood with his limed rods, accompanied by his wife, but in vain. Somehow or other they did not succeed in catching any bird till near sundown. But just as they were returning homewards they caught a beautiful hiraman. The fowler's wife, taking the bird in her hand and feeling it all over, said, "What a small bird this is! how much meat can it have? There is no use in killing it." The hiraman said, "Mother, do not kill me, but take me to the king, and you will get a large sum of money by selling me." The fowler and his wife were greatly taken aback on hearing the bird speak, and they asked the bird what price they should set upon it. The hiraman answered, "Leave that to me; take me to the king and offer me for sale; and when the king asks my price, say, 'The bird will tell its own price,' and then I'll mention a large sum." The fowler accordingly went the next day to the king's palace, and offered the bird for sale. The king, delighted with the beauty of the bird, asked the fowler what he would take for it. The fowler said, "O great king, the bird will tell its own price." "What! can the bird speak?" asked the king. "Yes, my lord; be pleased to ask the bird its price," replied the fowler. The king, half in jest and half in seriousness, said, "Well, hiraman, what is your price?" The hiraman answered, "Please your majesty, my price is ten thousand rupees. Do not think that the price is too high. Count out the money for the fowler, for I'll be of the greatest service to your majesty." "What service can you be of to me, hiraman?" asked the king. "Your majesty will see that in due time," replied the hiraman. The king, surprised beyond measure at hearing the hiraman talk, and talk so sensibly, took the bird, and ordered his treasurer to tell down the sum of ten thousand rupees to the fowler. The king had six queens, but he was so taken up with the bird that he almost forgot that they lived; at any rate, his days and nights were spent in the company, not of the queens, but of the bird. The hiraman not only replied intelligently to every question the king put, but it recited to him the names of the three hundred and thirty millions of the gods of the Hindu pantheon, the hearing of which is always regarded as an act of piety. The queens felt that they were neglected by the king, became jealous of the bird, and determined to kill it. It was long before they got an opportunity, as the bird was the king's inseparable companion. One day the king went out a-hunting, and he was to be away from the palace for two days. The six queens determined to avail themselves of the opportunity and put an end to the life of the bird. They said to one another, "Let us go and ask the bird which of us is the ugliest in his estimation, and she whom he pronounces the ugliest shall strangle the bird." Thus resolved, they all went into the room where the bird was; but before the queens could put any questions the bird so sweetly and so piously recited the names of the gods and goddesses, that the hearts of them all were melted into tenderness, and they came away without accomplishing their purpose. The following day, however, their evil genius returned, and they called themselves a thousand fools for having been diverted from their purpose. They therefore determined to steel their hearts against all pity, and to kill the bird without delay. They all went into the room, and said to the bird, "O hiraman, you are a very wise bird, we hear, and your judgments are all right; will you please tell us which of us is the handsomest and which the ugliest?" The bird, knowing the evil design of the queens, said to them, "How can I answer your questions remaining in this cage? In order to pronounce a correct judgment I must look minutely on every limb of you all, both in front and behind. If you wish to know my opinion you must set me free." The women were at first afraid of setting the bird free lest it should fly away; but on second thoughts they set it free after shutting all the doors and windows of the room. The bird, on examining the room, saw that it had a water-passage through which it was possible to escape. When the question was repeated several times by the queens, the bird said, "The beauty of not one of you can be compared to the beauty of the little toe of the lady that lives beyond the seven oceans and the thirteen rivers." The queens, on hearing their beauty spoken of in such slighting terms, became exceedingly furious, and rushed towards the bird to tear it in pieces; but before they could get at it, it escaped through the water-passage, and took shelter in a wood-cutter's hut which was hard by. The next day the king returned home from hunting, and not finding the hiraman on its perch became mad with grief. He asked the queens, and they told him that they knew nothing about it. The king wept day and night for the bird, as he loved it much. His ministers became afraid lest his reason should give way, for he used every hour of the day to weep, saying, "O my hiraman! O my hiraman! where art thou gone?" Proclamation was made by beat of drum throughout the kingdom to the effect that if any person could produce before the king his pet hiraman he would be rewarded with ten thousand rupees. The wood-cutter, rejoiced at the idea of becoming independent for life, produced the precious bird and obtained the reward. The king, on hearing from the parrot that the queens had attempted to kill it, became mad with rage. He ordered them to be driven away from the palace and put in a desert place without food. The king's order was obeyed, and it was rumoured after a few days that the poor queens were all devoured by wild beasts. After some time the king said to the parrot, "Hiraman, you said to the queens that the beauty of none of them could be compared to the beauty of even the little toe of the lady who lives on the other side of the seven oceans and thirteen rivers. Do you know of any means by which I can get at that lady?" Hiraman. Of course I do. I can take your majesty to the door of the palace in which that lady of peerless beauty lives; and if your majesty will abide by my counsel, I will undertake to put that lady into your arms. King. I will do whatever you tell me. What do you wish me to do? Hiraman. What is required is a pakshiraj. [36] If you can procure a horse of that species, you can ride upon it, and in no time we shall cross the seven oceans and thirteen rivers, and stand at the door of the lady's palace. King. I have, as you know, a large stud of horses; we can now go and see if there are any pakshirajes amongst them. The king and the hiraman went to the royal stables and examined all the horses. The hiraman passed by all the fine-looking horses and those of high mettle, and alighted upon a wretched-looking lean pony, and said, "Here is the horse I want. It is a horse of the genuine pakshiraj breed, but it must be fed full six months with the finest grain before it can answer our purpose." The king accordingly put that pony in a stable by itself and himself saw every day that it was fed with the finest grain that could be got in the kingdom. The pony rapidly improved in appearance, and at the end of six months the hiraman pronounced it fit for service. The parrot then told the king to order the royal silversmith to make some khais [37] of silver. A large quantity of silver khais was made in a short time. When about to start on their aërial journey the hiraman said to the king, "I have one request to make. Please whip the horse only once at starting. If you whip him more than once, we shall not be able to reach the palace, but stick mid-way. And when we return homewards after capturing the lady, you are also to whip the horse only once; if you whip him more than once, we shall come only half the way and remain there." The king then got upon the pakshiraj with the hiraman and the silver khais and gently whipped the animal once. The horse shot through the air with the speed of lightning, passed over many countries, kingdoms, and empires, crossed the oceans and thirteen rivers, and alighted in the evening at the gate of a beautiful palace. Now, near the palace-gate there stood a lofty tree. The hiraman told the king to put the horse in the stable hard by, and then to climb into the tree and remain there concealed. The hiraman took the silver khais, and with its beak began dropping khai after khai from the foot of the tree, all through the corridors and passages, up to the door of the bedchamber of the lady of peerless beauty. After doing this, the hiraman perched upon the tree where the king was concealed. Some hours after midnight, the maid-servant of the lady, who slept in the same room with her, wishing to come out, opened the door and noticed the silver khais lying there. She took up a few of them, and not knowing what they were, showed them to her lady. The lady, admiring the little silver bullets, and wondering how they could have got there, came out of her room and began picking them up. She saw a regular stream of them apparently issuing from near the door of her room, and proceeding she knew not how far. She went on picking up in a basket the bright, shining khais all through the corridors and passages, till she came to the foot of the tree. No sooner did the lady of peerless beauty come to the foot of the tree than the king, agreeably to instructions previously given to him by the hiraman, alighted from the tree and caught hold of the lady. In a moment she was put upon the horse along with himself. At that moment the hiraman sat upon the shoulder of the king, the king gently whipped the horse once, and they all were whirled through the air with the speed of lightning. The king, wishing to reach home soon with the precious prize, and forgetful of the instructions of the hiraman, whipped the horse again; on which the horse at once alighted on the outskirts of what seemed a dense forest. "What have you done, O king?" shouted out the hiraman. "Did I not tell you not to whip the horse more than once? You have whipped him twice, and we are done for. We may meet with our death here." But the thing was done, and it could not be helped. The pakshiraj became powerless; and the party could not proceed homewards. They dismounted; but they could not see anywhere the habitations of men. They ate some fruits and roots, and slept that night there upon the ground. Next morning it so chanced that the king of that country came to that forest to hunt. As he was pursuing a stag, whom he had pierced with an arrow, he came across the king and the lady of peerless beauty. Struck with the matchless beauty of the lady, he wished to seize her. He whistled, and in a moment his attendants flocked around him. The lady was made a captive, and her lover, who had brought her from her house on the other side of the seven oceans and thirteen rivers, was not put to death, but his eyes were put out, and he was left alone in the forest--alone, and yet not alone, for the good hiraman was with him. The lady of peerless beauty was taken into the king's palace, as well as the pony of her lover. The lady said to the king that he must not come near her for six months, in consequence of a vow which she had taken, and which would be completed in that period of time. She mentioned six months, as that period would be necessary for recruiting the constitution of the pakshiraj. As the lady professed to engage every day in religious ceremonies, in consequence of her vow, a separate house was assigned to her, where she took the pakshiraj and fed him with the choicest grain. But everything would be fruitless if the lady did not meet the hiraman. But how is she to get a sight of that bird? She adopted the following expedient. She ordered her servants to scatter on the roof of her house heaps of paddy, grain, and all sorts of pulse for the refreshment of birds. The consequence was, that thousands of the feathery race came to the roof to partake of the abundant feast. The lady was every day on the look out for her hiraman. The hiraman, meanwhile, was in great distress in the forest. He had to take care not only of himself, but of the now blinded king. He plucked some ripe fruits in the forest, and gave them to the king to eat, and he ate of them himself. This was the manner of hiraman's life. The other birds of the forest spoke thus to the parrot--"O hiraman, you have a miserable life of it in this forest. Why don't you come with us to an abundant feast provided for us by a pious lady, who scatters many maunds of pulse on the roof of her house for the benefit of our race? We go there early in the morning and return in the evening, eating our fill along with thousands of other birds." The hiraman resolved to accompany them next morning, shrewdly suspecting more in the lady's charity to birds than the other birds thought there was in it. The hiraman saw the lady, and had a long chat with her about the health of the blinded king, the means of curing his blindness, and about her escape. The plan adopted was as follows: The pony would be ready for aerial flight in a short time--for a great part of the six months had already elapsed; and the king's blindness could be cured if the hiraman could procure from the chicks of the bihangama and bihangami birds, who had their nest on the tree at the gate of the lady's palace beyond the seven oceans and thirteen rivers, a quantity of their ordure, fresh and hot, and apply it to the eyeballs of the blinded king. The following morning the hiraman started on his errand of mercy, remained at night on the tree at the gate of the palace beyond the seven oceans and thirteen rivers, and early the next morning waited below the nest of the birds with a leaf on his beak, into which dropped the ordure of the chicks. That moment the hiraman flew across the oceans and rivers, came to the forest, and applied the precious balm to the sightless sockets of the king. The king opened his eyes and saw. In a few days the pakshiraj was in proper trim. The lady escaped to the forest and took the king up; and the lady, king, and hiraman all reached the king's capital safe and sound. The king and the lady were united together in wedlock. They lived many years together happily, and begat sons and daughters; and the beautiful hiraman was always with them reciting the names of the three hundred and thirty millions of gods. Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XVII THE ORIGIN OF RUBIES There was a certain king who died leaving four sons behind him with his queen. The queen was passionately fond of the youngest of the princes. She gave him the best robes, the best horses, the best food, and the best furniture. The other three princes became exceedingly jealous of their youngest brother, and conspiring against him and their mother, made them live in a separate house, and took possession of the estate. Owing to overindulgence, the youngest prince had become very wilful. He never listened to any one, not even to his mother, but had his own way in everything. One day he went with his mother to bathe in the river. A large boat was riding there at anchor. None of the boatmen were in it. The prince went into the boat, and told his mother to come into it. His mother besought him to get down from the boat, as it did not belong to him. But the prince said, "No, mother, I am not coming down; I mean to go on a voyage, and if you wish to come with me, then delay not but come up at once, or I shall be off in a trice." The queen besought the prince to do no such thing, but to come down instantly. But the prince gave no heed to what she said, and began to take up the anchor. The queen went up into the boat in great haste; and the moment she was on board the boat started, and falling into the current passed on swiftly like an arrow. The boat went on and on till it reached the sea. After it had gone many furlongs into the open sea, the boat came near a whirlpool, where the prince saw a great many rubies of monstrous size floating on the waters. Such large rubies no one had ever seen, each being in value equal to the wealth of seven kings. The prince caught hold of half a dozen of those rubies, and put them on board. His mother said, "Darling, don't take up those red balls; they must belong to somebody who has been shipwrecked, and we may be taken up as thieves." At the repeated entreaties of his mother the prince threw them into the sea, keeping only one tied up in his clothes. The boat then drifted towards the coast, and the queen and the prince arrived at a certain port where they landed. The port where they landed was not a small place; it was a large city, the capital of a great king. Not far from the place, the queen and her son hired a hut where they lived. As the prince was yet a boy, he was fond of playing at marbles. When the children of the king came out to play on a lawn before the palace, our young prince joined them. He had no marbles, but he played with the ruby which he had in his possession. The ruby was so hard that it broke every taw against which it struck. The daughter of the king, who used to watch the games from a balcony of the palace, was astonished to see a brilliant red ball in the hand of the strange lad, and wanted to take possession of it. She told her father that a boy of the street had an uncommonly bright stone in his possession which she must have, or else she would starve herself to death. The king ordered his servants to bring to him the lad with the precious stone. When the boy was brought, the king wondered at the largeness and brilliancy of the ruby. He had never seen anything like it. He doubted whether any king of any country in the world possessed so great a treasure. He asked the lad where he had got it. The lad replied that he got it from the sea. The king offered a thousand rupees for the ruby, and the lad not knowing its value readily parted with it for that sum. He went with the money to his mother, who was not a little frightened, thinking that her son had stolen the money from some rich man's house. She became quiet, however, on being assured that the money was given to him by the king in exchange for the red ball which he had picked up in the sea. The king's daughter, on getting the ruby, put it in her hair, and, standing before her pet parrot, said to the bird, "Oh, my darling parrot, don't I look very beautiful with this ruby in my hair?" The parrot replied, "Beautiful! you look quite hideous with it! What princess ever puts only one ruby in her hair? It would be somewhat feasible if you had two at least." Stung with shame at the reproach cast in her teeth by the parrot, the princess went into the grief-chamber of the palace, and would neither eat nor drink. The king was not a little concerned when he heard that his daughter had gone into the grief-chamber. He went to her, and asked her the cause of her grief. The princess told the king what her pet parrot had said, and added, "Father, if you do not procure for me another ruby like this, I'll put an end to my life by mine own hands." The king was overwhelmed with grief. Where was he to get another ruby like it? He doubted whether another like it could be found in the whole world. He ordered the lad who had sold the ruby to be brought into his presence. "Have you, young man," asked the king, "another ruby like the one you sold me?" The lad replied, "No, I have not got one. Why, do you want another? I can give you lots, if you wish to have them. They are to be found in a whirlpool in the sea, far, far away. I can go and fetch some for you." Amazed at the lad's reply, the king offered rich rewards for procuring only another ruby of the same sort. The lad went home and said to his mother that he must go to sea again to fetch some rubies for the king. The woman was quite frightened at the idea, and begged him not to go. But the lad was resolved on going, and nothing could prevent him from carrying out his purpose. He accordingly went alone on board that same vessel which had brought him and his mother, and set sail. He reached the whirlpool, from near which he had formerly picked up the rubies. This time, however, he determined to go to the exact spot whence the rubies were coming out. He went to the centre of the whirlpool, where he saw a gap reaching to the bottom of the ocean. He dived into it, leaving his boat to wheel round the whirlpool. When he reached the bottom of the ocean he saw there a beautiful palace. He went inside. In the central room of the palace there was the god Siva, with his eyes closed, and absorbed apparently in intense meditation. A few feet above Siva's head was a platform, on which lay a young lady of exquisite beauty. The prince went to the platform and saw that the head of the lady was separated from her body. Horrified at the sight, he did not know what to make of it. He saw a stream of blood trickling from the severed head, falling upon the matted head of Siva, and running into the ocean in the form of rubies. After a little two small rods, one of silver and one of gold, which were lying near the head of the lady, attracted his eyes. As he took up the rods in his hands, the golden rod accidentally fell upon the head, on which the head immediately joined itself to the body, and the lady got up. Astonished at the sight of a human being, the lady asked the prince who he was and how he had got there. After hearing the story of the prince's adventures, the lady said, "Unhappy young man, depart instantly from this place; for when Siva finishes his meditations he will turn you to ashes by a single glance of his eyes." The young man, however, would not go except in her company, as he was over head and ears in love with the beautiful lady. At last they both contrived to run away from the palace, and coming up to the surface of the ocean they climbed into the boat near the centre of the whirlpool, and sailed away towards land, having previously laden the vessel with a cargo of rubies. The wonder of the prince's mother at seeing the beautiful damsel may be well imagined. Early next morning the prince sent a basin full of big rubies, through a servant. The king was astonished beyond measure. His daughter, on getting the rubies, resolved on marrying the wonderful lad who had made a present of them to her. Though the prince had a wife, whom he had brought up from the depths of the ocean, he consented to have a second wife. They were accordingly married, and lived happily for years, begetting sons and daughters. Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XVIII THE MATCH-MAKING JACKAL Once on a time there lived a weaver, whose ancestors were very rich, but whose father had wasted the property which he had inherited in riotous living. He was born in a palace-like house, but he now lived in a miserable hut. He had no one in the world, his parents and all his relatives having died. Hard by the hut was the lair of a jackal. The jackal, remembering the wealth and grandeur of the weaver's forefathers, had compassion on him, and one day coming to him, said, "Friend weaver, I see what a wretched life you are leading. I have a good mind to improve your condition. I'll try and marry you to the daughter of the king of this country." "I become the king's son-in-law!" replied the weaver; "that will take place only when the sun rises in the west." "You doubt my power?" rejoined the jackal; "you will see, I'll bring it about." The next morning the jackal started for the king's city, which was many miles off. On the way he entered a plantation of the Piper betel plant, and plucked a large quantity of its leaves. He reached the capital, and contrived to get inside the palace. On the premises of the palace was a tank in which the ladies of the king's household performed their morning and afternoon ablutions. At the entrance of that tank the jackal laid himself down. The daughter of the king happened to come just at the time to bathe, accompanied by her maids. The princess was not a little struck at seeing the jackal lying down at the entrance. She told her maids to drive the jackal away. The jackal rose as if from sleep, and instead of running away, opened his bundle of betel-leaves, put some into his mouth, and began chewing them. The princess and her maids were not a little astonished at the sight. They said among themselves, "What an uncommon jackal is this! From what country can he have come? A jackal chewing betel-leaves! why thousands of men and women of this city cannot indulge in that luxury. He must have come from a wealthy land." The princess asked the jackal, "Sivalu! [38] from what country do you come? It must be a very prosperous country where the jackals chew betel-leaves. Do other animals in your country chew betel-leaves?" "Dearest princess," replied the jackal, "I come from a land flowing with milk and honey. Betel-leaves are as plentiful in my country as the grass in your fields. All animals in my country--cows, sheep, dogs--chew betel-leaves. We want no good thing." "Happy is the country," said the princess, "where there is such plenty, and thrice happy the king who rules in it!" "As for our king," said the jackal, "he is the richest king in the world. His palace is like the heaven of Indra. I have seen your palace here; it is a miserable hut compared to the palace of our king." The princess, whose curiosity was excited to the utmost pitch, hastily went through her bath, and going to the apartments of the queen-mother, told her of the wonderful jackal lying at the entrance of the tank. Her curiosity being excited, the jackal was sent for. When the jackal stood in the presence of the queen, he began munching the betel-leaves. "You come," said the queen, "from a very rich country. Is your king married?" "Please your majesty, our king is not married. Princesses from distant parts of the world tried to get married to him, but he rejected them all. Happy will that princess be whom our king condescends to marry!" "Don't you think, Sivalu," asked the queen, "that my daughter is as beautiful as a Peri, and that she is fit to be the wife of the proudest king in the world?" "I quite think," said the jackal, "that the princess is exceedingly handsome; indeed, she is the handsomest princess I have ever seen; but I don't know whether our king will have a liking for her." "Liking for my daughter!" said the queen, "you have only to paint her to him as she is, and he is sure to turn mad with love. To be serious, Sivalu, I am anxious to get my daughter married. Many princes have sought her hand, but I am unwilling to give her to any of them, as they are not the sons of great kings. But your king seems to be a great king. I can have no objection to making him my son-in-law." The queen sent word to the king, requesting him to come and see the jackal. The king came and saw the jackal, heard him describe the wealth and pomp of the king of his country, and expressed himself not unwilling to give away his daughter in marriage to him. The jackal after this returned to the weaver and said to him, "O lord of the loom, you are the luckiest man in the world; it is all settled; you are to become the son-in-law of a great king. I have told them that you are yourself a great king, and you must behave yourself as one. You must do just as I instruct you, otherwise your fortune will not only not be made, but both you and I will be put to death." "I'll do just as you bid me," said the weaver. The shrewd jackal drew in his own mind a plan of the method of procedure he should adopt, and after a few days went back to the palace of the king in the same manner in which he had gone before, that is to say, chewing betel-leaves and lying down at the entrance of the tank on the premises of the palace. The king and queen were glad to see him, and eagerly asked him as to the success of his mission. The jackal said, "In order to relieve your minds I may tell you at once that my mission has been so far successful. If you only knew the infinite trouble I have had in persuading his Majesty, my sovereign, to make up his mind to marry your daughter, you would give me no end of thanks. For a long time he would not hear of it, but gradually I brought him round. You have now only to fix an auspicious day for the celebration of the solemn rite. There is one bit of advice, however, which I, as your friend, would give you. It is this. My master is so great a king that if he were to come to you in state, attended by all his followers, his horses and his elephants, you would find it impossible to accommodate them all in your palace or in your city. I would therefore propose that our king should come to your city, not in state, but in a private manner; and that you send to the outskirts of your city your own elephants, horses, and conveyances, to bring him and only a few of his followers to your palace." "Many thanks, wise Sivalu, for this advice. I could not possibly make accommodation in my city for the followers of so great a king as your master is. I should be very glad if he did not come in state; and trust you will use your influence to persuade him to come in a private manner; for I should be ruined if he came in state." The jackal then gravely said, "I will do my best in the matter," and then returned to his own village, after the royal astrologer had fixed an auspicious day for the wedding. On his return the jackal busied himself with making preparations for the great ceremony. As the weaver was clad in tatters, he told him to go to the washermen of the village and borrow from them a suit of clothes. As for himself, he went to the king of his race, and told him that on a certain day he would like one thousand jackals to accompany him to a certain place. He went to the king of crows, and begged that his corvine majesty would be pleased to allow one thousand of his black subjects to accompany him on a certain day to a certain place. He preferred a similar petition to the king of paddy-birds. At last the great day arrived. The weaver arrayed himself in the clothes which he had borrowed from the village washermen. The jackal made his appearance, accompanied by a train of a thousand jackals, a thousand crows, and a thousand paddy-birds. The nuptial procession started on their journey, and towards sundown arrived within two miles of the king's palace. There the jackal told his friends, the thousand jackals, to set up a loud howl; at his bidding the thousand crows cawed their loudest; while the hoarse screechings of the thousand paddy-birds furnished a suitable accompaniment. The effect may be imagined. They all together made a noise the like of which had never been heard since the world began. While this unearthly noise was going on, the jackal himself hastened to the palace, and asked the king whether he thought he would be able to accommodate the wedding-party, which was about two miles distant, and whose noise was at that moment sounding in his ears. The king said "Impossible, Sivalu; from the sound of the procession I infer there must be at least one hundred thousand souls. How is it possible to accommodate so many guests? Please, so arrange that the bridegroom only will come to my house." "Very well," said the jackal; "I told you at the beginning that you would not be able to accommodate all the attendants of my august master. I'll do as you wish. My master will alone come in undress. Send a horse for the purpose." The jackal, accompanied by a horse and groom, came to the place where his friend the weaver was, thanked the thousand jackals, the thousand crows, and the thousand paddy-birds, for their valuable services, and told them all to go away, while he himself, and the weaver on horseback, wended their way to the king's palace. The bridal party, waiting in the palace, were greatly disappointed at the personal appearance of the weaver; but the jackal told them that his master had purposely put on a mean dress, as his would-be father-in-law declared himself unable to accommodate the bridegroom and his attendants coming in state. The royal priests now began the interesting ceremony, and the nuptial knot was tied for ever. The bridegroom seldom opened his lips, agreeably to the instructions of the jackal, who was afraid lest his speech should betray him. At night when he was lying in bed he began to count the beams and rafters of the room, and said audibly, "This beam will make a first-rate loom, that other a capital beam, and that yonder an excellent sley." The princess, his bride, was not a little astonished. She began to think in her mind, "Is the man, to whom they have tied me, a king or a weaver? I am afraid he is the latter; otherwise why should he be talking of weaver's loom, beam, and sley? Ah, me! is this what the fates keep in store for me?" In the morning the princess related to the queen-mother the weaver's soliloquy. The king and queen, not a little surprised at this recital, took the jackal to task about it. The ready-witted jackal at once said, "Your Majesty need not be surprised at my august master's soliloquy. His palace is surrounded by a population of seven hundred families of the best weavers in the world, to whom he has given rent-free lands, and whose welfare he continually seeks. It must have been in one of his philanthropic moods that he uttered the soliloquy which has taken your Majesty by surprise." The jackal, however, now felt that it was high time for himself and the weaver to decamp with the princess, since the proverbial simplicity of his friend of the loom might any moment involve him in danger. The jackal therefore represented to the king, that weighty affairs of state would not permit his august master to spend another day in the palace; that he should start for his kingdom that very day with his bride; and his master was resolved to travel incognito on foot, only the princess, now the queen, should leave the city in a palki. After a great deal of yea and nay, the king and queen at last consented to the proposal. The party came to the outskirts of the weaver's village; the palki bearers were sent away; and the princess, who asked where her husband's palace was, was made to walk on foot. The weaver's hut was soon reached, and the jackal, addressing the princess, said, "This, madam, is your husband's palace." The princess began to beat her forehead with the palms of her hands in sheer despair. "Ah, me! is this the husband whom Prajapati [39] intended for me? Death would have been a thousand times better." As there was nothing for it, the princess soon got reconciled to her fate. She, however, determined to make her husband rich, especially as she knew the secret of becoming rich. One day she told her husband to get for her a pice-worth of flour. She put a little water in the flour, and smeared her body with the paste. When the paste dried on her body, she began wiping the paste with her fingers; and as the paste fell in small balls from her body, it got turned into gold. She repeated this process every day for some time, and thus got an immense quantity of gold. She soon became mistress of more gold than is to be found in the coffers of any king. With this gold she employed a whole army of masons, carpenters and architects, who in no time built one of the finest palaces in the world. Seven hundred families of weavers were sought for and settled round about the palace. After this she wrote a letter to her father to say that she was sorry he had not favoured her with a visit since the day of her marriage, and that she would be delighted if he now came to see her and her husband. The king agreed to come, and a day was fixed. The princess made great preparations against the day of her father's arrival. Hospitals were established in several parts of the town for diseased, sick, and infirm animals. The beasts in thousands were made to chew betel-leaves on the wayside. The streets were covered with Cashmere shawls for her father and his attendants to walk on. There was no end of the display of wealth and grandeur. The king and queen arrived in state, and were infinitely delighted at the apparently boundless riches of their son-in-law. The jackal now appeared on the scene, and saluting the king and queen, said--"Did I not tell you?" Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XIX THE BOY WITH THE MOON ON HIS FOREHEAD There was a certain king who had six queens, none of whom bore children. Physicians, holy sages, mendicants, were consulted, countless drugs were had recourse to, but all to no purpose. The king was disconsolate. His ministers told him to marry a seventh wife; and he was accordingly on the look out. In the royal city there lived a poor old woman who used to pick up cow-dung from the fields, make it into cakes, dry them in the sun, and sell them in the market for fuel. This was her only means of subsistence. This old woman had a daughter exquisitely beautiful. Her beauty excited the admiration of every one that saw her; and it was solely in consequence of her surpassing beauty that three young ladies, far above her in rank and station, contracted friendship with her. Those three young ladies were the daughter of the king's minister, the daughter of a wealthy merchant, and the daughter of the royal priest. These three young ladies, together with the daughter of the poor old woman, were one day bathing in a tank not far from the palace. As they were performing their ablutions, each dwelt on her own good qualities. "Look here, sister," said the minister's daughter, addressing the merchant's daughter, "the man that marries me will be a happy man, for he will not have to buy clothes for me. The cloth which I once put on never gets soiled, never gets old, never tears." The merchant's daughter said, "And my husband too will be a happy man, for the fuel which I use in cooking never gets turned into ashes. The same fuel serves from day to day, from year to year." "And my husband will also become a happy man," said the daughter of the royal chaplain, "for the rice which I cook one day never gets finished, and when we have all eaten, the same quantity which was first cooked remains always in the pot." The daughter of the poor old woman said in her turn, "And the man that marries me will also be happy, for I shall give birth to twin children, a son and a daughter. The daughter will be divinely fair, and the son will have the moon on his forehead and stars on the palms of his hands." The above conversation was overheard by the king, who, as he was on the look out for a seventh queen, used to skulk about in places where women met together. The king thus thought in his mind--"I don't care a straw for the girl whose clothes never tear and never get old; neither do I care for the other girl whose fuel is never consumed; nor for the third girl whose rice never fails in the pot. But the fourth girl is quite charming! She will give birth to twin children, a son and a daughter; the daughter will be divinely fair, and the son will have the moon on his forehead and stars on the palms of his hands. That is the girl I want. I'll make her my wife." On making inquiries on the same day, the king found that the fourth girl was the daughter of a poor old woman who picked up cow-dung from the fields; but though there was thus an infinite disparity in rank, he determined to marry her. On the very same day he sent for the poor old woman. She, poor thing, was quite frightened when she saw a messenger of the king standing at the door of her hut. She thought that the king had sent for her to punish her, because, perhaps, she had some day unwittingly picked up the dung of the king's cattle. She went to the palace, and was admitted into the king's private chamber. The king asked her whether she had a very fair daughter, and whether that daughter was the friend of his own minister's and priest's daughters. When the woman answered in the affirmative, he said to her, "I will marry your daughter, and make her my queen." The woman hardly believed her own ears--the thing was so strange. He, however, solemnly declared to her that he had made up his mind, and was determined to marry her daughter. It was soon known in the capital that the king was going to marry the daughter of the old woman who picked up cow-dung in the fields. When the six queens heard the news, they would not believe it, till the king himself told them that the news was true. They thought that the king had somehow got mad. They reasoned with him thus--"What folly, what madness, to marry a girl who is not fit to be our maid-servant! And you expect us to treat her as our equal--a girl whose mother goes about picking up cow-dung in the fields! Surely, my lord, you are beside yourself!" The king's purpose, however, remained unshaken. The royal astrologer was called, and an auspicious day was fixed for the celebration of the king's marriage. On the appointed day the royal priest tied the marital knot, and the daughter of the poor old picker-up of cow-dung in the fields became the seventh and best beloved queen. Some time after the celebration of the marriage, the king went for six months to another part of his dominions. Before setting out he called to him the seventh queen, and said to her, "I am going away to another part of my dominions for six months. Before the expiration of that period I expect you to be confined. But I should like to be present with you at the time, as your enemies may do mischief. Take this golden bell and hang it in your room. When the pains of childbirth come upon you, ring this bell, and I will be with you in a moment in whatever part of my dominions I may be at the time. Remember, you are to ring the bell only when you feel the pains of childbirth." After saying this the king started on his journey. The six queens, who had overheard the king, went on the next day to the apartments of the seventh queen, and said, "What a nice bell of gold you have got, sister! Where did you get it, and why have you hung it up?" The seventh queen, in her simplicity, said, "The king has given it to me, and if I were to ring it, the king would immediately come to me wherever he might be at the time." "Impossible!" said the six queens, "you must have misunderstood the king. Who can believe that this bell can be heard at the distance of hundreds of miles? Besides, if it could be heard, how would the king be able to travel a great distance in the twinkling of an eye? This must be a hoax. If you ring the bell, you will find that what the king said was pure nonsense." The six queens then told her to make a trial. At first she was unwilling, remembering what the king had told her; but at last she was prevailed upon to ring the bell. The king was at the moment half-way to the capital of his other dominions, but at the ringing of the bell he stopped short in his journey, turned back, and in no time stood in the queen's apartments. Finding the queen going about in her rooms, he asked why she had rung the bell though her hour had not come. She, without informing the king of the entreaty of the six queens, replied that she rang the bell only to see whether what he had said was true. The king was somewhat indignant, told her distinctly not to ring the bell again till the moment of the coming upon her of the pains of childbirth, and then went away. After the lapse of some weeks the six queens again begged of the seventh queen to make a second trial of the bell. They said to her, "The first time when you rang the bell, the king was only at a short distance from you, it was therefore easy for him to hear the bell and to come to you; but now he has long ago settled in his other capital, let us see if he will now hear the bell and come to you." She resisted for a long time, but was at last prevailed upon by them to ring the bell. When the sound of the bell reached the king he was in court dispensing justice, but when he heard the sound of the bell (and no one else heard it) he closed the court and in no time stood in the queen's apartments. Finding that the queen was not about to be confined, he asked her why she had again rung the bell before her hour. She, without saying anything of the importunities of the six queens, replied that she merely made a second trial of the bell. The king became very angry, and said to her, "Now listen, since you have called me twice for nothing, let it be known to you that when the throes of childbirth do really come upon you, and you ring the bell ever so lustily, I will not come to you. You must be left to your fate." The king then went away. At last the day of the seventh queen's deliverance arrived. On first feeling the pains she rang the golden bell. She waited, but the king did not make his appearance. She rang again with all her might, still the king did not make his appearance. The king certainly did hear the sound of the bell; but he did not come as he was displeased with the queen. When the six queens saw that the king did not come, they went to the seventh queen and told her that it was not customary with the ladies of the palace to be confined in the king's apartments; she must go to a hut near the stables. They then sent for the midwife of the palace, and heavily bribed her to make away with the infant the moment it should be born into the world. The seventh queen gave birth to a son who had the moon on his forehead and stars on the palms of his hands, and also to an uncommonly beautiful girl. The midwife had come provided with a couple of newly born pups. She put the pups before the mother, saying--"You have given birth to these," and took away the twin-children in an earthen vessel. The queen was quite insensible at the time, and did not notice the twins at the time they were carried away. The king, though he was angry with the seventh queen, yet remembering that she was destined to give birth to the heir of his throne, changed his mind, and came to see her the next morning. The pups were produced before the king as the offspring of the queen. The king's anger and vexation knew no bounds. He ordered that the seventh queen should be expelled from the palace, that she should be clothed in leather, and that she should be employed in the market-place to drive away crows and to keep off dogs. Though scarcely able to move she was driven away from the palace, stripped of her fine robes, clothed in leather, and set to drive away the crows of the market-place. The midwife, when she put the twins in the earthen vessel, bethought herself of the best way to destroy them. She did not think it proper to throw them into a tank, lest they should be discovered the next day. Neither did she think of burying them in the ground, lest they should be dug up by a jackal and exposed to the gaze of people. The best way to make an end of them, she thought, would be to burn them, and reduce them to ashes, that no trace might be left of them. But how could she, at that dead hour of night, burn them without some other person helping her? A happy thought struck her. There was a potter on the outskirts of the city, who used during the day to mould vessels of clay on his wheel, and burn them during the latter part of the night. The midwife thought that the best plan would be to put the vessel with the twins along with the unburnt clay vessels which the potter had arranged in order and gone to sleep expecting to get up late at night and set them on fire; in this way, she thought, the twins would be reduced to ashes. She, accordingly, put the vessel with the twins along with the unburnt clay vessels of the potter, and went away. Somehow or other, that night the potter and his wife overslept themselves. It was near the break of day when the potter's wife, awaking out of sleep, roused her husband, and said, "Oh, my good man, we have overslept ourselves; it is now near morning and I much fear it is now too late to set the pots on fire." Hastily unbolting the door of her cottage, she rushed out to the place where the pots were ranged in rows. She could scarcely believe her eyes when she saw that all the pots had been baked and were looking bright red, though neither she nor her husband had applied any fire to them. Wondering at her good luck, and not knowing what to make of it, she ran to her husband and said, "Just come and see!" The potter came, saw, and wondered. The pots had never before been so well baked. Who could have done this? This could have proceeded only from some god or goddess. Fumbling about the pots, he accidentally upturned one in which, lo and behold, were seen huddled up together two newly born infants of unearthly beauty. The potter said to his wife, "My dear, you must pretend to have given birth to these beautiful children." Accordingly all arrangements were made, and in due time it was given out that the twins had been born to her. And such lovely twins they were! On the same day many women of the neighbourhood came to see the potter's wife and the twins to which she had given birth, and to offer their congratulations on this unexpected good fortune. As for the potter's wife, she could not be too proud of her pretended children, and said to her admiring friends, "I had hardly hoped to have children at all. But now that the gods have given me these twins, may they receive the blessings of you all, and live for ever!" The twins grew and were strengthened. The brother and sister, when they played about in the fields and lanes, were the admiration of every one who saw them; and all wondered at the uncommonly good luck of the potter in being blessed with such angelic children. They were about twelve years old when the potter, their reputed father, became dangerously ill. It was evident to all that his sickness would end in death. The potter, perceiving his last end approaching, said to his wife, "My dear, I am going the way of all the earth; but I am leaving to you enough to live upon; live on and take care of these children." The woman said to her husband, "I am not going to survive you. Like all good and faithful wives, I am determined to die along with you. You and I will burn together on the same funeral pyre. As for the children, they are old enough to take care of themselves, and you are leaving them enough money." Her friends tried to dissuade her from her purpose, but in vain. The potter died; and as his remains were being burnt, his wife, now a widow, threw herself on the pyre, and burnt herself to death. The boy with the moon on his forehead--by the way, he always kept his head covered with a turban lest the halo should attract notice--and his sister, now broke up the potter's establishment, sold the wheel and the pots and pans, and went to the bazaar in the king's city. The moment they entered, the bazaar was lit up on a sudden. The shopkeepers of the bazaar were greatly surprised. They thought some divine beings must have entered the place. They looked upon the beautiful boy and his sister with wonder. They begged of them to stay in the bazaar. They built a house for them. When they used to ramble about, they were always followed at a distance by the woman clothed in leather, who was appointed by the king to drive away the crows of the bazaar. By some unaccountable impulse she used also to hang about the house in which they lived. The boy in a short time bought a horse, and went a-hunting in the neighbouring forests. One day while he was hunting, the king was also hunting in the same forest, and seeing a brother huntsman the king drew near to him. The king was struck with the beauty of the lad and a yearning for him the moment he saw him. As a deer went past, the youth shot an arrow, and the reaction of the force necessary to shoot the arrow made the turban of his head fall off, on which a bright light, like that of the moon, was seen shining on his forehead. The king saw, and immediately thought of the son with the moon on his forehead and stars on the palms of his hands who was to have been born of his seventh queen. The youth on letting fly the arrow galloped off, in spite of the earnest entreaty of the king to wait and speak to him. The king went home a sadder man than he came out of it. He became very moody and melancholy. The six queens asked him why he was looking so sad. He told them that he had seen in the woods a lad with the moon on his forehead, which reminded him of the son who was to be born of the seventh queen. The six queens tried to comfort him in the best way they could; but they wondered who the youth could be. Was it possible that the twins were living? Did not the midwife say that she had burnt both the son and the daughter to ashes? Who, then, could this lad be? The midwife was sent for by the six queens and questioned. She swore that she had seen the twins burnt. As for the lad whom the king had met with, she would soon find out who he was. On making inquiries, the midwife soon found out that two strangers were living in the bazaar in a house which the shopkeepers had built for them. She entered the house and saw the girl only, as the lad had again gone out a-shooting. She pretended to be their aunt, who had gone away to another part of the country shortly after their birth; she had been searching after them for a long time, and was now glad to find them in the king's city near the palace. She greatly admired the beauty of the girl, and said to her, "My dear child, you are so beautiful, you require the kataki [40] flower properly to set off your beauty. You should tell your brother to plant a row of that flower in this courtyard." "What flower is that, auntie? I never saw it." "How could you have seen it, my child? It is not found here; it grows on the other side of the ocean, guarded by seven hundred Rakshasas." "How, then," said the girl, "will my brother get it?" "He may try to get it, if you speak to him," replied the woman. The woman made this proposal in the hope that the boy with the moon on his forehead would perish in the attempt to get the flower. When the youth with the moon on his forehead returned from hunting, his sister told him of the visit paid to her by their aunt, and requested him, if possible, to get for her the kataki flower. He was sceptical about the existence of any aunt of theirs in the world, but he was resolved that, to please his beloved sister, he would get the flower on which she had set her heart. Next morning, accordingly, he started on his journey, after bidding his sister not to stir out of the house till his return. He rode on his fleet steed, which was of the pakshiraj [41] tribe, and soon reached the outskirts of what seemed to him dense forests of interminable length. He descried some Rakshasas prowling about. He went to some distance, shot with his arrows some deer and rhinoceroses in the neighbouring thickets, and, approaching the place where the Rakshasas were prowling about, called out, "O auntie dear, O auntie dear, your nephew is here." A huge Rakshasi came towards him and said, "O, you are the youth with the moon on your forehead and stars on the palms of your hands. We were all expecting you, but as you have called me aunt, I will not eat you up. What is it you want? Have you brought any eatables for me?" The youth gave her the deer and rhinoceroses which he had killed. Her mouth watered at the sight of the dead animals, and she began eating them. After swallowing down all the carcases, she said, "Well, what do you want?" The youth said, "I want some kataki flowers for my sister." She then told him that it would be difficult for him to get the flower, as it was guarded by seven hundred Rakshasas; however, he might make the attempt, but in the first instance he must go to his uncle on the north side of that forest. While the youth was going to his uncle of the north, on the way he killed some deer and rhinoceroses, and seeing a gigantic Rakshasa at some distance, cried out, "Uncle dear, uncle dear, your nephew is here. Auntie has sent me to you." The Rakshasa came near and said, "You are the youth with the moon on your forehead and stars on the palms of your hands; I would have swallowed you outright, had you not called me uncle, and had you not said that your aunt had sent you to me. Now, what is it you want?" The savoury deer and rhinoceroses were then presented to him; he ate them all, and then listened to the petition of the youth. The youth wanted the kataki flower. The Rakshasa said, "You want the kataki flower! Very well, try and get it if you can. After passing through this forest, you will come to an impenetrable forest of kachiri. [42] You will say to that forest, 'O mother kachiri! please make way for me, or else I die.' On that the forest will open up a passage for you. You will next come to the ocean. You will say to the ocean, 'O mother ocean! please make way for me, or else I die,' and the ocean will make way for you. After crossing the ocean, you enter the gardens where the kataki blooms. Good-bye; do as I have told you." The youth thanked his Rakshasa-uncle, and went on his way. After he had passed through the forest, he saw before him an impenetrable forest of kachiri. It was so close and thick, and withal so bristling with thorns, that not a mouse could go through it. Remembering the advice of his uncle, he stood before the forest with folded hands, and said, "O mother kachiri! please make way for me, or else I die." On a sudden a clean path was opened up in the forest, and the youth gladly passed through it. The ocean now lay before him. He said to the ocean, "O mother ocean! make way for me, or else I die." Forthwith the waters of the ocean stood up on two sides like two walls, leaving an open passage between them, and the youth passed through dryshod. Now, right before him were the gardens of the kataki flower. He entered the inclosure, and found himself in a spacious palace which seemed to be unoccupied. On going from apartment to apartment he found a young lady of more than earthly beauty sleeping on a bedstead of gold. He went near, and noticed two little sticks, one of gold and the other of silver, lying in the bedstead. The silver stick lay near the feet of the sleeping beauty, and the golden one near the head. He took up the sticks in his hands, and as he was examining them, the golden stick accidentally fell upon the feet of the lady. In a moment the lady woke and sat up, and said to the youth, "Stranger, how have you come to this dismal place? I know who you are, and I know your history. You are the youth with the moon on your forehead and stars on the palms of your hands. Flee, flee from this place! This is the residence of seven hundred Rakshasas who guard the gardens of the kataki flower. They have all gone a-hunting; they will return by sundown; and if they find you here you will be eaten up. One Rakshasi brought me from the earth where my father is king. She loves me very dearly, and will not let me go away. By means of these gold and silver sticks she kills me when she goes away in the morning, and by means of those sticks she revives me when she returns in the evening. Flee, flee hence, or you die!" The youth told the young lady how his sister wished very much to have the kataki flower, how he passed through the forest of kachiri, and how he crossed the ocean. He said also that he was determined not to go alone, he must take the young lady along with him. The remaining part of the day they spent together in rambling about the gardens. As the time was drawing near when the Rakshasas should return, the youth buried himself amid an enormous heap of kataki flower which lay in an adjoining apartment, after killing the young lady by touching her head with the golden stick. Just after sunset the youth heard the sound as of a mighty tempest: it was the return of the seven hundred Rakshasas into the gardens. One of them entered the apartment of the young lady, revived her, and said, "I smell a human being, I smell a human being." The young lady replied, "How can a human being come to this place? I am the only human being here." The Rakshasi then stretched herself on the floor, and told the young lady to shampoo her legs. As she was going on shampooing, she let fall a tear-drop on the Rakshasi's leg. "Why are you weeping, my dear child?" asked the raw-eater; "why are you weeping? Is anything troubling you?" "No, mamma," answered the young lady, "nothing is troubling me. What can trouble me, when you have made me so comfortable? I was only thinking what will become of me when you die." "When I die, child?" said the Rakshasi; "shall I die? Yes, of course all creatures die; but the death of a Rakshasa or Rakshasi will never happen. You know, child, that deep tank in the middle part of these gardens. Well, at the bottom of that tank there is a wooden box, in which there are a male and a female bee. It is ordained by fate that if a human being who has the moon on his forehead and stars on the palms of his hands were to come here and dive into that tank, and get hold of the same wooden box, and crush to death the male and female bees without letting a drop of their blood fall to the ground, then we should die. But the accomplishment of this decree of fate is, I think, impossible. For, in the first place, there can be no such human being who will have the moon on his forehead and stars on the palms of his hands; and, in the second place, if there be such a man, he will find it impossible to come to this place, guarded as it is by seven hundred of us, encompassed by a deep ocean, and barricaded by an impervious forest of kachiri--not to speak of the outposts and sentinels that are stationed on the other side of the forest. And then, even if he succeeds in coming here, he will perhaps not know the secret of the wooden box; and even if he knows of the secret of the wooden box, he may not succeed in killing the bees without letting a drop of their blood fall on the ground. And woe be to him if a drop does fall on the ground, for in that case he will be torn up into seven hundred pieces by us. You see then, child, that we are almost immortal--not actually, but virtually so. You may, therefore, dismiss your fears." On the next morning the Rakshasi got up, killed the young lady by means of the sticks, and went away in search of food along with other Rakshasas and Rakshasis. The lad, who had the moon on his forehead and stars on the palms of his hands, came out of the heap of flowers and revived the young lady. The young lady recited to the young man the whole of the conversation she had had with the Rakshasi. It was a perfect revelation to him. He, however, lost no time in beginning to act. He shut the heavy gates of the gardens. He dived into the tank and brought up the wooden box. He opened the wooden box, and caught hold of the male and female bees as they were about to escape. He crushed them on the palms of his hands, besmearing his body with every drop of their blood. The moment this was done, loud cries and groans were heard around about the inclosure of the gardens. Agreeably to the decree of fate all the Rakshasas approached the gardens and fell down dead. The youth with the moon on his forehead took as many kataki flowers as he could, together with their seeds, and left the palace, around which were lying in mountain heaps the carcases of the mighty dead, in company with the young and beautiful lady. The waters of the ocean retreated before the youth as before, and the forest of kachiri also opened up a passage through it; and the happy couple reached the house in the bazaar, where they were welcomed by the sister of the youth who had the moon on his forehead. On the following morning the youth, as usual, went to hunt. The king was also there. A deer passed by, and the youth shot an arrow. As he shot, the turban as usual fell off his head, and a bright light issued from it. The king saw and wondered. He told the youth to stop, as he wished to contract friendship with him. The youth told him to come to his house, and gave him his address. The king went to the house of the youth in the middle of the day. Pushpavati--for that was the name of the young lady that had been brought from beyond the ocean--told the king--for she knew the whole history--how his seventh queen had been persuaded by the other six queens to ring the bell twice before her time, how she was delivered of a beautiful boy and girl, how pups were substituted in their room, how the twins were saved in a miraculous manner in the house of the potter, how they were well treated in the bazaar, and how the youth with the moon on his forehead rescued her from the clutches of the Rakshasas. The king, mightily incensed with the six queens, had them, on the following day, buried alive in the ground. The seventh queen was then brought from the market-place and reinstated in her position; and the youth with the moon on his forehead, and the lovely Pushpavati and their sister, lived happily together. Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XX THE GHOST WHO WAS AFRAID OF BEING BAGGED Once on a time there lived a barber who had a wife. They did not live happily together, as the wife always complained that she had not enough to eat. Many were the curtain lectures which were inflicted upon the poor barber. The wife used often to say to her mate, "If you had not the means to support a wife, why did you marry me? People who have not means ought not to indulge in the luxury of a wife. When I was in my father's house I had plenty to eat, but it seems that I have come to your house to fast. Widows only fast; I have become a widow in your life-time." She was not content with mere words; she got very angry one day and struck her husband with the broomstick of the house. Stung with shame, and abhorring himself on account of his wife's reproach and beating, he left his house, with the implements of his craft, and vowed never to return and see his wife's face again till he had become rich. He went from village to village, and towards nightfall came to the outskirts of a forest. He laid himself down at the foot of a tree, and spent many a sad hour in bemoaning his hard lot. It so chanced that the tree, at the foot of which the barber was lying down, was dwelt in by a ghost. The ghost seeing a human being at the foot of the tree naturally thought of destroying him. With this intention the ghost alighted from the tree, and, with outspread arms and a gaping mouth, stood like a tall palmyra tree before the barber, and said, "Now, barber, I am going to destroy you. Who will protect you?" The barber, though quaking in every limb through fear, and his hair standing erect, did not lose his presence of mind, but, with that promptitude and shrewdness which are characteristic of his fraternity, replied, "O spirit, you will destroy me! wait a bit and I'll show you how many ghosts I have captured this very night and put into my bag; and right glad am I to find you here, as I shall have one more ghost in my bag." So saying the barber produced from his bag a small looking-glass, which he always carried about with him along with his razors, his whet-stone, his strop and other utensils, to enable his customers to see whether their beards had been well shaved or not. He stood up, placed the looking-glass right against the face of the ghost, and said, "Here you see one ghost which I have seized and bagged; I am going to put you also in the bag to keep this ghost company." The ghost, seeing his own face in the looking-glass, was convinced of the truth of what the barber had said, and was filled with fear. He said to the barber, "O, sir barber, I'll do whatever you bid me, only do not put me into your bag. I'll give you whatever you want." The barber said, "You ghosts are a faithless set, there is no trusting you. You will promise, and not give what you promise." "O, sir," replied the ghost, "be merciful to me; I'll bring to you whatever you order; and if I do not bring it, then put me into your bag." "Very well," said the barber, "bring me just now one thousand gold mohurs; and by to-morrow night you must raise a granary in my house, and fill it with paddy. Go and get the gold mohurs immediately: and if you fail to do my bidding you will certainly be put into my bag." The ghost gladly consented to the conditions. He went away, and in the course of a short time returned with a bag containing a thousand gold mohurs. The barber was delighted beyond measure at the sight of the gold mohurs. He then told the ghost to see to it that by the following night a granary was erected in his house and filled with paddy. It was during the small hours of the morning that the barber, loaded with the heavy treasure, knocked at the door of his house. His wife, who reproached herself for having in a fit of rage struck her husband with a broomstick, got out of bed and unbolted the door. Her surprise was great when she saw her husband pour out of the bag a glittering heap of gold mohurs. The next night the poor devil, through fear of being bagged, raised a large granary in the barber's house, and spent the live-long night in carrying on his back large packages of paddy till the granary was filled up to the brim. The uncle of this terrified ghost, seeing his worthy nephew carrying on his back loads of paddy, asked what the matter was. The ghost related what had happened. The uncle-ghost then said, "You fool, you think the barber can bag you! The barber is a cunning fellow; he has cheated you, like a simpleton as you are." "You doubt," said the nephew-ghost, "the power of the barber! come and see." The uncle-ghost then went to the barber's house, and peeped into it through a window. The barber, perceiving from the blast of wind which the arrival of the ghost had produced that a ghost was at the window, placed full before it the self-same looking-glass, saying, "Come now, I'll put you also into the bag." The uncle-ghost, seeing his own face in the looking-glass, got quite frightened, and promised that very night to raise another granary and to fill it, not this time with paddy, but with rice. So in two nights the barber became a rich man, and lived happily with his wife begetting sons and daughters. Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XXI THE FIELD OF BONES Once on a time there lived a king who had a son. The young prince had three friends, the son of the prime minister, the son of the prefect of the police, and the son of the richest merchant of the city. These four friends had great love for one another. Once on a time they bethought themselves of seeing distant lands. They accordingly set out one day, each one riding on a horse. They rode on and on, till about noon they came to the outskirts of what seemed to be a dense forest. There they rested a while, tying to the trees their horses, which began to browse. When they had refreshed themselves, they again mounted their horses and resumed their journey. At sunset they saw in the depths of the forest a temple, near which they dismounted, wishing to lodge there that night. Inside the temple there was a sannyasi, [43] apparently absorbed in meditation, as he did not notice the four friends. When darkness covered the forest, a light was seen inside the temple. The four friends resolved to pass the night on the balcony of the temple; and as the forest was infested with many wild beasts, they deemed it safe that each of them should watch one prahara [44] of the night, while the rest should sleep. It fell to the lot of the merchant's son to watch during the first prahara, that is to say, from six in the evening to nine o'clock at night. Towards the end of his watch the merchant's son saw a wonderful sight. The hermit took up a bone with his hand, and repeated over it some words which the merchant's son distinctly heard. The moment the words were uttered, a clattering sound was heard in the precincts of the temple, and the merchant's son saw many bones moving from different parts of the forest. The bones collected themselves inside the temple, at the foot of the hermit, and lay there in a heap. As soon as this took place, the watch of the merchant's son came to an end; and, rousing the son of the prefect of the police, he laid himself down to sleep. The prefect's son, when he began his watch, saw the hermit sitting cross-legged, wrapped in meditation, near a heap of bones, the history of which he, of course, did not know. For a long time nothing happened. The dead stillness of the night was broken only by the howl of the hyæna and the wolf, and the growl of the tiger. When his time was nearly up he saw a wonderful sight. The hermit looked at the heap of bones lying before him, and uttered some words which the prefect's son distinctly heard. No sooner had the words been uttered than a noise was heard among the bones, "and behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to its bone"; and the bones which were erewhile lying together in a heap now took the form of a skeleton. Struck with wonder, the prefect's son would have watched longer, but his time was over. He therefore laid himself down to sleep, after rousing the minister's son, to whom, however, he told nothing of what he had seen, as the merchant's son had not told him anything of what he had seen. The minister's son got up, rubbed his eyes, and began watching. It was the dead hour of midnight, when ghosts, hobgoblins, and spirits of every name and description, go roaming over the wide world, and when all creation, both animate and inanimate, is in deep repose. Even the howl of the wolf and the hyæna and the growl of the tiger had ceased. The minister's son looked towards the temple, and saw the hermit sitting wrapt up in meditation; and near him lying something which seemed to be the skeleton of some animal. He looked towards the dense forest and the darkness all around, and his hair stood on end through terror. In this state of fear and trembling he spent nearly three hours, when an uncommon sight in the temple attracted his notice. The hermit, looking at the skeleton before him, uttered some words which the minister's son distinctly heard. As soon as the words were uttered, "lo, the sinews and the flesh came up upon the bones, and the skin covered them above"; but there was no breath in the skeleton. Astonished at the sight, the minister's son would have sat up longer, but his time was up. He therefore laid himself down to sleep, after having roused the king's son, to whom, however, he said nothing of what he had seen and heard. The king's son, when he began his watch, saw the hermit sitting, completely absorbed in devotion, near a figure which looked like some animal, but he was not a little surprised to see the animal lying apparently lifeless, without showing any of the symptoms of life. The prince spent his hours agreeably enough, especially as he had had a long sleep, and as he felt none of that depression which the dead hour of midnight sheds on the spirits; and he amused himself with marking how the shades of darkness were becoming thinner and paler every moment. But just as he noticed a red streak in the east, he heard a sound from inside the temple. He turned his eyes towards the hermit. The hermit, looking towards the inanimate figure of the animal lying before him, uttered some words which the prince distinctly heard. The moment the words were spoken, "breath came into the animal; it lived, it stood up upon its feet"; and quickly rushed out of the temple into the forest. That moment the crows cawed; the watch of the prince came to an end; his three companions were roused; and after a short time they mounted their horses, and resumed their journey, each one thinking of the strange sight seen in the temple. They rode on and on through the dense and interminable forest, and hardly spoke to one another, till about mid-day they halted under a tree near a pool for refreshment. After they had refreshed themselves with eating some fruits of the forest and drinking water from the pool, the prince said to his three companions, "Friends, did you not see something in the temple of the devotee? I'll tell you what I saw, but first let me hear what you all saw. Let the merchant's son first tell us what he saw as he had the first watch; and the others will follow in order." Merchant's son. I'll tell you what I saw. I saw the hermit take up a bone in his hand, and repeat some words which I well remember. The moment those words were uttered, a clattering sound was heard in the precincts of the temple, and I saw many bones running into the temple from different directions. The bones collected themselves together inside the temple at the feet of the hermit, and lay there in a heap. I would have gladly remained longer to see the end, but my time was up, and I had to rouse my friend, the son of the prefect of the police. Prefect's son. Friends, this is what I saw. The hermit looked at the heap of bones lying before him, and uttered some words which I well remember. No sooner had the words been uttered than I heard a noise among the bones, and, strange to say, the bones jumped up, each bone joined itself to its fellow, and the heap became a perfect skeleton. At that moment my watch came to an end, and I had to rouse my respected friend the minister's son. Minister's son. Well, when I began my watch I saw the said skeleton lying near the hermit. After three mortal hours, during which I was in great fear, I saw the hermit lift his eyes towards the skeleton and utter some words which I well remember. As soon as the words were uttered the skeleton was covered with flesh and hair, but it did not show any symptom of life, as it lay motionless. Just then my watch ended, and I had to rouse my royal friend the prince. King's son. Friends, from what you yourselves saw, you can guess what I saw. I saw the hermit turn towards the skeleton covered with skin and hair, and repeat some words which I well remember. The moment the words were uttered, the skeleton stood up on its feet, and it looked a fine and lusty deer, and while I was admiring its beauty, it skipped out of the temple, and ran into the forest. That moment the crows cawed. The four friends, after hearing one another's story, congratulated themselves on the possession of supernatural power, and they did not doubt but that if they pronounced the words which they had heard the hermit utter, the utterance would be followed by the same results. But they resolved to verify their power by an actual experiment. Near the foot of the tree they found a bone lying on the ground, and they accordingly resolved to experiment upon it. The merchant's son took up the bone, and repeated over it the formula he had heard from the hermit. Wonderful to relate, a hundred bones immediately came rushing from different directions, and lay in a heap at the foot of the tree. The son of the prefect of the police then looking upon the heap of bones, repeated the formula which he had heard from the hermit, and forthwith there was a shaking among the bones; the several bones joined themselves together, and formed themselves into a skeleton, and it was the skeleton of a quadruped. The minister's son then drew near the skeleton, and, looking intently upon it, pronounced over it the formula which he had heard from the hermit. The skeleton immediately was covered with flesh, skin, and hair, and, horrible to relate, the animal proved itself to be a royal tiger of the largest size. The four friends were filled with consternation. If the king's son were, by the repetition of the formula he had heard from the hermit, to make the beast alive, it might prove fatal to them all. The three friends, therefore, tried to dissuade the prince from giving life to the tiger. But the prince would not comply with the request. He naturally said, "The mantras [45] which you have learned have been proved true and efficacious. But how shall I know that the mantra which I have learned is equally efficacious? I must have my mantra verified. Nor is it certain that we shall lose our lives by the experiment. Here is this high tree. You can climb into its topmost branches, and I shall also follow you thither after pronouncing the mantra." In vain did the three friends dwell upon the extreme danger attending the experiment: the prince remained inexorable. The minister's son, the prefect's son, and the merchant's son climbed up into the topmost branches of the tree, while the king's son went up to the middle of the tree. From there, looking intently upon the lifeless tiger, he pronounced the words which he had learned from the hermit, and quickly ran up the tree. In the twinkling of an eye the tiger stood upright, gave out a terrible growl, with a tremendous spring killed all the four horses which were browsing at a little distance, and, dragging one of them, rushed towards the densest part of the forest. The four friends ensconced on the branches of the tree were almost petrified with fear at the sight of the terrible tiger; but the danger was now over. The tiger went off at a great distance from them, and from its growl they judged that it must be at least two miles distance from them. After a little they came down from the tree; and as they now had no horses on which to ride, they walked on foot through the forest, till, coming to its end, they reached the shore of the sea. They sat on the sea-shore hoping to see some ship sailing by. They had not sat long, when fortunately they descried a vessel in the offing. They waved their handkerchiefs, and made all sorts of signs to attract the notice of the people on board the ship. The captain and the crew noticed the men on the shore. They came towards the shore, took the men upon board, but added that as they were short of provisions they could not have them a long time on board, but would put them ashore at the first port they came to. After four or five days' voyage, they saw not far from the shore high buildings and turrets, and supposing the place to be a large city, the four friends landed there. The four friends, immediately after landing, walked along a long avenue of stately trees, at the end of which was a bazaar. There were hundreds of shops in the bazaar, but not a single human being in them. There were sweetmeat shops in which there were heaps of confectioneries ranged in regular rows, but no human beings to sell them. There was the blacksmith's shop, there was the anvil, there were the bellows and the other tools of the smithy, but there was no smith there. There were stalls in which there were heaps of faded and dried vegetables, but no men or women to sell them. The streets were all deserted, no human beings, no cattle were to be seen there. There were carts, but no bullocks; there were carriages, but no horses. The doors and windows of the houses of the city on both sides of the streets were all open, but no human being was visible in them. It seemed to be a deserted city. It seemed to be a city of the dead--and all the dead taken out and buried. The four friends were astonished--they were frightened at the sight. As they went on, they approached a magnificent pile of buildings, which seemed to be the palace of a king. They went to the gate and to the porter's lodge. They saw shields, swords, spears, and other weapons suspended in the lodge, but no porters. They entered the premises, but saw no guards, no human beings. They went to the stables, saw the troughs, grain, and grass lying about in profusion, but no horses. They went inside the palace, passed the long corridors--still no human being was visible. They went through six long courts--still no human being. They entered the seventh court, and there and then, for the first time, did they see living human beings. They saw coming towards them four princesses of matchless beauty. Each of these four princesses caught hold of the arm of each of the four friends; and each princess called each man whom she had caught hold of her husband. The princesses said that they had been long waiting for the four friends, and expressed great joy at their arrival. The princesses took the four friends into the innermost apartments, and gave them a sumptuous feast. There were no servants attending them, the princesses themselves bringing in the provisions and setting them before the four friends. At the outset the four princesses told the four friends that no questions were to be asked about the depopulation of the city. After this, each princess went into her private apartment along with her newly-found husband. Shortly after the prince and princess had retired into their private apartment, the princess began to shed tears. On the prince inquiring into the cause, the princess said, "O prince! I pity you very much. You seem, by your bearing, to be the son of a king, and you have, no doubt, the heart of a king's son; I will therefore tell you my whole story, and the story of my three companions who look like princesses. I am the daughter of a king, whose palace this is, and those three creatures, who are dressed like princesses, and who have called your three friends their husbands, are Rakshasis. They came to this city some time ago; they ate up my father, the king, my mother, the queen, my brothers, my sisters, of whom I had a large number. They ate up the king's ministers and servants. They ate up gradually all the people of the city, all my father's horses and elephants, and all the cattle of the city. You must have noticed, as you came to the palace, that there are no human beings, no cattle, no living thing in this city. They have all been eaten up by those three Rakshasis. They have spared me alone--and that, I suppose, only for a time. When the Rakshasis saw you and your friends from a distance, they were very glad, as they mean to eat you all up after a short time." King's son. But if this is the case, how do I know that you are not a Rakshasi yourself? Perhaps you mean to swallow me up by throwing me off my guard. Princess. I'll mention one fact which proves that those three creatures are Rakshasis, while I am not. Rakshasis, you know, eat food a hundred times larger in quantity than men or women. What the Rakshasis eat at table along with us is not sufficient to appease their hunger. They therefore go out at night to distant lands in search of men or cattle, as there are none in this city. If you ask your friends to watch and see whether their wives remain all night in their beds, they will find they go out and stay away a good part of the night, whereas you will find me the whole night with you. But please see that the Rakshasis do not get the slightest inkling of all this; for if they hear of it, they will kill me in the first instance, and afterwards swallow you all up. The next day the king's son called together the minister's son, the prefect's son, and the merchant's son, and held a consultation, enjoining the strictest secrecy on all. He told them what he had heard from the princess, and requested them to lie awake in their beds to watch whether their pretended princesses went out at night or not. One presumptive argument in favour of the assertion of the princess was that all the pretended princesses were fast asleep during the whole of the day in consequence of their nightly wanderings, whereas the female friend of the king's son did not sleep at all during the day. The three friends accordingly lay in their beds at night pretending to be asleep and manifesting all the symptoms of deep sleep. Each one observed that his female friend at a certain hour, thinking her mate to be in deep sleep, left the room, stayed away the whole night, and returned to her bed only at dawn. During the following day each female friend slept out nearly the whole day, and woke up only in the afternoon. For two nights and days the three friends observed this. The king's son also remained awake at night pretending to be asleep, but the princess was not observed for a single moment to leave the room, nor was she observed to sleep in the day. From these circumstances the friends of the king's son began to suspect that their partners were really Rakshasis as the princess said they were. By way of confirmation the princess also told the king's son, that the Rakshasis, after eating the flesh of men and animals, threw the bones towards the north of the city, where there was an immense collection of them. The king's son and his three friends went one day towards that part of the city, and sure enough they saw there immense heaps of the bones of men and animals piled up into hills. From this they became more and more convinced that the three women were Rakshasis in deed and truth. The question now was how to run away from these devourers of men and animals? There was one circumstance greatly in favour of the four friends, and that was, that the three Rakshasis slept during nearly the whole day; they had therefore the greater part of the day for the maturing of their plans. The princess advised them to go towards the sea-shore, and watch if any ships sailed that way. The four friends accordingly used to go to the sea-shore looking for ships. They were always accompanied by the princess, who took the precaution of carrying with her in a bundle her most valuable jewels, pearls and precious stones. It happened one day that they saw a ship passing at a great distance from the shore. They made signs which attracted the notice of the captain and crew. The ship came towards the land, and the four friends and princess were, after much entreaty, taken up. The princess exhorted the crew to row with all their might, for which she promised them a handsome reward; for she knew that the Rakshasis would awake in the afternoon, and immediately come after the ship; and they would assuredly catch hold of the vessel and destroy all the crew and passengers if it stood short of eighty miles from land, for the Rakshasis had the power of distending their bodies to the length of ten Yojanas. [46] The four friends and the princess cheered on the crew, and the oarsmen rowed with all their might; and the ship, favoured by the wind, shot over the deep like lightning. It was near sun-down when a terrible yell was heard on the shore. The Rakshasis had wakened from their sleep, and not finding either the four friends or the princess, naturally thought they had got hold of a ship and were escaping. They therefore ran along the shore with lightning rapidity, and seeing the ship afar off they distended their bodies. But fortunately the vessel was more than eighty miles off land, though only a trifle more: indeed, the ship was so dangerously near that the heads of the Rakshasis with their widely-distended jaws almost touched its stern. The words which the Rakshasis uttered in the hearing of the crew and passengers were--"O sister, so you are going to eat them all yourself alone." The minister's son, the prefect's son, and the merchant's son had all along a suspicion that the pretended princess, the prince's partner, might after all also be a Rakshasi; that suspicion was now confirmed by what they heard the three Rakshasis say. Those words, however, produced no effect in the mind of the king's son, as from his intimate acquaintance with the princess he could not possibly take her to be a Rakshasi. The captain told the four friends and princess that as he was bound for distant regions in search of gold mines, he could not take them along with him; he, therefore, proposed that on the next day he should put them ashore near some port, especially as they were now safe from the clutches of the Rakshasis. On the following day no port was visible for a long time; towards the evening, however, they came near a port where the four friends and the princess were landed. After walking some distance, the princess, who had never been accustomed to take long walks, complained of fatigue and hunger; they all therefore sat under a tree, and the king's son sent the merchant's son to buy some sweetmeats in the bazaar which they heard was not far off. The merchant's son did not return, as he was fully persuaded in his mind that the king's son's partner was as real a Rakshasi as the three others from whose clutches he had escaped. Seeing the delay of the merchant's son, the king's son sent the prefect's son after him; but neither did he return, he being also convinced that the pretended princess was a Rakshasi. The minister's son was next sent; but he also joined the other two. The king's son then himself went to the shop of the sweetmeat seller where he met his three friends, who made him remain with them by main force, earnestly declaring that the woman was no princess, but a real Rakshasi like the other three. Thus the princess was deserted by the four friends who returned to their own country, full of the adventures they had met with. In the meantime the princess walked to the bazaar and found shelter for a few days in the house of a poor woman, after which she set out for the city of the four friends, the name and whereabouts of which city she had learnt from the king's son. On arriving at the city, she sold some of her costly ornaments, pearls and precious stones, and hired a stately house for her residence with a suitable establishment. She caused herself to be proclaimed as a heaven-born dice-player, and challenged all the players in the city to play, the conditions of the game being that if she lost it she would give the winner a lakh [47] of rupees, and if she won it she should get a lakh from him who lost the game. She also got authority from the king of the country to imprison in her own house any one who could not pay her the stipulated sum of money. The merchant's son, the prefect's son, and the minister's son, who all looked upon themselves as miraculous players, played with the princess, paid her many lakhs, but being unable to pay her all the sums they owed her, were imprisoned in her house. At last the king's son offered to play with her. The princess purposely allowed him to win the first game, which emboldened him to play many times, in all of which he was the loser; and being unable to pay the many lakhs owing her, the prince was about to be dragged into the dungeon, when the princess told him who she was. The merchant's son, the prefect's son, and the minister's son were brought out of their cells; and the joy of the four friends knew no bounds. The king and the queen received their daughter-in-law with open arms, and with demonstrations of great festivity. Every one in the palace was glad except the princess. She could not forget that her parents, her brothers and sisters had been devoured by the Rakshasis, and that their bones, along with the bones of her father's subjects, stood in mountain heaps on the north side of the capital. The prince had told her that he and his three friends had the power of giving life to bones. They could then reconstruct the frames of her parents and other relatives; but the difficulty lay in this--how to kill the three Rakshasis. Could not the hermit, who taught them to give life, not teach also how to take away life? In all likelihood he could. Reasoning in this manner, the four friends and the princess went to the temple of the hermit in the forest, prayed to him to give them the secret of destroying life from a distance by a charm. The hermit became propitious, and granted the boon. A deer was passing by at the moment. The hermit took a handful of water, repeated over it some words which the king's son distinctly heard, and threw it upon the deer. The deer died in a moment. He repeated other words over the dead animal, the deer jumped up and ran away into the forest. Armed with this killing charm, the king's son, together with the princess and the three friends, went to his father-in-law's capital. As they approached the city of death, the three Rakshasis ran furiously towards them with open jaws. The king's son spilled charmed water upon them, and they died in an instant. They all then went to the heaps of bones. The merchant's son brought together the proper bones of the bodies, the prefect's son constructed them into skeletons, the minister's son clothed them with sinews, flesh, and skin, and the king's son gave them life. The princess was entranced at the sight of the re-animation of her parents and other relatives, and her eyes were filled with tears of joy. After a few days which they spent in great festivity, they left the revivified city, went to their own country, and lived many years in great happiness. Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth, etc. XXII THE BALD WIFE A certain man had two wives, the younger of whom he loved more than the elder. The younger wife had two tufts of hair on her head, and the elder only one. The man went to a distant town for merchandise; so the two wives lived together in the house. But they hated each other: the younger one, who was her husband's favourite, ill-treated the other. She made her do all the menial work in the house; rebuked her all day and night; and did not give her enough to eat. One day the younger wife said to the elder, "Come and take away all the lice from the hair of my head." While the elder wife was searching among the younger one's hair for the vermin, one lock of hair by chance gave way; on which the younger one, mightily incensed, tore off the single tuft that was on the head of the elder wife, and drove her away from the house. The elder wife, now become completely bald, determined to go into the forest, and there either die of starvation or be devoured by some wild beast. On her way she passed by a cotton plant. She stopped near it, made for herself a broom with some sticks which lay about, and swept clean the ground round about the plant. The plant was much pleased, and gave her a blessing. She wended on her way, and now saw a plantain tree. She swept the ground round about the plantain tree which, being pleased with her, gave her a blessing. As she went on she saw the shed of a Brahmani bull. As the shed was very dirty, she swept the place clean, on which the bull, being much pleased, blessed her. She next saw a tulasi plant, bowed herself down before it, and cleaned the place round about, on which the plant gave her a blessing. As she was going on in her journey she saw a hut made of branches of trees and leaves, and near it a man sitting cross-legged, apparently absorbed in meditation. She stood for a moment behind the venerable muni. "Whoever you may be," he said, "come before me; do not stand behind me; if you do, I will reduce you to ashes." The woman, trembling with fear, stood before the muni. "What is your petition?" asked the muni. "Father Muni," answered the woman, "thou knowest how miserable I am, since thou art all-knowing. My husband does not love me, and his other wife, having torn off the only tuft of hair on my head, has driven me away from the house. Have pity upon me, Father Muni!" The muni, continuing sitting, said, "Go into the tank which you see yonder. Plunge into the water only once, and then come to me again." The woman went to the tank, washed in it, and plunged into the water only once, according to the bidding of the muni. When she got out of the water, what a change was seen in her! Her head was full of jet black hair, which was so long that it touched her heels; her complexion had become perfectly fair; and she looked young and beautiful. Filled with joy and gratitude, she went to the muni, and bowed herself to the ground. The muni said to her, "Rise, woman. Go inside the hut, and you will find a number of wicker baskets, and bring out any you like." The woman went into the hut, and selected a modest-looking basket. The muni said, "Open the basket." She opened it, and found it filled with ingots of gold, pearls and all sorts of precious stones. The muni said, "Woman, take that basket with you. It will never get empty. When you take away the present contents their room will be supplied by another set, and that by another, and that by another, and the basket will never become empty. Daughter, go in peace." The woman bowed herself down to the ground in profound but silent gratitude, and went away. As she was returning homewards with the basket in her hand, she passed by the tulasi plant whose bottom she had swept. The tulasi plant said to her, "Go in peace, child! thy husband will love thee warmly." She next came to the shed of the Brahmani bull, who gave her two shell ornaments which were twined round its horns, saying, "Daughter, take these shells, put them on your wrists, and whenever you shake either of them you will get whatever ornaments you wish to obtain." She then came to the plantain tree, which gave her one of its broad leaves, saying, "Take, child, this leaf; and when you move it you will get not only all sorts of delicious plantains, but all kinds of agreeable food." She came last of all to the cotton plant, which gave her one of its own branches, saying, "Daughter, take this branch; and when you shake it you will get not only all sorts of cotton clothes, but also of silk and purple. Shake it now in my presence." She shook the branch, and a fabric of the finest glossy silk fell on her lap. She put on that silk cloth, and wended on her way with the shells on her wrists, and the basket and the branch and the leaf in her hands. The younger wife was standing at the door of her house, when she saw a beautiful woman approach her. She could scarcely believe her eyes. What a change! The old, bald hag turned into the very Queen of Beauty herself! The elder wife, now grown rich and beautiful, treated the younger wife with kindness. She gave her fine clothes, costly ornaments, and the richest viands. But all to no purpose. The younger wife envied the beauty and hair of her associate. Having heard that she got it all from Father Muni in the forest, she determined to go there. Accordingly she started on her journey. She saw the cotton plant, but did nothing to it; she passed by the plantain tree, the shed of the Brahmani bull, and the tulasi plant, without taking any notice of them. She approached the muni. The muni told her to bathe in the tank, and plunge only once into the water. She gave one plunge, at which she got a glorious head of hair and a beautifully fair complexion. She thought a second plunge would make her still more beautiful. Accordingly she plunged into the water again, and came out as bald and ugly as before. She came to the muni, and wept. The sage drove her away, saying, "Be off, you disobedient woman. You will get no boon from me." She went back to her house mad with grief. The lord of the two women returned from his travels and was struck with the long locks and beauty of his first wife. He loved her dearly; and when he saw her secret and untold resources and her incredible wealth, he almost adored her. They lived together happily for many years, and had for their maid-servant the younger woman, who had been formerly his best beloved. Here my story endeth, The Natiya-thorn withereth; "Why, O Natiya-thorn, dost wither?" "Why does thy cow on me browse?" "Why, O cow, dost thou browse?" "Why does thy neat-herd not tend me?" "Why, O neat-herd, dost not tend the cow?" "Why does thy daughter-in-law not give me rice?" "Why, O daughter-in-law, dost not give rice?" "Why does my child cry?" "Why, O child, dost thou cry?" "Why does the ant bite me?" "Why, O ant, dost thou bite?" Koot! koot! koot! NOTES [1] Kings, in Bengali folk-tales, have invariably two queens--the elder is called duo, that is, not loved; and the younger is called suo, that is, loved. [2] Dalim or dadimba means a pomegranate, and kumara son. [3] Bidhata-Purusha is the deity that predetermines all the events of the life of man or woman, and writes on the forehead of the child, on the sixth day of its birth, a brief precis of them. [4] There are eight forms of marriage spoken of in the Hindu Sastras, of which the Gandharva is one, consisting in the exchange of garlands. [5] Alakta is leaves or flimsy paper saturated with lac. [6] A sort of open Palki, used generally for carrying the bridegroom and bride in marriage processions. [7] Handi is an earthen pot, generally used in cooking food. [8] Mudki, fried paddy boiled dry in treacle or sugar. [9] A sort of sweetmeat made of curds and sugar. [10] Rakshasas and Rakshasis (male and female) are in Hindu mythology huge giants and giantesses, or rather demons. The word means literally raw-eaters; they were probably the chiefs of the aborigines whom the Aryans overthrew on their first settlement in the country. [11] Dasi is a general name for all maid-servants. [12] Sphatika is crystal, and sthambha pillar. [13] Bathing-place, either in a tank or on the bank of a river, generally furnished with flights of steps. [14] Professional match-makers. [15] Manik, or rather manikya, is a fabulous precious stone of incredible value. It is found on the head of some species of snakes, and is equal in value to the wealth of seven kings. [16] Venus, the Morning Star. [17] The seat on the back of an elephant. [18] Sri is another name of Lakshmi, and batsa means child; so that Sribatsa is literally the "child of fortune." [19] Shells used as money, one hundred and sixty of which could have been got a few years ago for one pice. [20] Fried paddy. [21] This story is not my own. It was recited to me by a story-teller of the other sex who rejoices in the nom de plume "An Inmate of the Calcutta Lunatic Asylum." [22] A holy sage. [23] The tutelary goddess of a king's household. [24] A vessel, made generally of brass, for keeping the pan leaf together with betel-nut and other spices. [25] A towel used in bathing. [26] A sort of bed made of rope, supported by posts of wood. [27] The sacred basil. [28] Zenana is not the name of a province in India, as the good people of Scotland the other day took it to be, but the innermost department of a Hindu or Mohammedan house which the women occupy. [29] A religious mendicant. [30] Sankchinnis or Sankhachurnis are female ghosts of white complexion. They usually stand at the dead of night at the foot of trees, and look like sheets of white cloth. [31] An exorcist, one who drives away ghosts from possessed persons. [32] The ghost of a Brahman who dies unmarried. [33] A bigha is about the third part of an acre. [34] The chariot of Kuvera, the Hindu god of riches. [35] "Hiraman (from harit, green, and mani, a gem), the name of a beautiful species of parrot, a native of the Molucca Islands (Psittacus sinensis)."--Carey's Dictionary of the Bengalee Language, vol. ii. part iii. p. 1537. [36] Winged horse, literally, the king of birds. [37] Khai is fried paddy. [38] A name for a jackal, not unlike Reynard in Europe. [39] The god who presides over marriages. [40] Calotropis gigantea. [41] Literally the king of birds, a fabulous species of horse remarkable for their swiftness. [42] Arum fornicatum. [43] Religious devotee. [44] Eighth part of twenty-four hours, that is, three hours. [45] Charm or incantation. [46] A yojana is nearly eight miles. [47] Ten thousand pounds sterling. THE END 
45671	----	Transcriber's Note Illustration captions in {braces} have been added by the transcriber for the convenience of the reader. MYTH-LAND. BY F. EDWARD HULME, F.L.S., F.S.A. AUTHOR OF "FAMILIAR WILD FLOWERS," ETC. ETC. "Far away in the twilight time Of every people, in every clime, Dragons and griffins and monsters dire. Born of water, or air, or fire, Or nursed, like the Python, in the mud And ooze of the old Deucalion flood, Crawl, and wriggle, and foam with rage, Through dark tradition and ballad age." Whittier. LONDON SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON, CROWN BUILDINGS, 188 FLEET STREET. 1886. [_All rights reserved._] [Decoration] PREFACE. The nucleus of the following pages was originally written in the form of two short papers to be read at the meetings of a Public School Natural History Society. Since then, finding materials rapidly growing on our hands, we have been gradually amplifying our notes on the subject until they have grown to the present dimensions; for, to quote the quaint words of Thomas Fuller, "when there is no recreation or business for thee abroad, thou may'st then have a company of honest old fellows in leathern jackets in thy study, which may find thee excellent divertisement at home." Our researches in pursuit of the marvellous, through the works of divers and sundry old writers, have been so far entertaining and interesting to us that we would fain hope that they may not be altogether received without favour by others. Our subject naturally divides itself into two very obvious sections--the one dealing with wholly untrue and impossible creatures of the fancy, the other with the strange beliefs and fancies that have clustered round the real creatures we see around us. It will readily be discovered that we have confined ourselves in the present volume almost entirely to the first of these sections. Should our present labours prove acceptable they may readily be followed by a companion volume, at least as entertaining, dealing with the second section of our subject. [Decoration] [Decoration] CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Introduction--"A Description of 300 Animals"--Unicorn--The Bible Unicorn--The Heraldic Unicorn--The Horn as a Poison Test--The Unicorn of Mediæval Legend--Wolf Causing Dumbness--The Rompo or Man-Eater--The Manticora--The Lamia--Stag Antipathies--Dragons-- Dragon-Slaying--Legends of the Saints--The "Legenda Aurea"--St. George--Mediæval Recipes--The "Historia Monstrorum" of Aldrovandus-- The Dragon in Heraldry--The Dragon of Wantley--Dragons' Teeth--The Dragonnades--The Dragons of Shakespeare--Guardians of Treasure--The Feud between the Dragon and the Elephant--The "Bestiare Divin" of Guillaume--The Cockatrice--The Basilisk--The Phoenix: Its Literary Existence from Herodotus to Shakespeare--The Dun-Cow of Warwick--Sir Guy, and Percie's "Reliques of Antient Poetry"--Old Ribs and other Bones in Churches--The Salamander--Breydenbach's Travels--The "Bestiary" of De Thaun--The Ylio--The Griffin--The Arimaspians-- Burton's "Miracles of Art and Nature"--The Lomie--The Tartarian Vegetable Lamb--The Sea-Elephant--Pegasus--The Vampyre--The Chameleon 1-80 CHAPTER II. The Sphinx--The Chimæra--The Centaurs--The Origin of the Myth--The Onocentaur--Sagittarius--Satyrs and Fauns--The Harpys, described by Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, Milton, and others--The Echidna--The Gorgon--The Hydra--The Sirens--The Lurlei--Mermaids--The Manatee-- Dog-Headed Men of Brazil--The One-Eyed Cyclops and Briaræus of the Hundred Arms--The Headless Men or Anthropophagi--Sir Walter Raleigh's El Dorado--Claw-Footed Men--The Marvels of Hackluyt and Mandeville-- The Long-Eared Fanesii--The Fairies--The "Discoverie of Witchcraft"-- The Little Good People--Fairy-Rings--Elf-Music--Changelings-- Elf-Possession--Spirits of the Mine, or Knockers--Robin Goodfellow-- Queen Mab--The Phoca or Storm-Spirit--The Kelpie--Jack-o'-Lantern-- The Pigmies--Giants--Early Sculptures--Gigantic Men of Antiquity 81-132 CHAPTER III. Comparatively Small Number of Mythical Bird-Forms--The Martlet--The Bird of Paradise--The Humma--The Huppe--The Ibis--The Roc--The Hameh Bird--Reptiles, Fish, &c.--The Sea-Serpent--The Adissechen of Hindu Mythology--The Iormungandur of Scandinavian Mythology-- The Egg Talisman--Fire-Drake--Aspis--Amphisbena--Kraken--Cetus-- Leviathan--Behemoth--Nautilus--Dolphin--The Acipenser--The Remora-- The Fish Nun--The Chilon--The Dies--Sea-Bishops and Sea-Monks--Davy Jones and his Locker--Ojibiway Legend of the Great Serpent--Fabledom in the Vegetable Kingdom--The Barnacle Tree--The Kalpa-Tarou--The Lote Tree--The Tree of Life--Lotus-Eating--Amaranth--Lotus Wreaths at Kew from the Egyptian Tombs--Asphodel--Mediæval Herbals-- Ambrosia--The Upas Tree--The Umdhlebi Tree of Zululand--The Kerzereh Flower--The Mandrake--"Miracles of Art and Nature"--Travellers' Tales--The Dead Sea Apple--Alimos--The Meto--The Herb Viva--Cockeram on Herb-Lore--The Pseudodoxia of Dr. Browne--Herb Basil--The "Eikon Basilike"--Fitzherbert's "Boke of Husbandry" 133-205 Appendix 207 Index 235 [Decoration] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE The Unicorn (from a "Description of 300 Animals," A.D. 1786) 5 The Manticora (from a "Description of 300 Animals," A.D. 1786) 13 The Lamia (from a "Description of 300 Animals," A.D. 1786) 13 Dragons (from a "Description of 300 Animals," A.D. 1786) 17 The Sea-Elephant 72 Dragon, from a piece of Italian decoration 79 The Sea-Lion 160 The Harpy (from the "Historia Monstrorum" of Aldrovandus, A.D. 1642) 161 The Barnacle Tree, from Gerarde's "Herbal," A.D. 1633 169 The Barnacle Tree (from the "Theatrum Botanicum" of Parkinson, A.D. 1640) 173 The Barnacle Tree (from "Munster's Cosmography," A.D. 1550) 174 The Palm (from the "Eikon Basilike," A.D. 1648) 203 [Decoration] [Decoration] MYTH-LAND. CHAPTER I. Introduction--"A Description of 300 Animals"--Unicorn--The Bible Unicorn--The Heraldic Unicorn--The Horn as a Poison Test--The Unicorn of Mediæval Legend--Wolf Causing Dumbness--The Rompo or Man-eater--The Manticora--The Lamia--Stag Antipathies--Dragons--Dragon-slaying-- Legends of the Saints--The "Legenda Aurea"--St. George--Mediæval Recipes--The "Historia Monstrorum" of Aldrovandus--The Dragon in Heraldry--The Dragon of Wantley--Dragons' Teeth--The Dragonnades--The Dragons of Shakespeare--Guardians of Treasure--The Feud between the Dragon and the Elephant--The "Bestiare Divin" of Guillaume--The Cockatrice--The Basilisk--The Phoenix--Its Literary Existence from Herodotus to Shakespeare--The Dun-Cow of Warwick--Sir Guy, and Percie's "Reliques of Antient Poetry"--Old Ribs and other Bones in Churches--The Salamander--Breydenbach's Travels--The "Bestiary" of De Thaun--The Ylio--The Griffin--The Arimaspians--Burton's "Miracles of Art and Nature"--The Lomie--The Tartarian Vegetable Lamb--The Sea-Elephant--Pegasus--The Vampyre--The Chameleon. All science is a gradual growth. Travellers as they toil up a long ascent turn round from time to time, and mark with satisfaction the ever-lengthening way that stretches between them and their distant starting-place, and derive a further encouragement from the sight to press onward to the yet unknown. So may we in this our day compare ourselves, in no offensive and vainglorious way, with the men of the past, and gain renewed courage in the future as we leave their ancient landmarks far behind us. Shame, indeed, would it be to us had we not thus advanced, for our opportunities of gaining knowledge are immeasurably greater than those of any preceding generation. The old herbals and books of travels abound in curious examples of the quaint beliefs of our forefathers, while their treatises on natural history are a still richer storehouse. Many of the old tomes, again, on the science of heraldry give other curious notions respecting the different animals introduced. Some of these animals, as the dragon or the griffin, are undoubtedly of the most mythical nature, yet we find them described in the most perfect good faith, and without the slightest suspicion as to their real existence. We shall have occasion to refer to several of the works of these old writers, and we will, without further preface, take down from our book-shelf a little book entitled "A Description of 300 Animals."[1] [1] The name of Thomas Bewick is to all book-collectors "familiar in their mouths as household words," and we rarely read the account of the dispersal of any large library or the choice collection of some bibliophile without finding that it contained a choice edition of Bewick's "quadrupeds" or "birds"--a "lot" that always calls for a keen competition. It is interesting to know that the book we have named above considerably influenced him, and in no slight degree led to the production of the works that will always remain his monument, for we find him writing to a friend of his--"From my first reading, when a boy at school, a sixpenny history of birds and beasts, and then a wretched composition called the 'History of Three Hundred Animals,' to the time I became acquainted with works of natural history written for the perusal of men, I was never without the design of attempting something of this kind myself." No one person appears on the title-page as author, but it is stated that it is extracted from the best authorities and adapted to the use of all capacities. It is also illustrated with copper-plates "whereon is curiously engraven every beast, bird, fish, serpent, and insect, described in the whole book." The word "curiously" is very happily chosen, and most happily describes the extraordinary nature of the illustrations. The preface shows us that the primary intention of the book was the instruction and entertainment of the young, and after wading painfully through the cumbrous Roman figures, the long array of C's, X's, and the like, we find that the date of the treatise was 1786, or just a hundred years ago. Let us, then, dip here and there into it and see what "the best authorities" could teach our grandfathers when their youthful minds would know something of the wonders of creation. The lion, as the king of beasts, heads the list. "He is generally of a dun colour, but not without some exceptions, as black, white, and red, in Ethiopia and some other parts of Africa." The red lion, then, it would appear, is no mere creation of the licensed victualler or Garter King-at-Arms, no mere fancy to deck a signboard withal or emblazon on a shield of honour, but a living verity; and we may pause to remark that almost all the most wonderful things in the book have their home in Africa, not as now the playground of the Royal Geographical Society, but an unknown land full of wonder and mystery, of which nothing is too marvellous to be impossible. We are told, too, that the lion sleeps with his eyes open, and many other curious details follow. On the next page the unicorn is in all sober seriousness described. "His head resembles a hart's, his feet an elephant's, his tail a boar's, and the rest of his body a horse's. The horn is about a foot and a half in length, his voice is like the lowing of an ox, his horn is as hard as iron and as rough as any file." Burton in his "Miracles of Art and Nature," published in 1678, says that in Ethiopia "some Kine there are which have Horns like Stags; other but one Horn only, and that in the Forehead, about a foot and a half long, but bending backward." It will be seen that Burton does not identify these with the so-called unicorn, but the passage is in some degree suggestive. Any one who has noticed the fine series of antelopes in the collection of the Zoological Society of London will scarcely have failed to observe the length and straightness of the horns of some of the species, while they are often so close together and so nearly parallel in direction, that any one seeing the animals at a little distance away, and so standing that one of their horns covers the other, might well be excused for starting the idea of single-horned animals. Great virtues are attributed to the horn of the unicorn, as the expelling of poison and the curing of many diseases. The unicorn is very familiar to us as one of the supporters of the royal arms, but the form we know so well does not altogether agree with that described. The heraldic unicorn is in all respects a horse save and except the horn, while our old author tells us of the head of a stag and the feet of an elephant. The creature is sometimes referred to in our English version of the Bible, and has thus become one of the animals introduced in symbolic and religious art. In some of the passages it would clearly seem to indicate that in the very early days dealt with in some of the books of the Bible there was a general belief in some such creature, while in others probably the word is rather introduced in error by our translators--an error that may very well be pardoned when we find the animal gravely described in the much more recent book before us. In the book of Job, the earliest in point of time in the whole Bible, the belief in some such animal seems very distinctly indicated in the words, "Will the unicorn be willing to serve thee or abide by thy crib? Canst thou bind the unicorn with his band in the furrow, or will he harrow the valleys after thee?" In the 92d Psalm the peculiar feature that gives the creature its name is especially referred to in the words, "My horn shalt thou exalt like the horn of a unicorn." The reference is always to some wild and powerful animal; thus in Exodus we read, "His horns are like the horns of unicorns;" and again in one of the psalms we find David crying, "Save me from the lion's mouth, for Thou hast heard me from the horns of the unicorns." Other passages might be quoted, but these will amply suffice to indicate the very early belief in some such creature. The form is frequently seen in the earliest Christian art, as in the catacombs of Rome, the havens of refuge for the living and the resting-places of the dead followers of the new faith. Our illustration is a facsimile of that in the "Description of 300 Animals." [Illustration: {THE UNICORN}] For some reason that we cannot now discover, the unicorn was an especial favourite with the Scotch heralds, and it is from them that we derive it in our royal arms. Before the union of the two monarchies the supporters of the arms of the English monarchs had been very various, though in almost every case a lion had been one of the two employed,[2] while in Scotland for several reigns before the amalgamation of the two countries the supporters had been two unicorns. It was very naturally arranged, therefore, when the two kingdoms were fused together on the death of Elizabeth, that the joint shield should be supported by the lion of England and the unicorn of Scotland. The creature freely occurs as a device on the Scottish coinage; one piece especially is by collectors called the unicorn, from the conspicuous introduction of the national device. [2] As for example:--Henry VI., Lion and Antelope; Edward IV., Lion and Bull; Edward V., Two Lions; Richard III., Lion and Boar; Henry VII., Lion and Dragon; Henry VIII., Lion and Dragon; Mary, Lion and Greyhound; Elizabeth, Lion and Greyhound. We have already indicated that potent virtues were believed to reside in the horn of the unicorn. In the Comptes Royaux of France in 1391 we find a golden cup with a slice of this horn in it for testing the food of the Dauphin, and again in the inventory of Charles V.--"Une touche de licorne, garnie d'or, pour faire essay." Decker, again, in 1609 speaks of "the unicorn, whose horn is worth a city." In Mrs. Bury Palliser's most interesting work of "Historic Badges and Devices" we find an illustration of the standard of Bartolomeo d'Alviano. He was a great champion of the Orsini family, and took a leading part in all the feuds that devastated Central Europe during his lifetime. His standard bears the unicorn, surrounded by snakes, toads, and other reptiles then rightly or wrongly held poisonous; these he is moving aside with his horn, and above is the motto, "I expel poisons"--he, d'Alviano, of course, being the lordly and potent unicorn, his foes the creeping things to be driven from his face.[3] [3] The English Cyclopædia of Natural History gives a description by Ctesias of the Indian ass. He says that these animals are as large as horses, and larger, having a horn on the forehead, one cubit long, which for the extent of two palms from the forehead is entirely white; above, it is pointed and red, being black in the middle. Of this horn drinking-cups are formed, and those who use them are said not to be subject to spasm or epilepsy, nor to the effects of poison, provided, either before or after taking the poison, they drink out of the cup wine, water, or any other liquid. One of the Arabian annalists, El Kazwini, has much to say about the magical and curative properties of these cups; and a yet fuller notice of them appears in Lane's "Arabian Nights," chap. xx. note 32. It is also stated that most of the Eastern potentates possessed one of these cups. In Hyder Ali's treasury at Tanjore was found a specimen. In "Uganda and the Egyptian Soudan," by the Rev. C. T. Wilson and R. W. Felkin, vol. ii. p. 275, we read:-- "Cups made of rhinoceros horn are supposed to have the peculiar virtue of detecting poison in coffee and sherbet. Often, when drinking for the first time in a strange house, one of these cups is offered to assure the visitor that no foul play is contemplated. These are considered most valuable presents and a mark of lasting friendship and esteem." In the "Display of Heraldry" published by John Guillim in the year 1679 we read--"It hath been much questioned amongst naturalists, which it is that is properly called the Unicorn; and some have made doubt whether there be any such Beast as this or no. But the great esteem of his horn (in many places to be seen) may take away that needless scruple." Having thus satisfactorily established the existence of such a creature he naturally feels at full liberty to group around the central fact divers details, as, for instance, that "the wild Beasts of the wilderness use not to drink of the Pools, for fear of venomous Serpents there breeding, before the Unicorn hath stirred it with its horn." It seems to have been a debateable point whether the unicorn had ever been taken alive, but Guillim decisively negatives the idea, and naturally avails himself of it for the greater glorification of the creature and of its service in his beloved science of heraldry. He lays down the broad fact that the unicorn is never taken alive, and here surely we can thoroughly go with him; but "the reason being demanded, it is answered that the greatness of his mind is such that he chuseth rather to die, wherein the unicorn and the valiant-minded soldier are alike, which both contemn death, and rather than they will be compelled to undergo any base servitude and bondage they will lose their lives." Philip de Thaun, on the other hand, not only admits the idea that the unicorn may be captured alive, but gives the full receipt for doing so. It would appear that, like Una's lion, the animal is of a particularly impressionable nature, and is always prepared to do homage to maiden beauty and innocence, and this amiable trait in its character is basely taken advantage of. "When a man intends to hunt and take and ensnare it he goes to the forest where is its repair, and there places a virgin. Then it comes to the virgin, falls asleep on her lap, and so comes to its death. The man arrives immediately and kills it in its sleep, or takes it alive and does as he will with it." The young ladies of that very indefinite date must have possessed considerably more courage and nerve than some of their sisters of the present day, who show symptoms of hysteria if they find themselves in the same room with a spider--a considerably less severe test than an interview in the dark shades of the forest with an amorous unicorn. One cannot, however, help feeling that the victim of misplaced confidence comes out of the transaction most creditably, and that both man and maiden must have felt what schoolboys call "sneaks." The unicorn, alive or dead, seems to have eluded observation in a wonderful way, and the men of science were left to extract their facts from the slightest hints, in the same way that distinguished anatomists and geologists of these later days are enabled to build up an entire animal from one or two isolated bones. The process, however, does not seem, in the case of the earlier men, to have been a very successful one, and there is consequently a great clashing amongst the authorities, and one of the mediæval writers, feeling the difficulty of drawing any very definite result from the chaos before him, adopts the plan, in which we humbly follow him, of simply putting it all down just as it comes to hand, and leaving his readers to make the best they can of it. He writes as follows:-- "Pliny affirmeth it is a fierce and terrible creature, Vartomannus a tame animal: those which Garcias ab Horto described about the Cape of Good Hope were beheld with heads like horses, those which Vartomannus beheld he described with the head of a Deere: Pliny, Ælian, Solinus, and Paulus Venetus affirm the feet of the Unicorn are undivided and like the Elephant's, but those two which Vartomannus beheld at Mecha were, as he described, footed like a Goate. As Ælian describeth it, it is in the bignesse of an Horse, that which Thevet speaketh of was not so big as an Heifer, but Paulus Venetus affirmeth that they are but little lesse than Elephants." On turning to the records of a distinguished French Society established in 1633 we come across many strange items. These records are entitled "A general collection of the Discourses of the Virtuosi of France, upon questions of all sorts of philosophy and other natural knowledge, made in the Assembly of the Beaux Esprits at Paris by the most ingenious persons of that nation." Their meetings were termed conferences, and there are notes of two hundred and forty of these. The subjects discussed covered a very wide field, the following being some few amongst them--Of the end of all things, of perpetual motion, of the echo, of how long a man may continue without eating, whether is to be preferred a great stature or a small, of the loadstone, of the origin of mountains, and who are the most happy in this world, wise men or fools. Some of these subjects are now definitely settled, while others are as open to discussion as ever, as, for example, the questions whether it be expedient for women to be learned, and whether it be better to bury or to burn the bodies of the dead. In this great accumulation of the notions of the seventeenth century we find, amongst other items that more especially concern our present purpose, discussions on genii, on the phoenix, and on the unicorn. In the early days of a similar institution, our own Royal Society--a body which is now so staid, and which focuses all the most important scientific results of the day to itself--many points were discussed in perfect good faith that are now consigned to oblivion--the trees that grow diamonds, the rivers that run precious gems, and the seeds that fell from heaven being amongst these; while at another meeting we find the Duke of Buckingham presenting the Society with a piece of the horn of the unicorn. The old writers had no very definite system, and though the author of the "Book of the 300 Animals" may seem to have exercised a certain fitness in discussing the unicorn directly after the lion, the conjunction is probably wholly accidental, as the creatures dwelt on succeed each other in all such books in the most arbitrary way. The next animal to which we would refer is the wolf. He is not absolutely the next in the series, but we manifestly cannot deal with the whole three hundred, so we pick out here and there divers quaint examples of what we may be allowed to term this unnatural history. We are told that "the wolf is a very ravenous creature, and as dangerous to meet with, when hungry, as any beast whatever, but when his stomach is full, he is to men and beasts as meek as a lamb. When he falls upon a hog or a goat, or such small beasts, he does not immediately kill them, but leads them by the ear, with all the speed he can, to a crew of ravenous wolves, who instantly tear them to pieces." We should have thought that the reverse had been more probable, that the wolves that had nothing would have come with all the speed they could upon their more successful companion; but if the old writer's story be true, it opens out a fine trait of unselfishness in the character of this maligned communard. It was an old belief, a fancy that we find in the pages of Pliny, Theocritus, Virgil, and others, that a man becomes dumb if he meets a wolf and the wolf sees him first. A mediæval writer explains this as follows:--"The ground or occasionall originall hereof was probably the amazement and sudden silence the unexpected appearance of Wolves doe often put upon travellers, not by a supposed vapour or venemous emanation, but a vehement fear which naturally produceth obmutescence and sometimes irrecoverable silence. Thus birds are silent in presence of an Hawk, and Pliny saith that Dogges are mute in the shadow of an Hyæna, but thus could not the mouths of worthy Martyrs be stopped, who being exposed not only unto the eyes but the mercilesse teeth of Wolves, gave loud expressions of their faith, and their holy clamours were heard as high as heaven." Scott refers to the old belief in his "Quentin Durward." In the eighteenth chapter our readers will find as follows:--"'Our young companion has seen a wolf,' said Lady Hameline, 'and has lost his tongue in consequence.'" The thirteenth animal is the "Rompo" or Man-eater; he is "so called because he feeds upon dead men, to come at which he greedily grubs up the earth off their graves, as if he had notice of somebody there hid. He keeps in the woods; his body is long and slender, being about three feet in length, with a long tail. The negroes say that he does not immediately fall on as soon as he has found the body, but goes round and round it several times as if afraid to seize it. Its head and mouth are like a hare's, his ears like a man's, his fore feet like a badger's, and his hinder feet like a bear's. It has likewise a mane. This creature is bred in India and Africa." Concerning the buffalo we read, "It is reported of this creature that when he is hunted or put into a fright he'll change his colour to the colour of everything he sees; as amongst trees he is green, &c." The Manticora is one of the strange imaginings of our forefathers. In the illustration in the book (of which our figure is a reproduction) it has a human head and face and a body like that of a lion; a thick mane covers the neck; its tail is much longer in proportion than that of a lion, and has at its extremity a most formidable collection of spiky-looking objects; these in the description are said to be stinging and sharply-pointed quills. He is as big as a lion. "His voice is like a small trumpet. He is so wild that it is very difficult to catch him, and as swift as an hart. With his tail he wounds the hunters, whether they come before him or behind him. When the Indians take a whelp of this beast they bruise its tail to prevent it bearing the sharp quills; then it is tamed without danger." [Illustration: THE MANTICORA] [Illustration: THE LAMIA] The Lamia, too, is an extraordinary creature, and one that our not remote forefathers seem to have thoroughly believed in, for though the author says that there are many fictitious stories respecting it, he goes on to describe it, and gives an illustration. It is thought to be the swiftest of all four-footed creatures, so that its prey can seldom or never escape it. It is said to be bred in Libya, and to have a face like a beautiful woman, while its voice is the hiss of a serpent. The body is covered with scales. The old author tells us that they sometimes devour their own young, and we may fairly hope that this cannibal propensity of theirs is the cause of their disappearance. In earlier times men believed in a monstrous spectre called an Empusa. It could assume various forms, and it was believed to feed on human flesh. The Lamiæ, who took the forms of handsome and graceful women for the purpose of beguiling poor humanity, and then sucked their blood like vampyres and devoured their flesh, were one form of Empusa. The belief in some such creature seems to have been widespread; the myth of the Sirens is, for example, very similar in conception. In Mansfield Parkyns' "Life in Abyssinia" we read--"There is an animal which I know not where to class, as no European has hitherto succeeded in obtaining a specimen of it. It is supposed by the natives to be far more active, powerful, and dangerous than the lion, and consequently held by them in the greatest possible dread. They look upon it more in the light of an evil spirit, with an animal's form, than a wild beast; they assert that its face is human." We learn, however, from the rest of the description, that this creature possesses itself of its prey by force alone; the human face is one further feature of terror, but does not, as in the previous case, serve to beguile mankind and lure them by its beauty to their fate. The stag is said to be "a great enemy to all kinds of serpents, which he labours to destroy whenever he finds any, but he is afraid of almost all other creatures." Many of these old beliefs were simply handed down from generation to generation without question, or the opinions of the ancients accepted without experiment or inquiry. This belief of the natural enmity of the stag to the serpent is at least as old as Pliny, and may be found duly set forth in the thirty-third chapter of his eighth book:--"This kind of deere make fight with serpents, and are their natural and mortal enemies; they will follow them to their verie holes, and then by the strength of drawing and snuffing up their wind of their nostrils, force them out whether they will or no. The serpent sometimes climbs upon its back and bites it cruelly, when the stag rushes to some river or fountain and throws itself into the water to rid itself of its enemy." This old belief made the stag a favourite in the mediæval days of exaggerated symbolism, its ruthless antipathy to the serpent rendering it not inaptly an emblem of the Christian fighting to the death against sin, and finding an antidote to its wounds in the fountain of living water. It was also believed that stags "passe the seas swimming by flockes and whole heards in a long row, each one resting his head upon his fellow next before him; and this they do in course, so as the foremost retireth behind to the hindmost by turnes, one after another." In this supposed fact the seekers after symbol and hidden meaning found no difficulty in recognising that comfort and support in all their trials that all good men should at all times be ready to afford their fellows. The tusks of the wild boar, we are told, cut like sharp knives when the animal is alive, but lose their keenness at his death. It is said when this creature is hunted down his tusks are so inflamed that they will burn and singe the hair of the dogs. The wild ox has a tongue so hard and rough that it can draw a man to him, "whom by licking he can wound to death." The elephant, we are told on the same authority, has two tusks. "One of them it keeps always sharp to revenge injuries, and with the other it roots up trees and plants for its meat. These they lose once in ten years, which, falling off, they very carefully bury in the earth on purpose that men may not find them." The liver of a mouse our forefathers believed to increase and decrease with the waxing and waning of the moon. "For every day of the moon's age there is a fibre increase in their liver." This rash and random assertion it would be manifestly impossible either to prove or disprove, though one may have one's own strong opinion on the matter. It would be necessary to kill the mouse to count the aforesaid fibres, and having killed it, the morrow's extra age of the moon would bring no added fibres to the victim of our credulity. Presently we come to the Potto, a creature that is probably the same as we now call the sloth. The illustration shows us a most hopelessly helpless-looking animal, and in the description that accompanies it we are told that a whole day is little enough for it to advance ten steps forward. We are also informed that when he does climb a tree he does not leave it until he has eaten up not only the fruit but all the foliage, when "he descends fat and in good case, but before he can get up another tree he loses all the advantages of his previous good quarters and often perishes of hunger." Eighty-seven quadrupeds are dealt with, so it will be readily seen how little we have drawn upon the wealth of information the book affords. [Illustration: {DRAGONS}] Book IV. of the treatise is devoted to the consideration of serpents and insects. Amongst serpents and insects the dragon naturally takes the place of honour. The writer evidently has his doubts, and carefully qualifies his description by a free use of the responsibility evading formula "it is said." He gives three illustrations. One of them represents a biped monster, crested and winged; the second has lost his legs, though he retains crest and wings; while the third creature is of serpentine nature, has neither wings nor legs, and only differs from the serpent forms in the book by the addition of his crest. The description runs as follows:--"The dragon, as described in the numerous fables and stories of several writers, may be justly questioned whether he really exists. I have read of serpents bred in Arabia, called Sirenas, which have wings, being very swift, running and flying at pleasure; and when they wound a man he dieth instantly. These are supposed to be a kind of dragons. It is said there are divers sorts of dragons or serpents that are so called, which are distinguished partly by their countries, partly by their magnitude, and partly by the different form of their external parts. They are said to be bred in India and Africa; those of India are much the largest, being of an incredible length; and of these there are also said to be two kinds, one of them living in the marshes, which are slow of pace and without combs on their heads; the other in the mountains, which are bigger and have combs, their backs being somewhat brown and their bodies less scaled. Some of them are of a yellow fiery colour, having sharp backs like saws. These also have beards. When they set up their scales they shine like silver. The apples of their eyes are (it is said) precious stones, and as bright as fire, in which it is affirmed there is a great virtue against many diseases. Their aspect is very fierce and terrible. Some dragons are said to have wings and no feet; some, again, have both feet and wings; and others neither feet nor wings, and are only distinguished from the common sort of serpents by the combs growing upon their heads and by their beards. Some do affirm that the dragon is of a black colour, somewhat green beneath and very beautiful, that it has a triple row of teeth in each jaw, that it has also two dewlaps growing under the chin, which hang down like a beard of a red colour; and the body is set all over with sharp scales, and on the neck with thick hair, much like the bristles of a wild boar." It will be seen by the foregoing that the imagination of our ancestors was allowed free play, abundant variety of form, magnitude, colour, and so forth being possible. The dragon or winged serpent has formed a part in many creeds, and the dragon-slayer has been the hero of countless legends. The legend varies with climate and country, and with the development of the race in which it is found; and yet the prophecies of the Bible of the ultimate bruising of the serpent's head and the final victory over the dragon ("That old serpent, which is the Devil and Satan" Rev. xx. 2); the legends of classic days, such as that of Perseus and Andromeda; the still older struggles recorded in the slabs of Nineveh and Persepolis; the stories narrated to awed rings of listeners in the stillness of the Eastern night, or listened to by our children with eager eyes and rapt attention in the homes of England; the mass of legend that in mediæval times clustered around the names of God's faithful ones; and the local traditions of every land, from the equator to the poles, all dwell on the mischievous presence of some evil principle and record the ultimate triumph of good. Beneath the mass of ever-varying fable stands the like foundation, the strife between the two antagonistic principles; and thus the wide world over, in every age and in every clime, the mind of man, in broken accents, it may be, and with faltering tongue, records with joy its upward struggle, feels the need of help in the sore conflict, registers its belief in final triumph. Though the dragon-conflict occurs in many literatures, the same incidents occur over and over again, and we find in almost all the power and subtlety of the monster, the innocence and helplessness of his victims, the suddenness of his attack on them, and the completeness of his final overthrow, the dragon-slayers being the conquerors over tyranny and wrong, over paganism and every form of godless evil. In Egypt he was Typhon, in Greece, Python. In India he is Kalli Naga, the thousand-headed, the foe and the vanquished of Vishnu. In Anglo-Saxon chronicles he is Lig-draca, the fire-drake or godes-andsacan, the denier of God--always unsleeping, poison-fanged, relentless, the terrible enemy of man, full of subtlety and full of power. On the advent of Christianity these ancient legends were not wholly discarded, but suggested others of a like character, and a slight alteration transferred to saint or martyr those feats and victories which had formerly been ascribed to gods and demigods. It only remained for the new religion to point out the analogy, and to incorporate into itself the lessons they taught, the conflict won, the abnegation of self for the good of others. It would take up far too much space if we were to endeavour to give many of these legends in detail. In some cases they were doubtless intended as descriptions of an actual conflict, by force of arms, with some real monster; but in others the conflict is allegorical; thus St. Loup, St. Martin of Tours, St. Hilary, and St. Donatus are all notable dragon-slayers, though the conflict was a mythical one, and their claim to regard on this score is based really on their gallant fight with either the heathenism of those amongst whom they laboured or the heresy of false brethren. The popular saint, too, receives often more than his due at the hands of his admirers, and legends gather thickly round his name, and his so-called biography is often romance and hero-worship from beginning to end. St. Romanus at Rouen, St. Veran at Arles, and St. Victor of Marseilles are all accredited with feats of dragon-slaying; but leaving them, St. Martial, St. Marcel, and many others to other chroniclers, we content ourselves with referring to two illustrious saints alone--the first because she is a lady, and may therefore well claim our courtesy, the second because he is our own patron saint. It may not be generally known that the sister of Lazarus, the St. Martha of our legend, together with Mary Magdalene and two companions, Maxime and Marcellus, wandered so far away from Palestine as the shores of France. How much farther they may have intended to go the history does not tell us, but the untoward accident that stranded them on the shores of Languedoc was a most fortunate circumstance for the people of the district. The inhabitants of that region had been for some time tormented by a monster who fed on human flesh and had a most draconic appetite, and they at once appealed to these strangers to help them. This alone would seem to indicate the extremity in which they found themselves, or they would scarcely have applied to four shipwrecked strangers, half of them women, for aid in the hour of their necessity. St. Martha, however, in pitying consideration for their sad plight, at once agreed to help them. She had hardly entered the wood where the monster dwelt before the most frightful bellowings were heard, at which all the people sorely trembled and naturally concluded that this unarmed woman had fallen a victim to her temerity; but this alarming bellowing shortly ceased, and soon after St. Martha reappeared, holding in one hand a little wooden cross, and in the other a ribbon, with which she led forth her interesting captive. She then advanced into the middle of the town and presented the people with the dragon, as embarrassing a present as the proverbial white elephant; but they seem to have risen to the occasion, for we find afterwards an annual festival held in honour of the Saint, while good King Réné of Anjou instituted an Order of the Dragon for the more effectual keeping alive of the memory of the event. As St. Martha is more especially set down in the "Lives of the Saints" as the patron saint of good housewives, she might well have been excused had she declined a service in itself so dangerous and so far removed from the daily round, the trivial task; but the overthrowing of the mighty by an instrument so weak gives additional point to the story, and vindicates triumphantly the power of faith over evil. The "Legenda Aurea," written by Jacobus de Voraigne, Archbishop of Genoa, in the year 1260, is what Warton termed "an inexhaustible repository of religious fable." For some centuries it was considered to have an almost sacred character, and its popularity was so great that it passed through an immense number of editions in the Latin, Dutch, German, and French languages. It should have the more interest to us, too, from the fact that it was one of the earliest of English printed books, Caxton publishing the first English edition in 1493. This was followed by other editions by Wynkyn de Worde in the years 1498, 1512, and 1527. The following account of our patron saint is taken from this source, a much less favourable history being found in Gibbon's "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire."[4] [4] Appendix A. Once upon a time the neighbourhood of the city of Sylene was infested with an enormous dragon, who, making a "ponde, lyke a sea," which skirted the walls, his usual residence, was accustomed to envenom the miserable citizens with his pestiferous breath, and therefore they gave him every day two sheep for his dinner, and when these were spent they chose by lot a male and female, daily, whom they exposed to the monster. At length, after many of the rich had been compelled to sacrifice their offspring, the lot fell upon the king's daughter, a lovely maiden, and the idol of a fond father, who, in the bitterness of his grief, entreated his subjects for the love of the gods to take his gold and silver, and all that he had, and spare his child; but they replied that he had himself made the law, and that they had suffered in obeying it, and concluded by telling him that unless he complied with his own mandate, they would take off his head. This answer only increased the king's affliction; but being anxious to defer, if he could not avert, his daughter's death, he craved that a respite of eight days might be given her; and his people, moved, apparently, by the groans and tears of the sorrowful old man, granted his request. When the stipulated time had elapsed, they came and said to him, "Ye see how the city perisheth!" So the monarch bade his child array herself in her richest apparel, and led her forth to "the place where the dragon was, and left her there." It chanced that St. George, who, like a true knight-errant, was travelling in quest of dangerous adventures, arrived at the spot not long after the king's departure, and was much astonished when he beheld so fair a lady lingering there alone and weeping bitterly, and riding up he asked the cause of her sorrow. But she, unwilling to detain him in a place so perilous, entreated him to leave her to her fate. "Go on your way, young man," she said, "lest ye perish also." But St. George would know the truth, so the maiden told him. Then was the knight's heart merry within him, and he rejoined, "Fayre doughter, doubte ye no thynge hereof, for I shall helpe thee in the name of Jesu Christe." She said, "For Goddes sake, good knyght, goo your waye, and abyde not wyth me, for ye may not deliver me." St. George, however, was of a different opinion, and indeed, had he resolved, upon second thoughts, to escape, he could not have done so, for the dragon, smelling human flesh from afar, emerged from the lake while the lady was speaking, and now came running towards his victim. Not a moment was to be lost, so St. George crossed himself, drew his sword, and placing his lance in the rest, rushed to meet the monster, who, little expecting such a rough greeting, received the weapon "in his bosom," and rolled over in the dust. Then said the victor to the rescued virgin, "Take thy girdle, and bind it round the dragon's neck;" and when the lady had obeyed her champion, the monster followed her as if it had been "a meek beeste and debonayre." And so she led him into the city; and when the people saw her coming they fled with affright, expecting to perish all of them; but St. George shouted, "Doubt nothing, believe in God Jesus Christ, consent to be baptized, and I will slay the dragon before your eyes." The citizens immediately consented, so the Saint attacked the monster, and smote off his head, and commanded that he should be thrown into the green fields, and they took four carts with oxen, and drew him out of the city. Then were fifteen thousand men baptized (without reckoning the women and children), and the king erected a church, and dedicated it to Our Lady and St. George, in which floweth "a founteyne of lyuying water which heleth seeke people that drynke therof." After this the prince offered the champion incalculable riches, but he refused them all, and enjoining the king to take care of the church, to honour the priests, and pity the poor, he kissed him and departed. Some time after this marvellous event the Emperor Diocletian so cruelly persecuted the Christians, that "twenty-two thousand were martyred in the course of one month," and many others forsook God and sacrificed to idols. When St. George heard this he laid aside his arms, and sold his possessions, and took the habit of a "crysten-man," and went into the midst of the "paynims," and began to denounce their gods as devils. "My God," cried he, "made heaven and earth, He only is the true God." Then said they to him, "How dare ye defame our deities? Who art thou?--what is thy name?"--"My name is George; I am a gentleman and knight of Cappadocia, and I have left all to serve my Lord," replied the Saint. Seeing that the stranger was no common man, the ruler of that district endeavoured to gain him over with fair words, but finding the knight inflexible, he tied him aloft on a gibbet, and caused him to be cruelly beaten; and then, having rubbed salt into his wounds, he bound him with heavy chains and thrust him into a dark dungeon. But our Lord appeared to him that same night and comforted him, "moche swetely," so that the warrior took good heart and feared no torment which he might have to suffer. The chief magistrate, whose name was Dacien, finding he could not shake his prisoner's faith by the infliction of torture, consulted with an enchanter, who agreed to lose his head should his "crafts" fail; and taking strong poison, the wizard mingled it with wine and invoked his gods and gave it to the Saint, who, making the sign of the cross, thanked him kindly, and drank it off without injury. Astonished at the failure of his plan, the magician made a draught still more venomous, and finding that this also had no ill effect on the charmed warrior, he himself acknowledged the might of Christ, embraced St. George's knees, and entreated to be made a Christian,--and his request was immediately granted. The provost's fury knew no bounds when he witnessed these marvels. He stretched the champion on the rack, but the engine broke in pieces; he plunged him into boiling lead, and lo! the Saint came out "refreshed and strengthened." When Dacien saw this he began to moderate his anger, and again had recourse to flattery, praying the Saint to renounce his faith and sacrifice to the idols, and, much to his surprise, the knight questioned him with a smiling countenance why he had not asked him before, and promised to do his bidding. Then the provost was glad indeed, and assembled all the people to see the champion sacrifice. So they thronged the temple where the Saint was kneeling before the shrine of Jupiter, but he earnestly prayed a while to the true God, entreating Him to destroy those accursed images and convert the deluded Romans,--"and anone the fyre descended from heuens and brente the temple and the ydolles and theyr prestes;" and immediately after the earth opened and swallowed up all the ashes. This last marvel only hardened the ruler's heart and strengthened him in his infidelity; he caused the warrior to be brought before him, and sternly reproved him for his duplicity. "Thenne sayd to him Saynt George, 'Syr, beleue it not, but come wyth me and see how I shall sacrefise.' Thenne said Dacyan to him, 'I see wel thy frawde and thy treachery; thou wylt make the erthe to swalowe me lyke as thou hast the temple and my goddes.'" Then said St. George, "O catiff, tell me how thy gods help thee when they cannot help themselves?" Then was the provost so enraged that he ran to his wife, and, telling her that he should die of anger if he could not master his prisoner, requested her counsel. "Cruel tyrant," replied his loving spouse, "instead of plotting against this heaven-protected knight, I too am resolved to become a Christian!" "Thou wilt!" returned her husband furiously, and taking her by her flowing tresses, he dashed her against the pavement, when, feeling herself in the agonies of death, she craved of St. George to know her future lot, seeing she had not been christened. Then answered the blessed Saint, "Doubt thee nothing, fair daughter, for thou shalt be baptized in thine own blood." Then began she to worship our Lord Jesus Christ, and so died and went to heaven. Thither the martyr followed her very shortly, for Dacien caused St. George to be beheaded, and "so he perished." But the cruel persecutor did not long survive his victim, for as he was returning to his palace, says the legend, from the place of execution, "fire came down from heaven and destroyed him and all his followers."[5] [5] Appendix B. In the Middle Ages the dragon gave a title in Hungary to an order of knighthood, that of "the dragon overthrown." This was established in the year 1418, to perpetuate the memory of the condemnation of John Huss and Jerome of Prague by the Council of Constance for heresy, and to denote the overthrow of the doctrines these men propagated in Hungary, Bohemia, and elsewhere in Germany, and for which they were ultimately burnt at the stake. The badge of the order was a dragon prostrate. In China the dragon is the symbol of the Imperial power, and all our readers who are familiar with the appearance of the Celestial pottery, bronzes, and so forth, will readily recall how commonly the form is introduced. Some little time ago the Chinese Government permitted coal-mines to be opened at Kai-ping, but they were speedily closed again, as it was supposed that their continued working would release the earth-dragon, disturb the Manes of the Empress, and generally bring trouble upon the Imperial house and upon the nation. Uncharitable people, however, have been found to declare that the fear of the earth-dragon is all an excuse, and that, as the Government set its face against the introduction of railways, so it was equally prepared, in its rigid conservatism and hatred of innovations, to forswear the mining operations. The dragon of the Chinese designers is of the weirdest forms, and conceived with a freedom and wildness of fancy that puts to shame our Western attempts, powerful as they often are. As a symbol and attribute the dragon is constantly appearing in mediæval work, as carvings, illuminations, and the like, and we may remind our readers that in the term gargoyle, used in speaking of the strange and monstrous forms often found in our old cathedrals and abbeys doing duty as water-shoots, we get the dragon idea again, as the word is derived from an old French word signifying some such draconic monster. While, however, we find ourselves thus classing the dragon amongst the mythical and arbitrary forms of the stone-carver or the herald, we must be careful to remember that its terror had not thus in earlier days lost its sting, for the workman who sculptured it on a capital or thrust its hideous form into any other noticeable position not only regarded it as a symbol, but believed very really and truly in its veritable existence. Albertus Magnus gives a long account of the creature, an account altogether too elaborate for us to here transcribe; but its capture, according to him, is an easy matter enough if one only goes the right way to work. It was fortunately ascertained that dragons are "greatly afraid of thunder, and the magicians who require dragons for their enchantments get drums, on which they roll heavily, so that the noise is mistaken for thunder by the dragons, and they are vanquished." The thing is simplicity itself, and rather detracts from the halo of heroism that has hitherto surrounded dragon vanquishers. A man is scarcely justified in blowing his trumpet when he has previously so cowed his antagonist by beating his drum and deluding its dull brains with his fictitious thunder. Pliny says that the eyes of a dragon, preserved dry, pulverised and then made up with honey, cause those who are anointed therewith to sleep securely from all dread of spirits of the darkness. In a mediæval work we are told that "the turning joint in the chine of a dragon doth promise an easy and favourable access into the presence of great lords." One can only wonder why this should be, all clue and thread of connection between the two things being now so hopelessly lost. We must not however forget that, smile now as we may at this, there was a time when our ancestors accepted the statement with the fullest faith, and many a man who would fain have pleaded his cause before king or noble bewailed with hearty regret his want of draconic chine, the "turning-point" of the dragon and of his own fortunes. Another valuable receipt--"Take the taile and head of a dragon, the haire growing upon the forehead of a lion, with a little of his marrow also, the froth moreover that a horse fomethe at the mouth who hath woon the victorie and prize in running a race, and the nailes besides of a dogs-feete: bind all these together with a piece of leather made of a red deers skin, with the sinewes partly of a stag, partly of a fallow deere, one with another: carry this about with you and it will work wonders." It seems almost a pity that the actual benefits to be derived from the possession of this compound are not more clearly defined, as there is no doubt that a considerable amount of trouble would be involved in getting the various materials together, and the zeal and ardour of the seeker after this wonder-working composition would be somewhat damped by the troublesome and recurring question, Wherefore? Mediæval medicine-men surely must have been somewhat chary of adopting the now familiar legend "Prescriptions accurately dispensed," when the onus of making up such a mixture could be laid upon them. John Leo, in his "History of Africa" says that the dragon is the progeny of the eagle and wolf. After describing its appearance, he says--"This monster, albeit I myself have not seen it yet, the common report of all Africa affirmeth that there is such a one." Other writers affirm that the dragon is generated by the great heat of India or springs from the volcanoes of Ethiopia; and one is tempted to take the prosaic view that this dragon rearing and slaying is but a more poetic way of dwelling on some miasmatic exhalation reduced to harmlessness by judicious drainage; that the monster that had slain its thousands was at last subdued by no glittering spear wielded by knightly or saintly arm, but by the spade of the navvy and the drain-pipes of the sanitary engineer. Father Pigafetta in his book declares that "Mont Atlas hath plenty of dragons, grosse of body, slow of motion, and in byting or touching incurably venomous. In Congo is a kind of dragons like in biggnesse to rammes with wings, having long tayles and divers jawes of teeth of blue and greene, painted like scales, with two feete, and feede on rawe fleshe." We cannot ourselves help feeling that if we saw a dragon like in bigness to a ram we should so far be disappointed in him. After having had our imagination filled by legend after legend we should look for something decidedly bulkier than that, and should feel that he really was not living up to his reputation. Abundant illustrations of the most unnatural history may be found in the works of Aldrovandus: his voluminous works on animals are very curious and interesting, and richly illustrated with engravings at least as quaint in character as the text. His "Monstrorum Historia," published in folio at Bologna in 1642, is a perfect treasure-house; the various volumes range in date from 1602 to 1668, and are, with one exception (Venice), published at either Bologna or Frankfort. If any of our readers can get an opportunity of looking through them they will find themselves well repaid. Amongst the Lansdowne MSS. in the British Museum will be found Aubrey's "Gentilisme and Judaisme." His remarks on St. George and the dragon are sufficiently quaint and interesting to justify insertion here. "Dr. Peter Heylin," he says, "did write the Historie of St. George of Cappadocia, which is a very blind business. When I was of Trin. Coll. there was a sale of Mr. William Cartright's (poet) books, many whereof I had: amongst others (I know not how) was Dr. Daniel Featley's Handmayd to Religion, which was printed shortly after Dr. Heylin's Hist. aforesaid. In the Holyday Devotions he speaks of St. George, and asserts the story to be fabulous, and that there never was any such man. William Cartright writes in the margent--For this assertion was Dr. Featley brought upon his knees before William Laud, Abp. of Canterbury. See Sir Thomas Browne's 'Vulgar Errors' concerning St. George, where are good Remarks. He is of opinion that ye picture of St. George was only emblematical. Methinks ye picture of St. George fighting with ye Dragon hath some resemblance of St. Michael fighting with the Devil, who is pourtrayed like a Dragon. Ned Bagshaw of Chr. Ch. 1652, shewed me somewhere in Nicophorus Gregoras that ye picture of St. George's horse on a wall neighed on some occasion." A vast amount of learning upon the subject of our patron saint may be found in Selden's "Titles of Honour," in which he treats of "The chiefest testimonies concerning St. George in the Western Church, and a consideration how he came to be taken for the patron saint of the English nation." Selden originally inclined to the idea that the saint first stepped into this exalted position in the reign of Edward III., but in "a most ancient Martyrologie" that he afterwards came across--one of Saxon date in the library of one of the Cambridge Colleges--he found a sufficient testimony that the position of the saint as patron of Britain dated from a much earlier time. Peter Suchenwirt, a German poet of the fourteenth century, gives in one of his poems a very curious and striking illustration of the esteem in which at the battle of Poictiers the English soldiers held their patron saint:-- "Di Frantzois schrienn 'Nater Dam!' Das spricht Unser Fraw mit nam; Der chrey erhal; 'Sand Jors! Sand Jors!'" "The French shout forth 'Notre Dame,' Thus calling on our Lady's name; To which the English host reply, 'St. George! St. George!' their battle cry." The Celtic use of the word dragon for a chieftain is curious: in time of danger a sort of dictator was appointed under the title of pen-dragon. Hence any of the English knights who slew a chieftain in battle were dragon vanquishers, and it has been suggested that the military title was at times confused with that of the fabulous monster, and that a man thus got an added credit that did not belong to him. The theory is not, however, really tenable, as all the veritable dragon-slayers had the great advantage of living a long time ago, and no such halo of romance could well have attached itself to men of comparatively modern times. In any case, too, the use of the Celtic word is very local, and does not meet the case of a tithe of the histories of such deeds of valour. The red dragon was the ensign of Cadwallader, the last of the British kings. The Tudors claimed descent from this ancient monarch, and Henry VII. adopted this device for his standard at the battle of Bosworth Field. There is a place in Berkshire called Dragon Hill, near Uffington, and the more famous White Horse Hill, that is in local legend the scene of the encounter between St. George and the dragon; and for full confirmation a bare place is shown on the hillside where nothing will grow, because there the poisonous blood of the creature was shed. We learn, however, in the Saxon annals that Cedric, the West-Saxon monarch, overthrew and slew here the pen-dragon Naud, with five thousand of his men. The name of the hill, therefore, commemorates this ancient victory; but the common folk of the district, who know nothing of pen-dragons, erroneously ascribe the battle won there to the more familiar St. George. The dragon of Wantley deserves a passing word, since he supplies a good illustration of how the mythical and the material are often mixed up. Wantley is merely a corruption of Wharncliffe, a delightful spot[6] near Sheffield, and here, of all places in the world, this very objectionable dragon took up his abode. One ordinarily expects to hear of such creatures uncoiling their monstrous forms in some dense morass or lurking in the dark recesses of some wide-stretching and gloomy forest; possibly he may have found the choice of such an attractive locality may have helped him to an occasional tourist. On the opposite side of the Don to the crag that held the cave of the dragon stood the desirable residence of More Hall; and its owner, doubtless feeling that the presence of such an objectionable neighbour was a great depreciation of his property, determined one day to bring matters to a crisis; so he walked up to the mouth of the cave clad in a suit of armour thickly covered with spikes, and administered such a vigorous kick in the dragon's mouth, the only place where he was vulnerable, that the whole transaction was over almost at once, and he was back again in ample time for lunch. Dr. Percy, the editor of "Reliques of Antient English Poetry," holds that we must not accept this story too seriously; that, in fact, the old ballad in which it is set forth is a burlesque, and that the real facts are as follows:--that the dragon was an overbearing and rascally lawyer who had long availed himself of his position and influence to oppress his poorer neighbours, but he capped a long series of dishonest and disreputable actions by depriving three orphan children of an estate to which they were entitled. A Mr. More generously took up their cause, brought all the armoury of the law to bear upon the spoiler, and completely defeated him, and the thievish attorney shortly afterwards died of chagrin and vexation. [6] Lady Mary Wortley Montagu lived here for some time. Writing afterwards from Avignon, and dwelling on the exquisite landscape there spread out before her when standing on the Castle height, she exclaims that "it is the most beautiful land prospect I ever saw, except Wharncliffe." "Old stories tell how Hercules A dragon slew at Lerna, With seven heads and fourteen eyes, To see and well discern-a; But he had a club this dragon to drub, Or he had ne'er done it, I warrant ye; But More of More Hall, with nothing at all, He slew the dragon of Wantley. This dragon had two furious wings, Each one upon each shoulder; With a sting in his tayl, as long as a flayl, Which made him bolder and bolder. He had long claws, and in his jaws Four-and-forty teeth of iron; With a hide as tough as any buff, Which did him round environ. Have you not heard how the Trojan horse Held seventy men in his belly? This dragon was not quite as big, But very near, I tell ye. Devouréd he poor children three, That could not with him grapple; And at one sup, he eat them up, As one would eat an apple. All sorts of cattle this dragon did eat, Some say he did eat up trees, And that the forests sure he could Devour up by degrees: For houses and churches were to him geese and turkeys: He eat all, and left none behind, But some stones, dear Jack, that he could not crack, Which on the hills you will find. In Yorkshire, near fair Rotherham, The place I know it well; Some two or three miles, or thereabouts, I vow I cannot tell; But there is a hedge, just on the hill edge, And Matthew's house hard by it; O there and then was this dragon's den, You could not chuse but spy it. Hard by a furious knight there dwelt, Of whom all towns did ring; For he could wrestle, play quarterstaff, kick and cuff, And any such kind of a thing; By the tail and the main with his hands twain He swung a horse till he was dead, And that which is stranger, he in his anger Eat him all up but his head. These children, as I told, being eat; Men, women, girls and boys, Sighing and sobbing, came to his lodging, And made a hideous noise: 'O save us all, More of More Hall, Thou peerless knight of these woods; Do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on, We'll give thee all our goods.' 'Tut, tut,' quoth he, 'no goods I want; But I want, I want, in sooth, A fair maid of sixteen that's brisk and keen, And smiles about the mouth: Hair black as sloe, skin white as snow, With blushes her cheeks adorning; To anoynt me o'er night, ere I go out to fight, And to gird me in the morning.' This being done, he did engage To hew the dragon down; But first he went, new armour to Bespeak at Sheffield town; With spikes all about, not within but without, Of steel so sharp and strong; Both behind and before, arms, legs, and all o'er, Some five or six inches long. Had you but seen him in this dress, How fierce he looked and how big, You would have thought him for to be Some Egyptian porcupig: He frighted all, cats, dogs, and all, Each cow, each horse, and each hog; For fear they did flee, for they took him to be Some strange outlandish hedge-hog. It is not strength that always wins, For wit doth strength excell; Which made our cunning champion Creep down into a well, Where he did think this dragon would drink, And so he did in truth; And as he stooped low he rose up and cried 'boh!' And hit him in the mouth. Our politick knight, on the other side Crept out upon the brink, And gave the dragon such a crack, He knew not what to think. 'Aha,' quoth he, 'say you so, do you see?' And then at him he let fly With hand and with foot, and so they both went to't, And the word it was, hey, boys, hey! 'Oh,' quoth the dragon with a deep sigh, And turned six times together, Sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing, Out of his throat of leather; 'More of More Hall! O thou rascàl! Would I had seen thee never; With that thing at thy foot thou hast pricked me sore, And I'm quite undone for ever.' 'Murder, murder,' the dragon cried, 'Alack, alack, for grief; Had you but missed that place, you could Have done me no mischief.' Then his head he shaked, he trembled and quaked, And down he laid and cried; First on one knee, then on back tumbled he, And groaned, and kicked, and died." We sometimes see allusions in poetry and the press to the sowing of dragons' teeth. The reference is always to some subject of civil strife, to some burning question that rouses the people of a state to take up arms against each other. The incident is derived from the old classic legend of the founding of Thebes by Kadmos. Arriving on the site of the future city, he proposed to make a sacrifice to the protecting goddess Athene, but on sending his men to a not far distant fountain for water, they were attacked and slain by a terrible dragon. Kadmos thereupon went himself and slew the monster, and at the command of Athene sowed its teeth in the ground, from whence immediately sprang a host of armed giants. These on the instant all turned their arms against each other, and that too with such fury that all were presently slain save five. Kadmos invoked the aid of these giants in the building of the new city, and from these five the noblest families of Thebes hereafter traced their lineage. The myth has been the cause of much perplexity to scholars and antiquaries, but it has been fairly generally accepted that the slaying of the dragon after it had destroyed many of the followers of Kadmos indicates the final reduction of some great natural obstacle, after some few or more had been first vanquished by it. We may imagine such an obstacle to colonisation as a river hastily rising and sweeping all before it in its headlong flood, or an aguish and fever-breeding morass. The springing-up of the armed men from the soil has been construed as signifying that the Thebans in after times regarded themselves as the original inhabitants of the country--no mere interlopers, but sons of the soil from time immemorial; while their conflicts amongst themselves, as their city rose to fame, have been too frequently reflected time after time elsewhere to need any very special exposition. Another literary allusion in which the dragon bears its part is seen in the dragonnades, those religious persecutions which drove so many thousands of Protestants out of France during the Middle Ages. Their object was to root heresy out of the land. Those who were willing to recant were left in peaceable possession of their goods, while the others were handed over to the tender mercies of the soldiery let loose upon them. These were chiefly dragoons; hence the origin of the term dragonnade; and these dragoons were so called because they were armed with a short musket or carbine called a dragon, while the gun in turn was so called because it spouted out fire like the dreadful monsters of the legends were held to do. On many of the early muskets this idea was emphasised by having the head of a dragon wrought on the muzzle, the actual flash of the piece on its discharge issuing from its mouth. One naturally turns to Shakespeare for an apt illustration of any conceivable point that may arise. The lover finds in him his tender sonnets, the lawyer his quillets of the law, the soldier the glorification of arms, and the philosopher rich mines of wisdom. The antiquary finds in him no less a golden wealth of allusion to all the customs and beliefs of his day. In "Midsummer Night's Dream" we find the lines-- "Night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, And yonder comes Aurora's harbinger." We get much the same idea again in the line in "Cymbeline"--"Swift, swift you dragons of the night," and in "Troilus and Cressida"--"The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth." "Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf," and many other horrible ingredients are found in the witches' caldron in "Macbeth," while in "King Lear" we are advised not to come "between the dragon and his wrath." King Richard III. rushes to his fate with the words, "Our ancient word of courage, fair St. George, inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons." In "Coriolanus" we find another admirable allusion-- "Though I go alone, like to a lonely dragon that his fen Makes feared and talked of more than seen." In the play of "Pericles" we have the lines-- "Golden fruit, but dangerous to be touched, For death-like dragons here affright thee hard." And there are other references in "Romeo and Juliet" and other plays--references that it is needless here to give, as enough has been quoted to show our great poet's realisation of this scaly monster of the marsh and forest. In the last extract we have given, that from "Pericles," the golden fruit are the apples of the Hesperides, guarded by the dragon Ladon, foul offspring of Typhon and Echidna. Allusions to this golden fruit are very common amongst the poets, so we content ourselves with quoting as an illustration one that is less well known than many, from a poem by Robert Greene in the year 1598:-- "Shew thee the tree, leafed with refinèd gold, Whereon the fearful dragon held his seat, That watched the garden called Hesperides." The dragon, like the griffin, is oftentimes the fabled guardian of treasure: we see this not only in the classic story of the garden of the Hesperides, but more especially in the tales of Eastern origin. Any of our readers who have duly gone through much of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments" will scarcely have failed to notice the employment of the dragon as a defender of gold and other hoarded wealth. Guillim, in his quaint book on heraldry, says that these treasures are committed to their charge "because of their admirable sharpness of sight, and for that they are supposed of all other living things to be the most valiant." He goes on to add that "they are naturally so hot that they cannot be cooled by drinking of water, but still gape for the air to refresh them, as appeareth in Jeremiah xiv. 6, where it saith that the 'wild asses did stand in the high places, they snuffed up the wind like dragons.'" Any one who has been in any mountainous district in hot weather will no doubt have noticed the cattle fringing the ridges of the hills like a row of sentinels. When we first observed this, and wondered at it, in North Wales, we were at once told that it was a regular habit of the creatures, that they did it partly to avoid the plague of flies that haunted the lower levels and the woodlands, but more especially to get the benefit of any breeze that might be stirring. While Guillim is willing to admit that even a dragon can render valuable service to those who are so fortunate as to be able to procure his kind offices, and induce him to play the part of watchdog, he very properly regards him, and such like monsters, as something decidedly uncanny. "Another sort there is," he says, "of exorbitant Animals much more prodigious than all the former. Such are those creatures formed, or rather deformed, with the confused shapes of creatures of different kinds and qualities. These monsters (saith St. Augustine) cannot be reckoned amongst those good Creatures that God created before the transgression of Adam, for those did God, when He took the survey of them, pronounce to be _valde bona_, for they had in them neither excess nor defect, but were the perfect workmanship of God's creation. If man had not transgressed the Law of his Maker this dreadful deformity (in likelihood) had not happened in the creation of animals which some Philosophers do call _Peccata Naturæ_." The dragon, though, as we have seen, at times induced to mount guard over other people's property, is ordinarily a very Ishmaelite; his hand is against everybody, and everybody's hand against him; yet would he appear, if we may credit Pliny, to bear an excess and maximum of ill-will against the elephant. The elephant always strikes one as being such a great good-natured beast, as one who could do so much mischief if he would, yet spends his strength instead for the good of others, that it is difficult to understand how he should in so pre-eminent a degree have earned the ill-will of so potent an enemy. The dragon would appear to be always the aggressor, and the elephant has to defend himself as well as he can against the uncalled-for attack: it is satisfactory in this case to know that the scaly assailant sometimes fully meets his match. In Book VIII. of Pliny's history we read that "India bringeth forth the biggest elephants, as also the dragons, that are continually at variance with them, and evermore fighting, and those of such greatnesse that they can easily clasp and wind them round the elephants, and withall tie them fast with a knot. In this conflict they die, both the one and the other; the elephant hee falls downe dead as conquered, and with his great and heavie weight crusheth and squeaseth the dragon that is wound and wreathed about him. Also the dragon assaileth him from an high tree, and launceth himselfe upon him, but the elephant knowing well enough he is not able to withstand his windings and knottings about him, seeketh to come close to some trees or hard rocks, and so for to crush and squeese the dragon between him and them. The dragons ware hereof, entangle and snare his feet and legs first with their taile; the elephants on the other side undoe those knots with their trunke as with a hand, but to prevent that againe, the dragons put in their heads into their snout, and so stop their wind, and withall fret and gnaw the tenderest parts that they find there." One does not quite understand how this last counter-plan of the dragon is effected, but it is evidently to be understood as equivalent to "checkmate." In the "Bestiare Divin" of Guillaume this antagonism of the elephant and dragon is again referred to, and indeed we find it an accepted belief throughout the Middle Ages. Pliny's work was held for centuries in the greatest admiration, and to add "as Pliny saith" to any statement, no matter how wild, was considered amply sufficient. Guillaume's description of the dragon is as follows--"C'est le plus grand des animaux rampants. Il nait en Éthiopie: il a la gueule petit, le corps long et reluisant comme or fin. C'est l'ennemie de l'éléphant; c'est avec sa queue qu'il triomphe de lui: là est, en effet, le principe de sa force; sa gueule ne porte point venin de mort." The book of Guillaume is a fair type of several books of the sort written by ecclesiastics during the Middle Ages. Such books were an attempt to show that all the works of nature were symbols and teachers of great Scriptural truths; hence, while much that they give is interesting, their statements always require to be received with great caution. If the facts of the case got at all in the way of a good moral, so much the worse for the facts; and if a little or a great modification of the true state of the case could turn a good moral into one much better, the goodness of the intention was held to amply justify the departure from the hampering influence of the real facts. The MS. of Guillaume dates from the thirteenth century, and is at present preserved in the National Library in Paris. The writer was a Norman priest. The work has been very well reproduced in a French dress by Hippeau, a compatriot of the writer.[7] As we simply wish in our extract to bring out the belief in the antagonism between the elephant and the dragon, we forbear to add any moral teachings that a more or less morbid symbolism was able to deduct from the supposititious fact; but we shall have occasion to quote again more than once from the "Bestiare," and doubtless the peculiar connection between scientific error and religious truth will have an opportunity of making itself felt in one or more of these extracts. [7] Appendix C. Referring back to the "300 Animals," the natural history that was considered good enough for the people living in the year of grace 1786, we find, after the account of the Dart, "so called from his flying like an arrow from the tops of trees and hedges upon men, by which means he stings and wounds them to death," the following description:--"The Cockatrice is called the king of serpents, not from his bigness--for he is much inferior in this respect to many serpents--but because of his majestic pace, for he does not creep upon the ground, like other serpents, but goes half upright, for which cause all other serpents avoid him; and it seems nature designed him that pre-eminence, by the crown or coronet upon his head. Writers differ concerning the production of this animal. Some are of opinion that it is brought forth of a cock's egg sat upon by a snake or toad, and so becomes a cockatrice. It is said to be half a foot in length, the hinder part like a serpent, the fore part like a cock. Others are of opinion that the cock that lays the egg sits upon and hatches it himself. These monsters are bred in Africa and some parts of the world." In England it would appear, so far as we have observed the matter, that the hens have entirely usurped the egg-laying department, and we are therefore spared the mortification of finding that our hoped-for chick has assumed the less welcome form of a cockatrice, for we shall see that the advent of a cockatrice is no laughing matter. The book goes on to tell us that authors differ about the bigness of it, for some say it is a span in compass and half a foot long, while others, with a truer sense of the marvellous, realise more fully that bulk is a potent element in all such matters, and at once make it four feet long. Its poison is so strong that there is no cure for it, and the air is in such a degree affected by its presence that no creature can live near it. It kills, we are assured, not only by its touch, but even the sight of the cockatrice, like that of the basilisk, is death. We read, for instance, in "Romeo and Juliet" of "the death-darting eye of cockatrice;" and again in "King Richard III."--"A cockatrice hast thou hatched to the world whose unavoided eye is murtherous;" while in "Twelfth Night" we find the passage, "This will so fright them both, that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices." After this we can scarcely wonder at a certain vagueness of description, as those who never saw the animal have full licence of description, while those, less fortunate, who have had an opportunity of studying from the life have forfeited their own in doing so. The only hope of getting an idea of it would be the discovery of a dead specimen, for we read that "as all other serpents are afraid of the sight and hissing of a cockatrice, so is the cockatrice itself very fearful of a weasel, which after it has eaten rue will set upon and destroy the cockatrice. Besides this little creature, it is said there is no other animal in the world able to contend with it." We can well imagine the indignant astonishment of the cockatrice, after being for years the monarch of all it surveyed, when the gallant little weasel, strong in the triple armour which makes a quarrel just, and duly fortified by the internal application of rue, charges boldly home and takes him, _monstrorum rex_, by the throat. At the time that our authorised version of the Old Testament was made there was a sufficient belief in the creature to make the translation of some Hebrew word seem correctly rendered by the word cockatrice, for we read in the book of Isaiah that one sign of the millennial peace shall be that the child shall put his hand, unharmed, upon the den of the cockatrice; and a little farther on we find the passage, "For out of the serpent's root shall come forth a cockatrice, and his fruit shall be a fiery flying serpent." In the fifty-ninth chapter the workers of iniquity are described as hatching the cockatrice egg, and amongst the judgments pronounced upon the impenitent Jews by the prophet Jeremiah we find the verse, "Behold, I will send serpents, cockatrices, amongst you, which will not be charmed, and they shall bite you." The heraldic cockatrice is represented as having the head and legs of a cock, a scaly and serpent-like body, and the wings of a dragon. Guillim[8] in his "Heraldry" says that "the Cockatrice is called in Latin Regulus, for that he seemeth to be a little King among Serpents: not in regard of his Quantity, but in respect of the Infection of his pestiferous and poisonous Aspect wherewith he poisoneth the Air. Not unlike those devillish Witches that do work the Destruction of silly Infants, as also of the Cattel of such their Neighbours whose prosperous Estate is to them a most grievous Eye-sore. Of such Virgil in his Bucolicks makes mention, saying, I know not what wicked Eye hath bewitched my tender Lambs." The belief in the evil eye has been almost universal, and may be found in tribes the most remote from each other either in distance or in time. If it were not that Guillim is so ostentatiously loyal, and, like all heralds, a zealous upholder of rank and state, one might suspect him almost of a touch of bitter sarcasm in ascribing royal rank to the cockatrice, not from his magnanimity, not from his noble bearing, not from his beauty, but from the power of inflicting injuries that he so especially displays. When we consider what sort of a sovereign politically, socially, and every way the second Charles was, Guillim's dedication of his book to him errs somewhat, perhaps, on the side of fulsome and sickening adulation:--"To the most August Charles the Second, King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, &c. Dread Sovereign, Here is a Firmament of Stars that shine not without your Benign Beam; you are the Sun of our Hemisphere that sets a splendour on the Nobility: For as they are Jewels and Ornaments to your Crown, so they derive their lustre and value from thence. From your Breast, as from a Fountain, the young Plants of honour are cherisht and nurst up. Your vertuous Atcheivements are their Warrant and Example, and your Bounty the Guerdon of their Merit. And as all the Roman Emperors after Julius Cæsar, were desirous to be called Imperatores and Cæsares after him, so shall all succeeding Princes in this our Albion (in emulation of your Vertues) be ambitious to bear your Name to Posterity." [8] The reader must notice the near approach to similarity of name in the Frenchman Guillaume, author of "Le Bestiare Divin," and in the Englishman Guillim, the writer on heraldry, and at the same time make due discrimination. They are men of widely different periods, and approach our subject from wholly different directions. The Basilisk, to whom also was given the title of king of the serpents, was another of the stern, very stern realities of our forefathers, though, like the cockatrice, it has fallen a victim to the march of intellect. Its royal rank was bestowed upon it not from its pestiferous qualities, but from the crest or coronet it wears, or rather wore, as the species may now be considered extinct. Like the monstrous kraken of the Norway seas and the classic harpy or minotaur, down to the sheeted spectre that clanked its chains last century in churchyard or corridor, it has failed to make good its claims to our credence; and even the great sea-serpent, that from time to time appears in the columns of the newspapers when Parliament is not sitting, will have to appear very visibly elsewhere as well, or the scepticism of the nineteenth century will disestablish it. The basilisk was by some old writers described as a huge lizard, but in later times it became a crested serpent. Exact accuracy on this point was impossible, as, like the cockatrice, the glance of its eye was death. Pliny says, "We come now to the basiliske, whom all other serpents do flie from and are afraid of; albeit he killith them with his very breath and smell that passeth from him: yea, and by report, if he do but set his eye on a man it is enough to take away his life." Readers of Shakespeare will recall the passage in King Henry VI., "Come, basilisk, and kill the innocent gazer with thy sight;" and again where the Lady Anne exclaims to Richard III., with reference to her eyes, "Would that they were basilisk's, to strike thee dead." Beaumont and Fletcher, too, in their "Woman Hater," speaks of "The basilisk's death-doing eye." Dryden avails himself of the same old belief, and makes Clytus say to Alexander, "Nay, frown not so; you cannot look me dead;" and in another old poem, King's "Art of Love," we find the lines, "Like a boar plunging his tusk in mastiff's gore, or basilisk, when roused, whose breath, teeth, sting, and eyeballs all are death." The only way to kill the basilisk was held to be to cause it to gaze on its own image in a mirror, when its glance would be as fatal to itself as it had hitherto been to others. To effect this, however, evidently presents many practical difficulties, and he must have been a bold man who ventured on so perilous an errand, where the least nervousness or mismanagement of the mirror would be literally fatal in bringing the basilisk to a proper state of reflection. The basilisk is mentioned by most of the old writers, by Dioscorides, by Galen, Pliny, Solinus, Ælian, Ætius, Avicen, Ardoynus, Grevinus, and many others. Aristotle makes no mention of it. Scaliger gravely describes one that was found in Rome in the days of Leo IV., while Sigonius and others are so far from denying the possibility of such a beast that they have duly set forth various kinds or sub-species. Pliny, for instance, describes a thing he calls the Catoblepas, while Ætius gives details of another called Dryinus, each being only modifications of the basilisk idea. Where, of course, the whole thing was purely a figment of the imagination, the multiplication of species presents no difficulty at all, and it really makes little difference whether all the peculiarities and properties be focussed on one creature, or whether they be divided by a three or a four, and due distribution of them made to a like number of slightly varying monsters. There is no doubt but that if Baron Munchausen had turned his attention to this branch of natural history, we should have had many more species to record, and some of them probably still more wonderful than any at present described. The very indefiniteness of the descriptions gives them an added charm and affords full scope for romancing. Familiarity is undoubtedly likely to lead to contempt, and probably if the Zoological Society of London are ever able to add a basilisk to their fine collection of reptiles it will be a very disappointing feature. The Phoenix had what we may be allowed to call a literary existence amongst the Greeks and Romans, but scarcely became a visible creation of the artist until the mythic fowl was accepted by the early Christians as a type of the resurrection of the body--an association of ideas that afterwards rendered its use very common, and Tertullian, amongst other early writers, thus refers to its symbolic use. According to a tale narrated to Herodotus on his visit to Heliopolis, the phoenix visited that place once every 500 years, bringing with it the body of its predecessor, and burning it with myrrh in the sanctuary of the Sun-god; but the version on which the Christian moral and application is based is somewhat different. It is founded on the old belief that the phoenix, when it arrived at the age of 1461 years, committed itself to the flames that burst, at the fanning of its wings, from the funeral pyre that it had itself constructed of costly spices, and that from its ashes a new phoenix arose to life. This belief, which appears to us so absurd, was for hundreds of years as accepted a fact as any other point in natural history. The home of the phoenix was said to be at that delightfully vague address, somewhere in Arabia. In Hoole's translation of the "Orlando Furioso" of Ariosto we have both the mystic bird and its very indefinite home thus referred to:-- "Arabia, named the Happy, now he gains; Incense and myrrh perfume her grateful plains; The Virgin Phoenix there in seek of rest, Selects from all the world her balmy nest." We get the same idea again in Fletcher's poem of "The Purple Island":-- "So that love bird in fruitful Arabie, When now her strength and waning life decays, Upon some airy rock or mountain high, In spicy bed (fix'd by near Phoebus' rays), Herself and all her crooked age consumes. Straight from her ashes and those rich perfumes, A new-born phoenix flies, and widow'd place resumes." These two extracts speak respectively of the virgin and widowed phoenix. The latter idea can scarcely be correct; widowhood implies the loss of a mate, and the phoenix, we are told, is unique and alone in the world. Pliny and Ovid use the masculine pronoun. The former writer's account of him, her, or it will be found in the second chapter of his tenth book, and runs as follows:--"It is reported that never man was knowne to see him feeding; that in Arabie hee is held a sacred bird, dedicated unto the Sunne; that he liveth six hundred years, and when he groweth old and begins to decay, he builds himselfe a nest with the twigs and branches of the cannell or cinnamon and frankincense trees; and when he hath filled it with all sort of sweet aromiticall spices, yieldeth up his life thereupon. He saith, moreover, that of his bones and marrow there breedeth at first, as it were, a little worme, which afterwards proveth to bee a pretie bird. And the first thing that this young phoenix doth is to performe the obsequies of the former phoenix late deceased; to translate and carie away his whole nest into the citie of the Sunne, near Panchæ, and to bestow it there full devoutly upon the altar." It was one of the venerable jokes of our fathers that a man hearing that a goose would live one hundred years, determined to buy one and see whether this really was so; but this simple plan does not seem to have occurred to any of the ancients, for while Herodotus affirms that the phoenix lives five hundred years, Pliny as plumply and roundly asserts as a matter beyond doubt or contradiction that it is six hundred. Another authority, more precise, though perhaps not more accurate, brings it, we see, to just one thousand four hundred and sixty one, the odd unit giving a delightful appearance of extreme accuracy and precision that seems to challenge one to gainsay it if he dare. In Ovid the fable is given with the fullest detail. The following lines from Dryden's translation let us into the secret of how the whole thing is managed. "Our special correspondent" could hardly be more precise:-- "All these receive their birth from other things, But from himself the phoenix only springs; Self-born, begotten by the parent flame In which he burn'd, another and the same; Who not by corn or herbs his life sustains, But the sweet essence Amomum he drains; And watches the rich gums Arabia bears, While yet in tender dews they drop their tears. He (his five centuries of life fulfill'd) His nest of oaken boughs begins to build, On trembling tops of palms:[9] and first he draws The plan with his broad bill and crooked claws, Nature's artificers: on this the pile Is formed and rises round: then with the spoil Of Cassia, Cynamon, and stems of Nard (For softness strewed beneath) his funeral bed is reared. Funeral and bridal both: and all around The borders with corruptless myrrh are crowned. On this incumbent, till ethereal flame; First catches then consumes the costly frame; Consumes him, too, as on the pile he lies: He lived on odours, and on odours dies. An infant phoenix from the former springs, His father's heir, and from his tender wings Shakes off his parent dust, his method he pursues, And the same lease of life on the same terms renews. When grown to manhood he begins his reign, And with stiff pinions can his flight sustain; He lightens of his load the tree that bore His father's royal sepulchre before, And his own cradle: this with pious care Placed on his back, he cuts the buxom air, Seeks the Sun's city, and his sacred church, And decently lays down his burden in the porch." [9] Appendix D. The phoenix was a good deal employed during the Middle Ages, like the griffin, salamander, and other mythical creatures, as a badge or heraldic device, one of the most interesting illustrations being its use by Jane Seymour. Queen Elizabeth then adopted it, and thereby gave the court poets a grand opportunity of yielding her that highly spiced flattery that was so much to her liking. Sylvester, in his "Corona Dedicatoria," a poem written at a slightly later period, thus introduces the title:-- "As when the Arabian (only) bird doth burne Her aged body in sweet flames to death, Out of her cinders a new bird hath breath, In whom the beauties of the first return; From spicy ashes of the sacred urne Of our dead phoenix (deere Elizabeth) A new true phoenix lively flourisheth." Shakespeare frequently employs the ideas associated with the mythical bird in his writings, and seems to have thoroughly mastered all that could be said on the subject. Some half-dozen passages may readily be quoted as illustrations of this. In "As you Like It," for example, we find the line, "She could not love me, were man as rare as phoenix;" and the idea of its unique character is again brought out in "Cymbeline," in the passage, "If she be furnished with a mind so rare, she is alone the Arabian bird." The destruction of the bird on its own funeral pile and the resurrection of its successor therefrom is several times referred to. In 1 Henry VI. we read, "But from their ashes shall be reared a phoenix that shall make all France afeared;" and in 3 Henry VI., "My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth a bird that will revenge upon you all;" while as a final example we may quote the line in Henry VIII., "But as, when the bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, her ashes new create another heir." Richardson ascribes an age of one thousand years to the phoenix, and adds a detail that many of the older writers seem to have missed; according to him the bird has fifty orifices in his bill, and when he has built his funeral pyre he treats the world to a melodious ditty through this novel wind instrument, flaps his wings with an energy that soon sets fire to the pile, and so perishes. There seems a hint of this vocal and instrumental performance in "Paradise and the Peri" where the poet Moore refers to "The enchanted pile of that lonely bird, Who sings at the last his own death lay, And in music and perfume dies away." The Alchemists employed the phoenix as a symbol of their hopes and vocation, and in Paracelsus and other writers many curious details of its association with alchemy may be found. In the annals of Tacitus we find references to what is termed the phoenix period. According to him the phoenix appeared on five occasions in Egypt--in the reign of Sesostris, B.C. 866; in the reign of Am-Asis B.C. 566; in the reign of Ptolemy Philadelphos, B.C. 266; in the reign of Tiberius, A.D. 34; and in the reign of Constantine, A.D. 334. It will seem from this that the phoenix cycle consisted of periods of about 300 years (another variation from the estimates of Pliny and other writers quoted). The old monastic writers draw ingenious parallels between our Saviour and the phoenix, both sacrificing themselves when their career is over, and both rising again in glory from their temporary resting-place. The fourth of the dates given above is at once the alleged date of one of these appearances of the phoenix and also that of the great sacrifice on Calvary. Though it seems a tremendous drop from the mythical phoenix of Arabia and its dissolution in fragrant spices to the old Dun Cow in Warwickshire, yet the latter proved herself, if legends may be credited, a foe fully worthy of the prowess of a right knightly arm, and as deserving of our notice as the dragon-slaying of that valiant brother star of chivalry St. George himself. Sir Guy of Warwick takes a high place amongst the famous ancient champions, and Dugdale and other good authorities hold that the stories connected with his name are not wholly apocryphal, though doubtless the monks and other early chroniclers drew the long bow at a venture sometimes. Dugdale, in his "Warwickshire," A.D. 1730, writes--"Of his particular adventures, lest what I say should be suspected for fabulous, I will onely instance that combat betwixt him and the Danish champion, Colebrand, whom some (to magnifie our noble Guy the more) report to have been a giant. The storie whereof, however it may be thought fictitious by some, forasmuch as there be those that make a question whether there was ever really such a man, yet those that are more considerate will neither doubt the one nor the other, inasmuch as it hath been so usual with our ancient Historians, for the encouragement of after ages unto bold attempts, to set forth the exploits of worthy men with the highest encomiums possible; and therefore, should we be for that cause so conceited as to explode it, all history of those times might as well be vilified.[10] And having said thus much to encounter with the prejudicate fancies of some and the wayward opinions of others, I come to the story." We do not ourselves propose to "come to the story," though it is all duly set down in Dugdale; though if the fact of Guy's Danish antagonist being a giant could be fully substantiated, he might perhaps claim a place in our pages. The date of the combat seems to have been the year 929. The exploits of Guy were long held in high favour not only in England but abroad; we find a French version dated 1525, and the British hero is referred to in a Spanish romance which was written almost a hundred years before this. Chaucer evidently knew the story well, for he tells us that "Men speken of romances of price, Of Horne Childe and Ippotis, Of Bevis and Sir Guy;" while Shakespeare, in "King Henry VIII.," makes one of his characters say, "I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, to mow them down before me." [10] Appendix E. In Percie's "Reliques of Antient Poetry" is a long black letter ballad upon the exploits of Guy. It seems unnecessary to quote it _in extenso_, so we pick out a verse here and there, sufficient at least to show how doughty a champion our hero must have been:-- "I slew the gyant Amarant In battle fiercelye hand to hand: And doughty Barknard killed I, A treacherous knight of Pavye land. Then I to England came againe, And here with Colbronde fell I fought: An ugly gyant whom the Danes Had for their champion hither brought. I overcame him in the field, And slewe him soone right valliantlye; Wherebye this land I did redeeme From Danish tribute utterlye. And afterwards I offered upp The use of weapons solemnlye At Winchester, whereas I fought, In sight of manye farr and nye. But first, near Winsor, I did slaye A bore of passing might and strength; Whose like in England never was For hugenesse both of bredth and length. Some of his bones in Warwicke yet, Within the castle there do lye, One of his shield-bones to this day Hangs in the citye of Coventrye. On Dunsmore heath I alsoe slewe A monstrous wyld and cruell beast, Called the Dun-Cow of Dunsmore heath, Which manye people had opprest. Some of her bones in Warwicke yett Still for a monument doe lye; Which unto every lookers viewe As wondrous strange, they may espye. A dragon in Northumberland, I alsoe did in fight destroye, Which did both man and beast oppresse, And all the countrye sore annoye. My body that endured this toyle, Though now it be consumed to mold; My statue faire engraven in stone, In Warwicke still you may behold." The origin of the story of the mythical dun cow is lost in obscurity, but in the north-west of Shropshire will be found an eminence known locally as the Staple Hill, and on this a ring of stones of the rude Druidic type seen in various parts of England, and most notably at Avebury, in Wiltshire. This circle is some ninety feet or so in diameter, and legend has it that this enclosure was used by a giant as a cow-pen. This cow was no ordinary creature, but yielded her milk miraculously, filling any vessel that was brought to her. She seems to have deeply resented the act of an old crone in bringing her a sieve thus to fill, construed it into a direct insult to her powers (though one scarcely sees on what ground), broke loose from her enclosure, and wandered into Warwickshire, doing enormous mischief, until her career was cut short by the redoubtable Guy. Bones of the dun cow may be seen in many places, a circumstance that is explained by telling us that on the victory of the knight over the cow he sent its bones far and wide over the district it had ravaged, as tokens of victory and a manifest proof that the monster was no longer to be dreaded. At Warwick a rib is exhibited: this is some seven feet long, and at Coventry there is a gigantic blade-bone some eleven feet round. In some cases these probably are the bones of whales, and in others of the wild bonasus or urus; but it must be distinctly understood that they do not give credibility to the legend, but only, in fact, derive an added glory from being associated with it. In the fine old church of Chesterfield is another gigantic rib some seven feet or more in length and a foot in circumference. This rests on the altar-tomb of a now unknown knight, whose marble effigy is represented clothed in a suit of armour, and local tradition has naturally bestowed on the once nameless warrior the proud title of Guy, Earl of Warwick. Another big rib may be seen in the grand church of St. Mary Redcliff at Bristol. Near it used to be suspended a grimy old picture representing a fierce-looking dun cow, and, though the inference was sufficiently obvious, the sexton, in showing people round, used to boldly affirm that this undoubtedly was one of the ribs of the monster slain by Sir Guy. Both rib and picture may now possibly be removed in deference to more modern ideas, but they certainly were there within a very recent period. A third rib may be seen at Caerleon, once a place of much importance, but now an insignificant little town, and chiefly interesting from its association with the history of the great King Arthur. Caerleon boasts a museum containing a very valuable collection of Roman and old British relics, and here too is the rib in question. It has only recently been removed from the church, and it is, by the way, curious to note the association of these bones with churches in almost every case. In the church of Pennant Melangell, in Montgomeryshire, is another gigantic rib said by some of the natives to be that of a giant, while others affirm that it is one of the ribs of St. Monacella, to whom the church is dedicated. As the bone is over four feet long, her stature must have been something considerable altogether. Another big bone is in the church at Mallwyd, in the same county. In Buckland's "Curiosities of Natural History" it is stated that "the ribs of the dun cow at Warwick and the gigantic rib at St. Mary's, Bristol, are the bones of whales;" and in his interesting account of the whale he mentions that he found whale-bones in all parts of the country, one of them being a large blade-bone hanging from a ceiling in Seven Dials. Assuming, as we probably may, that most if not all of these big bones scattered over the country are those of whales, one is still at a loss to know how or why they got so scattered, and more especially why they were placed in the churches. The legend of the dun cow appears to afford a very convenient popular explanation of them, but one feels that there is a mystery that this account does not dissipate. The Salamander received its full mythical development during mediæval times, though the older writers refer to it occasionally. We see in the writings of such men as Pliny the first steps taken towards the erection of that fabric of fancy and superstition that in the Middle Ages was reared on so slight a foundation. Pliny asserts that the Salamander is made in the fashion of a lizard and marked with spots like stars; that it is never seen during fair weather, but only in heavy rain; and that it is of so cold a nature that if it do but touch fire it will as effectually quench it as if ice were placed thereon. He, moreover, declares its poisonous nature--a nature that, according to later writers, is so noxious that the mere climbing of the tree by the animal poisons all the fruit, so that all who afterwards eat thereof perish without remedy, and that if one enters a river the stream is effectually poisoned, and all who drink therefrom for an indefinite date thereafter must die. Glanvil, a learned English Cordelier monk who lived in the thirteenth century, goes so far as to declare roundly, as though undoubted and historic fact, that 4000 men of the army of Alexander the Great and 2000 of the beasts of burden were lost through drinking at a stream that had been thus infected. It was in the Middle Ages an article of belief that the salamander was bred and nourished in fire, and we have ourselves been gravely told that if the fires at the ironworks in the Midland Counties were not occasionally extinguished, an uncertain but fearful something would be created in them. When the salamander is represented it is always placed in the midst of flames. We see that the book to which we have already frequently referred as that to which our grandfathers went for instruction puts the poisonous nature of the salamander in the following graphic way:--"A man bit by a salamander should have as many physicians to cure him as the salamander has spots." The salamander is the well-known device of Francis I. of France, A.D. 1515-1547, the monarch who met our own King Henry VIII. at "the field of the cloth of gold." On this occasion the French Guard had the salamander embroidered on their uniform, and we also find the device freely in the sculpture, wall paintings, and stained glass at Fontainebleau, Chambord, Orleans, in fact in all the palaces of Francis I. The motto adopted with it was _Nutrisco et extinguo_, "I nourish and extinguish," a somewhat contradictory saying based on a somewhat contradictory story, for while we are told on the one hand that the salamander is reared and nourished in flame, we are also told that "he is of so cold a complexion that if he doe but touch the fire he will quench it as presently as if yce were put into it." John, king of Aragon, had, almost a hundred years before, adopted the same device, adding to it the motto, _Durabo_, "I will endure." Asbestos, though really, of course, of a mineral nature, was, from its incombustible property, held in the Middle Ages to be the wool of the salamander. We are told that the Roman emperors had napkins of this material, and that if they became at all soiled they were thrown into the fire, the fierce heat quickly destroying all foreign matter. As the testing flames purified the good while they destroyed the bad, so we presume King Francis intended to hold himself up as a terror to evil-doers and a rewarder of the loyal and faithful. The motto is none the less faulty, however; for while we find the king claiming both functions, it will be noticed in the legend that it is the fire which nourishes and the creature which extinguishes. The writings of Pliny abound in strange ideas; some of these he evidently set down without putting the statements to the test, but in many cases he shattered the old beliefs by bringing them to the crucial test of experiment. The story of the extreme frigidity of the salamander's body at once putting out the fiercest fire was a matter that he thus brought to the testing-point, the result being that the unfortunate victim of science was quickly shrivelled up and consumed. Another old statement, equally capable of being brought to the trial, was that if even the foot of a man came in contact with the liquid exuded from the skin of the salamander all his hair would fall off. Perhaps the reason why one statement was tested and not the other was that in the first case any ill consequences that might arise would affect the reptile, while the second would come home more closely to the experimenter himself. In Breydenbach's travels we find a salamander included amongst the other animals, a position that it probably owed to its association with legend, for we also find in the same old author that the unicorn is frankly accepted as a beast that may be met with by the traveller. The book is interesting, too, as giving the first figure that had then been made of a giraffe, or, as he terms it, seraffa.[11] The existence of the giraffe was long afterwards denied by naturalists, and his seraffa was for a very lengthened period held to be but a myth. Breydenbach was a canon of the cathedral of Mentz, and seems to have been of a somewhat adventurous spirit, for despite all the difficulties of the undertaking--difficulties that in these days of steam-boats, railways, and through bookings we cannot at all realise--we find him visiting Sinai and the Holy Land. His travels were first printed as a folio volume at Mentz in 1486. This was a Latin edition; but two years later we find one in German, and in less than ten years six different editions were called for in Germany, besides others printed in Holland and elsewhere for the benefit of those to whom both Latin and German were unknown tongues. The book is full of quaint woodcuts, and is altogether a treasure-house of history, natural and unnatural. [11] Representations of the giraffe are to be found in the ancient monuments of Egypt, the animal being part of the annual tribute brought by the vassal Ethiopians to the king of Egypt. These representations were, we need scarcely say, unknown to the naturalists of the Middle Ages. The salamander is commonly to be met with in many parts of Europe, but the real and the ideal creature are two very different things--as different as the deer-eyed cows quietly ruminating in their verdant pasturage are to the dun cow that taxed all the heroism of Sir Guy of Warwick, or as old grey Dobbin to Pegasus. The real creature is very similar in form to the newts that are so commonly to be found in ponds, but the salamander of Francis I. is more like a wingless dragon, while some of the mediæval heralds made it a quadruped something like a dog. Such a creature, breathing forth flames, may be seen in the crest of Earl Douglas A.D. 1483. Shakespearian students will recall how Falstaff rails at Bardolph, calling him the "Knight of the Burning Lamp," "admiral, bearing lantern in the poop," "ball of wildfire," and so forth, all compliments called forth from the effects of strong liquor on the rubicund countenance of Bardolph. He winds up by saying, "Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern, but the sack that thou hast drunk me would have bought me lights as good cheap, at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have maintained that salamander of yours with fire any time this two and thirty years." The salamander, like the toad, the slow-worm, or the water newt, is still held to be decidedly uncanny. In our younger days our seeking after such small objects of natural history was always held by wondering rustics as a foolish tempting of Providence, and we have repeatedly been told the most moving stories of the poisonous nature of all such creatures, and especially how newts developed the most alarming properties if interfered with, biting out pieces of the captor's flesh, and then spitting fire into the wound. Prompt amputation or death was the dire alternative offered, though in our own case matters never reached so dread a climax. "Them pisonous effets" were many a time in those by-gone days held in the hand that now guides our pen. The belief in such fatal powers must have a very disquieting influence on the rustics who hold it. When farm animals, as calves or colts, die mysteriously, some one is sure to start the theory that they have been bitten by an effet while drinking; and in view of such a belief even the fetching of a pail of water from the pond that too often supplies the drinking water in country places must appear attended with no little risk. The following graphic and amusing letter from one of the correspondents of the _Field_ newspaper shows how the salamander is still regarded in rural France:-- "Returning homeward a few evenings ago from a country walk in the environs of D----, I discovered in my path a strange-looking reptile, which, after regarding me steadfastly for a few moments, walked slowly to the side of the road, and commenced very deliberately clambering up the wall. Never having seen a similar animal, I was rather doubtful as to its properties; but, reassured by its tranquil demeanour, I put my pocket-handkerchief over it, and it suffered itself to be taken up without resistance, and was thus carried to my domicile. On arriving _chez moi_, I opened the basket to show my captive to the servants, when, to my surprise and consternation, they set up such a screaming and hullabaloo that I thought they would have gone into fits. "'_Oh! la, la, la, la, la!--Oh! la, la, la, la, la!_' and then a succession of screams in altissimo, which woke up the children and brought out the neighbours to see what could be the matter. "'_Oh, monsieur a rapporté un sourd!_' "'_Un sourd!_' cried one. "'UN SOURD!' echoed another. "'UN S-O-U-R-D!!!' cried they all in chorus; and then followed a succession of shrieks. "When they calmed down into a mild sample of hysterics, they began to explain that I had brought home the most venomous animal in creation. "'_Oh! le vilaín bête!_' cried Phyllis. "'_Oh! le méchant!_' chimed in Abigail; 'he kills everybody that comes near him; I have known fifty people die of his bite, and no remedy in the world can save them. As soon as they are bitten they _gonflent_, _gonflent_, and keep on swelling till they burst, and are dead in a quarter of an hour.' "Here I transferred my curiosity from the basket to a glass jar, and put a saucer on the top to keep it safe. "'_O Monsieur!_ don't leave him so; if he puts himself in a rage, nothing can hold him. He has got such force that he can jump up to the ceiling; and wherever he fastens himself he sticks like death.' "'Ah! it's all true,' cried my landlady, joining the circle of gapers; '_Oh! la la! Ça me fait peur; ça me fait tr-r-r-r-embler!_' "'Once I saw a man in a haycart try to kill one, and the _bête_ jumped right off the ground at a bound and fastened itself on the man's face, when he stood on the haycart, and nothing could detach it till the man fell dead.' "'_Ah! c'est bien vrai_,' cried Abigail; 'they ought to have fetched a mirror and held it up to the _bête_, and then it would have left the man and jumped at its _image_.' "The end of all this commotion was that, while I went to inquire of a scientific friend whether there was any truth in these tissue of _bêtises_, the whole household was in an uproar, _tout en émoi_, and they sent for a _commissionnaire_, and an ostler with a spade and mattock, and threw out my poor _bête_ into the road and foully murdered it, chopping it into a dozen pieces by the light of a stable lantern; and then they declared that they could sleep in peace!--_les miserables!_ "But there were sundry misgivings as to my fate, and, as with the Apostle, 'they looked when I should have swollen or fallen down dead suddenly;' and next morning the maids came stealthily and peeped into my room to see whether I was alive or dead, and were not a little surprised that I was not even _gonflé_, or any the worse for my _rencontre_ with a _sourd_. "And so it turned out that my poor little _bête_ that had caused such a disturbance was nothing more nor less than a salamander--a poor, inoffensive, harmless reptile, declared on competent authority to be noways venomous, but whose unfortunate appearance and somewhat Satanic livery have exposed it to obloquy and persecution." As the French word _sourd_ primarily means one who is deaf, we get a curious parallelism of ideas between the salamander deaf to all sense of pity, and insensible to all but its own fell purpose, and the old idea of the deafness of the poisonous adder. "Deaf as an adder" is a common country saying, and the passage in the Psalms of David where we read that "the deaf adder stoppeth her ears, and will not heed the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely," naturally rises to one's mind. The deafness, it will be noted, is no mere lack of the hearing faculty, but a wilful turning away from gentle influence. It was an old belief that when the asp heard the voice of the serpent-charmer it stopped its ears by burying one of them in the sand and coiling its folds over the other. In turning over the quaint pages of the "Bestiary" of De Thaun we find allusion made to a creature that is evidently the salamander again, though we cannot quite make out the reference to King Solomon. Like all such books written in the Middle Ages, everything is introduced to point some moral or religious truth, though it may at first seem difficult for our readers to realise what possible connection there can be between the dreaded "sourd" and any spiritual instruction. The reference is as follows:--"Ylio is a little beast made like a lizard. Of it says Solomon that in a king's house it ought to be and to frequent, to give an example. It is of such nature that if it come by chance where there shall be burning fire it will immediately extinguish it. The beast is so cold and of such a quality that fire will not be able to burn where it shall enter, nor will trouble happen in the place where it shall be. A beast of such quality signifies such men as was Ananias, as was Azarias, and as was Misael, who served God fairly: these three issued from the fire praising God. He who has faith only will never have hurt from fire."[12] [12] Appendix F. Like the salamander, the Griffin was to our forefathers no mere creature of the imagination. Ctesias describes them in all sober earnestness as "birds with four feet, of the size of a wolf, and having the legs and claws of a lion. Their feathers are red on the breast and black on the rest of the body." Glanvil says of them, "The claws of a griffin are so large and ample that he can seize an armed man as easily by the body as a hawk a little bird. In like manner he can carry off a horse or an ox, or any other beast in his flight." The creature is, if anything, still more terrible when met with in the description given by Sir John Mandeville:--"Thai have the body upward as an egle, and benethe as a lyoun, but a griffonne hath the body more gret, and is more strong than eight lyouns, and more grete and strongere than an hundred egles such as we have among us. For he hath his talouns so large and so longe and grete upon his fete as though thei weren homes of grete oxen, so that men maken cuppes of them to drinken of." Oriental writers, who appear to have an especial delight in the marvellous, go even beyond this, and the creature becomes with them the roc, the terrible creature we read of, for example, in the wonderful adventures of "Sindbad the Sailor." Milton introduces the creature very finely in his noble poem, as for instance:-- "As when a gryphon through the wilderness With wingèd course o'er hill and moory dale Pursues the Arimaspian, who by stealth Has from his watchful custody purloin'd The guarded gold: so eagerly the fiend O'er bog, or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues his way, And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies." The Arimaspians were a one-eyed people of Scythia, who braided their hair with gold and drew their supplies of the precious metal as best they could from the stores guarded by the griffins. The griffin has long been employed as a symbol of watchfulness, courage, and perseverance, on account of this fabled treasure-guarding. But Browne, who, as we have seen, took great delight in vivisecting the vulgar errors of his day and generation, discourses as follows on the matter--"Aristeus affirmed that neer the Arimaspi, or one-eyed nation, griffins defended the mines of gold, but this, as Herodotus delivereth, he wrote from hearsay, and Michovius, who hath expressly written of those parts, plainly affirmeth that there is neither gold nor griffins in that country, nor any such Animall extant, for so doth he conclude, 'Ego vero contra veteres authores, gryphes nec in illa septentrionis nec in alius orbis partibus inveniri affirmarim.'" Like the dragon, the griffin seems to have been a good sort of fellow to deal with if you only took him the right way, and though a terrible monster to encounter if one had any burglarious intentions, he seems to have served his masters with a singleness of purpose and bull-dog tenacity that were very much to his credit. In Ariosto's "Orlando Furioso" we read of a griffin-steed that flew through the air with its master on its back, and landed him wheresoever he listed. The griffin was fabled to be the offspring of the union of the lion and the eagle; it has the leonine body and stout claws of one parent, the hooked beak, keen eye, and wings of the other. The form is very often met with in heraldry, past and present, either as a crest or as a supporter to the arms. A very familiar example of their employment in this latter service will be seen in the arms of the city of London. It is also a very common form in Roman and Renaissance painting and sculpture. Gryphius, a celebrated French printer, adopted the creature as his device, and on his decease the following epitaph was written:-- "La grande griffe Qui tout griffe A griffé le corps de Gryphe." Though ordinarily written as griffin or griffon, the alternative rendering gryphon is somewhat more correct, as the word is derived from the Greek _grypos_, or hook-nosed, in evident allusion to its eagle-beak. Shakespeare frequently refers to the creature, but the only instance we need here refer to is where a considerable difference in the spelling of the word might lead some of our readers astray. The passage to which we allude will be found in "The Rape of Lucrece," where she "Like a white hind under the grype's sharp claws Pleads in a wilderness, where are no laws." In the forests of Bohemia, we are told by Burton in his "Miracles of Art and Nature," there is a little beast called the Lomie, "which hath hanging under its neck a bladder always full of scalding water, with which, when she is hunted, she so tortureth the dogs that she thereby easily makes her escape." Elsewhere he tells of four-footed serpents, strange creatures that, unlike many of his wonders--only to be found in Peru or India, or such like distant lands--are to be seen as near home as Poland. The people of Poland, we are told, are "boysterous, rude, and barbarous; nourishing amongst them a kind of four-footed serpent, above three handfuls in length, which they worship as their household gods, tending them with fear and reverence when they call them out to their repasts; and if any mischance do happen to any of their family it is imputed presently to some want of due observations of these ugly creatures." Vegetable Lambs were another of the wonders of our forefathers. The credulous Sir John Mandeville says that in Cathay a gourd-like fruit is found that when ripe contains "as though it were a lytylle lomb withouten wolle." In the twenty-sixth chapter of his book the lamb-tree is duly figured, and its peculiar fruit development graphically delineated. In many old books of natural history we find representations of some such creature under the names of the Scythian or Tartarian lamb. According to some old writers it was said to be purely an animal, and although rooted to the ground, was held to have so deadly an effect on vegetation in its neighbourhood that it effectually prevented the growth of all herbage within the scope of its baleful influence. So singular a creature naturally provoked attention and curiosity, and in the earlier days of the Royal Society the matter was considered quite worthy of their notice. Naturally, also, the supply endeavoured to keep pace with the demand, and as the belief in mermaids led to their fabrication and exhibition, so also the myth of the Scythian lamb took visible shape. One of these impositions was formerly preserved in the British Museum, not from any belief in it, of course, but as an illustration of the old belief.[13] [13] Appendix G. [Illustration: {THE SEA-ELEPHANT}] The reference to the mermaid reminds us that the sea no less than the land bore in ancient and mediæval days its full share of wonders. Of the mermaids we shall have occasion to say more presently, as we propose to class together all those forms that are more or less human, and to deal with them separately; but the sculptures of classic antiquity or the fancies of the mediæval herald afford us illustrations of the sea-horse, the sea-lion, and many other quaint imaginings. On an antique seal we once even saw a sea-elephant, a creature having the fore-legs, tusks, trunk, and great flapping ears of the African elephant, yet terminating in the body of a fish, and duly furnished with piscine tail and fins. The combination was of the most outrageous character, and would seem to indicate the limit possible to absurdity in this direction. When the ancient writers would desire to people the vast unknown of air or sea their thoughts naturally turned to those creatures of the land with which they were more familiar; hence the denizens of the air or ocean are not really creations at all, but adaptations, wings or fins being added to horses, lions, and the like according to the new element in which they were to figure. Of these, the sea-horses that draw the chariot of Neptune through the waves and the winged-horse Pegasus are examples that at once occur to one's mind. Pegasus or Pegasos, the offspring of Medusa and Poseidon, was the symbol of poetic inspiration. Its association with Perseus and Bellerophon, with the fountain of Peirene and the heights of Olympus, may all be found duly set forth in classic story and engraved or sculptured on the gems and marbles of antiquity. It is also introduced in mediæval heraldry, but there seems to be no reference in any book of this period to lead us to suppose that it was then regarded as a living verity. Shakespeare refers to it from time to time, but in one case it is only as an inn-sign, and in another the very terms employed indicate that the reference to it must be taken in a poetic rather than a literal sense. The first of the two to which we allude will be found in the "Taming of the Shrew," and runs as follows:-- "Signior Baptista may remember me, Near twenty years ago, in Genoa, Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus." The second will be met with in the first part of "King Henry IV.;" it will probably be very familiar to many of our readers:-- "I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd, Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury, And vaulted with such ease into his seat As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, And witch the world with noble horsemanship." The arms of the Barrister Templars of the present day consist of the Pegasus on an azure shield. The original devices of the Templars were the Agnus Dei, a device that may still be seen carved on the Temple buildings in London, and two knights riding one behind the other on the same horse. This badge or device was originally chosen to denote the poverty of the order in its earlier days, but at a later day, when the symbol was misunderstood, these two rude figures of knights were taken for wings, and hence we get the modern device of the winged steed or Pegasus. The Vampyre was another of the strange imaginings of our forefathers. It was thought that men and women sometimes returned, body and soul, from the other world after their death, and wandered about the earth doing all kinds of mischief to the living, one of their favourite pursuits being to suck the blood of those who were asleep, and these became vampyres in turn. The superstition took deepest hold in Eastern Europe, and is still an article of firm faith in Hungary and Servia. One reads ghastly stories of men unconsciously entertaining and sheltering vampyres and perishing miserably, of lonely travellers pining suddenly away, of the bodies of the dead being disinterred and the corpse found with the tell-tale stains of blood around its mouth, and the like; and we can easily see how such beliefs as this, or the wehr-wolf or loup-garou of the Germans and French, or the ghoul of the Arabs and Persians, would have a terrible effect on the minds of the superstitious. The vampyre was a terror of the night, since the corpse then, after lying in the stillness of the grave throughout the day, awoke to a fearful vitality. The forms it assumed were not always human, but were believed to be at times those of the dog, frog, toad, cat, flea, spider, and many other innocent creatures. Hence the contemptuous expression one sometimes hears used to deride a needless anxiety, "a mere flea-bite," could have had no counterpart in mediæval days, for the anxiety such a misadventure might create would be of the most alarming and harassing description. In old books one finds the most circumstantial details as to how to detect when one has been bitten, or to prevent further mischief. To this end the grave of the suspected vampyre was opened during daylight when his powers of evil were quiescent, the corpse was decapitated and the head buried elsewhere, a stake was driven through the body, and many other elaborate and horrible precautions were taken to prevent a recurrence of the nightly resurrection. On the whole, we may well congratulate ourselves that we do not live in "the good old times." Even now in country districts and amongst the uneducated one comes across such striking instances of superstitious belief and thraldom as suffice to enable us to faintly realise what it must have been when all alike were enwrapped in a dreadful bondage to unseen powers of evil far more intense than is now possible even to the few. The vampyre bat, a native of South America, is so called from its blood-sucking propensities. It is the legend of the vampyre that has given the name to the bat, not the habits of the bat that originated the fable of the vampyre, for at the time that these legends of the destroyer were articles of faith in Europe, the American animal was quite unknown. The natural tendency towards exaggeration surrounded the vampyre bat with a mysterious horror, and having once gained its name of ill-omen, it became easy to rear upon it a superstructure of morbid fancy. The researches on the spot of Waterton, Darwin, and other reliable authorities show that the name is not altogether ill bestowed, as both Europeans and natives suffer severely from its attacks during the night, and the horses and cattle that are out in the pastures frequently return in the morning with their flanks covered with blood. Though the Chameleon, unlike the phoenix, the griffin, or the basilisk, is a living verity, so large a body of fable has grown up around it that the animal is almost as mythical as those creatures of the imagination. The name is derived from two Greek words signifying "ground-lion," a name singularly inappropriate in every way, as it has nothing leonine in look or nature, while its organisation fits it especially for living on trees. When we consider the singularity of its appearance and the peculiarity of its habits, it is by no means surprising that it should have attracted attention; and when we recall the numerous erroneous beliefs current amongst our rustics in England in this nineteenth century in the matter of frogs, newts, slow-worms, and the like, we can hardly wonder at the superstitions that have surrounded it. The eyes of the creature are quite expressionless, and are worked perfectly independently of each other, so that one may be directed upwards and the other downwards at the same time, or turned simultaneously to front and rear. Its exceeding slowness of movement is another curious feature, and though this exposes them to easy capture when seen, for "_un Caméléon aperçu est un Caméléon perdu_," it has its advantages in another direction, for a creature that takes some hours to advance a yard or so will certainly not attract attention by any sudden movement; and the assimilation in colour of its skin with the surrounding foliage is another great protection. The creature has a singular habit of puffing out its body until it is nearly as large again, and in this state it will sometimes remain for hours. The best known fact, however, is its capacity for changing colour, passing from green to violet, blue, or yellow; but this power of varying the tint has been greatly exaggerated. We have been told that if the creature be placed on any colour, as bright scarlet, it will assume that colour; but this is one of those fragments of unnatural history that will not bear putting to the test. The following lines of Prior convey aptly enough this popular but erroneous notion:-- "As the chameleon, who is known To have no colours of its own, But borrows from his neighbour's hue His white or black, his green or blue." Aristotle was acquainted with the singular motions of the eyes of the creature, and his description may well have been taken from nature. At the same time, these old writers knew nothing of comparative anatomy or dissection and conducted no scientific _post-mortem_ examinations; hence in all matters of internal structure they are often ludicrously in error, while the weakness of their statements is only perhaps equalled by the strength with which they are asserted. We are, therefore, not surprised to read in Aristotle that the chameleon has no blood except in its head. Pliny re-states all the errors made by Aristotle, and further adds that it lives without either eating or drinking, deriving its nourishment wholly from the air, and that, though ordinarily harmless, it becomes terrible during the greatest summer heats. Even Pliny, however, could not believe everything that was told him, though his powers of imbibing outrageous notions were of the keenest, and whenever any old writers deal with something more than usually incredible they fortify their statement and evade personal responsibility by adding "as Plinie saith." Pliny, then, rejects the still older idea that its right leg artfully cooked with certain herbs conveys the power of invisibility on the eater, and will not believe that the thigh of its left leg boiled in sow's milk will induce gout in any one so injudicious as to bathe their feet in this peculiar broth. Neither will he credit that a man may be made to incur the hatred of all his fellow-citizens by having his gate-posts anointed with another nasty preparation of chameleon. As a set-off to all this very unusual incredulity he hastens to adopt the statement of another wise man, Democritus, that it has the power of attracting to the earth birds of prey, so that they in turn become the prey of other animals--a most unselfish proceeding on the part of the creature, as its own food consists of flies and such like small matters. Democritus also asserts, and Pliny confirms him in the assertion, that if the head and neck of the chameleon be burned on oak charcoal it will cause thunder and heavy rain. One is lost in astonishment at the fertility of the imagination in these old naturalists; and though it is now easy when one has once been put on the track of discovery to surmise that the tail of a chameleon burnt on walnut charcoal might produce snow or possibly fog, much of the credit of the discovery should go to the man who first gave the clue to these physiologico-meteorological influences. Aldrovandus, another man of science gifted with a strong imagination and the power of assimilating the fancies of others, informs us that if a viper passes beneath a tree in the branches of which a chameleon is resting, the latter will eject from its mouth a poisonous secretion that effectually rids the world of the equally venomous snake; and he further adds that elephants sometimes unknowingly eat a chameleon in the midst of the foliage on which they are browsing, a mishap that is rapidly fatal to them unless they can at once have recourse to the wild olive-tree as a remedy and antidote. [Illustration: {DRAGON}] Many other strange beasts might engage our attention were it not that we have much new ground yet to explore, for not only might we discourse of the strange beliefs that have clustered round these monsters, but of the equally strange fancies that have been associated with such familiar creatures as cats and dogs, hares and spiders, goats and mice, while in another section we must dwell on the equally unnatural fancies that have been associated with various plants. Before, however, passing to these we must refer to those strange imaginings, such as the troglodytes, centaurs, and pigmies, that owe more or less to the combination of the human with other forms--a large class that deserves a measure of attention that may well suggest the advisability of opening a new chapter for its benefit. [Decoration] [Decoration] CHAPTER II. The Sphinx--The Chimæra--The Centaurs--The Origin of the Myth--The Onocentaur--Sagittarius--Satyrs and Fauns--The Harpys, described by Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, Milton, and others--The Echidna--The Gorgon--The Hydra--The Sirens--The Lurlei--Mermaids--The Manatee-- Dog-Headed Men of Brazil--The One-Eyed Cyclops and Briaræus of the Hundred Arms--The Headless Men or Anthropophagi--Sir Walter Raleigh's El Dorado--Claw-Footed Men--The Marvels of Hackluyt and Mandeville-- The Long-Eared Fanesii--The Fairies--The "Discoverie of Witchcraft"-- The Little Good People--Fairy-Rings--Elf-Music--Changelings-- Elf-Possession--Spirits of the Mine, or Knockers--Robin Goodfellow-- Queen Mab--The Phoca or Storm-Spirit--The Kelpie--Jack-o'-Lantern-- The Pigmies--Giants--Early Sculptures--Gigantic Men of Antiquity. The creatures we have hitherto been considering--the griffin, the phoenix, the manticora or the sea-horse--have either been unmitigated monsters of the fancy, or else, like the salamander or the chameleon, so transformed by legend as to be scarcely less monstrous and unreal. Having the fear of Pope's oft-quoted line upon us, "The proper study of mankind is man," we leave for a while these fantastic imaginings, and turn to another class of forms scarcely less grotesque, but all agreeing in this, the presence in them of more or less of the human form and nature. This class of forms readily subdivides itself into three sections, which we propose to deal with in the order in which we enumerate them. The first of these are forms compounded of the human and the animal, as, for example, the sphinx or the centaur; the second may be considered as human, though distorted, as the one-eyed cyclops, or, "the men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders;" while the third class may be held to embrace the fairies, pigmies, and giants, forms that are human, yet in bulk or minuteness bear no semblance to ordinary humanity. The Sphinx may be considered as more especially an artistic and symbolic creation, though the old Greek myth of Oedipos would seem to show that in very early times there was a real belief in a real monster. The sphinx is composite in nature, being in Greek art and legend ordinarily the combination of the head and bust of a woman with the body of a lion and the wings of an eagle; while in Egyptian art the creature is always wingless, and its recumbent leonine body is surmounted by the head of a man, hawk, or other creature. Egyptian art is full of such composite monsters, and in cases where such attributes as the courage of the lion or the wisdom of the serpent were to be expressed, it was held that the actual leonine body or the head of the serpent itself would best convey the required characteristics to the eye and mind of the beholder. A reference to Wilkinson, Rosellini, or any other good standard work on Egypt, will reveal an immense variety of these curious composite figures, though, as they are evidently in most cases symbolic merely, they scarcely fall within the limits of our present study. According to some authorities, the well-known type of Egyptian sphinx represented the royal power by its junction in one creation of the highest physical and mental strength. Pliny, however, states that it is to be taken as the representation of the beneficent Nile, as the annual rising took place while the sun was in Leo and Virgo. As the head is masculine in type, and not that of maiden fair, this theory will scarcely meet the case. The sphinx of classic story, a monster half-woman, half-lion, was sent by Hera to devastate the land of Thebes in revenge for an insult that had been offered to her. Sitting by the roadside, the sphinx put to every passer-by the celebrated riddle, "What creature walks on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three in the evening?" As one after another of these luckless travellers was obliged to "give it up" he was cast from the rock on which the monster sat into a deep abyss at its foot. The understanding was, that if any one could solve this conundrum the sphinx should herself perish, a consummation devoutly to be wished. One Oedipos hit upon the happy idea that perhaps it was a man that was meant, his career being traced through crawling infancy to stalwart manhood, and thence to tottering old age. Probably the sphinx had presumed too thoroughly on the badness of the riddle, and thought that its inane character would be her safeguard in this perilous game for forfeits. Lord Bacon[14] supplies a curious theory in explanation of the Greek legend; he tells us that the creature represented science, her composite nature being the various and different branches of which it is composed; that the female face denoted volubility of speech, while the wings showed the rapidity with which knowledge could be diffused. Her hooked talons are supposed to remind us of the arguments of science laying hold of the mind. Her position on the crag is a hint that the road to knowledge is steep and difficult, while the riddles of science "perplex and harass the mind." Probably our readers have already made up their minds as to the value of this theory of Bacon's; it appears to us that fifty other equally good explanations might be devised, and all equally wide of the mark. Of course after so sweeping a statement we can scarcely be expected to supply one ourselves for the other forty-nine critics to mercilessly dissect. [14] Appendix H. The Chimæra was, according to Hesiod, a fire-breathing monster compounded of lion, goat, and serpent, having three heads, one of each of these creatures. It is in this form often represented in classic art; but Coats, a great authority in blazonry in the last century, in describing the monster departs somewhat from the ancient type, and in so doing brings the creature within the scope of our present chapter. He speaks of it as "an imaginary creature invented by the Poets, and represented by them as having the Face of a beautiful Maiden, the two Fore-legs and the Main of a Lyon, the Body like a Goat, the hinder-legs like a Griffin, and the Tayl like a Serpent or Dragon turned in a Ring." He does not, however, give his authorities. Though Milton in his "Paradise Lost" gives us the line, "Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimæras dire," the myth has been received amongst ourselves with so little faith that anything wildly improbable is branded as chimerical, and scouted accordingly. The Centaurs are said by Virgil and Horace to have dwelt in Thessaly, a land then greatly famed for its breed of horses. Instances, as in the landing of the Spaniards in America, have not been unknown where those to whom the horse was unknown have imagined that the horse and his rider were but one creature. The belief in centaurs is not, therefore, so difficult a myth to trace to its origin as many others. The usual form of representation is the conjoining of the body and legs of a horse and the head, arms, and body of a man so far as the waist, though in some early works, as, for example, in archaic pottery in the British Museum, the legs of the man take the place of the fore-legs of the horse. The celebrated statue in the Louvre known as the Borghese Centaur, a sculpture of the most refined period of Greek art, gives the best idea, perhaps, of the highest treatment the form permits. Other fine examples, fragments of the sculpture of the Parthenon, may be seen in our own national collection in London.[15] In the works of the earlier writers, as Homer, the centaurs have nothing unnatural in their composition; we read nothing of their being half-horse, half-man, but they are introduced to us as a tribe of men whose home was in the mountains and whose nature was altogether barbarous and ferocious. The contests with centaurs, so favourite a subject in Greek art, have been generally conceived to be the struggle of Greek civilisation with the barbarism of the tribes with which it came in contact in the early Pelasgian period, a struggle that strangely enough finds its memorial not only in the grand sculptures of the matchless Parthenon, but in the delicate beauty of a little English wild flower, the pink centaury.[16] [15] Appendix I. [16] Appendix J. Isidore refers to a creature called the Onocentaur, "which has the shape of a man down to the waist, and behind has the make of an ass." As the centaurs are frequently represented as bearing bows and arrows, the Sagittarius of the heralds (such, for instance, as that assigned as the armorial bearing of King Stephen or the sign of the Zodiac of the same name) is ordinarily represented in this half-human, half-equine form, though it is, of course, obvious on a moment's consideration of the real meaning and derivation of the word, that this is but a narrow and arbitrary limitation, and that Robin Hood, for example, or William Tell, to say nothing of "A, the archer that shot at a frog," might as readily, in fact, be called a Sagittarius as any Thessalian centaur. Other partly human, partly animal forms often found in classic art and literature are those of the Satyrs and the Fauns. The satyrs are represented as having bristly hair, ears sharply pointed like those of animals, low sensual faces, small horns growing out of the top of the forehead, and a tail like that of a horse or goat. These satyrs, Greek in their conception, are often confounded with the fauns of the Romans, creatures half-man and half-goat, the head, like that of the satyrs, being horned. Our readers will doubtless recall the lines in "Hamlet:"-- "So excellent a king, that was to this, Hyperion to a satyr." These woodland sprites, as attendants on Pan, Bacchus, and Silenus, are often represented in classic art, and were a firm article of belief in those early ages. Thorwaldsen and other modern sculptors have also introduced them in their work, and they were often a feature in the quaint processions of the Guilds of the Middle Ages.[17] [17] Appendix K. The Harpys, three in number, were creatures employed, according to the belief of the Greeks and Romans, by the higher gods as the instruments for the punishment of the crimes of men. Their bodies were those of vultures, their heads those of women, and it was their evil property to contaminate everything they touched. They are not infrequently represented in classic art; several examples of their introduction may be seen on vases in the British Museum, and notably on some bas-reliefs from a monument brought from Xanthus, in Lycia, and commonly, from the subjects of these sculptures, called the Harpy Tomb--a monument dating probably from about the sixth century before the Christian era. Homer mentions but one harpy, Hesiod gives two, but all later writers mention three. Milton refers to these creatures in his "Paradise Lost," Book II., in the lines:-- "Thither by harpy-footed Furies hal'd At certain revolutions all the damn'd are brought." Shakespeare, too, in his "Much Ado About Nothing," Act ii. scene 1, mentions the creature, though in a more indirect way, using the word, as we from time to time find it employed elsewhere, as typical of one who wants to seize on everything and get people into his own power--"a regular harpy." Another reference will be found in the third scene in the third act of the "Tempest," where Ariel in the midst of thunder and lightning enters as a harpy and addresses those before him as follows:--"I have made you mad.... I and my fellows are ministers of fate." In "Pericles," again, Act iv. scene 4, we find Cleon exclaiming-- "Thou art like the harpy, Which, to betray, dost with thine angel's face Seize with thine eagle's talons." In the "Monstrorum Historia" of Aldrovandus[18] we find figured a mediæval rendering of the creature, and Guillim in his "Heraldry" seems to frankly accept the harpy as a real thing, while the lines he quotes in support from Virgil are powerfully descriptive:-- "Of Monsters all, most Monstrous this: no greater Wrath God sends 'mongst Men: it comes from depth of pitchy Hell: With Virgin's Face, but Womb like Gulf unsatiate hath, Her Hands are Griping claws, her Colour pale and fell." [18] Appendix L. Virgil, it will be noticed, makes the creature wholly fearful, while Shakespeare makes the horror yet more weird by giving the implacable and destroying monster a face of angelic sweetness. Upton, another old writer on heraldry, says that in blazoning arms "the Harpy should be given to such persons as have committed Manslaughter, to the End that by the often view of their Ensigns they might be moved to bewail the Foulness of their Offence." This we should imagine, is more simple in theory than in practice, and Upton must have been very simple himself to fancy that any one could thus be induced to blazon their misdoings abroad like that. In the earlier days of heraldry the monarch had two powerful means of rewarding or punishing his nobles in what were termed respectively marks of augmentation and of abatement in their armorial bearings, but in the later times in which Upton lived no such compulsory stigma was possible. We fancy, too, that in the earlier days a good deal of what a modern judge and jury would call manslaughter went on, and was not by any means considered a foul offence to be bewailed over. The terrible Echidna, half-woman, half-serpent, the mother of the dread chimæra, the fierce dragon of the Hesperides, the gorgons that turned to stone all who gazed on them, the hydra of the Lernean marsh, the vulture that made itself so decidedly unpleasant to Prometheus, and several other children of an equally objectionable type, was another of the monsters once believed in, while the better known Sirens and Mermaids, half-woman, half-fish, will naturally occur to the minds of our readers. The Sirens were originally nymphs, but Demeter transformed them into beings half-women, half-birds, for reasons that may be found duly set forth in any work on mythology. Ultimately they were again transformed into creatures of which the upper portion was that of a beautiful woman, while the lower was fish-like. These sirens dwelt in the cliffs on the Sicilian shore, and by the sweetness of their voices bewitched passing travellers, who, allured by the charms of their song, were drawn to them, when they were lulled into insensibility and perished. Skeletons lay thickly round their dwelling, but the warning was useless and hopeless, as the sirens were allowed by the gods to retain this cruel power over the hearts of men until one arose who could defy their sweet allurements. Orpheus and Odysseus each fulfilled the conditions, and thus the evil power of the sirens came to an end. Orpheus, by the unsurpassable sweetness of his own music and his hymns of praise to the gods, carried himself and his crew safely past the spot so fatal to others; while Odysseus stopped the ears of his crew with wax, that they might be deaf to the bewitching music, while he himself was bound to the mast, and incapable, therefore, of yielding to the soft fascination. It has been surmised that the whole story can be explained by the soft beating and melodious murmur of the waves over the hidden shoals and sands that would engulf those who would attempt to land. However this may be, the sirens were at one time a firm article of belief, and are often represented in ancient art or referred to in ancient poetry, while later moralists find the simile an apt one between the siren-song and its tragic effects and all earthly pleasures that carry within them the seeds of death.[19] A later legend of the same type may be seen in the myth of the Lurlei, a water-spirit whose home was in the steep cliff that overshadows the Rhine near St. Goar, the fairness of whose person was as great as the unfairness of her conduct in luring to their destruction the passing travellers. Here again, of course, matter-of-fact people have stepped in and explained all away, a striking echo and a rock on which to strike being all that is left to us, the moral being, that if people will be so foolish as to awaken by bugle or song the slumbering voices of the rocks when they ought to be giving their whole attention to their steering, what wonder if they come to grief? A very good reference to the siren's lulling song will be found in the second scene in the third act of the "Comedy of Errors." [19] Appendix M. Mermaids and Tritons were once fully accepted facts, and illustrations of them, literary or artistic, abound, Ariel in the "Tempest" sings of the sea-nymphs, and Oberon in the "Midsummer Night's Dream" speaks of "A mermaid on a dolphin's back, Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, That the rude sea grew civil at her song; And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, To hear the sea-maid's music." Shakespeare seems to have made a very natural error in confounding the mermaids and the sirens together, for in the "Comedy of Errors" his allusion to the one is in language more adapted to the other:-- "Her fair sister, Possessed with such a gentle sovereign grace, Of such enchanting presence and discourse, Hath almost made me traitor to myself. But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong, I'll stop mine ears against the mermaid's song." Another illustration of this will be found in the third part of King Henry VI., a passage peculiarly appropriate to our present purpose, as it embodies in a concentrated form no less than three of the items of unnatural history we have already dealt with--the siren's death-dealing charms, the death-giving glance of the basilisk, and the changing tints of the chameleon, besides referring to the hypocritical tears of the crocodile. The passage will be found in the second scene of the third act, where Gloster exclaims-- "I can smile, and murther while I smile, And cry, content, to that which grieves my heart; And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face to all occasions. I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall; I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk; I'll play the orator as well as Nestor; Deceive more slily than Ulysses could; And like a Sinon take another Troy: I can add colours to the cameleon." Other references will be found in "Hamlet" and in "Antony and Cleopatra." It has been conjectured that the ancients derived their idea of the mermaid from the Manatees that may be found on the shores of Africa washed by the Atlantic, or from the Dugongs of the littoral of the Indian Ocean. These singular animals have been placed by naturalists in a class by themselves and called Sirenia. They have a curious habit of swimming with their heads and necks above water. They thus bear some grotesque and remote resemblance to the human form, and may have given rise to the poetical tales of mermaids and sirens found in ancient literature. When the female Dugong is nursing her offspring the position assumed is almost identical with that of a human mother. The sea-lions and seals have the same habit of raising themselves in a semi-erect position in the water, and the intelligent aspect of their faces gives them at a little distance a close resemblance to human beings--a resemblance often equally striking when they are seen recumbent on the rocks. It is but little strange, that early navigators with all the superstitions of their race, and having a very slight knowledge of natural history, should be deceived, when we find in Scoresby's Voyages the incident narrated of the surgeon of his ship so deceived by one of these creatures that he reported that "he had seen a man with his head just above the surface of the water." At the same time, it appears to us at least as probable that the mermaid, like the sea-horses of Poseidon, was purely a creature of the imagination. From the graceful beauty of the mermaiden to the less pleasing physiognomy of "Mistress Tannakin Skimker, the hog-faced gentlewoman," is a great step indeed, yet both beliefs bear testimony alike to the universal desire after something wonderful and outside the ordinary course of nature, a feeling that in its lowest form finds satisfaction in paying a penny to see a six-legged lamb, while more cultured minds revel in the wealth of fancy found in the myths of Hellas. The unhappy lady who has prompted our present remarks was bewitched at her birth on the understanding that she should recover her true shape on being married. She was born, we are told, in 1618 in a town on "the River Rhyne." Our authority, a book dated the year 1640, gives various facts, but does not say whether any one was so courageous as to remove the spell by offering her marriage. The book is embellished (or otherwise) with a portrait of the luckless Tannakin. While referring to the one old book our thoughts naturally turn to another of a similar type, the "Humana Physiognomonia" of Porta, a book published in the year 1601. It is full of curious woodcuts showing the great resemblance sometimes seen between the features of men and those of some of the lower animals. Old Burton tells us, in his "Miracles of Art and Nature" (A.D. 1678), of a creature found in Brazil that had "the face of an Ape, the foot of a Lyon, and all the rest of a Man," and he almost needlessly adds, "a Beast of a most terrible aspect." This is not by any means the only wonder in that vast and distant land, and he winds up his description by asserting that "it may be said of Brasill as once of Africk, every day some New Object of Admiration." In his account of India he tells us of dog-headed men, while in the Oriental Isles, besides a river plentifully stored with fish, yet so hot that it scalds the flesh of any man or beast thrown therein, there are men with tails. Numerous other instances might readily be given of strange combinations of the human form with that of some animal, but enough has been given as an illustration of the sort of thing to be freely met with in ancient and mediæval history; so we pass to our second division of humanity--those who are wholly human, yet in some way of so marked a departure from the ordinary type of mankind as to come within the scope of our strange history. These modifications sometimes arise from the suppression of some part, as in the case of the headless people; in its exaggeration, as in the instance of the men of India whose ears sweep the ground as they walk; or in the multiplication or subtraction of various members, as in the one-eyed Cyclops or the hundred-armed Briaræus. One of the most notable beliefs in mediæval times was that in the headless people:-- "The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders." Of the Anthropophagi we may read in Eden's "Historie of Travayle," a book published in the year 1577. The word in its literal sense means man-eaters or cannibals.[20] Eden, in the passage to which we have referred, speaks of these as "the wilde and myschevous people called Canibales or Caribes, whiche were accustomed to eate man's fleshe, and called of the old writers Anthropophagi, molest them exceedingly, invading their countrey, takyng them captive, kyllying and eatyng them." Our old author, it will be seen, speaks of still older writers, but these we have been unable to lay hands on. [20] From the Greek words _anthropos_, a man; and _phago_, to eat. Halliwell, in his noble edition of Shakespeare's Plays, comments on the opinion of Pope and other writers, that the lines we have quoted from "Othello" were perhaps originally the interpolation of the players, or at best a mere piece of trash admitted to humour the lower class of the audience. He, as we imagine, very justly combats this idea, holding that the case was probably the very reverse of this, and that the poet rather desired to commend his play to the more curious and refined amongst his auditors by alluding here to some of the most extraordinary passages in Sir Walter Raleigh's account of his celebrated voyage to Guiana in 1595. Nothing excited more universal attention than the accounts which Raleigh brought from the New World of the cannibals, headless people, and Amazons. A short extract of the more wonderful passages was published in several languages, accompanied by a map of Guiana, by Jodocus Hondius, a Dutch geographer, and adorned with copper-plates representing these Anthropophagi, Amazons, and headless men in different points of view. Raleigh's book was published in London in 1596, the year after his return from these wondrous lands. Its title runs as follows:--"The discoverie of the large, rich, and bewtiful Empire of Gviana, with a relation of the great and golden City of Manoa, which the Spaniards call El Dorado, performed in the year 1595, by Sir W. Ralegh, Knt." The book is written throughout in a very fair, honest way, and with an evident desire to gain the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Our hero shall, however, speak for himself. "Next vnto Armi there are two riuers Atoica and Coara, and on that braunch which is called Coara are a nation of people whose heades appeare not aboue their shoulders, which, though it may be thought a meere fable, yet for mine owne parte I am resolued it is true, because euery child in the prouinces of Arromaia and Canuri affirme the same: they are called Ewaipanoma; they are reported to haue their eyes in their shoulders, and their mouths in the middle of their breasts, and that a long traine of haire groweth backward betwen their shoulders. The sonne of Topiawari, which I brought with mee into England, told mee that they are the most mightie men of all the lande and vse bowes, arrowes, and clubs thrice as bigge as any of Guiana, or of the Orenoqueponi, and that one of the Iwarawakeri took a prisoner of them the yeare before our arriual there, and brought him into the borders of Arromaia his father's countrey. And further, when I seemed to doubt of it hee told me that it was no wonder among them, but that they were as great a nation, and as common, as any other in all the prouinces, and had of late yeares slaine manie hundreds of his father's people and of other nations their neighbors, but it was not my chance to heare of them til I was come away, and if I had but spoken one word of it while I was there, I might haue brought one of them with me to put the matter out of doubt." It appears to us that "Sir W. Ralegh, Knt.," comes out of the matter very much better than "the sonne of Topiawari," who, to say the least of it, and to take the most charitable view, seems to have been under a misapprehension of the facts. The same year saw the publication of a second book, "A relation of the Second Voyage to Guiana, performed and written in the yeere 1596, by Laurence Keymis, Gent." This was dedicated to "the approved, right valorous and worthy knight Sir Walter Ralegh," and he too refers to this mysterious people, though only on the same terms, information at second hand, not actual inspection. He says, "Our interpreter certified mee of the headlesse men, and that their mouthes in their breastes are exceeding wide." He evidently feels that this is almost as far as he may reasonably expect to gain credence from the folks at home, for he goes on to say, "What I have heard of a sorte of people more monstrous I omit to mention, because it is matter of no difficultie to get one of them, and the report otherwise will appeare fabulous." He nevertheless does mention it, for in a note on the margin he says of these people, "They have eminent heades like dogs, and live all the day time in the sea: they speake the Charibes language." Probably these were some kind of seal or sea-lion, though one does not generally associate with such creatures the idea of linguistic acquirements. He does not seem to have found it so easy to get hold of one of these people as he anticipated; his book at least gives no hint that he was so far successful. Guiana, like Africke, was in mediæval times a land of wonders, and even Hartsinck, in his work on Guiana, published in 1770, or not very much more than a century ago, gravely asserts the existence of a race of negroes in Surinam whose hands and feet were forked like the claw of a lobster, the hands consisting merely of a thumb and one broad finger, like the gloves of one's tender infancy, while the foot was suggestive of the split hoof of the ox or sheep. Hackluyt in his "Voyages" dwells on the land Gaora, a tract inhabited by a people without heads, having their eyes in their shoulders and their mouths in their breasts. His book is dated 1598. A similar race of men, called Blemmyes, were said to be found in Africa; and Sir John Maundeville, in his "Voiage and Travaile, which treateth of the way to Hierusalem and of Marvels of Inde, with other Ilands and Countries," gives an account of these men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. The book is altogether a most curious and interesting one, and the quaint illustrations add greatly to its value. The famous "Nuremburg Chronicle" of the year 1493 has a very curious figure of one of these headless men, almost a hundred years before they are mentioned by Sir Walter Raleigh, and in 1534 we find another representation in one of the books of Erasmus.[21] Raleigh's book, it will be remembered, was published in 1596. [21] Appendix N. An extraordinary realisation of these famous and fabulous beings was afforded to the people of Stuttgard at the great Festival held in that city by the Grand-Duke of Wurtemburg on the occasion of his marriage with the Margravine of Brandenburg in the year 1609. The doings of the Festival were illustrated by Balthazar Kuchlein in a volume of 236 plates. A grand procession was a marked feature in the rejoicings, and in this procession we see three of these headless men riding on gaily caparisoned and prancing steeds, besides "Tempus" with his winged hourglass; "Labor," dressed as a rustic, and bearing in one hand a beehive, and in the other a spade; and "Fama," a winged lady-fair on horseback, and bearing scroll and trumpet. In this grand but heterogeneous cavalcade we also find, amongst many others, the counterfeit presentments of Julius Cæsar, Alexander of Macedon, Hector of Troy, Diana, Jupiter, Sol, Prudentia, Justicia, Fortitudo, and Abundancia--a strange medley, but doubtless a pageant well pleasing to the burghers of Stuttgard, and to the countless throngs drawn within their city walls. Pliny gravely writes of the Fanesii, a tribe in the far north of Scandinavia, whose ears were so long that they could cover up their whole body with them; while the author of "Guerino Meschino" speaks of Indians with feet so large that they carried them over their heads as sunshades. Their means of locomotion must have been, under these circumstances, decidedly curious. Amongst one-eyed people we have the Arimaspians and the Cyclops. The former were a race in Scythia, and were legendarily supposed to be in constant war with the gryphons, as elsewhere we find recorded the continuous hostilities between the pigmies and the cranes. They are referred to by Milton in his "Paradise Lost." The Cyclops were giants, whose business it was to forge for Vulcan; their single eye was placed in the centre of their foreheads. Of these the most notable was the great giant Polyphemus, the defeated and blinded foe of Ulysses:-- "Roused with the sound, the mighty family Of one-eyed brothers hasten to the shore, And gather round the bellowing Polypheme."[22] [22] Addison's "Milton Imitated." All the departures from the ordinary human type that we have hitherto considered sink into insignificance when we come to the great Briaræus, the fifty-headed and hundred-handed giant, and his companions:-- "He who brandished in his hundred hands His fifty swords and fifty shields in fight."[23] [23] The "Jerusalem Delivered" of Tasso. Giants of this overwhelming type may be also met with in the mythology of Scandinavia and India, but space forbids our dwelling at greater length on their charms. Having, therefore, so far done homage to the dictum of Pope, "The proper study of mankind is man," by considering in the first place the combination of the human nature with the animal, and in the second division man himself, yet warped and distorted from the image of God, we now, in the third place, deal with those forms of human mould that owe their departure from the type form to an excess of bulk or the reverse--a class that includes the men of Lilliput and of Brobdingnag, and all their fellows in towering height or microscopic proportion. The Fairies were held by our ancestors to be a kind of intermediate beings, partaking of the nature both of men and spirits. They had material bodies, and yet possessed the power of rendering themselves invisible at will. They had minds and hearts that could be touched by kindly feelings, and at the same time they delighted in practical jokes of the most pronounced description, while some displayed a cruel and malignant ferocity. The general idea, however, of them seems to have been of a diminutive race possessed with supernatural gifts, animated with joyous spirits, of great beauty, and full of kindliness to the sons of men when not crossed or slighted. We are told, for instance, of an honest farmer who had been reduced by the badness of the seasons to poverty, and was about to return homewards one morning from the fields in despair, having sown what little seed he had, which was not nearly so much as the ploughed land required. While pondering, not knowing what to do, he imagined that he heard a voice behind him saying-- "Tak'--an' gie As gude to me." He turned round, and perceived a large sack standing at the end of the field, and on opening it he found it to be full of the most excellent seed-oats. Without hesitation he sowed them; the sample was admirable, and the harvest no less luxuriant. The man carefully preserved the sack, and as soon as possible filled it full of the best grain that his field produced, and set it down on the spot on which he had received the fairy oats. A voice called to him-- "Turn roun' your back, Whill I get my sack." The farmer averted his face, and then immediately looked round, but all was gone. Things ever after prospered with him; for, according to the popular belief-- "Meddle and mell Wi' the fien's o' hell, An' a weirdless wicht ye'll be; But tak' and len', Wi' the fairy men, Ye'll thrive ay whill ye dee." In the same dearth, and in the same parish, an old woman who was nearly perishing of hunger, having tasted no food for two or three days, was one morning astonished to find one of her pans full of oatmeal. This seasonable supply she attributed to some of her benevolent neighbours, who she imagined had been wishing to give her a little surprise. Notwithstanding the care, however, with which she husbanded her meal, it by-and-by was expended, and she was again almost reduced to starvation. After passing another day without food her pan was again replenished, which was regularly done whenever the supply was exhausted, always allowing her to remain one day without food. Her store was replenished so regularly that at last she became careless, and presumed on the generosity of her invisible benefactors. One day, on receiving her new supply, she baked the whole of it into cakes, and having by some means obtained a little meat, invited all her acquaintances to a treat. The guests were just going to fall to when, to their astonishment, they beheld the cakes turn into withered leaves. After this the store was never renewed. The origin of the belief in fairies is lost in the mists of time. Some supposed them to be the spirits of those who had inhabited the land before the birth of the Saviour, shut out until the final judgment from the joys of Paradise, yet undeserving of a place amongst the lost souls in Hades. Others tell us that they are the Druids thus transformed because they would not give up their idolatrous rites, and that they are continually growing smaller and smaller, until they eventually turn into ants.[24] They may be divided into four classes. 1. The white or good fairies who live above ground, the joyous dancers, the ethereal beings the poets delight to portray. 2. The dark or underground spirits, trolds and brownies, a more irritable race, working in mines and smithies, and doing good or evil offices in a somewhat arbitrary and uncertain fashion. 3. The fairy of the homestead, of whom Puck and Robin Goodfellow are good examples, fond of cleanliness and order, rewarding and helping the industrious and punishing the idle and careless. 4. The water-fairies, the more sombre spirits of the woods and mountains, the Kelpies and Nixies, luring men to destruction. We nevertheless find that the fairies of the sylvan shades interest themselves at times in the affairs of men, and though it is easy to define four very distinct classes, we at the same time find that these classes are blended together a good deal. The whole thing is so purely a creation of the imagination, not of one mind but of thousands, that it is impossible to reduce the subject to mathematical exactness. [24] Appendix O. The fairies of the poets are ordinarily those of the woodland, while those of the legends of the countryside are at least equally often the fairies of the homestead in their association with the daily life, the trivial round, the common task. The earliest account of the fairies of England will be found in the writings of Gervase, in the thirteenth century, and after that date allusion to them may frequently be found; grave chroniclers like Reginald Scot, poets like Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton, all make mention of them. The first of these, Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," tells us that "the faeries do principally inhabit the mountains and caverns of the earth, whose nature is to make strange apparitions on the earth, in meadows or in mountains, being like men and women, soldiers, kings, and ladies, children, and horsemen clothed in green." Many unfortunate women were persecuted as witches during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and their connection with the fairies was often one of the leading charges against them, as we may see in the indictment of Alison Pearson; she was convicted of associating with the fairies, the definite charge against her being "for haunting and reparing with the Queene of Elfland." Another woman was found guilty of "taking employment from a woman to speak in her behalf to the Queene of Faerie;" and many other such cases might be brought forward. Fairies have ordinarily been invisible, and though they have at times permitted mortals to be present at their revels, more frequently they would appear to have resented any intrusion. In Poole's "English Parnassus" the most circumstantial details are given: the robes are of snowy cobweb and silver gossamer; the lamps are the mystic lights of glowworms; the minstrelry is the music of the nightingale or the chirp of the cricket. Their emperor was Oberon, and his royal consort and empress was the sweet but mischievous Mab:-- "There is Mab, the mistress fairy, That doth nightly rob the dairy; And can help or hurt the churning As she please without discerning. This is she that empties cradles, Takes out children, puts in ladles." The fairies--the good people as they were often called--were on the whole kindly and beneficent. During the Middle Ages these little beings had obtained so much credit that the clergy, who wished to reserve to themselves the power of blessing or banning, grew seriously jealous, and endeavoured earnestly to disestablish them from the hearts of men. That this was by no means in accordance with the feelings of the laity may be very well seen in the following extract from the "Canterbury Tales":-- "I speke of many hundred yeres ago; _But now can no man see non elves mo_; For now the grete charitee and prayeres Of limetoures and other holy freres That searchen every land and every streme As thikke as motes in the sonne beme, Blessing halles, chambers, kichenes and bowres, Cities, and burghes, castles highe and toures, Thropes and bernes, shepines and dairies _This maketh that there ben no fairies_; For thir as wont to walken was an elf, Their walketh now the limetour himself." The fairy rings to be seen in the meadows and woodlands were accepted with undoubted faith as the scenes of midnight revelry, and in most cases were regarded with some little dread from the belief that they were enchanted ground. Hence when people went to look after their cattle in the morning they were always careful to avoid walking too near these rings:-- "Some say the screech-owl, at each midnight hour, Awakes the Fairies in yon ancient tower. Their nightly dancing ring I always dread, Nor let my sheep within that circle tread; Where round and round all night in moonlight fair, They dance to some strange music of the air." The effect produced on those who incautiously entered these charmed circles seems to have been sufficiently startling, if we may credit the old popular beliefs, to justify the greatest precautions and the most open-eyed watchfulness. In some cases the victim of carelessness or short-sightedness would imagine that he had been absent but a few minutes with the fairies, when he had really been away a century or more; while in other cases a man would suppose that he had lived for a long period in Elf-land when he had been but away an hour. Probably in some cases the spirits were alcoholic. We read of a young man who went out one morning and probably trod in one of these rings; however that may be, he was attracted by the especially sweet singing of some unknown bird. After waiting, as he thought, some few minutes, he resumed his journey, when he noticed to his surprise that the fresh and verdant tree in which the sweet songster had been embowered was scathed and leafless. The well-known house to which he was going had disappeared with all its inhabitants, and in its place a new structure had arisen. On going up to it an old man, who was evidently the owner, came out and asked his business, and on learning his name, told him that he had been away a hundred years or more. "I remember when I was a child hearing my grandfather speak of your disappearance one day many years before I was born, and that, after searching for you far and wide, he learned from a wise woman that you had fallen amongst the fairies, and that you would only be released when the sap had ceased to flow in yonder aged tree!" He had scarcely uttered the words when he beheld his long-lost kinsman fall away to a heap of dry dust!! A popular Welsh legend tells us that two countrymen were one night crossing the mountains, when one of them, thinking he heard some strains of music, lingered a little behind, and could not afterwards be found. After fruitless search, his friends learned from a Seer that he had fallen amongst the fairies, and that the only way to recover him was to go on the anniversary of his absence to the place where he had disappeared, and that they must then pull him out of a fairy ring. Some few bold spirits were equal to the occasion, and on going to the place at the stipulated time they discovered their lost relative in the midst of an immense number of very small people, who were all dancing round in a circle. They pulled him out, but he died of exhaustion almost directly, as he had been dancing without intermission for the twelve months he had been missing. Another tradition current in Wales tells us of a young shepherd who peacefully tended his flock on the steeps of Brynnan Mawr. One day setting forth as usual at daybreak from his homestead near the hills, the lofty summit was enveloped in mist, but, as he proceeded, it gradually cleared away towards the Pembrokeshire side, a sure sign of a fine day. Our shepherd felt all the elevation of spirit which youth and the early dawn of a day in the "leafy month of June" might be expected to produce. Whilst trudging on his way gaily up the steep, he discerned the extraordinary spectacle of a party of persons, brilliantly dressed, and in active movement near the summit of the mountain. He gazed for some time before he could be convinced that what he saw was real. He climbed farther and farther, forgetting his sheep and all else in the world at the apparition of so many bright beings at that desolate spot. At last he drew very near the party, whom he was now convinced were either the Fairies, or some kindred sprites, concluding their nightly revels. Bursts of gentle music, like the melodious murmuring of an Æolian harp, ever and anon entranced him with delight. They were comely little beings to behold, and seemed very merry, while their habiliments of white, or green, or red, glistened with more than earthly beauty. The male sex wore red bonnets, and their fair companions flaunted in head-dresses outrivalling the gossamer in their texture; and many either galloped about on tiny white steeds, or pursued each other with the swiftness of the breeze. The greater portion of the party, however, were intently engaged in their favourite sport of dancing in the circle. Our shepherd did not know how it was, but he felt an irresistible inclination to make one of this joyous group, and growing bolder as the actors in the scene became more familiar to him, he at last ventured forward, and being encouraged by the friendly signals from all around, he advanced one step within the ring. The most exquisite melody now filled the air, and in an instant all was changed. Brynnan Mawr, with its well-known scenery, was seen no more. He was suddenly transported to a gorgeous palace radiant with gold and precious stones. Groves of odoriferous shrubs, intermingled with flowers unknown in this world, which might have rivalled those of the Valley of Gardens in "Lalla Rookh," shed around a fragrance excelling that of the "spicy East." Here did our shepherd wander from day to day amidst porphyry halls, and pavilions of pearl. Time sped away, but years seemed insufficient to explore all the wonders of that veritable Fairyland. He was attended in his wanderings by kind and gentle beings, who anticipated every want, and even invented sports and pastimes to amuse him. In the midst of the gardens there was a well of the clearest water, filled with many rainbow-tinted fish. There was but one limitation affixed to his movements and his curiosity: he was forbidden to drink of this well, on pain of having all his happiness blasted. It might be thought that, surrounded as he was with all that he could desire, there would have been no danger of his violating this command, but the result proved the error of this Utopian way of viewing the probabilities. One day he cautiously advanced toward the forbidden spot, and placing his hand within the well, drew forth some water in his palm and drank it. The shrieks of many voices instantly filled the air, all the fair scenes of enchanting loveliness vanished, and the luckless and too curious shepherd found himself on the summit of Brynnan Mawr with his sheep quietly grazing around him in the early morning just as when he had first entered the fairy-ring. Though years apparently had passed away while he was under the magic spell yet it was evident that in reality not many minutes could have elapsed. Our readers will doubtless recall Shakespeare's reference to these "fairy rings," in the first scene of the fifth act in the "Tempest":-- "Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves; And ye, that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him, When he comes back; you, demi-puppets, that By moon-shine do the green-sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid (Weak masters though ye be,) I have be-dimm'd The noon-tide sun, called forth the mutinous winds, And 'twixt the green sea and the azure vault Set roaring war." The flint arrow-heads or celts so dear to antiquaries, and so commonly to be found in and near the tumuli that mark the resting-places of our remote ancestors, are popularly called fairy-darts or elf-bolts. Though the wound of an elf-bolt was supposed to cause instant death to man and beast when directed by an aggrieved or mischievous fairy, the possession of one of these celts secured its owner from all ill consequences. When cattle or horses fell lame without the reason being forthcoming, it was concluded that they had been wounded by these invisible archers, in which case it was only necessary to touch the tender place with another elf-bolt or to make the animal drink the water in which one had been dipped. Any money found by the roadside was in the same way ascribed by our rustics to the fairies, some kindly spirit having dropped it by the way for the benefit of the battered wayfarer. As a boy one day in Anglesea was going out just before daybreak, he saw before him in the grey and obscure light a party of little beings dancing, as usual, in a circle. He hastened home in alarm and without making any further investigation, and on his return found a groat on a stone. He often saw the fairies afterwards at the same place, and as regularly found the money laid for him at the same spot. His possession of funds awakened the paternal curiosity, and he at last confessed the whole matter. Ever after this, though he often passed by the scene of the revels and scanned the wayside stone intently, he never saw either fairy frolic or fairy fee again. Though fairies had the power of making themselves invisible, and generally resented the intrusion of any human spectator, they were willing to show themselves sometimes, it would appear, though frequently the consequences were not altogether agreeable to the person so favoured. One evening the curiosity of a countryman, in his progress homewards, was powerfully excited by a wild though gentle melody which apparently proceeded from amidst some rocks, resting in picturesque confusion on the slopes of the mountain. After listening for some time he lost his track, and suddenly found himself close beside a troop of elves, who were dancing round a mysterious circle of "stocks and stones." Before he had much time for thought the elfin-troop surrounded him and quickly hurried him aloft, one of the party first asking the question whether he would prefer to be conveyed with a high, a moderate, or a low wind? Had he chosen the first, or "above the wind," he would instantly have soared into the most elevated regions; but our poor bewildered farmer unwisely made choice of the low wind, thus rejecting (as is too often the case in life) the middle course, or "with the wind," where he would have enjoyed an easy and pleasant aerial excursion. The mischievous little spirits then hurried him along the surface of the ground, over bog and briar, thorn and ditch, until at last they threw him in a most miserable plight head foremost in the mire. In Shakespeare's time it was a belief that no one could see the fairies and live, for he makes Falstaff exclaim, "They are fairies, he who looks on them shall die;" but any one who desires to see them through the eye of a poet should read most carefully the altogether delightful "Midsummer Night's Dream." The temptation to quote liberally from it is extreme, but its beauty requires it to be read in its entirety. The references in that play to changelings reminds us that we have not yet referred to this notable piece of family practice. Both the good and the bad fairies used to recruit their numbers by carrying off children, or young men and women. The malignant race delighted in spiriting away the unbaptized offspring (for it was only over these that they had any power) of affectionate parents, particularly when heirs, that they might produce as much mischief and vexation as possible; while the benignant fairies never took any recruits but the orphans of pious parents, who had no protectors, or were oppressed by cruel and unjust guardians. Such protégés, or rather naturalised fairies, were permitted twice to resume their original state, and appear to their kindred and acquaintance. The first time was at the end of seven years, when, if they had been children when they were taken away, they appeared to their nearest relatives, and declared to them their state, whether they were pleased with their condition as fairies, or wished to be restored to that of men. If they had been boys or girls when they were removed from this upper earth, and had by this time grown to men or women, they always appeared to persons of a different sex to themselves, with whom they had fallen in love, to whom they declared their state and passion, and, according to circumstances, either wished their lover to accompany them to Fairyland, or suggested to them a method whereby to recover them out of the hands of their elfish lords. The second appearance, at the end of fourteen years, was for the same purpose, and on this occasion they were either rescued from the power of the fairies or confirmed under their dominion for ever. When the bad fairies carried off a child, they always left one of their own number in its place. This equivocal creature was always distinguished by being insatiable for food, and if kept, seldom failed to draw its supposed mother into a consumption. Whenever a family suspected that a child had been changed for a fairy, they had recourse to the following strange, but, in the opinion of the country, infallible ordeal. A sufficient quantity of clay was produced from the eastern side of a hill, with which all the windows, doors, and every aperture through the house, excepting the chimney, were built up. A large fire was then made of peats, and the supposed fairy, wrapped in the sheets or blankets of the woman's bed, was laid on the fire when it was at the briskest, while one of the bystanders repeated-- "Come to me Gin mine ye be; But gin ye be a fairy wicht, Fast and flee till endless nicht." If the child actually was the woman's it instantly rolled off the fire upon the floor; but, if it was a fairy, it flew away up the chimney with a tremendous shriek, and was never more seen, while the real infant was found lying upon the threshold. "Oh, that it could be proved That some night tripping fairy had exchanged, In cradle-clothes, our children as they lay; And called mine Percy, his Plantagenet! Then would I have his Harry, and he mine."[25] [25] Shakespeare, 1. Henry IV. Spenser also refers to this belief in the following lines:-- "And her base elfin breed there for thee left, Such men do changelings call, so changed by fairie's theft." In some parts of the country, it is, or perhaps we should more correctly say was, customary to protect a child against fairy influences by tying a red thread round its throat or by letting its head hang down for awhile in the early morning. One does not of course see why either of these remedies should be efficacious against fairies or against anything else; but any one who has had occasion to talk matters over with rustics will have found that all their remedies, whether for ills spiritual or material, are of the most inconsequent character, and that the gift of faith in them is one of the most necessary accompaniments. This belief in fairy changelings is of great antiquity, for we read in Holingshead's "Chronicles" that the common people, on the death of King Arthur, held that he was not really dead at all, "but carried away by fairies into some place, where he would remain for a time and then return again and reign in as great authority as ever." It was also an old belief that people who had once lived with the fairies never again looked quite like other people, an ingenious way of accounting for any peculiarity in any one. Sir Walter Scott, in speaking of elf-possession, says that even "full-grown persons, especially such as in an unlucky hour were doomed to the execration of parents or of masters, or those who were found asleep after sunset under a rock or on a green hill belonging to the fairies, or finally those who unwarily joined their orgies, were believed to be subject to their power. The accounts they gave of their situation differ in some particulars. Sometimes they were represented as living a life of constant restlessness and wandering by moonlight. According to others, they inhabited a pleasant region, where, however, their situation was rendered horrible by the sacrifice of one or more individuals to the devil every seventh year. This is the popular reason assigned for the desire of the fairies to abstract young children as substitutes for themselves in this dreadful tribute." Persons, as we have seen, could occasionally be recovered from the fairies, and if changelings were taken before dark to a place where three rivers met, the stolen child would be brought back in the night and the fairy youngster would return whence it came. A poor woman who once had twins had them adroitly carried away soon after birth, and two of these elf-changelings substituted. For some months the change was not suspected, but as the mother began to perceive that the children never increased in size her suspicions were aroused, and she consulted one of the wise men of the district. This friend in need amply confirmed her suspicions, and in answer to her appeal for help and counsel, told her that she must get two eggshells, fill them with wort and hops, place them where these dubious infants could see them, and then secretly observe what came next. After a few minutes of watching the children began to stir, and these sweet little innocents, who were supposed to be unable to either walk or talk, crept up to the table, and after studying the matter awhile, one said to the other, "We were born before the acorn which produced the oak of which these cottage beams are made, but this is the first time we ever saw anybody brewing in an egg-shell!" The secret was now fairly out, and the woman was so exasperated at the trick played on her, that she fell on the changelings with the greatest fury, and only desisted when she got a solemn promise that her own dear children should at once be returned to her. One egg-shell story leads to another, and in an old book we came across the following:-- "My mother lived in the immediate neighbourhood of a farm-house that was positively infested by fairies. It was one of those old-fashioned houses among the hills of Cambria, constructed after the manner of ancient days, when farmers considered the safety and comfort of their cattle as much us that of their children and domestics, and the kitchen and cow-house were on the same floor adjoining each other, with a half-door over, so that the good man could see the animals from his chimney-corner without moving. My mother and the farmer's wife were intimate friends, and she used often to complain to her that the fairies annoyed her and her family to that degree that they had no peace;--that whenever the family dined, or supped, or ate any meal, or were together, these mischievous little beings would assemble in the next apartment. For instance, when they were sitting in the kitchen, they were at high gambols in the dairy, or when they were yoking the cows, they would see the fairies in the kitchen, dancing and laughing, and provokingly merry. One day, as there was a great number of reapers partaking of a harvest-dinner, which was prepared with great care and nicety by the housewife, they heard music and dancing and laughing above, and a great shower of dust fell down, and covered all the victuals which were upon the table. The pudding in particular was completely spoiled, and the keen appetites of the party were most grievously disappointed. Just at this moment of trouble and despair an old woman entered, who saw the confusion and heard the whole affair explained. 'Well,' said she in a whisper to the farmer's wife, 'I'll tell you how to get rid of the fairies. To-morrow morning ask six of the reapers to dinner, and be sure that you let the fairies hear you ask them. Then make no more pudding than will go into an egg-shell, and put it down to boil. It may be a scanty meal for six hungry reapers, but it will be quite sufficient to banish the fairies; and if you follow these directions you will not be troubled with them any more.' She did accordingly, and when the fairies heard that a pudding for six reapers was boiling in an egg-shell there was a great noise in the next apartment and an angry voice called out, 'We have lived long in this world. We were born just after the earth was made, and before an acorn was planted, and yet we never saw a harvest dinner prepared in an egg-shell. Something must be wrong in this house, and we will no longer stop under its roof.' From that time the disturbances ceased, and the fairies were never seen or heard there any more." Some authorities on the subject--and there are no greater authorities on it than the most superstitious old crones one can lay hold of--have averred that if any persons find themselves unwillingly in the company of the fairies they can cause their instantaneous departure by drawing out their knives. This acts not as a threat, for these puny immortals have no need to fear the weapons of carnal warfare, but from some inherent property in the cold bright steel. Many of the fairies are such kindly, genial little souls that one is rather grieved to find that they are entirely antagonistic to any religious influence. Many stories illustrate this unfortunate peculiarity, but to give one only will suffice. As a village fiddler was returning home one evening from some festivities that had doubtless owed much of their success to his enlivening strains, he was met in the darkness by a stranger. This stranger wished to make a somewhat curious arrangement with him, to the effect that on the following night at midnight he should bring his fiddle to a certain wild spot on the moorland, while he promised him ample reward for so doing. Though the fiddler presently agreed to do so, the more he thought it over the less he liked the bargain, and he would have gladly thrown it up had he dared. In his strait he bethought him of the minister of the parish, and determined to lay the whole matter before him and take his advice upon it. His clerical adviser liked the look of the affair no better than he did, but he advised him to keep to his bargain, while he strongly cautioned him to play nothing but psalm tunes. The fiddler kept his appointment, but no sooner had the sacred strains arisen than a great shriek rent the air and he was thrown violently down, and after receiving no slight castigation from invisible adversaries he returned home sore and stiff in the early morning. Unbelievers will no doubt say that the germ of truth in the story will be found in the fact, that if the jovial musician so far yielded to the charms of the revels as to be unable to steer a straight course home within reasonable hours, the early morning would probably find him stiff and sore with rheumatism. The spirits of the mine were as firmly believed in amongst the miners as the woodland and meadow sprites were by the dwellers on the country side. They were generally called knockers, and any sound heard in the stillness of the earth, that was evidently not the work of a fellow-toiler, was at once attributed to supernatural agency. The miners assert that these fairies may be frequently heard assiduously at work in the remoter parts, and that by their knocking they draw the attention of the workmen to the richest veins of ore. In the "Gentleman's Magazine" for 1754 we found a curious letter from a mine-owner, and the extract we give shows that the belief in such beings was not by any means confined to the rude and uncultivated miners, men a great part of whose lives were spent in the bowels of the earth, far removed from the cheering light of day, and who were in an especial degree under the influence of superstition:-- "People who know very little of arts or sciences, or the powers of nature, will laugh at us Cardiganshire miners, who maintain the existence of knockers in mines, a kind of good-natured impalpable people, not to be seen but heard, and who seem to us to work in the mines; that is to say, they are types or forerunners of working in mines, as dreams are of some accidents which happen to us. Before the discovery of the _Esgair y Mwyn_ mine, these little people worked hard through day and night, and there are abundance of sober honest people who have heard them. But after the discovery of the great mine they were heard no more. When I began to work at Lwyn Lwyd, they worked so fresh there for a considerable time, that they frightened away some young workmen. This was when they were driving levels, and before we had got any ore, but when we came to the ore they then gave over, and I heard no more of them. These are odd assertions, but they are certainly facts, although we cannot and do not pretend to account for them. We have now (October 1754) very good ore at Lwyn Lwyd, where the knockers were heard to work. But they have now yielded up the place, and are heard no more. Let who will laugh; we have the greatest reason to rejoice and thank the knockers, or rather God, who sends these notices." In the coal districts one meets with a similar belief in goblin miners. These spirits are ordinarily of a friendly disposition, and perform such kindly offices for their human fellow-workers as assisting to pump up superfluous water or loosening masses of coal. Of course one can readily see that when the men went to their work and found their toil diminished, owing to a heavy fall of coal in the working, superstition would at once have material to work on. Some of these spirits would appear to have been of less amiable disposition, and the sounds heard were at times the warnings and forerunners of coming disaster. As the fairies of the household or of the moonlighted forest glades were of uncertain and variable natures, though inclining on the whole to beneficence, so the spirits of the earth were divisible into those of gentle race and others of fierce and malevolent disposition. In Milton's "Comus" we find these earth spirits referred to in the following passage:-- "No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity;" and in Pope's prefatory letter to the "Rape of the Lock" we find a further allusion--"The four elements are inhabitated by spirits called sylphs, gnomes, nymphs, and salamanders. The gnomes, or demons of the earth, delight in mischief; but the sylphs, whose habitation is in air, are the best-conditioned creatures imaginable." A belief in kindly spirits of the household was widely spread, for besides our own Robin Goodfellow we find the Nis of Denmark and Norway, the Kobold of Germany, the Brownie of Scotland, and many others. Brownie, we may remark, is a tawny, good-natured spirit, and derives his name from his colour as distinctive from fair-ie. Robin Goodfellow was a merry domestic sprite, full of practical jokes, a terror to the lazy, but a diligent rewarder of industry:-- "When mortals are at rest, And snoring in their nest,-- Un-heard or un-espied, Through key-hole we do glide: Over tables, stools, and shelves, We trip it with our fairy elves. And if the house be foule, Of platter, dish or bowle, Upstairs we nimbly creepe And find the sluts asleepe: Then we pinch their armes and thighes, None escapes, nor none espies. But if the house be swept, And from uncleannesse kept, We praise the house and maid, And surely she is paid: For we do use before we go To drop a tester in her shoe." The "shrewd and knavish sprite" and the good luck he brings to the deserving are referred to very happily again in the "Midsummer Night's Dream." Prudent and considerate housewives who wished to gain the goodwill of these spirits of the night were careful to leave a bowl of milk on the table for their use. Milton, in his poem of "L'Allegro"-- "Tells how the drudging goblin swet, To earn his cream-bowl duly set;" the task he set himself in recompense for the attention shown him being the threshing during the night of as much corn as would have required the labour of ten men. What thrifty housewife would grudge a bowl of milk or cream for so great a reward! Queen Mab shares with Robin his functions as critic of household management, for it will be remembered that in the "English Parnassus" we find her described as-- "She that pinches country wenches If they rub not clean their benches; And with sharper nail remembers, When they rake not up their embers. And if so they chance to feast her, In their shoe she drops a tester." Housewives would see their account in keeping such a belief vividly before the eyes of their serving-maids, and may even themselves have sometimes dropped a tester where their diligent hand-maidens would fancy it a fairy-reward for their zeal in her service, while the vague threats of fairy vengeance would come in most opportunely in support of their own chidings of the careless and indolent. We turn, in conclusion, to the fourth class, the evil spirits of the water and the storm. Of such is the Cornish Bucca, a weird goblin of the winds, whose scream was heard amid the roar of the elements as some gallant vessel was hurled to destruction on the rocks. In Ireland the same creature was the dreaded Phoca or Pooka, in Wales the Pwcca, while in Scottish legends it is the Kelpie. The creature sometimes assumed the human form, and at others that of the eagle or the horse; thus in Graham's "Sketches of Perthshire" we read--"Every lake has its kelpie or water-horse, often seen by the shepherd sitting upon the brow of a rock, dashing along the surface of the deep, or browsing upon the pasture on its verge." The Nech is a similar creature in the folk-lore of Scandinavia. In Wales we meet with the belief in a creature called Cyoeraeth, so named, we are told, from its deadly chilling voice. We find it thus described in an old book:--"The Cyoeraeth is a being in the dress of a female, with tangled hair, a bloodless and ghastly countenance, long black teeth, and withered arms of great length;" in short, it is invested with a description which conveys to the mind the idea of a blasted tree as compared to the flourishing monarch of the forest, rather than as possessing the similitude of anything human. This being (fortunately for the people) seldom made itself visible, but its scream or shriek at night had a terrible and overpowering effect on all who heard it. It generally foreboded death or fearful disaster, and always occurred when the spirit approached a cross road or drew near to a river or _llyn_, when it would commence to splash and agitate the water with its long bloodless hands, wailing all the time so as to 'make night hideous.' Those who heard its dreary moaning (or thought they did, the case doubtless of the majority) fled in horror, fearing for their reason, while many were really affected in mind, and ever after had the shriek resounding in memory. In Brecon a romantic gorge called the Cwm Pwcca bears record in its name of the old belief in the phoca. As a justification of its title we read the following story:--A countryman was wandering in the darkest of dreary winter nights in vain endeavour to find the path that would have guided him to his home, when he saw a light before him on the dreary waste, which he naturally took for the lantern of some wayfarer. He quickened his steps and made for it. As he rapidly neared it he was on the point of hailing its bearer when the roar of waters smote his ear in the silence of the night, and, barely arresting his steps in time, he found himself at the edge of a lofty chasm, the awful gulf at the base of which the torrent was sweeping with resistless fury. At this instant the bearer of the lantern took a flying leap to the opposite side of the gorge, burst into a scornful and unearthly peal of laughter, and vanished from the eyes of the affrighted rustic. The _ignis fatuus_, will-of-the-wisp, or Jack o' lantern was doubtless at the bottom of such a story as this, and in Milton's "Paradise Lost" we find the following powerful illustrative passage, referring both to the natural phenomenon and the myth built upon it:-- "'Lead, then,' said Eve. He, leading, swiftly rolled In tangles, and made intricate seem straight, To mischief swift. Hope elevates, and Joy Brightens his crest; as when a wandering fire, Compact of unctuous vapour, which the night Condenses, and the cold environs round, Kindled through agitation to a flame, Which oft, they say, some evil spirit tends, Hovering and blazing with delusive light, Misleads the amazed night wanderer from his way, To bogs and mires, and oft through ponds or pool; There swallowed up and lost, from succour far, So glistered the dire snake." In the same author's poem of "L'Allegro" we find the will-of-the-wisp again referred to, this time under the title of "Friar's lantern;" while Sir Walter Scott in his "Marmion" writes-- "Better we had through mire and bush Been lantern-led by Friar Rush." Shakespeare in 1 "Henry IV." calls it a "ball of wildfire," and also used the Latin name, _ignis fatuus_. This bewilderment of the rustics by false fires does not always seem to have been the result of diabolical malice on the part of the fairies, but sometimes assumed the form of a practical joke. Like most practical jokes, it was probably much more amusing to the joker than the joked, and the benighted wanderer had little cause to thank him of whom it could be said-- "Whene'er such wanderers I meete As from their night-sports they trudge home; With counterfeiting voice I grete And call them on, with me to roam Thro' woods, thro' lakes, Thro' bogs, thro' brakes; Or else, unseene, with them I go All in the nicke To play some tricke, And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho!" An old legend tells us how on the advent of Christianity great Pan and all the woodland deities deserted their old haunts and were never seen of men again; and in the same way the march of science and the spread of education must ere now have killed off all the fairies, except in the most out-of-the-way districts. Once coaxed and propitiated, or shudderingly dreaded, they now but serve to make a pleasant fancy for a Christmas-card, or aid in the grand spectacular effects of the Christmas pantomime. Those, then, who would see these denizens of elf-land and all the grace and beauty that even the very name of fairy-land suggests, will seek them no longer in the ferny glades of some fair woodland or beneath the silvery beams of the moon, but reduce the matter to a prosaic visit to some great theatre, and endeavour to find in the great array of "supers" and the glowing of coloured fires the realisation of their fair ideal. The fairies are, in fact, as dead, as hopelessly defunct, as the proverbial door-nail, which seems to have been accepted by the wisdom of our ancestors as the most expressive symbol of mortality and the stern decrees of irreversible Fate.[26] [26] Appendix P. The Pigmies had not the same glamour of romance about them that was associated with the dwellers in elf-land. The consideration of them nevertheless comes well within the same chapter, as, like the fairies, they were a race of beings of human mould, but differing from the ordinary standard of humanity by reason of the exceeding smallness of their stature. References to them will be found in the writings of Herodotus, Philostratus, Pliny, and many other authors, the first allusion to them being in the third book of the Iliad, where the Trojans are compared to cranes fighting against pigmies:-- "Thus by their leaders' care each martial band Moves into ranks, and stretches o'er the land. With shouts the Trojans, rushing from afar, Proclaim their motions, and provoke the war: So when inclement winters vex the plain With piercing frosts, or thick-descending rain, To warmer seas the cranes embodied fly, With noise, and order, through the mid-way sky: To pigmy nations wounds and death they bring, And all the war descends upon the wing."[27] [27] "Marking the tracts of air, the clamorous cranes Wheel their due flight in varied ranks descried; And each with outstretched neck his rank maintains, In marshalled order through th' ethereal void." These combats between the pigmies and the cranes were also dwelt on by Oppian, Juvenal, and others; and what was, to quote an old writer, "only a pleasant figment in the fountain, became a solemn story in the stream." Strabo in his Geography considered the belief as fabulous, and so also did another old writer, Julius Scaliger; and even Aldrovandus, though ready to accept almost anything, found a difficulty in crediting it. Albertus Magnus, another of the old and over-credulous writers, found as much difficulty as Aldrovandus, but suggested that probably the belief arose from some big species of monkey having been taken for a diminutive man. Even the home of the pigmies was a point quite open to dispute. Some writers placed them in the extreme north, where the growth of all nature was feeble and stunted, while Aristotle placed them at the head of the Nile; Philostratus affirmed that they were to be found on the banks of the Ganges, and Pliny placed them in Scythia. Even their size was open to question, for some would have us believe that the mounted men in their armies rode on partridges, while others placed them on the backs of rams. If the warrior and his steed bore any due proportion to each other, this seems to point to a considerable divergence of ideas as to the size of a pigmy. They were said to have been found by Hercules in the great desert, and to have assailed him with their bows and arrows as the Lilliputians did Gulliver. Their valour, however, in this case seems to have outrun discretion, as the smiling demi-god carried a number of them off in his lion's skin. Ctesias says that they were negroes, and places a kingdom of them in the centre of India. Shakespeare mentions them, but gives no local habitation. "Will your Grace command me any service to the world's end? I will go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on: I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the farthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John's foot; fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard; do you any embassage to the Pigmies!" Others of our poets have adopted the myth, though of course without committing themselves to an expression of their belief in it. In Dryden's "Absalom and Achitophel," for example, we find the lines-- "A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pygmy-body to decay, And o'er informed the tenement of clay"-- and in Young's "Night Thoughts" we read-- "Pygmies are pygmies still, though perched on Alps; And pyramids are pyramids in vales." Another English writer whose book is before us does commit himself to an expression of belief, for his title runs as follows:--"Gerania, a New Discoverie of a Little Sort of People called Pygmies, with a Lively Description of their Stature, Habit, Manners and Customs." The author was one Joshua Barnes, and his book is dated 1675. Though spelt indifferently as pigmy and pygmy, the latter is the more correct, though perhaps a little pedantic-looking; the word is derived from the Greek name for them, the Pygmaioi. Tennant in his work on "Ceylon" makes the following very just remark:--"We ought not to be too hasty in casting ridicule upon the narratives of ancient travellers. In a geographical point of view they possess great value, and if sometimes they contain statements which appear marvellous, the mystery is often explained away by a more careful and minute inquiry." Against the statements of the geographers and historians of antiquity many modern critics have specially delighted to break a lance, condemning them as more or less fabulous and untrustworthy, though in some cases, as that of De Chaillu, the narratives of modern travellers have been almost as mercilessly analysed. Probably the African race known at the present time as Bosjesmen or Bushmen are the modern representatives of the pigmies, for in their cave-dwelling, reptile-eating, and other peculiarities they agree entirely with those given by Pliny, Aristotle, and Herodotus. The tales of the battles fought with the cranes may have been but a satire on their diminutive size, or they may very possibly have been the records of actual facts. The Maori traditions tell of the contests with the moa and other gigantic birds which formerly inhabited the islands of New Zealand, while the Jesuit missionaries give accounts of enormous birds that were once found in Abyssinia, but are now, like the dodo, extinct. It is, therefore, quite possible that there is more truth in the story of these mannikins and their struggles with their feathered foes than we are at first prepared to admit, and that while many of the details of these old fables are evidently imaginative, there was in more cases than we at once realise a solid foundation of truth at the bottom of them. Of giants, the opposite extreme in the scale, we need say but little. Probably in many cases the early peoples, who desired to honour their great champions, felt that the marvels they delighted to credit them with must have been the work of men of more than human power and parts. We see much the same feeling in the sculptures of antiquity, the monuments of Egypt and Assyria, where the monarch far outweighs even in mere physical bulk the subjects that surround him. Hence, like Goliath, the champions of old are generally giants; while at other times they themselves are of slender frame, striplings like David, and it is the foes they subdue that are gigantic in bulk. The struggles, for instance, of the gallant few against the crying and mighty wrong of human slavery would have in earlier times been handed down to posterity as a contest with an evil giant; and in the allegories of the Middle Ages we meet, in the same way, with Giant Pope, Giant Pagan, and Giant Despair. Though in one's earlier years we read the exploits of Jack the Giant-Killer with great complacency, and give him full meed of praise for his valour, on fuller reflection we cannot help seeing that the giants he encountered had intellects that bore no proportion to their bodily bulk, and that it was the easiest thing possible to outwit them; that according to the doctrine which by men of science is called "the survival of the fittest," or in more popular parlance "the weakest going to the wall," their destruction was strictly according to the inexorable laws of nature. While dwarfs have been accredited with a spiteful vindictiveness that served them in some sort as a defence, giants have ordinarily been considered as great good-natured fellows, fully bearing out Bacon's remark about tall houses being often unfurnished in their upper story. Perhaps it is a merciful arrangement of nature that this should be so, for a combination of the maliciousness of the dwarf with the physical strength of the giant would be something altogether _de trop_. We very early in the Bible narrative meet with references to giants, but it is by no means agreed by commentators that the word nephilim thus translated means men remarkable for their stature. The context in the case of the first reference to them, for instance, seems to render it more probable that these were men not of gigantic stature, but of gigantic wickedness--men who had departed from the true religion, and were sustaining their apostasy by acts of violence and oppression, and endeavouring by these means to gain to themselves power on the earth. At the same time in other passages the references to the size of the couch or the spear clearly implies their ownership by a man of much more than the ordinary stature. According to Jewish tradition Og lived three thousand years, and walked beside the Ark during the deluge, while after his death one of his bones was used as a bridge for crossing a river. According to Moses his bedstead was not quite sixteen feet long, so that it seems the brook that any single bone would span could scarcely have required bridging at all; while the depth at what we may be allowed to term "high water" during the Noachic deluge must have been very much less than all one's preconceived notions would suggest, if its volume was a thing of indifference to the owner of this sixteen-feet couch. The nearest approach to a giant in modern times was an Irishman named Murphy, who attained to a height of eight feet ten inches. Many of our readers will remember seeing the Chinese Chang, or at least hearing of him, as he was exhibited to the curious in London in 1866 and 1880. His height was eight feet two inches. Patrick Cotter, an Irishman, who died in 1802, exceeded this by six inches; and one fine youth named Magrath, an orphan adopted by Bishop Berkeley, died at the age of twenty, after reaching a height of seven feet eight inches. There is no absolutely authenticated instance of any one in modern times reaching nine feet, though, of course, when tradition and hearsay have taken the place of the measuring-tape, there is no difficulty in going considerably beyond that limit. Plutarch tells of a giant eighty-five feet high, and Pliny of another who only reached sixty-six. Many of the skeletons of giants that were then supposed to be found during the Middle Ages were really the remains of extinct animals. In the imperfect state of surgical and osteological knowledge, the leg or blade bone of some gigantic antediluvian monster was ascribed to some hero of the past, and a very pretty little giant story promptly built upon it. Any curious natural phenomena were generally ascribed by our ancestors to diabolical influence, or else recognised as the labour of giants. The Giant's Causeway is a notable and very familiar illustration of this, and there are few mountains in Wales that are not invested with some fairy tradition or legend of the marvellous. Trichrug, in Cardiganshire, which derives its name from three united hills, is believed to have been a favourite resort of the giants, and, like Cader Idris, this lofty elevation was once the special seat or chair of a giant whose grave is still pointed out. In a match at quoits which took place here between the giants of Cambria, he of Trichrug is said to have thrown one across St. George's Channel to the opposite coast of Ireland, thus winning the contest triumphantly. His grave was fabled to possess such extraordinary capabilities that it not only adapted itself to the size of any one that lay down in it, but also gifted the individual with greatly renewed strength. All defensive weapons placed in this grave were either destroyed or swallowed up. The rocky fortification, or _carnedd_, on the summit of Cader Idris is in like manner invested by the surrounding peasantry with a mysterious tradition respecting the giant Idris. The warring of the giants against the rule of Jehovah finds its parallel in the Greek myth of the sons of Tartaros and Ge attempting to storm the gate of heaven and the seat of Zeus, only to meet with signal discomfiture. The common expression for adding difficulty to difficulty and embarrassment to embarrassment, the piling of Pelion on Ossa, refers to this struggle, as the giants piled two mountains of these names on each other as a scaling ladder to reach the heights of high Olympus. In "Measure for Measure" we find two well-known allusions to giants:-- "O! it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant." The second of these is equally familiar:-- "The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies." In Matthew Green's play of "The Spleen," written at the beginning of the eighteenth century, we find an evident allusion to the struggle between David and Goliath in the line-- "Fling but a stone, the giant dies." Coleridge, again, writes--"A dwarf sees further than the giant, when he has the giant's shoulder to rest on." This idea is not, however, his own, for in Herbert's "Jacula Prudentum" we find the line, "A dwarf on giant shoulders sees further of the two;" and in Fuller's "Holy State" he says--"Grant them but dwarfs, yet stand they on giants' shoulders and may see the further." Many other illustrations might, of course, readily be given of what may be termed the literary existence of giants, but enough has been quoted to show how valuable these personages have in poesy and general literature. In the West "Gulliver's Travels" and in the East the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments" are two examples that at once occur to one's mind. [Decoration] [Decoration] CHAPTER III. Comparatively Small Number of Mythical Bird-Forms--The Martlet--The Bird of Paradise--The Humma--The Huppe--The Ibis--The Roc--The Hameh Bird--Reptiles, Fish, &c.--The Sea-Serpent--The Adissechen of Hindu Mythology--The Iormungandur of Scandinavian Mythology--The Egg Talisman--Fire-Drake--Aspis--Amphisbena--Kraken--Cetus--Leviathan-- Behemoth--Nautilus--Dolphin--The Acipenser--The Remora--The Fish Nun-- The Chilon--The Dies--Sea-Bishops and Sea-Monks--Davy Jones and his Locker--Ojibiway Legend of the Great Serpent--Fabledom in the Vegetable Kingdom--The Barnacle Tree--The Kalpa-Tarou--The Lote Tree--The Tree of Life--Lotus-Eating--Amaranth--Lotus Wreaths at Kew from the Egyptian Tombs--Asphodel--Mediæval Herbals--Ambrosia--The Upas Tree--The Umdhlebi Tree of Zululand--The Kerzereh Flower--The Mandrake--"Miracles of Art and Nature"--Travellers' Tales--The Dead Sea Apple--Alimos--The Meto-- The Herb Viva--Cockeram on Herb-Lore--The Pseudodoxia of Dr. Browne-- Herb Basil--The "Eikon Basilike"--Fitzherbert's "Boke of Husbandry." While we find numerous extraordinary beliefs clustering round the so-called natural history of various birds, such as the legend of the pelican nourishing its young with its own blood, or the eagle teaching its offspring to gaze on the brightness of the mid-day sun, it is curious to note how little of absolute myth-creation has been developed in the direction of strange forms of bird life. On the other hand, many of the weird creations of fancy, such as the dragon or the phoca, have their terrors greatly enhanced by the gift to them of the essential bird characteristic, the power of soaring in mid-air, and thus gaining a great additional power for evil over their victims. We have already referred, in our first chapter, to the phoenix, and it now only remains to mention some few other mythical bird-forms, less widely known, before we pass to other creations of fancy. Even in heraldry, the home of much that is marvellous and unnatural, the bird forms depart but little from natural types, and the only instance to the contrary that occurs to us is the well-known Martlet, used not only as "a charge" in blazonry, but also as a mark of cadency to distinguish the arms of contemporary brothers in the same family or to identify different branches of the same family connection.[28] [28] Appendix Q. The martlet is very similar in form to a swallow, but is always represented as without feet, while the French heralds also deprive it of beak. A good early example of its use may be seen in the arms of William de Valence, emblazoned on his shield at Westminster, and dating from the year 1296; later instances of its employment are so common that it is hardly worth while to particularise any special illustration. The martlet, according to Gwillim, in his elaborate treatise on heraldry, "hath leggs exceeding short, that they can by no means go: and therefore it seemeth the Grecians do call them _Apodes, quasi sine pedibus_; not because they do want feet, but because they have not such use of their feet as other birds have. And if perchance they fall upon the ground, they cannot raise themselves upon their feet as others do, and so prepare themselves to flight. For this cause they are accustomed to make their Nests upon Rocks or other high Places, from whence they may easily take their flight, by means of the support of the Air. Hereupon it came that this Bird is painted in Arms without feet: and for this cause it is also given as a difference of younger Brethren, to put them in mind to trust to their wings of vertue and merit to raise themselves, and not to their leggs, having little Land to set their foot on." In mediæval days the Bird of Paradise was in like manner thought to be without feet. The error arose in a very natural but most prosaic way, and simply sprang from the fact that the natives who bartered the skins of the birds with the merchants cut off the legs before bringing them, naturally thinking that they were of no value, and that it was for the richness of the plumage alone that the skins were esteemed. The lovers of the marvellous in the West built upon this weak foundation a most poetic superstructure, and believed that the bird was indeed the denizen of paradise, fed upon the dew of heaven, incapable of contact with earth, building no nest, but hatching its eggs in a cavity upon its own back; ever soaring in the sunlight far above earth, and independent of all mundane association. Tavernier supplies another explanation, equally prosaic, of their footless condition--one in fact, that entirely removes the poor birds from all poetic association, and reduces them to the "drunk and incapable" state that some other bipeds are prone to indulge in. He tells us in his book that the birds of paradise come in flocks during the nutmeg season to the plantations, and that the odour so intoxicates them that they fall helplessly to the earth, and that the ants eat off their feet while they are thus incapacitated. Moore, in his "Lalla Rookh," thus refers, it will be remembered, to this Tavernier tale in writing of-- "Those golden birds that in the spice-time drop Upon the gardens drunk with that sweet food Whose scent hath lured them o'er the summer flood." "The sublime bird which flies always in the air, and never touches the earth," mentioned by the princess in the introduction to "Paradise and the Peri," was the Humma, an altogether fabulous creature. Like the bird of paradise, it was supposed to pass its whole time in the blue vault of heaven, and to have no contact with earth; it was regarded as a bird of good omen, and that every head it overshadowed would in time be encircled with a crown. The splendidly jewelled bird suspended over the throne of Tippoo Sultan at Seringapatam was an artistic embodiment of this poetic fancy, and we can well imagine that all good courtiers who had any regard for keeping their necks free from the scimitar would take uncommonly good care to avoid that prophetic overshadowing, that would make them the possible rivals and successors of so very resolute an autocrat. The Huppe, one of the birds believed in by our forefathers in mediæval days, seems morally to have been a somewhat peculiar and, on the whole, objectionable compound, reminding one in some degree of those uncomfortable people who attach an immense importance to their own belongings, but whose sympathies towards the members of the clan are scarcely more marked than their antipathy to all beyond this narrow circle. Such, at least, is the idea we should gather from the description of it by De Thaun, for he tells us that "when it sees its father or mother fallen into old age that they cannot see nor fly, it takes them under its wings and cherishes them. The huppe has such a nature that if any shall anoint a man with its blood while he is sleeping, devils will come and strangle him." The huppe was described as being like a peacock, but it seems impossible to even imagine how such a belief in its evil powers could ever have taken root. It would be difficult to conceive such a notion growing up in connection with any creature whatever, but when the first cause is itself non-existent the difficulty is greatly intensified; one has not even a foothold of fact as a starting-point. What a picture, again, of cold-blooded fiendishness does it not open out to us as we see with the mind's eye the treacherous anointing of some perchance innocent sleeper with a preparation of _Sanguis huppæ_ and then the operator walking off and posing in the eyes of the world as an honourable burgess, while his accomplices from the bottomless pit finish the job off for him while he has gone to Mass or is engaged on 'Change! It is worse even than that little affair with the babes in the wood, bad as that was in many of its details. The Ibis, beloved as it was by the Egyptians for its services to them as the destroyer of venomous snakes, and from its association with the Sacred Nile and the great deity Thoth, was not altogether allowed to bring forth its progeny in peace, for it was believed that its fondness for a serpent diet might so develop in it evil properties, that its eggs were diligently sought for and destroyed, lest from them should issue some strange serpentine forms of horror that in their mysterious nature would be a still greater scourge than the sufficiently objectionable grey and brown and diversely spotted and chequered denizens of the desert that coil or glide unseen amidst the expanses of burning sand, and whose fangs convey swift death to those unfortunates who come within reach of their fatal power. By far the grandest creation of bird-fancy is the Roc. This fabulous bird was of enormous size, and of such strength of talon and digestion that it was said to be able to carry away an elephant to its mountain home, and there devour it at a meal; while one old traveller, not to be outdone in particularity of detail, calculates that one roc's egg is equal in amount to one hundred and forty-eight hens' eggs. The belief in the roc was altogether an Eastern weakness, and those who would know more of it must turn to such romances as that of "Sindbad the Sailor" and the narratives of such-like Asiatic Barons Munchausen. In the Second Voyage of Sindbad he tells us how he saw in the distance some mysterious object, which, on closer inspection, proved to be the egg of a roc. "Casting my eyes," he says, "towards the sea, I could discern only the water and the sky; but perceiving on the land side something white, I descended from the tree, and taking with me the remainder of my provisions, I walked towards the object, which was so distant that at first I could not distinguish what it was. As I approached I perceived it to be a white ball of a prodigious size. I walked round it, to find whether there was an opening, but could find none; and it appeared so even that it was impossible to get up it. The circumference might be about fifty paces. The sun was then near setting; the air grew suddenly dark, as if obscured by a thick cloud. I was surprised at this change, but much more so when I perceived it to be occasioned by a bird of a most extraordinary size which was flying towards me. I recollected having heard sailors speak of a bird called a roc, and I conceived that the great white ball which had drawn my attention must be the egg of this bird. I was not mistaken, for shortly afterwards it alighted upon it and placed itself to sit upon it." He tells us also in this same voyage of the furious strife waged between the rhinoceros and the elephant, a struggle that often continues till the roc, hearing the disturbance, swoops down upon them and seizes them both in his claws and flies away with them, in much the same manner apparently as the schoolmaster who, appearing suddenly in the midst of a fight between two truculent youngsters, chills their martial ardour by his stony glance, and leads off each culprit by ear or collar to his den. In another of Sindbad's sea-ventures, the fifth, we find an awful warning against trifling with the parental feelings of the roc. In the course of their voyage the crew landed on a desert island, and very soon found a gigantic egg. Sindbad at once recognised what it was, and earnestly advised them not to meddle with it, but his remonstrances were unheeded; they boldly attacked the mass with hatchets, and on finding a young roc within, cut it into divers pieces and roasted it. These reckless tars had scarcely finished their meal, when two immense clouds appeared in the air at a considerable distance. The captain, knowing by experience what this portended, or haply making a lucky guess, cried out that it was the father and mother of the young roc, and warned all to re-embark as quickly as possible, and so avoid, if possible, the vengeance of the outraged owners of the egg. All accordingly scrambled on board, and sail was set immediately. The two rocs in the meantime rapidly approached, uttering the most frightful screams, which they redoubled on finding the state of their egg, and that their young one was defunct. They then flew away, and a faint hope began to dawn upon the mariners that they had not come so badly out of the business after all, when to their blood-chilling horror the birds again rapidly approached, each with an enormous mass of rock in its talons. When they were immediately over the ship they stopped in mid-air, and one of them let fall the piece of rock he held. The pilot, his wits sharpened by the imminent peril the vessel was in, deftly turned the ship aside, and the great mass plunged into the depths of the sea alongside; but the other bird, more fortunate in his aim, let his piece fall so immediately on the ship that it smashed it into a thousand pieces, and, with the exception of Sindbad, all the passengers and crew were either crushed beneath tons of stone or drowned in the surging billows that such a monstrous mass created. Lest a suspicion may cross the reader's mind that the gallant sailor and enterprising merchant was romancing somewhat when he narrated these stirring adventures, we hasten to mention that the third calender, in the same veracious history, met with other experiences of an equally surprising nature in which this gigantic bird played as leading a part, all of which may be found duly set forth in the "Arabian Nights." Another curious belief of the Arabs is in the existence of a bird called the Hameh. This uncomfortable creation of the Arab fancy is said to spring from the blood of a murdered man. Its weird cry is continuously "Iskoonee," a word signifying "give me to drink," and it rests not, day nor night, till its thirst is quenched in the murderer's blood. When the death of the victim is avenged it flies away to some place left altogether indefinite in the Eastern legend, but probably it wends its way to the spirit-land with the welcome news that the victim's blood no longer cries in vain for vengeance. To an Arab already suffering from an evil conscience the belief in the hameh must be a terrible one, as he hears in fancy the troubled air filled with the wailing cry and fierce demand for vengeance, and knows that, day or night, the haunting sound will never leave his ears until the desert feud be avenged and his own life blood be poured out like water upon the burning sand. The depths of ocean, so impressive in their mystery and vastness, have been peopled by the lovers of the marvellous in all ages with a special fauna of their own, and have been made the home of divers strange and wondrous creatures, some purely reptilian, others fish-like, or still more commonly a weird combination of the two. The depths and recesses of the great tropical forests, as impressive almost in their vastness as the ocean itself, or the far-reaching swamps and morasses in their mysterious shades, have in like manner been tenanted in the imagination of the savage tribes that thread their depths or probe their treacherous surface with forms more wonderful even than those of Nature herself, weird and bizarre as these in tropical regions so frequently are. Hence amongst all savage tribes we find a belief in serpentine forms more terrible even than the boa or python that they have such cause to dread. The widely spreading worship of the serpent, a form of religion that we find in so many lands and throughout centuries of time, is a most interesting subject of study, though we can here only regret that exigencies of space compel us to do no more than merely mention it. The belief in sea-serpents does not appear in itself to be an unreasonable one, much as it is from time to time ridiculed. Many species of tropical snakes are aquatic in a greater or less degree, and though some naturalists will tell us that a serpent is not adapted by its structure and organs for a purely aquatic existence, one finds in nature so many wonderful adaptations of form to abnormal circumstances, that it is perhaps wiser to feel that in the great and almost boundless expanse of ocean there may be mysterious forms that science has not yet tabulated and described, rather than to at once assert the contrary. Be this as it may, there is no doubt that while the great mystery of the ocean depths has been tenanted by the credulous with impossible creations of the fancy, we have numerous testimonies from sea-captains and others of appearances that cannot always be so lightly dismissed. A Captain Harrington, for instance, commanding the "Castilian," during a voyage from Bombay to Liverpool in the year 1857, sends the following account to the _Times_ newspaper:--"While myself and officers were standing on the lee side of the poop, looking towards the island of St. Helena, then some ten miles away, we were startled by the sight of a large marine animal, which reared its head out of the water within twenty yards of the ship, when it suddenly disappeared for about half a minute, and then made its appearance in the same manner again, showing us distinctly its neck and head about ten or twelve feet out of the water. Its head was shaped like a long buoy, and I suppose the diameter to have been seven or eight feet in the largest part, with a kind of scroll or tuft of loose skin encircling it about two feet from the top. The second appearance assured us that it was a monster of extraordinary length, which appeared to be moving slowly towards the island. The ship was going too fast to enable us to reach the mast-head in time to form a correct estimate of its extreme length, but from what we saw from the deck we conclude that it must have been over two hundred feet long. The boatswain and several of the crew, who observed it from the forecastle, state that it was more than double the length of the ship, in which case it must have been five hundred feet. Be that as it may, I am convinced that it belonged to the serpent tribe; it was a dark colour about the head, and was covered with several white spots. Having a press of canvas on the ship at the time, I was unable to round to without risk, and therefore was precluded from getting another sight of this leviathan of the deep." This precise description was endorsed by the chief and second officers of the ship--men, like the captain, of practised vision, and not at all likely to be deceived by floating sea-weed or any of the other matters brought forward to cast doubt on such stories. It is curious that another apparently well-authenticated account of some such creature should also hail from the neighbourhood of St. Helena. Her Majesty's ship "Dædalus," in August 1848, when on the passage between that island and the Cape of Good Hope, came into close proximity with a strange-looking creature that was travelling through the water at an estimated speed of ten miles an hour. Captain McQuahee was unable, owing to the direction of the wind, to bring the ship into pursuit, but, as the creature passed within two hundred yards of them, they were enabled to bring it well within observation, its form and colour being distinctly visible from the vessel. Olaus Magnus, Archbishop of Upsal some three centuries ago, was a firm believer in the marvellous, and in his writings, amongst many other things, he gives details of a sea-serpent two hundred feet long by twenty feet thick, having a dense hairy mane and eyes of fire. This monster, he further tells us, "puts up its head on high like a pillar and devours men." He also tells of another kind, that is forty cubits long and no thicker than a child's arm; this is blue and yellow in colour. His writings also furnish a more detailed account of a vast monster thrown ashore in 1532 on the English coast near "Tinmouth." This creature was ninety feet long and twenty-five feet thick, having thirty ribs on each side, a head twenty-one feet long, and two fins of fifteen feet each. This creature, from its proportions, fins, and so forth, was evidently not serpentine in character, though it may fairly be classed amongst monsters of the deep. A Greenland missionary, Egede, tells in his journal of a frightful sea-monster that he saw on July 6, 1734. It raised itself so high out of the water, he says, that its head overtopped the mainsail. It had a long and pointed snout, and spouted like a whale; its fins were like great wings. Another very circumstantial account is that given by Captain Laurent de Ferry of Bergen in 1746. His creature had a horse-like head, raised some two feet out of the water; in colour it was grey, but it had a white mane and large black eyes. Seven or eight coils of the creature were visible, a fathom or so of space between each. De Ferry says that he shot at and wounded the monster, and that the water was reddened with its blood for some time after. He does not specify whether the weapon used was the longbow or not, but it seems highly probable that it was. Where the account given is so exceedingly definite as it is, for example, in these two last instances, we are placed in the awkward predicament of either having to believe in the monster so graphically described, or to disbelieve the narrators of the stories; to conclude, in plain words, that Egede, despite his professions, was lying deliberately--a very Munchausen--and that De Ferry was either a credulous idiot himself, or wilfully concluded that the landsmen's credulity might be safely played upon. It has been suggested that a long line of tumbling porpoises, rolling after each other in the quaint way that they do, may have deceived people into a belief that what they saw were the coils of one of these great mythical monsters of the deep; but, however such an appearance might deceive a landsman, it is evident that those who go down to the sea in ships and occupy themselves in the great waters are too familiar with the appearance of a shoal of porpoises to be thus deceived. The ribbon fish may in some cases have given rise to the idea of a serpent of the sea, as the appearance of their elongated, band-like bodies swimming through the water with a gentle serpentine or undulatory motion would be very suggestive. They have been known to attain a length of sixty feet; specimens of this size have actually been captured by trawlers, though even yet we are a long way from the sea serpents gravely mentioned by Pontoppidan in his "Natural History of Norway" as being over six hundred feet long. On the occasion of the reported appearance of the sea serpent to Captain McQuahee, Professor Owen in a letter published in the _Times_ suggested that the creature seen may have been one of the larger species of seals found in the Southern Seas. At the Falkland Islands and in the Kerguelen and Crozet groups the sea elephant attains a size of some twenty feet in length, and some such creature as this, swimming rapidly through a calm sea with its head raised, and with a long wake behind it, caused by the action of its paddles, placed at the posterior extremity of the body, like the screw of a steamer, may have been the foundation of some of the stories told of these mysterious monsters of the deep. A good sea-serpent story is found in Captain Taylor's "Reminiscences." One day, when his ship was lying at anchor in Table Bay, "an enormous monster" about one hundred feet in length was seen advancing with snake-like motion round Green Point into the harbour. The head appeared to be crowned with long hair, and the keener-sighted amongst the observers could see the eyes and distinguish the features of the monster. The military were called out, and after peppering the object at a distance of five hundred yards, and making several palpable hits, it was observed to become quite still, and boats ventured off to complete the destruction. The "sea serpent" proved to be a mass of gigantic sea-weed, which had been undulated by the ground swell, and had become quiescent when it reached the still waters of the bay. Probably if mariners would attack the "monster" in the same manner whenever it is seen, we should hear little more of the sea serpent. Stories of sea serpents are almost as old as the hills, and in many cases quite as difficult to digest. In 1808 the body of a great sea monster was cast ashore at Stronsay, one of the Orkneys. This was some fifty feet long, and every one, even the fishermen themselves, declared that the sea serpent had turned up at last. A naturalist, however, decided that it was only an unusually fine specimen of the great basking shark; so we are as far off as ever, after all, from an authentic monster, and seem in every case to have only offered for our acceptance either outrageous hoaxes and impositions, the imaginations of the credulous, or, at the very best, cases of mistaken identity. Amongst other serpent myths we may certainly place that most uncomfortable creation of the fancy, the Adissechen, a serpent with a thousand heads that, according to the Indian mythology, bears up the universe; and the Iormungandur, the serpent that according to the Scandinavian myth, encircles the whole earth, and binds it together in its flight through space. It was a very old belief that the serpent's egg was hatched by the joint labour of several serpents, and was buoyed up into the air by their hissing. Any one so intrepid as to catch it while thus suspended 'twixt earth and heaven bore away with him a talisman of mighty power, giving him strength to prevail in every contest, and the favour of all whose favour was worth the having. It could only be captured at the gallop, and even then the risk of being stung to death was a peril most imminent. Pliny tells us that he had himself seen one of these notable proofs of prowess, and that it was about as large as a moderately large apple. The Fire-Drake was, according to mediæval fancy, a fiery serpent or dragon, keeping guard over hidden treasure. The drake, of course, has no affinity with the familiar ducks and drakes on the farmer's pool, nor even with the ducks and drakes that people make of their money when they burn their fingers in too rash speculation, but is clearly suggested by the Latin word, _draco_, for a dragon. We find an interesting reference in Shakespeare to the word in his "Henry VIII.," scene 3 of act v.--"There is a fellow somewhat near the door; he should be a brazier by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in his nose: all that stand about him are under the line, they need no further penance. That fire-drake." De Thaun in his "Bestiary" tells us of the Aspis, "a serpent cunning, sly, and aware of evil. When it perceives people who make enchantment, who want to enchant it, to take and snare it, it will stop very well the ears it has. It will press one against the earth; in the other it will stuff its tail firmly, so that it hears nothing. In this manner do the rich people of the world: one ear they have on earth to obtain riches, the other Sin stops up; yet they will see a day, the day of Judgment. This is the signification of the Aspis without doubt." De Thaun always endeavours to see a religious meaning in everything, and where the moral declines to fit quite accurately to the facts, by a simple process of reversal the facts are made to fit to the moral. The creature that he had in his mind, and which would naturally occur to him from his familiarity with the Bible, is no doubt identical with the deaf adder that we are told in one of the Psalms stoppeth her ear, and refuseth to hear the voice of the charmer. Though the old author avowedly has no doubt as to the signification he assigns to the creature's obstinate refusal to be charmed, one cannot but feel that his explanation is rather halting. A man who would amass riches has at least as much need of his eyes as of his ears, and his transition from the ear stopped up by sin to the awakened eye at the great day of account is also somewhat lame. The transition should have been not arbitrarily from one faculty to another, but in the sharp contrast between the sense first deliberately blunted and lost through sin, to be then at last terribly restored by the trumpet peal of the dread day of doom. Indeed, if it were not that we are all prepared instinctively to place the worst possible construction upon anything a creature so repellent to us may do, it is evident that the allegory might have been equally developed from quite another point of view. Had the dove shown a similar alacrity to bury one ear in the earth while it stuffed its tail into the other, we should have heard nothing of this wilful blunting of the senses to good counsel, but much, _au contraire_, of its determined resistance to temptation and evil. The ancients believed in a horrible little brute called the Amphisbena, "a small kind of serpent which moveth backward or forward, and hath two heads, one at either extreme." Galen, Pliny, Nicander, and many other early writers gravely describe this especially objectionable little reptile. Ælian, who was so far in advance of his age as to call the Chimæra and Hydra fables, believed fully in the amphisbena. Some few serpents really have the power of taking a mean advantage of those they assault by springing at them from directions not always "straight to your front," as the drill sergeants express it,[29] but none, of course, have an equal facility for moving either backward or forward; and certainly still more of course, no serpent at present known to science, or likely to be, has a head "at either extreme." [29] Appendix R. The Kraken is another notable example of the studies in unnatural history of the ancients. Pliny gravely narrates that one of these monsters--the "mountain fish" of the old Norsemen--haunted the ocean off the coasts of Spain and North Africa, but, owing to its bulk, was unable to penetrate through the Straits of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean. According to some old writers the kraken, when floating on the surface of the sea, stretched to a length of about a mile and a half, and appeared like an island. It is a difficult problem to say which would be the most embarrassing position--for a seaman to find himself stranded on the creature's back on its sudden arrival at the surface, or to be engulfed in the whirlpool that would arise from its sinking again into the depths of ocean. One old writer tells us of a party of sailors that, from the tangled sea-weed on the creature's back, took the kraken for an island, and after fishing for some time with some little success in the pools of water in the hollows of his back, proceeded to light a fire to cook their take, and suddenly found themselves engulfed in the sea when the heat became sufficiently great to awaken their animated island from its nap. Alaus Magnus, archbishop of Upsala, describes this colossus of the deep as the kraken, but he stops short at the length of a mile; while Pontoppidan, bishop of Bergen, adds that a whole regiment of soldiers could manoeuvre on its back; while yet a third ecclesiastic, another bishop, tells us that he did actually erect an altar on the creature's back and celebrate mass. We are told that the kraken submitted to the ceremony without flinching, but no sooner was it over than it plunged into the depths of the sea, to the great astonishment and peril of the divine. It may at first seem curious that so many of these stories should spring from ecclesiastics, but it must be remembered that they were in these early days the great repositories of truth, the laity being steeped in ignorance and superstition. It has been conjectured that the kraken myth has sprung from stories of gigantic cuttle-fish or octopus, the devil fish described so vividly by Victor Hugo in his "Toilers of the Sea;" but one can hardly fall in quite readily with this notion, since the leading idea, so to speak, in the kraken belief is that of a monstrous and quiescent mass, suggestive more than anything else of an island rising from the sea, while the dominant idea in our minds of the octopus is of a creature armed with far-stretching and numerous arms that enwrap their hapless victim in their pitiless embrace. The kraken would scarcely have been described without any reference to these fearful feelers, armed with double rows of suckers, if the myth had had the origin that has been in several directions claimed for it. The belief in the kraken chiefly springs, probably, from that delight in something tremendously big that has also given us the roc carrying away elephants in its talons, or the serpent that encompasses the world in its folds, so that we need not then too anxiously strive to find any counterpart of it in nature. "They that sail on the sea tell of the dangers thereof, and when we hear it with our ears we marvel thereat. "For therein be strange and wondrous works, variety of all kinds of beasts, and whales created."[30] [30] Ecclesiasticus xliii. vers. 24, 25. De Thaun describes something very kraken-like, but he bestows upon it the title of Cetus. _Cetus_, we need scarcely remind our readers, is a Latin word applied in a general sense to all kinds of large sea-fish, and though the whale is strictly speaking a mammal and not a fish at all, we find the word reappearing in modern use in the term cetaceous, as applied to all creatures of the whale kind. The author of the "Bestiary" tells us that "Cetus is a very great beast; it lives always in the sea. It takes the sand of the sea, spreads it on its back, raises itself up in the sea, and will be at tranquillity. The seafarer sees it, and thinks that it is an island, and goes to arrive there to prepare his meal. The Cetus feels the fire and the ship and the people; then he will plunge if he can, and drown them. When he wants to eat he begins to gape, and the gaping of his mouth sends forth a smell so sweet, that the little fish will enter into his mouth, and then he will kill them, thus will he swallow them." In a Jewish work entitled "Bara Bathra" we read of a whale so large that a ship was three days in sailing from its head to its tail. Of course this would not be at Cunard liner pace; still it certainly does give one the idea of a very considerable fish. But this monster of the deep sinks into insignificance in its length of but a hundred miles or so when we compare it with the fish Pheg (mentioned in an ancient Chinese book, the Tsi-hiai), that churns up five hundred miles of blue ocean into silvery foam when it starts its stupendous paddles in motion for a cruise. This is indeed, to quote Polonius, "very like a whale." When any one's credulity finds no difficulty in digesting such a tale as that, their powers of absorption must be well nigh as striking as the narration itself. "The imperious seas breed monsters; for the dish Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish."[31] [31] "Cymbeline," Act iv. sc. 2. According to Jewish tradition the Leviathan was a great fish; so great, they taught, that one day it swallowed another fish nearly a thousand miles long. Many of the Jewish legends in the Talmud and elsewhere possess little or nothing of graceful fancy, but simply endeavour to excite wonder by gross exaggeration. There were originally two of these leviathans, a male and a female; but if their numbers had increased beyond this, the world would have been soon destroyed; so the female was killed, and laid up in salt for the great feast to be held at the coming of the Messiah. Such is the Jewish tradition. Leviathan is mentioned in the Bible in several places, notably in the magnificent description that comprises the whole of the forty-first chapter of the book of Job. It is curious that a very similar legend to that we have just referred to was believed by the Jews in connection with the Behemoth mentioned in the preceding chapter of Job. Any one reading the fine description of the creature there given will have little difficulty in agreeing with most commentators that the hippopotamus is intended; but the Jews held that behemoth is a huge animal which has subsisted alone since the creation, and that it is reserved to be fattened for the great rejoicings that are to be held in the days of the advent of the promised Messiah. Every day they believe that he eats up the grass of a thousand hills, and that at each draught, when he is thirsty, he swallows up as much water as the Jordan yields in the course of six months. It would probably be found that nine out of ten people would at once declare that their idea of the leviathan was that it was a large fish, and the tenth person would have very little doubt either. We do not mean that these typical folk would really believe in its existence as a special monster, but they would be quite prepared to say in an offhand way that the whale was intended under this name. Burton in his "Miracles of Art and of Nature" (A.D. 1678) has a passage that clearly shows this interchange of words, and the evident idea that the two terms, whale and leviathan, are synonymous. He writes, under the description of Norway--"The whales do so terrifie the shores, the Seas being there so deep, and therefore a fit habitation for those great leviathans." He, however, goes on to tell us that "the People of the Sea-coast have found a remedy, which is by casting some water intermixt with Oyle of Castor, the smell whereof forces them immediately to retire, and without this help there were no Fishing on the Coasts." The remedy for the boisterous presence of these great monsters seems at first a feeble one, until we bear in mind how gladly we too in our child-days would have immediately retired, if we could, at the awful odour of the coming castor-oil. "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." The beautiful description of the wonders of creation in the 104th Psalm, the stretching firmament and the chariots of cloud, the fowls of heaven, and the trees so full of sap and vigour, concludes with a reference to the leviathan that has no doubt done much to associate the name with the whale,[32] and which, in fact, could only apply to some such great creature of the waters; so that we can only conclude that the term was used somewhat vaguely by the different Old Testament writers, as it is now tolerably unanimously held that the leviathan of the book of Job is the crocodile. [32] "This great and wide sea wherein are things creeping innumerable, both small and great beasts. There go the ships: there is that leviathan, whom Thou hast made to play therein" (Ps. civ. 25, 26). No creature of the whale tribe inhabits the Mediterranean; neither is the whale clothed in coat-of-mail, nor is it fierce in disposition; but if any one will carefully read the description given of the crocodile in the book of Job they will find point after point of appropriate detail, allowance being made partly for the wealth of Oriental and poetic imagery, and partly for the wonderful difference between assailing the crocodile in these later days with a rifle-ball as against the old sling, spear, or arrow. What a modern sportsman might lightly esteem would be a very different creature indeed to attack when the world was in its youth. "Who can strip off his outer garment? Who can open the doors of his face? Round about his teeth is terror. His strong scales are his pride, Shut up together as with a close seal. They are joined one to another, They stick together that they cannot be sundered. In his neck abideth strength, And terror danceth before him. If one lay at him with the sword it cannot avail, Nor the spear, the dart, nor the pointed shaft. He counteth iron as straw, And brass as rotten wood. The arrow cannot make him flee: Sling-stones are turned with him into stubble. He laugheth at the rushing of the javelin. Upon earth there is not his like, That is made without fear." The poetical ideas that clustered during classic times and the Middle Ages round the Nautilus were, after all, as mythical as they were poetic. "The tender nautilus who steers his prow, The sea-borne sailor of his shell canoe, The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea"[33]-- has, alas! no foundation in hard fact; and the lesson that Pope would teach when he bids us-- "Learn of the little nautilus to sail, Spread the thin oar and catch the rising gale"-- is equally impracticable. The sad fiction-dispelling truth is, that in no case does the little argonaut use its arms as sails or as oars. It rises, it is true, occasionally to the surface, as other cuttle-fish forms do, but when there its only means of propulsion are the _jets d'eau_ from its funnel, these jets consisting of the water which has been used in respiration. In Pliny's "Natural History," as translated by Philemon Holland, and published in London in 1601, we find that "among the greatest wonders of nature is that fish which of some is called nautilos, of others pompilos. This fish, for to come aloft upon the water, turneth upon his backe, and raiseth or heaveth himselfe up by little and little; and to the end he might swim with more ease as disburdened of a sinke, he dischargeth all the water within him at a pipe. After this, turning up his two foremost clawes or armes, hee displaieth and stretcheth out betweene them a membrane or skin of a wonderful thinnesse: this serveth him instead of a saile in the aire above water. With the rest of his armes or clawes he roweth and laboureth under water, and with his tail in the midst he directeth his course, and steereth as it were with an helme. Thus holdeth he on and maketh way in the sea, with a fair show of a galley under saile. Now if he be afraide of anything by the way, hee makes no more adoe, but draweth in water to baillise his bodie, and so plungeth himselfe downe and sinketh to the bottome." [33] Byron. While the Dolphin, like the nautilus, has a veritable existence, and may be duly found amongst the works of nature, it has also, like the nautilus again, served as the foundation for a considerable amount of mythical lore. Thus Pliny, in his so-called Natural History, from which we have already drawn so many curious extracts, writes--"The swiftest of all other living creatures whatsoever, and not of sea-fish only, is the dolphin; quicker than the flying fowl, swifter than the arrow shot out of a bow." The dolphin, so termed, of the mediæval heralds is a purely conventional form, having no counterpart whatever in Nature. "They are much deceived," wrote an authority on natural history a little more than a hundred years ago, "who imagine Dolphins to be of the Figure they are usually represented on Signs; that Error being more owing to the unbridled License of Statuaries or Painters than to any such Thing found in Fact." A much earlier writer, Gillius, tells us that when he was "in a Ship where many Dolphins were taken, he observed them so to deplore with Groans, Lamentations, and a Flood of Tears their Condition, that he himself, out of Compassion, could not forbear weeping, and so threw one that he observed to groan more than ordinary (the Fisherman being asleep) into the Water again, as choosing rather to damage the Fisherman than not to relieve the Miserable. But this gave him but little Rest, for all the Others increased their Groans, as seeming, by not obscure Signs, to beg the same Deliverance." Another well-known belief in connection with the dolphin is the imaginary brilliancy of its supposititiously changeful colours when, having failed to find any one, like Gillius, compassionate enough to throw it overboard, it presently succumbs to its hard fate. The idea has been a favourite one with poets in all ages, but one example from Byron's "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" will suffice as an illustration:-- "Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away; The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is gray." According to some of the ancient writers, the eyes of the dolphin were in those most unlikely and unserviceable places, their blade-bones; they were also said to dig graves for their dead on the sandy shores of the sea, and to follow them to their burial in mournful procession. They were, too, an excellent means of travelling when other means of locomotion were not available. Thus the fifty daughters of Nereus travelled in safety on their backs, we are told in classic mythology in the dry-as-dust style of such fountains of knowledge as are available for reference ordinarily; but these statements help us but little to realise the scene that struck the eyes or the imaginations of the ancients when this bevy of charming girls, a good fifty strong, rode hither and thither in happy _abandon_ in the brilliant summer sunlight of the azure Mediterranean Sea, their steeds the willing dolphins; a scene as unlike the frowsy omnibuses, the dreary chariots of moody men and women, that loom through the murk of a London fog, or that fill to suffocation with resentful fellow passengers, when the prolonged drizzle becomes a heavy downpour, as one can possibly imagine. The dolphin's love of music, again, was a firm article of faith to the ancients, and most of our readers are no doubt acquainted with the story of the sweet singer, Arion, who, forced to leap into the sea to escape the cruelty of the sailors, escaped to land on the back of a dolphin--one of many that had long followed the ship in rapturous appreciation of the sweet melodies of the singer; and how Arion-- "With harmonious strains Requites his hearer for his friendly pains." Another strange fish believed in by our forefathers was the Acipenser, "a fish of an unnatural making and quality," as an old writer terms him; and indeed he may very well do so, as we are told that "his scales are all turned towards the head." We are not, therefore, much surprised to learn that "he ever swimmeth against the stream," though we might well be still more astonished if we ever found him swimming at all. The Remora. This was held to affix itself so firmly to a ship that neither wind nor waves could dislodge it, while its presence (even worse than that of the more prosaic barnacles and other sea impedimenta that plague the modern shipowner by fouling the bottom of his good ship, and so retarding her course) brought the voyage to an abrupt conclusion. Pliny indeed only says that "there is a little fish, keeping ordinarily about rockes, named Echeneis. It is thought that if it settle and sticke to the keele of a ship under water, it goeth the slower by that meanes," whereupon it is called the stay-ship. But all these marvels have a wonderful way of growing more and more marvellous, and subsequent writers, not content with merely impeding the vessels in their increasingly wondrous stories, soon accredited the remora with the much more striking power of altogether arresting their progress. We see a relic and survival of this old belief in the following lines of Ben Jonson-- "I say a remora, For it will stay a ship that's under sail." And again much more elaborately worked out in Spenser's "Visions of the World's Vanity"-- "Looking far forth into the ocean wide, A goodly ship, with banners bravely dight, And flag in her top-gallant, I espied, Through the main sea making her merry flight; Fair blew the wind into her bosom right, And th' heavens looked lovely all the while, That she did seem to dance as in delight, And at her own felicity did smile; All suddenly there clove unto her keel A little fish that men call Remora, Which stopt her course, and held her by the heel, That wind nor tide could move her thence away. Strange thing me seemeth that so small a thing Should able be so great an one to wring." We have already seen how Leviathan, according to the Talmud, is to form a feast for the Saints; and on turning to the Koran we find a very similar belief, for the food of Mohammed's Paradise is to consist, we are there told, of the flesh of the ox Balam and of the fish Nun. To allay any apprehension on the part of the faithful that these viands will not "go round," as a schoolboy would say, we are reassured on reading that the liver alone of the fish Nun will supply an adequate portion for seventy thousand hungry souls. [Illustration: {THE SEA-LION}] The vastness and mystery of the depths of the sea has naturally led to their being peopled at all ages and amidst almost all peoples with strange and monstrous forms like the Chilon, fish-like in body, but having the head of a man; or the Dies, the creature of a day, whose life's span ran its course in the hours between the rising and the setting of the sun; or more rarely with forms of more poetic beauty, like those sweet water-wagtails, the mermaidens we have already alluded to. Our illustration is a representation of the sea lion as believed in, or at least delineated, by the author of one of the mediæval treatises on more or less natural history that has come under our notice. Ælian describes fish having the heads of lions, rams, and so forth; and it is, of course, sufficiently evident that when a man has once got upon that train of ideas there is nothing to hinder his turning the whole "Zoological Gardens" into the shadowy depths of ocean, and evolving from his inner consciousness not only camel-fish or gazelle-fish, but fifty other equally striking creations. Rondelet, in a book published in the year 1554, gives sufficiently strange illustrations of sea-bishops and sea-monks; and another mediæval writer, Francisci Boussetti, represents in all good faith other forms equally bizarre; but the greatest storehouse by far, so far as our own experience of these old authors goes, is to be found in the "Historia Monstrorum" of Aldrovandus, a book most copiously illustrated, and full of the most extraordinary conglomerations of diverse creatures, or of wild imaginings that find no counterpart in any way in Nature at all. Of these we need give but one example, the very peculiar biped here represented. [Illustration: {THE HARPY}] Most of us, even the veriest landsmen, must have heard of "Davy Jones's Locker," though few could give it a "local habitation" as well as "a name." Almost all superstitious people--and certainly sailors as a body may be classed as such--have a great objection to telling their beliefs to those whom they think will not receive their communications in a sympathetic spirit; hence it is often exceedingly difficult in most cases to arrive at all at a satisfactory conclusion, as, even after an explanation has been given, we find that what we were told was a mere putting off of the matter at issue, and their real belief has all the time been concealed from us. The following explanation of the seaman's phrase we give for what it is worth, which in our humble opinion is not much. We are told that Jones is a corruption of Jonah the prophet, while _deva_ or _duffa_ amongst the natives of the West India islands is a spirit or ghost. The sailor's locker, we are all aware, is the one place on board where his private possessions are more or less safe, so that when we hear of an unfortunate having gone to Davy Jones's Locker, we may conclude that he is believed to have gone to some far-down place of safe-keeping in the Spirit-world, as Jonah, by inference, did. It is, however, a decidedly weak point in this explanation that Jonah, whatever may have been his experiences in the depths of the sea, soon exchanged his temporary "locker" for dry land again, and was no doubt ultimately gathered to his fathers in the bosom of mother-earth. Smollett, in his "Peregrine Pickle," ignores all reference to the faithless prophet, and, without seeking out the why or the wherefore of the name, goes, we think, very much more directly to the point when he writes--"This same Davy Jones, according to the mythology of sailors, is the fiend that presides over all the evil spirits of the deep, and is seen in various shapes, warning the devoted wretch of death and woe." Like the Irish Church and many other venerable institutions, Davy is now probably disestablished, or shelved like some fine old admiral on the half-pay list, though it would be interesting to hear the opinion of some navy chaplain on the point, as these old superstitions die very hardly, and at times rather clash with more orthodox theology. The widespread worship of the serpent is a subject of the greatest interest, though it would take us far away from our present subject if we dwelt at length upon it. The place held by the serpent in ancient mythologies has, however, caused the creature to pass far from the region of commonplace zoological fact into the realm of myth. One old belief more precise than nice was that the serpent first vomits forth its venom before drinking, in order that it may not poison itself by swallowing it; while another curious belief was, that sleeping children whose ears were licked by serpents thereby received the gift of foretelling future events. Cassandra was said thus, amongst other less famous personages more or less believed in by the ancients, to have received the gift of prophecy. In Squier's "Serpent Worship in America" many legends are given that admirably illustrate the feelings of the North American aborigines, the Peruvians, Mexicans, and other dwellers on that continent with regard to the great serpent that typifies to them, as to so many other races, the great Evil Power. One of these, an Ojibiway legend, we must venture on quoting, for, somewhat lengthy as it is, it supplies an excellent illustration of this belief in the malign power of the serpent, and incidentally gives an echo of the widespread belief in a deluge, a belief extending from the legends of the Far West to those of distant China. The Indian legend runs as follows:--"One day, on returning to his lodge in the wilderness after a long journey, Manabazho, the great teacher, missed from it his young cousin: he called his name aloud, but received no answer. He looked around on the sand for the tracks of his feet, and he there for the first time discovered the trail of Meshekenabek, the Great Serpent. He then knew that his cousin had been seized by his great enemy. He armed himself and followed on his track: he passed the great river and crossed mountains and valleys to the shores of the deep and gloomy lake, now called Manitou Lake, Spirit Lake, or the Lake of Devils. The trail of Meshekenabek led to the edge of the water. At the bottom of this lake was the dwelling of the serpent, and it was filled with evil spirits, his attendants and companions. Their forms were monstrous and terrible, but most, like their master, bore the semblance of serpents. In the centre of this horrible assemblage was Meshekenabek himself, coiling his voluminous folds round the cousin of Manabazho. His head was red as with blood, and his eyes were fierce and glowed like fire: his body was all over armed with hard and glistening scales of every shade and colour. Manabazho looked down upon the writhing spirits of evil, and he vowed deep revenge. He directed the clouds to disappear from the heavens, the winds to be still, and the air to become stagnant over the lake of the Manitous, and bade the sun shine on it with all its fierceness; for thus he sought to drive his enemy forth to seek the cool shadows of the trees that grew upon its banks, so that he might be able to take vengeance upon him. "Meanwhile Manabazho seized his bow and arrows, and placed himself near the spot where he deemed the serpents would come to enjoy the shade; he then transformed himself into the stump of a withered tree, that his enemies might not discover his presence. The winds became still, the air stagnant, the sun shone hot upon the lake of the evil Manitous. By-and-by the waters became troubled, and bubbles rose to the surface, for the rays of the hot sun penetrated to the horrible brood within its depths. The commotion increased, and a serpent lifted up its head high above the centre of the lake and gazed around the shores. Directly another came to the surface, and they listened for the footsteps of Manabazho; but they heard him nowhere on the face of the earth, and they said one to another, 'Manabazho sleeps,' and then they plunged again beneath the waters, which seemed to hiss as they closed over them. It was not long before the Lake of Manitous became more troubled than before; it boiled from its very depths, and the hot waves dashed wildly against the rocks on its shores. The commotion increased, and soon Meshekenabek, the Great Serpent, emerged slowly to the surface and moved toward the shore. His blood-red crest glowed with a deeper hue, and the reflection from his glancing scales was like the blinding glitter of a snow-covered forest beneath the morning sun of winter. He was followed by all the evil spirits, so great a number that they covered the shores of the lake with their foul and trailing carcases. They saw the broken, blasted stump into which Manabazho had transformed himself, and suspecting it might be one of his disguises, one of them approached and wound his tail around it, and sought to drag it down, but Manabazho stood firm, though he could hardly refrain from crying aloud. "The Great Serpent wound his vast folds among the trees of the forest, and the rest also sought the shade, while one was left to listen for the steps of Manabazho. When they all slept Manabazho drew an arrow from his quiver; he placed it in his bow, and aimed it where he saw the heart beat against the sides of the Great Serpent. He launched it, and with a howl that shook the mountains and startled the wild beasts in their caves, the monster awoke, and, followed by its frightened companions, uttering mingled sounds of rage and terror, plunged again into the lake. When the Great Serpent knew that he was mortally wounded, both he and the evil spirits around him were rendered tenfold more terrible by their great wrath, and they arose to overwhelm Manabazho. The water of the lake swelled upwards from its dark depths, and with a sound like many thunders it rolled madly on his track, bearing the rocks and trees before it with resistless fury. High on the crest of the foremost wave, black as the midnight, rode the writhing form of the wounded Meshekenabek, and red eyes glared around him, and the hot breaths of the monstrous brood hissed fiercely after the retreating Manabazho. Then thought Manabazho of his Indian children, and he ran by their villages, and in a voice of alarm bade them flee to the mountains, for the Great Serpent was deluging the earth in his expiring wrath, sparing no living thing. The Indians caught up their children, and wildly sought safety where he bade them. "Manabazho continued his flight along the base of the western hills, and finally took refuge on a high mountain beyond Lake Superior, far to the North. There he found many men and animals who had fled from the flood that already covered the valleys and plains, and even the highest hills. Still the waters continued to rise, and soon all the mountains were overwhelmed, save that on which stood Manabazho. Then he gathered together timber and made a raft, upon which the men and women and the animals that were with him all placed themselves. No sooner had they done so than the rising floods closed over the mountain, and they floated alone on the surface of the waters. And thus they floated many days; and some died, and the rest became sorrowful, and reproached Manabazho that he did not disperse the waters and renew the earth, that they might live. But though he knew that his great enemy was by this time dead, yet could he not renew the world unless he had some earth in his hands wherewith to commence the work. This he explained to those who were with him, and he said that were it ever so little, even a few grains, then could he disperse the waters and renew the world. "The beaver then volunteered to go to the bottom of the deep and get some earth, and they all applauded her design. She plunged in, and they waited long: when she returned she was dead; they opened her hands, but there was no earth in them. 'Then,' said the otter, 'will I seek the earth,' and the bold swimmer dived from the raft. The otter was gone still longer than the beaver, but when he returned to the surface he too was dead, and there was no earth in his claws. "'Who shall find the earth?' exclaimed all those on the raft, 'now that the beaver and the otter are dead?' 'That will I,' said the musk-rat, and he quickly disappeared between the logs of the raft. The musk-rat was gone very much longer than the otter, and it was thought that he would never return, when he suddenly rose close by, but he was too weak to speak, and he swam slowly towards the raft. He had hardly got upon it when he too died from his great exertion. They opened his little hands, and there, closely clasped between the fingers, they found a few grains of fresh earth. These Manabazho carefully collected and dried in the sun, and then he rubbed them into fine powder in his palms, and rising up he blew them abroad upon the waters. No sooner was this done than the flood began to subside, and soon the trees on the mountains were seen, and then the mountains and hills emerged from the deep, and the plains and the valleys came into view, and the waters disappeared from the land. Then it was found that the Great Serpent, Meshekenabek, was dead, and that the evil Manitous, his companions, had returned to the depths of the Lake of Spirits, from which, for the fear of Manabazho, they never more dared to come forth. In gratitude to the beaver, the otter, and the musk-rat, these animals were ever after held sacred by the Indians, and they became their brethren; and they were never killed nor molested until the medicine-men of the stranger made them forget their relations and turned their hearts to ingratitude." As we propose to deal, in conclusion, with some few examples of the fabledom that has grown around various plants, we may fitly usher in this new section of our subject with some little account of the old belief that the barnacle-shells of our shores, or, as some writers held, a tree called the barnacle-tree, developed into Solan-geese,[34] as the transition from the mythical animal kingdom to the fabulous vegetable kingdom will thus be rendered less abrupt. [34] "From the most refined of saints As naturally grow miscreants, As barnacles turn Solan-geese In the islands of the Orcades." --_Hudibras._ [Illustration: {THE BARNACLE TREE}] This barnacle-goose tree was a great article of faith with our ancestors in the Middle Ages. Gerarde, for example, in his History of Plants gives an illustration of it in all good faith--a branch bearing barnacles and by its side a barnacle goose. Following, however, the plan we have adopted throughout of going directly to the fountain-head, Gerarde shall give us his own description of this wonder of Nature. We may, however, point out before doing so that the error arose from a near resemblance of two distinct words suggesting that there must be an identity of nature in the things so named. A common kind of shell was in the Middle Ages called pernacula, while the Solan-goose, in France called the barnache, was the bernacula. Both words being popularly corrupted into barnacle, it was natural that the two things should be considered as identical. Gerarde saves this crowning wonder until the end of his book, and then discourses as follows concerning it:--"Hauing trauelled from the grasses growing in the bottom of the fenny waters, the woods, and mountaines, euen vnto Libanus it selfe; and also the sea, and bowels of the same, wee are arriued at the end of our Historie: thinking it not impertinent to the conclusion of the same, to end with one of the maruells of this land (we may say of the world). The historie whereof to set forth according to the worthinesse and raritie thereof would not only require a large and peculiar volume, but also a deeper search into the bowels of nature than mine intended purpose wil suffer me to wade into, my sufficience also considered; leauing the historie thereof rough hewen unto some excellent men, learned in the secrets of nature, to be both fined and refined: in the meantime take it as it falleth out, the naked and bare truth, though vnpolished. There are found in the North parts of Scotland and the Island adiacient, called Orchades, certain trees whereon do grow certaine shells of a white colour tending to russet, wherein are contained little liuing creatures, which shells in time of maturitie do open, and out of them do grow those little liuing things, which falling in the water do become fowles, which we call Barnakles; in the North of England trant geese, and in Lancashire tree geese; but the other that do fall vpon the land perish and come to nothing. Thus much by the writings of others, and also from the mouths of people of those parts, which may very well accord with truth. "But what our eyes have seene and hands haue touched we shall declare. There is a small Island in Lancashire called the pile of Foulders, wherein are found the broken pieces of old and bruised ships, some whereof have been cast thither by Shipwracke, and also the trunks and bodies with the branches of old and rotten trees cast up there likewise; whereon is found a certain spume or froth that in time breedeth vnto certain shels in shape like those of the Muskle, but sharper pointed and of a whitish colour, wherein is contained a thing in forme like a lace of silke finely wouen as it were together, one end thereof is fastened vnto the belly of a rude masse or lumpe, which in time commeth to the shape and forme of a Birde. When it is perfectly formed the shell gapeth open, and the first thing that appeareth is the foresaid lace or string; next come the legs of the bird hanging out, and as it groweth greater it openeth the shell by degrees til at length it is all come forth and hangeth onely by the bill; in short space after it commeth to full maturitie and falleth into the sea, where it gathereth feathers and groweth to a fowle bigger than a Mallard and lesser than a goose, hauing blacke legs, and bill and beake, and feathers blacke and white spotted in such manner as is our magpie, which the people of Lancashire call by no other name than a tree goose: which place aforesaid and all those parts adjoining do so much abound thereinth that one of the best is bought for three pence. For the truth hereof, if any doubt, may it please them to repaire unto me, and I shall satisfie them by the testimonie of good witnesses. "Moreover it would seeme that there is another sort hereof; the historie of which is true and of mine owne knowledge: for trauelling vpon the shore of our English coast betweene Douer and Rumney, I found the trunke of an olde rotten tree, which (with some helpe that I procured by fishermen's wives that were there attending their husbands returne from the sea) we drew out of the water upon dry land: vpon this rotten tree I found growing many thousands of long crimson bladders, in shape like vnto puddings newly filled, which were very clear and shining: at the nether end whereof did grow a shell fish fashioned somewhat like a small Muskle, but much whiter, resembling a shell fish that groweth vpon the rokes about Garnsey and Garsey, called a lympit. Many of these shells I brought with me to London, which after I had opened I found in them liuing things without form or shape: in others which were nearer come to ripeness I found liuing things that were very naked, shaped like a bird: in others the birds couered with soft downe, the shell halfe open and the bird ready to fall out, which no doubt were the fowles called Barnakles. I dare not absolutely avouch euery circumstance of the first part of this history concerning the tree that beareth those buds aforesaid, but will leave it to a further consideration, howbeit that which I have seen with mine eyes and handled with mine hands, I dare confidently avouch and boldly put down for veritie. "They spawn as it were in March and Aprille: the geese are formed in May and June and come to fulnesse of feathers in the moneth after. "And thus hauing through God's assistance discoursed somewhat at large of Grasses, Herbes, Shrubs, Trees, and Mosses, and certain Excrescences of the earth, with other things more incident to the historie thereof, we conclude and end our present volume with this wonder of England. For the which God's name be ever honored and praised." We extract the foregoing from the first edition of "Gerarde's Historie of Plants," published in 1597. After his death Thomas Johnson, "Citizen and Apothecarie of London," brought out another edition in 1633, and he adds the following note to Gerarde's statement:--"The Barnakle, whose fabulous breed my Author here sets downe, and diuers others haue also delieured, were found by some Hollanders to haue another originall, and that by egges, as other birds haue; for they in their third voyage to finde out the North-East passage to China and the Moluccos about the eightieth degree and eleven minutes of Northerly latitude, found two little islands, in the one of which they found abundance of these geese sitting upon their egges, of which they got one goose and tooke away sixty egges." Parkinson, in his "Theater of Plants," published in 1640, gives a picture of a barnacle-tree growing by the sea-shore, and several geese swimming beneath it, at the end of the description of the 14th tribe of plants, "Marsh Water, and Sea Plants, with Mosses and Mushromes." Though the insertion of the woodcut, as our readers will see, would give one at a casual glance the impression that he was a believer, his comments are sufficiently indicative of his state of mind:--"To finish this treatise of sea plants let me bring this admirable tale of untruth to your consideration, that whatever hath formerly beene related concerning the breeding of these Barnakles to be from shels growing on trees, &c., is utterly erroneous, their breeding and hatching being found out by the Dutch and others in their navigations to the Northward, as that third of the Dutch in Anno 1536 doth declare." As Gerarde's book was published after the Dutch narrative, we can only conclude that he either had not seen it or that he is one more illustration of the old saying that "A man convinced against his will, remains the same opinion still." [Illustration: {THE BARNACLE TREE}] [Illustration: {THE BARNACLE TREE}] In Munster's Cosmography, a book which was several times reprinted between 1550 and 1570, we find an illustration of the wonderful goose-yielding tree, which we here reproduce in facsimile. Munster discourses as follows on the matter:--"In Scotland are found trees, the fruit of which appears like a ball of leaves. This fruit, falling at its proper time into the water below, becomes animated and turns to a bird which they call the tree-goose. This tree also grows in the island of Pomona, not far distant from Scotland towards the north." Saxo Grammaticus, another old cosmographer, also mentions this tree. Æneas Sylvius notices it too; he says--"We have heard that there was a tree formerly in Scotland, which growing by the margin of a stream produced fruit of the shape of ducks; that such fruit, when nearly ripe, fell, some into the water and some on land. Such as fell on land decayed, but such as fell into the water quickly became animated, swimming below, and then flying into the air with feathers and wings. When in Scotland, having made diligent enquiry concerning this matter of King James, we found that the miracle always kept receding, as this wonderful tree is not found in Scotland but in the Orcadian isles." Æneas Sylvius, afterwards better known to the world as Pope Pius II., visited Scotland in the year 1448. His book is in the Latin tongue. William Turner, one of the earliest writers on Ornithology, describes the Bernacle goose as being produced from "something like a fungus growing from old wood lying in the sea." He quotes Giraldus Cambrensis as his authority for the statement, but says he, "As it seemed not safe to popular report, and as, on account of the singularity of the thing, I could not give entire credit to Giraldus, I, when thinking of the subject of which I now write, asked a certain clergyman, named Octavianus, by birth an Irishman, whom I knew to be worthy of credit, if he thought the account of Giraldus was to be believed. He swearing by the gospel, declared that what Giraldus had written about the generation of this bird was most true; that he had himself seen and handled the young unformed birds, and that if I should remain in London a month or two he would bring me some of the brood." In Lobel and Pena's "Stirpium Adversaria Nova," published in London in 1570, there is a figure of the "Britannica Concha Anatifera" growing on a stem from a rock, while beneath, in the water, ducks are swimming about. In his description the writer refers to the accepted belief in such a bird, but declines expressing an opinion of his own until he shall have had an opportunity of visiting Scotland and judging for himself. Ferrer de Valcebro, a Spanish writer who wrote a book on birds in 1680, tells the story of the production from a tree of a bird he calls the Barliata, and lectures his countrymen soundly at their want of belief, and more than insinuates that it is not really so much a want of faith as a contemptible jealousy because the wonder is not found on Spanish soil. A still more wonderful tree must be the Kalpa-Tarou mentioned in the Hindu mythology, since from this can be gathered not only Solan-geese, but what else may be desired. Whether so multitudinous an array of articles as may be included in the idea of whatever any one and every one, no matter how diverse their tastes may be, could desire, all hung exposed to the view, like the varied display on a Christmas-tree, or whether they sprang into existence as called for, we are unable to say. In either case the tree would be a most valuable possession; the housewife would no longer have to wait for the plums or raspberries to ripen for jam-making, but could at once, even in midwinter, replenish her waning stores with an abundant supply all ready-made; while the connoisseur of choice old etchings, the collectors of rare coins, or the schoolboy earnestly desiring a six-bladed knife could all equally go away with their varied requirements met. The tree is also called the tree of the imagination; and it might, we fear, be equally called the imaginary tree, as all the resources of science are strained in vain to tell us anything more definite about it. Mohammed tells us in the Koran that a Lote-tree stands in the seventh heaven on the right hand of the throne of Allah, an idea derived, no doubt, from that Tree of Life that bloomed a while in earthly Eden, and that shall be found again in the celestial Paradise of God. The mystical tree that passes out of sight in the earliest chapters of the Bible as the woe descends upon mankind, and reappears at its close, is the welcome symbol that the weary ages of sin and sorrow are at an end for ever, that all tears shall be wiped from off all faces, that there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying: for all the bitter past is over, and the former things are now for ever passed away. The sacred tree of the Assyrians, so often seen in the sculptures from Nineveh and Kyonjik, the idolatrous groves of the Israelites, the Hindu tree worship, all point to a most interesting symbolism that would be out of place in our present pages, but that will afford matter of the deepest interest to those who care to work the subject out. Our readers will no doubt remember the reference in Homer's Odyssey to the Lotophagi, the people who eat of the lotus-tree, and in so doing forgot their friends and homes in their far-off land, losing all desire to return to their native shores, and caring for nought but to rest in ease in the benumbing pleasures of Lotus-land. The immortal Amaranth, "a flower which once in Paradise, fast by the tree of life, began to bloom, but soon for man's offence to Heaven removed," must not be omitted from our pages. Clement of Alexandria refers to it as the _Amarantus flos, symbolum immortalitatis_, and it was thus received for centuries. The name is from the Greek word for immortal, and was bestowed upon it from its never-withering flowers of ruby red. Felicia Hemans, amongst others, refers to it in her fine poem on "Elysium:"-- "Fair wert thou, in the dreams Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers, And summer winds, and low-toned silvery streams Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers! Where, as they passed, bright hours Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things." We could not forbear quoting the opening lines, but the reference we seek occurs a few verses farther on, in allusion to those-- "Who, called and severed from the countless dead, Amidst the shadowy Amaranth-bowers might dwell And listen to the swell Of those majestic hymn notes, and inhale The spirit wandering in th' immortal gale." The passage in our New Testament translated "A crown of glory that fadeth not away" is in the original Greek "The amaranthine crown of glory." Milton is frequently found to use the word; it occurs several times in the "Paradise Lost." The following fine passage from the third book of that poem will sufficiently well illustrate his application of it-- "The multitude of angels, with a shout Loud as from numbers without number, sweet As from blest voices, uttering joy. Heaven rang With jubilee, and loud hosannas filled The eternal regions. Lowly reverent Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground With solemn adoration, down they cast Their crowns inwove with amaranth and gold-- Immortal amaranth." This plant Milton represents as "shading the fount of life," and with its blood-red flowers-- "With these, that never fade, the spirits elect Bind their resplendent locks." The Egyptians wreathed their dead in chaplets of the sacred lotus to prepare their spirits for entrance into the presence of the great Osiris. Several other plants, however, were also employed, but whether their employment was symbolic or not we have no means of ascertaining. Amongst the various vegetable curiosities and treasures,--seeds, gums, wood-sections, and the like--preserved in the large Museum at Kew, will be found--though thousands tramp by them unknowingly--what we may almost venture to call some of the most wonderful things in the world. They are but chaplets, wreaths, and garlands of dried leaves and flowers, until presently we realise that we are gazing on memorials of the dead that were buried with them more than a thousand years before the Christian era. The imagination is then awed as our thoughts attempt to bridge over the interval of two thousand years between these present days and that far-off morning in the childhood of the world when the beautiful fresh flowers of the blue lotus of the Nile were placed in the coffin of Rameses II. Almost all the history of the world has been made since those fragile emblems of passing beauty were laid in the tomb. Empires and monarchies have risen, flourished, and decayed in the interval, and yet this very day, within a mile of where we write these lines, remain, with all their solemn teaching, these wreaths of flowers gathered in the sunshine of old Egypt twenty centuries ago. "The past is but a gorgeous dream, And time glides by us like a stream, While musing on thy story, And sorrow prompts a deep alas! That like a pageant thus should pass To wreck all human glory." Changeless in the midst of mighty changes, these delicate petals are far more wonderful even than the great monuments of Egypt, its pyramids, temples, and obelisks, wonderful as these are, for on those Time has worked with its corroding tooth, while on these it has had but little power. Changeless, again, in all their pristine and God-given beauty, while all the fashions of earth have passed through their kaleidoscope changes, "to one thing constant never," these beautiful lilies of the Nile yet expand their petals every year at Kew within a short distance of these dried flowers of the same species that sprang into existence in the far-off river of Egypt in the dim centuries of the mighty past.[35] [35] Appendix S. The Asphodel, referred to by Homer and many later poets, was a plant having edible roots that were laid in the tombs of the dead to nourish the departed spirit in its wanderings in the dim world of shadows. Lucian has a very good illustrative passage that we may here quote. The words are put into the mouth of Charon, and are as follows:--"Down here with us there is nothing to be had but asphodel, and libations and oblations, and that in the midst of mist and darkness; but up in heaven it is all bright and clear, and plenty of ambrosia there, and nectar without stint." The plant referred to by the classic poets was supposed to be the narcissus, but in mediæval days the wild daffodil was intended, at least by the poets, while the herbalists were all at sea in the matter, and applied the name to several different plants. Gerarde, in his "Historie of Plants," refers to Galen as an authority, quoting from his "Faculties of Nourishments" in defence of the plant he selects, but does not seem to have heard of the old belief in its forming a food for the immortals, and can indeed give it no higher effect in staying the ravages of time and decay than that "the ashes of this Bulbe mixed with oile and hens grease cureth the falling of the haire." Parkinson, in his "Theatrum Botanicum," brings the plant down to a still lower level, and not only sees no poetry in it, but rather more than hints at a fraud, for he says--"The countrey people know no other name thereof or propertie appropriate unto it but knavery, which, whether they named it so in knavery, or knew any use of knavery in it, I neither can learn nor am much inquisitive thereafter." We may here remark parenthetically that the old herbals are full of the most delightfully quaint reading, and are often freely illustrated with pictures at least as curious, the frontispieces especially being of the most elaborate and allegorical nature. The "Rariorum Plantarum Historia" of Clusius is now before us as we write, and we learn from its title-page that it was published at Antwerp in the year 1601. We have Adam on one side, in the simplicity of costume of Eden's earliest days, and on the other Solomon, with crown and royal robes and sceptre, bearing in his hands a book. Adam is claimed by the mediæval herbalists as not only a tiller of the ground, but also as a student of botanical science, while Solomon, we all remember, wrote a treatise that dealt with plants, from the lordly cedar to the lowly hyssop of the wall. Above Adam, in a pot, is a Turk's-cap lily, and by his side is the fritillary, while Solomon has associated with him the cyclamen and the crown imperial. The illustrations in the body of the book are very numerous and quaint, and, though the book, it will be remembered, is a history of rare plants, include such common things as the marsh marigold, the bindweed, and the yellow loosestrife. Clusius, or Charles d'Ecluse, to give him his true name, was a Dutch botanist, born 1526, died 1609. He was for some time the director of the Botanical Garden at Vienna, and afterwards the Professor of Botany at Leyden University, where he died. The Herbal published by Matthiolus at Venice in the year 1633 is a particularly fine book. The illustrations are very large, very numerous, and very good. Another interesting book to see is that of Dodoens, translated by Henry Lyte, "Armigeri, Somersetensis, Angli." The title-page of our copy of the work runs as follows:--"A Nievve Herball, or Historie of Plantes: vvherein is contayned the vvhole discourse and perfect description of all sortes of Herbes and Plantes: their diuers and sundry kindes: their straunge Figures, Fashions, and Shapes: their Names, Natures, Operations, and Vertues: and that not onely of those whiche are here growyng in this our Countrie of Englande but of all others also of forrayne Realmes commonly vsed in Physicke. First set foorth in the Doutche or Almaigne tongue, by that learned D. Rembert Dodoens, Physition to the Emperour, and nowe first translated out of French into English, by Henry Lyte, Esquyer. At London by me Gerard Dewes, dwelling in Pawles Churchyarde at the signe of the Swanne, 1578." Still earlier in time is "The Vertuose Boke of Distyllacyon of the waters of all maner of Herbes, first compyled by Jherom Bruynswyke, and now newly translated out of Duyche, by Lawrence Andrew," the edition before us being published in London in the year 1527. In 1551 we find the first appearance of Turner's Herbal, a book that was for a long time a standard authority. It is divided into three sections-- (1.) "A New Herball, wherein are conteyned the names of Herbes in Greke, Latin, Englysh, Duch, Frenche, and in the Potecaries and Herbaries Latin, with the properties, degrees, and naturall places of the same, gathered and made by Wylliam Turner, Physicion unto the Duke of Somersettes Grace, imprinted at London, by Steven Mierdman, Anno 1551. (2.) A Book of the natures and properties as well as of the bathes of England as of other bathes in Germany and Italy, etc., by William Turner, Doctor of Physik, imprinted at Collen, by Arnold Birckman, in the year of our Lorde, MDLXII. (3.) A most excellent and perfecte homish apothecarye, etc., translated out of the Almaine Speche into English, by John Hollybush, imprinted at Collen by Arnold Birckman, MDLXI." The latter part of this "homely physick booke for all the grefes and diseases of the bodye" was really the work, so far at least as translation went, of Miles Coverdale, the notable divine and translator of the Bible, Hollybush being merely a pseudonym. The only other quaint old tome that we need here refer to, though, of course, it must be clearly understood that we have named but a few of the delightful old books on plant-lore that have come down to us, is the somewhat specialised work of Newton. Its title is as follows:-- "An Herbal for the Bible, containing a plaine and familiar exposition of such Similitudes, Parables, and Metaphors, both in the Olde Testament and the Newe, as are borrowed and taken from Herbs, Plants, Trees, Fruits, and Simples, by observation of their vertues, qualities, natures, properties, operations and effects: and by the Holie Prophets, Sacred Writers, Christ Himselfe, and His blessed Apostles usually alledged, and into their heauenly Oracles, for the better beautifieng and plainer opening of the same, profitably inserted. Drawen into English by Thomas Newton, imprinted at London by Edmund Bollifant, 1587." The Ambrosia often referred to by the old writers and by more modern poets was originally the food of the gods, nectar being the drink. It is in this sense referred to by Homer and Ovid, though afterwards the two ingredients of the Olympian bill of fare became a good deal confused together; thus in the beautiful fable of Cupid and Psyche, in the "Golden Ass" of Apuleius, we find Jupiter conferred on Psyche the gift of immortality by giving her a cup of ambrosia to drink. The term was also sometimes used as descriptive of anything delicious to the taste, fragrant in perfume, or welcome to the eye, from the idea that whatever was used by the immortals, associated with them as an attribute, or that would be grateful in any way to them must be surpassingly excellent. Thus we read in the Iliad of the "ambrosial curls" of Zeus, a somewhat extreme case of departure from the ordinarily limited sense in which the word was most commonly used.[36] As the word ambrosia means literally "not mortal," it could evidently in this more extended sense be applied by Homer with perfect propriety to the curls or aught else that pertained to the ruler of Olympus. [36] "He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows, Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod, The stamp of fate and sanction of the god: High heaven with trembling the dread signal took, And all Olympus to the centre shook." --_Iliad_, Book I. lines 683-87. In the South Kensington Museum may be seen a picture by Francis Danby, bearing the title of "The Upas-tree of the Island of Java." The whole picture is exceedingly dark, but one can just discern in the centre of it the form of a tree, and around this are human bodies and skeletons. The myth of the upas has been created on the very smallest data, and furnishes a striking example of how great a structure of error, not to say gross and wilful exaggeration, can be reared on a basis of truth. The neighbourhood of the tree is unhealthy, not on account of anything in the tree itself, but because it grows in the hot and humid valleys of Java, rank with malaria and fever. A Dutch physician, named Foersch, published in 1783 a narrative of his visit to the island, and amongst his wild statements we find that where the upas grows "not a tree or blade of grass is to be found in the valley or the surrounding mountains, not a bird, beast, reptile, or living thing lives in its neighbourhood." He adds that "on one occasion 1600 refugees encamped within fourteen miles of it, and all but 300 died within two months:" this might easily arise from the malarial vapours, but his picture of the tree standing in the midst of the desolation it had itself created is utterly at variance with the facts. So entirely do the actual facts belie the legend that nothing prospers in its neighbourhood, it is found in the midst of the rich vegetation of the tropics, while the birds perch in its ample branches, and the wild beasts prowl beneath them. So far is it from being the case, to quote one of our own poets, that "Fierce in dead silence on the blasted heath fell upas sits, the hydra tree of death,"--the last relic of the marvellous is gone, when we recall the fact that thousands of holiday-makers have passed harmlessly through the hothouses at Kew, where a specimen of the plant may be seen, and that the refugees from London more or less permanently encamped within a mile or two of it have so far escaped damage from its proximity. The Upas belongs to the same family as the invaluable bread-fruit and cow-tree, but, instead of possessing their beneficent properties, yields, when wounded, a thick milky fluid of a very poisonous nature, and which is employed by the natives on their arrows and spear-heads with deadly effect. The first published account of the Upas-tree will be found in De Brys "India Orientalis," but the scanty particulars of the earlier author become considerably amplified in Sir Thomas Herbert's book of travels, published in London in the year 1634, and entitled "Relations of some yeares Travaile." A little later on, in 1688, we find the tree again referred to in the "Description historique du Royaume de Macaçar" of Father Gervaise. The author, who had really resided in Macassar for several years, affirms that the mere touch or smell of some of the poisons produced by the natives is sufficient to produce death, and one of the most deadly of these was said by him to be produced from the sap of the Upas. He tells us that arrows dipped in this juice were as fatal in their effects twenty years afterwards as at their first preparation. In Koempfer's book, published in the year 1712, we have the plant again described; a large mixture of fable is at once apparent, but much of this he gives on the authority of the natives, and he takes occasion to express his strong doubts of their veracity. According to him, or them, the collection of the sap is attended with imminent peril, for not only must the seeker after the tree penetrate far into places infested with wild beasts, but he must, when he has found the object of his search, be careful to pierce it on the side from whence the wind blows, or he would quickly be suffocated by the noxious effluvia given forth when the tree is wounded. "Lo! from one root, the envenomed soil below, A thousand vegetative serpents grow; In shining rays the scaly monster spreads O'er ten square leagues his far-diverging heads; Or in one trunk entwists his tangled form, Looks o'er the clouds and hisses in the storm. Steeped in fell poison, as his sharp teeth part, A thousand tongues in quick vibration dart; Snatch the proud eagle towering o'er the heath, Or pounce the lion, as he stalks beneath; Or strew, as marshall'd hosts contend in vain, With human skeletons the whitened plain." Apart from the evil influence exerted on Europeans by climatic and miasmatic drawbacks, the mountain of mystery that has been reared around the dread name of Upas has but little foundation in fact. Its juice is very plentifully yielded, and is of a virulently poisonous character, and even its smell is injurious. In clearing ground near the Upas the natives dread to approach it on this account; but unless the trunk is severely wounded or the tree felled the injurious effects are in the imagination only, and the tree may be approached or ascended with impunity. The Upas is one of the largest of the forest trees of Java, and it is surrounded as other trees are with the usual sturdy vegetation of the tropical wilderness. The Rev. Dr. Parker, a well-known missionary in Madagascar, gives a description of two trees that recall in their detail much that has hitherto in an especial degree been ascribed to the Upas. In both these species the leaf is spear-head shaped, dark green in colour, very glossy in surface, and very hard and brittle to the touch, and both exude a thick milky juice, while the fruit is like a long black pod, the end being red. One species is a tree with large leaves and a somewhat peculiar stem, as the bark hangs down in long flakes and shows a fresh growth of bark forming beneath and preparing to take the place of the old bark as it falls. The other species is a shrub, with smaller leaves, and the bark not peeling off the stem. Both species are said to possess the power of poisoning any living creatures that approach them, the symptoms of poisoning being severe headache, bloodshot eyes, and a delirium that is presently hushed in death. These trees are natives of Zululand, and only a few persons are believed to have the power of collecting the fruits of the Umdhlebi, and these dare not approach the tree except from the windward side. They also sacrifice a goat or sheep to the demon of the tree. The fruit is collected for the purpose of being used as an antidote to the poisonous effects of the tree from whence they fall, for only the fallen fruit may be collected. As regards habitat, these trees grow on all kinds of soil, but the tree-like species prefers barren and rocky ground. In consequence of the fears of the natives the country around one of these trees is always uninhabited, although in other respects fertile and desirable. In Persia, we are told, there is a plant, the Kerzereh flower, that loads the air with deathly odour, and that if a man inhales the hot south wind that passes over these flowers during June and July it kills him. Moore, in his Poem of "The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan," alludes to this belief in the lines-- "With her hands clasp'd, her lips apart and pale, The maid had stood, gazing upon the veil From whence these words, like south winds through a fence Of Kerzrah flowers, came filled with pestilence." The Mandrake, a plant belonging to the same natural order as the deadly nightshade, henbane, and thorn-apple, had in the Middle Ages many mystic properties assigned to it. The roots are often forked, and when either by nature or art they could be supposed to roughly resemble a man it was looked upon as a talisman securing good fortune to its possessor. The belief in the narcotic and stupefying properties of the plant is referred to in Shakespeare's "Antony and Cleopatra," in the lines-- "Give me to drink mandragora That I might sleep out this great gap of time My Antony is away"-- and again in "Othello"-- "Not poppy, not mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep." The victories of the Maid of Orleans over the English were ascribed to her possession of a mandrake root. Gerarde, writing in the year 1633, says that the root is long and thick, and divided into two or three parts; but as to its resemblance to a man, "it is no otherwise than in the roots of carrots, parsnips and such like forked or divided into two or more parts, which nature taketh no account of. There hath been many ridiculous tales brought up of this plant, whether of old wiues or some runnagate Surgeons or physicke-mongers I know not, but sure some one or more that sought to make themselves famous and skilful aboue others were the first broachers of that error. They adde further, that it is never or very seldome to be found growing naturally but under a gallows.[37] They fable further and affirme that he who would take vp a plant thereof must tie a dog there unto to pull it up, which will giue a great shreeke at the digging vp, otherwise if a man should do it he should surely die in short space after. All of which dreames and old wiues fables you shall from henceforth cast out from your books and memory, knowing this that they are all and euery part of them false and most untrue, for I my selfe and my seruants also have digged up, planted and replanted very many and yet could neuer perceiue shape of man. But the idle drones that have little or nothing to do but to eat and drink have bestowed some of their time in carving the roots of Brionie, which falsifying practice had confirmed the errour amongst the simple and unlearned people who haue taken them upon their report to be the true Mandrakes."[38] Parkinson in like manner, in his "Theater of Plants," published in 1640, writes, after describing the plant:--"Those idle forms of the mandrakes which have beene exposed to view publikely both in ours and other lands and countries are utterly deceitful, being the work of cuning knaves, onely to get money by their forgery: do not misdoubt of this relation no more than you would of any other plant set downe in this booke, for it is the plaine truth whereon everyone may relie." The cry of the mandrake is several times referred to by Shakespeare and others of our poets; thus in "Romeo and Juliet" we get the line-- "Shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth"-- and in the second part of "King Henry VI." Suffolk exclaims-- "Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan." [37] "It is supposed to be a creature having life, engendered under the earth of some dead person, put to death for murder."--Thomas Newton, "Herball to the Bible." [38] "Like a man made after supper of a cheese paring; when he was naked he was for all the world like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife."--Second part of "King Henry IV.," Act iii. scene 2. It was believed that a small dose of the mandrake made persons proud of their beauty, but that a larger quantity deprived them of their senses still more completely, and made them yet more effectually idiots. Dr. Browne, in his gallant crusade against popular errors, says that the resemblance of the mandrake to the human form "is a conceit not to be made out by ordinary inspection, or any other eyes than such as regarding the clouds behold them in shapes conformable to pre-apprehension;" and as to the danger of gathering the plant, he justly holds it "a conceit not only injurious unto truth and confutable by daily experience, but somewhat derogatory to the providence of God: That is, not only to impose so destructive a quality on any plant, but conceive a vegetable whose parts are useful unto many should in the only taking up prove mortall unto any. To think he suffereth the poison of Nubia to be gathered, yet not this to be moved! That he permitteth arsenick and minerall poisons to be forced from the bowells of the earth, yet not this from the surface thereof! This were to introduce a second forbidden fruit and inhance the first malediction; making it not only mortal for Adam to taste the one, but capitall unto his posterity to eradicate the other." The orthodox way of plucking up the mandrake was to stand to the windward of it and, after drawing three circles round it with a naked sword to dig it up with one's face looking to the west; the shrieks that would follow were in any case a trial to weak nerves, and at an earlier period were held to be fatal to the hearer. Philip de Thaun gives the following stratagem as the only available way of becoming the possessor of it:--"The man who is to gather it must fly round about it, must take great care that he does not touch it, then let him take a dog and let it be tied to it, which has been close shut up, and has fasted for three days, and let it be shewn bread and called from afar. The dog will draw it to him, the root will break, it will send forth a cry, and the dog will fall down dead at the cry which he will hear. Such vertue this herb has that no one can hear it but he must always die, and if the man heard it he would directly die. Therefore he must stop his ears, and take care that he hear not the cry lest he die, as the dog will do which shall hear it. When one has this root it is of great value for medicine, for it cures of every infirmity except only death, where there is no help." The office of the herbalist was no sinecure when such a task could be expected of him, as great care had to be exercised not to touch the plant. The tying-up of the dog to it must have been particularly risky, and the consequences of the dog making a premature rush for the bread before the man had time to stop his ears were especially alarming. The writings of De Thaun are full of interesting matter, but his great object was to see in nature figures and symbols of religious truths, hence his narratives have often a somewhat forced character. Thus he tells us that "in India there is a tree of which the fruit is so sweet that the doves of the earth go seeking it above all things, they eat the fruit of it, seat themselves in the tree, they are in repose as long as they are sheltered by it. There is a dragon in the earth which makes war on the birds; the dragon fears so much the tree, that on no acconnt dare it approach it or touch the shadow, but it goes round at a distance, and, if it can, does them injury. If the shadow is to the right then it goes to the left, if it is to the left the dragon goes to the right. The doves have so much understanding which are above in the tree when they see the dragon go all around, which goes watching them, but it does them no harm, nor will they ever have any harm as long as they are in the tree, but when they leave the tree and depart, and the dragon shall come then, it will kill them. This is a great meaning, have it in remembrance." This Indian tree stands not obscurely for the Saviour of the world, while the doves are His faithful ones sheltered in Him from the wiles of the Evil One. When we read story after story all equally _apropos_, we cannot help feeling that a pious fraud has now and then been indulged in, and the comely whole has been attained by a little judicious pruning in one direction, and a little forcing in another, and thus we lose faith in them, at least as examples of the current beliefs of our forefathers. The Arabs call the mandrake the devil's candle, from a belief that the leaves give out at night a phosphorescent light; and Moore, with his usual felicity, has introduced the idea in his poem of the "Fire-Worshippers:"-- "How shall she dare to lift her head, Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare Not Yeman's boldest sons can bear? In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, Such rank and deadly lustre dwells, As in those hellish fires that light The Mandrake's charnel leaves at night." Another old name for the plant was the Enchanter's nightshade, though that very suggestive and rather awe-inspiring title has in these later days become somehow transferred to a very insignificant weed that is common enough in some old gardens and on waste ground, but which is all too small to bear so formidable a title. The Hebrew word _Dudaim_ has, in Genesis and in the Song of Solomon, been translated in the Authorised English Version of the Bible as the mandrake, but this would appear to be nothing more than a guess, various commentators, Calmet, Hasselquist, and others who have written on the subject, not being by any means unanimous. Some tell us that the term is a general one for flowers, while others translate it as lilies, violets, or jessamine, or as figs, mushrooms, bananas, citrons, or melons. Whence we may fairly conclude that no one really knows, and that the whole matter resolves itself into a guess, fortified more or less by dogmatic assertion as a make-weight for the missing knowledge. One of the most interesting of the old books on our shelves is the "Miracles of Art and Nature, or a Brief Description of the several varieties of Birds, Beasts, Fishes, Plants and Fruits of other Countreys, together with several other Remarkable Things in the World, By R. B. Gent." The author's name thus modestly veiled is Burton, and the date of the book is 1678. In his preface he says--"I think there is not a chapter wherein thou wilt not find various and remarkable things worth thy observation," and this observation of his is strictly within the truth. He arranges his short chapters geographically, but in the most arbitrary way--not alphabetically, not according to the natural grouping together of the countries of which he treats, nor indeed according to any settled method. In fact, he is sufficiently conscious of this, for, to quote his preface again, he says--"'Tis probable they are _not_ so Methodically disposed as some hands might have done, yet for Variety and pleasure sake they are pleasingly enough intermixed." We open the book at random and find "Chap. XX., Castile in Spain; XXI., Norway; XXII., Zisca of Bohemia; XXIII., Assiria; XXIV., Quivira in California." Adopting his own random and haphazard way of going to work, we will pluck from his quaint pages some few of his botanical facts and fancies. His opening chapter deals with Egypt, and in his description of the palm-tree he refers to a very old belief that we may allow him to set forth in his own words:--"It is the nature of this tree though never so ponderous a weight were put upon it not to yield to the burthen, but still to resist the heaviness, and endeavour to raise itself the more upward. For this cause planted in Churchyards in the Eastern Countrys as an Emblem of the Resurrection." A little further on, in his description of Sumatra, we read of "a tree whose Western part is said to be rank poyson and the Eastern part an excellent preservative against it," and of "a sort of Fruit that whosoever eateth of it, is for the space of twelve hours out of his Wits." Travellers' tales have sometimes proverbially been difficult of belief, and it must have been some such as these that procured them their evil report, for we read too that in this same island "there is a river plentifully stored with Fish, whose Water is so hot that it scalds the skin," and that "the cocks have a hole in their backs, wherein the Hen lays her Eggs and hatches her young ones." A few pages further on we read of a tree in Peru, "the North part whereof looking towards the Mountains, brings forth its Fruits in the Summer only; the Southern part looking towards the Sea, fruitful only in Winter." Our old author evidently delights in sharp contrasts. It is curious, however, that the Coca-leaf, which has within the last few years been highly commended for those who have exhausting exercise, is in this book of over 200 years old fully referred to:--"The leaves whereof being dried and formed into little pellets are exceedingly useful in a Journey; for melting in the mouth they satisfie both hunger and thirst and preserve a man in his strength, and his Spirits in Vigour; and are generally esteemed of such sovereign use, that it is thought no less than 100,000 Baskets full of the leaves of this tree are sold yearly at the Mines of Potosia only. Another plant they tell us of, though there is no name found for it, which if put into the hands of a sick person will instantly discover whether he be like to live or dye. For if on the pressing it in his hand he look merry and cheerful it is an assured sign of his recovery, as on the other side of Death, if sad and troubled." A few pages further on we find ourselves at Sodom and the Dead Sea:--"If but an Aple grow near it, it is by Nature such that it speaks the Anger of God: for without 'tis beautiful and Red, but within nothing but dusty Smoak and Cinders." This belief is a very ancient one. We find it, for instance, in the writings of Tacitus, and it has supplied moralists in all ages with an illustration. In "The Merchant of Venice," for instance, we find the lines-- "A goodly apple rotten at the heart. O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!"-- and again in "Childe Harold"-- "Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, all ashes to the taste." The apple has indeed entered largely into history and legend. According to some writers the forbidden fruit of Eden was a kind of apple, and the _pomum Adami_ in one's throat may be accepted as a record of the old belief. "The fruit of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste brought death into the world, and all our woe." Our readers, too, will recall the golden apple of discord that created strife alike on high Olympus and amongst the sons of men, and that led to the fall of Troy. On the other hand, we read of the apple of perpetual youth in Scandinavian mythology, the food of the gods; and in the "Arabian Nights" of the apples of Samarkand that would cure all diseases. The apples of Istkahar were all sweetness on one side, all bitterness on the other; while Sir John Mandeville tells us that the pigmies were fed with the odour alone of the apples of Pyban. Amidst this maze of fancy and legend it would perhaps be scarcely fair to even mention the more historic apple that fell at Woolsthorpe at the feet of Newton, and set his mind thinking on the problem of gravitation.[39] [39] We remember some time ago an interesting article by Dr. Adolf Dux, entitled "La tombe du Savant" appearing in the "Pester Lloyd." The savant was Bolyai, professor of mathematics and physics at Maros-Vásárhely. No statue, no marble mausoleum with sides covered with laudatory inscriptions, marks the place where he lies, but the tomb, by its occupant's strict direction, is overshadowed by the boughs of an apple-tree--"En souvenir des trois pommes qui out joué un rôle si important dans l'histoire de l'humanité, et il désignait ainsi la pomme d'Ève, et celle de Pâris qui réduisirent la terre à l'esclavage, et la pomme de Newton, qui la replaça au rang des astres." Strangely enough, when Dr. Dux visited the tomb there hung on the tree just three apples--"ni plus ni moins." At Crete our old author, Burton, finds a plant called Alimos, which it is only necessary to chew to take away all sense of hunger for a whole day; but this wonder pales before those of the flora of Nova Hispania, the country we now call Mexico. "Amongst the Rarities of Nova Hispania, though there be many Plants in it of Singuler Nature, is mentioned that which they call Eagney or Meto, said to be one of the principal: a Tree which they both Plant and Dress as we do our Vines; it hath on it 40 kinds of leaves, fit for several uses; for when they be tender they make of them Conserves, Paper, Flax, Mantles, Mats, Shoes, Girdles and Cordage, upon them they grow divers prickles so strong and sharp that the people use them instead of Staws." What Staws may be we cannot say, so we must be content to know that Meto thorns make a very efficient substitute, and are for all practical purposes as good as having the real thing. "From the top of the Tree cometh a Juice like Syrrup, which if you Seeth it will become Honey; if purified, Sugar; the Bark of it maketh a good plaister and from the highest of the Boughs comes a kind of Gum, a Soveraigne Antidote against poysons." The tree furnishes at once costume and confection, antidote and rope, and we can hardly wonder at the people of New Spain setting considerable store by it. It would be curious to see the forms of the forty leaves; we can well imagine that a plant suggesting about equally by its foliage the rose, palm, bullrush, buttercup, cactus, horse-chestnut, and thirty-four other plants would give our botanists some little difficulty before it got definitely assigned its just place. Brazil, like Mexico, is a very large place, and a very long way off, and two hundred years ago the Royal Mail Steam-Packet Company was a thing of the far future; there was therefore abundant room for play of the imagination; thus we read of a kind of corn "which is continually growing and always ripe; nor never wholly ripe, because always growing;" and of another plant that yields so sovereign a balm that "the very beasts being bitten by venomous Serpents resort to it for their cure." It is interesting, amongst the other strange wonders, animal and vegetable, that are duly set forth, to come across a plant that must be very familiar to most persons, the sensitive plant, the _Mimosa sensitiva_ of Brazil, though in his description of it our author cannot resist an added touch of the marvellous, imputing to it a power of observation that later writers would hesitate to confirm, for he says--"The herb Viva when roughly touched will close the leaves, and not open them again until the man that had offended it had got out of sight." We must not, however, devote more attention to "R. B. Gent," great as the temptation to do so may be, for his book is a perfect mine of the marvellous. Another curious old book to ponder over awhile is the English Dictionary of Henry Cockeram, as he certainly produces some extraordinary illustrations of unnatural history. The book was published in the year 1655, and did not profess to deal with scientific matters alone, but was, to use the author's own language, "an interpreter of hard English words, enabling as well ladies and gentlewomen, young scholars, clerks, merchants, as also strangers of any nation, to the understanding of the more difficult authors already printed in our language, and the more speedy attaining of an elegant perfection of the English tongue." Amongst these hard English words sadly needing an interpretation we will select but five as a sample of the whole:--"Achemedis, an herb which being cast into an army in time of battle causeth the soldiers to be in fear." This probably would be some kind of runner. "Anacramseros, an herb, the touch thereof causeth love to grow betwixt man and man." "Hippice, an herb borne in one's mouth, keeps one from hunger and thirst." "Ophyasta, an herb dangerous to look on, and being drunke it doth terrifie the inside with a sight of dreadful serpents, that condemned persons for fear thereof do kill themselves." "Gelotaphilois, an herb drunk with wine and myrrh, causeth much laughter." Amidst the mist of error some few men declined to believe quite all that they were told, but exercised for themselves the right of individual judgment. The book we have just referred to was published, as we have seen, in the year 1655, and abounds in strange imaginings; yet five years before this we find a still better-known book, "the Pseudodoxia Epidemica, or Enquiries into very many Received Tenants and commonly Presumed Truths" of Dr. Browne. The list of commonly presumed truths he ventures to dispute is a very long one, and includes such items of faith as that a diamond is made soft if placed in the blood of a goat, that a pailful of ashes will contain as much water as it would without them, that the two legs on one side of a badger are shorter than the two on the other side, and so on. As he approaches the vegetable kingdom he prefaces his remarks as follows:--"We omit to recite the many vertues and endlesse faculties ascribed unto plants which sometimes occurre in grave and serious authors, and we shall make a bad transaction for Truth to concede a verity in half. Swarms of others there are, some whereof our future endeavours may discover; common reason I hope will save us a labour in many whose absurdities stand naked in every eye, errors not able to deceive the Emblem of Justice and need no Argus to descry them. Herein there surely wants expurgatory animadversions whereby we might strike out great numbers of hidden qualities, and having once a serious and conceded list we might with more encouragement and safety attempt their Reasons." On turning to the list of "vertues" in any old Herbal, we find, as Browne says, "endlesse faculties ascribed, and many of them of a character that woulde we should have imagined have been, during even the darkest ages, difficult or impossible of credence." Thus in Gerarde's herbal published in 1633, we find amongst our British plants one available "against the biting of the Sea-dragon," two more "a remedy against the poyson of the Sea-hare," one "against vaine imaginations," another "an especial remedy against the nightmare," and no less than thirty-eight preservatives "against the bitings of serpents." We will, however, confine ourselves to three illustrative instances of the way in which the author of these inquiries into various received beliefs proceeds to demolish them. He says, in the first place, that "many things are delivered and believed of plants wherein at least we cannot but suspend. That there is a property in Basil to propagate scorpions and that by the smell thereof they are bred in the brains of men is a belief much advanced by Hollerius, who found this insect in the brains of a man that delighted much in this smell. Wherein besides that we finde no way to conjoin the effect unto the cause assigned herein the moderns speak but timorously, and some of the Ancients quite contrarily. For according unto Oribasius, physitian unto Julian, the Africans, men best experienced in poisons, affirm whosoever hath eaten Basil although he be stung with a Scorpion shall feel no pain thereby; which is a very different effect, and rather antidotally destroying than promoting its production." Pliny and other ancient writers mention the old belief that the bay-tree, the tree of Apollo, was a preservative against thunder, or rather against lightning; hence Tiberius and some other of the Roman Emperors wore a wreath of bay as an amulet; and in an old English play we find the lines-- "Reach the bays, I'll tie a garland here about his head, 'Twill keep my boy from lightning." Browne discourses on the point as follows:--"That Bayes will protect from the mischief of lightning and thunder is a quality ascribed thereto, common with the fig tree, eagle and skin of a seale. Against so famous a quality Vicomercatus produceth experiments of a Bay-tree blasted in Italy, and therefore although Tiberius for this interest did wear a Laurell about his temples yet did Augustus take a more probable course, who fled under arches and hollow vaults for protection." A most unimperial picture this, great Cæsar deserting his throne and shutting himself up in his wine-cellar when he heard the distant rumbling of the coming storm. "If we consider the three-fold effect of Jupiter's Trisulk, to burn, discusse, and terebrate, and if that be true which is commonly delivered, that it will melt the blade yet passe the scabbard, dry up the wine yet leave the hog's head entire, though it favour the amulet it may not spare us; it will be unwise to rely on any preservative, 'tis no security to be dipped in Styx or clad in the armour of Ceneus."[40] [40] Appendix T. There are many curious legends associated with plants in classic mythology, such as the metamorphoses of various lucky or unlucky persons who gained the favour or incurred the wrath of the gods, and were in consequence punished or rewarded by finding themselves laurel-bushes and the like; but all this is duly set forth in any mythological dictionary, and may be there hunted up quite readily by the curious. Other legends are associated with religious symbolism, such as the belief that the palm-tree cannot be bowed down to earth, but stands erect, no matter how heavily weighted; but if we were once to enter upon this most interesting subject, the preceding pages of our book would be but a small fragment indeed of all that it would be possible to introduce. [Illustration: {THE PALM}] A very good illustration of the symbolic use of the palm-tree may be seen on the frontispiece of the "Eikon Basilike," published in the year 1648. The "Royal Martyr" kneels before a table on which is placed a Bible. In his hand he has taken a crown of thorns, marked "Gratia;" at his feet is the royal crown of England, with the inscription "Vanitas," while in the air above him is a starry crown marked "Gloria." Outside the room we see a landscape. Conspicuous in the foreground is a palm-tree standing erect with two heavy weights tied to it, and the legend, "Crescit sub pondere virtus;" while beyond this is a raging sea and a rock rising from its midst, with the legend, "Immota triumphans." The sky is black with rolling clouds, and on either side of the rock we see dark faces in the clouds blowing vehemently against it. Beneath is the "Explanation of the Embleme" in two columns, the one Latin and the other in the vulgar tongue. The English is as follows:-- "Though clogged with weights of miseries Palm-like depressed I higher rise. And as th' immoved Rock outbraves The boist'rous Windes and raging waves, So triumph I. And shine more bright In sad Affliction's Darksom night. That Splendid, but yet toilsom Crown Regardlessly I trample down. With joie I take this Crown of Thorn, Though sharp yet easie to be born. That Heavenlie Crown, already mine, I view with eies of Faith Divine. I slight vain things and do embrace Glorie, the just reward of Grace." This belief in the impossibility of depriving the palm-tree of its power of upward growth made it a rather popular emblem with those who thought themselves rather "put upon" by fortune or the lack of appreciation from their fellows. Mary Stuart, for example, selected as one of her badges the palm-tree, with the motto, "Ponderibus virtus innata resistit," and other illustrations of the old belief might readily be brought forward. As these plants, too, whether associated with mythology or religious or other symbolism, are not in themselves fabulous, but are actual laurels, palms, or the like, they need scarcely be dwelt upon at any length in these pages, as our purpose has been rather to deal with forms wholly mythical than to enter with any degree of fulness into the mythical beliefs that have grown round forms in themselves natural. We cannot, in conclusion, do better, we are sure, than transfer bodily to our book the appeal to the reader that appears on the title-page of a quaint little black-letter treatise published in the year 1548--the "Boke of Husbandry" by one Fitzherbert:-- "Go thou lytell boke, with due reuerence And with an humble hert, recommend me To all those, that of theyr beneuolence Thys lytell treatyse doth rede heare or se Wherewith I praye them contented to be, And to amende it in place behouable Where as I haue fauted or be culpable-- For herde it is, a man to attayne To make a thynge perfyte at the first sighte But whan it is red and well ouer seene Fautes may be founde that neuer came to lyght Though the maker do his diligence and might Praying them to take it as I haue intended And to forgiue me yf I haue offended." [Decoration] [Decoration] APPENDIX. A. The life and death of St. George, as generally accepted, are so different to the details given by Gibbon in his "History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," that we give, as a foil, a sketch of the latter as well. From Gibbon it would appear that George, surnamed the Cappadocian, was born in Cilicia in a fuller's shop, that he raised himself from this obscure origin by his talents as a parasite, and that those whom he so shamelessly flattered and assiduously fawned on repaid their worthless dependent by procuring for him lucrative contracts to supply the army with bacon and other stores. Herein he accumulated, as some other army contractors have done since, a vast sum of money by the basest acts of fraud and corruption, until matters became so bad and his shortcomings so notorious that he absconded with his ill-gotten gains. After the disgrace attached to this had in some measure subsided, we next find him embracing, with real or affected zeal, the doctrines of Arianism, and on the death of the Archbishop Athanasius the prevailing faction promoted the ex-contractor to the vacant chair. He had scarcely been established in this high and responsible office ere he sullied the dignity of his position by acts of the greatest cruelty against those who differed from him, and by the development anew of the keenest avarice. He asserted for himself the right to various important monopolies, and impoverished the State while he enriched himself by alone supplying salt, paper, and various other necessaries. The people at length rose in rebellion, and on the accession of Julian he lost the high support that had hitherto, by aid of the civil and military power of the State, maintained him in his position. He was ignominiously dragged in chains to the public prison, and the mob, impatient of the delays of the law, or apprehensive that he might use his wealth and influence to stifle inquiry, presently forced open the gates and tore him to pieces. The Church was at that time an arena of fierce dissension between the Arians and Athanasians, and his followers, conveniently ignoring the facts of his life, asserted that the rival party in the Church had stirred up the strife against him. He received the just reward of his tyranny, or possibly the saintly crown of the martyr for his faith, in the year 361, and in 494 Pope Gelasius formally and officially admitted his claim to a position amongst the saints of the Church. We find him held in great reverence in the sixth century in Palestine, Armenia, and Rome. His fame was brought home from the East by the Crusaders, and his popularity in England dates from that time. So much party feeling has clustered around the matter, and so many learned authorities have been drawn up on one side or the other, that we can only feel that no real verdict one way or the other is now possible. B. As we have already in the body of the text given in full detail the accepted prose version of the conflict of St. George with the dragon, it seemed scarcely advisable to repeat these details in metrical form. As we feel, at the same time, that such old ballads will probably possess interest for some, at least, of our readers, we, instead of banishing the story from our book entirely, dismiss it to the Appendix merely, where it can be equally readily read or ignored in accordance with individual tastes. The ballad, as given in Dr. Percy's "Reliques," is based on ancient black-letter copies in the Pepys Collection. In the original the poem is forty-four verses long, but we content ourselves with those that relate to the combat with the dragon, and leave out those that affect what may be termed the politics of the court, the promise of the maiden to the hero, the subsequent endeavours to evade the bargain, and the various consequences to St. George and others that arose from this breach of faith:-- "Of Hector's deeds did Homer sing, And of the sack of stately Troy, What griefs fair Hélena did bring, Which was Sir Paris' only joy: And by my pen I will recite St. George's deeds, an English knight. Against the Sarazens so rude Fought he full well and many a day; Where many gyants he subdued, In honour of the Christian way: And after many adventures past To Egypt land he came at last. Now as the story plain doth tell, Within that countrey there did rest A dreadful dragon fierce and fell, Whereby they were full sore opprest, Who by his poisonous breath each day, Did many of the city slay. The grief whereof did grow so great Throughout the limits of the land, That they their wise men did entreat To show their cunning out of hand; Which way they might this fiend destroy, That did the country thus annoy. The wise men all before the king This answer framed incontinent; The dragon none to death might bring By any means they could invent: His skin more hard than brass was found, That sword nor spear could pierce nor wound. When this the people understood, They cryed out most piteouslye, The dragon's breath infects their blood, That every day in heaps they dye: Among them such a plague it bred, The living scarce could bury the dead. No means there were, as they could hear, For to appease the dragon's rage, But to present some virgin dear, Whose blood his fury might assuage; Each day he would a maiden eat, For to allay his hunger great. This thing by art the wise men found, Which truly must observed be; Wherefore throughout the city round A virgin pure of good degree Was by the king's commission still Taken up to serve the dragon's will. Thus did the dragon every day Untimely crop some virgin flower, Till all the maids were worn away, And none were left him to devour: Saving the king's fair daughter bright, Her father's only heart's delight. Then came the officers to the king That heavy message to declare, Which did his heart with sorrow sting; She is, quoth he, my kingdom's heir: O let us all be poisoned here, Ere she should die, that is my dear. Then rose the people presently, And to the king in rage they went; They said his daughter deare should dye, The dragon's fury to prevent: Our daughters all are dead, quoth they, And have been made the dragon's prey: And by their blood we rescued were, And thou hast saved thy life thereby; And now in sooth it is but faire, For us thy daughter so should die. O save my daughter, said the king; And let ME feel the dragon's sting. Then fell fair Sabra on her knee, And to her father dear did say, O father strive not thus for me, But let me be the dragon's prey; It may be for my sake alone This plague upon the land was thrown. 'Tis better I should dye, she said, Than all your subjects perish quite; Perhaps the dragon here was laid, For my offence to work his spite: And after he hath sucked my gore Your land shall feel the grief no more. What hast thou done, my daughter dear, For to deserve this heavy scourge? It is my fault, as may appear, Which makes the gods our state to purge: Then ought I die, to stint the strife, And to preserve thy happy life. Like madmen, all the people cried, Thy death to us can do no good; Our safety only doth abide In making her the dragon's food. Lo, here I am, I come, quoth she, Therefore do what you will with me. Nay stay, dear daughter, quoth the queen, And as thou art a virgin bright, Thou hast for vertue famous been, So let me cloath thee all in white; And crown thy head with flowers sweet, An ornament for virgins meet. And when she was attired so, According to her mother's mind, Unto the stake she then did go; To which her tender limbs they bind: And being bound to stake and thrall She bade farewell unto them all. Farewell, my father dear, quoth she, And my sweet mother meek and mild; Take you no thought nor weep for me, For you may have another child: Since for my country's good I dye, Death I receive most willinglye. The king and queen and all their train With weeping eyes went then their way, And let their daughter there remain, To be the hungry dragon's prey; But as she did there weeping lye, Behold St. George came riding by. And seeing there a lady bright So rudely tyed unto a stake, As well became a valiant knight, He straight to her his way did take: Tell me, sweet maiden, then quoth he, What caitiff thus abuseth thee? And, lo, by Christ his cross I vow, Which here is figured on my breast, I will revenge it on his brow, And break my lance upon his chest: And speaking thus whereas he stood, The dragon issued from the wood. The lady that did first espy The dreadful dragon coming so, Unto St. George aloud did cry And willed him away to go; Here comes that cursed fiend, quoth she, That soon will make an end of me. St. George then looking round about, The fiery dragon soon espied, And like a knight of courage stout, Against him did most fiercely ride; And with such blows he did him greet, He fell beneath his horse's feet. For with his lance that was so strong, As he came gaping in his face, In at his mouth he thrust along, For he could pierce no other place; And thus within the lady's view This mighty dragon straight he slew. The favour of his poisoned breath Could do this holy knight no harm; Thus he the lady saved from death, And home he led her by the arm: Which when King Ptolemy did see, There was great mirth and melody." C. In Hippeau's comments on the non-reliability of much of the natural history of Guillaume he points out that not only was it difficult for these early writers to ascertain the truth, but that the truth in its lower sense was not really much striven after or valued. He says--"N'oublions pas que les pères de l'Église se préoccupèrent toujours beaucoup plus de la pureté des doctrines qu'ils avaient à développer, que de l'exactitude scientifique des notions sur lesquelles ils les appuyaient. L'object important pour nous, dit Saint Augustin (Ps. cii., àpropos de l'aigle, qui disait-on, brise contre la pierre l'éxtrémité de son bec devenue trop long) est de considérer la signification d'un fait et non d'en discuter l'authenticité. "Dans la vaste étendue des Cieux, au sien des mers profondes, sur tous les points du globe terrestre, il n'est pas un phénomène, pas une étoile, pas un quadrupède, pas un oiseau, pas une plante, pas une pierre, qui n'éveille quelque souvenir biblique, qui ne fournisse la matière d'un enseignement moral, qui ne donne lieu à quelqu' effusion du coeur, qui n'ait à révéler quelque secret de Dieu." D. The palm was by old writers called the phoenix-tree, and in Greek the same word is used to express both the bird and the tree. "_Sebastian._ Now I will believe That there are unicorns; that in Arabia There is one tree, the phoenix' throne; one phoenix At this hour reigning there. _Antonio._ I'll believe both; And what does else want credit come to me, And I'll be sworn 'tis true; travellers ne'er did lie, Though fools at home condemn them."--_Tempest._ E. "The story of Guy is so obscured with fable that it is difficult to ascertain its authenticity. He was the hero of succeeding Earls of Warwick. William Beauchamp called his eldest son after him. Thomas by his last will bequeathed the sword and coat-of-mail of this worthy to his son. Another christened a younger son after him, and dedicated to him a noble tower, whose walls are ten feet thick, the circumference 126, and the height 113 feet from the bottom of the ditch. Another left as an heirloom to his family a suit of arras wrought with his story. His sword and armour, now to be seen in Warwick Castle, were by patent, 1 Henry VIII., granted to William Hoggeson, yeoman of the battery, with a fee of 2d. per day. In the porter's lodge at the castle they still show his porridge-pot, flesh-fork, iron shield, breastplate and sword, horse furniture, walking staff nine feet high, and even a rib of the dun cow which he pretended to have killed on Dunsmore Heath. In short, his fame and spirit seem to have inspired his successors, for from the Conquest to the death of Ambrose Dudley there was scarce a scene of action in which the Earls of Warwick did not make a considerable figure."--_Camden's Britannia_, vol. ii., 1806. F. Of the "Bestiary" of Philip de Thaun only one copy of the MS. is known, that in the Cottonian Collection, though of another of his quaint treatises, the "Livre des Créatures," there are seven copies extant. Three of these are in the Vatican Library, and in England one may be seen in the Sloane Library, and another in the Cottonian. The author had as his great patron Adelaide of Louvain, the second queen of King Henry I. He dedicates his "Bestiary" to her in the following lines:-- "Philippe de Thaun into the French language Has translated the Bestiary, a book of science, For the honour of a jewel who is a very handsome woman, Aliz is she named, a queen is she crowned, Queen is she of England, may her soul never have trouble." His poems are the earliest examples extant of the Anglo-Norman language; we give herewith an illustration of it, the translation being from the excellent reproduction of the book by Thomas Wright, F.S.A.:-- "En un livre divin, que apelum Genesim, Iloc lisant truvum quæ Dés fist par raisum Le soleil e la lune, e esteile chescune. Pur cel me plaist à dire d'ico est ma materie, Que demusterai e à clers e à lai, Chi grant busuin en unt, e pur mei perierunt. Car unc ne fud loée escience celée; Pur ço me plaist à dire, ore i seit li veir Sire!" "In a divine book, which is called Genesis There reading, we find that God made by reason The sun and the moon, and every star. On this account it pleases me to speak, of this is my matter, Which I will show both to clerks and to laics, Who have great need of it, and will perish without it. For science hidden was never praised; Therefore it pleases me to speak, now may the true Lord be with it." G. As the limited space at our disposal prevents anything like an exhaustive account of the wonders narrated by Mandeville and others, we give the titles of some few old works, in case the reader may care to dive into them at greater length than is here at all possible. The first we would mention is Richard Hackluyt's black-letter folio, published in 1589. Its full title runs as follows:--"The Principal Navigations; Voiages and Discoveries of the English Nation, made by Sea or over Land to the most remote and farthest distant Quarters of the earth at any time within the compasse of these 1500 yeeres." Another is "Purchas his Pilgrimage, or Relations of the World, Asia, Africa and America and the Ilands adiacent," published in London in the year 1614; a very quaint and interesting old book. The "Ortus Sanitatis" is another very curious old black-letter volume, dealing with animals, plants, &c., and richly illustrated with very remarkable woodcuts. To these we may add Marco Polo's travels in the thirteenth century, detailing the observations of this early traveller on many remarkable places and things seen or heard of by him, chiefly in the East. Struy's "Perillous and most Unhappy Voyages through Moscovia, Tartary, Italy, Greece, Persia, Japan," &c., is another interesting old volume. It was published in the year 1638, and is illustrated by divers curious plates. To this list we need only add the "Natvrall and Morall Historie of the East and West Indies," by Joseph Acosta; 1604. "Intreating of the Remarkable things of Heaven, of the Elements, Mettalls, Plants, and Beasts which are proper to that Country." Where we have given a date it is simply that of the copy that has come under our own cognisance: many of these works were of sufficient popularity to run through several editions, sometimes several years apart; nevertheless the dates we give will give an approximate notion that is decidedly better than nothing. This list might readily be extended tenfold. H. The sphinx is described in Bacon's book, "The Wisdom of the Ancients, Written in Latin by the Right Honourable Sir Francis Bacon Knt. Baron of Verulam and Lord Chancellor of England, and done into English by Sir Arthur Gorges Knt." After narrating the story, he expounds it as follows:--"This Fable contains in it no less Wisdom than Elegancy, and it seems to point at Science, especially that which is joyn'd with Practice, for Science may not absurdly be call'd a Monster, as being by the ignorant and rude Multitude always held in Admiration. It is diverse in Shape and Figure by reason of the infinite Variety of Subjects wherein it is conversant. A Maiden Face and Voice is attributed unto it for its gracious Countenance and Volubility of Tongue. Wings are added, because Sciences and their Inventions do pass and fly from one to another, as it were in a Moment, seeing that the Communication of Science is as the kindling of one Light at another. Elegantly also it is feigned to have sharp and hooked Talons, because the Axioms and Arguments of Science do fasten so upon the Mind, and so strongly apprehend and hold it, as that it stir not nor evade, which is noted also by the Divine Philosopher--The Words of the Wise are as Goads and Nails driven far in. Moreover, all Science seems to be placed in steep and high Mountains, as being thought to be a lofty and high thing, looking down upon Ignorance with a scornful Eye. It may be observed and seen also a great Way, and far in compass, as things set on the Tops of Mountains. Furthermore, Science may well be feigned to beset the High-way, because which way soever we turn in this Progress and Pilgrimage of Human Life we meet with some Matter or Occasion offered for Contemplation. Sphynx is said to have received from the Muses divers difficult Questions and Riddles, and to propound them unto Men, which remaining with the Muses are free (it may be) from savage Cruelty; for, so long as there is no other end of Study and Meditation than to know, the Understanding is not racked and imprisoned, but enjoys Freedom and Liberty, and even Doubts and Variety find a kind of Pleasure and Delectation. But when once these Enigmas are delivered by the Muses to Sphynx, that is, to Practice, so that it be sollicited and urged by Action and Election and Determination, then they begin to be troublesome and raging, and unless they be resolved and expedited they do wonderfully torment and vex the Minds of Men, distracting, and in a manner rending them into sundry Parts. Moreover, there is always a twofold Condition propounded with Sphynx her Enigmas. To him that doth not expound them, distraction of Mind, and to him that doth, a Kingdom, for he that knows that which he sought to know hath attain'd the end he aim'd at, and every Artificer also commands over his Work. Moreover it is added in the Fable, that the Body of Sphynx, when she was overcome, was laid upon an Ass, which indeed is an elegant Fiction, seeing there is nothing so acute and abstruse but, being well understood and divulged, may be well apprehended by a slow Capacity. Neither is it to be omitted that Sphynx was overcome by a Man lame in his Feet; for when Men are too swift of Foot and too speedy of Pace in hasting to Sphynx, her Enigmas, it comes to pass that, she getting the upper Hand, their Wits and Minds are rather distracted by Disputations than that ever they come to command by Works and Effects." I. The spaces in the frieze of the Parthenon, known architectively as the metopes, were filled with sculptures illustrating the struggle between the Lapithæ and the Centaurs. Thirty-nine of these slabs remain in their original position in the temple, while seventeen are in the British Museum and one in the Louvre. In their beauty and bold design they are some of the grandest monuments of Greek art. Other very fine examples may be seen in the fragments in our national collection from the frieze of the temple of Apollo Epicurius, near Phigalia, and the Theseum at Athens. There are also two very fine single statues of centaurs in the Capitoline Museum. J. Centaury is so called from an old myth that Chiron, the centaur, cured himself from a wound given by a poisoned arrow by using some plant that Pliny, therefore, calls _Centaurium_; but whether it was this plant, or a knapweed, or any plant at all, or whether there even ever was a centaur named Chiron, or a centaur named anything else, are points we must be content to leave. Linnæus called the plant the _Chironia_; its modern generic name merely signifies red, as most of the flowers in the genus have blossoms of some tint of red; but in the specific name _Centaurium_ we recognise that the old myth still finds commemoration. In some parts of England the rustics corrupt centaury into sanctuary, and the Germans call it the _tausend-gulden-kraut_. This strange name is built upon another corruption, some of the old writers having twisted _Centaurea_ into _Centum aurei_, and the Germans have lavishly multiplied by ten the hundred golden coins. The centaury is said to be a good and cheap substitute for the medicinal gentian, and, as a hair-dye, was for a long time held in repute for the production of a rich golden yellow tint. "My floure is sweet in smell, bitter my iuyce in taste, Which purge choler, and helps liuer, that else would waste." The centaury still figures largely in rustic medicine and in the prescriptions of the herbalists; we have seen the country agents of these latter with armfuls of centaury as large as they could carry. Into all its accredited virtues in mediæval times we need not here go; in fact, if our readers will make out at random a list of some twenty of the ills of suffering mortality, and boldly assert that such ills need not exist at all in a world that also produces centaury, they will be sufficiently near the mark for practical purposes. K. A good illustration of this may be seen in Brathwait's book, published in 1621, and entitled "Nature's Embassie, or the Wilde-Man's Measures danced by twelve Satyres," the dance itself being very quaintly represented on the curious old woodcut title. L. An old author whose voluminous works on natural history are very interesting and curious, and richly illustrated with engravings at least as quaint in character as the text. The "Historia Monstrorum," was published in folio at Bologna in 1642, and is full of the most extraordinary animal forms. His various works range in date from 1602 to 1668, and are, with one exception--Venice--published either at Bologna or Frankfort. All are very curious, and will well repay our readers if they can get an opportunity of seeing them. Another book of very similar character is Boiastuau's "Histoires Prodigeuses," published in Paris in 1561, a strange assemblage of curious and monstrous figures. M. Bacon, in his "Wisdom of the Ancients," writes as follows:--"The Fable of the Syrens seems rightly to have been apply'd to the pernicious Allurements of Pleasure, but in a very vulgar and gross manner. And therefore to me it seems that the Wisdom of the Ancients have with a farther reach or insight strained deeper Matter out of them, not unlike the Grapes ill press'd; from which though some Liquor were drawn, yet the best was left behind. This Fable hath relation to Men's Manners, and contains in it a manifest and most excellent Parable. For Pleasures do for the most proceed out of the Abundance and Superfluity of all things, and also out of the Delights and jovial Contentments of the Mind; the which are wont suddenly as it were with winged Inticements to ravish and rap Mortal Men: But Learning and Education brings it so to pass as that it restrains and bridles Man's Mind, making it so to consider the Ends and Events of Things as that it clips the Wings of Pleasure. These Syrens are said to dwell in remote Isles: for that Pleasures love Privacy and retired places, shunning always too much Company of People. The Syren's Songs are so commonly understood, together with the Deceits and Danger of them, as that they need no Exposition. But that of the Bones appearing like white Cliffs, and descry'd afar off, hath more Acuteness in it; for thereby it is signify'd that, albeit the Examples of Afflictions be manifest and eminent, yet do they not sufficiently deter us from the wicked Enticements of Pleasures. As for the Remainder of this Parable, tho' it be not over mystical, yet it is very grave and excellent: For in it we set out three Remedies for this violent enticing Mischief: to wit, Two from Philosophy, and One from Religion. The first Means to shun these inordinate Pleasures is to withstand and resist them in their Beginnings and seriously to Shun all Occasions to entice the Mind, which is signified in that stopping of the Ears; and that Remedy is properly used by the meaner and baser sort of People, as it were Ulysses Followers or Mariners; whereas more heroick and noble Spirits may boldly converse even in the midst of these seducing Pleasures, if with a resolved Constancy they stand upon their Guard and fortify their Minds; and so take greater Contentment in the Trial and Experience of this their approved Virtue, learning rather thoroughly to understand the Follies and Vanities of those Pleasures by Contemplation, than by Submission. Which Solomon avouched of himself when he reckoned up the Multitude of those Solaces and Pleasures wherein he swam, doth conclude with this sentence--Wisdom also continued with me. Therefore these Heroes, and Spirits of this excellent Temper, even in the midst of these enticing Pleasures, can shew themselves constant and invincible and are able to support their own virtuous Inclination against all heady and forcible Perswasions whatsoever; as by the Example of Ulysses, that so peremptorily interdicted all pestilent Counsel as the most dangerous and pernitious Poysons to captivate the Mind: But of all other Remedies in this Case that of Orpheus is most predominant: For they that chaunt and resound the Praise of the Gods confound and dissipate the Voices and Incantations of the Syrens, for Divine Meditations do not only in Power subdue all sensual Pleasures, but also far exceed them in Swiftness and Delight." N. "A Scorneful Image or Monstrous Shape of a Marvellous Strange Fygure called Sileni Alcibiadis presentyng ye state and condio of this present world, and inespeciale of the Spirituallte how farre they be from ye perfite trade and life of Criste, wryte in the later tonge by that famous Clerke Erasmus and lately translated into Englyshe." A rare old black-letter book. O. "All those airy shapes you now behold Were human bodies once, and clothed with earthly mould; Our souls, not yet prepared for upper light, Till doom's-day wander in the shades of night." --Dryden, _The Flower and the Leaf_. P. Before finally dismissing the Fairies we would just refer our readers to a very curious book amongst the Lansdowne MSS. (No. 231) in the British Museum. It was written by John Aubrey, in the year 1686, and is entitled "Remaines of Gentilisme and Judaisme." The title, however, is no guide whatever to the character of the book, which seems to be merely a note-book for the writing down, without any apparent system or order, of any curious matters that came before him. Scattered throughout these notes are various references to the Fairies; and though they naturally, to a certain extent, repeat what we have already written, they are perhaps sufficiently interesting to quote, as they were the popular notions current at the time. We can only give them in the disjointed way in which we find them, as they are mixed up with all kinds of other matter. "Not far from Sr Bennet Hoskyns there was a labouring man that rose up early every day to goe to worke; who for a good while many dayes together found a ninepence in the way that he went. His wife wondering how he came by so much money was afraid he gott it not honestlye; at last he told her, and afterwards he never found any more." "They were wont to please the Fairies, that they might doe them no shrewd turnes, by sweeping clean the Hearth and setting by it a dish of fair water half sad breade, whereon was sett a messe of milke sopt with white bread. And on the morrow they would find a groat of which if they did speak of it they never had any again. Mrs H. of Hereford had as many groates or 3ds this way as made a little silver cup or bowle of (I thinke) 3lbs value, wh her daughter preserves still." "In the vestry at Frensham, on the N. side of the chancel, is an extraordinary great kettle or caldron, which the inhabitants say, by tradition, was brought hither by the fairies, time out of mind, from Borough hill, about a mile from hence. To this place, if any one went to borrow a yoke of oxen, money, &c., he might have it for a year or longer, so he kept his word to return it. There is a cave, where some have fancied to hear musick. On this Borough hill is a great stone lying along, of the length of about six feet: they went to this stone and knocked at it, and declared what they would borrow and when they would pay, and a voice would answer when they should come, and that they should find what they desired to borrow at that stone. This caldron, with the trivet, was borrowed here after the manner aforesaid, but not returned according to promise, and though the caldron was afterwards carried to the stone it could not be received, and ever since that time no borrowing there. The people saw a great fire one night not long since, the next day they went to see if any heath was burnt there, but found nothing." "Some were led away by the Fairies, as was a third riding upon Hackpen with corn led a dance to ye Devises. So was a shepherd of Mr Brown of Winterburn-Basset, but never any afterwards enjoy themselves. He sayd that ye ground opened, and he was brought into strange places underground, where they used musicall Instruments, Viols and Lutes, such (he sayd) as Mr Thomas did play on." "Virgil speakes somewhere (I think in ye Georgiques) of Voyces heard louder than a Man's. Mr Lancelot Morehouse did averre to me that he did once heare such a loud laugh on the other side of a hedge, and was sure that no Human voice could afford such a laugh." "In Germany old women tell stories received from their Ancestors that a Water-monster, called the Nickard, doth enter by night the chamber, and stealeth when they are all sleeping the new-born child, and supposeth another in its place, which child growing up is like a monster and commonly dumb. The remedy whereof that the Mother may get her own child again--the mother taketh the Suppositium and whipps it so long with the rod till the sayd Monster, the Nickard, bringes the Mother's own child again, and takes to him the Suppositium, which they call Wexel balg." In another curious old book on our shelves, the "Philosophical Grammar" of Benjamin Martin, published in 1753, we find another allusion to the belief in Fairies. The book is written in the question and answer style once so popular, and after a long dissertation on the Animal Kingdom, we come at last to the question, "Pray before we leave this survey of the Animal Creation let me ask your opinion of Griffins, the Phoenix, Dragons, Satyrs, Syrens, Unicorns, Mermaids and Fairies. Do you think there really are any such things in Nature?" The answer is so far to the point, and so interesting in itself as showing the state of mind on the whole subject, that we give it in all its fulness. "The _Phoenix_ is mentioned by _Pliny_, and other Antients, more credulous than skilful; but has long since been rejected as a vulgar Error. The _Griffin_ and _Harpy_ have had a Place given them in Modern Histories of Nature, but not without great Reproach and Ridicule to the Authors. _Satyrs_, _Syrens_, and _Fairies_, are all Poetical Fictions. The _Scripture_ makes mention of the _Dragon_ and the _Unicorn_, and most _Naturalists_ have affirmed that there have been such Creatures, and given Descriptions of them; but the Sight of these Creatures or credible Relations of them, having been so very rare, has occasioned many to believe there never were any such Animals in Nature; at least it has made the History of them very doubtful. As to _Mer-men_ and _Mer-maids_, there certainly are such Creatures in the Sea as have some distant Resemblance of some Parts of the Human Shape, Mien, and Members; but not so perfectly like them, 'tis very probable, as has been represented. In all such ambiguous Pieces of History 'tis better not to be positive, and sometimes to suspend our Belief, rather than credulously embrace every current Report, or vulgar Assertion which may perhaps expose us to Ridicule. It makes but little for the Credit of the Histories of _Dragons_, _Unicorns_, _Mer-maids_, &c., that their names are not to be found in the Transactions of our celebrated Royal Society, who, 'tis well known, derive their Intelligence at the best Hand from almost all Parts of the World. At least, I can find no mention of any such Creatures in the seven Volumes of Abridgments by _Lowthorp, Eames, and Jones_. 2. The _Histoire Naturelle de l'Universe_ gives an Account of several Persons who have described the _Unicorn_; and particularly Father _Lobos_, in his Voyage to the _Abyssine Empire_, says, that this Animal is of the Shape and Size of a fine-made and well-proportion'd Horse, of a bay Colour with a black Tail and Extremities; he adds, that the Unicorns of _Tuacua_ have very short Tails; and those of _Ninina_ (a Canton in the same Province) have theirs very long, and their Manes hanging over their Heads. _Vol._ IV. _Page_ 3. 3. _Du Mont_ says, he saw the Head of a Dragon which was set up over the _Water-Gate_ in the City of _Rhodes_; this Dragon was 33 Feet long, and wasted all the Country round, 'till it was slain by _Deodate de Gozon_, a Knight of _St. John_. He says, the _Head_ was like that of an Hog, but much larger; its _Ears_ were like a Mule's, but cut off; the _Teeth_ were extraordinary sharp and long; the _Throat_ wide; its _Eyes_ hollow, and burning like two Coals. It had two little Wings on its Back; its _Legs_ and _Tail_ like those of a Lizard, but strong, and arm'd with sharp and venomous Talons. His Body was cover'd with Scales which was Proof against Arms. See the Manner of his being kill'd in the _Atlas Geographicus_, Vol. III. Page 43, 44. 4. _Ludolphus_, in his _Ethiophic_ History, tells us, that in the _Abyssine Empire_, there are voracious scaly Dragons of the largest Size, tho' not venomous or hurtful otherwise than by the Bite, and they look like the Bark of an old Tree. _Atlas Geographicus_, Vol. IV. Page 614. 5. The _Stories_ of _Mer-maids_, _Satyrs_, &c. had undoubtedly their Original from such Animals as have in some Respects a Likeness to the _human Shape_ and _Features_. Among these the _Monkey_ Kind, the _Orang-Outang_, and the _Quoja Morron_ are the chief on Land; and the Fish call'd the _Mermaid_ (tho' it has nothing of the _Human Form_) and some other unusual Animals in the Sea." Q. Where several sons are contemporaneous, and all have the right to bear the paternal arms, they are thus distinguished--the eldest son adds to them what is known as a label; the second, a crescent; the third, a five-pointed star; the fourth, a martlet; the fifth, an annulet; the sixth, a fleur-de-lys; the seventh, a rose; and so on. A very good and easily accessible example of this "differencing" of the arms may be seen in those borne by the Prince of Wales, the silver label stretching across the top of the shield, blazoned in all other respects like those of the Queen, marking the relationship. R. Bruce tells us, for instance, that the horned viper, or Cerastes, the "worm of Nile" that was the cause of the death of Cleopatra, has a way of creeping until it is alongside its victim, and then making a sudden sidelong spring at the object of its attack. In his book he narrates a curious instance that came under his notice at Cairo, where several of these reptiles had been placed in a box. "I saw one crawl up the side, and there lie still, as if hiding himself, till one of the people who brought them to us came near him and though in a very disadvantageous position, sticking as it were perpendicularly to the side of the box, he leaped near the distance of three feet, and fastened between the man's forefinger and thumb." S. Amongst the things displayed in the case are portions of a wreath from the coffin of Rameses II. (1100-1200 B.C.), composed of sepals and petals of _Nymphæa cærulea_ on strips of leaves of the date-palm, and another wreath made from the _N. Lotus_. Another wreath is from the coffin of Aahmes I. (1700 B.C.), composed of leaves of willow and flowers of the _Acacia Nilotica_. There are also two garlands from the tomb of the Princess Nzi Khonsou (1000 B.C.), composed in the one case of willow leaves and the flower heads of the _Centauræa depressa_, and in the other of the _Papaver Rhæas_, the common scarlet poppy so familiar to every one who has ever seen an English cornfield or railway embankment in summer. There are, in addition, leaves of the wild celery and of the olive and vine, all quite clearly distinguishable. The ancient Egyptians were exceedingly fond of flowers, and even made rare plants a portion of the tribute exacted from dependent or conquered territories. One old writer tells us that "those flowers, which elsewhere were only sparingly produced, even in their proper season, grew profusely in Egypt at all times, so that neither roses, nor any others, were wanting there, even in the middle of winter." Their living rooms were always adorned with bouquets or growing plants, and the stands that served for holding them have been found in the tombs. On the arrival of guests at a banquet servants came forward with garlands of flowers and placed them round their necks, a custom we may see graphically depicted in the mural painting in the tombs, while a single lotus flower was often placed in the hair. T. The Bay enters very largely into the various extraordinary compounds--astrological, medicinal, and the like--of the ancients. Thus--to quote but one instance out of many that might be given--Albertus Magnus, in his treatise "De Virtutibus Herbarum," tells us that if any one gathers some bay leaves and wraps them up with the tooth of a wolf, no one can speak an angry word to the bearer; while, put under the pillow at night, it will bring in a vision before the eyes of a man who has been robbed, the thief and all his belongings. He further goes on to tell us that if set up in a place of worship, none who have broken any contract or agreement will be able to quit the place till this most potent combination be removed. "This last is tried and most true." [Decoration] INDEX. "So essential did I consider an Index to be to every book, that I proposed to bring a Bill into Parliament to deprive an author, who publishes a book without an Index, of the privilege of copyright, and, moreover, to subject him to a pecuniary penalty." --Campbell's _Lives of the Chief-Justices of England_. Aahmes I., chaplets from coffin of, 233 "Absalom and Achitophel," Dryden, 126 "Abyssinia, Life in," Parkyns, 14 Achemedis, herb, 199 Acipenser, 158 Acosta, "Natvrall and Morall Historie," 219 Adam, earliest botanist, 181 Adder, wilfully deaf, 67, 148 Addison's "Milton Imitated," 99 Adelaide of Louvain, 218 Adissechen, the thousand-headed, 146 Adolf Dux, article by, 197 Ælian on aspis, 147; on basilisk, 49; on lion and ram-headed fish, 160; on unicorn, 9 Æneas Sylvius on barnacle tree, 174 Ætius on basilisk, 49; on dryinus, 49 "Africa, History of," Leo, 30 Agnus Dei, as a badge, 74 Alaus Magnus on kraken, 150 Albertus Magnus, "De Virtutibus Herbarum," 234; dragon, 28; on pigmies, 125 Alchemists and phoenix, 54 Aldrovandus, "Monstrorum Historia," 31, 79, 87, 161 Alimos plant, 197 Amaranth, 177 Amazons, 95 Ambrosia, 183 Amphisbena, 148 Anacramseros plant, 199 Andromeda and Perseus, 19 Annulet as mark of cadency, 232 Anthropophagi, 94 Antipathy between dragon and elephant, 42; between serpent and stag, 15 Antony and Cleopatra, 91, 188 Apples of Hesperides, 40; of Istkahar, 196; of perpetual youth, 196 Apollo Epicurius, temple of, 222 Apuleius, "The Golden Ass," 184 Arabia, home of the phoenix, 50 "Arabian Nights," 7, 40, 69, 132, 140, 196 Archaic pottery, British Museum, 85 Ardoynus on basilisk, 49 Arian _v._ Athanasian, 209 Arimaspian gold, 69 Arimaspians, 98 Arion and the dolphins, 158 Ariosto's "Orlando Furioso," 50, 70 Aristotle on chameleon, 77; on pigmies, 125 Arms of City of London, 70; of Prince of Wales, 234; of William de Valence, 134 Arrowheads or Celts, 108 "Art of Love," King's, 49 Asbestos, 61 Asphodel, 180 Aspis, 147 Assembly of Beaux Esprits, Paris, 10 Ass, Indian, of Ctesias, 7 "As you Like it," 54 "Atlas Geographicus," 231 Aubrey's "Gentilisme and Judaisme," 31, 227 Augustine, St., on the manipulation of facts, 216; on monsters, 41 Avebury stones, 58 Avicen on basilisk, 49 Bacon on the sphinx legend, 83; "Wisdom of the Ancients," 220, 224 Badge of Jane Seymour, 53 Balam, the ox, 159 Ballad of dragon of Wantley, 33; of St. George and dragon, 211 "Bara Bathra," 151 Basil, herb, 200 Basilisk, king of serpents, 48, 91 Barliata, 175 Barnacle goose-tree, 168 Bartolomeo, standard of, 6 Basking shark, 146 Bay tree, 234 Beaumont and Fletcher's "Woman Hater," 48 Beaux Esprits, assembly of, 10 Behemoth legend, 152 Ben Jonson on remora, 159 "Bestiare Divin" of Guillaume, 43 Bestiary of De Thaun, 67, 147, 218 Bewick's books, 2 Bible Herbal of Newton, 183 Bible references to adder, 67; amaranth, 178; cockatrice, 46; dragon, 19; giants, 129; leviathan, 152; mandrake, 193; unicorn, 4 Bird of paradise, 135 Blemmyes, headless men, 97 Boar, 15, 49 Boiastuau, "Histoires Prodigeuses," 224 "Boke of Husbandry," Fitzherbert, 204 Bolyai, tomb of, 197 Bones preserved in churches, 59 Borghese centaur, 85 Borrowing from the fairies, 228 Boussetti on monsters, 161 Brathwait's "Nature's Embassie," 224 Breydenbach's Travels, 62 Briaræus, 94, 99 Bristol, great bone at, 59 "Britannia," Camden, 217 "Britannica Concha Anatifera," 175 British Museum, centaur, 85, 222; Lansdowne MSS., 31; Scythian lamb, 71 Brobdingnag, men of, 99 Browne's "Pseudodoxia Epidemica," 199; "Vulgar Errors," 31, 69, 190 Brownie, 119 Bruce on the horned viper, 232 Bruynswyke's Herbal, 182 Bryony roots carved into human form, 190 Bucca, 121 Buckland's "Curiosities of Natural History," 60 Buffalo, 12 Burton's "Miracles of Art and Nature," 4, 71, 93, 153, 194 Bury Palliser's "Historic Badges," 6 Bushmen, the modern pigmies, 127 Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage,157, 196; on nautilus, 155 Cadency in heraldry, 232 Cader Idris, the giant's seat, 131 Cadwallader, ensign of, 33 Caerleon, great bone at, 59 Camden's "Britannia," 217 "Canterbury Tales," 104 Capitoline Museum sculptures, 222 Cassandra's gift, 163 Catacombs of Rome, 5 Cathay and the vegetable lamb, 71 Catoblepas of Pliny, 49 Caxton and the "Legenda Aurea," 22 Cedric the Victorious, 33 Celtic pen-dragon, 33 Celts or arrow-heads, 108 Centaur, 84 Centaury, 85, 222 Cerastes or horned viper, 232 Cetus of De Thaun, 151 "Ceylon," Tennant, 127 Chameleon, 76, 91 Changeful colours of dolphin, 157 Changelings, 110 Chang, the Chinese giant, 130 Chaplets in Egyptian tombs, 178 Charles II., dedication to, 47 Chaucer on Sir Guy of Warwick, 56 Chesterfield, great bone at, 59 "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," Byron, 157, 196 Chilon, 160 Chimæra, 84, 149 China, the dragon symbol, 27 Chiron the Centaur, 222 "Chronicles," Holingshead, 113 City of London, arms of, 70 Clawed men of Surinam, 97 Clement of Alexandria, 177 Clusius, "Rariorum Plantarum Historia," 181 Coats, the heraldic chimæra, 84 Coca leaf, 195 Cockatrice, 44 Cockeram's "English Dictionary," 198 Coinage, the unicorn, 6 Colebrand the champion, 55 Coleridge on giants, 132 "Comedy of Errors," 90, 91 Comptes Royaux of France, 6 "Comus," Milton, 119 "Coriolanus," 40 "Corona Dedicatoria" of Sylvester, 53 "Cosmography" of Munster, 173 Cotter, the Irish giant, 130 Cottonian MSS., 218 Coventry, great bone at, 58 Crane and pigmy combats, 125 Crescent as a mark of cadency, 232 Crest of Earl Douglas, 64 Crocodile, reference in Job, 154 Ctesias on griffin, 68; Indian ass, 7; on pigmies, 126 Cupid and Psyche, 184 "Curiosities of Natural History," Buckland, 60 Cuttle fish, 150 Cwm Pwcca, Brecon, 122 Cyclops, 82, 94, 98 "Cymbeline," 39, 54 Cyoeraeth, 121 Dacien and St. George, 25 Danby, picture by, 184 Dart, 44 Darwin on vampyre bat, 76 Davy Jones's locker, 161 Dead as a door nail, 124 Dead Sea apples, 196 Deaf adder, 67, 148 De Bry's "India Orientalis," 185 Decker on the unicorn, 6 "Decline and Fall of Roman Empire," 22, 209 De Ferry and sea-serpent, 144 Democritus on chameleon, 78 "Description Historique de Macaçar," 186 "Description of 300 Animals," 2, 44 De Thaun, 8, 67, 136, 147, 151, 191, 218 Device of Francis I., 61; of Henry VII., 33 Devil fish, 150 Devil's candle, 193 "De Virtutibus Herbarum," 234 Diamond softening, 199 Dies, 160 Diocletian the persecutor, 25 Dioscorides on basilisk, 49 Discourses of Virtuosi of France, 10 "Discoverie of Witchcraft," 103 "Display of Heraldry," Guillim, 7 Dodoens, Herbal of, 182 Dog-headed men, 93, 96 Dolphin, 156 Donatus, St., dragon-slayer, 20 Dragon, 2, 16, 133, 192, 211, 229 Dragonhill, Berkshire, 33 Dragonnades, 39 Dragon overthrown, knighthood of, 27 Druids and fairies, 102 Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel, 126; on basilisk, 48; "Flower and the Leaf," 227; translation from Ovid, 52 Dryinus of Ætius, 49 Dudaim, 193 Dugdale on Guy of Warwick, 55 Dugong and Manatee, 91 Du Mont and the dragon of Rhodes, 231 Dun cow legend, 55 Eagle gazing on the sun, 133 Eagney or Meto, 197 Earl Douglas, crest of, 64 Eastern Soudan and Uganda, 7 Echeneis or Remora, 158 Echidna, 40, 88 Eden's "Historie of Travayle," 94 Egede and the sea-serpent, 144 Egg-talisman, 147 Egyptian form of sphinx, 82; love of flowers, 235 Egyptian representations of giraffe, 63 Eikon Basilike, 202 El Dorado and Sir W. Raleigh, 95 Elephant, 15, 79; antipathy between dragon and, 42 Elf-bolts, 109 Elizabeth, Queen, badge of, 53 El Kazwini, Arab writer, 7 "Elysium," Felicia Hemans', 177 Empusa, 14 Enchanter's nightshade, 193 "English Cyclopædia of Natural History," 7 "English Dictionary" of Cockeram, 198 "English Parnassus" of Poole, 103, 120 Enmity between stag and serpent, 15 Epitaph on Gryphius, 70 Erasmus on headless men, 97; Sileni Alcibiadis, 228 Ethiopia, unicorns in, 4 Exodus, reference to unicorn in, 5 "Faculties of Nourishment," Galen, 180 Fairies, 99, 227 Fairy rings, 104 Falstaff, on fairies, 110; the salamander, 64 Fanesii of Scandinavia, 98 Father Pigafetta on dragons, 30 Fauns and satyrs, 86 Featley's recantation, 31 Felicia Hemans' "Elysium," 177 Ferrer de Valcebro on the Barliata, 175 Ferry, Laurent de, on sea-serpent, 144 _Field_, extract from, 65 Field of the cloth of gold, 61 Fire-drake, 147 "Fire-worshippers," Moore, 193 Fish nun, 159 Fitzherbert's "Boke of Husbandry," 204 Fletcher's "Purple Island," 51 Fleur-de-lys as mark of cadency, 232 "Flower and the Leaf," Dryden, 227 Foersch on upas tree, 185 Forty-leaved plant, 197 Four-footed serpents, 71 Francisci Boussetti on sea-monsters, 161 Friar's lantern, 123 Fuller's "Holy State," 132 Galen on aspis, 147; on basilisk, 49; "Faculties of Nourishment," 180 Garcias ab Horto, on unicorn, 9 Gargoyles of draconic form, 28 Ge and Tartaros, rebellion of, 131 Gelasius, Pope, and St. George, 210 Gelotaphilois, herb, 199 Generation of the cockatrice, 44 "Gentilisme and Judaisme" of Aubrey, 31 "Gentleman's Magazine," extract from, 117 Geography of Strabo, 125 George, St., and dragon, 23, 31, 209-211 "Gerania" of Joshua Barnes, 127 Gerarde, "History of Plants," 168, 180; asphodel, 180; barnacle goose-tree, 168; mandrake, 189 Gervaise, "Description de Macaçar," 186 Gervase, on fairies, 102 Ghoul, 75 Giant Colebrand, 55 Giants, 128 Giants' Causeway, 130 Gibbon's "Decline and Fall of Roman Empire," 22, 209 Gillius the compassionate, 156 Giraffe or seraffa, 63 Giraldus Cambrensis on barnacle trees, 175 Glanvil, on griffin, 68; on salamander, 60 Gnomes, 119 Godes-andsacan, 20 "Golden Ass" of Apuleius, 184 Golden fruit of the Hesperides, 40 Graham's "Sketches of Perthshire," 121 Greek form of sphinx, 82 Greene on the apples of the Hesperides, 40 Green, Matthew, "The Spleen," 132 Grevinus on basilisk, 49 Griffin, 2, 68, 229 Groats from Fairyland, 109, 120, 228 Gryphius, device of, 70 Guerino, Meschino, 98 Guild processions in Middle Ages, 86 Guiana, Hartsinck on, 97; Sir W. Raleigh on, 95 Guillaume, "Bestiare Divin," 43 Guillim, "Display of Heraldry," 7, 41, 46, 88, 134 "Gulliver's Travels," 132 Guy of Warwick and the Dun Cow, 55, 217 Hackluyt's "Voyages," 97, 219 Halliwell on anthropophagi, 94 Hameh-bird, 140 "Hamlet," satyr, 86 "Handmayd to Religion," 31 Harpy, 48, 86, 230 Harrington and the sea-serpent, 142 Hartsinck on Guiana, 97 Headless men, 94 Hemans, Felicia, poem by, 177 Heraldic bird-forms, 134; dolphin, 156 "Herball to the Bible" of Newton, 189 Herbert's "Jacula Prudentum," 132; "Relations of some yeares Travaile," 186 Herb Viva, 198 Hercules and the pigmies, 126 "Henry IV.," 74, 112, 123 "Henry VI.," 54, 91 "Henry VIII.," 54, 56, 147 Heraldic cockatrice, 46; dolphin, 156; griffin, 70; Pegasus, 73; phoenix, 53; unicorn, 4 "Heraldry, display of," by Guillim, 7, 41, 46 Herodotus, griffin, 69; phoenix, 50, 52; pigmies, 125 Hesiod, chimæra, 84; harpy, 87 Hesperides, garden of the, 40 Heylin on St. George, 31 Hilary, St., dragon-slayer, 20 Hindu sacred groves, 177 Hippeau on Guillaume, 44, 216 Hippice, 199 "Histoire Naturelle," 231 "Histoires Prodigeuses," Boiastuau, 224 "Historia Monstrorum," 31, 79, 87, 161, 224 "Historic Badges," Palliser, 6 "Historie of Travayle" of Eden, 94 "History of Africa," John Leo, 30 "History of Ethiopia," Ludolphus, 231 "History of Plants," 168, 180 Hog-faced gentlewoman, 92 Holingshead's "Chronicles," 113 Holland's edition of Pliny, 155 Hollerius, 201 Hollybush, Miles Coverdale, 183 "Holy State," Fuller, 132 "Holyday devotions," 31 Home of the pigmies, 126 Homer, ambrosia, 183; asphodel, 180; centaur, 85; harpy, 87; "Iliad," 125, 184; "Odyssey," 177 Hondius and Sir W. Raleigh, 95 "Honour, Titles of," Selden, 32 Hoole's "Orlando Furioso," 50 Horned viper or cerastes, 232 Hudibras, quotation from, 168 "Humana Physiognomonia," of Porta, 93 Humma-bird, 136 Huppe-bird, 136 Hydra, 149 Ibis, 137 Idolatrous groves, 177 Ignis fatuus, 122 Iliad, 125, 184 Indian ass, 7; serpent legend, 163 "India Orientals," of De Bry, 185 Invisibility of fairies, 103 Iormungandur the encircler, 146 Isaiah, reference to cockatrice, 46 Isidore on onocentaur, 85 Jack-o'-Lantern, 122 Jack the Giant-killer, 128 "Jacula Prudentum," by Herbert, 132 Jane Seymour, badge of, 53 Java and its upas trees, 184 Jeremiah, cockatrice, 46; dragon, 41 "Jerusalem Delivered," Tasso, 99 Jewish tradition, 152, 159 Job, leviathan, 152; unicorn, 5 Jodocus Hondius, 95 John Leo, "History of Africa," 30 John of Arragon, salamander device of, 61 Johnson on Gerarde, 172 Joshua Barnes, the "Gerania," 127 Juvenal, pigmy combats, 125 Kadmos, founding of Thebes, 38 Kalli Naga, 20 Kalpa Tarou tree, 176 Kelpies, 102, 121 Kerzereh flowers, 188 Kew, lotus chaplets at, 179, 233; upas tree at, 185 Keymis on Guiana, 96 "King Henry IV.," 74, 112, 123, 190 "King Henry VI.," 54, 91, 190 "King Henry VIII.," 54, 56 "King Lear," 39 "King Richard III.," 40, 45 "King's Art of Love," 49 Knockers, 117 Kobold, 119 Koempfer on upas tree, 186 Koran, the fish nun, 159; the lote tree, 176; the ox Balam, 159 Kraken, 149 Kuchlein's illustrations, 98 Kyonjik sculptures, 177 Label as a mark of cadency, 232 Ladon and the Hesperides, 40 "Lalla Rookh," 107, 135 "L'Allegro" of Milton, 120, 123 Lamia, 13 Lane's "Arabian Nights," 7, 40, 69 Languedoc and its dragon, 21 Lansdowne MSS. in British Museum, 31, 227 Lapithæ and Centaurs, 222 Laurence Keymis on Guiana, 96 Laurent de Ferry and sea-serpent, 144 "Legenda Aurea" of Voraigne, 22 Legends of the Talmud, 152, 159 Leo, "History of Africa," 30 Leviathan, 152, 159 "Life in Abyssinia," Parkyns, 14 Lig-draca, 20 Lilliput, men of, 99, 126 Lion, 3 Lion-headed fish, 160 "Lives of the Saints," 22 Livre des Créatures, De Thaun, 218 Lobel and Pena's book, 175 Lobos, Father, and the unicorn, 231 Lomie, 71 London, arms of City of, 70 Long-eared men or Fanesii, 98 Lote tree of Koran, 176 Lotophagia, 177 Loup-garou or wehr-wolf, 75 Loup, St., dragon-slayer, 20 Louvre, Borghese centaur, 85, 222 Lucian on asphodel, 180 Ludolphus, "History of Ethiopia," 231 Lurlei of the Rhine, 90 Lyte and Dodoens, herbal of, 182 Mab, the fairy queen, 103, 120 "Macaçar; Description Historique du Royaume de," 186 "Macbeth," 39 Magrath, the giant, 130 Maid of Orleans and the mandrake, 189 Mallwyd, great bone at, 59 Manatees and Dugongs, 91 Mandeville on griffin, 68; headless men, 97; pigmies, 196; vegetable lamb, 71 Mandrake, 188 Man-eater and Rompo, 12 Mansfield Parkyns' "Life in Abyssinia," 14 Manticora, 13 Maori traditions, 127 Marcel, St., dragon-slayer, 21 Marco Polo's travels, 219 Marks of abatement and augmentation, 88; of cadency, 134 Martha, St., dragon-slayer, 21 Martial, St., dragon-slayer, 21 Martin, St., dragon-slayer, 20 Martin's "Philosophical Grammar," 229 Martlet, 134, 232 Mary Stuart, badge of, 204 Matthew Green, "The Spleen," 132 Matthiolus, herbal of, 181 McQuahee and the sea-serpent, 143, 145 "Measure for Measure," 131 Mediæval dragon recipes, 29; festivals, 98 "Merchant of Venice," 196 Mermaid, 90, 160, 231 Metamorphoses, 202 Meto or Eagney, 197 Metopes of Parthenon, 222 Michovius on griffin-land, 69 "Midsummer Night's Dream," 39, 90, 120 Miles Coverdale, Hollybush, 183 Milton, amaranth, 178; Arimaspians, 98; chimæra, 84; gorgon, 84; griffin, 69; harpy, 87; hydra, 84; "L'Allegro," 120, 123; "Paradise Lost," 98, 123, 178; Will o' the wisp, 123 "Milton imitated," Addison, 99 Mimosa sensitiva, 198 Minotaur, 48 "Miracles of Art and Nature," Burton, 4, 71, 93, 153, 194 Monacella, St., bone of, 59 Money, fairy, 109, 120, 227, 228 "Monstrorum Historia" of Aldrovandus, 31, 79, 87, 161, 224 Monuments of Egypt, 63 Moore, "Fire worshippers," 193; Kerzereh flower, 188; "Lalla Rookh," 107, 135; "Paradise and the Peri," 54, 136; "Veiled Prophet of Khorassan," 188 More Hall of Wantley, 34 Mountain fish, 149 Mouse, 16 "Much Ado about Nothing," 87 Munster's "Cosmography," 173 Murphy the Irish giant, 130 Musical tastes of the dolphin, 158 Narcissus, possibly the asphodel, 180 National Library, Paris, 44 "Natural History of Norway," Pontoppidan, 145 "Nature's Embassie," Brathwait, 223 "Natvrall and Morall Historie" of Acosta, 219 Naud the pen-dragon, 33 Nautilus, 155 Nech of Scandinavia, 121 Nectar of the gods, 183 Newton's "Bible Herbal," 183, 189 Newts spitting fire, 64 Nicander on the aspis, 147 Nickard, 229 "Night Thoughts," Young, 126 Nineveh and Persepolis, sculptures at, 19 Ninina, unicorns of, 231 Nis, 119 Nixies, 102 Nova Hispania, flora of, 197 Nun, the fish, 159 "Nuremburg Chronicle," 97 Nymphs, 119 Nzi Khonsou, the princess, 233 Oats, fairy, 100 Oberon, 103 Octavianus the reliable, 175 Octopus, 150 Odysseus, the Lotophagi, 177; the Sirens, 89 Og, the king of Bashan, 129 Ojibiway legend of the serpent, 163 Olaus Magnus and the sea-serpent, 143 Onocentaur, 85 Ophyasta, herb, 199 Oppian, pigmy combats, 125 Order of the dragon, 22; of the dragon overthrown, 27 Oribasius on the basil, 201 Origin of fairies, 101 "Orlando Furioso," of Ariosto, 50, 70 Orpheus and the Sirens, 89 "Ortus sanitatis," 219 Osiris the judge, 178 "Othello," 189 Ovid on ambrosia, 183; phoenix, 52 Owen, Professor, on sea-serpents, 145 Ox Balam, the, 159 Ox, wild, 15 Oyle of castor, 153 Palliser's "Historic Badges," 6 Palm-tree emblem, 194, 202 Pan, 124 Paracelsus on the phoenix, 54 "Paradise Lost," Milton, 98, 123 "Paradise and the Peri," Moore, 54, 136 Parker on poisonous trees, 187 Parkinson's "Theater of Plants," 172, 180, 190 Parkyns' "Life in Abyssinia," 14 Parthenon sculptures, 85, 222 Paulus Venetus on unicorn, 9 Peccata Naturæ, 42 Pedal sunshades, 98 Pegasus, 73 Pelican legend, 133 Pelion on Ossa, 131 Pen-dragon, 33 Pennant Melangell, great bone at, 59 Percy's "Reliques of Antient English Poetry," 34, 56, 211 "Peregrine Pickle" of Smollett, 162 "Pericles," 40, 87 Persepolis, sculptures at, 19 Perseus and Andromeda legend, 19 "Perthshire, Sketches of," 121 Pheg of the Tsi-hiai, 152 Philip de Thaun, 8, 67, 191 Philostratus on the pigmies, 125 "Philosophical Grammar," Martin, 229 Phoca, Pooka, or Pwcca, 121, 133 Phoenix, 50, 134, 217, 229 Phoenix-tree, 217 Pigafetta on dragons, 30 Pigmies, 124 Pink centaury, 85 Pliny on basilisk, 48; bay-tree, 201; chameleon, 78; dolphin, 156; dragon, 29, 42; Echeneis, 158; Fanesii, 98; giant, 130; kraken, 149; nautilus, 155; phoenix, 51; pigmies, 125; salamander, 60; serpent's eggs, 147; sphinx, 82; stag, 15; unicorn, 9; wolf, 11 Plutarch's giant, 130 Poison-detecting cups, 4, 6, 7 Poison of salamander, 62 Polonius and the whale, 152 Polyphemus, the foe of Ulysses, 99 Pomum Adami, 196 Pontoppidan, Kraken, 150; "Natural History of Norway," 145 Poole's "English Parnassus," 103 Pope, nautilus, 155; "Rape of the Lock," 119 Pope Pius II. on barnacle trees, 175 Porpoises as sea-serpents, 144 Porta's "Humana Physiognomonia," 93 Potto, 16 Prester John, 126 Prince of Wales, arms of, 232 Prior on the chameleon, 77 "Proper study of mankind is man," 81 Psalms, reference to adder, 67; leviathan, 154; unicorn, 5 "Pseudodoxia Epidemica," 199 Puck, 102 Purchas Pilgrimage, 219 "Purple Island" of Fletcher, 51 Python, 20 Queen Elizabeth, badge of, 53 Queen Mab, 103, 120 Quentin Durward, Scott, 12 Raleigh, Sir W., voyage to Guiana, 95 Rameses II., 179, 233 Ram-headed fish, 160 "Rape of the Lock," 119; of Lucrece, 70 "Rariorum Plantarum Historia" of Clusius, 181 Red-dragon ensign, 33 Red lion, 3 Reginald Scot on witchcraft, 103 Regulus, 46 "Relations of some yeares Travaile," 186 "Reliques of Antient English Poetry," 34, 56, 211 "Reminiscences," Taylor, 145 Remora, 158 Resurrection, phoenix type of, 50 Rhinoceros horn cups, 7 Rhodes, dragon of, 231 Ribbon fish, 145 Richardson on phoenix, 54 Riddle of the sphinx, 83 Robin Goodfellow, 102, 119 Roc, 69, 137 Romanus, St., dragon-slayer, 20 "Romeo and Juliet," 40, 45, 190 Rompo or man-eater, 12 Rondelet's sea-monsters, 161 Rose as mark of cadency, 232 Royal arms, supporters of, 6 Royal Society, Proceedings of, 10, 71, 230 Rustic beliefs as to newts, &c., 64 Sacred trees, 177 Sagittarius, 85 Saint George and the dragon, 23, 211 Saint Mary Redcliff, large bone at, 59 Saints as dragon-slayers, 20, 21 Salamander, 60 Sanguis huppæ, 137 Satyrs, 86, 229 Saxo Grammaticus on barnacle tree, 174 Saxon martyrology, 32 Scaliger on basilisk, 49 Scoresby's "Voyages," 92 Scot, Reginald, on witchcraft, 103 Scotland and the unicorn, 6 Scott, elf-possession, 113; friar's lantern, 123; wolf, 12 Sketches of Nineveh and Persepolis, 19, 128 Scythian lamb, 71 Sea bishop, 161; elephant, 72, 145; hare, 200; horse, 72; lion, 160; monk, 161; serpent, 48, 141 Selden's "Titles of Honour," 32 Sensitive plant, 198 Seraffa of Breydenbach, 63 Serpent worship, 141, 163 Shakespeare, basilisk, 48; cockatrice, 45; dragon, 39; fire-drake, 147; griffin, 70; harpy, 87; mandrake, 188; Pegasus, 73; phoenix, 53, 218; pigmies, 126; will-o'-the-wisp, 123; unicorn, 217 Sigonius on basilisk, 49 Sileni Alcibiadis, 226 Sindbad the Sailor, 69, 138 Siren, 14, 89, 224, 229 Sirena, 18 Sirenia, 92 Sir Walter Raleigh and Guiana, 95 "Sketches of Perthshire," 121 Skimker, Mistress, 92 Sloane Library, 218 Smollett's "Peregrine Pickle," 162 Solinus on basilisk, 49 Sourd story from the _Field_, 65 South Kensington Museum, 184 Sowing of dragon's teeth, 38 Spenser's "Visions of the World's Vanity," 159 Sphinx, 82, 220 Spirits of the mine, 117 "Spleen," Matthew Green, 132 Squier's "Serpent Worship," 163 Stag, 14 Standard of Bartolomeo d'Alviano, 6 Staple Hill stone ring, 58 Star as mark of cadency, 232 Stephen, arms of King, 85 "Stirpium Adversaria Nova," 175 Strabo on pigmies, 125 Stronsay, sea monster at, 146 Struy's Voyages, 219 Stuttgard anthropophagi, 98 Suchenwirt on battle-cries, 32 Supporters of the Royal Arms, 4, 6 Surinam, clawed men of, 97 Sylene and its dragon, 22 Sylphs, 119 Sylvester's "Corona Dedicatoria," 53 Symbol, dragon as a, 28; stag as a, 15 Symbolism of phoenix, 50, 55 Tacitus, Dead Sea apples, 196; phoenix, 55 Tailed men, 93 Talmud, legends of the, 152, 159 "Taming of the Shrew," 73 Tartarian lamb, 71 Tartaros and Ge, rebellion of, 131 Tasso's "Jerusalem Delivered," 99 Tausend-gulden-kraut, 224 Tavernier on birds of paradise, 135 Taylor's "Reminiscences," 145 "Tempest," fairy-rings, 108; harpy, 87; phoenix, 218; unicorn, 218 Templars, device of the, 74 Tennant's "Ceylon," 127 Tertullian on phoenix, 50 "Theater of Plants," Parkinson, 172, 190 "Theatrum Botanicum," 180 Thebes, founding of, by Kadmos, 38 Theocritus, on wolf, 11 Theseum at Athens, 224 Thevet on unicorn, 9 "Three hundred animals," 2, 44 Throne of Tippoo Sultan, 136 "Titles of Honour," Selden, 32 "Toilers of the Sea," Victor Hugo, 150 Tomb of Bolyai, 197 Travellers' tales, 195, 216 "Travels," Breydenbach, 62 Tree of Life, 176 Tree of the Imagination, 176 Trichrug, the giant's chair, 130 Tritons, 90 "Troilus and Cressida," 39 Tsi-hiai and the pheg, 152 Tuacua, unicorns of, 231 Turner, barnacle geese, 175; herbal, 182 "Twelfth Night," 45 Typhon, 20 "Uganda and the Eastern Soudan," 7 Ulysses and Polyphemus, 99 Umdhlebi tree, 187 Unicorn, 3, 62, 217, 229 Upas tree, 184 Upton on the harpy, 88 Vampyre, 14, 74 Vartomannus on unicorn, 9 Vatican Library, 218 Vegetable lamb, 71 "Veiled Prophet of Khorassan," 188 Venetus, Paulus, on unicorn, 9 Veran, St., dragon-slayer, 20 "Vertuose Boke of Distyllacyon," of Bruynswyke, 182 Victor Hugo, "Toilers of the Sea," 150 Victor, St., dragon-slayer, 20 Virgil, centaur, 84; evil eye, 47; harpy, 88; wolf, 11 Virtuosi, discoveries of, 10 Vishnu, 20 "Visions of the World's Vanity," Spenser, 159 Viva, herb, 198 Voraigne's "Legenda Aurea," 22 "Voyages," Hackluyt, 97; Raleigh, 95; Scoresby, 92; Struy, 219 Vulcan and the Cyclops, 99 "Vulgar Errors," Sir Thomas Browne, 31, 69 Wantley, dragon of, 33 "Warwickshire" of Dugdale, 55 Water fairies, 102 Waterton on vampyre bat, 76 Weasel and cockatrice combat, 45 Wehr-wolf or loup-garou, 75 Wexel balg, 229 Whale bones in churches, 60 White Horse Hill, Berkshire, 33 Wild boar, 15; ox, 15 William de Valence, arms of, 134 Will o' the wisp, 122 Winged serpent, 19 "Wisdom of the Ancients," Bacon, 219, 224 Witches, 103 Wolf, 11, 30 "Woman Hater," Beaumont and Fletcher, 48 Wright on De Thaun, 218 Wynkyn de Worde, 22 Xanthus, monument from, 87 Ylio of De Thaun, 68 Young's "Night Thoughts," 126 Zeus, ambrosial locks of, 184; rebellion against, 131 Zodiac, the Sagittarius, 85 Zululand, poisonous trees in, 187 PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON. Transcriber's Note Archaic and variant spelling is preserved as printed. Minor punctuation errors have been repaired. Hyphenation has been made consistent in the main body of the text, but is preserved as printed in quoted matter. Page 132 includes the phrase "... but enough has been quoted to show how valuable these personages have in poesy and general literature." It seems that there is a word missing following 'have,' but as there is no way to determine with certainty what that word should be, it is preserved as printed. The following amendments have been made on the assumption that the originals were typographic errors: Page 9--Solimus amended to Solinus--... Pliny, Ælian, Solinus, and Paulus ... Page 14--Laimæ amended to Lamiæ--The Lamiæ, who took the forms ... Page 42--aminals amended to animals--... had not happened in the creation of animals ... Page 62--frigidty amended to frigidity--The story of the extreme frigidity ... Page 98--Julias amended to Julius--... the counterfeit presentments of Julius Cæsar, ... Page 103--mischeivous amended to mischievous--... was the sweet but mischievous Mab ... Page 110--changlings amended to changelings--The references in that play to changelings ... Page 122--powerfull amended to powerful--... we find the following powerful illustrative passage, ... Page 126--Liliputians amended to Lilliputians--... as the Lilliputians did Gulliver. Page 149--Chimera amended to Chimæra--... as to call the Chimæra and Hydra fables, ... Page 150--sufficienly amended to sufficiently--... when the heat became sufficiently great to awaken ... Page 171--adoining amended to adjoining--... and all those parts adjoining do so ... Page 182--my amended to me (confirmed against title page of original publication)--At London by me Gerard Dewes, ... On page 238, the index entries following Hercules and up to Herodotus are out of order. There are also two entries for Heraldic. This has all been preserved as printed. Entries in the Table of Contents, List of Illustrations and Index have been made consistent with the main body text as follows: Page vii--Dragonades amended to Dragonnades--... The Dragonnades ... Page ix--Gerard's amended to Gerarde's--... from Gerarde's "Herbal," ... Page 1--Dragonades amended to Dragonnades--... The Dragonnades ... Page 235--Achmedis amended to Achemedis--Achemedis, herb, 199 Page 235--Achipenser amended to Acipenser--Acipenser, 158 Page 236--Bousetti amended to Boussetti--Boussetti on monsters, 161 Page 236--Brittannica amended to Britannica--"Britannica Concha Anatifera,", 175 Page 237--Cocatrice amended to Cockatrice--Cockatrice, 44 Page 237--Royeaux amended to Royaux--Comptes Royaux of France, 6 Page 238--index entries adjusted so that first mention of Gervase becomes Gervaise. Page 238--omitted page number added to entry for Heraldic dolphin--Heraldic ... dolphin, 156; griffin, ... Page 238--Prudentium amended to Prudentum--Herbert's "Jacula Prudentum," 132; ... Page 239--Pallisir amended to Palliser--"Historic Badges," Palliser, 6 Page 239--Joducus amended to Jodocus--Jodocus Hondius, 95 Page 240--Nixes amended to Nixies--Nixies, 102 Page 240--Nuremberg amended to Nuremburg--"Nuremburg Chronicle," 97 Page 242--Rondolet's amended to Rondelet's--Rondelet's sea-monsters, 161 Page 242--Sinbad amended to Sindbad--Sindbad the Sailor, 69, 138 
48908	----	YOUNG FOLKS' LIBRARY OF CHOICE LITERATURE. LEGENDS OF NORSELAND EDITED BY MARA L. PRATT, Author of "American History Stories," etc. Illustrated by A. CHASE EDUCATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY. BOSTON. NEW YORK. CHICAGO. Copyrighted By EDUCATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 1894. CONTENTS. Page Valkyrie (Frontispiece) 6 The Beginning 7 Ygdrasil 12 Odin at the Well of Wisdom 17 Odin and the All-wise Giant 22 The Stolen Wine. Part I. 28 The Stolen Wine. Part II. 36 Loke's Theft 46 Thor's Hammer 53 The Theft of the Hammer 68 The Finding of the Hammer 76 The Apples of Life. Part I. 84 The Apples of Life. Part II. 97 Loke's Wolf 105 The Fenris-wolf 114 Defeat of Hrungner 121 Thor and Skrymer 132 Thor and the Utgard-King 143 Thor and the Midgard Serpent 155 Valkyries' Song 165 The Dying Baldur 167 The Punishment of Loke 178 The Darkness that fell on Asgard 185 LEGENDS OF NORSELAND. I. THE BEGINNING. In the beginning, when the beautiful and sunny world was first made, there stood, in the very midst of all its beauty, Mt. Ida--a mountain so high, so far away up among the snowy clouds, that its summit was lost in the shining light of the rays of the sun. At its base, stretching away to the north, the south, the east, and the west, as far as even the eyes of the gods could reach, lay the soft, green valleys and the great, broad plain beyond. Encircling the whole great plain, and curling lovingly around in all the little bends and bays of the distant shore, lay the deep blue waters; and beyond the waters, hidden in the distant mists, rose the great mountains in which the frost giants dwelt. On the top of Mt. Ida, the gods had built their shining city, Asgard; and from its golden gateway to the valley below was stretched the richly-colored, rainbow bridge, with its wonderful bars of red and yellow and blue, orange and green, indigo and purple. And in this shining city, where the gods dwelt, there was no sorrow, no grief, no pain of any kind. Never was the sun's light shut off by heavy clouds; never did the cruel lightnings flash, nor came their blights upon the harvest fields; never did the heavy rains fall, nor did the cold winds sweep down upon this shining city. But alas, there came a time when a shadow fell upon this city that shone so like a golden cloud resting upon the mountain peak. For the Fates, the three cruel sisters, came and took up their abode at the foot of the wonderful tree of Life, whose roots were in the earth, and whose branches, reaching high above the shining city, protected it from the sun's fierce heat and strong white light. And from that time even the gods themselves were no longer free from care and sorrow. Envy sprang up among the children of the great god, Odin; sickness, and even death, fell upon them; and the frost giants waged war with them,--a war that would never cease in all the ages that were to come, until that day when the sun's light went out forever, and the dark reign of Ragnarok fell upon the earth. It was a beautiful earth that lay stretched out at the foot of Mt. Ida. The fields were rich with grain; the trees were loaded with fruits; the sun shone warm and bright; but there were no harvesters, no gatherers of the fruit, no children to run and frolic in the sunshine. "The fair earth is desolate," said Odin to himself, as he looked down from his golden temple. "There should be people there, not gods and goddesses like us here upon Mt. Ida, but beings less powerful than we, beings who can love and enjoy, and whose children shall fill the earth with their happy voices. And the care of all these beings shall be mine." As he spoke, he, the All Father, passed down the rainbow bridge, out into the rich, green valley below. As he passed on beneath the trees, he saw standing together, their branches bending towards each other, a straight, strong Ash and a gentle, graceful Elm. "From these trees," said Odin to himself, "will I create the Earth people. The man I will name Ask, and the woman, Embla. It is a beautiful, sunny world: they should be very happy in it. How their children shall delight in the broad fields and the sunny slopes! And no harm shall come to them; for I, the All Father, will watch over them in all the age's to come." II. YGDRASIL. At the base of Mt. Ida stood Ygdrasil, the wonderful tree of Life. Never before nor since was there another such a tree. It had never had a beginning; it had never been young. Not even the oldest man, not even the gods themselves could say, "I remember when this great tree was a tender sapling, I remember when it sent forth its first tiny leaves, and how it rocked, and swayed, and shivered, and bent its timid head as the cold ice king swept over it." For there had never been a time since the beginning of the world when Ygdrasil had not stood there, tall and strong, one great root reaching down, down through the earth to the home of the dead, another stretching away, no one could tell how far, till it reached the home of the terrible giants, so fierce and cruel, so strong, and withal so wise, that even the gods themselves dreaded them and stood ever in terror of their approach. And its branches? So broad, so far reaching, so numerous were these, that they spread themselves protectingly over the whole earth, their top-most leaves rustling and whispering together above the golden palace of the gods, far up on the summit of the cloud-hidden Ida. Nor was this all. Hidden among the dense leaves lived a great white eagle. No one knew whence he came; no one had ever looked upon him; but there he sat, ages upon ages, singing forever the story of the creator of the earth and the wonderful deeds of the gods who dwell in the shining city of Asgard. The leaves of the tree sang sunset songs, and whispered to each other secrets, sometimes sad, sometimes gay, which even the gods, with all their wisdom, could not understand. At the foot of the tree, away down at the end even of the deepest, farthest root, lay the Well of Wisdom. Its waters were black. Sometimes they were very bitter, and few there were who had the courage and the perseverance to search out the hiding-place of this wonderful spring. Then, too, it was guarded by a grim old giant, Memory, who so loved this well, and so dreaded the approach of man or god to its waters, that he would not allow them even to touch their lips to it, until they had sworn to surrender to him whatever thing was dearest in life to them. This was a heavy price to pay for wisdom, and few there were who cared to pay it. "Will you give me your children?" "Will you give me your freedom?" "Will you give me your health?" "Will you give me your tongue, your ears, your eyes?" the old giant would ask of the mortals who came to drink of the waters of the Well of Wisdom. And always, when the mortals heard these questions, they grew pale and trembled with fear. "Go back to your homes," the old giant would thunder, "you desire wisdom it is true; but you are not willing to pay the price for it." Then the mortals would hurry away, their hearts beating with fear, their ears ringing with the thunderous tones of the terrible giant, who, since the earth was made, had sat at the foot of Ygdrasil guarding the secrets from all the world. III. ODIN AT THE WELL OF WISDOM. As Odin looked down from his home in Asgard and saw the people he had made from the ash and the elm trees, he sighed to himself and said, "These are my children. It is I who created them. They are innocent and pure and sweet." "But, alas, how little they know of life. By and by there will come to them danger and sorrow. The Ice King, the cruel tyrant, will breathe upon them, and the harvests will shrivel before their eyes; the rivers will be frozen, the trees will be bare, and there will be no food for them. As the years roll on, little children will come; these children will grow into manhood and womanhood, and other little children will follow. They are but mortals. Sickness and death will be their share; for I could not make them like the gods." And as Odin thought of all these things his heart grew sad. Almost he wished he had not made these helpless beings from the ash and the elm. He looked down into the sunny valley, where as yet no sorrow nor suffering had come. "Poor children!" he sighed. "What a world of wisdom Odin must possess to protect and guide and teach these earth-people that he has made." Just then Ask and Embla paused and looked up towards the shining city; for the sigh from Odin's heart had been so deep and long that the leaves of Ygdrasil had rustled, and a faint echo of it had swept even across the valley below. "What is it that sweeps sometimes across the valley, and moves the trees and the leaves, and so gently fans our cheeks?" asked Embla. "I often wonder," answered Ask. "It is very pleasant. Perhaps it is a message from the good Odin who made us and who gave us this sunny valley to play in." Then on they ran, hand in hand, happy children as they were, and in a moment had forgotten all about it. But Odin had not forgotten. "Frigg," said he to his goddess wife, "it is granted to us as gods to possess great wisdom. Still there remain many things we do not know. Below in the valley there have sprung into being a man and a woman. They are like us, Frigg, but they are not very wise. They need our care, even as our own dear Baldur needed our care when he was a very little child. I shall go to the Giant Memory, who guards the Well of Wisdom, and he shall give me a draught from the wonderful water. Then shall I be the all-wise, all-loving All-Father these children of the valley need." "O, but the price this cruel Giant will ask of you!" sobbed Frigg. "I would give my life for them," answered Odin tenderly. Then he turned from her, passed down the rainbow bridge to the valley, entered the great black, gaping cave and groped his way along the cold, dark passages that led to the Well of Wisdom. Three times the sun rose, three times the sun set. Then, just as the earth and the shining Asgard lay bathed in the rich, golden sunset light, Odin came forth again, passed up the rainbow bridge, and entered the great hall of the gods. "It is Odin," cried Frigg. Yes, it is Odin, the same Odin. But with a face so joyous, so radiant, so happy! For Odin had drank from the Well of Wisdom. The way had been dark; the struggle with the great Giant had been hard. But Odin had conquered; and now the joy that belongs always to the wise was his forevermore. IV. ODIN AND THE ALL-WISE GIANT. Away across the great sea of blue waters that curled about the shores of Midgard, the dwelling place of Odin's earth-children, were the dark, frowning, rock-bound mountains, the castles of the terrible giants whom even the gods feared. One of these giants, Vafthrudner, was known among them as the All-wise. "He is our chief. He is wiser even than the gods of Asgard," the giants sometimes would thunder across the wide blue sea. And indeed it was true; for none among the gods had yet been able to answer his questions; nor could they; neither could they ask of him one that he could not answer. "We will bear the insolence of this giant no longer," said Odin to Frigg. "I will go to him, and the race of giants shall know that at last Wisdom dwells not in Jotunheim but in the golden city of the gods,--the glorious, shining city of Asgard." "Who comes?" thundered Vafthrudner as Odin approached his mountain peak. "It is I--a mere traveller. But as I chanced to be journeying through your country, I heard of your wonderful wisdom. In my own country, far away to the west, I too am accounted somewhat wise. Let us test each other and learn which of us is wiser." "Test each other! Learn which is wiser!" bellowed the great giant, his voice echoing and re-echoing across the sea, until the very walls of the golden hall upon Mt. Ida trembled and the earth-children in the valley below clung to each other in fear. "Whichever one fails forfeits his life. You know that, I trust," added Vafthrudner with a sneer. "I know," answered Odin quietly. "But let us begin. Night will come upon us, and I must reach my home while the Sun-god is still above us." "You will never see your home again; so it matters little whether we begin early or late. However, tell me, foolish, vain earth-child that you are, what river is it that flows between this home of the All-powerful giants and the home of the gods?" "The name of that river is Ifing," answered Odin. "And I can tell you more than that. Because it touches upon the shores of the city of the gods, the Ice King, Njord, has no power over it. His breath cannot freeze it. Year after year, Njord tries to imprison its sparkling waters that you giants may cross upon its crust and attack the shining city. But it will never freeze. You will never cross it. Asgard is forever safe." The giant dropped his mighty jaw. His eyes stared like great suns of fire. His terrible frame trembled. Down came his club upon the floor of his great castle. Again Ask and Embla paled with fear as the valley shook beneath their feet. "Who are you?" roared the All-wise giant. "Who are you that you know that river's name? Who are you that you dare tell me I shall never cross to its farther shore?" "It matters little who I am," answered Odin, his eyes flashing, his beautiful figure growing taller and taller. "But listen now while I whisper into your ear my question." And with a mighty stride Odin crossed to Vafthrudner's throne, leaned forward, seized him by the shoulder, and hissed three words into the gigantic, cave-like ear. What those words were, no man ever knew. Forever they shall remain a secret between Vafthrudner and the All-Father Odin. The giant paled, staggered to his feet, groaned and fell. The walls of the great hall swayed to and fro. The lightning flashed, the thunder pealed from peak to peak. Odin had conquered. The All-Father was now the All-loving and the All-wise too. And as such, was ever after acknowledged by all living creatures,--gods and men, dwarfs and giants. V. THE STOLEN WINE. Part I. There had lain for ages upon ages, hidden away in the great rocky cellar of one of the giant's castles, a cask of wine, which had been stolen from the gods. Never before had the gods been able to learn what had become of it; what giant had stolen it, nor in what castle it was hidden. But now that Odin had become All-wise, nothing could be concealed from him. "I know at last where the wine lies hidden," said Odin one day to his son, Thor; "and I shall set forth to find it." Thor brought down his hammer with a thud. "Let me go with you," cried he, springing up. "And let me fell to the earth with one blow of my magic hammer the giant who has stolen, and has kept hidden all these ages our precious wine." "No;" answered Odin, "this time I must go alone. The wine is guarded day and night, and it will not be easy to bring it away, even when I have found it. But watch for me, dear son. One day there will come, beating its wings against the shining gates of our city, a great white eagle. Do not harm the eagle. Open the gates to him; for that eagle will be Odin, returning with the stolen wine to our city of Asgard." Then Odin put aside his sparkling crown and laid down his sceptre. His wonderful blue mantle, studded with stars and fastened always with a pale crescent moon, he also threw aside, and stepped forth in the garb of a common laborer. "It is in this guise that I shall win my way to the giant's castle," said Odin; and in a second he had passed out from the hall and was gone. It was the giant, Suttung, that had stolen the wine, and it was in his castle that it had lain hidden all these years. Now, of all the strong castles of all the giants, Suttung's castle was the strongest. The cellar was cut into the solid rock. Moreover, three sides of the castle rose in solid walls of granite; while the fourth, no less firm and strong, was built of massive blocks bound with hoops and bars and bolts of strongest iron and steel. Now, Suttung had a brother, Bauge, who was a giant farmer. He kept nine strong slaves, half giants themselves, to do his work for him. As Odin approached the fields of Bauge's farm, he saw the nine men hard at work. "Your scythes are dull," said he, as he drew near. "Yes, but we have no whetstone to sharpen them upon," answered the workmen, the great drops standing out upon their foreheads. "I will sharpen them on mine," said Odin, drawing one from his pocket. "It is a magic whetstone!" cried the men as they saw it work. "Give it to us. We need it more than you. Give it to us. Give it to us." "Take it, then," answered Odin, throwing it high in the air and walking off. "It is mine! It is mine! Let me have it! Give it to me! I will have it! Out of the way! It shall be mine!" screamed and quarreled the nine men as they pushed and crowded, each one determined to catch the whetstone as it came down to earth. At last it fell. Then a fiercer battle followed. The angry men fell upon each other. They dragged and pulled and threw each other to the ground. They pounded each other; they struck at each other with their scythes. On and on they fought. Hour after hour the battle waged; till at last the Sun-god, in sheer dismay at so unloving a sight, hid his face behind the hills, and the nine men lay dead upon the fields. It was an hour later when Odin reached the castle of Bauge. "Can you give me shelter for the night?" he asked, as the giant appeared at the door of his castle. "Yes, I can give you shelter; but you must look elsewhere for your breakfast. A strange thing has happened. My nine slaves, while at work in the field, have fallen in battle upon each other, and have killed each other. Not one of them is left alive to serve me." "They must have been idle, quarrelsome fellows," answered Odin. "They were, indeed," answered Bauge; "but how shall I get my work done without them?" "I will do the work for you," answered Odin. "You! There is but one of you, even if you were willing to try," answered Bauge with but little interest. "But I can do the work of any nine workmen that ever served you." The giant laughed. "A remarkable workman. Pray, do you ask the wages of nine men as well?" "I ask no wages," answered Odin. "I only ask that, as my pay when the work is done, you shall give me a draught of wine from the cask hidden in your brother's cellar." Bauge stared. "How did you know there is a cask in my brother's cellar?" he gasped. "It is enough that I know it," answered Odin coldly. Bauge looked at Odin. "He is better than no man," he thought to himself. "I may as well get what work from him I can, before he finds that no being on earth can enter that cellar or force my brother to give away one drop of that wine." "Very well, you may go to work," he said aloud. "I cannot promise you that we can make our way into my brother's cellar; but I will do what I can to help you." "That is all I ask," answered Odin. "Now let me sleep, for I am tired; and if I am to do nine men's work, I must have nine men's sleep." "And must you have nine men's food?" cried Bauge. "I think it very likely," answered Odin with a queer smile. "Now let me sleep." VI. THE STOLEN WINE. Part II. "What is your name?" asked Bauge of his new workman when they set forth the next morning to the fields. "You may call me Bolverk," answered Odin. "Will one name be enough for all nine of you?" said Bauge with a disagreeable curling of his upper lip. "I will not burden your giant mind with more than one," Odin answered,--a funny little twinkle in his eye. The giant gave a furious grunt. He did not quite know whether his new workman was stupid, or, whether under all his seeming meekness, it might not be that he was making fun of him. Well, Bauge set Bolverk to work, and then, lazy fellow that he was, stretched himself out on a mountain side to watch. "That new workman of mine," he bellowed, calling the attention of a neighbor giant to Odin at work in the field; "do you see him down there among the corn? He says he can do nine men's work." "A workman usually thinks himself equal to any nine other workingmen," roared back the neighbor. "Of course you have agreed to give him nine men's wages?" Then the two giants roared with laughter. They thought they had said a very bright thing, and very likely they had. It is only because you and I are mere earth-children that we do not think so too. As the days went on, Bauge began to laugh less and to wonder more at his strange workman. He worked on quietly from sunrise till sunset. He did not seem to hurry in his work; he did not work over hours. But, strange to say, the work went on, as the workman had promised. No nine men could have done more or could have done it better. It was harvest time when Odin came; the time when Frey, the god of the fields and of all that grows, glides around among his children and covers them over, or gathers in their wealth and beauty. Like the kind, loving father he is, he whispers to them now of Njord who so soon will come, sweeping across the earth, breathing his cold freezing breath upon all the world, and covering it over with the cold white sheet that kills the flowers and the fruits. He teaches his children to curl themselves up beneath the earth until the cruel Njord is gone. For Njord seeks to kill the tiny leaves and buds, and shrivel the radiant flowers, that, through all the long warm summer days, have lifted their faces so brightly to their good friend, the Sun-god. Perhaps it was because Frey and Odin worked together that there were such rare crops, and that the harvesting went on so smoothly. Certain it was that all the fields were cleared, the cellars were filled, and all was ready for the long, cold months to come, when cruel Njord was king. Even Bauge was in good humor. "You are indeed a wonderful workman," he said to Odin, as the last cellar was fastened and he sat down to rest. "You are kind," answered Odin, the funny little twinkle coming again into his eyes. "Perhaps you would be willing to come with me now to your brother, that I may drink from the cask of wine that he keeps so closely guarded in his cellar." Bauge began to feel uncomfortable. "He will not allow either you or me to so much as look upon that wine. You cannot have it." "Bauge," said Odin, growing very tall and godlike, his wonderful eyes flashing with a light like fire, "you promised to do all you could to help me. Come and do as I bid you." Bauge stared. His first thought was to kill the workman on the spot: but there was a something about him, he hardly knew what, that made him, instead, rise and follow Odin to the brother's castle. "Tell me which cellar holds the wine," said Odin when they had reached the brother's mountain. "This one," answered Bauge. "Now take this augur. Make a hole with it through the solid wall." Bauge obeyed like one in a dream. It was a magic augur. How it worked! How the powdered stone flew in a cloud about his face! "This is a very--" Bauge stopped. What had become of his workman? Not a soul was in sight. Odin had disappeared. And to this day the giant never knew what became of him, nor does his brother know who stole his wine from the cellar. The stupid Bauge stood staring, now at the augur, now at the hole in the wall. He saw a little worm climb up the wall and disappear through the hole. That is all he ever saw or ever knew. The little worm laughed to itself as it crept in out of sight. "You are very stupid, Bauge, not to know me." Reaching the inner side of the wall, the little worm stopped to look about. There stood the cask; and beside it sat the daughter of the giant. "Poor girl," said Odin--I mean, said the worm--to himself. "It is a bitter fate to be doomed to sit forever in this wretched dungeon watching your father's stolen treasure. But be happy. Soon you will be free. There will be no wine to watch." The young giantess must have heard his words. For she looked up. There, just in front of the hole, the ray of light falling full upon his golden hair, stood a most beautiful youth. He looked so kindly upon her, and his eyes were so full of pity! Her heart went out to him at once. "I am very tired," said he gently. "So very tired. I have come a long, long distance. My home is far from here. I cannot tell you how far--but very, very far. If you would give me just one draught from the cask of wine." The poor girl, grateful for the sound of a friendly voice, and for the sight of a human face, arose and lifted the lid for him. Odin leaned over the cask. He put his lips to the wine and drank. "You are very thirsty," said the giantess. "Very," answered Odin, drinking on and on. "You are very thirsty," said the giantess again. "Very," answered Odin, still drinking on and on and on. "You are very thirsty," said the giantess again; this time louder, her voice filled with fear. "Very," answered Odin, still drinking on and on and on and on. Nor did he stop till every drop was gone and the cask stood dry and empty. The young giantess, realizing all too late that the wine was stolen, ran to the cellar gateway, shouting as only a giant can shout for help. The gateway flew open. In rushed the giants, Bauge and his brother. "The wine! the wine!" they cried. "Stolen, stolen!" sobbed the giantess, her sobs shaking even the solid cellar walls. "The thief! The thief!" cried the giants. "Where is the thief?" But there was no thief to be found. There stood the empty cask. But the thief? There was no living creature to be seen. No living creature? I should not have said quite that. For there arose from a darkened corner of the cellar a beautiful, great white bird. Its wings brushed against the sides of the gateway as it passed. Then higher and higher, up, up, far, far away beyond the sea, above the clouds it soared, nor rested till its great wings beat against the golden bars of the shining gates of Asgard. VII. LOKE'S THEFT. Thor was the son of Odin. He was a brave young god; and when the frost giants came sweeping down upon the shining city, none were more brave to fight for the protection of Asgard, the beautiful home of the gods, than Thor, the son of Odin. There was another son, Loke. A cruel, wicked, idle, evil-hearted god was he, the sorrow of his father Odin, the grief of his mother Frigg, and the terror of all the gods and goddesses. Over this son the great Odin wept often bitter tears. More bitter still since he had drunk from the Well of Wisdom; for since then knowing, as he did, all things past and future, he knew that a day was yet to come, when, because of this wicked Loke, the light would go out from the earth; damp and cold and darkness would fall upon the shining city; the frost giants would overcome the gods; and there would come an end to all life. Nor was there any escape nor hope for any help. This fate, the Norns had decreed should be; and through the evil-hearted Loke it was to come. In the golden hall of the gods dwelt Thor; and with him, his beautiful wife, Sif. Of all the goddesses there was none like her. Her eyes were of heaven's own blue; and the light in them was borrowed from the stars. Her hair was of yellow, yellow gold; and as it lay massed above her pure white brow, it vied with the golden light of harvest time in softness and rich, deep color. One happy peaceful day, when there was no danger abroad, and rest and peace had spread themselves above the halls of the city of Asgard, Sif lay sleeping. The Sungod's covering of soft warm rays fell upon her, and the leaves of Ygdrasil had spread themselves above her in tender, loving protection. Loke, the idle one, angry and revengeful, as he always was, when happiness and rest and peace had driven out sorrow and care, paced angrily up and down the golden streets, his deep black frowns darkening even the clear, white light of heaven. He came upon the beautiful sleeping wife of Thor. "I hate my brother," he hissed through his cruel teeth. "And how proud he is of this golden hair of Sif's." The wicked light flashed from his deep black eyes. Softly, like a thief, he crept towards the sleeping Sif. He seized the golden hair in his hand. A cruel smile shone over his evil face. "Boast now of your beauty, O Sif," he sneered. "Boast now of your Sif's golden hair, O Thor," he growled. And with one great sweep of his shining knife, he cut from the beautiful head the whole mass of gold. It was late when Sif awoke. The leaves of Ygdrasil were moaning for the cruel deed. The Sun was sinking sorrowfully below the distant mountain peaks. "O my gold! my gold!" sobbed Sif. "O who has stolen from me in my sleep my gold? O Thor, Thor! You were so proud of the gold. It was for you I prized it,--my beautiful, beautiful gold!" At that second the voice of Thor was heard. His heavy call echoed across the skies and pealed from cloud to cloud. He was angry; for he had heard Sif's bitter cry and felt some harm had come to her. "It is Loke that has done this," he thundered; and again his voice rolled from cloud to cloud. The very mountain peaks across the sea in the country of the Frost giants rocked and reeled. The waters foamed and tossed; the scorching lightnings flashed from his eyes; the whole sky was as one great sheet of fire. The earth-children trembled as they had never trembled before. Even Loke, shivering with fear, cowered behind the golden pillars of the great arched gateway. "Forgive me, forgive me!" wailed he, as Thor flashed his great white light upon him. "Out from your hiding place, O coward! Out! Out, or my thunderbolts shall strike you dead." "Spare me, spare me!" groaned Loke. "Only spare me, and I will go down into the earth where the dwarfs do dwell--" "Go!" thundered Thor, not waiting for the wretched god to finish. "Go, and bring back to me a crown of golden threads, woven and spun in the smithies of the dwarfs, that shall be as beautiful, and ten thousand times more beautiful, than the golden crown you have stolen from the head of Sif. Go to them, tell them what you have done, and never again enter the shining gateway of the city of our Father Odin until you bring the crown." Loke slunk away, the thunders of the wrath of Thor slowly, slowly following him. The lightnings flashed dully across the skies. The low rumbling of thunder, distant but threatening, warned Loke that the wrath of Thor was not appeased, neither would it be, nor would there be any return to Asgard for the evil doer, until the crown of gold was won. VIII. THOR'S HAMMER. It was away down in the underground caves, and beneath the roaring waters of the rivers, and deep in the hearts of the mountains that these dwarf workmen dwelt, and worked their smithies, and spun their gold and brass. "Make me a crown of gold for Sif the wife of Thor," snarled Loke, bursting in upon the workshop of the dwarfs. The dwarfs were ugly little creatures, with crooked legs, and crooked backs. Their eyes were black, wicked little beads of eyes, and their hearts were malicious and sometimes cruel. But they were the willing and ready slaves of the gods; and so, at even this ill-natured command from Loke, they set themselves to work. The coals burned and blazed; the forges puffed and blew; the little workmen moulded and turned and spun their gold. Hardly had the Sun-god lifted his head above the castles of the frost giants, hardly had his light fallen upon the rich colors of the rainbow bridge, when Loke came forth from the underground caves, the shining crown in his hand. Quickly he rose high in the air and stood before the gates of the city. "Have you brought the crown?" thundered Thor from within the gates. "I have brought the crown," answered Loke in triumph. "And more than that," added he, when the gates had been opened to him, "I have brought as gifts from the dwarfs, a ship that will sail on land or sea and a spear that never fails. O there are no such workmen among any dwarfs as these who made the spear, the ship and the crown." "You boast of what you do not know," croaked Brok, a little dwarf who stood near by. "Who says I do not know?" cried Loke, turning sharply. "I say you do not know," croaked the little dwarf again, his beadlike eyes snapping angrily, his whole crooked frame quivering with rage. "I have a brother, a workman in brass and gold, who can make gifts more pleasing to the gods than any you have brought." Loke looked down upon the little dwarf in scorn. "Go to your brother," he sneered, "and bring to us the wonderful things you think he can make. Bring us one gift more wonderful than these I have, or more acceptable to Odin and Thor, and I will give your brother my head to pay him for his efforts." Then Loke roared with laughter, believing that he had made a rare, rich joke. Hardly had the roars of laughter died away, when Brok, gliding down the rainbow bridge with a swiftness equalled only by the lightning, sprang into Midgard, and was making his way towards the great mountain, beneath which worked the forges of his brother, the master-workman--Sindre. "Some one cometh," said the dwarfs, pausing in their work to listen, their busy hammers in mid-air. "Fear not," answered Brok, his harsh voice echoing down the great halls. "It is I--Brok--and I come to demand of you that now, if never again, you do your best; for Loke boasts to the gods of Asgard that no dwarfs in all the caverns of the under-world can make one gift more wonderful or more acceptable to Odin than those he brings--a crown of gold, a ship that will sail on land or sea, and a spear that never fails!" A terrible roar burst forth from the hosts of angry dwarfs. "We will see! We will see!" they thundered. And seizing their hammers they set to work. The great forges blazed. The sparks flew. The smoke poured forth from the mountain top. Loke, looking out from the shining city, trembled. Well did he know the workmanship of these dwarfs of Brok; and well did he know how rash had been his scornful promise to the angry little dwarf. "We will make a hammer for Thor," said Sindre, the greatest among the workmen in this under world; "a hammer, that when thrown from his mighty hand, shall ring through all the heavens. A trail of fire shall follow it. Its aim shall never fail; and it shall carry death and destruction wherever it falls. "Blow thou the bellows, Brok; and I myself will mould the hammer from the red hot iron." With Brok at the bellows, the very mountain rocked, and Midgard for miles about was ablaze with the blaze of light from the mountain top. "This shall not be," snarled Loke. And rushing down from Asgard he crouched outside the great, black cave to listen. "A hammer for Thor!" Those were the words he heard. The ugly face grew uglier. An instant, and there was no Loke at the cavern mouth; but instead, a poisonous, stinging gadfly, whose green back glistened, and whose shining wings buzzed and hummed with cruelty and revenge. There was a hard, ringing tone of defiance in their singing, and the tone was like that of the voice of Loke himself. "You shall drop the bellows," buzzed the gadfly bitterly, as it alighted upon the neck of Brok. It was a cruel sting; and its poison forced, even from the sturdy Brok, a cry of pain. "I know you. It is Loke," he cried; "but I will not drop the bellows though you sting me through and through and with a thousand stings!" The gadfly buzzed with rage. Straight towards the hand upon the bellows it darted. Brok groaned again. His face grew pale; he quivered with the pain; still he held the mighty bellows and worked the roaring forge. "You will not!" hissed the gadfly; and again it drove its poison sting, this time straight between the eyes of the suffering dwarf. And now Brok staggered. His hands relaxed their hold. Blinded with pain, he dropped the bellows. The blood ran down his face. The gadfly still hummed and buzzed. "You have nearly spoiled it," cried Sindre. "Why did you drop the bellows? See how short the handle is! And how rough! But it cannot be helped now; nor will its terror be any less to Loke. Ha, ha, I would have made it handsome; but there is a power in it that shall make even the gods tremble in all the ages to come. Hurry away with it, and place it in Thor's mighty hands. And here are other gifts. Take them all, and bring me Loke's head. He has promised. Surely even he must keep his word, wicked and deceitful though he is." Brok seized the hammer, and, with the gifts, hurried up through the dark cavern, out into the light of Midgard, up the rainbow bridge, and, with triumph in his swarthy face, sprang into the presence of the great god Odin. Loke roared with laughter at the sight of the awkward, clumsy hammer; but there was a proud, confident look in the dwarf's shining eyes that Loke did not like; and, coward that he was, his heart began already to fail him. "Let us see the gifts," said Odin, "that we may judge which workman among the dwarfs has proved himself most wonderful." "First of all," said Loke, coming forward, "Here is the golden crown for Sif." Eagerly Thor seized the crown, and placed it upon poor Sif's head. "Wonderful! wonderful!" cried all the gods, for straightway the golden hair began to grow to Sif's head, and in a second it was as if her golden locks had never been stolen from her. "To you, O Odin," said the dwarf, now coming forward, "I give this ring of gold. It is a magic ring; and each night it will cast off from itself another ring, as pure and as heavy, as round and as large as itself." "What is that," sneered Loke, "compared with this? See, O Father Odin, I bring you a magic spear. Accept this, my second gift. It is a magic spear that never fails." "But behold my second gift," interrupted Brok. "It is a boar of wonderful strength. It, too, is magic. No horse can run, no bird can fly with such speed. It travels both on land and sea; and in the night its bristles shine with such a light, that it matters not how dense the blackness, the forest or the plain will be as bright as noonday." "I, too, have a gift that will travel on land or sea," cried Loke, pushing himself forward again. "See, it is a ship. And not only will it travel on land or sea, but it can lift itself and sail like a bird above the clouds and through the air." "It will be hard indeed to say which gift is greatest," said Odin kindly. "Look now, O, Odin, and Frigg and Thor and Sif and all the gods, at this the last of my three gifts. This hammer, O Thor, I bring to you, the god of thunder. Strike with it, and your thunders shall echo and re-echo from cloud to cloud as never they were heard before. Thrown into the air or at a foe, like Loke's spear, it shall never miss its aim; but, more than that, it shall return always to the hand of Thor. No foe can conceal it, no foe can destroy it. It will never fail thee, O Thor, thou god of thunder." "But what a clumsy handle," sneered Loke, who already began to fear the hammer was to win the favor of the gods. "Yes," answered Brok, "the handle is clumsy and it is short. But none knows better than you why it is so." Loke colored and moved uneasily. "Do not think," continued Brok, "that I do not know it was you who sent the poisonous gadfly to sting and bite me as I worked at the blazing forge, pounding out the brass and gold from which this hammer is made. "You thought to pain me into giving up this contest, you coward! you evil one! you boaster! "When the handle was welded just so far, you drove the gadfly into my eye. I could not see to finish the work; but although the handle is short and clumsy, the magic power is there, and with it in his hand, no power in earth or among the frost giants even can overcome our great god Thor." A ringing shout of joy arose from the gods. Thor swung his hammer over his head and threw it far out against the clouds. The thunder rolled, the clouds filled with blackness, and the lightnings flashed, as the magic hammer, humming through the air, came back to the hands of Thor. "Now give me my wager," cried Brok. "I was promised the head of Loke." "Take it," laughed Loke. "Take it." Brok drew near. "I will take it," he hissed through his set teeth; "and a rich day will it be both in Midgard and in Asgard when your miserable head is bound down in the home of the dwarfs of the underground world." "But halt," commanded Loke. "My head you may have; but you must not touch my neck. One drop of blood from that, and you forfeit your life." Brok stood for a moment white with anger. He knew that he was foiled. Then springing forward, he thundered, "I may not touch your neck; but see, I have my revenge." And so, falling upon Loke, who struggled, but struggled in vain, he whipped from his mantle a thong and thread of brass; and before even Loke knew what had been done, he had sewed, firm together, the lying boasting lips of the evil god, Loke, the wicked-hearted son of Odin. XI. THE THEFT OF THE HAMMER. It was to the sweet and loving god Baldur that the earth owed its warmth and beauty, its rich fruit and its rare harvests. How the frost giants hated Baldur, and how they struggled year after year to wrest the earth from him! They hated the warmth Baldur brought with him, for it destroyed their power. They hated the sweet flowers and the soft grass and the tiny leaves that everywhere peeped out when the winds whispered, "Baldur is coming, Baldur is coming." But no sooner had Baldur turned away and said, "Good-bye, dear Earth, for a little time, remember Baldur loves you and will come back again to you," than the frost giants would creep out from their mountain gorges, and burst forth upon the fields and forests. The tiny bubbling brooks they would seal with their cruel chains of ice; even the great rivers could not hold their freedom against the giant power. Like angry fiends they would seize upon the leaves and tear them from the trees. The tiny flowers hung their heads and shriveled with fear when they approached; nor were the frost giants content until the whole earth lay brown and cold and barren beneath their hand. Then, all beauty swept away, they covered over all, their silent sheet of snow, and stood, grim sentinels, cold and hard, guarding their work of destruction and desolation. There was deep silence when the frost giants reigned; no sound was heard save the sad moaning among the branches of the forest, as the firs and pine trees bent towards each other and whispered of the days when Baldur shone upon them. But the frost giants never yet had conquered; never yet had Baldur failed to return to the trees and flowers and rivers and streams that he loved so well. At his first step upon the ice, a crackling sound was heard--a sound which awoke the sleeping earth and warned the frost giants to flee to their mountains. "Baldur has come! Baldur has come!" the birds and every living thing would cry; and a rustle and sound of music would thrill the waiting earth. Then came always a mighty battle. The frost giants lashed the waters and rocked the trees. The winds shrieked, the sky grew cold and black. The snows fell and the driving rain beat against the earth. But Baldur, the quiet, firm, loving Baldur always conquered. How, he himself could hardly tell. He did not fight; he did not storm. He only bent his shining face over the struggling earth and waited. Little by little, when their fury was spent, the frost giants, defiant but conquered, retreated. The great sheets of ice broke up, and the rivers rushed forth singing their mad songs of joy and freedom. The snows faded away, and one by one the little flowers peeped forth again. All now was happiness and warmth and fragrance; the flowers bloomed; the fruits turned mellow; the sky grew warm; and the pines and fir trees breathed deep sighs of rest and contentment that once again sweet Baldur was among them. And not only did the frost giants hate Baldur, but they hated Frey, who often robbed them of the fruits and flowers they loved to breathe their bitter breath upon and kill. Thor, too, they hated; for with his magic hammer, he now, more than ever, loved to bring forth the lightnings and the thunder, and to send down upon the earth refreshing showers of soft, warm rain. As the frost giants scowled down from their icy castles, and saw the little flowers turn up their happy faces to drink in the sparkling drops, and heard the birds trill their happy songs, and smelled the rich fragrance of the damp firs and pines, they roared with anger and vexation. "Let us revenge ourselves upon this insolent Thor who robs us of our rights," they bellowed to each other across the great valleys that separated their giant peaks. "We can do nothing so long as he holds the magic hammer," growled one. "We must steal the hammer from him," shouted another. "Steal the hammer! Steal the hammer!" shouted all the giants until the very skies echoed with the words. "And I will be the one to steal it," bellowed Thrym, the strongest and greatest giant of them all. "And, moreover, I will go at once to the city of Asgard. The gods are asleep. With my great eye, I can see even now the hammer lying beside the sleeping Thor. Guard my castle. I am gone." And putting on the guise of a great bird, Thrym spread his wings and flew across the black night to Asgard. The gods shivered in their sleep as he entered and breathed his breath upon the summer air of heaven, but knew not what had chilled them. In the morning there was a heavy frost upon the gateways. There was a chill in the air. For Thrym, the frost giant, had crept in upon them. He had crept even to the hall in which the mighty Thor was sleeping. He had crept close beside the mighty god--and the magic hammer was gone. XII. THE FINDING OF THE HAMMER. "My hammer! My hammer!" thundered Thor, awaking and finding it gone. The gods in all Asgard awoke with a start. "What a crash of thunder! So quick, so sharp!" cried the earth-people; for they did not know it was a cry of rage from Thor. "Loke," thundered Thor again. "Put you on wings. Go you to the home of the Frost giants and bring back my hammer. Some one of them has stolen it. Go! Go! I say." And Loke, who had been a very obedient servant to Thor since his theft of the golden hair of Sif, put on the magic wings and fled away. "What brings you here in the land of the Frost giants?" growled Thrym, as Loke alighted before him. "I have come for the hammer you have stolen from Thor," answered Loke boldly, seeing at once, from the jeering look in Thrym's eye, that he was the thief. "You will never find it," sneered Thrym. "It is well hidden; but I will send it back to you if Odin will send me Freyja for my wife." Loke begged and coaxed and threatened; but it was all of no avail. "Never," bellowed Thrym, "until you send Freyja to me." "She shall go," thundered Thor, when Loke came back to Asgard. "Whatever the price, the hammer must be brought back. Asgard is not safe without it." But Freyja was as fierce as had been Thrym himself. "I will not go," she insisted. "Never! Never! Never will I go!" "I say you must," thundered Thor. But although Thor's thunders were terrible and his frown was deep and inky black, Freyja was not to be moved either by pleading or threatening. "Go yourself," said she. "Dress yourself as a goddess and go." Nor would she listen even to another word. Thor thundered and rumbled and rolled. It was all of no avail. Freyja was a goddess and would not be driven. "I will go," said Thor at last. "Bring me a bridal dress. Hang a necklace around my neck. Bind a bridal veil about my head. The giants are as stupid as they are large; and I will set forth in the name of Freyja to meet the giant Thrym." Thor was quickly dressed, and the bridal party set forth across the sky in the chariot of the Sungod. How the thunder rolled! How the lightnings flashed from the angry eyes of Thor! How he grumbled and rumbled! Jotunheim was reached. The Sungod lowered his chariot behind the hills; and a soft, red light spread over the earth and sky as the bridal party entered the castle of the giant Thrym. "Freyja has come! Freyja has come!" bellowed Thrym. "Come, come, everyone to the bridal feast! Come, come to the feast of Thrym and Freyja!" The giants in all the mountains round about answered to the call of Thrym. An hour, and the huge castle was filled with the huge guests. A great feast was held. But through it all Thor sat silent and motionless. Indeed, he dared not move; he dared not speak lest the thunder burst forth from his lips, or the lightning shoot forth from his eyes. "Now lift the veil from Freyja's face," bellowed Thrym, when all save the bride herself had eaten and drank their fill. "Let me see the eyes of my bride. Let us all look upon the face of my goddess bride." "Not yet," whispered Loke coming forward; "it was the command of Thor that the veil should not be lifted, nor should you claim Freyja for your own, until the hammer was placed in her hand, to be returned to the gods." "Bring in the hammer! Bring in the hammer!" roared Thrym, full of loud, good humor. The hammer was brought. Hardly could Thor wait to have it placed in his hand. His thunder began to rumble. There was a dangerous light in his eyes; but Thrym and the guests saw none of this. But hardly was the hammer within his reach when forth Thor sprang, seized it in his clutched fingers, tore aside the bridal veil, and with a rumble and a roar that shook the mountains of Jotunheim and razed the great stone castles to the ground, he poured out his lightnings upon the giants, one and all. Right and left he swung the mighty weapon; the giants quaked and trembled with terror; Thrym ran and hid himself behind a mountain; the air was white with lightning; the hills rang with the crashings of the thunder; the seas lashed and foamed and answered back the echoes; the walls of Jotunheim shook and trembled. And now the chariot of the Sungod was near at hand. Into it Thor and Loke leaped, and were borne back to the city of the gods. The hammer was restored. Again Thor held it in his mighty grasp. He held it, and Asgard once more was safe. XIII. THE APPLES OF LIFE. Part I. Among the gods in Asgard, dwelt the beautiful Idun, the goddess whose care it was to guard the apples of life. "Idun," Odin had said as he gave into her hands the rosy apples, "to guard these apples and keep them forever from all harm, is to do a greater service for Asgard than even Thor, with his mighty thunders, or Baldur, with his warm light, can do; for these are the apples of everlasting youth. Without them, what would Asgard be more than the cities of Midgard or of Jotunheim? What would the gods be more than the mortals of Midgard or the giants of Jotunheim? So guard them well, beautiful Idun, for to them you owe your beauty, even as we owe to them our never fading youth." One day, when all was quiet and peaceful and happy in the city of Asgard, Loke, feeling within him the stirring of his own evil heart, betook himself to Midgard in search of mischief. The peace and quiet of Asgard he could no longer endure. Then, too, it was to him a cruel delight to shoot his arrows into the lives of the helpless children of Midgard and make them sad. O, Loke was a cruel god! "Surely," Odin would sometimes say, as he looked upon him and thought of the wretchedness that yet would fall on Asgard through Loke's wicked deeds, "surely, Loke has the spirit of a Frost giant; and the Frost giants are bitter, bitter foes to Asgard." This day Loke longed for mischief. "I will go down to Midgard and find some happy heart to sadden," said he, his eyes shining with their wicked light. Down the rainbow bridge he hastened, and, with a light bound, sprang upon a bright tree in the beautiful land of Midgard. "Who are you?" cried he, seeing in the tree beside him a great, white bird. But the bird made no reply; he only winked, and blinked, and stared at Loke, and crooned, and pruned his feathers. "Do you not know a god speaks to you?" stormed Loke, growing angry even with a bird. Still no answer. "Was ever there such a stupid bird? Indeed, like the people of Midgard, you seem to have no wisdom," sneered Loke. And determined to vent his evil mood, he seized a branch and began to beat the bird. Then a strange thing happened. The bird, who all this time had seemed so stupid--too stupid even to fly away--now seized upon the bough and held it fast. Loke pulled and pulled with all his godlike strength. He could not move it; it was as if held in the grasp of a giant. "Stupid bird!" sneered Loke, when he found he could do the bird no harm. "I will not stay in the tree with such a stupid creature." A strange sound--almost like a laugh of triumph--squeezed itself out from the beak of the big bird. "Go, Loke, go at once. Go back to Asgard; or perhaps you would like to go with me to Jotunheim," spoke the bird at last. And as he spoke, he spread his wings, and arose high in the air. Alas, alas for Loke, as the bird rose, he rose too; nor could he free himself. He screamed, he fought, he begged, he strove with all his godlike arts to free himself, but all in vain. On, on they flew, the bird and Loke, across the sky, over and under and between the clouds, across the great wide sea, at last across the snow-white peaks, down, down to a castle in Jotunheim, in the land of the mighty Frost giants, the terrible, the dreaded enemies of the gods. "Let me free! Let me free!" foamed Loke, struggling against the bird, whose magic held him fast. "I will never let you free," answered the bird, throwing off his disguise and standing forth a giant foe; "I will never let you free except on one condition." "I grant it! I grant it! Whatever it is, I grant it," cried the coward, caring for nothing but to free himself. "The condition is this," continued the giant coolly: "I will let you free if you will bring me, without delay, the apples of everlasting youth--the apples that Idun guards and watches over, locked so closely in the golden casket in the city of Asgard." Loke stared. He caught his breath. To give up the apples of life--the fruit by which the gods were kept forever young and strong and beautiful,--that was too great a thing to ask even of Loke, evil as he was. "There are no such apples," answered he, trying, as cowards always do, to hide himself behind a lie. "There are no such apples." "Very well," answered the giant, opening a great dungeon door, and thrusting Loke in. "When you are ready to do what I say, you may come out; never until then." The great dungeon door creaked upon its terrible hinges and Loke was alone, a prisoner, at the mercy of the Frost giant. Loke howled and beat against the walls of the dungeon. "Are you ready to do what I asked of you?" asked the Frost giant, opening the great door the next morning. "There are no such apples," cried Loke. "On my honor as a god, I swear it!" The giant made no reply. The heavy door creaked again, and Loke was alone. "Are you ready to do what I asked of you?" asked the Frost giant, opening the great door the second morning. "Anything in all Asgard, O Giant, I promise you--anything but the apples," cried Loke. The giant made no reply. The heavy door creaked again, and Loke was alone. "Are you willing to do what I asked of you?" asked the Frost giant, opening the great door the third morning. "One of the apples, O Giant, I might steal from Idun and escape with before the fruit was missed," Loke began. The giant made no reply. The heavy door creaked again and Loke was alone. "Are you ready to do what I asked of you?" asked the Frost giant, opening the great door the fourth morning. "Yes, two of the three apples will I promise to bring you. With even one left, the gods might be content; for even then their lives would be far longer than the life of mortals." The giant made no reply. The heavy door creaked again and Loke was alone. "Are you ready to do what I asked of you?" asked the Frost giant, opening the great door the fifth morning. "Yes," answered Loke, meekly. "You are willing to bring the apples of life?" "Yes." "And you will bring all three of them?" "Yes." "And you will bring them at once?" "Yes." "Go, then. I will go with you. Outside the walls of the shining city I will wait for you to bring the apples to me." Then putting on the guise of birds, the two set forth, reaching the gateway of the city just as the Sungod was pouring down his flood of red and golden light upon the shining spires. The whole city lay bathed in the sunset splendor. "Idun," said Loke, going directly to her, "it is well you guard so closely these golden apples of life. Without them we should grow old and die, even as wretched mortals grow old and die." "Indeed, it would fare ill with us if harm came to these precious apples," answered Idun. "See the rich bloom upon them. If that were lost, then would our bloom be lost as well, and we should grow old and wrinkled." "Yes," answered Loke; "and still--it seems very strange--but outside the gate of our city, just on the outer walls, are growing apples, looking so like these I cannot tell them one from the other. Bring your apples with you and let us see if they are alike. If they should prove to be, then I will gather them for you, and we will put them all together in the golden casket." "How strange!" thought Idun innocently. The Frost giant, in his great bird guise, wheeled round and round, impatiently awaiting the coming of Idun and the apples. Hardly had the gates closed upon her, when down he swooped, seized her in his great strong beak, and flew with her across the sea to his home among the mountains. The days rolled on and on. The Sungod rose, and drove his chariot across the sky, and sank behind the distant purple hills a thousand times. There was a gloom, a shadow over Asgard; for the gods were growing old. The life had gone out of their eyes; their smooth round faces had grown thin and peaked; their step was halting, and the feebleness of age was falling upon them. "It is Loke who has done this," thundered Thor one day, when, from old age and weakness, he had been defeated in a battle with the now ever youthful giants. "It is Loke who has done this, and we will bear it no longer. Look at Odin; even he grows weak and bent and trembling. He is like the old men in Midgard. He, Odin, the All-father." Thor's indignation waxed stronger and stronger. He set forth in search of Loke. "I will not even wait for him to come," he thundered, seizing his hammer and setting forth. "I shall find him, the evil-hearted, somewhere making mischief among the innocent people of Midgard," said he. XIV. THE APPLES OF LIFE. Part II. "Henceforth, O evil-hearted, cruel Loke," burst forth the angry Thor, "henceforth Thor guards the walls of Asgard. Midgard, the skies, he shall forsake; no more will he brew storms; never shall the thunder roll nor the lightnings flash; for Thor will watch forever upon the battlements of Asgard the approach of the evil god who has brought such grief upon us. Never shall he enter the gates of the city again. Let him dare approach even to the golden gates, and Thor will smite him with his mighty hammer." Loke quailed before the fury of the great god Thor. To be an outcast from Asgard, even he could not bear. "Spare me, spare me!" whined the cowardly Loke. "Spare me once more, and I will go again to Jotunheim. I will bring back Idun and the three apples of life." Thor stood looking at the cowardly Loke. He longed to strike him with the hammer; to kill him with his thunder bolt; to scorch him with his lightning arrows. But, evil as he was, Loke was immortal; he was the son of Odin. "Go, then, you mischief-making, evil-hearted son of unhappy Odin! Go; and whether success is yours or not, remember Thor guards the walls of Asgard and watches with his thunders for your return. Never, never, as long as Thor wields the mighty hammer, and holds the powers of thunder and lightning, shall Loke enter the golden city without the golden apples of immortal life." Without another word, Loke put on his guise of a great white bird and sped across the sea and sky, again to the land of Jotunheim. Straight down he swooped upon the castle of the giant who, all this time, had kept Idun imprisoned in a strong walled tower of solid rock. The giant was out upon the sea. "And it is well for me," thought Loke, "that he is. No power in Midgard or in Asgard could wrest these precious apples from the giant's grasp." One quick look out over the mountains and down upon the sea, and Loke seized Idun in his talons, changed her at once into a nut, the apples safe within the shell, and swept away towards Asgard. But alas for Loke! The giant had heard the whirr of the great white wings. Leaping to his feet in his boat, he scanned the sky with his sharp giant eye. "It is Loke! It is Loke!" bellowed he, catching sight of the great white bird among the clouds. "It is Loke! It is Loke! No bird of Midgard flies so high nor sweeps the air with such mighty wings." With one great giant pull, he shot his boat upon the shore; with one great giant bound he struck the mountain top. "The apples of life! the apples of life!" he thundered. "Gone! gone! The apples of life are gone!" One second, and putting on the guise of a great grey eagle he shot up into the sky in swift pursuit of Loke. The Sungod hid his chariot behind a cloud that the shadows might protect and cover Loke. Thor sent forth his thunder. The skies blackened; the wind beat back the great grey eagle; the lightnings staggered and blinded him. Still on and on he flew, gaining in spite of all upon the track of Loke. Every eye in Asgard was strained; every giant in Jotunheim stood breathless upon his mountain. The great round faces of the giants grew tense; the wrinkled aged faces of the gods grew pale. It was a terrible race. It was a race for life and health and everlasting youth. "Build fires upon the walls! Heap up the brush! Stand ready with the tapers!" cried Odin, who foresaw the end. The brush is heaped. Each god stands ready, his haggard face growing whiter and thinner with fright and dread and eagerness. Already the rush of Loke's wings are heard. The eagle follows close. Nearer and nearer they come, closer and closer is the race. One moment more!--One second!--The frightened eyes of Loke can be seen, so near he is. Thor sends his blinding fire once more across the eagle's track. It reels, for an instant it falls back. In that one second, with one last mighty stroke, Loke clears the walls and falls, exhausted, breathless, almost dead upon the golden pavement of the city. "The fires! the fires! the fires!" cried Odin. An instant, and there rises from the walls great sheets of blaze. The brush crackles and snaps and sends up great tongues of fire. The eagle, angry, desperate, and blinded by the lightning sweeps on, straight towards them. Like a foolish moth, he bears down upon the city, into the very heart of the blaze. A sudden crackling, a cry of pain, a cloud of black, black smoke, and the great grey eagle falls a helpless mass upon the pavement beside the breathless Loke. The haggard faces flush with hope and joy. The apples are safe. Idun has come back, the apples again are theirs, and life and joy and eternal youth once more are with them. Now the goddess of music bursts forth again in song; the god of poetry pours forth his melody; a feast is spread, and the gods and goddesses once more eat of the wonderful apples of life. The color comes back into their faded cheeks; light again flashes from their eyes. Youth and health and strength are theirs again. Peace reigns once more in Asgard. XV. LOKE'S WOLF. Although the Apples of Life had been brought back, and although Loke appeared for some time very penitent and willing to obey the laws of the kind Odin, the gods had little faith in him. More than that, so much had they suffered, that now they were in constant fear of him. "We never know," plead Freyja and Sif and Idun, all of whom had good reason to fear him, "what mischief he may be planning." And so it came about that Loke was driven forth from Asgard, as indeed he deserved to be. Straight to the home of the giants Loke went--he always had been a giant at heart, the evil creature!--and was much more in harmony with them in their thoughts and acts, than ever he had been with the gods whom he claimed as his people. But now that he was cast out from Asgard, and could no longer share its beauties and its joys, he had but one wish--that was, to be revenged upon the gods, to destroy them, and to ruin their golden city. To do this he raised two dreadful creatures. Terrible monsters! Even the gods shuddered as they looked upon them. "Loke! Loke!" thundered Odin, looking down upon him in wrath that he should dare such vengeance. But Loke stood defiant. There was but one thing to be done, so the gods thought; and that was to take these terrible creatures from Loke's power. "The serpent we will cast into the sea," said Thor. "But the wolf--what shall we do with the wolf? Certainly he cannot be left to wander up and down in Midgard. The sea would not hold him. Loke must not have him in Jotunheim. What shall be done with him?" "Kill him," said some. "No," answered Odin. "To him Loke has given the gift of everlasting life. He will not die as long as we the gods have life. There is but one way left open to us; and that is to bring the wolf into Asgard. Here we can watch him and keep him from much, if not all the evil he would do." And so the wolf--the Fenris-wolf he was called--was brought into the home of the gods. He was a dreadful creature to look upon. His eyes were like balls of fire; and his fangs were white, and sharp, and cruel. Every day he grew more terrible. Fiercer and fiercer he grew, and larger and stronger and more dreadful to look upon. "What is to be done with him?" asked Odin one day, his face white with despair, as he looked upon the wolf, and realized what sorrow by and by he would bring among them. "Kill him!" cried one. "Send him to Jotunheim," cried another. "Chain him," thundered Thor. And indeed to chain him seemed really the only thing that could be done with him. "We will make the chains this night," said Thor. And at once the great forge was set in motion. All night long Thor worked the forge, hammering with his mighty hammer the links that should make a chain to hold the Fenris-wolf. Morning came. The gods were filled with hope as they saw the great heap of iron. "Now we shall be safe. Now we shall be free," they said; "for no creature living can break the irons that the god of Thunder forges." The wolf growled and showed his wicked teeth as Thor approached and threw the chain about him. He knew the gods hated him and feared him. He knew, too, that, with his wondrous strength, even the chains of Thor were not too strong for him to break. So, snarling and showing his fangs and lashing his tail, he allowed himself to be bound. "They are afraid of me," the cruel wolf grinned. "And well they may be; there is a power in me that even they do not yet dream of." The chains were tightly fastened, and the gods waited eagerly for the wolf to test his strength with them. Now, the wolf knew well enough that there were no chains that could hold him. "I will amuse myself," said he to himself, "by tormenting the gods." So he glared at the chains with his fiery eyes, sniffed here and there at them, lifted one paw and then the other, bit at them with his sharp teeth, and clawed at them with his strong claws; setting up now and then a howl that echoed, like the thunders of Thor, from cloud to cloud across the skies. The faces of the gods grew brighter and brighter. They looked at each other and hope rose high in their hearts. "We are saved!" they whispered to each other. "Hear how he howls! He knows he cannot break chains forged in the smithy of the mighty Thor." But Odin did not smile. He knew only too well that the wolf was amusing himself; and that when the gods were least expecting it, he would spring forth and shatter the links of the mighty chain, even as a mortal might shatter a chain of straw. "Conquered at last, you cruel Fenris-wolf!" thundered Thor, lifting his hammer in scorn, to throw at the helpless wolf. "The Fenris-wolf is never conquered," hissed the wolf; and with one bound he leaped across the walls of Asgard, down, down across the skies to Midgard, the links of the chains scattering like sparks of fire as he flew through the air. "See! See!" cried the people of Midgard, as they saw the fiery eyes of Fenris gleam across the sky. "See! A star has fallen! A star has fallen into the sea!" For the people of Midgard cannot understand the wonders of the heavens and the mysteries of the gods. The gods stood, wonder-struck. Their faces were pale with fright. The brow of Thor grew black and stern. Odin looked pityingly upon them all. "Lose not your courage," said he kindly. "The Fenris-wolf shall yet be bound; and there shall yet remain to us ages upon ages of happiness and freedom from his wicked power. Go now to the dwarfs who work their forges in the great mines beneath the mountains of Midgard. They shall make for you a magic chain that even Fenris cannot break." Hardly were the words out of Odin's mouth when Thor set forth upon the wings of his own lightning, to the home of the dwarfs, to do the bidding of Odin the All-wise. XVI. THE FENRIS WOLF. With wonderful speed the chain was forged; and when the Sun-god lifted his head above the hills, to send forth his light again across the fields of Midgard, the first sight that greeted his return was Thor, a great mass of golden coil within his hand, speeding up the rainbow bridge to Asgard. It was a tiny chain--hardly larger than a thread; but in it lay a magic strength. Entering the great golden gate, Thor saw the Fenris wolf, again creeping stealthily up and down the streets. Thor's hand shut tight upon the handle of his hammer. It was hard to believe that a blow from the hammer would not slay the wicked creature. For an instant Thor's face grew black. Then forcing a smile, and showing to the wolf the mass of gold, he said, "Come Fenris; come with me into the hall. There the gods are to meet and test our strength upon this magic coil. Whoever breaks it, and so proves himself the strongest, is to win a prize from the great All-father Odin." The wolf stretched back his cruel lips, and showed his sharp fangs of teeth. He did not speak; but his wicked grin said, "You do not deceive the Fenris-wolf." Together Thor and the Fenris-wolf entered the presence of Odin and the gods and goddesses. "I have," said Thor, "a magic coil. It is very strong. The dwarfs made it for me; and Odin has promised a great prize to the one who shall be strong enough to break its links. Come, let us try." Then the gods--for they all understood what Thor was about to do--sprang forward, seizing the coil, pulling and twisting it in every way and in every direction, coiling it about the pillars of the hall, and hanging by it from the arches; until at last, tired out and breathless, they sank exhausted upon the golden floors. "Fenris," called Thor. "Now is your time to prove to us what you have so often said--that you are stronger than we. Try if you can break this golden thread which, small as it is, has proved too strong for the strength of the gods." The wolf growled. He did not care to risk even his strength in a magic coil. He growled and slunk away. "What! Fenris, are you a coward? After all your boasted strength, why is it that you shrink from a contest in which the gods have willingly taken part? Do you mean to say that, because the gods have been defeated, you fear that you, too, may be defeated?" The wolf halted. He looked back at the gods and growled a long, low growl. The words of Thor had stung his pride. Thor laughed. "O Fenris, Fenris! this is your boasted strength! your boasted courage! To slink away in a contest with the gods--the gods at whose strength you have always sneered and scoffed." "Fenris is a coward!" cried all the gods; and the heavens echoed with their laughter. This was more than the wolf could bear. Back he sprang into the hall. "I hear your sneers," he snarled. "I hear you call me coward. Give me the cord; bind me with it round and round; fasten me to the strongest pillar of this great hall. If the coil is an honest coil, Fenris can break it. There is no chain he cannot break. But if you are blinding me--if you have here a cord woven with magic such as no power can break--how am I to know? I put this test to you. Some one of you shall place your hand between my jaws. As long as that hand is there, you may coil and coil the thread about me. Then, if I find the cord a magic cord, Fenris shall set his teeth upon the hand and crush it." The gods stared at one another. Surely, Thor must not lose his hand. Thor needed his hand with which to wield the magic hammer. Then Tyre, the brave god Tyre, the god of courage and bravery and unselfishness stepped forth. "Here is my hand, O Fenris-wolf. It shall be yours to destroy if you can not loose yourself when bound in the golden coil." Again the Fenris-wolf showed his shining teeth. He seized the hand between his heavy jaws; Thor bound the cord about him. "Now free yourself," he thundered. "Free yourself, and prove to the gods the mighty power of the Fenris-wolf." The wolf, his eyes blazing with wrath, and with fear as well, struggled with the coil. But alas for the wolf! And joy for the gods! The harder he struggled, the fiercer he battled, the tighter drew the cord. With a howl of rage that shook the city and echoed even to the base of the great Mt. Ida, he seized upon the hand of Tyre and tore it from his wrist. With another angry howl he sprang towards Thor; but with a quick turn Thor seized one end of the coil, fastened it to a great rock, and before the wolf could set his fangs he hurled him, rock and all, over the walls of the city, down down into the mighty sea. "And there, chained to his rocky island, he shall abide forever," cried the gods; "and now peace once more shall rest upon our city." But Odin sighed, and to himself he said, "O happy children, there shall yet come a day when darkness shall fall upon us; the Fenris-wolf shall again be loosed; and even the gods shall be no more." XVII. DEFEAT OF HRUNGNER. Greatest among the giants of Jotunheim, was Hrungner. Even the gods stood in fear of him; for when Thor's deep thunder rolled out across the skies, and the winds rose and the clouds grew black, it was Hrungner who, bold and defiant, shouted back with roars of scornful laughter--roars that rivalled in their thunder those of the great and mighty Thor. "This giant," said the gods, standing in council together,--"this giant must be overcome. Too long have we suffered him to defy our power; too long have we borne his insolence; too long have his threats passed unnoticed by Odin the All-Father and by Thor the god of Thunder." "I will go forth," said Odin, "upon my winged horse, my fleet-footed Sleipner, to meet this giant who dares defy the gods of Asgard." Accordingly across the skies, over the sea to Jotunheim, rode Odin. "It is a fine steed you ride, good stranger," bellowed Hrungner as Odin drew near; "almost as fine a steed as my own Goldfax, who can fly through the air and swim through the seas with the same ease that another steed might travel upon the plains of Midgard." "But his speed cannot equal that of Sleipner," answered Odin quietly, his deep eyes burning with the light no giant could quite comprehend, and beneath which even Hrungner quailed at heart. "Sleipner! Odin!" thundered Hrungner. "Are you Odin? And is this your Sleipner--the winged steed of which the gods of Asgard boast? Away with him! And I upon my Goldfax will prove to you that in Jotunheim lives one giant who dares challenge even Odin and his mighty war-horse to contest. Away! Away Odin! Away Sleipner! Away Hrungner! Away Goldfax!" And with a shout that echoed even to the halls of Asgard, the great giant mounted his steed and soon brought him, neck to neck with Odin and his immortal Sleipner. On, on, across the skies they flew. Before their mighty force, the clouds scattered hither and thither, striking against each other with a crashing sound that to the earth-people was like the voice of Thor. From the eyes of the steeds the lightnings flashed; and from their reeking sides the foam fell in showers upon the earth below. The people, terror-stricken, ran to their caves and prayed the gods to protect them from the fury of the blast. "It is like no storm we ever knew," they whispered, one to the other. "The thunder! the lightnings! the scurrying clouds! and with it all, the roaring winds and the falling of great white flakes, now like hail, now like snow! Has Odin forgotten his children? Have the Frost giants fallen upon Asgard?" But now the storm was over. Odin and Hrungner both had reached the walls of Asgard. Through the great rolling gateway both had burst together; for the steed of the bold Hrungner had indeed proved himself equal to the snow-white Sleipner, whose magic powers no one but Odin fully knew. Hrungner, elated with his success, and never once dreaming that, had Odin so willed it, he, with his brave steed Goldfax, might have been left far behind in the race, strode into the halls of Asgard and called loudly for food and drink and rest. All these were granted him, and the giant threw himself down upon a golden couch and stared insolently upon the gods. All were there save Thor. "And where," bellowed Hrungner, "is the great god Thor, the mighty thunderer who dares defy the Frost giants; and whose strength is boasted greater than that of Hrungner, the chief of the mighty Frost giants? "Bring him into my presence," roared the giant. "Let me prove to you that one giant at least dares defy even the greatest and most warlike of you all." Away upon the sea, Thor heard this boast. "Who challenges me and defies my power?" he thundered; and with the swiftness of the wind, hastening upward toward the shining city, he burst in upon the giant stretched out upon the golden couch. "I challenge you!" bellowed the giant, springing from his couch and facing the god of thunder. Thor raised his hammer. The lightnings flashed from his eye. "Halt!" roared the giant. "Little credit will it be to the god of Thunder to fall in battle upon a Frost giant unarmed and unprotected. You are a coward! Fight me as becomes a great god on equal grounds and under fair conditions. Come to me in the land of Jotunheim, and there will I challenge you to battle. Then will your victory, if you win, lend lustre to your greatness; and the fear of you throughout the land of the Frost giants be greater than ever before." "As you say," answered Thor with a sneer. "Go now, and make ready for the holmgang, [1] in which the insolent, boastful Hrungner shall learn the power of the gods whom, in his ignorance, he dares defy." Then Hrungner departed from the city of Asgard, and assembled the giants together to prepare for the coming battle. "Let us make a giant of clay," and at once every giant in Jotunheim fell to work. Whole mountains were leveled to the earth, and the great masses of stone and earth heaped high; until, on the third day, there stood a giant nine miles high and three miles broad, ready to defy the power of the Thunder-god when he should come. But alas for the heart of this warrior of clay! None could be found, either in Midgard or in Jotunheim, of size proportionate to the body of the mighty creation; and so, in despair, the heart of a sheep was chosen, and around it the clay warrior was built. At the first sound of rolling thunder--by which the coming of Thor was announced afar off--alas! this heart, fluttering and trembling, so shook the mighty form that its spear fell from its hand, its knees shook, and Hrungner was left to fight his battle alone with the angry son of Odin. Onward, nearer and nearer, came Thor the Terrible. The lightnings flashed and the earth rumbled. Seizing a great mountain of flint in his hands, Hrungner waited. His eyes burned and his face was set. Suddenly, forth from the ground beneath his feet, the god of Thunder burst. Hrungner sprang forward. With a mighty force he hurled the mountain of flint. Thor, with a roar, flung his mighty hammer. The two crashed together in midair. The flint broke, and one half of it was driven into the heavy skull of Thor. The hammer, cleaving the flint, sped onward, and Hrungner fell dead beneath its never-failing blow; but in falling his great body lay across the neck of Thor, who, stunned by the blow from the flint, had fallen, his hammer still clenched firmly in his powerful hand. For a moment, there was a hush. The very sun stood still. Not a sound was heard through Jotunheim. The thunder of battle had died away; all the earth was still. Then came Magne, a son of Thor. "Why this sudden quiet?" he called. "Why has my father's voice been stilled? Certainly the great god Thor has not fallen in battle!" "In the name of Odin," he thundered, as he saw the Frost giant's body lying across his father's massive frame,--"in the name of Odin and of Thor, what does this mean?" And, seizing the giant by a foot, he hurled him out over the seas. For miles and miles the giant's body cut the air, and then, falling, sank and was buried beneath the waves. Thor staggered to his feet again, and with a roar that made the leaves of Ygdrasil tremble and shook even the halls of Valhalla, set forth across the seas, never once looking back towards the land of Jotunheim, whose people for the time, at least, were again subdued by the power of Thor, the god of Thunder,--by Thor, the son of Odin the All-wise. XVIII. THOR AND SKRYMER. There was peace in all the lands; stilled were the Frost giants, and in Midgard all was happiness. "Come with me, that I may see that you do no mischief," said Thor to Loke, as he sprang into his golden chariot, drawn by his snow-white goats. All day the chariot wheeled on and on across the skies. Night fell, and the gods, entering a peasant's cottage, asked for shelter. "Our supper we have with us," Thor said. And taking the goats from the chariot, he killed them and placed them before the fire. Never had the peasants taken part in such a feast. "It is a feast for the gods," they said; "but pray, how will you finish your journey without your goats?" "We will attend to that," said Thor. "Eat what you will, and all you can. I only ask that, when the feast is finished, you promise to place all the bones together there before the door upon the goat skins. See to it that no bone is forgotten; and that not one--even the smallest--be lost or broken." The peasants promised; the meat was eaten, and in due time the household went to bed and to sleep. Morning came; and with the first flush of light Thor arose, and, with his magic hammer, sat down beside the heap of bones, that lay upon the goat skins before the door. "Kling! Kling! Kling!" sounded the hammer, striking in turn each little bone; then the two goats leaped forth, as white and plump and round as ever, and as ready to spin across the waters with the golden chariot of their master. But alas, one goat was lame. He held up one tiny foot and moaned. "Some one of you," roared Thor, "has broken a bone. Did I not command that you be careful, and see that every bone should be placed, uninjured, upon the goat skins?" The peasants shook with fear. They knew now who this strange guest might be. "It is Thor!" they whispered to each other. "And that is the mighty hammer whose aim never fails, and whose force is death to all upon whom it falls!" "O thou great god Thor," cried the peasants, "spare us! Indeed had we known, not one bone would we have taken in our unhappy fingers; and all night long would we have watched beside the goat skins that no harm should come to them. Spare us, O spare us, great Thor! Take all we have--our house, our cattle, our children, everything--only spare our lives to us!" Thor seized his hammer in his hand. His great knuckles grew white, so strong was his giant hold upon the handle. The peasants sank upon their knees. Their faces dropped and their eyes closed. Shaking with terror, they awaited the falling of the hammer. "Up, up, ye peasants," thundered Thor. "This offense I forgive. Your lives too, shall be spared you; but I will carry away with me these children of yours,--Thjalfe and Roskva; and they shall serve me in my journeys across the lands and over the seas." "The goats I leave with you; and I charge you, by your lives see that no harm comes to them in any way. Come Thjalfe, come Roskva, place yourselves before the chariot, and bear me quickly across the seas." All day long the chariot wheeled on and on, the children never tiring, until, at nightfall, they found themselves upon the shores of the country of the Frost giants. Plunging into a deep forest, they hurried through and came out into a great plain beyond. Here they found a house, the very doors of which were as high as the mountains and as broad as the broadest river. "We will rest here," said Thor, and, spreading the great skins which they found near the doorway, they made for themselves beds, and soon were fast asleep. At midnight they were awakened by a terrible roar. The whole house shook with its vibrations. Thor, seizing his hammer in his strong right hand, strode to the door. The whole earth trembled, but in the darkness even Thor could not see beyond the doorway. Hour after hour he stood there, listening. Slowly, at last, the dawn began to come; the sun rose, and there, just at the edge of the forest, Thor saw the outstretched body of a giant, whose head was in itself a small mountain, and whose feet stretched away into the valley below. "And it is you, then, that have rocked the very earth with your giant snores, and have taken from me my night of rest," thought Thor, when he saw the giant form stretched out before him. With one angry stride Thor reached the side of the sleeping giant. Raising his hammer a full mile into the air, he smote the giant full upon the skull, with a crash that sounded like the fall of a mighty oak. "What is that?" asked the giant, opening his sleepy eyes. "Indeed, Thor, are you here? Something awoke me. I think an acorn must have dropped upon my head," said the giant, gathering himself to rise. "Go to sleep again," growled Thor; "it isn't morning yet. I am going to sleep myself." A few minutes and the snores of the giant rang through the air again. "Now we will see," thought Thor. Again he crept to the giant's side. Lifting his hammer, this time two miles in the air, he brought it down upon the giant's skull with a crash that sounded like the breaking of the ice and the roaring of the torrent in a mighty river. "What is that?" muttered the giant, only half awake. "A leaf must have fallen upon my forehead. I will take myself out into the plain where I can sleep in peace." "Go to sleep," answered Thor; "it is nearly morning, and will be time to wake up for the day before you reach the plain." Again the giant fell asleep; and again the snoring rang out upon the air. "He shall not escape me this time," whispered Thor, creeping again to the giant's side. Raising his hammer, this time three miles in the air, he crashed it down upon the forehead of the giant with such force and fury that the very heavens reverberated; and the earth people, springing frightened from their deep sleep, called to each other, "The dwarfs are at their forges! Did you not feel the earth shake and the mountains tremble?" "Well, well," droned the sleepy giant; "the moss from the trees falls upon my face and wakes me. It is nearly sunrise, and I may as well arise and go on to Utgard. And you, Thor,--I am told you, too, are journeying towards the land of Utgard. But I must hurry on. I will meet you there; but let me give you warning that we are a race of giants of no mean size. And great though you are, it would be as well for you that you boast not of your power among us. Even your mighty hammer might fail to do its work among giants of such strength and stature as those of Skrymer's race." There was a sneer on Skrymer's face as he said this; but before Thor could raise his hammer to punish him for his insolence, he had crossed the great plain, and was already miles away. Thor sat down beside the forest. He was mortified, and vexed, and puzzled. What did it mean? Had his hammer lost its magic power? Was the giant Skrymer immortal? He could not tell. There was a heavy cloud upon his face as he set forth again upon his journey. The little servants shook with fear; even Loke kept silent, and said not one word the live-long day. XIX. THOR AND THE UTGARD-KING. Travelling on and on, through many days and many nights, Thor and his companions came to a great castle. Its pinnacles reached far up among the clouds, and its great gateways were broad even like the horizon itself. In between the bars crept Thor and Loke and the children Thjalfe and Roskva. "Let us enter the castle," said Thor grimly. "It must be the palace of the king--the Utgard-Loke--whose threats have defied even the All-wisdom and the All-power of the mighty Odin." At these words the walls of the castle trembled. The pillars of frost and the great arches of ice glittered and glistened. Thjalfe and Roskva grew white with fear. "We hear your voice," thundered Thor; "but we have no fear of you even though you shake the castle walls until they fall. And behold, we dare come into your very presence, thou terrible king of Utgard!" The great king showed his glittering teeth. His brow grew black with rage. "This is Thor, the god of Thunder," he sneered: "and so small are you that you can creep through the bars of our gateway, pass unnoticed by our sentinels, even into the very presence of the king!" Then Utgard-Loke--for this was the king's name--threw back his head and laughed until the whole earth shook; trees were uprooted, and avalanches of ice and snow, pouring down into valleys, buried hundreds of the little people of Midgard. Thor clenched his hammer. He dared not thunder; even his lightnings were as nothing in this great palace hall and before the terrible voice of the Utgard-king. "But perhaps you are greater than you look," continued the king, roaring again at his own wit. "Tell me what great feats you can accomplish; for no one is allowed entrance to this castle who cannot perform great deeds." "I can perform great deeds--many of them," boasted Loke, nowise abashed, even in the presence of the terrible king. "I can eat faster than any creature in Midgard, in Utgard, or even in Asgard, the home of the gods." Again the king roared; and, placing before him a great wooden trough heaped high with food, he commanded his servant Loge to challenge Loke to the contest. But alas for Loke, although the food disappeared before him like fields of grain beneath the scythe of steel, yet before the task was half begun, Loge had swallowed food, and trough, and all! The king roared louder still; and Loke, never before beaten by giant power, shrank away, angry and threatening. "But I," said Thjalfe, "can run. I can outrun any creature that lives on land or sea." Then Thjalfe was placed beside a tiny little pigmy--Huge he was called; but hardly had they run a pace before Huge had shot so far ahead that Thjalfe, crestfallen, went and hid himself behind the great ice pillar that stood outside the castle gate. And now Thor rose to his feet and drew himself up to his greatest height; but even that seemed as nothing compared with the enormous stature of the Utgard-king. He clenched the hammer tightly and thundered as never he had thundered before. The tiny fringe of icicles trembled. Then Utgard-Loke laughed; and with his thunder the whole castle rocked and reeled. "And will Thor contest with the power of Utgard?" asked the king. "I will," roared Thor, and there was a fire in his eye that even Utgard shrank before. But Utgard only roared in turn and brought to Thor a great horn, filled to its brim with sparkling water. "Drink," said he; "and if one half the power is yours that Odin claims, you will empty the horn at a single draught." Thor seized the horn. One long, deep draught, such as no mortal, no giant, nor even another god could have drawn--and the horn was hardly one drop less full. The king roared till the icicles and the fringes of frost, swaying and rocking beneath the thunder, fell with a crash upon the palace floor. "Can the great god Thor boast no greater power than that? Once more, thou greatest of all the sons of Odin--once more lift the horn in thy mighty hands and show us the greatness of the gods of Asgard." Thor, stung by the sneer of the Utgard-king, raised the horn again to his lips; and calling upon the name of Odin and all the gods of the shining city, drank again. Higher and higher he raised the horn, deeper and deeper drew he the draught. But alas, again, when the horn was lowered, the waters were no lower than before. "You seem not so great as we the frost giants have believed," said the king with a cold sneer. Thor's anger rose. His blood boiled with rage and fury. With a burst of thunder and a flash of lightning that shattered the pillars of the great hall, he seized the horn again. Three long hours passed. Utgard-Loke trembled with fear and dread; for never for one second had the angry god taken the horn from his lips. "The ruin of the Utgard kingdom is come," he groaned. "There is no hope for victory over such a god. The horn--even the magic horn--will fail before the might of this fierce and awful Thor, the god of Thunder." Then Thor lifted the horn from his lips. Defiance flashed from his eye. The king of the Frost giants trembled. Both looked into the horn. Alas for Thor! Even now hardly could it be counted one quarter emptied. Darkness gathered over the strong god's face. Courage sprang into the eyes of the king. "Let not your valor fail you," said the king, taking the horn from the hand of Thor. "You are great--you have proved it, in that you have, even in so small a degree as this, emptied the horn from which none but a god could have quaffed one drop. It is only that your greatness is less than you have boasted, and less than we have believed it to be." "I will not stand defeated," thundered Thor. "Bring before me another challenge. I will not go forth until the giants of Utgard have indeed known and felt the power of Thor, the god whose lightnings rend the skies, and whose thunders rock the very mountains of the earth." "Once more, then, shall you contend for power," said the Utgard-king. "And this time with Elle, the toothless giant of endless years, before whose power bend all the strongest sons of Midgard, and before whom, in some far off day, even the gods of Asgard shall bow as powerless as the children of Midgard." Thor sprang upon the giant Elle. Like a demon of the under world he fought, and for a time even this All-conquering giant swayed before the wild madness of his bursts of thunder, and his crashing, hissing bolts of fire. But alas for Thor! Even his godlike strength was doomed to fail him. He trembled; his sight vanished; a strange chill settled over him, and he sank, conquered, before the power of the giant Elle. And now the night had fallen upon the land. The light had faded from the mountain tops; and the chill of night was in the frosty air. Exhausted, the great god wrapped himself about and sank into heavy sleep. And his dreams were of great battles, of terrible foes, and of the last great day which, sometime in the ages to come, should fall upon the city of the gods, and in which even the power of Odin should fail, and the light go out from all the earth. All night long these dreams haunted the great heart of Thor; and in the morning the people in Midgard said, "It was a strange night. Through all the hours of darkness, the thunders rolled in the distance, and the pale lightnings flashed among the mountain peaks beyond the seas." In the morning, even with the first rays of light, Thor, with Loke and Thjalfe and Roskva, set forth upon their journey homeward. There was a terrible blackness upon the face of Thor, and the thunders rumbled deeply. Never before had Thor known the bitterness of defeat, and he returned to Asgard and to Odin sick at heart. "Lose not thy courage, Thor," said the All-wise. "Know that thou art not even now defeated in any test of true strength. Utgard-Loke has triumphed to be sure; but even he trembles now, and has closed the doors of his castle, and has set thousands upon thousands of sentinels to watch against thy return. "The horn from which thou didst drink reached far down into the depths of the sea; and the people of Midgard even now throng the shores and wonder what power in heaven or in earth can so have shrunken the great waters of the sea. "Loge, with whom Loke contended, was none less than Wild Fire; and Huge was Thought itself. Even the gods, even Odin himself, with these would but contend in vain. And Elle--it is indeed as Utgard-Loke said--no power in heaven itself can equal hers. She is the all-powerful, the never-failing, the ever-present Old Age. All the people of the earth, all the gods of Asgard--aye, even the Earth and Asgard must one day fall before her mighty will. That you contended even as you did, has driven terror deep into the hearts of the cruel Frost giants; nor do they doubt that you are the terrible god of Thunder, the greatest of all the sons of Odin." XX. THOR AND THE MIDGARD SERPENT. With these words of Odin, Thor's courage rose. "Bring me my hammer," he called to Sif, "and again will I go forth into the realms of the Frost giants." The great Odin smiled. "Fear not, my son. Remember there can be no defeat to Thor, the son of Odin, whose mighty hand holds firm the terrible hammer forged by the dwarfs of the under world." Then Thor sprang into his chariot. "Away, away," he thundered, "to the home of Hymer--the hateful, boastful Hymer! Away to the land of the Frost giants! Once, and for all, Thor will prove to them the power and the terror of the gods of Asgard." The wheels of the chariot rumbled and rolled. From their spokes the lightnings flashed. With the speed of Thought itself, it hissed and whistled through the air. The clouds, scattering, raised a mighty wind. In Midgard the leaves ran like fire before the gale; the trees rocked; and ever and anon the moaning wind rose and fell like the voice of a mighty tempest. "It is the Valkyries!" the people of Midgard said. "Always does the wind rise; always do the clouds hurry across the skies when the Valkyries set forth to battle. Somewhere there is war in our fair earth; somewhere heroes are falling on the bloody battlefield." For, in all this time, there had come to be many people in Midgard. The children of Ask and Embla had become men and women, had grown old, and their children, too, had become men and women. And there were wars in the land. Warriors in the east fought those in the west; those in the north fought those in the south. But the warriors were brave men; and over every battle Odin watched, grinding the spears, now shielding and protecting, now forcing the warriors into the very hottest of the battle. And when the battle was over, and all was quiet, when the great sun had sunk behind the hills of Jotunheim, and the soft moon shone down upon the battlefield, then Odin would call to the Valkyries, and bid them go down into Midgard and bring with them to Valhalla all who had fallen bravely fighting. For this was the hero's reward. With this hope he entered battle; with this hope he fought; with this hope he turned his dying eyes towards Mt. Ida and thanked the All-father that now he, too, might enter into the joys of Asgard and know the glory of immortal life in the golden halls of Valhalla. And now the winds had died away; the clouds were at rest; there was peace over Midgard. For the chariot had reached the home of the Frost giants, and Thor had entered the great rock-bound castle of the giant Hymer. "Let us go out upon the sea to fish," said Thor to the dread giant, with whom he longed to measure power. Seizing the oars, Thor himself rowed the great boat out into the sea. "Give me the oars," bellowed Hymer; "you have already rowed a long way and must be wearied." "I wearied!" thundered Thor. "Indeed I have not rowed one half the distance. I shall row even into the realm of the Midgard Serpent, whose length lies coiled round about Midgard, and whose home is deep down beneath the raging waters. There only shall we find fish worthy of the bait of a god." Hymer trembled. He feared the Midgard Serpent, whose great coils so lashed the waters of the ocean that they rose, white with foam, even to the very mountain tops. "The fishing just here has never failed. There is no need to row farther into the ocean," said Hymer, hoping to dissuade the god from rowing farther from the shores of Jotunheim. "But I must fish in mid-ocean, and in the deepest of the waters," was Thor's reply. For hours and hours they rowed. The mountain tops grew dimmer and dimmer in the blue distance; no land could be seen; the waters sparkled and shone on every side as far as the eye could reach. "We will make this our fishing place," said Thor, at last, throwing down his oars and preparing the great cable that should serve him for a line. This he gave into the hands of the trembling giant, and prepared for himself another. The hours passed, but no fish had been drawn into the boat. "Had you listened to me," thundered Hymer, "our boat might long before this have been filled with the fish I have never failed to catch in waters nearer the shores of the land of the Frost giants." "Do you think a god would be content with less than the greatest fish in all the sea?" thundered Thor. "Do you not know I shall bring to this boat's edge the terrible Midgard Serpent itself?" And even as he spoke he gathered in his line, and dashed upon the boat floor a whale of such enormous size that even the giant looked with amazement upon so terrible a display of the fisherman's strength and power. Surely this must be Thor himself! "The whale is yours," muttered Thor, unfastening his line and throwing it overboard again. "I have no care for fish as small as this." Suddenly there was a rush of waters. It was as if a terrible tempest had burst upon the sea. The waters seethed and foamed. The great waves rose mountain high. The boat rocked and reeled, and the green waters, pouring over its sides, filled it so that the great whale floated out upon the sea. "It is the Midgard Serpent!" roared Thor; and his mighty voice, rising even above the rush of the great sea, mingled with the thunder of the breaking waves and echoed out to the shores of the farthest lands. Thor sprang from the boat and planted himself firmly upon the great rocks beneath the sea. The giant, dumb with terror, clung to the sides of the rocking boat. On, on came the serpent, nearer and nearer, the roaring waves and the heaping foam bursting closer and closer upon the mountain-like boat that tossed now like seaweed upon the angry waters. One burst like thunder, and the terrible serpent's head rose above the foam and glistened in the light. Thor sprang forward; and, with his mighty arm, threw the cable about the slimy neck of the Midgard Serpent and dragged him to the boat's edge. The giant sprang to his feet. "Give me my hammer!" thundered the god. "I will not!" thundered the giant; and with one quick bound he sprang forward, raised his shining sword, and with a sweep miles high, cut the great cable which held the writhing serpent. Another roar, and the great serpent arched his back even to the blue dome of the sky above. Then, with a hiss that sounded through Midgard and even up to the shining city of the fair Mt. Ida, he shot down beneath the waters, and over him closed the angry waves. The foam dashed mountains high; the caves howled and boomed; the skies echoed crash on crash; and the whole earth trembled with the upheaval of the troubled waters. A rushing back, a heaping up, a breaking of great waves--and never again, by man or giant or god, was the loathsome serpent seen above the waters, until on that last sad, fateful day when the light had gone out from the sun, and the dread chill of Ragnarok had fallen even upon Valhalla and the beautiful shining city of Asgard. VALKYRIES' SONG. The Sea-king looked o'er the brooding wave; He turned to the dusky shore, And there seemed, through the arch of a tide-worn cave A gleam, as of snow, to pour; And forth, in watery light, Moved phantoms, dimly white, Which the garb of woman bore. Slowly they moved to the billow side; And the forms, as they grew more clear, Seemed each on a tall, pale steed to ride, And a shadowy crest to rear, And to beckon with faint hand, From the dark and rocky strand, And to point a gleaming spear. Then a stillness on his spirit fell, Before th' unearthly train, For he knew Valhalla's daughters well, The Choosers of the slain! And a sudden rising breeze Bore, across the moaning seas, To his ear their thrilling strain. "Regner! tell thy fair-haired bride She must slumber at thy side! Tell the brother of thy breast, Even for him thy grave hath rest! Tell the raven steed which bore thee, When the wild wolf fled before thee, He too with his lord must fall,-- There is room in Odin's Hall!" There was arming heard on land and wave, When afar the sunlight spread, And the phantom forms of the tide-worn cave With the mists of morning fled; But at eve, the kingly hand Of the battle-axe and brand, Lay cold on a pile of dead!--Hemans. XXI. THE DYING BALDUR. Ages upon ages had rolled away. And now the day of sorrow, which always Odin had known must come, drew near. Already the god of song had gone with his beautiful wife Idun down into the dark valley of death; and there was a new strange rustle among the leaves of Ygdrasil, like the rustling of leaves that were dead. Odin's face grew sad; and, try as he would, he could not join with the happy gods about him in their joys and festal games. "Odin," said Frigg one day, "tell me what grieves thee; what weighs thee down and puts such sadness into thine eyes and heart." "Baldur himself shall tell you all," answered Odin sadly. Then Baldur seated himself in the midst of the gods and said: "Always, since Odin drank at the Well of Wisdom, and learned the secrets of the past and of the future, has he known that a time would come when the light must go out from Baldur's eyes; and he, although a god, must go down into the dark valley. Now that time draws near. Already have Brage and Idun gone from us; and with them have gone song and youth. Soon will Baldur go, and with him must go the light and warmth he has always been so glad to bring to Asgard and to Midgard both." "O Baldur! Baldur! Baldur! My Child! my child! my child!" cried Frigg. "This cannot be! this shall not be! I will go down from Asgard. I will go up and down the earth, and every rock and tree and plant shall pledge themselves to do no harm to thee." "Dear mother Frigg," sighed Baldur, "you cannot change what is foretold. From the beginning of time this was decreed, that one day the light should go out from heaven and the twilight of the gods should fall." There was a long silence in the hall of Asgard. No god had courage to speak. Their hearts were heavy, and they had no wish to speak. The sun sank behind the western hills. Its rich sunset glow spread over the golden city and over the beautiful earth below. Then darkness followed slowly, slowly creeping, creeping on, up the mountain side, across the summit, until even the shining city stood dark and shadowy beneath the gathering twilight. "Like this, some day, the twilight will fall upon our city," said Odin; "and it will never, never rise again." The mother heart of Frigg would not accept even Odin's word. And when the sun's first rays shot up above the far-off hills, Frigg stole forth from Asgard down the rainbow bridge to Midgard. To every lake, and river, and sea, she hurried, and said: "Promise me, O waters, that Baldur's light shall never go out because of you." "We promise," the waters answered. And Frigg hurried on to the metals. "Promise me, O metals, that Baldur's light shall never go out because of you." "We promise," answered the metals. And Frigg hurried on to the minerals. "Promise me, O minerals," she said, "that Baldur's light shall never go out because of you." "We promise," answered the minerals. And Frigg hurried on to the fire, the earth, the stones, the trees, the shrubs, the grasses, the birds, the beasts, the reptiles; and even to the abode of pale disease she went. Of each she asked the same earnest, anxious question; and from each she received the same kind, honest answer. As the sun sank behind the high peaks of the Frost giants' homes, Frigg, radiant and happy, her eyes bright and her heart alive with hope, sped up the rainbow bridge. Triumphant, she hurried into the great hall to Odin and Baldur. "Be happy again, O Odin! Be happy again, O Baldur! There is no danger, no sorrow to come to us from anything in the earth or under the earth. For every tree has promised me; and every rock and every metal; every animal and every bird. Even the waters and the fire have promised that never harm through them shall come to Baldur." But, alas, for poor Frigg. One little weed, a wee little weed, hidden beneath a rock, she had overlooked. Loke, who had followed closely upon her in all her wanderings through the day, had not failed to notice this oversight of Frigg's. His wicked face shone with glee. His eyes gleamed; and as the radiant Frigg sped up the rainbow bridge, he hurried away to his home among the Frost giants to tell them of the little weed which, by and by, should work such harm to Baldur, in shutting out his life and light from Asgard and the earth. The ages rolled on. Every one in Asgard, save Odin, had long ago thrown off the shadow of fear. "No harm can come to Baldur," they would say; and all save Odin believed it. But a day came when Odin, looking down into the home of the dead, saw there the spirits moving about, hastening hither and thither. "Something is happening there in the pale valley," said Odin. "They are preparing for the coming of another shade. And it must be some great one who is to come. See how great the preparation is they make." "We prepare for the coming of Baldur," answered the shades as Odin came upon them, busy in their work. "We prepare a throne for Baldur. We prepare a throne for Baldur." "For Baldur?" asked Odin, his heart sinking. "For Baldur!" chanted the shades. "For Baldur! Baldur cometh! Baldur cometh!" And Odin, his godlike heart faint and sick at the thought, turned away and went slowly up the rainbow bridge. There, in the great garden of the gods, he found Thor and Baldur and their brother Hodor playing at tests of strength. Behind Hodor, invisible, stood Loke. In his hand he held a spear. "Shame upon you, Hodor," whispered Loke, "that you, the strong and mighty Hodor, cannot overcome Baldur in a test of strength. Baldur may be beautiful and sunny, and he is a great joy to the world; that we know. But what is he compared with Hodor for strength?" "But the spears will not touch him. See how they glance away. Indeed it is true: Light cannot be pierced." answered Hodor, good-naturedly. "Take this spear," said Loke, quietly. "It is less clumsy than those you throw." Hodor took it, never thinking of any harm. Alas for Baldur and Asgard and all the happy smiling Earth! It was a spear tipped with the mistletoe--the one plant that Frigg had failed to find. The one plant that had not promised to do no harm to Baldur. Quickly the spear flew through the air. One second, and Baldur the Summer Spirit, Baldur the Light of the Earth fell--dead. "O, Asgard! Baldur is dead!" groaned Odin. "O Asgard, Asgard! Baldur is dead!" Hodor, Thor, the gods, one and all, stood pale and white. A terrible fear settled over their faces. They shook with terror. And even as they stood there, speechless in their grief, a twilight dimness began to fall lightly, lightly over all. The shining pavements grew less bright; the blue of the great arch overhead deepened; and in the valleys of Midgard there were long black shadows. Baldur was dead. The light had failed. The golden age was at an end. Now, even the gods must die. XXII. THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKE. "It is Loke that has done this!" thundered Thor, seizing the great hammer in his clenched fists. "Nor will the gods of Asgard forgive this crime. No promise of his, no begging, no pleading shall save him from the punishment that belongs to him. "O Baldur, Baldur! That I had slain the evil Loke ages upon ages ago--when he stole the hair from the glorious Sif; when he stole the necklace from the beautiful Freyja; when he carried Idun and the Apples of Life away into the home of the Frost giants; when he stung the dwarf and broke short the handle of my mighty hammer. Had I slain him then, this sorrow need not have come to us. O Baldur, Baldur!" And the whole earth shook with the grief of Thor. The skies grew black. The wind shrieked. The lightnings flashed across the sky. His tears fell in torrents down the mountain sides; trees were swept away, and the swollen rivers rushed and roared along their course. Never, even in the memory of the gaunt old giant at the Well of Wisdom, had such a storm of wind and rain and thunder and lightning been known. The earth-people fled to the mountain caves in terror. "It is the wrath of Thor!" cried Loke, gasping with dread. "Let me hide myself till it is over." And changing himself into a fish, he dived deep into the great seething mass of angry waters. But Thor and Odin were close upon him. The fiery eye of Thor had caught the sparkle of its shiny coat as the great fish shot down from the mountain side into the sea. Then, too, of what use was it to hide from the great, all-seeing eye of Odin? Did he not see and hear all sights and sounds? And, more than that, did he not know all things even from the beginning? "We will take a great net, and we will drag the sea," said Odin quietly. Loke heard these words and trembled. He hid himself beneath the sea-weed; but so muddy were the waters that he was driven out to breathe. The great net was spread. Held by the hands of Odin and of Thor, there was no escape for Loke. Sullenly he allowed the net to close over him. There was no other way; for it stretched from shore to shore and from above the waters even to the ocean bed. And so, at last, because it was to be, the fish held; and Loke was in the power of the angry Thor. "Come back," commanded Odin, "to your own shape and size." Loke obeyed; and in his own form was borne to Asgard. The angry gods fell, one and all, upon him. Not one showed pity for him. They hated him. And well they might; for had he not slain Baldur, and so loosed the power of the Frost giants upon their shining city. "Let him be bound! Let him be bound!" they cried. "Let him be bound even as the Fenris-wolf is bound!" "Let him be bound with iron fetters!" "Let him be nailed to the great rocks in the sea!" "Let a poisonous serpent hang over him; and let the serpent drop, moment by moment, through all the time to come, his burning poison upon him! Let him lie there, chained and suffering till the last great day!" "All this shall be," thundered Thor. And thus it was that the cruel, evil-hearted, peace-destroyer Loke, suffered ages upon ages of punishment for his malice and his crime. XXIII. THE DARKNESS THAT FELL ON ASGARD. The gods had avenged themselves upon the cruel Peace-destroyer, and he lay suffering the tortures they had put upon him. But even this could not bring back the sunny god, the happy, cheerful, life-giving Baldur. Brage had gone, and there was no sound of music in Asgard; Idun had gone, and signs of age were again creeping over the faces of the gods; now Baldur was gone, and with him the long light and warm softness of the summer time. "He may come back," Frigg would say; and every morning she strained her eyes to see if he had risen from behind the far-off hills with the soft light she had learned to know so well. "Baldur is late," she would say, as the days rolled on. But all this time, from the cold north land, the Frost giants, triumphant, were drawing near. Their chill breath was in the air. The days grew short; the nights grew long. The rivers were locked in ice. Great drifts of snow were everywhere. The sky was gray; and there were no stars. The sun shone pale and white through the dull clouds and the blinding drifts of snow. It grew bitter, bitter cold. "The Fimbul-winter!" whispered the earth-people. "Has the Fimbul-winter come?" And Odin answered, "Yes; it is true. The Fimbul-winter, foretold by the Norns, even from the beginning of time, has come. Soon the great wolf will spring forth from the under world, and he will seize upon the sun and devour it. Then dense darkness will fall upon us; and Ragnarok--the end of all things--will be upon us." And it came to pass as Odin said. One day there was heard a mighty rumbling. This time it was not the thunder from the mighty hammer of great Thor. His hands were frozen; nor had he heart to try to wield his hammer. The thunder and the rumble came this time from within the earth. The great earth trembled and shook. Great gaping mouths opened and swallowed up the children; the mountains crumbled and fell; the great serpent lashed the sea; the great rocks rocked and swayed and tore themselves apart. Loke and the Fenris-wolf, freed from their fetters, sprang forth, burning with hate and wild for vengeance. The Frost giants already were upon the rainbow bridge. A terrible battle followed. The gods fell, one by one: Thor by the deadly flood of poison from the Midgard serpent; Tyre in the great jaws of the Fenris-wolf, who, ages before, had torn from him his strong right hand. And now the battle was over. The gods lay dead--even Odin. The shining city of Asgard was a blackened, smoking ruin; the rainbow bridge was gone. The giants sent forth their cold winds, howling with cruel glee. Loke's evil heart was glad; the great serpent lashed the waters mountain high; and the earth-people perished in the flood. The Fenris-wolf stretched its great jaw from heaven to earth and shook the skies. There was a strange hush! A great ball of fire had fallen upon the battle field. There was a sudden rush of air! A great wave of heat spread out across all space! A burst of thunder! A crackling as of fire! Then one hiss, and the whole earth was one great scorching blaze. One second--a fierce red tongue of flame had shot up the trunk of Ygdrasil, and it fell, a mass of blackened ashes. The sea hissed and steamed. The earth melted. The Frost giants, Loke, the serpent, the Fenris-wolf, all, all were wrapped in flame. A second more, and there was no living thing in all the earth. For Ragnarok, the Reign of Fire, had come; and with it came an end to Life--and end alike to gods and giants; an end to all creatures of the land and sea; an end even to the great earth itself. VOCABULARY. As'gard: (s like z) Abode of the gods. Ask: The first woman; made from a tree. Baldur: (Bal'-dur) The god of summer sunshine. Bauge: (Boúgh-ge: hard g) A giant brother of Suttung. Brá-ge: (a as in far: hard ge) A son of Odin and famed for wisdom and eloquence. Brok: (pronounced Brock) A dwarf. Bölverk: (o like e in heard, Bél-verk) A name assumed by Odin. Elle: Old age. Embla: The first man; made from a tree. Fenris wolf: Monster wolf, son of Loki. Frigg: Wife of Odin. Frey: (Fray) Ruler over the light elves. Frey-ja: (e as in let, j like y, Fréy-ya) Sister of Frey; half the fallen in battle belonged to her. Fímbul: The terrible winter just before the destruction of the earth. Gold-fax: Hrungner's horse. Huge: (Hoó-ge: hard g) Thought. Hödor: (o as e in heard, Hö'-der) The slayer of Baldur. Hrung-ner: (Hroon'-gner) A giant. Hy'-mer: A giant, owner of the kettle, Mile-deep. Idun: (Idoon) Keeper of the Apples of Youth. I-fing: Name of a river. Jötunheim: (j like y, o like e in heard: Yér-toon-heém) Home of the giants. Loke, or Loki: (Lo-ke) The evil giant god. Loge: (Lo-ge: hard g) Wild-fire. Míd-gard: The abode of men. Magne: (Mág-ne) Thor's son. Norn: (Nôrn) The Three fates represented as three young women. Njord: (often spelled Ni-örd pronounced Nee-yèrd) Father of Frey and Freyja. Odin: (o-din) The fountain head of wisdom. Ragnarök: (rag'-na-rék) Twilight of the gods. Roskva: (rósk-va) A peasant girl who went with Thor to Utgard Loki's. Sindre, or Sindri: (sín-dre) A dwarf. Sif: (Seef) Thor's wife. Suttung: (supposed to be derived from Sup-tung) The giant who obtained the precious wine. Sleip-ner: Odin's horse. Skry-mer: (Skry-mer) The giant who met Thor in the forest. Thjal-fe: (Thy'al-fe) A peasant boy who went with Thor to Utgard Loki's. Thrym: A giant who stole Thor's hammer. Thor: Thunder-god. Utgard: The abode of Loki. Valhalla: (val-hál-la) The hall to which Odin took those slain in battle. Valkyrie: (Val-ky'-rie) Handmaidens of Odin Vafthrudnur: (Vaf-thróod-neer) A giant visited by Odin. Ygdrasil: (íg-dras-il) The world-embracing ash tree. NOTE [1] duel. 
51002	----	KOREAN FOLK TALES IMPS, GHOSTS AND FAIRIES TRANSLATED FROM THE KOREAN OF IM BANG AND YI RYUK BY JAMES S. GALE London: J. M. DENT & SONS, Ltd. New York: E. P. DUTTON & CO. 1913 TO MY LITTLE SON GEORGE JAMES MORLEY THE DAYS OF WHOSE YEARS ARE TWO EASTERN SPRINGS AND AUTUMNS PREFACE To any one who would like to look somewhat into the inner soul of the Oriental, and see the peculiar spiritual existences among which he lives, the following stories will serve as true interpreters, born as they are of the three great religions of the Far East, Taoism, Buddhism and Confucianism. An old manuscript copy of Im Bang's stories came into the hands of the translator a year ago, and he gives them now to the Western world that they may serve as introductory essays to the mysteries, and, what many call, absurdities of Asia. Very gruesome indeed, and unlovely, some of them are, but they picture faithfully the conditions under which Im Bang himself, and many past generations of Koreans, have lived. The thirteen short stories by Yi Ryuk are taken from a reprint of old Korean writings issued last year (1911), by a Japanese publishing company. Three anonymous stories are also added, "The Geomancer," to show how Mother Earth has given anxiety to her chicks of children; "Im, the Hunter," to tell of the actualities that exist in the upper air; and "The Man who lost his Legs," as a sample of Korea's Sinbad. The biographical notes that accompany the stories are taken very largely from the Kuk-cho In-mul-chi, "Korea's Record of Famous Men." J. S. Gale. CONTENTS PAGE I CHARAN 1 II THE STORY OF CHANG TO-RYONG 18 III A STORY OF THE FOX 26 IV CHEUNG PUK-CHANG, THE SEER 29 V YUN SE-PYONG, THE WIZARD 36 VI THE WILD-CAT WOMAN 41 VII THE ILL-FATED PRIEST 44 VIII THE VISION OF THE HOLY MAN 47 IX THE VISIT OF THE MAN OF GOD 52 X THE LITERARY MAN OF IMSIL 54 XI THE SOLDIER OF KANG-WHA 58 XII CURSED BY THE SNAKE 60 XIII THE MAN ON THE ROAD 63 XIV THE OLD MAN WHO BECAME A FISH 66 XV THE GEOMANCER 69 XVI THE MAN WHO BECAME A PIG 73 XVII THE OLD WOMAN WHO BECAME A GOBLIN 78 XVIII THE GRATEFUL GHOST 80 XIX THE PLUCKY MAIDEN 83 XX THE RESOURCEFUL WIFE 90 XXI THE BOXED-UP GOVERNOR 92 XXII THE MAN WHO LOST HIS LEGS 100 XXIII TEN THOUSAND DEVILS 104 XXIV THE HOME OF THE FAIRIES 111 XXV THE HONEST WITCH 125 XXVI WHOM THE KING HONORS 130 XXVII THE FORTUNES OF YOO 133 XXVIII AN ENCOUNTER WITH A HOBGOBLIN 141 XXIX THE SNAKE'S REVENGE 146 XXX THE BRAVE MAGISTRATE 150 XXXI THE TEMPLE TO THE GOD OF WAR 153 XXXII A VISIT FROM THE SHADES 157 XXXIII THE FEARLESS CAPTAIN 162 XXXIV THE KING OF YOM-NA (HELL) 165 XXXV HONG'S EXPERIENCES IN HADES 171 XXXVI HAUNTED HOUSES 177 XXXVII IM, THE HUNTER 182 XXXVIII THE MAGIC INVASION OF SEOUL 188 XXXIX THE AWFUL LITTLE GOBLIN 191 XL GOD'S WAY 194 XLI THE OLD MAN IN THE DREAM 196 XLII THE PERFECT PRIEST 198 XLIII THE PROPITIOUS MAGPIE 200 XLIV THE 'OLD BUDDHA' 202 XLV A WONDERFUL MEDICINE 204 XLVI FAITHFUL MO 205 XLVII THE RENOWNED MAING 208 XLVIII THE SENSES 210 XLIX WHO DECIDES, GOD OR THE KING? 211 L THREE THINGS MASTERED 213 LI STRANGELY STRICKEN DEAD 215 LII THE MYSTERIOUS HOI TREE 217 LIII TA-HONG 219 BIOGRAPHICAL Im Bang was born in 1640, the son of a provincial governor. He was very bright as a boy and from earliest years fond of study, becoming a great scholar. He matriculated first in his class in 1660, and graduated in 1663. He was a disciple of Song Si-yol, one of Korea's first writers. In 1719, when he was in his eightieth year, he became governor of Seoul, and held as well the office of secretary of the Cabinet. In the year 1721 he got into difficulties over the choice of the Heir Apparent, and in 1722, on account of a part he played in a disturbance in the government, he was exiled to North Korea, where he died. (From Kuk-cho In-mul-chi, "Korea's Record of Famous Men.") Yi Ryuk lived in the reign of King Se-jo, matriculated in 1459, and graduated first in his class in 1564. He was a man of many offices and many distinctions in the way of literary excellence. "Korea's Record of Famous Men." KOREAN IMPS, GHOSTS AND FAIRIES I CHARAN [Some think that love, strong, true, and self-sacrificing, is not to be found in the Orient; but the story of Charan, which comes down four hundred years and more, proves the contrary, for it still has the fresh, sweet flavour of a romance of yesterday; albeit the setting of the East provides an odd and interesting background.] In the days of King Sung-jong (A.D. 1488-1495) one of Korea's noted men became governor of Pyong-an Province. Now Pyong-an stands first of all the eight provinces in the attainments of erudition and polite society. Many of her literati are good musicians, and show ability in the affairs of State. At the time of this story there was a famous dancing girl in Pyong-an whose name was Charan. She was very beautiful, and sang and danced to the delight of all beholders. Her ability, too, was specially marked, for she understood the classics and was acquainted with history. The brightest of all the geisha was she, famous and far-renowned. The Governor's family consisted of a son, whose age was sixteen, and whose face was comely as a picture. Though so young, he was thoroughly grounded in Chinese, and was a gifted scholar. His judgment was excellent, and he had a fine appreciation of literary form, so that the moment he lifted his pen the written line took on admirable expression. His name became known as Keydong (The Gifted Lad). The Governor had no other children, neither son nor daughter, so his heart was wrapped up in this boy. On his birthday he had all the officials invited and other special guests, who came to drink his health. There were present also a company of dancing-girls and a large band of musicians. The Governor, during a lull in the banquet, called his son to him, and ordered the chief of the dancing-girls to choose one of the prettiest of their number, that he and she might dance together and delight the assembled guests. On hearing this, the company, with one accord, called for Charan, as the one suited by her talents, attainments and age to be a fitting partner for his son. They came out and danced like fairies, graceful as the wavings of the willow, light and airy as the swallow. All who saw them were charmed. The Governor, too, greatly pleased, called Charan to him, had her sit on the dais, treated her to a share in the banquet, gave her a present of silk, and commanded that from that day forth she be the special dancing maiden to attend upon his son. From this birthday forth they became fast friends together. They thought the world of each other. More than all the delightful stories of history was their love--such as had never been seen. The Governor's term of office was extended for six years more, and so they remained in the north country. Finally, at the time of return, he and his wife were in great anxiety over their son being separated from Charan. If they were to force them to separate, they feared he would die of a broken heart. If they took her with them, she not being his wife, they feared for his reputation. They could not possibly decide, so they concluded to refer the matter to the son himself. They called him and said, "Even parents cannot decide as to the love of their son for a maiden. What ought we to do? You love Charan so that it will be very hard for you to part, and yet to have a dancing-girl before you are married is not good form, and will interfere with your marriage prospects and promotion. However, the having of a second wife is a common custom in Korea, and one that the world recognizes. Do as you think best in the matter." The son replied, "There is no difficulty; when she is before my eyes, of course she is everything, but when the time comes for me to start for home she will be like a pair of worn shoes, set aside; so please do not be anxious." The Governor and his wife were greatly delighted, and said he was a "superior man" indeed. When the time came to part Charan cried bitterly, so that those standing by could not bear to look at her; but the son showed not the slightest sign of emotion. Those looking on were filled with wonder at his fortitude. Although he had already loved Charan for six years, he had never been separated from her for a single day, so he knew not what it meant to say Good-bye, nor did he know how it felt to be parted. The Governor returned to Seoul to fill the office of Chief Justice, and the son came also. After this return thoughts of love for Charan possessed Keydong, though he never expressed them in word or manner. It was almost the time of the Kam-see Examination. The father, therefore, ordered his son to go with some of his friends to a neighbouring monastery to study and prepare. They went, and one night, after the day's work was over and all were asleep, the young man stole out into the courtyard. It was winter, with frost and snow and a cold, clear moon. The mountains were deep and the world was quiet, so that the slightest sound could be heard. The young man looked up at the moon and his thoughts were full of sorrow. He so wished to see Charan that he could no longer control himself, and fearing that he would lose his reason, he decided that very night to set out for far-distant Pyong-an. He had on a fur head-dress, a thick coat, a leather belt and a heavy pair of shoes. When he had gone less than ten lee, however, his feet were blistered, and he had to go into a neighbouring village and change his leather shoes for straw sandals, and his expensive head-cover for an ordinary servant's hat. He went thus on his way, begging as he went. He was often very hungry, and when night came, was very, very cold. He was a rich man's son and had always dressed in silk and eaten dainty fare, and had never in his life walked more than a few feet from his father's door. Now there lay before him a journey of hundreds of miles. He went stumbling along through the snow, making but poor progress. Hungry, and frozen nearly to death, he had never known such suffering before. His clothes were torn and his face became worn down and blackened till he looked like a goblin. Still on he went, little by little, day after day, till at last, when a whole month had gone by, he reached Pyong-an. Straight to Charan's home he went, but Charan was not there, only her mother. She looked at him, but did not recognize him. He said he was the former Governor's son and that out of love for Charan he had walked five hundred lee. "Where is she?" he asked. The mother heard, but instead of being pleased was very angry. She said, "My daughter is now with the son of the new Governor, and I never see her at all; she never comes home, and she has been away for two or three months. Even though you have made this long journey there is no possible way to meet her." She did not invite him in, so cold was her welcome. He thought to himself, "I came to see Charan, but she is not here. Her mother refuses me; I cannot go back, and I cannot stay. What shall I do?" While thus in this dilemma a plan occurred to him. There was a scribe in Pyong-an, who, during his father's term of office, had offended, and was sentenced to death. There were extenuating circumstances, however, and he, when he went to pay his morning salutations, had besought and secured his pardon. His father, out of regard for his son's petition, had forgiven the scribe. He thought, "I was the means of saving the man's life, he will take me in;" so he went straight from Charan's to the house of the scribe. But at first this writer did not recognize him. When he gave his name and told who he was, the scribe gave a great start, and fell at his feet making obeisance. He cleared out an inner room and made him comfortable, prepared dainty fare and treated him with all respect. A little later he talked over with his host the possibility of his meeting Charan. The scribe said, "I am afraid that there is no way for you to meet her alone, but if you would like to see even her face, I think I can manage it. Will you consent?" He asked as to the plan. It was this: It being now a time of snow, daily coolies were called to sweep it away from the inner court of the Governor's yamen, and just now the scribe was in charge of this particular work. Said he, "If you will join the sweepers, take a broom and go in; you will no doubt catch a glimpse of Charan as she is said to be in the Hill Kiosk. I know of no other plan." Keydong consented. In the early morning he mixed with the company of sweepers and went with his broom into the inner enclosure, where the Hill Kiosk was, and so they worked at sweeping. Just then the Governor's son was sitting by the open window and Charan was by him, but not visible from the outside. The other workers, being all practised hands, swept well; Keydong alone handled his broom to no advantage, knowing not how to sweep. The Governor's son, watching the process, looked out and laughed, called Charan and invited her to see this sweeper. Charan stepped out into the open hall and the sweeper raised his eyes to see. She glanced at him but once, and but for a moment, then turned quickly, went into the room, and shut the door, not appearing again, to the disappointment of the sweeper, who came back in despair to the scribe's house. Charan was first of all a wise and highly gifted woman. One look had told her who the sweeper was. She came back into the room and began to cry. The Governor's son looked in surprise and displeasure, and asked, "Why do you cry?" She did not reply at once, but after two or three insistent demands told the reason thus: "I am a low class woman; you are mistaken in thinking highly of me, or counting me of worth. Already I have not been home for two whole months and more. This is a special compliment and a high honour, and so there is not the slightest reason for any complaint on my part. But still, I think of my home, which is poor, and my mother. It is customary on the anniversary of my father's death to prepare food from the official quarters, and offer a sacrifice to his spirit, but here I am imprisoned and to-morrow is the sacrificial day. I fear that not a single act of devotion will be paid, I am disturbed over it, and that's why I cry." The Governor's son was so taken in by this fair statement that he trusted her fully and without a question. Sympathetically he asked, "Why didn't you tell me before?" He prepared the food and told her to hurry home and carry out the ceremony. So Charan came like flaming fire back to her house, and said to her mother, "Keydong has come and I have seen him. Is he not here? Tell me where he is if you know." The mother said, "He came here, it is true, all the way on foot to see you, but I told him that you were in the yamen and that there was no possible way for you to meet, so he went away and where he is I know not." Then Charan broke down and began to cry. "Oh, my mother, why had you the heart to do so cruelly?" she sobbed. "As far as I am concerned I can never break with him nor give him up. We were each sixteen when chosen to dance together, and while it may be said that men chose us, it is truer still to say that God hath chosen. We grew into each other's lives, and there was never such love as ours. Though he forgot and left me, I can never forget and can never give him up. The Governor, too, called me the beloved wife of his son, and did not once refer to my low station. He cherished me and gave me many gifts. 'Twas all like heaven and not like earth. To the city of Pyong-an gentry and officials gather as men crowd into a boat; I have seen so many, but for grace and ability no one was ever like Keydong. I must find him, and even though he casts me aside I never shall forget him. I have not kept myself even unto death as I should have, because I have been under the power and influence of the Governor. How could he ever have come so far for one so low and vile? He, a gentleman of the highest birth, for the sake of a wretched dancing-girl has endured all this hardship and come so far. Could you not have thought, mother, of these things and given him at least some kindly welcome? Could my heart be other than broken?" And a great flow of tears came from Charan's eyes. She thought and thought as to where he could possibly be. "I know of no place," said she, "unless it be at such and such a scribe's home." Quick as thought she flew thence, and there they met. They clasped each other and cried, not a word was spoken. Thus came they back to Charan's home side by side. When it was night Charan said, "When to-morrow comes we shall have to part. What shall we do?" They talked it over, and agreed to make their escape that night. So Charan got together her clothing, and her treasures and jewels, and made two bundles, and thus, he carrying his on his back and she hers on her head, away they went while the city slept. They followed the road that leads toward the mountains that lie between Yang-tok and Maing-san counties. There they found a country house, where they put up, and where the Governor's son became a sort of better-class servant. He did not know how to do anything well, but Charan understood weaving and sewing, and so they lived. After some time they got a little thatched hut by themselves in the village and lived there. Charan was a beautiful sewing-woman, and ceased not day and night to ply her needle, and sold her treasures and her jewels to make ends meet. Charan, too, knew how to make friends, and was praised and loved by all the village. Everybody felt sorry for the hard times that had befallen this mysterious young couple, and helped them so that the days passed peacefully and happily together. To return in the story: On awaking in the morning in the temple where he and his friends had gone to study, they found Keydong missing. All was in a state of confusion as to what had become of the son of the Chief Justice. They hunted for him far and wide, but he was nowhere to be found, so word was sent to the parents accordingly. There was untold consternation in the home of the former governor. So great a loss, what could equal it? They searched the country about the temple, but no trace or shadow of him was to be found. Some said they thought he had been inveigled away and metamorphosed by the fox; others that he had been eaten by the tiger. The parents decided that he was dead and went into mourning for him, burning his clothing in a sacrificial fire. In Pyong-an the Governor's son, when he found that he had lost Charan, had Charan's mother imprisoned and all the relatives, but after a month or so, when the search proved futile, he gave up the matter and let them go. Charan, at last happy with her chosen one, said one day to him, "You, a son of the gentry, for the sake of a dancing-girl have given up parents and home to live in this hidden corner of the hills. It is a matter, too, that touches your filial piety, this leaving your father and mother in doubt as to whether you are alive or not. They ought to know. We cannot live here all our lives, neither can we return home; what do you think we ought to do?" Keydong made a hopeless reply. "I am in distress," said he, "and know not." Charan said brightly, "I have a plan by which we can cover over the faults of the past, and win a new start for the future. By means of it, you can serve your parents and look the world in the face. Will you consent?" "What do you propose?" asked he. Her reply was, "There is only one way, and that is by means of the Official Examination. I know of no other. You will understand what I mean, even though I do not tell you more." He said, "Enough, your plan is just the thing to help us out. But how can I get hold of the books I need?" Charan replied, "Don't be anxious about that, I'll get the books." From that day forth she sent through all the neighbourhood for books, to be secured at all costs; but there were few or none, it being a mountain village. One day there came by, all unexpectedly, a pack-peddler, who had in his bundle a book that he wished to sell. Some of the village people wanted to buy it for wall-paper. Charan, however, secured it first and showed it to Keydong. It was none other than a special work for Examinations, with all the exercises written out. It was written in small characters, and was a huge book containing several thousand exercises. Keydong was delighted, and said, "This is enough for all needed preparation." She bought it and gave it to him, and there he pegged away day after day. In the night he studied by candle-light, while she sat by his side and did silk-spinning. Thus they shared the light together. If he showed any remissness, Charan urged him on, and thus they worked for two years. To begin with, he, being a highly talented scholar, made steady advancement day by day. He was a beautiful writer and a master of the pen. His compositions, too, were without a peer, and every indication pointed to his winning the highest place in the Kwago (Examination). At this time a proclamation was issued that there would be a special examination held before His Majesty the King, so Charan made ready the food required and all necessaries for him to go afoot to Seoul to try his hand. At last here he was, within the Palace enclosure. His Majesty came out into the examination arena and posted up the subject. Keydong took his pen and wrote his finished composition. Under the inspiration of the moment his lines came forth like bubbling water. It was finished. When the announcement was made as to the winner, the King ordered the sealed name of the writer to be opened. It was, and they found that Keydong was first. At that time his father was Prime Minister and waiting in attendance upon the King. The King called the Prime Minister, and said, "It looks to me as though the winner was your son, but he writes that his father is Chief Justice and not Prime Minister; what can that mean?" He handed the composition paper to the father, and asked him to look and see. The Minister gazed at it in wonder, burst into tears, and said, "It is your servant's son. Three years ago he went with some friends to a monastery to study, but one night he disappeared, and though I searched far and wide I have had no word of him since. I concluded that he had been destroyed by some wild animal, so I had a funeral service held and the house went into mourning. I had no other children but this son only. He was greatly gifted and I lost him in this strange way. The memory has never left me, for it seems as though I had lost him but yesterday. Now that I look at this paper I see indeed that it is the writing of my son. When I lost him I was Chief Justice, and thus he records the office; but where he has been for these three years, and how he comes now to take part in the examination, I know not." The King, hearing this, was greatly astonished, and at once before all the assembled ministers had him called. Thus he came in his scholar's dress into the presence of the King. All the officials wondered at this summoning of a candidate before the announcement of the result. The King asked him why he had left the monastery and where he had been for these three years. He bowed low, and said, "I have been a very wicked man, have left my parents, have broken all the laws of filial devotion, and deserve condign punishment." The King replied, saying, "There is no law of concealment before the King. I shall not condemn you even though you are guilty; tell me all." Then he told his story to the King. All the officials on each side bent their ears to hear. The King sighed, and said to the father, "Your son has repented and made amends for his fault. He has won first place and now stands as a member of the Court. We cannot condemn him for his love for this woman. Forgive him for all the past and give him a start for the future." His Majesty said further, "The woman Charan, who has shared your life in the lonely mountains, is no common woman. Her plans, too, for your restoration were the plans of a master hand. She is no dancing-girl, this Charan. Let no other be your lawful wife but she only; let her be raised to equal rank with her husband, and let her children and her children's children hold highest office in the realm." So was Keydong honoured with the winner's crown, and so the Prime Minister received his son back to life at the hands of the King. The winner's cap was placed upon his head, and the whole house was whirled into raptures of joy. So the Minister sent forth a palanquin and servants to bring up Charan. In a great festival of joy she was proclaimed the wife of the Minister's son. Later he became one of Korea's first men of State, and they lived their happy life to a good old age. They had two sons, both graduates and men who held high office. Im Bang. II THE STORY OF CHANG TO-RYONG [Taoism has been one of the great religions of Korea. Its main thought is expressed in the phrase su-sim yon-song, "to correct the mind and reform the nature"; while Buddhism's is myong-sim kyon-song, "to enlighten the heart and see the soul." The desire of all Taoists is "eternal life," chang-saing pul-sa; that of the Buddhists, to rid oneself of fleshly being. In the Taoist world of the genii, there are three great divisions: the upper genii, who live with God; the midway genii, who have to do with the world of angels and spirits; and the lower genii, who rule in sacred places on the earth, among the hills, just as we find in the story of Chang To-ryong.] In the days of King Chung-jong (A.D. 1507-1526) there lived a beggar in Seoul, whose face was extremely ugly and always dirty. He was forty years of age or so, but still wore his hair down his back like an unmarried boy. He carried a bag over his shoulder, and went about the streets begging. During the day he went from one part of the city to the other, visiting each section, and when night came on he would huddle up beside some one's gate and go to sleep. He was frequently seen in Chong-no (Bell Street) in company with the servants and underlings of the rich. They were great friends, he and they, joking and bantering as they met. He used to say that his name was Chang, and so they called him Chang To-ryong, To-ryong meaning an unmarried boy, son of the gentry. At that time the magician Chon U-chi, who was far-famed for his pride and arrogance, whenever he met Chang, in passing along the street, would dismount and prostrate himself most humbly. Not only did he bow, but he seemed to regard Chang with the greatest of fear, so that he dared not look him in the face. Chang, sometimes, without even inclining his head, would say, "Well, how goes it with you, eh?" Chon, with his hands in his sleeves, most respectfully would reply, "Very well, sir, thank you, very well." He had fear written on all his features when he faced Chang. Sometimes, too, when Chon would bow, Chang would refuse to notice him at all, and go by without a word. Those who saw it were astonished, and asked Chon the reason. Chon said in reply, "There are only three spirit-men at present in Cho-sen, of whom the greatest is Chang To-ryong; the second is Cheung Puk-chang; and the third is Yun Se-pyong. People of the world do not know it, but I do. Such being the case, should I not bow before him and show him reverence?" Those who heard this explanation, knowing that Chon himself was a strange being, paid no attention to it. At that time in Seoul there was a certain literary undergraduate in office whose house joined hard on the street. This man used to see Chang frequently going about begging, and one day he called him and asked who he was, and why he begged. Chang made answer, "I was originally of a cultured family of Chulla Province, but my parents died of typhus fever, and I had no brothers or relations left to share my lot. I alone remained of all my clan, and having no home of my own I have gone about begging, and have at last reached Seoul. As I am not skilled in any handicraft, and do not know Chinese letters, what else can I do?" The undergraduate, hearing that he was a scholar, felt very sorry for him, gave him food and drink, and refreshed him. From this time on, whenever there was any special celebration at his home, he used to call Chang in and have him share it. On a certain day when the master was on his way to office, he saw a dead body being carried on a stretcher off toward the Water Gate. Looking at it closely from the horse on which he rode, he recognized it as the corpse of Chang To-ryong. He felt so sad that he turned back to his house and cried over it, saying, "There are lots of miserable people on earth, but who ever saw one as miserable as poor Chang? As I reckon the time over on my fingers, he has been begging in Bell Street for fifteen years, and now he passes out of the city a dead body." Twenty years and more afterwards the master had to make a journey through South Chulla Province. As he was passing Chi-i Mountain, he lost his way and got into a maze among the hills. The day began to wane, and he could neither return nor go forward. He saw a narrow footpath, such as woodmen take, and turned into it to see if it led to any habitation. As he went along there were rocks and deep ravines. Little by little, as he advanced farther, the scene changed and seemed to become strangely transfigured. The farther he went the more wonderful it became. After he had gone some miles he discovered himself to be in another world entirely, no longer a world of earth and dust. He saw some one coming toward him dressed in ethereal green, mounted and carrying a shade, with servants accompanying. He seemed to sweep toward him with swiftness and without effort. He thought to himself, "Here is some high lord or other coming to meet me, but," he added, "how among these deeps and solitudes could a gentleman come riding so?" He led his horse aside and tried to withdraw into one of the groves by the side of the way, but before he could think to turn the man had reached him. The mysterious stranger lifted his two hands in salutation and inquired respectfully as to how he had been all this time. The master was speechless, and so astonished that he could make no reply. But the stranger smilingly said, "My house is quite near here; come with me and rest." He turned, and leading the way seemed to glide and not to walk, while the master followed. At last they reached the place indicated. He suddenly saw before him great palace halls filling whole squares of space. Beautiful buildings they were, richly ornamented. Before the door attendants in official robes awaited them. They bowed to the master and led him into the hall. After passing a number of gorgeous, palace-like rooms, he arrived at a special one and ascended to the upper storey, where he met a very wonderful person. He was dressed in shining garments, and the servants that waited on him were exceedingly fair. There were, too, children about, so exquisitely beautiful that it seemed none other than a celestial palace. The master, alarmed at finding himself in such a place, hurried forward and made a low obeisance, not daring to lift his eyes. But the host smiled upon him, raised his hands and asked, "Do you not know me? Look now." Lifting his eyes, he then saw that it was the same person who had come riding out to meet him, but he could not tell who he was. "I see you," said he, "but as to who you are I cannot tell." The kingly host then said, "I am Chang To-ryong. Do you not know me?" Then as the master looked more closely at him he could see the same features. The outlines of the face were there, but all the imperfections had gone, and only beauty remained. So wonderful was it that he was quite overcome. A great feast was prepared, and the honoured guest was entertained. Such food, too, was placed before him as was never seen on earth. Angelic beings played on beautiful instruments and danced as no mortal eye ever looked upon. Their faces, too, were like pearls and precious stones. Chang To-ryong said to his guest, "There are four famous mountains in Korea in which the genii reside. This hill is one. In days gone by, for a fault of mine, I was exiled to earth, and in the time of my exile you treated me with marked kindness, a favour that I have never forgotten. When you saw my dead body your pity went out to me; this, too, I remember. I was not dead then, it was simply that my days of exile were ended and I was returning home. I knew that you were passing this hill, and I desired to meet you and to thank you for all your kindness. Your treatment of me in another world is sufficient to bring about our meeting in this one." And so they met and feasted in joy and great delight. When night came he was escorted to a special pavilion, where he was to sleep. The windows were made of jade and precious stones, and soft lights came streaming through them, so that there was no night. "My body was so rested and my soul so refreshed," said he, "that I felt no need of sleep." When the day dawned a new feast was spread, and then farewells were spoken. Chang said, "This is not a place for you to stay long in; you must go. The ways differ of we genii and you men of the world. It will be difficult for us ever to meet again. Take good care of yourself and go in peace." He then called a servant to accompany him and show the way. The master made a low bow and withdrew. When he had gone but a short distance he suddenly found himself in the old world with its dusty accompaniments. The path by which he came out was not the way by which he had entered. In order to mark the entrance he planted a stake, and then the servant withdrew and disappeared. The year following the master went again and tried to find the citadel of the genii, but there were only mountain peaks and impassable ravines, and where it was he never could discover. As the years went by the master seemed to grow younger in spirit, and at last at the age of ninety he passed away without suffering. "When Chang was here on earth and I saw him for fifteen years," said the master, "I remember but one peculiarity about him, namely, that his face never grew older nor did his dirty clothing ever wear out. He never changed his garb, and yet it never varied in appearance in all the fifteen years. This alone would have marked him as a strange being, but our fleshly eyes did not recognize it." Im Bang. III A STORY OF THE FOX [The Fox.--Orientals say that among the long-lived creatures are the tortoise, the deer, the crane and the fox, and that these long-lived ones attain to special states of spiritual refinement. If trees exist through long ages they become coal; if pine resin endures it becomes amber; so the fox, if it lives long, while it never becomes an angel, or spiritual being, as a man does, takes on various metamorphoses, and appears on earth in various forms.] Yi Kwai was the son of a minister. He passed his examinations and held high office. When his father was Governor of Pyong-an Province, Kwai was a little boy and accompanied him. The Governor's first wife being dead, Kwai's stepmother was the mistress of the home. Once when His Excellency had gone out on an inspecting tour, the yamen was left vacant, and Kwai was there with her. In the rear garden of the official quarters was a pavilion, called the Hill Pagoda, that was connected by a narrow gateway with the public hall. Frequently Kwai took one of the yamen boys with him and went there to study, and once at night when it had grown late and the boy who accompanied him had taken his departure, the door opened suddenly and a young woman came in. Her clothes were neat and clean, and she was very pretty. Kwai looked carefully at her, but did not recognize her. She was evidently a stranger, as there was no such person among the dancing-girls of the yamen. He remained looking at her, in doubt as to who she was, while she on the other hand took her place in the corner of the room and said nothing. "Who are you?" he asked. She merely laughed and made no reply. He called her. She came and knelt down before him, and he took her by the hand and patted her shoulder, as though he greeted her favourably. The woman smiled and pretended to enjoy it. He concluded, however, that she was not a real woman, but a goblin of some kind, or perhaps a fox, and what to do he knew not. Suddenly he decided on a plan, caught her, swung her on to his back, and rushed out through the gate into the yamen quarters, where he shouted at the top of his voice for his stepmother and the servants to come. It was midnight and all were asleep. No one replied, and no one came. The woman, then, being on his back, bit him furiously at the nape of the neck. By this he knew that she was the fox. Unable to stand the pain of it, he loosened his grasp, when she jumped to the ground, made her escape and was seen no more. What a pity that no one came to Kwai's rescue and so made sure of the beast! Im Bang. IV CHEUNG PUK-CHANG, THE SEER [Cheung Puk-chang.--The Yol-ryok Keui-sul, one of Korea's noted histories, says of Cheung Puk-chang that he was pure in purpose and without selfish ambition. He was superior to all others in his marvellous gifts. For him to read a book once was to know it by heart. There was nothing that he could not understand--astronomy, geology, music, medicine, mathematics, fortune-telling and Chinese characters, which he knew by intuition and not from study. He followed his father in the train of the envoy to Peking, and there talked to all the strange peoples whom he met without any preparation. They all wondered at him and called him "The Mystery." He knew, too, the meaning of the calls of birds and beasts; and while he lived in the mountains he could see and tell what people were doing in the distant valley, indicating what was going on in each house, which, upon investigation, was found in each case to be true. He was a Taoist, and received strange revelations. While in Peking there met him envoys from the Court of Loochoo, who also were prophets. While in their own country they had studied the horoscope, and on going into China knew that they were to meet a Holy Man. As they went on their way they asked concerning this mysterious being, and at last reached Peking. Inquiring, they went from one envoy's station to another till they met Cheung Puk-chang, when a great fear came upon them, and they fell prostrate to the earth. They took from their baggage a little book inscribed, "In such a year, on such a day, at such an hour, in such a place, you shall meet a Holy Man." "If this does not mean your Excellency," said they, "whom can it mean?" They asked that he would teach them the sacred Book of Changes, and he responded by teaching it in their own language. At that time the various envoys, hearing of this, contended with each other as to who should first see the marvellous stranger, and he spoke to each in his own tongue. They all, greatly amazed, said, "He is indeed a man of God." Some one asked him, saying, "There are those who understand the sounds of birds and beasts, but foreign languages have to be learned to be known; how can you speak them without study?" Puk-chang replied, "I do not know them from having learned them, but know them unconsciously." Puk-chang was acquainted with the three religions, but he considered Confucianism as the first. "Its writings as handed down," said he, "teach us filial piety and reverence. The learning of the Sages deals with relationships among men and not with spiritual mysteries; but Taoism and Buddhism deal with the examination of the soul and the heart, and so with things above and not with things on the earth. This is the difference." At thirty-two years of age he matriculated, but had no interest in further literary study. He became, instead, an official teacher of medicine, astrology and mathematics. He was a fine whistler, we are told, and once when he had climbed to the highest peak of the Diamond Mountains and there whistled, the echoes resounded through the hills, and the priests were startled and wondered whose flute was playing.] [There is a term in Korea which reads he-an pang-kwang, "spiritual-eye distant-vision," the seeing of things in the distance. This pertains to both Taoists and Buddhists. It is said that when the student reaches a certain stage in his progress, the soft part of the head returns to the primal thinness that is seen in the child to rise and fall when it breathes. From this part of the head go forth five rays of light that shoot out and up more and more as the student advances in the spiritual way. As far as they extend so is the spiritual vision perfected, until at last a Korean sufficiently advanced could sit and say, "In London, to-day, such and such a great affair is taking place." For example, So Wha-tam, who was a Taoist Sage, once was seen to laugh to himself as he sat with closed eyes, and when asked why he laughed, said, "Just now in the monastery of Ha-in [300 miles distant] there is a great feast going on. The priest stirring the huge kettle of bean gruel has tumbled in, but the others do not know this, and are eating the soup." News came from the monastery later on that proved that what the sage had seen was actually true. The History of Confucius, too, deals with this when it tells of his going with his disciple An-ja and looking off from the Tai Mountains of Shan-tung toward the kingdom of On. Confucius asked An-ja if he could see anything, and An-ja replied, "I see white horses tied at the gates of On." Confucius said, "No, no, your vision is imperfect, desist from looking. They are not white horses, but are rolls of white silk hung out for bleaching."] The Story The Master, Puk-chang, was a noted Korean. From the time of his birth he was a wonderful mystery. In reading a book, if he but glanced through it, he could recall it word for word. Without any special study he became a master of astronomy, geology, medicine, fortune-telling, music, mathematics and geomancy, and so truly a specialist was he that he knew them all. He was thoroughly versed also in the three great religions, Confucianism, Buddhism, and Taoism. He talked constantly of what other people could not possibly comprehend. He understood the sounds of the birds, the voices of Nature, and much else. He accompanied his father in his boyhood days when he went as envoy to Peking. At that time, strange barbarian peoples used also to come and pay their tribute. Puk-chang picked up acquaintance with them on the way. Hearing their language but once, he was readily able to communicate with them. His own countrymen who accompanied him were not the only ones astonished, nor the Chinamen themselves, but the barbarians as well. There are numerous interesting stories hinted at in the history of Puk-chang, but few suitable records were made of them, and so many are lost. There is one, however, that I recall that comes to me through trustworthy witnesses: Puk-chang, on a certain day, went to visit his paternal aunt. She asked him to be seated, and as they talked together, said to him, "I had some harvesting to do in Yong-nam County, and sent a servant to see to it. His return is overdue and yet he does not come. I am afraid he has fallen in with thieves, or chanced on a fire or some other misfortune." Puk-chang replied, "Shall I tell you how it goes with him, and how far he has come on the way?" She laughed, saying, "Do you mean to joke about it?" Puk-chang, from where he was sitting, looked off apparently to the far south, and at last said to his aunt, "He is just now crossing the hill called Bird Pass in Mun-kyong County, Kyong-sang Province. Hallo! he is getting a beating just now from a passing yangban (gentleman), but I see it is his own fault, so you need not trouble about him." The aunt laughed, and asked, "Why should he be beaten; what's the reason, pray?" Puk-chang replied, "It seems this official was eating his dinner at the top of the hill when your servant rode by him without dismounting. The gentleman was naturally very angry and had his servants arrest your man, pull him from his horse, and beat him over the face with their rough straw shoes." The aunt could not believe it true, but treated the matter as a joke; and yet Puk-chang did not seem to be joking. Interested and curious, she made a note of the day on the wall after Puk-chang had taken his departure, and when the servant returned, she asked him what day he had come over Bird Pass, and it proved to be the day recorded. She added also, "Did you get into trouble with a yangban there when you came by?" The servant gave a startled look, and asked, "How do you know?" He then told all that had happened to him, and it was just as Puk-chang had given it even to the smallest detail. Im Bang. V YUN SE-PYONG, THE WIZARD [Yun Se-pyong was a man of Seoul who lived to the age of over ninety. When he was young he loved archery, and went as military attaché to the capital of the Mings (Nanking). There he met a prophet who taught him the Whang-jong Kyong, or Sacred Book of the Taoists, and thus he learned their laws and practised their teachings. His life was written by Yi So-kwang.] [Chon U-chi was a magician of Songdo who lived about 1550, and was associated in his life with Shin Kwang-hu. At the latter's residence one day when a friend called, Kwang-hu asked Chon to show them one of his special feats. A little later they brought in a table of rice for each of the party, and Chon took a mouthful of his, and then blew it out toward the courtyard, when the rice changed into beautiful butterflies that flew gaily away. Chang O-sa used to tell a story of his father, who said that one day Chon came to call upon him at his house and asked for a book entitled The Tu-si, which he gave to him. "I had no idea," said the father, "that he was dead and that it was his ghost. I gave him the book, though I did not learn till afterwards that he had been dead for a long time." The History of Famous Men says, "He was a man who understood heretical magic, and other dangerous teachings by which he deceived the people. He was arrested for this and locked up in prison in Sin-chon, Whang-hai Province, and there he died. His burial was ordered by the prison authorities, and later, when his relatives came to exhume his remains, they found that the coffin was empty." This and the story of Im Bang do not agree as to his death, and I am not able to judge between them.--J. S. G.] [The transformation of men into beasts, bugs and creeping things comes from Buddhism; one seldom finds it in Taoism.] The Story Yun Se-Pyong was a military man who rose to the rank of minister in the days of King Choong-jong. It seems that Yun learned the doctrine of magic from a passing stranger, whom he met on his way to Peking in company with the envoy. When at home he lived in a separate house, quite apart from the other members of his family. He was a man so greatly feared that even his wife and children dared not approach him. What he did in secret no one seemed to know. In winter he was seen to put iron cleats under each arm and to change them frequently, and when they were put off they seemed to be red-hot. At the same time there was a magician in Korea called Chon U-chi, who used to go about Seoul plying his craft. So skilful was he that he could even simulate the form of the master of a house and go freely into the women's quarters. On this account he was greatly feared and detested. Yun heard of him on more than one occasion, and determined to rid the earth of him. Chon heard also of Yun and gave him a wide berth, never appearing in his presence. He used frequently to say, "I am a magician only; Yun is a God." On a certain day Chon informed his wife that Yun would come that afternoon and try to kill him, "and so," said he, "I shall change my shape in order to escape his clutches. If any one comes asking for me just say that I am not at home." He then metamorphosed himself into a beetle, and crawled under a crock that stood overturned in the courtyard. When evening began to fall a young woman came to Chon's house, a very beautiful woman too, and asked, "Is the master Chon at home?" The wife replied, "He has just gone out." The woman laughingly said, "Master Chon and I have been special friend's for a long time, and I have an appointment with him to-day. Please say to him that I have come." Chon's wife, seeing a pretty woman come thus, and ask in such a familiar way for her husband, flew into a rage and said, "The rascal has evidently a second wife that he has never told me of. What he said just now is all false," so she went out in a fury, and with a club smashed the crock. When the crock was broken there was the beetle underneath it. Then the woman who had called suddenly changed into a bee, and flew at and stung the beetle. Chon, metamorphosed into his accustomed form, fell over and died, and the bee flew away. Yun lived at his own house as usual, when suddenly he broke down one day in a fit of tears. The members of his family in alarm asked the reason. He replied, "My sister living in Chulla Province has just at this moment died." He then called his servants, and had them prepare funeral supplies, saying, "They are poor where she lives, and so I must help them." He wrote a letter, and after sealing it, said to one of his attendants, "If you go just outside the gate you will meet a man wearing a horsehair cap and a soldier's uniform. Call him in. He is standing there ready to be summoned." He was called in, and sure enough he was a Kon-yun-no (servant of the gods). He came in and at once prostrated himself before Yun. Yun said, "My sister has just now died in such a place in Chulla Province. Take this letter and go at once. I shall expect you back to-night with the answer. The matter is of such great importance that if you do not bring it as I order, and within the time appointed, I shall have you punished." He replied, "I shall be in time, be not anxious." Yun then gave him the letter and the bundle, and he went outside the main gateway and disappeared. Before dark he returned with the answer. The letter read: "She died at such an hour to-day and we were in straits as to what to do, when your letter came with the supplies, just as though we had seen each other. Wonderful it is!" The man who brought the answer immediately went out and disappeared. The house of mourning is situated over ten days' journey from Seoul, but he returned ere sunset, in the space of two or three hours. Im Bang. VI THE WILD-CAT WOMAN [Kim Su-ik was a native of Seoul who matriculated in 1624 and graduated in 1630. In 1636, when the King made his escape to Nam-han from the invading Manchu army, Kim Su-ik accompanied him. He opposed any yielding to China or any treaty with them, but because his counsel was not received he withdrew from public life.] [Tong Chung-so was a Chinaman of great note. He once desired to give himself up to study, and did not go out of his room for three years. During this time a young man one day called on him, and while he stood waiting said to himself, "It will rain to-day." Tong replied at once, "If you are not a fox you are a wild cat--out of this," and the man at once ran away. How he came to know this was from the words, "Birds that live in the trees know when the wind will blow; beasts that live in the ground know when it is going to rain." The wild cat unconsciously told on himself.] The Story The former magistrate of Quelpart, Kim Su-ik, lived inside of the South Gate of Seoul. When he was young it was his habit to study Chinese daily until late at night. Once, when feeling hungry, he called for his wife to bring him something to eat. The wife replied, "We have nothing in the house except seven or eight chestnuts. Shall I roast these and bring them to you?" Kim replied, "Good; bring them." The servants were asleep, and there was no one on hand to answer a call, so the wife went to the kitchen, made a fire and cooked them herself. Kim waited, meanwhile, for her to come. After a little while she brought them in a handbasket, cooked and ready served for him. Kim ate and enjoyed them much. Meanwhile she sat before his desk and waited. Suddenly the door opened, and another person entered. Kim raised his eyes to see, and there was the exact duplicate of his wife, with a basket in her hand and roasted chestnuts. As he looked at both of them beneath the light the two women were perfect facsimiles of each other. The two also looked back and forth in alarm, saying, "What's this that's happened? Who are you?" Kim once again received the roasted nuts, laid them down, and then took firm hold of each woman, the first one by the right hand and the second by the left, holding fast till the break of day. At last the cocks crew, and the east began to lighten. The one whose right hand he held, said, "Why do you hold me so? It hurts; let me go." She shook and tugged, but Kim held all the tighter. In a little, after struggling, she fell to the floor and suddenly changed into a wild cat. Kim, in fear and surprise, let her go, and she made her escape through the door. What a pity that he did not make the beast fast for good and all! Note by the writer.--Foxes turning into women and deceiving people is told of in Kwang-keui and other Chinese novels, but the wild cat's transformation is more wonderful still, and something that I have never heard of. By what law do creatures like foxes and wild cats so change? I am unable to find any law that governs it. Some say that the fox carries a magic charm by which it does these magic things, but can this account for the wild cat? Im Bang. VII THE ILL-FATED PRIEST A certain scribe of Chung-chong Province, whose name was Kim Kyong-jin, once told me the following story. Said he: "In the year 1640, as I was journeying past Big Horn Bridge in Ta-in County, I saw a scholar, who, with his four or five servants, had met with some accident and all were reduced to a state of unconsciousness, lying by the river side. I asked the reason for what had befallen them, and they at last said in reply, 'We were eating our noon meal by the side of the road, when a Buddhist priest came by, a proud, arrogant fellow, who refused to bow or show any recognition of us. One of the servants, indignant at this, shouted at him. The priest, however, beat him with his stick, and when others went to help, he beat them also, so that they were completely worsted and unable to rise or walk. He then scolded the scholar, saying, "You did not reprimand your servants for their insult to me, so I'll have to take it out of you as well." The Buddhist gave him a number of vicious blows, so that he completely collapsed;' and when I looked there was the priest a li or two ahead. "Just then a military man, aged about forty or so, came my way. He was poor in flesh and seemed to have no strength. Riding a cadaverous pony, he came shuffling along; a boy accompanying carried his hat-cover and bow and arrows. He arrived at the stream, and, seeing the people in their plight, asked the cause. The officer was very angry, and said, 'Yonder impudent priest, endowed with no end of brute force, has attacked my people and me.' "'Indeed,' said the stranger, 'I have been aware of him for a long time, and have decided to rid the earth of him, but I have never had an opportunity before. Now that I have at last come on him I am determined to have satisfaction.' So he dismounted from his horse, tightened his girth, took his bow, and an arrow that had a 'fist' head, and made off at a gallop after the priest. Soon he overtook him. Just as the priest looked back the archer let fly with his arrow, which entered deep into the chest. He then dismounted, drew his sword, pierced the two hands of the priest and passed a string through them, tied him to his horse's tail, and came triumphantly back to where the scholar lay, and said, 'Now do with this fellow as you please. I am going.' "The scholar bowed before the archer, thanked him, asked his place of residence and name. He replied, 'My home is in the County of Ko-chang,' but he did not give his name. "The scholar looked at the priest, and never before had he seen so powerful a giant, but now, with his chest shot through and his hands pierced, he was unable to speak; so they arose, made mincemeat of him, and went on their way rejoicing." Im Bang. VIII THE VISION OF THE HOLY MAN Yi Chi-Ham (Master To-jong).--A story is told of him that on the day after his wedding he went out with his topo or ceremonial coat on, but came back later without it. On inquiry being made, it was found that he had torn it into pieces to serve as bandages for a sick child that he had met with on his walk. Once on a time he had an impression that his father-in-law's home was shortly to be overtaken by a great disaster; he therefore took his wife and disappeared from the place. In the year following, for some political offence, the home was indeed wiped out and the family wholly destroyed. To-jong was not only a prophet, but also a magician, as was shown by his handling of a boat. When he took to sea the waters lay quiet before him, and all his path was peace. He would be absent sometimes for a year or more, voyaging in many parts of the world. He practised fasting, and would go sometimes for months without eating. He also overcame thirst, and in the hot days of summer would avoid drinking. He stifled all pain and suffering, so that when he walked and his feet were blistered he paid no attention to it. While young he was a disciple of a famous Taoist, So Wha-dam. As his follower he used to dress in grass cloth (the poor man's garb), wear straw shoes and carry his bundle on his back. He would be on familiar terms with Ministers of State, and yet show indifference to their greatness and pomp. He was acquainted with the various magic practices, so that in boating he used to hang out gourd cups at each corner of the boat, and thus equipped he went many times to and from Quelpart and never met a wind. He did merchandising, made money, and bought land which yielded several thousand bags of rice that he distributed among the poor. He lived in Seoul in a little dug-out, so that his name became "Mud Pavilion," or To-jong. His cap was made of metal, which he used to cook his food in, and which he then washed and put back on his head again. He used also to wear wooden shoes and ride on a pack saddle. He built a house for the poor in Asan County when he was magistrate there, gathered in all the needy and had them turn to and work at whatever they had any skill in, so that they lived and flourished. When any one had no special ability, he had him weave straw shoes. He urged them on till they could make as many as ten pairs a day. Yul-gok said of him that he was a dreamer and not suitable for this matter-of-fact world, because he belonged to the realm of flowers and pretty birds, songs and sweet breezes, and not to the common clay of corn and beef and radishes. To-jong heard this, and replied, "Though I am not of a kind equal to beans and corn, still I will rank with acorns and chestnuts. Why am I wholly useless?" Korea's Record of Famous Men. The Story Teacher To-jong was once upon a time a merchant, and in his merchandising went as far as the East Sea. One night he slept in a fishing village on the shore. At that time another stranger called who was said to be an i-in or "holy man." The three met and talked till late at night--the master of the house, the "holy man" and To-jong. It was very clear and beautifully calm. The "holy man" looked for a time out over the expanse of water, then suddenly gave a great start of terror, and said, "An awful thing is about to happen." His companions, alarmed at his manner, asked him what he meant. He replied, "In two hours or so there will be a tidal wave that will engulf this whole village, utterly destroying everything. If you do not make haste to escape all will be as fish in a net." To-jong, being something of an astrologer himself, thought first to solve the mystery of this, but could arrive at no explanation. The owner of the house would not believe it, and refused to prepare for escape. The "holy man" said, however, "Even though you do not believe what I say, let us go for a little up the face of the rear mountain. If my words fail we can only come down again, and no one will be the worse for it. If you still do not wish to trust me, leave your goods and furniture just as they are and let the people come away." To-jong was greatly interested, though he could not understand it. The master, too, could no longer refuse this proposal, so he took his family and a few light things and followed the "holy man" up the hill. He had them ascend to the very top, "in order," said he, "to escape." To-jong did not go to the top, but seated himself about half-way up. He asked the "holy man" if he would not be safe enough there. The "holy man" replied, "Others would never escape if they remained where you are, but you will simply get a fright and live through it." When cock-crow came, sure enough the sea suddenly lifted its face, overflowed its banks, and the waves came rolling up to the heavens, climbing the mountain-sides till they touched the feet of To-jong. The whole town on the seashore was engulfed. When daylight came the waters receded. To-jong bowed to the "holy man" and asked that he might become his disciple. The "holy man," however, disclaimed any knowledge, saying that he had simply known it by accident. He was a man who did not speak of his own attainments. To-jong asked for his place of residence, which he indicated as near by, and then left. He went to seek him on the following day, but the house was vacant, and there was no one there. Im Bang. IX THE VISIT OF THE MAN OF GOD In the thirty-third year of Mal-yok of the Mings (A.D. 1605), being the year Eulsa of the reign of Son-jo, in the seventh moon, a great rain fell, such a rain as had not been seen since the founding of the dynasty. Before that rain came on, a man of Kang-won Province was cutting wood on the hill-side. While thus engaged, an angel in golden armour, riding on a white horse and carrying a spear, came down to him from heaven. His appearance was most dazzling, and the woodman, looking at him, recognized him as a Man of God. Also a Buddhist priest, carrying a staff, came down in his train. The priest's appearance, too, was very remarkable. The Man of God stopped his horse and seemed to be talking with the priest, while the woodcutter, alarmed by the great sight, hid himself among the trees. The Man of God seemed to be very angry for some reason or other, raised his spear, and, pointing to the four winds, said, "I shall flood all the earth from such a point to such a point, and destroy the inhabitants thereof." The priest following cried and prayed him to desist, saying, "This will mean utter destruction to mortals; please let thy wrath rest on me." As he prayed thus earnestly the Man of God again said, "Then shall I limit it to such and such places. Will that do?" But the priest prayed more earnestly still, till the Man replied emphatically, "I have lessened the punishment more than a half already on your account; I can do no more." Though the priest prayed still, the Man of God refused him, so that at last he submissively said, "Thy will be done." They ended thus and both departed, passing away through the upper air into heaven. The two had talked for a long time, but the distance being somewhat great between them and the woodman, he did not hear distinctly all that was said. He went home, however, in great haste, and with his wife and family made his escape, and from that day the rain began to fall. In it Mount Otai collapsed, the earth beneath it sank until it became a vast lake, all the inhabitants were destroyed, and the woodcutter alone made his escape. Im Bang. X THE LITERARY MAN OF IMSIL [The calling of spirits is one of the powers supposed to be possessed by disciples of the Old Philosopher (Taoists), who reach a high state of spiritual attainment. While the natural desires remain they cloud and obstruct spiritual vision; once rid of them, even angels and immortal beings become unfolded to the sight. They say, "If once all the obstructions of the flesh are eliminated even God can be seen." They also say, "If I have no selfish desire, the night around me will shine with golden light; and if all injurious thoughts are truly put away, the wild deer of the mountain will come down and play beside me." Ha Sa-gong, a Taoist of high attainment, as an old man used to go out fishing, when the pigeons would settle in flights upon his head and shoulders. On his return one day he told his wife that they were so many that they bothered him. "Why not catch one of them?" said his wife. "Catch one?" said he. "What would you do with it?" "Why, eat it, of course." So on the second day Ha went out with this intent in heart, but no birds came near or alighted on him. All kept a safe distance high up in mid-air, with doubt and suspicion evident in their flying.] The Story In the year 1654 there was a man of letters living in Imsil who claimed that he could control spirits, and that two demon guards were constantly at his bidding. One day he was sitting with a friend playing chess, when they agreed that the loser in each case was to pay a fine in drink. The friend lost and yet refused to pay his wager, so that the master said, "If you do not pay up I'll make it hot for you." The man, however, refused, till at last the master, exasperated, turned his back upon him and called out suddenly into the upper air some formula or other, as if he were giving a command. The man dashed off through the courtyard to make his escape, but an unseen hand bared his body, and administered to him such a set of sounding blows that they left blue, seamy marks. Unable to bear the pain of it longer, he yielded, and then the master laughed and let him go. At another time he was seated with a friend, while in the adjoining village a witch koot (exorcising ceremony) was in progress, with drums and gongs banging furiously. The master suddenly rushed out to the bamboo grove that stood behind the official yamen, and, looking very angry and with glaring eyes, he shouted, and made bare his arm as if to drive off the furies. After a time he ceased. The friend, thinking this a peculiar performance, asked what it meant. His reply was, "A crowd of devils have come from the koot, and are congregating in the grove of bamboos; if I do not drive them off trouble will follow in the town, and for that cause I shouted." Again he was making a journey with a certain friend, when suddenly, on the way, he called out to the mid-air, saying, "Let her go, let her go, I say, or I'll have you punished severely." His appearance was so peculiar and threatening that the friend asked the cause. For the time being he gave no answer, and they simply went on their way. That night they entered a village where they wished to sleep, but the owner of the house where they applied said that they had sickness, and asked them to go. They insisted, however, till he at last sent a servant to drive them off. Meanwhile the womenfolk watched the affair through the chinks of the window, and they talked in startled whispers, so that the scholar overheard them. A few minutes later the man of the house followed in the most humble and abject manner, asking them to return and accept entertainment and lodging at his house. Said he, "I have a daughter, sir, and she fell ill this very day and died, and after some time came to life again. Said she, 'A devil caught me and carried my soul off down the main roadway, where we met a man, who stopped us, and in fierce tones drove off the spirit, who let me go, and so I returned to life.' She looked out on your Excellency through the chink of the window, and, behold, you are the man. I am at my wits' end to know what to say to you. Are you a genii or are you a Buddhist, so marvellously to bring back the dead to life? I offer this small refreshment; please accept." The scholar laughed, and said, "Nonsense! Just a woman's haverings. How could I do such things?" He lived for seven or eight years more, and died. Im Bang. XI THE SOLDIER OF KANG-WHA [The East says that the air is full of invisible constituents that, once taken in hand and controlled, will take on various forms of life. The man of Kang-wha had acquired the art of calling together the elements necessary for the butterfly. This, too, comes from Taoism, and is called son-sul, Taoist magic] The Story There was a soldier once of Kang-wha who was the chief man of his village; a low-class man, he was, apparently, without any gifts. One day his wife, overcome by a fit of jealousy, sat sewing in her inner room. It was midwinter, and he was obliged to be at home; so, with intent to cheer her up and take her mind off the blues, he said to her, "Would you like to see me make some butterflies?" His wife, more angry than ever at this, rated him for his impudence, and paid no further attention. The soldier then took her workbasket and from it selected bits of silk of various colours, tucked them into his palm, closed his hand upon them, and repeated a prayer, after which he threw the handful into the air. Immediately beautiful butterflies filled the room, dazzling the eyes and shining in all the colours of the silk itself. The wife, mystified by the wonder of it, forgot her anger. The soldier a little later opened his hand, held it up, and they all flew into it. He closed it tight and then again opened his hand, and they were pieces of silk only. His wife alone saw this; it was unknown to others. No such strange magic was ever heard of before. In 1637, when Kang-wha fell before the Manchus, all the people of the place fled crying for their lives, while the soldier remained undisturbed at his home, eating his meals with his wife and family just as usual. He laughed at the neighbours hurrying by. Said he, "The barbarians will not touch this town; why do you run so?" Thus it turned out that, while the whole island was devastated, the soldier's village escaped. Im Bang. XII CURSED BY THE SNAKE [Ha Yon graduated in the year 1396, and became magistrate of Anak County. He built many pavilions in and about his official place of residence, where people might rest. As he went about his district, seeing the farmers busy, he wrote many songs and verses to encourage them in their work. He became later a royal censor, and King Tai-jong commended him, saying, "Well done, good and faithful servant." Later he became Chief Justice. He cleared out the public offices of all disreputable officials, and made the Court clean. When he had leisure it was his habit to dress in ceremonial garb, burn incense, sit at attention, and write prayer verses the livelong day. When he was young, once, in the Court of the Crown Prince, he wrote a verse which was commented upon thus: "Beautiful writing, beautiful thought; truly a treasure." He was a great student and a great inquirer, and grateful and lovable as a friend. He studied as a boy under the patriot Cheung Mong-ju, and was upright and pure in all his ways. His object was to become as one of the Ancients, and so he followed truth, and encouraged men in the study of the sacred books. He used to awake at first cock-crow of the morning, wash, dress, and never lay aside his book. On his right were pictures, on his left were books, and he happy between. He rose to be Prime Minister.] The Story The old family seat of Prince Ha Yun was in the County of Keum-chon. He was a famous Minister of State in the days of peace and prosperity, and used frequently to find rest and leisure in his summer-house in this same county. It was a large and well-ordered mansion, and was occupied by his children for many years after his death. The people of that county used to tell a very strange story of Ha and his prosperity, which runs thus: He had placed in an upper room a large crock that was used to hold flour. One day one of the servants, wishing to get some flour from the jar, lifted the lid, when suddenly from the depths of it a huge snake made its appearance. The servant, startled, fell back in great alarm, and then went and told the master what had happened. The master sent his men-slaves and had the jar brought down. They broke it open and let out a huge, awful-looking snake, such as one had never seen before. Several of the servants joined in with clubs and killed the brute. They then piled wood on it and set fire to the whole. Vile fumes arose that filled the house. From the fumes all the people of the place died, leaving no one behind to represent the family. Others who entered the house died also, so that the place became cursed, and was left in desolation. A little later a mysterious fire broke out and burnt up the remaining buildings, leaving only the vacant site. To this day the place is known as "haunted," and no one ventures to build upon it. Im Bang. XIII THE MAN ON THE ROAD In the Manchu War of 1636, the people of Seoul rushed off in crowds to make their escape. One party of them came suddenly upon a great force of the enemy, armed and mounted. The hills and valleys seemed full of them, and there was no possible way of escape. What to do they knew not. In the midst of their perplexity they suddenly saw some one sitting peacefully in the main roadway just in front, underneath a pine tree, quite unconcerned. He had dismounted from his horse, which a servant held, standing close by. A screen of several yards of cotton cloth was hanging up just before him, as if to shield him from the dust of the passing army. The people who were making their escape came up to this stranger, and said imploringly, "We are all doomed to die. What shall we do?" The mysterious stranger said, "Why should you die? and why are you so frightened? Sit down by me and see the barbarians go by." The people, perceiving his mind so composed and his appearance devoid of fear, and they having no way of escape, did as he bade them and sat down. The cavalry of the enemy moved by in great numbers, killing every one they met, not a single person escaping; but when they reached the place where the magician sat, they went by without, apparently, seeing anything. Thus they continued till the evening, when all had passed by. The stranger and the people with him sat the day through without any harm overtaking them, even though they were in the midst of the enemy's camp, as it were. At last awaking to the fact that he was possessor of some wonderful magic, they all with one accord came and bowed before him, asking his name and his place of residence. He made no answer, however, but mounted his beautiful horse and rode swiftly away, no one being able to overtake him. The day following the party fell in with a man who had been captured but had made his escape. They asked if he had seen anything special the day before. He said, "When I followed the barbarian army, passing such and such a point"--indicating the place where the magician had sat with the people--"we skirted great walls and precipitous rocks, against which no one could move, and so we passed by." Thus were the few yards of cotton cloth metamorphosed before the eyes of the passers-by. Im Bang. XIV THE OLD MAN WHO BECAME A FISH Some years ago a noted official became the magistrate of Ko-song County. On a certain day a guest called on him to pay his respects, and when noon came the magistrate had a table of food prepared for him, on which was a dish of skate soup. When the guest saw the soup he twisted his features and refused it, saying, "To-day I am fasting from meat, and so beg to be excused." His face grew very pale, and tears flowed from his eyes. The magistrate thought this behaviour strange, and asked him two or three times the meaning of it. When he could no longer withhold a reply, he went into all the particulars and told him the story. "Your humble servant," he said, "has in his life met with much unheard-of and unhappy experience, which he has never told to a living soul, but now that your Excellency asks it of me, I cannot refrain from telling. Your servant's father was a very old man, nearly a hundred, when one day he was taken down with a high fever, in which his body was like a fiery furnace. Seeing the danger he was in, his children gathered about weeping, thinking that the time of his departure had surely come. But he lived, and a few days later said to us, 'I am burdened with so great a heat in this sickness that I am not able to endure it longer. I would like to go out to the bank of the river that runs before the house and see the water flowing by, and be refreshed by it. Do not disobey me now, but carry me out at once to the water's edge.' "We remonstrated with him and begged him not to do so, but he grew very angry, and said, 'If you do not as I command, you will be the death of me'; and so, seeing that there was no help for it, we bore him out and placed him on the bank of the river. He, seeing the water, was greatly delighted, and said, 'The clear flowing water cures my sickness.' A moment later he said further, 'I'd like to be quite alone and rid of you all for a little. Go away into the wood and wait till I tell you to come.' "We again remonstrated about this, but he grew furiously angry, so that we were helpless. We feared that if we insisted, his sickness would grow worse, and so we were compelled to yield. We went a short distance away and then turned to look, when suddenly the old father was gone from the place where he had been seated. We hurried back to see what had happened. My father had taken off his clothes and plunged into the water, which was muddied. His body was already half metamorphosed into a skate. We saw its transformation in terror, and did not dare to go near him, when all at once it became changed into a great flatfish, that swam and plunged and disported itself in the water with intense delight. He looked back at us as though he could hardly bear to go, but a moment later he was off, entered the deep sea, and did not again appear. "On the edge of the stream where he had changed his form we found his finger-nails and a tooth. These we buried, and to-day as a family we all abstain from skate fish, and when we see the neighbours frying or eating it we are overcome with disgust and horror." Im Bang. XV THE GEOMANCER [Yi Eui-sin was a specialist in Geomancy. His craft came into being evidently as a by-product of Taoism, but has had mixed in it elements of ancient Chinese philosophy. The Positive and the Negative, the Two Primary Principles in Nature, play a great part; also the Five Elements, Metal, Wood, Water, Fire and Earth. In the selection of a site, that for a house is called a "male" choice, while the grave is denominated the "female" choice. Millions of money have been expended in Korea on the geomancer and his associates in the hope of finding lucky homes for the living and auspicious resting-places for the dead, the Korean idea being that, in some mysterious way, all our fortune is associated with Mother Earth.] The Story There was a geomancer once, Yi Eui-sin, who in seeking out a special mountain vein, started with the Dragon Ridge in North Ham-kyong Province, and traced it as far as Pine Mountain in Yang-ju County, where it stopped in a beautifully rounded end, forming a perfect site for burial. After wandering all day in the hills, Yi's hungry spirit cried out for food. He saw beneath the hill a small house, to which he went, and rapping at the door asked for something to eat. A mourner, recently bereaved, came out in a respectful and kindly way, and gave him a dish of white gruel. Yi, after he had eaten, asked what time the friend had become a mourner, and if he had already passed the funeral. The owner answered, "I am just now entering upon full mourning, but we have not yet arranged for the funeral." He spoke in a sad and disheartened way. Yi felt sorry for him, and asked the reason. "I wonder if it's because you are poor that you have not yet made the necessary arrangements, or perhaps you have not yet found a suitable site! I am an expert in reading the hills, and I'll tell you of a site; would you care to see it?" The mourner thanked him most gratefully, and said, "I'll be delighted to know of it." Yi then showed him the end of the great vein that he had just discovered, also the spot for the grave and how to place its compass points. "After possessing this site," said he, "you will be greatly enriched, but in ten years you will have cause to arrange for another site. When that comes to pass please call me, won't you? In calling for me just ask for Yi So-pang, who lives in West School Ward, Seoul." The mourner did as directed, and as the geomancer had foretold, all his affairs prospered. He built a large tiled house, and ornamented the grave with great stones as a prosperous and high-minded country gentleman should do. After ten years a guest called one day, and saluting him asked, "Is that grave yonder, beyond the stream, yours?" The master answered, "It is mine." Then the stranger said, "That is a famous site, but ten years have passed since you have come into possession of it, and the luck is gone; why do you not make a change? If you wait too long you will rue it and may meet with great disaster." The owner, hearing this, thought of Yi the geomancer, and what he had said years before. Remembering that, he asked the stranger to remain as his guest while he went next day to Seoul to look up Yi in West School Ward. He found him, and told him why he had come. Yi said, "I already knew of this." So the two journeyed together to the inquirer's home. When there, they went with the guest up the hill. Yi asked of the guest, "Why did you tell the master to change the site?" The guest replied, "This hill is a Kneeling Pheasant formation. If the pheasant kneels too long it cannot endure it, so that within a limited time it must fly. Ten years is the time; that's why I spoke." Yi laughed and said, "Your idea is only a partial view, you have thought of only one thing, there are other conditions that enter." Then he showed the peak to the rear, and said, "Yonder is Dog Hill," and then one below, "which," said he, "is Falcon Hill," and then the stream in front, "which," said he, "is Cat River. This is the whole group, the dog behind, the falcon just above, and the cat in front, how then can the pheasant fly? It dares not." The guest replied, "Teacher, surely your eyes are enlightened, and see further than those of ordinary men." From that day forth the Yis of Pine Hill became a great and noted family. Anon. XVI THE MAN WHO BECAME A PIG [Kim Yu was the son of a country magistrate who graduated with literary honours in 1596. In 1623 he was one of the faithful courtiers who joined forces to dethrone the wicked Prince Kwang-hai, and place In-jo on the throne. He was raised to the rank of Prince and became, later, Prime Minister. In the year 1624, when Yi Kwal raised an insurrection, he was the means of putting it down and of bringing many of his followers to justice. In 1648, he died at the age of seventy-seven. In the last year of Son-jo the King called his grandchildren together and had them write Chinese for him and draw pictures. At that time In-jo was a little boy, and he drew a picture of a horse. King Son-jo gave the picture to Yi Hang-bok, but when the latter some years later went into exile he gave the picture to Kim Yu. Kim Yu took it, and hung it up in his house and there it remained. Prince In-jo was one day making a journey out of the Palace when he was overtaken by rain, and took refuge in a neighbouring gate-quarters. A servant-maid came out and invited him in, asking him not to stand in the wet, but Prince In-jo declined. The invitation, however, was insisted on, and he went into the guest-room, where he saw the picture of a horse on the wall. On examining it carefully he recognized it as the picture he had drawn when a lad, and he wondered how it could have come here. Kim Yu then came in and they met for the first time. Prince In-jo told him how he had been overtaken by rain and invited in. He asked concerning the picture of the horse that hung on the wall, and Kim Yu in reply asked why he inquired. Prince In-jo said, "I drew that picture myself when I was a boy." Just as they spoke together a rich table of food was brought in from the inner quarters. Kim Yu, not knowing yet who his guest was, looked with wonder at this surprise, and after Prince In-jo had gone, he inquired of his wife why she had sent such delicious fare in to a stranger. The wife replied, "In a dream last night, I saw the King come and stand in front of our house. I was just thinking it over when the servant came in and said that some one was standing before the door. I looked out, and lo, it was the man I had seen in my dream! so I have treated him to the best of hospitality that I was able." Kim Yu soon learned who his caller had been, and became from that time the faithful supporter of Prince In-jo, and later helped to put him on the throne. After In-jo became king he asked privately of Kim Yu where he had got the picture. Kim Yu said, "I got it from Prince Yi Hang-bok." Kim Yu then called Yi's son and inquired of him as to how his father had got it. The son said, "In the last year of King Son-jo he called my father along with all his grandchildren, and showed him the writings and drawings of the young princes. My father looked at them with interest, but the King gave him only one as a keepsake, namely, the drawing of the horse." In the picture there was a willow tree and a horse tied to it. Kim Yu then recognized the thought that underlay the gift of the picture, namely, that Prince Yi Hang-bok should support In-jo in the succession to the throne.] The Story A certain Minister of State, called Kim Yu, living in the County of Seung-pyong, had a relative who resided in a far-distant part of the country, an old man aged nearly one hundred. On a certain day a son of this patriarch came to the office of the Minister and asked to see him. Kim ordered him to be admitted, and inquired as to why he had come. Said he, "I have something very important to say, a private matter to lay before your Excellency. There are so many guests with you now that I'll come again in the evening and tell it." In the evening, when all had departed, he came, and the Minister ordered out his personal retainers and asked the meaning of the call. The man replied, saying, "My father, though very old, was, as you perhaps know, a strong and hearty man. On a certain day he called us children to him and said, 'I wish to have a siesta, so now close the door and all of you go out of the room. Do not let any one venture in till I call you.' "We children agreed, of course, and did so. Till late at night there was neither call nor command to open the door, so that we began to be anxious. We at last looked through the chink, and lo, there was our father changed into a huge pig! Terrified by the sight of it we opened the door and looked in, when the animal grunted and growled and made a rush to get out past us. We hurriedly closed the door again and held a consultation. "Some said, 'Let's keep the pig just as it is, within doors, and care for it.' Some said, 'Let's have a funeral and bury it.' We ignorant country-folk not knowing just what to do under such peculiar circumstances, I have come to ask counsel of your Excellency. Please think over this startling phenomenon and tell us what we ought to do." Prince Kim, hearing this, gave a great start, thought it over for a long time, and at last said, "No such mysterious thing was ever heard of before, and I really don't know what is best to do under the circumstances, but still, it seems to me that since this metamorphosis has come about, you had better not bury it before death, so give up the funeral idea. Since, too, it is not a human being any longer, I do not think it right to keep it in the house. You say that it wants to make its escape, and as a cave in the woods or hills is its proper abode, I think you had better take it out and let it go free into the trackless depths of some mountainous country, where no foot of man has ever trod." The son accepted this wise counsel, and did as the Minister advised, took it away into the deep mountains and let it go. Then he donned sackcloth, mourned, buried his father's clothes for a funeral, and observed the day of metamorphosis as the day of sacrificial ceremony. Im Bang. XVII THE OLD WOMAN WHO BECAME A GOBLIN There was a Confucian scholar once who lived in the southern part of Seoul. It is said that he went out for a walk one day while his wife remained alone at home. When he was absent there came by begging an old woman who looked like a Buddhist priestess, for while very old her face was not wrinkled. The scholar's wife asked her if she knew how to sew. She said she did, and so the wife made this proposition, "If you will stay and work for me I'll give you your breakfast and your supper, and you'll not have to beg anywhere; will you agree?" She replied, "Oh, thank you so much, I'll be delighted." The scholar's wife, well satisfied with her bargain, took her in and set her to picking cotton, and making and spinning thread. In one day she did more than eight ordinary women, and yet had, seemingly, plenty of time to spare. The wife, delighted above measure, treated her to a great feast. After five or six days, however, the feeling of delight and the desire to treat her liberally and well wore off somewhat, so that the old woman grew angry and said, "I am tired of living alone, and so I want your husband for my partner." This being refused, she went off in a rage, but came back in a little accompanied by a decrepit old man who looked like a Buddhist beggar. These two came boldly into the room and took possession, cleared out the things that were in the ancient tablet-box on the wall-shelf, and both disappeared into it, so that they were not seen at all, but only their voices heard. According to the whim that took them they now ordered eatables and other things. When the scholar's wife failed in the least particular to please them, they sent plague and sickness after her, so that her children fell sick and died. Relatives on hearing of this came to see, but they also caught the plague, fell ill and died. Little by little no one dared come near the place, and it became known at last that the wife was held as a prisoner by these two goblin creatures. For a time smoke was seen by the town-folk coming out of the chimney daily, and they knew that the wife still lived, but after five or six days the smoke ceased, and they knew then that the woman's end had come. No one dared even to make inquiry. Im Bang. XVIII THE GRATEFUL GHOST It is often told that in the days of the Koryo Dynasty (A.D. 918-1392), when an examination was to be held, a certain scholar came from a far-distant part of the country to take part. Once on his journey the day was drawing to a close, and he found himself among the mountains. Suddenly he heard a sneezing from among the creepers and bushes by the roadside, but could see no one. Thinking it strange, he dismounted from his horse, went into the brake and listened. He heard it again, and it seemed to come from the roots of the creeper close beside him, so he ordered his servant to dig round it and see. He dug and found a dead man's skull. It was full of earth, and the roots of the creeper had passed through the nostrils. The sneezing was caused by the annoyance felt by the spirit from having the nose so discommoded. The candidate felt sorry, washed the skull in clean water, wrapped it in paper and reburied it in its former place on the hill-side. He also brought a table of food and offered sacrifice, and said a prayer. That night, in a dream, a scholar came to him, an old man with white hair, who bowed, thanked him, and said, "On account of sin committed in a former life, I died out of season before I had fulfilled my days. My posterity, too, were all destroyed, my body crumbled back into the dust, my skull alone remaining, and that is what you found below the creeper. On account of the root passing through it the annoyance was great, and I could not help but sneeze. By good luck you and your kind heart, blessed of Heaven, took pity on me, buried me in a clean place and gave me food. Your kindness is greater than the mountains, and like the blessing that first brought me into life. Though my soul is by no means perfect, yet I long for some way by which to requite your favour, and so I have exercised my powers in your behalf. Your present journey is for the purpose of trying the official Examination, so I shall tell you beforehand what the form is to be, and the subject. It is to be of character groups of fives, in couplets; the rhyme sound is 'pong,' and the subject 'Peaks and Spires of the Summer Clouds.' I have already composed one for you, which, if you care to use it, will undoubtedly win you the first place. It is this-- 'The white sun rode high up in the heavens, And the floating clouds formed a lofty peak; The priest who saw them asked if there was a temple there, And the crane lamented the fact that no pines were visible; But the lightnings from the cloud were the flashings of the woodman's axe, And the muffled thunders were the bell calls of the holy temple. Will any say that the hills do not move? On the sunset breezes they sailed away.'" After thus stating it, he bowed and took his departure. The man, in wonder, awakened from his dream, came up to Seoul; and behold, the subject was as foretold by the spirit. He wrote what had been given him, and became first in the honours of the occasion. Im Bang. XIX THE PLUCKY MAIDEN [Han Myong-hoi.--We are told in the Yol-ryok Keui-sul that when Han was a boy he had for protector and friend a tiger, who used to accompany him as a dog does his master. One evening, when he started off into the hills, he heard the distant tramp of the great beast, who had got scent of his going, and had come rushing after him. When Han saw him he turned, and said, "Good old chap, you come all this distance to be my friend; I love you for it." The tiger prostrated himself and nodded with his head several times. He used to accompany Han all through the nights, but when the day dawned he would leave him. Han later fell into bad company, grew fond of drink, and was one of the boisterous companions of King Se-jo.] The Story Han Myong-hoi was a renowned Minister of the Reign of Se-jo (A.D. 1455-1468). The King appreciated and enjoyed him greatly, and there was no one of the Court who could surpass him for influence and royal favour. Confident in his position, Han did as he pleased, wielding absolute power. At that time, like grass before the wind, the world bowed at his coming; no one dared utter a word of remonstrance. When Han went as governor to Pyong-an Province he did all manner of lawless things. Any one daring to cross his wishes in the least was dealt with by torture and death. The whole Province feared him as they would a tiger. On a certain day Governor Han, hearing that the Deputy Prefect of Son-chon had a very beautiful daughter, called the Deputy, and said, "I hear that you have a very beautiful daughter, whom I would like to make my concubine. When I am on my official rounds shortly, I shall expect to stop at your town and take her. So be ready for me." The Deputy, alarmed, said, "How can your Excellency say that your servant's contemptible daughter is beautiful? Some one has reported her wrongly. But since you so command, how can I do but accede gladly?" So he bowed, said his farewell, and went home. On his return his family noticed that his face was clouded with anxiety, and the daughter asked why it was. "Did the Governor call you, father?" asked she; "and why are you so anxious? Tell me, please." At first, fearing that she would be disturbed, he did not reply, but her repeated questions forced him, so that he said, "I am in trouble on your account," and then told of how the Governor wanted her for his concubine. "If I had refused I would have been killed, so I yielded; but a gentleman's daughter being made a concubine is a disgrace unheard of." The daughter made light of it and laughed. "Why did you not think it out better than that, father? Why should a grown man lose his life for the sake of a girl? Let the daughter go. By losing one daughter and saving your life, you surely do better than saving your daughter and losing your life. One can easily see where the greater advantage lies. A daughter does not count; give her over, that's all. Don't for a moment think otherwise, just put away your distress and anxiety. We women, every one of us, are under the ban, and such things are decreed by Fate. I shall accept without any opposition, so please have no anxiety. It is settled now, and you, father, must yield and follow. If you do so all will be well." The father sighed, and said in reply, "Since you seem so willing, my mind is somewhat relieved." But from this time on the whole house was in distress. The girl alone seemed perfectly unmoved, not showing the slightest sign of fear. She laughed as usual, her light and happy laugh, and her actions seemed wonderfully free. In a little the Governor reached Son-chon on his rounds. He then called the Deputy, and said, "Make ready your daughter for to-morrow and all the things needed." The Deputy came home and made preparation for the so-called wedding. The daughter said, "This is not a real wedding; it is only the taking of a concubine, but still, make everything ready in the way of refreshments and ceremony as for a real marriage." So the father did as she requested. On the day following the Governor came to the house of the Deputy. He was not dressed in his official robes, but came simply in the dress and hat of a commoner. When he went into the inner quarters he met the daughter; she stood straight before him. Her two hands were lifted in ceremonial form, but instead of holding a fan to hide her face she held a sword before her. She was very pretty. He gave a great start of surprise, and asked the meaning of the knife that she held. She ordered her nurse to reply, who said, "Even though I am an obscure countrywoman, I do not forget that I am born of the gentry; and though your Excellency is a high Minister of State, still to take me by force is an unheard-of dishonour. If you take me as your real and true wife I'll serve you with all my heart, but if you are determined to take me as a concubine I shall die now by this sword. For that reason I hold it. My life rests on one word from your Excellency. Speak it, please, before I decide." The Governor, though a man who observed no ceremony and never brooked a question, when he saw how beautiful and how determined this maiden was, fell a victim to her at once, and said, "If you so decide, then, of course, I'll make you my real wife." Her answer was, "If you truly mean it, then please withdraw and write out the certificate; send the gifts; provide the goose; dress in the proper way; come, and let us go through the required ceremony; drink the pledge-glass, and wed." The Governor did as she suggested, carried out the forms to the letter, and they were married. She was not only a very pretty woman, but upright and true of soul--a rare person indeed. The Governor took her home, loved her and held her dear. He had, however, a real wife before and concubines, but he set them all aside and fixed his affections on this one only. She remonstrated with him over his wrongs and unrighteous acts, and he listened and made improvement. The world took note of it, and praised her as a true and wonderful woman. She counted herself the real wife, but the first wife treated her as a concubine, and all the relatives said likewise that she could never be considered a real wife. At that time King Se-jo frequently, in the dress of a commoner, used to visit Han's house. Han entertained him royally with refreshments, which his wife used to bring and offer before him. He called her his "little sister." On a certain day King Se-jo, as he was accustomed, came to the house, and while he was drinking he suddenly saw the woman fall on her face before him. The King in surprise inquired as to what she could possibly mean by such an act. She then told all the story of her being taken by force and brought to Seoul. She wept while she said, "Though I am from a far-distant part of the country I am of the gentry by ancestry, and my husband took me with all the required ceremonies of a wife, so that I ought not to be counted a concubine. But there is no law in this land by which a second real wife may be taken after a first real wife exists, so they call me a concubine, a matter of deepest disgrace. Please, your Majesty, take pity on me and decide my case." The King laughed, and said, "This is a simple matter to settle; why should my little sister make so great an affair of it, and bow before me? I will decide your case at once. Come." He then wrote out with his own hand a document making her a real wife, and her children eligible for the highest office. He wrote it, signed it, stamped it and gave it to her. From that time on she was known as a real wife, in rank and standing equal to the first one. No further word was ever slightingly spoken, and her children shared in the affairs of State. Im Bang. XX THE RESOURCEFUL WIFE In the last year of Yon-san terrible evils were abroad among the people. Such wickedness as the world had never seen before was perpetrated, of which his Majesty was the evil genius. He even gave orders to his eunuchs and underlings to bring to him any women of special beauty that they might see in the homes of the highest nobility, and whoever pleased him he used as his own. "Never mind objections," said he, "take them by force and come." Such were his orders. No one escaped him. He even went so far as to publish abroad that Minister So and So's wife preferred him to her husband and would like to live always in the Palace. It was the common talk of the city, and people were dumbfounded. For that reason all hearts forsook him, and because of this he was dethroned, and King Choong-jong reigned in his stead. In these days of trouble there was a young wife of a certain minister, who was very beautiful in form and face. One day it fell about that she was ordered into the Palace. Other women, when called, would cry and behave as though their lives were forfeited, but this young woman showed not the slightest sign of fear. She dressed and went straight into the Palace. King Yon-san saw her, and ordered her to come close to him. She came, and then in a sudden manner the most terrible odour imaginable was noticeable. The King held his fan before his face, turned aside, spat, and said, "Dear me, I cannot stand this one, take her away," and so she escaped undefiled. How it came about was thus: She knew that she was likely to be called at any moment, and so had planned a ruse by which to escape. Two slices of meat she had kept constantly on hand, decayed and foul-smelling, but always ready. She placed these under her arms as she dressed and went into the Palace, and so provided this awful and unaccountable odour. All that knew of it praised her bravery and sagacity. Im Bang. XXI THE BOXED-UP GOVERNOR A certain literary official was at one time Governor of the city of Kyong-ju. Whenever he visited the Mayor of the place, it was his custom, on seeing dancing-girls, to tap them on the head with his pipe, and say, "These girls are devils, ogres, goblins. How can you tolerate them in your presence?" Naturally, those who heard this disliked him, and the Mayor himself detested his behaviour and manners. He sent a secret message to the dancing-girls, saying, "If any of you, by any means whatever, can deceive this governor, and put him to shame, I'll reward you richly." Among them there was one girl, a mere child, who said she could. The Governor resided in the quarter of the city where the Confucian Temple was, and he had but one servant with him, a young lad. The dancing-girl who had decided to ensnare him, in the dress of a common woman of the town, used frequently to go by the main gateway of the Temple, and in going would call the Governor's boy to her. Sometimes she showed her profile and sometimes she showed her whole form, as she stood in the gateway. The boy would go out to her and she would speak to him for a moment or two and then go. She came sometimes once a day, sometimes twice, and this she kept up for a long time. The Governor at last inquired of the boy as to who this woman was that came so frequently to call him. "She is my sister," said the boy. "Her husband went away on a peddling round a year or so ago, and has not yet returned; consequently she has no one else to help her, so she frequently calls and confers with me." One evening, when the boy had gone to eat his meal and the Governor was alone, the woman came to the main gateway, and called for the boy. His Excellency answered for him, and invited her in. When she came, she blushed, and appeared very diffident, standing modestly aside. The Governor said, "My boy is absent just now, but I want a smoke; go and get a light for my pipe, will you, please." She brought the light, and then he said, "Sit down too, and smoke a little, won't you?" She replied, "How could I dare do such a thing?" He said, "There is no one else here now; never mind." There being no help for it, she did as he bade her, and smoked a little. He felt his heart suddenly inclined in her favour, and he said, "I have seen many beautiful women, but I surely think that you are the prettiest of them all. Once seeing you, I have quite forgotten how to eat or sleep. Could you not come to me to live here? I am quite alone and no one will know it." She pretended to be greatly scandalized. "Your Excellency is a noble, and I am a low-class woman; how can you think of such a thing? Do you mean it as a joke?" He replied, "I mean it truly, no joke at all." He swore an oath, saying, "Really I mean it, every word." She then said, "Since you speak so, I am really very grateful, and shall come." Said he, "Meeting you thus is wonderful indeed." She went on to say, "There is another matter, however, that I wish to call to your attention. I understand that where your Excellency is now staying is a very sacred place, and that according to ancient law men were forbidden to have women here. Is that true?" The Governor clapped her shoulder, and said, "Well, really now, how is it that you know of this? You are right. What shall we do about it?" She made answer, "If you'll depend on me, I'll arrange a plan. My home is near by, and I am also alone, so if you come quietly at night to me, we can meet and no one will know. I shall send a felt hat by the boy, and you can wear that for disguise. With this commoner's felt hat on no one will know you." The Governor was greatly delighted, and said, "How is it that you can plan so wonderfully? I shall do as you suggest. Now you be sure to be on hand." He repeated this two or three times. The woman went and entered the house indicated. When evening came she sent the hat by the boy. The Governor arrived as agreed, and she received him, lit the lamp, and brought him refreshments and drink. They talked and drank together, and he called her to come to him. The woman hesitated for a moment, when suddenly there was a call heard from the outside, and a great disturbance took place. She bent her head to listen and then gave a cry of alarm, saying, "That's the voice of my husband, who has come. I was unfortunate, and so had this miserable wretch apportioned to my lot. He is the most despicable among mortals. For murder and arson he has no equal. Three years ago he left me and I took another husband, and we've had nothing to do with each other since. I can't imagine why he should come now. He is evidently very drunk, too, from the sound of his voice. Your Excellency has really fallen into a terrible plight. What shall I do?" The woman went out then and answered, saying, "Who comes thus at midnight to make such a disturbance?" The voice replied, "Don't you know my voice? Why don't you open the door?" She answered, "Are you not Chol-lo (Brass Tiger), and have we not separated for good, years ago? Why have you come?" The voice from without answered back, "Your leaving me and taking another man has always been a matter of deepest resentment on my part; I have something special to say to you," and he pounded the door open and came thundering in. The woman rushed back into the room, saying, "Your Excellency must escape in some way or other." In such a little thatched hut there was no place possible for concealment but an empty rice-box only. "Please get into this," said she, and she lifted the lid and hurried him in. The Governor, in his haste and déshabille, was bundled into the box. He then heard, from within, this fellow come into the room and quarrel with his wife. She said, "We have been separated three years already; what reason have you to come now and make such a disturbance?" Said he, "You cast me off and took another man, therefore I have come for the clothes that I left, and the other things that belong to me." Then she threw out his belongings to him, but he said, pointing to the box, "That's mine." She replied, "That's not yours; I bought that myself with two rolls of silk goods." "But," said he, "one of those rolls I gave you, and I'm not going to let you have it." "Even though you did give it, do you mean to say that for one roll of silk you will carry away this box? I'll not consent to it." Thus they quarrelled, and contradicted each other. "If you don't give me the box," said he, "I'll enter a suit against you at the Mayor's." A little later the day dawned, and so he had the box carried off to the Mayor's office to have the case decided by law, while the woman followed. When they entered the court, already the Mayor was seated in the judgment-place, and here they presented their case concerning the box. The Mayor, after hearing, decided thus: "Since you each have a half-share in its purchase, there is nothing for me to do but to divide it between you. Bring a saw," said he. The servants brought the saw and began on the box, when suddenly from the inner regions came forth a cry, "Save me; oh, save me!" The Mayor, in pretended astonishment, said, "Why, there's a man's voice from the inside," and ordered that it should be opened. The servants managed to find the key, and at last the lid came back, and from the inner quarters there came forth a half-dressed man. On seeing him the whole place was put into convulsions of laughter, for it was none other than the Governor. "How is it that your Excellency finds yourself in this box in this unaccountable way?" asked the Mayor. "Please come out." The Governor, huddling himself together as well as he could, climbed on to the open verandah. He held his head down and nearly died for shame. The Mayor, splitting his sides with laughter, ordered clothes to be brought, and the first thing that came was a woman's green dress-coat. The Governor hastily turned it inside out, slipped it on, and made a dash for his quarters in the Confucian Temple. That day he left the place never to return, and even to the present time in Kyong-ju they laugh and tell the story of the Boxed-up Governor. Im Bang. XXII THE MAN WHO LOST HIS LEGS There was a merchant in Chong-ju who used to go to Quelpart to buy seaweed. One time when he drew up on the shore he saw a man shuffling along on the ground toward the boat. He crept nearer, and at last took hold of the side with both his hands and jumped in. "When I looked at him," said the merchant, "I found he was an old man without any legs. Astonished, I asked, saying, 'How is it, old man, that you have lost your legs?' "He said in reply, 'I lost my legs on a trip once when I was shipwrecked, and a great fish bit them off.'" "However did that happen?" inquired the merchant. And the old man said, "We were caught in a gale and driven till we touched on some island or other. Before us on the shore stood a high castle with a great gateway. The twenty or so of us who were together in the storm-tossed boat were all exhausted from cold and hunger, and lying exposed. We landed and managed to go together to the house. There was in it one man only, whose height was terrible to behold, and whose chest was many spans round. His face was black and his eyes large and rolling. His voice was like the braying of a monster donkey. Our people made motions showing that they wanted something to eat. The man made no reply, but securely fastened the front gate. After this he brought an armful of wood, put it in the middle of the courtyard, and there made a fire. When the fire blazed up he rushed after us and caught a young lad, one of our company, cooked him before our eyes, pulled him to pieces and ate him. We were all reduced to a state of horror, not knowing what to do. We gazed at each other in dismay and stupefaction. "When he had eaten his fill, he went up into a verandah and opened a jar, from which he drank some kind of spirit. After drinking it he uttered the most gruesome and awful noises; his face grew very red and he lay down and slept. His snorings were like the roarings of the thunder. We planned then to make our escape, and so tried to open the large gate, but one leaf was about twenty-four feet across, and so thick and heavy that with all our strength we could not move it. The walls, too, were a hundred and fifty feet high, and so we could do nothing with them. We were like fish in a pot--beyond all possible way of escape. We held each other's hands, and cried. "Among us, one man thought of this plan: We had a knife and he took it, and while the monster was drunk and asleep, decided to stab his eyes out, and cut his throat. We said in reply, 'We are all doomed to death, anyway; let's try,' and we made our way up on to the verandah and stabbed his eyes. He gave an awful roar, and struck out on all sides to catch us. We rushed here and there, making our escape out of the court back into the rear garden. There were in this enclosure pigs and sheep, about sixty of them in all. There we rushed, in among the pigs and sheep. He floundered about, waving his two arms after us, but not one of us did he get hold of; we were all mixed up--sheep, pigs and people. When he did catch anything it was a sheep; and when it was not a sheep it was a pig. So he opened the front gate to send all the animals out. "We then each of us took a pig or sheep on the back and made straight for the gate. The monster felt each, and finding it a pig or a sheep let it go. Thus we all got out and rushed for the boat. A little later he came and sat on the bank and roared his threatenings at us. A lot of other giants came at his call. They took steps of thirty feet or so, came racing after us, caught the boat, and made it fast; but we took axes and struck at the hands that held it, and so got free at last and out to the open sea. "Again a great wind arose, and we ran on to the rocks and were all destroyed. Every one was engulfed in the sea and drowned; I alone got hold of a piece of boat-timber and lived. Then there was a horrible fish from the sea that came swimming after me and bit off my legs. At last I drifted back home and here I am. "When I think of it still, my teeth are cold and my bones shiver. My Eight Lucky Stars are very bad, that's why it happened to me." Anon. XXIII TEN THOUSAND DEVILS [Han Chun-kyom was the son of a provincial secretary. He matriculated in the year 1579 and graduated in 1586. He received the last wishes of King Son-jo, and sat by his side taking notes for seven hours. From 1608 to 1623 he was generalissimo of the army, and later was raised to the rank of Prince.] A certain Prince Han of Choong-chong Province had a distant relative who was an uncouth countryman living in extreme poverty. This relative came to visit him from time to time. Han pitied his cold and hungry condition, gave him clothes to wear and shared his food, urging him to stay and to prolong his visit often into several months. He felt sorry for him, but disliked his uncouthness and stupidity. On one of these visits the poor relation suddenly announced his intention to return home, although the New Year's season was just at hand. Han urged him to remain, saying, "It would be better for you to be comfortably housed at my home, eating cake and soup and enjoying quiet sleep rather than riding through wind and weather at this season of the year." He said at first that he would have to go, until his host so insistently urged on him to stay that at last he yielded and gave consent. At New Year's Eve he remarked to Prince Han, "I am possessor of a peculiar kind of magic, by which I have under my control all manner of evil genii, and New Year is the season at which I call them up, run over their names, and inspect them. If I did not do so I should lose control altogether, and there would follow no end of trouble among mortals. It is a matter of no small moment, and that is why I wished to go. Since, however, you have detained me, I shall have to call them up in your Excellency's house and look them over. I hope you will not object." Han was greatly astonished and alarmed, but gave his consent. The poor relation went on to say further, "This is an extremely important matter, and I would like to have for it your central guest hall." Han consented to this also, so that night they washed the floors and scoured them clean. The relation also sat himself with all dignity facing the south, while Prince Han took up his station on the outside prepared to spy. Soon he saw a startling variety of demons crushing in at the door, horrible in appearance and awesome of manner. They lined up one after another, and still another, and another, till they filled the entire court, each bowing as he came before the master, who, at this point, drew out a book, opened it before him, and began calling off the names. Demon guards who stood by the threshold repeated the call and checked off the names just as they do in a government yamen. From the second watch it went on till the fifth of the morning. Han remarked, "It was indeed no lie when he told me 'ten thousand devils.'" One late-comer arrived after the marking was over, and still another came climbing over the wall. The man ordered them to be arrested, and inquiry made of them under the paddle. The late arrival said, "I really have had a hard time of it of late to live, and so was obliged, in order to find anything, to inject smallpox into the home of a scholar who lives in Yong-nam. It is a long way off, and so I have arrived too late for the roll-call, a serious fault indeed, I confess." The one who climbed the wall, said, "I, too, have known want and hunger, and so had to insert a little typhus into the family of a gentleman who lives in Kyong-keui, but hearing that roll-call was due I came helter-skelter, fearing lest I should arrive too late, and so climbed the wall, which was indeed a sin." The man then, in a loud voice, rated them soundly, saying, "These devils have disobeyed my orders, caused disease and sinned grievously. Worse than everything, they have climbed the wall of a high official's house." He ordered a hundred blows to be given them with the paddle, the cangue to be put on, and to have them locked fast in prison. Then, calling the others to him, he said, "Do not spread disease! Do you understand?" Three times he ordered it and five times he repeated it. Then they were all dismissed. The crowd of devils lined off before him, taking their departure and crushing out through the gate with no end of noise and confusion. After a long time they had all disappeared. Prince Han, looking on during this time, saw the man now seated alone in the hall. It was quiet, and all had vanished. The cocks crew and morning came. Han was astonished above measure, and asked as to the law that governed such work as this. The poor relation said in reply, "When I was young I studied in a monastery in the mountains. In that monastery was an old priest who had a most peculiar countenance. A man feeble and ready to die, he seemed. All the priests made sport of him and treated him with contempt. I alone had pity on his age, and often gave him of my food and always treated him kindly. One evening, when the moon was bright, the old priest said to me, 'There is a cave behind this monastery from which a beautiful view may be had; will you not come with me and share it?' "I went with him, and when we crossed the ridge of the hills into the stillness of the night he drew a book from his breast and gave it to me, saying, 'I, who am old and ready to die, have here a great secret, which I have long wished to pass on to some one worthy. I have travelled over the wide length of Korea, and have never found the man till now I meet you, and my heart is satisfied, so please receive it.' "I opened the book and found it a catalogue list of devils, with magic writing interspersed, and an explanation of the laws that govern the spirit world. The old priest wrote out one magic recipe, and having set fire to it countless devils at once assembled, at which I was greatly alarmed. He then sat with me and called over the names one after the other, and said to the devils, 'I am an old man now, am going away, and so am about to put you under the care of this young man; obey him and all will be well.' "I already had the book, and so called them to me, read out the new orders, and dismissed them. "The old priest and I returned to the Temple and went to sleep. I awoke early next morning and went to call on him, but he was gone. Thus I came into possession of the magic art, and have possessed it for a score of years and more. What the world knows nothing of I have thus made known to your Excellency." Han was astonished beyond measure, and asked, "May I not also come into possession of this wonderful gift?" The man replied, "Your Excellency has great ability, and can do wonderful things; but the possessor of this craft must be one poor and despised, and of no account. For you, a minister, it would never do." The next day he left suddenly, and returned no more. Han sent a servant with a message to him. The servant, with great difficulty, at last found him alone among a thousand mountain peaks, living in a little straw hut no bigger than a cockle shell. No neighbours were there, nor any one beside. He called him, but he refused to come. He sent another messenger to invite him, but he had moved away and no trace of him was left. Prince Han's children had heard this story from himself, and I, the writer, received it from them. Im Bang. XXIV THE HOME OF THE FAIRIES In the days of King In-jo (1623-1649) there was a student of Confucius who lived in Ka-pyong. He was still a young man and unmarried. His education had not been extensive, for he had read only a little in the way of history and literature. For some reason or other he left his home and went into Kang-won Province. Travelling on horseback, and with a servant, he reached a mountain, where he was overtaken by rain that wet him through. Mysteriously, from some unknown cause, his servant suddenly died, and the man, in fear and distress, drew the body to the side of the hill, where he left it and went on his way weeping. When he had gone but a short distance, the horse he rode fell under him and died also. Such was his plight: his servant dead, his horse dead, rain falling fast, and the road an unknown one. He did not know what to do or where to go, and reduced thus to walking, he broke down and cried. At this point there met him an old man with very wonderful eyes, and hair as white as snow. He asked the young man why he wept, and the reply was that his servant was dead, his horse was dead, that it was raining, and that he did not know the way. The patriarch, on hearing this, took pity on him, and lifting his staff, pointed, saying, "There is a house yonder, just beyond those pines, follow that stream and it will bring you to where there are people." The young man looked as directed, and a li or so beyond he saw a clump of trees. He bowed, thanked the stranger, and started on his way. When he had gone a few paces he looked back, but the friend had disappeared. Greatly wondering, he went on toward the place indicated, and as he drew near he saw a grove of pines, huge trees they were, a whole forest of them. Bamboos appeared, too, in countless numbers, with a wide stream of water flowing by. Underneath the water there seemed to be a marble flooring like a great pavement, white and pure. As he went along he saw that the water was all of an even depth, such as one could cross easily. A mile or so farther on he saw a beautifully decorated house. The pillars and entrance approaches were perfect in form. He continued his way, wet as he was, carrying his thorn staff, and entered the gate and sat down to rest. It was paved, too, with marble, and smooth as polished glass. There were no chinks or creases in it, all was of one perfect surface. In the room was a marble table, and on it a copy of the Book of Changes; there was also a brazier of jade just in front. Incense was burning in it, and the fragrance filled the room. Beside these, nothing else was visible. The rain had ceased and all was quiet and clear, with no wind nor anything to disturb. The world of confusion seemed to have receded from him. While he sat there, looking in astonishment, he suddenly heard the sound of footfalls from the rear of the building. Startled by it, he turned to see, when an old man appeared. He looked as though he might equal the turtle or the crane as to age, and was very dignified. He wore a green dress and carried a jade staff of nine sections. The appearance of the old man was such as to stun any inhabitant of the earth. He recognized him as the master of the place, and so he went forward and made a low obeisance. The old man received him kindly, and said, "I am the master and have long waited for you." He took him by the hand and led him away. As they went along, the hills grew more and more enchanting, while the soft breezes and the light touched him with mystifying favour. Suddenly, as he looked the man was gone, so he went on by himself, and arrived soon at another palace built likewise of precious stones. It was a great hall, stretching on into the distance as far as the eye could see. The young man had seen the Royal Palace frequently when in Seoul attending examinations, but compared with this, the Royal Palace was as a mud hut thatched with straw. As he reached the gate a man in ceremonial robes received him and led him in. He passed two or three pavilions, and at last reached a special one and went up to the upper storey. There, reclining at a table, he saw the ancient sage whom he had met before. Again he bowed. This young man, brought up poorly in the country, was never accustomed to seeing or dealing with the great. In fear, he did not dare to lift his eyes. The ancient master, however, again welcomed him and asked him to be seated, saying, "This is not the dusty world that you are accustomed to, but the abode of the genii. I knew you were coming, and so was waiting to receive you." He turned and called, saying, "Bring something for the guest to eat." In a little a servant brought a richly laden table. It was such fare as was never seen on earth, and there was abundance of it. The young man, hungry as he was, ate heartily of these strange viands. Then the dishes were carried away and the old man said, "I have a daughter who has arrived at a marriageable age, and I have been trying to find a son-in-law, but as yet have not succeeded. Your coming accords with this need. Live here, then, and become my son-in-law." The young man, not knowing what to think, bowed and was silent. Then the host turned and gave an order, saying, "Call in the children." Two boys about twelve or thirteen years of age came running in and sat down beside him. Their faces were so beautifully white they seemed like jewels. The master pointed to them and said to the guest, "These are my sons," and to the sons he said, "This young man is he whom I have chosen for my son-in-law; when should we have the wedding? Choose you a lucky day and let me know." The two boys reckoned over the days on their fingers, and then together said, "The day after to-morrow is a lucky day." The old man, turning to the stranger, said, "That decides as to the wedding, and now you must wait in the guest-chamber till the time arrives." He then gave a command to call So and So. In a little an official of the genii came forward, dressed in light and airy garments. His appearance and expression were very beautiful, a man, he seemed, of glad and happy mien. The master said, "Show this young man the way to his apartments and treat him well till the time of the wedding." The official then led the way, and the young man bowed as he left the room. When he had passed outside the gate, a red sedan chair was in waiting for him. He was asked to mount. Eight bearers bore him smoothly along. A mile or so distant they reached another palace, equally wonderful, with no speck or flaw of any kind to mar its beauty. In graceful groves of flowers and trees he descended to enter his pavilion. Beautiful garments were taken from jewelled boxes, and a perfumed bath was given him and a change made. Thus he laid aside his weather-beaten clothes and donned the vestments of the genii. The official remained as company for him till the appointed time. When that day arrived other beautiful robes were brought, and again he bathed and changed. When he was dressed, he mounted the palanquin and rode to the Palace of the master, twenty or more officials accompanying. On arrival, a guide directed them to the special Palace Beautiful. Here he saw preparations for the wedding, and here he made his bow. This finished he moved as directed, further in. The tinkling sound of jade bells and the breath of sweet perfumes filled the air. Thus he made his entry into the inner quarters. Many beautiful women were in waiting, all gorgeously apparelled, like the women of the gods. Among these he imagined that he would meet the master's daughter. In a little, accompanied by a host of others, she came, shining in jewels and beautiful clothing so that she lighted up the Palace. He took his stand before her, though her face was hidden from him by a fan of pearls. When he saw her at last, so beautiful was she that his eyes were dazzled. The other women, compared with her, were as the magpie to the phoenix. So bewildered was he that he dared not look up. The friend accompanying assisted him to bow and to go through the necessary forms. The ceremony was much the same as that observed among men. When it was over the young man went back to his bridegroom's chamber. There the embroidered curtains, the golden screens, the silken clothing, the jewelled floor, were such as no men of earth ever see. On the second day his mother-in-law called him to her. Her age would be about thirty, and her face was like a freshly-blown lotus flower. Here a great feast was spread, with many guests invited. The accompaniments thereof in the way of music were sweeter than mortals ever dreamed of. When the feast was over, the women caught up their skirts, and, lifting their sleeves, danced together and sang in sweet accord. The sound of their singing caused even the clouds to stop and listen. When the day was over, and all had well dined, the feast broke up. A young man, brought up in a country hut, had all of a sudden met the chief of the genii, and had become a sharer in his glory and the accompaniments of his life. His mind was dazed and his thoughts overcame him. Doubts were mixed with fears. He knew not what to do. A sharer in the joys of the fairies he had actually become, and a year or so passed in such delight as no words can ever describe. One day his wife said to him, "Would you like to enter into the inner enclosure and see as the fairies see?" He replied, "Gladly would I." She then led him into a special park where there were lovely walks, surrounded by green hills. As they advanced there were charming views, with springs of water and sparkling cascades. The scene grew gradually more entrancing, with jewelled flowers and scintillating spray, lovely birds and animals disporting themselves. A man once entering here would never again think of earth as a place to return to. After seeing this he ascended the highest peak of all, which was like a tower of many stories. Before him lay a wide stretch of sea, with islands of the blessed standing out of the water, and long stretches of pleasant land in view. His wife showed them all to him, pointing out this and that. They seemed filled with golden palaces and surrounded with a halo of light. They were peopled with happy souls, some riding on cranes, some on the phoenix, some on the unicorn; some were sitting on the clouds, some sailing by on the wind, some walking on the air, some gliding gently up the streams, some descending from above, some ascending, some moving west, some north, some gathering in groups. Flutes and harps sounded sweetly. So many and so startling were the things seen that he could never tell the tale of them. After the day had passed they returned. Thus was their joy unbroken, and when two years had gone by she bore him two sons. Time moved on, when one day, unexpectedly, as he was seated with his wife, he began to cry and tears soiled his face. She asked in amazement for the cause of it. "I was thinking," said he, "of how a plain countryman living in poverty had thus become the son-in-law of the king of the genii. But in my home is my poor old mother, whom I have not seen for these years; I would so like to see her that my tears flow." The wife laughed, and said, "Would you really like to see her? Then go, but do not cry." She told her father that her husband would like to go and see his mother. The master called him and gave his permission. The son thought, of course, that he would call many servants and send him in state, but not so. His wife gave him one little bundle and that was all, so he said good-bye to his father-in-law, whose parting word was, "Go now and see your mother, and in a little I shall call for you again." He sent with him one servant, and so he passed out through the main gateway. There he saw a poor thin horse with a worn rag of a saddle on his back. He looked carefully and found that they were the dead horse and the dead servant, whom he had lost, restored to him. He gave a start, and asked, "How did you come here?" The servant answered, "I was coming with you on the road when some one caught me away and brought me here. I did not know the reason, but I have been here for a long time." The man, in great fear, fastened on his bundle and started on his journey. The genie servant brought up the rear, but after a short distance the world of wonder had become transformed into the old weary world again. Here it was with its fogs, and thorn, and precipice. He looked off toward the world of the genii, and it was but a dream. So overcome was he by his feelings that he broke down and cried. The genie servant said to him when he saw him weeping, "You have been for several years in the abode of the immortals, but you have not yet attained thereto, for you have not yet forgotten the seven things of earth: anger, sorrow, fear, ambition, hate and selfishness. If you once get rid of these there will be no tears for you." On hearing this he stopped his crying, wiped his cheeks, and asked pardon. When he had gone a mile farther he found himself on the main road. The servant said to him, "You know the way from this point on, so I shall go back," and thus at last the young man reached his home. He found there an exorcising ceremony in progress. Witches and spirit worshippers had been called and were saying their prayers. The family, seeing the young man come home thus, were all aghast. "It is his ghost," said they. However, they saw in a little that it was really he himself. The mother asked why he had not come home in all that time. She being a very violent woman in disposition, he did not dare to tell her the truth, so he made up something else. The day of his return was the anniversary of his supposed death, and so they had called the witches for a prayer ceremony. Here he opened the bundle that his wife had given him and found four suits of clothes, one for each season. In about a year after his return home the mother, seeing him alone, made application for the daughter of one of the village literati. The man, being timid by nature and afraid of offending his mother, did not dare to refuse, and was therefore married; but there was no joy in it, and the two never looked at each other. The young man had a friend whom he had known intimately from childhood. After his return the friend came to see him frequently, and they used to spend the nights talking together. In their talks the friend inquired why in all these years he had never come home. The young man then told him what had befallen him in the land of the genii, and how he had been there and had been married. The friend looked at him in wonder, for he seemed just as he had remembered him except in the matter of clothing. This he found on examination was of very strange material, neither grass cloth, silk nor cotton, but different from them all, and yet warm and comfortable. When spring came the spring clothes sufficed, when summer came those for summer, and for autumn and winter each special suit. They were never washed, and yet never became soiled; they never wore out, and always looked fresh and new. The friend was greatly astonished. Some three years passed when one day there came once more a servant from the master of the genii, bringing his two sons. There were also letters, saying, "Next year the place where you dwell will be destroyed and all the people will become 'fish and meat' for the enemy, therefore follow this messenger and come, all of you." He told his friend of this and showed him his two sons. The friend, when he saw these children that looked like silk and jade, confessed the matter to the mother also. She, too, gladly agreed, and so they sold out and had a great feast for all the people of the town, and then bade farewell. This was the year 1635. They left and were never heard of again. The year following was the Manchu invasion, when the village where the young man had lived was all destroyed. To this day young and old in Ka-pyong tell this story. Im Bang. XXV THE HONEST WITCH [Song Sang-in matriculated in 1601. He was a just man, and feared by the dishonest element of the Court. In 1605 he graduated and became a provincial governor. He nearly lost his life in the disturbances of the reign of King Kwang-hai, and was exiled to Quelpart for a period of ten years, but in the spring of 1623 he was recalled.] The Story There was a Korean once, called Song Sang-in, whose mind was upright and whose spirit was true. He hated witches with all his might, and regarded them as deceivers of the people. "By their so-called prayers," said he, "they devour the people's goods. There is no limit to the foolishness and extravagance that accompanies them. This doctrine of theirs is all nonsense. Would that I could rid the earth of them and wipe out their names for ever." Some time later Song was appointed magistrate of Nam Won County in Chulla Province. On his arrival he issued the following order: "If any witch is found in this county, let her be beaten to death." The whole place was so thoroughly spied upon that all the witches made their escape to other prefectures. The magistrate thought, "Now we are rid of them, and that ends the matter for this county at any rate." On a certain day he went out for a walk, and rested for a time at Kwang-han Pavilion. As he looked out from his coign of vantage, he saw a woman approaching on horseback with a witch's drum on her head. He looked intently to make sure, and to his astonishment he saw that she was indeed a mutang (witch). He sent a yamen-runner to have her arrested, and when she was brought before him he asked, "Are you a mutang?" She replied, "Yes, I am." "Then," said he, "you did not know of the official order issued?" "Oh yes, I heard of it," was her reply. He then asked, "Are you not afraid to die, that you stay here in this county?" The mutang bowed, and made answer, "I have a matter of complaint to lay before your Excellency to be put right; please take note of it and grant my request. It is this: There are true mutangs and false mutangs. False mutangs ought to be killed, but you would not kill an honest mutang, would you? Your orders pertain to false mutangs; I do not understand them as pertaining to those who are true. I am an honest mutang; I knew you would not kill me, so I remained here in peace." The magistrate asked, "How do you know that there are honest mutangs?" The woman replied, "Let's put the matter to the test and see. If I am not proven honest, let me die." "Very well," said the magistrate; "but can you really make good, and do you truly know how to call back departed spirits?" The mutang answered, "I can." The magistrate suddenly thought of an intimate friend who had been dead for some time, and he said to her, "I had a friend of such and such rank in Seoul; can you call his spirit back to me?" The mutang replied, "Let me do so; but first you must prepare food, with wine, and serve it properly." The magistrate thought for a moment, and then said to himself, "It is a serious matter to take a person's life; let me find out first if she is true or not, and then decide." So he had the food brought. The mutang said also, "I want a suit of your clothes, too, please." This was brought, and she spread her mat in the courtyard, placed the food in order, donned the dress, and so made all preliminary arrangements. She then lifted her eyes toward heaven and uttered the strange magic sounds by which spirits are called, meanwhile shaking a tinkling bell. In a little she turned and said, "I've come." Then she began telling the sad story of his sickness and death and their separation. She reminded the magistrate of how they had played together, and of things that had happened when they were at school at their lessons; of the difficulties they had met in the examinations; of experiences that had come to them during their terms of office. She told secrets that they had confided to each other as intimate friends, and many matters most definitely that only they two knew. Not a single mistake did she make, but told the truth in every detail. The magistrate, when he heard these things, began to cry, saying, "The soul of my friend is really present; I can no longer doubt or deny it." Then he ordered the choicest fare possible to be prepared as a sacrifice to his friend. In a little the friend bade him farewell and took his departure. The magistrate said, "Alas! I thought mutangs were a brood of liars, but now I know that there are true mutangs as well as false." He gave her rich rewards, sent her away in safety, recalled his order against witches, and refrained from any matters pertaining to them for ever after. Im Bang. XXVI WHOM THE KING HONOURS In the days of King Se-jong students of the Confucian College were having a picnic to celebrate the Spring Festival. They met in a wood to the north of the college, near a beautiful spring of water, and were drinking and feasting the night through. While they were thus enjoying themselves the rooms of the college were left deserted. One student from the country, a backwoodsman in his way, who was of no account to others, thought that while the rest went away to enjoy themselves some one ought to stay behind to guard the sacred precincts of the temple; so he decided that he would forgo the pleasures of the picnic, stay behind and watch. The King at that time sent a eunuch to the college to see how many of the students had remained on guard. The eunuch returned, saying that all had gone off on the picnic, except one man, a raw countryman, who was in sole charge. The King at once sent for the man, asking him to come just as he was in his common clothes. On his arrival his Majesty asked, "When all have gone off for a gay time, why is it that you remain alone?" He replied, "I, too, would like to have gone, but to leave the sacred temple wholly deserted did not seem to me right, so I stayed." The King was greatly pleased with this reply, and asked again, "Do you know how to write verses?" The reply was, "I know only very little about it." The King then said, "I have one-half of a verse here which runs thus-- 'After the rains the mountains weep.' You write me a mate for this line to go with it." At once the student replied-- "Before the wind the grass is tipsy." The King, delighted, praised him for his skill and made him a special graduate on the spot, gave him his diploma, flowers for his hat, and issued a proclamation saying that he had passed the Al-song Examination. At once he ordered for him the head-gear, the red coat, a horse to ride on, two boys to go before, flute-players and harpers, saying, "Go now to the picnic-party and show yourself." While the picnickers were thus engaged, suddenly they heard the sound of flutes and harps, and they questioned as to what it could mean. This was not the time for new graduates to go abroad. While they looked, behold, here came a victorious candidate, dressed in ceremonial robes, heralded by boys, and riding on the King's palfrey, to greet them. On closer view they saw that it was the uncouth countryman whom they had left behind at the Temple. They asked what it meant, and then learned, to their amazement, that the King had so honoured him. The company, in consternation and surprise, broke up and returned home at once. This special graduate became later, through the favour of the King, a great and noted man. Im Bang. XXVII THE FORTUNES OF YOO There was a man of Yong-nam, named Yoo, who lived in the days of Se-jong. He had studied the classics, had passed his examinations, and had become a petty official attached to the Confucian College. He was not even of the sixth degree, so that promotion was out of the question. He was a countryman who had no friends and no influence, and though he had long been in Seoul there was no likelihood of any advancement. Such being the case, disheartened and lonely, he decided to leave the city and go back to his country home. There was a palace secretary who knew this countryman, and who went to say good-bye to him before he left. Taking advantage of the opportunity, the countryman said, "I have long been in Seoul, but have never yet seen the royal office of the secretaries. Might I accompany you some day when you take your turn?" The secretary said, "In the daytime there is always a crowd of people who gather there for business, and no one is allowed in without a special pass. I am going in to-morrow, however, and intend to sleep there, so that in the evening we could have a good chance to look the Palace over. People are not allowed to sleep in the Palace as a rule, but doing so once would not be specially noticed." The secretary then gave orders to the military guard who accompanied him to escort this man in the next day. As the secretary had arranged, the countryman, on the evening following, made his way into the Palace enclosure, but what was his surprise to find that, for some reason or other, the secretary had not come. The gates, also, were closed behind him, so that he could not get out. Really he was in a fix. There chanced to be a body-servant of the secretary in the room, and he, feeling sorry for the stranger, arranged a hidden corner where he might pass the night, and then quietly take his departure in the morning. The night was beautifully clear, and apparently every one slept but Yoo. He was wide awake, and wondering to himself if he might not go quietly out and see the place. It was the time of the rainy season, and a portion of the wall had fallen from the enclosure just in front. So Yoo climbed over this broken wall, and, not knowing where he went, found himself suddenly in the royal quarters. It was a beautiful park, with trees, and lakes, and walks. "Whose house is this," thought Yoo, "with its beautiful garden?" Suddenly a man appeared, with a nice new cap on his head, carrying a staff in his hand, and accompanied by a servant, walking slowly towards him. It was no other than King Se-jong, taking a stroll in the moonlight with one of his eunuchs. When they met Yoo had no idea that it was the King. His Majesty asked, "Who are you, and how did you get in here?" He told who he was, and how he had agreed to come in with the secretary; how the secretary had failed; how the gates were shut and he was a prisoner for the night; how he had seen the bright moonlight and wished to walk out, and, finding the broken wall, had come over. "Whose house is this, anyway?" asked Yoo. The King replied, "I am the master of this house." His Majesty then asked him in, and made him sit down on a mat beside him. So they talked and chatted together. The King learned that he had passed special examinations in the classics, and inquiring how it was that Yoo had had no better office, Yoo replied that he was an unknown countryman, that his family had no influence, and that, while he desired office, he was forestalled by the powerful families of the capital. "Who is there," he asked, "that would bother himself about me? Thus all my hopes have failed, and I have just decided to leave the city and go back home and live out my days there." The King asked again, "You know the classics so well, do you know something also of the Book of Changes?" He replied, "The deeper parts I do not know, but the easier parts only." Then the King ordered a eunuch to bring the Book of Changes. It was the time when his Majesty was reading it for himself. The book was brought and opened in the moonlight. The King looked up a part that had given him special difficulty, and this the stranger explained character by character, giving the meaning with convincing clearness. The King was delighted and wondered greatly, and so they read together all through the night. When they separated the King said, "You have all this knowledge and yet have never been made use of? Alas, for my country!" said he, sighing. Yoo remarked that he would like to go straight home now, if the master would kindly open the door for him. The King said, however, that it was too early yet, and that he might be arrested by the guards who were about. "Go then," said he, "to where you were, and when it is broad daylight you can go through the open gate." Yoo then bade good-bye, and went back over the broken wall to his corner in the secretary's room. When morning came he went out through the main gateway and returned to his home. On the following day the King sent a special secretary and had Yoo appointed to the office of Overseer of Literature. On the promulgation of this the officials gathered in the public court, and protested in high dudgeon against so great an office being given to an unknown person. His Majesty, however, said, "If you are so opposed to it, I'll desist." But the day following he appointed him to an office one degree still higher. Again they all protested, and his Majesty said, "Really, if you so object, I'll drop the matter." The day following he appointed him to an office still one degree higher. Again they all protested and he apparently yielded to them. But the day following higher still he was promoted, and again the protests poured in, so much so that his Majesty seemed to yield. On the day following this the King wrote out for him the office of Vice-President of all the Literati. The high officials gathered again and inquired of one another as to what the King meant, and what they had better do about it. "If we do not in some way prevent it, he will appoint him as President of the Literati." They decided to drop the matter for the present, and see later what was best to do. A royal banquet was announced to take place, when all the officials gathered. On this occasion the high Ministers of State said quietly to the King, "It is not fitting that so obscure a person have so important an office. Your Majesty's promoting him as you have done has thrown the whole official body into a state of consternation. On our protest you have merely promoted him more. What is your Majesty's reason, please, for this action?" The King made no reply, but ordered a eunuch to bring the Book of Changes. He opened it at the place of special difficulty, and inquired as to its meaning. Even among the highest ministers not one could give an answer. He inquired by name of this one and that, but all were silent. The King then said, "I am greatly interested in the reading of the Book of Changes; it is the great book of the sages. Any one who understands it surely ought to be promoted. You, all of you, fail to grasp its meaning, while Yoo, whom you protest against, has explained it all to me. Now what have you to say? Yoo's being promoted thus is just as it ought to be. Why do you object? I shall promote him still more and more, so cease from all opposition." They were afraid and ashamed, and did not again mention it. Yoo from that time on became the royal teacher of the Choo-yuk (Book of Changes), and rose higher and higher in rank, till he became Head of the Confucian College and first in influence, surpassing all. Note.--Many people of ability have no chance for promotion. It is difficult to have one's gifts known in high places; how much more difficult before a king? The good fortune that fell to the first scholar was of God's appointment. By caring for a vacant house the honour came to him, and he was promoted. The other's going thus unbidden into the Palace was a great wrong, but by royal favour he was pardoned, received and honoured. By one line of poetry a man's ability was made manifest, and by one explanation of the Choo-yuk another's path was opened to high promotion. If Se-jong had not been a great and enlightened king, how could it have happened? Very rare are such happenings, indeed! So all men wondered over what had befallen these two. I, however, wondered more over the King's sagacity in finding them. To my day his virtue and accomplishments are known, so that the world calls him Korea's King of the Golden Age. Im Bang. XXVIII AN ENCOUNTER WITH A HOBGOBLIN I got myself into trouble in the year Pyong-sin, and was locked up; a military man by the name of Choi Won-so, who was captain of the guard, was involved in it and locked up as well. We often met in prison and whiled away the hours talking together. On a certain day the talk turned on goblins, when Captain Choi said, "When I was young I met with a hobgoblin, which, by the fraction of a hair, almost cost me my life. A strange case indeed!" I asked him to tell me of it, when he replied, "I had originally no home in Seoul, but hearing of a vacant place in Belt Town, I made application and got it. We went there, my father and the rest of the family occupying the inner quarters, while I lived in the front room. "One night, late, when I was half asleep, the door suddenly opened, and a woman came in and stood just before the lamp. I saw her clearly, and knew that she was from the home of a scholar friend, for I had seen her before and had been greatly attracted by her beauty, but had never had a chance to meet her. Now, seeing her enter the room thus, I greeted her gladly, but she made no reply. I arose to take her by the hand, when she began walking backwards, so that my hand never reached her. I rushed towards her, but she hastened her backward pace, so that she eluded me. We reached the gate, which she opened with a rear kick, and I followed on after, till she suddenly disappeared. I searched on all sides, but not a trace was there of her. I thought she had merely hidden herself, and never dreamed of anything else. "On the next night she came again and stood before the lamp just as she had done the night previous. I got up and again tried to take hold of her, but again she began her peculiar pace backwards, till she passed out at the gate and disappeared just as she had done the day before. I was once more surprised and disappointed, but did not think of her being a hobgoblin. "A few days later, at night, I had lain down, when suddenly there was a sound of crackling paper overhead from above the ceiling. A forbidding, creepy sound it seemed in the midnight. A moment later a curtain was let down that divided the room into two parts. Again, later, a large fire of coals descended right in front of me, while an immense heat filled the place. Where I was seemed all on fire, with no way of escape possible. In terror for my life, I knew not what to do. On the first cock-crow of morning the noise ceased, the curtain went up, and the fire of coals was gone. The place was as though swept with a broom, so clean from every trace of what had happened. "The following night I was again alone, but had not yet undressed or lain down, when a great stout man suddenly opened the door and came in. He had on his head a soldier's felt hat, and on his body a blue tunic like one of the underlings of the yamen. He took hold of me and tried to drag me out. I was then young and vigorous, and had no intention of yielding to him, so we entered on a tussle. The moon was bright and the night clear, but I, unable to hold my own, was pulled out into the court. He lifted me up and swung me round and round, then went up to the highest terrace and threw me down, so that I was terribly stunned. He stood in front of me and kept me a prisoner. There was a garden to the rear of the house, and a wall round it. I looked, and within the wall were a dozen or so of people. They were all dressed in military hats and coats, and they kept shouting out, 'Don't hurt him, don't hurt him.' "The man that mishandled me, however, said in reply, 'It's none of your business, none of your business'; but they still kept up the cry, 'Don't hurt him, don't hurt him'; and he, on the other hand, cried, 'Never you mind; none of your business.' They shouted, 'The man is a gentleman of the military class; do not hurt him.' "The fellow merely said in reply, 'Even though he is, it's none of your business'; so he took me by the two hands and flung me up into the air, till I went half-way and more to heaven. Then in my fall I went shooting past Kyong-keui Province, past Choong-chong, and at last fell to the ground in Chulla. In my flight through space I saw all the county towns of the three provinces as clear as day. Again in Chulla he tossed me up once more. Again I went shooting up into the sky and falling northward, till I found myself at home, lying stupefied below the verandah terrace. Once more I could hear the voices of the group in the garden shouting, 'Don't hurt him--hurt him.' But the man said, 'None of your business--your business.' "He took me up once more and flung me up again, and away I went speeding off to Chulla, and back I came again, two or three times in all. "Then one of the group in the garden came forward, took my tormentor by the hand and led him away. They all met for a little to talk and laugh over the matter, and then scattered and were gone, so that they were not seen again. "I lay motionless at the foot of the terrace till the following morning, when my father found me and had me taken in hand and cared for, so that I came to, and we all left the haunted house, never to go back." Note.--There are various reasons by which a place may be denominated a "haunted house." The fact that there are hobgoblins in it makes it haunted. If a good or "superior man" enters such a place the goblins move away, and no word of being haunted will be heard. Choi saw the goblin and was greatly injured. I understand that it is not only a question of men fearing the goblins, but they also fear men. The fact that there are so few people that they fear is the saddest case of all. Choi was afraid of the goblins, that is why they troubled him. Im Bang. XXIX THE SNAKE'S REVENGE There lived in ancient days an archer, whose home was near the Water Gate of Seoul. He was a man of great strength and famous for his valour. Water Gate has reference to a hole under the city wall, by which the waters of the Grand Canal find their exit. In it are iron pickets to prevent people's entering or departing by that way. On a certain afternoon when this military officer was taking a walk, a great snake was seen making its way by means of the Water Gate. The snake's head had already passed between the bars, but its body, being larger, could not get through, so there it was held fast. The soldier drew an arrow, and, fitting it into the string, shot the snake in the head. Its head being fatally injured, the creature died. The archer then drew it out, pounded it into a pulp, and left it. A little time later the man's wife conceived and bore a son. From the first the child was afraid of its father, and when it saw him it used to cry and seem greatly frightened. As it grew it hated the sight of its father more and more. The man became suspicious of this, and so, instead of loving his son, he grew to dislike him. On a certain day, when there were just the two of them in the room, the officer lay down to have a midday siesta, covering his face with his sleeve, but all the while keeping his eye on the boy to see what he would do. The child glared at his father, and thinking him asleep, got a knife and made a thrust at him. The man jumped, grabbed the knife, and then with a club gave the boy a blow that left him dead on the spot. He pounded him into a pulp, left him and went away. The mother, however, in tears, covered the little form with a quilt and prepared for its burial. In a little the quilt began to move, and she in alarm raised it to see what had happened, when lo! beneath it the child was gone and there lay coiled a huge snake instead. The mother jumped back in fear, left the room and did not again enter. When evening came the husband returned and heard the dreadful story from his wife. He went in and looked, and now all had metamorphosed into a huge snake. On the head of it was the scar mark of the arrow that he had shot. He said to the snake, "You and I were originally not enemies, I therefore did wrong in shooting you as I did; but your intention to take revenge through becoming my son was a horrible deed. Such a thing as this is proof that my suspicions of you were right and just. You became my son in order to kill me, your father; why, therefore, should I not in my turn kill you? If you attempt it again, it will certainly end in my taking your life. You have already had your revenge, and have once more transmigrated into your original shape, let us drop the past and be friends from now on. What do you say?" He repeated this over and urged his proposals, while the snake with bowed head seemed to listen intently. He then opened the door and said, "Now you may go as you please." The snake then departed, making straight for the Water Gate, and passed out between the bars. It did not again appear. Note.--Man is a spiritual being, and different from all other created things, and though a snake has power of venom, it is still an insignificant thing compared with a man. The snake died, and by means of the transmigration of its soul took its revenge. Man dies, but I have never heard that he can transmigrate as the snake did. Why is it that though a spiritual being he is unable to do what beasts do? I have seen many innocent men killed, but not one of them has ever returned to take his revenge on the lawless one who did it, and so I wonder more than ever over these stories of the snake. The Superior Man's knowing nothing of the law that governs these things is a regret to me. Im Bang. XXX THE BRAVE MAGISTRATE In olden times in one of the counties of North Ham-kyong Province, there was an evil-smelling goblin that caused great destruction to life. Successive magistrates appeared, but in ten days or so after arrival, in each case they died in great agony, so that no man wished to have the billet or anything to do with the place. A hundred or more were asked to take the post, but they all refused. At last one brave soldier, who was without any influence socially or politically, accepted. He was a courageous man, strong and fearless. He thought, "Even though there is a devil there, all men will not die, surely. I shall make a trial of him." So he said his farewell, and entered on his office. He found himself alone in the yamen, as all others had taken flight. He constantly carried a long knife at his belt, and went thus armed, for he noticed from the first day a fishy, stinking odour, that grew gradually more and more marked. After five or six days he took note, too, that what looked like a mist would frequently make its entry by the outer gate, and from this mist came this stinking smell. Daily it grew more and more annoying, so that he could not stand it longer. In ten days or so, when the time arrived for him to die, the yamen-runners and servants, who had returned, again ran away. The magistrate kept a jar of whisky by his side, from which he drank frequently to fortify his soul. On this day he grew very drunk, and thus waited. At last he saw something coming through the main gateway that seemed wrapped in fog, three or four embraces in waist size, and fifteen feet or so high. There was no head to it, nor were body or arms visible. Only on the top were two dreadful eyes rolling wildly. The magistrate jumped up at once, rushed toward it, gave a great shout and struck it with his sword. When he gave it the blow there was the sound of thunder, and the whole thing dissipated. Also the foul smell that accompanied it disappeared at once. The magistrate then, in a fit of intoxication, fell prone. The retainers, all thinking him dead, gathered in the courtyard to prepare for his burial. They saw him fallen to the earth, but they remarked that the bodies of others who had died from this evil had all been left on the verandah, but his was in the lower court. They raised him up in order to prepare him for burial, when suddenly he came to life, looked at them in anger, and asked what they meant. Fear and amazement possessed them. From that time on there was no more smell. Im Bang. XXXI THE TEMPLE TO THE GOD OF WAR [Yi Hang-bok.--When he was a child a blind fortune-teller came and cast his future, saying, "This boy will be very great indeed." At seven years of age his father gave him for subject to write a verse on "The Harp and the Sword," and he wrote-- "The Sword pertains to the Hand of the Warrior And the Harp to the Music of the Ancients." At eight he took the subject of the "Willow before the Door," and wrote-- "The east wind brushes the brow of the cliff And the willow on the edge nods fresh and green." On seeing a picture of a great banquet among the fierce Turks of Central Asia, he wrote thus-- "The hunt is off in the wild dark hills, And the moon is cold and gray, While the tramping feet of a thousand horse Ring on the frosty way. In the tents of the Turk the music thrills And the wine-cups chink for joy, 'Mid the noise of the dancer's savage tread And the lilt of the wild hautboy." At twelve years of age he was proud, we are told, and haughty. He dressed well, and was envied by the poorer lads of the place, and once he took off his coat and gave it to a boy who looked with envy on him. He gave his shoes as well, and came back barefoot. His mother, wishing to know his mind in the matter, pretended to reprimand him, but he replied, saying, "Mother, when others wanted it so, how could I refuse giving?" His mother pondered these things in her heart. When he was fifteen he was strong and well-built, and liked vigorous exercise, so that he was a noted wrestler and skilful at shuttlecock. His mother, however, frowned upon these things, saying that they were not dignified, so that he gave them up and confined his attention to literary studies, graduating at twenty-five years of age. In 1592, during the Japanese War, when the King escaped to Eui-ju, Yi Hang-bok went with him in his flight, and there he met the Chinese (Ming) representative, who said in surprise to his Majesty, "Do you mean to tell me that you have men in Cho-sen like Yi Hang-bok?" Yang Ho, the general of the rescuing forces, also continually referred to him for advice and counsel. He lived to see the troubles in the reign of the wicked Kwang-hai, and at last went into exile to Puk-chong. When he crossed the Iron Pass near Wonsan, he wrote-- "From the giddy height of the Iron Peak, I call on the passing cloud, To take up a lonely exile's tears In the folds of its feathery shroud, And drop them as rain on the Palace Gates, On the King, and his shameless crowd."] The Story During the Japanese War in the reign of Son-jo, the Mings sent a great army that came east, drove out the enemy and restored peace. At that time the general of the Mings informed his Korean Majesty that the victory was due to the help of Kwan, the God of War. "This being the case," said he, "you ought not to continue without temples in which to express your gratitude to him." So they built him houses of worship and offered him sacrifice. The Temples built were one to the south and one to the east of the city. In examining sites for these they could not agree on the one to the south. Some wanted it nearer the wall and some farther away. At that time an official, called Yi Hang-bok, was in charge of the conference. On a certain day when Yi was at home a military officer called and wished to see him. Ordering him in he found him a great strapping fellow, splendidly built. His request was that Yi should send out all his retainers till he talked to him privately. They were sent out, and then the stranger gave his message. After he had finished, he said good-bye and left. Yi had at that time an old friend stopping with him. The friend went out with the servants when they were asked to leave, and now he came back again. When he came in he noticed that the face of the master had a very peculiar expression, and he asked him the reason of it. Yi made no reply at first, but later told his friend that a very extraordinary thing had happened. The military man who had come and called was none other than a messenger of the God of War. His coming, too, was on account of their not yet having decided in regard to the site for the Temple. "He came," said Yi, "to show me where it ought to be. He urged that it was not a matter for time only, but for the eternities to come. If we do not get it right the God of War will find no peace. I told him in reply that I would do my best. Was this not strange?" The friend who heard this was greatly exercised, but Yi warned him not to repeat it to any one. Yi used all his efforts, and at last the building was placed on the approved site, where it now stands. Im Bang. XXXII A VISIT FROM THE SHADES [Choi Yu-won.--(The story of meeting his mother's ghost is reported to be of this man.) Choi Yu-won matriculated in 1579 and graduated in 1602, becoming Chief Justice and having conferred on him the rank of prince. When he was a boy his great-aunt once gave him cloth for a suit of clothes, but he refused to accept of it, and from this his aunt prophesied that he would yet become a famous man. He studied in the home of the great teacher Yul-gok, and Yul-gok also foretold that the day would come when he would be an honour to Korea. Yu-won once met Chang Han-kang and inquired of him concerning Pyon-wha Keui-jil (a law by which the weak became strong, the wicked good, and the stupid wise). He also asked that if one be truly transformed will the soul change as well as the body, or the body only? Chang replied, "Both are changed, for how could the body change without the soul?" Yu-won asked Yul-gok concerning this also, and Yul-gok replied that Chang's words were true. In 1607 Choi Yu-won memorialized the King, calling attention to a letter received from Japan in answer to a communication sent by his Majesty, which had on its address the name of the Prime Minister, written a space lower than good form required. The Korean envoy had not protested, as duty would require of him, and yet the King had advanced him in rank. The various officials commended him for his courage. In 1612, while he was Chief Justice, King Kwang-hai tried to degrade the Queen Dowager, who was not his own mother, he being born of a concubine, but Yu-won besought him with tears not to do so illegal and unnatural a thing. Still the King overrode all opposition, and did according to his unfilial will. In it all Choi Yu-won was proven a good man and a just. He used to say to his companions, even as a youth, "Death is dreadful, but still, better death for righteousness' sake and honour than life in disgrace." Another saying of his runs, "All one's study is for the development of character; if it ends not in that it is in vain." Korea's ancient belief was that the blood of a faithful son served as an elixir of life to the dying, so that when his mother was at the point of death Yu-won with a knife cut flesh from his thigh till the blood flowed, and with this he prepared his magic dose.] The Story There was a minister in olden days who once, when he was Palace Secretary, was getting ready for office in the morning. He had on his ceremonial dress. It was rather early, and as he leaned on his arm-rest for a moment, sleep overcame him. He dreamt, and in the dream he thought he was mounted and on his journey. He was crossing the bridge at the entrance to East Palace Street, when suddenly he saw his mother coming towards him on foot. He at once dismounted, bowed, and said, "Why do you come thus, mother, not in a chair, but on foot?" She replied, "I have already left the world, and things are not where I am as they are where you are, and so I walk." The secretary asked, "Where are you going, please?" She replied, "We have a servant living at Yong-san, and they are having a witches' prayer service there just now, so I am going to partake of the sacrifice." "But," said the secretary, "we have sacrificial days, many of them, at our own home, those of the four seasons, also on the first and fifteenth of each month. Why do you go to a servant's house and not to mine?" The mother replied, "Your sacrifices are of no interest to me, I like the prayers of the witches. If there is no medium we spirits find no satisfaction. I am in a hurry," said she, "and cannot wait longer," so she spoke her farewell and was gone. The secretary awoke with a start, but felt that he had actually seen what had come to pass. He then called a servant and told him to go at once to So-and-So's house in Yong-san, and tell a certain servant to come that night without fail. "Go quickly," said the secretary, "so that you can be back before I enter the Palace." Then he sat down to meditate over it. In a little the servant had gone and come again. It was not yet broad daylight, and because it was cold the servant did not enter straight, but went first into the kitchen to warm his hands before the fire. There was a fellow-servant there who asked him, "Have you had something to drink?" He replied, "They are having a big witch business on at Yong-san, and while the mutang (witch) was performing, she said that the spirit that possessed her was the mother of the master here. On my appearance she called out my name and said, 'This is a servant from our house.' Then she called me and gave me a big glass of spirit. She added further, 'On my way here I met my son going into the Palace.'" The secretary, overhearing this talk from the room where he was waiting, broke down and began to cry. He called in the servant and made fuller inquiry, and more than ever he felt assured that his mother's spirit had really gone that morning to share in the koot (witches' sacrificial ceremony). He then called the mutang, and in behalf of the spirit of his mother made her a great offering. Ever afterwards he sacrificed to her four times a year at each returning season. Im Bang. XXXIII THE FEARLESS CAPTAIN There was formerly a soldier, Yee Man-ji of Yong-nam, a strong and muscular fellow, and brave as a lion. He had green eyes and a terrible countenance. Frequently he said, "Fear! What is fear?" On a certain day when he was in his house a sudden storm of rain came on, when there were flashes of lightning and heavy claps of thunder. At one of them a great ball of fire came tumbling into his home and went rolling over the verandah, through the rooms, into the kitchen and out into the yard, and again into the servants' quarters. Several times it went and came bouncing about. Its blazing light and the accompanying noise made it a thing of terror. Yee sat in the outer verandah, wholly undisturbed. He thought to himself, "I have done no wrong, therefore why need I fear the lightning?" A moment later a flash struck the large elm tree in front of the house and smashed it to pieces. The rain then ceased and the thunder likewise. Yee turned to see how it fared with his family, and found them all fallen senseless. With the greatest of difficulty he had them restored to life. During that year they all fell ill and died, and Yee came to Seoul and became a Captain of the Right Guard. Shortly after he went to North Ham-kyong Province. There he took a second wife and settled down. All his predecessors had died of goblin influences, and the fact that calamity had overtaken them while in the official quarters had caused them to use one of the village houses instead. Yee, however, determined to live down all fear and go back to the old quarters, which he extensively repaired. One night his wife was in the inner room while he was alone in the public office with a light burning before him. In the second watch or thereabout, a strange-looking object came out of the inner quarters. It looked like the stump of a tree wrapped in black sackcloth. There was no outline or definite shape to it, and it came jumping along and sat itself immediately before Yee Man-ji. Also two other objects came following in its wake, shaped just like the first one. The three then sat in a row before Yee, coming little by little closer and closer to him. Yee moved away till he had backed up against the wall and could go no farther. Then he said, "Who are you, anyhow; what kind of devil, pray, that you dare to push towards me so in my office? If you have any complaint or matter to set right, say so, and I'll see to it." The middle devil said in reply, "I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry." Yee answered, "Hungry, are you? Very well, now just move back and I'll have food prepared for you in abundance." He then repeated a magic formula that he had learned, and snapped his fingers. The three devils seemed to be afraid of this. Then Man-ji suddenly closed his fist and struck a blow at the first devil. It dodged, however, most deftly and he missed, but hit the floor a sounding blow that cut his hand. Then they all shouted, "We'll go, we'll go, since you treat guests thus." At once they bundled out of the room and disappeared. On the following day he had oxen killed and a sacrifice offered to these devils, and they returned no more. Note.--Men have been killed by goblins. This is not so much due to the fact that goblins are wicked as to the fact that men are afraid of them. Many died in North Ham-kyong, but those again who were brave, and clove them with a knife, or struck them down, lived. If they had been afraid, they too would have died. Im Bang. XXXIV THE KING OF YOM-NA (HELL) [Pak Chom was one of the Royal Censors, and died in the Japanese War of 1592.] The Story In Yon-nan County, Whang-hai Province, there was a certain literary graduate whose name I have forgotten. He fell ill one day and remained in his room, leaning helplessly against his arm-rest. Suddenly several spirit soldiers appeared to him, saying, "The Governor of the lower hell has ordered your arrest," so they bound him with a chain about his neck, and led him away. They journeyed for many hundreds of miles, and at last reached a place that had a very high wall. The spirits then took him within the walls and went on for a long distance. There was within this enclosure a great structure whose height reached to heaven. They arrived at the gate, and the spirits who had him in hand led him in, and when they entered the inner courtyard they laid him down on his face. Glancing up he saw what looked like a king seated on a throne; grouped about him on each side were attendant officers. There were also scores of secretaries and soldiers going and coming on pressing errands. The King's appearance was most terrible, and his commands such as to fill one with awe. The graduate felt the perspiration break out on his back, and he dared not look up. In a little a secretary came forward, stood in front of the raised dais to transmit commands, and the King asked, "Where do you come from? What is your name? How old are you? What do you do for a living? Tell me the truth now, and no dissembling." The scholar, frightened to death, replied, "My clan name is So-and-so, and my given name is So-and-so. I am so old, and I have lived for several generations at Yon-nan, Whang-hai Province. I am stupid and ill-equipped by nature, so have not done anything special. I have heard all my life that if you say your beads with love and pity in your heart you will escape hell, and so have given my time to calling on the Buddha, and dispensing alms." The secretary, hearing this, went at once and reported it to the King. After some time he came back with a message, saying, "Come up closer to the steps, for you are not the person intended. It happens that you bear the same name and you have thus been wrongly arrested. You may go now." The scholar joined his hands and made a deep bow. Again the secretary transmitted a message from the King, saying, "My house, when on earth, was in such a place in such and such a ward of Seoul. When you go back I want to send a message by you. My coming here is long, and the outer coat I wear is worn to shreds. Ask my people to send me a new outer coat. If you do so I shall be greatly obliged, so see that you do not forget." The scholar said, "Your Majesty's message given me thus direct I shall pass on without fail, but the ways of the two worlds, the dark world and the light, are so different that when I give the message the hearers will say I am talking nonsense. True, I'll give it just as you have commanded, but what about it if they refuse to listen? I ought to have some evidence as proof to help me out." The King made answer, "Your words are true, very true. This will help you: When I was on earth," said he, "one of my head buttons [1] that I wore had a broken edge, and I hid it in the third volume of the Book of History. I alone know of it, no one else in the world. If you give this as a proof they will listen." The scholar replied, "That will be satisfactory, but again, how shall I do in case they make the new coat?" The reply was, "Prepare a sacrifice, offer the coat by fire, and it will reach me." He then bade good-bye, and the King sent with him two soldier guards. He asked the soldiers, as they came out, who the one seated on the throne was. "He is the King of Hades," said they; "his surname is Pak and his given name is Oo." They arrived at the bank of a river, and the two soldiers pushed him into the water. He awoke with a start, and found that he had been dead for three days. When he recovered from his sickness he came up to Seoul, searched out the house indicated, and made careful inquiry as to the name, finding that it was no other than Pak Oo. Pak Oo had two sons, who at that time had graduated and were holding office. The graduate wanted to see the sons of this King of Hades, but the gatekeeper would not let him in. Therefore he stood before the red gate waiting helplessly till the sun went down. Then came out from the inner quarters of the house an old servant, to whom he earnestly made petition that he might see the master. On being thus requested, the servant returned and reported it to the master, who, a little later, ordered him in. On entering, he saw two gentlemen who seemed to be chiefs. They had him sit down, and then questioned him as to who he was and what he had to say. He replied, "I am a student living in Yon-nan County, Whang-hai Province. On such and such a day I died and went into the other world, where your honorable father gave me such and such a commission." The two listened for a little and then, without waiting to hear all that he had to say, grew very angry and began to scold him, saying, "How dare such a scarecrow as you come into our house and say such things as these? This is stuff and nonsense that you talk. Pitch him out," they shouted to the servants. He, however, called back saying, "I have a proof; listen. If it fails, why then, pitch me out." One of the two said, "What possible proof can you have?" Then the scholar told with great exactness and care the story of the head button. The two, in astonishment over this, had the book taken down and examined, and sure enough in Vol. III of the Book of History was the button referred to. Not a single particular had failed. It proved to be a button that they had missed after the death of their father, and that they had searched for in vain. Accepting the message now as true, they all entered upon a period of mourning. The women of the family also called in the scholar and asked him specially of what he had seen. So they made the outer coat, chose a day, and offered it by fire before the ancestral altar. Three days after the sacrifice the scholar dreamed, and the family of Pak dreamed too, that the King of Hades had come and given to each one of them his thanks for the coat. They long kept the scholar at their home, treating him with great respect, and became his firm friends for ever after. Pak Oo was a great-grandson of Minister Pak Chom. While he held office he was honest and just and was highly honoured by the people. When he was Mayor of Hai-ju there arose a dispute between him and the Governor, which proved also that Pak was the honest man. When I was at Hai-ju, Choi Yu-chom, a graduate, told me this story. Im Bang. XXXV HONG'S EXPERIENCES IN HADES Hong Nai-pom was a military graduate who was born in the year A.D. 1561, and lived in the city of Pyeng-yang. He passed his examination in the year 1603, and in the year 1637 attained to the Third Degree. He was 82 in the year 1643, and his son Sonn memorialized the King asking that his father be given rank appropriate to his age. At that time a certain Han Hong-kil was chief of the Royal Secretaries, and he refused to pass on the request to his Majesty; but in the year 1644, when the Crown Prince was returning from his exile in China, he came by way of Pyeng-yang. Sonn took advantage of this to present the same request to the Crown Prince. His Highness received it, and had it brought to the notice of the King. In consequence, Hong received the rank of Second Degree. On receiving it he said, "This year I shall die," and a little later he died. In the year 1594, Hong fell ill of typhus fever, and after ten days of suffering, died. They prepared his body for burial, and placed it in a coffin. Then the friends and relatives left, and his wife remained alone in charge. Of a sudden the body turned itself and fell with a thud to the ground. The woman, frightened, fainted away, and the other members of the family came rushing to her help. From this time on the body resumed its functions, and Hong lived. Said he, "In my dream I went to a certain region, a place of great fear where many persons were standing around, and awful ogres, some of them wearing bulls' heads, and some with faces of wild beasts. They crowded about and jumped and pounced toward me in all directions. A scribe robed in black sat on a platform and addressed me, saying, 'There are three religions on earth, Confucianism, Buddhism and Taoism. According to Buddhism, you know that heaven and hell are places that decide between man's good and evil deeds. You have ever been a blasphemer of the Buddha, and a denier of a future life, acting always as though you knew everything, blustering and storming. You are now to be sent to hell, and ten thousand kalpas [2] will not see you out of it.' "Then two or three constables carrying spears came and took me off. I screamed, 'You are wrong, I am innocently condemned.' Just at that moment a certain Buddha, with a face of shining gold, came smiling toward me, and said, 'There is truly a mistake somewhere; this man must attain to the age of eighty-three and become an officer of the Second Degree ere he dies.' Then addressing me he asked, 'How is it that you have come here? The order was that a certain Hong of Chon-ju be arrested and brought, not you; but now that you have come, look about the place before you go, and tell the world afterwards of what you have seen.' "The guards, on hearing this, took me in hand and brought me first to a prison-house, where a sign was posted up, marked, 'Stirrers up of Strife.' I saw in this prison a great brazier-shaped pit, built of stones and filled with fire. Flames arose and forked tongues. The stirrers up of strife were taken and made to sit close before it. I then saw one infernal guard take a long rod of iron, heat it red-hot, and put out the eyes of the guilty ones. I saw also that the offenders were hung up like dried fish. The guides who accompanied me, said, 'While these were on earth they did not love their brethren, but looked at others as enemies. They scoffed at the laws of God and sought only selfish gain, so they are punished.' "The next hell was marked, 'Liars.' In that hell I saw an iron pillar of several yards in height, and great stones placed before it. The offenders were called up, and made to kneel before the pillar. Then I saw an executioner take a knife and drive a hole through the tongues of the offenders, pass an iron chain through each, and hang them to the pillar so that they dangled by their tongues several feet from the ground. A stone was then taken and tied to each culprit's feet. The stones thus bearing down, and the chains being fast to the pillar, their tongues were pulled out a foot or more, and their eyes rolled in their sockets. Their agonies were appalling. The guides again said, 'These offenders when on earth used their tongues skilfully to tell lies and to separate friend from friend, and so they are punished.' "The next hell had inscribed on it, 'Deceivers.' I saw in it many scores of people. There were ogres that cut the flesh from their bodies, and fed it to starving demons. These ate and ate, and the flesh was cut and cut till only the bones remained. When the winds of hell blew, flesh returned to them; then metal snakes and copper dogs crowded in to bite them and suck their blood. Their screams of pain made the earth to tremble. The guides said to me, 'When these offenders were on earth they held high office, and while they pretended to be true and good they received bribes in secret and were doers of all evil. As Ministers of State they ate the fat of the land and sucked the blood of the people, and yet advertised themselves as benefactors and were highly applauded. While in reality they lived as thieves, they pretended to be holy, as Confucius and Mencius are holy. They were deceivers of the world, and robbers, and so are punished thus.' "The guides then said, 'It is not necessary that you see all the hells.' They said to one another, 'Let's take him yonder and show him;' so they went some distance to the south-east. There was a great house with a sign painted thus, 'The Home of the Blessed.' As I looked, there were beautiful haloes encircling it, and clouds of glory. There were hundreds of priests in cassock and surplice. Some carried fresh-blown lotus flowers; some were seated like the Buddha; some were reading prayers. "The guides said, 'These when on earth kept the faith, and with undivided hearts served the Buddha, and so have escaped the Eight Sorrows and the Ten Punishments, and are now in the home of the happy, which is called heaven.' When we had seen all these things we returned. "The golden-faced Buddha said to me, 'Not many on earth believe in the Buddha, and few know of heaven and hell. What do you think of it?' "I bowed low and thanked him. "Then the black-coated scribe said, 'I am sending this man away; see him safely off.' The spirit soldiers took me with them, and while on the way I awakened with a start, and found that I had been dead for four days." Hong's mind was filled with pride on this account, and he frequently boasted of it. His age and Second Degree of rank came about just as the Buddha had predicted. His experience, alas! was used as a means to deceive people, for the Superior Man does not talk of these strange and wonderful things. Yi Tan, a Chinaman of the Song Kingdom, used to say, "If there is no heaven, there is no heaven, but if there is one, the Superior Man alone can attain to it. If there is no hell, there is no hell, but if there is one the bad man must inherit it." If we examine Hong's story, while it looks like a yarn to deceive the world, it really is a story to arouse one to right action. I, Im Bang, have recorded it like Toi-chi, saying, "Don't find fault with the story, but learn its lesson." Im Bang. XXXVI HAUNTED HOUSES There once lived a man in Seoul called Yi Chang, who frequently told as an experience of his own the following story: He was poor and had no home of his own, so he lived much in quarters loaned him by others. When hard pressed he even went into haunted houses and lived there. Once, after failing to find a place, he heard of one such house in Ink Town (one of the wards of Seoul), at the foot of South Mountain, which had been haunted for generations and was now left vacant. Chang investigated the matter, and finally decided to take possession. First, to find whether it was really haunted or not, he called his elder brothers, Hugh and Haw, and five or six of his relatives, and had them help clean it out and sleep there. The house had one upper room that was fast locked. Looking through a chink, there was seen to be in the room a tablet chair and a stand for it; also there was an old harp without any strings, a pair of worn shoes, and some sticks and bits of wood. Nothing else was in the room. Dust lay thick, as though it had gathered through long years of time. The company, after drinking wine, sat round the table and played at games, watching the night through. When it was late, towards midnight, they suddenly heard the sound of harps and a great multitude of voices, though the words were mixed and unintelligible. It was as though many people were gathered and carousing at a feast. The company then consulted as to what they should do. One drew a sword and struck a hole through the partition that looked into the tower. Instantly there appeared from the other side a sharp blade thrust out towards them. It was blue in colour. In fear and consternation they desisted from further interference with the place. But the sound of the harp and the revelry kept up till the morning. The company broke up at daylight, withdrew from the place, and never again dared to enter. In the South Ward there was another haunted house, of which Chang desired possession, so he called his friends and brothers once more to make the experiment and see whether it was really haunted or not. On entering, they found two dogs within the enclosure, one black and one tan, lying upon the open verandah, one at each end. Their eyes were fiery red, and though the company shouted at them they did not move. They neither barked nor bit. But when midnight came these two animals got up and went down into the court, and began baying at the inky sky in a way most ominous. They went jumping back and forth. At that time, too, there came some one round the corner of the house dressed in ceremonial robes. The two dogs met him with great delight, jumping up before and behind in their joy at his coming. He ascended to the verandah, and sat down. Immediately five or six multi-coloured demons appeared and bowed before him, in front of the open space. The man then led the demons and the dogs two or three times round the house. They rushed up into the verandah and jumped down again into the court; backwards and forwards they came and went, till at last all of them mysteriously disappeared. The devils went into a hole underneath the floor, while the dogs went up to their quarters and lay down. The company from the inner room had seen this. When daylight came they examined the place, looked through the chinks of the floor, but saw only an old, worn-out sieve and a few discarded brooms. They went behind the house and found another old broom poked into the chimney. They ordered a servant to gather them up and have them burned. The dogs lay as they were all day long, and neither ate nor moved. Some of the party wished to kill the brutes, but were afraid, so fearsome was their appearance. This night again they remained, desiring to see if the same phenomena would appear. Again at midnight the two dogs got down into the court and began barking up at the sky. The man in ceremonial robes again came, and the devils, just as the day before. The company, in fear and disgust, left the following morning, and did not try it again. A friend, hearing this of Chang, went and asked about it from Hugh and Haw, and they confirmed the story. There is still another tale of a graduate who was out of house and home and went into a haunted dwelling in Ink Town, which was said to have had the tower where the mysterious sounds were heard. They opened the door, broke out the window, took out the old harp, the spirit chair, the shoes and sticks, and had them burned. Before the fire had finished its work, one of the servants fell down and died. The graduate, seeing this, in fear and dismay put out the fire, restored the things and left the house. Again there was another homeless man who tried it. In the night a woman in a blue skirt came down from the loft, and acted in a peculiar and uncanny way. The man, seeing this, picked up his belongings and left. Again, in South Kettle Town, there were a number of woodmen who in the early morning were passing behind the haunted house, when they found an old woman sitting weeping under a tree. They thinking her an evil bogey, one man came up behind and gave her a thrust with his sickle. The witch rushed off into the house, her height appearing to be only about one cubit and a span. Im Bang. XXXVII IM, THE HUNTER [Im Kyong-up.--One of Korea's most famous generals, who fought in behalf of China in 1628 against the Manchus. He is worshipped to-day in many parts of Korea.] The Story When General Im Kyong-up was young he lived in the town of Tallai. In those days he loved the chase, and constantly practised riding and hunting. Once he went off on an excursion to track the deer in Wol-lak Mountains. He carried only a sword, and made the chase on foot. In his pursuit of the animal he went as far as Tai-paik Mountain. There night overtook him, and the way was hidden in the darkness. There were yawning chasms and great horns and cliffs on all sides. While he was in a state of perplexity he met a woodman, and asked him where the road was and how he ought to go. The woodman directed him to a cliff opposite, "where," said he, "there is a house." Im heard this and crossed over to the farther ridge. On approaching more nearly he found a great tiled mansion standing alone without a single house about it. He went in by the main gateway, but found all quiet and dark and no one in sight. It was a vacant house, evidently deserted. After travelling all day in the hills Im was full of fears and creepy feelings. So he viewed the place with mistrust, fearing that there might be hill goblins in it or tree devils, but a moment later some one opened the room door and shouted out, "Do you sleep here? Have you had something to eat?" Im looked and discovered that it was the same person that had directed him on his way. He said in reply, "I have not eaten anything and am hungry." So the man opened the wall box and brought him out wine and meat. He, being exceedingly hungry, ate all. Then they sat down to talk together, and after a little the woodman got up, opened the box once more, and took from it a great sword. Im asked, "What is this you have; do you intend to kill me?" The woodman laughed and said, "No, no, but to-night there is something on hand worth the seeing. Will you come with me and not be afraid?" Im said, "Of course I am not afraid; I want to see." It was then about midnight, and the woodman, with the sword in his hand, took Im and went to one side through a succession of gates that seemed never ending. At last they came to a place where lights were reflected on a pond of water. There was a high pavilion apparently in the middle of the lake, and from the inside of it came the lights. There were sounds, too, of laughter and talking that came from the upper storey. Through the sliding doors he could distinguish two people seated together. There was another pavilion to the right of the lake and a large tree near it, up which the woodman told Im to climb. "When you get well up," said he, "take your belt, tie yourself fast to the trunk and keep perfectly still." Im climbed the tree as directed, and made himself secure. From this point of vantage he looked intently, and the first thing he saw was the woodman give a leap that cleared the lake and landed him in the pavilion. At once he ascended to the upper storey, and now Im could distinguish three persons sitting talking and laughing. He heard the woodman, after drinking, say to his neighbour, "We have made our wager, now let's see it out." The man replied, "Let's do so." Then both arose, came down to the entrance, and vaulted off into mid-air, where they disappeared from sight. Nothing could be distinguished now but the clashing of steel and flashes of fire, which kept up for a long time. In beholding this from the tree top, where he was stationed, his bones grew cold and his hair stood stiff on end. He knew not what to do. Then a moment later he heard something fall to the ground with a great thud. A cry of victory arose too, and he recognized that it was the woodman's voice. Chills ran all over him, and goose-flesh covered his skin; only after a long time could he gain control of himself. He came down from the tree and the woodman met him, took him suddenly under his arm, and vaulted over into the pavilion. Here he met a beautiful woman with hair like fleecy clouds. Before the fight the woman's voice was evidently full of hilarity, but now she was overcome with grief and tears. The woodman spoke roughly to her, saying, "Do you not know that you, a wicked woman, have caused the death of a great man?" The woodman said also to Im, "You have courage and valour in your way, but it is not sufficient to meet a world like this. I will now give you this woman, and this house, so you can bid farewell to the dusty world and live here in peace and quiet for the rest of your days." Im replied, "What I have seen to-night I am at a loss to understand. I'd like to know the meaning of it first; please tell me. After hearing that I'll do what you ask." The woodman said, "I am not an ordinary mortal of the world, but am an outlaw of the hills and woods. I am a robber, really, and by robbing have many such a house as this. Not only here but in all the provinces I have homes abundant, a beautiful woman in each, and rich and dainty fare. All unexpectedly this woman has neglected me for another man, and he and she have several times tried to kill me. There being no help for it, I had to kill him. I have killed the man, but I ought truly to have killed the woman. Take this place, then, off my hands, will you, and the woman too?" But Im asked, "Who was the man, and where did he live?" "There were," said the woodman, "mighty possibilities in him, though he lived humbly inside the South Gate of Seoul and sold cut tobacco. He came here frequently, and I knew it, though I winked at it all until they attempted to kill me, and that brought matters to a head. It was not my wish to kill him," and here the woodman broke down and cried. "Alas, alas!" said he, "I have killed a great and gifted man. Think it over," said he; "you have courage, but not enough to make any mark in the world. You will fail half-way, the Fates have so decided. Cease from any vain ambitions, for there is no way by which your name can ever become famous. Do what I say, then, and take over this woman and this home." Im, however, shook his head and said, "I can't do it." The woodman asked, "Why can you not? If you do not, there is nothing for this woman but death, so here I'll have done with it," and he struck her with his sword and cut off her head. The day following he said to Im, "Since you are determined to go forth and do valiantly, I cannot stop you, but if a man goes forth thus and does not know the use of the sword he is helpless, and at the mercy of the foe. Stay with me a little and learn. I'll teach you." Im stayed for six days and learned the use of the sword. Anon. XXXVIII THE MAGIC INVASION OF SEOUL A gentleman of Seoul was one day crossing the Han River in a boat. In the crossing, he nodded for a moment, fell asleep and dreamed a dream. In his dream he met a man who had Gothic eyebrows and almond eyes, whose face was red as ripened dates, and whose height was eight cubits and a span. He was dressed in green and had a long beard that came down to his belt-string. A man of majestic appearance he was, with a great sword at his side and he rode on a red horse. He asked the gentleman to open his hand, which he did, and then the august stranger dashed a pen-mark on it as the sign of the God of War. Said he, "When you cross the river, do not go direct to Seoul, but wait at the landing. Seven horses will shortly appear, loaded with network hampers, all proceeding on their journey to the capital. You are to call the horsemen, open your hand, and show them the sign. When they see it they will all commit suicide in your very presence. After that, you are to take the loads and pile them up, but don't look into them. Then you are to go at once and report the matter to the Palace and have them all burned. The matter is of immense importance, so do not fail in the slightest particular." The gentleman gave a great start of terror and awoke. He looked at his hand and there, indeed, was the strange mark. Not only so, but the ink had not yet dried upon it. He was astonished beyond measure, but did as the dream had indicated, and waited on the river's bank. In a little there came, as he was advised, the seven loads on seven horses, coming from the far-distant South. There were attendants in charge, and one man wearing an official coat came along behind. When they had crossed the river the gentleman called them to him and said, "I have something to say to you; come close to me." These men, unsuspecting, though with somewhat of a frightened look, closed up. He then showed them his hand with the mark, and asked them if they knew what it was. When they saw it, first of all, the man in the official coat turned and with one bound jumped over the cliff into the river. The eight or nine who accompanied the loads likewise all rushed after him and dashed into the water. The scholar then called the boatmen, and explained to them that the things in the hampers were dangerous, that he would have to make it known to the Palace, and that in the meantime they were to keep close guard, but that they were not to touch them or look at them. He hurried as fast as possible, and reported the matter to the Board of War. The Board sent an official, and had the loads brought into Seoul, and then, as had been directed, they were piled high with wood and set on fire. When the fire developed, the baskets broke open, and little figures of men and horses, each an inch or so long, in countless numbers, came tumbling out. When the officials saw this they were frozen with fear; their hearts ceased beating and their tongues lolled out. In a little, however, the hampers were all burned up. These were the creation of a magician, and were intended for a monster invasion of Seoul, until warned by Kwan. From that time on the people of Seoul began faithful offerings to the God of War, for had he not saved the city? Im Bang. XXXIX THE AWFUL LITTLE GOBLIN There was an occasion for a celebration in the home of a nobleman of Seoul, whereupon a feast, to which were invited all the family friends, was prepared. There was a great crowd of men and women. In front of the women's quarters there suddenly appeared an uncombed, ugly-looking boy about fifteen years of age. The host and guests, thinking him a coolie who had come in the train of some visitor, did not ask specially concerning him, but one of the women guests, seeing him in the inner quarters, sent a servant to reprimand him and put him out. The boy, however, did not move, so the servant said to him, "Who are you, anyway, and with whom did you come, that you enter the women's quarters, and even when told to go out do not go?" The boy, however, stood stock-still, just as he had been, with no word of reply. The company looked at him in doubt, and began to ask one another whose he was and with whom he had come. Again they had the servant make inquiry, but still there was no reply. The women then grew very angry, and ordered him to be put out. Several took hold of him and tried to pull him, but he was like a fixed rock, fast in the earth, absolutely immovable. In helpless rage they informed the men. The men, hearing this, sent several strong servants, who took hold all at once, but he did not budge a hair. They asked, "Who are you, anyway?" but he gave no reply. The crowd, then enraged, sent ten strong men with ropes to bind him, but like a giant mountain he remained fast, so that they recognized that he could not be moved by man's power. One guest remarked, "But he, too, is human; why cannot he be moved?" They then sent five or six giant fellows with clubs to smash him to pieces, and they laid on with all their might. It looked as though he would be crushed like an egg-shell, while the sound of their pounding was like reverberating thunder. But just as before, not a hair did he turn, not a wink did he give. Then the crowd began to fear, saying, "This is not a man, but a god," so they entered the courtyard, one and all, and began to bow before him, joining their hands and supplicating earnestly. They kept this up for a long time. At last the boy gave a sarcastic smile, turned round, went out of the gate and disappeared. The company, frightened out of their wits, called off the feast. From that day on, the people of that house were taken ill, including host and guests. Those who scolded him, those who tied him with ropes, those who pounded him, all died in a few days. Other members of the company, too, contracted typhus and the like, and died also. It was commonly held that the boy was the Too-uk Spirit, but we cannot definitely say. Strange, indeed! Note.--When the time comes for a clan to disappear from the earth, calamity befalls it. Even though a great spirit should come in at the door at such a feast time, if the guests had done as Confucius suggests, "Be reverent and distant," instead of insulting him and making him more malignant than ever, they would have escaped. Still, devils and men were never intended to dwell together. Im Bang. XL GOD'S WAY In a certain town there lived a man of fierce and ungovernable disposition, who in moments of anger used to beat his mother. One day this parent, thus beaten, screamed out, "Oh, God, why do you not strike dead this wicked man who beats his mother?" The beating over, the son thrust his sickle through his belt and went slowly off to the fields where he was engaged by a neighbour in reaping buckwheat. The day was fine, and the sky beautifully clear. Suddenly a dark fleck of cloud appeared in mid-heaven, and a little later all the sky became black. Furious thunder followed, and rain came on. The village people looked out toward the field, where the flashes of lightning were specially noticeable. They seemed to see there a man with lifted sickle trying to ward them off. When the storm had cleared away, they went to see, and lo, they found the man who had beaten his mother struck dead and riven to pieces. God takes note of evil doers on this earth, and deals with them as they deserve. How greatly should we fear! Yi Ryuk. XLI THE OLD MAN IN THE DREAM Kwon Jai was a man high in rank and well advanced in years. He was, however, much given to sport and various kinds of pleasure. One night he had a dream, when an old man came to him, who bowed low, and in tears said, "Sir, Minister Hong wishes to kill off me and all my posterity. Please save me, won't you?" Kwon asked, "How can I save you?" The old man replied, "Hong will assuredly ask Your Excellency to help him. Desist from it, please, for if you do, Hong will give it up and I shall live and all mine." A little later there came a rap at the door, when Kwon awakened and asked, "Who is there?" It was Hong, who that day had planned an excursion to Lotus Lake to fish for turtles, and now had come specially to invite Kwon to go with him. Then Kwon knew that the turtle had appeared to him in a dream in the form of an old man, so he declined, saying he was ill. I learned later that Hong also did not go. Yi Ryuk. XLII THE PERFECT PRIEST There was once a priest called Namnu who had perfected his ways in the Buddhistic doctrine. Whenever he had clothing of his own he would willingly undress and give it to those who were cold. His spirit was gentle with no creases or corners in it. Everybody, high and low, rich and poor, called him by the nickname of Softy. Whenever he saw any one sentenced to a flogging in the temple or official yamen, Namnu invariably begged that he might take the culprit's place. Once, when there was a great function in progress at Pagoda Temple and many high officials were assembled, Softy, too, was seen kneeling at the side and taking part. He suddenly remarked to Prince Hong of Yon-san, "You are indeed a very great man." Hong replied, "What do you mean by 'great man,' you impudent brat? Take that," and he gave him a box with his fist on the ear. Softy laughed, and said, "Please, Hong, don't do that, it hurts! it hurts!" Later I was in the train of Prince Yi of Yun-song, and other high officials were present, when we stopped for a little before the Temple. Softy was there, and he looked at Yi and said, "I know your face, but I have forgotten your name." Afterwards he said, "Oh, I remember now, you are Yi Sok-hyong." The priests of the monastery who heard this familiarity were scandalized, and hurried to make no end of apology to the Prince, saying, "Softy was born so, God made him so. Please, Your Excellency, forgive him." The Prince forgave him and so he was not disturbed. Yi Ryuk. XLIII THE PROPITIOUS MAGPIE People say that when the magpie builds its nest directly south of a home that the master of the house will be promoted in office. King T'ai-jong had a friend once who was very poor and had failed in all his projects. After various fruitless attempts he decided to wait till the King went out on procession and then to send a servant to build an imitation magpie's nest in some propitious place before him. The King saw it and asked the man what he was doing. He said in reply that when a magpie builds its nest straight south of a home the master of the house instantly gets promotion. His master, he said, had waited so long and nothing had come, that he was building an imitation nest to bring it about. The King took pity on him and ordered his appointment at once. When I was young myself a magpie built its nest before our home, but I, along with other boys, cut off the branch so that the whole nest fell to the ground, and there were the young with their pitiful yellow mouths. I felt sorry and afraid that they would die, so on a propitious site to the south I had the nest hung up on a neutie tree, where the young all lived and flourished and flew away. In that very winter my father was promoted three degrees in rank and was attached to the office of the Prime Minister. Afterwards I built a summer-house at Chong-pa, and before the house, directly facing south, magpies built a nest in a date tree. I had a woman slave, and she pulled it down and used the nest for fuel, but they came again the next year and built once more. The year following was 1469 when Ye-jong came to the throne. That year again I was promoted. In the spring of 1471 magpies came and built their nest in a tree just south of my office. I laughed and said, "There is a spiritual power in the magpie surely, as men have said from olden times and as I myself have proven." Yi Ryuk. XLIV THE "OLD BUDDHA" Prime Minister Choi Yun-tok was in mourning once for his mother. With a single horse and one servant he made a journey to the south where the road led through the county of Kai-ryong. At that very time two or three of the district magistrates had pitched a tent on the bank of the river and were having refreshments. They said to one another, "Who is that mourner that goes riding by without dismounting? It must be some country farmer who has never learned proper manners. We shall certainly have to teach him a lesson." They sent an attendant to arrest and bring his servant, whom they asked, "Who is your master?" He replied, "Choi, the Old Buddha." "But what's his real name?" they demanded. "The old Buddha," was the reply. Then they grew very angry at this, and said, "Your master has offended in not dismounting, and you offend in concealing his name. Both slave and master are equally ill-mannered." And so they beat him over the head. Then the servant said slowly, "He is called Choi the Buddha, but his real name is Yun-tok, and he is now on his way to his country home in Chang-won." At once they recognized that it was no other than the Prime Minister, and great fear overcame them. They struck their tent, cleared away the eatables, and ran to make their deepest salaam and to ask pardon for their sin. The old Buddha was a special name by which this famous minister was known. Yi Ryuk. XLV A WONDERFUL MEDICINE Prince Cheung had been First Minister of the land for thirty years. He was a man just and upright, now nearly ninety years of age. His son was called Whal, and was second in influence only to his father. Both were greatly renowned in the age in which they lived, and His Majesty treated them with special regard. Prince Cheung's home was suddenly attacked by goblins and devils, and when a young official came to call on him, these mysterious beings in broad daylight snatched the hat from his head and crumpled it up. They threw stones, too, and kept on throwing them so that all the court was reduced to confusion. Prince Cheung made his escape and went to live in another house, where he prepared a special medicine called sal-kwi-whan (kill-devil-pills), which he offered in prayer. From that time the goblins departed, and now after five or six years no sign of them has reappeared. Prince Cheung, too, is well and strong and free from sickness. Yi Ryuk. XLVI FAITHFUL MO Prince Ha had a slave who was a landed proprieter and lived in Yang-ju county. He had a daughter, fairest of the fair, whom he called Mo (Nobody), beautiful beyond expression. An Yun was a noted scholar, a man of distinction in letters. He saw Mo, fell in love with her and took her for his wife. Prince Ha heard of this and was furiously angry. Said he, "How is it that you, a slave, dare to marry with a man of the aristocracy?" He had her arrested and brought home, intending to marry her to one of his bondsmen. Mo learned of this with tears and sorrow, but knew not what to do. At last she made her escape over the wall and went back to An. An was delighted beyond expression to see her; but, in view of the old prince, he knew not what to do. Together they took an oath to die rather than to be parted. Later Prince Ha, on learning of this, sent his underlings to arrest her again and carry her off. After this all trace of her was lost till Mo was discovered one day in a room hanging by the neck dead. Months of sorrow passed over An till once, under cover of the night, he was returning from the Confucian Temple to his house over the ridge of Camel Mountain. It was early autumn and the wooded tops were shimmering in the moonlight. All the world had sunk softly to rest and no passers were on the way. An was just then musing longingly of Mo, and in heartbroken accents repeating love verses to her memory, when suddenly a soft footfall was heard as though coming from among the pines. He took careful notice and there was Mo. An knew that she was long dead, and so must have known that it was her spirit, but because he was so buried in thought of her, doubting nothing, he ran to her and caught her by the hand, saying, "How did you come here?" but she disappeared. An gave a great cry and broke into tears. On account of this he fell ill. He ate, but his grief was so great he could not swallow, and a little later he died of a broken heart. Kim Champan, who was of the same age as I, and my special friend, was also a cousin of An, and he frequently spoke of this. Yu Hyo-jang, also, An's nephew by marriage, told the story many times. Said he, "Faithful unto death was she. For even a woman of the literati, who has been born and brought up at the gates of ceremonial form, it is a difficult matter enough to die, but for a slave, the lowest of the low, who knew not the first thing of Ceremony, Righteousness, Truth or Devotion, what about her? To the end, out of love for her husband, she held fast to her purity and yielded up her life without a blemish. Even of the faithful among the ancients was there ever a better than Mo?" Yi Ryuk. XLVII THE RENOWNED MAING Minister of State Maing Sa-song once upon a time, dressed in plain clothes, started south on a long journey. On the way he was overtaken by rain, and turned into a side pavilion for rest and shelter. There was a young scholar already in the pavilion by the name of Whang Eui-hon, who with his two hands behind his back was reading the pavilion inscription board, on which verses were written. Long he read and long he looked about as though no one else were there. At last he turned to the old man, and said, "Well, grand-dad, do you know the flavour of verses like these?" The famous Minister, pretending ignorance, arose and said, "An old countryman like myself, could you expect him to know? Please tell me the meaning." Whang said, "These verses were written by the great men of the past. What they saw and experienced they wrote down to inspire the souls of those who were to come after them. They are like pictures of sea and land, for there are living pictures in poetry, you know." The Minister said, "Indeed, that's wonderful; but if it were not for men like yourself how should I ever come to know these things?" A little later came pack-horses loaded with all sorts of things; servants and retainers, too, a great company of them, tent poles, canvas packs and other equipment, a long procession. Whang, surprised by this, made inquiry, when, to his amazement, he learned that the old man was none other than Maing Sa-song. Unconsciously he dropped on to his knees in a deep and long obeisance. The Minister laughed and said, "That will do; there is no difference in the value of mere men, they are high or low according to the thoughts that prompt them, but unfortunately all are born with a proud heart. You are not a common scholar, why, therefore, should you be so proud to begin with and so humble now?" The Minister took him by the hand, led him to his mat, made him sit down, comforted him and sent him away. Yi Ryuk. XLVIII THE SENSES The eyes are round like gems, so that they can roll about and see things; the ears have holes in them so that they can hear; the nose has openings by which it can perceive smell; and the mouth is horizontal and slit so that it can inhale and exhale the breath; the tongue is like an organ reed so that it can make sounds and talk. Three of the four have each their particular office to fulfil, while the mouth has two offices. But the member that distinguishes the good from the bad is the heart, so that without the heart, even though you have eyes you cannot see, though you have ears you cannot hear, though you have a nose you cannot smell, and though you have a mouth you cannot breathe, so they say that without the heart "seeing you cannot see, and hearing you cannot hear." Yi Ryuk. XLIX WHO DECIDES, GOD OR THE KING? King Tai-jong was having a rest in Heung-yang Palace, while outside two eunuchs were talking together over the law that governs the affairs of men, as to whether it is man or God. A said, "Riches and honour are all in the king's hand." B said, "Nothing of the kind; every atom of wealth and every degree of promotion are all ordered of God. Even the king himself has no part in it and no power." So they argued, each that he was right, without ever coming to an agreement. The King, overhearing what was said, wrote a secret despatch, saying, "Raise the Bearer of this letter one degree in rank." He sealed it and commanded A to take it to Se-jong, who was then in charge of this office. A made his bow and departed, but just when he was about to leave the palace enclosure a furious pain took him in the stomach, so that he begged B to take his place and go into the city. The next day, when the record of promotions was placed before the King, he read how B had been advanced, but not one word was there about A. King Tai-jong made inquiry, and when he knew the circumstances he gave a sudden start of wonder and remained long in deep thought. Yi Ryuk. L THREE THINGS MASTERED There was a relative of the king, named Im Sung-jong, who was a gifted man in thought and purpose. He was the first performer of his time on the harp. King Se-jong said of him, "Im's harp knows but one master, and follows no other man." His home was outside the South Gate, and every morning he was seen kneeling on the sill of his front door beating his hands upwards and downwards on his knees, and this practice he carried on for three years. People could not imagine what he meant by it, but thought him mad. Thus he learned the motions required for the harp. Also he blew with his mouth and practised with his fingers day and night without stopping, so that when people called on him he would see them but would not perceive them. He kept this up for three years and so learned the motions for the flute. He was a lightly built man in body, and poor at riding and at archery. He often sighed over this defect, and said, "Though I am weak and stupid and not able to shoot a long distance, I shall yet know how to hit the target and make the bull's-eye. This also must be acquired by practice." So every morning he took his bow and arrows and went off into the hills. There he shot all day long, keeping it up for three years, till he became a renowned archer. Thus you may perceive the kind of man he was. Yi Ryuk. LI STRANGELY STRICKEN DEAD There was once a man called Kim Tok-saing, a soldier of fortune, who had been specially honoured at the Court of Tai-jong. He had several times been generalissimo of the army, and on his various campaigns had had an intimate friend accompany him, a friend whom he greatly loved. But Kim had been dead now for some ten years and more, when one night this friend of his was awakened with a start and gave a great outcry. He slept again, but a little later was disturbed once more by a fright, at which he called out. His wife, not liking this, inquired as to what he meant. The friend said, "I have just seen General Kim riding on a white horse, with bow and arrows at his belt. He called to me and said, 'A thief has just entered my home, and I have come to shoot him dead.' He went and again returned, and as he drew an arrow from his quiver, I saw that there were blood marks on it. He said, 'I have just shot him, he is dead.'" The husband and wife in fear and wonder talked over it together. When morning came the friend went to General Kim's former home to make inquiry. He learned that that very night Kim's young widow had decided to remarry, but as soon as the chosen fiancé had entered her home, a terrible pain shot him through, and before morning came he died in great agony. Yi Ryuk. LII THE MYSTERIOUS HOI TREE Prince Pa-song's house was situated just inside of the great East Gate, and before it was a large Hoi tree. On a certain night the Prince's son-in-law was passing by the roadway that led in front of the archers' pavilion. There he saw a great company of bowmen, more than he could number, all shooting together at the target. A moment later he saw them practising riding, some throwing spears, some hurling bowls, some shooting from horseback, so that the road in front of the pavilion was blocked against all comers. Some shouted as he came by, "Look at that impudent rascal! He attempts to ride by without dismounting." They caught him and beat him, paying no attention to his cries for mercy, and having no pity for the pain he suffered, till one tall fellow came out of their serried ranks and said in an angry voice to the crowd, "He is my master; why do you treat him so?" He undid his bonds, took him by the arm and led him home. When the son-in-law reached the gate he looked back and saw the man walk under the Hoi tree and disappear. He then learned, too, that all the crowd of archers were spirits and not men, and that the tall one who had befriended him was a spirit too, and that he had come forth from their particular Hoi tree. Yi Ryuk. LIII TA-HONG [Sim Heui-su studied as a young man at the feet of No Su-sin, who was sent as an exile to a distant island in the sea. Thither he followed his master and worked at the Sacred Books. He matriculated in 1570 and graduated in 1572. In 1589 he remonstrated with King Son-jo over the disorders of his reign, and was the means of quelling a great national disturbance; but he made a faux pas one day when he said laughingly to a friend-- "These sea-gull waves ride so high, Who can tame them?" Those who heard caught at this, and it became a source of unpopularity, as it indicated an unfavourable opinion of the Court. In 1592, when the King made his escape to Eui-ju, before the invading Japanese army, he was the State's Chief Secretary, and after the return of the King he became Chief Justice. He resigned office, but the King refused to accept his resignation, saying, "I cannot do without you." He became chief of the literati and Special Adviser. Afterwards he became Minister of the Right, then of the Left, at which time he wrote out ten suggestions for His Majesty to follow. He saw the wrongs done around the King, and resigned office again and again, but was constantly recalled. In 1608 Im Suk-yong, a young candidate writing for his matriculation, wrote an essay exposing the wrongs of the Court. Sim heard of this, and took the young man under his protection. The King, reading the essay, was furiously angry, and ordered the degradation of Im, but Sim said, "He is with me; I am behind what he wrote and approve; degrade me and not him," and so the King withdrew his displeasure. He was faithful of the faithful. When he was old he went and lived in Tun-san in a little tumble-down hut, like the poorest of the literati. He called himself "Water-thunder Muddy-man," a name derived from the Book of Changes. He died in 1622 at the age of seventy-four, and is recorded as one of Korea's great patriots.] The Story Minister Sim Heui-su was, when young, handsome as polished marble, and white as the snow, rarely and beautifully formed. When eight years of age he was already an adept at the character, and a wonder in the eyes of his people. The boy's nickname was Soondong (the godlike one). From the passing of his first examination, step by step he advanced, till at last he became First Minister of the land. When old he was honoured as the most renowned of all ministers. At seventy he still held office, and one day, when occupied with the affairs of State, he suddenly said to those about him, "To-day is my last on earth, and my farewell wishes to you all are that you may prosper and do bravely and well." His associates replied in wonder, "Your Excellency is still strong and hearty, and able for many years of work; why do you speak so?" Sim laughingly made answer, "Our span of life is fixed. Why should I not know? We cannot pass the predestined limit. Please feel no regret. Use all your efforts to serve His Majesty the King, and make grateful acknowledgment of his many favours." Thus he exhorted them, and took his departure. Every one wondered over this strange announcement. From that day on he returned no more, it being said that he was ailing. There was at that time attached to the War Office a young secretary directly under Sim. Hearing that his master was ill, the young man went to pay his respects and to make inquiry. Sim called him into his private room, where all was quiet. Said he, "I am about to die, and this is a long farewell, so take good care of yourself, and do your part honourably." The young man looked, and in Sim's eyes were tears. He said, "Your Excellency is still vigorous, and even though you are slightly ailing, there is surely no cause for anxiety. I am at a loss to understand your tears, and what you mean by saying that you are about to die. I would like to ask the reason." Sim smiled and said, "I have never told any person, but since you ask and there is no longer cause for concealment, I shall tell you the whole story. When I was young certain things happened in my life that may make you smile. "At about sixteen years of age I was said to be a handsome boy and fair to see. Once in Seoul, when a banquet was in progress and many dancing-girls and other representatives of good cheer were called, I went too, with a half-dozen comrades, to see. There was among the dancing-girls a young woman whose face was very beautiful. She was not like an earthly person, but like some angelic being. Inquiring as to her name, some of those seated near said it was Ta-hong (Flower-bud). "When all was over and the guests had separated, I went home, but I thought of Ta-hong's pretty face, and recalled her repeatedly, over and over; seemingly I could not forget her. Ten days or so later I was returning from my teacher's house along the main street, carrying my books under my arm, when I suddenly met a pretty girl, who was beautifully dressed and riding a handsome horse. She alighted just in front of me, and to my surprise, taking my hand, said, 'Are you not Sim Heui-su?' "In my astonishment I looked at her and saw that it was Ta-hong. I said, 'Yes, but how do you know me?' I was not married then, nor had I my hair done up, and as there were many people in the street looking on I was very much ashamed. Flower-bud, with a look of gladness in her face, said to her pony-boy, 'I have something to see to just now; you return and say to the master that I shall be present at the banquet to-morrow.' Then we went aside into a neighbouring house and sat down. She said, 'Did you not on such and such a day go to such and such a Minister's house and look on at the gathering?' I answered, 'Yes, I did.' 'I saw you,' said she, 'and to me your face was like a god's. I asked those present who you were, and they said your family name was Sim and your given-name Heui-su, and that your character and gifts were very superior. From that day on I longed to meet you, but as there was no possibility of this I could only think of you. Our meeting thus is surely of God's appointment.' "I replied laughingly, 'I, too, felt just the same towards you.' "Then Ta-hong said, 'We cannot meet here; let's go to my aunt's home in the next ward, where it's quiet, and talk there.' We went to the aunt's home. It was neat and clean and somewhat isolated, and apparently the aunt loved Flower-bud with all the devotion of a mother. From that day forth we plighted our troth together. Flower-bud had never had a lover; I was her first and only choice. She said, however, 'This plan of ours cannot be consummated to-day; let us separate for the present and make plans for our union in the future.' I asked her how we could do so, and she replied, 'I have sworn my soul to you, and it is decided for ever, but you have your parents to think of, and you have not yet had a wife chosen, so there will be no chance of their advising you to have a second wife as my social standing would require for me. As I reflect upon your ability and chances for promotion, I see you already a Minister of State. Let us separate just now, and I'll keep myself for you till the time when you win the first place at the Examination and have your three days of public rejoicing. Then we'll meet once more. Let us make a compact never to be broken. So then, until you have won your honours, do not think of me, please. Do not be anxious, either, lest I should be taken from you, for I have a plan by which to hide myself away in safety. Know that on the day when you win your honours we shall meet again.' "On this we clasped hands and spoke our farewells as though we parted easily. Where she was going I did not ask, but simply came home with a distressed and burdened heart, feeling that I had lost everything. On my return I found that my parents, who had missed me, were in a terrible state of consternation, but so delighted were they at my safe return that they scarcely asked where I had been. I did not tell them either, but gave another excuse. "At first I could not desist from thoughts of Ta-hong. After a long time only was I able to regain my composure. From that time forth with all my might I went at my lessons. Day and night I pegged away, not for the sake of the Examination, but for the sake of once more meeting her. "In two years or so my parents appointed my marriage. I did not dare to refuse, had to accept, but had no heart in it, and no joy in their choice. "My gift for study was very marked, and by diligence I grew to be superior to all my competitors. It was five years after my farewell to Ta-hong that I won my honours. I was still but a youngster, and all the world rejoiced in my success. But my joy was in the secret understanding that the time had come for me to meet Ta-hong. On the first day of my graduation honours I expected to meet her, but did not. The second day passed, but I saw nothing of her, and the third day was passing and no word had reached me. My heart was so disturbed that I found not the slightest joy in the honours of the occasion. Evening was falling, when my father said to me, 'I have a friend of my younger days, who now lives in Chang-eui ward, and you must go and call on him this evening before the three days are over,' and so, there being no help for it, I went to pay my call. As I was returning the sun had gone down and it was dark, and just as I was passing a high gateway, I heard the Sillai call. [3] It was the home of an old Minister, a man whom I did not know, but he being a high noble there was nothing for me to do but to dismount and enter. Here I found the master himself, an old gentleman, who put me through my humble exercises, and then ordered me gently to come up and sit beside him. He talked to me very kindly, and entertained me with all sorts of refreshments. Then he lifted his glass and inquired, 'Would you like to meet a very beautiful person?' I did not know what he meant, and so asked, 'What beautiful person?' The old man said, 'The most beautiful in the world to you. She has long been a member of my household.' Then he ordered a servant to call her. When she came it was my lost Ta-hong. I was startled, delighted, surprised, and speechless almost. 'How do you come here?' I gasped. "She laughed and said, 'Is this not within the three days of your public celebration, and according to the agreement by which we parted?' "The old man said, 'She is a wonderful woman. Her thoughts are high and noble, and her history is quite unique. I will tell it to you. I am an old man of eighty, and my wife and I have had no children, but on a certain day this young girl came to us saying, "May I have the place of slave with you, to wait on you and do your bidding?" "'In surprise I asked the reason for this strange request, and she said, "I am not running away from any master, so do not mistrust me." "'Still, I did not wish to take her in, and told her so, but she begged so persuasively that I yielded and let her stay, appointed her work to do, and watched her behaviour. She became a slave of her own accord, and simply lived to please us, preparing our meals during the day, and caring for our rooms for the night; responding to calls; ever ready to do our bidding; faithful beyond compare. We feeble old folks, often ill, found her a source of comfort and cheer unheard of, making life perfect peace and joy. Her needle, too, was exceedingly skilful, and according to the seasons she prepared all that we needed. Naturally we loved and pitied her more than I can say. My wife thought more of her than ever mother did of a daughter. During the day she was always at hand, and at night she slept by her side. At one time I asked her quietly concerning her past history. She said she was originally the child of a free-man, but that her parents had died when she was very young, and, having no place to go to, an old woman of the village had taken her in and brought her up. "Being so young," said she, "I was safe from harm. At last I met a young master with whom I plighted a hundred years of troth, a beautiful boy, none was ever like him. I determined to meet him again, but only after he had won his honours in the arena. If I had remained at the home of the old mother I could not have kept myself safe, and preserved my honour; I would have been helpless; so I came here for safety and to serve you. It is a plan by which to hide myself for a year or so, and then when he wins I shall ask your leave to go." "'I then asked who the person was with whom she had made this contract, and she told me your name. I am so old that I no longer think of taking wives and concubines, but she called herself my concubine so as to be safe, and thus the years have passed. We watched the Examination reports, but till this time your name was absent. Through it all she expressed not a single word of anxiety, but kept up heart saying that before long your name would appear. So confident was she that not a shadow of disappointment was in her face. This time on looking over the list I found your name, and told her. She heard it without any special manifestation of joy, saying she knew it would come. She also said, "When we parted I promised to meet him before the three days of public celebration were over, and now I must make good my promise." So she climbed to the upper pavilion to watch the public way. But this ward being somewhat remote she did not see you going by on the first day, nor on the second. This morning she went again, saying, "He will surely pass to-day"; and so it came about. She said, "He is coming; call him in." "'I am an old man and have read much history, and have heard of many famous women. There are many examples of devotion that move the heart, but I never saw so faithful a life nor one so devoted to another. God taking note of this has brought all her purposes to pass. And now, not to let this moment of joy go by, you must stay with me to-night.' "When I met Ta-hong I was most happy, especially as I heard of her years of faithfulness. As to the invitation I declined it, saying I could not think, even though we had so agreed, of taking away one who waited in attendance upon His Excellency. But the old man laughed, saying, 'She is not mine. I simply let her be called my concubine in name lest my nephews or some younger members of the clan should steal her away. She is first of all a faithful woman: I have not known her like before.' "The old man then had the horse sent back and the servants, also a letter to my parents saying that I would stay the night. He ordered the servants to prepare a room, to put in beautiful screens and embroidered matting, to hang up lights and to decorate as for a bridegroom. Thus he celebrated our meeting. "Next morning I bade good-bye, and went and told my parents all about my meeting with Ta-hong and what had happened. They gave consent that I should have her, and she was brought and made a member of our family, really my only wife. "Her life and behaviour being beyond that of the ordinary, in serving those above her and in helping those below, she fulfilled all the requirements of the ancient code. Her work, too, was faithfully done, and her gifts in the way of music and chess were most exceptional. I loved her as I never can tell. "A little later I went as magistrate to Keumsan county in Chulla Province, and Ta-hong went with me. We were there for two years. She declined our too frequent happy times together, saying that it interfered with efficiency and duty. One day, all unexpectedly, she came to me and requested that we should have a little quiet time, with no others present, as she had something special to tell me. I asked her what it was, and she said to me, 'I am going to die, for my span of life is finished; so let us be glad once more and forget all the sorrows of the world.' I wondered when I heard this. I could not think it true, and asked her how she could tell beforehand that she was going to die. She said, 'I know, there is no mistake about it.' "In four or five days she fell ill, but not seriously, and yet a day or two later she died. She said to me when dying, 'Our life is ordered, God decides it all. While I lived I gave myself to you, and you most kindly responded in return. I have no regrets. As I die I ask only that my body be buried where it may rest by the side of my master when he passes away, so that when we meet in the regions beyond I shall be with you once again.' When she had so said she died. "Her face was beautiful, not like the face of the dead, but like the face of the living. I was plunged into deepest grief, prepared her body with my own hands for burial. Our custom is that when a second wife dies she is not buried with the family, but I made some excuse and had her interred in our family site in the county of Ko-yang. I did so to carry out her wishes. When I came as far as Keum-chang on my sad journey, I wrote a verse-- 'O beautiful Bud, of the beautiful Flower, We bear thy form on the willow bier; Whither has gone thy sweet perfumed soul? The rains fall on us To tell us of thy tears and of thy faithful way.' "I wrote this as a love tribute to my faithful Ta-hong. After her death, whenever anything serious was to happen in my home, she always came to tell me beforehand, and never was there a mistake in her announcements. For several years it has continued thus, till a few days ago she appeared in a dream saying, 'Master, the time of your departure has come, and we are to meet again. I am now making ready for your glad reception.' "For this reason I have bidden all my associates farewell. Last night she came once more and said to me, 'To-morrow is your day.' We wept together in the dream as we met and talked. In the morning, when I awoke, marks of tears were still upon my cheeks. This is not because I fear to die, but because I have seen my Ta-hong. Now that you have asked me I have told you all. Tell it to no one." So Sim died, as was foretold, on the day following. Strange, indeed! Im Bang. THE END NOTES [1] The head button is the insignia of rank, and is consequently a valuable heirloom in a Korean home.--J. S. G. [2] Kalpa means a Buddhistic age. [3] A shrill whistle by which graduates command the presence of a new graduate to haze or honour, as they please. 
35334	----	FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS ORIENTAL [Decoration] W. W. GIBBINGS 18 BURY ST., LONDON, W.C. 1889 PREFATORY NOTE The East is rich in Folklore, and the lorist is not troubled to discover material, but to select only that which it is best worth his while to preserve. The conditions under which the people live are most favourable to the preservation of the ancient legends, and the cultivation of the powers of narration fits the Oriental to present his stories in a more polished style than is usual in the Western countries. The reader of these tales will observe many points of similarity between them and the popular fictions of the West--similarity of thought and incident--and nothing, perhaps, speaks more eloquently the universal brotherhood of man than this oneness of folk-fiction. At the same time, the Tales of the East are unique, lighted up as they are by a gorgeous extravagance of imagination which never fails to attract and delight. C. J. T. CONTENTS PAGE The Cobbler Astrologer, 1 The Legend of the Terrestrial Paradise of Sheddád, the Son of 'A'd, 21 The Tomb of Noosheerwân, 30 Ameen and the Ghool, 37 The Relations of Ssidi Kur, 47 The Adventures of the Rich Youth, 53 The Adventures of the Beggar's Son, 58 The Adventures of Massang, 68 The Magician with the Swine's Head, 77 The History of Sunshine and his Brother, 89 The Wonderful Man who overcame the Chan, 96 The Bird-Man, 101 The Painter and the Wood-carver, 106 The Stealing of the Heart, 110 The Man and his Wife, 115 Of the Maiden Ssuwarandari, 119 The Two Cats, 127 Legend of Dhurrumnath, 132 The Traveller's Adventure, 135 The Seven Stages of Roostem, 141 The Man who never Laughed, 151 The Fox and the Wolf, 162 The Shepherd and the Jogie, 184 The Perfidious Vizier, 186 THE COBBLER ASTROLOGER. In the great city of Isfahan lived Ahmed the cobbler, an honest and industrious man, whose wish was to pass through life quietly; and he might have done so, had he not married a handsome wife, who, although she had condescended to accept of him as a husband, was far from being contented with his humble sphere of life. Sittâra, such was the name of Ahmed's wife, was ever forming foolish schemes of riches and grandeur; and though Ahmed never encouraged them, he was too fond a husband to quarrel with what gave her pleasure. An incredulous smile or a shake of the head was his only answer to her often-told day-dreams; and she continued to persuade herself that she was certainly destined to great fortune. It happened one evening, while in this temper of mind, that she went to the Hemmâm, where she saw a lady retiring dressed in a magnificent robe, covered with jewels, and surrounded by slaves. This was the very condition Sittâra had always longed for, and she eagerly inquired the name of the happy person who had so many attendants and such fine jewels. She learned it was the wife of the chief astrologer to the king. With this information she returned home. Her husband met her at the door, but was received with a frown, nor could all his caresses obtain a smile or a word; for several hours she continued silent, and in apparent misery. At length she said-- "Cease your caresses, unless you are ready to give me a proof that you do really and sincerely love me." "What proof of love," exclaimed poor Ahmed, "can you desire which I will not give?" "Give over cobbling; it is a vile, low trade, and never yields more than ten or twelve dinars a day. Turn astrologer! your fortune will be made, and I shall have all I wish, and be happy." "Astrologer!" cried Ahmed,--"astrologer! Have you forgotten who I am--a cobbler, without any learning--that you want me to engage in a profession which requires so much skill and knowledge?" "I neither think nor care about your qualifications," said the enraged wife; "all I know is, that if you do not turn astrologer immediately I will be divorced from you to-morrow." The cobbler remonstrated, but in vain. The figure of the astrologer's wife, with her jewels and her slaves, had taken complete possession of Sittâra's imagination. All night it haunted her; she dreamt of nothing else, and on awaking declared she would leave the house if her husband did not comply with her wishes. What could poor Ahmed do? He was no astrologer, but he was dotingly fond of his wife, and he could not bear the idea of losing her. He promised to obey, and, having sold his little stock, bought an astrolabe, an astronomical almanac, and a table of the twelve signs of the zodiac. Furnished with these he went to the market-place, crying, "I am an astrologer! I know the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and the twelve signs of the zodiac; I can calculate nativities; I can foretell everything that is to happen!" No man was better known than Ahmed the cobbler. A crowd soon gathered round him. "What! friend Ahmed," said one, "have you worked till your head is turned?" "Are you tired of looking down at your last," cried another, "that you are now looking up at the planets?" These and a thousand other jokes assailed the ears of the poor cobbler, who, notwithstanding, continued to exclaim that he was an astrologer, having resolved on doing what he could to please his beautiful wife. It so happened that the king's jeweller was passing by. He was in great distress, having lost the richest ruby belonging to the crown. Every search had been made to recover this inestimable jewel, but to no purpose; and as the jeweller knew he could no longer conceal its loss from the king, he looked forward to death as inevitable. In this hopeless state, while wandering about the town, he reached the crowd around Ahmed and asked what was the matter. "Don't you know Ahmed the cobbler?" said one of the bystanders, laughing; "he has been inspired, and is become an astrologer." A drowning man will catch at a broken reed: the jeweller no sooner heard the sound of the word astrologer, than he went up to Ahmed, told him what had happened, and said, "If you understand your art, you must be able to discover the king's ruby. Do so, and I will give you two hundred pieces of gold. But if you do not succeed within six hours, I will use all my influence at court to have you put to death as an impostor." Poor Ahmed was thunderstruck. He stood long without being able to move or speak, reflecting on his misfortunes, and grieving, above all, that his wife, whom he so loved, had, by her envy and selfishness, brought him to such a fearful alternative. Full of these sad thoughts, he exclaimed aloud, "O woman, woman! thou art more baneful to the happiness of man than the poisonous dragon of the desert!" The lost ruby had been secreted by the jeweller's wife, who, disquieted by those alarms which ever attend guilt, sent one of her female slaves to watch her husband. This slave, on seeing her master speak to the astrologer, drew near; and when she heard Ahmed, after some moments of apparent abstraction, compare a woman to a poisonous dragon, she was satisfied that he must know everything. She ran to her mistress, and, breathless with fear, cried, "You are discovered, my dear mistress, you are discovered by a vile astrologer. Before six hours are past the whole story will be known, and you will become infamous, if you are even so fortunate as to escape with life, unless you can find some way of prevailing on him to be merciful." She then related what she had seen and heard; and Ahmed's exclamation carried as complete conviction to the mind of the terrified mistress as it had done to that of her slave. The jeweller's wife, hastily throwing on her veil, went in search of the dreaded astrologer. When she found him, she threw herself at his feet, crying, "Spare my honour and my life, and I will confess everything!" "What can you have to confess to me?" exclaimed Ahmed in amazement. "Oh, nothing! nothing with which you are not already acquainted. You know too well that I stole the ruby from the king's crown. I did so to punish my husband, who uses me most cruelly; and I thought by this means to obtain riches for myself, and to have him put to death. But you, most wonderful man, from whom nothing is hidden, have discovered and defeated my wicked plan. I beg only for mercy, and will do whatever you command me." An angel from heaven could not have brought more consolation to Ahmed than did the jeweller's wife. He assumed all the dignified solemnity that became his new character, and said, "Woman! I know all thou hast done, and it is fortunate for thee that thou hast come to confess thy sin and beg for mercy before it was too late. Return to thy house, put the ruby under the pillow of the couch on which thy husband sleeps; let it be laid on the side furthest from the door; and be satisfied thy guilt shall never be even suspected." The jeweller's wife returned home, and did as she was desired. In an hour Ahmed followed her, and told the jeweller he had made his calculations, and found by the aspect of the sun and moon, and by the configuration of the stars, that the ruby was at that moment lying under the pillow of his couch, on the side furthest from the door. The jeweller thought Ahmed must be crazy; but as a ray of hope is like a ray from heaven to the wretched, he ran to his couch, and there, to his joy and wonder, found the ruby in the very place described. He came back to Ahmed, embraced him, called him his dearest friend and the preserver of his life, and gave him the two hundred pieces of gold, declaring that he was the first astrologer of the age. These praises conveyed no joy to the poor cobbler, who returned home more thankful to God for his preservation than elated by his good fortune. The moment he entered the door his wife ran up to him and exclaimed, "Well, my dear astrologer! what success?" "There!" said Ahmed, very gravely,--"there are two hundred pieces of gold. I hope you will be satisfied now, and not ask me again to hazard my life, as I have done this morning." He then related all that had passed. But the recital made a very different impression on the lady from what these occurrences had made on Ahmed. Sittâra saw nothing but the gold, which would enable her to vie with the chief astrologer's wife at the Hemmâm. "Courage!" she said, "courage! my dearest husband. This is only your first labour in your new and noble profession. Go on and prosper, and we shall become rich and happy." In vain Ahmed remonstrated and represented the danger; she burst into tears, and accused him of not loving her, ending with her usual threat of insisting upon a divorce. Ahmed's heart melted, and he agreed to make another trial. Accordingly, next morning he sallied forth with his astrolabe, his twelve signs of the zodiac, and his almanac, exclaiming, as before, "I am an astrologer! I know the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and the twelve signs of the zodiac; I can calculate nativities; I can foretell everything that is to happen!" A crowd again gathered round him, but it was now with wonder, and not ridicule; for the story of the ruby had gone abroad, and the voice of fame had converted the poor cobbler Ahmed into the ablest and most learned astrologer that was ever seen at Isfahan. While everybody was gazing at him, a lady passed by veiled. She was the wife of one of the richest merchants in the city, and had just been at the Hemmâm, where she had lost a valuable necklace and earrings. She was now returning home in great alarm lest her husband should suspect her of having given her jewels to a lover. Seeing the crowd around Ahmed, she asked the reason of their assembling, and was informed of the whole story of the famous astrologer: how he had been a cobbler, was inspired with supernatural knowledge, and could, with the help of his astrolabe, his twelve signs of the zodiac, and his almanac, discover all that ever did or ever would happen in the world. The story of the jeweller and the king's ruby was then told her, accompanied by a thousand wonderful circumstances which had never occurred. The lady, quite satisfied of his skill, went up to Ahmed and mentioned her loss, saying: "A man of your knowledge and penetration will easily discover my jewels; find them, and I will give you fifty pieces of gold." The poor cobbler was quite confounded, and looked down, thinking only how to escape without a public exposure of his ignorance. The lady, in pressing through the crowd, had torn the lower part of her veil. Ahmed's downcast eyes noticed this; and wishing to inform her of it in a delicate manner, before it was observed by others, he whispered to her, "Lady, look down at the rent." The lady's head was full of her loss, and she was at that moment endeavouring to recollect how it could have occurred. Ahmed's speech brought it at once to her mind, and she exclaimed in delighted surprise: "Stay here a few moments, thou great astrologer. I will return immediately with the reward thou so well deservest." Saying this, she left him, and soon returned, carrying in one hand the necklace and earrings, and in the other a purse with the fifty pieces of gold. "There is gold for thee," she said, "thou wonderful man, to whom all the secrets of Nature are revealed! I had quite forgotten where I laid the jewels, and without thee should never have found them. But when thou desiredst me to look at the rent below, I instantly recollected the rent near the bottom of the wall in the bathroom, where, before undressing, I had hid them. I can now go home in peace and comfort; and it is all owing to thee, thou wisest of men!" After these words she walked away, and Ahmed returned to his home, thankful to Providence for his preservation, and fully resolved never again to tempt it. His handsome wife, however, could not yet rival the chief astrologer's lady in her appearance at the Hemmâm, so she renewed her entreaties and threats, to make her fond husband continue his career as an astrologer. About this time it happened that the king's treasury was robbed of forty chests of gold and jewels, forming the greater part of the wealth of the kingdom. The high treasurer and other officers of state used all diligence to find the thieves, but in vain. The king sent for his astrologer, and declared that if the robbers were not detected by a stated time, he, as well as the principal ministers, should be put to death. Only one day of the short period given them remained. All their search had proved fruitless, and the chief astrologer, who had made his calculations and exhausted his art to no purpose, had quite resigned himself to his fate, when one of his friends advised him to send for the wonderful cobbler, who had become so famous for his extraordinary discoveries. Two slaves were immediately despatched for Ahmed, whom they commanded to go with them to their master. "You see the effects of your ambition," said the poor cobbler to his wife; "I am going to my death. The king's astrologer has heard of my presumption, and is determined to have me executed as an impostor." On entering the palace of the chief astrologer, he was surprised to see that dignified person come forward to receive him, and lead him to the seat of honour, and not less so to hear himself thus addressed: "The ways of Heaven, most learned and excellent Ahmed, are unsearchable. The high are often cast down, and the low are lifted up. The whole world depends upon fate and fortune. It is my turn now to be depressed by fate; it is thine to be exalted by fortune." His speech was here interrupted by a messenger from the king, who, having heard of the cobbler's fame, desired his attendance. Poor Ahmed now concluded that it was all over with him, and followed the king's messenger, praying to God that he would deliver him from this peril. When he came into the king's presence, he bent his body to the ground, and wished his majesty long life and prosperity. "Tell me, Ahmed," said the king, "who has stolen my treasure?" "It was not one man," answered Ahmed, after some consideration; "there were forty thieves concerned in the robbery." "Very well," said the king; "but who were they? and what have they done with my gold and jewels?" "These questions," said Ahmed, "I cannot now answer; but I hope to satisfy your Majesty, if you will grant me forty days to make my calculations." "I grant you forty days," said the king; "but when they are past, if my treasure is not found, your life shall pay the forfeit." Ahmed returned to his house well pleased; for he resolved to take advantage of the time allowed him to fly from a city where his fame was likely to be his ruin. "Well, Ahmed," said his wife, as he entered, "what news at Court?" "No news at all," said he, "except that I am to be put to death at the end of forty days, unless I find forty chests of gold and jewels which have been stolen from the royal treasury." "But you will discover the thieves." "How? By what means am I to find them?" "By the same art which discovered the ruby and the lady's necklace." "The same art!" replied Ahmed. "Foolish woman! thou knowest that I have no art, and that I have only pretended to it for the sake of pleasing thee. But I have had sufficient skill to gain forty days, during which time we may easily escape to some other city; and with the money I now possess, and the aid of my former occupation, we may still obtain an honest livelihood." "An honest livelihood!" repeated his lady, with scorn. "Will thy cobbling, thou mean, spiritless wretch, ever enable me to go to the Hemmâm like the wife of the chief astrologer? Hear me, Ahmed! Think only of discovering the king's treasure. Thou hast just as good a chance of doing so as thou hadst of finding the ruby, and the necklace and earrings. At all events, I am determined thou shalt not escape; and shouldst thou attempt to run away, I will inform the king's officers, and have thee taken up and put to death, even before the forty days are expired. Thou knowest me too well, Ahmed, to doubt my keeping my word. So take courage, and endeavour to make thy fortune, and to place me in that rank of life to which my beauty entitles me." The poor cobbler was dismayed at this speech; but knowing there was no hope of changing his wife's resolution, he resigned himself to his fate. "Well," said he, "your will shall be obeyed. All I desire is to pass the few remaining days of my life as comfortably as I can. You know I am no scholar, and have little skill in reckoning; so there are forty dates: give me one of them every night after I have said my prayers, that I may put them in a jar, and, by counting them may always see how many of the few days I have to live are gone." The lady, pleased at carrying her point, took the dates, and promised to be punctual in doing what her husband desired. Meanwhile the thieves who had stolen the king's treasure, having been kept from leaving the city by fear of detection and pursuit, had received accurate information of every measure taken to discover them. One of them was among the crowd before the palace on the day the king sent for Ahmed; and hearing that the cobbler had immediately declared their exact number, he ran in a fright to his comrades, and exclaimed, "We are all found out! Ahmed, the new astrologer, has told the king that there are forty of us." "There needed no astrologer to tell that," said the captain of the gang. "This Ahmed, with all his simple good-nature, is a shrewd fellow. Forty chests having been stolen, he naturally guessed that there must be forty thieves, and he has made a good hit, that is all; still it is prudent to watch him, for he certainly has made some strange discoveries. One of us must go to-night, after dark, to the terrace of this cobbler's house, and listen to his conversation with his handsome wife; for he is said to be very fond of her, and will, no doubt, tell her what success he has had in his endeavours to detect us." Everybody approved of this scheme; and soon after nightfall one of the thieves repaired to the terrace. He arrived there just as the cobbler had finished his evening prayers, and his wife was giving him the first date. "Ah!" said Ahmed, as he took it, "there is one of the forty." The thief, hearing these words, hastened in consternation to the gang, and told them that the moment he took his post he had been perceived by the supernatural knowledge of Ahmed, who immediately told his wife that one of them was there. The spy's tale was not believed by his hardened companions; something was imputed to his fears; he might have been mistaken;--in short, it was determined to send two men the next night at the same hour. They reached the house just as Ahmed, having finished his prayers, had received the second date, and heard him exclaim, "My dear wife, to-night there are two of them!" The astonished thieves fled, and told their still incredulous comrades what they had heard. Three men were consequently sent the third night, four the fourth, and so on. Being afraid of venturing during the day, they always came as evening closed in, and just as Ahmed was receiving his date, hence they all in turn heard him say that which convinced them he was aware of their presence. On the last night they all went, and Ahmed exclaimed aloud, "The number is complete! To-night the whole forty are here!" All doubts were now removed. It was impossible that Ahmed should have discovered them by any natural means. How could he ascertain their exact number? and night after night, without ever once being mistaken? He must have learnt it by his skill in astrology. Even the captain now yielded, in spite of his incredulity, and declared his opinion that it was hopeless to elude a man thus gifted; he therefore advised that they should make a friend of the cobbler, by confessing everything to him, and bribing him to secrecy by a share of the booty. His advice was approved of, and an hour before dawn they knocked at Ahmed's door. The poor man jumped out of bed, and supposing the soldiers were come to lead him to execution, cried out, "Have patience! I know what you are come for. It is a very unjust and wicked deed." "Most wonderful man!" said the captain, as the door was opened, "we are fully convinced that thou knowest why we are come, nor do we mean to justify the action of which thou speakest. Here are two thousand pieces of gold, which we will give thee, provided thou wilt swear to say nothing more about the matter." "Say nothing about it!" said Ahmed. "Do you think it possible I can suffer such gross wrong and injustice without complaining, and making it known to all the world?" "Have mercy upon us!" exclaimed the thieves, falling on their knees; "only spare our lives, and we will restore the royal treasure." The cobbler started, rubbed his eyes to see if he were asleep or awake; and being satisfied that he was awake, and that the men before him were really the thieves, he assumed a solemn tone, and said: "Guilty men! ye are persuaded that ye cannot escape from my penetration, which reaches unto the sun and moon, and knows the position and aspect of every star in the heavens. Your timely repentance has saved you. But ye must immediately restore all that ye have stolen. Go straightway, and carry the forty chests exactly as ye found them, and bury them a foot deep under the southern wall of the old ruined Hemmâm, beyond the king's palace. If ye do this punctually, your lives are spared; but if ye fail in the slightest degree, destruction will fall upon you and your families." The thieves promised obedience to his commands and departed. Ahmed then fell on his knees, and returned thanks to God for this signal mark of his favour. About two hours after the royal guards came, and desired Ahmed to follow them. He said he would attend them as soon as he had taken leave of his wife, to whom he determined not to impart what had occurred until he saw the result. He bade her farewell very affectionately; she supported herself with great fortitude on this trying occasion, exhorting her husband to be of good cheer, and said a few words about the goodness of Providence. But the fact was, Sittâra fancied that if God took the worthy cobbler to himself, her beauty might attract some rich lover, who would enable her to go to the Hemmâm with as much splendour as the astrologer's lady, whose image, adorned with jewels and fine clothes, and surrounded by slaves, still haunted her imagination. The decrees of Heaven are just: a reward suited to their merits awaited Ahmed and his wife. The good man stood with a cheerful countenance before the king, who was impatient for his arrival, and immediately said, "Ahmed, thy looks are promising; hast thou discovered my treasure?" "Does your Majesty require the thieves or the treasure? The stars will only grant one or the other," said Ahmed, looking at his table of astrological calculations. "Your Majesty must make your choice. I can deliver up either, but not both." "I should be sorry not to punish the thieves," answered the king; "but if it must be so, I choose the treasure." "And you give the thieves a full and free pardon?" "I do, provided I find my treasure untouched." "Then," said Ahmed, "if your majesty will follow me, the treasure shall be restored to you." The king and all his nobles followed the cobbler to the ruins of the old Hemmâm. There, casting his eyes towards heaven, Ahmed muttered some sounds, which were supposed by the spectators to be magical conjurations, but which were in reality the prayers and thanksgivings of a sincere and pious heart to God for his wonderful deliverance. When his prayer was finished, he pointed to the southern wall, and requested that his majesty would order his attendants to dig there. The work was hardly begun, when the whole forty chests were found in the same state as when stolen, with the treasurer's seal upon them still unbroken. The king's joy knew no bounds; he embraced Ahmed, and immediately appointed him his chief astrologer, assigned to him an apartment in the palace, and declared that he should marry his only daughter, as it was his duty to promote the man whom God had so singularly favoured, and had made instrumental in restoring the treasures of his kingdom. The young princess, who was more beautiful than the moon, was not dissatisfied with her father's choice; for her mind was stored with religion and virtue, and she had learnt to value beyond all earthly qualities that piety and learning which she believed Ahmed to possess. The royal will was carried into execution as soon as formed. The wheel of fortune had taken a complete turn. The morning had found Ahmed in a wretched hovel, rising from a sorry bed, in the expectation of losing his life; in the evening he was the lord of a rich palace, and married to the only daughter of a powerful king. But this change did not alter his character. As he had been meek and humble in adversity, he was modest and gentle in prosperity. Conscious of his own ignorance, he continued to ascribe his good fortune solely to the favour of Providence. He became daily more attached to the beautiful and virtuous princess whom he had married; and he could not help contrasting her character with that of his former wife, whom he had ceased to love, and of whose unreasonable and unfeeling vanity he was now fully sensible. THE LEGEND OF THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE OF SHEDDÁD, THE SON OF 'A'D. It is related that 'Abd Allah, the son of Aboo Kilábeh, went forth to seek a camel that had run away, and while he was proceeding over the deserts of El-Yemen and the district of Seba, he chanced to arrive at a vast city encompassed by enormous fortifications, around the circuit of which were pavilions rising high into the sky. So when he approached it, he imagined that there must be inhabitants within it, of whom he might inquire for his camel; and, accordingly, he advanced, but on coming to it he found that it was desolate, without any one to cheer its solitude. "I alighted," says he, "from my she-camel, and tied up her foot; and then, composing my mind, entered the city. On approaching the fortifications, I found that they had two enormous gates, the like of which, for size and height, have never been seen elsewhere in the world, set with a variety of jewels and jacinths, white and red, and yellow and green; and when I beheld this, I was struck with the utmost wonder at it, and the sight astonished me. I entered the fortifications in a state of terror and with a wandering mind, and saw them to be of the same large extent as the city, and to comprise elevated pavilions, every one of these containing lofty chambers, and all of them constructed of gold and silver, and adorned with rubies and chrysolites and pearls and various-coloured jewels. The folding-doors of these pavilions were like those of the fortifications in beauty, and the floors were overlaid with large pearls, and with balls like hazel-nuts, composed of musk and ambergris and saffron. And when I came into the midst of the city, I saw not in it a created being of the sons of Adam; and I almost died of terror. I then looked down from the summits of the lofty chambers and pavilions, and saw rivers running beneath them; and in the great thoroughfare-streets of the city were fruit-bearing trees and tall palm-trees. And the construction of the city was of alternate bricks of gold and silver; so I said within myself, No doubt this is the paradise promised in the world to come. "I carried away of the jewels which were as its gravel, and the musk that was as its dust, as much as I could bear, and returned to my district, where I acquainted the people with the occurrence. And the news reached Mo'áwiyeh, the son of Aboo Sufyán (who was then Caliph), in the Hejáz; so he wrote to his lieutenant in San'a of El-Yemen, saying, 'Summon that man, and inquire of him the truth of the matter!' His lieutenant therefore caused me to be brought, and demanded of me an account of my adventure, and of what had befallen me; and I informed him of what I had seen. He then sent me to Mo'áwiyeh, and I acquainted him also with that which I had seen, but he disbelieved it; so I produced to him some of those pearls and the little balls of ambergris and musk and saffron. The latter retained somewhat of their sweet scent; but the pearls had become yellow and discoloured. "At the sight of these Mo'áwiyeh wondered, and he sent and caused Kaab el-Ahbár to be brought before him, and said to him, 'O Kaab el-Ahbár, I have called thee on account of a matter of which I desire to know the truth, and I hope that thou mayest be able to certify me of it.' 'And what is it, O Prince of the Faithful?' asked Kaab el-Ahbár. Mo'áwiyeh said, 'Hast thou any knowledge of the existence of a city constructed of gold and silver, the pillars whereof are of chrysolite and ruby, and the gravel of which is of pearls, and of balls like hazel-nuts, composed of musk and ambergris and saffron?' He answered, 'Yes, O Prince of the Faithful! It is Irem Zat-el-'Emád, the like of which hath never been constructed in the regions of the earth; and Sheddád, the son of 'A'd the Greater, built it.' 'Relate to us,' said Mo'áwiyeh, 'somewhat of its history.' And Kaab el-Ahbár replied thus:-- "''A'd the Greater had two sons, Shedeed and Sheddád, and when their father perished they reigned conjointly over the countries after him, and there was no one of the kings of the earth who was not subject to them. And Shedeed the son of 'A'd died, so his brother Sheddád ruled alone over the earth after him. He was fond of reading the ancient books; and when he met with the description of the world to come, and of paradise, with its pavilions and lofty chambers, and its trees and fruits, and of the other things in paradise, his heart enticed him to construct its like on the earth, after this manner which hath been above mentioned. He had under his authority a hundred thousand kings, under each of whom were a hundred thousand valiant chieftains, and under each of these were a hundred thousand soldiers. And he summoned them all before him, and said to them, "I find in the ancient books and histories the description of the paradise that is in the other world, and I desire to make its like upon the earth. Depart ye therefore to the most pleasant and most spacious vacant tract in the earth, and build for me in it a city of gold and silver, and spread, as its gravel, chrysolites and rubies and pearls, and as the supports of the vaulted roofs of that city make columns of chrysolite, and fill it with pavilions, and over the pavilions construct lofty chambers, and beneath them plant, in the by-streets and great-thoroughfare streets, varieties of trees bearing different kinds of ripe fruits, and make rivers to run beneath them in channels of gold and silver." To this they all replied, "How can we accomplish that which thou hast described to us, and how can we procure the chrysolites and rubies and pearls that thou hast mentioned?" But he said, "Know ye not that the kings of the world are obedient to me, and under my authority, and that no one who is in it disobeyeth my command?" They answered, "Yes, we know that." "Depart then," said he, "to the mines of chrysolite and ruby, and to the places where pearls are found, and gold and silver, and take forth and collect their contents from the earth, and spare no exertions. Take also for me, from the hands of me, such of those things as ye find, and spare none, nor let any escape you; and beware of disobedience!" "'He then wrote a letter to each of the kings in the regions of the earth, commanding them to collect all the articles of the kinds above mentioned that their subjects possessed, and to repair to the mines in which these things were found, and extract the precious stones that they contained, even from the beds of the seas. And they collected the things that he required in the space of twenty years; after which he sent forth the geometricians and sages, and labourers and artificers, from all the countries and regions, and they dispersed themselves through the deserts and wastes, and tracts and districts, until they came to a desert wherein was a vast open plain, clear from hills and mountains, and in it were springs gushing forth, and rivers running. So they said, "This is the kind of place which the king commanded us to seek, and called us to find." They then busied themselves in building the city according to the direction of the King Sheddád, king of the whole earth, in its length and breadth; and they made through it the channels for the rivers, and laid the foundations conformably with the prescribed extent. The kings of the various districts of the earth sent thither the jewels and stones, and large and small pearls, and carnelian and pure gold, upon camels over the deserts and wastes, and sent great ships with them over the seas; and a quantity of those things, such as cannot be described nor calculated nor defined, was brought to the workmen, who laboured in the construction of this city three hundred years. And when they had finished it, they came to the king and acquainted him with the completion; and he said to them, "Depart, and make around it impregnable fortifications of great height, and construct around the circuit of the fortifications a thousand pavilions, each with a thousand pillars beneath it, in order that there may be in each pavilion a vizier." So they went immediately, and did this in twenty years; after which they presented themselves before Sheddád, and informed him of the accomplishment of his desire. "'He therefore ordered his viziers, who were a thousand in number, and his chief officers, and such of his troops and others as he confided in, to make themselves ready for departure, and to prepare themselves for removal to Irem Zat-el-'Emád, in attendance upon the king of the world, Sheddád, the son of 'A'd. He ordered also such as he chose of his women and his hareem, as his female slaves and his eunuchs, to fit themselves out. And they passed twenty years in equipping themselves. Then Sheddád proceeded with his troops, rejoiced at the accomplishment of his desire, until there remained between him and Irem Zat-el-'Emád one day's journey, when God sent down upon him and upon the obstinate infidels who accompanied him a loud cry from the heaven of His power, and it destroyed them all by the vehemence of its sound. Neither Sheddád nor any of those who were with him arrived at the city, or came in sight of it, and God obliterated the traces of the road that led to it, but the city remaineth as it was in its place until the hour of the judgment!' "At this narrative, related by Kaab el-Ahbár, Mo'áwiyeh wondered, and he said to him, 'Can any one of mankind arrive at that city?' 'Yes,' answered Kaab el-Ahbár; 'a man of the companions of Mohammed (upon whom be blessing and peace!), in appearance like this man who is sitting here, without any doubt.' Esh-Shaabee also saith, 'It is related, on the authority of the learned men of Hemyer, in El-Yemen, that when Sheddád and those who were with him were destroyed by the loud cry, his son Sheddád the Less reigned after him; for his father, Sheddád the Greater, had left him as successor to his kingdom, in the land of Hadramót and Seba, on his departure with the troops who accompanied him to Irem Zat-el-'Emád. And as soon as the news reached him of the death of his father, on the way before his arrival at the city of Irem, he gave orders to carry his father's body from those desert tracts to Hadramót, and to excavate the sepulchre for him in a cavern. And when they had done this, he placed his body in it, upon a couch of gold, and covered the corpse with seventy robes, interwoven with gold and adorned with precious jewels; and he placed at his head a tablet of gold, whereon were inscribed these verses:-- "'Be admonished, O thou who art deceived by a prolonged life! I am Sheddád, the son of 'A'd, the lord of a strong fortress, The lord of power and might, and of excessive valour. The inhabitants of the earth obeyed me, fearing my severity and threats; And I held the east and west under a strong dominion. And a preacher of the true religion invited us to the right way; But we opposed him, and said, Is there no refuge from it? And a loud cry assaulted us from a tract of the distant horizon; Whereupon we fell down like corn in the midst of a plain at harvest; And now, beneath the earth, we await the threatened day.' "Eth-Tha'álibee also saith, 'It happened that two men entered this cavern, and found at its upper end some steps, and having descended these, they found an excavation, the length whereof was a hundred cubits, and its breadth forty cubits, and its height a hundred cubits. And in the midst of this excavation was a couch of gold, upon which was a man of enormous bulk, occupying its whole length and breadth, covered with ornaments and with robes interwoven with gold and silver; and at his head was a tablet of gold, whereon was an inscription. And they took that tablet, and carried away from the place as much as they could of bars of gold and silver and other things.'" THE TOMB OF NOOSHEERWÂN. The caliph Hâroon-oor-Rasheed went to visit the tomb of the celebrated Noosheerwân, the most famous of all the monarchs who ever governed Persia. Before the tomb was a curtain of gold cloth, which, when Hâroon touched it, fell to pieces. The walls of the tomb were covered with gold and jewels, whose splendour illumined its darkness. The body was placed in a sitting posture on a throne enchased with jewels, and had so much the appearance of life that, on the first impulse, the Commander of the Faithful bent to the ground, and saluted the remains of the just Noosheerwân. Though the face of the departed monarch was like that of a living man, and the whole of the body in a state of preservation, which showed the admirable skill of those who embalmed it, yet when the caliph touched the garments they mouldered into dust. Hâroon upon this took his own rich robes and threw them over the corpse; he also hung up a new curtain richer than that he had destroyed, and perfumed the whole tomb with camphor, and other sweet scents. It was remarked that no change was perceptible in the body of Noosheerwân, except that the ears had become white. The whole scene affected the caliph greatly; he burst into tears, and repeated from the Koran--"What I have seen is a warning to those who have eyes." He observed some writing upon the throne, which he ordered the Moobids (priests), who were learned in the Pehlevee language, to read and explain. They did so: it was as follows:-- "This world remains not; the man who thinks least of it is the wisest. "Enjoy this world before thou becomest its prey. "Bestow the same favour on those below thee as thou desirest to receive from those above thee. "If thou shouldst conquer the whole world, death will at last conquer thee. "Be careful that thou art not the dupe of thine own fortune. "Thou shalt be paid exactly for what thou hast done; no more, no less." The caliph observed a dark ruby-ring on the finger of Noosheerwân, on which was written-- "Avoid cruelty, study good, and never be precipitate in action. "If thou shouldst live for a hundred years, never for one moment forget death. "Value above all things the society of the wise." Around the right arm of Noosheerwân was a clasp of gold, on which was engraved-- "On a certain year, on the 10th day of the month Erdebehisht, a caliph of the race of Adean, professing the faith of Mahomed, accompanied by four good men, and one bad, shall visit my tomb." Below this sentence were the names of the forefathers of the caliph. Another prophecy was added concerning Hâroon's pilgrimage to Noosheerwân's tomb. "This prince will honour me, and do good unto me, though I have no claim upon him; and he will clothe me in a new vest, and besprinkle my tomb with sweet-scented essences, and then depart unto his home. But the bad man who accompanies him shall act treacherously towards me. I pray that God may send one of my race to repay the great favours of the caliph, and to take vengeance on his unworthy companion. There is, under my throne, an inscription which the caliph must read and contemplate. Its contents will remind him of me, and make him pardon my inability to give him more." The caliph, on hearing this, put his hand under the throne, and found the inscription, which consisted of some lines, inscribed on a ruby as large as the palm of the hand. The Moobids read this also. It contained information where would be found concealed a treasure of gold and arms, with some caskets of rich jewels; under this was written-- "These I give to the caliph in return for the good he has done me; let him take them and be happy." When Hâroon-oor-Rasheed was about to leave the tomb, Hoosein-ben-Sâhil, his vizier, said to him: "O Lord of the Faithful, what is the use of all these precious gems which ornament the abode of the dead, and are of no benefit to the living? Allow me to take some of them." The caliph replied with indignation, "Such a wish is more worthy of a thief than of a great or wise man." Hoosein was ashamed of his speech, and said to the servant who had been placed at the entrance of the tomb, "Go thou, and worship the holy shrine within." The man went into the tomb; he was above a hundred years old, but he had never seen such a blaze of wealth. He felt inclined to plunder some of it, but was at first afraid; at last, summoning all his courage, he took a ring from the finger of Noosheerwân, and came away. Hâroon saw this man come out, and observing him alarmed, he at once conjectured what he had been doing. Addressing those around him, he said, "Do not you now see the extent of the knowledge of Noosheerwân? He prophesied that there should be one unworthy man with me. It is this fellow. What have you taken?" said he, in an angry tone. "Nothing," said the man. "Search him," said the caliph. It was done, and the ring of Noosheerwân was found. This the caliph immediately took, and, entering the tomb, replaced it on the cold finger of the deceased monarch. When he returned, a terrible sound like that of loud thunder was heard. Hâroon came down from the mountain on which the tomb stood, and ordered the road to be made inaccessible to future curiosity. He searched for, and found, in the place described, the gold, the arms, and the jewels bequeathed to him by Noosheerwân, and sent them to Bagdad. Among the rich articles found was a golden crown, which had five sides, and was richly ornamented with precious stones. On every side a number of admirable lessons were written. The most remarkable were as follows:-- _First side._ "Give my regards to those who know themselves. "Consider the end before you begin, and before you advance provide a retreat. "Give not unnecessary pain to any man, but study the happiness of all. "Ground not your dignity upon your power to hurt others." _Second side._ "Take counsel before you commence any measure, and never trust its execution to the inexperienced. "Sacrifice your property for your life, and your life for your religion. "Spend your time in establishing a good name; and if you desire fortune, learn contentment." _Third side._ "Grieve not for that which is broken, stolen, burnt, or lost. "Never give orders in another man's house; and accustom yourself to eat your bread at your own table. "Make not yourself the captive of women." _Fourth side._ "Take not a wife from a bad family, and seat not thyself with those who have no shame. "Keep thyself at a distance from those who are incorrigible in bad habits, and hold no intercourse with that man who is insensible to kindness. "Covet not the goods of others. "Be guarded with monarchs, for they are like fire which blazeth but destroyeth. "Be sensible to your own value; estimate justly the worth of others; and war not with those who are far above thee in fortune." _Fifth side._ "Fear kings, women, and poets. "Be envious of no man, and habituate not thyself to search after the faults of others. "Make it a habit to be happy, and avoid being out of temper, or thy life will pass in misery. "Respect and protect the females of thy family. "Be not the slave of anger; and in thy contests always leave open the door of conciliation. "Never let your expenses exceed your income. "Plant a young tree, or you cannot expect to cut down an old one. "Stretch your legs no further than the size of your carpet." The caliph Hâroon-oor-Rasheed was more pleased with the admirable maxims inscribed on this crown than with all the treasures he had found. "Write these precepts," he exclaimed, "in a book, that the faithful may eat of the fruit of wisdom." When he returned to Bagdad, he related to his favourite vizier, Jaffier Bermekee, and his other chief officers, all that had passed; and the shade of Noosheerwân was propitiated by the disgrace of Hoosein-ben-Sâhil (who had recommended despoiling his tomb), and the exemplary punishment of the servant who had committed the sacrilegious act of taking the ring from the finger of the departed monarch. AMEEN AND THE GHOOL. There is a dreadful place in Persia called the "Valley of the Angel of Death." That terrific minister of God's wrath, according to tradition, has resting-places upon the earth and his favourite abodes. He is surrounded by ghools, horrid beings who, when he takes away life, feast upon the carcasses. The natural shape of these monsters is terrible; but they can assume those of animals, such as cows or camels, or whatever they choose, often appearing to men as their relations or friends, and then they do not only transform their shapes, but their voices also are altered. The frightful screams and yells which are often heard amid these dreaded ravines are changed for the softest and most melodious notes. Unwary travellers, deluded by the appearance of friends, or captivated by the forms and charmed by the music of these demons, are allured from their path, and after feasting for a few hours on every luxury, are consigned to destruction. The number of these ghools has greatly decreased since the birth of the Prophet, and they have no power to hurt those who pronounce his name in sincerity of faith. These creatures are the very lowest of the supernatural world, and, besides being timid, are extremely stupid, and consequently often imposed upon by artful men. The natives of Isfahan, though not brave, are the most crafty and acute people upon earth, and often supply the want of courage by their address. An inhabitant of that city was once compelled to travel alone at night through this dreadful valley. He was a man of ready wit, and fond of adventures, and, though no lion, had great confidence in his cunning, which had brought him through a hundred scrapes and perils that would have embarrassed or destroyed your simple man of valour. This man, whose name was Ameen Beg, had heard many stories of the ghools of the "Valley of the Angel of Death," and thought it likely he might meet one. He prepared accordingly, by putting an egg and a lump of salt in his pocket. He had not gone far amidst the rocks, when he heard a voice crying, "Holloa, Ameen Beg Isfahânee! you are going the wrong road, you will lose yourself; come this way. I am your friend Kerreem Beg; I know your father, old Kerbela Beg, and the street in which you were born." Ameen knew well the power the ghools had of assuming the shape of any person they choose; and he also knew their skill as genealogists, and their knowledge of towns as well as families; he had therefore little doubt this was one of those creatures alluring him to destruction. He, however, determined to encounter him, and trust to his art for his escape. "Stop, my friend, till I come near you," was his reply. When Ameen came close to the ghool, he said, "You are not my friend Kerreem; you are a lying demon, but you are just the being I desired to meet. I have tried my strength against all the men and all the beasts which exist in the natural world, and I can find nothing that is a match for me. I came therefore to this valley in the hope of encountering a ghool, that I might prove my prowess upon him." The ghool, astonished at being addressed in this manner, looked keenly at him, and said, "Son of Adam, you do not appear so strong." "Appearances are deceitful," replied Ameen, "but I will give you a proof of my strength. There," said he, picking up a stone from a rivulet, "this contains a fluid; try if you can so squeeze it that it will flow out." The ghool took the stone, but, after a short attempt, returned it, saying, "The thing is impossible." "Quite easy," said the Isfahânee, taking the stone and placing it in the hand in which he had before put the egg. "Look there!" And the astonished ghool, while he heard what he took for the breaking of the stone, saw the liquid run from between Ameen's fingers, and this apparently without any effort. Ameen, aided by the darkness, placed the stone upon the ground while he picked up another of a darker hue. "This," said he, "I can see contains salt, as you will find if you can crumble it between your fingers;" but the ghool, looking at it, confessed he had neither knowledge to discover its qualities nor strength to break it. "Give it me," said his companion impatiently; and, having put it into the same hand with the piece of salt, he instantly gave the latter all crushed to the ghool, who, seeing it reduced to powder, tasted it, and remained in stupid astonishment at the skill and strength of this wonderful man. Neither was he without alarm lest his strength should be exerted against himself, and he saw no safety in resorting to the shape of a beast, for Ameen had warned him that if he commenced any such unfair dealing, he would instantly slay him; for ghools, though long-lived, are not immortal. Under such circumstances he thought his best plan was to conciliate the friendship of his new companion till he found an opportunity of destroying him. "Most wonderful man," he said, "will you honour my abode with your presence? it is quite at hand; there you will find every refreshment; and after a comfortable night's rest you can resume your journey." "I have no objection, friend ghool, to accept your offer; but, mark me, I am, in the first place, very passionate, and must not be provoked by any expressions which are in the least disrespectful; and, in the second, I am full of penetration, and can see through your designs as clearly as I saw into that hard stone in which I discovered salt. So take care you entertain none that are wicked, or you shall suffer." The ghool declared that the ear of his guest should be pained by no expression to which it did not befit his dignity to listen; and he swore by the head of his liege lord, the Angel of Death, that he would faithfully respect the rights of hospitality and friendship. Thus satisfied, Ameen followed the ghool through a number of crooked paths, rugged cliffs, and deep ravines, till they came to a large cave, which was dimly lighted. "Here," said the ghool, "I dwell, and here my friend will find all he can want for refreshment and repose." So saying, he led him to various apartments, in which were hoarded every species of grain, and all kinds of merchandise, plundered from travellers who had been deluded to this den, and of whose fate Ameen was too well informed by the bones over which he now and then stumbled, and by the putrid smell produced by some half-consumed carcasses. "This will be sufficient for your supper, I hope," said the ghool, taking up a large bag of rice; "a man of your prowess must have a tolerable appetite." "True," said Ameen, "but I ate a sheep and as much rice as you have there before I proceeded on my journey. I am, consequently, not hungry, but will take a little lest I offend your hospitality." "I must boil it for you," said the demon; "you do not eat grain and meat raw, as we do. Here is a kettle," said he, taking up one lying amongst the plundered property. "I will go and get wood for a fire, while you fetch water with that," pointing to a bag made of the hides of six oxen. Ameen waited till he saw his host leave the cave for the wood, and then with great difficulty he dragged the enormous bag to the bank of a dark stream, which issued from the rocks at the other end of the cavern, and, after being visible for a few yards, disappeared underground. "How shall I," thought Ameen, "prevent my weakness being discovered? This bag I could hardly manage when empty; when full, it would require twenty strong men to carry it; what shall I do? I shall certainly be eaten up by this cannibal ghool, who is now only kept in order by the impression of my great strength." After some minutes' reflection the Isfahânee thought of a scheme, and began digging a small channel from the stream towards the place where his supper was preparing. "What are you doing?" vociferated the ghool, as he advanced towards him; "I sent you for water to boil a little rice, and you have been an hour about it. Cannot you fill the bag and bring it away?" "Certainly I can," said Ameen; "if I were content, after all your kindness, to show my gratitude merely by feats of brute strength, I could lift your stream if you had a bag large enough to hold it. But here," said he, pointing to the channel he had begun,--"here is the commencement of a work in which the mind of a man is employed to lessen the labour of his body. This canal, small as it may appear, will carry a stream to the other end of the cave, in which I will construct a dam that you can open and shut at pleasure, and thereby save yourself infinite trouble in fetching water. But pray let me alone till it is finished," and he began to dig. "Nonsense!" said the ghool, seizing the bag and filling it; "I will carry the water myself, and I advise you to leave off your canal, as you call it, and follow me, that you may eat your supper and go to sleep; you may finish this fine work, if you like it, to-morrow morning." Ameen congratulated himself on this escape, and was not slow in taking the advice of his host. After having ate heartily of the supper that was prepared, he went to repose on a bed made of the richest coverlets and pillows, which were taken from one of the store-rooms of plundered goods. The ghool, whose bed was also in the cave, had no sooner laid down than he fell into a sound sleep. The anxiety of Ameen's mind prevented him from following his example; he rose gently, and having stuffed a long pillow into the middle of his bed, to make it appear as if he was still there, he retired to a concealed place in the cavern to watch the proceedings of the ghool. The latter awoke a short time before daylight, and rising, went, without making any noise, towards Ameen's bed, where, not observing the least stir, he was satisfied that his guest was in a deep sleep; so he took up one of his walking-sticks, which was in size like the trunk of a tree, and struck a terrible blow at what he supposed to be Ameen's head. He smiled not to hear a groan, thinking he had deprived him of life; but to make sure of his work, he repeated the blow seven times. He then returned to rest, but had hardly settled himself to sleep, when Ameen, who had crept into the bed, raised his head above the clothes and exclaimed, "Friend ghool, what insect could it be that has disturbed me by its tapping? I counted the flap of its little wings seven times on the coverlet. These vermin are very annoying, for, though they cannot hurt a man, they disturb his rest!" The ghool's dismay on hearing Ameen speak at all was great, but that was increased to perfect fright when he heard him describe seven blows, any one of which would have felled an elephant, as seven flaps of an insect's wing. There was no safety, he thought, near so wonderful a man, and he soon afterwards arose and fled from the cave, leaving the Isfahânee its sole master. When Ameen found his host gone, he was at no loss to conjecture the cause, and immediately began to survey the treasures with which he was surrounded, and to contrive means for removing them to his home. After examining the contents of the cave, and arming himself with a matchlock, which had belonged to some victim of the ghool, he proceeded to survey the road. He had, however, only gone a short distance when he saw the ghool returning with a large club in his hand, and accompanied by a fox. Ameen's knowledge of the cunning animal instantly led him to suspect that it had undeceived his enemy, but his presence of mind did not forsake him. "Take that," said he to the fox, aiming a ball at him from his matchlock, and shooting him through the head,--"Take that for your not performing my orders. That brute," said he, "promised to bring me seven ghools, that I might chain them, and carry them to Isfahan, and here he has only brought you, who are already my slave." So saying, he advanced towards the ghool; but the latter had already taken to flight, and by the aid of his club bounded so rapidly over rocks and precipices that he was soon out of sight. Ameen having well marked the path from the cavern to the road, went to the nearest town and hired camels and mules to remove the property he had acquired. After making restitution to all who remained alive to prove their goods, he became, from what was unclaimed, a man of wealth, all of which was owing to that wit and art which ever overcome brute strength and courage. THE RELATIONS OF SSIDI KUR. Glorified Nangasuna Garbi! thou art radiant within and without; the holy vessel of sublimity, the fathomer of concealed thoughts, the second of instructors, I bow before thee. What wonderful adventures fell to the lot of Nangasuna, and to the peaceful wandering Chan, and how instructive and learned the Ssidi will be found, all this is developed in thirteen pleasing narratives. And I will first relate the origin of these tales:-- In the central kingdom of India there once lived seven brothers, who were magicians; and one berren (a measure of distance) further dwelt two brothers, who were sons of a Chan. Now the eldest of these sons of the Chan betook himself to the magicians, that he might learn their art; but although he studied under them for seven years, yet the magicians taught him not the true key to magic. And once upon a time it happened that the youngest brother, going to bring food to the elder, peeped through the opening of the door, and obtained the key to magic. Thereupon, without delivering to the elder the food which he had brought for him, he returned home to the palace. Then said the younger son of the Chan to his brother, "That we have learned magic, let us keep to ourselves. We have in the stable a beautiful horse; take this horse, and ride not with him near the dwelling-place of the magicians, but sell the horse in their country, and bring back merchandise." And when he had said thus, he changed himself into a horse. But the elder son of the Chan heeded not the words of his brother, but said unto himself: "Full seven years have I studied magic, and as yet have learned nothing. Where, then, has my young brother found so beautiful a horse? and how can I refuse to ride thereon?" With these words he mounted, but the horse being impelled by the power of magic was not to be restrained, galloped away to the dwelling-place of the magicians, and could not be got from the door. "Well, then, I will sell the horse to the magicians." Thus thinking to himself, the elder called out to the magicians, "Saw ye ever a horse like unto this? My younger brother it was who found him." At these words the magicians communed with one another. "This is a magic horse; if magic grow at all common, there will be no wonderful art remaining. Let us, therefore, take this horse and slay him." The magicians paid the price demanded for the horse, and tied him in a stall; and that he might not escape out of their hands, they fastened him, ready for slaughter, by the head, by the tail, and by the feet. "Ah!" thought the horse to himself, "my elder brother hearkened not unto me, and therefore am I fallen into such hands. What form shall I assume?" While the horse was thus considering, he saw a fish swim by him in the water, and immediately he changed himself into a fish. But the seven magicians became seven herons, and pursued the fish, and were on the point of catching it, when it looked up and beheld a dove in the sky, and thereupon transformed itself into a dove. The seven magicians now became seven hawks, and followed the dove over mountains and rivers, and would certainly have seized upon it, but the dove, flying eastwards to the peaceful cave in the rock Gulumtschi, concealed itself in the bosom of Nangasuna Baktschi (the Instructor). Then the seven hawks became seven beggars, and drew nigh unto the rock Gulumtschi. "What may this import?" bethought the Baktschi to himself, "that this dove has fled hither pursued by seven hawks?" Thus thinking, the Baktschi said, "Wherefore, O dove, fliest thou hither in such alarm?" Then the dove related to him the cause of its flight, and spake afterwards as follows:--"At the entrance to the rock Gulumtschi stand seven beggars, and they will come to the Baktschi and say, 'We pray thee give us the rosary of the Baktschi?' Then will I transform myself into the Bumba of the rosary; let the Baktschi then vouchsafe to take this Bumba into his mouth and to cast the rosary from him." Hereupon the seven beggars drew nigh, and the Baktschi took the first bead into his mouth and the rest he cast from him. The beads which were cast away then became worms, and the seven beggars became fowls and ate up the worms. Then the Baktschi let the first bead fall from his mouth, and thereupon the first bead was transformed into a man with a sword in his hand. When the seven fowls were slain and become human corses, the Baktschi was troubled in his soul, and said these words, "Through my having preserved one single man have seven been slain. Of a verity this is not good." To these words the other replied, "I am the Son of a Chan. Since, therefore, through the preservation of my life, several others have lost their lives, I will, to cleanse me from my sins, and also to reward the Baktschi, execute whatsoever he shall command me." The Baktschi replied thereto, "Now, then, in the cold Forest of Death there abides Ssidi Kur; the upper part of his body is decked with gold, the lower is of brass, his head is covered with silver. Seize him and hold him fast. Whosoever finds this wonderful Ssidi Kur, him will I make for a thousand years a man upon the earth." Thus spake he, and the youth thereupon began these words: "The way which I must take, the food which I require, the means which I must employ, all these vouchsafe to make known unto me." To this the Baktschi replied, "It shall be as thou demandest. At the distance of a berren (a measure of distance) from this place you will come to a gloomy forest, through which you will find there runs only one narrow path. The place is full of spirits. When thou reachest the spirits, they will throng around you; then cry ye with a loud voice, 'Spirits, chu lu chu lu ssochi!' And when thou hast spoken these words, they will all be scattered like grain. When thou hast proceeded a little further, you will encounter a crowd of other spirits; then cry ye, 'Spirits, chu lu chu lu ssosi!' And a little further on you will behold a crowd of child-spirits: say unto these, 'Child-spirits, Ri ra pa dra!' In the middle of this wood sits Ssidi Kur, beside an amiri-tree. When he beholds you, he will climb up it, but you must take the moon-axe, with furious gestures draw nigh unto the tree, and bid Ssidi Kur descend. To bring him away you will require this sack, which would hold a hundred men. To bind him fast this hundred fathoms of checkered rope will serve you. This inexhaustible cake will furnish thee with provender for thy journey. When thou hast got thy load upon thy back, wander then on without speaking, until thou art returned home again. Thy name is Son of the Chan; and since thou hast reached the peaceful rock Gulumtschi, thou shalt be called the peaceful wandering Son of the Chan." Thus spake the Baktschi, and showed him the way of expiation. When Ssidi Kur beheld his pursuer, he speedily climbed up the amiri-tree, but the Son of the Chan drew nigh unto the foot of the tree, and spake with threatening words: "My Baktschi is Nangasuna Garbi; mine axe is called the white moon; an inexhaustible cake is my provender. This sack, capable of holding a hundred men, will serve to carry thee away, this hundred fathoms of rope will serve to bind thee fast; I myself am the peaceful wandering Son of the Chan. Descend, or I will hew down the tree." Then spake Ssidi Kur, "Do not hew down the tree; I will descend from it." And when he had descended, the Son of the Chan thrust him into the sack, tied the sack fast with the rope, ate of the butter-cake, and wandered forth many days with his burden. At length Ssidi Kur said to the Son of the Chan, "Since our long journey is wearisome unto us, I will tell a story unto you, or do you relate one unto me." The Son of the Chan kept on his way, however, without speaking a word, and Ssidi began afresh, "If thou wilt tell a story, nod your head to me; if I shall relate one, then do you shake your head." But because the Son of the Chan shook his head from side to side, without uttering a word, Ssidi began the following tale:-- THE ADVENTURES OF THE RICH YOUTH. "In former times there lived, in a great kingdom, a rich youth, a calculator, a mechanic, a painter, a physician, and a smith, and they all departed from their parents and went forth into a foreign land. When they at length arrived at the mouth of a great river, they planted, every one of them, a tree of life; and each of them, following one of the sources of the river, set forth to seek their fortunes. 'Here,' said they to one another,--'here will we meet again. Should, however, any one of us be missing, and his tree of life be withered, we will search for him in the place whither he went to.' "Thus they agreed, and separated one from another. And the rich youth found at the source of the stream, which he had followed, a pleasure-garden with a house, in the entrance to which were seated an old man and an old woman. 'Good youth,' exclaimed they both, 'whence comest thou--whither goest thou?' The youth replied, 'I come from a distant country, and am going to seek my fortune.' And the old couple said unto him, 'It is well thou hast come hither. We have a daughter, slender of shape and pleasant of behaviour. Take her, and be a son unto us!' "And when they had so spoken, the daughter made her appearance. And when the youth beheld her, he thought unto himself, 'It is well I left my father and my mother. This maiden is more beauteous than a daughter of the Tângâri (god-like spirits of the male and female sex). I will take the maiden and dwell here.' And the maiden said, 'Youth, it is well that thou earnest here.' Thereupon they conversed together, went together into the house, and lived peacefully and happily. "Now, over the same country there reigned a mighty Chan. And once in the spring-time, when his servants went forth together to bathe, they found, near the mouth of the river, in the water, a pair of costly earrings, which belonged to the wife of the rich youth. Because, therefore, these jewels were so wondrously beautiful, they carried them to the Chan, who, being greatly surprised thereat, said unto his servants, 'Dwells there at the source of the river a woman such as these belong to? Go, and bring her unto me.' "The servants went accordingly, beheld the woman, and were amazed at the sight. 'This woman,' said they to one another, 'one would never tire of beholding.' But to the woman they said, 'Arise! and draw nigh with us unto the Chan.' "Hereupon the rich youth conducted his wife to the presence of the Chan; but the Chan, when he beheld her, exclaimed, 'This maiden is a Tângâri, compared with her, my wives are but ugly.' "Thus spake he, and he was so smitten with love of her, that he would not let her depart from his house. But as she remained true and faithful to the rich youth, the Chan said unto his servants, 'Remove this rich youth instantly out of my sight.' "At these commands the servants went forth, taking with them the rich youth, whom they led to the water, where they laid him in a pit by the side of the stream, covered him with a huge fragment of the rock, and thus slew him. "At length it happened that the other wanderers returned from all sides, each to his tree of life; and when the rich youth was missed, and they saw that his tree of life was withered, they sought him up the source of the river which he had followed, but found him not. Hereupon the reckoner discovered, by his calculations, that the rich youth was lying dead under a piece of the rock; but as they could by no means remove the stone, the smith took his hammer, smote the stone, and drew out the body. Then the physician mixed a life-inspiring draught, gave the same to the dead youth, and so restored him to life. "They now demanded of him whom they had recalled to life, 'In what manner wert thou slain?' He accordingly related unto them the circumstances; and they communed one with another, saying, 'Let us snatch this extraordinary beautiful woman from the Chan!' Thereupon the mechanic constructed a wooden gerudin, or wonderful bird, which, when moved upwards from within, ascended into the air; when moved downwards, descended into the earth; when moved sideways, flew sideways accordingly. When this was done, they painted it with different colours, so that it was pleasant to behold. "Then the rich youth seated himself within the wooden bird, flew through the air, and hovered over the roof of the royal mansion; and the Chan and his servants were astonished at the form of the bird, and said, 'A bird like unto this we never before saw or heard of.' And to his wife the Chan said, 'Go ye to the roof of the palace, and offer food of different kinds unto this strange bird.' When she went up to offer food, the bird descended, and the rich youth opened the door which was in the bird. Then said the wife of the Chan, full of joy, 'I had never hoped or thought to have seen thee again, yet now have I found thee once more. This has been accomplished by this wonderful bird.' After the youth had related to her all that had happened, he said unto her, 'Thou art now the wife of the Chan--but if your heart now yearns unto me, step thou into this wooden gerudin, and we will fly hence through the air, and for the future know care no more.' "After these words the wife said, 'To the first husband to whom destiny united me am I inclined more than ever.' Having thus spoken they entered into the wooden gerudin, and ascended into the sky. The Chan beheld this, and said, 'Because I sent thee up that thou mightest feed this beautiful bird, thou hast betaken thyself to the skies.' Thus spake he full of anger, and threw himself weeping on the ground. "The rich youth now turned the peg in the bird downwards, and descended upon the earth close to his companions. And when he stepped forth out of the bird, his companions asked him, 'Hast thou thoroughly accomplished all that thou didst desire?' Thereupon his wife also stepped forth, and all who beheld her became in love with her. 'You, my companions,' said the rich youth, 'have brought help unto me; you have awakened me from death; you have afforded me the means of once more finding my wife. Do not, I beseech you, rob me of my charmer once again.' "Thus spake he; and the calculator began with these words:--'Had I not discovered by my calculation where thou wert lying, thou wouldst never have recovered thy wife.' "'In vain,' said the smith, 'would the calculations have been, had I not drawn thee out of the rock. By means of the shattered rock it was that you obtained your wife. Then your wife belongs to me.' "'A body,' said the physician, 'was drawn from out of the shattered rock. That this body was restored to life, and recovered his former wife, it was my skill accomplished it. I, therefore, should take the wife.' "'But for the wooden bird,' said the mechanic, 'no one would ever have reached the wife. A numerous host attend upon the Chan; no one can approach the house wherein he resides. Through my wooden bird alone was the wife recovered. Let me, then, take her.' "'The wife,' said the painter, 'never would have carried food to a wooden bird; therefore it was only through my skill in painting that she was recovered; I, therefore, claim her.' "And when they had thus spoken, they drew their knives and slew one another." "Alas! poor woman!" exclaimed the son of the Chan; and Ssidi said, "Ruler of Destiny, thou hast spoken words:--Ssarwala missbrod jakzang!" Thus spake he, and burst from the sack through the air. Thus Ssidi's first tale treated of the adventures of the rich youth. THE ADVENTURES OF THE BEGGAR'S SON. When the Son of the Chan arrived as before at the cold Forest of Death, he exclaimed with threatening gestures at the foot of the amiri-tree, "Thou dead one, descend, or I will hew down the tree." Ssidi descended. The son of Chan placed him in the sack, bound the sack fast with the rope, ate of his provender, and journeyed forth with his burden. Then spake the dead one these words, "Since we have a long journey before us, do you relate a pleasant story by the way, or I will do so." But the Son of the Chan merely shook his head without speaking a word. Whereupon Ssidi commenced the following tale:-- "A long time ago there was a mighty Chan who was ruler over a country full of market-places. At the source of the river which ran through it there was an immense marsh, and in this marsh there dwelt two crocodile-frogs, who would not allow the water to run out of the marsh. And because there came no water over their fields, every year did both the good and the bad have cause to mourn, until such times as a man had been given to the frogs for the pests to devour. And at length the lot fell upon the Chan himself to be an offering to them, and needful as he was to the welfare of the kingdom, denial availed him not; therefore father and son communed sorrowfully together, saying, 'Which of us two shall go?' "'I am an old man,' said the father, 'and shall leave no one to lament me. I will go, therefore. Do you remain here, my son, and reign according as it is appointed.' "'O Tângâri,' exclaimed the son, 'verily this is not as it should be! Thou hast brought me up with care, O my father! If the Chan and the wife of the Chan remain, what need is there of their son? I then will go, and be as a feast for the frogs.' "Thus spake he, and the people walked sorrowfully round about him, and then betook themselves back again. Now the son of the Chan had for his companion the son of a poor man, and he went to him and said, 'Walk ye according to the will of your parents, and remain at home in peace and safety. I am going, for the good of the kingdom, to serve as a sacrifice to the frogs.' At these words the son of the poor man said, weeping and lamenting, 'From my youth up, O Chan, thou hast carefully fostered me. I will go with thee, and share thy fate.' "Then they both arose and went unto the frogs; and on the verge of the marsh they heard the yellow frog and the blue frog conversing with one another. And the frogs said, 'If the son of the Chan and his companion did but know that if they only smote off our heads with the sword, and the son of the Chan consumed me, the yellow frog, and the son of the poor man consumed thee, the blue frog, they would both cast out from their mouths gold and brass, then would the country be no longer compelled to find food for frogs.' "Now, because the son of the Chan understood all sorts of languages, he comprehended the discourse of the frogs, and he and his companion smote the heads of the frogs with their swords; and when they had devoured the frogs, they threw out from their mouths gold and brass at their heart's pleasure. Then said the wanderers, 'The frogs are both slain--the course of the waters will be hemmed in no more. Let us then turn back unto our own country.' But the son of the Chan agreed not to this, and said, 'Let us not turn back into our own country, lest they say they are become spirits; therefore it is better that we journey further.' "As they thereupon were walking over a mountain, they came to a tavern, in which dwelt two women, beautiful to behold--mother and daughter. Then said they, 'We would buy strong liquor that we might drink.' The women replied, 'What have ye to give in exchange for strong liquor?' Thereupon each of them threw forth gold and brass, and the women found pleasure therein, admitted them into their dwelling, gave them liquor in abundance, until they became stupid and slept, took from them what they had, and then turned them out of doors. "Now when they awoke the son of the Chan and his companion travelled along a river and arrived in a wood, where they found some children quarrelling one with another. 'Wherefore,' inquired they, 'do you thus dispute?' "'We have,' said the children, 'found a cap in this wood, and every one desires to possess it.' "'Of what use is the cap?' "'The cap has this wonderful property, that whosoever places it on his head can be seen neither by the Tângâri, nor by men, nor by the Tschadkurrs' (evil spirits). "'Now go all of ye to the end of the forest and run hither, and I will in the meanwhile keep the cap, and give it to the first of you who reaches me.' "Thus spoke the son of the Chan; and the children ran, but they found not the cap, for it was upon the head of the Chan. 'Even now it was here,' said they, 'and now it is gone.' And after they had sought for it, but without finding it, they went away weeping. "And the son of the Chan and his companion travelled onwards, and at last they came to a forest in which they found a body of Tschadkurrs quarrelling one with another, and they said, 'Wherefore do ye thus quarrel one with another?' "'I,' exclaimed each of them, 'have made myself master of these boots.' "'Of what use are these boots?' inquired the son of the Chan. "'He who wears these boots,' replied the Tschadkurrs, 'is conveyed to any country wherein he wishes himself.' "'Now,' answered the son of the Chan, 'go all of you that way, and he who first runs hither shall obtain the boots.' "And the Tschadkurrs, when they heard these words, ran as they were told; but the son of the Chan had concealed the boots in the bosom of his companion, who had the cap upon his head. And the Tschadkurrs saw the boots no more; they sought them in vain, and went their way. "And when they were gone, the prince and his companion drew on each of them one of the boots, and they wished themselves near the place of election in a Chan's kingdom. They wished their journey, laid themselves down to sleep, and on their awaking in the morning they found themselves in the hollow of a tree, right in the centre of the imperial place of election. It was, moreover, a day for the assembling of the people, to throw a Baling (a sacred figure of dough or paste) under the guidance of the Tângâri. 'Upon whose head even the Baling falls, he shall be our Chan.' Thus spake they as they threw it up; but the tree caught the Baling of Destiny. 'What means this?' exclaimed they all with one accord. 'Shall we have a tree for our Chan?' "'Let us examine,' cried they one to another, 'whether the tree concealeth any stranger.' And when they approached the tree the son of the Chan and his companion stepped forth. But the people stood yet in doubt, and said one to another thus, 'Whosoever ruleth over the people of this land, this shall be decided to-morrow morning by what proceedeth from their mouths.' And when they had thus spoken, they all took their departure. "On the following morning some drank water, and what they threw from their mouths was white; others ate grass, and what they threw from their mouths was green. In short, one threw one thing, and another another thing. But because the son of the Chan and his companion cast out from their mouths gold and brass, the people cried, 'Let the one be Chan of this people--let the other be his minister.' Thus were they nominated Chan and minister! And the daughter of the former Chan was appointed the wife of the new Chan. "Now in the neighbourhood of the palace wherein the Chan dwelt was a lofty building, whither the wife of the Chan betook herself every day. 'Wherefore,' thought the minister, 'does the wife of the Chan betake herself to this spot every day?' Thus thinking, he placed the wonderful cap upon his head, and followed the Chan's wife through the open doors, up one step after another, up to the roof. Here the wife of the Chan gathered together silken coverlets and pillows, made ready various drinks and delicate meats, and burnt for their perfume tapers and frankincense. The minister being concealed by his cap, which made him invisible, seated himself by the side of the Chan's wife, and looked around on every side. "Shortly afterwards a beautiful bird swept through the sky. The wife of the Chan received it with fragrance-giving tapers. The bird seated itself upon the roof and twittered with a pleasing voice; but out of the bird came Solangdu, the Son of the Tângâri, whose beauty was incomparable, and he laid himself on the silken coverlets and fed of the dainties prepared for him. Then spake the son of the Tângâri, 'Thou hast passed this morning with the husband whom thy fate has allotted to thee. What thinkest thou of him?' The wife of the Chan answered, 'I know too little of the prince to speak of his good qualities or his defects.' Thus passed the day, and the wife of the Chan returned home again. "On the following day the minister followed the wife of the Chan as he had done before, and heard the son of the Tângâri say unto her, 'To-morrow I will come like a bird of Paradise to see thine husband.' And the wife of the Chan said, 'Be it so.' "The day passed over, and the minister said to the Chan, 'In yonder palace lives Solangdu, the beauteous son of the Tângâri.' The minister then related all that he had witnessed, and said, 'To-morrow early the son of the Tângâri will seek thee, disguised like a bird of Paradise. I will seize the bird by the tail, and cast him into the fire; but you must smite him in pieces with the sword.' "On the following morning, the Chan and the wife of the Chan were seated together, when the son of the Tângâri, transformed into a bird of Paradise, appeared before them on the steps that led to the palace. The wife of the Chan greeted the bird with looks expressive of pleasure, but the minister, who had on his invisible-making cap, seized the bird suddenly by the tail, and cast him into the fire. And the Chan smote at him violently with his sword; but the wife of the Chan seized the hand of her husband, so that only the wings of the bird were scorched. 'Alas, poor bird!' exclaimed the wife of the Chan, as, half dead, it made its way, as well as it could, through the air. "On the next morning the wife of the Chan went as usual to the lofty building, and this time, too, did the minister follow her. She collected together, as usual, the silken pillows, but waited longer than she was wont, and sat watching with staring eyes. At length the bird approached with a very slow flight, and came down from the birdhouse covered with blood and wounds, and the wife of the Chan wept at the sight. 'Weep not,' said the son of the Tângâri; 'thine husband has a heavy hand. The fire has so scorched me that I can never come more.' "Thus spoke he, and the wife of the Chan replied, 'Do not say so, but come as you are wont to do, at least come on the day of the full moon.' Then the son of the Tângâri flew up to the sky again, and the wife of the Chan began from that time to love her husband with her whole heart. "Then the minister placed his wonderful cap upon his head, and, drawing near to a pagoda, he saw, through the crevice of the door, a man, who spread out a figure of an ass, rolled himself over and over upon the figure, thereupon took upon himself the form of an ass, and ran up and down braying like one. Then he began rolling afresh, and appeared in his human form. At last he folded up the paper, and placed it in the hand of a burchan (a Calmuc idol). And when the man came out the minister went in, procured the paper, and remembering the ill-treatment which he had formerly received, he went to the mother and daughter who had sold him the strong liquor, and said, with crafty words, 'I am come to you to reward you for your good deeds.' With these words he gave the women three pieces of gold; and the women asked him, saying, 'Thou art, indeed, an honest man, but where did you procure so much gold?' Then the minister answered, 'By merely rolling backwards and forwards over this paper did I procure this gold.' On hearing these words, the women said, 'Grant us that we too may roll upon it.' And they did so, and were changed into asses. And the minister brought the asses to the Chan, and the Chan said, 'Let them be employed in carrying stones and earth.' "Thus spake he, and for three years were these two asses compelled to carry stones and earth; and their backs were sore wounded, and covered with bruises. Then saw the Chan their eyes filled with tears, and he said to the minister, 'Torment the poor brutes no longer.' "Thereupon they rolled upon the paper, and after they had done so they were changed to two shrivelled women." "Poor creatures!" exclaimed the Son of the Chan. Ssidi replied, "Ruler of Destiny, thou hast spoken words: Ssarwala missdood jakzank!" Thus spoke he, and flew out of the sack through the air. And Ssidi's second relation treats of the adventures of the Poor Man's Son. THE ADVENTURES OF MASSANG. When the Son of the Chan arrived at the foot of the amiri-tree, and spoke as he had formerly done, Ssidi approached him, suffered himself to be placed in the sack, fastened with the rope, and carried away. Ssidi spoke as before, but the Son of the Chan shook his head, whereupon Ssidi began as follows:-- "A long time ago there lived in a certain country a poor man, who had nothing in the world but one cow; and because there was no chance of the cow's calving, he was sore grieved, and said, 'If my cow does not have a calf, I shall have no more milk, and I must then die of hunger and thirst.' "But when a certain number of moons had passed, instead of the calf the poor man had looked for he found a man with horns, and with a long tail like a cow. And at the sight of this monster the owner of the beast was filled with vexation, and he lifted up his staff to kill him; but the horned man said, 'Kill me not, father, and your mercy shall be rewarded.' "And with these words he retreated into the depth of a forest, and there he found among the trees a man of sable hue. 'Who art thou?' inquired Massang the horned. 'I was born of the forest,' was the reply, 'and am called Iddar. I will follow thee whithersoever thou goest.' "And they journeyed forth together, and at last they reached a thickly-covered grassy plain, and there they beheld a green man. 'Who art thou?' inquired they. 'I was born of the grass,' replied the green man, 'and will bear thee company.' "Thereupon they all three journeyed forth together, until they came to a sedgy marsh, and there they found a white man. 'Who art thou?' inquired they. 'I was born of the sedges,' replied the white man, 'and will bear thee company.' "Thereupon they all four journeyed forth together, until they reached a desert country, where, in the very depths of the mountain, they found a hut; and because they found plenty both to eat and to drink in the hut, they abode there. Every day three of them went out hunting, and left the fourth in charge of the hut. On the first day, Iddar, the Son of the Forest, remained in the hut, and was busied preparing milk, and cooking meat for his companions, when a little old woman put up the ladder and came in at the door. 'Who's there?' exclaimed Iddar, and, upon looking round, he beheld an old woman about a span high, who carried on her back a little sack. 'Oh, what, there is somebody sitting there?' said the old woman, 'and you are cooking meat; let me, I beseech you, taste a little milk and a little meat.' "And though she merely tasted a little of each, the whole of the food disappeared. When the old woman thereupon took her departure, the Son of the Forest was ashamed that the food had disappeared, and he arose and looked out of the hut. And as he chanced to perceive two hoofs of a horse, he made with them a number of horse's footmarks around the dwelling, and shot an arrow into the court; and when the hunters returned home and inquired of him, 'Where is the milk and the fatted meat?' he answered them, saying, 'There came a hundred horsemen, who pressed their way into the house, and took the milk and the flesh, and they have beaten me almost to death. Go ye out, and look around.' And his companions went out when they heard these words, looked around, saw the prints of the horses' feet and the arrow which he himself had shot, and said, 'The words which he spoke are true.' "On the following day the Son of the Grass remained at home in the hut, and it befell him as it had befallen his companion on the previous day. But because he perceived the feet of two bullocks, he made with them the marks of the feet of many bullocks around the dwelling, and said to his companions, 'There came a hundred people with laden bullocks, and robbed me of the food I had prepared for you.' "Thus spake he falsely. On the third day the Son of the Sedges remained at home in the hut, and because he met with no better fortune, he made, with a couple of the feet of a mule, a number of prints of mules' feet around the dwelling, and said to his companions, 'A hundred men with laden mules surrounded the house, and robbed me of the food I had prepared for you.' "Thus spake he falsely. On the following day Massang remained at home in the hut, and as he was sitting preparing milk and flesh for his companions, the little old woman stepped in as before and said, 'Oh, so there is somebody here this time? Let me, I pray you, taste a little of the milk and a little of the meat.' At these words Massang considered, 'Of a certainty this old woman has been here before. If I do what she requires of me, how do I know that there will be any left?' And having thus considered, he said to the old woman, 'Old woman, before thou tastest food, fetch me some water.' Thus spoke he, giving her a bucket, of which the bottom was drilled full of holes, to fetch water in. When the old woman was gone, Massang looked after her, and found that the span-high old woman, reaching now up to the skies, drew the bucket full of water again and again, but that none of the water remained in it. While she was thus occupied, Massang peeped into the little sack which she carried on her shoulders, and took out of it a coil of rope, an iron hammer, and a pair of iron pincers, and put in their place some very rotten cords, a wooden hammer, and wooden pincers. "He had scarcely done so before the old woman returned, saying, 'I cannot draw water in your bucket. If you will not give me a little of your food to taste, let us try our strength against each other.' Then the old woman drew forth the coil of rotten cords, and bound Massang with them, but Massang put forth his strength and burst the cords asunder. But when Massang had bound the old woman with her own coil, and deprived her of all power of motion, she said unto him, 'Herein thou hast gotten the victory; now let us pinch each other with the pincers.' "Whereupon Massang nipped hold of a piece of the old woman's flesh as big as one's head, and tore it forcibly from her. 'Indeed, youth,' cried the old woman, sighing, 'but thou hast gotten a hand of stone; now let us hammer away at each other!' "So saying, she smote Massang with the wooden hammer on his breast, but the hammer flew from the handle, and Massang was left without a wound. Then drew Massang the iron hammer out of the fire, and smote the old woman with it in such wise that she fled from the hut crying and wounded. "Shortly after this, the three companions returned home, and said to Massang, 'Now, Massang, thou hast surely had something to suffer?' But Massang replied, 'Ye are all cowardly fellows, and have uttered lies; I have paid off the old woman. Arise, and let us follow her!' "At these words they arose, followed her by the traces of her blood, and at length reached a gloomy pit in a rock. At the bottom of this pit there were ten double circular pillars, and on the ground lay the corpse of the old woman, among gold, brass, and armour, and other costly things. 'Will you three descend,' said Massang, 'and then pack together the costly things, and I will draw them up, or I will pack them, and you shall draw them out.' But the three companions said, 'We will not go down into the cavern, for of a verity the old woman is a Schumnu' (a witch). But Massang, without being dispirited, allowed himself to be let down into the cavern, and collected the valuables, which were then drawn forth by his companions. Then his companions spoke with one another, saying, 'If we draw forth Massang, he will surely take all these treasures to himself. It were better, then, that we should carry away these treasures, and leave Massang behind in the cavern!' "When Massang noticed that his three companions treated him thus ungratefully, he looked about the cavern in search of food, but between the pillars he found nothing but some pieces of bark. Thereupon Massang planted the bark in the earth, nourished it as best he might, and said, 'If I am a true Massang, then from this bark let there grow forth three great trees. If I am not, then shall I die here in this pit.' "After these enchanting words, he laid himself down, but from his having come in contact with the corse of the old woman, he slept for many years. When he awoke, he found three great trees which reached to the mouth of the pit. Joyfully clambered he up and betook himself to the hut, which was in the neighbourhood. But, because there was no longer any one to be found therein, he took his iron bow and his arrows, and set forth in search of his companions. These had built themselves houses and taken wives. 'Where are your husbands?' inquired Massang of their wives. 'Our husbands are gone to the chase,' replied they. Then Massang took arrow and bow, and set forth. His companions were returning from the chase with venison, and when they beheld Massang with arrow and bow, they cried, as with one accord, 'Thou art the well-skilled one! take thou our wives and property, we will now wander forth further!' At these words Massang said, 'Your behaviour was certainly not what it should have been; but I am going to reward my father--live on, therefore, as before.' "By the way Massang discovered a brook, and out of the brook arose a beautiful maiden. The maiden went her way, and flowers arose out of her footsteps. Massang followed the maiden until he arrived in heaven, and when he was come there, Churmusta Tângâri (the Protector of the Earth) said unto him, 'It is well that thou art come hither, Massang. We have daily to fight with the host of Schumnu (witches). To-morrow look around; after to-morrow be companion unto us.' "On the following day, when the white host were sore pressed by the black, Churmusta spake unto Massang: 'The white host are the host of the Tângâri, the black are the host of the Schumnu. To-day the Tângâri will be pressed by the Schumnu; draw, therefore, thy bow, and send an arrow into the eye of the leader of the black host.' Then Massang aimed at the eye of the leader of the black host, and smote him, so that he fled with a mighty cry. Then spake Churmusta to Massang, 'Thy deed is deserving of reward; henceforward dwell with us for ever.' But Massang replied, 'I go to reward my father.' "Hereupon Churmusta presented to Massang, Dschindamani, the wonder-stone of the Gods, and said unto him, 'By a narrow circuitous path you will reach the cave of the Schumnu. Go without fear or trembling therein. Knock at the door and say, "I am the human physician." They will then lead thee to the Schumnu Chan, that you may draw out the arrow from his eyes; then lay hands upon the arrow, scatter seven sorts of grain towards heaven, and drive the arrow yet deeper into his head.' "Thus spake Churmusta authoritatively, and Massang obeyed his commands; reached, without erring, the cavern of the Schumnu, and knocked at the door. 'What hast thou learned?' inquired the woman. 'I am a physician,' answered Massang; and he was conducted into the building. He examined the wound of the Chan, and laid hands upon the arrow. 'Already,' said the Chan, 'my wound feels better.' But Massang suddenly drove the arrow further into the head, scattered the seven grains towards heaven, and a chain fell clattering from heaven down to earth. "But while Massang was preparing to lay hands upon the chain, the Schumnu woman smote him with an iron hammer with such force, that from the blow there sprang forth seven stars." "Then," said the Son of the Chan, "he was not able to reward his father." "Ruler of Destiny, thou hast spoken words! Ssarwala missdood jonkzang." Thus spake Ssidi, and burst from the sack through the air. Thus Ssidi's third relation treats of the adventures of Massang. THE MAGICIAN WITH THE SWINE'S HEAD. When the Son of the Chan had, as before, seized upon Ssidi, and was carrying him away, Ssidi spoke as formerly, but the Son of the Chan shook his head, without uttering a word, and Ssidi began the following relation:-- "A long while since there lived in a happy country a man and a woman. The man had many bad qualities, and cared for nothing but eating, drinking, and sleeping. At last his wife said unto him, 'By thy mode of life thou hast wasted all thine inheritance. Arise thee, then, from thy bed, and while I am in the fields, go you out and look about you!' "As he, therefore, according to these words, was looking about him, he saw a multitude of people pass behind the pagoda with their herds; and birds, foxes, and dogs crowding and noising together around a particular spot. Thither he went, and there found a bladder of butter; so he took it home and placed it upon the shelf. When his wife returned and saw the bladder of butter upon the shelf, she asked, 'Where found you this bladder of butter?' To this he replied, 'I did according to your word, and found this.' Then said the woman 'Thou went out but for an instant, and hast already found thus much.' "Then the man determined to display his abilities, and said, 'Procure me then a horse, some clothes, and a bloodhound.' The wife provided them accordingly; and the man taking with him, besides these, his bow, cap, and mantle, seated himself on horseback, led the hound in a leash, and rode forth at random. After he had crossed over several rivers he espied a fox. 'Ah,' thought he, 'that would serve my wife for a cap.' "So saying, he pursued the fox, and when it fled into a hamster's hole, the man got off his horse, placed his bow, arrows, and clothes upon the saddle, fastened the bloodhound to the bridle, and covered the mouth of the hole with his cap. The next thing he did was to take a large stone, and hammer over the hole with it; this frightened the fox, which ran out and fled with the cap upon its head. The hound followed the fox, and drew the horse along with it, so that they both vanished in an instant, and the man was left without any clothes. "After he had turned back a long way, he reached the country of a mighty Chan, entered the Chan's stable, and concealed himself in a stack of hay, so that merely his eyes were left uncovered. Not long afterwards, the beloved of the Chan was walking out, and wishing to look at a favourite horse, she approached close to the hayrick, placed the talisman of life of the Chan's kingdom upon the ground, left it there, and returned back to the palace without recollecting it. The man saw the wonderful stone, but was too lazy to pick it up. At sunset the cows came by, and the stone was beaten into the ground. Some time afterwards a servant came and cleansed the place, and the wonderful stone was cast aside upon a heap. "On the following day the people were informed, by the beating of the kettledrums, that the beloved of the Chan had lost the wonderful stone. At the same time, all the magicians and soothsayers and interpreters of signs were summoned, and questioned upon the subject. On hearing this, the man in the hayrick crept out as far as his breast, and when the people thronged around him and asked, 'What hast thou learned?' he replied, 'I am a magician.' On hearing these words they exclaimed, 'Because the wondrous stone of the Chan is missing, all the magicians in the country are summoned to appear before him. Do you then draw nigh unto the Chan.' The man said, 'I have no clothes.' Hereupon the whole crowd hastened to the Chan, and announced unto him thus: 'In the hayrick there lieth a magician who has no clothes. This magician would draw nigh unto you, but he has nought to appear in.' The Chan said, 'Send unto him this robe of cloth, and let him approach.' It was done. "The man was fetched, and after he had bowed down to the Chan, he was asked what he needed for the performance of his magic charms. To this question he replied, 'For the performance of my magic charms, it is needful that I should have the head of a swine, some cloths of five colours, and some baling' (a sacred figure of dough or paste). When all these things were prepared, the magician deposited the swine's head at the foot of a tree, dressed it with the cloths of five colours, fastened on the large baling, and passed the whole of three nights in meditation. On the day appointed, all the people assembled, and the magician having put on a great durga (cloak), placed himself, with the swine's head in his hand, in the street. When they were all assembled together, the magician, showing the swine's head, said, 'Here not and there not.' All were gladdened at hearing these words. 'Because, therefore,' said the magician, 'the wonderful stone is not to be found among the people, we must seek for it elsewhere.' "With these words the magician, still holding the swine's head in his hand, drew nigh unto the palace, and the Chan and his attendants followed him, singing songs of rejoicing. When, at last, the magician arrived at the heap, he stood suddenly still, and exclaimed, 'There lies the wonderful stone.' Then, first removing some of the earth, he drew forth the stone, and cleansed it. 'Thou art a mighty magician,' joyfully exclaimed all who beheld it. 'Thou art the master of magic with the swine's head. Lift up thyself that thou mayest receive thy reward.' The Chan said, 'Thy reward shall be whatsoever thou wilt.' The magician, who thought only of the property he had lost, said, 'Give unto me a horse, with saddle and bridle, a bow and arrows, a cap, a mantle, a hound, and a fox. Such things give unto me.' At these words the Chan exclaimed, 'Give him all that he desireth.' This was done, and the magician returned home with all that he desired, and with two elephants, one carrying meat, and the other butter. "His wife met him close to his dwelling, with brandy for him to drink, and said, 'Now, indeed, thou art become a mighty man.' Thereupon they went into the house, and when they had laid themselves down to sleep, the wife said to him, 'Where hast thou found so much flesh and so much butter?' Then her husband related to her circumstantially the whole affair, and she answered him saying, 'Verily, thou art a stupid ass. To-morrow I will go with a letter to the Chan.' "The wife accordingly wrote a letter, and in the letter were the following words:--'Because it was known unto me that the lost wondrous stone retained some evil influence over the Chan, I have, for the obviating of that influence, desired of him the dog and the fox. What I may receive for my reward depends upon the pleasure of the Chan.' "The Chan read the letter through, and sent costly presents to the magician. And the magician lived pleasantly and happily. "Now in a neighbouring country there dwelt seven Chans, brethren. Once upon a time they betook themselves, for pastime, to an extensive forest, and there they discovered a beauteous maiden with a buffalo, and they asked, 'What are you two doing here? Whence come you?' The maiden answered, 'I come from an eastern country, and am the daughter of a Chan. This buffalo accompanies me.' At these words these others replied, 'We are the seven brethren of a Chan, and have no wife. Wilt thou be our wife?'[1] The maiden answered, 'So be it.' But the maiden and the buffalo were two Mangusch (a species of evil spirit like the Schumnu), and were seeking out men whom they might devour. The male Mangusch was a buffalo, and the female, she who became wife to the brethren. [1] It is in accordance with the customs of Thibet for a woman of that country to have several husbands. "After the Mangusch had slain, yearly, one of the brethren of the Chan, there was only one remaining. And because he was suffering from a grievous sickness, the ministers consulted together and said, 'For the sickness of the other Chans we have tried all means of cure, and yet have found no help, neither do we in this case know what to advise. But the magician with the swine's head dwells only two mountains off from us, and he is held in great estimation; let us, without further delay, send for him to our assistance.' "Upon this four mounted messengers were despatched for the magician, and when they arrived at his dwelling, they made known to him the object of their mission. 'I will,' said the magician, 'consider of this matter in the course of the night, and will tell you in the morning what is to be done.' "During the night he related to his wife what was required of him, and his wife said, 'You are looked upon, up to this time, as a magician of extraordinary skill; but from this time there is an end to your reputation. However, it cannot be helped, so go you must.' "On the following morning the magician said to the messengers, 'During the night-time I have pondered upon this matter, and a good omen has presented itself to me in a dream. Let me not tarry any longer but ride forth to-day.' The magician, thereupon, equipped himself in a large cloak, bound his hair together on the crown of his head, carried in his left hand the rosary, and in his right the swine's head, enveloped in the cloths of five colours. "When in this guise he presented himself before the dwelling-place of the Chan, the two Mangusch were sorely frightened, and thought to themselves, 'This man has quite the appearance, quite the countenance, of a man of learning.' Then the magician, first placing a baling on the pillow of the bed, lifted up the swine's head, and muttered certain magic words. "The wife of the Chan seeing this discontinued tormenting the soul of the Chan, and fled in all haste out of the room. The Chan, by this conduct being freed from the pains of sickness, sank into a sound sleep. 'What is this?' exclaimed the magician, filled with affright. 'The disease has grown worse, the sick man uttereth not a sound; the sick man hath departed.' Thus thinking, he cried, 'Chan, Chan!' But because the Chan uttered no sound, the magician seized the swine's head, vanished through the door, and entered the treasure-chamber. No sooner had he done so, than 'Thief, thief!' sounded in his ears, and the magician fled into the kitchen; but the cry of 'Stop that thief! stop that thief!' still followed him. Thus pursued the magician thought to himself, 'This night it is of no use to think of getting away, so I will, therefore, conceal myself in a corner of the stable.' Thus thinking, he opened the door, and there found a buffalo, that lay there as if wearied with a long journey. The magician took the swine's head, and struck the buffalo three times between the horns, whereupon the buffalo sprang up and fled like the wind. "But the magician followed after the buffalo, and when he approached the spot where he was, he heard the male Mangusch say to his female companion, 'Yonder magician knew that I was in the stable; with his frightful swine's head he struck me three blows--so that it was time for me to escape from him.' And the Chan's wife replied, 'I too am so afraid, because of his great knowledge, that I would not willingly return; for, of a certainty, things will go badly with us. To-morrow he will gather together the men with weapons and arms, and will say unto the women, "Bring hither firing;" when this is done he will say, "Lead the buffalo hither." And when thou appearest, he will say unto thee, "Put off the form thou hast assumed." And because all resistance would be useless, the people perceiving thy true shape will fall upon thee with swords, and spears, and stones; and when they have put thee to death, they will consume thee with fire. At last the magician will cause me to be dragged forth and consumed with fire. Oh, but I am sore afraid!' "When the magician heard these words, he said to himself, 'After this fashion may the thing be easily accomplished.' Upon this he betook himself, with the swine's head to the Chan, lifted up the baling, murmured his words of magic, and asked, 'How is it now with the sickness of the Chan?' And the Chan replied, 'Upon the arrival of the master of magic the sickness passed away, and I have slept soundly.' Then the magician spake as follows: 'To-morrow, then, give this command to thy ministers, that they collect the whole of the people together, and that the women be desired to bring firing with them.' "When, in obedience to these directions, there were two lofty piles of fagots gathered together, the magician said, 'Place my saddle upon the buffalo.' Then the magician rode upon the saddled buffalo three times around the assembled people, then removed the saddle from the buffalo, smote it three times with the swine's head, and said, 'Put off the form thou hast assumed.' "At these words the buffalo was transformed into a fearful ugly Mangusch. His eyes were bloodshot, his upper tusks descended to his breast, his bottom tusks reached up to his eyelashes, so that he was fearful to behold. When the people had hewed this Mangusch to pieces with sword and with arrow, with spear and with stone, and his body was consumed upon one of the piles of fagots, then said the magician, 'Bring forth the wife of the Chan.' And with loud cries did the wife of the Chan come forth, and the magician smote her with the swine's head, and said, 'Appear in thine own form!' Immediately her long tusks and bloodshot eyes exhibited the terrific figure of a female Mangusch. "After the wife of the Chan had been cut in pieces, and consumed by fire, the magician mounted his horse; but the people bowed themselves before him, and strewed grain over him, presented him with gifts, and regaled him so on every side, that he was only enabled to reach the palace of the Chan on the following morning. Then spake the Chan, full of joy, to the magician, 'How can I reward you for the great deed that thou hast done?' And the magician answered, 'In our country there are but few nose-sticks for oxen to be found. Give me, I pray you, some of these nose-sticks.' Thus spake he, and the Chan had him conducted home with three sacks of nose-sticks, and seven elephants bearing meat and butter. "Near unto his dwelling his wife came with brandy to meet him; and when she beheld the elephants, she exclaimed, 'Now, indeed, thou art become a mighty man.' Then they betook themselves to their house, and at night-time the wife of the magician asked him, 'How camest thou to be presented with such gifts?' The magician replied, 'I have cured the sickness of the Chan, and consumed with fire two Mangusch.' At these words she replied, 'Verily, thou hast behaved very foolishly. After such a beneficial act, to desire nothing but nose-sticks for cattle! To-morrow I myself will go to the Chan.' "On the morrow the wife drew near unto the Chan, and presented unto him a letter from the magician, and in this letter stood the following words:--'Because the magician was aware that of the great evil of the Chan a lesser evil still remained behind, he desired of him the nose-sticks. What he is to receive as a reward depends upon the pleasure of the Chan.' "'He is right,' replied the Chan, and he summoned the magician, with his father and mother, and all his relations before him, and received them with every demonstration of honour. 'But for you I should have died; the kingdom would have been annihilated; the ministers and all the people consumed as the food of the Mangusch. I, therefore, will honour thee,' and he bestowed upon him proofs of his favour." "Both man and wife were intelligent," exclaimed the Son of the Chan. "Ruler of Destiny," replied Ssidi, "thou hast spoken words! Ssarwala missdood jakzang!" Thus spake he, and burst from the sack through the air. Ssidi's fourth relation treats of the Magician with the head of the Swine. THE HISTORY OF SUNSHINE AND HIS BROTHER. As the Chan's Son was journeying along as before, laden with Ssidi, Ssidi inquired of him as formerly who should tell a tale. But the Son of the Chan shook his head without speaking a word, and Ssidi began as follows:-- "Many years ago Guchanasschang reigned over a certain happy land. This Chan had a wife and a son, whose name was Sunshine (Narrani Garral). Upon the death of his first wife the Chan married a second; and by her likewise he had a son, and the name of his second son was Moonshine (Ssarrani Garral). And when both these sons were grown up, the wife of the Chan thought to herself, 'So long as Sunshine, the elder brother, lives, Moonshine, the younger, will never be Chan over this land.' "Some time after this the wife of the Chan fell sick, and tossed and tumbled about on her bed from the seeming agony she endured. And the Chan inquired of her, 'What can be done for you, my noble spouse?' To these words the wife of the Chan replied, 'Even at the time I dwelt with my parents I was subject to this sickness. But now it is become past bearing. I know, indeed, but one way of removing it; and that way is so impracticable, that there is nothing left for me but to die.' Hereupon spake the Chan, 'Tell unto me this way of help, and though it should cost me half my kingdom thou shalt have it. Tell me what thou requirest.' Thus spake he, and his wife replied with the following words, 'If the heart of one of the Chan's sons were roasted in the fat of the Gunsa (a beast); but thou wilt not, of course, sacrifice Sunshine for this purpose; and I myself bare Moonshine, his heart I will not consume. So that there is now nothing left for me but to die.' The Chan replied, 'Of a surety Sunshine is my son, and inexpressibly dear unto me; but in order that I may not lose thee, I will to-morrow deliver him over to the Jargatschi' (the servants of Justice). "Moonshine overheard these words and hastened to his brother, and said, 'To-morrow they will murder thee.' When he had related all the circumstances, the brother replied, 'Since it is so, do you remain at home, honouring your father and mother. The time of my flight is come.' Then said Moonshine with a troubled heart, 'Alone I will not remain, but I will follow thee whithersoever thou goest.' "Because the following day was appointed for the murder, the two brothers took a sack with baling-cakes from the altar, crept out at night, for it was the night of the full moon, from the palace, and journeyed on day and night through the mountainous country, until they at length arrived at the course of a dried-up river. Because their provender was finished, and the river afforded no water, Moonshine fell to the earth utterly exhausted. Then spake the elder brother, full of affliction, 'I will go and seek water; but do you watch an instant until I come down from the high places.' "After some vain attempts Sunshine returned, and found that his brother had departed this life. After he had with great tenderness covered the body of his brother with stones, he wandered over high mountains, and then arrived at the entrance of a cave. Within the cave sat an aged Arschi. 'Whence comest thou?' inquired the old man, 'thy countenance betokeneth deep affliction.' And when the youth had related all that had passed, the old man, taking with him the means of awakening the dead, went with the youth to the grave, and called Moonshine back to life. 'Will ye be unto me as sons?' Thus spake the old man, and the two young men became as sons unto him. "Not far from this place there reigned a mighty Chan of fearful power; and the time was approaching in this country when the fields were watered, but the crocodiles prevented this. The crocodiles frequented a marsh at the source of the river, and would not allow the water to stream forth until such times as a Son of the Tiger-year[2] had been offered to them as food. After a time it happened that when search had been made in vain for a Son of the Tiger-year, certain people drew nigh unto the Chan, and said, 'Near unto the source of the river dwelleth the old Arschi, and with him a Son of the Tiger-year. Thither led we our cattle to drink, and we saw him.' [2] Among the Calmucs every year has its peculiar name, and persons born in any year are called the children of that year. "When he heard this, the Chan said, 'Go and fetch him.' "Accordingly the messengers were despatched for him, and when they arrived at the entrance of the cave, the Arschi himself came forth. 'What is it that ye seek here?' inquired the aged Arschi. 'The Chan,' replied they, 'speaketh to thee thus: Thou hast a Son of the Tiger-year. My kingdom hath need of him: send him unto me.' But the Arschi said, 'Who could have told you so? who, indeed, would dwell with an old Arschi?' "Thus speaking he retired into his cave, closed the door after him, and concealed the youth in a stone chest, placed the lid on him, and cemented up the crevices with clay, as if it was from the distillation of arrack. But the messengers having broken down the door, thrust themselves into the cave, searched it, and then said, 'Since he whom we sought is not here, we are determined that nothing shall be left in the cave.' Thus speaking, they drew their swords; and the youth said, out of fear for the Arschi, 'Hurt not my father; I am here.' "And when the youth was come forth, the messengers took him with them; but the Arschi they left behind them weeping and sorrowing. When the youth entered into the palace of the Chan, the daughter of the Chan beheld him and loved him, and encircled his neck with her arms. But the attendants addressed the Chan, saying, 'To-day is the day appointed for the casting of the Son of the Tiger-year into the waters.' Upon this the Chan said, 'Let him then be cast into the waters!' But when they would have led him forth for that purpose, the daughter of the Chan spake and said, 'Cast him not into the waters, or cast me into the waters with him.' "And when the Chan heard these words, he was angered, and said, 'Because this maiden careth so little for the welfare of the kingdom, over which I am Chan, let her be bound fast unto the Son of the Tiger-year, and let them be cast together into the waters.' And the attendants said, 'It shall be according as you have commanded.' "And when the youth was bound fast, and with the maiden cast into the waters, he cried out, 'Since I am the Son of the Tiger-year, it is certainly lawful for them to cast me into the waters; but why should this charming maiden die, who so loveth me?' But the maiden said, 'Since I am but an unworthy creature, it is certainly lawful for them to cast me into the waters; but wherefore do they cast in this beauteous youth?' "Now the crocodiles heard these words, felt compassion, and placed the lovers once more upon the shore. And no sooner had this happened than the streams began to flow again. And when they were thus saved, the maiden said to the youth, 'Come with me, I pray you, unto the palace?' and he replied, 'When I have sought out my father Arschi, then will I come, and we will live together unsevered as man and wife.' "Accordingly the youth returned to the cave of the old Arschi, and knocked at the door. 'I am thy son,' said he. 'My son,' replied the old man, 'has the Chan taken and slain; therefore it is that I sit here and weep.' At these words the son replied, 'Of a verity I am thy son. The Chan indeed bade them cast me into the waters; but because the crocodiles devoured me not, I am returned unto you. Weep not, O my father!' "Arschi then opened the door, but he had suffered his beard and the hair of his head to grow, so that he looked like a dead man. Sunshine washed him therefore with milk and with water, and aroused him by tender words from his great sorrow. "Now when the maiden returned back again to the palace, the Chan and the whole people were exceedingly amazed. 'The crocodiles,' they exclaimed, 'have, contrary to their wont, felt compassion for this maiden and spared her. This is indeed a very wonder.' So the whole people passed around the maiden, bowing themselves down before her. But the Chan said, 'That the maiden is returned is indeed very good. But the Son of the Tiger-year is assuredly devoured.' At these words his daughter replied unto him, 'The Son of the Tiger-year assuredly is not devoured. On account of his goodness his life was spared him.' "And when she said this, all were more than ever surprised. 'Arise!' said the Chan to his ministers, 'lead this youth hither.' Agreeably to these commands, the ministers hastened to the cave of the aged Arschi. Both Arschi and the youth arose, and when they approached unto the dwelling of the Chan, the Chan said, 'For the mighty benefits which this youth has conferred upon us, and upon our dominions, we feel ourselves bound to go forth to meet him.' "Thus spake he, and he went forth to meet the youth, and led him into the interior of the palace, and placed him upon one of the seats appropriated to the nobles. 'O thou most wondrous youth!' he exclaimed, 'art thou indeed the son of Arschi?' The youth replied, 'I am the Son of a Chan. But because my stepmother, out of the love she bare to her own son, sought to slay me, I fled, and, accompanied by my younger brother, arrived at the cave of the aged Arschi.' "When the Son of the Chan related all this, the Chan loaded him with honours, and gave his daughters for wives unto the two brothers, and sent them, with many costly gifts and a good retinue, home to their own kingdom. Thither they went, drew nigh unto the palace, and wrote a letter as follows:--'To the Chan their father, the two brothers are returned back again.' "Now the father and mother had for many years bewailed the loss of both their sons, and their sorrows had rendered them so gloomy that they remained ever alone. "On receipt of this letter they sent forth a large body of people to meet their children. But because the wife of the Chan saw both the youths approaching with costly gifts and a goodly retinue, so great was her envy that she died." "She was very justly served!" exclaimed the Son of the Chan. "Ruler of Destiny, thou hast spoken words! Ssarwala missdood jonkzang." Thus spake Ssidi, and burst from the sack through the air. Thus Ssidi's fifth relation treats of Sunshine and his brother. THE WONDERFUL MAN WHO OVERCAME THE CHAN. When the Son of the Chan had proceeded as formerly to seize the dead one, then spake he the threatening words, seized upon Ssidi, thrust him into the sack, tied the sack fast, ate of the butter-cakes, and journeyed forth with his burden. After Ssidi had as before asked who should tell the tale, and the Son of the Chan had replied by merely shaking his head, Ssidi began the following relation:-- "A long, long time ago there lived in the land of Barschiss, a wild, high-spirited man, who would not allow any one to be above him. Then spake the Chan of the kingdom to him, full of displeasure, 'Away with thee, thou good-for-nothing one! Away with thee to some other kingdom!' Thus spake he, and the wild man departed forth out of the country. "On his journey he arrived about mid-day at a forest, where he found the body of a horse, which had been somehow killed, and he accordingly cut off its head, fastened it to his girdle, and climbed up a tree. "About midnight there assembled a host of Tschadkurrs (evil spirits) mounted upon horses of bark, wearing likewise caps of bark, and they placed themselves around the tree. Afterwards there assembled together other Tschadkurrs, mounted upon horses of paper, and having caps of paper on their heads, and they likewise placed themselves around the tree. "During the time that those who were assembled were partaking of various choice wines and liquors, the man peeped anxiously down from the tree, and as he was doing so, the horse's head fell down from his belt. The Tschadkurrs were thereby exceedingly alarmed; so much that they fled hither and thither uttering fearful cries. "On the following morning the man descended from the tree, and said, 'This night there was in this spot many choice viands and liquors, and now they are all vanished.' And while he was thus speaking, he found a brandy flask, and as he was anxious for something to drink, he immediately applied the flask which he had found to his lips; when suddenly there sprang out of it meat and cakes and other delicacies fit for eating. 'This flask,' cried he, 'is of a surety a wishing flask, which will procure him who has it everything he desires. I will take the flask with me.' "And when he had thus spoken, he continued his journey until he met with a man holding a sword in his hand. 'Wherefore,' cried he, 'dost thou carry that sword in thine hand?' And the man answered, 'This sword is called Kreischwinger; and when I say to it, "Kreischwinger, thither goes a man who has taken such a thing from me, follow him and bring it back," Kreischwinger goes forth, kills the man, and brings my property back again.' To this the first replied, 'Out of this vessel springeth everything you desire; let us exchange.' So accordingly they made an exchange; and when the man went away with the flask, he who now owned the sword said, 'Kreischwinger, go forth now and bring me back my flask.' So the sword went forth, smote his former master dead, and brought the golden vessel back again. "When he had journeyed a little further, he met a man holding in his hand an iron hammer. 'Wherefore,' cried he, 'dost thou hold this hammer in thy hand?' To this question the other replied, 'When I strike the earth nine times with this hammer, there immediately arises a wall of iron, nine pillars high.' Then said the first, 'Let us make an exchange.' And when the exchange was made, he cried out, 'Kreischwinger, go forth and bring me back my golden vessel!' "After Kreischwinger had slain the man, and brought back the golden vessel, the man journeyed on until he encountered another man, carrying in his bosom a sack, made of goatskin, and he asked him, 'Wherefore keepest thou that sack?' To this question the other replied, 'This sack is a very wonderful thing. When you shake it, it rains heavily; and if you shake it very hard, it rains very heavily.' Hereupon the owner of the flask said, 'Let us change,' and they changed accordingly; and the sword went forth, slew the man, and returned back to its master with the golden vessel. "When the man found himself in the possession of all these wonderful things, he said unto himself, 'The Chan of my country is indeed a cruel man; nevertheless I will turn back unto my native land.' When he had thus considered, he turned back again, and concealed himself in the neighbourhood of the royal palace. "About midnight he struck the earth nine times with his iron hammer, and there arose an iron wall nine pillars high. "On the following morning the Chan arose, and said, 'During the night I have heard a mighty tock, tock at the back of the palace.' Thereupon the wife of the Chan looked out, and said, 'At the back of the palace there stands an iron wall nine pillars high.' Thus spake she; and the Chan replied, full of anger, 'The wild, high-spirited man has of a surety erected this iron wall; but we shall see whether he or I will be the conqueror.' "When he had spoken these words the Chan commanded all the people to take fuel and bellows, and make the iron wall red-hot on every side. Thereupon there was an immense fire kindled, and the Wonderful Man found himself, with his mother, within the wall of iron. He was himself upon the upper pillars, but his mother was on the eighth. And because the heat first reached the mother, she exclaimed unto her son, 'The fires which the Chan has commanded the people to kindle will destroy the iron wall, and we shall both die.' The son replied, 'Have no fear, mother, for I can find means to prevent it.' "When he had spoken these words he shook the sack of goatskin, and there descended heavy rain and extinguished the fire. After that he shook the sack still more forcibly, and there arose around them a mighty sea, which carried away both the fuel and the bellows which the people had collected." "Thus, then, the Wonderful gained the mastery over the Chan," exclaimed the Son of the Chan. "Ruler of Destiny, thou hast spoken words! Ssarwala missdood jakzang!" Thus spake Ssidi, and burst from the sack through the air. Thus Ssidi's sixth relation treats of the Wonderful Man who overpowered the Chan. THE BIRD-MAN. When the Son of the Chan had done as formerly, spoken the threatening words, and carried off Ssidi, Ssidi asked him as before to tell a tale; but the Son of the Chan shook his head without speaking a word, and Ssidi began as follows:-- "In times gone by there lived in a fair country the father of a family, whose three daughters had daily by turns to watch over the calves. Now it once happened, during the time that the eldest sister should have been watching the calves, that she fell asleep, and one of them was lost. When the maiden awoke and missed the calf, she arose and went forth to seek it, and wandered about until she reached a large house with a red door. "She went in, and then came to a golden door, next to that to a silver one, and last of all to a brazen door. After she had likewise opened this door she found, close to the entrance of it, a cage decorated with gold and all manner of costly jewels, and within it, on a perch, there stood a white bird. "'I have lost a calf,' said the maiden, 'and am come hither to seek it.' At these words the bird said, 'If thou wilt become my wife I will find the calf for you, but not without.' But the maiden said, 'That may not be; among men birds are looked upon but as wild creatures. Therefore I will not become your wife, even though, through refusing, I lose the calf for ever.' And when she had thus spoken she returned home again. "On the following day the second sister went forth to tend the calves, and she likewise lost one of them. And it happened unto her as it had done unto the eldest sister, and she too refused to become the wife of the bird. "At last the youngest sister went forth with the calves, and when she missed one she too wandered on until she reached the house wherein the bird resided. The bird said unto her likewise, 'If thou wilt become my wife, I will procure for thee the calf which thou hast lost.' 'Be it according to thy will.' Thus spake she, and became the wife of the bird. "After some time it happened that a mighty thirteen days' feast was held at a large pagoda in the neighbourhood, and upon this occasion a number of persons assembled together, amongst the rest the wife of the bird. And she was the foremost among the women; but among the men the most noticed was an armed man, who rode upon a white horse three times round the assemblage. And all who saw him exclaimed, 'He is the first.' "And when the woman returned home again the white bird demanded of her, 'Who were the foremost among the men and the women who were there assembled together?' Then said the woman, 'The foremost among the men was seated upon a white horse, but I knew him not. The foremost of the women was myself.' "And for eleven days did these things so fall out. But on the twelfth day, when the wife of the bird went to the assemblage, she sat herself down near an old woman. 'Who,' said the old woman, 'is the first in the assemblage this day?' To this question the wife of the bird replied, 'Among the men, the rider upon the white horse is beyond all comparison the foremost. Among the women, I myself am so. Would that I were bound unto this man, for my husband is numbered among wild creatures since he is nothing but a bird.' "Thus spake she, weeping, and the old woman replied as follows:--'Speak ye no more words like unto these. Amongst the assembled women thou art in all things the foremost. But the rider upon the white horse is thine own husband. To-morrow is the thirteenth day of the feast. Come not to-morrow unto the feast, but remain at home behind the door until thine husband opens his birdhouse, takes his steed from the stable, and rides to the feast. Take ye, then, the open birdhouse and burn it. And when thou hast done this thy husband will remain henceforth and for ever in his true form.' "The wife of the bird, thereupon, did as she had been told; and when the birdhouse was opened, and her husband had departed, she took the birdhouse and burnt it upon the hearth. When the sun bowed down towards the west the bird returned home, and said to his wife, 'What, art thou already returned?' and she said, 'I am already returned.' Then said her husband, 'Where is my birdhouse?' And the wife replied, 'I have burnt it.' And he said, 'Barama, that is a pretty business--that birdhouse was my soul.' "And his wife was troubled, and said, 'What is now to be done?' To these words the bird replied, 'There is nothing can be done now, except you seat yourself behind the door, and there by day and night keep clattering a sword. But if the clattering sword ceases, the Tschadkurrs will carry me away. Seven days and seven nights must ye thus defend me from the Tschadkurrs and from the Tângâri.' "At these words the wife took the sword, propped open her eyelids with little sticks, and watched for the space of six nights. On the seventh night her eyelids closed for an instant, but in that instant the Tschadkurrs and Tângâri suddenly snatched her husband away. "Weeping bitterly, and despising all nourishment, the distracted wife ran about everywhere, crying unceasingly, 'Alas, my bird-husband! Alas, my bird-husband!' "When she had sought for him day and night without finding him, she heard from the top of a mountain the voice of her husband. Following the sound, she discovered that the voice proceeded from the river. She ran to the river, and then discovered her husband with a load of tattered boots upon his back. 'Oh! my heart is greatly rejoiced,' said the husband, 'at seeing thee once more. I am forced to draw water for the Tschadkurrs and the Tângâri, and have worn out all these boots in doing so. If thou wishest to have me once again, build me a new birdhouse, and dedicate it to my soul; then I shall come back again.' "With these words he vanished into the air. But the woman betook herself home to the house again, made a new birdhouse, and dedicated it to the soul of her husband. At length the bird-man appeared and perched himself on the roof of the house." "Truly, his wife was an excellent wife!" exclaimed the Son of the Chan. "Ruler of Destiny, thou hast spoken words! Ssarwala missdood jakzang!" Thus spake Ssidi, and burst from the sack through the air. Thus Ssidi's seventh relation treats of the Bird-man. THE PAINTER AND THE WOOD-CARVER. When the Son of the Chan had, as on all the former occasions, spoken the words of threatening, placed the dead one in the sack, and journeyed forth with him, Ssidi spake this time also as follows:--"The day is long, and the distant journey will tire us: do you relate a tale unto me, or I will relate one unto you." But the Son of the Chan shook his head without saying a word, and Ssidi began as follows:-- "Many years ago there lived in the land of Gujassmunn a Chan, whose name was Gunisschang. This Chan, however, died, and his son Chamuk Sakiktschi was elected Chan in his place. Now there lived among the people of that country a painter and a wood-carver, who bore similar names, and were evilly disposed towards each other. "Once upon a time the painter, Gunga, drew nigh unto the Chan, and said unto him, 'Thy father hath been borne into the kingdom of the Tângâri, and hath said unto me, "Come unto me!" Thither I went, and found thy father in great power and splendour; and I have brought for you this letter from him.' With these words the painter delivered unto the Chan a forged letter, the contents of which were as follows:-- "'This letter is addressed to my son Chamuk Sakiktschi. "'When I departed this life, I was borne to the kingdom of the Tângâri. An abundance of all things reigns in this land; but since I am desirous of erecting a pagoda, and there are no wood-carvers to be found here, do you despatch unto me Cunga, the wood-carver. The means by which he is to reach this place he may learn from the painter.' "After he had perused this letter, the Chan of Gujassmunn said, 'If my father has really been carried into the realms of the Tângâri, that would indeed be a good thing. Call hither the wood-carver.' The wood-carver was called, and appeared before the Chan, and the Chan said unto him, 'My father has been carried into the realms of the Tângâri. He is desirous of erecting a pagoda, and because there are no wood-carvers there he is desirous that you should be despatched unto him.' "With these words the Chan displayed the forged letter, and when he had read it, the wood-carver said unto himself, 'Of a surety Gunga, the painter, has played me this trick; but I will try if I cannot overreach him.' "Thus thinking, he inquired of the painter, 'By what means can I reach the kingdom of the Tângâri?' "To these words, the painter replied, 'When thou hast prepared all thy tools and implements of trade, then place thyself upon a pile of fagots, and when thou hast sung songs of rejoicing and set light to the pile of fagots, thus wilt thou be able to reach the kingdom of the Tângâri.' Thus spake he, and the seventh night from that time was appointed for the carver's setting forth on his journey. "When the wood-carver returned home unto his wife, he spake unto her these words:--'The painter hath conceived wickedness in his mind against me; yet I shall try means to overreach him.' "Accordingly he secretly contrived a subterranean passage, which reached from his own house into the middle of his field. Over the aperture in the field he placed a large stone, covered the stone with earth, and when the seventh night was come, the Chan said, 'This night let the wood-carver draw nigh unto the Chan, my father.' Thereupon, agreeably to the commands of the Chan, every one of the people brought out a handful of the fat of the Gunsa (a beast). A huge fire was kindled, and the wood-cutter, when he had sung the songs of rejoicing, escaped by the covered way he had made back to his own house. "Meanwhile the painter was greatly rejoiced, and pointed upwards with his finger, and said, 'There rideth the wood-carver up to heaven.' All who had been present, too, betook themselves home, thinking in their hearts, 'The wood-carver is dead, and gone up above to the Chan.' "The wood-carver remained concealed at home a whole month, and allowed no man to set eyes upon him, but washed his head in milk every day, and kept himself always in the shade. After that he put on a garment of white silk, and wrote a letter, in which stood the following words:-- "'This letter is addressed to my son Chamuk Sakiktschi. That thou rulest the kingdom in peace; it is very good. Since thy wood-carver has completed his work, it is needful that he should be rewarded according to his deserts. Since, moreover, for the decoration of the pagoda, many coloured paintings are necessary, send unto me the painter, as thou hast already sent this man.' "The wood-carver then drew nigh unto the Chan with this letter. 'What!' cried the Chan, 'art thou returned from the kingdom of the Tângâri?' The wood-carver handed the letter unto him, and said, 'I have, indeed, been in the kingdom of the Tângâri, and from it I am returned home again.' "The Chan was greatly rejoiced when he heard this, and rewarded the wood-carver with costly presents. 'Because the painter is now required,' said the Chan, 'for the painting of the pagoda, let him now be called before me.' "The painter drew nigh accordingly, and when he saw the wood-carver, fair, and in white-shining robes, and decorated with gifts, he said unto himself, 'Then he is not dead!' And the Chan handed over to the painter the forged letter, with the seal thereto, and said, 'Thou must go now.' "And when the seventh night from that time arrived, the people came forward as before with a contribution of the fat of the Gunsa; and in the midst of the field a pile of fagots was kindled. The painter seated himself in the midst of the fire, with his materials for painting, and a letter and gifts of honour for the Chan Gunisschang, and sang songs of rejoicing; and as the fire kept growing more and more intolerable, he lifted up his voice and uttered piercing cries; but the noise of the instruments overpowered his voice, and at length the fire consumed him." "He was properly rewarded!" exclaimed the Son of the Chan. "Ruler of Destiny, thou hast spoken words! Ssarwala missdood jakzang!" Thus spake Ssidi, and burst from the sack through the air. Thus Ssidi's eighth relation treats of the Painter and the Wood-carver. THE STEALING OF THE HEART. When the Son of the Chan was, as formerly, carrying Ssidi away in the sack, Ssidi inquired of him as before; but the Son of the Chan shook his head without speaking a word, so Ssidi proceeded as follows:-- "Many, many years ago there ruled over a certain kingdom a Chan named Guguluktschi. Upon the death of this Chan his son, who was of great reputation and worth, was elected Chan in his place. "One berren (a measure of distance) from the residence of the Chan dwelt a man, who had a daughter of wonderful abilities and extraordinary beauty. The son of the Chan was enamoured of this maiden, and visited her daily; until, at length, he fell sick of a grievous malady, and died, without the maiden being made aware of it. "One night, just as the moon was rising, the maiden heard a knocking at the door, and the face of the maiden was gladdened when she beheld the son of the Chan; and the maiden arose and went to meet him, and she led him in and placed arrack and cakes before him. 'Wife,' said the son of the Chan, 'come with me!' "The maiden followed, and they kept going further and further, until they arrived at the dwelling of the Chan, from which proceeded the sound of cymbals and kettledrums. "'Chan, what is this?' she asked. The son of the Chan replied to these inquiries of the maiden, 'Do you not know that they are now celebrating the feast of my funeral?' Thus spake he; and the maiden replied, 'The feast of thy funeral! Has anything then befallen the Chan's son?' And the son of the Chan replied, 'He is departed. Thou wilt, however, bear a son unto him. And when the season is come, go into the stable of the elephant, and let him be born there. In the palace there will arise a contention betwixt my mother and her attendants, because of the wonderful stone of the kingdom. The wonderful stone lies under the table of sacrifice. After it has been discovered, do you and my mother reign over this kingdom until such time as my son comes of age.' "Thus spake he, and vanished into air. But his beloved fell, from very anguish, into a swoon. 'Chan! Chan!' exclaimed she sorrowfully, when she came to herself again. And because she felt that the time was come, she betook herself to the stable of the elephants, and there gave birth to a son. "On the following morning, when the keeper of the elephants entered the stable, he exclaimed, 'What! has a woman given birth to a son in the stable of the elephants? This never happened before. This may be an injury to the elephants.' "At these words the maiden said, 'Go unto the mother of the Chan, and say unto her, "Arise! something wonderful has taken place."' "When these words were told unto the mother of the Chan, then she arose and went unto the stable, and the maiden related unto her all that had happened, 'Wonderful!' said the mother of the Chan. 'Otherwise the Chan had left no successors. Let us go together into the house.' "Thus speaking, she took the maiden with her into the house, and nursed her, and tended her carefully. And because her account of the wonderful stone was found correct, all the rest of her story was believed. So the mother of the Chan and his wife ruled over the kingdom. "Henceforth, too, it happened that every month, on the night of the full moon, the deceased Chan appeared to his wife, remained with her until morning dawned, and then vanished into air. And the wife recounted this to his mother, but his mother believed her not, and said, 'This is a mere invention. If it were true my son would, of a surety, show himself likewise unto me. If I am to believe your words, you must take care that mother and son meet one another.' "When the son of the Chan came on the night of the full moon, his wife said unto him, 'It is well that thou comest unto me on the night of every full moon, but it were yet better if thou camest every night.' And as she spake thus, with tears in her eyes, the son of the Chan replied, 'If thou hadst sufficient spirit to dare its accomplishment, thou mightest do what would bring me every night; but thou art young and cannot do it.' 'Then,' said she, 'if thou wilt but come every night, I will do all that is required of me, although I should thereby lose both flesh and bone.' "Thereupon the son of the Chan spake as follows: 'Then betake thyself on the night of the full moon a berren from this place to the iron old man, and give unto him arrack. A little further you will come unto two rams, to them you must offer batschimak cakes. A little further on you will perceive a host of men in coats of mail and other armour, and there you must share out meat and cakes. From thence you must proceed to a large black building, stained with blood; the skin of a man floats over it instead of a flag. Two aerliks (fiends) stand at the entrance. Present unto them both offerings of blood. Within the mansion thou wilt discover nine fearful exorcists, and nine hearts upon a throne. "Take me! take me!" will the eight old hearts exclaim; and the ninth heart will cry out, "Do not take me!" But leave the old hearts and take the fresh one, and run home with it without looking round.' "Much as the maiden was alarmed at the task which she had been enjoined to perform, she set forth on the night of the next full moon, divided the offerings, and entered the house. 'Take me not!' exclaimed the fresh heart; but the maiden seized the fresh heart and fled with it. The exorcists fled after her, and cried out to those who were watching, 'Stop the thief of the heart!' And the two aerliks (fiends) cried, 'We have received offerings of blood!' Then each of the armed men cried out, 'Stop the thief!' But the rams said, 'We have received batschimak cakes.' Then they called out to the iron old man, 'Stop the thief with the heart!' But the old man said, 'I have received arrack from her, and shall not stop her.' "Thereupon the maiden journeyed on without fear until she reached home; and she found upon entering the house the Chan's son, attired in festive garments. And the Chan's son drew nigh, and threw his arms about the neck of the maiden." "The maiden behaved well indeed!" exclaimed the Son of the Chan. "Ruler of Destiny, thou hast spoken words! Ssarwala missdood jakzang." Thus spake Ssidi, and burst from the sack through the air. Thus Ssidi's ninth relation treats of the Stealing of the Heart. THE MAN AND HIS WIFE. When Ssidi had been captured as before, and was being carried away in the sack, he inquired, as he had always done, as to telling a tale; but the Son of the Chan shook his head without speaking a word. Whereupon Ssidi began the following relation:-- "Many, many years since, there lived in the kingdom of Olmilsong two brothers, and they were both married. Now the elder brother and his wife were niggardly and envious, while the younger brother was of quite a different disposition. "Once upon a time the elder brother, who had contrived to gather together abundance of riches, gave a great feast, and invited many people to partake of it. When this was known, the younger thought to himself, 'Although my elder brother has hitherto not treated me very well, yet he will now, no doubt, since he has invited so many people to his feast, invite also me and my wife.' This he certainly expected, but yet he was not invited. 'Probably,' thought he, 'my brother will summon me to-morrow morning to the brandy-drinking.' Because, however, he was not even invited unto that, he grieved very sore, and said unto himself, 'This night, when my brother's wife has drunk the brandy, I will go unto the house and steal somewhat.' "When, however, he had glided into the treasure-chamber of his brother, there lay the wife of his brother near her husband; but presently she arose and went into the kitchen, and cooked meat and sweet food, and went out of the door with it. The concealed one did not venture at this moment to steal anything, but said unto himself, 'Before I steal anything, I will just see what all this means.' "So saying, he went forth and followed the woman to a mountain where the dead were wont to be laid. On the top, upon a green mound, lay a beautiful ornamental tomb over the body of a dead man. This man had formerly been the lover of the woman. Even when afar off she called unto the dead man by name, and when she had come unto him she threw her arms about his neck; and the younger brother was nigh unto her, and saw all that she did. "The woman next handed the sweet food which she had prepared to the dead man, and because the teeth of the corse did not open, she separated them with a pair of brazen pincers, and pushed the food into his mouth. Suddenly the pincers bounced back from the teeth of the dead man, and snapped off the tip of the woman's nose; while, at the same time, the teeth of the dead man closed together and bit off the end of the woman's tongue. Upon this the woman took up the dish with the food and went back to her home. "The younger brother thereupon followed her home, and concealed himself in the treasure-chamber, and the wife laid herself down again by her husband. Presently the man began to move, when the wife immediately cried out, 'Woe is me! woe is me! was there ever such a man?' And the man said, 'What is the matter now?' The wife replied, 'The point of my tongue, and the tip of my nose, both these thou hast bitten off. What can a woman do without these two things? To-morrow the Chan shall be made acquainted with this conduct.' Thus spake she, and the younger brother fled from the treasure-chamber without stealing anything. "On the following morning the woman presented herself before the Chan, and addressed him, saying, 'My husband has this night treated me shamefully. Whatsoever punishment may be awarded to him, I myself will see it inflicted.' "But the husband persisted in asserting, 'Of all this I know nothing!' Because the complaint of the wife seemed well-founded, and the man could not exculpate himself, the Chan said, 'Because of his evil deeds, let this man be burnt.' "When the younger brother heard what had befallen the elder, he went to see him. And after the younger one had related to him all the affair, he betook himself unto the Chan, saying, 'That the evildoer may be really discovered, let both the woman and her husband be summoned before you; I will clear up the mystery.' "When they were both present, the younger brother related the wife's visit to the dead man, and because the Chan would not give credence unto his story, he said: 'In the mouth of the dead man you will find the end of the woman's tongue; and the blood-soiled tip of her nose you will find in the pincers of brass. Send thither, and see if it be not so.' "Thus spake he, and people were sent to the place, and confirmed all that he had asserted. Upon this the Chan said, 'Since the matter stands thus, let the woman be placed upon the pile of fagots and consumed with fire.' And the woman was placed upon the pile of fagots and consumed with fire." "That served her right!" said the Son of the Chan. "Ruler of Destiny, thou hast spoken words! Ssarwala missdood jakzang!" Thus spake Ssidi, and burst from the sack through the air. Thus Ssidi's tenth relation treats of the Man and his Wife. OF THE MAIDEN SSUWARANDARI. When the Son of the Chan was carrying off Ssidi, as formerly, Ssidi related the following tale:-- "A long while ago, there was in the very centre of a certain kingdom an old pagoda, in which stood the image of Choschim Bodissadoh (a Mongolian idol), formed of clay. Near unto this pagoda stood a small house, in which a beautiful maiden resided with her aged parents. But at the mouth of the river, which ran thereby, dwelt a poor man, who maintained himself by selling fruit, which he carried in an ark upon the river. "Now it happened once, that as he was returning home he was benighted in the neighbourhood of the pagoda. He listened at the door of the house in which the two old people dwelt, and heard the old woman say unto her husband, 'We are both grown exceedingly old; could we now but provide for our daughter, it would be well.' "'That we have lived so long happily together,' said the old man, 'we are indebted to the talisman of our daughter. Let us, however, offer up sacrifice to Bodissadoh, and inquire of him to what condition we shall dedicate our daughter--to the spiritual or to the worldly. To-morrow, at the earliest dawn, we will therefore lay our offering before the Burchan.' "'Now know I what to do,' said the listener; so in the night-time he betook himself to the pagoda, made an opening in the back of the idol, and concealed himself therein. When on the following morning the two old people and the daughter drew nigh and made their offering, the father bowed himself to the earth and spake as follows:-- "'Deified Bodissadoh! shall this maiden be devoted to a spiritual or worldly life? If she is to be devoted to a worldly life, vouchsafe to point out now or hereafter, in a dream or vision, to whom we shall give her to wife.' "Then he who was concealed in the image exclaimed, 'It is better that thy daughter be devoted to a worldly life. Therefore, give her to wife to the first man who presents himself at thy door in the morning.' "The old people were greatly rejoiced when they heard these words; and they bowed themselves again and again down to the earth, and walked around the idol. "On the following morning the man stepped out of the idol and knocked at the door of the aged couple. The old woman went out, and when she saw that it was a man, she turned back again, and said to her husband, 'The words of the Burchan are fulfilled; the man has arrived.' "'Give him entrance!' said the old man. The man came in accordingly, and was welcomed with food and drink; and when they had told him all that the idol had said, he took the maiden with the talisman to wife. "When he was wandering forth and drew nigh unto his dwelling, he thought unto himself, 'I have with cunning obtained the daughter of the two old people. Now I will place the maiden in the ark, and conceal the ark in the sand.' "So he concealed the ark, and went and said unto the people, 'Though I have ever acted properly, still it has never availed me yet. I will therefore now seek to obtain liberal gifts through my prayers.' Thus spake he, and after repeating the Zoka-prayers (part of the Calmuc ritual), he obtained food and gifts, and said, 'To-morrow I will again wander around, repeat the appointed Zoka-prayers, and seek food again.' "In the meanwhile it happened that the son of the Chan and two of his companions, with bows and arrows in their hands, who were following a tiger, passed by unnoticed, and arrived at the sand-heap of the maiden Ssuwarandari. 'Let us shoot at that heap!' cried they. Thus spake they, and shot accordingly, and lost their arrows in the sand. As they were looking after the arrows, they found the ark, opened it, and drew out the maiden with the talisman. "'Who art thou, maiden?' inquired they. 'I am the daughter of Lu.' The Chan's son said, 'Come with me, and be my wife.' And the maiden said, 'I cannot go unless another is placed in the ark instead of me.' So they all said, 'Let us put in the tiger.' And when the tiger was placed in the ark, the Chan's son took away with him the maiden, and the talisman with her. "In the meanwhile the beggar ended his prayers; and when he had done so, he thought unto himself, 'If I take the talisman, slay the maiden, and sell the talisman, of a surety I shall become rich indeed.' Thus thinking he drew nigh unto the sand-heap, drew forth the ark, carried it home with him, and said unto his wife, who he thought was within the ark, 'I shall pass this night in repeating the Zoka-prayers.' He threw off his upper garment. And when he had done so, he lifted off the cover of the ark, and said, 'Maiden, be not alarmed!' When he was thus speaking, he beheld the tiger. "When some persons went into the chamber on the following morning, they found a tiger with his tusks and claws covered with blood, and the body of the beggar torn into pieces. "And the wife of the Chan gave birth to three sons, and lived in the enjoyment of plenty of all things. But the ministers and the people murmured, and said, 'It was not well of the Chan that he drew forth his wife out of the earth. Although the wife of the Chan has given birth to the sons of the Chan, still she is but a low-born creature.' Thus spoke they, and the wife of the Chan received little joy therefrom. 'I have borne three sons,' said she, 'and yet am noways regarded; I will therefore return home to my parents.' "She left the palace on the night of the full moon, and reached the neighbourhood of her parents at noontide. Where there had formerly been nothing to be seen she saw a multitude of workmen busily employed, and among them a man having authority, who prepared meat and drink for them. 'Who art thou, maiden?' inquired this man. 'I come far from hence,' replied the wife of the Chan; 'but my parents formerly resided upon this mountain, and I have come hither to seek them.' "At these words the young man said, 'Thou art then their daughter?' and he received for answer, 'I am their daughter.' "'I am their son,' said he. 'I have been told that I had a sister older than myself. Art thou she? Sit thee down, partake of this meat and this drink, and we will then go together unto our parents.' "When the wife of the Chan arrived at the summit of the mountain, she found in the place where the old pagoda stood a number of splendid buildings, with golden towers full of bells. And the hut of her parents was changed into a lordly mansion. 'All this,' said her brother, 'belongs to us, since you took your departure. Our parents lived here in health and peace.' "In the palace there were horses and mules, and costly furniture in abundance. The father and mother were seated on rich pillows of silk, and gave their daughter welcome, saying, 'Thou art still well and happy. That thou hast returned home before we depart from this life is of a surety very good.' "After various inquiries had been made on both sides, relative to what had transpired during the separation of the parties, the old parents said, 'Let us make these things known unto the Chan and his ministers.' "So the Chan and his ministers were loaded with presents, and three nights afterwards they were welcomed with meat and drink of the best. But the Chan said, 'Ye have spoken falsely, the wife of the Chan had no parents.' Now the Chan departed with his retinue, and his wife said, 'I will stop one more night with my parents, and then I will return unto you.' "On the following morning the wife of the Chan found herself on a hard bed, without pillows or coverlets. 'What is this?' exclaimed she; 'was I not this night with my father and mother--and did I not retire to sleep on a bed of silk?' "And when she rose up she beheld the ruined hut of her parents. Her father and mother were dead, and their bones mouldered; their heads lay upon a stone. Weeping loudly, she said unto herself, 'I will now look after the pagoda.' But she saw nothing but the ruins of the pagoda and of the Burchan. 'A godly providence,' exclaimed she, 'has resuscitated my parents. Now since the Chan and the ministers will be pacified, I will return home again.' "On her arrival in the kingdom of her husband, the ministers and the people came forth to meet her, and walked around her. 'This wife of the Chan,' cried they, 'is descended from noble parents, has borne noble sons, and is herself welcome, pleasant, and charming.' Thus speaking, they accompanied the wife of the Chan to the palace." "Her merits must have been great." Thus spake the Son of the Chan. "Ruler of Destiny, thou hast spoken words! Ssarwala missdood jakzang!" Thus spake Ssidi, and burst from the sack through the air. Thus Ssidi's eleventh relation treats of the Maiden Ssuwarandari. THE TWO CATS. In former days there was an old woman, who lived in a hut more confined than the minds of the ignorant, and more dark than the tombs of misers. Her companion was a cat, from the mirror of whose imagination the appearance of bread had never been reflected, nor had she from friends or strangers ever heard its name. It was enough that she now and then scented a mouse, or observed the print of its feet on the floor; when, blessed by favouring stars or benignant fortune, one fell into her claws-- "She became like a beggar who discovers a treasure of gold; Her cheeks glowed with rapture, and past grief was consumed by present joy." This feast would last for a week or more; and while enjoying it she was wont to exclaim-- "Am I, O God, when I contemplate this, in a dream or awake? Am I to experience such prosperity after such adversity?" But as the dwelling of the old woman was in general the mansion of famine to this cat, she was always complaining, and forming extravagant and fanciful schemes. One day, when reduced to extreme weakness, she, with much exertion, reached the top of the hut; when there she observed a cat stalking on the wall of a neighbour's house, which, like a fierce tiger, advanced with measured steps, and was so loaded with flesh that she could hardly raise her feet. The old woman's friend was amazed to see one of her own species so fat and sleek, and broke out into the following exclamation:-- "Your stately strides have brought you here at last; pray tell me from whence you come? From whence have you arrived with so lovely an appearance? You look as if from the banquet of the Khan of Khatai. Where have you acquired such a comeliness? and how came you by that glorious strength?" The other answered, "I am the Sultan's crumb-eater. Each morning, when they spread the convivial table, I attend at the palace, and there exhibit my address and courage. From among the rich meats and wheat-cakes I cull a few choice morsels; I then retire and pass my time till next day in delightful indolence." The old dame's cat requested to know what rich meat was, and what taste wheat-cakes had? "As for me," she added, in a melancholy tone, "during my life I have neither eaten nor seen anything but the old woman's gruel and the flesh of mice." The other, smiling, said, "This accounts for the difficulty I find in distinguishing you from a spider. Your shape and stature is such as must make the whole generation of cats blush; and we must ever feel ashamed while you carry so miserable an appearance abroad. You certainly have the ears and tail of a cat, But in other respects you are a complete spider. Were you to see the Sultan's palace, and to smell his delicious viands, most undoubtedly those withered bones would be restored; you would receive new life; you would come from behind the curtain of invisibility into the plane of observation-- When the perfume of his beloved passes over the tomb of a lover, Is it wonderful that his putrid bones should be re-animated?" The old woman's cat addressed the other in the most supplicating manner: "O my sister!" she exclaimed, "have I not the sacred claims of a neighbour upon you? are we not linked in the ties of kindred? What prevents your giving a proof of friendship, by taking me with you when next you visit the palace? Perhaps from your favour plenty may flow to me, and from your patronage I may attain dignity and honour. Withdraw not from the friendship of the honourable; Abandon not the support of the elect." The heart of the Sultan's crumb-eater was melted by this pathetic address; she promised her new friend should accompany her on the next visit to the palace. The latter, overjoyed, went down immediately from the terrace, and communicated every particular to the old woman, who addressed her with the following counsel:-- "Be not deceived, my dearest friend, with the worldly language you have listened to; abandon not your corner of content, for the cup of the covetous is only to be filled by the dust of the grave, and the eye of cupidity and hope can only be closed by the needle of mortality and the thread of fate. It is content that makes men rich; Mark this, ye avaricious, who traverse the world: He neither knows nor pays adoration to his God Who is dissatisfied with his condition and fortune." But the expected feast had taken such possession of poor puss's imagination, that the medicinal counsel of the old woman was thrown away. "The good advice of all the world is like wind in a cage, Or water in a sieve, when bestowed on the headstrong." To conclude: next day, accompanied by her companion, the half-starved cat hobbled to the Sultan's palace. Before this unfortunate wretch came, as it is decreed that the covetous shall be disappointed, an extraordinary event had occurred, and, owing to her evil destiny, the water of disappointment was poured on the flame of her immature ambition. The case was this: a whole legion of cats had the day before surrounded the feast, and made so much noise that they disturbed the guests; and in consequence the Sultan had ordered that some archers armed with bows from Tartary should, on this day, be concealed, and that whatever cat advanced into the field of valour, covered with the shield of audacity, should, on eating the first morsel, be overtaken with their arrows. The old dame's puss was not aware of this order. The moment the flavour of the viands reached her, she flew like an eagle to the place of her prey. Scarcely had the weight of a mouthful been placed in the scale to balance her hunger, when a heart-dividing arrow pierced her breast. A stream of blood rushed from the wound. She fled, in dread of death, after having exclaimed, "Should I escape from this terrific archer, I will be satisfied with my mouse and the miserable hut of my old mistress. My soul rejects the honey if accompanied by the sting. Content, with the most frugal fare, is preferable." LEGEND OF DHURRUMNATH. During the reign of a mighty rajah named Guddeh Sing, a celebrated, and as it is now supposed, deified priest, or hutteet, called Dhurrumnath, came, and in all the characteristic humility of his sect established a primitive and temporary resting-place within a few miles of the rajah's residence at Runn, near Mandavie. He was accompanied by his adopted son, Ghurreeb Nath. From this spot Dhurrumnath despatched his son to seek for charitable contributions from the inhabitants of the town. To this end Ghurreeb Nath made several visits; but being unsuccessful, and at the same time unwilling that his father should know of the want of liberality in the city, he at each visit purchased food out of some limited funds of his own. At length, his little hoard failing, on the sixth day he was obliged to confess the deceit he had practised. Dhurrumnath, on being acquainted with this, became extremely vexed, and vowed that from that day all the rajah's putteen cities should become desolate and ruined. The tradition goes on to state that in due time these cities were destroyed; Dhurrumnath, accompanied by his son, left the neighbourhood, and proceeded to Denodur. Finding it a desirable place, he determined on performing Tupseeah, or penance, for twelve years, and chose the form of standing on his head. On commencing to carry out this determination, he dismissed his son, who established his Doonee in the jungles, about twenty miles to the north-west of Bhooj. After Dhurrumnath had remained Tupseeah for twelve years, he was visited by all the angels from heaven, who besought him to rise; to which he replied, that if he did so, the portion of the country on which his sight would first rest would become barren: if villages, they would disappear; if woods or fields, they would equally be destroyed. The angels then told him to turn his head to the north-east, where flowed the sea. Upon this he resumed his natural position, and, turning his head in the direction he was told, opened his eyes, when immediately the sea disappeared, the stately ships became wrecks, and their crews were destroyed, leaving nothing behind but a barren, unbroken desert, known as the Runn. Dhurrumnath, too pure to remain on the earth, partook of an immediate and glorious immortality, being at once absorbed into the spiritual nature of the creating, the finishing, the indivisible, all-pervading Brum. This self-imposed penance of Dhurrumnath has shed a halo of sanctity around the hill of Denodur, and was doubtless the occasion of its having been selected as a fitting site for a Jogie establishment, the members of which, it is probable, were originally the attendants on a small temple that had been erected, and which still remains, on the highest point of the hill, on the spot where the holy Dhurrumnath is said to have performed his painful Tupseeah. THE TRAVELLER'S ADVENTURE. It is related that a man, mounted upon a camel, in the course of travelling arrived at a place where others from the same caravan had lighted a fire before proceeding on their journey. The fan-like wind, breathing on the embers, had produced a flame; and the sparks, flying over the jungle, the dry wood had become ignited, and the whole plain glowed like a bed of tulips. In the midst of this was an enormous snake, which, encircled by the flames, possessed no means of escape, and was about to be broiled like a fish, or kabobed like a partridge for the table. Blood oozed from its poison-charged eyes; and, seeing the man and the camel, it thus supplicated for assistance-- "What if in kindness thou vouchsafe me thy pity; Loosen the knot with which my affairs are entangled." Now the traveller was a good man, and one who feared God. When he heard the complaint of the snake, and saw its pitiable condition, he reasoned thus with himself: "This snake is, indeed, the enemy of man, but being in trouble and perplexity, it would be most commendable in me to drop the seed of compassion, the fruit of which is prosperity in this world, and exaltation in the next." Thus convinced, he fastened one of his saddle-bags to the end of his spear, and extended it to the snake, which, delighted at escape, entered the bag, and was rescued from the flames. The man then opening the mouth of the bag, addressed it thus: "Depart whither thou wilt, but forget not to offer up thanksgiving for thy preservation; henceforth seek the corner of retirement, and cease to afflict mankind, for they who do so are dishonest in this world and the next-- Fear God--distress no one; This indeed is true salvation." The snake replied, "O young man, hold thy peace, for truly I will not depart until I have wounded both thee and this camel." The man cried out, "But how is this? Have I not rendered thee a benefit? Why, then, is such to be my recompense? On my part there was faithfulness, Why then this injustice upon thine?" The snake said, "True, thou hast shown mercy, but it was to an unworthy object; thou knowest me to be an agent of injury to mankind, consequently, when thou savedst me from destruction, thou subjectedst thyself to the same rule that applies to the punishment due for an evil act committed against a worthy object. "Again, between the snake and man there is a long-standing enmity, and they who employ foresight hold it as a maxim of wisdom to bruise the head of an enemy; to thy security my destruction was necessary, but, in showing mercy, thou hast forfeited vigilance. It is now necessary that I should wound thee, that others may learn by thy example." The man cried, "O snake, call but in the counsel of justice; in what creed is it written, or what practice declares, that evil should be returned for good, or that the pleasure of conferring benefits should be returned by injury and affliction?" The snake replied, "Such is the practice amongst men. I act according to thy own decree; the same commodity of retribution I have purchased from thee I also sell. Buy for one moment that which thou sell'st for years." In vain did the traveller entreat, the snake ever replying, "I do but treat thee after the manner of men." This the man denied. "But," said he, "let us call witnesses: if thou prove thy assertion, I will yield to thy will." The snake, looking round, saw a cow grazing at a distance, and said, "Come, we will ask this cow the rights of the question." When they came up to the cow, the snake, opening its mouth, said, "O cow, what is the recompense for benefits received?" The cow said, "If thou ask me after the manner of men, the return of good is always evil. For instance, I was for a long time in the service of a farmer; yearly I brought forth a calf; I supplied his house with milk and ghee; his sustenance, and the life of his children, depended upon me. When I became old, and no longer produced young, he ceased to shelter me, and thrust me forth to die in a jungle. After finding forage, and roaming at my ease, I grew fat, and my old master, seeing my plump condition, yesterday brought with him a butcher, to whom he has sold me, and to-day is appointed for my slaughter." The snake said, "Thou hast heard the cow; prepare to die quickly." The man cried, "It is not lawful to decide a case on the evidence of one witness, let us then call another." The snake looked about and saw a tree, leafless and bare, flinging up its wild branches to the sky. "Let us," said it, "appeal to this tree." They proceeded together to the tree; and the snake, opening its mouth, said, "O tree, what is the recompense for good?" The tree said, "Amongst men, for benefits are returned evil and injury. I will give you a proof of what I assert. I am a tree which, though growing on one leg in this sad waste, was once flourishing and green, performing service to every one. When any of the human race, overcome with heat and travel, came this way, they rested beneath my shade, and slept beneath my branches; when the weight of repose abandoned their eyelids, they cast up their eyes to me, and said to each other, 'Yon twig would do well for an arrow; that branch would serve for a plough; and from the trunk of this tree what beautiful planks might be made!' If they had an axe or a saw, they selected my branches, and carried them away. Thus they to whom I gave ease and rest rewarded me only with pain and affliction. Whilst my care overshadows him in perplexity, He meditates only how best to root me up." "Well," said the snake, "here are two witnesses; therefore, form thy resolution, for I must wound thee." The man said, "True; but the love of life is powerful, and while strength remains, it is difficult to root the love of it from the heart. Call but one more witness, and then I pledge myself to submit to his decree." Now it so wonderfully happened that a fox, who had been standing by, had heard all the argument, and now came forward. The snake on seeing it exclaimed, "Behold this fox, let us ask it." But before the man could speak the fox cried out, "Dost thou not know that the recompense for good is always evil? But what good hast thou done in behalf of this snake, to render thee worthy of punishment?" The man related his story. The fox replied, "Thou seemest an intelligent person, why then dost thou tell me an untruth? How can it be proper for him that is wise to speak falsely? How can it become an intelligent man to state an untruth?" The snake said, "The man speaks truly, for behold the bag in which he rescued me." The fox, putting on the garb of astonishment, said, "How can I believe this thing? How could a large snake such as thou be contained in so small a space?" The snake said, "If thou doubt me, I will again enter the bag to prove it." The fox said, "Truly if I saw thee there, I could believe it, and afterwards settle the dispute between thee and this man." On this the traveller opened the bag, and the snake, annoyed at the disbelief of the fox, entered it; which observing, the fox cried out, "O young man, when thou hast caught thine enemy, show him no quarter. When an enemy is vanquished, and in thy power, It is the maxim of the wise to show him no mercy." The traveller took the hint of the fox, fastened the mouth of the bag, and, dashing it against a stone, destroyed the snake, and thus saved mankind from the evil effects of its wicked propensities. THE SEVEN STAGES OF ROOSTEM. Persia was at peace, and prosperous; but its king, Ky-Kâoos, could never remain at rest. A favourite singer gave him one day an animated account of the beauties of the neighbouring kingdom of Mazenderan: its ever-blooming roses, its melodious nightingales, its verdant plains, its mountains shaded with lofty trees, and adorned to their summits with flowers which perfumed the air, its clear murmuring rivulets, and, above all, its lovely damsels and valiant warriors. All these were described to the sovereign in such glowing colours that he quite lost his reason, and declared he should never be happy till his power extended over a country so favoured by Nature. It was in vain that his wisest ministers and most attached nobles dissuaded him from so hazardous an enterprise as that of invading a region which had, besides other defenders, a number of Deevs, or demons, who, acting under their renowned chief, Deev-e-Seffeed, or the White Demon, had hitherto defeated all enemies. Ky-Kâoos would not listen to his nobles, who in despair sent for old Zâl, the father of Roostem, and prince of Seestan. Zâl came, and used all his efforts, but in vain; the monarch was involved in clouds of pride, and closed a discussion he had with Zâl by exclaiming, "The Creator of the world is my friend; the chief of the Deevs is my prey." This impious boasting satisfied Zâl he could do no good; and he even refused to become regent of Persia in the absence of Ky-Kâoos, but promised to aid with his counsel. The king departed to anticipated conquest; but the prince of Mazenderan summoned his forces, and, above all, the Deev-e-Seffeed and his band. They came at his call: a great battle ensued, in which the Persians were completely defeated. Ky-Kâoos was made prisoner, and confined in a strong fortress under the guard of a hundred Deevs, commanded by Arjeng, who was instructed to ask the Persian monarch every morning how he liked the roses, nightingales, flowers, trees, verdant meadows, shady mountains, clear streams, beautiful damsels, and valiant warriors of Mazenderan. The news of this disaster soon spread over Persia, and notwithstanding the disgust of old Zâl at the headstrong folly of his monarch, he was deeply afflicted at the tale of his misfortune and disgrace. He sent for Roostem, to whom he said, "Go, my son, and with thy single arm, and thy good horse, Reksh, release our sovereign." Roostem instantly obeyed. There were two roads, but he chose the nearest, though it was reported to be by far the most difficult and dangerous. Fatigued with his first day's journey, Roostem lay down to sleep, having turned Reksh loose to graze in a neighbouring meadow, where he was attacked by a furious lion; but this wonderful horse, after a short contest, struck his antagonist to the ground with a blow from his fore-hoof, and completed the victory by seizing the throat of the royal animal with his teeth. When Roostem awoke, he was surprised and enraged. He desired Reksh never again to attempt, unaided, such an encounter. "Hadst thou been slain," asked he of the intelligent brute, "how should I have accomplished my enterprise?" At the second stage Roostem had nearly died of thirst, but his prayers to the Almighty were heard. A fawn appeared, as if to be his guide; and following it, he was conducted to a clear fountain, where, after regaling on the flesh of a wild ass, which he had killed with his bow, he lay down to sleep. In the middle of the night a monstrous serpent, seventy yards in length, came out of its hiding-place, and made at the hero, who was awaked by the neighing of Reksh; but the serpent had crept back to its hiding-place, and Roostem, seeing no danger, abused his faithful horse for disturbing his repose. Another attempt of the serpent was defeated in the same way; but as the monster had again concealed itself, Roostem lost all patience with Reksh, whom he threatened to put to death if he again awaked him by any such unseasonable noises. The faithful steed, fearing his master's rage, but strong in his attachment, instead of neighing when the serpent again made his appearance, sprang upon it, and commenced a furious contest. Roostem, hearing the noise, started up and joined in the combat. The serpent darted at him, but he avoided it, and, while his noble horse seized their enemy by the back, the hero cut off its head with his sword. When the serpent was slain, Roostem contemplated its enormous size with amazement, and, with that piety which always distinguished him, returned thanks to the Almighty for his miraculous escape. Next day, as Roostem sat by a fountain, he saw a beautiful damsel regaling herself with wine. He approached her, accepted her invitation to partake of the beverage, and clasped her in his arms as if she had been an angel. It happened, in the course of their conversation, that the Persian hero mentioned the name of the great God he adored. At the sound of that sacred word the fair features and shape of the female changed, and she became black, ugly, and deformed. The astonished Roostem seized her, and after binding her hands, bid her declare who she was. "I am a sorceress," was the reply, "and have been employed by the evil spirit Aharman for thy destruction; but save my life, and I am powerful to do thee service." "I make no compact with the devil or his agents," said the hero, and cut her in twain. He again poured forth his soul in thanksgiving to God for his deliverance. On his fourth stage Roostem lost his way. While wandering about he came to a clear rivulet, on the banks of which he lay down to take some repose, having first turned Reksh loose into a field of grain. A gardener who had charge of it came and awoke the hero, telling him in an insolent tone that he would soon suffer for his temerity, as the field in which his horse was feeding belonged to a pehloovân, or warrior, called Oulâd. Roostem, always irascible, but particularly so when disturbed in his slumbers, jumped up, tore off the gardener's ears, and gave him a blow with his fist that broke his nose and teeth. "Take these marks of my temper to your master," he said, "and tell him to come here, and he shall have a similar welcome." Oulâd, when informed of what had passed, was excited to fury, and prepared to assail the Persian hero, who, expecting him, had put on his armour and mounted Reksh. His appearance so dismayed Oulâd that he dared not venture on the combat till he had summoned his adherents. They all fell upon Roostem at once; but the base-born caitiffs were scattered like chaff before the wind; many were slain, others fled, among whom was their chief. Him Roostem came up with at the fifth stage, and having thrown his noose over him, took him prisoner. Oulâd, in order to save his life, not only gave him full information of the place where his sovereign was confined, and of the strength of the Deev-e-Seffeed, but offered to give the hero every aid in the accomplishment of his perilous enterprise. This offer was accepted, and he proved a most useful auxiliary. On the sixth day they saw in the distance the city of Mazenderan, near which the Deev-e-Seffeed resided. Two chieftains, with numerous attendants, met them; and one had the audacity to ride up to Roostem, and seize him by the belt. That chief's fury at this insolence was unbounded; he disdained, however, to use his arms against such an enemy, but, seizing the miscreant's head, wrenched it from the body, and hurled it at his companions, who fled in terror and dismay at this terrible proof of the hero's prowess. Roostem proceeded, after this action, with his guide to the castle where the king was confined. The Deevs who guarded it were asleep, and Ky-Kâoos was found in a solitary cell, chained to the ground. He recognised Roostem, and bursting into tears, pressed his deliverer to his bosom. Roostem immediately began to knock off his chains. The noise occasioned by this awoke the Deevs, whose leader, Beedâr-Reng, advanced to seize Roostem; but the appearance and threats of the latter so overawed him that he consented to purchase his own safety by the instant release of the Persian king and all his followers. After this achievement Roostem proceeded to the last and greatest of his labours, the attack of the Deev-e-Seffeed. Oulâd told him that the Deevs watched and feasted during the night, but slept during the heat of the day, hating (according to our narrator) the sunbeams. Roostem, as he advanced, saw an immense army drawn out; he thought it better, before he attacked them, to refresh himself by some repose. Having laid himself down, he soon fell into a sound sleep, and at daylight he awoke quite refreshed. As soon as the sun became warm, he rushed into the camp. The heavy blows of his mace soon awoke the surprised and slumbering guards of the Deev-e-Seffeed; they collected in myriads, hoping to impede his progress, but all in vain. The rout became general, and none escaped but those who fled from the field of battle. When this army was dispersed, Roostem went in search of the Deev-e-Seffeed, who, ignorant of the fate of his followers, slumbered in the recess of a cavern, the entrance to which looked so dark and gloomy that the Persian hero hesitated whether he should advance; but the noise of his approach had roused his enemy, who came forth, clothed in complete armour. His appearance was terrible; but Roostem, recommending his soul to God, struck a desperate blow, which separated the leg of the Deev from his body. This would on common occasions have terminated the contest, but far different was the result on the present. Irritated to madness by the loss of a limb, the monster seized his enemy in his arms, and endeavoured to throw him down. The struggle was for some time doubtful; but Roostem, collecting all his strength, by a wondrous effort dashed his foe to the ground, and seizing him by one of the horns, unsheathed his dagger and stabbed him to the heart. The Deev-e-Seffeed instantly expired; and Roostem, on looking round to the entrance of the cavern, from whence the moment before he had seen numberless Deevs issuing to the aid of their lord, perceived they were all dead. Oulâd, who stood at a prudent distance from the scene of combat, now advanced and informed the hero that the lives of all the Deevs depended upon that of their chief. When he was slain, the spell which created and preserved this band was broken, and they all expired. Roostem found little difficulty after these seven days of toil, of danger, and of glory, in compelling Mazenderan to submit to Persia. The king of the country was slain, and Oulâd was appointed its governor as a reward for his fidelity. The success of his arms had raised Ky-Kâoos to the very plenitude of power; not only men, but Deevs, obeyed his mandates. The latter he employed in building palaces of crystal, emeralds, and rubies, till at last they became quite tired of their toil and abject condition. They sought, therefore, to destroy him; and to effect this they consulted with the devil, who, to forward the object, instructed a Deev, called Dizjkheem, to go to Ky-Kâoos and raise in his mind a passion for astronomy, and to promise him a nearer view of the celestial bodies than had ever yet been enjoyed by mortal eyes. The Deev fulfilled his commission with such success that the king became quite wild with a desire to attain perfection in this sublime science. The devil then instructed Dizjkheem to train some young vultures to carry a throne upwards; this was done by placing spears round the throne, on the points of which pieces of flesh were fixed in view of the vultures, who were fastened at the bottom. These voracious birds, in their efforts to reach the meat, raised the throne. Though he mounted rapidly for a short time, the vultures became exhausted, and finding their efforts to reach the meat hopeless, discontinued them; this altered the direction and equilibrium of the machine, and it tossed to and fro. Ky-Kâoos would have been cast headlong and killed had he not clung to it. The vultures, not being able to disengage themselves, flew an immense way, and at last landed the affrighted monarch in one of the woods of China. Armies marched in every direction to discover and release the sovereign, who, it was believed, had again fallen into the hands of Deevs. He was at last found and restored to his capital. Roostem, we are told, upbraided his folly, saying-- "Have you managed your affairs so well on earth That you must needs try your hand in those of heaven?" THE MAN WHO NEVER LAUGHED. There was a man, of those possessed of houses and riches, who had wealth and servants and slaves and other possessions; and he departed from the world to receive the mercy of God (whose name be exalted!), leaving a young son. And when the son grew up, he took to eating and drinking, and the hearing of instruments of music and songs, and was liberal and gave gifts, and expended the riches that his father had left to him until all the wealth had gone. He then betook himself to the sale of the male black slaves, and the female slaves, and other possessions, and expended all that he had of his father's wealth and other things, and became so poor that he worked with the labourers. In this state he remained for a period of years. While he was sitting one day beneath a wall, waiting to see who would hire him, lo! a man of comely countenance and apparel drew near to him and saluted him. So the youth said to him, "O uncle, hast thou known me before now?" The man answered him, "I have not known thee, O my son, at all; but I see the traces of affluence upon thee, though thou art in this condition." The young man replied, "O uncle, what fate and destiny have ordained hath come to pass. But hast thou, O uncle, O comely-faced, any business in which to employ me?" The man said to him, "O my son, I desire to employ thee in an easy business." The youth asked, "And what is it, O uncle?" And the man answered him, "I have with me ten sheykhs in one abode, and we have no one to perform our wants. Thou shalt receive from us, of food and clothing, what will suffice thee, and shalt serve us, and thou shalt receive of us thy portion of benefits and money. Perhaps, also, God will restore to thee thine affluence by our means." The youth therefore replied, "I hear and obey." The sheykh then said to him, "I have a condition to impose upon thee." "And what is thy condition, O uncle?" asked the youth. He answered him, "O my son, it is that thou keep our secret with respect to the things that thou shalt see us do; and when thou seest us weep, that thou ask us not respecting the cause of our weeping." And the young man replied, "Well, O uncle." So the sheykh said to him, "O my son, come with us, relying on the blessing of God (whose name be exalted!)." And the young man followed the sheykh until the latter conducted him to the bath; after which he sent a man, who brought him a comely garment of linen, and he clad him with it, and went with him to his abode and his associates. And when the young man entered, he found it to be a high mansion, with lofty angles, ample, with chambers facing one another, and saloons; and in each saloon was a fountain of water, and birds were warbling over it, and there were windows overlooking, on every side, a beautiful garden within the mansion. The sheykh conducted him into one of the chambers, and he found it decorated with coloured marbles, and its ceiling ornamented with blue and brilliant gold, and it was spread with carpets of silk; and he found in it ten sheykhs sitting facing one another, wearing the garments of mourning, weeping, and wailing. So the young man wondered at their case, and was about to question the sheykh who had brought him, but he remembered the condition, and therefore withheld his tongue. Then the sheykh committed to the young man a chest, containing thirty thousand pieces of gold, saying to him, "O my son, expend upon us out of this chest, and upon thyself, according to what is just, and be thou faithful, and take care of that wherewith I have intrusted thee." And the young man replied, "I hear and obey." He continued to expend upon them for a period of days and nights, after which one of them died; whereupon his companions took him, and washed him and shrouded him, and buried him in a garden behind the mansion. And death ceased not to take of them one after another, until there remained only the sheykh who had hired the young man. So he remained with the young man in that mansion, and there was not with them a third; and they remained thus for a period of years. Then the sheykh fell sick; and when the young man despaired of his life, he addressed him with courtesy, and was grieved for him, and said to him, "O uncle, I have served you, and not failed in your service one hour for a period of twelve years, but have acted faithfully to you, and served you according to my power and ability." The sheykh replied, "Yes, O my son, thou hast served us until these sheykhs have been taken unto God (to whom be ascribed might and glory!), and we must inevitably die." And the young man said, "O my master, thou art in a state of peril, and I desire of thee that thou inform me what hath been the cause of your weeping, and the continuance of your wailing and your mourning and your sorrow." He replied, "O my son, thou hast no concern with that, and require me not to do what I am unable; for I have begged God (whose name be exalted!) not to afflict any one with my affliction. Now if thou desire to be safe from that into which we have fallen, open not that door," and he pointed to it with his hand, and cautioned him against it; "and if thou desire that what hath befallen us should befall thee, open it, and thou wilt know the cause of that which thou hast beheld in our conduct; but thou wilt repent, when repentance will not avail thee." Then the illness increased upon the sheykh, and he died; and the young man washed him with his own hands, and shrouded him, and buried him by his companions. He remained in that place, possessing it and all the treasure; but notwithstanding this, he was uneasy, reflecting upon the conduct of the sheykhs. And while he was meditating one day upon the words of the sheykh, and his charge to him not to open the door, it occurred to his mind that he might look at it. So he went in that direction, and searched until he saw an elegant door, over which the spider had woven its webs, and upon it were four locks of steel. When he beheld it, he remembered how the sheykh had cautioned him, and he departed from it. His soul desired him to open the door, and he restrained it during a period of seven days; but on the eighth day his soul overcame him, and he said, "I must open that door, and see what will happen to me in consequence; for nothing will repel what God (whose name be exalted!) decreeth and predestineth, and no event will happen but by His will." Accordingly he arose and opened the door, after he had broken the locks. And when he had opened the door he saw a narrow passage, along which he walked for the space of three hours; and lo! he came forth upon the bank of a great river. At this the young man wondered. And he walked along the bank, looking to the right and left; and behold! a great eagle descended from the sky, and taking up the young man with its talons, it flew with him, between heaven and earth, until it conveyed him to an island in the midst of the sea. There it threw him down, and departed from him. So the young man was perplexed at his case, not knowing whither to go; but while he was sitting one day, lo! the sail of a vessel appeared to him upon the sea, like the star in the sky; wherefore the heart of the young man became intent upon the vessel, in the hope that his escape might be effected in it. He continued looking at it until it came near unto him; and when it arrived, he beheld a bark of ivory and ebony, the oars of which were of sandal-wood and aloes-wood, and the whole of it was encased with plates of brilliant gold. There were also in it ten damsels, virgins, like moons. When the damsels saw him, they landed to him from the bark, and kissed his hands, saying to him, "Thou art the king, the bridegroom." Then there advanced to him a damsel who was like the shining sun in the clear sky, having in her hand a kerchief of silk, in which were a royal robe, and a crown of gold set with varieties of jacinths. Having advanced to him, she clad him and crowned him; after which the damsels carried him in their arms to the bark, and he found in it varieties of carpets of silk of divers colours. They then spread the sails, and proceeded over the depths of the sea. "Now when I proceeded with them," says the young man, "I felt sure that this was a dream, and knew not whither they were going with me. And when they came in sight of the land, I beheld it filled with troops, the number of which none knew but God (whose perfection be extolled, and whose name be exalted!) clad in coats of mail. They brought forward to me five marked horses, with saddles of gold, set with varieties of pearls and precious stones; and I took a horse from among these and mounted it. The four others proceeded with me; and when I mounted, the ensigns and banners were set up over my head, the drums and the cymbals were beaten, and the troops disposed themselves in two divisions, right and left. I wavered in opinion as to whether I were asleep or awake, and ceased not to advance, not believing in the reality of my stately procession, but imagining that it was the result of confused dreams, until we came in sight of a verdant meadow, in which were palaces and gardens, and trees and rivers and flowers, and birds proclaiming the perfection of God, the One, the Omnipotent. And now there came forth an army from among those palaces and gardens, like the torrent when it poureth down, until it filled the meadow. When the troops drew near to me, they hailed, and lo! a king advanced from among them, riding alone, preceded by some of his chief officers walking." The king, on approaching the young man, alighted from his courser; and the young man, seeing him do so, alighted also; and they saluted each other with the most courteous salutation. Then they mounted their horses again, and the king said to the young man, "Accompany us; for thou art my guest." So the young man proceeded with him, and they conversed together, while the stately trains in orderly disposition went on before them to the palace of the king, where they alighted, and all of them entered, together with the king and the young man, the young man's hand being in the hand of the king, who thereupon seated him on the throne of gold and seated himself beside him. When the king removed the litham from his face, lo! this supposed king was a damsel, like the shining sun in the clear sky, a lady of beauty and loveliness, and elegance and perfection, and conceit and amorous dissimulation. The young man beheld vast affluence and great prosperity, and wondered at the beauty and loveliness of the damsel. Then the damsel said to him, "Know, O king, that I am the queen of this land, and all these troops that thou hast seen, including every one, whether of cavalry or infantry, are women. There are not among them any men. The men among us, in this land, till and sow and reap, employing themselves in the cultivation of the land, and the building and repairing of the towns, and in attending to the affairs of the people, by the pursuit of every kind of art and trade; but as to the women, they are the governors and magistrates and soldiers." And the young man wondered at this extremely. And while they were thus conversing, the vizier entered; and lo! she was a grey-haired old woman, having a numerous retinue, of venerable and dignified appearance; and the queen said to her, "Bring to us the Kádee and the witnesses." So the old woman went for that purpose. And the queen turned towards the young man, conversing with him and cheering him, and dispelling his fear by kind words; and, addressing him courteously, she said to him, "Art thou content for me to be thy wife?" And thereupon he arose and kissed the ground before her; but she forbade him; and he replied, "O my mistress, I am less than the servants who serve thee." She then said to him, "Seest thou not these servants and soldiers and wealth and treasures and hoards?" He answered her, "Yes." And she said to him, "All these are at thy disposal; thou shalt make use of them, and give and bestow as seemeth fit to thee." Then she pointed to a closed door, and said to him, "All these things thou shalt dispose of; but this door thou shalt not open; for if thou open it, thou wilt repent, when repentance will not avail thee." Her words were not ended when the vizier, with the Kádee and the witnesses, entered, and all of them were old women, with their hair spreading over their shoulders, and of venerable and dignified appearance. When they came before the queen, she ordered them to perform the ceremony of the marriage-contract. So they married her to the young man. And she prepared the banquets and collected the troops; and when they had eaten and drunk, the young man took her as his wife. And he resided with her seven years, passing the most delightful, comfortable, and agreeable life. But he meditated one day upon opening the door, and said, "Were it not that there are within it great treasures, better than what I have seen, she had not prohibited me from opening it." He then arose and opened the door, and lo! within it was the bird that had carried him from the shore of the great river, and deposited him upon the island. When the bird beheld him, it said to him, "No welcome to a face that will never be happy!" So, when he saw it and heard its words, he fled from it; but it followed him and carried him off, and flew with him between heaven and earth for the space of an hour, and at length deposited him in the place from which it had carried him away; after which it disappeared. He thereupon sat in that place, and, returning to his reason, he reflected upon what he had seen of affluence and glory and honour, and the riding of the troops before him, and commanding and forbidding; and he wept and wailed. He remained upon the shore of the great river, where that bird had put him, for the space of two months, wishing that he might return to his wife; but while he was one night awake, mourning and meditating, some one spoke (and he heard his voice, but saw not his person), calling out, "How great were the delights! Far, far from thee is the return of what is passed! And how many therefore will be the sighs!" So when the young man heard it, he despaired of meeting again that queen, and of the return to him of the affluence in which he had been living. He then entered the mansion where the sheykhs had resided, and knew that they had experienced the like of that which had happened unto him, and that this was the cause of their weeping and their mourning; wherefore he excused them. Grief and anxiety came upon the young man, and he entered his chamber, and ceased not to weep and moan, relinquishing food and drink and pleasant scents and laughter, until he died; and he was buried by the side of the sheykhs. THE FOX AND THE WOLF. A fox and a wolf inhabited the same den, resorting thither together, and thus they remained a long time. But the wolf oppressed the fox; and it so happened that the fox counselled the wolf to assume benignity, and to abandon wickedness, saying to him, "If thou persevere in thine arrogance, probably God will give power over thee to a son of Adam; for he is possessed of stratagems, and artifice, and guile; he captureth the birds from the sky, and the fish from the sea, and cutteth the mountains and transporteth them; and all this he accomplisheth through his stratagems. Betake thyself, therefore, to the practice of equity, and relinquish evil and oppression; for it will be more pleasant to thy taste." The wolf, however, received not his advice; on the contrary, he returned him a rough reply, saying to him, "Thou hast no right to speak on matters of magnitude and importance." He then gave the fox such a blow that he fell down senseless; and when he recovered, he smiled in the wolf's face, apologising for his shameful words, and recited these two verses:-- "If I have been faulty in my affection for you, and committed a deed of a shameful nature, I repent of my offence, and your clemency will extend to the evildoer who craveth forgiveness." So the wolf accepted his apology, and ceased from ill-treating him, but said to him, "Speak not of that which concerneth thee not, lest thou hear that which will not please thee." The fox replied, "I hear and obey. I will abstain from that which pleaseth thee not; for the sage hath said, 'Offer not information on a subject respecting which thou art not questioned; and reply not to words when thou art not invited; leave what concerneth thee not, to attend to that which _doth_ concern thee; and lavish not advice upon the evil, for they will recompense thee for it with evil.'" When the wolf heard these words of the fox, he smiled in his face; but he meditated upon employing some artifice against him, and said, "I must strive to effect the destruction of this fox." As to the fox, however, he bore patiently the injurious conduct of the wolf, saying within himself, "Verily, insolence and calumny occasion destruction, and betray one into perplexity; for it hath been said, 'He who is insolent suffereth injury, and he who is ignorant repenteth, and he who feareth is safe: moderation is one of the qualities of the noble, and good manners are the noblest gain.' It is advisable to behave with dissimulation towards this tyrant, and he will inevitably be overthrown." He then said to the wolf, "Verily the Lord pardoneth and becometh propitious unto His servant when he hath sinned; and I am a weak slave, and have committed a transgression in offering thee advice. Had I foreknown the pain that I have suffered from thy blow, I had known that the elephant could not withstand nor endure it; but I will not complain of the pain of that blow, on account of the happiness that hath resulted unto me from it; for, if it had a severe effect upon me, its result was happiness; and the sage hath said, 'The beating inflicted by the preceptor is at first extremely grievous; but in the end it is sweeter than clarified honey!'" So the wolf said, "I forgive thine offence, and cancel thy fault; but beware of my power, and confess thyself my slave; for thou hast experienced my severity unto him who showeth me hostility." The fox, therefore, prostrated himself before him, saying to him, "May God prolong thy life, and mayest thou not cease to subdue him who opposeth thee!" And he continued to fear the wolf, and to dissemble towards him. After this the fox went one day to a vineyard, and saw in its wall a breach; but he suspected it, saying unto himself, "There must be some cause for this breach, and it hath been said, 'Whoso seeth a hole in the ground, and doth not shun it, and be cautious of advancing to it boldly, exposeth himself to danger and destruction.' It is well known that some men make a figure of the fox in the vineyard, and even put before it grapes in plates, in order that a fox may see it, and advance to it, and fall into destruction. Verily I regard this breach as a snare; and it hath been said, 'Caution is the half of cleverness.' Caution requireth me to examine this breach, and to see if I can find there anything that may lead to perdition. Covetousness doth not induce me to throw myself into destruction." He then approached it, and, going round about examining it warily, beheld it; and lo! there was a deep pit, which the owner of the vineyard had dug to catch in it the wild beasts that despoiled the vines; and he observed over it a slight covering. So he drew back from it, and said, "Praise be to God that I regarded it with caution! I hope that my enemy, the wolf, who hath made my life miserable, may fall into it, so that I alone may enjoy absolute power over the vineyard, and live in it securely." Then, shaking his head, and uttering a loud laugh, he merrily sang these verses-- "Would that I beheld at the present moment in this well a wolf, Who hath long afflicted my heart, and made me drink bitterness perforce! Would that my life might be spared, and that the wolf might meet his death! Then the vineyard would be free from his presence, and I should find in it my spoil." Having finished his song, he hurried away until he came to the wolf, when he said to him, "Verily God hath smoothed for thee the way to the vineyard without fatigue. This hath happened through thy good fortune. Mayest thou enjoy, therefore, that to which God hath granted thee access, in smoothing thy way to that plunder and that abundant sustenance without any difficulty!" So the wolf said to the fox, "What is the proof of that which thou hast declared?" The fox answered, "I went to the vineyard, and found that its owner had died; and I entered the garden, and beheld the fruits shining upon the trees." So the wolf doubted not the words of the fox, and in his eagerness he arose and went to the breach. His cupidity had deceived him with vain hopes, and the fox stopped and fell down behind him as one dead, applying this verse as a proverb suited to the case-- "Dost thou covet an interview with Leyla? It is covetousness that causeth the loss of men's heads." When the wolf came to the breach, the fox said to him, "Enter the vineyard; for thou art spared the trouble of breaking down the wall of the garden, and it remaineth for God to complete the benefit." So the wolf walked forward, desiring to enter the vineyard, and when he came to the middle of the covering of the hole, he fell into it; whereupon the fox was violently excited by happiness and joy, his anxiety and grief ceased, and in merry tones he sang these verses-- "Fortune hath compassionated my case, and felt pity for the length of my torment, And granted me what I desired, and removed that which I dreaded. I will, therefore, forgive its offences committed in former times; Even the injustice it hath shown in the turning of my hair grey. There is no escape for the wolf from utter annihilation; And the vineyard is for me alone, and I have no stupid partner." He then looked into the pit, and beheld the wolf weeping in his repentance and sorrow for himself, and the fox wept with him. So the wolf raised his head towards him, and said, "Is it from thy compassion for me that thou hast wept, O Abu-l-Hoseyn?" "No," answered the fox, "by him who cast thee into this pit; but I weep for the length of thy past life, and in my regret at thy not having fallen into this pit before the present day. Hadst thou fallen into it before I met with thee, I had experienced refreshment and ease. But thou hast been spared to the expiration of thy decreed term and known period." The wolf, however, said to him, "Go, O evildoer, to my mother, and acquaint her with that which hath happened to me; perhaps she will contrive some means for my deliverance." But the fox replied, "The excess of thy covetousness and eager desire has entrapped thee into destruction, since thou hast fallen into a pit from which thou wilt never be saved. Knowest thou not, O ignorant wolf, that the author of the proverb saith, 'He who thinks not of results will not be secure from perils?'" "O Abu-l-Hoseyn!" rejoined the wolf, "thou wast wont to manifest an affection for me, and to desire my friendship, and fear the greatness of my power. Be not, then, rancorous towards me for that which I have done unto thee; for he who hath one in his power, and yet forgiveth, will receive a recompense from God, and the poet hath said-- "'Sow good, even on an unworthy soil; for it will not be fruitless wherever it is sown. Verily, good, though it remained long buried, none will reap but him who sowed it.'" "O most ignorant of the beasts of prey!" said the fox, "and most stupid of the wild beasts of the regions of the earth, hast thou forgotten thy haughtiness, and insolence, and pride, and thy disregarding the rights of companionship, and thy refusing to be advised by the saying of the poet?-- "'Tyrannise not, if thou hast the power to do so; for the tyrannical is in danger of revenge, Thine eye will sleep while the oppressed, wakeful, will call down curses on thee, and God's eye sleepeth not.'" "O Abu-l-Hoseyn!" exclaimed the wolf, "be not angry with me for my former offences, for forgiveness is required of the generous, and kind conduct is among the best means of enriching one's-self. How excellent is the saying of the poet-- "'Haste to do good when thou art able; for at every season thou hast not the power.'" He continued to abase himself to the fox, and said to him, "Perhaps thou canst find some means of delivering me from destruction." But the fox replied, "O artful, guileful, treacherous wolf! hope not for deliverance; for this is the recompense of thy base conduct, and a just retaliation." Then, shaking his jaws with laughing, he recited these two verses-- "No longer attempt to beguile me; for thou wilt not attain thy object. What thou seekest from me is impossible. Thou hast sown, and reap, then, vexation." "O gentle one among the beasts of prey!" resumed the wolf, "thou art in my estimation more faithful than to leave me in this pit." He then shed tears, and repeated this couplet-- "O thou whose favours to me have been many, and whose gifts have been more than can be numbered! No misfortune hath ever yet befallen me but I have found thee ready to aid me in it." The fox replied, "O stupid enemy, how art thou reduced to humility, submissiveness, abjectness, and obsequiousness, after thy disdain, pride, tyranny, and haughtiness! I kept company with thee through fear of thine oppression, and flattered thee without a hope of conciliating thy kindness; but now terror hath affected thee, and punishment hath overtaken thee." And he recited these two verses-- "O thou who seekest to beguile! thou hast fallen in thy base intention. Taste, then, the pain of shameful calamity, and be with other wolves cut off." The wolf still entreated him, saying, "O gentle one! speak not with the tongue of enmity, nor look with its eye; but fulfil the covenant of fellowship with me before the time for discovering a remedy shall have passed. Arise and procure for me a rope, and tie one end of it to a tree, and let down to me its other end, that I may lay hold of it. Perhaps I may so escape from my present predicament, and I will give thee all the treasures that I possess." The fox, however, replied, "Thou hast prolonged a conversation that will not procure thy liberation. Hope not, therefore, for thy escape through my means; but reflect upon thy former wicked conduct, and the perfidy and artifice which thou thoughtest to employ against me, and how near thou art to being stoned. Know that thy soul is about to quit the world, and to perish and depart from it: then wilt thou be reduced to destruction, and an evil abode is it to which thou goest!" "O Abu-l-Hoseyn!" rejoined the wolf, "be ready in returning to friendship, and be not so rancorous. Know that he who delivereth a soul from destruction hath saved it alive, and he who saveth a soul alive is as if he had saved the lives of all mankind. Follow not a course of evil, for the wise abhor it; and there is no evil more manifest than my being in this pit, drinking the suffocating pains of death, and looking upon destruction, when thou art able to deliver me from the misery into which I have fallen." But the fox exclaimed, "O thou barbarous, hard-hearted wretch! I compare thee, with respect to the fairness of thy professions and the baseness of thine intention, to the falcon with the partridge." "And what," asked the wolf, "is the story of the falcon and the partridge?" The fox answered, "I entered a vineyard one day to eat of its grapes, and while I was there, I beheld a falcon pounce upon a partridge; but when he had captured him, the partridge escaped from him and entered his nest, and concealed himself in it; whereupon the falcon followed him, calling out to him, 'O idiot! I saw thee in the desert hungry, and, feeling compassion for thee, I gathered for thee some grain, and took hold of thee that thou mightest eat; but thou fleddest from me, and I see no reason for thy flight unless it be to mortify. Show thyself, then, and take the grain that I have brought thee and eat it, and may it be light and wholesome to thee.' So when the partridge heard these words of the falcon, he believed him and came forth to him; and the falcon stuck his talons into him, and got possession of him. The partridge therefore said to him, 'Is this that of which thou saidst that thou hadst brought for me from the desert, and of which thou saidst to me, "Eat it, and may it be light and wholesome to thee?" Thou hast lied unto me; and may God make that which thou eatest of my flesh to be a mortal poison in thy stomach!' And when he had eaten it, his feathers fell off, and his strength failed, and he forthwith died." The fox then continued, "Know, O wolf, that he who diggeth a pit for his brother soon falleth into it himself; and thou behavedst with perfidy to me first." "Cease," replied the wolf, "from addressing me with this discourse, and propounding fables, and mention not unto me my former base actions. It is enough for me to be in this miserable state, since I have fallen into a calamity for which the enemy would pity me, much more the true friend. Consider some stratagem by means of which I may save myself, and so assist me. If the doing this occasion thee trouble, thou knowest that the true friend endureth for his own true friend the severest labour, and will suffer destruction in obtaining his deliverance; and it hath been said, 'An affectionate friend is even better than a brother.' If thou procure means for my escape, I will collect for thee such things as shall be a store for thee against the time of want, and then I will teach thee extraordinary stratagems by which thou shalt make the plenteous vineyards accessible, and shalt strip the fruitful trees: so be happy and cheerful." But the fox said, laughing as he spoke, "How excellent is that which the learned have said of him who is excessively ignorant like thee!" "And what have the learned said?" asked the wolf. The fox answered, "The learned have observed that the rude in body and in disposition is far from intelligence, and nigh unto ignorance; for thine assertion, O perfidious idiot! that the true friend undergoeth trouble for the deliverance of his own true friend is just as thou hast said; but acquaint me, with thine ignorance and thy paucity of sense, how I should bear sincere friendship towards thee with thy treachery. Hast thou considered me a true friend unto thee when I am an enemy who rejoiceth in thy misfortune? These words are more severe than the piercing of arrows, if thou understand. And as to thy saying that thou wilt give me such things as will be a store for me against the time of want, and will teach me stratagems by which I shall obtain access to the plenteous vineyards and strip the fruitful trees--how is it, O guileful traitor! that thou knowest not a stratagem by means of which to save thyself from destruction? How far, then, art thou from profiting thyself, and how far am I from receiving thine advice? If thou know of stratagems, employ them to save thyself from this predicament from which I pray God to make thine escape far distant. See, then, O idiot! if thou know any stratagem, and save thyself by its means from slaughter, before thou lavish instruction upon another. But thou art like a man whom a disease attacked, and to whom there came a man suffering from the same disease to cure him, saying to him, 'Shall I cure thee of thy disease?' The first man, therefore, said to the other, 'Why hast thou not begun by curing thyself?' So he left him and went his way. And thou, O wolf, art in the same case. Remain, then, in thy place, and endure that which hath befallen thee." Now when the wolf heard these words of the fox, he knew that he had no kindly feeling for him; so he wept for himself, and said, "I have been careless of myself; but if God deliver me from this affliction, I will assuredly repent of my overbearing conduct unto him that is weaker than I; and I will certainly wear wool, and ascend the mountains, commemorating the praises of God (whose name be exalted!) and fearing His punishment; and I will separate myself from all the other wild beasts, and verily I will feed the warriors in defence of the religion and the poor." Then he wept and lamented; and thereupon the heart of the fox was moved with tenderness for him. On hearing his humble expressions, and the words which indicated his repenting of arrogance and pride, he was affected with compassion for him, and, leaping with joy, placed himself at the brink of the pit, and sat upon his hind-legs and hung down his tail into the cavity. Upon this the wolf arose, and stretched forth his paw towards the fox's tail, and pulled him down to him; so the fox was with him in the pit. The wolf then said to him, "O fox of little compassion! wherefore didst thou rejoice in my misfortune? Now thou hast become my companion, and in my power. Thou hast fallen into the pit with me, and punishment hath quickly overtaken thee. The sages have said, 'If any one of you reproach his brother for deriving his nourishment from miserable means, he shall experience the same necessity,' and how excellent is the saying of the poet-- "'When fortune throweth itself heavily upon some, and encampeth by the side of others, Say to those who rejoice over us, "Awake: the rejoicers over us shall suffer as _we_ have done."' "I must now," he continued, "hasten thy slaughter, before thou beholdest mine." So the fox said within himself, "I have fallen into the snare with this tyrant, and my present case requireth the employment of artifice and frauds. It hath been said that the woman maketh her ornaments for the day of festivity; and, in a proverb, 'I have not reserved thee, O my tear, but for the time of my difficulty!' and if I employ not some stratagem in the affair of this tyrannical wild beast, I perish inevitably. How good is the saying of the poet-- "'Support thyself by guile; for thou livest in an age whose sons are like the lions of the forest; And brandish around the spear of artifice, that the mill of subsistence may revolve; And pluck the fruits; or if they be beyond thy reach, then content thyself with herbage.'" He then said to the wolf, "Hasten not to kill me, lest thou repent, O courageous wild beast, endowed with might and excessive fortitude! If thou delay, and consider what I am about to tell thee, thou wilt know the desire that I formed; and if thou hasten to kill me, there will be no profit to thee in thy doing so, but we shall die here together." So the wolf said, "O thou wily deceiver! how is it that thou hopest to effect my safety and thine own, that thou askest me to give thee a delay? Acquaint me with the desire that thou formedst." The fox replied, "As to the desire that I formed, it was such as requireth thee to recompense me for it well, since, when I heard thy promises, and thy confession of thy past conduct, and thy regret at not having before repented and done good; and when I heard thy vows to abstain from injurious conduct to thy companions and others, and to relinquish the eating of the grapes and all other fruits, and to impose upon thyself the obligation of humility, and to clip thy claws and break thy dog-teeth, and to wear wool and offer sacrifice to God (whose name be exalted!) if He delivered thee from thy present state, I was affected with compassion for thee, though I was before longing for thy destruction. So when I heard thy profession of repentance, and what thou vowedst to do if God delivered thee, I felt constrained to save thee from thy present predicament. I therefore hung down my tail that thou mightest catch hold of it and make thine escape. But thou wouldst not relinquish thy habit of severity and violence, nor desire escape and safety for thyself by gentleness. On the contrary, thou didst pull me in such a way that I thought my soul had departed, so I became a companion with thee of the abode of destruction and death; and nothing will effect the escape of myself and thee but one plan. If thou approve of this plan that I have to propose, we shall both save ourselves; and after that, it will be incumbent on thee to fulfil that which thou hast vowed to do, and I will be thy companion." So the wolf said, "And what is thy proposal that I am to accept?" The fox answered, "That thou raise thyself upright; then I will place myself upon thy head, that I may approach the surface of the earth, and when I am upon its surface I will go forth and bring thee something of which to take hold, and after that thou wilt deliver thyself." But the wolf replied, "I put no confidence in thy words; for the sages have said, 'He who confideth when he should hate is in error'; and it hath been said, 'He who confideth in the faithless is deceived, and he who maketh trial of the trier will repent.' How excellent also is the saying of the poet-- "'Let not your opinion be otherwise than evil; for ill opinion is among the strongest of intellectual qualities. Nothing casteth a man into a place of danger like the practice of good, and a fair opinion!' "And the saying of another-- "'Always hold an evil opinion, and so be safe. Whoso liveth vigilantly, his calamities will be few. Meet the enemy with a smiling and an open face; but raise for him an army in the heart to combat him.' "And that of another-- "'The most bitter of thine enemies is the nearest whom thou trustest in: beware then of men, and associate with them wilily. Thy favourable opinion of fortune is a weakness: think evil of it, therefore, and regard it with apprehension!'" "Verily," rejoined the fox, "an evil opinion is not commendable in every case; but a fair opinion is among the characteristics of excellence, and its result is escape from terrors. It is befitting, O wolf, that thou employ some stratagem for thine escape from the present predicament; and it will be better for us both to escape than to die. Relinquish, therefore, thine evil opinion and thy malevolence; for if thou think favourably of me, I shall not fail to do one of two things; either I shall bring thee something of which to lay hold, and thou wilt escape from thy present situation, or I shall act perfidiously towards thee, and save myself and leave thee; but this is a thing that cannot be, for I am not secured from meeting with some such affliction as that which thou hast met with, and that would be the punishment of perfidy. It hath been said in a proverb, 'Fidelity is good, and perfidy is base.' It is fit, then, that thou trust in me, for I have not been ignorant of misfortunes. Delay not, therefore, to contrive our escape, for the affair is too strait for thee to prolong thy discourse upon it." The wolf then said, "Verily, notwithstanding my little confidence in thy fidelity, I knew what was in thy heart, that thou desiredst my deliverance when thou wast convinced of my repentance; and I said within myself, 'If he be veracious in that which he asserteth, he hath made amends for his wickedness; and if he be false, he will be recompensed by his Lord.' So now I accept thy proposal to me, and if thou act perfidiously towards me, thy perfidy will be the means of thy destruction." Then the wolf raised himself upright in the pit, and took the fox upon his shoulders, so that his head reached the surface of the ground. The fox thereupon sprang from the wolf's shoulders, and found himself upon the face of the earth, when he fell down senseless. The wolf now said to him, "O my friend! forget not my case, nor delay my deliverance." The fox, however, uttered a loud laugh, and replied, "O thou deceived! it was nothing but my jesting with thee and deriding thee that entrapped me into thy power; for when I heard thy profession of repentance, joy excited me, and I was moved with delight, and danced, and my tail hung down into the pit; so thou didst pull me, and I fell by thee. Then God (whose name be exalted!) delivered me from thy hand. Wherefore, then, should I not aid in thy destruction when thou art of the associates of the devil? Know that I dreamt yesterday that I was dancing at thy wedding, and I related the dream to an interpreter, who said to me, 'Thou wilt fall into a frightful danger, and escape from it.' So I knew that my falling into thy power and my escape was the interpretation of my dream. Thou, too, knowest, O deceived idiot! that I am thine enemy. How, then, dost thou hope, with thy little sense and thine ignorance, that I will deliver thee, when thou hast heard what rude language I used? And how shall I endeavour to deliver thee, when the learned have said that by the death of the sinner are produced ease to mankind and purgation of the earth? Did I not fear that I should suffer, by fidelity to thee, such affliction as would be greater than that which may result from perfidy, I would consider upon means for thy deliverance." So when the wolf heard the words of the fox, he bit his paw in repentance. He then spoke softly to him, but obtained nothing thereby. With a low voice he said to him, "Verily, you tribe of foxes are the sweetest of people in tongue, and the most pleasant in jesting, and this is jesting in thee; but every time is not convenient for sport and joking." "O idiot!" replied the fox, "jesting hath a limit which its employer transgresseth not. Think not that God will give thee possession of me after He hath delivered me from thy power." The wolf then said to him, "Thou art one in whom it is proper to desire my liberation, on account of the former brotherhood and friendship that subsisted between us; and if thou deliver me, I will certainly recompense thee well." But the fox replied, "The sages have said, 'Take not as thy brother the ignorant and wicked, for he will disgrace thee, and not honour thee; and take not as thy brother the liar, for if good proceed from thee he will hide it, and if evil proceed from thee he will publish it!' And the sages have said, 'For everything there is a stratagem, excepting death; and everything may be rectified excepting the corruption of the very essence; and everything may be repelled excepting destiny.' And as to the recompense which thou assertest that I deserve of thee, I compare thee, in thy recompensing, to the serpent fleeing from the Háwee, when a man saw her in a state of terror, and said to her, 'What is the matter with thee, O serpent?' She answered, 'I have fled from the Háwee, for he seeketh me; and if thou deliver me from him, and conceal me with thee, I will recompense thee well, and do thee every kindness.' So the man took her, to obtain the reward, and eager for the recompense, and put her into his pocket; and when the Háwee had passed and gone his way, and what she feared had quitted her, the man said to her, 'Where is the recompense, for I have saved thee from that which thou fearedst and didst dread?' The serpent answered him, 'Tell me in what member I shall bite thee; for thou knowest that we exceed not this recompense.' She then inflicted upon him a bite, from which he died. And thee, O idiot!" continued the fox, "I compare to that serpent with that man. Hast thou not heard the saying of the poet?-- "'Trust not a person in whose heart thou hast made anger to dwell, nor think his anger hath ceased. Verily, the vipers, though smooth to the touch, show graceful motions, and hide mortal poison.'" "O eloquent and comely-faced animal!" rejoined the wolf, "be not ignorant of my condition, and of the fear with which mankind regard me. Thou knowest that I assault the strong places, and strip the vines. Do, therefore, what I have commanded thee, and attend to me as the slave attendeth to his master." "O ignorant idiot! who seekest what is vain," exclaimed the fox, "verily I wonder at thy stupidity, and at the roughness of thy manner, in thine ordering me to serve thee and to stand before thee as though I were a slave. But thou shalt soon see what will befall thee, by the splitting of thy head with stones, and the breaking of thy treacherous dog-teeth." The fox then stationed himself upon a mound overlooking the vineyard, and cried out incessantly to the people of the vineyard until they perceived him and came quickly to him. He remained steady before them until they drew near unto him, and unto the pit in which was the wolf, and then he fled. So the owners of the vineyard looked into the pit, and when they beheld the wolf in it, they instantly pelted him with heavy stones, and continued throwing stones and pieces of wood upon him, and piercing him with the points of spears, until they killed him, when they departed. Then the fox returned to the pit, and standing over the place of the wolf's slaughter, saw him dead; whereupon he shook his head in the excess of his joy, and recited these verses-- "Fate removed the wolf's soul, and it was snatched away. Far distant from happiness be his soul that hath perished. How long hast thou striven, Abos Tirhán, to destroy me! But now have burning calamities befallen thee. Thou hast fallen into a pit into which none shall descend without finding in it the blasts of death." After this the fox remained in the vineyard alone, and in security, fearing no mischief. THE SHEPHERD AND THE JOGIE. It is related that during the reign of a king of Cutch, named Lakeh, a Jogie lived, who was a wise man, and wonderfully skilled in the preparation of herbs. For years he had been occupied in searching for a peculiar kind of grass, the roots of which should be burnt, and a man be thrown into the flames. The body so burnt would become gold, and any of the members might be removed without the body sustaining any loss, as the parts so taken would always be self-restored. It so occurred that this Jogie, whilst following a flock of goats, observed one amongst them eating of the grass he was so anxious to procure. He immediately rooted it up, and desired the shepherd who was near to assist him in procuring firewood. When he had collected the wood and kindled a flame, into which the grass was thrown, the Jogie, wishing to render the shepherd the victim of his avarice, desired him, under some pretence, to make a few circuits round the fire. The man, however, suspecting foul play, watched his opportunity, and, seizing the Jogie himself, he threw him into the fire and left him to be consumed. Next day, on returning to the spot, great was his surprise to behold the golden figure of a man lying amongst the embers. He immediately chopped off one of the limbs and hid it. The next day he returned to take another, when his astonishment was yet greater to see that a fresh limb had replaced the one already taken. In short, the shepherd soon became wealthy, and revealed the secret of his riches to the king, Lakeh, who, by the same means, accumulated so much gold that every day he was in the habit of giving one lac and twenty-five thousand rupees in alms to fakirs. THE PERFIDIOUS VIZIER. A king of former times had an only son, whom he contracted in marriage to the daughter of another king. But the damsel, who was endowed with great beauty, had a cousin who had sought her in marriage, and had been rejected; wherefore he sent great presents to the vizier of the king just mentioned, requesting him to employ some stratagem by which to destroy his master's son, or to induce him to relinquish the damsel. The vizier consented. Then the father of the damsel sent to the king's son, inviting him to come and introduce himself to his daughter, to take her as his wife; and the father of the young man sent him with the treacherous vizier, attended by a thousand horsemen, and provided with rich presents. When they were proceeding over the desert, the vizier remembered that there was near unto them a spring of water called Ez-zahra, and that whosoever drank of it, if he were a man, became a woman. He therefore ordered the troops to alight near it, and induced the prince to go thither with him. When they arrived at the spring, the king's son dismounted from his courser, and washed his hands, and drank; and lo! he became a woman; whereupon he cried out and wept until he fainted. The vizier asked him what had befallen him, so the young man informed him; and on hearing his words, the vizier affected to be grieved for him, and wept. The king's son then sent the vizier back to his father to inform him of this event, determining not to proceed nor to return until his affliction should be removed from him, or until he should die. He remained by the fountain during a period of three days and nights, neither eating nor drinking, and on the fourth night there came to him a horseman with a crown upon his head, appearing like one of the sons of the kings. This horseman said to him, "Who brought you, O young man, unto this place?" So the young man told him his story; and when the horseman heard it, he pitied him, and said to him, "The vizier of thy father is the person who hath thrown thee into this calamity; for no one of mankind knoweth of this spring excepting one man." Then the horseman ordered him to mount with him. He therefore mounted; and the horseman said to him, "Come with me to my abode: for thou art my guest this night." The young man replied, "Inform me who thou art before I go with thee." And the horseman said, "I am the son of a king of the Jinn, and thou art son of a king of mankind. And now, be of good heart and cheerful eye on account of that which shall dispel thine anxiety and thy grief, for it is unto me easy." So the young man proceeded with him from the commencement of the day, forsaking his troops and soldiers (whom the vizier had left at their halting-place), and ceased not to travel on with his conductor until midnight, when the son of the king of the Jinn said to him, "Knowest thou what space we have traversed during this period?" The young man answered him, "I know not." The son of the king of the Jinn said, "We have traversed a space of a year's journey to him who travelleth with diligence." So the young man wondered thereat, and asked, "How shall I return to my family?" The other answered, "This is not thine affair. It is my affair; and when thou shalt have recovered from thy misfortune, thou shalt return to thy family in less time than the twinkling of an eye, for to accomplish that will be to me easy." The young man, on hearing these words from the Jinnee, almost flew with excessive delight. He thought that the event was a result of confused dreams, and said, "Extolled be the perfection of him who is able to restore the wretched, and render him prosperous!" They ceased not to proceed until morning, when they arrived at a verdant, bright land, with tall trees, and warbling birds, and gardens of surpassing beauty, and fair palaces; and thereupon the son of the king of the Jinn alighted from his courser, commanding the young man also to dismount. He therefore dismounted, and the Jinnee took him by the hand, and they entered one of the palaces, where the young man beheld an exalted king and a sultan of great dignity, and he remained with them that day, eating and drinking, until the approach of night. Then the son of the king of the Jinn arose and mounted with him, and they went forth, and proceeded during the night with diligence until the morning. And lo! they came to a black land, not inhabited, abounding with black rocks and stones, as though it were a part of hell; whereupon the son of the king of men said to the Jinnee, "What is the name of this land?" And he answered, "It is called the Dusky Land, and belongeth to one of the kings of the Jinn, whose name is Zu-l-Jenáheyn. None of the kings can attack him, nor doth any one enter his territory unless by his permission, so stop in thy place while I ask his permission." Accordingly the young man stopped, and the Jinn was absent from him for a while, and then returned to him; and they ceased not to proceed until they came to a spring flowing from black mountains. The Jinnee said to the young man, "Alight." He therefore alighted from his courser, and the Jinnee said to him, "Drink of this spring." The young prince drank of it, and immediately became again a man, as he was at first, by the power of God (whose name be exalted!), whereat he rejoiced with great joy, not to be exceeded. And he said to the Jinn, "O my brother, what is the name of this spring?" The Jinnee answered, "It is called the Spring of the Women: no woman drinketh of it but she becometh a man; therefore praise God, and thank Him for thy restoration, and mount thy courser." So the king's son prostrated himself, thanking God (whose name be exalted!). Then he mounted, and they journeyed with diligence during the rest of the day until they had returned to the land of the Jinnee, and the young man passed the night in his abode in the most comfortable manner; after which they ate and drank until the next night, when the son of the king of the Jinn said to him, "Dost thou desire to return to thy family this night?" The young man answered, "Yes." So the son of the king of the Jinn called one of his father's slaves, whose name was Rájiz, and said to him, "Take this young man hence, and carry him upon thy shoulders, and let not the dawn overtake him before he is with his father-in-law and his wife." The slave replied, "I hear and obey, and with feelings of love and honour will I do it." Then the slave absented himself for a while, and approached in the form of an 'Efreet. And when the young man saw him his reason fled, and he was stupefied; but the son of the king of the Jinn said to him, "No harm shall befall thee. Mount thy courser. Ascend upon his shoulders." The young man then mounted upon the slave's shoulders, and the son of the king of the Jinn said to him, "Close thine eyes." So he closed his eyes, and the slave flew with him between heaven and earth, and ceased not to fly along with him while the young man was unconscious, and the last third of the night came not before he was on the top of the palace of his father-in-law. Then the 'Efreet said to him, "Alight." He therefore alighted. And the 'Efreet said to him, "Open thine eyes; for this is the palace of thy father-in-law and his daughter." Then he left him and departed. And as soon as the day shone, and the alarm of the young man subsided, he descended from the roof of the palace; and when his father-in-law beheld him, he rose to him and met him, wondering at seeing him descend from the top of the palace, and he said to him, "We see other men come through the doors, but thou comest down from the sky." The young man replied, "What God (whose perfection be extolled, and whose name be exalted!) desired hath happened." And when the sun rose, his father-in-law ordered his vizier to prepare great banquets, and the wedding was celebrated; the young man remained there two months, and then departed with his wife to the city of his father. But as to the cousin of the damsel, he perished by reason of his jealousy and envy. Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, _at the Edinburgh University Press_. Transcriber's Note Minor punctuation errors have been repaired. Archaic and variable spelling, e.g. corse and corpse, is preserved as printed where there was no predominance of one form over the other. "The Relations of Ssidi Kur" contains phrasing at the end of each story, beginning with the word 'Ssarwala,' which is similar but not identical each time it occurs. While two seemingly typographic errors have been amended for consistency, the phrases are otherwise preserved as printed in each case. The following amendments have been made, for consistency: Page 21--El-Yeman amended to El-Yemen--"... and while he was proceeding over the deserts of El-Yemen ..." Page 58--jackzang amended to jakzang--"... thou hast spoken words:--Ssarwala missbrod jakzang! ..." Page 88--Swarwala amended to Ssarwala--"Ssarwala missdood jakzang!" Page 115--aerlic amended to aerliks--"And the two aerliks (fiends) cried, ..." Page 118--evil-doer amended to evildoer--"... That the evildoer may be really discovered, ..." 
39408	----	The Folk-Lore Society For Collecting and Printing Relics of Popular Antiquities, &c. Established in The Year MDCCCLXXVIII. Publications Of The Folk-lore Society LX. [1907] THE GRATEFUL DEAD The History of a Folk Story By GORDON HALL GEROULD B. Litt. (Oxon.) Preceptor in English in Princeton University Published for the Folk-Lore Society by David Nutt, 57--59 Long Acre London 1908 To Professor A. S. Napier In gratitude and friendship TABLE OF CONTENTS Chap. Page Introduction ix I. A Review 1 II. Bibliography 7 III. Tales with the Simple Theme and Miscellaneous Combinations 26 IV. The Grateful Dead and The Poison Maiden 44 V. The Grateful Dead and The Ransomed Woman 76 VI. The Grateful Dead and The Water of Life or Kindred Themes 119 VII. The Relations of The Grateful Dead to The Spendthrift Knight, The Two Friends, and The Thankful Beasts 153 VIII. Conclusion 162 Index 175 INTRODUCTION. The combination of narrative themes is so frequent a phenomenon in folk and formal literature that one almost forgets to wonder at it. Yet in point of fact the reason for it and the means by which it is accomplished are mysteries past our present comprehension. If we could learn how and where popular tales unite, if we could formulate any general principle of union or severance, we should be well on the way to an understanding of the riddle which has hitherto baffled all students of narrative, namely, the diffusion of stories. We have theories enough; our immediate need is for more studies of individual themes, careful and, if it must be, elaborate discussions of many well-known cycles. Happily, these are accumulating and give promise of much useful knowledge at no distant day. One principle has become clear. Since motives are so frequently found in combination, it is essential that the complex types be analyzed and arranged, with an eye kept single nevertheless to the master-theme under discussion. Collectors, both primary and subsidiary, have done such valiant service that the treasures at our command are amply sufficient for such studies, so extensive, indeed, that the task of going through them thoroughly has become too great for the unassisted student. It cannot be too strongly urged that a single theme in its various types and compounds must be made predominant in any useful comparative study. This is true when the sources and analogues of any literary work are treated; it is even truer when the bare motive is discussed. The Grateful Dead furnishes an apt illustration of the necessity of such handling. It appears in a variety of different combinations, almost never alone. Indeed, it is so widespread a tale, and its combinations are so various, that there is the utmost difficulty in determining just what may properly be regarded the original kernel of it, the simple theme to which other motives were joined. Various opinions, as we shall see, have been held with reference to this matter, most of them justified perhaps by the materials in the hands of the scholars holding them, but none quite adequate in view of later evidence. The true way to solve the riddle appears to be this: we must ask the question,--what is the residuum when the tale is stripped of elements not common to a very great majority of the versions belonging to the cycle? What is left amounts to the following,--the story reduced to its lowest terms, I take it. A man finds a corpse lying unburied, and out of pure philanthropy procures interment for it at great personal inconvenience. Later he is met by the ghost of the dead man, who in many cases promises him help on condition of receiving, in return, half of whatever he gets. The hero obtains a wife (or some other reward), and, when called upon, is ready to fulfil his bargain as to sharing his possessions. Nowhere does a version appear in quite this form; but from what follows it will be seen that the simple story must have proceeded along some such lines. The compounds in which it occurs show much variety. It will be necessary to study these in detail, not merely one or two of them but as many as can be found. Despite the bewildering complexities that may arise, I hope that this method of approach may throw some new light on the wanderings of the tale. Of my debt to various friends and to many books, though indicated in the body of the work, I wish to make general and grateful acknowledgment here. My thanks, furthermore, are due to the librarians of Harvard University for their courteous hospitality; to Professor G. L. Kittredge for his generous encouragement to proceed with this study, though he himself, as I found after most of my material was collected, had undertaken it several years before I began; and to Professor R. K. Root for his help in reading the proofs. CHAPTER I. A REVIEW. To Karl Simrock is due the honour of discovering the importance of The Grateful Dead for the student of literature and legend. In his little book, Der gute Gerhard und die dankbaren Todten, [1] he called attention to the theme as a theme, and treated it with a breadth of knowledge and a clearness of insight remarkable in an attempt to unravel for the first time the mixed strands of so wide-spread a tale. Using the Middle High German exemplary romance, Der gute Gerhard, as his point of departure, he examined seventeen other stories, all but two of which have the motive well preserved. [2] Unhappily, the versions which he found came from a limited section of Europe, most of them from Germanic sources. Thus he was led to an interpretation of the tale on the basis of Germanic mythology. This, though ingenious enough and very erudite, need not detain us. It was done according to a fashion of the time, which has long since been discarded. Simrock took the essential traits of the theme to be the burial of the dead and the ransom from captivity. [3] "Wo nur noch eine von beiden das Thema zu bilden scheint," he said, "da hat die Ueberliefertung gelitten." Here again he was misled by the narrow range of his material, as later studies have shown. Nearly all the versions he cited have the motive of a ransomed princess, though the majority of the stories now known to be members of the cycle do not contain it. Three years after the publication of Simrock's monograph Benfey treated some features of the theme in a note appended to his discussion of The Thankful Beasts in the monumental Pantschatantra. [4] Though he named but a few variants, he found an Armenian tale which he compared with the European versions, coming to the conclusion not only that the motive proceeded from the Orient but also that the Armenian version had the original form of it. That is, he took the ransom and burial of the dead, the parting of a woman possessed by a serpent, and the saving of the hero on the bridal night as the essential features. This was a step in advance. George Stephens in his edition of Sir Amadas [5] held much the same view. He added several important versions, and scored Simrock for admitting Der gute Gerhard, saying that he could not see that it had "any direct connection" with The Grateful Dead. [6] He was at least partly in the right, even though his statement was misleading. According to his Opinion, [7] "the peculiar feature of the Princess (Maiden) being freed from demonic influence by celestial aid, is undoubtedly the original form of the tale." In a series of notes beginning in the year 1858 Köhler [8] supplied a large number of variants, which have been invaluable for succeeding study of the theme. Nowhere, however, did he give an ordered account of the versions at his command or discuss the relation of the elements--a regrettable omission. The contributions of Liebrecht, [9] though less extensive, were of the same sort. In his article published in 1868 he said that he thought The Grateful Dead to be of European origin, [10] but he added nothing to our knowledge of the essential form of the story. The following decade saw the publication by Sepp of a rather brief account of the motive, [11] which was chiefly remarkable for its summary of classical and pre-classical references concerning the duty of burial. Like Stephens he assumed that the release of a maiden from the possession of demons was an essential part of the tale. In 1886 Cosquin brought the discussion one step further by showing [12] that the theme is sometimes found in combination with The Golden Bird and The Water of Life. He did not, however, attempt to define the original form of the story nor to trace its development. By all odds the most adequate treatment that The Grateful Dead has yet received is found in Hippe's monograph, Untersuchungen zu der mittelenglischen Romanze von Sir Amadas, which appeared in 1888. [13] Not only did he gather together practically all the variants mentioned previous to that time and add some few new ones, but he studied the theme with such interpretative insight that anyone going over the same field would be tempted to offer an apology for what may seem superfluous labour. Such a follower, and all followers, must gratefully acknowledge their indebtedness to his labours. Yet one who follows imperfectly the counsels of perfection may discover certain defects in Hippe's work. He neglects altogether Cosquin's hint as to the combination of the theme with The Water of Life and allied tales, thus leaving out of account an important element, which is intimately connected with the chief motive in a large number of tales. Indeed, his effort to simplify, commendable and even necessary as it is, brings him to conclusions that in some respects, I believe, are not sound. Though he states the essential points of the primitive story in a form [14] which can hardly be bettered and which corresponds almost exactly to the one that I have been led to accept from independent consideration of the material, [15] he fails to see that he is dealing in almost every case, not with a simple theme with modified details but with compound themes. Thus he starts out with the "Sage vom dankbaren Toten und der Frau mit den Drachen im Leibe" [16] and explains all variations from this type either by the weakening of this feature and that or by the introduction of a single new motive, the story of The Ransomed Woman. He would thus make it appear [17] that we have a well-ordered progression from one combined type to various other combined and simplified types. Such a series is possible without doubt, but it can hardly be admitted till the interplay of all accessible themes, which have entered into combination with the chief theme, is investigated. Hippe passes these things over silently and so gives the subject a specious air of simplicity to which it has no right. I should be the last to deny the necessity of treating narrative themes each for itself, and I have nothing but admiration for the general conduct of Hippe's investigation; but I wish to show that his methods, and therefore his results, are at fault in so far as he does not recognize the nature of the combinations into which The Grateful Dead enters. Traces of other stories, unless their presence is obviously artificial, must be carefully considered, since in dealing with cycles of such fluid stuff as folk-tales it is certainly wise to give each element due consideration. Certain minor errors in Hippe's article will be mentioned in due course, though my constant obligations to it must be emphasized here. Since the appearance of Hippe's study no one has treated The Grateful Dead with such scope as to modify his conclusions. Perhaps the most interesting work in the field has been that of Dr. Dutz [18] on the relation of George Peele's Old Wives' Tale to our theme. He follows Hippe's scheme, but gives some interesting new variants. Of less importance, but useful within its limits, is the section devoted to the saga by Dr. Heinrich Wilhelmi in his Studien über die Chanson de Lion de Bourges. [19] Though he added no new versions, the author studied in detail the relationship of some of the mediaeval forms to one another, basing his results for the most part on careful textual comparison. His gravest fault was the thoroughly artificial way in which he mapped out the field as a whole, a method which could lead only to erroneous conclusions, since he classified according to a couple of superficial traits. An English study by Mr. F. H. Groome on Tobit and Jack the Giant-Killer [20] unhappily was written without regard to the previous literature of the subject, and simply rehearses a number of well-known variants. In this brief review I have touched only on such studies of The Grateful Dead as have materially enlarged the knowledge of the subject or have attempted a discussion of the theme in a broad way. In the following chapter reference will be made to other works, in which particular versions have been printed or summarized. CHAPTER II. BIBLIOGRAPHY. The following list of variants of The Grateful Dead includes only such tales as have the fundamental traits, as sketched above, either expressed or clearly implied. Thus Der gute Gerhard, for example, is not mentioned because it has only the motive of The Ransomed Woman, while one of the folk-tales from Hungary is admitted because it follows in general outline one of the combined types to be discussed later, even though the burial of the dead is obscured. I cite by the short titles which will be used to indicate the stories in the subsequent discussion. The arrangement is roughly geographical. Tobit. In the apocryphal book of Tobit. According to Neubauer, The Book of Tobit, a Chaldee Text from a unique MS. in the Bodleian Library, 1878, p. xv, Tobit was originally written in Hebrew, although the Hebrew text preserved was taken from Chaldee. Neubauer (p. xvii) quotes Graetz, Geschichte der Juden, (2nd ed.) iv. 466, as saying that the book was written in the time of Hadrian, and he concludes that it cannot be earlier because it was unknown to Josephus. The correspondence with Sir Amadas, and thus with The Grateful Dead generally, seems to have been first noted by Simrock, p. 131 f., again by Köhler, Germania, iii. 203, by Stephens, p. 7, by Hippe, p. 142, etc. Armenian. A. von Haxthausen, Transkaukasia, 1856, i. 333 f. A modern folk-tale. Reprinted entire by Benfey, Pantschatantra, i. 219, note, and by Köhler, Germania, iii. 202 f. A somewhat inadequate summary is given by Hippe, p. 143; a better one is found in Arch. f. slav. Phil. v. 43, by Köhler, who mentioned the tale again in Or. und Occ. ii. 328, and iii. 96. Summarized also by Sepp, p. 681, Groome, Folk-Lore, ix. 228 f., and mentioned by Wilhelmi, p.45. Jewish. Reischer, Schaare Jeruschalajim, 1880, pp. 86-99. Summarized by Gaster, Germania, xxvi. 200-202, and from him by Hippe, pp. 143, 144. A modern folk-tale from Palestine. Annamite. Landes, Contes et légendes annamites, 1886, pp. 162, 163, "La reconnaissance de l'étudiant mort." A modern folk-tale. Siberian. Radloff, Proben der Volkslitteratur der türkischen Stämme Süd-Siberiens, 1866, i. 329-331. See Köhler, Arch. f. slav. Phil. v. 43, note. Simonides. Cicero, De Divinatione, i. 27, referred to again in ii. 65 and 66. Retold by Valerius Maximus, Facta et Dicta, i. 7; after him by Robert Holkot, Super Libros Sapientiae, Lectio 103; and again by Chaucer in the Nun's Priest's Tale, Cant. Tales, B, 4257-4294. For the relationship of Chaucer's anecdote to those in Latin see Skeat, note in his edition, Lounsbury, Studies in Chaucer, 1892, ii. 274, and Petersen, On the Sources of the Nonne Prestes Tale, 1898, pp. 106-117. Connected with The Grateful Dead by Freudenberg in a review of Simrock in Jahrbücher des Vereins von Alterthumsfreunden im Rheinlande, xxv. 172. See also Köhler, Germania iii. 209, Liebrecht in Heidelberger Jahrbücher der Lit. lxi. 449, 450, and Sepp. p. 680. Not treated by Hippe. Gypsy. A. G. Paspati, Études sur les Tchinghianés ou Bohémiens de l'Empire Ottoman, 1870, pp. 601-605, Translated from Paspati by F. H. Groome, Gypsy Folk-Tales, 1899, pp. 1-3. Summarized by Köhler, Arch. f. slav. Phil. v. 43 and carelessly by Hippe, p. 143. This tale was heard near Adrianople. Cited by Foerster, Richars li Biaus, p. xxviii, and by Wilhelmi, p. 45. Greek. J. G. von Hahn, Griechische und albanesische Märchen, 1864, no. 53, pp. 288-295, "Belohnte Treue." Summarized in part by Hippe, p. 149. See also Liebrecht, Heid. Jahrbücher, lxi. 451, and by Groome, Folk-Lore, ix. 243. This tale was found in northern Euboea. Maltese. Hans Stumme, Maltesische Märchen, Gedichte und Rätsel, 1904, no. 12, pp. 39-45. Russian I. Afansjew, Russische Volksmärchen, Heft 6, p. 323 f. Analyzed by Schiefner, Or. und Occ. ii. 174, 175, and after him by Hippe, p. 144, with some omissions. See Köhler, Or. und Occ. iii. 93-103, and Sepp, p. 684. Russian II. Chudjakow, Grossrussische Märchen, Heft 3, pp. 165-168. Translation by Schiefner, Or. und Occ. iii. 93-96 in article by Köhler. In English by Groome, Folk-Lore, ix. 229 ff. Summarized by Köhler, Arch. f. slav. Phil. v. 43, and (with an important omission) by Hippe, pp. 144, 145. See Köhler's notes in Gonzenbach, Sicilianische Märchen, ii. 250. Russian III. Reproduced from an illustrated folk-book in the Publications of the Society of Friends of Old Literature in St. Petersburg, 1880, no. 49. Summarized by V. Jagic, Arch. f. slav. Phil. v. 480, and by Hippe, p. 145. Jagic remarks that the tale must have been widely known in Russia in the eighteenth century, though clearly of foreign origin. Russian IV. Dietrich, Russische Volksmärchen in den Urschrift gesammelt, 1831, no. 16, pp. 199-207. English translation, Russian Popular Tales. Translated from the German Version of Anton Dietrich, 1857, pp. 179-186. "Sila Zarewitsch und Iwaschka mit dem weissen Hemde." Like other tales in the collection this was taken from a popular print bought at Moscow. Mentioned by Benfey, Pantschatantra, i. 220, and by Köhler, Or. u. Occ. ii. 328. Russian V. [21] P. V. Sejn, Materialien zur Kenntniss der russischen Bevölkerung von Nordwest-Russland, 1893, ii. 66-68, no. 33. Cited by Polívka in Arch. f. slav. Phil. xix. 251. Russian VI. P. V. Sejn, work cited, ii. 401-407, no. 227. Cited by Polívka, Arch. f. slav. Phil. xix. 262. Servian I. Vuk Stefanovic Karadzic, 2nd ed. of his Servian folk-tales, 1870. Translated by Madam Mijatovies (Mijatovich), Serbian Folk-Lore, 1874, p. 96. Summarized from Servian by Köhler, Arch. f. slav. Phil. ii. 631, 632, and from him by Hippe, p. 145. Servian II. Summarized from Gj. K. Stefanovic's collection, 1871, no. 15, by Jagic in Arch. f. slav. Phil. v. 40 f. with the title "Vlatko und der dankbare Todte." Thence by Hippe, p. 145. Servian III. Jagic in Arch. f. slav. Phil. v. 41 f, from Stojanovic's collection, no. 31. Hippe's summary, p. 146, is exceedingly brief and faulty. Servian IV. Jagic, Arch. f. slav. Phil. v. 42, from Matica, B. 105 (A.D. 1863, St. Novakovic). Summary of this by Hippe, p. 146. Jagic calls the tale "Ein Goldfisch." Servian V. Krauss, Sagen und Märchen der Südslaven, 1883, i. 385-388, "Der Vilaberg." Summarized by Dutz, p. 11. Servian VI. Krauss, work cited, i. 114-119. "Fuhrmann Tueguts Himmelswagen." From the manuscript collection of Valjavec. Summarized by Dutz, p. 18, note 2. Bohemian. [22] Waldau, Böhmisches Märchenbuch, 1860, pp. 213-241. Mentioned by Köhler, Or. und Occ. ii. 329, and by Hippe, p. 146. Summarized by the former, Or. und Occ. iii. 97 f. Polish. K. W. Wójcicki, Klechdy, Starozytne podania i powiesci ludowe, 2nd ed., Warsaw, 1851. Translated into German by F. H. Lewestam, Polnische Volkssagen und Märchen, 1839, pp. 130 ff; into English by A. H. Wratislaw, Sixty Folk-Tales from exclusively Slavonic Sources, 1889, pp. 121 ff.; and into French by Louis Leger, Recueil de contes populaires slaves, 1882, pp. 119 ff. Summarized by Köhler, Germania, iii. 200 f., and by Hippe, pp. 146 f. See also Sepp, p. 684, Dutz, p. 11, Groome, Gypsy Folk-Tales, p. 3, note, and Arivau, Folk-Lore de Proaza, 1886, p. 205. Bulgarian. Lydia Schischmánoff, Légendes religieuses bulgares, 1896, no. 77, pp. 202-209, [23] "Le berger, son fils, et l'archange." Lithuanian I. L. Geitler, Litauische Studien, 1875, pp. 21-23. Analyzed by Köhler, Arch. f. slav. Phil. ii. 633, and after him briefly by Hippe, [24] p. 147, as his "Lithuanian II." Lithuanian II. Köhler, Arch. f. slav. Phil. ii. 633 f. From Prussian Lithuania. Summarized by Hippe, p. 147, as his "Lithuanian III." Hungarian I. G. Stier, Ungarische Sagen und Märchen, 1850, pp. 110-122. Mentioned by Köhler, Germania, iii. 202, and by Hippe, p. 147. Hungarian II. G. Stier, Ungarische Volksmärchen, 1857, pp. 153-167. Summarized by Köhler, Germania, iii. 199 f., and too briefly by Hippe, p. 148. Rumanian I. Arthur Schott, Neue walachische Märchen, in Hackländer and Hoefer's Hausblätter, 1857, iv. 470-473. Mentioned by Stephens, p. 10, Hippe, p. 147, and Benfey, Pantschatantra, ii. 532. Rumanian II. F. Obert, Romänische Märchen und Sagen aus Siebenbürgen, in Das Ausland, 1858, p. 117. Mentioned by Köhler, Germania, iii. 202, and by Hippe, p. 147. Transylvanian. Haltrich, Deutsche Volksmärchen aus dem Sachsenlande in Siebenbürgen, 1856, pp. 42-45. Analyzed by Köhler, Or. und Occ. ii. 326, and incompletely by Hippe, p. 148. Mentioned by Stephens, p. 10, and Sepp, p. 684. Esthonian I. Schiefner, Or. und Occ. ii. 175 f., whence the analysis by Hippe, p. 148. Esthonian II. Reisen in mehrere russische Gouvernements in den Jahren 1801, 1807 und 1815, 1830, v. 186-192, from Ein Ausflug nach Esthland im Junius 1807. Reprinted by Kletke, Märchensaal, 1845, ii. 60-62. Summarized by Dutz, p. 18, note 3. Finnish. Liebrecht, Germania, xxiv. 131, 132. Communicated by Schiefner from Suomen, Kansan Satuja, Helsingfors, 1866. Summarized by Hippe, pp. 148 f. Catalan. F. Maspons y Labrós, Lo Rondollayre: Quentos populars catalans, Segona Série, 1872, no. 5, pp. 34-37. Analyzed by Liebrecht, Heid. Jahrbücher der Lit. lxv. 894 (1872), and after him by Hippe, p. 151. Mentioned by d'Ancona, Romania, iii. 192, and by Foerster, Richars li Biaus, p. xxviii. Spanish. Duran, Romancero general, 1849-51, ii. 299-302, nos. 1291, 1292. Summarized by Köhler, Or. und Occ. ii. 323 f. and after him by Cosquin, Contes populaires, i. 215, and by Hippe, p. 151. [25] Mentioned by Sepp, p. 686. Lope de Vega. Comedy in two parts, Don Juan de Castro. According to J. R. Chorley, Catálogo de comedias y autos de Frey Félix de Vega Carpio, p. 5, this play is to be found in Part xix. of the Comedias published in 1623 (later issues 1624, 1625, and 1627). A. Schaeffer, Geschichte des spanischen Nationaldramas, 1890, i. 141, says that the second part, called Las aventuras de don Juan de Alarcos, is in Part xxv. of Lope's comedies. The entire play is edited by Hartzenbusch, Comedias Escogidas de Lope de Vega, iv. 373 ff. and 395 ff. in the Biblioteca de autores españoles, lii. Schaeffer, pp. 141, 142, gives a careful summary of the play, and Köhler, Or. und Occ. iii. 100 f., gives another. The latter is followed by Hippe, p. 151. Mentioned by Duran, Romancero general, ii. 299, by Sepp, p. 686, and by Wilhelmi, pp. 45 ff. and 60. Calderon. El Mejor Amigo el Muerto, by Luis de Belmonte, Francisco de Rojas, and Pedro Calderon de la Barca, in Biblioteca de autores españoles, xiv. 471-488, and in Comedias escogidas de los mejores ingenios de España, 1657, ix. 53-84. Analyzed by Köhler, Or. und Occ, iii. 100 f., and briefly after him by Hippe, p. 151. Mentioned by Sepp, p. 686, and by Wilhelmi, pp. 60 f. Schaeffer, work cited, ii. 283 f., says that a play of this name was written by Belmonte alone in 1610, which was revised about 1627 with the aid of Rojas and Calderon. Trancoso. [26] Contos e historias de proveito e exemplo, by Gonçalo Fernandez Trancoso, Parte 2, Cont ii., first published in 1575 and frequently re-issued during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In the edition published at Lisbon in 1693, our tale is found on pp. 45r.-60r.; and in that published at the same place in 1710, on pp. 110-177. Menéndez y Pelayo, Orígenes de la Novela (Nueva Biblioteca de autores españoles vii.), 1907, ii. lxxxvii ff., gives a bibliography, the table of contents, and a description of the work on the basis of seventeenth century editions; on p. xcv. he connects the tale above-mentioned with The Grateful Dead. See T. Braga, Contos tradiconaes do povo portuguez, 1883, ii. 63-128, who prints nineteen of the tales in abbreviated form, but not ours. Nicholas. Johannes Junior (Gobius), Scala Celi, 1480, under Elemosina. Gobius was born in the south of France and lived about the middle of the fourteenth century. [27] Summary by Simrock, pp. 106-109. Mentioned by Hippe, p. 169. Richars. Richars li Biaus, ed. W. Foerster, 1874. A romance written in Picardy or eastwards in the thirteenth century (Foerster, p. xxi). Analyzed by Köhler, Revue critique, 1868, pp. 412 ff., and Hippe, p. 155. Compared in detail with Lion de Bourges by Wilhelmi, pp. 46 ff. Lion de Bourges. An Old French romance known to exist in two manuscripts, the earlier dating from the fourteenth century, [28] the later from about the end of the fifteenth. [29] It has never been edited, but the portion which concerns us was analyzed in detail by Wilhelmi, pp. 18-38. This summary I have made the basis of my discussion. The romance was mentioned by P. Paris, Foerster, and Suchier (as cited in note below), Gautier, Les épopées françaises, 1st ed. 1865, i. 471-473, Ebert, Jahrbuch f. rom. und engl. Lit. iv. 53, 54, and Benfey, Pantschatantra, i. 220. A prose translation into German is found in manuscripts of the fifteenth century, which does not differ materially from the original. [30] This was printed in 1514, and summarized by F. H. von der Hagen, Gesammtabenteuer, 1850, i. xcvii-xcix, Simrock, pp. 104-106, and Hippe, p. 154. See E. Müller, Überlieferung des Herpin von Burges, 1905, who analyzes the work and treats its relations to Lion. Oliver. Olivier de Castille et Artus d'Algarbe, a French prose romance composed before 1472, according to Foulché-Delbosc (Revue hispanique, ix. 592). The first and second editions were printed at Geneva, the first in 1482, the second before 1492. [31] There exist at least three manuscripts of the work from the fifteenth century: MS. Bibl. nat. fran. 12574 (which attributes the romance to a David Aubert, according to Gröber, Grundriss der rom. Phil. ii. 1, 1145); MS. Brussels 3861; and Univ. of Ghent, MS. 470. The designs of the last have been reproduced, together with a summary of the text, by Heins and Bergmans, Olivier de Castille, 1896. An English translation was printed by Wynkyn de Worde in 1518. A translation from the second French edition into Castilian was made by Philippe Camus, which was printed thirteen times between 1499 and 1845. [32] The edition of 1499 has lately been reproduced in facsimile by A. M. Huntington, La historia de los nobles caualleros Oliueros de castilla y artus dalgarbe, 1902. A German translation from the French was made by Wilhelm Ziely in 1521, and this was translated into English by Leighton and Barrett, The History of Oliver and Arthur, 1903. From the German prose Hans Sachs took the material for his comedy on the theme (publ. 1556). A summary of Ziely's work is given by Frölicher, Thüring von Ringoltingen's "Melusine," Wilhelm Ziely's "Olivier und Artus" und "Valentin und Orsus," 1889, pp. 65 f., which is used by Wilhelmi, pp. 55, 56, in his comparison of the romance with Richars and Lion de Bourges. An Italian translation, presumably from the French, was printed three or four times from 1552 to 1622. [33] A summary of the story is given in Mélanges tirés d'une grande bibliothèque, by E. V. 1780, pp. 78 ff., with an incorrect note about the romance, reproduced by Hippe, pp. 155 f., with an analysis from the same source of the part of the tale belonging to our cycle. Robert Laneham in his list of ballads and romances, made in 1575, mentions Olyuer of the Castl. See Furnivall, Captain Cox, his Ballads and Books, Ballad Soc. 1871, vii. xxxvii and 30. Jean de Calais. I. Mme. Angélique de Gomez, Histoire de Jean de Calais, 1723. Sketched in the Bibliothèque universelle des romans, Dec. 1776, pp. 134 ff. Köhler, Germania, iii. 204 ff., gives a summary of the work, which Mme. de Gomez stated was "tiré d'un livre qui a pour titre: Histoire fabuleuse de la Maison des Rois de Portugal." A later anonymous redaction of this Jean de Calais exists in prints of 1770, 1776, and 1787, and it continued to be issued in the nineteenth century. Summarized by Hippe, pp. 156 f., and by Sepp, pp. 685 f. Mentioned by Köhler in Gonzenbach, Sicil. Märchen, ii. 250. II. Bladé, Contes populaires de la Gascogne, 1886, ii. 67-90. This and the following folk-versions of Jean deserve careful consideration because of the interesting character of their variations. III. J. B. Andrews, Folk-Lore Record, iii. 48 ff., from Mentone. See Liebrecht, Engl. Stud. v. 158, and Hippe, p. 157. IV. and V. J. B. Andrews, Contes ligures, traditions de la Rivière, 1892, pp. 111-116, no. 26, and pp. 187-192, no. 41. These two versions differ slightly from one another, but more from the preceding. VI. P. Sébillot, Contes populaires de la Haute-Bretagne, 3me. série, 1882, pp. 164-171. VII. Wentworth Webster, Basque Legends, 1877, pp. 151-154. See Luzel, Légendes chrétiennes, p. 90, note. VIII. A. Le Braz, La légende de la mort chez les Bretons armoricains, nouv. éd., 1902, ii. 211-231. IX. L. Giner Arivau, Folk-Lore de Proaza (Asturia), in Biblioteca de las tradiciones populares españolas, viii. 194-201 (1886). X. Gittée and Lemoine, Contes populaires du pays Wallon, 1891, pp. 57-61. Walewein. Roman van Walewein, ed. Jonckbloet, 1846. Analyzed by G. Paris, Hist. litt. de la France, xxx. 82-84, and by W. P. Ker, The Roman van Walewein (Gawain) in Folk-Lore, v. 121-127 (1894). My analysis is a combination made from these two summaries. Lotharingian. Cosquin, Contes populaires de Lorraine, 1886, i. 208-212 (no. xix). Noted by Hippe, p. 157. Gasconian. Cénac Moncaut, Contes populaires de la Gascogne, 1861, pp. 5-14, "Rira bien qui rira le dernier." Summarized by Köhler, Or. und Occ. ii. 329. Mentioned by Hippe, p. 157, and by Groome, Folk-Lore, ix. 239. Dianese. Novella di Messer Dianese e di Messer Gigliotto, ed. d'Ancona and Sforza, 1868. Analyzed by Liebrecht, Heid. Jahrbücher der Lit. lxi. 450 (1868), by d'Ancona, Romania, iii. 191, (reprinted in his Studj di critica e storia, 1880, p. 353), and by Hippe, p. 152. D'Ancona's summary is from Papanti, nov. xxi. The variant is of the fourteenth century, according to the writer of the introduction of the edition of 1868, p. 5. See also Foerster, Richars li Biaus, p. xxiv, and Wilhelmi, pp. 44 and 57. Stellante Costantina. D'Ancona, Romania, iii. 192, mentions the popular poem Istoria bellissima di Stellante Costantina figliuola del gran turco, la quale fu rubata da certi cristiani che teneva in corte suo padre e fu venduta a un mercante di Vicenza presso Salerno, con molti intervalli e successi, composta da Giovanni Orazio Brunetto. I have not been able to find this poem and do not know how closely it accords with Dianese. Straparola I. Notti piacevoli, notte xi, favola 2. Analyzed by Grimm, Kinder- und Hausmärchen, 1856, iii, 289; and rather too briefly by Simrock, pp. 98-100, and Hippe, p. 153. See Benfey, Pant. i. 221, Köhler in Gonzenbach, Sicil. Märchen, ii. 249, and Groome, Tobit and Jack, Folk-Lore, ix. 226 f., and Gypsy Folk-Tales, p. 3, note. Straparola II. Notti piacevoli, notte v, favola 1. See Benfey, Pant. ii. 532. Tuscan. G. Nerucci, Sessanta novelle popolari, 1880, pp. 430-437, no. lii. A folk-tale from the neighbourhood of Pistoia. See Webster, Basque Legends, pp. 182-187, Crane, Italian Popular Tales, p. 350, and Cosquin, Contes populaires, i. 215. Istrian. Ive, Novelline popolari rovignesi, 1877, p. 19. See d'Ancona, Studj di critica, 1880, p. 354, and the summary by Crane, Italian Popular Tales, 1885, no. xxxv. pp. 131-136, from whom, as Ive's collection has been inaccessible to me, I derive my knowledge of the story. Crane gives the title of Ive as Fiabe, etc., d'Ancona as above. Venetian. G. Bernoni, Tradizioni populari veneziane, 1875, pp. 89-96. Referred to by Crane, Italian Popular Tales, p. 350. Sicilian. Laura Gonzenbach, Sicilianische Märchen, 1870, ii. 96-103. Summarized briefly by Hippe, pp. 153 f., and by Groome, Folk-Lore, ix. 239 f. Brazilian. Roméro and Braga, Contos populares do Brazil, 1885, no. x. pp. 215. See Cosquin, Contes populaires, i. 215. Basque I. Wentworth Webster, Basque Legends, 1877, pp. 182-187. See Cosquin, Contes populaires, i. 215, and Luzel, Légendes chrétiennes, p. 90, note. Basque II. Webster, work cited, pp. 146-150. See Crane, Italian Popular Tales, p. 351. Gaelic. Campbell, Popular Tales of the West Highlands, new ed. 1890, ii. 121-140, no. 32, "The Barra Widow's Son." Summarized by Köhler, Or. und Occ. ii. 322 f., by Sepp, p. 685, by Hippe, p. 150, and by Groome, Folk-Lore, ix. 235. See Köhler in Gonzenbach, Sicil. Märchen, ii. 249, and Groome, Gypsy Folk-Tales, p. 3, note. Irish I. W. Larminie, West Irish Folk-Tales and Romances, 1893, pp. 155-167, "Beauty of the World." Mentioned by Kittredge, Harvard Notes and Studies, viii. 250, note. Irish II. Douglas Hyde, Beside the Fire. A Collection of Irish Gaelic Folk-Stories, 1890, pp. 18-47, "The King of Ireland's Son." [34] Mentioned by Kittredge, place cited. Irish III. P. Kennedy, Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts, 1866, pp. 32-38, "Jack the Master and Jack the Servant." Breton I. Souvestre, Le foyer breton, contes et récits populaires, nouv. éd. 1874, ii. 1-21. Analyzed by Simrock, pp. 94-98, by Sepp, p. 685, and in part by Hippe, p. 149. See Luzel, Légendes chrétiennes, i. 90, note. Breton II. F. M. Luzel, Légendes chrétiennes de la Basse-Bretagne, 1881, i. 68-90, "Le fils de Saint Pierre." Cited by von Weilen, Zts. f. vergl. Litteraturgeschichte, N.F. i. 105. Analyzed in part by Hippe, pp. 149 f. Breton III. Luzel, work cited, ii. 40-58. Mentioned by von Weilen, place cited, and analyzed by Hippe, p. 150. The title, slightly misquoted by Hippe, is "Cantique spirituel sur la charité que montra Saint-Corentin envers un jeune homme qui fut chassé de chez son père et sa mère, sans motif ni raison." Breton IV. P. Sébillot, Contes populaires de la Haute-Bretagne, 1880, pp. 1-8. Noted by Luzel, work cited, p. 90, note, and by Cosquin, Contes populaires, i. 215. Breton V. F. M. Luzel, Contes populaires de Basse-Bretagne, 1887, ii. 176-194, "La princesse Marcassa." Breton VI. F. M. Luzel, work cited, ii. 209-230, "La princesse de Hongrie." Breton VII. F. M. Luzel, work cited, i. 403-424, "Iouenn Kerménou, l'homme de parole." Old Swedish. Stephens, pp. 73 f., reprinted with translation from his Ett Forn-Svenskt Legendarium, 1858, ii. 731 f. This variant from 1265-1270 is analyzed by Hippe, pp. 158 f. Swedish. P. O. Bäckström, Svenska Folkböcker, 1845-48, ii. 144-156, from H--d (Hammarsköld) and I--s (Imnelius), Svenska Folksagor, 1819, i. 157-189. Bäckström also cites several editions of the folk-book, which he says is of native origin. Mentioned by Stephens, p. 8. Summarized by Liebrecht, Germania, xxiv. 130 f., and by Hippe, p. 158. Danish I. S. Grundtvig, Gamle Danske Minder i Folkemunde, 1854, pp. 77-80, "Det fattige Lig." Mentioned by Stephens, p. 8, by Hippe, p. 160, and by Wilhelmi, p. 45. Summarized by Köhler, Or. und Occ. iii. 99. Danish II. Grundtvig, work cited, pp. 105-108, "De tre Mark." Summarized by Köhler, Or. und Occ. iii. 100. Cited by Hippe, p. 160, and Wilhelmi, p. 45. Danish III. Andersen, "Reisekammeraten," in Samlede Skrifter, xx. 54 ff. (1855). Found in most English editions of Andersen's tales as "The Travelling Companion." Based on Norwegian II. Analyzed by Sepp, p. 678. Cited by Köhler, Or. und Occ. ii. 327, by Hippe, p. 159, and by Groome, Gypsy Folk-Tales, p. 3, note. Norwegian I. Asbjörnsen, Iuletraeet, 1866, no. 8, and Norske Folke-Eventyr, 1871, no. 99, pp. 198-201. Summarized by Liebrecht, Heid. Jahrbücher der Lit. lxi. 451 (1868), and by Hippe, p. 159. See Liebrecht, Germania, xxiv. 131. Norwegian II. Asbjörnsen, Illustreret Kalender, 1855, pp. 32-39, Iuletraeet, no. 9, and Norske Folke-Eventyr, no. 100, pp. 201-214. Translated by Dasent, Tales from the Fjeld, 1874, pp. 71-88. Cited by Stephens, p. 8, Liebrecht, Germania, xxiv. 131, and Groome, Gypsy Folk-Tales, p. 3, note. Somewhat inadequate summaries by Liebrecht, Heid. Jahrbücher der Lit. lxi. 452, Hippe, p. 159, and Groome, Folk-Lore, ix. 230. Icelandic I. Árnason, Íslenzkar þjósögur og æfintýri, 1864, ii. 473-479. English translation in Powell and Magnússon, Legends Collected by Jón. Arnason, 1866, pp. 527-540. German translation in Poestion, Isländische Märchen, 1884, p. 274. Cited by Liebrecht, Heid. Jahrbücher, lxi. 451, and Germania, xxiv. 131, and by Wilhelmi, p. 45. Summary by Köhler, Or. und Occ. iii. 101 f., and by Hippe, p. 159. Icelandic II. A. Ritterhaus, Die neuisländischen Volksmärchen, 1902, no. 57, pp. 232-235. From MS. 537, Landesbibliothek, Reykjavík. Rittertriuwe. F. H. von der Hagen, Gesammtabenteuer, 1850, i. 105-128, no. 6. A poem of 866 lines from the fourteenth century. Summaries in Benfey, Pant. i. 221, in Simrock, pp. 100-103, and, with a rather bad error, in Hippe, p. 164. See Foerster, Richars li Biaus, p. xxiv. Compared with Richars, Oliver, and Lion de Bourges by Wilhelmi, pp. 56 f. Treu Heinrich. Der Junker und der treue Heinrich, ed. K. Kinzel, 1880. Previously edited and analyzed by von der Hagen, Gesammtabenteuer, iii. 197-255, no. 64. Summary by Simrock, pp. 103 f. Cited by Hippe, p. 165. Simrock I. J. W. Wolf, Deutsche Hausmärchen, 1858, pp. 243-250, contributed by W. von Plönnies. Summary by Simrock, pp. 46-51, by Köhler, Or. und Occ. iii. 98, and by Sepp, p. 683. Cited by Hippe, p. 165. Simrock II. W. von Plönnies in Zts. f. deutsche Myth. ii. 373-377. From the Odenwald. Summary by Simrock, pp. 51-54. See Hippe, p. 165. This is the story analyzed by Sepp, p. 688 f., though he also refers to Wolf's and Zingerle's tales. Simrock III. E. Meier, Deutsche Volksmärchen aus Schwaben, 1852, no. 42. pp. 143-153. Summarized by Simrock, pp. 54-58, Köhler, Or. und Occ. iii. 99, and Sepp, pp. 686 f. See Hippe, p. 165. Simrock IV. H. Pröhle, Kinder- und Volksmärchen, 1853, pp. 239-246. Summary by Simrock, pp. 58-62. See Hippe, p. 165. Simrock V. Simrock, pp. 62-65, contributed by Zingerle, who afterwards printed it in the Zts. f. deutsche Myth. ii. 367 ff., in Sagen, Märchen und Gebräuche aus Tirol, 1859, pp. 444 f., and in Kinder- und Hausmärchen aus Tirol, 2nd ed., 1870, pp. 261-267. Analyzed without mention of source by Sepp, pp. 687 f. See Hippe, p. 165. Simrock VI. Simrock, pp. 65-68, from Xanten. See Hippe, p. 165. Simrock VII. Simrock, pp. 68-75, from Xanten. See Hippe, p. 165. Simrock VIII. F. Woeste, Zts. f. deutsche Myth. iii. 46-50, from Grafschaft Mark. Given by Simrock, pp. 75-80. Analyzed by Sepp, p. 685, who inadvertently speaks of it as "nach irischer Sage." See Hippe, p. 165. Simrock IX. Simrock, pp. 80-89, contributed by Zingerle, who afterwards printed it in Sagen, Märchen und Gebräuche aus Tirol, 1859, pp. 446-450, and in Kinder- und Hausmärchen aus Tirol, 2nd ed., 1870, pp. 254-260. See Stephens, p. 9, Hippe, pp. 165 f., and Wilhelmi, p. 45. Simrock X. Simrock, pp. 89-94, from the foot of the Tomberg. Summarized by Köhler, Or. und Occ. ii. 326. See Hippe, p. 166, and Wilhelmi, p. 45. Oldenburgian. L. Strackerjan, Aberglaube und Sagen aus dem Herzogtum Oldenburg, 1867, ii. 308 ff. Cited by Hippe, p. 166, and by Foerster, Richars li Biaus, p. xxviii. Harz I. A. Ey, Harzmärchenbuch, 1862, pp. 64-74. Summary by Köhler, Or. und Occ. iii. 96. Cited by Hippe, p. 166. Harz II. A. Ey, work cited, pp. 113-118. Summary by Köhler, Or. und Occ. iii. 97. Cited by Hippe, p. 166. Sir Amadas. Ed. Weber, Metrical Romances, 1810, iii. 241-275, Robson, Three Early English Metrical Romances, 1842, pp. 27-56, Stephens, Ghost-Thanks, 1860. Stephens seems to have been the first to note the connection of Sir Amadas with The Grateful Dead. The romance, as it is preserved in two manuscripts of the fifteenth century, must accordingly have been composed as early as the second half of the preceding century. It contains 778 verses in the tail-rhyme stanza. Summarized by Köhler, Or. und Occ. ii. 325, by Foerster, Richars li Biaus, pp. xxiv-xxvi, by Groome, Folk-Lore, ix. 236, and by Hippe (with great care), pp. 160-164. Compared with Oliver by Wilhelmi, pp. 58 f. Jack the Giant Killer. Found without essential difference in several chapbooks, the earliest owned by the British Museum being entitled: The Second Part of | Jack and the Giants. | Giving a full Account of his victorious Conquests over | the North Country Giants; destroying the inchanted | Castle kept by Galligantus; dispersed the fiery Grif- | fins; put the Conjuror to Flight; and released not | only many Knights and Ladies, but likewise a Duke's | Daughter, to whom he was honourably married. Newcastle-on-Tyne, 1711. [35] Other editions with the story are: The History of Jack and the Giants, Aldermary Churchyard, London; same title, Bow Church Yard, London; same title, Cowgate, Edinburgh; The Pleasant and delightful History of Jack and the Giants, Nottingham, Printed for the Running Stationers, and The Wonderful History of Jack the Giant-Killer, Manchester, Printed by A. Swindells; all without date. The Newcastle edition was reprinted by Halliwell-Phillipps in Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales, 1849, in which our tale appears at pp. 67-77. Apparently the British Museum copy dated 1711 is that owned by Halliwell-Phillipps. From his edition it has been reprinted by Groome, Folk-Lore, ix. 237 f., and summarized by Köhler, Or. und Occ. ii. 327 f., and Sepp, p. 685. See also Stephens, p. 8, Hippe, p. 164, and Wilhelmi, p. 45. Factor's Garland. [36] The Factor's Garland or The Turkey Factor, a tale in English verse, which may be regarded as a popular ballad, though by no means as a primitive one. It has often been reprinted as a chapbook or broadside. The library of Harvard University possesses copies of no less than eight different editions (see W. C. Lane, Catalogue of English and American Chap-Books and Broadside Ballads in Harvard College Library, 1905, nos. 809-815, 2420). An examination of these shows that they differ from each other in no essential point, though they vary considerably in statements of time. The British Museum Catalogue of Printed Books lists seven editions, all different from those at Harvard, with one possible exception. The popularity of the story, at one time at least, is thus strikingly illustrated. Another variant, reported from oral tradition, has been found in North Carolina. See the paper read by J. B. Henneman before the Modern Language Association of America on Dec 29, 1906. Old Wives' Tale. George Peele, The Old Wives' Tale (1590), published in 1595, Ed. by Dyce, 1828 and 1861, by Bullen, 1888, and by Gummere in Gayley's Representative English Comedies, 1903, pp. 349-382. See H. Dutz for an elaborate discussion of the connection of the play with our theme. Fatal Dowry. Philip Massinger (and Nathaniel Field), The Fatal Dowry. First printed in 1632. Ed. A. Symons, Mermaid Series, 1889, ii. 87-182. Fair Penitent. Nicholas Rowe, The Fair Penitent, The Dramatick Works of Nicholas Rowe Esq., 1720, vol. i. CHAPTER III. TALES WITH THE SIMPLE THEME AND MISCELLANEOUS COMBINATIONS. Of the tales enumerated in the previous chapter, over one hundred in number, all but seventeen fall into well-defined categories as having The Grateful Dead combined with one or more of three given themes: The Possessed Woman, The Ransomed Woman, and The Water of Life. Of these seventeen variants, moreover, only four can be regarded as having the simple motive of The Grateful Dead; and they are in part doubtful members of the family. The first of them is Simonides, thus related by Cicero: "Unum de Simonide: qui cum ignotum quendam proiectum mortuum vidisisset eumque humavisset haberetque in animo navem conscendere, moneri visus est ne id faceret ab eo, quem sepultura adfecerat; si navigavisset, eum naufragio esse periturum; itaque Simonidem redisse, perisse ceteros, qui tum navigavissent." The source of Cicero's story we do not know, but in all probability it was Greek. Whether it really belongs to our cycle, being so simple in form and nearly two centuries earlier in date than any other version yet unearthed, is a matter for very great doubt. It may have arisen quite independently of other similar tales in various parts of the world, and have no essential connection with our tale; but it deserves special consideration, not only from its antiquity, but also from its subsequent history in lineal descent through Valerius Maximus, and possibly Robert Holkot [37] to Chaucer. We are at least justified in looking for some influence of so well-known an anecdote upon better-authenticated members of the cycle. The three other variants with the simple theme are all folk-tales of recent gathering. The first of them is Jewish, [38] which runs as follows: The son of a rich merchant of Jerusalem sets off after his father's death to see the world. At Stamboul he finds hanging in chains the body of a Jew, which the Sultan has commanded to be left there until his co-religionists shall have repaid the sum that the man is suspected of having stolen from his royal master. The hero pays this sum, and has the corpse buried. Later during a storm at sea he is saved by a stone on which he is brought to land, whence he is carried by an eagle back to Jerusalem. There a white-clad man appears to him, explaining that he is the ghost of the dead, and that he has already appeared as stone and eagle. The spirit further promises the hero a reward for his good deed in the present and in the future life. The second variant is the Annamite tale. Two poor students were friends. One died and was buried by the other, whose fidelity was such that he remained three years by the tomb. He dreamed that his friend came to him and said that he should gain the title of trang nguyên. So he built a chapel by the tomb, where the dead friend often appeared to him. When the king heard of his loyalty, he was praised and rewarded with a title. After his death the two friends appeared to their son and daughter, bidding them marry. [39] The third story is Servian VI. An uncle of Adam, who honoured God and the "Vile," [40] was so good a man that God came to him in human form one day. After a battle between the good and evil in the world, the latter would not bury the slain. The Vile told Tuegut that this would not do, so he hitched up his wagon and carried the slain to their graves. Then God came to earth, told him to put all he possessed in his wagon, and carried him on a cloud to heaven, where he was made the constellation now called Driver Tuegut's Heavenly Wagon. Of these three tales the Annamite does not fulfil the usual condition that the dead man shall be a stranger to the one who does the good action. Together with Simonides, all of them vary widely in the reward given the hero. In Simonides he is warned against embarkation, and thus saved from shipwreck; in the Jewish he is actually rescued from a storm-tossed vessel by the ghost, which masquerades as a rock and an eagle, and afterward promises him further rewards here and hereafter; in the Annamite he is provided with earthly glory; and in Servian VI. he becomes a part of the galaxy of heaven. Only the underlying idea is the same,--that the burial of the dead is a pious act and a sacred duty, which will meet a fitting reward. [41] This belief is so widespread and ancient that it is not difficult to surmise how stories inculcating the duty might have grown up independently in many lands. At the same time, the very diversity of reward in these simple tales allies them to one or another of the compound types, which, though multiform and widespread, are yet unmistakably the offspring of a single parent form, or better, of a chance union between two motives. [42] Thus Simonides and Jewish recall the combination of The Grateful Dead with The Ransomed Woman, since they have the hero rescued from drowning by the ghost, and they suggest one point of union between the two themes. It therefore seems best to include them in our list, not only for the sake of completeness, but because they point to the reason which sometime and somewhere gave rise to a more developed form of the motive,--to the märchen as we shall study it. A consideration of these basal principles can be undertaken, however, only after the story theme in its various ramifications and modifications has been thoroughly discussed. The probability that The Grateful Dead once existed in a simple, uncompounded form, which became the parent on one side of the more important combined types, is strengthened by the minor compounds in which it is found. How can the correspondences of detail seen in a considerable number of different compounds, as far as they run parallel, be otherwise explained? Surely it is more reasonable to believe in the existence of such a parent form than to suppose that an originally complicated form was hacked and hewn asunder to produce new compounds. This will become clearer, I hope, as we proceed. In Greek, a boy was sold to a pasha, who betrothed him to his daughter. Because of the mother's objections, however, he was sent away as a shepherd, while the girl was promised to another pasha's son. The hero fed his flock under the shelter of the castle, and was summoned by the maiden, who gave him her betrothal ring in a beaker, though pretending not to know him. The next day she asked her parents to let the two suitors go into the world with a thousand piasters apiece, and see which came back with the most money. So they were sent forth. The pasha's son remained in a city enjoying his money, while the shepherd went on till he met an old man, to whom he told his story. The man gave him a thousand piasters more, and told him to buy an ape in a town hard by. He succeeded in doing this, and brought the ape back to the old man, who cut it in pieces, much to the youth's disgust, and made eye-salve of the brain. With this he sent the hero away after exacting a promise of half of what was obtained. The youth won a thousand piasters by curing the blind, and later a great sum, besides thirty ships, by healing a very rich man. With this wealth he returned to the old man, and with him to the city where the pasha's son had sojourned. The latter agreed to let the shepherd's seal be burned on his arm in return for the payment of his debts; but, while the hero and the old man sailed home, he rode fast by land with the story that his rival was dead. The shepherd arrived at home just in time for his rival's wedding, and at the end of it showed the bride her ring. She recognized her lover, called her parents, and, after the hero had told his story and proved it by the seal on his rival's arm, married him. That night the old man knocked on the door of their chamber, and demanded that the bride be divided. According to his promise, the hero prepared to cut her in twain, when the intruder said that he wished only to test his fidelity, explaining that he was God, Who had taken him under His protection because his father had sold him in order to keep the lamp burning in honour of his saint. In this variant the elements of The Grateful Dead have been merged with a story about how a young man of low birth won a princess by overcoming another suitor in spite of the treachery of the latter. As I have met with but one example of this, from Lesbos, [43] I will summarize it briefly. A princess becomes enamoured of the son of her father's gardener, and refuses to marry the son of the first minister. So the two suitors are sent out to a far country with the understanding that the one who returns first shall have the princess. On the way the gardener's son helps an old beggar-woman, whom his rival has spurned, and is told by her how to cure a sick king (by boiling him and sprinkling him with a certain powder). For this service the youth obtains a ring of bronze, which has the virtue of giving whatever its possessor desires. By means of this he gets a wonderful ship, and sails to the city where the minister's son, through extravagance, has fallen into poverty. He provides him with a wretched ship, in which to return home, on condition that he may mark him with his ring. The minister's son reaches home in his crazy vessel, and is about to marry the princess, when the hero appears on his beautiful ship of gold, exposes his rival, and weds the lady. The remainder of the story, which tells how the magical ring was lost and afterward recovered, does not concern us. It will be seen that Greek has preserved only the later part of The Grateful Dead at all clearly, though that combination with a tale of the type of the Lesbian narrative has actually taken place is evident from the part which the helper plays. He not only obtains a promise of division, but calls for its fulfilment. His first appearance is, however, quite unmotivated, while the old woman of the Lesbian story serves the purpose, according to a common formula, of showing the hero's kindness in contrast to his rival's hard heart. The point common to the two tales, which led to their combination, is without doubt this helping friend. In Servian V. a youth on a journey pays his all to rescue a debtor from hanging. By his new-found friend the youth is led to the wondrous Vilaberg, where he is left with the admonition that he must not speak. He disobeys, and is made dumb and blind by an enchantress; but he is cured by the man whom he rescued, who plays on a pipe and gives him a healing draught. So he dwells for some years in the mountain with one of the ladies as his wife, but afterward goes home, though every summer he returns to his friends in the Vilaberg. Here we have our theme combined with a form of The Swan-Maiden, [44] which occurs in only one other case, as far as I am able to discover. The reason for the combination is not far to seek. The latter part of the tale represents the reward of the rescuer by the rescued. That the benefit does not take the form of actual burial need not disturb us. The man was at least far gone towards death, and he was a debtor--a trait found in about two-thirds of the variants known to me. Moreover, the supernatural character of the comrade is indicated by the adventure into which he leads the youth. The tale has been partly rationalised, that is all. Esthonian I. [45] shows a different combination, which is unique as far as I know. In a gorge not far from the village of Arukäla (near Wesenberg) a howling was heard every night for years. Finally a bold man went by night to the place and found the skeleton of a murdered king, which told him that it had howled thus for a hundred years because it had not been buried with holy rites. The next day the man took the bones to a priest, and, while burying them, discovered an enormous treasure. As Schiefner said, [46] when he first printed the story, it recalls the Grimms' Der singende Knochen, [47] which in turn is a compound of The Water of Life, with the idea of murder discovered by means of a dead man's bones. The Esthonian tale has, however, only the latter circumstance, combined with a simple form of The Grateful Dead. The hero's reward is immediate--he finds gold in the earth while digging the grave; and the ghost does not appear. The variant is thus of no great significance. The group of tales that must next be considered furnishes rather more important evidence as to the development of the theme. It is a compound of The Grateful Dead with the motive which we may call The Spendthrift Knight. As far as I know, the type is purely mediaeval. The group includes Richars, Lion de Bourges, Dianese, Old Swedish, Rittertriuwe, and Sir Amadas. The plot of Richars, as far as it concerns us, runs thus: Richars, in the pursuit of knightly exercises, wastes all his father's property as lord of Mangorie. When he hears that the King of Montorgueil has promised the hand of his daughter to the victor in a tourney, he is sad at the thought of his inability to engage. Through the generosity of a provost, however, he is enabled to set out with a horse, three attendants, and a supply of gold. At the city of Osteriche he spends part of his money in giving a great feast. In the roof of the house where he stays he is astonished to see a corpse lying on two beams, and he learns that it is the body of a knight, who died owing the householder three thousand pounds. Richars gives everything he has, even to his armour, to secure the release and burial of the dead man. He then proceeds to the tourney on a poor horse that his host gives him, and quite alone, since his attendants have deserted him. On the way he is joined by a White Knight, who offers him help in the tourney and places at his disposal his noble steed. Richars wins the tourney and obtains the hand of the Princess Rose. He now offers the White Knight his choice of the lady or the property. The stranger, however, refuses any division, explains that he is the ghost of the indebted knight, and disappears. [48] Lion de Bourges runs thus: Lion, son of Duke Harpin de Bourges, was found by a knight in a lion's den and reared as his son. When he grew up, he wasted his foster-father's property in chivalry. Finally, he heard that King Henry of Sicily had promised the hand of his daughter to the knight who should win a tourney that he had established. So Lion started for the court, and on the way ransomed the body of a knight, which he found hanging in the smoke, on account of unpaid debts. At Montluisant the hero won the favour of the Princess Florentine, and, before the tourney, obtained from a White Knight the charger which he still lacked, on condition of sharing his winnings, the princess excepted. With the help of this knight Lion was victorious and obtained the princess. He was then asked by his helper to give up either the lady or the whole kingdom, and did not hesitate to do the latter. At this, the stranger explained that he was the ghost of the ransomed knight and disappeared, though he afterwards returned to assist the hero at need. According to Dianese, [49] the knight of that name has wasted his substance. When he hears that the King of Chornualglia (Cornwall) has promised his daughter and half of his kingdom to the knight who wins the tourney that he has called, Dianese gets his friends to fit him out and sets forth. On the way he passes through a town where the traffic is diverted from the main street because of a corpse which has long been lying on a bier before a church. He learns that it is the body of a knight, who cannot be buried till his creditors have been paid. At the cost of everything he possesses, save his horse, the hero satisfies the creditors and has the knight buried. When he has gone on two miles, he is joined by a merchant, who promises him money, horses, and weapons if he will give in return half of what he wins in the tourney. Dianese agrees, is fitted out anew, and succeeds in overcoming all comers in the contest. Thus he obtains the hand of the princess and half the kingdom. With his bride, the merchant, and his followers he starts for home; but, when they are only a day's journey from their destination, he is required by the merchant to fulfil his promise--to choose between his bride as one half, his possessions as the other. Dianese takes the lady and rides on. Soon, however, he is joined by the merchant, who praises his faithfulness, gives up the treasures, explains that he is the ghost of the debtor knight, and disappears. In Old Swedish [50] the daughter and heiress of the King of France promises to marry whatever knight is victor in a tourney which she announces. Pippin, the Duke of Lorraine, hears of this and sets out for France. At the end of his first day's journey he finds lodging at the house of a widow, who is lamenting because her husband, once in good circumstances, has died so poor that she cannot bury him properly. Pippin takes pity on her, and pays for the man's funeral. On his further journey he falls in with a man on a noble steed, who gives him the horse on condition of receiving half of whatever he shall win. Unthinkingly Pippin agrees and wins the tourney with the help of the horse. After he has married the princess, he is asked by the helper to fulfil his promise. He offers at first half, then the whole of his kingdom, in order to keep his bride, and is finally told by the man that he is the ghost of the dead, while the horse was an angel of God. Rittertriuwe is of the same romantic character. When Graf Willekin von Montabour had spent his substance in chivalrous exercises, he learned that a beautiful and rich maiden had promised her hand to the knight, who should win a tourney, which she had established. Thereupon he set forth and came to the place announced for the combats. There he found lodging in the house of a man, who would only receive him if he would promise to pay the debts of a dead man, whose body lay unburied in the dung of a horse-stall. [51] Willekin was moved by this story and paid seventy marks, almost all his money, to ransom the corpse and give it suitable burial. He then had to borrow from his host in order to indulge in his customary generosity. On the morning of the jousting he obtained from a stranger knight a fine horse on condition of dividing everything that he won. He succeeded in the tourney above all the other contestants, and so wedded the maiden. On the second night after the marriage the stranger entered his room and demanded a share in his marital rights. After he had offered instead to give all his possessions, the hero started from the room in tears, when the stranger called him back and explained that he was the ghost of the dead, then disappeared. A brief summary of Sir Amadas, [52] the last of the six variants, must now be given. Amadas finds himself financially embarrassed, and sets forth for seven years of errantry with only forty pounds in hand. This he pays to release and bury the body of a merchant who has died in debt. When thus reduced to absolute penury, Amadas meets a White Knight, who tells him that he will aid him on condition of receiving half the gains. The hero finds a rich wreck on the seacoast, and so with new apparel goes to the court, where he wins wealth in a tourney and the princess's heart at a feast. After he marries her and has a son born to him, the White Knight reappears and demands that the accepted conditions be complied with. Hesitatingly Amadas prepares to divide first his wife and afterwards his son, but he is stayed by the stranger, who explains that he is the ghost of the dead merchant. So Amadas is at last released from misfortune and lives in happiness. In all six of these stories we have a knight, who sets out to win a tourney in which the victor's prize is to be the hand of a princess. In all of them save Old Swedish he is represented as being impoverished by previous extravagance, in Richars, Lion de Bourges, and Rittertriuwe it being expressly stated that he had wasted his fortune by over-indulgence in his passion for jousting. On his way to the place appointed for the contest the hero pays for the burial [53] of a man whose corpse is held for debt. [54] He goes on and is approached either before (Richars, Lion de Bourges, Dianese, Old Swedish, and Sir Amadas) or after (Rittertriuwe) he reaches the lists by a man, who provides him with a horse, by the aid of which he wins the tourney and the princess. In Dianese the hero is a merchant, in Old Swedish his estate is not mentioned, but in the other four variants he appears as a knight (a white knight in Richars, Lion de Bourges, and Sir Amadas). In Dianese the hero is also provided with armour; in Richars and Lion de Bourges he is assisted in his jousting by the White Knight; and in Sir Amadas he finds a wreck on the coast from which he obtains all things needful. In Richars we find the somewhat inept conclusion that the hero asks his friendly helper whether he will take the princess or the property [55] as his share. The latter responds that he wishes only his horse, explains who he is, and vanishes. In all the other variants, however, the condition is made that the hero divide whatever he shall gain. [56] With reference to Richars and Lion de Bourges, Wilhelmi's careful discussion [57] has made it clear that, though they agree in many points as against all the other related versions, not only in respect to The Grateful Dead, but to the further course of a complicated narrative, neither one could have been taken from the other. The difference in the matter of the division between Richars and all the other variants he neglects, though it strengthens his position. Back of Richars and Lion de Bourges, earlier than the thirteenth century, there must have existed a literary work which was their common source. This hypothetical French romance may be considered as the foundation of the whole group which we are discussing. Since Old Swedish agrees with most of the other variants with regard to the division, and furthermore with Rittertriuwe, in stating that the hero offered all his property in order to keep his wife, there seems to be no doubt that it belongs to this particular group, despite the fact that it says nothing about the hero's poverty. The connection is not improbable on the score of chronology, if we suppose that the source of Richars and Lion de Bourges, or some similar tale, found its way into the North by translation in the first half of the thirteenth century, a time when translations into Icelandic at any rate were made in great numbers. Indeed, the names Pippin, Lorraine, etc., immediately suggest a French source; and the story is not really a legend at all, though it appears in a legendary, but a narrative quite in the style of the romans d'adventure. With reference to Sir Amadas, two points of special interest appear. The hero is provided the wherewithal for his successful courtship by means of a wreck to which he is directed by the White Knight; and he is required to divide his child as well as his wife with his helper. These peculiarities, together with the different opening, make it improbable that Richars, as preserved, was the direct source of the romance, though its author may have known some text either of that romance, or of Lion de Bourges. It seems more likely, however, that the source of Sir Amadas was rather the common original of both those versions. In the present state of the evidence it is impossible to do more than to show, as I have attempted to do, that the fourteenth-century Sir Amadas is a member of the little group under discussion. The proposed division of the son is peculiarly important in that it connects the group with the stories in which The Grateful Dead is compounded with the theme of Amis and Amiloun. Indeed, the general relationship of The Spendthrift Knight to that theme must be considered in a later chapter [58] after more important compounds have been discussed. It will be noted that the group just considered is purely literary and purely mediaeval. Though it has representatives in Italy, Germany, Sweden, and England, it is to all intents and purposes French in source and character. Five of its members are the only variants treated in this chapter where the question of dividing the hero's prize is brought up. The group thus stands by itself, and may be considered as an entity when we come to a discussion of the larger matters of relationship. A solitary folk-tale now demands attention--my Breton II. The Grateful Dead in a simple form is here combined with a story told of Gregory the Great, [59] as Luzel, to whom the tale was recounted by a Breton peasant, indeed briefly noted. [60] The Breton tale runs as follows: A rich lord and lady had no children. While the lady was praying to St. Peter in a chapel that was being repaired, she fell a victim to a young painter, and had by him a son, who was named after St. Peter. When the boy was twelve years of age, he carried St. Peter across a stream one day, while his shepherd companion carried Christ. The companion died soon after. Pierre then set forth to visit his patron in Paradise. On his way he stopped overnight at the house of an old woman, whose husband lay unburied because there was no money to pay the priest. Pierre gave all his money for the interment, and went on. When he came to the sea, a naked man, who said that he was the dead, carried him across to a point near the gates of Paradise. There he found Peter, and was shown the glories of heaven by the Saviour, as well as Purgatory and Hell. In the last he saw a chair reserved for his mother, but by his entreaties induced the Lord to grant her a release on condition of doing penance himself for her. So he was told to put on a spiked girdle, to throw the key of it into the sea, and not to take it off till the key should be found. After donning this instrument Pierre was carried by the ghost back to his own land, where he lived on alms--first on the public ways, and later, without discovering himself, in his father's castle. During his father's absence he was killed at the command of his mother, but was dug up alive by his father and treated with respect. One day at a feast he found the key in the head of a fish. When the girdle was opened, he died, and his soul was borne to heaven by angels. Two Danish variants present a curious but not inexplicable combination of The Grateful Dead with Puss in Boots, as was noted by Köhler. [61] Danish I. relates how a youth pays three marks, which is his all, to bury the body of a dead man, for whose interment the priest has demanded payment in advance. He is then joined by another youth, who is the ghost of the dead, and goes to a certain city. There, by giving himself out as a prince at the advice of his companion, who provides him with proper trappings, he wins the hand of a princess. In Danish II. an old soldier pays his last three marks to prevent three creditors from digging up a corpse. He is joined by a pale stranger, who takes him in a leaden ship to a land where he marries a princess, who is fated to marry no one save a man who comes in this way. The stranger secures, by a lying ruse, a troll's castle for the hero, and, after explaining that he is the ghost of the buried debtor, disappears. The traces of the Puss in Boots motive [62] are, I think, sufficiently clear, especially in the first of the two variants, since the point of that familiar tale is certainly that the hero marries a woman of high estate by making himself out as of equal rank, substantiating his statements by a succession of clever ruses. That the grateful dead enables him to fulfil the required conditions is an introduction that could easily replace the ordinary one, especially since a helper of some sort is necessary to the story. Just what the relation of these two variants is to other Puss in Boots stories does not here concern us. From the side of The Grateful Dead, however, it is possible to see how the combination--found only in two folk-tales from a single country, it will be observed--may have arisen. The benefits bestowed on the hero show an essential likeness to those found in a widespread compound type to be studied in a later chapter, [63] where the thankful dead helps his friend to obtain a wife by the performance of some feat. Since the combination now in consideration seems to be confined to the region about Denmark, while mediaeval and modern examples of the other are found in many lands, it may be regarded as a mere variation on the better-known compound type, produced by the similarity of the two endings. Yet it has to be treated separately, because it involves an independent theme. An echo of the simple theme of The Grateful Dead is found in two English plays--Massinger's Fatal Dowry and Rowe's Fair Penitent. In the former young Charolais goes to prison to release his father's body from the clutch of creditors, who wish to keep it unburied for vengeance. [64] He is rescued by Rochfort, who pays the debts and gives him his daughter in marriage. The intrigues of love and vengeance that follow do not concern us. In Rowe's play, which was based on Massinger's, this part has been curtailed to a few slight references. Altamont gives himself as ransom for his father's body to the greedy creditors, who will not allow burial to take place. He is rewarded by the care and bounty of Sciolto, who becomes a second father to him. Stephens was certainly right in connecting [65] the story in The Fatal Dowry with The Grateful Dead, though it is only a fragment and lacks some of the most essential features of the complete theme. The ghost, indeed, does not appear at all, but the part played by Rochfort may be regarded as a greatly sophisticated reminiscence of that trait, especially since he not only rescues the hero, but provides him with a wife. The echo of the theme is too vague for us to distinguish the form in which it was found by Massinger, though I think that we should not go far wrong in supposing that he had in mind some narrative, either popular or literary, nearly approaching the compound type treated in chapter vi. below. As one of the comparatively few traces that the motive has left in England this double dramatic use is not without interest. [66] CHAPTER IV. THE GRATEFUL DEAD AND THE POISON MAIDEN. One of the most prevalent types of The Grateful Dead is that in which it has combined with The Poison Maiden, a theme almost world-wide in distribution and application. From the time of Benfey and Stephens [67] the connection between the two themes has been regarded as vital. Though Hippe recognized that the stories were perhaps originally independent, [68] he took the compound as his point of departure and derived all other forms from it. As will be seen in the course of our study, such a filiation is exceedingly improbable, if the essential features of The Grateful Dead and The Poison Maiden be closely examined. Hippe went wrong, I should say, in failing to differentiate between what traits belong to the former and what to the latter theme. As a matter of fact, The Poison Maiden exists in a cycle of its own. Any doubt about this and any necessity of studying the theme in detail here is removed by the valuable monograph of Wilhelm Hertz, Die Sage vom Giftmädchen, [69] in which the literature of the subject has been marshalled with masterly skill. Starting with the stories of how a maiden, who had been fed with snake-poison, was sent to Alexander the Great from India by an enemy, and how the plot to kill the emperor through her embraces was foiled by the cunning of Aristotle, [70] Hertz shows [71] that the central idea of the tale is the belief that a man could be killed by sexual connection with a woman who had been nourished on poison. In most of the variants, to be sure, it is the bite of the woman that is venomous, while in others it is her glance or her breath; but these are natural modifications. Without following the study into details, the important fact to remember is that there has existed from early times a tale relating how a man was saved by a watchful friend on his bridal night from a maiden whose embraces were certain death. [72] With this in mind we can safely proceed to a consideration of the variants of The Grateful Dead which have similar features. Twenty-four of the stories in my list fall into this category, viz.: Tobit, Armenian, Gypsy, Siberian, Russian I., II., III., and IV., Servian II., III., and IV., Bulgarian, Esthonian II., Finnish, Rumanian I., Irish I., II., and III., Breton I., Danish III., Norwegian II., Simrock X., Harz I., Jack the Giant Killer, and Old Wives' Tale. All but three of them [73] are folk-tales, a fact that considerably simplifies the discussion. According to the apocryphal story, Tobit buries by night the dead who lie in the street. He is thrown into prison, and later becomes blind and poverty-stricken. He sends his son Tobias to his brother Gabael for the return of a loan. The youth is accompanied by the angel Raphael in disguise, who calls himself Azarias. On the journey Tobias catches a fish and preserves the heart, liver, and gall at the bidding of his companion. When they arrive at their journey's end, the angel, as go-between, asks Gabael's daughter Sara in wedlock for Tobias, though seven men have died while consummating their marriage with her. By burning the heart and liver of the fish at the command of the angel, and by prayer, Tobias escapes; for the demon Asmodeus is driven out of the maiden and bound by Raphael. With his bride and companion Tobias goes home, where he cures Tobit's blindness by means of the gall of the fish. After being offered half of the wealth that he has brought the family, Raphael explains his identity and disappears. This variant is peculiar in that the father does the good action, while the son is chiefly rewarded. Indeed, it is the son whose life is saved from the possessed woman whom he marries. Moreover, the grateful dead is replaced by an angel, who indeed commends Tobit for his good deed, but is certainly a substitute for the ghost. Obviously Tobit with such peculiarities as these cannot be regarded as the general source of the widespread folk-tale. At the same time we must not forget that it has been, perhaps, the best-loved story in the Apocrypha, [74] and that its influence on details of the narrative may be looked for almost anywhere in Christendom. In the Armenian story from Transcaucasia [75] a man finds a corpse hanging in a tree and being beaten by his late creditors. The man pays the debt and buries the body. Some years later he becomes poor. A rich man offers him in marriage his daughter, with whom five bridegrooms have already met death on the wedding night. While thinking over the proposition, he is approached by a man who offers to become his servant for half of his future possessions, and counsels him to marry the woman. On the night of the marriage the servant stands with a sword in the chamber, cuts off the head of a serpent that comes from the bride's mouth, and pulls out its body. Later he asks for his share of his master's gains. When he is about to split the woman through the middle, a second snake glides from her mouth. The servant then says that he is the ghost of the corpse long ago rescued, and disappears. Here the story appears in a very normal form, except that the hero is not taking a journey at the time of his kind deed, and that he waits several years for his reward. Moreover, the second snake appears to be due to reduplication. In Gypsy a youth gives his last twelve piasters for the release of a corpse, which is being maltreated by Jews. The ghost of the dead man follows him and promises to get him a bride if he will share her with him. The youth consents and marries a woman whose five bridegrooms have died on the wedding night. The companion keeps watch in the chamber and cuts off the head of a dragon that comes from the bride's mouth. Later he demands his half of the woman, and takes a sword to cut her asunder, when she screams and disgorges the dragon's body. The ghost then explains the situation and disappears. [76] With the Siberian variant some very important modifications enter. A soldier buys a picture of the Saviour from a peasant and maltreats it. A merchant's son then buys it out of reverence and takes it to his mother. Later he helps an old man on a raft and goes with him to market. There he meets the daughter of a priest and, by the advice of his friend, marries her. When the old man strikes her with a whip, she splits open, and the devil comes out. She is put together again by the mysterious companion, and accompanies them home, where the old man asks for a division of the gains they have made together. Again he divides the woman. After she has been burned, she is found living and purified. Then the old man says that he is God and departs. This tale, found among the Turkish race of southern Siberia, has transformed the opening incident altogether. For the burial of the corpse it substitutes a good deed, which is entirely different from the original trait. Yet it is evident that we have to do with The Grateful Dead, after all, since the divine image is rescued from senseless contumely and God himself appears in the rôle of the thankful ghost. It is evident also that the theme is combined with The Poison Maiden. Though we do not hear of any misadventures of other men with the priest's daughter, the marvels which attend her purification indicate the danger in which the hero stood. Russian I. is likewise peculiar in several respects. The younger of two brothers angers his parents by going to the wars without their permission. He is killed. Later he appears to his brother, asking him to implore pardon of their mother, whose anger prevents him from resting quietly in his grave. The elder brother thus succeeds in giving peace to the ghost. Later, when he marries a merchant's daughter, whose first two husbands have been killed by a dragon on the wedding night, he is saved by the ghost of the dead, which keeps watch in the chamber with a sword and kills the nine-headed dragon. This tale stands almost alone [77] in giving the two chief characters personal relations, since it is nearly always a total stranger whom the hero benefits. That actual burial of the dead does not come in question is not so remarkable, as various changes have been made in this trait. One story, [78] indeed, which otherwise has no likeness, similarly makes the dead man uneasy in his grave. The beginning of Russian I. has thus suffered considerable modification. The ending is also different from the normal type in that the division of the property and the woman has entirely disappeared. Russian II. has also some peculiarities, though none which is difficult to explain. A youth named Hans receives three hundred rubles from his uncle, who has taken his inheritance, and goes into the world. In another province he ransoms with his whole stock of money an unbeliever, who is being bled by the people. He has the poor man baptised, but is not able to save his life, so sorely has he been wounded. The people, however, pay for proper burial. Hans goes on and is joined by an angel, who proposes that he take him as uncle and divide with him whatever they get while in one another's company. They come to a city where the king proposes that Hans marry his daughter, and to this the hero agrees at his companion's advice, despite the protests of the citizens, who say that the princess has already strangled six bridegrooms. On the wedding night the uncle keeps watch, and slays a dragon which is approaching to kill the young man. After two months the pair set out for home with the uncle. On the way they are saved by the old man from robbers, and get a store of gold. When they arrive at the place where the uncle first appeared, he calls for a fulfilment of their agreement, and saws the bride asunder. Young dragons come out of her; but, when she has been washed and sprinkled with water, she is made whole. The angel thereupon parts with the couple. For the burial of the dead we have in this tale the interesting substitution of an unsuccessful attempt of the hero to save a man's life by paying his entire inheritance as ransom. That the man dies and is buried shows how the change probably arose. Strangely enough, as in the case of Tobit, an angel appears in the rôle of the grateful dead, and, even more oddly, takes the form of the hero's uncle, who gave him the money with which he set forth on his journey. The recurrence of the angel in this and in one other variant [79] inclines me to the belief that the essential feature of the reward in the original story was that it came from heaven. The remainder of Russian II. has no characteristic unusual in the tales where the woman is actually divided to get rid of the snakes or dragons. In Russian III. [80] the youngest of three brothers rescues a swimming coffin from the sea and takes it on his ship. From the coffin comes a man clothed in a white shirt, who enters the service of his rescuer, and helps him win a beautiful princess as wife. A six-headed dragon has hitherto killed all her bridegrooms on the wedding night, but it is overcome by the hero through his obedience to the advice of his servant. The latter cleanses the bride's body of the dragon brood and goes away. Here the opening has been modified, though not beyond recognition, since the rescued man is clearly enough the grateful dead. Russian IV., taken like the preceding from a folk-book, differs from that in only minor points, though the ampler form in which I have found it makes it of more importance. The three sons of a czar go out in separate ships to see the world. The youngest, named Sila, rescues a swimming coffin, which his brothers have not heeded, and buries it on shore. There he leaves his companions, and goes on alone till joined by a man dressed in a shroud, who says that he is the rescued corpse and proposes that Sila win a certain Princess Truda as wife by his aid. The hero is dismayed when he sees the walls of her city decorated with the heads of countless former suitors, but he is told by his servant not to fear. On the bridal night he is counselled to keep silence, and, when his wife presses her hand on his breast, to beat her, as she is in league with a six-headed dragon. Sila obeys, the dragon appears, and the servant cuts off two of its heads. Two more heads are cut off on the second night, and the remaining two on the third. The bride is not completely cleansed, however, till the end of a year, when the servant cuts her in two, burns the evil things that emerge from her body, and sprinkles her with living water to make her well again. He then disappears. Here the grateful dead appears with perfect clearness, as he did not in Russian III. The course of events by which the lady is won does not differ materially from that of Russian II. Presumably III. would follow the same procedure, had we an adequate summary. III. and IV. are like I., and different from II., in omitting all mention of any division of property or of the woman between hero and assistant. The division for the sake of cleansing in IV. is, however, actual. Not without contamination from another source, Russian V. and VI. still belong to the class containing variants with The Poison Maiden. In Russian V. the only son of a rich man went out into the world to seek his fortune. On the road he gave a large sum of money for two horses. Later he stopped at an inn, where the widow of the landlord was weeping because she had no money to pay the debts of her husband, who was cursed by all the people, though he had been dead two years. The hero gave all his money to save the memory of the dead man, and proceeded. Soon he met two unsatisfied creditors, who still cursed the dead landlord, and to them he gave his two horses. Not long afterward he was joined by a man, who accompanied him on condition of receiving half of what they might win together. They came to a place where a lord offered a thousand rubles to anyone who would watch his daughter's corpse over night in a chapel. The hero undertook the adventure, and received payment in advance. At dark his companion came to him, and gave him a cross as protection. At midnight the lady came out of her coffin, but could not find the man because he held the cross. The same adventure was repeated the next night. On the third night the hero, according to his companion's advice, got into the coffin when the vampire rose, and would not get out for all her entreaties, being protected by the cross. So in the morning both were found alive, and were betrothed. Then came the companion, cut the maiden into halves, took out her entrails, and put her together again, when she became very beautiful. Next day he called the hero aside, explained his identity with the dead landlord, and disappeared. Russian VI. differs from the above in several points, but is closely allied to it. There were two brothers, one good and the other stingy. The former expended in benevolence all his wealth, save a hundred rubles, while the latter grew richer and richer. A poor man borrowed a hundred rubles from the miser, calling St. George as witness that he would pay; but he died in debt. The rich brother came to the widow, and said that he would get his money from St. George if not from the dead man. He pulled down an image of the saint from the wall, dug up the corpse, and spat upon them both. At this juncture the good brother came by, and gave his last hundred rubles to put the matter right. He then went to a large city, where the king's daughter had eaten all the deacons who watched with her dead body. So when volunteers were called for to stay with her, the hero offered to undertake the task at the advice of an old man, who promised to pray for his safety on condition of receiving half his winnings. He received payment in advance from the king, and divided with the old man, by whom he was given a sanctified coal, a taper, a cross, and a scapulary, together with advice how to act. So he entered the chapel, lighted his taper, closed his eyes, made the sign of the cross, and enclosed himself in a circle marked with the coal near the head of the bier. At cockcrow the vampire came out all blue and grinning; but, though she yelled horribly, she could not touch the man in the circle, who put the cross in the coffin. At the second cockcrow she tried to get into the coffin, and unavailingly begged him to take out the cross. At the third cockcrow he put the scapulary on her, whereupon she rose and thanked him, promising to be his wife and servant. So in the morning the hero married her and received the kingdom from her father. To their chamber that night came the old man, and recalled the agreement to divide. He cut the lady into halves, minced her flesh on the table, and blew on the bits, whereupon she came together more beautiful than ever. The helper then threw off his gaberdine, and showed himself to be St. George. In the two stories just summarized The Grateful Dead is clear enough, though in VI. St. George has ousted the ghost from part of its proper functions, just as the angel does in Tobit, Russian II., and Simrock IV., God in Siberian, and various saints elsewhere. The introduction in VI. is a unique trait, as far as I know. In both the variants the main features of the theme appear without distortion, including the picturesque cleansing of the woman by actual division. The Poison Maiden, however, has been replaced by a story of similar character, but of different content, which I have not elsewhere found compounded with The Grateful Dead. A vampire infests a church (or a churchyard). A soldier is sent to watch nights, and to try to dislodge her. He successfully counters her tricks, and finally gets hold of something belonging to her, which he refuses to return. Thereupon she is reduced to submission, promises him happiness, and is married to him with the consent of the king. [81] This tale, it will be evident, bears a strong likeness to The Poison Maiden in the figure of the heroine, though it certainly is independent. The vital difference between the two is the absence of any helping friend in the story of the vampire. Because of the lack of this figure it seems improbable that the tale was compounded with The Grateful Dead without the intermediary stage in which The Poison Maiden appears. I regard the vampire as usurping the place of the possessed maiden, and the two Russian variants as a secondary growth. Given the normal form of the compound as it appears in Russian II., for instance, there would be no difficulty in substituting an even more gruesome figure for that of the heroine there depicted, and in making the hero's danger lie in a prenuptial attack on her part. The three Servian tales, which fall in this section, differ widely in their characteristics. The first of them, Servian II., [82] is the most nearly normal. Vlatko goes into the world to trade, but pays all his money to free from debt a corpse, which creditors are digging up in order to vent their spite upon it. He returns home, and is sent out again by his parents, receiving a greater sum of money and, from his mother, an apple by means of which he can tell the intentions of anyone who desires his friendship by the way. [83] He is joined by a man, who cuts the apple into two exact halves, and so is accepted as a friend. After Vlatko has prospered in trade, the friend proposes that he marry the emperor's daughter, with whom ninety-nine men have already died on the wedding night. Arrangements are made, and the friend keeps watch in the bridal chamber. During the night he cuts off the heads of three snakes, which come from the lady's mouth. Sometime afterwards all three set out for Vlatko's home; and on the way the hero divides his property with his friend. Jestingly the latter proposes that they divide the wife, and, after blindfolding the husband, shakes her three times, when three dead snakes come out of her. Thereupon he disappears. Like Armenian and Gypsy, this variant has the ghost cut off the head of the monster (here three snakes) that possesses the maiden. The actual division of the woman as it appears in those tales occurs here as a mere jest, which is the case with most of the European versions. [84] Servian III. has a more romantic character. The daughter of an emperor had been married thirteen times, but each of her bridegrooms had died on the wedding night. A certain prince, who had fallen in love with her through a dream, set out for her castle. On the way he paid the debts of a poor man, whose corpse was held by creditors, and buried him. Soon after, he was met by a man who became his servant, and won a castle for him by a wonderful adventure. After the wedding this man killed the snakes that came out of the bride, and also caused her to disgorge three snake eggs by threatening her with his drawn sword. He then disappeared. This variant shows traces of foreign substance in the dream and the winning of the castle by the unrevealed companion. Possibly the latter trait unites it with the combined type of which The Water of Life is one of the elements. It will be noticed that the division of the property and of the woman is not brought into question, though the sword is used somewhat incongruously for the removal of the last traces of the heroine's snaky infestation. Thus, by an evident change in structure, the identity of the hero's companion is never explained. With Servian IV. [85] we encounter a most serious problem, which must receive special treatment later on, [86]--the relation of The Grateful Dead to The Thankful Beasts theme. A poor youth three times set free a gold-fish which he had three times caught. Later he was cast out of his father's house and sent into the world. He was joined by a man, who swore friendship with him on a sword, and accompanied him to a city where many men had been mysteriously slain while undertaking to pass a night with the king's daughter. The hero undertook the adventure, and was saved by his companion, who cut off the head of a serpent that came from the princess's mouth. In the morning the youth was married to the lady, and divided all his property with his helper. On their way home the latter demanded half of the bride, and, while she was held by two servants, swung a sword above her. With a shriek she cast first two sections, and finally the tail, of a serpent from her mouth. Thereupon the friend leaped into the sea, for he was the gold-fish. The burial of the dead has here been ousted by a good deed which the hero does to a gold-fish. That the trait is foreign to the type, however, seems clear. From the time when the companion appears to the hero, the story follows the normal course until the very end, when the man unexpectedly leaps into the sea. The thankful dead has been replaced by the thankful beast, but the tale really belongs to the present category, since otherwise it has all the characteristics of the type. Thus the division of the woman is almost precisely similar to that of Armenian and Gypsy--that is, the sword is raised, and the woman disgorges the serpent with a scream. That it comes out piecemeal may be a faulty recollection of the actual division. As so often, it is not stated that the companion made a share of the gains a condition of his help. Bulgarian is in some respects very primitive, though fragmentary. A father sends his son out into the world to gain experience. The youth is joined by an archangel, who promises him assistance on condition that he will pay their joint expenses and will be obedient. The companion kills a negro and a serpent, and goes with the hero into their den, where the adventurers find, but leave, great treasure. They come to a city where the king's daughter has been thrice married, each time only to have her bridegroom die on the wedding night. Now she is to be given to any man who can live with her one night; and many wooers have died in the attempt. The youth offers himself as a suitor, and is saved by the archangel, who draws a serpent out of the woman. Later he helps the hero to get the wealth previously found in the cave, and demands the division of everything, even the wife. When he cuts her in two, many little snakes fall out of her body. He then unites her, and gives the hero all the riches they have obtained. The burial of the dead has entirely disappeared, as will be observed, though the other traits of the story show that we must regard it as of the type now under consideration. The appearance of the archangel as companion, and the plunder which they take by the way, suggest the influence of Tobit, which indeed appears as a folk-tale in the same collection. [87] The conditions made by the angel are only slightly altered from the normal form, while every other feature is found intact, even to the actual division of the woman. Esthonian II. has altogether lost the essential features of our theme; and it has besides put in several traits from a märchen, which, as we shall soon see, is joined to ours with considerable frequency. The inclusion of this variant here is justified only by some vague traces indicating that the extraneous parts of the narrative have replaced others which, if preserved, would make it an ordinary representative of The Grateful Dead. A certain couple had a weak-minded son, who could not learn. Wishing to get rid of him, the father took the boy into a forest and gave him gladly to an old man whom he chanced to meet. From the man the youth received books in foreign tongues, which he learned to read in a day. He then wandered till he came to a city, where lived a princess who was in the power of devils and went to church with them every night. The hero watched in the church for three nights, with three, six, and twelve candles, successively. Thus on the third night he freed the princess and married her, receiving half the kingdom. He then sought the old man, who told him to cut the woman in halves and divide her. The old man halved her himself, when there sprang out a serpent, a toad, and a lizard. After this he gave her back to her husband. The obscurity of motivation in this tale makes apparent the extensive revision that it has undergone. The introduction is nowhere else found combined, as far as I know, with the stories of our cycle. The characteristics of The Poison Maiden are sufficiently evident in the conclusion; but there seems to be no way to account for the peculiar form of demonic possession, together with the actual division of the woman, except by supposing, with Dutz, [88] that the variant has lost the part concerning the burial of the dead man. If this be true, the story belongs in the category where it is here placed. The Finnish variant [89] presents difficulties of a somewhat different sort. A merchant's son, to whom it has been foretold that he will marry a three-horned maiden, goes abroad to escape this fate. There he sees the corpse of a debtor hanging nailed to a church wall, and insulted by the passers-by. He expends all but nine silver kopecks in rescuing the body, and turns homeward. He is joined by a companion, who makes the money last three days, and on the fourth arranges for him to marry the three-horned daughter of a king. On the wedding night the helper brings the hero fresh-cut twigs. By beating the maiden with these her blood is purified, the horns drop off, and she becomes very beautiful. No new material is here introduced; but the handling is considerably changed, and the narrative abridged. The woman in the case is three-horned instead of possessed by snakes, nor is there any hint of harm to the bridegroom. A reminiscence of the division of the woman, though not of the dowry, appears in the beating which the ghostly companion gives her, whereby she is freed from her horns and made very beautiful. The variant appears to be weakened by frequent retelling. Rumanian I. is more striking, since it has undergone both revision and addition. The only daughter of an emperor wears out twelve pairs of slippers every night, until her father offers her hand and the heirship of the kingdom to any man who can explain this extraordinary and costly habit. Many men of high birth and low make the attempt unsuccessfully. Meanwhile, a certain peasant, whose servant had died when his year of service was but half ended, had placed the body in a chest under the roof in revenge for his disappointment. The new servant had discovered this, and had given the corpse the rites due the dead, as far as permitted by his master. When he departs at the end of his year of service, the dead man comes from the earth, thanks him, and proposes that they swear on the cross to be brothers. So they do, and go on together till they come to an iron wood. The vampire breaks off a twig, and casts it to the earth in the place where the emperor's daughter comes at night with the sons of the dragon. When she appears, she sees the broken twig, and is afraid. So she goes to the copper wood, where she sees another twig broken by the vampire, and hastens on to the place where the sons of the dragon dwell. It is in going so far that she wears out her slippers. When she comes to the place, and is about to sit down at table, she drops her handkerchief. The vampire, who has followed her from the copper wood in the form of a cat, takes it away, as he does also the spoon that falls from her hand and the ring that falls from her finger. He goes back to the copper wood with them, and explains everything to his friend. The latter takes them to the emperor and wins the lady. This curious tale has several elements which make it difficult to classify. As far as the kindness to the dead goes, the matter is simple. Instead of an agreement between the companions to divide their gains, however, an oath of brotherhood is introduced. This is probably a local substitution, since it has long been a custom of the Slavs of the south to swear brotherhood on the cross, [90] but it necessitates the further loss of important features at the end of the narrative such as the saving of the bridegroom on the wedding night and the division of the maiden (or some modification of that feature) by the vampire. Indeed, the heroine is rather enchanted than possessed. The whole series of acts by which she is freed introduces traits into the narrative which we have hitherto met only in Esthonian II. Were it not that they are repeated in all the other members of the group save Breton I., which we have still to consider, there would be considerable doubt about placing this variant under the category of The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden. As it is, we can with security say that this and the following versions belong here. They have simply modified the normal form by the addition of certain elements from another theme. The three Irish versions all have this form. In Irish I. a king's son, while hunting, pays five pounds to the creditors of a dead man, so that he may be buried. Later the prince kills a raven, and declares that he will marry only that woman who has hair as black as the raven, skin as white as snow, and cheeks as red as blood upon the snow. [91] On his way to find her he meets a red-haired youth, who takes service with him for half of what they may gain in a year and a day. The youth obtains for him from various giants by threats of what his master will do [92] horses of gold and silver, a sword of light, a cloak of darkness, and the slippery shoes. When they come to the castle of the maiden, he helps the Prince to keep over night a comb and a pair of scissors in spite of enchantment, and he obtains at her bidding the lips of the giant enchanter, which are the last that she has kissed. He then tells the prince and the maiden's father to strike her three times, when three devils come from her mouth in fire. So the prince marries her, and is ready at the end of a year and a day to divide his child [93] at the servant's command. But the latter explains that he is the soul of the dead man, and disappears. Irish II. differs little except in details from the above. The king of Ireland's son sets forth to find a woman with hair as black as the raven, skin as white as snow, and cheeks as red as blood. Ten pounds of the twenty which he takes with him he pays to release the corpse of a man on which writs are laid. He meets a short green man, who goes with him for his wife's first kiss; and he comes upon a gunner, a man listening to the growing grass, a swift runner, a man blowing a windmill with one nostril, and a strong man, all of whom accompany him for the promise of a house and garden apiece. After various adventures in the castles of giants, they arrive in the east, where the prince's lady dwells. She says that her suitor must loose her geasa from her before she can marry him. With the help of the short green man he gives her the scissors, the comb, and the King of Porson's head, which she requires. He is then told to get three bottles of healing water from the well of the western world. The runner sets out for them, and is stopped and put to sleep by an old hag on the way back; but the earman hears him snoring, the gunman sees him and wakes him up, and the windman keeps the hag back till he returns. Finally the strong man crushes three miles of steel needles so that the prince can walk over them. Thus the bride is won. The short green man claims the first kiss, and finds her full of serpents, which he picks out of her. He then tells the youth that he is the man who was in the coffin, and disappears with his fellows. In Irish III. three brothers set out from home with three pounds apiece. The youngest gives his all to pay a dead man's debts to three giants. He shares his food with a poor man, who offers to be his servant, saying that the corpse was his brother, and had appeared to him in a dream. [94] Jack the servant frightens the first giant into giving up his sword of sharpness, the second giant his cloak of darkness, and the third giant his shoes of swiftness. The two Jacks come to the castle of a king, whose daughter has to be wooed by accomplishing three tasks. Jack the servant follows the princess in the cloak of darkness to the demon king of Moróco and rescues her scissors. Next day Jack the master runs a race with the king and beats him because shod with the shoes of swiftness. That night Jack the servant goes again to the demon king and cuts off his head with the sword of sharpness, thus accomplishing the third task. So Jack the master marries the princess. These three variants make evident the nature of the foreign material in Esthonian II. and Rumanian I. The whole sub-group, indeed, has in combination with The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden important elements from the themes of The Water of Life and The Lady and the Monster. These features will be considered in detail in a later chapter, [95] when we study the general type The Grateful Dead + The Water of Life. For the present it is enough to indicate how the addition has affected the type with which we are immediately concerned. Of the three Irish tales, the first two have best preserved the characteristics of the compound as found in Asia and Eastern Europe. Irish I. has all the essential features of Armenian and Gypsy,--for example, the burial, the agreement to divide what is gained, and the removal of the evil things by which the woman is possessed. To be sure, the latter are devils, not serpents, and the woman is beaten, not divided. Yet the division appears in another form, since the hero is ready to share his child with the red-haired man, a trait connected with the theme of Amis and Amiloun. [96] Irish II. is in some respects more changed, and in some respects less, than Irish I. The agreement to divide is changed to a promise that the green man shall have the first kiss of the bride. On the other hand, the serpents in the woman's body are retained, a trait which is very primitive and very important in enabling us to identify the position of these variants. Irish III. has lost most of the typical features of the compound. Kennedy's evidence shows that Jack the servant is to be regarded as really the thankful dead; but the agreement to divide the gains and the removal of the demons or serpents have entirely disappeared under pressure from the secondary theme, the essential idea of which is the accomplishment by the hero of certain unspelling tasks. In conjunction with the other two variants, however, the position of Irish III. is clear. Very different from the Irish tales is Breton I., since under the influence of a tendency very common in Brittany, the narrative has become a Mary legend and has lost its clearness of outline in the process. Yet it really belongs to this group, replacing by a dragon-fight and a rescue of the hero from the villain the cleansing of the bride. At least, I am led to the belief that such is the case by the fact that the story fits into no other category. Nor is it surprising that the position of the tale should be obscure in view of the grotesque transformation which it has undergone. A youth named Mao pays all his money to have the body of a beggar interred. The spirit of the dead man helps him win the daughter of a rich man after killing a dragon in the stables. The lady's treacherous cousin tries to burn him alive in an old mill, whence he is saved by the ghost. He forgives the man, and is tricked into promising him half of all his possessions in order to save his wife. When a son is born, the villain demands its division. At the hero's appeal, the Virgin comes with the ghost and takes Mao and his family to heaven, while the cousin is sent to hell. Norwegian II. and Danish III. stand together, since the relation of the latter (Andersen's Reisekammeraten) to the former is simply that of a literary redaction to its original. A brief analysis of each is, however, necessary. In Norwegian II. a young peasant on account of a dream sets forth to win the hand of a princess. On his way he gives most of his money to bury a dishonest tapster, who has been executed and left frozen in a block of ice outside a church for passers-by to spit upon. As he proceeds, the youth is joined by the ghost of the tapster, who accompanies him. They go to a hill, where they get a magic sword from one witch, a golden ball of yarn from another, and a magical hat from a third. Of the yarn they make a bridge, and so come to the princess's castle. The hero is told to keep her scissors overnight and loses them; but the companion rides behind the princess on her goat in the hat of invisibility, when she goes to her troll lover, and so rescues them. The hero is told to keep a golden ball overnight, and the same adventure is repeated. The hero is then told to bring what the princess is thinking of. The companion rides again with the princess and beats her with his sword, gets the troll's head for his master, and so enables him to win the lady. On the wedding night the hero flogs his wife at the advice of the companion, only just in time to save himself, indeed, as she is about to kill him with a butcher-knife. He dips her into a tub of whey, whence she comes out black as a raven, but after a rubbing with buttermilk and new milk she becomes very beautiful. The companion discovers his identity and disappears. In Danish III. poor John, whose father has died, dreams of a beautiful princess, and sets forth to find her. He does various kind deeds by the way, and one night takes refuge from the storm in a church. There he sees two evil men dragging a corpse from its coffin, and pays his all that it may be buried. He is joined by the ghost of the dead man, who accompanies him. They get three rods from an old woman, who is healed by the comrade's salve, and they come to a city, where they get a sword from a showman, whose puppets are made alive by the salve. They come to a mountain, where the companion cuts off the wings of a great white swan and carries them along. They come at length to the city of the beautiful princess, who is a witch. Anyone can marry her who guesses three things, but every man who has tried has failed and been killed. John tells the king that he will try to win her, and is told to come the next day. In the night the comrade puts on the wings of the swan, takes the largest of the rods, and follows the princess when she flies out to the palace of her wizard lover. There he hears that she is to think of her shoe when her suitor comes in the morning. All the way to the mountain and back the comrade beats her so that the blood flows. The next morning he tells John to guess her shoe when asked what she has thought of. Everyone save the princess rejoices when the youth guesses right. The next night the companion beats the princess with two rods as she flies, and learns that she is to think of her glove. Again everyone is pleased with John's answer. The third night the companion takes all three rods and the sword. He cuts off the wizard's head when he learns that the princess is to think of that, and he gives it to John, wrapped in a handkerchief. John produces this when asked by the princess what she has thought about, and so he wins her. That night, at the bidding of the companion, he dips her three times in a tub of water, into which have been shaken three swan's feathers and some drops from a flask. The first time she becomes a black swan, the second a white swan, and the third a more beautiful princess than ever. The next day the comrade explains his identity and disappears. It will be seen that Andersen simply embroidered the Norwegian tale as was his wont, adding a good many picturesque details, and softening some features. The changes do not materially affect the course of the narrative, nor need they delay us here, interesting though they are of themselves, [97] since the position of the variant with reference to the story-type under consideration is perfectly clear. Norwegian II. demands further attention. Like Esthonian II., Rumanian I., and Irish I., II., and III., it has the form The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden + The Water of Life. The burial of the dead is undisturbed, but the agreement between the companions to divide their gains has entirely disappeared, perhaps because the secondary theme takes so large a place. The removal of the poisonous habitants of the bride is clearly indicated, though it has been weakened into a flogging, which is given, however, only just in time to save the bridegroom from death. The subsequent milk bath seems to show a conflict between the conclusions of the two subsidiary motives--the end of The Poison Maiden being release from something like demonic possession, and that of The Water of Life in this form being release from a spell--though perhaps the bath is only a reduplication of the purifying process. Simrock X. is not unlike the two variants just cited. A king's son wastes his property, and is sent out to shift for himself. He pays the debts of a naked corpse, and has only enough money left to pay his reckoning at his inn. So he takes the body to a wood, and buries it there. As he goes his way, he is met by a man, who becomes his follower and secures three rods, a sword, and a pair of wings from a dead raven. They come to a castle, where to win the king's daughter the prince has to guess her thoughts for three days in succession. The companion flies with her each night when she goes to her wizard for counsel, and learns that the prince must say "bread," "the princess's jewels," and "the wizard's head" in turn. On the last night he cuts off the wizard's head and brings it to his master, who displays it at court and so breaks the spell. When the couple are married, the companion explains that he is the spirit of the dead man, and disappears. This variant obviously belongs to the same type as those preceding. As in Irish I. and II. the hero is a prince instead of a youth of low birth; but there is no general uniformity in this trait. The agreement of division and the violent dispossession of the heroine have disappeared. Indeed, so far has The Water of Life supplanted the other motives that the position of the tale is only evident when it is placed side by side with other versions of the same class. When so considered, however, the peculiar features of the succession of feats by which the bride is won appear very prominently, and establish the type. Harz I. stands closer to Norwegian II. than the preceding. A youth pays his all for the burial of a poor man, whose ghost joins him. They go to a city, where a bespelled princess kills all her suitors who cannot answer a riddle. The companion spirit tells the youth to save her, explaining his own identity. He gives wings and an iron rod to the hero, who flies with the princess to a mountain spirit, and hears that he must guess that she is thinking of her father's white horse. The next night the youth follows her with two rods and is thus enabled to guess that she is thinking of her father's sword. The third night he follows her with two rods and a sword, with which he cuts off the monster's head. This he shows her in the morning when asked the usual question, and so he breaks the spell. On the wedding night he dips her thrice in water. The first time she comes from the bath a raven, the second time a dove, and the third time in her own shape, but purified. The burial is here retained, but the agreement is entirely lost. Though the variant follows Norwegian II. in general, even to such details as the preliminary beating of the lady, and the bath of final purification, the important trait of flogging the bride, by which the hero is saved on the wedding night, has altogether disappeared. Like Simrock X., the tale has obscured the first of the two secondary themes for the benefit of the second. Its position seems sure, however, as a member of the little group now being considered. Jack the Giant-Killer clearly belongs to this group, approaching Irish I. in form. The earliest complete version that I know is unfortunately not older than the eighteenth century, and perhaps has lost several features of interest which might be found in earlier forms. King Arthur's son sets forth to free a lady possessed of seven spirits. At a market town in Wales he pays almost all his money to release the body of a man who died in debt. He gives his last twopence to an old woman, who meets him after he has left the town. Jack the Giant-Killer is so pleased with these good deeds that he becomes the prince's servant. They go to a giant's castle together. Jack tells the giant that a mighty prince is coming [98] and locks him up, so that the two take all his gold. Jack takes also an old coat and cap, a rusty sword, and a pair of slippers. They arrive at the lady's house. She tells the prince to show her in the morning a handkerchief, which she conceals in her dress. By putting on the coat of darkness, and the shoes of swiftness, and following her when she goes to her demon lover, Jack gets the handkerchief for his master. Next day the lady tells the prince to get the lips which she will kiss the last that night. Jack follows her again and cuts off the demon's head, which the prince produces, thus breaking the spell that has bound her to the evil spirits. This variant, even in what is probably a mutilated state, is strikingly similar to Irish I. in such details as the means used to follow the lady, and the tasks imposed upon the suitor. Indeed, the fact that the adventures take place in Wales might lead one to suppose that the story in this form was Celtic, were not the knowledge of it so persistent in England also. Several features are obscured, at least in the form from which I cite. Though the burial of the dead is given clearly enough, and the fact that the lady is possessed is insisted on, the prince is kind to an old woman as well as to a dead man, and Jack is certainly not understood to be a ghost. All mention of an agreement between the companions, and of the means taken to free the heroine from her possession by dividing her or flogging her, has likewise disappeared. However, the correspondence both in outline and in detail with Irish I. is sufficient to establish the position of the variant. In the Old Wives' Tale the theme of The Grateful Dead is imbedded in such a mass of folk-lore and folk-tales that it is quite impossible to restore adequately the narrative as Peele found it. He treated the story as a literary artist, of course, modifying and adding details to suit the scheme of his play. The outline of the story, as Peele gives it, is as follows: A king, or a lord, or a duke, has a daughter as white as snow and as red as blood, who is carried off by a conjurer in the form of a dragon. Her two brothers set forth to seek her, and by a cross meet an old man named Erestus, who calls himself the White Bear of England's Wood. He, they learn, has been enchanted by the conjurer, and is a man by day and a bear by night. He tells them of his own troubles, and gives them good advice. Later he is met by the wandering knight Eumenides, who likewise is seeking the lady Delia and is counselled: "Bestowe thy almes, give more than all, Till dead men's bones come at thy call." Eumenides pays all his money except three farthings to bury the body of Jack, while the conjurer compels Delia to goad her brothers at the work to which he has set them. Eumenides is overtaken by the ghost of Jack, who becomes his servant, or "copartner," provides him with money, and slays the conjurer while invisible, thus breaking the spell of all the enchanted persons. Jack then demands his half of Delia, refuses to take her whole, and, when Eumenides prepares to cut her in twain, explains that he has asked this only as a trial of constancy. He quickly disappears. Dutz has already shown [99] that Old Wives' Tale has three of the essential features of The Grateful Dead, viz.: the burial of the dead with the peculiar prophetic advice of Erestus, the reward of the hero by assistance in getting a wife, and the sharing of the woman. Because of the non-schematic nature of his discussion he did not make any attempt to classify the variant more specifically. In his edition of the play, [100] Professor Gummere, in indicating some of the folk-lore which Peele used, has likewise called attention [101] to the connection with our theme. Of particular importance is his hint as to the likeness of the variant to the story which I call Irish III. It is practicable, however, to carry the matter somewhat further. The adventures of Delia, Eumenides, and Jack are all that really concern us. It will be seen that these conform in essentials to the type under consideration. There is the burial, the agreement, the death of the wizard, and the division. To be sure, as in other instances, the dispossession of the woman has been obscured by other elements; yet the type is unmistakable, it seems to me. One trait in particular connects Old Wives' Tale with Irish I. and II. In all three the hero seeks a maiden who is white as snow and red as blood. On the other hand, the ghost is called Jack as in Irish III. and the English tale which bears Jack's name. Because of these similarities and discrepancies one is forced to conclude that for this part of his play Peele drew upon some version of Jack the Giant-Killer, which was far better preserved than the forms known to-day. His original must have had many points in common with the tale as extant in Ireland, though we need not believe that he knew it in other than English dress. It yet remains to consider the relations of the two sets of variants discussed in this chapter to The Poison Maiden and to one another. The group is peculiar in that all the members of it are folk-tales, save three: Tobit, Danish III. and Old Wives' Tale. The two latter are, however, immediately derived from popular narratives of an easily discernible type. Thus Tobit is an anomaly from almost any point of view, obscure in its origin and possessed of only trivial influence upon the other tales belonging to the same group. Of the twenty-six variants, fifteen have The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden simply, while the other eleven add thereto more or less distinct elements of The Water of Life. In the following versions the hero is saved on the wedding night, or the bride is purified by some means: Tobit, Armenian, Gypsy, Siberian, Russian I., Russian II., Russian III., Russian IV., Russian V., Russian VI., Servian II., Servian III., Servian IV., Bulgarian, Esthonian II., Irish I., Irish II., Danish III., Norwegian II., and Harz I. Not all the stories which I have placed in the group, it will be observed, have this feature; but, out of all the variants of The Grateful Dead enumerated in the bibliographical list, not one has it except members of the group. Now this purification of the bride, by means of which the hero is saved, is precisely the element of The Poison Maiden which is most essential. There can be no doubt, therefore, that this theme actually united with a more primitive form of The Grateful Dead to form the compound discussed in this chapter. The combination must have been made very early and in Asia, as Tobit and Armenian bear witness. It will be noted that all the variants, save Finnish, which have the simple compound, retain the rescue of the bridegroom, while only half of those where a subsidiary motive has been introduced have the like. Apparently the intrusion of new matter of a very romantic sort tended to obscure the original climax of the combined type. Another feature of much importance in this connection is the division of the woman, or whatever is substituted for it. In a large majority of the variants studied, which have the trait at all, the purpose of the division proposed or accomplished is to test the fidelity of the hero. Hippe believed [102] that this was a modification of the original trait, an opinion which would be justified if the compound type The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden only were considered. The versions which have the purification are the following: Armenian, Gypsy, Siberian, Russian II., Russian IV., Russian V., Russian VI., Servian II., Servian III., Servian IV., Bulgarian, Esthonian II., Finnish, Irish I., Irish II., and Old Wives' Tale. In these the purpose of the division, or beating, whether actually performed or not, is the disposal of serpents or other venomous creatures by which the woman is possessed. [103] It will be noted, however, that all of these variants are of the type treated in the present chapter. If the division for the sake of purification were then regarded as more primitive and older than the division for the sake of sharing the gains or of testing the hero, it would naturally follow that all the combined types must proceed from The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden. Hippe followed the logical course from his premises in so regarding the relationship of the groups. [104] However, it seems clear to me--and it will be increasingly evident as we study the other groups--that the division for purification belongs solely to the compound treated in this chapter. It would follow logically from combining The Poison Maiden, where a friend saves the hero from the fatal embraces of a woman, with The Grateful Dead, where the hero is willing to divide his wife to satisfy the agreement which he has made with his benefactor. Only by such an explanation is it possible to account for the development of the several groups from a common root. The barbarous character of the division for purification, and the softening which it has undergone in the group which we have been studying, give it an appearance of antiquity to which it has no right. In point of fact, it belongs only to this group, which is thus clearly set off from all the others as an independent branch. The division for the sake of fulfilling an obligation is more widespread, though it has suffered many modifications. CHAPTER V. THE GRATEFUL DEAD AND THE RANSOMED WOMAN. As has already been shown, [105] Simrock regarded as an essential feature of The Grateful Dead the release of a maiden from captivity by the hero. Stephens and Hippe [106] saw that such was not the case. The latter's treatment of the matter [107] leaves little to be desired as far as it goes, save that it implies a derivation of the compound The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman from the compound treated in the last chapter--a view which I believe erroneous. The Ransomed Woman appears as a separate tale or in combination with other themes than The Grateful Dead more than once. A prolonged study of the motive would probably yield a rich harvest of examples, though it is sufficient for the present purpose to refer to Hippe's article as establishing the existence of the form. His Wendish folk-tale [108] and Guter Gerhard, from the latter of which Simrock started his enquiry, are of themselves evidence enough. [109] Neither example has anything whatever to do with The Grateful Dead. [110] The characteristics of The Ransomed Woman will appear as we consider the compound type, which contains folk-tales almost exclusively, as was the case with the type studied in the previous chapter, but in most cases from Western Europe instead of from both Asia and Europe. Nineteen variants have The Grateful Dead and The Ransomed Woman combined in a comparatively simple form without admixture with related themes. These are: Servian I., Lithuanian I., [111] Hungarian II., Transylvanian, Catalan, Spanish, Trancoso, Nicholas, Gasconian, Straparola I., Istrian, Gaelic, Breton III., [112] Swedish, Norwegian I., Icelandic I. and II., and Simrock IV. and VI. In Servian I. a merchant's son, while on a journey, ransoms a company of slaves whom he finds in the hands of freebooters. Among them is a beautiful maiden with her nurse. He marries the lady, who proves to be the daughter of an emperor. On a second voyage he ransoms two peasants, who have been imprisoned for not paying their taxes to the emperor. On his third journey he comes to his father-in-law's court, and is sent back for his wife. He is, however, cast into the sea by a former lover of the princess, and succeeds in getting ashore on a lonely island, where he remains for fifteen days and fifteen nights. [113] Then an angel in the disguise of an old man appears to him, and, on condition of receiving half of his possessions, brings him to court, where he is reunited with his wife. After renouncing his claim, the old man explains who he is, and disappears. The most striking peculiarity of the variant is the loss of the burial, for which appears rather awkwardly the ransoming of some peasants on the hero's second voyage. That substitution has occurred is apparent, however, both from the clumsiness of the device by which the original trait is replaced, and from the angel in the form of an old man, who takes the rôle of the ghost. It will be remembered that the same substitution has already been met with in the case of Tobit and Russian II. In Lithuanian I. is found a variant which, as we shall find, is of a common type. A king's son pays three hundred gold-pieces, all that he possesses, to release a dead man from his creditors and have him buried. The hero then becomes a merchant, and finds a princess on an island, whither she has been driven by a storm. He takes her to a city, where he makes his home, and marries her. A messenger, sent out by her father to seek her, arrives, takes them aboard ship, and pitches the hero into the sea in order to obtain the offered reward. He is saved by a man in a boat, who says that he is the ghost of the dead, and instructs him how to rejoin his bride. So everything ends happily. The events as here related follow a very normal course, which is repeated again and again in stories of this type: a burial, a ransom, an act of treachery, a rescue by the ghost, and a happy reunion of the lovers. The agreement between the hero and the ghost, which is found in Servian I., and very frequently elsewhere, is lacking, however. A peculiarity of the variant is the change in status of the hero. He is a prince, but becomes a merchant, thus uniting the two characters given him in the other tales of this class. Hungarian II. is in some respects more interesting than the variant just cited. A merchant's son while in Turkey pays the debts and for the burial of a mistreated corpse. After returning home, he goes to England and rescues a French princess with her two maids, but by his cunning saves the gold that he has agreed to pay for them. At her bidding he goes to Paris and tells the king that she is safe. On his return to bring her to her home, where he is to marry her, he is placed on a desert island by a general who is enamoured of the princess. Thence he is rescued by an old man, the ghost of the dead, who takes him to the Continent. He goes to Paris, where he is recognized by the princess, when he drops a ring that she has given him into a beaker. When she comes to him in his room, he threatens to kill her if she does not go away; but when she agrees that he has the right to do so since he has saved her life, he says that his threat was only a test of loyalty. So the story ends happily. The course of events is not very different from that of Lithuanian I., since the variant has all the normal elements save the agreement between the ghost and the hero. A peculiarity is the final scene in which the hero tests his lady. It will be evident, I think, that this is an obscured and modified form of the test to which the ghost elsewhere submits the hero, a test of fidelity likewise, though different in its nature. In the Transylvanian variant, a merchant's son while on a journey pays fifty florins, half of his capital, for the burial of a dead man. On a second journey he pays one hundred florins, again one-half of his store, for the ransom of a princess who has been imprisoned while out doing charity incognito. She gives him a ring and sends him to the castle, where her father turns him out of doors. He then meets an old man--the ghost--and promises him one-half of his gains after seven years for his help. He is then enabled to marry the princess, who recognizes him, at the castle by his ring. They have two children. When the old man comes back at the end of seven years, the hero gives up one of his children, and, after offering her whole, is ready to divide his wife. The old man renounces his claim, and disappears. Every step in the narrative is here clearly marked, even to the conditional agreement with the ghost, which so frequently is wanting. The variant thus appears to be entirely normal as far as The Grateful Dead goes, though it does not have the rescue by the ghost--an important feature of The Ransomed Woman. In Catalan [114] a young man on a journey has a poor man buried at his expense, and ransoms a princess. Later he goes to the court of her parents with a flag on which she has embroidered her name. They recognize this, and send the youth back for the lady. On the way he is cast into the sea by the sailors, but is saved by the thankful dead and brought to the court again, where he espouses the princess. In Spanish [115] a young Venetian merchant pays the debts of a Christian at Tunis, and has him buried. At the house of the creditor he also buys a Christian slave girl. He takes her back to Venice and marries her. At the wedding a sea-captain recognizes the lady, and lures the couple aboard his ship. The young man is cast into the sea, but by clinging to a plank reaches land, where he lives seven months with a hermit. At the end of that time he is sent to the coast, where he finds a ship, and is transported to Ireland. There he is entrusted by the captain with two letters to the king. The one says that he is a great physician, who will heal the sick princess; the other that the plank, the hermit, and the captain who has brought him to Ireland are one and all the ghost of the man whom he buried. The hero is recognized at court by the princess, who has been brought thither by the traitor, and has explained all to her father. In these tales the theme of The Grateful Dead is somewhat abbreviated for the sake of the romantic features of the secondary motive. In both, the agreement with the ghost and every trace of a division have disappeared, though they differ in the details of the treachery by which the lovers are separated. In the former [116] much is made of the manner by which the hero gets a favourable reception at the court of the princess's father, while in the latter this is suppressed. Recognition by some such means, it will appear, is an important feature of the majority of the variants in this section. It must be remembered, of course, that Spanish is a semi-literary version, even though popular in origin. Trancoso, the work of a sixteenth century Portuguese story-teller, is even more consciously literary. It shows, besides, the tendency of the narrative to take on a religious colouring. The son of a Lusitanian merchant, while in Fez on a trading expedition, buys the relics of a Christian saint. In spite of his father's anger, he does this a second time, and is so successful in retailing the bones that he is sent out a third time with instructions to buy as many relics as possible. On this expedition, however, he succeeds merely in ransoming a Christian girl, whom he takes home. At her request he carries to the King of England a piece of linen, on which she has embroidered the story of her adventures. He learns that she is the king's daughter, and restores her to her father. Subsequently he wanders over Europe in despair, for he has hoped to marry the princess, till he meets with two minstrels, who accompany him to the English court. There he makes himself known to the princess by a song; and, by the aid of the two minstrels, he wins her hand in a tournament. Later the two friends reveal themselves as the saints whose bones he had rescued from the Moors. Though this version clearly belongs in the category now under discussion, it has certain features that can be explained only on the supposition that Trancoso altered his source to suit his personal fancy. The clever substitute for actual burial, the duplication of that trait (which occurs nowhere else), the humorous touch with reference to the hero's success in selling relics, and the appearance of the ghosts as minstrels, are all strokes of individual invention. The wanderings of the hero and his manner of revealing himself to the princess are doubtless reminiscences from the popular romances of Spain, while the tournament probably comes, as Menéndez y Pelayo hints, [117] from an earlier version of our theme, Oliver, which will be treated below. In spite of these peculiarities, the ordinary features of the combined theme are not more obscured than in the two preceding variants. The agreement, the division, and the rescue are the only ones that disappear. In the fourteenth century variant from Scala Celi, Nicholas, our story is altogether transformed into a legend. The only son of a widow [118] of Bordeaux is sent as a merchant to a distant city with fifty pounds. He gives it all to help rebuild a church of St Nicholas, and returns home empty-handed. Much later he is sent out with one hundred pounds, and buys the Sultan's daughter. His mother disowns him, and he is supported by the embroidery which the princess makes. With her wares he goes to a festival at Alexandria, but, at her bidding, keeps away from the castle. When he journeys to Alexandria a second time, however, he goes to the castle and is imprisoned, as the handiwork of the princess is recognized. She is sent for, while the hero is released and goes home. Since he does not find the maiden there, he returns to Alexandria with a piece of embroidery which she has sent him, meets her, and elopes by the aid of St. Nicholas, who sends them a ship opportunely. Because of its legendary character the variant has been materially transformed, but not beyond recognition. The thankful dead is replaced by the saint throughout, so that the burial is altered into church building, and both the agreement and the division of the gains disappear. The various elements of The Ransomed Woman fare better: the act of treachery done the hero is the only one lacking, and that perhaps is replaced by his imprisonment in the Sultan's castle. It is remarkable that the details of the narrative have been so little altered in spite of its complete change of purpose. In the Gasconian folk-tale Jean du Boucau, the son of a mariner, goes to fight the corsairs. On the shore of the sea he rescues a man named Uartia, who is pretending death to escape from his creditors. Later this man becomes a prosperous freebooter, and is sailing with a load of captives when met again by Jean. The latter is so shocked by his evil deeds that he encloses him in the coffin prepared for him on the previous occasion, and throws him into the sea. Jean then marries the most beautiful of the captives, who is the daughter of the King of Bilbao. The variant is excessively rationalized, it will be observed, and most traces of The Grateful Dead have disappeared. Though various substitutions for the burial are found in each of the groups, this is the only case that I know where the man plays 'possum to escape his creditors. The story is likewise unique in making the hero take vengeance on the man whom he has helped earlier, and accordingly in making him rescue the maiden from the hands of the person who is in the character of the thankful dead. The variant has been modified by a free fancy; yet its position in the group remains perfectly clear in spite of the loss of such traits as the agreement, the act of treachery, the rescue of the hero, and the division of the gains. Straparola I., one of the Italian novelist's two renderings of our theme, is far more normal than the above, and is probably based directly on a folk-story. Bertuccio pays one hundred ducats to free a corpse from a robber and bury it, greatly to his mother's disgust. He goes out again with two hundred ducats, and pays them for the ransom of the daughter of the King of Navarre. His mother is still more angry. The princess is taken home to Navarre by officers of the court who have been searching for her, but first she tells Bertuccio to come to her, and to hold his hand to his head as a sign when he hears that she is to be married. On his way to Navarre he meets a knight who gives him a horse and clothing on condition of his returning them, together with half of his gains. He marries the princess, and is returning home, when he meets the knight again and offers to give up his wife whole rather than kill her by division. Whereupon the knight explains that he is the spirit of the dead, and resigns his claim. All the traits previously mentioned are here evident save the act of treachery by which the hero comes near losing his bride. The sign appears as a means of communication between the lovers, as in Transylvanian and elsewhere. The question of division is simply a matter of fulfilling a bargain, but it shows how easily by a slight shift of emphasis the test of loyalty could be made the important element. None of the Italian folk variants, which I know, conforms to the above closely enough to be regarded as a near relative. Istrian, however, belongs in the same category. A youth called Fair Brow sets out to trade with six thousand scudi, which he pays to bury a debtor on the shore, for whom passers-by are giving alms. On his return home, he tells his father that he has been robbed, and again is sent out with six thousand scudi. He pays these for a maiden, who has been stolen from the Sultan, and he is consequently disowned by his father. After his marriage to the girl, the young couple live by the sale of the wife's paintings. Some sailors of the Sultan see these, and carry the lady off home. Fair Brow goes fishing with an old man whom he meets by the sea. They are driven by a storm to Turkey, and are sold to the Sultan as slaves, but they escape with the wife and considerable treasure. The old man then asks for a division of the property, even of the woman. When the hero offers him three-quarters of the wealth in order to keep the woman, the old man declares that he is the ghost, and disappears. All of the essential traits, except the preliminary agreement and the rescue of the hero, are here clearly marked. The latter is, indeed, probably accounted for by the storm which the hero and the ghost encounter together. The fact that the young couple live by the sale of the wife's handiwork, and that this in some way or other leads to her restoration to her parents or earlier connections, is an important feature of The Ransomed Woman, being found clearly in the Wendish tale as well as in many variants of the compound type. Gaelic is an interesting example of the theme. Iain, the son of a Barra widow, becomes the master of a ship and goes to Turkey, where he pays the debts of a dead Christian and buries the corpse. He ransoms a Christian maiden, the daughter of the King of Spain, with her servant, on the same journey, and takes her back to England, together with much gold. At her advice he goes to Spain and attends church, where the king recognizes by his clothing, his ring, his book, and his whistle that he has news of the lost princess. Iain then returns to England for the maiden, whom he is to marry. While going with her to Spain he is left on a desert island by a general, who has secreted himself on the ship; but after a time he is rescued by a man in a boat, to whom he promises half of his wife and of his children, if he shall have any. In Spain the princess, who has gone mad, recognizes him when he plays his whistle. So they are married, and the general burned. When three sons have been born, the rescuer appears and asks for his share; but as soon as Iain accedes he declares himself to be the ghost, and disappears. Apart from the dressing of the story, which is unusually good, the variant follows the normal course. The several signs by which the hero is recognized by the king and the princess mark the imaginative wealth of the Celt, though the appearance of a ring, and the fact that the hero is left on a desert island by an infatuated general, show a close correspondence with Hungarian II. The introduction of the children as part of the property to be divided is interesting, since it shows the connecting link by which the simple compound now under consideration passed into combination with the theme of The Two Friends. [119] Gaelic, however, clearly belongs where it is here placed. The healing of the princess at the hero's coming reminds one of the similar trait in Spanish. Breton III. [120] is peculiar in several ways. A young man, who had been unjustly cast off by his parents, put himself under the protection of St. Corentin and the Virgin. To an old woman he gave all his stock of money that she might bury her husband and have masses said for his soul. The saint and the Virgin then led the hero to a nobleman, whose daughter he married. On a hunt he was cast into the sea by an envious uncle of his wife, at a time when she was pregnant; but he was brought to an island by some mysterious power and nourished there for five years by St. Corentin. Finally an old man appeared and took him home after he had promised half of his possessions to the rescuer. When a year had passed, the old man came back and demanded half of the child; but just as the mysterious stranger was about to divide the child St. Corentin and the Virgin appeared and explained their identity, together with that of the old man, who was the saint himself. They told the hero, furthermore, that God was well pleased with him, and would take his son and himself to Paradise. Father and son fell dead immediately, while the wife went into a convent. This tale, like Nicholas, has been dressed up as a legend, chiefly in the praise of St. Corentin, with the result that the elements are confused. The burial, however, persists, though the ransoming of the woman has been feebly replaced by the aid of the saint and the Virgin. The hero is cast into the sea by an avaricious uncle of the bride, again a weakened trait. The rescue and the agreement to divide are normal in essentials, though adorned with superfluous miracles, as is again the conclusion of the tale. It illustrates how easily such a narrative may be adapted, whether consciously or not, to a religious purpose. The division of the child, which comes in question, is of precisely the same character as in Gaelic; it does not imply the presence of a new motive, though it indicates the possibility of a new combination. Swedish [121] is a somewhat abbreviated form of the normal type. Pelle Båtsman, while on a journey, pays the debts of a dead man, and so brings repose to him; for he has been hunted from his grave and soundly beaten every night by his creditors, who are likewise dead. Pelle then falls in with robbers, with whom he finds the daughter of the King of Armenia. He escapes with her, and goes on board a ship to seek her father, but he is thrown overboard by the envious captain. He is saved by the thankful dead and brought to Armenia, where he marries the princess. Here the burial is peculiar in that the dead man is harassed by creditors who are already dead. This is a marvel, which need excite no surprise in view of the modifications of the trait found elsewhere. The ransom in this case does not imply a money payment, since the hero escapes from robbers with the maiden. The way in which the hero is left behind by the master of the vessel on which the lovers sail is a trait similar to the one in Catalan and Spanish. The agreement between the hero and the ghost, the sign employed by the hero, and the division of gains are all lacking; but no new feature replaces them. Norwegian I. [122] is not very different from the preceding tale. A man in the service of a merchant pays all he has, while on one voyage, to bury the body of a dead man. On his next voyage he ransoms a princess, and sets out with her for England. On the way she is carried off by her brother and a former suitor. The hero overtakes them and is given a ring by the lady, but is cast into the sea by the suitor. For seven years he lives on a desert isle, till an old man appears, tells him that it is the princess's bridal day, carries him to England, and gives him a flask. This the hero sends to his lady, is thus recognized, and is married. The agreement with the ghost and the division of the woman are entirely lacking, though the burial, the ransom, the treachery of the suitor, and the aid of the ghost appear in normal fashion. The sign enters only as a means of communication between the lovers. The tale thus has no very unusual traits. Icelandic I. [123] is a fuller, and, for our purpose, more interesting variant than the last. Thorsteinn, a king's son, who has wasted his substance, sells his kingdom and sets forth into the world. He pays two hundred rix-dollars to free from debt a dead man, whose grave is beaten every day by a creditor to destroy his rest. The prince goes on, and in the castle of a giant finds a princess hanging by the hair. He frees her, and is taking her home when he meets Raudr, a knight to whom her hand has been promised if he can find her. Raudr puts the prince to sea alone in a boat and carries the lady home. Thorsteinn, however, is brought thither also by the ghost and is recognized by the princess, when she is about to be married to the traitor. So Raudr is punished, and Thorsteinn obtains the princess. Here, again, the agreement, the sign, and the division do not appear, though the version is otherwise normal. To be sure, the ransom of the lady is replaced by a rescue, as in Swedish, and the beating of the grave preserves a bit of northern superstition, which is interesting even though not primitive as far as our tale is concerned. [124] Icelandic II. is similar to the variant just cited in several particulars, though it has important differences. Vilhjálmur, a merchant's son, loses his property and becomes the servant of twelve robbers. In their den he finds a princess named Ása hanging by the hair. He escapes with her by sea, taking along the thieves' treasure. This he pays to have the body of a debtor buried. To the haven where this happens comes Rauður in search of the princess, takes the couple on his ship, but puts the hero to sea in a rudderless boat. A man appears to Vilhjálmur in a dream, saying that he is the ghost of the man whom he has buried, and that he will bring him to land and show him treasure. So the hero is brought to the land of the princess and tells his story at the wedding of the traitor with the princess. Thus the bride is won for him. The hero, it will be observed, is a merchant instead of a prince, as in Icelandic I., and the burial of the dead is customary in form though exceptionally placed in the narrative. Otherwise the two variants correspond rather closely, even in such a detail as the name of the traitor. There is the same omission of elements peculiar to The Grateful Dead, the same preponderance of the secondary motive, found in all the northern versions of this particular group. The two Icelandic variants seem to be perfectly distinct, though they are nearly related. The two German folk-tales which fall into this group are not very different from one another. In Simrock IV. a merchant's son pays the debts of a man who is being devoured by dogs, but does not succeed in saving his life. He goes on, finds two maidens exposed on a rock, and takes them home. In spite of his father's objections, he marries one of them. He goes to sea again, wearing a ring that his wife has given him, and carrying a flag marked with her name. Coming to the royal court of her father, he is sent back for the princess with a minister. On his voyage to court again he is put overboard by the minister, who hopes thus to win the princess. However, he is cast up on an island, where the ghost of the dead man appears to him in sleep and transports him miraculously to court. There he is recognized by his ring and reunited to his wife. Details such as those concerning the burial, the rescue of the lady, and the help given miraculously by the ghost mark the independence of the variant, though they do not alter the normal course of the narrative. As so often in this group, the agreement with the ghost and the division are entirely lacking. In Simrock VI. the variations from the normal are even slighter. Heinrich of Hamburg buys a beautiful maiden in a foreign land. On the sea-coast, when he is returning home with her, he pays the debts of a corpse and has it buried. He wishes to marry the girl, but she asks that he delay the wedding for a year and make a journey first. So she gives him two coffers, with which he crosses the sea. By the help of a shipman he finds his betrothed's royal father, but on his way back to fetch her home is cast overboard by the mariner, who is the original kidnapper of the maiden. This man gets her and carries her to the court with the hope of marrying her. The hero is saved from the sea, however, by the ghost of the dead man, who brings him to the garden of the princess's palace, where he is found by his bride. The order of the burial and the ransoming [125] is here reversed, but the facts are given in the ordinary form. Otherwise the variant does not differ essentially from the preceding. In Transylvanian, [126] and more clearly in Gaelic and Breton III., [127] a tendency has been remarked to introduce the children of the hero as part of the gains which he is asked to divide with the thankful ghost. In a series of tales belonging to the general type The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman this tendency has been accentuated so far that it seems best to group them together, because of their approach to the theme of The Two Friends. Since an actual combination of this motive with The Grateful Dead in its simple form is found in only three variants, all of them literary, it will perhaps be best to discuss the relationship of the main to the minor theme at this point. The Two Friends is the chief motive of Amis and Amiloun, which in its various forms [128] is the mediaeval epic of ideal friendship. Its essential feature, as far as the present study is concerned, is the sacrifice of his two sons by Amis to cure the leprosy of Amiloun. They are actually slain, but are miraculously brought to life again by the power of God. This story, which exercised a powerful influence on the imagination of European peoples, easily became connected with the sacrifice of his wife by the hero of The Grateful Dead. The three variants with the simple compound, or forming a group on that basis, are those entered in the bibliography as Lope de Vega, Calderon, and Oliver. The plot of Oliver runs as follows [129]: Oliver, the son of the King of Castille, becomes the close friend of Arthur of Algarbe, the son of his stepmother. When he has grown up, he flees from home because of the love which the queen declares for him, leaving to Arthur a vial in which the water would grow dark, were he to come into danger. He is shipwrecked while on his way to Constantinople, but, together with another knight, is saved miraculously by a stag, which carries them to England. Talbot, the other knight, is ill, and asks Oliver to take him to his home at Canterbury, where he dies. Because of debts that his parents will not pay he cannot be buried in consecrated ground till Oliver himself attends to the matter. The hero then starts for a tourney where the hand of the king's daughter is the prize. On the way he loses his horse and money, but is supplied anew by a mysterious knight, on condition of receiving half of what he gets at the tourney. Here he is victor, and after a further successful war in Ireland marries the princess, who bears him two children. While hunting he is taken prisoner by the King of Ireland and placed in a dungeon. Arthur, who is acting as regent in Spain, notices that the vial has grown dark, and sets out to rescue his brother. In Ireland he is wounded by a dragon, but is healed by a white knight, who notices his resemblance to Oliver, and takes him to London to solace the princess. He only escapes her embraces by the pretence of a vow, and sets forth to deliver Oliver. On their way back he tells of his visit at London, and so excites Oliver's jealousy, who leaves him. At home, however, Oliver discovers his mistake, and determines to find his brother, who, after a punitive expedition into Ireland, falls gravely ill. Oliver learns in a dream that Arthur can only be cured by the blood of his children, whom he slays accordingly. On his return home, however, he finds them as well as ever. Later appears the mysterious knight to demand his share of wife and children, as well as of all his property. As Oliver raises his sword to divide his wife, he is told to desist, since his loyalty is proved. The knight then explains that he is the ghost of Talbot. Later Arthur marries Oliver's daughter, and eventually unites the kingdoms of England, Castille, and Algarbe. Oliver has certain elements not to be accounted for by the combination of The Two Friends with The Grateful Dead. Such are the motive of the hero's journey, for example, which allies it with the tales of incestuous step-mothers; and the tourney in which the hero wins his bride. Yet the burial of the dead man (here a knight and a friend of the hero's) [130] corresponds to the normal form of the episode in that Oliver pays the creditors and the sum necessary for the man's interment. So, too, the demand made by the ghost for half of all that has been won runs true to the original form. The distinctive trait of Amis and Amiloun, at the same time, comes out more clearly than in the case of such folk-tales as Gaelic--the hero actually kills his little children to save the life of his old friend and foster-brother. One factor leads me to think that the romance and the two romantic plays are to be regarded as forms of the general type treated in this chapter, with additions from other stories. The ghost rescues the hero from imprisonment A rescue of the sort--normally after the hero has been cast into the sea or left behind by his rival--is characteristic of The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman. In Oliver this rescue takes place, to be sure, after the marriage instead of before, which is the normal order, yet it is a factor of considerable importance. The romance takes a position somewhat apart; and even though this is partly due to the literary handling which it has undergone, it must remain doubtfully classed with the immediate circle of variants belonging to the compound type. The position of the play by Lope de Vega is involved with that of Oliver. Don Juan de Castro flees to England because of the unlawful love of his stepmother, the Princess of Galicia. His ship is wrecked on the English coast, and the captain, Tibaldo, is cast ashore in a dying condition. To free the latter's mind from unrest, Don Juan pays his debts of two thousand ducats, though this is half of the hero's possessions. He hears that the princess Clarinda is promised to anyone of princely blood who wins an approaching tournament. While he is sorrowful that he cannot enter the contest, because of his poverty, the ghost of Tibaldo appears to him one night and promises the necessary equipment on condition of receiving one-half the gains. The next morning he finds everything ready and wins the princess. He is later taken prisoner by one of the contestants through a ruse, and is carried off to Ireland. By the ghost's advice, his stepbrother and double comes to London and takes his place, while Don Juan is freed by force of arms and restored to his wife. After some years, when the couple have two children, the stepbrother falls ill of a dreadful malady, which can only be cured, Don Juan learns in a dream, by the blood of his children. So he slays them and gives their blood to the sick man to drink. They are found alive by a miracle; but Don Juan is troubled, and does not find rest till the ghost appears and tells him that the only remedy for his affliction is to fulfil his promise of a division. The hero prepares to divide his wife, when the ghost stops him and explains that the demand was only a test. As Schaeffer pointed out, [131] Lope's plot is clearly taken from Oliver, probably from the Spanish translation issued in 1499. Indeed, the drama follows the romance with far more fidelity than could have been expected of such an adaptation. The various elements of the motive appear without essential alteration. The play El mejor amigo el muerto, listed for convenience as Calderon, has suffered, in contrast to Lope's play, from many changes. Prince Robert of Ireland and Don Juan de Castro are wrecked on the English coast. The former finds the sea-captain Lidoro in a dying condition, and refuses to give him aid. Don Juan, on the other hand, finds Lidoro's body, which a creditor keeps from interment, and pays for his burial out of his scanty savings from the wreck. He then goes to London, where there is trouble because Queen Clarinda will not marry Prince Robert. Don Juan is cast into prison on a false charge, his identity being unknown to the queen, though he is recognized by Robert. He is saved by the aid of Lidoro's ghost, nevertheless, lays siege for Clarinda's hand, overcomes Robert, and so becomes king of England. The correspondence of names and details makes it clear that the source of this play is Lope de Vega, though the plot has been modified in several features. In the process of adaptation all trace of The Two Friends has dropped out, a fact which would make the position of the variant difficult to ascertain, had the authors not left most of the characters their original names. The change in the position of the rescue of the hero from prison, indeed, gives a specious resemblance to the normal type The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman, which is quite unjustified by the real state of the case. All the other variants in which there is question of dividing a child, save one, [132] are folk-tales; and all of them save three [133] clearly belong in the category now under discussion. If they did not group themselves in this way, I should be unwilling even to consider the possibility of any general influence from The Two Friends upon these tales, since the only trait borrowed by any of them is precisely the division. Only in Oliver and Lope de Vega is this sacrifice made for the healing of a friend; and we have seen in the case of Transylvanian, Gaelic, and Breton III. how naturally the division of the child grows out of the division of the wife. As the matter stands, however, the case for the influence of The Two Friends is sufficiently strong to warrant the grouping of these tales together. The general relationship of the theme may be deferred to a later chapter. [134] Lithuanian II. [135] is a characteristic specimen of the class of tales just referred to. A prince, while travelling, sees a corpse gnawed by swine in a street. He pays the man's creditors for his release and has the body buried. Later, on the same journey, he buys two maidens, one of whom is a king's daughter, and takes them home. After a year he goes on a second journey with the princess's picture for a figure-head on his ship, and a ring, which she has given him. The picture is recognized by the maiden's father, and the prince is sent back in the company of certain nobles to fetch her. While they are returning to her home with the princess, one of the nobles pushes the prince overboard. He lives on an island for two years, until a man comes to him and promises to bring him to court before the princess marries the traitor, on condition of receiving his first-born son. The agreement is made, and the prince wins his bride. After a son has been born to them, the man appears and demands the child. He is put off for fifteen years, and at the end of that time explains that he is the ghost of the rescued dead man. All the traits of the compound type, as it has already been analyzed, are here apparent, save that the sacrifice of the child is substituted for that of the wife. The variant does not demand any further comment. We come now to the various forms of Jean de Calais, which make up a little group by themselves. The ten examples of the story that I have been able to find differ from one another sufficiently to make separate analyses of most of them necessary. The version by Mme. de Gomez (I.) runs as follows: [136] Jean, the son of a rich merchant at Calais, while on a journey, comes to the city of Palmanie on the island of Orimanie. There he pays the debts and secures the burial of a corpse which is being devoured by dogs. He also ransoms two slave girls, one of whom he marries and takes home. The woman is the daughter of the King of Portugal. While taking her to her father's court, Jean is separated from her by a treacherous general, but is saved by the grateful dead, and enabled to rejoin his wife. Later the ghost, who appears in the form of a man, demands half of their son according to the agreement of division which they have made. When Jean gives him the child to divide, the stranger praises his loyalty and disappears. This story has all the characteristics of the type The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman + the demand that the hero's son be divided. In general outline it is scarcely distinguishable from Lithuanian II., save that the hero Jean is a merchant's son instead of a prince. In details, however, it differs considerably. For example, Jean marries one of the captive maidens as soon as he buys her; there is no question of signs by which the hero is recognized by his wife's father or by the princess herself; and the ghost is less dilatory in his demands. Some of these differences are doubtless to be accounted for through the unfaithfulness of the rendering, which is semi-literary. At all events, Jean de Calais III., IV., and V., all three of which were heard on the Riviera, have several changes from I., though they vary from one another only in very minor matters. [137] A single analysis will suffice for the three. Jean de Calais, the son of a merchant, on his first voyage gives all his profits to bury the corpse of a deceased debtor. On his second he ransoms a beautiful woman (with or without a companion), and lives with her in poverty because of his father's displeasure. On a subsequent voyage he bears her portrait on the prow of the ship, where it is seen by her father. A former suitor meets him on his return to court with his wife (in III. goes with him) and throws him into the sea either by violence or by a ruse. He is cast up on an island (in III. is carried thither in a boat by the ghost in human form), whence he is conveyed by the ghost, on condition of receiving half of his first son, or half of what he loves best, to the court just as the princess is to marry the traitor. By a ruse he enters the palace and is recognized. Later the ghost appears, but stays Jean when he is about to sacrifice his son. Jean de Calais VI., though from Brittany instead of southern France, does not differ greatly from the above, nor from I. Jean buries the dead man and ransoms two women on a single voyage, as in I. He is kindly received at home in spite of his extravagance, in which the variant differs from III., IV., and V., and he marries one of the maidens there. On his next voyage the King of Portugal (as in I. and III.) recognizes his daughter's portrait and that of her maid, which the hero has displayed on his ship. He brings his wife to the court, after which they go back, together with a former suitor, for their possessions. On the voyage Jean is thrown overboard, but is washed up on an island, whither the ghost comes, announces himself immediately, and bargains rescue for half of the hero's child. Jean is transported to court miraculously, and there meets with the customary adventures at the close of the tale. The variant is chiefly peculiar, it will be remarked, in placing the treachery of the former suitor after the marriage has been recognized by the king, and in making the ghost announce himself at once. Jean makes no blind bargain, a fact which detracts somewhat from the interest. Jean de Calais II. and VII. differ from the other forms of the story in several ways. In the former [138] Jean is the son of a rich merchant, and has wasted much money. He is sent out to seek his fortune on land with seven thousand pistoles, but he pays his all for the debts and burial of a poor man. On his return, he is commended by his father, but again falls into evil ways. Once more he is sent forth with seven thousand pistoles, and passes the cemetery where he buried the debtor. As he does so, a great white bird speaks from the cross, saying that it is the soul of the dead man and will not forget. Jean buys the two daughters of the King of Portugal from a pirate and takes them home, where, with his complaisant father's approval, he marries the elder. Later he journeys to Lisbon with the portraits of the sisters, which are recognized by the king. [139] He is sent back for his wife, but is pushed overboard by a traitor, being driven on a rock in the sea, where he is fed by the white bird. Meanwhile, the traitor goes to Calais and remains there seven years as a suitor for the princess's hand. He is about to be rewarded, when Jean, after promising half of what he loves best to the white bird, is miraculously transported to Calais, whither the King of Portugal comes at the same time. The white bird bears witness to the hero's identity, and demands half of his child. When Jean is about to divide the boy, however, it stops him and flies away. Version VII. has certain characteristics in common with the above. It is a Basque tale. Juan de Kalais, the son of a widow, sets off as a merchant, but sells his cargo and ship to pay the debts of a corpse, which is being dragged about on a dung-heap. On his return, his mother is angry. Again he goes on a voyage, but with a very poor ship, and is compelled by an English captain to ransom a beautiful maiden with all his cargo. The hero's mother is again angry at this seemingly bad bargain, but she does not forbid his marrying the girl. Juan is now sent to Portugal by his wife with a portrait on a flag, a handkerchief, and a ring. At the same time she tells him that she has been called Marie Madeleine. When the King of Portugal sees the portrait, he sends the hero back with a general to fetch Marie, who is his daughter. The general pitches Juan overboard and goes for the princess, whom he persuades to marry him after seven years. At the end of that time, a fox comes to Juan on an island, where he has lived, and bargains to rescue him for half of all he has at present and will have later. The hero arrives in Portugal, is recognized by the king, tells his story, and has the general burned. After a year the fox appears and demands payment, but, when Juan is going to divide his child, it says that it is the soul of the dead man whom he buried long before. The two variants are chiefly peculiar in that they introduce a new element into the compound,--The Thankful Beast. This substitution of some beast for the ghost has been encountered twice before [140] in connection with Jewish and Servian IV., and must receive special treatment later on. [141] For the present it is sufficient to remark the variation from all other forms of Jean de Calais except X. [142] In both II. and VII. Jean makes two journeys, [143] as in III., IV., and V., as against I. and VI. The attitude of the parent differs widely in the two. The maiden whom the hero marries is a Portuguese princess, which is the prevailing form of the tale. The portrait is also found in each, and both state the time of Jean's exile as seven years. II. differs from all the other versions in placing the later adventures of the story at Calais rather than at the court of the heroine's father. In II., as in VI., the ghost announces himself at the first meeting, which is undoubtedly a modification of the original story. Thus the two forms are sufficiently independent of one another, in spite of their common use of an animal as the hero's friend. Jean de Calais VIII., though like VI. from a Breton source, differs from all the other variants, chiefly in transposing the burial and the ransom. Jean Carré, sent out by his godmother as a sea-captain, ransoms an English princess with her maid, and marries the former. After two years, when a son has been born to them, Jean goes on another voyage, and adorns the stern of his vessel with portraits of his wife, the child, and the maid, which he is begged to show while anchored at London. He does so, and is received by the king as a son-in-law. One day he sees a poor debtor's body dragged along the street, pays the debts, and has it buried. He then sets out with a fleet to seek his wife, and is cast overboard by a Jew, who is the pilot; but he is saved by a supernatural man, who carries him to a green rock in the sea. The princess refuses to go to England when the fleet arrives, and is wooed by the Jew so persistently that after two years she promises him marriage. At this juncture Jean, who has been asleep during the whole interval, is awakened by his rescuer and carried over the sea, where the man explains that he is the ghost of the debtor. Jean is first recognized by his little son, the Jew is burned by the gendarmes, and all ends well. The transposition mentioned above is clearly a change due to the individual narrator or some local predecessor, since everywhere else the burial takes place before the ransom. The mention of a Jew as traitor is also peculiar and unreasonable, since no motive for his action appears until later, and then incongruously. The variant is likewise defective in not having any bargain between the ghost and the hero. In other respects it is normal save in minor details. As in V., the heroine is made an English princess, which occurs nowhere else. On the whole the version is picturesque, but defective. Jean de Calais IX. is unique in certain features, though in most respects normal. It is from Asturia in Spain. Juan de Calais goes out into the world to seek his fortune with a single peseta as his store. This he gives to bury a corpse, and proceeds. In a certain kingdom he attracts the notice of a princess, who marries him after considerable opposition. When the wedding is over, he takes his wife to seek his father's blessing, but is cast off the ship by a former suitor of the lady, her cousin. He is carried to an island by invisible hands, where he lives until a phantom bargains to take him to court for half of what he gets by his marriage. He arrives on the day of the princess's wedding. He is recognized by the king, who puts to his guests a parable of an old key found just when a new one has been made, while the suitor flees. On the following night, when Juan is dejected at the thought of giving up half his son, the phantom appears and releases him from his agreement, explaining its identity. Juan wins the gratitude of the dead man, and obtains his bride in this version on a single journey, as in I. and VI., but its chief peculiarity is the manner in which he gets his wife, with the sequel that the couple set out to seek his father instead of hers. The ransom is replaced by a romantic but more natural wooing, while the ghost appears somewhat unusually in propria persona. One of the oddest traits in the whole version is the parable of the key, by which the king introduces the hero to the assembled guests. This will be encountered again in Breton VII. In Jean de Calais X., finally, a Walloon variant, appear certain interesting changes in the fabric. The King of Calais sent his son Jean to America to trade, but the prince was shipwrecked on the coast of Portugal, and there ransomed and rescued a corpse, which was being dragged through the streets because the man had died in debt. The king scolded his son for wasting so much money, but the next year sent him to Portugal to trade. There he encountered brigands, who had captured the king's daughter with her maid, and ransomed them. On returning to Calais with his bride, he was ill received, and resolved to go back to Portugal. A young lord of Calais accompanied them and threw Jean into the sea, while he took the princess onward and obtained from her a promise of marriage in a year. Happily Jean found a plank by which he reached an island, where a crow fed him every day. At the end of a year he promised the crow half his blood for rescue, and was taken to Portugal by a flock of crows. There he was recognized, and the traitor hanged. One day the crow appeared and demanded the fulfilment of the promise. Jean was about to slay his son, when the bird explained its identity with the ghost of the dead man. This is the only version which makes Jean a prince; and it is curious that the change should occur in a tale from a region not very remote from Calais. Most of the events of the tale take place in Portugal, however, which is an extension of the ordinary appearance of that country as the home of the heroine. The most striking peculiarity of the version is the home of the traitor, who is a lord of Calais instead of Portugal. All mention of signs is lacking, which is doubtless due to the changes just mentioned. In the matter of the appearance of the ghost as an animal the variant allies itself with II. and VII., though it has no special likeness to them in other respects. Basque II. is like Gaelic [144] in general outline. Juan Dekos is sent out with a ship to complete his education. He pays all that he gets for his cargo to ransom and bury the corpse of a debtor. His father is not pleased, but sends him out again. This time he uses all his money to ransom eight slaves, seven of whom he sends to their homes, but carries one home with him. His father is still more angry, and casts him off; but Juan has a portrait of Marie Louise painted for the figure-head of his ship, and sets off with her for her own land. The lame mate pitches him overboard, and carries the lady to her father's dwelling-place, where he is to marry her after a year and a day. Juan is saved by an angel and placed on a rock. On Marie's wedding-day the angel returns, and offers to take the hero to his bride for half of the child that will be born. The angel was the soul of the dead man. So Juan arrives in time, is recognized by a handkerchief, and tells his story, which causes the burning of the mate. After a year the angel comes for his half of the babe, but when Juan starts to divide it stays his hand. Webster, the collector of this tale, noticed [145] its similarity to Gaelic, especially in the name of the hero, and surmised that the Basques must have borrowed it from the Celts in some way. The theory is tenable, though a comparison of the two variants shows that the Basques must either have borrowed it in a form considerably different from the Highland tale as we have it, or have altered the details largely. The first part of the story is entirely different; the hero goes on two voyages in Basque II., one only in Gaelic; the lady goes with the hero immediately in the former, he returns for her in the latter; the treachery and the signs are different; the ghost appears as an angel instead of a human being in Basque; and the promised division concerns the wife and three sons in Gaelic, a single babe in Basque. Thus, apart from the title, there is little to substantiate Webster's theory. The differences are certainly more important than those between any two versions of Jean de Calais. In some particulars, like the voyages and the portrait on the ship, Basque is more nearly normal, while in others, like the account of the treachery and the appearance of the ghost, Gaelic conforms to the ordinary form. Certainly Basque II. is to be regarded as a fairly close relative of Lithuanian II. and Jean de Calais. In Breton VII. a normal form appears, though with some embroidery of details. A merchant's son, Iouenn Kerménou, goes out with his father's ship to trade. He pays the greater part of the proceeds of the cargo to ransom and bury the corpse of a debtor, which dogs are devouring. On his way home he gives the rest of his money to ransom a princess, who is being carried to a ravaging serpent, which has to be fed with a royal princess every seven years. He is cast off by his father when he reaches home, but is supported by an aunt and enabled to marry his lady. After a son has been born to them, he is sent out by an uncle on another ship, which by his wife's counsel has the figure of himself and herself with their child carved on the prow. He comes to her father's realm, and after some misunderstanding is sent back with two ministers of state for the princess. While returning with her, he is pushed overboard by the first minister, who is an old suitor for the lady's hand, but swims ashore on a desert island. The wife goes to court, and after three years consents to marry the minister. All this time Iouenn lives alone on his rock, but at the end is greeted by the ghost of the man whose body he buried, which appears in a very horrible form. On condition of giving in a year and a day half of what he and his wife possess, he is taken to court by this being, where he is recognized by means of a gold chain, which the princess had given him. At the wedding feast, which takes place that day, the wife recounts a parable of how she has found the old key of a coffer just as a new one was ready, brings in Iouenn, and has the minister burned. At the end of a year and a day comes the ghost, and demands half of the child (the older one has died) that has been born to them. As the hero reluctantly proceeds to divide the child, the ghost stops him, praises his fidelity, and disappears. It will be seen that this variant does not differ in essentials from those previously summarized, though its details exactly coincide with none of them. The order of events is normal, very like that of Lithuanian II., for example, yet it has marks of peculiarity. Chief among these are the events connected with the ransom of the lady and the parable by which she introduces her long lost husband to court. The first is a trait borrowed from the Perseus and Andromeda motive, [146] the second is the same as the riddle in Jean de Calais IX. [147] How this latter feature should happen to appear in these two widely separated variants and nowhere else I am not wise enough to explain. Simrock I. introduces still another complication in the way of compounds. A merchant's son on a journey secures proper burial for a black Turkish slave, thereby using all his money. His father is angry with him on his return. On his second voyage he ransoms a maiden and is cast off by his father when he reaches home. The young couple live for a time on the proceeds from the sale of the wife's handiwork, but after a little set off to the court of her father, who is a king. On the way they meet one of the king's ships, and go aboard. The hero is cast into the sea by the captain, but is saved by a black fellow and brought back to the ship. Again he is cast overboard. When the princess arrives at home, she agrees to marry whoever can paint three rooms to her liking. The hero, meanwhile, is again saved by the black man, and in return for the promise of his first child on its twelfth birthday he is given the power of obtaining his wishes. After a year and a day he is taken to court by his friend, where by wishing he paints the three rooms, the third with the story of his life. So he is recognized. On the twelfth birthday of his first child the black man comes to him and is offered the boy, but instead of taking him explains his identity. As far as The Grateful Dead, The Ransomed Woman, and the sacrifice of the child are concerned, this follows the normal course of events, except perhaps as to the child, of actually dividing which there is no question. Like Lithuanian II., Jean de Calais III., IV., V., and X., Basque II., and Norwegian I., it makes the hero and heroine set out for her father's court together and of their own free will. [148] The colour of the thankful dead is a peculiar trait. Yet the element which complicates the question, as mentioned above, is the feat by which the hero obtains his wife. If I am not mistaken, this allies the variant on one side with stories of the type of The Water of Life, where the bride is gained by the performance of some task obviously set as impossible. The questions involving the relations of such motives with The Grateful Dead will occupy the next chapter, so that it needs simply to be mentioned at this point. In Simrock II. a miller's son goes with merchandise to England. In London he pays all his money for the debts and the burial of a poor man. He is again sent to England by his father, and this time he gives his whole ship to ransom a beautiful maiden. When he returns with her, he is cast off by his father, marries the girl, and lives on what she makes by her needle. He takes a piece of her embroidery with him to England, where it is seen by the king and queen, whose daughter has become his wife. He is sent for her in company with a minister, who pitches him overboard and goes on for the princess, hoping to marry her. The hero swims ashore, in the meantime, and communicates with his wife by means of a dove, which also feeds him. Finally a spirit conveys him to London, after receiving the promise of half of his first child. He obtains work in the kitchen of the castle, and sends a ring to his wife, by means of which they are reunited. At the birth of their child he refuses to give the spirit half, but offers the whole instead, [149] whereupon ensues an explanation. This variant is of the same type as Jean de Calais II. and VII., [150] resembling the latter more than the former in details. The three are sufficiently unlike, however, to make any immediate relationship quite out of the question, even did not geography forbid. As in Hungarian II., Oliver, Lope de Vega, Calderon, Jean de Calais V. and VIII., and Norwegian I., the heroine is an English princess, a point of interest, but not of much importance. Simrock VIII. differs from the above in only two points. The beginning states that a merchant while in Turkey pays the debts and burial expenses of a poor man. On his next voyage he buys three hundred slaves from the Emperor of Constantinople. Three of them he keeps at his home, one of whom he marries. The further adventures of the hero agree with Simrock II. even in names and most details, except that the hero is recognized at the court by dropping his ring in a cup of tea, which the princess gives him to drink. It will be evident that the two tales are nearly related. Last, but not least interesting of the versions in which the child appears, is the Factor's Garland or Turkey Factor, which must have been almost as well known in England at one time as the form of the story in Jack the Giant-Killer. It has no very remarkable features in its outline. A young Englishman, while acting as a factor in Turkey, pays fifty pounds to have the body of a Christian buried. A little later he pays one hundred pounds to ransom a beautiful Christian slave, and takes her back to his home, where he makes her his house-keeper. Later he sets out again, and is told by the woman to wear a silk waistcoat that she has embroidered, when he comes to the court whither he is bound. The work is recognized by her father, the emperor, and the factor sent back to fetch her. While returning with the princess, he is pushed overboard in his sleep by the captain, but swims to an island, whence he is rescued by an old man in a canoe, who bargains with him for his first-born son when three (or thirty) months old. The hero is recognized at court and marries the princess, while the captain dies by suicide. In two (or three) years the old man returns, just when the couple's son is three (or thirty) months old, and demands the child. On the hero's yielding, he explains that he is the ghost, and disappears. Like Gaelic [151] and Simrock VIII.--the latter just discussed--this version makes the hero undergo his early adventures in Turkey. Indeed, the similarity to Gaelic throughout is very notable, far more so than in the case of Basque II. [152] The only point in which it differs materially is the division of property, which in Gaelic concerns the wife and the three children, in the Factor's Garland one son only. In this matter there is agreement between the present variant, Basque II., and Simrock VIII. Despite the likeness to Gaelic, there is no good reason for arguing any immediate connection with that version. They stand close to one another geographically and in content, that is all; they cannot be proved to be more than near relatives in the same generation. The variants which introduce the division of the child have now all been considered. It is necessary to turn to a few scattered specimens in which the compound, The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman, has been joined with other material. Bohemian is a curious and instructive example of the confusion which has resulted from welding various themes together. Bolemir, a merchant's son, is sent to sea, where he is robbed by pirates and imprisoned. He finds means to help an old man, who gives him a magic flute, and a princess, who gives him half of her veil and ring. By the aid of the flute he succeeds in winning the chief's permission to leave the island in the company of his friends. He sails with them to another island. There, at the old man's request, he strikes him on the head and buries him. He then goes home with the princess. On his second voyage he displays from his mast-head a golden standard, which the princess has made. He reaches the city of the lady's father, tells his story, and returns for the princess with the chamberlain. While they are all returning together, he is cast into the sea by the chamberlain, who takes the woman to court and obtains a promise of marriage, when a church has been built to her mind. Bolemir is saved from the sea by the ghost of the old man, and is given a wishing ring. He turns himself into an eagle and flies to court, into an old man and becomes a watchman at the church. By means of his ring he builds the structure, and paints it with the story of his life. At the wedding breakfast of the princess, who cannot longer delay the bridal, he tells his story, and so marries her. The peculiar form of the burial in this variant will be at once evident, though the reason for it is not clear to me. Disenchantment by decapitation is a common phenomenon in folk-lore and romance; [153] but though the blow on the head, which the hero gives the old man in our tale, surely stands for beheading, it is hard to see where any unspelling process comes in. It is perhaps best to suppose the trait a confused borrowing, without much meaning as it stands. The ransoming of the woman is closely connected with the benefits done the old man. That it occurs on the same journey has been shown by the variations in Jean de Calais to be a matter of little consequence. With respect to the standard and the ring, by which the hero restores his wife to her father, and later to himself, the tale is perfectly in accord with the prevalent form of the compound type; and so also in regard to the rescue of the hero by the ghost. No hint is given of any agreement of division between the hero and the ghost. The chief peculiarity of the variant, however, is the means by which the heroine is won. The feat recalls Simrock I., [154] even in details like the demand on the part of the bride for mural decoration. It again shows the combination of the present type with a theme akin to The Water of Life. Simrock III. has several points of contact with the above. Karl, the son of an English merchant, on his first voyage to Italy pays the debts of a merchant who has died bankrupt. On his way home he buys two sisters from some pirates at an inn. His father casts him off, so he marries the older of the maidens, who tells him that she is a princess. They start for Italy together, and on the way meet an Italian prince, who is a suitor for the wife's hand. The hero is cast overboard, but is brought to land by a great bird, which tells him that it is the ghost of the man whom he has buried. It directs him to go to court and give himself out as a painter. The bird again comes to him there with a dagger in its beak, and tells him to cut off its head. Unwillingly Karl obeys, and sees before him the spirit of the dead man. The ghost paints the room in which they are standing with the hero's history. So on the wedding-day of the princess with the traitor, Karl explains the meaning of the pictures and wins his bride again. This Swabian story has preserved the decapitation [155] in much better form than Bohemian, though the reason for its introduction is still hard to understand. The ghost is obviously released from some spell when it is beheaded, and is thus enabled to help the hero to better advantage than before. The episode also occurs in a more logical position than in Bohemian. It replaces the more ordinary and normal test of the hero by the ghost. Probably the introduction of it in the two cases is sporadic, though some connection between the two is conceivable. As far as The Grateful Dead and The Ransomed Woman proper are concerned, the variant has no peculiarities of special importance, being of the type in which the hero and heroine set out for court together. [156] It contains, however, the feat by which the bride is won, in the same form as in Simrock I. and Bohemian, which is due to an alliance with the type of The Water of Life. Yet it differs from them in making the ghost appear first as a bird, which connects it with Jean de Calais II., VII., and X., and with Simrock II. and VIII., variants that have the thankful beast playing the rôle of ghost. [157] Simrock VII., together with some other peculiarities, again has the feat of winning the bride, though it is a feat of another sort. Wilhelm catches a swan-maiden, and later releases her from an enchanted mountain by hewing trees, separating grain, and finding his wife among three hundred women. Thus by her help he breaks the spell, and carries her back home. Later they journey together to her father's court. On the way Wilhelm pays the debts of a corpse, and has it buried. They meet two officers of the king, who toss Wilhelm overboard from the ship in which they sail, but he is saved by the ghost of the dead man and brought to court. He is recognized by the princess, and proves his identity to her father by means of a ring and a handkerchief. The most salient point here is the fact that the maiden is not ransomed at all, but instead is captured like any other swan-maiden. We have already met with the theme of The Swan-Maiden in combination with The Grateful Dead in simple form; [158] but Servian V. has evidently nothing to do with Simrock VII., since the part played by the borrowed motive is different in each. In the former it is introduced as the reward bestowed on the hero by the ghost, while in the latter the swan-maiden simply replaces the ransomed maiden, as is shown by the subsequent events of the story, which follow the normal order as far as she is concerned. The feats by which the hero disenchants her are essentially like those in Bohemian, Simrock I., and Simrock III., though they are differently placed. Probably the introduction of this new material accounts for the transposition of the ransoming and the burial, as the latter is in other respects regular. It is curious to observe that the process of changing about various features, thus begun, continued in other ways, as in the matter of the signs by which the hero is recognized by his father-in-law and his wife. These things go to show, however, that back of the variant must have existed the compound type in a normal form. In Simrock V. the thankful beast again appears, but in a less complicated setting than in the case of Jean de Calais II., VII., and X., or Simrock II., III., and VIII. A widow's son on his way home from market pays the debts of a corpse and buries it, thus using all his money. The next time he goes to market, he gives all his proceeds to ransom a maiden, whom he marries. She does embroidery to gain money, and one day holds out a piece of it to the king, who is passing. He recognizes her as his daughter, and accepts the hero as son-in-law. The young couple start back home for the widow, but on the way the servants cast the young man into the sea. He escapes, however, to an island, where he is fed by an eagle. Later the eagle declares itself to be the ghost of the dead man, and brings its benefactor to court. Oldenburgian is a similar tale. A merchant's son while on a voyage pays thirty dollars to bury a man, and also buys a captive princess with her maid. Though ill-received by his father on his return, he marries the girl. Later he goes on another voyage, with his wife's portrait as the figure-head of his ship. This is recognized by the king, who sends him back for the princess in the company of a minister. The latter pitches him overboard, goes on for the princess, and does not tell her of her loss till they arrive at court. She finally consents to marry the traitor after five years. Meanwhile, the hero lives on an island, whither on the day appointed for the princess's bridal comes the ghost of the dead in the form of a snow-white dove. It takes him to the court, where he is recognized by a ring, a gift from his bride, which he drops into a cup that she offers him. Of these two variants, Oldenburgian is much better preserved than the Tyrolese story (Simrock V.). The latter is dressed in a homely fashion, which probably accounts for some of the changes, since the gap between the visits to market and the romantic or miraculous features of the couple's later adventures was too wide to be easily bridged. The disappointed suitor is not mentioned, which leaves the attempt on the hero's life without motivation, and clearly indicates some loss. [159] The trait is distinctly marked in Oldenburgian, as are all the other events connected with The Ransomed Woman, though Simrock V. provides an entirely original reason for the voyage of the young couple,--their wish to get the hero's mother. The features concerning the rescue by the ghost and the hero's return to court are better preserved again in Oldenburgian, though both lack the agreement to divide, which is probably obscured as elsewhere by the prominence given the rescued woman. The most striking similarity between the two, however, lies in the fact that the ghost first appears as a bird. This clearly shows the existence of a type of The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman, on which The Thankful Beasts has had some influence. It remains to consider the general relations of the variants discussed in this chapter. The wide variety in detail of the incidents concerned with the history of the hero's wife, yet the essential uniformity which they show, would indicate clearly, for one thing, that The Ransomed Woman is a motive originally quite independent of The Grateful Dead,--that the type of story which is our present concern is a true compound. It would even be possible to reconstruct the independent theme in a form not unlike the Wendish folk-tale cited in the beginning of the chapter. The hero, while on a journey, ransoms a princess, takes her home, goes on another journey with some sign that attracts her father's notice, goes back to her and is cast into the sea by some man who hopes to marry her himself, is rescued, and returns to court to claim his bride, usually by means of a token. The points of contact between this motive and The Grateful Dead would seem to be, first, the journey which the hero undertakes at the opening of the plot. It will be noted that in the compound he usually makes two voyages, burying the dead on the first and ransoming the maiden on the second, though the two are sometimes welded. The second point of contact, I take it, was the rescue of the hero. In each story he did a good act for which he was rewarded in some way. It has been shown that this reward sometimes took the form of a rescue in the simple form of The Grateful Dead [160] and in the compound with The Poison Maiden. [161] What more natural than that it should lead to another combination with a story where the hero was saved from death? The difference in the case of the latter, of course, would be that the agency of rescue was of little importance. Could Simonides be shown to have anything more than a literary life in mediaeval Europe, I should be inclined to think that the rescue in that tale, even though the tale itself is not necessarily connected with The Grateful Dead as we know the theme, might have had some influence on the union. As the matter stands, however, it is probably better to believe that the two motives were united in eastern Europe, the one being Oriental and the other of uncertain derivation. That each motive had a wife as part of the hero's reward must be taken for granted, and it must have helped to combine them. It follows from this that the compound The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman is quite independent of the one discussed in the previous chapter, and could not have proceeded from it as Hippe thought. [162] It would have been next to impossible for that combined type to divest itself of the features peculiar to The Poison Maiden, and to absorb in their place those of The Ransomed Woman without leaving some trace of the process. Thus the existence of the compound as an independent growth is assured. In this connection it is interesting to note that the rescue of the hero from drowning in consequence of an act of treachery (or from an island) occurs in all the variants of the type save four, Transylvanian, Trancoso, Gasconian, and Straparola I., [163] but in no other version of The Grateful Dead as far as I know. From this general type developed minor varieties with traits borrowed from The Water of Life, The Thankful Beasts, and The Two Friends, or some such tale. Thus very complex variants arose. The question of the connection which these subsidiary elements sustain to the central theme cannot properly be discussed until they have been seen in other combinations. The part they play in the development of the story, it is evident, must have been a secondary one both in importance and in time. CHAPTER VI. THE GRATEFUL DEAD AND THE WATER OF LIFE OR KINDRED THEMES. The märchen known in its various forms as The Water of Life [164] is based on the myth which goes by the same name. [165] The myth, as has been shown quite independently by two recent investigators, Dr. Wünsche [166] and Dr. E. W. Hopkins, [167] is of Semitic origin, and is found among the traditions of the Assyrio-Babylonian cycle. It is to be distinguished from the very similar myth of The Fountain of Youth, which apparently originated in India. [168] The latter concerns the magic properties of the "water of rejuvenation"; the former in its uncontaminated form, at least, deals with water which cures, revivifies, or revitalizes. The two have been frequently confused, not only in popular tradition of all ages, but in critical writings of contemporary date as well. It is the great merit of Professor Hopkins' article, to which reference has been made, that their essential difference in origin and character is clearly marked. Though he makes no pretence that his study of The Fountain of Youth is definitive, he has broken ground which sadly needed the plough, and incidentally has thrown light upon The Water of Life. The myth which is properly known by this name is intimately connected in origin and development with that of The Tree of Life, [169] which finds expression in the legends of the Cross. In the words of Dr. Wünsche: [170] "Wie wir aus den kosmogonischen und theogonischen Mythen und Sagen der Völker das Rauschen des Lebensbaumes vernehmen, durch dessen Früchte sich Götter und Menschen ihre ungeschwächte Lebenskraft und ewige Jugendfrische erhalten, so nicht minder das Sprudeln einer Quelle des Lebenswassers, die Leben schafft und zu Ende gehendes oder bereits erloschenes Leben wieder zu neuem Sein erweckt." Both myths are Semitic, and both have profoundly influenced Christian doctrine. It is with the "water of life," however, that we are immediately concerned, and with that only as it has found embodiment in a widely disseminated and variously modified tale. Whence this märchen came we must presently inquire, in order to reach some conclusion as to the point in space and time where it joined The Grateful Dead, but we must first fix its essential traits. Owing to the complex variations which the tale presents in its various combinations with really foreign themes, there is great difficulty in getting at the outline of the original story or even the characteristics common to all the known variants. To do this satisfactorily would require a searching and detailed study, which it is impossible to undertake here,--an examination with The Water of Life as the point of attack. It is possible, however, to arrive at a rough sketch of the theme. "Dans tous ces contes," says Cosquin, in his notes on The Water of Life, [171] "trois princes vont chercher pour leur père l'eau de la vie ou un fruit merveilleux qui doit le guérir, et c'est le plus jeune qui réussit dans cette entreprise. Dans plusieurs ... les deux aînés font des dettes, et ils sont au moment d'être pendus, quand leur frère paie les créanciers (dans des contes allemands et dans les contes autrichiens, malgré l'avis que lui avait donné un hermite, un nain ou des animaux reconaissants, de ne pas acheter de 'gibier de potence'). Il est tué par eux ou, dans un conte allemand (Meier, no. 5), jeté dans un grand trou; mais ensuite il est rappelé à la vie dans des circonstances qu'il serait trop long d'expliquer." Dr. Wünsche's summary is somewhat different: [172] "Gewöhnlich handelt es sich um einen König und seine drei Söhne. Der König leidet an einer schlimmen Krankheit, von der ihn kein Arzt zu heilen vermag. Da wird ihm durch irgendeine Gelegenheit die Kunde, dass er von seinem Siechtum durch das Lebenswasser eines fernen Landes befreit werden könne. Aus Liebe zu ihrem Vater machen sich die drei Söhne nacheinander auf den Weg, das Lebenswasser zu holen. Doch die beiden ältesten erliegen den auf dem Wege ihnen begegnenden Versuchungen, nur der jüngste ist wegen seiner Standhaftigkeit und Bescheidenheit so glücklich, es zu erhalten. Ein Riese, ein Zwerg, ein alter Mann oder ein alte Frau sind ihm zur Auffindung der Wunderquelle behilflich, indem sie ihm guten Rat erteilen und ihm sagen, wie er es anzufangen und wovor er sich in acht zu nehmen habe. Hier und da greifen auch dienstbare Tiere, Vierfüssler, Vögel und Fische hilfreich ein, indem sie dem Jünglinge genau die Örtlichkeit des Wassers angeben, oder auch selbst ihn mit Schnelligkeit dahin bringen. Die Lebensquelle sprudelt in einem Berge, der sich nur zu gewissen Zeiten, gewöhnlich gegen Mittag oder Mitternacht von 11-12 Uhr öffnet. Im berge steht in der Regel in einem prächtigen Garten ein versunkenes Schloss, das die grossen Schätze und Kostbarkeiten birgt, durch deren Anblick der Eintretende geblendet wird. In einem Gemache des Schlosses wieder ruht auf einem Bett eine Jungfrau von wunderbarer Schönheit, die später als Prinzessin hervortritt und den Prinzen, der durch das Schöpfen des Lebenswassers sie von ihrem Zauber gelöst hat, zum Gemahle heischt. Der Prinz hat nur kurze Zeit bei ihr geruht oder ihr einen flüchtigen Kuss auf die Lippen gedrückt. In vielen Fällen wird der Eingang zur Quelle von einem Drachen oder einem anderen Ungeheuer bewacht, die erst aus dem Wege geräumt werden müssen. Es kostet einen schweren Kampf. Auf dem Heimweg trifft der jüngste Königssohn gewöhnlich mit seinen älteren Brüdern wieder zusammen, die ihr Leben durch tolle Streiche verwirkt haben und die er vom Tode loskauft. Zuweilen sind aber die Brüder durch ihre Unbedachtsamkeit in schwarze Steine verwandelt worden und liegen am Abhange des Zauberberges, oder stehen als Marmorsäulen auf demselben, oder sind infolge ihres Hochmutes in einen tiefen Abgrund eingeschlossen. Auch in diesem Zustande werden sie durch den jüngsten Bruder bald durch das geschöpfte Wasser des Lebens, bald auf seine Bitten hin wieder ins Leben gerufen. Vereint reisen sie nun mit ihrem Bruder nach Hause zum Könige. Unterwegs aber erfasst die Beiden Falschen Neid und Missgunst, weil ihr Bruder allein in den Besitz des Lebenswasser gelangt ist und sie sich vergeblich darum gemüht haben. Daher vertauschen sie das Lebenswasser, während der Bruder schläft, mit gewöhnlichem Wasser und eilen nun voraus und machen mit dem erbeuteten Trank den kranken König gesund, oder sie erscheinen nach der Ankunft des Bruders, dessen vertauschtes Wasser den König nur noch elender gemacht hat. Dabei raunen sie dem Könige heimlich ins Ohr, dass der jüngere Bruder ihn habe vergiften wollen, infolgedessen dieser vom Könige verbannt oder gar zum Tode verurteilt wird. Derselbe lebt nun längere Zeit zurückgezogen in einer untergeordneten Stellung, bis endlich durch die von ihm entzauberte Prinzessin seine Unschuld an den Tag kommt." Dr. Wünsche gives as subsidiary types stories where a princess wishes the magic water for herself, and, when her two brothers fail to return with it, goes on a quest which results in obtaining the water and releasing the enchanted brothers; where a mother and son are the chief actors; where a bird, or fruit, or the water of death is substituted for the water of life; and where thankful beasts appear. All of these elements and more appear in the accessible variants, yet not all of them can be said rightly to represent The Water of Life as such. The basal traits of the story are much more simple than Dr. Wünsche would have us believe. They do not include, for example, the wonderful companions whom the hero finds nor the adventures with the enchanted princess, since these are in reality traits of originally separate themes, as will presently be shown. [173] On the other hand, Cosquin's outline seems to me defective in two ways. First, he does not recognize that there existed in the original theme some reward due the hero for his constancy and intelligence in the pursuit of his quest. A priori this conclusion would be expected from the general manner of folk-tales, and as a matter of fact it appears in all the versions which have come to my attention. The reward almost always takes the form of a princess, though the manner in which she is won varies very greatly. In the second place, Cosquin seems to regard The Golden Bird as a theme quite independent of The Water of Life. [174] This, I think, is to lose sight of the essential likeness between the two tales, despite their difference of introduction. As Dr. Wünsche notes, [175] not only a bird, but a fruit or the water of death may be substituted for the usual object of the quest. Indeed, certain variants have more than one of these magical forces. [176] To be sure, this superfluity of riches doubtless results from the fusion of subsidiary types, but none the less it points to the original unity of the central theme, which is all that I wish to suggest. From this discussion we emerge with an outline of The Water of Life in something like the following form: A sick king has three sons, who go out to seek some magical water (or bird, or fruit) for his healing. The two older sons fall by the way into some misfortune due to their own fault; but the youngest, not without aid of one sort or another from beings with supernatural powers, succeeds in the quest and at the same time wins a princess as wife. While returning, he rescues his brothers, and is exposed by their envy and ingratitude to the loss of all he has gained (sometimes even of his life). In the end, however, he comes to his own either because the cure cannot be completed without him or because his wife brings the older princes to book. This summary I should be unwilling to have considered as anything more than a tentative sketch, since a systematic study of the material may bring to light certain features which I have overlooked. [177] It will, however, serve its purpose here. This simple form of The Water of Life is not that with which The Grateful Dead has combined. Indeed, the opinion that this union was secondary to that of The Grateful Dead with The Poison Maiden and The Ransomed Woman [178] is strengthened by the fact that it is found with both of these compound types, and that The Water of Life almost invariably appears in a somewhat distorted form. In point of fact, the latter tale seems to have lent itself with remarkable facility to combination with other themes. Thus it is frequently found mixed with The Skilful Companions [179] (both with and without The Grateful Dead), The Lady and the Monster, [180] and The Thankful Beasts. The reason for the existence of the compounds just mentioned is not far to seek. With The Skilful Companions [181] there is a ready point of contact in the hero's need for aid in the accomplishment of his quest, another in the circumstance that three or more companions set out together with a common end in view, and still another in the fact that a maiden is rescued by them. To The Lady and the Monster, at least in those variants where The Grateful Dead appears, The Water of Life has the necessary approach in the rôle of the lady herself. As for The Thankful Beasts, their appearance at opportune moments when the heroes of folk-tales need assistance is too frequent to require justification in any particular case. It is with such combinations as these, intricate and involved, that many variants of The Grateful Dead are found joined. Sometimes one element, sometimes another, predominates, so that the threads which unite them are hopelessly snarled. Sometimes The Water of Life is lost in the entanglement, or only appears as a distorted trait, while The Skilful Companions or The Lady and the Monster come out more clearly. Through this labyrinth we must painfully take our way, exercising what caution we can. The present guide recognizes the danger of losing the road and does not pretend to more than a rough and ready knowledge of the wilderness. Accordingly, he undertakes only to conduct the curious wayfarer by the least difficult of the paths that traverse it. Let us first consider the tales into which The Poison Maiden and The Ransomed Woman do not enter, which have only The Grateful Dead + The Water of Life or some kindred theme. These include Maltese, Polish, Hungarian I., Rumanian II., Straparola II., Venetian, Sicilian, Treu Heinrich, and Harz II. They are as widely different in their characteristics as in their sources. Maltese has the following form: The three sons of a king successively go out in search of a bird, the song of which will make their father young. The elder two lose their all by gambling with a maiden in a palace by the way. The youngest brother pays four thousand pounds sterling to bury properly a man who has been dead eight months. He is warned against the maiden by a ghost, and so wins all from her (by using his own cards), thus rescuing his brothers. When he comes to the castle, the ghost again appears, and tells him to take the bird that he finds in a dirty cage. On the way back he is thrown overboard from the steamboat by his brothers, but is saved by the ghost, who appears in the form of a rock with a tree on it. He is rescued by another steamer, and comes home in rags, where he is recognized by the bird, which has hitherto refused to sing. The brothers are banished. According to the Polish story, a poor scholar pays his all for the burial of a corpse lying maltreated by the way. Later he goes to sleep under an oak, and on awaking finds his purse full of gold. He is robbed of this while crossing a stream, by some scoundrels who cast him into the water; but he is rescued by the ghost of the dead man, who appears in the form of a plank and gives him the power of turning himself into a crow, a hare, or a deer. He becomes a huntsman to a king, whose daughter lives on an inaccessible island. In her castle is a sword with which a man could overcome the greatest army. When war threatens, the king offers the princess to any man who can obtain the sword. By means of his power of metamorphosis the hero carries her a letter and wins her love. When he exhibits his magical powers, she cuts off a bit of the fur, or a feather, from each creature into which he turns. With the sword he then starts back to court, but on the way he is shot by a rival and robbed of the sword and a letter from the princess. He lies in the way in the form of a dead hare till the war is ended and the rival is about to marry the princess, when he is revived and warned by the ghost. At court he is recognized by the princess, who proves his tale by having him turn into various shapes and fitting the samples which she has taken. In Hungarian I. a soldier gave all he had to an old beggar, who in turn gave him the power to change at will into a dove, a fish, or a hare. He took service with a king, and one day was sent back to the castle for a magic ring. There he met the princess, and exhibited to her his powers of metamorphosis, permitting her to pull two feathers, take eight scales, and cut off his tail. While running back to the king in the form of a hare, he was shot by an envious comrade, who took the ring and was rewarded. The hero was restored to life by the old beggar, and returned to the castle, where he was brought to the princess. She succeeded in proving the truth of his story by means of the feathers, the scales, and the tail, which she had so fortunately preserved. Rumanian II., though changed into legendary form, does not differ greatly from the two variants just cited. A shepherd boy gave his one sheep to Christ, when He asked for food. In return, he received a knife with three blades. Later he took service with a man, with whom he entered the army of the emperor. One day the monarch found that he had forgotten his ring, and promised half his kingdom to anybody who could bring it to him from the palace within twenty-four hours. By means of his magical knife the hero changed into a hare, obtained the emperor's ring as well as one from the princess's own hand, and returned to the army. There he was met by his master, who plundered him, threw him into a spring, and went to the emperor for reward. When the battle was over and all had returned to the capital, the princess said that the man who was presented as her bridegroom was not he to whom she gave the ring. Meanwhile, Christ had rescued the hero from the spring and sent him to the palace in the form of a fox with his ring in a basket. The princess recognized from the token that he was her true bridegroom, and brought him to the emperor. Straparola II. introduces certain new elements to our notice. A king's son releases a wild man, whom his father has incarcerated, in order to get back an arrow that the man has taken from him. The man is really a disappointed lover, who had given himself up to a savage life. The boy's mother, in fear of the king, sends him away in the care of two faithful servants, with whom he lives in obscurity till he is sixteen years old. Covetous of his wealth, they are about to kill him, when the wild man, transformed into a splendid knight by a grateful fairy, joins them. They go to a beautiful city called Ireland, which is devastated by a ferocious horse and an equally savage mare. The traitorous servants plot to destroy the prince by giving out, first, that he has boasted that he can overcome the horse, and, second, the mare. By the advice of his unknown friend and the help of the latter's fairy horse, he accomplishes these labours. He is told by the king that he may have one of his daughters in marriage, if he can tell which has hair of gold. He is told by his companion that a hornet, which he has released, will appear at the test and fly three times around the head of the princess whom he is to choose. The man explains at the same time the cause of his benevolence,--gratitude because by him he has been delivered from death. The prince is thus enabled to pick out the princess with golden hair, and is married to her, while his companion receives the sister. In the Venetian tale, again a peculiar variant, twelve brothers seek twelve sisters as wives. Eleven of them go out at first, and are turned to stone. The youngest brother sets out after a year, and on the way has a poor dead man buried. Later, when he has saved his eleven brothers, they become envious, and throw him into a well. The thankful dead man then comes, draws him out with a cord, and explains who he is. The hero proceeds to his home and tells his story. Sicilian is more extended but less difficult to place. The three orphaned sons of a rich man try to win the daughter of a certain king, who has announced that he will marry the princess to anyone who can make a ship that will travel alike on land and water. The eldest and middle brothers are unsuccessful because they are unkind to the poor who ask for work. The youngest brother gives work to both old and young, and, when an old man (St. Joseph) appears, makes him overseer. After the work is done, he agrees to give half of what he obtains to the old man, and goes with him in the ship to court. On the way he takes in a man who is found putting clouds in a sack, another who is bearing half a forest on his back, another who has drunk half a stream, another who is aiming his bow at a quail in the underworld, and another who stands with one foot at Catania and the other at Messina. At the court the king refuses to give up his daughter till the hero can send a message to the underworld and get an answer in an hour, which he does by means of the long-strider and the shooter; and till he can find a man who will drink half the contents of his cellar in one day, which the drinker easily accomplishes. The king then offers as dowry only what one man can carry away, but he is foiled by the man who bore half the forest on his back, who now takes all the contents of the palace and departs with the hero, the princess, and their companions. The king pursues them, but is befogged by the man with the clouds. When they arrive at home, the saint demands his half, even of the king's daughter; but when the hero takes his sword to divide her, he cries out that he merely wished to test his faithfulness. In Treu Heinrich a noble youth lost his property through prodigality in tournaments. Finally he sold his all to enter a tourney for the hand of the daughter of the King of Cyprus, but he gave half to his faithful follower Heinrich. After they set out for Cyprus, they were joined by a knight, who shared the hero's hospitality for fourteen days, agreeing to do the same in return, but at last riding away. In destitution they arrived at Famagust in Cyprus. While Heinrich was in the city, the hero found a clear stone left by a bird, through which he obtained power to become a bird. He then established himself in the city, met the princess with the result that they fell in love, and flew to her chamber as a bird. He obtained from her not only his desire but an ornament which he gave to the strange knight, who had again joined him. Later he overcame this knight in the tourney, but the latter was mistaken for himself. Again he flew to the princess, who gave him a crown, and again, after giving it to the stranger, he overcame him in a fight. The princess now gave him a helmet, which he kept; and he was proclaimed victor of the jousting. Once more he flew to the princess, and obtained from her an ornament for his helmet, made by herself. Thus he won her as wife. In Harz II. our primary motive is far less obscure than in the version just summarized. A youth pays his all, thirty-eight dollars, to free a dead man from indebtedness. He goes his way, and meets a young fellow, who accompanies him. They fall in with a man bearing two trees, a man with a hat on one side, a man with a wooden leg, and a man with a blind eye. The six go together to a city, where the princess can be won only by performing feats, with the penalty of death attached to failure. The companions aid the hero by bringing water from a distant spring and by keeping a fiery furnace habitable, so that he wins the princess. These nine variants are, it will be seen, related in very different degrees to The Grateful Dead. What a debased type of the märchen they represent is shown by the fact that in no less than five [182] the burial of the corpse, which is the most fundamental trait of the theme, has been lost. Yet for two reasons it is clear that they are really scions of the stock. In the first place, wherever the burial has been cut away, other elements of the motive in its simple form have been retained. Thus in Hungarian I. and Rumanian II. the deeds of the old beggar (or Christ) make his identity with the ghost unquestionable; in Straparola II., despite its sophistication, the wild man fills the same rôle, while his explanations at the end show that the burial has been merely blurred; in Sicilian both the agreement to divide and the division of the woman as a test are introduced; and in Treu Heinrich there is double division in a way, since the hero divides his property with his faithful follower to begin with and afterwards agrees to an exchange of hospitality with the helpful knight, going so far as actually to give him two of the four gifts received from the princess. In the second place, certain variants without the burial are very closely allied with others which retain it, [183] as will be seen in a moment. Thus all those treated here may safely be admitted to the group. The reader must, however, have been struck, while examining the summaries just given, with the great diversity of the residuum which would be left if the parts properly belonging to The Grateful Dead were taken away. Indeed, they may be separated on this score into four categories with a couple of minor divisions. Polish, Hungarian I., and Rumanian II. are very similar in respect to these matters, having a princess who is won by the feat of obtaining something left at home by her father (this feat made possible by the power given the hero to change his form) and a treacherous rival. Polish has the peculiarity that the article to be obtained by the hero is a magical sword. [184] Treu Heinrich stands a little apart from these, since the rival does not appear and the princess is won by a tourney; yet it has the curious metamorphosis, and must be considered as having some connection. Maltese and Venetian fall together. Venetian has retained from The Water of Life only the misfortune and the treachery of the older brothers, [185] while Maltese keeps also the magical bird and the features naturally connected therewith. The introduction of two steamboats in the latter is a curious illustration of the ease with which popular tales change details without altering essentials. Sicilian and Harz II. again are alike, both being compounded with The Skilful Companions, [186] and making the winning of the princess depend on feats really accomplished by the helpers characteristic to that tale. Straparola II. must be placed alone, having nearly all trace of The Water of Life lost in the traits of The Lady and the Monster, with a princess won by the hero's happily directed choice. [187] All of these features will appear again when we come to discuss variants which combine the compound types The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden or The Ransomed Woman with The Water of Life. They may, therefore, be passed over for the present, together with the question as to whether such a simple combination as The Grateful Dead + The Water of Life may be regarded as being the original from which the more complicated types have sprung. It is sufficient for the moment to recognize the tendency of the simpler variants to fall into groups on the basis of the residuum left by subtracting traits belonging to The Grateful Dead. Let us now consider the tales where a thankful beast plays the part of the grateful dead through at least a portion of the narrative, and where there is still no trace of either The Poison Maiden or The Ransomed Woman. The change of beast for ghost is so obvious and easy that the separation of these variants from the preceding appears at first sight to be of merely formal use. Yet thus considered, they may serve to define the sub-divisions already noticed. Nine such versions have come to my knowledge: Walewein, Lotharingian, Tuscan, Brazilian, Basque I., Breton IV., V., and VI., and Simrock IX. All but one are folk-tales, and that, curiously enough, an episode in a thirteenth century [188] Dutch romance translated from the French. [189] Walewein, the variant in question, has the following form: Walewein (or more familiarly Gawain) sets forth from Arthur's court to secure a magical chessboard. He is promised it by King Wonder if only he will get the sword of rings from King Amoris, who in turn will give that up if Walewein will bring him the princess of the Garden of India. On this quest the hero mortally wounds a certain Red Knight, who prays him for Christian burial and is properly interred. He then proceeds to the castle of King Assentin, whose daughter recognizes in him the ideal knight whom she has seen in a dream. He is led under the dark river which surrounds the castle by the Fox Rogès, and wins the princess. The lovers and the fox (a prince transformed) escape by the help of the Red Knight's ghost. After many adventures they come together to the court with a chessboard, which is given up by King Wonder in exchange for the sword. Walewein is able to keep the princess for his own because of the death of Amoris. Lotharingian runs as follows: A king has three sons. He sends them successively to seek the water of life. Two of them refuse to help a shepherd on the way, and rest from their search in Pekin. The third, who is deformed, aids the shepherd, and receives from him some arrows, which will pierce well whatever they strike, and a flageolet, which will make everyone dance within hearing of it. Arrived at Pekin, the humpback pays the debts of a corpse, and has it buried. He goes on till his money is exhausted. When he is about to shoot a fox one day, he is stayed by pity, and is directed by the creature to the castle where the water of life is to be found. There he is detained by an ogre, and wins battles for him by the aid of the magical arrows. There is a princess in the castle, who refuses to marry the ogre. The hero makes her dance, and obtains from the ogre as recompense the promise of whatever he wishes. He asks for the most beautiful thing there and the right to circle the castle three times. So he takes the princess, a phial of the water of life, as well as the uglier of the two mules and of the two green birds, as the fox has told him, and flees away. He meets the fox again, and is warned not to help any one in trouble. Nevertheless, he rescues his two brothers from the scaffold in Pekin, and is cast into a well by them. They go home, but are not able to heal the king. Meanwhile, the prince is saved by the fox, and is made straight of body. He goes home, and at his coming the king becomes young again, while the brothers are burned. So the prince marries the lady. In Tuscan we learn that the youngest of three princes, while wandering, paid the debts of a man whose corpse was being insulted. When he had buried the man, he found himself without a farthing, and so slept in the forest. In the morning he was greeted by a hare (lieprina) with a basket of food in its mouth. He took this gladly, and reflected that the creature must be the soul of the man whom he had buried. He then came to an inn, and took service with the host, whose beautiful daughter he soon discovered to be a princess, who had been bought while an infant. After winning her love, the hero went on into two kingdoms, where he obtained a magical purse and a wonderful horse from two ugly daughters of innkeepers. With these possessions he returned to the princess, and started with her for his home. On the way he saved from death his two older brothers, who had gone out to seek adventures at the same time as himself. They repaid the kindness by trying to drown him and by carrying the princess off home, where only by feigning illness could she frustrate their plan that she choose one of them as husband. Meanwhile, the hero was rescued from drowning by the hare, and came home. By pretending to be a physician he obtained access to the princess, was recognized, and then revealed himself to his father. The Brazilian tale is brief but not unusual in type. A prince, while seeking a remedy for his father, passes through a town and sees a corpse, which is held for debt. He pays the creditors, and has the corpse buried. Later he is met by a fox, which helps him obtain not only the remedy for his father but in addition a princess as his wife. On its last appearance the beast declares that it is the soul of the man whom he buried. Basque I. has the following form: Three sons go out to seek a white blackbird by which their father can be healed. Two of them get into debt to the same three ladies, and, according to the custom of the land, are imprisoned. The third son resists the sirens, ransoms his brothers, and also pays the debts of a dead man, whose corpse is being maltreated. He arrives at the house of the king who has the white blackbird, and is told to get a certain young woman from another king. He goes far on till he comes near the castle, where he meets a fox and is instructed by it to enter a certain room, in which he will find the lady dressed in poor clothing. He must have her put on good clothes, and she will sing. He follows the advice, but is interrupted, while the lady is singing, by the king of the castle, who tells him that he must get a white horse from still another king. He meets the fox again, and is instructed that, when he finds the horse with an old saddle on it, he must put on a good one, so that it will neigh. Again he follows the fox's advice, and is interrupted by people who rush in when they hear the horse neigh. From them he obtains the steed, and retraces his steps, eloping with the lady at the second king's castle and at the first king's carrying off the blackbird. On his arrival at home he is thrown into a cistern by his treacherous brothers, who take his spoil to the king. He is saved by the fox, however, which draws him out with its tail. When he comes into the presence of his father, and not till then, is the healing accomplished. In Breton IV. we find again three sons of a king, who set forth to get the white blackbird and also the lady with locks of gold. Jeannot, the youngest of them, pays for the interment of a beggar on the way. Later a fox comes to him, saying that it is the soul of the poor man. It helps him procure the youth-giving blackbird and afterward the lady with the marvellous hair. He then meets his brothers, who for envy push him over a precipice, but he is saved and sent homeward by the fox. Breton V. does not differ materially from the preceding, though it has interesting minor variations. The three sons of a king seek the bird Drédaine in its golden cage in order to cure their father. The two elder brothers go to England, and there meet jolly companions, but find no trace of the bird. The third brother, the ugly one, comes thither, is mocked and robbed by them, but goes his way. One night he lodges in a forest hut, and there finds a man's body, which the widow cannot bury for lack of money to pay the priest. He is now poor, but pays for the interment of the corpse, and proceeds. He is followed by a white fox, which instructs him how to achieve his quest. He soon reaches the castle, traverses three courts, comes to one chamber where he finds a piece of inexhaustible bread, enters a second where he gets an unfailing pot of wine and makes love to a sleeping princess, and goes on to a third where he finds a magical sword and the bird. He hastens away with his booty, guided for a time by the fox, sells his bread and his wine to innkeepers on condition that they be given up to the princess if ever she comes for them, and arrives at the city where his brothers are now in prison. He ransoms them by helping the king, and pays their debts by selling his sword. On their way home he is thrown into a well by his brothers, who take the bird to their father, but do not succeed in curing him. Meanwhile, the hero is saved by the fox, which now explains that it is the soul of the man whom he has buried, and definitely disappears. He arrives at his home as a beggar, and takes service with his father. Later the princess comes thither with the son that is the fruit of their union, and brings with her the bread, wine, and sword which she has found on the way. The bird sings, the king is healed, and the wicked brothers are executed. Breton VI. lacks some of the interesting traits of the variant just given, but embroiders the theme with considerable grace. The three sons of a king set out to find the princess of Hungary, who has the only remedy that will cure their father. The eldest forgets his purpose, and wastes his money in rioting. The second finds him just as he is being led to death on account of debt, ransoms him, and shares his riotous pleasures. The third brother, a humpback, goes out with little money, but on his way procures burial for a man's corpse, which the widow has been unable to do because of lack of money to pay the priest. The next day a fox with a white tail meets him, and in return for a bit of cake leads him to the castle of a princess. There the prince resists the lady's advances, which he suspects are derisive, and is sent to her sister's castle, where he has the same experience. When he arrives at the castle of the third sister, he yields to her proposals, is given the remedy for his father and a magical sword, and is told how to go home. On the way he rescues his brothers from the scaffold by waving his sword, and is robbed and thrown into a well by them. Thence he is rescued by the fox, which comes at his call, and before it disappears explains that it is the ghost. Meanwhile, the older brothers have cured the king by the water of life in a phial; so when the hero comes home he is not believed. In a year and a day the princess arrives there according to her promise, and with a little son. At a feast she proclaims the truth, cuts her husband into bits, sprinkles the heap of fragments with the water of life, and marries the handsome youth who at once arises--the humpback transformed. [190] According to Simrock IX., finally, the three sons of a king seek the bird phoenix to cure their blind father. The two elder enter the castle of a beautiful maiden, and are lost; but the youngest resists the temptation, and takes lodging at an inn. There at night he is startled by a ghost, which tells him that it is the spirit of a man whom the host has buried in the cellar for non-payment of a score, and which implores his help. The youth arranges for payment of the debt and for proper burial, then goes his way. In the wood he meets a wolf, which instructs him how to find the bird phoenix in a cage in the magical castle, and carries him thither. Because he fails to take the worse-looking bird according to instructions, he has to get a steed as swift as wind for the lord of the castle. Again he is disobedient when told to take the worst-looking horse only, and so has to get the most beautiful woman in the world for the lord of this castle. Again he is brought by the wolf to a castle, where he obediently chooses a black maiden instead of one who is apparently beautiful. With maiden, horse, and bird he turns home. The wolf in parting from him explains that it is the ghost of the dead man, and warns him not to buy gallows flesh. When he meets his brothers on their way to be hanged, however, he forgets this, and ransoms them. In return he is nearly murdered by them and left for dead, but is rescued and healed by the wolf, and so at last reaches his destination. In none of these nine stories is the burial of the dead, one of the two most fundamental features of our leading motive, in any way obscured. They are thus less difficult to treat than was the preceding group, in spite of the added complications introduced by the advent of the helpful animal. This creature should naturally take the role of the ghost, appear as the embodiment of the dead man's soul indeed; and with but two exceptions [191] it actually fulfils the part. In those two there has been, apparently, imperfect amalgamation, so that the helper is duplicated, and the motivation obscured. In Walewein, a literary version, consciously adapted to the requirements of a roman d'aventure, this need excite no wonder. The ghost does its part properly, and the fox is merely an additional agency in the service of the hero, acting out of pure kindness of heart [192] as far as one can see. Lotharingian, not contented with duplicating the trait, triplicates it. The fox, as in the ordinary form of The Thankful Beasts, helps the hero because of a benefit received; the shepherd bestows magical gifts, as in a common type of The Water of Life, because of the hero's kindness; while the dead debtor remains inactive after the burial, and plays no further part in the narrative. As for The Water of Life, there are fewer complications in this group than in that where the thankful beast does not appear. In all of the variants some of the fundamental traits of the theme remain intact. In all save Walewein and Brazilian (which is a degenerate form presumably carried across the sea by Spaniards or Portuguese) the three brothers set out from home in quite the normal way. Walewein again lacks the water of life, which Brazilian retains. All the other versions, save Tuscan, keep this water or replace it by some other restorative agency. Two variants only fail to make the older brothers act treacherously towards the hero, these being again Walewein and Brazilian. The former thus lacks three of the essentials of the theme, the latter two. Yet since Walewein makes the hero win his princess by going on from adventure to adventure quite in the normal manner, and since Brazilian makes him obtain both water of life and princess, though with loss of interesting details, we are surely justified in placing both in this category. It is worth our while to note in this connection that all these nine variants come from southern Europe, directly or by derivation. [193] Geographical proximity, though not sufficient in itself as a basis of classification, adds welcome confirmation to other proof in cases like this, where a small group of highly complicated tales is found to exist in neighbouring countries only. That Walewein can be connected with this specialized sub-division has important bearings on the question whence the material for that romance was taken. In view of the limited territory which this form of the story has covered as a folk-tale in six hundred years, and the fact that France would be the centre of the region, it seems fair to assume that some thirteenth century French writer took a märchen of his own land as the basis for his work, thus elaborating with native material the adventures of a Celtic hero. The question now arises as to what light the group just considered throws upon the variants which combine the simple theme of The Grateful Dead with The Water of Life or some such motive. It appeared, the reader will remember, that according to the elements foreign to the main motive they must be separated into four classes. Reference to these classes [194] will show that the variants with The Thankful Beasts are in many respects different from any one of them as far as the features peculiar to The Water of Life, or kindred themes, are concerned. Yet because Maltese and the brief Venetian, though otherwise transformed, are the only tales aside from these [195] that preserve the treachery of the hero's brothers, it is safe to class them together. Both Maltese and Venetian come, it will be observed, from the same general region as all the other members of the group. Since the elements left by subtracting The Grateful Dead from the variants of the four categories thus discovered are very diverse, we cannot postulate a parent form from which all four classes might have sprung. Indeed, the evidence thus far obtained all points to a separate combination of already developed themes with The Grateful Dead. The test of this will be found in an examination of those variants of those larger compounds, which have also traces of The Water of Life or some allied motive. Turning first to such versions of the combination The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden, we find eleven on our list, all of which have already been summarized and discussed in connection with the simple compound. [196] These are Esthonian II., Rumanian I., Irish I., Irish II., Irish III., Danish III., Norwegian II., Simrock X., Harz I., Jack the Giant-Killer, and Old Wives' Tale. Since we know definitely that Danish III. (the tale by Christian Andersen) was taken from Norwegian II., it may be left out of account. Ten variants thus remain to be studied with reference to the subsidiary elements. In Esthonian II. the hero releases a princess, who goes with devils every night to church, by watching in the church for three nights with three, six, and twelve candles on successive nights. In Rumanian I. the hero wins a princess by explaining why she wears out twelve pairs of slippers every night; and he accomplishes this by the aid of his helper, who follows the lady in the form of a cat, and picks up the handkerchief, spoon, and ring which she drops in the house of the dragons. According to Irish I. the helper obtains for the hero horses of gold and silver, a sword of light, a cloak of darkness, and a pair of slippery shoes; he helps him keep over night a comb and a pair of scissors, in spite of enchantment, and finally gets the lips of the giant enchanter, so that the hero unspells and wins the lady of his quest. In Irish II. the hero is joined by a green man (the grateful dead), a gunner, a listener, a blower, and a strong man. By the aid of the first he gives his princess a pair of scissors, a comb, and the enchanter's head; by the aid of the others he obtains water from the well of the western world, and is enabled to walk over three miles of needles. Irish III. has a helper who obtains for the hero a sword, a cloak of darkness, and swift shoes, rescues a pair of scissors, and obtains the enchanter's head, while the hero wins a race by the aid of the shoes. According to Norwegian II. the hero and helper get a sword, a ball of yarn, and a hat, while the latter follows the princess and rescues a pair of scissors and a ball, finally obtaining the troll's head. In Simrock X. the helper secures three rods, a sword, and a pair of wings, follows the princess, and learns how to answer her riddles, emphasizing his knowledge by getting the wizard's head. Harz I. has the helper give wings and a rod to the hero, who flies with the princess and learns to guess her riddles, cutting off the monster's head. In Jack the Giant-Killer Jack obtains gold, a coat and cap, a sword, and a pair of slippers for his master, follows the princess, and secures the handkerchief and the demon's head, which are requisite to the unspelling. Finally, according to Old Wives' Tale, the helper, while invisible, slays the conjuror, and so obtains the princess for his master. It will at once be recognized that all of these variants are of one type as far as the traits just specified are concerned. The basal element is the hero's success in winning an enchanted princess either by accomplishing difficult feats or answering riddles. The water of life, as such, appears in only one story, Irish II., and there not as the prime goal of the hero's quest, but merely as the object of a subsidiary labour. Clearly these tales not only form a group by themselves, but have in combination with The Grateful Dead and The Poison Maiden a theme which is not properly The Water of Life. This theme is as clearly The Lady and the Monster, [197] which is closely allied to The Water of Life, but is essentially distinct. It has already been found compounded with the simple form of The Grateful Dead in the somewhat degenerate and literary Straparola II., [198] though the method by which the enchanted princess was won in that variant was different from that given in the present group. Within the group there are minor differences with reference to the manner of unspelling the princess, which resolve themselves either, on the one hand, into the hero's keeping or obtaining something for her, or, on the other, into his guessing the object of her thoughts. These details are not, however, of much importance for the purpose in hand, though they might become so if an attempt were made to sub-divide the group. Thus Esthonian II. is decidedly unusual in its treatment of the matter just mentioned. Irish I. has traces of the Sword of Light [199] and of The Two Friends. [200] In Harz I. the hero himself follows the princess instead of leaving the actual work of unspelling to the helper, as is elsewhere the case. Irish II., finally, is peculiar not only in bringing in The Water of Life, as mentioned above, but also the motive of The Skilful Companions, which we have already met with in Sicilian and Harz II. [201] Irish II. is, indeed, of great importance to our study at this point. It is in some way a link between Sicilian and Harz II. and the subdivision now under discussion. Furthermore, the fact that Straparola II. has some traits of The Lady and the Monster in common with all the members of the group under consideration shows that it can safely be placed in the same category as Sicilian and Harz II. Though the feats by which the princess is won are somewhat different in the last-named variants from the feats in Straparola II. on the one hand and in the compound The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden + The Water of Life (The Lady and the Monster) on the other, there can be little doubt, it seems to me, that all of them belong together. Irish II. by the introduction of The Skilful Companions thus furnishes a clue by which the tales having the compound just mentioned may be classed with two varieties of the simple combination, and permits us to reduce the total number of categories with reference to The Water of Life from four to three. Before proceeding to a general discussion of the means by which this theme was brought into connection with The Grateful Dead and the comparative date of the combination or series of combinations, it is necessary to examine four other versions,--those which have the form The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman + The Water of Life. Like the group just treated, all of them have been summarized and discussed with reference to the prime features of the compound. [202] They are Bohemian, Simrock I., Simrock III., and Simrock VII. The elements of these variants, apart from those due to the main compound, are as follows. In Bohemian the hero is given a flute and a captive princess by his helper, and escapes with them from prison. Later he is cast into the sea by a rival, but is rescued by the helper and given a wishing ring. By means of this ring he turns first into an eagle and afterwards into an old man, and succeeds in winning the princess by building and painting a church. In Simrock I. the hero is rescued by the helper after being cast overboard by a rival, and is given the power of obtaining his wishes. Thereby he paints three rooms to the liking of the princess, and is recognized by her. Simrock III. differs from this only in making the helper do the painting and in having one room painted instead of three. In Simrock VII., finally, the hero releases a princess by hewing trees, separating grain, and choosing his mistress among three hundred women, all without aid. Later he is rescued from the sea and recognized by means of a ring and a handkerchief. The first three of these variants clearly show in the subsidiary elements just enumerated their relationship to The Water of Life. They lack the quest for some magical fountain or bird, to be sure, but they preserve the quest for the lady, which is an important factor in the märchen. Of the three, Bohemian has the most extended and probably the best presentation of the details of the difficult courtship; and it gives the hero that power of metamorphosis which was noted in four variants of the type The Grateful Dead + The Water of Life simply. It may, therefore, on the basis of general and particular resemblance be classed with Polish, Hungarian I., Rumanian II., and Treu Heinrich. [203] Along with it, of course, go the briefer Simrock I. and Simrock III. There is this important difference between the two sets of tales, that in the simpler form the princess is won by the hero's success in bringing something from a distance, in the more complicated form by building and decorating. Yet the resemblance is sufficient to warrant the classification proposed. With Simrock VII. the case is altogether different. There the subsidiary elements are connected with The Lady and the Monster rather than The Water of Life proper, yet not with that theme as it appears in combination with The Poison Maiden, [204] since in that group the hero disenchants the princess by guessing some secret, here by performing two feats of prowess or discrimination and by choosing the proper lady from a host of maidens. With Straparola II., however, which has the simpler combination The Grateful Dead + The Lady and the Monster, the resemblance is very close, [205] as both have the happily directed choice. The complicated Simrock VII. thus falls into the same category with reference to this matter as Straparola II., Sicilian, and Harz II., and the group having the form The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden + The Water of Life (The Lady and the Monster specifically). A summary of our three categories will be of service in discussing their relations to one another and to the themes with which The Water of Life or The Lady and the Monster are combined. Class I. Polish. Hungarian I. Rumanian II. Treu Heinrich. Bohemian. | Simrock I. + (With The Ransomed Woman.) Simrock III. | Class II. Sicilian. Harz II. Straparola II. All recorded variants with The Poison Maiden. Simrock VII. (With The Ransomed Woman.) Class III. Maltese. Venetian. All variants with The Thankful Beasts. Class I. forms a territorially homogeneous group, all the members of it coming from eastern and central Europe. It is not altogether homogeneous in content, but preserves the theme of The Water of Life proper in a form where the hero wins a princess by means, among other feats, of metamorphosis. Class II. is the most widespread of all territorially, as its members come from all parts of Europe. It has instead of The Water of Life proper what must be regarded, in the present state of the evidence, as the closely allied theme of The Lady and the Monster. Class III., the most compact of all in the region that it inhabits, preserves The Water of Life better than any other group, though not without frequent admixture and, in many instances, the loss of some elements. It has been stated above [206] that it would be hard to imagine such various traits coming from a single type of story. This becomes even more evident from the tabulation just made. To suppose that The Grateful Dead first united with The Water of Life, and that this compound gave rise to the varieties, as enumerated, would involve us in the direst confusion. If such were the case, how could Class II. with its introduction of The Lady and the Monster be explained? Why, moreover, should one variant having The Ransomed Woman fall into Class II., while three others fall into Class I.? Such an assumption, it is clear, would be self-destructive. The only alternative is to suppose that The Water of Life entered into combination with simple or compound types of The Grateful Dead at more than one time and in more than one region. That The Grateful Dead united with The Poison Maiden and The Ransomed Woman rather early and quite independently abundant evidence goes to show; that The Water of Life is an independent motive and that, like at least two of the other themes, it was of Asiatic origin has likewise been made clear; that the latter could not have united with The Grateful Dead so early as did The Poison Maiden and The Ransomed Woman is proved by the discrepancies noted above. If it be assumed, on the contrary, that after the compounds The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden and The Ransomed Woman had arisen, both they and the simple theme in one or another form came into connection with one or another form of The Water of Life our difficulties are in great measure resolved. With this in mind let us consider the three categories. Sometime before the fourteenth century [207] The Water of Life, perhaps in a rather peculiar form, came into contact with The Grateful Dead, both simple and combined with The Ransomed Woman, [208] in eastern or central Europe. With each form it seems to have united, giving rise in the century named to the German romance of Treu Heinrich and the legend of Nicholas by Gobius, as well as, sooner or later, to the folk-tales with which it has been found combined in those regions within the past hundred years. The territorial limitation of the resulting type is a point in the favour of the proposed theory, though I cannot but be aware that this may be disturbed by a variant outside the seemingly fixed circle. Yet even so, the relation of the variants of Class I. to the themes concerned appears to be pretty definitely established. With Class III. the matter is even simpler. According to my view, some form of The Grateful Dead, more or less confused with one of the countless versions of The Thankful Beasts met with a very clear type of The Water of Life in southern or south-western Europe by or before the thirteenth century. [209] With this it united and gave rise to an Old French romance (later turned into Dutch) and to a considerable body of folk-tales, which have not strayed far from the point of departure save in one instance, [210] where the means of transmission is not difficult to ascertain. Apparently the thankful beast was not absolutely in solution, since in Maltese and Venetian the human ghost resumes its characteristic rôle. [211] With Class II. the case is different and more difficult of explanation. Here the compound has no definite territorial limits, and it is besides of a very complicated character. We have to suppose that The Lady and the Monster, a märchen allied to The Water of Life, was afloat in Europe somewhat before the early sixteenth century. [212] There it met and united with The Grateful Dead, in its simple form on the one hand, giving rise to three of our variants, and on the other hand separately with the compounds having The Poison Maiden and The Ransomed Woman. The former double compound must have been made fairly early, [213] since it has been found in such widely separated countries as Rumania and Ireland, and furnished one of the most important elements to the making of a sixteenth century English play, Peele's Old Wives' Tale. The second of the double compounds is unfortunately represented on our list by a single folk-tale only, and may possibly be a later formation. Such, then, seems to be the relationship of The Water of Life and allied motives to the main theme of our study,--purely subsidiary and relatively late. The theory which has been proposed involves the necessity of placing the entrance of the Semitic märchen into Europe not much earlier than the twelfth century, though such matters of chronology must be left somewhat to speculation; it shows the points of contact between the various motives concerned; and it avoids contradictions of space and time. Writer and reader may perhaps congratulate themselves on finding so clear a road through the maze. Should subsequent discovery of material necessitate modification of the views here expressed, it should be welcomed by both with equal pleasure. CHAPTER VII. THE RELATIONS OF THE GRATEFUL DEAD TO THE SPENDTHRIFT KNIGHT, THE TWO FRIENDS, AND THE THANKFUL BEASTS. We have met at various points in our study with tales in which the motive of the hero's fateful journey was his impoverishment through extravagance; we have seen that many variants make the division of a child part of the agreement between the ghost and the hero; and we have noted the appearance of the ghost in the form of a beast in a large number of instances. The bearing of these phenomena we shall do well to investigate before proceeding to general conclusions. Occurring as they do in versions which have been assigned on other accounts to different categories, are they of sufficient importance to disturb the classification already proposed? Furthermore, what cause can be found for their introduction? Are they in reality sporadic, or are they the result of some determinable factor in the history of the cycle? Eleven variants, namely, Richars, Oliver, Lope de Vega, Dianese, Old Swedish, Icelandic I., Icelandic II., Rittertriuwe, Treu Heinrich, and Sir Amadas, have more or less clearly expressed the motive of a knight who has exhausted his patrimony and goes out to recruit his fortunes by winning a princess in a tourney. The figure of such a knight or adventurer is not an uncommon one in the fiction of Europe, and scarcely requires illustration. Of the variants just named all except Oliver, Lope de Vega, and Old Swedish actually state that the hero sets out from home on account of his poverty. In the two former the motive of the incestuous stepmother is introduced in place of this, and in Old Swedish the trait is obscured without any substitution, implying that the hero is led merely by ambition to undertake the tourney. On the other hand, the tourney occurs in all save Icelandic I. and II., which are the only folk-tales in the list. The second of these, moreover, makes the hero a merchant instead of a knight; but since the two come from the same island and are in other respects rather similar, [214] this is perhaps not very significant. Looking at the matter from another point of view, we find that Richars, Lion de Bourges, Dianese, Old Swedish, Rittertriuwe, and Sir Amadas form a group by themselves, [215] and are uncompounded with any one of the themes with which The Grateful Dead is most frequently allied. Oliver and Lope de Vega are treated under the compound with The Ransomed Woman, where on account of the rescue of the hero by the ghost they probably belong; [216] and Icelandic I. and II. are clearly of that type. Treu Heinrich [217] shows the combination of the central theme with The Water of Life, and can in the nature of the case have no direct connection with the other romance stories under consideration, even though it belongs to a class in which The Ransomed Woman sometimes appears. [218] In view of these discrepancies of position with reference to compounds which are clearly established, we are certainly not justified in assuming that The Spendthrift Knight has had anything more than a superficial relationship to The Grateful Dead. To make it a basis of classification or to attach any considerable weight to its appearance here and there would be contrary to the only safe method of procedure, which is to follow the evidence of events in sequence rather than isolated traits. The very fact that none of the compounds with The Poison Maiden contains any such motive as this of the knight and the tourney shows that it must be comparatively late and really an interloper in the family. As to the way by which it entered the cycle, one must conclude that it was afloat in Europe before the thirteenth century, [219] and furnished a very natural opening for a tale in which a youth goes into the world to seek adventure or profit. Were a lady to be won by the help of the ghost, it would magnify the hero's part, if he were given an opportunity to take some very direct share in the wooing. So in the group of which Richars and Sir Amadas are members the new theme supplied the means of winning a lady, which would otherwise be lacking. In Oliver and Lope de Vega it has perhaps supplanted the ransom of a maiden, which is the trait to be expected, if they are rightly placed among the variants of the type The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman. It will be noted that in the two Icelandic tales, which conform closely to the type, the tourney does not appear. There seems to be reason, therefore, for supposing that the new material touched our central theme at least twice, combining with the prototype of the Amadas group and of the Icelandic folk-stories. The authors of Oliver and Treu Heinrich may have adopted it consciously, and so these variants should be left out of account. Before leaving the matter, however, it must be noted that in Tobit the hero leaves home on account of the poverty of his father to seek the help of a relative. The ever-recurring possibility of a recollection of Tobit on the part of the European story-tellers [220] should not be forgotten. To argue that the suggestion of adapting The Spendthrift Knight was due to a conscious or unconscious recollection of the Apocrypha would be laying too much stress upon what can at best be nothing more than conjecture, but there can be no harm in the surmise that such may have been the case. The matter of the division of his child or children by the hero to fulfil the bargain made with his helper must next be discussed. This occurs in twenty-five of the variants which we have considered, namely: Lithuanian II., Transylvanian, Lope de Vega, Oliver, Jean de Calais I.-X., Basque II., Gaelic, Irish I., Breton I., III., and VII., Simrock I., II., and VIII., Sir Amadas, and Factor's Garland. With reference to one group where the trait appears [221] I have already spoken at some length of The Two Friends, and I have referred to the introduction of the children as they have appeared in scattered variants. I now wish to call the reader's attention to the general aspects of the question. What relation has the use of this trait in versions of The Grateful Dead to the theme which I call The Two Friends? It must first be noted that the motive as it appears in Amis and Amiloun requires [222] that the hero slay his children for the healing of his foster-brother and sworn friend. Now of the twenty-five variants of The Grateful Dead just named only Oliver and Lope de Vega have this factor,--the others merely state that the helper asked the hero to fulfil his bargain by giving up his only child, [223] or giving up one of his two children, [224] or dividing his only child, [225] or dividing his three children. [226] The query at once suggests itself as to whether the simple division of the child or children as part of the hero's possessions gave rise to the introduction of the whole theme of The Two Friends in Oliver and Lope de Vega, or whether the twenty-two folk-tales have merely an echo of the theme as there found. To put the question is almost equivalent to answering it. One sees at once that the former is the case. Lope de Vega derives directly from Oliver, [227] and to the author of that romance must be due the combination of the two themes there presented. Reference to the earlier discussion of the variant [228] will show that he was a conscious adapter of his material. Yet it by no means follows that the suggestion for the combination was not present in the version of The Grateful Dead, which was used in making Oliver. Indeed, it seems probable that this source or prototype had the division of the child in somewhat the form in which it appears in so many tales. That such was the case is likely from the fact that of the twenty-two folk variants which refer to the child all but two are of the type The Grateful Dead + The Ransomed Woman, to which Oliver is approximated. Considering the alterations which the theme was likely to suffer at the hands of a writer who was more or less consciously combining various material in a romance, the wonder is that the type was not more changed than it seems to have been. In point of fact, the position of Oliver and its literary successors as examples of the compound comes out more clearly [229] through this examination of their relationship to The Two Friends. As to the introduction of the child, the trait by means of which, according to my theory, the actual combination of motives came about, the two folk-tales of the type The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden as well as Sir Amadas, are of great importance. Since the great majority of the variants which have the child belong clearly to the compound type with The Ransomed Woman, it is only by reference to these three that one can say with assurance that the modified trait indicates no vital connection with The Two Friends. Yet with these in mind there can be little doubt about the matter. The story-tellers have simply extended the division of the hero's possessions from property and wife to child, a process perhaps made easier by the existence of such stories as The Child Vowed to the Devil [230] and some forms of the Souhaits Saint Martin. [231] This might have happened to any particular variant with equal facility. At the same time, the fact that the change was made in only three cases outside the group, which has The Ransomed Woman in combination, gives that family additional solidarity. In Oliver, Lope de Vega, and Sir Amadas the motive of The Spendthrift Knight appears together with the change or combination just referred to. At first sight, it might appear that there was some essential connection between these two elements foreign to the main theme. Such does not seem to be the case, however, when the matter is further considered. At any rate, I am unable to discover any such link, and am inclined to ascribe the simultaneous appearance of these two factors to chance pure and simple. Neither one is more than a rather late and comparatively unimportant phenomenon as far as The Grateful Dead is concerned. Not infrequently in the course of this study attention has been called to the substitution of a beast for the helping friend of the hero, and in a few cases to the transference of the ghost's entire rôle to an animal. While considering matters of greater importance, it seemed best to ignore this in order to avoid unnecessary confusion. The matter is of considerable importance, however, and must here be considered. The question that concerns us is whether the appearance of the beast is of any real moment in the development of the theme. It is sufficiently clear that the well-known stories of grateful animals and ungrateful men, which were first traced by Benfey, [232] have general outlines different from that of The Grateful Dead. Benfey's contention, however, that "konnte der Gedanke von der Dankbarkeit der Thiere schon tief genug auch im Occident einwurzeln, um auch in andere Märchen einzudringen und vielleicht selbst sich in Bildung von verwandten zur Anschauung zu bringen" [233] should be kept in mind. This statement is truer than his later remark [234] that fairies and other superhuman creations of fancy are substituted for animals, instancing our theme as such a case. To argue relationship from the entrance of either helpful beasts, fairies, or ghosts would be dangerous unless the stories in question had the same motive, since they are so frequently found in folk-literature. Indeed, as I have already remarked, [235] one is scarcely called upon to explain the intrusion of thankful or helpful animals at any given point, in view of the fact that the device is almost universally known. Yet if it does not require justification, it may well be of service in the grouping of particular variants. It is certainly worthy of notice that in eighteen forms of The Grateful Dead a beast appears. That these are of several different compound types would show, if it were not clear from what has been said above, that the appearance of an animal furnishes of itself no evidence of any actual amalgamation of narrative themes. It is rather a case where one stock figure of imagination's realm is substituted for another. The better-known character is perhaps more likely to replace the less-known than vice versa, but the latter event may happen if the obscurer figure will serve to enliven the tale. Of the twenty variants in our cycle which have a thankful beast, Jewish has the simple theme; Servian IV. the combination with The Poison Maiden; Jean de Calais II., VII., and X., Simrock II., III., V., and VIII., and Oldenburgian the combination with The Ransomed Woman; and Walewein, Lotharingian, Tuscan, Brazilian, Basque I., Breton IV., V., and VI., and Simrock IX. the combination with The Water of Life. Now in Jewish [236] the hero is saved from shipwreck [237] by a stone, carried home by an eagle, and there met by a white-clad man, who explains the earlier appearances. This is mere reinforcement of the tale by triplication, and implies nothing more than a certain vigour of imagination on the part of the story-teller. In Servian IV., [238] where the hero spares a fish which he has caught, there appears, on the contrary, to be actual combination with The Thankful Beasts as a motive. The fish comes on the scene in human form, and fulfils the part of the grateful dead till the very end, when it leaps back into its element. As for the variants of the compound type with The Ransomed Woman there is considerable diversity, yet all of them have merely substitution, not combination. So in Jean de Calais II., VII. and X., [239] which are closely allied with other members of the group so named, the beast appears, but in one case as a white bird, in the second as a fox, and in the third as a crow. That this is anything more than a substitution due to the story-teller's individuality cannot be admitted, though knowledge of The Thankful Beasts as a motive is not barred out. Simrock II. and VIII. [240] are likewise nearly related to one another and to Jean de Calais, and they have the same adventitious substitution. Simrock V. and Oldenburgian are a similar pair, [241] while Simrock III., [242] which is otherwise allied to Bohemian, cannot be shown to have any vital connection with The Thankful Beasts as a motive. Of all these tales it can be said that they show some influence from such a theme without actual combination. Finally, all the variants of the type The Grateful Dead + The Water of Life, which have the animal substituted, [243] belong to a well-defined and centralized group [244] which has had independent existence for centuries. Here the entrance of the beast is of considerable importance to the classification and development of the theme. Of the part which The Thankful Beasts as a motive has played in connection with The Grateful Dead it must be said that, on the whole, it has been of very secondary importance. It illustrates, as do The Spendthrift Knight and The Two Friends, how one current theme may touch and even influence another at several different points without becoming embodied with it. This trait or that may be absorbed as the motives meet, yet the two waves may go their way without mingling. CHAPTER VIII. CONCLUSION. In considering the general development and relations of The Grateful Dead, to which we must now turn, it is proper to inquire first of all as to its origin. Hitherto the existence of the story-theme as such has been taken well nigh for granted, though the discussion of variants in simple form necessitated some reference [245] to the point of separation between the märchen and whatever beliefs or social customs lie beyond. Now that the tale has been followed through its various modifications and has been proved by a systematic study of its forms to be, if I may use the expression, a living organism, the debateable land outside can be entered with measurable security. There can be no doubt that The Grateful Dead as a theme is based upon beliefs about the sacred duty of burial and upon the customs incident to withholding burial for the sake of revenge or recompense. To study these phenomena in detail is not necessary to the scheme of this book, but belongs rather to the province of primitive religion and law. It is sufficient for our purpose to show the nature and extent of such observances and beliefs for the sake of the light which they may throw on the genesis of the tale itself. The belief that no obligation is more binding on man than that he pay proper respect to the dead is as old as civilization itself. Indeed, it probably antedates what we ordinarily call civilization, since otherwise it could not well be found so widely distributed over the earth in historical times. It evidently rests upon the notion that the soul, when separated from the body, could find no repose. [246] Herodotus tells [247] of the Egyptian law, which permitted a man to give his father's body in pledge, with the proviso that if he failed to repay the loan neither he nor any of his kin could be buried at all. The story, also related by Herodotus, [248] of Rampsinit and the thief which turns on the latter's successful attempt to rescue his brother's body, illustrates again the value that the Egyptians set upon burial. Their notion seems to have been that the more honour paid the dead, the more bearable would be their lot, though it was regarded as unenviable at best. [249] Among the Magi of Persia, though both burial and burning were prohibited because of the sanctity of earth and fire, the bodies of the dead were cared for according to the strictest of codes, being left to the sun and air on elevated structures. [250] In India the Rig-Veda [251] bears witness to similar carefulness in the performance of this sacred duty. In classical times belief in the necessity of proper burial was widespread. Patroclus, it will be remembered, appears to his friend Achilles, and admonishes him that he should not neglect the dead, at the same time giving a dire picture of the state of the unburied. [252] Pausanias speaks [253] of the conduct of Lysander as reprehensible in not burying the bodies of Philocles and the four thousand slain at Aegospotami, saying that the Athenians did as much for the Medes after Marathon, and even Xerxes for the Lacedaemonians after Thermopylae. The story told by Cicero [254] of Simonides gives definite proof of the concrete nature of the reverential feeling among both Greeks and Romans. Suetonius in his life of Caligula relates that when the emperor's body was left half burned and unburied, ghosts filled the palace and garden. An example of the mediaeval belief is found in the Middle High German Kudrun, written at the end of the twelfth century or the beginning of the thirteenth. "Daz hâst wol gerâten," sprach der von Sturmlant. "jâ sol man verkoufen ir ros und ir gewant, die dâ ligent tôte, daz man der armen diete nâch ir lîbes ende von ir guote disen frumen biete." Dô sprach der degen Îrolt: "sol man ouch die begraben, die uns den schaden tâten, od sol man si die raben und die wilden wolve ûf dem wérde lâzen niezen?" dô rieten daz die wîsen, daz sie der einen ligen niht enliezen. [255] The Annamite tale cited in the third chapter [256] and Servian VI., likewise summarized in connection with variants having the story-theme in simple form, [257] bear witness to the effect that the widespread belief has had upon folk-tales now in circulation. The connection of these two tales with the märchen as such is so vague that they serve the end of illustrating its growth from popular belief rather than the relationship of one form to another. So also the story from Brittany, printed by Sébillot, [258] which tells how a ghost came to workmen in a mill demanding Christian interment for its body then buried under the foundations, serves the same end, though no reward is mentioned. Sometimes the neglect of burial by a person brings unpleasant results to him, as is witnessed by a tale from Guernsey. [259] A fisherman neglected to bury a body which he encountered on the coast, and, when he reached his home, found the ghost awaiting him. An Indian tale illustrates the belief that the dead become vampires when funeral rites are not performed. [260] In most versions of The Grateful Dead a corpse is left unburied either because creditors remain unpaid or the surviving relatives cannot pay for Christian burial. From sixteenth century Scotland we have evidence that the latter trait is based on actual custom. Sir David Lyndesaye, in The Monarche, while describing the exactions of the clergy, says: Quhen he hes all, than, vnder his cure, And Father and Mother boith ar dede, Beg mon the babis, without remede: They hauld the Corps at the kirk style; And thare it moste remane ane quhyle, Tyll thay gett sufficient souerte For thare kirk rycht and dewite. [261] This evidence for the widespread belief in the pious duty of burial and for the custom of withholding burial in cases where the dead man was poor, though it might easily be increased in bulk, makes very clear at least two matters. The tale of The Grateful Dead might have arisen almost anywhere and in almost any age since the time of the Egyptians. Again, when once it had been formed, it was likely to be reinforced or changed by the beliefs and customs prevalent in the lands to which it came. The first matter at once suggests the question as to whether, after all, the märchen has not been more than once discovered by the imagination of story-tellers,--whether it has not sprung up again and again in different parts of the world like different botanical species, instead of being a single plant which has propagated itself through many centuries. In spite of the evident possibility that such sporadic development might have taken place, I cannot believe that it happened so. If we had to do with some vaguely outlined myth in which only the underlying idea was the same in the several groups of variants, and if this vague tale were narrated among peoples of absolutely no kinship to one another, say by the Indians of North America and the Zulus, one could have no reasonable doubt that similar conditions had produced similar tales. Such stories exist in numbers sufficient to render untenable the old hypothesis of Oriental origins in anything like the form in which it was held by Benfey or even Cosquin. In cases like that of The Grateful Dead, however, the matter is entirely different. The theme is comparatively a complicated one, and it is found only in lands whose inhabitants are connected either by blood or by social and political intercourse. [262] It has preserved its integrity for nearly a score of centuries, though suffering many changes of details, and a variety of combinations with other themes. To my mind such an involved relationship as that worked out in the preceding chapters proves conclusively that the story is one, that the connection between variants is more than fortuitous. Inductive logic makes the belief inevitable. Any other theory would involve us in a bewildering net of contradictions, from which escape could be found only in the avowal that nothing whatever can be known about narrative development. If the seemingly inevitable conclusion be accepted that The Grateful Dead is an organism with a life history of its own, the question at once suggests itself as to when and where it came into being. As to its ultimate origin, however, only a very imperfect answer can be given. Surmise and theory are all that can aid us here. Liebrecht was of the opinion that the story was of European rather than Oriental origin, [263] even though he did not accept Simrock's theory that it was Germanic. Notwithstanding the fact that most variants are European, this hypothesis seems to me very improbable. Tobit, the earliest variant which we possess, [264] is distinctly Semitic in origin and colouring. Other versions from Asia, like Jewish, Armenian, and Siberian, though modern folk-tales, add weight to the evidence of the apocryphal story, especially since the one last named comes from a somewhat remote region where European narratives could not without difficulty have much direct influence. Of course it is possible to suppose that the theme came to the Semites from the West, and was by them disseminated in Asia; [265] but the early date of Tobit renders it unlikely that such was the case. Certainly it is more reasonable from the evidence at hand to believe in the Oriental origin of the märchen. As to the particular region of Asia where it was probably first related, nothing can be said with security. Yet since there is no evidence that it has ever been known in India, Western Asia, and perhaps the region inhabited by the Semites, may be considered, at least tentatively, its first home. The age of the theme cannot definitely be measured. It is possible, however, to say that it must have existed at least as early as the beginning of our era. Tobit is of assistance again here. As the book is believed to have been written during the reign of Hadrian (76-138 A.D.) and as it has the motive in a compound form, which is unlikely to have arisen immediately after the simple story was first set afloat, there is little danger of over-statement in saying that the latter must have been known at least as early as the first part of first century A.D., or more probably before the birth of Christ. Any statement beyond this would rest on idle speculation. After The Grateful Dead was once established as a narrative, its development can be traced with some degree of precision, though not without many gaps here and there. Its history is largely a matter of combinations with originally independent themes, with an occasional landmark in the form of a literary version. The most notable compounds into which it has entered are those with The Poison Maiden, The Ransomed Woman, and certain types connected with The Water of Life. That it entered into other minor compounds at various stages gives evidence that it retained its independence long after the first union took place, even though examples of the simple type are so hard to find and in some cases of such doubtful character. Probably the first combination of the theme was with The Poison Maiden, which the valuable evidence of Tobit enables us to date as taking place as early as the middle of the first century and in western Asia. The Poison Maiden probably came originally from India by way of Persia, [266] and was certainly widely distributed. Among the Semites it would naturally first meet any tale which had other than Indian origin, so that the existence of Tobit at so early a date is only what one would expect, looking at the matter in this retrospective fashion. The amalgamation of these two themes, when once they had come into the same region, was natural. They had the necessary point of contact in the treatment of the hero's wife by a helpful friend, who played an important part in each. In The Poison Maiden she received short shrift, being possessed of a poisonous glance or bite, or of snakes ready to destroy the man who married her. [267] In The Grateful Dead she was innocent, but had to be divided to satisfy the claims of a being who had helped her husband. [268] The part of the friend was less well motivated in The Poison Maiden than in The Grateful Dead, so that it was natural for the themes to unite at a common point and produce a compound at once more complete and more thrilling than were the simpler forms. This combination must have been made not by a conscious literary worker, for, had it been, Tobit would surely stand less independent of the later versions than is actually the case, but by the tellers of folk-tales, in a manner quite unconscious and altogether unstudied. The stories combined of themselves, so to say. From Semitic lands, if it was indeed there made, the compound seems to have travelled into Europe as well as into other parts of Asia. [269] It has spread during the intervening centuries throughout the length and breadth of Europe, always remaining a genuinely popular tale. As far as my knowledge goes, it did not appear in literature from the time when the Hebrew book of Tobit was written till Peele's Old Wives' Tale was presented some fifteen centuries later on the English stage. In the nineteenth century it again appeared to the reading public in the version which the Dane Andersen made from a Norse folk-tale. Yet the story in all versions of the compound extant is unmistakably the same, though it has suffered more changes in detail than would be worth while to enumerate here, since they have already been noted in the chapter dealing with the type. The most important modification which it sustained was due to its meeting The Lady and the Monster and absorbing elements of that tale. How early this took place it is impossible to say, since George Peele's play is the only literary monument that helps to fix any date. A considerable stretch of time must, however, be allowed for the passage of a folk-tale from the extreme east of Europe to England. That the secondary combination was indeed made in eastern Europe admits of definite proof. All the known variants of The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden from the west have The Lady and the Monster as well, while three Slavic east-European versions [270] are of this type. It follows that the compound must have been formed in the east and carried to the west, since otherwise the distribution should be precisely the opposite of that which obtains. Moreover, had the compound been made in Asia, it is improbable that it would have left such a comparatively feeble trace in the eastern part of the continent of Europe and later have conquered all the west. Other combinations, primary and secondary, have also arisen; but, if the collection of variants hitherto made is at all adequate, they are of inconsiderable importance. Meanwhile, the simple theme of The Grateful Dead passed into Europe by other paths. Once over the border, it met a tale with which it readily combined, producing a type not less influential than the one just mentioned. This new motive was The Ransomed Woman, the origin of which is at present quite unknown. Though it is seemingly Oriental in character, all versions yet unearthed come from Europe, so that its provenance must be left in uncertainty. At all events, it was known in eastern Europe, and it was there in all probability that it became amalgamated with The Grateful Dead. How early this took place cannot be stated, but long enough before the fourteenth century to allow the passage of the compound type to France by that time, when it was retold by Gobius with a good deal of mutilation in his Scala Celi. [271] The points of contact, which led to the combination, have already been discussed in the chapter dealing with the type. [272] Suffice it to say at this point that they were, in brief, the journey of the hero, his rescue, and the wife whom he gained at the end of the story. As in the case of The Poison Maiden, the compound seems to have arisen quite naturally by means of these correspondences, with the end of making a more romantic and satisfactory tale. That it took place quite unconsciously seems clear, but that the result was successful is proved by the solidarity of the type thus produced, though it has subsequently been carried into every part of Europe. The relationship of versions, between thirty and forty in number, is unmistakable. That the simple motive of The Grateful Dead was not exhausted by the two remarkable combinations just treated, that it retained its individuality and independence, is shown by the various minor combinations discussed in the third chapter. It is altogether probable that other examples of such simple compounds as those containing The Swan-Maiden, Puss in Boots, and a story like that told of Pope Gregory [273] are in existence, and may be found by later study. One can speak only with reference to material at command. Very likely other combinations than those treated here are in existence and may also appear, either in sporadic cases or in groups. But, the reader may ask, if the motive is found in so many compounds, both with and without The Poison Maiden and The Ransomed Woman, why does it not occur more frequently, at least in folk-literature, without combination? To this I should reply that the story is an ancient one, which has many points of correspondence with other themes. By reason of these traits it has absorbed, or has been absorbed by, these other tales, until now it is difficult to find examples of the simple form. A thousand years ago, or some such matter, they may, indeed, have been frequently retold by the firesides of Europe, though now they are practically unknown. The constant tendency of folk-tales to change from simplicity to complexity would in time cause the pure theme to be generally forgotten. Nevertheless, its existence could be proved, even though no example still remained, for the various independent compounds would be inexplicable on any other theory. In the case of The Grateful Dead, the tales, to which it has been joined, have been so interwoven with its substance that it is quite impossible to believe, for example, that the combination with The Ransomed Woman proceeded from that with The Poison Maiden. But these simple compounds with a single foreign theme do not complete the tale. When once they were formed, they in turn had each a history of its own, with infinite possibilities of absorbing traits from other stories or even entire themes. In the case of the latter, a reason could always be found in such points of contact as I have already mentioned, or so I believe, if the material were sufficient for proper comparison. In this way arose the complicated types treated in chapter six, where the manner of combination is readily seen. [274] Sometimes, it is probable, subtraction has taken place as well as addition, but apparently only when it has not involved the disentangling of various traits. For example, many variants have been noted where one of the two most striking features of our central theme, the burial of the dead debtor, has disappeared; yet in every case the rest of the plot has remained unimpaired. The more complicated the variant, the better able is the investigator to place its kinship to other variants, provided that he has the requisite material and the patience to follow up the clues that every such labyrinth affords. The most striking facts of general import to the study of folk-narrative that have developed in the course of this prolonged consideration of The Grateful Dead may be briefly summarized in conclusion. It has been shown once again that the story has an organic life of its own, whether it comes from the East or the West, whether it be founded upon some fact of social custom or belief, or on the imaginings of a moralist of antiquity. [275] Once started, it will go its way through divers lands and ages, yet retain unaltered the essential features of its plot. Call it story-skeleton, or better, living organism, it always keeps its structural integrity, no matter whether told as a pious legend or a conte à rire. Of no less importance than this is the fact that whatever serious changes take place in its form are not fortuitous, mere whimsical alterations due to the fancy of story-tellers, but are due to capabilities of expansion or combination in the plot itself. Whenever two themes with points of resemblance, or contact come into the same region, they are in the long run pretty certain to unite, each retaining its individuality, but merging in the other. This principle is well illustrated in the history of The Grateful Dead. The marriages of stories seem never to be merely for convenience, except in the hands of conscious writers, but to be the result of attraction and real compatibility. That, I take it, is why and how narratives develop. Were it necessary to justify such studies as the present, one might add that, apart from helping to the settlement of such more general questions as those just mentioned, they throw light on the sources of particular literary works, better than does the haphazard search for parallels, and they often enable the student to see the relations between the literatures of neighbouring countries more clearly than he would be able to do without the perspective gained by a comparative consideration of a single theme in many lands. In ways like these the author hopes that this history of The Grateful Dead may be serviceable. THE END. NOTES [1] 1856. [2] Guter Gerhard, as will be seen later, does not follow the theme at all. [3] P. 114. [4] 1859, i. 219-221. [5] Ghost-Thanks or The Grateful Unburied, A Mythic Tale in its Oldest European Form, Sir Amadace, 1860. [6] P. 9. [7] P. 7. [8] Germania, iii. 199-210, xii. 55 ff.; Or. u. Occ. ii. 322-329, iii. 93-103; Arch. f. slav. Phil. ii. 631-634, v. 40 ff.; Gonzenbach, Sicilianische Märchen, 1870, ii. 248-250. [9] Heidelberger Jahrbücher der Lit. 1868, lxi. 449-452, 1872, lxv. 894 f.; Germania, xxiv. 132 f. [10] P. 449. [11] Altbayerischer Sagenschatz zur Bereicherung der indogermanischen Mythologie, 1876, pp. 678-689. [12] Contes populaires de Lorraine, i. 214, 215. [13] Archiv f. d. Stud. d. neueren Sprachen, lxxxi. 141-183. [14] P. 167. "Ein Jüngling zeigt sich menschenfreundlich gegen die Leiche eines Unbekannten (indem er dieselbe vor Schimpf bewahrt, bestattet, etc.). Der Geist des Toten gesellt sich darauf zu ihm und erweist sich ihm dankbar, indem er ihm zu Reichtum und zum Besitze des von ihm zur Frau begehrten Mädchens verhilft, jedoch unter der Bedingung, dass er dereinst alles durch ihn Gewonnene mit ihm teile. Der Jüngling geht auf diesen Vertrag ein, und der Geist stellt sich nach einer gewissen Zeit wieder ein, um das Versprochene entgegenzunehmen, verlangt aber nicht die Hälfte des gewonnene Gutes, sondern die der Frau. (Schluss variabel.)" [15] See p. x. above. [16] P. 180. [17] See his scheme on p. 181. [18] Der Dank des Todten in der englischen Literatur, Jahresbericht der Staats-Oberrealschule in Troppau, 1894. [19] Marburg diss. 1894, pp. 43-63. [20] Folk-Lore, ix. 226-244 (1898). [21] I have to thank the kindness of Professor Leo Wiener for my knowledge of the content of Russian V. and VI., which he was good enough to translate for me from the dialect of White Russia. [22] What the two Bohemian variants contain, which are mentioned by Benfey, Pantschatantra, i. 221, note, by Stephens, p. 10, by Köhler, Germania, iii. 199-209, and Or. und Occ. ii. 328, note, and by Hippe, p. 146, I have been unable to ascertain. [23] On pp. 194-201 is found a curious "Écho de l'histoire de Tobie." [24] Hippe's first Lithuanian tale is a variant of The Water of Life and will be treated in another connection. [25] Hippe speaks of "zwei spanische Romanzen." Had he consulted the Spanish text or read Köhler's note more attentively, he would have seen that a single story runs through nos. 1291 and 1292 of the Romancero. [26] My attention was called to this variant by the kindness of Professor F. De Haan, and I was supplied with a first summary from the 1693 edition by the friendly aid of Professor G. T. Northup. [27] See Crane, Exempla of Jacques de Vitry, 1890, p. lxxxvi. [28] P. Paris, Manuscrits françois, 1840, iii. 1, and Foerster, Richars li Biaus, 1874, p. xxvii, date it from the fifteenth century; Suchier, Oeuvres poétiques de Philippe de Beaumanoir, 1884, p. lxxxiv, and Wilhelmi, p. 15, from the fourteenth century. [29] P. Paris, place cited, and Foerster, place cited, say the sixteenth century, but Wilhelmi, place cited, the fifteenth. [30] See Wilhelmi, p. 43. [31] Foulché-Delbosc, pp. 589, 590. [32] Work cited, pp. 587, 588. [33] Place cited. [34] My attention was first called to this story by the kindness of Professor A. C. L. Brown. [35] An edition with an almost identical title "Printed and sold by Larkin How, in Petticoat Lane," of which a copy is in the Harvard College library, does not contain our story. [36] My attention was called to this variant by the kindness of Professor Kittredge. [37] Miss Petersen's conclusion, Sources of the Nonne Prestes Tale, p. 109, note, is not altogether convincing, since the vogue of Valerius Maximus was so great that other authors than Holkot are likely to have quoted Cicero's stories from him. The book may yet be found in which the one follows the other "right in the nexte chapitre." [38] Given by Hippe, pp. 143 f. Wherever Hippe's summaries are adequate and careful, I shall refer the reader to his monograph for comparison. [39] This story has nothing in common with the mediaeval tale of the compact between two friends that the first to die shall appear to the other. See the writer's North-English Homily Collection, 1902, pp. 27-31. [40] Apparently beneficent spirits, whose nature is half fairy and half angel. See Servian V. below. [41] See chapter viii. and Sepp, pp. 678-680 for illustrations of the belief. [42] One can conceive of separate generation of a very simple story under similar conditions, but not, I think, that a series of events showing combination of themes or detailed correspondence would so arise. [43] Carnoy and Nicolaides, Traditions populaires de l'Asie Mineure, 1889, pp. 57-74. [44] See Baring-Gould's Curious Myths, 2nd ed. 1869, pp. 561 ff. for a popular account. The philosophical basis of the tale is discussed by Liebrecht, Zur Volkskunde, 1879, pp. 54 ff. (from Germania, xiii. 161 ff.), and by Hartland, Science of Fairy Tales, 1891, pp. 255-332, 337-347. [45] See Hippe, p. 148. [46] Or. und Occ. ii. 176. [47] Kinder- und Hausmärchen, no. 28. See notes (ed. 1856), iii. 55, 56; also Köhler, Kleinere Schriften, i. 49, 54. [48] See Hippe, p. 155. This analysis includes only the second of two well-defined parts. The first section is related to the English Sir Degarre (ed. from Auchinleck MS. for the Abbotsford Club, 1849; from Percy Folio, Hales and Furnivall, Percy Folio MS., 1868, iii. 16-48; early prints by Wynkyn de Worde, Copland, and John King; see G. Ellis, Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances, 1811, iii. 458 ff., J. Ashton, Romances of Chivalry, 1887, pp. 103 ff., Paul's Grundriss, ii. i. 643). This connection was pointed out by Foerster, p. xxiii. The same material was used also in a Dutch chapbook, Jan wt den vergiere, of which a copy printed at Amsterdam is preserved at Göttingen. See the article "Niederländische Volksbücher," by Karl Meyer, in Sammlung bibliothekswissenschaftlicher Arbeiten, ed. Dziatzko, viii. 17-22, 1895. I am indebted for this last reference to the kindness of Dr. G. L. Hamilton. [49] See Hippe, pp. 152 f. [50] See Hippe, pp. 158 f. [51] This trait recalls the first of Chaucer's two stories in the Nun's Priest's Tale, Cant. Tales, B. 4174-4252, where the comrade is found buried with dung on a cart. [52] For a fuller analysis see Hippe, pp. 160-164. [53] In Richars, Lion de Bourges, Dianese, and Sir Amadas he pays his all, even to his equipment for war, the most logical and, on the whole, probably the earlier form of the story. [54] In all except Old Swedish and Sir Amadas the man was a knight; in these he was a merchant, the husband of the woman at whose house the hero lodges. [55] "V le femme u l'auoir ares," v. 5316. [56] Though in Lion de Bourges he excepts the lady specifically. [57] See Über Lion de Bourges, particularly pp. 46-54. [58] See chapter vii. [59] The Trentall of St. Gregory. The Old French text has been edited by P. Meyer, Romania, xv. 281-283. The English versions, of which the first seems to be taken from this, are found in the following MSS.: (A) Vernon MS. fol. 230, ed. Horstmann, Engl. Stud. viii. 275-277, and The Minor Poems of the Vernon MS. i., E.E.T.S. 98, 1892, pp. 260-268; Vernon MS. fol. 303, variants given in Horstmann's ed. for E.E.T.S.; MS. Cotton Caligula A II., ed. Furnivall, Political, Religious, and Love Poems, E.E.T.S. 15, 1866, pp. 83-92, reprinted by Horstmann, E.E.T.S. pp. 260-268; MS. Lambeth 306, variants given by Furnivall; a critical text with variants of the four was made by A. Kaufmann, Trentalle Sancti Gregorii, Erlanger Beiträge, iii. 29-44, 1889. (B) MS. 19, 3, 1, Advocates' Libr., Edinburgh, ed. Turnbull, The Visions of Tundale, 1843, pp. 77 ff., and Bülbring, Anglia, xiii. 301-308; MS. Kk. I, 6, Camb. Univ. Libr., ed. Kaufmann, pp. 44-49. Kaufmann in his introduction discusses the relations of the versions. See further Varnhagen, Anglia, xiii. 105 f. Another legend of Gregory in popular fiction is treated by Bruce in his edition of De Ortu Waluuanii, Publications Mod. Lang. Ass. xiii. 372-377. The story in the Gesta Romanorum to which Luzel, i. 83, note, refers is this rather than our tale. [60] i. 83 and 90, notes. [61] Or. und Occ. iii. 99 f. [62] See Das Märchen vom gestiefelten Kater, Leipzig, 1843; Benfey, Pantschatantra, i. 222; Grimm, Kinder- und Hausmärchen, iii. 288; Liebrecht, Dunlop's Geschichte der Prosadichtungen, 1851, p. 286; Polívka, Arch. f. slav. Phil. xix. 248; etc. [63] Chapter vi. [64] An unnecessarily nauseating reason is given by one of them (Act i. sc. i.), but this seems to be of Massinger's invention. [65] P. 8. [66] It is interesting also to note that a Viennese dramatist of our own day has adapted Massinger's drama, retaining a vague reminiscence of the thankful dead. The curious may see Der Graf von Charolais by Richard Beer-Hofmann, 1905. [67] See pp. 1 and 2. [68] P. 181. [69] Abhandlungen der k. bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1893, pp. 89-166. Reprinted, with some additional notes by the editor, in Gesammelte Abhandlungen von Wilhelm Hertz, ed. F. von der Leyen, 1905, pp. 156-277. [70] The existing versions go back to the pseudo-Aristotelian De secretis secretorum or De regimine principum, which was taken from the Arabic in the twelfth century (Hertz, p. 92). It is probable, however, that the tale existed far earlier than this and came from India (Hertz, pp. 151-155). [71] Pp. 115 ff. [72] Two Asiatic parallels not cited by Hertz will serve to illustrate the theme further. One of these is "The Story of Swet-Basanta" from Lal Behari Day, Folk-tales of Bengal, 1883, pp. 100 f. The hero is found by an elephant and made king of a land, where the successive sovereigns are killed every night mysteriously. He watches and sees something like a thread coming from the queen's nostrils. This proves to be a great serpent, which he kills, thus remaining as king. The other is from J. H. Knowles, Folk-tales of Kashmir, 1888, pp. 32 ff., "A Lach of Rupees for a Bit of Advice." A prince pays a lach of rupees for a paper containing four rules of conduct. His father exiles him for this extravagance. In his wanderings the prince finds a potter alternately laughing and crying because his son must soon marry a princess, who has to be wedded anew each night. So the prince marries the woman instead and kills two serpents that come from her nostrils, thus retaining the kingdom. In these two stories there is no question of aid coming to the hero; he is saved by his own watchfulness. [73] Tobit, Danish III. (Andersen's tale), and Peele's Old Wives' Tale. [74] For example, it appears in Schischmánoff's Légendes religíeuses bulgares, 1896, pp. 194-201, side by side with our Bulgarian tale. [75] I summarize from Köhler's reprint in Germania, iii. pp. 202 ff. [76] Paspati's tale on pp. 605 ff. also has a dragon slain on a wedding night by a youth, who keeps watch. This single trait in a totally different setting must be borrowed from a Gypsy form of the simple or compound theme. [77] See Annamite, Greek, Oliver, and Walewein. There is something approaching it in Rumanian I. [78] Icelandic I. [79] Simrock IV. [80] See Hippe, p. 145. [81] References to this story have been collected by G. Polívka, and printed in Archiv f. slav. Phil. xix. 251, in citing our Russian V. He says: "Vgl. Romanov, iv. S. 124, Nr. 65; Weryho, Pod. bialoruskie, S. 46; Khudyakov, i. Nr. 11, 12; Sadovnikov, S. 44, 310; Manzhura, 61; Dragomanov Mapor. Priep, S. 268 f.; Dowojna Sylwestrowicz, ii. 129 f.; Karlowicz, Nr. 19; Kolberg, viii. S. 138 f., Nr. 55, 56; xiv. S. 72 f., Nr. 16, 17; Ciszewski, i. Nr. 128; Kulda, iii. Nr. 14; Strohal, Nr. 18, 19; Kres, iv. S. 350, Nr. 19; Th. Vernaleken, Oesterr. K.H.M. S. 44 f.; Ul. Jahn, i. 92, 356; Pröhle, Märchen für die Jugend, S. 42; Wolf, D.H.M. 258 f.; Sébillot, Contes des marins, S. 38." As far as I have been able to ascertain, these references are all to the tale sketched above, uncompounded with The Grateful Dead. I must thank Professor Wiener for my knowledge of the Slavic forms, which he very generously examined for me as far as the books were available, viz. Romanov, Khudyakov, Sadovnikov, Manzura, Dragomanov, Sylwestrowicz, and Kolberg. [82] See Hippe, pp. 145 f. [83] For the test of friendship with an apple, see Köhler's notes in Gonzenbach, Sicil. Märchen, ii. 259 f., and in Arch. f. slav. Phil. v. 44 ff. [84] Hippe is in error, however, when he says (p. 178) that the division is everywhere modified in the European variants. See Russian II., IV., V. and VI., Bulgarian, and Esthonian II. Moreover, I believe that Hippe's theory puts the cart before the horse--that the actual division is not so ancient a trait as it seems. See pp. 74, 75 below. [85] See Hippe, p. 146. [86] See chapter vii. [87] See p. 47, note, above. [88] P. 19. [89] See Hippe, pp. 148 f. [90] See note by Schott, p. 473, in which he gives evidence based on personal knowledge, and Grimm, Geschichte der deutschen Sprache, p. 92. I have touched on the matter in Engl. Stud. xxxvi. 195-201. [91] This trait is found not infrequently in other settings. See, for example, Vernaleken, Oesterreichische Kinder- und Hausmärchen, p. 141. [92] This trait recalls Puss in Boots, which is otherwise compounded with The Grateful Dead. See preceding chapter, p. 42, and p. 70 below. [93] See chapter vii. [94] Kennedy says, p. 38: "In some versions of 'Jack the Master,' etc., Jack the servant is the spirit of the dead man." [95] Chapter vi. [96] See chapter vii. [97] The three rods with which the princess is flogged are found in Harz I. See pp. 69, 70 below. [98] See p. 62, note 2. [99] Pp. 10 f. [100] Gayley, Representative English Comedies, 1903, pp. 333-384. [101] P. 345. [102] Pp. 176-178. [103] Russian V. and VI. are, of course, exceptions, since the woman is there a vampire. [104] See his scheme on page 181. [105] See above, p. 1. [106] See above, pp. 2 and 5. [107] Pp. 170-175. [108] P. 173. [109] See also the school drama cited by Köhler, Germania III. 208 f. The elements of Der gute Gerhard, foreign to The Ransomed Woman, I have treated in the Publications of the Modern Lang. Ass. 1905, xx. 529-545. [110] The same is true of the story related of St. Catharine, analyzed by Simrock, pp. 110-113, and cited by Hippe, p. 166, from Scala Celi, by Johannes Junior (Gobius), under Castitas. Hippe, as shown by his scheme on p. 181, places this under "Legendarische Formen mit Loskauf." As a matter of fact, it is plainly a specimen of The Calumniated Woman. [111] Hippe's "Lithuanian II." [112] Breton III., though placed here, has peculiar traits, which require special consideration. [113] Köhler, followed by Hippe, p. 145, makes the hero live for fifteen years on the island, while Mme. Mijatovich gives the time as stated. As I have no knowledge of Servian, I cannot tell which is in the right. Hippe's analysis is otherwise faulty. [114] See Hippe, p. 151. [115] Ibid. [116] Hippe fails to note that the hero used all his money on the first journey in burying the dead, and that it was on a second trip that he bought the king's daughter. [117] Orígenes de la Novela, ii. xcv. [118] An odd inconsistency appears in the statement of the Latin that after the hero's second voyage "pater suus et mater" were angry with him. [119] So, too, with Transylvanian. See above, pp. 79f. [120] See Hippe, p. 150. [121] See Hippe, p. 158. [122] Hippe's brief analysis, p. 159, fails to give a satisfactory outline. [123] Hippe's analysis, p. 159, is not quite adequate. [124] Russian I. is the only other variant that I know which makes the dead man uneasy in his grave. [125] So also in Servian I. and Icelandic II., cited above, as well as Bohemian and Simrock VII., for which see below. [126] See pp. 79 f. [127] See pp. 85-87. [128] See Amis et Amiles und Jourdains de Blaivies, ed. K. Hofmann, 2nd ed. 1882; Amis und Amiloun zugleich mit der altfranzösischen Quelle, ed. E. Kölbing, 1884, with the comprehensive discussion of versions in the introduction; also Kölbing, "Zur Ueberlieferung der Sage von Amicus und Amelius," in Paul und Braune's Beiträge iv. 271-314; etc. [129] Hippe's analysis, p. 156, is different from mine, and is taken from a less trustworthy source. I use the summary of the Ghent text. [130] See p. 49 for other tales in which the dead man is a friend of the hero's. [131] Geschichte des spanischen Nationaldramas, i. 141. [132] Sir Amadas, for which see p. 37. [133] Irish I., for which see pp. 62 and 64, Breton I., p. 65, and Sir Amadas. [134] vii. [135] Hippe's Lithauische III. [136] See Hippe, pp. 156 f. [137] Thus III. makes the princess a daughter of the King of Portugal, as in I.; IV. gives no names whatever; and V. makes the heroine's father King of England. [138] From Gascony, like III., IV., and V. [139] The portraits are not displayed on the ship, but on Jean's carriage,--a curious deviation. [140] See pp. 27 and 57. [141] See chapter vii. [142] See pp. 104 f. [143] II. is the only version which has Jean make his first two voyages on land, a trait which contradicts the general testimony of the tales throughout the chapter. [144] See pp. 85 f. [145] P. 146. [146] See The Legend of Perseus, E. S. Hartland, 1896, volume iii. [147] See p. 103 above. [148] In Jean de Calais IX. they set out together, but to the hero's home. [149] So also in Transylvanian. Similarly the hero offers to give all of his wife, instead of dividing her, in Dianese, Old Swedish, and Old Wives' Tale. [150] See pp. 100-102. [151] See pp. 85 f. [152] See pp. 105 f. [153] See the paper by Kittredge, Journal of American Folk-Lore, xviii. 1-14, 1905. [154] See pp. 107 f. [155] In this connection it is cited by Kittredge in the study above mentioned, pp. 9 f. [156] See p. 108. [157] See p. 101. [158] See pp. 31 f. [159] The same loss is evident in Catalan, Spanish, Simrock I., and Simrock VII. [160] See p. 27 for Jewish. [161] That is, the rescue of the bridegroom from the creatures which possess the bride. [162] See p. 4 above. [163] Of course this excludes the group connected with Oliver, which has no proper connection with the compound type. [164] The most adequate treatment of the motive yet published is by August Wünsche, Die Sagen vom Lebensbaum und Lebenswasser, 1905, pp. 90-104. This is the same study which had previously been printed in the Zts. f. vergleichende Litteraturgeschichte, 1899, N.F. xiii. 166-180, but is furnished with a new introduction and a few additional illustrations. Dr. Wünsche's monograph, thoroughgoing and conclusive as it is with reference to the myths of the Tree of life and the Water of Life, leaves much to be desired as an account of the folk-tale based on the latter belief. He himself says in his preface, p. iv: "Man sieht auch daraus, dass es sich um Wanderstoffe handelt, an die sich immer neue Elemente ankristallisiert haben." These elements he has not studied with any degree of completeness. Thus, for example, he does not use Cosquin's valuable contributions in Contes populaires de Lorraine, i. 212-222, which would have given him valuable assistance. The theme yet awaits definitive treatment. [165] See Wünsche, p. 92. [166] P. 71. [167] "The Fountain of Youth," Journal of the American Oriental Society, xxvi. 1st half, 19 and 55. [168] Hopkins, pp. 19, 42, 55, etc. [169] Wünsche, p. iii: "Es sind altorientalische Mythen, die in alle Kulturreligionen übergangen sind. Zeit und Ort haben ihnen ein sehr verschiedenes Gepräge gegeben, der Grundgedanke ist derselbe geblieben." [170] P. 71. See also Hopkins, p. 55. [171] Contes populaires de Lorraine, i. 213. [172] Pp. 90 f. [173] See pp. 125-127 below. [174] Pp. 212-214. He regards the story in Wolf, Hausmärchen, p. 230, as linking the two. [175] P. 91. Cosquin, it will be noted, makes the fruit an alternative of the water of life. [176] For example, "The Baker's Three Daughters" in Mrs. M. Carey's Fairy Legends of the French Provinces, 1887, pp. 86 ff., unites the water of life with both the magical apples and the bird. [177] The need of such a study may be shown by stating that, while Wünsche has treated about thirty variants, I know at present of something like four times that number. [178] See p. 118 above. [179] This well-known märchen has been treated by various scholars, most recently by G. L. Kittredge, in Arthur and Gorlagon (Studies and Notes in Philology and Literature, viii.) 1903, pp. 226 f., from whom I take the liberty of transcribing the following references, some of which would otherwise be unknown to me. In note 2 to p. 226 he says: "See Benfey, Das Märchen von den 'Menschen mit den wunderbaren Eigenschaften,' Ausland, 1858, pp. 969 ff. (Kleinere Schriften II. iii. 94 ff.); Wesselofsky, in Giovanni da Prato, Il Paradiso degli Alberti, 1867, I. ii. 238 ff.; d'Ancona, Studj di Critica e Storia Letteraria, 1880, pp. 357-358; Köhler-Bolte, Ztsch. des Ver. f. Volkskunde, vi. 77; Köhler, Kleinere Schriften, i. 192 ff., 298 ff., 389-390, 431, 544; ii. 591; Cosquin, Contes pop. de Lorraine, i. 23 ff.; Crane, Italian Popular Tales, p. 67; Nutt, in MacInnes, Folk and Hero Tales, pp. 445 ff.; Laistner, Rätsel der Sphinx ii. 357 ff.; Steel, Tales of the Punjab, pp. 42 ff.; Jurkschat, Litauische Märchen, pp. 29 ff.; etc." A peculiarly interesting specimen is that in Bladé, Contes pop. de la Gascogne, 1886, iii. 12-22. See also Luzel, Contes pop. de Basse-Bretagne, 1887, iii. 296-311; Carnoy and Nicolaides, Traditions pop. de l'Asie Mineure, 1889, pp. 43-56; and Goldschmidt, Russische Märchen, 1883, pp. 69-78. [180] So I venture to call the story of the woman, who through enchantment or her own bad taste is the mistress of an ogre or some other monster. She is rescued by a hero, who is able to solve the extraordinary riddles or to accomplish the apparently impossible tasks which she sets him at the advice of the monster, after other suitors have perished in the attempt. See Kittredge, Arthur and Gorlagon, p. 250 (note to p. 249); Wesselofsky, Arch. f. slav. Phil. vi. 574. A good specimen tale is "The Magic Turban" in R. Nisbet Bain's Turkish Fairy Tales, 1901, pp. 102-111. [181] Kittredge thus summarizes the tale (work cited, p. 226): "Three or more brothers (or comrades) are suitors for the hand of a beautiful girl. While her father is deliberating, the girl disappears. The companions undertake to recover her. One of them, by contemplation (or by keenness of sight), finds that she has been stolen by a demon (or dragon) and taken to his abode on a rock in the sea. Another builds a ship by his magic (or possesses a magic ship) which instantly transports them to the rock. Another, who is a skilful climber, ascends the castle and finds that the monster is asleep with his head in the maiden's lap. Another, a master thief, steals the girl without waking her captor. They embark, but are pursued by the monster. One of the companions, an unerring shot, kills the pursuer with an arrow. The girl is restored to her parents." This analysis would not hold for all variants, even when uncompounded (e.g. Grimm, Kinder- und Hausmärchen, No. 71, "Sechse kommen durch die ganze Welt") but a better could scarcely be made without a systematic study of the type. As Kittredge notes, the companions are not at all constant in number and function. [182] Hungarian I., Rumanian II., Straparola II., Sicilian, and Treu Heinrich. [183] Thus Hungarian I. and Rumanian II. with Polish, Sicilian with Harz II. [184] Possibly a trace of some such story as The Quest of the Sword of Light discussed by Kittredge, Arthur and Gorlagon, pp. 214 ff. [185] Since twelve brothers set out to win twelve sisters, there is probably a union here with the widespread tale of The Brothers and Sisters. [186] The ship that will travel equally well on land and water is seemingly a common trait in forms of The Skilful Companions. See the variant cited from Bladé on p. 125, note 3. It occurs in a curious tale from Mauritius, given by Baissac, Le Folk-lore de l'Île-Maurice, 1888, p. 78. [187] For examples of stories in which a king's son liberates one or more prisoners, and has the service returned in an emergency, see Child, English and Scottish Popular Ballads, v. 42-48. [188] See Jonckbloet, ii. 131 ff. [189] Paris, Hist. litt. de la France, xxx. 82. [190] The only instance known to me where such transformation occurs with reference to the hero. [191] Walewein and Lotharingian. [192] Like the wolf in Guillaume de Palerne, which is likewise a transformed prince. [193] Lotharingian comes from a region farther north than any other, since the Dutch romance is merely a translation from Old French. Simrock IX. is from Tyrol. [194] See pp. 133-135. [195] I include all the tales treated in this chapter. [196] See pp. 58-73. [197] See p. 126, note 1. [198] See p. 134. [199] See p. 133, note 2. [200] See pp. 92 ff. above, and pp. 156-158 below. [201] With the form The Grateful Dead + The Water of Life simply. [202] Pp. 107 f., 111-115. [203] See pp. 133 f. [204] See pp. 145-147. [205] See pp. 146 f. [206] P. 143. [207] The date of Treu Heinrich. This gives the date a quo. [208] The compound existed before the fourteenth century certainly. See pp. 117 f. [209] The date is here determined by the existence of Walewein. [210] Brazilian. [211] Venetian has, however, united with other material, which may account for this in the one case. [212] The date of Straparola, one of whose stories belongs to this class. [213] The compound The Grateful Dead + The Poison Maiden had been in existence since the end of the first century, as Tobit proves. [214] See pp. 89 f. [215] See pp. 33-40. [216] See pp. 92-96. [217] See pp. 131-134. [218] P. 149. [219] The date of Richars. [220] See pp. 50, 58. [221] See pp. 92-111. [222] See p. 92. [223] As in Lithuanian II., Breton VII., Simrock I., and Factor's Garland. [224] As in Transylvanian. [225] As in Jean de Calais I.-X., Basque II., Irish I., Breton I. and III., Simrock II. and VIII., and Sir Amadas. [226] As in Gaelic. [227] See p. 95. [228] See pp. 93 f. [229] See p. 94. [230] See references in Publ. Mod. Lang. Ass. xx. 545. [231] See my article in Publ. Mod. Lang. Ass. xix. 427, 430-432. [232] Pantschatantra, i. §71. [233] i. 207. [234] i. 219. [235] Pp. 126 f. [236] See p. 27. [237] So in Polish of the type The Grateful Dead + The Water of Life the ghost appears as a plank. See p. 128. [238] See p. 57. [239] See pp. 100-102, 104 f. [240] See pp. 108 ff. [241] See pp. 115 f. [242] See pp. 112 f. [243] See pp. 135 ff. [244] See also p. 151. [245] See pp. 28 f. [246] See the comment of von der Leyen, Arch. j. d. St. d. n. Spr. cxiv. 12. [247] ii. 136. [248] ii. 121. The story, however, belongs to the domain of general literature. [249] See A. Wiedemann, Die Toten und ihre Reiche im Glauben der alten Aegypter, p. 21 (Der alte Orient, ii, 1900). [250] Zend-Avesta, Vendîdâd, chaps, v. xii. [251] x. 18. 1. [252] Iliad, xxiii. 71 ff. [253] ix. 32. [254] See pp. 26 f. [255] Ed. Bartsch, xviii. st. 910 and 911. [256] P. 27. [257] P. 28. [258] Traditions et superstitions de la Haute-Bretagne, 1882, i. 238 f. [259] MacCulloch, Guernsey Folk Lore, 1903, pp. 283 f. [260] See W. Crooke in Folk-Lore, xiii. 280-283. [261] Book iii. w. 4726 ff. of the whole poem (2nd ed. J. Small, 1883, E. E. T. S. orig. ser. 11, p. 153). [262] Annamite is an exception, but it cannot be regarded as having any organic connection with the cycle. [263] See Heidelberger Jahrbücher, 1868, p. 449. [264] Ruling out Simonides, of course, as not clearly belonging to the cycle. [265] Siberian, it will be remembered, is of the same type as Tobit. [266] See Hertz, pp. 151-155. [267] For examples, see Hertz, pp. 106-115. [268] It is not clear whether she was actually divided in the primitive forms, or merely threatened. In either case the union would take place as stated. [269] Armenian and Siberian give adequate evidence as to the truth of the latter statement, though more Asiatic variants of this type are to be desired. [270] Servian III., Esthonian II., and Rumanian I. [271] See p. 82. [272] See pp. 116 f. [273] See pp. 40 f. [274] See pp. 125-127, 151 f. [275] See the author's study, "Forerunners, Congeners, and Derivatives of the Eustace Legend" in Publ. Mod. Lang. Ass. xix. 335-448. 
43059	----	RUMANIAN BIRD AND BEAST STORIES RENDERED INTO ENGLISH BY M. GASTER, Ph.D. VICE-PRESIDENT AND SOMETIME PRESIDENT OF THE FOLK-LORE SOCIETY VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL ASIATIC SOCIETY VICE-PRESIDENT AND SOMETIME PRESIDENT OF THE JEWISH HISTORICAL SOCIETY ETC., ETC. "But ask now the beasts, and they shall teach thee; And the fowls of the air, and they shall tell thee." Job xii. 7. LONDON Published for the Folk-Lore Society by SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD., 3 ADAM ST., ADELPHI, W.C. 1915 To HER MAJESTY QUEEN ELISABETH OF RUMANIA "Carmen Sylva" To Whom the Soul of the Rumanian People is as an Open Book A Page of that Book Is By Gracious Permission Dedicated PREFACE. "Neither can men hear the voice of the cattle; both the fowl of the heavens and the beast are fled, they are gone." The forests are silent, over hill and dale hangs a black pall; beast and bird are in hiding; the voices are hushed. But before they have disappeared, following in the track of others, I have endeavoured to catch the hum of the bee, the twitter of the bird, the chirp of the cricket, the song of the dying swan, and all the tales which beasts and birds and little beetles tell their young before they go to sleep ere the flash of the glow-worm flits across the darkness of the forest. I have followed up to their lairs the ferocious wolf, the cantankerous dog, the sly fox and the wise hedgehog, have listened to the lark and to the nightingale, and paid homage to little king wren. Who knows how much longer they will disport themselves in the fields and forests of Rumania, where the hoofs of the horses, the feet of the marching men, the shout of battle and the thunder of the guns have silenced--let us hope only for a while--the voice of the dumb creatures, who still speak so eloquently to him who knows their language and understands the cunning spell of their hidden wisdom. It is as if I had gathered flowers from the field of the Rumanian popular imagination. They are fresh from the field, and the dew still hangs upon them like so many diamonds, flashing in the light of popular poetry; nay, sometimes a few specks of the original soil are still clinging to the roots. I have not pressed them between the leaves of this book. I have handled them tenderly. It has been a work of love, the dreamy fancies of youth, the solace of maturer age. Peradventure one or the other may be taken out and planted anew in the nurseries of the West, where they may blossom and grow afresh. They might bring with them the breath of the open field, the perfume of the forest. They might conjure up the time when the nations were still young and lived in the great Nursery of Nature. If one could only bring to the nations of the West for awhile a glimpse of the time of their youth! In my wanderings through these enchanted fields I have tried to find whence the seeds have come, whose hands have sown them, and what spiritual wind and weather have fostered their growth, whether the rain of heaven or the fountains of the deep have watered the roots, what sun has shone upon them, what fiery blast has made these flowers wither and die. Such as they are, then, they are offered in love to the English people. I have to thank Mr. S. L. Bensusan, who in true friendship, with admirable skill and with untiring zeal has helped me to remove the boulders, to level the ground, to plan the beds and to trim the edges; Miss C. S. Burne, whose keen sympathy, unerring eye and deft hand have helped to weed the tares and group the flowers; my son Vivian, who with loving care and gentle touch has brushed away the dead leaves that had fallen on the green sward, and last, but not least, the Folk-Lore Society, which has granted me a niche in its great Pantheon. It is indeed no small honour to be in the company of the gods. M. G. In the month when "smale fowles maken melodie." CONTENTS. Introduction I. Why is the Bee black, and why is it making Honey? How did the Bee outwit the Devil? I. B. How did the Bee outwit the Mole? II. Why is the Bee busy and the Spider sullen? III. Why is the Bee black, and why has it a Narrow Waist? IV. Why does the Little Worm glow? V. Why does the Little Worm glow? VI. Why does the Little Worm glow? VII. Why is the Wolf ferocious? VIII. Why do the Eyes of the Wolf glow and his Hair bristle? IX. Why does the Wolf run after the Devil? X. Why the Goat's Knees are bare XI. Why did Noah get drunk? XII. God and the Lamb XIII. The Hart and the making of the World XIV. Why is the Fly called the Devil's Horse? XV. The Devil stealing the Sun XVI. Why is it called the Bull-Fly? XVII. Why is the Saw-Fly red? XVIII. Why does the Saw-Fly live in Stables? XIX. Why is the Lady-Bird dainty? XX. Why does the Gad-Fly sting the Cattle? XXI. Why does the Fly of Kolumbatsh poison the Cattle? XXII. Why is there a Worm in the Apple? XXIII. Why are the Locusts voracious? XXIV. Why does the Grasshopper run to and fro? XXV. Another Story of the Grasshopper XXVI. Why does the Nun Beetle cover its Face? XXVII. Why is the Beetle called the Nun? XXVIII. Why is the Wasp the Gipsies' Bee? XXVIII. A. Another Version of the Wasp Legend XXIX. Why does the Hornet live in Smoky Places? XXX. Why is the Hornet so spiteful? XXX. A. Hornet Charm XXXI. Why has the Woodpecker such a Long Beak and why does it peck at the Trees? XXXII. Why has the Pelican a Big Pouch under its Beak? XXXIII. Why does the Titmouse get into the Pumpkin? XXXIV. Why has the Nightingale a Drab Colour? XXXV. Why has the Nightingale Twelve Tunes and why does the Turtle-Dove coo? XXXVI. Why is the Nightingale the Songster of the King? XXXVII. Why does the Thrush hide in the Tree? XXXVIII. Why has the Partridge a Mottled Colour? XXIX. Why has the Thistle-Finch Ruffled Feathers? XL. Why has the Bullfinch a Red Breast and a Big Mouth? XLI. Why does the Hoopoe feed on Droppings? XLII. Why is the Wagtail called the Gipsies' Bird? XLIII. Why is the Hoopoe such a Dirty Bird? XLIV. Why does the Cuckoo lead a Restless Life? XLV. Why is the Cuckoo silent in the Winter? XLVI. The Story of the Crow and its Ugly Fledglings XLVII. Why is there enmity between the Crow and the Hawk? XLVII. A. Crow Charms XLVIII. Why does the Heron drink only Rain-Water? XLIX. Why does the Kite cry in Dry Weather? L. Why can the Mole not come out on the High Road? LI. Why has the Tortoise a Round Back? LII. Why have the Fish no Feet? LIII. Why do the Plover fly singly? LIV. Why does the Spider hang on a Thread? LIV. A. Why are the Spider and the Mouse accursed? LV. Why has the Swallow a Forked Tail and a Red Spot on its Breast? LVI. Why does the Frog shrivel up at Death? LVII. Why does the Silkworm spin a Thin Thread? LVIII. Why is it right to kill a Sparrow? LIX. Why should the Oak Tree not boast? LX. Why does the Mosquito live in the Well? LXI. Why does the Mosquito feed on Blood? LXII. Why does the Fly eat the Cherry? LXIII. Why has the Butterfly Rings on its Wings? LXIV. Why does the Cricket chirp? LXV. Why do the Ants feed the Cricket? LXVI. Why do Cats and Dogs fight? LXVII. Why do Cats eat Mice? LXVII. A. Another Version LXVIII. Why does a Cat sit on the Doorstep in the Sun? LXIX. Why does the Fly settle on the Dead? LXX. Why is the Foot of Man arched? LXXI. Why has a Snake no Tail? and why do Fleas suck Human Blood? LXXII. Charms against Fleas and other House Vermin LXXIII. Charms against Bugs LXXIV. Why does the Cuckoo call "Cuckoo"? LXXV. Why does a Wagtail wag its Tail? LXXVI. Why has the Hoopoe a Tuft? LXXVII. Why does the Eagle live on Raw Meat? LXXVIII. Why has the Lark a Tuft? LXXIX. Why is the Tuft of the Lark dishevelled? LXXX. Why do Larks fly towards the Sun? LXXX. A. The Story of the Lark LXXXI. The Wooing of the Sister of the Sun LXXXII. The Wooing of a Fairy LXXXIII. Where did the Swan come from? LXXXIV. The Swan Maiden, the Bird of Heaven and the Crown of Paradise LXXXV. Why does the Duck feed on Refuse? LXXXVI. Why has the Stork no Tail? LXXXVII. Why has the Swallow a Forked Tail and a Red Spot on its Breast? LXXXVIII. Why does the Swallow live in Hot Places? LXXXIX. Why is the Dove a Homing Bird? XC. Why does the Raven feed on Carcases? XCI. Why is the Ant cut in the Middle? XCII. Why does the Cuckoo call "Cuckoo"? XCIII. Why does the Armenian love the Dirty Hoopoe? XCIV. The Story of the Partridge, the Fox and the Hound XCV. The Story of the Partridge and her Young XCVI. The Story of the Lark and the taming of Women XCVII. The Story of the Turtle Dove and its love for its Mate XCVIII. Why does the Wren hide himself? XCIX. Why is there no King over the Birds? C. The Story of King Log and King Stork CI. The Story of the Stork and Little Tomtit CII. The Story of the Flea and the Gnat CIII. The Story of the Gnat, the Lion, and the Man CIV. The Story of the Gnat and the Buffalo CV. The Story of the Town Mouse and the Field Mouse CVI. The Story of the Hare and the Frogs CVII. Why does the Buffalo walk slowly and tread gently? CVIII. The Story of the Pointer and the Setter CIX. The Story of the Rat and his Journey to God CX. The Story of the Seven-Witted Fox and the One-Witted Owl CXI. The Story of the Fox and his Bagful of Wits and the One-Witted Hedgehog CXII. The Story of the Peasant, the Snake, and King Solomon CXIII. The Story of the Dog and the Snake and the cure of Headache CXIV. The Story of the Horse, the Lion, and the Wolf CXV. The Marriage of Tom and the Vixen CXVI. The Story of Man and his Years CXVII. The Judgment of the Soul of Man, accused and defended by Beast and Birds CXVIII. The Pilgrimage of the Soul after Death CXIX. The Reward of the Good Man APPENDIX I. RUMANIAN INCANTATIONS AGAINST THE ILLNESSES OF ANIMALS. I. Against the Illness of Poultry II. Charm for a Cow against the Evil Eye III. Charm for a Suckling Calf IV. Charm for a Cow against Snake-Bite V. Charm against Evil Eye VI. Charm against Evil Eye VII. Charm against Worms in Beasts VIII. Against Worms IX. Charm against Snake-Bite X. Charm if bitten by a Weasel APPENDIX II. THREE STORIES FROM ARKIR. The Rumanian Version of the Story of Ahikar APPENDIX III. ANIMAL STORIES FROM THE HEBREW ALPHABET OF BEN SIRA. I. Why were Flies created which live only One Day? II. Why did God create Wasps and Spiders which are of no use? III. Why has the Ox no Hair on his Nose? IV. Why does the Cat eat Mice more than any other Creeping Thing? V. Why does the Ass mix his Water with that of other Asses, and smell the Dung? VI. Why does the Dog fight the Cat? VII. Why is it that the Dog recognises his Master and the Cat does not? VIII. Why is there a Seam in the Mouth of the Mouse? IX. Why does the Raven hop in its Walk? X. Why does the Raven mate differently from any other Bird? XI. Why are there no Counterpart to the Fox and the Weasel among the Creatures of the Sea? and the Story of the Fox's Heart and the Fishes INTRODUCTION. The Rumanian animal tales, which appear here for the first time outside Rumania, are so weird, so different from any known to the folk-lore of the West, that they arrest our attention and invite close examination. They are, for the most part, not only beautiful in themselves, but by reason of a peculiar flight of fancy and a powerful imagination are so unlike anything known in other collections of folk-lore that they raise problems far reaching, and, I venture to think, of the highest importance to the study of popular literature. We are moving in a religious atmosphere. Many of the tales start, as it were, from the beginning of creation. God, the Apostles, the Evil One seem to take a hand in the work and to rejoice more or less in the labour of their hands. We have, besides, animal fables pure and simple, tales designed for enjoyment, tales of fancy in which the nimble and small creatures outwit the burly and heavy ones. We have also fairy tales like those known to us in the West and made familiar to us by numerous collections. A prominent characteristic is the childlike simplicity of all the stories, the absence of any dualistic element. No "moral" has been tacked on to these tales, and probably they were not even intended to teach one. The questions which the study of folk-lore has raised, whether anthropological, psychological, or historical will be raised with a renewed force. I shall endeavour, however briefly, to deal with some of the problems in the light which this collection of Rumanian tales is able to shed upon the study of folk-lore. The anthropological, historical and psychological problems underlying our studies must be attacked--I venture to think--from a fresh point of view. The view I hold is that the European nations form one spiritual unit, and that within that unit the various degrees of development through which one or the other has passed are still preserved. I believe that we must study the manifestations of the human spirit from a geographical angle of vision, that this development has spread directly from one group of men to another, and that, before going to the extreme ends of the earth for doubtful clues, we must first try to find them, and perhaps we shall succeed in finding them more easily and satisfactorily, among some of the European nations whose folk-lore has not yet been sufficiently investigated. We can find in Europe various stages of "culture," and these we must trace by slow descent to the lowest rung of the ladder. At a certain stage of our descent we may strike the stratum of Asiatic folk-lore which may lead us further in our comparative study. Let me give some practical examples of my meaning. The relation between man and animal has been the subject of numerous highly speculative but none the less extremely interesting and acute investigations. We have had Totemism, we have had Animism and many other explanations, which by their number became simply bewildering. Students have gone to the Bushmen of Australia, and to the Red Indians of America for parallels and explanations, or for proofs of their highly ingenious theories. But are there no animal and bird stories in Europe which would show us how, to this day, the people understand the relations between man and other living creatures, what views they hold of birds and beasts and insects? Are the animals humanised--using the word in the sense of impersonating a human being? Do the people see any fundamental difference between the created things? In the fairy tale, at any rate, no such definite clear-cut distinction between man and animal can be discerned. But at the root of many anthropological myths the animal is only a disguised human being. The worth of these Rumanian stories--culled as they are from the mouth of the people--is their ability to show how to this very day the people look upon the animal world. Perhaps another view will ultimately find its way among the students of folk-lore. What I am anxious to emphasise is the fact that there are, for the investigation of folk-lore students, mines of untold wealth that have hitherto not been sufficiently worked. These tales represent one or more of the earlier stages of European folk-lore. The elements, not yet quite closely moulded together, allow us at times to lay bare the sources and thus trace the inner history of this part of folk-lore. The people are confronted by a world filled with weird and mysterious animals, birds, insects, each with their own peculiarities to invite question. Almost everything that is not of daily occurrence excites the people's curiosity, and they ask for an explanation of it; where does this or that animal come from, and why has it this or that peculiarity in its habits, colours, form and other matters? They are very grateful for instruction. But it must be of a kind adapted to their understanding. It must be plausible, even if it puts some strain on their imagination. The more wonderful and weird that explanation, the more easily it is accepted by the people, and the more firmly is it believed. This question of "belief" has often been raised in connection with fairy tales. It is asked whether the people believe in the existence of fairies, monsters, marvellous and wonder-working animals, in short, in all the mechanism of the fairy tale. To this an unhesitating answer can be given in so far as these Rumanian tales and legends are concerned. They are believed in implicitly. They form an integral part--I feel almost inclined to say they form an exclusive part--of the popular religious beliefs of the folk. The people are neither too squeamish, nor too sophistical in their faith, nor do they enquire too closely into the dogmatic character of such beliefs or into the sources from which they have come. In the East too the people, as a rule, are good-natured, and a good story remains a good story, whether told by a believer or an infidel. The study of these tales promises to exceed by far in interest the study of mere "fairy tales." We are moving in a spiritual world, which appears to be much more primitive in the animal tale than in the fairy tale. We are getting much nearer to the very soul of the people, to its power of imagination and abstraction. We can see more clearly the manner of its working. The comparative study of fairy lore has led to the surprising recognition of the world-wide range of these tales. In spite of investigations carried on for close upon a century, no satisfactory solution has yet been found which would explain the appearance of one and the same fairy tale at such widely separate parts of the world as India and England. Various answers have been advanced in order to explain this surprising similarity. And the same problem arises here. This collection of tales, as already mentioned, contains two groups. The larger group consists of the legend or creation stories--in which, however, one section contains fairy tales though used also as creation stories--and the other group consists of fables pure and simple. It would be unscientific, I hold, to treat these groups on one plane as if they were all contemporary in their origin. They may represent various degrees either of local evolution, and if so, that may be found to be the best solution, or they may have come in various stages of transmission. The theory of migration has been applied hitherto to the fairy tale. I am not aware that the history of the popular fable has been attempted, still less that of the creation legends, which have remained almost unknown until quite recently. I will deal with each of these groups as far as possible separately, and the conclusions drawn from each group will afterwards be merged into one final conclusion established by the fact of their actual presence in Rumanian popular lore. Migration, no doubt, offers the best solution of the riddle set by the fairy tale. No one, unless he solves the riddle of the heroine in the fairy tale, can win her. But still the opinion of scholars is divided. The mistake, I venture to think, has been that all the tales called by this title, and even culled from the mouth of the people, have been treated on one general principle, without recognising the possibility that there may be divers layers, some older, some of a more recent date. This probability seems to have been entirely overlooked. That which holds good for one cycle need not hold equally good for all the rest. But the question of the central origin of tales must not be confused with that of their transmission. Thus a tale may originate in India or Egypt, but once it has started on a journey of its own it will be carried, chiefly by word of mouth, from country to country. And as its structure is loose, a mere framework with a very simple plot, it will assimilate other elements and undergo those manifold changes, the investigation of which is the delight and despair of the folk-lorist. We are now faced by a new set of stories, some of which are mere tales, while others are of a more legendary character. I class under the latter heading all those in which the religious element stands out prominently. They have assumed their actual form no doubt probably under the powerful sway of some religious influence. The peculiar shade of religious teaching which has moulded the actual form of these legendary stories, and which is of decisive importance in our investigation, will be discussed more fully later on, after we have been able to dispose of other solutions offered by the explanation of the origin of these tales. It will then be possible to approach the question of the fairy tales from the coign of vantage gained. Within this class of tales there are some in which the legendary character is not so pronounced, where the tale is intended to explain certain peculiarities of animals. These seem to be of so primitive a character that the closest parallels can only be found among primitive nations. Here a new problem sets in--the problem of origins. For curiously enough a striking similarity cannot be denied to the Rumanian, Indian, African and possibly American tales. But the similarity is only in the aim. The other nations ask precisely the same questions about the animals with which they are familiar, and they endeavour to give an answer to their query. The parallelism is in the question. Are we, then, to treat these tales in the same manner as the "fairy tales" and account for that similarity in the same manner as that of fairy tales gathered from distant regions? Or, in other words, have we here another set of tales which have been carried chiefly by word of mouth from one country to another? Are these stories also new witnesses to the process of "migration"? And are we, then, to assume that this theory of migration should be applied to these animal tales, as it has been to the fairy tale? Or, are we to assume that the unity of the human soul works on parallel lines in divers countries among divers nations not otherwise connected with one another? If not, how is this similarity to be explained? True, the parallelism between Rumanian and Indian tales is not so close as it is between the "fairy tales." For the animals are often not the same. They are everywhere local beasts. This change in the animals chosen may be due to different circumstances and local assimilation. It is quite natural that for a tiger and jackal, a wolf and a fox might have been substituted when the animal tale reached Europe, for the tale had to be localised in order to preserve its interest in a new atmosphere. One need not go very far to find the same change taking place even in written literature. The jackals in the frame story of the Panchatantra become "foxes" in Kalila Wa Dimna in the European versions. Or, to take another example, in the famous parable of the "man in the pit" in the Barlaam Josaphat legend the furious elephant becomes a camel, however incongruous the substitution may appear. If such changes could take place in the written literature in which the incidents are fixed, how much more easily could it take place when a story is carried only by word of mouth? Then the substitution of a familiar animal for one unknown would be quite natural. The people want to know the reason for the peculiarities of those animals that they know. They are not likely to care much for unknown fauna. Unless those other animals are of a purely mythical and fantastical character, and as such appeal to the universal imagination, there is no room in the popular mythology for animals of foreign countries. If, then, we admit that these animal fables have been brought to Europe in the same manner as the fairy tales, by means of oral transmission, then they have preserved their original character and their primitive form less modified than has happened in the case of the fairy tale, for reasons which would have to be explained. The only other suggestion is that these legends and animal tales are of a local origin, the product of the poetical imagination of the Rumanian peasant, and as such quite independent of any other source. If this is not acceptable we must admit a continuous stream of popular tradition, setting in at a time not yet determined and spreading from East to West or from South to North, the direction of the stream having been determined by the presumable centre of origin in Asia, before or contemporary with the spread of the real fairy tales. But, it might be argued, as has been also done in the case of the fairy tales, that these stories are the product of individual efforts of local myth-makers and popular poets, that they are purely indigenous in origin. One cannot deny that the people could invent such stories. Some one must have invented them, and why could they not have been invented by the Rumanian peasant independently of the Indian story teller? The cosmogonic setting invalidates this suggestion. Such a setting presupposes a definite set of ideas about the beginnings of things which are neither spontaneous nor indigenous. All that can be said is that, once the impulse had been given, the imagination of the people followed the lead and worked in its own way on the given lines. This is the general trend of real popular lore. Each nation mints in its own fashion the gold brought from elsewhere, and places its own imprint upon it. This view I find myself unable to accept. It could be entertained only and solely if no parallels whatsoever could be found anywhere to some at least of the more important and characteristic creation tales, fairy tales and fables. The question then remains, Where do these tales come from? Are they indeed the expression of the primitive mind, and if so, have we to recognise these specific Rumanian beast tales as so many indigenous products of the primitive Rumanian mind? Tylor, in his Primitive Culture (i. 3 ed. 410 ff.), discusses at some length the beast tales found among primitive peoples, tales that as yet are not the excuse for a moral and have not been reduced to the background of an allegory. He takes his examples from the North Indians of America, from the Kamtchadals of Kamtchatka and from the inhabitants of Guinea. These stories are thus, as it were, the primitive expression of the myth-making imagination of peoples in which the animal stands in as close a relation as any human being. Be this as it may, the conclusions drawn by Tylor rest on this evidence gathered only from so-called dark ages. He is not aware of any such tales among the nations of Europe, who certainly cannot be classed among the primitive peoples. And on the other hand he is fully alive to the fact that a number of such beast tales have been worked up in the eleventh and twelfth centuries in the famous epic of Reynard the Fox. The question arises, Whence came some of the incidents believed to be more ancient? They lead us straight to the supposition that such animal tales in a primitive form must have existed among the peoples of Europe, even as far west as Flanders and France. They were afterwards woven into one consecutive narrative, conceived in a spirit of satire on existing social and clerical conditions. A "moral" has thus been introduced into a set of more ancient tales. But of this anon. In view of these Rumanian tales we can no longer be content to leave the question of the compilation of Reynard where Tylor has left it. The new materials now at our disposal allow us to follow it much further and to arrive at conclusions differing from those of Tylor. From the moment that we find in Europe similar beast tales to those found among primitive peoples in other parts of the world, we are confronted by a new problem. We may recognise the same spiritual agency at work: we may see the same action of the mind, asking everywhere for an explanation of the phenomena from beast and bird, from sky and sea. Thus far the minds of all the nations run on parallel lines. The differentiation begins with the answer, and here, then, the problem sets in. How many nations give the same answer, and in so doing form, as it were, a group by themselves? How old is this or that answer or the tale that contains it? And what is the form in which it is given? Is it a fable or has it a religious colouring? In endeavouring to reply to these queries we find ourselves face to face with the problems of indigenous character, primitive origin, independent evolution and question of survival. We are thus brought face to face with yet another theory--the theory of survivals--the most important of all, which sways the trend of the study of modern folk-lore. I must deal with it here at some greater length. I mean, of course, the theory that sees in every manifestation of the popular spirit, in every story, in every ballad or song, a survival from hoary antiquity, a remnant of prehistoric times, to which the people have clung with a marvellous tenacity, although they have entirely forgotten its meaning. Out of an unconscious antiquarian weakness they are supposed to have preserved every fossil even if and when it had become burdensome to them. But it must not be forgotten that the people retain only those practices and beliefs by means of which they hope to obtain health, wealth and power, and they will take care not to jeopardise such benefits by any neglect. So long as these results are expected, the people will cling tenaciously to the beliefs which promise them the greater gifts. It is not impossible that such beliefs, being too deeply rooted, might survive local political changes. But in order to survive, two conditions are essential, continuity of place and continuity of ethnical unity. The religious continuity is also an important condition, though not by any means so essential. The clash of two or more religious doctrines causes on the one hand the destruction of the official system of religious ceremonies and practices, and on the other drives to the bottom that mass of ceremonies from the observance of which benefits to health and wealth are expected. In the moment when the belief in their efficacy has gone they disappear without leaving a trace. Very little, if anything, survives. It is a fallacy to believe, as is now the fashion, that without such continuity any real survival can take place. This theory has been carried to extreme lengths, without the slightest justification. It all rests on finely spun hypotheses in which time and space have entirely disappeared. No connecting link has been brought forward to bind the present to the past. However plausible some aspects of the "vegetation god" may appear, one must remember the essential fact, that there is now not a single nation in Europe living on the soil where such practices as the slaying of an annual king god has been practised, if, indeed, they have ever been practised, beyond a very strictly limited area in Asia Minor and possibly in Sicily or Italy. With whom could such practices survive, for example, in Bulgaria or even in Thrace? It is known that the population there has changed its character many times, even within the last eight hundred years. There is such a medley of races, some old, some new, that it would be impossible to expect survivals from the Pelasgian or Dacian past. Nor would they have anything in common. The Rumanians of Latin origin are certainly not the oldest inhabitants of Rumania. If, then, each of these ethnical unities had separate practices or, to come nearer to our subject, separate tales and stories marked with its own individuality, it might perhaps be argued that these stories and popular beliefs are survivals from prehistoric times, remnants of a past long forgotten, embodying a folk-lore and popular psychology which date back to remote antiquity. None of these nations, and, in fact, none of the modern nations of Europe, reach back to any extreme antiquity, nor are they homogeneous in their ethnical character nor the descendants of the autochthonous inhabitants. There may be a few rare strains of other blood in the modern admixture, but not of any decisive character, certainly it is not strong enough to have preserved any survivals. True, many of the modern practices are no more of yesterday than these tales and stories are, but again, they are certainly not so old as a modern school of thought endeavours to make out. Comparatively modern nations, often alien to the soil which they inhabit, none of them of a pure unmixed origin, cannot have retained beliefs, tales, etc., of which their forefathers knew nothing. They could not have laid stress on things which had disappeared with the nations whom their successors or victors had destroyed. If, then, we find that these nations of diverse origins and of diverse times possess a certain stock of folk-lore in common, it follows naturally that they must have obtained it in common at a certain definite period, when in spite of their ethnical and possibly political differences they were all subjected together to one pervading influence. A great spiritual force moulded them at one and the same time, and this produced one common result, which, in spite of its genetic unity, would have allowed a certain latitude for individual development. If, as I assume, it was the all-pervading influence of religious sects which stretched from far East to extreme West and embraced all the cultured nations of Europe, impressing them with the same seal--a certain popularly modified Christianity embellished with legends and tales appealing to the imagination, containing a strong didactic and ethical strain, propounding a new solution of the world's problem suited to the understanding of the people, accounting satisfactorily for the evil in the world, warding off the effects of these spirits of evil--then it is small wonder that their teaching sunk deeper into the heart of the people and brought about that surprising spiritual unification in the religion of the masses which survives in folk-lore. They would thus date from more or less the same period, when the whole of Europe felt the influence of teachings which lasted two to three centuries at least, quite long enough to leave indelible traces. It is not to be denied that among these tales some may belong to an anterior period. The newer facts had in some cases been grafted on older ones. Some remnants of ancient myths had survived the first process of forcible Christianisation. But only there where ancient paganism can be shown to have flourished when this new wave of proselytism set in, only there might one be able to discover such traces. These are the local incidents, the local colouring, which give to each tale its own popular character without changing its substance. Such process of assimilation is akin to the other before mentioned, viz. the substitution of the European fauna for Asiatic or Indian animals. Though references to ancient Greek myths occur in these stories, yet in spite of that the Rumanian versions approximate more closely to the later Byzantine than the ancient classical forms. The transformation sets in practically where the Middle Ages part from antiquity. Here is yet another proof for the more recent phase of this popular literature. A grave danger threatens the scientific character of folk-lore, if a wrong method of investigation be persisted in much longer. I refer to the system of haphazard comparisons arising out of the view that everything done and every rite kept by the folk must of necessity be a survival from extreme antiquity and belong to a period anterior to our modern civilization--a fossil from the age of man's childhood embedded in layers of more recent date. For proof of this theory parallels are sought and found among primitive nations, or those who we believe have not yet left the rude stage of primitive culture. If, then, something is found among them which resembles closely or remotely any of the customs, tales, and beliefs, in our own midst, we are convinced that these customs, tales or beliefs are really remnants of an older stage, through which the modern nations have passed before they reached the present stage of development, and which they have cherished and kept unchanged throughout the ages. The history of comparative philology offers the best analogy for the demonstration of the futility of such reasoning. Nothing contributed so much to make the study of comparative philology a laughing-stock as this endeavour to build up theories of the origin of the language on such arbitrary foundations. How deceptive such haphazard similarities can be is best demonstrated by the endeavours to derive all the European languages from the Hebrew. This was believed to have been the original language which Adam spoke. Nothing more natural, then, than to trace all the languages back to the Hebrew, which moreover was a holy language. Much ingenuity and immense learning were spent--nay wasted--for centuries in this undertaking. The most trifling incident, the most superficial identity in sound or meaning was looked upon as complete evidence. It has taken close upon half a century to demolish this fabric of philological fallacy, and to place comparative philology on a sound basis. We know now that similarities in different languages may be the result of independent evolution. The similarities are often quite superficial. No one would, for example, compare a modern English word with an old Latin or Greek stem or with any archaic dialect of these languages, without showing the gradual development of our modern word. He would take it back step by step, and then compare the oldest English form with a contemporary form. Most of the European languages, as we now see, are derived from one common stock, more archaic than any of them. No one would now trace a French word directly to that old Indo-European root, without going first to the Latin; and so with every other language belonging to the same group. Each nation has put the seal of its own individuality on its language, which it has moulded and shaped according to its own physiological and psychical faculties. The one will have retained more primitive forms; for example, local and historical as well as ethnical continuity have kept the Italian much closer to the Latin than Spanish or Portuguese. No one dreams to-day of reducing a French word to a Hebrew root, despite any similarity of form which they might have in common. We can go now one step further and suggest a common origin for the Indo-European and Semitic groups of languages, a unity which lies beyond the time of their separation, and it is the dream and aim of comparative philology to attain this goal. Returning now to our science of folk-lore, we have a perfect analogy in the study of comparative philology briefly sketched above. The analogy is so complete that it is almost unnecessary to elaborate it in detail. It is obvious that safety and scholarship lie in the following line of investigation. A European group of folk-lore must first be established, and the dependence on an earlier common stock demonstrated. But the historical connection stands foremost, and the fixing, more or less definitely, of the time of its appearance in the form in which it now exists. In adopting this line of investigation, it will then become unscientific to postulate early survivals for elements that may date from a comparatively recent period, and for which an explanation can be found by this historical and comparative study. And just as it has happened in the case of the study of comparative philology, so it will happen that we shall be in a much better position to separate and to appreciate the individual character of the folk-lore of each nation, the form which the common stock assumes under the psychical and cultural conditions which characterise its spiritual life. This method will give us also the key to the ethno-psychology, the ultimate aim and goal of folk-lore studies. No doubt some higher unity may possibly emerge out of this historical investigation, for which again the study of comparative philology offers us the best parallel. Separate groups may be formed of European and Asiatic folk-lore. The artificial geographical division need not form the separating barrier either in folk-lore, or, as has been proved, in the study of language. But to continue the method of haphazard parallelism and indiscriminate comparison between old and new will be indefensible. It will be found that even in the so-called immutable East continual changes have taken place which do not allow us to assume favourable conditions of continuity and "survivals." Still less is this the case with the peoples who concern us more directly, the inhabitants of the south-eastern part of Europe. One has only to cast a glance at the medley of nationalities inhabiting the Balkan Peninsula and the neighbourhood to realise the profound differences of faith, origin and language of Greeks and Albanians, Slavs and Rumanians, Hungarians and Saxons, and one is forced to the conclusion that whatever these may possess in common is not a survival from olden times, but must have come to them at a time when they were all living together in that part of Europe, subject to one common influence strong enough to leave an indelible impression on their imagination. This result is unavoidable if we remember also the past history of these countries. They have been swept over by nations, one more barbarous than another, one more ruthless than another, and none remaining there long enough to become a decisive factor in the formation of the existing nationalities. Dacians and Pelasgians, Romans and Goths, Petchenegs and Cumans, Alans and Huns, Tartars and Hungarians, Bulgars, Slavs and Turks have succeeded one another with great rapidity, not to mention the numerous colonies of Armenians, Syrians and Gipsies planted in the heart of the Byzantine Empire by the foreign rulers on the throne of Byzantium. It would be a sheer miracle if anything of ancient times could have survived. Assuming even the theoretical possibility of such a miracle--and those who hold strongly to such a theory of unqualified survivals evidently do believe in such miracles--even then it will remain to be shown, with whom these ancient beliefs and tales originated and survived. The romantic legend may have, and practically has, been forgotten in its entirety. Out of one of the episodes have grown the popular Rumanian poems of the Wanderer. If folk-lore is to become an exact science I venture to think that the problem of survivals will have to undergo a serious re-examination. We shall have to revise our views and try to define more precisely the method according to which we ought to label certain practices, customs and tales as survivals, and also to determine the period to which such survivals may be ascribed. A primary condition consists in establishing historical continuity and ethnical unity. If nations of diverse origin and of different ages possess the same tales and practices, it follows that this common property cannot be a survival, but each must have received all these at a certain fixed date simultaneously, quite independent of their own ethnical or historical and local past. All of them must have been standing under one and the same levelling influence. This new influence may have brought with it some older elements belonging to different traditions and to a different past, and introduced them among these nations, as in the case of the Barlaam legend or that of the legend of St. George and the Dragon; but though locally accepted and assimilated they are not original constituent elements of the local folk-lore of these nations. These were only adopted and assimilated materials brought from elsewhere. They are not local survivals. The analogy between the study of folk-lore and that of comparative philology can be pursued profitably much further. It may prove of decisive importance. It is not an indifferent question as to whether language and ethnic character are interchangeable terms. Russified Tartars, Magyarised Rumanians, Anglicised Hindoos will speak Russian, Hungarian or English as the case may be, but this will not change their ethnical character. They will remain what they were: Tartars, Rumanians or Hindoos. Thus also nothing can be proved for the specific origins of folk-lore if found among any one of these nations; it may be just as much Tartar as Russian, Rumanian or Hungarian, etc., for it can easily have been taken over with the language. The fact that these tales are found in Rumania and are told by Rumanian peasants is in itself not yet sufficient proof of their indigenous origin. We are taken out of the region of hypothetical speculation into that of concrete facts by modern philology. In the first place, it is put on record, on the irrefutable evidence of the modern languages themselves, that there is no nation in Europe which speaks a language of its own so pure as to be free from admixture with foreign elements. All owe their very origin, in fact, to this clash of languages, which was the determining factor in their creation and form. English is typical in that respect in the west, and Rumanian in the east of Europe. Both languages have been born through the combined forces of at least two different languages. In England, through the violent Norman conquest, French was superimposed upon Anglo-Saxon. In Rumania, through peaceful penetration and religious influence, Slavonic became part of the Rumanian language. If, then, we should examine each of the European languages to find the various elements of which they are composed, we should be able to trace the origin of much that is also the spiritual property of these nations. Every word borrowed from another language represents a new idea, a fresh notion taken from elsewhere and embodied. We can study the history of nations from their vocabulary. We can trace the migrations of the Gipsies by the foreign words now in their language. The proportion of these alien elements helps us to determine the period which elapsed since they went from one nation to another. The large number of Rumanian words in the Gipsy language shows that the Gipsies must have lived a long time peaceably among the Rumanians, and the Rumanian words in all the dialects of the Gipsy, from Spain to Siberia, are conclusive evidence for the fact that Rumania was a centre of diffusion for the European Gipsy. And yet step by step one can follow up a modification; small at the confines of the Balkans, it grows greater the further it is carried westwards. The conclusion is obvious. In Rumanian, the language is preponderantly of a Latin origin, but other tongues come in to make up its present character. A comparatively large proportion of the popular language--which alone is of importance--is Slavonic; then follow in decreasing proportions Hungarian, modern Greek, Turkish and Albanian elements, but scarcely any trace of a more ancient local language. In the Hungarian language there is a large proportion of Slavonic, then of Rumanian and German elements. The other languages of the Balkans show a similar mixture of heterogeneous influences. So thorough has been this process of assimilation that the original Tartarian language of the Bulgars, who hailed from the Volga--hence their name--has entirely disappeared. The same has happened with the Cumans in Hungary. If there is anything tenacious it is undoubtedly the human language, the means of satisfying one's daily wants. And yet there is constant change and assimilation going on all the time, one nation borrows freely from its neighbour and enriches its own treasury with the possessions of the others. How easily, then, could a philologist of the eighteenth century, who wanted to compare these languages among themselves, by collecting similar words haphazard prove that Rumanian was Turkish, that Hungarian was Slavonic and that Bulgarian was Greek, or on finding some Albanian words in Rumanian and Bulgarian how easily could he declare these languages to be survivals of the ancient mythical Pelasgians with whom the Albanians were connected. Thanks to our modern comparative science these languages are placed on their proper basis, and the words and elements are sifted and separated from one another. Each one by the form in which it appears in the other languages yields to the scholar the secret of the time when it was adopted. Having got thus far, we may now apply these results to the question which is before us, viz. the origin of these tales and apologues. It is obvious that where new words went, stories could also go, and very likely did go. It is clear that the presence of a large number of foreign elements in the language denotes a peaceful intercourse between these nations, long enough and intimate enough to make them borrow freely from one another and to become fixed into one spiritual unity. If a language contains a large number of foreign elements, no one can deny the direct influence which the latter has exercised upon the former. Words, then, are not a mere combination of sounds, they are the outward expression of the mind. They are the materialised spirit of the nation, and whither they go that spirit also goes. Spirit communes thus with spirit. There is and there has always been such a give and take. And it is for us to follow up this constant barter, in which the richer unhesitatingly parted with their treasures to the poor, for the more they gave the more was left with them, as is meet in the charmed realm of folk-lore. These nations learn from one another not only words, but the thoughts and ideas expressed in words. The proportion of these linguistic elements in the vocabulary connotes the proportion of influence upon the other people. It must not be forgotten that we are dealing with illiterate nations, and with "oral" literature. It takes less time and it requires less influence to disseminate a tale than to disseminate a language and cause it to be acquired. The difficulty of borrowing is thus obviously eliminated. We have the fact that even the language had been borrowed and thoroughly assimilated. No archaic linguistic element has been found in these languages. And it is therefore not possible to postulate for the tales and apologues survivals of such antiquity as is now so often assumed. Two more points stand out clearly from this investigation into the history of the language: First, the existence of numerous layers in the modern languages, some elements being older, others of a more recent origin. There is no uniformity either in language or in literature, no contemporary unity of all the elements, but as far as can be seen none are very old, except a few stray elements of an older period which may have survived, always subject to the two fundamental conditions, ethnical and geographical continuity. The second point is the principle of concentric investigation. If tales and apologues are borrowed, then those nearest the centre will preserve the original form less changed; and the further a tale travels--always by word of mouth--the more it will lose of its original character and the more it will become mixed up and contaminated with other tales which have undergone a similar emaciating and attenuating process. Following up, then, this line of investigation, our first endeavour is to find out whether there are parallels to these Rumanian animal tales among the nations round about, and if so, how far they agree with the Rumanian, and how far they differ. The fact itself that parallels exist would be an additional proof that we are dealing here with matter introduced from elsewhere, matter that has been transmitted from nation to nation and possibly may have also reached the west of Europe, although very few traces have been preserved to this day. This is not yet a question of origin, but the next step towards the solution of the problem. For obviously, if these tales had been imported, their origin must be sought elsewhere. If we then compare Rumanian tales with those of the ancient Byzantine Empire and especially with those of the modern Greeks, then, in our case, it might be argued that the Greeks were the repositories of ancient folk-lore. The logical conclusion would be that these tales must be found most profusely and in a more archaic form in the folk-lore of modern Greece, and that the variants and parallels among the other nations must show a distinct falling away from the original types. Literary tradition or written folk-lore is, of course, excluded from this investigation, for once folk-lore becomes fixed by being written in a book it is no longer subject to any appreciable change. We are dealing here exclusively with the oral folk-lore of illiterate peoples. The relation between written and oral folk-lore and the mutual influence of one upon another will be incidentally touched upon in connection with the tales themselves. But, curiously enough, a comparison of these stories with the known and published tales of modern Greece is thoroughly disappointing. Only very few bird tales--no insect or beast tales--seem to have been preserved, and these mostly in Macedonia, the population of which is overwhelmingly Slavonic, but scarcely any from among the Greeks proper inhabiting European Greece. On the other hand, those few tales, which have been mentioned by Abbott and Hahn, are very significant. They show the profound difference which separates these modern bird tales from the "Metamorphoses" known in ancient Greek mythology. A goodly number of changes into animals are recorded in ancient Greek literature.--The story of Philomela and Halcyon is sufficiently well known.--All these are, with perhaps a few exceptions, the results of the wrath of an offended god, rewards for acts of personal kindness or for steps taken to assuage physical pain. They are all strictly individual in character, and while none of them is intended to explain the origin of bird, beast or insect, still less are they of the "creation" type, in which each animal stands as the beginning of its species. And even in those few tales in which supernatural beings are mentioned, very little of the "Moirai" or goddesses of fate appears in the Greek form, though the belief in them is now very strong among modern Greeks. Even then these "Moirai" differ considerably from those of ancient Greek mythology. Their attributes differ and their appearance and shape have nothing in common with those of classical antiquity. The name also has assumed a peculiar significance, different from that of ancient times. This, then, is all which the modern Greeks have retained of the ancient goddesses of fate; none of the other neighbouring nations knows the "Moirai" by name. They have other goddesses of fate, Vilas or Zanas, etc. Charon, who is now the angel of death among modern Greeks, is remembered by them also as the boatman who carries the souls over the waters of forgetfulness. The boatman alone may still be found in one tale or another retaining something of the Greek local colour. But no other direct parallels are found among the animal tales of modern Greece. Much greater, on the contrary, is the approximation with the Slavonic nations south and north of Rumania. Turning, then, from the Greek to the Slavonic tales, we shall find a much larger number of parallels between them and the Rumanian. In the collection of South Slavonic tales and fables published by Krauss only one or two real "creation" tales are found, and others are pure and simple animal tales of the type of the "Gnat and the Lion," "The Wedding Feast of Tom," etc., agreeing more or less with the Rumanian versions. They prove thereby the popular character of the Rumanian tales; yet they differ sufficiently from them--as is shown later on,--when they are quoted in connection with the above. One of the creation stories is that of the sheep which, according to the South Slavonic tale, was made by the Evil One, when he boasted that he could improve on God's creation. Incidentally I may mention the collection of tales from the Saxon colony in Transylvania, collected by Haltrich. There is not one single "creation" tale among them. Only two of the Rumanian animal fables find their parallels in that collection. Turning to the Russian tales, notably the great collection of Afanasiev, we shall find a large number of animal tales, including also a number of "creation" tales. In the former the central figures are, as in the South Slavonic, Rumanian, Saxon, etc., the fox, the bear, the wolf, the hedgehog and sometimes domestic animals, the dog, the cock, the hen, the duck, etc. The same can be said also of tales collected from the Lithuanians, Letts and Ruthenians, and to a smaller degree of those from the Poles and Czechs. All, however, have retained definite traces of such animal tales and legends. The animal character has been thoroughly preserved. The fox is generally the "clever" animal, but is, as often as not, outwitted by smaller animals or by man. The general trend of these animal tales is to pit the cunning of the smaller and weaker against that of the more powerful animal and to secure the victory for the former. It is so natural for the people, who live under the despotism of the mighty and powerful, to rejoice in seeing the discomfiture of the great and stupid brought about by the wit and cunning of the small and despised, and answers so aptly to their feelings. In these tales, which belong to the group of animal fables, we are in a different atmosphere, far removed from that of the creation legend. We are approaching that phase in the evolution in which the animal stands for a disguised human being, which, in spite of its appellation, speaks and acts entirely in accordance with human ways and notions. These have not yet been found among the Rumanians and those nations whose folk-lore shows close affinity with theirs. Having thus far established that these animal tales, fables and creation legends are neither of a local nor an indigenous origin, nor survivals from a remote past, and also that the Rumanian tales do not stand isolated, but form part of a group of tales and legends common to most of the nations surrounding Rumania in a more or less complete degree, it behoves us to endeavour to trace these tales to their probable origin, and also to account for the shape which they have assumed, as shown in the course of this investigation. These tales among the Eastern nations of Europe are so much akin to one another that they must have reached these nations almost simultaneously. All must have stood under the same influence, which must have been powerful and lasting enough to leave such indelible traces in the belief and in the imagination of the people. A great difficulty arises, when we attempt to define the influence which brought these stories and fables to the nations of the near East and thence to the West. Some have connected them with the invasion of the Mongols. If similar tales could be found among them, such a date might fit also the introduction of the animal tales into Eastern Europe, especially if they had originally a Buddhist background. Nothing, in fact, could apparently harmonise better with the Buddhist teaching of Metempsychosis and the principle of man's transformation into beast in order to expiate for sins committed than some of these tales.--Of course, Egyptian influences cannot be overlooked in this connection. I may refer to them later on.--The burden of the majority is indeed that the birds and insects are, in fact, nothing else than human beings transformed into ungainly shapes for some wrong which they have done. Many theories have been put forward on the mediation, among them also the theory of transmission by the Gipsies. These came first to Thrace, and lived long enough among the nations of the Balkans, in Rumania and Russia, to have exercised a possible influence upon them. But this theory can be dismissed briefly. The Gipsies are not likely carriers of folk-tales. They came too late, and their march through Europe is nothing if not a long-drawn agony of suspicion, hatred, persecution. Some occult practices may have been taken over by some adepts of the lower forms of magic, and possibly Playing Cards, originally an oracle of divining the future, may have been brought by the Gipsies to Europe, but popular tales, though they possess a good number, have certainly not been communicated to Europe by them. They never had the favourable occasion for meeting the people on a footing of equality, or of entering with them into any intimate intercourse. The Gipsy of the Rumanian fairy tale is mostly a villain, and is merely the local substitute for the Arab or Negro of the Eastern parallels. In the Rumanian popular jests the Gipsy is always the fool. From such as these the people would have nothing to learn. Next the Mongolian theory has long been put forward as a plausible explanation, for it has been believed that Russia formed one of the channels of transmission. This latter assumption, however, rests on a geographical misconception, and also on a want of historical knowledge. Up to comparatively modern times, the whole of the South of Russia was inhabited by Tartars, and the Mongolian influence upon Russia could not pass the border of the so-called White Russia. Nor can a temporary invasion of Europe by the Mongolians, who left ruin and desolation behind them, have been the means by which such tales could be introduced. They are told at the peaceful fireside or in the spinning-rooms, and are not carried by the wings of the arrow sped from the enemy's bow, nor are they accepted if presented on the point of the sword. They are frightened away by the din of battle. Years must pass ere the blood is staunched, the wounds healed, and only after peaceable concord and social harmony have been established, can a spiritual interchange take place; this was impossible between Russians or Mongols. We must look elsewhere, then, for a possible channel of transmission, always subject to the theory of "migration." Besides, to Kieff, the centre of Russian inspiration, the place hallowed by the minstrels and poets, the Mongols never came. The only influence which prevailed there was that of Byzance, and to that we shall have to look as the channel of transmission and the centre of dissemination of these tales and legends. These had come from Asia, carried on the crest of the wave of that religious movement known as Manichaeism and Bogomilism, and from there they started their triumphant course throughout Europe. They came along with other religious legends, carried by the current of thought which also taught the doctrine of Dualism and Metempsychosis. This is the only possible source for most of the legends and tales found among the Rumanians and Slavs, and, as will be seen, it must have been the primary source for such tales in the West of Europe. A dualistic heterodox teaching with such a background reached from the confines of India far into the South of France across central Europe. It was probably the same agency which transformed the life of Buddha into the legends of the saints Barlaam and Josaphat. Nor is this the only legend invented, manipulated and circulated by the numerous Gnostic sects. Those who have studied the history of the apocryphal literature are fully aware of the apocryphal Gospels, Acts of the Apostles and of the rest of the apocryphal tales which were already put on the "Index," in the first centuries of the common era. Some of the cosmogonic tales of the dualistic origin of the world, of the influence of the Evil Spirit, of the origin of the Bee, the Glow-worm, the Wolf and others show unmistakably such a Gnostic origin. It is therefore not too much to assume that they have been brought to Europe and disseminated by the same agency. These sectaries alone came into direct contact with the masses of the people. They preached their doctrines to the lowly and the poor. They were known themselves as the pure (Cathars) and the poor (Pobres). They alone reached the heart of the people, and were able to influence them to a far higher degree than the murderous Mongols, or other nations that ravaged the country. The dualistic tales connected with the story of the Creation are found also among other nations, especially among those in Russia and in the countries which belonged to the ancient Persian Empire. Dähnhardt, who has made the investigation of such legends and tales the object of special study (Natursagen, i.; Berlin 1907), comes to the same conclusion that they rest ultimately on the Iranian dualism of the Avesta. He believes that Zoroastrian teaching has penetrated far into the North and West, and has produced these peculiar dualistic cosmogonic legends. The point to bear in mind in this investigation of the origin of the Rumanian tales and legends is not so much to trace the remote possible source of dualism, but the immediate influences which have been brought to bear upon the shape which these legends have taken. This is the salient problem. Dähnhardt, of course, discusses the further development of the dualistic conception, through Manichaeism and Bogomilism, and thus far is helpful in establishing the connection between Iran and Thrace, and in strengthening the argument that we must trace a number of these "creation" legends to the propaganda of these sects. It must be remembered that these tales in the European versions have a thoroughly Christian aspect. They presuppose the existence of God and His saints; nay, they show a close acquaintance with apocryphal narratives, which have gathered round the canonical biblical stories and episodes. The Evil Spirit is a clearly-defined personality, and his antagonism to God is not of the pronounced acute controversial type as is the Angromainya who, in the teaching of the Avesta, is the direct opponent and almost negative of God. A complete transformation had taken place ere these tales became the property of the Rumanian peasants, and for that, also, of the Russian and other North-Eastern peoples, who also have similar tales akin to certain of the cosmogonic legends--to which reference will be made at the proper place in the short notes to the stories themselves. It will not be disputed that some of them are imported, i.e. belong to the circulating stock of popular literature. Mongolian influence--as already remarked above--is entirely excluded, in spite of Dähnhardt. The Mongols never came in direct contact either with the Rumanians or with the nations of the Balkans, who also possess a number of similar tales, and must have derived them from another source, more direct and, as will be seen, more complete than the versions published by Dähnhardt from Russia, Lithuania, Finland and Esthonia, not to speak of Northern Asiatic nations. Of real animal tales there are only a few among those studied by Dähnhardt, such as a peculiar version of "the Bee and Creation," very much shorter than the Rumanian version; then a version of the creation of the Wolf and the Lamb, and of the Goat's knees. These are all taken by Dähnhardt from South-Slavonic and Albanian collections, again corroborating the view that we have to look to the Balkans as the immediate centre of this class of "creation" tales, and then further back to Asia Minor. The appearance of the "Creation" legends in a compilation of the seventh or eighth century is not to be taken as the date of their origin. They may be very much older, and no doubt are, and may have formed part of a primitive Physiologus in which the origin as well as the peculiarities of the various birds and beasts were described. This is not the place to discuss the remarkable history of the Physiologus. The only point to be noted is that the symbolical and allegorical interpretation of the tales contained in the Physiologus is of a strictly religious Christian character. The absence from the popular literature of such bird and beast tales as are found in the Physiologus--the Bestiaires of the West--is not surprising, for the Physiologus deals mostly with animals and birds which are of an outlandish character. Very few have any reference to the animals with which the people are familiar, and in which alone they take an interest. Though the book was known also among the Rumanians, only a faint trace of it could be detected among the popular tales in the present collection. The oldest Fathers of the Church made use of this Physiologus in their homilies, and the other sects have no doubt done the same. Some of the creation legends may have found their way into the old legendary homiletical interpretation of the creation, like the Hexameron of Basil, and other kindred compilations. All these tales form part of a wider cycle of allegorised animal fables. In Jewish literature a collection of Fox fables is mentioned as early as the second or third century. Indian literature is full of such animal tales, approximating often to some of the Rumanian fables. The collections of Frere, Temple, Steele, Skeat, and Parker abound in such animal tales, in which the more nimble and quick-witted, though small and weak, animal regularly gets the best of the bigger and stronger, yet duller and slower rival. No moral lesson is squeezed out of the tales, and the animal is not a thinly-disguised human being. Yet there can be no greater fallacy than, guided by this similarity, to assume a direct Indian origin for the Rumanian fables. None of these animal tales finish with the usual "moral," known to us from Aesop onward. Nor do the people seem to be influenced by these artificial fables. In the literary European fable the animal is merely a disguised human being. The animals are performing acts which have nothing of the animal in them. The Indian and Oriental fable differs in this respect from the European, inasmuch as in a good number of them the animal character of the performing beasts is faithfully preserved. Exactly the same happens with the Rumanian animal fables. The cat does not play the rôle of the queen, and the fox is not a sly courtier. Cat is cat, and fox is fox. And yet they were not unaware of the fables of Aesop. I have found these fables in many old Rumanian manuscripts, and one of the first printed popular books of the country was the Collection of Aesop. Unquestionably a good many proverbs are intimately connected with tales. The "moral" in Aesop has often dwindled down to a simple proverb, or has expanded out of it. These proverbs are, as it were, succinct conclusions drawn out by the people. Anton Pann (in the middle of the last century)--to whom the Rumanian popular literature will for ever remain indebted--therefore calls his Collection of Proverbs and Tales "Povestea vorbii," i.e. "The tale which hangs by the Proverb." One and all of the hundred tales found in the second and last edition of this book are mostly of a purely popular origin. The process throughout is not to invent a story for the moral, but the "moral," such as it is, is to flow naturally from the story. This is not the place to discuss the origin of the animal fable in general. But one cannot overlook the fact that all the Indian fables--with the exception of some embodied in the Panchatantra--are found in modern collections. All that we know of them is that they live actually in the mouth of the modern people. They may be old, they may be of more recent date. Against these modern collections must be set now the story of Ahikar, which carries us back at least to the fifth century B.C., and is thus far the oldest record of animal tales. It has become one of the popular stories which circulated in a written form, and became the source of many a quaint proverb, as probably also of some animal tales. The recent discovery among the Papyri of Elephantine in Southern Egypt of the Story of Ahikar has carried back the knowledge of allegorical beast fables to at least the fifth century B.C. For not only do we find in that story the prototype of the life of Aesop, but also a number of maxims and saws, and not a few beast tales, which are mentioned by Ahikar in order to teach his ungrateful nephew Nadan. We find there, e.g. the prototype of "pious" wolf, who appears in the Ahikar story as an innocent student, but who cannot take in the lesson given to him, his mind wandering to the sheep. There are other wolf, fox, rat and bird fables in the Rumanian and, still more so, in the Oriental and other versions. Ahikar himself relates the beast tales, allowing Nadan to draw the lesson. By the manner in which these tales are referred to, it is obvious that they must have been well known tales current among the people. The real importance of this discovery lies in the fact that we have here a number of cleverly-used popular animal tales, more than two thousand years old, whose home was in all probability Syria or Egypt, embedded in a collection which has deeply influenced the apocryphal Book of Tobit, and to a certain degree even the writers of the New Testament, as shown by Professors Rendel Harris and Conybeare in the Introduction to their edition of the Story of Ahikar (second edition). The claim for an Indian origin of these fables will have to be abandoned, unless someone could show older writings from India, and the possible road by which these fables could have reached the Western shore of Asia Minor and been taken up by the peoples of Syria and Egypt at such an early date. It is not at all unlikely that some of the fables, just as they travelled westwards, also travelled eastwards and found a home in India as they found a home in Rumania and Russia. If one remembers now that the fabulous "Life" of Aesop ascribed to Planudes is almost identical with part of that of Ahikar, as I have shown, as far back as 1883 in my History of the Rumanian Popular Literature (Bucharest 1883, p. 104 ff.), it will not be difficult to account for the West-Asiatic origin of the fables themselves. From a Rumanian MS. of the eighteenth century, I have since published the fuller narrative of that version in an English translation (the Journal of the Royal As. Soc., 1900, pp. 301-319). The two tales contained therein have also been reprinted here at the end of the collection, especially as they vary somewhat from the other ancient and mediæval recensions of the Story of Ahikar. This story has become one of the Rumanian popular chap-books in the shortened version of Anton Pann. The practical application of the fable, the "moralisation," is a second stage, limited, as it seems, to the purely literary composition. The people put their own interpretations upon the fables and often dispensed with any such interpretations. We are brought back again to the same centre, Syria and Byzance, for the dissemination of these fables. Such tales were then within the reach of the teaching of the various sects, such as Manichaeans, Bogomils, Cathars, etc., and travelled with them from East to West, where they met the other current of the Aesopian fables transmitted to the West through Latin and Arabic sources. According to this theory the religious sectarians made deft use also of animal tales, for the purpose of inculcating a moral, of drawing a lesson, of holding up the Church and State to the ridicule and contempt of the masses, and thus creating the animal satire, the best type of which is the cycle of Reynard the Fox. I am not oblivious of the fact that an allegorical use has been made of animal tales in the Arabic literature, such as the "Judgment of the Animals," under the title of Hai ben Yokdhan, written in Arabic by Ibn Tophail, translated into English by Simon Ockley in 1711, in which the lion holds a court, and animal after animal appears to accuse man; or the collection of Sahula (thirteenth cent.) in his ancient apologue Mashal ha-kadmoni. But there is no real connection between this cycle and that of Reynard the Fox. Any reference to the epic of Reynard the Fox must be incidental. It can only be alluded to here, and not followed up in detail. A real Western origin for these tales, taking them separately or as "branches," as they appear in the old French versions, has not been found, nor any explanation for their sudden appearance in the eleventh or twelfth century. There are two or three points in connection with this cycle which have to be kept steadily in view. In the first place its almost complete independence of the purely Aesopian fable with its polished form, with its thinly-disguised human attributes, and with its stilted and stiff "moral." Though modified somehow in Babrius, Avianus, even Marie de France and Berachya, this latter cycle belongs more to the literary class. The "clerks" could not take umbrage at them. Not so the tales in the Reynard cycle. They are thoroughly popular. The animals retain their natural attributes, they act as they are expected to do, and they are utilised in the same manner as "political broadsides" were in later times. The human beings represented in these "satirical sheets" are disguised as animals, and not the animals disguised as human beings. There lies the profound difference between these two sets of beast tales. And because of their animal propensity, the human beings are ridiculed and lampooned in the form of animals and held up to the scorn and laughter of the reader. The bad man, as in the old story of Ahikar, is likened to the beast, and chastised accordingly. The popular origin and character of this kind of satire is self-evident. Courtiers and clerks would not attempt such persiflage of their superiors, and certainly not in so sustained a manner. Of the men thus ridiculed none are so virulently assailed as the Clergy. People do not mind occasionally a slight skit on priests and other privileged classes, and there are abundant fabliaux which leave very little to be desired from the point of view of ridicule. But to have singled out the Clergy for such unmeasured vituperation shows a deliberate attempt to lower and destroy the influence and authority of the Church in general and of its ministers in particular. Only partisans of heterodox teaching could find pleasure and profit in applying the beast tales to break down the walls of the Church. Only men in contact with the masses could throw that leaven of critical examination into the hearts of the people and open their eyes by means of animal tales to the weaknesses and vices of their official clergy. Such outspoken criticism seldom comes from within. It is often imported wholesale from without, or at least comes from an opposing quarter. In their polemical propaganda these heterodox teachers brought and used also some of those fox tales for which, significantly enough, parallels are to be found mostly in Slavonic tales from Russia and the Balkans. If such be the partial origin of these Reynard tales, one can easily understand why they appeared in the eleventh or twelfth century, and notably in the countries then the very centres of such heterodox teaching: South of France, Flanders and elsewhere. A very remarkable fact seems to corroborate this hypothesis. One of the presumed authors of a "branch" of the French Reynard cycle, Pierre Cloot, was burnt in Paris in 1208 for heresy. Here we have a man who paid with his life for his heretic faith, actually working on these tales. It may be a mere coincidence, still some connection between the Reynard poem and "heretics" cannot be denied. With the victory of the Church, Reynard nearly disappeared, yet that satirical leaven has continued to work in those political animal broadsides, which stretch from the "Who killed Cock Robin?" in England to "Who killed the Cat?" in Russia among the Russian broadsides. There remains now still one section of these Rumanian tales to be considered, that in which the origin of the animal is closely connected with what is commonly known as the fairy tale. It is just in this fact that the pre-eminence of these tales can be found. It is like a window through which the East is looking westwards. It is noteworthy that the "fairy tales" found here connected with the origin of the birds and beasts do not stand so isolated as the legends. To more than one of them parallels may be adduced from other than Eastern collections. In spite of similarity, they differ, however, in many points so profoundly that they lead to a very serious question. It cannot be passed over, though it cannot be treated here at such length as the problem raised would demand. To put it briefly, the difference between these fairy tales and those of the West, is that in these versions of the former a "moral" or perhaps a plausible reason is given to the fairy tale which is often missing in the general form of the fairy tales. The question has been asked repeatedly, "What is the meaning of such and such a tale," e.g. the "Cinderella" tales or "Bluebeard"? To Miss Cox's indefatigable labour we owe a monumental investigation of the first-mentioned tale, and yet for all that the main question has remained unanswered. This is but one example out of many. Every collection of fairy tales teems with them. Of course, the æsthetic pleasure of seeing innocence triumphant and virtue rewarded might be a sufficient motive, and no doubt often is. The people like to see, in the imaginary tale, a vindication of the justice which they often miss in real life. The adventurous hero will also appeal to the chivalrous instincts of the people, and especially to the young. Such tales as the epic romances of old require no further explanation. Still there are a good many fairy tales the reason and meaning of which are anything but clear. If it can now be shown that there is a cosmogonic background, or one which gives the clue to it, inasmuch as it tells the "origin" of certain creatures, such a tale is at once its own explanation and justification: if e.g. the final development of "Cinderella" is not that she becomes the wife of a prince, but that she becomes the "dove" or the "sparrow," then "Cinderella" assumes a definite meaning. Under other influences, when such heterodox teachings cannot be tolerated by the powers that be, obviously the creation tales, with this specific character, had to lose their "tail," as the stork does in the story, and hence the fairy tale became partly meaningless. Thus, if the "Bluebeard" could no longer be "a cannibal," as in the tale No. 83, such a person not being tolerated in a modern state, except as a wizard, lycanthropos, or werwolf, he had to be changed into what he is now. The modern "Bluebeard" is a mere pale reflex of the original monster. He does not even make the flesh creep sufficiently. This watering down may have taken place also in other tales which appear to us without any sense. They have lost that decisive part which gave point to the story. I am fully aware of the objection which could be raised against this view of the original character of some of our fairy tales. It might be urged with some show of plausibility that the process might have been an inverse one, that the popular story-teller used a fairy tale to tack on his moral, that the question of the origin of the bird or insect was an "after-thought," and did not belong originally to the tale. Theoretically, such an objection could be urged, and it might even gain in force if applied to the fairy tales of the West. Andersen, not to speak of minor poets, would supply a proof of it. But we must bear in mind that we are dealing with the unsophisticated people, who would not use the folk-lore material in the manner of the literary artist. They have no preconceived idea to which a tale or legend is made artificially to fit. Moreover, these tales and legends are believed in implicitly. They bear the stamp of their primitiveness. They do not represent a later degree of development, such as the parallels from the West often show. The existence side by side with them of other creation tales of animals is an additional support of the view that the fairy tales have not been "edited" or adapted to cosmogonic purposes to explain the origin of beast and bird. Fairy tales are, as a rule, taken out of the range of the survival theory. The similarity of fairy tales, so striking among a large number of nations, precludes the possibility of seeing in them local survivals, and yet it appears unscientific to separate one section of oral literature from the other. The line of demarcation between creation legend and creation fairy tale is so thin that it is often indistinguishable. Both spring from the same root, and the theory that endeavours to explain the origin of the one must also be applicable to the other. In the theory of survivals, however, no attempt is made to deal at the same time with the question of origins. It has not yet been made clear, by any of the more prominent representatives of the theory of survivals, how the similarity in customs and ceremonies is to be explained, in tales and fables, between the most diverse nations living separated from one another. If these survivals represent local tradition, which has persisted throughout the ages, how, then, does it come to pass that they should resemble so closely other ceremonies and customs observed by different nations also as local traditions? Is it to be inferred that at some distant time, far back in the prehistoric ages, some such ceremonies were used, that, in spite of evolution and separation, they have survived everywhere almost unchanged, in spite of the profound modifications of the nations in their ethnical, political and religious status? Either they are local inventions, in which case they could not resemble any other, or they all go back to one common stock, and have survived in such a miraculous manner contrary to every law of human nature. The only explanation feasible and satisfactory is, I believe, the theory of transmission from nation to nation; those resembling one another closely in modern Europe are not of so early an age as has hitherto been assumed, but have come at a certain time from one definite centre, and were propagated among the nations, and disseminated by means of a great religious movement at a time when the political and national consolidation of the peoples of Europe had already assumed a definite shape. To this conclusion we are forced by the examination of these Rumanian animal tales in their manifold aspect, "creation" tales, fables, fairy tales. They are all more or less of comparatively recent origin. They owe their actual shape to the dualistic teaching of the Manichaeans and Bogomils. They have come by these intermediaries of the religious sects from Syria and the Balkans. These tales stopped first among the nations in the Near East, and then by the same agency were carried to the extreme West. Only in such wise can we explain the appearance of these tales--whatever their archaic character may be--among nations of comparatively recent origin like those now under consideration, Rumanians, Bulgars, Russians and even Saxons and Hungarians. This is the only possible explanation of the very remarkable dualistic character, and of the peculiar teachings embodied in these tales. For, whatever these nations have in common, there cannot be any question of survivals, for the reasons advanced above. All the nations are comparatively modern. It is impossible to assume that what might be a Latin survival among the Rumanians could be so closely connected with what might be a Turanian survival among the Bulgars or a Pelasgian survival among the Albanians. There might be found among these tales traces of more ancient beliefs, myths and customs, just as it is possible to find similar traces among the folk-lore of the nations of the West. But what I contend is that these are not local survivals--that, whatever their primitive character may be, they need not originally belong to the nations among whom they are found now. They were brought by the same movement that brought the tales and legends, customs and ceremonies. The new and the old were carried along by the same stream of tradition and religious influence. An adjustment and readjustment of materials, the placing of layer upon layer, localisation and assimilation then took place. But these are rocks swept along by the stream and deposited far away from the place of origin, or, to take another simile, that of the insect and the amber. The amber has been carried from the North Sea many centuries ago, nay, thousands of years ago, along the trade routes from North to South, and has found its way also to ancient Egypt. Embedded in the amber we have here and there a North European insect which was caught at the time when the amber was still a liquid, and, imprisoned in it, became fossilised, and was carried a long distance. If found, then, among the beads in the tombs of the ancient Pharaohs, no one could say that that insect was of Egyptian origin, or that fly a remnant of the local fauna. It had come thither together with the amber that carried it, and may have remained there if the amber had decayed. In the same manner ancient customs, ancient beliefs and ancient tradition have been caught in the liquid tales, apologues and legends, like the fly in the amber, and carried along with them from East to West. In this manner they may perhaps be termed survivals, but survivals of a different kind than has been assumed hitherto. They have survived only as long as they were tolerated in the lore of the people. Hand in hand with dissemination go the assimilation and localisation of these diverse elements. It is impossible to do more within the compass of this introduction than merely touch the fringe of a far-reaching problem which arises from the examination of these peculiar beast and bird tales. One of the most instructive examples of this religious syncretism, of the manner in which it has influenced the people, and the form in which it has been preserved, localised, and assimilated, among them, is shown to advantage in the stories of the origin of the Glow-worm and in the stories of the Bee. Some of the cosmogonic legends of the Rumanians are also found among the Balkan people. They are a fragmentary reflex of a great conception of the world. If I may use the mystical and symbolical language of the legends, they are also sparks from a great light that had fallen down from heaven. The creation of man, the fall of the angels, are here curiously blended together. They represent part of the teaching that went under many names but, in essence, was one. That is, of course, the belief in the dualism of the creative powers, the good God and the wicked one, styled Satan. From these tales and legends, which are derived from well-known apocryphal writings, we can see how deeply the latter have entered the life of nations which have not yet fallen under the unifying sway of strict dogmatism, and how unable the people are to grasp the higher spiritual interpretations of the dogmas and practices of the Church. From a purely dogmatic point of view, all these tales are rank heresy; but who among the simple folk knows the distinction between orthodox and heretical teaching? The people are more easily disposed towards a simple philosophy which explains satisfactorily the phenomena of life. They listen with pleasure to tales of imagination. One of the fundamental theories of Gnosticism or, rather later, of dualism, is this peculiar conception of the creation. The world is divided between the power of light and the power of darkness. The latter is anxious to participate in the possession of light, and for that reason steals some, which it breaks up into sparks and covers over with thick matter so that it may not escape. These sparks are the human soul deeply embedded in human clay, anxious always to be reunited with the ancient glory. In this Gnostic teaching we have the very source of the legend of these angelic sparks now relegated to glow-worms, originally placed in other "earthly worms"--the human race. We hear, moreover, the faint echo of the fall of the angels and of the angels of a lower rank inhabiting (and ruling) the planets and the stars. We even have the legend, found in the Book of Enoch, of the angels who fell in love with a woman and remain upon earth as evil spirits, whilst she is translated to heaven and becomes a star. The interest lies not only in the fact that these ancient religious conceptions have been so faithfully preserved among the people, but also in the manner of their preservation. They have been adapted to the understanding of the folk, and, from dogmatic teachings, they have become beautiful popular legends. But the inner meaning has been entirely lost. The old sparks have been embedded in very thick clay indeed, as can be seen in the treatment meted out to God, Christ, the Virgin, the Apostles and Saints. They are greeted with an apparent lack of reverence and respect that must disturb the equanimity of people of a Puritanic mind. The gods could not have been put on a footing of greater familiarity; it almost borders on the burlesque. Primitive nations show the same apparent want of respect to their gods, idols or fetishes, and we are inclined to put them on a lower scale of faith and reverence than the peoples of Europe. A better knowledge of the life and religion of the peoples in the East and of the Eastern part of Europe would soon change such a view. In fact, I believe, that if we could descend to the lower depths of the masses of Western Europe, and especially of those in Catholic countries, and get a peep into their innermost soul, we should not find it very different from that of the Slav and the Rumanian. The Saints are not treated differently in Spain and in Italy on the one hand, or in Rumania and in Bulgaria, or even Russia, on the other. They have all the same essential conditions in common, viz. all have a Pantheon of Saints of various degrees and of both sexes. In Protestant countries the people have been impoverished. All the saints have been driven away; a cold abstract spirituality has taken their place, and yet depth of fervour and strength of belief cannot be denied to these Eastern peoples. There is, moreover, a sufficient fund of humour and innate rectitude to keep them at a certain level of morality and albeit free from the hypocrisy of the so-called higher civilization. So that, if the Rumanians take liberties with God and the Church and the Saints, and pay homage to the Devil by mocking and laughing at the jokes which God performs for his confusion, it is all done more in the spirit of good-natured banter, not in that of polemical or fanatical intolerance. Why should the poor Devil not also occasionally have a good time? He is always sure to be outwitted in the long run. I am fully aware of the objection that may be raised against attributing so much influence to the activity and propaganda of the heretical sects. It may be argued, that their influence was not in any way commensurate with the results ascribed to them, that they did not carry the masses with them to such an extent as to leave indelible traces on their religious life and popular imagery. Some may go so far as to look upon their activity as similar to that of some of the mendicant friars during the Middle Ages. Yet the mendicant friars were able to exercise a tremendous influence upon the people and, helped by other political powers, they were able to create a movement which led up to the Crusades. It seized upon the masses of Europe with an irresistible force. In a minor, yet no less effective manner, the same agencies were able to arm the Kings of France against the Albigenses in Provence. Church history, however, shows very clearly that the power of the Manichaeans was so great that it has taken the Church many centuries to bring the fight to a satisfactory close.--The Cathars (pure) have given the name Ketzer to the German heretics, and every language in Europe shows traces of this heretic nomenclature.--The struggle was a terrible and a long one, and if it had not been for the secular arm which placed itself at the service of the Church for political reasons, who knows whether the Romish Church would have come out victorious in the struggle? The question may be asked, How did it come about, that the teaching of an obscure sect could be propagated from the Black Sea to the Atlantic and could win the support of so many peoples? The answer lies in a fact which has hitherto been entirely ignored. The connection between Arianism and Manichaeism in Europe has to my mind not yet been even hinted at; yet there must have been a very close and intimate one. Arianism, in fact, prepared the ground for the new wave of heretical teaching which, a few centuries after the former's official extinction, followed in its wake. No one has, as yet, endeavoured to trace the effect which the Arian teaching has had in Europe when it became the national faith of the Goths. In them we have a nation which, from the third century to the end of the sixth, practically dominated central Europe. It established more than one kingdom between the Black Sea and the Atlantic, in Illyricum, in Northern Italy, one of might and strength in the South of France in Provence, with its headquarters in Toulouse. It had overflowed into Spain, and broke down only after the invasion of the Arabs. These Goths are described as rude barbarians, because they differed in their life, and probably in their original forms of faith, from the Greeks and the Romans. The modern idea is that their original home was somewhere in the North-West of Europe, that they came along the Vistula, and then migrated to the country between the Don and the Ural. This is not the place to discuss the question of their original home, yet the whole history of the migration of the nations shows that the movement came also from the same direction as that of the other nations which followed upon one another from east to west, and that these migrations were prompted by tremendous political changes among the nations of Central Asia. It is therefore probable that the Goths migrated from the western shore of the Caspian Sea, somewhere near Lake Ascanius--hence the confusion--then to the countries between the Ural and Don, and thence by slow degrees southwards and westwards. This would explain many obscure points in the migration of the Goths. Be it as it may, we find them in the second century settled in those very countries in which we now find the Ruthenians and the Rumanians, and stretching further into Pannonia. The Goths are said to have adopted Christianity towards the end of the third century, as it is alleged, by priests and lay Christians brought as captives from Cappadocia and other parts of Asia Minor. As early as the Council of Nicæa, 325, a Gothic bishop is mentioned among the signatories to the decrees. An outstanding figure of the Gothic Christians was Ulfilas, who, owing to pressure from the non-converted section of the Goths, crossed the Danube and settled at the foot of Mount Haemus (the Balkans) in the middle of the fourth century. He had become converted to the Arian doctrine, and took part in the Council under the Emperor Valens, which was held in Constantinople in 358. Theodosius, who became the Great after his recantation of Arianism, towards the end of the fourth century, promulgated decree after decree, one more drastic than the other, for the persecution and extirpation of this heresy; in fact, he was the very first to establish an inquisition of faith. The example set by Theodosius was followed afterwards by the Catholic Emperors and Kings of the West, even down to the Holy Office, as the Inquisition was afterwards called. But, in spite of this, Arianism spread among the Goths, and, whatever were their political vicissitudes, they kept staunch to this peculiar form of Christianity, the greatest and most powerful enemy of the orthodox and Catholic Church. They spread eastwards and westwards, partly as vassals of the Huns and partly acting quite independently under their own kings and rulers. They overran the Balkan peninsula, destroying every heathen temple, and not sparing Catholic churches. They then sacked Rome, entered Gaul, and occupied the South of France, with Toulouse as the capital. They spread into Burgundy and conquered Spain. It took many battles and many centuries to break the political power of the Goths. It was rather the subtle influences of the Catholic women than religious conviction that brought about the conversion to Catholicism of the Gothic rulers in Spain and Italy. The Catholic Church, in the year 507, armed the Frankish King Clovis--who adopted Catholicism--against the Gothic Arian King Alaric, and thus brought about the first "crusade" between Catholics and heretics in the country north of the Pyrenees. A crusade was to be renewed hereafter for a second time against the Albigenses in the very same country and against the very same cities. Unfortunately very little is known of the beliefs and practices of the half-heathen, half-Christian Goths. The fact, however, remains that they held on to their faith for many centuries in spite of the official conversion of the leaders. In Burgundy, Arianism persisted down to the sixth century, and among the Lombards (merely another tribal name for Goths) in Northern Italy, it persisted to the eighth century. Meanwhile, other nations poured into the Balkans. Whether they entirely annihilated the Goths, or whether they assimilated with them, will remain a problem unsolved. Very few Gothic words can, however, be traced among the nations of the Balkans. The Slavs, probably coming from Pannonia, are first noticed in large numbers in the fifth and the sixth centuries. The Bulgars from the old haunts of the Goths near the Volga came in the seventh century. The last heathen king was Boris, who was converted to Christianity in the middle of the ninth century. No sooner has Christianity an official status among the Bulgars than we hear of the heresy of the Bogomils and Cathars spreading among them to such an extent that they almost overthrew the orthodox Church. The break between the eastern and western Churches--between Constantinople and Rome--at the end of the ninth century also contributed, in a way, to weaken the allegiance of the faithful to the orthodox Church, and the manner in which the Orthodox vilified the Catholics must have been quite sufficient to reconcile the people to heterodox doctrines. Manichaeans and Bogomils took advantage of the schism and the violence of the two parties to win the people over to their tenets. Bogomilism in a slightly varied form, as Cathars and Albigenses, etc., spread henceforth from east to west, following exactly the same course as that taken by the Goths in their migration from east to west. The ground had been prepared for them, the seed had been sown, and the work was made easy for them by the preceding Arians. There is one feature in this schismatic movement, the importance of which cannot be appraised too highly. The Word of God was taught in the vernacular, the Bible and, along with it, uncanonical writings, were translated into the vernacular. While the Orthodox and Catholic Churches kept strictly to Greek and Latin as the language of Scripture and Service, the Arians no doubt, on the contrary, allowed the people to pray and to learn in their own language. It was the outstanding merit of Ulfilas that he translated the Bible into Gothic. This practice of translating the word of God into the vernacular remained a distinctive characteristic of the schismatic Arians and other sectaries. They were thus able to reach the heart of the people much more easily than the Catholic and Greek clergy, and to exercise a lasting influence upon the masses, far deeper than that of the representatives of a creed taught in a foreign tongue. This also continued to keep the Arian-Goths away from the Catholic Church for many centuries. The change, which came later on, was due to two causes--the conversion of the kings and rulers, and, to a far larger degree than has hitherto been recognised, the loss of the Teutonic language. The Goths slowly forgot their own language and adopted that of the nations in whose midst they lived as a minority. This explains much more satisfactorily than has hitherto been attempted the mysterious disappearance of the Goths after the official conversion of Recared in Spain, and the overthrow of Alaric by Clovis in the beginning of the sixth century in the South of France. In Italy they kept to their Arianism under the name of Lombards, down to the eighth century. It must not, however, be assumed that with the public disappearance of Arianism and that of the Goths as a ruling nation, the Arian heresy and all that it brought to the people had also disappeared. That teaching could not easily be uprooted. It was merely driven underground. The Catholic Church was satisfied with having obtained an official public victory. Then followed a slow process of extirpation. The writings of the schismatics were hunted up and destroyed, and thus the wells of heresy were dried up. The people were weaned from their errors by the convincing power of sword and faggot. But so long as these sinners did not belong to the higher classes, the Church winked at their aberrations, especially when they kept quiet and were not aggressive in their action. Thus the fire of heresy smouldered on under the ashes of the autos-da-fé until it was fanned again into a mighty blaze through the Cathars and Albigenses. The ground was prepared for their reception by the Arianism of the Goths, and by the Manichaean propaganda, which had penetrated into Europe from the West as early as the fourth century. It is important in this connection to refer, however briefly, to the Priscillianites in Spain, who flourished from the middle of the fourth to the second half of the sixth century, close upon two hundred years. The founder was Priscillianus (d. 385) a man of noble birth and great achievement. He was a great scholar, and had become acquainted with Gnostic and Manichaean doctrines. He was accused of heresy, and was the first Christian who was executed by Christians for preaching a different form of creed. The accusations made against him and his followers were precisely the same which were raised centuries afterwards against the Cathars and Albigenses, and no doubt just as false. From them we learn, however, that he had apocryphal books and mystical oriental legends, which he used for his teaching, and which were believed by his followers. It took two, or close upon three centuries, before the public traces of Priscillianism disappeared from Spain and Gaul. The followers, probably, shared the fate of the Gothic Arians settled in these countries. Then the conquest of Spain by the Arabs or Moors prevented the Catholic Church from further sifting the chaff from the grain. No doubt a good number of so-called heretics, who could not enter the bosom of the Catholic Church, embraced Islam, just as a good number of prominent Cathars in Dalmatia and Bosnia preferred to become Mohammedans after the conquest of the country by the Turks rather than become united with the Orthodox Church. When the Cathars started their propaganda, they followed, as it were, in the track of the Goths. They occupy exactly the same tracts of land as those held for so many centuries by the former, and without a doubt they found there remnants of the old heresy, popular legends and beliefs, even tales and mystical as well as mythical songs, all so many welcome pegs on which to hang their own teaching. It may in a way have been a kind of revival, in which what had been preserved by the descendants from the Goths of old was blended with the new matter brought afresh from the East. Unfortunately--as already remarked--too little is known of the beliefs and practices of the Goths in their pagan state and afterwards as Arian Christians. That they, in spite of being "rude barbarians," had also some theological treatises is evident from Anathema No. 16 of the Council of Toledo (589), when Recared forswore his Arianism and became a fervent Catholic. The anathema runs against "the abominable treatises which we composed to seduce the provincials into the Arian heresy." Many such compositions, especially in the vernacular, must be meant here; they all fell under the ban. The Cathars followed the same practice and were zealous propagators and translators of the Bible and Apocrypha into the vernacular. They knew the Bible so well that in disputations with the Catholic clergy the latter were easily beaten. Almost every one of the "forbidden" books, i.e. forbidden by the Orthodox and Catholic Church, was preserved in old Slavonian (and Rumanian) translations, and some are to be found this very day among the holy books of the Russian schismatics. Nay, even the oldest French translation of the Bible was the work of Albigenses. So much did this affect the Catholic Church that she excommunicated it, and forbade the people to read the Bible at the Council of Toulouse in 1229; the Bible in the vernacular having before been ordered to be burned publicly by the decree of the Church. No wonder, therefore, at the popularity of these sectaries and the immense influence they wielded upon the popular mind and imagination. And if it be true that Arius set forth his religious views in doggerel rhymes to be sung to popular tunes by the sailors and labourers, then he initiated a movement which has continued ever since in religious minstrelsy, and is practised amongst others, by the Russian blind beggar-minstrels and other popular ballad singers on festive occasions among the Rumanians and southern Slavs. Nothing, in fact, could better serve the purpose of propaganda than such songs. They would appeal at once to the primitive, unlettered nations, specially amongst those who had such mythological epics of their own. The rude barbarians would be deeply impressed, and they would very easily adopt such songs and the teaching they contained. We can then easily understand a Volsunga Saga or a similar saga originating under such influences, or moulded in accordance with such new models. Neither the Orthodox nor the Catholic Church knows of such popular religious songs of an epic character, filled with the mysteries of the Holy Writ, much less of any filled with mysteries from the apocryphal and legendary writings. They have no more than Church hymns sung in the Church, only on special occasions, together with a certain psalmody chanted by the officiating clergy. And when these Greek (or Syriac) hymns were translated into Slavonic or Rumanian, they practically lost their tune and their inspiration, and they were recited with a peculiar monotonous cantilation. Quite otherwise were the popular carols, and the popular epic ballads with a distinctive religious background and full of wonderful incidents from the life of the saints. Unlike the former, they are not congregational litanies, but purely popular songs and ballads, devoid of any official or liturgical character. This may also explain the origin of the so-called Ambrosian chant as an attempt on the part of St. Ambrose of Milan to counteract the other popular chants by introducing, as it were, congregational singing into the Church. But there it remained, whilst the other spread and has retained its original popular character. Thus, through Gothic Arianism, a certain continuity of the dualistic and peculiar schismatic form of religious teaching has been established. Moreover, an historic explanation has been found for the origin and spread of these doctrines, tales and fables. Put to the test, these beast tales yield a dogmatic system which approximates in many points to such heterodox teaching. The old Ebionite conception of Jesus, taken up by Arius and afterwards adopted by the Manichaeans, sees in him only a deified human being, and very little more can be found in these tales. Jesus is seldom mentioned, and even then is more like a deified all-powerful human being. God Himself is often treated as a simple human being, almost like the Ialdabaoth of the Gnostics or the inferior God of the Manichaean doctrine. With this, agrees also the notion of the dualism in the creation of the world, i.e. that the evil creatures, wolves, poisonous snakes, etc., are the work of the Evil One. This was also the view held by the Priscillianites. There seem to be, also, reminiscences of such myths as "the world tree," the wolf, etc., which are found in Teutonic mythology and which may also be of an Oriental origin. The Rumanian tales are almost a running commentary on Grimm's German Mythology (Germ. 4th ed. 1876, ch. xxiii. pp. 539-581), which ought to be read in conjunction with the present volume. The legend of the Cuckoo, the hoopoe referred to by Grimm, can be read here under No. 43. It is significant that there is not a trace of Mariolatry in these tales and fables. If anything, St. Mary appears in a character far from loveable. She is easily offended, she does not spare her curses, she takes umbrage easily at the slightest mishap. She is altogether very disagreeable, just as in the apocryphal literature, where there is not much room for her. Her intercession is invoked only in some Rumanian charms and spells in a peculiar stereotyped form. But of real worship there is scarcely any trace. Quite different is the position which the Catholic Church assigned afterwards to St. Mary. She has become there second to none outside the Trinity. More prominently almost than any of these points, stands out the fact that, underlying these creation and other tales, is the belief in the transmigration of the human soul into an animal body--the well-known belief in Metempsychosis, or change of human beings into animals, so important a feature of Manichaean teaching, in which all the heretical sects seem to have shared. It is impossible now to follow this question further. I am satisfied to have indicated the rôle which the Goths may have played in the preparation for the dissemination of special myths and legends, branded as heretical, which other sectaries had brought from the East and propagated in the West of Europe. As to possible ethnical and geographical continuity, it may be remarked that the places where these tales are found were also the homesteads of the Goths, in which they dwelt for at least two or three hundred years. They were then after a short interval almost supplanted by the Slavs. It is a moot point how long the Rumanians have dwelt there, and when they were converted to Christianity. Not a single old Teutonic word has hitherto been found in the Rumanian language. Any direct contact or convivium of any length of time is thus excluded. The tales may have been remnants carried along from Illyricum across the Danube by the new missionaries of the dualistic doctrine. The problem would be less intricate if we only knew anything definite about Gothic heathen and Christian mythology. With the Cathars and Bogomils we are on more solid ground. This new stream of similar traditions was brought by a similar religious movement and was propagated by identical means--viz. writings and songs in the language of the people, legends and tales and a simple creed understood by all. It may be asked, if this theory is correct, if these tales and legends were brought first into Thrace and then spread from that country to the other nations, how does it come to pass that so few traces of them can be found in Greek folk-lore? Paradoxical as it may sound, the absence of such creation and other legends and tales from the Greek folk-lore is, if anything, a further proof of the accuracy of the theory advanced. It must be remembered that there was no more ruthless persecution of ancient paganism, idolatry, ceremonies and legends than that carried out by the Greek Church against anything that reminded them of the Hellenic or pagan past. Nothing was spared, neither shrines nor books. The Greek's subtle mind devised the first thorough system of heresy-hunting and persecution. It ranged from polemical and harmless dialogues to the handing over of the so-called heretics to fire and sword. The secular power was there more than anywhere else the representative of the religious power, and justified its existence, as it were, only as the executor of the Church's mandate. One has only to read about the innumerable decrees of councils and synods, to see the way in which Manichaeism, Arianism and Gnosticism in every shape and form were mercilessly uprooted, and to understand that this fight did not stop at Bogomilism. The polemics were carried out even down to the time of Eutemios Zygabenos and even the Emperors on the throne of Byzance did not consider it below their dignity to combat heretical teaching, the followers of which were given no pardon. There was also another factor which militated against the success of the Gnostic teaching--the literary past of the Greeks. To the circulation of apocryphal books and legendary tales, the Greeks were able to oppose a vast literary array. In Greece the Bogomils did not deal with simple-minded, illiterate folk at the beginning of whose literature they stood; on the contrary, they had to fight against an ancient influential literature, and against minds trained in the subtlest dialectics. They could not, therefore, succeed so easily, if at all. Quite different were the conditions of the other nations with which they came in contact. None of these had yet more than the very beginnings of a literature. They were rude, simple-minded folk, and wherever the Greek Church or Greek Emperors did not wield any influence at all, as it happened in the Bulgaro-Vallachian kingdom established by Peter and Asan (1185 to 1257), the Bogomils had an easy task. For centuries, then, the Rumanians formed with the Bulgarians not only a religious, but also a political unity. The Bulgaro-Vallachian kingdom stretched from the Haemus to the Carpathians, and down to the end of the seventeenth century Slavonic was the official language of State and Church in Rumania. There could not have been a more close intimacy than between these two nations, despite the difference of the language which each of them spoke. They had their literature in common, and no doubt shared the same traditions. Bogomilism was just as rife in Vallachia as it was in Bulgaria. Even the written literature of Rumania shows how profound its influence has been: still more so does the oral literature of tales and legends, of fables and beliefs. Though the Bogomils did not bring Christianity to these peoples, for they were Christians, they brought at any rate a kind of religion to the mass of the folk. It was one of their own making and in their own image. It was clothed in beautiful tales, and answered the expectations of the rank and file, satisfied their curiosity, and gave them a glimpse of the moral beauty underlying the work of creation. In a way, it tended to purify the heart and to elevate the soul by allegories, parables and apologues, and thus it found ready acceptance, and struck deep root in the heart of the people, unaffected by decrees of Councils and by the fanatical intolerance of the established Church. Not so successful, therefore, if successful at all, was the fight of the Greek Church against the heretical sects even in the Balkan Peninsula, where they were so numerous and so powerful. They persisted down to the time of the capture of Constantinople and the Turkish rule. A large number of the aristocracy in Bosnia and Dalmatia still adhered to the teaching of the Cathars, and when the Turks occupied the country in the sixteenth century, the majority of them embraced Islam, instead of entering either the Catholic or the Greek Church. A whole mass of apocryphal and spurious literature placed on the Index, has been preserved in Slavonic and Rumanian texts with outspoken dualistic views. Many of them have found their way into the Lucidaria, or "Questions and Answers," a kind of catechism, very popular among the nations of the Balkans, the Rumanians and the Russians. Similar Lucidaria were known in the West, but there they have been thoroughly expurgated, whilst, in the above-mentioned "questions," many an answer is found to which no orthodox Church would subscribe, but which form now a popular living belief among these nations. The political lethargy which settled upon most of these nations after the Turkish conquest created a happy brooding-place for such tales, and thus it can easily be understood why they have lived to this very day practically undisturbed and little changed. To those who have followed the history of the religious development of the Russians, it will therefore not be surprising to find among their popular tales a number of variants closely allied to the Rumanian animal tales, and, what is of the utmost importance in this connection, not a few of the "creation" tales. No country perhaps has been so much torn by religious discussions and sects as Russia. The number of sects is legion. The most extraordinary notions, extreme views on dogma and practice, heterodox principles expressed in worship, belief and popular song or tale are all found in Russia: unadulterated Dualism, Bogomilism, Manichaean teaching are openly professed by a number of the sects persecuted and condemned by the Orthodox Church. Almost all the books condemned as heretical in the early Indices Expurgatoria put forth by Councils and Church Assemblies, have been preserved almost intact in the old Slavonic and Russian language, and the religious and epic songs of the "blind" minstrels of Russia are full of the legendary lore of those heterodox sects. This fact has been established beyond doubt by the researches of Russian scholars, and notably by Wesselofsky. Among the Russians, then, we find the nearest parallels to the Rumanian "creation" stories; a clear evidence of common origin, both drawing upon the same source of information; the religious in the form of apologues, legends and tales, so prominent a feature of heterodox propaganda. The weapons used by the Catholic Church in its persecution of heretical sects are, almost every one of them, borrowed from the Greek armoury. One learns to know this fact more and more from a closer enquiry into the inner history of Byzance, its laws, decrees, administration and practice. And, precisely the same influence destroyed later the heretical teaching in the West as it destroyed it among the Greeks. The power of the Church and the secular arm were both used ruthlessly for exterminating any idea or any belief that ran counter to the doctrines taught by the established Church. The Cathars had also a much more difficult task in converting the East of Europe, inasmuch as they were also confronted there by some amount of literary tradition. Illiterate as were the masses, there were still among them and among their clerics, men of ability, men of learning, men trained in the scholastic schools, able, if not to refute, at any rate to confuse, the strange doctrine. All these forces combined, produced in the East the same result as they have produced among the Greeks. We are thus on the track of one of the most important sources of Western European folk-lore, always remembering that the medium in which this propaganda flourished differed considerably in the West from that in the East. In the former such propaganda met with a more ancient layer of well-established literary tradition. The Catholic Church, as mentioned above, was first in possession. It was not a tabula rasa on which the new teaching could be written, but yet that which existed was profoundly modified and a new fund of highly poetic yet popular material was added to the small store of knowledge possessed by the common people. But in time the Church took up the challenge, and remorselessly hunted down the apostles of popular heterodox teaching, just as the Greeks had done, going even further. It punished with sword and fire the followers of unauthorised practices, and branded every deviation from the strait path as rank heresy. The books containing legends and tales were burnt, and their possessors were often treated in like fashion. Inquisition, Church and other influences helped, as already mentioned, to destroy them. In the tragedy of heresy-hunting and burning of witches, the charge of devil worship was the basic principle, the chief head of accusation. It was clearly devised against the followers of the dualistic teaching. To tell a tale like any of these Rumanian "creation" tales, would have been inviting the heaviest punishment--to believe in it would have meant sure death. No wonder that they disappeared quickly, or were changed into harmless satires, as in the Reynard Cycle, or were even used for political cartoons, in broadsides, like the Cock Robin Cycle in the time of Charles II., which, when transplanted to Russia, became a political lampoon on Peter and his Court. Heresy-hunting becomes a popular distraction only when the official clergy find it profitable to make it so, and when the people are made to trace their own ills and troubles, their losses in field and stable, to the evil machinations of these tools of the devil. So long as they are not suffering in body or purse, the folk are absolutely indifferent to dogmas, and they will eagerly accept anything that pleases them. It will therefore not come as a surprise, in view of what has been stated, if we find some weird conceptions among the Rumanian peasantry. Studied from the point of view of heresiology or rather of popular psychology, some of these tales will appear to us as so many living records of the great spiritual movement, which for centuries dominated Europe, and which has since died out. Too little attention has been given hitherto to the influence of those numerous sects, which stretched from Asia Minor to the south of France, and overflowed even into England. Their dualism, the strong belief in the Power of Evil, Satan and his host, the consequent duty of the faithful to banish him or to subdue him, thus developed into belief in sorcery and witchcraft, with the attending horrors of the Inquisition. Then came a period of wider education still less tolerant of old women's superstition and nursery tales. What was left still standing has been, and is being, finally destroyed by our modern schools and schoolmasters. From this dire fate, the folk-lore of the nearer East has as yet been preserved. The importance of the study of folk-lore has happily been recognised in those countries, early enough to stop the blight which had set in and which threatened to destroy it more ruthlessly than even in the West. The modern "man of science" is a more relentless iconoclast than the religious fanatic. He starts from the mind in his attempt to destroy folk-lore, using to this end cold reasoning, logical conclusions, spiritual prepossession and intolerance. The religious fanatic starts from the heart, with overwhelming passion, fiery zeal, unreasoning hatred, from which there is a possible escape for mysticism and mythical lore, whilst from the former there is none. Happily, our science of folk-lore with its deep sympathy and profound appreciation of these manifestations of the popular psyche has come in the nick of time to rescue from total extinction what the schoolmaster and the heresy-hunter have not yet annihilated. I turn now to another aspect of these bird and beast tales. If, as I believe, they show us what is at the back of the mind of the people, they are of invaluable service to the student of anthropology, above all to him who seeks enlightenment in the grave problems of education and civilization; and they are not without importance for the solution of political problems. Attempts are made--well meant, no doubt--to foist that state of culture which the West calls "modern civilization," or "civilization" pure and simple, upon the reluctant people of the Near and Far East. We are forgetful of the fact that these nations have had a civilization of their own, and that something more important is included in this forcible change than the change of a dress. As the outcome of a long-drawn battle between feudalism and modern society, as a result of political and economic evolutions, the civilization of the West, when introduced among nations that have not gone through the same experience, acts like the Juggernaut car, which crushes under its wheels the worshippers of this new god and destroys at the same time the foundations of the old order of things. Only students of folk-lore, those who try to reach the hidden depths, nay, to penetrate the inner soul of the people, are in a position to judge of the results of these civilizing attempts. They can compare the past with the present, and draw a proper balance between gain and loss. Are the people happier, more contented, more moral, and even more religious after the change, than they were before it? Surely not. And if not, why not? The answer is very simple: because in this violent change no tenderness is shown to those beliefs and practices which are dear to the people and which help to lighten the burden of life by innocent mirth and the wholesome play of fancy. Wire brooms may sweep well; but they may do it too well, and they can sweep everything away, leaving the home bare and the gardens stripped of every leaf and flower. A few words concerning the order and grouping of these tales. They have been arranged in three main groups. The first comprises those tales which I have characterised as creation legends. In them the origin of birds, beasts and insects is explained as the result of some direct act of God, or the Saints, or the Devil. An attempt has been made to follow a certain chronological order. Those tales stand first in which God is acting at the beginning of the creation. Then, following the Biblical order, the legends connected with the persons of sacred history from Adam to the Apostles, including St. Mary and St. Anne. Mystical Christmas carols or rather epic ballads, in which similar subjects are treated, have been inserted between the legends. The second section comprises such legends as are more like fairy tales. The mythical personages are no longer those known through the Scriptures. On the contrary, there are in these tales reminiscences of ancient heathen gods and heroes, chief among them being Alexander the Great. In the third section the animal fables are grouped together. It is the literature of the apologues without any framework or moral setting. The parallels, as far as could be found, are given briefly at the end of each legend, tale or fable. I have striven to be concise in my references to the best-known collections of tales, such as Grimm, Hahn, Cosquin, and Gonzenbach, where the student of fairy tales can easily find the whole comparative literature. For the genuine and unadulterated popular origin of these tales I can vouch absolutely. Some I have heard in my early youth, but the majority have been culled from the works of S. Fl. Marian (Ornitologia poporana Româna, 2 vols., Cernauti 1883; and Insectele, Bucharest 1903), than whom a more painstaking trustworthy collector could not be imagined. Some have been taken from the Folk-lore reviews, Sezatoarea, ed. by A. Gorovei (i.-xii., Falticeni 1892 to 1912), and Ion Creanga, published by the Society of that name (i.-viii., Barlad 1908-1915). Anton Pann (Poveste si istoriaire, Bucharest 1836) has given us a few stories, as well as A. and A. Schott (Walachische Maehrchen, Stuttgart and Tübingen 1845). The Pilgrimage of the Soul is from S. Mangiuca, Calindariu, pe. 1882, Brasiovu 1881 and the Story of Man and his Years, No. 113, from M. Gaster, Chrestomatie Romana, vol. ii., Bucharest 1891. These tales have been collected from every country where Rumanians live, not only in the Kingdom of Rumania, but also from the Rumanians of Transylvania and Bukovina, as well as from the Kutzo-Vlachs of Macedonia. I have added a few charms and also a few more mystical religious songs and carols, which throw light on some of the beliefs underlying the tales and legends, taken mostly from the great collection of G. Dem. Teodorescu (Poesii Popularare Romane, Bucharest 1885). In some cases I have given also variants of the same tale. I have endeavoured to render the stories as faithfully as the spirit of the Rumanian and English languages allows, and I fear that I have on sundry occasions forced the latter in my desire to preserve as far as possible the quaintness and the flavour of the Rumanian original. There is one characteristic feature in the collection of animal tales and legends given here, upon which I should like to lay great stress, and that is the complete purity which pervades them all. There is no playing with moral principles. No double meaning is attached to any story: and this, to my mind, is the best proof of their popular origin. These tales are not sullied by a morbid imagination, nor contaminated by sexual problems. The people are pure at heart and in the stories their simplicity and purity appear most beautifully. In these tales and legends we have syncretism in full swing. It is not a picture of the past which we have to piece laboriously together from half-forgotten records, from writing half obliterated by the action of time and by changes which have swept over those nations of the past, whose life and thought we are endeavouring to conjure up and to understand. In our midst, at our door, under our own eyes, this process of mixing and adjusting, of change and evolution, of differentiation, combination and assimilation is still going on. It is a wonderful picture for any one who is able to discover the forces that are at work, who can trace every strand of the webbing, every thread in the woof and warp, to its immediate and to its remoter source. We see the shuttle of human imagination, of human belief, flying busily through the loom, charged at one time with one thread, at another with a different one. Many of the ways of the human mind meet here, cross one another, and new roads are thus created by busy wayfarers. And thus paganism sustains a busy and robust life. The old Pantheon is still peopled with the old gods, or, shall we better say, the Pandaemonium in its highest and best sense is displaying itself with unexpected vigour. The heathen gods, the Christian saints, God and the devil legends, fairy tales, oriental imagery, mystical traditions and astrological lore are all inextricably blended together. The line of demarcation between man and animal has not been clearly drawn, or it has not yet been attempted. These multifarious elements have not yet been combined into one homogeneous structure. The problem arises whether other nations have also passed through a similar mental and psychical process; whether they have had a similar Pandaemonic mixture, out of which their more colourless folk-lore had been distilled in the crucible of "civilization." Primitive people can often hear the footfall of men by putting the ear to the ground. We may, by putting an ear to the ground, hear the footfalls of the Past, and listen to the echo before it dies away into eternity. BIRD AND BEAST STORIES I. WHY IS THE BEE BLACK, AND WHY IS IT MAKING HONEY? HOW DID THE BEE OUTWIT THE DEVIL? In the beginning only water and God and the devil existed. These two were all the time moving about upon the surface of the waters. After some time God, feeling rather tired of this flitting about without rest or peace, said to the devil, "Go down to the bottom of the sea and bring up in my name a handful of the seed of the earth." The devil did as he was told, but whilst he was plunging in the depths he said to himself, "Why shall I bring up the seed in his name? I will take it in my own." And so he did. When he came up God asked him, "Hast thou brought the seed?" The devil replied, "Yes, here it is." But when he opened his hand to show the seed to God, lo, it was quite empty. The water had wasted the seed away. Then God told him to plunge again and bring up the seed of the earth in his name. The devil, however, again took the seed from the bottom of the sea in his own name, and when he opened his hand to give the seed to God the waters had again washed his hand clean. For a third time God sent him down to the bottom of the sea to bring up seed. This time the devil bethought himself, and instead of taking the seed in his own name as he had determined, now took it in God's name and in his own. He would not do it in God's name alone. When he came up the waters had this time also washed everything away that he had taken in his hand. Only a few grains, however, remained under the nails of his fingers. God asked him whether he had brought the seed up, and he replied "To be sure." But when he opened his hand it was again empty. Still, there were the few grains which had stuck under the nails. God greatly rejoiced at these few, which he carefully scraped out from under the nails, and made of them a small cake which he put upon the water, where it floated, and God sat upon it to rest. Being now very tired, God fell asleep on that little cake of earth. When the devil saw God fast asleep, what did the unclean one think? "What a lucky thing that is for me," he said to himself, "I can now drown him." And so he tried to turn the cake over, so that God should fall into the water. But what happened? In whatever direction God rolled, the cake of earth expanded and stretched under him. He first rolled him towards the east, and the earth grew under God. The devil then tried to upset the cake towards the west, and again the earth stretched under God. Now, said the devil, "Now there is also room for me to rest," and he sat down on the opposite side where the earth had grown bigger. There again he endeavoured with all his weight to press down the earth, so as to make the earth turn turtle, once towards the north, once towards the south; and God rolled towards them and the earth grew in all directions. Now by this continual rolling the earth grew so big that it became wider and larger than the waters. When God awoke and saw what the devil had done he did not know what to do with this huge earth, which had become far too big. The devil, seeing what he had done, and being afraid of God's wrath, ran away and hid himself in one of the clefts of the earth. God then decided to ask the devil what he was to do with this earth, which had become so big. Now, of all the beasts and creatures which God had made, none was more pleasing in his sight than the bee, which was then playing in Paradise. The bee was white, and not black as she is now, and I will tell you presently how it came about that she changed her colour. God sent the bee to ask the devil what he was to do and what good advice he could give him. The bee, at once, went as she was commanded, and came to the place where the devil lived. "Good morning, uncle," said the bee. "Good morning, sister," said the devil. "What has brought thee to me?" "Well, you see, God has sent me to ask what he was to do with this huge earth." But the devil grumpily and sneeringly replied, "If he is God he ought to know better than to ask a poor devil for advice. I am not going to tell him. Let him find it out for himself." The bee, who was a clever little thing--it was not for nothing that God's choice had fallen upon her--pretended to fly away. But she soon crept back quite stealthily and settled noiselessly on the upper beam of the door. She knew that the devil cannot keep any secrets, and he would surely speak out. So, indeed, it happened. No sooner did he believe himself alone, than he started muttering to himself, chuckling all the time. "A clever man that God really is. He asks me what to do. Why does he not think of mountains and valleys?" You must know that the earth when first made was quite flat, like a pancake. "Let him take the earth in his arms and squeeze it a bit, and it will fit all right." The bee overheard what he said, for he spoke loud enough, and rejoicing that she had got the answer, spread out her wings and started flying away. The buzzing of her wings betrayed her, and the devil, hearing the noise, rushed out of his cave with his whip in his hand and said: "O you thief! So that is the way you have cheated me. Mayst thou feed on what comes out of thy body." And he struck the bee with his whip. This changed her white colour into black. Moreover, he hit her so badly that he nearly cut her in two. That is why the bee has such a narrow waist, that she looks as if she were cut in two and barely hanging together by a thread. Limping and sore, the bee came back to God and told him what she had overheard from the devil. God was greatly pleased and, squeezing the earth in his arms, he made mountains and valleys, and the earth grew smaller. Then turning to the bee he said, "Out of thy body henceforth shall come only honey to sweeten the life of man and he shall bless thee for that gift; also shalt thou bring forth wax for candles on the altar." And God went on to ask the bee what reward she would claim for the errand which she had so well fulfilled. The bee, impudent and greedy, replied: "Why should man share in my gift and have my honey? Give me the power to kill with my sting." And God was angry at the impudence of the bee, and replied: "All the honey shall be thine alone, if thou art able to make a gallon of it during the summer: if not, man may share it with thee. And because thou hast asked for the power of killing with thy sting, meaning to kill man by it, thine own death shall be by thy sting." This is the reason why the bees work so industriously and indefatigably during the summer. Each hopes to make a gallon of honey, but they can never succeed. And this, too, is the reason why the bee dies when it stings anyone. There is another variant of the cosmogonic part. The place of the devil is taken by the mole [1] whom the Rumanians believe to be a very deep fellow. The story then runs as follows: When God had made the heavens there was as yet no earth. So God took a ball of string and measured the span of heaven. Then he called the mole and told him to keep the ball whilst he was busy making the earth, according to the measure which he had taken. But whilst God went on measuring by the string which he had rolled off the ball, the mole very slyly let the ball roll on whilst God was tugging at the string. And so it came to pass that the earth made thus by God was larger than the span of heaven, and could not be got under it. The mole, seeing what he had done, went away and hid himself in his earth. Hither the bee was sent to get the secret from him how the earth could be made smaller. The story then runs on like the one just told, without the explanation of the dark colour and of the narrow waist. Nor is any reference made in that version to the sting and the gallon of honey. The dualistic conception of the creation of the world is here clearly set out. The people believe in it. In the formation of the earth the devil has his full, nay an equal share, though he always is fooled in the end and is cheated even by a little bee. To this creation story a few variants can be found among the Bulgarians and Letts, but they are neither so full nor so complete as the Rumanian version. They are given by Dähnhardt, Natursagen, i. pp. 127-128 (Leipzig and Berlin 1907). The first part of the story of the devil being sent down to bring up seed from the bottom, and only that part, is found among the Gipsy tales from Transylvania, published by Wlislocki, Zigeuner-märchen aus Transylvania, p. 1, No. 1. Among the Russians, Ralston gives a short variant in which only God and the devil are mentioned, nothing of the bee, and even the first part is extremely short. (Russian Folk Tales, p. 329, London 1873.) The existence of hills is accounted for by legendary lore in this wise. When the Lord was about to fashion the face of the earth he ordered the devil to dive into the watery depths and bring thence a handful of the soil he found at the bottom. The devil obeyed, but when he filled his hand he filled his mouth also. The Lord took the soil, sprinkled it around, and the earth appeared, all perfectly flat. The devil, whose mouth was quite full, looked on for some time in silence. At last he tried to speak, but choked, and fled in terror. After him followed the thunder and lightning, and so he rushed over the whole face of the earth, hills springing up where he coughed, and sky-cleaving mountains where he leaped. I. B. HOW DID THE BEE OUTWIT THE MOLE? Another Version. When the Lord made the heavens he took a ball and spanned the heavens, and after he had finished spanning the heavens he started making the earth. The mole, cunning little beast, came to him and said: "O Lord, let me help thee in making the earth"; and the Lord, who is always good, said in the goodness of his heart: "Very well," and he gave the ball to the mole to keep it. The Lord started working, and was busy weaving and working making the earth. But the sly mole let just a little bit of the thread go from time to time, and the Lord worked on without noticing it. When he had finished, how great was his astonishment when he found that the earth was greater than the heavens. What was he to do? how could he fit them together? He turned to the mole, but the mole was not there; he knew what was coming and had buried himself deep down in the earth. So the Lord walked up and down the earth, but could not find him. What was he to do? At last he sent the bee to discover the mole and to find out from him what was to be done. The bee flew away alone, and, buzzing about, at last came to the hole where the mole was sitting buried in the earth. The bee came to him and said, "Good morning, uncle." "What brings thee to me, my sister?" "Well," she said, "the Lord God has sent me to ask thee what is to be done. The earth is so big and the heavens so small." The mole, a sly beast, chuckled and said to himself, "The Lord ought to know better than I. I am not going to tell him, though I know what ought to be done." The bee would not take this answer. She pretended to fly away, and then went stealthily and settled herself in a flower which was near to the mole's burrow. She knew that the mole would talk to himself, and hoped to overhear what he would say. So in sooth it happened. The bee overheard him chuckling and laughing and saying to himself: "Oh what a clever fellow I am! if I had to do it, I would take the earth in my arms and squeeze it tightly, and then mountains would be pressed out and valleys would be sunk, and then the earth would get small enough to fit under the heavens." No sooner had the bee heard what the mole had said, than she started flying away. The mole, who heard her buzzing, ran after her and said: "O sister, is that the way thou art dealing with me? Very well then, now take my curse. Henceforth thou shalt feed on thyself." But the bee never listened, and flew straight to the Lord and told him what she had heard when the mole muttered to himself. And the Lord took the earth in his hands and squeezed it, and from the flat that it was, mountains rose up and valleys were cut, and it fitted the heavens which God had spanned. And God, hearing of the curse with which the mole has cursed the bee, turned it into a blessing. That is why the bee makes honey and feeds on itself, whilst the mole always lives underground and is frightened to see the sky. II. WHY IS THE BEE BUSY AND THE SPIDER SULLEN? The Story of the Widow and her two Children. There is still another story about the origin of the bee, totally different from those told hitherto. Once upon a time there lived a very poor widow. She had only two children, a son and a daughter. When they had grown up, seeing that their mother could no longer provide for them, they left her house and went each one his or her way to find work. The girl went to a place where they were building houses, and there she worked day and night carrying bricks and mortar to the builders. The son went to a weaver and learnt there to weave clothes. Not long after that, the mother grew very ill, and knowing that her end was approaching, she sent for her children to come to her. When the message reached the daughter, she was carrying a heavy load of bricks in her apron. She did not hesitate for a moment, and saying, "I must not leave my poor mother alone," she dropped the load of bricks and ran home as fast as she could, and there she found her mother on the point of death. When the message reached the son, he was sitting at his weaving. He said, "Let her die. I cannot give up my work. Here I am, and here I stay." And there he stayed quite alone, working away, surly and grumbling all the time. When the mother saw her daughter, who had left everything and had come to her, she raised herself on her bed and, kissing her on the forehead, blessed her, saying: "Daughter, thou hast been sweet to me and a joy in my last hour. Mayst thou always be sweet to all." When she heard what her son had said, and why he had not come, she cursed him and said: "As thou hast said so shall it go with thee. Day and night shalt thou be weaving incessantly and never see the joy of it: what thou doest, others shall destroy. In a corner shalt thou sit, far away from everybody, and hated by everybody." And with these words she died, and her blessing and curse both came true. The girl was changed into the busy active bee, whose honey sweetens everything, and of whose wax candles are made to be lit before the ikons of the saints and in the churches, and put by the head of the dying and the dead. The brother was changed into the spider, who sits alone and sullen and spiteful in the corner and weaves his webs, never finishing: whoever sees a web brushes it away, and whoever can, kills the spider. To this story I have not been able to find a parallel. A different kind of curse seems to rest on the spider, according to the legend of the "Lady Mary and the Spider," No. 54. III. WHY IS THE BEE BLACK, AND WHY HAS IT A NARROW WAIST? The Story of the Bee and the Devil. When God created the bee she was white of colour, hence her name albina, the white one. One day, however, God sent the bee to the Evil One to ask him for his advice, whether God should make one sun or several. The bee went to the Evil One and told him God's message. Then she slyly hid herself in his bushy hair, for the bee knew that he would talk to himself aloud, and she would be able to find out his true thought. And so it happened: for no sooner did he think that the bee was not within earshot, than he started talking aloud to himself and said: "One sun is better than a number of suns, for if there were a number of suns the heat would be much greater than my fire and I should not be able to torture and to burn. Then, too, if there were several suns, they would shine all day and all night, and the people would not be able to fall into my power. One sun would be best." When the bee had heard his reasoning and the conclusion to which he had come, she started flying back to God. As she started, the Evil One heard her buzz and, filled with anger at the trick which the bee had played him, he struck her across the body with his whip. The white colour was then turned black and the body of the bee nearly cut in twain. The waist became as thin as a thread. In the beginning it was white, and hence the name. It is due to the merit of the bee that there is only one sun now in the heavens and not many. In the Bulgarian parallel it is not a question as to how many suns were to be created but whether the sun is to get married. The story is as follows (Dähnhardt, Natursagen, Leipzig u. Berlin 1907, i. p. 127): When God grew old he wanted to marry the sun. He invited all the creatures. Among them also the devil, but he saddled his ass and rode away angrily. Then God sent the bee to find out the thought of the devil. The bee settled on his head and heard him mumble to himself: "Oh yes, it is a long time since God had remembered me, who helped him in the making of the world, but he does not know what he is doing now. If he marries the sun he will destroy mankind and burn up the world." The bee heard it, and flying away went to God. The devil noticed her and, thinking that she had overheard what he was saying, wanted to kill her. He ran after her and shot at her. The bee hid herself in a willow tree. After trying many times, he at last hit her and cut her in two. With difficulty she reached God and told him what had happened. The Lord blessed her and said, "The lower part shall be thy best and the upper part may remain as it is;" and he joined the two parts together. God thereupon stopped the wedding, and the sun has remained an unmarried maiden to this very day, whilst the bee is making honey even now. The story of the marriage of the sun does not concern us here. In a different form it occurs in Rumanian Fairy Tales, where we are told that sun and moon were a brother and sister. They wished to woo one another, but God forbade it, and therefore God put them in the heavens and changed them into sun and moon, which never meet. When one rises the other sets. (L. Saineanu, Basmele Române, Bucur 1895, p. 398.) Other mythical references to sun and moon, and the way in which the devil tries to steal them from Paradise, will be found in the Carol given below, No. 15. IV. WHY DOES THE LITTLE WORM GLOW? The Story of the Fallen Angel and the Maiden. When God had created the world, men multiplied. There were then towns and hamlets and gardens and fields. So one day a band of angels came to the Lord and said: "O Lord, let us see the world which we now see only from afar. Grant us in thy infinite mercy that we may go down and see it more closely." And the Lord in his infinite love granted their request, although he who knows everything knew what would happen to them hereafter. And the angels came down and mixed with the men and women and rejoiced at everything they saw. After a time God Almighty came down to them and told them that the time for their return to heaven had come. The angels gathered together in a joyful band and went up to heaven. But there was one angel who did not share in their joy. He walked sadly and alone. God asked every one of the angels what they had seen. And one told him of the flowers and their sweet smell, and another one told of the fruit and a third of the singing birds. Everyone had a pleasant tale to tell. When the turn came of that angel who was walking sadly in that joyful company, the Lord asked him whether he had anything to tell, and whether he would like to return to heaven as his companions did, to which he replied that he would prefer to remain on earth, for he would not like to go back to heaven. And the good God asked him why he was so sad and why he would prefer to remain in this world. The angel hesitated for a while, and then he said that he had looked too far into the eyes of a girl, eyes which were as the blue of heaven, and he could not bear to go away from her. And the Lord asked who she was, and the angel replied, "A shepherdess feeding her flock on a mountain." And the Lord asked him, "Hast thou spoken to her?" and he said, "I could not forbear doing so." And the Lord asked him, "What didst thou tell her?" and he replied, "I said I would forego my angelic station rather than leave her." The Lord, who had up till then looked very young, suddenly turned very old and careworn, and, after looking at him for a long time, walked on slowly and silently with the band of angels. When they reached the Gates of Heaven the Lord stopped short and, turning to the angels, said: "You can no longer enter the heavenly abode. You are bringing tidings of the ways of the world which must not be heard by the other angels. And as you liked the world, you shall continue to look at the soul's doings." Thereupon the Lord changed the angels and made them into stars, which he scattered all over the heavens, and from there they smile joyfully and kindly upon the earth. But the angel who wished to return did not turn into a pleasant, twinkling little star. He turned into a fiery star that, always blazing and unsteady, looked angrily at the other stars. At last the Lord, fearing that there would be strife between them, cast the red star down to the earth, and it came down on the meadow where the shepherdess was; it came down as a shower over the whole field. But the sparks never died out. The glow-worms carry them still. V. WHY DOES THE LITTLE WORM GLOW? The Story of the Devil hurled down from Heaven. Another legend about the origin of the glow-worm is of a similar character. I will discuss later the possible origin, which will lead us to the same remarkable results. The time of separation between the good and the evil angels had come. The good ones gathered to the right, and the evil ones, under the leadership of the devil, gathered to the left. You can imagine what a confusion and uproar there was, for they could not easily disentangle themselves. Whilst that confusion went on, there was a little devil who, after all, did not like parting with the bliss of heaven. So what did he do? He stole away from his own companions and hid himself among the good angels, hoping that, by one way or another, he would get into heaven. But he had not reckoned with St. Peter, who stands at the gate of heaven and examines and searches every one asking leave of entrance. Each angel had to present his pass, duly signed. St. Peter examined the signature, and when he found it correct he allowed the angel to enter heaven. So, one by one, they passed on, until the turn of the little devil came. In vain did he protest that he was a good angel. He had to produce his papers, and when St. Peter came to the end, there was no proper signature. So St. Peter got very angry, and without much ado, got hold of the little devil and cast him down to earth. He came down with such violence that he broke up in millions of luminous sparks, and these are the lights of the glow-worm. VI. WHY DOES THE LITTLE WORM GLOW? The Story of St. Peter and the Cuckoo. The tale of the glow-worm tells us that in olden times the people were better and the earth cleaner than to-day. It was on this account that God's saints used to walk about upon the earth. The saints and the apostles had also their establishments just as we have them now, house, table, cattle, children and everything that appertains to the house of man. The most important of the saints was St. Peter. He used to walk about with God more than any of the others, but, like every Rumanian, he also had his house and all that belongs to it, just as beseems one of God's saints. The tale from our forefathers tells us that, among other things, he also had a stable full of beautiful horses; black of skin like the raven's wing, and quick as the flame, they were eating up the clouds, so fleet were they. In those times, unfortunately, as in our times, besides saints, there were also wicked people, thieves and the like, for the devil has had and will always have his share in this world. But in those times there were only a very few thieves, and they were very much ashamed of their doings. They used to live in forests to which no one else went except evil spirits. To-day--for our sins--the thieves are so numerous that there is not a spot which is free of them. They rob you everywhere; in the very midst of the town and in the open light of day. In those days, there lived a great thief, whose name was Cuckoo. I do not know how it came to pass, but he heard of St. Peter's horses and made up his mind to steal them. One day St. Peter had gone on one of his usual journeys to a distant part of the country. Cuckoo, who had learned of it, came in the night and stole the horses and drove them into the forest. On the morrow, by a mere chance, St. Peter came home from his journey and asked about the horses. They were nowhere to be found. Do what he might, he could not find them; they were gone. But who had taken them, and whither had he gone with them? St. Peter asked God to give him some powerful dogs to go with him to the forest. God gave him the wolves, and from that time they have remained St. Peter's dogs. He went with them into the forest and searched high and low, but all in vain. All through the day they hunted, but could find no trace of the thief or of the horses. Night fell, and it was one of those dark nights in which you can put your finger into your eye and yet not see it. It was blacker and darker than the blackness and darkness of hell. St. Peter did not know which way to turn, and he asked God to perform some miracle for him to light up his way. God heard his prayer, and before one could wipe one's eyes the whole forest was full of glow-worms. St. Peter greatly rejoiced, and by the light of the glow-worms he searched the forest all the night through, but returned home with empty hands. Then St. Peter cursed the thief Cuckoo, that he should be changed into a black, ill-omened bird, and wherever he should find himself he was to call out his name. Since then the cuckoo became a black and accursed bird, and when it sings (calls) at the back of the house or in the courtyard it betokens death. It speaks nothing else, but calls its own name, Cuckoo. The cuckoo is frightened of the glow-worms, and, as soon as he sees them in the forest he stops calling, for he thinks St. Peter is looking out for him to catch him for stealing his horses. At the same time the glow-worms were blessed by St. Peter and made the guides of the wanderers through the forest. They come out about St. Peter's day. Then the cuckoo keeps silence. In these glow-worm stories, much of the apocryphal literature concerning the fall of the angels has been preserved. It is not, however, the pride of Satan that causes his downfall, but it is the love of the earthly woman which causes the angel to fall. The story in this form is found in the Hebrew versions preserved in the Chronicles of Jerahmeel (my ed. London 1899, ch. xxv. p. 52 ff.), and in other kindred books, from which it has passed through the Greek into the Slavonic apocryphal literature. The contest between the devil and angels is, however, not unknown. It is referred to here rather humorously in the story of the little devil who wanted to steal slily into heaven in the rush and is detected by the wily Peter. It is also referred to in the Dragon-fly story, No. 14. Curiously enough, very little of it seems to have been preserved in Slavonic literature. In Albanian literature a faint trace is recorded by Hahn (ii. No. 107), where the connection with the Wolf story is entirely missing, and therefore inexplicable there. But the fragmentary Albanian tale is fully set out here in the Rumanian version about the creation of the wolf, Nos. 7, 8, 9. VII. WHY IS THE WOLF FEROCIOUS? The Story of God, St. Peter and the Devil. Once upon a time God was walking with St. Peter. On the way they met a dog who came close to them and frolicked round them, and God stroked the animal. St. Peter looked at God questioningly, and God said, "I know what is in thy mind, but since thou art he who keeps the key of heaven it is meet that thou shouldst know everything, and I will therefore tell thee the story of the dog and the wolf, for thou must know whom to let into heaven and whom to shut out. Thou seest, Peter, what that brother of mine--" "You mean the devil?" interposed St. Peter. "Yes," said God, "I mean him. You see what he has done to me with Adam and Eve, and how he made me drive them out of Paradise. What was I to do? When the poor man was starving I had to help him, so I gave him the sheep to feed him and to clothe him. But dost thou think the devil will give them peace?--no, not he!" "Yes," said Peter, "all very well, but what about the dog? I know all that about Adam and Eve." "Do not be in such a hurry," replied God, "I will tell thee everything; bide thy time." "Now, where was I? It was when I made the sheep, and the devil then must again try and do something to hurt Adam, so he is now making the wolf, who will destroy the sheep and bring Adam and Eve to grief. For that reason I have made the dog, and he will drive the wolf away and protect the flocks of sheep, and will be friendly to man, whose property he will guard with faithfulness." St. Peter said, "I know that in thy goodness thou art going again to help the devil, as thou hast done aforetime." The devil had made many things aforetime, but could not give them life or movement, and it was always God who helped and completed the work. Thus the devil made a car, but built it inside the house, and did not know how to take it out and use it until God widened the door and took it out, and as the devil was pulling away at it he broke the hind wheels, so God took the first part of the car and put it in the heavens, and it forms the constellation known as the Great Bear (in Rumanian, the Great Car). Then the devil made the mill, but he could not start it, so God did. Then he made a house, but put no light into it, so God had to make the windows. Then the devil made a fire, but did not know how to kindle it. He was now working away at moulding the wolf from clay. He worked so hard that the perspiration ran down his face. Scratching his head, he pulled out three hairs, but would not throw anything away--they were much too precious--so he stuck them in the head of the wolf between the eyes. When he thought he had finished, he turned to God and said, "See what I have done." "Yes," replied God, "I see, but what is it?" "Thou shalt know more about it soon," replied the devil; and, turning to the wolf, which lay there lifeless, he said, "Up, wolf, and go for him." But the wolf never stirred. Then God turned to St. Peter and said, "Just wait and see how I will pay him out," and, waving his hand over the wolf, he said, "Up, wolf, and go for the devil." The devil can run fast, but never ran faster than on that day when the wolf jumped up and ran after him. In running he jumped into the lake. He dipped under the waters and saved himself from the fangs of the wolf. And ever since that time, the wolf has power over the devil: when he catches him, he eats him up. All the year round the devils are hiding in pools and bogs, but, from the night of St. Basil (1st January) until the Feast of Epiphany, the waters are holy, being sanctified through the Baptism. The devil can no longer stay in the water, and he must get on to the land, where the wolf lies in wait for him, and woe unto the devils who get too near the wolf. When God and St. Peter saw the flight of the devil, they laughed until the tears ran down their cheeks. Then God turned to St. Peter and said to him, "I give these wolves now into thy care." Poor St. Peter trembled from head to foot when he heard the charge that was given to him, but God reassured him and said, "Never fear, Peter, they will not harm thee; on the contrary, they will follow thee and listen to thy command, as if they were friendly dogs." And so it has remained. Once every year, on the day of the Feast of St. Peter, in the winter-time, all the wolves come together to an appointed place to meet St. Peter. Thither he comes with a huge book in his hand, in which are written the names of all the persons who had given themselves over to the devil, and he tells the wolves whom they are to eat. The three hairs which the devil had put on the wolf are of a green colour, and make the wolf look ferocious, for they are the devil's hairs, and it is from them that the devil's fire got into the wolves' eyes, which are lit up by it. VIII. WHY DO THE EYES OF THE WOLF GLOW AND HIS HAIR BRISTLE? The Story of the Wolf, God and the Devil. When God had finished the creation of the world, and had made all the good animals and beasts, the devil thought he would also make some creatures. He took some of the clay and made the wolf. When he had finished God came to see what he had done. When he saw the brute he asked the devil what it was. "Ho, thou wilt soon see what it is. Up, wolf, and go for him." But the wolf did not stir. There he lay where the devil had fashioned him. When the devil saw that the wolf did not move, that there was no life in him, he turned to God and said: "Just make him go." And God said, "Very well." But before he made him go, he chipped the wolf about, and moulded him and fashioned him a bit better than the devil had done. Out of these chippings came the snakes and the toads. When he had finished shaping him, God cried: "Up, wolf, and go for him." Up jumped the wolf and went for the devil, who got so frightened that he ran away as fast as his feet would carry him. When the devil saw that the wolf was running him close he pulled out three hairs from his body and threw them behind him on to the wolf. The wolf, who up to that time was hairless and smooth, was suddenly covered with thick bristles, which, in one way or another, were to prevent him from running so fast after the devil. It is for that reason that the wolf has such thick bristles, and his eyes glisten in the dark. They are the hair of the devil and the sparks which have got into him through the devil's hair. And since that time when he hears the wolves howling the devil takes to his heels, lest they catch him as God commanded them to do. Polish, Lettish and other Slavonic variations of the legend concerning the creation of the wolf by the devil are given by Dähnhardt (l.c. pp. 147 ff.), yet none so full as the Rumanian version. According to one, the devil had made the wolf so as to have a creature of his own. But he endeavoured in vain to call his creature to life, for he would persistently say to it, "Arise, for I have made thee." Only, however, when he whispered into his ear, "Arise, God has made thee," did the wolf spring to his feet. Then he attacked the devil, who ran away and escaped with difficulty. IX. WHY DOES THE WOLF RUN AFTER THE DEVIL? The Story of God, the Devil and the Stone. According to a curious Rumanian version from Transylvania (in Archiv. f. Siebenburg Landeskunde, 23, pp. 4-8, abbreviated by Dähnhardt, pp. 152-3), the devil went to God and said to him, "O Lord, thou hast created man and so many other creatures, but thou hast not yet created the wolf." And God replied, "Very well," and, showing him a huge boulder near a forest, told him to go and say to the stone, "Devil, eat the stone." The devil went and said, "Stone, eat the wolf." The boulder did not move. The devil went to God and said, "The stone does not move." "What didst thou say?" "Stone, eat the wolf." "But thou must say, 'Devil, eat the stone.'" The devil went again to the stone and said, "Stone, eat the devil." Whereupon the stone moved and ate the devil, and in its place there stood a wolf with the face of the devil. Since then there are no more devils in the world, but wolves too many. This story, as here abbreviated, is undoubtedly corrupted. The real form must have been at the beginning, "Stone, eat the devil," but the devil changed it into, "Devil, eat the stone," until he spoke exactly as he was told, and the stone turned into a wolf. The wolf is dreaded as the most savage beast, and could therefore only be conceived by the popular imagination as the creation of the devil. In the northern mythology there occurs the wolf Fenrir, whose father is Loki, the God of Fire, who will play such a decisive rôle at Doomsday. Hahn (No. 105) contains the following version: After the creation of man, the devil boasted that he could create something better. God allowed him to do so. He took some clay and moulded it and made the wolf. Then God said to him, "Give him life, as I have done." The devil started blowing into the wolf until he got red and blue in the face, but all in vain. Then God took a cane and smote the wolf on his back, and that is why the back of the wolf looks broken in the middle, and he said, "Creature, eat thy maker." Up jumped the wolf and ate the devil. (Cf. Grimm, 148.) X. WHY THE GOAT'S KNEES ARE BARE. The Story of God, the Fire and the Devil. In the beginning the goats had wings, and used to fly about eating up the tops of the trees. They did it so thoroughly that they left no leaf or bud, and never allowed a tree to grow up. When God saw what mischief they were doing, and how they were destroying all the trees, he cursed them, and, taking away their wings, he said that henceforth they should only be able to climb up crooked trees. And so they do. When they came down upon earth, finding themselves without wings, they went and made a pact with the devil, that they should henceforth help one another. The devil willingly entered into an agreement with them. It so happened that the devil's fire went out, and he was not able to rekindle it himself, so he sent the two goats to God to steal the fire from him. God had lit his fire, he had put the tripod over the fire, and had hung on it the bowl to cook his food in. Then he sat down quietly, watching the wood crackle and burn up. When the goats came they started a conversation with God, speaking of this and speaking of that, so that God should not see that they had come for the purpose of stealing fire. When they saw they could not get on, they decided to make a rush upon the fire, and to snatch a brand from it. So they ran towards the tripod trying to snatch the fire. God, who knew what they were bent upon, took the ladle which was sticking in the food, and with the hot stuff on it he smote the goats on their knees. The goats started running, and they shrieked from the pain of the burning food on their knees, which burned the skin so that all the hair fell out, and from that time the goats have no hair on their knees, and the devil's beasts they have remained to this very day. In other South-Slavonian versions (Dähnhardt, i. 142 f.) it is the Evil One who invents the fire, and God is anxious to obtain it from him in order to give it to mankind. The Evil One had deprived them of it. God sends St. Peter to the Evil One with an iron rod in his hands. This he was to poke in the fire until it got white hot; then he was to touch some wood and the fire would leap up. Pursued by the Evil One, who perceived the ruse, St. Peter struck the flint before the rod had got cold, and thus got the spark inside the flint. Thus it is that sparks fly when the flint is struck by iron. As for the goats, the following variants and parallels are of interest: According to an Armenian legend of Transylvania (Dähnhardt, 154; Wlislocki, 12), the goat is the very work of the Evil One. Jealous of God, who has made all the creatures, he boasted that he also would make a creature of his own. When he saw how God fashioned the lamb, one of the last of God's creatures, he set to work to make an animal in the likeness of the lamb. So he made a goat. But he wanted to make it more beautiful, so he added a beard and planted some pointed horns on its head. Then he asked God to give life to his creation. God did so, and thus made for man two new animals, the good, useful and meek lamb, and the mischievous goat. God then took a vase, in which he had put the intelligence of the animals, and, finding in it only a few drops of the liquid at the bottom of the vase, he said to the devil that he must be careful in the use of these drops. So he dropped a few on the head of the lamb, but when he was going to pour some on that of the goat the devil shook the vase, and thus many more drops fell on the head of the goat than on that of the lamb. The devil laughed and said, "My creature is cleverer than thine." To which God replied, "That may be, but thy creature shall play the fool and live on scanty food." In a Polish version (Dähnhardt, i. 162), the goat is made by the devil almost in the same manner as he made the wolf in the tales Nos. 8, 9. And the goat comes to life only when, after saying "get up," he whispers, "by the power of God." When the goat rises, the devil in his fury gets hold of its tail and pulls it off; and ever since the goats have had no tails. In the South-Slavonic tale, curiously enough, the sheep take the place of the goat and are made by the devil, which, in the light of the above version, is due to some confusion made by the story-teller between the ram and the goat. (Krauss, Sud-slav. Sagen, Leipzig 1883, No. 29, p. 109.) In a modern Greek legend, the devil made the goat, but he made the knees stiff, and the goats perished from hunger. One day Christ was walking upon earth, and he met the devil, who showed him the goats, and said to him: "I have also made something, but I cannot make it sit down; its knees are so stiff; so the goats die off." Whereupon Christ took his seal and placed it upon the goats' knees. Afterwards they could easily bend them. Hence the sign of the seal upon the goats' knees. (Politis, No. 842; Dähnhardt, pp. 153-4.) In these two tales we have peculiar variants to some of the incidents in the Rumanian version, only so far as the connection of the goat with the Evil One and the bareness of the goats' knees are concerned, though the explanation is totally different from--nay, opposite to--that given in the Rumanian version, where the bareness is the sign of God's punishment of the goats. A German tale (Grimm, 148) tells us: God made all the animals, even the wolves, which were his dogs. The devil made the goats, which destroyed the vines, the young trees, etc. The wolves then went and killed the goats, and God offered to pay the devil the price of his destroyed creatures, but only when all the oaks should lose their leaves. But the devil was told that one oak in Constantinople keeps its leaves all the year. He went in search of it for six months, and could not find it. When he returned, the other oaks had got their leaves again, and he got nothing. He poked out the eyes of the goats, and put his own in instead, and therefore they have the devil's eyes, and so the devil sometimes assumes their form. These stories of the goat and the devil are probably one chapter of the larger and yet unwritten book on the goat-devil in popular beliefs and customs. It must suffice merely to mention the "scape-goat," the goat-demons (seirim of the Bible), the Greek fauns and satyrs. Satan, worshipped under the guise of a goat in the alleged orgies of the witches, is found in the record of the Inquisition in medieval accusations against the heretics. Is not the devil himself depicted in medieval imagery with the cloven hoof--of the goat and with the horns of the goat? The why and wherefore is another story. It is not here and now the place to enter upon it. The mischievous character of the goat, the amorous inclinations, the offensive smell, may to a certain extent have contributed later on to justify this equation of goat and devil, but there must be some other reason for making the goat, if not a type, at least the friend of Satan. XI. WHY DID NOAH GET DRUNK? The Story of the Goat, Noah and the Vine. It is said that the vine did not exist before the flood, and of course, therefore, there was no wine. The giants, whatever mischief they may have done, and however wicked may have been their ways, at any rate were never drunk. They only drank water, which is the eternal beverage for man and beast. When the flood came the giants and all the living creatures, except those whom Noah saved in the ark, were destroyed. When the flood had subsided, the animals went out, spread themselves over the earth, and multiplied very quickly. Thus from the few head of cattle, sheep and goats there grew up soon a large number, and Noah was able to live by his cattle and his goats. Of all these animals, Noah loved the goats best, especially when he saw them climbing about everywhere up the trees and up the rocks, going freely in all directions. One day Noah saw that one of the he-goats left the rest alone and went his own way, and when the evening came he came down dancing and jumping, quite jolly; this he repeated many days, and every evening he came home jumping and dancing, and frolicking like a madman. Noah, anxious to find out what was the reason of this peculiar behaviour of the goat, followed him quietly one day, and he found out what it was. There, on one of the hillsides, he saw a tree with very huge grapes, each one as big as a bucket. The goat went straight to these and ate his fill. Getting drunk, he laid himself down to sleep. When he woke up he started the game again, and so until the evening, when he returned home quite jolly. Old Noah was greatly surprised at this sight, for he had never seen before any grapes; and so, climbing up as best he could, he plucked a bunch in order to take it home and show his family. On his way home the heat grew unbearable, and he got very thirsty. He turned to the right, he turned to the left; nowhere a drop of water to be seen. I do not know what he thought; but, having the grapes in his hand, he put one in his mouth, and sucked at it. He found the juice very sweet and refreshing, so he took the other grapes and squeezed the juice into his mouth. Not satisfied with that, as his thirst was not yet quenched, he went back to the vine tree, and taking a whole cluster, he sucked it dry. When he returned, he felt somehow that his head had got rather heavier than usual, and his legs, on the contrary, were much lighter than before. Altogether he felt in a merry mood, and though old and advanced in years, he started singing a song. Getting near his house, the goat overtook him, frolicking and jumping as it had done every day. What should enter Noah's head but to follow the example of the goat, frolicking and jumping, and in that state of high merriment both reached the house. When Noah got near the house, he looked at himself, and he could not make out what had happened to him, for he had lost almost all his clothes. They had fallen off him on the way. He could not get into the house, but, dropping down in front of it, he fell fast asleep. There his sons found him, and thinking that he was dangerously ill, put him on his bed and began wailing over him, for they were sure he was at death's door. The next morning, to their astonishment, he woke hale and hearty, and there and then he told them all about the goat and the vine and the grape and the sweet juice. Then Noah gave orders that the vine should be taken from the hills and planted in his garden. Before he did so, he killed the goat and poured the blood of it on to the roots in remembrance of the fact that it was through the goat that he discovered the vine. Thus far the Rumanian story, which, however, requires completion. As far as it goes it agrees almost verbatim with a story found in a very ancient Hebrew collection of legends (Midrash Abkhir); the sequel there is as follows: When Noah started planting the vine, the devil came and asked to be allowed to take a part in it. Noah willingly agreed. After killing the goat, the devil brought a lion, whose blood was also used to water the roots of the vine, and finally brought a swine, and his blood was also poured over the roots of the vine. For this reason it comes to pass that, when a man drinks a little wine he gets merry and jumps and frolics like a young kid; and if he drinks a little more, he becomes hot and roars like the lion; and his last stage is reached when he wallows in the mire like the pig, for he has drunk the blood of all of them. Here, then, we have a tale which shows how a man can become a beast without changing his human form, not like all the other tales, in which he remains a bird or a beetle to the end of his days. A peculiar transformation of this legend is found in the following variant, in which the bones of the animals are substituted for their blood. The whole setting is different from the more primitive type preserved in the Rumanian. When Saint Dionysios was still young, he once made a journey through Greece, in order to go to Naxia (the isle of Naxos), but the way being very long, he got tired and sat down on a stone to rest. While he was sitting, and looking down in front of himself, he saw at his feet a little plant sprouting from the earth, which seemed to him so beautiful that he resolved at once to take it with him and to plant it. He took the plant out of the ground and carried it away; but, as the sun was very hot just then, he feared that it might dry up before his arrival in Naxia. Then he found the small bone of a bird, and put the plant into it and went on. In his holy hand, however, the plant grew so quickly that it peeped forth from both sides of the bone. Then he again feared that it would dry up, and thought of a remedy. He found the bone of a lion, which was thicker than the bird's bone, and he put the bird's bone, together with the plant, into the bone of the lion. But the plant quickly grew, even out of the lion's bone. Then he found the bone of a donkey, which was still thicker, and he put the plant, together with the bird's and lion's bones, into the donkey's bone, and so he came to Naxia. When he was planting it, he saw that the roots had wound thickly round the bones of the bird, the lion and the donkey; and, as he could not take it out without injuring the roots, he planted it in the ground as it was, and it quickly grew up and produced, to his delight, the finest grapes, from which he made the first wine, which he gave to men to drink. But what a wonder did he see now! When men drank of it, they sang in the beginning like merry little birds; drinking more of it, they became strong as lions; and drinking still more, they became stupid like donkeys. (Hahn, Albn. Märchen, ii. 76; v. also Thumb, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library, Manchester, vol. ii. No. 1, Oct. 1914, p. 38 and note 50). I add here a Christmas carol about the shepherd and the sheep, for it seems that at the basis of it lies the idea of God giving a special blessing to the sheep. It is a second stage after the idea of creation of the sheep by God. XII. GOD AND THE LAMB. A Christmas Carol. On the flowery mountain, O Lord, good Lord, Nica feeds his flock. He feeds them, He drives them, He touches the foremost, He gathers the hindmost, And leads them into the pasture. But where has he fixed the pasture? On the top of the mountains, Under the yellow plane tree. A summer breeze is blowing, Shaking the leaves, And scattering them over the plain. The sheep grew excited, And they made a great noise. They bleated, and the bleating reached the heaven and the earth. The Holy God heard them, And he came down to them, And thus he spake with his mouth: "Halloo, brave Nica, whose are these sheep, Which bleat so beautifully, So beautifully and devoutly?" Nica the brave replied: "O dear merciful God, As thou hast come and askest me, I will answer truly To whom these sheep belong: They are thine, As well as mine. I feed them; Thou guardest them. I milk them; Thou multipliest them. I shear them; Thou makest them grow." The good God replied And said to Nica the brave: "May they be given to thee From me as a gift-- From a good father To a clever son-- For thou art sweet of tongue. But thou shalt give me, On St. John's day, Two lambs; On St. George's day One suckling lamb; And on Ascension day A cake of cheese." Nica the brave May live in health, He and his brothers And his parents. May God keep you all. This refers no doubt to the creation of the sheep by God--as mentioned before--and the manner in which the sheep were expected to help Adam after the fall. (v. Wolf Story No. 7.) XIII. THE HART AND THE MAKING OF THE WORLD. A Christmas Carol. Slowly, slowly, O Lord, The little river Olt Has grown big, So big That the borders cannot be seen. But what is coming Down the Olt? Tall pines And dry fir trees. Among the pines, Among the fir trees, A three-year-old stag Is swimming. The stag swims, And lifts up its horns. On the top of his horns A cradle is hanging and swinging, A green cradle made of silk, Woven in six strands. But who sits in the cradle? The maiden, the young girl, With her tresses hanging down the back, Shining Like the holy sun. She sits and sews, And embroiders A collar for her father, A kerchief for her brother. But she stops and does not sew, Nor does her mouth keep quiet, For she is singing: "Slowly, slowly, Old stag, Slowly, slowly be thou swimming. Do not hinder my work. And the waves are rising; They might wash me off and carry me off thy horns. Slowly, slowly, Dear old stag, For I have three brothers at court, Where they learn many things. All the three are noted hunters, And good falconers. They will discover thee, And run after me. With their falcons they will pursue thee. With their dogs they will worry thee. With their lances they will prick thee. Slowly, slowly, Dear old stag-- For if my brothers find thee, They will make my wedding feast With thy poor flesh. With thy bones They will build My little house. With thy skin They will cover My little home. With thy blood They will paint My little courts. And with thy head They will celebrate The holy feast. They will place it Over the gate, At the entrance of the little garden. Of thy hoofs They will make Crystal cups, Out of which Nobles drink. On rare occasions-- On Christmas day and Epiphany-- When the whole world rejoices, I drink to the health of these houses For many years. The mythical stag carrying on his horns a girl who is like the sun is similar to the bull of Mithras and to the bull in the Avesta, out of which the world was created. The stag provides here all the elements for the building of a house and for the merriment of the nobles. Each part of its body is accounted for. XIV. WHY IS THE FLY CALLED THE DEVIL'S HORSE? The Fight of St. George and the Devil. In Rumania, the dragon-fly is known as the devil's horse or perhaps the dragon's horse. It is also known as St. George's horse. The following legends explain this peculiar name. We are told that in olden times there was continual strife between God and the devil. God, however, who is peacefully inclined, let the devil play his game as long as possible. He thought that perhaps after some time the devil might become better behaved. But what can you expect of the devil? He is what he is, and neither good nor bad treatment will change him. And so it proved even to God. He waited a very long time to see him quiet down and become more satisfied. But no sooner had God granted him one thing, than the devil asked for another, and so he went on asking continually. When at last God saw that nothing could be done with Satan, he armed his host of angels and gave each one a beautiful horse to ride on. One morning, at early dawn, they all mounted their horses and, led by St. George, who was riding at the head of the host, they started the fight with the devil. After a time St. George--who rode a horse, which was like unto none of the others, wondrously beautiful--felt suddenly that his horse was backing instead of going ahead. So St. George found himself involved among his own host, and some other horses following his example, started moving backwards and hitting those who were riding behind them. He then suddenly heard the voice of God telling him to dismount, for his horse had been bewitched by the devil. "If that is the case," said St. George, "then be it the devil's own," and he let it go. And so it happened. Scarcely had it made three steps when it was changed into a flying insect, which we, upon this earth, call the devil's horse (libellula depressa). A similar legend must have been current in West Europe and in England, as otherwise the English name of Dragon-fly could not be explained. At the root of it there must be some legend of St. George and the Dragon, in addition to the fight between the hosts of heaven and the army of Satan. This part must have entirely dropped out, and the knowledge and recollection of the part which St. George played was connected either with the worm, i.e. dragon probably transformed into an insect, or the horse of St. George, believed to have been a winged horse. To us here, however, the first part of the legend is of the utmost interest, for it is nothing less than the Biblical legend of the rebellion of Satan which led to the combat and to the fall. Satan had lost Paradise, and ever since then he had been yearning for the light of Paradise, either by attempting to steal the heavenly fire, as in the Goat stories, or by stealing the sun and moon as in some of the Christmas carols. Thereby he entered into a contest with the heavenly power. Though these variants do not contain much of the legendary fauna, they form an important part in the mythological conception which lies at the root of many of these creation-tales and legends. XV. THE DEVIL STEALING THE SUN. A Christmas Carol. In the glory of the heavens, On the outskirts of Paradise, Close to the throne of God-- The throne of Judgment-- Where the whole world gathers, Tables are decked, And the saints sit round the table. John St. John, Ilie St. Ilie, Peter St. Peter, With all the other saints, Are feasting joyously. The Lord came then to the table, Sat down at the table, Blessed the bread, And began To eat. They were eating, Or not eating, For on a sudden They lifted their eyes, And whom should they see from afar? The archangel Gabriel And the angel Michael, Who were coming, always coming, Drawing nearer and nearer, and then they reached the table. They bent their knees before the Lord, Bent their knees and prayed. And said the following: "Dost thou know, O Lord, or dost thou not know, What has happened in Paradise? What we have seen and what has been done? No sooner had St. Peter gone, And Ilie followed suit, And St. John had left us, When the heathen gods, realising it, Stormed Paradise, Entered inside, Robbed it and Have taken away the crown of Paradise. They have taken the moon, With its light. They have taken the twilight, With its glimmer. They have taken the stars, With their flowers. They have taken the sun, With its treasures. The heathen gods have further taken away The throne of judgment, Before which the whole world must appear. They have carried it all away into hell. Paradise is darkened, Whilst hell is lit up. We have fought as much as we could fight, But they overpowered us. They refuse to give up the spoil. We have now come to tell you, To bring our prayer as a sacrifice, That you may render us help, And come back with us to Paradise." When the Lord heard it, He made a sign to the saints, And turned his eyes upon the angels, And went with them To bear them company. First St. Ilie, Who is the most powerful saint; And second to him St. Peter, To smite the heathen gods with drought. They followed him. They started, John baptising, St. Ilie striking with his lightning flashes, St. Peter drenching with rains and downpours. When they arrived at hell St. Ilie struck with his lightning; St. Peter cursed them; St. John baptised them. The idols were seized with trembling. They fell on their knees, And submitted to St. John. The archangel Gabriel, Together with the angel Michael, Entered hell, Took everything In their arms, And brought them back to Paradise. Holy moon with its light, The twilight With its rays, The stars With their flowers, The sun With its treasures, The throne of judgment, Before which all men must appear, They brought them back to Paradise, And Paradise again shone brightly. Hell was darkened. They turned to the Lord, And prayed: "May, O Lord, thy will And thy kingdom last forever. To your health for many years to come." This carol is full of apocryphal reminiscences and mythical elements. The contest between Satan and God, and between the evil and good powers is here described under the form of Satan, stealing the sun from heaven and plunging the world into darkness, but the angels, with the prophet Ilie (Elijah) at their head, are able to defeat the machinations of Satan, and to restore the sun to Paradise. Cf. among others the English poem, "The Harrowing of Hell," and the literature connected with the Gospel of Nicodemus. Wesselofsky has studied the transformation of the prophet Elijah into the Ilie of the popular faith, who rides the heavens with a thunderbolt in his hands, and smites the devil wherever he finds him. It is a combination of the prophet Elijah with a modified form of the Greek Helias. The archangels Gabriel and Michael are here in their proper place, whilst in the story of the dragon-fly they have been supplanted by St. George. We shall find the same saint disguised as a knight and almost forgotten as a saint in the legend of the Fly of Kolumbatsh, No. 21. XVI. WHY IS IT CALLED THE BULL-FLY? The Story of God, the Sun and the Bulls. In those days when God used to walk through fields and lanes carrying his knapsack on his back and feeding his herds and flocks, his oxen and cows, his sheep and goats, it is told that, once upon a time, feeling very tired, he went to sleep with his head upon a hillock of earth. He slept for a long while, and woke up very late. Before lying down, he told the older and stronger oxen to take care to behave themselves well, and also to look after the younger ones, so that there should not be any fight or trouble among them. But no sooner had he closed his eyes, when such a shouting and bellowing was started that one might think that the hills were falling and the earth was breaking up. The Lord sprang upon his feet as if he had been touched by fire, for the holy sun had come to him, and waking him up had said:--"O Lord, these creatures of yours have bellowed all night long so loud and so vigorously that you might have thought that they intended driving me away from the face of the earth. Look and see what they have done to me. They have fought against me so long that they have well-nigh torn my clothes into shreds and tatters, and with great difficulty I saved myself behind that flower-bed." "What beetles are you speaking of?" asked the Lord. "I mean your oxen which have behaved so badly. They are not worthy to be anything else but horned beetles." "Let it be so! But I must first look into the matter, and if I find them guilty, I will punish them just as you wish." And as the Lord had said, so he did. For, finding them guilty, he drove them away into the forest. There they climbed up the oak-trees, and suddenly they all became horned beetles, bull-flies, with larger and smaller horns, viz. the cows became cow-flies with smaller horns and the oxen bull-flies with larger horns, through God's punishment. That is why they are called the Lord's bulls and cows (Lucanus cervus). According to another legend, the bull-flies were originally the angels who refused to help St. Elias in fastening the felloes to his fiery chariot. Therefore their mouths have been closed as with a vice, for ever, so that they be no longer able to speak, and that is why they are also called wheelwrights. The horns of these bull-flies are used by women, who tie them into their hair against the evil eye. The sharp points of these horns have the same magical properties as the sharp points of the coral, or of the horns, fingers, etc., which figure so largely in the magical charms and amulets against the workings of the evil eye. XVII. WHY IS THE SAW-FLY RED? The Story of Ileana, Voinic and the Archangel Gabriel. The following legend is told of this little beetle. I do not know how long ago it was that Ileana Cosinziana (Ileana the fay) walked about with her young, beautiful, and brave hero (Voinic inflorit), and, singing with a loud voice, they filled mountain and valleys with their music. It must have been long ago, for at that time the archangel Gabriel also walked the earth in the form of a very old man, leaning on iron crutches. He went about warning the people that God would send upon them a new flood of foreign tongues and wild nations, if they would not stop their quarrels and put an end to their curses. After having travelled through many countries and empires, St. Gabriel found himself one day at the top of a cliff, so high that it made your head turn when you looked down. There he met Ileana Cosinziana, who was weeping and singing a doleful tune. With her was Voinic inflorit, whom she had met in the land of the fairies, just as God makes men meet in their journeys. "How far art thou going?" asked Voinic, seeing the old man. "Much farther than thou wilt go," replied the archangel Gabriel. The young man looked up, feeling wroth with the answer. And quite naturally so, when he heard a very old man boasting that he was going much farther than he. Was he not a young sturdy man, and more likely to walk ever so much further than a bent-down old fellow grey of hair? "O old man, you must take me for a weakling, when you say that I cannot walk as far as you do." "Young man, your sweet, strong voice will not be heard any more a year hence." "And why?" "Because such is the will of God." "Yes, that might be so if you were the brother of Christ," replied the young man, sneering. "I may not be the brother of Christ, but that of St. Peter I may well be. If you do not believe me, let us enter a wager that a year hence we will meet here again. But you will be weak and broken, much more so than you think me to be now." "Well, be it so, but woe betide thee if I win the wager." "So it shall be." And wishing one another good-bye, each went his own way, bent on winning the wager. "Who was that daring old man?" asked the Ileana; "it seems to me that he is not so old as his grey hair betokens. He is a valiant man. God knows who he may be, but one thing is certain, he is not an old man." "How did you know it?" "Well, when he put out his hand, he gripped mine with so much strength that he very nigh burnt my soul out of me with the fire of his hand." When the young Voinic heard it, he got so angry that he was more like a wild beast than a human being, and being overpowered by his fury, got hold of her by the hair of her head and hurled her down the cliff so that she broke into a thousand pieces. He then began to run away so fast that the earth seemed to fly away under his feet. And thus he continued running through many lands and many countries, until the year had come round when he was to meet the old man again. On the last day of the year, Voinic remembered the wager, and looking into the water at the bottom of a well, he saw himself much weaker and older than the old man had looked a year ago. In his anger he threw himself into the well. But, in accordance with the will of God, the water would not keep him, and cast him out. He had got very old indeed, for the thoughts and worries had cut deep furrows into his face; his hair from black, turned white as the snow. This was because in his fury and in an unlucky hour he had killed his beloved Ileana by throwing her down the cliff. The archangel Gabriel, who knew all that had happened, changed into a young man beautiful as the sun, valiant as a king and brave as a lion. He was mounted on a charger black as the night and swift as the wind. Thus arrayed, he came to the cliff where they had arranged to meet. Voinic noticed that against his will he had also come to that spot. How great then was his fright when, instead of a decrepit old man, he found there so valiant a knight. "Good morning, Voinic." "All hail! I am no longer a hero full of sap; I am now an old weak man." "He, he, seest thou now that what I had told thee has come to pass? I have grown young and thou hast grown old. So it is, for who can alter the will of God? He can do what he likes, and man must submit to his decrees. So it is, indeed, but how now about our wager? Where is that beautiful maiden of thine, in whom thou didst believe more than in God?" "She died soon after we met." "True, she is dead, for thou, O wretch, hast killed her." "I assuredly did not; she died by the will of God." "Oh no, thou hast thrown her down the cliff. I know it well, for I have seen the rut on the cliff she fell down." "That is not true, for I have buried her with the assistance of the priest of the next village. If thou dost not believe, come with me, and I will show thee the grave." "This is an infamous lie. Thou hast murdered her. Thou come and I will show thee her real grave and her blood." And, getting hold of him, he took him down and showed him a place which seemed covered with red blood. But it was no blood. It was a vast number of small red beetles. "Out of the blood of Ileana, seest thou, have come these little flies." When Voinic heard this, he was seized with such a great fright that he became changed from the old bent man that he was into a small black insect, which unto this very day cries for his lost beloved Ileana. The people call it the little cricket, or rather the bull or cow of the Lord (Lygaeus equestris). The little red beetles which come out of the blood of Ileana they also call Easter beetle, for it was on Easter Day that she was thrown down the cliff. XVIII. WHY DOES THE SAW-FLY LIVE IN STABLES? The Story of St. Mary and the Miserly Farmer. Another legend of a totally different character is also told of this little beetle. When the Holy Mother gave birth to Jesus, she had not enough milk in her breasts to suckle the child. Next to her on the right lived a very rich farmer who had a large number of cows. So the mother Mary sent to him, and asked him to give her a little milk, as much as was necessary to feed her little baby. But rich farmers are, as a rule, very stingy. So he replied, "I am not going to give my good milk to a witch to bewitch my cows and take away their gift." The Holy Mother, on hearing his words, got very angry, especially when she heard that he had called her a witch. But she kept her counsel, and went to the neighbour on the left, who had only one cow. He was a kind-hearted man, and gave her at once a bowl full of milk. When she left, she blessed him and said: "On the morrow thou shalt not know what to do with the milk," i.e. he would have so much milk that he would not know how to handle it. And so it happened. When, on the next morning, he entered the stables he found them full of beautiful fat kine, from which the milk was running, so rich were they. But the stingy neighbour the Holy Mother cursed, and said: "On the morrow thy stable shall be empty, and in lieu of cows, beetles shall be there." And so also it happened. When he entered the stables the next morning, he found them empty, and instead of the cows, which were no longer there, the stables were full of little red flies with black spots on their backs, crawling up the walls and filling the manger. And that is why they are called the cows and oxen of the Lord. To obtain abundance of milk peasant women in the Bukovina go on a Tuesday evening to a place where there are a number of these insects. The next morning, before sunrise, they go there again and, taking a number of them, bring them home, chop them up with their choppers and, mixing them with the food, give them to the cows to eat. The cows will then yield much milk. XIX. WHY IS THE LADY-BIRD DAINTY? The Story of the Wicked Maiden and the Archangel Michael. In olden times, when the men were not yet so wicked and bad, there was no hell, for the good God saw that it would remain empty, as there would be no one to go there. The people were happy and grateful, and satisfied with whatever God gave them. It did not enter their minds to complain of God's wisdom and love. After a time the people multiplied so much that they could no longer have enough of anything. So they began to quarrel with one another. Those who had nothing, without knowing that they were doing anything wrong, began to demand whatever they wanted from the wealthy ones. They did not know that it was forbidden to take another man's property. For up till then no one knew what sin was. The Allmerciful God, who sees and knows everything, noting that strife and quarrels increased more and more among men, sent his trusty servant, the archangel Michael, to awaken mankind to the sense of sin, and to train them to good deeds. The archangel went among the people, enlightened their minds, and told them all about sin and wrong-doing, and what they had to do in order to avoid sin. That was just the knowledge that the people were lacking; but no sooner did they know what evil was, than, curiously enough, they took to wrong-doing. Jealousy, greed, strife, and murder were born among them. When God saw the obstinacy and perverseness of mankind, he let them go their own way to do whatever they liked, even if they acted against his wishes. In order to punish them, however, he decided not to allow them to get into Paradise. At the edge of the garden he made a deep well; so deep that it was very dark, almost black. He then took a fiery morning star, and cast him into the depth of the well, thus filling it with burning coals. And then he turned every wicked man into that fire so that he might repent. He called that place Hell: and so it has remained to this day. In order that men should know that God knows how to reward them, he at times left the gate of Paradise open, so that everyone, if he liked, could enter into it and see how beautiful it was. He also opened the gates of Hell, so that they might also see the tortures and hear the cries of the wicked. Many people went and looked, and when they looked into Paradise, their hearts swelled with joy; but when they went and looked into Hell, their hearts got as small as a flea on account of the great fright they got, when they saw how severely God punished the sinner. They all repented of their evil ways, all of them, great and small, except one single person, who on no account would repent. This one was a girl as beautiful as an angel, and clever beyond comparison. She was strong, with a fine body, round and sleek as no other, and she had a head so beautiful that you might believe it was a picture. Her long black hair, soft like silk, shone like the feathers of a raven. Her eyes were black and sparkling--she could almost burn you up with her look--her mouth had lips as red as the berries of the field--her cheeks were white and smooth as snow lit up with two blood-red roses. I do not know--by God I do not--where there is anyone who would not have fallen in love with her. God sent the archangel Michael to take her out of this world and put her in Hell, there to repent of her sins of obstinacy and perversity. He went, but when he looked at her, he could not utter a single word. He felt as though he had a knot in his throat when he was to tell her that she must prepare for the journey. For he knew how terrible it is in Hell. So he returned to Heaven without taking the girl with him to throw her into the abysmal depths. When God saw him so sad, he asked him what was the cause of it. "O Lord," said the archangel, "I have fulfilled all thy commands except one, which I could not fulfil; I had pity on the beauty of that girl. She is so beautiful that you cannot help feeling full of pity, and to feel a sweet shiver passing through you when you behold her. If it be possible, O Lord, let her live on for a while, perchance she will repent." "O my son Michael, thou dost not know that thy pity will cause me much trouble and worry. Just look down and see. Since thou hast left her, she has increased the number of the wicked and sinful. For whoever looks at her is seized with lust. Everyone thinks only of her eyes and her face. When I sent thee, she was the only one left who was wicked, for she alone was possessed of pride, obstinacy and perverseness. Now the number has grown." "O, Lord, if it be only possible, do not uproot that example of womankind, for she is beautiful, and it is not likely that another like her will ever be born." "Very well, then, I will let her live on, perchance she will repent and get better; but if she does not grow better at the end of one year, I will send thee again, and then thou wilt throw her down into the depths of Hell." "Well, let thy will be done." And with these words they separated, God going to mend the hinges of the world, and the archangel to teach and to enlighten the mortals. So, going through many countries, walking on foot or riding in a car, when a year had past he came at last again to the house of the beautiful maiden. There was a vast multitude assembled before her house. He pushed his way among the people to see at what they were looking. The beautiful maiden was enticing the people to follow only pleasure and pride. "It is not good," so she spoke, "to believe only in what God and his counsellors tell us. We must do what we think best, for no evil will happen to us." When the archangel Michael heard these words, he grew very furious, and, with a mighty effort, he got near her, so as to seize her and hurl her into the fire of Hell. "Do not carry her to Hell," said the voice of God; "for she might start fresh mischief and wickedness there also, and engender strife: she had better be changed into some insignificant insect." When the archangel heard the command, he got hold of her by the hair of her head, and he whirled her round so many times that she became as small as a speck; and then, throwing her away, she turned into a small red insect with black points on her wings, which was called Bubureaza (Coccinella septempundata). To this very day, when you put her on your finger, she will show you the way you are to go, but it is better for men to do the reverse and go in the opposite direction; for she leads one only to evil. XX. WHY DOES THE GAD-FLY STING THE CATTLE? The Story of God, St. Peter and the Lazy Shepherd. In olden times God and St. Peter used to walk about in the world, to see what was happening, and how the world was going on. And after they had seen what happened in one province, they used to go to another. Once upon a time, after leaving a certain village, they got into a deep and dark forest. Walking along for a while, they lost their way, and did not know how to get out of it. Tired and hungry, they walked on, lost in that thick and gloomy wood, when suddenly before them they saw a field, in which grass and flowers were growing and herds of cattle were feeding. The cowherd lay fast asleep under the shadow of a tree. He could take it easily, for the cattle were not suffering from flies, and were wandering quietly about the field. God and St. Peter rejoiced greatly when they saw a man lying there. They went up to him and woke him, and asked him to tell them the way which would take them out of the forest. The cowherd, being asked by God which was the quickest road, did not even lift up his head to give a polite answer. But lying outstretched on the grass, he merely moved his right leg and, half asleep and lazy as he was, and pointing in one direction, said, "If you wish to get out to the world of men, just go that way and you will get there." Then, turning over on the other side, he again fell asleep. God and St. Peter, resenting the rudeness of the cowherd, said, "Are these, then, thy manners? Very well, thou wilt no longer be lazy from this day onwards. Thy cattle will no longer feed quietly; the gad-fly, which I am sending, will sting them, and they will run like mad whither their feet and their eyes will carry them." And so it happened. The gad-fly came and the cows and oxen suddenly started running like mad in all directions, and so it has remained to this very day. The cowherd, when he saw the cattle running like mad things with their tails in the air, jumped up like one stung to madness, and started running after them to bring them back. But in vain, for the cattle, which had run away as quickly as you strike a spark from the flint, entered into a swamp. After they had thus punished the cowherd, God and St. Peter went on walking without knowing whither they were going. So again, after a long walk in that same forest, they came to another meadow, where a shepherd tended his flock of sheep. But the sheep were running all the time so fast that you could not see their legs. Hither and thither they went, and the shepherd after them, out of breath, and the sweat running down his face, hoping that he might get them together. But the sheep were as if they had been bewitched, so fast did they run. And whilst the shepherd could scarcely keep on his legs, and the sweat was standing on his forehead like beads, God and St. Peter approached him and asked him which was the way they were to go to come back to this world. Although he was dead tired and hot, the shepherd none the less stopped still and, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt, said: "Please, take that way, for if you follow that road, you will soon get to the end of the forest." They took the way he showed them, and soon they found themselves in this world. And God said to his companion: "From this day onward, the flock of this shepherd, who has given us good advice, so courteously, shall no longer suffer from the gad-fly (and the running madness), and they shall only run at times of rain and wind. They will henceforth feed quietly, and the shepherd also will be able to sit down and play his pipe." And from that day on the sheep feed quietly, and the shepherd can tend them in peace and comfort, for the sheep do not suffer from the gad-fly (Hypoderma bovis), whilst the cowherds must weary their legs, as otherwise their cattle would disappear. There is a Macedonian variation: Once upon a time God changed into a very old man. Walking one day in a terrific heat, he met a cowherd and asked him for a drop of water, for he said he would die of thirst. "Die," replied the cowboy, and would neither give him a drop of water nor tell him where to find it. God found afterwards a shepherd hotly pursuing his sheep, and the perspiration running down him. "Give me a drop of water, for I die," said God. "I give you willingly, but my sheep have run away and I do not know how to gather them"; and going to a fountain at the foot of a hill he took some in his fur cap and gave him to drink. God gathered the sheep, and blessed them to be God's flock, who should never henceforth separate on the road or be scattered. Remembering the cowherd, he cursed him and said: "The gad-fly is always to scatter his herd just when the heat is greatest, so that he may run like mad." Therefore the sheep always walk together in flocks, and gather together in hot summer weather in the shade. And for that reason the oxen are driven mad by the fly in the hot season, and they run like mad as if they were ridden by devils. The cowherd has to run after them, and there are but few fountains in Thessaly from which to slacken his thirst. XXI. WHY DOES THE FLY OF KOLUMBATSH POISON THE CATTLE? The Ballad of the Knight and the Dragon. Numerous ballads recount the same story of the origin of the Poison-fly of Kolumbatsh, with slight variations, of which the most complete is the following: High up in the green forest What does appear? High up in the forest of Cerna, At the ford of Rushava, Have gone forth, verily gone forth, From some village nigh, Very early in the morning, Through dew and mist, Three sisters, Beautiful maidens. The elder sister, Dressed sweetly, Fair like a pink flower, Surpassing a fairy, When you espy her breast, White like a lily. The younger sister, Darling Maria, Full of pride In her eyebrows, In her eyes and lashes, And when you look into her eyes, You are like one smitten by the evil eye. The youngest sister, Like unto a dove, Ana Ghirosana, Like the fairy Sanziana, Surpassed them all. She is like the evening star, And the star of morn, The flower of flowers. They played and frolicked, And gathered flowers. They made wreaths, And while they twisted them they sang. Through the forest the singing was heard. Thus they went on, Until, overcome, The youngest lay down, And went to sleep. The elder two, The sisters twain, When night arrived, To their home they turned. They left the youngest behind, Who was fast asleep, Until the dawn appeared, When she called for them. But none heard her, Except the little cuckoo, Beautiful and brave, Who flitted among the trees, And sang with a loud voice. "Dear Cuckoo mine, Listen to me, you brave one! Lead me out into the open, To the road of carriages, That I find my sisters, For I will be unto thee a cousin!" "My sweet one! I do not know Whether I will lead thee into the open or not, For I have many cousins, As many as there are flowers on the mountain!" "Cuckoo, cuckoo, listen, O brave one! Lead me into the open, To the road of cars. I will be a sister unto thee." The cuckoo replied: "No, my child, no, For I have sisters as many As flowers that bloom in spring." "Cuckoo, cuckoo, listen, O brave one! Lead me into the open, That I may find my sisters, For I will be a wife unto thee As long as I live." "O no, for I am not a young man Able to wed. I am only a little bird, And I know not of a beloved one." Then suddenly appeared from a rock The most horrible fright, Gruesome and cruel-- Twisting and crawling across the path-- A terrible dragon. Running after her, He coiled himself round her, Twisted his tail Round her waist; he encircled her. She was seized with terror, And shrieked aloud. The forest resounded. High up the Cerna, Very high up the river, Many a brave has passed, And all were laid low. A valiant Ruman, Ioan Iorgovan, Whose arms were like clubs, Was riding upon a horse, Swift as the eagle, Followed by two little dogs, Keen and quick. He was riding gaily, Walking up the Cerna Quite quickly, His horse prancing, Encouraging his dogs, And waving his lance. He suddenly heard a noise, But he did not understand, However much he strained, Whether it was the voice of a man Or that of a woman. For the waves of the Cerna raged, Sounding loud through the forest. So he turned himself back, And said to the Cerna: "O my clean Cerna, Stop, I pray thee, stop, For I will throw Into thy bed, And I will give thee a silver lamprey, And a golden distaff, With dragon's eyes, Which will spin and turn by itself." The Cerna heard him, And at once stood still. Then Ioan Iorgovan, With arms like clubs, At once heard And knew the voice, That it was not that of a man, But that of a woman. Then he got angry, Spurred on his horse, And, striking it hard, He roared like a lion, Splitting the air. The dragon got sight of him, And, seized with fear, it ran away. But he followed it, And jumped across the Cerna, And approached it. The dragon waited for him, And asked him: "Ioan Iorgovan, With arms like clubs. With what kind of a good message Dost thou come this day to me? Or hast thou the thought To destroy me? I pray thee, grant me peace, And turn back to thy home. I swear on my head That, dead, I shall be worse. For, if thou killest me, My head will rot. Worms will breed; Flies will swarm, Who will bite thy horse. It will burst of the poison, The oxen will run mad, The plough will come to a standstill!" "Accursed snake! Thou still bandiest words. I will teach the country, And the people will hearken to me. They will raise the smoke, And thy flies they will choke. My horse will not die, But thou shalt perish, For I have heard That thou hast killed A beautiful maid With thy robber's jaw." "Ioan Iorgovan, When I heard thy approach, Thy horse's trot, Roaring like a dragon, I at once left the maid Safe and unhurt. I pray thee, Leave me alone, And turn back to thy home. I swear on my head, Worse shall I be dead." Ioan Iorgovan, With arms like clubs, Brandished his sword, Hit the snake, And cut it up in pieces. The maid looked on Until he had finished it, Then she showed herself, And thus she spake: "Ioan Iorgovan, With arms like clubs, Lead me out in the open, To the carriage road, That I may meet my sisters, For I shall be unto thee a wife As long as I be alive." When he beheld her, Wonder seized him Of her beauty and of her youth. "Ho, my beautiful flower, Who art like a young fairy, Be then to me a wife As long as you be alive." He then embraced her And kissed her. He then looked on-- May it burst-- There was the dragon's head Running away, Painting the Cerna red with his blood. And it ran across the Danube, Until it hid itself in the dark cave. There it rotted. The worms bred And flies swarmed. And so it is to this very day; When the fly comes out It bites the horses, It poisons the oxen, And stops the plough. Thus far this, the most complete version. There are a number of other variants, but the central idea is the same, that the poison-fly (Musca Columbaca) comes from the head of the dragon, slain by the knight Ioan Iorgovan. The people show the imprint of the hoofs and the traces of Iorgovan's dogs on the high cliff overhanging the banks of the Danube. This legend, localised in Rumania on the borders of Servia, is of special interest for hagiography. It is nothing else but a variant of the legend of St. George and the Dragon. It has assumed a peculiar form, differing greatly from the other versions of that fight, which is known all over the East and West, and lives in many forms and versions. In the Rumanian hagiography there are at least two or three versions of the legend as found in the Vitae Sanctorum and the Synaxarium of the Greek and Slavonic Church. Thus it is found in one of the oldest Rumanian prints, the Homiliary of 1646, the very first book printed at Jasi, in Moldavia, in the Rumanian language. It occurs also in part in the Lives of the Saints by the Archbishop Dositheus, who used MS. collections for his book, printed also in Jasi, in 1682. An elaborate version is to be found in the great collection of the Lives of the Saints in twelve volumes, by Bishop Benjamin of Moldavia, and then reprinted in Bucharest in 1836. All these collections are full of apocryphal matter, and the Life of St. George makes no exception. There is one point more to which attention must be drawn in this connection, viz. the influence of the Genoese and Venetian traders who had established emporia along the Danube and the Black Sea, among them one which to this very day has retained the name of St. George. Along the Danube, on the left bank, on what is now Rumania, stands that place, called Giurgiu in honour of the patron saint of the Genoese who found it. Thus, from many quarters, one or the other version became known to the folk, and was localised at that point where the Carpathian mountains seem to dip into the Danube, to emerge again on the other side and continue rising and forming the chain of the Balkans. From a philological point of view the name Iorgu Iorgovan denotes Servian influences. XXII. WHY IS THERE A WORM IN THE APPLE? The Story of God and the False Teachers. Before God came upon the earth there were a number of men who were very clever, and who followed the rule of the devil. They claimed that they could change themselves into dogs and cats, for the devil, who took much pleasure in his clever people, helped them. Those who saw them, believed them to be gods, and worshipped them and brought them gifts. The devil almost jumped out of his skin with delight, for he hoped that all the nations would do likewise, and soon God would be forgotten. But God was watching the doings of the devil quietly from above, until at last, seeing to what lengths he was going, he said: "By God! it is no good sitting here with my hands in my lap. I must go down and put matters straight." So God took on the form of man, and went down among the people, going from country to country and from village to village. At last, one day, he made it known through all the land that all the clever men should come together at a certain place to perform their arts, and whoever would win in that competition, he would give him a sackful of gold. On the appointed day, all the clever men came together in a big hall which God had prepared. It was surrounded by numerous apple-trees on all sides. The clever men did what they could, each one more clever than the other. They changed themselves into cats and dogs. At last God said to them: "You have all done very well, but I would ask you to make me an apple like those on the trees here around." In vain did they try to make an apple, but they could not succeed. So God sent lightning among them, which so terrified them that they crawled into the apples to hide themselves there. And God turned them into caterpillars that can only live in apples. This is the origin of the worm (Carpocapsa pomonella) which infests the orchards of apples and pears. In order to protect them from this pest the Rumanians of Bukovina keep a special Day of the worms, on the Tuesday in the first week of the month of May. On it, it is strictly forbidden to work, and it is good to give away a cake and other good things in alms for the benefit (of the souls) of these men turned into flies. It is also good to bring into the orchard a red Easter egg, which has been taken to Church. Whoever catches an orchard worm and spits on its head, he spits on the devil between the horns. Whoever throws any of these worms into the fire throws into it the devil's servant. If we should call the "clever" men by the name of "Perfecti," of which the former is an excellent translation, we might find in this legend a slightly changed report of an act of accusation raised by the Inquisition against the Albigenses and Cathars whose teachers went by the name of "Perfecti." These men were accused of being the servants and tools of the devil, and of possessing the power of changing themselves into animals, the cat being the special animal of the devil. It was said, moreover, that they enticed the world to the worship of the devil, and that they had almost succeeded in turning whole nations away from the true worship of God, so that it required his own interposition in order to save the world from the machinations of these men. He turned them into worms, which at any rate continued to exist in apples and pears--the Inquisition has turned them into dust and ashes. And yet their memory is preserved, in spite of persecution and lives on in the memory of the people. XXIII. WHY ARE THE LOCUSTS VORACIOUS? The Story of the Arrogant King and the Monks. It is related that when the Emperor Por married his daughter he made a great banquet, as big as had never been done before, for he called all the kings and governors, and so many guests came together that one might have thought that they would eat up even Por's ears. But Por the emperor knew what he had to do, and he prepared food for all. He opened casks of wine, which had been kept closed for a thousand years, and he spread tables in a field as large as a country, and he brought musicians who were so skilled that one would have liked to listen to them for ever. Everything had he prepared, only one thing had he forgotten. He did not call the priests and the nuns. The priests he left out just because he wanted to insult them, and he did not think of having the marriage service performed in a Church. "What do I want them for?" he said, "all this can be done without their blessing, and to have popas (priests) always about you in your house, by God, is not quite a lucky thing, for it is well known if you meet a popa in your way you are sure to have no luck, for you have met the devil." The priests, seeing that Por had mocked at them, and the mothers of the Church (the nuns) got very angry. They began ringing the bells and praying, and they fasted three days on end, hoping that God would hearken to their prayer and would punish the Emperor Por in such signal manner as God alone in his wisdom could do. And God, as it seems, hearkened to their prayer, for while the tables were laden with meat and drink, and all the guests had sat themselves down to eat and drink, suddenly the heavens grew dark, a mighty wind arose, and out of the sky came down a thick black cloud of winged things with large mouths, voracious and hungry. They settled on the tables and devoured every bit of food that could be found, and drank every drop of wine. The guests turned sick at this horrible sight, and, falling ill, they all died there and then. From a wedding feast it became a huge burial, the fame of which spread throughout the lands. No one knew why this misfortune had befallen them, only Por understood what had happened, and before his death he said: "Nothing can be done without the mercy and grace of God. And this has been my punishment." These were the locusts (Pachytylus migratorius) which God sends upon men when they forget the true God. The rôle assigned here to the official priests, the "popa" of the orthodox religion, is in perfect harmony with that sectarian teaching which could not find words strong and opprobrious enough against the "official" Church and its ministers. The belief is still alive in Rumania that to meet a "popa," as he is called, is an evil omen, and the people will often desist from some enterprise if a popa has met them. There are practices by which the evil consequences of such a meeting could be averted; but they belong to those of primitive society. This story seems also to have been originally a satire against these popas. They were the original locusts who descended upon the tables of the rich and mighty, but now the point has been blunted and the lesson deliberately turned round, making the locusts the means of punishment for ignoring the priests. The man who told this tale must have had a mischievous twinkle in his eye, not lost on his hearers, but evidently lost upon him who wrote it down afterwards. The Emperor Por is none else than the Indian King Porus who plays so important a part in the legendary history of Alexander the Great. This is one of the most popular Rumanian chap-books--probably the oldest in Rumanian folk-lore. There are a number of traces of this legendary history in the Rumanian popular literature. We shall meet another reference to it in the history of the cricket, No. 65, and of the cuckoo, No. 91. This story evidently belongs to the cycle of legends in which an emperor tries to invite God and his host to dine with him, boasting that he would be able to feed them. He decks tables along the sea shore and waits for God to come to the banquet. But a wind rises and blows everything into the sea. A sage explains to the emperor that thus far only one of the servants of God--the wind--has partaken of his banquet. (v. Gaster, Exempla of the Rabbis, No. 12.) XXIV. WHY DOES THE GRASSHOPPER RUN TO AND FRO? The Story of Jesus and the Unkind Reaper. Another large kind of locust or grasshopper is also known by the name of "little horse" or "mower." For the explanation of the last name the following legend is told: Once upon a time when Jesus and St. Joseph hid themselves for fear of the heathen in some very high grass which reached to their waist, it is told that a giant came there to cut the grass, and he carried a huge scythe, and with each stroke he cut down a large swath. Christ and St. Joseph, seeing the work of that man and fearing lest they should be discovered by the heathen if all the grass were cut down, asked him not to cut any more. But when he heard that Christ begged him to stop, he just went on with his work more furiously, full of spite, for was not he also a heathen who wanted to catch him? When Christ saw this he prayed to God to put as many obstacles in the giant's way as possible, for it was still some time before the sun would set, and he would otherwise quickly finish the cutting of the whole field. God heard him, and he sent a heat so fierce that it dried up even the tongue in the man's mouth. The mower, however, did not care. He only cast off all his clothes and went on with his work in his shirt. When God saw that the giant would not stop he changed the weather and made it so bad that you would not have allowed a dog to leave the house. But the mower went on with his work undisturbed. The only thing which he did was to pick up the clothes which he had cast off and to put them on again, and he made swaths as wide as the high road. When Christ saw the progress which he made he trembled like a reed. He feared lest the heathen would catch him. Angrily, he knelt down, and cursing the giant, he said: "Cursed shalt thou be, thou disobedient and callous mower, all thy life henceforth thou shalt be always only mowing and never gain any benefit from it. As long as the world stands thou shalt always be running to and fro among the reapers, who will cut thy legs as a punishment for not having listened to me." No sooner was this curse uttered, when the giant was turned into a small green insect with long legs, which to this very day is seen hopping between the blades of grass on meadows and fields, running in front of the scythes of cutters of grass. This insect is called the mower (Locusta viridissima). XXV. ANOTHER STORY OF THE GRASSHOPPER. St. Mary and the Wicked Innkeeper. There is another legend of the origin of the grasshopper. When Christ was born in the stable, the animals which were there were starved to death by the owner. There was no one who would as much as put a handful of hay into the manger. The Holy Mother, full of pity for the poor animals, asked the master of the house to give them at least a forkful of hay. The master, however, shrugging his shoulders said that all that he had, was gone and he could not give her even as little as a handful. "If that be so, why did not you provide more hay last summer?" asked the Holy Mother. "Why? just because I was too lazy to cut more." "If that be so," replied the Holy Mother, angrily, "then thou shalt become a mower, and all thy life thou shalt not do anything else, but from early morning to late at night thou shalt cut grass and yet have no benefit therefrom." No sooner had she uttered these words than the master was turned into the grasshopper called the "mower," and such has he remained to this very day. XXVI. WHY DOES THE NUN BEETLE COVER ITS FACE? The Story of St. Peter and the Girl Messenger. In the time of the Holy Apostles, there was great trouble among the heathen giants, as they did not know whom to elect as ruler. The heathen then came in large numbers to the Christians, asking for their vote, and came even to St. Peter, who was then the headman of the Apostles. St. Peter, realising the importance of this election, took counsel with his brothers the Apostles. They decided to call together all the Christians in an Assembly to decide which part they were to take. A good number came together. But as at that time the Christians were scattered far and wide, and lived a good way distant one from another, and also were afraid of the heathen, the greater number stayed at home. For in such troublous times who would have liked to leave his wife and children alone at home? Moreover, at that time Christians were not permitted to meet, for when the heathen caught them speaking to one another, they poured oil upon them and burned them like torches. Still, when St. Peter had got a few counsellors together, they discussed what was best to be done. The one said one thing, the other another, as people do even to-day when talking in council, but if you think you are getting on any further, you are waiting in vain, for nothing comes out of it. St. Peter, who was more learned than the rest, saw that no good was coming out of their deliberations, and as he was the headman, he got up from his seat and said, "If we are to give our people good and sound advice, we all know that as for battle, good and strong men are wanted, so we must also have clever men. Unfortunately, however, there are no such men in our midst. We also know that if the heathen see us going from house to house, and find out our intentions, it might go very ill with us. We must therefore find out other means, so that our enemies should not even suspect our action. I, as the oldest among you, have come to the conclusion that we must get some very clever women. We might then possibly win our case. Let us make a list of all such women and instruct them carefully. We can then send them to the houses of the Christians to advise them what to do." "Excellent," replied the other learned men, and they called out all the clever women from the list which they had made, and by teaching them day and night, they fitted them for their work and sent them to the houses of the Christians. Before they left, however, they were told that they were neither to turn back and look at anything, nor were they to look straight into the eyes of strangers, for their eyes were bewitched by the devil, nor should they speak to strangers, who would pour poison into their souls. After receiving these instructions, they all covered their faces and left only holes for their eyes. Then they took food for the journey, taking care to fast regularly for two days and eating only on the third. One of them, called "Nun," going into a town where the people were dressed up more richly than in any other town, met a young man, tall as a reed, white as foam, with a crisp upturned moustache, a small well-proportioned mouth, and eyes glittering like those of a snake. He stood quite alone! The young man, cunning as the young men of our days are, no sooner set eyes on the young woman, when he began to tell her of all that is in the heavens and upon earth, and made her forget her errand and the instructions which she had received. So she unveiled her face, and began to talk in such a manner that no man would have stopped her from going on. In the end she told him even of the intentions of the Christians and of the teaching of St. Peter. As soon as he had heard all she had to tell him, the young man disappeared, for he was none else than the son of Satan. St. Peter, who knew all that had happened, for the angel of God had told him, started after the young woman in order that he might stop her from revealing to others the intentions of the Christians. He found her in a meadow playing with some children. "Thy name is nun, thy name shall remain nun (Mantissa religiosa), but thou shalt not have any longer a human shape, as thou hast thrown away the veil, and has denied thy beautiful face." When the nun beheld St. Peter she got frightened, and tried to pull the veil over her face, which was uncovered, but she could not do it, for God had changed her into a little green beetle which to this very day joins its front legs, and it looks as if it intended to cover its face with them. This legend has been turned into a charm against a bad wife. Put the nun under her head at night, and say three nights consecutively the following charm: "Faithless Nun, St. Peter had taught thee; St. Peter has sent thee to do good to the Christians, to give them good teaching; to the ignorant thou hast given instruction. But thy conduct was bad, For thou hast spoken to the enemies, And hast shown thy uncovered face; And God has punished thee. I now have also a wife, like unto a spark, with bad tongue and evil speech-- Evil in every way-- Bad, envious, cheating, Restless, Always in motion, with a heart full of sin. Thou, O faithless Nun, smitten by God, Condemned by men, Make my wife to become good. From bad and faithless, make her good and faithful. From cheating and envious, make her good and loving. Otherwise, woe unto her. Woe unto thy kind, For I will set upon it and utterly destroy it. I will fall upon it and annihilate it. She will then repent of her evil ways. This charm is only to be used in the case when the wife is younger than the husband. In the charm we have the "historical" or narrative element, in the legend we have the symbolical in the application which is assumed to run on parallel lines--the woman must also be faithful, obedient, chaste, must not look into other people's eyes nor talk to strangers--a grave danger for her soul. And finally the "threat" that unless the "nun" will do the bidding, she will be severely chastised, just like the demons in older conjurations, who are first cajoled and then threatened. It is thoroughly typical, and shows the depths of belief in the power of even the little insect which is, however, still seen as a "nun" in a human form well instructed and powerful, in spite of its actual "disguise." No real line of demarcation is drawn between the human being and the meanest creature. In popular belief and imagination they all live and move on the same plane. There is another tale told about this insect, which seems to be another attempt to explain its name Nun. XXVII. WHY IS THE BEETLE CALLED THE NUN? The Story of the Devil's Daughter in the Cloister. It is said that the devil--may he go into the wild desert and remain there--had a very bad-tempered daughter. She was so bad that in the whole world there was none other like her to make a couple of them. When the devil saw that, devil though he was, he was yet no match for his daughter, he slyly got her into a convent and made a nun of her, in the hope that she might perchance repent and change for the better. But the daughter remained what she was; ill-tempered and bad. She kept making mischief without end. God, who could not tolerate a daughter of the devil in a convent, and seeing also that the daughter of the unclean was doing all kinds of mischief, changed her into an insect. The other sisters, seeing what had happened, called it Nun, and this has remained its name to our very days. It is curious that this insect should bear the name "nun" in almost all European languages. I am not aware, however, of any legend except the Rumanian explaining the name. XXVIII. WHY IS THE WASP THE GIPSIES' BEE? The Story of the Wasp, the Gipsies and the Rumanians. In the beginning the wasp belonged to the Rumanians, and the bee to the Gipsies. When the former saw how useless, nay, dangerous, the wasps were, and how useful the bees, they cheated the Gipsies into changing with them. Those of aforetime tell us that when God made the living creatures which move with the sun, he made the bee first. The Gipsy, impudent and greedy, as he has remained to this very day, stole the bee from the hand of God saying, "Give it to me, O Lord, that I may eat of its honey, I and my little ones. And of the wax--I will make candles to light them up for thee in the Church." God did not say anything, but kept silent and looked angrily at the Gipsy, for he was annoyed at the Gipsy's impudence. He made up his mind to punish him. He therefore at once made the big wasp, and, after he had made it, he gave it to the Rumanians, saying, "Take this, for the bee has been ordained for the Gipsy, and he has taken his share." The Rumanian took the wasp, and thanked God. Sometime afterwards the Gipsy met the Rumanian, and he asked him whether his bee had brought him much honey. The Rumanian, smart as ever, replied, "My bee has filled many barrels, for this bee carries the honey in bagfuls, as it was big and strong." "Oh," cried the Gipsy, "I see that he has deceived me; my bee has not filled a cup with honey, and my duckies have not even rubbed their lips with honey. Let us exchange our bees, my little Rumanian." "But what do you give in addition?" "What shall I give you? By God, I have nothing. I will make an axe of my iron and give it to you." "Well, then, let it be so. Bring here your hive and I will bring you mine." "I will do so," and the Gipsy went with the Rumanian to the hut and gave him the hive. The Rumanian took it home, and when they reached the forest the Rumanian showed him a big tree, as thick as a barrel and high as the heavens, where the Rumanian had put before the wasps and where they had grown to a very large number. "Here, you Gipsy, are my bees in this hollow tree. It is full of honey enough to satisfy your whole nation of Gipsies and some to remain over." "Thank you. May God bless you," replied the Gipsy. The Rumanian went home to look after the bees. The Gipsy gathered his whole nation together. They brought copper pans and pots and ladders, and came to the tree to eat of the honey to their fill. Arrived there, they leaned the ladder just against the hole by which the wasps went out and came in. Full of courage, as the Gipsy is by nature, he took a pot for the honey and climbed up the ladder. No sooner had he got there when a wasp thrust its sting into him. Another stung him on the nose, and another, and again another, and the Gipsy could not see out of his eyes because of the pain, and he began howling there on the top of the tree. He forgot the honey and everything, and cried, "Keep the ladder, keep the pot, keep me also, for we are falling," and down he came with a thud. How long he lay there with broken bones I do not know, but I do know that he had had enough of wasps' honey to last him to the end of his days. Since then the bees belong to the Rumanians, and the wasps are the Gipsies' bees. XXVIII. A. ANOTHER VERSION OF THE WASP LEGEND. Another legend which omits the first part of the story does not mention anything about the Gipsy stealing the bee from God, but simply tells of a Gipsy who found a hive in the forest, and taking it home, went about bragging of his wonderful hive and of the honey. A clever Rumanian, finding a wasp nest, told the Gipsy that his bees were making gold, and induced him to change with him. Since then the bees belong to the Rumanians. XXIX. WHY DOES THE HORNET LIVE IN SMOKY PLACES? The Story of God and the Odd Present. When God had finished making the trees and grass, the sun and moon, and all that lives and moves, he sat down on his seat and ordered all the creatures to come to him that he might bless them. Every one came and brought a gift according to its best, and God blessed each one according to its nature. The sheep brought wool and milk, and the Lord blessed it, and bade it clothe the house of the Rumanians with its wool and feed the babies with its milk. The bee brought sweet honey and wax with the perfume of all the flowers. God blessed it, so that with the honey man's food should be sweetened, and the wax should light the Church at the Holy Office. Thus each creature got the blessing according to its ways. Now came the turn of the hornet, by nature lazy and accustomed to live by theft. What could she bring? and again, how could she come with empty hands before the throne of the Almighty? So, finding a piece of cardboard, she picked it up and brought it to God. The Lord understood the trick which the hornet wanted to play on him, and how lazy she was. He, therefore, cursed her that all her work should be as brittle as bits of cardboard, and she should live only by theft. Her habitation should be the chimney, and her nest should be broken by everybody. So has it remained to this very day. The nests look as if they had been made of cardboard, they hang down from the smoky chimneys of houses, as if they were to be smoked; she lives by theft and even upon dead bodies, and her nest is always broken up. XXX. WHY IS THE HORNET SO SPITEFUL? The Story of the Children of Cain. It is told that one of the descendants of Cain had many children, one worse than the other. When sent on an errand to bring one thing, out of spite they would bring another; they were of no good to anyone. Their mother, who was a wicked and stingy bird (eagle), did nothing else from morning to evening but curse and shout and peck at them. The youngest, who was the worst, finding his mother in a violent temper, started quarrelling with her so loudly that the noise could be heard at the other end of the country. They even went so far as to fight one another. The mother, who was a strong woman, got the best of her son at first, but the youngster, biting her in the throat, drank all her blood until she died. Before dying, however, the mother cursed him that none of his children should ever be prosperous, though they should be very numerous. They should live in the hollows of trees and feed on dead human bodies. They should become flies with poisonous stings, and their blood should change into poison. When he heard his mother's curse the youth ran into the forest, and the quicker he ran the more it appeared to him that he became smaller and lighter, until one morning he found himself changed into a hornet with a yellow body. XXX. A. HORNET CHARM. The hornet is used for the following charm: If people wish a dog to become savage, they take some hornets, and mixing them with the food, give it to the puppies to eat, and say the following words: "Just as the hornet is burning and unbearable, so shalt thou become hot and savage and intolerable, and thou shalt not tolerate any one else besides me and those of this household...." The hornet's nest in the stubble indicates the strength of the winter and the depth of the snow, according as it is built high or low. XXXI. WHY HAS THE WOODPECKER SUCH A LONG BEAK AND WHY DOES IT PECK AT THE TREES? The Story of God and the Inquisitive Woman. Know that the woodpecker was originally not a bird but an old woman with a very long nose, which she put into everybody's pots and pans, sniffing about, eavesdropping, inquisitive and curious about everything whether it belonged to her or not, adding a little in her tale-bearing and taking off a bit from another tale, and so making mischief among her neighbours. When God saw her doings, he took a huge sack and filled it with midges, beetles, ants, and all kinds of insects, and, tying it tightly, gave it to the old woman, and said to her: "Now take this sack and carry it home, but beware of opening it, for if your curiosity makes you put your nose into it you will find more than you care for, and you will have trouble without end." "Heaven forbid," replied the old hag, "that I should do such a thing; I am not going against the will of God. I shall be careful." So she took the sack on her back and started trotting home, but whilst she was carrying it her fingers were already twitching, and she could scarcely restrain herself, so no sooner did she find herself a short distance away than she sat down in a meadow and opened the sack. That was just what the insects wanted, for no sooner did she open it than they started scrambling out and scampered about the field, each one running his own way as fast as its little legs would carry it. Some hid themselves in the earth, others scrambled under the grass, others, again, went up the trees, and all ran away as fast as they could. When the old woman saw what had happened, she got mightily frightened, and tried to gather the insects to pack them up again, and put them back into the sack. But the insects did not wait for her. They knew what to do, and a good number escaped into the field. Some she was able to catch, and these she packed into the sack, and tied it up. Then came the Voice of God, who asked her what she had done, and if that was the way she kept her promise. "Where are the insects, beetles and midges, which I gave you to carry? From this moment you shall change into a bird and go about picking up all these insects until you get my sack full again, and only then can you become a human being again." And so she changed into a woodpecker; the long beak is the long nose of the old woman, and she goes about hunting for these midges, beetles and ants in the hope of filling up the sack, when she would again resume her human shape. But to this very day she has not completed her task, and has remained the woodpecker. XXXII. WHY HAS THE PELICAN A BIG POUCH UNDER ITS BEAK? The Story of God and the Disobedient Man. The story of the woodpecker finds its closest parallel in the story of the pelican. It is difficult to say which of the two is the original, and which has been borrowed from the other. Certain legends have been adapted to more than one subject, in the same manner as ballads and tales and legends are often transferred from one hero or another. It is that elasticity of adaptation, which to a certain extent gives them the popularity which they enjoy. It is the very essence of the tale not to be too much localised, but on the contrary to be able to pass from one country to another, and to be fitted to the most diverse circumstances and persons, so long as the general framework has been retained. Popular imagination has no patience, and, in fact, no room, for rigid forms or for mathematical formulae. The material which it handles must be soft as wax to be moulded and kneaded, and thin like gossamer to be woven into many strands. Of course, the work of it can be seen in the variations in the theme and in its adaptation to the new purpose. Thus in the following story: God and St. Peter were once upon a time walking upon the earth. There came a great swarm of creeping things like rats, snakes, scorpions and other vermin of this kind, as well as beetles, insects, ants and so on. They crowded round them, and with great impudence worried them, nay, even tried to bite them. St. Peter, who felt annoyed by the constant worry of the vermin, said at last to God: "What is the good of keeping all these vermin upon the earth? see how impudent, how aggressive they are! They molest even us, and try to bite us, what then must the poor human beings be suffering through them?" "Very well," said God, "if it is thy wish, and thou thinkest to save mankind of the attacks and molestations of these animals, I will try to do as thou desirest." So he gathered them all together and put them in a huge sack, and tied it carefully by the mouth, and he said to St. Peter, "Let us go and throw it into the sea." On the way they fell in with a man, who was going in the same direction. And God said to him, "Whither art thou going?" "I am going to the sea for fishing." "I will pay thee well," said God, "if you will take this sack and take it to the sea and empty it into it. But mind, you must not open it before you reach the shore; there, turning the sack upside down, loosen it gently and let everything fall straight into the water. Be careful and carry out my orders exactly, otherwise instead of obtaining a reward you will get yourself into serious trouble." "For sure," replied the man, "I know how to carry out orders, you may rely on me, I will do exactly as I am bidden." Then, shouldering the sack, he went on his way to the sea. The sack was somewhat heavy and the way to the sea rather long. Tired by the weight of the sack, he sat down in the midst of his journey and rested. Then he asked himself: "What can be in that sack? why should those old men want me to empty it into the sea? I will just loosen it a little and see." And so he did. But no sooner had he loosened it a little when the animals, which were all squeezed by God into the sack, pressed forward, and, before the man could count two, out they were running, each one wherever his eyes would lead him and his legs would carry him. Before he had time to recover from his astonishment, he saw the two old men standing by his side, and, pointing to the sack, God said to him: "Is that the way thou hast kept thy promise? As a punishment thou shalt no longer be a human being, but a bird with long legs to be able to run quickly after all these animals, and with a long beak to pick them up, and under thy throat I will fasten the empty sack to fill it with the animals caught." And thus he has remained to this very day, walking about on his long legs, looking round with his keen eyes, and trying to pick up all possible vermin which he espies crawling upon the earth. XXXIII. WHY DOES THE TITMOUSE GET INTO THE PUMPKIN? The Story of God and the Food of the Titmouse. When God had made all the creatures, he called every one of them and told them what their food should be. Among the birds was the titmouse. To her God turned and said, "Thy food shall be the seed of the pumpkin." The titmouse, knowing that the seed of the pumpkin was very sweet, did not wait to hear whether God said anything more, but, greedy and impatient, ran as fast as she could, relishing beforehand the delightful food which God had given her. So coming down to the earth, she alighted on a field in which maize was growing, and among it a large number of pumpkins. "Here, now, I have the food ready for me, and I am going to have a good time." But she had made a wrong calculation. When she got up to the pumpkins, she found to her dismay that the skin of the pumpkin was as hard as bone. So she tried to pick a hole in it. She went round and round, but wherever she tapped it with her little beak, she found the shell too hard for her. Bitterly disappointed, she went away and tried to feed as best she could by catching flies and beetles. So she eked out a miserable livelihood only and solely because she was greedy, and had not waited to hear what God had to say to her when he gave her that food. The time came when God was walking upon the earth. The titmouse heard of it, and knowing the loving-kindness and mercy of God, and that he would have pity if he heard of her miserable life, she took courage and went to meet him, and told him how hard it was for her, that after having had a gift from God, she could not enjoy it. She asked God, therefore, that he would at least make a soft part in the skin of the pumpkin that would become a hole, by which she could get inside the pumpkin and eat the pips which were given to her for food. God took pity on the little creature, who begged so piteously, and so, taking a pumpkin, God made a hole in it. The titmouse got into it, and did not leave the pumpkin until she had picked all the seeds. From that time onwards the titmouse, whenever she sees a field of pumpkins, will go round and round each pumpkin trying to find one with a hole, by which to get into it and eat the pips. The titmouse was too quick again this time, for it did not ask God to make two holes, to get in by one and out by the other, so now the pumpkin often becomes a snare and a prison. Boys have only to make a hole in the pumpkin for the titmouse to get into it and then they catch it without any trouble. XXXIV. WHY HAS THE NIGHTINGALE A DRAB COLOUR? When God created the world he made all the living creatures of one colour, or rather with none, for no one had any colouring on its wings, feathers, or skin. So, one day, God called all his creatures to paint them with different colours as he chose. All the birds and beasts and creeping things came, and God gave every one a different coat to wear. Only the nightingale did not come, as she had not heard of God's command. At last some birds, seeing her, told her what had happened. So she hastened to come to God. But when the nightingale appeared before God, the paint-pot was quite empty, and no trace of any paint (colour) was left. It had all been spent on those who had come before. Thus nothing could be done, and the nightingale remained with her drab colour. God, however, wanted to compensate the nightingale for the lack of any colour, so he gave her a very beautiful voice. XXXV. WHY HAS THE NIGHTINGALE TWELVE TUNES AND WHY DOES THE TURTLE-DOVE COO? Once upon a time the nightingale met the turtle-dove. After greeting one another, the nightingale said, "Sister, let us keep awake during the night and learn some tunes to sing." "Quite agreeable," said the turtle-dove, "and in the morning we shall see what each one of us has learned." In the following night the nightingale kept awake and listened attentively to all the sounds that could be heard. She heard the shepherd playing on his pipe, and the wind whistling, and the dogs barking, and lambs calling, and many more sounds, and thus learned no less than twelve tunes. The turtle-dove, lazy as she is by nature, did not keep awake, but went to sleep as soon as the night grew dark. She slept almost the whole night through, and awoke only at the break of dawn. There was no sound to be heard. It was all quiet. Suddenly she heard a man driving his horses to the fields shouting "trr, trr." This sound she picked up, and no other. In the morning she went to find her sister the nightingale, and asked her whether she had heard anything, and whether she had learned any tunes. If so, would she mind singing to her? The nightingale replied, "Oh, I have heard many songs, and have learned many tunes." And without waiting any longer, she began to warble her songs. The turtle-dove sat listening, lost in admiration at the beautiful singing of the nightingale. When the latter had finished her songs, she asked the turtle-dove: "And what have you learned, sister mine?" The turtle-dove, full of shame over her laziness, owned that she had not kept awake, but had gone to sleep, and that the only sound and song she had learned was "trr, trr," which she had picked up from the man who was driving his horses to the field. And so it has remained to this very day. The nightingale sings all the night through and stops towards the morning, when the turtle-dove awakens and starts its "trr, trr." XXXVI. WHY IS THE NIGHTINGALE THE SONGSTER OF THE KING? The Story of the Nightingale, the Blackbird and the Thrush. The king of the birds, feeling one day in a good humour, wanted to find out which of his subjects could sing best. So he sent an order to his birds to select from amongst themselves those whom they thought to be the best singers. All the birds came together, and, after having heard many of the birds who said they could sing, they selected three from amongst them and sent up, as the best singers for the king to choose from, the yellow thrush, the blackbird, and the nightingale. The thrush, with his beautiful golden feathers which glow in the light of the sun, was allowed to go first as the most beautiful of them; nay, he put himself at the head and walked first. The blackbird, which has a yellow beak, and whose feathers are shining like silk, walked immediately behind, whilst the little nightingale, small of build, with the drab-coloured feathers, followed meekly in the rear. When they reached the palace, the king, seeing how beautiful the thrush looked with his golden feathers, received him affably and placed him at the head of the table. The thrush, swelling with pride, began its song. The king listened attentively, and being pleased with the song he praised the thrush very much. Then came the turn of the blackbird; when the king saw it, he welcomed it and ordered a chair to be brought near the table. The blackbird took its place and started singing. It sang much more beautifully than the thrush. The king was very pleased, and he expressed his delight. The last to come in was the nightingale. When it entered the hall, it bowed down meekly to the earth before the king, touching the floor with its little beak. When the king saw that little ungainly bird, so small and meek and skinny and of no appearance, he wondered what that bird wanted at the court, and somewhat angrily he asked: "What do you want?" without even offering her a seat, as he had done to the other guests. "May it please your majesty, do not be angry with your servant; I have been selected by the other birds to sing here before your majesty." "Very well then; sing, I will just see what you can do." The nightingale, which did not even dare to look at the king, just cleared her voice and started singing as she alone knows how to sing, not like the others. When the king heard her singing, he was quite taken aback with the beauty and sweetness of her voice; he was full of admiration, for the nightingale had thrown the other birds into the shade (lit. had put them under the bushel). When the nightingale had finished her song, the king did not allow her to stop in the doorway where she had been standing any longer, but called her up to the head of the table, and gave her the seat of the thrush, and, when the meal was over and all the guests rose from the table, it was the nightingale who walked first, and the blackbird, which sang better than the thrush, walked immediately behind, whilst the thrush, in spite of his grand array, now came third, feeling abashed and ashamed by his failure. And from that time onward the nightingale has been recognised as the best singer amongst them all, and all the birds must bow their heads before her. There are a few more tales about the origin of the nightingale, but they are somewhat confused. They do not seem to account either for the beauty of its voice or for the simplicity of its appearance. XXXVII. WHY DOES THE THRUSH HIDE IN THE TREE? The Story of the Boastful Thrush and St. Peter. It was in the month of March, when Christ was walking on the earth with St. Peter. Going through a forest they saw a thrush strutting about on the top of a tree. "Good morning, Mr. Thrush," said St. Peter. "I have no time for you," replied the thrush. "And why not, prithee?" "Oh, you see, I am just now making summer, and I am busy. To-day I am going to be married, and to-morrow a brother of mine has a wedding," he said, turning his back upon them proudly. St. Peter and Christ said nothing, but went on their way. In that afternoon there came a cold and heavy rain. It came down in torrents all the afternoon, and during the night there came a frost from God which made the stones crack, and it snowed heavily also. The next morning, after they had done what they had to do, Christ and St. Peter came again through the forest, and they found the thrush sitting now on one of the lowest branches of the tree, huddled together and trembling, with no more thoughts of marriage. "Good morning, Mr. Thrush," said St. Peter, when he saw him sitting there huddled together and trembling. "Thank you," he replied angrily. "But what are you doing now? Why are you sitting so huddled up?" "To-day I am dying, and to-morrow a brother of mine is dying," he answered, letting his beak down and ruffling his feathers to protect himself a little more against the frost which had struck him to the heart. From that time on the thrush does not boast any more that he is making summer, and that he is going to marry; but he cries anxiously: "Socks and sandals, for to-morrow it snows, good socks of cloth and sandals of leaves to go in them to my beloved." This he sings because of the fear of being caught again in snow and frost, and of not being able to walk about in safety. XXXVIII. WHY HAS THE PARTRIDGE A MOTTLED COLOUR? In the beginning the partridge had red feathers. God had painted her so when he painted all the other creatures, but for one reason or another the partridge was not very pleased with this colour. After a time she thought she would go to God and ask him to change her colour. When she came to God, he asked her, "What ails thee?" "Well," she said, "I do not like the dye of my feathers." And God asked her what was the reason for it. "Well," she said, "I do not like it." Upon which God, getting hold of her, threw her into a box filled with ashes. When the partridge recovered her senses--for she was dazed by the fall--she was mightily indignant at the disgrace, and, climbing out of the box, she went as fast as she could to the nearest brook, wishing to wash away the ashes in which she was smothered. She wished to avoid being seen in that state by the other birds. So she started dipping her beak into the water and trying to wash off the ashes on her back. But, instead of washing the ashes completely off, she managed to carry the ashes with her wet beak under her wings also and along her sides. And that is why she has remained to this very day mottled and freckled, the grey of the ashes being mixed with the red--the original colour of her feathers. XXXIX. WHY HAS THE THISTLE-FINCH RUFFLED FEATHERS? When God created the world, he made all the creatures to be of one colour, or rather none of them of any colour at all. You see, God was too busy to bother about these little things. When he had finished making everything that he intended to make, he called all the birds together and said, "Now, I am going to paint you with nice colours." When the birds heard that message, they came all overjoyed to God, who took his brush and dipped in various pots filled with paint and painted them one by one. When he had almost finished, who would come but the thistle-finch, with his feathers all ruffled and out of breath. When God saw the little bird, he said to him, "Well, little master, how do you look, where have you been, have you not heard my command, why did you not come in time? Now all the paint is gone, I cannot do anything for you, and it serves you right, you should have come in time like the others did." And the little bird began to weep and said, "O God, I am quite innocent, just look at me and see what a state I am in; I was very hungry and tried to find something to eat, but could not find anything for a long time, until I espied at last a few grains of millet in a bush of thistles. So I got in and started picking. But, as soon as I moved, the thistles got hold of me and would not let me go, and the more I tried to get out, the more strongly did they hold me, and tore my feathers and dishevelled my hair, and it was only after a long tussle that I was able to get myself free and come here." When God saw that the little bird had told the truth, and that it looked torn about and ruffled, he took pity on it and said, "Wait a little and I will see what I can do," and taking his brush he endeavoured to pick up the drops of paint which were left at the bottom of the various pots. Taking them all on the tip of his brush, he sprinkled the little bird all over with the drops of the various colours which he had picked up from the bottom of the pots, and that is the reason why the thistle-finch has so many spots and so many colours. His name has remained to this very day "little master" (domnisor in Rumanian) and also thistle-finch, because the thistles ruffled his feathers and tore at him. XL. WHY HAS THE BULLFINCH A RED BREAST AND A BIG MOUTH? The Story of the Brutish Innkeeper. There lived in a town a brutish man, a grocer, who had only one care, and that was how to cheat and rob in the quickest fashion the people who came to deal with him. But this was not all, for, bad as it is, one might let it pass, as there are so many others who do likewise, cheating their customers right and left. But this man was also a usurious moneylender, and he managed it so well that, instead of helping people, he took the last shirt off their backs and sent them out to die in misery. He sucked the blood of everyone who fell into his clutches. But everything comes to an end. But no man is likely to repent unless he has first come to grief. So it happened also to this wicked man. Instead of being satisfied with what he had been able to get by draining the very blood of his Christian fellow-men, he persisted in his evil doings, robbing and fleecing right and left, without mercy and without pity. When the cries of his victims came up to God, he decided to punish him, and for his wickedness he changed him into the bullfinch, which has still kept some of the features of the man, when he was a human being. For he had a head like a melon, and a wide mouth, and that is why the bullfinch has such a big head and such a broad beak. The black feathers on its head are the black cap of lambskin which he used to wear. The red breast is the blood of the victims whom he had sucked dry, and the big body is the big belly of the voracious fellow. Now when a bullfinch is caught, remembering its evil deeds, it will bite out its tongue and die rather than become a mockery to the people whom he had ill-treated in his former life. XLI. WHY DOES THE HOOPOE FEED ON DROPPINGS? The Story of the Hoopoe and its Greed. When God had created all the creatures, he gave everyone the food which he thought best for them. When the turn of the hoopoe came, God said to her, "Thy food shall be millet seed." The hoopoe was not satisfied. She did not think it was good enough for her. So God in his goodness gave her barley grains for food, but the hoopoe cannot easily be satisfied. So she went on asking for better food. And God said, "Let wheat be thy food." And still the hoopoe was not satisfied. So God got angry, and said, "Thou impudent and greedy thing, I have given thee the best food that is in this world, and in which even man rejoices and is satisfied, but as this is not good enough for thee, thou shalt find thy food henceforth in the droppings of other animals." The same happened when God arranged the dwelling-places of birds, where they should build their nests. He had at first given to the hoopoe sweet-smelling bushes and flowering trees to build her nest in. But she wanted something better, and she was punished in the same way as with the food. She now makes her nest in places which are anything but clean and sweet-smelling. XLII. WHY IS THE WAGTAIL CALLED THE GIPSIES' BIRD? When God had made the world and all the creatures and man, he gave to each one the food from which they should eat and be satisfied. All the creatures thanked God, and whenever they eat their food they are satisfied, except only the wagtail and the Gipsy who are never satisfied. When God saw the greed of these two, he grew very angry and said to the wagtail, "You shall not be allowed to go near any village unless the Gipsies, after having eaten, say with their full heart that they are quite satisfied." And to the Gipsy he said, "When the wagtail will come into the villages, only then shall you be satisfied." But the Gipsies, even when they are invited to the meals freely given in honour of the dead, however much they may eat and stuff and fill, will say as soon as they have got up from the table and gone a few steps, "I am starving; I am dying of hunger." And therefore the wagtails never come near the village. And it is also called the Gipsies' bird, because it can only come near the village, when the Gipsy says he has eaten enough and is satisfied. But as such a thing never happens, this bird cannot approach the houses of men like other birds. Also it is called "half a bird," for all the other birds get into the village except the wagtail. XLIII. WHY IS THE HOOPOE SUCH A DIRTY BIRD? The Story of the Hoopoe, the Cuckoo and God. There are a good many stories told about the hoopoe, some of them in connection with the cuckoo. These two birds seem to be found very often together, and the people believe them to be a pair, the cuckoo being the male and the hoopoe the female bird. The following story is told of them: The cuckoo had married the hoopoe, and they lived happily together for a time. But after a time the hoopoe grew ambitious, and told the cuckoo that if he wanted to have peace in the house, he must go to God and ask that the hoopoe should become the head woman of the village. God, who listens patiently to the weakness of his creatures, received the cuckoo affably and said to him, "Go home in peace, the wish of your wife shall be fulfilled." So it came to pass. After a while the hoopoe grew more ambitious, and she sent the cuckoo again to God, and told him to go and ask God to make her the mayoress. And God again listened to the cuckoo's pleading and made his wife a mayoress. But a woman can never be satisfied. So, after a while, she sent the cuckoo again to God to ask him to make her the queen over all the birds. God again listened to his prayer, and he made her queen over all the birds. Moreover, as sign of her queenly station, God gave her the tuft of feathers on her head, which were to be like a crown. But also this did not satisfy the foolish hoopoe, although God had told the cuckoo, "Mind, this is the last time thou comest to me to trouble me for thy wife's sake; there are many more things in the world for me to do, than to listen to her wishes." Still she insisted on the cuckoo going again to God, and to ask him that he should allow her to sit next to him on his throne in heaven. When God heard these words, he said, "As thy wife has had the temerity and impudence to make such a demand and to send such a request to me, she shall now be the least considered of all the birds. She may whoop henceforth as much as she likes, no one is to take any notice of her. She is to hatch her eggs in dung, whilst thou, O cuckoo, shall be singing for as many months in the year as thou hast spent in coming to me with these messages, and everyone shall be pleased to hear thy song." And so it has remained as God said. The people like the cuckoo, whilst the hoopoe is detested by everybody. XLIV. WHY DOES THE CUCKOO LEAD A RESTLESS LIFE? The Story of the Cuckoo and the Wonderful Bush. Many a tale is told about the origin of the cuckoo. Curiously enough, they generally agree in seeing in the cuckoo a man punished for his wickedness and cruelty, or for his faithlessness against his companion or brother whom he is now seeking in vain. There are, however, also other tales and legends in which the cuckoo is the victim of the cruelty of others; one is the preceding one, and others now follow: in the first place, one which tells also of the greed of the wife--The Story of the Cuckoo and Hoopoe. Once upon a time there lived in a village a man who was so poor that sometimes days passed and he could not get a crumb of bread. So one day he said to his wife, "What is the good of my stopping here any longer. We are both dying of hunger; I will go away into the wide world and see what luck may bring." So he took up his axe and went along. Before he left, his wife said to him: "Do not go far away, and do not forsake me and the children, for we have no one else to look to for help." So he went away. Walking alone, he came to a forest. At the edge of the forest he saw a beautiful bush with shining leaves, and all the twigs of equal length. It was so beautiful that the man thought, "I will just cut it up." When he drew near, how great was his astonishment when he saw the bush bending its boughs towards him, and speaking with a human voice, it said, "Do not touch me, do not hurt me, for I will do you much good." "What good can you do me?" enquired the man. "Go back to the village and they will appoint you headman. Just go and try." Amazed as he was on hearing the bush speak, he said to himself, "I lose nothing if I go back; I shall see whether the bush is speaking the truth. If not, woe unto it," and so he returned. No sooner had he come near the village, when he saw the people coming out to meet him, and without asking him any questions, they, for reasons of their own, appointed him to be their headman. His poverty was now a thing of the past, and he lived in cheer and comfort. This went on for three years, and then, for the same reasons unknown to him, the people changed their minds, and without saying anything to him one day he was the headman, the next he was so no longer. They had put another man in his stead. So he returned to his want, and again began to feel the pinch of poverty. For a time he went on as best he could, but not being able to stand it any longer, he again took his axe, and going into the forest he went to the bush and said, "Now I am going to cut you down." The bush again began to speak, and said to the man, "Do not touch me; I will do you much good. You have seen what I have done before. You go now to that and that town and they will appoint you to be judge." Believing the words of the bush, the man continued his journey, and came to the town of which the bush had spoken to him; and there, as had been foretold, without asking him a single question, the people appointed him mayor over the place. The man now lived in affluence and comfort, forgetting his time of poverty and suffering he had gone through. Here, again, after three years, just as he was appointed without a question, so he was dismissed by the people without a question. The evil days came back, and he was looking about for a crust of bread, but could not find any for himself and his family. He bethought himself again of the bush, and, taking his axe upon his shoulder, he went away to find it. The bush said to him: "Don't touch me; much good will I do you, still more than I have done hitherto. You go to such and such a kingdom, and there they will appoint you to be their emperor." He did as he was bid, and as he came near the town, all the people came out to meet him, and they appointed him to be their emperor. He took his wife and children with him, and there he lived in great state, great power and riches. The law of that land was that no man could be emperor for more than three years, so when the three years came round he lost his position and another emperor was appointed in his stead. He had meanwhile amassed great fortune and no longer feared poverty. But his wife was ambitious, and was not satisfied at living in affluence and wealth. Envious of the other emperor, she nagged the man and worried him and sneered at him for being so meek and being satisfied with his lowly state, and made him go to the bush to ask for something more. She wanted him to be even better treated than any emperor. The poor man, what was he to do? he could not stand the trouble in his house, so again taking his axe upon his shoulder, he came for a fourth time to the bush. When the bush saw him, it said: "What has brought you hither? You are no longer in want of anything." "Well," he said, "my wife has sent me to you. She says you must make me as great as God, greater than all emperors." The bush grew angry, and said to him: "O miserable wretch, always dissatisfied! I have made thee headman and judge and emperor, and thou lackest nothing. Thou art not in want of anything. Now, because thou hast become impudent and insolent, for thy impious wishes thou shalt be punished. From the man thou hast been thou shalt henceforth be a bird, restless, without peace, and without quiet, flitting from tree to tree, and from branch to branch, always dissatisfied, without a home, without a family, and thy name shall be Cuckoo. Tell thy wife, who, because she had been urging thee on and driving thee to do this impious thing, that she shall become the hoopoe; puffing herself up she shall cry whoop, whoop." And so it has remained to this very day. (Cf. Story in Grimm, No. 19.) XLV. WHY IS THE CUCKOO SILENT IN THE WINTER? The Story of the Cuckoo and the Palace of the Goldfinch. After the creation of all the birds, God called them together and told them they should elect a king to rule over them. The birds, like human beings, would chatter and chirrup, and talk and fight, and never come to any decision. When God saw that it was going on without an end, and that it was no good waiting for them to make their choice, he picked out the goldfinch and said, "This is to be your king." The birds submitted, as they were bound to do, and making their obeisance to the new king, each one departed to its own place. Although the gathering had lasted for some time, the cuckoo was still missing, and who was the last to come but the cuckoo. When all the birds had departed, he turned up and made his obeisance to the new king. The goldfinch looked at him and said, "Hallo, cuckoo, where have you been?" "Oh, I lost my way in the forest, and it took me a long time to come here." "I will forgive you," said the goldfinch, "but on one condition; you know the forest so well. Go and make me a nice palace out of the bast of the trees." The cuckoo, glad to have got off so cheaply, said, "Willingly will I do so," and went away. You know the cuckoo, how light-headed and unstable he is: he says one thing one day and forgets it the next, so, light-heartedly he flew from tree to tree and allowed the summer to pass without remembering the promise which he had made to the goldfinch. When autumn drew near he suddenly recollected that the goldfinch expected him to build him a palace out of the bast of the tree, for the goldfinch wanted to live in a shining palace. And that was just what the cuckoo never intended to do. Fearing the wrath of the king, he stopped singing and hid himself in the thickest part of the forest. The goldfinch waited month after month to see the palace, and seeing the cuckoo flitting from tree to tree and hearing him singing, thought he was busily at work. But when the autumn came, and no trace of any palace could be seen, he looked round to see where the cuckoo was. But catch him if you can, for he had disappeared. And that is why the goldfinch never had the palace which he desired. And that is also the reason why the cuckoo stops singing from the feast of St. John, lest he be discovered by the goldfinch and taken to task for his broken promise. XLVI. THE STORY OF THE CROW AND ITS UGLY FLEDGLINGS. Let us turn now to the crow, with which the raven is often confused in the popular mind. Of all the birds, this is considered the ugliest, especially its young fledglings. The legend tells that sometime after God had created all the living beings, he called everyone to see them and their offspring. He wanted to see how the young birds and animals looked, and then to give them suitable gifts, and food for their little ones. They came one by one, and God looked at them, patted some and stroked others, and was very pleased with every one of them, for each one had something of beauty in it. And so he blessed them and gave them food by which to live. The last to come was the crow, bringing her little brood with her, very proud of them. When God cast his eyes upon the young crows, he spat in astonishment, and said: "Surely these are not my creatures. I could not have made such ugly things. Every one of my creatures has such beautiful young ones that they are a pleasure to look at, but thine are so ugly that it makes one sick to look at them. Whence hast thou got this one?" "Where should I get them from?" replied the crow; "it is my very own young child," she added with pride. "You had better go back and bring me another one, this is much too ugly, I cannot look at it." Annoyed at the words of God, the crow went away, and flew all over the earth to search for another young one that would be more beautiful than the one she had brought to God. But no other young bird appeared so beautiful in her eyes as her own. So she returned back to God and said, "I have been all over the world, and I have searched high and low, but young birds more beautiful and more dainty than mine I have not been able to find." Then God smilingly replied, "Quite right, just so are all mothers; no other child is so beautiful in their eyes as their own." Then he blessed the little crows and sent them away into the world with his gifts. XLVII. WHY IS THERE ENMITY BETWEEN THE CROW AND THE HAWK? The Rumanians tell another tale about the ugliness of young crows. It is the story of the crow and the hawk. The crow was in very great distress, for however she tried and whatever she did, she could not rear a family. No sooner were the young hatched, than the hawk would come and pick them up. In vain did she try to hide her nest in the hollows of a tree or in the thickets of a bush, as sure as death would the hawk find them and eat them. Not knowing what to do, she bethought herself and said, "How would it do if I try and get the hawk to be godmother, for then, being a near relation, she is sure to spare my little ones?" Said and done. She went out of her place to search for the hawk, and finding her, she said, "Good morning, sister." "Good morning," replied the hawk. "How pleased I should feel," said the crow, "if you would become godmother to my children." "With pleasure," replied the hawk, "why not?" And so they made up a covenant of friendship and of good-fellowship between them. Before leaving the hawk, the crow said to her, "Now, sister, I have one request to make." "Granted," replied the hawk, "what is it?" "I only beg of you to spare my children, do not eat them when you have found them." "All right," replied the hawk, "I shall certainly not touch them, but tell me how they look so that in case I meet them I may spare them." "O," replied the crow, "mine are the most beautiful creatures in the world, they are more lovely than any other bird can boast of." "Very well, rest assured. Go in peace." And they parted. The crow, being quite satisfied with the hawk's promise, began flying about the next day trying to find something with which to feed her children. The hawk the next morning went about her own business and tried to find some nice little young ones to eat. Flying about, she saw the young ones of the thrush, the blackbird, and of other beautiful birds, and she said to herself, "Surely these are the children of the crow; look how lovely and beautiful they are, I am not going to touch them." She went all day, without finding any little birds but these; and she said to herself: "I must keep my word to my sister, I am not going to touch them." And she went to bed hungry. The next day the same thing happened, and still the hawk kept her word and would not touch them. On the third day she was so hungry that she could scarcely see out of her eyes. Roaming about, the hawk suddenly lighted upon the nest of the crow. Seeing the little, miserable, ugly things in the nest, the hawk at first would not touch them, although she never dreamt that these ugly things were the children of the crow, so much praised by her for their beauty, and thought they must belong to some hideous bird. But what is one to do when one is hungry? One eats what one gets and not finding anything better, she sat down and gobbled them up one by one, and then flew away. Not long after the hawk had left, the crow came in, feeling sure this time to find her little ones unhurt; but how great was her dismay when she found the nest empty! First she thought the little birds had tried their wings and were flying about in the neighbourhood, and she went in search of them. Not finding them, she began to be a little more anxious, and hunting a little more closely, found on the ground near some rushes some tufts of feathers with little bones and blood. She knew at once that the hawk had again been there, feeding on her children. Full of wrath and fury, she went to find the hawk. Meeting her, she said, "A nice sister and godmother you are! After you had promised most faithfully not to touch my children, no sooner had I turned my back on them, than you come again and eat them." "I do not understand what you are saying," replied the hawk. "It is your own fault. You told me your children were the most beautiful in the world, and those which I have eaten were monsters of hideousness. If I had not felt the pinch of hunger so strong, I would not have touched them, not for anything, such ugly things they were! They nearly made me sick." "Is that the way you keep your promise?" replied the angry crow; "after having eaten them, you even have the impudence to tell lies and insult me. Off with you! and woe betide you if I ever catch you, I will teach you to behave properly." From that day on, the hawk, if it gets near the crows, attacks them. And from that day on there is implacable hatred between the crows and the hawks. XLVII. A. CROW CHARMS. It is said that the crow bathes its young in some waters between frontiers. This water becomes poisonous, and is used by witches for philtres and spells. If a man wants to obtain the water, he must go to nine witches, who assemble on a Tuesday at midnight at the fountain. Each one brings a stolen pot, or, in preference, the skull of a dog. In each they take three drops of that water, and they say their spell over it, waving over it a tuft of hair from a mad wolf. This incantation they must repeat for nine weeks on each Tuesday at midnight, and with the water thus obtained they make their philtres. The croaking of the crow is considered as evil an omen as that of the raven. A very peculiar custom prevails among the people, who, when the children lose their teeth, take them and throw them if possible on the roofs of the houses and say: "Here, crow, I give you a tooth of bone, bring me one more beautiful." Or, according to other versions, "bring me one of gold. I give you a tooth of iron, bring me one of steel." XLVIII. WHY DOES THE HERON DRINK ONLY RAIN-WATER? The Story of the Heron and the digging of Wells. When God had created the world, there were no springs or wells. The only water from which to satisfy the thirst of all the creatures was rain-water. After a time the rain was not enough to satisfy them all; the grass and trees were fading and withering, burnt up by the fiery heat of the sun, and the animals were perishing from thirst. So God called all the birds together, and told them that they should dig holes in the earth with their claws and beaks, in order that the water from underneath should come up and water the earth and slake the thirst of all the creatures. At the bidding of God all the birds came together and started working with their beaks and claws. They all worked together. The hawk worked side by side with the young chickens, and the owl with the doves. Such a thing never happened before or since. The heron alone flew about as if it did not affect her. She was quite indifferent to see how hard the other birds worked. She cared not for the sweat which stood out like beads, and ran down the neck of the lark as it went scratching away at the earth with legs as thin as two straws, nor did she care for the titmouse which hacked away at the foot of a hillock. And God asked her: "Why dost thou not do anything?" "Why should I soil my feet with mud," she replied, "when the rain-waters are not yet dried up?" And God said: "Because thou hast not hearkened to my command, thou shalt slake thy thirst only from the rain, and then only by the water running down thy wings." From that time onwards one hears the heron crying in time of drought. She prays to God to send some rain to moisten her dry mouth. XLIX. WHY DOES THE KITE CRY IN DRY WEATHER? The Story of the Kite and the making of Rivers. The same story is told of the kite in the following version: When God made the world, he called all the birds together to help him to dig wells for the water and beds for the rivers. All the birds came except the kite, which, looking at its claws, said, "See how beautiful and dainty they are! I am not going to soil them with the mud of the rivers and wells." Then all the other birds cursed her, that she might never be able to drink water out of wells and rivers, and should slake her thirst only with the dew and rain from heaven, nor should she be able to drink by lifting her beak and catching the falling rain, but she would only be able to drink the rain-water which was running down her wings. Therefore, in time of drought, the kite flies high up to God and prays for rain and dew, for if she drinks of the water of rivers and wells she dies. A remarkable parallel to this story has been given by Grimm in his D. Mythologie, 4th ed. p. 561; and for a Russian parallel, v. Ralston, Russian Folk Tales, p. 331. An oriental version substitutes the raven for the kite as the bird whose piteous cries bring about the breaking of the drought. It is said that when Adam beheld his dead son Abel, he did not know what to do, for he was the first man to die. A raven dug a hole and put into it his companion who had died. Adam saw this and followed his example. God therefore granted to the raven that henceforth when there would be drought in the world, his cry would bring about the breaking up of the drought and a downpour of rain (Chapters of Eliezer, ch. xxi.). L. WHY CAN THE MOLE NOT COME OUT ON THE HIGH ROAD? The Story of the Mole and the making of Roads. When the world was made, there were no roads and no pathways. It was very difficult to get about from one place to another. Seeing this, God ordered all the animals to come and work together and straighten out paths and make roads. All the animals came and worked as they were commanded. Only the mole stayed away, so God asked him why he had not come, when all the others had? "I do not want any roads and ways, for they are of no use to me," he replied; "I burrow under the earth and there I spend my life." "So shall it always be henceforth," said God, "and thou shalt not be able to make thy little hills on roads or highways, and it shall not be a sin to kill thee." And so it has remained to this day. No mole-hill has ever been seen on any public road. The mole cannot make them except in fields and meadows. Whoever destroys a mole-hill gets a peculiar wart on his hand. In order to get rid of it he must pass over it seven times the paw (the claws) of a mole. LI. WHY HAS THE TORTOISE A ROUND BACK? The Story of the Tortoise, St. Peter and God. When God and St. Peter were walking on the earth, one day they made a very long journey, and grew very hungry. Coming to a little hut, they found the woman in, and they asked her for something to eat. "Well," she said, "I have very little flour in the house, but I am going to bake two loaves, and when you come back in half an hour they will be ready and you will be welcome to one." Taking the flour, she kneaded it in the trough and made two loaves, one for herself and one for the travellers. Meanwhile they went to church, but they said before going that they would come back at the end of the service. The woman covered over the dough, and to her great astonishment, when she lifted the cover, the dough of the loaf for the strangers had risen much higher than the other. Then she put both loaves in the oven. How great was her surprise, on taking out the loaves from the oven, when she found that the one for the travellers had been baked nicely and was a very big loaf, whilst the one for herself was half burned and almost shrivelled to a pancake. When she saw the miracle her greed overtook her, and she forgot the promise which she had made to the travellers. She said to herself: "Why should I give my best bread to strangers whom I do not know? Let them go elsewhere to richer people than I am." So she took the pasteboard and put it on the floor, and crouching on it, covered herself over with the trough. She told her little girl to stand in front of the door, and if two old people should come and ask for her she was to say that her mother had gone away and that she did not know where she was. The travellers then, of course, would not come in, and she would be able to enjoy the loaf. After a while God and St. Peter came back from church, and asked the little girl where her mother was, to which the child replied as she had been told. God said, "Where she is there shall she remain"; and went away. The child came in and tried to lift the trough off the back of her mother, who was lying hidden underneath, but try as hard as she could the trough would not come off. It had grown on to the back of her mother, and the pasteboard had grown underneath on to her. The woman was only able to put out her little head with the glistening, greedy eyes, and her tiny little hands and feet, and the handle of the pasteboard had turned into a waggling tail. And that is how the tortoise was made, when the old woman became the tortoise always carrying the trough and the pasteboard with her. LII. WHY HAVE THE FISH NO FEET? When God had made all the creatures, he gave every one the power of walking and saving themselves from danger. Among others, came the fish, and God asked him what he would like, and the fish replied: "If I am to have my choice I would ask you to give me seven wings; I should fly much quicker than any other animal, and no one would be able to catch me: but should I be caught I am willing to die alive on the grill with my eyes open." And God shook his head at the foolish request, for he knew that man would be able to find out how to make the line and hook, and that all the wings of the fish would not help him. So he is caught with his mouth open, and that is why the fish takes his punishment without murmuring, and dies quietly on the grill with his eyes open. LIII. WHY DO THE PLOVER FLY SINGLY? The Story of the Plover and Lady Mary. In the beginning the plover used to fly in large coveys. But one day, when Our Lady was riding on a horse, they ran across the road and frightened the horse so much that it threw the rider. Angry at the mishap, St. Mary cursed the plover that they should no longer gather in coveys but should go singly. And so it has remained to this very day. The plover nest quite alone and never join others in their flight. LIV. WHY DOES THE SPIDER HANG ON A THREAD? The Story of the Spider and Lady Mary. One day a spider, meeting the Holy Mother, challenged her as to which of the two could spin the finer thread. The Holy Mother accepted the challenge, and started to spin a very fine thread indeed. But, however fine her thread was, the yarn spun by the spider was much finer, and then, to add to the discomfiture of the Holy Mother, the spider let himself down on one of its threads and remained dangling, and, turning to the Holy Mother, he said to her: "Can you do anything like it?" And the Holy Mother replied, "No"; and being angry she cursed the spider, and said, "Thy web shall be of no use to anyone, and because of thy spite, whoever kills thee shall be forgiven three of his sins." We meet the spider again in controversy with the Holy Mother on a more dramatic occasion. She was searching for her son, and going to St. John, she asked him what had happened to him, as she had not seen him for some time. "The cruel people have taken him and are torturing him." Going on her way she met the carpenters, who said to her that instead of making a light cross they had made a heavy cross. She cursed them, saying, "May you work all the year and see no profit." Then she met the smiths, who, instead of making short nails, had made long nails, and she cursed them likewise. She came to the gate of the palace of Pilate, and on her touching the gate, it opened, and going in, she saw all that happened. On her way, weeping and crying, she met a flight of swallows, who asked her why she was crying and weeping, and she replied, "My only son has been taken away from me." And they replied, "Do not weep and do not cry, for three days hence thou shalt see him alive, thou and thy friends." And the Holy Mother blessed them, that they should always be welcome in the house of the people, that they should nest on the roofs, and that no one should disturb them, and that whosoever should kill a swallow should be guilty of three sins. Going further, she met the spider, and the spider asked her why she was weeping and crying, and she replied, "My only son has been taken away." And the spider replied, "You may cry till the day of doom; what is gone is gone, and can never come back again." Next to the spider was standing the mouse, and the mouse chimed in: so the Holy Mother cursed him and went on her way, but finding that her way led her nowhere, she came back the same road. When she had gone, the mouse said to the spider: "The Holy Mother has not blessed us, so I think you had better make a rope and stretch it from tree to tree, and I will dig a pit underneath, and when she comes back we will hang her by the rope and throw her into the pit." But the Holy Mother knew what they were plotting, and when she came back, she said: "Thou ugly and spiteful spider, worms shall settle on thee, and by thy own rope shalt thou hang. All the days of thy life an unclean animal shalt thou be. And thou, O mouse, who hast plotted against me, thy habitation shall be henceforth in the pits and hollows of the earth, and thou shalt be an unclean beast. Whatever thou touchest shall be defiled, and whoever kills thee or the spider shall be forgiven three sins." And so it has remained to this very day, the spider hanging on its own rope, and the mouse lying hidden under the earth, and both are killed by men and beasts. This same legend has become a carol which is also used as a charm. LIV. A. WHY ARE THE SPIDER AND THE MOUSE ACCURSED? The Story of Lady Mary, the Mouse and the Spider (a Charm). After the crucifixion, the Lady Mary went along crying and weeping in pain and grief for that they had crucified her son. Wherever she went all the creatures wept with her, and the flowers in the grass of the field bent low in sign of mourning. A flight of swallows met her in the beautiful meadow, and seeing her crying, comforted her, and said: "Do not weep, for thy son will come to life again three days hence, and will show himself to thee and to the Apostles." Then the Lady Mary became more comforted, and said to the swallows: "Ye swallows from this day on shall be the cleanest birds on the face of the earth, and the house at which you build your nests will be a happy one, and whoever destroys your nest shall be cursed." The Lady Mary went on her way, and passing on her way she met a spider weaving his web, and a mouse burrowing in the ground. When they saw her weeping they mocked at her, and said: "In vain dost thou weep and cry. Know that thy son is dead; he will never come to life again, although thou mayest believe it." But the Lady Mary replied: "My child is the son of God. He will do what he wills." And she went on her way. She went on until she came to another forest. Fearing that she might lose her way she returned the same way as she had gone. The spider and the mouse, seeing that she had not blessed them, took counsel together to hang her on a rope and to kill her the next time they met her again. And the mouse said to the spider: "Now thou weave a rope and get it ready, and upon that rope we will hang her as soon as we set our eyes on her." A short time afterwards the Lady Mary returned, and came back to the same spot. Meanwhile the spider had woven a strong rope, and had tied one end to a branch of the tree, and the mouse had digged a deep pit under that tree. But the Lady knew what they had intended, and she said: "Thou, O spider, hast woven a rope for hanging me, thou shalt always dangle on a rope. Thou shalt be unclean and full of vermin, and whoever catches thee shall kill thee. And thou, O mouse, thou shalt be so dirty from this day onwards, that wherever thou diest that place shall become unclean, and whoever sees thee shall kill thee, and whoever will kill a mouse or a spider God shall forgive him three sins." And as she had said, so it has remained to this very day. From that time on the mouse and the spider have remained accursed. LV. WHY HAS THE SWALLOW A FORKED TAIL AND A RED SPOT ON ITS BREAST? The Story of Lady Mary and the Wicked Stepmother. In Oriental folk-lore the swallow seems to be considered everywhere as a sacred bird, of which many legends are related. We hear, that when the Temple was burning in Jerusalem the swallows were the birds which brought water in their beaks with which to quench the flame, whilst the spider brought fiery coal to fan the flame. Hence he who kills a swallow commits seven sins, whilst he who kills a spider is forgiven seven sins. In the Appendix, No. III., a peculiar legend is also told of the spider, the gnat and the swallow. As for the origin of the swallow, which would account for the forked tail and for the colour of the feathers, the Rumanians have the following tale. It is a story of a mother-in-law, who, like all mothers-in-law, treated her daughter-in-law in a most cruel manner. Whatever the young woman did was not right. Her mother-in-law persecuted her from morning till evening, and gave her neither peace nor rest. One day, seeing that she could not get rid of her by any other means, she killed her, and cut her up in pieces. Her son, who had been away, came in just in time to see the foul deed which his mother had done. Enraged, he made a pile of wood, and dragging his mother on to it, he lit the wood, so as to burn his mother on the fire. For reasons which we do not know, St. Mary came down from heaven and pulled the old woman away from the fire after her. Her clothes had already began to burn. She got hold of her, changed her into a swallow, and pulled her through the chimney. As soon as she saw herself saved, the wicked woman wanted to fly away. But St. Mary said: "Stop, and do not fly away. Do not imagine that because I have saved you from being burned on the fire, I will let you go away like that: you just wait, for I must put a sign on you, that everybody may know what a good mother-in-law you have been, and that you have killed your daughter-in-law." And as she said these words, she caused her tail to become like a pair of scissors, or rather like two sharp knives joined in one point, like the knives with which she had cut up her daughter-in-law. But this was not the only sign. For when St. Mary pulled her through the chimney, a lot of soot fell on her, and wherever it fell it made the feathers black, and so they have remained to this very day. The red spot on the breast of the swallow is the red blood of her daughter-in-law, and the white spots are the remnants of the shirt which remained unburned when all the other clothes had caught fire, but it has not kept white either, for it was just a little singed. There are besides these a number of tales about the swallow. They are told in Nos. 86, 87. LVI. WHY DOES THE FROG SHRIVEL UP AT DEATH? The Story of the Frog and Lady Mary. When Christ was being crucified, his mother went in search of him; she did not know whither he had betaken himself. On her way she met a band of carpenters. Weeping, she asked them, "Have you seen my son?" "We have seen him," they said. "Nay, we have made the cross, and instead of light timber, we have taken heavy timber." "So," she said, "you shall henceforth work from morning till night and never get any richer." Then she met a band of Gipsies, and she asked them, "Have you seen my son?" "O yes," they replied, "we have seen him, and we were told to make thick and blunt nails, but we have made them thin and pointed so they should pass easily through and not give much pain." And Mary replied, "May your work be light and your profit great." Going on her way she met a frog, and the frog asked her, "Dear lady mine, what are you weeping and crying for?" And she replied, "I am weeping and crying for my only son, whom they are killing now in Jerusalem." And the frog replied, "What am I to say; I have had ten children and nine were crushed to death by the wicked wheel of the carts, only one is left to his mother, a sweet darling and pet, a beauty." When Mary heard the frog lauding her child, she said, "Let me see that beauty of yours, just come out, little froggie, beloved darling of mother." And there came out of the lake behind a little frog with its crooked legs and ungainly face, and with eyes staring out of his head. And when Mary saw that beauty she could not help laughing under her tears. And she said to the frog, "Because thou hast made me smile in my grief, may thy body never rot when thou diest, and the worm never have a share in it." And ever since, when the frog dies, the body shrinks into nothingness and disappears. LVII. WHY DOES THE SILKWORM SPIN A THIN THREAD? The Story of the Tortoise and Lady Mary. The blessed Mary, great and glorious as she is--she must not take it amiss--was one day too lazy to go out on behalf of her son to distribute his gifts among the children of the village. So when she left the house with the loaves of bread, some cake, and other gifts which she was to distribute, under her arm, she met the tortoise. "Good morning," said the one. "Welcome, daughter," said the other. St. Mary said, "Prithee, auntie, just give this bread as alms for souls to the boys of the village." "That is not much, my daughter, I will willingly do it," and taking the bread under her arms, there she went crawling along until she came to the boys. The tortoise had scarcely left her, when St. Mary bethought herself that it might have been better if she herself had given the alms away, and not sent them through a stranger. So without more ado she followed the way the tortoise had gone, and came to the school. What did she see there? Auntie tortoise performed her deed as she had promised, and going from boy to boy gave everyone a bit. But when at last she came to the youngest, who was her own child, she took out the cake and gave it to him. "I should like to know," said St. Mary, "how it happened that the last piece to be given away was a cake?" "Well, daughter, or rather mother, I had kept the cake for the most beautiful child, and I could not find anyone more beautiful than mine." St. Mary, who had heard many things, when she heard this, could not help laughing aloud. When she stopped laughing she was rather sorry, for why should she have laughed so loud? She said, "Verily, there is nothing more beautiful in the eyes of a mother than her own child." Her beautiful face grew sad, and in order that her laughter should not bewitch the little tortoise--as if struck by the evil eye for being praised as beautiful--she spat out upon the ground, and out of the spittle there grew the silkworm. St. Mary blessed it and said, "Thou shalt live upon green leaves, and thou shalt draw out fine silk threads" (like the thread of the spittle). It is therefore forbidden to say anything evil of the silkworm, or to touch it whilst it is spinning the cocoon, for no sooner is an evil word spoken or the worm touched, than it stops drawing the silk. The variant from the Balkans is as follows: When Jesus went up to Golgotha, the Virgin Mother followed, crying. There she saw in the procession also a tortoise, and she could not help laughing. She then reproached herself, and said, "O evil mouth, thou art only good for worms." There and then she spat on the ground in disgust, and worms came out of the spittle. But having come from a holy mouth the worms which grew out of the spittle became the silkworms, which have remained so to this very day. A peculiar variant in which, however, the second part--the origin of the silkworm--is omitted, is found among the Kutzovlachs of Macedonia as "The Story of St. Mary and the Tortoise." Once upon a time the Virgin Mary sat sadly at the door of the school, waiting for her son, who was learning within, to come out so that she might give him a piece of cake which she had brought with her. Whilst she was sitting there she said to herself, "I will wait and see whether all the creatures recognise my son to be the most beautiful child in the world." A tortoise just then came along. In order to put her to the test, St. Mary said to her, "Would you like to give this cake to the most beautiful child here in this school?" "Willingly," replied the tortoise, and taking the cake she went into the school room. It so happened then that her own child was also among the pupils. She went straight up to it, and without a moment's hesitation gave it the cake destined for the most beautiful child in the school. When St. Mary saw what the tortoise had done, instead of being angry she laughed heartily, and said to her: "Thou hast acted as every mother would act, for to a mother no one could be more beautiful than her own child. And because thou hast driven away my sadness, the finest and softest grass shall henceforth be thy food, and when thou diest thy bones shall not rot away." And so it has remained to this very day, and the shell of the tortoise remains sound. LVIII. WHY IS IT RIGHT TO KILL A SPARROW? The Story of the Sparrow and the Crucifixion. Another legend brings us again to the same events. This time it is in connection with the sparrow. It is said that the sparrows were originally much bigger birds than they are now, but at the time of the crucifixion they flew round the cross and cried half mockingly, "Jiviu Jiviu," which means "Live, live." Christ, who was in pain, and annoyed at their behaviour, cursed them and said, "May you live only on the crumbs which you will pick up on the roadside, and henceforth, becoming smaller, you will be snared by little boys and tormented by them, and the passers-by shall hit at you with whips, and kill you." And so it has remained to this very day. They live on crumbs wherever they can pick them up. They have become very small birds. They are snared by children, who often play with them cruelly, and the passers-by strike at them with a whip, and kill them. A Russian Legend, Afanasief, p. 13, is a close parallel to this story, though it differs somewhat from it in detail; v. Ralston, Russian Folk Tales, p. 331. LIX. WHY SHOULD THE OAK TREE NOT BOAST? The Story of the Sparrow and the Oak Tree. The people regard the sparrow as one of the greatest pests, for he eats up the seeds and the crops. The people believe that the sparrows reach an age of over nine hundred years, and they tell the following tale about it: In a clearing of a huge oak forest, there grew up a tiny little tree. All the other trees looked upon it with pleasure, it was so green and so tender. Suddenly a sparrow flying over the trees came down and settled on that little sapling, which bent under the weight of the bird. Angrily, the little tree said to the sparrow, "It is a great shame that thou shouldst have come and settled on me, I who am so weak and tender and scarcely able to stand up, why didst thou not go and settle on one of those huge trees of which the forest is full." The sparrow, feeling ashamed and angered at the words of the little sapling, replied: "Very well, I am going, but when thou shalt be on thy death-bed I will come back, and thou wilt have to render me account for these offensive words which thou hast spoken to me." And the sparrow went away. Now it is known that an oak lives for nine hundred years: for three hundred years it grows in strength and might, the next three hundred it rests quiet, and during the last three hundred it slowly decays and dies. First the heart, that is, the core, dies, then the wood is slowly eaten away, the branches fall off, and at the end of nine hundred years the tree is changed into dust. And so it happened with that little sapling. It grew for three hundred years, it stopped still for the next three hundred years, and finally it decayed and died at the end of the last three hundred years. When the last day of the nine hundred years had come, and scarcely anything was left of the tree but dust, the sparrow came back, and rolling about in the dust it said: "Dost thou remember when thou wast a mere sapling, how thou didst insult me, thou didst believe thou wouldst grow on and live for ever? Dost thou see that my word has come true, thou proud tree of the forest, now thy head is lying low and thou hast been changed into dust, thou hast been humbled, whilst I am still living on in strength, and I am now as I have then been." This longevity of the sparrow makes him the dread of the peasants and farmers, and among the means taken to save the crops from the inroads of this pest are magical practices and charms. I will only quote one or two. Charms against the Sparrow. On the first day of Lent the man must collect all the crumbs and bones from his table after he has finished his meal, and, taking them out in the table-cover, he must strew them upon the field, and say, "O ye birds of heaven, here I have brought you of the food from my table, eat this, and do not touch the food from off the field." Or, taking a handful of corn and standing with one foot on his field and with the other on the roadside, he must throw the corn on the road outside the field and to say, "O St. Mary, here I have brought food for the birds of heaven. Let them feed on this seed and not on the seed which I sow in my field." There is still another charm. At the time when the sparrows begin to pick at the corn the youngest of the household must go to the field. He must take off all his garments, then, tying a kerchief over his eyes, he must hold in his hand a candle, which has been burning at the head of a corpse, and carrying also a tuft of hair cut off from the head of the dead, he is to walk with the lighted candle in his hand over the four sides of the field and say, "As I do not see now, and as the dead man does not see, so shall the birds not see this field with the corn growing in it. And the mind of the birds should be taken off from this field, as the mind of the dead is off it." When he comes to the fourth corner of the field he must tie the hair of the dead round some of the ears of corn and say, "I do not tie up this crop, but I tie the mouth of the birds, that they may not be able to eat it, as the dead man is unable to eat it. And they shall not be able to see the corn, as the dead man does not see the world." LX. WHY DOES THE MOSQUITO LIVE IN THE WELL? The Story of King Pic, Lady Mary and the Sun. Once upon a time St. Mary talked with the sun about the sins of this world. They also talked about the wicked deeds of the Emperor Pic among others, of whom an evil report had spread on account of his cruelty. The sun talked to her about all that he had seen, and St. Mary, weighing up all his sins, came to the decision that he should be thrown into the depths of the sea, so that even his memory should be lost to the end of days. But before she had time to pronounce her judgment, up came the Emperor Pic himself in mighty wrath. He caught hold of St. Mary by the hair of her head, for was he not the emperor, and was there anyone of whom he should stand in awe? He feared no one, and cursing as fast as he could fill his mouth with blasphemous words, he started fighting the sun. When St. Mary wanted to remonstrate with him he gave her a blow on her mouth, so as to stop her from speaking. The sun, seeing this infamous conduct, got angry, and catching him by the throat, hurled the Emperor Pic into a well with the intention of drowning him before he could utter a single word. The only sound which he made before sinking was Zi Zi Zi. St. Mary, having pity upon him, wanted to save him from drowning, and tried to draw him out of the water. But she looked in vain for him. Instead of finding Pic in the well, she only found a little insect that was shivering with cold and was hiding under one of the beams of the well. God had no doubt punished Pic for his impudence. The mosquito (Culex pipiens) does not leave his hiding place until the sun disappears, for he is frightened of him, and this fear has remained with him. For this reason no mosquito will come out during the daytime: he will wait until it gets dark, then he will come out and, sitting on the edge of the well, sings Zi, Zi, Zi. LXI. WHY DOES THE MOSQUITO FEED ON BLOOD? The Story of God and the Food of the Mosquito. After God had made all the creatures, he called them together, to tell them what they would have to do so that they might live. They all came, and God gave every one its gift and the manner of its food. All had come and gone, but the mosquito did not come until very late. When asked why he had done so, he started telling tales, until God got angry and, turning to him, said: "I have no time to waste with thee, hurry up and tell me quickly, what kind of food dost thou wish?" The mosquito replied, "I wish to live by sucking." "So it shall be," replied God, "now go and suck the juice of trees and plants." What was he to do? He went and sucked the trees and plants. After a fortnight had passed he got weak and shrivelled from this kind of food. His wife, seeing the state into which he had fallen by his foolish demand, said to him: "See what has become of you! You are shrivelled up and weak, a few days more and you are sure to die. You had better go to God and beg him to give you another food." But he said, "I cannot go; if you have the impudence you had better go." "Very well, then, I will go," replied the female mosquito, and up she went to God. When he saw her he asked her, "What has brought you to me?" "The miserable food which my husband has got is killing us. We cannot live by it. We are getting shrivelled up." "If so," said God, "I will give you the right to suck also blood from man and beast, but as soon as you cannot get blood you must die. Your husband, however, he may live on the blood and juice of plants alike." And so it has remained, the female dies when she cannot find blood to suck. According to some local tradition, the mosquito has been made out of the smoke of the devil's pipe, and for that reason he hates the smoke. According to another they are also the servants of the devil and the enemies of the angels, who cannot come into a room where there are many mosquitos LXII. WHY DOES THE FLY EAT THE CHERRY? The Story of Lady Mary and the Cherries. It is told that, once upon a time, the Lady Mary wanted to bring some cherries to her son. So she went to a cherry tree and began to shake it. But to her surprise, instead of coming down as she expected, the cherries seemed to rise higher and higher. It was a cherry tree dedicated to the devil, and it was not meet that such cherries should be brought to God. So she went away full of wrath, and cursed the cherries. And lo! they were changed into small black mites that flew away. But the love of their sisters--the cherries--brings them back, and they come and kiss them, and when they kiss them they leave their eggs behind, which, growing into little white worms, eat the cherries. LXIII. WHY HAS THE BUTTERFLY RINGS ON ITS WINGS? The Story of St. Anne and the Magician. Once upon a time the rumour spread through Palestine that there was a man who could perform greater miracles than God. St. Anne, hearing of it, determined to go and see him, and so she did. When she approached the house where he lived, she washed her feet, as it is customary in those parts of the world, and with meekness and devotion she went in and asked the man to change a withered trunk into a green tree. The man got very angry, and said he did not perform miracles, and after insulting her before the assembled multitudes, seized her hands and thrust her out of his house. When St. Anne saw what he had done she fell upon her knees and prayed to God to punish him. As she was lifting up her hands in prayer she suddenly noticed that the ring which she had from her dear mother had gone. She remembered that the man had got hold of her by the hand, and she understood that he then must have slipped the ring off her finger. So she prayed that God would punish this impostor, thief, and robber. And God heard her prayer. Of a sudden the man disappeared from amongst the people, and a small ring appeared round one of the boughs of the tree outside the house. Whilst the people were gazing upon this ring into which the thief had been changed, it opened, and out of it came a hundred of small butterflies with the mark of the ring on their wings. This was the sign of the ring, which had been stolen from St. Anne. The miracle which St. Anne asks the man to perform, namely, to change a withered trunk into a green tree, belongs to the large cycle of similar miracles starting from the rod of Aaron, the story of Lot and Abraham, the Tannhäuser legend, etc. (v. Gaster, Literatura Populara Româna, Bucharest 1883, p. 286 ff.). This ring of small insect eggs round the twigs of trees is also known as the cuckoo's ring, and taken off from the tree is used for charms by girls, who say "as men are pleased to hear me." This ring is also called "Sleep," and it is therefore often put into the cradle of restless children in order to cause them to sleep. LXIV. WHY DOES THE CRICKET CHIRP? The Story of Lady Mary and the Yellow Bird. It is said that at the time of the birth of Christ, there was a beautiful little bird with feathers, yellow as gold and with a beak shining like silver, and a thin, fine little body. Just as the bird was beautiful, so she was insolent and disobedient. She was a friend of St. Mary, who liked her singing. When she was sad, the bird would come and comfort her with her sweet songs. And the Holy Mother also helped the little bird when she was in trouble, and when the nest was broken, she helped to mend it. But when the Holy Mother got Jesus, her friendship with the bird came to an end. For the bird did not like children. It could not stand their crying. The bird believed that the crying child mocked at her singing, and therefore, whenever she saw Christ, she made faces at him and mockingly chirped, Gri Gri Gri. Christ, hearing it, got frightened and cried bitterly. When St. Mary saw the insolence of the bird, she drove her away from the house, and, cursing her, said: "From the beautiful bird which thou art, thou shalt become one of the most hideous insects, and, living only in clefts and holes, thou shalt sing only Gri Gri Gri, as a punishment for having mocked at God's child." Since then, that bird has entirely disappeared, and all of her kind which were living at that time were turned into crickets chirping in the hearths and mocking at the children of men, Gri Gri Gri. LXV. WHY DO THE ANTS FEED THE CRICKET? The Story of Alexander and the Knight. There is another legend of the origin of the cricket which leads us to the cycle of the Alexander legends. It is told that in the time of Alexander there lived a young man who, when he was sixteen years old, was more beautiful than any one had been before him, or after him. The princesses were fighting for him, calling one another as many names as the moon and stars, and each one vowing that hers only he was to be, none other was worthy of him. Still more beautiful was his singing, for when you heard him your mind stopped still, so sweet was his voice. Even the mothers of the maidens fell in love with him. And grey-haired old kings with long, white beards and bushy eyebrows, would lift their brows to see him, who was as beautiful as a wonder and dear as a ball of gold. But whilst everyone liked him, Alexander could not suffer him. He must hate him, for though Alexander was the mightiest emperor of the world, yet none could please him, no not one even of those princesses. For this reason there grew up an enmity between them, which became so strong that even the sun, which used at that time to walk about on the earth, could not make peace between them. Alexander might perhaps have made peace, but he would do so only on the condition that the other would not make love to his own favourite. But the young knight would not hear of any conditions, and in order to spite him still more, he went more often than before to Alexander's favourite wife, and sang to her as much as he could. When the sun told how insolent he was, Alexander turned on him and drove him out of the house. The sun chased him and burned him, so that from the white that he was he turned as black as a coal, and from the big and tall man that he was he shrivelled up and became as small as a hazelnut, and hid himself away under the hearth of a poor woman's house, from which he squeaked "Griji, Griji ( = take care) that the sun does not catch me." When the sun heard it, he said, "Now thou shalt always live here where thou art, and hungry and thirsty shalt thou cry Griji, Griji without stopping." When the beautiful maidens heard what had happened, they became very angry, and then, turning into ants, they brought food to the poor cricket. To this very day they bring him food, so that he may not die of hunger. LXVI. WHY DO CATS AND DOGS FIGHT? The Story of the Dog, the Cat and the Mouse. In the beginning there was no enmity between the cat and dog, and they lived on friendly terms together and served their master (Adam) faithfully, each one doing its own work. But as you know, it is very much better to have a written agreement at the beginning than to have a row afterwards, so they decided to draw up an agreement defining the work which each had to do, and decided that the dog was to do the work outside the house, and the cat the work inside. For greater safety the dog agreed that the cat should take care of the agreement, and the cat put it in the loft. After a time, the devil, who could not allow peace to last for a long time, must needs set the dog up against the cat; so one day the dog remarked to the cat that he was not fairly treated, he did not see why he should have all the trouble outside the house, to watch for thieves and protect the house and suffer from cold and rain, and only have scraps and bones for food, and sometimes nothing at all, whilst the cat had all the comfort, purring and enjoying herself, and living near the hearth in warmth and safety. The cat said, "An agreement is an agreement." The dog replied, "Let me see that agreement." The cat went quickly up the loft to fetch the agreement, but the agreement, which had been a little greasy, had been nibbled by the mice who were living in the loft, and they went on nibbling away until nothing was left of it but a heap of paper fluff, and as it was as soft as down the mice made their home of it. When the cat came up and saw what the mice had done, her fury knew no bounds, she pursued them madly, killing as many as she could seize, and running after the others with the intent of catching them. When she came down the dog asked her for the agreement, and as the cat had not brought it, the dog, taking hold of her, shook her until he got tired of shaking her. Since that time, whenever a dog meets a cat he asks her for the agreement, and as she cannot show it to him he goes for her, and the cat, knowing what the mice had done to her, runs after them when she sees them. In the South Slavonic folk-lore (Krauss, No. 18) there is a parallel to this story, but greatly changed from the original form. It is no longer a "creation" legend. It runs as follows: The dogs used to receive all the meat that fell off the table. This became a habit, and so he and the cat drew up a statement to that effect, and made it a permanent rule. They wrote it on the hide of an ass, and the king of the dogs gave it to the cat--the first chancellor--to take care of it. The cat hid it away in the rafters of the house. There the skin was found by the mice, who nibbled it until there was scarcely anything left. One day a dog got badly beaten because he picked up some meat that had fallen from the table. He went and complained to the king, who sent the cat to find the document. The cat could not find it, and saw that the mice had eaten it. Since then there is a continual feud between the cat, the mice and the dog. In this version, the entire origin of the tale has been lost. It is no longer referred to Adam, nor is there any question of a compact between a cat and dog which was broken by the latter. In the Slavonic tale there is no authority for this arrangement. The Rumanian version approximates much more closely to the Oriental, and seems to have preserved much more faithfully the ancient form. The oldest which can thus far be traced is that in the "Alphabet of Pseudo Sirach," printed here in the Appendix (No. III.). LXVII. WHY DO CATS EAT MICE? The Story of Adam and Eve and the Devil. When Adam and Eve had lived for some time together, Adam suddenly noticed a change in his wife's demeanour. Watching her narrowly, he found that she had fallen in love with the devil. She had introduced him into the house, which she had built close to the seashore. Adam, as a wise man, kept his peace, but he thought day and night what was he to do to get rid of the devil and to save his wife? At last he thought that the only way would be to take his wife away into some distant land across the sea, where the devil could not follow him. But how were they to cross that sea? At last he discovered that the best way to cross the sea would be to make a boat, and then, when it was ready, he would take his wife quietly and they would both sail away. But the devil has nothing to do but to watch other people's doings, and to put a spoke into the wheel wherever he can. He was therefore not to be outdone in as simple a manner as Adam thought. He saw that Adam was cutting wood, and making timber and laths, and joining them together, but whenever he asked Adam what he was doing he would not answer him. So at last he came to Eve and told her: "Look here, that husband of yours is preparing some trick, and it is meant against you and me. You better find out what is in Adam's mind. What is he doing, and what is the meaning of it?" Eve, in order to please the devil, asked Adam what he was doing, but he knew it was no good giving a secret into the keeping of a woman. So he kept his counsel to himself. At last, when the devil saw the boat, he told Eve: "I know what Adam means, he wants to take you away and leave me here alone. That you must not allow, but when everything is ready and he is coming to fetch you, you ask him to allow you to bring the house-snake with you. He will not refuse you, and I will take the form of the snake, and so you will carry me with you into the boat. Then we shall see who will be the cleverer, Adam or I." So when Adam came to fetch Eve, she asked him to be allowed to bring also the house-snake with her. Adam, good-hearted fellow as he was, did not refuse her. What did the devil do? He took the form of the snake, and to make sure of being carried into the boat, he coiled himself round Eve's bosom, and so was carried by her into the boat, chuckling all the while at the stupidity of Adam. Adam had no suspicion who the passenger was, he had brought with him. One day, after he had sailed a long time, Adam, tired from his work, laid himself down to rest, when he suddenly felt that the boat was sinking. Up he jumped, trimmed the sail, and looked round to see whether the boat had sprung a leak and was making water, for he could not understand why the boat should suddenly sink and let the water in. The devil, thinking that Adam was asleep and not able to watch his tricks, had made himself heavy like lead in the hope of sinking the ship and drowning Adam. But he had reckoned without his host, for Adam woke up in the nick of time and caught the Wicked One at his evil deeds. When the devil saw that Adam was awake, he changed himself quickly into a mouse. Adam did not trouble, but thought his time would come. The devil, who cannot keep quiet but must do mischief whenever he can, was not content to be left in peace, and be carried across the water, but he must needs start gnawing away at one of the planks of the ship, and so make a hole and drown Adam. His misfortune was that, just when the plank at which he was gnawing had got as thin as a sheet of paper, Adam surprised the Black One at his work. What did he do? He took off his fur glove and threw it at the mouse. The fur glove changed into a cat which, seizing the mouse, killed it and ate it up. And thus the cat got the devil into it. And that is why the cat's hair bristles and makes sparks, and the eyes of the cat glisten in the dark. These are sparks of the devil in the cat. LXVII. A. ANOTHER VERSION. The Story of the Devil, Noah and the Ark. There is another version of this tale which transfers the origin of the mouse to the ark of Noah. Noah would not allow the devil to get into the ark which he had built. In order, therefore, to get in, the devil transformed himself into a mouse, which, being surprised at the same work of gnawing away the boards of the ark, was eaten up by the cat--the fur glove which Noah threw at her. A legend concerning the cat and mouse is found in the so-called "Alphabet of Pseudo Sirach," here in the Appendix, No. III. According to a Bohemian legend, the devil created the mouse that it might destroy "God's corn," whereupon the Lord created the cat. (Ralston, p. 330 note.) The apocryphal interpretation of the temptation of Eve by the serpent which has been identified with Satan is found in many ancient biblical legends. This story of the temptation has been transformed into a somewhat primitive love story between Eve and the devil--her paramour--who assumes the form of the house-snake and then wishes to drown poor unsophisticated Adam. LXVIII. WHY DOES A CAT SIT ON THE DOORSTEP IN THE SUN? The Story of the Cat, the Mouse and Noah. When Noah had built the ark, he kept the door wide open for the animals to enter. After they had all gone in, his own family came, and last of all his wife. Noah said to her "Come in." She obstinately said "No." Noah again said "Come in." She again said "No." Noah, getting angry, said "Oh, you devil, come in." That was just what the devil was waiting for. He knew that Noah would not allow him to come in otherwise, and so he waited for an invitation, of which he promptly availed himself. Getting into the ark the devil changed himself into a mouse. When the devil has nothing to do he weighs his tail. But here he found plenty to do, for, he thought, now is an opportunity of putting an end to the whole of God's creatures. So he started gnawing on one of the planks, trying to make a hole in it. When Noah surprised him at this devilish work he threw his fur glove at him. It turned into a cat, and, in the twinkling of an eye, the mouse was in the mouth of the cat. But Noah could not allow the peace of the ark to be broken, the animals had to live in peace with one another. So he seized the cat, with the mouse in her mouth, and flung her out of the ark into the water. The cat swam to the ark and, getting hold of the door step, climbed on to the sill and lay down there to bask in the sun. There she remained until the water had subsided: and ever since then, the cat likes to lie on the doorstep of the house and bask in the sun. LXIX. WHY DOES THE FLY SETTLE ON THE DEAD? The Story of God and the Giants of the Flood. In olden times, huge giants existed in this world. They were so big that they could put one leg on the top of one mountain and the other on the next one. They reached as high as the heavens, and getting hold of the handles of the great gate would shake it as a man shakes a kettle. They even rebelled against God, for they knew no fear. At last, God, realising their nature, decided to destroy them, and he sent a flood which covered the highest mountains, so that you could not see of them as much as the black under the nail. So all the giants died, except one, who was the biggest of them all. He stood with one leg on the top of one mountain, and with the other on the next mountain, and with his hands he got hold of the handles of the gate of heaven. But God would not tolerate a single one of these giants, for he had decided to make men, very similar creatures to giants but smaller and more obedient. So he sent a fly to pick at his eyes, and worms to gnaw at the soles of his feet. Feeling the pain in his eyes, the giant let the gate of heaven go and wiped his eyes, with his hand, but he could not stand the gnawing of his feet, and he, falling down into the water, was drowned. From the gnawing of the soles the instep in man's foot has come, and these flies (Sarcophaga carnaria) and worms still eat up the human bodies and all the carcases. It is therefore a bad sign if such a fly settles on a sick man; a sure sign of death. LXX. WHY IS THE FOOT OF MAN ARCHED? The Pact between God and the Devil. When God created the world, I do not know how it came about and why it was done, enough that it was done, God made a pact with the devil which they signed and sealed, and God kept the document in which it was stated that they had divided the world between them. It was settled that all the dead should go to the devil and all that was living should belong to God. After a while, the devil repented himself of this arrangement and tried to get hold of the contract. Taking advantage of God's indulgence, he stole into heaven, and, taking the document, he made off with it. Clever though he thinks himself to be, the devil is a fool and remains a fool. So, going down from heaven, he lost the document, and did not even notice his loss until after he had plunged deep down to the bottom of the sea. The document which had fallen out of his hands was lying on the sand of the seashore. When God noticed what the devil had done, he sent a frost so hard that it split the stones and covered up all the waters with a thick crust of ice, so that the devil could not get out. Then God sent St. Peter to fetch the agreement where it lay. St. Peter descended and was about to take it, when a magpie which watched his doings went to the sea, and whack! whack! made a hole in the ice with its beak. That was just what the devil was waiting for, and quick as lightning he came up from the bottom of the sea. But quick as he was, St. Peter was quicker, and picking up the pact he went up to heaven. The devil went after him, but could not catch him up. When St. Peter got near the gate of heaven, the devil, seeing that he had escaped him, threw his spear after him. He missed him; but not entirely, for he hit St. Peter in the sole of his foot. St. Peter cried out of pain. God asked him what had happened, and he replied, "The devil has hit me in my foot with his venomous spear." "Cut that bit out and throw it away," said God. St. Peter did as he was told, and, cutting out the wounded part from the sole of his foot, threw it at the devil. Since then the human foot is short of that bit which St. Peter had cut out when the devil had hit him with his spear. It is not quite clear from the story as it stands whether the magpie acted as a confederate of the devil, and picked a hole in the ice deliberately so as to free him from the imprisonment, or whether the magpie quite innocently went and helped the devil against St. Peter. There is no sequel here to its action. It is neither punished nor rewarded. In this respect the story is imperfect. There exists another popular legend intended to explain the arch in the sole of the human foot. According to the latter, it so happened that the Archangel Michael was the foremost angel in the fight between Satan and the heavenly hosts, which added to the discomfiture of Satan. When he finally was hurled down from heaven he tried to get hold of the archangel. But the angel was too quick for him. The devil missed him, but not entirely, for he seized the archangel by the sole of his foot and tore out a part of the flesh. Since then the sole of the human foot is curved in the middle. That portion is missing, which was torn out of the sole of the archangel. LXXI. WHY HAS A SNAKE NO TAIL? AND WHY DO FLEAS SUCK HUMAN BLOOD? The Story of the Devil in Noah's Ark. When God had brought the Flood, and Noah's ark was floating on the face of the waters, the wretched good-for-nothing devil wanted to destroy Noah with all those who were with him in the ark. So he fell a-thinking for a while, and invented an iron tool called now gimlet, with which he could bore holes in the wall of the ark. The murderous devil started on his work, and poor Noah and those with him were in great danger of being drowned. They all worked hard to get the water out, but who can get the better of the devil? He worked much more quickly, and making many holes in the boards, the waters came in fast. They all believed themselves lost. But God, who does not desire the death of the sinner, and did not wish to see the work of his hands destroyed, gave cunning to the snake, and it is possible that since that day the snakes have remained wise, for does not Holy Writ tell us to be wise as the serpent? The snake came to Noah and said, "What wilt thou give me if I stop up the holes which the devil is making by which the water enters the ark?" "What dost thou want?" replied Noah in despair. "After the Flood thou art to give me a human being every day to be eaten by me and my seed." Noah, hard pressed by the imminent danger, promised to do so. No sooner did the devil bore a hole than the snake stopped it up with the tip of its tail, which it cut off, leaving it in the hole, and that is why ever since the snakes have no tails. When the devil saw that his plan had failed, he ran away and left Noah's ark in peace and all those who were in it. As soon as the Flood had passed away, Noah brought a thanksgiving sacrifice to God for having been miraculously saved. In the midst of these rejoicings the snake took courage and came up to Noah, asking for the human being of which he had promised to give her one every day to be eaten by her and her seed. When Noah heard it, he got very angry, for he said to himself, "There are so few human beings now in the world, if I give her one every day, the world will soon come to an end." So he took hold of the beast which dared to speak to him in such a manner, and threw it into the fire. God was greatly displeased with the evil smell which arose from the fire in consequence, and sent a wind which scattered the ashes all over the face of the earth. From these ashes the fleas were born. If one considers the number of fleas that are in the world, and the amount of human blood which they are sucking, then, taking them all together, they eat up without doubt as much as a human being every day. And thus the promise made by Noah is being fulfilled. A similar tale seems to be known among the Russians, as far as the first part of this legend is concerned. According to Ralston, Russian Folk Tales, p. 330, when the devil in the form of a mouse gnawed a hole in the Ark, the snake stopped it up with its head. In the Russian tale the two tales of the mouse and the snake are thus combined. An Oriental legend which seems to have retained some of the incidents in the Rumanian legend is referred to in Hanauer, Folk Lore of the Holy Land, p. 283. We are told that Iblis (the devil) promises the serpent the sweetest food in the world, that is, human blood, if it helps to deceive Eve. Adam protests, as no one knew yet which is the sweetest blood. The mosquito is sent out to suck the blood of all the animals, and find out which is the sweetest. The swallow shadows the mosquito, and in the end plucks out its tongue so that it shall not be able to tell. The serpent, enraged, darts after the swallow, but only gets hold of the middle feathers of the swallow's tail, which it plucks out, hence the forked tail of the swallow. The serpent still tries to hurt man, but cannot do so in virtue of any claim. The flea is also called the devil's horse, for Satan rode upon a flea when he started on his rebellious fight with God. LXXII. CHARMS AGAINST FLEAS AND OTHER HOUSE VERMIN. In the first quarter of the moon she who wishes to make the charm must be told by a neighbour that the moon has just risen. She then takes a glazed dish or bowl, which she has bought at the fair of the Mummers (Mosii) at the Eastertide, or one that has been given to her at that time. She fills it with "living" water taken from three wells in three new jugs brought by three virgins, who must not look back from the time they have drawn it. This bowl filled with water is put on the window facing the moon, and she waits until the moon strikes the window and the bowl. When she can see the moon well in the bowl and at the bottom of it, she begins to charm (conjure) the fleas, etc., with three stalks taken from a new broom, and says, "New moon in the house, bugs, vermin, fleas, get ye out of the house, leave this house, be scattered--let no one meet the other before mountain meets mountain--and hill top knocks against hill top--then and then only may they meet, and not even then." She repeats the charm three times, then she pours the water into four vessels, places them in the inner four corners of the house, and in the morning she is sure to find some of the house vermin in the vessels. These she must take out, and put into an empty box, stolen from somewhere. She must wait for a car that returns home after everything brought in it has been sold at the market, and must throw the box into that empty car, saying: "Yes, fleas, little fleas--from the house have I taken you, into a stolen box have I put you, charmed, drowned, cursed, thrown into a box, charmed at new moon now, may you become the devil's own, may you become numbed and stiff--in the nine countries--beyond the nine seas--for there they are waiting for you--at spread tables--with torches lit up. Amen!" It is almost unnecessary to discuss at any length the charms against fleas, etc., which were considered the special tools and associates of the Evil One. The philtres in the Western countries consist mostly of poisonous ingredients taken from toads, snakes, etc., and some of the oldest charms are against flies, fleas, midges, etc. This is now, perhaps, the only complete charm in which not only the formula has been preserved, but also, what is of the highest importance, a detailed description of the ceremonial used on that occasion. Every detail of this magical operation might be made the starting point of a separate investigation. The symbolic character of some of them is too clear to be gainsaid. We have here the crescent of the moon as an operative factor: the bowl and the box must be stolen, probably to bring down a curse upon the thief and upon him who uses it. The living water, the three maidens, the three wells, the curse of the vermin, the empty car carrying it, as it were, away for ever, the inducement for those fleas to remain there in the mythical nine countries for a feast that is awaiting them. Each and all are found in other charms, but here we have the whole operation minutely described. It is, moreover, typical of a large class of such enchantments or binding by charms. For our purpose it must be deemed quite sufficient. I have only introduced it as it is one affecting the insects and throwing light on many more charms and conjurations in which the Rumanian literature abounds. I may on another occasion discuss the whole range of the Rumanian charms. They cover the whole field of human ailments and physical troubles--a wide range indeed. LXXIII. CHARMS AGAINST BUGS. Curiously enough, there do not seem to be any special legends about the origin of the bugs, but there are a good many charms which are used for getting rid of these troublesome vermin. The charms are of a symbolical nature. A suggestive action is performed which the conjurer believes will be followed by the conjured bugs. Thus: A woman in a complete state of nudity takes a mealie cake into one hand, or a crust of bread, or some other flour, and a brush used for whitewashing in the other. She nibbles at the cake or food, and whitewashes the wall, and while she is doing it, she says: "As I am eating my food and cleaning my walls so may you eat up one another and leave my walls clean of you," after which the bugs will perish. It is advisable to do this when the moon wanes, and the whitewashing should start from the wall which faces the door and then go on to the right until the door is reached again. Another charm--A boy in a state of complete nudity takes bread and salt into one hand, and in the other he holds his flute and also a number of bugs, called the wedding party. Thus equipped, he goes into the high road until he passes the boundary of his field. There he starts playing the flute, and then he throws the bugs away into the road, saying: "Here I have brought for you bread and salt, and I have been singing to you with my flute, now go and have a merry wedding, and remain where you are, never returning to my home." The bugs then never return. Another charm, like that of the fleas, is connected with the new moon. When the new moon appears, a man, coming outside his house and seeing it, exclaims, "A new king in the land, a new king in the land." To which one in the house standing by the window replies, "All the bugs must now go out of the house one by one, so that none remain behind." And after repeating these words three times he rides on a besom, poker, or the oven-peel (with which the bread is shovelled into the stove), and running through the house he begins sweeping the rooms, and says whilst so doing, "Get out of the house, ye bugs, for the new king is getting married, and he invites you to his banquet, for he has no one to eat, to drink, or to dance there. Get ye out and you will eat and drink and dance until you are satisfied." These words must be repeated three times, viz. at the beginnings of three months. The bugs are then believed to leave the house in the form of a swarm, and to go elsewhere. LXXIV. WHY DOES THE CUCKOO CALL "CUCKOO"? The Story of the Little Boy and the Wicked Step-mother. Once upon a time there was a poor man, who had a wife and two children, a boy and a girl. He was so poor that he possessed nothing in the world but the ashes on his hearth. His wife died, and after a time he married another woman, who was cantankerous and bad-natured, and from morning till evening, as long as the day lasted, she gave the poor man no peace, but snarled and shouted at him. The woman said to him, "Do away with these children. You cannot even keep me, how then can you keep all these mouths?" for was she not a step-mother? The poor man stood her nagging for a long time, but then, one night, she quarrelled so much that he promised her that he would take the children into the forest and leave them there. The two children were sitting in the corner but held their peace and heard all that was going on. The next day, the man, taking his axe upon his shoulder, called to the children and said to them, "Come with me into the forest, I am going to cut wood." The little children went with him, but before they left, the little girl filled her pocket with ashes from the hearth, and as she walked along she dropped little bits of coal the way they went. After a time they reached a very dense part of the forest, where they could not see their way any longer, and there the man said to the children, "Wait here for a while, I am only going to cut wood yonder, when I have done I will come back and fetch you home," and leaving the children there in the thicket he went away, heavy hearted, and returned home. The children waited for a while, and seeing that their father did not return, the girl knew what he had done. So they slept through the night in the forest, and the next morning, taking her brother by the hand, she followed the trace of the ashes which she had left on the road, and thus came home to their own house. When the step-mother saw them, she did not know what to do with herself, she went almost out of her mind with fury. If she could, she would have swallowed them in a spoonful of water, so furious was she. The husband, who was a weakling, tried to pacify her, and to endeavour to get the children away by one means or another, but did not succeed. When the step-mother found that she could not do anything through her husband, she made up her mind that she herself would get rid of them. So one morning, when her husband had gone away, she took the little boy, and without saying anything to anybody, she killed him and gave him to his sister to cut him up, and prepare a meal for all of them. What was she to do? If she was not to be killed like her brother, she had to do what her step-mother told her. And so she cut him up and cooked him ready for the meal. But she took the heart, and hid it away in a hollow of a tree. When the step-mother asked her where the heart was, she said that a dog had come and taken it away. In the evening, when the husband came home, she brought the broth with the meat for the husband to eat, and she sat down and ate of it and so did the husband, not knowing that he was eating the flesh of his child. The little girl refused to eat it. She would not touch it. After they had finished, she gathered up all the little bones and hid them in the hollow of the tree where she had put the heart. The next morning, out of that hollow of the tree there came a little bird with dark feathers, and sitting on the branch of a tree, began to sing, "Cuckoo! My sister has cooked me, and my father has eaten me, but I am now a cuckoo and safe from my step-mother." When the step-mother, who happened to be near the tree, heard what that little bird was singing, in her fury and fright she took a heavy lump of salt which lay near at hand, and threw it at the cuckoo, but instead of hitting it, the lump fell down on her head and killed her on the spot. And the little boy has remained a cuckoo to this very day. This tale is more or less a variant of a well-known type of fairy tales. Nos. 43, 44 are tales of men with inordinate and foolish wishes, who by constantly changing bring about their own undoing. This last is a variant of the story of the bad step-mother and the two children. But here the fairy tales assume a different character. LXXV. WHY DOES A WAGTAIL WAG ITS TAIL? The Story of the Cuckoo and the Wagtail. The wagtail did not have the tail from the beginning. This tail originally belonged to the wren, but it happened in this manner. The wagtail was one day invited to the wedding of the lark, and as she felt ashamed to go there without any tail, as she had none, she went to the wren and asked the wren to lend her her tail for a few days. The wren, which had as now a small body but in addition a long tail, did not wish to be churlish, and lent her the tail. When the wagtail saw herself with a long tail, she did not know what to do with herself for joy, she was dancing and prancing all the way to the wedding. The wedding lasted some days. When it was over, the wren came to the wagtail and asked for the tail, but the wagtail, finding that the tail suited her so well, pretended not to hear and not to see, and took no notice of the wren. And thus it came about, from the time of the lark's wedding, that the wren has remained without a tail, and the wagtail with one. But, fearing lest the wren would come one day and steal it, the wagtail is wagging its tail continually to be sure that she has it, and that it has not been taken away. LXXVI. WHY HAS THE HOOPOE A TUFT? The Story of the Hoopoe and the Cuckoo. The tuft of the hoopoe's head has given rise to a tale, similar to some extent to the story of the tail of the wagtail, and yet not quite identical. Like the wagtail, which originally had no tail, the hoopoe had originally no tuft on its head. But when the lark had her wedding, she invited all the birds. Among them also the hoopoe. She did not want to come with her simple feathers, but went to the cuckoo and borrowed them from him, for he had the tuft, promising to return it to him as soon as she had come back from the wedding. The cuckoo, who was a good natured and obliging fellow, trusted the hoopoe and lent her the tuft. She went to the wedding, and her beautiful ornament was greatly admired by all the birds. Most of all was the lark pleased with it. The hoopoe grew very elated, and thought she had better keep it. And so she did. She came home, and entirely forgot the cuckoo and her promise to return him his tuft. The cuckoo waited for a while for the hoopoe to return to him the tuft which he had lent her. But the hoopoe was nowhere to be found; she never showed herself. Seeing this, the cuckoo went to her and asked her to return the tuft. She pretended not to know what the cuckoo was saying, and coolly replied, "I do not know what you are talking about." Enraged at her callous conduct, the cuckoo called all the other birds together to lay his case before them, and to ask them to pass judgment on the hoopoe. When the birds came together, they appointed the lark to be the judge, but the lark had taken a fancy to the hoopoe ever since the wedding day, so, in spite of the protestations of the cuckoo, he decided that the tuft must remain with the hoopoe, as it suited her so much better. And so it has remained to this day. But since then there is no friendship between the cuckoo and the lark, who delivered a wrong judgment. An Eastern popular tale, Hanauer, Folk-lore of the Holy Land, p. 254 ff., explains the origin of the tuft on the head of the hoopoe as a crown given by King Solomon to this bird for its wisdom in refusing to pay homage to women. LXXVII. WHY DOES THE EAGLE LIVE ON RAW MEAT? The Story of the Bewitched Brothers. Let us pass to the story of the eagle. It is the largest bird of prey known in Rumania, and lives on young animals, lambs, goats, and so on. The story runs as follows. Once upon a time there was such a famine in the land that the people lived on grass and even on sawdust, and were dying of hunger in untold numbers. At that time there lived a widow who had managed to husband a little flour. When she found that nothing else was left to her she took that flour and mixing it with water kneaded it into dough. Then she lit the furnace, and got a shovel to put the dough on it and thence into the furnace to bake. This woman had two sons and one daughter. The two boys came in just at the moment when the loaves of dough were on the shovel. They were so hungry that they did not wait for the dough to be baked, and before their mother had time to put the shovel into the oven they got hold of the dough, raw and uncooked as it was, and ate it up to the smallest bit. They did not leave even a little piece for their mother and sister. When the mother saw the terrible greediness of her children, and that they ate the raw stuff and did not leave even a small piece for her or their sister, she cursed them and said, "May you be cursed by God and be changed into two birds; may you haunt the highest peaks of the mountains; may you never be able to eat bread even when you see it, because you did not leave any for me this day." No sooner had the boys gone out of the house than they were changed into two huge eagles, who, spreading their wings, flew away to the ends of the earth, no one knowing whither they had gone. A short time afterwards their sister, who had not been at home when all this had happened, came in, and she asked the mother where her brothers were. Her mother did not tell her what had happened, and said that the brothers, finding it was impossible for them to live any longer here, had gone out into the wide world to live by their own earnings. When the girl heard this she wept, and said, "If that be so, then I will also go out into the wide world, and will seek my brothers until I find them," and would not listen to the words of her mother, who wanted to keep her back. She said good-bye and departed, and travelled on and on for a long time, until she came to the ends of the earth, where the sun and moon no longer shone and the days were dark. So she fell a-praying, and said, "I have gone in search of my brothers; O God, help me," and as she turned round she saw a forest full of high trees which she had not noticed before, and she said to herself, "I will go into that forest; I am sure nothing will happen to me," and so she did. She went into the forest not knowing where she was going. In the midst of it she saw a beautiful meadow full of singing birds, and there was a huge castle surrounded by thick walls and closed by a gate with six locks. At the entrance of the gate there were two huge monsters. She was very frightened. Still she watched until these monsters had fallen asleep, and then slipping past them she entered the gates. There she was met by a fox, who said to her, "What has brought thee hither into this the other world from the world outside? I fear our master will eat you up. As soon as he comes home he will swallow you." Still she went on, and on entering the house she met the mistress of the house, who asked her the same question, and she told her what had happened to her from the beginning to the end, and that she had gone out into the wide world to seek for her lost brothers. When the mistress heard her tale she took pity on her, and taking her into the innermost chamber she hid her there, and then went to await the home-coming of the master. About midday, when the sun stands on the cross-ways of heaven, there was a great noise in the house; the place shook, for the master had come, and he was none other than a huge lion. At table, the mistress said to him, "O my master, thou hast always been so good to me; I ask you to be once more good and kind; promise me." And he promised, and asked her her request. She told him what had happened to that girl, and said that she had come there from the other world in search of her brothers. The lion called the young girl, who was greatly frightened, and she told him again all that had happened to her. He then said, "I will call together all my subjects and ask them whether they have seen your brothers passing by this way, or whether meeting them they have eaten them." So he called from far and near all the animals who were in his dominion, and he asked them about the brothers. But they all said that these had never passed through the land, and they had neither seen them nor eaten them. So the lion told her to go on. She went on and came to another forest, very big and dark, and walking for a time in it she came to another meadow full of birds singing so beautifully that you could not hear enough of them, and there in the midst was a house deep down in the ground with a thatched roof. The girl went in the house, and there was an old woman sitting on the oven. [2] "May God help you," said the young girl, and the old woman replied, "Welcome, my daughter, what has brought you here into this part of the world never yet trodden by human foot?" And the girl told her that she had left her mother's house and gone in search of her brothers. The woman said, "Your brothers are alive, but they are under a spell, for they have been charmed into huge birds, and they live yonder in the castle on that steep mountain. If you can reach that place you will be able to see your brothers." Full of joy at these tidings, the girl went to the mountain and found that it was a bare, steep, high cliff with little patches of grass here and there, just the place for eagles' nests. Taking courage, she started climbing up, and after endless toil reached the top. There she saw a huge palace surrounded by iron walls, and going inside she saw a room; the table was set and food was on the table. As she was very hungry, she went round the table and took a bit from every dish. Then she hid herself, watching to see what would happen. She had not to wait very long, for soon two huge eagles came from the depths of heaven. They entered and sat down at the table and began to eat their meal. Suddenly one of them said to the other, "Halloo, some one must have been here, for I see that my food has been nibbled." The other said, "It is impossible for any one to come here," and took no further notice of it. On the second day they noticed that once again some of their food had been eaten again, and so on the third day, when more of it had been eaten. So they started hunting through the house to find out who was hidden there, for surely some one must have come to eat the food. After a long search they found the girl huddled up in a small room. As soon as they saw her they recognised her as their sister, and taking her into the large hall they asked her what had happened and what had brought her to them. She told them all that had happened to her, and how she had been through the forest and climbed up the mountain, and that she was now there with them. The brothers then said to her, "We are under a spell; mother has cursed us. We have now been changed into birds of prey; but if you will stay here for six years and not speak a single word, that will save us; the spell will be broken, and we shall again be human beings." The girl promised to do all they wished, as the old woman whom she had met before had told her that she was to do whatever her brothers would wish her to do. And there she remained. Her brothers spread their wings and flew away. Five years had past, the girl not seeing anything of them, and not speaking all the time. After that time she said to herself, "What is the good of my sitting here and keeping silent when none of them have come; perchance they are dead, or who knows what has happened?" No sooner had she opened her mouth and spoken a word when in came her two brothers, and said to her mournfully, "Thou hast not kept thy vow, thou hast broken thy promise, thou hast spoken! If thou wouldst have waited one more year we would have become human beings, and the spell would have been broken. Now we are cursed forever. We must remain eagles and birds of prey." And so they have remained to this day, preying on birds and beasts, living on raw meat, never being able to touch bread, and even picking up children under six years of age, the years which their sister had to wait in order to break the spell. In this story we find again well-known motives from fairy tales, especially that of "Snow White and the Dwarfs," in which Snow White comes into the house and nibbles at the food which is on the table, so that her presence is thereby disclosed. But here the tale has been used for the purpose of explaining the origin of the eagle. Other details there are in that tale which are not clearly brought out in this, for at the bottom of it lies the tale of the grateful animals. That is the reason why the lion spares the girl and also the good fairy, whom she serves faithfully, here represented by the old woman in the house with the thatched roof, by whom she is rewarded by being shown the way to her lost brothers. All these elements have here been combined in the bird tale. A close parallel to this tale is to be found in Grimm, No. 25. LXXVIII. WHY HAS THE LARK A TUFT? The Story of the Glass Mountain. Once upon a time there was a man who was under a spell. He got married to a woman, and after a time he suddenly disappeared. He was carried away by the spell, no one knew whither. The poor woman waited for him one day and another day and a third day, and seeing that he did not return she went out into the world to search after him. And so, passing through many a country, she came at last to the house where Holy Thursday lived, a good old woman, who was the mistress of a third of all the birds in the world. When she saw the traveller, she asked her what had brought her there, and the poor woman, weeping, told her how she had gone in search of her husband, who had suddenly disappeared, and whom she had not been able to find anywhere in the world. Holy Mother Thursday said to her, "Wait, I will call all my birds together, and I shall hear from them whether they know where your husband is." In the evening she called all the birds who were under her rule, and asked them whether they knew what had happened to the man. They all replied that they had not seen him, and they did not know whither he had gone. Sad at heart, the poor woman went away, and came to Holy Mother Saturday, who ruled over half the birds in the world. She asked the young woman how she had come to that part of the world, and what had brought her thither. The poor woman told her tale, and also that Holy Mother Thursday could not find where her husband was. So Mother Saturday called her birds, and asked them whether they had seen anything of the poor woman's husband. They all replied that they had not seen anything of him, and did not know what had become of him. Greatly disappointed, the poor woman went on her way, until she came to the house of the Holy Mother Sunday, who ruled over all the birds. After hearing from the woman what had brought her to her house, she called all the birds together, and put the same question to them. None of the birds knew where the husband was except the cock lark. He said he knew where the husband was, a very long way off. Then Mother Sunday asked the bird whether he could carry the woman to that place. "Willingly will I abide by your command, O mistress," said the bird; and taking the woman on his back, he rose up high in the air, and started flying to the place whither the husband had been carried. And so flying, they came at last to a high mountain made all of glass. The bird could not go up that mountain, so they shod his little feet with iron, and slowly, slowly, they climbed up that mountain until they came to the top. The woman, however, was so much frightened by the flight that she clutched at the feathers on the top of the lark, and held tightly to them, fearing to lose her hold. Since that time the ruffled feathers have remained upstanding, and hence the tuft on the head of the male lark. It is peculiar that the tale here ends abruptly without telling us whether the woman met her husband, or whether she was able to break the spell. It is probably tacitly assumed. LXXIX. WHY IS THE TUFT OF THE LARK DISHEVELLED? The Story of the Helpful Lark. Another story of the lark tells of one who went in search of his sister, who had been stolen away from her home by Sila Samodiva. [3] He was directed by a curious dream, in which he saw an old man with a long white beard, who told him to go in search of her, for he was sure to find her. On his way he came to a very old man, who turned out to be the king of all the birds. In the evening all the birds came to him to be fed, but one bird was missing. It came in rather late, limping and tired, and when the king saw it he recognised it to be the lark. And he asked the bird why it was so tired and what had befallen it. The bird said, "Thou hast ordered me to live so far away that it takes me a very long time to come to the court, and it is with great difficulty that I have been able to come here to this place in obedience to thy command." Then the king asked the lark where he had his nest, and when he replied in the gardens of Sila Samodiva, the brother was full of joy, for that was the place where his sister had been taken. Then the king asked the bird whether he could lead the man to that place. "Willingly will I do so," replied the lark. "I will jump from tree to tree and from bush to bush, and flutter about gently, and if he follows me I am sure to lead him to the place of his desire." And so following the bird, he reached a golden palace in which the fairy Sila Samodiva was living. He entered the palace by holding on to the tuft of the lark, which has since remained dishevelled. A fairy put him to various trials, which he successfully accomplished, and thus was able to rescue his sister and to return home in safety. Needless to point out, that in these two tales we have parallels to the famous legend of the hoopoe in the Solomonic cycle. In it Solomon orders all the birds to come and render homage; only one bird does not appear at the proper time. It comes in very late, limp, tired and exhausted, and excuses itself by telling Solomon of its long flight from the court of the Queen of Sheba, to whom King Solomon then sends a message by means of the same bird. But we are not told in this story anything of the origin of the bird, except that it is described as one leading the travellers to the places in the other world which they wish to reach. Another very elaborate fairy tale gives us the origin of the lark. LXXX. WHY DO LARKS FLY TOWARDS THE SUN? The Story of the Princess and her Love for the Sun. A very long time ago, so long indeed that no one can remember when it happened, there lived a king and queen. They had everything which their heart desired, except that they had no children. They were good and charitable people, and distributed alms and prayed, but all in vain. At last, when they had given up every hope, they were suddenly blessed with a child. It was a little girl, and she was so sweet and so beautiful that they called her Little Light. The parents could not see enough of her, and so they kept her in their palace all the time, until one day her mother allowed her to go out into the garden. In the wall of the garden there was a small gate leading into a beautiful meadow. The young princess opened the gate and went into the meadow and looked around her, for she had never before been out of her rooms. She rejoiced at the flowers and birds and animals, but more than anything was she pleased with the sight of the sinking sun, and with the golden rays which he sent through the heavens. She was so pleased with that sight that she went every day in the afternoon to watch for the glorious sun and his golden rays. Thus one day passed, and again another day, and she fell deeply in love with the sun, and being in love, she decided that she must go and find him. So great was her love that she did not look at any young man, and grew thinner, weaker and sadder every day, until she could not bear it any longer; and going to her parents, she said that she could not stay any longer at home, and that she must go out into the world. The parents tried in vain to keep her at home, but, seeing that all their efforts were of no avail, they let her go, and she went. She took money and food with her, and went along not knowing the right way. So long as the money and the food lasted she felt quite happy, but a time came when both had come to an end, and she was in a very sore plight, not knowing what to do. Moreover, she was frightened to go alone, for she was in woman's clothes. Suddenly she found herself in the midst of a wide field full of dead bodies. A battle had been fought there, and the field was strewn with the dead. So she took one of the uniforms of the soldiers, dressed herself up in a man's garb, and, finding a horse, mounted on it and rode along with her face turned towards the sinking sun. On the way she found then an old woman dressed all in black, sitting close to a well, and weaving gossamer and cobweb. She addressed her as the Black One, which seemed to please the old woman, who told her to turn towards the rising sun until she would come to a glass mountain; she would have to reach the top of the mountain, and then she was sure to find her way to the palace of the sun. She rode on and came to the glass mountain. When she had reached the top, after having had the horse shod again at the bottom of the hill, she found a palace, but it was not that of the sun. It was inhabited by three sisters, who received her in very friendly fashion, and treated her with great hospitality. Thinking that she was a man, they all fell in love with her; but she told them she was a woman, and they left her to continue her quest. Before leaving they gave her a magic sword, which, if drawn half out of its sheath, killed half the number of an army, and if drawn entirely, killed the entire army of the enemy. By this means she was able to vanquish the enemies of a great king, who, discovering her to be a girl, wanted to marry her; but she escaped and continued her journey towards the rising sun. On the way she met with a very old man, whose white hair had grown down to his ankles, and who was so weak that he could scarcely open his mouth. Little Light washed him and fed him and cut his hair. When he had eaten and felt himself refreshed, he told her which way to go; then he gave her a piece of bread, and told her that on her way to the palace a wild dog would come out against her; she must give him that bread and none other, and before entering the palace she must drink of the water of the fountain at the gate of the palace. A three-headed dog met her, she gave him the bread, and he suddenly disappeared after having eaten it. Then she went and drank of the water in the well, and was able to look at the golden palace in front of her, which was so radiant and so luminous that no human eye could look at it without being blinded. Then she went into the palace, and there, in the middle of the hall, who should be sitting at the table and eating but the glorious sun, beautiful and luminous as only the sun can be? When Little Light saw him, she almost fainted with joy, but he also, turning to her and seeing her beautiful face, felt himself drawn to her, for he had never yet seen such a wonderful human being. There in the hall was also the mother of the sun. When she saw Little Light, she turned fiercely on her, and cursing her said, "O thou wicked child of man, born of sin, thou hast come here to defile the immaculate purity of my son and to lead him on to sin and wickedness. Thou shalt no longer remain a human being, thou shalt become a bird flying as high as to get near the sun, and there, seeing the beloved who cannot be thine, thou shalt cry plaintively for him whom thou hast won and yet lost." At that moment Little Light was changed into the lark, which at the break of dawn, before the sun rises, flies up into the sky trying to get as near as possible to the sun, and there cries plaintively at the loss of her beloved. LXXX. A. THE STORY OF THE LARK. Another Version. A variant of this story tells us that after the girl had left the king's palace and had gone on seeking for the sun, she came to a river, and did not know how to cross it. Whilst she was sitting there at the bank of the river, not knowing what to do, there came out of the river a girl dressed in white, who told her that she would reach the palace and yet not reach it; and as she spoke these words, there came a bridge and spanned the river. The girl went across the bridge, and going on in her journey, she came to a field where an old woman was watching a flock of geese. Curious as old women are, this one asked the girl what had brought her hither, and whither she was going, and who she was. The girl answered politely, and the old woman, being touched by her beauty, gave her a twig in her right hand and placed a ring on her left hand, and told her to cross herself with the twig, and then she would see what would happen. She did so, and she suddenly felt herself lifted up high in the air and carried as fast as a thought to some distant land. When she found herself again on the ground, she saw the palace of the sun facing her, but the palace was surrounded by a river, over whose waters, clear as tears, there was no bridge. An old man carried the passengers across, but he had to be paid with a silver coin. Those who did not pay had to wander round that river for a year. Remembering the ring which the old woman had given her, she offered it to the old man instead of a coin; he accepted it and carried her across. On the other side a two-headed dog came out and barked at her furiously. At his barking an old woman came out, who was none other than the mother of the sun. The poor girl did not know who it was; she might have been careful with her answer if she had. The woman asked her who she was and what she had come for. The girl, who was truthfulness itself, said in her simplicity that she had come to see the sun whom she loved so much. When the old woman heard this, she cursed her, and thus she became the lark flying about high in the air, and trying in vain to reach her beloved. It is evident that we have here reminiscences of ancient myths, which have assumed a very peculiar shape in the mind of the people. It would be difficult to say whether these are survivals of Greek myths, of Charon, who ferries the dead across the river, and other legends connected with Apollo, or whether we have here later stories which have lingered on in the Balkans and have then been carried across the Danube. Whatever the connection, one cannot deny that we are dealing here with materials closely akin to those which form the substance of some parts of ancient Greek mythology, but in a modified form. Charon has survived to this very day in the legends and in the folk-lore of modern Greece, no less than in that of Macedonia and the other peoples of the Balkans. It is curious, however, that in this tale no blending with Christianity has taken place. We find various layers of religious belief which seem to have been superimposed upon one another, each one as it were leading an independent life of its own, seldom mixing to such an extent that the line of demarcation between what, in the absence of another term, one might call heathen mythology and Christian mythology or legendary lore. LXXXI. THE WOOING OF THE SISTER OF THE SUN. A Christmas Carol. White flowers, O Ler, [4] What cloud appears on the horizon? It is not a cloud, a black cloud, But a young man On a yellow charger. The saddle glitters like gold; The stirrups shine like silver; The whip with a beautiful handle; And bells tinkling on his reins. He is gone to hunt-- To hunt, to woo. He met a beautiful maid, The like of whom there is not in the world. It was the queen of the fairies-- Iana, the sister of the Sun. He met her, He took hold of her, And in his cellar he hid her-- In the cellar of the peacocks. The Sun, as soon as he got wind of it, Sent immediately after her The morning dawn to search, The twilight stars to seek. But the young man, What did he say? "For what are you searching, Dawn of the morning? And what are you seeking, Stars of the evening? Go into every nook, But beware of the cellar. If a peacock will escape, I will take one of the sun's steeds instead. And if a hen will escape, I will wed his sister. For I have found her, I have taken her, And into my house I brought her." This the young man-- May he keep in good health, With his brother, And his parents, And with all of us together. This belongs to the series of the sun myths, curiously connected here also with the peacock. I am not aware of any parallel to this legend. Here a young man tries to woo the sister of the sun. In the lark stories it is the young girl who wishes to marry the sun, represented as a young man. They all belong to the same cycle, into which apparently so far the Christian element is absent. The remarkable part of it is, that this and the other songs are Christmas carols, connected probably with the Festival of the Sun with which Christmas was originally connected. It is the time of the winter solstice and the birth of the new sun. This probably explains the part which the sun legend plays in so many Rumanian Christmas carols. LXXXII. THE WOOING OF A FAIRY. A Christmas Carol. Here, O Lord; there, O Lord, In these houses, in these palaces and yards, There have grown, O Lord, Grown two tall apple trees. Wonderful they are, Joined in their roots, United and entwined in their tops The tree reaches up to the sky, The bark is of silver, And the fruit of gold. But the fruit Could not be plucked, Through the threat of the Black Sea, For the Sea was boasting, And with its mouth saying: "Who is here in the world Who would dare to shoot at my apples?" No one was found; No one dares. But when he heard the boast of the Sea, Went home quickly to his house, Went up the stairs, Took the bow from the nail-- The bow with the arrows-- Placed them in his bosom, And riding on his black charger, He came to the Sea. Arrived at the Sea, He put his hand into his bosom, Drew forth The bow with the arrows, And pointed the arrow to the tree. The tops of the apple-tree-- The wonderful apples-- Thus spake to him: "Stop. Do not shoot, For we will give thee The sister of the sun, The niece of the fairies, the beauty among the beauties," He was persuaded, And did not shoot the apples. He mounted his charger, Took his bow and arrow, And turned back. He had not gone a long way, When he looked back, And what he saw filled him with wonderment; For there came, There ran a pale-faced damsel. She neither laughed Nor rejoiced, But wept bitterly, tearing her golden hair, Scratching her white face. But the knight said to her: "Stop, O Princess. Stop, O Queen. I do not take thee For a slave to me, But my mistress shalt thou be, A good mistress of the house, A good ruler Of the household, A niece To uncles, A sister-in-law to brothers, A daughter-in-law to parents, Dispenser at the treasury, Mistress of my wealth." The girl, hearing his words, Ceased from crying, And joined him joyfully. And ... the brave man, may he live in health with his brothers, With his parents, And with all of us together. We have here again the intertwined trees of the Tristram and Isolde legend; the special golden apples of Hesperides fame, and even since of the fairy tales. In the latter, the golden apple represents often the palace of the giant, with all the treasures that it contains, and the possession of the apple brings with it the possession of the princess. The Black Sea plays here a part, which reminds one of the raging sea in the pilgrimage of the soul. But what is of importance here is that the princess is called "the sister of the sun." LXXXIII. WHERE DID THE SWAN COME FROM? The Story of the Swan Maiden and the King. This is in its essence the well-known story of the swan-maidens, but with a very marked difference. It is here used more or less to describe the origin of the swan, whilst the tale of the swan-maiden presupposes the existence and knowledge of such birds. The version, which I have been able to find is, however, not complete; still it is clear enough for our purpose. It runs as follows: Once upon a time a king went out hunting, and after he had been hunting in the forest for a long time without finding anything, he found himself suddenly in an open plain, in which there was a huge lake, and in the midst of the lake he saw there a bird swimming about, the like of which he had never seen before. It was a swan. Drawing his bow, he wanted to shoot it. To his surprise it spoke to him in a human voice, and said, "Do not kill me." So he tried his best to catch it, and succeeded. Pleased with the capture of the bird, he carried it home alive, and gave it to the cook to kill it to make a meal of it for him. The cook was a Gipsy. She whetted her knife and went to the bird to cut its throat, when, to her astonishment, the bird turned three somersaults, and there stood before her a most beautiful maiden, more beautiful than she had ever seen before. So she ran to the king and told him what had happened. The king, who first thought that the cook was trying to play some trickery with him, did not listen to her, but when she persisted in her tale, the king, driven by curiosity, went into the kitchen, and there he saw a girl more beautiful than any that he had ever yet set his eyes upon. He asked her who she was, and she said she was the swan who was swimming on the lake, that she had wilfully gone away from her mother, who lived in the land of fairies, and that she had left two sisters behind. So the king took her into the palace and married her. The Gipsy, who was a pretty wench, had thought that the king would marry her, and when she saw what had happened, she was very angry. But she managed to conceal her anger, and tried to be kind to the new queen, biding her time all the while. The king and queen lived on for a while in complete happiness, and after a time a child was born unto her. It so happened that the king had to go on a long journey, leaving the wife and child in the care of the Gipsy. One day the Gipsy came to the queen, and said to her, "Why do you always sit in the palace? come, let us walk a little in the garden, to hear the birds singing, and to see the beautiful flowers." The queen, who had no suspicion, took the advice of the Gipsy, and went with her for a walk into the garden. In the middle of the garden there was a deep well, and the Gipsy said artfully to the young queen, "Just bend over the well, and look into the water below, and see whether your face has remained so beautiful as it was on the first day when you turned into a maiden from being a swan." The queen bent over the well to look down into the depths, and that was what the Gipsy was waiting for, for no sooner did the queen bend over the well, than, getting hold of her by her legs, she threw her down head foremost into the well and drowned her. When the king came home and did not find the queen, he asked what had happened, and where she was. The Gipsy, who had meanwhile taken charge of the child, and looked after it very carefully, said to the king that the young queen, pining for her old home, had turned again into a swan and flown away. The king was deeply grieved when he heard this, but believing what the Gipsy had told him, he thought that nothing could be done, and resigned himself to the loss of his wife. The Gipsy woman looked after the child with great care, hoping thereby that she might win the king's love, and that he would marry her. A month, a year passed, and nothing was heard of the wife. And the king, seeing the apparent affection of the Gipsy for the child, decided at last to marry her, and fixed the day of the wedding. Out of the fountain into which the queen had been thrown, there grew a willow tree with three branches, one stem in the middle and two branching out right and left. Not far from the garden there lived a man who had a large flock of sheep. One day he sent his boy to lead the sheep to the field. On his way the boy passed the king's garden with the well in the middle of it. As the boy had left his flute at home, when he saw the willow he thought he would cut one of the branches and make a flute. Going into the garden, he cut the middle stem, and made a flute of it. When he put it to his lips, the flute by itself began to play as follows: "O boy, do not blow too hard, for my heart is aching for my little babe which I left behind in the cradle, and to suckle at the black breast of a Gipsy." When the boy heard what the flute was playing, not understanding what it meant, he was greatly astonished, and ran home to tell his father what had happened with the flute. The father, angry that he had left the sheep alone, scolded him, and took away the flute. Then he tried to see whether the boy had told the truth. As soon as he put it to his mouth the flute started playing the same tune as when the boy had tried to play it. The father said nothing, and wondering at the meaning of the words he hid the flute away in a cupboard. When the king's wedding-day drew near, all the musicians of the kingdom were invited to come and play at the banquet. Some of them passed the old man's house, and hearing from them that they were going to play at the king's banquet, he remembered the marvellous flute, and he asked whether he could not go also, as he could play the flute so wonderfully well. His son--the young boy--had meanwhile gone into the garden in the hope of getting another flute, as the willow had three branches. So he cut one of the branches and made a flute of it. Now this flute did not play at all. When the old man came to the palace, there was much rejoicing and singing. At last his turn came to play. As soon as he put the flute to his lips, the flute sang: "O man, do not blow so hard, for my heart aches for my little babe left in the cradle to be suckled by a black Gipsy." The Gipsy, who was the king's bride and sat at the head of the table, at once understood the saying of the flute, although she did not know what the flute had to do with the queen whom she had killed. The king, who marvelled greatly at the flute and at the tune which it was singing, took a gold piece and gave it to the man for the flute, and when he started blowing it, the flute began to sing: "O my dear husband, do not blow so hard, for my heart aches for our little babe whom I left in the cradle to be suckled by the black Gipsy. Quickly, quickly, do away with this cruel Gipsy, as otherwise thou wilt lose thy wife." The guests who were present marvelled at the song, and no one understood its meaning. The Gipsy, however, who understood full well what it meant, turning to the king, said, "Illustrious king, do not blow this flute and make thyself ridiculous before thy guests, throw it into the fire." But the king, who felt offended by the words of the Gipsy, made her take up the flute and blow. With great difficulty she submitted to the order of the king, and she was quite justified in refusing to play it, for no sooner had she put the flute to her lips when it sang: "You enemy of mine, do not blow hard, for my heart aches for my little babe left in the cradle to be suckled by thee, thou evil-minded Gipsy. Thou hast thrown me into the well, and there put an end to my life, but God had pity on me, and he has preserved me to be again the true wife of this illustrious king." Furious at these words, the Gipsy threw the flute away with so much force that she thought it would break into thousands of splinters. But it was not to be as she thought, for by this very throw the flute was changed into a beautiful woman, more beautiful, indeed, than any had ever seen before. She was the very queen whom the Gipsy had thrown into the well. When the king saw her, he embraced her and kissed her, and asked her where she had been such a long time. She told him that she had slept at the bottom of the well into which she had been thrown by the Gipsy, who had hoped to become the queen, and this would have come to pass had it not been for the boy cutting a flute out of the stem of the willow-tree. "And now, punish the Gipsy as she deserves, otherwise thy wife must leave thee." When the king heard these words, he called the boy and asked him whether he had cut himself a flute from the stem of the willow tree which had grown out of the well in the garden. "It is so, O illustrious king;" said the boy, "and may I be forgiven for the audacity of going into the king's garden. I went and cut for myself a flute from the stem of the willow tree, and when I began to blow it, it played, 'Do not blow so hard, O boy, for my heart is aching within me,' etc." Then he told him he had gone back to his father, who instead of praising him for the marvellous flute, gave him a good shaking. He had then gone a second time into the garden, and had cut off one of the branches to make a flute; but this did not play like the first one. The king gave the boy a very rich gift, and he ordered the Gipsy to be killed. Some time afterwards, the queen came to the king and asked leave to go to her mother to tell her all that had happened to her, and to say good-bye for ever now, as she henceforth would live among human beings. The king reluctantly gave way. She then made three somersaults, and again became a swan, as she had been when the king found her for the first time on the waters of the lake. Spreading her wings she flew far away until she reached the house of her mother, who was quite alone. Her two sisters were not there. They had left her some time ago and no one knew whither they had gone. The young queen did not go into the house, she was probably afraid lest her mother would not let her go back again, so she settled on the roof, and there she sang: "Remain in health, good mother mine, as the joy is no longer granted thee to have me with thee in thine house, for thou wilt only see me again when I lose my kingdom, dear mother mine, not before, and not till then." And without waiting for the answer of her mother she returned back again to her husband. Sitting on the window sill, she sung again: "Rise up, O husband, open the doors, wake up the servants and let them be a witness of my faithfulness to thee, for since I have married thee I have left my mother, and my sisters have gone away from me, and from a swan I have become a true wife to live in happiness with thee. Henceforth I shall no longer be a swan, but thou must take care of me that I do not go hence from thee. I do not know whether my fate will be a better one by being a queen in this world. O sweet water, how I long to bathe in thee! And my white feathers, they will belong to my sisters. Since I am to leave them for ever, and my mother with them, O Lord, what have I done? Shall I be able to live upon the earth, and shall I keep the kingdom? Thou, O Lord, O merciful, hearken unto me and grant that this kingdom may not be in vain." And turning again head over heels, she became a woman as before, and entering the palace she lived there with her husband--the king--and if they have not died since they are still alive. Here we have the origin of the swans, for since that time the swans have come to this world. It is a remarkable tale, in which the element of the swan-maiden story has been mixed up with the type of the false wife. It claims, however, special attention, for we have here what I believe to be "the song of the dying swan." It is practically the song of the swan before her death as a swan, and her rebirth as a fairy maiden, which is contained in the concluding portion. I am not aware of any other parallel to this peculiar song, although the fable that the swan sings a very beautiful song before his death is well known from antiquity. Here follows another version of the swan legend in the form of a ballad. LXXXIV. THE SWAN MAIDEN, THE BIRD OF HEAVEN AND THE CROWN OF PARADISE. A Christmas Carol. High up on the top of the mountains, On the brow of the rocks, At the gates of the fairies, On the land of Neculea, Appeared a white swan Sent by God, Selected by God. She has been flying under the heavens, And settled on the rock. She turned off from her flight, And fell near the brave, For he is to wed The little white swan. The king's son, as soon as he saw her, Was wounded at his heart, And spake as follows: "O thou white fairy, O thou beautiful swan, I will bathe thee in a bath of white milk, So that thou shouldst not be able to depart." The swan replied, and said: "Young son of kings, I will not be bathed, For I am not a white swan, But the fairy from heaven, From the gate of Paradise." The prince, when he heard her, His love burned in him fiercely And what did he say with his mouth? "O thou white little swan, O thou beautiful fairy, Stay here and be my wife." The swan answered and replied, And thus spake with her mouth: "I will wed thee, And remain as wife to thee, If thou wilt go, If thou wilt bring me The bird of heaven And the crown of Paradise. The bird which sings in heaven with sweet and beautiful speech, To which God Almighty and the angels listen constantly, Singing among the trees in bloom, And some laden with ripe fruit; And the crown of Paradise, Of the Paradise of God, Woven of jasmine, With the fruits of virginity." When the prince heard her words, He went to his stable-yard of stone, Brought forth his whole stud--a great company-- And he started on his journey On the road Where the sun rises. Nine horses he made lame, Other nine horses he broke ere he arrived at the mansion of the Lord, At the gate of Paradise. Who came there to meet him? St. Basile came to meet him, Came to try him, and to ask him What might be his wish? What might be in his mind? The prince replied and said: "The Holy God has selected for me, The Holy God has sent to me A wonderful swan to wed me, But she will not marry me Until she wears The crown of Paradise, The crown of our Lord, Woven with jasmine, With fruits of virgin maidens. She will not marry me, Unless at our wedding sings The bird of heaven and the Lord's bird, Which discourses here in Paradise, With such sweet and charming speech, In between the blooming trees-- Some decked with flowers, Others laden with fruit-- And the Lord And the angels listen constantly." Thus spake the Prince, Praying very deeply, And shed tears all the while. St. Basile had mercy on him. He gave him the bird And the crown. He then returned to The crest of the mountains, The valley of Neculea. There he set the bird free, And placed the crown upon the altar, And he spake thus: "Come forth, my beautiful swan, Come forth, my wonderful fairy. Behold the crown, And listen to the bird; For the crown is that of Paradise, From the mansions of the Lord; And the bird is the bird of heaven, From among the trees of Paradise." When the swan came forth, it turned into a maiden fair; The crown leapt on to her head; The bird began to sing, With sweet and beautiful song, The song of heaven. They went to church, And the priest married them. Who was his sponsor? Who but St. John, Who stood sponsor to Jesus. He blessed them, And gave them, To each one gifts, To her a small cross, As well as a small Ikon; To him a staff of silver, To rule over the whole world, To have power upon earth. And this young bride With golden tresses That shone like the sun's rays, Together with her groom, Young and brave, May they live For many years With happy cheer and with health, Together with their brothers And with their parents. Here we have a remarkable "carol," full of mystical lore, in which the swan-like maiden in the tale is really a fairy in disguise. The bird of heaven, and the crown of paradise, and all the rest stand here for the tests which often are found in fairy tales. The hero must first win these mythical beings before he can obtain the love of the maiden, or probably before she can turn from a swan into a human being, and remain as such. We have here thus a version of the large cycle of the Swan Maiden (v. Cosquin, ii. 16; Saineanu, p. 264 ff.). Such miraculous birds occur very often in Rumanian (v. Saineanu, p. 410 ff.). LXXXV. WHY DOES THE DUCK FEED ON REFUSE? The Story of the Cannibal Innkeeper. This is more or less a fairy tale, but of a very complicated character. Various elements are combined in it. It begins as do many tales, with the fact that a couple had a child after many years: that child is a beautiful girl, who, left as an orphan, dresses up in a man's clothes, works at the house of a rich man, where she after a time resumes her character as a girl: the chieftain of robbers falls in love with her, but when he asks his companions to go and steal her away from her master, everyone refuses. He then goes himself, disguised as a servant: he stays for some time in the same house: when he asks her to marry him, she refuses. His attempts at stealing her are frustrated by a little dog which she had received from her parents. One night he succeeds in catching the dog, and, assisted by some of his comrades whom he had summoned for the purpose, he is able to carry her away to his house. There she refuses again to marry him, and when he finds that neither good words, nor threats, nor beating make her change her mind, he gets so furious that he decides to sell her to a wild and cruel innkeeper who lives some distance away. Now this innkeeper used to rob the travellers: then he used to kill them, cut them in pieces, and, after having cooked them, he gave their flesh to his customers to eat. When he received the girl he took her first into a very large room, in which there was only a table and chairs round it. That was the room where he used to feed all the travellers who came to him. Then he took her into another apartment which was full of gold and silver and vestments of silk, and round the walls were hanging weapons of all kinds, all robbed from the people who had lodged in that place, and whom he had murdered. Then he took her into a third room. There was a pillar, and on it were hanging two knives and an axe, with which he used to kill and cut up his victims; and along the walls there were hooks, and on each hook a human head. He showed all these things to the girl, who was greatly frightened, and who expected now to be killed by this cruel man. But he somehow seemed to have taken some pity on her, or perhaps he wanted to keep her for some time longer; whatever the reason, he took her and pushed her into another room, quite behind all these rooms, and locked the door upon her; and he told her to wait until he came back, and she was to do all that she was told. She had taken the little dog with her, and that seemed to comfort her. Soon afterwards he brought in a boy whom he had captured in the forest gathering berries, and taking him into an inner apartment he cut his head off, and cut him in pieces, and calling the girl in, he told her to take the meat and cook it and get it ready for the customers whom he was expecting. When the people came, he fed them in his usual way with human flesh. The people did not know what manner of food it was they were getting, but they seemed to like it; then he did with these guests what he had done with all the others, and so it went on day after day, the poor girl was kept there locked up and helping to prepare the food of the chopped-up men. One day a very old woman was brought in, whom the man had bought, but she was so ugly and so wizened that one could scarcely recognise a human countenance. Not knowing who she was, the wild man thrust her into the chamber where the young girl was: very likely he wanted to kill her later on, as he had killed all the others, but possibly he wanted first to feed her up, as she was only skin and bones. When the young girl saw that bag of bones, she was very frightened; but the old woman spoke in friendly fashion to her, and asked her who she was and how she came to be in that house, telling her at the same time that she was a great witch, she could do anything, change everything, and that she had cursed her son for his cruelty, when he was still a young boy, and that she had come now to punish him. She had disguised herself in this ugly form, for she knew that if her son recognised her he would not wait long, but would kill her at once without mercy. The girl then told her her pitiful tale, and begged of her to save her. She told her what a terrible life she was leading, how she had been fed on human flesh, and that he was probably only waiting for an opportunity to kill her also and to give her flesh to others to be eaten. The old woman took pity on her, and told her she need not fear; though her son had put her in the innermost recess and there was no outlet, yet she would be able to escape. She must kill the little dog, and taking out a small bit from the heart was to swallow it. While she was doing it, the old woman took out some ointment from her bosom and began to rub her with it all over her body, when she suddenly became changed into a duck. There she sat quietly in a corner, and when the wild man came and opened the door she flew away and escaped into the open. The man looked round, and not finding the girl he went all over the place searching for her. At that moment the mother followed him out of that room, and uttered a terrible curse, on which the whole house fell down over him and killed him. When the duck had flown some distance away, she turned back to see what had happened, for the old woman had foretold her that she was going to destroy it. When she turned round she saw the heap of ruins, but as the old woman had not told her how she could again become a human being, the spell remained unbroken, and she has remained a duck to this very day. It is for this reason that ducks are so fat, and they seek their food among the dead bodies and dirty places. It will be seen that we have here a remarkable parallel of the Bluebeard story, but in a much more primitive form, for this Bluebeard does not kill only his wives, but he kills indiscriminately all those upon whom he can lay his hands, and then he uses the flesh of his victims for food. There are dim recollections of cannibalism in this tale, which in a way also reminds us of Polyphemus, who keeps Ulysses and his companions for the purpose of killing them and eating them, and the same story is found in another form in the adventures of Sindbad the Sailor. LXXXVI. WHY HAS THE STORK NO TAIL? The Story of the Water of Life and Death. This tale, though part of a longer fairy tale, is still complete in itself. The hero of the tale, Floria, having shown some kindness to a stork, who afterwards turns out to be the king of the storks, receives from him a feather, which when taken up at any time of danger would bring the stork to him and help him. And thus it came to pass that the hero, finding himself at one time in danger, remembered the gift of the stork. He took out the feather from the place where he had hidden it, and waved it. At once the stork appeared and asked Floria what he could do for him. He told him the king had ordered him to bring the water of life and the water of death. [5] The stork replied that if it could possibly be got he would certainly do it for him. Returning to his palace, the stork, who was the king of the storks, called all the storks together, and asked them whether they had seen or heard or been near the mountains that knock against one another, at the bottom of which are the fountains of the water of life and death. All the young and strong looked at one another, and not even the oldest one ventured to reply. He asked them again, and then they said they had never heard or seen anything of the waters of life and death. At last there came from the rear a stork, lame on one foot, blind in one eye, and with a shrivelled-up body, and with half of his feathers plucked out. And he said, "May it please your majesty, I have been there where the mountains knock one against the other, and the proofs of it are my blinded eye and my crooked leg." When the king saw him in the state in which he was, he did not even take any notice of him. Turning to the other storks, he said: "Is there any one among you who, for my sake, will run the risk and go to these mountains and bring the water?" Not one of the young and strong, and not even any of the older ones who were still strong replied. They all kept silence. But the lame stork said to the king, "For your sake, O Master King, I will again put my life in danger and go." The king again did not look at him, and turning to the others repeated his question; but when he saw that they all kept silence, he at last turned to the stork and said to him: "Dost thou really believe, crippled and broken as thou art, that thou wilt be able to carry out my command?" "I will certainly try," he said. "Wilt thou put me to shame?" the king again said. "I hope not; but thou must bind on my wings some meat for my food, and tie the two bottles for the water to my legs." The other storks, on hearing his words, laughed at what they thought his conceit, but he took no notice of it. The king was very pleased, and did as the stork had asked. He tied on his wings a quantity of fresh meat, which would last him for his journey, and the two bottles were fastened to his legs. He said to him, "A pleasant journey." The stork, thus prepared for his journey, rose up into the heavens, and away he went straight to the place where the mountains were knocking against one another and prevented any one approaching the fountains of life and death. It was when the sun had risen as high as a lance that he espied in the distance those huge mountains which, when they knocked against one another, shook the earth and made a noise that struck fear and terror into the hearts of those who were a long distance away. When the mountains had moved back a little before knocking against one another, the stork wanted to plunge into the depths and get the water. But there came suddenly to him a swallow from the heart of the mountain, and said to him, "Do not go a step further, for thou art surely lost." "Who art thou who stops me in my way?" asked the stork angrily. "I am the guardian spirit of these mountains, appointed to save every living creature that has the misfortune to come near them." "What am I to do then to be safe?" "Hast thou come to fetch water of life and death?" "Yes." "If that be so, then thou must wait till noon, when the mountains rest for half an hour. As soon as thou seest that a short time has passed and they do not move, then rise up as high as possible into the air, and drop down straight to the bottom of the mountain. There, standing on the ledge of the stone between the two waters, dip thy bottles into the fountains and wait until they are filled. Then rise as thou hast got down, but beware lest thou touchest the walls of the mountain or even a pebble, or thou art lost." The stork did as the swallow had told him; he waited till noontide, and when he saw that the mountains had gone to sleep, he rose up into the air, and, plunging down into the depth, he settled on the ledge of the stone and filled his bottles. Feeling that they had been filled, he rose with them as he had got down, but when he had reached almost the top of the mountains, he touched a pebble. No sooner had he done so, when the two mountains closed furiously upon him; but they did not catch any part of him, except the tail, which remained locked up fast between the two peaks of the mountains. With a strong movement he tore himself away, happy that he had saved his life and the two bottles with the waters of life and death, not caring for the loss of his tail. And he returned the way he had come, and reached the palace of the king of the storks in time for the delivery of the bottles. When he reached the palace, all the storks were assembled before the king, waiting to see what would happen to the lame and blind one who had tried to put them to shame. When they saw him coming back, they noticed that he had lost his tail, and they began jeering at him and laughing, for he looked all the more ungainly, from having already been so ugly before. But the king was overjoyed with the exploit of his faithful messenger; and he turned angrily on the storks and said, "Why are you jeering and mocking? Just look round and see where are your tails. And you have not lost them in so honourable a manner as this my faithful messenger." On hearing this they turned round, and lo! one and all of them had lost their tails. And this is the reason why they have remained without a tail to this very day. Compare the story of the lark, No. 78, who alone of all the birds obeys the king's command; for the story of the stork, the only bird that can reach the fountains of life and death, v. Cosquin (i. No. 3, p. 48). LXXXVII. WHY HAS THE SWALLOW A FORKED TAIL AND A RED SPOT ON ITS BREAST? The Story of the Young Maiden and her Husband the Demon. Once upon a time there was a widow who had one only child. She had a flock of sheep and a magic dog. The widow died, and the girl was left quite alone. So she took the flock of sheep and went to feed them in the mountain, accompanied only by her faithful little dog. After some time, there came also to the same pastures a young shepherd leading his flock. Before leaving, the girl had put on man's clothes, and so when the other shepherd, who was the son of a she-demon, came, they got very friendly, and the girl often went with her flock to spend the night in the house of the demon. She did not know who the other shepherd was, nor who was his mother. After a time, the young man began to feel suspicious about his comrade, and he said to his mother, "Methinks my friend is a girl, despite his man's clothes; his gait and his speech are just like that of a maiden." The mother would not listen; but after a time, when the son went on saying that he believed his mate to be a maiden, she said to him, "Very well, then, we will put him to the test, and we can easily find out what he is. I will take a special flower and put it under his pillow, and if it is faded in the morning he is for sure a maiden." The dog, who knew what the old woman was up to, called the girl aside and told her: "Listen to me, my mistress. Follow my advice, it will go well with thee. The old dragon is going to put a flower under thy pillow as soon as thou hast gone to bed; now keep awake, take it out from under the pillow and put it on the pillow. Early in the morning, before any one else is awake, put it back under the pillow, and nothing will happen to thee." The girl did as the dog had told her. She took the flower from under her pillow, and kept it on her pillow all through the night, and put it back again early in the morning. The old woman afterwards took the flower out; she found it was even fresher than it had been the night before. So she told her son that he must be mistaken. His companion could not be a maiden. He persisted in his belief despite of it, and so the woman said to him, "Go and ask your companion to bathe, and if he is eager to do so, be sure it is not a girl; but if he makes any difficulties, you will know that you are right." The dog, who knew of the plotting of the old woman, told the girl to put on a pleasant face, and not to hesitate to go to the river with her companion, "for," he said, "no sooner will you be near the water than I will get among the flock, and so you will have to jump up and run after the sheep, and there will be no more question of bathing." As the dog said, so he did, and again the young man did not know what to make of his companion. The mother then told him to go with his companion to the forest, and to find a big tree, and to ask his companion what it would be good for. If he replied for distaff and spindle, then it is a girl; but if he answered it was good to make carts out of, then it was a boy." So he took her into the forest, and, finding a big tree, he asked her what could be best made out of the wood. The girl replied "carts." When the girl saw that the boy troubled her too much, she went to the sea-shore, and, smiting the waves with her shepherd's staff, she rent the waters in twain, and passed dryshod with her flock and dog to the other shore of the sea. The other shepherd--the demon--came to the sea-shore just when she had already passed over to the other side. She removed her fur cap, and her long golden hair fell down to her knees. Then she moved her wand, and the waters again closed up. When he saw that she had escaped him, he was very angry, and he went to his mother and told her all that had happened. She said to him, "Do not mind; I will help you to get her into your hands." So the old woman went to the sea and built there a huge ship. This she filled with all kinds of merchandise, and told the young man to sail in it across the sea, and try and find his beloved; and she told him how to get hold of her when he had found her. So sailing along in the boat he got across, and anchored near a great town. The people came out to look at the wares which he had brought. The last to come--led by curiosity--was the girl. As soon as he saw that she had entered the boat, he set sail, and off he went. When the girl saw what had happened, she recognised him, and, finding herself in his power, she offered no resistance. But when they were in the middle of the sea, she took off the ring which she had on her finger, and, casting it into the sea, she said to him, "From this day onward I shall remain dumb. I shall not speak to thee until this ring is brought back to me"; and she kept her word faithfully. For many a year she lived with him, but never spoke a word. One day her mother-in-law thought that it would be better to get rid of her. As she herself dared not kill her, she sent the girl with a message to her elder sister to bring her the sword and the threads, knowing full well that her sister would kill her. When her husband heard the errand on which she was sent, he came out quietly, and, meeting her outside the house, he whispered: "When you go to my mother's sister, she is sure to offer you some food; take the first bite, and keep it under your tongue. Then you may eat; otherwise you will be lost." The girl never replied, but listened attentively to what he had said. So she came to the old crone, who was ever so much worse than her own mother-in-law, and she certainly was bad enough. As soon as she entered the house, the young woman greeted her. Great was the surprise of the old woman, who said, "Now who is to believe my sister; she made that girl out to be dumb, and now she speaks so sweetly. Come in, my child." Then she went out, killed a cock, grilled it, and gave it to her to eat. The young woman, remembering her husband's advice, took the first bite and put it under her tongue; then she sat down and made a hearty meal of the cock. When she had finished, the old woman said, "I do not have the sword or the threads; they are with my younger sister. She lives not very far from here; you just go to her." Taking leave, she went a little way further, and she came to the second sister, who was worse than the other. She saluted her when she came in, and this sister also said: "How is one to believe your mother-in-law? She made you out to be dumb, and now you speak so sweetly and so nicely. What have you come for?" She said, "I have come for the sword and the threads." "Sit down and eat, my child," she said, and, going out, she took a young lamb and killed it and prepared it for her. Remembering the advice given to her, she put the first bite under her tongue, and then she went on eating until she had satisfied her hunger. When she had finished eating, the old woman said, "I do not have that sword; it is with my younger sister. You must go further; she lives quite close by, and she will give it to you." So she went to the third sister, and greeting this third one, who was the worst of all and the ugliest of all, said to her, "Sit down and eat." Then she took out the hand of a dead man and gave it to her to eat. But this the wife could not do. Meanwhile the old woman had gone up into the loft of the house, saying she was going to fetch the spade, but in reality to watch the young woman to see what she was doing. When she was left alone, she took the hand and threw it under the hearth. Then came a voice from the loft crying. "Hand, hand, where art thou?" and from under the hearth the hand replied, "Here I am under the hearth." So she turned on the young woman and said, "You eat this or something worse will happen to you; I am going to eat you." She was very frightened; so she took it and put it in her bosom under her girdle. And again the old woman cried, "Hand, hand, where art thou?" and the hand replied, "I am under her heart." The old witch thought that she had eaten it, and coming down, she brought the sword and gave it to her together with the threads. Before she left, the old witch asked her to give her back the hand; so she put her hand in her bosom, and drew out the dead hand and gave it back to her. And so she had to let her go in peace, as she had retained nothing. Then, coming to the other sister, this one said to her, "Give me back my lamb." The young woman heaved, and out came the little lamb quite alive and started frolicking through the house. It was because she had kept the first bite under her tongue. She therefore had to let her go unharmed. Then she came to the eldest one. And she said to her, "Give me back my cock," and then the young woman spat, and out came the cock, running and crowing through the house. And so she came back to her own house with the sword and the threads. Shortly before she had come, some fishermen had caught a large number of fish, among them a huge fish which her husband had bought. When he opened that fish, he found the ring which his wife had cast into the sea. So, full of joy, he ran out to meet her and to give her the ring. He embraced her with one hand, and with the other, which was full of the blood of the fish, he stroked her chin gently, saying to her, "O my dear little girl, here is thy ring." No sooner had he spoken these words, when the woman was changed into a bird with a red breast, the mark of the blood stains on her chin; then, breaking a pane of the window (lit. an eye of the window), she flew away. Her husband tried to catch hold of her, but he only got hold of the middle feathers of the tail, which remained in his hand. The bird flew away. The young woman had become a swallow. For that reason the tail looks like two prongs of a fork, for the middle part was plucked out by the husband in his attempt to catch her. In this legend we have a combination of many tales. The central incident of the magical ring recovered from the depth of the sea inside the fish, upon which the whole future depended, is somewhat obscure in this tale. It is part of the Polykrates tale, but still more so of the Solomonic legend, where the recovery of the ring means the recovery of power by King Solomon. It is a curious romance, in which Solomon is married as a poor man, i.e. in disguise, to a princess, for his ring by which he was able to rule all the spirits and demons had been cast into the sea by a demon and swallowed by a fish. From that fish Solomon recovered it later on, and with it his kingdom and power. The incident of the sword and the threads is an obscure episode. No doubt it is a magical sword, by which the power of the ogre is to be broken, and the threads are magical threads, by which he is to be tied and made powerless. LXXXVIII. WHY DOES THE SWALLOW LIVE IN HOT PLACES? The Story of the Swallow and Holy Mother Sunday. In another tale the swallow was originally a servant of Holy Sunday. Holy Sunday, going to church, told her servant, whom she had left at home, that she was to prepare the dinner for her, and that she should take care that it should neither be too hot nor too cold, but just as she liked it best. The servant remaining at home did as she was told; she cooked the dinner, but forgot to take the food off the hob in time to get it cool enough for Holy Sunday when she came home from church. When Holy Sunday came home and began to eat the food burned her mouth, as it was too hot, having been left on the fire so much too long. So she got very angry, and cursed the servant, saying, "As thou hast not done my will and hast burned me with the food, so mayest thou now be henceforth a bird burned and frizzled up by the great heat of the places and the countries where thou shalt dwell." No sooner had Holy Sunday spoken these words, when the servant girl was changed into a swallow, and therefore it makes its nest in the lofts of houses where it is hottest, and travels the countries where the sun is burning like fire, frizzling up the inhabitants with its heat. Holy Sunday is here merely a Christianised form of some of the older divinities, who did not scruple at the slightest provocation to vent their feelings and to punish their sub-ordinates without pity and without mercy. It is not here the place to discuss the personification of the days of the week in the form of divinities. They occur very often in Rumanian legends and tales, and are in most cases described as choleric old women, spiteful and revengeful. On rare occasions they are helpful. They resemble much more the three parcae, Moirai or Fates of the Roman and Greek mythology and the Norns of the Teutonic mythology, than Christian saints. That these divinities are identified with special days of the week belongs to that process of heretical teaching to which I have referred already, and in which certain days of the week are endowed with a peculiar character of sanctity; and the apotheosis has reached such a degree that they are looked upon as real saints. And the swallow still is looked upon as a more or less sacred bird. According to popular belief, swallows will not build nests in bewitched or cursed houses; to kill a swallow is considered a heinous sin, almost tantamount to killing one's wife and children. As the people believe that the swallow was originally a girl, they refrain from eating it. They consider it wrong to eat a swallow. They are also called "God's hens," and are a sign of luck to the people where they build their nests. LXXXIX. WHY IS THE DOVE A HOMING BIRD? The Story of the Bewitched Calf and the Wicked Step-mother. It is very curious that, so far, very few tales and legends have been collected referring to the dove, a bird which plays so prominent a part in Ancient Greek and heathen worship. I have not been able hitherto to discover more than passing references to the dove in legendary tales, nor is there anything in Rumanian folk-lore that would explain the origin of the dove. There is only one legend, which is in a way a distinct variant of the Cinderella cycle. I will give it here briefly. The beginning agrees on the whole with the usual type. There is the bad step-mother, who has an ugly daughter, and persecutes the beautiful daughter of her second husband. Among other trials, besides keeping her unkempt and dirty and sending her out to feed the cattle, she gives her one day a bag full of hemp, and tells her that in the evening she is to bring it home carded, spun, woven into cloth and bleached. The poor girl did not know what to do. Her father had given her a calf. This calf was "a wise one." So the calf came to the girl and said, "Do not fear; look after the other cows: by the evening it will be all ready." So it was. When she brought the white cloth home, her step-mother did not know what to say. The next day she gave her two bags full of hemp, and again the little calf worked at it and got it ready by the evening. When the woman saw what had happened, she said, "This is uncanny; no human being can do such work in one day. I must find out what is happening." The next morning she gave her three bags full of hemp and followed her stealthily to the field to see what she was doing. There, hidden in a bush, she overheard the conversation between the little calf and the girl. Straightway she went home, put herself to bed, and said that she was very ill and was sure to die. Her husband, coming home and finding her in what he thought was a very sorry plight, believed that she was really very ill. She called him to her bedside, and said, "I know I am dying; there is only one way, however, by which I can be saved, and that is to kill the little calf and to give me some of its meat roasted." The poor man did not know what to do, and he said to his wife, "Why, that is all that my little girl has, and if that calf is killed she will remain with nothing." "Do as you like," she replied, "if you prefer a calf to my life." The little calf, which was "wise," knew what was going to happen, and told the girl that the step-mother was sure to have it killed, but she must not grieve. The only thing the calf wanted her to do was to gather up all the bones after the meal, and to hide them in a hollow of a tree not far from the field. Everything happened as the calf had foretold, and on the next day the woman ate as one who had been starving for a week, as ravenously as if the wolves were fighting at her mouth. The old man also ate of the calf, but the girl refused to touch the meat. After the meal was over she took all the bones and put them in the hollow of a tree as she was told. Soon afterwards, the step-mother again put her to a trial. Going with her husband and her own daughter to church, she left her at home in her dirty clothes, and giving her a bag full of linseed and poppy-seed mixed, she told her that she must sweep the room, get the meal ready, wash the plates, clean the pots and separate the linseed from the poppy seed. Now the bones of the calf had turned into three white doves. These came to her and did all the work, and told her at the same time to go to the hollow tree; there she would find a carriage and pair and beautiful clothes waiting for her. She did so, went to church in state, left before the others, and was at home to meet her people coming back from church and found the house swept and clean, and the linseed separated from the poppy seed. They spoke of the beautiful girl who had come to church, and chided their poor daughter for staying at home. The second week the same thing happened. This time there were two sacks of poppy seed and linseed which she had to separate. And again the doves helped. And so on the third Sunday. The son of the squire, who had seen her on the former two Sundays, tried to stop her on her way out of church, and trod on her slipper, which was knocked off her foot. She did not wait to recover it, but returned home as fast as she could. The young man went round with the slipper to find the person whom it would fit. When he came near the house, the step-mother, fearing lest he see her step-daughter, hid her under a big trough behind the door. When the young man, after having tried the slipper on her daughter, whom it did not fit, asked whether there was another girl in the house, and she replied, "None," but a cock who was standing by began to sing: "O that old crone is telling lies; there is another girl hidden under the trough behind the door." The young man, hearing the words of the cock, which the old woman tried in vain to drive away, sent his servant into the house to find out whether it was so. He lifted the trough and found there the other girl, clothed in dirty rags and huddled up. The woman, seeing that the girl had been discovered, said to the man, "Do not take any notice of her; she is a dirty slut and an idiot." But the cock again sang out, "O that old crone is telling lies; it is the daughter of the old man, and she is very wise." The young man, who was waiting outside, became impatient, and calling for the servant, he told him to bring the girl out. He tried the slipper, which fitted like a glove, and there and then he married her. And this is the origin of the dove. XC. WHY DOES THE RAVEN FEED ON CARRION? The Story of Noah and the Raven. The Rumanian story about the raven is more or less the well-known story of the raven in Noah's ark as told in the Bible. But it has not reached the people in that simple ungarnished form. It has been embellished with legends. Those found among the Rumanian peasants agree in the main with those told by oriental writers and found in "historiated" Bible's--that great treasure-house of legendary Biblical lore and the depository of many of the legends of the past. It is important to see how stories, the literary origin of which cannot be doubted, have penetrated among the people and have become actual popular legends. We can almost trace the way which they have come. And this lends a special value to such popular Biblical legends. The story runs as follows: The raven was originally a bird with white feathers. When Noah sent out the raven to find out how things were in the world, the raven espied the carcase of a horse floating on the waters which had begun to subside. Forgetting his errand, the raven settled on the carcase and started eating, and he continued eating for three days and three nights. He could not get satisfied; only at the dawn of the fourth morning did he remember the errand on which he had been sent, and started on his return. When Noah saw him at some distance, he cried, "Why hast thou tarried so long, and what is thy message, and how does the world without look?" The raven, unabashed, replied, "I do not know anything about the world and how things are going; I only know that I was very hungry, and finding the dead body of a horse, I sat down and ate, and now that I have had my fill, I have come back." When Noah heard this answer from the raven, he grew very angry, and said, "Mayest thou turn as black as my heart is within me," for his heart had turned black from anger and fury. And from that minute the raven's feathers turned as black as coal. And Noah went on saying, "As thou hast fed on carrion, so shalt thou feed henceforth only on the dead bodies of animals and beasts." And in order that the ravens should not multiply too quickly, it was ordained that they should lay their eggs in December and not hatch them until February, for only then, when the frost is so strong that even the stones burst, does the shell of the raven's eggs split, and the young are able to come out and be fed by their parents, for they are unable to hatch them unless they are aided also by a hard frost, which causes the shells to break. Otherwise, if they had laid their eggs in the summer and hatched them in the summer, like other birds, they would grow so numerous that people would not have been able to defend themselves from the raven. Moreover, the raven, when sent by Noah, saw only the peaks of the mountains, and those have remained to this very day the real haunt of the bird. They only nest in very high crags and peaks of mountains, and never in villages. Thus far the legend, which occurs in many variants. The raven, whose peculiar appearance is well known, has become the bird of oracle par excellence. There are a large number of treatises on the augury of the raven, notably in the Arabic literature, some of which are traced back to Indian originals. As for the part which the raven has played in Northern mythology, it is sufficient to mention the ravens of Odin, not to speak of the Biblical legend according to which the raven fed the prophet Elijah. (Another interpretation of the word in the Bible changes the raven into Arabians, who fed the prophet in his hiding-place.) There are some Rumanian popular beliefs connected with the raven which I will mention here. If two or three ravens fly over a village and croak, it is a sure sign that there will be death in the village. If two ravens, one coming from the north and one coming from the south, meet over the roof of a house, it is a sure sign of the death of one of the inmates of the house. It is an old saying that if ravens are seen flying in a great number in one direction, it is a sure sign of plague or some death among beasts and men. If ravens croak over a flock of sheep, the shepherds keep a double watch, for they believe the ravens foretell an inroad by wolves or other wild beasts. If a raven, meeting a herd of cattle, croaks, the Rumanian responds, "May it be on thy head, thy feathers and thy bones," for he believes that one of his animals will die and become food for the raven. And, if one raven is seen flying over the head of a man and continues to do so for a while, it is a sign of the death of that man. It is generally assumed that the ravens fly in pairs, and the appearance of one alone is therefore ominous. These few examples will suffice. They stamp the raven as the bird of ill-omen. XCI. WHY IS THE ANT CUT IN THE MIDDLE? The Story of the Young Maiden and her Step-mother the Demon. Once upon a time there was a widow who had only one child, a girl, and all her possessions (goods and chattels) consisted of a flock of sheep. When the girl grew up, the mother sent her with the flock, and told her at the same time to put on a man's clothes and not to speak to anyone in the manner of women. The girl did as she was told, and fed the flock for a long time. One day, however, she was in the forest, where a young boy also fed his flock. But he was not the son of man; he was the son cf the serpent (dragon). How was she to know it? And even if she had known it, what good would it be to her, seeing that she did not know what a dragon or a she-dragon was? Regarding him as a shepherd like herself, she began talking to him, and the whole day they went together with their flocks. When the young dragon came home in the evening, he told his mother, "I think that he with whom I spent the day is not a man in spite of the clothes but a woman, but he does not seem to have a woman's voice. Would it not be better if I brought him here, and you might then tell me whether it is a man or a woman, for if she be a woman, I should like to have her as my wife. I have not yet seen in the whole world one more beautiful." "Go," said the mother, "bring him. If he be a man, he will return safely from us, but if she be a woman, then thine shall she be." On the next day, meeting the daughter of the widow, they fed their flocks together, and in the evening, when they were to separate, he asked the girl to spend the night at his house. The girl, not thinking aught evil, and being somewhat far away from her own house, accepted his invitation and went with him. What did the she-dragon do when she saw her coming? She went out to meet her and engaged her in conversation. Then she turned to her son and spoke to him, but in a foreign tongue. She told him to put a flower under the pillow of his companion, and if in the morning the flower will be faded, for sure then she is a girl; otherwise the flower would remain fresh. So he did. The girl, seeing that they talked in a foreign tongue, understood that they were talking about her, and determined to watch and see. No sooner had she gone to bed than she began to snore, as if she had fallen fast asleep, but she did not sleep. Her hosts, thinking her fast asleep, got up, went on tip-toe into the garden, and, taking a carnation in full flower, put it under her pillow and fell asleep. The girl, feeling that something had been put under her pillow, understood that something was wrong. So she got up and took out of her bag a charmed mirror by which to undo the sorcery of her hosts. No sooner had she taken out her mirror, than the dragon-mother woke up, and, running quickly to the bed, found the flower faded, to her own great joy and that of her son. What was the girl to do now? She could not deny that she was a girl. So she began to speak with a woman's voice. The young dragon then insisted on her marrying him, but she said, if he insisted on taking her she would neither speak to him nor kiss him. The young dragon, more in a joke, took her in his arms and squeezed her so tight that her face got swollen and her eyes almost started out of her head. She then changed herself into an insect and ran to the door to get out from under the threshold. But the old dragon took a knife and slashed her across the body when she had crept half-way out of the house, so that she nearly cut her in twain. Her luck was that just a little flesh remained by which the other part of the body was kept hanging on, and thus she has remained to this very day, for she became the ant. The first part of this story agrees in the main with the first part of the swallow story, No. 87. It is another example of the transfer of a story from one object to another, like the story of the woodpecker and the pelican. (Cf. also the slashing of the bee in the stories, No. 1 ff.) Popular belief is that the ant is the grandchild (niece nepoata) of God, and the handmaid of the Virgin, although I have not yet been able to find the legend upon which this belief rests. The ant must not be molested, for the Virgin sighs as often as an ant is killed. The red ant comes from the tears shed by St. Mary over the grave of Christ. The ant is used as a remedy against toothache by boiling it together with the earth of its nest and rinsing the mouth with the water (which thus contains the well-known arnica of the pharmacopoeia). XCII. WHY DOES THE CUCKOO CALL "CUCKOO"? The Story of the two Brothers and King Alexander. In the time of Alexander the Great, King of Macedon, there lived a very wealthy man who had two sons, each one more beautiful than the other, and both more beautiful than any other living being. When they grew up to be twelve years old, the fame of their beauty had reached the Court of King Alexander. He was told that no young men so beautiful as they were could be found over nine seas and nine countries. Alexander went himself to see them, and no sooner had he seen them than he appointed them captains in his army, for he was a high and mighty king, and he liked to have in his army valiant knights like himself. At that time there lived the dog-headed people, who were human from the waist down and dogs from their waist upward. Their kingdom stretched far away to the north of Alexander's realms. Every year the king of the dog-men and his people made incursions into the countries, and, capturing many women, carried them away. The men they fattened, and, after killing them, used to eat them, but the beautiful women they brought to their king to become his wives. They treated the men just as we treat our animals, which we fatten to kill and eat. When Alexander saw that these wild dog men would not give him peace, he decided to make war upon them, and to free the world of such wild creatures. But to fight with these dog-men was not an easy task, and he therefore selected the best men among his host, all seasoned warriors, and he put the best captains over them. Among these were also the two brothers, one of whom was called Cuckoo and the other Mugur. Wherever they went they did wonders. The heads of the dog-men fell before the strokes of their swords like the grass cut by the scythe. The battle lasted for three days and three nights. On the fourth, the two brothers captured the king of the dog-men and brought him to Alexander. There they killed him. Then they set fire to the land of the dog-men, and the fire burnt for over a month. It was so wide a country that no one has ever known the end of it, and so these dog-men were routed utterly and none were left; only their name has remained behind. When Alexander saw the valiant deeds of these two brothers, he appointed them leaders of his army. They had to be always near him, and wherever they went and drew their swords, the blood of the heathen ran like water. Alexander had many wars with kings and emperors, and he conquered them all. No one dared to stand up against him, for God had given him strength, and he marched on to the ends of the earth; he was to become king over the whole world and then die. He went to the south with his army, passing through many desolate countries, filled with wild animals and monsters, dragons and serpents: wherever he went he burned them with fire so as to cleanse the world. For months Alexander went on with his march, accompanied by the two brothers and his army, for he had set his heart upon going to the very ends of the earth. One day on their march they met a company of women riding on white horses, one more beautiful than other, and there was one who by her beauty outshone them all. She was dressed, moreover, so radiantly that she shone like the sun. Alexander drew near, and he asked them how it came about that they were riding such beautiful horses, and where were the men? To this the women replied: "Ours is the country where the women rule, the women take the place of the men and the men that of the women." Alexander rested there for a while with his two companions and his army, and they were well entertained by the women, who were more beautiful than any known among men of this part of the world. Among these there was one who was like the moon among the stars. Cuckoo fell in love with her, and they became inseparable. Cuckoo thought he could not live without her. Mugur, who was of a more retiring nature, restrained his love and kept aloof from the women. When the two weeks had elapsed which Alexander had appointed for him to stay there, he broke up his camp and journeyed onward until the army reached the gates of Paradise. These were guarded by angels with flaming swords, who would allow access only to those who were pure and sinless. When the soldiers beheld the beauty of Paradise they wondered greatly at it, and some of them were desirous of entering it, and went to the angel to ask his permission. Amongst these were Mugur and his brother Cuckoo. Mugur went in front, Cuckoo followed with his beautiful wife at his side. When Mugur drew near, the gate of Paradise was flung open and he entered without hindrance. Cuckoo wanted to follow him, but the door was shut in his face, and for his audacity he and his fair companion were turned into birds, for no man is allowed to enter Paradise with a companion. Since then Cuckoo is continually calling aloud his name in the hope that his brother may look for him and thus find him. This story is remarkable for its origin. We have here the popular reflex of the famous Romance of Alexander, which had reached Rumania, as all the other countries of Europe, in a literary form. The book has been read for at least three hundred years, and it is extremely interesting to see how deeply it has influenced the popular imagination. What we have here is not one incident only from the "Romance," but practically an abridged recital of the famous "Journey to Paradise," and "Alexander's Letter to Aristotle." We have here his wars with the Kynokephaloi, or the people who were believed to be human beings with dog's heads. The Eastern Church, and no less the Rumanian, even venerates a saint with a dog's head, Christophorus. In the Rumanian monastery of Neamtz there appeared a "Life" of that saint, in which the woodcut picture of the saint represented him as having a dog's head. We have, further, Alexander's war with the Amazons, and even the fact that he reached the gates of Paradise. But what gives to this tale importance is that the "Romance of Alexander" has become the tale accounting for the origin of a bird. No doubt there must be some more detailed account of this immediate fact, explaining a little more clearly the sudden transformation of the cuckoo and his mate into particular birds. Here it is described as a punishment for Cuckoo's audacity in attempting to bring his female companion into Paradise. The only point of resemblance between this and the Albanian tale of Hahn (No. 105), is that Cuckoo was originally a man by that name, and he was the brother of Gion. XCIII. WHY DOES THE ARMENIAN LOVE THE DIRTY HOOPOE? The Story of the Armenian, the Cuckoo and the Hoopoe. A funny story about the hoopoe and the cuckoo is told by the Rumanians at the expense of the Armenians. It is said that in olden times the forefather of the Armenians had to flee for his life. So, taking all his belongings with him, and mounting on a horse, he rode away as fast as he could. He feared lest his enemies would overtake him. Riding on, he came to a forest and, not being able to find the way, he got into a bog. In vain did he try to get his horse up again. The more he tried the further it sank; so, taking all his belongings, he dismounted, and wading through the mud, he sat down at the edge of the bog and thought all the time what was he to do to get his horse out. He could not carry all his belongings, and, if he tarried much longer where he was, his enemies were sure to overtake him. Where he sat, there was a cuckoo, resting on the tree, and singing all the time, but the more he sang the deeper the horse seemed to sink into the mire. He took some food out of his bags, and, showing it to the horse, he tried to tempt it, but the horse paid no attention to him. Whilst he was now in great despair, there came a hoopoe and sat on another tree and began to cry "Hoop, Hoop." No sooner did the horse hear the bird shouting "hoop, hoop," than up it jumped as if stung by wasps. Overjoyed, the Armenian got hold of it, and putting his food into his sack he mounted again and went on his way. And out of gratitude the Armenians call the hoopoe to this very day by the name of cuckoo, for he saved their ancestor by his cry "up, up." The cuckoo had made it lie down by singing "coo, coo," but the hoopoe made it jump up by singing "up, up." There are some beliefs attached to the cry of the hoopoe forming part of that great section of prognostications by the cry of the birds. It is not, however, considered as an ominous bird. It merely foretells the fruitfulness or the barrenness of the coming year. XCIV. THE STORY OF THE PARTRIDGE, THE FOX AND THE HOUND. Once upon a time there was a partridge, and that partridge was sorely troubled, for no one in this world is safe from trouble and worry. Her trouble was that for some time back she was not able to rear her young, because of AUNTIE FOX, who made a royal feast of the young brood. No sooner did the fox find out that the partridge had hatched her young, than she tied some brambles to her tail, and, dragging it along the ground, pretended to plough the land, close to the place where the partridge had her nest. Turning to the partridge, the fox would say: "How dare you trespass on my land. Off you go, lest I eat you up." The partridge, frightened, would run away, and the fox would eat the young. This had gone on for three years. On the fourth year it so happened that, while the partridge was weeping, just as a man will do out of worry and grief, she met a hound. "What is the matter with thee, friend; why dost thou weep so, what ails thee, why art thou so inconsolable?" "Eh!" said the poor bird, "I am full of trouble." Then the hound said sympathetically, "What has happened unto thee?" "What has happened unto me? O! dear friend, so many years have I tried to rear my young, and no sooner do I see God's blessing when auntie fox, with the brambles and thorns trailing behind her tail, comes and claims the land, and says, 'Hast thou again hatched young on my land? Get thee off lest I eat thee.' And I am so frightened that I run away, and the fox then takes the family and leaves me childless." The bird stopped here and looked despairingly at the hound. She wondered what he could do for her. But no one knows whence help may come, and just when it is least expected it comes. And so it happened to the bird. The dog who had been sitting all the time, listening as it were with half-closed ears, suddenly shook himself and said, "Is that the trouble which ails thee?" "Yes, that is my trouble." "Well, if that be so, let me come with thee, and may be that I shall be of some help." And so they both went to the nest of the partridge. There the dog crouched behind the bushes and waited for the fox to come. He had not to wait very long until the fox came with the brambles tied to her tail, and, pulling it along, made pretence of ploughing the land. "Now then you partridge, are you trespassing again--" But the fox was not allowed to finish the sentence, for out of the bushes sprang the dog. The fox took to her legs, running as fast as they would carry her. Now, whether the hound ran or did not run I do not know, but I certainly can say that the fox ran for all she was worth and raised a cloud of dust behind her. And so she ran and ran until she reached her lair, and she buried herself deep in the ground, very thankful to have saved her skin from the jaws of death. The hound, wearied, tired, and vexed that the fox had escaped, settled down at the mouth of the lair waiting for the chance that the fox would come out again, that he might set his eyes upon her, but it was all in vain, for the fox, once safe, never dreamt of coming out again. But then the fox, having nothing else to do, started talking to herself. "Clever fox, clever fox, I know that thou takest care of thy skin. Well, thou didst well to save thyself, and to get safely away from that hound. Now let me ask my eyes, 'What did you do when the hound was after me?'" "Well, we, turning right and left, looked out to see which way we could save thee and hide thee." "Dear eyes," said the fox, and full of satisfaction, she stroked them with her paws. "Now I will ask my forelegs." "And ye, my forelegs, what did you do when the hound was chasing me?" "What did we do? We ran as fast as we could to carry thee safe to the lair and to save thee." "Very good, then, my darlings," and she kissed them and stroked them lovingly. Then she asked the hind legs. "What did you do when the hound was chasing me?" "What did we do? We raised the dust and threw it into his eyes to save thee." "My darlings," again the fox said, and licked them and caressed them, "so must you always do." The fox, having nothing else to do, said, "I must now ask thee, tail, 'What didst thou do, O my tail?'" "I, what was I to do? I waddled to the right and left and yet he never caught me. If it were not for the legs, I am afraid I should not see the sun any more, and neither wouldst thou, O fox." "As thou sayest, then, thou art the only one who did not help me, thou art mine enemy, for if it were not for the blessed legs, none of us would have seen the sun any more. All right, out thou goest, thou fool. Thou must no longer be with me or with my darling eyes." And, turning round, she crawled backwards and pushed it out of the lair. The hound, who was sitting outside, was just waiting for this, and no sooner did he see the bush of the tail coming out than he pounced on it and, getting hold of it, he pulled with all his might and dragged out tail and fox together. And that was the end of the fox. The fox may have been very clever, but the old proverb is true. "Each animal dies through his own tongue." And since that time the partridge hatches her young unmolested, and the land of the fox has remained unploughed. This Rumanian tale belongs to a large cycle of similar tales, of which the Rumanian seems to have preserved only the first part, unless the second part has afterwards been tacked on to it. In the extended tale the dog asks for the payment of the food, drink, and merriment which the bird had promised. An almost identical story is found among the Slavonic Tales, Krauss, No. 9. In this no mention is made of the fox claiming to be the landowner. It is only out of pity for the partridge that the dog attacks the fox, which runs away, and then the story continues exactly like the Rumanian. The first part of No. 6 is another parallel to the Rumanian tale, but it is greatly reduced and is only the first part of a much longer tale of "The Starling, the Fox, and the Dog." The starling promises the dog food, drink, and merriment, if he would avenge it against the fox, who, in spite of sworn friendship, had taken advantage of the absent starling to eat the young birds. The tale contains also the episode of the fox's undoing. But then the Slavonic story goes on to detail the manner in which the starling outwitted a boy who carried food to his people on the field, a man who carried a wine cask, and a hewer of wood, all to provide for the promised food, drink, and merriment of, the dog. This last part, as a tale by itself, quite independent of the story of the dog and fox, is found in Haltrich, No. 81. Here the bird offers food, drink and merriment to the fox who is to spare her young. In a more reduced form still, the first part having entirely disappeared, the story appears in Grimm, iii. p. 100, who refers to a similar episode in the French version of Reinecke and to an Esthonian tale. Cf. also the Russian Tale in Afanasief, No. 32. XCV. THE STORY OF THE PARTRIDGE AND HER YOUNG. A partridge once built her nest in the furrows of a newly ploughed cornfield, and hatched her young when the stalks of the corn had grown tall and the corn began to ripen. There was food in plenty and safety enough for them to play and to frolic about without fear of any danger. But the good things in this world never stay long with us, and this the partridge was soon to find out. The time came when the corn was cut and hunters appeared followed by their dogs, whose barking they could hear drawing nearer and nearer. The partridge now began to be frightened for her young. She tried to cover them with her wings, but they could not help hearing the reports of the guns and the barking of the dogs. One day, not being able to stand the strain any longer, she remembered a place of safety which she had known, in the cleft of a mountain beyond the seas. Tucking her eldest under her wing, she started one morning on her flight, intent on carrying it to the mountain beyond the sea. When she reached the border of the sea there stood a huge tree. Tired from her long flight, she settled on one of the branches of the tree overhanging the water. And she said to her young, "Little darling, see how great is the love of a mother and what trouble I am taking. Nay, I am putting my life in danger in order to save you." "Never mind, mother," replied the little one, "Wait till we grow up and then we will take care of you when you grow old and weak." When the partridge heard these words she tilted her wing and let the young bird fall into the water of the sea, where it was drowned. Distressed, weary, and lost in thought, she returned to her nest and took the middle one of her three young, and, putting it on the wing, she started again on her flight to the mountain beyond the sea. On the way she again alighted on the tree with the branches overhanging the sea. And she spoke to this one in the same manner as she had spoken to the first. And he replied, "Do not worry, mother, when you get old we shall take care of you and show you our love." The partridge, grieving at the words of this one, again dipped her wing and the young bird slid down into the bottom of the sea, where it was drowned. Almost broken hearted, not knowing any more what to do with herself, and heavy with sorrow and anxiety, her only hope being the youngest one, she returned to her nest, and, taking the youngest--the mother's pet--she tucked it under her wing and flew again to the mountain beyond the sea. Tired from her continual flight hither and thither, she again alighted on the tree with the branches overhanging the sea, and with her heart trembling within her for fear and love, she said to the youngest, "See, my beloved little pet, how much trouble mother is taking to save her dear little ones, how willingly I am suffering pain and fatigue; see how exhausted I am and wearied, but nothing is too much for a mother if only she knows that her young will be safe." "Do not worry, mother dear, for we when we grow up will also take care of our young children with the same love and devotion." At these words, the mother pressed the little one nearer to her heart, and, full of joy, carried him across the sea to a place of safety, for of all her children this alone had spoken the truth. And is it not so in the world? This is the story of the partridge and her young. XCVI. THE STORY OF THE LARK AND THE TAMING OF WOMEN. A man was once ploughing his field. In the midst of it a lark had made her nest and was hatching her young. When the cock lark saw what the man was doing, and that he was coming nearer and nearer with the plough, he feared that the nest would be destroyed. So he turned to the man and said, "Prithee, spare my nest; go round it with your plough and do not touch it, for I might also do you some good." The man, surprised at hearing the lark speak to him, said, "What good can you do to me?" "Oh," replied the lark, "you never know what I can do. Just bide your time, there might be a chance." "Well," said the man, "I do not mind going with my plough round that piece of ground, it will not make much difference, but you see I have a very bad-tempered wife, and should she come out and see what I have done, and that I have left a part of the field without ploughing it, I shall come in for a good hiding." "What," said the lark, "you a man, and your wife, a woman, beating you, how can that be?" "Oh," replied the man, "you do not know her; from morning till evening she does nothing but strike and beat me, I have not a minute's rest and peace." "I can help you," replied the lark, "if only you will do what I tell you." "If you will help me I shall be for ever grateful to you." "Well then, this is what you have to do. You get yourself a stout stick, and should she come and start chiding you, you just lay out and go for her without mercy. You will see it will be all right." Whilst they were thus speaking, the woman came out, with one jaw on earth and the other in heaven, spitting fire and fury; and when she saw that the man had left a part of the field not ploughed she started to go for him with her fists and to give him a good beating. But before she had time to get to him, remembering the advice which the lark had given him, he got hold of the stick, and there was a great change. The woman did not know what it was that happened to her; the blows fell upon her fast and thick over her head, face, shoulders, hands. At last she got frightened, and ran away vowing vengeance. After she had gone, the lark said to the man: "Don't be a fool, I know she awaits you at home with a long stick, but you get yourself a short, stout stick, and just slip into the house before she has time to use her long rod, and then you go for her, hitting as fast as you can and as hard as you can, for, being in the house, the woman will not be able to use the long rod to any advantage." The man did as the lark had taught him, and the woman came in for a drubbing she never expected. The tables were now turned, and instead of beating the husband the woman got it now, and twice over. That was the first case of the men beating their women, instead of the men being beaten by the women, for the neighbours, seeing how things had changed with this man, soon followed his example, and there was yelling and shouting and cursing as never before, the women getting the worst. When the women saw that the men got the upper hand, they all gathered together in the market-place and held a conference under the leadership of the head woman of the town. After a long consultation and discussion, they all decided to leave their husbands alone and to get across the Danube to the other side. So they did; they gathered themselves together and, led by the head woman, left the town to go across the Danube. When the men saw what the women were doing, and that they were in earnest, they turned on the first man who had set the example and threatened to kill him, for he had brought all that trouble upon them. And the man got frightened and ran out into the field, and going to the lark told all that was going on and that he was in danger of his life. The lark laughed and said, "Oh, you are worse than a set of old women. Do not be afraid, nothing will happen to you; you just wait and see, I am going to bring the women home again." So saying, the lark rose up in the air, and flying over the heads of the women who were standing by the banks of the Danube waiting to cross, it sang out, "Tsirli, tsirli, on the other side of the Danube there are no men." One of the women, hearing the bird's song, said to her neighbour, "Did you hear what that bird was singing?" "Oh, yes, we can all hear it saying that across the Danube there are no men, and if that be true I think we had better return to our own husbands, never mind whether they beat us or not." And they all returned home quite meekly to their houses, and ever since then the men beat their wives, but the women never beat their husbands. And you should know that if a woman does beat her husband, he is not a man, but a donkey. XCVII. THE STORY OF THE TURTLE DOVE AND ITS LOVE FOR ITS MATE. Of the turtle-dove the Rumanian popular poetry relates that when she loses her mate she never associates with any bird, but sits solitary on the branches of trees, not on the green or the high bough, but on the low, and on the withered branches of the tree. She no longer goes to clear water, but she first stirs the mud and then drinks the troubled water, and when she sees the hunter she goes to meet him cheerfully, hoping that he will kill her. The tears of the turtle-dove are the most powerful antidote against every spell and sorcery. An incident in one of the Rumanian Fairy Tales reminds us of the story of the Shirt of Nessus given to Hercules. It is of a step-mother who tries to kill her daughter-in-law by inducing her to buy such a poisoned shirt. As soon as she has put one on she becomes very ill, and her illness grows with every day that passes. Her father, who has been absent, comes home and sees what is the cause of her illness, so he washes her in tears of the turtle-dove. The spell is broken, the fire is driven out, and the young woman recovers her health. XCVIII. WHY DOES THE WREN HIDE HIMSELF? The Story of the Wren, the Eagle, and the Owl. The wren is called by the Rumanians the little king. The reason for it is that the birds once came together to elect a ruler. They were all there, big and small, and after much wrangling and discussion they agreed that he who flew highest of all should be king. It was the eagle who suggested it, for he knew that no bird could fly so high as he could, and he told them that the highest place they could reach would be the region of the wild winds. They arranged that he who would reach so high, should give them a sign and then they should descend. They all started for the race. There was much fluttering of wings and shrieking and boasting, for every bird believed that he would be the winner. But they had not measured their strength, for after a while the weakest stopped in their flight and began to descend slowly. The stronger ones flew a little higher but they too got tired and came down to the ground, until at last almost every bird that had entered the race had given it up. Only one bird was continuing the flight. It was the eagle, who was soaring higher and higher. At a certain moment, the eagle signalled to them that he had reached the wild wind, that is the wind which blows very high up in the sky and is bitterly cold, much colder than ice and frost. But the eagle was not to win the race. The little wren, a midget among the birds, had crept stealthily under one of the outer feathers of his wings; the eagle did not feel it, and so it was borne aloft to the very high heavens. Now when the eagle stopped in his flight, and began to descend, the little bird, not at all tired, came out from under the wing, and he, flying higher, far above the eagle, shouted: "He! he! you thought you would be the king, that no one could fly as high as you do! You see I have flown much higher, no one can deny it, you can all see me, and though I am very small and light, I am your king." The birds, hearing the little wren and seeing that it had been flying far above the eagle, wondered greatly, but they could not help themselves, they had to stand by their agreement, and so the wren was proclaimed king. But the birds soon learnt the trick by which the wren had outwitted them, and furious at the way in which they had been played, they wanted to tear him to pieces. The little wren, knowing what was in store for him from the enraged birds, ran away quickly, and hid himself inside the hollow of a tree, slipping in by so narrow an opening that no other bird could follow him. When the birds found out the hiding-place of the wren, and that they could not get at it, they decided to starve him out, and put some to watch over the opening to prevent the wren escaping. The wren thought it better to starve than to come out and be torn in pieces. "I will wait my chance," he said to himself, and the chance came when they appointed the owl to watch over the tree. The owl is a lazy bird, and sitting down quietly soon fell asleep. That was just what the wren was waiting for, and before the owl could have turned round, it was out and away in the bushes and under the roots of the trees. When the owl awoke it found that the prisoner had gone: catch him if you can! The birds, full of wrath, turned on the owl for letting the wren escape and the owl had to run for its life. It is for that reason that the owl never shows itself in day-time. It is frightened of the birds, for they bear it a grudge for not keeping careful watch over the wren, and as the wren knows what the birds have in store for him, he hides himself under the bushes and trees and has become a very furtive bird. Cf. Grimm, No. 171. XCIX. WHY IS THERE NO KING OVER THE BIRDS? The Story of the Hawk and the Election of the King. Once upon a time the birds came together to decide which was to rule over them all, and in what order authority should be distributed among them, who was to be the superior and who was to be inferior among them. After a long discussion it was agreed that the eagle should be the highest of all. The second in command should be the falcon, the third in command the black vulture, under him the white vulture, under him the vulture with the striped tail, under him the lamb's vulture and under him the kite, under him the hen-harrier, under him the blue heron, and under him the sparrow-hawk. All the birds consented and accepted this arrangement without much demur or contradiction. Only the sparrow-hawk, who though the smallest and the weakest, yet knew himself to be quicker and cleverer than many of them, objected to the arrangement, and said to them: "Do you expect that I should submit to you? or be frightened of you, as if you were the strongest and mightiest creatures in the world? You are greatly mistaken. There are other beings stronger and mightier and greater than you. Of these I am frightened, but not of you. I do not care for you." "But what creatures are stronger and more powerful than we?" asked the other birds greatly surprised. "What!" said he, "you do not know who is greater and stronger than you are? You all think yourselves to be the cleverest of created beings, and you expect me, the smallest of you, to tell you that? Very well, then, since you do not know even as much as this, hear it from me. Stronger than all of you are the archers and the sportsmen." "Why," replied the birds, "how can that be?" "Well," he said, "if they meet you they can make an end of you, and that, before you know where you are; you, who are so clever, that you wanted to put me at the tip of your tail!" "What can we do to save ourselves?" The sparrow-hawk replied, "You must never gather together and fly in large numbers, for thus we are sure to fall a prey to them. Our only safety lies in our dispersion." As soon as the birds heard that, they dispersed quickly, and since that time hawks are never found together in large numbers, except when they see carrion. In such wise did the little sparrow-hawk free himself from the domination of the other birds of his clan. C. THE STORY OF KING LOG AND KING STORK. The Story of the Frogs. This is the well-known story of King Log and King Stork. Once upon a time the frogs assembled and decided to ask God to appoint a king who would guide them and rule over them, for they were like a people scattered all over the waters and seas with no one to look after them. God gratified their request, and taking a log of wood cast it into the water and said to the frogs, "This is to be your king." When the log fell into the water it made such a splash and such a noise, that the poor frogs did not know where to hide themselves in their fright. After a while the noise subsided, and the log lay still in the place where it had fallen. Gaining a little courage, the frogs came out of their hiding places and crept slowly on to the log of wood, which they found lying quite still and motionless. They waited for a time to see it move, but in vain. So they went again to God and said to him: "What is the good of a king who can neither guide us, nor rule over us, and cannot even move about to look after us?" And God said, "You shall have one who will move about, and he will guide you and rule you after the manner of kings." And he called the stork and appointed him king over the frogs. He moves about amongst them very fast indeed, and guides them and rules them in the proper manner of kings, for he gobbles them up as soon as he sets eyes on them in the proper manner of kings, who always go about and eat up their subjects as fast as they can. Here, of course, a moral from modern life has been added to the old tale, but this does not detract from its popularity. CI. THE STORY OF THE STORK AND LITTLE TOMTIT. Once upon a time there was a stork who could not rear any young. His wife's eggs had become addled, or something else had happened to them, and the long and short of it was that there were no young birds. Very distressed, he was walking about in the forest when he noticed a little tomtit on the ground. Seeing he was so small, he thought it was a young bird, a chick that had fallen out from a stork's nest somewhere. So he picked him up gently and carried him to his own nest, and there he kept him and fed him most tenderly. He would fly about for miles to get worms to feed the little bird. The days passed, and the stork could not help wondering why that little bird of his did not grow: it remained so small. One day there came a down-pour of cold rain mixed with hailstones. In order to protect his little young, he put the tomtit under his wing, and going into the forest placed himself under the branches of a thick-leaved tree to shelter himself from the rain and hail. In the trunk of that tree there was a little hollow. As soon as tomtit espied it he glided into it, and from there he kept up a conversation with the stork. Among other things, the stork said, "What terrible weather that is, I cannot remember anything like it all my life." "What," piped little tomtit, "you call this bad weather. You should have seen what bad weather means, when the red snow fell." "Hush, you little thing," said the stork, "how do you come to speak of red snow, you have never seen such a thing?" "Oh," replied tomtit, "I remember it quite well, although it was so many years ago." "You remember it, you little cunning beast, who made yourself out to be quite a little chicken!" and the sharp beak of the stork pierced the hollow of the tree and spiked the insolent little tomtit, who had made a fool of the stork. CII. THE STORY OF THE FLEA AND THE GNAT. The flea once upon a time meeting a gnat, said to her: "I say, sister, why is your back so bent, and why is your head so low? What heavy care is worrying you?" "Oh, my sister," replied the gnat, "it is the heavy work which I have to do that bends my back and pulls my head so low. I have to drive the oxen to the plough, and make them do their work. I must sit between the horns and prick them to urge them on. Their hide is so thick that I have to bend my body and put my head very low to drive the sting through it. But, then, tell me, why is your back so much bent, sister flea? You have no heavy work like me." "You do not know what you are talking about. I have to keep mankind to their duties. These men have such heavy clothing that it takes all my strength to lift it up so that I can move about, to get at him." CIII. THE STORY OF THE GNAT, THE LION, AND THE MAN. The fable of the gnat and the lion is told in order to explain the proverb, "The gnat, small as it is, proved stronger than the lion." Once upon a time a lion sat himself down to rest under a tree. Suddenly a gnat appeared and settled upon his nose. The lion, feeling the tickle, struck out with his paw, but missed her. The gnat then settled in his ear, and again the lion tried to strike her, but failed. So he said to the gnat: "Who are you? and why do you come here and worry me? Who are you that although so small can worry so much and give so much trouble, and yet are one whom it is impossible to catch?" "I am the gnat, and I drink the blood of anyone I choose, and no one can hurt me." "You may drink blood from whomever else you choose, but my blood you shall not drink, for I am the stronger." "If you believe that I cannot drink your blood, very well then, let us wait and see who is the stronger," said the gnat. "I am quite satisfied," said the lion, and they made the bet. Without saying a single word, the gnat jumped on to the nose of the lion, and digging its point into the flesh of the lion sucked the blood until it was full, but the lion could not do anything to her. When she had finished, she asked the lion: "What do you say now? have I not beaten you? Now it is your turn to show me your strength." "I am so strong that if a man should happen to pass here I could eat him up." He had scarcely finished speaking when a boy happened to pass. The lion, as soon as he saw him, wanted to catch him and eat him. "Stop," said the gnat, "this is not yet a man, wait until he grows to be a man." The lion felt ashamed and let the boy pass. Soon afterwards a very old man happened to pass. Again the lion, saying, "Now, a man is passing," wanted to get hold of him. And again the gnat stopped him, saying, "This is no longer a man, he has been so some long time ago. It is a pity to break your teeth on him." And the lion left him also alone. Now there came riding along a hussar. "This is a man," said the gnat, "go for him and show your strength." The lion went for him, but when the hussar saw him he drew his sword and smote him two or three times over his head. The lion, seeing that this was not a joke, turned tail and ran away; there was his road to safety. The gnat, following him, settled on his ear and asked him how he felt. The lion, half-stunned, replied: "That foolish man drew a rib from his side and hacked lustily away and had I not run away only bits of me would have been left." Hence the proverb, "However small, the gnat proved more powerful than the lion." This is a parallel to the story of the "Gnat and the Lion." Among the South Slavonic Tales, (Krauss, No. 12) we find another parallel to it, though differing in some details. A lion was continually boasting of its strength. One day a tiger, tired of his boasting, said to him: "You wait until you meet a man and see what strength is." One day, as they were walking, a young boy passed along, and the lion asked whether that was a man. "No," replied the tiger, "that is a man that is to be." Shortly afterwards an old woman passed, and the lion asked whether that was a man. "No," replied the tiger, "that is one who has made men." At last a hussar passed. The tiger said, "This is a man." The hussar drew near, shot at the lion, and, quite dazed, it ran away. The hussar overtook him, and drawing his sword wounded him in many places. The lion escaped and said afterwards, "When he blew at me it was bad enough, but how much worse was it, when he pricked me." Another version from the inhabitants of Transylvania is found in Haltrich D. Volksmärchen a. d. Sachsenlande i. Siebbrgn, Wien 1877 (No. 86). Here it is the wolf who boasts, and the fox tells him that there is something much more powerful than he is and that is man. The wolf asks the fox to show him man. An old man passes, the fox says, "This was a man." A boy passes and the fox says, "This is not yet a man." A hunter comes, and from behind the bush the fox whispers, "That is man." The hunter shoots at the wolf, then draws his knife and slashes him. The wolf runs away and owns himself beaten by the man, who makes thunder and lightning, throws stones in his face, and then draws a shining rib and cuts away at him. Cf. also Grimm, 72. CIV. THE STORY OF THE GNAT AND THE BUFFALO. A man was driving his buffalo to market. On the way they passed a marsh. The buffalo, in accordance with its habit, went into it and started wallowing. The man tried to get him out of it and threatened him with his stick, but the buffalo took no notice. There came a gnat buzzing by the man and saying to him: "What wilt thou say if I drive him out of the swamp?" "You," replied the man contemptuously, "what can a little midget like you do, when the buffalo does not care even for me?" "Just so," said the gnat, "I will show you that I can do what you cannot." "Try, then, if you can." So the gnat went and placed itself under the fold of the buffalo's belly, and stung him just between the creases of the skin where the flesh was softest. Up jumped the buffalo, and in a wink he had got out of the mire, and was brought to the market by the man who owned shamefacedly that of the two the gnat was the stronger. "Hi! hi!" hissed the gnat, "didst thou see that I could do with my little tongue, what thou with thy mighty cudgel couldst not do?" CV. THE STORY OF THE TOWN MOUSE AND THE FIELD MOUSE. A mouse living in the town one day met a mouse which lived in the field. "Whence do you come?" asked the latter when she saw the town-mouse. "I come from yonder town," replied the first mouse. "How is life going there with you?" "Very well, indeed. I am living in the lap of luxury. Whatever I want of sweets or any other good things is to be found in abundance in my master's house. But how are you living?" "I have nothing to complain of. You just come and see my stores. I have grain and nuts, and all the fruits of the tree and field in my storehouse." The town-mouse did not quite believe the story of her new friend, and, driven by curiosity, went with her to the latter's house. How great was her surprise when she found that the field-mouse had spoken the truth; her garner was full of nuts and grain and other stores, and her mouth watered when she saw all the riches which were stored up there. Then she turned to the field-mouse and said, "Oh, yes, you have here a nice snug place and something to live upon, but you should come to my house and see what I have there. Your stock is as nothing compared with the riches which are mine." The field mouse, who was rather simple by nature and trusted her new friend, went with her into the town to see what better things the other could have. She had never been into the town and did not know what her friend could mean when she boasted of her greater riches. So they went together, and the town-mouse took her friend to her master's house. He was a grocer, and there were boxes and sacks full of every good thing the heart of a mouse could desire. When she saw all these riches, the field mouse said she could never have believed it, had she not seen it with her own eyes. Whilst they were talking together, who should come in but the cat. As soon as the town-mouse saw the cat, she slipped quietly behind a box and hid herself. Her friend, who had never yet seen a cat, turned to her and asked her who that gentleman was who had come in so quietly? "Do you not know who he is? Why, he is our priest (popa), and he has come to see me. You must go and pay your respects to him and kiss his hand. See what a beautiful, glossy coat he has on, and how his eyes sparkle, and how demurely he keeps his hands in the sleeves of his coat." Not suspecting anything, the field-mouse did as she was told and went up to the cat. He gave her at once his blessing, and the mouse had no need of another after that: the cat gave her extreme unction there and then. That was just what the town-mouse had intended. When she saw how well stored the home of the field-mouse was, she made up her mind to trap her and to kill her, so that she might take possession of all that the field-mouse had gathered up. She had learned the ways of the townspeople and had acted up to them. This story reminds one of the story of La Fontaine, yet the conclusion here is quite different. The popular tale undoubtedly underwent a definite change in the hands of La Fontaine, who used the fable for driving home a totally different moral lesson, just in the style of all the fables so used since Aesop downwards. The popular tale as told here is perhaps more crude, but still much more true to nature--a picture of life. Hahn (No. 90) tells an Albanian tale where the fox goes on a pilgrimage and becomes a monk, just as the cat in the Rumanian story is a priest. CVI. THE STORY OF THE HARE AND THE FROGS. One day, the hare, thinking of his miserable life, decided to put an end to it. "What is my life worth to me?" he said to himself, sighing heavily. "The dogs tear me, the wolves cat me, the eagles claw me, the man hunts me. I have no peace, no rest, everybody is against me and wishes to take my life. I had better go and drown myself, and then there will be an end to my miseries." So speaking, he got up and went to the neighbouring lake to drown himself in the water. As he drew near he saw a number of frogs sitting by the water. When they saw the hare coming up, they got frightened and jumped into the water, some of them getting drowned in it. When the hare saw that he had frightened the frogs to such an extent that he caused a number of them to jump into the water and to get drowned, he stopped short and said, "If there are creatures whom I can frighten, then surely even I am not the weakest of all, as I had hitherto thought." Comforted by this thought, he returned to his form. CVII. WHY DOES THE BUFFALO WALK SLOWLY AND TREAD GENTLY? The Race of the Buffalo and the Hare. In olden times, so we are told by those who know best, there was constant strife between the hares and the buffaloes. Each of them contended for the honour of being the most swift-footed. Both did run very fast and neither would give in to the other. So it went on year after year, and there seemed to be no end to the strife. Tired of this constant fight, one day the hare said to the buffalo, "Let us try a race together and settle this quarrel once for all." The buffalo was well contented with the proposal, and they agreed to race one another. When the day came the hare, putting his ears back, started the race. He ran so fast that you might have said he was flying upon the ground. But the buffalo was a match for him. He went thundering away, his hoofs splashing the mud and raising seas of mire. The earth shook at his furious tread. He soon overtook the breathless hare which was running panting as fast as its little legs could carry it. Then a thought struck the hare, and he cried to the buffalo, "Ho, friend! Take heed how thou art thundering along. The earth is shaking, and if thou art not careful, the earth will give way under thee. See how it is rocking under thy feet." When the buffalo heard the hare's story, he stopped still for a while bewildered, and then, being frightened, lest the earth should give way under him and he sink beneath, he checked his pace and began to walk slowly and tread gently. That was just what the hare had wanted, and pulling a long nose at the buffalo, he ran swiftly by, leaving the buffalo a long way behind. Thus he won the race, and there was no longer any strife between the hares and the buffaloes. But ever since the buffalo walks slowly and treads lightly upon the ground. CVIII. THE STORY OF THE POINTER AND THE SETTER. It is told that the pointer and the setter kept a public-house together. All the animals would come and eat and drink and pay their account, except the wolf and the hare who would come and eat and drink very heavily, and regularly forget to pay. At last, the pointer and setter could stand it no longer, and they went and lodged their complaint before God. And God said, "As they have treated you so badly, you are free to go for them whenever you see them. You must try and catch them and make them pay." And that is the reason why these dogs will go for the wolf as soon as they scent his track, and also that is the reason why, when they catch a hare, he will squeak, "Miat, miat"--which sounds like mart (Tuesday in Rumanian)--as if he were saying "Wait till next Tuesday when I am going to pay." And they are still waiting for that Tuesday to come. CIX. THE STORY OF THE RAT AND HIS JOURNEY TO GOD. In a mill a rat once lived and prospered. It took after the miller, and from day to day its paunch grew bigger. It became as round as cucumber and as fat as a candle. One day, looking at his round, sleek figure, the rat said to itself, "Behold I am so beautiful and strong. Why should I not go and pay a visit to God? He is sure to receive me." No sooner said than done. Leaving the mill, he started on his journey to God. After travelling a few days and not coming nearer to God, he stopped and said, "Methinks that either God lives much farther away than I believed, or I have lost my way. I will go to the sun and ask where God is." Coming to the sun, the rat asked, "Where is God?" "Off with thee," shouted the sun, "I have no time for idle talkers." The rat went to the clouds and asked them, "Where is God?" The clouds stared at him and said, "We cannot stop to bandy words with the like of you." Away the rat went and came to the wind. "Where is God?" asked the rat. "There," replied the wind, whistling, and getting hold of the rat hurled him down into an ant-heap, and there he found his level. This story is a curious parallel to another series of rat or mouse tales. In these a rat wishes to marry the daughter of the mightiest thing, and asked for the daughter of the sun. But he is not great enough. The sun is covered by the clouds. The clouds are carried by the wind, the wind is stopped by the mountain, the mountain is sapped by the rat, thus he comes back to his own and finds his proper level. So in the Rumanian Tale (Sevastos, Basme, Moldov. p. 236). (Cf. Benfey, Pantschatantra, i. 375 ff.) In an ancient Biblical legend Abraham discusses with Nimrod, Who might be God? The sun cannot be worshipped as God, for the sun sets and is followed by darkness, the moon is eclipsed by the sun, the fire is quenched by water, the clouds of rain are carried by the wind, the wind is stopped by the mountains, and so on. (Cf. Gaster, Chronicles of Jerahmeel, London 1899, chap. xxxiv. p. 72 ff.) The biblical setting of the legend is about two thousand years old. In the Rumanian tale the comparison has disappeared, but the principal elements have been preserved whilst invested with a different rôle. CX. THE STORY OF THE SEVEN-WITTED FOX AND THE ONE-WITTED OWL. One day the owl met a fox, and the latter bragged about his intelligence and cleverness, and said that he was very cunning and slim. The owl asked him, "Brother mine, how many minds (wits) have you?" "Seven," he said, boastingly. "No wonder you are so clever, I have only one," said the owl. A short time afterwards the owl again met the fox, but this time he was running for his life. The hunters were after him, and the hounds were trying to catch him. Running as fast as his legs could carry him, he at last managed to slip into a hole. The owl followed him, and seeing him there, exhausted, asked him, "How many minds (wits) have you?" And he replied, "Six, I have lost one by the chase." Meanwhile the hunters and dogs came nearer and nearer, so they could hear the baying of the dogs. The fox did not know what to do. The owl asked him, "How many minds (wits) have you now, old fellow?" "Oh, I have lost all my minds (wits). I have none left." "Where is your cunning of which you bragged?" "It is not kind of you, now, to go for a poor fellow when the dogs are at his heels and there is no escape for him." "Well," said the owl, "I have but one mind (wit), and I will see whether I cannot save you with my one wit. It is my turn. I am going to lie down here at the entrance as though dead. When the hunters come, they will see me and get hold of me and talk about me. Meanwhile they will forget you, and in the midst of the trouble you just dash out and run for your life." It happened just as the owl had said. No sooner did the hunters come up and find the owl than they said, "What is this ugly bird doing here? and a dead owl to boot"; and whilst they were busy with the owl trying to get hold of it to throw it away, off went the fox through them and escaped. Soon afterwards the owl met him again and she said, "How have your seven minds (wits) helped you when in time of danger? It is like that with people who have too much, they often have nothing when they want it most, but you see I had only one mind (wit), but a strong one and not a dissolute one like yours, and that saved both you and me." CXI. THE STORY OF THE FOX AND HIS BAGFUL OF WITS AND THE ONE-WITTED HEDGEHOG. I do not know how he managed it, but a fox one day got into a poultry-yard and there he ate his fill. Some time afterwards, going along to the poultry-yard, the hedgehog met him. "Where are you going, brother?" "I am going to eat my fill." "Surely you cannot get it just as you like." "Oh," he said, "you just come with me and I will show you. I know my way, and there is plenty for me and for you, and some to leave behind for another time." The hedgehog, who was a wise old fellow, said to the fox: "Now, be careful; are you sure that the owners of the poultry yard will let you in again so easily?" "Don't you trouble," said the fox. "I know my business, you just come with me." And the hedgehog went with him. But the people of the poultry-yard were not such fools as the fox had taken them for, and just where the fox had got in last time they had dug a deep pit, and into that the fox and the hedgehog tumbled. When they found themselves at the bottom of the pit, the hedgehog turned to the fox and said, "Well, you clever fellow, is that the proper way to get into the poultry-yard? Did I not warn you?" "What is the good of talking?" replied the fox, "We are here now, and we must see how to get out of it." "But you are so clever, and I am only a poor old fool." "Never mind, you were always a wise one. Can you help me?" "No," he said, "I cannot help you. This sudden fall has upset me, and I feel queer and sick." "What," cried the fox, "you are not going to be sick here; that is more than I can stand; out you go!" So he got hold of the hedgehog by the snout, and the hedgehog coiled himself up with his little paws into a little ball round the fox's mouth, the fox lifted up his head with a jerk and threw the little fellow out of the pit. As soon as he saw himself safely out of the pit, the little hedgehog, bending over the mouth of the pit, said, chuckling to the fox: "Where is your wisdom, you fool? You boast that you have a bagful of wits, whilst it is I who get myself out of the pit though I have only a little wit." "Oh," said the fox, whining, "do have pity on me! you are such a clever old fellow, help me out of it too." "Well," said the hedgehog, "I will help you. Now, you pretend to be dead, and when the people come and find you stiff and stark, and a nasty smell about you, they will say, 'The fox has died and his carcase is rotting; it is going to make all the poultry yard offensive.' They will take you and throw you out. And then see whither your way lies." The fox did as the hedgehog had advised him, and when the people came and found him in that state, they hauled him out and threw him out of the yard on to the road. Quicker than you could clap your hands, the fox was on his legs, and he ran as if the ground was burning under him. Since then the fox and the hedgehog are good friends. South Slavonic Tales, Krauss, No. 13. A fox meeting a hedgehog asked him, "How many wits have you?" And he replied, "Only three. But how many have you?" "I," boasted the fox, "have seventy-seven." As they were talking and walking along, not noticing whither they were going, they fell into a deep hole which the peasants had dug. The fox asked the hedgehog to save him. The hedgehog said, "I have only three wits, perhaps you will save me first, then I will see about you afterwards"; and he asked the fox to pitch him out of the hole. The fox did so, and then asked the hedgehog whether he could help him. The hedgehog said, "I cannot help you with three if you cannot help yourself with seventy-seven." And so the fox was caught in the morning by the peasants and killed. In the Rumanian version, the hedgehog saves the fox by one wit and puts him to shame, which rounds off the story much better; in the Slavonic tale there is scarcely any point. But this probably goes back to a more ancient legend referred to in a Greek epigram, v. Benfey, Pantschatantra, i. 316. Compare the parallel story in Grimm (No. 75) of a fox with the hundred wits, and also Hahn (91). CXII. THE STORY OF THE PEASANT, THE SNAKE, AND KING SOLOMON. Once upon a time, when King Solomon the wise ruled over the people, some shepherds gathered under a tree and lit a fire, not for any special reason, but just to pass their time, as they often do. When they left, they did not take care to put the fire out; it was left burning under the ashes. Spreading slowly, it caught the great tree, which soon afterwards became a mass of living flames. A snake had crept on to that tree before and found itself now in danger of perishing in the flames. Creeping upwards to the very top of the tree, the snake cried as loud as it could, for she felt her skin scorched by the fire. At that moment a man passed by, and hearing the shrieking of the snake, who begged him to save her from the flames, he took pity on her, and cutting a long stick, he reached with it up to the top of the tree for the snake to glide down on it. But he did not know the mind of the cunning beast, which had aforetime deceived his forefather Adam, for, instead of gliding down to the ground, no sooner did the snake reach the neck of the good man than she coiled herself round and round his neck. In vain did he remind her that he had saved her life, she would not hear of anything, for she said, "My skin is dearer to me than to you, and I remain where I am, you cannot shake me off." Finding that he could not get rid of the snake, the man went from judge to judge, from king to king, to decide between them, but no one could help him. At last, hearing of the wisdom of King Solomon, he came to him and laid his case before him. But King Solomon said, "I am not going to judge between you unless you both first promise to abide by my word." Both did so. Turning to the snake, King Solomon then said, "You must uncoil yourself and get down on the earth, for I cannot judge fairly between one who is standing on the ground and one who is riding." Cunning though the snake may be, she did not understand the wisdom of King Solomon, and therefore uncoiling herself she glided down and rested on the ground. Turning to the man, King Solomon said, "Do you not know that you must never trust a snake?" The man at once understood what the king meant, and taking up a stone he bruised the snake's head. And thus justice was done. Needless to point out, that we have here a variant of the widespread tale of the man and the snake. At one time the judge is King Solomon, who looms largely in the minds of the people as the very type of human wisdom, at another time the judge is a child playing at justice, who induces the snake to loosen her hold on the man and is then killed by the man, who finds himself suddenly freed. In other parallels animals are appointed as judges and this leads to the undoing of the snake. (v. Benfey, Pantschatantra, i. p. 113 ff.); Hahn (87), and the literature given by him; Afanasief (No. 15). CXIII. THE STORY OF THE DOG AND THE SNAKE AND THE CURE OF HEADACHE. Once upon a time, I do not know how it came about, the dog had a frightful headache, such a headache as he had never had before. It nearly drove him mad, and he ran furiously hither and thither, not knowing what to do to get rid of it. As he was running wildly over a field, he met a snake that was lying there coiled up in the sun. "What is the matter that you are running about like a madman, brother?" asked the snake. "Sister, I cannot stop to speak to you. I am clean mad with a splitting headache, and I do not know how to be rid of it." "I know a remedy," said the snake, "it is excellent for the headache of a dog, but it is of no good to me who am also suffering greatly from a headache." "Never mind you, what am I to do?" "You go yonder and eat some of the grass, and you will be cured of the headache." The dog did as the snake had advised him. He went and ate the grass, and soon felt relieved of his pain. Now, do you think the dog was grateful? No such luck for the snake. On the contrary, a dog is a dog, and a dog he remains. And why should he be better than many people are? He did as they do, and returned evil for good. Going to the snake, he said, "Now that my headache is gone, I feel much easier; I remember an excellent remedy for the headache of snakes." "And what might it be?" asked the snake eagerly. "It is quite simple. When you feel your head aching, go and stretch full length across the high-road and lie still for a while, and the pain is sure to leave you." "Thank you," said the simpleton of a snake, and she did as the dog had advised her. She stretched herself full length across the high-road and lay still, waiting for the headache to go. The snake had been lying there for some time, when it so happened that a man came along with a stout cudgel in his hands. To see the snake and to bruise her head was the work of an instant. And the snake had no longer any headache. The cure proved complete. And ever since that time, when a snake has a headache it goes and stretches across the high-road. If its head is crushed, then no other remedy is wanted, but if the snake escapes unhurt, it loses its headache. CXIV. THE STORY OF THE HORSE, THE LION, AND THE WOLF. There once lived a Sultan who had a charger. It had served him most faithfully for a good number of years, carrying him in many battles and on numerous other occasions. At last the horse grew old and was no longer fit to serve him as before. The Sultan, remembering its faithful services, decided to free it from every manner of work, and in token of recognition of its faithfulness he set it free to roam about and to feed wherever it liked. In order that it should not be molested, he ordered that a special coating should be made for it of red cloth adorned with many coloured stripes and patches. He also had it shod with steel shoes, which last for a very long time. So, covered with the king's cloth, the horse went about from field to field eating whatever and whenever it pleased. Being now at ease, the horse got fat again and strong, and when it walked on the road, it struck with its feet against the stones and pebbles, and made the sparks fly from them. In a forest near by there lived a lion. One day, coming out to the edge of the wood, he saw the horse in the distance, and as he had never yet seen such a peculiar animal, he got frightened and started running back into the thickest part of the forest. There he met a wolf, who, seeing the lion run, asked him why he was running. "If your life is dear to you," he replied, "do not stop here talking, for that terrible beast which I have seen yonder in the field is sure to overtake us, and then good-bye to us." "What beast?" asked the wolf. "I know no beast that could frighten a lion." "Well, then, thank God that you have never come across it." "How does it look?" "It is a huge beast with a head so big as I have never seen a head before, and a mouth so large that it could devour us in one bite. As to its skin, I have never yet seen any like it, all red with stripes and patches of every colour. It stands on huge feet, and whenever it walks it scatters fire right and left." "That may all be as you describe it," said the wolf, "but still it might also be otherwise. I should like to see it myself, and I might perhaps know what it is." "Very well then, let us go higher up the hill, where we can look down on the field." "I would rather see it from here, if possible, near at hand." "As you please. I will squat down on my hind-legs and lift you up with my fore-legs, so that you can see some distance from here." The lion did as he said, and taking the wolf in his fore-paws he lifted him up. But whilst doing so he pressed the wolf so hard that he nearly lost his breath, and his eyes began starting out of his head. When the lion saw it, he said, "You cur, you talk bravely and laugh at me who have been close to that terrible beast, and you, who are so far away and scarcely able to get a glimpse of it, you are already losing your breath, and your eyes are starting out of your head." With these words he threw the wolf down, and away he ran as fast as his legs would carry him. This story reminds us of the framework of the famous Indian Panchatantra, which had so successful a run through the literature of East and West, becoming one of the most popular books of the Middle Ages, better known as the story of Kalila and Dimna, or even falsely, Syntipas. In Krauss (No. 2) the animal which frightens the lion, or rather imposes on his credulity, is an ass. The ass makes the lion believe that he, the ass, was the real king of beasts. The wolf, to whom the lion says that he was not the real king but that another animal claimed the right to rule, listens incredulously. The lion ties their two tails together and takes the wolf to the summit of a hill, from which they can see the ass. The lion, misunderstanding the exclamation of the wolf and thinking that he said "there are six," runs away as fast as he can, dragging the wolf behind him and killing him in his mad flight. It is obviously the same tale but slightly varied in the details. In the Rumanian the lion never gets so near the other animal as to be undeceived by his own sight. He merely sees from a distance an animal the like of which he had never seen before, and he works himself up into a great fright. This seems to be the more primitive form. In the South Slavonic, the lion is simply deceived by an animal with which he ought to be familiar enough. A curious and corrupted version is found in Grimm (No. 132), where only the tying of the tails has been retained. In this version the horse is tied to the lion, and he drags the lion to his master's house. Similar is the story of the dib-dib (the name used by the woman for the dropping rain), whom the leopard, who listens at the door, takes to be a great monster. A man jumps on the back of the frightened leopard, thinking it was an ass. The leopard carries him to the dib-dib, and he runs away. He meets a fox, who laughs at his fear, and they tie their tails together. The man, who had sought safety in the branches of the trees, says that the fox had brought the leopard to be killed. The leopard, who had distrusted the fox, runs away with him, and as their tails are knotted together, both get killed. (Hanauer, p. 278.) (Cf. also Afanasief, No. 19.) CXV. THE MARRIAGE OF TOM AND THE VIXEN. Once upon a time there lived a very poor man who had a wife and family, and there was also a tomcat prowling about the house. One day a neighbour took pity on them and gave the man a handful of flour of maize. Overjoyed he went home, and mixing it with water made a nice dish. Pouring it out on to the plates, he and his wife and the children sat round eating as much as they could. Tom, smelling the dish, began to mew, and the father, taking pity on Tom, said to the children: "Poor Tom is starving too, give him some of the mameliga" (maize pudding). But they said, "He must have it in a better style. We will gird him with a sword round his loins, and he will draw it and cut for himself as big a slice as he likes." And so they did. But when Tom saw himself girded with a sword, which clanked as he moved about, he said, "I am much too good for this family," and off he went into the world. On his way he met a vixen, and she asked him: "Where are you going, Sir Knight?" He said, "I am going to get married." "Will you marry me?" Tom replied, "Yes, you are just as good as any other bride." So they went together to the vixen's lair, and a happy life began for our friend. For the vixen went catching birds, rabbits, and other animals, and bringing them home to feed her husband. One day the vixen met the wolf. "Hallo, sister," he cried, "have you got a meal ready?" "I have and I have not. I am married now, and I have a soldier for a husband." "I should like to see him," said the wolf; "show him to me." "Come, I will show him to you," said the vixen, and going to her lair called Tom, who came out and met the wolf. Tom came out with his sword clanking behind him, and when he saw that huge beast with his huge head, his hair stood on end and he began to spit and to snarl for very fear. The wolf, thinking that Tom was getting angry and ready to draw his sword and cut him up, turned tail and ran away. Running very fast he met the bear, who asked him: "What is the matter with you that you run so fast? Who is running after you?" The wolf told him all that had happened, and how the vixen had got a mighty soldier for a husband, who killed anybody who came near him. The bear began to get curious and ran to the vixen's lair, and the same thing happened to him, for Tom came out with his hair standing on end, and growled, and snarled, and spat, shaking all the time with fear. The bear ran away as fast as he could and came to the wolf, and they discussed between themselves how best to get rid of that terrible Tom, as their lives were no longer safe. So they called the hare and the lion into counsel. These decided to invite the vixen and her Tom to a banquet at which they would all fall upon him and end his career. So they spread a table-cloth under a huge tree, but none had the courage to go and call the guests. The bear said, "Send the wolf," but he replied he was too weak and they would catch him. The bear said he was rather stout and heavy and they would catch him. So the trouble fell upon the hare. He, poor fellow, could not help himself, so he went with the message to invite them. But he did not venture too near. From a distance he called out to them that they were invited to a banquet, and off he went after he had delivered the message. When the vixen heard the message she told Tom, and together they went to the banquet. On the way Tom saw a crow on the top of a tree, and, as is the way with cats, before one could turn round Tom had climbed to the top of the tree and had caught the crow. He then killed it, and threw it down on the ground. The hosts, who were sitting at the table, saw what had happened, and said to one another, "Just see what that knight is doing. Even the people on the very top of the tree are not safe from him. He catches them and kills them. How then can we fight him on the earth?" So the lion crawled under the table, the bear climbed up the tree, and the wolf and the hare hid themselves in a bush. When the vixen and Tom came to the place, no one was there, and they wondered where their hosts could be. Whilst they were looking round, Tom saw the tip of the lion's tail, and, thinking it to be a rat, he attacked it. When the lion felt someone tugging at his tail he did not wait any longer, but ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. When Tom saw that huge lion he got frightened and ran up the tree. Now the bear saw Tom running up the tree, and he got frightened and tumbled head over heels down the tree on to the table with Tom after him, who, being frightened, ran into the bush. There the wolf and the hare were crouching, hidden away. No sooner did they see Tom than off they dashed in a fright. Tom ran back to the vixen, who was sitting at the table thinking with great satisfaction how they had all run away out of fear of Tom. She embraced him, and they sat down alone to the banquet and enjoyed themselves, no one disturbing them. In Krauss, No. 3, there is a story parallel yet not identical with it. In the South Slavonic, a cat, together with a dog, a duck and a gander, defeats the wolf, fox, bear and wild pig arrayed against them in battle. Tom contributes most to the victory by sudden attacks on the ear of the hidden pig, and frightening the bear in the tree by climbing up in fear, etc. In other respects the stories disagree. The setting is entirely different. The wolf challenged to combat the dog, who had betrayed him on two occasions, and each one brought his contingent to the appointed place of battle. The dog brought his friends of the courtyard, and the wolf his of the forest, and the battle ended in the discomfiture of the latter as mentioned above. Another version is found in Haltrich (No. 82), in which a cat feeds on the carcase of a horse. It is seen successively by the fox, the wolf, the bear and the wild pig, who get frightened by the sight of a small, wild beast, which had killed an animal many times their size and was eating it. The cat runs after them by mere chance, and manages to bite the pig's ear and frighten the others to such an extent that they are still running, all except the wolf, who has fallen on a pointed stick and got impaled. Among the Cossack Tales (W. Bain, London 1894, p. 130 ff.) there is a story similar, not quite identical. CXVI. THE STORY OF MAN AND HIS YEARS. When God had created the world, he called all his creatures together to grant them their span of life, and to tell them how long they would live and what manner of life they would lead. The first to appear before God was man. And God said to him, "Thou, man, shalt be king of the world, walking erect upon thy feet and looking up to heaven. I give thee a noble countenance; the power of thought and judgment shall be thine, and the capacity of disclosing thy innermost thoughts by means of speech. All that lives and moves and goes about the earth shall be under thy rule, the winged birds and the creeping things shall obey thee, thine shall be all the fruits of the tree and land, and thy life shall be thirty years." Then man turned away dissatisfied and grumbling. "What is the good of living in pleasure and in might, if all the years of my life are to be thirty only?" So did man speak and grumble, especially when he heard of the years granted to other animals. The turn came to the ass. He stepped forward to hear what God had decreed for him. The Creator said, "Thou shalt work hard; thou shalt carry heavy burdens and be constantly beaten. Thou shalt always be scolded and have very little rest, thy food shall be a poor one of thistles and thorns, and thy life shall be fifty years." When the ass heard what God had decreed for him he fell upon his knees and cried, "All merciful Creator, am I indeed to lead such a miserable life, and am I to have such poor food as thistles and thorns. Am I to work so hard and carry such heavy burdens and then live on for fifty years in such misery? Have pity on me and take off twenty years." Then man, greedy of long life, stepped forward and begged for himself these twenty years which the ass had rejected. And the Lord granted them to him. Then came the dog. To him the Creator said, "Thou shalt guard the house and the property of thy master; thou shalt cling to them as if thou wast afraid of losing them; thou shalt bark even at the shadow of the moon, and for all thy trouble thou shalt gnaw bones and eat raw meat, and thy life shall be forty years." "All merciful Creator," cried the dog, "if my life is to be of worry and trouble, and if I am to live on bones and raw stuff, take off, I pray thee, twenty years." Again man, greedy of life, stepped forward and begged the Creator to give him the twenty years rejected by the dog. And the Creator again granted his request. Now, it was the turn of the monkey. The Creator said, "Thou shalt only have the likeness of man, but not be man; thou shalt be stupid and childish. Thy back shall be bent; thou shalt be an object of mockery to the children and a laughing-stock of fools, and thy life shall be sixty years." When the monkey heard what was decreed for him, he fell upon his knees and said, "All merciful God, in thy wisdom thou hast decided that I should be a man and not a man, that my back shall be bent, that I shall be a laughing-stock for young and fools and I shall be stupid. Take, in mercy, thirty years off my life." And God, the all merciful, granted his request. And again, man, whose greed can never be satisfied, stepped forward and asked also for these thirty years which the monkey had rejected. And again God gave them to him. Then God dismissed all the animals and all his creatures, and each one went to his appointed station and to the life that has been granted to him. And as man has asked, so has it come to pass. Man lives as a king and ruler over all creatures for the thirty years which the Lord had given to him, in joy and in happiness, without care and without trouble. Then come the years from thirty to fifty, which are the years of the ass; they are full of hard work, heavy burdens, and little food, for man is anxious to gather and to lay up something for the years to come. It could not be otherwise, for were not these the years which he had taken over from the ass? Then come the years from fifty to seventy, when man sits at home and guards with great trembling and fear the little that he possesses, fearful of every shadow, eating little, always keeping others away lest they rob him of that which he has gathered, and barking at every one whom he suspects of wanting to take away what belongs to him. And no wonder that he behaves like that, for these are the dog's years, which man had asked for himself. And if a man lives beyond seventy, then his back gets bent, his face changes, his mind gets clouded, he becomes childish, a laughing-stock for children, an amusement for the fool, and these are the years which man had taken over from the monkey. Thus far the story which I found in some old Rumanian MSS., and which may, therefore, not be quite of a popular origin. I have retold it here because we have in it the animal in the man. It may be a caricature, but it does not show up man to advantage in comparison with the animal world. And yet, he is endeavouring to conquer the animal, to shake off the fateful inheritance of greed, and to return to that rule and kingdom which are his own by the grace of God to his thirtieth year, and which he endeavours to carry even beyond that limited span of time. CXVII. THE JUDGMENT OF THE SOUL OF MAN, ACCUSED AND DEFENDED BY BEAST AND BIRDS. When a man dies two angels appear, the good one and the evil one. The good one walking on his right, and the evil on his left, each one holds a book in his hand in which man's deeds are written. When the soul appears before the divine judge, there comes first the cat accusing the man, and the cat says, "He gave me no peace all my life through; he put me to catch mice and I often remained hungry. Then man drives me out of the house, and during daytime he never lets me in." "What are you talking of? you should be ashamed of yourself," is the rejoinder of the dog, "you live in a warm house, you have food in plenty, you have nothing to complain of. What am I to say, who am kept out in the cold and rain, and have to watch day and night, and if ever I get a bone thrown at me I think myself happy." The judge replies: "That is your work; to that you have been appointed: off with you." The evil angel writes it all down and puts the weight of guilt on the one scale, and the good angel writes it in his book and he puts a counter-weight in the other scale. Then come the birds. First the wild duck. He says, "O unfailing judge, see how this man has ill-treated us, he comes to our resting-place and shoots us down mercilessly." "It serves you right," is the reply of the judge, "if you live as a wild bird, you must be treated like a wild bird. You ought to be domesticated and no hurt will befall you." Then the sparrow comes, and he says, "O mighty Lord, this man here snared us and killed us." And the judge replies, "You have stolen his corn and destroyed his crop." And other birds, like the finch and the thrush and the heron, come, and all bring accusations against the man, and the evil angel enters them in his book. Then come the good witnesses. First the swallow, and she says, "O Lord, this man has been kind to us. We built our nest in his house and under his roof, and he never as much as molested us, and even when my young spoil the food, which he is preparing under their nest, he never hurts them." Then the stork comes, he says, "I build my nest on the very roof of his house, and on his storehouses, and he never interferes with us, and we hatch our young and feel no hurt. All merciful father, have mercy on him, as he was full of pity for us." Then the cuckoo comes, and he said, "I who have been thy servant pray thee to forgive his sins, for even to me he does no hurt, and though I often announce death to him, he none the less listens with pleasure to my call. Have mercy on him and forgive his sins." And so the other birds come and ask the forgiveness of sin. And the good angel writes it all down in his book and puts it as counter-weights in his balance, and often the pleading of the birds opens the gates of heaven to the human soul. CXVIII. THE PILGRIMAGE OF THE SOUL AFTER DEATH. O rosebush, O rosebush, Thou art evil tempered! Why hast thou tarried And not budded Since yester-morning Until this morning? It was bitter enough to watch, How they became separated, The soul from the body. Going away from the beautiful world, From the world with the sun shining, From the blowing wind, From the flowing waters. O rosebush, why hast thou hastened not to bud? I have budded quickly, For my time also has come, To go away like thee, To travel to the setting of the sun, Where the sun is hiding, Where the flowers dwell With all their sisters, And where the flower of the sun Sits at the gate of Paradise To judge the flowers, Where they have left their scent. In the evening the rain did fall. In the night the sky cleared up. In the dawn the dew has fallen, And the scent has gone astray. The soul divided from the body, Full of grief and sorrow, Journeys far away. It reaches the sea. The sea is raging furiously. It comes howling and foaming, Frightening the whole world. The wave rose up high, To swallow the world. It brings in its sweep blackberry trees, elder-trees, Pines torn from the roots. On the border of the sea, Where the pine tree of the fairies stands, The way across the waters, The soul stood praying to the pine. O pine, Be a brother unto me. Stretch, oh stretch Thy boughs, That I may lay hold of them, And thus pass across That wide sea Which divides me from the world. I may not stretch my boughs For thee to lay hold of them, And to pass across by them, For on my crest a red hawk has hatched its young, With a cursed heart And a proud eye. Ere thou art aware, The young will see thee. They will whistle, And frighten thee, And thou art sure to drop into the sea beneath, And be engulfed there. Let it be so! The sea was raging furiously. It came howling and storming, Frightening the whole world. The wave rose, To swallow the world, And brought in its sweep, Blackberry trees, Elder trees, Pines torn from their roots. On the shore of the seas, Where the pine tree of the fairies stands, The passage across the water, The soul stood praying to the pine: O pine tree, Be a brother unto me. Stretch, I pray thee, Thy trunk, That I may pass across the seas Which separate one world from the other. I may not stretch my trunk For thee to pass, For in it the barking otter has laid her young, Which lie in wait for men. Before thou art ware, The young ones will find thee. They will bark at thee, And frighten thee, And thou art sure to drop into the sea beneath, And be engulfed by it. Let it be so! The sea was raging furiously. It came howling and foaming, Frightening the whole world. The waves rose high up to swallow the world. It brought in its sweep, Blackberry trees, Elder trees, Pine trees torn from the roots. On the shore of the sea, Where the pine tree of the fairies stands, The passage across the waters, The soul stood praying. O pine tree, Be a brother unto me. Stretch thy roots, That I may lay hold of them, And pass across the seas To the other part, From which the sea separates me. I may not stretch my roots For thee to lay hold of them, To pass across, For in it the yellow dragon has hatched its young, And they are starving. Ere thou art aware, They will discover thee, And they will hiss. Thou wilt be frightened, And art sure to drop into the sea, Which will engulf thee. Let it be so. And now, pine tree, Pine tree, Long enough have I prayed of thee, But I have a brother, A fine shepherd. He has a small axe, And he has two cousins, Two strong boys. They will come and cut thee down, And throw thee down. The carpenters will come, And cut thee to measure, And they will make out of thee A bridge over the sea, To give peace to all, For the souls to have a passage, The tried souls, That journey on the way to Paradise. The pine tree considered, It stretched out its boughs, And the soul passed across the nameless sea, To go where its desire carried it, To the other world. Pass on, O soul; Pass on unharmed, Until thou hast gained in mercy The seven heavy toll-houses. Then go on straight, O dear soul, Until thou reachest a place Where the road divides. Stop there and consider Which road to take, Until thou seest A tall acacia tree, Bent and with broad leaves. Take good care Not to turn to the left, For it is the narrow way-- Narrow and a blind alley, Watered with tears. And there are also fields badly ploughed, And covered with briars and thistle. There dwells the old fay, Who takes thy passport out of thy hand. But turn to the right. Thy own desire leads thee, For there thou shalt find Delightful fields, With choice flowers, Fields well tilled, sown with flowers. Thou wilt pick flowers, And the longing for this world will vanish. Take further good care, For thou shalt find In two beds, Only one flower in each, Flower close upon the ground Not touched by the wind; Flower in the shade Never seen by the sun. Pick them, For these are the flowers of Paradise. Journey on, Until thou reachest that apple tree Which belongs to St. Peter. It is a high and mighty tree, And somewhat bent On its side. The top reaches the heavens. The sides go down to the seas. The top is full of bloom, And the boughs are full of fruit; And down at the roots trickles a gentle fountain. There sits St. Mary. May her mercy be with us! Whoever passes by She takes pity on them, And gives them all to drink, And guides them into the right path. The soul drinks of the water, And forgets this world. Go on thy journey Until thou reachest the noble willow tree Covered with bloom. But it is not a noble willow covered with bloom. It is St. Mary In a beautiful garment, A garment of silk. She sits at a table, Adorned with flowers. There she sits and writes-- She the holy Mary-- The dead and the living. And she writes down the fate of each of them. Pray to her To take the page of the living. Perchance she will have compassion on thee, And will write thee among the living. But she will not have pity on thee, And will not write thee among the living, For her sheet is full up, And she has lost her pen. Pray her, however, very much That she take thee with her into the Paradise, If thou hast not prayed, When the call has reached thee In thine own village. Go then further Upon beaten tracks, until thou comest To the very gate of Paradise, Where there stands the flower of the sun. There stop. There take shelter, And wait patiently The hour of quickening, For it is sure to come, And thou wilt return, When the stags will draw the plough, And the hinds will scatter the seeds. O earth, From this day on Be thou my father. Do not hurry To eat me up, For I am giving thee now, Without ever taking them back, My shoulders in thy arms, And my face under thy green sward. The conception which is here revealed is totally unlike popular apocryphal Christian tales like the Visions of St. Peter, Paul, and the Lady Mary, all well known in Rumanian literature. Nor are there traces of the other set of ideas, originating probably in Egypt, according to which the soul has to pass through many toll-houses where angels and devils are waiting for it, and through which it can only pass with extreme difficulty, if and when the good deeds outweigh the evil deeds. The poem of the "Pilgrimage of the Soul" has almost an heathen aspect. Noteworthy are the huge trees, at the shore of the boundless sea, which must bend across it so as to form a bridge for the soul to pass, and the three animals living in it which threaten the soul with destruction. It reminds one strongly of the Northern Ygdrasil, and almost the same beasts which inhabit it. This is not the place to discuss at any length this tree upon which the world rests, which no doubt goes back to, or is somehow connected with, the tree of life in Paradise and the legends which have clustered round that tree. This conception of the "Pilgrimage of the Soul," with its allegorical and mystical meaning, is certainly not a product of the Orthodox Church. It reminds one forcibly of the fantastical and poetical conceptions of the heterodox sects. CXIX. THE REWARD OF THE GOOD MAN. A Christmas Carol of the Lord's Justice. Lord, O Lord, In this house, In this yard, This place, Two tall apple trees have grown, Two trees tall and wonderful, Their tops intertwined. High above, In their very tops, Two candles are burning, And from these two candles Three drops are falling, And from these three drops Three rivers have grown-- One of wine, One of balsam, And one of pure water. Who bathes in the river of wine? God himself, the good God, Bathes himself, Washes, Cleanses himself in pure limpid water, Changes his clothes, And anoints himself with balsam. Further down the river John-- St. John-- And old Christmas [6] bathe and wash, And in limpid water cleanse themselves, Change their raiment, Anoint themselves with balsam. And further down, along the river, Other saints bathe and wash, And rinse themselves in pure limpid water, And put on white clothes. Still much further down, This good man bathes, Washes, Rinses himself, In clean water, And puts on clean garments. The good God said: "To whom, O man, doest thou liken thyself? To me? To the saints? To St. John? Or to old Christmas?" "No, O Lord. I do not liken myself Neither to Thee, Nor to the Saints, Nor to St. John, Nor to old Christmas, But to the good deeds which I have performed. I married as a young man, I have built a house On the highroad, I have kept a decked table On the high road. Whosoever passed Sat down at my table. All ate and drank at my table, And all thanked me. I have further built Bridges in dangerous paths. Whosoever passed Thanked me. I have further digged wells In dry lands. Whosoever drank of the water Blessed me." The good God then replied: "May thou therefore be blessed. Thou hast done good deeds In that world. Blessing shalt thou find in this. Enter Paradise without trial. Sit at table not invited, And drink the cup unasked." We wish health to this house, To these beautiful courts, To all of us a happy life For many years. APPENDIX I. RUMANIAN INCANTATIONS AGAINST THE ILLNESSES OF ANIMALS. I am adding here a number of incantations or charms, which are used by the Rumanians to ward off evil from animals and to save from hurt and disease such victims of witchcraft. In the mind of the people, the old conception is still strong that every sickness is caused by some malignant spirit, and that the most potent remedy is the magical word of incantation or conjuration. And what holds good for the cure of the Evil Eye holds good similarly in the case of a snake bite or any other apparently incurable disease. The Rumanians resort to magical performances of a peculiarly symbolical and sympathetic nature. Those practices are accompanied by "incantations" or rather "disenchantments," i.e. chants used for the purpose of destroying the spell. This is not the place to discuss at any length the history and origin of these charms and the mechanism of their composition. I have dealt with them largely in my history of Rumanian Folk-Lore (Lit. pop. Româna, 1883, p. 406 ff.). I have shown there the similarity between some of these "incantations" or "conjurations" with some Byzantine and mediæval Latin charms, and not a few ancient oriental incantations of Babylon and Palestine. In connection with the foregoing Tales and Legends, it is of no small importance now to find that similar conjurations are used for the protection of animals. The same procedure is followed as in the case of human beings, and practically the same words and images are used to free the cattle from sickness. In one or two instances (Nos. 2, 3) the cow is being bewitched and loses her milk, or the calf does not suck. The "virtue" (Rum. mana), the "abundance" or "blessing," is being taken by some witch, or is waning on account of the Evil Eye. Even in these cases the formula is almost identical with that used in a stereotyped form in human "incantations." Each of these given here could be made the starting-point of discursive explanations. But this must be reserved for a special study of the Rumanian charms and incantations. For our purpose here the translation accompanied only by a few explanatory foot-notes, is quite sufficient. It proves that to the Rumanian peasant, there is no essential difference between man and beast. They are both treated alike, and even the Lady Mary knows no difference between them. She helps the beast in the same manner as she descends the "silver ladder" to help the man. And the evil spirits, who attack man and beast with the same virulence, are driven out by precisely the same method: charms and incantations. I. AGAINST THE ILLNESS OF POULTRY. "Good one" (Dobritza) went with the broom to sweep the poultry yards, the hens, and the geese runs, with the geese, The turkey yard, with the turkeys, The gardens and the orchards, The hills with the vineyards, The mountains with the forests. Then, Good One! do not go to sweep the gardens and the orchards, the hills and vineyards, The mountains with the forests, The run with the poultry, but come and sweep away the sickness of the hens, The ducks, and the geese of Mr. N. N. Sweep away the sickness with thy broom, And I with my mouth will say the charm (disenchantment). With my hand I will seize it, And beyond the Black Sea I will throw it, That it may perish, truly perish, there, As the foam of the sea, As the dew before the sun, And the birds of Mr. N. N. shall become pure, sweet, clean and shining, As made by God. This charm is said whilst stirring the "virgin water" with a broom. II. CHARM FOR A COW AGAINST THE EVIL EYE. The Monday cow has gone on her way, on her pathway, On to untrodden grass, With the virtue (Mana) not taken away, And with the dew not yet shaken off, To the field with butter, To the well with cream. She was met by nine evil-eyed ones, Nine witches, And nine takers-away of blessing (abundance mana). The cow lowed and roared; She turned back. The Holy Mother heard her. She came to her with dew under her feet and with "abundance" on her back. She took hold of her by the right horn, And led her to green reeds, And sprinkled her with (the branches) of the willow tree and basil. The cream thickened, The eyes sparkled, The hair became smooth, And the milk started running. It spurted like a vein, It issued forth like a well, and ran like a river. III. CHARM FOR A SUCKLING CALF. I rose up early in the morning. I took the sickle (scythe) In my hand. I went up to the hill of love. I went down into the valley of affection. I cut nine handfuls of flowers, I cut (gathered) love from nine jolly widows, From nine beautiful girls, From nine kings and nine rulers. With the same zest as kings hasten to their kingdom, Rulers to their rule, Ministers to their ministration, Knights to their knighthood, And merchants to their business, So shall the "Thursday [7] one" Hasten to the calf, And the calf to her. As the tongue is fast in the mouth, So shall "Thursday one" stick to her calf, And the calf on to her. I burnt it (the spell) with fire, I singed it with the flame, I enveloped it with love, With affection I kindled it. As the honey is sweet, So shall the calf long for "Thursday one." IV. CHARM FOR A COW AGAINST SNAKE-BITE. N. N. rose up, Got up very early, And met the accursed on the way, And he poisoned him as one bitten by the poisoned fly. The Lady Mother heard it from heaven. She took the staff in her hand, And came down upon a silver ladder. Do not cry, and do not low, O "Thursday one." Come with me to that old woman, that she may say the charm (disenchantment) for thee, With water from the well, With three stalks of elder-tree, With twigs of hazelnut tree, With a knife that has been found and with silver coins. These charms were told in the year 1913 by a woman who was believed to be in her 109th year. V. CHARM AGAINST EVIL EYE. Fly away, evil eye, from the White one. Do not wonder at her. Do not stare at her admiringly Of the milk that is milked, Of the calf that is sucking Her sweet body, That it is sweet to me as honey and yellow as wax; but wonder at, And stare admiringly At that green bush, That it is as green as the ivy, And white as the lily. Fly away, yawn, Fly away, shout, Of the great evil eye. VI. CHARM AGAINST EVIL EYE. The mistress has gone on her way with Joyana (Thursday one) To feed her on the green field. Well she did feed her, Well did she satisfy her, Well did she slake her thirst. She turned her back. In the middle of the way She met an old woman Dressed in a shirt of nettles, With sandals of a black sow on her feet. She broke Joyana's horns, Her eyes she caused to shed tears, Her hair she ruffled (bristled), The tail she cut off, The breasts she squeezed (flattened), The udders she emptied. The cow lowed and the cow moaned. No one saw her; No one heard her; But the Holy Mother saw her. Only she heard. She said to her: "Thursday one, do not low, do not moan." "How am I not to low? How am I not to moan? As I went with my mistress to feed in pastures green, She fed me well. She slaked my thirst well. Back she did turn me. When in the middle of the way, An old woman met me, Dressed in a shirt of nettles, With sandals of a black sow on her feet. She lopped my horns, She caused my eyes to run over, My hair she made to bristle, My tail she has cut off, She has flattened my breasts, She has emptied my udders." "(Joyana) 'Thursday one,' do not low, do not moan. Go to N. N. He will disenchant thee with the nettle in flour, From the little horns To the little tail, From the little tail to the little horns. The horns will become sharp again. The hair will be smooth, The breasts will be strong, The udder will be full again. Go to thy mistress, And she will milk thee from the pail into the can, From the can into the pail." This disenchantment is made with nettles in flour. VII. CHARM AGAINST WORMS IN BEASTS. Take three stalks of madwort. Go to the beast that has worms, touching the wound with the madwort, say: May there be as many maggots in the wound as there are (popi) priests in Paradise. As many and not even as many. Say it three times, and the worms will fall off. The implication is obvious. VIII. AGAINST WORMS. On a day of Lent, before sunrise, take the beast, which has worms outside the village to a place where reeds are growing. Get nine bushes of reeds, each with three reeds (stalks) in one root. Stop still at each bush, cut the middle reed, shake it three times over the wound, and say: "Ye three reeds are three brothers, And ye all three are to join together, And drive away the worms from Joyana; For, if not, I come to-morrow at the same time, To cut you off from the root, To take away your peace, And dust and ashes shall you become." Then spit aside. Repeat this with each of the reed-bushes. At mid-day, when the sun stands in "the balance" (noontide), repeat the whole incantation, and yet a third time shortly before sunset. The cut reeds must be tied together by their roots, and you will see the worms dropping off when you finish the charm. This cure can also be effected when the beast is not present. In this case, go alone, and remember the animal whilst making the operation. It will be found quite effective. IX. CHARM AGAINST SNAKE-BITE. Above it is thundering, Lightning, Speckling, clinging to the skin, Skin to bone, Bone to flesh. The flesh has been bitten, Bitten by a snake. God, send the cure. Holy Mother, overshadow him. This charm is made with "virgin water," using a hazelnut twig, especially if a snake has been killed with it. The bite is washed with the water, and a mouthful is taken three times. X. CHARM IF BITTEN BY A WEASEL. Weasel, beautiful girl, There are nine boils. Nine boils have gone down; Eight boils have grown, Eight boils have gone down; Seven boils have grown, Seven boils have gone down; And so on until one boil has grown, And one has gone down. And the cow N. N. shall now remain clean and sweet (strong), as she was made by God. This charm is said three times over a pail with "virgin water"; a cross is made over with the skin of a weasel, or with the twig of hazel-nut, or with a found knife. The cow is washed with the water, and the rest is poured into running water. The charm must be repeated three times daily, and for three consecutive days, if the bite is a bad one and the swelling does not go down. APPENDIX II. THREE STORIES FROM ARKIR, THE RUMANIAN VERSION OF THE STORY OF AHIKAR. I. And Anadan said: "Forgive me, my father, and let me be the meanest of swineherds, only let me live." But Arkirie said: "No, my son, thou hast acted towards me in the same manner as the wolf acted when he went to the teacher to be taught; for whilst the teacher said A B C D, the wolf said: 'For the lambs' and 'for the sheep' and 'for the goats' and 'for the kids'; in the same manner hast thou acted towards me, my son." II. And he began to beat him. And Anadan said: "Have mercy on me, and I will be a shepherd." And Arkirie said: "Thou hast acted towards me as the wolf who followed the sheep and met the shepherd, who said to him: 'Thank thee.' And he asked him: 'Whither art thou going so fast?' And the wolf said: 'I follow the track of the sheep, for an old woman told me that the dust of the sheep was wholesome for the eyes.' In the same manner hast thou acted against me." III. And he began again to beat him, but Anadan said: "Have pity on me, and I will groom thy horses." But Arkirie said: "No, my son, thou hast acted towards me like a man who, leading an ass on the road, tied it with a loose rope. The ass broke the rope and ran away. On his way he met the wolf, and the wolf said unto him: 'Happy journey unto thee, ass!' And the ass replied: 'Unhappy it will be, for the man tied me up with a rotten rope, so that I broke it and ran away, and he did not tie me with a good rope.'" And Arkirie continued to beat him until he died (M. Gaster, Jrnl. Royal Asiatic Society, 1900, p. 309). A larger number of animal fables are found in the other versions of Ahikar, thus in the Armenian (Story of Ahikar, edited by Rendel Harris Conybeare, etc., second edition, Cambridge, 1913, p. 51), and in the Slavonic (ibid. pp. 21 and 22). APPENDIX III. ANIMAL STORIES FROM THE HEBREW ALPHABET OF BEN SIRA. This seems to be the oldest collection of animal tales which agree most closely with some of the Rumanian. They are of a purely oriental origin, and are therefore invaluable in helping to determine that of the latter. They are taken from the Venice edition, 1544, reprinted page by page by Steinschneider, Berlin 1858 (f. 24a ff.). I. WHY WERE FLIES CREATED WHICH LIVE ONLY ONE DAY? Q. Why were the flies created which live only one day? Reply. For the sake of the fly which in the future will torture Titus the wicked, and also for the sake of the fledglings of the raven. When they are hatched they are white and the parents fly away and leave them. Then they cry to God, as it is written, "The young of the raven which cry unto Him and He brings to them these flies and they are fed thereby." After three days they become dark; then the parents return to them. Thus the Lord, blessed be He, prepares the cure before the illness (f. 24a). II. WHY DID GOD CREATE WASPS AND SPIDERS WHICH ARE OF NO USE? Q. Why did God create wasps and spiders which are of no use? R. Once upon a time David was sitting in his garden and he saw a wasp eating a spider, and there came a fool with a stick in his hand, and he drove them away. Then David said, "O Lord of the Universe, what benefit is there in these creatures? The wasp eats up the honey and is destructive; the spider weaves the whole year and there is nothing with which to clothe oneself; the fool only hurts people, and he does not know thy unity and thy greatness, the world has no benefit from him." The Lord replied and said, "David, thou dost scoff at these creatures now, but a time is sure to come when they will be of use to thee, and then thou wilt recognise the reason of their creation." It happened thereafter, when he hid in the cave, being pursued by Saul, a spider came and made his web across the mouth of the cavern. Saul coming up, saw the web and said, "Certainly no man has entered this cave, as otherwise that web would have been torn to pieces." So he went away without searching the cave. When David came out, and beheld the spider, he kissed it and blessed it and said, "Lord of the Universe, who can accomplish works like any of thy works? For all thy deeds are beautiful." When he came to Achish, David simulated the fool before him and his men. The daughter of Achish also was foolish and mad. When they brought David before him, he said to his men, "Are ye mocking at me, considering that my daughter is a fool, or am I in want of lunatics?" So they left him and he fled. When he found himself in safety he thanked God for all that he had made, for it was all beautiful. When David (had entered the cave) he found Saul sleeping his noon-day sleep. Abner slept across the opening with his legs bent. David tried, slipped through the legs, and went in and took the jug of water. When he returned Abner suddenly stretched out and kept David as in a hedge, as if two heavy pillars had come down upon him. Then David prayed for God's mercy and said, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" In that hour a miracle was performed for him, for a wasp came and stung Abner in his leg. He lifted it up and David was able to escape. Then David praised and thanked God. It is not fit for man to mock or scoff at God's works (f. 24 a-b). III. WHY HAS THE OX NO HAIR ON HIS NOSE? Q. Why has the ox no hair on his nose? R. When the Israelites were going round Jericho with Joshua in order to destroy it, they brought him successively a horse, an ass, and a mule to ride upon, but they all died, for Joshua was a very heavy man. Then they brought an ox and he carried him on his back. When he saw this Joshua kissed the ox on his nose, and for this reason the ox has no hair on that spot (f. 25a). IV. WHY DOES THE CAT EAT MICE MORE THAN ANY OTHER CREEPING THING? Q. Why does the cat eat mice more than any other creeping thing? R. In the beginning the cat and the mouse were friends. At one time the mouse went and accused the cat falsely before God, and said, "Lord of the Universe, the cat and I are companions and we have now nothing to eat." God replied, "Thou hast brought a false accusation against thy friend in order to be able to eat him. Now the reverse is to happen, the cat will eat thee and thou shalt serve her as food." The mouse replied, "Lord of the Universe, what have I done?" And God said, "O thou unclean creature! Hast thou not heard what happened to the sun and moon which originally were of equal size, but because the moon brought a false accusation against (slandered) the sun, I have reduced its size and made it smaller than the sun? So also hast thou slandered thy companion in order to eat him, and he therefore will eat thee." "If that be so," the mouse replied, "then the cat will surely utterly destroy me." And God replied, "I will leave thee a remnant as I have done to the moon." Then the mouse went, and springing on the head of the cat began to bite it. The cat then threw the mouse on the ground and killed it. From that time on, the fear of the cat fell upon the mice, and for this reason does the cat eat the mouse (f. 25b). (The Hebrew word used for cat is khatool which originally means weasel!) V. WHY DOES THE ASS MIX HIS WATER WITH THAT OF OTHER ASSES, AND SMELL THE DUNG? Q. Why does the ass mix his water with that of other asses and smell the dung? R. When God had created all the beings, the ass said to the horse and mule, "Every creature has some time of rest, but we are destined to work on continuously without any rest. Let us pray to God to give us also some time of respite, and if our prayer be not heard let us decide no longer to procreate so that we may die out." So they prayed, but their prayer was not heard. But God said, "When your water becomes rivers to drive mills thereby, and when your dung has the smell of perfume, then you will obtain your respite." And this is the answer to the question (f. 25b). VI. WHY DOES THE DOG FIGHT THE CAT? Q. Why is there enmity between the cat and the dog? R. When the cat (weasel) was created it became the companion of the dog. Both hunted together and ate together of the prey. It so happened at one time that two or three days had passed and they had not got anything to eat. Then the dog said to the cat, "Why are we sitting here a hungered? Go to Adam and sit in his house and be fed there, and we will go after the creeping things and reptiles and will feed upon them, and we shall both be kept alive." The cat then replied to the dog, "Let it be so, but we must take an oath that we will not go both together to one master." He replied, "Thou hast spoken well." There and then they both took an oath, and the cat went to the house of Adam, where she found mice, which she caught and ate: the rest ran away from her. When Adam saw what had happened, he said, "A great salvation ("cure") has God sent me." Then he took the cat into his house and fed it and gave it to drink. The dog went to the wolf and said unto him, "Let me come and spend the night with thee." He replied, "Very well." Both went to a cave to sleep there. In the night the dog heard the footsteps of the various animals, so he woke the wolf and told him, "I heard the steps of thieves." The wolf replied, "Go out to them and drive them away." The beasts turned upon him to kill him. The dog fled away and went to the ape, but the ape drove him away. Then he went to the sheep. The sheep received him and allowed him to sleep there. He heard the noise of feet and he said to the sheep, "I hear the footsteps of robbers." The sheep replied, "Go out." The dog went out, and began to bark. The wolves said, "Surely sheep are there." So they went thither and ate the sheep. The dog fled away and went from place to place trying to find some shelter, but could not find any. At last he came to Adam, who took him in and allowed him to sleep there. In the middle of the night the dog said to Adam, "I hear the noise of footsteps." Adam rose at once, took his spear, and going out with the dog drove the wild beasts away and returned home with the dog. Then Adam said to the dog, "Come into my house, dwell with me, eat of my food and drink of my water." And the dog went with him. When the cat heard the voice of the dog she came out to him and said, "Why dost thou come thither to my place?" And he replied, "Adam has brought me hither." Adam said to the cat, "Why dost thou quarrel with him? I have brought him in, for I found him clever and full of courage. Thou needst not grieve, thou shalt be kept also as before." The cat replied, "My Lord, he is a thief, is it right to dwell in one place with a thief?" And the cat went on to say to the dog, "Why hast thou broken (transgressed) thy oath?" He replied, "I will not enter thy dwelling place, I will not eat of anything that belongs to thee, I will not cause thee the least harm." But the cat did not listen and began to quarrel. When the dog saw this, he went away from the house of Adam, and going to that of Seth, dwelt there. And the dog tried all the time to make peace with the cat, but it was all in vain. In that state they have remained to this very day, in constant enmity, for the children follow the example of their forebears: as the proverb has it: sheep follow sheep (f. 25b, 26a). VII. WHY IS IT THAT THE DOG RECOGNISES HIS MASTER AND THE CAT DOES NOT? Q. Why is it that the dog recognises his master and the cat does not? R. Whoever eats of anything at which mice have nibbled forgets what he has been taught. It is only natural that he who eats the mouse itself should forget his master (f. 26b). VIII. WHY IS THERE A SEAM IN THE MOUTH OF THE MOUSE? Q. Why is there a seam in the mouth of the mouse? R. At the time of the Flood, all kinds of creeping things and reptiles had come into the Ark, male and female. Once upon a time the mouse and its mate were sitting by the cat, when the cat suddenly said, "I remember that in former times my forefathers used to eat yours, and what they did then I might as well do now." With these words the cat sprang at the mouse wishing to eat it. The mouse fled and sought for a hole to hide itself, but could not find any. A miracle happened, and a hole appeared which the mouse entered and hid itself. The cat came to the hole and tried to follow the mouse, but could not, as the hole was very narrow. So she put her paw into it with the intention of dragging it out. The mouse opened its mouth. So the cat cut its lower chin open with its nail about half the length of a span. When the cat had gone away the mouse crept out of the hole and running to Noah said to him, "O thou righteous man, do me an act of charity and sew up the chin, which my enemy the cat has torn open." Noah replied, "Go to the pig and bring me one of the bristles of its tail." He went and brought it to Noah, who sewed up the chin. To this very day the seam can be seen (f. 26b). IX. WHY DOES THE RAVEN HOP IN ITS WALK? Q. Why does the raven hop in its walk? R. Once upon a time the raven saw how beautiful was the stepping (walk) of the dove, more beautiful than that of all the other birds. He liked the walk of the doves very much, and he said to himself, "I will also put my feet in the same step." And he nearly broke his bones in the attempt to imitate the dove. The other birds laughed and mocked at him. The raven felt ashamed and he said, "Let me return to my former walk." So he tried to walk as before, but he could not, for he had forgotten it. Thus he remained with a halting step, like one who is jumping, neither walking as before, nor being able to walk as the dove (f. 26b). X. WHY DOES THE RAVEN MATE DIFFERENTLY FROM ANY OTHER BIRD? Q. Why does the raven mate differently from any other bird? R. There are various explanations. One is that he has been punished for his lewdness in the Ark, and for the same reason also the dog has been punished. Others say, because he is wicked, a thief, and froward. There is one answer which combines and explains it more satisfactorily. When Noah wanted to send the raven to see whether the waters were falling, the raven fled and hid himself under the eagle's wing. Noah searched after him and found him there under the wing of the eagle. He said to him, "Go, thou wicked one, and see whether the waters are falling." The raven replied, "Hast thou not found any other bird but me." Noah replied, "I can only send one of the two birds whose first letter is either Ain or Yod." The raven replied, "Why not the eagle and dove"? (Nun, Yod). Noah said, "Because there will be a town in existence called Ai whose inhabitants will kill Yair, who will forbid the raven and permit the dove (to eat)." Then the raven replied impudently to Noah, "The reason why thou hast chosen to send me out is that thou wishest to kill me in order to marry my mate, as I belong to those birds of which thou hast introduced into the Ark only one pair." When Noah heard these words, he cursed the raven that he should mate differently from any other bird, and all the birds in the Ark replied Amen. Then the raven replied, "Why hast thou cursed me? I have a legal complaint against thee." Noah replied, "Because thou art lewd and foolish and dost suspect innocent people. If I do not approach my own wife, who is like unto me, whilst we are in the Ark, how can I approach thy wife, who is so different from a human being, and moreover is forbidden unto me as a married female?" The raven said, "Why dost thou call me lewd (fornicator)?" Noah replied, "Thine own words prove thine immorality, I have not made thee an evil name." And thus it has remained according to Noah's curse (f. 26b-27a). XI. WHY ARE THERE NO COUNTERPART TO THE FOX AND THE WEASEL AMONG THE CREATURES OF THE SEA? AND THE STORY OF THE FOX'S HEART AND THE FISHES. Q. Why are there no counterpart to the fox and weasel in the sea? The story of the fox's heart and the fishes. R. Because they were cunning. When God had created the angel of death, he saw the creatures, and he said to God, "Lord of the Universe, grant me permission to kill them." God replied, "Thou shalt have power over all the creatures of the earth except the descendants of the bird Milham, who are not to taste the taste of death." He said, "O Lord, separate them from the rest if they are so pious, so that they do not learn the evil ways of the others and come to sin." God at once granted him his request. He built for them a great town and he placed them therein, and he sealed up the gate of that town, and he said, "It has been decreed (by God) that neither my sword, nor that of anyone else should have power over you unto the end of all generations." The angel of death returned then to God, who said to him, "Throw the pair of each created being into the sea and over the rest thou shalt have power." The angel did as he was told, and he threw into the sea a pair of each created being. When the fox saw what he was doing, he began crying and weeping. The angel asked him, "Why art thou weeping?" The fox replied, "I cry for my friend whom thou hast thrown into the sea." The angel asked him, "Where is thy friend?" The fox then went and stood close to the edge of the water and the angel saw his shadow in the water, and he believed that he had indeed thrown a pair of his friends into the sea, and he said to the fox, "Get thee hence." The fox ran quickly away and was thus saved. On his way he met the weasel, and he told her all that had happened and what he had done. The weasel did likewise and escaped also from being thrown into the sea. After the lapse of one year since these things had happened, did Leviathan gather together before him all the creatures of the sea, and it was found that neither fox nor weasel was among them. So he sent for them, but he was told what the fox had done to escape from being thrown into the sea. Moreover, they told Leviathan that the fox was very cunning. When Leviathan heard of his great intelligence, he became jealous of him. He sent large fishes to go and fetch him, by deceiving him and luring him away, and then to bring the fox to him. They went and found him walking leisurely along the seashore. When the fox saw the fishes approach and play about close to him, he entered into conversation with them. When they saw him, they asked him, "Who art thou?" He answered, "I am the fox." They said to him, "Dost thou not know that great honour is awaiting thee and it is for this purpose that we have come hither. He said, "What is it?" They replied, "Leviathan is sick unto death, and has left the command that no one else is to rule after him as king but the fox, for he is the most cunning of all the beasts. Thereafter, you now come with us, for we have been sent to offer thee this honour." He said to them, "How can I go into the sea and not be drowned?" They replied, "Ride on the back of one of us and we will carry thee safely over the waters of the sea, so that not even a drop of water shall touch the tip of thy nose until thou reachest the kingly palace. Then we will lower thee down into it and there thou wilt rule over all of us, and thou wilt rejoice all the days of thy life, and thou wilt no longer have to search for food, and be exposed to be hunted by mighty beasts and to be eaten by them." When the fox heard these words, he believed them, and mounting on the back of a mighty fish started with them on a journey on the sea. When the waves began to play round him he began to be anxious. His wit had forsaken him. Then he recovered himself and said, "Woe unto me, what have I done? The fishes have tricked me worse than I have ever tricked all the other beasts. Now that I have fallen into their hands how can I escape?" He then said to them, "I have come with you and I am now at your mercy. You may tell me what is it that you really want of me." They replied, "We will tell thee the truth. Leviathan had heard of thy reputation, that thou art very cunning, so he said to himself, I will cut his belly open and will eat his heart, and thus shall I become also very wise." The fox said to them, "Why did you not tell me the truth, for I would then have brought my heart with me. I would have given it to the king Leviathan and he would have shown me honour. You are now going to your own destruction." They said to him, "Hast thou not thy heart with thee?" He replied, "No, for such is our habit that we leave our heart behind and we walk about without it; whenever we want it we fetch it, and if there is no necessity for it we leave it where it is." So they said to him, "What shall we do now?" He replied, "My place and my dwelling is close to the seashore, if you are willing to do it, bring me back to the place whence you have taken me. I will go and fetch my heart and return with you to Leviathan, who is sure to honour me greatly. If you, however, will bring me to him without my heart, he will be very angry with you and eat you up. For I will tell him that you had not told me anything before you took me away, and that when I heard from you the reason of your errand, I told you to carry me back and that you refused to do so." The fishes then said at once, "Thou speakest well," and they returned to the place at the seashore whence they had taken him. He went down from the back of the fishes, and jumping and frolicking about he rolled over and over in the sand. The fishes said to him, "Haste thee, do not tarry, for we must depart quickly." He replied, "Ye fools, get yourselves away. If I had not had my heart I could not have gone with you into the sea. Is there any creature in existence moving about and not having a heart within?" They replied, "Thou hast mocked at us." He replied, "If I got the best of the angel of death, how much more likely am I to get it of you?" They returned full of shame to the Leviathan and told him all that had happened. He replied, "He is truly cunning, and ye have proved to be fools. About such as you it is said, 'The stupidity of the fools is the cause of their death,'" and so he ate them up. Thus it has remained that although there are creatures in the sea corresponding to those on land, there are none like unto the fox and the weasel. THE END. NOTES [1] The Rumanian word used here is "ariciu," literally hedgehog, but no doubt the mole who burrows under the ground is meant. It is for this reason that I have substituted mole for hedgehog. In the Bulgarian legend it is the hedgehog, where probably the two animals are also confused with one another. [2] The Rumanian oven. [3] Sila Samodiva, one of the fairies of the Rumanian popular tales. [4] Probably a reminiscence of Ler, the old Slavonic God of Love. [5] The water of death means a water which, poured over a body which has been cut in pieces, causes all these pieces to join together, and the wounds to heal. The water of life restores to life the bodies thus joined. [6] Christmas is here taken as a person. [7] The cows are often called by the names of the days on which they were born. Of these Monday and Thursday seem to be the lucky ones. 
44746	----	HOUSEHOLD STORIES FROM THE LAND OF HOFER OR, POPULAR MYTHS OF TIROL, INCLUDING THE ROSE-GARDEN OF KING LAREYN. BY THE AUTHOR OF "PATRAÑAS; OR, SPANISH STORIES," &c. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY T. GREEN. LONDON: GRIFFITH AND FARRAN, SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERY AND HARRIS, CORNER OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD. MDCCCLXXI. LONDON: GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, PRINTERS, ST. JOHN'S SQUARE. CONTENTS. PAGE Introduction 1 Norg Myths 13 1. The Eggshells 14 2. The Reckoning Day 15 3. Fritzl and the Tarnkappe 22 4. The Rose-garden of King Lareyn 26 Myths of North and South Tirol. The Nickel of the Röhrerbüchel 73 The Wilder Jäger and the Baroness 110 The Grave Prince and the Beneficent Cat 131 Klein-Else 158 Prince Radpot 188 The Three Black Dogs 207 Ottilia and the Death's Head 217 The Two Caskets 229 The Prudent Counsellor 235 The Geeseherds 253 St. Peter's Three Loaves 265 Myths of Wälsch-Tirol. The two Cousins of St. Peter 273 Luxehale's Wives (including the Legends of the Marmolata) 278 Zovanin Senza Paura; or, the Boy who went out to discover Fear 335 The Dove-Maiden 356 Myths of Vorarlberg. Kriselda 386 The Golden Pears 394 How the Poorest became the Richest 403 HOUSEHOLD STORIES FROM THE LAND OF HOFER. INTRODUCTION. "Blessed are the people of whom history is silent; for history occupies itself more with the doings of fools than of the wise; with storms than with tranquil days: it immortalizes the butcher and the tyrant, and consigns to oblivion the innocent and peaceful."--Cibrario. Something of the deep, strong attachment to their native mountains which is innate in the children of the Alps steals over me when I think of my pleasant journeyings in Tirol [1]. Though it is a little, out-of-the-way country whose cry is seldom heard in the newspapers, though it exercises little influence in political complications, the character of its people is one which, next after that of our own, has a claim to our esteem and admiration. Hardy, patient, and persevering; patriotic and loyal to a fault; honest and hospitable to a proverb--they carry the observance of their religion into the minutest practice of every-day life; and there underlies all these more solid qualities a tender, poetical, romantic spirit which throws a soft halo round their ceaseless toil, and invests their heroic struggles for independence with a bright glow of chivalry. Surrounded from their earliest years with living pictures of Nature's choicest forms and colouring, they need no popular fiction to cultivate their imagination, no schools of design to educate their taste. Shut out from the world's ambitions by their pathless Alps, they have learned to see before them two aims alone,--to maintain the integrity and the sanctity of their humble homes on earth, and to obtain one day a place in that better Home above, to which the uplifted fingers of their sun-bathed mountain-peaks ever gloriously point. The paramount claims on their hearts' allegiance of the hearth and the altar are inseparably interwoven in their social code, and their creed scarcely knows of a distinction between Nature and Nature's God. At their mother's knee they have learnt, every one, to prattle of their Father in heaven with as complete a realization of His existence as of that of their father on earth. Just as they receive their toil-won food and raiment as an earnest of the paternal care of the one, the change of the seasons, the sunshine and the rain, betoken to them as certainly that of the Other. They scarcely trace any line of demarcation between the natural and the supernatural; and earth and sky are not for them the veil which hides Divinity, but the very temple and shrine of the Godhead dwelling among His creatures. Going forth in this simple faith through the pure, unfogged atmosphere which surrounds them, it is scarce to be wondered at if they can trace the guiding footprints and the unerring hand of Providence where for others are only chances and coincidences. Or that--like the faint outline of wished-for land revealing itself to the trained eye of the sailor, where the landsman sees but a hopeless expanse of sky and ocean--they should recognize a personal will and individuality in the powers which are the messengers to them of the good pleasure of Heaven, in the germination of fruit and grain, in the multiplication of their flocks and herds; or of the envious malice of the Evil One, in the wind and the lightning, the torrent and the avalanche, destroying the work of their hands. It is necessary to bear this well in mind, or we shall not appreciate the delights which their fantastic tales have in store for us. We must learn to realize that this way of viewing things has created a nomenclature, almost a language, of its own. When the boisterous blast sweeps through their valleys, scattering the scent of the wild game, and driving them far out of their reach, they say it is the Wilder Jäger [2], the Beatrìk [3], or the Nachtvolk [4], on his chase. Their restless energies, pent up within the shelter of their rattling walls and casements, invest him with a retinue of pitiless followers and fiery-eyed hounds--while the fate of some who have ventured out while he is said to be abroad, blown over precipices or lost in crevasses, is expressed by the fancy that his train is closed by a number of empty pairs of shoes, which run away with those who come within his influence. When the bright beams of sun and moon enliven their landscape, or fructify their seed, or guide their midnight way, they fable of them as beautiful maidens with all sorts of fanciful names derived from associations as old as the world: Perahta, brightness, daughter of Dagha, the daylight--hence, also, Perchtl and Berchtl. In other localities, Holda or Hulda; in others again, they are known as Angane, and Enguane, the Saligen Fraüelein, Nornen, Zarger Fraüelein, and Weissen Fraüelein. They say they smile on the overburdened peasant, beguile his labour by singing to him, show him visions of beautiful landscapes, bestow wonderful gifts--loaves which never diminish, bowls and skittles, charcoal and corn of pure gold; to the husbandman they give counsels in his farming; to the good housewife an unfailing store--bobbins of linen thread which all her weaving never exhausts; they help the youth or the maiden to obtain the return of the love they have longed for, and have some succour in store for every weary soul. Such helpers the people recognize of the masculine gender, also, in the so-called Nörgl, Pechmannl, Pützl, Wiehtmännlein, Käsermännlein, and Salvanel; for possibly, they say, not all the angels who rebelled with Lucifer may have been cast into the outer darkness. There may have been some not so evilly disposed themselves, but talked over and led astray by others; and such, arrested in their descent by a merciful reprieve, may have been only banished to the desolate and stony places of the earth, to tops of barren mountains and fruitless trees. Such as these might be expected to entertain a friendly feeling for the human beings who inhabit the regions which gave them shelter, and to be ready to do them a good turn when it lay in their way--lift weights, and carry burdens for them up the steep heights, and protect their wild game. And, also, it is not inconsistent with their nature to love to play them a mischievous trick full oft--make off with the provision of loaves prepared for the mowers; sit, while remaining invisible, on their sledges and increase their difficulty and confusion in crossing the mountain-paths lost in snow; entice them into the woods with beseeching voices, and then leave them to wander in perplexity; overturn the farm-maids' creaming-pans; roll the Senner's cheeses down the mountain sides. Worse tricks than these are those of the Wilder Mann. When the soil is sterile and ungrateful; when any of the wonted promises of nature are unfulfilled; when the axe of the lonely woodman rebounds from the stubborn trunk and wounds him; when the foot of the practised mountain-climber fails him on the crisp snow, or the treacherously sun-parched heather; when a wild and lawless wight (for such there are even in Tirol, though fewer, perhaps, than elsewhere) illtreats the girl who has gone forth to tend her father's flock upon the mountains, trusting in her own innocence and Heaven's help for her protection--it is always the Wilder Mann--in some places called the Wilder Jörgel, in others, the Lorg, the Salvang or Gannes, the Klaubaut or Rastalmann, in Vorarlberg, Fengg, Schrättlig, Doggi, and Habergâss--to whose account the misfortune or the misdeed is laid. His female counterpart is called Trude and Stampa, and the Langtüttin. The mineral riches of the country, and the miners occupied in searching for them, are told of as of hidden treasure sought after or revealed, as the case may be, by the Bergweib and the Bergmannlein, or Erdmannlein, the Venedigermannlein and the Hahnenkekerle, the stories of whose strength and generosity, cupidity and spite, are endless; while the mountain echoes are the voices of sprites playfully imitating the sounds of human life. If the mountains and the forests are thus treated, neither are the lakes and torrents without their share of personification, and many are the legends in which the uses and beauties of the beneficent element are interpreted to be the smiles and the helpful acts of the Wasserfraülein, while the mischances which occur at the water's edge are ascribed to the Stromkarl and the Brückengeist. The sudden convulsions of nature to which their soil has been subject from age to age are all charged with retribution for the sins of the people, like the overthrow of Sodom and Gomorrah and the cities of the plain. Castles and forest possessions of wicked rich men are sunk beneath the waters of lakes so that their foundations may never again be set up, and their place be no more found; while a curse pursues those who attempt to dig out the ill-gotten treasure. Villages are recorded to have been swallowed by the earth or buried by the snow-storms when their people have neglected the commandments of God. This literal adaptation of the admonitions of Holy Writ receives among this people another development in traditions of instances where good deeds done to the poor have been believed to have been actually done to visions of our Lord and of His Saints. Then again, their devout belief in both the irresistible justice and the ineffable love of God convinces them that there must be a place on earth where souls too soiled for heaven, yet not given over to utter reprobation, may wander till the final day of rest. And thus every shepherd, as he keeps his lonely watch upon the Alpine pastures, expects that he may meet the feurige Sennin who broke the Sunday rest; or the Tscheier Friedl who was cruel to the cattle in his charge; or the büssender Hirt who stole the widow's kine; or the Markegger who removed his neighbour's landmark; or the Pungga-Mannl who swore a false oath; or the feuriger Verräther who betrayed the mountain pass to the Roman legions. On the other hand, the heroes and types of the Christian faith are thought of as taking a perpetual interest in the welfare of their struggling brethren: St. Nothburga and St. Isidore watch over the husbandman, and St. Urban over the vinedresser; St. Martin over the mower; St. Martha, St. Sebastian, and St. Rocchus, the drei Pestschutzheiligen [5], are expected to be as potent in their intercession now as when at their prayers, when on earth, plagues were stayed. St. Anthony and St. Florian similarly protect against fire. St. Vigilius, the evangelizer of the country and martyr to his zeal, is still believed to guard its jealously-preserved unity of faith. In return, they receive special veneration: the ordinary dealings of life are regulated by the recurrence of their festivals, and the memory of sacred mysteries is kept in perpetual honour by setting up their tokens in every homestead and every house, in every vineyard and in every field, on every bridge and by every wayside. It is not surprising that a people so minded have tales to tell of wonderful events which seem to have befallen them, and which take the record of their lives out of the prosaic monotony which rules our own,--tales always bearing a wholesome moral lesson, always showing trust in Providence and faith in the World Unseen, and always told with the charming simplicity which only a logically grounded expectation that events should turn out even so--and no invention or imagination--can give. A selection of these tales I have put into English dress in the following pages. Though some few of them may be found to bear analogy with similar tales of other German nations, the distinctive qualities of the Tirolese, and the peculiar nature of the scenery amid which they have been conceived, will be found to have stamped them with a character entirely their own. I think that what I have said is sufficient to give, to such of my readers as did not possess it already, the key to their application, and I need not now append to each a tedious interpretation of the fantastic personages and scenes I shall have to introduce. It remains only to say a word as to their distribution. The present principality of Tirol is composed of four provinces. North Tirol, South Tirol, Wälsch or Italian Tirol, and Vorarlberg. North and South Tirol have been for long so closely united that, like their language and customs, their mythology has become so intimately intermingled that it scarcely comes within the scope of a work like the present to point out their few divergences or local peculiarities. But those of Wälsch Tirol and Vorarlberg each maintain a much more distinctive character, and I have accordingly marked with a separate heading those which I have gathered thence. "The Rose-garden of King Lareyn," however, is not the peculiar property of any one province. Though the three places which claim to occupy its site are all placed in South Tirol, this pretty myth is the common property of the whole country--its chief popular epic--and has even passed into the folklore of other parts of Germany also. It is beside the purpose of the present little work to enter into the controversy which has been raised concerning the authorship. There can be little doubt, however, that it was originally the utterance of some unknown minstrel putting into rough-and-ready rhyme one of the floating myths which symbolized the conflict of the heroes with the powers of evil, so popular in the middle ages. Then poets of more pretensions wrote out, and, as they wrote out, improved the song. Thus there are several different manuscripts of it extant, of between two and three thousand lines each, but not of equal value, for later scribes, in trying to improve, overlaid the simple energy of its diction with a feeble attempt at ornament which only served to damage its force. The name of the Norg-king who is the subject of it, is in these spelt variously, as Lareyn, Luarin, Luarine, &c.; the modern orthography is Laurin. The spelling I have adopted is that of the Chronicon of Aventinus. I have thought it well to precede the story by some account of the Norg folk and some samples of their legends, that the reader may not come wholly unacquainted with their traditional character to the tale of the discomfiture of the last Norg-king. NORG MYTHS. The Norgen were a mighty folk in olden time in Tirol. In their span-high bodies resided a power which no child of man, were he ever so stalwart and well-limbed, could resist. But they were also for the most part a peaceable race, and more inclined to assist than to obstruct the industrious inhabitants of the country in their labours; so long as they were treated with respect and deference they seldom interfered with any one. Then they were generally scrupulously honourable, and strict keepers of their word. A service rendered one of them was sure to be repaid a hundredfold. An injury brought a corresponding retribution, and scorn, contempt, or ridicule roused their utmost vengeance; while some there were who entertained a true spirit of mischief, and indulged in wanton tricks which showed their character was not altogether free from malice. They were most often to be met in lonely paths and unfrequented fastnesses of nature, but a solitary Nörglein could also occasionally stray within the haunts of men, at times asking hospitality at their hands, and at others getting into the bedrooms at night, and teasing the children in their sleep, hence the common proverb-- "Shut the door closely to, Or the Norg will come through [6]." And at other times, again, they would take part in the field and household labours, as if they found it sport. The name of Norg was chiefly appropriated to them in South Tirol; in Vorarlberg the analogous cobbold went by the name of Rutschifenggen. Every locality, every valley, every hamlet, and almost every farm, had its own familiar dwarf whose doings were handed down as household words. Thus it is told that there was once a countrywoman, who lived in a lonely Meierhof [7] of the Passeierthal, standing over her stove, preparing a pancake for her husband's dinner, and as he was a great eater she used an immense number of eggs--three dozen and more--in his pancake: as fast as she broke the eggs into the pan, she threw the shells behind her. Three Norgs came by as she was so occupied and amused themselves with playing with them and arranging them into all kinds of patterns. The Meierin [8] was a grumpy sort of woman, and instead of finding pleasure in the glee of the little people, grew cross with them, and scattered the dirty black ashes among the egg-shells they had arranged so prettily. Offended at this ill-natured treatment, the Norgs took their departure, but first laid the thread of the good wife's spinning-bobbin as a snare across the floor, and then stationed themselves outside the window to see what happened. Presently the husband called to know if the pancake was not ready, and the Meierin, running to satisfy him, with both hands engaged in holding the dish of the enormous pancake, caught her feet in the thread, and fell flat on the ground with her face in the dish, while the three Norgs completed her vexation by setting up a loud laugh in chorus. Here is another story of their doings, in which they play a different part. There was a storm in the valley of Matsch, and a storm in the valley of Matsch is often a terrible matter. This was one of the worst: the pitiless flood streamed down the heights, and threatened to overflow the banks of the Hochseen [9]; the wind from the glacier howled dismally over the mountain-sides; the people closed their doors and shutters against the blast, and listened to the roar of the elements, trembling with the thought that every moment might come the signal of the inundation which should carry them and their habitations away in its torrent. In the solidest and most important house of the straggling village, which bears the same name as the valley, was gathered the family of the richest man of the place, who had no reason to share these fears, but with singing and lively conversation chased away the dismal influence of the lugubrious sounds without. Suddenly, between the angry gusts of wind, a doleful voice was heard piteously praying for help. One of the party opened the casement, and looked out, but with more of curiosity than interest, and then quickly closing it again, came back into the room with a laugh to describe the ludicrous figure he had seen. It was a little mannikin with a beard big enough for a full-grown man, his clothes drenched with the rain, and slung over his shoulder a tiny bundle tied in a handkerchief, which yet seemed to bow him down with its weight. The description provoked a chorus of laughter, and the wretched little Norg--for it was a Norg--would have been no more thought of but that his wail became more irritating than that of the wind, and at last the master of the house got up and shouted to him to go on, for it was useless to stand droning there, he was not going to open his house at that time of night, or to such a ridiculous object. But though he banged the window to as closely as possible after delivering himself of this speech, the little man's menacing couplet yet reached his ear-- "The reckoning day Is not far away [10]." Nevertheless the Norg begged no more, but endeavoured to pass on his way. He could not get far: the torrents of rain had obliterated the path which led from the rising ground on which this house was built, to the next, and it was scarcely safe to descend in the dark with the loose stones rattling away under the feet. Fortunately a glimmering light betrayed a low hut built into the slope. It looked so poor and humble, that the Norg felt ashamed to ask aught of its inhabitants, who could scarcely have had enough for their own needs; but when he saw how utterly forlorn was his position, he sat down on a stone, and wept. Notwithstanding that the poor little Norg had such a hoarse voice that it was more like that of a wild animal than a man, there was a compassionate little maid within who perceived it was a voice of distress, and put her head out to ask who was there. "Poor old man!" she cried; "come inside and dry yourself, and let me give you something warm." But before he could answer he heard a weak voice within, "Beware, Theresl, of the wolves--remember we are in 'Matsch der Wölfe Heimath [11].'" "Never fear, mother dear," replied the maiden, "this is no wolf, but a very distressed little old man, who does not look as if he could harm any one; and besides we are now in June--the wolves don't threaten us in the summer," and she opened the door, and let in the little man. By the time she had dried his clothes and fed him with some warm soup, the worst of the storm had abated, and he was able to go on his way. The maiden offered him shelter for the night, but he declared he must reach home before midnight, and prepared to depart. Before he left he asked her what there was she most desired. "Oh, that my mother be restored to health!" answered Theresa; "I desire nothing more than that!" The Norg walked to the bedside, and informed himself of the nature of the sick mother's illness. "Your mother shall be cured," said the little man; "but you must come to me to-morrow at midnight to the Nörgelspitz;" and as the girl started at the impossibility of the feat, he continued, "You have only to make your way as far as the Wetterkreuz, and there call three times 'Kruzinegele! Kruzinegele! Kruzinegele!' and I will be at your side, and take you up the rest of the way." And he took his departure, singing,-- "Morgen oder Heut Kommt die Zahlzeit." The next night Theresa courageously set out on her way, and climbed as far as the Wetterkreuz--and it was lucky she had to go no farther, for here she sank down quite exhausted. She had not lain there many seconds when she saw a procession of little men just like Kruzinegele, with a litter and torches, who carried her up till they came to a door in the rock, which opened at their approach. This led to a magnificent crystal hall glittering with gold and gems, and on a gold throne sat Kruzinegele himself, with his fair daughter by his side. When the litter was brought to the steps of the throne, he came down courteously, and renewed his thanks for her hospitality, but she could not find a word to say, in her astonishment at seeing him so changed. Meantime he sent his daughter to fetch the herbs which were to cure the poor mother, and gave them to her, telling her how to administer them. "You see," he added,-- "Morgen oder Heut Kommt die Zahlzeit; and your rich neighbour will find it so too." Then he told the little men to carry her home, and they laid her in the litter, and bore her away; and she remembered nothing more till she found herself comfortably in bed, with the rising sun kissing her cheeks. But the appearance of every thing was as much changed as Kruzinegele himself had been! The walls that used to bulge, and reek with mildew and damp, were straight and smooth; glass casements replaced the ricketty shutters; nice white curtains tempered the sunshine; the scanty and broken furniture was replaced by new. But what she valued above all, in her hand were the herbs which were to make her mother's healing drink! Their decoction was her first occupation; and by the next day they had restored her mother to health, and joy once more reigned in the cottage, thanks to the Norg! It had been the rich churl's custom, equally with the other villagers, to take his cattle on to the mountain pastures to graze for the beginning of the summer season am Johanni [12]. His grazing ground was just the highest pasture of the Nörgelspitz. The festival now soon arrived, and the picturesque processions of cattle with their herds went lowing forth as usual, to enjoy their summer feed. When the Norg's enemy, however, arrived at his destination, instead of the emerald slopes he was wont to find, with their rich yield of marbel and maim [13], all ready prepared by St. Martin's care [14] for the delight of his cows and sheep, all was stony and desolate! Three days they spent wandering about in search of a few blades to browse, but even this was denied them--nor ever again did the Nörgelspitz bring forth any thing but ice and snow! Of the sleek droves which had started, the envy of all beholders, few beasts lived to return; the prosperity of the once flourishing Hof had fled, and before many years were out its proprietor was obliged to leave it, a ruined man. Theresa had in the meantime married a thrifty peasant, whose industry enabled him to be the purchaser of the abandoned Hof, which he soon stocked to the full extent of former days. Ofttimes a curious grey-bearded little stranger would drop in at night to share their comfortable meal, and before he went away he would always sing his couplet-- "Morgen oder Heut Kommt die Zahlzeit." Such occasional apparitions of the strange visitants excited the curiosity of the inhabitants of the earth to the utmost, and many a weird story was told of frightful injury happening to those who had striven to penetrate their retreat, and for a long period none had any success in the enterprise. It happened one day, however, that a daring hunter who had been led far from his usual track, and far from the country with which he was familiar, by the pursuit of a gemsbock, found himself at the entrance of a low-arched cavern. As night was about to fall and the sky wore a threatening aspect, he was glad to creep within this shelter till the light of morning should enable him to find his way home once more. He had not proceeded far within the dim corridor, when he perceived that in proportion as he got farther from the light of day the cave became brighter instead of darker! Eagerly seeking the cause of this phenomenon, he perceived that the walls were all encrusted with gold and precious stones, which emitted constant sparkles of light. He thereby recognized at once that he had reached an approach to one of the resorts of the Mountain-folk, as the Norgs were also called from having their habitation in the hearts of the mountains. To avoid the fate of those who had ventured within the mysterious precincts, he was about to make good his escape, when he felt something soft under his feet. It proved to be a red hood or cap, dropped there by one of the Mountain-folk, a veritable Tarnkappe which had the property of making the wearer invisible to men, and also enabled him to command admission to any part of the subterranean settlement. He had scarcely placed it on his head when one of the little men of the mountain came running up to look for his lost cap. Fritzl the hunter was much too cunning to give up the advantage of its possession, but with great good humour he told the dwarf he reckoned it too great an advantage to have the opportunity of visiting his beautiful territory to give it up for nothing; but he assured him he should have no reason to regret having given him admission. The dwarf could not choose but obey, and the Jäger enjoyed the singular privilege of surveying all the hidden treasures of the underground world. Beautiful are the glories of the mountain world as seen by mortal eyes--gorgeous its colours when illumined by the southern sun, but all this is as barren darkness compared with the glories hidden within its stony recesses. Here, the sky overhead was all of diamonds and sapphires and carbuncles, and their light sparkled with tenfold glory and beauty to the light of the sun and moon and stars; the trees were of living gold and silver, and the flowers and fruit of precious stones; the grass all of crystal and emerald; there was no cold or heat, no perplexing change of season, but one perpetual spring spread its balmy air around; lakes there were all of opal and mother-o'-pearl, and gorgeously plumed swans perpetually crossing them served the inhabitants in lieu of boats. The Jäger's delight and admiration at all these sights won the sympathy and regard of his guide, and by degrees he grew more communicative, and explained to him the whole economy of their mode of life. He showed him how they were divided into three distinct classes: those wearing red caps, who were gay and good-natured, and filled with goodwill towards mankind also, notwithstanding many wild pranks; those with brown caps, whose mischief was mingled with malice rather than fun, but who yet would suffer themselves to be propitiated; and those with black caps, always gloomy and morose, who boded evil wherever they went. His guide advised him to have nothing to say to these, but with some of the red and brown he was admitted to converse: he found them pleasant and sociable, and ready enough to communicate their ideas. Some asked him questions, too, about various matters which seemed to have puzzled them in their peregrinations on earth, while others, who had never been outside their own habitations, had other inquiries to make--but some there were also who had no curiosity on the subject, but rather contempt; and one thing that amused the Jäger in them was their incapacity to conceive many of the things he had to tell them, and particularly to understand what he could mean when he talked about death. Chiefly to keep the spiteful freaks of the black-caps in check there was a guard of warrior dwarfs, whose array was shown to our Jäger. Formidable they must have been, for the armour of each was made out of one diamond, and they wore helmets and greaves and shields all of diamonds, and while they were thus impervious to every attack, their swords were of diamond too, and resistless therefore in their thrusts. The Jäger could not restrain his raptures at their gorgeous show, as the colours of the gems around were reflected in this shining armour. The dwarf had nothing left to show after this, but then stood and sighed over the glories of the past. "And what were the glories of the past?" inquired the Jäger, with intense interest. The dwarf watched his interlocutor closely, and satisfied himself that his interest was not feigned. Then he paused long, as hesitating whether to unburden himself to a stranger of the sad thoughts which crowded into and oppressed his mind. A few words of sympathy, however, decided him at last "Yes, we still have some power and some riches left, and some of our ancient strength, but we have lost our kings, the kernel of our strength. It is true, we are able to surprise you with isolated exhibitions of riches and power, but, on the whole, your people has got the better of ours; and since your heroes of old destroyed the last of our royal race, we have been a doomed, disorganized, dwindling race, fast disappearing from our ancient fastnesses." "And how happened it that our people got the better of yours? How did our heroes destroy your royal race? I pray you tell me." The dwarf led the Jäger into a delicious alcove of the opal rock, whose pure, pale lustre seemed more in accordance with his melancholy mood than the garish brilliancies that had hitherto surrounded them. They laid them down on the bank, and the dwarf thus recounted the story. THE ROSE-GARDEN OF LAREYN, THE LAST NORG-KING. The lineage of our kings had endured for countless generations, he said, and had always enjoyed the undeviating homage of our people. In our kings were bound up our life and our strength; they were the fountain of our light and the guardians of our power. The royal race was a race apart which had never mingled with the race of the governed, yet which had never failed or been found wanting. But Adelgar cast his eyes on Hörele, one of the Norginnen of the common herd, and raised her to share his throne. The union not only was unblessed--what was worse, all the rest of the royal stock died out, and all the noble princes of his first marriage died away one after the other [15]; and when Hörele at last came to die herself, there was only one left. This was Lareyn, the last of his race. Adelgar looked around him with tears, for there was none left to whom he could marry his son, and he had experienced in himself the ill effects of departing from the ancient tradition which forbade him from mingling his race with the race of the governed, and he bewailed his folly. But Lareyn bethought him of a remedy; he determined to go out into the outer world, and choose him a wife among the daughters of its inhabitants, and bring her to reign over the mountain people and continue the royal stock. In a supreme council of the elders of the kingdom it was decided to approve what he proposed. But Adelgar only consented with much reluctance, and accompanied his permission with many conditions and counsels, the chief of which were that Lareyn and his suite should every one go forth clothed in a Tarnhaut [16], and that he should exercise his choice in a far distant country where the ways of the dwarfs were not known, and where, whatever might befall, no friend of the bride could think of coming to his palace to seek her, for the old king rightly judged that the Christian folk would not willingly give a daughter of theirs to the Norgs. Lareyn promised his father to attend to his injunctions, and gave orders to prepare a thousand suits of diamond armour for his body-guard, and five hundred suits of silk attire for his pages, who were to bear the gifts with which he meant to captivate the maiden of his choice, and Tarnhauts to cover them all--and, above all, the presents themselves of jewels and priceless goldsmith's works, at which the Norgen were very expert. While all these things were being got ready Adelgar died, and Lareyn succeeded to the crown. However much he desired to adhere to his father's injunctions, he was forced to decide that under the altered circumstances it could not be well for him to journey to a distance from his kingdom, and to leave it long without a head. He determined, therefore, to search the neighbourhood for a maiden that should please him. In the meantime he made use of his newly acquired power to prepare a dwelling to receive her which should correspond with the magnificence of his presents, and by its dazzling lustre should make her forget all that she might be inclined to regret in her earlier home. The highest title of honour was now promised to whoso of his subjects could point out to him an unexplored mine of beauty and riches. This was found in a vault all of crystal, which no foot of dwarf had ever trod. Lareyn was beside himself with gladness when he saw this; he ordered a hundred thousand dwarfs immediately to set to work and form of it a residence for his bride; to divide it into chambers for her use, with walls and columns encrusted with gold; to engrave the crystal with pleasing devices; and to furnish it with all that was meet for her service. Thus arose the great Krystallburg [17] ever famous in the lays of the Norgs, and which the cleverest and richest of the children of men might have envied. That so glorious a palace might be provided with a garden worthy of it, hundreds of thousands of other dwarfs were employed to lay out the choicest beds and bowers that ever were seen, all planted with roses of surpassing beauty, whose scent filled the air for miles round, so that, wherever you might be, you should know by the fragrant exhalation where to find the Rosengarten of King Lareyn [18]. Engrossed with these congenial preparations, Lareyn forgot all his prudence and moderation: that they might be completed with all possible expedition the whole working community of the dwarfs was drawn off from their ordinary occupations; the cultivation of the land was neglected, and a famine threatened. Lareyn then would go out and make a raid on the crops of the children of earth, and take possession of whatever was required for the needs of his own people, without regard for the outcry raised against him, knowing that, strong in his supernatural strength, he had no retaliation to fear. While thus he pursued his ravages every where with indiscriminating fury, he one day came upon the arativo [19] of a poor widow whose only son was her one support. The golden grain had been gathered into her modest barn just as Lareyn and his marauders came by; swift, like a flock of locusts, they had seized the treasure. The widow sobbed, and her stalwart son fought against them in vain; Lareyn was inexorable. At another time the good-nature of his Norg blood would have prompted him at least to repay what he had appropriated in the gold and precious stones of which he had such abundant store, but now he thought of nothing but the prompt fulfilment of his darling design; and he passed on his way unheeding the widow's curse. At last the Krystallburg was complete, and the Rosengarten budding ready to burst into a bloom of beauty. To so fair a garden he would have no other fence but a girdle of silk, only he gave it for further defence a law whereby any who should violate that bound should forfeit his left foot and his right hand. Lareyn looked round, and his heart was content. He felt satisfied now that he had wherewithal to make any daughter of earth forget her own home and her father's people, how delightful soever might have been the place of her previous sojourn. Donning his Tarnhaut, he went forth with his followers marshalled behind him, all equally hidden from human sight. He wandered from castle to castle, from Edelsitz [20] to Edelsitz, from palace to palace, but nowhere found he the bride of his heart, till he came to the residence of the Duke of Styria. Here, in a garden almost as lovely as his own Rose-garden, he found a number of noble knights assembled, and their ladies, all of surpassing beauty, taking their pleasure on the greensward amid the flowers. Lareyn had never seen so much beauty and gallantry, and he lingered long with his attendant wights running from one to another, and scanning the attractions of each, as a bee hovers from flower to flower, gathering the honey from their lips. Each maiden was so perfect, that he would have been content with any one of them, but each was so guarded by her cavalier that he saw no way of approaching her; at last, driven to despair, he wandered away under the shade of a lonesome grove. Here, under a leafy lime [21], his eye met a form of loveliness which surpassed the loveliness of all the dames he had heretofore seen put together, and he felt thankful now that he had not been able to possess himself of any of them, for then he had never seen her who now lay before him in all the bloom of her virgin perfection. Lareyn, accustomed to associate his conceptions of beauty with a dazzling blaze of gold and jewels, found an entirely new source of admiration in the simple attire of the Styrian princess, for it was Simild, daughter of Biterolf, Duke of Styria, who lay before him, seeking rest amid the midday heat, draped only in virgin white, with wreathed lilies for her single ornament. Lareyn stood absorbed for some time in contemplation of her perfect image. Then, hearing the voices of her companions drawing near, quickly he flung a Tarnhaut over her, so that they trooped by, searching for her, and passed on--seeing her not--to seek her farther. Then he beckoned to the bearers of a litter he had prepared in readiness to approach, into which her sylph-like form was soon laid; and over hill and dale he carried her towards the Rosengarten. They had got some way before Simild woke. Lareyn rode by her side, watching for her eyes to open, and the moment she gave signs of consciousness he made a sign for the cortége to halt. Quick as thought a refection was laid out on the greensward, while a band of Norg musicians performed the most delicious melody. Simild, enraptured with the new sights and sounds, gazed around, wondering where she was and what all the little creatures could be who hopped around ministering to her with so much thoughtfulness. Lareyn hastened to soothe her, but fancying that some of the Norgs were wanting in some of their due services to her, he rated them in such a positive tone of command that Simild began to perceive that he was the master of this regiment of ministrants, and hence she inferred that by some mysterious means she had fallen into his power; but what those means could be she was at a loss to conceive. Lareyn now displayed his presents, and in presenting them poured forth the most enthusiastic praise of her beauty. Simild's vanity and curiosity were both won; yet the strangeness of the situation, the sudden separation from her friends, her ignorance of what might be going to befall her, roused all her fears, and she continued to repeat in answer to all his protestations of admiration that she could listen to nothing from him till he had restored her to her home. "This is the one thing, sweet princess, that I cannot do at your bidding," he replied. "Whatever else you desire me to do shall be instantly executed. And it is hardly possible for you to exhaust my capacity of serving you." Then he went on to describe the magnificence and riches of his kingdom, and all the glories over which, as his bride, she would be called to reign, till her curiosity was so deeply excited, and her opposition to his carrying her farther grew so faint, that he lost no time in taking advantage of her mood to pursue the journey. In the meantime the greatest consternation had fallen on all the friends of Simild. The maidens whose duty it was to wait on her sought her every where, and not finding her they were afraid to appear before her father. The knights and nobles who had been in her company were distracted, feeling the duty upon them to restore her, and not knowing which way to begin. The old Duke Biterolf shut himself up within the palace and wept, objecting to see any one, for his heart was oppressed with sorrow; and he refused to be comforted till his child should be restored to him. But Dietlieb, Simild's brother, a stout young sword [22], when he had exhausted every counsel that occurred to him for discovering his sister's retreat, determined to ride to Gardenna on the Garda-See, the castle where resided Hildebrand [23] the Sage, renowned for wisdom, and prudence, and useful counsel. When Hildebrand the Sage saw him come riding yet a long way off, he said to those who stood beside him on the battlements, "See Dietlieb the Styrian, how he rides! His heart is full of indignation. Up, my men, there is work for us; some one has done him a great wrong, and us it behoves to stand by him, and see him righted." Ute, Hildebrand's wife, and her daughters prepared a warm welcome for the prince, as was due; and the heroes gathered round Hildebrand held out their hands to him as to one whose integrity and valour claimed their respect. Hildebrand himself led him to his chamber, and left to no maiden the task of helping him off with his armour [24], but with his own hand lifted off his helmet and laid by his good shield. Then they placed refreshing wine from the cool cellar in the rock before him, and a banquet of many dishes, as became so worthy a guest. When the tables had been removed [25], Hildebrand invited his young guest to detail the cause which had brought him. Dietlieb, who was burning to tell the story of his mishap, poured out the details of his sister's misadventure, without omitting the smallest incident which could serve Hildebrand to form an opinion as to the remedy to be adopted. The event was so strange that Hildebrand himself could not venture all at once to divine the nature of the injury. But he forbore also to express his perplexity, lest the bold young Styrian should be discouraged. Without therefore expounding exactly what his views were, but determining to ponder the matter more deeply by the way, the advice he propounded in the first instance was, that they should all repair forthwith to seek the aid of Berndietrich [26]. The counsel was received with joyful acclamation; and loud was the clanging as every one ran to don his chain-armour, for all were glad to be called to deeds of high emprise, and such they deemed were in store for them if Dietrich von Bern was to be their leader. Ute and her daughters, to whom their courage and mettle was well known, greeted them as they went forth with no sinking hearts, but gave them augury of good success. As they journeyed along, they came to a broad heath, which they were about to pass over with their train, when up sprang a man of forlorn aspect, who cried after Hildebrand, and asked his aid. Hildebrand, seeing him in such sorry plight, turned aside out of compassion, to ask what had befallen him. It was no other than the peasant--the widow's son--whom Lareyn had so deeply wronged, and, seeing the heroes go forth in such brave array, he besought their aid against the oppressor of his mother. Some of them laughed at his wild mien and uncouth gestures, but Hildebrand the Sage took him apart, and lost not a word of his story of how the Norg-king lived in the heart of the mountains, of how he came out with his mighty little men, and ravaged all the face of the country, contrary to all the habits of his former life, and of how it was all because his own labourers were engaged in preparing the most magnificent palace for the reception of a daughter of earth, whom he meant to make his bride. Hildebrand now felt he knew all, and with the help of the poor countryman, the widow's son, would be able to conduct the heroes into his retreat, inflict condign punishment, and release the captive princess. How, with purely natural means, to overcome the resistless strength of the Norgs did not indeed make itself apparent; this was matter for further consideration, and sufficed to engross his thoughts for the rest of the journey. Of one thing he was satisfied--that he was right in claiming the intervention of Berndietrich, whose traffic with the supernatural powers [27] made him, of all the wigands [28], alone capable of conducting such an expedition. Hildebrand and his companions were received by Theodoric with hearty welcome and hospitable care and cheer. As they sat at table, all the heroes together vied with each other in lauding the prowess of Theodoric, till they had pronounced him the bravest sword of which the whole world could boast. This was the time for Hildebrand. "No!" he cried, as he upsprang, and by his determined manner arrested the attention of all the wigands. "No, I say! there is one mightier than he; there is one with whom he has never yet ventured to measure his strength----" "Who? Name him!" shouted Theodoric, rising to his feet, and glaring round him with defiant fury, only kept in check by his regard for Hildebrand. "I speak of Lareyn, the Dwarf-king, the dweller in the depths of the mountains of Tirol," replied Hildebrand, in a voice of firm assurance. "The Dwarf-king!" exclaimed Theodoric, with incredulity and contempt; and he sat down again. "As long as the Dwarf-king is suffered to live in his mountain stronghold, and to ravage the lands of the peaceful peasants, I call no man who knows of him a hero. But him who overcomes this little one--him I will call a hero indeed, above all others!" "If your Dwarf-king were so formidable, Meister Hildebrand," replied Theodoric, "you would have told me of him before now, I ween. How has he raised your wonderment just at this time?" "Because just at this time his insolence has increased. He has built a palace surpassing all palaces in magnificence, which he calls his Krystallburg, and has surrounded it with a garden of beauty, which he calls his Rosengarten, fenced round only with a silken girdle, but of whomsoever crosses that boundary he forfeits the left foot and the right hand." The report of this boast was enough to decide Theodoric, the impetuous sword. "If it is thus he vaunts him," he cried, "he shall know that there is one will dare brave his decree, and destroy the garden his ferocity guards after the manner you describe." With that up he rose, and called for his Velsungen [29], for his armour he never put off, and he called for his helmet and his horse; and before another had time to frame his purpose, he had started, without parley and without guide. Only Wittich the Wigand, his boon companion, who loved to share his rash ventures, and was familiar with his moods, could bestir himself to follow before he was too far gone to be overtaken. To Tirol they rode by day and by night, without slacking rein, for their anger brooked no reprieve. They slacked not their speed for dell or mountain, and they rode forty miles through the dense forest; but every where as they went along they tested the air, as it was wafted past them, to see if they could discern the perfumes of the Rosengarten. At last, as they toiled up the mountain side, a majestic sight was suddenly opened to their view. The white shining rock of the living mountain was cut and fashioned into every pleasing device of turret and tower, diamonds and rubies were the windows, and the dome was of pure gold set with precious stones. "We have far to ride yet," said Wittich the Wigand, as he scanned the lordly place. "And yet the perfume of the Rose-garden reaches even hither," said the Bernäre [30]. "Then we know we are on the right track," answered Wittich; so they put spurs to their horses, and rode forward with good heart. They had pushed on thus many a mile when the blooming Rosengarten itself came in sight, entrancing their senses with its beauty and its odours. "What was that?" asked Theodoric, who always rode ahead, as some light obstruction made his mount swerve for a moment. "Why, you have burst the silken girdle of King Lareyn's Rosengarten!" said Wittich the Wigand; "so now we have incurred the vengeance of the little man." "Ah!" said Theodoric, as he gazed around, "let us not harm this pleasant place; sweetly are the flowers disposed, and in the fragrant hours of evening and of morning it must be well to be here: let us destroy naught!" "Nay!" said honest Wittich, "came we not forth to destroy this devil's-work, and to reduce the pride of the boasting Norg-king who spares none? Shall we return, and leave our work undone? I have no such mind; nothing will I leave of what we see before us now." He dismounted to carry his threat into effect; and Theodoric, not to be behindhand, or to incur suspicion of fearing the Norg-king, dismounted too. Then with one consent they hewed down and rooted up the fair plants, till the whole garden was a wilderness, and they lay them down upon the grass to rest. As they lay, there appeared before them, coming at full speed, as on swift wings, a knightly form clad in shining armour, so that Wittich cried, "See, Lord Dietrich, who comes to visit us--surely it is St. Michael, leader of the heavenly hosts!" "I see no St. Michael," answered Theodoric, sullenly. "It is one of no heavenly build, albeit he bears him so bravely. We may rue that we have loosed our helmets and shields, for methinks he regards us with no loving eye." While they spoke the rider had advanced over a good space of the way, and they could discern the manner of his bearing. His horse was lithe as a roe-buck upon the wild mountain heights, and its housings of cloth-of-gold gave back the rays of the golden sun; the bridle was studded with precious stones, and embroidered with cunning workmanship of gold, moreover it was held in a commanding hand. The saddle was dazzling with rubies, and so were the stirrups no less; but the armour was most dazzling of all, and all hardened in dragon's blood [31]. His sword of adamant could cut through steel and gold; the handle was one carbuncle, which darted rays of light. Over his breast-armour he wore a tight tunic of cloth-of-gold, with his arms embroidered in glowing colours. His helmet was of burnished gold and topazes mingling their yellow light, and between them many a carbuncle which by night gave the light of day, and from within it there sang pleasant voices of birds--nightingales, bulfinches, and larks, with softened voices, as if they lived, and breathed their song upon the branches of their native trees. His shield was likewise of gold, and recorded many a deed of prowess of him who bore it; on it was painted a leopard, too, with head erect, as though preparing to spring upon his prey. In his right hand was a spear, and from its point floated a small red banner [32], on which appeared two swift greyhounds intent on following the wild game. But more imposing than all this display of gold and art was the rider's majestic mien, which was as of one used to know no law but his own will, and to be obeyed by all who approached him; and yet, with all this, he was only a span high! For it was King Lareyn, and he wore tightly buckled his girdle of twelve-men's-strength. Theodoric would gladly have laughed his little figure to scorn, but when he caught the fire of his eye he was fain to acknowledge he was no puny antagonist in fierce intention, whatever was his height. Nor did Lareyn spare angry words when he had come up with the knights, and saw what they had done; there was no epithet of scorn in his vocabulary that he did not pour out upon them. He told them their lives were forfeit for the mischief they had wreaked upon his roses, and they could only redeem them by the surrender of their left foot and right hand. Theodoric was not slow to pay back his vituperation in corresponding measure. He bid him remember what a little, wee mannikin he was; that his was not the right tone in which he ought to talk to princes. Had he ventured to ask a money-compensation, it would have been impertinent enough, but what he had asked was a ludicrous pretention. "Money!" shouted the Norg, in no way disconcerted; "I have more gold at command than any three of you together. You call yourselves princes, do you? You have done no princely deed to-day; you have incurred the common penalty which I have decreed for all alike who trespass on my Rose-garden--so no more words: hand over your horses, armour, and clothing [33], together with the left foot and right hand of each." "Herr Dietrich!" interposed Wittich, "is it possible you have patience to listen to the insolent railing which this little mite pours out in his folly? Say but the word, and I will punish him once and for all. It needs but to take him and his mount by the leg, with one grasp of my strong hand, and knock their heads against the stone wall, that they may lie as dead as the roses we have already strewn around!" "God is exhaustless in His wonders!" replied the Bernäre; "for aught we know, He has laid up within this mite's body all the strength of which he is so forward to boast: or by some magic craft he may have possessed himself of might commensurate with the riches which we can see plainly enough he has at command. If it comes to fighting, we will bear ourselves like men; but take my advice, and be not rash, for very much I doubt if we shall leave these mountains of Tirol alive this day." "Now, prince of lineage high! if I knew not your prowess before this day," cried Wittich, beside himself with indignation, "I had said you were afraid of his sword, which a mouse might wield! Shall a Christian knight shrink before any pagan hound? But a thousand such wights as this could be overmatched by you; and without arms you could smite them down, and hang them all on the trees!" "Your ideas of your powers are not weak," interposed King Lareyn; "you talk of one of you being a match for a thousand such as I: come on, and let us see how you will bear you against one 'tiny antagonist'!" Wittich's impatience knew no bounds at the challenge; without exchanging another word with Theodoric he sprang into the saddle, and Lareyn, who had chafed at being spoken of as an unworthy adversary, now drew himself up, proud to find Wittich did not scorn to meet him mounted. They rode out opposite each other on the greensward with their lances poised, and then dashed the one at the other like two falcons on the wing. Wittich, not at all wanting in the science of handling his lance, made sure to have hit Lareyn, but the spell that surrounded him protected him against the thrust, while his lance struck Wittich's throat where the helm was braced, and sent him backwards off the saddle on to the ground with great force. As he fell among the clover he vowed that no other lance had ever so offended him, for never before had victory appeared so easy. Hastily he sprang to his feet, to wipe away the shame by seeming indifference; but Lareyn stood before him in the long grass with his sword ready to take the forfeit he demanded, the left foot and the right hand,--and would have taken it, but Theodoric deemed it time to interfere; he said he should have reckoned it a shame on him could it have been said of him that he had stood by while a companion was made to pay so hard a penalty for so small a harm. "What is a shame to you is no affair of mine," cried Lareyn in return; "but instead of defending your companion, it behoves you to defend yourself, for, as you had your part in the destruction of the garden, I demand my forfeit equally of you, and your left foot and right hand I must have. Stand on guard then! for I am a match for twelve such as you." The words stung Theodoric to the quick. But with what celerity soever he vaulted into the saddle, the moment had sufficed for Lareyn to bind fast Wittich to a tree, and gain his stirrups in time to confront his foe. "I perceive you are the Bernäre," he said, "by your shield and helm; and never have I poised lance so gladly against any foe, and never have had such satisfaction in triumph as I shall when I have you bound by the side of your companion, and when the great Dietrich von Bern shall lie in the bonds of the little Norg!" "Dwarf! waste not words," cried Theodoric, in a terrible voice, his eyes flashing fire; his spear trembling in his hand with the fury that burnt within him. Before the foes could meet, however, and not a whit too soon, Hildebrand appeared upon the scene, having found his way, with the bold Wolfhart who never shrank from any fight, and Dietlieb the Steieräre [34], by the guidance of the injured widow's son. Hastily Hildebrand reached Theodoric's ear: "Fight him not in that way," he said; "he has ever the advantage with the lance, and if he hurled you from the saddle, where would be your princely honour? Never could you again reign in your Hall of Verona. Dismount, and meet him on foot upon the grass, and watch for what further may be suggested to us." Theodoric gladly accepted the counsel of the sage, and, standing once more on the ground, called to the Norg to meet him there. Lareyn refused not, but met him with many a valiant thrust, which the wigand parried, and returned too, as best he might, with Hildebrand's counsel, till the little man complained of the interference, without which, he swore, Dietrich had been bound even as Wittich. But Theodoric bid him not talk, but fight, and with that planted him a blow between the eyes which shut out the light of the sun. Hildebrand, meantime, released Wittich, as it behoved while one fought in his defence. But Lareyn, finding he could gain no signal advantage against the hero, drew his Tarnhaut from his pocket, and, slipping it over his head, became invisible to his antagonist. Now it was a weird running hither and thither, as the deft Norg paid out his cunning blows, and the bold wigand in vain sought him, that he might return them; now his blow fell on the stone wall, and now on a tree, while the Norg's mocking laughter echoed at each mistake. "One counsel only I see," cried good Hildebrand, distressed to see his prince so hard thrust; "call to him to drop his sword, and wrestle with you; so shall you reach him, and at least know where he stands." The hero followed the counsel of his master, nor did the Norg refuse. True, Theodoric now could at least feel his unseen foe, but he felt him to his cost, for it was impossible to stand against his strength, nor was it long before the dwarf forced the hero down upon his knees on the grass. Great was the wigand's distress, for never had antagonist so dealt with him before. "Dietrich! beloved lord," cried Hildebrand, "list to my word. One way of safety there is: wrench from him his girdle--his girdle which gives him twelve men's strength!" Gladly Theodoric heard the counsel, nor was he long in finding with his hand the girdle; by it he raised King Lareyn from the ground, and dashed him down again, till the girdle burst and fell beneath their feet. Hildebrand quickly caught it up, lest the dwarf should again possess himself of it; but Lareyn gave a cry of despair which might have been heard o'er mountain and forest three days' journey off! Then, with doleful voice, he said,-- "Dietrich von Bern! if you are the noble sword for which men hold you, you will be now content, and will give me my life; while I will be your tributary, and mighty are the gifts I have to offer you." "No!" replied Theodoric; "your haughtiness and pretensions have been too gross. I pardon not such as you so easily; we must have another trial, in which you must yield up your worthless life." "I have no power in fighting against such as he now, without my girdle," mused the Norg; "my only chance of safety lies in getting one of the heroes who is equal to him to fight for my cause in my place. So he made up to Dietlieb the Steieräre, and conjured him, as he was his brother-in-law, to help him in his need--even as he loved his sister's honour." "True!" replied Dietlieb; "since you confess honestly that you have my sister, it is meet that I should be your champion; and I will deliver you or die." With that he went to Theodoric, and prayed him earnestly four times, by his regard for knightly honour, for woman's worth, for friendship, and for virtue--four things which, at receiving his sword, every knight bound himself to honour, that he would spare Lareyn. But Theodoric was not to be moved, and each time only swore the harder that he would fight it out to the last; that Lareyn had offended him too deeply, and that he could not be suffered to live. When Dietlieb found the ambassage he had undertaken unsuccessful, and that he would have to own his failure, he grew impatient and wroth, and riding his horse up to Theodoric, he proclaimed in a loud voice,-- "Be it known, Prince Dietrich, highly praised, that I declare King Lareyn, great in power and riches, shall not be bound your prisoner, nor his life taken; that I appear here to answer for him with brotherly service, and that either he shall be let go scot free, or in my person only shall the death-blow be dealt out for him." Theodoric, unwilling to enter a feud of life and death with one of his own allies, and yet too proud to refuse the challenge, answered him nothing. But Dietlieb took the Norg and hid him away in safety in the long grass out of Theodoric's sight, and then returned ready to confront him. Theodoric, finding he was determined in his attack, called for his horse, and bound on his helmet, his shield he took in his hand, and hung his sword to his girdle. "Think not I spare you more than another, Lord Theodoric, when I have found the cause I ought to defend," cried Dietlieb, and his flashing eye told that he would fight his fight to the end. Theodoric still said no word, but his anger was the more desperate. Thus minded, they rode at each other, and the lance of each hurled the other from his horse upon the grass. Up each sprang again, and drew his trenchant sword; the one struck, and the other pierced, till the grass all around, as high as their spurs, was dyed as red as the roses they had destroyed anon. Then Theodoric dealt such a mighty stroke on Dietlieb's helmet that the fire flashed again, and he thought, "Now have I conquered him and Lareyn at one blow." But Dietlieb, recovering from the momentary shock, struck Theodoric's shield with such force that he dashed it from his grasp; you might have heard the clash a mile off! When the bold Theodoric found he had his shield no longer, he took his sword in both his hands, and gave the wigand such a mighty Schirmschlag [35] that he felled him to the ground. "Now then, foolish man!" he cried, in scorn, "do you still hold out for Lareyn?" Dietlieb sprang to his feet once more with a start which made his armour ring again, and, for an answer, ran at Theodoric, and tried to repeat his stroke; but Theodoric was more difficult to bring down, and answered his attack by striking him on the rim of his shield so forcibly that he loosed the band by which he held it. Meantime, Hildebrand had been occupied stirring up the other wigands to part the combatants, and at this moment Wittich and Wolfhart came up to Dietlieb and seized him, and with main force dragged him off the field; while Hildebrand reasoned with Theodoric about the merit and friendship of Dietlieb, and the advantage of compromise now that he had done enough to prove his superiority in the fight. Theodoric, who ever gave weight to Hildebrand's reasoning, agreed to be friends again with Dietlieb, and to leave Lareyn his life and liberty, only exacting homage and tribute of him. To these terms Dietlieb also agreed, and all entered the bonds of good friendship. Lareyn, who had watched the combat and listened to the treaty of peace from his hiding-place in the long grass, gave in his adhesion, promising to pay tribute of all his wealth. "And now, good brother-in-law," he said, addressing Dietlieb, "or brother-in-law that-is-to-be,--for Simild has not yet given her consent to be my wife--let us talk a little about your lovely sister. You are doubtless burning to know how I became possessed of her, and I no less to tell." Then he told him how he had found her under the linden-tree, and had enveloped her in the Tarnhaut and carried her away unseen by mortal eye; and of how all Norgdom was subject to her, of how he had laid an empire of boundless wealth at her feet, and how, if she preferred reigning on earth, he was able to buy a vast kingdom to endow her with. Then he noticed that the day was declining, and they far from shelter, and bade them all welcome to his underground home, promising them good cheer and merry pastime. Dietlieb, anxious to see his dear sister again, accepted the offer, and the other wigands agreed to follow him. Stern Hildebrand the Sage would have preferred camping in the open air, but Theodoric told him it would be a shame on his name before all heroes if, having been so near the Norg kingdom, of which all had heard, he should have feared to make acquaintance with its economy and government. All the others were of his mind, but Hildebrand reminded Theodoric, that as he whom all were ready to obey had counselled incurring the danger, he made himself responsible for all their lives. "He who gave us prudence will guard our lives and honour," said the prince; and without further parley they rode on, after Lareyn's guidance. On they rode, through thick forest and narrow mountain-path, till, as it grew dark, they came to a golden door in the rock. It opened at Lareyn's approach, and the moment they had passed within they found themselves surrounded by a light above the light of day from the shining stones that glittered around. Trumpets sounded to herald their entrance. As they advanced through the sparkling trees friendly birds warbled a sweet welcome; and as they neared the hall soft melodies of lutes and harps enchanted their ear. All around them the Norgs disported themselves, ready to render any service the wayfarers might require. Refreshment was all ready, as if they had been expected; and when the wigands had done justice to the spread, they were led each to his apartment to take their rest, which they well needed. In the morning Lareyn prayed them to stay and enjoy the wonders of his kingdom and taste his hospitality, whereupon new debate arose. Theodoric was disposed to trust him; and Dietlieb desirous to keep friends with him for the sake of his sister; while Wolfhart was ready for any sort of adventure; but Wittich, who had tasted the effects of Lareyn's guile and strength, used all his persuasion to induce the others to return, and prudent Hildebrand deemed it the wiser part. At last, however, Wolfhart said, scornfully to Wittich, that if he was afraid to stay he could go back; he had no need to spoil their pleasure. After that Wittich said no more, but by his sullen looks he showed he disapproved the venture. Lareyn, seeing them doubtful, came up, and with much concern bid them have no hesitation or fear, for all they saw was at their service--they had but to command. To which Theodoric made answer that such words were princely indeed, and if his deeds accorded therewith he never would have reason to rue the league he had made with them. Then with delight Lareyn led them through the riches of his possessions. So much heaped-up gold, so many precious stones, such elaborate handiwork none of Theodoric's band had ever seen before; and the place rang with their exclamations of wonder. But all this was nothing to the cunning feats of the Norgs, who, at a sign from Lareyn, displayed their various talents before the astonished eyes of the heroes. Some there were who lifted great stones bigger than themselves, and threw them as far as the eye could reach, then by swiftness attained the goal before the stone they threw! Others rooted up great pine-trees, and broke them across as sticks. Others did feats of tilting and horsemanship, and others danced and leapt till the knights were lost in wonder at their agility and strength. Lareyn now called his guests in to dine; and all manner of costly dishes were set before them, arranged with greater care and taste than Theodoric was used to in his own palace, while sweet-voiced minstrels sang, and nimble Norgs danced. In the midst of the repast, Simild, summoned by Lareyn, entered the hall, attended by a train of five hundred choicely-robed Norginnen; her own attire a very wonder of art. It was all of silk and down, and set off with ornaments of jewellery beyond compare with any on earth; stones there were of value enough to ransom three kingdoms; and in her coronet one which lighted up the hall with its radiance--meet crown of her own loveliness! At Lareyn's courteously worded request she gave all the guests a joyful welcome, with a word of praise from her rosy lips for each, for their fame of knightly deeds. But when she saw Dietlieb her joy knew no bounds; they embraced each other with the heartfelt joy of those who have been long and cruelly separated. "Tell me, sister mine," said Dietlieb, anxiously turning to account the brief opportunity her embrace gave him of whispering into her ear, "is it of your own will that you are here, in this strange mountain dwelling? is this Lareyn dear to you? and do you desire to dwell with him? Or has his artifice been hateful to you? Say, shall I rid you of his presence?" "Brother, it is your help I need to decide this thing," replied the maid. "Against Lareyn's mildness I have no word to say: gift upon gift has been heaped upon me; with honour after honour have I been endowed; and every wish of mine is fulfilled ere it is born. But when I think of Him of whom all our pleasures are the bounty, I feel no pleasure in pleasures so bestowed. This pagan folk holds Christ, our dear Lord, in hate--and when I think of Him, I long to be again in Christendom [36]." "Yes, Simild, sister dear, in Christendom is your place, not here; and since such is your mind, cost what it will, I will set you free from the Norg-king's power," was Dietlieb's answer; and there was no time for more, for Lareyn called them back to the fresh-dressed banquet. "Come, new allies but trusted friends!" cried the dwarf, "come, and let us be merry, and pledge our troth in the ruby bowl! Lay aside your heavy arms and armour, your sword and shield. Let us be light and free as brothers together." As he spoke a whole host of waiting-men appeared, who helped the knights off with their armour, and brought them robes of rich stuffs and costly work. The guests suffered them to do their will, for they were lost in admiration at the choice banquet; at the table, all of ivory inlaid with devices of birds and game so lifelike they seemed to skim across the board; at the vessels of silver and gold and crystal of untiring variety of design; and, above all, at the order and harmony with which all was directed. Cool wine from cellars under earth was now served round [37]; then various dishes in constant succession, each rarer than the last; and then again sounded soft, clear voices to the accompaniment of the harmonious strings. And again and again the tankards were filled up with Lautertrank, Moras [38], and wine. At last the tables were drawn away, and at the same time Simild and her maids withdrew; but many an hour more the guests sat while the music and the singing continued to charm them. But lest even this should weary, King Lareyn, as if determined there should be no end to the change of pastimes with which he had undertaken to amuse his guests, sent to fetch a certain conjuror who dwelt in the heart of a high mountain, and whose arts surpassed any thing that had been done before. The magician came at his bidding, and exhibited surprising evidences of his craft, till at last the king said,-- "You are a cunning man, no doubt, but there is one exhibition of your power you have never been able to give me, and I shall think nothing of your art till you can satisfy me. In this country within the mountains, these jewels fixed in vault, wall, and sky, weary one with their perpetual glare. Make them to move as the luminaries of earth, so that we may have calm, peaceful night for repose." "True, O king! I have never before been able to accomplish this desire," replied the magician; "but now I have acquired this art also, and waited for a fitting occasion to make the first display of the same." "No occasion can be more fitting than the present," answered Lareyn, "when by its inauguration you shall celebrate the visit of my honoured guests, and also by its achievement afford them that rest from the glare of day to which they are accustomed in their own nights." "I desire but to obey," replied the magician; and forthwith he threw on to the fire that burnt on a black stone before him, a powder which no sooner touched the flame than a pale blue smoke arose with pleasing scent, and, curling through the hall, presently extinguished the brilliant shining of every countless jewel with which the walls and roof were set. "Now, if you are master of your art," continued the king, "let us have light once more." The magician, wrapt in his incantation, spoke not, but dropped another powder on the flame, which at once sent up a wreathing fume of rainbow hues, carrying back to every precious stone its lustre. "Wondrous!" "Brave artist!" "Wondrous show indeed!" were the exclamations which broke spontaneously from every lip. "Now let it be dark again," said the king; and the magician quenched the sparkling light as before. "Now light," he cried; and so alternated until the sight was no longer new. Now, it was dark, and this time Lareyn called no more for light, nor spoke, and the silence was long; till the heroes grew anxious, and Wittich turned to where Wolfhart had sat, and said, "I like not this: who knows but that while we can see naught the Norgs may fall upon us and destroy us?" But Wolfhart answered not, for a stupor had fallen upon him that the fumes had been gifted to convey; and Wittich, too, felt their influence before he could utter another word; so it was with Hildebrand the Sage no less. Theodoric only had time to answer, "Such treachery were not princely; and if Lareyn means harm to us, he may be sure he will rue this day," and then sleep fell upon him as on the others. Dietlieb had already left the hall, thinking under cover of the darkness to find his sister, but being met by a page had been conducted to his apartment, and knew nothing of what had befallen the others. Lareyn, meanwhile, sought out Simild in anxious mood. "Ever lovely virgin!" he exclaimed, "support me with your prudent counsel in this strait. I have already told you how your people have avenged on me that I have loved you; how they have laid low my silken fence and golden gates, and wasted my choice garden of roses. Good reprisals I had thought to have taken, and had I been left man to man against them I had overcome them all; but Hildebrand the Sage interposed his advice: it was thus the Bernäre had the advantage over me, and had it not been for your brother Dietlieb's stout defence, he had even taken my life. But in all the other four beside him there is no good, and in one way or another I had found means to rid me of them, but for Dietlieb's sake, who would be as ready to oppose me in their defence as he opposed Dietrich in mine. So, fair lady mine, say how shall I end this affair?" "If you would follow my advice," replied Simild, "be not rash; and, above all, use no treachery; keep to the pact of peace that you have sworn; and be sure the Christian knights will not go back from their plighted word. But in place of the little girdle of twelve-men's-strength that they took from you, here is a ring of equal power which your seven magicians welded for me: with that you will feel all your old consciousness of strength and dignity. But, by all you hold dear, let the wigands go forth with honour!" Lareyn was not slow to own that the counsel was good, and spoke as if he would have followed it. But when he put on the ring, and found himself endowed once more with twelve men's strength, he could not forbear taking his sweet revenge for his yesterday's defeat and danger. First, he had sevenfold bolts put on Dietlieb's door, that he might not be able to come forth and aid his brethren; and then he sent and called for one of the giants, who were always true allies to the dwarfs, and entreated him to carry the heroes to a deep dungeon below the roots of the mountains, where they should be bound, and shut out from the light of day, and never again be able to do him harm. The feat pleased the giant well; and, having bound a cord round the waist of each of the sleeping heroes, slung the four over his shoulder as if they had been no heavier than sparrows, and carried them to the dungeon below the roots of the mountains, whither Lareyn led the way, now skipping, now dancing, now singing, now laughing in high glee, to think how well he had succeeded in ridding him of his foes--but forgetting all about Simild's advice, and his promise to her. It was not till next morning that the heroes woke; and then all was cold and dark around them, and they knew they were no longer in the hall of the banquet, for the iron chains and stanchions, the chill, and must, and damp, and slime, told them they were in a dungeon under earth. Loudly they all exclaimed against the deceit with which they had been caught, and loudly they all swore to find means to punish the treacherous captor. But Theodoric's anger was greater than the anger of them all; and the fiery breath [39] glowed so hot within him that it scorched away the bonds with which he was bound! Once more, then, his hands at least were free, and his companions gave him joy; but his feet were still held to the rock by chains of hard steel, the links as thick as a man's arm. Nevertheless, his indignation was so great that when he beat them with his fists they were obliged to yield, as they had been made of egg-shell; and when he had broken his own chains he set to work and released the others also. Great was their joy and thankfulness; but heaviness came down on them again when they saw themselves closed in by the cruel rock, and all their armour and weapons of defence locked up far away from them in the Norg's castle. Another day they lay there in despair, and another, for wise Hildebrand saw no way of passing through the rock [40]. Meantime Simild had grown uneasy at the silence that reigned in the palace; there was no more sound of revel and festivity, and of entertaining guests. She was no more sent for to entertain them, and Lareyn hid himself from her, and avoided her. In dire fear she hunted out the right key of her brother's apartment, and having covered the glowing carbuncle in her coronet, which lighted up every place, crept along silently till she had reached him. "Sister mine!" exclaimed Dietlieb, "what does this mean? why am I held fast by seven locks? and why do no tidings of my companions reach me? Oh! had I but my sword and shield, I would release them from the hands of Lareyn, and of how many Norgs soever he may have at his command! or at least I would not survive to bear the shame of living while they are in I know not what plight." "Dietlieb, be guided by me," replied the maiden: "we must deliver them out of the dire dungeon in which Lareyn has treacherously confined them, but also we must have your life and honour safe. Take this ring upon your hand, for against him who wears it none can prevail; and then go and deliver your companions." With that she took him along to where his armour lay concealed; and having girt him with it, she said many a fervent blessing [41] over him, to preserve him from harm. Endowed with the strength the ring gave him, Dietlieb was able to load himself with the arms and armour of all the four heroes; and at its command a way was made in the rock, through which he passed it in to them. As each piece fell upon the hard floor, the clang re-echoed through the far-off mountains. Lareyn heard the noise, and knew what had befallen, so he sounded on his horn the note that was known far and wide through all the lands of the Norgs; and at the call three hundred thousand dwarfs appeared swarming over the whole face of the country. "To me, my men! to me!" cried Lareyn, as they drew near. "Before you stands he who has essayed to release our enemies whom I and the giant had bound under the roots of the mountains. He has given them back their strong armour and their weapons of war, and if they get loose and come among us, great havoc will they make of us, therefore smite him down and destroy him!" The dwarfs rushed on Dietlieb at the bidding of the king; but Lareyn would not engage him himself, because he had fought for his release. Dietlieb, young and strong, stood planted against a vault of the rock, and as the mannikins approached him, he showered his blows upon them, and sent them sprawling, till the dead and mangled were piled up knee-deep around him. The heroes heard the sound of the battle in their prison, and they longed to take their part in the fray; but they saw no means of breaking through the rock to reach him, till Hildebrand bethought him that he had yet with him the girdle he had picked up when Theodoric tore it from the Norg-king's body. This he now handed to the hero. Theodoric took it, and spoke not for joy, but with its strength tore down the living rock round the opening Dietlieb's ring had made, and burst his way to stand beside the brave young Steieräre. This done, scorning the girdle's strength, he cast it back to Hildebrand, trusting in his good sword alone. "Now, treacherous dwarf, come on!" he cried. "No knightly troth has bound you, but against us, your guests and allies, you have acted as one who has no right to live! Come here, and let me give you the guerdon you have earned!" Lareyn refused not; and the two fought with fury terrible to behold. And yet Theodoric prevailed not. Then Hildebrand discerned the ring of twelve-men's-strength on Lareyn's hand, where it was not before, and knew it was a talisman, so he called to Theodoric, and said,-- "Dietrich, my prince, seize yonder ring upon the Norg-king's hand! so shall his strength be no more increased by the powers of his magic." Theodoric, ever prone to be guided by the advice of the Sage, directed a mighty blow upon the ring, so that the hoop must fain give way; and the dwarf's power went from him. "Now all your hosts, and all your arts, and all your gold shall profit you nothing more!" So cried the Bernäre; "but condign penalties you must suffer for your crime. My prisoner you are, nor is there any can deliver you more." The Norgs, grieving for their king's loss, trooped round Theodoric and attacked him on every side; but he swang his good sword Velsungen around, and at every sweep a hundred Norg's heads fell pattering at his feet. Suddenly a little dwarf came running out from the mountain rock, and seizing Lareyn's horn, blew on it notes which wandered wild through all the forest-trees. Five giants lived in the forest, and when they heard those notes they knew the Norgs were in dire distress. With swift strides they came; their helmets flashed like lightning over the tops of the pines; and each brought his sword and pike of trenchant steel. The little dwarf saw his brethren mown down like grass before the scythe, and again sent forth his far-sounding notes of distress. The giants heard it, and marched over hill and dale, till they came before the mountain-side. Again the little dwarf sent out his appeal, and the giants burst their way through the mountain; but albeit they came with such speed, twelve thousand Norgs were meantime lost to King Lareyn by Velsungen's strokes. Dietlieb and Hildebrand, Wittich and Wolfhart mowed down their harvest too. Now they had to prepare for another kind of attack, for in fearful array the five giants came down upon them, brandishing their clubs of steel. But neither could these stand before the swords of the heroes, and each several one laid low his adversary. When the Norgs saw that their king was bound, and their best fighting-men destroyed, and the giants themselves without breath, they knew they could stand no longer before the wigands, but each turned him and fled for refuge to the mountains. The heroes then, seeing no more left to slay, went into the banquet-hall, where only Simild stood, for all the Norgs had hidden themselves in fear. "Welcome, noble brother! and welcome, bold swords all!" cried the maid; "you have delivered us from this treacherous king. Now you will go home to your own land with glory and honour, and take me with you." The heroes returned her greeting, and rejoiced in her praise; then they piled up the treasure on to waggons, all they could carry, and in triumph they made their way to earth, and Lareyn with them, bound. First they directed their steps to Styria, till they came to the spreading linden-tree whence Simild had first been taken; for there sat Duke Biterolf, her father, bewailing his bereavement, and around him trooped her maidens lamenting their companion. All was restored to joy and gladness now that Simild was at home again. They passed seven days in high festival, the heroes all together; and many a time they had to tell the tale of their bold deeds, and the wonders of the mountain-world. And the minstrels sang to the merits of the conquerors, while the merry bowl passed round and round. At last Theodoric rose and thanked Biterolf for his hospitality, who thanked him in return right heartily for the help he had lent his son. With that Theodoric took his leave, and along with him went Hildebrand the Sage, and Wittich the Wigand, and the strong Wolfhart, and King Lareyn too, of whom Theodoric made his court-fool in his palace at Verona. THE NICKEL [42] OF THE RÖHRERBÜCHEL. From the fourteenth to the sixteenth, in some few places down to the seventeenth, centuries the mountains of Tirol were in many localities profitably worked in the search after the precious metals; many families were enriched; and the skill of the Tirolese miners passed into a proverb throughout Europe. When the veins lying near the surface had been worked out, the difficulty of bringing the machinery required for deeper workings into use, in a country whose soil has nowhere three square miles of plain, rendered the further pursuit so expensive that it was in great measure abandoned, though some iron and copper is still got out. There are many old shafts entirely deserted, and their long and intricate passages into the bowels of the earth not only afford curious places of excursion to the tourist, but are replete with fantastic memories of their earlier destination. One of the most remarkable of these is the so-called Röhrerbüchel, which is situated between Kitzbühl and St. Johann, and not far from the latter place. It was one of the most productive and one of the latest worked, and it boasted of having the deepest shaft that had ever been sunk in Europe; but for above a hundred and fifty years it has been taub [43], that is, deaf, to the sound of the pick and the hammer and the voices of the Knappen [44]. I have given you my way of accounting for the cessation of the mining-works. The people have another explanation. They say that the Bergmännlein, or little men of the mountains--the dwarfs who were the presiding guardians of these mineral treasures--were so disgusted with the avarice with which the people seized upon their stores, that they refused to lend them their help any more, and that without their guidance the miners were no longer able to carry on their search aright, and the gnomes took themselves off to other countries. One of these little men of the mountains, however, there was in the Röhrerbüchle who loved his ancient house too well to go forth to seek another; he still lingered about the mile-long clefts and passages which once had been rich with ore, and often the peasants heard him bewailing, and singing melancholy ditties, over his lonely fate. They even thought he came out sometimes to watch them sadly in their companionship of labour, and peeped through their windows at them in their cosy cottages, while it was cold and dark where he stood without: and many there were who took an interest in the Nickel of the Röhrerbüchel. The Goigner Jössl [45] had been mowing the grassy slope near the opening of the Röhrerbüchl; he was just putting up his implements to carry home after his day's toil, when he espied the orphan Aennerl [46] coming towards him. Her dark eyes had met his before that day, and he never met her glance without a thrill of joy. "I have been over to Oberndorf for a day's work," said orphan Aennerl, "and as I came back I thought I would turn aside this way, and see how you were getting on; and then we can go home together." "So we will," answered Jössl; "but we're both tired, and the sun isn't gone yet--let's sit down and have a bit of talk before we go." Orphan Aennerl was nothing loath; and they sat and talked of the events of the day, and their companions, and their work, and the weather, and the prospects of the morrow. But both seemed to feel there was something else to be said, and they sat on, as not knowing how to begin. At last Jössl removed his pointed hat from his head and laid it by his side, and took out and replaced the jaunty feathers which testified his prowess in the holiday sport [47], and finally cleared his throat to say, softly,-- "Is this not happiness, Aennerl?--what can we want more in this world? True, we work hard all day, but is not our toil repaid when we sit together thus, while the warm evening sun shines round us, and the blue heaven above and the green fields below smile on us, and we are together? Aennerl, shall we not be always happy together?" They were the very words that orphan Aennerl had so often longed to hear her Jössl say. Something like them she had repeated to herself again and again, and wondered if the happy day would ever come when she should hear them from his own lips. Had he said them to her any day of her whole life before, how warmly would she have responded to them! To-day, however, it was different. The rich peasant's wife for whom the poor orphan worked had been harsh to her that day, and for the first time envious thoughts had found entrance into her mind, and discontent at her lowly lot. So, instead of assenting warmly, she only said,-- "Of course it's very nice, Jössl, but then it's only for a little bit, you see. The hard toil lasts all day, nevertheless. Now to have a Hof [48] of one's own, like the one I work upon at Oberndorf, with plenty of cattle, and corn, and servants to work for you, that's what I should call being happy! Sitting together in the sunset is all very well, but we might have that besides." The good, hard-working, thrifty, God-fearing Jössl looked aghast to hear his Aennerl speak so. Beyond his day's wage honestly worked for, and the feather in his Trutzhut bravely contended for, and his beloved Aennerl wooed with tenderness and constancy--he had not a thought or a wish in the wide world. Hitherto her views had been the counterpart of his; now, for the first time, he perceived there was something had come between them, and he felt disappointed and estranged. "If that's your view, Aennerl girl, it isn't the Goigner Jössl that will be able to make you happy," replied the youth at length, coldly; "your best chance would be with the Nickel of the Röhrerbüchel," he added, almost bitterly, as one who would say, Your case is desperate; you have no chance at all. "What was that?" said Aennerl, suddenly starting. "Who can be working so late? Don't you hear a pick go 'click, clack'? Who can it be?" "No one is working at this hour," replied Jössl, in no mood to be pleased at the interruption. But as he spoke the bells of the villages around toned forth the Ave-Maria. Both folded their hands devoutly for the evening prayer; and in the still silence that ensued he could not deny that he heard the sound of the pick vigorously at work, and that, as it seemed, under the ground directly beneath their feet. "It is the Bergmännlein--it must be the Bergmännlein himself!" exclaimed Aennerl, with excitement. "Nonsense! what silly tales are you thinking of?" replied Jössl, inwardly reproaching himself for the light words he had just spoken suggesting the invocation of a superstition with which his honest, devout nature felt no sympathy; and, without letting the excited girl exert herself to catch the strange sounds further, he led her home. Aennerl's curiosity was roused, however, and was not to be so easily laid to rest. The next evening Jössl's work lay in a different direction, but no sooner had the hour of the evening rest arrived than he started on the road to Oberndorf, to see if he could meet his Aennerl coming home. But there was no Aennerl on the path; and he turned homewards with a heavy heart, fearing lest he had offended her, and that she was shunning him. But Aennerl, whom the desire of being rich had overcome with all the force of a new passion, had been more absorbed on that last memorable evening by the idea of having heard the Bergmännlein at work amid the riches of the mines than with--what would have been so terrible a grief at any other time--having offended her faithful Jössl. Accordingly, on the next evening, instead of being on the look-out for Jössl to walk home with her, her one thought had been to find out the same place on the bank where they had sat--not with loving affection to recall the happy words she had heard there, but to listen for the sound of the Bergmännl's axe, and perhaps follow it out; and then--and then--who could tell what might befall? Perhaps she might be able to obtain some chips of those vast wealth-stores unperceived; perhaps the Bergmännl's heart might be opened to her--who could say but, in some mode or other, it might be the way to fortune? She was not long in tracing out the spot, for she had marked the angle which the well-known outline of the mighty Sonnengebirg bore to the jagged "comb [49]" of the Kitzbichler-Horn, and for a nearer token, there lay, just before her, the crushed wild-flower which her Jössl had twisted and torn in his nervousness as he had brought himself to speak to her for the first time of their future. But she thought not of all that at that time; she was only concerned to find the spot, and to listen for the stroke of the Nickel's pickaxe. "Hush!" that was it again, sure enough! She lingers not on that happy bank; she stops not to pick up one of those wild-flower tokens: 'click, clack,' goes the axe, and that is the sound to guide her steps. The village bells sound the Ave-Maria, but the sacred notes arrest her not--the evening prayer is forgotten in the thirst for gold. But Jössl heard the holy sound as he was retracing his steps mournfully from his fruitless search after her, having missed her by but a minute's interval. He heard it as he was passing a little old, old wayside chapel, which you may yet see, with a lordly pine-tree overshadowing it, and which records the melancholy fate of some Knappen who perished in the underground workings. Jössl, who has no fear on the steep mountain-side, and loves to hang dangerously between earth and sky when he is out after the chamois, shudders when he thinks of those long, dark, mysterious passages where the miners worked underground, and, as he kneels on the stone step of that wayside memorial, obedient to the village-bell, involuntarily applies his prayer to all those who have to penetrate those strange recesses: "Be with them; help them now and in the hour of death. Amen." If you had told him his Aennerl was included in that prayer he would not have believed you then. Meantime Aennerl had found her way to the opening of the old mine. It has a lateral shaft through which you may walk some distance--a very long way it seemed to Aennerl, now breathless and trembling, but the nearing sounds of the Bergmännl's tool kept up her courage, and determined her not to give in till she had attained the goal. On she went, groping her way with fear and trembling, and expecting every moment to come upon some terrible sight. But, far from this, in proportion as she got deeper into the intricate passages of the Röhrerbüchel, the way, instead of getting darker, grew lighter and lighter. A pale, clear, rosy light played on the sides of the working, which, now that she looked at them close, she found to her astonishment were not made of rough, yellow clay, as she had thought hitherto, but of pure, sparkling gold, and encrusted with gems! It was no longer fear that palsied her, it was a fascination of delight at finding herself in the midst of those riches she coveted, but the near approach of which brought back misgivings of the danger of their possession of which she had so often heard, though without ever previously feeling an application to herself in the warning. Her curiosity far too strongly stimulated to yield to the counsel of her conscience to turn and flee the temptation, she walked stealthily on and on, till the faint, rosy light grew into a red, radiant glow, which, as she reached its focus, quite dazzled her senses. She now found herself in a broad and lofty clearing, into which the long narrow passage she had so long been timorously pursuing ran, and in the sides of which she saw the openings of many other similar ramifications. The walls, which arched it in overhead and closed it from the daylight, were of gold and silver curiously intermixed, burnished resplendently, and their brilliance so overcame her that it was some minutes before she could recover her sight to examine more particularly the details of this magnificent abode. Then she discovered that all this blaze of light came from one huge carbuncle [50], and that carbuncle was set in the breast-bib of the leathern apron worn by a dwarf, the clang of whose pickaxe had lured her to the uncanny spot. The dwarf was much too busily and too noisily engaged to notice Aennerl's footsteps, so she had plenty of leisure to examine him. He was a little awkward-shaped fellow, nearly as broad as he was long, with brawny muscular arms which enabled him to wield his pick with tremendous effect. He seemed, however, to be wielding it merely for exercise or sport, for there did not appear to be any particular advantage to be gained from his work, which only consisted in chipping up a huge block of gold, and there were heaps on heaps of such chips already lying about. Though his muscles displayed so much strength, however, his face gave you the idea of a miserable, worn-out old man; his cheeks were wrinkled and furrowed and bronzed; and the matted hair of his head and beard was snowy white. As he worked he sang, in dull, low, unmelodious chant, to which his pick beat time,-- "The weary Bergmännl, old and grey, Sits alone in a cleft of the earth for aye, With never a friend to say, 'Good day.' For a thousand years, and ten thousand more, He has guarded earth's precious silver store, Keeping count of her treasures of golden ore By the light of the bright Karfunkelstein [51], The only light of the Bergmännlein But never a friend to say, 'Good day,' As he sits in a cleft of the earth for aye, Has the lonely Bergmännl, old and grey!" He had poured out his ditty many times over while Aennerl stood gazing at the strange and gorgeous scene. The ugly, misshapen, miserable old man seemed altogether out of place amid the glories of the wonderful treasure-house; and the glittering treasures themselves in turn seemed misplaced in this remote subterranean retreat. Aennerl was quite puzzled how to make it all out. It was the Nickel of the Röhrerbüchel who was before her, she had no doubt of that, for he was exactly what the tradition of the people had always described him, and she had heard his ungainly form described before she could speak; so familiar he seemed, indeed, from those many descriptions, that it took away great part of the fear natural to finding herself in so novel a situation. At last the dwarf suddenly stopped his labour, and, as if in very weariness, flung the tool he had been using far from him, so that it fell upon a heap of gold chips near which Aennerl was standing, scattering them in all directions. One of the sharp bits of ore hit her rudely on the chin, and, anxious as she was to escape observation, she could not suppress a little cry of pain. Old and withered and haggard as he seemed, the Cobbold's eye glittered with a light only second to that of the Karfunkelstein itself at the sound of a maiden's voice, and quickly he turned to seize her. Aennerl turned and fled, but the Nickel, throwing his leathern apron over the shining stone on his breast, plunged the whole place in darkness, and Aennerl soon lost her footing among the unevennesses of the way and lay helpless on the ground. Her pursuer, to whom every winding had been as familiar as the way to his pocket these thousand years, was by her side in a trice, still singing, as he came along,-- "But never a friend to say, 'Good day,' As he sits in a cleft of the earth for aye, Has the lonely Bergmännl, old and grey!" The self-pitying words, and the melancholy tone in which they were uttered, changed most of Aennerl's alarm into compassion; and when the dwarf uncovered the carbuncle again, and the bright, warm red light played once more around them, and showed up the masses of gold after which she had so longed, she began to feel almost at home, so that when the dwarf asked her who she was and what had brought her there, she answered him quite naturally, and told him all her story. "To tell you the truth," said the Cobbold, when she had finished, "I am pretty well tired of having all this to myself. I was very angry at one time, it is true, with the way in which your fellows went to work destroying and carrying every thing away, and leaving nothing for those that are to come after, and I was determined to put a stop to it. I am not here to look after one generation, or two, or three, but for the whole lot of you in all the ages of the world, and I must keep things in some order. But now they have given this place up and left me alone, I confess I feel not a little sorry. I used to like to listen to their busy noises, and their songs, and the tramp of their feet. So, if you've a mind to make up for it, and come and sit with me for a bit now and then, and sing to me some of the lively songs you have in your world up there, I don't say I won't give you a lapful of gold now and then." A lapful of gold! what peasant girl would mind sitting for a bit now and then, and singing to a poor lonely old fellow, to be rewarded with a lapful of gold? Certainly not Aennerl! Too delighted to speak, she only beamed assent with her dark, flashing eyes, and clapped her hands and laughed for joy. "It's many a day since these walls have echoed a sound like that," said the dwarf, with deep feeling, and as Aennerl's smile rested on him, it seemed to wipe away some of the rough dark wrinkles that furrowed his cheeks and relax the tension of his knit brows. "And yet there's more worth in those echoes than in all the metallic riches which resound to them! Yes, my lass, only come and see the poor old Bergmännl sometimes, and cheer him a bit, and you shall have what you will of his." With that he led her gently back into the great vault where she had first seen him working, and, stirring up a heap with his foot, said,-- "There, lass, there's the Bergmännl's store; take what you will--it is not the Bergmännl that would say nay to a comely wench like you. Why, if I were younger, and a better-looking fellow, it would not be my lapfuls of gold I should offer you, it would be the whole lot of it--and myself to boot! No, no, I shouldn't let you go from me again: such a pretty bird does not come on to the snare to be let fly again, I promise you! But I'm old and grey, and my hoary beard is no match for your dainty cheeks. But take what you will, take what you will--only come and cheer up the poor old Bergmännl a bit sometimes." Aennerl had not wanted to be told twice. Already she had filled her large pouch and her apron and her kerchief with all the alacrity of greed. So much occupied was she with stowing away the greatest possible amount of the spoil, that she scarcely remembered to thank the Bergmännl, who, however, found pleasure enough in observing the rapturous gestures her good fortune elicited. "You'll come again?" said the Cobbold, as he saw her turn to go when she had settled her burden in such a way that its weight should least impede her walking. "Oh, yes, never fear, I'll come again! When shall I come?" "Oh, when you will! Let's see, to-day's Saturday, isn't it? Well, next Saturday, if you like." "Till next Saturday, then, good-bye!" said Aennerl, panting only to turn her gold to account; and so full was she of calculation of what she would do with it, that she never noticed the poor old dwarf was coming behind her to light her, and singing, as he went,-- "The weary Bergmännl, old and grey, Sits alone in a cleft of the earth for aye, With never a friend to say, 'Good day.' For a thousand years, and ten thousand more, He has guarded earth's precious silver store, Keeping count of her treasures of golden ore By the light of the bright Karfunkelstein, The only light of the Bergmännlein. But never a friend to say, 'Good day,' As he sits in a cleft of the earth for aye, Has the lonely Bergmännl, old and grey!" Aennerl had no time for pity; she was wholly absorbed in the calculation of the grand things she could now buy, the fine dresses she would be able to wear, and in rehearsing the harsh speeches of command with which she would let fling at the girls whom she would take into her service, and who yesterday were the companions-in-labour of orphan Aennerl. The village was all wrapt in silence and sleep as Aennerl got back with her treasure. "So late, and so laden! poor child!" said the parish priest, as he came out of a large old house into the lane, and met her. "I have been commending to God the soul of our worthy neighbour Bartl. He was open-handed in his charity, and the poor will miss a friend; he gave us a good example while he lived--Aennerl, my child, bet' für ihn [52]." Aennerl scarcely returned his greeting, nor found one word of sorrow to lament the loss of the good old Bartl; for one thought had taken possession of her mind at first hearing of his death. Old Bartl had a fine homestead, and one in which all was in good order; but Bartl was alone in the world, there was no heir to enter on his goods: it was well known that he had left all to the hospital, and the place would be sold. What a chance for Aennerl! There was no homestead in the whole Gebiet [53] in such good order, or so well worth having, as the Hof of old Bartl. Aennerl already reckoned it as hers, and in the meantime kept an eye open for any chances of good stock that might come into the market. Nor were chances wanting. The illness which had carried old Bartl to the grave had been caught at the bedside of the Wilder Jürgl [54]. A fine young man he had been indeed, but the villagers had not called him "Wild" without reason; and because he had loved all sorts of games, and a gossip in the tavern, and a dance with the village maids more than work, all he had was in confusion. He always said he was young, and he would set all straight by-and-by, there was plenty of time. But death cut him off, young as he was; and his widow found herself next morning alone in the world, with three sturdy boys to provide for, all too young to earn a crust, and all Jürgl's debts to meet into the bargain. There was no help for it: the three fine cows which were the envy of the village, and which had been her portion at her father's death, only six months before, must be sold. Aennerl was the purchaser. Once conscience reproached her with a memory of the days long gone by, when she and that young widow were playmates, when orphan Aennerl had been taken home from her mother's grave by that same widow's father, and the two children had grown up in confidence and affection with each other. "Suppose I left her the cows and the money too?" mused Aennerl--but only for a moment. No; had they been any other cows, it might have been different--but just those three which all the village praised! one which had carried off the prize and the garland of roses at the last cow-fight [55], and the others were only next in rank. That was a purchase not to be thrown away. Still she was dissatisfied with herself, and inclined to sift her own mind further, when she was distracted by the approach of loud tramping steps, as of one carrying a burden. It was the Langer Peterl; and a goodly burden he bore, indeed--a burden which was sure to gather round him all the people of Reith, or any other place through which he might pass. Aennerl laughed and clapped her hands. "Oh, Peterl, you come erwünscht [56]!" she exclaimed. "Show me what you have got to sell--show me all your pretty things! I want an entirely new rig-out. Make haste! show me the best--the very best--you have brought." "Show you the best, indeed!" said the Langer Peterl, scarcely slackening his pace, and not removing the pipe from his mouth; for hitherto he had only known the orphan Aennerl by her not being one of his customers. "Show you the best, indeed, that what you can't buy you may amuse yourself with a sight of! And when you've soiled it all with your greasy fingers, who'll buy it, d'you suppose? A likely matter, indeed! Show you the best! ha! ha! ha! you don't come over me like that, though you have got a pair of dark eyes which look through into a fellow's marrow!" "Nonsense, Peterl!" replied Aennerl, too delighted with the thought of the finery in prospect even to resent the taunt; "I don't want to look at it merely--not I, I can tell you! I want to buy it--buy it all up--and pay you your own price! Here, look here, does this please you?" and she showed him a store of gold such as in all his travels he had never seen before. "Oh, if that's your game," said the long Peter, with an entirely changed manner, "pick and choose, my lady, pick and choose! Here are silks and satins and laces, of which I've sold the dittos to real ladies and countesses; there are----" "Oh, show me the dittos of what real ladies and countesses have bought!" exclaimed Aennerl, with a scream of delight; and the pedlar, who was not much more scrupulous than others of his craft, made haste to display his gaudiest wares, taking care not to own that it was seldom enough his pack was lightened by the purchases of a "real lady." To have heard him you would have thought his dealings were only with the highest of the land. But it needed only to say, "This is what my lady the Countess of Langtaufers wears," "This is what my lady the Baronin Schroffenstein bought of me," for Aennerl to buy it at the highest price the Long Peter's easy conscience could let him extort; and, indeed, had he not felt a certain commercial necessity for reserving something to keep up his connexion with his ordinary customers on the rest of his line of route, orphan Aennerl would have bought up all that was offered her under these pretences, and without stopping to consider whether the materials or colours were well assorted, or whether such titles as those with which the pedlar dazzled her understanding existed at all! The next day was a village festival in Reith. And the quiet people of Reith thought the orphan Aennerl had gone fairly mad when they saw at church the extravagant figure she cut in her newly-acquired finery; for, in her hurry to display it, she had in one way and another piled her whole stock of purchases on her person at once. A showy skirt embroidered with large flowers of many colours, and trimmed with deep lace, was looped up with bright blue ribbons and rosettes over a petticoat of violet satin, beneath which another of a brilliant green was to be seen. Beneath this again, you might have descried a pair of scarlet stockings; and on her shining shoes a pair of many-coloured rosettes and shoe-buckles. The black tight-fitting bodice of the local costume was replaced by a kind of scarlet hussar's jacket trimmed with fur, fastened at the throat and waist with brooches which must have been originally designed for a stage-queen. From her ears dangled earrings of Brobdignagian dimensions; and on her head was a hat and feathers as unlike the little hat worn by all in Reith as one piece of head-gear could well be to another. Of course, it did not befit a lady so decked to take the lowly seat which had served the orphan Aennerl; before the Divine office began she had seated herself in the most conspicuous place in the church, so that no one lost the benefit of the exhibition; and it may well be believed that the congregation had no sooner poured out of the sacred building than the appearance of the orphan Aennerl was the one theme of a general and noisy conversation. For some it was a source of envy; for some, of ridicule; for some unsophisticated minds, of simple admiration. But the wiser heads kept silence, or said, in tones of sympathy, "The orphan Aennerl isn't the girl the Goigner Jössl took her for." Jössl had been to church in his own village of Goign, and had therefore been spared the sight, as well as the comments it had elicited. But as he came towards Reith to take his Aennerl for the holiday walk, he noticed many strange bits of hinting in the greetings he received, which puzzled him so, that, instead of going straight on to Aennerl, he sat down on the churchyard wall, pondering what it could all mean. "I wish you joy of your orphan Aennerl!" one had said. "Goigner Jössl, Goigner Jössl, take my advice, and shun the threshold of orphan Aennerl!" were the words of another, and he was an old man and a sage friend too. "Beware, Goigner Jössl, beware!" seemed written on every face he had met--what could it all mean? He wandered forward uncertain, and then back again, then on again, till he could bear it no longer, and he determined to go down to the Wirthshaus beim Stangl, and ask his mates to their face what they all meant. Before he came in sight of the door, however, he changed his resolution. Through the open window he heard noisy talk, and noisiest of all was the voice of the Langer Peterl. Honest Jössl had an invincible antipathy to the wheedling, the gossip, the bluster, and the evil tongue of the Langer Peterl, and he never trusted himself to join his company, for he knew a meeting with him always led to words. Determining to wait till he was gone, he walked about outside, and as there is always a train of waggons waiting at the Wirthshaus am Stangl while the wayworn carters refresh themselves, he could easily remain unperceived. Thus, however, he became unintentionally the hearer of all he desired to know--much more than he desired, I should say. "I tell you, she,--Aennerl would have bought my whole pack if I'd have let her!" vociferated the Langer Peterl; "and I might have saved myself all further tramping, but that I wouldn't disappoint my pretty Ursal, and Trausl, and Moidl, and Marie," he added, in a tone of righteousness. "Buy it, man! you don't mean buy it! She got it out of you one way or another, but you don't mean she bought it, in the sense of paying for it?" "Yes, I do. I say, she paid for it in pure gold!" "No, that won't do!" said other voices; "where could she get gold from?" "Oh, that's not my affair," replied the pedlar, "where she got it from! It wouldn't do for a poor pedlar to ask where his customers get their money from--ha! ha! ha! I'm not such a fool as that! I know the girl couldn't have it rightfully, as well as you do, but it wouldn't do for me to refuse all the money I suspect is not honestly come by--ha! ha! I should then drive a sorry trade indeed!" Jössl's first impulse had been to fly at the Langer Peterl, and, as he would have expressed it, thrust the lie down his throat; but then, he reflected; where had the girl got the money from? what could he say? To dispute it without having means of disproving it was only opening wider the sore; and while he stood dejected and uncertain the conversation went on more animated than before. "I agree with you!" cried, between two whiffs of smoke, an idle Bursch, on whom since the death of the Wilder Jürgl that nickname had descended by common consent. "What right have we to be prying into our neighbour's business? If the girl's got money, why should any one say she hasn't a right to it? She's an uncommon fine girl, I say, and looks a long way better than she did before in her beggarly rags; and a girl that can afford to dress like that is not to be despised, I say." That the speaker had only received the cognomen of Wild after the Wilder Jürgl was only in that he was younger; he had earned the right to it in a tenfold degree. None of the steady lads of either Goign or Reith or Elmau, or any other place in the neighbourhood, would make a friend of him, and that is why he now sat apart from the others smoking in a corner. To be praised and defended by the Wilder Karl was a worse compliment than to be suspected by the steadier ones. The words therefore threw the assembly into some embarrassment for a moment, till the Kleiner Friedl [57], a sworn friend of Jössl, thinking he ought to strike a blow in his defence somewhere, cried out, in a menacing tone,-- "Very well played, Wilder Karl! but I see your game. You think because the girl's got money she's a good chance for you. You think her flaunting way will estrange steady Goigner Jössl, and then you think you may step in between them--and a sorry figure she'd cut two days after you'd had the handling of her! She wouldn't have much finery left then, I'll warrant! The Langer Peterl there would have it all back at half-price, and that half-price would all be in the pocket of our honest Wirth am Stangl. But it's in vain; whatever she is, she'll be true to the Goigner Jössl, I'll warrant--and as for you, she wouldn't look at you!" Wilder Karl rose to his feet, and glared at the Kleiner Friedl with a glance of fury. "I wager you every thing you and I have in the world, that I'll make her dance every dance with me at the Jause [58] this very night!" and he shook his fist with a confident air, for he had a smooth tongue and a comely face, and Aennerl would not have been the first girl these had won over. "That you won't," said the Wirth, coming to Friedl's rescue, who was but a young boy, and had felt rather dismayed at the proposed wager, "for I'm not sure, till all this is cleared up, that I should admit her to the dance. But the difficulty will not arise, for Aennerl herself told my daughter Moidl that now she could wear a lady's clothes it would be impossible for her to come any more to the village dance." Strengthened by the support of the Wirth [59], the Kleiner Friedl felt quite strong again; and he could not forbear exclaiming, "There, I told you there was no chance for you, Wilder Karl!" But Wilder Karl, furious at the disappointing news of the Wirth, and maddened by the invective of the Kleiner Friedl, rushed at the boy head-over-heels, bent on mischief. But Wilder Karl, though a bully and a braggart, inspired no respect, because no feather adorned his hat, and that showed he was no champion of any manly pursuit. So the whole room was on the side of Kleiner Friedl; and the bully having been turned out, and the subject of conversation pretty well exhausted, the Goigner Jössl turned slowly home. Now I don't say that he was right here. He was an excellent young man, endowed in an especial degree with Tirolese virtues. His parents had never had a moment's uneasiness about him; no one in the whole village was more regular or devout at church; in the field none more hard-working or trustworthy; at the village games and dances none acquitted himself better; and had a note of danger to his country sounded in his time I am sure he would have been foremost to take his place among its living ramparts, and that none would have borne out the old tradition of steadfastness more manfully than he. But of course he had his faults too. And one of his faults was the fault of many good people,--the fault of expecting to find every one as good as themselves, of being harsh and unforgiving, of sulking and pining instead of having an open explanation. Now, mind you, I think it would have been much better if Jössl had, after hearing the conversation I have just narrated, gone straight on to Aennerl's, and had it all out with her, had heard from her own lips the truth of the matter about which all Reith and Goign were talking, and judged her out of her own mouth, giving her, if he could not approve her conduct, advice by which she might mend it in the future. But this was not his way. He had thought his Aennerl a model, almost a divinity. He had always treated her as such, talked to her as such, loved her as such. It was clear now, however, that in some way or other she had done wrong. Instead of getting to the bottom of it, and trying to set it straight, he gave himself up to his disappointment and went home and sulked, and refused to be comforted. Aennerl, meantime, knew nothing of all this. She had had a great desire to be a lady and no longer a servant; and having plenty of money, and plenty of fine clothes, she thought this made her a lady, and had no idea but that every one acknowledged the fact. I don't think she exactly wished that all the village should be envious of her, but at all events she wished that she should enjoy all the prerogatives of ladyhood, and this, she imagined, was one. Then she had no parents to teach her better, and Jössl, who might have been her teacher, had forsaken her. But it was all too new and too exciting for her to feel any misgivings yet. She amused herself with turning over all her fine things, and fancied herself very happy. In another day or two the Hof of good neighbour Bartl was put up for sale, and another visit to the Bergmännlein enabled her to become the purchaser. She thus became the most important proprietor in Reith; but she was so little used to importance that she did not at all perceive that the people treated her very differently from the former proprietor of the Hof. Before him every hat was doffed with alacritous esteem due to his age and worth. But poor Aennerl hardly received so much as the old greeting, which in the days of companionship in poverty had always been the token of good fellowship with her, as with every one. It was long before any suspicion that she was mistrusted reached the mind of Aennerl. In the meantime she enjoyed her new condition to the full. Weekly visits to the Röhrerbüchel enabled her to purchase every thing she desired; and when the villagers held back from her, she ascribed their diffidence to the awe they felt for her wealth. In time, however, the novelty began to wear off. She grew tired at last of giving orders to her farm-servants, and watching her sleek cattle, and counting her stores of grain. That Jössl had not been to see her, she never ascribed to any thing but his respect for her altered condition; and she felt that she could not demean herself by being united to a lad who worked for day-wages. Still grandeur began to tire, and her isolation made her proud, and angry, and cross; and then people shunned her still more, and upon that she grew more vexed and angry. But, worse than this, she got even so used to her riches that she quite forgot all about the Nickel to whom she owed them. Her farm was so well stocked that it produced more than her wildest fancies required; she had no need to go back to the Röhrerbüchel to ask for more gold, and she had grown too selfish to visit it out of compassion to the dwarf. The Bergmännlein upon this grew disappointed; but his disappointment was of a different kind from Jössl's. He was not content to sit apart and sulk; he was determined to have his revenge. One bleak October night, when the wind was rolling fiercely down from the mountains, there was a sudden and fearful cry of "Fire!" in the village of Reith. The alarm-bells repeated the cry aloud and afar. The good people rose in haste, and ran into the lane with that ready proffer of mutual help which distinguishes the mountain-folk. The whole sky was illumined, the fierce wind rolled the flames and the smoke hither and thither. It was Aennerl's Hof which was the scene of the devastation. The fire licked up the trees, and the farm, and the rooftree before their eyes. So swift and unnatural was the conflagration that the people were paralyzed in their endeavour to help. One ran for ladders, another for buckets; but before any help could be obtained the whole homestead was but one vast bonfire. Then, madly rushing to the top of the high pointed roof, might be seen the figure of Aennerl clothed only in her white night-dress, and shrieking fearfully, "Save me! save me!" Every moment the roof threatened to fall in, and the agonized beholders watched her and sent up loud prayers, but were powerless to save. Suddenly, on the road from Goign a figure was seen hasting along. It was the Goigner Jössl. Would he be in time? The crowd was silent now, even their prayers were said in silence, for every one gasped for breath, and the voice failed. A trunk of an old branchless tree yet bent over the burning ruins. Jössl had climbed that trunk and was making a ladder of his body by which to rescue Aennerl all frantic from the roof. Will he reach her? Will his arm be long enough? Will he fall into the flame? Will he be overpowered by the smoke? See! he holds on bravely. The smoke rolls above his head, the flames dart out their fierce fangs beneath him! He holds on bravely still. He calls to Aennerl. She is fascinated with terror, and hears him not. "Aennerl! Aennerl!" once more, and his voice reached her, and with it a sting of reproach for her scornful conduct drives her to hide her face from his in shame. "Aennerl! Aennerl!" yet once again; and he wakes her, as from a dream, to a life like that of the past the frenzy had obliterated. She forgets where she is; but the voice of Jössl sounded to her as it sounded in the years gone by, and she obeys it mechanically. She comes within reach--and he seizes her! But the flames are higher now, and the smoke denser and more blinding. "Jesus Maria! where are they? They have fallen into the flames at last! Jesus, erbarme Dich ihrer [60]!" "Hoch! Hoch! Hoch [61]!" shouts the crowd, a minute later. "They are saved, Gott sei dank, they are saved!" and a jubilant cry rings through the valley which the hills take up and echo far and wide. On the edge of the crowd, apart, stands a little misshapen old man with grey, matted hair and beard, whom no one knows, but who has watched every phase of the catastrophe with thrilling emotion. It was he who first raised the cry that they had fallen into the flames; and the people sickened as they heard it, for he spoke it in joy, and not in anguish. In the gladness of the deliverance they have forgotten the old man, but now he shouted once more, as he dashed his hood over his head in a tone of disappointed fury, "I did it! and I will have my revenge yet!" "No; let there be peace," said Jössl, who had deposited Aennerl in safe hands, and now came forth to deal one more stroke for her; "let there be peace, old man, and let bygones be bygones." "Never!" said the Cobbold; "I have said I will have my revenge, and I will have it!" "But," argued Jössl, "have you not had your revenge? All you gave her you have had taken away--she is as she was before: can you not leave her so?" "No!" thundered the dwarf; "I will have the life of her before I've done." "Never!" in his turn shouted Jössl; and he placed himself in front of the elf. "Oh, don't be afraid," replied the dwarf, with a cold sneer, "I'm not going after her. I've only to wait a bit, and she'll come after me." Jössl was inclined to let him go, but remembering the instability of woman, he thought it better to make an end of the tempter there and then. "Will you promise me, that if I let you return to your hole in peace, you will do her no harm should she visit you there again?" "I promise you that I will serve her to the most frightful of deaths--that's what I promise you!" retorted the enraged gnome. "Then your blood be on your own head!" said Jössl, and, with his large hunting-knife drawn in his hand, he placed himself in a menacing attitude before the now alarmed dwarf. Jössl was a determined, powerful youth, not to be trifled with. The gnome trusted to the strength of his muscles, and fled with all his speed; but Jössl, who was a cunning runner too, maintained his place close behind him. The dwarf, finding himself so hotly followed, began to lose his head, and no longer felt so clearly as at first the direction he had to take to reach the Röhrerbüchel. Jössl continued to drive him before him, puzzling him on the zigzags of the path till he had completely lost the instinct of his way of safety. Then, forcing him on as before to the edge of the precipice, he closed upon him where there was no escape. Yes, one escape there was--it was in the floods of the Brandenburger Ache, which roared and boiled away some hundred feet below! Rather than fall ignominiously by the hand of a child of man, the gnome dashed himself, with a fierce shout, down the abyss. And that was the last that was ever seen of the Nickel of the Röhrerbüchel. Aennerl was now poorer than ever in this world's goods, but she was rich in one deep and wholesome lesson--that it is not glittering wealth which brings true happiness. The smiles of honest friends, and the love of a true heart, and the testimony of an approving conscience are not to be bartered away for all the gold in all the mines of the earth. Wilder Karl laughed with his two or three boon companions, and said, with a burst of contempt, "I've no doubt that fool of a Goigner Jössl will marry the orphan Aennerl now that she hasn't a penny to bless herself with!" And the Wilder Karl judged right. Aennerl scarcely dared hope that he could love her still, and she went forth humbly to her work day by day, neither looking to the right hand nor the left, accepting all the hardships and humiliations of her lot as a worthy punishment of her folly and vanity. But one evening as she came home from her toil, the Goigner Jössl came behind her, and he said softly in her ear, "Do you love me still, Aennerl?" "Love you still, Jössl!" cried the girl; "you have thrice given me life--first when I was a poor, heartbroken orphan, and you made me feel there was still some one to live for in the world; and then a second time, in that dreadful fire, when hell seemed to have risen up out of the earth to punish me before the time; and now again this third time, when I began to think my folly had sickened you for good and all! Don't ask me that, Jössl, for you must know I love you more than my life! If I dared, there is one question I should ask you, Can you still love me? but I have no right to ask that." "I must answer you in your own words, Aennerl," replied Jössl: "you must know that I love you more than my life!" "You must, you must--you have shown it!" exclaimed Aennerl. They had reached the bank near the Röhrerbüchel where we first saw them; the rosy light of the sunset, and the scent of the wild flowers, was around them just as on that night. "Yes," said Aennerl, after a pause, as if it were just then that Jössl had said the words [62]--"yes, Jössl, this is happiness; we want nothing more in this world than the warm sun, and the blue sky--and to be together! Yes, Jössl, we shall always be happy together." They walked on together; as they reached the memorial of the dead miners the village bells rang the Ave. And as they knelt down, how heartfelt was Jössl's gratitude that the prayer he had uttered at that spot once before had been so mercifully answered, and his Aennerl restored to him for ever! THE WILDER JÄGER AND THE BARONESS. There was a rich and powerful baron who owned a broad patrimony in South Tirol, Baron di Valle. He was not only one of the richest and most powerful, he was also one of the happiest, for he had the prettiest and most sensible woman of Tirol for his bride. The brief days were all too short for the pleasure they found in each other's society, and they were scarcely ever apart the whole day through. Once, however, the Baron went on a hunting party through a part of the country which was too rough for the Baroness to follow him. The day was splendid, the scent good, and the Baron full of enthusiasm for his favourite sport; but what egged him on more than all these, was the sight of a strange bold hunter who bestrode a gigantic mount, and who dashed through brake and briar, and over hill and rock, as if no obstacle could arrest him. Baron di Valle, who thought he was the boldest hunter of the whole country-side, was quite mad to see himself outdone; nor could he suffer this to be. Determined to outstrip his rival, he spurred his horse on, so that he might but pass him somewhere; but the Wilder Jäger, for it was he, always kept on ahead, and though the brave Baron kept close to his heels, he was never able to pass him by. They had long outstripped all the rest. But all this time the Baron had taken no note of whither he went; now he found himself in the midst of a thick forest of tall fir-trees, with their lower branches cut off because they were planted so thick and close together that there was no room between them, and their tops were intergrown so that they formed one compact mass, excluding the very air and the light of day. The Wild Hunter stopped his mad career before this barrier, and then, turning, pretended for the first time to be aware of the Baron's presence. "What do you want here?" he exclaimed, fiercely, his rolling eyes glaring like fire. "How dare you invade my domain!" and with that he blew a mighty blast on his hunting-horn, at sound of which a whole troop of wild huntsmen, habited like himself, and with similar fiery eyes, appeared suddenly, surrounding the Baron. "Stand back!" cried the Baron, in a commanding tone, as the wild huntsmen dismounted and prepared to seize him. "No one commands here but I," said the Wilder Jäger. And then he added, addressing his men, "Seize him, and carry him off!" "Hold!" said the Count, but speaking more humbly than before, for he saw he must yield something to the necessity of the case; "I suppose there is some ransom upon which you will let me off? I have wronged you in nothing, and meant no offence. I admired your brave riding, and I thought what one brave man might do, another might." "Since you take that tone," said the Wilder Jäger, "I will do what I can for you. I will let you ransom yourself at one price. You must know, that it is not you that I want at all; I only lured you here as a means of getting hold of the Baroness, and had you been uppish and violent, I should have kept you in chains for the rest of your life, while I married her. But as you know how to keep a civil tongue in your head, I will show you that I can appreciate courtesy. So now I give you permission to return, to be yourself the bearer to your wife of my conditions. "Tell her, then, that I have won her for my own, and she belongs irrevocably to me; it is useless that she attempt to escape, for you see that my people are countless, and violence is of no avail against me. But I am a good sort of fellow, and as I love her, I don't want to do any thing to alarm her, so long as she shows no foolish resistance." "But the ransom? You spoke of a ransom just now," interposed the Baron, hastily; "what, about that?" "All in good time," replied the Wilder Jäger--"give a fellow time to speak. The only mode of ransom is this--let the Baroness guess my name. I give her three guesses of three words each, and an interval of a month. But if she doesn't succeed, remember, she is mine! this day month I appear and claim her. If, in the meantime, she thinks she has made the guess, and wants to satisfy herself as to its correctness"--and he laughed a ghastly laugh of scorn, as if to impress the Baron with the hopelessness of the idea--"she has only to come to the ilex grove on the border of this forest which marks the frontier between your territory and mine. If she stands there, beside the centre tree, and blows this horn--see what a pretty little gold horn it is, that I have had studded with diamonds and rubies--just fit for her pretty little fingers!" he added, with a grin of scorn--"at sound of her voice I shall be with her on the instant." The Baron was not one to have tolerated such talk from any human being soever, but he felt the necessity of vanquishing his temper this time--a more difficult matter ordinarily than vanquishing a foe--for a dearer life than his own was at stake; and if he could not altogether save the Baroness from the power of the Wilder Jäger, he could take counsel with her as to the means of finding out the hidden name, and at least spend with her the last days that he could call her his. Accordingly he took the horn, and stuck it in his belt without a word. And indeed no word would have availed him, for the whole troop of the wild huntsmen had vanished as it came, and he was left alone. There was no difficulty in finding his way back by the path by which he had come, for it was plainly marked by the havoc of the surrounding vegetation the wild chase had cost. And though he now put spurs to his steed that he might reach home without losing an hour more than he could help of the companionship of his beloved wife, he now for the first time apprehended how swiftly he had come, for, riding the utmost of mortal speed, it took him three days to get back to the ilex grove which marked the boundary of his own territory. Hence it was still half a day's journey to reach his castle. But while he was yet a great way off his loving wife came out to meet him, full of joy at his approach, for since the rest of the hunt had come home without him she had done nothing but watch from the highest turret of the castle, that she might catch the first sight of him returning; her thirsty eyes had not been slow to discern his figure as he hastened home. Great was her amazement, however, to find that, instead of returning her greeting with his wonted delight, he turned his head away, as if he dared not look at her, and wept. She rode beside him all the way home, but he still kept silence, for he could not bear to render her sorrowful with the message of which he was the bearer. But he could conceal nothing from her loving solicitude, and soon he had told her all. Being a woman of prudent counsel and strong trust in God, she was much less cast down, however, than he had expected. Though bewildered at first, and seeing no way out of the difficulty, she yet declared she was sure some way of escape would be opened to her, it only remained to consider where they should find it. And never a word of angry recrimination did she utter to remind him that it was his mad vanity had brought them to this plight. The Baron felt the full force of this forbearance, for he did nothing but reproach himself with his folly. But the fresh proof of her amiability only occasioned another pang at the thought of the approaching separation. Still no good counsel came to mind, and the Baroness herself began almost to lose heart. The Baron had abandoned the hunt and all his sports, and sat gloomily in the ancient seat of his ancestors. The Baroness sat among the flowers of her oriel window, her embroidery in her hand; but her mind was far away over the tops of the dark green trees, looking for some bright thought to bring deliverance to her from above. Every morning and evening they knelt together in the chapel of the castle, and prayed that a spirit of prudence and counsel might be given them. Ten days had passed, and no good thought had come. The Baron reclined gloomily in the ancient seat of his ancestors, and the lady sat among the flowers of the oriel window gazing over the tops of the high dark fir-trees, full of hope that some wise counsel would be given her. Suddenly she rose and clapped her hands, and her ringing laugh brought the Baron bounding to her side. "I have found it, Heinrich!" she exclaimed; "I am sure I have found the name! Doesn't the Wilder Jäger live among the tall fir-trees?" "Yes; among the tall fir-trees is his dwelling." "And didn't he speak of three names?" "Yes; he said your guess must include three names." "Then I have it, Heinrich! What more natural than that he should be called from the names of the trees which form his palace? As I was gazing over the tops of the high dark trees the words came into my mind, 'Tree, Fir, Pine'--those will be the three words. Come, and let us go out to the ilex grove, and be free to belong to each other as of old!" She was so lively that the Baron caught some spark of her hopefulness, but he was too far sunk in despondency to enter into her joy all at once. Nevertheless, it was not a moment when, if ever, he would have thwarted her, so he ordered the horses to be saddled, for it was still early morning. And they rode together to the ilex grove which was the boundary of the Wilder Jäger's domain; the Baroness striving every minute by some sprightly speech to distract the Baron, and the Baron utterly incapable of rousing himself from his gloomy fears. The Baroness was the first to reach the grove; in fact, she had ridden on a good way in advance, that she might have it out with the Wilder Jäger before her husband came, so that she might greet him on his arrival with the news that she was free. Merrily she sounded the jewelled horn, and before its sound had died away the Wilder Jäger was at her side. He no longer looked dusty, wild, and fierce, as during the Baron's mad chase. He seemed a man of noble presence, carefully dressed in a green hunting-suit, with a powerful bow in his hand, and a beautiful boy to hold his arrows. In his belt was a jewelled hunting-knife of exquisite workmanship, and to a cord across his shoulder hung a golden horn of similar pattern to that he had sent the Baroness, and, moreover, as a further act of gallantry, he wore a scarf of red and white, the favourite colours of the Baroness. A jewelled cap shaded the sun from his brow, which a red and white plume gracefully crested. The Baroness looked astonished to find she had nothing more formidable to meet, and felt that had she not already been the wife of the Baron di Valle, she would not have found it so great a calamity to be obliged to marry the Wilder Jäger. The Wilder Jäger was not slow to perceive that the impression he had produced was good, and bowing towards her with courtly mien, paid her a respectful salutation, and immediately added,-- "Your eyes are so clever, fair Baroness, that I very much fear you are going to pronounce my name, and rob me of the happiness I had so nearly bought! Spare me, therefore, lovely lady--say not the word! but come with me into the shady pine-forest, where you shall have every thing heart can desire--the noblest palace, the widest domain, and unlimited command; retainers without number, pleasures without alloy, and every wish gratified without condition!" He approached her as he spoke. His eyes sparkled no longer with the angry fury which had thrilled the Baron, but with a mild fire of tenderness and devotion. Nothing more attractive and winning than his whole appearance and manner could be conceived, and for a moment the Baroness had almost forgotten the less accomplished--but, oh! more sincere--passion of her Heinrich. It was only for a moment. The weakness passed, she instantly drew herself up with dignity, and stepped back against the friendly ilex. "It was not to hear such words I came," she said, "but to pronounce those which are to free me from ever having to listen to such protestations again----" "Oh, say them not! say them not!" said the Wilder Jäger, throwing himself at her feet. "Any thing but that! Name any wish by fulfilling which I can win your favour; name any difficult task by accomplishing which I can prove myself worthy of your love----" "My love," said the Baroness, striving to speak coldly, "is another's already; you see, there is none to be won from me. But interrupt me no more. I have guessed your name, to discover which was to be the price of my freedom. It is----" The Wilder Jäger clasped her feet in despair, entreating her not to pronounce it, but she went on, with a clear, confident voice, to utter the words,-- "Tree! Fir! Pine!" The Wilder Jäger looked up as if he did not quite understand what she meant. "Now, let go your hold, and let me pass, for I am free!" she said, resolutely. "'Free,' say you?" said the handsome Cobbold, with astonishment. "Free? did you mean you thought that was my unknown name?" "Yes," replied the lady, in a voice of conviction. "Oh, dear, it is nothing like it!" he answered, with glee, and yet not without a delicate regard for her disappointment. "No, that is not it; nor is it likely you should ever arrive at it. So days of happiness are before us yet." He had no need to kneel to her longer, but it was joy to him to be at her feet. "Dare not to speak so before me!" replied the Baroness, trying to tear herself away. "I know of no happiness, except with Heinrich; and I am persuaded that, though I have failed this time, it will yet be given to me to find the word which shall restore me to him completely." The Baron arrived as she finished speaking; and though he saw by the sorrowful look which now had possession of her bright face, and the triumphant mien of the Cobbold, that she had failed, and that she was still under the Wilder Jäger's spell, he was so incensed to find him in such an attitude that he drew his sword, and would have closed with him then and there, but the Wilder Jäger blew one note upon his horn, and in an instant he was surrounded, as before, by his myrmidons, who unarmed him and held him bound upon the ground, while the Cobbold himself approached to seize the hand of the Baroness. A fiery fury took possession of him, and sparks darted from his eyes which fell smouldering among the twigs of fir. Powerless to defend his wife by force, the Baron once more mastered his anger, and reminded his adversary courteously of his promise to leave them at peace for the interval of a month. "I am always ready to answer you in whatever tone you elect to adopt," said the Wilder Jäger, rising, and leaving the side of the Baroness. "You see, it is useless to attempt force against me; but when you behave with due consideration, so will I." At a sign from him the sprites loosed the Baron's bonds, gave him back his sword, and held his stirrup with the most respectful care, while he mounted his horse. "Depart, then, unharmed," said the Wilder Jäger, "since you set so much store on prolonging your suspense. I should say, it was wiser to make the best of a bad bargain and submit to your fate at once, with grace. However, I have given my word and won't go back from it. I restrain my power over you till the full end of the month; and, what is more, I not only give the lady three guesses, but as many as she likes. For," he added, with a cynical leer, "she is as little likely to guess it in thirty as in three; while every time that she chooses to essay the thing, it gives me the happiness of seeing her." And he turned away with a peal of wild laughter which made the lady shudder. The sprites vanished as they had come; and the Baron and his wife rode sadly home, without the courage to exchange a word. If the Baroness had for a moment been won by the comely presence and devoted admiration of the Wilder Jäger, she had now seen enough reason to fear his treacherous humour, and to dread her impending fate as much as at the first. They spent the rest of the evening in prayers and tears in the chapel of the castle, and the next evening, and the next; and the days flowed by as before, but more sadly, and with even less of hope. The Baroness scarcely now dared raise her eyes so high as the tops of the tall dark trees; they fell abroad over the beautiful landscape stretched out beneath them, and the good gifts of God cropping up out of the ground; and she thought how beautiful was that nature to which she must so soon say adieu! Thus ten days passed without a gleam of expectation. Suddenly she rose and clapped her hands; and her silvery laugh brought her husband bounding to her side. "I have it this time, Heinrich!" she said. And the Baron listened anxiously, but trusted himself never to speak. "Said you not that the Wilder Jäger's domain was entirely among the tall dark trees?" "So it seemed to me it was," responded her husband. "But I certainly discerned through the forest patches of ripe golden grain. Saw you them not too?" "The first time I rode too fast to notice them, but I do think on this last journey I saw such here and there by the wayside." "No doubt," continued the lady, "it is hence he takes his name; these small patches of golden grain are more worth than all the vast forests. Order the horses, for I have guessed his name! It came to my mind just now, as I looked over the harvest-fields stretched out yonder. "Wheat, Oats, Maize--that will be his name!" The Baron knew her counsel had often proved right when he least expected, and even disputed it, and though he was now too desponding to expect success, he was likewise least inclined to dispute her word. So he ordered the horses round, for it was yet early morning, and they rode to the ilex grove. The Baroness, whose hope seemed to rise as she got nearer the goal of the journey, was full of spirit and cheerfulness, and, finding it impossible to work up the Baron to the same expectation as herself, rode on to accomplish her work ere he arrived. One note of the jewelled horn brought the Wilder Jäger to her presence. As she had failed before, he had less fear of her success this time, and he was proportionately less subservient and submissive. "So you think you are come to give me my dismissal, beautiful Baroness? But you have no reason to repulse me so--be assured I mean it well with you; and though there is no limit to my power over you, I shall never treat you otherwise than with honour," he said, with a little scornful laugh which suited his fine features exactly, and made him look handsomer than before. And as he spoke so, his haughty tone, not unmixed with warmth and admiration, thrilled her with the notion that, after all, if it were not for her troth plighted to the Baron, it would not be so very dreadful to owe obedience to one who knew how to command so gracefully. But it was only for a moment. The weakness passed, she drew herself up with dignity, and, retreating against the support of the friendly ilex, said,-- "Silence! and remember your promise to leave me at peace till the fatal month is out. I cannot listen to you. And now for your name----" The Cobbold bowed, with a half-mocking, half-respectful inclination, as if forcing himself to listen out of courtesy, but secure that she would not guess right. "Wheat! Oats! Maize!" said the Baroness, with a positive air. The Cobbold stared comically, as if doubting whether she was in earnest; and at last, as if to relieve her out of politeness, he replied,-- "Oh, dear no, that's not at all like it!" The Baroness hung her head in despair; then, drawing herself up again, she said,-- "How do I know you are not deceiving me? You say this is not your name, and I have to believe you--but suppose I maintain that it is it?" "You are not fair, beautiful Baroness," replied the Wilder Jäger, with a charming dignity. "I have never deceived you, nor ever would I deceive so noble a lady! what I have promised, I have kept; but in this case I have no means of deceiving you--great as is my power, that is one thing beyond it. Could a mortal, indeed, discover and pronounce my name in my presence, I could not stand before him an instant. But this it is not given to mortals to know, and that is why I proposed this difficulty to you. Should I have paid you so bad a compliment," he added, with his cynical laugh, "as to render it possible that I should lose so great a prize?" The Baron rode up while he was saying this, and shrank dumb with despair at the cruel words and the positive tone in which they were uttered. Without condescending to exchange a word with the Cobbold this time, he lifted his wife on to her palfrey and rode away with her in silence. It was now all over. His despondency even gained the Baroness, and she ceased to rack her brain with the hope of finding the inconceivable name. Her eye not only dared not raise itself to the tall dark trees--it had not even power to range over the landscape. With her head sunk upon her breast, she sat silently among her flowers in her oriel window, nor cared even to look at them. Only in the morning and the evening they knelt together in the chapel of the castle, and prayed that the calamity might pass away yet. The days went by, and now the last but one had come; and the Baroness trembled, for her imagination pictured the Cobbold coming to carry her away. But her courage did not forsake her even now, and she proposed to go out into the forest to meet her fate, as more noble than waiting for it to overtake her. The Baron, too dispirited to discuss any matter, and indifferent to every thing, now that all he cared for was to be taken from him, gave a listless consent. The next morning, having prayed and wept together in the castle chapel, they set out on their mournful pilgrimage, the young wife led as a lamb to the sacrifice. The flowers bloomed beneath their feet, and the sun shone warm overhead, the birds sang blithe and gay--all nature was bright and fresh; but with heavy hearts they passed through the midst, nor found a thought but for their own great sorrow. As they came to the borders of the forest, however, the Baroness discerned the cry as of one in distress. Forgetting for the moment her own agony, her compassionate heart was at once moved, and she begged her husband to turn aside with her, and find out the poor wretch who pleaded so piteously. In a little time they had followed up the sound, and they found one of the Wilder Jäger's men tied in front of a lately lighted fire. In a few minutes more the heaped-up wood would have been all in flames, and then the luckless wight must have been slowly roasted! At a word from the Baroness, the Baron cut his bonds; and then they inquired what was the occasion of his punishment. "Oh, it don't want much to get a punishment out of the Wilder Jäger!" was the answer. "Is he so very severe, then?" asked the Baroness, her cheek blanching with fear. "At times, yes; it depends how the fancy takes him--if he is out of humour he spares no one. If he were not so violent and arbitrary, I would do you a good turn for that you have done me; but I dare not, his anger is too fearful." The more he descanted on the Wilder Jäger's barbarity, the more the Baroness prayed that he would tell her the word that would save her; but he dared not, and all her instance was in vain. "And yet there might be a means," he said, for he was desirous of doing a service to his deliverers. "Oh, speak! tell us what we can do--no matter what it is, we will do it!" answered both at once. "Well, if you happen to overhear it, I shan't have told you, and yet it will serve your turn just as well;" and with that he walked on close in front of them, singing carelessly as he went. "How are we to 'overhear' it, Heinrich?" said the Baroness, after a bit. "He seems to have forgotten us," replied the Baron, in despair. "I have been expecting him every minute to turn round and give us a hint of how he meant to help us; but it is just like every one you do a favour to--when they have got what they want, they forget all about you." They walked on in silence; and the fellow kept on close in front of them, singing as before, and always the same verse. At last the Baroness got wearied with hearing the same thing over and over again, and she began repeating the words over to herself, mechanically. She could not make them out at all at first, for he had a rough, abrupt articulation, but by dint of perseverance in an occupation which served as a distraction to her agony, she at last made it out, word by word:-- "The Wild Huntsman's betrothed (though he is not tamed) To a lady fair Driven to despair. If she only knew he's Burzinigala named!" "'Burzinigala named!' exclaimed the Baroness, with the ringing laugh of former days, and clapping her hands merrily. "I have it all right this time, you may depend, Heinrich!" and she laughed again. The Baron was too delighted for words--he embraced his wife in his joy; and they walked on with a very different mien from what they wore before. The first joy over, they turned to thank their helper; but he had already disappeared, climbing over the tops of the trees to get out of sight of the Wilder Jäger's eye for as long as might be. There was no more lingering now, they hasted on, anxious only to proclaim their triumph. The ilex grove was soon reached, and the jewelled horn quickly produced the Wilder Jäger. To-day he was habited with greater care even than on the former occasions, and there was also still more assurance in his manner, and still more forwardness to flatter. "Well, lady fair," he said, with a mocking air, "do you deem you have guessed my name this time?" "Really, it is so difficult," replied the lady, "that how can you think I can hope to succeed? Besides, why should I wish to do what would deprive me of so charming a companion?" The Wilder Jäger in his turn was perturbed. Nothing could have made him happier than to hear such words from her lips, could he have deemed them sincere; but there was an irony in her tone and a playfulness in her countenance which showed that her heart was not in her words. Yet he felt convinced she could not discover his name; and so he knew not what to think, and scarcely what to say. And the Baroness, delighting in his confusion, continued teasing him, like a cat with a mouse. After a good deal of this bantering, in which the Wilder Jäger got quite bewildered, the Baroness rose majestically. "Have we not had enough talking?" she said, with emphasis; "when are you going to take me home--Sir Burzinigala?" It would be impossible to describe the effect of this word. He rose from the earth with one bound. The beauty, the calmness, the commanding air, which had at one time charmed the Baroness, had all fled. Wild, savage, and furious as he had first appeared and tenfold more, he now showed; and the sparks flew from his eyes on all around. Through the thick tops of the trees he passed, they hardly knew how; and soon the only trace of him left was that of the sparks that smouldered on the dry heath. It only remained for the Baron and Baroness to return home, locked in each other's arms. And they continued loving each other more than ever before to the end of their days. THE GRAVE PRINCE AND THE BENEFICENT CAT. There once was a king in Tirol who had three sons. The eldest was grave and thoughtful beyond his years; but he seldom spoke to any one, took no pleasure in pastimes, and lived apart from those of his age. The other two were clever and merry, always forward at any game, or at any piece of fun, and passed all their time in merry-making and enjoyment. Now though the eldest son was, by his character, more adapted to make a wise and prudent sovereign, yet the two younger brothers, by their lively, engaging manner, had made themselves much more popular in the country; they were also the favourites of their father, but the eldest was the darling of his mother. The king was old and stricken in years, and would gladly have given up the cares of government, and passed his declining years in peace, but he could not make up his mind to which of the brothers he should delegate his authority. The queen was persuaded of the excellent capacity of her eldest son; but the two younger were always saying he was half mad, and not fit to govern, and as they had the people on their side, he greatly feared lest the kingdom should be involved in civil war, so he always put off making any arrangement. One day, however, an ancient counsellor observed to him, that if he really feared that there would be a dispute about the succession, it was much better to have it decided now while he was alive to act as umpire, than that it should befall when they would be left to wrangle with no one to make peace between them. The king found the counsel good, and decided to retire from the government, and to proclaim his eldest son king in his stead. When the two younger sons, however, heard what he intended to do, they came to him and urged their old charge, that their elder brother was not fit to govern, and entreated the king to halve the kingdom between them. But the king, anxious as he was to gratify them, yet feared to displease the queen by committing so great an injustice against her eldest son; and thus they were no further advanced than before. Then the old counsellor who had offered his advice before spoke again, and suggested that some task should be set for the three, and that whoever succeeded in that should be king beyond dispute. The three sons all swore to abide by this decision; and the king found the counsel good. But now the difficulty arose, what should he set them to do? for they had insisted so much on the weak intellect of the eldest, that the queen feared lest, after all, he should fail in the trial, and her care for him be defeated. She knew he had never practised himself in feats of strength, or in the pursuit of arms, so it was useless proposing such as these for the test, but she persuaded him to set them something much simpler. So, having called an assembly of all the people, he proclaimed aloud that the three brothers should travel for a year and a day, and whichever of them should bring him back the finest drinking-horn, he should be the king--the three sons swearing to abide by his award. The two younger brothers set out with a great retinue; and, as they did not apprehend much difficulty in surpassing their brother in whatever they might undertake, they spent the greater part of the year allowed them in amusing themselves, secure in bringing back the best, whatever they might bring. The eldest set out alone through the forest. In his lonely wanderings he had often observed a strangely beautiful castle on a far-off mountain, concerning which he could find no record in any of his books, nor could he learn that any one living knew any thing about it. He now resolved to make his way thither, persuaded that if he was to find something surpassing the work of human hands, it was like to be in this enchanted castle. Though it was so high-placed, the way was much easier than he thought, and he was not more than five months getting there; so that he had ample time for exploring its precincts, and yet get back within the appointed date. He had, indeed, to traverse dark forests and steep rocky paths, but when he got near the castle all these difficulties ceased. Here there were only easy slopes of greensward, diapered by sparkling flowers; broad-leaved trees throwing delicious shade; and rills that meandered with a pleasant music. Delicious bowers and arcades of foliage of sweet-scented plants invited to repose; and every where luscious fruits hung temptingly within reach. Birds sang on every branch with a soft, dreamy melody which soothed, and disturbed not the lightest slumber. The prince thought it would have been delightful to pass the remainder of his days there, but he remembered that it was an important mission with which he was entrusted, and he passed on. A broad flight of marble steps led from these amenities up to the palace, and every now and then a thousand little jets were turned on, to pour their tiny floods over them, and cool them for the tread of those who entered. And yet no one was near, no one to enjoy all this magnificence! The prince entered the hall, but no one came to meet him; he passed through the long corridors--all were deserted; he entered one apartment after another--still no one. At last he came to one charming boudoir all hung with pink satin, and lace, and beautiful flowers. On a pink satin sofa covered with lace sat a large Cat with soft grey fur, and soft grey eyes--the first living thing he had met! As he entered, the Cat rose to meet him, walking on her hind-paws, and, holding out her right front-paw in the most gracious manner, asked him, in a sweet, clear voice, if there was any thing she could do for him. Then, as if the effort was too great, she let herself down on all fours, and rubbed her soft grey head against his boots. Finding her so friendly, he was going to take her up in his arms: this she would not allow, however, but sprang with an agile bound on to a ledge above his head. "And now tell me," said she, "what is it you want me to do for you?" "Really, Lady Purrer, you are so kind, you confuse me! But, to tell you the truth, I fear--" "You fear that a poor puss can't be of any use," interposed the Cat, smartly, "and that your requirements are much above her feeble comprehension. But never mind, tell me all the same; there is little fear but that I can help you, and if I can't, the telling me will do you no harm." "Quite the contrary," replied the prince, "it will be a great pleasure to have only your sympathy, for I am in great distress." Her voice was so sweet and kind, that he quite forgot it was only a Cat he was talking to. "Poor prince!" said the Cat, soothingly; "tell me all about it, then. But stop, I'll tell you first what I think. I'm sure you are not appreciated at home. I saw it in your look when you first came in. You don't look bright and enterprising, as you ought to look. You look as if you lived too much alone. Oh, you would be twice as handsome if you only looked a little more lively and energetic--" and then she stopped short, and sneezed a great many times, as if she feared she had said what was not quite proper, and some other sound would efface that of her words. "There is a great deal of truth in what you say," replied the prince; "they don't care much about me at home--at least my mother does, but my father and brothers don't. And I do live too much alone--but it's not my fault: it's a bad way of mine, and I don't know how to get out of it." "You want some one to pet you, and spoil you, and make you very happy; and then you would be pleased to go into the society of others, because then you could say to yourself, I'll show them that there's some one understands me and makes a fuss about me--" and she stopped short, as before. "But who should care to spoil and pet me?" cried the prince, despondingly, and too much interested in her words to see any reason why she should be confused at what she had said. "Why, a nice little wife, to be sure!" replied the Cat. "A wife!" exclaimed the prince; "oh yes, my father's grey-bearded counsellors will find me some damsel whom it is necessary I should marry for the peace of the kingdom; and to her I shall be tied, and, be she an idiot or a shrew, I shall have no voice in the matter." "But do you mean to say," retorted the Cat, in a more excited voice, "that if you found a nice little princess--I don't say any one they could with justice object to, but a real princess--who cared very much for you, and made you very happy, very happy indeed, so that you determined to marry her, that you wouldn't be man enough to say to your father and all his counsellors, 'Here is the princess I mean to make my wife; I feel Heaven intended her for me. I am sure she will be the joy of my people, as she is mine, and no other shall share my throne'?" "Wouldn't I," exclaimed the prince, with energy, starting to his feet, and placing his hand instinctively on his sword, his eye flashing and the colour mounting in his cheek. "Ah! if you always looked like that! Now, you are handsome indeed!" exclaimed the Cat, enthusiastically, and purred away. "But," she added, immediately after, "all this time you haven't told me what it was you came for." "Ah!" said the prince, despondingly, at finding himself thus recalled to the prosaic realities of his melancholy life from that brief dream of happiness. "No; because you have been talking to me of more interesting things" (the Cat purred audibly); and then he told her what it was had really brought him there. "You see, your mother understands your character better than all the rest," said the Cat. "She knew you could be trusted to prove your superiority over your brothers, though the others hope you may fail. However, fail you won't this time, for I can give you a drinking-horn which neither your brothers nor any one else on earth can match!" With that she sprang lightly on to the soft carpet, and ran out of the room, beckoning to him to follow her. She led him through a long suite of rooms till they came to a large dining-hall all panelled with oak and filled with dark carved-oak furniture. In the centre of one end of this hall, high up in the panelling, was an inlaid safe or tabernacle curiously wrought. Puss gave one of her agile springs on to the top of this cabinet, and, having opened its folding-doors gently with her paw, disclosed to view a drinking-horn such as the prince had never seen. It was a white semi-transparent horn, but close-grained, like ivory, and all finely carved with designs of curious invention; the dresses of the figures were all made of precious stones cunningly let in, and they sparkled with a vivid lustre, like so many lamps. Then it had a rim, stand, and handle of massive gold exquisitely chased, and adorned with rows of pearls and diamonds. "Kind Lady Purrer," exclaimed the prince, "you are right, there is no doubt of my success! But how can I ever sufficiently thank you for what you have done for me? for I owe all to you." "And a little to your own discernment too," said the Cat, archly. "And now, always look as much alive and as bright as you do now, and you will see people will think better of you." "But when shall I see you again, most sweet counsellor? May I come back and see you again?" pleaded the prince, and he tried to stroke her sleek fur as she rubbed her soft grey head, purring, against his boots. The stroking, however, she would by no means allow, but springing again on to the top of the cabinet, she said,-- "Oh, yes; it will not be long before you will have to come back to me, I know. But go, now; you have spent more time here than you think, and you have only just enough left to get back within the year." The prince turned to obey her; and the Cat jumped down, and ran by his side, purring. When he got out into the grounds again, she followed him, climbing from tree to tree; and when he came to the boundary-wall she ran all along on the coping. But here at last they had to part, to her great regret, and for many a lonely mile he still heard her low and plaintive mew. It was true, he must have spent more time in her pleasant company than he had thought, for when he reached home he found the day of trial had arrived; the streets were deserted, and all the people gathered in the palace to see the drinking-horns his brothers had brought, and talking loudly of their magnificence. He passed through their midst without being recognized, for the people knew him so little; and thus he heard them speak of his younger brothers:-- "What bright faces they have! and what a merry laugh! it does the heart good to hear them," said one. "I wonder how the kingdom will be divided, and which half will be to which of them," said another. "For my part, I don't care to the lot of which I fall, for both are excellent good fellows," replied a third. And thus they had clearly settled in their own mind that his brothers had carried the day, and they didn't even trouble themselves to think what he would bring, or whether he would come back at all. It was the same thing all the way along. The words were varied, but the same idea prevailed every where, that the younger brothers had made good their claim; there was no question at all of the eldest. The prince's face was growing moody again; but just then one good woman, wiping the soap-suds from her hands as she turned from her washing at the river to join the throng, exclaimed, as she heard some neighbours talking thus, "Hoity toity! it's all very well with you and your laughing princes--a grave one for me, say I! Laughing may lead a man to throw away his money, but it won't teach him to feed the poor, or govern a kingdom. Wait till the Grave Prince comes back! I'll warrant he'll bring the bravest drinking-horn!" A chorus of mocking laughter greeted her defence of him. "He bring the bravest drinking-horn!" said one. "Don't believe he knows what a drinking-horn is for--or drink either!" said another. "No; his brothers understand that best, at all events. I like a man who can drink his glass." "And I like one who doesn't drink it, whether he can or not; but keeps his head clear for his business," said the good wife who had defended him before. And as there were a good many who were too fond of the bottle in the crowd, the laugh raised at him was turned against them. He had one defender, then, in all that mass of people, but all the rest judged him incapable, and without trial! He was too disheartened, to make his way into the great hall where the success of his brothers was being proclaimed, but instead trod sadly and secretly up to his mother's chamber. The queen was too distressed at the absence of her favourite son to take part in the jocular scene below, and was seated, full of anxiety, at her window, watching. "What do you here, my son?" she exclaimed, when he entered; "you have but one short half-hour more, and the time will be expired. The sun is already gone down, and the time once past, whatever you have brought, it will avail you not! Haste, my son, to the council-hall!" "It is useless, mother; all are against me!" cried the prince; and he laid the beautiful flagon on the table, and sank upon a chair. In the mean time it had grown dark, but the queen, impelled by her curiosity to know what success her son had had, pulled off the wrapper that enclosed the drinking-horn, and instantly the apartment was brilliantly lighted by the light of the precious stones with which it was studded! "My son, this is a priceless work! This is worth a kingdom! Nothing your brothers can have brought can compare with this--haste, then, my son!" and she led him along. It was dark in the council-hall too; but when the queen had dragged her son up to the throne where the king sat, she uncovered the flagon, and the sparkling stones sent their radiance into every part. Then there was one shout of praise. The drinking-horns of the younger brothers, which had anon been so highly extolled, were no more thought of, and every one owned that the Grave Prince had won the trial. The king declared it was too late for any more business that night, the proclamation of the new sovereign would be made the next morning; and in the meantime they all retired to rest, the Grave Prince with some new sensations of satisfaction and hope, and the queen assured of the triumph of her son. But in the silent night, when all were wrapt in slumber, and the king could not sleep for the anxiety and perplexity which beset him as to his successor, the two young brothers came to him and complained that they had been circumvented. The Grave Prince had always shown himself so gloomy and unenergetic, it was impossible they could conceive he was going to distinguish himself, so they had taken no trouble to beat him; but if their father would but allow another trial, they would undertake he should not have the advantage of them again. So the next day, instead of proclaiming the new sovereign, the king announced that he had determined there should be a fresh trial of skill; and whichever of the princes should bring him the best hunting-whip, that day year, should have the crown. The princes set off next day on their travels once more, the eldest son of course directing his towards the castle of the Beneficent Cat. This time he had not to traverse a file of deserted halls before meeting her; she sat looking out for him on the coping of the wall where he had left her mewing so piteously when he last parted from her. "I told you it would not be long before you would have to come back to me," she said, as he approached. "What can I do for you this time?" "My brothers are discontented at being beaten with your beautiful beaker," replied the prince, gallantly, "and they have demanded another trial: this time my father sends us in quest of a hunting-whip." "A hunting-whip?" echoed the Cat; "that is lucky, for I can suit you with one neither they nor any one else on this earth can surpass!" and she frisked merrily along the path before him till they came to the stables; then she took him into a room where all manner of saddles, and horse-gear, and hunting-horns were stored. But on a high ledge, at the very top of the room, was a dusty hunting-whip of the most unpretending appearance. With one of her bold springs she reached the ledge, and jumped down again with this whip in her mouth. "It is not much to look at, I own," she said, as she observed the perplexed look with which the prince surveyed the present; "but its excellent qualities are its recommendation. You have but to crack this whip, and your horse will take any thing you put him at, be it a river half a mile wide, or a tree fifty feet high. There are plenty of horses in the stable, saddle any of them you like, and make experience of it for yourself." The prince did as she bid him; and at sound of the enchanted whip his mount leapt with equal ease over hills and valleys. "This is a whip indeed!" exclaimed the prince, his face flushed with the unwonted exercise, and his heart beating high at the idea of being the bearer of such a prize. "Ah, that's how I like to see you!" said the friendly puss; "I like to see you like that. Now you are handsome indeed!" and she scampered away, as if coyly ashamed of what she had said. It was not long before she returned; and then she invited the prince into the next room, where an elegant dinner was laid out, of which the Cat did the honours very demurely. A high divan was arranged at the top of the table, on which she reclined, and ate and lapped alternately out of the plates ready before her, while invisible attendants served the viands and filled the glasses. When they had finished their meal, they went out to repose in the flowery bowers; and when the heat of the day was past, the Beneficent Cat reminded her guest that he must be thinking of going home, if he would not that his brothers should supplant him. "Must I go so soon, sweet Lady Purrer?" replied the prince. "I know not how to part from you; it seems I should be happy if I were always with you. I have never felt so happy any where before!" "You are very gallant, prince," responded the Cat, "and you have no idea how well it becomes you to look as you do now; but the affairs of your kingdom must be your first thought. You must first secure your succession--and then we must look out for the nice little wife we talked of last time." "Ah," sighed the Grave Prince, "don't talk of that--that is not for me! No one beautiful enough for me to care about will ever care for me!" "Not if you look desponding and gloomy, like that," replied the Cat. "Do you know, you look quite like another being when you look so gloomy; and yet you can be so handsome when you look bright and hopeful! But now," she proceeded, laying her soft paw on his arm to arrest the futile justification which rose to his lips, "before you go, I have something very important to tell you. You will now go back, and with the hunting-whip I have given you, you are safe to win the trial which is to establish your right to the kingdom. But there will be yet another trial exacted of you, and you will have to come back again to me. What you are to do then, I must tell you now, for it requires great prudence and courage, and one principal thing is, that you don't say a word to me all the time. Can you promise that?" "Well, that is hard indeed," said the prince; "but still, if you command it, I think I can promise to obey, for the sake of pleasing you." "Then the next thing is harder. Do you think you can do whatever I command?" "Oh yes, I am sure I can promise that!" replied the prince, warmly. "Mind, whatever I command, then--however hard, or however dreadful it may be?" "Yes, any thing--however hard, or however dreadful!" "But will you swear it?" "I see you doubt my courage," said the prince, half offended. "You take me for a fool, like the rest. But no wonder; I know I look like a fool!" "Now don't look gloomy again! you were so handsome just now when you said so firmly you would do 'any thing.' Will you gratify me by swearing?" "You doubt my courage." "No; I don't doubt your courage. But I know how terrible a thing I have to command you; and I know how many others have failed before you. Now will you not swear, but to please me?" "Yes; I swear," said the prince, energetically, "to do whatever it may be that you tell me to do." "Now, remember, you have undertaken it solemnly. This is what you must do. When you come in, you will find me sitting on the kitchen stove; you must then seize me by my two hind-paws, and dash me upon the hearthstone till there is nothing left of me in your hands, but the fur!" "Oh dear! I can never do that!" exclaimed the prince, in great embarrassment. "But you have sworn to do whatever I told you!" replied the Cat. "Well, but I thought you were going to order me to do something rational, something noble and manly, requiring courage and strength--not a horrible act like this." "If it is the thing that has to be done, it does not matter what it is. Besides, it does require courage, great courage; and that is why I would not tell you first what it was, because others have failed when they knew what it was." "And you expect me to have less feeling and affection for you than they?" "No; but I expect more sense and judgment of you. I expect you to understand and believe that if I say it has to be done, it is really for the best, and that you will trust to me that it is right. And I expect that you will respect your promise, which was made without limit or exception. But now, go; you have no time to lose, if you want to reach home with the hunting-whip in time for the trial." He rose to leave; and she followed him down the path, purring by his side. And after she had taken leave of him at the boundary-wall, he heard her mewing sad adieus as he went on for many a weary mile. When the prince reached the council-hall, he found, as before, that his brothers were there first, and that every one seemed to have decided that they had won the day--in fact no one showed any curiosity to know what he would bring. As he had beaten them by his lustrous jewels before, they had fancied he would bring something of the same sort again; so, to conquer him on his own ground, they had sought out and found two handles of hunting-whips mounted with jewels as sparkling as those of his drinking-horn. When they saw him come in with the shabby old whip the Beneficent Cat had given him, they laughed outright in his face; and the king, in a fit of indignation, ordered him to leave the hall for venturing to insult him by bringing such a present. Some laughed him to scorn, and some abused him; but no one would listen to a word he had to say. At last the tumult was so great that it reached the queen's ears; and when she had learnt what was the matter, she insisted that he should have a hearing allowed him. When silence had been proclaimed the Grave Prince said,-- "It is true, my whip is not so splendid as that of my brothers, but jewels are out of place on a hunting-whip, it seems to me; the handle is wanted to be smooth, so that the hand may take a firm grip of it, rather than to be covered with those points and unevennesses. The merit of my whip is not in the handle, it is in the lash, which has such excellent qualities, that you have but to crack it, and your horse will immediately take you over any obstruction there may be in your way--be it a house or a mountain, or what you will. If you will allow me, I will give you proof of its powers." Then they all adjourned to the terrace in front of the council-hall, where was a fine avenue of lofty cypresses; and the queen ordered a horse to be brought round from the stables. The people had never seen the prince on horseback before; and when they saw him looking so gallant, and noble, and determined, they could not forbear cheering him, till his younger brothers began to fear that his real worth would soon be found out, and their malice exposed. Then the prince cracked his whip--and away went the horse over the tops of the high trees, seeming to scrape the clouds as he passed. All the people were lost in admiration, no one had ever seen such a sight before; and while they were wondering whether it was possible he could have reached the ground in safety from such a height, there was a murmur in the air, and they saw him coming back again over the tree-tops. With no more apparent effort than if he had merely taken a hedge, he came softly to the ground; and then, kneeling gracefully before his father on one knee, without a word of boasting or reproach, he laid the clever whip at his feet. The king raised him up, and said, aloud to the people, none could deny that it was this whip that had won the trial, but that as it was now late, he must leave the ceremony of proclaiming his successor till the morrow. All went home for the night, and the old king also went to bed; but he could not sleep for anxiety, thinking of the anger and dissatisfaction of his younger sons. And presently, in the silent hour, they came to him, and said that he must allow them another trial; that it was impossible they could conceive he meant them to bring him a fantastical whip of that sort, or of course they would have brought one which could do much better things. They thought it was the beauty of the workmanship they had to look to, and so they had provided for nothing else. They urged their suit so persistently, that the king, who was now very old and weak, agreed to let them have their way. Accordingly, next morning he had it proclaimed that the three princes were to make one trial more; and that whichever brought back the most beautiful and virtuous princess for his wife should have the crown. The three princes set out again early the next morning; the two younger ones providing themselves with jewels and riches, and many precious things for presents; the eldest taking nothing, but walking off alone towards the enchanted castle with a heavy heart. "It is all up with me now," he said to himself, "after all! Why couldn't my father have been satisfied when I had beaten them twice? Now I have to kill the Beneficent Cat--the only being that ever assisted me; and then I shall have no one to help me at all! They will come back with two beautiful princesses, and I shall come back looking like a fool, because no princess will ever come with me--and they will take my kingdom, and laugh at me into the bargain! If it was not for my mother, I would never come back at all; but it would break her heart if I stayed away, and she is the only one of them who understands me and cares for me." As he got nearer the castle, he grew more and more sad. "Why did she make me swear? If it hadn't been for that, I could still have escaped doing it; but now I cannot break my oath;" and he trudged on. The gardens looked more lovely than ever. The scent of the flowers seemed sweeter, and the melody of the birds more soothing. All was full of harmony--and he who had never harmed a fly must cruelly use the soft and beautiful Cat who had so befriended him! He passed through the apartments where puss had purred round him so happily--the dining-room where they had had their pleasant repast together--the boudoir where she had given him such wise counsel. At last he came to the kitchen; and there, sure enough, was the Cat cosily curled round, her soft grey head buried in her long grey fur. An energy and daring he had never known before seemed suddenly to possess him. He took care not to speak, for she had particularly recommended silence; but, approaching her on tiptoe, seized her rapidly by her hind-paws before she had time to wake from her pleasant slumber, and dashed her several times upon the hearth, scarcely knowing what he did in his horror, till he perceived that he had nothing left in his hand but the soft, limp, grey fur. He sank upon the ground in tears, and commenced laying it out tenderly before him, when he was woken from his reverie by a mellow ringing laugh, which made him look up--and there before him stood the most beautiful, fairy-like princess that ever was seen on this earth! "Well done, kind prince! you have nobly kept your word. And see what I have gained thereby--instead of that grey fur, I now have a form which will perhaps make me meet to fulfil the condition your father has imposed on you for obtaining your throne!" Her voice, and the glance of her soft eyes, seemed quite familiar to him--it was the voice which had first inspired him with hope and enterprise, and the mild light which had beamed on him when he said he could be happy to be always near her in her bower. How much more now, when she appeared in such matchless guise! He remained kneeling at her feet, and asked her if it was indeed true that she could love him and be with him always as his wife. "Nay," she replied, raising him up; "it is I who ought to be astonished. I have nothing to refuse, for I owe you all; and as, but for you, I should still be nothing but a poor grey Cat, I belong to you, and am absolutely yours. It is I who have to be astonished, and to ask you if it is possible you who have known me as a Cat can really love me and regard me as worthy to be indeed your wife." "You are mocking me again, I see," he replied; "but you do not really think me so insensible as not to appreciate your beauty, and the prudence and generosity of which you have given me such abundant proof? No; if you will come with me, I have no fear but that I shall win the trial this time beyond all possibility of demanding another." He spoke warmly, and his face beamed with joy. The princess was leaning on his arm, and looked up in his face as he spoke. "Ah, now you do look!--No, I suppose I mustn't say it now I have no longer my cat-disguise to hide my blushes," she said, archly; and they passed on into the reception-hall. The attendants were no longer invisible. Together with their mistress they had received their forms and original life; and the corridors and apartments were filled with her people bustling to serve her. A banquet was prepared in the dining-hall; and when they had partaken of it, and had regaled themselves in the bower with happy talk, the princess reminded the prince--now no longer grave--that it was time for them to be going back to his father. A great train of carriages and horses were brought round, with mounted guards and running-footmen, and all the retinue which became a noble princess. The princess was carried in a litter by six men in embroidered liveries, and her ladies with her; and the prince rode on horseback, close by her side. This time, though it was near the close of the last day, his brothers had not appeared when he reached the council-hall. The king and the queen received the Beneficent Princess with smiles and admiration, and all the people praised her beauty; and the queen said,-- "There is no fear, my son, that your brothers can demand another trial this time." Before she had done speaking, a messenger was hastily ushered into the hall, covered with dust and stains of travel. He came from the two younger princes, and had a sorrowful tale to tell. They had striven to obtain the hands of the princesses of the neighbouring kingdom; but the king was a prudent sovereign, and discerned their envious, selfish character. When they found he repulsed their advances, they had endeavoured to carry off the princesses by force; but the king had surprised them in the midst of their design, and had had them shut up as midnight robbers. The old king was in great distress when he heard the news, for his sons had manifestly been taken in the midst of wrong-doing, and he could not defend their acts nor avenge their shame. But the eldest son took on himself the mission of pacifying the neighbouring sovereign and delivering his brothers. Having accomplished which, they were fain to acknowledge that he was not only victor in the trials, but their deliverer also; and they swore to maintain peace with him, and obey him as his faithful subjects. So the old king proclaimed the Grave Prince for his successor, and married him to the Beneficent Princess, amid great rejoicing of all the people; and the queen had the happiness of seeing her eldest son acknowledged as the most prudent prince, and the ruler of the people, and gifted with a beautiful and devoted wife. KLEIN-ELSE. The Passeier-Thal, which at the beginning of the present century sent Hofer and his famous band of peasant heroes to the defence of the fatherland, was in ancient times often involved in the wrangles between its rulers and those of Bavaria. The men of the Passeier-Thal were no less heroes then than now, but there were heroes in Bavaria too, so that the success was as often on one side as the other. Klein-Else [63] was the daughter of a bold baron whose castle was, so to speak, one of the outposts of the valley; and as he had thus more often than others to bear the brunt of the feud, his strength became gradually diminished, and it was only by leaguing himself with his neighbours that he was enabled to repel the frequent inroads of a turbulent knight who had established himself on the other side of the old frontier, but who cultivated a strong passion for annexation. The Passeier-Thal baron did his best to strengthen his defences and keep up a watchful look-out; and the moment his scouts perceived the enemy advancing, their orders were not only to bring word of the danger to their master, but to hasten at once to the other castles of the surrounding heights, and summon their owners to his support; and then the whole valley immediately bristled with valiant defenders of their country. But inasmuch as his adversary was reckless and determined, and much better provided with men and means, he succeeded in laying his plans so well at last, that he eluded all the vigilance of the baron's scattered handful of look-out men, and, bursting in upon his domain by surprise, carried all his defences, laid waste every thing before him, and marched upon the castle itself. The bold baron swore he would not remain to be killed like a reptile in its hole, but sallied out with the few retainers who remained to him, to sell his life and his possessions as dearly as he might. With desperate courage he dealt the deadliest blows around which had been paid out that day. But it was all in vain. Overcome by superior numbers, he was brought back but a few hours later in piteous plight, mortally wounded. Klein-Else bent over her father with despairing cries; and her tears fell as fast as the blood from the deep wounds she tried in vain to staunch. "Leave the bandage, Klein-Else, it boots not," said the baron, in tones so slow and faint that she could only catch his words by putting her ear to his lips; and, as she did so, his cold breath filled her with horror. "It boots not to staunch the blood, Klein-Else; my life is spent. But as you have ever obeyed me, listen now to my word. The enemy is at the door; you have but time to escape falling into his hands. Take this key--it opens a gate of which no one knows the secret. Count the tenth buttress in the wall, and where the ivy grows thickest, there, behind it, feel for the lock and open it. Then creep beneath; and, once on the other side, replace the branches, that no one may see they have been disturbed. You will see before you three paths: one leads down into the smiling plain, where you might think to find refuge in the houses of our people; but another destiny is for you. The second leads upwards to the thick pine forest, where you might think to lie concealed till our friends have time to come and rout out this vile usurper; but another destiny is for you. Take the path straight before you, that winds round the mountain; though it is open and exposed to view, fear not, for it leads to--to----" And here his voice failed, so that she could no more make out what he said; and though he continued to exert himself to complete his directions, it was vain that she attempted to distinguish them. His power of articulation was gone. Klein-Else threw herself on his cold body, and clung to it with all her might. But he who had been her guide and guardian, her will, till now, was powerless and stark; and for all her beseeching he could not answer. The chaplain came and raised her up, and they carried the body to the sanctuary; but Klein-Else, paralyzed with sadness and despair, stood and gazed after it as though she knew not where she was. Suddenly wild shouts broke on her ear, and the sound of many feet, and the tumult of the servants and men-at-arms bidding her fly, for the enemy had come. "Fly, for the enemy is here!" The words recalled her father's counsel, and mechanically she clasped the key, his last legacy. Scarcely taking time to change her embroidered garments for a peasant's attire, she crept along under the wall, counting ten buttresses, with a beating heart. After the tenth, she put her hand through the thick ivy, and felt, as her father had foretold, the iron bosses of the lock. It required all her strength to turn the key; but this accomplished, there was safety and rest behind the ivy's faithful veil. It was but just in time; the rough soldiers were close behind. "Ha! who went there?" she heard a hoarse voice say, as she noiselessly closed the door. "Saw you not the ivy move? Press through and see who passed." "It was but a frightened hare--I saw it run," said another, with a less terrible voice. "Nothing taller ever passed that branch," said another; and the speakers passed out of hearing. There lay the three paths: the one straight on before--but so open, so exposed, any one who happened to be passing for miles round might have seen and pursued her, while either of the others offered instant cover and security. Klein-Else was sorely tempted to try one of them. "If I had heard all his instructions," she reasoned, "it would have been different: I would then have done all he told me, whithersoever it might have led; but now I know not what he meant. I may go a little way along this path--and then what shall I do? Maybe, I shall fall into a greater danger than that from which he would have saved me!" And she turned to seek the shelter of the friendly cottages in the valley beneath. But the words seemed to live in the air around her,-- "Another destiny is for you!" Trembling and confused, she would have plunged into the hiding-place of the pine-forest above; but the wind that moaned through their lofty branches seemed charged with the words,-- "Another destiny is for you!" She was thus impelled forward into the open path; and, creeping close to the mountain-side, she now pursued her way along it. It was with no small relief that she noticed the sun was nearly sinking behind the opposite heights, so that soon she might hope to be safe from the gaze of men. And yet, as darkness fell around, it became but the source of other fears. And the sense of her loneliness and abandonment took away her courage to proceed any farther. She leant against the rock for support, and her tears fell fast and warm upon its stony side--piteously enough, you might have thought, to move and melt it. And so it was! for see! the hard rock yielded and made way before the noble form of a knight in armour, who said, with compassionate voice,-- "Maiden, wherefore these tears?" "Because my father is dead, and his enemies have taken his castle, and I have no shelter and nothing to eat!" sobbed Klein-Else. "If that is all," answered the noble knight, "it is easily made straight." And with that he turned to the rock, and said,-- "Open, hoary rock!" And the hoary rock opened, and disclosed a treasure of every imaginable kind of riches stored around--jewels and coin, and shining armour, and dazzling dresses. "All this is yours, Klein-Else," said the knight; "you have but to take what you will, when you will. It will never grow less. You have only to say, 'Open, hoary rock!' and these treasures will always appear at your bidding. Dispose of them as you like; only make a good use of them, for on that depends all your future happiness. I will come and see you again in seven years, and I shall see what use you have made of my gift; but you must remember my name, or woe will be to you." So he whispered his name in her ear, and disappeared. Klein-Else was so dazzled and startled that she hardly knew what to think, or whether what had happened was a dream or reality. To make sure, she said to the rock, "Open, hoary rock!" and the rock opened at her bidding as quickly as at the knight's, and disclosed its glittering treasure. But it was still hard to decide all at once what to take of it; and knowing that it was in a secure store-house, and that it was dangerous to burden herself with much riches when travelling alone in the dark night, she only took a few pieces of money--enough to pay for food and lodging--and passed on with a lightened heart. The rock closed up as she went farther--but she took a note of the spot, so that she might be sure to know it again; and then made for the lights which appeared with friendly radiance at no great distance through the trees which now fringed the road, repeating the name of the knight to herself, as she went along, that she might never forget it. Klein-Else hasted on, but was rather dismayed to find that the lights were the lights of a great castle where her money would be of no use. She could not ask for a lodging and supper for money there, and there was no other habitation near. So she put by her money again, and, with the humility befitting her wayworn aspect and lowly attire, begged the great man's servants to give her some poor employment by which she might earn a place among them. "What can a little, dirty, ragged girl like you do?" said the cook, who was just occupied in fixing the spit through a young chamois that looked so succulent and tender, one as hungry as Klein-Else might have eaten it as it was. "I can do whatever you please to tell me," answered Klein-Else, timidly. "A proper answer," replied the cook. "Let's see if you can watch the poultry-house, then. You must be up by daybreak and go late to bed, and lie in the straw over the poultry-loft, and keep half awake all night to scare away the foxes, if any come; and if one smallest chicken is lost, woe betide you! you will be whipped and sent away. Here is a piece of dry bread for your supper. Now go, and don't stand idling about." Klein-Else was so hungry that she gladly took the piece of dry black bread, and went to try to sleep on the straw in the poultry-loft. She had to get up at daybreak, when the cock crew; and she had to keep her eye on the brood all day; and late at night she had a piece of dry black bread for supper, and was sent to sleep in the straw of the poultry-loft. Her only pastime was to recall the memory of her treasure in the rock, and repeat over and over again the knight's name, that she might be sure never to forget it. "But of what use is all my fine treasure," she mused, "if I am never to be any thing but a wretched Hennenpfösl [64]? And what can I do? if I come out with handfuls of gold and fine clothes, they will take me for a thief or a witch, and I shall be worse off than now; and if I show them the treasure, who knows but they will take it from me? The knight said my happiness depended on the use I made of it, yet I can make no use of it!" So she sat and counted the hens and chickens, and repeated the knight's name, and ate her dry black bread, and slept in the straw in the poultry-loft. At last Sunday came, and the glad church bells rang merrily, flinging their joyous notes all abroad; and the servants of the castle put on their best clothes to go to church. But how could Klein-Else be seen among them, all in their snow-white linen and bright-coloured ribbons--Klein-Else, the Hennenpfösl, with her poor rags? "Now, at last, I can use my treasury," she said to herself; "I can at least get some of the pretty clothes that hang there, and go to church." So she washed herself in the mountain-torrent, and braided her dishevelled hair in massive golden braids, and crept round to the rock, and bid it open, saying,-- "Open, hoary rock!" Of all the treasures it instantly disclosed, she saw none but one beautiful garment all woven out of sunbeams and glittering with jewels of morning dew. Having put this on, and once more looking like a baron's daughter, she made haste to reach the church. The holy office had already begun, and the church was crowded right out into the porch. But when the people saw such a dazzling sight, they all made way for the lady in the shining apparel, none dreaming of Klein-Else. Now the only part of the church where there was any room was at the baron's bench. For he was a young lord, and had neither mother, sister, nor wife; and all the places reserved for his family were vacant. Klein-Else, moving on till she could find where to kneel, had thus to come and kneel by him. The young baron was as much dazzled at the sight as Klein-Else herself had been at the treasures in the rock, and at every pause in the service he could do nothing but fix his gaze on her. As soon as it was over, however, Klein-Else glided out softly, and hasting back to the rock, hung the sunbeam-dress up again; and once more assuming her rags, hid herself in the poultry-loft, almost frightened at what she had done. All the next week she had new subjects of thought. She felt sure the young baron had looked at her and admired her; and wasn't it more meet that she, a baron's daughter, should be kneeling by the side of the young baron than sleeping in the poultry-loft, a mere Hennenpfösl? Ah, if that came true--if the young baron married her; then she would have some one to tell her good fortune to--some one to defend her treasure. Then she could make the good use of it the knight had manifestly intended. She could wipe away the tears of all those who went without shelter, as she had once; every desolate orphan who had none to defend her; every poor Hennenpfösl, the drudge of the menials. "How strange," she said to herself, "there should be people blessed with friends, and riches, and enjoyments, who live full of their own happiness, and who have no thought for the forsaken and the outcast! She would never be like them, not she! her happiness should be in making others happy." But, in the meantime, was she sure the baron had looked at her otherwise than out of curiosity? Was he really interested in her? and if he was, would he continue to care for her when he found she was only a Hennenpfösl? She must put him to the test; and she sat and thought how to arrange this. This was subject enough for thought; and this week was at an end only too soon. The next Sunday came; and when the church bells rang, Klein-Else ran to her rock, took out of her store this time a garment woven out of moonbeams, and having arranged her luxuriant hair in massive tresses, once more proceeded to the church. But with all the haste she had made, she could not arrive before the holy office had begun, and the church was once more full. The people fell back again, in awe of her shining garments, and made way for her to kneel beside the baron, who could scarcely suppress a gesture of delight at beholding her once again. Nor did his joy escape Klein-Else's observation; and many a blushing glance they exchanged. "What a noble cavalier!" thought Klein-Else; "and just such a one as my father always told me my husband should be." "What a lovely maiden!" mused the young baron; "where can she have sprung from? Is she of earth or heaven?" All that last week, while Klein-Else was thinking of him, he had been thinking still more of her; and had ordered his waiting-men to surround her as she came out of church, and beg her to come to him at the castle. But Klein-Else had no idea of suffering herself to be so easy a prize; so she fled so fast the baron's men could hardly approach her. And when at last she found they were gaining upon her, and that her fleet step availed her not, she threw down the pieces of money which she took the first night from the rock; and while they stopped to pick them up, pursued her way unperceived, and let the rock close on her till they had lost the trace. Then, assuming her poor rags once more, she returned silently to her poultry-loft. Her thoughts had food enough now; but it was less with the poor orphans she was to console, than with the young baron, and how to test his love, that they were occupied. Next Sunday she chose a garment blue like the sky, and all sparkling, as with living stars. She presented herself at the church, and found herself again placed beside the young baron. At the end of the service she went out quickly, as before, only this time he contrived, as she rose to leave, to seize her hand, and slip a gold ring on her finger. Nevertheless, Klein-Else slipped out through the midst of the congregation, and though the serving-men had had stringent orders to follow her, she had prudently provided herself with gold pieces enough to disperse the whole lot of them while she escaped. The young baron sat alone in his castle, as he had sat this fortnight past, taking no notice of any one, but as if his whole soul was wrapt up in the fair apparition, and he was in despair, since her hiding-place could not be traced. He sat nursing his grief, and could neither be distracted from it, nor comforted. His friends sent for the most famous physicians of the country to attend him, but none of them could do any thing for his case; and daily he grew paler and gloomier, and none could help him. At last the Gräfin Jaufenstein, his aunt, came and insisted that some amusement must be found to divert him; but the young baron refused every proposal, till at last she begged him to give a great banquet, to which every one from far and near should be invited, every kind of game and every kind of costly diet should be afforded, and nothing spared to make it the most magnificent banquet ever given. To the great surprise and delight of all, he consented to this; but it was because it occurred to him that inviting the whole country, the chances were that the beautiful maiden of his choice, who yet hid herself so persistently from him, might once more mysteriously appear before him too: so he gave his aunt the Countess Jaufenstein free leave to give what orders she liked, and go to what expense she liked, only providing that she should have the invitations publicly published, so that there might be every chance of their reaching the ears of the mysterious maiden. At last the day of the banquet came, and there was a running hither and thither in the baron's castle, with the preparations, such as can be better imagined than described. The guests swarmed in the halls, and the servants in the kitchen; and Klein-Else, creeping up from her poultry-loft, could hardly make her way up to the fire where the cook was preparing all manner of deliciously scented dishes. "I don't know what ails the things!" cried the cook; "these pancakes are the only thing the baron will eat, and, as fate will have it, I cannot turn one of them to-night! Three and thirty years I have made pancakes in this castle, and never did I fail before to-night--to-night, when it is most important of all!" and she poured another into the pan. But as she did so, with a hand trembling with anxiety, the oil ran over the side of the pan, and the great heat of the stove set it on fire, so that a great flame curled over the pancake--and there was nothing left of it but a black, misshapen mass. "Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?" cried the cook; "there is not one of the whole lot fit to send up, and if this dish is not the best, I had just as lief I had prepared no dish at all!" "May I have a try, friend cook?" said Klein-Else, coaxingly. "You, indeed!" screamed the cook, indignation and envy added to her former despair; "and a little, dirty, ragged, misbegotten starveling--a vagabond--a Hennenpfösl like you, who never saw a kitchen, or a stove, or a frying-pan, or any thing else! to suppose that you can turn a pancake, when I, who have turned pancakes in this castle for three and thirty years, have failed! A likely matter indeed! What is the world coming to? Begone, with your impudence, and mind your hens! Ah! now I think of it, I believe it is you that have bewitched the eggs, and that's why the pancakes won't turn! Begone, I say, out of my kitchen, and out of the poultry-house too--I'll have no more of your tricks with my eggs!" and she turned, with a menacing gesture at Klein-Else, to try her luck once more. But at the sight of the black mass in the frying-pan, she grew fairly discouraged, and throwing herself down in a chair, wrapt her face in her apron, and wept like a child. Meantime Klein-Else advanced with light step to the stove, took up the frying-pan, and cleaned it out in a trice, then poured fresh oil into it, and held it over the stove till it boiled; then, while it spluttered cheerily, she deftly poured in the batter, gliding into it the ring which the baron had stealthily put on her hand at church, and along with it, one with a magnificent diamond, which she had taken from her treasury in the rock. The boiling oil danced and chirped merrily round the cake, the batter rose as batter never rose before; and when Klein-Else shifted it lightly on to the dish, it wore a bright, golden hue, matched only by her own radiant hair. The cook, waking from her stupor, was in a transport of delight at beholding the effect of her skill, and sent the dish at once to the baron's table, while Klein-Else took her place in an out-of-the-way corner to hear what should befall. Nor had she long to wait. The dish had not been gone ten minutes, when the baron's body-servant came solemnly into the kitchen, with the announcement that the baron demanded the immediate attendance of the cook. "It's because I kept him waiting for the pancakes, and because the one of that little hussey's making is not so good as those I have made for him all his life, and his father before him;" and, all trembling and afraid, she rose to follow his messenger. Espying Klein-Else watching anxiously behind a pillar as she passed along, she could not forbear calling out to her, "Ah, wretched child, it is you have got me into this scrape! But you shall pay for it! Why did I let you touch the frying-pan! Why did I let you enter the castle! You had better not come under my sight any more, or I'll soon show you where the builder made the hole in the wall [65]!" and she dragged herself along slowly, in great fear of the apprehended displeasure of the baron, but comforting herself with the determination to let him know the whole fault lay with the Hennenpfösl. Great was her surprise, however, to find that it was with no intention of chiding that the baron had summoned her. On the contrary, the gloomy cloud his brow had lately worn had disappeared; he not only looked gay and joyous as of old, but a special radiance of pleasurable expectation lit up his countenance. "Why, cook," he said, "you have made me good pancakes all my life, but never one like this! Now tell me honestly who made this one?" "Nay, but if it is so, I may as well have the credit of it," thought the cook; "and, after all, I did make the batter, and that's the chief part of the work." "Oh, I made it myself, baron, upon my soul! no one but myself makes any thing for the high table." The baron's countenance fell. He began to look gloomy and disappointed once more--was the clue to escape him after all? He roused himself again, as with one flash of hope. "Did no one help you to make it?" ("If I tell that she had any part in it, it is obvious, from the tone he takes, he will give the whole merit to her. No, I'll not mention her; and besides, she didn't help me to make it.") "Oh, baron, it don't want two people to make a pancake! I've always made pancakes for this castle these three and thirty years without help;" and she tried to talk as if she felt hurt, and thus bring the conversation to an end. The baron passed his hand roughly across his forehead, and stamped his foot in despair. Once more a hopeful thought flashed across his mind. "These rings! tell me, how did they get into the pancake, if you made it?" he exclaimed, in peremptory accents. "Those rings? I never saw those rings before," stammered the cook, beginning to get a little confused. "And what did you mutter as you passed the Hennenpfösl coming along, about it's being all her fault, and making her suffer for it?" interposed the body-servant. "Ha! said she so?" cried the baron. "Speak, woman, what meant you by those words? Beware, and speak the truth this time, for it is matter of terrible consequence!" "Who ever would have thought such a fuss would come of turning a pancake!" thought the cook to herself; but she said out aloud, "Well, it is true, the Hennenpfösl did hold the frying-pan while it was on the stove; I didn't know it was worth while to mention that. But what could she have to do with the beautiful rings?" "True," replied the servant, "that can have nothing to do with it, as you say." "Nay," replied the baron, "I'm not so clear of that. Let the Hennenpfösl, as you call her, be brought here, and let's see what account she has to give of it." "But it's impossible; she isn't even a servant of the house. She is a little whining beggar brat, that I took in scarce three weeks ago and put in the poultry-loft, to keep her from starving." "Three weeks!" exclaimed the baron; "said you three weeks? Let her be brought to me instantly." "But she isn't fit to come into your presence; she's grimed with dirt, and covered in rags." "Reason not, but send her hither," said the baron, his energy returning as his hopes kindled. "If she is the maiden to whom I gave the ring, she is of no low birth: there is some mystery which I must penetrate. If she were nothing but a 'Hennenpfösl,' whence could she have had this brilliant ring, which puts mine to shame?" he mused within himself, as he waited impatiently for the maiden of his dreams to appear. Klein-Else, meantime, had made no doubt that since the baron had sent for the cook, his wisdom would enable him to discover that she must be sent for next, and had accordingly repaired to her treasury in the rock, and had taken thence a resplendent attire. It was no longer now the simple gifts of nature which furnished her wardrobe; she was decked as became a baron's daughter, with all the resources of the milliner and the jeweller's art. Cavaliers and ladies-in-waiting walked beside her, and twenty pages dressed in pink and white satin, with plumed bonnets, carried her train behind, while men in rich liveries, bearing torches, ran by the side of the procession. Gräfin Jaufenstein was at the head of the hall welcoming the guests, and doing the honours of the castle, to supply what the moody humour of its lord left lacking in courtesy. But while she courtesied to noble lords and ladies with queenly grace, and, with imperceptible asides, at the same time gave directions that every one should have his due place, and that every thing should proceed with the due order of etiquette, it never for a moment escaped her practised eye that something unusual was going on in the neighbourhood of the young baron. That he should summon the cook to his presence, probably to chide her justly for some breach of the rules of her art, if such had befallen, was indeed no unreasonable distraction for the baron's melancholy, and she hailed it as a token of returning interest in the ordinary affairs of life, which had occupied him so little of late; but when she heard him order the Hennenpfösl to be brought there in the midst of his guests, she thought it time to interfere--it became a matter of eccentricity passing all bounds. Dexterously excusing her momentary absence from her guests, she accordingly made her way up to her nephew, preparing to wrap up her remonstrance in her most honeyed language, so as better to convince without provoking him. Before she could reach his chair, there was a movement of astonishment in the vast assembly, and a cry of admiration, while the heralds proclaimed,-- "Place for the most noble baron's daughter!" And then, surrounded by her shining crowd of attendants, and glittering in her jewelled robes, Klein-Else made her way with modest, but at the same time noble carriage towards the young baron. The young baron recognized her the moment the tapestry was raised for her to pass, and instantly went forth to meet her with courteous gestures, and led her up to the seat next his own at the banquet. The stately countess looked on a little perplexed, for the first time in her life, but with admirable serenity and self-possession inquired the name of the fair guest who did their poor banquet the honour of attending it in so great state. "I am the poor Hennenpfösl, madame, whom your noble nephew has done the honour to summon to his presence; and I hope you will not think I disgrace his command," replied Klein-Else, with a reverence at once lowly and full of accomplished dignity. "The Hennenpfösl!" repeated the countess, returning the salute mechanically. "But surely there is some mistake--some----" "Yes, dearest countess, some mystery there is," interposed her nephew; "but we will not seek to penetrate it till it shall please the lady herself to reveal it. Why she should have chosen to pass some time as the Hennenpfösl, I know not; but this is not the first time we have met, and I am sufficiently satisfied of her grace and discretion to know that for whatever reason she chose it, she chose aright. I have further determined this very night to lay myself and my fortune at her feet!" Klein-Else started, with a little cry of satisfied expectation, then coloured modestly and looked down. "But the lady will at least favour us with her name?" urged the countess, but half satisfied. Klein-Else turned to her chamberlain with dignity, and whispered an order; and then the chamberlain stood forward and proclaimed aloud the names and titles of the deceased baron of the Passeier-Thal, her father. "Oh!" said the lady, in a tone of disparagement, "methinks his was a fortune which could scarcely be united with that of my nephew!" "Countess!" exclaimed the young baron, furious at the suggestion; but before he could proceed the chamberlain once more intervened. "There need be no difficulty on that score," he said; and he made a sign to the attendants who were behind. They came up in brave order, two and two, each pair bearing a casket in which was a thousand crowns. "A thousand such caskets contain the dowry of the baron's daughter; and she has priceless jewels without number." "A million crowns!" echoed the whole assembly, in chorus; "was there ever such a fortune known?" The countess was absolutely speechless, and turned to participate in the astonishment of her guests. The young baron and Klein-Else, thus left to each other's conversation, were not slow in confessing their mutual love. "And now all our friends are gathered round us," he exclaimed, at last, "what better time to proclaim our happiness? My friends! I present you the fair lady who has consented to become my bride!" There was a general sound of jubilation and praise. All gathered round to felicitate the baron, and the minstrels sang the charms of the bride. The baron begged them all to stay with him ten days, to celebrate the nuptials. And for ten days there was revelry and rapture, singing and merry-making; and when at last the guests returned home, every one carried back to his own neighbourhood the tale of the surpassing beauty, riches, and grace of Klein-Else. Every body had been won by her, there was no dissentient opinion; and even Gräfin Jaufenstein acknowledged that her nephew could not have made a nobler or better choice. When they were left alone, the days seemed hardly long enough to tell their love. Never was there happiness equal to theirs. Before the guests left, the baron had invited them all to come back every year on the anniversary; and every year, as they gathered round, they found them more and more wrapt in each other's love. On the second anniversary they found that their happiness had been increased by the birth of an heir; and the next year there was a little daughter too, the delight of her parents. Year by year the children grew in beauty, and grace, and intelligence, and others were added to their numbers. And every one envied the unequalled happiness of the baron and baroness. Meantime the years were passing away, though Klein-Else had taken no account of them. To her it was one continual round of enjoyment, uncrossed by any care; each season had its own joys, and she revelled in the fresh variety of each, but counted them not as they passed. One day they sat together under a shady grove: the baron was weaving a chaplet of roses, Klein-Else was fondling her latest-born upon her knee; round them sported their little ones, bringing fresh baskets of roses for the chaplet the baron was weaving for Klein-Else; while Otto the heir, a noble boy who promised to reproduce his father's stately figure and handsome lineaments, rejoiced them by his prowess with his bow and arrow. "How the time has sped, Klein-Else!" whispered the baron; "it seems but yesterday that you first came and knelt beside me in your sunbeam garment. Then, just as now, it was happiness to feel you beside me. I knew not who was there, but as I heard the flutter of your drapery a glow of joy seemed to come from its shining folds, and I, who had never loved any one else, loved you from that moment as I love you now!" "How well you say it, love!" responded Klein-Else. "Yes; where is the difference between to-day and yesterday, and last year and the year before that? Ever since that first day it has been one long love, nothing else! Yes; well I remember that day. I was poor, and despised, and had no one to talk to, and never thought any one would ever look at me again--except to scold me. And then I went into the church and knelt by you; and I felt as the new ivy twig must feel when it has crept and tossed about in vain, and then at last finds, close under its grasp, the strong, immovable oak, and clasps it--clasps it never to loose its hold again, never! but grows up clasping it ever closer and closer, till it grows quite one with it, and no one can separate them any more for ever!" "Yes," replied the baron; "nothing can separate them any more--nothing can separate us now! We have grown together for years, and have only grown the closer. It is now--let me see--five, six, seven years, and we have only grown the closer to each other! To think it is seven years! no, it wants a few weeks; but it will soon be seven years. Seven--" he turned to look at her, for he perceived that as he spoke she had loosened her hold of him, and now he saw she was pale and trembling. "But what ails you, Elschen [66]? Elschen dear! speak to me, Elschen!" he added, with anxiety, for she sank back almost unconscious against the bank. "I shall be better presently," stammered the baroness. "I think the scent of the flowers is too powerful. I don't feel quite well--take me down by the side of the water; I shall be better presently." An attendant took the babe from her arms--and the baron remembered afterwards, that as she parted from it she embraced it with a passionate flood of tears; then he led her to the side of the stream, and bathed her burning forehead in the cooling flood. Suddenly voices in angry altercation were heard through the trees, and the servants summoned the baron with excited gesticulations, saying there was a strange knight, all in armour, who claimed to see the baroness. Klein-Else was near fainting again when she heard them say that. "Claims to see the baroness, say you?" replied their lord, with menacing gesture. "Where is he? Let him say that to me!" and he darted off to meet him, without listening to the faint words Klein-Else strove to utter. Now she was left alone by the side of the stream where, as the Hennenpfösl, she had first washed away the stains of servitude and dressed herself to meet him who was to teach her to love. It was beside that stream she had sat, and her tears had mingled with it, as she had vowed that if ever such joy was hers as now she owned, her treasure should be for those who were outcast and suffering as she had been, and her happiness should be in making others happy! How had she fulfilled her vow? From that time to this it had passed out of her mind. Filled with her own gratification, she had left the orphan in her bereavement, the suffering in their misery, nor stretched out a helping hand. The seven years were spent, and there was no doubt the knight was come to seek an account of the treasure he had entrusted to her. She had not only to meet him with shame for its misuse, but even his name she had forgotten! And he had said, "Woe be to you, if you have forgotten that name!" But she had forgotten it. She pressed her hands against her throbbing temples as if to force it from her brain, and swept away the mantling hair--if but the cool breeze might waft it back to her! But the forgotten name came not. Suddenly the knight stood before her, and terrible he was to look at in his shining armour! As she saw him she screamed and swooned away. But he touched her, and bade her rise, then beckoned her to follow him; and she could not choose but obey. He led her over the stream and along the path in the mountain-side where the trees fringed the way; and when they reached the rock she knew so well, with its treasury whence all her means of happiness had been derived, he said in solemn accents,-- "Open, hoary rock!" But to her he said,-- "Look!" Then she could not choose but look. But oh, horror! in place of the coin and jewels, armour and apparel, it was filled with wasted forms bowed with misery and distress! the tear-worn orphan, the neglected sick. Here she saw lying a youth, wan and emaciated, struck down in all the promise of boyhood, and his mother tore her hair in agony by his side. And there stood a father, gaunt and grey, vainly grappling with Hunger, who was stealing away his children one by one from before his face. Here---- But she could bear no more. She sank upon the ground, and hid her face for very shame. "The ransom of these, it is, you have spent upon yourself!" thundered the pitiless knight; and every word was a death-knell.... The baron and his servants continued their search for the unknown knight, but for long they found him not; one said he had seen him go this way, and another that. Till at last an artless peasant maiden told them she had seen him take the path of the mountain, across the stream, and the baroness following behind with weak and unsteady steps. The baron hasted his steps to pursue the way she pointed. But he only found the lifeless body of Klein-Else kneeling against the hoary rock! PRINCE RADPOT [67]. Radpot succeeded early to the throne of his fathers. When on his deathbed, his sire had called him to his side, and said to him, "In leaving you my kingdom, I leave you a counsel with it which is worth the kingdom itself. In all things be guided by the advice of my wise counsellor Rathgeb, and you shall do well." But Radpot had a stepmother who hated him, and was determined to destroy him if possible; so she devised a plot against him, the first step of which was to get him out of the kingdom. She therefore advised that he should take a year's journey to perfect himself in knowledge of the world, before assuming the reins of government. Radpot was not devoid of shrewdness, and readily suspecting some evil intention in his stepmother's advice, at first resisted following it; but afterwards, submitting the matter to Rathgeb, according to his father's desire, he received from him a different counsel from that which he had expected. "Though your stepmother may have evil intentions," he said, "you need not therefore be afraid; we shall be able to baffle them. In the meantime, it is well that you should travel to see the world, and learn experience. We will so establish a council of regency that the queen shall not be able to do great mischief during your absence." Radpot was nothing loath to follow this advice, as he was of an adventurous disposition; so, all things being ordered for the due conduct of the affairs of the kingdom, he set out with Rathgeb for his year's journey. During all the days of preparation for the journey, the queen, who had always heretofore shown herself harsh and hostile to Radpot, behaved with the utmost tenderness and devotion, which the young prince ascribed to her satisfaction at his having followed her advice, and returned her advances with an ingenuous cordiality. She, in turn, received his deference with an increase of solicitude, and nothing could be more affectionate than their leave-taking. Every thing the thoughtfulness of a fond mother could have suggested was provided by her for his safety and comfort on the journey; and as he had his foot in the stirrup she still had one more token of her care of him. "Take this vial," she said, "it is a precious cordial; and when you are worn and wearied with heat and travel, a few drops of its precious contents will suffice to restore you to strength and vigour. Farewell! and when you taste of it, think of me." Radpot, with all the openness of his generous nature, assured her that he should never forget her kindness for him, and stowing away the vial in his belt, waved his hand to her as he rode away. Two days and two nights Radpot and his trusty counsellor journeyed through the cool forest; and then for another day along its border, exposed to the heat of the sun upon the mountain-sides, till they came to a vast plain where there was no shelter of hill or tree, no hospitality of human dwelling. With unbroken courage, however, the young prince commenced crossing it. It was only when, after three days' more hard riding, they still seemed as far as ever from a place of rest, that, wearied and dispirited, he took out his stepmother's vial, to try the effect of her cordial. It was the moment Rathgeb had feared. He had observed how completely the queen had lulled Radpot's suspicions, and that every attempt at suggesting there was any hypocrisy in her conduct had appeared to vex him. To have now spoken of any danger in trying her cordial would probably have provoked his resentment--Rathgeb took another way of saving his charge. "Think you not our mounts deserve more than we to taste this precious restorative? whatever labour we have endured, theirs has been tenfold." "True," said the good-natured prince; and, dismounting, he opened the mouth of his steed, and poured some drops of the liquid on his tongue. He had scarcely done so, however, when the poor beast stretched out his long neck with an air of agony, then fell over on its side, and expired! Rathgeb left the incident to produce its own effect on the mind of his pupil, who stood gazing as one bewildered. "What can it be that killed my good horse?" he exclaimed, at length; "it could not be the cordial! no, never! the queen could not have been so base! It was, that he has been so long unused to exercise, this terrible journey has overcome him, and the cordial was too late to save him." "Try it on mine," answered Rathgeb; "he is a battle-charger, used to endurance, and delighting in labour. See," he said, jumping to the ground, and patting his neck, "he is as fresh now as when we started, not a hair turned!" "Be it so," replied Radpot, not without some asperity. "I would not suffer the trial, could I suspect it possible the queen could be capable of so horrible a plot as you evidently suppose; but I cannot believe it--so give the cordial to your horse." Rathgeb took the vial, and poured not more than three drops on the tongue of his thirsty beast. Both watched the effect with a tension akin to awe. In the first few moments no change was apparent, but Radpot was too generous to give utterance to the triumph he began to experience. Suddenly the faithful beast started as if it had been transfixed with the sharpest arrow, directed one piteous look towards the master it had served so well, and fell down lifeless by the side of its companion. "There is no doubt it is as you say," Radpot now confessed, at once. "Forgive me for the haste with which I spoke." "Nay, prince, there is no need of excuse. Though it behoved me to stand on guard and see no harm befell you, it became you to trust her whose duty it was to befriend, not to harm you." "And now try this cordial of mine, maybe it will fulfil what the other promised." The prince gladly accepted the proffered gift; and both, wonderfully restored by its effects, continued their journey on foot. They had not gone far when three ravens passed them on the wing. The prince and his companion turned back to watch their flight, and saw them alight on the carrion of their dead horses, immediately after tasting of which they all three fell to the earth dead, by the side of the dead horses. "There may be some profit to be gained from these," said Rathgeb; and going back to the spot, he picked up the dead ravens and took them with him. Their journey was without further incident, till they at last espied a welcome hut completely sheltered in the border of a vast stretch of forest land. The sight gave them courage for renewed exertion; and in a few minutes more they stood before the door. An old woman came out to ask them in, but observing the youth and noble mien of the prince, she seemed to be moved with compassion, and cried out, with great earnestness, entreating them not to come in, for the place was the resort of a band of twelve robbers, and that no one could deliver them out of their hands. They would not be home till the next day for dinner; in the meantime, by a path she indicated, the travellers could easily make good their escape. The prince would have rewarded her for her advice, and have set out again to find a safer shelter; but Rathgeb remarked to him, that a prince should rather find means to overcome a danger than fly from it, and promised to carry him through this one, if he would be guided by him. Radpot, mindful of his father's desire, promised to do all he proposed. "Then, when the robbers come in, do exactly as I do," said Rathgeb; "in the meantime keep up your courage." And so they supped on what the old woman set before them, and went to bed and slept peacefully. The next day, an hour before dinner-time, Rathgeb went into the kitchen and handed the three ravens to the old woman to cook, giving her very particular directions as to the sauces that were to accompany it, as if it were a dish for which they had a particular liking, and wished dressed entirely for themselves. He was still watching the confection of the dish when the twelve robbers came back. They gave the two strangers a friendly reception, and invited them to dinner. This, the old servant had told Rathgeb, was their custom, and that after dinner they fell upon their guests and slew them at the moment when they least expected any onslaught. Rathgeb accepted the invitation, with the proviso that he and his companion should be allowed to eat their own food, being some game they had brought down by the way. The robbers made no objection, and they sat down to table. While waiting for the repast to be brought, the robbers entertained their guests with lively conversation, in which Rathgeb joined with great show of cordiality, the young prince sustaining his part admirably. When the dishes were brought, the old woman was careful to set the three ravens before Rathgeb, as he had bidden her; but the chief robber interposed, and said they must really allow him to offer him and his young friend of their hospitality. Rathgeb made a little courteous difficulty; and the robber-chief, whose object was not to thwart his guests in any thing, but make a show of the greatest civility, said he must really consent to exchange dishes, and not deprive him of the pleasure of providing in one way or another for his guests. After holding out for some pressing, Rathgeb consented, and each set to work to help himself to what was before him, the dish which had been before the robber-chief having been exchanged with that which was before Rathgeb. Rathgeb helped the prince without appearing to take any notice of what befell the robbers; and Radpot, understanding how important it was to engender no suspicion, fell with a hunter's appetite upon the viands without taking his eyes from his plate, after the manner of a famished man. Before he had devoured many mouthfuls, however, the poison of the ravens had done its work; one after another, or rather all together, the robbers fell under the table as suddenly as the horses and the ravens themselves--all but one. For one of the robbers had felt suspicious of the unusual circumstance of guests bringing their own food with them; when he pointed this out to his companions, they said it was clear there could be no guile in the matter, seeing the guests had so manifestly prepared it for their own eating. But he had abstained from incurring the risk himself, and now alone stood erect amid the dead bodies of his companions. "Draw, prince," said Rathgeb, "and rid us of this scum of the earth! cross not your sword with the defiled one, but smite him down as a reptile." Radpot did not wait to be twice told; before Rathgeb had done speaking he had hewn down the swaggering bully, who had thought to make easy work of an unpractised foe. Radpot and his counsellor lost no time in continuing their journey. The store of the robbers they left to the old woman who had befriended them, and took only a provision of wine and bread with them for their necessities by the way. Skirting along the borders of the forest, they shortly came to a fine city, where they established themselves at the first inn. They sat down in the Herrenstübchen [68] while other guests came in. "What news is there?" asked Rathgeb of the new comers. "News?" asked the person addressed; "it's always the old story here--but that's as strange for those who don't know it as any news." "What may it be, then?" pursued Rathgeb. "Why, the princess to whom all this country belongs is going on with her old mad pranks. She is perpetually propounding some new stupid riddle, promising her hand and kingdom to whomsoever divines it. But no one can divine the meaning of her nonsense; and the penalty is, that whoever attempts and fails is dressed like a fool or jester, with long ears and bells, and is made to ride backwards all through the city, with all the people hooting and jeering him." Rathgeb then informed himself as to the appearance and character of the princess. "Oh, as to that, she is charming in appearance--radiant as the sun, dazzling all beholders; that is how so many heads are turned by her. And as for her mind, there is no fault there either, except that just because she is more gifted than all other women, she is thus proud and haughty and unbearable." Rathgeb had heard enough, and went out with the prince to make acquaintance with the city and people, and to talk to him of the plans which had suggested themselves to him for courting and taming the princess. Radpot, who had been much pleased with the account of the princess they heard repeated all around, entered fully into his projects. As the princess was much interested in conversing with foreigners, it was not difficult for Rathgeb and the prince to obtain admission to her. Rathgeb then proposed the prince to her as suitor; but on the condition that, instead of the princess proposing the riddle for him to guess, he should propose one for the princess to guess, and that if she failed, she must marry his prince. Two motives urged the princess to accede to this arrangement: first, she felt her credit was staked on not refusing the trial; and then, she was so struck by the appearance of the handsome young suitor, that she was very glad to be saved the chance of losing him by his not guessing her riddle. Rathgeb's riddle was: "What is that of which one killed two, two killed three, and three killed eleven?" The princess asked for three days to consider her answer; during which time she consulted all her clever books and all the wise men of the kingdom, but she was unable to arrive at any answer which had a chance of proving to be the right one. The third day came, and with it Rathgeb and the prince. The princess was obliged to acknowledge herself vanquished, but found an over-payment for her vexation in having to marry the handsome prince, who, however, had, by Rathgeb's advice, not told her that he was a prince, and they passed for two travelling pedlars. At first all went well enough. In the happiness of living with a husband she loved, the Princess forgot many of her haughty ways, and as the prince governed the kingdom wisely, under Rathgeb's advice, every body was content. This happy state of things was not destined to last. By degrees the princess's old habits of self-sufficiency, haughtiness, and bad temper came back, and Radpot found he had hard lines to keep peace with her. From day to day this grew worse; and at last he found it hardly possible to endure her continual reproaches and causeless vituperation. In the meantime Rathgeb received the intelligence from the council of regency that the queen, Radpot's stepmother, was dead, and that all the people were impatient that he should return and place himself at the head of the nation. In communicating this news to the prince, the old counsellor propounded a scheme for reducing his wife to a better frame of mind which pleased him well. In accordance with it, Radpot absented himself from the palace for several days. At the end of that time he returned; but instead of waiting to listen to the fierce invectives with which the princess met him on his return, he interrupted her at the beginning of the discourse by informing her that he had been engaged on important affairs which did not concern her. Before she had time to recover from her surprise at his audacity in treating her thus, he went on to say that this absence was only the prelude to a much longer one, as he was now called home by his mother, who was a very old woman, and who entreated him to remain with her during the rest of her days; that he was about to set out, therefore, to go to her, and he could not say if he should be able ever to come back again--so he must bid her adieu. The princess could not for a long time be induced to believe that he was serious; but when she really found him making preparations for his departure, without any allusion to the idea of her accompanying him, she was so softened and distressed that, but for a sign from Rathgeb, he would have forgiven her at once, and told her all. By Rathgeb's advice, he determined to put her change of demeanour to the test before giving in, and he told her it was impossible to take her with him. At this, her pleading to accompany him became still more earnest. "But if you came with me, you would not have a palace-full of servants to wait upon you; you would have to live in a poor hut with a cross old woman, to whom I could not bear that you should answer a cross word, however peevish she might be; you would have to live on the poorest fare, and to earn something towards the support of your life." The princess, who really loved Radpot devotedly, and was of a good and noble nature, having erred chiefly through thoughtlessness and want of self-control, accepted all these hard terms cheerfully, rather than be separated from her husband. So they set out the next day. And when they got near Radpot's capital, Rathgeb went on before to a poor cottage in the outskirts, where there lived a lone old woman whom he could trust to carry on his plan by acting as Radpot's mother, without her ever knowing who he really was. When Radpot and the princess arrived before this cottage, by Rathgeb's instruction, the old woman came out and welcomed him as her son, and Radpot introduced the princess to her as his wife. "Not much like the wife of an honest workman either!" grumbled the old woman, according to Rathgeb's instructions. "That's the kind of wife a man picks up when he goes to foreign parts--a pert, stuck-up minx! But she'll have to learn to dress like a sober woman, and make some use of her fingers, now she's come here, I can tell her!" The princess could have thrust these words back down the old woman's throat in an instant, but Radpot imposed silence by a severe look; and then he reminded her that she had promised submission and obedience to his mother, adding that, if she desired it, and shrank from sharing his poverty and hard fare, his friend Rathgeb would even now take her back to her own country. But the very idea of parting from him produced immediate submission; and the old lady happening to be leaning against the table, as if tired of the exertion of welcoming her son, she even fetched and placed a chair for her, and helped her gently into it. But still, bad habits cannot be changed all at once, and before the day was out Radpot had had to put on his severe look to arrest her angry answer many a time. The next morning, as soon as they had breakfasted, he said he was going out for his work as a mason's labourer, and she must choose what work she would do, as no one must be idle in his house. The princess timidly replied that she knew many kinds of fine embroidery, which she thought would sell for a great price, and as she had some such with her, she would set to work to finish a piece of it, so that Rathgeb might take it into the town and get it sold. Radpot came back in the evening, and flung down a few pence on the table, which he said was the amount of his daily wage, and told her to go out and get the supper with it. It was little she knew of how to buy a workman's supper; and what she brought Radpot was so dissatisfied with that (having dined himself in the palace) he threw it out of window, so that she had to go supperless to bed. Before she went up-stairs, however, Radpot told her to show him her day's work; and when she brought it, expecting him to admire its delicacy and finish, he at once threw it on one side, saying he was sure such coarse stuff would not sell there. The princess spent the night more in weeping than in sleeping. In the morning she had to get up and prepare the breakfast, in doing which she not only burnt her hands, but, by her general awkwardness at the unusual work, incurred a storm of vituperation from the old mother such as she had often been wont to bestow, while no rough word had ever been spoken to her before in her whole life. All through the day she had to attend to all the old woman's whims; and in the evening when Radpot came home it was nearly the same thing again with the supper, and he would scarcely suffer her to snatch more than a few mouthfuls, so angry he showed himself at her mistakes in the manner of preparing it. He told her, too, that so long as she did not know how to earn her food, she must not expect to have much of it. This made her the more desirous that Rathgeb should take her work to the town. When he had done so, however, he brought it back, saying no one would buy such coarse, common work there. Then she tried other kinds, each finer and more delicate than the last; but all were brought back to her with the same answer. At last they gave her a basket of common pottery, and told her to go and sell it to the poor people in the market-place. This answered rather better than the work. There were plenty of people who wanted to buy crockery, and the most of them came to her basket in preference to others', because of her beautiful face all bathed in tears. But just as she was reckoning up what a nice sum we should now have to take home, and that it would be acknowledged she had done something right at last, a smartly caparisoned cavalier came riding past, and, without heed to her cries, upset the whole of her stock upon the road, smashing every thing to atoms, and scattering her heap of halfpence into the gutter. She was so bewildered she hardly thought to look at him, and yet, from the single glance, he appeared so like Radpot that she almost called to him by name; he dashed away, however, so quickly, that he was out of hearing in a minute. In the evening, when she came to detail her mishap to him, he appeared to be very angry at her ill success in every thing she attempted, adding, "I'm afraid you'll never be any use to a poor man--we must get Rathgeb to take you back home again." But at this she threw herself at his feet in despair, begged him so piteously to do any thing but that, promised so earnestly to apply herself to any mode of life he prescribed for her, provided only he would keep her by him, that he could hold out no longer, and determined to put an end to her trial. "I will give you one chance more," he said, trying to assume a tone of indifference: "you shall bring me my dinner while I am at work to-morrow; that will save me the time of going to get it, and will be worth something--only mind, now, don't make any mistake this time! I am working at the palace; bring the dinner there, and ask for the mason's labourer." The next day she took good care to have the dinner ready in time; and though she was filled with confusion at having to go through the public streets carrying the humble provision of the labourer's dinner, and every one gazing after her beautiful, tearful face, she yet went her way bravely, and came at last to the palace. The moment she asked at the door for the mason's labourer, a page was sent with her, who conducted her through suites of apartments vaster and more magnificent than those of her own palace; and, while she was lost in bewilderment, the page suddenly stopped short and pointed to a drapery hanging, saying, "Pull that aside, and you will find within, him you seek," and then darted away. She scarcely dared do as she was bid; but then the clocks began to strike the midday hour, and, fearful of keeping her husband waiting, she lifted the drapery with a trembling hand. On a royal throne, and habited in royal state, there sat Radpot himself, Rathgeb standing respectfully by his side. The princess thought to have fainted at the sight, for she could in no way understand how they came to be there. "Come in, princess!" said Radpot, encouragingly; and Rathgeb went to the door, and conducted her up to him. He bid her welcome, and kissed her tenderly, told her frankly what had been his plans with her, then led her into an adjoining room, where there were ladies-in-waiting ready to attire her in a robe of cloth-of-gold and coronet of diamonds, which they held in readiness, with many choicest ornaments of gold and precious stones. When she was ready, pages in court suits went before her, and heralds proclaimed her aloud. As soon as the prince saw her arrive, he ordered his high council to be called in, and presented his consort to them, declaring her as virtuous as she was fair. After this they lived together many years in great happiness, for the princess had had a life-long lesson, and never relapsed into her foolish ways. THE THREE BLACK DOGS. The wind roared through the tall fir-trees, and swept the snow-flakes in masses against the window-panes; the rafters rattled and the casements clattered; but dismally, above the roaring and the clattering, sounded the howling of three black dogs at the cottage-door; for their good master lay on the pallet within, near his end, and never more should he urge them on to the joyous hunt. The old man was stark and grey; one bony hand held fast the bed-clothes with convulsive clutch, and one rested in benediction on the dark locks of his only son kneeling by his side. Long he lay as if at the last gasp. Then suddenly raising his weary head from the pillow, he exclaimed, "Jössl, my son, forget not to pray for your father when he is no more." And Jössl sobbed in reply. "Jössl," continued the old man, with painful effort, "you know fortune has never favoured me in this world: you are my noble boy, and I would have left you rich enough to be a great man, as your looks would have you--but it was not to be! Jössl, it was not to be!" and the old man sank back upon the bed, and hid his face and wept. "Father, you have taught me to labour, to be honest, to face danger, and to fear God!" said the brave youth, throwing himself upon him and caressing his hollow cheeks; "that was the best inheritance you could leave me." "Well said! my noble son," replied the father. "But you are young to rough the world by yourself; and I have nothing to leave you but the Three Black Dogs--my faithful dogs--they are howling my death-knell without. Let them in, Jössl--they are all you have now in the world!" Jössl went to let them in; and as he did so the old man's eyes glazed over and his spirit fled, and Jössl returned to find only a corpse. The Three Black Dogs ceased their howling when they saw his grief, and came and fawned upon him and licked his hands. For three days they remained mourning together; and then the men came and buried the father. Other people came to live in the cottage, and Jössl went out to wander over the wide world, the Three Black Dogs following behind. When there was a day's work to be done they fared well enough. Though he had so fair a face and so noble a bearing, Jössl was always ready to apply his stalwart limbs to labour, and what he earned he shared with the Three Black Dogs, who whined and fawned and seemed to say,-- "We are eating your bread in idleness now; but never mind, the day will come when we will earn you yours." But when there was no work to be had, when the storm beat and the winter wind raged, Jössl was fain to share a peasant's meal where he could find pity by the way, and many there were who said, "God be gracious unto thee, my son," when they saw his comely face; but the Black Dogs slunk away, as if ashamed that their master's son should have to beg, not only for himself, but for them also. Better times came with the spring; and then there was the hay-cutting, and the harvesting, and the vintage, and Jössl found plenty of work. But still he journeyed on, and the Three Black Dogs behind. At last he saw in the distance the towers of a great city, and he hasted on, for all his life he had lived in the mountains, and had never seen a town. But when he reached it, he found that though it was a vast city, it was empty and desolate. Broad well-paved roads crossed it, but they were more deserted than the mountain-tracks. There were workshops, and smithies, and foundries, and ovens, but all silent and empty, and no sound was heard! Then he looked up, and saw that every house was draped with black, and black banners hung from the towers and palaces. Still not a human being appeared, either in the public squares or at the house-windows; so he still wandered on, and the Three Black Dogs behind. At last he espied in the distance a waggoner with his team coming through the principal road which traversed the city, and lost no time in making his way up to him and asking what this unearthly stillness meant. The waggoner cracked his whip and went on, as if he were frightened and in a hurry; but Jössl kept up with him. So he told him, as they went along, that for many years past a great Dragon had devastated the country, eating up all the inhabitants he found in the way, so that every one shunned the streets; nor should he be going through now, but that need obliged him to pass that way, and he got through the place as quickly as he could. But, he added, there was less danger for him now, because lately they had found that if every morning some one was put in his way to devour, that served him for the day, and he left off teasing and worrying others as he had been used to do; so that now a lot was cast every day, and upon whomsoever of the inhabitants the lot fell, he had to go out upon the highway early the next morning that the dragon might devour him and spare the rest. Just then a crier came into the street, and proclaimed that the lot that day had fallen on the king's daughter, and that to-morrow morning she must be exposed to the dragon. The people, who had come to the windows to hear what the crier had to say, now no longer kept within doors. Every one was so shocked to think that the lot had fallen on their beautiful young princess, that they all came running out into the streets to bewail her fate aloud; and the old king himself came into their midst, tearing his clothes and plucking out his white hair, while the tears ran fast down his venerable beard. When Jössl saw that, it reminded him of his own father, and he could not bear to see his tears. Then the king sent the crier out again to proclaim that if any one would fight the dragon, and deliver his daughter, he should have her hand, together with all his kingdom. But the fear of the dragon was so great on all the people of the city that there was not one would venture to encounter it, even for the sake of such a prize. Every hour through the day the crier went out and renewed the proclamation. But every one was too much afraid of the dragon to make the venture, and Jössl, though he felt he would have courage to meet the dragon; could not find heart to come forward before all the people of the king's court, and profess to do what no one else could do. So the hours went by all through the day and all through the night, and no one had appeared to deliver the princess. Then daybreak came, and with it the mournful procession which was to conduct the victim to the outskirts of the city; and all the people came out to see it, weeping. The old king came down the steps of the palace to deliver up his daughter; and it was all the people could do to hold him back from giving himself up in her place. But when the moment of parting from her came, the thought was so dreadful that he could not bring himself to make the sacrifice; and when he should have given her up he only clasped her the tighter in his arms. Then the people began to murmur. They said, "The hour is advancing, and the dragon will be upon us, and make havoc among us all. When the lot fell upon one of us, we gave up our wives, and our fathers, and our children; and now the same misfortune has visited you, you must do no less;" and as the time wore on they grew more and more angry and discontented. This increased the distress and terror of the king, and he raved with despair. When Jössl found matters as bad as this, he forgot his bashfulness, and coming forward through the midst of the crowd, he asked permission to go out to meet the dragon; "and if I fail," he added, "at least I shall have prolonged the most precious life by one day;" and he bent down and kissed the hem of the princess's garment. When the princess heard his generous words she took heart, and looked up, and was right glad to see one of such noble bearing for her deliverer. But the old king, without stopping to look at him, threw himself on his neck and kissed him with delight, and called him his son, and promised him there was nothing of all the crier had proclaimed that should not be fulfilled. The discontent of the people was changed into admiration; and they accompanied Jössl to the city gates with shouts of encouragement as he went forth to meet the dragon, and the Three Black Dogs behind. If the king's daughter had been pleased with the appearance of her deliverer, Jössl had every reason to be no less delighted with that of the lady to whom he was about to devote his life. Full of hope and enthusiasm, he passed on through the midst of the people--regardless of their shouts, for he was thinking only of her--and the Three Black Dogs behind. It was past the time when the dragon usually received his victim, and he was advancing rapidly towards the city walls, roaring horribly, and "swinging the scaly horrors of his folded tail." The fury of the monster might have made a more practised arm tremble, but Jössl thought of his father's desire that he should be a great man, and do brave deeds, and his courage only seemed to grow as the danger approached. He walked so straight towards the dragon, with a step so firm and so unlike the trembling gait of his usual victims, that it almost disconcerted him. When they had approached each other within a hundred paces, Jössl called to his dog Lightning, "At him, good dog!" At the first sound of his voice Lightning sprang to the attack, and with such celerity that the dragon had no time to decide how to meet his antagonist. "Fetch him down, Springer!" cried Jössl next; and the second dog, following close on Lightning's track, sprang upon the dragon's neck, and held him to the ground. "Finish him, Gulper!" shouted Jössl; and the third dog, panting for the order, was even with the others in a trice, and fixing his great fangs in the dragon's flesh, snapped his spine like glass, and bounded back with delight to his master's feet. Jössl, only stopping to caress his dogs, drew his knife, and cut out the dragon's tongue; and then returned to the city with his trophy, and the Three Black Dogs behind. If the people had uttered jubilant shouts when he started, how much more now at his victorious return! The king and his daughter heard the shout in their palace, and came down to meet the conqueror. "Behold my daughter!" said the old king: "take her; she is yours, and my kingdom with her! I owe all to you, and in return I give you all I have." "Nay, sire," interposed Jössl; "that you give me permission to approach the princess is all I ask, and that she will deign to let me think that I may be one day found not unworthy of her hand. But as regards your kingdom, that is not for me. I am but a poor lad, and have never had any thing to command but my Three Black Dogs: how should I, then, order the affairs of a kingdom?" The king and all the people, and the princess above all, were pleased with his modesty and grace; and they sounded his praises, and those of his Three Black Dogs too, and conducted them with him to the palace, where Jössl received a suit of embroidered clothes and the title of duke, and was seated next the princess. The king, finding that he was resolute in refusing to accept the crown, determined to adopt him for his son; and had him instructed in every thing becoming a prince, so that he might be fit to succeed him at his death. To the Three Black Dogs were assigned three kennels and three collars of gold, with three pages to wait on them; and whenever Jössl went on a hunting-party, his Three Black Dogs had precedence of all the king's dogs. As time wore on Jössl had other opportunities of distinguishing himself; and by little and little he came to be acknowledged as the most accomplished courtier and the most valiant soldier in the kingdom. The princess had admired his good looks and his self-devotion from the first, but when she found him so admired and courted by all the world too, her esteem and her love for him grew every day, till at last she consented to fulfil the king's wish, and they were married with great pomp and rejoicing. Never was there a handsomer pair; and never was there a braver procession of lords and ladies and attendants, than that which followed them that day, with music and with bells, and the Three Black Dogs behind. * * * There are countless spots in Tirol in which tales are traditional of brave peasants, hunters, and woodmen delivering the place out of some need or danger, symbolized as "a dragon," similar in the main to the above, but with varieties of local colouring. I gave the preference to the above for the sake of the Three Black Dogs. OTTILIA AND THE DEATH'S HEAD; OR, "PUT YOUR TRUST IN PROVIDENCE." In the little town of Schwatz, on the Inn, the chief river of Tirol, there lived once a poor little peasant-girl named Ottilia. Ottilia had been very fond of her dear mother, and cried bitterly when she had the great misfortune to lose her. She tried hard to do all she had seen her mother do: she swept the house and milked the cow, and baked the bread, and stitched at her father's clothes; but she could not, with all her diligence, get through it all as her mother did. The place began to get into disorder, and the pigs and the fowls fought, and she could not keep them apart, and she could not manage the spinning; and what was worst of all, she could not carry in the loads of hay, by which her mother had earned the few pence that eked out her father's scanty wages. To keep the house straight, the good man found himself obliged to take another wife; and one day he brought home the tall Sennal, and told Ottilia she was to be her mother. When poor little Ottilia heard the tall, hard, bony woman called "her mother," she burst out into passionate tears, and declared she should never be her mother, and she would never pay her obedience! Now the tall Sennal was not a bad woman, but she was angry when the child set herself against her; and so there was continual anger between the two. When she told Ottilia to do any thing, Ottilia refused to do it, lest she should be thought to be thereby regarding her as her mother, which seemed to her a kind of sacrilege; and when she tried to do any of the work of the house, her childish inexperience made her do it in a way that did not suit the tall Sennal's thrift, so there was nothing but strife in the house. Yet the good father contrived, when he came home of an evening, to set things straight, and make peace; and though Ottilia had little pleasure, like other children of her years, yet she had a good woollen frock to keep out the cold, and bread and cheese and milk enough to drive away hunger, and, what she valued most, a father's knee to sit on of an evening in the well-warmed room, while he kissed her and told her weird stories of the days long gone by. But a day came--a day darkened by a terrible storm--on whose evening no father came home. The long Sennal went out with the neighbours with lanterns and horns, but the fierce winds extinguished their lights and drowned the sound of their horns; and Ottilia knelt by the side of her father's chair, praying and crying. She prayed and wept, and only slept a little now and then, all through the night; and in the morning some carters came in, and brought her father's dead body, which they had found on their mountain way, under the snow, where it lay buried. But Ottilia still knelt by her father's chair, and felt like one in a dream, while they put him in his coffin and carried him to the churchyard ground, and the sad bells mourned. "Go, child, and feed the pig!" exclaimed the harsh voice of the tall Sennal--and it sounded harsher than ever now, for there was none left to apply the curb. "Crying's all very well for a bit; but you're not going on like that all your life, I suppose?" Ottilia felt her helplessness, and therefore resented the admonition. Without stopping to consider its reasonableness, she retorted, fiercely,-- "'Child!' I am no child of yours! I've told you so before, a thousand times; and it's not because my father's dead that you're going to come over me. You think you'll make me forget him by forbidding me to cry for him; but never, never will I forget him! nor shall you forget how he made you behave properly to me!" The tall Sennal had more patience with her than might have been expected, and said no more for that time; but Ottilia was not won by her forbearance, and only reckoned it as a victory. It was strife again the next day, and the next, and there was no good father to make peace. And at last the tall Sennal's patience fairly gave way, and one day, in her provocation, she drove the child from the door, and bid her never come under her eyes again! Her anger cooled, she could have recalled the words, but Ottilia was already far away up the mountain-path, and out of sight, gone she knew not whither. Ottilia had no experience of want, and knew not what it was to be alone upon the mountains; all her full heart felt at the moment was, that it would be a boon to get away from the reproaches her conscience told her were not undeserved, and be alone with her parent's memory. Thus she wandered on, with no more consciousness of her way than just to follow it to the spot where her father died, and which had been marked by pious custom with a wayside cross, on which was painted in vivid strokes the manner of his end. Ottilia gazed at the cruel scene till fresh tears started to her eyes, and she threw herself on the ground beside it, and cried till she knew no more where she was. Then it seemed to her as if the ground were again covered with snow, and that from under it she heard her father's voice; and he talked to her as he used to talk of an evening by the fireside, when she was on his knee after work and he made her peace with the tall Sennal. And now he brought home to her all her naughty, senseless ways, not scolding without reason, but making all allowance for the filial love which had been at the bottom of the strife. Ottilia seemed to herself to be listening to him with great attention, but her heart misgave her. She was ready to own now that she had been very wrong, very unreasonable, and she felt really sorry for it all--so sorry that, had her home still been his, she felt that she could have brought herself to obey Sennal, so that she might not grieve him; but now--now that he was not there--suppose he should require of her that she should go back now and live with the tall Sennal, all alone! But he did not require it of her; or, at all events, in her excitement she woke with his last words sounding in her ear, which were nothing more severe than, "Put your trust in God, and all will yet be well." The sun had already sunk behind the mountains, the chill night air began to penetrate Ottilia's clothing, and hunger stared her in the face. She felt very humble now, but she had no mind to go back. She rose and walked on, for numbness, as of death, was creeping over her, and she knew the mountain-folk said that to yield to that lethargy of cold was death. On she walked, and on, and the darkness gathered thicker and thicker round her; but she thought of her guardian angel, and she was not afraid. Still the way was weary, and the air was keen, and her strength began to fail. Then suddenly, on a neighbouring peak, she descried the broken outline of a castellated building standing out against the now moonlit sky. Gathering fresh force from hope, she picked her way over steep and stone, guiding her steps by the friendly light which beamed from a turret window. She had had time to realize her whole desolation. If heaven vouchsafed her another chance of finding a home, she mentally resolved, she would behave so as to win its blessing, with all her might. When at last she reached the castle-gate her courage once more began to fail--what would the great people at the castle say to a poor little half-starved peasant-girl, who came without friend or warrant to disturb their rest? "Where is your trust in Providence?" said a voice within, which sounded like a memory of her father's, and rekindled her courage. A horn hung beside the broad portal; and when, after many timorous efforts, Ottilia had succeeded in making a note resound, she stood anxiously wondering what stern warder or fierce man-at-arms would answer the summons. None such appeared, however. But after some moments of anxious waiting, the window whence the friendly light beamed was opened, with noise enough to make her look up, and then--what do you think she saw? Nothing but a Death's Head looking out of the window! Almost before she had time to be frightened, it asked her, in a very kindly voice, what was her pleasure. "A night's lodging and a bit of bread, for the love of Christ!" said Ottilia, faintly; and then she looked up again at the Death's Head, and she could not resist a sense of horror and faintness that crept over her. "Put your trust in God," whispered her father's voice, and she made an effort to stay her teeth from chattering together. Meantime, the Death's Head had answered cheerily enough, "Will you promise to carry me up here again faithfully, if I come down and draw the bolt for you, and let you in?" and scarcely knowing what she said, Ottilia gave an assent. "But think what you are saying, and swear that I can rely on you," persisted the Death's Head, "for, you see, it is a serious matter for me. I can easily roll down the steps, but there are a good many of them, and I can't get up again by myself." "Of course you may rely on me," now answered Ottilia, for she saw it was but her bounden duty to perform this return of kindness--and conscience seemed to have a reproach for her courageous alacrity, saying, "The tall Sennal never required of you any thing so hard as this." "I know she didn't," answered Ottilia, humbly; "and this is my punishment." All this time the Death's Head was coming rumbling down the stone stairs--and a hard, dismal sound it was. Clop, clop, clop, first round the turret spiral; then r-r-r-r-r-roll along the long echoing corridor; and then, clop, clop, clop once more all down the broad main staircase; then another r-r-r-r-r-roll; and finally, klump! bump! it came against the massive door. Ottilia felt her heart go clop, clop, clop, clop, too, but she struggled hard; and the cold, and the faintness of hunger made her yet feel rejoiced to hear the Death's Head take the bolt between its grinning teeth and draw it sharply back. The great door flew open, and Ottilia trod timidly within the welcome shelter. The memory of her father's fate was fresh upon her, and the Death's Head was less terrible than the pitiless snow. Not without some difficult mental struggles Ottilia faithfully fulfilled her promise. A temptation, indeed, came to let the skull lie. It could not pursue her--it could not possibly climb up all those stairs, though it could roll down them; besides, it had declared its incapacity for the task. She could let it lie and enter into possession of the castle--it was clear there was no one else there, or the skull would not have put itself in danger by coming to the door. But honest little Ottilia repelled the thought with indignation, and, bending down, she picked up the skull, and carried it carefully up the stairs folded in her apron. "Lay me on the table," said the Death's Head, when they got into the turret-chamber where the light was; "and then go down into the kitchen and make a pancake. It won't be for want of eggs and flour and butter if it is not good, for they are there in plenty." "What! go all the way down to the kitchen alone, in this great strange place?" said poor little trembling Ottilia to herself. "This is worse than any thing the tall Sennal ever gave me to do indeed;" but she felt it was a punishment and a trial of her resolution, and she started to obey with brave determination. It was a harder task even than she had imagined, for if the Death's Head was safe up-stairs in the turret tower, the "cross-bones" were at large in the kitchen, and would get in her way whatever she turned to do. True, her impulse for a moment was to turn and scream, and run away, but there came her father's voice, bidding her trust in God, "And besides," she said to herself, "what is there so very dreadful about the sight of dead bones, after all? and what harm can they do me?" So she took no notice of what was going on around her, but beat her eggs and mixed her batter, and put it on to fry, till the appetizing odour and the warmth of the fire brought back life and renewed her courage. When Ottilia brought the pancake up into the turret-room, and laid the dish with it on the table, she observed that the side of the pancake which was turned towards the skull became black, while that nearest herself retained its own golden colour; so that her curiosity was piqued, and she was much inclined to ask about it, but she managed to keep quiet and eat her share in silence. When she had finished she took the dish and washed it up, and put all away carefully; and she was just feeling very tired when the Death's Head said to her, "If you go up that staircase on the left, you will come to a little bedroom where you may sleep. About midnight a skeleton will come to your bedside, and try to pull you out of bed; all you have to do is not to be afraid of it, and then it can do you no harm." So Ottilia thanked the skull, and went up to bed. She had not been in bed more than three hours when she heard a great noise and rattling in the room, much like the noise the cross-bones had made in the kitchen while she was cooking the pancake. Then she heard the skull call up to her, "It is just midnight--remember you have only to be brave!" And as it spoke she saw a great skeleton come and stand in the bright moonbeam by her bedside! It stretched one of its long bare arms out towards her, and pulled off the bed-clothes with one bony hand and seized her by the hair with the other. But Ottilia listened for her father's voice bidding her put her trust in Providence; and she remained quite quiet in her bed, giving no sign of fear. When the skeleton found that she was so brave, it could do nothing against her, but, after two or three ineffectual tugs, turned and went away; and she saw nothing more of it, but slept out the rest of the night in peace. When she woke the next morning the bright sun was pouring cheerfully into the room, and by the bedside, where the skeleton had stood the night before, was a beautiful form of a woman, all clothed in white and surrounded by golden rays, to whom Ottilia said, "What do you want me to do, bright lady?" And the vision answered, "I was the mistress of this castle, who, for my pride and vanity, was condemned to dwell in my bare bones on the same spot where I had sinned by my extravagance in dress, and other wanton habits, until one should come, for the sake of whose thrifty, humble ways, and steadfast trust in God, I should be set free. "This you have accomplished, and now I can go to my rest; while, in gratitude, I endow you with this castle and all its lands and revenues." With that the bright form disappeared; and a moment afterwards Ottilia saw, through the window, a milk-white dove winging its upward flight towards heaven. So Ottilia became a rich countess, and mistress of the lordly castle which she had entered as a suppliant. But no sooner was she installed than she sent for the long Sennal; and, having besought her pardon for all the trouble she had given her, begged her to come up to the castle and be with her. So they lived very happily together for the rest of their lives. THE TWO CASKETS. It was a summer holiday; the sun shone with burning rays on the newly-mown banks; the roads and paths seemed knee-deep with dust; the flowers by the wayside hung their heads, as if praying for the refreshing shower; the very waters of the streamlet were heated as they passed along, and Franzl, lying indolently on its bank, plunged his hands beneath its bright surface, but found no cooling. With a peevish exclamation, he rose and sauntered away, and wished there were no holidays. "Nay, don't wish that!" said a gentle fair-haired maiden by his side; "and just on this one, too, which I have been longing for, to fill the basket I made for mother with fresh strawberries from the wood." "Not a bad idea of yours, Walburga; they all call you the 'wise' Walburga," replied Franzl. "There's shade in the wood, and the strawberries will be cooler and more refreshing than this nasty stream." And with that he strolled away towards the wood. The cottage of Franzl and Walburga was nestled into the side of a steep hill, the summit of which was mantled with a forest of lofty pines; and up the precipitous path, which wound past the very chimneys of the cottage, Franzl now strolled alone, without troubling himself to offer his hand to the patient little maiden who toiled painfully behind him, with many a slip upon the loose stones and sunburnt moss. This was Franzl's character. He was always thus: his own amusement, his own enjoyment, and his own ease, were his sole care. Nor had the example of Walburga's loving thoughtfulness for others any effect upon him. If he took any notice of her at all, it was only to laugh and rail at her for it, till her silence shamed his reproaches. At the pinnacle of the path there was a venerable stone cross, shaded from the weather by a little pent-house covered with ivy. Walburga knelt before it as she passed, and prayed for help to be always a good, obedient child, and a blessing to her dear parents. Franzl raised his hand to his cap mechanically, because it was the custom, but no holy thought crossed his mind. "At last there is some coolness after all this horrid heat! and now we are close to those nice refreshing strawberries." These were his only ideas. To Walburga, as she knelt, there came sweet lessons she had been taught to associate with the cross--of abnegation of self, obedience to higher powers, and loving devotion to others. Franzl looked with all his eager eyes to discern the bright red berries where the shade lay diapered with the light darting between the thick clothing of the pine-trees, without so much as casting a glance at the sacred token. "Oh, what a splendid haul!" he cried, and plunged through the thick leafage to where the ripe, rich berries clustered closest, and, without troubling himself to learn whether Walburga was as well supplied, began helping himself to his heart's content. Walburga lined her basket with fresh green leaves, and laid the strawberries in tasteful order upon them, only now and then taking the smallest and most worthless for herself. Though possessed with different objects, both were equally eager in the pursuit, and they pushed deeper and deeper into the thick pine forest, Walburga always keeping near Franzl, by reason of her tender, confiding spirit, which loved to be near those dear to her, though he, intent on his own gratification, had no cheerful word to enliven her. At last they came to where the dark pines closed thick overhead--so thick that no golden rays pierced through; all was shade and silence. But here the strawberries were no longer ripe and red, for there was no sun to bring them to maturity, so Franzl peevishly turned to go, and Walburga followed gently behind. Suddenly their progress was arrested by a bright light--brighter than the burning summer sun shining beneath the gloom of the dark pines--and in the centre of that light stood a beautiful queen, and the light seemed to come from the diadem on her forehead and the garments that encompassed her! "What are you doing here?" she said, in soft sweet accents, addressing herself to Walburga. And Walburga, dropping her eyelids with maiden modesty, replied, hardly able to force her voice above a whisper, "Gathering strawberries for mother dear." The beautiful Lady smiled a smile of approval; and the bright light seemed brighter when she smiled, and a sweet and balmy breeze stirred the air when she spoke again. "Here, my child," she said, "take this casket;" and she handed her a casket made just like the strawberry-basket she had woven for her mother, only it was all of pure gold filigree, and, in place of the piled-up strawberries, it had a lid of sparkling carbuncles. "Take this, my child; and when you open it think of me." "And what are you doing?" she said, with something less of mildness, to Franzl, who, having his hat full of strawberries, was so busy devouring them that he had not even noticed the beautiful present his sister had received. Nor did he stop now even to reply to her; but between throwing away one chuck and picking out another fruit, he muttered, rudely,-- "I should think you might see that, without asking!" The beautiful Lady looked at him sadly, and tears like pearls fell fast down her fair cheeks, as she gave him a dark iron casket, with the same words she had used to Walburga. The light disappeared, and the fair Lady was seen no more. "Who can that bright Lady be? and what can these caskets be that she has given us?" said Walburga, timidly. "Let us come home quick, and show them to mother;" and she ran onwards gaily, calling out, "Mother, mother dear, see what I have got!" "Stuff!" replied Franzl; "I'm not going to wait for that: I want to see what's in them now." But Walburga had passed on out of hearing. He pulled the lid off his dark iron casket; and immediately there wriggled out two great black ugly snakes, which grew bigger and longer, dancing round him; nor could he escape from their meshes. Then, finally, they closed their coils tightly round him, and carried him away through the thick, sunless forest, and no one ever saw him again! Meantime Walburga was making her way home with all the speed she could down the dangerous mountain track, her strawberry-basket in one hand and the golden casket in the other. Her mother sat spinning in the luxuriant shade of the climbing plants over-shadowing the broad cottage-eaves. "Mother, dear mother!" cried the child; "see what I have got. Here is a basket of fresh cool strawberries I have gathered for you in the wood, and here is a golden casket which a beautiful Lady brought me, with a great shining light! But stop till Franzl comes home, for he is coming behind, and she gave him a dark iron casket too, and we will open them both together; so eat the strawberries, mother dear, till Franzl comes." The mother kissed her child fondly, and stroked her fair, soft, curling hair, but turned her head and wept, for she knew what had befallen. But Franzl came not; and when Walburga had sought him every where, she said, "He must be gone round by the woodman's track to meet father, so let us open the casket, mother dear." So she put the casket in her mother's lap, and lifted the beautiful carbuncle lid. And see! there flew thereout two tiny beings, all radiant with rainbow light, and they grew bigger and bigger, fluttering round her till they appeared two holy angels, who folded the child softly in their arms, then spread their wings and flew away with her, singing enchanting melodies, above the clouds! THE PRUDENT COUNSELLOR. Alois Zoschg was a peasant of the Sarnthal; his holding was inconsiderable, but it sufficed for all his needs; his cottage was small, but his family consisted of only himself and his daughter, and they found room for all their requirements. Katharina was bright enough, however, to make any home happy. Though she shared the cottage with her father alone, she never seemed to feel the want of younger companions; thoughtful and prudent beyond her years, and thrifty and notable with all the work of the place, she was at the same time always ready with her joke and her song. It was no wonder that her father doated on her, and looked forward all through the day's toil to the evening spent in cheerful conversation with her. There were thus the elements of a pleasant existence in Alois' lot, but there were two disturbing causes also. One was his own temper, which was violent and ungovernable at times, when he was seriously provoked. The other was the jealousy and animosity of a rich peasant neighbour, Andrä Margesin, the owner of a considerable Hof [69] situated at no great distance from Zoschg's cottage, auf der Putzen. Circumstances had constantly brought the two neighbours into collision; the fault generally lay, in the first instance, on the side of the rich Andrä Margesin, who was grasping and overbearing, but Alois Zoschg once roused, would never let a quarrel rest, and his irritability and revengeful spirit were oftentimes enough to disturb the peace of the whole neighbourhood. No one could say where such quarrels might have ended, what crimes might perhaps have been the result, but for the wise interposition of Katharina, who knew how to soothe her father's ruffled spirit without ever exceeding the limits of filial respect, as well as how to conciliate the rich neighbour, without condescending to the use of any servile arts. By her extraordinary good sense and good temper alone, she would, time after time, bring both the men back to sober reason from the highest reach of fury. Once, however, they had a dispute which was beyond her competence to decide for them, for it involved a question of law. Andrä Margesin accused Alois Zoschg of an encroachment, while Alois Zoschg maintained he was justified in what he had done, by prescriptive right. The dispute raged high, but all Katharina could do in this case to restore peace, was to exact a promise from both parties that they would cease from all mutual recrimination, and carry the matter to be decided for them by the judge in Botzen. When the day of hearing came on, the two disputants went up to Botzen to plead their cause; but each was so determined not to give way, and had so much to say in defence of his own position, and to the disparagement of his antagonist, that they carried their pleadings on for six days, and yet there seemed no chance of arriving at a decision which should be thoroughly justified by the evidence, so contradictory was it. At last, the judge, getting tired of the prolonged controversy, and finding it impossible to moderate the virulence of the combatants, told them that he could have no more wrangling, they had so confused the case with their statements and counter-statements, that it was impossible to say which of them was right, or, rather, which of them was least in the wrong; but he gave them one chance of obtaining a decision of the matter, and that was by accepting a test, which he would propound, of their ability and judgment, and whichever succeeded in that, he should pronounce was the one who was in the right in the original pleading. The rivals looked somewhat disconcerted at this mode of procedure, but, as they found they could not get the affair decided on any other terms, they at last agreed to accept the proposal. "You must tell me, then," said the judge, "by to-morrow morning at this hour, what is that which is the Strongest, the Richest, and the most Beautiful;" with these words he left the judgment-seat, and the two peasants were left standing opposite each other, looking very foolish, for they both thought that it would be impossible ever to answer such a question. After a few moments' consideration, however, Andrä Margesin, who was a very vain man, bethought himself of an answer which, to his mind, seemed indisputably the right one. "To be sure! Of course! I wonder I didn't see it at once! There can be no doubt about it!" he exclaimed, aloud; and clapping his hands, and making other triumphant gesticulations, he stalked off homewards, telling all his friends that he had no doubt of the result. But poor Alois Zoschg, the more he thought, the more puzzled he got, and the boasts of Andrä Margesin only made him more furious. There he stood, crying out against the judge, and against his ill-luck, against his poverty and the opulence of Margesin, till it became necessary to close the court, and his friends prevailed on him to go home. But all the way his passion grew more and more outrageous, and by the time he reached his cottage he was raging like a maniac; the other men could do nothing with him, and slunk away one by one, some in disgust, some in despair. It was now Katharina's turn; and Katharina came out to meet him with her brightest smile and her filial greeting, just as if he had been in the best humour in the world. But, for the first time, the sight of Katharina seemed rather to increase than allay his anger; for he found her dressed in all her festal attire--a proceeding which was quite out of character with his present disposition. There was he, worn out with the long dispute, the weariness of the delayed decision, the provocation of his enemy's insulting mien, and still more, perhaps, by his own ill-humour; and there she stood, all smiles and bright colours, as for a joyful occasion--the white Stotzhaube [70] coquettishly set on her braided hair, the scarlet bodice tightly embracing her comely shape, with "follow-my-lads [71]" streamers from her shoulder-knot, the bright red stockings showing under her short black skirt, and the blue apron over it, in place of the white apron of working days! Could any thing be more incongruous? was it not enough to increase his madness? Nevertheless, Katharina's judgment so uniformly approved itself to his better reason, that, the first impulse passed, he gulped down the rising exclamation of annoyance until he had heard what Katharina had to say. "Well, father, so you're all right! and I'm the first to congratulate you," she cried, and flung her arms round him with an embrace, of which, even in his present state of excitement, he could hardly resist the tenderness and effusion, and as if she did not perceive the traces of his ill-humour. "'Right,' wench! what mean you? all wrong you should say." "No, no, I mean it is all right; and it only remains for you to hear it pronounced by the judge to-morrow--and haven't I put on my gala suit to celebrate your success?" "Success! speak! what mean you?" cried Alois, eagerly, his stormy vexation melting away before the sunbeam of her encouragement. "Why, what has the judge told you to do, to decide the case?" asked Katharina, who had heard it all from a neighbour who came home hours before, while Alois was still standing perplexed in the court. "That I should tell him by to-morrow morning," replied Alois, softened already by her consoling manner, "what it is which is the strongest, the richest, and the most beautiful--and how am I ever to guess all that? And what's more," he continued, relapsing into his former state of vexation, "that fellow Andrä Margesin has guessed it--guessed it already! and is gone off proclaiming his triumph!" "No, father!" exclaimed Katharina, with a mocking laugh, all of fun, however, not of scorn; "you don't mean to say you believe that great bully Andrä Margesin could have guessed the right answer?" "But he said so! he went off telling every one so," rejoined Alois, positively. "Oh, you dear, good, simple father! do you really believe it is so because he boasts of it? Do rest easy; he's not got it." "Well, but if he hasn't, I haven't either. How am I to guess such captious absurdities? Why couldn't the man judge the thing on its merits, instead of tormenting one to this extent?" and Alois was getting cross again. "Why, it is the best chance in the world, you couldn't have been more favoured! As to Andrä, he'll never guess it. Now just think what answer you'll give." "Oh, I should never guess any, if I thought till doomsday! But you"--and he started with the clever thought--"you, of course, who always find a way out of every thing--what do you say?" "Why," answered Katharina, readily, "what is Stronger than the earth on which we stand, which bears up our houses and buildings, our rocks and mighty mountains, which all our united efforts could not suffice to move one inch from its place, and on which we all rest secure, confident that none is strong enough to displace it? What more Beauteous than spring, with its fresh, soft tints on sky and mountain, on alp [72] and mead, on blossom and flower--spring, with its promise and its hope? And what Richer than autumn, with its gifts which make us glad for all the year--its bursting ears of grain, its clustered grapes, its abundant olives and luscious fruits?" "Katharina, girl, I believe you've found it!" said her father, with enthusiasm. "My bonny girl has saved me this time also!" and he clasped her in his arms. Though misgivings would come back when he recalled Andrä's assurance, he yet went to bed happy in the consciousness of at least having a good chance of not being beaten. In the morning he was up betimes, and, having taken great pains to learn what he had to say from Katharina, who walked a good stretch of the way through the valley with him, he arrived at the court in tolerably good humour. Andrä was there before him, and in high good humour too; taking for granted that, as the richer and more important man, and, moreover, as the victor (so he felt assured), he had the right to speak first. As soon as the judge had taken his seat, and even before he had called on him for his answer, he began,-- "Sir judge, I have the answer to your enigma; and as soon as I have told it, you will please give judgment in my favour. It was indeed easy enough to find, so I claim no merit in the discovery," he added, with the pride that apes humility. "The most Beautiful thing on earth is my wife, of course; the Strongest, are my oxen; and the Richest, am I." The judge listened without moving a muscle of his countenance, as became a judge, and for those who were too obtuse to perceive the fine irony of the smile with which he bowed to the speaker at the conclusion of his harangue--and among these was certainly Andrä himself--it seemed as if he was quite satisfied with the answer. Nevertheless, he turned to Alois, and said,-- "Well, my man, and what is your answer?" "But the judgment, good sir judge! would your honour be pleased to pronounce the sentence in my favour, seeing I have given your worship the answer?" interposed Andrä Margesin, fussily. "Gently and fairly!" replied the judge; "wait only a little: we must hear what friend Alois has to say. He might have an answer, you know; and, anyhow, we must give him the opportunity." Andrä chafed, but could not resist; and, at an encouraging word from the judge, Alois stood forward and repeated word for word the answer Katharina had taught him. Though the judge had preserved his imperturbability through the expression of Andrä's silly bombast, this answer of Alois was too much for his composure. He had only proposed the enigma as the means of getting rid of a perplexing case. He had no idea but that both peasants would bring an answer of which he could easily expose the folly; and thus, neither having fulfilled the prescribed terms, the case would fall through of itself, and he be saved from further trouble. But he saw nothing to reply to Alois' solution of his question, nor any means of escaping from giving judgment in his favour. Every body acquiesced in the justice of the decision; and even Andrä himself had nothing to say, but, crestfallen, and in very different style from his confidence of the day before, he made his exit while people were yet engaged with the discussion of Alois' success, so as to avoid alike scorn and condolence. The session over, the judge called Alois aside, and inquired how he had come to find so accurate an answer; upon which Alois, who burnt to proclaim the merit of his child, at once referred the honour to Katharina. "That is it, is it?" replied the judge. "I have often seen the girl at church, and am not surprised that so comely a form is inhabited by so clever a mind. Now, go home, and tell your daughter that if she finds out the way to come to me without any clothes on, and yet not naked; not by day, and yet not by night; and by a way which shall be neither a high-road nor yet a by-path, I shall take the opportunity of her so coming to ask her to be my wife." Alois lost no time in returning home to tell the good news to his daughter. "I suppose you'll find one of your clever ways of doing it, though, for myself, I confess I don't understand a word of it." "But do you really mean that that good, noble, handsome judge really means to make his wife of a poor peasant girl like me?" "He might do worse," answered her father, with archness and pride. "But there is no doubt he was in earnest. You should have seen the fire in his eye when he spoke!" "In that case, you may depend I will find the way to fulfil his directions: trust me for that!" Nor was she long in finding a way which satisfied the judge completely. She took off all her clothes, and then covered herself with fishing-nets; this for the first condition. Then, for the second, she timed her journey in the dusk of evening, which is neither called day nor night; and, for the third, she had previously had the road covered with boards, and upon these she walked, so that she neither trod the high-road nor yet a by-path. Delighted at acquiring such a prize, and having so clever a maiden for his future companion through life, the judge married Katharina before the end of the month. There were great rejoicings at the wedding, to which all the country-side was invited; and then the poor peasant girl was installed in the judge's house. The judge, however, had exacted of her one condition, which was that she should never interfere with any of her clever suggestions in any case brought before him for decision, but let justice take its free and uninterrupted course. Years passed by happily enough. The judge rejoiced more and more every day over the wisdom of his choice, and Katharina sedulously observed the condition imposed upon her, and never interfered with her husband's dealings in the court. Nevertheless, it happened one day that a peasant whom she had known from her infancy had a case before the judge which was nearly as perplexed as that of her father had been, and, despairing of making his right apparent, the peasant came to Katharina, and begged her, by their lifelong friendship, to give him one of those good counsels for which she had been so famous at home in the days gone by. Katharina urged her promise to her husband, and for a long time refused to break it; but the wily peasant contrived to work on her vanity so effectually, that at last, in an evil moment, she consented this once to give her advice, exacting first a promise he would never tell any one she had done so. The case was this. Her friend's Senner [73] had been visited in the night by a Saligen Fraulein [74], who had promised to milk his cow for him, and every one knew that when a Saligen Fraulein milked a cow, it gave three times as much milk as the wont. But being a poor man, and having only one cow, he eked out his living by taking in cows to graze on his allotment; and he also only had one milking-pail. The Saligen Fraulein, therefore, when she had milked his pail full, had been obliged to take a pail belonging to the man to whom the other cows belonged, who was a rich man, and had a store of all sorts of utensils. But the milk being in one of his pails, his Senner swore that it had been milked from one of his cows, and refused to give it up, though he had no right to it whatever; and he had declined payment for the use of the pail. Though the case had been argued since the first thing that morning, they were no nearer arriving at a decision. Now the disputants had been ordered to stand back while another case was called, but it would come on again immediately; and in the meantime the poor peasant entreated Katharina's counsel as his only chance of rescuing his milk before it turned sour. "I see one means, I think, of bringing him to his senses," said Katharina, after she had yielded to her poor friend's importunity. "When your case is called on again, show as much indifference about the result as you have hitherto shown anxiety; then tell your adversary that during this interval, which you spent in the shade of the woods, a Saligen Fraulein had appeared to you and advised you not to use any of the milk the one who appeared to the Senner had milked for you, because she was a mischievous one, and the milk she milked was bewitched, so that all who drank of it, or of any milk mixed with it--were it only one drop of it--would be turned into asses. Then add, 'But of course, if your pailful is really the milk of your own cow, you have nothing to fear; so there's an end of the dispute.' Then he will probably be so frightened by the threat of this calamity that he will probably have nothing more to do with the pail; and that will suffice to prove that it is not the milk of his cow, and expose his deceit." The peasant was so delighted with the wise counsel that he hardly knew how to thank his benefactress, and readily gave her the promise she required of not letting any one know he had even seen her. He had scarcely got back to the court when the case was called on again. The peasant carried out the advice he had received with great shrewdness, and found it answer completely. Every body applauded the craft by which he had confounded his would-be oppressor, and the judge himself was very much pleased to see the end of such a troublesome case. A few minutes' thought, however, suggested to him that there was more than a peasant's shrewdness in the matter, and he was not slow to discern the guiding of his wife in it; so he called the peasant apart, and had little difficulty in wringing from the simple clown a confession of who had been his prompter. The discovery made the judge set off homeward in great anger. His wife had broken her promise--the fundamental condition of their union; and he would have nothing more to say to her! Out of his house she must go, whithersoever she would, but far away out of his sight. Katharina, who had so often calmed her father's anger by her prudent reasoning, exerted herself to the utmost to bring her husband back to a better mind; but in vain. And all the concessions he would yield were, to consent that they should eat their last dinner together, and that she should take away with her one thing out of the house, whatever she had most fancy for. It was not much to obtain when required to part for ever from her home, and her hopes, and all to which she had grown united and attached--but it was all she could obtain. Dinner-time came, and the judge, who was devotedly fond of his wife, seemed lost in sorrow at the calamity about to befall him; still he would not yield. Though she caressed him and entreated him to forgive her, he still said he could not depart from his word, and he would not allow her to speak of it. They sat down to their silent meal; and as the time of separation drew nearer he grew more sombre and sad, and at last determined to console himself with the red wine that sparkled by his side. Katharina encouraged him to drink, and as his bottle got exhausted deftly replaced it by a full one, so that he was quite unconscious of the depth of his potations. Presently the steward came into the room ready to drive Katharina to whatever destination she should select, and, as he had heard it stipulated that she was to take with her whatever she liked best, proffered his services to assist in the removal--for she had won the respect and affection of all her dependants, and they delighted to be occupied for her. Katharina rose to depart, thanked the man for his attention, and, in answer to his question as to the object she would take with her, pointed to her husband, who now lay helpless across his settle, his head drooping over the table. The steward could scarcely believe his eyes, but Katharina had a way of giving orders which did not admit of being questioned. The first surprise over, too, it struck him as a capital device, and he entered heartily into the spirit of the scheme. With the help of a couple of serving-men the judge was deposited safely in the lumbering old carriage, and Katharina having taken her place beside him, they drove away by her direction over one of the worst and most uneven roads in the neighbourhood. The shaking of the vehicle presently awakened the sleeper, who was, of course, quite at a loss to conceive where he was, but, perceiving that he cut a rather silly figure, was ashamed to ask his wife, who sat by his side as if there was nothing amiss, and said nothing. At last his curiosity got the better of his self-respect, and he begged her to tell him what all this trundling and shaking meant. Katharina in a few words recalled to him his cruel decree, at the same time reminding him of his promise that she might take with her what she liked best, and, throwing her arms round him, asked him if there could be any doubt as to what that could be. The judge perceived that his wife had once more shown her sense and judgment, and was not sorry to find she had contrived this opportunity of making up their difference. On renewing her petition for forgiveness, he frankly gave her his pardon; and they drove back home to live together in love and union to the end of their days. THE GEESEHERDS. There was once a peasant who had three sons, Karl, Stefan, and Josef; but, as he was very poor, they often had scarcely enough to eat, and were always complaining. So one day he told them that they should go out, one at a time, into the world, and see whether they could do better for themselves than he could do for them; and, having drawn lots which should go first, it fell upon the youngest. Josef was not altogether sorry to see a little of what the world was made of, and started with break of day next morning on his travels. He went begging about the country, but for a long time could find nothing to make a living by. At last he came to a splendid mansion on the borders of a large forest. When he asked his usual question, whether there was any place vacant for him, the servants took him into the big house; and, after conducting him through a number of apartments, each more beautiful than the other, he was ushered into a vast hall, all panelled round with carved wood, with windows of painted glass, and filled with handsome furniture. Reclining in an easy-chair, sat an aged nobleman, the owner of the mansion, who, when he heard Josef's request, took compassion on him, and told him he would take him into his service, beginning with giving him a very easy employment, and if he proved himself faithful in that, he would promote him to something higher. At first, then, he would only have to keep his geese; but there was one condition he would bid him observe. Josef was so delighted with the prospect that he hastily interposed a promise of obeying it, before it was even uttered. And that condition was, that if at any time he should hear any music or singing in the forest, he should never listen to it, however much he might be inclined, for that if he did, he would inevitably lose his place. Josef repeated his promise, and swore that he would never listen to the music. He was then led down to the place where the other servants were gathered for supper, and as there was a whole crowd of them, and plenty of good food and drink, Josef began to think that he had fallen on to his feet indeed! After supper, Josef was shown into a tidy little room as big as his father's whole cottage, where was a nice little white bed, and a suit of clothes ready to put on when he got up. Though Josef liked good food and a good bed, he was by no means an idle boy, but rose very early in the morning for his new employment; and, having received from the cook his breakfast, and his wallet of provisions for the midday meal, turned out the geese, and drove them before him to the meadow skirting the forest. Josef had never seen so many geese together before, and all the morning long he was never tired of looking at them, and counting them, observing their ways, fancying he discerned various peculiarities in each, by which to know one from another henceforth; and he began to give them all different names. When one showed an inclination to stray, what fun it was to drive her back, and see her flap her great, soft, white, awkward wings, and stretch out her great yellow bill, as with awkward gait she shambled back to the flock! So the morning went by; and it was long past the hour of dinner before Josef found any need of it, but when he did, he was astonished at the abundant supply which had been provided for him. "Truly, I did well to come out into the world," he thought, as he lounged upon the greensward, eating the good food. "What a contrast between having this splendid mansion to live in, and my father's poor cabin; between the dry crusts we had to eat there, and the princely food allowed to us here; between the toil and slavery there, and this easy kind of work, which might more properly be called a pastime! My father thought to punish me for grumbling, he would be astonished if he could see what a fine exchange I have made!" and he laughed aloud, though all alone. But presently the effects of the full meal, the heat of the afternoon, and the excitement of his new position brought on sensations of lassitude and somnolence--and soon you might have seen him stretched upon the grass at full length, and snoring to his heart's content. It is uncertain how long he had slept, but erewhile his slumber was disturbed by the sound of the most enchanting strains of music. Josef raised himself on his elbow, and listened; he had never imagined any thing so beautiful! and when he had listened a little while, he grew so rapt that he could not forbear going a little way into the forest to hear it better, and then a little farther, and farther, till, by the time it ceased, he was a long way from his charge. Then, as he perceived this, for the first time he remembered the condition his master had laid upon him, and his own positive promise to observe it! In shame and confusion he hasted back; but in place of his splendid flock of geese, there were but half a dozen, and those the worst favoured, to be seen! It was vain he called after them, and tore his hair, and ran hither and thither--no geese appeared! and as it began to get dark, he found his best plan was to hurry home with the few that remained. When he arrived a servant was waiting to conduct him to the master. He no longer wore the benevolent smile with which he had first instructed Josef in the terms of his service. He looked so black and angry that the boy was frightened to approach him--too frightened to find a word in his defence. "I had pity on you," said the master, "because you entreated me to try you: you have broken your word, and I can trust you no more. I told you the penalty; now you have chosen to incur it, you must go." Josef could do nothing at first but cry, as he contemplated this sudden extinction of his dreams of ease and plenty, but he took courage to throw himself on his knees, and entreat one more trial. The master was inexorable--only, as he was rich and generous, he would not let him go away empty-handed, and he took out of a casket before him a gold pin, as a memorial of his good intention, and dismissed the boy with a gesture which admitted of no further parleying. Josef was allowed to sleep in the mansion that night, but the next morning, instead of carrying on his agreeable occupation of geeseherd, he had to leave the place ignominiously, his rags being returned to him in place of the smart livery of the castle. Uncertain whither next to bend his steps, he determined to go home in the first instance and show his gold pin, and then take a fresh start in search of another chance. As he toiled up a steep Joch [75], feeling so thirsty that his eyes went searching every where for a cottage where he might beg a sup of milk, a hay-maker turned off the Hoch Alp [76] on to the road just in front of him, with a cartload of hay he was hastening to take home before rain fell. But, for all his urging, the oxen could not turn the cart, and there it stuck in the edge of the road. Seeing our stout youth coming along, the man called to him to help him lift the wheel, promising him a bowl of milk in return. Josef was a good-natured lad, and, as we have said, by no means indisposed for exertion, so he set to work with a will, and the team was very soon put in motion. He travelled on by the side of the cart, and when they reached the Hof for which it was destined, Josef received a bowl of milk, which refreshed him for the rest of the journey. As he got near his father's cottage he went to take out the gold pin with glee, to have it ready to display. Great was his vexation, therefore, at discovering he had it no longer--nor could his searching bring it back any more than the geese! Josef burst into tears, and joined the family meal at home, which was just prepared as he arrived, with his head low bowed, as if he sought to hide himself for very shame. When his father saw him in such melancholy plight, his compassion warmed to him, and he asked him kindly what had befallen. Josef told all his adventures, crying afresh as he came to the narration of how he had lost on the way the gold pin, to display which he had come home before starting in search of another chance of employment. "Such chances don't grow as thick as black-berries," said Stefan, the second son: "instead of your going in search of another, I'll go to the same grand house; and I won't lose such a fine situation for the sake of 'tweedle-dum,' I can tell you! And whatever I get for wages, you may depend, I won't stick it in my belt where it is sure to be brushed away, but on the brim of my hat, to be sure!" Josef, who had had enough of trying to provide for himself, and was not sorry to be at home again, even with its scanty means, made no objection, and their father, thinking it well Stefan should have his experience of life too, approved the plan. Stefan set out next morning, therefore; and by following Josef's directions soon discovered the stately palace for which he was bound. The noble owner received him as kindly as Josef, and sent him out to the same employment, first binding him to observe the same condition. Stefan readily promised to keep it, and was formally installed into his office of geeseherd. All went well enough at first, as with Josef; but it was at an even earlier period of the day than with him that his curiosity was roused by the fairy-like music. Then he, too, followed it through the forest; and when it ceased at sound of the church bells ringing the Ave, he found not more than three or four geese left of all his flock! On his return the master was full of anger at his breach of trust, and inexorably resolved to turn him away; but not to let him go empty-handed, he gave him a little lamb to take home. Stefan was pleased enough with his prize, but was somewhat embarrassed as to the manner of carrying it safely home. He had declared that whatever he got he would bring home on his hat, and though he had never thought of so embarrassing a present falling to him, at the time he spoke, he resolved to keep his word, and so used his best endeavours to fix the little creature round the brim. He carried it thus great part of the way in safety, but having to cross a somewhat rapid stream, a projecting bough of a tree lifted his hat from his head--and both hat and lamb fell in, and were carried fast away by the torrent! Stefan came back even more crestfallen than Josef; and, having told his story, Karl, the eldest, with great indignation at the carelessness of his brothers, declared that he would make the trial next. He would not stick his prize in his belt or his hat, not he! he would carry it by a string, and then it couldn't get loose; and as for the music, he had no fear of being led away by that. Josef, indeed, had had some excuse, as the strains took him by surprise, but to be so foolish as Stefan, after the warning example of another, was perfectly contemptible. He couldn't be so silly as that, not he! He started on his way betimes, and toiled along not without some misgivings lest he should find so good a post already occupied by another. But it was not so: the owner of the mansion gave him the same reception, the same charge, and the same warning as the other two; and, full of confidence in his superiority, he went forth to his work. The weather was cool, and he had no need to seek the shade of the forest trees; and for more than a week he brought the full tale of geese home day by day. "What idiots those were to throw away their place for the sake of a little music!" he thought to himself one day later. "I told them I should not be so foolish--not I! I told them I shouldn't be led away by it, and I haven't been." But it was hotter that day, and in the afternoon, when the sun's power was greatest--forgetting the warning of his brothers' example, or rather setting it at defiance, with the assurance that though he sought the shade he need not listen to the music--he crept within the border of the cool forest, and lay down. He had hardly done so when his senses were rapt by the delicious but deceitful strains. "The woods must be full of fairies!" he cried; "this can be no earthly music--I must follow it up and see what manner of instruments they are, for never on earth was heard the like!" But as he went on, the music always seemed farther off, and farther again, till at last the church bells rang the Ave, and the music ceased. Then Karl woke to a sense of his weakness and folly; and though he ran every step of the way back to his geese, only two were there! Though he had now found the same fate befall himself as his brothers, in all particulars, yet he could not forbear searching for the lost geese; but of course it was in vain, and he had to return to the castle with but two. Nothing could look more miserable, or more ludicrous, than this diminished procession--Karl at the head of his two geese, who had gone out in the morning with such a goodly flock. He would have gladly slunk away without exchanging a word with any one, but he could not escape being taken before the master, who scolded him in the same words in which he had chided his brothers, but gave him a fine rich cake to take home. The cake was round, and it was very inconvenient to attempt to secure it by means of a string, but Karl had declared he would bring home his reward that way, and so it was a point of honour with him to do it. But passing by a Hof, on his way home, where was a large and powerful watch-dog on guard, he set off running to escape its grip. This was the very way to attract the beast's notice, however; and off it set in pursuit, much faster than Karl's legs could carry him away--and then, having jumped upon him and knocked him down, seized his cake, and devoured it before his eyes! Karl had now to go home as empty-handed as his brothers, and as full of tears; but his father comforted him, and checked the rising gibe of his youngers by reminding them that all had failed equally; so they all joined in a good-humoured laugh in which there was nothing of bitterness. The father then asked them if any of them wished to go out into the world and seek fortune again; but they all agreed that there was nothing to be gained by the move, and that though there were positions which at first sight seemed more brilliant and more delectable than their own, yet that each had its compensatory trials, and that they were best where God had placed them. Henceforth, however, they were ashamed of renewing their grumblings, but, each making the best of his lot, they became noted as the most contented and, therefore, happiest family of the whole valley. ST. PETER'S THREE LOAVES [77]. In the days when our Lord and Saviour walked this earth with His apostles, it happened one day that He was passing, with St. Peter for His companion, through a secluded valley, and that discoursing, as was His wont, of the things of the Kingdom of God, and raising the mind of His disciple from the earthly to the heavenly, they noticed not how the hours went by. Nevertheless, they had been walking since daybreak over rough mountain tracks and across swollen torrents many a weary mile, and had eaten nothing all day, for their way had led them far from the haunts of men; but as noon came down upon them they approached the precincts of a scattered hamlet. The bells of all the large farm-houses were ringing to call in the labourers from the field to their midday meal, and announced a community of sensations in the world around akin to those with which St. Peter had for a long time past been tormented. The heat increased, and the way grew more weary, and St. Peter found it more and more difficult to keep his attention alive to his Master's teaching. The merciful Saviour was not slow to perceive what ailed His disciple, and kept on the look-out for any opportunity of satisfying him as anxiously as if the need had been His own; and thus, while St. Peter was still wondering how long he would have to go on fasting, He remarked to him the smell of fresh-baked loaves proceeding from a cottage at the bottom of the valley. St. Peter could as yet perceive neither the scent nor the cottage. Nevertheless, used as he was to trust his Lord's word implicitly, he started at His bidding, following the direction pointed out just as if both had been patent to himself. The way was so steep and rough that St. Peter, in his eagerness, had many falls, but at last, without much damage, reached nearly the foot of the mountain range along the side of which they had been journeying; and then suddenly the smell of a wood fire, mingled with the welcome odour of fresh-baked bread, greeted him. The roof of the cottage was just beneath his feet, and the smoke was curling up through the chimney, telling of a well-provided stove, burning to good purpose, close at hand. One or two more winds of the road, and only one more slip over the loose stones, brought him to the door. A comely peasant wife opened it at his knock with a cheerful greeting: "Gelobt sei Jesus Christus [78]!" The apostle, having given the customary response, "In Ewigkeit! Amen," the peasant wife asked him to come in and rest--an offer which St. Peter gladly accepted. The peasant woman wiped a chair, and presented it to him, and, with some pleasant words about his journey, returned to her occupation at the fire. The moment had just arrived when she should take her loaves from the oven, and nothing could smell more tempting to a man whose appetite was seasoned by a long walk in the fresh mountain air. "Good woman, I come from far, and the whole of this blessed morning," he exclaimed, speaking as one of the people, "I have tasted nothing! ... nor my companion," he added, with some embarrassment lest he should seem encroaching, yet full of anxiety to provide for his Master's needs as well as his own. "Tasted nothing all this morning!" exclaimed the compassionate peasant wife, scarcely leaving him time to speak; "poor soul! Why didn't you say so at first? Here, take one of these loaves; they are the best I have, and, if humble fare, are at all events quite fresh. And your companion too, did you say? Take one for him also;" and then, as if she found so much pleasure in the exercise of hospitality that she could not refrain from indulging it further, she added, "and take this one too, if you will; maybe you may want it before the journey is out." St. Peter thanked her heartily for her generosity, and hasted to take the loaves to the Master, that He might bless and break them. But as they were hot, being just out of the oven, he had to wrap them in the folds of his coarse grey mantle, to be able to hold them without burning his hands. As he toiled up the steep, the thought came to him, "It will most likely be long before we have a chance of meeting with provisions again, and I always seem to want food sooner than the Master; I might very well keep this third loaf under my cloak, and then in the night, while He is lost in heavenly contemplation, and I am perishing with hunger, I shall have something to satisfy it. I do Him no wrong, for He never feels these privations as I do--at all events," he added, with some misgivings, "He never seems to." With that he reached the place where he had left the Saviour. He was still kneeling beneath the shade of a knoll of pines. As St. Peter approached, however, though He was not turned so as to see him coming, He rose, as if He knew of his presence, and, coming to meet him, asked him cheerfully what success he had in his catering. "Excellent success, Lord," replied St. Peter. "I arrived just at the right moment. The woman was taking the loaves out of the oven, and, being a good-hearted soul, she gave me one; and when I told her I had a companion with me, she gave me another, without requiring any proof of the assertion; so come, and let us break our fast, for it is time." But he said no word about the third loaf, which he kept tight in a fold of his mantle under his arm. They sat down on a rock by the side of a sparkling rivulet, hasting along its way to swell the far-off river, and its cool crystal waters supplied the nectar of their meal. St. Peter, who had now long studied in the school of mortification of his Master, was quite satisfied with this frugal repast, and, no longer tortured by the cravings of nature, listened with all his wonted delight and enthusiasm to every word which fell from the Lord's lips, treasuring them up that not one might be lost. It was true that he could not suppress some little embarrassment when the thought of the third loaf occurred to him; "But," he said, to himself, "there could be no possible harm in it; the woman had clearly given it to him; his Lord didn't want it, and he was only keeping it for his needs. True, if He were to suspect it, He would not quite like that; but then, why should He? He never suspects any one." Never had the Saviour been more familiar, more confiding. St. Peter felt the full charm of His presence and forgot all his misgivings, and the cause of them, too, in the joy of listening to Him. Then came a friendly bird, and hopped round Him, feeding on the crumbs that had fallen. The Saviour, as He watched its eagerness, fed it with pieces from His own loaf. Another bird was attracted at the sight--another, and another, and another, till there was a whole flock gathered round. The Saviour fed them all, and yet He seemed to take His own meal too. "It is just as I thought," St. Peter reasoned with himself; "His needs are not as our needs. Decidedly I do Him no wrong in keeping the loaf for my own." And he felt quite at ease. The simple repast was at an end; the birds chirped their thanks and flew away; and the disciple and the Master rose from their rocky seat. St. Peter, leaning on his staff, set out to resume the journey, but the Lord called him back. "Our Father in heaven has fed us well, shall we not thank Him as is our wont?" St. Peter laid aside his staff, and cheerfully knelt down. "But as He has dealt with particular loving-kindness in the abundance with which He has provided us this day, let us address Him with arms outstretched, in token of the earnestness of our gratitude," continued the Saviour; and as He spoke He flung His arms wide abroad, as if embracing the whole universe and its Creator, with an expression of ineffable love. He knelt opposite St. Peter, who was not wont to be slow in following such an exhortation. "He only suggested it; He didn't command." reasoned St. Peter to himself. "I need not do it." But a furtive glance he could not repress, met the Master's eye fixed upon him with its whole wonted affection--there was no resisting the appeal. With the spontaneity of habitual compliance, he raised his arms after the pattern of his Lord; but the loaf, set free by the motion, fell heavily to the ground beneath the Master's eye. The Master continued praying, as though He had perceived nothing, but St. Peter's cheeks were suffused with a glow of shame; and before they proceeded farther he had told Him all. THE TWO COUSINS OF ST. PETER [79]. St. Peter had two young cousins whom he sought to bring up in the way of righteousness according to Christian doctrine. As they were very docile, and listened gladly to his word, he strove to lead them in the way of all perfection; and to this end counselled them to give themselves up entirely to serve God in a community of His handmaidens, where they should live for the Divine spouse of their souls, and for Him alone. The work of the Church called St. Peter away from the East, and he was already gone to establish the faith in Rome before the maidens had decided as to their vocation. It was not till many years after that St. Peter heard, to his surprise, on occasion of St. Timothy coming to visit St. Paul in Rome, that while the youngest indeed had fulfilled his expectations, and had given herself up to the religious life, the elder had married and established herself in the world, and become the mother of a large family. During his long confinement in the dark dungeon of the Mamertine prison, St. Peter's thoughts would often revert from the immense cares of his sublime office to the quiet hours he had passed in the lowly dwelling by the Lake of Tiberias, where his pious cousins had so often sat at his feet listening to his instructions. And he found a peaceful pleasure in recalling the way in which they had responded to them; the spontaneity with which they had apprehended the maxims of the new religion; their fervour in applying them to their own rule of life; their readiness to go beyond what was bidden them, that so they might testify their love for their Divine Master; their delight in all that reminded them of God and His law. "And to think that one of them should have gone back from all this! should have been content to give up these exalted aspirations! How sadly her ardour must have cooled! What could have worked this change?" the apostle would muse, in his distress, and pray silently for her forgiveness and guidance; but his thoughts would revert with greater affection and satisfaction to the more favoured state of the soul of the younger sister. It was not long before the terrible decree of Nero consigning St. Peter to the death of the cross was pronounced, and from the height of the Janiculum he was received into the celestial mansion to keep the gate of the Kingdom of Heaven. He had not exercised this office many years when our Lord called him to Him one day, and bid him open the gate of heaven to its widest stretch and deck its approaches as for a high festival, for that one of the holiest of earth and the dearest to Himself was to be received into the abode of the Blessed. "That must be my youngest cousin," said St. Peter, "there is no doubt; she who generously gave up a world in which she was so well adapted to shine, to live a life of perfection with God above only for its object;" and he strained his eyes to see far along the approach to Paradise, that he might catch the first glimpse of her glorified soul and greet it with the earliest welcome. How great was his surprise then, when roused by the melodious strains of the angelic host escorting her, to hear in the refrain of their chant the name of the Sorellona [80], not of the younger of the sisters! Meantime the celestial cortége was wafted by, and the beautiful spirit was welcomed by the Divine Master Himself, and placed on one of the highest seats in His kingdom. Not many days after our Lord called St. Peter to Him again, and told him to open the gate a little, very little way, and to make no preparations for rejoicing, for He had promised admission to a soul who, though of his family, yet had only escaped being excluded by a hair's breadth. St. Peter went away perplexed, for he knew there was no one of his family who could be coming to heaven just at that time except the younger of the two cousins, and how could the Lord's words apply to her? He durst do no more than open the gate a very little way, but stationed himself opposite that small cleft to obtain the earliest information as to who the new comer really was. Presently a solitary angel came soaring--the only escort of a trembling soul--and, as he approached, without chorus or melody, he begged admission for one whom, by the name, St. Peter discerned was actually the Sorellotta [81] he had deemed so meritorious! With great difficulty, and by the help of the angel who conducted her, and of St. Peter himself, she succeeded in passing the sacred portal; and after she had been led to the footstool of the Heavenly Throne in silence, He who sat on it pointed to a very little, low, distant seat, as the one assigned to her. When St. Peter afterwards came to discourse with the Lord about His dealings with the two souls, he learnt that she who performed her duty with great exactness and perfection in the world was more pleasing in His sight than she who, while straining after the fulfilment of a higher rule, yet fell short of correspondence with so great a grace. LUXEHALE'S WIVES. The Devil goes wandering over the earth in many disguises, and that not only to hunt souls; sometimes it is to choose for himself a wife, but when he goes on these expeditions he calls himself "Luxehale." There was once a very beautiful princess, very proud of her beauty, who had vowed she would never marry any but the handsomest prince. Numbers of princes, who heard the fame of her beauty, came to ask her hand, but directly she saw them she declared they were not handsome enough for her, and drove them out of the city. Her parents were in despair, for there was scarcely any young prince left in the world whom she had not thus rejected. One day the trumpeters sounded the call by which they were wont to announce the arrival of a visitor. The princess sat with her mother in an arbour. "Ah!" said the queen, "there is another come to ask your hand. How I wish he may be the really handsome one you desire, this time!" "It is all useless, mother; I don't mean to see any more of them--they are all uglier, one than the other." The queen was about to answer by instancing several noted paragons of manly beauty whom she had rejected like the rest, but the chamberlain came in with great importance just at that moment, to say that the prince who had just arrived appeared to be a very great prince indeed, and that he was in a great hurry, and demanded to see the princess instantly. The princess was very indignant at this abrupt proposal, and refused absolutely to see him; but at last the queen got her to consent to place herself in a hollow pillar in the great reception-hall, and through a little peephole, contrived in the decorations, take a view of him without his knowing that she did so. When the princess thus saw the stranger, she was dazzled with the perfection of his form and the surpassing beauty of his countenance, and she could hardly restrain herself from darting from her hiding-place and offering him her hand at once; in order to preserve herself from committing such a mistake, she immediately let herself down through a little trap-door into the room below, where it had been agreed that her mother should meet her. "Well, what did you think of him?" said the queen, who did not keep her long waiting. "Oh! I think he might do," said the princess, with an assumed air of indifference, for she was too proud to acknowledge how much she admired him. The queen was overjoyed that at length she consented to marry, and so put an end to the anxiety she was in to see her established before she died. That she might not take it into her head to go back from what she had said, her parents hastened on the wedding preparations, and the prince seemed very anxious, too, that no delay should occur. As soon as the festivities were over, he handed his bride into a magnificent gold coach, and drove off with her, followed by a retinue which showed he was a very great prince indeed. Away they rode many days' journey, till at last they reached a palace of greater magnificence than any thing the princess had ever conceived, filled with crowds of servants, who fulfilled her least wish almost before it was uttered, and where every pleasure and every gratification was provided for her in abundance. The prince took great pleasure in conducting her frequently over every part of the palace, and it was so vast that, after she had been over it many times, there was still much which seemed strange to her; but what was strangest of all was, there was one high door, all of adamant, which the prince never opened, and the only cross word he had spoken to her was once when she had asked him whither it led. After some time it happened that the prince had to go on a considerable journey, and before he left he confided to his wife the keys of all the apartments in the palace, but she observed the key of the adamant door was not among them, and ventured to ask why it was not. "Because no one passes through that door but myself; and I advise you not to think any thing more about that door, or you may be sure you will repent it," and he spoke very sternly and positively. This only whetted her curiosity still more; and she was no sooner sure he was at a safe distance, than she determined to go down and see if some of the keys would not open this door. The first she tried in it showed there was no need of any, for it was unlocked, and pushed open at her touch. It gave entrance to a long underground passage, which received a strange lurid light from the opening at the far end. The princess pursued the ominous corridor with beating heart; and, when she reached the other end, made the frightful discovery that it was--the entrance to hell! Without losing a moment, she rushed up-stairs, regained her own apartment, and sat down to contrive her escape, for she now perceived that it was the Devil, disguised as a beautiful prince, that she had married! As she sat, pursued by a thousand agonizing thoughts, the gentle cooing of two pigeons in a cage soothed her, and reminded her of home. Her father's fondness had suggested that she should take the birds with her that she might have the means of communicating to him how it fared with her in her married home. Quickly she now wrote a note to tell him of the discovery she had made, and begging him to deliver her. She tied the note to one of the pigeons, and let them fly. The Devil came back in the same disguise, and was profuse in his caresses; and he never thought of her having opened the door. But all the princess's affection and admiration for him were gone, and it was with the greatest difficulty she contrived to keep up an appearance of the fondness she had formerly so warmly and so sincerely lavished. Meantime the pigeons went on their way, and brought the note home. The king and queen were having dinner on the terrace, and with them sat a young stranger, named Berthold, conversing with them, but too sad to taste the food before him. He was one of those the princess had rejected without seeing, but as he had seen her, he was deeply distressed at the present separation. The pigeons flew tamely in narrowing circles round the king's head, and, at last, the one which carried the note came fluttering on to the table before him. He would have driven them away, the rather, that they were all distressed and bleeding, and with scarcely a feather left, but the young stranger's eye discovered the note, which was quickly opened and read. "Oh, help me! What can I do?" exclaimed the king; "give me some counsel. How can I ever reach the Devil's palace--and how could I fight him, if even I did get there?" "May I be permitted to undertake the deliverance?" asked the stranger. "Oh, in heaven's name, yes!" cried the king. "And shall I have your permission to pay my addresses to her when I bring her back?" "Why, she will be yours--yours of right, if you succeed in rescuing her; altogether yours!" "That must depend on herself. Nevertheless, if I have your consent to ask her in marriage, that is all I desire." "Go, and succeed!" devoutly exclaimed the king. "And whatever you stand in need of, be it men or money, or arms, you have but to command, and every thing shall be given you that you require." But the prince, who knew not what sort of enemy he had to encounter, or which way he had to go, knew not what assistance to ask for, but set out, trusting in God and his own good sense to guide him. As he passed out of the castle enclosure his eyes were rejoiced to see lying on the ground some of the white feathers of the carrier-pigeons, and then he perceived that, not having been duly matched, they had fought all the way, and that the whole track was marked with their feathers. But as they, of course, had come by the directest course, it led him over steep precipices and wild, unfrequented places; still Berthold pursued his way through all difficulties without losing courage, and ever as he went pondering in his own mind with what arts he should meet the Devil. He was passing through a desolate stony place, which seemed far from any habitations of men, when he saw a man crouching by the wayside, with his ear close against the rock. "What are you doing there?" said Berthold. "I am listening to what is going on in the Devil's house," answered the man, "for my sense of hearing is so fine, it carries as far as that." "Then come with me," said Berthold; "I will find work for you which shall be well repaid." So the man left off listening, and walked on behind him. A little farther on, he observed a man sitting on a ledge of the precipice, with his back to the road, and with all the world before him; and he gazed out into the far distance. "What are you staring at?" said Berthold. "I am gazing into the Devil's house," said the man, "for my sight is so sharp, it carries as far as that." "Then come along with me; I will give your eyes work that shall be well paid." said Berthold. So the man left off gazing, and turned and walked behind him. "But stop!" said the prince; "let me have some little proof that you are as clever as you say. If you can see and hear into the Devil's house, let me know what the Devil's wife is doing." Then the first man crouched down with his ear against the rock; and the second man sat himself astride on a jutting projection of the precipice, and gazed abroad over the open space--Berthold taking care that they should be far enough apart not to communicate with each other. "What do you see?" he said, when the second man had poised himself to his own satisfaction. "I see a vast apartment, all of shining crystal, and the Devil lying fast asleep on a ledge of the flaming spar, while the Devil's wife sits with averted face, and weeps." "And what do you hear?" he said, returning to the first man. "I hear the Devil snore like the roaring of a wild beast, and I hear great sighs of a soft woman's voice; and every now and then she says, 'Why was I so foolish and haughty, as to send away all those noble princes whom I might have learnt to love? and above all, Berthold, whom I would not see, and who my mother said was better than them all; and I would not see him! If I could but see him now, how I would love him!'" When Berthold heard that, he could not rest a minute longer, but told them he was satisfied; and hurried on so fast that they could scarce keep up with him. On they went thus; and presently they saw a man amusing himself with lifting great boulders of rock, which he did so deftly that no one could hear him move them. "You have a rare talent," said Berthold; "come along with me, and I will pay your service well." So the man put down a great mass of rock he had in his arms, and walked on behind the prince. Presently there were no more pigeons' feathers to be seen, and Berthold wrung his hands in despair at losing the track. "See!" said the man with the sharp sight, "there they lie, all down this steep, and along yonder valley, and over that high mountain! it will take three months to traverse that valley." "But it is impossible to follow along there at all!" cried all the men. But Berthold said they must find their way somehow. While they were looking about to find a path to descend by, they saw a great eagle soaring round and round, flapping her wings, and uttering plaintive cries. "I'll tell you what's the matter," said the man with the sharp hearing: "one of her eggs has fallen down this ledge, and it is too narrow for her to get it out; I can hear the heart of the eaglet beating through the shell." "Eagle," said the prince, "if I take out your egg, and give it to you, will you do something for me?" "Oh, yes, any thing!" said the eagle. "Well, that is a hot, sunny ledge," said the prince; "your egg won't hurt there till we come back--I have seen in my travels some birds which hatch their eggs entirely in the hot sand. Now you take us all on your back, and fly with us along the track wherever you see the pigeons' feathers, and wait a few minutes while we complete our business there, and then bring us back; and then I'll take your egg out of the fissure for you." "That's not much to do!" said the eagle; "jump up, all of you." So they all got on the eagle's back, the prince taking care so to arrange his men that the great neck and outstretched wings of the eagle should hide them from the Devil's sight, should he have happened to be outside his house. It took the eagle only two or three hours to reach the journey's end, and by this time it was night. "And now it is dark," said Berthold, to the sharp-visioned man, as they alighted from the eagle's back, "you cannot help us any more with your sight." "Oh, yes; the crystals of the Devil's apartment always glitter with the same red glare by night or day. I see the Devil rolled up in bed fast asleep, and his wife sits on a chair by his side, and weeps." "And what do you hear?" he said, addressing the first attendant. "I hear snoring and weeping, as before," said the man addressed. "Now you, who are so clever at lifting weights without being heard," said the prince, "lift the great door off its hinges." "That's done," replied the man, a minute later, for he had done it so quietly Berthold was not aware he had moved from the spot. "Since you have done this so well, I'm sure you'll do the next job. You have now to go up into the Devil's room, and bring the lady down without the least noise; if you show her this token, she will recognize it for her father's device, and will come with you." The sharp-visioned man told him how he would have to go, for he could see all the inside of the house, lighted up as it was with the glaring crystals. But just as he was about to start,-- "Stop!" cried the man with the sharp ears; "I hear the Devil turn in his bed; our talking must have disturbed him." So they all stood stock still in great fear. "He seems to be getting up," whispered the man with the sharp sight. "No; now he has turned round and rolled himself up once more." "And now he is snoring again," continued the other. "Then we may proceed," replied the prince; and the third attendant went his way so softly that no one heard him go. "Get up on the eagle's back," said Berthold to the other two, "that we may be ready to start immediately." So the men took their places. They had hardly done so when the man came back bearing the princess, and at a sign from Berthold sprang with her on to the eagle's neck. The prince got up behind, and away flew the eagle--so swiftly that had he been less collected he might have lost his balance before he had secured his seat. By daybreak they had reached the spot where the eagle's egg had fallen. Berthold willingly exerted himself to restore her treasure to her, and she was so grateful that she proposed to fly with them home the remainder of the journey--an offer which they gladly accepted. The Devil was still sleeping and snoring, they were assured by the clever attendants; and away they sped, reaching home just as the king and queen were sitting down to breakfast. Great was the rejoicing in all the palace. The princess gladly acknowledged Berthold's service by giving him her hand; and to all three attendants high offices were given at court. To the eagle was offered a gold cage and two attendants to wait on her, but she preferred liberty on her own high mountain, and flew away, accepting no reward but a lamb to carry home to her young ones. When Luxehale woke next morning great was his fury to find that the princess was gone. "Order out a troop of horse, and send and demolish her palace, and kill all belonging to her, and bring her home again," was the advice of his chamberlain. "No," replied Luxehale; "I hate violence: I have other ways at command which I find answer better. There are people enough in the world glad enough to follow me willingly. It is not worth while to give myself much trouble with those who resist." And he dressed himself, and walked out. This time his steps were not directed towards a grand palace. He didn't care particularly about birth or cultivation. There was a cottage situated just above one of the alleys of his pleasure-grounds where lived three beautiful peasant girls with an old father. Luxehale had often listened to their merry laugh and thought how he should like to have one of them for his wife; but he never could find any means of getting at them, as they were very quiet and modest, and never would enter into conversation with any stranger. As he now walked along he heard their voices in earnest talk. "It's great nonsense of father selling all the celery, and not letting us have a taste of it!" said one, in a discontented voice. "Yes, it is; I don't mean to submit to it either," said another. "Oh, but you wouldn't disobey father!" said the first. "Well, it's not such a great matter," replied the other; "only a foot of celery [82]!" Luxehale was very glad when he heard that, for he had never been able to catch them in an act of disobedience before. He placed himself under the celery-bed and watched all the roots. The moment one began to shake, showing that they were pulling it up, Luxehale took hold of the root, and held it hard, so that, instead of their pulling it up, he contrived to drag down the girl who was trying to gather it. It was the peasant's eldest daughter Lucia; and much surprised was she, after passing through the hole Luxehale had made in the earth, to find herself in the arms of a handsome cavalier, who lavished the greatest care on her! Lucia had never been spoken to by such a good-looking gallant before, and felt much pleased with his attention. She begged him, however, to let her go; but he told her that was impossible. She was his captive, and he never meant to let her go again; but if she would only be quiet and reasonable she would be happier than any queen; that he would take her to a magnificent palace where she would have every thing she desired, and be as happy as the day was long, for he would make her his wife. In fact, he succeeded in dazzling her so with his promises that she began to feel a pleasure in going with him. Nor did he break these promises. She was installed into all the enjoyments of which we have seen the former wife in possession; and as the Devil admired her beauty, and flattered and fondled her, she did not altogether regret her captivity. But when the time came that he had to go upon earth about his business, he brought her all the keys of the place, with the express recommendation that she was never to attempt to open the adamant door; then he plucked a red rose, and placed it in her bosom, as a memorial of him, which he promised should not fade till his return, and departed. Lucia amused herself very well at first with various occupations and amusements the palace afforded, and which were new to her; but as the days fled by she began to grow weary, and at last, from being tired and out of spirits with her loneliness, she became possessed with so intense a curiosity to see what lay hid behind the adamant door, that she could not resist it. Accordingly she went down at last, with the bunch of keys in her hand, and with trembling steps made her way up to it. But, without even trying one of the keys, she found her touch pushed it open, and made the terrible discovery, that it was the gate of hell! She turned to escape, and rushed back to her apartment, to weep bitterly over her forlorn condition. Two or three days later a train of waggons came laden with beautiful presents Luxehale had bought and sent home to amuse her, and she became so interested in turning them all over, that when he returned she was as bright and smiling as if nothing had happened. Luxehale ran to embrace her, but suddenly observed that the rose had withered on her bosom! When he saw that, he pushed her from him. He had given it to her as a test to ascertain whether she had gone through the adamant door, for the heat of the fire was sure to tarnish it--and now he knew she was in possession of his secret. "You have opened the adamant door!" he exclaimed, fiercely; and she, seeing him so fierce, thought it better to deny it. "It is useless to deny it," he replied; "for nothing else would have tarnished that rose." And saying that, he dragged her down to it and thrust her within its enclosure, saying, "You wanted to know what there was behind the adamant door; now you will know all about it." Luxehale now had to look out for another wife. He at once bethought him of Lucia's sisters, and went pacing up and down under their garden, as before. The two sisters were talking with some warmth. "I don't see why father should have forbidden us to look through the trellis!" said the voice which had spoken first on the former occasion. "Nor I," said the other. "And I don't mean to be kept in in that style either," said the other. Quick as thought the Devil transformed himself into a serpent and worked his way up through the earth to the other side of the trellis, where he waited till the maiden put her head through, as she had threatened. She had no sooner done so than he caught her in his coils and carried her down under the earth. Before she had time to recover from her surprise, he had transformed himself back into the handsome cavalier who had charmed Lucia. It was the second sister, Orsola; and her opposition to his advances was as easily overcome as Lucia's. She lived in the palace as Lucia had done, and learnt to feel great delight in its pleasures. At last the day came when the Devil had to go upon earth about his business, and he left her with the same charge about the adamant door, and placed a red rose on her breast, which he promised should not fade till his return. After a time her weariness induced Orsola to peep through the fatal door; and the hot blast which escaped as she opened it would have been sufficient to drive her away, but that it came charged with the sound of a familiar voice! "Lucia!" she screamed, in a voice thrilled with horror. "Orsola!" returned her unhappy sister, in a tone of agony. Orsola knew enough. She did not dare venture farther; and as she made her way back to her apartment she saw in the court below the retinue which had escorted her husband back. Assuming as composed a mien as possible, she went out to meet him, and he ran towards her with every appearance of affection--but his eye caught the withered rose. "You have opened the adamant door," he said, sternly. "There is no help for you; those who once pass it cannot live up above here any more. You must go back, and live there for ever!" And, regardless of her entreaties and cries, he dragged her down, and thrust her into the burning pit. Luxehale now had to search for another wife, and he determined it should be no other than the third of the sisters. "But," he reflected, as he walked towards her cottage, "now she has no one left to talk to, how shall I manage? Ah, well, I generally find a way to do most things I take in hand--and if I don't catch her I needn't break my heart; there are plenty of girls in the world whom I have arts to enthrall." But he did hear her voice. As he got near she was singing, very sadly and sweetly, a verse which told her regrets for her sisters, and called on them to return. "That's all right!" said Luxehale, "she is sure to come to the spot where she last saw her sister. I'll be there!" So, transforming himself once more into a serpent, he wriggled through the earth and took up his place of observation beside the trellis. He had not been there long, when she actually came up to it, singing the same melancholy strains; and then she stopped to call, "Lucia! Orsola! Lucia! Orsola!" till the woods rang again. Then she seemed to get weary with calling, and she leant against the trellis. "Ha! she'll soon put her head through now," chuckled Luxehale. And so she did, sure enough; and no sooner did her head appear on the other side than he twisted his coils round her and dragged her down under the earth. Before she recovered herself he once more appeared as a handsome cavalier. It was Regina, the youngest and best-conducted of the sisters. "Let me go! let me go!" she cried, refusing to look at him. "I thought I heard you calling for your sisters," he replied, soothingly; "don't you want to see them?" "Oh, yes! tell me where they are." "I can't tell you where they are," he answered; "and if I did, it would be of no use, because you would not know the way to where they are. But if you come with me, it is possible we may be able to hear something about them some day. One thing is certain, no one else is so likely to be able to hear of them as I." Regina was terribly perplexed, something within her said she ought not to speak to the stranger gallant. "And yet, on the other hand, if, by going with him, I can do any thing to recover my dear sisters," she thought, "I ought to risk something for that." When he saw her hesitate, he knew his affair was won; and, indeed, it required little persuasion to decide her now. As they went along he said so many soft and flattering things as to make her forget insensibly about her sisters. But when they got to the palace there were such a number of beautiful things to occupy her attention, so much to astonish her--a poor peasant maid who had never seen any of these fine things before--that she soon got habituated to her new life, and the fact of her having come for her sisters' sake went quite out of her remembrance. Luxehale was delighted to have brought things so far; and in proportion to the difficulty he had had in winning her, was the satisfaction he felt in being with her; thus he spent a longer time with her than he had with either of the other sisters. But the time came at last when he had to go upon earth about his business; and then he gave her the same charge as the others about the keys and the adamant door, and the rose which was not to fade till his return. It was not many days either before the desire to see what was hid behind it took possession of her; but as she approached it she already perceived that the air that came from it was dry and heated, and as she really regarded the rose as a token of affection, she was concerned to keep it fair and fresh, so she went back and placed it in a glass of water, and then pursued her investigation of the secret of the adamant door. She had learnt enough when she had but half opened it, and smelt the stifling fumes of sulphur which issued from the pit it guarded, and would have turned to go, but then her sisters' voices, wailing in piteous accents, met her ear. "Lucia! Orsola!" she cried. "Regina!" they replied; and then, courageously advancing farther by the light of the lurid flames, which burnt fitfully through the smoke, now red with a horrid glare, now ashy grey and ghastly, she descried the beloved forms of her sisters writhing and wailing, and calling on her to help them. She promised to use all her best endeavours to release them, and, in the meantime, bid them keep up their courage as best they might, and be on the look-out to take advantage of the first chance of escape she could throw in their way. With that she returned to her apartment, replaced the rose in her bosom, and looked out for the return of Luxehale. Nor did he keep her long waiting; and when he saw the rose blooming as freshly as at the first he was delighted, and embraced her with enthusiasm. In fact, he was so smiling and well inclined that she thought she could not do better than take advantage of his good humour to carry out the plan she had already conceived. "Do you know," she said, "I don't like the way in which your people wash my things; they dry them in a hot room. Now I've always been accustomed to dry them on the grass, where the thyme grows, and then they not only get beautifully aired, but they retain a sweet scent of the wild thyme which I have always loved since the days when I was a little, little girl, and my mother used to kiss me when she put on my clean things." "It shall be done as you like," said Luxehale. "I will order a field of thyme to be got ready immediately, and your things shall always be dried upon it. Is there nothing else, nothing more difficult, I can do for you?" "Well, do you know," she replied--for this would not have answered her purpose at all--"do you know, I don't fancy that would be quite the same thing either; there is something peculiar about the scent of our grass and our thyme at home which is very dear to me. Wouldn't it be possible to send the things home?" Luxehale looked undecided. "It's the only thing wanted to make this beautiful place perfectly delightful," she continued. He couldn't resist this, and promised she should do as she liked. Regina then ordered a large box to be made, and packed a quantity of her things into it. But in the night when all slept she went down to the adamant door, and called Lucia. Both sisters came running out. "One at a time!" she said. "Lucia has been in longest; it will be your turn next." So she took Lucia up with her, and hid her in the box under the clothes, and told her what she had to do. She was to send all the linen back clean at the end of the week, and well scent it with thyme, and to fill up the vacant space with more linen, so that it might not seem to return with less in it than when it went. She told her also, if the porter who carried the box should take into his head to peep in, "all you have to say is, 'I see you!' and you will find that will cure him." Then she went to bed, and slept quietly till morning. Early next day Luxehale called a porter to carry the box, to whom she overheard him giving secret instructions that, as soon as he had got to a good distance, he should search the box, and let him know what was in it before he sent him up to her for final orders. Regina told him all about the situation of her father's cottage. "But," she added, "I've had my eye on you a long time--you're not a bad sort of fellow, but you're too curious." "Why, I've never been where your worship could see me!" answered the porter; "I've always worked in the stables." "I can see every where!" replied Regina, solemnly. "I can see you in the stables as well as I can see you here, and as well as I shall be able to see you all the way you are journeying; and if an impertinent curiosity should take you to look at my clothes, I shall see you, you may be sure, and shall have you properly punished, so beware!" The porter planted the chest on his strong shoulders and walked away. He was a devil-may-care sort of fellow, and didn't altogether believe in Regina's power of seeing "every where," and, as his master's injunction to look into the box accorded much better with his own humour than Regina's order to abstain from opening it, before he had got halfway he set it down on the ground, and opened it. "I see you!" said Lucia, from within; and her voice was so like her sister's that the fellow made no doubt it was Regina herself who really saw him as she had threatened; and, clapping the box to again in a great fright, lifted it on to his shoulders with all expedition. "I've brought your daughter's linen to be washed!" cried the porter, when he arrived at the cottage, to the father of the Devil's wives, who was in his field "breaking" Indian corn. "I've got a message to carry about a hundred miles farther and shall be back by the end of the week, so please have it all ready for me to take back when I call for it." The good peasant gave him a glass of his best Küchelberger [83], and sent him on his way rejoicing. He had no sooner departed than Lucia started up out of the box of linen, and hastily told her father all the story. The peasant's hair stood on end as he listened, but they felt there was no time to be lost. All the linen Regina had sent, and all that remained in the cottage, was washed and well scented with thyme, and packed smoothly into the box for the porter to take back with him. They had hardly got it all ready when he came to the gate to ask for it. "Here you are!" said the peasant; and the porter lifted the box on to his strong shoulders, and made the best of his way home. "What did you find when you looked into the box?" asked the Devil, the first time he could catch the porter alone. "Oh! nothing whatever but dirty linen," replied he, too much of a braggadocio to confess that he had been scared by a woman's voice. After receiving this testimony the Devil made no sort of obstacle any more to his wife sending a box home whenever she would, and as soon as she collected sufficient to justify the use of the large chest she ordered the porter to be ready over night, and then went down and called Orsola. Orsola came quickly enough, and was packed into the linen chest as her sister had been, and with the same instructions. "Only, as I don't mean to stay here much longer behind, there is no reason why we should lose all our best linen, so don't send a great deal back this time, but fill up the box with celery, of which Luxehale is very fond." The porter, feeling somewhat ashamed of his pusillanimity on the last occasion, determined this time to have a good look into the box, for the effect of his fright had worn off, and he said to himself, "It was only a foolish fancy--I couldn't really have heard it." So he had hardly got half way when he set the box down, and lifted the lid. "I see you!" exclaimed Orsola, in a voice so like Regina's that the lid slipped out of his hand, and fell upon the box with a crash which startled Orsola herself. He loaded the box on his shoulders once more, nor stopped again till he reached his destination. Hearty was the greeting of the two sisters and their father as soon as he was gone; and then they set to work to get the washing done. "The weather has been so bad," said the father, when the porter returned, "that we could not dry all the linen, please to say to your mistress, but we hope to have it ready to go back with next week's; beg her acceptance, however, of the celery which I have packed into the box in its place." "Did you look into the box this time?" said Luxehale, as soon as he got the porter alone. The porter did not like to acknowledge that he had been scared by a woman, and so declared again that there was nothing in the box but linen. It was more difficult to arrange for her own escape, but Regina had a plan for all. The box had now gone backwards and forwards often enough for the porter to need no fresh directions, so she told him over-night where he would find it in the morning; and he, finding it seem all as usual, loaded it on his shoulders, and walked off with it by the usual path. He had not performed half the journey when he determined to have a serious look into the box this time, and be scared by no one. Accordingly he lifted the lid, but this time the words,-- "I see you!" came out of the box so unmistakably in Regina's voice, that there was no room for doubt of her power of seeing him, and with more haste than ever he closed it up again, and made the best of his way to the peasant's cottage. Both sisters and their father greeted Regina as their good angel and deliverer when she stepped out of the box; and they went on talking over all their adventures with no need to make haste, for Regina had brought away with her money and jewels enough to make them rich for the rest of their lives, so that they had no need to work any more at all. When the porter returned to ask for the linen-chest, the peasant came out with a humorous smile, and bid him tell his master that they had not time to do the washing that week. "But what shall I tell my mistress?" asked the man. As he said so, Regina and her sisters came into the room, striking him dumb with astonishment. "No, you had better not go back to him," she said, compassionating him for the treatment that would have awaited him, had he returned without her; "Luxehale would doubtless vent his fury on you for my absence. Better to stay here and serve us; and you need not fear his power as long as you keep out of his territory." After this, Luxehale determined to give up young and pretty wives, since they proved sharp enough to outwit him, as he had before given up rich and titled ones, who were like to have knights and princes to deliver them. This time he said he would look out for a bustling woman of good common sense, who had been knocked about in the world long enough to know the value of what he had to offer her. So he went out into the town of Trient, and fixed upon a buxom woman of the middle class, who was just in her first mourning for her husband, and mourned him not because she cared for him, for he had been a bad man, and constantly quarrelled with her, but because, now he was dead, she had no one to provide for her, and after a life of comparative comfort, she saw penury and starvation staring her in the face. He met her walking in the olive-yard upon the hill whence her husband's chief means had been derived. "And to think that all these fine trees, our fruitful arativo, and our bright green prativo [84], are to be sold to pay those rascally creditors of my brute of a husband!" she mused as she sat upon the rising ground, and cried. "If he had nothing to leave me, why did he go off in that cowardly way, and leave me here? what is the use of living, if one has nothing to live upon?" The Devil overheard her, and perceived she was just in the mood for his purpose, but took care to appear to have heard nothing. "And are you still charitably mourning because the Devil has taken your tyrant of a husband?" "Not because he has taken him, but because he didn't take me too, at the same time!" answered the woman, pettishly. "What! did you love the old churl as much as all that?" asked Luxehale. "Love him! what put that into your head? But I didn't want to be left here to starve, I suppose." "Come along with me then, and you shan't starve. You shall have a jollier time of it than with the old fool who is dead--plenty to eat and drink, and no lack, and no work!" "That's not a bad proposition, certainly; but, pray, who are you?" "I am he who you regretted just now had not taken you. I will take you, if you wish, and make you my wife." "You the Devil!" exclaimed the woman, eyeing the handsome person he had assumed from head to foot; "impossible, you can't be the Devil!" "You see the Devil's not so black as he's painted," replied Luxehale. "Believe me that is all stuff, invented by designing knaves to deceive silly people. You can see for yourself if I don't look, by a long way, handsomer and taller than your departed spouse, at all events." "There's no saying nay to that," responded the widow. "Nor to my other proposition either," urged Luxehale; and, as he found she ceased to make any resistance, he took her up in his arms, and, spreading his great bat's wings, carried her down to his palace, where he installed her as lady and mistress, much to her own satisfaction. As she was fond of luxury and ease, and had met with little of it before, the life in the Devil's palace suited her uncommonly well, and yet, though she had every thing her own way, her bad temper frequently found subject for quarrel and complaint. It was on one occasion when her temper had thus been ruffled, and she had had an angry dispute with Luxehale, who to avoid her wrangling had gone off in a sullen mood to bed, that some one knocked at the door. All the servants were gone to bed, so she got up, and asked who was there. "I, Pangrazio Clamer of Trient," said a somewhat tremulous voice. "Pangrazio Clamer of Trient!" returned the widow; "come in, and welcome. But how did you get here?" "It's a longish story; but, first, how did you get here, and installed here too, it seems? Ah, Giuseppa, you had better have married me!" "I've forbidden you to talk of that," answered Giuseppa. "Besides, I had not better have married you, for I have married a great prince, who is able to keep me in every kind of luxury, and give me every thing I can wish. You couldn't have done that." "No, indeed," he sighed. "Well, don't let's talk any more about that. Tell me how every one is going on in Trient." "By-and-by, if there is time. But, first, let me tell you about myself, and what brought me here. That's strange enough." "Well, what was it, then?" "You know that you refused to have me, because I was poor----" "I have already forbidden you to allude to that subject." "You must know, then, that though I worked so hard to try and make myself rich enough to please you, I only got poorer and poorer; while at the same time, there was Eligio Righi, who, though his father left him a good fortune to begin with, kept on getting richer and richer, till he had bought up all the mines and all the olive-grounds, and all the vineyards and mulberry-trees that were to be sold for miles round--yours among the rest." "That too?" "Yes; and I often felt tempted to envy him, but I never did. One day he came to me while I was hard at work, and said, 'You know, Pangrazio Clamer, that I am very rich;' and I thought he didn't need to have come and said that to me, who had all the labour in life to keep off envying him, as it was. 'Pangrazio,' says he, 'I am not only rich, but I have every thing I can wish, but one thing; and if I meet any one who will do that one thing, I will take him to share my riches while I live, and make him my heir at my death. I come first to ask you.' 'Tell me what it is,' says I; 'I can't work harder, or fare worse, than I do now, whatever it may be--so I'm your man.' 'Well, then, it's this,' he continued. 'My one great unfulfilled wish through life has been to give the Devil three good kicks, as some punishment for all the mischief he does in the world; but I have never had the courage to make the attempt, and now I have got old, and past the strength for adventures, so if you will do this in my stead, I will put you in my shoes as far as my money is concerned.' Of course, I answered I would set out directly; and, as he had made the road by which men get hither his study, for this very purpose, all through his life, he could give me very exact directions for finding the Devil's abode. "But, to get here, I had to traverse the lands of three different sovereigns; and, as I had to go to them to get my passport properly in order, they learned my destination, and each gave me a commission on his own account, which I accepted, because if I should fail with Eligio Righi's affair, I should have a chance of the rewards they promised me to fall back on." "And what were these three commissions?" "The first king wants to know why the fountain which supplied all his country with such beautiful bright water has suddenly ceased to flow. The second king wants a remedy for the malady of his only son, who lies at the point of death, and no physician knows what ails him. And the third king wants to know why all the trees in his dominions bear such splendid foliage, but bring forth no fruit." "And you expect me to help you in all this?" said the Devil's wife. "Well, for our old acquaintance' sake, and the bond of our common home," said Clamer, "you might do that; and for the sake of the nearer bond that might have united us." "I would have refused you all you ask, to punish you for going back to that story," said Giuseppa, "but I really desire to see old Luxehale get a good drubbing, just now, for he has been very tiresome to-day. I daren't give it him myself, but I'll help you to do it, if you have a mind." "Never mind the motive, provided you give me the help," replied Clamer. "And will you help me to trick him out of the answers for the three kings, as well as to give him a good drubbing?" "That will I; for it will be good fun to counter-act some of his mischief." "How shall we set about it then?" "I am just going to bed; he is asleep already. You must conceal yourself in the curtains, and bring a big stick with you; and when I make a sign, you must, without a moment's notice, set to and give it him. Will that do for you?" "Admirably! Only, remember, I have to do it three times, or I shan't get my guerdon." "And do you think you are certain of getting all Eligio Righi's fortune?" said Giuseppa, earnestly. "Oh, as sure as fate!" replied Clamer; "he's a man who never goes back from his word. But I must fulfil all he says with equal exactness." "And when I've helped you with half your labour, I don't see why I shouldn't have half your guerdon." "Nor I! You'll always find me faithful and true; and what I offered you when I was poor, I offer you with equal heartiness when I have the prospect of being the richest man in Trient." "When you have done all you have to do, then, will you take me back with you?" "Nothing would make me happier than your consent to come with me. And when I'm rich enough to be well fed and clothed, you'll find I'm not such a bad-looking fellow, after all." "Ah, you'll never be so handsome as Luxehale! But then I don't half trust him. One never knows what trick he may take into his head to play one. I think I should have more confidence of being able to manage you." "Then it's agreed; you come back with me?" "Yes; I believe it's the best thing, after all. And now we must make haste and set about our business." She crept up-stairs with soft steps, and Clamer still more softly after her. The Devil was sleeping soundly, and snoring like the roar of a wild beast. Giuseppa stowed Clamer away in the curtains, and went to bed too. When she heard what she reckoned one of the soundest snores, she lifted the bed-curtains, and whispered, "Now's your time!" Clamer did not wait to be told twice, but raised his stick, and, as Giuseppa lifted the bed-clothes, applied it in the right place, with a hearty good will. Luxehale woke with a roar of pain, and Clamer disappeared behind the curtains. "Forgive me, dear lord!" said Giuseppa; "I had such a strange dream, that it woke me all of a start, and I suppose made me knock you." "What did you dream about?" said Luxehale, thinking to catch her at fault; but Giuseppa had her answer ready. "I thought I was travelling through a country where all the people were panting for want of water, and as I passed along, they all gathered round me, and desired me to tell them, what had stopped their water from flowing, saying, 'You are the Devil's wife, so you must know!' and when I couldn't tell them, they threw stones at me, so that I seemed to have a hard matter to escape from them." The Devil burst out into a loud laugh, which absorbed all his ill-humour, as he heard this story, and Giuseppa made a sign to Clamer to pay attention to what was to follow. "You see, you never tell me any thing," she continued, pretending to cry; "I never know any thing about your business, and, you see, all those people expected I knew every thing my husband knew, as other wives do." "I didn't suppose you'd care to know any thing about it," replied Luxehale, trying to soothe her; "and really there was nothing to tell! It's an every-day matter. There was a pilgrimage chapel near the city, to which the people used to go in procession every year; and as long as they did that, I never could get past to get at the fountains. But now they have left off the procession, and so I got by, and had the fun of stopping the water." Clamer winked to Giuseppa, to show he understood what the remedy was, and Giuseppa said no more, so that the Devil very soon fell off to sleep again. When he began to snore again very soundly, she lifted the bed-clothes, and made the agreed sign to Clamer. Clamer came forward, and applied his stick with a hearty will in the right place, and the Devil woke with a shout of fury. "Oh, my dear husband!" cried Giuseppa, deprecating his wrath by her tone of alarm; "I have had another dreadful dream!" "What was it?" growled the Devil. "I thought I was going through a great city where all the people were in sorrow, and sat with ashes on their heads. And when they saw me pass, they said they sat so because the king's son was at the point of death, and no one could tell what ailed him, and all the doctors were of no use; but that as I was the Devil's wife, I must know all about it. When I couldn't tell them, they began pelting me; as they kept putting fresh ashes on their heads each had a pan of fire by his side, in which they were making, and they actually took the red-hot cinders out of the pan of fire to pelt me with, and my clothes were all on fire; so you may believe if I tried to run away fast--and it is no wonder if I knocked you a little." The Devil's fancy was more tickled than before with this story, and he laughed fit to split his sides, as she proceeded, so that he forgot all about the beating. "It is all very well for you to lie there and laugh, but you wouldn't have laughed if you had been treated as I was, I can tell you!" sobbed Giuseppa. "And it's all because you never tell me any thing, as other husbands do." "Bosh!" answered the Devil; "I should have enough to do, if I told you all the stories like that! Why, it's the commonest thing in the world. That king's son was a good young man, obedient to all the advice of his elders. But after a time he got with bad companions, who introduced him to some of my people. After they had played him a number of tricks, one day one of them took into his head to give him a stunning good illness, to punish him for some luck he had had against them at cards. And that's the history of that--there's nothing commoner in life." Giuseppa made a sign to know if Clamer had heard all he wanted to know, and, finding he was satisfied, let the Devil go to sleep again. As soon as he began to snore very soundly, Giuseppa lifted the bed-clothes, and Clamer once more applied his stick. Whether by getting used to the work and therefore less nervous, he really hit him harder, or whether the previous blows had made the Devil more sensitive, he certainly woke this time in a more furious passion than ever, and with so rapid a start that it was all Clamer could do to get out of his sight in time. "What have you been dreaming now?" he exclaimed, in his most fearful voice. "I declare, I can scarcely keep my hands off you!" "Don't be angry," answered Giuseppa; "it is I who have had the worst of it. I dreamt I was passing through a country where the trees had given up bearing fruit; and when the people saw me go by, they all came round me, and said, as I was the Devil's wife, I must know what ailed their trees; and when I couldn't tell them, they cut down great branches, and ran after me, poking the sharp, rough points into my sides! You may believe if I tried to run away fast." The Devil had never had such a laugh since he had been a devil, as at this story, and the whole palace echoed with his merriment. When Giuseppa found him once more in such good humour, she went on,-- "And why do you do such mischievous things, and make people so savage? It isn't fair that they don't dare to touch you and all their ill-will falls on me." "As it happens, it's not my doing at all this time; at least, I didn't go out of my way to do it for any sort of fun. It all came about in the regular way of business." "What do you mean?" pursued Giuseppa, who knew it was necessary to probe the matter to the bottom. "Why, the king of that country is a regular miser. He is so afraid that any body should get any thing out of their gardens without paying the due tribute to him first, that he has built such high walls round all the orchards, and vine-gardens, and olive-yards, that no sun can get at them. And he is so stingy, he won't pay people to dig round them and manure, and prune, and attend to the property; so how can the fruit grow? As long as he defrauds the poor people of their work, he can have no fruit. It's not my fault at all! "But, really, I've had enough of this. You'd better go and sleep somewhere else for the rest of the night, for I can't stand being woke up any more. If you do it again, I am sure I shall strangle you--and that would be a pity! Go along, and dream somewhere else--and I hope you may get properly punished before you wake next time!" Giuseppa desired no command so much; but pretending to cry and be much offended, she got up and went to lie down in another bed till the Devil began to snore soundly again. Then she rose up, and, taking all her fine clothes and jewels, went out softly, and beckoned to Clamer to follow her. "Suppose the Devil wakes before we get far away?" said Clamer, beginning to get frightened as the time of trial approached. "Never fear!" answered Giuseppa; "when he gets disturbed like that, he sleeps for a week after it." Then she clapped her hands, and a number of great birds came flapping round. She helped Clamer on to the back of one, and, loading her jewels on to another, sprang on to a third, and away they flew, while she beckoned to three more to follow behind. When they came to the first kingdom, Clamer left the strange cortege behind a mountain, and went alone up to the court, to tell the king he was a miser, and that if he gave up his sordid ways and set the people, who were starving for want of work, to pull down half the height of his walls, and to dig, manure, and prune his trees, he would have as good a crop of fruit as any in the world. Then the king acknowledged his fault, and praised Clamer for pointing it out, and gave him a great bag of gold as his reward. Clamer packed the sack of gold on to the back of one of the birds which were following them, and away they sped again. When they arrived at the second kingdom, Clamer hid his cortége in a pine forest, and went alone to the court, to tell the king that if his son would give up his bad companions, and live according to the advice of his elders, he would be all well again as before. The prince was very much astonished to find that Clamer knew about his bad behaviour, for he had concealed it from his parents and all about him, but this convinced him that he must be right in what he said, so he promised to alter his life and behave according to the wise counsel of his elders in future. From that moment he began to get better; and the king, in joy at his restoration, gave Clamer a great sack of gold, which he laded on to the back of the second bird; and away they flew again. When they arrived at the third kingdom, Clamer hid his retinue in the bed of a dried lake and went alone to the court, to tell the king that if he would order the procession to the pilgrimage chapel to be resumed, the Devil would not be able to get in to stop the fountains. The king at once ordered the grandest procession that had ever been known in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, and all the people went out devoutly praying. Immediately the springs and fountains began to flow again; and the king was so pleased that he gave Clamer a great sack of gold, which he packed on to the back of the third bird; and away they flew again, till they reached the gloomy shades of the Val d'Ombretta, under the cold, steep precipices of the Marmolata [85]. "Here will be a good place to hide all this treasure," said Giuseppa; "it will never do to take it into Trient all at once. We will bury it here where foot of man seldom falls, and my birds will keep good watch over it and defend it, and yet by their services we shall be able to fetch down any portion of it as we want it." Clamer saw there was some good in the proposal, but he hardly liked giving up the possession of the treasure to Giuseppa's birds, neither did he like to show any want of confidence. "Don't you think it an excellent plan?" asked Giuseppa, as she saw him hesitate. "I think I could stow it away as safely in an old well at home," said Clamer. "This is an uncanny place of evil renown, and I had just as lief have nothing to do with it." "What's the matter with the place?" asked Giuseppa. "Oh, you know, the Marmolata was as fertile as any pasture of Tirol once," answered Clamer; "and because the people had such fine returns for their labour from it, they grew careless and impious, and were not satisfied with all the week for working in it, but must needs be at it on Sundays and holidays as well. One Sunday an ancient man came by and chid them for their profanity. 'Go along with your old wives' stories!' said a rich proprietor who was directing the labourers; 'Sunday and working-day is all alike to us. We have sun and rain and a fine soil, what do we want with going to church to pray?' And they sang,-- 'Nos ongh el fengh en te tablà, E i autri sul prà [86]!' "The old man lifted up his finger in warning, and passed on his way; but as he went it came on to snow. And it snowed on till it had covered all the ground; covered all the hay up to the top; covered over the heads of the labourers and their masters; snowed so deep that the sun has never been able to melt it away again! A curse is on the place, and I had rather have nothing to do with it." "Oh, I've lived long enough where curses abound to care very little about them," answered Giuseppa, "or I could tell you the real story about that, for you've only got the wrong end of it. But it doesn't do to think of those things. The only way is to laugh at all that sort of thing, and make yourself jolly while you can." "My story's the right one," replied Clamer, "and you won't laugh me out of believing it." "Oh, dear no; the right story is much more serious than that! But I lose my patience with people who trouble themselves about those things." "I don't believe there's any more of the story," continued Clamer, who was dying to hear it, and knew that the best way to get at it was by provoking her. Had he merely begged her to tell it, she would have found a perverse pleasure in disappointing him. Giuseppa was very easily provoked. "The right story proves itself," she cried, pettishly; and Clamer chuckled aside to see his plan succeed. "Your way of telling it only accounts for the snow; how do you account for the ice?" "Oh, there's no way of accounting for that," replied Clamer, with a malicious laugh. "Yes, there is," rejoined Giuseppa, fairly caught. "It wasn't an old man at all who came to give the warning. It was a very young man, for it was no one else but St. John." "St. John!" cried Clamer; "how could that be?" "Don't you know any thing, then?" retorted Giuseppa. "Don't you know that there was a time when our Lord and His Apostles went walking over the earth, preaching the Gospel?" "Yes, of course I know that," replied Clamer, much offended. "Well, then, in process of travelling they came here just the same as every where else--why shouldn't they? The Apostles had been sent on to prepare a lodging for the night, and St. John, being the youngest and best walker, outstripped the rest, and came by first. But he was so soft and gentle in his warning that the labourers laughed at him, and he went on his way sighing, for he saw that their hearts were hardened. "Then St. Peter and St. Paul came by----" "But St. Paul--" interposed Clamer. "Don't interrupt, but listen," said Giuseppa. "St. Peter and St. Paul, though not younger than the others like St. John, were always in the front in all matters, because of their eagerness and zeal, and the important post which was assigned them in the Church. They came next, therefore; but they, seeing the men working on Sunday, were filled with indignation, and chid them so fiercely that they only made them angry, and they took up stones to throw at them, and drove them out of the ground. One by one the other Apostles all came by and warned them, but none of them seemed to have the right way of getting at their hearts. And they went on working, with a worse sin on them for having been warned. "Last of all, the Lord Himself came by, and His heart was moved with compassion by the perversity of the people. He saw that all the preaching of all His Apostles had been in vain, and He resolved to save them in another way, and prove them, to see if there was any charity or any good in them at all. "Instead of threatening and warning, He came leaning on His staff, weary and way-sore. "'You have a fine Berg-Segen [87], my friends,' He said, sweetly, as He sat on a great heap of fresh hay placed ready to load the returning wain. "'Oh, yes! first-rate crops,' replied the rich proprietor, with a look of contempt at the travel-stained garments of the wayfarer; 'but they're not meant to serve as beds for idle fellows who go prowling about the country and live by begging instead of by work, so you just get up and take yourself off!' "Our Lord looked at him with a piteous glance, but his heart was not softened. 'Move off quicker than that, or you'll taste my stick!' he cried, assuming a threatening attitude. "Our Lord passed on, without uttering a word of complaint, till He reached the holding of the next proprietor. "'Where there are such fine pastures there must be fine cattle and a fine store of produce,' He said. "'Oh, yes, I've plenty of stores!' said the man addressed; 'and that's just why I don't like to have loafing vagabonds about my place; so please to move on quicker than you came.' "'But I'm weary, my good man, and have come a long journey this day, and have nothing to eat: give me, now, but one sup of milk from your bountiful provision there.' "'Give!' answered the man; 'I've nothing to give away. I work hard for all I gain, and I don't encourage those who don't work.' "'But you won't miss the little I ask--and I have travelled very far and am very weary,' replied our Lord, condescending to speak very piteously, to see if He could not by any means move the man's heart. "'Hola! you there! Domenico, Virgilio, Giacomo, Rocco, Pero! come along here, and throw this fellow out!' shouted the proprietor. "The men turned with their pitchforks, and drove the wayfarer rudely away, without pity, notwithstanding that His legs trembled with weariness and the way was so steep. "Our Lord uttered not a word, and hasted on, that He might not increase their condemnation by resistance. "But the heavens grew black with anger at the sight; the storm-clouds gathered in vengeance; grey and leaden, mass above mass, they thickened over the devoted peak of the Marmolata; the sun ceased to smile, and a horrible darkness fell around. "Closer and closer lowered the clouds, till they fell, enveloping the mountain-top with white fields of snow. "'Nay!' cried the Saviour, compassionately; 'Father, stay Thine hand!' And for a moment the convulsion of the angry element was stilled. 'They knew not what they did,' He pleaded; and He passed down the path to the next holding. "'See,' He said to the proprietor, who was watching the strange storm with some alarm, 'see how terrible are the judgments of God! Give Him praise for the blessing He has poured out on you, and save yourself from His anger.' "'What have I to do with the misfortunes of others? Every thing goes right with me.' "'But it may not always. Be wise betimes, and render praise to God.' "'What do I know about God?' answered the man; 'I've enough to do with taking care of the earth; I don't want to puzzle my head about heaven!' "'All good gifts are from heaven.' replied the Lord, faintly; and He sank upon the ground exhausted. "'See!' cried a woman who had come out with her husband's dinner, 'see, He has fallen; will you do nothing to restore Him?' And she ran to raise Him up. "'Let Him lie.' said her master, pushing her roughly away; 'it were better the earth were rid of such idle fellows.' "He had filled up the measure of his iniquity. 'Hard and icy as his heart has been, so shall his pasture be!' proclaimed the Angel of Judgment. And as he spread his arms abroad, the clouds fell over the sides of the mountain; the cold blast turned them into ice, and it became a barren glacier for evermore. "But the angels carried the Lord to the place the Apostles had prepared for Him. And the woman who had pitied Him alone escaped and recorded the story." A shudder had fallen over Clamer, and he seemed hardly inclined to break the silence which reigned around. There was not a bird to chirp a note, nor a leaf to flutter, nor a blade of grass to gladden the eye. Meantime they had reached the Fassathal, which, though so fruitful farther along, is scarcely more smiling at its east end. "Were it not well, Pangrazio," urged Giuseppa, "to bury our treasure here, before we get nearer the habitations of men? Ah!" she added, "I see what it is, it is not of the weird neighbourhood that you are shy, it is that you trust not me! you think if my birds guard the treasure you will have less control over it than I!" "Oh, no!" answered Clamer, ashamed to have been found out; "it is not that; but there are as many weird warnings rife here as concerning the Marmolata. Does not the Feuriger Verräther [88] haunt this place? and does not the Purgametsch conceal a village which was buried for its sins? Is it not just here that lurk the Angane and the Bergostanö [89]?" "Really, I can undertake to defend you against all these chimerical fancies," replied Giuseppa, scornfully; "but if you don't feel any confidence in me, it is absurd our attempting to live together." "It is not that--I have told you it is not that!" cried Clamer. "Then shall we do it?" urged she. Thus driven, Clamer could not choose but give in; and Giuseppa sent her monster birds to conceal the treasure they bore, in the hole she pointed out high up in the rocks, and remain in guard over it. This done they sped over the pleasant Fleimserthal and Cembrathal to Trient. Eligio Righi received his returning envoy with a hearty welcome, and listened without wearying to his frequent repetition of the tale of his adventures. The part where he described the manner in which he had administered the chastisement on the Devil was what delighted him most, and the account of the roaring of the Devil with the pain. Moreover, he kept his word, and opened his house and his purse to Clamer, who shared every thing as if it had been his own, and even obtained his sanction to bring home his wife, though he durst not tell him how he obtained her. Giuseppa had now not only a fine house and broad lands, and plenty of servants and clothes, and every thing she wished for, but she had only to send one of her birds to the treasury in the Fassathal to supply all her caprices as well as wants--yet she was always complaining and quarrelling. Pangrazio often found her quite unbearable; but he remembered she was his wife, and he forgave her, though the more he gave in, the more unreasonable she got. In the meantime, it must not be supposed that Luxehale had never awaked. True, he slept on for a good week, as Giuseppa had predicted, but that over, he woke up in a pretty passion at finding she had escaped. With all her evil temper, Giuseppa had suited him very well; he rather enjoyed an occasional broil, it was much more to his taste than peace and amity--and besides, he was sure always to get the best of it. So he determined that this time, instead of going in search of a new wife, he would get the old one back. "Those who come to me in the way she did," he reflected, "don't escape so easily. The others I more or less deceived. They came with me thinking I was one of their own sort; but she followed me with her eyes open--she knew all about me before she came. Besides, they hated the place the moment they found out where they were, but she knew what it was, and yet liked it all along. No, I don't think she's of the sort that go back in thorough earnest." So he dressed himself up in his best, put a plume in his hat and a flower in his button-hole, and went off to Trient. He had not watched the house where Giuseppa lived many days before he heard her voice raised to that angry key he knew so well. "That'll do for me," he said, rubbing his hands. "It's all going on right." "What do you want more?" he heard Clamer plead. "If there is any thing I can do to please you, I will do it!" "You are a fool! and there's nothing in you can please me," screamed Giuseppa, too angry to be pacified; "you're not like Luxehale. Why did you ever take me away from him? He was something to look at!" "It's going on all right!" said Luxehale, chuckling. "Why did you come away?" said Pangrazio, quietly. "I didn't know what I was about! Would that I had never done it!" she added. "Oh, don't say that!" replied Pangrazio, imploringly. But instead of being won by his kindness she only grew the more noisy, till at last Pangrazio could stand it no longer, and he went out to avoid growing angry. "Now is my time!" said the Devil; and he slipped round to the window. Giuseppa was still fretting and fuming, and invoking Luxehale at the top of her voice. "Here I am!" said Luxehale. "Will you come back with me, and leave this stupid loafer?" "What you there!" cried Giuseppa, rushing to the window, and kissing him. "Of course I'll go with you. Take me away!" "All right; jump down!" said Luxehale, helping her over the window-sill. Giuseppa threw herself into his arms, and away they walked. Arrived outside the town, Luxehale lifted her up, spread his black bat's wings, and carried her off. "Go through the Fleimserthal and the Fassathal," said Giuseppa; "I've got something to show you there." "Any thing to please you!" answered Luxehale. "Oh, it's not to please me!" cried Giuseppa, taking offence. "Now don't begin again; it won't do with me!" replied Luxehale, with a sternness he had never before exercised. "Mind, I don't mean to allow any more of it." "Oh, if that's to be it," said Giuseppa, "I'll go back again to Pangrazio." "No, you won't!" replied Luxehale; "you don't go back any more, I'll take good care of that! And now, what did you want to come by the Fassathal for?" "Only because it's the way I passed with Pangrazio, and it renewed a sweet memory of him." "That won't do for me! What was the real reason?" "What will you give me if I tell you?" "Nothing. But if you don't tell me, I shall know how to make you." Giuseppa's courage failed her when she heard him talk like this. She knew she had given herself to him of her own will, and so she belonged to him, and she could not help herself; and now, the best course she could think of was to tell him of the treasure, and trust to the good humour it would put him in, for he was very avaricious, to get her forgiveness out of him. Clamer came back from a walk outside the town--where he had gone to get cool after his wife's scolding--just in time to see Luxehale spread his wings and fly away with Giuseppa in his arms. He called to her, but she did not hear him; and all he could do was to stand watching them till they were out of sight. He came back so gloomy and dejected that his friend Eligio Righi was quite distressed to see him. He was so sympathizing, indeed, that Pangrazio could not forbear telling him the whole story. "Then, if that is so, you need not regret being quit of her," moralized his sage friend: "she was no wife for an honest man. And as for the treasure, you have enough without that. It was but ill-gotten gain which came to you for knowledge obtained from such a source." ZOVANIN SENZA PAURA [90]; OR, THE BOY WHO WENT OUT TO DISCOVER WHAT FEAR MEANT. Zovanin was a bold boy, and never seemed to be afraid of any thing. When other children were afraid lest Orco [91] should play them some of his malicious tricks, when people cried out to him, "Take care, and don't walk in those footprints, they may be those of Orco!" he would only laugh, and say, "Let Orco come; I should like to see him!" When he was sent out upon the mountains with the herds, and had to be alone with them through the dark nights, and his mother bid him not be afraid, he used to stare at her with his great round eyes as if he wondered what she meant. If a lamb or a goat strayed over a difficult precipice, and the neighbours cried out to him, "Let be; it is not safe to go after it down that steep place," he would seem to think they were making game of him, and would swing himself over the steep as firmly and as steadily as if he were merely bestriding a hedge. He saw people shun passing through the churchyards by dark, and so he used to make it his habit to sleep every night on the graves; and as they said they were afraid of being struck blind if they slept in the moonlight, he would always choose to lie where the moonbeams fell. Nor thunder, nor avalanche, nor fire, nor flood, nor storm seemed to have any terror for him; so that at last people set him to do every kind of thing they were afraid to do themselves, and he got so much wondered at, that he said, "I will go abroad over the world, and see if I can find any where this same Fear that I hear people talk of." So he went out, and walked along by the most desolate paths and through frightful stony wildernesses, till he came to a village where there was a fair going on. Zovanin was too tired to care much for the dance, so instead of joining it he asked for a bed. "A bed!" said the host; "that's what I can give you least of all. My beds are for regular customers, and not for strollers who drop down from the skies;" for, being full of business at the moment, he was uppish and haughty, as if his day's prosperity was to last for ever. While Zovanin was urging that his money was as good as another's, and the host growing more and more insolent while repeating that he could not receive him, a terrific shouting of men, and screeching of women made itself heard, and pell-mell the whole tribe of peasants, pedlars, and showmen came rushing towards the inn, flying helter-skelter before a furious and gigantic maniac brandishing a formidable club. Every one ran for dear life, seeking what shelter they could find. The inn was filled to overflowing in a trice, and those who could not find entrance there hid themselves in the stables and pig-styes and cellars. But no one was in so great a hurry to hide himself as mine host, who had been so loud with his blustering to a defenceless stranger anon. Only, when he saw the baffled madman breaking in his doors and windows with his massive oaken staff, he put his head dolefully out of the topmost window, and piteously entreated some one to put a stop to the havoc. Zovanin was not quick-witted: all this noisy scene had been transacted and it had not yet occurred to him to move from the spot where he originally stood; in fact, he had hardly apprehended what it was that was taking place, only at last the host's vehement gesticulations suggested to him that he wanted the madman arrested. "Oh, that's it, is it?" said Zovanin. "All right, I'm your man!" and walking up coolly to the cause of all this disturbance, he said, in the tone of one who meant to be obeyed, "Give me your club." The poor imbecile was usually harmless enough; he lived in an out-of-the-way hut with his family, where he seldom saw a stranger. They had incautiously brought him up to the fête, where he had first become excited by the sight of the unwonted number of people; then some thoughtless youths had further provoked him by mocking and laughing at him; and when the people ran away in fear of his retaliation, he had only yielded to a natural impulse in running after them. But when Zovanin stood before him, fearless and collected, and said, in his blunt, quiet way, "Give me your club," his habitual obedience prevailed over the momentary ebullition, and he yielded himself up peaceably to the guidance of the young giant. Zovanin first secured the club, and then desired the madman to bestow himself in an empty shed, of which he closed and made fast the door. When the landlord and people saw the coast clear they all came out again, the latter losing no time in going back to their games, the former to resume his preparations for the entertainment of his guests. "Well," said Zovanin, "I suppose now you'll make no difficulty in providing me a bed? I think that's the least you can do for me, after my befriending you as I have. I have earned it, if any one has." "What! you think that such a great feat, do you?" said the landlord, who, deeming the madman well secured, felt no compunction in disowning Johnny's service. "Do you suppose any other couldn't have said, 'Give me your club,' just as well as you?" "Perhaps you would like to try," replied our hero; and he went to unbar the shed-door. "For heaven's sake, no!" screamed the cowardly landlord, preparing to run away. "Don't let him loose on any account; I'll do any thing for you sooner than that!" "Well, you know what I want; it's not much, and reasonable enough," replied Fearless Johnny, relaxing his hold of the door. "But that's just the one thing I can't do," lamented the host. "My beds are bespoken to customers who come every year to the fair, and if I disappoint any of them I'm a ruined man." "Very well then, here goes!" and Zovanin once more prepared to open the shed-door. "Oh, no; stop!" roared the landlord. "Perhaps there is a way, after all." "Ah!" ejaculated Johnny; "I thought as much." "There is a room, in fact a whole suite of rooms, and a magnificent suite of rooms, I daren't give to any one else, but I think they will do for you, as you are such a stout-hearted chap." "Where are they?" said Johnny. "Do you see that castle on the tip of the high rock yonder, that looks like an eagle perched for a moment and ready to take flight?" "I should rather think I did, seeing it's one of the most remarkable sights I have met with in all my travels." "Well, that castle was built by a bad giant who lived here in former times; and he balanced it like that on the tip of the rock, and only he had the secret of walking into it. If any one else steps into it, they are pretty sure of stepping on the wrong place, and down will go the whole castle overbalanced into the abyss. When he was once inside it, he had an iron chain by which he made it fast to the rock; and when he went out he used to set it swinging as you see, so that no one might dare to venture in and take back possession of the booty which he seized right and left from all the country round. If you don't mind trying your luck at taking possession of the castle, you can lodge there like a prince, for there are twelve ghosts, who come there every night, who will supply you with every thing you can ask for. So there is all you desire to have, and more, provided only the idea does not strike you with fear." "Fear, say you?" said Zovanin, opening his great round eyes; "do you say I shall find 'Fear' in yonder castle?" "Most assuredly. Every body finds it in merely listening to the story." "Then that's what I came out to seek; so show me the way, and there I will lodge." The host stared at his crack-brained guest, but, glad to be rid of his importunity for a night's lodging in the inn, made no delay in pointing out the path which led to the giant's castle. Zovanin trudged along it without hesitation, nor was he long in reaching the precariously balanced edifice. Once before the entrance, he had little difficulty in seeing what was required in order to take possession. Just in the centre of the building a large stone stood up prominently, and though at a great distance from the threshold, was probably not more than a stride for the giant of old--as a further token, it was worn away at the edge, evidently where he had stepped on to it. Zovanin saw it could be reached by a bold spring, and, having no fear of making a false step, he was able to calculate his distance without disturbance from nervousness. Having balanced himself successfully on the stone, he next set himself to fix the chain which attached his airy castle to the rock, and then made his way through its various apartments. Every thing was very clean and in good order, for the twelve ghosts came every night and put all to rights. Zovanin had hardly finished making his round when in they came, all dressed in white. "Bring me a bottle of wine, and some bread and meat, candles and cards," said Fearless Johnny, just as if he had been giving an order to the waiter of an inn; for he remembered that the landlord had said they would supply him, and he felt no fear which should make him shrink from them. "I wonder where this same Fear can be?" he said, as the ghosts were preparing his supper; "I have been pretty well all over the castle already, and can see nothing of him. Oh, yes! I will just go down and explore the cellars, perhaps I shall find him down there." "Yes; go down and choose your wine to your own taste, and you will find him there, sure enough," said the twelve ghosts. "Shall I, though?" said John, delighted; and down he went. The bottles were all in order, labelled with the names of various choice vintages in such tempting variety that he was puzzled which to choose. At last, however, he stretched his hand out to reach down a bottle from a high shelf, when lo and behold a grinning skull showed itself in the place where the bottle had stood, and asked him how he dared meddle with the wine! Without being in the least disconcerted at its horrid appearance, Fearless Johnny passed the bottle into his left hand, and with his right taking up the skull, flung it over his shoulder to the farthermost corner of the cellar. He had no sooner done so, however, than a long bony arm was stretched out from the same place, and made a grab at the bottle. But Fearless John caught the arm and flung it after the skull. Immediately another arm appeared, and was treated in the same way; then came a long, lanky leg, and tried to kick him on the nose, but Johnny dealt with it as with the others; then came another leg, which he sent flying into the corner too; and then the ribs and spine, till all the bones of a skeleton had severally appeared before him, and had all been cast by him on to the same shapeless heap. Now he turned to go, but as he did so a great rattling was heard in the corner where he had thrown the bones. It was all the bones joining themselves together and forming themselves into a perfect skeleton, which came clatter-patter after him up the stairs. Zovanin neither turned to look at it nor hurried his pace, but walked straight back, bottle in hand, into the room where the supper was laid ready, and the pack of cards by the side, as he had ordered. All the while that he was supping, the skeleton kept up a wild dance round him, trying to excite him by menacing gestures, but Fearless Johnny munched his bread and meat and drank his wine, and took no more notice than of the insects buzzing round the sconces. When he had done he called to the ghosts in the coolest way imaginable to clear away the things, and then dealt out the cards, with one hand for a "dummy" and one for himself. He had no sooner done this than the skeleton sat down, with a horrid grimace of triumph, and took up the "dummy's" hand! "You needn't grin like that," said Johnny; "you may depend on it I shouldn't have let you take the cards if it hadn't pleased me. If you know how to play, play on--it is much better fun than playing both hands oneself. Only, if you don't know how to play, you leave them alone--and you had better not give me reason to turn you out." The skeleton, however, understood the game very well, and with alternate fortune they played and passed away the hours till it was time to go to bed. Johnny then rose and called the twelve ghosts to light him up to bed, which they did in gravest order. He had no sooner laid himself to sleep than, with a great clatter, the skeleton came in and pulled the bedclothes off him. In a great passion Fearless Johnny jumped up, and brandishing a chair over his head, threatened to break every one of his bones if he didn't immediately lay the clothes straight again. The skeleton had no defence for his bones, and so could not choose but obey; and Johnny went quietly to bed again. "It was a pity I didn't ask the poor fellow what ailed him, though," said Johnny, when he was once more alone. "Perhaps he too is tormented by this 'Fear' that every one thinks so much of, and wanted me to help him. Ah, well, if he comes again I will ask him;" and with that he rolled himself up in the quilt, and went to sleep again. An hour had hardly passed before the skeleton came in again, and this time he shook the bedpost so violently that he woke Johnny with a start. "Ah! there he is again!" cried Johnny; "now I'll ask him what he wants;" so he jumped out of bed once more, and addressed the skeleton solemnly in these words:-- "Anima terrena, Stammi lontana tre passi, E raccontami la tua pena [92]!" Then the skeleton made a sign to him to follow it, and led him down to the foundations of the castle, where there was a big block of porphyry. "Heave up that block," said the skeleton. "Not I!" replied Johnny; "I didn't set it there, and so I'm not going to take it up." So the skeleton took up the block itself, and under it lay shining two immense jars full of gold. "Take them, and count them out," said the skeleton. "Not I!" said Johnny; "I didn't heap them up, and so I'm not going to count them out." So the skeleton counted them out itself, and they contained ten thousand gold pieces each. When it had done, it said, "I am the giant who built this castle. I have waited here these hundreds of years till one came fearless enough to do what you have done to-night, and now I am free, because to you I may give over the castle; so take it, for it is yours, and with it one of these jars of gold, which is enough to make you rich, but take the other jar of gold and build a church, and let them pray for me, and learn to be better men than I." With that he disappeared, and Fearless Johnny slept quietly for the rest of the night. In the morning, when the sun was up, and the birds began to sing cheerily on the branches, the landlord began to feel some compunction for having abandoned such a fine young Bursch to a night by himself among the unquiet spirits; so he summoned all his courage, and all his servants, and all his neighbours, and, thus prepared, he led the way up to the haunted castle. Finding that it was firmly fixed by the chain, they all entered in a body, for none durst be the first; and the entrance, having been made for the giant, was big enough for all. Zovanin having had such a disturbed night was still fast asleep, but their footsteps and anxious whisperings woke him. In answer to all their questionings he gave an account of what had happened to him, but still complained that, after all, he had not been able to find Fear! Zovanin was now a rich man, and had a mighty castle to live in where he might have ended his days in peace, but he was always possessed by the desire of finding out what Fear was, and this desire was too strong to let him rest. The neighbours, however, told him he might find Fear out hunting; and many were the hunting-parties he established, and wherever the wild game was shyest, there he sought it out. Once, as he sprang over a chasm his horse made a false start, and was plunged into the abyss, but Fearless Johnny caught at the bough of a birch-tree that waved over the mountain-side. The branch cracked, and it seemed as if nothing could save him, but Fearless Johnny only swung himself on to another on the ledge below, and climbed back by its means to the path. Another time, as he was pursuing a chamois up a precipitous track, a great mass of loose rock, detached from the height above, came thundering down upon him. An ordinary hunter, scared at the sight, would have given himself up for lost, but Fearless Johnny stood quite still and let it bound over his head, and he came to no harm. So he still was unable to find Fear. After some years, therefore, he once more went abroad to seek it. This time, however, he provided himself with a fine suit of armour and a prancing charger, and a noble figure he cut as he ambled forth. After a long journey, with many adventures, he came one hot day, as he was very thirsty, to a fountain of water in the outskirts of a town, and as he dismounted to drink he observed that the whole place looked sad and deserted; the road was grass-grown, and the houses seemed neglected and empty. As he went up to the fountain to drink, a faint voice called to him from the wayside, "Beware, and do it not! Think you that we all should be lying here dying of thirst if you could drink at that fountain?" Then he looked round, and saw that, as far as eye could reach, the banks of the wayside were covered with dying people heaped up one on the other, and all gazing towards the fountain! "Know you not," continued the weary voice, "that a terrible dragon has taken possession of all the fountains; and that the moment one goes to drink of them he appears, as though he would eat you up, so that you are bound to run away for very fear?" "'Fear!'" cried Zovanin; "is Fear here at last?" and he joyfully ran to the side of the well. All the weary, dying people raised themselves as well as they could, to see what should befall him who was not afraid of the terrible dragon. But Fearless Johnny went up to the fountain's brim to dip his hand into the cooling flood. Before he could do so, however, the terrible dragon put his head up through the midst, with a frightful howl, and spueing fire out of his nostrils. Zovanin, instead of drawing back, instantly took out his sword and, with one blow, severed the monster's head from the trunk! Then all the people rushed to the fountain, hailing him as their deliverer. But ere they had slaked their thirst, the dragon, which had sunk back into the depth of the water, reappeared with a new head, already full grown, and more terrible than the last, for it not only spued out fire from its nostrils, but darted living sparks from its eyes. When the people saw this they all ran away screaming, and Zovanin was left alone; but, as usual, he did not lose heart, and with another well-aimed blow sent the second head of the monster rolling by the side of the first! The people came back, and began to drink again when they saw the huge trunk disappear beneath the surface; but it was not many minutes before another head cropped up, more terrible than either of the preceding, for it not only spued fire from its nostrils and darted living sparks from its eyes, but it had hair and mane of flames, which waved and rolled abroad, threatening all within reach. All the people fled at the sight, and Zovanin was once more left alone with the monster. Once more he severed the terrible head; and after this the dragon was seen no more. "That must be very wonderful blood out of which three heads can spring," thought Fearless Johnny; and he filled a vial with the dragon's blood, and journeyed farther. After a time he came to the outskirts of another town. It was not deserted like the last. The streets were full of people making merry--in fact, every one was so very merry that they seemed a whole community of madmen. Another might have been afraid to encounter them at all; but not so Fearless Johnny, he spurred his horse and rode right through their midst. But for all his seeming so fearless and self-possessed, the people got round him, and seized his horse's bridle, and dragged him from the saddle. "What do you want with me, good people?" cried Zovanin; "let me hear, before you pull me to pieces." When they found him so cool, spite of the wild way in which they had handled him, they began to respect him, and loosed their hold. "If you want to know," answered one, "it is soon told. We are all in this town wholly given up to amusement. We have done with work and toil, and do nothing but dance, and drink, and sing, and divert ourselves from morning to night. But after enjoying all this a long time, we begin to find it rather wearisome, and we are almost as tired of our pastime as we used to be of our labour. So the king has decreed that every stranger who comes by this way shall be caught, and required to find us a quite new diversion, and if he cannot do that, we will make him dance on red-hot stones, and flog him round the town, and get some fun out of him that way, at all events; as you don't look very likely to find us a new pastime, we may as well begin with putting you on your death-dance." "Don't make too sure of that!" said Fearless Johnny, not at all disconcerted; "take me to your king, and I'll show you a diversion you never heard of before." When he came to the king, the king laughed, and would hardly listen to him, because he looked so broad and heavy, and not at all like one who could invent a merry game. But Johnny protested that if they would let him cut off any one's head, he would stick it on just as before, and the man should be never the worse. The king was greatly delighted with the idea, and most anxious to see the performance, promising that he would not only let him go free if he succeeded, but would load him with honours and presents into the bargain. Zovanin professed himself quite ready to prove his skill, but no one could be found who was willing to let the experiment be tried on him. This angered the king greatly; and at last he called forward his jester, and ordered Zovanin to make the trial on him. The jester, however, objected as much as any one else, only, as he belonged entirely to the king, he could not disobey him. "But think, your majesty," said the poor hunchback, "what will your majesty do without his jester, if this quack does not succeed in his promises?" "But I shall succeed!" thundered Fearless Johnny; and he spoke with such assurance, that the king and all the people were more desirous than ever to see the feat, and cried to him to commence. When the jester found that all hope of wriggling out of the cruel decree was vain, he threw himself on his knees, and begged so earnestly that the king would grant him two favours, that he could not resist. The two favours were, that he should have the satisfaction of repeating the trick on Johnny, if he allowed him to try his skill on him, and also that he should first give proof of what he could do on the ape, with whose pranks he was wont to amuse the king. The king and Zovanin both agreed to the two requests, and the poor ape was brought forward, and delivered over to make the first essay. Zovanin did not keep the breathless multitude long in suspense; with one blow he severed its head, threw it up high in the air, that all might see it was well cut off, and then placed it on again, smearing in some drops of the dragon's blood by way of cement. The head and trunk were scarcely placed together again, with the dragon's blood between, than the ape bounded up as well as before, and just as if nothing had been done to him; but, on the contrary, finding himself the object of great attention, and excited by the shouts of the people, he sprang and gambolled about from side to side with even greater alacrity than his wont. "Now, Sir Hunchback!" cried Zovanin, "it is your turn. You see it's not very bad; so come along, and no more excuses." "Go it, hunchback!" said the king; and all the people shouted, "The hunchback's head! the hunchback's head!" with such vehemence that it was evident there was no means of getting out of the trial. It was true, Zovanin had proved he could put a head on again; but the jester shrank from the cold steel nevertheless, and it was only with a look which concentrated all his venom that he yielded himself up. Fearless Johnny struck off his head in a trice, then threw it up high in the air, as he had done the ape's, and then cemented it on again with the dragon's blood as well as ever. "Now for you!" screamed the hunchback, when he found his head back in its right place once more. Zovanin had no fear, but sat down on the ground instantly, so that the hunchback might reach him more conveniently. "This is all you have to do," he said: "take my sword in your two hands, and swing it round across my throat. Then pour the contents of this vial over the stump of the throat, and clap the head down on it again." "Yes, yes! I think I ought to know how it's done, as well as you," answered the dwarf, hastily; and he swung the sword round with a will, sending Johnny's head rolling at the king's feet. The people caught it up and handed it round; and it might soon have got lost in the crowd, but that the king shouted to them to bring it back, because he wanted to see it stuck on again. So they gave it back to the jester, and he smeared the rest of the dragon's blood over the stump of the throat--but in putting the head on, took care to turn it the wrong way, which, as he managed to bend over Johnny's recumbent body, no one observed till he rose to his feet. Then all the people screeched, and yelled, and shouted, so that John could not make out what was the matter, but, getting angry, demanded his horse, that he might ride away from them all. The king ordered his horse to be brought, and Johnny sprang into the saddle, and the cries of the people made the beast start away faster even than Johnny himself wished; only Johnny could not make out why he seemed to him, for all his urging, always to go backwards. At last, he got quite away from the shouts of the people, into a calm, quiet place, where there was a lake shut in by high hills, which, with the mulberry-trees, and vines, and grassy slopes, were all pictured in the lake's smooth face. Zovanin was hot with his ride, and so was his mount; so he walked him into the shallow water, while he himself dismounted, and bent down to drink. At the sight that met his gaze in the water, a shout burst from his lips more terrible than the shouts of all the people. He gazed again, and couldn't think what had befallen him; but, so horrified was he at the sight of his own back where he was wont to see his breast, that he fell down and died of fear on the spot! And thus Fear visited him at last--in a way which would certainly never have occurred, if the jester had put his head on again in the way nature designed for it. THE DOVE-MAIDEN. In the days when heathenism still disputed the advance of Christianity in Tirol, there lived a nobleman in a castle, of which no trace now remains, overlooking the egg-shaped Lago di Molveno. The nobleman and his family had embraced the teaching of St. Vigilius, and were among his most pious and obedient disciples. Eligio, his eldest son, however, had two faults which led him into great trouble, as our story will show; but as he was of a good disposition, and was always desirous to make amends for his wrong-doing, he found help and favour, which kept him right in the main. His two faults were--an excess of fondness for card-playing and an inclination to think he knew better than his elders, which led him to go counter to good advice. It so happened that whenever he played at cards he always won; and this made it such a pleasure that he could not be persuaded to leave it off, though he knew he was wasting all the time he ought to have devoted to more manly pursuits. Nor was there for a long time any lack of people to play with him, for every one said his luck must turn at last, and each thought he should be the fortunate person in whose favour this would happen. But when at last they found he still won, and won on, they got shy of the risk, and refused to incur it any more. When Eligio found this to be the case, he determined to travel abroad, and play against strangers. His parents tried to make use of the opportunity to lead him to break with his bad habit, but it was of no avail, and, as experience is a good school, they agreed to let him go forth and see what the world was made of. It was a brave sight as he descended the terrace of the castle accoutred in the noble array befitting his rank, and with a retinue of followers handsomely attired too. But his lady mother watched him depart with a boding heart, and then went into the chapel to pray that he might be preserved amid all dangers. Nothing particular occurred to mar the pleasure of travel for several days, till he came to a large and fertile plain, studded with many towns, whose white stone-built houses sparkled in the sun. "Ha! now we come to life and human kind again!" cried Eligio; and putting spurs to his steed he rode joyously to the first of these smiling towns. It had no lofty towers, no heaven-pointing spires--nowhere was seen the sign of the saving cross, which from boyhood he had been taught to reverence and to see planted every where before him in consecration of every affair of life. But there were sounds of mirth and revelry, as of a perpetual feast, and all around the place was gay with dancers and mummers, musicians, dice-throwers, and card-players. Eligio wandered about till he saw a number of these making up a fresh party, and courteously asked to be allowed to join them. They accepted his company willingly, and fortune favoured him as usual. Again and again he tried, and it was always the same. It was as much as his train of followers, numerous as they were, could do to gather in and take charge of all his gains. The stranger's unvarying luck became the talk of the place, and all the people collected to see him play. Towards evening there came amid the crowd a tall man of serious mien, who, having watched his play with much attention, said to him, as he saw him complete a game which gave him once more the benefit of a considerable haul,-- "Truly, you are an expert player, young man; I had thought myself hitherto the best of our countryside, but I doubt me if I should be right to measure my skill with yours. However, you must be tired with your long travel and with the excitement of the day's play, and if you will honour my poor board with your presence at dinner I will ask you afterwards to let me try my power against yours with the cards." Eligio thanked him for his courteous speech, and assured him he should have the greatest pleasure in doing as he wished. The stranger then led him to his abode, which was appointed with a sumptuousness such as had never entered into Eligio's dreams in his mountain home. Marble courts and fountains, surrounded by bowers of exquisite flowers, formed the approach, and then they passed beneath endless-seeming arcades of polished marble into a vast alcove encrusted with alabaster of many colours, the dim light only reaching through its clear golden veins, no sound disturbing its still repose but the cool murmur of a fountain which fed a marble lake. Here noiseless attendants advanced, and, having helped Eligio and his host to undress, afforded him a delicious bath, complete with ministrations of unguents and scents--very different from the plunge into the icy waters of the Lago di Molveno, which was his greatest luxury at home. They now arrayed him in an entirely new suit of superb attire; and then, to the sound of hushed music, led him and his host through the arched corridors to a banqueting-hall, where every thing of the choicest was ready laid. Nothing could have been more delightful than the charming and accomplished conversation of his hospitable entertainer, who, when the long succession of various viands was at length exhausted, proposed that they should repair to an upper room and commence their game. Delighted as Eligio had been with his extraordinary entertainment, he was yet burning to try his luck with his obliging host, and accordingly followed him with alacrity to a divan spread on the roof, having for its only covering a leafy pergola [93], and lighted by lamps contrived with such art that they seemed to be the very bunches of grapes themselves which gave the rays. The cards were brought, and the friends set to work. The first game was a long one; the host seemed to be in great fear of not succeeding, and pondered every throw. Eligio played in his own rough-and-ready style, expecting luck to come as it always had--he never troubled himself how. But this time luck did not come to him, and his entertainer was the winner! The stakes were large, but his hospitable friend had been so urbane throughout, that he could not show any ill-will. His attendants were called in, and paid the debt. The winner put up the cards as though he did not wish to play again. "Come, you must give me my revenge," said Eligio. "Oh, certainly, if you wish it," he replied; and they played again. This time Eligio paid more attention to his style, and calculated every card he played; but it was of no use, he was beaten again. Caring more for the disappointment than the loss, he saw the money counted out without a sigh; but the unusual sense of having been overcome rankled in his mind. He had offered to play high because it seemed required by the princely character of the house where he had been so sumptuously received; and of all the treasure he had brought with him, and of all he had won through a day's undeviating luck, there only remained enough to repeat the stakes. Nevertheless he pledged the same sum once more, and they played again. This time fortune seemed to have come back to him. All went right up to the end; Eligio's heart felt lightened. So luck was coming back, was it? He played with an interest which he had almost ceased to find--but his adversary threw down his last card which reversed every thing, and once more he was the winner! Eligio called in his followers, and ordered them to pay out the last farthing of his treasure; but even this distressed him less than having nothing more to stake, whereby to have a chance of retrieving his luck. "Let be," said his new friend, soothingly; "perhaps to-morrow your luck will turn. Come down with me to supper, and have a quiet night's rest, and think no more about the play." "I can't rest, and I can't eat!" said Eligio; "I can do nothing till my luck turns. I must stake something. Ah! there's my horse--but that's not enough. Put along with it all my retainers. If I lose, they shall be yours, and serve you." "Since you insist, I have no objection," said his host. "My men know their service well, and will not shame you if you win and I have to render you an equal number of them; and for your horse, I can match him, how good soever he may be, with the swiftest Arab in the whole world." Eligio sat down, hardly heeding his words, intent only on re-establishing his success. But his pains were vain; the game went against him like the last, and, scarcely mastering his vexation, he called in his retainers and told them they had passed into the service of the new master. But this only left him in the same position as before. Still he wanted to retrieve his fortune, and again he had no stake. "Leave it for to-night," recommended his host; "better times will come with the morrow." But Eligio would not hear of it; the passion and excitement were too strong within him; he could not turn to other thoughts. "Myself! my life! that is all I have left to play. Will you accept the wager of my life?" "If you insist," replied his host, "I have no objection, but it is an odd sort of play. I really never heard of such a thing before; but any thing to oblige you--though I really advise you to leave it till the morning, when you are cooler." And all the time he was a magician of the heathen, who had invited Eligio for the express purpose of bringing him to this strait; but, as he saw how impetuous and excited he was, he knew that he would but fall into his snare the more surely for whetting his ardour with a little opposition. Eligio would, indeed, listen to no mention of delay, and they sat down and played--with the same result as before! His life was now at the magician's disposal, and he stood in a desponding attitude, waiting to hear what the magician decided to do with him. As he stood there, however, a great cry rose in the room beyond--a cry of a young maiden's voice in distress--and from under the usciale [94] came running, in terror for its life, a sleek white rat, and behind it, in close pursuit, a bouncing cat. "Save my rat! oh, save my white rat!" cried the maiden's voice; and her steps approached as if she would have run into the room after her pet. "Keep back, child! keep back! Enter not, for your life!" cried the magician, sternly; and nothing more was heard but the gentle maiden's sobs. Quick as thought, however, Eligio had started from his despondent attitude at the sound of her distressful voice, and with one blow had stamped the life out of the treacherous cat. The little white rat, freed from fear of its tormentor, returned softly to its mistress, and an exclamation of joy was Eligio's reward. "Who have you got there, father? Mayn't I come in and thank him?" said the maiden, prettily pleading. "On no account. Don't think of it!" was the magician's angry reply. "Then you must do something for him instead. Ask him what he wants, and do it for him, whatever it is." "Very well, that'll do; go back to your own apartment," replied the magician, impatiently. "No, it won't do, like that. You don't say it as if you meant it. Promise me you will give him something nice, and I will go. It's only fair, for he has done me a great pleasure, and you mustn't be ungrateful." "It is enough reward, fair maiden, to hear from your sweet voice that you are satisfied with me," Eligio ventured to say; but this made the magician more angry, and, to ensure his daughter's departure, he promised he would do as she wished, but forbade either of them to speak a single word more to the other. "I have promised my daughter to give you a good gift," he said, when he had satisfied himself that she was gone to a distance; "and under present circumstances I do not see that I can give you a better boon than to grant you a year of the life which you have lost to me. Go home and bid adieu to your friends, and be sure that you are back here by this day year, or woe be to your whole house!" Eligio now began to suspect that he had fallen into the power of one of those against whom he had been often warned. No ordinary mortal could have cared to win his life; no ordinary mortal could have threatened woe on his whole house. But the more convinced he felt of this, the more terrible he felt was the spell that bound him. Sad and crestfallen he looked as he toiled his way back to the castle on the Lago di Molveno, and very different from the brave order with which he had started. When his parents saw him all alone, and looking so forlorn, they knew that his bad habit had got him into trouble, but he looked so sad that they said nothing; but by little and little he told them all. It was a year of mourning that succeeded that day; a year so sad that it seemed no boon the maiden had procured him, but a prolonged torment, yet when that thought came he spurned it from him, as ungrateful to her who had meant him well. In fact his only solace was to recall that clear, ringing voice so full of sympathy, and to picture to himself the slender throat and rosy lips through which it must have passed, the softly-blushing cheeks between which those lips must have been set, and the bright, laughing, trusting eyes that must have beamed over them, till he seemed quite to know and love her. But then, again, of what use? was not his year nearly run out? Was not her father determined they should not meet? Was it not a greater torture to die knowing there was one left behind he might have loved, than to have died that night alone, as he had been then? Meantime the year was drawing to a close, and, not to give an appearance of shrinking from his plighted word, Eligio started betimes to render his life up to him who had won it of him. It was a sad parting with his parents, but he held up through it bravely; and when they advised him to take a large sum of money with him to buy himself off, though he felt it would be of no use, he would not say them nay, as he had so often done before. With a heavy heart he set out; and first he stopped at the chapel of St. Anthony, at the foot of the hill, where dwelt an old hermit, to make his peace with heaven before he was called to lay down his life. Then he rose and pursued his way. As he journeyed farther he met a hermit coming towards him who he thought was the same he had spoken with in the chapel. "Tell me, father," he said, "how comes it that you, whom I left behind me in the chapel, are now coming towards me on the road?" "I am not the hermit whom you left behind you in the chapel," replied the advancing figure, gravely. "But I have heard all you confided to him, for I am St. Anthony; and because I am satisfied with the good disposition I have observed in you, I am come to give you help." Eligio fell on his knees full of thankfulness, for never had he felt more in need of help than now. "Something I know, my son, of the ways of these men who hunt the lambs of our flock to destroy them, and I am minded to save you from the one into whose power you have fallen, and with you the fair maiden whose voice charmed you in his house." Eligio started with joyful surprise, and clasped the saint's feet in token of gratitude. "She is not his daughter, as you have supposed," continued the saint, "but a child of our people, whom he stole from us. And now you must attend to my bidding, and do it exactly, or you will fail, and lose her life as well as your own." Eligio felt the reproach, for he knew how often he had preferred his own way to the advice of his elders, but he was humble now in his distress, and listened very attentively to the directions prescribed to him. "Continue this public road towards the city," then said St. Anthony, "till you get to the last milestone; then count the tenth tree that you pass on the right hand and the eleventh on the left hand, and you will see a scarcely perceptible track through the brake to the right. Follow that track till you come to a knoll of ilex-trees, there lie down and rest; but to-morrow morning awake at daybreak and lie in wait, and you shall see a flock of white doves come before you. They will lay aside their feathers and hide them, but you must watch them very closely, for they are the magician's daughters; but among them will be she whom I commission you to deliver. You must observe where she puts her feathers, for the maidens will all then go away for the rest of the day in their own natural form. As soon as they are gone, take her feathers from their hiding-place and possess yourself of them. In the evening they will all come back and resume their dove form and fly away, but your maiden will continue seeking hers; then come forward and tell her that you want her help to overcome the sorceries of the magician. Remember this well, my son, and for the rest do as she bids you." So saying, the saint raised his hands in blessing, and passed on his way to the chapel, where he had to instruct the hermit in the conduct he had to pursue in the manifold dangers with which he was surrounded from the malice of the heathen. Eligio walked briskly along, once more filled with the hope and energy incident to his youth and character. "Why should I count the trees?" he said to himself; "surely, it will do if I look out for the track when I come to the brake!" But the terrible warning he had had was too recent that he should forget its lessons already. "Perhaps it's better to keep to the letter. The saint laid great stress on my doing exactly as he bid me; it is better to be on the safe side, for another worthier life than mine is concerned with me, this time." So he walked on steadily till he came to the last mile, and then counted the trees conscientiously, till he found the path through the brake, and made his way to the ilex grove, where he laid him down and slept peacefully. But long before daybreak he was awake with the anxiety not to be behindhand, and closely he watched for the arrival of the enchanted doves. With the first streaks of daylight they came flying, as the saint had predicted, and, having flung off their covering of white feathers, each sought out a snug place under the heather where to deposit them. It required close watching, indeed, to make out which was his maiden; but, as they all chatted together, after the manner of maidens, Eligio knew he could trust himself to recognize her voice, and, guided by that, he kept his eyes hard fixed on her whose tones he recognized, that he might be sure to distinguish where she laid by her disguise. It was not light enough to satisfy himself whether her features corresponded with the idea he had built up in his own mind; but the grace of her form, as she passed by in her simple white, loosely-flowing dress, with a chaplet of roses for her only ornament; only made him the more anxious to behold her face. The maidens walked away, and Eligio took possession of the feathery covering, which he laid up in his bosom as a precious token, and took it out again and gazed at it, and kissed it, and laid it by again a thousand times, for it was his only solace through the long day of waiting. At last evening came, and he resumed his post of observation. The maidens returned; each sought out and resumed her dove's feathers and flew away; only the one was left, seeking hers in vain. Then Eligio came forward, and said, respectfully, "Fair lady, I know what it is you seek, and I will help you to find it; but first promise to do me a great favour." The maiden started, for she too recognized his voice. Their eyes met, and both owned, in the depth of their own hearts, that the other bore the very image which for a year past their fancy had conjured up. "That will I, willingly, good sir!" she replied, in her sweetest tones; "for, an' I mistake not, I owe you a debt of gratitude before to-day. The treacherous cat that you killed so opportunely was no cat, but a cruel Angana [95]; and the white rat concerned me so nearly, because it was no rat, but my dear nurse, whom the magician turned into a rat when he stole me from my father's house. So believe if I was not anxious to save her, and if I ought not to be grateful to him who preserved her to me! so tell me, what can I do to help you, and, whatever it may be, I will do it to the utmost of my power." "St. Anthony appeared to me as I came along this way," rejoined Eligio, "and he told me that you had been stolen from Christian parents and brought up by this heathen mage, and that you would help me to get out of his power; but he also seemed to say that I should have the happiness of helping you to leave this dreadful abode, and restoring you to Christendom." "Said he so?" answered the maiden, with intense earnestness; "then my heart did not deceive me when I first heard your voice: you are indeed he with the thread of whose life mine is woven, and without whom I could not be set free." When Eligio heard that, he was full of gladness, and he said, "Let us escape, then! What should prevent us from leaving this country together? When I saw the magician before, the laws of hospitality made him sacred to my sword; but now--now that I have learnt I have a right to defend your life--I defy him, and all his arts!" "You are brave, I see; and it is well," she replied; "but it is not so you can discard his power. By your own error you gave him power over you, and now you are his; you can only be free by his will." "By his will!" cried Eligio, in despair; "then shall I never be free!" "Art must be met by art," she continued. "His art is all round you, though you see not its meshes; and by art we must bring him to renounce his claim on you. Trust me, and I will show you how it is to be done. He would force me to learn his arts when I begged him not, and now I know many things which will serve us. I can see the threads of his toils woven all around you; you cannot escape from them till he speaks you free." "Tell me, then, what I must do," said Eligio; and he mentally resolved as he spoke, that he would this time implicitly obey what she told him. She remained thinking for a time, as if reckoning out a problem. Then she said, "For this first time I must act. On the fatal day you must present yourself according to your oath. I will take care to be with him when they tell him you are come; and when I hear your name, I will plead, as I did before, that he should not sacrifice you at once, but give you some hard trial in which, if you succeed, he shall speak you free. To silence my importunity, he will agree to this, intending to give you so hard a trial that you should not succeed. But you come to me in my bower, cooing three times like a dove, for a signal, at this same evening hour, and tell me what it is, and I will find the means in my books to carry you through the trial. So that, whatever he proposes to you, be not disconcerted, but accept and undertake it with a good heart. And now, give me my dove's feathers quickly, for already they will be questioning why I am so long behind." And without waiting to let him take so much as another gaze at her, she assumed her dove shape, and flew away. The next day Eligio went, with a lighter heart than he had borne for a long time past, to give himself up to the magician. The magician, won over by the maiden's importunity, offered him his liberty on condition of his performing successfully the difficult feat that he should impose on him. "Any thing you please to impose on me, I am ready to perform," replied Eligio. The magician smiled, with a ghastly, sardonic smile, while he paused, and tried to think of the most terrible trial he could impose. "Since you were here last," he said, at length, "I have grown a little deaf, and I am told that the only cure there is for me is the singing of the phoenix-bird. The first thing you have to do is to find me the phoenix-bird, that its singing may heal me." "I will do my best; and hope I may be the means of curing your malady," said Eligio, courteously; but the magician, seeing him of such good courage, began to fear he really might succeed, and added, hastily, "But, mind, I only allow you three days for your search!" "Three days are but little to find the phoenix-bird," replied Eligio; "nevertheless, I will do my best;" and without waiting to listen to any further restrictions, he started on his way, saying, "If I have only three days, I have no time to lose." At the approach of the evening hour Eligio found his way to his maiden's bower, and having attracted her attention by cooing three times like a dove, told her what was the trial the magician had imposed. "The phoenix-bird!" she said, and she looked rather blank; "he has chosen a difficult task indeed. But wait a bit; I think I can find it out;" and she went back and took down scroll after scroll, and turned them over so long, that Eligio began to fear that she would not be able to help him after all. At last she came back to him, looking grave. "It is more difficult even than I thought," she said; "and three days is but short time to do it in. You must start this night, without losing a minute. Set out by the stony path outside the town, and ride ahead till you come to a forest, where a bear will come out upon you. The moment you see him, spring from your horse, and cut its throat with your hunting-knife; but if you hesitate a moment he will fall upon you, and devour you. If, however, you kill your horse dexterously, as you will, the bear will be satisfied with its flesh. You must wait standing by till he has eaten his fill, and watch for the moment when he is about to turn away again, then spring on his back, and he will take you to the castle where the phoenix-bird is kept; but if you lose that particular moment, he will return to his cave, and you will never have a chance of reaching the phoenix-bird!" "Rely on me; your directions shall be punctually obeyed," said Eligio, and he stooped to kiss her hand. But she would not allow this, and told him he had not an instant to spare. Eligio mounted his horse, and rode away over the stony path outside the city, and pursued it all night, till at daybreak he reached the thick forest, when a bear came out upon him; Eligio sprang deftly from his horse, and plunging his hunting-knife into his throat, flung the carcase across the path. The bear fell upon the dead horse, and Eligio watched for the moment when he should have finished his repast; but, as he was long about it, he thought to himself, "Why not jump upon him at once? and then I shall be ready to start with him when he has done, without so much anxiety about catching the right instant." So said, so done; but the bear was not at all the docile animal he had expected. "Don't disturb me when I'm feeding!" he growled, and shook our hero off into a bed of nettles. Eligio owned to himself he would have done better to follow the directions of those wiser than he, and waited, with as much patience as the stinging of the nettles would allow him, till the brute was ready to start, and then made a bold leap on to his back, which made him turn round. "Well sprung, this time!" growled the bear; "and as you have managed that part of the business so well I have no objection to do what you require. But you must attend to what I have to tell you. Keep your seat steadily, for I have to go swiftly; but speak not a word, and when I bring you to the palace where the phoenix-bird is kept, look not to the right hand or the left, but walk straight before you, through terrace, and galleries, and corridors, till you come to a dismal, deserted-looking aviary, where the phoenix-bird evermore sits on his perch. Put this hood over him, and bring him away with you; but listen not to the songs of the other birds all around, and, above all, touch not the golden owl which sits in the shade above!" Eligio promised to attend to all the bear told him, and took a firm seat on his back. The bear bounded away with an awkward gait, but Eligio was an accomplished cavalier, and was nothing daunted. After many hours' rough riding, they came to a vast palace, which he understood by the bear's halting was the abode of the phoenix-bird; so he dismounted, and walked straight along the terraces, and galleries, and corridors, till he came to a sorry aviary where a thousand birds of gay plumage fluttered and chirped around. Faithful to his promise, Eligio stopped to look at none of them; but walked straight up to the perch of the phoenix-bird. When, however, he saw him, he began to reason in place of obeying. "What can be the use of taking a shabby old bird like that? he looks like a fowl plucked ready for cooking! surely, some of these gay-plumaged birds are better worth taking!" and then his eye caught the golden owl snugly ensconced in the shady bower above. "Ah! that's a bird worth having, that is now! that's worth coming a perilous journey for; something to be proud of when you've got it! That's the bird for me!" and, springing upon a ledge of rock, he threw the hood the bear had given him over the head of the golden owl, and brought it down. He had scarcely touched the golden owl, however, when the whole assemblage of other birds, which had taken no notice of him before, suddenly began screeching forth their highest notes. Their cries brought a crowd of servants, who surrounded him and held him fast, while the lord of the palace came down, and severely asked an account of his conduct. Eligio told his story with a frankness which, in some measure, conciliated the old lord; but the offence was too great to be passed over. "The phoenix-bird," he said, "might have been taken by him who had courage to take it after the prescribed manner; but the other birds it was sacrilege to meddle with, and the golden owl he had been expressly forbidden, of all others, to touch; and though he granted him his life, he condemned him to perpetual durance." The servants dragged him off to a deep dungeon, where he had nothing to do but to bewail his folly. Night fell around, and nothing could be more hopeless than his position. His cell was hewn out of the earth; the iron door through which he had been thrust had been made fast with bolts and chains, and the only window which admitted the free air was strongly fitted with iron bars. Eligio was generous enough, in his utter desolation, to grieve more over his unfulfilled mission and wasted opportunities, than over his personal hardships. "Oh, my beautiful Dove-Maiden!" he exclaimed, "shall I, then, never see you again? Must you be left for aye to the power of the horrid pagan enchanter, because I, by my insensate folly, have failed in restoring you to the brightness of the Christian faith?" and when he thought of her fate, he wept again. "St Anthony! St. Anthony!" he cried, a little after, "you befriended me once; give me one chance again! This once but send me forth again with the mission of liberating her, and then let me come back and pass my life in penance; but let not her suffer through my fault!" By a mechanical instinct he had placed himself near the window, as the type of freedom to him, and now he thought he heard a low grunt on the other side of it, close to his ear. The sound was not melodious, but yet he fancied there was something friendly in its tone. He raised himself up, and saw two white boar's tusks between the bars. His solitude was so utter that even the visit of a wild boar was a solace of companionship; but much greater was his pleasure when he found that his uncouth visitor was grubbing up the earth round the iron bars and the stones which held them, and had already loosened one. "How now, good boar!" cried Eligio; "are you really come to release me?" "Yes," said the boar, as he paused for a moment to take breath; "St. Anthony has heard you, and has sent me to give the fresh chance you ask for; and if you this time but keep your promise, and do as you are bid, he will not exact the performance of the lifelong penance you offer to perform; but after you have released the Dove-Maiden, you shall live with her the rest of your life in holy union and companionship." In a transport of delight Eligio set to work to co-operate with the boar in unearthing the massive stanchions; and when they had loosened three he was able to force himself through the narrow opening. "Now return to the aviary," said the boar; "look neither to right nor left, but bring away the phoenix-bird; and speak not a word, but mount on my back, and I will carry you back to the city. But make all haste, or the three days will have expired, and then all will be lost!" This time Eligio followed his instructions implicitly, and got back to the town just in time to present the magician with the phoenix-bird before the expiring of his three days' grace. The magician was surprised indeed to find he had been successful, but could not recall his word, so he was forced to pronounce him free; and Eligio immediately repaired to the Dove-Maiden to thank her for her succour, and to ask what was next to be done to set her free too, that they might go away together to Christian lands, and live for each other in holy union. "As for me," replied the maiden, blushing, "I shall be free by virtue of your freedom when you have performed one trial well, and without altering according to your own ideas the directions prescribed for you. And now the first thing is, to obtain the release of my dear nurse from the horrid form in which the magician has disguised her. To keep her in that shape, she is forced to eat a live mouse every week; and as nothing else is given her that she can eat, and as she is very ravenous by the time the week comes round, she is forced to eat the mouse. But if the mouse be killed by a sword consecrated to Christian chivalry, and it is dead before she eats it, the spell will be broken, and she will resume her natural form." Eligio said this was an easy matter. She had only to tell him on what day the feeding took place, and where. "It has its difficulties, too," replied the Dove-Maiden; "for if any blood of the mouse be spilt, the magician will know that I have instructed you, and he will play us some bad turn. To prevent this, you must cut the mouse in two by drawing your sword towards you; then all the blood will be caught on the sword, and you must make the rat lick it off afterwards." Then she showed him where the mouse was brought, and told him to be on the watch at sunset that very night. Sunset accordingly found Eligio in close watch, his sword ready in his hand. But he thought, "As for how to use a sword, my pretty Dove-Maiden knows nothing about that. Who ever heard of drawing a sword towards one? Why, if any one saw me they would laugh, and say, 'Take care of your legs!' I know how to cut a mouse in two so quickly that no blood shall be spilt; and that's all that matters." So, you see, he would do it his own way; and the consequence was that three drops of blood were spilt on the ground However, the white rat got a dead mouse to eat instead of a live one, and immediately appeared in her proper woman's form. When Eligio went to visit the Dove-Maiden after this, she spoke no word of reproach, but she told him she knew some trouble would befall them in consequence of those three drops of blood. She could not tell what it would be: they must do their best to provide against it when the time came. The next thing he had to do was, to go by midnight to the magician's stables under the rock, and take out thence the swiftest horse in the whole world, and he was to know it by the token that it was the thinnest horse he ever saw; its eyeballs and its ribs were all that could be seen of it; and its tail was only one hair! This he was to saddle and bring under her window; and then all three would ride away on it together. Eligio went down into the magician's stable under the rock by midnight, and there he saw the lean horse, with his protruding ribs and eyeballs, and whose tail was only one hair. But he said to himself, "My pretty Dove-Maiden hasn't much experience in horseflesh; that can't be the swiftest horse in the world. Why, it would sink to the ground with our weight alone, let alone trying to move under us! That high-couraged chestnut there, with the powerful shoulders--that is the horse to hold out against fatigue, and put miles of distance behind you! I think I know a good horse to go when I see one!" So he saddled the high-couraged chestnut, and led it under the Dove-Maiden's window. When she saw the stout chestnut instead of the lean horse, she could not suppress a cry of disappointment. "What have you done?" she said. "You have left the swiftest horse in the world behind; and now the magician can overtake us, nor can we escape him!" Eligio hung his head, and stammered out a proposal to go and change the horse. But she told him it was too late; the stable-door was only open at midnight. He could not now get in till the next night; and if they left their escape till then, the magician would find out the disenchantment of the white rat, and from that suspect their scheme; and would then surround them with such a maze of difficulties, that it would take her years to learn how to solve them; whereas she had promised St. Anthony to have nothing more to do with the books of magic, but to burn them all, and go and live with a Christian husband, far from all these things. There was nothing to be done, therefore, but to start at once with their best speed, only keeping on the watch for the pursuer, who would inevitably come. Away went the high-couraged chestnut, with the speed of the wind, and as if his threefold burden had been light as air. But how swiftly soever he went, the lean horse was swifter; and before the end of the second day's journey they saw, at no distance, his fire-darting eyeballs and smoking ribs, and his tail of one hair stretched out far behind. When the Dove-Maiden saw the magician coming after them on this weird mount, she called to her companions to jump down; and she turned the horse into a wayside chapel of St. Anthony, and herself into a peasant girl weaving chaplets on the grass outside. "Have you seen a chestnut steed pass this way, with a young man and maiden, pretty child?" said the magician, bending low over his horse's neck to pat the peasant girl's cheek, but without recognizing her. The Dove-Maiden started aside from his touch; but she answered,-- "Yes, good sir; they are gone into the chapel; and if you will go in, there you will find them." "Oh! I've got into the land of the Christians, have I?" said the magician to himself. "I think I had better make the best of my way home, and not trust myself there." So he mounted his fiery steed, and rode away. Then the Dove-Maiden restored herself and her companions to their former shapes, and they soon reached home, where Eligio was received with joyful acclamations by all. But to his intense surprise and disappointment, his mother did not welcome his beautiful Dove-Maiden with any thing like satisfaction. "That is because of the three drops of the mouse's blood incautiously spilt," she whispered, when he deplored it to her; "but I have a spell against that also. Let me into your mother's room when she is asleep, to-night, and I will anoint her eyes with an ointment with shall make her look on me for ever after with a loving glance. It was done as she said, and next morning Eligio's mother received her lovingly to her arms as a daughter. After this, the Dove-Maiden burnt her magic books, and her nuptials with Eligio were celebrated with great rejoicings throughout the valley. They lived together for the rest of their days, in holy union, and the poor Christians of the whole countryside blessed their charity. KRISELDA. Long, long ago, in the days when the light of Christian teaching yet struggled with the gloom of heathendom, there lived in the Edelsitz of Ruggburg, by Bregenz, a most beautiful maiden--Kriselda by name. So fair she was that, from far and near, knights and nobles came to ask her hand; but though she was not proud or haughty, she would have none of them, because there was not one of them all that came up to her expectations. It was not that she said they were not good enough for her, but high or noble, or rich or renowned, as they might be, they all failed to satisfy her longings; and with gentle words and courteous demeanour, she dismissed them all. And yet she looked out with hope, too, that the next should supply the bright ideal of her heart; but when that other came he always still fell short of what she had imagined. One evening she went out to walk amid the dark pines, where the golden light of the setting sun gleamed between their bare stems. At the foot of one of them lay a poor wayworn beggar woman, fainting with hunger and fatigue. Kriselda was full of compassion for her sad state, and sent her maidens to fetch restoratives, and ministered them to her with her own hands. But the beggar woman, instead of cringing with gratitude and surprise at the interest the noble lady had shown in her, was no sooner able to speak than she reproached her bitterly. "It is well for you," she said, "who live daintily, and have your will every day, now and then to show a little charity for those who suffer! but what is it, think you, to suffer every day, and to have your own will never?" "It must be very sad!" said Kriselda, compassionately; "that is not your case, I hope?" "How can you know it is sad? How can you hope any thing about it?" retorted the beggar woman, sternly; "you who know not what it is to suffer. Believe me, it is not fine clothes and a grand palace, a beautiful face, or deeds of fame which make one great. Those to whom all these things appertain are, for the most part, little worth. To do well is so easy to them, that what merit have they to boast? The truly great is one who suffers, and yet does well; who goes through toil and travail, sorrow and grief, and bears it in silence, and in secret, and has no fame and no praise of men to sound sweetly in his ears." Kriselda listened to her words full of excitement, for it seemed as if a chord in her heart had been touched which none had ever reached before. And the picture the old beggar woman had drawn was nearer her mind's bright ideal than any image she had approached heretofore. "What, then, is this same travail and grief?" she asked, with simplicity. "If you really desire to know with good desire," answered the beggar woman, "take this end of a hank of yarn, and follow its leading, winding it up as you go along, till you come to the bobbin, where it is made fast; and when you arrive there you will know what travail and grief are. But you must go forth alone." Kriselda dismissed all her maidens, and taking the yarn, cheerfully followed the steep path through which it led. On it led her, and on and on. Her light garments were rent by the thorns and briars, and her hands and delicate cheeks too; her feet were cut by the stones of the way, and her knees began to tremble with fatigue. Darkness fell around, and loneliness crept over her, with fear, for she had never been in the forest by night alone before; but still the yarn led on, and on, and it was thick night before she reached the bobbin, where it was made fast. When she reached the place a dim light gleamed around, and in the midst of the dim light a Kreuzstöcklein [96]: and on the cross, One fairer than the sons of men, but wan and wayworn, even as the fainting beggar woman; His brow rent by thorns, even as her own; His knees bent with weariness; His body wasted by want. But in His face the majesty and sweetness she had sought so long; the perfect ideal of her heart, which none who had approached her had ever presented before. "This, then, is He for whom my soul longed!" she cried, and clasped her hands. "I have found Him, and will not leave Him more! But who is He? what does He here? and is it He who knows travail and grief?" "In truth, have I known travail and grief!" He sighed, and the silvery tones of His plaintive voice filled her with unutterable joy; "and, in truth, must all those who would abide with Me know travail and grief too!" She strained her ears that she might hear those sweet notes again, but she listened in vain; only its echoes seemed to live on in her heart, as though they would never die there. But without, there was no sound, save of the terrible Föhn [97] moaning through the tall black pines, and drifting round her masses of heaped-up snow, which had long lain by the wayside. Even the Kreuzstöcklein she saw no more, nor the dim light, nor knew how to find the way home. All alone, with terror only for her companion, she stood and wondered what that cross could mean, and who He could be who hung thereon. Soon she ceased to wonder, for numbness crept over her, and unconsciousness which was not sleep. When she opened her eyes again the grey light of morning had fallen around, and there was a sound as of men in deadly combat. A terrible sound, yet less terrible than the deathly stillness of the night. It was a hermit and a giant who strove, as men who give no quarter, and yet neither prevailed against the other. The giant was accoutred in burnished steel; and his polished weapons flashed with angry fire. The hermit bore no arms--or rather, those he bore were invisible, for when he wielded them you saw the giant shrink, though you saw not the blow; and, in like manner, many a stroke of the giant's sword was harmlessly warded off, though no shield was seen. "Wherefore fight you so furiously?" said Kriselda, at length. "Put up your arms, and be at peace." "We fight for you, fair maiden!" said both, speaking together. "For me!" cried Kriselda. "Yes, even for you," said the giant; "anon you were lying here asleep, and I would have carried you to rule over my castle, when up started this puny man in brown, and dared me to lay finger on you; and till you have pronounced which of us you approve, neither can prevail. Say only one word, and I will hurl him down the cliff, like this pebble, with one spurning of my foot; and you shall come and reign with me in my castle, where I will fulfil your every desire." A brave enthusiasm kindled his eye as he spoke; his well-knit frame, terrible in its strength, was bowed to hear her word; and his arms, anon so furiously raised, were now folded before her, seemingly awaiting his life to be rekindled at her lips. Kriselda looked at him, and met his rapt gaze, and asked herself was there not here the strength, the majesty, the nobility, her soul had desired. Almost she had spoken the word he craved. But first she addressed the hermit. "And you--why measured you your strength with him for my sake?" "Because," said the hermit, meekly, "I am the servant of Him who knows travail and grief; because you have lifted up your eyes to Him, and to all such He sends help, that they may be strengthened to follow Him." Then the dim light seemed once more present to Kriselda's mind, and she recalled the Kreuzstöcklein, and the majesty and beauty of Him who hung thereon; and the musical tones of His plaintive voice which said, "Truly I have known travail and grief; and all they who would abide with Me must know grief and travail too!" The giant's nobility paled before the thought; she looked at him again, and his strength and his power had lost their charm, for the image of One stronger than he was present to her mind. Then she turned and followed the hermit, and said, "Where is He whom I seek? Take me to Him." The hermit raised his hand and beckoned her to follow still higher up the steep path. But the giant was forced to sheathe his sword and to depart alone; Kriselda had spoken, and he knew he could not prevail against the hermit contrary to her will. He turned away sorrowful, casting in his mind who it could be whose attractions were more powerful on Kriselda than his own; and as he walked he determined he would not sleep or eat till he had found out Him who hung upon the Kreuzstöcklein, and knew travail and grief. Kriselda, meantime, followed the hermit to where the crystal brook flowed, and there he signed her with the token of Him who knew travail and grief. Then he took her to where other maidens dwelt who loved that same ideal; and there she lived many years, waiting for the time when the hermit promised her she should be united with Him for ever. That day came at last; and she called her sisters round her, and told them the joy of her soul. Already she saw a dim light, as on that first night under the black pines, and she knew it was the dawn of the bright unending day, and the soft voice that had spoken to her there was calling to her to come to Him. But when they carried her earthly form out to burial, they found one already lying in the grave. It was the giant, who had journeyed thus far, and had there laid him down and died in the place where Kriselda should be laid; and he held, clasped to his breast, the Kreuzstöcklein of the black pine-forest. THE GOLDEN PEARS. There was once a poor peasant of Bürs who had nothing in the world but three sons, and a pear-tree that grew before his cottage. But as his pears were very fine, and the Kaiser was very fond of them, he said to his sons one day, that he would send the Kaiser a basket of them for a present. So he plaited a nice Krattle [98] and lined it with fresh leaves, and laid the pears on them, and sent his eldest son with it to make a present to the Kaiser, giving him strict charge to take care and not let any one rob him of them by the way. "Leave me alone, father!" replied the boy; "I know how to take care of my own. It isn't much any one will get out of me by asking; I can find as good an answer as any one." So he closed up the mouth of the basket with fresh leaves and went out to take the pears to the Kaiser. It was autumn, and the sun struck hot all through the midday hours, and at last coming to a wayside fountain, he sat down to drink and rest. A little doubled-up old woman was washing some rags at the same fountain, and singing a ditty all out of tune. "A witch, I'll be bound!" said the boy to himself. "She'll be trying to get my pears, by hook or by crook, but I'll be even with her!" "A fair day, my lad!" said the little old wife; "but a heavy burden you have to carry. What may it be with which you are so heavily laden?" "A load of sweepings off the road, to see if I can turn a penny by it," replied the boy, in a moody tone, intended to arrest further questioning. "Road-sweepings?" repeated the hag, incredulously. "Belike you don't mean it?" "But I do mean it," retorted the boy. "Oh, well, if you mean it, no doubt it is so. You will see when you get to your journey's end!" and she went on washing and singing her ditty that was all out of tune. "There's mischief in her tone," said the boy to himself, "that's clear. But at all events I'm all right: I haven't even let her look at the fruit with her evil eye, so there's no harm done." But he felt perplexed and uneasy, so it was no good taking rest, and he went on to the end of his journey. Though he was only a country lad, the Kaiser was so fond of pears that he had only to say he had brought some to obtain immediate admittance to his presence. "You have brought me some pears, have you, my boy?" said the Kaiser, in a tone of satisfaction; and he licked his lips with pleasurable expectation. "Yes, your majesty; and some of the finest golden pears in your majesty's whole empire." The Kaiser was so delighted to hear this that he removed the covering of leaves himself. But proportionately great was his fury when he found that under the leaves was nothing but offensive sweepings off the road! The attendants who stood by were all equally indignant, and waited not for an order from the Kaiser to carry the boy off to close prison, in punishment for so great an insult as he appeared to have offered. "It is all that old hag by the fountain," he said to himself, the first day and the second; but when the penitential discipline of the prison led him to think more closely over his own conduct, he acknowledged that he had himself been in the wrong in telling a falsehood. Meantime, his father, finding he did not return, said to his other sons, "You see what it is to be as wide-awake as your elder brother; he has obviously taken care of his basket of golden pears, and so pleased the Kaiser that he has given him some great office near his person, and made him a rich man." "I am just as sharp as he," said the second brother: "give me a Krattle of the pears, and let me take them to the Kaiser, and become a rich man too; only I won't keep it all for myself. I will send for you, and make you a rich man too." "Well said, my son," replied the father; "for I have worked hard for you all my life, and it is meet that in my old age you should share your ease, which I helped you to attain, with me." And as the season for pears had just come round again, he plaited another Krattle, like the first, and lined it with fresh leaves, and laid in it a goodly show of the golden pears. The second son took the basket, and went his way even in better spirits than his elder brother, for he had the conviction of his success to encourage him. But the sun was as hot as it had been the previous year, and when, in the middle of the third day, he came to the fountain by the wayside he was glad to sit down to rest and refresh himself. The doubled-up old woman stood washing her rags at the fountain and singing her ditty all out of tune. She stopped her croaking, however, to ask him the same question as she had asked his brother; and, as he and his brother had agreed together on what they considered a clever answer, he now gave her the same, which she received by repeating the menace she had ejaculated the first time. And when he brought his basket to the Kaiser it also was found to be filled with street-sweepings instead of pears! With even more of indignation they hurried him off to prison, putting him in the next cell to his brother. Meantime the year was wearing away, and the promised tidings of good fortune not reaching the father, he got very uneasy. The third son had no pretension to the sharpness his brothers boasted. He was a very dull boy, and often had to endure being laughed at by the others for his slow parts. "What a pity it is you are so heavy and stupid!" his father now would often say. "If I only dared trust you, how glad I should be to send you to see what has befallen your brothers!" The lad was used to hear himself pronounced good-for-nothing, and so he did not take much notice of these observations at first, but seeing his father really in distress, his affectionate heart was moved, and he one day summoned courage to say he would go and see if he could not find his brothers. "Do you really think you can keep yourself out of harm's way?" exclaimed his father, glad to find him propose to undertake the adventure. "I will do whatever you tell me," replied the lad. "Well, you shan't go empty-handed, at all events," said the father. And, as the pears were just ripe again, he laid the choicest of the year's stock in another Krattle, and sent him on his way. The boy walked along, looking neither to right nor left, but with his heart beating, lest he should come across the "harm" out of the way of which he had promised to keep himself. All went smoothly, however, except that he got terribly scorched by the sun, and when he reached the fountain, he was glad to sit down to rest and refresh himself. The old wife was washing her rags in the water, and singing, as she patted the linen, a ditty all out of tune. "Here comes a third of those surly dogs, I declare!" she said to herself, as she saw him arrive with another lot of the magnificent pears. "I suppose he'll be making game of me too--as if I didn't know the scent of ripe golden pears from road-sweepings! a likely matter! But if they enjoy making game of me, I have a splendid revenge to enjoy upon them, so I oughtn't to complain." "Good-morrow, little mother!" said the boy, in his blunt way, ere he sat down, at the same time not omitting to doff his cap, as he had been taught, because she happened to be old and ugly--matters of which he had no very nice appreciation. "He's better mannered than the other louts, for all he doesn't look so bright-faced," said the hag to herself; and she stopped her discordant song to return his greeting. "May I sit down here a bit, please, good mother? asked the boy, thinking in his simplicity the fountain must belong to her. "That you may, and take a draught of the cool water too," replied the dame, wondrously propitiated by his civility. "And what may it be with which you are so laden, my pretty boy?" she continued. "It ought to be a precious burden to be worth carrying so far as you seem to have come. What have you in your Krattle?" "Precious are the contents, I believe you," replied the simple boy; "at least, so one would think from the store my father sets by them. They are true golden pears, and he says there are no finer grown in the whole kingdom; and I am taking them to the Kaiser because he is very fond of them." "Only ripe pears, and yet so heavy?" returned the old wife; "one would say it was something heavier than pears. But you'll see when you come to your journey's end." The boy assured her they were nothing but pears, and as one of his father's injunctions had been not to lose time by the way, he paid the old dame a courteous greeting and continued his journey. When the servants saw another peasant boy from Bürs come to the palace with the story that he had pears for the king, they said, "No, no! we have had enough of that! you may just turn round and go back." But the poor simple boy was so disappointed at the idea of going back to be laughed at for not fulfilling his message, that he sank down on the door-step and sobbed bitterly, and there he remained sobbing till the Kaiser came out. The Kaiser had his daughter with him, and when she saw the boy sobbing, she inquired what ailed him; and learnt it was another boy from Bürs come to insult the Kaiser with a basket of road-sweepings, and asked if they should take him off to prison too. "But I have got pears!" sobbed the boy; "and my father says there are no finer in the empire." "Yes, yes; we know that by heart. That's what the others said!" replied the servants, jeering; and they would have dragged him away. "But won't you look at my pears first, fair lady? the pears that I have brought all this long way for the Kaiser? My father will be so sorry!" for he was too ignorant to feel abashed at the presence of the princess, and he spoke to her with as much confidence as if she had been a village maiden. The princess was struck by the earnestness with which he spoke, and decided to see the contents of his basket. The moment he heard her consent, he walked straight up with his Krattle, quite regardless of the whole troop of lacqueys, strong in the justice of his cause. The princess removed the covering of leaves, and discovered that what he had brought were golden pears indeed, for each pear, large as it was, was of solid shining metal! "These are pears indeed worthy to set before the Kaiser!" she said, and presented them to her father. The Kaiser was pleased to see his favourite fruit so splendidly immortalized, and ordered the pears to be laid up in his cabinet of curiosities; but to the boy, for his reward, he ordered that whatever he asked should be given. "All I want is to find my two brothers, who hold some great office at court," said the boy. "Your brothers hold office in prison, if they are those I suspect," said the Kaiser, and commanded that they should be brought. The boys immediately ran to embrace each other; and the Kaiser made them each recount all their adventures. "You see how dangerous it is to depart from the truth!" he said, when they had done. "And never forget that, with all your cleverness, you might have remained in prison to the end of your days but for the straightforward simplicity of him you thought so inferior to yourselves." Then he ordered that the tree which brought forth such excellent pears should be transplanted to his palace; and to the father and his three sons he gave places among his gardeners, where they lived in plenty and were well content. HOW THE POOREST BECAME THE RICHEST [99]. There was once a poor peasant, named Taland, who lived in a poor cottage in the Walserthal, a valley of Vorarlberg. He was as poor in wits as in fortune, so that he was continually making himself the laughing-stock of his neighbours; yet, as he possessed a certain sort of cunning, which fortune was pleased to favour, he got on better in the long run than many a wiser man. Plodding along steadily, and living frugally, Taland, in process of time, laid by enough money to buy a cow; and a cow he bought without even stopping to consider that he had no means of pasturing it. The cow, however, provided for that by her own instinct; there were plenty of good pastures in the neighbourhood, and the cow was not slow to discover them. Wherever the grass was freshest and sweetest, thither she wandered, and by this token Taland had no difficulty in finding her out at milking time; and in the whole country round there was no sleeker or better-favoured animal. But the neighbours at whose expense she fed so well in course of time grew angry; and finding remonstrance vain, they met together and determined to kill the cow; and, that none might have to bear the blame of killing her more than another, every one of them stuck his knife into her. By this means, not only was poor Taland's cow destroyed, but even the hide was riddled with holes, and so rendered useless. Nevertheless, Taland skinned his cow, and plodded away with the hide to the nearest tanner, as if he had not the sense to be conscious that it was spoilt. The tanner was not at home, but his wife was able to decide without him, that there was no business to be done with such goods, and she sent him away with a mocking laugh, bidding him remember she dealt in hides, and not in sieves. Taland, however, had come a long way, and having no money to buy food, he begged so piteously for a morsel of refreshment, that the good wife could not refuse, and having spread a table before him with good cheer, went on about her business. Taland, delighted with the spread, determined to do justice to it; and as he sat and ate he saw the tanner's son, an urchin full of tricks, hide himself, while his mother's back was turned, in an old corn-bin which stood before the door. He went on eating and drinking, and watching the corn-bin, and still the boy never came out, till at last, he rightly judged, he had fallen asleep. Meantime, having finished his meal, he turned to take leave of the tanner's wife; and then, as he went away, he said, quite cursorily, "If you have no use for that old corn-bin yonder--it's just the thing I want--you may as well give it to me, and you won't have sent me away empty-handed." "What! you want that lumbering, rotten old corn-bin?" cried the tanner's wife; and she laughed more heartily than even at the riddled cow-hide. "And you would carry it all the way home on your shoulders?" The peasant nodded a stupid assent, without speaking. "Then take it, pray, and be welcome; for I just wanted to get rid of the unsightly old rubbish!" Taland thanked her, and loaded the chest on his shoulder, but carefully, lest he should wake the child too soon. And carefully he continued to walk along with it till the tan-yard was left far, far out of sight. Then he stopped short, and, setting the corn-bin down with a jerk calculated to wake its inmate, he holloaed out,-- "I be going to fling the old corn-bin down the precipice!" "Stop, stop! I'm inside!" cried the child, but with a tone of conviction that he had only to ask, to be let out. This was not Taland's game, who wanted to give him a thorough frightening; so he shouted again, taking no heed of the child's voice,-- "I be going to fling the old corn-bin down the precipice!" "Stop! stop! I tell you; I'm inside it!" repeated the boy, in a louder tone, thinking he had not made himself heard before. "Who be you? and what be you to me?" replied Taland, in a stupid tone of indifference. "I be going to chuck the old corn-bin down the precipice." "Oh, stop! for heaven's sake, stop!" screamed the now really affrighted child; "stop, and spare me! Only let me out, and mother will give you ever such a heap of gold!" "It's a long way back to 'mother,'" replied the peasant, churlishly. "I'd much rather chuck the old thing over, and have done with it. You're not worth enough to repay the trouble." "Oh, but I am though!" answered the boy, in a positive tone. "There's nothing mother wouldn't give to save my life, I know!" "What would she give, d'you think? Would she give five hundred thalers, now?" "Ay, that she would!" "Well, it's a longsome way; but if you promise I shall have five hundred thalers, I don't mind if I oblige you." "You shall have them, safe enough, never fear!" On this promise, Taland took the boy home, and made up a story of his surprise at finding him at the bottom of the old chest, and how hardly he had saved his life. The mother, overjoyed at the idea of her son being restored to her under such circumstances, readily counted out the five hundred thalers, and sent Taland home a richer man than when his fortune consisted of a cow. Elated with his good fortune, our hero determined to have a bit of fun with his spiteful neighbours, and accordingly sat himself down in an arbour, where there was a large round table, in front of the Wirthshaus, and spreading his heap of gold before him, amused himself with counting it out. Of course the sight attracted all the peasants of the place, who were just gathering for a gossip on their way home from work. "And where did you get such a heap of gold from?" asked a dozen excited voices at once. "From the sale of the cow-hide, to be sure," replied Taland, in an inanimate voice. "What! the cow-hide all riddled with holes?" vociferated his interlocutors, in a chorus of ridicule. "To be sure; that's just what made it so valuable," persisted Taland, confidently. "What! the tanner gives more for a hide all full of holes than for a sound one?" "What's the use of asking so many silly questions?" returned the imperturbable peasant "Do you see the money? and should I have got such a sum for an ordinary cow-hide? If you can answer these two questions of mine, you can answer your own for yourselves;" and gathering up his gold, he walked away with a stolid look which defied further interrogations. The village wiseacres were all struck with the same idea. If riddled cowhides fetched five hundred thalers apiece, the best way to make a fortune was to kill all the cows in the commune, pierce their skins all over with holes, and carry them to the tanner. Every one went home to calculate what he would make by the venture; and the morning was all too long coming, so eager were they to put their plan into execution. Taland, having now plenty of money, had nothing to do next day but to dress himself in his feast-day clothes and play at dominoes in the Bier-garten; but though this was a favourite enjoyment, far sweeter was that of observing the running hither and thither of his spiteful, mocking neighbours, slaughtering their sleek kine--the provision of their future lives--skinning them, and destroying the very skins out of which some small compensation might have been earned. Taland hardly knew how to contain his inclination to laugh, as he saw them caught in his trap so coarsely baited; and the good landlord, as he saw the irrepressible giggle again and again convulse his stupid features, thought that the gain of the five hundred thalers had fairly turned his weak head. The peasants had gone off to the tan-yard with their riddled cow-hides, merrily shouting and boasting; and Taland sat at home, drinking and laughing. But it was a different story by-and-by. There was a sound like the roar of a wild beast, which stopped even Taland's inclination to laugh, and made him shrink in his chair. It was the lament of the long file of peasants returning from the tan-yard from their bootless errand, filling the air as they went along with yells of fury at their ruin, and imprecations and threats of vengeance on him who had led them into the snare. Taland had meant to have had his laugh over their discomfiture, but finding them in this mood, he thought his wisest course was to keep out of their sight, lest they should take summary vengeance on him. So he found a corner to hide himself in; and he thus overheard their debate on the means of punishing their deceiver. "He's such shifts for getting out of every thing, that one doesn't know where to have him," said the noisiest speaker; and the rest re-echoed the sentiment. "Ay; it'll never do to let him get scent of what we're up to!" "But how to avoid it?" "Take him asleep." "Ay; take him when he's asleep; that's the way!" "Go up the stairs and rattle at his window, and when he comes out, knock him on the head!" "And every one have a go at him, as we did at his cow." "That's the plan!" "And the sooner the better." "This very night, before we go to bed!" "To be sure; we won't sleep tamely upon such an affront." "No; we'll make an end of it, that we will!" "And it's time we did." "Another day would be unbearable!" "Another hour is bad enough; but we must keep quiet till he's well asleep." "Yes; there's nothing to be done till midnight." "We'll meet again at midnight, then." "All right; we shall all be there!" "Good-bye, then, till midnight!" "Good-bye, till midnight; good-bye!" They all spoke at once, and the whole dark plan was concocted in a few minutes; then they dispersed to their homes with resolute steps. Taland listened to the sound with beating heart, and as soon as silence once more prevailed, he stole stealthily homewards. His wife was sitting over her spinning-wheel. "I've caught a cold wearing these holiday clothes out of their turn," said Taland; "will you do me the favour to sleep in the window-sill, and keep that flapping shutter close, good wife?" "With all my heart," responded the compliant spouse; and thus disposed, they went to rest. At midnight the villagers came, faithful to their appointment, in a strong body, and mounted the stairs [100] as quietly as might be. The foremost pushed open the shutter, and exclaimed, "Why, here's the old idiot lying ready for us, across the window-sill!" "Then we're spared the trouble of hunting for him," exclaimed the next. "So here goes!" cried all together; and they showered their blows on the devoted body of the old wife, while Taland, comfortably enveloped in his coverlet, once more laughed at the success of his deceit, and the discomfiture of his foes. Towards morning he rose, and taking up the dead body, placed it in a chair, and bore it along, together with the old spinning-wheel, a good distance down the high road; and there he left it, while he sat behind a bush to see what would happen. Presently a fine lord came along the road driving a noble chariot. "Holloa, good woman! get out of the way!" shouted the lord, while yet at a considerable distance; for he thought the old woman was silly, spinning in the roadway. But the corpse moved not for his shouting. "Holloa! holloa, I say! you'll be killed! move, can't you?" he cried, thinking she was deaf, and hadn't heard his first appeal. But still the corpse moved not. "Get out of the way! get out of the road! can't you?" at last fairly screamed the lord; for, never dreaming but that the woman would move in time, he had not reined in his fiery steeds--and now it was all too late! On one side went the old lady in the chair, and on the other side the fragments of the spinning-wheel, while the chariot dashed wildly on between them. "What have I done?" said the lord, alighting from his chariot as soon as he could stop, and looking round him in wild despair. "Why, you've run over and killed my old mother! that's what you've done!" said Taland, emerging from his hiding-place. "And now you must come with me before the judge." "Really, I meant no harm," pleaded the good lord; "I called to her to get out of the way, and I couldn't help it if she was deaf. But I'll make you what compensation you like. What do you say to accepting my chariot full of gold, and the horses and all, to drive home with?" "Why, if you say you couldn't help it, I suppose you couldn't," replied Taland. "I don't want to hurt you; and since you offer fair terms, I'm willing to accept your chariot full of gold, and the horses to drive it home. I'll square the account to your satisfaction." So the lord took him home to his castle and filled up the chariot with gold, and put the reins in his hands, and sent him home richer and merrier than if the neighbours had never attempted his life. When these same envious neighbours, however, saw him coming home in the chariot full of gold, driving the prancing horses quite gravitêtisch [101], they knew not what to make of it. And that, too, just as they were congratulating themselves that they had made an end of him! "It must be his ghost!" they cried. There was no other way of accounting for the reappearance. But as he drove nearer, there was no denying that it was his very self in flesh and blood! "Where do you come from? where did you get all that heap of money from? and what story are you going to palm off on us this time?" were questions which were showered down on him like hail. Taland knew how easily they let themselves be ensnared, and that the real story would do as well this time as any he could make up, so he told them exactly what had happened, and then whipped his horses into a canter which dispersed them right and left, while he drove home as gravitêtisch as before. Nor was he wrong in expecting his bait to take. With one accord the peasants all went home and killed their wives, and set them, with their spinningwheels before them, all along the road. Of course, however, no lucky chance occurred such as Taland's--no file of noblemen driving lordly chariots, and silly enough to mistake the dead for the living, came by; and while Taland was rich enough to marry the best woman in the place, they had all to bury their wives and live alone in their desolated homes. To have been so tricked was indeed enough to raise their ire; and the only consolation amid their gloom was to meet and concoct some plan for taking signal and final vengeance. This was at last found. They were to seize him by night, as before; but this time they were not to beat him to death in the dark, but keep him bound till daylight, and make sure of their man, then bind him in a sack and throw him over the precipice of the Hoch Gerach. As Taland was not by to overhear and provide against the arrangement, it was carried out to the letter this time; and all tied in a sack the struggling victim was borne along in triumph towards the Hoch Gerach. They had already passed the village of St. Gerold, and the fatal gorge forced through the wall of living rock by the incessant world-old wear of rushing torrents was nearly reached. Taland, paralyzed with fear and exhaustion, had desisted from his contortions for very weariness. The Häusergruppe [102] of Felsenau, standing like a sentinel on guard of the narrow hollow, had yet to be passed. It was near midday, and the toil of the ascent had been great. Not one of the party objected to take a snatch of rest and a sip of brandy to give them courage to complete the deed in hand. While they sat drinking in the shade of the cottage which stood Felsenau in lieu of a Wirthshaus, Taland was left lying on a grassy bank in the sun. About the same time a goatherd, driving his flock into Bludenz to be milked, came by that way, and seeing the strangely-shaped sack with something moving inside, arrested his steps to examine into the affair. Taland, finding some one meddling with the mouth of the sack, holloaed out,-- "List'ee! I'll have nothing to do with the princess!" "What princess?" inquired the goatherd. "Why, the princess I was to marry. B'aint you the king?" "What king?" again asked the goatherd, more and more puzzled. "I can't talk while I'm stifled in here," replied Taland. "Let me out, and I'll tell you all about it." The curious goatherd released the captive from the bag, and he told his tale as follows. "The king has got a beautiful daughter--so beautiful that such a number of suitors come after her she cannot decide between them all. At last the king got tired, and said he would decide for her; and this morning he proclaimed that whoever could bear being carried about for seven hours in this sack should have her, be he peasant or prince. So I thought I might try my luck at it as well as another; and those chaps you hear talking in the little house yonder have been carrying me about for three hours, but I can't stand more of it, and away I go;" and he looked up anxiously to see if the bait had taken; for he wanted the other to propose to get into the sack, as, if he had walked away and left it empty, he knew the villagers would pursue and overtake him. Nor was he mistaken in his calculation. "It doesn't seem so hard to bear," said the goatherd, after some moments' consideration. "Would you like to try?" inquired Taland, anxiously; "it won't be so bad for you, as, if you get in now, the men won't perceive we have changed places, and you'll get the benefit of three hours for nothing." "You're really very kind!" responded the goatherd, drawing the sack over him; "I don't know how to thank you enough. I'm sure I can stand four hours easily enough, for the sake of being reckoned a king's son at the end. I shan't want the goats, however, when I'm married to a princess, so pray take them at a gift--only make fast the cords of the sack so that the men may not perceive that it has been meddled with." Taland tied up the sack exactly as it had been before, and drove home the flock of goats. He was scarcely out of sight when the men, now well rested, came out, and having taken up the sack again, carried it up the Hoch Gerach; and just as the unhappy goatherd within fancied he was reaching the top of some high terrace leading to the royal palace, bang, bang from rock to rock he found himself dashed by the relentless villagers! Confident that the job was now effectually completed, they trooped home full of rejoicing over their feat. The first thing that met their eye, however, was Taland seated before his door, just as if nothing had happened, milking the goats which browsed around him, making a goodly show. Too much awed at the sight to rush at and seize him, they once more asked him to give explanation of his unlooked-for return, and of how he became possessed of such a fine herd of goats. "Nothing easier!" replied Taland, gravitêtisch. "Where shall I begin?" "From where you were thrown over the mountain-side." "All right!" pursued Taland. "Well, then, as you may suppose, I struggled hard to get out of the sack, but it was too tough, and I could do nothing with it at first; but, by-and-by, from knocking against the jutting rocks again and again, it got a rent, and this rent I was able to tear open wide, so that by the time I got to the bottom there was a big hole, big enough to get out by. And where do you think I found myself when I got out? In the enchanted regions of the underground world, where the sky is tenfold as blue as it is here, and the meadows tenfold as green! It was so beautiful to look at that I gladly wandered on a little space. Presently I found a way that led up home again; but I had no mind to come away from the beautiful country till I saw, climbing the rocks by the side of the path, numbers of goats, much finer than any goats we ever see in these parts." "So they are! so they are!" chimed in the gullible multitude. "Then I thought it would be fine to bring a flock of such fine goats home--and, after all, it was easy to go back again when I wanted to see that deep blue sky and those rich pastures again; so home I came. Here am I, and here are the goats; and if you don't believe I got them there, you can go and fetch some thence and compare them." "But shall we really find such goats if we go?" eagerly inquired the credulous villagers. "To be sure you will--and sheep, and oxen, and cows too, without number." "Cows too! Oh, let's come and supply ourselves, and make good our losses! But first show the way you came up by." "Oh, it's a long, steep, weary way, and would take you two days to get down! Much the nearest way is to jump down the side of the Hoch Gerach." "But are you sure we shan't hurt ourselves? Didn't you get hurt at all?" "Not a bit. Feel me; I'm quite sound." "To be sure, you couldn't hurt falling on to such soft, beautiful meadows!" they replied; and off they set, only eager which should reach the Hoch Gerach first, and which should be the first to make the bold spring, and which should have the first pick and choice of the fair flocks and herds in the enchanted world underground! Slap! bang! plump! they all went over the side of the Hoch Gerach, one after the other, never to return! And Taland thus alone remained to inherit the houses and goods of the whole village, all for himself--and, from being the poorest of all, became possessed of the riches of all. THE END. NOTES [1] It is common in England to speak of Tirol as "the Tyrol;" I have used the name according to the custom of the country itself. [2] The name for "the wild huntsman" in North and South Tirol. [3] The Beatrìk of the Italian Tirol is, however, a milder spirit than the Wilder Jäger of the northern provinces. He is also called il cacciatore della pia caccia, because he is supposed only to hunt evil spirits. [4] The name in Vorarlberg. [5] The three helpers against the plague. There are many churches so called in Tirol. [6] "Schliess die Kammer fein, Sonst kommt der Norg herein." [7] The Meierhof was the homestead of a small proprietor standing midway between the peasant and the noble. [8] Mistress of the Meierhof. [9] Literally, "high lakes;" i. e. lakes on a high mountain level. There are three such in the valley of Matsch, the inundations of which often work sad havoc. [10] "Morgen oder Heut Kommt die Zahlzeit." [11] The "home of the wolves;" a nickname given to Matsch, because still infested by wolves. [12] On Midsummer-day. [13] The local names of two favourite kinds of grass. [14] St. Martin is considered the patron of mountain pastures in Tirol. [15] That the Norgs should be at one time represented as incapable of comprehending what death was, and that at another their race should be spoken of as dying out, is but one of those inconsistencies which must constantly occur when it is attempted to describe a supernatural order of things by an imagery taken from the natural order. [16] From tarnen, to conceal, and Haut, skin; a tight-fitting garment which was supposed to have the property of rendering the wearer invisible. It was likewise sometimes supposed to convey great strength also. [17] Literally, "crystal palace." Burg means a palace no less than a citadel or fortress; the imperial palace in Vienna has no other name. [18] Ignaz von Zingerle, in discussing the sites which various local traditions claim for the Rosengarten of King Lareyn, or Laurin, says, "Whoever has once enjoyed the sight of the Dolomite peaks of the Schlern bathed in the rosy light of the evening glow cannot help fancying himself at once transported into the world of myths, and will be irresistibly inclined to place the fragrant Rose-garden on its strangely jagged heights, studded by nature with violet amethysts, and even now carpeted with the most exquisite mountain-flora of Tirol." [19] Cornfield. [20] Nobleman's residence. [21] In the mediæval poems the shade of the Lindenbaum is the favourite scene of gallant adventures. [22] The heroes of the old German poetry are frequently called by the epithet "sword"--ein Degen stark; ein Degen hehr; Wittich der Degen, &c., &c. [23] Hildebrand, son of Duke Herbrand and brother of the Monk Ilsau, one of the persons of the romance of "Kriemhild's Rose-garden," is the Nestor of German myths. He was the instructor of Dietrich von Bern (Theodoric of Verona). We find him sought as the wise counsellor in various undertakings celebrated in the mediæval epics; he is reputed to have lived to the age of 200 years. [24] This was commonly the office of the daughter of the house. [25] This would appear to have been the usual custom in the middle ages after a meal. [26] See note, p. 35. [27] The German legends are inclined to extol the heroism of Dietrich von Bern, better known to us as Theodoric, King of the Visigoths, who, after his conquests in Italy, built a palace at Verona, and made it his seat of government; but the traditions of Verona ascribe his great strength and success, both as a hunter and warrior, to a compact with the Evil One. His connexion with the Arians, his opposition towards the Popes, and his violent destruction of the churches of Verona, were sufficient to convince the popular mind at his date that his strength was not from above. Procopius relates that his remorse for the death of Symmachus haunted him so, that one day when the head of a great fish was served at table, it appeared to him as the head of his murdered relative, and he became so horrified that he was never able to eat any thing afterwards. The Veronese tradition is, that by his pact with the devil, evil spirits served him in the form of dogs, horses, and huntsmen, until the time came that they drove him forth into their own abode (Mattei Verona Illustrata). In the church of St. Zeno at Verona this legend may be seen sculptured in bas-relief over the door. In the mythology of some parts of Germany he is identified, or confounded, with the Wild Huntsman (Börner, Sagen aus dem Orlagau, pp. 213, 216, 236). In the Heldenbuch he is called the son of an evil spirit. He is there distinguished by a fiery breath, with which he overcomes dwarfs and giants; but he is said to be ultimately carried off into the wilds by a demon-horse, upon which he has every day to fight with two terrible dragons until the Judgment Day. Nork cites a passage from Luther's works, in which he speaks of him (cursorily) as the incarnation of evil, showing how he was regarded in Germany at his day ("It is as if I should undertake to make Christ out of Dietrich von Bern"--Als wenn ich aus Dietrich von Bern Christum machen wollte). [28] Wigand, man of valour. [29] We often find the heroes' trusty swords called by a particular name: thus Orlando's was called Durindarda, it is so inscribed in his statue in the porch of the Duomo at Verona; and the name of King Arthur's will occur to every one's memory. [30] Him of Verona. [31] This hardening power of dragons' blood was one of the mediæval fables. [32] Bearing a red banner thus was equivalent to a declaration of hostile intent. [33] These it was knightly custom for the vanquished to surrender to him who had overcome him. [34] The Styrian. [35] A Schirmschlag was a scientifically-manoeuvred stroke, by which he who dealt it concealed himself behind his shield while he aimed at any part of his adversary's body which presented an undefended mark. But Theodoric drew the stroke without even having a shield for his own defence. [36] The Norgs are not always spoken of as pagans; many stories of them seem to consider them as amenable to Christian precepts. The ancient church of the village of St. Peter, near the Castle of Tirol, is said by popular tradition to have been built by them, and under peculiar difficulties; for while they were at work, a giant who lived in Schloss Tirol used to come every night and destroy what they had done in the day, till at last they agreed to assemble in great force, and complete the whole church in one day, which they did; and then, being a complete work offered to the service of God, the giant had no more power over it. [37] It was an old German custom that no flagons or vessels of the drinks should be put on the table; but as soon as a glass was emptied it was refilled by watchful attendants. [38] Lautertrank, by the description of its composition, seems to have been nearly identical with our claret-cup. Moras was composed of the juice of mulberries mixed with good old wine. [39] Concerning Theodoric's fiery breath, see note, p. 39. All the myths about him mention it. The following description of it occurs in the legends of "Criemhild's Rosengarten:"-- "Wie ein Haus das dampfet, wenn man es zündet an, So musste Dietrich rauchen, der zornige Mann. Man sah eine rothe Flamme geh'n aus seinem Mund." ["As a house smokes when it is set on fire, so was the breath of Theodoric, the man of great anger; a red flame might be seen darting from his mouth."] [40] The power of the Norgs to pass in and out through the rock is one of the characteristics most prominently fabled of them. Sometimes we hear of doors which opened spontaneously at their approach, but more often the marvel of their passing in and out without any apparent opening is descanted on. [41] The value and efficacy ascribed in the old myths to a virgin's blessing is one form in which the regard for maiden honour was expressed. [42] The dwarfs who were considered the genii of the mineral wealth of the country were a sub-class of the genus dwarf. Their myths are found more abundantly in North Tirol, where the chief mines were worked. [43] A deserted mine is called in local dialect taub. [44] Miners. [45] i.e. Joseph of Goign, a village near St. Johann. Such modes of designation are found for every one, among the people in Tirol. [46] Ann. [47] Every body wears feathers according to their fancy in their "Alpine hats" here, but in Tirol every such adornment is a distinction won by merit, whether in target-shooting, wrestling, or any other manly sport; and, like the medals of the soldier, can only be worn by those who have made good their claim. [48] Hof, in Tirol, denotes the proprietorship of a comfortable homestead. [49] To Spaniards the outline of a mountain-ridge suggests the edge of a saw--sierra; to the Tirolese the more indented sky-line familiar to them recalls the teeth of a comb. [50] Garnets and carbuncles are found in Tirol in the Zillerthal, and the search after them has given rise to some fantastic tales--of which later. [51] Carbuncle. [52] Pray for him. [53] District. [54] Wild Georgey. [55] In some parts of Tirol where the pastures are on steep slopes, or reached by difficult paths--particularly the Zillerthal, on which the scene of the present story borders--it is the custom to decide which of the cattle is fit for the post of leader of the herd by trial of battle. The victor is afterwards marched through the commune to the sound of bells and music, and decked with garlands of flowers. [56] "Just as I wanted you." [57] Little Frederick. [58] A local expression for a village fête. [59] The old race of innkeepers in Tirol were a singularly trustworthy, honourable set, acting as a sort of elder or umpire each over his village. This is still the case in a great many valleys out of the beaten track. [60] "Have mercy on them!" [61] The cry which in South Germany is equivalent to our "hurrah!" [62] Page 76. [63] Little Elizabeth. [64] A local word in the Passeier-Thal for a poultry-maid. [65] "Ich zeige Sie wo der Zimmermann das Loch gemacht hat." A Tirolese saying for, "I'll soon show you the way to the door." [66] Another form of Klein-Else: Else, with the diminutive, chen. [67] This curious name was borne by a Margrave of Istria, and three other princes at least who ruled over part of Tirol, and who figure in the authentic history of the country. It does not appear that the present story, however, is referable to traditions of the life of any of these. [68] The best public room in a Tirolese inn is so called. [69] The homestead of a peasant proprietor. [70] The local name of the holiday cap of the Sarnthaler women. [71] Lieblingsbänder. [72] Alp is used in Tirol for the green mountain pastures. [73] Alpine herdsman. [74] See Preface. [75] Joch is used in Tirol when speaking of a moderately high mountain; in most other mountain districts of Germany it means only a pass or col. [76] A high-lying range of mountain pasture-land. [77] The stories of our Lord's life on earth, treated with perfect idealism, sketching His character as He was pleased to manifest it, or His miraculous acts, pervade the popular mythology of all Catholic peoples. I have given one from Spain, by the title of "Where One can Dine, Two can Dine," in "Patrañas," of the same character as this Tirolese one; and perhaps it is not amiss to repeat the observation I felt called to make upon it,--that it would be the greatest mistake to imagine that anything like irreverence was intended in such stories. They are the simple utterances of peoples who realized so utterly and so devoutly the facts recorded in the Gospels that the circumstances of time and place ceased to occupy them at all, and who were wont to make the study of our Lord's example their rule of conduct so habitually, that to imagine Him sharing the accidents of their own daily life came more natural to them than to think of Him in the far-off East. These stories were probably either adapted from the personal traditions which the first evangelists may well be thought to have brought with them unwritten, or invented by themselves, in all good faith, as allegories, by means of which to inculcate by them upon their children the application of His maxims to their own daily acts. They demand, therefore, to be read in this spirit for the sake of the pious intention in which they are conceived, rather than criticised for their rude simplicity or their anachronisms. [78] "Praised be Jesus Christ!" This was formerly the universal greeting all over Tirol in the house or on the road, for friend or stranger, who answered, "For ever and ever. Amen." It is still in common use in many parts. [79] I must beg my readers to apply the apology contained in the note to the last story, in its measure to this one also. [80] Sorella, sister; with the augmentative ona, the bigger or elder sister. [81] The little, or younger, sister. [82] We say, "a head of celery;" in Italy they say, "a foot of celery." [83] A favourite vintage of Tirol. [84] Arativo and prativo are dialectic in Wälsch Tirol for arable and pasture land. [85] "On our right soared the implacable ridges of the Marmolata," writes a modern traveller; "the sheer, hard smoothness of whose scarped rocks filled one with a kind of horror only to look at them." [86] "We have hay in the stables, and more also in the meadow." [87] Berg-Segen (literally "mountain-blessing") is the form in which Tirol in its piety expresses the ordinary word crop. [88] See Preface. [89] Two kinds of more or less mischievous strie, or wild fairies. [90] "Fearless Johnny." John is a favourite name in Wälsch Tirol, and bears some twenty or thirty variations, as Giovannazzi, Gianaselli, Gianot, Zanetto, Zanolini, Zuani, Degiampietro (John Peter), Zangiacomi (John James), &c. [91] The Latin name of the god of hell remains throughout Italy, and holds in its nurseries the place of "Old Bogie" with us. [92] "Earthly soul, stand off three paces, and tell me your grief." [93] Vine-trellis. [94] Tapestry hanging before a door. [95] Witch. [96] A wayside cross under a little penthouse, such as is to be met at every turn of the road in Tirol. [97] The south wind, which does much mischief at certain times of the year, and is most dreaded in Vorarlberg. [98] Dialectic for a basket in Vorarlberg. [99] It has been my aim generally, in making this collection, to give the preference to those stories which have a moral point to recommend them; my readers will not, perhaps, take it amiss, however, if I present them with this specimen of a class in which this is wanting, and which aims only at amusement. It is, moreover, interesting from the strong evidence it bears of extremely remote origin; for the light way in which putting people to death, deception, and selfishness are spoken of prove it has a pre-Christian source, while the unimportant accessories show how details get modified by transmission. [100] It must be understood that it is an outside staircase that is here alluded to, and the shutter of an unglazed window on its landing serving for a door also. [101] In a lordly manner. [102] A cluster of houses too small to be designated a village. 
51621	----	SINHALESE FOLKLORE NOTES CEYLON BY ARTHUR A. PERERA, Advocate, Ceylon. Bombay: PRINTED AT THE BRITISH INDIA PRESS, MAZGAON 1917 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. The Sinhalese beliefs, customs and stories in the present collection were contributed by the writer to the Indian Antiquary fourteen years ago in a series of articles under the title of "Glimpses of Sinhalese Social Life"; they are now offered, amplified and rearranged, to the student of folklore in Ceylon, as a basis for further research. The writer has adopted the scheme of classification in the Folklore Society's Hand Book of Folklore. ARTHUR A. PERERA. Westwood, Kandy, 10th February, 1917. TABLE OF CONTENTS. Belief and Practice. Chapter. PAGES 1. The Earth and the Sky 1 2. The Vegetable World 4 3. The Animal World 6 4. Human Beings 11 5. Things made by man 13 6. The Soul and another Life 14 7. Superhuman Beings 15 8. Omens and Divination 21 9. The Magic Art 23 10. Disease and Leech-craft 25 Customs. 11. Social and Political Institutions 26 12. Rites of Individual Life 32 13. Occupations and Industries 36 14. Festivals 40 15. Games, Sports and Pastimes 43 Stories, Songs and Sayings. 16. Stories 47 17. Songs and Ballads 51 18. Proverbs, Riddles and Local Sayings 54 Appendix. Glossary of Sinhalese Folk terms from the Service Tenure Register (1872). SINHALESE FOLKLORE NOTES. CHAPTER I. THE EARTH AND THE SKY. Various beliefs are held by the peasantry about the hills, rocks, boulders and crags scattered about the island. Samanala Kanda (Adam's Peak) which contains the sacred foot print of the Buddha was in prehistoric times sacred to the god Saman who still presides over the mountain. Pilgrims to the Peak invoke his aid in song for a safe journey; and when they reach the top, cover the foot print with four yards of white cloth, pay obeisance to it, recite the articles of the Buddhist Faith, and make a silver offering at the shrine of the Saman Deviyo, which is close by. When worship is over the pilgrims greet each other and sound a bell ringing as many peals as they have visited the Peak. No lizard is heard chirping within the shadow of Hunasgiriya Peak in Pata Dumbara for when the Buddha, on his aerial visit to Ceylon, wished to alight on this mountain a lizard chirped and he passed on to Adam's Peak. Ritigal Kanda (Sanskrit Arishta) in the Nuvara Kalâviya district, S.E. of Anuradhapura and Rummas Kanda (modern Buona Vista) in the Galle district are associated with the Hanuman tradition. It was from Ritigal Kanda that Hanuman jumped across to India to carry the joyful message that he had discovered Sita in Ceylon, and when Lakshman was wounded and a medicinal herb was required for his cure, Hanuman was sent to the Himalayas to fetch it; on the way the name and nature of the plant dropped from his memory; whereupon he snapped a portion of the Himalayas and brought it twisted in his tail and asked Rama to seek for the herb himself. Buona Vista is that portion of the mountain and valuable medicinal herbs are still to be found there. Râvanâ Kotte,--the stronghold of Râvanâ (king of the Rakshas)--was off Kirinda in the Hambantota District and is now submerged. The Great Basses are what is left of this city; the golden twilight seen there of an evening is the reflection of the brazen roofs of the submerged city. Dehi Kanda opposite the Dambulla rock caves in the Matale district is the petrified husk of the rice eaten by the giants who made the caves. Near Sinigama in Wellaboda pattu of the Galle district is shewn a crag as the petrified craft in which Wêragoda Deviyo came to Ceylon from South India. When a severe drought visited the island, an elephant, a tortoise, a beetle, an eel, a goat and a she elephant went in search of water to the tank Wenêru Veva near Kurunegala. A woman who saw this kept a lump of salt before the foremost of them, the elephant; while he was licking it she raised a screen of leaves to conceal the tank from the intruders' view and began to pray; and the gods answered by petrifying the animals, the screen and the lump of salt, all of which are still visible round Kurunegala. "Panduvasa, the seventh king of Ceylon, was visited by the tiger disease, a complicated malady of cough, asthma, fever and diabetes in consequence of Wijeya, the first king, having killed his old benefactor and discarded mistress, Kuvêni, when, in the shape of a tiger, she endeavoured to revenge her slighted charms. The gods taking pity on Panduvasa, consulted by what means he might be restored to health, and found that it could not be effected without the aid of one not born of a woman. The difficulty was to find such a person. Rahu being sent on the service, discovered Malaya Rajâ, king of Malva Dêsa, the son of Vishnu, sprung from a flower. Rahu changing himself into an immense boar, laid waste the royal gardens to the great consternation of the gardeners, who fled to the palace and told what was passing. The king, who was a keen sportsman, hastened to the spot with his huntsmen, whom he ordered to drive the boar towards him. The boar, when pressed, at one bound flew over the head of the king, who shot an arrow through him in passing, but without effect, the animal continuing his flight. The king, irritated, instantly gave pursuit with his attendants in the direction the beast had taken, and landed in Ceylon at Urâtota (Hog ferry) near Jaffna; the boar alighted near Attapitiya. A piece of sweet potato that he brought from the garden in his mouth and which he here dropt was immediately changed, it is said into a rock, that still preserves its original form, and is still called Batalagala or sweet potato rock. The king came up with the beast on the hill Hantana near Kandy, instantly attacked him sword in hand, and with the first blow inflicted a deep gash. On receiving this wound, the boar became transformed into a rock which is now called Uragala, is very like a hog, and is said to retain the mark of the wound. The king, whilst surprised and unable to comprehend the meaning of the marvels he had just witnessed, received a visit from Sakra, Vishnu and other gods who explained the mystery that perplexed him, and the object in view in drawing him to Ceylon--he alone, not being born of woman, having it in his power to break the charm under which Panduvasa laboured. Malaya Rajâ complying with the wishes of the gods, ordered the Kohomba Yakku dance to be performed which, it is said, drove the sickness out of the king into a rock to the northward of Kandy, which is still called the rock of the Tiger sickness." [1] "The spirit of Kuvêni is still supposed to haunt the country and inflict misfortune on the race of the conqueror by whom she was betrayed. Kuvenigala is a bare mountain of rock on which are two stones, one slightly resembling a human figure in a standing attitude, the other looking like a seat. It is on this that traditions assert, the Yakinni sometimes appears and casts the withering glance of malignant power over the fair fields and fertile Valley of Asgiriya--a sequestered and most romantic spot in the Matale District." [2] Rocks with mystic marks indicate the spot where treasures are concealed and lights are seen at night in such places. When the owner of a treasure wanted to keep it safe, it is said that he dug two holes in some lonely jungle and at night proceeded to the spot with a servant carrying the treasure; after the treasure was deposited in one hole, the master cut his servant's throat and buried him in the other to make him a guardian of his treasure in the form of a snake or demon. The earth goddess (Mihi Ket) supports the world on one of her thumbs and when weary shifts it on to the other causing an earthquake. The four cardinal points are presided over by four guardian deities (Hataravaran Deviyô). Sea waves are three in number which follow each other in regular succession. The first and the largest is the brother who fell in love with his sister and who, to conquer his unholy passion, committed suicide by jumping into the sea. The next is his mother who jumped after her son, and the last and the smallest is the daughter herself. The sky in the olden times was very close to the earth, and the stars served as lamps to the people; a woman who was sweeping her compound was so much troubled by the clouds touching her back when she stooped to sweep that she gave the sky a blow with her ikle broom saying 'get away' (pala). The sky in shame immediately flew out of the reach of man. The rainbow is the god Sakra's bow (Devidunne) and portends fair weather; when any calamity is approaching Budures (Buddha's rays) appear in the sky--"a luminous phenomenon consisting of horizontal bands of light which cross the sky while the sun is in the ascendant." The twilight seen on hill tops is the sunshine in which the female Rakshis dry their paddy. Lightning strikes the graves of cruel men; thunder induces conception in female crocodiles and bursts open the peahen's eggs. Children sing out to the moon "Handahamy apatat bat kande ran tetiyak diyo."--(Mr. Moon do give us a golden plate in which to eat our rice). When the new moon is first observed it is lucky to immediately after look on rice, milk or kiss a kind and well to do relative. The spots in the moon represent a hare to signify to the world the self-sacrifice of Buddha in a previous existence. In each year the twelve days (Sankranti) on which the sun moves from one sign of the zodiac to another, are considered unlucky. There are twenty seven constellations (neket) which reach the zenith at midnight on particular days in particular months; and their position is ascertained from an astrologer before any work of importance is begun. The sun, moon, and Rahu were three sons of a widowed mother whom they left at home one day to attend a wedding. When they returned she inquired what they had brought with them; the eldest angrily replied that he had brought nothing, the second threw at her the torch which had lighted them on the way, but the third asked for his mother's rice pot and put into it a few grains of rice, which he had brought concealed under his nails and which miraculously filled the vessel. The mother's blessing made the youngest son the pleasant and cool moon, while her curses made the second the burning sun and the eldest the demon Rahu who tries to destroy his brothers by swallowing them and causing an Eclipse. CHAPTER II. THE VEGETABLE WORLD. Trees which grow to a large size like the Nuga (ficus altissima), Bo (ficus religiosa), Erabadu (erythrina indica), Divul (feroma elephantum) are the abodes of spirits and villagers erect leafy altars under them where they light lamps, offer flowers and burn incense. Before a wood-cutter fells a large tree he visits to it three or four days previously and asks the spirit residing there to take its abode elsewhere; otherwise evil will befall him. On the way to Adam's Peak there are to be found sacred orchards where a person may enter and eat any quantity of fruit but will not be able to find his way out if he tries to bring any with him. The Bo tree is sacred to Buddha and is never cut down; its leaves shiver in remembrance of the great enlightenment which took place under it. His three predecessors in the Buddha hood--Kassapa, Konâgama, Kakusanda--attained enlightenment under the nuga, dimbul and the sirisa. The margosa tree is sacred to Pattini and the telambu tree to Navaratna Wâlli. Each lunar asterism is associated with a particular tree. Homage is paid to an overlord by presenting him with a roll of 40 betel leaves with the stalk ends towards the receiver. Before the betel is chewed, its apex and a piece of the petiole of the base are broken off as a cobra brought the leaf from the lower world holding both ends in its mouth. It is also considered beneath one's dignity to eat the base of the petiole. The flowering of a tala tree (corypha umbraculifera) is inauspicious to the village. A cocoanut only falls on a person who has incurred divine displeasure; it is lucky to own a cocoanut tree with a double stem. A king cocoanut tree near the house brings bad luck to the owner's sons. When a person dies or a child is born a cocoanut blossom is hung over him. The person who plants an arekanut tree becomes subject to nervousness. The woman who chews the scarred slice of an arekanut becomes a widow. If a married woman eats a plantain which is attached to another, she gets twins. An astrologer once told a king that a particular day and hour were so auspicious that anything planted then would become a useful tree. The king directed the astrologer's head to be severed and planted and this grew into the crooked cocoanut tree. Pleased with the result he got his own head severed and planted and it grew into the straight areka tree. Red flowers (rat mal) are sacred to malignant spirits and white flowers (sudu mal) to beneficient spirits. Turmeric water is used for charming and sticks from bitter plants are used as magic wands. The Nâga darana root (martynia diandra) protects a man from snake bite. It is auspicious to have growing near houses the following:--nâ (ironwood), palu (mimusops hexandra), mûnamal (mimusops elengi), sapu (champak), delum (pomegranate), kohomba (margosa), areka, cocoanut, palmyra, jak, shoeflower, idda (wrightia zeylanica), sadikka (nutmeg) and midi (vitis vinifera) while the following are inauspicious:--imbul (cotton), ruk (myristica tursfieldia), mango, beli (aegle marmelos), ehela (cassia fistula), tamarind, satinwood, ratkihiri (accacia catechu), etteriya (murraya exotica) and penala (soap berry plant). Persons taken for execution were formerly made to wear wadamal (hibiscus). The dumella (Trichosanthes cucumerina) and the kekiri (zhenaria umbellata) are rendered bitter, if named before eating. Alocasia yams (habarale) cause a rasping sensation in the throat when they are named within the eater's hearing. When a person is hurt by a nettle, cassia leaves are rubbed on the injured place with the words "tôra kola visa netâ kahambaliyâ visa eta." (Cassia leaves are stingless but prickly is the nettle). Cassia indicates the fertility of the soil; where diyataliya (mexitixia tetrandra) and kumbuk (terminalia tomentosa) flourish a copious supply of water can be obtained. The bark of the bo tree and of the Bômbu (symplocos spicata) prevent the contagion of sore eyes when tied on the arms. In the beginning the only food used by man was an edible fungus like boiled milk which grew spontaneously upon the earth. As man fell from his primitive simplicity this substance disappeared and rice without the husk took its place. But when man became depraved the rice developed a covering and ceased to grow spontaneously forcing men to work. A poor widow had a daughter who married a rich man. One day she went to her daughter's and asked for a little rice to eat. Though the pot of rice was on the fire, the daughter said she had none to give and the mother went away. The daughter found the rice in the pot had turned into blood and she threw it away. The god Sakraya in revenge reduced the daughter to beggary and the mother and daughter on the god's advice dug where the pot of rice had been emptied and found the batala yam (bata rice and lê-blood). Thereafter the batala (Edulis batatas) became the food of the poor. That the jak fruit may be eaten by the people, the god Sakrayâ came to earth as a Brahmin, plucked a fruit and asked a woman to cook it without tasting. The smell was so tempting that she stealthily ate a little of it and was called a thievish woman (hera, thief; and liya woman.) The fruit is consequently called heraliya. A king once directed a jeweller to work in gold a design similar to the club moss; the goldsmith found this so hard that he went mad and the moss is called the jeweller's curse (badal vanassa). The butterfly orchid inflames one's passion and is called the "yam that killed the younger sister" (nagâ meru ale) as a sister once accidentally tasted it and made amorous gestures to her brother who killed her. If a person approaches the mythical Damba tree without a charm he will be killed. The celestial Kapruka gives everything one wishes for. The unknown Visakumbha is an antidote for poison and is eaten by the mungoose after its fight with the cobra. Kusa grass (sevendrâ) exists both on earth and in heaven. The imaginary Kalu nika twig floats against the current, cuts in two the strongest metal; when eaten rejuvenates the old; and to obtain it the young of the etikukulâ (jungle fowl) should be tied by a metal chain when the parents will fetch the twig to release their young. CHAPTER III. THE ANIMAL WORLD. The presence of bats in a house indicates that it will be soon deserted. Medicinal virtues are ascribed to the flesh of monkeys. To look at a slender loris (una hapuluva) brings ill luck and its eyes are used for a love potion. The lion's fat corrodes any vessel except one of gold; its roar which makes one deaf is raised three times--first when it starts from its den, next when it is well on its way, and last when it springs on its victim. It kills elephants but eats only their brain. The unicorn (kangavêna) has a horn on its forehead with which it pierces the rocks that impede its progress. If a dog howls or scratches away the earth before a house it presages illness or death; if it walks on the roof, the house will be deserted, if it sleeps under a bed it is a sign of the occupant's speedy death. A bear throws sand on the eyes of its victim before pouncing on him, and it does not attack persons carrying rockbine (Galpahura). When a person is bitten by a mouse, the wound is burnt with a heated piece of gold. A mouse after drinking toddy boasts that it can break up the cat into seven pieces. A kick from a wild rat (valmiyâ) produces paralysis. The porcupine (ittêvâ) shoots its quills to keep off its antagonists and hunts the pengolin (kebellevâ) out of its home and occupies it himself. A cheetah likes the warmth of a blaze and comes near the cultivator's watch fire in the field, calls him by name and devours him; it frequents where peacocks abound; it does not eat the victim that falls with the right side uppermost. Small pox patients are carried away by this animal which is attracted by the offensive smell they emanate; when the cheetah gets a sore mouth by eating the wild herb mîmanadandu, it swallows lumps of clay to allay its hunger; its skin and claws are used as amulets; the female cheetah gives birth only once and has no subsequent intercourse with her mate owing to the severe travail; the cheetah was taught by the cat to climb up a tree but not to climb down; in revenge it always kills its tutor but is reverent enough not to make a meal of the body which it places on an elevated spot and worships. One in a thousand cheetahs has the jaya-revula (lucky side whiskers) which never fails to bring good fortune if worn as an amulet. The cheetah, the lizard and the crocodile were three brothers, herdsmen, skilled in necromancy; as the animals they were looking after refused to yield milk, the eldest transformed himself into a cheetah, and the evil nature of the beast asserting itself he began to destroy the flock and attack the brothers; the youngest took refuge on a tree transforming himself into a lizard and the other who had the magical books turned himself into a crocodile and jumped into a river; these three have ever since lived in friendship and a person who escapes the crocodile is killed if a lizard urinates on him when sleeping; a crocodile's victim can free himself by tickling its stomach and trying to take away the books concealed there. A cat becomes excited by eating the root of the acolypha indica (kuppamêniya) and its bite makes one lean; its caterwauling is unlucky. The grey mungoose bites as an antidote a plant not identified called visakumbha before and after its fight with the cobra; when it finds difficulty in fighting the cobra, it retires to the jungle and brings on its back the king of the tribe, a white animal, by whom or in whose presence the cobra is easily killed. The hare gives birth to its young on full moon days, one of them has a crescent on its forehead and dies the first day it sees the moon or invariably becomes a prey to the rat snake. When a tooth drops, its owner throws it on to the roof saying squirrel, dear squirrel, take this tooth and give me a dainty one in return (lenô lenô me data aran venin datak diyô). Goblins are afraid of cattle with crumpled horns; a stick of the leea sambucina (burulla) is not used to drive cattle as it makes them lean; the saliva from the mouth of a tired bull is rubbed on its body to relieve its fatigue, and bezoar stones (gôrôchana) found in cattle are prescribed for small pox. In the olden time the ox had no horns but had teeth in both its jaws, while the horse had horns but had no teeth in its upper jaw; each coveted the other's possessions and effected an exchange; the ox taking the horns and giving the horse its upper row of teeth; cart bulls are driven with the words 'jah,' 'pita,' 'mak,' 'hov'.--move, to the right, to the left, halt. Wild buffaloes are susceptible to charms. Deer's musk prolongs a dying man's life. An elephant shakes a palm leaf before eating it as bloodsuckers may be lurking there to creep inside its trunk. A dead elephant is never found for when death approaches the elephant goes to a secluded spot and lays itself down to die. Children who are made to pass under an elephant's body become strong and are free from illness. When the keeper says 'hari hari,' the elephant moves; 'ho ho' it stops, 'dhana' it kneels; 'hinda', it lies down; 'daha', it gets up; 'bila' it lifts the fore foot; 'hayi,' it lifts its trunk and trumpets. A shower during sunshine denotes the jackal's wedding day; a jackal always joins the cry of its friends, otherwise its hair will drop off one by one; a jackal's horn (narianga) is very rare and it gives the possessor everything he wishes for and when buried in a threshing floor increases the crop, a hundred fold. The jackals assisted by the denizens of the woods once waged war against the wild fowls (welikukulô) who called to their aid a party of men one of whom seized the king of the jackals and dashed him on a rock and broke his jaw; as the king received the blow he raised the cry, apoi mage hakka (Oh my jaw), which could still be heard in the jackal's howl. The wild fowls are still the enemies of the jackals. The jackals and the crabs have also a feud between them; a jackal once deceived a crocodile on the promise of getting the latter a wife and got himself ferried across the river for several days till he had consumed the carcase of the elephant on the other bank. A crab undertook to assist the crocodile to take revenge, invited the jackal to a feast and suggested to him to go to the riverside for a drink of water. The jackal consented but on seeing his enemy lying in wait killed the crab for his treachery. Dark plumaged birds like the owl, the magpie robin and the black bird bring ill luck and are chased away from the vicinity of houses. The cry of the night heron (kana-koka) as it flies over a house presages illness and that of the devil bird (ulamâ) death. The devil bird was in a previous birth a wife whose fidelity her husband suspected and in revenge killed their child, made a curry of its flesh and gave it to the mother; as she was eating she found the finger of the infant and in grief she fled into the forest, killed herself, and was born the devil bird. Crows are divided into two castes which do not mate, the hooded crows and the jungle crows; they faint three times at night through hunger and their insatiate appetite can only be temporarily appeased by making them swallow rags dipped in ghee; they hatch their eggs in time to take their young to the Ehela festival held in honour of the godlings during July and August. A crow seldom dies a natural death, and once in a hundred years a feather drops. As no one eats its flesh it sorrowfully cries kâtka (I eat every body). The king crow was once a barber and it now pecks its dishonest debtor, the crow. The presence of sparrows in a house indicates that a male child will be born and when they play in the sand that there will be rain. Once upon a time a house, where a pair of sparrows had built their nest caught fire; the hen sparrow flew away but the male bird tried to save their young and scorched his throat; this scar can still be seen on the cock sparrow. A house will be temporarily abandoned if a spotted dove (alukobeyiyâ) flies through it; this bird was once a woman who put out to dry some mî flowers (bassia longifolia) and asked her little son to watch them; when they were parched they got stuck to the ground and could not be seen; the mother thought the child had been negligent and killed him in anger; a shower of rain which fell just then showed to her the lost herbs and in remorse she killed herself and was born the spotted dove, who still laments. "I got back my mî flowers but not my son, Oh my child, my child" (mimal latin daru no latin pubbaru putê pû pû). Parrots are proverbially ungrateful; sunbirds boast after a copious draught of toddy that they can overthrow Maha Meru with their tiny beaks. The great difficulty of the horn-bill (kendetta) to drink water is due to its refusal to give water to a thirsty person in a previous existence. The common babbler hops as he was once a fettered prisoner. The red tailed fly catcher was a fire thief, and the white tailed one a cloth thief. A white cock brings luck and prevents a garden from being destroyed by black beetles. When a hen has hatched the shells are not thrown away but threaded together and kept in a loft over the fireplace till the chickens can look after of themselves. Ceylon jungle fowls become blind by eating strobilanthes seed when they may be knocked down with a stick. The cuckoo searches for its young, ejected from the crow's nest, crying koho (where) and its cry at night portends dry weather. The plover (kiralâ) sleeps with her legs in the air to prevent the sky falling down and crushing her young; her eggs, when eaten, induce watchfulness. Peacocks dance in the morning to pay obeisance to the Sun God, and they are not kept as pets in houses as the girls will not find suitors. Peahens conceive at the noise of thunder and hence their love for rain. Some say that the peacock once fell in love with the swan king's daughter and when going to solicit her hand borrowed the pitta's beautiful tail which he refused to return after winning his bride; the peahen pecks at the male bird's train during the mating season, angry at the deception practised on her while the pittâ goes about crying "avichchi" (I shall complain when the Maitri Buddun comes.) Others say that the peacock stole the garments while pittâ was bathing. The cry of the pittâ (avichchya) presages rain; and it is thought to be a sorrow stricken prince mourning for his beautiful bride Ayittâ and hence his cry. Leeches are engaged in measuring the ground. Snails were persons who in a previous birth used to spit at others; their slime when rubbed on one's body makes one strong. Worms attack flowers in November and are influenced by charms. Retribution visits one who ruthlessly destroys the clay nest of the mason wasp (kumbalâ); a ran kumbalâ builds a nest with lime when a boy is to be born in the house and a metikumbalâ with clay when a girl. Winged termites issue in swarms in the rainy season and prognosticate a large catch of fish. Spiders were fishermen in a previous existence and the mantis religiosa (dara kettiyâ) a fire-wood thief. Bugs infest a house when misfortune is impending and crickets (reheyyô) stridulate till they burst. It is lucky to have ants carrying their eggs about a house, but it is unlucky for the head of the house when large black ants enter it. When a person is in a bad temper it is sarcastically said that a large sized red ant has broken wind on him. The small red myriapod (kanvêyâ) causes death by entering the ear. Every new born child has a louse on its head which is not killed but thrown away or put on another's head. As the finger is taken round the bimûrâ (a burrowing insect,) it dances to the couplet "bim ûrâ bim ûrâ tôt natâpiya, mât nattanan." (Bimûrâ bimûrâ, you better dance and I too shall dance.) Butterflies go on a pilgrimage from November to February to Adam's Peak against which they dash themselves and die in sacrifice. Centipedes run away when their name is mentioned; they are as much affected as the man they bite. The black beetle is the messenger of death to find out how many persons there are in a house; if it comes down on three taps from an ikle broom its intentions are evil; it is seldom killed, but wrapt in a piece of white cloth and thrown away or kept in a corner. The presence of fire flies in a house indicate that it will be broken into or deserted; if one alights on a person, some loss will ensue; if it is picked up, anything then wished for will be fulfilled; the fireflies had refused to give light to one in need of it in a previous existence; their bite requires "the mud of the deep sea and the stars of the sky for a cure"--a cryptic way of saying "salt from the sea and gum from the eye." A crocodile makes lumps of clay to while away the time; it throws up its prey as it carries it away and catches it with its mouth; its female becomes pregnant at the sound of thunder without any cohabitation; at certain times of the year the crocodile's mouth is shut fast; whenever its mouth opens, its eyes close. The flesh of the iguana is nutritious and never disagrees. The kabaragoya is requisitioned to make a deadly and leprosy-begetting poison which is injected into the veins of a betel leaf and given to an enemy to chew; three of these reptiles are tied to the three stones in a fireplace facing each other with a fourth suspended over them; a pot is placed in the centre into which they pour out their venom as they get heated. The blood-sucker indicates by the upward motion of its head that girls should be unearthed, and by the downward motion that its inveterate tormentors the boys should be buried. Chameleons embody the spirits of women who have died in parturition. The cry of frogs is a sign that rain is impending and the fluid they eject is poisonous; if frogs that infest a house be removed to any distance, they always come back; a person becomes lean if a tree-frog jumps on him. A python swallows a deer whole and then goes between the trunks of two trees growing near each other to crush the bones of its prey; its oil cures any bad cut or wound. Venomous reptiles are hung up after they are killed or are burnt. The cobra is held sacred and rarely killed; when caught it is enclosed in a mat bag with some boiled rice and floated on a river or stream; a person killing a cobra dies or suffers some misfortune within seven days. Some cobras have a gem in their throats which they keep out to entice insects; they kill themselves if this be taken from them which can be done by getting on to a tree and throwing cowdung over the gem. Cobras are fond of sandal wood and the sweet smelling flowers of the screw pine, and are attracted by music. Their bite is fatal on Sundays. Martynia diandra (nâgadarana) protects a man from the bite of the cobra. There are seven varieties of vipers; of these the bite of the nidi polangâ causes a deep sleep, and of the le polangâ a discharge of blood. When her skin is distended with offspring, the female viper expires and the young make their escape out of the decomposing body. Cobras and vipers keep up an ancient feud; during a certain hot season a child was playing inside a vessel full of water and a thirsty cobra drank of it without hurting the child; a thirsty viper met the cobra and was told where water was to be found on the viper's promise that it will not injure the child; as the viper was drinking the water, the child playfully struck it and the viper bit him to death; the cobra who had followed the viper killed it for breaking its promise. The green whip snake (ehetullâ) attacks the eyes of those who approach it and the shadow of the brown whip snake (hena kandaya) makes one lame or paralytic. A rat snake seldom bites, but if it does, the wound ends fatally only if cowdung is trampled on. The aharakukkâ (tropidonoms stolichus) lives in groups of seven and when one is killed the others come in search of it. A mapila (dipsas forstenii) reaches its victim on the floor by several of them linking together and hanging from the roof. The legendary kobô snake loses a joint of its tail every time it expends its poison, till one joint is left, when it assumes wings and the head of a toad; with the last bite both the victim and the snake die. CHAPTER IV. HUMAN BEINGS. It is considered unlucky to lie down when the sun is setting; to sleep with the head towards the west or with the hands between the thighs; to clasp one's hands across the head or to eat with the head resting on a hand; to strike the plate with the fingers after taking a meal; to give to another's hand worthless things like chunam or charcoal without keeping them on something, and for a female to have a hairy person. It is thought auspicious to eat facing eastwards, to gaze at the full moon and then at the face of a kind relative or a wealthy friend; to have a girl as the eldest in the family; to have a cavity between the upper front teeth: and if a male to have a hairy body. If a person yawns loud the crop of seven of his fields will be destroyed; a child's yawn indicates that it is becoming capable of taking a larger quantity of food. If a person bathes on a Friday it is bad for his sons, if on a Tuesday for himself; if he laughs immoderately he will soon have an occasion to cry; if he allows another's leg to be taken over him he will be stunted in his growth; if he passes under another's arm he will cause the latter to get a boil under the armpit, which can be averted by his returning the same way. If a person eats standing, or tramples a jak fruit with one foot only he will get elephantiasis; if he eats walking about he will have to beg his bread; if he gazes at the moon and finds its reflection round his own shadow his end is near. If the second toe of a female be longer than the big toe she will master her husband; if the left eye of a male throbs, it portends grief, the right pleasure--of a female it is the reverse. If the eyebrows of a woman meet she will outlive her husband; if of a man he will be a widower; if a male eats burnt rice his beard will grow on one side only; if the tongue frequently touches where a tooth has fallen the new tooth will come out projecting; if an eye tooth be extracted it will cause blindness. A sneeze from the right nostril signifies that good is being spoken of the person, from the left ill; when an infant sneezes a stander by says "ayi-bôvan" (long life to you). If a child cuts its upper front teeth first, it portends evil to its parents; a child sucks its toe when it has drunk seven pots of milk. An infant whimpers in its sleep when spirits say that its father is dead as it had never seen him, but smiles when they say its mother is dead as it knows she has nursed it only a little while before. Mothers hush crying children by calling on the kidnapping goblin Billâ or Gurubâliyâ. A person who dangles his legs when seated digs his mother's grave. As one with a hairy whorl on his back will meet with a watery death, he avoids seas and rivers. Everyone's future is stamped on his head; flowers on the nails signify illness and the itching sensation in one's palm that he will get money. It is bad to raise one's forefinger as he takes his handful of rice to his mouth as he thereby chides the rice. No one takes his meal in the presence of a stranger without giving him a share as it will disagree with him. If any envious person speaks of the number of children in another's family or praises them the party affected spits out loud to counteract the evil. Two people who are the first born of parents are never allowed to marry as their children rarely live. The dead body of a first male child of parents who are themselves the first born of their parents is regarded as having magical powers and sorcerers try to obtain it; if this be done the mother will not bear any more children; to prevent this it is buried near the house. When a mother's pregnancy desires are not satisfied the child's ears fester. Pollution caused by a death lasts three months, by child birth one month, by a maid attaining puberty fourteen days, and by the monthly turn of a woman till she bathes. Every person has in a more or less degree on certain days an evil eye and a malevolent mouth; to avoid the evil eye black pots with chunam marks and hideous figures are placed before houses; children are marked between the eyes with a black streak, chanks are tied round the forehead of cattle, branches of fruit are concealed with a covering made of palm leaves and festive processions are preceded by mummeries. Serious consequences befall a person who recites ironically laudatory verses written by a person with a malevolent mouth. Assumption of high office and marriage ceremonies are fraught with ill to the persons concerned owing to the evil eye and malevolent mouth. The kalawa (principle of life,) in man rises with the new moon from the left toe and travels during the lunar month up to the head and down again to the right foot. Any injury however slight to the spot where it resides causes death. Its movements are reversed in a woman, in whom it travels up from the right toe and comes down on the left side. The course it takes is (1) big toe of foot; (2) sole of foot; (3) calf; (4) knee cap; (5) lingam; (6) side of stomach; (7) pap; (8) armpit; (9) side of neck; (10) side of throat; (11) side of lip; (12) side of cheek; (13) eye; (14) side of head; (15) other side of head; (16) eye; (17) side of cheek; and so on till the big toe of the other foot is reached. CHAPTER V. THINGS MADE BY MAN. Houses are not built with a frontage towards the South-East for fear of destruction by fire as it is known as the fire quarter (ginikona). A lucky position of the constellations (neket) is ascertained before the first pillar of a house is erected, before a door frame of a new house is set or a new house is tiled, before a new house is entered or a fire kindled or furniture taken in or before a tree is planted or a well dug. When several deaths take place in a dwelling house, it is deserted. Whole villages are sometimes deserted in case of an epidemic. The fire that is first kindled in a new house is arranged in the main room and over it is placed a new pot full of milk resting on three stones or three green sticks placed like a tripod. As the milk begins to boil, pounded rice is put into it. The goddess of fortune is said to leave a dwelling house which is not swept and kept clean. As a newly married couple crosses the threshold a husked cocoanut is cut in two. To avoid the evil eye black pots with white chunam marks and hideous figures are placed before houses and in orchards. When a child is born, if it be a boy a pestle is thrown from one side of the hut to the other, if a girl an ikle broom. All the personal belongings of a dead man are given away in charity. Paddy is not pounded in a house where a person has died as the spirit will be attracted by the noise. When the daily supply of rice is being given out, if the winnowing fan or the measure drops, it denotes that extra mouths will have to be fed. If a person talks while the grain is being put into the pot, it will not be well boiled. In the field things are not called by their proper names, no sad news is broken and a shade over the head is not permitted. In drawing toddy from the kitul tree, (caryota urens) a knife which has already been used is preferred to another. If a grave be dug and then closed up to dig a second, or if a coffin be too large for the corpse, or if the burial be on a Friday there will soon be another death in the family. CHAPTER VI. THE SOUL AND ANOTHER LIFE. When a person dies everything is done to prevent the disembodied spirit being attracted to its old home or disturbed. Even paddy is not pounded in the house as the sound may attract it. The day after burial the dead man's belongings are given away in charity and an almsgiving of kenda (rice gruel) to priests or beggars takes place. A little of the kenda in a gotuwa (leaf cup) is kept on a tree or at a meeting of roads and if a crow or any other bird eats it, it is a sign that the deceased is happy; otherwise it indicates that it has become a perturbed spirit. Seven days after, there is an almsgiving of rice when a gotuwa of rice is similarly made use of for a further sign. Three months after is the last almsgiving which is done on a large scale; relatives are invited for a feast and all signs of sorrow are banished from that day. The object of this last almsgiving is to make the disembodied spirit cease to long for the things he has left behind and if this be not done the spirit of the dead person approaches the boundary fence of the garden; if the omission be not made good after six months it takes its stand near the well; when nine months have elapsed it comes near the doorway, and after twelve months it enters the house and makes its presence felt by emitting offensive smells and contaminating food as a Peretayâ or by destroying the pots and plates of the house and pelting stones as a gevalayâ or by apparitions as an avatâré or by creating strange sounds as a holmana; it is afraid of iron and lime and when over boisterous a kattadiya rids it from the house by nailing it to a tree, or enclosing it in a small receptacle and throwing it into the sea where it is so confined till some one unwittingly sets it free when it recommences its tricks with double force. A woman who dies in parturition and is buried with the child becomes a bodirima; she is short and fat, rolls like a cask, kills men whenever she can; if a lamp and some betel leaves be kept where she haunts she will be seen heating a leaf and warming her side; the women chase her away with threats of beating her with an ikle broom; if shot at she turns into a chameleon (yak katussâ). If a person dreams of a dead relative he gives food to a beggar the next morning. CHAPTER VII. SUPERHUMAN BEINGS. The three sources of superhuman influence from which the Singhalese peasantry expect good or ill are (1) the spirits of disease and poverty; (2) tutelary spirits of various grades and (3) the planetary spirits. There are several important spirits of disease such as Maha Sohona, Riri Yakâ, Kalu Kumâra Yakâ, Sanni Yakâ. Maha Sohona is 122 feet high, has the head of a bear with a pike in his left hand and in his right an elephant, whose blood he squeezes out to drink; he inflicts cholera and dysentery and presides over graveyards and where three roads meet and rides on a pig. In ancient times two giants Jayasena and Gotimbara met in single combat; the latter knocked off the head of Jayasena when the god Senasurâ tore off the head of a bear and placed it on Jayasena's body who rose up alive as the demon Maha Sohona. Riri Yakâ has a monkey face, carries in one hand a cock and a club in the other with a corpse in his mouth, is present at every death bed, haunts fields and causes fever flux of blood and loss of appetite, and has a crown of fire on his head. He came into the world from the womb of his mother by tearing himself through her heart. Kalu Kumâra Yakâ is a young devil of a dark complexion who is seen embracing a woman; he prevents conception, delays childbirth and causes puerperal madness. He was a Buddhist arhat with the supernatural power of going through the air. In one of his aerial travels, he saw a beautiful princess and falling in love with her lost at once his superhuman powers and dropped down dead and became the demon Kalu Kumâra Yakâ. Sanni Yakâ has cobras twisting round his body with a pot of fire near him, holds a rosary in his hand, causes different forms of coma, rides on a horse or lion, has 18 incarnations and forms a trinity with Oddi Yakâ and Huniam Yakâ. He was the son of a queen put to death by her husband who suspected she was unfaithful to his bed. As the queen who was pregnant was being executed, she said that if the charge was false the child in her womb will become a demon and destroy the King and his city. Her corpse gave birth to the Sanni Yakâ who inflicted a mortal disease on his father and depopulated the country. When any of these demons has afflicted a person the prescribed form of exorcism is a devil dance. In the patient's garden, a space of about 30 square feet is marked out (atamagala) and bounded with lemon sticks. Within the enclosure, raised about 3 feet from the ground, is erected an altar (samema) for the offerings (pidenitatu). The shape of the altar depends on the afflicting demon--triangular for Riri Yakâ, rectangular for Sanni Yakâ, semicircular for Kalu Kumâra Yakâ and square for Maha Sohona. The offerings consist of boiled rice, a roasted egg, seven kinds of curries, five kinds of roasted seed, nine kinds of flowers, betel leaves, fried grain, powdered resin and a thread spun by a virgin. There are the usual tom tom beaters; and the exorcist and his assistants are dressed in white and red jackets, with crown shaped head ornaments, and bell attached leglets and armlets, and carrying torches and incense pans. The ceremony consists of a series of brisk dances by the exorcist, and his men, at times masked, in the presence of the patient to the accompaniment of a chant (kavi) giving the life history of the devil, with a whirling of the blazing torches. This lasts from evening till dawn when the exorcist lies on his back and calls on the devil to cure the patient (yâdinna); incantations follow (mantra), and the sacrifices are offered. For the Riri Yakâ a cock which had been placed under the altar or tied to the foot of the patient is killed and thrown into the jungle; for the Kalu Yakâ an earthen pot which had been placed on the altar is broken; for the Sanni Yakâ the offerings are conveyed in a large bag to a stream or river and thrown into the water; for the Maha Sohona the exorcist feigns himself dead to deceive the devil and is carried with mock lamentations to a burial ground. The spirits of poverty--Garâ Yakku--are twelve in number viz., (1) Molan Garavva; (2) Dala Râkshayâ, (3) Yama Râkshayâ; (4) Pûranikâ; (5) Ratnakûtayâ; (6) Nîla Giri; (7) Nanda Giri; (8) Chandra Kâvâ; (9) Mârakâ; (10) Asuraya; (11) Nâtagiri; (12) Pelmadullâ. They haunt every nook and corner of a house, destroy crops, make trees barren, new houses inauspicious, send pests of flies and insects, reduce families to abject poverty, and are propitiated by a dance called Garâ Yakuma. A shed (maduva) is put up for it and round it is a narrow altar, with a platform in front (wesatte). On the altar are placed four kinds of flowers, betel leaves, some cotton, a spindle, a cotton cleaner, a shuttle, a comb, a little hair, a looking glass, a bundle of gurulla leaves, two burning torches and a few cents. Men of the Oli caste dressed in white and red and at times masked dance from evening till morning within the shed and on the platform. Late at night an oblation is made in leaf-cups of seven different vegetables cooked in one utensil, boiled rice, cakes and plantains. At day break the dancers stretch themselves on the ground and receive nine pecuniary offerings; they then rise up and conclude the ceremony by striking the roof of the shed with a rice pounder. The tutelary deities are of three grades viz., (1) Gods; (2) Godlings and (3) Divine Mothers. The Gods are Maha Deviyô; Natha Deviyô; Saman Deviyô; Kateragama Deviyô; and the Goddess Pattini. Maha Deviyô is identified with Vishnu, and is the guardian deity of the island, and is a candidate for the Buddhahood; a miniature weapon in gold or silver is placed at his shrine as a votive offering. Natha Deviyô is the future Maitri Buddha and is now biding his time in the Tusita heaven; Kandyan sovereigns at their coronation girt their swords and adopted their kingly title before his shrine. Saman Deviyô is the deified half brother of Rama, who conquered Ceylon in prehistoric times, and is the guardian spirit of Adam's Peak; pilgrims while climbing the sacred hill to worship Buddha's foot-print, call on him to aid their ascent. A miniature elephant in gold or silver is the usual votive offering to him. Kateragama Deviyô is the most popular of the gods; a prehistoric deity, to whom a miniature peacock in gold or silver is the customary, votive offering. He is said to be the six faced and twelve handed god Kandaswamy who on his homeward return to Kailâsa after defeating the Asuras halted at Kataragama in South Ceylon; here he met his consort Valli Ammâ whom he wooed in the guise of a mendicant; when his advances were scornfully rejected, his brother assuming the head of a man and the body of an elephant appeared on the scene and the terrified maiden rushed into her suitor's arms for safety; the god then revealed himself and she became his bride. The god Ayiyanâr invoked in the forests of Ceylon is said to be his half brother. Pattini is the goddess of chastity. The three eyed Pândi Raja of Madura had subjugated the gods and was getting them to dig a pond near his royal city when, at Sakraya's request, Pattini who resided in Avaragiri Parvata became conceived in a mango fruit. After it was severed from the tree by an arrow of Sakraya, it remain suspended in the air and on Pândi Râja looking up to observe the wonder, a drop of juice fell on the third eye in the middle of his forehead by which he lost his power and the gods were liberated. Pattini was found inside the mango as an infant of exquisite beauty sucking her thumb. When she grew up she performed wonders and ultimately disappeared within a Kohomba tree (margosa). An armlet or a miniature mango fruit in gold or silver is placed at her devala as a votive offering. These deities are worshipped in separate devâla which are in charge of Kapurâlas who have to bathe daily and anoint themselves with lime juice, avoid drinking spirits and eating flesh, eggs, turtle or eel and keep away from houses where a birth or death has taken place. A dewala consists of two rooms, one being the sanctum for the insignia of the god--a spear, bill hook or arrow--and the other being the ante room for the musicians; attached to the devala is the multengê (kitchen). On Wednesdays and Saturdays the doors of the dewala are opened; the Multengê Kapurâla cooks the food for the deity; the Tevâva Kapuralâ offers it at the shrine on a plantain leaf enclosed with areka-flower-strips, and purified with saffron water, sandal paste and incense. Before and after the meal is offered, drums are beaten in the ante room. In return for offerings made by votaries the Anumetirâla invokes the god to give relief from any ailment, a plentiful harvest, thriving cattle, success in litigation, and children to sterile mothers. Punishment to a faithless wife, curses on a forsworn enemy and vengeance on a thief are invoked by getting the Kapurâla to break a pûnâ kale--a pot with mystic designs,--or to throw into the sea or a river a charmed mixture of powdered condiments. Once a year, when the agricultural season begins, between July and August, the in-signia of the gods are carried on elephants in procession through the streets accompanied by musicians, dancers, temple tenants and custodians of the shrine. The festival begins on a new moon day and lasts till the full moon when the procession proceeds to a neighbouring river or stream where the Kapurâla cuts the water with a sword and removes a potful of it and keeps it in the dewala till it is emptied into the same stream the following year and another potful taken. The well-known godlings are (1) Wahala Bandâra Deviyô alias Dêvatâ Bandâra; (2) Wirâmunda Deviyô; (3) Wanniya Bandâra; (4) Kirti Bandâra; (5) Menik Bandâra; (6) Mangala Deviyô; (7) Kumâra Deviyô; (8) Irugal Bandâra; (9) Kalu Veddâ alias Kalu Bandâra; (10) Gangê Bandâra; (11) Devol Deviyô; (12) Ilandâri Deviyô; (13) Sundara Bandâra; (14) Monarâvila Alut Deviyô; (15) Galê Deviyô; (16) Ayiyanar Deviyô. The godlings are local; those which are worshipped in one country district are not sometimes known in another. Their insignia together with a few peacock feathers are sometimes kept in small detached buildings called kovil with representations of the godlings rudely drawn on the walls. A priest called a Yakdessa is in charge of a kovil and when people fall ill "they send for the Yakdessa to their house, and give him a red cock chicken, which he takes up in his hand, and holds an arrow with it, and dedicates it to the god, by telling him, that if he restore the party to his health, that cock is given to him, and shall be dressed and sacrificed to him in his kovil. They then let the cock go among the rest of the poultry, and keep it afterwards, it may be, a year or two; and then they carry it to the temple, or the priest comes for it: for sometimes he will go round about, and fetch a great many cocks together that have been dedicated, telling the owners that he must make a sacrifice to the god; though, it may be, when he hath them, he will go to some other place and convert them into money for his own use, as I myself can witness; we could buy three of them for four-pence half penny. When the people are minded to inquire any thing of their gods, the priests take up some of the arms and instruments of the gods, that are in the temples upon his shoulder; and then he either feigns himself to be mad, or really is so, which the people call pissuvetichchi; and then the spirit of the gods is in him, and whatsoever he pronounceth is looked upon as spoken by God himself, and the people will speak to him as if it were the very person of God." [3] Galê Deviyô or Galê Bandâra, also called Malala Bandâra is the god of the rock and is propitiated in parts of the Eastern Province, Uva and the Kurunegalle district, to avert sickness, bad luck and drought. "In these districts, in all cases, the dance, which is a very important part of the proceedings, and indispensable in the complete ceremony, takes place on a high projecting crag near the top of a prominent hill or on the summit of the hill, if it is a single bare rock. On this wild and often extremely dangerous platform, on some hills a mere pinnacle usually hundreds of feet above the plain below, the Anumetirâla performs his strange dance, like that of all so called devil dancers. He chants no song in honour of the ancient deity but postures in silence with bent knees and waving arms, holding up the bill hooks--the god himself for the time being. When he begins to feel exhausted the performer brings the dance to an end, but sometimes his excitement makes it necessary for his assistant to seize him and forcibly compel him to stop. He then descends from his dizzy post, assisted by his henchmen, and returns to the devâla with the tom toms and the crowd." [4] The spirits of the forest, invoked by pilgrims and hunters are Wanniyâ Bandâra, Mangala Deviyô, Ilandâri Deviyô and Kalu Bandâra alias Kalu Veddâ. Kaluwedda is a demon supposed to possess power over the animal race. "When a person, more commonly a public hunter, shoots an animal, whether small or large, he, without uttering a single word, takes on the spot three drops of blood from the wound, and smearing them on three leaves makes them into the shape of a cup, and offers them on the branches of a tree, clapping his hands, and expressing words to this effect, "Friend Kaluwedda, give ear to my words: come upon the branches, and receive the offering I give to thee!" The effect of this superstition is supposed to be, that the hunter will seldom or never miss his game. [5]" Manik Bandâra is the spirit of gem pits and Gange Bandâra is the spirit of streams and rivers. "The malignant spirit called Gange Bandâra, Oya Bandâra, Oya Yakka, etc. is properly an object of terror, not of worship; and under very many different appellations the identity is easily perceived: he is the representative or personification of those severe fevers, to which, from some occult causes, the banks of all Ceylon rivers are peculiarly liable. The manner of making offerings to the Gange Bandâra is by forming a miniature double canoe, ornamented with cocoanut leaves so as to form a canopy: under this are placed betel, rice, flowers, and such like articles of small value to the donor, as he flatters himself may be acceptable to the fiend, and induce him to spare those who acknowledge his power. After performing certain ceremonies, this propitiatory float is launched upon the nearest river, in a sickly season. I have seen many of these delicate arks whirling down the streams, or aground on the sand banks and fords of the Ambanganga (Matale East)." [6] Ayiyannar Deviyô is the god of tanks and he is propitiated under a tree by the bund of a tank, by throwing up in the air boiled milk in a hot state. Sundara Bandâra extends his protection to those who invoke him before sleeping. Wîramunda Deviyô is a spirit of agriculture and rice cakes made of the new paddy is offered to the godling on a platform on which are placed husked cocoanuts, flowers, plantains, a lighted lamp, a pestle and a mortar. Gopalla is a pastoral godling who torments cattle at night and afflicts them with murrain. Devol Deviyô is a South Indian deity who came to Ceylon in spite of the attempts to stop him by Pattini who placed blazing fires in his way. Masked dances of a special kind involving walking over fire take place in his honour. Kirti Bandara, and Monaravila Alut Deviyô are two lately deified chieftains, the former lived in the reign of king Kirti Siri (1747-1780), the latter is Keppitipola who was beheaded by the British in 1818. Wahala Bandara Deviyô alias Devatâ Bandara is a minister of Vishnu and is invoked when demon-possessed patients cannot be cured by the ordinary devil dance. At his devâla in Alut Nuwera, 11 miles from Kandy, the Kapurâla beats the patient with canes till the devil is exorcised. With him is associated Malwatte Bandâra, another minister of Vishnu. The peace of the home is impersonated in seven divine mothers who are said to be manifestations of the goddess Pattini. Their names vary according to the different localities. They are known in some places as:--(1) Miriyabedde Kiri Amma or Beddê Mehelli; (2) Pudmarâga Kiri Amma (3) Unâpâna Kiri Amma; (4) Kosgama Kiri Amma; (5) Bâla Kiri Amma; (6) Bôvalagedere Kiri Amma; (7) Indigolleve Kiri Amma. Navaratna Valli is the patroness of the Rodiyas and is said to have been born from the Telambu tree. Henakanda Bisô Bandâra was born of a wood apple and is invoked as the wife of Devatâ Bandâra. A thank offering is made to the divine mothers when children are fretful, when a family recovers from chicken pox or some kindred disease, when a mother has had an easy confinement. Seven married women are invited to represent them and are offered a meal of rice, rice cakes, milk, fruits and vegetables; before eating they purify themselves with turmeric water and margosa leaves; a lamp with seven wicks in honour of the seven divine mothers are kept where they are served; after the repast they severally blow out a wick by clapping their hands and take away what is left of the repast. Before a house is newly occupied the seven divine mothers are invoked by ceremoniously boiling rice in milk; a fire is made in the main room and over it is kept a new pot full of milk resting on three green sticks placed like a tripod. As the milk begins to boil pounded rice is put into it. The person superintending the cooking wears a white cloth over his mouth. Seven married women are first served with the cooked milk-rice on plantain leaves, and afterwards the others present. The mystery of the jungle is impersonated in the Beddê Mehelli. After a successful harvest or to avert an epidemic from the village a ceremonial dance (gammadu) for which the peasantry subscribe takes place for seven days in honour of the gods, godlings and divine mothers. A temporary building, open on all sides, and decorated with flowers and fruits is erected on the village green, and a branch of the Jak tree is cut ceremonially by the celebrant and carried into the building and placed on the east side as a dedicatory post with a little boiled rice, a cocoanut flower, two cocoanuts and a lamp. Altars are erected for the various deities and on these the celebrant places with music, chant and dance their respective insignia, all present making obeisance. Water mixed with saffron is sprinkled on the floor, resin is burnt and a series of dances and mimetic representations of the life history of the deities take place every night. On the last day there is a ceremonial boiling of rice in milk and a general feast. Planetary spirits influence the life of a person according to their position in the heavens at the time of his birth, and an astrologer for a handful of betel and a small fee will draw a diagram of 12 squares, indicating the twelve signs of the Zodiac and from the position of the 9 planets in the different squares will recommend the afflicted person a planetary ceremony of a particular form to counteract the malignant influence. Representations (bali) of the nine planetary spirits, of the 12 signs of the Zodiac, the 27 lunar asterisms, the 8 cardinal points, the 7 intervals of time, and the 14 age periods are made of clay and are placed erect on a large platform of split bamboo measuring about 12 square feet--the arrangement varying according to the advice of the astrologer;--and on the floor is drawn an eight-sided or twelve-sided figure where the celebrant dances and chants propitiatory verses in honour of the planets. The afflicted person sits the whole time during the music, dance and chanting before the images holding in his right hand a lime connected by a thread with the chief idol, and near him are 2 cocoanut flowers, boiled rice, a hopper, 7 vegetable curries, limes, cajunuts, betel, raw rice, white sandalwood and hiressa leaves. At intervals a stander-by throws portions of an areka flower into a koraha of water with cries of 'ayibôvan' (long life). The Sun (Iru) rides on a horse entwined with cotton leaves (imbul) with an emblem of good luck (Sirivasa) in hand and propitiated by the Sânti Mangala Baliya; sacred to him is the ruby (manikya). Mercury (Budahu) rides on an ox with a chank in hand, entwined with margosa leaves (Kohomba) and propitiated by the Sarva Rupa Baliya; the emerald (nîla) is sacred to this planet. Mars (Angaharuva) rides on a peacock with an elephant goad (unkusa) in hand, entwined with gamboge leaves (kolon) and propitiated by the Kali Murta Baliya; the coral (pravala) is sacred to this planet. Rahu rides on an ass with a fish in hand entwined with screw pine leaves (vetakeyiyâ) and is propitiated by the Asura Giri Baliya; the zircon (gomada) is sacred to Rahu. Kehetu rides on a swan with a rosary in hand, entwined with plantain leaves (kehel) and is propitiated by the Krishna Râksha Baliya; the chrysoberyl (vaidurya) is sacred to Kehetu. Saturn (Senasurâ) rides on a crow; with a fan in hand entwined with banyan leaves (nuga) and is propitiated by the Dasa Krôdha Baliya; the sapphire (indranîla) is sacred to this planet. Venus (Sikurâ) rides on a buffalo with a whisk (châmara) in hand, entwined with karanda leaves (galidupa arborea) and is propitiated by the Giri Mangala Baliya; the diamond (vajra) is sacred to this planet. Jupiter (Brahaspati) rides on a lion with a pot of flowers in hand, entwined with bo leaves and is propitiated by the Abhaya Kalyâna Baliya; the topaz (pusparâga) is sacred to Jupiter. The moon rides on an elephant with a ribbon in hand entwined with wood apple leaves (diwul) and propitiated by the Sôma Mangala Baliya; pearls (mutu) are sacred to the moon. CHAPTER VIII. OMENS AND DIVINATION. One will not start on a journey, if he meets as he gets out a beggar, a Buddhist priest, a person carrying firewood or his implements of labour, if a lizard chirps, a dog sneezes or flaps his ears. Nor will he turn back after once setting out; if he has forgotten anything it is sent after him, he never returns for it. That the object of his journey may be prosperous he starts with the right foot foremost at an auspicious moment, generally at dawn, when the cock crows; his hopes are at their highest if he sees on the way a milch cow, cattle, a pregnant woman or a person carrying a pitcher full of water, flowers or fruits. Thieves will not get out when there is the handa madala (ring round the moon) as they will be arrested. The day's luck or ill-luck depends on what one sees the first thing in the morning; if anything unlucky be done on a Monday, it will continue the whole week. If a crow caws near one's house in the morning, it forebodes sickness or death, at noon pleasure or the arrival of a friend, and in the evening profit; if it drops its excrement on the head, shoulders or on the back of a person it signifies happiness but on the knee or in step a speedy death. A lizard warns by its chirp; if it chirps from the East pleasant news can be expected, from the South news of sickness or death, from the North profit and from the West the arrival of a friend. If a lizard or a skink (hikenellâ) falls on the right side of a person, he will gain riches, if on the left he will meet with ill luck. A snake doctor finds out what kind of reptile had bitten a person by a queer method; if the person who comes to fetch him touches his breast with the right hand it is a viper; if the head it is a mapila; if the stomach a frog; if the right shoulder with the left hand a karavalâ, (bungarus coerulus); if he be excited a skink; and if the messenger be a weeping female carrying a child it is a cobra. Something similar to crystal gazing is attempted by means of a betel leaf smeared with a magical oil; a female deity (Anjanan Devi) appears on the leaf and reveals what the gazer seeks. A professional fortune teller (guru) when a client comes to consult him, measures the client's shadow, divides it into three equal parts and after some calculations informs him whether a lost article will be found, a sick person will recover or any enterprise will fail or succeed. Dreams that prognosticate a good future are kept secret, but bad ones are published. When a bad dream is dreamt it is advisable to go to a lime tree early in the morning, mention the dream and ask the tree to take to itself all the bad effects. Dreams at the first watch of the night will be accomplished in a year, at the second watch in eight months, at the third watch in five months, and at the dawn of day in ten days. If a person dreams of riding on a bull or an elephant, ascending the summit of a mountain, entering a palace, or smearing himself with excrement he will obtain an increase of wealth. If a person dreams that his right hand was bitten by a white serpent he will obtain riches at the end of ten days. If a person dreams of a crane, a domestic fowl, an eagle or crows, he will get an indulgent wife. If a person dreams of the sun or moon, he will be restored from sickness. If the teeth of an individual in his dream fall out or shake his wealth will be ruined or he will lose a child or parent but if his hands be chained or bound together he will have a son or obtain a favour. If a female clothed in black embraces a man in his dream it foretells death. If a person dreams of an extensive field ripe for the sickle, he will obtain rice paddy within ten days. If a person dreams of an owl, a beast in rut or being burnt he will lose his habitation. If a person dreams of nymphs dancing, laughing, running or clapping their hands, he will have to leave his native land. CHAPTER IX. THE MAGIC ART. Words of Power called Mantra are committed to memory and used for various purposes. Jugglers utter them to raise a magic veil over the eyes of the spectators, and sorcerers to detect thefts, to induce love, to remove spells to cure possession and to inflict disease or death. Mantra are uttered to keep away animals. Elephants are frightened by "Om sri jâtâ hârê bhâvatu arahan situ." A dog takes to its heels when the following is muttered thrice over the hand and stretched towards it "Om namô budungê pâvâdê bat kâpu ballâ kikki kukkâ nam tô situ. Om buddha namas saka situ." As a preventive against harmful influences, a thread spun by a virgin, and rubbed with turmeric is charmed over charcoal and resin-smoke and tied round one's arm, waist or neck, having as many knots as the number of the times the charm has been repeated. Amulets (yantra) made of five kinds of metal (gold, silver, copper, brass, iron) are similarly worn for avoiding evil and these are either pentacle shaped, crescent shaped or cylindrical enclosing a charmed ola leaf, charmed oil or charmed pills. To win a girl's affections the lover has only to rub a charmed vegetable paste over his face and show himself to the girl, or give her to eat a charmed preparation of peacock's liver, honey and herbs or make her chew a charmed betel leaf, or sprinkle on her some charmed oil, or wear a charmed thread taken from her dress. To detect a theft, a cocoanut is charmed, attached to a stick and placed where a thief has made his escape, and while the operator holds it he is led along to the thief's house. Persons suspected of theft are made to stand with bared backs round an ash plantain tree and as it is struck with a charmed creeper, the culprit gets an ashy streak on his back. They are also asked to touch a charmed fowl in turn and the fowl begins to crow as soon as the thief touches its body. The names of the suspected persons are sometimes written on slips of paper and placed on the ground with a cowrie shell opposite each slip, and as soon as the mantra is uttered the shell opposite the thief's name begins to move. Charmed branches are hung up by hunters and wayfarers near dangerous spots. If charmed slaked lime be secretly rubbed on the lintel of a man's house before he starts out shooting, he will not kill any bird, and if rubbed on the threshold he will not kill any fourfooted animal. A person under the influence of a charm is taken to a banyan tree with his hair wrapped round the head of a cock; the hair is cut off with a mantra, the bird nailed to the tree and the patient cured. The charm known as Pilli is used to inflict immediate death; the sorcerer procures a dead body of a child, animal, bird, reptile or insect and goes at dawn, noon or midnight to a lonely spot where three roads meet or to a grave yard and lying on his back utters a mantra; the dead body becomes animated and it is given the name of the intended victim with directions to inflict on him a fatal wound: to stab, strangle, bite or sting him. The charm called Angama causes the victim to throw up blood and it affects within seven hours; the sorcerer takes some article that the intended victim had worn or touched, goes to a lonely spot, charms it and touches the victim, or fans him with it or stretches it towards him, or keeps it in the hand and looks at his face or blows so that the breath may light on him or leaves it in some accessible place that it may be picked up by him. The charm known as the Huniama is frequently practised and it takes effect within intervals varying from a day to several years; the sorcerer makes an image to represent the intended victim; nails made of five kinds of metal are fixed at each joint, and the victim's name written on a leaf, or a lock of his hair, or a nail paring, or a thread from his dress inserted in its body; the image is charmed and buried where the victim has to pass and if he does so, he falls ill with swelling, with stiffness of joints, with a burning sensation in his body or with paralysis. A Pilli or Angama charm can be warded off if the victim himself be a sorcerer when by a counter charm he can direct the operator himself to be killed or injured. A Huniama charm can be nullified by getting a sorcerer either to cut some charmed lime fruits which have come in contact with the patient or to slit with an arekanut cutter a charmed coil of creepers placed round the patient's neck, shoulders and anklets or to keep a charmed pumpkin gourd on the sorcerer's chest while lying on his back and making the patient cut it in two with a bill hook, the parts being thrown into the sea or a stream; or to break up a charmed waxen figure and throw the pieces into boiling oil. CHAPTER X. DISEASE AND LEECHCRAFT. Serious maladies are inflicted by spirits or induced by the vitiation of the triple force (vâta, pita, sema) which pervades the human body. In the former case they are cured by devil dances and in the latter by drugs. There are, however, numerous minor complaints where folk-remedies are employed. A cure for boils is to procure without speaking from a smithy water in which the red hot iron has been cooled and apply it to the affected parts. For whooping cough is given gruel made of seven grains of rice collected in a chunam receptacle (killôtê) without uttering a word from seven houses on a Sunday morning. To cure a sprain a mother who has had twins is asked to trample the injured place, without informing any one else, every evening for a couple of days. A touch with a cat's tail removes a sty, and a toothache is cured by biting a balsam plant (kûdalu) uprooted with the right hand, the face averted. When one is hurt by a nettle, cassia leaves (tôra) are rubbed on the injured place with the words "tôra kola visa neta kahambiliyâva visa, etc." (Cassia leaves are stingless but prickly is the nettle). A firefly's bite requires "the mud of the sea and the stars of the sky" to effect a cure--a cryptic way of saying salt and the gum of the eye. Ill effects of the evil mouth and evil eye are dispelled by various means:--either a packet made of some sand trodden by the offender is taken three times round the head and thrown into a pot of live coals; or a receptacle containing cocoanut shell ashes, burnt incense, and a few clods of earth from a neighbouring garden is buried in the compound. Patients suffering with small pox or a kindred disease are kept in a separate hut, cloth dyed in turmeric and margosa leaves are used in the room; and after recovery an infusion of margosa leaves is rubbed on their heads before they are bathed. A string of coral shows by the fading of its colour that the wearer is ill; to prevent pimples and eruptions a chank is rubbed on the face, when washing it. When there is a difficult child-birth the cupboards and the doors in the house are unlocked. For infantile convulsions, a piece of the navel cord is tied round the child's body. If one has warts on his body, stones equal in number to them are tied to a piece of rag and thrown where three roads meet; the person who picks up the packet and unties it gets the warts and the other becomes free of them. When a person gets a hiccough, he gets rid of it by holding up his breath and repeating seven times "ikkayi mâyi Gâlugiya, ikka, hitalâ man âvâ" (Hiccough and I went to Galle; he stayed back and I returned). Extreme exhaustion will ensue if the perspiration from one's body is scraped off; the cure is to swallow the collected sweat. CHAPTER XI. SOCIAL AND POLITICAL INSTITUTIONS. A village community occupy a well defined settlement (wasama) within which are the hamlets (gan), and in each hamlet live a few families who have their separate homesteads (mulgedera) with proprietary interests in the arable land and communal rights in the forest, waste and pasture land. A group of such settlements comprise a country district (rata, kôrale, pattu). There are two types of village settlements, in one there are the free peasant proprietors cultivating their private holdings without any interference, and in the other the people occupy the lands subject to an overlord, and paying him rent in service, food or money or in all three. All communities whether free or servile had, in ancient times to perform râjakariya for 15 to 30 days a year; in time of war to guard the passes and serve as soldiers, and ordinarily to construct or repair canals, tanks, bridges and roads. These public duties were exacted from all males who could throw a stone over their huts; the military services were, in later times, claimed only from a special class of the king's tenants. The people had also to contribute to the Revenue three times a year, at the New Year festival, (April) at the alutsâl festival (January) and the maha or kâtti festival (November) in arrack, oil, paddy, honey, wax, cloth, iron, elephant's tusks, tobacco, and money collected by the headmen from the various country districts. The quantity of paddy (kathhâl) supplied by each family depended on the size of the private holding; but no contribution was levied on the lands of persons slain in war or on lands dedicated to priests. When a man of property died, 5 measures of paddy, a bull, a cow with calf, and a male and female buffalo were collected as death dues (marral.) The people are divided into various castes and there is reason to believe that these had a tribal basis. The lower castes formed tribes of a prehistoric Dravidian race (the Rakshas of tradition) who drove into the interior the still earlier Australoid Veddahs (the Yakkhas of tradition). The higher castes of North Indian origin followed, and frequent intercourse with the Dekkan in later historical times led to the introduction of new colonists who now form the artisan castes. A caste consists of a group of clans, and each clan claims descent from a common ancestor and calls itself either after his name, or the office he held, or if a settler, the village from which he came. The clan name was dropped when a person became a chief and a surname which became hereditary assumed. The clan name was however, not forgotten as the ancestral status of the family was ascertained from it. The early converts to Christianity during the Portuguese ascendancy in Ceylon adopted European surnames which their descendants still use. The various castes can be divided socially into five groups. The first comprising the numerically predominating Ratêettô who cultivate fields, herd cattle and serve as headmen. The second group consists of the Naides who work as smiths, carpenters, toddy drawers, elephant keepers, potters, pack bullock drivers, tailors, cinnamon peelers, fish curers and the like. The Ratêetto and the Naide groups wear alike, and the second group are given to eat by the first group on a rice table of metal or plaited palm leaf about a foot high, water to drink in a pot and a block of wood as a seat; they have the right to leave behind the remains of their meals. The third group are the Dureyâs who work as labourers besides attending to their special caste duties--a kandê dureyâ makes molasses, a batgam dureyâ carries palanquins, a hunu dureyâ burns coral rock in circular pits to make lime for building; a valli dureyâ weaves cloth and a panna dureyâ brings fodder for elephants and cattle. The fourth group consists of professional dancers, barbers and washers. Of the professional dancers, the Neketto dance and beat drums at all public functions and at devil and planetary ceremonies, while the inferior Oli do so only at the Gara Yakum dance. The washers are of different grades; Radav wash for the Rate Ettô, Hinnevo for the Naides, Paliyo for the Dureyâs, barbers and Nekettô, and Gangâvo for the Oli. The Dureyâs and the group below them were not allowed to wear a cloth that reached below their knees and their women except the Radav females were not entitled to throw a cloth over their shoulders. The Dureyâs were given to eat on the ground on a plaited palm leaf; water to drink was poured onto their hands and they had to take away the remains of their meal. The fourth group had to take away with them the food offered. The fifth group consists of the outcastes; the Kinnaru and the Rodi who contest between themselves the pride of place. The Kinnaru are fibre mat weavers who were forbidden to grow their hair beyond their necks, and their females from wearing above their waist anything more than a narrow strip of cloth to cover their breasts. The Rodi are hideworkers and professional beggars; the females were prohibited from using any covering above their waists. A guest of equal social status is received at the entrance by the host and is led inside by the hand; on a wedding day the bridegroom's feet are washed by the bride's younger brother before he enters the house. Kissing is the usual form of salutation among females and near relatives and among friends the salutation is by bringing the palms together. When inferiors meet a superior they bend very low with the palms joined in front of the face or prostrate themselves on the ground; when they offer a present it is placed on a bundle of 40 betel leaves and handed with the stalks towards the receiver. A guest always sends in advance a box of eatables as a present; when the repast is ready for him he is supplied with water to wash his face, feet and mouth; and the host serves him with rice and curry, skins the plantains for him, and makes his chew of betel. The males always eat first and the females afterwards; and they drink water by pouring it into their mouths from a spouted vessel (kotale). At the guest's departure, the host accompanies him some distance--at least as far as the end of the garden. When a person of distinction, a Buddhist priest or a chief visits a house, the rooms are limed and the seats are spread with white cloth. An inferior never sits in the presence of a superior, and whenever they meet, the former removes the shade over his head, gets out of the way and makes a very low obeisance. Seven generations of recognised family descent is the test of respectability, and each ancestor has a name of his own: appa, âtâ, muttâ, nattâ, panattâ, kittâ, kirikittâ (father, grand father, great grand father, etc.) The system of kinship amongst the Sinhalese is of the classificatory kind where the kin of the same generation are grouped under one general term. The next of kin to a father or mother and brother or sister are the fathers' brothers and the mothers' sisters, and the mothers' brothers and the fathers' sisters; of these the first pair has a parental rank and is called father (appa) or mother (amma) qualified by the words big, intermediate or little, according as he or she is older or younger than the speaker's parents; their children are brothers (sahodarya) and sisters (sahodari) to the speaker and fathers and mothers to the speaker's children. The second pair becomes uncle (mamâ) and aunt (nenda) to the speaker qualified as before; their children are male cousins (massina) and female cousins (nêna) to the speaker, and uncles and aunts to the speaker's children. Those who are related as brothers and sisters rarely marry, and a husband's relations of the parental class are to his wife, uncles, aunts and cousins of the other class and vice versâ. These terms are also used as expressions of friendship or endowment and also to denote other forms of kinship. The term 'father' is applied to a mother's sister's husband, or a step father; 'mother' to a father's brother's wife or a step mother; 'uncle' to a father's sister's husband or a father-in-law. 'Aunt' to a mother's brother's wife or mother-in-law. 'Brother' to a wife's or husband's brother-in-law or a maternal cousin's husband; 'Sister' to a wife's or husband's sister-in-law or a maternal cousin's wife, "male cousin" to a brother-in-law or a paternal cousin's husband; "female cousin" to a sister-in-law or a paternal cousin's wife. The terms son, daughter, nephew, niece, grandson, grand daughter, great grandson and great grand daughter include many kinsfolk of the same generation. A son is one's own son, or the son of a brother (male speaking), or the son of a sister (female speaking); a daughter is one's own daughter, the daughter of a brother (M. S.) or the daughter of a sister (F. S.); a nephew is a son-in-law, the son of a sister (M. S.) or the son of a brother (F. S.); a niece is a daughter-in-law, the daughter of a sister (M. S.) or the daughter of a brother (F. S.); a grandson and grand daughter are a 'son's' or 'daughter's' or a 'nephew's' or 'niece's' children, and their sons and daughters are great grand sons and great grand daughters. Land disputes and the petty offences of a village were settled by the elders in an assembly held at the ambalama or under a tree. The serious difficulties were referred by them in case of a freehold community to the district chief, and in the case of a subject community to the overlord. A manorial overlord was invariably the chief of the district as well. The paternal ancestral holding of a field, garden and chena devolves on all the sons, but not on sons who were ordained as Buddhist Priests before the father's demise, nor on daughters who have married and left for their husbands' homes. A daughter, however, who lived with her husband at her father's house has all the rights and privileges of a son, but the husband has no claim whatsoever to his wife's property, and such a husband is advised to have constantly with him a walking stick, a talipot shade and a torch, as he may be ordered by his wife to quit her house at any time and in any state of the weather. A daughter who lives in her husband's home can claim a share in the mother's property only if the father has left an estate for the sons to inherit; she has, however, a full right with her brothers to any inheritance collaterally derived. She will not forfeit her share in her father's inheritance if she returns to her father's house, or if she leaves a child in her father's house to be brought up or if she keeps up a close connection with her father's house. After her husband's death she has a life interest on his acquired property, and a right to maintenance from his inherited property. Failing issue, she is the heir to a husband's acquired property, but the husband's inherited property goes to the source from whence it came. A child who has been ungrateful to his parents or has brought disgrace on the family is disinherited; in olden times the father in the presence of witnesses declared his child disinherited, struck a hatchet against a tree or rock and gave his next heir an ola mentioning the fact of disherision. There is no prescribed form for the adoption of a child who gets all the rights of a natural child, but it is necessary that he is of the same caste as the adopted father, and that he is publicly acknowledged as son and heir. Illegitimate children share equally with the legitimate their fathers' acquired property, but not his inherited property which goes exclusively to the legitimate children. Polyandry was a well established institution in Ceylon; the associated husbands are invariably brothers or cousins. Polyandry was practised to prevent a sub-division of the ancestral property and also owing to the exigencies of the râjakâriya (feudal service); when the brothers on a farm were called out for their fifteen days' labour, custom allowed one of them to be left behind as a companion to the female at home. Divorces are obtained by mutual consent; a husband forcibly removing the switch of hair off his wife's head was considered a sufficient reason for a separation. If a woman left her husband without his consent it was thought illegal for her to marry till the husband married again. Contracts were made orally or in writing in the presence of witnesses, sanctioned by the imprecation that the one who broke faith will be born a dog, a crow or in one of the hells, and the contract was expected to last till the sun and moon endure. Representations of a dog, a crow, sun and moon are to be found on stones commemorating a royal gift. If a man contracts by giving a stone in the king's name it is binding and actionable. A creditor forced the payment of his debt by going to the debtor's house and threatening to poison himself with the leaves of the niyangalâ (gloriosa superba) or by threatening to jump down a steep place or to hang himself; on which event the debtor would be forced to pay to the authorities a ransom for the loss of the creditor's life. The creditor at times sent a servant to the debtor's house to live there and make constant demands till payment was made; and at times tethered an unserviceable bull, cow or buffalo in the debtor's garden, who was obliged to maintain it, be responsible for its trespass on other gardens, and to give another head of cattle, if it died or was lost in his keeping. When a man died indebted, it was customary for a relative to tie round his neck a piece of rag with a coin attached and beg about the country till the requisite sum was collected. When a debt remained in the debtor's hands for two years it doubled itself and no further interest could be charged. A creditor had the right to seize, on a permit from a chief, the debtor's chattels and cattle or make the debtor and his children slaves. A wife, however, could only be seized if she was a creditor and came with her husband to borrow the money, and the creditor could sell the debtor's children only after the debtor's death. A man could pawn or sell himself or his children. Children born to a bond woman by a free man were slaves, while children born to a free woman by a bond man were free. If seed paddy is borrowed, it is repaid with 50 percent. interest at the harvest; if the harvest fails, it is repaid at the next successful harvest, but no further interest is charged. If cattle be borrowed for ploughing, the owner of the cattle is given at the harvest paddy equal to the amount sown on the field ploughed. The King alone inquired into murder, treason, sacrilege, conspiracy and rebellion; he alone had the right to order capital punishment or the dismemberment of limbs; his attention was drawn to a miscarriage of justice by the representation of a courtier, by the aggrieved persons taking refuge in a sanctuary like the Daladâ Mâligâva, by prostrating in front of the King's palace and attracting his attention by making their children cry, or by ascending a tree near the palace and proclaiming their grievances. The petitioners were sometimes beaten and put in chains for troubling the King. For capital offences, as murder and treason, the nobility was decapitated with the sword; the lower classes were paraded through the streets with a chaplet of shoe flowers on their heads, bones of oxen round their necks, and their bodies whitened with lime, and then impaled, quartered and hanged on trees, or pierced with spear while prostrate on the ground, or trampled on by elephants and torn with their tusks. Whole families sometimes suffered for the offences of individuals. Outcaste criminals like the Rodiyas were shot from a distance as it was pollution to touch them. Female offenders were made to pound their children and then drowned. The punishments for robbing the treasury, for killing cattle, for removing a sequestration, and for striking a priest or chief consisted of cutting off the offender's hair, pulling off his flesh with iron pincers dismembering his limbs and parading him through the streets with the hands about the neck. Corporal punishment was summarily inflicted with whips or rods while the offender was bound to a tree or was held down with his face to the ground; he was then paraded through the streets with his hands tied behind him, preceded by a tom tom beater and made to declare his offence. Prisoners were sent away to malarial districts or kept in chains or stocks in the common jail or in the custody of a chief, or quartered in villages. The inhabitants had to supply the prisoners with victuals, the families doing so by turns, or the prisoners went about with a keeper begging or they procured the expenses by selling their handiwork in way-side shops built near the prison. The prisoners had to sweep the streets and were deprived of their headdress which they could resume only when they were discharged. Thieves had to restore the stolen property or pay a sevenfold fine (wandia); till the fine was paid, the culprit was placed under restraint (velekma): a circle was drawn round him on the ground, and he was not allowed to step beyond it, and had to stay there deprived of his head covering exposed to the sun, sometimes holding a heavy stone on his shoulder, sometimes having a sprig of thorns drawn between his naked legs. A whole village was fined if there was a suicide of a sound person, if a corpse was found unburied or unburnt, or if there was an undetected murder. In case of the breach of any sumptuary law, the inhabitants of the offender's village were tabooed and their neighbours prohibited from dealing or eating with them. Oaths were either mere asseverations on one's eyes or on one's mother or imprecations by touching the ground or by throwing up handful of sand or by raising the hand towards the sun, or by touching a pebble, or appeals to the insignia of some deity, or to the Buddhist scriptures or to Buddha's mandorla. The forsworn person was punished in this world itself except in the last mentioned two instances when the perjurer would suffer in his next birth. There were five forms of ordeal, resorted to in land disputes and the villagers were summoned to the place of trial by messengers showing them a cloth tied with 3 knots. The ordeal of hot oil required the adversaries to put their middle fingers in boiling oil and water mixed with cow dung; if both parties got burnt the land in dispute was equally divided; otherwise the uninjured party got the whole land. The other four modes consisted of the disputants partaking of some rice boiled from the paddy of the field in dispute, breaking an earthen vessel and eating of a cocoanut that was placed on the portion of the land in question, removing rushes laid along the boundary line in dispute, or striking each other with the mud of the disputed field; and the claim was decided against the person to whom some misfortune fell within 7 to 14 days. There were two other forms which had fallen into disuse even in ancient times owing to the severity of the tests viz. carrying a red hot iron in hand seven paces without being burnt, and picking some coins out of a vessel containing a cobra without being bitten. CHAPTER XII. RITES OF INDIVIDUAL LIFE. When a mother is pregnant she avoids looking at deformed persons, or ugly images and pictures, fearing the impression she gets from them may influence the appearance of her offspring; during this delicate period she generally pounds rice with a pestle, as the exertion is supposed to assist delivery, and for the same purpose a few hours before the birth of the child all the cupboards in the house are unlocked. For her to cling to, when the pains of child-birth are unbearable, a rope tied to the roof hangs by the mat or bedside. The water that the child is washed in after birth is poured on to the foot of a young tree, and the latter is remembered and pointed out to commemorate the event; a little while after the infant is ushered into the world a rite takes place, when a drop of human milk obtained from some one other than the mother mixed with a little gold is given to the babe (rankiri kata gânavâ), and the little child's ability to learn and pronounce well is assured. When the sex of the child is known, if it be a boy a pestle is thrown from one side of the house to the other; if a girl, an ikle broom; those who are not in the room pretend to find out whether it is a she or a he by its first cry, believing it is louder in the case of the former than of the latter. The cries of the babe are drowned by those of the nurse, lest the spirits of the forest become aware of its presence and inflict injury on it. At the birth of the first born cocoanut shells are pounded in a mortar. The mother is never kept alone in the room, a light is kept burning in it night and day, and the oil of the margosa is much used in the room for protection; care is taken that the navel cord is not buried and a little of it is given to the mother with betel if she fall severely ill. Visitors to the lying-in-room give presents to the midwife when the child is handed to them, especially if it is the first-born one. A month after birth, the babe, nicely dressed and with tiny garlands of acorus calamus (wadakaha) and allium sativum (sudu lûnu) tied round its wrists and lamp-black applied under the eye-brows, is for the first time brought out to see the light of day (dottavadanavâ); and it is made to look at a lamp placed in the centre of a mat or table, with cakes (kevum) made of rice-flour, jaggery, and cocoanut oil, plantains, rice boiled with cocoanut milk (kiribat), and other eatables placed around it. The midwife then hands round the little child to the relatives and gets some presents for herself. The rite of eating rice (indul katagânavâ or bat kavanavâ) is gone through when the child is seven months old; the same eatables are spread on a plantain-leaf with different kinds of coins, and the child placed among them; what it first touches is carefully observed, and if it be kiribat it is considered very auspicious. The father or grandfather places a few grains of rice in the child's mouth, and the name that is used at home (bat nama) is given on that day. The astrologer, who has already cast the infant's horoscope and has informed the parents of its future, is consulted for a lucky day and hour for the performance of the above observances. The children are allowed to run in complete nudity till about five years and their heads are fully shaved when young; a little of the hair first cut is carefully preserved. From an early age a boy is sent every morning to the pansala, where the village priest keeps his little school, till a certain course of reading is completed and he is old enough to assist the father in the fields. The first day he is taught the alphabet a rite is celebrated (at pot tiyanava), when a platform is erected, and on it are placed sandal-wood, a light, resin, kiribat, kevum, and other forms of rice cakes as an offering to Ganêsâ, the god of wisdom, and the remover of all obstacles and difficulties. At a lucky hour the pupil washes the feet of his future guru, offers him betel, worships him, and receives the book, which he has to learn, at his hands, and, as the first letters of the alphabet are repeated by him after his master, a husked cocoanut is cut in two as an invocation to Ganêsâ. A girl is less favoured and has to depend for her literary education on her mother or an elder sister; more attention, however, is paid to teach her the domestic requirements of cooking, weaving and knitting, which will make her a good wife. On the attainment of the years of puberty by a girl she is confined to a room, no male being allowed to see her or be seen by her. After two weeks she is taken out with her face covered and bathed at the back of the house by the female inmates, except little girls and widows, with the assistance of the family laundress, who takes all the jewellry on the maiden's person. Near the bathing-place are kept branches of any milk-bearing tree, usually of the jak tree. On her return from her purification, her head and face, still covered, she goes three times round a mat having on it kiribat, plantains, seven kinds of curries, rice, cocoanuts, and, in the centre, a lamp With seven lighted wicks; and as she does she pounds with a pestle some paddy scattered round the provisions. Next, she removes the covering, throws it on to the dhôbî (washerwoman) and, after making obeisance to the lamp and, putting out its wicks by clapping her hands, presents the laundress with money placed on a betel leaf. She is then greeted by her relatives, who are usually invited to a feast, and is presented by them with valuable trinkets. Everything that was made use of for the ceremony is given to the washerwoman. In some cases, till the period of purification is over, the maiden is kept in a separate hut which is afterwards burnt down. Girls who have arrived at the age of puberty are not allowed to remain alone, as devils may possess them and drive them mad; and till three months have elapsed no fried food of any sort is given to them. The 'shaving of the beard' is the rite the young man has to go through, it is performed at a lucky hour and usually takes place a few days before marriage; the barber here plays the important part the laundress did in the other. The shavings are put into a cup, and the person operated on, as well as his relatives who have been invited, put money into it; this is taken by the barber; and the former are thrown on to a roof that they may not be trampled upon. Marriages are arranged between two families by a relative or a trusted servant of one of them, who, if successful, is handsomely rewarded by both parties. The chances of success depend on the state of the horoscopes of the two intended partners, their respectability which forms a very important factor in the match, the dowry which used to consist of agricultural implements, a few head of cattle, and domestic requisites, together with a small sum of money to set the couple going, and, if connected, the distance of relationship. Two sisters' or brothers' children are rarely allowed to marry, but the solicitation of a mother's brother's or father's sister's son is always preferred to that of any other. A few days before the marriage, the two families, in their respective hamlets, send a messenger from house to house to ask, by presenting betel, the fellow-villagers of their own caste for a breakfast; and the guests bring with them presents in money. Only few, however, are invited to the wedding; and the party of the bridegroom, consisting of two groomsmen, an attendant carrying a talipot shade over him, musicians, pingo-bearers, relatives and friends, arrives in the evening at the bride's village and halts at a distance from her house. A messenger is then sent in advance with a few pingo-loads of plantains, and with betel-leaves equal in number to the guests, to inform of their arrival; and when permission is received to proceed, generally by the firing of a jingal, they advance, and are received with all marks of honour; white cloth is spread all the way by the washerwoman, and at the entrance a younger brother of the bride washes the bridegroom's feet and receives a ring as a present. A sum of money is paid to the dhôbi (washerwoman) as a recompense for her services. They are then entertained with music, food and betel till the small hours of the morning, when the marriage ceremony commences. The bride and bridegroom are raised by two of their maternal uncles on to a dais covered with white cloth, and having on it a heap of raw rice, cocoanuts, betel leaves and coins. A white jacket and a cloth to wear are presented by the bridegroom to the bride; betel and balls of boiled rice are exchanged; their thumbs are tied together by a thread, and, while water is poured on their hands from a spouted vessel by the bride's father, certain benedictory verses are recited. Last of all, a web of white cloth is presented by the bridegroom to the bride's mother; and it is divided among her relatives. In connection with this presentation it is said that if the mother-in-law be dead, the web should be left in a thicket hard by to appease her spirit. On the day after the wedding the married couple return to their future home with great rejoicing, and on their entering the house a husked cocoanut is cut in two on the threshold. The tokens of virginity are observed by the bridegroom's mother, and the visit of the parents and relatives of the bride a few days after completes the round of ceremonies. There is a peculiar custom fast disappearing, and almost totally extinct, called Kula Kanavâ, that is, making one respectable by eating with him. If a member of a family makes a mésalliance he is cast out of his clan, and should he want his children and himself to be recognized and taken back by the relatives, the latter are induced to attend and partake of a feast given by him at his house. The 'making up' takes place when very many years have elapsed, and only if the wife who was the cause of the breach is dead. The difference due to marriage with another caste or nationality is never healed up. Even in the presence of death, ceremonies are not wanting; if the dying patient is known to have been fond of his earthly belongings, and seems to delay in quitting this life, a few pieces of his furniture are washed and a little drop of the water given to him. A lamp is kept burning near the corpse, the body is washed before burial and a piece of cotton or a betel-leaf is put into its mouth. All the time the body is in the house nothing is cooked, and the inmates eat the food supplied by their neighbours (adukku). No one of the same village is told of the death, but all are expected to attend the funeral; the outlying villages, however, are informed by a relative who goes from house to house conveying the sad news. The visitors are given seats covered with white cloth; and the betel for them to chew are offered with the backs of the leaves upwards as an indication of sorrow. Some times only the relatives come, while friends leave betel at a distance from the house and go away fearing pollution. It may be observed that, according to the Sinhalese belief, pollution is caused by the attaining of puberty by a maiden which lasts fourteen days; by the monthly flow of a woman which lasts till she bathes; by child-birth which lasts one month; and by death which lasts three months. Friends and relatives salute the body with their hands clasped in the attitude of prayer, and only the members of the family kiss it. The route along which the funeral proceeds is previously strewn with white sand, and the coffin is carried by the closest relatives, with the cloth to be given to the priests for celebrating the service thrown on it, over white foot-cloth spread by the dhôbi, and preceded by the tom-tom beaters with muffled drums. Lights are carried by the coffin and a shade is held over the head of it. The service commences with the intoning of the three Refugees of Buddhism and the Five Vows of abstinence by one of the priests, and they are repeated after by those present, all squatting on the ground. The cloth, referred to, is then given to be touched by the bystanders in order to partake of the merits of the almsgiving; one end of it is placed on the coffin, and the other is held by the priests. They recite three times the Pali verse that all organic and inorganic matter are impermanent, that their nature is to be born and die, and that cessation of existence is happiness; and while water is poured from a spouted vessel into a cup or basin, they chant the lines that the fruits of charity reach the departed even as swollen rivers fill the ocean and the rain-water that falls on hill-tops descends to the plain. A short ex tempore speech by a priest on the virtues of the deceased completes the service. If it be a burial, the grave is by the roadside of the garden with a thatched covering over it. Two lights are lit at the head and the foot of the mound, the bier in which the coffin was carried is placed over it, and a young tree planted to mark its site. In a cremation, the coffin is first carried with music three times round the pyre, and the latter is set fire to by the sons or nephews with their faces turned away from it. Those assembled leave when the pyre is half burnt; and, on the following day, or a few days after, the ashes are collected and buried in the garden of the deceased, over which a column is erected, or they are thrown into the nearest stream. The party bathe before returning to the house, and are supplied by the dhôbi with newly-washed clothes; during their absence the house is well cleansed and purified by the sprinkling of water mixed with cow-dung; and the visitors before leaving partake of a meal either brought from some neighbour's or cooked after the body had been removed. CHAPTER XIII. OCCUPATIONS AND INDUSTRIES. In the olden time, people were occupied according to their caste, but now they pursue any vocation they choose, carefully avoiding the inauspicious hours. One man works at his field or goes hunting and honey gathering; a second fishes at the village stream with a rod made of the midrib of the kitul leaf; a third slings his basket of garden produce at the ends of a kitul shaft and carries them on his shoulders to towns or village fairs; a fourth climbs the palm trees with his ankles encircled by a ring of cocoanut leaf and picks the fruit with his hand; a fifth taps for toddy the blossoms of several cocoanut trees by coupling their crowns with stout ropes to walk upon and the straight boughs with smaller ropes to support himself; a sixth brings for sale from the county straw and firewood in single or double bullock carts and a seventh transports cocoanuts, salt, and dried fish to centres of trade by pack bullocks or in flat bottomed boats. The women either make molasses from the unfermented toddy; or plait mats of dyed rushes in mazy patterns; or earn a pittance by selling on a small stand by the roadside the requisites for a chew of betel; or hawk about fruits and vegetables in baskets carried on their heads; or keep for sale, on a platform in the verandah, sweetmeats and other eatables protected from the crows which infest the place by a net; or make coir by beating out the fibre from soaked cocoanut husks; or attend to their domestic duties with a child astride their hips; or seated lull their infant child to sleep on their outstretched legs. Various ceremonies are performed in the sylvan occupations of hunting and honey gathering. "Hunting parties of the Kandian Sinhalese of the North Central Province perform a ceremony which is very similar to that of the Wanniyas [7] and Veddahs [8] when about to leave their village on one of their expeditions in the forest. Under a large shady tree they prepare a maessa, or small covered shrine, which is raised about three feet off the ground, and is open only in front; it is supported on four sticks set in the ground. In this they offer the following articles if available, or as many as possible of them:--one hundred betel leaves, one hundred arekanuts, limes, oranges, pine apples, sugar cane, a head of plantains, a cocoanut, two quarts of rice boiled specially at the site of the offering, and silver and gold. Also the flowers of the arekanut tree, the cocoanut, and ratmal tree. All are purified by lustration and incense, as usual, and dedicated. They then light a small lamp at the front of the offering, and remain there watching it until it expires, differing in this respect from the practice of the Wanniyas, who must never see the light go out. Before the light expires they perform obeisance towards the offering, and utter aloud the following prayer for the favour and protection of the forest deities, which must also be repeated every morning during the expedition, after their millet cake, gini-pûva, has been eaten, before starting for the day's hunting:-- This is for the favour of the God Ayiyanâr; for the favour of the Kiri Amma, for the favour of the Kataragama God (Skanda) for the favour of Kalu Dêvatâ; for the favour of Kambili Unnæhæ; for the favour of Ilandâri Dêvatâ Unnæhæ; for the favour of Kadavara Dêvatâ Unnæhæ; for the favour of Galê Bandâra; for the favour of the Hat Rajjuruvô. We are going to your jungle (uyana); we do not want to meet with even a single kind of [dangerous] wild animals. We do not want to meet with the tall one (elephant), the jungle watcher (bear), the animal with the head causing fear (snake), the leopard. You must blunt the thorns. We must meet with the horn bearer (sambar deer), the deer (axis), the ore full of oil (pig), the noosed one (iguâna), the storehouse (beehive). We must meet about three pingo (carrying-stick) loads of honey. By the favour of the Gods. We ask only for the sake of our bodily livelihood [9]". The jungle attached to a village was the game preserve of its inhabitants; game laws were concerned with the boundaries of the village jungle, and with rights of ownership of the game itself. One half of the game killed by a stranger belonged to the village, and the headman of the village was entitled to a leg and four or five pounds of flesh of every wild animal killed by the villagers. For regulating the time and manner of fishing in sea, old communal rules have been legalised and are now in force. Fishing with large nets (mâdel) begins about 1st October and ends by May 31st in each year; the number of boats and nets to be used in each inlet is limited; the boats and nets are registered and every registered boat and net is used in the warâya (inlets) by rotation in order of register; the turn of each net and boat begins at sunrise and ends at sunrise of the next day; the headman who supervises these is called the mannandirâle. Whenever koralebabbu, bôllo, ehelamuruvo and such other fish come into the warâya, so long as these swarm in the inlet they should be caught by rod and line and nothing else; when they are leaving the inlet, the headman in consultation with at least six fishermen appoint a date from which boru del or visi del may be used; on no account are mahadel allowed to be used [10]. Each of the boats with its nets belongs to several co-owners and "on a day's fishing the produce is drawn ashore, is divided in a sufficient number of lots, each estimated to be worth the same assigned value, and these lots are so distributed that 1-50 goes to the owner of the land on which the fish are brought to shore, 1\4 to those engaged in the labour, 1-5 for the assistance of extra nets etc., rendered by third parties in the process of landing and securing the fish, which together equal 47-100 and the remaining 53-100 go to the owners of the boat and net according to their shares therein" [11]. Owners of cattle have brand marks to distinguish the cattle of their caste and class from those of others; individual ownership is indicated by branding in addition the initial letters of the owner's name. Herdsmen who tend cattle for others are entitled in the case of the bulls and the he buffaloes they tend to their labour, in the case of cows and she buffaloes to every second third and fifth calf born, and in the case of calves to a half share interest in the young animals themselves. "At the first milking of a cow there is a ceremony called kiri ettirima. The cow is milked 3 different mornings successively, when the milk is boiled, and poured into three different vessels, till the whole is coagulated. On the fourth day, butter from each vessel is preserved in a clean basin, to form the principal part of the ceremony at a convenient time. From that day the milk may be used, but with particular care never to throw the least milk, or any water that might have washed the milk basons, out of doors. When the convenient time has arrived a bunch of plantains is prepared, cakes are baked, three pots of rice are boiled, a vegetable curry, and a condiment are prepared by an individual who must manifest all cleanness on the occasion, even to the putting a handkerchief before his mouth to present the saliva from falling into the ingredients. All these preparations are brought to an apartment swept and garnished for the purpose where the kapuva cleanly clothed enters and burns sandarac powder, muttering incantations with the intent of removing all evil supposed to rest upon the family, and of bringing down a blessing upon them and their cattle. Next the kapuva takes 7 leaves of the plantain tree and lays 5 of them in order on the table, canopied, and spread with white cloth, in honour of the gods Wiramunda deviyo, Kosgama deviyo, Pasgama deviyo, Combihamy, and Weddihamy; and the other 2 are put on piece of mat on the ground in honour of the washer and the tom tom beater supposed to have attended these supernatural beings. Over all these leaves the boiled rice from one of the pots is divided, then from the second and third. He afterwards does the same with the curry, and the condiment, cakes, plantains etc., prepared for the performance. He then pretends to repeat the same process by way of deception making a motion, and sounding the ladle on the brim of the pots, as if rice and other ingredients were apportioned the second time etc., to satisfy the gods and the two attendants. The kapuva next takes a little of every ingredient from all the leaves, both on the table and on the ground, into a cup (made of leaves), and supporting it over his head marches out from the apartment, closing its door; and he conveys it either to the fold of the cattle, or to some elevated place where he dedicates and offers it to the many thousands of the demons and their attendants who are supposed to have accompanied the above particular gods, praying them, by means of incantations, to accept the offering he has brought before them. From hence he returns to the door of the apartment he had closed, and knocking at it, as if to announce his entrance, he opens it and mutters a few more incantations, praying the gods to allow them, (including himself and the members of the family) to partake of the remnants that have been offered in their honour. After these ceremonies are performed, the kapuva, with all the rest, partakes of everything that was prepared, and the owner of the cow may from this day dispose of the milk according to his own pleasure." [12]. Rural rites differing in details in different localities are observed by the Singhalese peasantry in their agricultural pursuits. [13] In all places a lucky day for ploughing is fixed in consultation with an astrologer. It is considered unfortunate to begin work on the 1st or 2nd day of the month, and after the work is begun it must be desisted from on unlucky days such as the 7th, 8th, 9th, 13th, 14th and 21st. Sowing is also commenced at a lucky day and hour pronounced by the astrologer to be the most favourable. In a corner of the field, on a mound of mud where are placed a ginger or a habarala plant (arum maculatum), a cocoanut or an areka flower and some saffron, is sown a handful of the first seed and dedicated to the gods; and after that the entire field is sown. To drive away insects from the growing rice, charm-lamps are lighted at the four corners of the field or a worm is enclosed in a charmed orange and buried there or a fly or grub is fumigated with charmed resin smoke and bidden to depart or a cultivator sounds a charmed bell metal plate with a kaduru stick crying to the flies "yan yanta" (please go). When the reaping time comes the portion of rice dedicated to the gods is first reaped by some person who is not a member of the proprietor's family. It is kept apart on an elevated place till the reaping of the rest of the field is done when it is cooked and ceremonially offered to the kapurâla. The threshing is done on a floor specially prepared; when the crop is ripe a small pit is made in the centre of the threshing floor in which are placed a margosa plant, and a conch shell containing a piece of the tolabu plant (crinum asiaticum) and of the hiressa (vitis cissus quadrangularis), a piece of metal, charcoal and a small grain sheaf. Besting on these is an ellipsoidal luck stone (arakgala), round which are traced with ashes three concentric circles bisected by lines and in the segments are drawn representations of a broom, a scraper, a flail, a measure, agricultural implements and Buddha's foot print. At the lucky hour the cultivator walks three times round the inner circles of the threshing floor with a sheaf on his head, bowing to the centre stone at east, north, west and south and casts down the sheaf on the centre stone prostrating himself. The rest of the sheaves are then brought in and the threshing begins. The harvest is brought down on a full moon day and some of the new paddy is husked, pounded, boiled with milk and offered to the gods in a dêvala or on a temporary altar under a tree by the field, and followed by a general feasting. Persons cultivating their fields with their own cattle, implements, seed paddy and the like receive the whole produce less the payments of the watchers (waravêri) and the perquisites of the headman. When the fields are given out to be cultivated for a share of the produce, if the field owner supplies the cultivator with the cattle, implements of labour, and seed paddy the produce is divided equally by the owner and the cultivator; if the field owner supplies nothing he only gets 1\4 of the produce. When an allotment of field is owned by several co-owners, it is cultivated alternately on a complicated system called tattumâru [14]. There is a jargon used in Ceylon by hunters and pilgrims travelling in forests [15], by the outcaste rodiyas who go about begging and thieving [16]; and by cultivators while working in their fields [17]. This jargon has many words used by the Veddahs [18]. CHAPTER XIV. FESTIVALS. The entering of the sun into Aries is celebrated as the new year's day; the ephemeris of the year is drawn up by the village astrologer and the necessary information for the observance of the festive rites is obtained by presenting him with sweetmeats and a bundle of forty betel leaves. As the sun is moving into the sign Aries all cease from work and either visit temples or indulge in games till a lucky moment arrives when every family welcomes the new year with the strains of the rabâna. Special kinds of sweetmeats and curries are cooked and eaten, cloth of the colour recommended by the astrologer are worn, calls exchanged, the headman visited with pingo-loads of presents, and a commencement made of the usual daily work. At an appointed hour, the people anoint themselves with an infusion of oil, kokun leaves (swietenia febrifugia), kalânduru yams (Cyprus rotundus) and nelli fruits (Phylanthus emblica) and an elder of the family rubs a little of it on the two temples, on the crown of the head, and on the nape of the neck of each member, saying:-- Kalu kaputan sudu venaturu Ehela kanu liyalana turu Gerandianta an enaturu Ekasiya vissata desiya vissak Maha Brahma Râjayâ atinya Âyibôvan âyibôvan âyibôvan. "This (anointing) is done by the hand of Maha Brâhma; long life to you, long life to you, long life to you! may you, instead of the ordinary period of life, viz., 120 years, live for 220 years; till rat-snakes obtain horns, till posts of the Ehela tree (Cassia fistula) put on young shoots, and till black crows put on a plumage white." While being annointed the person faces a particular direction, having over his head leaves sacred to the ruling planet of the day, and at his feet those sacred to the regent of the previous day. For each of the days of the week, beginning with Sunday, belong respectively the cotton tree (imbul), the wood-apple (diwul), the Cochin gamboge (kollan), the margosa (kohomba), the holy fig-tree (bo) Galidupa arborea (karanda) and the banyan (nuga). This rite is followed by the wearing of new clothes, after a bath in an infusion of screw-pine (wetake), Suffa acutangula (wetakolu), Evolvulus alsinoides (Vishnu-krânti), Aristolochia indica (sapsanda), Crinum zeylanicum (godamânel), roots of citron (nasnâranmul), root of Aegle marmelos (belimul), stalk of lotus, (nelum dandu), Plectranthus zeylanicus (irivériya), Cissompelos convolvulus (getaveni-vel) Heterepogon hirtus (îtana) and bezoar stone (gorôchana). This festival is also observed at the Buddhist temples when milk is boiled at their entrances and sprinkled on the floor. The birthday of the Founder of Buddhism is celebrated on the full-moon day of May (wesak). Streets are lined with bamboo arches, which are decorated with the young leaves of the cocoanut-palm; tall superstructures (toran) gaily adorned with ferns and young king cocoanuts bridge highways at intervals; lines of flags of various devices and shapes are drawn from tree to tree; booths are erected at every crossing where hospitality is freely dispensed to passers-by; and at every rich house the poor are fed and alms given to Buddhist priests. Processions wend their way from one temple to another with quaintly-shaped pennons and banners, and in the intervals of music cries of sâdhu, sâdhu, are raised by the pilgrims. The Kandy Perahera Mangalaya, begins at a lucky hour on the first day after the new moon. "A jack-tree, the stem of which is three spans in circumference, is selected beforehand for each of the four déwâla--the Kataragama, Nâtha, Saman, and Pattini; and the spot where it stands is decorated and perfumed with sandalwood, frankincense, and burnt resin, and a lighted lamp with nine wicks is placed at the foot of the tree. At the lucky hour a procession of elephants, tom-tom beaters and dancers proceed to the spot, the tree is cut down by one of the tenants (the wattôrurâla) with an axe, and it is trimmed, and its end is pointed by another with an adze. It is then carried away in procession and placed in a small hole in a square of slab rock, buried in the ground or raised platform in the small room at the back of the déwâla. It is then covered with a white cloth. During the five following days the procession is augmented by as many elephants, attendants, dancers, tom-tom beaters and flags as possible; and it makes the circuit of the temples at stated periods. The processions of the several temples are then joined by one from the Daladâ, Mâligâva (the temple of the Sacred Tooth of Buddha), and together they march round the main streets of Kandy at fixed hours during the five days next ensuing. On the sixth day, and for five days more, four palanquins--one for each déwâla are added to the procession, containing the arms and dresses of the gods; and on the last day the bowl of water (presently to be explained) of the previous year, and the poles cut down on the first day of the ceremony. On the night of the fifteenth and last day, the Perahera is enlarged to the fullest limits which the means of the several temples will permit, and at a fixed hour, after its usual round, it starts for a ford in the river near Kandy, about three miles distant from the temple of the Sacred Tooth. The procession from the Mâligâva, however, stops at a place called the Adâhana Maluwa, and there awaits the return of the others. The ford is reached towards dawn, and here the procession waits until the lucky hour (generally about 5 A. M.) approaches. A few minutes before its arrival the chiefs of the four temples, accompanied by a band of attendants, walk down in Indian file under a canopy of linen and over cloth spread on the ground to the waterside. They enter a boat and are punted up the river close to the bank for some thirty yards. Then at a given signal (i. e., at the advent of the lucky hour) the four jack poles are thrown into the river by the men on shore, while each of the four chiefs, with an ornamental silver sword, cuts a circle in the water; at the same time one attendant takes up a bowl of water from the circle, and another throws away last year's supply. The boat then returns to the shore, the procession goes back to Kandy, the bowls of water are placed reverently in the several déwâla, to remain there until the following year; and the Perahera is at an end." [19] During the time of the kings, it was on this occasion that the provincial governors gave an account of their stewardship to their over-lord and had their appointments renewed by him. When the rainy months of August, September and October are over and the Buddhist monks return to their monasteries from their vas retreats, is held the Festival of Lights (Kârtika Mangalya). The Buddhist temples are illuminated on the full moon day of November by small oil-lamps placed in niches of the walls specially made for them; in the olden times all the buildings were bathed in a blaze of light, the Royal Palace the best of all, with the oil presented to the king by his subjects. This festival is now confined to Kandy. The Alut Sâl Mangalya, the festival of New Rice, is now celebrated to any appreciable extent only in the Kandian Provinces, the last subdued districts of the island. In the villages the harvest is brought home by pingo-bearers on the full-moon day of January with rural jest and laughter, and portions of it are given to the Buddhist priest, the barber and the dhobi of the village; next the new paddy is husked, and kiribat dressed out of it. In the capital, in the time of the kingdom, this festival lasted for four days; "on the first evening the officers of the royal stores and of the temples proceeded in state from the square before the palace to the crown villages from which the first paddy was to be brought. Here the ears of paddy and the new rice were packed up for the temples the palace and the royal stores by the Gabadânilamés and their officers. The ears of paddy carefully put into new earthenware pots and the grain into clean bags, were attached to pingos. Those for the Mâligâva (where the Sacred Tooth was kept) were conveyed on an elephant for the temples by men marching under canopies of white cloth; and those for the palace and royal stores by the people of the royal villages of respectable caste, well dressed; and with apiece of white muslin over their mouths to guard against impurity. This procession, starting on the evening of the next day (full-moon day) from the different farms under a salute of jingals and attended by flags, tom-tom beaters, etc., was met on the way by the 2nd Adigar and a large number of chiefs at some distance from the city. From thence all went to the great square to wait for the propitious hour, at the arrival of which, announced by a discharge of jingals, the procession entered the Mâligâva where the distribution for the different temples was made. At the same fortunate hour the chiefs and the people brought home their new rice. On the next morning the king or governor received his portion consisting of the new rice and a selection of all the various vegetable productions of the country, which were tasted at a lucky hour." [20] CHAPTER XV. GAMES, SPORTS AND PASTIMES. On festive days itinerant songmen amuse the village folk at open places and greens; they keep time to a dance by skilfully whirling metal-plates or small tambourines on their fingers or pointed stakes, by striking together sticks, by tossing earthen pots up in the air and catching them and they eulogize the hamlet and its people in extempore couplets with the refrain, "tana tanamda tânênâ, tanâ, tamda, tânênâ, tana tanamda, tana tanamda, tana tanamda, tânênâ." The people also enjoy themselves on the merry-go-round (katuru onchillâva)--a large revolving wheel on a tall wooden superstructure with seats attached; at theatrical representations called kôlan netum, rûkada netum, and nâdagam; at games of skill and at divers forms of outdoor games. Kôlan netuma is a series of mimetic dances of a ludicrous character by actors dressed like animals and demons, wearing masks and sometimes perched on high stilts. The rûkada netuma is a marionette show of the ordinary incidents of village life--usually of the adventures of a married couple, a hevârala (a militia guard) and his wife Kadiragoda lamayâ; the former goes to the wars and returns with his eyes and ears off only to be beaten by his wife who soon after falls ill with labour pains, and devil dancers are requisitioned to relieve her; Pinnagoda râla is the clown of the show. The nâdagama is a dramatic play and for its performance a circular stage is erected with an umbrella-shaped tent over it; round it sits the audience, who, though admitted free, willingly contribute something into the collection-box brought by the clown (kônangiya) at the end of the play. Before the drama begins, each of the actors, in tinselled costume, walks round the stage singing a song appropriate to his character. The piece represented is based on a popular tale or an historical event. Games of skill and chance are played on boards made for that purpose. [21] In Olinda Keliya a board having seven holes a side is used; only two can take part in the game, and each in turn places olinda seeds (abrus precatorius) in the holes and the object of the opponent is to capture the other's seeds according to certain rules. [22] In Pancha Keliya dice and six cowries are used; the latter are taken into the player's hand and dropped, and the shells which fall on the reverse side are counted and the dice moved an equal number of places on the board and the game continues till all the dice reach the other end of the board. In Deeyan Keliya sixteen dice representing cows and four dice representing tigers are placed on a board and the cows have to get from one side to the other without being intercepted and captured by the tigers. Some of the outdoor games played by adults are of the ordinary kind, and others of a semi-religious significance. The ordinary outdoor games are Buhu Keliya, Pandu Keliya, Lunu Keliya, Muttê, Hâlmelê and Tattu penille. In Buhu Keliya there are several players who place their balls, (made of any bulbous root hardened and boiled till it becomes like rubber), round a pole firmly fixed to the ground; to this pole is attached a string about 5 feet long held by a player whose endeavour is to prevent the others getting possession of the balls without being touched. The person touched takes the place of the guarding player and when all the balls are taken away the last guard is pelted with them till he finds safety in a spot previously agreed upon. In Pandu Keliya the players form into two sides, taking their stand 100 yards apart with a dividing line between; the leader of one party throws a ball up and as it comes down beats it with his open palm and sends the ball over the line to the opposing side. If the other party fails to beat or kick it back, they must take their stand where the ball fell and the leader of their party throws the ball to the other side in the same way. This goes on till one party crosses the boundary line and drives the other party back. In Lunu Keliya there are two sets of players occupying the two sides of a central goal (lunu) about 30 or 40 yards from it; a player from one side has to start from the goal, touch a player of the other side and regain the goal holding up his breath; if he fails he goes out and this goes on till the side which has the greatest number of successful runners at the end is declared the winner. In Mutté (rounders) a post is erected as a goal, and one of the players stands by it and has a preliminary conversation with the others:-- Q.--Kîkkiyô. A.--Muddarê. Q.--Dehikatuvada batukatuvada--Is it a lime-thorn or a brinjal-thorn? A.--Batukatuva--Brinjal-thorn. Q.--Man endada umba enavada--should I come or would you come? A.--Umbamavaren--you had better come. As soon as the last word is uttered, the questioner gives chase, and the others dodge him and try to reach the post without being touched; the one who is first touched becomes the pursuer. In Halmele there is no saving post, but the area that the players have to run about is circumscribed; the pursuer hops on one leg and is relieved by the person who first leaves the circle or is first touched. Before starting he cries out--Hâlmelé A.--Kanakabaré. Q.--Enda hondê? (May I come?). A.--Bohama hondayi (All right). In Tattu penilla also called Mahason's leap, a figure in the shape of H is drawn; a player guards each line and the others have to jump across them and return without being touched; it is optional to leap over the middle line and is only attempted by the best players, as the demon Mahason himself is supposed to guard it. The outdoor games with a semi-religious significance are Polkeliya, Dodankeliya and ankeliya. In Pol Keliya the villagers divide themselves into two factions called yatipila and udupila and the leaders of the two parties take a fixed number of husked cocoanuts and place themselves at a distance of 30 feet and one bowls a nut at his adversary who meets it with another in his hand. This goes on till the receiver's nut is broken when he begins to bowl. The side which exhausts the nuts of the other party is declared the winner. Dodan Keliya is a game similar to the Pol Keliya the oranges taking the place of the cocoanuts. In An Keliya a trunk of a tree is buried at the centre of an open space of ground; a few yards off is placed the log of a cocoanut tree about 20 feet high in a deep hole large enough for it to move backwards and forwards and to the top of it thick ropes are fastened. The villagers divide themselves into two parties as in Pol Keliya, and bring two forked antlers which they hook together and tying one to the foot of the trunk and the other to that of the log pull away with all their might till one of them breaks. In all these semi-religious games the winning party goes in procession round the village and the defeated side has to undergo a lot of abuse and insult intended to remove the bad effects of the defeat. Children in addition to their swings, tops, bamboo pop-guns, cut water, bows and arrows, water squirts, cat's cradles and bull roarers have their own special games. They play at hide and seek, the person hiding giving a loud 'hoo' call that the others may start the search; or one of them gets to an elevated place and tauntingly cries out "the king is above and the scavenger below" and the others try to drag him down. Several children hold their hands together forming a line and one of them representing a hare comes running from a distance and tries to break through without being caught; or one of them becomes a cheetah and the rest form a line of goats holding on to each other's back. The cheetah addresses the foremost goat saying "eluvan kannayi man âvê." (I have come to eat the goats) and tries to snatch away one of the players at the back; who avoids his clutches singing "elubeti kapiya sundire" (go and eat the tasty goat dung); if one is caught he has to hold on to the back of the cheetah and the game continues till all are snatched away. When the children are indoors they amuse themselves in various ways. They hold the backs of each other's hands with their thumb and fore-finger, move them up and down singing "kaputu kâk kâk kâk, goraka dên dên dên, amutu vâv vâv vâv, dorakada gahê puvak puvak, batapandurê bulat bulat, usi kaputâ, usî," and let go each other's hold at the end of the jingle, which means that "crows swinging on a gamboge-tree (goraka) take to their wings when chased away (usi, usi), and there are nuts in the areca-tree by the house and betel-creepers in the bamboo-grove." They also close their fists and keep them one over the other, pretending to form a cocoanut-tree; the eldest takes hold of each hand in turn, asks its owner, "achchiyé achchiyé honda pol gediyak tiyanavâ kadannada?" (grandmother, grandmother, there is a good cocoanut, shall I pluck it); and, when answered, "Oh, certainly" (bohoma hondayi), brings it down. A mimetic performance of husking the nuts, breaking them, throwing out the water, scraping the pulp and cooking some eatable follows this. They twist the fingers of the left hand, clasp them with the right, leaving only the finger-tips visible and get each other to pick out the middle finger. They take stones or seeds into their hands and try to guess the number, or they take them in one hand, throw them up, catch them on the back of the hand, and try to take them back to the palm. They keep several seeds or stones in front of them, throw one up and try to catch it after picking up as many seeds or stones as possible from the ground. They hold the fingers of their baby brothers saying "this says he is hungry, this says what is to be done, this says let us eat, this says who will pay, this says though I am the smallest I will pay" and then tickle them saying "han kutu." They keep their hands one over the other, the palm downwards, and the leader strokes each hand saying, "Aturu muturu, demita muturu Râjakapuru hetiyâ aluta genâ manamâli hâl atak geralâ, hiyala getat bedâla pahala getat bedâlâ, us us daramiti péliyayi, miti miti daramiti péliyayi, kukalâ kapalâ dara pillê, kikili kapalâ veta mullê, sangan pallâ," (Aturu muturu demita muturu; the new bride that the merchant, Râjakapuru, brought, having taken a handful of rice, cleansed it and divided it to the upper and lower house; a row of tall faggots; a row of short faggots; the cock that is killed is on the threshold; the hen that is killed is near the fence; sangan pallâ); one hand is next kept on the owner's forehead and the other at the stomach and the following dialogue ensues:-- Q.--Nalalé monavâda--What is on the forehead? A.--Le--Blood. Q.--Elwaturen hêduvâda--Did you wash it in cold water? A.--Ov--Yes. Q.--Giyâda--Did it come off? A.--Nê--No. Q.--Kiren hêduvâda--Did you wash it in milk? A.--Ov--Yes. Q.--Giyâda--Did it come off? A.-Ov--Yes. (The hand on the forehead is now taken down). Q.--Badêinne mokada--What is at your stomach? A.--Lamayâ--A child. Q.--Eyi andannê--why is it crying? A.--Kiri batuyi netuva--For want of milk and rice. Q.--Kô man dunna kiri batuyi--Where is the milk and rice I gave? A.--Ballayi belalî kêvâ--The dog and the cat ate it. Q.--Kô ballayi belali--Where is the dog and the cat? A.--Lindê vetuna--They fell into the well. Q.--Kô linda--Where is the well? A.--Goda keruvâ--It was filled up. Q.--Kô goda--Where is the spot? A.--Ândiyâ pela hittevvâ,--There ândiyâ plants were planted. Q.--Kô ândiyâ pela--Where are the ândiyâ plants? A.--Dêvâ--They were burnt. Q.--Kô alu--Where are the ashes? A.--Tampalâ vattata issâ--They were thrown into the tampalâ (Nothosocruva brachiata) garden. Then the leader pinches the other's cheek and jerks his head backward and forward singing "Tampalâ kâpu hossa genen (give me the jaw that ate the tampalâ). CHAPTER XVI. STORIES. Story telling is the intellectual effort of people who have little used or have not acquired the art of writing. A story is told for amusement by mothers to their children, or by one adult to another, while guarding their fields at night in their watch hut or before lying down to sleep after their night meal. At each pause during the narration, the listener has to say "hum" as an encouragement to the narrator that he is listening; and every tale begins with the phrase "eka mathaka rata" (in a country that one recalls to mind) and ends with the statement that the heroes of the Story settled down in their country and the narrator returned home. Stories are roughly classified as (1) myths, (2) legends and (3) folk tales. (1) "The myth," says Gomme, "is the recognisable explanation of some natural phenomenon, some forgotten or unknown object of human origin, or some event of lasting influence." The crow and the king crow were uncle and nephew in the olden time; they once laid a wager as to who could fly the highest, each carrying a weight with him, and the winner was to have the privilege of knocking the loser on the head; the crow selected some cotton as the lightest material, while his nephew carried a bag of salt as the clouds looked rainy. On their way up, rain fell and made the crow's weight heavier and impeded his flight while it diminished the king crow's burden who won the victory and still knocks the crow on his head. The water fowl once went to his uncle's and got a load of arekanuts to sell; he engaged some geese to carry them to the waterside and hired a wood pecker's boat to ferry them over; the boat capsized and sank and the cargo was lost, the geese deformed their necks by carrying the heavy bags, the wood pecker is in search of wood to make another boat and the waterfowl still complains of the arekanuts he had lost. (2) A legend is a narrative of things which are believed to have happened about a historical personage, locality or event. A cycle of legend has clustered round king Dutugemunu who rolled back the Tamil invasion of Ceylon in the 4th Century B. C., and he is to the Singhalese peasantry what king Arthur has been to the Celts. The old chronicles, based on the folklore of an earlier period, place his traditional exploits in Magam Pattu, Uva and Kotmale. His mother was Vihâre Devi; she was set afloat in a golden casket by her father Kelani Tissa to appease the gods of the sea, who, incensed by a sacrilege act of his, were submerging his principality of Kelaniya; the princess drifted to the country of Hambantota and its ruler Kavantissa rescued her and made her his queen. The coast on which she landed is still remembered as Durâva and has the ruins of a vihare built to commemorate her miraculous escape. Dutugemunu was her eldest son and when she was pregnant she longed to give as alms to the Buddhist priesthood a honey comb as large as an ox, to bathe in the water which had washed the sword with which a Tamil warrior had been killed, and to wear unfaded waterlilies brought from the marshes of Anuradapura. The town of Negombo supplied the first and the warrior Velusumana procured the other two. Astrologers were consulted as to the meaning of these longings and they predicted, to quote the words of the old chronicler "the queen's son destroying the Damilas, and reducing the country under one sovereignty, will make the religion of the land shine forth again." When Dutugemunu was a lad, he was banished from his father's court for disobedience and he passed his youth among the peasantry of Kotmale till his father's death made him the ruler of Ruhuna. Dutugemunu had a band of ten favourite warriors, all of whom have independent legends attached to their names; along with them, riding on his favourite elephant Sedol, he performed wonders in 28 pitched battles. He died at an advanced age, disappointed in his only son Sali, who gave up the throne for a low caste beauty. The peasantry still awaits the re-birth of Dutugemunu as the chief disciple of the future Maitri Buddha. (3) A folk tale is a story told mainly for amusement, deals with ideas and episodes of primitive life and includes elfin tales, beast tales, noodle tales, cumulative tales and apologues. Elfin tales deal with the magical powers and the cannibalistic nature of the Râkshas. A Gamarala's wife, while expecting a baby, weaves a mat bag to collect the kekira melons when the season is on. The Gamarâla goes out every day, enjoys the kekira himself without informing his wife that the melons are ripe. The wife discovers that the kekira is ripe from a seed on the Gamarala's beard. Both go out to collect the kekira melons and fill the mat bag, when the wife gives birth to a girl. They decide to carry the bag of kekira home and throw the child into the woods as it is a girl. A male and female crane see this and carry the child to a cave. The cranes get a parrot, a dog and a cat to be companions of the girl who all grow up together and the girl is called 'sister' by the pets. The cranes leave the girl to dive for some pearls to adorn her and before departing advise her not to leave the cave as there is a cannibalistic Rakshi in the woods; they also ask her to manure the plantain tree with ash, to water the murunga tree and to feed her pets especially the cat. The cat gets a less allowance of food than usual and in anger puts out the fire by urinating on it. The girl goes out to fetch fire and comes to the Rakshi's cave and meets her daughter, who tries to keep the girl till her mother comes by promising to give her fire, if she would bring water from the well, break firewood and pound two pots of amu seed. The girl does all this work before the Rakshi arrives and the daughter gives her live coals in a cocoanut shell with a hole in it, so that the ashes dropped all along her way. On the Rakshi's return she is told of the girls' departure and she follows up the ash track and reaches the cave. The Rakshi sings out to the girl that the crane father and crane mother have come with the pearls and to open the door. The dog and the cat warn her from the outside and the Rakshi kills them and goes away leaving her thumb nails fixed to the lintel and her toe nails to the threshold. The cranes return and on the parrot's advice the girl opens the door and comes out but gets fixed by the nails and swoons away. The cranes think she is dead, but on removal of the nails the girl recovers. They dress up the girl beautifully, cover her with a scab covered cloth, tell her that she is too grown up to live with them and bid her farewell. The girl travels through the woods, becomes tired and meets the Rakshi; she asks the Rakshi to eat her up but the Rakshi contemptuously passes her by saying "I do not want to eat a scab covered girl; I am going to eat a beautiful princess." The girl arrives at a king's palace and is employed as a help mate to the cook. She used to remove her scab covered cloth only when she went out to bathe, and a man on a kitul tree tapping for toddy saw her beauty and informed the king who forced her with threats to remove her scab covering and married her. In beast tales the actors are animals who speak and act like human beings. A hare and a jackal sweep a house-compound; they find two pumpkin seeds and plant them; the jackal waters his creeper with urine and the hare waters his from the well; the jackal's creeper dies; the hare generously agrees to share the pumpkin with his friend; the jackal proposes a ruse to obtain the other requisites for their meal; the hare lays himself on the road as if dead; pingo bearers pass carrying firewood, cocoanuts, rice, pots; as each pingo carrier passes, the jackal cries out "keep that pingo down and take away the dead hare; as they do so the hare scampers away and the jackal runs away with the pingos; the jackal places the food on the fire and asks the hare to fetch stalkless kenda leaves, the hare goes in search and the jackal cooks and eats the whole meal leaving a few grains of rice for the hare; the jackal places a cocoanut husk under his tail to act as a stopper for his over-filled stomach; the hare returns without the leaves and shares the remnants of the meal with the jackal; at the jackal's request the hare strokes the jackal's back and removes the cocoanut husk and is besmeared with excretion; the hare runs to a meadow, rolls on the grass and returns quite clean; the jackal asks him how he became so and the hare replies that the dhoby has washed him; the jackal runs to the riverside and asks the dhoby to make him also clean; the dhoby takes him by his hind legs and thwacks him on the washing stone till he dies, saying "this is the jackal who ate my fowls." The noodle tales describe the blunders of fools and foolish husbands. Twelve men went one day to cut fence sticks and they made twelve bundles. One of them inquired whether there were twelve men to carry the bundles. They agreed to count and only found eleven men. As they thought that one man was short, they went in search of him to the jungle. They met a fellow villager to whom they mentioned their loss. He arranged the bundles in one line, and the men in another and said "now you are alright; let each one take a bundle of sticks and go home" which they did as no one was missing. The people of Rayigam Korale threw stones at the moon one moonlight night to frighten it off as they thought it was coming too near and there was a danger of its burning their crops; they also cut down a kitul tree to get its pith and to prevent its falling down, one of them supported it on his shoulder and got killed. The country folks of Tumpane tried to carry off a well because they saw a bee's nest reflected in the water; the men of Maggona did the same but ran away on seeing their shadows in the well. The Moravak Korale boatmen mistook a bend in the river for the sea, left their cargo there and returned home; and the Pasdum Korale folk spread mats for elephants to walk upon. In cumulative tales there is a repetition of the incidents till the end when the whole story is recapitulated. A bird laid two eggs which got enclosed between two large stones. The bird asked a mason to split open the stones; the mason refused and the bird, asked a wild boar to destroy the mason's paddy crop. The wild boar refused and the bird asked a hunter to shoot the wild boar. The hunter refused and the bird asked the elephant to kill the hunter as the hunter will not shoot the wild boar and the wild boar will not destroy the mason's paddy, and the mason will not split open the stones. The bird asked a bloodsucker to creep into the elephant's trunk, but the bloodsucker declined. The bird then asked a wild-fowl to peck at the bloodsucker as the bloodsucker would not creep up the elephant's trunk, as the elephant would not kill the hunter; as the hunter would not shoot the wild boar, as the wild boar would not destroy the paddy crop of the mason who would not split the stones which enclosed the birds' eggs. The wild-fowl refused and the bird asked a jackal to eat the wild-fowl. The jackal began to eat the fowl, the fowl began to peck at the bloodsucker, the bloodsucker began to creep up the elephants' trunk; the elephant began to attack the hunter; the hunter began to shoot at the wild boar; the boar began to eat the mason's paddy; the mason began to split the stones, and the bird gained access to her two eggs. Apologues are narratives with a purpose, they point a moral and are serious in tone. The moral "be upright to the upright; be kind to the kind, and dishonest to the deceitful" is illustrated by the following tale. A certain man having accidentally found a golden pumpkin gave it to a friend for safe keeping. When the owner asked for it back his friend gave him a brass one; and he went away apparently satisfied. Sometime after the friend entrusted the owner of the pumpkin with one of his sons, but when the father demanded the son back, he produced a large ape. Complaint was made to the king who ordered each men to restore what each had received from the other. CHAPTER XVII. SONGS AND BALLADS. The ordinary folk songs of the country are called sivupada and can be heard sung in a drawn out melody by the peasants labouring on their fields or watching their crops at night, by the bullock drivers as they go with their heavy laden carts; by the elephant keepers engaged in seeking fodder, by the boat men busy at their oars, by the women nursing their infants, by the children as they swing under the shady trees, and by the pilgrims on their way to some distant shrine. For rhythmic noise women and girls sit round a large tambourine placed on the ground and play on it notes representing jingle sounds like the following:-- Vatta katat katat tâ Kumbura katat katat tâ Vatta katat kumbura katat katat katat katat tâ. Attaka ratumal, attaka sudumal Elimal dolimal, rênkitul mal Rajjen tarikita rajjen tâ. Oxen are encouraged to labour in the threshing floor by songs [23] On, leader-ox, O ox-king, on, In strength the grain tread out. On, great one, yoked behind the king, In strength the grain tread out. This is not our threshing floor, The Moon-god's floor it is. This is not our threshing floor The Sun-god's floor it is. This is not our threshing floor, God Ganesha's floor it is. "On, leader ox, etc." As high as Adam's Sacred Peak, Heap the grain, O heap it up; As high as Mecca's holy shrine, Heap the grain, O heap it up; From highest and from lowest fields, Bring the grain and heap it up; High as our greatest relic shrine, O heap it up, heap it up. "On, leader ox, etc." The cart drivers still sing of a brave Singhalese chieftain who fell on the battle field:-- Pun sanda sêma pâyâlâ rata meddê Ran kendi sêma pîrâlâ pita meddê Mâra senaga vatakaragana Yama yudde Levke metindu ada taniyama velc medde (Like full orb'd moon his glory shone, his radiance filled the world His loosen'd hair knot falling free in smoothest threads of gold. Mâra's host beset him--no thought was there to yield; To-day Lord Levke's body still holds the lonely field. [24]) The elephant keepers strike up a rustic song to the accompaniment of a bamboo whistle. Etun tamayi api balamuva bolannê Kitul tamayi api kotaninda dennê Ratê gamêvat kitulak nedennê Etun nisâmayi api divi nassinê. (It is elephants that we must look after, O fellows. From where can we get kitul for them. No village or district supplies us with kitul. It is owing to elephants that we lose our lives.) The following are specimens of a river song, a sea song and a tank song. Malê malê oya nâmala nelâ varen Attâ bindeyi paya burulen tiyâ varen Mahavili ganga diyayanavâ balâ varen Sâdukêredî oruva pedana varen. (Brother, brother pluck that nâ flower and come. The branch will break, step on it lightly and come. See how Mahavili ganga's waters flow and come. Raising shouts of thanks row your boat and come). Tan tan tan talâ mediriyâ Tin tin tin ti lâ mediriyâ Ape delê mâlu Goda edapan Yâlu Vellê purâ mâlu. (Tan tan tan talâ mediriyâ Tin tin tin ti lâ mediriyâ There is fish in our nets Pull it to the shore, friends The shore is full of fish.) "Sora bora vevê sonda sonda olu nelum eti. Êvâ nelannata sonda sonda liyô eti Kalu karalâ sudu karalâ uyâ deti Olu sâlê bat kannata mâlu neti. (The Sora bora tank has fine white lotus flowers To pluck them there are very handsome women After cleaning and preparing, the blossoms will be cooked But alas there are no meat curries to eat with the lotus rice). Pilgrims on their way to Adam's Peak sing the following first verse and as they return the second. 1. Devindu balen api vandinda Saman devindu vandavanda Muni siripâ api vandinda Apê Budun api vandinda. (To worship our Buddha, to worship His footprint, may god Saman help us, may his might support us). 2. Devindu balen api vendô Saman devindu vendevô Munisiripâ api vendô Apê budun api vendô. (We have worshipped our Buddha; We have worshipped his foot print; The god Samen helped us; His might supported us). A mother amuses her children by pointing out the moon and asking them to sing out Handa hamy apatat bat kanda rantetiyak diyô diyo (Mr. Moon, do give us a golden dish to eat our rice in); or she makes them clap their hands singing appuddi pudi puvaththâ kevum dekak devaththâ (clap, clap, clap away with two rice cakes in your hands); or she tickles them with the finger rhyme kandê duvayi, hakuru geneyi, tôt kâyi, matat deyi, hankutu kutu. (Run to the hills, bring molasses, You will eat, you will give me, hankutu kutu); or she swings them to the jingle "Onchilli chilli chille malê, Vella digata nelli kelê;" or she rocks them to sleep with the following lullabies:-- Umbê ammâ kirata giyâ Kiri muttiya gangé giyâ Ganga vatakara kokku giyâ, Kokku evith kiri bivvâ, Umba nâdan babô (Your mother went to fetch milk The milk pot went down the river The cranes surrounded the river The cranes came and drank the milk You better not cry, my baby.) Baloli loli bâloliyê Bâla bilindu bâloliyê Kiyamin gi neleviliyê Sethapemi magê suratheliyê (Darling darling little one Darling little tender one Sleeping songs do I sing Sleep away my fond little one.) Radâgedere kosattê Eka gediyayi palagattê Êka kanta lunu nettê Numba nâdan doyi doyiyê. (The jak tree at the washer's house Bore only one fruit There is no salt to eat with it You better not cry, but sleep, sleep) Vandurô indagana ambê liyannan Vendiri indagana hâl garannan Petiyô indagana sindu kiyannan Tala kola pettiya, gangê duvannan. (The monkeys are engaged in cutting up a mango Their mates are engaged in washing the rice Their young ones are engaged in singing songs. The palm leaf box is drifting in the river.) The following is a specimen of a love song. "Galaknan peleyi mata vedunu gindarê Vilaknan pireyi net kandulu enaserê Malak vat pudami numba namata rubarê Tikakkat nedda matatibunu âdarê. (If I were a stone my passion's heat would have split me. If I were a pond my weeping tears would have filled me. O my darling, I shall offer a flower to your memory. Is there nothing left of your old love for me). CHAPTER XVIII. PROVERBS, RIDDLES AND LOCAL SAYINGS. A proverbial saying is said to state a fact or express a thought in vivid metaphor while a riddle to describe a person or thing in obscure metaphor calculated as a test of intellectual ability in the person attempting to solve it. Proverbial sayings are divided, according to their form into direct statements and metaphorical statements. The following are examples of direct statements:-- The quarrel between the husband and the wife lasts only till the pot of rice is cooked. A lie is short lived. One individual can ruin a whole community. What is the use of relations who do not help you when your door is broken. Poverty is lighter than cotton. Metaphorical statements are more numerous and are best considered according to the matter involved such as honesty, thrift, folly, knavery, natural disposition, ingratitude, luck, hypocrisy; and the following are some typical examples:-- When the king takes the wife to whom is the poor man to complain. You may escape from the god Saman Deviyo but you cannot escape his servant Amangallâ. There is certain to be a hailstorm when the unlucky man gets his head shaved. The teeth of the dog that barks at the lucky man will fall out. On a lucky day you can catch fish with twine; but on an unlucky day the fish will break even chains of iron. The water in an unfilled pot makes a noise. You call a kabaragoyâ a talagoya when you want to eat it. It is like wearing a crupper to cure dysentery. Like the man who got the roasted jak seeds out of the fire by the help of a cat. Like the man who would not wash his body to spite the river. Like the man who flogged the elk skin at home to avenge himself on the deer that trespassed in his field. Like the villagers who tied up the mortars in the village in the belief that the elephant tracks in the fields were caused by the mortars wandering about at night. Though a dog barks at a hill will it grow less. It is like licking your finger on seeing a beehive on a tree. It is not possible to make a charcoal white by washing it in milk. The cobra will bite you whether you call it cobra or Mr. Cobra. Riddles are either in prose or verse. As examples of prose riddles the following may be mentioned:-- What is it that cries on this bank, but drops its dung on the other (megoda andalayi egoda betilayi)--A gun. What is the tree by the door that has 20 branches and 20 bark strips; twenty knocks on the head of the person who fails to solve it. (dorakadagahe atuvissayi potu vissayi netêruvot toku vissayi)--10 fingers and 10 toes. What is it that is done without intermission (nohita karana vedê)--the twinkling of the eye. The following are examples of verse riddles. The Eye-- "Ihala gobê pansiyayak pancha nâda karanâ Pahala gobê pansiyayak pancha nâda karanâ Emeda devi ruva eti lamayek inda kelinâ Metûn padê têruvot Buduvenavâ." (On the upper shoot there are 500 songsters On the lower shoot there are 500 songsters Between them is an infant of divine beauty. If one can solve this he will become a Buddha). The Cobra. Vel vel diga eti Mal mal ruva eti Râja vansa eti Kêvot pana neti. (Long like a creeper Beautiful like a flower Of royal caste With a deadly bite). The Pine Apple. Katuvânen ketuvânen kolê seti Ratu nûlen getuvâveni malê seti Tun masa giya kalata kukulek seti Metun padê têru aya ratak vatî (The leaf is beautifully encased The flower is worked with red thread And this becomes like a chicken in three months The one who can solve this deserves a country. APPENDIX. GLOSSARY OF SINHALESE FOLK TERMS APPEARING IN THE SERVICE TENURE REGISTER (1872.) A ABARANA: Insignia of a Deviyo; vessels of gold and silver, etc., in a Dewala. ADAPPAYA: Headman amongst the Moors; a term of respect used in addressing an elder. ADHAHANA-MALUWA: A place of cremation; especially the place where the bodies of the kings of Kandy were burnt and where their ashes were buried. ADIKARAMA: An officer of the Kataragama Dewala next in rank to the Basnayake Nilame. ADIPALLA OR WARUPALLA: The lower layers of the stacked paddy on the threshing floor allowed to the watcher as a perquisite. ADUKKU: Cooked provisions given to headmen or persons of rank. ADUKKU-WALANKADA: A pingo of earthenware vessels for cooking or carrying food for headmen, etc. AGAS: First-fruits; ears of paddy cut as alut-sal, i.e., for the thanksgiving at the harvest home. AHARA-PUJAWA: The daily offering of food in a Vihare; before noon the mid-day meal is carried to the Vihare, and placed in front of the image of Buddha; it is then removed to the refectory or pansala, where it is consumed by the priests or by the servitors. AHAS-KAMBE: The tight-rope (literally air-rope) used for rope-dancing which is a service of certain tenants of the Badulla Dewale. AKYALA: Contribution of rice or paddy on the occasion of a procession at a Dewala; first fruits offered for protection of the crop by the Deviyo. ALATTIBEMA: A ceremony performed at the door of the sanctuary in a Dewale; the waving to and fro of an oil lamp by females, who repeat the while in an undertone the word ayu-bowa, long life (lit. may your years increase). ALGA-RAJAKARIYA: Service at the loom. ALAGU: A mark to assist the memory in calculation (Clough); a tally, e. g. in counting cocoanuts one is generally put aside out of each 100; those thus put aside are called alagu. ALIANDURA: The morning music at a temple. ALLASA: A present, a bribe, a fee paid on obtaining a maruwena-panguwa. ALUT-AWRUDU-MANGALYAYA: Festival of the Sinhalese new year; it falls in the early part of April. ALUT-SAL-MANGALYAYA: The festival of the first fruits; the harvest home. ALWALA-REDDA: A cloth fresh from the loom. AMARAGE OR AMBARAGE: Covered walk or passage between a Dewala and the Wahalkada or porch. AMUNA: A dam or anicut across a stream; a measure of dry grain equal to about 4-1/2 bushels, sometimes 5 bushels. ANAMESTRAYA: A shed in which to keep lights during festivals. In some temples these sheds are built permanently all round the widiya or outer court; in others they were mere temporary structures to protect the lights from wind and rain. ANDE: Ground share given to a proprietor. ANDU-GIRAKETTA: An arecanut-cutter of the shape of a pair of pincers; it forms the penuma or annual offering of the blacksmiths to their lord. ANKELIYA: The ceremony of pulling horns or forked sticks to propitiate Pattini-deviyo in times of epidemics; according to ancient legends, it was a pastime at which the Deviyo and her husband Palanga took sides. They are said to have emulated each other in picking flowers with the forked sticks the husband standing at the top and the wife at the foot of a tree. The ankeliya as its name imports partakes more of the nature of a village sport than of a religious ceremony. There are two sides engaged, called the uda and yati-pil. It is conducted in a central spot in the midst of a group of villages set apart for the particular purpose, called anpitiya, and commenced on a lucky day after the usual invocation by the Kapurala, who brings with him to the spot the Halan a kind of bracelet the insignia of the Deviyo. The two Pil select each its own horn or forked stick; the horns or sticks are then entwined--one is tied to a stake or tree, and the other is tied to a rope, which is pulled by the two parties till one or other of the horns or sticks breaks. The Pila which owns the broken horn is considered to have lost, and has to undergo the jeers and derision of the winning party. If the Yatipila which is patronized by the Deviyo (Pattini) wins, it is regarded as a good omen for the removal or subsidence of the epidemic. The ceremony closes with a triumphal procession to the nearest Dewale. A family belongs hereditarily to one or the other of the two Pil. ANPITIYA: The spot or place where the above ceremony is performed. ANUMETIRALA: A respectful term for a Kapurala, one through whom the pleasure of the Deviyo is known. ANUNAYAKA UNNANSE: A priest next in rank to a Maha-Nayaka or chief priest, the sub-prior of a monastery. APPALLAYA: The earthen ware vessel flatter than an atale, q. v. ARALU: Gall-nuts. ARAMUDALA: Treasury, or the contents of a treasury; the reserve fund. ARANGUWA: An ornamental arch decorated with flowers or tender leaves of the cocoanut tree. ARA-SALAWA OR BOJANASALAWA: Refectory. ARRIKALA: One-eighth portion. ASANA-REDI: Coverings of an asanaya; altar cloth. ASANAYA: Throne, altar, seat of honor. ATALE: A small earthenware-pot usually used in bathing. ATPANDAMA: A light carried in the hand, formed generally of a brass cup at the end of a stick about two feet long. The cup is filled with tow and oil. ATAPATTU-WASAMA: The messenger class. A holding held by the atapattu people. The service due from this class is the carrying of messages, keeping guard over treasure or a temple or chief's house, and carrying in procession state umbrellas, swords of office etc., watching threshing floors and accompanying the proprietor on journeys. ATAPATTU MOHOTTALA: Writer over the messenger class. ATAWAKA: The eighth day before and after the full moon. The first is called Pura-atavaka and the second Ava-atavaka. ATTANAYAKARALA: Custodian; storekeeper; overseer corresponding in rank to Wannakurala, q.v. ATUGE: A temporary shed or outhouse for a privy. ATUPANDALAYA: A temporary shed or booth made of leaves and branches. ATUWA: Granary. AWALIYA: The same as Hunduwa or Perawa, which is one-fourth of a seer. AWATEWAKIRIMA: Ministration; Daily service at a Dewala. AWATTA: An ornamental talipot used as an umbrella. AWULPAT: Sweetmeats taken at the end of a meal. AWRUDU-PANTIYA: New year festival, a term in use in the Kurunegala District. AWRUDU-WATTORUWA: A chit given by the astrologer shewing the hour when the new year commences, and its prognostics. AYUBOWA: "Live for years", a word used by way of chorus to recitals at Bali ceremonies. B BADAHELA-PANGUWA: The tenement of land held by a potter. His service consists of supplying a proprietor with all the requisite earthenware for his house and bath, and his lodgings on journeys, for his muttettuwa, for cooking, and for soaking seed paddy, for festivals, Yak and Bali ceremonies, weddings, etc. The supplying of tiles and bricks and keeping the roof of tiled houses waterproof, giving penum walan to tenants for the penumkat, and making clay lamps, and kalas for temples. The potter also makes a present of chatties as his penum to proprietor and petty officers. When the quantity of bricks and tiles to be supplied is large, the proprietor finds the kiln, shed, clay and firewood. Kumbala is another name by which a potter is known. BADAL-PANGUWA: The holding held by smiths, called likewise Nawan-panguwa. Under the general term are included: Achari (blacksmiths), Lokuruwo (braziers) and Badallu (silver or gold smiths). The blacksmith supplies nails for roofing houses, hinges, locks, and keys for doors, all kitchen utensils, agricultural implements, and tools for felling and converting timber. His penuma consists of arecanut cutters, chunam boxes, ear and tooth picks, at the forge he is given the services of a tenant to blow the bellows, and when employed out of his house he is given his food. The Lokuruwa mends all brass and copper-vessels of a temple, and generally takes part in the service of the other smiths. The silver and goldsmiths work for the proprietor in their special craft when wanted, and in temples mend and polish all the sacred vessels, do engraving and carving work, decorate the Rate (car of the deviyo) and remain on guard there during the Perahera, attend at the Kaphitawima, and supply the silver rim for the Ehala-gaha. The goldsmiths present penum of silver rings, carved betel boxes, ornamental arrow-heads, etc. The smith tenant also attends and assists at the smelting of iron. In consideration of the value of the service of a smith, he generally holds a large extent of fertile land. BAGE: A division; a term used in Sabaragamuwa for a number of villages of a Dewala in charge of a Vidane. BAKMASA: The first month of the Sinhalese year (April-May). BALIBAT NETIMA: A devil-dance performed for five days after the close of the Perahera by a class of persons superior to the ordinary yakdesso (devil dancers) and called Balibat Gammehela, supposed to be descendants of emigrants from the Coast. BALI-EDURO: The persons who make the clay images for, and dance at, a Bali-maduwa which is a ceremony performed to propitiate the planets. The performance of Bali ceremonies is one of the principal services of tenants of the tom-tom beater caste. BALI-EMBIMA: The making of images for a Bali ceremony. BALI-ERIMA: The performance of the above ceremony. Note the peculiar expression Bali arinawa not Karanawa. BALI-KATIRA: Sticks or supports against which the images at a Bali ceremony are placed. BALI-TIYANNO: Same as Bali-eduro. BAMBA-NETIMA: In the processions at a Diya-kepima there is carried a wickerwork frame made to represent a giant (some say Brahma); a man walks inside this frame and carries it along exactly in the same way as "Jack-in-the green." The service of carrying it in procession is called Bambanetima. BAMBARA-PENI: Honey of one of the large bees. A pingo of this honey is given to the proprietor of the lands in which it is collected. BANA-MADUWA: A large temporary shed put up for reading Bana during Waskalaya, q. v. BANA-SALAWA: A permanent edifice attached to a wihare for reading Bana. BANDARA: Belonging to the palace. It is now used of any proprietor, whether lay or clerical, e. g., Bandara-atuwa means the proprietor's granary. BANKALA WIYANA: A decorated cloth or curtain, so called, it is supposed, from being imported from Bengal. BARAKOLAN: Large masks representing Kataragama Deviyo, used in dancing at the Dewala Perehara. BARAPEN: Remuneration given to copyists. Hire given for important services, as the building of wihares, making of images, etc. BASNAYAKE NILAME: The lay chief or principal officer of a Dewale. BATAKOLA: The leaves of a small species of bamboo used for thatching buildings. BATGOTUWA: Boiled rice served out or wrapped up in a leaf. Boiled rice offered up at a Yak or Bali ceremony. BATTANARALA: The Kapurala who offers the multen (food offering). BATWADANARALA: The same as Battanarala. BATWALANDA: Earthenware vessel for boiling rice in. It is as large as a common pot but with a wider mouth. BATWALAN-HAKURU: Large cakes of jaggery of the shape of a "Batwalanda" generally made in Sabaragamuwa. BATWEDA: Work not done for hire, but for which the workmen receive food. BATWI: Paddy given by the proprietor as sustenance to a cultivator in lieu of food given during work. BEMMA: A Wall, a bank, a bund. BEHET-DIYA: A lotion made of lime juice and other acids mixed with perfumes for use at the Nanumura mangalyaya, when the priest washes the sacred reflection of the head of Buddha in a mirror held in front of the image for the purpose. BETMERALA: The officer in charge of a number of villages belonging to a temple, corresponding to a Vidane, q.v. BIN-ANDE: Ground share; Ground rent. BINARAMASA: The sixth month of the Sinhalese year (September-October). BINNEGUNWI: Paddy given as sustenance during ploughing time. BISOKAPA: See Ehelagaha. It is a term in use in the Kabulumulle Pattini Dewale in Hatara Korale. BISSA: A term in use in the Kegalle District for a granary round in shape, and of wickerwork daubed with mud. BINTARAM-OTU: Tax or payment in kind, being a quantity of paddy, equal to the full extent sown, as distinguished from half and other proportionate parts of the sowing extent levied from unfertile fields. Thus in an amuna of land the bintaram-otu is one amuna paddy. BODHIMALUWA: The Court round a bo-tree, called also Bomeda. BOJANA-SALAWA: The same as arasalava. BOLPEN: Water used at a temple for purposes of purification. BULAT-ATA: A roll of betel consisting of 40 leaves forming the common penuma to a proprietor at the annual festival corresponding to the old English rent day. It is a mark of submission and respect, and is therefore greatly valued. BULAT-HURULLA: A fee given to a chief or proprietor placed on a roll of betel. The fee given annually for a Maruvena panguwa. BULU: One of the three myrobalans (Clough). C CHAMARAYA: A fly-flapper, a yak's tail fixed to a silver or other handle, used to keep flies off the insignia of a deviyo or persons of distinction. D DADAKUDAMAS: A compound word for meat and fish. DAGOBE OR DAGEBA: Lit. Relic chamber. A Buddhist mound or stupa of earth or brick sometimes faced with stone, containing generally a chamber in which is preserved a casket of relics. DALUMURE: A turn to supply betel for a temple or proprietor. DALUMURA-PANGUWA: The holding of tenants, whose special service is that of supplying weekly or fortnightly, and at the festivals, a certain quantity of betel leaves for the "dalumura-tewawa" immediately after the multen or "ahara-pujawa" and for the consumption by the officers or priests on duty. This service was one of great importance at the Court of the King, who had plantations of betel in different parts of the country, with a staff of officers, gardeners, and carriers. At present the tenants of this class in Ninda villages supply betel to the proprietor for consumption at his house and on journeys. In some service villages the betel is to be accompanied with a quantity of arecanuts. DALUPATHKARAYA: A sub-tenant; a garden tenant; one who has asweddumised land belonging to a mulpangukaraya. In some Districts the dalupathkaraya is called pelkaraya. DAMBU: Tow; rags for lights. The supplying of dambu at festivals in a temple or for a Bali ceremony at a chief's house forms one of the principal services of a dhobi. DAN-ADUKKUWA: Food given by a tenant of a vihare land to the incumbent as distinguished from "dane" given to any priest for the sake of merit. DANDUMADUWA: A timber-shed; a timber room. Every temple establishment has an open long shed for timber and building materials etc., and its upkeep forms one of the duties of the tenants. DANE: Food given to priests for merit; alms: charity. DANGE: Kitchen of a Pansale. DANKADA: Pingo of food given to a priest. DARADIYARA: Fuel and water the supplying of which forms the service of the Uliyakkarawasam tenants. DASILIKAMA: An assistant to a Lekama or writer. The term is peculiar to Sabaragamuwa. DAWULA: The common drum. DAWULKARAYA: A tenant of the tom-tom beater caste, playing on a dawula at the daily service of a Vihare or a Dewale, and at the festivals. DAWUL-PANGUWA: The tenement held by tenants of the tom-tom beater caste. In temples their service comes under the kind called the Pita-kattale (out-door-service). At the daily tewawa, at festivals, at pinkam, and on journeys of the incumbent, they beat the hewisi (tom-toms). On their turn of duty in a temple, they have to watch the temple and its property, to sweep and clean the premises, to gather flowers for offerings, and to fetch bolpen (water for temple use). The services of a Hewisikaraya are required by a lay proprietor only occasionally for weddings, funerals, yak and bali ceremonies, and on state occasions. This class of persons is employed in weaving cloth, and their penuma consists of a taduppu cloth or lensuwa. In all respects the services of the Dawulkarayo resemble those of the Tammattankarayo, a portion of the same caste, but who beat the Tammattama instead of the Dawula. DEHAT-ATA: A roll of betel leaves given to a priest. A respectful term for a quid of betel. DEHET-GOTUWA: Betel wrapped up in the leaf of some tree. DEKUMA: A present given to a chief or incumbent of a temple by a tenant when he makes his appearance annually or oftener, and consists of either money, or sweetmeats, or cloth, or arecanut-cutters, etc., according to the tenants trade or profession or according to his caste. DELIPIHIYA: A razor. One of the "atapirikara" or eight priestly requisites viz., three robes an almsbowl, a needle case, a razor, a, girdle, and a filter. DEPOYA: The poya at full moon. DEWALAYA: A temple dedicated to some Hindu Deviyo or local divinity. The four principal dewala are those dedicated to Vishnu, Kataragama, Nata and Pattini Daviyo. There are others belonging to tutelary deities, such as the Maha Saman Dewalaya in Sabaragamuwa belonging to Saman Dewiyo the tutelary deviyo of Siripade, Alutunwara Dewale in the Kegalle District to Dedimundi-dewata-ban-dara, prime minister of Vishnu etc. DEWA-MANDIRAYA: Term in Sabaragamuwa for the "Maligawa" or sanctuary of a Dewale. DEWA-RUPAYA: The image of a Deviyo. DEWOL OR DEWOL-YAKUN: Foreign devils said to have come from beyond the seas and who according to tradition landed at the seaside village called Dewundare near Matara and proceeded thence to Sinigama near Hikkaduwa. Pilgrims resort to either place and perform there the vows made by them in times of sickness and distress. DIGGE: The porch of a Dewalaya. It is a building forming the ante-chamber to the Maligawa or sanctuary where the daily hewisi is performed and to which alone worshippers have access. It is a long hall, as its name signifies, and it is there that the dance of the women at festivals, called Digge-netima, takes place. DISSAWA: The ruler of a Province. DIWA-NILAME: Principal lay officer of the Dalada-maligawa. The term is supposed to have had its origin from the highest dignitary in the kingdom holding amongst other functions the office of watering the Srimahabodinvahanse or sacred Bo-tree in Anuradhapura, DIWEL: Hire or remuneration for service. DIYAGE: A bath room. The putting up of temporary sheds, or the upkeep of permanent structures as well as supplying water, forms part of the menial services of the Uliamwasam tenants. DIYA-KACHCHIYA: Coarse cloth bathing dress which it is the duty of the dhobi to supply at the bath. It is also called Diyaredi or Diyapiruwata. DIYAKEPUMA: The ceremony of cutting water with golden swords by the Kapurala of the Dewale at the customary ford or pond at the close of the Perehera in July or August. DIYATOTA: The ford or ferry where the above ceremony is performed. DOLAWA: A palanquin. DOTALU-MAL: The flowers of the dotalu-tree, a small species of the arecanut-tree used in decorations. DUMMALA: Powdered resin used at a yak or bali ceremony to give brilliancy to the light. DUNUKARAWASAMA: The military class. Literally, archers. The lands forming the holding of the Dunukarawasam tenants. Their chief services at present are the carrying of letters and messages, keeping guard at the Walauwe (house) of the proprietor, watching the threshing floor, fetching buffaloes for work and accompanying the proprietor on journeys of state bearing the mura awudaya (lance). DUNUMALE-PENUMA: The penuma (present) given in the mouth of Nawan (February) by tenants to the high priest of the Sripadastane (Adam's Peak) so called after an incumbent of that name. DURUTUMASE: The tenth month of the Sinhalese year (January-February). DUREYA: A headman of the Wahumpura Badde or Paduwa caste. Also a general name for a palanquin bearer. DURAWASAMA: The office of Dureya or headman of the Durayi. The tenement of land held by their class. Their services resemble those of the Ganwasama the difference being that instead of cooked they give uncooked provisions, and vegetables or raw provisions instead of sweet-meats for the penuma to the landlord. E EBITTAYA: A Boy. A priest's servant. EDANDA: A plank or trunk thrown across a stream. A log bridge. EHELA-GAHA: A post or tree set up at a Dawale at a lucky hour in the month of Ehela as a preliminary to the Perahera. Compare the English May-pole. EHELA-PEREHARA: Vide Perahera. ELAWALUKADA: A pingo of vegetables, which is the penuma given to proprietors by the tenants of the lower castes. ELWI: A kind of paddy grown on all hill sides under dry cultivation. EMBETTAYA: A barber. EMBULKETTA: A kitchen knife. It is the penuma given by blacksmith tenants. ETIRILLA: Cloth spread on chairs or other seats out of respect to a guest or headman. (Clough) It is the service of a dhobi tenant. ETULKATTALAYA: The inner room or sanctuary of a Dewale, called also the Maligawa and Dewamandiraya. The term is also applied to all the officers having duties in the sanctuary, such as Kapurala, Batwadanarala, Wattorurala, etc. G GAHONI: Ornamental covers made of cloth to throw over penuma. GALBEMMA: Stone-wall. Rampart. GAL-LADDA: A smith. A stonemason. GAL-ORUWA: A stone trough for water, called also Katharama. GAMANMURE: A turn of attendance at festivals, which in the of case tenants living in remote villages is frequently commuted for a fee. Hence the term. GAMARALA: The headman of a village, generally an hereditary office in the family of the principal tenant. GAMMADUWA-DA: The day of an almsgiving at a Dewale to conciliate the Deviyo in times of sickness. GAMMIRIS: Pepper corn. GANWASAMA: Sometimes written Gammasama. The tenement held by a Ganwasama, the superior class of tenants in a village. Their panguwa supplies the proprietor with persons eligible for appointment to the subordinate offices in a village such as Vidane, Lekama, and Kankanama. The Ganwasama people are often of the same social standing as the proprietor and sometimes are related to him. They are generally the wealthiest people in the village and hold the most fertile lands. Consequently they have to make heavy contributions in the shape of adukku and pehidum to the proprietor and his retinue on his periodical visits, to his officers coming on duty and to his messengers dispatched with orders to tenants. They also have to give the Mahakat monthly, the Penumkat at festivals, and Dankat during Was, and to feed the workmen in the Muttettuwa and officers superintending the work. In the same manner as the Uliyam-wasama has to provide all the ordinary labour in a village so the Ganwasama has to provide all that is required for strangers visiting the village and generally to discharge the duties of hospitality for which the Kandyan villages are celebrated. This entails upon the Ganwasama the necessity of setting apart a place called the Idange for lodging strangers. The whole charge of the Muttettu work devolves on the Ganwasama which also has to superintend and assist in building work at the proprietor's house attend, at his house on festive and other occasions in times of sickness and at funerals bringing penumkat and provisions. A Ganwasama tenant has to accompany the proprietor on his journeys on public occasions, and to guard his house in his absence. A woman of the panguwa has likewise to wait on the lady of the house and to accompany her on journeys. The Ganwasama takes the lead in the annual presentation of the tenants before the proprietor. In temple villages, in addition to the above services performed to the lay chief, the Ganwasama has to superintend and take part in the preparations for, and celebration of, the festivals. GANGATAYA: The leg of an animal killed in the chase given to the proprietor of the land. Sometimes more than one leg is given. GANLADDA: An owner of land. Sometimes applied to small proprietors, and sometimes to proprietors of inferior castes, e. g., the proprietors of the village Kotaketana (smiths and wood-carvers) are always so styled. GANMURE: Watching at a temple, or the period of service there taken in turns by villages. GANNILE: The service field in a village held by the Gammahe or the village headman for the time being. Field held by a small proprietor and cultivated for him by his tenants. GANPANDURA: Tribute for land. Ground rent. GAN-PAYINDAKARAYA: A messenger under an inferior headman. GARA-YAKUMA: A devil dance performed in some districts at the close of important undertakings such as construction of buildings at the close of the Perehera for the elephants, etc. GEBARALA: A storekeeper whose duty it is to measure the paddy, rice, oil etc., received into and issued out of a temple gabadawa (store). GEWATU-PANAMA: Payment for gardens. Garden rent, as the name implies, originally a fanam. GIKIYANA-PANGUWA: Tenement held by tenants whose service consists in singing at Dewale on "Kenmura" days and on festivals, and in the performance of the Digge-netima, which latter is a service performed by women. The songs generally relate to the exploits of the Dewiyo. The men sing and play on cymbals, drums, etc., and the women dance. The ordinary tom-tom-beater is not allowed to play for dancers of this class, which is supposed to be of Tamil origin. GILANPASA: The evening meal of Buddhists priests restricted to drinkables, as tea, coffee, etc. solid food is prohibited after noon-day. GODA-OTU: Literally, tax on high lands. Tax on chenas. GODAPADDA: A messenger under a headman of the low-castes. The term is in use in the Matale Districts. GORAKA: The fruit of the gamboge tree dried. It imparts to food a delicate acid, and is chiefly used in seasoning fish. GOYIGANAWA: Smoothing the bed of a field, being the last process preparatory to sowing. GURULETTUWA: A goglet. H HAKDURE: A service of blowing the conch-shell or horn in the daily service of a Dewalaya. HAKGEDIYA: A chank. A conch-shell. HAKPALIHA: The carrying of the conch-shell and shield in procession which forms one of the services of the tenants of temple villages. HAKURU-ESSA: A cake of jaggery. Half a "mula" (packet). HAKURUKETAYA: A ball of jaggery. It is of no definite size. HAKURUMULA: A packet of two cakes of jaggery. HAKURUPATTAYA: Balls of jaggery wrapped up in the sheath of the branch of an arecanut tree. HALUPAINDAYA: Officer in charge of the sacred vestments of a Dewale. HAMBA: Paddy belonging to a temple of the king. HAMBA-ATUWA: The granary belonging to a temple or the king. HAMUDA-WALE-MURAYA: The mura by tenants of Pidawiligam under the Dalada Maligawa. HANGIDIYA: A head-smith. HANGALA: The piru-wataya (lent-cloth) given by dhobies to Kapuwo and Yakdesso. HANNALIYA: A tailor; large Dewala and Wihara establishments have tenants to sew and stitch the sacred vestments, curtains, flags, etc., and to assist in decorating the car. HARASKADAYA: A cross stick in an arch, supplied by tenants for decorations at festivals. HATMALUWA: A curry made of seven kinds of vegetables and offered with rice at a Bali ceremony. HATTIYA: A hat shaped talipot carried on journeys by female attendants of ladies, answering the double purpose of a hat and an umbrella. HAYA-PEHINDUMA: Provisions given to a temple or person of rank, consisting of six neli (seru) of rice and condiments in proportion. HELAYA: A piece of cloth of twelve cubits. HELIYA: A large round vessel with a wide mouth for boiling rice, paddy, etc. HEMA-KADA: Food offering in a Dewala similar to the Ahara-pujawa at a Vihare. It is carried by the proper Kapurala, called Kattiyana-rala, pingo-fashion, and delivered at the door of the sanctuary to the officiating Kapurala. HENDA-DURE: The evening hewisi (music) at a Dewale. HENDUWA: Elephant-goad. HEPPUWA: A box, a basket. The term is in use in the Kegalle District in connection with a penuma of sweetmeats called Kevili-heppuwa just as in other Districts it is called Kevili-pettiya. HEWAMUDALA: Payment in lieu of the services of a tenant of the Hewasam or military class. HEWAWASAMA: The tenement held by the Hewawasama. The military class. Their services at present are those of the Atapattuwasama and consist in carrying messages and letters etc., accompanying the proprietor on journeys, carrying his umbrella or talipot and keeping guard at halting places attending to the service of betel, guarding the proprietor's house, watching threshing floors, attending at funerals and setting fire to the pyre. They present a penuma of sweetmeats and receive as funeral prerequisites a suit of clothes. Persons of their wasama, as those of the Ganwasama, are chosen for subordinate offices. HEVENPEDURA: A mat made of a kind of rush. HEWISI-MANDAPPAYA: The court where the Hewisi (music) is performed in a Vihare corresponding to the Digge in a Dewale. HILDANE: The early morning meal of Buddhist priests, generally of rice-gruel. HILEKAN: Registers of fields. HIMILA: Money given by a proprietor as hire for buffaloes employed in ploughing and threshing crops. HIRAMANAYA: A cocoanut scraper. It is an article of penuma with blacksmith tenants. HIROHI-NETIMA: Called also Niroginetima. It is a dance at the procession returning from the Diyakepima of the Saragune Dewale in the Badulla District. HITIMURAYA: The turn for being on guard at a temple or a chief's house. It consists generally of fifteen days at a time, nights included. The tenant both on entering upon and on leaving his muraya, appears before the incumbent or chief with the penuma of a roll of betel, and when on mure has the charge of the place and its property, clears and sweeps the premises, attends to ordinary repairs, fetches flowers in temples and goes on messages. He receives food from the temple. HIWEL: Coulters, the providing of which forms one of the services of a blacksmith tenant. HIWEL-ANDE: Cultivators' share of the produce of a field being half of the crop after deducting the various payments called "Waraweri" which are (1) Bittara-wi (seed-padi), as much as had been sown and half as much as interest; (2) Deyyanne-wi, 4 or 5 laha of paddy set apart for the Dewiyo, or boiled into rice and distributed in alms to the poor; (3) Adipalla, the lower layers of the stacked paddy; (4) Peldora, the ears of com round the watchhut which together with Adipalla are the watcher's prerequisites (5) Yakunewi, paddy set apart for a devil ceremony. Besides the above, "Akyala" (first-fruits) is offered to the Deviyo for special protection to the crop from vermin, flies, etc. HULAWALIYA: The headman of the Rodi. The Rodi tenants are very few in number and are found in but very few villages. They supply prepared leather for drums and ropes of hide halters, thongs and cords for cattle and bury carcases of dead animals found on the estate to which they belong. I IDANGE OR IDAMA: The principal building where visitors of rank are lodged in a village. IDINNA: Called also Usna. A smith's forge. ILLATTATTUWA: A betel-tray. The penuma given by a tenant engaged in carpentry or by a carver in wood. ILMASA: The eighth month of the Sinhalese year (Nov. Dec.) IRATTUWA: A word of Tamil extraction and applied to a kind of native cloth originally made by the Mahabadde people and at present by the tom-tom beater caste. IRILENSUWA: A striped handkerchief given as a penuma by tenants of the tom-tom beater caste. ISSARA: The individual share or strip of land in a range of fields cultivated by the shareholders in common. ITIPANDAMA: A wax candle. ITIWADALA: A lump of wax. In the honey-producing jungle districts as Nuwarakalawiya, Matale North etc., honey and itiwadal are dues to which a proprietor is entitled. J JAMMAKKARAYA: A low-caste man. This is the sense in which the word is at present used in the Kandyan country but is proper meaning is a man of caste--of good birth. K KADA: A load divided into two portions of equal weight and tied to the two ends of a pole, which is balanced on the shoulder, called in Ceylon a "pingo" and in India a "bhangy." KADAKETTA: a razor. KADAPAIYA: A long bag or purse called also Olonguwa. KADA-RAJAKARIYA: A pingo-load of village supplies given to the king by the Ganwasam. The Gamarala had to deliver it in person in Kandy. The chiefs, lands exempted from tax for loyalty to the British Government were not relieved of the pingo duty. (See proclamation of 21st November 1818, Clause 22). KAHADIYARA: Sprinkling water used by a Kapurala in ceremonies. KAHAMIRIS: Saffron and chillies. KAHATAPOTU: Bark of the saffron tree used in dyeing priests' robes. KALAGEDIYA OR KALAYA: A pot, the ordinary vessel used by water-carriers. KALALA: Carpets, or mats made of a kind of fibre (Sanseviera Zeylanica.) KALANCHIYA: A Tamil word for an earthenware spitting pot. KALA-PANDAMA OR KILA-PANDAMA: A branched torch with generally three lights sometimes, six see ATPANDAMA. KALAS: Earthenware lamps with stands for decorations. KAMMALA: A forge. A smithy. KAMMALKASI: Payment in lieu of service at the smithy. KAMATA: A threshing-floor. KANGAN: Black cloth given to attendants at funerals. KANHENDA: An ear-pick. KANKANAMA: An overseer. KANKARIYA: A devil ceremony. KANUWA: A post. KAPHITUNDAWASA: The day on which a pole is set up in a Dewale for the Perehera, see Ehelagaha. KAPURALA: A dewala-priest. The Office is hereditary. KARANDA: A tree, the twigs of which are in general use amongst Buddhist priests by way of tooth brushes. The village of Tittawelgoda has to supply annually 2000 of these tooth-brushes to the Dambulla monastery. KARANDU-HUNU: Chunam to offer with betel at the sanctuary. KARAKGEDIYA: A portable wicker basket for catching fish open at both ends and conical in shape used in shallow streams. KARAWALA: Dried fish, the usual penuma of Moor tenants. KARIYA KARANARALA: Officer second in rank to the Diwa Nilame in the Dalada Maligawa. The office is restricted to a few families and the appointment is in the hands of the Diwa Nilame, who receives a large fee for it at the yearly nomination. As the Diwa Nilame's deputy, the Kariyakaranarala attends to all the business matters of the Maligawa and is entitled to valuable dues from subordinate headmen on appointment. KASAPEN: Young cocoanuts generally given as penuma. KATARAMA: Same as Galoruwa. KATBULATHURULU: Penuma consisting of pingoes and money with betel. KATGAHA: Sometimes called Kajjagaha. The same as Ehelagaha q.v. KATHAL: The pingo-loads of rice due to the king by way of the Crown dues on all lands cultivated with paddy, except those belonging to the Duggenewili people or class from which the King's domestic servants were taken. KATMUDALA: Money payment in lieu of the above. KATTIYANAMURAYA: The turn for the tenant of a kapu family to perform the service of carrying from the multenge (Dewale kitchen) to the Maligawa (the sanctuary) the multen-kada or daily food offering. KATUKITUL: Wild prickly kitul the flowers of which are used in decorations. KATUPELALI: Rough screens made of branches as substitutes for walls in temporary buildings. KATU-PIHIYA: A small knife of the size of a penknife with a stylus to it. KAWANI: A kind of cloth. KATTIYA: A general term for a festival, but in particular applied to the festival of lights in Nov.-Dec. called Kattimangalaya. KEDAGAN: A palanquin fitted up (with sticks) for the occasion to take the insignia of a Deviyo in procession. KEHELMUWA: Flower of the plantain. KEKULHAL: Rice pounded from native paddy. KEKUNA-TEL: Common lamp oil extracted from the nuts of the Kekuna tree; the oil is largely used in illuminations at festivals and given as garden dues by tenants. KEMBERA: The beating of tom-toms on Kenmura days. KENDIYA-WEDAMAWIMA: The carrying in procession of the Rankendiya or sacred-vessel containing water after the Diyakepima. KENMURA: Wednesdays and Saturdays on which are held the regular services of a Dewale. KERAWALA: Half of a pingo. Half of a panguwa. KETIUDALU: Bill-hooks and hoes. Agricultural implements supplied by the proprietor for work in the Muttettu fields. He supplies the iron and the smith tenant makes the necessary implements, assisted by the nilawasam tenants who contribute the charcoal. KEVILI-HELIYA: A chatty of sweetmeats given as penuma. KEVILI-KADA: A pingo of sweetmeats given as penuma by high caste tenants. KEVILI-KIRIBAT: Sweetmeats and rice boiled in milk. KEVILI-HEPPUWA: See heppuwa. KEVILI-TATTUWA: See heppuwa. KEWUN: Cakes, sweetmeats. KEWUN-KESELKAN: Sweetmeats and ripe plantains. KILLOTAYA: A chunam-box given as a penuma by smith tenants. KINISSA: A ladle, a common cocoanut spoon. KIRI-AHARA OR KIRIBAT: Rice boiled in milk and served on festive occasions. KIRIMETI: Pipe-clay. The supplying and preparation of clay for the Badaheleya (potter) when making bricks and tiles for a proprietor forms one of the duties of every tenant of a temple village, and of the tenants of the Nila or Uliyam pangu in a chief's village. KIRIUTURANA-MANGALYAYA: The ceremony of boiling milk at a Dewale generally at the Sinhalese new year and after a Diyakepima. KITUL-ANDA-MURE: The half share of the toddy of all kitul trees tapped, which is the due of the proprietor. The trees are tapped by Wahumpura tenants by who are also called Hakuro, and the toddy is converted into the syrup from which hakuru (jaggery) is made. KITUL-PENI-MUDIYA: A small quantity of kitul syrup carried in a leaf and served out to tenants in mura. KODI: Flags. KOLALANU: Cords for tying sheaves. KÔLAN: Masks worn in dancing in Dewala festivals. KOLMURA: A rehearsal at the Nata Dewala by the Uliyakkarayo before the Perehera starts. KOMBUWA: A bugle, a horn. It is blown at the Tewawa or service at a Dewale. There are special tenants for this service. KORAHA: A large wide-mouthed chatty used as a basin. KONA: The year's end. The Sinhalese new year (April). KOTAHALU: The cloth worn by a young female arriving at puberty, which is the perquisite of the family dhobi, with other presents given at the festivities held on the occasion. KOTALE: An earthenware vessel with a spout given as a penuma by the potter to petty officers. KOTTALBADDE VIDANE: The headman of smith villages. KOVAYA: An earthenware crucible. A socket for candles. KOVILA: A small temple. A minor Dewale. KÛDE: A basket to remove earth, sand, etc. KUDAYA: An umbrella. KUDAMASSAN: Small fishes cured for curry. KULU: Winnowing fans made of bamboo. KUMBAL-PEREHERA: Preliminary Perehera at a Dewale when the insignia are carried in procession round the inner Court for five days, followed by the Dewale Perehera for five days twice a day round the Widiya, and the Randoli or Maha Perehera for five days. KUMBAYA: A post, a pole for arches in decorations. KUMARIHAMILLA: Ladies of rank. KUMARA-TALA-ATTA: A talipot of state. An ornamental talipot carried in processions by tenants of superior grade. KUNAMA: The palanquin carried in procession at the Perehera containing inside the insignia of a Deviyo. It is also called Randoliya. KURUMBA: The same as Kasapen. KURU: Hair-pins. KURU-KANDA: A candle stick made of clay, called also Kotvilakkuwa. KURAPAYIYA: The same as Kadapayiya. KURUNIYA: One eighth of a bushel or four seer. KURUWITALE: Spear used at elephant kraals. KUSALANA: A cup. L LAHA: The same as Kuruniya. LANSA-MURE: The turn of service of the Hewawasam tenants; it is now taken also by the Atapattu class. LATDEKUMA OR LEBICHCHAPENUMA: Present of money or provisions given to the proprietor by his nominee on appointment to an office. LEGUNGE: The dormitory. A priest's cell. LENSUWA: A handkerchief. LEKAMA: A writer. A clerk, out of courtesy styled Mohottala. LEKAM PANGUWA: The tenement held by the Lekam pangu tenants. The panguwa was originally Maruwena, but in course of time, in most instances, it has become Paraveni. The Lekam tenant besides doing duty as writer to the proprietor of Ninda villages superintends his working parties and harvesting operations and appears before him at the annual presentations of the tenants, accompanies him on important journeys, attends on him and supplies him with medicines when sick, and occasionally guards the house in his absence. In temple villages where there is no resident Vidane, the Lekama does all the duties of that officer, besides keeping an account of the things received into and issued out of the Gabadawa, arranges and superintends all the services of the tenants, in which capacity it is that he is styled Mohottala. LIYADDA: The bed of a field. A terrace. LIYANABATA: Food given by a cultivator to tho Lekam on duty at a threshing floor. LIYANARALA: A Writer. LIYAWEL: Ornamental flower work in carvings or paintings generally found in Wihare and which it is the duty of the Sittaru (painters) to keep in order. The service is valuable and large and valuable pangu have consequently been allotted to this class. The cost of the pigments is borne by the temples. LUNUKAHAMIRIS: Salt, saffron, and chillies. The three principal ingredients which give flavour to a curry. Hence in enumerating the articles which make up a pehinduma or dankada, mention is always made of Lunukahamiris or Sarakku or Tunapahe, general terms for "curry-stuff". M MADAPPULURALA: Title of an officer in the Nata Dewale who performs duties analogous to those of a Wattoru-rala such as sweeping out the Maligawa cleaning and tending its lamps, etc. MADDILIYA: A Tamil drum used in the Kataragama Dewale in the Badulla District. MADOL-TEL: Lamp-oil extracted from the nuts of the Madol. MADU-PIYALI: The nuts of the Madugaha, broken into pieces dried and converted into flour for food. MAGUL-BERE: The opening tune beaten on tom-toms at the regular hewisi (musical service) at the daily service and at festivals. MAHADANE: The midday meal of the priests before the sun passes the meridian. MAHA-NAYAKA-UNNANSE: The highest in order amongst the Buddhist priesthood. The Malwatte and Asgiriya establishments in Kandy have each a Mahanayake before whom the incumbents of the subordinate Wihara belonging to the respective padawiya (see or head monastery) have to appear annually with penumkat and ganpanduru consisting chiefly of rice. MAHA-PEREHERA OR RANDOLI-PEREHERA: The last five days of the Perehera (in July) when the insignia are taken in procession out of the precincts of a Dewalaya along the principal streets of the town. MAHA-SALAWA: The chief or great hall. MAHEKADA: The pingo of raw provisions, chiefly vegetables and lamp oil, given regularly once a month to a temple or chief by the tenants of the mul-pangu in a village, namely the Ganwasama, Durawasanaa, etc. MALIGAWA: Palace. The sanctuary of a Dewale where the insignia are kept. In Dewala only the officiating Kapurala can enter it. Even its repairs such as white washing, etc. are done by the Kapurala. MALU-DENA-PANGUWA: Lands held by the tenants generally of the Nilawasam class, whose duty it is to supply a temple with vegetables for curry for the multen service. A quantity sufficient to last a week or two is provided at one time, and this is continued all the year through. The vegetables supplied are of different sorts, consisting of garden and henaproduce and greens and herbs gathered from the jungle. MALU-KESELKEN: Green plantains for curries, as distinguished from ripe plantains. MALUPETMAN: The courtyard of a temple with its approaches. MALWATTIYA: A basket or tray of flowers. One of the duties of a tenant in mura at a temple is to supply a basket of flowers morning and evening for offering in front of the image of Buddha or in front of the shrine. MAKARA-TORANA: An ornamental arch over the portal of a Vihare formed of two fabulous monsters facing each other. These monsters are said to be emblems of the God of Love (Kama). They are a modern introduction borrowed from modern Hinduism. MAKUL: Clay used in whitewashing. MALABANDINA-RAJAKARIYA: The term in use in the Matale District for the services of putting up the pole for the Perehera, so called from flowers being tied to the pole when it is set up. MALASUNGE: A small detached building at a Vihare to offer flowers in. These buildings are also found attached to private houses, where they serve the purpose of a private chapel. MANDAPPAYA: Covered court or verandah. MANGALA-ASTAKAYA OR MAGUL-KAVI: Invocation in eight stanzas recited at Dewale as a thanks giving song. MANGALYAYA: A festival, a wedding. The four principal festivals are the Awurudu (old year) the Nanumura (new year), the Katti (feast of lights) in Il (November) and the Alutsal (harvest home) in Duruta (January). Some reckon the old and new year festivals as one, and number the Perehera in Ehala (July) amongst the festivals. In Ninda villages it is at one of the festivals, generally the old or new year, that the tenants appear with presents before the proprietor and attend to the ordinary repairs of his Wala, awwa. In temple villages they likewise present their penuma, repair and clean the buildings, courts-compounds and paths, put up decorations, join in the processions, and build temporary sheds for lights and for giving accommodation to worshippers on these occasions. They pay their Ganpandura, have land disputes etc. settled and the annual officers appointed. Tenants unable to attend by reason of distance or other causes make a payment in lieu called Gamanmurakasi. MANNAYA: Kitchen knife. Knife commonly used in tapping Kitul. MASSA: An ancient Kandyan coin equal to two groats or eight pence. Massa is used in singular only; when more than one is spoken of "Ridi" is used. MEDERI OR MENERI: A small species of paddy grown on hen. Panic grass (Clough). MEDINDINA MASE: The twelfth month of the Sinhalese year (March-April.) MEKARAL: A long kind of bean. METIPAN: Clay lamps supplied by the potter for the Katti-Mangalyaya. METIPANDAMA: A bowl, made of clay to hold rags and oil, used as a torch. MINUMWI: Remuneration given to the Mananawasam tenants for measuring paddy. The rate is fixed by custom in each village but varies considerably throughout the country. MINUMWASAMA OR PANGUWA: The office of a Mananna or the holding held by the Manana people; their primary service as their name denotes is measuring out paddy given to be pounded as well as the paddy brought in from the fields and rice brought in after being pounded, but as the office has come to be held by low caste people and by Vellala of low degree the service has become analogous to those of the Uliyakkara-Wasam class such as putting up privies, mudding walls, carrying palanquins, baggage Penumkat and Adukkukat and serving as torch bearers at festivals. The Mananna is as much the Vidane's messenger as the Attapattu Appu is the messenger of the proprietor. He together with the Lekama keeps watch at the threshing floor, takes care of the buffaloes brought for ploughing and threshing and assists the Vidane, Lekama, and Kankanama in the collection of the dues such as, Ganpandura etc. MIPENI: Honey. It is given as a sort of forest dues by tenants of villages in the wild districts. MIRIS: Chillies given as a rent or proprietor's ground share of hena land cultivated with it. MOHOTTALA: The same as Lekama q. v. MOLPILLA: The iron rim of a pestle or paddy pounder. MUDUHIRUWA OR MUDUWA: A ring. It is the penuma given by silver-smiths and gold-smiths. MUKKALA: Three-fourths. A Tamil word used by certain tenants in the Seven Korala for three-fourths of the service of a full Panguwa. MULTEN OR MURUTEN: Food offered to a Deviyo in a Dewale by a Kapurala daily, or on Kenmura days. The Muttettu fields of the Dewalaya supply the rice for it, and the tenants of the Malumura-panguwa the vegetables. It is cooked in the temple, mulutenge or kitchen, sometimes as often as three times a day. It is carried from the kitchen with great ceremony on a Kada by the proper Kattiyanaralas. All thus engaged in cooking, carrying and offering it should be of the Kapu family, by whom it is afterwards eaten. MULTEN-MEWEDAMAWIMA: The carrying of the Multen Kada from the Multenge (kitchen) to the sanctuary. The term is in use in the Badulla District. MUN: A sort of pea forming one of the chief products of a hena, and largely used as a curry. MURA-AMURE: An ordinary turn and an extraordinary turn of service. A term applied to a holding which, in addition to its proper or ordinary turn of service, has to perform some extra service on account of additional land attached to the mulpanguwa. The term is used in Kurunegala District. MURA-AWUDAYA: A lance. The weapon in the hands of the Hewawasam or Dunukara tenant on guard. MURA-AWUDA-RAJAKARIYA: The service of a guard holding a lance. MURAGEYA: Guard-room. MURAYA: A general term for the turn of any service. The Muraya is of different lengths, 7, 10, or 15 days being the common periods of each mura. In some mura the tenant receives food, in the others not. MUSNA: Broom; brush. MUTTEHE-PENUMA: presents of sweetmeats or raw provisions given by tenants of some villages in the Sabaragamuwa District after the harvesting of a middle crop between the ordinary Yala and Maha crops, known as the Muttes harvest. MUTTETTUWA: A field belonging to the proprietor, whether a chief or temple, and cultivated on his account jointly by tenants of every description. The proprietor usually finds the seed-paddy, and bears all costs of agricultural implements, and sometimes gives the buffaloes; the service of the tenants is reckoned not by days, but by the number of the different agricultural operations to which they have to contribute labour, and they are accordingly spoken of as "Wedapaha" and "Weda-hata," which are--1, puran ketuma or puran-hiya (first digging or first ploughing); 2, dekutuma or binnegunhiya (the second digging or ploughing); 3, wepuruma (sowing including the smoothing of the beds); 4, goyan-kepuma (reaping including stacking); and 5, goyan-medima (threshing including storing). These admit of sub-divisions. Hence the number of agricultural operations differ in different districts. All the tenants take a part in the cultivation, and are generally fed by the proprietor or by the Ganwasam tenants on his behalf. The sowing of the seed-paddy is the work of the Gammahe as requiring greater care, and irrigation that of the Mananna, unless special arrangements are made for it with a Diyagoyya who is allowed in payment, a portion of the field to cultivate free of ground-rent, or the crop of a cultivated portion. The Muttettu straw furnishes thatch for buildings, the tying and removing of which is also a service rendered by the tenants. The services of the different classes of the tenantry on an estate are centred in its Muttettu field. Hence the passing of the Muttettuwa from the family of the landlord into the hands of strangers is invariably followed by the tenants resisting their customary services in respect of the Muttettu. They have generally succeeded in such resistance. See first Report of the Service Tenure Commission P. 9. "In only a few cases have estates been sold away from the families of the local chiefs, and in these cases with the almost invariable result of the loss of all claim to service by disuse, the Kandyan tenant being peculiarly sensitive as to the social status of his Lord. A few years ago one of the leading Advocates in Kandy acquired three estates, and after several years' litigation, he was compelled to get the original proprietor to take back the largest of the three, and the claim to services from the other two had to be abandoned. On the original proprietor resuming procession, the tenants returned to their allegiance." MUTTIYA: The same as heliya (q.v.) MUTU-KUDE: Umbrella of State, made of rich cloth, and carried in procession by one of the higher tenants over the insignia of the Deviyo, or over the Karanduwa of the Maligawa which is borne on an elephant. N NAMBIRALA OR NAMBURALA: A headman corresponding to an overseer. It is a term in use in Moorish villages in the Kurunegala District. NANAGEYA: A bath-house. On the visit of the proprietor or some other person of rank, the nanage and atuge (privy) are put up at the lodging prepared for him by a tenant of the Uliyam or Nila panguwa, or by the mananna of the village. NANU: Composition generally made of lime juice, and other acids for cleansing the hair. In temples it is made of different fragrant ingredients the chief of which is powdered sandal-wood. NANUMURA-MANGALYAYA: The festival immediately following the Sinhalese new year on which purification with nanu is performed (see above). NATA-DEWALE: The temple of Nata Daviyo, who is said to be now in the Divyalokaya, but is destined when born on earth to be the Buddha of the next kalpa under the name Mayitri Buddha. NATANA-PANGUWA: It is one and the same with the Geekiyana-panguwa q. v. The service of this section of the Geekiyana-panguwa is the Digge-netima by females on the nights of the Kenmura days and of festivals. They likewise perform the Alattibema and dance during the whole night of the last day of the Perehera and one of their number accompanies the Randoli procession. Dancing taught by the matron of the class, called Alatti-amma or Manikkamahage. This panguwa is also called the Malwara-panguwa. One of favourite dances of the Alatti women is "Kalagedinetima" (dancing with new pots) the pot used at which becomes the dancer's perquisite. NAVAN-MASE: The eleventh month of the Sinhalese year (February-March.) NAYYANDI-NETIMA: The dance of the Yakdesso (devil-dancers) during Perehera in Dewale. NAYAKE-UNNANSE: Chief priest. NELIYA: A seer measure. NELLI: One of the three noted myrobalans (Clough). NELUNWI: Paddy given as hire for weeding and transplanting in a field. NEMBILIYA: A vessel used in cleansing rice in water previous to being boiled. It is of the size and shape of a large "appallaya" but the inside instead of being smooth is grooved, or has a dented surface to detain sand and dirt. NETTARA-PINKAMA: The festival on the occasion of painting-in the eyes of a figure of Buddha in a Vihare. The offerings received daring the ceremony are given to the artificers or painters as their hire (see Barapen.) NETTIPALE: A penthouse, or slanting roof from a wall or rock. NETTIMALE: The ornamental head dress of an elephant in processions. NIKINIMASE: The fifth month of the Sinhalese year (August-September). NILAKARAYA: A tenant liable to service, more particularly the term is applied to tenants doing menial service. NILAWASAMA: The tenement held by the Nilawasam tenants. The services, as those of the Uliyakwasam embrace all domestic and outdoor work of various and arduous kinds some of which, as those already enumerated under the Minumwasama, are the supplying of fuel and water to the kitchen and bath, the pounding of paddy, the extracting of oil, the mudding of walls and floors, the dragging of timber and other building materials, the preparation of clay and the supplying of firewood for the brick and tile kiln, blowing the bellows for the smith and supplying him with charcoal for the forge, the breaking of lime stones, the cutting of banks and ditches, putting up fences, clearing gardens, sweeping out courtyards and compounds, joining in all agricultural operations on gardens, fields, and hen, removing the crops, tying straw and assisting in thatching, the carrying of palanquins and baggage on journeys, conveying to the proprietor the penumkat, adukkukat, pehindumkat, mahekat, wasdankat, etc., supplied by the other tenants, joining in the preparations for festivals, carrying pandam in processions, and serving at the proprietor's on occasions, of importance such as weddings, funerals, arrival of distinguished visitors, and at Yak and Bali ceremonies. Nilawasam tenants for the most part, are of a low caste or belong to the lower classes of the Vellala caste. Hence their yearly penuma to the proprietor, instead of being a kada of sweetmeats consists of vegetables and a contribution of raw or uncooked articles of food. Besides services as above, rendered to the proprietor, the Nilawasam tenants work for the proprietor's Vidane, and for the Ganwasama, a few days in fields and hen and carry their baggage on journeys. NILA-PANDAMA OR KILA-PANDAMA: The same as Kalapandama. q. v. NINDAGAMA: A village or lands in a village in exclusive possession of the proprietor. Special grants from kings are under sannas. NIYANDA: A plant, the fibres of which are used in making cords, strings for curtains and hangings and carpets or mats. NIYAKOLA: The leaves of a shrub used for chewing with betel. NULMALKETE: A ball or skein of thread. O OTU: Tax, tythe. OLONGUWA: A long bag or sack having the contents divided into two equal portions so as to fall one before and one behind when the bag is slung over the shoulder. ORAK-KODIA OR OSAKKODIYA: Small flags on arches or on sticks placed at intervals. P PADALAMA: A floor, foundation. PADIYA: Water to wash the feet on entering the sanctuary of a Dewale. PADUWA: A palanquin bearer. This class carries the palanquins of males, those of females being carried by Wahunpura tenants. PAHALOSWAKADA: Full-moon day. PALLEMALERALA: The chief officer of the Pallemale (lower temple in the Dalada Maligawa.) PANAMA: A fanam, equal to one-sixteenth part of a rupee. PANALELI: Horns cut into shape for combs, and given as penum. PANDAMA: A torch, candle, see atpandama. PANDAM-DAMBU: It is sometimes written Dâmbu. The same as Dambu q. v. PANGUWA: A holding, a portion, a farm. PANGUKARAYA: The holder of a panguwa, a tenant, a shareholder. PANHARANGUWA: An ornamented arch or support for lights at festivals in temples. PANIKKILA OR PANIKKALA: Elephant keeper. He has the charge of temple elephants used in processions, in which service he is assisted by a grass-cutter allowed by the temple, and is besides fed when on duty at a temple. PANIKKIYA: The headman of the tom-tom beater caste. A barber. PANMADUWA: The festival of lights occasionally held at a Dewale in honour of Pattini Deviyo, in which all the tenants of a village join and contribute to the expenses. PANPILI: Rags for lights or lamps. The same as Dambu. PANSALA: The residence of a priest. Lit. hut of leaves. PANTIYA: An elephant stall. A row of buildings. A festival. PAN-WETIYA: A wick. PATA: A measure corresponding to a hunduwa. One-fourth of a seer. The same as Awaliya. PATABENDI: Titled. There are in some villages a superior class of tenants called Patabendo, doing nominal service, such as occasionally guarding the proprietor's house. In temple villages, however, they perform services similar to those of the Ganwasama. PATHISTHANAYA: A lance with an ornamented handle, carried in processions or on journeys of state by the Hewawasam or Atapattu tenants. PATHKADAYA: A priest's kneeling cloth or leathern rug. PATHKOLAYA: A piece of a plantain leaf used instead of a plate. It is called Pachchala in Sabaragamwua. In temples there is a special tenant to supply it for the daily service. PATHTHARAYA: The alms bowl of a priest, sometimes of clay but generally of iron or brass, or, rarely of silver. PATTAYA: The sheath of an arecanut branch. It is very commonly used by way of a bottle for keeping jaggery or honey in. PATTINIAMMA: The female attendant in the Pattini Dewale. PATTINI-NETUMA: Dance held by Nilawasam tenants in charge of temple cattle, who serves at the giving of fresh milk called "Hunkiri-payinda-kirima" and at the "Kiri-itirima" ceremony of boiling milk in Dewale at the new year, and sprinkling it about the precincts, in expression of a wish that the year may be a prosperous one. PATTIRIPPUWA: An elevated place, or raised platform in the Widiya of Dewale, as a resting place for the insignia during procession. PAWADAYA OR PIYAWILLA: A carpet or cloth spread on the ground by the dhobi on duty for the Kapurala to walk upon during the Tewawa, or at the entry of a distinguished visitor into the house of the proprietor. PEDIYA: A dhobi. A washerman. PEDURA: A mat. It is given for use at a threshing floor or for a festival or public occasion by tenants as one of their dues. PEHINDUM: Uncooked provisions given to headmen, generally by low class tenants. PELA: A shed, a watch-hut. PELDORA: Perquisite to the watcher of a field, being the crop of the paddy around the watch-hut. See Hiwelande. PELELLA: A screen made of leaves and branches to answer the purpose of a wall in temporary buildings. PELKARAYA: A sub-tenant. See Dalu pathkaraya. The Mulpakaraya (original or chief tenant) frequently gets a person to settle on the lands of his panguwa, in order to have a portion of the services due by him performed by the person so brought in, who is called the pelkaraya; lit. cotter. PELLAWEDAGAMAN: The service turns of tenants. A term in use in the Kegalle District. PENPOLA: A priest's bath. PENUMA: The same as dekuma. q. v. PENUM-KADA: A pingo of presents, provisions, vegetables, dried fish or flesh, chatties, etc., given annually or at festivals by tenants to their landlords. PENUMWATTIYA: Presents carried in baskets. PERAWA: A measure equal to one-fourth of a seer, in use in the Kurunegala District, corresponding to a Hunduwa. PERAHANKADA: A piece of cloth to strain water through, used by priests, being one of their eight requisites. A filter; vide "delipihiya" supra. PEREHERA: A procession; the festival observed in the month of Ehela (July), in Dewale, the chief ceremony in which is the taking in procession, the insignia of the divinities Vishnu, Kataragama, Nata and Pattini for fifteen days. All the Dewala tenants and officers attend it; buildings and premises are cleansed, whitewashed, decorated, and put into proper order. The festival is commenced by bringing in procession a pole and setting it up at the Temple in a lucky hour. This is done by the Kapurala; during the first five days the insignia are taken in procession round the inner court of the Dewale; the five days so observed are called the Kumbal-Perehera, from Kumbala, a potter, who provided the lamps with stands called Kalas generally used in some Dewala at the festival. During the next five days, called the Dewala Perehera the procession goes twice daily round the Widiya or outer court of a Dewale. During the third or last five days, called the Maha or Randoli-perehera the procession issues out of the temple precincts, and taking a wider circuit passes round the main thoroughfare of a town. The festival concludes with one of its chief ceremonies, the Diyakepima, when the insignia are taken in procession on elephants to the customary ferry which is prepared and decorated for the occasion; and the Kapurala, proceeding in a boat to the middle of the stream, cuts with the Rankaduwa (golden sword) the water at the lucky hour. At that very instant the "Rankendiya" (the gold goblet) which is first emptied of the water preserved in it from the Diyakepima of the previous year, is re-filled and taken back in procession to the Dewala. It is customary in some temples for the tenants to wash themselves in the pond or stream immediately after the Diyake-pima. This is a service obligatory on the tenants. After the conclusion of the Perehera, the officers and tenants engaged in it, including the elephants, have ceremonies, for the conciliation of lesser divinities and evil spirits, performed called Balibat-netima, Garayakunnetima and Waliyakun-netima. The Perehera is observed in all the principal Dewala such as Kataragama, the four Dewala in Kandy, Alutnuwara Dewale and Saman Dewale in Sabaragamuwa etc. The following notice of the Kandy Perehera is taken from a note to the first report of the Service Tenures Commission:--"The most celebrated of these processions is the Perehera, which takes place at Kandy in Esala (July-Aug.) commencing with the new moon in that month and continuing till the full moon. It is a Hindu festival in honor of the four deities Natha, Vishnu, Kataragama (Kandaswami) and Pattini, who are held in reverence by the Buddhists of Ceylon as Deviyo who worshipped Goutama and are seeking to attain Nirwana. In the reign of King Kirtissiri (A. D. 1747-1780) a body of priests who came from Siam for the purpose of restoring the Upasampada ordination objected to the observance of this Hindu ceremony in a Buddhist country. To remove their scruples, the king ordered the Dalada relic of Buddha to be carried thenceforth in procession with the insignia of the four deities. Nevertheless, the Perehera is not regarded as a Buddhist ceremony." PERUDAN: Food given to priests according to turns arranged amongst tenants. PETAWILIKARAYA: A tavalan driver. It is the Moor tenants who perform this service. PETHETIYA: A vessel for measuring an hour. A small cup of brass or silver, or sometimes a cocoanut shell, having a small hole in the bottom, is put to float in a basin of water, the hole is made of such a size that the water which comes through it will be exactly sufficient to make the cup sink in the space of a Sinhalese hour or peya, equal to twenty-five minutes or one-sixtieth part of a day. PETMAN: Foot-paths. They are to be kept free of jungle by the tenants, with whom it is a principal duty. PILIMAGEYA: Image-repository, the chamber in Wihare for images. PILLEWA: A bit of high land adjoining a field, called also "Wanata". PINBERA: The beating of tom-tom, not on service but for merit at pinkam at the poya days, or after an almsgiving. PINKAMA: In a general sense, any deed of merit, but more particularly used for the installing of priests in "Was" in the four months of the rainy season (July to November) for the public reading of Bana. PIRIWEHIKADA: A pingo made up of "piriwehi" wicker baskets filled with provisions or other articles. PIRUWATAYA: A cloth, towel, sheet etc., supplied by the dhobi and returned after use. PITAKATTALAYA: The exterior of a Dewale or the portion outside the sanctuary. It is also a term applied to all the classes of tenants whose services are connected with the exterior of a Dewale, as distinguished from the Etul-kattale, tenants or servants of the sanctuary. PIYAWILLA: The same as Pawadaya. q. v. POKUNA: A pond, or well, or reservoir of water, resorted to at a Perehera for the Diyakepuma. POLÉ: The present given to the Vidane of a village by a sportsman on killing game within the village limits. It is about four or five pounds of flesh. In some districts the custom of giving the pole, apart from the Gangate, has ceased to exist, but it is kept up in Sabaragamuwa. POLGEDIYA: The fruit of the cocoanut tree. POLWALLA: A bunch of cocoanuts used in decorations, and the supplying of which forms a service. PORODDA: The collar of an elephant. POSONMASA: The third month of the Sinhalese year (June-July). POTSAKIYA: The button fastened to the end of a string used in tying up and keeping together the ola leaves and wooden covers of native manuscripts. POTTANIYA: A bundle larger than a "mitiya." POYAGEYA: A detached building at a Wihare establishment within proper "sima" (military posts). It is used as a confessional for priests on poya days, as a vestry for convocations and meetings on matters ecclesiastical, and for holding ordination and for worship. PUJAWA: An offering of any kind--e. g. food, cloth, flowers, incense, etc. PULLIMAL: Ear-rings. PURAGEYA: The scaffolding of a building or the temporary shed put up to give shelter to the workmen and protection to the permanent structure in course of erection. PURANA: A field lying fallow, or the time during which a field lies uncultivated. PURAWEDIKODIYA: A flag. A term used in the Four Korale. PURAWASAMA: See Ganpandura. A term in use in the Kurunegala District for ground rent. PURUKGOBA: Tender cocoanut branch for decorations. It is called Pulakgoba in Sabaragamuwa and Pulakatta in Matale. PRAKARAYA: A rampart, a strong wall. R RADA-BADDARA-RAJAKARIYA: Dhoby service. It consists of washing weekly or monthly the soiled clothes of a family, the robes, curtains, flags, and vestments of a Temple; decorating temples with viyan (ceilings) for festivals and pinkam, and private houses on occasions of weddings, Yak or Bali ceremonies, and arrival of distinguished visitors; the supplying on such occasions of "Piruwata" for wearing, "etirili" or covers for seats, tables etc., "piyawili" or carpets, and "diyaredi" or bathing dresses; the making of "pandam" torches and "panweti" wicks and the supplying of "dambu" tow. The "Heneya" (dhobi) has also to attend his master on journeys carrying his bundle of clothes and bathing requisites. He supplies the Kapurala and Yakdessa with piruwata, the former weekly when on duty at a Dewale and the latter for dancing at festivals. He gives piruwata for the Muttettu, for serving out the food, for penum-kat and tel-kat as covers, and for the state elephant during festivals. The penuma he presents consists generally of a piece of wearing apparel or of a "sudu-toppiya" (Kandyan hat) or in some cases of Panaleli (horns for combs.) His prerequisites vary according to the occasion calling forth his services. Thus at the Sinhalese new year besides the quota of sweetmeats and rice given on such an occasion every member of the family ties up a coin in the cloth he delivers to him for washing. At "kotahalu" (occasion) of a female attaining puberty, festivities the dhoby is entitled to the cloth worn by the young woman and to her head ornaments, and at a funeral to all the clothes not allowed to be burnt on the pyre. RADAYA: A washerman of an inferior grade. RADALA: A chief, an officer of rank. RAHUBADDA: A general term for small temples or dependencies of the Kandy Pattini Dewale. It is sometimes used of a kind of dancers. It is also sometimes taken as one of the nine "Nawabadda" the nine trades, which are, possibly, the following, but it is difficult to find any two Kandyans who give precisely the same list: 1, Kottal, smiths; 2, Badahela, potters; 3, Hakuru, jaggery makers; 4, Hunu, lime burners; 5, Hulanbadde, or Madige, tavalam-drivers, who are always Moors; 6, Rada, dhobies; 7, Berawa tom-tom-beaters; 8, Kinnaru, weavers; 9, Henda or Rodi, Rodiyas. RAJAHELIYABEMA: The distribution of rice boiled at a Dewale at the close of the Perehera, among the servitors who took part in the ceremonies. RAJAKARIYA: Service to the king. The word is now used indiscriminately for services done to a temple or Nindagam proprietors, or for the duties of an office. RAMBATORANA: An arch in which plantain trees form the chief decoration. RAN-AWUDA: The golden sword, bow, and arrows etc., belonging to a Dewale. The insignia of a Deviyo. RANDOLIYA: A royal palanquin, the palanquin in which the insignia are taken in procession during the Maha Perehera. RANHILIGE: The royal howdah in which the insignia are taken in processions on the back of an elephant. RANKAPPAYA: A plate made of gold. See ranmandaya. RANMANDAYA: A circular plate or tray for offerings in the sanctuary of a Dewale. RATHAGEYA: The building for the car used in processions. REDIPILI: Curtains, coverings, etc. of a temple; clothes. RELIPALAM: Decorations of an arch made of cloth, tied up so as to form a kind of frill. RIDISURAYA: Rim of silver by a smith tenant for the Ehela tree. RIDIYA: An ancient coin equal to eight-pence, or one-third of a rupee. RIPPA: Called also Pattikkaleli are laths forming building material annually supplied by tenants. RITTAGE: Resting place for the insignia during the procession round the courts of a Dewalaya. See Pattirippuwa. S SADANGUWE-PEHINDUMA: A pehinduma given by a village in common, not by the tenants in turns. The term is in use in Sabaragamuwa. SAMAN DEWALE: Temple of Sumana or Saman deviyo, the tutelary god of Sripadastane. The one in Sabaragamuwa is the richest and largest of the Dewale dedicated to this Deviyo. SAMUKKALAYA: A cover for a bed or couch forming a travelling requisite carried by a tenant for the use of his superior. SANDUN-KIRIPENI-IHIMA: A sprinkling of perfumes at festivals to denote purification, tranquility. SANNI-YAKUMA: A species of devil-dance to propitiate demons afflicting a patient. SARAKKU: Curry-stuff. Drugs. SARAMARU-MOHOTTALA: A mohottala over service villages, holding his office during the pleasure of the head of the Dewale. SATARA-MANGALYAYA: The four principal festivals in the year. See mangalyaya. SATTALIYA: An ancient coin equal to about one and-a-half fanam, or two-pence and a farthing. SEMBUWA: A small brazen pot generally used on journeys for carrying water or for bathing. The service of carrying it on journeys devolves on the dhoby. SEMENNUMA: Remuneration given originally to an irrigation headman, which in lapse of time began to be given to the proprietor, and called "Huwandiram" or "Suwandirama". When given to a Dewale, it is sometimes called Semennuma. SESATA: A large fan made of talipot or cloth and richly ornamented, with a long handle to carry it in processions. It was once an emblem of royalty. SIHILDAN: Priest's early meal at daybreak. The same as Hildana q. v. SINHARAKKARA-MUHANDIRAMA: A rank conferred on the headman over the musicians of a temple. SINHASANAYA: A throne. An altar, A seat of honor. It is also a name given to the "Pattirippuwa." SITTARA: A painter. He is a tenant generally of the smith caste, and mends and keeps in repair the image and paintings of temples. The temple supplies the requisite pigments and food during work. The completion of an image or a restoration or construction of a Vihare is observed with a pinkama; and the offerings of moneys, etc., for a certain number of days are allowed as perquisites to the painters and smiths in addition to the hire agreed upon called "Barapen" (q. v.) The painter, likewise, supplies ornamented sticks as handles for lances, flags, etc., and presents to the head of the temple a penuma of an ornamented walking-stick or betel tray. SIWURUKASI OR SIWURUMILA: Contribution for priests' robes, being a very trifling but a regular annual payment during the Was Season, and given with the usual dankada. SRIPADASTANE: The place of the sacred foot-step-Adam's peak. It is yearly frequented by crowds of pilgrims, has a separate temple establishment of its own, presided over by a Nayaka Unnanse, and held in great veneration second only to the Dalada Maligawa or shrine of the eye-tooth of Buddha. SUDUREDI-TOPPIYA: The white hat commonly worn by Kandyan headmen forming the annual penuma of a dhoby tenant. SUWANDIRAMA: See Semennuma. T TADUPPUREDDA: Country-made cloth of coarse texture, which forms with the tenants of the tom-tom beater caste their annual penuma to the proprietor. TAHANCHIKADA OR TAHANDIKADA: A ponumkada given to a Dissawa. A term in use in the Kegalle District. TALA: Sesamum. TALA-ATU-MUTTUWA: Two talipots sown together and ornamented. It is used as an umbrella, and on journeys of the proprietor it is carried by the proper tenant, generally of the Atapattu class. TALAM-GEHIMA: To play with the "Taliya" cymbals as an accompaniment to the tom-tom. TALATTANIYA: An elder in a village. TALIGEDIYA: A large earthen-ware pot. TALIMANA: Blacksmith's apparatus for a pair of bellows generally made of wood, sunk in the ground and covered with elk-hide. TALIYA OR TALAMA: A kind of cymbal. TALKOLA-PIHIYE: A small knife with a stylus to write with. TAMBALA: A creeper, the leaves of which are used with betel. TAMBORUWA: A tambourine. TANAYAMA: A rest-house. A lodging put up on the occasion of the visit of a proprietor or person of rank to a village. TANGAMA: Half a ridi, equal to one groat or four-pence. TANTUWAWA: Any ceremony such as a wedding, a devil-dance, a funeral, etc. TATUKOLA: Pieces of plantain leaves used as plates. The same as Patkola q. v. TATTUMARUWA: The possession of a field in turns of years; a system leading often to great complications e. g., a field belongs to A and B in equal shares, and they possess it in alternate years. They die and leave it to two sons of A, and three sons of B. These again hold in Tattumaru (A1, A2) (B1, B2, B3,). In fourteen years the possession is A1, B1, A2, B2, A1, B3, A2, B1, A1, B2, A2, B3, A1, B1, and so on. A1 leaves two sons, A2 lives, B1 has three sons, B2 has four sons and B3 has five. A2 gets his turn after intervals of four years, but A1a and B1b have to divide A1's turn. Each therefore gets his turn after intervals of eight years, but each of the B shareholders gets his turn at intervals of six years and B1a, B1b, B1c now have a turn each at intervals of eighteen years, B2a, B2b, B2c, B2d, at intervals of twenty-four years, B3e at intervals of thirty years, as in the following table:-- 1 A1a 11 A2 21 A1b 2 B1a 12 B3b 22 B2d 3 A2 13 A1b 23 A2 4 B2a 14 B1c 24 B3d 5 A1b 15 A2 25 A1a 6 B3a 16 B2c 26 B1b 7 A2 17 A1a 27 A2 8 B1b 18 B3c 28 B2a 9 A1a 19 A2 29 A1b 10 B2b 20 B1a 30 B3e TAWALAMA: Pack-bullock. TELGEDI: Ripe or dry cocoanuts to express oil from. TEMMETTAMA: A kettle-drum. One of the five musical instruments of a temple. TEMMETTANKARAYA: A tenant playing on the Temmettama and belonging to the tom-tom beater caste. His service is in requisition for the daily services of a temple at its festivals, perehera, and pinkama and when the incumbent proceeds on journeys of importance such as ordinations, visits to the prior, and pinkam duties. Under a lay proprietor, the Temmettankaraya attends at weddings, Yak and Bali ceremonies, funerals, and on journeys on state occasions. He occasionally assists in agricultural and building works, and presents a penuma of a towel or piece of cloth with betel. At the four festivals in temples he takes a part in all the preparations and decorations. TETAMATTUWA: A towel or piece of cloth to rub the body dry after a bath, which it is the service of the dhoby to supply. TETIYA: A metal dish used for the purposes of a plate. TEWAWA: The daily service of a Dewale, morning, noon, and evening, when muruten is offered. TIRALANU: Cords for curtains. TIRAPILI: Curtains. TITTAYAN: A kind of small fresh-water fish having bitter taste. It is dried and given with other articles as penum. TORANA: An ornamental arch put up on public and festive occasions. TUPPOTTIYA: A cloth of ten yards worn round the waist. The ordinary wearing cloth of a Kandyan. TUTTUWA: A pice, equal sometimes to 3/8d. sometimes one half-penny; when it contains four challies it is called the "Mahatuttuwa." TUWAYA-TUNDAMA: A towel given by the tom-tom beater tenants as a penuma. U UDAHALLA: A hanging basket of wicker-work. UDAKKIYA: A small kind of drum carried in the hand and used to play for dance music. Its use is not restricted to any caste. UDUWIYANA: A canopy held over the muruten in the daily service of a Dewale, or over the insignia at processions, or over any sacred thing taken in procession, such as Alutsal, Nanu, Bana books, Relics, etc. The word also means ceilings put up by the dhoby. UGAPATA: Vegetables, jaggery, or kitul-peni etc., wrapped up in leaves, generally in the sheath of the arecanut branch. Six ugapat make a kada, or pingo-load. ULIYAMWASAMA: The holding of land by the Uliyamwasam tenants who perform all kinds of menial service. The same as Nilawasam q. v. UL-UDE: Trousers worn by dancers. UNDIYARALA: A Dewala messenger. UNDUWAPMASA: The ninth month of the Sinhalese year (December-January). UPASAKARALA: Persons devoted to religious exercises. UPASAMPADAWA: The highest order of Buddhist priests. The ceremony of admission into the order. USNAYA: A smith's forge. The same as idinna. q.v. UYANWATTA: A park, a garden. The principal garden attached to a temple or to the estate of a proprietor, the planting, watching, gathering and removing the produce of which forms one of the principal services of tenants. W WADANATALAATTA: A richly ornamented talipot. In ancient times its use was restricted to the court of the king and to temples; but now it is used by the upper classes on public occasions, being carried by the Atapattu tenants. The same as Kumaratalatta. q.v. WAHALBERE: The same as Magulbere. q.v. WAHALKADA: The porch before a temple or court. WAHUNPURAYA: A tenant of the jaggery caste, which supplies the upper classes with domestic servants, chiefly cooks. This class has to accompany the proprietor on journeys and carry the palanquin of female members of the proprietor's family. When not engaged as domestics the Wahumpurapangu tenants supply jaggery and kitul-peni. They likewise supply vegetables, attend agricultural work and carry baggage. WAJJANKARAYA: A tom-tom-beater. A general term for a temple musician. The five wajjan of which a regular Hewisia is made up are: 1, the Dawula (the common drum); 2, the Temettama (kettle-drum) 3, the Boraya (drum longer than a Dawula) 4, the Taliya (cymbals) and 5, the Horanewa (the trumpet.) WADUPASRIYANGE: The same as "Anamestraya." WAKMASE OR WAPMASE: The seventh month of the Sinhalese year (Oct. Nov.) WALANKADA: A pingo of pottery, usually ten or twelve in number, supplied by the potter as a part of his service, either as a penumkada or as the complement of chatties he has to give at festivals, etc. WALAN-KERAWALA: Half a pingo of pottery. WALAWWA: A respectful term for the residence of a person of rank. The manor-house. WALIYAKUMA: Called also "Wediyakuma." The devil-dance after a Diyakepuma. See "Hiro hinetima." WALLAKOTU: Sticks, the bark or twigs of which are used in place of string. It is supplied by tenants for Yak or Bali ceremonies. WALLIMALE: A poem containing the legends of Valliamma, the wife of Kataragama. WALUMALGOBA: The cluster of young fruit the flower and the sprout (tender branch) of the cocoanut tree used in decorations, and supplied by tenants. WANATA: A clearing between a cultivated land and the adjacent jungle. The same as "Pillowa". WANNAKURALA: An accountant. Tho officer of a temple whose duties correspond to those of a Dewala Mohattala or Attanayakarala. WAPPIHIYA: A knife little larger than a Wahunketta (kitchen knife) with the blade somewhat curved. WARAGAMA: A gold coin varying in value from six shillings to seven shillings and sixpence. WASAMA: An office. A service holding. WASKALAYA: The season in which priests take up a fixed residence, devoting their time to the public reading and expounding of Bana. It falls between the months of July and October. Sometimes a resident priest is placed in Was in his own Pansala, which means that he is to be fed with dan provided by the tenantry during the season of Was. The practice originated in the command of Buddha that his disciples should travel about during the dry season as mendicant monks, but that in the rainy season they should take shelter in leaf huts. The modern priests now desert their substantially built monasteries to take up their residence for the Was-lit: rainy season--in temporary buildings. The object of the original institution was to secure attention during part of the year to the persons living near the monastery--in fact that for this period the monks should serve as parish priests. WAS-ANTAYA: The close of the Was-season. WATADAGE: Temporary sheds for lights, sometimes called "Pasriyangewal" or "Wadupasriyangewal." WATAPETTIYA: A circular flat basket to carry adukku and penum in. WATATAPPE: Circular wall round a temple. WATTAKKA: The common gourd generally grown on hen. WATTAMA: A round or turn. In Nuwarakalawiya it is applied to the turn in a Hewisimura service. WATTIYA: A flat basket for carrying penum, flowers etc. WATTORURALA: The tenant whose duty it is to open and close the doors of the sanctuary in a Dewale, to sweep it out, to clean and trim the lamps, to light and tend them, and to take charge of the sacred vessels used in the daily service. WENIWEL: A creeper used as strings for tying. WESAK: The second month of the Sinhalese year (May-June). WESIGILIYA OR WESIKILIYA: A privy for priests. WESMUNA: A mask worn at a Devil or other dance. WIBADDE-MOHOTTALA: The writer who keeps the account of the paddy revenue of a temple. WIDANE: The superintendent of a village or a number of villages. The agent of a proprietor. WIHARAYA: A Buddhist temple (from the Sanskrit vi-hri to walk about), originally the hall where the Buddhist priests took their morning walk; afterwards these halls were used as temples and sometimes became the centre of a whole monastic establishment. The word Wihara or Vihara is now used only to designate a building dedicated to the memory of Gautama Buddha, and set apart for the daily offering of flowers, and of food given in charity. To the Wihara proper there has been added in modern times an image-house for figures of Buddha in the three attitudes standing as the law-giver, sitting in meditation, reclining in the eternal repose of unbroken peace and happiness; and these figures now form prominent objects in every Wihara, and it is before these figures that pious Buddhists make their offerings of rice, flowers, money, etc. It should not be confounded with the "Pansala" which signifies the monastic buildings as distinguished from the temple or place of worship around which they are clustered. WILKORAHA: A large chatty used in soaking seed paddy. WITARUMA: An inferior Vidane, but the office has lost its original dignity. The duties formerly consisted of mere general superintendence of Muttettu-work and carrying of messages to Hewawasam tenants. The Vitaranna now is only a common messenger doing ordinary service as a petty overseer. WIYADAMA: Anything expended or issued for use, whether money or stores. It is generally used for provisions given to a headman or person of rank. WIYAKOLAMILA: Hire of buffaloes employed in threshing paddy. WIYANBENDIMA: The hanging up by the dhoby of clean cloths in temples for festivals or in private houses on festive and other occasions. WIYAN-TATTUWA: A canopy; a coiling. Y YAKDESSA: A tenant of the tom-tom beater caste who performs Devil ceremonies. YAKGE OR YAKMADUWA: The shed in which is performed a devil ceremony. YAKADAMILA: Hire or cost of agricultural implements for Muttettu cultivation, given by a proprietor. YAKADAWEDA: Hard-ware. Blacksmith's work. YALA: The second or the smaller of the two yearly harvests. The season for it varies according to the facilities which each part of the country has in respect of irrigation. Sometimes the word is used in a general sense to mean a crop. YAMANNA OR YAPAMMU: Smelters of iron. Their service consists of giving a certain number of lumps of iron yearly, the burning of charcoal for the forge, carrying baggage, assisting in field work, and at Yak or Bali ceremonies. They put up the Talimana (pair of bellows) for the smith, and smelt iron. YATIKAWA: A Kapurala's incantation or a pray uttered on behalf of a sick person. YATU: Half lumps of iron given as a penum by the Yamana tenants. YOTA: A strong cord or rope. NOTES [1] An account of the Interior of Ceylon (1821) Page 119 Davy. [2] Eleven Years in Ceylon (1841), Vol. II, p. 81 Forbes. [3] An Historical Relation of Ceylon 1681 Page 75 (Knox) [4] Ancient Ceylon (1909) pp. 191, 196 (Parker) [5] The Friend (Old Series) Vol. IV. (1840-1841) p. 189. (David de Silva.) [6] Eleven years in Ceylon (1841) Vol. II, page 104 (Major Forbes.) [7] Taprobanian (1887) vol. 2 p. 17 (Neville). [8] The Veddas (1911) p. 252 (Seligmann). [9] Ancient Ceylon (1909) p. 169. (Parker). [10] Govt. Gazette No. 6442 of 19th May 1911. [11] The Aryan village in India and Ceylon (1882) p. 205 (Phear). [12] The Friend (old series) Vol. IV (1840-1841) p. 211. David de Silva (Ambalangeda). [13] Vide:-- The friend (old series) (1840-1841) Vol. IV p. 189 (David de Silva). J.R.A.S. (Ceylon) (1848-1849) Vol. II No. 4 p. 31 (R. E. Lewis). J.R.A.S. (Ceylon) (1880) Vol. VI No. 21 p. 46 (Ievers). J.R.A.S. (Ceylon) (1883) Vol. VIII No. 26 p. 44 (Bell). J.R.A.S. (Ceylon) (1884) Vol. VIII No. 29 p. 331 (J. P. Lewis). J.R.A.S. (Ceylon) (1889) Vol. XI No. 39 p. 17 (Bell). J.R.A.S. (Ceylon) (1905) Vol. XVIII No. 56 p. 413 (Comaraswamy). J.R.A.S. (Great Britain) (1885) Vol. XVII p. 366 (Lemesurier). Taprobanian (1885) Vol. I p. 94 (Neville). Orientalist (1887) Vol. III p. 99 (Bell). Spolia Zeylanica (1908) (Parson). North Central Province Manual (1899) p. 181 (Ievers). The Book of Ceylon (1908) p. 382 (Cave). [14] Vide glossary in the appendix. [15] For hunter's jargon vide Taprobanian Vol. 2 p. 19. [16] For Rodi jargon vide Taprobanian Vol. 2 p. 90. [17] For cultivator's jargon vide Taprobanian Vol. 1 p. 167. [18] For Veddi dialect vide Taprobanian Vol. 1 p. 29. [19] J.R.A.S.(C. B.) 1881 Vol. VII p. 33. [20] Illustrated Supplement to the Examiner (1875) Vol. I p. 8. [21] J. R. A. S. (C. B.) vol. V. No. 18 p. 17 (Ludovici.) [22] Ancient Ceylon (1909) p. 587 (Parker.) [23] From Revd. Moscrop's translation of the song of the Thresher in the "Children of Ceylon", p. 53. [24] From Mr. Bell's translation in the Archæological Survey of Kegalle, p. 44. 
44536	----	GEORGIAN FOLK TALES Translated by MARJORY WARDROP Published by David Nutt in the Strand, London 1894 'I quite understand, my good friend,' said I, 'the contempt you bestow upon the nursery tales with which the Hajee and I have been entertaining each other; but, believe me, he who desires to be well acquainted with a people will not reject their popular stories or local superstitions. Depend upon it, that man is too far advanced into an artificial state of society who is a stranger to the effects which tales and stories like these have upon the feelings of a nation....' Sir John Malcolm's Sketches of Persia, ch. xvi. TO DR. EDWARD B. TYLOR AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GREAT TALENTS THESE TRANSLATIONS ARE RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED PREFACE As the first attempt to translate into English any part of the varied and interesting secular literature of the Georgian people, this little book may perhaps claim some attention from the public. A volume of sermons by Bishop Gabriel of Kutaïs was published by the Rev. S. C. Malan in 1867, but, with this single exception, I do not know of any other work in the Iberian tongue which has been offered to English readers. The state of comparative neglect into which Oriental studies in general have fallen of late among us, the rulers of the East, accounts, to some extent, for this fact; it is to be hoped that an improvement in this respect may soon be apparent. Some years ago, a book written by my brother [1] first excited my interest in the Caucasus and its brave and beautiful inhabitants. A study of the classical literature, especially of the great epic poet, Shota Rusthaveli, of the twelfth century, has profitably occupied much of my time during the past two years, and it is my intention to give my countrymen an early opportunity of sharing in the pleasure I have derived therefrom. As a relaxation from these more arduous studies, I amused myself by turning into English the originals of the following stories. I showed the manuscript to Dr. E. B. Tylor, who told me that it presented many features of interest to folklorists, and advised me to publish it; it is, therefore, fitting that I should dedicate the book to the creator of the modern science of anthropology, and he has kindly given me permission to do so. The geographical position of Georgia, a region lying between East and West, forming a bridge along which a great part of the traffic in ideas as well as in commodities must pass, makes it a rich field of inquiry for the student. By their religious and political connection with Byzantium on the one hand, and by their constant intercourse with Persia and Turkey on the other, the Iberians have gained much from both Christendom and Islam, and among them may yet be found lost links in several chains of historical and literary investigations. The sources from which I have taken the stories are the following:-- Part I. is a collection edited by Mr. Aghniashvili, and published in Tiflis, in 1891, by the Georgian Folklore Society, under the title, Khalkhuri Zghaprebi. Part II. comprises the Mingrelian stories in Professor A. A. Tsagareli's Mingrelskie Etyudy, S. Pbg., 1880 (in Mingrelian and Russian). These were collected by Professor Tsagareli during the years 1876-79, chiefly in the districts of Sachichuo and Salipartiano, which lie almost in the centre of Mingrelia, far removed from foreign influence, and are famous for the purity of their Mingrelian idiom. The Mingrelian dialect is rapidly being replaced by pure Georgian throughout the country. Part III. is an anonymous collection, entitled Gruzinskiya Narodnyya Skazki. Sobr. Bebur B.* S. Pbg., 1884. It will be found that, besides the differences due to geographical position, the three groups of stories are not of the same character. Part II. is more naïve and popular than Part I., and Part III. exhibits more appreciation of the ridiculous than the rest of the book, and is of a more didactic nature. The points of resemblance between the following stories and those quoted by the late Mr. Ralston, in his well-known Russian Folk Tales, are so numerous, and so apparent, that I have not thought it necessary to refer to them in the notes. In conclusion, I must express my thanks to Prince Ivané Machabeli, of Tiflis, the Georgian translator of Shakespeare, for his kindness in reading my proofs, and to my brother, who did the Russian part of the work for me. M. W. Chislehurst, April 1894. CONTENTS GEORGIAN TALES PAGE I. Master and Pupil, 1 II. The Three Sisters and their Stepmother, 5 III. The Good-for-Nothing, 11 IV. The Frog's Skin, 15 V. Fate, 22 VI. Ghvthisavari, 25 VII. The Serpent and the Peasant, 39 VIII. Gulambara and Sulambara, 42 IX. The Two Brothers, 49 X. The Prince, 52 XI. Conkiajgharuna, 63 XII. Asphurtzela, 68 XIII. The Shepherd and the Child of Fortune, 83 XIV. The Two Thieves, 88 XV. The Fox and the King's Son, 97 XVI. The King's Son and the Apple, 104 MINGRELIAN TALES I. The Three Precepts, 109 II. Kazha-ndii, 112 III. The Story of Geria, the Poor Man's Son, 118 IV. The Prince who befriended the Beasts, 124 V. The Cunning Old Man and the 'Demi,' 129 VI. Sanartia, 132 VII. The Shepherd Judge, 138 VIII. The Priest's Youngest Son, 140 Mingrelian Proverbs, 142 GURIAN TALES I. The Strong Man and the Dwarf, 147 II. The Grasshopper and the Ant, 150 III. The Countryman and the Merchant, 153 IV. The King and the Sage, 160 V. The King's Son, 162 VI. Teeth and No-Teeth, 163 VII. The Queen's Whim, 164 VIII. The Fool's Good Fortune, 165 IX. Two Losses, 167 X. The Story of Dervish, 168 XI. The Father's Prophecy, 171 XII. The Hermit Philosopher, 172 XIII. The King's Counsellor, 173 XIV. A Witty Answer, 174 PART I GEORGIAN FOLK TALES I MASTER AND PUPIL (OR THE DEVIL OUTWITTED) Once upon a time there was a poor peasant who had one son. And it came to pass that his wife said to him: 'He should learn some trade, for when he is separated from thee, what will he do if he is left ignorant like thee?' The wife importuned him; she gave him no rest. So the peasant took his child, and went to seek a master for him. On the way they were thirsty. He saw a rivulet, drank eagerly till his thirst was quenched, and when he lifted up his head he cried out: 'Ah! how good thou art!' [2] On saying this, there came forth from the water a devil in the form of a man, and said to the peasant: 'What dost thou want, O man! I am Vakhraca; what troubles thee?' The peasant told him all his story. The devil, when he learnt this, said: 'Give me this son of thine: I will teach him for one year, then come hither; if thou knowest him, it is well, he will go with thee; if not, he is mine and mine alone, he shall be lost to thee.' Now this devil had other children to bring up on the same conditions; and, since in a year children change so much that their parents may no longer know them, the devil always had the best of it. The peasant knew nothing about this; he agreed to the proposal, and went home. A year passed by, and the father of the child came to the devil; he did not find the devil at home. He saw in the courtyard a multitude of boys, and looked again and again, but could not recognise his boy. He was sad. However, his own son came up and knew him. Then the boy said: 'Presently my instructor will come; he will turn us all into doves, and we shall fly away; in the flight I shall fly before all, and in the return I shall be behind all; and when my master asks thee which is thy son, thou wilt point to me.' The peasant rejoiced, and awaited the master with a hopeful heart. In a little while the master appeared. He called his pupils, turned them into doves, and ordered them to fly away. The peasant's son flew before all, and when they returned remained behind. The master inquired: 'Now, dost thou know which is thy son?' The peasant pointed him out. The devil was enraged when he perceived the trick his pupil had played him, but what did it matter! The boy left him. The father went and took his son with him. They came to a place where nobles were hunting: some greyhounds were pursuing a hare, but they could not catch it. The boy said to his father: 'Go thou into the wood, raise a hare. I will turn into a hound, and will seize it before the eyes of these nobles. The nobles will follow thee, and will be anxious to buy me. Ask a high price, and sell me to them. Then I shall seize the first opportunity to escape, and overtake thee on the road.' The father went into the wood and started a hare; his son turned into a hound, pursued the hare, and, just before the eyes of the nobles, he pounced on it. They crowded round the peasant, and insisted upon buying the dog. The peasant asked a high price, which they paid in exchange for the hound. The nobles attached a cord to the dog, and went away. When they had travelled a little way along the road a hare started from the thicket. They let the hound loose, and sent him after it. When he had chased the hare a long way, and had lost sight of the nobles, he changed again into a boy, and followed his father. The father and son went on their way; the money seemed inadequate. 'I must get some more,' said the son. They looked round; another party of nobles were pursuing a pheasant; the falcons flew after it, but for some reason could not catch it. The boy changed himself into a falcon, and sported with the pheasant in the air, just before the nobles' eyes. He brought it down; they were frantic with pleasure, and said to the peasant: 'Thou must sell this falcon to us.' The peasant again fixed a high price, to which the nobles agreed, and this they paid him in exchange for the falcon. The peasant went on his way. The nobles, after travelling some distance, sent the falcon in pursuit of another pheasant. The falcon flew after the bird, and, when he was out of the nobles' sight, changed into a boy and joined his father. The father and son went on with their money, but the son was not content with it. He said to his father: 'Come, I will change into a splendid horse; mount me, go into a town and sell me. But remember not to sell me to a man with variegated eyes; if thou dost, do not give him the bridle, for then, thou knowest, I shall not be able to free myself from his hands.' On saying this, the boy changed into a splendid, spirited horse, his father mounted and rode into the town. Here he saw many who wanted to buy it, but more eager than any was a man with variegated eyes. Whenever any one added a manethi (rouble) to the price, he added a thuman (ten roubles). Love of money conquered the peasant, and he sold the horse to the man with variegated eyes. He bought the bridle with it, mounted the horse and spurred it on. He went, disappeared, and could no longer contain his joy that he had his pupil once more in his power. He reached home, shut the horse in a dark room, and locked the door. His pupil lay down and was sad; he thought and grieved, but there seemed to be no help for him; time passed, and he could contrive no means of escape. One day he noticed that a sunbeam entered the stable through a hole. He changed himself into a mouse and ran out. His master saw him, however, and pursued him as a cat. The mouse ran, the cat followed. Just when the cat was about to seize him in his mouth, the mouse turned into a fish swimming in a stream. The master turned into a net and followed him; the fish swam away, but the net came after him. Just when the net was going to cover him, the fish changed into a pheasant and flew away. The master pursued him as a falcon. The pheasant flew on and the falcon followed. When the falcon was about to put its claws into him, he turned into a red apple, and rolled into the king's lap. The falcon changed into a knife in the king's hand. Just when the king was going to cut the apple, it changed into a codi (80 lbs.) of millet spread on a cloth. The devil changed himself into a brood-hen, and began to eat it. When it had eaten almost all, and only left one grain, this grain turned into a needle, and rolled in front of the hen, which changed into a thread in the eye of the needle. As it was about to hold back the needle, the needle ran into the fire and burned the thread. The boy thus escaped from the devil, went home to his father, and lived happily ever afterwards. [3] II THE THREE SISTERS AND THEIR STEPMOTHER Once upon a time there was a peasant who had three daughters. This man's wife was dead, so he took to himself another. The stepmother hated the girls like the plague. Every day she bothered her husband, saying: 'Take away these daughters of thine, and get rid of them.' Sometimes she yielded to their father's entreaties, sometimes she gave way to her dislike. At last she could bear it no longer: she became ill, went to bed, took with her crisp, flat bread, and began to moan. She turned on one side, made the loaves crack, and cried out: 'My sides are breaking. Oh! turn me on my other side!' The cause of all this was her stepdaughters, so her husband, seeing that nothing was to be done, consented to get rid of them. He went away into the forest. There he saw a large apple-tree bearing fruit; underneath it he dug a deep hole, took an apple for each, and went home. When he came in, he gave each her apple. The girls liked the taste of the apples, and said to their father: 'Where didst thou find these? canst thou not bring some more?' The father replied: 'There are many of these apples in the forest, but I have not time to bring more. If you like, you can come with me; I will shake them down, you can gather them up and bring them away.' The girls were delighted, and went with their father. Their father had secretly covered up the hole, and said to the girls: 'Here are the apples. I will shake them down, but until I tell you do not gather them up. Then, when I speak, you can all scramble for them, and whoever picks up an apple, it is hers.' The father went up to the tree, and when he had shaken it well, called out to his daughters: 'Now, catch who can!' The girls suddenly rushed on to the covering, which could not bear their weight; it fell into the hole, taking with it the three girls. Their father threw them in a great many apples, left them, and went away. The girls could not at first understand their father's conduct, but then they saw that he had brought them into the wood on purpose, and said: 'Our wicked stepmother is to blame for this!' but there was no help for it, so these three little maidens sat down and wept. They wept and wept until their faces were pale; their tears shook heaven above and the earth beneath. At last the apples were finished. They thought and thought, and decided that each should let blood from her little finger, and that they should eat her whose blood tasted sweetest. They let blood, and it was agreed by all that the youngest sister's was sweetest. She said: 'O sisters! do not eat me. I have three apples hidden; eat them, and perhaps God will help us.' Then she bent on her knees, and prayed to God: 'O God, for Thy name's sake, I beseech Thee, let one of my hands turn into a pickaxe, and the other into a shovel.' God heard her prayer. One of her hands changed into a pickaxe, and the other into a shovel. With one hand she dug a hole, and with the other shovelled away the earth. She dug and dug until she came to a mouse's hole. She took thence nuts, little nuts, and gave them to her sisters. She went on digging, and broke down a stable wall. This stable belonged to the king, and almonds and raisins were strewed about in it. The girls used to go to the stable; they stole the almonds and raisins, and ate them. The grooms were astonished, and said: 'Who can it be that steals the almonds and raisins? The horses are dying of starvation.' The little maiden, in her digging, next broke the window of an old woman's hut. Every morning the mistress of this hut went to mass. Feeling sorry for the old woman, the girls stole into the hut, cleaned and tidied everything, put beans on the fire to cook, broke off sufficient bread for themselves, and stole away again. When the old woman came home she was filled with surprise. Who could have been there and stolen her bread? Perhaps she could find out. She did not go to mass next day. She rolled herself in a mat, and stuck herself up, like a stick, near the door. The girls came; they thought the old woman had gone to mass, and stole into the hut one by one. The old woman watched from the mat with both her eyes, and she could scarcely believe what she saw. She saw the three maidens enter--each more beautiful than the other, all fair, as if the sun had never frowned upon them. She gazed and gazed until she could bear it no longer: she threw off the mat, seized one of them in her arms, and said: 'Who art thou, who art so angelic? Art thou human or an angel?' The maiden replied: 'We are three sisters, we are human. Thus and thus has it befallen us.' And she told their tale to the old woman, who was delighted that she had found the three sisters. She guarded them as the light of her eyes, and, when she went out, turned up baskets over them, that none should see them and take them away. Once the woman went to mass. She left the girls under baskets, and shut the doors. Then the idea came into the girls' heads that they would like some raisins. They rose, took off the baskets, and crept into the stable. Just as they were beginning to steal raisins, the groom hastened in, seized the three sisters, and took them before the king. The king asked them who they were, and they told him all their history. The king said: 'Tell me, what can you do?' The eldest sister said: 'I can weave such a carpet that every man in thy army could sit on it, and still half of it would not be unrolled.' The second sister said: 'I can cook enough food in an egg-shell to feed thine army, and when they have eaten, half yet shall remain.' The king said to the youngest: 'What canst thou do?' She replied: 'I can bear golden-haired boys.' The king was pleased with this answer, and wedded her. He tried her sisters' skill, but the eldest could not weave a carpet large enough for one man, while the food cooked by the second sister would not have satisfied a bird. The king waxed wroth, and said to his wife: 'If thou deceivest me too, none of you shall live.' Some time passed, and the youngest sister was with child. At that time the king's enemy came against him, and he prepared to go forth to battle. Before he set out he left this message: 'If my wife bears a son, let a sword be suspended over the door; if she bears a daughter, let a spinning-wheel be hung up.' Shortly after this his wife went to bed. Her sisters would allow no one to enter the bed-room; they tended her and nursed her themselves. The king's wife brought forth a golden-haired boy. Her two sisters were angry that their youngest sister should be proved truthful in the sight of the king, while they were liars; they wished her also to appear untruthful. They arose, and, without the mother's knowledge, took away the golden-haired boy, and put in his place a puppy dog. They did not dare to kill the child, so they made a box, laid him in it, and put it in a river. The river carried it away, and it stuck in a mill-race. The race was dammed up and the mill stopped. The miller came out, and saw the box fixed in the race; he took it up and opened it. Behold, there lay a golden-haired child! He was childless, so he took it home and brought it up. In the meantime the sisters hung up a pestle over the door. The king returned from the battle and saw the pestle. He was very much surprised, and said: 'What does this mean? what has my wife brought forth?' They said: 'A puppy.' The king was very angry, but thought: 'Perhaps some one has done this; I will wait and see if she has a son.' A year passed, and his wife was again with child. One day, when the king was out hunting, a golden-haired boy was born. The sisters, as before, would allow no one in the room. They took the child away secretly, and put a kitten in its place. They again put the child in a box in the river, and the miller found it again. The sisters hung the pestle over the door. When the king returned from the chase, and saw the pestle, he burned with fires of rage, and sparks shot from his eyes. He took his wife out, caused her to be wrapped in a bullock's skin, and bound to a column in front of the palace. Every one who passed by was ordered to spit in her face and strike her. Thus unjustly did he torture an innocent being! The miller loved the two golden-haired children as if they were the apple of his eye. They became very wise, brave, and handsome, and grew as much in a day as other children grow in a year. Once when the king was out hunting, he saw a group of children playing, but among them were two who far excelled the others. The king was very much taken with these two children, and could not withdraw his eyes from them. He looked and looked, and would never have been tired of looking; he wished to gaze on them for ever. He noticed how strongly they resembled himself. He was astonished, and said to himself: 'Who can these children be, who are so like myself?' But he could not guess the truth. Just then, while playing, the cap fell from the head of one of the brothers, and showed his golden hair. The king was struck, and inquired: 'Whose children are these?' He was told they were the miller's sons. The next day the king gave a banquet, and invited the miller and his golden-haired sons. When the children came into the king's courtyard, they saw a woman bound to a column, and they looked long, and knew that this must be their mother. The cook was roasting a pheasant. The elder brother went inside, took the spit from the cook, sat down by the fireside, and turned the pheasant round. When it became red and was cooked, he began to tell a tale. All ears were pricked up, and the people looked into his face. The boy began to tell his mother's tale. After he had told how his mother bore the golden-haired boys, and how the sisters were so treacherous, he concluded by saying: 'If this story is true, the bullock's skin will burst, and my mother be free.' And the bullock's skin burst, and his mother came in. When the story was quite finished, his younger brother came in and took the spit in his hand, and said: 'If all my brother's tale is true and this is indeed our mother, this roast pheasant will have feathers and fly away.' Feathers appeared on the roast pheasant, and it flew off. The people gazed open-mouthed. The astonished king commanded the jealous sisters to be brought, bound them to horses' tails, and had them dragged about. The king took his wife and children into the palace, and rejoiced greatly that he had learnt the truth and found his golden-haired sons. [4] III THE GOOD-FOR-NOTHING There was once a good-for-nothing man, who had a shrewish wife. This wife would give him no rest. She importuned him, saying: 'Thou must go away, travel forth and seek for something; thou seest how poor we are.' At last the husband could no longer bear her reproaches, so he arose and went. He went forth, he himself knew not whither he was going. He travelled on, and when he had ascended the ninth mountain from where he started, he saw a large house, and in this house devis dwelt. He came near and saw in the middle of the room a fire, round which the devis were sitting, warming their hands. He went in and spoke in a friendly manner to them, and sat down by the fire. The devis treated him well, for he had spoken them fair. He stayed with them by day and by night; he ate with them, he drank with them, he slept with them; he was like their youngest brother. These devis possessed a wishing-stone. When they were assembled together, they took out the stone: if they wished for dinner, dinner appeared; if they wanted supper, they wished for supper, and lo! what they wished for heartily appeared before their eyes. They lived thus without care, they had no kind of sorrow, and this was just what our good-for-nothing liked; he approved of this life, and wanted to steal the wishing-stone. Once when the devis were in a deep sleep, the good-for-nothing silently stole out of the bedroom, took the wishing-stone, and came to the door. He wished the door to open, and sure enough it began to creak. It creaked and called out: 'The guest has stolen the wishing-stone.' The good-for-nothing turned back, put the stone in its place, went into the bedroom, and pretended to be asleep. The creaking of the door awoke the devis; they jumped up and looked; they found the wishing-stone in its place, and the good-for-nothing in a sweet slumber. They rejoiced, closed the door, and went to sleep again. When they had fallen into a profound sleep, the good-for-nothing rose up, took the stone, came to the door, and, when he wished it to open, it began to creak out: 'The guest has stolen the wishing-stone.' The good-for-nothing turned back, again put the wishing-stone in its place, went into the bedroom and began to snore as if he were asleep. The devis awoke and looked, but the stone was in its place, and the good-for-nothing snoring. They were surprised, but shut the door, and went to sleep. The good-for-nothing did this trick over and over again. The devis were angry, and furiously jumped up, pulled down the door, and put it in the fire. When the door was burned, and the devis slept again, the good-for-nothing rose up, put the wishing-stone in his pocket, and left the house. The next morning, when the devis awoke, they saw that neither the good-for-nothing nor the wishing-stone was there any longer. They looked everywhere, but could not tell whether heaven or earth had swallowed them, so they learnt nothing. The good-for-nothing went on his way joyfully; he no longer had any care or thought; he rejoiced that now he could live without trouble. He went on, and met on the road a man with a big stick. This man said: 'Brother, give me something to eat.' The good-for-nothing put his hand in his pocket, and took out the wishing-stone. He wished, and there appeared before them everything ready for eating. When they had finished their meal, the man with the stick said: 'Come, I will exchange my stick with thee for this stone.' 'What is the use of thy stick?' inquired the good-for-nothing. 'If any one stretches out his hand and calls, "Out, stick!" the stick will fall upon the person in front of its master.' The good-for-nothing made the exchange, and went away a short distance; then he said, 'Out, stick!' and stretched it out towards its former master. It struck him until all his bones were made soft. When he had been well beaten, the good-for-nothing came, took his stone, and went on his way with the stick. He went on and saw a man with a sword, who said: 'Brother, give me something to eat.' The good-for-nothing took out his wishing-stone, and immediately meat and drink appeared before them. When he had eaten sufficiently, the man said: 'Come, I will give thee this sword in exchange for the stone.' 'What is the use of thy sword?' inquired the good-for-nothing. 'Whoever possesses it can, if he choose, cut off a hundred thousand heads.' He exchanged his wishing-stone for the sword, and went away. After waiting a short time, he said, 'Out, stick!' and pointed to the former owner of the sword. The stick approached and beat the man mercilessly. Then the good-for-nothing took the wishing-stone and went away. He went on again until he met a man with a piece of felt, who said: 'Brother, give me something to eat.' The good-for-nothing man took out his wishing-stone, wished, and immediately a delicious repast appeared. When he had eaten all he wanted, the man said: 'Come, I will give thee my felt in exchange for this stone.' 'What is the use of thy felt?' inquired the good-for-nothing. 'If a man's head is cut off, one only has to take a piece of this felt and apply it; his head will stick on again, and he will live.' The good-for-nothing gave him the stone, took the felt, and went away. When he had gone a little way, he said, 'Out, stick!' and the stick beat the man till he was like a wrinkled quince. The good-for-nothing took his stone and travelled on. At last he came to his home. He placed the stick behind the door, greeted his wife and spoke thus: 'Wife, see what I have brought,' and he showed her the sword, felt, and wishing-stone. His wife looked on him with contempt, opened her mouth, and cast all the dirt in the world on his head. The good-for-nothing bore it till he could bear it no longer, so he called, 'Out, stick!' The stick beat her wofully. Then he made his little children sit down, took out his wishing-stone, wished the table to be laid, and the rarest delicacies were placed on the cloth. They enjoyed their dinner, while the beaten wife silently looked down and sulked. She bore it for a time, but at last she could bear it no longer, and came and embraced her husband's knees. Her husband forgave her, and they caressed one another lovingly. After some time, this wishing-stone made him quite rich, so that all their dishes were made of gold. Once the wife said to her husband: 'Thou must invite the king and give him a great banquet.' Her husband said: 'Dost thou not know, the king is an envious man; when he sees these things, he will take them from us, and put us in prison.' His wife pleaded and whined until her husband consented. They invited the king, and made ready a magnificent banquet. When the feast was finished, the king demanded the wishing-stone. The good-for-nothing said he could not spare it. The king was enraged, and sent his whole army to take it away by force. 'This will not do at all,' said the good-for-nothing to himself; 'since they are going to try and force me, I shall show my strength.' While he spoke, he pointed the sword at the army, and the stick at the king. The heads of all the army were cut off, and the stick beat the envious king. The king begged and prayed for mercy: 'Only bring my soldiers back to life again, and I swear I will leave thee in peace.' Then the good-for-nothing arose, took the felt and laid a piece on the neck of each soldier, and the army was restored to life. The king no longer dared to show his enmity, the good-for-nothing's wife obeyed him in everything, and they lived happily ever afterwards. IV THE FROG'S SKIN There were once three brothers who wished to marry. They said: 'Let us each shoot an arrow, and each shall take his wife from the place where the arrow falls.' They shot their arrows; those of the two elder brothers fell on noblemen's houses, while the youngest brother's arrow fell in a lake. The two elder brothers led home their noble wives, and the youngest went to the shore of the lake. He saw a frog creep out of the lake and sit down upon a stone. He took it up and carried it back to the house. All the brothers came home with what fate had given them; the elder brothers with the noble maidens, and the youngest with a frog. The brothers went out to work, the wives prepared the dinner, and attended to all their household duties; the frog sat by the fire croaking, and its eyes glittered. Thus they lived together a long time in love and harmony. At last the sisters-in-law wearied of the sight of the frog; when they swept the house, they threw out the frog with the dust. If the youngest brother found it, he took it up in his hand; if not, the frog would leap back to its place by the fire and begin to croak. The noble sisters did not like this, and said to their husbands: 'Drive this frog out, and get a real wife for your brother.' Every day the brothers bothered the youngest. He replied, saying: 'This frog is certainly my fate, I am worthy of no better, I must be faithful to it.' His sisters-in-law persisted in telling their husbands that the brother and his frog must be sent away, and at last they agreed. The young brother was now left quite desolate: there was no one to make his food, no one to stand watching at the door. For a short time a neighbouring woman came to wait upon him, but she had no time, so he was left alone. The man became very melancholy. Once when he was thinking sadly of his loneliness, he went to work. When he had finished his day's labour, he went home. He looked into his house and was struck with amazement. The sideboard was well replenished; in one place was spread a cloth, and on the cloth were many different kinds of tempting viands. He looked and saw the frog in its place croaking. He said to himself that his sisters-in-law must have done this for him, and went to his work again. He was out all day working, and when he came home he always found everything prepared for him. Once he said to himself: 'I will see for once who is this unseen benefactor, who comes to do good to me and look after me.' That day he stayed at home; he seated himself on the roof of the house and watched. In a short time the frog leaped out of the fireplace, jumped over to the doors, and all round the room; seeing no one there, it went back and took off the frog's skin, put it near the fire, and came forth a beautiful maiden, fair as the sun; so lovely was she that man could not imagine anything prettier. In the twinkling of an eye she had tidied everything, prepared the food and cooked it. When everything was ready, she went to the fire, put on the skin again, and began to croak. When the man saw this he was very much astonished; he rejoiced exceedingly that God had granted him such happiness. He descended from the roof, went in, caressed his frog tenderly, and then sat down to his tasty supper. The next day the man hid himself in the place where he had been the day before. The frog, having satisfied itself that nobody was there, stripped off its skin and began its good work. This time the man stole silently into the house, seized the frog's skin in his hand and threw it into the fire. When the maiden saw this she entreated him, she wept--she said: 'Do not burn it, or thou shalt surely be destroyed'--but the man had burnt it in a moment. 'Now, if thy happiness be turned to misery, it is not my fault,' said the sorrow-stricken woman. In a very short time the whole country-side knew that the man who had a frog now possessed in its place a lovely woman, who had come to him from heaven. The lord of the country heard of this, and wished to take her from him. He called the beautiful woman's husband to him and said: 'Sow a barnful of wheat in a day, or give me thy wife.' When he had spoken thus, the man was obliged to consent, and he went home melancholy. When he went in he told his wife what had taken place. She reproached him, saying: 'I told thee what would happen if thou didst burn the skin, and thou didst not heed me; but I will not blame thee. Be not sad; go in the morning to the edge of the lake from which I came, and call out: "Mother and Father! I pray you, lend me your swift bullocks"--lead them away with thee, and the bullocks will in one day plough the fields and sow the grain.' The husband did this. He went to the edge of the lake and called out: 'Mother and Father! I entreat you, lend me your swift bullocks to-day.' There came forth from the lake such a team of oxen as was never seen on sea or land. The youth drove the bullocks away, came to his lord's fields, and ploughed and sowed them in one day. His lord was very much surprised. He did not know if there was anything impossible to this man, whose wife he wanted. He called him a second time, and said: 'Go and gather up the wheat thou hast sown, that not a grain may be wanting, and that the barn may be full. If thou dost not this, thy wife is mine.' 'This is impossible,' said the man to himself. He went home to his wife, who again reproached him, and then said: 'Go to the lake's edge and ask for the jackdaws.' The husband went to the edge of the lake and called out: 'Mother and Father! I beg you to lend me your jackdaws to-day.' From the lake came forth flocks of jackdaws; they flew to the ploughed ground, each gathered up a seed and put it into the barn. The lord came and cried out: 'There is one seed short; I know each one, and one is missing.' At that moment a jackdaw's caw was heard; it came with the missing seed, but owing to a lame foot it was a little late. The lord was very angry that even the impossible was possible to this man, and could not think what to give him to do. He puzzled his brain until he thought of the following plan. He called the man and said to him: 'My mother, who died in this village, took with her a ring. If thou goest to the other world and bringest that ring hither to me, it is well; if not, I shall take away thy wife.' The man said to himself: 'This is quite impossible.' He went home and complained to his wife. She reproached him, and then said: 'Go to the lake and ask for the ram.' The husband went to the lake and called out: 'Mother and Father! give me your ram to-day, I pray you.' From the lake there came forth a ram with twisted horns; from its mouth issued a flame of fire. It said to the man: 'Mount on my back!' The man sat down, and, quick as lightning, the ram descended towards the lower regions. It went on and shot like an arrow through the earth. They travelled on, and saw in one place a man and woman sitting on a bullock's skin, which was not big enough for them, and they were like to fall off. The man called out to them: 'What can be the meaning of this, that this bullock skin is not big enough for two people?' They said: 'We have seen many pass by like thee, but none has returned. When thou comest back we shall answer thy question.' They went on their way and saw a man and woman sitting on an axe-handle, and they were not afraid of falling. The man called out to them: 'Are you not afraid of falling from the handle of an axe?' They said to him: 'We have seen many pass by like thee, but none has returned. When thou comest back we shall answer thy question.' They went on their way again, until they came to a place where they saw a priest feeding cattle. This priest had such a long beard that it spread over the ground, and the cattle, instead of eating grass, fed on the priest's beard, and he could not prevent it. The man called out: 'Priest, what is the meaning of this? why is thy beard pasture for these cattle?' The priest replied: 'I have seen many pass by like thee, but none has returned. When thou comest back I shall answer thy question.' They journeyed on again until they came to a place where they saw nothing but boiling pitch, and a flame came forth from it--and this was hell. The ram said: 'Sit firmly on my back, for we must pass through this fire.' The man held fast, the ram gave a leap, and they escaped through the fire unhurt. There they saw a melancholy woman seated on a golden throne. She said: 'What is it, my child? what troubles thee? what has brought thee here?' He told her everything that had happened to him. She said: 'I must punish this very wicked child of mine, and thou must take him a casket from me.' She gave him a casket, and said: 'Whatever thou dost, do not open this casket thyself, take it with thee, give it to thy lord, and run quickly away from him.' The man took the casket and went away. He came to the place where the priest was feeding the cattle. The priest said: 'I promised thee an answer; hearken unto my words. In life I loved nothing but myself, I cared for nought else. My flocks I fed on other pastures than my own, and the neighbouring cattle died of starvation; now I am paying the penalty.' Then he went on to the place where the man and woman were sitting on the handle of the axe. They said: 'We promised thee an answer; hearken unto our words. We loved each other too well on earth, and it is the same with us here.' [5] Then he came to the two seated on the bullock skin, which was not big enough for them. They said: 'We promised thee an answer; hearken unto our words. We despised each other in life, and we equally despise each other here.' At last the man came up on earth, descended from the ram, and went to his lord. He gave him the casket and quickly ran away. The lord opened the casket, and there came forth fire, which swallowed him up. Our brother was thus victorious over his enemy, and no one took his wife from him. They lived lovingly together, and blessed God as their deliverer. V FATE There was once a mighty king, who had an only son. When this son grew up every princess was in love with him. The king was very desirous that his son should be early settled in life. He chose for him a princess, whom he proposed he should marry. The son objected very much, saying: 'It is not my fate to be united to this maiden; I shall not marry her.' Some time after this the youth came to his father and said: 'I entreat thee, let me go forth and seek my fortune, and give me three bags of money.' The king granted his request. The prince prepared everything, and set out on his journey. He travelled on until he met a stranger; this stranger was an angel, clad in the form of a man. He inquired of the prince: 'Whither art thou going? what seekest thou?' The prince told him all, and that he wished to learn what was written in the book of fate for him. Then this stranger showed him a beautiful palace, and said: 'There thou wilt learn thy fate.' The prince thanked him, and set out for the palace. When he arrived in the courtyard, he looked round, and saw notes lying about. He began to examine them, but, for a long time, he searched in vain. Then there came from the palace another man, who said to the prince: 'What dost thou want, brother? what seekest thou?' The prince answered: 'I am seeking for the letter in which my fate is written.' 'Why seekest thou there? those are only poor folks' fates, kings' fortunes are written inside. Come with me and I shall show thee thine,' said the unknown. The prince entered the house. The unknown searched for his fate, and called him. Inside was written: 'Such-and-such a prince will marry a weaver's daughter who has been ill for nine years.' He read this out, and the prince was struck with horror. 'I shall change my fate,' said the prince to himself. He took his letter of fate, and went to seek the weaver's daughter. He went on and on, and was in a thick forest when the shades of evening fell. He wandered on in the hope of finding shelter, and at last he saw the glimmer of a light. He came to a hut, and asked permission to remain there during the night. The master of the house replied: 'Son, thou art a great man, we have nothing befitting thy rank, but we can give thee the best we have, for a guest is a gift of God.' The prince stayed there that night, and his host grudged him nothing. When they had finished supper, the prince noticed that somebody was having a meal in another room. He said to his host: 'I hope that thou wilt not think me inquisitive if I ask who is in the other room, and what is the meaning of this?' Then the host told him the following tale: 'I am a weaver, and from day to day can barely live. God has given me nobody to help me in my work. I have an only daughter, and she is an invalid. For nine years she has not risen from her bed; I can assure thee she gives me no help.' When the prince heard this, he bit his little finger with vexation, and became melancholy. He did not close his eyes that night. He was thinking all the time how he might get rid of his fate. In the middle of the night, when every one was snoring and slept like the dead, the prince rose silently, stole from his bedchamber, and quietly entered the room of the weaver's daughter. When he saw her he was inwardly troubled, he drew forth his dagger, and plunged it into her. Then he noiselessly went away, left his money behind him, and stole forth into the night. He went home to his father, and complained of the evil fate written for him. His father was very indignant at this, but hid his anger, and comforted his son. Some time passed. One day the prince went out to hunt. He saw in a lonely wood a beautiful palace, and, in the palace, a maiden fair as the sun. The prince could have gazed for ever on her beauty. He looked a long time, then looking from a distance would not satisfy him. He spurred his horse, and when he came near he was even more struck with the loveliness of the maiden. He descended from his horse, came to her and asked her to marry him. When he had heard with joy her sweet words of consent, he went gaily home. On the way, his head swam with pleasure at the thought of the welcome change; instead of the unhappy fate promised him, he was to have such a beautiful wife. He told his father what had happened to him, and asked him to prepare for the wedding. The king rejoiced at the happiness of his beloved son, and made preparations for a grand wedding. Some days after they were married, the prince laid his hand on his lovely wife's heart, and felt something hard like a wart. He said: 'What is this?' His wife replied: 'I am a poor weaver's daughter; for nine years I lay in bed, a helpless invalid, yellow as a cucumber. Once there came a youth to my father's house for shelter. He plunged his dagger into me, then fled with haste, and went on his way. I was very sick, but my mother put a plaster on my side and I was completely cured. The guest left three bags of money behind him, and with these we bought a beautiful palace, my father gave up weaving, and we lived without a care.' When the prince heard this, he said: 'O God! Thy decrees are not vain and futile!' Then he told his beloved wife all that had happened to him. VI GHVTHISAVARI (I AM OF GOD) There was once a king, who had a daughter so beautiful, that he was in constant fear lest some one should carry her away by force and marry her. So he had a huge tower built in the sea. He shut his daughter up in this tower, with an attendant, and felt relieved. Some time passed, when one day the attendant noticed something floating on the water. She was surprised when she saw that it was a large apple. She stretched out her dress, and the sea waves rolled in and left the apple in her skirt; she took it in her hand, and ran to her mistress. The beautiful maiden had never in her life seen such a big apple, and was very much astonished. After dinner she peeled it, gave the skin to her companion, who quickly finished it, and ate the inside herself. In a short time they both became pregnant. The king was informed of this. On hearing the news, he pressed his head between his hands, and could not contain his wrath. He commanded one of his huntsmen, saying: 'Go to the tower in the sea, take thence my daughter and her companion, and carry them to the wildest and most desert spot in my kingdom. Kill them, and bring me their hearts and livers to show me that they are dead. No one must know this story, save thee and me; if it becomes known it shall cost thee thy life.' The huntsman went to the tower, and declared the king's orders to the princess and her companion. The beautiful maiden said: 'What will it avail thee to kill us? Take us to a lonely place, and no one will know whether we are dead or alive.' The huntsman was not moved by these entreaties; he took them to a desert place, drew his dagger and was about to strike the fatal blow, but at the last moment he felt sorry for them, and gave up his intention. He caught two hares, killed them instead of the women, took out their hearts and livers, and returned with them to the king. The king believed them to be the hearts and livers of the princess and her attendant; he gave the huntsman gifts, and sent him away. The princess and her companion were left alone in the wild wood, and they had nothing to eat and drink. In a short time the princess brought forth a beautiful boy, and the attendant, eight tiny little dogs. The princess called her son Ghvthisavari (I am of God). He grew as much in a day as other children grow in a year; he became so handsome, brave, and strong, that everybody loved him. Ghvthisavari used to go out hunting; he took his dogs with him, and provided game for his mother and her companion. Once he went into a town to a smith, and asked him to make a bow and arrows. The smith made from nine litras of iron (a litra = 9 lbs.) a bow and arrows. Ghvthisavari bent it. Then the smith added more iron, and made the bow again. Ghvthisavari slung his arrows over his shoulders, his dogs followed him, and he went away. On the way he hunted, and took food home to his mother. The next day he went to hunt again. He shot an arrow and killed a goat, he shot another, and killed a stag; he drew his bow a third time, and his arrow stuck in a devis' house. In this house there were five brothers, devis--one two-headed, one three-headed, one five-headed, one nine-headed, and one ten-headed--and their mother, who had only one head. They saw an arrow suddenly fall down and stick in the fire. They all jumped up and pulled the arrow to draw it out, but they were not able to move it. The mother helped them, but it was of no use. Then all the brothers rose up, they left their mother to watch, and set out to seek him who had shot the arrow. Ghvthisavari bethought himself, and set out; he followed the flight of the arrow to see where it had fallen. He went on and on until he came to the devis' house. He looked in and saw in the middle a fire burning, in which stuck his arrow. He went in, and was about to draw the arrow out when the devis' mother cried: 'Who art thou, wretch, who darest to venture here? Art thou not afraid that I shall eat thee?' 'Thou shalt not eat me,' said Ghvthisavari, drawing out his arrow and hurling it at the old woman. He cut her into a hundred pieces, gave her to the dogs, and told them to throw her into the sea. He lay down in the devis' house and rested. The devis wandered far and wide in their search, but nowhere could they learn any tidings of him they sought. Then they said: 'Perhaps some one will enter our house and steal, while we are here. Let one of us go home, and the rest watch here.' Each wished to go, and promised to run back again as quickly as possible. But the devis chose the two-headed brother, and sent him. The two-headed brother came, and saw that his mother was no longer there, but in her place was a strange youth. He clapped him on the shoulder, and cried out: 'Who art thou, wretch, who darest to venture here? For fear of me, bird cannot fly under heaven, nor can ant crawl on earth. Art thou not afraid that I shall eat thee?' 'Thou shalt not eat me,' said Ghvthisavari, throwing an arrow. He cut him into a hundred pieces, gave him to the dogs, and made them throw him into the sea. The four remaining devis waited for their two-headed brother, but he did not come. They thought that perhaps he was staying eating him who had shot the arrow, so they sent the three-headed brother. The three-headed devi came home, and found neither his mother nor brother, and called out: 'For fear of me bird cannot fly in air, nor can ant creep on earth. Who art thou who darest to venture here? Art thou not afraid that I shall eat thee?' 'Thou shalt not eat me,' said Ghvthisavari, casting an arrow. He cut him into a hundred pieces, gave him to the dogs, and made them throw him into the sea. The remaining brothers waited and waited, and then sent the five-headed devi. He too boasted, but Ghvthisavari did unto him that day even as he had done unto the others. Then the nine-headed devi went. The same thing befell him as his brothers. The ten-headed devi was now the only one left. He thought to himself: 'My brothers are probably eating, and will not leave anything for me.' He rose and went too. He went in and saw that his mother and brothers were not there. Instead, there was a strange youth, lying down resting. The devi called out: 'From fear of me the bird in heaven dare not fly, on earth the ant dare not crawl. Who art thou who darest to venture here? Art thou not afraid that I shall eat thee?' 'Thou shalt not eat me,' said Ghvthisavari, throwing an arrow and killing him. He drew out his sword, cut off his heads, and gave him to the dogs to throw into the sea. Ghvthisavari was left master of the field. Then he said to himself: 'I will go and bring my mother and her companion here, and I shall live as I like.' He went forth and brought them, settled them in the house, and prepared for the chase. From the sea there staggered forth the last ten-headed devi, and hid under a tree. When Ghvthisavari had cut off his heads, in his haste he had left the tenth on. Now, it was in this head that the soul was placed, so the devi came out on to the shore, full of wrath. The next day Ghvthisavari again went out hunting. His mother, wishing to see the surroundings, went out of the house into the garden. As she walked about, the devi suddenly appeared at the foot of a tree. The devi pleaded, saying: 'Do not give me up! Do not tell thy son that I am hidden here!' Ghvthisavari's mother promised, and when Ghvthisavari went out to the chase, his mother always took food and drink to the devi. And at last she loved him. Once the devi said to her: 'Why should we live thus? We see each other only in secret, I am continually in terror of thy son. Go home now, lie down in bed and pretend to be ill. When thy son comes home and asks thee what is the matter, say to him: "Go to such and such a place and bring me some pieces of stag's horns as a remedy." When thy son goes to the stag, it will butt him with its horns, and then thou and I shall remain here alone.' The woman agreed to this plan, went in and lay down in her bed. Ghvthisavari came home, and seeing his mother sick, he said to her: 'What is the matter? Tell me what will cure thee, and I will find it, even if it be bird's milk.' [6] His mother said: 'If thou canst bring to me a piece of such and such a stag's horn, from a certain place, I shall be well; if not, I shall die.' Ghvthisavari slung his bow and arrows over his shoulders, took his dogs and set out. When he had gone some way, he came to an immense wide plain, where he saw a stag feeding. It had such large horns that they reached to heaven. He sat down and took an arrow. Just as he was about to let it fly, the stag made a sign, and cried out: 'Ghvthisavari! Ghvthisavari! why shoot me? What have I done to deserve this of thee? Dost thou not know that thy mother has deceived thee. She seeks thy ruin, therefore has she sent thee hither. Behold, here is a piece of my horn, take it, and here is one of my hairs, take it with thee also, and when thou art in trouble, think of me, and I shall be there.' Ghvthisavari thanked the stag joyfully, and went away. He went home with the stag's horn to his mother. She took it, and thanked him. The next day Ghvthisavari again went to the chase. His mother immediately hastened to the devi and said: 'Ghvthisavari has returned unharmed, and has brought the stag's horn.' 'Well,' said the devi, 'pretend to be ill as before, and tell him that he must bring a wild boar's bristle from such and such a place, else there is no cure for thee.' The woman ran in, lay down in bed, and began to moan. Ghvthisavari returned, and seeing his mother ill, he asked her: 'What is this, mother? What aileth thee? Tell me what will cure thee, and even bird's milk I will not leave unfound.' 'If thou wilt seek in such and such a place, and bring me a bristle from a certain wild boar, then all will be well, but if not, I shall die.' 'May thy Ghvthisavari die if he find not this!' said Ghvthisavari, slinging his bow and arrows on his shoulders, and taking his dogs, he set forth on the quest. He went a long way, and came into a wood. There he found a boar's lair, but boar was there none. He went on a little, and saw another lair, but again there was no boar in it. He went away once more, and saw the boar itself. It had changed its lair twice, and now lay in a third. Ghvthisavari approached it, took aim with an arrow, but, as he was about to let it fly, the boar cried out: 'Ghvthisavari! Ghvthisavari! what have I done to harm thee? Why kill me? Dost thou not know that thy mother has deceived thee? She wishes for thy death, therefore has she sent thee hither. But since thou wouldst like a bristle, pull out as many as thou wishest, and take them with thee.' Ghvthisavari came up, took a bristle, and was going away, when the boar took out a hair, gave it to him, and said: 'Here is also a hair for thee; when thou art in trouble remember me, and I shall come to thee.' Ghvthisavari took the hair, thanked the boar, and went away. He came home, gave his mother the bristle, and again hastened out to the chase. His mother ran immediately to the devi, and said complainingly: 'Ghvthisavari has returned unharmed, and has brought me the boar's bristle.' The devi replied: 'Then go, again, pretend to be ill, and say to Ghvthisavari: "If thou wilt go to a certain place, where a certain griffin (phascundzi) lives, and bring me the flesh of its young, I shall be well; if not, I shall die." Thou knowest he cannot do that, and thou and I shall stay here together.' The woman rejoiced, ran quickly back to bed, and began to moan. Ghvthisavari came in, saw his mother in bed, and asked the cause. His mother replied as the devi had commanded. Ghvthisavari answered: 'Then may Ghvthisavari die if he find not what thou wishest.' He went away. He went on and on, and at last came to a plain, where stood a very big tree, whose top stretched to heaven. On a branch there was a nest, from which fledglings peeped out. Then, from far away in the sky, there appeared a huge, strange bird, something like an eagle. It swooped down, and just as it was about to seize the young birds, Ghvthisavari drew his bow, and killed it. Just then appeared the griffin, mother of the young ones. She thought Ghvthisavari her enemy, and was about to seize him, but her fledglings cried out that he had killed the bird that would have drunk their blood, and had saved them. Although the griffin did not bring up more than three birds in a year, yet she was in constant terror until they had learnt to fly, because this same bird used to seize and eat them. When she learnt that Ghvthisavari had killed their cruel enemy, she came to him, and said: 'Tell me what thou wishest? why art thou come hither? and I will immediately satisfy thy desire.' Ghvthisavari said: 'I have a mother who is ill; unless I take her young griffin's flesh she will die.' The griffin said in reply: 'Thy mother deceives thee, and is not ill at all; she seeks thy death. Here are my fledglings, if thou wantest them, but do not kill them, take them with thee alive.' She pulled out a feather, and gave it to him, saying: 'Take this with thee, and when thou art in trouble think of me, and I shall be there.' Ghvthisavari thanked her heartily, took away a fledgling, and went home. He came in, gave the young griffin to his mother, who said: 'Now, my child, I am quite well, and shall want nothing else,' and she sent him away. Ghvthisavari went out hunting. The woman went out hastily to the devi, and complained, saying: 'Ghvthisavari has brought the fledgling, and he himself has returned alive.' The devi was very angry, but calmed down and said: 'When Ghvthisavari comes in, tell him he must be bathed, and when he sits down in the tub, put a cover over him and call for me. I will come and hammer down the lid, and throw him into the sea.' The woman rejoiced at this plan, went in and heated water. When Ghvthisavari came in, his mother said: 'Come, child, I will bathe thee, it is some time since thou wert bathed.' Ghvthisavari did not like this, but at last he consented. He sat down in the tub, his mother shut the lid, and called the devi. The devi ran in and hammered down the lid. Then he lifted the tub up and rolled it into the sea. Ghvthisavari's dogs saw this; they went to the edge of the water and barked. They barked until the very stones might have been moved with pity. Then they said: 'Let us go and seek his friends, they may perchance help us.' Four remained and four went to seek his friends. They came to the stag, then to the boar, and then to the griffin. These all arose and immediately went to the water's edge. They thought and planned, and at last decided what to do. They said to the griffin: 'Fly up high, strike and cleave the water with thy wings, the tub will appear, the stag will throw it on to the shore with its horns; then the boar will strike with his tusk, the tub will break, and Ghvthisavari will come forth.' They all did as they were told. The griffin flew up high in the air, beat with its wings as hard as it could; it cleft the sea into three. The tub was seen, and the stag did not let it fall, but threw it with its horns, and let it down on the shore. Then the boar struck it, crying out: 'Ghvthisavari, lie down in the bottom!' He struck with his tusk, broke the tub, and Ghvthisavari came forth unharmed. After this the friends went away, each to his own home, Ghvthisavari remained thinking. Just then a ragged swineherd came along. Ghvthisavari said to this swineherd: 'Come, give me thy clothes, and I will put them on.' The swineherd was afraid, and thought: 'This stranger will take my coat and not give me his,' and he ran away. Ghvthisavari pursued him, took off his clothes, and put them on himself; he gave the man his coat, left with him his dogs, and went away. He came home as if he were a beggar, and asked alms of his mother. When the devi saw him, he looked ferociously at him, and said: 'Go back to the place whence thou camest, lest I do to thee as thou deservest.' Just then Ghvthisavari saw his bow and arrow in the corner, and cried out: 'We shall see who goes hence! I am Ghvthisavari!' Saying this he drew his bow, shot first the devi and then his mother, killing them both. Then he went to the companion, scolded her well for not warning him, and killed her too. He went away, brought his dogs, and returned to the house to rest. There came then, no one knows whence, a certain youth; he saw his father, mother, and their servant were all killed, and asked Ghvthisavari to fight. He was Ghvthisavari's mother's son by the devi; Ghvthisavari did not know this, and came to the combat. A long time they struggled, a long time they strove, but neither could strike the other. Then Ghvthisavari said: 'Come, friend, let us each tell the other his story, and afterwards we can fight.' 'Good!' 'Very well,' they said, and each told his tale. When Ghvthisavari learnt that this was his own brother, he said: 'It is indeed fortunate that we told our tales first, for if we had killed each other there would have been no help for it.' After this the two brothers went into the house, and they lived happily together. Once Ghvthisavari said to his younger brother: 'Let us go, brother, and seek our fortunes, we shall become like old women if we live thus.' 'I am willing,' replied the younger; so they set out. They wandered on until they came to a place where two roads met. One led to the right and one to the left. In the middle of the roads stood a stone pillar, on which was written: 'Whoever goes to the left will come back, but he who goes to the right will never return.' Ghvthisavari took the road to the right and his brother went to the left. Ghvthisavari said: 'Know that if the water on the roof changes into blood I shall be in trouble. Come then to my aid. If the water on my roof turns into blood, I shall come and help thee in thy trouble.' Then they divided the dogs: each took four, said farewell, and set out. Ghvthisavari went on until he came to the shore of a sea, so vast that the eye could not measure it. Twelve men were on this side, twelve on that. Whoever comes to this sea must jump over; if he leaps over without wetting his feet he may marry the king's daughter, who is very beautiful; if not, he is drowned in the sea; and whoever dares not jump at all is seized by the sentinels, and taken before the king. Ghvthisavari came, and the sentinels told him the conditions. Ghvthisavari took a spring with all his might and main, and leaped over so that not a drop of water touched him. He saw the other sentinels, and they told him that they must take him before the king. When the king saw him he rejoiced, and gave him his fair daughter to wife. That night Ghvthisavari asked his wife: 'Where is the best hunting to be had in the kingdom?' She replied: 'If thou goest to the left thou wilt return; if thou goest to the right thou wilt never return.' The next morning Ghvthisavari arose at daybreak, took his bow and arrow, and went to the right hand. He shot an arrow and killed a hare, he tied its feet and left it; he shot another arrow and killed a stag, he bound its feet together and left it too. He shot a third arrow, and it stuck in a burning fire. He went on and on until he reached this fire. Then he killed a stag, put it on the fire, and sat down at the side. He roasted meat, ate some, and gave some to his dogs. Behold, no one knows whence, a toothless old woman appeared. She begged Ghvthisavari to give her something to eat. He did so; he ate, but the old woman ate ten times more. For every mouthful Ghvthisavari took she took a basketful. Ghvthisavari looked on in amazement. The old woman finished all the food. Then she took a little stone and threw it at Ghvthisavari's bow and arrow. They turned into stone, and fell on the ground. Then she took the little stone and threw it at the dogs, who also became petrified. She took them one by one in her hand and swallowed them. Ghvthisavari was stupefied; he seized his bow and arrow to kill the old woman, but he could not move it; it fell to earth. Then the old woman turned her stone towards Ghvthisavari, who lost his strength, and became as a corpse. The old woman lifted him up in her hand and swallowed him. At that moment the water changed to blood, and the younger brother knew that Ghvthisavari had fallen into misfortune, and set out to help him. When he had gone some way he came to the water's edge, on each side of which stood the twelve sentinels. He leaped across. The sentinels were surprised, they thought it was Ghvthisavari, and asked him whence he came and whither he was going. The youth told them nothing, and did not let them know who he was. He came to the king. That night he was given his brother's wife, but when he lay down he put a sword between them, and did not touch her. Then he asked her: 'Where is the best hunting?' She replied: 'If thou goest to the left thou wilt return, if to the right thou wilt never return. Do not go; did I not tell thee the same thing yesterday?' 'I asked thee, and I went one way, but did not like it; now I ask thee again,' said the youth. He rose the next morning, and went to the right hand. When he had gone a little way he saw the dead hare with its feet bound; he went on farther and saw the dead stag with its feet bound. He said to himself: 'My brother must have come this way; this is some of the game he has killed.' He again went on, and saw the fire burning. Beside it lay Ghvthisavari's bow and arrow, and he said to himself: 'Here my brother has met his fate.' Then he killed some game and roasted it on the fire. There appeared, no one knows whence, the same old woman. She sat down and waited for her share of roast meat. In eating, the old woman's behaviour was the same as before. When she had finished the food she was still hungry. She took a little stone, and lifted it to throw at the dogs. The youth thought to himself: 'It must have been in this way that this old woman swallowed my brother Ghvthisavari.' He seized the old woman by the throat, cleft her breast open, and took out Ghvthisavari and his dogs. Then he killed the old woman and poured her blood over Ghvthisavari, the dogs, and the bow and arrow. Ghvthisavari and his dogs came back to life, and the bow and arrow were raised from the earth. When Ghvthisavari woke to consciousness he said: 'Ugh! I have had such a dream.' Then his brother said: 'Thou hast not dreamt'; and he told him what had happened. Ghvthisavari rejoiced, and they both went to their new kinsman, the king. On the way, Ghvthisavari was very melancholy, for he thought that his brother must have married his wife. His brother looked at him and said: 'May this arrow strike me on the part of my body that has touched thy wife, and kill me.' Thus spoke Ghvthisavari's brother, and threw up an arrow. It fell, struck him in the little finger, and he died. Ghvthisavari left his brother, went in, and, when he had learnt all, was deeply grieved. He went, no one knows where, found immortal water, and brought his brother back to life. Then he found him a fair wife, and they dwelt together, happy in fraternal affection and in love. VII THE SERPENT AND THE PEASANT There was once a happy king. Great or small, maid or man, every one was happy in his kingdom, every one was joyful and glad. Once this monarch saw a vision. In his dream there hung from the ceiling in his house a fox suspended by the tail. He awoke, he could not see what the dream signified. He assembled his viziers, but they also could not divine what this dream presaged. Then he said: 'Assemble all my kingdom together, perhaps some one may interpret it.' On the third day all the people of his kingdom assembled in the king's palace. Among others came a poor peasant. In one place he had to travel along a footpath. The path on both sides was shut in by rocky mountains. When the peasant arrived there, he saw a serpent lying on the path, stretching its neck and putting out its tongue. When the peasant went near, the serpent called out: 'Good day, where art thou going, peasant?' The peasant told what was the matter. The serpent said: 'Do not fear him, give me thy word that what the king gives, thou wilt share with me, and I will teach thee.' The peasant rejoiced, gave his word, and swore, saying: 'I will bring thee all that the king presents to me if thou wilt aid me in this matter.' The serpent said: 'I shall divide it in halves, half will be thine; when thou seest the king, say: "The fox meant this, that in the kingdom there is cunning, hypocrisy, and treachery."' The peasant went, he approached the king, and told even what the serpent had taught. The king was very much pleased, and gave great presents. The peasant did not return by that way, so that he might not share with the serpent, but went by another path. Some time passed by, the king saw another vision: in his dream a naked sword hung suspended from the roof. The king this time sent a man quickly for the peasant, and asked him to come. The peasant was very uneasy in mind. There was nothing for it, the peasant went by the same footpath as before. He came to that place where he saw the serpent before, but now he saw the serpent there no more. He cried out: 'O serpent, come here one moment, I need thee.' He ceased not until the serpent came. It said: 'What dost thou want? what distresses thee?' The peasant answered: 'Thus and thus is the matter, and I should like some aid.' The serpent replied: 'Go, tell the king that the naked sword means war--now enemies are intriguing within and without; he must prepare for battle and attack.' The peasant thanked the serpent and went. He came and told the king even as the serpent had commanded. The king was pleased, he began to prepare for war, and gave the peasant great presents. Now the peasant went by that path where the serpent was waiting. The serpent said: 'Now give me the half thou hast promised.' The peasant replied: 'Half, certainly not! I shall give thee a black stone and a burning cinder.' He drew out his sword and pursued it. The serpent retreated into a hole, but the peasant followed it, and cut off its tail with his sword. Some time passed, and the king again saw a vision. In this vision a slain sheep was hanging from the roof. The king sent a man quickly for the peasant. The peasant was now very much afraid. And he said: 'How can I approach the king?' Formerly the serpent had taught him, but now it could no longer do this; for its goodness he had wounded it with the sword. Nevertheless, he went by that footpath. When he came to the place where the serpent had been, he cried out: 'O serpent, come here one moment, I want to ask thee something.' The serpent came. The man told his grief. The serpent said: 'If thou givest me half of what the king gives thee, I shall tell thee.' He promised and swore. The serpent said: 'This is a sign that now everywhere peace falls on all, the people are become like quiet, gentle sheep.' The peasant thanked it, and went his way. When he came to the king, he spoke as the serpent had instructed him. The king was exceedingly pleased, and gave him greater presents. The peasant returned by the way where the serpent was waiting. He came to the serpent, divided everything he had received from the king, and said: 'Thou hast been patient with me, and now I will give thee even what was given me before by the king.' He humbly asked forgiveness for his former offences. The serpent said: 'Be not grieved nor troubled; it certainly was not thy fault. The first time, when all the people were entirely deceitful, and there was treachery and hypocrisy in the land, thou too wert a deceiver, for, in spite of thy promise, thou wentest home by another way. The second time, when there was war everywhere, quarrels and assassination, thou, too, didst quarrel with me, and cut off my tail. But now, when peace and love have fallen on all, thou bringest the gifts, and sharest all with me. Go, brother, may the peace of God rest with thee! I do not want thy wealth.' And the serpent went away and cast itself into its hole. VIII GULAMBARA AND SULAMBARA There was and there was not at all, there was a blind monarch; all the doctors in the kingdom had been applied to, but the king could not be cured. At last one doctor said: 'In a certain sea is a fish red as blood. If this is caught, killed, and its blood sprinkled on your eyes, it may do good--the light will come back into your eyes--if not, there can be no other cure for you.' Then the king assembled every fisherman in his realm, and commanded: 'Go wherever it may be or may not be, catch such a fish as this, and I shall give you a rich reward.' Some time passed by. An old fisherman caught just such a crimson fish, and took it to the king. The king was asleep, and they did not dare to wake him, so they put the fish into a basin full of water. Just then his son returned from his lessons. He saw the blood-red fish swimming in the basin. He took it up in his hands, caressed it, and said: 'What do you want with the pretty fish in the basin?' They said to him: 'This is good for your father, it must be killed, its blood sprinkled on his eyes, and he will regain his sight.' 'But is it not a sin to kill it?' asked the prince; and he took the fish out to a stream in the meadow, and gave it freedom. A little while after, the king awoke; his viziers said to him: 'An old fisherman brought to you a blood-red fish, but your son, who had just returned from his lessons, let it away.' The king was very angry, and sent his son from the house. 'Go hence, I shall be well when thou art no longer remembered in the kingdom; with my eyes I cannot look upon thee, but never let me hear thine unpleasant voice again.' The boy was grieved, rose, and went away. He went, he went, and he knew not whither he went. On the way he saw a stream. He was weary and sat down to rest on the bank. Behold, a boy of his own age came out of the water. He came to the prince, greeted him, and said: 'Whence comest thou? and what troubles thee?' The prince went to him and told him all that had happened to him. His new acquaintance said: 'I also am discontented with my lot, so let us become brothers, and live together.' The prince agreed, and they went on their way. They travelled on some distance, when they came to a town, and they dwelt there. When the next day dawned, his adopted brother said to the prince: 'Stay thou at home, do not go out of doors, lest they eat thee, for such is the custom here.' The prince promised, and from morning until night he sat indoors. The other boy was away in the town all day. At twilight, when he came home, he had a handkerchief quite full of provisions. Several days slipped by. The prince stayed in all day, and his brother brought the food and drink. At last the prince said to himself: 'This is shameful! My adopted brother goes out and brings in food and drink. Why do I not do something? What an idle fellow I am! I will go and do something!' And so it happened that one day the king's son went into the town; he wandered here and there, and in one place saw his brother, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground, at his feet was stretched a pocket handkerchief, in his hand he held a chonguri (a stringed instrument), which he played, and he chanted to it with a sweet voice. Whoever passed by placed money in the handkerchief. The king's son listened and listened, and said: 'No, this must not be; this is not my business.' So he turned and went back. Near there he saw a tower. Outside was a wall, and on the top were arranged in rows men's heads: some were quite shrivelled up, some had an unpleasant odour of decay, and some had just been placed there. He looked and looked, and could not understand what it meant. He asked a man: 'Whose tower is this, and why are men's heads arranged in rows in this way?' He was told: 'In this tower dwells a maiden beautiful as the sun. Any king's son may ask her in marriage. She asks him a question: if he cannot answer it his head is cut off, but if he can he may demand her in marriage. No one has yet been able to answer her question.' The prince thought and thought, and said to himself: 'I will go. I will ask this maiden in marriage: I will know if this is my fate. What is to be will be. What can she ask me that I shall not know?' So he rose and went. He came to the sunlike maiden and asked her in marriage. She answered: 'It is well, but first I have a question to ask thee; if thou canst answer, then I am thine, if not, I shall cut off thy head.' 'So let it be,' said the prince. 'I ask thee this, Who are Gulambara and Sulambara?' enquired the beautiful maiden. The king's son said to himself: 'I know indeed that Gulambara and Sulambara are names of flowers, but I never heard in all my life of human beings thus named.' He asked three days grace and went away. He went home and told his brother what had happened, and said: 'If thou canst not help me now, in three days I shall lose my head.' His brother reproached him, saying: 'Did I not tell thee to stay indoors? This is a wicked town.' But then he comforted him, saying: 'Go now, buy a pennyworth of aromatic gum and a candle. I have a grandmother, I shall take thee to her, and she will help thee. But at the moment when my grandmother looks at us, give her the gum and the candle, or she will eat thee.' He bought the gum and the candle, and they set out. The grandmother was standing in her doorway; the prince immediately gave her the gum and the candle. 'What is it? what is the matter with thee?' enquired the grandmother of the prince's adopted brother. He came forward, and told everything in detail. Then he added: 'This is my good brother, and certainly thou shouldst help him.' 'Very well,' said the old woman to the prince; 'sit down on my back.' The prince seated himself on her back. The old woman flew up high, and then, in the twinkling of an eye, she flew down into the depths. She took him into a town there, and went to the entrance of a bazaar. She pointed out a shopkeeper and said: 'Go and engage thyself as assistant to this shopkeeper; but in the evening, when he leaves business and goes home, tell him that he must take thee with him, and must not leave thee in the shop. Where thou goest with him thou wilt learn the story of Gulambara and Sulambara. Then when thou hast need of me, whistle and I shall be there.' The prince did exactly as the old woman had instructed him; he went to the butcher, as his assistant. At twilight, when the butcher spoke of going home, the prince said to him: 'Do not leave me here; I am a stranger in this land. I am afraid; take me with thee.' The butcher objected strongly, but the prince entreated him until he agreed. The butcher went home, and took the prince with him. They came to a wall, opened a door, went in, and it closed. Inside that, was another wall; they went through that, and it closed. They passed thus through nine walls, and then they entered a house. The butcher opened a cupboard door, took out a woman's head, and then an iron whip. He put down the decaying head and struck it. He struck and struck until the head was completely gone. When the prince saw this he was astonished, and enquired: 'Tell me, why do you strike this head that is so mutilated, and whose head is this?' The butcher made answer: 'I tell this to no one, this is my secret, but if I do tell any one he must then lose his head.' 'I still wish to know,' said the prince. The butcher rose, took a sword, prepared himself, and said to the prince. 'I had a wife who was so lovely that she excelled the sun; her name was Gulambara. I kept her under these nine locks, and I took care of her so that not even the wind of heaven blew on her. Whatever she asked me I gave her at once. I loved her to distraction, and trusted her, and she told me that she loved no one in the world but me. At that time I had an assistant who was called Sulambara, and my wife loved him and deceived me. Once I found them together, and seized them. I locked one in one cupboard and the other in another. Whenever I came home from business I went to the cupboards, and took out first one and then the other, and beat them as hard as I could. I struck so hard that Sulambara crumbled away yesterday, and only Gulambara's head remained, and that has just now crumbled away before thine eyes.' The story ended, he took his sword and said to the prince: 'Now I am going to fulfil my threat, so come here and I shall cut off thy head.' The prince entreated him: 'Give me a little time. I will go to the door and pray to my God, and then do to me even as thou wishest.' The butcher thought: 'It can do no harm to let him go to the door for a short time, for he certainly cannot open the nine doors; let him pray to his God and have his wish.' The prince went to the gate and whistled. Immediately the old woman flew down, took him on her back, and flew off. The youth went to the town where the beautiful maiden dwelt, and told the sunlike one the story of Gulambara and Sulambara. The maiden was very much surprised; when she had heard all, she agreed to marry him. They were married; she collected all her worldly possessions, and set out with the prince for his father's kingdom. When he came to the brook, his adopted brother appeared before him, and said: 'In thy trouble I befriended thee, and now, when thou art happy, shall this friendship cease? Whatever thou hast obtained has been by my counsel, therefore thou shouldst share it with me.' The prince divided everything in halves, but still his adopted brother was not pleased. 'It is all very well to share this with me, whilst thou hast the beautiful maiden.' The prince arose and gave up his own share of the goods. His adopted brother would not take it, and spoke thus: 'If thou holdest fast to our friendship thou shouldst share with me this maiden, the most precious of thy possessions!' As he said this he seized the maiden's hand, bound her to a tree, stretched forth his sword, and, as he was about to strike, a green stream flowed from the terror-stricken maiden's mouth. Again the youth raised his sword. The same thing happened. A third time he prepared to strike, with the same result. Then he came, unbound her from the tree, gave her to the prince, and said: 'Although this maiden was beautiful, yet she was venomous, and, sooner or later, would have killed thee. Now whatever poison was in her is completely gone, so do not fear her in the slightest degree. [7] Go! and God guide thee. As for these possessions, they are thine; I do not want them. May God give thee His peace.' From his pocket he took out a handkerchief, gave it to the prince, and said: 'Take this handkerchief with thee; when thou reachest home wipe thy father's eyes with it and he will see. I am the fish that was in the basin, and thou didst set me free. Know, then, that kindness of heart is never lost.' So saying, the prince's adopted brother disappeared. The prince remained astonished. Before he had time to express his gratitude the young man had suddenly disappeared. At last, when he had recovered himself, he took his wife and went to his father. He laid the handkerchief on the king's eyes, and his sight came back to him. When he saw his only son and his beautiful daughter-in-law his joy was so great that his eyes filled with tears. His son sat down and told him all that had happened since he left him. IX THE TWO BROTHERS Once upon a time there were two brothers. Each of them possessed ten loaves of bread; and they said: 'Let us go and seek our fortune.' So they arose and went forth. When they had gone a little way they were hungry. One brother said to the other: 'Come, let us eat thy bread first, then we can eat mine.' And he agreed, and they took of his loaves and did eat, and they afterwards went on their way. And they travelled for some time in this manner. At last, when these ten loaves were finished, the brother who had first spoken said: 'Now, my brother, thou canst go thy way and I shall go mine. Thou hast no loaves left, and I will not let thee eat my bread.' So saying, he left him to continue his journey alone. He went on and on, and came to a mill in a thick forest. He saw the miller and said: 'For the love of God, let me stay here to-night.' The miller answered: 'Brother, it is a very terrible thing to be here at night; as thou seest, even I go elsewhere. Presently wild beasts will assemble in the wood, and probably come here.' 'Have no fear for me; I shall stay here. The beasts cannot kill me,' answered the boy. The miller tried to persuade him not to endanger his life, but when he found his arguments were of no avail he rose and went home. The boy crept inside the hopper of the mill. There appeared, from no one knows where, a big bear; he was followed by a wolf, then a jackal; and they all made a great noise in the mill. They leaped and bounded just as if they were having a dance. He was terrified, and, trembling from fear, he lay down, quaking all over, in the hopper. At last the bear said: 'Come, let each of us tell something he has seen or heard.' 'We shall tell our tales, but you must begin,' cried his companions. The bear said: 'Well, on a hill that I know dwells a mouse. This mouse has a great heap of money, which it spreads out when the sun shines. If any one knew of this mouse's hole, and went there on a sunny day, when the money is spread out, and struck the mouse with a twig, and killed it, he would become possessed of great wealth.' 'That is not wonderful!' said the wolf. 'I know a certain town where there is no water, and every mouthful has to be carried a great distance, and an enormous price is paid for it! The inhabitants do not know that in the centre of their town, under a certain stone, is beautiful, pure water. Now, if any one knew of this, and would roll away that stone, he would obtain great wealth.' 'That is nothing,' said the jackal. 'I know of a king who has one only daughter, and she has been an invalid for three years. Quite a simple remedy would cure her: if she were bathed in a bath of beech leaves she would be healed. You have no idea what a fortune any one would get if he only knew this.' When they had spoken thus, day began to dawn. The bear, the wolf, and the jackal went away into the wood. The boy came out of the hopper, gave thanks to God, and went to the mouse's hole, of which the bear had spoken. He arrived, and saw that the story was true. There was the mouse with the money spread out. He stole up noiselessly, and, taking twigs in his hand, he struck the mouse until he had killed it, and then gathered up the money. Then he went to the waterless town, rolled away the stone, and behold! streams of water flowed forth. He received a reward for this, and set out for the kingdom of which the jackal had spoken. He arrived, and enquired of the king: 'What wilt thou give me if I cure thy daughter?' The king replied: 'If thou canst do this I will give thee my daughter to wife.' The youth prepared the remedy, made the princess bathe in it, and she was cured. The king rejoiced greatly, gave him the maiden in marriage, and appointed him heir to the kingdom. This story reached the ears of the youth's brother. He went on and on, and it came to pass that he found his brother. He asked him: 'How and by what cunning has this happened?' The fortunate youth told him all in detail. 'I also shall go and stay at that mill a night or two.' His brother used many entreaties to dissuade him, and when he would not listen, said: 'Well, go if thou wilt, but I warn thee again it is very dangerous.' However, he would not be persuaded, and went away. He crept into the hopper, and was there all night. From some place or other arrived the former guests--the bear, the wolf, and the jackal. The bear said: 'That day when I told you my story the mouse was killed, and the money all taken away.' The wolf said: 'And the stone was rolled away in the waterless town of which I spoke.' 'And the king's daughter was cured,' added the jackal. 'Then perhaps some one was listening when we talked here,' said the bear. 'Perhaps some one is here now,' shrieked his companions. 'Then let us go and look; certainly no one shall listen again,' said the three; and they looked in all the corners. They sought and sought everywhere. At last the bear looked into the hopper, and saw the trembling boy. He dragged him out and tore him to pieces. X THE PRINCE There was once a king who had great possessions, but his wife had no children, and he was a prey to grief. One day when he was very melancholy a courtier came to him and said: 'Most mighty monarch! thou hast no son, and thou givest no gifts; what will thy subjects think of thee? What wilt thou do with this wealth stored up by thee?' The king took these words to heart; the next day he gave a great feast, and scattered alms lavishly. From no one knows where there appeared at that time an old woman. She came to the king and said: 'What wilt thou give me if I bring thee a son?' The king replied: 'Whatever thou askest of me, that will I give thee.' The old woman drew forth from her pocket an apple, which she cut in three and gave to the king, saying, 'Let thy wife eat this, and she will have three children; but, remember, I shall come back in seven years and thou must give me thy youngest son.' The king consented, gave his wife the apple, and she ate it. Some time passed, and the queen bore three sons, and the youngest was the most beautiful of all. The king could not bear to think that he must give him up. He said to himself: 'I shall put him behind nine locks, and when the old woman comes, I shall tell her that my youngest son is dead, but that she can take the two elder if she wishes.' After seven years the old woman came, and demanded of the king his youngest son. He did just as he had planned. He locked up his youngest son behind nine locks, and said to the old woman: 'My youngest son is dead, but here are the other two, take them.' The old woman would not believe him. She searched every corner of the palace, opened the nine locks, and took away the young prince. She went homeward, and took him with her. When they had gone a little way, they came to a brook where they found an old woman washing dirty linen. When she saw the beautiful prince she called him back, and said sadly to him: 'Dost thou know thou art being led into misfortune? Why dost thou go with that witch? Thou certainly canst not escape alive from her hands!' When the prince heard this, he went to the witch and said: 'Let me go and have a word with this old woman. I shall overtake thee in a minute.' The witch let him go. The prince went back to his own home, filled a cup with water, and placed it near the fire. Having done this, he said: 'When that water changes to blood, I shall be dead, but as long as it is pure I shall be alive.' Then he went away, quickly overtook the witch, and they went on together. At last they arrived in a dark ravine; the home of the witch was there in a rocky cave. In the house she had three daughters and two horses--one for herself and one for her daughters. The old woman went in, entrusted the prince to her daughters' care, and fell asleep. Now this old witch had a habit of sleeping for seven days and nights, and it was impossible to rouse her. When her daughters saw the prince they admired him very much, and said: 'It is a shame that so handsome a boy should be destroyed! Come, our mother shall not have him to eat; we must help him to escape in some way.' 'We will!' cried the sisters; and they thought of a plan of escape. The eldest sister gave him her comb, and said: 'When my mother overtakes thee, throw this behind thee and hasten on; a thick forest will spring up between thee and my mother, who will have difficulty in passing through it.' The second sister gave him a pair of scissors, and said: 'When my mother overtakes thee, throw these scissors behind thee--jagged rocks, hard as adamant, will rise between thee and my mother, who will have difficulty in crossing them, but hasten thou on.' The youngest sister gave him a lump of salt, and said: 'When my mother overtakes thee, throw this behind thee--between you will roll a sea, which my mother will never cross.' Then they carefully saddled their own steed, gave the youth everything he wanted, and sent him away. He thanked them heartily and set out. Seven days passed. The witch awoke, and looked for her dinner, but it was no longer there. She went to her steed and enquired of it, 'Shall we eat bread or shall we set out at once?' 'Whether we eat bread or not we cannot overtake him,' said the steed to the witch. She did not abandon her intention, but, having eaten bread, mounted her horse and set off in pursuit of the prince. After riding some distance she overtook him. The prince looked back, and, seeing the old woman approach, drew the comb from his pocket and threw it down behind him. Between them, there rose a forest so thick that even a fly could not go through it. The old woman was annoyed and hindered, but at last, in some way or other, she passed through it. When she reached the open country she spurred her horse on with might and main, and again approached the prince, who looked behind and saw the old woman. He took the scissors from his pocket, and threw them down. Between them appeared a jagged rock, hard as steel, so that no iron could cut it; the horse cut its feet, and, not being able to go any further, fell down; yet the old woman would not give in. She jumped from the horse's back and went forward on foot. She passed the rocks, reached the plain again, and hastened on. She flew over the ground as if she had wings. The prince looked back, and saw how near the old woman was. He took the piece of salt from his pocket, and threw it behind him. There flowed between them a sea so vast that no bird could cross it. The old woman was not daunted, even by this, she waded into the sea, determined to cross it, but she was drowned. The prince often looked behind, but he could no longer see the old woman. Then his heart was filled with joy, and he went on gaily. He himself knew not whither he went. He grew hungry and more hungry, until he was ravenous. At last he saw a fire: he went up, and there was burning a huge fire, over which hung a kettle of arrack, and food cooking; around it lay nine devis, who were brothers. They were fast asleep, but there was a lame one watching as sentinel. The prince did not wait to ask leave of the devis; he came up, lifted the pot off the fire, took some food, and when he had eaten, put the pot back. He then lay down and began to snore loudly. The lame devi looked on with amazement from a distance. A short time afterwards a devi awoke. He looked round and saw a human being sleeping there. He said joyfully: 'This will be a dainty morsel for us,' and went towards the boy. But the lame devi followed him and said: 'Leave him alone, lay not a hand upon him; he is to be feared--just now he took our pot from the fire, ate some food, and placed it on the fire again; he has done alone what is difficult for us ten.' The devi thought better of it, and turned away. A second devi then rose and did the same, but the lame devi prevented him. As each devi awoke he went to the boy, but the lame devi took care of them. When all the devis were roused and had begun to eat, the prince woke up too. He came to the devis and asked them to swear brotherhood. The devis said: 'Who art thou, who art so courageous? What brought thee here?' The prince answered: 'I was hungry, I saw the fire and I came to the fire.' Then the devis said: 'Very well, if thou wishest us to swear brotherhood with thee, first go till thou findest cross roads, there a maiden spreads out a handkerchief; if thou seizest this handkerchief and bringest it here, we shall swear brotherhood with thee; if thou failest, thou art none of us. Many have tried to take this handkerchief, but the maiden always kills them.' The devis thought that the prince would be killed too, and that they would thus get rid of him. The prince set out and came to the cross roads, and, behold, a beautiful maiden flew down; a handkerchief was spread out in front of her, and hid her from his eyes. The prince came up and seized the handkerchief, but just as he was going away, the maiden attacked him. The prince was victorious in the fight. After the combat a golden slipper was left in the prince's hand. He came to the devis with the handkerchief, and gave them the golden slipper, saying: 'Go to the town, change this for money, and bring it home.' The devis sent the lame devi with the golden slipper. When he reached the town he met a merchant, to whom he showed the slipper. The merchant complained and said: 'My wife had golden slippers, thou must have stolen this one.' The devi said that they had found the slipper--he swore, but the merchant would not believe him. He took the slipper, and locked up the lame devi. For a long time the other devis waited for their lame brother; they watched, but no lame devi was to be seen. Then they sent the ninth brother to seek him. When he arrived in the town where the devi had gone to exchange the golden slipper, he enquired after his lame brother. Hearing him ask for a lame devi, they said: 'This must be an accomplice of the thief,' and they locked him up too. The remaining devis waited for their ninth brother, and when they saw that he did not come, the eighth was sent, but he also was taken; then the seventh, sixth, fifth, fourth, third, second, and at last the first devi went, but none of them returned. The prince said to himself: 'What can have happened to these devis? I will go and seek them, and perchance find out what misfortune has overtaken them.' So he arose and went forth. The merchant heard some one was again asking for the lame devi, and wished to entrap him, but the prince said: 'If I do not find the neighbour to the golden slipper, thou mayst call us liars, and do what thou wilt to the devis and me; but if I find it thou hast lied, and we shall do what we wish to thee.' 'Agreed!' said the merchant, and the prince went forth to seek the other golden slipper. He travelled far, and came at last to a kingdom by the seashore. This kingdom was ruled by a maiden, fair as the sun. Whoever came to that kingdom to sell wheat was met by the maiden, who cast the wheat and its owner into the sea, and there was no escape. When the prince heard of this, he said to himself: 'I shall bring wheat to this country, and see what the fair one can do.' He went for the wheat, and filled a boat with grain, seated himself in another boat, and set out for the kingdom. On nearing the shore there appeared, from no one knows where, a beautiful damsel. She stretched out her hand, and was about to sink the grain, when the prince struck the boat with his foot and upset it. Then he seized the maiden's hand and drew her towards him. She, seeing that she was outwitted, pulled with all her might, and escaped from his hands, but left her rings behind her. Thus was the maiden defeated. After this, whoever wished to bring wheat brought it, and there was plenty in that kingdom. The people of the country fell down and kissed the knees of the prince, saying: 'We beseech thee, be our king.' But he would not, and replied: 'I am come on other business, I wish for nothing but to find a certain slipper,' and he told his tale. The slipper could not be found, so he arose and left that land. He went on again and came into another country. Here he learnt that a beautiful maiden had killed the king's son, who was buried in a vault. Every night the maiden came there and beat him with twigs. When she did this he came back to life, they supped together, and passed the time merrily until morning, when she again beat him with twigs. Then he became a corpse, and she flew away. When the prince heard this tale, he went to aid the unfortunate youth. He entered the tomb and waited. Behold, a lovely damsel flew down, took twigs from her pocket, and beat the king's son until he came back to life; they supped and made merry until morning. As she was about to beat the youth and kill him again, the prince snatched the twigs from her hand; so the king's son lived. Then the prince took him away, and led him to his father. Here, too, the prince was offered the throne, but he did not wish to be king. 'If I could find a certain golden slipper, I should be happy,' said he; 'I must go forth and seek it.' And he set forth on his quest again. When he had gone some way, he came to a wide plain. He presently saw a beautiful house, and said to himself: 'I wonder who lives there,' and he went on towards the house. On the way he saw an Arab feeding some mules, and said: 'Canst thou tell me whose house that is, brother?' The Arab looked round about and replied: 'Shall I swallow thee head first or feet first?' 'I asked thee about the house, why wilt thou not answer?' said the prince. Again the Arab stared round and said: 'Shall I swallow thee by the head or by the feet?' 'As to the matter of swallowing, I shall soon show thee what I shall do,' said the prince, giving the Arab such a blow that it sent him over nine mountains. Then he struck the mules, and went to the house. He wandered all round it, and was much delighted with its appearance. Then he went inside through a window, and visited every room. In one of these he saw a golden throne, and on it were golden slippers like the one he sought. He said to himself: 'Perhaps this is the house of the fair damsel who gave me the slipper. I shall wait and see what happens.' He sat under the throne and waited. Soon after, there flew in a beautiful maiden, then another, yet a third, and at last the Arab. They sat down to eat. In the twinkling of an eye the Arab laid the cloth for the sisters, and whatever heart or soul could wish was spread upon it. After a short time the eldest sister took wine and said: 'May God grant long life to the youth who took from me the handkerchief and the golden slipper.' She drank, and put the bowl down. Then the second sister took it and said: 'Long life to the youth who snatched the rings from my hand, and gave wheat to a kingdom.' She drank, and put the bowl down. Then the youngest sister took it and said: 'Long life to the youth who took the twigs from my hand, and restored life to a prince.' She drank, and put the bowl down. At last the Arab took the wine and said: 'Long life to the youth who gave me a blow, and sent me over nine mountains.' He drank, and put the bowl down. Then the prince appeared from under the throne, took the wine and said: 'I have also toasts to propose. May God grant long life to the maiden from whom I took the handkerchief.' He took from his pocket the handkerchief and gave it to the eldest sister. 'May God grant long life to the maiden from whom I took the rings,' and he gave the rings to the second sister. 'May God grant long life to the maiden from whom I took the twigs.' He returned the twigs to the youngest sister, and turning to the Arab, he said: 'May God grant long life to the Arab whom I struck and sent over nine mountains.' He drank, and put down the bowl. Then the three sisters jumped up and said: 'He will marry me.' 'No! me.' And they began to quarrel. The prince said: 'Wherefore quarrel one with another? I shall wed the youngest sister, since I am the youngest of three brothers, and you elder shall wed my elder brothers.' The maidens asked him: 'What is the object of thy journey hither?' 'To seek for the other golden slipper, and lo! I have found it here,' answered the prince. 'Because of this slipper, nine brothers, devis, are imprisoned in a certain town, and if I return without it, I, too, shall be imprisoned to-day with them.' 'This slipper is thine, and as many more as thou wishest, take them with thee, seat thyself on the Arab's back, and in three hours thou wilt be in the town,' said the sisters. The prince did as they told him. He filled a bag with golden slippers, sat on the Arab's back, and in three hours he was in the town. The devis rejoiced greatly. They called the merchant, and he brought slippers. He took one by one his own slippers, but, behold, not one of them would fit the golden slipper. Then, when the prince produced his bagful of golden slippers, the merchant was proved a liar. The prince gave the merchant into the hands of the devis, and said: 'Do to him what ye please, sell all his possessions, but I must go at once on my way.' When the devis heard this, they begged him to stay with them. But he would not consent. The prince came to the three beautiful sisters, and married the youngest. The sisters gave the Arab a saddle bag in which was everything for the journey, placed in his hand a tree, and said: 'Go to the kingdom of the prince's father, and when thou art near the palace, in such and such a place, plant this tree. It will turn into a great plane tree, and underneath, a beautiful stream will flow; there, on the banks of the stream, lay the cloth, and prepare everything for our coming.' The Arab did everything as he was commanded. Then the maidens came. Every man and woman in the kingdom heard of this, and went out to look at them. The parents were mourning for their long-lost son. The cup of water had not changed to blood, but they had given up all hope of finding him. At last they could stand it no longer, and they too went to see the maidens. When the prince saw his mother and father approach, he feigned surprise, and asked why they mourned. They answered that they had lost a son, and therefore they mourned. The prince said: 'I am your long-lost son.' The king and queen rejoiced, and took him home. They prepared such a wedding that the roof of the palace resounded with merriment. XI CONKIAJGHARUNA [8] There was and there was not, there was a miserable peasant. He had a wife and a little daughter. So poor was this peasant that his daughter was called Conkiajgharuna (the little girl in rags). Some time passed, and his wife died. He was unhappy before, but now a greater misfortune had befallen him. He grieved and grieved, and at last he said to himself: 'I will go and take another wife; she will mind the house, and tend my orphan child.' So he arose and took a second wife, but this wife brought with her a daughter of her own. When this woman came into her husband's house and saw his child, she was angry in heart. She treated Conkiajgharuna badly. She petted her own daughter, but scolded her stepdaughter, and tried to get rid of her. Every day she gave her a piece of badly-cooked bread, and sent her out to watch the cow, saying: 'Here is a loaf; eat of it, give to every wayfarer, and bring the loaf home whole.' The girl went, and felt very miserable. Once she was sitting sadly in the field, and began to weep bitterly. The cow listened, and then opened its mouth, and said: 'Why art thou weeping? what troubles thee?' The girl told her sad tale. The cow said: 'In one of my horns is honey, and in the other is butter, which thou canst take if thou wilt, so why be unhappy?' The girl took the butter and the honey, and in a short time she grew plump. When the stepmother noticed this she did not know what to do for rage. She rose, and after that every day she gave her a basket of wool with her; this wool was to be spun and brought home in the evening finished. The stepmother wished to tire the girl out with toil, so that she should grow thin and ugly. Once when Conkiajgharuna was tending the cow, it ran away on to a roof. [9] The girl pursued it, and wished to drive it back to the road, but she dropped her spindle on the roof. Looking inside she saw an old woman seated, and said to her: 'Good mother, wilt thou give me my spindle?' The old dame replied: 'I am not able, my child, come and take it thyself.' This old woman was a devi. The girl went in and was lifting up her spindle, when the old dame called out: 'Daughter, daughter, come and look at my head a moment, I am almost eaten up.' The girl came and looked at her head. She was filled with horror; all the worms in the earth seemed to be crawling there. The little girl stroked her head and removed some, and then said: 'Thou hast a clean head, why should I look at it?' This conduct pleased the old woman very much, and she said: 'When thou goest hence, go along such and such a road, and in a certain place thou wilt see three springs--one white, one black, and one yellow. Pass by the white and black, and put thy head in the yellow and lave it with thy hands.' The girl did this. She went on her way, and came to the three springs. She passed by the white and black, and bathed her head with her hands in the yellow fountain. When she looked up she saw that her hair was quite golden, and her hands, too, shone like gold. In the evening, when she went home, her stepmother was filled with fury. After this she sent her own daughter with the cow. Perhaps the same good fortune would visit her! So Conkiajgharuna stayed at home while her stepsister drove out the cow. Once more the cow ran on to the roof. The girl pursued it, and her spindle fell down. She looked in, and, seeing the devi woman, called out: 'Dog of an old woman! here! come and give me my spindle!' The old woman replied: 'I am not able, child, come and take it thyself.' When the girl came near, the old woman said: 'Come, child, and look at my head.' The girl came and looked at her head, and cried out: 'Ugh! what a horrid head thou hast! Thou art a disgusting old woman!' The old woman said: 'I thank thee, my child; when thou goest on thy way thou wilt see a yellow, a white, and a black spring. Pass by the yellow and the white springs, and lave thy head with thy hands in the black one.' The girl did this. She passed by the yellow and white springs, and bathed her head in the black one. When she looked at herself she was black as a negro, and on her head there was a horn. She cut it off again and again, but it grew larger and larger. She went home and complained to her mother, who was almost frenzied, but there was no help for it. Her mother said to herself: 'This is all the cow's fault, so it shall be killed.' This cow knew the future. When it learned that it was to be killed, it went to Conkiajgharuna and said: 'When I am dead, gather my bones together and bury them in the earth. When thou art in trouble come to my grave, and cry aloud: "Bring my steed and my royal robes!"' Conkiajgharuna did exactly as the cow had told her. When it was dead she took its bones and buried them in the earth. After this, some time passed. One holiday the stepmother took her daughter, and they went to church. She placed a trough in front of Conkiajgharuna, spread a codi (80 lbs.) of millet in the courtyard, and said: 'Before we come home from church fill this trough with tears, and gather up this millet, so that not one grain is left.' Then they went to church. Conkiajgharuna sat down and began to weep. While she was crying a neighbour came in and said: 'Why art thou in tears? what is the matter?' The little girl told her tale. The woman brought all the brood-hens and chickens, and they picked up every grain of millet, then she put a lump of salt in the trough and poured water over it. 'There, child,' said she, 'these are thy tears! Now go and enjoy thyself.' Conkiajgharuna then thought of the cow. She went to its grave and called out: 'Bring me my steed and my royal robes!' There appeared at once a horse and beautiful clothes. Conkiajgharuna put on the garments, mounted the horse, and went to the church. There all the folk began to stare at her. They were amazed at her grandeur. Her stepsister whispered to her mother when she saw her: 'This girl is very much like our Conkiajgharuna!' Her mother smiled scornfully and said: 'Who would give that sun-darkener such robes?' Conkiajgharuna left the church before any one else; she changed her clothes in time to appear before her stepmother in rags. On the way home, as she was leaping over a stream, in her haste she let her slipper fall in. A long time passed. Once when the king's horses were drinking water in this stream, they saw the shining slipper, and were so afraid that they would drink no more water. The king was told that there was something shining in the stream, and that the horses were afraid. The king commanded his divers to find out what it was. They found the golden slipper, and presented it to the king. When he saw it he commanded his viziers, saying: 'Go and seek the owner of this slipper, for I will wed none but her.' His viziers sought the maiden, but they could find no one whom the slipper would fit. Conkiajgharuna's stepmother heard this, adorned her daughter, and placed her on a throne. Then she went and told the king that she had a daughter whose foot he might look at, it was exactly the model for the shoe. She put Conkiajgharuna in a corner, with a big basket over her. When the king came into the house he sat down on the basket, in order to try on the slipper. Conkiajgharuna took a needle and pricked the king from under the basket. He jumped up, stinging with pain, and asked the stepmother what she had under the basket. The stepmother replied: ''Tis only a turkey I have there.' The king sat down on the basket again, and Conkiajgharuna again stuck the needle into him. The king jumped up, and cried out: 'Lift the basket, I will see underneath!' The stepmother entreated him, saying: 'Do not blame me, your majesty, it is only a turkey, and it will run away.' But the king would not listen to her entreaties. He lifted the basket up, and Conkiajgharuna came forth, and said: 'This slipper is mine, and fits me well.' She sat down, and the king found that it was indeed a perfect fit. Conkiajgharuna became the king's wife, and her shameless stepmother was left with a dry throat. XII ASPHURTZELA [10] There was, and there was not at all (of God's best may it be!), there was once a woman. This woman's husband had died young, and left her four little children: three boys and one girl. When the children were grown up, their mother said: 'Children, why do you not look after your patrimony? why do you leave it thus abandoned?' The children did not know anything about this patrimony, and asked their mother where it was. The mother told them that it was in such and such a place, but the children would have to go a long way. They asked their mother: 'Since it is so far, when we go to work, who will bring us our food and drink?' The mother answered: 'I shall send your sister with your food.' The brothers were pleased with their mother's proposal, and made ready to start. Their mother gave them onion and garlic with them, and said: 'As you are going along, cut the skin off and drop it: when your sister brings your food she will see it, and know where to find you.' The brothers went to work, and on the path they threw down the skins as their mother had suggested. Near this path there lived a devi with a hundred heads. Once the devi's mother saw the onion peelings strewed on the path; she collected them all, and put them on the road leading to her house. Three days passed, and the mother thought that her sons' food must be nearly finished. She prepared some more for them, put it in a bag, gave it to her daughter, and sent her to her brothers. The girl set out and followed the onion peelings. She went on and on and came to a house. In the house was seated an old woman. The girl cried out: 'Mother, mother, canst thou tell me if my brothers are working here?' 'What dost thou want with thy brothers here?' said the old woman. 'This is the house of a devi with a hundred heads; he will soon be coming home, so I had better hide thee, for if he sees thee he will eat thee.' The devi's mother took the maiden and hid her. The devi appeared, no one knows whence. He carried dead game and firewood. He unbound them from his back, went in, and said: 'Mother, I smell a man! Who has come hither?' 'Why dost thou ask?' said the old woman; 'for fear of thee bird cannot fly in heaven, nor can worm creep on earth.' The devi insisted, and his mother at last gave way, and said: 'I have here a maiden whom I wish thee to marry; if thou wilt not eat her, I will let thee see her.' The son promised, and his mother brought the girl out. When the devi saw her, he liked her very much, and did not eat her. The brothers waited and waited for their sister, and when she did not come they rose and went home. They reproached their mother, saying: 'Why hast thou not sent us food?' When their mother heard them say this, she began to weep, and said: 'Near the road dwells a hundred-headed devi, and I fear that he--may he be cursed!--has eaten her.' The brothers did not know of this devi, and when they heard about him they arose and went forth to deliver their sister. When they had gone a good way, they neared the house of the devi. At that time their sister and the devi's mother were sitting on the roof. The devi's mother saw them coming in the distance, and said to her daughter-in-law: 'Look there! dost thou see nothing coming?' Her daughter-in-law replied: 'I see something like a swarm of flies.' 'Woe to their mother and to my son's mother!' said the devi's mother, and asked her again, in a short time, what she saw. The devi's wife answered: 'I see three men.' 'Woe to their mother and to my son's mother!' moaned the old woman. The three brothers came at last to the devi's house. There they saw water, but they could not cross it by any means. They threw in stones, and stepped over in this way. Then the girl saw that they were her brothers; she came down and embraced them. When the devi's mother learnt who they were, she took them in, gave them food, and then hid them, saying: 'If my son comes home and sees you he will eat you.' Then the hundred-headed devi came, no one knows whence. On one shoulder he had firewood, and on the other dead game. At the door he undid his burden, and, when he came in, said: 'I smell a man; who has come hither?' His mother tried to hide the truth, but her son would not leave her alone, so at last she said: 'If thou wilt promise not to eat thy wife's brothers, I will show them to thee.' The devi promised, and the old woman brought in the three brothers. A little while after, the devi said to his wife's brothers: 'Come, let us prepare supper.' They all came and began to skin the game the devi had brought. Whilst the three brothers skinned one stag, the devi skinned sixty, cut them up and threw them into the pot. Then he came, seized the stag his brothers-in-law were skinning, and threw it also into the pot. When they sat down to supper, the devi asked his wife's brothers: 'Are you eaters of bone or eaters of flesh?' They answered: 'What have we to do with flesh? Bones are good enough for us.' The devi filled his mouth, tore off the flesh, and threw the bones to the three brothers. Then he again inquired: 'Will you drink out of a doki [11] or out of a qantsi?' [12] 'From a qantsi,' replied the brothers. The devi poured out a doki of wine for himself, while he filled the qantsi for them. When they had finished supper, and were preparing to go to bed, the devi again inquired: 'Do you wish to sleep in a bed or in the stable?' 'What have we to do with a bed? put us in the stable!' replied the brothers. The devi lay down in his bed, and the brothers slept in the stable. In the morning, when the devi awoke, he said to his mother: 'Mother, I am hungry!' The mother saw his meaning, and not wishing to let her daughter-in-law understand, she thus replied: 'Go, son, to the stable; there, in the bread-box, are three badly-cooked loaves. Take them and eat them.' The devi went into the stable where the brothers lay. He swallowed one of them in the doorway, put the other two in his pocket, and went into the wood. In the meantime the mother of the brothers waited and waited, and when they did not come back, she thought: 'The devi must have eaten my sons.' She wept bitterly, her tears flowed until they reached to heaven. At that moment a man was passing by. He asked the cause of the tears, and the woman told him that they were for the loss of her children. Then the man gave her an apple, and said: 'Cut this apple into a hundred pieces, and every day eat three; when the apple is finished, thou shalt have a son, and thou shalt call his name Asphurtzela.' The woman did as he said. She cut the apple into a hundred pieces, and every day ate three. When the apple was finished, she brought forth a son, and called him by the name of Asphurtzela. Asphurtzela grew as much in a day as other children grow in a year. Once when Asphurtzela was playing with a group of little boys, a woman passed by with a coca [13] full of water on her shoulder. Just then Asphurtzela threw his codchi; [14] the codchi whirled through the air, struck the woman's coca and broke it. The woman was angry, and called out: 'Mayst thou be cursed! But how can I curse thee, only son of thy mother? For this trick may thy brothers and sister never be delivered from the claws of the devi!' Asphurtzela did not understand this. He hastened inside, and said to his mother: 'Give me to suck, mother!' 'What a time to ask such a thing,' said his mother. But the boy would not wait, so his mother gave him his wish. Asphurtzela bit his mother's breast, and said: 'Tell me, mother, have I any brothers?' His mother did not wish him to know, but she was in such pain that she told him everything. When Asphurtzela heard her tale, he prepared to go away. His mother entreated him not to leave her, but the boy would not be persuaded, and set out. He wandered far and near, and came to an open field, where he saw men ploughing the ground. He shouted out to them: 'Take care, save yourselves, a hundred-headed devi is coming!' The men were filled with terror, and fled in all directions. Asphurtzela slung the plough over his back, took it to a smith, and said: 'Make me out of this iron a pair of shoes and a bow and arrow.' The smith did so; Asphurtzela put on the iron shoes, took the bow and arrow, and went in quest of the hundred-headed devi. He went some distance and approached the devi's house. At that time the devi's mother was sitting on the roof, and, seeing some one coming, she said to her daughter-in-law: 'Dost thou see any one, or do my eyes deceive me?' When her daughter-in-law assured her that it was some one, the devi's mother moaned: 'Woe to his mother's breast, and woe to my son's mother's breast!' In the meantime Asphurtzela arrived quite near the house, leaped over the stream, and came to the door. He saw there a young girl, and said: 'Surely thou art my sister!' The girl only knew her three brothers, and would not admit this, but when Asphurtzela told her his tale, she believed him. Then the devi's mother came and said: 'Come, child, I will put thee in safety and hide thee, lest my son eat thee when he comes home.' 'Go in there, dog of an old woman! May God bring thee and thy son to shame!' said Asphurtzela, and he waited impatiently for the return of the devi. Just then the devi appeared, with game slung over his shoulder, and tree roots thrust under his arm. When he saw a strange boy standing boldly in front of his house, he said to himself: 'For fear of me bird dare not fly in heaven nor worm creep on earth. Who can this boy be who is strutting about so carelessly?' The devi was mad with fury when he saw him. Flames shot from his eyes; he cast an angry glance at him, and shouted out: 'Who art thou? and what art thou doing here?' 'Shall I tell thee who I am? I am thy wife's brother; I am come to be thy guest, so thou must be my host,' said Asphurtzela. 'Very well,' returned the devi, 'come in and let us prepare supper. We must skin the game and cook it.' They began to skin the game, but by the time the devi had skinned one beast, Asphurtzela had finished all the game, thrown it into the pot and cooked it. The devi gazed on Asphurtzela in unfeigned astonishment. When the food was cooked, and they sat down to supper, the devi, according to his custom, put the question to his guest: 'Art thou an eater of bones or of flesh?' 'Pass me over the flesh, why should I eat bones? am I a dog that I should do this?' answered Asphurtzela. The devi gave him flesh, and inquired: 'Wilt thou drink out of a qantsi or out of a doki?' 'Pass over the doki, why should I take a qantsi?' The devi gave him the doki, and sank into deep thought. When it was time to go to bed, the devi inquired: 'Wilt thou sleep in the stable or in a bed?' 'I am a man, what should I do in the stable? Give me a bed,' said Asphurtzela. So it came to pass that Asphurtzela slept in the bed, and the devi lay down in the stable. He lay down, but, alas! he could not sleep. His one idea was how he could rid himself of this disagreeable guest. When he thought that Asphurtzela must be asleep, he took a huge sword and began to sharpen it. The noise of the sharpening awoke Asphurtzela, and he, guessing the devi's design, jumped out of bed, and put a log of wood under the coverlet. Then he hid in the room. When the devi had made his sword as bright as a diamond, he stole out quietly, opened the door, and went noiselessly towards Asphurtzela's bed. He raised his sword with all his might and main, and struck with such force that all the dust in the bed was raised, and the log was cleft through the middle. Then the devi went away and closed the door. Asphurtzela shook down his bed and slept peacefully. In the morning, when the devi awoke and saw his brother-in-law, he gazed on him in amazement, and said: 'Didst thou feel any pain in the night?' 'Oh, no!' said Asphurtzela. 'Not even a flea-bite?' 'No.' 'Then let us wrestle.' 'Very well,' said Asphurtzela, and the combat began. The devi struggled and struggled, but could not move his brother-in-law. Then Asphurtzela attacked him, and buried him in the ground up to the neck. He took his bow and arrow, aimed at the devi, and cried out: 'Tell me quickly what thou hast done with my brothers, or I shall shoot thee.' The devi was afraid, and said: 'Do not kill me and I shall tell thee. In my breast is a little coffer, in it they are lying dead; there too is a handkerchief, place it on them, and they will become alive again.' When Asphurtzela heard this, he cut open the devi's breast, took out the coffer, brought out his brothers, placed a handkerchief on them, and they came back to life. Then he shot his arrow at the hundred-headed devi and killed him. When he had cut him into small pieces, he went to the devi's mother and killed her too. Then he learnt his brothers' story, and told them his in return. The brothers believed Asphurtzela, but envy entered their hearts when they found how much braver he was than they. At last they all arose and went towards home. On the way they had to pass through an open field, where there grew a tree, so large that all the field was under its shade. Asphurtzela said to his brothers and sister: 'Let us rest here, I am very tired and would close my eyes a little.' The brothers consented. Asphurtzela lay down at the foot of the tree and slept like the dead. His brothers sat down near him, and began to whisper one to another: 'Now that he has killed the hundred-headed devi, what good can he do us? Come, let us bind him to this tree and leave him here.' They took withs, twisted them round and round, and bound him to the tree, so hard that blood poured from his fingers. When his sister saw this, she entreated them to spare him, but they would not listen to her. They bound him tight, took their sister and went home. As soon as they were in the house, the girl told their mother everything. The mother called down curses on her three sons. When Asphurtzela woke and saw that he was bound to the tree, he tried hard to get away, but could not move. He looked round, and saw that his brothers were no longer there. He looked everywhere, and then prayed to God: 'O God, if I have deceived my brothers, may this tree become stronger, but if they have deceived me, may I pull it up by the roots.' When he had said this he tried again, and the tree came up by the roots. Then Asphurtzela arose and went home, bearing the tree with him. He came to the house, and called to his brothers: 'Come out at once and loose my hands!' His brothers grew pale and faint from fear, but they came out and set him free. After this Asphurtzela did not wish to live with his brothers, and made ready to leave home. His sister and mother entreated him to stay, but Asphurtzela would not yield. He went away, and wandered on until he came to a field where a man was ploughing; when he turned up a clod he threw it into his mouth and swallowed it. Asphurtzela gazed and gazed, and at last said: 'Man, why dost thou swallow these clods?' 'There is no cause for surprise in that; Asphurtzela has killed the hundred-headed devi, what is there remarkable in my swallowing clods?' said the clod-swallower. 'I am Asphurtzela, so let us be as brothers,' said Asphurtzela. They went on together. When they had gone some distance they came to another field, where there was a man with mill wheels tied to his feet, and in his pocket were two hares. He let both the hares away, and then caught both again. Asphurtzela gazed and gazed at the man, and then said: 'Man, what art thou doing? how canst thou catch these hares?' 'Asphurtzela killed the hundred-headed devi, what is there remarkable in catching two hares?' said the hare-catcher. [15] 'Why, this is Asphurtzela, and he will be as a brother to thee, if thou wilt,' said the clod-swallower. So they all went on together. On the way, the comrades arranged that each should shoot his arrow in turn, and in the place where it stuck they should eat their repast. First of all the clod-swallower shot. His arrow stuck in a very awkward place, but they came and took their supper there. Then the hare-catcher shot his arrow, which also stuck in an awkward place. They came to it and ate their mid-day meal. Last of all Asphurtzela cast his arrow, and it stuck on the shelf of a house where dwelt three devis. At that time the devis were being married to three fair maidens. They saw the arrow stick in their shelf, and stopped the weddings. They tried to pull the arrow out, they struggled and struggled, but could not move it. Then they said: 'Since we cannot pull this arrow out, let us go away, in case he who shot it comes and takes up his abode here.' They left in the house only one lame devi, whom they hid in the chimney. The three friends came in, laid the cloth, and made ready their supper. They threw up their caps for joy. Then they said: 'Come, let each of us, in turn, remain at home and prepare the food.' The first day the clod-swallower stayed in. He had prepared the food and dressed it, when, behold! the lame devi came down from the chimney, and said to the clod-swallower: 'Give me to eat and drink.' He gave him food. 'Give me to eat and drink,' said the devi again. He gave him food once more. When he made the same demand a third time, the clod-swallower answered: 'If thou eatest and drinkest everything, what shall I say to my comrades?' The devi said: 'Give me to eat and drink, or I shall eat thee and thy provisions too.' The clod-swallower was afraid, and ran to the door. The devi sat down and finished all the food. The companions came home and saw that there was no food, but what did it matter? They managed for that day, and the next morning left the hare-catcher at home. The same thing happened to him as to the clod-swallower. Then it was Asphurtzela's turn. He prepared a quantity of different kinds of food and drink for his companions. Then the lame devi came out of the chimney, and said: 'Give me to eat and drink.' Asphurtzela did so. 'Give me to eat and drink,' again said the devi. Asphurtzela did so. When he asked a third time, Asphurtzela said: 'If I give thee all, what will my comrades do?' 'If thou wilt not give me to eat, I shall eat thee and thy food too.' Asphurtzela smiled to himself, took his bow and arrow, shot the devi through the heart, and cut him in halves. The devi's head rolled one way and his body another. The head cried out: 'Happy is he who will follow me.' The body cried: 'Woe to the man who follows me.' In the meantime Asphurtzela's companions returned. They ate, and then said: 'Let us go and see what the devi's head promised.' The devi's head rolled and fell into a hole. Asphurtzela looked in and saw three lovely maidens. He was pleased, and said: 'Let us bring them out and marry them.' The clod-swallower slipped in, but before he had reached the bottom he called out: 'I burn, I burn, draw me up,' and they took him out. Then the hare-catcher slipped down, and the same thing happened to him. Then came Asphurtzela's turn. He said to his companions: 'When I call out "I burn, I burn," let me down lower into the hole.' He called out many times: 'I burn,' but his companions only lowered him farther. [16] He went down the hole and saw the maidens, each excelled the other, but the youngest was certainly the most beautiful of all. He took the eldest, and called out to the clod-swallower: 'This is thine!' Then he sent up the second sister, calling out to the hare-catcher: 'This is thine!' Last of all he was about to send the youngest, as his wife, but she objected, saying: 'Go thou first, then I will come, for I fear that thy comrades will betray thee.' Asphurtzela was obstinate, and insisted upon her going first. 'Very well,' said the maiden, 'I will go, since thou wishest me to do so, but know this, thy companions will not draw thee up, they will shut down the covering of the hole, and thou wilt be left here. Three streams will flow here; one black, one blue, and one white; do not put thy head under any except white water, lest thou be drowned.' It was as she had said. When all three maidens were up, the two men put stones at the mouth of the hole, and left Asphurtzela. He was so indignant that he at once put his head under the black spring, and was immediately carried to the lower regions. He wandered about here and there, and came at last to an old woman's hut. He called out: 'Mother, mother, give me some water to drink.' 'Ah, child,' said the old woman, 'at present there is none, we shall have it again when the dragon has carried away our princess.' 'What dragon?' said Asphurtzela. The old woman replied: 'Our water is withheld by a dragon (gvelashapi), and if we do not offer him a human victim to eat, the water will not flow. We have all paid this debt save the king, and to-day his daughter is to be offered up.' 'Fetch me a water-vessel, mother, I must hasten this minute to the well,' said Asphurtzela. The woman prayed him not to go, but he would not hear her. The old woman arose, and brought him vessels. Asphurtzela broke up these small water-jars, and said: 'Hast thou no kvevris? [17] bring them to me.' The old woman showed him where the kvevris were. Asphurtzela took them and went away. When he came to the edge of the stream, he saw a richly dressed maiden seated, shedding bitter tears. He asked her the cause, and when he learnt that this was the king's daughter, he said: 'I will sleep here; when the dragon comes, wake me up.' He laid his head on the maiden's lap, and fell asleep. The dragon soon appeared. The maiden was afraid to wake Asphurtzela, and she wept more than ever. One of her tears fell on Asphurtzela's cheek, and he woke. When he saw the dragon he rose up, shot an arrow, and cut it in pieces. [18] The maiden, overjoyed, immediately hastened home to her father, and said: 'Thus and thus has it come to pass, the dragon is dead.' The king at first would not believe this, but when others put faith in the story, he sent to seek the youth. He wished him to marry the princess, and decided to give him half of the kingdom. They sought, and sought, but could not find him. Then the old woman came to the palace and said: 'Mighty sovereign! have mercy upon me and upon my son.' The king knew that she had no son, and said: 'Thou hadst formerly no son, where hast thou found this one?' 'God has given me for my son a youth who has killed our enemy the dragon,' answered the old woman. The king was rejoiced that the youth was found. He sent his ministers to bring him to the palace. When Asphurtzela came, the king offered him great presents, but he would not take them, and said: 'If thou wilt send me back to my own land of light, I shall be happy, this is all I desire.' The king was very melancholy, he entreated him, but it was of no avail, so he promised. After this, Asphurtzela went again to his adopted mother. On the way he saw a great tree, and on the top there was a griffin's (phascundzi) nest. There flew down from on high a dragon, and the little birds set up a terrified scream. When Asphurtzela saw what was about to happen, he drew his bow, and, in the twinkling of an eye, the dragon was dead. The mother griffin flew down, and her fledglings told her what had happened. Then the grateful griffin came to Asphurtzela and said: 'Tell me what thou wishest, that I may do thee a service.' Asphurtzela said: 'I wish for nought, save to be taken again into the land of light.' 'It will be difficult for me, but why should I not do this for thy sake?' said the griffin, and directed him to get food and prepare for the journey. Asphurtzela returned to the king, and asked him for provisions. When everything was ready, the griffin put Asphurtzela on her back and flew off. On the way, when the griffin cried out, Asphurtzela put food in her mouth. Just as they were about to enter the world of light, the griffin again cried aloud. Asphurtzela had no more food left, but he cut off the calf of his leg, and threw it into the griffin's mouth. This morsel was so very tasty that the griffin did not eat it, but kept it on the tip of her tongue. When they had arrived, the griffin said: 'Now farewell! leap down and go away.' Asphurtzela descended and went away, but he walked like one who is lame. The griffin said: 'What aileth thee that thou art lame?' He told her. Then the griffin took the piece of flesh she had kept on her tongue, put it in its place, made it whole, and went away. Asphurtzela went to seek his comrades. He went on and on until he came to a certain place. There he saw his two companions about to marry the beautiful maidens. He took aim with his bow and arrow, and called out: 'Were the men or the women to blame?' The youngest sister replied: 'How could it be the women's fault? It was the men's.' Asphurtzela shot his arrow and killed his two companions. Then he took the beautiful maidens with him, married the youngest, and gave the two elder to his brothers. [19] XIII THE SHEPHERD AND THE CHILD OF FORTUNE There was and there was not at all, there was a man who had a wife. They possessed great wealth, but had no child. Once the woman said to her husband: 'Come, let us place young bullocks in our churches, and at night let some one watch, perhaps God will look down upon us and give us a child.' The husband approved of this idea, and placed bullocks in five churches. Then they went into one of the churches, killed a bullock, gave it to their shepherd, and said: 'Go, take this bullock's flesh and give it to the poor; do thou remain in the church all night and watch. Listen very carefully.' The shepherd went away and gave the bullock's flesh to the poor; then he went into the church, and remained the whole night watching, but he heard not a word relating to his master's childlessness. Day dawned, and the shepherd went and told his master: 'I have watched the whole night, and have not heard a sound.' Then this man went into the second chapel. He killed the bullock there, and gave it to his shepherd, who distributed it even as he had the first. In the morning, when he went home, he brought the same answer as before. Then they went to the third and fourth chapels, but still they learnt nothing. Only the fifth chapel remained. Here also the shepherd distributed bullock's flesh to the poor, and hid himself in the church. In the middle of the night, behold there flew down the five angels of the churches, and began to talk together. They said: 'We must do something for this man. He is childless; let us give him a son.' 'Yes,' said the first angel, 'but when he reaches the age of twenty let him die and return to us.' 'No,' said the second angel, 'when the priest shall lead him into the cathedral and place a crown on his head, then he shall die.' 'When he has a wife and children, then he shall die,' said the third. 'He shall live a long time, he shall grow old, but shall be a worthless fellow,' said the fourth. 'If we are to give the man a child, let us give him something better,' said the fifth angel. 'We have spoken, now it is thy turn; what dost thou say?' answered the others. 'Then,' said the fifth angel, 'let him be endowed with immortal youth, and whatever he asks of God may it come to pass.' 'Good, good!' assented the others, and they went away each to his own place. The shepherd heard all this. At daybreak he came back to his master, who inquired of him: 'Well, didst thou hear nothing last night?' The shepherd replied: 'The five angels of the churches assembled, and they said that thou shouldst have a son at the end of a year, but it is ordained that thy shepherd shall be present at the birth.' 'Thank the Lord! If we have a son thou mayst be present,' answered the husband and wife. After this the shepherd went to his sheep, and the man and woman went in. A year passed; the shepherd delayed some time, put in his pocket a little goat, and went away. The woman was in bed, and the shepherd put her child in his pocket, and wrapped the young goat up in the bedclothes. Then the shepherd opened the bedroom door and went away. When he had gone for one or two weeks the child would not stay in his pocket any longer, and asked to be put down. The shepherd put him down, and he walked by himself. They went on and on, and at last they became hungry. The shepherd said to himself: 'Come, I will try if the prophecy of the angels be true or not,' and he said to the boy: 'Wish that God will give us bread, that we may eat.' The boy wished, and God gave them bread. They sat down and ate, but they had no water. He wished for water, and, by their side, there murmured a beautiful spring. The shepherd now believed in his heart that all his desires would be fulfilled, and said: 'Wish that in this plain a house completely furnished may arise, and that outside there may be a village over which I may rule, and that I may have such and such a princess for my wife.' The boy wished this, and everything was according to his desire. Some time passed. Once the princess asked the shepherd, saying: 'How has it happened that an illustrious princess like me has married a simple shepherd?' Her husband replied: 'Heat the spit and put it on the sole of the boy's foot to see if he is asleep. If he is, then I will tell thee all.' The child heard this conversation, and wished in his heart: 'O God! may my foot be hardened, so that I cannot feel anything.' The woman heated the spit, put it on the sole of the boy's foot, but he did not move. The shepherd thought that he was really asleep, and told his wife everything in detail. The child lay quiet and listened. He now learnt for the first time whose son he was, and how he had fallen into the hands of the shepherd. Next morning at daybreak he arose and went to seek his parents. He went on and on, and everywhere asked news of his village. He came to his father's house, and said: 'Do you want a guest?' 'Truly, child, a guest is of God!' And they led him in. Then the boy asked them: 'Have you lost anything?' The master of the house replied: 'Well, child, I have lost a shepherd, and I still owe him four years' wages.' 'I saw him just now coming to you with great wealth, and with a wife and family,' said the boy. At night, when all were asleep, the boy wished in his heart: 'O God! may the shepherd, with his house, his family, and his town, be in our courtyard to-night.' The next morning the master of the house came to the door, and was struck with surprise. 'My God!' said he, 'how was this town built in our courtyard?' His wife said: 'What art thou talking about, husband? This our courtyard, indeed! We are somewhere else.' The man replied: 'No, wife, this is our own home; that is our house, but these are certainly not the usual surroundings.' 'Well, let me look inside; if there is a boy sleeping there it must be our house.' The boy was awake, but pretended to be asleep. The man and woman went in and saw the boy sleeping there. They awoke him and said: 'Who art thou who hast appeared here? We pray thee to tell us what thou hast done that we no longer know our own house.' The boy smiled and said: 'I told you yesterday that your shepherd was coming to you with his possessions. Behold! he came yesterday, and has taken up his abode in your courtyard. Let us call this your shepherd here.' At that moment the shepherd awoke. When he jumped out of bed and saw the courtyard, he said to himself: 'Great art thou, O Lord! I was settled in my home, and now I am here!' He went in to his master, bent his knee, and said: 'Thus and thus have I done; I have done evil, and now I am in thy hands, do to me as thou wilt.' When the man and woman heard this tale they did not know what to do to show their joy. First one embraced the child, then the other. At length the boy said: 'I am in truth your son, but this man is also your child. He has done wrong, but you will forgive all, and give him his hire.' His father gave the shepherd his hire, and forgave him. But still the boy was not satisfied. He said to his parents: 'This shepherd, at least, left a goat in exchange for me; if my mother brought up the goat, he brought me up. If you wish, keep the goat and I will go with him; if, however, you keep me, you ought to give him back his goat.' 'Not only will I do that, but I will also give him half of my flocks,' said the boy's father. He divided his flocks into two parts and gave one to his shepherd, and took him into his house. The boy remained with his father and mother, and they lived happily together. XIV THE TWO THIEVES There was once a thief called the Big Thief. Now this Big Thief went into a town to steal. When he had gone some little distance he met an unknown man. 'God give thee victory! [20] Mayst thou be victorious!'1 said they one to another. 'Who art thou, and what is thy trade?' inquired the Big Thief. 'My trade is thieving, and my name is Little Thief,' said the unknown. 'I, too, am a thief, so let us join partnership.' He agreed, and they became partners. And they went on together to steal. On the way, the Big Thief said to the Little Thief: 'Now give me a proof of thy skill in thieving.' But the latter said: 'Thou art the Big Thief, thou must show me thy skill; what can I do compared with thee?' The Big Thief consented. They saw, just at that moment, a pigeon sitting on a plane tree. The Big Thief said: 'Now you shall see me pull out the tail of that pigeon on the plane tree without its knowledge.' Having said this, he went up the tree. When he had gone about half way, the Little Thief silently stole under the plane tree, climbed up, and while the Big Thief pulled out the tail of the pigeon, the Little Thief took off his companion's drawers, and promptly descended the tree. When the Big Thief came down and proudly showed the pigeon's tail, the Little Thief thrust his hand into his pocket and showed him the drawers. When the Big Thief saw this, he was struck with amazement, and said: 'Although I am famous I do not think thou art at all inferior to me.' They had tried each other's skill, and went on. On the way, the Little Thief enquired of the Big Thief: 'What shall we steal to-night?' 'Let us go to-night and break into the king's treasury,' said the Big Thief. 'Very well,' agreed his comrade, and they set out for the town. At nightfall, when the tread of people's feet had ceased, the thieves took two bags, and went to break into the king's treasury. The Little Thief said: 'Climb thou into the treasury, gather up the money, I shall fill the bags, then we can take them up, and make off.' The Big Thief would not consent. 'No,' said he; 'thou art the smaller, go inside, and I shall stay here.' He insisted until he gained his point. At last the Little Thief got in, and collected the money. The Big Thief stayed outside and filled the bags. When the two bags were full, he made a sign, the Little Thief came out of the treasury, they took the bags and went home. Next morning the king went into his treasury. He looked in and saw what had happened. Then he called his council together, and made his complaint. They planned and planned, and at last thought of the following scheme. They took a big barrel, filled it with pitch, and placed it at the entrance to the treasury. The thieves knew nothing of this. When night came again, they returned to steal. The Little Thief said: 'Yesterday I went into the treasury, to-day it is thy turn, I will watch for thee.' The Big Thief consented. He went into the treasury, and suddenly was caught fast. The Little Thief pulled hard, but his companion could not get away; nothing but his head was visible; he was up to the neck in pitch. When day dawned, the Little Thief saw that nothing could be done, so he took his dagger and cut off his comrade's head. Then he hid it in a place where no human being could possibly find a trace of it. He went home and told his late companion's wife. He warned her to be very careful, and not to go out, for if it was discovered that they were interested in the dead man, they would most certainly be seized and killed. When day dawned, they told the king: 'A thief is caught in the trap, but he has no head.' The king went himself, and saw that in truth the thief had no head, and he was amazed. How could a headless man thieve? Then he commanded them, saying: 'Take his body and put it in the market place, with sentinels to guard it. Whoever passes by and weeps at the sight of it will be guilty, because it will be a sign of pity for the thief; bring such persons to me immediately.' When the Little Thief heard this, he went home, and instructed his companion's wife how to act. 'Take good care not to go out, lest they discover thee'; and he told her what orders the king had given. The Big Thief's wife could not bear this, and entreated him to let her go, saying: 'I will stand far away and weep quietly, no one will recognise me.' 'Very well, but be careful. Take a water jug with thee as if to carry water, and when near thy husband's body, strike thy foot against a stone, break the jar, and then sit down and weep as if thou art mourning for the broken pitcher.' The woman did exactly as she was told. She took the jar on her shoulder and went for water. When she came near the place where her husband's body was lying, she struck her foot on a stone, let the jar fall, and it broke. Then she sat down by the fragments and began to weep bitterly, apparently for the pitcher, but really for her husband. When she had wailed enough she rose and went away. The sentinels were amazed: 'What a miserable woman to cry thus for a broken pitcher!' Night came on. The sentinels returned to the palace with the body of the thief, and said to the king: 'We saw no one who wept except one woman, who struck her foot against a stone and broke her water jar, and for this she cried bitterly.' The king was very angry, for he saw the trick the woman had played. He was enraged because they had not seized her and brought her to him, but had let her escape. Then the king ordered the sentinels' heads to be cut off. As this ruse had not succeeded, the king thought of another. He sent the thief's corpse outside the town, and left it there. Perhaps the right person will see it and come to steal it. Sentinels were posted, and told that if any one came to steal the corpse they should seize him and bring him. On hearing this news the Little Thief drove an ass before him into a neighbouring village. There he had some cakes baked and turkeys and fowls roasted, put them in the saddle bag, and hung it on the ass. Then he bought some of the best wine and went on his way. He came to the place where the sentinels were posted, and cried out: 'Do you not want a guest? I have come from afar, and must stay here to-night; I fear some one may steal the ass. Let us have a good supper.' The mention of supper delighted the sentinels. They sat down and began to eat. The Little Thief poured them out wine. The sentinels drank, but the thief did not drink a drop. When they had eaten well, he said to them: 'I am going to sleep. As I am sleepy, you may watch the ass and see that no one steals him, lest if he be lost I accuse you to the king.' 'Lie down and make thyself easy. This ass of thine is not so attractive that thou needst fear for him,' said the sentinels. The Little Thief lay down and pretended to go to sleep, but he kept a sharp look out. A short time afterwards the sentinels lay in a deep sleep, they slept as if they were dead. Then the Little Thief arose and lifted the body of his late companion on his back. He brought forward his ass, put the corpse on it, and turned its head towards home. He himself lay down again and fell asleep. The ass was accustomed to find his way home, he lowered his head as if meditating, went straight home and knocked against the door. The Big Thief's wife came and took down the dead body, put it on a couch and wept. When her heart was solaced by tears, she buried him in the earth under the couch. When morning came, the sentries awoke and roused their false host. The Little Thief looked round and called his ass. He saw that it was not there, and set up a fearful howl: 'I will go and accuse you to the king.' The sentinels were terrified, and completely lost their heads when they saw that the corpse was gone. They drew money from their pockets, and offered it to silence their noisy host. This was what he wanted; he had not only stolen the body but gained some money. The sentinels went to the king. When he heard their tale he was extremely irritated, and ordered their heads to be cut off. This new plan having failed, he thought of another. A street was strewed with money; sentinels were placed here and there, and ordered to seize any passer-by who gathered up the money, for he would be the thief's master and companion. The Little Thief heard this news with joy. He got a pair of boots tarred, and went out with them under his arm. When he came to the street that was strewed with money he sat down, took off his boots, and put on the newly-tarred boots. Then he walked along the street boldly, singing a song. When he had got to the end of the street, he took off the money that had stuck to his tarred boots, made a hole in the earth and poured it in. Then he walked back to the other end of the street, cleaned his boots again and buried the money. He did this the whole day, and by the evening he had picked up almost half of the money. The sentinels gathered up what was left, went to the king, and said: 'No one has taken the money, but a man was walking in the street from morning till night.' The king was enraged that they had not taken this man, and ordered the sentinels to be beheaded. Then he assembled his counsellors and asked their advice. Now the king had a hind, if they were to let this animal loose it would fall on its knees before the house of him who was guilty against the king. And the viziers said: 'Let the hind go, and it will fall on its knees in front of the house of the thief.' The king took this advice, and they let the hind loose. It raced along the streets, and fell on its knees just in front of the Little Thief's house. In the morning, when the Little Thief awoke, he looked out of his window, and saw the king's hind kneeling in front of his house. He had heard of this hind before, so, when he saw it, he knew what it meant. He went outside, seized hold of the hind and drew it in; he killed it and skinned it, then he hid the skin carefully, and kept the flesh in the house. The king was mad with rage when they sought his hind and could not find it. He assembled his viziers, and told the story of the lost hind. The viziers' resources were at an end now, they could think of no other trap for the thief. But there appeared, from no one knows where, an old woman. She approached the king and said: 'What wilt thou give me if I find the lost hind?' 'Whatever thou askest me,' said the king. 'Then give me my freedom.' 'I shall not only give thee thy freedom, but shall raise thee to the rank of princess,' replied the king. The old woman rose and went forth to seek the hind. She wandered till at last she came to the Little Thief's house. The Little Thief was not at home, and she saw the Big Thief's wife. She said: 'Daughter, if thou hast a piece of hind's flesh do not grudge it to me, it will cure a sick one of his illness.' The thief's wife did not know of the cunning of the old woman, went into her house, and brought out a piece of hind's flesh. The old woman was joyful, and did not wait. She rose and went away. When she had gone a little way, she met the Little Thief, who said: 'What is that, old dame?' 'A piece of hind's flesh, as a remedy for my trouble! The woman in that house gave it to me,' said the beldam. The Little Thief understood her; he saw through her cunning, and said: 'What is the use of this morsel of flesh? Come with me and I can give thee a whole dishful. Thou canst eat and give to thy friends; it will be of service to thee.' The old woman's head swam with pleasure. She turned back and went with the Little Thief. Whenever the deceitful old woman was enticed into the house, he drew out his dagger and cut off her head. Then he took her body, and buried it also under the couch. The king waited for news, but the old woman never came. Some time passed by, but still the old woman did not come, and the king was enraged. He assembled his counsellors, and said: 'What is the use of all this? Is there no way of trapping this thief?' The viziers said: 'This fellow is so brave, and such a clever thief, that we cannot entrap him.' Then the king rose up and said: 'Let the thief come to me. I shall not harm him, but shall give him my daughter to wife. He is so clever that I cannot take him by trickery.' When the Little Thief heard this he came to the king and said: 'I am that thief, and I am come to do your majesty's will.' The king could not break his word, so he gave him his daughter in marriage. A neighbouring monarch heard this story. Every day he wrote irritating letters to the thief's father-in-law, the king, saying: 'Are you not ashamed to have anything to do with a low thief, to marry him to your daughter, and call him son-in-law?...' The king was very much annoyed at these scornful reproaches, and at last fell ill, being able to bear them no longer. Then the king's son-in-law came to him and said: 'What is the matter? Why art thou ill?' His father-in-law told him everything, and he replied: 'Why distress thyself? Give me a few days' leave, and I shall show thee a sight. Only on such and such a day prepare a grand festival, and I shall be here.' He fixed a date, and went away. He travelled on until he came to the kingdom of the mocking monarch, and he went into a house and rested. The next day he saw a tailor and said: 'I want a robe cut out of pieces of skin; it must be all of different colours, and I want little bells put in it.' When the tailor had finished the garment, the thief gave him money and sent him away. Then he clad himself in the robe, took a glittering, naked sword in his hand, and went to the palace. The porters did not want to let him in, but the thief said: 'I am Michael Gabriel, sent from God! I am commanded to take the souls of your king and queen to Paradise, and if you trouble me I shall take your souls too, and shall send them into hell.' He moved towards one of them, and the bells began to ring. The porters' hearts were fearful, and they hid themselves. The thief went in to the king. When he saw the man he became pale. Michael Gabriel said: 'I give you a term of three days. In these three days put all your affairs in order; appoint your successor. Strip off everything, put yourselves in coffins, and set the keys on the top. In three days I shall come again, lock the coffins, and take them away with me.' When he had said this he went away, returned to the house, took off the robe of skins, and waited three days. On the third day he clothed himself as before, and went again to the palace. The king and queen had stripped off everything, and were in the coffins waiting. He called out: 'When you get to Paradise you will hear a noise, then the coffins will open, and your eyes will view a glorious scene.' He took the keys, locked both the coffins, took them on his back, and carried them out. He put them on his ass, went behind it, and called gently, 'Gee-up!' On the appointed day he came to the court of his father-in-law, who had invited the whole of his kingdom and many neighbouring princes to a great feast. The thief came, and, as he lifted the coffins off the ass, beautiful music was heard. The thief opened the coffins, and the king and queen jumped out naked and began to dance. The people saw their stupidity, and were ready to die with laughing. Then the king came, clothed them in royal robes, and said: 'Now you can go back to your own country, and rule your kingdom, but do not mock me any more.' After this the king loved his son-in-law very much, and, when he died, left him the kingdom. XV THE FOX AND THE KING'S SON There was once a king who had a son. Every one treated him badly, and chased him away. Even passers-by looked upon him with disfavour. The prince thought and thought, and at last he mounted his horse, took his bow and arrow, and departed from his father's palace. When he had gone some distance he came into a sheltered wood. He wandered about until he found a suitable nook. He built for himself a mud hut, and dwelt there. Every day the prince went out to hunt. He would shoot a stag or a roebuck, and bring it home. After he had eaten as much as he wanted, there was always enough meat left for the next day, but he never ate it the next day, as he went hunting again, and there was thus always a quantity of food left over. A fox perceived this, and every day, when the prince had gone out to the chase, he stole into the hut and ate all the food that was left; then he stole away again. Some time passed thus. Then the fox said: 'There is no bravery in this! I carry away all his meat secretly, yet there is plenty. I will show myself to him.' Once when the prince was hunting, the fox stole in, and, when his hunger was satisfied, he went about arranging everything. When the prince came home, the fox leaped out in front of him. The prince drew his bow, and was just about to shoot him, when the fox cried out: 'Do not kill me, and I will help to make thy fortune!' The prince did not kill him, and the fox attended to the horse, and led it about, until the sweat dried off its coat. They lived thus for some time. The fox lighted the fire, tidied the hut, and did all the work. But, in spite of this, there was still meat left. 'I will go and find some one who will help to eat it,' said the fox. He went out, and saw a wolf hardly able to walk from want of food. It could scarcely move from the spot where it was. The fox said: 'Come home with me, and thou shalt have plenty of everything.' The wolf followed him. They both went into the hut, where the fox told his companion: 'I will tidy the house, thou must stay here, and when the master comes in attend to his horse.' The master came, and on the saddle of his horse was slung a stag. The wolf sprang out to attend to the horse; the youth drew his bow, and was about to shoot the wolf, when the fox cried out: 'Do not kill him, he is a friend!' The prince did not kill him, but jumped down from his horse, took the stag, and went in. The wolf attended to the horse, and led him up and down, while the fox himself saw to the inside of the house; thus they lived for some time. The fox noticed that there was much meat left even now. He ran out and brought in a famished bear. The wolf was sent for grass, the bear commanded to tend the horse, while the fox arranged the house. In a little time the prince came in, and when the bear jumped out to look after his horse he drew his bow to shoot him, but the fox cried out: 'Do not kill him, he is a friend!' The youth did not kill the bear, and he tended the horse and led it about; then the wolf came in with the grass, and gave it to the horse. Some time passed. The fox saw that even yet there was meat to spare. He went out and sought until he found an eagle, which he brought home. He commanded the eagle to attend to the horse, sent the bear for grass, and the wolf for wood to burn, while he saw to household affairs. Thus each had his business to do. When the master returned, the eagle flew out to tend the horse. The prince was about to shoot him, when the fox cried out: 'Do not kill him, he is a friend!' The prince did not kill him, but thought to himself: 'What will this vile fox bring in next? I shall see all the game in the country here.' They lived thus some time. Once the fox said to his master: 'Give us leave to go away for two weeks; at the end of that time we shall return to thee.' The master gave them leave, and thought to himself: 'I do not mind if I never see you again, for I am afraid of you all.' The fox, the wolf, the bear, and the eagle went away. They saw a glade in the wood, and rested there. The fox said to his companions: 'Now, let us build a good house for our master.' They all agreed, and set to work. The wolf cut down trees, the bear cut the wood into shape, and did the joiner work, the eagle carried it, and the fox gave orders. When the wood was ready, they set to and built the house. They built so beautiful a house that the prince could not have imagined one like it, even in his dreams. Everything was finished, but there was no furniture in it. The fox arose and took his companions into a neighbouring town. They went into the bazaar, and looked at the house-furniture. Each one had his work to do again. The fox chose the goods, the wolf was ordered to break the shutters, the bear to carry the things to the door, and the eagle to take everything to the palace. They seized everything necessary for furnishing a house--domestic utensils, carpets, and vessels. They carried them to the palace, and placed them there; so now all was finished, and there was nothing more left to wish for. Two weeks had expired, so the four went home. The prince was hunting, but they went to meet him. They surrounded him, and would not let him pass. The fox cried out: 'I command thee to come with us whither we lead thee.' The prince was afraid, he did not know what it could mean, but went with them. In a little while they arrived in the glade. It was girt by a wall over which no bird could fly. They opened the gates and went inside. When the king's son saw, he was stupefied with surprise. Inside the wall was laid out a beautiful garden, with fountains playing, and there stood a magnificent palace. Then they said: 'We have made all this ready in two weeks, now live happily in it.' The prince rejoiced greatly, and gave hearty thanks to his fox. Some time passed after this. The fox said: 'I must see if I can find a good wife for my master.' He came to the prince, and again asked a fortnight's absence. Then he went away and made a sledge. He harnessed the wolf and bear to it, and said to the eagle: 'Fly up high, and keep a watch; when thou seest a beautiful princess, seize her in thy claws and carry her off.' He himself sat down and acted as coachman. Thus they travelled from place to place. In the villages, the fox played the trumpet, and the bear and the wolf leaped and danced along. Crowds of people came out to look. When they came to the capital, a maiden, fair as the sun, looked from her window, the eagle seized her in his claws, and flew off. The bear and the wolf turned round and started for home. When the people saw this, they all set off in pursuit. The fox was behind his companions, and the dogs came nearer, and almost touched his cloak, but in some way or other they all escaped, and brought the fair one to their master. The king's son could scarcely stand on his feet for joy. The princess's father was in the greatest consternation, and said: 'To him who finds and brings back my daughter will I give the half of my kingdom.' But none was able to find trace of her. At last an old woman appeared, and said to the king: 'I will find thy daughter.' She arose and went forth. At last she came to the prince's house, and asked: 'Do ye not want an attendant? I will come for small wages.' The fox, wolf, bear, and even the beautiful princess herself, said: 'We do not want thee, we shall not take thee.' But the prince did not agree with them, and engaged her as servant. The old woman served them faithfully for a long time, and did not harm them. Then one day, when the prince was asleep, the old woman wanted the princess to go out into the garden with her. She did not wish to go, but the old woman pressed her until she consented. When they came to the fountains, the old woman offered her some water. The princess refused it, but the old woman insisted. She placed a litra (large jar) full of water to her lips, and it suddenly swallowed up the princess. Then the old woman put it to her own mouth, and it swallowed her. The litra rolled away. The fox saw and pursued, but that which he sought was soon lost to sight. The fox reproached his master, but it was no use saying anything now. He asked again for a fortnight's leave, made another sledge like the former, and harnessed the bear and wolf to it. He sat up on the seat, and held tambourines in his paws. He struck them, and the wolf and bear pranced and danced along. The eagle flew up high, and looked round. All the people in the land came out to gaze at the sight. The king was angry with his beautiful daughter, and said, 'Do not go out! Do not even look out.' The eagle watched for a long time, but could not see her. At last he caught a glimpse of the princess through a little window; he struck against it, broke it, seized the princess, and flew away. He rejoined his companions, and all hastened off. They brought the princess to their master. The king collected all his army, and sent the old woman with it to the prince's palace. The fox saw them appearing in the distance like a swarm of flies. He ordered the eagle to carry stones up high in the air. When the army approached, the eagle let the stones fall on the men; the fox, the bear, and the wolf attacked them, and completely exterminated them. There escaped only one single man; they fell upon him too, gnawed one of his feet, and said: 'Go and tell thy king what has befallen his hosts.' When the king saw his man, and heard the sad end of his army, he was out of his mind with grief. He assembled all the chief priests in his kingdom, went in front of them, and they all came on bended knees. When they were near, the fox saw them, and told his master. The prince ran out to meet them, raised them all on their feet, and took them into his house. The father and son-in-law became reconciled, and lived happily together. Then the fox said to his master: 'I am getting old now, and the day of my death will soon be here, promise to bury me in a fowl-house.' The prince promised. The fox said to himself: 'Come, I will see if my master means to keep his promise,' and he stretched himself out as if he were dead. When the prince saw the corpse, he ordered it to be taken away and thrown into the earth. The fox was enraged, jumped up and cried out: 'Is this the way thou rememberest my goodness to thee? Well, since thou hast done thus, when I die you will all be cursed, and there will not remain a trace of you.' Some time after this the fox died. After his death, his word came to pass, and they were all destroyed. The wolf, the bear, and the eagle remained masters of the field. [21] XVI THE KING AND THE APPLE [22] There was and there was not at all (of God's best may it be!), there was a king. When the day of his death was drawing nigh, he called his son to him, and said: 'In the day when thou goest to hunt in the east, take this coffer, but only open it when thou art in dire distress.' The king died, and was buried in the manner he had wished. The prince fell into a state of grief, and would not go outside the door. At last the ministers of state came to the new king, and proposed to him that he should go out hunting. The king was delighted with the idea, and set out for the chase with his suite. They went eastwards, and killed a great quantity of game. On their way home, the young monarch saw a tower near the road, and wished to know what was in it. He asked one of his viziers to go and try to find out about it. He obeyed, but first said: 'I hope to return in three days, and if I do not I shall be dead.' Three days passed, and the vizier did not return. The king sent a second, a third, a fourth, but not one of them came back. Then he rose and went himself. When he arrived, he saw written over the door: 'Enter and thou wilt repent; enter not and thou wilt repent.' 'I must do one or the other,' said the king to himself, 'so I shall go in.' He opened the door and went in. Behold! there stood twelve men with drawn swords. They took his hand and led him into twelve rooms. When he was come into the twelfth, he saw a golden couch, on which was stretched a boy of eight or nine years of age. His eyes were closed, and he did not utter a word. The king was told: 'Thou mayst ask him three questions, but if he does not understand and answer all of them, thou must lose thy head.' The king became very sad, but at last remembered the coffer his father had given him. 'What greater misfortune can I have than to lose my head?' said he to himself. He took out the coffer and opened it; from it there fell out an apple, which rolled towards the couch. 'What help can this be to me?' said the king. But the apple began to speak, and told the following tale to the boy:--'A certain man was travelling with his wife and brother, when night fell, and they had no food. The woman's brother-in-law went into a neighbouring village to buy bread; on the way he met brigands, who robbed him and cut off his head. When his brother did not return, the man went to look for him; he met the same fate. The next day the unhappy woman went to seek them, and there she saw her husband and brother-in-law lying in one place with their heads cut off; around was a pool of blood. The woman sat down, tore her hair, and began to weep bitterly. At that moment there jumped out a little mouse. It began to lick the blood, but the woman took a stone, threw it at the mouse, and killed it. Then the mouse's mother came out and said: "Look at me, I can bring my child back to life, but what canst thou do for thy husband and his brother?" She pulled up an herb, applied it to the little mouse, and it was restored to life. Then they both disappeared in their hole. The woman rejoiced greatly when she saw this; she also plucked of the same herb, put the heads on the bodies, and applied it to them. Her husband and brother-in-law both came back to life, but alas! she had put the wrong heads on the bodies. Now, my sage youth! tell me, which was the woman's husband?' concluded the apple. He opened his eyes, and said: 'Certainly it was he who had the right head.' The king was very glad. 'A joiner, a tailor, and a priest were travelling together at one time,' began the apple. 'Night came on when they were in a wood; they lighted a huge fire, had their supper, and then said: "Do not let us be deprived of employment, each of us shall in turn watch, and do something in his trade." The joiner's turn came first. He cut down a tree, and out of it he fashioned a man. Then he lay down, and went to sleep, while the tailor mounted guard. When he saw the wooden man, he took off his clothes and put them on it. Last of all, the priest acted as sentinel. When he saw the man he said: "I will pray to God that He may give this man a soul." He prayed, and his wish was granted.' 'Now, my boy, canst thou tell me who made the man?' 'He who gave him the soul.' The king was pleased, and said to himself: 'That is two.' The apple again went on: 'There were a diviner, a physician, and a swift runner. The diviner said: "There is a certain prince who is ill with such and such a disease." The physician said: "I know a cure for it." "I will run with it," said the swift runner. The physician prepared the medicine, and the man ran with it. Now tell me who cured the king's son?' said the apple. 'He who made the medicine,' replied the boy. When he had given the three answers, the apple rolled back into the casket, and the king put it in his pocket. The boy arose, embraced the king, and kissed him: 'Many men have been here, but I have not been able to speak before: now tell me what thou wishest, and I will do it.' The king asked that his viziers might be restored to life, and they all went away with rich presents. PART II MINGRELIAN TALES [23] I THE THREE PRECEPTS There was, there was, there was, there was, and nothing there was. [24] In a certain country, a certain realm, a certain region, a certain village, there was an orphan so poor, so poor, that 'tween heaven and earth nought could be found that was his. Being in such a plight to-day, to-morrow, the day after to-morrow, this week, next week, this month, next month, sad and thoughtful he became; he thought, he thought, he thought, and at last made up his mind: 'I will arise and try my luck,' quoth he. He rose betimes in the morning, called on the name of God, turned himself to the right hand, [25] and set forth from the house. He went, he went, he went, beyond the sky, across the earth, across the forest, across the field, across the plain, over the mountains, he went as far as he could, and when he looked he saw a man of graceful mien coming towards him. The youth quickened his step and they met. 'I wish thee victory, good youth!' [26] said the stranger, 'whither goest thou?' 'May God send thee victory, my master,' answered the young man, 'I go to seek a livelihood.' 'Be my servant for three years, and I shall teach thee three things that will afterwards be helpful,' said this clever man to the youth. The youth agreed, and went away with him. At the end of a year's service, the clever man said to the youth: 'Whatever thou seest outside thy yard, throw it into the yard.' When the second year had passed, he again spoke to the youth, and said: 'Lend nothing to anybody unless thou art much pressed to do so.' The third year came to an end, and it was time for the young man to depart; the clever man called him and said: 'Tell not thy secret to a woman.' Then he bade him farewell, blessed him, and sent him home. The youth set out: he went, he went, he went by day, he went by night, over land, over water, and when he reached home he began to establish himself, he made a fence round his yard and, as he had been instructed, threw into the yard all he found outside the yard. One morning he went out and found on the road a red snake; he remembered the instruction of the clever man and threw the snake into the yard. A week later, the young man noticed that on the place where he had thrown the snake, it had laid a multitude of precious stones. [27] It is no wonder that the youth was greatly pleased at this. He gathered up the snake and the precious stones in the skirt of his garment, and put the snake in a nest in his own house. Every day the snake laid him a precious stone. The youth became wealthy: he built himself a fine house, took a wife, and lived like a lord. Still the snake went on laying precious stones, the youth became richer and richer, and gave himself up to gladness. One day his wife said to him: 'Young man! who has made thee so fabulously rich, for thou wast formerly poorer than any one on earth.' 'Who? God gave me wealth,' said the husband, following the clever man's advice, not revealing his secret. But the woman gave him no peace; day and night she always asked the same thing: 'How didst thou become wealthy?--thou must tell me, thou must.' The youth had no way of escape, she wearied him out, and at last made him tell her all about the snake. Since there was nothing else to be done, the young man took his wife and showed her the snake that laid precious stones. After this, it happened that the snake ceased to lay precious stones; the young man's wealth began to diminish, and nothing was added to it. When he was in this state, a certain man came and asked him for the loan of a knife. Of course, being utterly cast down with grief and sorrow, he remembered not the words the clever man had spoken to him, and lent the knife. May it happen to thine enemy as it happened to him! It happened that this wretched man was a thief. When he had got the knife he went and broke into a house to steal; there he thrust the knife into the belly of a sleeping man, slew him, and left the knife in the dead man's body, then pillaged the house. Afterwards an enquiry was made into the matter. They found the knife in the man who had been killed and robbed, and it turned out to be the knife of the young man. Of course he was taken and bound, all his goods were seized, and he was treated as a thief ought to be treated. Thus did it happen to the wretched youth who disobeyed the instructions of the clever man. Yester eve I was there, This evening I am here.... Three apples, [28] three pomegranates, May God send thee, Ripe in thy hands. The tale, the tale is ended.... Thou hast eaten maize-bread with ashes, [29] Thou hast drunk bad, stale wine, And eaten a rotten walnut. [30] II KAZHA-NDII There was once a king who had three sons and three daughters. When the day of his death was come, he called all his children, and said to his sons: 'Hearken to my will, and see that ye fulfil it. When I die, let each of you watch my tomb for one week, give these maidens to the suitors who ask for their hands.' After he had said farewell, the king died. He was buried, and on the first night the eldest brother went to guard the grave. But in a short time something began to approach with a mighty noise, and when it came near, it was so strong that it drove the prince out of the enclosure. From a distance, the prince saw how the being that had come with noise went to the king's grave, dug up the corpse, and wept over it till morning; when morning came, it buried the corpse in the earth again, and went away. When the prince reached home, he was ashamed to say anything about what had happened. At that time, both the elder brothers set out for the chase; the youngest brother was left at home, he heard a voice and looked round. It turned out to be a suitor for the hand of his sister. He took and gave him the eldest sister. Soon after, he again heard a voice. The prince looked round--another suitor had come. The absence of his brothers somewhat disturbed him, but, according to his father's will, he married his second sister also. A little later, a third voice was heard, and to him he gave his third sister. In the evening, when the two elder brothers came home, they did not see their sisters; they asked the youngest, and he told them what had happened. They were not pleased, and sent him out to feed the sheep. That night the middle brother went to guard the king's grave; the same thing happened to him as to his elder brother, but he too was silent on the subject. When he reached home, the youngest brother began to entreat his elder brothers, saying: 'Be just, let me also watch my father's grave.' But they were angry, and answered: 'Get thee gone, how couldst thou guard the grave when we are not able to do it!' But afterwards they said one to the other: 'Let us allow him to go.' So the youth went, came to the tomb of his father, lighted a candle, and, as soon as he sat down, an uproar began, but he was not affrighted. At the approach of the monster an earthquake began, but the youth was not afraid, he swung his sword round his head, and cleft the monster in twain, but the monster's blood put out the candle. Looking round, the youth saw, some way off, the blaze of a fire. He arose and went thither. On his way he said to the cock: 'Crow not, so that dawn break not till I come back again, or I shall slay thee.' When he came near, he met with a vast river like a sea. When he had swum over and reached the other side, the youth saw that the fire was burning among the demis, [31] who were sitting round it--so he stopped and bethought himself seriously; but, at last, he took a leap, jumped into the middle of them, seized a burning brand, and ran away. The burning cinders and ashes were showered over the demis, but they did not see the youth. The youth went back, but as he crossed the river the burning log went out. He was angry at this, but what could he do? He went back again, and when he threw himself upon the fire the demis caught him, and asked what he wanted. He told them. The demis said to him: 'In yonder castle there dwell three maidens unseen by the sun, [32] thou must bring them to us or we will not let thee go.' The youth asked them: 'Is there a ladder up to the castle?' They answered: 'Yes.' 'Then let us go,' said he. He took all the demis with him, and said: 'I shall climb up first, then you must come one by one.' They agreed. The youth went up, one demi came after him. As soon as the first demi reached the top, the youth brandished his sword, slew him, and laid down his body. When the second came up, he did likewise unto him. Thus he slew them all, one by one, and left their bodies there. Then he went in, saluted the maidens, and gave each of them a ring--to the youngest for himself, to the others for his brothers. The youth went out, thrust his sword into a stone, and left it there, took fire with him, and went back. When he had crossed the river, he cried to the cock: 'Now crow!' Then he went to his father's grave. Till dawn he stayed there, and then he went home. The beautiful maidens told the king what had happened. The king ordered all his subjects to be summoned, and asked: 'Who is able to draw this sword out of the stone?' But nobody could draw it out. Then the king made a proclamation: 'To him that can draw out this sword I will give my daughter.' The princes, as soon as they heard of this, decided to go thither. When they were making ready for the journey, the youngest asked his brothers to take him too. At last they consented to take him. When they arrived, they found a great uproar: people from all parts of the world were, in turn, laying hold of the sword, but could not draw it out. Last of all, the youngest brother came up, pulled out his sword, put it in the scabbard, and said to the king: 'All three daughters are ours now, for I have two brothers.' He called his brothers, and they took the three maidens to wife. Great merry-making began. The king gave to the wife of the youngest prince a flying carpet, which carried away any one who sat on it. The princess sat on it, and followed her suite. The groomsmen and youths set out with them. When they had gone half way, a monster swooped down on the princess and carried her off. A sad uproar began, but what was to be done? The young prince said to his brothers: 'Farewell! I must perish with her,' and went away. He went, he went, he went, he went as far as he could, and in a field he found a spring, beside which he lay down. There came a boy with a water jug. The prince asked: 'Whose village is this?' The boy replied: 'Here dwell three brother demis, all married to daughters of one king.' When the youth heard this he was glad, for it turned out that his sisters dwelt here. When he came near, the sisters went out to meet him. It is easy to imagine how glad they were to see him. When it was dark, the three demis returned. One of the sisters went out to meet them, and said: 'My brother is come.' The demis answered: 'If the elder brothers are come, we can make roast meat of them, if it be the youngest, we shall know how to do him honour.' The demis went in, and kissed the youth for joy at meeting him. As they were all sitting round the hearth, the demis began to sigh deeply. The youth asked them: 'Why do you sigh?' 'Why?--we are sorry for that poor damsel! Kazha-Ndii-Kerkun (i.e. the swift, flint-like demi) was carrying through the air a golden-haired woman; we pursued, but only succeeded in pulling off a lock of the woman's hair.' They showed the hair to the youth. As soon as he saw it he fainted, crying: 'Ah! woe is me! woe is me!' The demis asked him what was wrong. He told them all. As soon as day dawned, the youth arose, and made ready to depart. The demis were very sorry at this, but what could they do? They gave him a horse and a little dog. The youth set out, and came to the house of Kazha-Ndii; but Kazha-Ndii was not at home. He dismounted, and went in to the princess; when they saw each other, their joy was so great that they fell to the ground. The princess said to him: 'O youth, why hast thou sought thy doom? Against Kazha-Ndii thou canst do nothing.' But the young man would not hearken, and lifted her on to his horse. As soon as they reached the gate, it creaked so loudly that a star fell from heaven. The door cried: 'Kazha-Ndii-Kerkun, where art thou? they have carried off thy wife.' Kazha-Ndii heard this, and pursued them. When he was overtaking them, Kazha-Ndii's horse neighed so loudly that it stopped the princess's horse. The princess said to him: 'O youth, did I not tell thee how it would be? Save thyself at least.' Then Kazha-Ndii rode up, cut the youth into pieces, and carried his wife back. The little dog came up, gathered the scattered fragments of the young man's body, put them in a bag, tied it to the saddle, mounted the horse, and took the body to the demis. When the demis saw it they wept greatly, but their youngest brother blew the soul back into the pieces, and raised the youth to life. The prince arose, and again made ready to depart; the youngest demi said to him: 'Here is my three-legged horse, [33] take him with thee; if he do not help thee there is no help to hope for.' The youth mounted the horse, came again to his princess, took her and put her on the horse. When he was riding out of the gate it creaked more loudly than before. Kazha-Ndii heard it and pursued them. As he was overtaking them, Kazha-Ndii's horse neighed, and the youth's horse slackened its speed. The young prince said to his horse: 'Why doest thou this?' 'What can I do? If I had a fourth leg I might be victorious.' When Kazha-Ndii came near, the three-legged horse neighed so loudly that it stopped Kazha-Ndii's horse. Then the youth came up to him, brandished his sword, cut Kazha-Ndii into halves, put the princess on his horse, and they rode merrily away. They visited the demis and then went home. III THE STORY OF GERIA, THE POOR MAN'S SON There was once a poor married man who had only one son; but this son was very handsome and strong, and his name was Geria. [34] Once the youth went out to hunt, and when he was coming home in the evening he met a woman with a jar going to the spring for water; he aimed an arrow at her, and broke the jar. The woman turned to him and said: 'If thou art so warlike, instead of breaking my pot why dost thou not go and fetch the only sister of the twelve demis that dwell beyond the twelve mountains?' When he heard this, the youth's heart began to beat wildly for eagerness to see the maiden. He went home and said to his parents: 'Get ready food to last me a year, and if I do not come back in that time set out to seek for me.' His parents would not consent, but said: 'We have no child but thee, wilt thou go away from us and perish?' They wept with one accord, but Geria heeded them not. So they got him provisions. They bade him farewell with sobs. Such wailing was there that the parting was known throughout the country side, yea, even to sun and moon, to heaven and earth, to the sea and the sands thereof. At last they blessed their son and let him go. He took with him a little dog, whose name was Mathicochi. [35] When they took leave one of another, they embraced, they kissed, and the youth sped on his way. He went, he went, he went, he went as much as he could--week and week, week and fortnight, a year and three months, [36]--he went over six mountains. When he had crossed these six mountains everything round about him began to reel: trees and stones fell down and clattered into the valleys, but Geria was not hurt by them. Then, from beneath, there came to him a voice, saying: 'What kind of man art thou to stand thus against me. Who can resist me but Geria, the poor man's son.' ''Tis I--Geria, the poor man's son.' When she heard this, the Rokapi [37] went out to meet him, bowed herself, did great honour to him, and said: 'Whither wilt thou go?' The youth told her all. The Rokapi was moved with sorrow. Geria asked her: 'Why dost thou grieve?'--'For that I have seen many go thither, but I have seen none come back.' But Geria heeded her not, and went on his way. He went, he went, he went more than he could, and when he had crossed the other six mountains a still greater earthquake began. It turned out that this region belonged to the eldest sister of the Rokapis; but Geria showed no sign of fear. The Rokapi cried to him: 'What manner of man art thou to resist my witchcraft? Art thou Geria, the poor man's son?' He cried out to her: 'I am he.' The Rokapi at once went out to meet him, bowed herself, treated him with respect, and asked him: 'Whither art thou going?' Geria told her his plan, and this Rokapi too was distressed. Geria asked her why she grieved. She answered: 'Because I have seen many on their way thither, but I have never seen one come back; albeit, I will do thee one service, I give thee my three-legged horse.' She called the horse, and said to him: 'As long as Geria lives serve him faithfully.' Geria bade her farewell, mounted the horse, and rode away with his little dog Mathicochi. He rode out into a great meadow, and came near the abode of the demis. When he looked upon the mead his heart was glad, and his eyes filled with tears, he bethought him of his home and its beautiful fields, he uttered a blessing to God the merciful. Then he urged his horse onward, at such speed that clouds of dust rose behind him. The youth said to himself: 'Lo, I am now in the unknown land!' Up he rode to the demis' gate, leaped from his horse, and tied it there. He walked away a little, and then cried: 'Methinks I have not fastened my horse securely!' Back he went, tore up an oak by the roots, planted it with its branches downwards in the earth, and firmly tied his horse to it. Then the horse said: 'If thou hadst not done this I should have fled home, but now do as I tell thee, and all will be well. The demis are indoors; go to the meadow, there thou wilt find a kettle, overturn it. Then betake thyself to the damsel, and get her to plight her troth to thee.' Geria went, kicked the kettle, turned it over three times, and left it upside down, then he went to the maiden, broke all the locks, and came to the room where she was. She was astonished, but the youth's bravery pleased her, and, to make a long story short, she promised to marry him. The youth went out merrily to the place where he had left his horse. There he quietly spent the night, and next morning the horse said: 'The demis have now gone out to the meadow; when they saw the kettle turned over they marvelled, for it usually takes all the twelve demis to turn over that kettle, and they said one to another: "Whatever we are commanded by him that turned over the kettle that must we do,"--now it is time for thee to go thither.' Geria went to the meadow. As soon as the demis saw him, they all arose hastily, went to meet him, bowed themselves, and said: 'What dost thou ask of us?' He answered: 'You must give me your sister to wife.' The demis said: 'We give her to thee, but the Black King will not let thee take her.' Geria answered: 'I fear no man,' so (not to lengthen unduly a long story) they made ready a banquet. While the feast was still going on, in the morning, Geria looked out of the door, and saw a host of men in black apparel, who had been sent by the Black King. Geria mounted his horse, dashed into the midst and defeated them all; three only did he save alive, as messengers, and sent them to say to the Black King: ''Tis I that have done this, Geria, the poor man's son.' The King was very wroth, and sent almost all his army against him. When Geria saw them, he bethought himself a little, but the horse said to him: 'Youth! this is nothing, look for still worse.' Geria struck the horse with his whip, attacked the host, and slew all but one; him he sent to bear the news. Upon this, the king went out of himself with rage: he summoned his devoted and loyal slave to whom he was wont to apply in all his difficulties, by name Qvamuritz Khami; [38] to him he committed all that was left of the army, and sent him out. Geria arose and saw a sight, such a sight as I wish thine enemy may see. It pleased him not to see Qvamuritz Khami; but what could be done? The horse said to him: 'Youth! yonder is he of whom I spake.' Geria crossed himself, gave thanks to God, bade his wife farewell, for he thought to die, and went out. First of all he slew the army, and then he began a single combat with Qvamuritz Khami. Mounted they fought with maces, but the battle was not to the strong, for Qvamuritz Khami's soul was safe in other hands--how could he be killed? Qvamuritz Khami cried: 'O young man! thus shouldst thou shoot!' and slew him. When Geria was dead, the victor slaughtered all the demis, took Geria's wife, put her on her husband's horse, and carried her off to his master. But she said to the king: 'I am the widow of such a man that I will not belong to a man like thee; either do battle with me, and let the conqueror have his will, or give me leave to wear mourning for three months.' The king feared to fight with her, for she was of the demi race, so he gave her a respite of three months. When Geria was killed, his head rolled one way and his body another; his faithful dog Mathicochi went and put the two pieces together, and lay down to guard them. While all these things had been happening, a year had passed, and when Geria's parents saw that he did not return, they set out to seek him. When they came to a narrow road, they saw that several snakes had met and were fighting, and all fell dead; then two great snakes crawled out, threw themselves into the river, swam out again and began to crawl over the dead snakes in various directions. They were all restored to life. Geria's parents wondered at the sight, and said one to the other: 'Let us take a little of this water.' They took a thimblefull of it. When they approached, the little dog, Mathicochi, saw them, and ran to meet them; sadly he took them to the dead body. When the unhappy parents saw Geria dead, they both fell to the ground and sobbed bitterly; then they remembered that the mother of the unfortunate youth had the wonderful water with her. As soon as they sprinkled Geria with it he came to life, and said: 'Woe is me! what a long time I have slept!' When he saw his parents, he was glad, but, remembering all that had befallen him, he again grew sad, and bade his parents farewell once more. They wept much, but, putting their trust in God, armed themselves with patience. Geria set out for the land of the Black King, and when he came near, went into a great forest; as he entered, he heard a very great noise. He stopped, and there, on the road, he saw some one coming along, destroying all the forest as he went, tree fell on tree; he looked steadily, and saw a great boar rushing straight towards him; he threw himself on it, lifted it, and cast it three shoulders' lengths [39] away from him; but they wrestled again, they wrestled, they wrestled, three whole days they wrestled. At last the youth was victorious, and tore the wild boar into halves. From the lacerated boar there leaped out a wild goat. When the youth killed the wild goat, there fell from it a little box; when he broke the box, three swallows flew from it,--two of them he killed, the third he caught and kept. At that time Qvamuritz Khami fell ill, the agony of death came upon him, for it turned out that this swallow was his soul. Geria killed the swallow, and Qvamuritz Khami died. [40] After this, Geria went into the king's palace, and slew all therein excepting his wife. Her he took to his parents, whose patience and grief were exchanged for great joy. They all went home together. IV THE PRINCE WHO BEFRIENDED THE BEASTS There was a king, and he had three sons. Once he fell ill, and became blind in both eyes. He sent his sons for a surgeon. All the surgeons agreed that there was a fish of a rare kind by the help of which the king might be cured. [41] They made a sketch of the fish, and left it with the sick monarch. The king commanded his eldest son to go and catch that fish in the sea. A hundred men with their nets were lost in the sea, but nought could they find like the fish they sought. The eldest son came home to his father and said: 'I have found nothing.' This displeased the king, but what could he do? Then the second son set out, taking with him a hundred men also, but all his men were lost too, and he brought back nothing. After this, the youngest brother went. He had recourse to cunning; he took with him a hundred kilas [42] of flour and one man. He came to the sea, and every day he strewed flour in the water, near the shore, until all the flour was used up; the fishes grew fat on the flour, and said: 'Let us do a service to this youth since he has enabled us to grow fat'; so, as soon as the youth threw a net into the sea, he at once drew out the rare fish he sought. He wrapped it up in the skirt of his robe, and went his way. As he rode along, some distance from his companion, he heard a voice that said: 'O youth, I am dying!' But on looking round he saw no man, and continued his journey. After a short time, he again heard the same words. He looked round more carefully, but saw nothing. Then he glanced at the skirt of his robe, and saw that the fish had its mouth open, and was dying. The youth said to it: 'What dost thou want?' The fish answered: 'It will be better for thee if thou wilt let me go, some day I shall be of use to thee.' The youth took it and threw it into the water, saying to his comrade: 'I hope thou wilt not betray me.' When he reached home, he told his father that he had been unsuccessful. Some time passed. Once the prince quarrelled with his comrade, and the latter ran off and told the king how his son had deceived him. When the king heard this, he ordered his son to be taken away and killed. He was taken out, but when they were about to kill him, the youth entreated them, saying: 'What doth it profit you if you slay me? If you let me go, 'twill be a good deed, and I shall flee to foreign lands.' The executioners took pity on him, and set him free; he thanked them, and departed. He went, he went, he went, he went farther than anybody ever went--he came to a great forest. As he went through the forest, he saw a deer running, in a great state of alarm. The youth stopped, and fixed his gaze on it; then the deer came up and fell on its face before him. The youth asked: 'What ails thee?' 'The prince pursues me, and on thee depends my safety.' The youth took the deer with him and went on. A huntsman met him, and asked: 'Whither art thou leading the deer?' The youth replied: 'One king has sent it as a gift to another king, and, lo! I am taking it.' The youth thus saved the deer from death, and the deer said: 'A time will come when I shall save thy life.' The youth went on his way: he went, he went, he went, so far he went, good sir, that the 'three day colt' (of fable) could not go so far. He looked, and, lo! a frightened eagle perched on his shoulder, and said: 'Youth, on thee depends my safety!' The youth protected it also from its pursuer. Then the eagle said to him: 'Some day I shall do thee a service.' The youth went on: he went through the forest, he went, he went, he went, he went farther than he could, he went a week, two weeks, a year and three months. Then he heard some fearful rumbling, roaring, thunder and lightning--something was coming through the forest, breaking down all the trees. A great jackal appeared, and ran up to the youth, saying: 'If thou wilt thou canst protect me; the prince is pursuing me with all his army.' The youth saved the jackal, as he had saved the other animals. Then the jackal said: 'Some day I shall help thee.' The youth went on his way, and, when he was out of the wood, came to a town. In this town he found a castle of crystal, in the courtyard of which he saw a great number of young men, some dying and some dead. He asked the meaning of this, and was told: 'The king of this land has a daughter, a maiden queen; she has made a proclamation that she will wed him that can hide himself from her; but no man can hide himself from her, and all these men has she slain, for he that cannot hide himself from her is cast down from the top of the castle.' When the youth heard this, he at once arose, and went to the maiden. They bowed themselves each to the other. The maiden asked him: 'Wherefore art thou come hither?' The youth answered: 'I come for that which others have come for.' She immediately called her viziers together, and they wrote out the usual contract. The youth went out from the castle, came to the seashore, sat down, and was soon buried in thought. Just then, something made a great splash in the sea, came and swallowed the youth, carried him into the Red Sea, there they were hidden in the depths of the sea, near the shore. The youth remained there all that night. When the maiden arose next morning she brought her mirror and looked in it, but she found nothing in the sky, she looked on the dry land, and found nothing there, she looked at the sea--and then she saw the youth in the belly of the fish, which was hiding in the deep waters. After a short time, the fish threw up the youth on the place where it had found him. He went merrily to the maiden. She asked: 'Well, then, didst thou hide thyself?' 'Yes, I hid myself.' But the maiden told him where he had been, and how he got there, and added: 'This time I forgive thee, for the cleverness thou hast shown.' The youth set out again, and sat down in a field. Then something fell upon him, and took him up into the air, lifted him up into the sky, and covered him with its wing. When the maiden arose next morning, she looked in her mirror, she gazed at the mountain, she gazed at the earth, but she found nothing, she looked at the sky, and there she saw how the eagle was covering the youth. The eagle carried the youth down, and put him on the ground. He was joyful, thinking that the maiden could not have seen him; but when he came to her she told him all. Then he fell into deep melancholy, but the maiden, being struck with wonder at his cunning in hiding himself, told him that she again forgave him. He went out again, and, as he was walking in the field, the deer came to him and said: 'Mount on my back.' He mounted, and the deer carried him away, away, away over all the mountains that were there, and put him in a lair. When the maiden arose next morning, she found him, and when he came back to her she said: 'Young man, it seems that thou hast many friends, but thou canst not hide thyself from me; yet this day also I forgive thee.' The youth went sadly away; he had lost confidence. When he sat down in the field, an earthquake began, the town shook, lightning flashed, thunder rolled, and when a thunderbolt had fallen, there leapt out from it his friend the gigantic jackal, and said to him: 'Fear not, O youth!' The jackal had recourse to its wonted cunning, it began to scrape at the earth: it dug, it dug, it dug, and burrowed right up to the place where the maiden dwelt, and then it said to the youth: 'Stay thou here, she will look at the sky, the mountain, the sea, and when she cannot find thee she will break her mirror; when thou hearest this, then strike thy head through the ground and come out.' This advice, of course, pleased the youth. When the maiden arose in the morning, she looked at the sea, she found him not, she looked at the mountain, she looked at the sky, and still she could not see him, so she broke her mirror. Then the youth pushed his head through the floor, bowed, and said to the maiden: 'Thou art mine and I am thine!' They summoned the viziers, sent the news to the king, and a great feast began. V THE CUNNING OLD MAN AND THE DEMI There was once an old man. He might have worked but he was lazy. His children went out to the fields, but this old man sat by the fire, and if they did not show him great respect, he kept them out of the house. His daughters-in-law quarrelled with him, and ended by turning him out of the house. He begged of his eldest daughter-in-law, saying: 'Give me a jar of flour, an egg, [43] and an awl, then I shall go away.' She gave him these things. The old man went on day and night, and came to the bank of a stream; he looked over, and saw on the other side a demi, to whom he cried: 'Carry me across this river.' The demi answered: 'I shall not carry thee, but thou shalt carry me across, or I shall turn thee into dust.' The demi seized a stone, struck it on the rocky bank, and turned the great stone into powder. The old man also took his jar of flour, struck it on the rock, and dust arose. The demi was astonished, and said: 'How has he turned this stone into powder?' The demi took another stone, squeezed it in his hand, and said: 'I shall crush thee like this stone.' Then the old man took out the egg, squeezed it, and when the moisture began to ooze out, the demi was alarmed: he came over the stream, took the old man on his shoulder, and carried him across. In the middle of the stream, the demi said to the old man: 'How light thou art!' The old man answered: 'I am holding on to the sky with one hand, if I let go, thou wouldst fall under my weight.' The demi said: 'Just leave go for a moment.' The old man took out the awl, and stuck it in the demi's neck. The demi cried: 'Lay hold of the sky again!' The old man put the awl in his pocket. When they had reached the other side, the demi said to the old man: 'I shall drive in game, and thou canst meet it here.' So the demi went and drove in the game. The old man was afraid of wild beasts, and hid himself in the forest, where he found a dead red-breast. [44] When the demi returned, he asked: 'What hast thou done with the game?' The old man replied: 'Thou didst not drive the game properly, or how could any beast that walks on earth escape from me, that could catch this bird on the wing?' The demi went and killed two deer, two wild goats, two boars, two hares; some he boiled, some he roasted, he made ready two measures (kilas of 36 to 40 pounds) of millet, two cocas (a coca=25 bottles) of wine, and said: 'Let us sit down and eat.' The old man said: 'Make me a bridge over this river, there will I sup.' The demi built him a little bridge, on which he seated himself. The demi gave him one deer, one wild goat, one boar, one hare, one kila of millet, one coca of wine, and then sat down near him in the field. The demi ate, but the old man threw the food into the river. The demi thought the old man was eating everything, and was afraid, thinking: 'It would seem that he can eat more than I can.' Lower down the stream, wolves caught and ate the meat the old man threw away. The old man asked for another deer. The demi brought it, and the old man threw it in the water. The demi did not know this. The old man said: 'I have had a snack this evening.' Next day, the demi invited the old man to his house. They went there. The demi went out alone to hunt. He met a wolf and a jackal, and said to them: 'Come and hunt with me. To my house there has come a guest who can eat ten deer and wild goats; yesterday evening we had two deer, but they were a mere snack to him.' The wolf and the jackal said to the demi: 'Thy guest did not eat one of them, he threw everything into the river, we caught it and ate it, the old man ate nothing.' The demi said to the wolf and the jackal: 'Then let us go and expose this old man's fraud.' There went with the demi nine wolves and jackals, to give evidence against the old man. The old man looked out, and saw the demi coming along in front, with the wolves and jackals behind him. The old man cried to the demi: 'Dost thou not owe me more than ten wolves and jackals?' The wolves and jackals exchanged glances, and said: 'It would seem that this demi has betrayed us.' They threw themselves on the demi and turned him into dust. [45] VI SANARTIA There was once a king who reached old age without having a son. When he was very old, his wife at last bore him a son. The child was called Sanartia (i.e. desired, longed for); he grew up, and became very good and very clever, so that he understood everything that took place among earthly beings, wherever they were; but he did not obey his mother. She therefore hated him, and said to the king, her husband: 'Since this boy will not obey his mother in anything, take him and throw him into the great deep sea.' The king was much distressed, but he did as his wife asked. The youth guessed what his parents were talking about, but he showed no resistance. After this, his father said: 'Let us go and look at the town.' Then the youth said: 'Papa, give me a little money.' His father gave him money, and they went to see the town. When they arrived, the boy bought a little axe, knives, needle, thread, flint and tinder. When they were on their way home, they came near the sea; the boy pulled up an oak tree, and carried it on his shoulder. The father was the first to see the sea, and when they were on the shore he said to his son: 'Come hither, and see what a big fish I shall show thee.' When the son came up to look, his father cast him into the great sea, together with the tree he carried. A fish swallowed the youth; his father turned and went home. In the sea, the youth kindled a fire in the fish's belly, cut caviar out of it, roasted and ate it. On the caviar from this fish the youth lived thirty years, in the belly of that fish. Then, his firewood, flint and tinder being well-nigh exhausted, he made a very big fire. When the fish felt the heat, it leaped up and fell on the dry land. The youth said: 'I will cut open the fish's belly, and see--if it is in the water, I shall sew it up again, if it is ashore, I shall make a hole and get out.' He cut a little, and saw that it was on land. Then he cut a large opening, came out of the fish, made a fire, cut flesh from the fish, roasted it, and ate it. Just then, there passed a prince, on his way to marry a maiden, and he saw the other prince coming out of the fish. The prince who was going to seek his bride, sent a man to the youth to ask him to make way, for he was sitting in the road, and there was no other road for horsemen. But Sanartia would not move. Then the prince himself rode up, and asked: 'Who art thou?' Sanartia told him the name of the king, his father. Then the prince invited him, saying: 'I go to marry a wife; ride with me.' Sanartia agreed, and they went together to the appointed place. When they came near, they sent on a man to the king, who was master of the country, asking him to give his daughter in marriage to the prince. The king agreed, and sent to say: 'If the prince succeeds in performing two exploits, I shall fulfil his wish; but to do these deeds is both hard and perilous: the princess throws a great lump of lead as far as a gun will carry a bullet, the suitor must throw it back again to the place where the princess is standing.' The suitor for the maiden's hand sent and said: 'I will do this.' He went and stood in the place the maiden pointed out to him. She threw a piece of lead which fell at the place where the prince stood; he was not only unable to throw the lead, but could not even lift it from the ground; then his comrade, the other prince, Sanartia, took up the lead and threw it for him. The piece of lead went much farther than the maiden had thrown it. This exploit having been performed, the prince had another to do: mistaking Sanartia for the suitor, they took him to a wilderness where there was a castle, and in it dwelt Ocho-Kochi. [46] They opened the door of the castle, and let in the prince, saying: 'This Ocho-Kochi will kill the young man.' He spent that night in the castle. When he was preparing to sleep, Ocho-Kochi came to him and wished to kill him, but Sanartia was very strong, he seized Ocho-Kochi, threw him on the ground, and beat him with all his might. When he had thrashed him soundly, he said to him: 'Go and stand at the gate as watchman.' So he went and watched till dawn. In the morning, the king, the maiden's father, sent his vizier, saying: 'Find out what the prince and Ocho-Kochi are doing.' When the vizier came to the door, Ocho-Kochi called out from the inside: 'Master sleeps, wake him not, or he will beat me.' The vizier made no reply to Ocho-Kochi, but went back and told the king what he had heard. The king was amazed, he set out for the castle, and said to Ocho-Kochi: 'Open the door to me.' But Ocho-Kochi replied: 'Master will kill me.' Just then, Sanartia awoke, and said to Ocho-Kochi: 'Open the door for him.' He immediately opened the door, and let in the king. Then the king and Sanartia went away together. The king wished to marry him to his daughter, but Sanartia went away secretly; he dressed the prince, his companion, in his clothes, and sent him in his place to the king; as soon as he arrived he was wedded to the princess. Afterwards Sanartia visited him as a friend. If they had known that Sanartia had performed these exploits they would not have given the princess to the other prince. But a handmaiden at the court found out the secret somehow, that Sanartia had done the deeds, and the princess's husband had done nothing. One evening the handmaiden told the princess how Sanartia had cheated her and married her to another man; she was angry, and that same night, after Sanartia had lain down to sleep, she went and cut off his leg at the knee. Sanartia did not die of the wound, but went away to another land, and became friendly with a one-handed man, and they lived together in the house of the latter. Afterwards they built a house in common, and moved into it. Sanartia took a maiden, and kept her with him as nurse. [47] The two friends went out to hunt, and stayed in the forest all night. At home there was nobody but the maiden. Meantime there came a demi, who sucked the maiden's breast and then went away. When Sanartia and his friend came home, the girl told them what had happened. Sanartia left his friend and the girl at home, and said to them: 'If the demi comes, take him and keep him till I come back.' The demi came, but the man was afraid to lay hold of him; and the demi went away again. As soon as Sanartia came in, he asked his friend and his nurse: 'What did you do?' They answered: 'The demi came, but we could not take him, and he went away again.' Next day Sanartia stayed at home, and sent his friend to hunt. The demi came that night also, but as soon as Sanartia saw him he met him at the door, and when the demi came in, Sanartia seized him and threw him to the ground, then he told the nurse to bring a rope, with which he bound him tightly. He took out his dagger, and was about to cut him in pieces, but the demi entreated him, saying: 'Slay me not, and I will heal thee of all infirmities.' Sanartia hearkened to the demi's prayers, and said: 'If thou wilt restore my leg which was cut off I will let thee go, otherwise I slay thee.' The demi pledged his word to heal him, and led him to a great river, saying: 'Put thy leg therein and it will be sound.' But Sanartia did not yet believe the demi, so he ordered him to bring a dry stick, and said: 'Put this stick in the water, and if it becomes green and bears leaves then will I put in my leg, otherwise I will not.' The stick was put in the water, but it came out as dry as before. Then Sanartia was angry, and wished to kill the demi, but again he entreated, saying: 'There is still another healing stream.' So he took him to the other stream, and as soon as Sanartia put in his leg it was made whole and sound like the other leg. After this, he did not kill the demi, but let him go free; he made the demi heal his one-handed friend, whom he wedded to his nurse. He left them there, and set out for his father's house. But when he reached it, nobody knew him. Next day he secretly mounted his father's horse, and went to the place where he had married the prince to the princess. On the road he saw a swineherd; when he approached, he recognised in him his old friend the prince. When he questioned him, the swineherd replied: 'As soon as thou hadst gone hence they made me a swineherd.' Sanartia drew out his sword, gave it to him, and said: 'Kill all the swine but three, and wound those three; then drive the three home, I shall be there, ready to punish anybody who is angry with thee.' The swineherd did as Sanartia told him, and in the evening drove the three swine into the king's courtyard. Sanartia came to the palace earlier, but they did not recognise him. When the swineherd drove in his swine, his wife was about to beat him, saying: 'Why hast thou lost the swine.' But at that moment Sanartia appeared before the princess, was angry with her, and said: 'If thou wert a good woman thou wouldst not make thy husband feed swine.'... They knew at once that it was Sanartia, and were much amazed, saying: 'His leg was cut off at the knee, how has he replaced his leg?' Sanartia ordered them to bring the princess's husband: he made her wash him well with her own hands, bring clothes, and dress him in noble apparel. When Sanartia was leaving for home, he called the princess and her parents, and said to them: 'If you do not treat the prince as becomes his rank, I shall come at once, and it will fare ill with you.' He took leave of them all and went home. VII THE SHEPHERD JUDGE In a certain land, there was once a king who had four viziers to judge the people. Once these judges uttered a remarkable sentence. At that time there came to the king a certain shepherd, who spoke in a manner that pleased the king, so he commanded the viziers: 'Show this shepherd the sentence you pronounced.' When the shepherd had examined the decree of the viziers, it did not please him; he took it and altered it from beginning to end. When the king saw this, he said to the shepherd: 'Since thou art so skilled in judging, be thou a judge.' The shepherd refused, and said: 'As long as I have eyes I cannot judge, if you put out both my eyes then I will be a judge.' Finally he persuaded them to put out his eyes. They built him a great, fine house, they gave him scribes, furnished him with everything befitting his office, and made the shepherd supreme judge. He began to do justice in such an upright manner that people flocked to him from every side. Everybody went to him for justice: great and small, master and servant, old and young, clergy and laity, friend and enemy--in a word, all who had suits with anybody came to him, every one praised and blessed his decisions. Once there came to him a man and a woman. The man said to the judge: 'I came to this woman's house on a mule; a calf accompanied my mule. When I tied up the mule, the calf began to suck its breast. The woman, seeing this, ran out, seized the calf, and began to grumble at me, saying it was her calf, and asking how it came to be with my mule. I withstood her with all my might, but it was of no avail. She wished to drag away the calf, but I would not allow it, I would not give up my property to her; we quarrelled, and now we have come before thee--in God's name judge between us!' Thus he spoke in person to the judge, but secretly he sent him a large bribe and a message, saying: 'Take this money, and put me not to shame before this woman.' But the judge would not tamper with the scales of justice, and sent to tell the man: 'How can I take the calf from the woman by force, if justice do not demand it?' The judge asked the woman: 'What sayest thou?' The woman replied: 'My lord, this man rode up to my house on a mule; I had nothing in the world but one calf and its mother, which I loved; my calf went up to this man's mule, caressed it, and took hold of it with its snout, as if it were going to suck its breast. The man, seeing this, thought: 'I shall certainly take away this calf with me.' He dragged it home, but, of course, I could not allow this--all extol thine equity, I too am come to thy door, and trust thou wilt not suffer me to be trampled down by injustice.' When the judge had heard both sides, he pronounced the following decision: 'Since a mule never bore offspring and never will, it is still less possible that a mule should bring forth a calf. Let the calf therefore be taken from the man, and given to the woman who owns the cow, the mother of the calf.' This judgment pleased everybody in the highest degree. And God was merciful to this good judge: by means of the kerchief of that woman his eyes were made whole, and he saw. After this he saw with both eyes, but till the day of his death he judged uprightly; when he died he went to heaven. VIII THE PRIEST'S YOUNGEST SON There was once a priest who had three sons. On the day of his death, the priest said to his sons: 'When I die, let each of you read the psalter over me for one night.' But the elder sons did not do as their father had bidden them, only the youngest read the psalter over him. That night his father appeared, and gave him a horse. Next night he again read the psalter over his father in his brothers' place. His father again appeared, and gave him another horse, which he resolved to give to his younger brother. On the third night he again read the psalter. His father brought him a third horse, gave the young man his blessing, and departed. At that time, a princess was to be married to any man whose horse could jump up to the castle, so that its rider could kiss that maiden-queen. Many princes came to woo, but none of their horses could leap up to the castle. Then the priest's youngest son mounted the horse his father had given him, and rode up to the royal palace; he struck the horse with his switch, and made it jump, but it could only go one third of the way up to the castle. Next day he mounted another horse, and made it jump, it went two thirds of the height of the castle. The third day he came on the third horse, and made it jump; it jumped right up to the top of the castle; the youth kissed the princess, and they married him to her. After this the priest's son went home. At this time the queen, his mother-in-law, fell ill; she sent for her son-in-law, and said to him: 'Between the white sea and the black sea there feeds a doe, they tell me that its milk will do me good; if thou canst get it for me I shall recover, if not, I must die.' Then the youth mounted his horse and went forth. He rode between the seas, milked the doe, brought its milk to his mother-in-law, gave it to her to drink, and healed her. MINGRELIAN PROVERBS 1. Turn to the right, or turn to the left, 'Twill all be one in the end. [48] 2. The rat that came from outside, Drove out the house-born rat. 3. Fight for the outlying village, If thou wantest the one nearer home. 4. Wish thy neighbour to have an ox, And God will send it to thee. 5. The wolf was abused as wolfish, While the jackal ate up the flock. 6. The hen scratched and scratched till she dug up a knife, With which her own throat was afterwards cut. 7. The road runs where an old road ran, The river flows in the bed of a former river. 8. 'Give me room to stand,' quoth the bull, 'and I Shall make myself enough room to lie.' 9. If the bear overcome thee--then call him Papa. [49] 10. The dog took fright at a wolf, And barked all the year round at a stump. 11. Who ever heard of a fish being prized As long as it stayed in the stream? 12. They shot at the ripe--but the green fruit fell. 13. Leave a good deed on a stone by the way, Thou'lt find it again after many a day (i.e. Cast thy bread on the waters). 14. I say it--but whether it happen or no 'Tis nothing to do with me. 15. Eat and drink up whatever is thine, But cross thyself over all that's mine. 16. Who slew me?--My brother. Who brought me back to life?--My brother. 17. The well-doer receives not good in return. 18. The truthful man is always duped. 19. My father I love, my mother I love-- But myself I prefer before all. 20. A heart-kiss is better than a lip-kiss. 21. If thou hast not eaten pepper, why does thy mouth burn? 22. A disease that one sees, will not kill; 'Tis hidden sores do the most ill. 23. Our granny has no teeth, so she Likes not others' teeth to see. 24. He has forgotten the soul of his father, so he swears by the soul of his grandsire. 25. Gold is good, but if thou have it not, of what use is it to thee? 26. Better is copper of thine own than gold that is another's. 27. Of what use is light to him that is blind? 28. If thou art brave, do not bewail The bluntness of thy sword. PART III GURIAN FOLK TALES I THE STRONG MAN AND THE DWARF There came from far-off lands a strong man who had nowhere met his match, and challenged any one in the whole kingdom to wrestle with him. The king gathered his folk together, but, to his wonder, could not for a long time find anybody ready to face the strong man, till, at last, there stood forth a weak insignificant-looking dwarf, who offered to wrestle with the giant. Haughtily looking down on his adversary, the giant carelessly turned away, thinking that he was befooled. But the dwarf asked that his strength should be put to the proof before the struggle began. The giant angrily seized a stone, and, clasping it in his fingers, squeezed moisture out of it. The dwarf cunningly replaced the stone by a sponge of the same appearance, and squeezed still more moisture out of it. The giant then took another stone, and threw it so violently on the ground that it became dust. The dwarf took a stone, hid it under the ground, and threw on the ground a handful of flour, to the great astonishment of the giant. Stretching forth his hand to the dwarf, the giant said: 'I never expected to find so much strength in such a small man, I will not wrestle with you; but give me your hand in token of friendship and brotherhood.' After this, the giant asked the dwarf to go home with him. But first he asked the dwarf why he had not pressed his hand in a brotherly manner. The dwarf replied that he was unable to moderate the force of his pressure, and that more than one man had already died from the fearful force of his hand. The new brothers then set out together. On their way to the giant's house, they came to a stream which had to be forded. The dwarf, fearing to be carried away by the current, told the strong man that he was suffering from belly-ache, and did not therefore wish to go into the cold water, so he asked to be carried over. In the midst of the stream, the strong man, with the dwarf on his shoulders, suddenly stopped and said: 'I have heard that strong people are heavy, but I do not feel you on my shoulders. Tell me how this is, for God's sake.' 'Since we have become brothers,' replied the dwarf, 'I have no right to press with all my weight upon you, and did I not support myself by holding on to the sky with one hand, you could never carry me.' But the strong man, wishing to test his strength, asked the dwarf to drop his hand for a moment, whereupon the dwarf took from his pocket two nails, and stuck the sharp points of them in the shoulders of the strong man. The giant could not endure the pain, and begged the dwarf to lighten his burden at once, i.e. to lay hold of heaven with one hand again. When they had reached the other side, the two new friends soon came to the strong man's house. The giant, wishing to give a dinner to the dwarf, proposed that they should share the work of getting it ready, that one of them should take the bread out of the oven, while the other went to the cellar for wine. The dwarf saw in the oven an immense loaf which he could never have lifted, so he chose to go to the cellar for wine. But when he had descended, he was unable even to lift the weights on the top of the jars, so, thinking that by this time the giant would have taken the loaf out of the oven, he cried: 'Shall I bring up all the jars?' The giant, alarmed lest the dwarf should spoil his whole year's stock of wine, by digging the jars out of the ground, where they were buried, rushed down into the cellar, and the dwarf went upstairs. But great was the astonishment of the dwarf when he found that the bread was still in the oven, and that he must take it out, willy-nilly. He succeeded with difficulty in dragging a loaf to the edge of the oven, but then he fell with the hot bread on top of him, and, being unable to free himself, was almost smothered. Just then the giant came in, and asked what had happened. The dwarf replied: 'As I told you this morning, I am suffering from a stomach-ache, and, in order to soothe the pain, I applied the hot loaf as a plaster.' ... Then the giant came up, and said: 'Poor fellow! How do you feel now, after your plaster?' 'Better, thank God,' replied the dwarf, 'I feel so much better that you can take off the loaf.' ... The giant lifted the loaf, and the two then sat down to dinner. Suddenly the giant sneezed so hard that the dwarf was blown up to the roof, and seized a beam, so that he should not fall down again. The giant looked up with astonishment, and asked: 'What does this mean?' The dwarf angrily replied: 'If you do such a vulgar thing again I shall pull this beam out and break it over your stupid head.' The giant made humble excuses, and promised that he would never sneeze again during dinner time; he then brought a ladder by which the dwarf came down.... [50] II THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT [51] The grasshopper and the ant became friends, and entered into a compact of brotherhood, promising never to separate. They then set out on a journey, forgetful of the proverb that 'footman and horseman can never be comrades.' Of the truth of this they had a proof on the very first day of their travels, for, chancing to come to a brook which they had to ford, the grasshopper jumped over, while the poor ant was carried away by the stream. The grasshopper thought, for a moment, how he could save his drowning companion, and then cried: 'Catch hold of something, and I shall run and get help.' The bright idea struck him of applying to the sow for one of her bristles, to which the ant could attach herself while he pulled her out of the water. The sow answered: 'Brother grasshopper, you know the proverb, "hand washes hand"; for three days I have eaten nothing, and am I to let people pull bristles out of me for nothing? Feed me with acorns, and then you can have as many bristles as you like.' The grasshopper hurried off to the oak and said: 'Oak, oak, give me acorns, I give the acorns to the sow, the sow gives me a bristle, and with the bristle I save my drowning comrade.' The oak answered: 'Those thievish jays give me no rest, they pull off my acorns; keep them off.' The grasshopper ran to the jays, and said: 'Jays! leave the oak, and the oak will give me acorns, the acorns I give to the sow, the sow gives me a bristle, and with the bristle I save my drowning comrade.' The jays answered: 'The kites pursue us; go and drive them off.' The grasshopper ran to the kites, and said: 'Kites! leave the jays, and the jays will leave the oak, the oak will give me acorns, the acorns I give to the sow, the sow gives me a bristle, and with the bristle I save my drowning comrade.' The kites answered: 'We are hungry; bring us chickens.' The grasshopper ran to the hen, and said: 'Hen, give me chickens. The chickens I shall give to the kites, the kites leave the jays, the jays leave the oak, the oak gives acorns, the acorns I give to the sow, the sow gives me a bristle, with the bristle I save my drowning comrade.' The hen replied: 'Feed me with millet.' The grasshopper hastened to the barn: 'Barn, give me millet, the millet I give to the hen, the hen gives me chickens, the chickens I give to the kites, the kites leave the jays, the jays leave the oak, the oak gives acorns, the acorns I give to the sow, the sow gives me a bristle, and with the bristle I save my drowning comrade.' The barn replied: 'The rats have the mastery over me, they gnaw me on every side; send them away.' The grasshopper ran to the rats: 'Rats! go away from the barn, and the barn will give me millet, the millet I give to the hen, the hen gives me chickens, the chickens I give to the kites, the kites leave the jays, the jays leave the oak, the oak gives acorns, the acorns I give to the sow, the sow gives me a bristle, and with the bristle I save my drowning friend.' The rats replied: 'The cats give us no peace; send them away.' The grasshopper went to the cats: 'Cats! go away from the rats, and the rats will leave the barn, the barn will give millet, the millet I give to the hen, the hen gives me chickens, the chickens I give to the kites, the kites leave the jays, the jays leave the oak, the oak gives acorns, the acorns I give to the sow, the sow gives me a bristle, and with this bristle I shall save my drowning comrade.' The cats replied: 'Feed us with milk.' The grasshopper ran to the cow: 'Cow! give me milk, the milk I shall give to the cats, the cats will leave the rats alone, the rats will leave the barn,' etc., etc. The cow replied: 'Feed me with grass.' The grasshopper applied to the earth, and said: 'O earth! give me grass, the grass I shall give to the cow, the cow will give me milk, the milk I shall give to the cats, then the cats will leave the rats alone, and the rats will leave the barn, the barn will give me millet, the millet I shall give to the hen, the hen will give me chickens, the chickens I shall give to the kites, then the kites will leave the jays, and the jays will leave the oak, the oak will give me acorns, the acorns I shall give to the sow, the sow will give me a bristle, and with this bristle I shall save my drowning friend.' The earth gave the grass ... and finally the grasshopper obtained the bristle, and hastened with it to his drowning friend, but, to his astonishment, the ant was quite dead when he pulled him out. This story teaches that help is only valuable when it is given in time, that the earth alone refuses not to yield her gifts to him that asks, and that all other things exist only by reciprocal services. III THE COUNTRYMAN AND THE MERCHANT A countryman caught a pheasant, and was carrying it home to cook it for himself and his wife. Suddenly the pheasant spoke like a man, and said: 'Let me go, goodman, and I shall repay you.' The countryman was astonished, and asked: 'What could you do for me?' The pheasant replied: 'You are an old man, and must soon die; when you are dead, I shall gather together all the birds of the air, and follow you to the grave. Since the world began, no king ever had such an honour paid to him at his funeral.' The countryman was pleased at the offer, and set the pheasant free. When he reached home, he told his wife what had happened, and, although she scolded him at first for letting the bird go, yet she was pleased when the pheasant sent, every morning, birds to ask after the old man's health. A happy thought soon occurred to the wife, and she said to her husband: 'Listen to me, we are almost dying of hunger, and we have a good chance of getting plenty of food. Pretend that you are dead; I shall begin to cry, and all the birds will come to your funeral, I shall entice them into our cottage, shut the doors and windows; we can knock them down with sticks, and thus lay in a store of food to last us for a long time.' So the countryman covered himself with a sheet, and lay down, while his wife went outside and wept loudly. A hoopoe flew down, and asked after her husband's health; when the wife announced his death, the hoopoe at once flew away, and, within an hour, there flew into the yard, in long lines, some thousands of pheasants, the same number of doves, snipe, quails, woodcock, etc., and even eagles, kites, hawks, etc. Some of the birds settled in the cottage, some in the barn, some in the stable, some in the yard, and the rest, for which there was no room, remained in serried ranks in the air. Then the wife shut the doors, and, with her husband, set about killing the birds; only those that were outside escaped. In the evening, there came a merchant, and asked to be allowed to spend the night in the cottage. At supper, the merchant saw a great abundance of game of all kinds, and asked the countryman how such luxury was within the reach of a poor man. The countryman replied: 'I have a cat of a famous breed, which has never yet failed me. When I want game for my table, I tell her what kind of birds I should like, and how many, and she goes into the forest and gets them. I do not know what was the matter with her last night, but see! she went into the wood of her own will, and killed all the birds in the neighbourhood, and brought them to us.' The countryman then showed a whole heap of dead game. The merchant at once began to bargain with the countryman for the cat, and finally purchased it for a large sum. When the merchant reached home, he went about his business, and told his wife that he would not leave her any money for housekeeping, for she had only to give her orders, and the cat would bring all sorts of game for food. But when he came in, he was astonished to find that his wife had eaten nothing, the cat had brought no birds, but had even stolen what was in the house already. So he went back to ask the countryman about it. The countryman saw him coming, filled a pot with millet and hung it over the fire. He then sat down near it, put a grain of millet in the palm of his hand, and began to wash it. The merchant came in and stood by him; the countryman pretended not to see the merchant, muttered an incantation, and dropped the grain into the pot. Then he stirred it with a spoon, and behold the pot was full. The merchant did not know whether to quarrel with the countryman or to get this magic pot from him. 'What is this you have done to me?' said he. 'Your cat is useless, it brings nothing, and steals what we have.' 'Have you been feeding it with roast meat? I forgot to warn you that you must not do this.' 'Well, it is my fault then,' said the merchant. 'But will you sell me that pot?' 'I have already lost my famous cat. It is not likely that I shall now let you have this pot, in which I can make a dish of porridge with only one grain.' However, they began bargaining, and at last the countryman sold his pot for a large sum. When the merchant reached home, he consoled his wife by telling her that from one barleycorn she could now make as much porridge as she wanted; he then set out again. When he returned, his wife complained that the pot was of no use. So he called again on the countryman, to ask for an explanation. The countryman, foreseeing that the merchant would come, got two hares exactly alike, and tied ribbons of the same colour round their necks. He left one hare at home, and took the other out into the fields with him. He told his wife that if the merchant came, she was to send him out to the field, and in an hour bring him a dinner consisting of two boiled fowls, a roast turkey, ten eggs, wine, and bread. The merchant came, and the woman sent him to the field where her husband was working. In reply to the reproaches of the merchant, the countryman said: 'You have probably made some stupid mistake with the pot as you did with the cat. But let us sit down and dine while we talk it over, for I cannot suffer you to come to me without feeding you.' The merchant looked round and said: 'How can we get anything to eat out here in the fields?' The peasant went to a bush, untied the hare, and said to it: 'Run at once, little hare, to my wife, and tell her to come with you and bring us a pair of fowls, a roast turkey, ten eggs, wine, and bread.' The hare ran off as fast as it could. It is easy to understand the astonishment of the merchant when the woman came with the hare, bringing all that the man had ordered. When they had eaten, the merchant said: 'You have cheated me about the cat and the pot, but I forgive you if you let me have the hare.' The countryman refused at first, but finally agreed to sell the hare for a large sum. [52] On his way home with the hare, the merchant met some friends whom he asked to sup with him, but seeing that he would not arrive until it was late, he ordered the hare to run and tell his wife that he was coming with some guests, and that she was to prepare supper. When he and his friends reached home, they found the house quite dark, and had difficulty in rousing the wife from her sleep. She told him that no hare had been there, and that she did not know what he was talking about. The merchant was now furious, and determined to punish the countryman severely. But the countryman guessed what would happen, and arranged with his wife what should be done. He took the intestine of a small calf, filled it with blood, and tied it round his wife's neck, telling her to cover it up with a kerchief. The merchant came in, and without saying a word rushed at the countryman, who, in his turn, attacked his wife, accusing her of being the guilty party, and with a knife pierced the intestine under her throat. She fell on the ground, and pretended that she was dying. The merchant was alarmed, and cried: 'What have you done, you wretched man? I would willingly have lost the money rather than have this innocent blood shed.' The countryman answered: 'That is my affair. Though I have killed my wife I can raise her to life again.' 'I believe you no longer,' said the merchant, 'but if you perform this miracle I shall forgive you all.' The countryman approached his wife with the knife in his hand, muttered something, and his wife opened her eyes, and, to the surprise of the merchant, rose up. The merchant bought the wonderful knife, saying that his wife, too, needed a lesson sometimes. When the merchant reached home, his wife asked where he had been. He told her to be silent and mind her own business. 'If you are not quiet I will cut your throat.' The woman looked at him with astonishment, and wondered whether he had gone out of his mind. The merchant threw down his wife, and cut her throat. All the neighbours flocked in, and raised a great cry. The merchant said: 'What if I have killed my wife? I can bring her to life again.' The neighbours stood by while he muttered the invocations he had learnt, but he could not raise her. Then he flew to the countryman, tied his hands, and dragged him into the forest, saying: 'I wish to prolong your sufferings, and will not kill you at once. I shall starve you, drag you about in the woods, and, when I have worn you out with tortures, I shall throw you into the sea.' On the road there was a town, in which a king had just died, and his funeral was then taking place. Having bound the countryman to a tree in the depths of the forest, the merchant returned to the town to see the royal funeral. Just then, a shepherd happened to drive his flock near the tree to which the countryman was tied. Seeing the shepherd a little way off, the countryman began to shout: 'I will not be king! I will not be king! No! No! No!' The shepherd came up and asked what was wrong. The countryman replied: 'You know, brother, that the king is dead in the town: they want me to take his place, but I will not, for I have been king twice, and know what it is. Ah, brother! one has so many cares, so much work, that one's head swims. I had rather be tied to this tree than consent to be king.' The shepherd thought for a moment, and replied: 'I, brother, would give anything in the world to have a trial of the life of a king.' 'I gladly give you my place, but, so that people may not know, put on my clothes, and I shall bind you to the tree, and by to-morrow you shall be king.' The shepherd gladly gave him his flock, and took his place at the tree. As soon as the countryman was free, he drove away the flock. When it was quite dark, the merchant appeared, loosed his victim, and drove him on. When they came to the steep seashore, the shepherd saw that the merchant wished to drown him, and cried: 'Do not drown me! I had rather consent to be king.' The merchant thought his prisoner had lost his wits through fatigue and ill-treatment; without more ado he threw him into the sea. A fortnight later, the merchant was travelling on business, when he met on the road the same countryman whom he, as he thought, had drowned, and who was now driving a flock. 'What do I see!' cried the merchant. 'Are you there? Did I not drown you in the sea?' 'My benefactor!' replied the countryman. 'I wish you would drown me again. You cannot imagine what a quantity of cattle there is down there at the bottom of the sea. It is a pity I had no stick with me, for I could not drive out more than these with my hands.' The merchant besought the countryman, saying: 'You have ruined me. The cat, the pot, the hare, the knife, have all cost money; thanks to you, I am a beggar and a widower. If you remember the place where I threw you into the sea, drown me there, but let me have a stick, so that I may repair my fortune.' To get rid of the troublesome merchant, the countryman agreed to fulfil his request, and so drowned him with a very long switch in his hand. [53] IV THE KING AND THE SAGE Once upon a time, there reigned in one of the realms of the East a shah named Ali, a man of amiable and merry character. Ali was much beloved by his subjects, and he too loved them with all his heart. The shah played with them as if they had been his children; he gave them festivals, arranged competitions, and gave prizes for the best poetical productions, etc. The shah was skilled in the famous literature of Arabia, and was thought to be a learned man; besides this, he was a wit and a joker, and loved to set his folk merry riddles to guess: prizes were given to the successful. Once the ferashes (or servants) of the shah made known to the people, that Ali had promised three hundred pieces of gold to him who should ask his majesty such a question that the answer must inevitably be: That is Impossible. This announcement created great excitement, and men, women, and children all alike set themselves to think out such a question. The day of the competition dawned at last, and the vast square before the palace was crowded with a curious throng. At the appointed hour, Shah Ali appeared, surrounded by a brilliant guard, and music filled the air. After greeting his folk, the shah sat down on a throne, opposite the platform on which the candidates were to stand while they asked the shah their questions. Heralds gave out the challenge, and a wit of the town mounted the rostrum and loudly said: 'Shah! a courier has just galloped into the town and told me a most astonishing piece of news, to wit, that at dawn this morning, twenty versts from your capital, the moon fell from the sky to the ground, and burned two and twenty villages to ashes.' The shah meditated a moment, and then replied: 'That is possible.' The town wit got down, amid the laughter of the people. His place was taken by a courtier, the shah's body-surgeon, who shouted: 'Most illustrious Shah! In your harem a most astounding event has just happened--your first wife, your beloved Zuleika, has just given birth to a sucking-pig covered with bristles.' The shah considered, and then replied: 'That is possible.' The doctor fled in shame, and the people laughed more loudly than before. After the doctor came an astrologer, who said: 'Most noble Shah! In observing the courses of the stars I have discovered a woful piece of news; an awful fate awaits you. O King, you will soon have horns like a goat, and claws like a panther, you will lose the power of speech, and flee from us into the woods, where you will dwell exactly seven years and three months.' To him likewise the shah replied: 'That is possible,' and he too disappeared, amid the jeers of the mob. The competition lasted throughout the whole of that day and the next, to the delight of the people, until at last they thought of getting a certain Nasr-Eddin, a wit well known throughout the East, to oppose to the shah. [54] On the third, and last, day appeared Nasr-Eddin, tattered and almost naked, dragging with him two great clay jars. Addressing the shah, he said: 'Hail to the commander of the faithful, blessed be thy name! Thou shalt reign yet a hundred years, and the love and confidence of thy subjects will increase yearly.' 'That is possible,' said the shah. 'That the confidence your subjects repose in you is unbounded is evident from a fact which I am about to relate; you will doubtless deign to listen.' 'That is possible.' 'Your late father (God rest his soul!) was very friendly with my late father (may the Prophet give him a place in Paradise!)...' 'That is possible.' 'Listen to me, O Shah! When your father went forth to war with the unbelievers, he was so poor that he could not raise an army.' ... 'That is possible.' 'Not only is it possible but true, for, owing to his want of money, he borrowed from my father these two jars full of gold pieces, and promised on his royal word that you, O Shah, would pay your father's debt to me.' Shah Ali burst into laughter, and said: 'That is impossible! Your father was a tatterdemalion like yourself, and never saw two jars of gold even in his dreams. Take your three hundred gold pieces, and the devil take you. You rascal, you have outwitted me.' V THE KING'S SON A certain king had a son, and sent him out to be nursed by a smith's wife. This crafty woman put the king's child in a common cradle, and her own son in the gorgeous royal cradle. Some years afterwards, the king took the changeling to court, and brought his foster-brother with him. One fine day, the king set out for his favourite forest to hunt, and took his pretended son with him. When they arrived, the king asked: 'How do you like this place, my son? Is it not a magnificent wood?' The boy replied: 'O father, if we could only burn it all somehow, what a fine lot of charcoal we should have!' Then the king sent for the other boy, and asked him the same question. 'There could not be a better forest, your Majesty!' 'But what would you do with it if it were yours?' 'Nothing, your Majesty. I would double the guards, so that it should not be injured.' Then the king saw how the smith's wife had tried to cheat him, and put her in prison. VI TEETH AND NO-TEETH Shah Ali desired to see the hungriest man in his kingdom, and find out how much of the daintiest food such a man could eat at a meal. So he let it be known that on a certain day he would dine with his courtiers in the open air, in front of the palace. At the appointed hour, tables were laid and dinner was served, in the presence of a vast crowd. After the first course, the shah mounted a daïs, and said: 'My loyal subjects! you see what a splendid dinner I have. I should like to share it with those among you who are really hungry, and have not eaten for a long time, so tell me truly which is the hungriest of you all, and bid him come forward.' Two men appeared from the crowd: an old man of fifty and a young man of twenty-seven. The former was grey-haired and feeble, the latter was fresh and of athletic build. 'How is it that you are hungry?' asked the shah of the old man. 'I am old, my children are dead, toil has worn me out, and I have eaten nothing for three days.' 'And you?' said the shah, turning to the young man. 'I could not find work, and as I am a hearty young man I am ashamed to beg, so I too have not eaten for three days.' The shah ordered them to be given food, on one plate, and in small portions. The hungry men eagerly ate, watching each other intently. Suddenly the old man and the young one both stopped and began to weep. 'Why do you weep?' asked the shah in astonishment. 'I have no teeth,' said the old man, 'and while I am mumbling my food this young man eats up everything.' 'And why are you weeping?' 'He is telling lies, your majesty; while I am chewing my meat the old man gulps down everything whole....' VII THE QUEEN'S WHIM A certain queen wished to have a palace built of the bones of all kinds of birds. The king ordered birds to be caught, and the building was begun. Bones of all kinds were brought and cleaned, and the walls were rising, but they could not find a hedge-sparrow, and, as the queen wanted all sorts of birds, a search was made for the missing one. At last the hedge-sparrow was found, and brought before the king, who asked where she had been. 'Mighty monarch! I have been flying all over the kingdom counting the men and women; unfortunately there are twice as many women as men.' The king ordered the bird to be punished for telling him such a shameless falsehood. 'King of kings,' said the hedge-sparrow, 'perhaps I did not count in the same way as you do.' 'How did you count, then?' 'I counted all those men who are under the slipper of women as old women.' The hedge-sparrow thus hinted that the king himself was an old woman, because he had not strength of mind enough to resist the foolish whims of his wife. VIII THE FOOL'S GOOD FORTUNE A certain man died and left three sons. One was altogether a fool, another was fairly intelligent, and the third was rather clever. This being so, it was of course difficult for them to live together. In dividing the inheritance among them, the fool was cheated, and in regard to the cattle he was thus cozened: There were three entrances to the penfold, two open and one very narrow. The two clever brothers proposed to drive the beasts out of all three at once; those that issued from the small gap were to belong to the fool. In this way the latter's share was only one young bull out of the whole flock. But to his feeble mind the division seemed fair enough, so he contentedly drove his bull out into the forest, and tied it with a stout rope to a young tree, whilst he himself wandered aimlessly about. Three days later, the fool went to see his beast. It had eaten and drunk nothing, but had pulled the tree up by the roots, and laid bare a jar full of old gold coins. The fool was delighted, and played with the money for a time, then he resolved to take the jar and present it to the king. As he passed along the road, every wayfarer looked into the pot, took out the gold in handfuls, and so that he should not notice their thefts, filled it up with stones and blocks of wood. On reaching the palace, the fool asked for an audience of the king, and it was granted. He emptied out the contents of the jar at the feet of the king. When the courtiers saw the wrath of the king, they took the fool away and beat him. When he had recovered himself he asked why he had been thrashed. One of the bystanders, for fun, cried to him: 'You have been beaten because you labour in vain.' The fool went his way, muttering the words: 'You labour in vain.' As he passed a peasant who was reaping, he repeated his phrase again and again, until the peasant grew angry, and thrashed him. The fool asked why he had been beaten, and what he ought to have said. 'You ought to have said: "God give you a good harvest!"' The fool went on saying, 'God give you a good harvest!' and met a funeral. Again he was beaten, and again he asked what he should say. They replied that he should have said: 'Heaven rest your soul!' He then came to a wedding, and saluted the newly-married couple with this funereal phrase. Again he was beaten, and then told that he should say: 'Be fruitful and multiply!' His next visit was to a monastery, and he accosted every monk with his new salutation. They too gave him a thrashing, with such vigour that the fool determined to have his revenge by stealing one of the bells from their belfry. So he hid himself until the monks had gone to rest, and then carried off a bell of moderate size. He went into the forest, climbed a tree, and hung the bell on the branches, ringing it from time to time, partly to amuse himself and partly to frighten away wild beasts. In the forest there was a gang of robbers, who were assembled to share their booty, and had just ended a merry banquet. Suddenly they heard the sound of the bell, and were much afraid. They took counsel as to what was to be done, and most of them were for flight, but the oldest of the band advised them to send a scout to see what was wrong. The bravest among them was sent to get information, and the rest remained as quiet as possible. The brigand went on tiptoe through the bushes to the tree where the fool was, and respectfully asked: 'Who are you? If you are an angel sent by God to punish our wickedness, pray spare us and we shall repent; if you are a devil from hell, come and share with us.' The fool was not so stupid that he did not see he had to deal with robbers, so he took out a knife, tolled the bell, and then said with a grave air: 'If you wish to know who I am, climb the tree and show me your tongue, so that I may mark on it who I am and what I ask of you.' The robber obediently climbed the tree, and put out his tongue as far as he could. The fool cut off his tongue, and kicked him to the ground. The robber, mad with pain, and frightened by his sudden fall, ran off howling. His comrades had come out to meet him, and when they saw the plight he was in they ran off in terror, leaving their wealth. Next morning the fool found the booty, and without saying anything to anybody, took it home and became much richer than his brothers. The fool built three palaces: one for himself, one for me, and one for you. There is merrymaking in the fool's palace--come and be one of the guests! IX TWO LOSSES During a great storm at sea, a learned man heard the skipper giving his orders, but could not understand a word. When the danger was past, he asked the skipper in what language he had spoken. The sailor replied: 'In my mother tongue, of course!' The scholar expressed his regret that a man should have wasted half his life without learning to speak grammatically and intelligibly. A few hours later the storm arose again, and this time the ship sprang a leak and began to founder. Then the captain went to the scholar and asked if he could swim. The man of books replied that he had never learned. 'I am sorry, sir, for you will lose your whole life. The ship will go to the bottom in a minute, and my crew and I shall swim ashore. You would have done well if you had spent a little of your time in learning to swim.' X THE STORY OF DERVISH A hunter killed in the mountains a stag, and began to skin it. He then hung the skin on a bush, and went down to a stream to wash the blood from his hands. When he came back, he found to his surprise that the dead stag had come to life, and was bounding away. When he had recovered from his astonishment, he chased the beast, but could not overtake it, and it was soon lost to sight. He met a wayfarer, briefly told him the story, and asked if he had ever seen a stag without a skin. 'I have never seen a stag without a skin, but I do not wonder at your story. Near here there is a healing spring where any beast, even if wounded unto death, can be cured by bathing. Your stag probably bathed there, and is now sound and well. But if you want to know more about this wonderful country of ours, seek out a man called Dervish, and he will tell you things that will soon make you forget all about the stag.' 'Where can I find this Dervish?' asked the hunter. 'Go from village to village, and look into every courtyard, and when you see a man smoking a pipe, with an ass and a she-ass bound before him, ask him.' The hunter went away, and, after a long search, found Dervish, who told him the following story:-- 'I was married,' said Dervish, 'and loved my wife, but she deceived me with my next-door neighbour. When I heard of this I questioned my wife, but, instead of answering, she struck me with a whip, and, to my horror, I was turned into a dog. My wife drove me out into the yard, and for shame I ran away. On the road I suffered hunger, thirst, and despair, and, for the first time in my life, I knew what it was to be powerless, and realised what a great difference there is between man and beast. When I opened my mouth and tried to speak, I only barked and howled. I tried to stand on my hind legs, and walk like a man, but I fell either backwards or forwards. Then I jumped about, and did this so easily and briskly that I regained my spirits, and came to think that even a dog's life had its pleasures. While I was merrily jumping, I unexpectedly saw a man. He looked at me and I at him. The man smiled, and I ran up to him, but he was afraid, and lifted his stick to strike me. We both moved away from each other. I wanted to speak, but I barked, and the man raised his stick again. I then began to frolic and jump, and the man smiled again, and let me come up to him. I understood how dog and man are always the best of friends, and in my mind I thanked my wicked wife that she had turned me into a dog, and not some other beast, a pig, for instance. The man who beckoned me to come to him was a good village priest, and we soon became great friends. He caressed me, gave me something to eat, and I went away with him. The kind-hearted priest, overcome by the heat, lay down to rest under a tree, and I wished to do the same, but the priest said: "Watch over me!" so I did not go to sleep, rightly thinking that if the priest woke and found me asleep he would give me no more bread, and perhaps would drive me away. Ah! the beginning of my dog life was grievous. In the evening, the priest stopped to sleep with some shepherds who were watching their flocks. The shepherds, to show honour to their pastor, killed a lamb for supper, got wine, and made merry. Though I took no direct part in the feast, I kept close behind my master. After supper, one of the shepherds looked at me, and said: "This dog must be fond of wine, for he never takes his eyes from the glass, and now and then he licks his lips." I nodded my head several times. Then the shepherds poured me out some wine in a plate, and I lapped it up with pleasure. When they were all asleep, wolves came and attacked the sheep. The shepherds' dogs barked, but did not dare to attack the wolves; I rose and killed three wolves on the spot. When the shepherds saw this, they offered the priest a good price for me, and he finally sold me. Before long I had killed a vast number of wolves, and the fame of me reached the ears of the king of the country. I was brought and taken to the palace, to the sick daughter of the king, who was tormented at night by brownies. Every morning the princess woke exhausted and enfeebled. On the first night of my watch, I saw swans enter the bedchamber through the closed doors, they choked and trampled upon the sleeping princess. I was chained up, and could do nothing to help the poor maiden. In the morning, I was scolded for not having done anything, but one of the courtiers defended me, saying: "He is a good dog, but he must be unchained, and then we shall see what he can do." Next night the swans came again. I killed ten of them, but the eleventh asked me to spare her, saying she would help me in the matter of my wife and our neighbour. I trusted the swan, and let her go. To my delight, the princess rose healthy and merry next morning. The king was exceedingly pleased with me, and ordered me to have a heavy gold chain, and to be fed right royally. I lived well in the palace, but I longed to see my home and wife again, so I soon ran away. When I entered my own house, my wife took off my gold chain, struck me with her whip, and turned me into a duck. I flew into a field near by, where millet had been sown, and, being inexperienced, was caught at once in nets laid by a peasant. The peasant took me under his arm, and gave me to his wife, telling her to cook me for dinner. As soon as the peasant had gone out, the woman looked at me intently, and then took down from the wall a whip, with which she struck me, and turned me into a man again, saying: "Have I helped you or not? We were twelve sisters, you killed ten of us, I am the eleventh, and your wife is the twelfth. Now go home, take the whip which hangs over your wife's bed, strike her and your neighbour with it, and you can turn them into any kind of beasts that you wish." I went in late at night, when my wife and the neighbour were both asleep, I struck them with the whip, and turned my wife into an ass, and the man into a she-ass, and here they are.' The hunter was terrified when he heard this story of Dervish, he ran away from the enchanted mountain realm as fast as he could, and resolved never to go back there again. XI THE FATHER'S PROPHECY A certain man was wont to tell his son, while thrashing him, that he would never come to any good. The boy grew tired of these rebukes, and ran away from home. Ten years later he had risen to the rank of pasha, and was set over the very pashalik where his father lived. On his way to his post, the new pasha stopped at a place twenty miles off, and said to the Bashi-Bazouks of his guard: 'Ride to such and such a village, seize so and so, and bring him to me.' The Bashi-Bazouks arrived at night, dragged the sick old man out of bed, and took him to the pasha. The pasha stretched himself to his full height, and, ordering the old man to look him in the face, said: 'Do you know me?' The old man fixed his gaze on the pasha, and cried: 'Ah, pasha! you are surely my son.' 'Did you not tell me in my boyhood that I should never come to any good? Now look at me,' and the pasha pointed to his epaulets. 'Well, was I wrong? You are no man, but only a pasha. What man worthy the name would send for his father in the way you have done? I repeat it, you have gained the rank of pasha, but you have not become a good man.' XII THE HERMIT PHILOSOPHER There was once a wise man who loved solitude, and dwelt far away from other men, meditating on the vanities of the world. He spent nearly all his time in the open air, and he could easily do this, for he lived in a lovely southern land where there is no winter and but little rain. As he wandered once among the verdure of his garden, the sage stopped before an aged walnut tree covered with ripening nuts, and said: 'Why is there such a strange want of symmetry in nature? Here, for instance, is a walnut tree a hundred years old, hiding its top in the clouds, and yet how small is its fruit: itself it grows from year to year, but its fruit is always of the same size. Now, on the beds at the foot of the tree there grow great pumpkins and melons on very small creeping plants. It would be more fitting if the pumpkins grew on the walnut trees and the walnuts on the pumpkin beds. Why this want of symmetry in nature?' The sage thought deeply on the subject, and walked in the garden for a long time, till at last he felt sleepy. He lay down under the shady walnut tree, and was soon slumbering peacefully. In a short time, he felt a slight blow on the face, then a second, and then a third. As he opened his eyes, a ripe walnut fell on his nose. The sage leaped to his feet, and said: 'Now I understand the secret of nature. If this tree had borne melons or pumpkins, my head would have been broken. Henceforth let no one presume to find fault with Providence!' XIII THE KING'S COUNSELLOR [55] The counsellor of an Arabian king once bethought himself that, though he had lived so many years, and knew so much, he had never yet found out how much the king valued his services, and to what extent his wife and friends really loved him. He decided to try them all at once, so he went to the palace and stole a goat of which the king was very fond, and of which he was the keeper. He then went home, told this secret to his wife, and in her presence ordered the cook to roast the goat. But afterwards he privately told the cook to hide the royal goat, and roast a kid in its place. At supper his wife praised the dish very highly. As soon as the king heard of the loss of his goat, he was very angry, and cried in his wrath: 'If any man finds the thief I shall load him with gold, if a woman finds him I shall marry her!' The counsellor's wife, thinking it better to be a king's wife, betrayed her husband. The king ordered his counsellor to be executed, and married the woman. When the execution was about to take place, the victim's old friends succeeded in saving him by a large bribe, and another criminal was executed instead. The counsellor was hidden in a neighbouring realm. Some years afterwards, troublesome questions of state arose, and none of the council could solve them. The king often longed for his old counsellor, and said: 'For the sake of a goat I sacrificed a clever man, if he were alive he would get me out of all my trouble in a day.' The counsellor's old friends at last resolved to acknowledge the trick they had played. So one day, when the king was in a good humour, they went and said: 'Pardon us, O king! Your first counsellor is alive!' and they told him all. The king was heartily glad, and ordered the exile to be brought back. He was well received, and restored the goat to the king. The king said: 'My friend! we thus see that the greatest scourge of all is false witness, and that we must beware, above all things, of our wives.' XIV A WITTY ANSWER A certain king was angry with one of his lords, and put him in prison; wishing to keep him there, he said he would only set him free if he could bring to the court a horse which was neither grey, nor black, brown nor bay, white nor roan, dun, chestnut, nor piebald--and, in short, the king enumerated every possible colour that a horse could be. The imprisoned lord promised to get such a horse if the king would set him free at once. As soon as he was at liberty, the lord asked the king to send a groom for the horse, but begged that the groom might come neither on Monday nor Tuesday, Wednesday nor Thursday, Friday, Saturday, nor Sunday, but on any other day of the week that suited His Majesty. NOTES [1] The Kingdom of Georgia: Notes of Travel in a Land of Women, Wine, and Song. To which are appended Historical, Literary, and Political Sketches, Specimens of the National Music, and a Compendious Bibliography, with Illustrations and Maps. By Oliver Wardrop. London: Sampson Low, 1888. [2] In Georgian: Vakh ra cargi kharo! [3] Cf. Lady Charlotte Guest's Mabinogion (1877), p. 472. Taliesin. [4] Cf. Lady Charlotte Guest's Mabinogion, p. 353. Pwll. [5] Cf. Talmud (Polano's translation), p. 290.--'While our love was strong we lay on the edge of a sword, now a couch sixty yards wide is too narrow for us.' [6] The expression 'bird's milk' is often used in Georgian to signify a great rarity. [7] Cf. Paspati, Études sur les Tchinghianés (Constantinople, 1870), p. 605, Conte 2me. [8] The Georgian Cinderella or Tattercoats. Cf. Miss Roalfe Cox's Story-Variants of Cinderella for parallels. [9] In some parts of the Caucasus the houses of the peasantry are built in the ground, and it is quite possible to walk on to a roof unwittingly. [10] Asphurtzela = hundred leaves: this name refers to the manner of his birth. [11] Doki = an Imeretian measure for wine, holding 5 bottles. [12] Qantsi = a drinking-horn. [13] Coca = a large measure for water or wine (about 25 bottles). [14] Codchi = knuckle-bones, with which children play. [15] This obscure incident will be better understood by referring to p. 50 of Carnoy et Nicolaïdes (Traditions de l'Asie Mineure). [16] Cf. Carnoy et Nicolaïdes, p. 77. [17] Kvevri = a large wine-jar which is kept buried in the earth up to the neck. [18] Cf. Carnoy et Nicolaïdes, p. 81. [19] Cf. Carnoy et Nicolaïdes: Traditions de l'Asie Mineure, p. 43, 'Le Fils du Laboureur,' and p. 75, 'Les trois Robes.' [20] The usual greeting between Georgians. [21] Cf. Carnoy et Nicolaïdes: Traditions Populaires de l'Asie Mineure, p. 1, 'Le Roman du Renard.' [22] From Karthuli Kristomatia (Tiflis, 1885), p. 85. [23] Mingrelskie etyudy. Pervyi vypusk. Mingrelskie teksty s perevodom i obyasneniyami, sobr. i izd. Al. Tsagareli. S. Pbg. 1880. [24] The Mingrelian Tales usually begin thus; sometimes the formula used is: 'there was, there was, there was, and nothing there was, but nevertheless there was.' [25] When a Mingrelian undertakes a journey, he turns to the right several times before his door and then sets out. This is held to be a favourable omen. [26] The usual salutation in Georgia. [27] The word Khvitho in Mingrelian signifies a precious stone laid by a snake or a fowl, which turns into gold or precious stones whatever it touches. [28] Cf. Carnoy et Nicolaïdes: Traditions de l'Asie Mineure, p. 42. [29] Chkidi, bread made of Indian corn, is generally used in Mingrelia. It is cooked on the ashes, and the latter are often found sticking to it. [30] These verses form the concluding formula of Mingrelian folk-tales. The second couplet is not so frequently used as the first. [31] demi, dii, ndii in Mingrelian, devi, mdevi in Georgian (connected with Pers. div), a representative of the principle of evil, but with certain limitations, neither incorporeal nor immortal, but half demon half man, i.e. an unclean spirit in the form of a giant. He is subject to death, even a man can kill, cheat, terrify him; he can marry a woman, etc. [32] This phrase is continually applied to beautiful girls in Georgian poetry. It has three meanings: (1) A girl strictly kept, and not seen out of doors; (2) One who is not sunburnt, fair complexioned; (3) A maiden such as the sun has never seen the like of for beauty. The last meaning is the most frequent. [33] Cf. No. III. 'Geria's faithful dog and three-legged horse.' [34] Geria means little wolf. In Mingrelia there are many such nicknames,--e.g. Joghoria, little dog; Lomikia, little lion; Tholiorko, golden-eyed, etc. [35] Meaning: 'I also am a human being.' [36] Three years, three months, and three weeks are the usual measures of time in Mingrelian tales. [37] Rokapi in Georgian tales is an old woman of a demoniacal character, possessing enchanted castles and domains; sometimes the word simply means witch, and in ordinary conversation it is applied to an ugly, ill-natured, toothless old hag. [38] i.e. he that has a star in his brow. [39] The orgia, i.e. shoulder, is a measure of length equal to the space from finger-tips to finger-tips of the hands when extended horizontally. [40] Cf. with this the end of 'Master and Pupil' on p. 5. [41] Cf. the beginning of 'Gulambara and Sulambara' on p. 42; also the Biblical story of Tobit and the Angel. [42] Kila, a measure of flour = about 36 to 40 pounds. [43] A variant substitutes a cheese for an egg. [44] ? Finch. [45] Another Mingrelian version of this story tells that the demi took the old man home, and left him his house, wife and children. As he was going away, the jackal met him, and asked whither he was going. The demi replied that the old man had almost killed him, and he was going to hide himself. The jackal told him to go home, and have no fear of the old man, for it would choke him. The demi tied the jackal to himself, with a stout rope, and went back. The old man met them with the following words: 'This is splendid, my jackal--thou wast to bring me nine demis, thou hast brought eight already, and this will make the ninth.' The demi was alarmed, he rushed off, dragging after him the jackal, whom he knocked against twenty trees, and disappeared. The old man stayed in the demi's house all the days of his life. Cf. also 'The Strong Man and the Dwarf,' p. 147; Sir John Malcolm's Sketches of Persia, ch. xvi. 'The Story of Ameen Beg of Ispahan,' and 'The Goat and the Lion' in the Panchatantra. [46] Ocho-Kochi, literally, 'the goat-man,' occupies an important place in Mingrelian mythology. He is a satyr, a wild man of the woods, represented as an old man with a long beard, his body covered with hair. [47] The word translated 'nurse' is dzidze, which means not only a nurse but any woman, married or single, who has been adopted into relationship by the ceremony of a man taking her breast between his teeth. This creates a degree of kinship inferior only to that between mother and son. The custom still exists in Mingrelia. [48] Cf. note 3 on p. 109. [49] Cf. The Talmud (Polano's Selections, p. 287). 'If the fox is king bow before him.' [50] Cf. Malcolm: Sketches of Persia, ch. xvi. 'Ameen and the Ghool. Jacobs: More English Fairy Tales, p. 173, and note on p. 239. [51] Cf. The House that Jack built. [52] Cf. Jacobs: More English Fairy Tales, p. 209, and note on p. 242. [53] Cf. the last incident with the end of 'Little Fairly,' in Samuel Lover's Legends and Stories of Ireland. [54] The Mullah Nasr-Eddin is the hero of hundreds of witty tales. A French translation of some of them (from the Turkish) was published, by Decourdemanche, in 1878. [55] Francesco Strapparola's story of Salardo and the Falcon is practically the same as this. 
51762	----	MANX FAIRY TALES BY SOPHIA MORRISON LONDON DAVID NUTT, 57-59 LONG ACRE 1911 PREFACE There is at least one spot in the world where Fairies are still believed in, and where, if you look in the right places, they may still be found, and that is the little island from which these stories come--Ellan Vannin, the Isle of Mann. But I have used a word which should not be mentioned here--they are never called Fairies by the Manx, but Themselves, or the Little People, or the Little Fellows, or the Little Ones, or sometimes even the Lil' Boys. These Little People are not the tiny creatures with wings who flutter about in many English Fairy tales, but they are small persons from two to three feet in height, otherwise very like mortals. They wear red caps and green jackets and are very fond of hunting--indeed they are most often seen on horseback followed by packs of little hounds of all the colours of the rainbow. They are rather inclined to be mischievous and spiteful, and that is why they are called by such good names, in case they should be listening! Besides these red-capped Little Fellows there are other more alarming folk. There is the Fynoderee, who is large, ugly, hairy and enormously strong, but not so bad as he looks, for often he helps on the farm during the night by thrashing corn. He does not like to be seen, so if a farmer wants work done by him, he must take care to keep out of the Fynoderee's way. Then, far uglier than Fynoderee, are the Bugganes, who are horrible and cruel creatures. They can appear in any shape they please--as ogres with huge heads and great fiery eyes, or without any heads at all; as small dogs who grow larger and larger as you watch them until they are larger than elephants, when perhaps they turn into the shape of men or disappear into nothing; as horned monsters or anything they choose. Each Buggane has his own particular dwelling-place--a dark sea-cave, a lonely hill, or a ruined Keeill, or Church. There are many others too, but these are the chief. Most of the stories are traditional and have been handed down by word of mouth from father to son. I owe hearty thanks to those from whose lips I have heard them--Messrs. J. R. Moore, William Cashen, Joe Moore, Ned Quayle and others. Of the four stories which have not been told to me personally--Teeval, Kitterland, The Wizard's Palace, and Smereree--the three first have been printed in various folk-lore books, and the Manx of the last appeared in 'Yn Lioar Manninagh' some years ago. Lastly I must thank my friend Miss Alice Williams for her kind help and valuable assistance in many ways. SOPHIA MORRISON. Peel, Isle of Mann, October 1911. CONTENTS PAGE Themselves 1 The Buggane of Glen Meay Waterfall 8 How the Manx Cat lost her Tail 14 The Making of Mann 16 The Coming of Saint Patrick 20 How the Herring became King of the Sea 24 The Silver Cup 27 The Child without a Name 34 The Fairy Doctor 38 Joe Moore's Story of Finn MacCooilley and the Buggane 42 The Fynoderee 47 The Fynoderee of Gordon 48 The Lhondoo and the Ushag-reaisht 54 Billy Beg, Tom Beg, and the Fairies 56 The Lazy Wife 62 The Mermaid of Gob-ny-Ooyl 71 The Lost Wife of Ballaleece 75 Smereree 78 Kebeg 83 The Fairy Child of Close-ny-Lheiy 85 The Little Footprints 93 The Tall Man of Ballacurry 97 Ned Quayle's Story of the Fairy Pig 100 Kitterland 105 Teeval, Princess of the Ocean 110 The Wizard's Palace 116 The Enchanted Isle 121 Stories about Birds 123 The Moddey Doo or the Black Dog of Peel Castle 129 Little Red Bird 133 Tehi Tegi 134 John-y-Chiarn's Journey 138 A Bad Wish 143 The Witch of Slieu Whallian 144 The Old Christmas 149 The Buggane of St. Trinian's 153 King Magnus Barefoot 161 Manannan Mac-y-Leirr 169, 171 The Cormorant and the Bat 174 Caillagh-ny-Faashagh, or the Prophet Wizard 176 The City Under Sea 182 An Ancient Charm Against the Fairies 186 MANX FAIRY TALES THEMSELVES I There was a man once in the Isle of Mann who met one of the Little Fellows, and the Little Fellow told him that if he would go to London Bridge and dig, he would find a fortune. So he went, and when he got there he began to dig, and another man came to him and said: 'What are you doing?' 'One of Themselves told me to come to London Bridge and I would get a fortune,' says he. And the other man said: 'I dreamed that I was back in the lil' islan' an' I was at a house with a thorn-tree at the chimley of it, and if I would dig there I would find a fortune. But I wouldn' go, for it was only foolishness.' Then he told him so plainly about the house that the first man knew it was his own, so he went back to the Island. When he got home he dug under the little thorn-tree by the chimney and he found an iron box. He opened the box and it was full of gold, and there was a letter in it, but he could not read the letter because it was in a foreign language. So he put it in the smithy window and challenged any scholar who went by to read it. None of them could, but at last one big boy said it was Latin and it meant: 'Dig again and you'll find another.' So the man dug again under the thorn-tree, and what did he find but another iron box full of gold! And from that day till the day of his death, that man used to open the front door before going to bed, and call out: 'My blessing with the Little Fellows!' II Here is a true story that was told me by a man named James Moore when I was sitting with him by the fire one evening. He said: 'I'm not much of a believer in most of the stories some ones is telling, but after all a body can't help believing a thing they happen to see for themselves. 'I remember one winter's night--we were living in a house at the time that was pulled down for the building of the Big Wheel. It was a thatched house with two rooms, and a wall about six foot high dividing them, and from that it was open to the scrahs, or turfs, that were laid across the rafters. My Mother was sitting at the fire busy spinning, and my Father was sitting in the big chair at the end of the table taking a chapter for us out of the Manx Bible. My brother was busy winding a spool and I was working with a bunch of ling, trying to make two or three pegs. '"There's a terrible glisther on to-night," my Mother said, looking at the fire. "An' the rain comin' peltin' down the chimley!" '"Yes," said my Father, shutting the Bible; "an' we better get to bed middlin' soon and let the Lil' Ones in to a bit of shelter." 'So we all got ready and went to bed. 'Some time in the night my brother wakened me with a: '"Sh--ish! Listen boy, an' look at the big light tha's in the kitchen!" Then he rubbed his eyes a bit and whispered: '"What's mother doin' now at all?" '"Listen!" I said. "An' you'll hear mother in bed, it's not her at all; it must be the Little Ones that's agate of the wheel!" 'And both of us got frightened, and down with our heads under the clothes and fell asleep. In the morning when we got up we told them what we had seen, first thing. '"Aw, like enough, like enough," my Father said, looking at the wheel. "It seems your mother forgot to take the band off last night, a thing people should be careful about, for it's givin' Themselves power over the wheel, an' though their meanin's well enough, the spinnin' they're doin' is nothin' to brag about. The weaver is always shoutin' about their work an' the bad joinin' they're makin' in the rolls." '"I remember it as well as yesterday--the big light that was at them, and the whirring that was going on. And let anybody say what they like, that's a thing I've seen and heard for myself."' III One evening a young man who was serving his time as a weaver was walking home late from Douglas to Glen Meay. He had often been boasting that he had never seen any of the Little People. Well, this night he was coming along the St. John's Road, and when he got near to the river a big, big bull stood across the road before him. He took his stick and gave it one big knock. It went into the river and he never saw it any more. After that, when he got to the Parson's Bridge, he met a little thing just like a spinning wheel and there was a little, little body sitting where the spool is. Well, he lifted his stick again and struck the little body that was sitting on the spool a hard knock with his stick. The little body said to him: 'Ny jean shen arragh!' which means, 'Don't do that again!' He walked on then till he got to Glen Meay and told what he had seen in a house there. Then another man said he had seen the little old woman sitting on the top of the spool of the spinning wheel and coming down Raby Hill at dark. So it took her a long time, for the first man met her at six and the second at eleven, and there isn't two miles between the two places. So they were saying, when the cycles came in, that the Little People had been before them! And this is a true story. THE BUGGANE OF GLEN MEAY WATERFALL There was once a woman living near Glen Meay, and she was the wife of a decent, quiet, striving man of the place. There was no one but herself and the man, and they had a nice little cottage and owned a bit of a croft on which they grazed a cow and a few sheep and grew enough potatoes to do them the winter out; and the man had a yawl and went to the fishing when things were slack on land. But for all that they were not comfortable, for work as hard as the man might at his farming and his fishing, he was kept as poor as Lazarus by a lazy wife. For the woman was fonder of lying a-bed in the morning than sitting at her milking stool; indeed the neighbours had it to say that she wore out more blankets than shoes. Many a day her man would be going out early as hungry as a hawk, without a bite or a sup in him. One morning when he came in from work for his breakfast there was no fire--his wife was never up. Well, my poor man had nothing for it but to get his own breakfast ready and go back to his work. When he came in for dinner it happened as it had happened for breakfast. 'Bad luck to her laziness,' he thought; 'this is coul comfort for a poor man, but I'll play a trick on her for it.' And with that he fetched a bart of straw and bunged the two windows of his house. Then he went back to his work. The sun had not yet set when he came home in the evening. His wife was lying in bed waiting for day. 'Aw, woman,' he shouted, 'make haste an' get up to see the sun rise in the wes'.' Up jumped the wife and ran to the door just as the sun was going down, and the sight terrified her. The whole sky looked like fire, and she thought that the end of the world had come. But next morning it all happened as it had happened before, and himself said to her: 'Kirry, it's the Buggane, sure enough, that'll be having thee one of these days if thou don't mend thy ways!' 'What Buggane?' said she. 'Ax me no questions,' said he, 'an' I'll tell thee no lies. But it's the big, black, hairy fellow that lies under the Spooyt Vooar that I'm meanin'.' 'Aw, houl yer tongue, man; thou don't frecken me wi' thy Bugganes,' shouted the woman. In the evening the man left the house to go out to the fishing. As soon as he had gone the woman took a notion in her head to bake, as she had only the heel o' the loaf left for breakfast. Now, Themselves can't stand lazy ways, and baking after sunset is the one thing they won't abide. She who does so will meet their revenge--something is sure to be taken by them, but seldom worse than some of the live stock. Well, the woman set to work to bake some barley bread and flour cake. First, she went out to get gorse to put under the griddle, slipping the bolt on the door as she came in, that none of the neighbours would catch her and cry shame on her for baking after sunset. She got some meal out of the barrel and put it on the round table, and put salt and water on it, and then she kneaded the meal and clapped a cake out as thin as sixpence with her hands. But she was only a middling poor baker, one of the sort that has to use a knife to make the cake of a right round. She had turned the cake twice, and taken it off, and brushed the griddle with a white goose wing ready for the next cake which she was busy cutting round with her knife. Just at that moment there was heard the sound of something heavy lumbering up to the door. After a few seconds SOMETHING fumbled at the sneg of the door, then SOMETHING knocked high up on the door, and a voice like the thick, gruff voice of a giant was heard saying, 'Open, open for me.' She made no answer. Again there was a loud knock and a big hoarse voice was heard which cried: 'Woman of the house, open for me.' Then the door burst open and behold ye, what should she see but a great, big ugly beast of a Buggane rushing in mad with rage. Without as much as a 'By your leave,' he made one grab at her, and clutched hold of her by her apron and swung her on his shoulder, and away with him. Before she knew where she was he rushed her across the fields and down the hill, till he brought her to the top of the Spooyt Vooar, the big waterfall of Glen Meay. As the Buggane tore down the hill, the woman felt the ground tremble under his feet, and the noise of the waterfall filled her ears. And, there in front of her, she saw the stream turn to white spray as it came leaping down the rocks. As the Buggane swung her in the air to throw her into the deep pool, she thought that her last hour had come. Then all at once she remembered the knife that she held in her hand! Quick as thought she cut the string of her apron and down she tumbled to the ground, rolling over and over down the hill. And before he knew where he was the Buggane, with the speed he had on him, pitched forward head first down the rushing Spooyt Vooar. As he went head over heels and down to the bottom of the pool with a souse you'd have heard half a mile away, she heard him give a roar out of him: Rumbyl, rumbyl, sambyl, I thought I had a lazy Dirt, And I have but the edge of her skirt. And that was the last that was seen of that fellow! HOW THE MANX CAT LOST HER TAIL When Noah was calling the animals into the Ark, there was one cat who was out mousing and took no notice when he was calling to her. She was a good mouser, but this time she had trouble to find a mouse and she took a notion that she wouldn't go into the Ark without one. So at last, when Noah had all the animals safe inside, and he saw the rain beginning to fall, and no sign of her coming in, he said: 'Who's out is out, and who's in is in!' And with that he was just closing the door when the cat came running up, half drowned--that's why cats hate the water--and just squeezed in, in time. But Noah had slammed the door as she ran in and it cut off her tail, so she got in without it, and that is why Manx cats have no tails to this day. That cat said: Bee bo bend it, My tail's ended, And I'll go to Mann And get copper nails, And mend it. THE MAKING OF MANN Thousands of years ago, at the time of the Battles of the Giants in Ireland, Finn Mac Cooil was fighting with a great, red-haired Scotch giant who had come over to challenge him. He beat him and chased him eastwards towards the sea. But the Scotch giant was a faster runner and began to get ahead of him, so Finn, who was afraid that he would jump into the sea and escape, stooped down and clutched a great handful of the soil of Ireland to throw at him. He cast it, but he missed his enemy, and the great lump of earth fell into the midst of the Irish Sea. It is the Isle of Mann, and the great hole which Finn made, where he tore it up, is Lough Neagh. There were men, too, in Ireland in those days as well as giants, and to some of them it seemed to happen in a different way. Men do not always understand the doings of giants, because men live, it may be said, in the footprints of the giants. It seems that at this time the Irish tribes were gathered in two great forces getting ready to meet the plunderers who had left Scotland and were at work on their own coast. Their blood got too hot and they went into each other in downright earnest, to show how they would do with the rascals when they came. To their confusion, for they lost hold over themselves, they got into boggy ground and were in great danger. The leaders, seeing that it was going to mean a big loss of life, got all their men together on a big patch of dry ground that happened to be in the bog-land, when all of a sudden a darkness came overhead and the ground began to shake and tremble with the weight of the people and the stir there was at them, and then it disappeared, people and all. Some said that it took plunge and sank into the bog with the people on it. Others said that it was lifted up, and the people on it dropped off into the swamp. No doubt the darkness that was caused by the hand of Finn made it hard to see just how it happened. However that may be, a while after this they said the sea was surging dreadful, and the men in the boats had to hold to the sides, or it's out they'd have been thrown. And behold ye, a few days after this there was land seen in the middle of the sea, where no man ever saw the like before. You may know that this story is true because the Irish have always looked on the Isle of Mann as a parcel of their own land. They say that when Saint Patrick put the blessing of God on the soil of Ireland and all creatures that might live upon it, the power of that blessing was felt at the same time in the Island. Saint Patrick was a mighty man, He was a Saint so clever, He gave the snakes and toads a twisht! And banished them for ever. And there is proof of the truth of the saying to this day, for while such nasty things do live in England they cannot breathe freely on the blessed soil. The island was much larger then than it is now, but the magician who for a time ruled over it, as a revenge on one of his enemies, raised a furious wind in the air and in the bosom of the earth. This wind tore several pieces off the land and cast them into the sea. They floated about and were changed into the dangerous rocks which are now so much feared by ships. The smaller pieces became the shifting sands which wave round the coast, and are sometimes seen and sometimes disappear. Later the island was known as Ellan Sheaynt, the Isle of Peace, or the Holy Island. It was a place where there was always sunshine, and the singing of birds, the scent of sweet flowers, and apple-trees blossoming the whole year round. There was always enough there to eat and drink, and the horses of that place were fine and the women beautiful. THE COMING OF SAINT PATRICK It was the time that Saint Patrick was coming on horseback to Mann, over the sea from Ireland. When he drew near to the land, Manannan Mac y Leirr, that great wizard that was ruler of Mann, put a charm out of him that made the air round the island thick with mist, so that neither sun nor sky nor sea nor land could be seen. Patrick rode into the thick of the mist, but try as he would he could find no way out of it, and behind him there was a great sea-beast waiting to swallow him up. He didn't know in his seven senses where he was--east, or west--and was for turning back, when there came to his ears the cry of a curlew, calling: 'Come you, come you, come you!' Then he said to himself: 'The curlew will be down feeding among the rocks; she will be calling to her young.' After that he heard the bleat of a goat: 'Beware, beware, beware!' And he said to himself: 'Where the goat bleats for the fall of her kid there will be a steep bit of a hill.' Last of all he heard the crow of a cock: 'Come to us--come, come!' Then said Patrick: 'I believe on me sowl I'm back of Peel Hill.' And with that he took one leap on to the little island and put his horse up the sheer rock. Soon he stood, sure enough, at the top of Peel Hill. As he stood there he cried out: 'Me blessing on the curlew. No man afther this is to find her nest!' 'Me blessing on the goat, an' no man is to see her bring forth her young!' 'Me blessing on the cock, an' he shall crow at dawn ever afther at this same hour!' He cursed the sea beast and turned him into a solid rock and there he lies now with his great fin on his back. Where the horse's hoofs struck the top of the hill there sprang a well of pure water, of which man and horse drank, and it is called the Holy Well of Saint Patrick to this day. If you go down to the ledges of the rock, which were made by the horse's hoofs as he clambered up, you may see the footprints still. When Patrick looked about him the mist was lifting, and he saw a great host of warriors round Manannan's Faery Mound, with the first rays of the rising sun shining on their spears. But the saint knew that they were phantoms raised by Manannan's magic power and he bade them to be gone. And, behold, they and their master, in the shape of three-legged men, whirled round and round like wheels before the swift wind, which could not overtake them, till they came to Spanish Head. There they whirled over the houghs so quickly and lightly that the gulls on the ledges below were not disturbed, then on over the rough, grey Irish Sea till they came to the enchanted island, fifteen miles south-west of the Calf. Once there Manannan dropped the isle to the bottom of the sea, and he and his company were seen no more. Saint Patrick on his snow-white horse stood still on Peel Hill and blessed the island where he had touched land, and blessed it has been to this day. Then he leapt on to the little islet that he saw below him. Ever since it has been called Saint Patrick's Isle, and from the rocks on its northern side he watched the fierce storm which Manannan's going had made. Just then a brave ship, with foresail and mainsail gone, was driving straight for the terrible rocks. Saint Patrick raised his mailed hand and the tempest was calmed. The good ship righted herself again, and those on board were saved. They looked up with awe and thankfulness at the rider in his shining armour on the snow-white steed, standing bright against the blackness of the rocks. And ever since that day the fisherman, as he sails past the Horse Rock, has offed with his cap and put up this bit of a prayer to good Saint Patrick: Saint Patrick who blessed our Island, bless us and our boat, Going out well, coming in better, With living and dead in the boat. HOW THE HERRING BECAME KING OF THE SEA The old fishermen of the island have it to say that years and years ago the fish met to choose themselves a king, for they had no deemster to tell them what was right. Likely enough their meeting-place was off the Shoulder, south of the Calf. They all came looking their best--there was Captain Jiarg, the Red Gurnet, in his fine crimson coat; Grey Horse, the Shark, big and cruel; the Bollan in his brightest colours; Dirty Peggy, the Cuttle-fish, putting her nicest face on herself; Athag, the Haddock, trying to rub out the black spots the devil burnt on him when he took hold of him with his finger and thumb, and all the rest. Each one thought he might be chosen. The Fish had a strong notion to make Brac Gorm, the Mackerel, king. He knew that, and he went and put beautiful lines and stripes on himself--pink and green and gold, and all the colours of the sea and sky. Then he was thinking diamonds of himself. But when he came he looked that grand that they didn't know him. So they said that he was artificial and would have nothing to do with him. In the end it was Skeddan, the Herring, the Lil Silver Fella, who was made King of the Sea. When it was all over, up came the Fluke, too late to give his vote, and they all called out: 'You've missed the tide, my beauty!' It seems that he had been so busy tallivating himself up, touching himself up red in places, that he forgot how time went. When he found that the herring had been chosen, he twisted up his mouth on one side, and says he: 'An' what am I goin' to be then?' 'Take that,' says Scarrag the Skate, and he ups with his tail and gives the Fluke a slap on his mouth that knocked his mouth crooked on him. And so it has been ever since. And, maybe, it's because the Herring is King of the Sea that he has so much honour among men. Even the deemsters, when they take their oath, say: 'I will execute justice as indifferently as the herring's backbone doth lie in the midst of the fish.' And the Manx people will not burn the herring's bones in the fire, in case the herring should feel it. It is to be remembered, too, that the best herring in the world are caught in this place off the Shoulder, where the fish held their big meeting, and that is because it is not very far from Manannan's enchanted island. THE SILVER CUP There was once a man living in the south of the island whose name was Colcheragh. He was a farmer, and he had poultry on his street, sheep on the mountain, and cattle in the meadow land alongside the river. His cows were the best cows in the parish. Nowhere could you see such a fine head of cattle as he had; they were the pride of his heart, and they served him well with milk and butter. But after a time he began to think that something was amiss with the cows. He went to the cow-house the first thing every morning, and one morning he noticed the cows looking so tired they could hardly stand. When it came to milking time they found not a drop of milk. The girls, who went out to milk the cows, came back with empty cans, saying: 'The milk has gone up into the cows' horns!' Colcheragh began to think that some one had put an evil eye on his cows, so he swept up some of the dust from the cross four-roads close by, in a shovel, and sprinkled it on their backs. But the cows got no better. Then he wondered if some one was coming at night to steal the milk. He made up his mind to sit in the cow-house all night to see if he could catch the thief. So one night after everyone had gone to bed he crept out of the house and hid himself under some straw in a corner of the cow-house. Hour after hour of the dark lonesome night crept on, and he heard nothing but the cows' breathing and their rustle in the straw. He was very cold and stiff, and he had just made up his mind to go into the house, when a glimmering light showed under the door; and then he heard Things laughing and talking--queer talk--he knew that they were not right people. The cow-house door opened and in came a whole lot of Little Men, dressed in green coats and leather caps. Keeking through the straw, he saw their horns hung by their sides, their whips in their hands, and scores of little dogs of every colour--green, blue, yellow, scarlet, and every colour you can think of--at their heels. The cows were lying down. The Little Fellows loosed the yokes from the cows' necks, hopped on their backs, a dozen, maybe, on each cow, and cracked their little whips. The cows jumped to their feet and Themselves galloped off! Colcheragh ran to the stable, got on a horse, and made chase after his cows. The night was dark, but he could hear the whizz of the little whips through the air, the click of the cows' hoofs on stones, and the little dogs going: 'Yep, yep, yep!' He heard, too, the laughing of Themselves. Then one of them would be singing out to the dogs, calling them up by name, giving a call out of him: 'Ho la, ho la, la!' Colcheragh followed these sounds, keeping close at their heels. On and on they went, helter-skelter over hedges and over ditches till they got to the Fairy Hill, and Colcheragh was still following them, though on any other night he would not have gone within a mile of the great green mound. When the Little Fellows came to the hill they sounded a tan-ta-ra-ra-tan on their horns. The hill opened, bright light streamed out, and sounds of music and great merriment. Themselves passed through, and Colcheragh slid off his horse and slipped unnoticed in after them. The hill closed behind them and he found himself in a fine room, lit up till it was brighter than the summer noonday. The whole place was crowded with Little People, young and old, men and women, all decked out for a ball, that grand--he had never looked on the like. Among them were some faces that he thought he had seen before, but he took no notice of them, nor they of him. In one part there was dancing to the music of Hom Mooar--that was the name of the fiddler--and when he played all men must follow him whether they would or no. The dancing was like the dancing of flowers in the wind, such dancing as he had never seen before. In another part his cows were being killed and roasted, and after the dance there was a great feast, with scores of tables set out with silver and gold and everything of the best to eat and drink. There was roast and boiled, and sollaghan and cowree, and puddings and pies, and jough and wine--a feast fit for the Governor himself. When they were taking their seats one of them, whose face he thought he knew, whispered to him: 'Don't thee taste nothin' here or thou will be like me, and never go back to thy ones no more.' Colcheragh made up his mind to take this advice. When the feast was coming to an end there was a shout for the Jough-y-dorrys, the Stirrup Cup. Some one ran to fetch the cup. The one among the Little People, who seemed to be their king, filled it with red wine, drank himself, and passed it on to the rest. It was going round from one to another until it came to Colcheragh, who saw, when he had it in his hands, that it was of fine carved silver, and more beautiful than anything ever seen outside that place. He said to himself: 'The little durts have stolen and killed and eaten my cattle--this cup, if it were mine, would pay me for all.' So standing up and grasping the silver cup tightly in his hand, he held it up and said: 'Shoh Slaynt!' which is the Manx toast. Then he dashed the cupful of wine over Themselves and the lights. In an instant the place was in black darkness, save for a stime of grey dawn light which came through the chink of the half-closed door. Colcheragh made for it, cup in hand, slammed the door behind him, and ran for his life. After a moment of uproar Themselves missed the cup and Colcheragh, and with yells of rage they poured out of the hill after him, in full chase. The farmer, who had a good start, ran as he had never run before. He knew he would get small mercy at their hands if he was caught; he went splashing through the wet mire and keeping off the stepping stones; he knew they could not take him in the water. He looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the whole Mob Beg behind him, close at his heels, waving their naked arms in the light of the torch each one held up. On they came, shrieking and howling in Manx: Colcheragh, Colcheragh, Put thy foot on the stone, And do not put it in the wet! But he ran in the water till he came to the churchyard, and they could not touch him there. When he went into the cowhouse the next morning the cows had all come home and they got rest after that. He put the cup in the Church at Rushen, and they are saying it was there for many years; then it was sent to London. It is said that after this the farmer would not go out of his house of an evening after dark. THE CHILD WITHOUT A NAME It was many and many a year ago that the heiress of Eary Cushlin Farm had a little child. Eary Cushlin is a terribly lonely place; it stands high up on the Eanin Mooar, the big precipice, close by the steep brow of Cronk-yn-Irree-Laa. You might live there for months without seeing the face of clay, and no person knew of the birth of the child. It was not welcome when it came, and as soon as it was born, it died. Then the mother carried it, at dead of night, along the narrow path over the rocks, past where the waters of Gob-yn-Ushtey leap into the bay, past Ooig-ny-Goayr, the Cave of the Goat, to Lag-ny-Keilley. She buried it in the ruins of the lonely little Keeill that has been there on the hill-side for fourteen hundred years and more. There she left it alone. A short while after some yawls were going to the haddock fishing from Dalby. There was the 'Lucky Granny' from the Lagg, the Muck Beg, or Little Pig, from Cubbon Aalish's, Boid-y-Conney from Cleary's, Glen Rushen, and others, ten in all. Then it began to be said that something strange was going on over at Lag-ny-Keilley. The men would be fishing close in to land under the black shadow of Cronk-yn-Irree-Laa, the Hill of the Rising Day. When little evening came, the yawls would be drifting south with the flood tide, north with the ebb, passing and repassing the strand of Lag-ny-Keilley. Then they would see a beautiful light and hear a lamentation and crying, as if from a little lost child. In the end the light would run up the steep brow to the old Keeill, and go out. The men got so frightened that at last they would not go on the bay after dark, but would make from the fishing-ground as soon as the sun was getting low. Things became so black for the women and children at home that one old, old man, Illiam Quirk, who had not gone to sea for many years, said he would go with one of the yawls to see for himself. They used to say of him: 'Oul Illiam has the power at him in the prayer, and he is a middlin' despard fella; he will dar' most anything.' It was so at this time--his yawl was the last of them coming in; the rest were frightened. It was a right fine, beautiful moonlight night when he was coming down from the mark, and when he was near to Gob-yn-Ushtey he heard crying and crying. He lay on his oars and listened, and he heard a little child wailing over and over again: 'She lhiannoo beg dyn ennym mee!' That is, 'I am a little child without a name!' 'Pull nearer to the lan',' said Illiam when he heard it. They pulled close in, and he plainly saw a little child on the strand bearing a lighted candle in his hand. 'God bless me, bogh, we mus' give thee a name!' said Illiam. And he took off his hat, and stood up in the boat, and threw a handful of water towards the child, crying out: 'If thou are a boy, I chrizzen thee in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Juan! If thou are a girl I chrizzen thee in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Joanney!' In an instant the crying stopped, and was never heard again, and the light went out and was seen no more. THE FAIRY DOCTOR The shoemakers and tailors and chance spinners used to go round on people's houses, making things and spinning rolls of wool for the people. One time the tailor went to Chalse Ballawhane. Long enough they were waiting for him, and, as luck happened, he caught Chalse at home. Now Chalse had power over the fishes of the sea and the birds of the air as well as over the beasts of the field. Himself and the Little Ones got on well together too, but somehow or other he was never able to get the power over them. People said he was never able to learn their language right. Anyhow, be that as it may, he was often enough with them. After the tailor had had a crack with the women he turned round to Ballawhane, who was sitting in the big chair, his elbow on the table and his hand holding his forehead, the other hand in his trouser's pocket to the elbow, and he not minding anybody nor anything. 'I batter take yer measure, Mr. Teare, while yer in, for there's no knowin' how long that'll be,' the tailor said. 'Aw, boy, boy,' answered Chalse, looking out through the window--people were not bothering with blinds then--and then turning to the clock, he said: 'There's no time goin' to-night: I want to go from home apiece, an' it's time I was gettin' ready.' Nobody said a word for a minute or two. He was exactly like a body with his mind far away. Again, all of a sudden, he looked at the tailor. Then he said: 'Ahm goin' to a big supper to-night. Thou'll get nothin' done here, maybe thou would like to go? It's apiece to go, but thou'll be right enough with me. But there's one promise I'll be wantin' from thee--no matter, no matter what thou'll see, nor what thou'll hear, nor who'll spake to thee, thou mustn't spake back or it'll be all over with thee.' The tailor was so taken up with the chance of seeing the Little People for himself that he promised faithfully, no matter what took place, never to speak a word, and he knew he would be right enough with Chalse. Ballawhane then took his hat from the latt, and when he was going out he said: 'I'll be back for thee just now; side thee things a bit while thou 're waitin'.' In a while there was a noise of horses coming up the street--it was awful. Then they stopped on the street and in came Ballawhane saying: 'We couldn' get another hoss for thee, boy, do what we would, but thou 'll have to get a hoss of some sort.' And going down to the parlour he got hold of something, and went out, never saying a word. Coming back to the door after a bit, he said: 'Come on, boy. I'll hold her head till thou get on.' Out goes the tailor, and up, with one whip, on her back, and they go like the very hommers, on and on, over hedges and ditches, till they came to a big brow by a river. It seems they knew the way, night as it was, for they all took it one after another like fun. It was a big jump, though, and when the tailor felt himself flying through the air, his heart jumped to his mouth. 'Oh Lord, what a jump!' he said. The next minute he fell flop in a bog, with the lapboard between his legs, all alone in the dark. Next morning he got up all slaaed with slush, looking like a thing that had been dragged through a gutter, and as quiet as a mouse--the shy he was, every bit of steam took out of him. Awhile after some of the women were asking him, how did he like it last night, and would he go again? But all they could get out of him was: 'Aw, naver no more, naver no more!' JOE MOORE'S STORY OF FINN MACCOOILLEY AND THE BUGGANE This Finn MacCooilley was an Irish giant, and the Buggane was a Manx giant. But, anyway at all, this Finn came across from the Mountains of Mourne to see what was the Isle of Mann like, for he was seeing land. He liked the island uncommon well, so he stopped in it, living out Cregneish way. The Buggane was hearing great talk about the giant Finn MacCooilley that was in the Sound, so he came down from the top of Barrule to put a sight on him. Finn knew that he was coming to have a fight with him, to see who was best man, and Finn did not want to fight. 'Lave him to me,' says the wife; 'an' I'll put the augh-augh on him!' Before long they caught sight of the Buggane, and he was a walking terror. He was coming from Barrule to them, in a mighty pursue. 'Slip in the criddle, Finn,' says she. 'It's me that'll spake to him.' Up comes the Buggane to the door, hot-foot. 'Where's Himself?' says he. 'This man is gone from home this bit,' says she. 'What is it you are wantin' with him?' 'Aw, there is no hurry on me. I'll put my fut inside and wait till he comes back,' says he. 'Plaze yourself,' says she, 'an' you'll plaze me; but I must get on with my bakin'.' 'Who have you got in the criddle?' says he. 'That's our baby,' says she. 'An' in the name of the Unknown Powers, what sort of a man is he Himself if his baby is that big?' 'He's very big an' powerful,' says she. 'An' the child is favourin' the father.' She was baking barley bread, and when the baking was done at her, she took the griddle and put it between two cakes of bread, and gave it to the Buggane to eat, with a quart of buttermilk. He went to try and eat, and he couldn'. 'Aw, man-alive! But this is the hard bread,' says he. 'What sort have you given me at all, at all?' 'That's the sort I'm giving Finn,' says she. 'An' will Finn's teeth go through this?' 'Aw, yes, Finn thought nothing at all of 'atin' that--that's the sort of bread he was wantin',' says Thrinn. Finn got up out of the cradle, and began to roar for a piece. She fetched him a clout on the lug. 'Stop your noisin',' says she. 'An' stand straight and don't be puttin' the drone on yer back like that.' And givin' him a buttercake, she says: 'Ate, ate, lash into ye, an' let's have no lavins.' 'You'll have the chile's teeth broke in his head, woman. He can naver ate bread as hard as that!' says the Buggane. 'Aw, he can do that with life,' says she. But that done the Buggane; he sleeched out and claned away again. He thought if Finn was that strong and the baby that big, he had best catch home again. But it was not long until the Buggane and Finn did meet, and then they had the battle! One day Finn met the Buggane over at Kirk Christ Rushen, and they went at each other early in the day till the sunset. Finn had one fut in the Big Sound, an' so he made the Channel between the Calf and Kitterland, and the other in the Little Sound, an' so he made the narrow Channel between Kitterland and the islan'. The Buggane was standin' at Port Iern--that's what made the fine big openin' at Port Iern. The rocks were all broken to pieces with their feet. But, anyway, the Buggane came off victorious and slashed Finn awful, so he had to run to Ireland. Finn could walk on the sea, but the Buggane couldn'; and when Finn got off and he couldn' get more revenge on him, he tore out a tooth and hove it whizzing through the air after Finn. It hit him on the back of the head, and then it fell into the sea and became what we are now calling the Chickens' Rock. Finn turned round with a roar and a mighty curse: 'My seven swearings of a curse on it!' says he. 'Let it lie there for a vexation to the sons of men while water runs and grass grows!' And a vexation and a curse has it been to seamen from that day to this. THE FYNODEREE The Fynoderee went to the meadow To lift the dew at grey cock crow, The maiden hair and the cow herb He was stamping them both his feet under; He was stretching himself on the meadow, He threw the grass on the left hand; Last year he caused us to wonder, This year he's doing far better. He was stretching himself on the meadow, The herbs in bloom he was cutting, The bog bean herb in the curragh, As he went on his way it was shaking, Everything with his scythe he was cutting, To sods was skinning the meadows, And if a leaf were left standing, With his heels he was stamping it under. Old Song. THE FYNODEREE OF GORDON There was one time a Fynoderee living in Gordon. Those persons who saw him said that he was big and shaggy, with fiery eyes, and stronger than any man. One night he met the blacksmith who was going home from his shop and held out his hand to him to shake hands. The blacksmith gave him hold of the iron sock of the plough which he had with him, and he squeezed it as if it had been a piece of clay, saying: 'There's some strong Manx-men in the world yet!' The Fynoderee did all his work at night and went into hidlans in the daytime. One night, when he was out on his travels he came to Mullin Sayle, out in Glen Garragh. He saw a light in the mill, so he put his head through the open top-half of the door to see what was going on inside, and there was Quaye Mooar's wife sifting corn. When she caught sight of the great big head she was frightened terrible. She had presence of mind, however, to hand him the sieve and say: 'If thou go to the river and bring water in it, I'll make a cake for thee; and the more water thou carry back, that's the bigger thy cake will be.' So the Fynoderee took the sieve, and ran down to the river; but the water poured from it and he could fetch none for the cake, and he threw the sieve away in a rage, and cried: 'Dollan, dollan, dash! Ny smoo ta mee cur ayn, Ny smoo ta goll ass.' Sieve, sieve, dash! The more I put in, The more there's going out. The woman got away while he was trying to fill the sieve, and when he came back to the mill he found it in darkness. The Fynoderee was working very hard for the Radcliffes, who owned Gordon then. Every night he was grinding their corn for them, and often he would take a hand at the flails. If they put a stack into the barn in the evening and loosed every sheaf of it, they would find it thrashed in the morning, but he would not touch one sheaf of it unless it were loosed. In the summer time he was getting in their hay and cutting their corn. Many a time the people of the farm were passing the time of day with him. One cold frosty day, big Gordon was docking turnips and he blew on his fingers to warm them. 'What are thou blowing on thee fingers for?' said the Fynoderee. 'To put them in heat,' said the Farmer. At supper that night the Farmer's porridge was hot and he blew on it. 'What are thou doing that for?' said the Fynoderee. 'Isn't it hot enough for thee?' 'It's too hot, it is; I'm blowing on it to cool it,' said the Farmer. 'I don't like thee at all, boy,' said the Fynoderee, 'for thou can blow hot and blow cold with one breath.' The Fynoderee was wearing no clothes, but it is said that he never felt the cold. Big Gordon, however, had pity on him that he had none, and one frosty winter he went and got clothes made for him--breeches, jacket, waistcoat and cap--great big ones they were too. And he went and gave them to him in the barn one night. The Fynoderee looked on them and took them up, and says he: Coat for the back is sickness for the back! Vest for the middle is bad for the middle! Breeches for the breech is a curse for the breech! Cap for the head is injurious for the head! If thou own big Gordon farm, boy-- If thine this little glen east, and thine this little glen west, Not thine the merry Glen of Rushen yet, boy! So he flung the clothes away and walked his ways to Glen Rushen, out to Juan Mooar Cleary's. He was working for him then, cutting the meadow hay for him, cutting turf for him, and seeing after the sheep. It happened one winter's night that there was a great snow-storm. Juan Mooar got up to see after the sheep, but the Fynoderee came to the window. 'Lie, lie an' take a sleep, Juan,' says he; 'I've got all the sheep in the fold, but there was one loaghtan (brown native sheep) yearling there that give me more trouble till all the res'. My seven curses on the little loaghtan! I was twice round Barrule Mooar afther her, but I caught her for all.' When Juan went out in the morning all the sheep were safe in the cogee house and a big hare in with them, with two short lankets on him, that was the brown yearling! After a time the Fynoderee went up to the top of Barrule Mountain to live, up to the very peak. Himself and the wife went to make a potful of porridge one day, and they fell out. She ran and left him. He threw a big white rock after her and it struck her on the heel--the mark of the blood is still on the stone at Cleigh Fainey. While she stooped to put a rag on her heel he threw a lot of small rocks at her, that made her give a spring to the Lagg, two miles away. Then he threw a big rock with the pot-stick in it--it's in the Lagg river to-day. At that she gave two leaps over the sea to the Mountains of Mourne in Ireland; and for all that I know she's living there still. THE LHONDOO AND THE USHAG-REAISHT One time Lhondoo, the Blackbird, was living in the mountains and Ushag-reaisht, the Bird of the Waste, as Manx ones call the Golden Plover, was living in the lowlands, and neither of them was able to leave his own haunts. One day, however, the two birds met on the borders between mountain and plain, and they made it up between them that they would change places for a while. The Bird of the Waste should stay in the mountains till the Lhondoo should return. The Lhondoo found himself better off in his new home than in the old one, and he did not go back. So the poor Bird of the Waste was left in the mountains and any day you may hear him cry in a mournful voice: 'Lhondoo, vel oo cheet, vel oo cheet? S'foddey my reayllagh oo!' Black Thrush, are you coming, are you coming? The time is long and you are not here! But the Lhondoo answers: 'Cha jig dy braa, cha jig dy braa!' Will never come, will never come! Then the poor Ushag-reaisht wails: 'T'eh feer feayr, t'eh feer feayr!' It's very cold, it's very cold. Then the Blackbird goes his ways. BILLY BEG, TOM BEG, AND THE FAIRIES Not far from Dalby, Billy Beg and Tom Beg, two humpback cobblers, lived together on a lonely croft. Billy Beg was sharper and cleverer than Tom Beg, who was always at his command. One day Billy Beg gave Tom a staff, and quoth he: 'Tom Beg, go to the mountain and fetch home the white sheep.' Tom Beg took the staff and went to the mountain, but he could not find the white sheep. At last, when he was far from home and dusk was coming on, he began to think that he had best go back. The night was fine, and stars and a small crescent moon were in the sky. No sound was to be heard but the curlew's sharp whistle. Tom was hastening home, and had almost reached Glen Rushen, when a grey mist gathered and he lost his way. But it was not long before the mist cleared, and Tom Beg found himself in a green glen such as he had never seen before, though he thought he knew every glen within five miles of him, for he was born and reared in the neighbourhood. He was marvelling and wondering where he could be, when he heard a far-away sound drawing nearer to him. 'Aw,' said he to himself, 'there's more than myself afoot on the mountains to-night; I'll have company.' The sound grew louder. First, it was like the humming of bees, then like the rushing of Glen Meay waterfall, and last it was like the marching and the murmur of a crowd. It was the fairy host. Of a sudden the glen was full of fine horses and of Little People riding on them, with the lights on their red caps, shining like the stars above, and making the night as bright as day. There was the blowing of horns, the waving of flags, the playing of music, and the barking of many little dogs. Tom Beg thought that he had never seen anything so splendid as all he saw there. In the midst of the drilling and dancing and singing one of them spied Tom, and then Tom saw coming towards him the grandest Little Man he had ever set eyes upon, dressed in gold and silver, and silk shining like a raven's wing. 'It is a bad time you have chosen to come this way,' said the Little Man, who was the king. 'Yes; but it is not here that I'm wishing to be though,' said Tom. Then said the king: 'Are you one of us to-night, Tom?' 'I am surely,' said Tom. 'Then,' said the king, 'it will be your duty to take the password. You must stand at the foot of the glen, and as each regiment goes by, you must take the password: it is Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday.' 'I'll do that with a heart and a half,' said Tom. At daybreak the fiddlers took up their fiddles, the Fairy army set itself in order, the fiddlers played before them out of the glen, and sweet that music was. Each regiment gave the password to Tom as it went by--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday; and last of all came the king, and he, too, gave it--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Then he called in Manx to one of his men: 'Take the hump from this fellow's back,' and before the words were out of his mouth the hump was whisked off Tom Beg's back and thrown into the hedge. How proud now was Tom, who so found himself the straightest man in the Isle of Mann! He went down the mountain and came home early in the morning with light heart and eager step. Billy Beg wondered greatly when he saw Tom Beg so straight and strong, and when Tom Beg had rested and refreshed himself he told his story: how he had met the Fairies who came every night to Glen Rushen to drill. The next night Billy Beg set off along the mountain road and came at last to the green glen. About midnight he heard the trampling of horses, the lashing of whips, the barking of dogs, and a great hullabaloo, and, behold, the Fairies and their king, their dogs and their horses, all at drill in the glen as Tom Beg had said. When they saw the humpback they all stopped, and one came forward and very crossly asked his business. 'I am one of Yourselves for the night, and should be glad to do you some service,' said Billy Beg. So he was set to take the password--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. And at daybreak the King said: 'It's time for us to be off,' and up came regiment after regiment giving Billy Beg the password--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Last of all came the king with his men, and gave the password also--Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, 'and Sunday,' says Billy Beg, thinking himself clever. Then there was a great outcry. 'Get the hump that was taken off that fellow's back last night and put it on this man's back,' said the King, with flashing eyes, pointing to the hump that lay under the hedge. Before the words were well out of his mouth the hump was clapt on to Billy Beg's back. 'Now,' said the King, 'be off, and if ever I find you here again, I will clap another hump on to your front!' And on that they all marched away with one great shout, and left poor Billy Beg standing where they had found him, with a hump growing on each shoulder. And he came home next day dragging one foot after another, with a wizened face and as cross as two sticks, with his two humps on his back, and if they are not off they are there still. THE LAZY WIFE Well, there was a woman once, and she was scandalous lazy. She was that lazy she would do nothing but sit in the corner of the chiollagh warming herself, or going on the houses for newses the day long. And one day her man gives her some wool to spin for him; he was terrible badly off for clothes to wear, for she was letting them get all ragged on him. He had told her to mend them until he was tired, but all he could get out of her was 'Traa dy liooar.' Time enough! One day he comes to her, and says: 'Thou liggey my hraa, here is some wool for thee to spin, and if it is not done a month from this day, I'll throw thee out on the side of the road. Thou and thy Traa dy liooar have left me nearly bare.' Well, she was too lazy to spin, but she would be pretending to be working hard when the husband was in the house. She used to put the wheel out on the floor every night before the husband came in from work, to let on to him that she had been spinning. The husband was asking her was the thread getting near spun, for he said he was seeing the wheel so often on the floor that he wanted to know if she had enough to take to the weaver. When it came to the last week but one, she had only one ball spun, and that one was knotted and as coarse as gorse. When her husband says to her: 'I'm seeing the wheel middling often on the floor when I come home at night; maybe there's enough thread spun at thee now for me to take to the weaver next week?' 'I don't know, at all,' says the wife. 'Maybe there is; let us count the balls.' Then the play began! Up she went on the lout, and flung the ball through the hole, down to him. 'Keep count thyself, and fling the balls back again to me,' says she to the man. And as fast as he flung the ball up to her, so fast she flung it down to him again. When he had counted the ball, maybe, two score times, she says to him: 'That's all that's in.' 'Aw, 'deed, you've spun well, woman, for all,' says he; 'there's plenty done at thee for the weaver.' Aw, then she was in a great fix, and didn't know in her senses what to do to save herself. She knew she would sup sorrow if she was found out, but she could think of nothing. At last she bethought herself of the Giant that lived in a lonesome place up the mountain, for she had heard tell he was good to work, and the woman, she says to herself: 'I've a mind to go my ways to him.' She took the road early next morning, she and her rolls of wool, and she walked up hills, down gills, till at last she came to the Giant's house. 'What are thou wanting here?' says the Giant. 'I'm wanting thee to help me,' says she; and she up and told him about the ball of thread and everything. 'I'll spin the wool for thee,' says the Giant, 'if thou'll tell me my name when thou come for the balls a week from this day. Are thou satisfied?' 'Why shouldn't I be satisfied?' says the woman; for she thought to herself it would be a middling queer thing if she couldn't find out his name within a week. Well, the woman she tried every way to find out the Giant's name, but, go where she might, no one had ever heard tell of it. The time was getting over fast, and she was no nearer to the Giant's name. At last it came to the last day but one. Now, as it happened, the husband was coming home from the mountain that day in the little evening, and as he neared the Giant's house, he saw it all in a blaze of light, and there was a great whirling and whistling coming to his ears, and along with it came singing, and laughing, and shouting. So he drew near the window, and then he sees the big Giant inside sitting at a wheel, spinning like the wind, and his hands flying with the thread to and fro, to and fro, like the lightning, and he shouting to the whistling wheel: 'Spin, wheel, spin faster; and sing, wheel, sing louder!' And he sings, as the wheel whirls faster and faster: 'Snieu, queeyl, snieu; 'rane, queeyl, 'rane; Dy chooilley clea er y thie, snieu er my skyn. Lheeish yn ollan, lhiams y snaie, S'beg fys t'ec yn ven litcheragh Dy re Mollyndroat my ennym!' Spin, wheel, spin; sing, wheel, sing; Every beam on the house, spin overhead. Herself's is the wool, mine is the thread, How little she knows, the lazy wife, That my name is Mollyndroat! When the husband got home that evening he was late, and his wife said to him: 'Where have you been so late? Did thou hear anything new?' Then he said: 'Thou are middling good to spin thyself, ven thie; but I'm thinking there's one in that's better than thee, for all. Never in all my born days did I see such spinning, a thread as fine as a cobweb, and hear such singing as there was going on in the Giant's house to-night.' 'What was he singing?' says the wife. And he sang the song to her: Snieu, queeyl, snieu; 'rane, queeyl, 'rane; Dy chooilley clea er y thie, snieu er my skyn. Lheeish yn ollan, lhiams y snaie, S'beg fys t'ec yn ven litcheragh Dy re Mollyndroat my ennym! Well, well, the joy the woman took when she heard the song! 'Aw, what sweet music! Sing it again, my good man,' says she. And he sang it to her again, till she knew it by heart. Early next morning, she went as fast as her feet could carry her to the Giant's house. The road was long, and a bit lonesome under the trees, and to keep up her heart she sang to herself: 'Snieu, queeyl, snieu; snieu, queeyl, snieu; Dy chooilley vangan er y villey, snieu er my skyn. S'lesh hene yn ollan, as lesh my hene y snaie, Son shenn Mollyndroat cha vow eh dy braa.' Spin, wheel, spin; spin, wheel, spin; Every branch on the tree, spin overhead. The wool is Himself's, the thread is my own, For old Mollyndroat will never get it. When she got to the house, she found the door open before her, and in she went. 'I've come again for the thread,' says she. 'Aisy, aisy, good woman,' says the Giant. 'If thou don't tell me my name thou won't get the thread--that was the bargain.' And says he: 'Now, what's my name?' 'Is it Mollyrea?' says she--to let on that she didn't know it. 'No, it is not,' says he. 'Are you one of the Mollyruiy ones?' says she. 'I'm not one of that clan,' says he. 'Are they calling you Mollyvridey?' says she. 'They are not,' says he. 'I'll warrant your name is Mollychreest?' says she. 'You are wrong, though,' says he. 'Are you going by the name of Mollyvoirrey?' says she. ''Deed I am not,' says he. 'Maybe your name is Mollyvartin?' says she. 'And, maybe, it's not at all,' says he. 'They're saying,' says she, 'that there was only seven families living on the islan' at one time, and their names all began with "Molly"; and so,' says she, 'if you are not a Mollycharaine, you are none of the rael, oul' Manx ones, at all.' 'I am not a Mollycharaine,' says he. 'Now, be careful, woman; next guess is your last.' At that she pretended to be frightened, and says she, slowly, pointing her finger at him: 'S'lesh hene yn ollan, as lesh my hene y snaie, Son shenn--Moll-YN-DROAT cha vow eh dy braa.' The wool is Himself's, and the thread is my own, For old--Moll-YN-DROAT will never get it. Well the Giant, he was done, and he was in a red rage, and he cries: 'Bad luck to you! You never would have found out my name unless you're a mummig yn aishnee.' 'Bad luck to yourself, my boy,' says she, 'for trying to steal a dacent woman's wool.' 'Go to the Devil, yourself and your fortune-telling,' shouts he, jumping up and flinging the balls at her. And away home with her, and her balls of thread. And if she didn't spin her own wool for ever after, that's nothing to do with you and me. THE MERMAID OF GOB NY OOYL Once on a time there lived at the bottom end of Cornah gill a family of the name of Sayle, and the Mermaid who had her haunt up Bulgham way was a friend to them. They were always in luck's way and never seemed to be short of anything. Sure enough they were full of thrift, and to fill in odds of spare time they made lobster pots from the osier that grew around in plenty, and they always found a ready market. They kept a cow and a few sheep, just to give work to the women in the long winter nights, but their living was mostly got by the sea. It was well known that Sayle had a strong liking for apples, and that he would often bring some with him out in the boat, but when he got well up in years he would be leaving a lot of the boat-work for the boys, and then the luck began to get less, and many a time one of them had to take a gun to keep something in the pot. Then the bigger ones took to the herrings. One, Evan, however, had to stay about to keep things going, and it happened that one day, after he had the creels set, just at Bulgham, that he pulled the boat in and went up the brow after eggs. On coming back to the boat he heard some one calling to him, and, looking round, he saw a fine-looking woman sitting on the edge of a rock. 'And how's your father?' said she. 'It's seldom he's coming this way now.' Young Sayle was a bit frightened at first, but seeing a pleasant look on her face, he took courage and told her how things were at home. Then, saying she hoped to see him again, she slipped into the water and disappeared. On getting home he told what had taken place, and the father, his face lighting up, declared: 'There will be luck on the house yet.' And he said: 'Take some apples with you the next time you go up that way, an' we'll see.' The very next time the young chap went, he took some apples with him, and when he got to the place where he had seen the beautiful woman, he went, as usual, on the hunt among the rocks. Then he heard sweet singing, and when he turned round what should he see but the Mermaid leaning over the boat and smiling pleasantly. She took an apple and began to eat and chant: The luck o' the sea be with you, but don't forgetful be Of bringing some sweet lan' eggs for the children of the sea. From that time he was nearly living on the water until, at last, he was taken to task for being idle. Then he made up his mind to go sailing in foreign parts. The Mermaid was in great distress, so to please her, he went and planted an apple tree on the brow above her haunt, telling her that when he would be far away this tree would grow land-eggs which, when they would be sweet and ready for eating, would come of themselves to the water for her. And, sure enough, the luck of the family remained, though the boy was gone. She seemed to bear up well for a long time and would often be seen sitting on the rocks in the evening, singing sad songs, and casting longing glances up to the apple tree above. She kept very shy of everyone coming her way, and at last, finding the apples slow in coming, made up her mind to go in search of young Sayle, hoping the apples would be ready for taking when they would come back. But neither of them ever came back, though for many a long year the apple tree bore fruit and marked the little creek where the Mermaid used to live. THE LOST WIFE OF BALLALEECE One time the Farmer of Ballaleece married a beautiful young wife and they were thinking the world of one another. But before long she disappeared. Some persons said that she was dead and others that she was taken by the Little People. Ballaleece mourned for her with a heavy heart and looked for her from Point of Ayr to the Calf; but in the end, not finding her, he married another wife. This one was not beautiful, but there was some money at her. Soon after the marriage his first wife appeared to Ballaleece one night, and said to him: 'My man, my man, I was taken away by the Little People, and I live with them near to you. I can be set free if you will but do what I tell you.' 'Tell me quick,' said Ballaleece. 'We'll be riding through Ballaleece barn at midnight on Friday,' said she. 'We'll be going in on one door and out on another. I'll be riding behind one of the men on horseback. You'll sweep the barn clean, and mind there is not one straw left on the floor. Catch hold of my bridle rein, hold it fast, and I shall be free.' When the night came Ballaleece took a besom and swept the barn floor so clean that not one speck was left on it. Then he waited in the dark. At midnight the barn doors opened wide, sweet music was heard, and in through the open door came a fine company of Little People, in green jackets and red caps, riding fine horses. On the last horse, sitting behind a Little Fellow, Ballaleece saw his first wife as pretty as a picture, and as young as when she left him. He seized hold of her bridle rein, but he was shaken from side to side like a leaf on a tree, and he was not able to hold her. As she went out through the door she stretched out her right hand and pointed to a bushel in the corner of the barn, and called out in a sad voice: 'There's been a straw put under the bushel--for that reason you couldn't hold me, and you've done with me for ever!' The second wife had heard what had passed and had hidden the straw, and turned the bushel upside down so that it would not be seen. The young wife was never heard of any more. SMEREREE The speckled hen and the little chicken were scratching under an apple tree in the garden, and an apple fell off the tree and it hit the little chicken on the head. And says he to the speckled hen: 'Let us go to Rome, for the world has fallen.' 'Who said that to you, little chicken?' said the speckled hen. 'It fell on my head, Smereree!' Then the speckled hen and the little chicken went their ways until they met the cock. 'Where are you going, speckled hen?' said the cock. 'Going to Rome, for the world has fallen,' said the speckled hen. 'Who said that to you, speckled hen?' 'The little chicken said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, little chicken?' 'It fell on my head, Smereree!' So they went their ways together until they met a gander. 'Where are you going, cock?' said the gander. 'Going to Rome, for the world has fallen.' 'Who said that to you, cock?' said the gander. 'The speckled hen said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, speckled hen?' 'The little chicken said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, little chicken?' 'It fell on my head, Smereree!' So they went all together until they met a bull. 'Where are you going, gander?' said the bull. 'Going to Rome, for the world has fallen.' 'Who said that to you, gander?' 'The cock said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, cock?' 'The speckled hen said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, speckled hen?' 'The little chicken said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, little chicken?' 'It fell on my head, Smereree!' So they went all together until they met a goat. 'Where are you going, bull?' said the goat. 'Going to Rome, for the world has fallen,' said the bull. 'Who said that to you, bull?' said the goat. 'The gander said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, gander?' 'The cock said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, cock?' 'The speckled hen said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, speckled hen?' 'The little chicken said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, little chicken?' 'It fell on my head, Smereree!' So they all went together until they met a horse. 'Where are you going, goat?' said the horse. 'Going to Rome, for the world has fallen.' 'Who said that to you, goat?' 'The bull said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, bull?' 'The gander said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, gander?' 'The cock said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, cock?' 'The speckled hen said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, speckled hen?' 'The little chicken said it to me.' 'Who said that to you, little chicken?' 'It fell on my head, Smereree!' So they all went travelling together until they came to the house of the giant; they went in the house and the giant was from home. So the horse went under the big table, and the bull went under the dresser, and the goat went on the stairs, and all the rest in the corners. When the giant came home, they all went at him at once, and there was heavy war between them. 'Calk! Calk! If I come down to you,' said the cock. He came down at last and picked the giant's eyes out, and they killed him, and they all lived in his house together. And if they are not dead, they are living there yet. KEBEG There is a deep dub, or pool, on Ballacoan stream, which the children of Laxey call Nikkesen's. It is the home of Nyker, the Water Goblin. It has no bottom; and brambles and ferns are growing round it, and fir trees and hazels are hiding it from sight. No child, no grown-up person even, will go near it after dark. A great many years ago a beautiful girl living at Ballaquine was sent to look for the calves, which had gone astray. She had got as far as Nikkesen's, when she took a notion that she heard the calves over the river in Johnny Baldoon's nuts. At once she began to call to them: 'Kebeg! Kebeg! Kebeg!' so loud that you could hear her at Chibber Pherick, Patrick's Well. The people could hear her calling quite plainly, but, behold, a great mist came and rolled down the valley, and shut it from sight. The people on one side of the valley could hear her voice yet calling through the mist: 'Kebeg! Kebeg! Kebeg!' Then came a little sweet voice through the mist and the trees in answer: 'Kebeg's here! Kebeg's here!' And she cried: 'I'm comin'! I'm comin'!' And that was all. The Fairies who live in Nikkesen's had pulled her in, and carried her to their own home. She was never heard of again. THE FAIRY CHILD OF CLOSE NY LHEIY One time there was a woman named Colloo, in Close ny Lheiy, near Glen Meay, and she had a child that had fallen sick in a strange way. Nothing seemed wrong with him, yet crosser and crosser he grew, nying nyanging night and day. The woman was in great distress. Charms had failed, and she didn't know rightly what to do. It seems that when about a fortnight old, the child, as fine a child for his age as you would see in a day's walk, was left asleep while the mother went to the well for water. Now Herself forgot to put the tongs on the cradle, and when she came back the child was crying pitifully, and there was no quieting for him. And from that very hour the flesh seemed to melt off his bones till he became as ugly and as wizened a child as you would see between the Point of Ayr and the Calf. He was that way, his whining howl filling the house, for four years, lying in his cradle without a motion on him to put his feet under him. Not a day's rest nor a night's sleep had the woman these four years with him. She was fairly scourged until there came a fine day in the spring, while Hom Beg Bridson, the tailor, was in the house sewing. Hom is dead now, but there's many alive that remember him yet. He was wise tremendous, for he was going from house to house sewing, and gathering wisdom as he was going. Well, before that day the tailor was seeing lots of wickedness in the child. When the woman would be out feeding the cows and pigs, he would be hoisting his head up out of the cradle and making faces at the tailor, winking and slicking, and shaking his head, and saying 'What a lad I am!' That day the woman wanted to go to the shop to sell some eggs that she had, and says she to the tailor: 'Hom, man, keep your eye on the chile that the bogh won't fall out of the criddle an' hurt himself, while I slip down to the shop.' When she was gone the tailor began to whistle, low and slow, to himself, as he stitched, the tune of a little hymn. 'Drop that, Hom Beg,' said a little harsh voice. The tailor, scandalised, looked round to see if it was the child that had spoken, and it was. 'Whush, whush, now; lie quate,' said the tailor, rocking the cradle with his foot, and as he rocked he whistled the hymn tune louder. 'Drop that, Hom Beg, I tell ye, an' give us something light an' handy,' said the little fella back to him, middling sharp. 'Aw, anything at all to plaze thee,' said the tailor, whistling a jig. 'Hom,' said my lad, 'can thou dance anything to that?' 'I can,' said the tailor. 'Can thou?' 'I can that,' said my lad. 'Would thou like to see me dance?' 'I would,' said the tailor. 'Take that oul' fiddle down, then, Hom, man,' he said; 'an' put "The tune of the Big Wheel" on it.' 'Aw, I'll do that for thee, an' welcome,' said the tailor. The fiddle quits its hook on the wall, and the tailor tunes up. 'Hom,' said the little fella, 'before thou begin to play, clear the kitchen for me--cheers an' stools, everything away--make a place for me to step out to the music, man.' 'Aw, I'll do that for thee, too,' said the tailor. He cleared the kitchen floor, and then he struck up 'Tune y wheeyl vooar.' In a crack the little fella bounced from his cradle on to the floor with a 'Chu!' and began flying round the kitchen. 'Go it, Hom--face your partner--heel an' toe does it. Well done, Hom--more power to your elba, man.' Hom plays faster and faster, till my lad was jumping as high as the table. With a 'Chu!' up goes his foot on top of the dresser, and 'Chu!' then on top of the chimney piece, and 'Chu!' bang against the partition; then he was half flying, half footing it round the kitchen, turning and going that quick that it put a reel in Hom's head to be looking at him. Then he was whirling everything round for a clear space, even Hom himself, who by degrees gets up on the table in the corner, and plays wilder and faster, as the whirling jig grows madder and swifter. 'M'Yee!' said the tailor, throwing down the fiddle. 'I mus' run, thou're not the chile that was in the criddle! Are thou?' 'Houl' man! thou're right enough,' said the little fella. 'Strike up for me--make has'e, make has'e, man--keep joggin' your elba.' 'Whush!' said the tailor, 'here's Herself comin'.' The dance suddenly ceased. The child gave a hop, skip, and jump into the cradle. 'Go on with thy sewing, Hom; don't say a word,' said the little fella, covering himself up in the clothes till nothing was left of him to be seen except his eyes, which keeked out like a ferret's. When Herself came in the house, the tailor, all of a tremble, was sitting cross-legged on the round table and his spec's on his nose and letting on that he was busy sewing; the child in the cradle was grinning and crying as usual. 'What in all the earthly worl' ----! But it's the quare stitching, altogether, there's been goin' on here, an' me out. An' how thou can see the needle in that dark corner, Hom Bridson, let alone sew, it bates me,' said she, siding the place. 'Well, well--then, well, well--on the boghee millish. What is it at all, at all, that's doin' on the veen? Did he think Mammy had gone an' left him then, the chree? Mammy is goin' to feed him, though.' The tailor had been thinking mighty with himself what he ought to do, so he said: 'Look here, woman, give him nothing at all, but go out an' get a creelful of good turf an' a whisp of feern.' She brought the turf, and throws a bundle of fern on it. The tailor gave a leap off the table down to the floor, and it wasn't long till he had the fine fire. 'Thou'll have the house put on fire for me, Hom,' said Herself. 'No fear, but I'll fire some of them,' said the tailor. The child, with his two eyes going out of his head watching to see what the tailor was going to do, was slowly turning his whining howl into a kind of call--to his own sort to come and fetch him, it's like. 'I'll send thee home,' said the tailor, drawing near the cradle, and he stretches out his two hands to take the child and put him on the big, red turf fire. Before he was able to lay a hand on him, the little fella leaped out of the cradle and took for the door. 'The back of me han' an' the sole of me fut to you!' said he, 'if I would only a-had another night I could have showed thee a trick or two more than that yet.' Then the door flew open with a bang, as though some one had thrown it open, and he took off with himself like a shot. A hullabaloo of laughing and making fun was heard outside, and the noise of many running little feet. Out of the door of the house goes Herself, and Hom after her; they see no one, but they caught sight of a flock of low-lying clouds shaped like gulls chasing each other away up Glen Rushen, and then came to their ears, as if afar off from the clouds, sharp whistles and wicked little laughs as if making mock of them. Then as they were turning round to come back, she suddenly sees right before her, her own sweet, rosy, smiling child, with thumb in mouth, lying on a mossy bank. And she took all the joy in the world of the child that he was back again safe and sound. THE LITTLE FOOTPRINTS Close to the Niarbyl, the great tail of rock that stretches into the sea at Dalby, is a little house on the strand. It is sheltered behind by the high rock which rises above its thatched roof. Before it lies Bay Mooar, the great bay, held by a chain of mountains purple with ling. Standing before its door and looking to the west, you may see the sun set behind the distant Mourne Mountains. At dawn you may see him rise over Cronk-yn-Irree-Laa, the Hill of the Rising Day. Here lived Juan, the fisherman. He knew, as well as any person, that the Little People were all around. When he was a boy he had many a time looked out of the door on moonlight nights to try if he could put sight on them dancing on the lonely shore. He had not seen them--they make themselves invisible when they know that mortal eyes are on them. But he had seen the tiny riding lights of their herring fleet in the bay, and had helped his father to draw in the nets full of good fish, which were sure to be caught the night after. Many a time he had wakened from his sleep in the dark, and, in the pauses of the wind and the lull of the great breakers, he had heard the sound of hammering. He knew it was the Little People hammering at their herring barrels in Ooig-ny-Seyir, the Coopers' Cave, under the hills, and that as the chips flew out on to the waves they became ships. He had heard the story of the fisherman, a friend of his father's, who was fishing one night at Lag-ny-Keilley, when a dense grey mist rolled in. He thought he had best make for home while the footpath above the rocks was visible. When he was getting his things together he heard what sounded like a lot of children coming out of school. He lifted his head, and, behold, there was a fleet of fairy boats each side of the rock, their riding lights shining like little stars on a frosty night. The crews seemed busy preparing to come on shore, and he heard one little fellow shout: 'Hraaghyn boght as earish broigh, skeddan dy liooar ec yn mooinjer seihll shoh, cha nel veg ain!' Poor times and dirty weather, herring enough at the people of this world, nothing at us! 'Then,' said the fisherman, 'they dropped off and went agate o' the flitters.' When Juan was a big boy he himself saw a thing which he never forgot. One day he left a boat over at the farther side of Bay Mooar, and at night he had to go over to fetch it. It was a moonlight night and the bay was as smooth as glass as he rowed across. There was no sound but the lapping of the little waves on the shore, and now and again the cry of a gannet. Juan found his boat on the strand where he had left her and was setting to work to launch her, when he thought he saw a glimmering light, which was not the light of the moon, in one of the caves near him. He stood where he was, and listened, and he heard the sound of faint music. Then he went as silently as he was able to the cave, and looked in. No light was there but the dim light of the moon. The shadows in the corners of the cave were as black as pitch. Juan was trembling all over, and at first he was blinking his eyes and could see nothing. But after some minutes he saw a great stone in the midst of the cave and the floor of fine white sand. And on the sand around that stone there were little footprints--marks of tiny clogs they were, no bigger than his thumb! THE TALL MAN OF BALLACURRY Tom Craine was going home at midnight from Bradda mine to his home at Colby. The road was lonely and he met no person, but the full moon was shining and it was as light as day. As he began to pass under the trees that grow round the house at Ballacurry, a little dog appeared suddenly from the black shadow at the roadside and followed at his heels. He whistled to it, but as he turned his head to look at it, it ran on in front of him, and for a minute he did not see it. When he came in sight of it again, he was terrified to see that it had grown larger--as big as a goat--and it grew bigger and bigger till it was the size of a donkey! It galloped before him and disappeared round the bend of the road where the gate of Ballacurry is. When Tom came to the gate he saw a very tall, thin man leaning on it, with his arms folded on the top of it. The beast was not there. As Tom reached the gate the tall thin man turned and walked up the long path that leads to the house. When he got to the door he turned again and walked back down the path towards Tom. By the bright moonlight Tom saw the lace ruffle round his neck, the satin of his knee breeches, the silk of his stockings, and the shining buckles on his shoes--the dress of bygone days. His face was white and dreadful. As Tom looked he was all at once taken with terror, and ran off as hard as he could go down the road to Colby. He had not gone far when he met two of his friends, Ben Mylechreest and Bill Teare. He told them what he had seen, and they made fun of him and would not believe that he had seen any such thing. They said they would go back with him to the gate, so they all three turned back. When they got to the gate they saw the big man, as tall as two men, walking up the path with his back towards them. As before, when he reached the door, he turned--what they saw they never told any man! They took to their heels, all three, and ran till they could run no longer. They were trembling from head to foot and the sweat pouring from them. They were too terrified to go home, so they turned in with Tom and they slept, all three, in one bed. NED QUAYLE'S STORY OF THE FAIRY PIG When I was a little boy, we lived over by Sloc. One day, when I was six years old, my mother and my grandmother went up the mountain to make hay and I was left by myself. It was getting rather late, and they had not come back, so I was frightened, and started off up the mountain to try and find them. I had not gone far when I saw running before me a little snow-white pig. At first I thought it was some neighbour's pig and I tried to catch it, but it ran from me and I ran after it. As it went I saw that it was not like an ordinary pig--its tail was feathery and spread out like a fan, and it had long lapping ears that swept the ling. Now and again it turned its head and looked at me, and its eyes were burning like fire. We went higher and higher up the mountain, and all of a sudden I found myself at the edge of a steep brow and was all but over. I turned just in time, and ran as hard as I could go down the mountain and the pig after me. When I looked back over my shoulder, I saw that it was jumping over the big stones and rocks on the mountain side as if they had been butts of ling. I thought it would catch me; it was close behind me when I ran in at our garden gate, but I was just in time, and I slammed the door upon it. I told my mother and my grandmother what had happened, and my grandmother said it was a Fairy Pig. I was not like myself that night; I could not eat any supper, and I went soon to my bed; I could not sleep, but lay tossing about; and was burning hot. After a time my mother opened the door to see if I was asleep, and when she looked at me, HER EYES WERE LIKE THE PIG'S EYES. I felt a sharp pain go through my right leg like a stab. After that the pain never left me; it was so bad that I could not bear to be touched, and I could eat nothing. I grew worse and worse, and after some days my father said he would take me to a Charmer at Castletown. They lifted me in the sheet, four men taking the four corners, and carried me to a cart. Never will I forget the shaking and jolting I had in that cart. When we got to Castletown I was more dead than alive. The Charmer lived in Arbory Street and they took me to his house. When he saw me he said that they must all go away and leave me alone with him, so my father and my mother went to wait for me at The George. The Charmer carried me to a room upstairs and sent his wife away, and laid me on the floor and locked the door. Then he took down a big book and placed it on the floor beside me. He opened it at the picture of a little plant--I can see the plant to this day--and he pointed with his left hand to the picture, and with his right hand he made the sign of the cross on my leg, where the stab went through me, and said: 'Ta mee skeaylley yn guin shoh ayns ennym yn Ayr, as y Vac, as y Spyrryd Noo, Ned Quayle. My she guin, ayns ennym y Chiarn, ta mee skealley eh ass yn eill, ass ny fehyn, as ass ny craueyn,' which means in English--I spread this fairy shot in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Ned Quayle. If it is a fairy shot, in the name of the Lord, I spread it out of the flesh, out of the sinews, and out of the bones. That minute the pain left me. I felt very hungry, and the Charmer's wife set me at a table and gave me dinner. The Charmer went to fetch my father and my mother, and when they came in I was eating like two. The Charmer told my mother I must not go on the mountain alone between the lights again. The pain never came back. I have been sound from that day to this, but I have the mark on my leg where the stab went through as clear as glass to the bone. SCENE: A VILLAGE Blackbird sings to Innkeeper's pretty daughter. Kione jiarg, kione jiarg, Apyrn doo, Apyrn doo, Vel oo cheet? Vel oo cheet? Skee fieau, skee fieau, Lhondoo, Lhondoo. Red head, red head, Black apron, black apron, Are you coming? Are you coming? Tired waiting, tired waiting, Blackbird, Blackbird. KITTERLAND It was more than eight hundred years ago, in the days of Olaf Goddardson, that Baron Kitter, the Norwegian, lived in Mann. He had his castle on the top of Barrule, and he spent all his time in hunting the bisons and elks that were on the island then, until he had killed them all. Then the people began to be afraid that he would chase their cattle and the purrs of the mountains, and leave them no beasts at all, so they went to the wisest witches of the island, to see what they could do. One day Baron Kitter had gone over to the Calf to hunt the red deer there, leaving his cook, Eaoch of the Loud Voice, in the castle to cook his dinner. Eaoch set the pot on the fire and then fell asleep over his work. While he was sleeping the witch-wife Ada put a spell on the pot, and the fat boiled over into the fire. Soon the house was in flames. Eaoch woke and shouted for help at the top of his voice, and his cries were so loud that they reached the ears of Kitter and his fellow-huntsmen, ten miles away on the Calf. When Kitter heard the cries and saw the flames on the top of Barrule, he made for the beach as hard as he could, and put out in a small currach for the island, with most of his friends. When they were in the strong current about half way across the channel, the boat struck on a rock and they were all drowned, and the rock has ever since been called Kitterland. The rest of Kitter's friends, who had stayed on the Calf and so saved their lives, believed that Eaoch, the cook, had made a plot with the witches of the island to do away with all the Norwegians in Mann, so they brought him before King Olaf to be judged, and he was condemned to death. But according to the custom of Norway, he was allowed to choose how he would die. Then he said: 'I wish my head to be laid across one of your Majesty's legs, and there cut off by your Majesty's sword Macabuin, which was made by Loan Maclibuin, the Dark Smith of Drontheim!' It was known to every person there that the king's sword could cut the hardest granite, only by touching it with its edge, and they all begged Olaf not to do as crafty Eaoch asked. But the king would not break his word and gave orders that all should be done as the cook had said. But the witch Ada was there and she told them to take toads' skins, twigs of the cuirn tree, and adders' eggs, nine times nine of each, and put them between the king's leg and the cook's head. They did this, and then the great sword Macabuin, made by Loan Maclibuin, was lifted with the greatest care by one of the king's faithful servants and laid gently on the cook's neck, but before it could be stopped Eaoch's head was cut from his body and the adders' eggs and the cuirn twigs were also cut through--only the toads' skins saved the king's leg. When the Dark Smith heard how the power of the great sword Macabuin had been stayed by witchcraft, he was very angry, and called for his Hammer-man, Hiallus-nan-urd, who had lost one leg when he was helping to make the sword. He sent him off at once to Peel Castle to challenge King Olaf, or any of his men, to a walking race from Peel to Drontheim. King Olaf himself took up the challenge, and off they set. Over mountains and through gills they walked, as fast as they could go, and the one-legged man as fast as the king. When they had crossed the island they each put out to sea in a sailing boat, and each came in sight of Drontheim at the same moment. When they drew near to the smithy, the Hammer-man, who was ahead, called out to Loan to open the door, and Olaf called to him to shut it, and then, pushing past Hiallus, got into the smithy first. To show that he was not at all weary after his walk Olaf took up the great hammer of the forge and struck the anvil such a mighty blow that he split it through, and the block beneath it, too. When Emergaid, the daughter of Loan, saw the strength and power of Olaf, she loved him; and while her father was putting back the block and anvil, she whispered to the king: 'My Father is doing that, so that he may finish the sword he is making. It has been foretold that the first blood it shall shed shall be royal blood, and he has sworn that that blood shall be yours.' 'But is not your father the seventh son of Old Windy Cap, King of Norway?' cried Olaf. 'He is,' said Emergaid. 'Then the prophecy shall be fulfilled,' said Olaf, and he thrust the sword into the heart of Loan, and afterwards slew with it the Hammer-man also. He made Emergaid his queen and they ruled together, and from them came a long line of Kings of Mann. TEEVAL, PRINCESS OF THE OCEAN In the old days Culain, the smith of the gods, was living in the Isle of Mann. It was the time when Conchubar was at the court of the King of Ulster, and had nothing but the sword in his hand. He was a fine handsome young man, and he had made up his mind to make himself a king. So he went one day to the Druid of Clogher to ask him what he had best do. 'Go thy way,' said the Druid, 'to the Isle of Mann. There thou wilt find the great smith Culain. Get him to make thee a sword and a spear and a shield, and with these thou shalt win the kingdom of Ulster.' Conchubar went away, and hired a boat and put out to sea. He landed in Mann and made straight for Culain's smithy. It was night when he got there, and the red glow of the furnace shone out into the dark. He could hear from inside the smithy the roar of the bellows and the clanging of the hammer on the anvil. When he came near, a great dog, as large as a calf, began to bay and to growl like thunder, and brought his master out. 'Who art thou, young man?' said he. 'Oh Culain!' cried Conchubar, 'it is from the Druid of Clogher that I come, and he bade me ask thee to make me a sword and a spear and a shield, for only with weapons of thy making can I win the Kingdom of Ulster.' Culain's face grew black at first, but after he had gazed for a while at Conchubar, he saw that he had the look about him of one who would go far, and he said: 'It shall be done for thee, but thou must wait, for the work is long.' So Culain began to make the weapons, and Conchubar waited in the island. Early one brave morning in May when the sun had just risen over Cronk-yn-Irree-Laa, he was walking on the strand, wondering to himself how much longer Culain would be making his weapons and thinking it was full time for him to return. The tide was going out, and the sun was shining on the wet sand. Suddenly he saw something flashing at the edge of the waves a few paces from him. He ran up to it and, behold, it was the most beautiful woman he had ever put sight on, fast asleep. Her hair was golden, like the gorse in bloom; her skin whiter than the foam of the sea, her lips red as the coral, and her cheeks rosy like the little clouds that were flying before the face of the rising sun. The fringe of her dress of many coloured seaweeds rose and fell with the ebb and flow of the waves. Pearls gleamed on her neck and arms. Conchubar stood and looked on her. He knew that she was a Mermaid and that as soon as she awoke she would slip back into the ocean and be lost to him. So he bound her fast with his girdle. Then she awoke and opened her eyes, which were blue as the sea, and when she saw that she was bound, she cried out with terror, 'Loose me, man, loose me!' Conchubar did not answer, so she said again, 'Loose me, I beg thee!' in a voice as sweet as the music of Hom Mooar, the Fairy Fiddler. By this time Conchubar was feeling that he would give all he had to keep her. He answered, trembling, 'Woman, my heart, who art thou?' 'I am Teeval, Princess of the Ocean,' said she. 'Set me free, I pray thee.' 'But if I set thee free,' said Conchubar, 'thou wilt leave me.' 'I cannot stay with thee, Conchubar,' she cried; 'set me free, and I will give thee a precious gift.' 'I will loose thee,' answered Conchubar. 'It is not for the gift, but because I cannot resist thee.' He unfastened the girdle from her and she said, 'My gift to thee is this: Go now to Culain who is making thy shield, and tell him that Teeval, Princess of the Ocean, bids him to put her figure on the shield and round it to grave her name. Then thou shalt wear it always in battle, and when thou shalt look on my face and call my name, thy enemies' strength shall go from them and shall come into thee and thy men.' When she had said this, she waved her white arm to Conchubar and plunged into the waves. He looked sadly for a long time at the spot where she had disappeared, and then walked slowly to the forge of Culain, and gave him the message. Culain finished the mighty shield as the Princess had said, and forged also for Conchubar a golden-hilted magic sword, and a spear set with precious stones. Then Conchubar, in his crimson mantle and white gold-embroidered tunic, and armed with his great shield and his mighty weapons, went back to Ireland. All that the Princess of the Ocean had said came true. When he went into battle he looked at the beautiful face in his shield and cried 'Help, Teeval.' Then he felt strength come into him like the strength of a giant, and he cut his enemies down like grass. Before long he was famous all over Ireland for his great deeds, and in the end he became King of Ulster. Then he invited Culain to come and live in his kingdom, and gave him the plain of Murthemny to dwell in. But he never again saw the lovely Mermaid. THE WIZARD'S PALACE Long hundreds of years ago there was a fine palace on a mountain sloping up from the sea. It was like a palace in a dream, built of shining marble of all colours and having great doors covered with gold. In it there lived the mighty Wizard who had made it for himself by his spells. But his hatred of other people was as great as his power, and he would not allow any person to come near him except his own servants, and they were evil spirits. If any man dared to go to see the palace, to ask for work or to beg for charity, he would never be heard of again. His friends might search for him, but they would never find him. Soon people began to whisper that some of the blocks of granite near the palace were like the men who had gone up the mountain and never came back. They began to believe that the Wizard had caught them and frozen them into grey stone. At length the Wizard became the terror of the whole island, so that no person would pass within several miles of his palace. The people of that side of the island fled from their homes, and the place was lonely and desolate. So things went on for three years, until one day a poor man going on the houses happened to travel on that side of the island, not knowing anything of this Wizard. His road took him over the mountain, where the Wizard lived, and as he came near it, he was astonished to see the place so silent and desolate. He had been looking forward to the usual food and shelter, with the friendly welcome, but he found the houses empty ruins and the kindly country people gone. And where was the straw and hay which made such a snug bed in the barn? Weeds and stones were lying thick in the fields. Night came on him, and he walked and walked; but never a bit of shelter could he find, and he did not know where to go to get a bed. 'It's a middlin' dark night,' he thought; 'but it's better to go on than back--a road a body is used on is no throuble to them, let it be night or not.' He was travelling on the old road over the mountain, going ahead singing 'Colcheragh Raby' for company to himself, and after a long while he saw a light in the distance. The light got brighter and brighter until he came to a grand palace with every window lit up. The singing was all knocked out of him. 'In the name of Fortune where am I at all? This is a dreadful big house,' he said to himself; 'where did it come from, for all? Nobody never seen the like of it on this bare breas' before--else where am I at all, at all?' He was hard set to get to the door with the blocks of stone lying about like frozen men. 'I'd swear,' he said to himself as he stumbled over one, 'that this was lil' Neddy Hom, the dwarf man tha's missin', only it's stone.' When he came to the big door it was locked. Through one of the windows he saw a table, and supper ready on it, but he saw no person. He was very tired and hungry, but he was afraid to knock at the door of such a fine place. 'Aw, that place is too gran' for the likes of me!' said he. He sat down on one of the marble seats outside, saying: 'I'll stretch meself here till mornin', it's a middlin' sort of a night.' That day meat and bread had been given to him at the last town he had passed through. He was hungry and he thought he would eat, so he opened his wallet and took out a piece of bread and meat, then he put his hand into his pocket and drew out a pinch of salt in a screw of paper. As he opened the paper some grains of salt fell out, on to the ground. No sooner had this happened than up from the ground beneath came the sound of most terrible groans, high winds blew from every airt out of the heavens, lightnings flashed in the air, dreadful thunder crashed overhead, and the ground heaved beneath his feet; and he knew that there was plenty of company round him, though no man was to be seen. In less than a moment the grand palace burst into a hundred thousand bits, and vanished into the air. He found himself on a wide, lonely mountain, and in the grey light of dawn no trace of the palace was to be seen. He went down on his knees and put up a prayer of thanksgiving for his escape, and then ran on to the next village, where he told the people all that he had seen, and glad they were to hear of the disappearance of the Wizard. THE ENCHANTED ISLE Out under the Irish Sea, fifteen or sixteen miles south-west of the Calf, there is an enchanted isle. Long, long ago it was on the surface of the water--that was in the days when Manannan ruled in Mann--but when Saint Patrick drove Manannan and his men from the island in the form of three-legged creatures, they came upon this isle. Manannan dropped it to the bottom of the sea, and they were seen no more. Now it is the home of Manannan Mac y Leirr, Son of the Sea, and he rules it as he used to rule Mann. But once in seven years, when Old May Day is on a Sunday, the isle may be seen. It rises up from the sea just before sunrise, like a beautiful vision, and Manannan looks once more at Ellan Vannin. The hills of the enchanted isle are green, white foam rings it round, and if you are near enough you may see the tossing arms and golden hair of the Mermaids by the water's edge washing their glittering jewels, and hear the singing of birds, and smell the fragrant scent of flowers. But as the first rays of the sun rest upon its highest hills, it sinks into the deep, deep sea. STORIES ABOUT BIRDS I. THE RAVENS Two Ravens met once, and one asked the other in Bird language: 'Is there nothing new at you?' 'The white Horse is dead,' said he. 'Is he fat? Is he fat?' said the other. 'Delicious, delicious,' said he. Then he repented that he had told him that, and called out: 'Bare bones, bare bones!' II. BLACKBIRD'S MORNING SONG Old Robin Quirk one fine morning was sitting sunning himself before his cottage door, when the Blackbird, living in the Tramman Tree in his garden, flew down, settled near Robin, and began to talk to him in Manx: 'Irree, Robin, as gow smook.' 'Rise, Robin, and take a smoke.' 'Cha nel thombaga aym.' 'I have no tobacco,' said Robin. 'Kionn eh, kionn eh.' 'Buy it, buy it,' cried Blackbird. 'Cha nel ping aym.' 'I have not a penny,' poor Robin said. 'Gow er dayl, gow er dayl.' 'Credit it, credit it,' was Blackbird's bad advice. 'Cha der ad dayl dou, boy.' 'They won't give me credit, boy.' 'Quit eh, eisht, quit eh.' 'Quit it, then, quit it,' whistled Blackbird, flying home and closing the discussion. 'The imperence of sin is in them Blackbirds!' Robin said. III. HOW THE WREN BECAME KING OF THE BIRDS A long, long time ago, before you and I were born, the birds of the air gathered at Tynwald from all airts of the wind. The meeting was to settle once and for all the squabbling and fighting among them as to which of them was the cleverest, and it was agreed that the cleverest bird should be king. The sky was black with them, big and little, and soon all had gathered together. Everywhere groups of birds sat-a-row, cooishing, scolding, or sleeping. Some were in fine, black Sunday coats like old Parson Gull, some clad only in work-a-day brown like Poor Brownie, the Hedge Sparrow; but most wore leggings of red or yellow, while the Chough had a new pair of bright red ones. Yellow Tommy, the dandy, was preening himself, swinging on the top of a gorse bush. Old Greyback, the Crow, perched on a rock above him, silent but observant, was eating flitters; and over all, the blue arch of the sky, in which hung motionless a broad-winged eagle. The Corncrake officially announced, 'Raip, raip' (ready, ready). Then each one got up in his turn to tell of all the great things he could do. The Falcon boasted that he and his mate were worth the kingdom of Mann with all its rights; Lhondoo, the Thrush, sang her best to them--it was a pleasure to listen to her, and for a moment she thought that she would be elected; Flame of the Wood, the Goldfinch, spread her bright plumage; Fork of the Wind, the Swallow, told of her swiftness and travels to warm countries in the south; the Curlew, of her riches--'Let the curlew be poor or fat, she carries a groat upon her back,' said she, showing the mark of 4 which she bears. When the Cuckoo got up, the Meadow Pipit darted out from a group and danced round, calling out his name to draw attention to himself, the little fool, and saying, 'Let every bird hatch her own eggs,' so poor Cuckoo wasn't heard. There was a loud-voiced dispute between the Magpie and the Jackdaw as to which was the best thief. At last little Jinny Wren got up to have her say, after all the grand ones had done. 'Ha, ha, ha,' laughed the Snipe, and all the birds chuckled; but Jinny Wren got the better of them for all that. Says she: Small though I am and slender my leg, Twelve chicks I can bring out of the egg. And the birds agreed that Jinny was as clever again as the best of them. But the eagle didn't like it that a little bit of a bird like Jinny Wren should be over him. So he considered for a minute, and says he, middling vexed: 'Birds, it's only right that the best bird on the wing should be king; let's try a heat to see which of us can go the highest.' Hullad, the Owl, looked thoughtful, and said: 'I never saw anything yet worth flying for.' But the birds said: ''Deed, it wouldn't be a bad idea at all.' No sooner said than done. Jinny Diver, the Cormorant, gave the whistle to fly, and instantly off they started. Speeding on great strong wings, the eagle led the way, the little ones following, Pompee-ny-Hoarn, Fat bird of the barley, straggling far in the rear. But the Seven Sleepers, the Bat, the Stone-chat, Cooag the Cuckoo, and the others, didn't stir--the sleep had fallen on them. The Eagle flew up and up and away, away to the sun, till he couldn't lift a feather an inch higher. Then he peered down into the blue to the birds far, far below, and he let a scream out of him: 'Ta mish Ree ny Ein, Ree ny Ein.' 'I am King of the Birds, King of the Birds.' But little Jinny Wren was one too many for him there again. She had taken tight hold of him by a feather under his great, broad wing and hidden herself. And as he cried 'Ta mish Ree ny Ein,' she flew on top of his head and called out, 'Cha nel, cha nel, ta mish er-y-skyn.' 'Not so, not so, I'm above him, I'm above him.' Down dropped the Eagle, and down dropped the Wren, breathless, but King of the Birds. And that's why the boys go round on St. Stephen's Day to this day, singing: The Wren, the Wren, the King of all Birds, We've caught St. Stephen's Day in the gorse, Though he's small his family is many; We pray you, good woman, give us a drop to drink. THE MODDEY DOO OR THE BLACK DOG OF PEEL CASTLE In the days when Charles II was king in England and Charles, Earl of Derby, king in Mann, Peel Castle was always garrisoned by soldiers. The guard-room was just inside the great entrance gate of the castle and a passage used to lead from it, through one of the old churches, to the Captain of the Guard's room. At the end of the day one of the soldiers locked the castle gates and carried the keys through the dark passage to the captain. They would take it in turns. About this time one and another began to notice, sometimes in one room, sometimes in another, a big Black Dog with rough curly hair. He did not belong to any person there, and nobody knew anything about him. But every night when the candles were lighted in the guard-room and the fire was burning bright, he would come from the dark passage and lay himself down by the hearth. He made no sound, but lay there till the break of day, and then he would get up and disappear into the passage. The soldiers were terrified of him at first, but after a time they were used to the sight of him and lost some of their fear, though they still looked on him as something more than mortal. While he was in the room the men were quiet and sober, and no bad words were spoken. When the hour came to carry the keys to the captain, two of them would always go together--no man would face the dark passage alone. One night, however, one foolish fellow had drunk more than was good for him, and he began to brag and boast that he was not afraid of the dog. It was not his turn to take the keys, but to show how brave he was he said that he would take them alone. He dared the dog to follow him. 'Let him come,' he shouted, laughing; 'I'll see whether he be dog or devil!' His friends were terrified and tried to hold him back, but he snatched up the keys and went out into the passage. The Black Dog slowly got up from before the fire and followed him. There was a dead silence in the guard-room--no sound was heard but the dashing of the waves on the steep rocks of the Castle Islet. After a few minutes, there came from the dark passage the most awful and unearthly screams and howls, but not a soldier dared to move to see what was going on. They looked at each other in horror. Presently they heard steps, and the rash fellow came back into the room. His face was ghastly pale and twisted with fear. He spoke not a word, then or afterwards. In three days he was dead and nobody ever knew what had happened to him that fearful night. The Black Dog has never been seen again. LITTLE RED BIRD Little red bird of the black turf ground, Where did you sleep last night? I slept last night on the top of the briar, And oh! what a wretched sleep! Little red bird of the black turf ground, Where did you sleep last night? I slept last night on the top of the bush, And oh! what a wretched sleep! Little red bird of the black turf ground, Where did you sleep last night? I slept last night on the ridge of the roof, And oh! what a wretched sleep! Little red bird of the black turf ground, Where did you sleep last night? I slept last night between two leaves As a babe 'twixt two blankets quite at ease, And oh! what a peaceful sleep! An old Manx Lullaby. TEHI TEGI Long hundreds of years ago there was a witch in the island who made herself the finest and cleverest-looking young woman in it. Her like for beauty was never before seen in this mortal world. When she went out walking or riding the very birds of the air would forget to sing for looking at her, and her sweet voice would tempt them off the trees to listen to her. Even the animals would stand still till she went by, for her beauty cast a spell on them. And as for the men, the poor creatures, they flocked from all sides of the island to woo her, and when they had once looked on her face they never wanted to leave her. They forgot everything else in the world--all sorrow and care, home and country, till at last everything in the island came to a standstill because the men followed wherever this young witch chose to lead them. Their haggards were empty, for they neither ploughed nor sowed, and their houses tholthans, for they neither built nor mended. They cut no turf and pulled no ling for fires. Their fields were covered with stones, so that the cattle died for want of pasture, and their gardens were full of weeds. There was a strange stillness throughout the island--no children's voices were to be heard anywhere. The witch only laughed to see what her beauty had done, and she kept all the men near her by making each think that himself might be the chosen one. If one asked her to marry him she would answer, 'An' maybe I will,' and then she would say the same to the next. So they spent their days in pleasuring themselves. When she had made slaves of the men of the island in this way, she said one day: 'Saddle me my horse, for I've a mind to ride.' So they brought her milk-white horse shod with shoes of gold, with bit of gold and bridle set with jewels, with saddle of mother-of-pearl and saddle-cloth of blue. Tehi Tegi mounted, and the waves of her golden hair flowed down over her dress of shining white. 'I'm going,' said she, 'to the country for the day, and you can follow me on foot if you like.' She rode and took her way under shady trees and through grassy lanes, where blue-bells and primroses grew as thick as the grass, and the hedges were yellow with gorse. She went on by fields, covered with stones, which were once fine corn land; and on she went at the head of them by lonely little tholthans whose roofs had sunk in on the hearth, and then by spots where houses once had been, now marked by jenny nettles and an old tramman tree. Her way mounted upwards among hills shining in the May sunlight, and through gills where little streams ran down between banks covered with fern and briar and many a flower, to the blue sea. At last they found themselves at the side of a bright swift river, and she put a spell on it and made it seem shallow and as smooth and clear as glass, so that the little stones at the bottom were barely covered. Then, when they were all beginning to wade through it, she took off the spell and the water rushed over their heads and swallowed up the six hundred poor lovers. With that she made a bat of herself and rose up in the air and flew out of sight. Her milk-white horse turned into a perkin, plunged to the bottom of the stream, and swam away out to sea and was never more seen. From that time the wise men of the island made their women go on foot and follow their husbands wherever they should lead, so that no such accident should happen again. If by chance a woman went first, anyone who saw her cried out 'Tehi Tegi! Tehi Tegi!' JOHN-Y-CHIARN'S JOURNEY John-y-Chiarn took the biggest journey in his life without meaning to do it at all. One night he was going towards Ballaquirk, taking his time and thinking of his younger days, when all of a sudden he heard a great murmur of people coming up behind him, and, before he had time to look round him, he felt himself getting jostled and a voice asked him--middling sharp, too: 'What business have you here in our way at this hour of the night?' 'I am sorry to give anyone trouble,' said John; 'I'll get over the hedge out of the road.' Then the leader came and touched him with the little stick he was carrying, and said to the others: 'We'll take him with us; he'll be useful enough among the rest.' At that there was a big titter and John felt himself all altered like, and a thing like a load came on to his back. Then they all went on together, Themselves talking and laughing away. As soon as they came near the Ballaragh Chapel though, all was as silent as the grave. The houses were dark and the only thing they saw stirring was Quilleash's dog, and as soon as he smelt Themselves he took to his heels with his tail between his legs. It was a fine easy night with just a touch of soft fog on, and a little air coming down from the mountain as we got to Dreem-y-Cuschaage. There the leader sounded his big ram's horn, and as they went galloping down to the Dhoon, out came some more of the Lil Fellas from the gill and joined them, and more talking and laughing went on. He blew another blast at Ballellin, for there they could see the fog rolling down from Creg-ny-Molt. Again he blew at Ballagorry and they slacked down a bit, and you would have thought the whole glen would have wakened up with the echoes. Down at the bridge they could see the lights going about like will-o'-the-wisps. Then the leader shouted: 'Get into your lines there, my boys,' and the Maughold Lil Fellas put themselves in rows on the walls of the bridge, just under the big cherry trees, holding their coloured lanthorns on the points of their sticks to give light round that dirty turn; then when all had passed, they joined in and followed behind. Away they all went, down Slieu Lewaige, fit to break their necks. They slackened off a bit as they got to Folieu and then took their time as far as Ballure's Bridge, where there was a big lanthorn hanging up in a tree over the old mill. As soon as they saw this, two of Themselves blew horns and then a host of riders came out of the mill, blowing horns too. They turned up the gill and all of a sudden the whole crowd, with John among them, were right in the middle of a big camp of the Lil People. There were lights hanging all about in the trees, and fires blazing under the cowree pots, and musicians playing fine music. Oh, the taking joy there was! Some were going round, giving horn-spoons for the cowree and binjean, and then handing round the oatbread and cheese, and the tramman wine. Then the little fiddlers and fluters and reed-fellows and the drummers got upon the top of a big rock, and the Lil Fellas began to dance, till John's head took the reel watching them. It was a grand sight to see the nice little girls in their red petticoats, and white stockings and shoes with silver buckles on, and little bells all tinkling in their hair; and the Lil Men in their white knee breeches, loghtan stockings and spotted carranes. In the middle of it all, up came the Lil Captain and---- 'John,' says he. 'What do you think of this sight, boy?' 'It's mortal grand,' says John. 'Far before any of the carnivals I've seen before; an' how long will it last?' 'Maybe a fortnight,' said he, laughing heartily. 'And maybe more, so you would better go back to your own people.' 'How'll I get back at all, at all, an' in the dark, too?' says John. 'Tchut, man,' he said, tipping John on the head with his little stick again. John didn't remember any more till he wakened at the break of day close to his own house, and little the worse for his long journey. A BAD WISH May the chimney-hook and the pot-hooks Against thee rise in cruel war; The ladle, the dishes, and the pot-stick, For the dread attack prepare. May the pot-stick and the round tables, Cresset, noggin, and hardware store, All help to tear, and flay, and skin thee When fell'd beneath them on the floor. What if the spotted water-bull, And the Glashtan would thee take, for all And the Fynoderee of the glen, waddling, To make of thee a bolster against the wall. The Fairy of the Glen and the Buggane, Finn MacCool and all his company; May they gather together about thy bed, And in a straw-rope creel run off with thee. From an old Manx Ballad. THE WITCH OF SLIEU WHALLIAN It was Midsummer Day, and the Peel Herring Fleet, with sails half set, was ready for sea. The men had their barley sown, and their potatoes down, and now their boats were rigged and nets stowed on board and they were ready for the harvest of the sea. It was a fine day, the sky was clear and the wind was in the right airt, being from the north. But, as they say, 'If custom will not get custom, custom will weep.' A basinful of water was brought from the Holy Well and given to the Wise Woman that sold fair winds, as she stood on the harbour-side with the women and children to watch the boats off. They told her to look and tell of the luck of the Herring Fleet. She bent over the water and, as she looked, her face grew pale with fear, and she gasped: 'Hurroose, hurroose! An' do ye know what I'm seeing?' 'Let us hear,' said they. I'm seeing the wild waves lashed to foam away by great Bradda Head, I'm seeing the surge round the Chicken's Rock an' the breaker's lip is red; I'm seeing where corpses toss in the Sound, with nets an' gear an' spars, An' never a one of the Fishing Fleet is riding under the stars. There was a dead hush, and the men gathered close together, muttering, till Gorry, the Admiral of the Fishing Fleet, stepped forward, caught the basin out of her hands and flung it out to sea, growling: 'Sure as I'm alive, sure as I'm alive, woman, I've more than half a mind to heave you in after it. If I had my way, the like of you an' your crew would be run into the sea. Boys, are we goin' to lose a shot for that bleb? Come on, let's go an' chonce it with the help of God.' 'Aye, no herring, no wedding. Let's go an' chonce it,' said young Cashen. So hoisting sails they left the port and when the land was fairly opened out, so that they could see the Calf, they headed for the south and stood out for the Shoulder. Soon a fine breeze put them in the fishing-ground, and every man was looking out for signs of herring--perkins, gannets, fish playing on the surface, oily water, and such like. When the sun was set and the evening was too dark to see the Admiral's Flag, the skipper of each lugger held his arm out at full length, and when he could no longer see the black in his thumb-nail he ordered the men to shoot their nets. And as they lay to their trains it all fell out as the witch had said. Soon the sea put on another face, the wind from westward blew a sudden gale and swelled up the waves with foam. The boats were driven hither and thither, and the anchors dragged quickly behind them. Then the men hoisted sail before the wind and struggled to get back to land, and the lightning was all the light they had. It was so black dark that they could see no hill, and above the uproar of the sea they could hear the surges pounding on the rocky coast. The waves were rising like mountains, breaking over the boats and harrying them from stem to stern. They were dashed to pieces on the rocks of the Calf, and only two men escaped with their lives. But there was one boat that had got safe back to port before the storm, and that was the boat of the Seven Boys. She was a Dalby boat and belonged to seven young men who were all unmarried. They were always good to the Dooinney Marrey, the Merman, and when they were hauling their nets they would throw him a dishful of herring, and in return they had always good luck with their fishing. This night, after the Fleet had shot their nets sometime, the night being still fine and calm, the Seven Boys heard the voice of the Merman hailing them and saying: 'It is calm and fine now; there will be storm enough soon!' When the Skipper heard this he said: 'Every herring must hang by its own gills,' and he and his crew at once put their nets on board and gained the harbour. And it was given for law ever after that no crew was to be made up of single men only; there was to be at least one married man on board and no man was bound by his hiring to fish in this same south sea, which was called 'The Sea of Blood' from that day. As for the witch, they said she had raised the storm by her spells and they took her to the top of the great mountain Slieu Whallian, put her into a spiked barrel and rolled her from the top to the bottom, where the barrel sank into the bog. For many and many a long year there was a bare track down the steep mountain-side, where grass would never grow, nor ling, nor gorse. They called it 'The Witch's Way,' and they say that her screams are heard in the air every year on the day she was put to death. THE OLD CHRISTMAS In the days of our grandmothers, Old Christmas Day, the fifth of January, was believed to be the true Christmas. On Black Thomas's Eve, which was the first day of the Christmas holidays, the spinning wheels all had to be put away, the making of nets ceased, and no work of any kind must be done until after Twelfth Day. But there was once an old woman named Peggy Shimmin, at Ballacooil, and she was bent on finishing some spinning that she had begun, so on Old Christmas Eve she said to herself: 'The New Christmas is pas' an' surely it's no wrong to do a bit o' spinning to-night,' though she doubted in her heart if she were not sinning. So when Himself and the rest were in bed, she called her young servant-girl, lil Margad, and said: 'Margad, me an' you will finish the spinning to-night.' Margad was frightened, terrible, but she got out her wheel and sat beside her mistress. The two began to spin, and they were spinning and spinning till near midnight, and behold ye, just before midnight old Peggy saw the flax she was drawing from the distaff grow blacker and blacker till it was as black as tar. But Margad's flax did not change colour because she had only done what her mistress bade her. Peggy dropped the flax quick, put away her wheel, and crept in fear to bed. She knew now which was the true Christmas Day and never more did she spin on Old Christmas Eve. Margad was left alone in the kitchen when her mistress had gone to bed, and at first she was trembling with fright; but she was a middling brave girl, and she took a notion, as there was no person to stop her, to see if all the things were true that she had heard about Old Christmas Eve. 'They're saying,' she thought, 'that the bees are coming out, an' the three-year-old bullocks going down on their knees, an' the myrrh coming up in bloom.' Then she says to herself: 'I'm thinking I'll go out an' watch the myrrh.' So she put a cloak round her and crept out at the door into the cold frosty moonlit night, and midnight had just struck as she put her foot outside. She stooped to look on the spot where the myrrh root was buried, and as she was looking, the earth began to stir and to crack, and soon two little green shoots pushed up to the air. She bent closer to see what would happen, and to her great wonder the leaves and stalks grew big and strong before her eyes, and then the buds began to show, and in a few minutes the lovely white flowers were in bloom and the garden was sweet with their fragrance. Margad could do nothing but stare at them at first, but at last she dared to gather one small piece of the blossom, and she kept it for luck all her life. Then she went to the cowhouse and peeped through the door. She heard a groaning sound and there were the young bullocks on their knees, moaning, and the sweat was dropping from them. Margad knelt down, too, and put up a bit of a prayer to the Holy Child that was born in a stall. But the wonders were not over yet, for as she went silently back to the house she noticed that the bees were singing and flying round the hive--they were inside again, when she shut the door of the house behind her. Always after that, when the neighbours would ask her if she believed in the wonders of the Old Christmas Eve, she would say: 'I know it's true, for I've seen it myself.' THE BUGGANE OF ST. TRINIAN'S A long time ago there came some monks to the broad, rough meadow which is between dark Greeba Mountain and the high road, and they chose a nice place and set up a church to St. Trinian on it. But they reckoned without the power of the Buggane, who had his haunt in the mountain. The Buggane was mighty angry, and he said to himself: 'I'll have no peace night or day with their jingling bells if I let them finish the building.' And, as he had nothing else to do, he took it into his head to amuse himself by tossing off the roof. So when the roof of the church was first put on, there was heard that very night a dreadful sound in it, and when the people of Greeba got up early next morning they found their church roofless, and planks and broken beams all around the place. After a time, and with great effort, the roof was put on again. But when it was on, a great storm arose in the night and it was blown down from the walls, exactly as had happened before. This fall put fear in the people, for they were sure now that it was the evil, destructive Buggane himself that was doing the mischief. But, though they were terrified, they resolved to make one more attempt; and the third roof was nearly finished. Now there was a brave little tailor living about a mile from Greeba, and because he had not too much worldly gear, he made a wager that when the new roof was on, he would not only spend the first night in the church, but also make a pair of breeches there. The wager was taken up eagerly, as they hoped that if the roof was one night up, it would be left on. So Timothy--that was the name of the little tailor--went to the church on the very first evening after the new roof had been put on. He started just when the shadow was beginning to get grey by the hedges. He took with him cloth, needle and thread, thimble and scissors. He entered the church boldly, lit a couple of big candles, and looked all over the building to see that everything was right. Then he locked the door so that there was no way to get in. He cut out the cloth, and, seating himself cross-legged in the chancel, he put on his thimble and set to work at the breeches. He paid no heed to the darkness of the lonely church at dead of night, but with long thread and needle he bent low over his work, his fingers, moving backwards and forwards rapidly, casting strange, beckoning shadows on the walls. The breeches had got to be finished, or he would lose his wager, so he stitched away as fast as he could, thinking about the good money the people would have to give him. The wind was beginning to rise, and trees scutched their arms against the windows. The tailor looked cautiously up and down and round about. Nothing strange came in sight and he took courage. Then he threaded his needle and began his work again. He gave another sharp glance around, but saw nothing at all except the glimmer of the place near the candles, and empty, deep darkness away beyond them. So his courage rose high, and he said to himself: 'It's all foolishness that's at the people about the Buggane, for, after all, the like isn't in.' But at that very minute the ground heaved under him and rumbling sounds came up from below. The sounds grew louder underneath, and Timothy glanced quickly up. All of a sudden a great big head broke a hole through the pavement just before him, and came slowly rising up through the hole. It was covered with a mane of coarse, black hair; it had eyes like torches, and glittering sharp tusks. And when the head had risen above the pavement, the fiery eyes glared fiercely at Tim; the big, ugly, red mouth opened wide, and a dreadful voice said: 'Thou rascal, what business hast thou here?' Tim paid no heed, but worked harder still, for he knew he had no time to lose. 'Dost thou see this big head of mine?' yelled the Buggane. 'I see, I see!' replied Tim, mockingly. Up came a big broad pair of shoulders, then a thick arm shot out and a great fist shook in the Tailor's face. 'Dost thou see my long arms?' roared the voice. 'I see, I see!' answered Tim, boldly, and he stopped his tailoring to snuff one of the guttering candles, and he threw the burning snuff in the scowling face before him. Then he went on with his tailoring. The Buggane kept rising and rising up through the hole until the horrible form, black as ebony, and covered with wrinkles like the leather of a blacksmith's bellows, had risen quite out of the ground. 'Dost thou see this big body of mine?' roared the Buggane, angry that Tim showed no fear of him. 'I see, I see!' replied the Tailor, at the same time stitching with all his might at the breeches. 'Dost thou see my sharp claws?' roared the Buggane in a more angry voice than before. 'I see, I see!' answered again the little Tailor, without raising his eyes, and continuing to pull out with all his might. 'Dost thou see my cloven foot?' thundered the Buggane, drawing up one big foot and planking it down on the pavement with a thud that made the walls shake. 'I see, I see!' replied the little Tailor, as before, stitching hard at the breeches and taking long stitches. Lifting up his other foot, the Buggane, in a furious rage, yelled: 'Dost thou see my rough arms, my bony fingers, my hard fists, my----?' Before he could utter another syllable, or pull the other foot out of the ground, the little Tailor quickly jumped up, and made two stitches together. The breeches were at last finished, then with one spring he made a leap through the nearest window. But scarcely was he outside the walls when down fell the new roof with a terrible crash, that made Tim jump a great deal more nimbly than he ever did before. Hearing the Buggane's fiendish guffaws of laughter behind him, he took to his heels and sped hot-foot along the Douglas road, the breeches under his arms and the furious Buggane in full chase. The Tailor made for Marown Church, only a little distance away, and knew he would be safe if he could only reach the churchyard. He ran faster still, he reached the wall, he leaped over it like a hunted hare, and fell weary and spent upon the grass, under the shadow of the church, where the Buggane had not power to follow. So furious was the monster at this that he seized his own head with his two hands, tore it off his body and sent it flying over the wall after the Tailor. It burst at his feet with a terrific explosion, and with that the Buggane vanished, and was never seen or heard of afterwards. Wonderful to relate, the Tailor was not hurt, and he won the wager, for no person grumbled at the few long stitches put into the breeches. And as for St. Trinian's Church, there is no name on it from that day till this but Keeill Vrisht--Broken Church--for its roof was never replaced. There it stands in the green meadow under the shadow of rocky Greeba Mountain, and there its grey roofless ruins are to be found now. KING MAGNUS BAREFOOT Magnus, great nephew of Olaf the Saint, was King of Norway in the days when the Norwegian Kings were Lords over Mann, and he was called by the name of Barefoot because he wore kilts. He was the bravest and most beautiful young king of his time--tall and strong and brilliant as a meteor. He wore a helmet on his head and carried a red shield with a golden lion upon it; he had in his belt a sword of exceeding sharpness with an ivory hilt inlaid with gold, and a keen javelin in his hand. Over his coat of mail was a tunic of ruby-red embroidered with a golden lion. He was a fine and valiant figure. It was he who brought King Olaf's Cup of Peace to our island, and this is the way it happened. Magnus was sitting at supper one day with his chief men, and their talk ran on the beautiful shrine of Olaf the Saint, which was the wonder of its age. They spake to one another of how it was said that Olaf's body would never be destroyed by death, but would remain as in life and would heal those who prayed at the shrine of any sickness. Magnus laughed the story to scorn and said boldly: 'Seeing is believing; let the shrine be opened that we may see for ourselves if the story be true.' Then the bishop and clergy were horrified, and begged the king: 'Oh king, let not the thing be done, it will surely bring evil on thee.' But Magnus commanded: 'Let the shrine be opened at once. I fear no man alive or dead.' So his will was done and when the jewelled shrine was opened, all saw the body of holy Olaf lying incorrupt and fair as if alive. Magnus touched it with his hands, but was suddenly seized with a great fear. He went away in haste, but took with him the lovely crystal cup that lay beside the Saint. The next night in his sleep he had a vision of King Olaf, majestic and stern, who said to him: 'Choose, I tell you, one of two things, either to lose your kingdom and life within thirty days, or to leave Norway and never see it again.' Magnus awoke and called his chiefs and great men to tell them of his vision. 'Oh king,' they cried in fear. 'Leave Norway with all speed, and keep thy life and kingship.' So Magnus, who was the last of our great Sea Kings, got together a fleet of 160 long ships, each with twenty or thirty rowers' benches, and with bows carved in the shape of dragons. He loved the sea, and, like a true Viking, he used to say: 'I will never sleep under a sooty rafter nor drink in the chimney corner.' Away he sailed to the Orkneys; he conquered them and all the Western Islands, and came to Mann. He put in at Saint Patrick's Isle and went to see the site of the Battle of Santwat near Peel, which had been fought three days before between the Manx of north and south. The beauty of our island pleased his eyes and he chose it for his dwelling-place. He made the men of Galloway cut timber and bring it over to make three forts for him. In one of them, near Douglas, he placed the Cup of Peace, which he knew would be well guarded by the Lhiannan Shee, the Peace Fairy who never left it. Then he sailed to Anglesey and made himself lord over it, but he soon came back to the Isle of Mann, for it pleased him best. On his return he sent his dirty shoes over to Morrough, King of Ireland, with this message: 'Magnus Barefoot, King of Norway and the Isles, bids thee carry his dirty shoes on thy shoulders through thy house on Christmas Day in thy royal state, and own that thou hast thy kingdom and power from the Lord of Norway and the Isles. And this thou must do in sight of his envoys.' When the Irish heard this they were furiously angry and indignant, but wise King Morrough said: 'I will not only carry the shoes, but eat them, rather than that Magnus should ruin a single province in Ireland.' Then he carried the shoes on Christmas Day as Magnus bade, treated the messengers with honour and sent them back to Mann with many fine gifts for their king, with whom he made a treaty of peace. But the envoys told their master of the richness of the Irish lands and the pleasantness of the air, and Magnus kept it in his mind. After this the King of Scotland sent a message to him, saying: 'Cease to make war against me and I will yield thee those of the Western Isles that thou canst from the mainland go round in a vessel with a paddle-rudder.' Magnus made peace on those terms and so the Norse Kings gained the Southern Isles, among which they counted the peninsula of Cantyre because Magnus, sitting at the helm, caused his great warship to be dragged across the neck of land which joins it to the mainland. His vikings shouted with triumph as they pulled the ship along, with their young king in his red and gold laughing at the stern. But all this time, in his heart, Magnus could think of nothing but the conquest of Ireland. He sailed to the coast of Down, where he began to invade and pillage. It was on Saint Bartholomew's Day, 1103, that his last battle was fought. The Irish had promised to bring him cattle for his troops the day before, but as they had not come he landed his men and marched them to the top of a little hill on the plain of Coba. From this place he could see all the country round, and presently there appeared a great cloud of dust in the distance. Some of his men said that it was an army approaching, others that it was the herd of cattle. The last were right, and when the cattle had been handed over, Magnus and his men returned towards his ships. It was now the noon of a calm and sunny day. When they reached the marshes, suddenly a band of Irish rushed out from their ambush in a wood close by, and attacked them fiercely. Magnus ordered his chief, Eyvinder, to sound the trumpet and summon his men around the royal standard. He ordered them to close ranks with overlapping shields, until they got to the dry ground where they would be safe. They made their way as far as an old fort, but the Irish pressed them and slew many of them. Then the king called to a chief named Thorgrim: 'Do you, with your cohort, cross the rampart and occupy the hill opposite with your archers till we join you.' Thorgrim and his men did as they were told and crossed over, but when they were across they put their shields on their backs and fled to the ships. When Magnus saw them he shouted: 'Is it thus you run, you coward? I was a fool to send you instead of Sigurd, who would not thus desert me.' Magnus fought like a lion, but soon he was pierced through the thigh by a spear. He pulled it out and snapped it beneath his feet, crying: 'Thus we, young warriors, break these twigs. Fight on bravely, my men, and fear no danger for me.' His men prayed him to try to spare himself, but he said: 'Better for a people to have a brave king than an old king!' And so saying, foremost in the battle, he met his death. MANANNAN MAC Y LEIRR Manannan Beg was son of Leirr, He was the first that e'er had Mann; But as it seemeth unto me, He himself was but a heathen. 'Twas not with his sword he kept her, Nor with his arrows, nor his bow; But when he would see ships sailing, He hid her right round with a fog. He'd set a man upon a brow, You'd think there were a hundred there; And thus did wild Manannan guard That island with all its booty. The rent each paid out of the land Was a bundle of green rushes; And that was on them for a tax Throughout the country each John's Eve. Some went up with the rushes to The great mountain up at Barrule; Others would leave the grass below, With Manannan above Keamool. In this way, then, they lived, I think Myself their tribute very small, Without care or anxiety, Or labour to cause weariness. Old Ballad. MANANNAN MAC Y LEIRR Manannan Mac y Leirr, the Son of the Sea, was the first Ruler of Mann. He was a great Wizard, and he was so powerful that afterwards he was looked on as a god. He had a great stone fort on Peel Island, and he could make one man, standing on its battlements, seem to be a hundred. When he saw his enemies' ships sailing, he would cover the island round with a silver mist so that it could not be seen; and if, in spite of the mist, his enemies came near, he would throw chips into the water and change them into ships. He was out walking one day on Barrule, when he saw the warships of the Northmen were in the bay of Peel. And with that he made himself into the shape of three legs and rolled like a wheel down from the mountain top as fast as the wind. It was about low tide in the harbour, and there ran a stream of sparkling water out to sea. Now the banks of the stream were marshy, and by the river-side grew a quantity of sedge with broad, green leaves. So Manannan made little boats of the sedge, a good number of them, and sailed his boats in the stream. And when the little fleet floated out of the harbour, he caused them to look like great ships of war, well manned with fighting men. Then terror seized on the Northmen when they saw the Manx fleet, and they cut their cables, hoisted sails, and cleared away as fast as they could, and Manannan and his island were left in peace. Thus did he keep Mann, and not with his sword, or his bow and arrows. In his fort he had a great banqueting-hall, where handsome boys made sweet music, and others played games and did great feats of strength. He had a horse called Enbarr of the Flowing Mane, who could travel like the wind over sea as well as land, swift hounds that could catch any wild beast, and a sword called The Answerer, whose wound was always fatal, besides his Magic Branch and his wonderful boat, Wave Sweeper. He governed Mann well for long, long years. Manx people had the best of good treatment from him, and all the rent he wanted was that each one was to bring a bundle of green rushes to him on the Mountain of South Barrule on Midsummer Eve. The island was a happy place, full of sunshine and all pleasant things, and no person there was old or tired or sad. Manx men have never forgotten Manannan, and this thousand years our fishermen have prayed to him the following prayer, as they have put out to sea. Even up to the days of our fathers it has been used: Manannan Beg Mac y Leirr-- Little Manannan Son of the Sea, Who blessed our island, Bless us and our boat, going out well. Coming in better, with living and dead in our boat. THE CORMORANT AND THE BAT There was a time in the olden days when the cormorant and the bat took counsel together to do something for the poor, as they had compassion on them, and they went into the glens gathering wool to make clothing for them. When they had a quantity gathered they took a boat and put out to sea. It happened as they were sailing that a storm came on, and the waves were breaking over the vessel, insomuch that the poor bat had to leap from place to place to escape the water, and in the darkness he was cast out of the boat clinging to an oar. At daybreak he was near the shore and flew unto dry land. A seagull, standing near by, inquired: 'Och, lil bat vogh, what's there doin on thee that thou are all of a thriddle of thrimblin like this?' When he heard the bat's story, he said: 'As sure as can be, if he will happen on thee, he will take thy life.' They had given each other a promise that one would not leave the other until they had completed their task. The bat was so frightened that he hid himself in an old ruin until the darkness came on; and from that time until now he will only venture out under covering of the night. The cormorant held on to the boat until she filled with water and sank to the bottom of the sea. At last he flew to a rock, and there sat for hours together, day after day, looking out for the bat. At other times he would go for a season into the glens; and in this way they continue from that storm to the present time--the one hides himself, and the other seeks him. CAILLAGH-NY-FAASHAGH, OR THE PROPHET WIZARD In the old days when there were wizards and witches in the Isle of Mann, the greatest Wizard of all was Caillagh-ny-Faashagh. He did not live above ground, but in a quarry, in a hole under the rock on the lonely mountain side, and that is why the people called him the Prophet Wizard of the Wilderness. At dark he would roam over the mountains, and people walking there, when night was drawing on, would hear him crying 'Hoa, hoa, hoa!' like the bellow of a goat, in a voice so terrible and strong that the earth, and all who heard it, trembled with fear. He could change himself into any shape he liked; sometimes he would be a goat with big, fiery eyes; at other times a tall, tall man. Once, when he was a goat, he followed a man that was walking along the mountain road, and that time he had eyes in him as big as two dishes. The man was carrying a lantern, and as he shifted it from one hand to the other the goat followed it from side to side. The man was terrified and began to run. As soon as he left the mountain road the beast roared after him: 'Hoa, hoa, hoa!' Another time, in the shape of a tall, tall man, as tall as two men, he followed a woman who struck across the mountain at Garey mooar, and he had great, big, burning eyes, as big as two plates, in his head. The woman ran with all her might, for life or death, and he ran roaring after her: 'Hoa, hoa, hoa!' But when she turned down from the mountain he came no further. He was a great soothsayer, but he would not foretell what was to happen unless some person asked him. It seems that he must have lived for hundreds of years, for he foretold a battle that was fought in 1098. This was the Battle of Santwat, 'Sand Ford,' between the north and south Manx. He said: The river Neb shall run red from Glen Crew to the sea, And gulls shall sip their full of the blood of Manninee. It all came true. The north men sailed into Peel and ran their flat-bottomed boats up to Glenfaba Ford, where the south men met them to keep them from landing. They fought up the stream to Glen Crew where there was a great slaughter, and the bodies of the slain dammed the stream and turned the little glen into a pool. The waters of the Neb were reddened by Manx blood when they ran into Peel Bay. The south side women had followed the men and were watching the battle from a little distance, but when they saw that the north people were winning they rushed down, and into the heart of the fight, with bratfuls of stones and with hacks, and won the day for the south. And a law was made that henceforth the widows in the south of the island should get half of their husband's estate; but the north side women, who stayed at home, were to get only one-third. The Prophet Wizard foretold, too, the finding of Foxdale lead mines. A man came to him and asked: 'How will I get rich, O Caillagh-ny-Faashagh?' And the Wizard answered: There's a butt in Ballafesson worth the whole of Balladoole. But the riches of the Isle of Mann lie hid behind Barrule. He also gave this prophecy to old Juan the weaver, who asked him for one: At the foot of Barrule there will be a market town, Mullin-y-Cleigh with blood for twenty-four hours will turn roun'. Now the village of Foxdale stands at the foot of Barrule, and it is said that in the old times a great battle between the Manx and the Irish was fought by the stream above Mullin-y-Cleigh, the Mill-by-the-Hedge. To a Peel man he foretold: 'There will be a battle between the Irish and the Manx at Creg Malin.' And the old fishermen say that that battle took place two hundred years ago. It was a Sunday when the Irishmen came in the bay, and they found no place to beach their boats, so they turned the Manx boats adrift, and thought they had the place for themselves. But they soon found their masters. The Manx men came after their boats, and there was the battle--red blood running like water! And the battle was not over that day, but they fought round into Douglas, and finished at last in Derby Haven, so the old fishermen say. Then there was an old maid that had a cressad (a melting pot), and she went from house to house making lead spoons. She was a bit queer; she would not smoke a mould on a sunny day, nor a misty day, nor a wet day, nor a windy day; she must have a day to fit herself. She met the Caillagh when he was in the shape of a goat, and she asked him to foretell when would be the end of the world. He said that before the last: 'The Mountains of Mann will be cut over with roads, and iron horses will gallop over them, and there will be an inn on the top of Snaefell.' That has all come true; trains rush over the island and, for sure, there is the inn on the top of our highest mountain. He said, too: 'Mann and Scotland will come so close that two women, one standing in Mann and another in Scotland, will be able to wring a blanket between them.' But that has not come true yet, though the sandy Point of Ayre is stretching further and further towards the Mull of Galloway. And another of his prophecies has not come to pass yet: 'The Chief Rulers of Mann will be compelled to flee.' But it will all be before the end. THE CITY UNDER SEA Now where Langness runs its long nose into the sea, and on a place now always covered by the waves, there was once a fine city with many towers and gilded domes. Great ships went sailing from its port to all parts of the world, and round it were well-grassed lands with cattle and sheep. Even now sailors sometimes see it through the clear, deep waters, and hear dimly the bleating of sheep, the barking of dogs, and the muffled chiming of bells--'Nane, jees, three, kiare, queig.' But no man can walk its streets. For once upon a time, in the days when there were giants in the Isle of Mann, Finn Mac Cool had his home near this city. He lived at the Sound to keep his eye on Erinn, and to watch the sea. But he was very seldom in Mann, and wherever he was he was always doing some mischief, so that his enemies were many. One day he was in such a hurry to reach his home that he jumped from Erinn and landed in the island on the rocks above the Sound. He came down with such force that he left his footmarks in the hard stone, and the place has been called ever since, Slieu ynnyd ny Cassyn, or the Mountain of the place of the Feet. His first act when he reached home was to get in a red rage with the people of the city close by; his next act was to turn them all into blocks of granite. In his passion he struck the ground so hard with his club that he made a great dent in it--the waves rushed into the deep hollow and the roaring sea drowned the din of the city. Its towers and domes were covered by the green water; its streets and market-place, its harbour and its crowded quays, disappeared from sight. And there it lies to this day. But there is a strange story told of a man that went down to it more than two hundred years ago. A ship was searching for sunken treasure in those parts and this man was let down to the bottom of the sea in a kind of ancient diving bell. He was to pull the rope when he wished to be let down further. He pulled and pulled till the men on the ship knew that he was as deep down in the sea as the moon is high up in the sky; then there was no more rope and they had to draw him up again. When he was on deck he told them that if he could have gone further he would have made the most wonderful discoveries. They begged him to tell them what he had seen, and when he had drunk a cup of wine he told his story. First he had passed through the waters in which the fishes live; then he came into the clear and peaceful region where storms never come, and saw the bottom of the World-under-Sea shining with coral and bright pebbles. When the diving bell rested on the ground he looked through its little windows and saw great streets decorated with pillars of crystal glittering like diamonds, and beautiful buildings made of mother-of-pearl, with shells of every colour set in it. He longed to go into one of these fine houses, but he could not leave his diving bell, or he would have been drowned. He managed to move it close to the entrance of a great hall, with a floor of pearls and rubies and all sorts of precious stones, and with a table and chair of amber. The walls were of jasper, and strings of lovely jewels were hanging on them. The man wished to carry some away with him, but he could not reach them--the rope was at an end. As he rose up again towards the air he met many handsome Mermen and beautiful Mermaids, but they were afraid of him, and swam away as fast as they could. That was the end of the man's story. After that he grew so sad with longing to go back to the World-under-Sea and stay there for ever, that he cared for nothing on earth, and soon died of grief. AN ANCIENT CHARM AGAINST THE FAIRIES Peace of God and peace of man, Peace of God on Columb-Killey, On each window and each door, On every hole admitting moonlight, On the four corners of the house, On the place of my rest, And peace of God on myself. THE END PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., COLCHESTER LONDON AND ETON 
52596	----	CZECH FOLK TALES SELECTED AND TRANSLATED BY DR. JOSEF BAUDIS, M.R.I.A. LECTURER IN COMPARATIVE PHILOLOGY AT THE PRAGUE UNIVERSITY WITH 8 ILLUSTRATIONS LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD. RUSKIN HOUSE 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C. 1 PREFACE The present collection has been selected from the following sources:-- Josef Kubín, Povídky kladské, i., ii. (in "Národopisný vestník ceskoslovanský"). V. Vondrák, Nekolik pohádek z Dubu u Vodnan (S. Bohemia), in "Ceský Lid," xiii. V. Tille, Povídky sebrané na Valassku (S. Moravia). "Národopisný sborník ceskoslovanský," Svazek vii. Prague, 1901. Elpl, Rada pohádek a povestí nasbíraných v Lísni u Brna (Moravia). B. M. Kulda, Moravské národní pohádky a povesti, i. (Prague, 1874). From Moravia. The first two stories ("Twelve Months," "Vítazko") have been retold by the novelist Bozena Nemcová (from the Slovak). My translation could not be, of course, a literal one, because many phrases in the original might seem strange to the English reader's ear. Finally, I wish to express my thanks to Miss Eleanor Hull and Mr. Robin Flower for revising my English. JOSEF BAUDIS. London, October 1917. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE vii INTRODUCTION xiii THE TWELVE MONTHS. From B. Nemcová 2 VÍTAZKO. From B. Nemcová 16 BOOTS, CLOAK, AND RING. From B. M. Kulda 39 SILLY JURA. From B. M. Kulda 55 SLEEPY JOHN. From B. M. Kulda 61 THREE DOVES. From B. M. Kulda 71 THE BEAR, THE EAGLE, AND THE FISH. From Elpl 98 KOJATA. From V. Tille 103 SHEPHERD HYNEK. From Kubín 111 THE THREE ROSES. From Kubín 123 THE ENCHANTED PRINCESSES. From Kubín 129 THE TWIN BROTHERS. From "Ceský Lid," xiii. p. 84 142 THE WATERNICK. From Kubín 151 THE MAN WHO MET MISERY. From Kubín 157 NINE AT A BLOW. From "Ceský Lid," xiii. p. 130 161 A CLEVER LASS. From Kubín 165 THE SOLDIER AND THE DEVIL. From "Ceský Lid," xiii. p. 167 170 OLD NICK AND KITTY. From Kubín 179 THE KNIGHT BAMBUS. From Kubín 182 FRANCIS AND MARTIN. From "Ceský Lid," xiii. p. 213 186 WITCHES AT THE CROSS. From Kubín 190 THE WITCH AND THE HORSESHOES. From Kubín 191 THE HAUNTED MILL. From Kubín 195 The first two illustrations are copies of pictures by Josef Mánes; the others have been drawn by Mr. E. Stanek, who in some cases has adapted drawings by Mikulás Ales. INTRODUCTION The present collection is intended to exemplify the spirit of the Czech race. It may perhaps be objected that folk-tale themes are part of a common stock belonging to all European races, and even to many primitive peoples: but though this is perfectly true, it is also no less certain that the spirit of the nation manifests itself in the manner of their telling. The selection has been made from all sorts of folk tales, artistic and primitive alike; and yet two things are common to all of them: the moral tendency and a sense of humour. By this I do not mean morality in the vulgar sense of retribution for evil, or of filial devotion, or the sentimental insistence upon "every one living happily ever afterwards," and above all upon Jack marrying his Molly. I mean that higher sort of morality which was the mainspring of Protestantism. It is often supposed that Protestantism is very unfavourable to the development and preservation of folk tales; but those of Bohemia are certainly an exception to this rule. The Czech nation was the first to adopt the Protestant faith, and even to-day is still Protestant at heart, though the Habsburgs forced it back into the Catholic fold. The Czechs, then, have preserved their love for folk tales, adapting them to the higher morality and to the national sentiment, and discarding many of their supernatural features, or where the supernatural was allowed to remain for a moment, reverting very soon to the strict limits of probability. It is the very same method which, for example, Mr. Wells employs in some of his novels. That the Slav nations have a certain tendency to lay stress upon the ethical side in their folk tales has already been pointed out by the Czech poet Erben, whose tales have been translated into English in Wratislaw's Collection. As for their humour, the Czechs have a natural tendency to satire. The best works in Old Czech literature are satires, and in modern times one of the most brilliant of Czech politicians, Karel Havlicek, was also the greatest Czech satirist. This spirit may also be seen in the present collection; but in every case the story-teller, instead of assuming the attitude of the morality preacher or of indulging in theatrical invective against the wickedness of the times, rests content with a good-humoured gibe at the folly of the world, at the frailty of his fellow-men, and, it may be, at his own. These two traits are inherent in the nature of the Czech people; and those who know their love of such tales and of the literature which has grown out of them, can realize their search for a haven of refuge from the cruel present and their fond dream-pictures of a land where all was good, where at last everything was bound to end well, where truth and justice at last had conquered. Alas! to the victims of Habsburg rule and Austrian bayonets the bare possibility seemed utterly excluded. And yet why should they not dream of such a land? Amo quia absurdum! But at the very moment their humorous ego could not suppress a sneer. Yes, even in that wonderland which their fancy painted are foolish kings, ever prone to break their word: even there people are bad and stupid! But our tale says that the bad were vanquished and the foolish put to shame: let, then, the tale be told! And even as he tells it, his heart nurses the inward hope that the foreign tyrants who oppress him may one day be vanquished and annihilated. That such were the wishes of the Czech people, the Great War has shown. They have proved by their deeds their love of freedom; and to-day Czechs are fighting bravely in every Allied army and in their own national units formed in Russia. May their Austrian oppressors be brought to the ground, and may Bohemia regain the freedom for which she has longed for three centuries! THE TWELVE MONTHS Once upon a time there lived a mother who had two daughters. One was her own child, the other her stepdaughter. She was very fond of her own daughter, but she would not so much as look at her stepdaughter. The only reason was that Marusa, the stepdaughter, was prettier than her own daughter, Holena. The gentle-hearted Marusa did not know how beautiful she was, and so she could never make out why her mother was so cross with her whenever she looked at her. She had to do all the housework, tidying up the cottage, cooking, washing, and sewing, and then she had to take the hay to the cow and look after her. She did all this work alone, while Holena spent the time adorning herself and lazing about. But Marusa liked work, for she was a patient girl, and when her mother scolded and rated her, she bore it like a lamb. It was no good, however, for they grew crueller and crueller every day, only because Marusa was growing prettier and Holena uglier every day. At last the mother thought: "Why should I keep a pretty stepdaughter in my house? When the lads come courting here, they will fall in love with Marusa and they won't look at Holena." From that moment the stepmother and her daughter were constantly scheming how to get rid of poor Marusa. They starved her and they beat her. But she bore it all, and in spite of all she kept on growing prettier every day. They invented torments that the cruellest of men would never have thought of. One day--it was in the middle of January--Holena felt a longing for the scent of violets. "Go, Marusa, and get me some violets from the forest; I want to wear them at my waist and to smell them," she said to her sister. "Great heavens! sister. What a strange notion! Who ever heard of violets growing under the snow?" said poor Marusa. "You wretched tatterdemalion! how dare you argue when I tell you to do something? Off you go at once, and if you don't bring me violets from the forest I'll kill you!" said Holena threateningly. The stepmother caught hold of Marusa, turned her out of the door, and slammed it to after her. She went into the forest weeping bitterly. The snow lay deep, and there wasn't a human footprint to be seen. Marusa wandered about for a long time, tortured by hunger and trembling with cold. She begged God to take her from the world. At last she saw a light in the distance. She went towards the glow, and came at last to the top of a mountain. A big fire was burning there, and round the fire were twelve stones with twelve men sitting on them. Three of them had snow-white beards, three were not so old, and three were still younger. The three youngest were the handsomest of them all. They were not speaking, but all sitting silent. These twelve men were the twelve months. Great January sat highest of all; his hair and beard were as white as snow, and in his hand he held a club. Marusa was frightened. She stood still for a time in terror, but, growing bolder, she went up to them and said: "Please, kind sirs, let me warm my hands at your fire. I am trembling with the cold." Great January nodded, and asked her: "Why have you come here, my dear little girl? What are you looking for?" "I am looking for violets," answered Marusa. "This is no time to be looking for violets, for everything is covered with snow," answered Great January. "Yes, I know; but my sister Holena and my stepmother said that I must bring them some violets from the forest. If I don't bring them, they'll kill me. Tell me, fathers, please tell me where I can find them." Great January stood up and went to one of the younger months--it was March--and, giving him the club, he said: "Brother, take the high seat." March took the high seat upon the stone and waved the club over the fire. The fire blazed up, the snow began to melt, the trees began to bud, and the ground under the young beech-trees was at once covered with grass and the crimson daisy buds began to peep through the grass. It was springtime. Under the bushes the violets were blooming among their little leaves, and before Marusa had time to think, so many of them had sprung up that they looked like a blue cloth spread out on the ground. "Pick them quickly, Marusa!" commanded March. Marusa picked them joyfully till she had a big bunch. Then she thanked the months with all her heart and scampered merrily home. Holena and the stepmother wondered when they saw Marusa bringing the violets. They opened the door to her, and the scent of violets filled all the cottage. "Where did you get them?" asked Holena sulkily. "They are growing under the bushes in a forest on the high mountains." Holena put them in her waistband. She let her mother smell them, but she did not say to her sister: "Smell them." Another day she was lolling near the stove, and now she longed for some strawberries. So she called to her sister and said: "Go, Marusa, and get me some strawberries from the forest." "Alas! dear sister, where could I find any strawberries? Who ever heard of strawberries growing under the snow?" said Marusa. "You wretched little tatterdemalion, how dare you argue when I tell you to do a thing? Go at once and get me the strawberries, or I'll kill you!" The stepmother caught hold of Marusa and pushed her out of the door and shut it after her. Marusa went to the forest weeping bitterly. The snow was lying deep, and there wasn't a human footprint to be seen anywhere. She wandered about for a long time, tortured by hunger and trembling with cold. At last she saw the light she had seen the other day. Overjoyed, she went towards it. She came to the great fire with the twelve months sitting round it. "Please, kind sirs, let me warm my hands at the fire. I am trembling with cold." Great January nodded, and asked her: "Why have you come again, and what are you looking for here?" "I am looking for strawberries." "But it is winter now, and strawberries don't grow on the snow," said January. "Yes, I know," said Marusa sadly; "but my sister Holena and my stepmother bade me bring them some strawberries, and if I don't bring them, they will kill me. Tell me, fathers, tell me, please, where I can find them." Great January arose. He went over to the month sitting opposite to him--it was June--and handed the club to him, saying: "Brother, take the high seat." June took the high seat upon the stone and swung the club over the fire. The fire shot up, and its heat melted the snow in a moment. The ground was all green, the trees were covered with leaves, the birds began to sing, and the forest was filled with all kinds of flowers. It was summer. The ground under the bushes was covered with white starlets, the starry blossoms were turning into strawberries every minute. They ripened at once, and before Marusa had time to think, there were so many of them that it looked as though blood had been sprinkled on the ground. "Pick them at once, Marusa!" commanded June. Marusa picked them joyfully till she had filled her apron full. Then she thanked the months with all her heart and scampered merrily home. Holena and the stepmother wondered when they saw Marusa bringing the strawberries. Her apron was full of them. They ran to open the door for her, and the scent of the strawberries filled the whole cottage. "Where did you pick them?" asked Holena sulkily. "There are plenty of them growing under the young beech-trees in the forest on the high mountains." Holena took the strawberries, and went on eating them till she could eat no more. So did the stepmother too, but they didn't say to Marusa: "Here is one for you." When Holena had enjoyed the strawberries, she grew greedy for other dainties, and so on the third day she longed for some red apples. "Marusa, go into the forest and get me some red apples," she said to her sister. "Alas! sister dear, how am I to get apples for you in winter?" protested Marusa. "You wretched little tatterdemalion, how dare you argue when I tell you to do a thing? Go to the forest at once, and if you don't bring me the apples I will kill you!" threatened Holena. The stepmother caught hold of Marusa and pushed her out of the door and shut it after her. Marusa went to the forest weeping bitterly. The snow was lying deep; there wasn't a human footprint to be seen anywhere. But she didn't wander about this time. She ran straight to the top of the mountain where the big fire was burning. The twelve months were sitting round the fire; yes, there they certainly were, and Great January was sitting on the high seat. "Please, kind sirs, let me warm my hands at the fire. I am trembling with cold." Great January nodded, and asked her: "Why have you come here, and what are you looking for?" "I am looking for red apples." "It is winter now, and red apples don't grow in winter," answered January. "Yes, I know," said Marusa sadly; "but my sister and my stepmother, too, bade me bring them some red apples from the forest. If I don't bring them, they will kill me. Tell me, father, tell me, please, where I could find them." Great January rose up. He went over to one of the older months--it was September. He handed the club to him and said: "Brother, take the high seat." Month September took the high seat upon the stone and swung the club over the fire. The fire began to burn with a red flame, the snow began to melt. But the trees were not covered with leaves; the leaves were wavering down one after the other, and the cold wind was driving them to and fro over the yellowing ground. This time Marusa did not see so many flowers. Only red pinks were blooming on the hillside, and meadow saffrons were flowering in the valley. High fern and thick ivy were growing under the young beech-trees. But Marusa was only looking for red apples, and at last she saw an apple-tree with red apples hanging high among its branches. "Shake the tree at once, Marusa!" commanded the month. Right gladly Marusa shook the tree, and one apple fell down. She shook it a second time, and another apple fell down. "Now, Marusa, run home quickly!" shouted the month. Marusa obeyed at once. She picked up the apples, thanked the months with all her heart, and ran merrily home. Holena and the stepmother wondered when they saw Marusa bringing the apples. They ran to open the door for her, and she gave them two apples. "Where did you get them?" asked Holena. "There are plenty of them in the forest on the high mountain." "And why didn't you bring more? Or did you eat them on the way home?" said Holena harshly. "Alas! sister dear, I didn't eat a single one. But when I had shaken the tree once, one apple fell down, and when I shook it a second time, another apple fell down, and they wouldn't let me shake it again. They shouted to me to go straight home," protested Marusa. Holena began to curse her: "May you be struck to death by lightning!" and she was going to beat her. Marusa began to cry bitterly, and she prayed to God to take her to Himself, or she would be killed by her wicked sister and her stepmother. She ran away into the kitchen. Greedy Holena stopped cursing and began to eat the apple. It tasted so delicious that she told her mother she had never tasted anything so nice in all her life. The stepmother liked it too. When they had finished, they wanted some more. "Mother, give me my fur coat. I'll go to the forest myself. That ragged little wretch would eat them all up again on her way home. I'll find the place all right, and I'll shake them all down, however they shout at me." Her mother tried to dissuade her, but it was no good. She took her fur coat, wrapped a cloth round her head, and off she went to the forest. Her mother stood on the threshold, watching to see how Holena would manage to walk in the wintry weather. The snow lay deep, and there wasn't a human footprint to be seen anywhere. Holena wandered about for a long time, but the desire of the sweet apple kept driving her on. At last she saw a light in the distance. She went towards it, and climbed to the top of the mountain where the big fire was burning, and round the fire on twelve stones the twelve months were sitting. She was terrified at first, but she soon recovered. She stepped up to the fire and stretched out her hands to warm them, but she didn't say as much as "By your leave" to the twelve months; no, she didn't say a single word to them. "Why have you come here, and what are you looking for?" asked Great January crossly. "Why do you want to know, you old fool? It's no business of yours," replied Holena angrily, and she turned away from the fire and went into the forest. Great January frowned and swung the club over his head. The sky grew dark in a moment, the fire burned low, the snow began to fall as thick as if the feathers had been shaken out of a down quilt, and an icy wind began to blow through the forest. Holena couldn't see one step in front of her; she lost her way altogether, and several times she fell into snowdrifts. Then her limbs grew weak and began slowly to stiffen. The snow kept on falling and the icy wind blew more icily than ever. Holena began to curse Marusa and the Lord God. Her limbs began to freeze, despite her fur coat. Her mother was waiting for Holena; she kept on looking out for her, first at the window, then outside the door, but all in vain. "Does she like the apples so much that she can't leave them, or what is the matter? I must see for myself where she is," decided the stepmother at last. So she put on her fur coat, she wrapped a shawl round her head, and went out to look for Holena. The snow was lying deep; there wasn't a human footprint to be seen; the snow fell fast, and the icy wind was blowing through the forest. Marusa had cooked the dinner, she had seen to the cow, and yet Holena and her mother did not come back. "Where are they staying so long?" thought Marusa, as she sat down to work at the distaff. The spindle was full already and it was quite dark in the room, and yet Holena and the stepmother had not come back. "Alas, Lord! what has come to them?" cried Marusa, peering anxiously through the window. The sky was bright and the earth was all glittering, but there wasn't a human soul to be seen.... Sadly she shut the window; she crossed herself, and prayed for her sister and her mother.... In the morning she waited with breakfast, she waited with dinner; but however much she waited, it was no good. Neither her mother nor her sister ever came back. Both of them were frozen to death in the forest. So good Marusa inherited the cottage, a piece of ploughland and the cow. She married a kind husband, and they both lived happily ever after. VÍTAZKO Once there was a mother, and, being a mother, she had a son. She suckled him for twice seven years. After that she took him into a forest and told him to pull up a fir-tree, roots and all. But the lad could not pull up the fir-tree. "You are not strong enough yet," said the mother. So she suckled him for another seven years. When she had suckled him for thrice seven years, she took him to the forest again and told him to pull up a beech-tree, roots and all. He seized hold of the beech and pulled it up. "Now you are strong enough. So you are Victor (Vítazko). Now you can provide for me." "Yes, I will. Only tell me what I can do for you." "You must get me a good house first, and then you can take me there," said the mother, and she went home. Vítazko took the beech-tree which he had pulled up, and, carrying it in his hand like a club, he started in search of a house for his mother. Following the wind, he walked by old roads and paths until he came to a castle. This castle was inhabited by griffins. When Vítazko reached the castle, the griffins would not let him in. But he did not wait long for their permission: he smashed the gate and went into the castle and killed the griffins; their bodies he flung over the wall, and then he went for a walk through the castle. He was pleased with everything he saw. The rooms were nice, nine in number, but the tenth was closed. When he had gone through the nine he went into the tenth, and there he saw a griffin chained to the wall by three iron bands. "What are you doing here?" asked Vítazko. "I am sitting here, as you see. My brothers have chained me here. Untie my bonds and I will give you a splendid reward." "You must be a wicked old rascal if your own brothers tied you there. I won't unfasten your bonds either," said Vítazko. So he slammed the door, and went off to fetch his mother to the castle. When he had brought her there, he showed her everything, but he did not open the tenth room, and he forbade her to enter that room, for otherwise there would be trouble. As soon as Vítazko left the house, the mother could not rest, and she kept on walking near the door of that tenth room, till at last she went in, and, of course, she found the griffin there. "What are you doing here, and who are you?" "I am a griffin. My own brothers chained me here. They would have unfastened my bonds again, but your son has killed them all. Untie my bonds and I will reward you, and, if you like, I will marry you," said the griffin. "And what would Vítazko say?" answered the mother. "What could he say? We will put him out of the world, and you will be your own mistress." The mother hesitated long enough, but at last she consented, and then she asked the griffin how she could untie his bonds. "Go into the cellar and fetch me a cup of wine from the last cask." The mother went into the cellar and brought him a glass of wine from the last cask. As soon as he had drained the first cup, crash! the first chain fell down. The mother brought him another cup and--well! the second chain snapped. So he begged her to bring him a third cup, and when she brought him the third cup the third chain broke too and the griffin was free again. "But what am I to tell my son when he comes back?" said the mother anxiously. "Oh! you must feign illness, and when he asks you what will save you, say that nothing can save you but a suckling of the earth sow. When he goes to get it, the sow will tear him in pieces." Well (but not particularly well!), when Vítazko returned from the chase, bringing a buck for his mother, she groaned and complained: "Alas! my dear son, your toil has been in vain. It is no use your bringing me this good food; I cannot eat it, for I am deadly sick." "Alas! mother, you must not die. Only tell me what would cure you, and I will bring it for you, even though it were from hell," cried the good Vítazko, for he loved his mother well. "I can only be cured if I get the suckling of the earth sow." Vítazko did not wait; he took his beech-tree and set off in quest of the earth sow. He wandered through the country, poor soul! for he did not know where to go, till at last he came to a tower, and there he found Holy Sunday. "Where are you going?" asked Holy Sunday. "I am going to the earth sow to get one of her sucklings. My mother is ill, but this will cure her." "My dear boy, it will be a hard task for you to get that piglet. However, I will help you. Only you must follow my advice exactly." Vítazko promised that he would follow it exactly. So first she gave him a long, sharp spit, and then she said: "Go to the stable and take my horse. He will bring you to the place where the earth sow lies buried in the earth. When you have come there you must prick one of her pigs. The pig will squeak, and the sow, hearing it, will start up and run round the earth in a moment. But she won't see you or anybody else, and so she will tell the pigs that if they squeak again she will tear them to pieces. Then she will lie down to sleep, and then you must spit the pig and run quickly away. The pig will be afraid to squeak, the sow won't stir, and my horse will carry you away." Vítazko promised to carry out her directions exactly. He took the spit, mounted the magic horse, and it brought him swiftly to the place--far, very far it was--where the earth sow lay buried in the earth. Vítazko pricked one of the pigs, and it squeaked terribly. The sow started wildly up and ran round the earth in one moment. But the magic horse did not move, so the sow did not see him or anybody else, and she said angrily to the pigs: "If one of you squeaks, I will tear you all to pieces at once." Having said this, she buried herself again. At once Vítazko spitted the pig. It kept quiet and didn't squeak at all, and the magic horse began to fly, and it wasn't long till they were home again. "Well, Vítazko, how did it go?" asked Holy Sunday. "Well, it went just as you said, and here is the pig." "Very well. Take it to your mother." Vítazko gave her back the spit; he led the magic horse back to its stall, thanked Holy Sunday, and, hanging the pig from the beech-tree, made haste to go home to his mother. The mother and the griffin were feasting; they did not expect Vítazko, and here he was. They ran away and discussed what they should do with him. "When he has given you the pig, you must still pretend to be ill," said the griffin; "and when he asks you what will save you, tell him that only the Water of Life and the Water of Death can cure you. If he goes in quest of that, he is bound to perish." Vítazko came running to the castle full of joy. He gave the pig to his mother, but she still went on groaning and complaining that she was going to die, and that the pig would not cure her. "Alas! mother, don't die, but tell me what will cure you, so that I may bring it for you at once," said Vítazko anxiously. "Ah! my dear son, I can only be cured by the Water of Life and the Water of Death, and where would you get that?" sighed the mother. Vítazko did not waste time thinking about it. He grasped his beech, and off he went to Holy Sunday. "Where are you going, Vítazko?" asked Holy Sunday. "I am coming to you to ask where I could find the Water of Life and the Water of Death, for my mother is still ill, and only those will cure her." "It will be a hard task for you to get them, but I will help you as well as I can. Here are two jugs; mount my magic horse, and he will bring you to two banks. Beneath those two banks spring forth the Water of Life and the Water of Death. The right bank opens at noon, and from beneath it gushes the Water of Life. The left bank opens at midnight, and beneath it is the Water of Death. As soon as the bank opens, run up to it and fill your jug with water, and so you must do in the other case too. When you have the water, come back. Follow my instructions carefully." Saying this, she gave him two jugs. He took them and mounted the magic horse, and in a moment they were gone like the wind. The two banks were in a far distant land, and thither the magic horse brought Vítazko. At noon he raised the right bank and the Water of Life gushed forth, then, crash! the bank fell down again, and it was a wonder that it did not take Vítazko's heels off. Quickly Vítazko mounted the magic horse and made haste for the left bank. There they waited till midnight. When the bank lifted, beneath it was the Water of Death. He hurried to it and filled the jug, and, crash! down fell the bank again; and it was a marvel it didn't take Vítazko's hand off. Quickly he mounted the magic horse, the horse flew off, and soon they were home again. "Well, Vítazko, how have you fared?" asked Holy Sunday. "Oh! everything went all right, Holy Sunday; and here is the water," said Vítazko, giving her the water. Holy Sunday kept the water, and gave him two jugs full of spring water and told him to take them to his mother. Vítazko thanked her and went home. The mother and the griffin were carousing as before, for they did not expect that he would ever return--and there he was just outside. They were terribly frightened, and considered how they could get rid of him. "You must pretend to be sick still, and tell him you won't recover unless you get the Pelican bird, and he will perish on the quest," said the griffin. Vítazko brought the water joyfully, but the mother was still groaning and complaining; even that was no good, she was sure she was going to die. "Ah! don't die, sweet mother. Tell me what will cure you, and I shall be glad to get it all for you," said the good lad. "There is no help for me unless I can see the Pelican bird. Where could you get it for me?" groaned the mother. Vítazko took his beech again, and it was no trouble to him to go to Holy Sunday once more. "Where are you going?" asked Holy Sunday. "Well, I am coming to you to ask for advice. Mother is still sick; the water did not cure her either, and she says she must see the Pelican bird. And where is the Pelican bird?" "My dear child, it would be very hard for you to get the Pelican bird. But I will help you all I can. The Pelican bird is a gigantic bird. His neck is very long, and, whenever he shakes his wings, he raises such a wind that the trees begin to shake. Here is a gun; mount my magic horse, and he will bring you to the place where the Pelican bird lives. But be careful. Point the gun against the wind from whatever quarter it blows, and when the hammer falls, ram the gun with the ramrod and come quickly back. You must not look into the gun." Vítazko took the gun and mounted the magic horse, and the horse spread his wings, and they were flying through the air a long way until they came to a vast desert, where dwelt the Pelican bird. There the magic horse stopped. Now Vítazko perceived that the wind was blowing strongly on his left cheek, so he pointed the gun in that direction, and, clap! the hammer fell. Vítazko rammed the gun quickly with the ramrod and flung it over his shoulder, and the horse started flying, and very soon they were home again. "Well, how did things go?" "I don't know whether they went well or ill, but I did what you commanded," answered Vítazko, handing down the gun to Holy Sunday. "All right. You did quite right. Here he is!" she said. And then she took out the Pelican bird. Then she gave Vítazko another gun to shoot an eagle with. He went out into the forest, and returned before long with an eagle. She gave him this eagle for his mother, in place of the Pelican bird. The griffin and the mother were making merry again, hoping that Vítazko would never come back, but he was already near. They were terrified, and began to consider what new task they were to set him. "You must pretend to be sick still, and tell him nothing can do you any good but the golden apples from the garden of the Griffin. If he goes there the Griffin will tear him in pieces, for he is enraged because Vítazko has killed his brothers." Joyfully Vítazko gave the bird to his mother, but she still kept on groaning; nothing was any good, only the golden apples from the garden of the Griffin could save her. "You shall have them," said Vítazko, and without resting, he started again and came to Holy Sunday. "Where are you going, Vítazko?" "Well," he replied, "not even that did her any good. Mother is still sick, for only the golden apples from the garden of the Griffin will cure her." "Well, you'll have to fight, my boy," said Holy Sunday; "but, even though you were stronger than you are, it would be a bad look-out for you. Still, I will help you all I can. Here is a ring for you; put it on your finger, and, when you are in need, think of me, turn the ring round on your finger, and you will have the strength of a hundred men. Now mount the magic horse; he will take you there." Vítazko thanked her heartily, mounted the magic horse, and was carried by him a far journey, till they came to a garden hedged about by a high rampart. Had it not been for the magic horse Vítazko could never have got into the garden, but the horse flew like a bird over the rampart. Vítazko leapt down from the horse, and instantly began to look for a tree with golden apples. A beautiful girl met him and asked him what he was looking for. Vítazko said that he was looking for golden apples to cure his sick mother, and begged her to tell him where to look for them. "The apple-tree is under my charge, and I must not give the apples to anybody, or the Griffin would tear me to pieces. I am a king's daughter, and the Griffin carried me off and brought me to this garden and put me in charge of the apples. Go back, good youth, go back, for the Griffin is very strong, and, if he sees you, he will kill you like a fly," said the girl. But Vítazko was not to be turned back, and he hastened on into the garden. So the princess pulled off a priceless ring and handed it to Vítazko, saying: "Take this ring, and when you think of me and turn this ring round on your finger, you will have the strength of a hundred men, otherwise you could not gain the victory over the Griffin." Vítazko took the ring and put it on his finger. He thanked her and went off to the centre of the garden. In the middle of the garden stood an apple-tree full of golden apples, and underneath it a horrible Griffin was lying. "What do you want here, murderer of my brothers?" shouted the Griffin. "I have come to get some apples from this tree," answered Vítazko undauntedly. "You shall not have any of the apples unless you wrestle with me," exclaimed the Griffin angrily. "I will if you like. Come on!" said Vítazko, and he turned the ring on his right hand and thought of Holy Sunday. He set his legs wide apart and they began to wrestle. In the first round the Griffin moved Vítazko a little, but Vítazko drove him into the ground above his ankles. Just at this moment they heard a swirl of wings above them, and a black raven shouted to them: "Which am I to help, the Griffin or Vítazko?" "Help me," said the Griffin. "And what will you give me?" "I will give you gold and silver as much as you like." "Help me," cried Vítazko, "and I will give you all those horses grazing on yonder meadow." "I will help you, then," said the raven. "But how am I to help you?" "Cool me when I grow hot," said Vítazko. He felt hot indeed, for the Griffin was breathing out fire against him. So they went on wrestling. The Griffin seized Vítazko and drove him into the ground up to his ankles. Vítazko turned the ring, and again he thought of Holy Sunday. He put his arms round the Griffin's waist and drove him down into the ground above his knees. The black raven dipped his wings in a spring, and then he alighted on Vítazko's head and sprinkled cool drops over Vítazko's hot cheeks, and thus he cooled him. Then Vítazko turned the other ring and thought of the beautiful maiden, and they began wrestling again. So the Griffin drove Vítazko into the ground up to his ankles, but Vítazko took hold of him and drove him into the ground up to his shoulders, and quickly he seized his sword, the gift of Holy Sunday, and cut the Griffin's head off. The princess came to him at once and plucked the golden apples for him. She thanked him too for delivering her, and said that she liked him well and she would marry him. "I like you well too," confessed Vítazko, "and, if I could, I would go with you at once. But if you really love me, and if you will consent to wait a year for me, I will come to you then." The princess pledged herself by shaking hands with him, and she said she would wait a year for him. And so they said good-bye to each other. Vítazko mounted his horse, cleared the rampart at a leap, killed the horses on the meadow for the black raven, and hastened home. "Well, how have you fared?" asked Holy Sunday. "Very well, but if it hadn't been for a ring which was given me by a princess I should have fared very badly," answered Vítazko, and he told her everything. She told him to go home with the golden apples and to take the magic horse with him too. Vítazko obeyed. The griffin and the mother were carousing again. They were greatly startled when Vítazko came riding home; they had never expected that he would return alive even from the garden of the Griffin. The mother asked what she should do; but the griffin had no more shifts; he made off to the tenth room at once and hid himself there. When Vítazko had given the apples to his mother, she pretended that the mere sight of them had cured her, and, rising from the bed, she put the finest of food before Vítazko and then began to caress him as she used to do sometimes when he was a tiny baby. Vítazko was delighted to see his mother in good health again. The mother took a strong cotton cord and said jestingly: "Lie down, dear son; I will wind this cord round you as I used to wind it round your father, to see if you are as strong as he was, and if you can break it." Vítazko smiled and laid himself down, and allowed his mother to wind the cord round him. When she had finished, he stretched his limbs and snapt the cord in pieces. "You are strong," she said. "But wait! I will wind this thin silk cord round you to see if you can break it also." So she did. Vítazko tried to stretch his limbs, but the more he stretched, the deeper the cord cut into him. So he was helpless, and had to lie like a baby in its swaddling-clothes. Now the griffin hastened to cut his head off; he hewed the body in pieces and hung the heart from the ceiling. The mother packed the body in a cloth, and put the bundle on the back of the magic horse, which was waiting in the courtyard, saying: "You carried him alive, so you can carry him dead too, wherever you like." The horse did not wait, but flew off, and soon they reached home. Holy Sunday had been expecting him, for she knew what would probably happen to him. Without delay she rubbed the body with the Water of Death, then she put it together and poured the Water of Life over it. Vítazko yawned, and rose to his feet alive and well. "Well, I have had a long sleep," he said to himself. "You would have been sleeping till doomsday if I hadn't awakened you. Well, how do you feel now?" "Oh! I am all right! Only, it's funny: it's as though I had not got any heart." "That is true; you haven't got a heart," answered Holy Sunday. "Where can it be, then?" "Where else should it be, but in the castle, hanging from the crossbeam?" said Holy Sunday, and she told him all that had happened to him. But Vítazko could not be angry, neither could he weep, for he had no heart. So he had to go and get it. Holy Sunday gave him a fiddle and sent him to the castle. He was to play on the fiddle, and, as a reward, was to ask for the heart, and, when he got it, he must return at once to Holy Sunday--those were her orders. Vítazko went to the castle, and when he saw that his mother was looking out of the window, he began playing beautifully. The mother was delighted with the music below, so she called the old fiddler (for Holy Sunday had put that shape upon him) into the castle and asked him to play. He played, and the mother danced with the griffin; they danced hard, and did not stop until they were tired. Then the mother gave the fiddler meat and drink, and she offered him gold, but he would not take it. "What could I do with all that money? I am too old for it," he answered. "Well, what am I to give you, then? It is for you to ask," said the mother. "What are you to give me?" said he, looking round the room. "Oh! give me that heart, hanging there from the crossbeam!" "If you like that, we can give it to you," said the griffin, and the mother took it down and gave it to Vítazko. He thanked them for it, and hastened from the castle to Holy Sunday. "It is lucky that we have got it again," said Holy Sunday; and she took the heart in her hands, washed it first in the Water of Death and afterwards in the Water of Life, and then she put it in the bill of the Pelican bird. The bird stretched out his long neck and replaced the heart in Vítazko's breast. At once Vítazko felt it joyfully leaping. And for this service Holy Sunday gave the Pelican bird his freedom again. And now she said to Vítazko: "You must go once more to the castle and deal out justice. Take the form of a pigeon and, when you think of me, you will regain your own shape." No sooner had she said this than Vítazko was changed into a pigeon, and away he flew to the castle. The mother and the griffin were caressing each other when suddenly a pigeon alighted on the window-sill. As soon as the mother saw the pigeon she sent the griffin to shoot him, but before the griffin could get hold of his crossbow the pigeon flew down into the hall, took human form, seized the sword and cut the griffin's head off at a stroke. "And what am I to do with thee, thou good-for-nothing mother?" he said, turning to his mother, who in terror fell at his feet begging for mercy. "Do not be afraid--I will not do you any harm. Let God judge between us." He took her hand and led her to the castle yard, unsheathed his sword, and said: "Behold, mother! I will throw this sword into the air. If I am guilty, it will strike me; if you are guilty, it is you it will strike. Let God decide." The sword whirled through the air, it darted past Vítazko's head, and smote straight into his mother's heart. Vítazko lamented over her and buried her. Then he returned to Holy Sunday and thanked her well for all her kindness. He girded on the sword, took his beech-tree in his hand, and went to his beautiful princess. He found her with her royal father, who had tried to make her marry various kings and princes, but she would marry none of them. She would wait a year, she said. The year was not yet over when one day Vítazko arrived in the royal palace to ask for the maiden's hand. "This is my betrothed," exclaimed the princess joyfully, as soon as she saw him, and she went straight up to him. A splendid feast was made ready, the father gave his kingdom into their hands, and that is the end of this story. BOOTS, CLOAK, AND RING Once there was a blacksmith, and he had only one son, John by name. They sent him to school, but fortune changed and his parents fell into poverty, so they were forced to take their son home again. John had already passed through the higher standard, but he could not support his parents. So one day he said: "Father and mother! What can I do at home? There is no business here, so I can't be a clerk, and I am too old now to learn a trade. So I will go out into the world and find myself a job, and, whenever I can, I will send you some money. And when I get a good job, you must sell your cottage and come and live with me." His father and mother wept, because he wanted to leave them, but they knew that he was right, for there was no chance for him if he stayed at home. So they let him go. They gave him their blessing before he went out into the world. John wept till his heart nearly broke at parting with his aged parents. He walked on till noon. At noon he sat down beneath a lime-tree beside a well, and had his meal and a drink. Then, strengthened and refreshed, he walked on till nightfall. The country was quite unknown to him, so he had to spend the night in the forest. The next day he went on again till he came into a wild mountain country. There he stopped and thought over what he should do next. He stood awhile, and then he went on again. He reached a pleasant valley, and there he found three brothers. They were quarrelling and on the point of coming to blows. John asked them what the matter was. The eldest answered: "Our father has died, and he bequeathed to us these boots, this cloak, and this hat. And each of us would like to own the boots." "Why?" asked John. "Because they have the property that whoever puts them on can cover ten miles in the moment he wishes it. The cloak has the property that its owner can fly as far and as high as he likes. And the property of the hat is that it makes its wearer invisible." John said: "You are brothers, and you ought not to quarrel. You must love one another. So that you won't quarrel any more, I will decide the matter for you. Give me those things." They gave him the boots, the cloak, and the hat. He put the hat on, and they couldn't see him any more; he wrapped himself in the cloak, took the boots, and flew away. He flew some distance before he alighted upon a log and put the boots on. As he sat on the log, it turned over, and he saw a big hole under it. He went down the hole and came to some stairs, and went down them to the bottom without any difficulty. There he found a big room without any human being in it. The table was laid for one person. He thought: "I am hungry. Shall I eat this meal?" Finally he decided to risk it; he took off his hat and began to eat. When he had finished, an old crone entered the room, and asked: "Did you like your meal?" "Oh, it was very nice indeed," answered John; "and, by the way, could you give me lodging for the night?" "I will, if you can stand it; for at midnight twenty-four ghosts will come, and they will try to make you play cards with them and dance with them. But you must sit still and not so much as look at them." So the first night came. John was sitting eating his meal. When he had finished, he remained at table. After eleven o'clock two dozen ghosts entered the room and asked him to play cards with them. He refused, so they began preparations for playing skittles, and again asked him to join them, but he would not. Then a delightful music began to play, and they asked him to dance with them. No, he wouldn't; he did not so much as look at them. They kept on dragging him about, tearing and biting him, till he began to think it was all over with him. But just then it struck twelve, and the ghosts vanished. In the morning the old crone came back and waked him, for he was still asleep on the ground. She asked him: "How did you sleep?" "Very well," said John. "Did you, now?" answered the old woman. "Well, next night will be still worse, if you can stand it. Two score of ghosts will come, and they'll urge you to play cards and skittles with them and to dance with them. But you must sit quiet; don't so much as look at them." He stayed there that day, and had a good time. Then the second night came. After eleven o'clock twoscore ghosts rushed in. They urged him to play cards and skittles with them and to dance with them. But John wouldn't. He sat still, without so much as looking at them. So they began to torture him again, and dragged him about even worse than before. But when it struck twelve they left him on the ground and disappeared. In the morning the old crone came. She washed him with some lotion till he recovered. She asked him: "How did you sleep?" "Splendidly," said he. "Did you, now?" said she. "It was a bad lodging for you, but the third night will be even worse, if you can stand it. Three score of ghosts will come, and will urge you to play cards and skittles and to dance with them. But you must sit still and not so much as look at them." All that day he had a good time again. The third night came, and after eleven o'clock three score of ghosts rushed in. They gathered round him, and urged, prayed, and besought him to play and dance with him. When he refused, they seized him and began knocking him against the ground, tearing and biting him, so that he lost his senses and did not see them go away. In the morning the old crone came and anointed him with a precious salve till he recovered. The old woman said: "You wouldn't have had such a bad time if you had not stolen the boots, the cloak, and the hat. The ghosts would simply have pressed you; they would have had no power over you. As you followed my advice and did not play with them, you have delivered an enchanted town and a beautiful princess. She will come to you at once. Now you are rich, return the stolen goods." Then there came a girl in a white robe. It was the beautiful princess, and she thanked him for delivering her and the whole town. He went to the window, and outside he saw streets full of people and soldiers and a great bustle going on. The princess said: "My father is a king, and you will marry me and succeed him. But my father dwells far from here, and we will go to him. Do you take this ring here." So they went off. When the wedding was to take place, John wanted his parents to be present, so he asked the princess: "May I go to see my parents? I would like them to be at our wedding." The princess answered: "They live a great way from us, but you will be able to get to them. The ring I gave you has the property that, when you turn it on your finger and wish to go a hundred miles, you will cover that distance in a moment. On your way you will come to a king who has a beautiful daughter. But you must not think of her nor of me, for then you will lose the ring, and you will not be able to go any farther." John started. He turned the ring, and in a moment he was a hundred miles off, and found himself with a king who had several sons. They entertained him splendidly. Then he came to another king who had an only daughter, and she was very vulgar. The king insisted that John should marry her. John thought: "What are you thinking of, my man? My bright one is so beautiful that there is not her equal in the wide world, while your daughter is only a vulgar creature." At the moment he thought of his bride the ring slipped from his finger and disappeared. John left them then. He was very sad, and considered what he should do. "My bride is far away now," he thought. "I cannot find my way either to her or to my parents." As he was walking along in this sad mood, he thought of his cloak, and it came into his mind that, if he could reach the Sun's abode the same day, he could ask where his bride's castle was. As soon as he thought of this he was at the Sun's house. The Sun was not in; only his housekeeper was at home. He asked her for a lodging, and said that he would like to ask the Sun whether he knew the castle where his bride dwelt. She gave him the lodging. When the Sun returned home in the evening, John asked him whether he had any knowledge of the castle in which his wife dwelt. The Sun answered: "I don't know. I never shone there. But go and ask the Moon." The next day, as soon as he woke, he flew off on his cloak to the Moon's castle. When he got there, the Moon was not in, and John asked the housekeeper for a night's lodging. He said he would like to ask the Moon's advice. The housekeeper said: "You must wait till the Moon comes home, but you will be very cold, for my mistress is an extremely cold person." "I will crouch in a corner and wait till the mistress comes; in any case, my cloak is warm enough." When the morning drew near, the Moon returned home, and John asked her whether she knew where his bride's castle was. The Moon said: "I never shone there. But go to the Wind. He is a fellow who penetrates everywhere, and so he is likely to know where that castle is." So John went to the Wind's house. The Wind was not in, but Melusine, his wife, was alone at home. John asked her to let him stay there for the night. She tried to dissuade him. "It is impossible, good sir. My lord is used to blow terribly. It will be exceedingly cold." He answered: "I will cover myself up and crouch somewhere. I can endure cold, and, anyhow, my cloak is warm enough." So he stayed there for the night. After midnight the Wind came home and asked: "Who is here with you, wife? I smell a man." "Who should be here?" she said. "Your nose is still full of the human smell." But the Wind persisted: "There is somebody here! Tell me!" So she confessed. "Don't be angry, dear husband! There is a man staying here for the night, and he wants to ask you whether you will be kind enough to take him to his bride's castle." The Wind answered: "It is very far from here, and I must ask the Lord how strongly I am to blow, if we are to get there. I was there yesterday; they are going to celebrate a wedding there, and they have been drying some shirts ready for it, and I have been helping them." The Wind went to ask the Lord; and when he came back, he said to John: "I can blow strongly enough, but I don't know whether you will be able to keep step with me." John answered: "I have got good boots, and I am sure I can." So he wrapped himself in his cloak, covered his head with his hat, and put his boots on, and he went ahead so quickly that the Wind could hardly keep step with him. As they drew near to the castle, the Wind said: "Here it is," and disappeared in a whirl. The other bridegroom had already arrived, and was at the wedding feast. John passed through the castle, and came to the table at which they were dining. Nobody could see him. He remained standing near the bride, and whenever she lifted the food to her mouth, he ate it before it could reach her mouth, so that the spoon reached her mouth empty. After the banquet she said: "My plates were well filled, and yet it is as though I had been eating nothing at all. Who is it that has eaten my food? My glass was full too. I have not drunk, and yet it is empty. Who has drunk my wine?" Then she went to the kitchen, and John followed close at her heels. When she was alone he revealed himself. He took his hat off, and she knew him. She was greatly rejoiced at this, and ran to the room and said: "Gentlemen, I would like to ask you a question. I had a golden key and I lost it. So I had a silver key made for me, and, now that it is made, I have found the golden key. Would you be so kind as to advise me which of them I ought to keep?" The bridegroom stepped forward and said: "Keep the golden key." Off she went. She dressed John in beautiful garments, and then presented him to the guests, saying: "This is my golden key. He delivered me from torment, and I was to marry him. He went to see his parents, but he could not reach them. Now he has come back to me just as I was going to marry another man, the silver key of my story, though I had given up all hope of his return. Yet he has come back, and I shall keep him, the golden key, for the silver key has himself decided so." The wedding was celebrated the next day, and John took charge of the old king's kingdom. Then they both went to visit his old parents, and brought them back with them to the palace. On their way back they called on the three brothers, and John gave them back the boots, the cloak, and the hat. And if they haven't died since, they are still alive enjoying their kingdom. SILLY JURA Once there were two brothers. They were lazy fellows, and thieves into the bargain. They were expected to give a feast. They said to one another: "We haven't got anything. Wherever shall we find food for the feast?" So the first said: "I'll go to our neighbour's. He has some fine apples, and I'll pluck some of them." The second said: "I'll go to the shepherd's. He has some fine rams. I'll steal a ram from him." These two brothers hated the third, and so they abused him: "Silly Jura! You won't get anything yourself, but you'll be ready enough to eat what we get." So Jura said: "I'll go to the burgomaster's and get some nuts." In the evening they went their ways. When he had finished plucking the nuts, Jura went into the charnel-house at the back of the church and began to crack the nuts there. The watchmen heard the cracking in the charnel-house, and they thought the place was haunted. As there was no priest in the village (he lived in the next village), they went to the burgomaster and asked him to go with them to the charnel-house, saying that the place was haunted. The burgomaster said: "I am so ill that I can't stand on my feet; no doctor can help me." But the watchmen insisted, and so the burgomaster told his servant to take him on his back and carry him to the place. The servant carried him along, and the watchmen called at the churchwarden's to ask for some holy water. When they came near to the charnel-house, Jura thought it was his brother bringing the ram, so he called out: "Are you bringing him?" The servant was frightened, and let the burgomaster fall and ran away. The burgomaster was terrified too. He jumped up and ran after the servant. He cleared a wooden fence with one leap in his flight, and it wasn't long till he reached home. His family wondered to see him cured so quickly without the help of a doctor. Next day the burgomaster proclaimed that he would give a pound to the man who had stolen his nuts the day before, if he would only come to see him. So Jura went to him, and the burgomaster said: "I ought to punish you for stealing, but since you have cured my illness which nobody was able to cure, I'll give you the pound I promised, but you mustn't steal any more." So Jura promised not to steal any more, and went home. The brothers grew very fond of him now that he had money. They borrowed the money from him and bought themselves new clothes, and said: "We'll go to see the world and to get wives for ourselves. As for you, Silly Jura, you must stay at home; you'd never get a good wife for yourself." So off they went. But Jura went too. He went to the forest and he was utterly dazzled. He had often heard that there was an enchanted castle in that forest. When he came to the place where the ruins of the castle were, night overtook him, and so he could see nothing except what looked like a light in a cellar. So he went into the cellar to make his night's lodging there. There was nobody in the cellar but a cat. The cat greeted him: "Welcome, dear Jura! How did you come here?" Jura was frightened when he heard the cat speak, and was going to run away. But the cat told him not to go; there was no need to be frightened. He must come back, and no harm would be done to him. If he wanted to eat, he could go into the storeroom and take what he wanted. She would take him for her servant. So he stayed there a year and had a good time. He never saw a cook, but he always found meals ready prepared in the storeroom. He had nothing to do but get firewood, and at the end of the year he was told to make a great pile of it. Then the cat said: "You must light the pile to-day, and throw me into the fire. You must not help me out, however I entreat you, but you must let me be consumed." Jura answered: "I can't do that. I have had a good time with you. Why should I repay you in such an evil way?" The cat said: "If you don't do as I have said, you will be very unhappy. If you do it, you will be happy." So Jura kindled the pile, and, when it was well alight, he picked up the cat and threw her into the fire. She wanted to escape from the fire, but he wouldn't let her go. At last he was so weary that he was forced to lie down, and soon he fell asleep. When he awoke, he opened his eyes, and behold! there was no ruin; he heard delightful music and saw a beautiful palace with crowds of servants. He was wondering at all this, when a splendidly dressed lady came up to him and asked him if he did not know her. Jura said: "How should I know your ladyship? I never saw you before in my life." The lady said: "I am that cat. Witches had put me under enchantment in the shape of a cat. Now we will go after your brothers who hated you so much and see how they are getting on." She ordered her people to dress him in fine clothes, a fine carriage was prepared, and they drove off. As they were approaching the village, the lady said to her bridegroom: "Put your old clothes on." Then she called an old, ragged beggarwoman and sent him with her. She herself remained outside of the village. When the brothers saw Jura coming with the ragged beggarwoman, they shouted: "He is bringing home an old ragged bride, and he's in rags too." The other brothers were married too, and they were pretty badly off, so they turned him out and wouldn't have him at home. So Jura went out of the village; he changed his clothes and drove back with the lady to his brothers' cottage. When the carriage stopped before the cottage, the brothers said: "What a fine carriage! Who is that noble lord and the beautiful lady who have come to our cottage?" They did not recognize their brother. So she said: "Look here. You were always hard on your brother, always sneering at him, and now you are badly off enough, while he is getting on splendidly. If you mend your ways, you will get on too." Afterwards she gave them some money and went away with Jura. SLEEPY JOHN Once there was a lad named John, and he used to go to sleep always and everywhere. One day he came to an inn where some farmers were feeding their horses. So he crept into the cart, lay down on the straw, and went to sleep. When the farmers had driven some distance, they noticed John asleep in the cart. They thought: "What are we to do with him? We have a beer cask here. We'll put him in it and leave him in the forest." So they shut him in the cask, and off they drove. John went on sleeping in the cask for a long time. Suddenly he woke up and found himself in the cask, but he did not know how he had got into it, neither did he know where he was. There was something running to and fro near the cask, so he looked through the bunghole and saw a great number of wolves gathered under the rocks. They had flocked round, attracted by the human smell. One of the wolves pushed his tail through the hole, and Sleepy John began to think that the hour of his death was approaching. But he wound the wolf's tail round his hand. The wolf was terrified, and, dragging the cask after him, he ran after the rest of the wolves, who set off in all directions. Their terror grew greater and greater as the cask bumped after them. At last the cask struck against a rock and was smashed. John let go the wolf, who took himself off as fast as he could. Now John found himself in a wild mountain region. He began walking about among the mountains and he met a hermit. The hermit said to him: "You may stay here with me. I shall die in three days. Bury me then, and I will pay you well for it." So John stayed with him, and, when the third day came, the hermit, who was about to die, gave him a stick, saying: "In whatever direction you point this stick, you will find yourself there." Then he gave him a knapsack, saying: "Anything you want you will find in this knapsack." Then he gave him a cap, saying: "As soon as you put this cap on, nobody will be able to see you." Then the hermit died, and John buried him. John gathered his things together, pointed the stick, and said: "Let me be instantly in the town where the king lives." He found himself there on the instant, and he was told that the queen would every night wear out a dozen pairs of shoes, yet nobody was able to follow her track. The lords were all flocking to offer to follow the queen's traces, and John went too. He went into the palace and had himself announced to the king. When he came before the king, he said that he would like to trace the queen. The king asked him: "Who are you?" He answered "Sleepy John." The king said: "And how are you going to trace her, when you are sleeping all the time? If you fail to trace her you will lose your head." John answered that he would try to trace her all the same. When the evening was come the queen went to bed in one room and John went to bed in the next room, through which the queen had to pass. He did not go to sleep, but when the queen was going by he pretended to be in a deep slumber. So the queen lit a candle and scorched the soles of his feet to make sure that he was asleep. But John didn't stir, and so she was certain that he was asleep. Then she took her twelve pairs of new shoes and off she went. John got up, put his cap on, and pointed with his stick and said: "Let me be where the queen is." Now, when the queen came to a certain rock, the earth opened before her and two dragons came to meet her. They took her on their backs and carried her as far as the lead forest. Then John said: "Let me be where the queen is," and instantly he was in the lead forest. So he broke off a twig for a proof and put it in his knapsack. But when he broke off the twig it gave out a shrill sound as if a bell were ringing. The queen was frightened, but she rode on again. John pointed with his stick and said: "Let me be where the queen is," and instantly he was in the tin forest. He broke off a twig again and put it in his knapsack, and it rang again. The queen turned pale, but she rode on again. John pointed with his stick again and said: "Let me be where the queen is," and instantly he was in the silver forest. He broke off a twig again and put it into his knapsack. As he broke it, it gave out a ringing sound and the queen fainted. The dragons hastened on again till they came to a green meadow. A crowd of devils came to meet them here, and they revived the queen. Then they had a feast. Sleepy John was there too. The cook was not at home that day, so John sat down in his place, and, as he had his cap on, nobody could see him. They put aside a part of the food for the cook, but John ate it all. They were all surprised to see all the food they put aside disappearing. They couldn't make out what was happening, but they didn't care very much. And when the banquet was at an end the devils began to dance with the queen, and they kept on dancing until the queen had worn out all her shoes. When her shoes were worn out, those two dragons took her on their backs again and brought her to the place where the earth had opened before her. John said: "Let me be where the queen is." By this time she was walking on the earth again, and he followed her. When they came near the palace he went ahead of the queen and went to bed; and, as the queen was going in, she saw him sleeping, and so she went to her own room and lay down and slept. In the morning the lords gathered together and the king asked whether any of them had tracked the queen. But none of them could say "Yes." So he summoned Sleepy John before him. John said: "Gracious Lord King, I did indeed track her, and I know that she used up those twelve pairs of shoes upon the green meadows in Hell." The queen stood forth at once, and John took from his knapsack the leaden twig and said: "The queen was carried by two dragons towards Hell, and she came to the leaden forest; there I broke off this twig and the queen was frightened." The king said: "That's no good. You might have made the twig yourself." So John produced the tin twig from his knapsack and said: "After that the queen drove through the tin forest, and there I broke off this twig. That time the queen grew pale." The king said: "You might have made even this twig." So John produced the silver twig and said: "Afterwards the queen drove through the silver forest, and when I broke off this twig she fainted, and so she was until the devils brought her to life again." The queen, seeing that all was known, cried out: "Let the earth swallow me!" and she was swallowed by the earth. Sleepy John got the half of the kingdom, and, when the king died, the other half too. THREE DOVES A certain merchant died. His son was nineteen years old at the time. He said to his mother: "Mother dear, I'm going to try my luck in the world." His mother answered: "Go, dear son, but don't stay long there, for I am old, and should like some help in my old age." She fitted him out for the journey, and said good-bye to him. Out into the world went the son, and he travelled on till he came into a forest. He had been going through it for three days, and no end appeared. On the third day he kept on and came at last to a cottage. He went into the cottage and he saw a horrible being seated on a stool. The fellow asked him where he was going. "I don't know where I am going. I'm seeking my fortune in some service." "Well, if you like, you can enter my service." The lad was very hungry, so he took service with the other. His master said to him: "You must serve me for a year at least." So he served him for a year. He was treated very well, and he was a faithful servant to his master. The master was a sorcerer, but he didn't do any harm to the lad. He had a big pond, and three doves used to come there to bathe. Each of them had three golden feathers. These three doves were three enchanted princesses. When the year's service was ended, the sorcerer said: "What wages shall I give you?" The lad said he left it to him. "You're a good lad," said the sorcerer. "Come with me to my cellar and take as much money as you like, gold or silver, just as you wish." So the lad took as much as he could carry, and the sorcerer gave him one of the three doves too, saying: "When you get home, if you haven't got a house of your own, have one built, and then pluck those three feathers out of the dove, and hide them away so carefully that no human eye can see them. The dove will turn into a lovely princess and you may marry her." So he took the dove and returned home. He had a house built and made a secret place in one of the walls for the three feathers. When he plucked out the feathers the dove became a beautiful princess, but she did not know where the feathers were. But his mother knew quite well, for he had told her all and showed her where the feathers were hidden. When they had been living together for three years he went a-hunting one day with another lord, and his mother stayed at home with her daughter-in-law. The mother said to her: "Dear daughter-in-law, I can't tell you how beautiful I think you. If one were to search the whole world through, one couldn't find so beautiful a woman." The daughter-in-law answered: "Dear lady, the beauty I have now is nothing to what I should have had I but one of my golden feathers." The mother went straight off, fetched one of the feathers, and gave it to her. She thrust it into her skin, and she was immediately far more beautiful than before. The mother kept looking at her, and said: "If you had the others as well, you would be even more beautiful." Then she fetched the other two feathers and gave them to her. She thrust them into her skin, and behold! she was a dove again. She flew off through the window, thanking her mother-in-law: "Thank you, dearest mother, for giving me these three feathers. I will wait a little for my husband, to say good-bye to him." So she perched on the roof to wait till her husband should return from the forest. Now, the husband's nose fell to bleeding violently. He grew frightened, and began to wonder what great misfortune had befallen him at home. He mounted his horse and hastened home. As he was approaching the door the dove called out: "Good-bye, dear husband. I thank you for your true love, but you will never see me more." Then the dove flew away, and the husband began to weep and to wail. Of course, he was very angry with his mother, and he decided to go away again and follow wherever his eyes might lead him. So he started off, and he went back to the sorcerer in whose service he had been before. As soon as he entered the sorcerer said: "Aha! you have not followed my advice. I won't help you this time; the three doves are gone from here. But go to my brother, for all the birds and animals are under his power, and perhaps some of them might know where the doves are. I will give you a ball, and when you roll it three times, you will get there this evening. You must ask him whether he knows anything about the doves, and you must tell him, too, that I sent you to him." The lad thanked him heartily and went on his way. He rolled the ball thrice and reached the other brother's by evening. He told him that his brother had asked to be remembered kindly to him, and then he asked whether he knew where the doves that used to bathe in his brother's pond were. The brother answered: "My good lad, I know nothing at all about them. You must wait till morning. All the birds and animals are under my power, and if they know anything about it, it will be all right." In the morning they went to the forest. The brother blew a whistle, and instantly swarms of birds gathered round, asking what was their master's will. He said: "Tell me, does any one of you know about those three golden doves which used to bathe in my brother's pond?" None of them knew, so he blew his whistle again and all manner of animals gathered round him: bears, lions, squirrels, wolves, every kind of wild animal, and they asked what was their master's will. He said: "I would know whether any one of you knows anything about three golden doves which used to bathe in my brother's pond." None of them knew. So he said: "My dear lad, I cannot help you any more in this matter, but I have another brother, and, if he cannot tell you anything about them, then you will never hear of them any more. He dwells twice seventy miles from here, and all the devils of Hell are subjected to him. I will give you another ball like the one you had yesterday, and, when you have rolled it thrice, you will get there before evening." He rolled the ball thrice and got there the same evening. The sorcerer was sitting in his garden on the grass. His hair was all dishevelled like a mop, his paunch was bare like a pail, his nose reached to his middle, and was as bare as a stick--in fact, his appearance was terrible. The lad was terrified, but the sorcerer said: "Don't be frightened, my boy; though I look so hideous, yet I have a good heart. What do you want?" "I have come from your brother to ask whether you can tell me about the three doves which used to bathe in your brother's pond." "My dear lad, I know nothing about them, but as soon as you get up in the morning I will call my apprentices, to find if any one of them knows anything about the doves." In the morning they got up and went into the forest. The sorcerer blew a whistle, and at once hosts of devils appeared, such a multitude that they darkened the whole forest. The lad was frightened, but the sorcerer said: "Don't be afraid; not a hair of your head shall be harmed." The devils asked what was their master's will. He said: "Does any one of you know anything, about the three doves which used to bathe in my brother's pond?" None of them knew anything. The sorcerer looked about him and asked: "Where is the lame one?" The lame one had been left behind, but he was hurrying up for fear he should be too late. He came and asked what was his master's will. The sorcerer answered: "I want to find out whether you know anything about those three doves that used to bathe in my brother's pond." "Of course I know about them, for I have been driving them before me. They are bathing in the Red Sea now." The sorcerer said: "You must take up this man and carry him as far as their gold-roofed palace," and he took the lad aside and whispered in his ear: "When the devil asks you how quick he is to take you, if he says: 'As quickly as the wind blows?' say 'No'; and if he says, 'As quickly as the step goes?' say 'No' again. But if he says, 'As quickly as the air goes?' say 'Even so.' If your cap falls, do not look after it, and don't tell the devil about it, or he will let you fall and won't carry you to the palace. When you are seven miles from the palace you will see it, and the devil will ask you if you see it; but shut your eyes tight and say that you can't see it. When you are three miles from it, you will see it quite plainly, and he will ask you again whether you see it. But you must shut your eyes tight and say that you can't see it. Then you will be above the palace roof, and he will ask you again whether you see it. You must say again that you can't see it, or he will let you drop on the roof and you won't be able to get down." The devil took the man and flew with him as the air goes. When they were seven miles from the palace, the devil asked: "Do you see the palace now? It is quite plain to see now." The lad shut his eyes tight and said that he couldn't see it. So they flew on, and when they were three miles from the castle the devil asked him did he see it now. He shut his eyes tight and said that he couldn't see it. When they were right over the roof, the devil asked: "Surely you must see it now; we are just over the roof." But he shut his eyes tight and said: "I don't see it." The devil said angrily: "You must be blind if you can't see it; we are just above the roof." And he seized him in anger, and set him on the golden table in that royal castle. The three princesses were sitting at the table, knitting with golden thread. His own wife was the middle one, and she knew him at once. She sprang up right gladly and welcomed him with joy. She nearly fainted, she was so pleased that he had been able to come so many miles in such a short time. "Welcome, dear husband, welcome! Welcome, our deliverer! You will save us from the enchantment under which we are in this castle." The time passed very slowly there. So one day his wife brought him the keys and showed him through all the rooms and closets, letting him see everything except one room, which she would not open for him. The three princesses had to take the shape of doves for two hours in the morning and three hours before the evening, and they had to go to the Red Sea to bathe there. One day when they had gone out to bathe he thought: "Why don't you want to open that room for me?" So he went and searched among the other keys for the key, and opened the room for himself. In the room he saw a three-headed dragon, and each of its heads was stuck upon a hook so that it hung down from it. Under the dragon were placed three glasses of water. The lad was terrified and started to run away. But the dragon kept on calling out: "Don't be frightened, don't run away, but come back again and give me that glass of water. Your life shall be spared this once." So he gave him the glass of water; the dragon drained it up, and instantly one of the heads fell from the hook. He begged again: "Now give me that other glass of water, and your life shall be spared a second time." He gave it him; the dragon drank it up, and immediately the second head fell from the hook. Then the dragon said: "Now do as you like. But you must give me the third glass of water, whether you like it or not!" In terror he gave him the third glass; the third head drank it up and fell from its hook. Now the dragon was quite free, and instantly he made for the Red Sea, and began to chase after the three doves until he caught one of them. It was the lad's wife. The other two princesses came back again and began to weep and to wail. "Thou luckless fellow! we were happy in the hope that thou wouldst deliver us, and now we are worse off than ever--now our torments will last till doomsday!" He, too, burst into tears, for he was sad at heart that the dragon had carried off his wife, whom he had won at the risk of his life. The princesses' three brothers were under enchantment too. One of them was in the castle, changed into the shape of a horse. One day the horse said to the sorrowing husband: "The dragon is away from home now. Let us go and steal the princess." So they went to the dragon's castle, carried off the princess, and ran for home. The other brother of the three princesses was in the dragon's castle under enchantment in the shape of a horse. When the dragon came home, he said to the horse: "Where is my princess?" The horse answered: "They came and carried her away." The dragon mounted the horse at once and said: "Now we'll ride as fast as we can. We must overtake them." The horse answered: "We cannot possibly overtake them." But the dragon said: "Only let us start; we shall overtake them." They started, and they overtook them near the castle. The dragon snapped the princess away at once, saying to the lad: "I promised to spare your life in return for that glass of water; now I have spared it, but don't dare to come to my castle ever again." And with that the dragon rode home, carrying the princess with him. Some time after that the horse said to the sorrowing husband: "The dragon is away from home again. Let us go and steal the princess." So they went and stole her again. The dragon came home and asked the horse: "Where is my princess?" The horse answered: "Hibad! They have stolen her again, but we cannot overtake them this time." The dragon said: "We must overtake them." He mounted the horse, and they went flying after them till at last they overtook them. The dragon snapped away the princess, saying to the lad: "There's your life spared for the second glass. But if you come again, I'll tear you to pieces." The lad was sorrowful, and wept and bewailed his fate because he had lost his wife for ever. But the horse said: "I will give you one more counsel. I know a place where there are some young ravens. We will go there, and you must take the young ravens from their nest on the tree. The old ones will fly at you and peck you--they won't want to let you have their young chicks; but tell them that you won't give them back their chicks unless they bring you the healing water and the water of life. "When they bring the water, take one of the young ravens and pull its head off; then dip it in the healing water and put the head to the body again. That's how you will be certain that they have brought you the real water of life. If the wound grows together again, you may be sure it is the real water of life. As soon as the wound has grown together, take the water of life and pour some of it into the raven's bill, and when the bird revives, you will know quite certainly that it is the water of life." The lad did all this. The old ravens brought him the water in leather bottles. He took one of the chicks, pulled its head off, dipped it into the healing water, and the wound grew together again. Then he poured some of the water of life into its bill, and it came alive again. Then he put the young ravens back into the nest again, took the water, and went home. When he got there, the horse said to him: "The dragon is away from home to-day. Let us go and see if we can get the princess." So off they went and carried away the princess. They ran off as fast as they could. The dragon came home and asked the horse: "Where is my princess?" The horse replied: "She's gone from us. They've carried her off again, and this time we shall never catch up with them." The dragon said in a rage: "What should prevent us from getting her back? Let's go at once." So they flew after them, and they reached the castle just as the fugitives were going in through the gate. The dragon snapped the princess away, saying to the lad: "You rascal! I told you I would tear you to pieces if you came a third time for her." So he caught hold of him, and took a foot in each claw, and tore him in two. Then he went off with the princess and the horse. The lad's horse took the healing water, dipped the two halves into it, put the one against the other, and they grew together. Then he took the water of life and poured it into the lad's mouth, and he was alive again. Then they went into the castle. The lad was weeping bitterly and crying out that all was over, that now he would be separated from his wife for ever. But the horse gave him comfort, saying: "Well, I really don't know what advice I ought to give you now. We have been three times, and he caught up with us every time. And the last time you were torn in pieces. I don't know how things will turn out. But I have another brother across the Red Sea, and he is stronger than I or the dragon. If we could only get him, we should be sure to kill the dragon. But it's a hard thing to do, for he is in service with the Devil's grandmother. We will try it together, if only we can manage to cross the Red Sea. And, if you follow the advice I give you, you will get the horse. "You must serve the Devil's grandmother for three days, and, when you have served the three days, you must ask for that lean horse as wages. You will have to herd twelve horses for three days. Nobody has ever managed to do it yet. When the first day's service is done, on the next day the Devil's grandmother always cuts off the servant's head and hangs it on a hook. Now, listen carefully. While you are herding the horses, anything the hag gives you to eat at home, eat your fill of it. But, if she gives you anything to eat in the field, do not eat it, but throw it away. If you were to eat it, sleep would come down on you, your horses would stray, and the Devil's grandmother would cut off your head and hang it upon a hook." So off they went together till they came to the Red Sea. As they were drawing near to the sea, they saw a huge fly entangled in a cobweb and struggling to free itself. So the lad went up to it and said: "Poor fly! You can't get out of that cobweb; wait a bit, and I will help you." The cobweb was as big as a sheet, but he tore it in two and the fly crept out. The fly said: "Thank you for helping me out of the cobweb. Tear one of my feet from under my belly, and, whenever you are in need, think of me, and I will help you." The lad thought: "Poor fly! how could you help me?" Nevertheless, he tore off one of her feet and kept it. Then he went on his way, and he saw a wolf with his tail trapped under a heavy log, and he was unable to help himself, for wolves have stiff backs, and no wolf has ever been able to turn. The lad rolled the log away and released the wolf. The wolf said: "Thank you for helping me. Take one of my claws, and, whenever you are in sore need, think of me, and I will help you." So the lad took one of his claws and kept it. When he got quite close to the sea, he saw a crab as big as a barrel. The crab was lying on the sand with his belly upwards, and he couldn't manage to turn himself over again. So the lad went and turned the crab over again. The crab asked him where he was going. He said he was going to the Devil's grandmother across the Red Sea. The crab said: "My dear lad, I'll make a bridge for you across the sea, so that you will be able to get across. But, besides that, you must pluck off one of my claws from under my belly, and when you are in sore need, think of me, and I will help you." So he plucked off one of the claws and kept it. The crab sidled into the sea, and immediately all the crabs of the sea came together, and they closed in on one another so that they made a bridge across the sea. The lad crossed the bridge and came to the Devil's grandmother. She was standing waiting for him in the doorway of her house, and welcomed him. He'd just come at the right time; she wanted him to herd her horses. She gave him plenty of good food to eat, and sent him out to the fields. She put twelve horses in his charge, and said to him: "Look to it that you herd them well, for if you lose one of them you will lose your head. Just look here at these twenty-four posts, with a hook on each one of them. There are heads on twenty-three of them. The last hook is waiting for your head. If you herd my horses badly, that hook is waiting for your head." Then she fitted him out for herding the horses. She gave him a piece of bread, so that he might have enough to eat and not starve. He meant to follow the horse's advice, and threw the bread away. But a fierce hunger came upon him, and he had to go and look for the bread and eat it up. The moment he had eaten it he fell asleep and all the horses were lost. When he awoke there wasn't a single horse there. Sorrowfully he said: "The Devil's grandmother was right; my head will hang from that hook." In his grief he thought of the fly, and it came flying up and called out: "Why are you weeping and wailing?" He said that he had been hungry, and had been forced to eat the bread, so that he fell asleep and all the horses were lost. The fly tried to comfort him, saying: "Don't be troubled, dear lad; I will help you." So she called together all the flies, and they flew everywhere looking for the horses, and when they found them, they buzzed round them and plagued them till they drove them up to the herdsman. He drove them joyfully home. The Devil's grandmother welcomed them, and when she saw that all the horses were there, she said: "You've herded them well enough, for you have brought them all back." Then she seized a hatchet and began to beat the horses with it, and most of all the lean one, till the flesh hung in strips from its body. The lad was sorry for the horse, for the hag was beating it hardest and it was the leanest of them all. But the Devil's grandmother took a salve and anointed the horses' wounds, and they were healed by morning. The next day she fitted him out again for herding the horses, and gave him some more of the bread, telling him to eat it all. But when he came to the pasture he crumbled the bread and trampled the crumbs into the ground, so that it should be uneatable. But it was no good. He was forced to dig it up and eat it, earth and all, so great was the hunger that the Devil's grandmother had sent against him. In a moment he fell asleep and all the horses were lost. When he woke he saw that there were no horses there. He wept and wailed. But he thought of the wolf, and the wolf came running up and asked him: "Why are you weeping and wailing? Don't be troubled; I will help you." He went and summoned all the wolves. A great flock of wolves ran up, and they scattered everywhere, looking for the horses. When they found them, they drove them to the herdsman, each horse with a wolf at its side leading it by the ear. The herdsman was overjoyed, and took the horses and drove them home. The Devil's grandmother was waiting for him in front of the house. She said: "Indeed you have herded them well; this is the second day that you have brought them all home." But she beat the horses with the hatchet far worse than the day before; then she anointed their wounds with the salve, so that they should be healed by morning. On the third day she sent him out again to herd the horses, and gave him some more of the bread, telling him to eat it and not to throw it away. But when he came to the pasture he threw the bread down on the sand and trampled it in, so that it should be uneatable. But he had to search it out again, so great was the hunger the Devil's grandmother sent against him. The moment he had finished it he fell asleep and the horses were lost. When he woke he burst into tears. This time it was all up with him; the fly and the wolf had helped him before, but the crab had already made a bridge for him, so there was nobody to help him. The horses didn't know where to hide themselves to save themselves from being beaten by the Devil's grandmother, so they leapt into the sea, where nobody could find them. The herdsman was in agony, and he kept on wailing that now his head must hang upon that hook. At last he thought of the crab. The crab turned round in the sea, and instantly all the crabs collected and began searching the sea for the horses, and they pinched them until they drove them out of the sea. But the lean one, since he couldn't think of a better hiding-place, crouched under the crab's belly. The other crabs set to work to look for him, and at last they found him. The big crab had to turn over, and then they drove the lean horse out. The herdsman took the horses and drove them home joyfully, because his three days of service were now over. The Devil's grandmother was waiting for him, and she beat the horses with the hatchet so fiercely that their flesh hung in strips from their bodies. Then she anointed them with the salve, and the wounds healed by morning. In the morning she asked the herdsman what wages he wanted. He answered: "I want nothing but that lean old horse." She said: "It would be a sorry thing to give you such a wretched horse in return for such good service; I will give you the best horse." He answered: "I won't take any horse but the lean one." She asked him why he wanted the leanest one. He replied: "Because I am sorry for him, for he always gets the worst beating. I will have that one, and no other." So she said: "Well, I will give him to you, if you must have him, but I will give you this fat one too. You can ride on his back home and lead the lean one with you." He mounted the fat horse and rode off. But when they were drawing near to the gate, the lean horse said: "Get down from that horse and mount me, or you will be the worse for it." So he jumped down from the fat horse and mounted the lean one. The fat horse growled: "It's the Devil gave you that advice." And the lean horse said: "If you had gone under the gate on that horse's back, he would have dashed you against the vault of the gate, so that your head would have been knocked off, and you would have been killed." So they came safely home. When the princesses saw him come back they were delighted. The other horse said: "Now, brother, let us go. The dragon is away from home, and the princess will be ours." So they went and carried off the princess. When the dragon came home, he asked his horse: "Where is my princess?" The horse replied: "She has gone, and this time we shan't get her back. The horse from the Red Sea has come, and he will get the better of us all." The dragon took no heed of that, but flew after them and caught them up just by the gate. He was going to snap the princess away, but this time he could not do it. For the horse from over the Red Sea kicked his nose with his hoof, so that the dragon fell down from his horse, and the other two horses fell upon him, and between them they killed the dragon. They came to the castle with the princess, and they were congratulating one another on their victory over their enemy. Then the horse which had been giving good advice to his rider all the time said: "Now, dear brother-in-law, take my sword there hanging from the ceiling and cut my head off." He was sad and said: "How could I do that, after all the acts of kindness you have done for me?" The horse said: "My good friend, I cannot tell you why you must behead me, but you would do me a great wrong if you did not do it." So he hesitated no longer, but cut his head off. The blood spurted up twelve feet high, and instantly the horse became a beautiful youth. Seeing that, the lad was quick to behead the other horses, and they all turned into handsome princes like the first one. They all thanked him for delivering them, and they made him king of that castle, and there he lived with his wife and her two sisters in all happiness and harmony till they died. The three brothers took possession of the dragon's castle. THE BEAR, THE EAGLE, AND THE FISH Once there was a count and he had three daughters. All of them were young and as pretty as peacocks, but the youngest was the loveliest of them all. The count had little money to spend, for he had lost it all by gambling. And so--since he had to spend the time in some way or other--he used to go hunting. One day, when he was out hunting he lost his way in a forest, and he could not find his way out of it. Suddenly a big bear rushed out at him, shouting at the top of his voice. He said he would show him the way out of the forest and, besides, he would give him as much gold and silver as he wanted on one condition, and that condition was that the count should give him one of his daughters in marriage. The count was terrified. But after thinking it over for a time, he consented at last. The bear showed him the way out of the forest and gave him everything he had promised, and so the count was pleased. He spent his time eating and drinking and gambling, till all the money melted away. He never so much as gave a thought to the bear, until one day, when the eldest daughter was marriageable, a carriage came rolling up. The carriage was drawn by a pair of raven-black horses, and in it sat a prince with cheeks of white and red, whose robes blazed with gold. He came and took the eldest daughter and drove off. The countess wept, but the count did not mind a bit, but being short of money, he began hunting again. One day he lost his way again, and this time an eagle flew down to him and promised to show him the way out of the forest, and to give him heaps of money into the bargain, if he would only give him his second daughter in return. The bargain was made and the eagle fetched away the second daughter, and only the youngest was left at home. Yet even her the count sold, and it was a fish that got her. So the count and the countess were left alone. They were very sad, but after a time a boy was born to them, and they watched over him like the apple of their eye. When the boy was grown up, he saw that the countess looked sad sometimes, and he gave her no rest till she had told him everything. When he had heard the story, he put his best clothes on, took his sword, mounted his horse, and said good-bye to his parents, telling them that he was going to search for his lost sisters. So he rode on till he came to the eldest sister. Her he found playing with three little bear cubs, for these were her babies. He met his brother-in-law, who gave him three hairs and told him to rub those hairs with his fingers if he found himself in any difficulty. Then he went to the second sister, and found her with two eaglets and the old eagle, his brother-in-law, as well. The eagle gave him three feathers, saying they would be of help to him in time of need. He thanked the eagle for that and went on his way, and at last he came to his youngest sister. It was not so easy to get to her, for she dwelt under the water, and he had to drop into her house through the chimney. He would have missed the chimney if it hadn't been for the smoke from it: it was bluish smoke, hardly visible. His sister welcomed him heartily and showed him her baby, a pretty little fish, and her husband, a giant fish. The lad got three fish-scales from the husband to use in time of trouble. He learned that the bear and the eagle were the brothers of the fish. They were sons of a powerful king, but they had been enchanted by an envious magician and turned into these shapes. The sorcerer could take different forms. But the brother must not let that dismay him. He must get hold of a golden egg which was hidden in the sorcerer and throw it on the ground. If he began to grow faint and did not know what to do, he must call one of his brothers-in-law, and he would advise him what to do. And so it was. The young count attacked the magician, who turned into a bull. But the young count was not afraid: he rubbed the bear's hair; the bear came running up and tore the bull in pieces. But out of the bull flew a wild duck and tried to escape. Then the count thought of the eagle feathers, and immediately the eagle flew up, and he tore the duck to pieces. But a golden egg fell from the duck and it rolled into the pond. But that too was of no avail, for the count rubbed the fish scales, and after a while the fish threw the egg upon the bank. The count caught it and flung it to the ground so that it was smashed into many pieces. At once all around was changed. The pond turned into a meadow upon which a beautiful castle was shining. The castle was full of servants and the three princes, with their wives and children, were just walking out of it. All were overjoyed to be so happily delivered, and, when they had enough of rejoicing, they started off to find their parents. Their first journey was to the old count and countess, so that they might enjoy the sight of their children and grandchildren. Afterwards they hastened to the old king. He ordered many cannon to be fired, and prepared a splendid banquet. And he gave the kingdom to his eldest son. The second son went to the land of the count, and it was divided between him and his brother-in-law. And the youngest went to the disenchanted castle. All of them reigned prosperously and wisely in their several realms and, if they haven't died since, they are reigning still. KOJATA Once there was a king who had an only son. One day the king went to inspect his estates. He came to the first farm and found it all right. Before he had finished going the round of his estates, thirteen big farms in all, he forgot that his wife was about to have a child. On his way home he came to a forest, and such a thirst came upon him that he bade his driver stop and look for some water. The driver looked everywhere for water, but he couldn't find any. So the king himself went to look for it, and he found a well. Now, just as he was going to drink, he kneeled down and he saw something in the well which had claws like a crab and red eyes. It seized him by the beard with one of its claws--he had a pretty long beard--and it refused to let him go unless he promised to give it the thing that he had at home unknown to himself. So he said to himself: "I know everything at home." But he forgot about his wife's condition. By this time his wife had been delivered of a prince, and so the king, without knowing it, had promised his son to the thing in the well. And on that it let him go. When he got home he saw the new-born prince, and of course he was very sad. He remained so for twelve years. The prince asked him why he was so sad. And the king answered: "Because you are sold." The prince told him not to worry about it; he would be able to help himself. The prince called for his horse and started out. He had been riding five days' journey from his home, when he came to a lake. There he tethered his horse. He saw thirteen ducks swimming on the lake, and there were thirteen shifts lying on the bank. So he carried off one of the shifts and hid himself. When they saw this, twelve of the ducks flew away, but the thirteenth was running hither and thither, looking for her shift. So when he saw her running hither and thither looking for her shift, he came out of his hiding-place. Now the father of those ducks was the being which had seized the king by the beard. He was a sorcerer, and his name was Kojata. This girl was his youngest daughter. And she said to the prince: "Now I will give you a good counsel. You will save me and I will save you. My father will set you a difficult task. I will perform it for you, but you must not let him know that I am helping you. Leave your horse here and hurry on to my father's. He will give you a lodging, and he will give you three days to consider over the task. You will be in your room alone, and in the evening I will come humming to your window, for I shall come to you in a bee's shape, because I can't come in any other way. And you must follow my advice. My father has thirteen daughters, and we all resemble one another exactly and we all wear the same sort of clothes. You will have to find out which is the youngest, but you will have no other means of recognizing me than by noticing a tiny fly under my left eye, so be very careful about it." So it was. The sorcerer called him in and the thirteen daughters were standing in a row. The sorcerer asked him whether he could make out which was the youngest; if he could do so, his life would be spared. So he went the round of them three times, but it was as much as he could do to recognize her. But he pointed her out. She was the third from the end. So the sorcerer asked him who had been giving him advice. But the prince answered that it was none of his business. The next day the sorcerer gave him another task: to build a palace of pure gold and silver without using hammer or trowel. The prince was very worried about it. But in the evening the youngest daughter came flying to him again, and she gave him a wand. At a single stroke of the wand the palace rose up ready-built, and it was more perfect than the old one. In the morning he was strolling about the palace looking round him. When King Kojata saw him, he came up to him and stopped: "Who has given you this counsel?" he asked. The prince answered that it was the person who had given him advice the time before. So the sorcerer set him the third task, and this time the daughter was not able to advise him. She came to him in the evening and said: "I have no other advice than for both of us to flee at once, otherwise you will be lost and I too." Now, in the evening she turned herself into a horse, and he mounted her and rode as far as the lake. There he found his own horse, and they both mounted it and rode off at full speed. Soon she heard a great noise behind her, so she turned herself into a church and the prince became a monk. The sorcerer's apprentices were riding in pursuit of them. When they got as far as the church they turned and went back to Kojata. When they came to him they said that they had not overtaken anybody; they had only seen a church and a monk in it. And he said: "Those were they!" Next day he sent them again to pursue the runaways. Though they were riding faster than the day before, again they heard a trampling behind them. So she turned herself into a great river and him into an old broken bridge. Their pursuers came as far as the river and the bridge, and then they turned back and reported to their king, Kojata, that they had seen nothing but a river and a bridge. He said at once: "Well, those were they!" On the third day the runaways started again and made for the border as fast as they could, and soon they were in their own land. When they reached the third church, the sorcerer had no more power over them. He began to tear his hair and knock his head against the ground and to curse his daughter for tricking him. So the young king came home, bringing a lovely young princess with him. His father was very pleased at that! SHEPHERD HYNEK To cut a long story short, there was a prince and he had three sons. The first two followed in their father's footsteps, but the third did not. He said he would like to be a forester. The father was angry and turned him out of the house. What was he to do with the fellow, when he was so obstinate and would be a forester? "Well, be whatever you like," said the prince, and he gave him a shepherd's dress and Hynek went out into the world. He had been walking through a forest for three days. He was hungry and cold, and everything seemed to be against him. He was tired too, and at last he fell asleep under a tree. As he was sleeping, a black man came to him. He would not leave him to sleep, but waked him up. Hynek was frightened. But he told him there was no need to be afraid. He was a good man, though his skin was black. So Hynek stayed with him for seven years and learnt the seven languages, zither playing, and all that sort of thing. Now the seven years were over. In that land there was a king who had an only daughter. And there was a fierce dragon which was ravaging the whole of that kingdom, and everybody was forced to give him one sheep and one human being to appease him. So the lot fell upon the princess too. The black man told Hynek that something ought to be done to deliver the people and to save the princess from being devoured by that dragon. "Go to the next homestead," he said, "and ask to be taken on as a shepherd, and in the morning you will have to drive the sheep into this forest." So they took leave of one another. Hynek was engaged as shepherd, and in the morning he drove the sheep into the forest, where the black man was waiting for him. When he came with the sheep, the black man gave him a wand and a ring, and said: "When you turn this ring, you will be brought to a castle where a giant dwells, and you will have to tackle the giant. This wand will help you to do it. Then you must take his robe, his horse, and his sword. Then you will be brought to the town, and it will be about the time that the princess will be brought out." So Hynek took his leave and found everything just as he had said. As he came near to the castle, the giant was looking out and said: "You earthworm, what are you looking for?" "Oh! I should like to have a try for that big head of yours." The giant fell into a rage. He was holding a great club in his hand, and he flung it at Hynek, but Hynek dodged aside and the club sank deep into the ground, it had been flung with such force. So Hynek went right up to him, and, crack! he struck him with the wand. So the giant tumbled over. Hynek took his sword and struck his head off. Then he took an iron key out of the giant's pocket. He opened the lock, took the robe and the horse, and dressed himself as became a knight. Then he turned the ring, and in a moment he found himself on the road along which they were bringing the princess to be devoured by the dragon. When he saw the procession, he asked: "What's going on here, and why are the people in such grief?" "Because the princess is to be devoured by a dragon to-day." Hynek said: "For the sake of her beauty, show me his den where he dwells." So he rode up to the rock and called out loudly: "Now, dragon, come on; your meal is ready here, waiting for you." But the dragon answered: "I don't want it to-day; come to-morrow, at eleven." So Hynek returned. He rode towards them and said that the dragon would not leave his den to-day. So they all went back to the town with the knight, and the king would not let him go away on any account. But Hynek began to make excuses. He had to deliver a letter for the field marshal and he could not remain there. Then he turned the ring on his finger, and instantly he was in the castle again. He left the clothes and the horse there, putting the clothes tidily together. Then he put on his shepherd's dress, turned the ring, and at once he was near the forest, where the black man had been tending his sheep meanwhile. He greeted him kindly: "You have done everything well. Always act like that." So he drove the sheep home and played the zither again. Everybody ran up to the door to listen to the magic playing of the shepherd. But he said nothing to anybody. The next day he drove the sheep to the forest still earlier. The black man was there waiting for him, and said: "Follow my advice and you will be happy." He said that he would do so. The black man was to mind the sheep again. He gave Hynek the wand and the ring, and Hynek came to another castle. The giant was looking out as he came up; he was standing in the doorway. He asked the lad grimly what he was looking for. "Oh! it's nothing. I only want to try for that big head of yours." The giant was holding a hammer and he hurled it at him. No eye could see where it fell. Hynek leapt towards him, and, crack! he struck him with the wand, and the giant fell over and Hynek cut his head off too. He took a silver key out of the giant's pocket and went straight to the castle. There he chose a robe, girded on a sword, took a horse, and turned the ring again. Once more he was on the road where the princess was being brought to be devoured. He asked them in a different language why they were wailing so. "Well, our princess is to be devoured by the dragon to-day. He would not leave his den yesterday." "Show me his den: I will sacrifice myself for the sake of her beauty." They showed him the rock, and he rode straight up to it and called out: "Now, dragon, come on; your meal is ready here." "I don't want it to-day, wait till eleven to-morrow." The king was still less willing to let him go this time, but he found some excuse, turned his horse, and went back with everything to the castle. Then he returned to the forest and the black man. The black man said: "Drive your sheep home now, but come earlier to-morrow, for a heavy task awaits you." Hynek could not rest that night: he was so afraid that he would be too late. As soon as dawn came he let out the flock and drove it to the forest. When he got there, the black man said to him: "There's only to-day now. It will be the last time. But it will be a heavy task for you to tackle the third giant and the dragon." Then he gave him the wand and the ring, and said that the key to-day would be of gold. He must choose the robe and take a black horse, and he must take with him the sword with which he had killed the giant and the dragon. He turned the ring and was brought to the third castle. Here was a giant again, much huger than the other two. He ran at Hynek, but, crack! Hynek struck him with the wand. Then he took his sword and killed him. Then he opened the castle with a golden key; he went to the stable, then he put on a green robe and brought out a black horse. There was a sword hanging there, and he girded it on. Then he turned the ring, and in a moment he was on the road along which they were bringing the princess to be devoured by the dragon. He asked them in yet another language why they were so sorrowful. He was ready to sacrifice himself for the sake of her beauty. So they showed him the den in which the dragon dwelt, and he called out: "Well, come on, dragon; your meal is ready and waiting for you here." Now the rock began to shake; all the stones came rolling down, and the dragon flew out of the rock, his seven heads burning with flame, and he made straight for Hynek. Hynek began cutting at the seven heads until he was weary that he could not do any more. Then the horse began to crush the dragon, until after a while Hynek, being rested, took his sword, and at once he cut all the seven heads off. He was so scorched by the fire that he could not run away, and he fainted on the spot. The people had seen what was happening, so they rode up and carried him away, lest he should perish of the dragon's poison. They brought him and laid him in the princess's lap. She gave him her ring and a golden neckchain, and so he recovered his senses and found himself lying in the princess's lap. He was afraid that he had stayed too long, for he was supposed to be with the marshal by this time. They were all trying to hold him back from going, but he found an excuse and promised he would come back within three days. So at last they just had to let him go. He returned to the castle, where he put everything back in its place again, except the sword, which he took with him and gave to the black man. The black man said to him: "You have succeeded now, and it will be well with both of us." So Hynek drove his sheep home rejoicing. He was playing the zither, and all the people gathered outside to listen to his rare and sweet music. He asked what had happened to the princess: had the dragon devoured her? "Oh no! A knight delivered her, and the king is going to give her in marriage to him." "Alas! silly shepherd that I am, why did I not tackle him myself with my shepherd's staff!" But they all laughed at him: "You mind your sheep, that's what befits you." In the royal castle the wedding-feast was ready. The sixth day had come and they were still waiting for him. But the bridegroom did not come and the princess was sad. On the sixth day he asked the marshal if he could go to the castle to play his zither to the princess; he would like to cheer her, since she was so sad. "You may go, and, if you succeed, you shall make some extra money." So Hynek went and played, and the music was so sweet that the lords could listen to nothing but his beautiful playing. He played for three hours, and then he must go home. They asked him what reward he would like. "Nothing but to drink a cup of wine with the princess." He had ready the ring which the princess had given him when he was in her lap. His request was granted, and the rest of the musicians who were there were angry with him for claiming so insignificant a reward. When they had filled the cup for him, he drank the wine and dropped the ring into the cup. Now, the cupbearer who was filling the cup looked into it and saw the glittering ring. So he hastened to the princess with it. She recognized it as her own, so she ordered them to bring that shepherd before her. "Well," he said, "surely they won't beat me!" They brought him before the princess, and she made him tell her how he had got that ring and how he had been clothed. So he said: "All those three days I was with you." Hynek did not go back to the marshal, though he complained of the loss of his shepherd. He was clad in royal robes now, and they had a splendid wedding in the castle. But the princess did not know what his parentage was, although she could see that he was not a low-born man. So after a year he said he would like to visit his parents, and he told her to prepare for the journey. She was to send a letter to Prince So-and-So that the young queen was going to visit him. He would go on ahead. So he put his shepherd's dress on once more and purposely tore it in several places, and, when his princess arrived and everybody was welcoming her, he went straight into the great hall. Now, when the old Prince saw that it was his son all tattered and torn, he bade them put him under lock and key. But he had no difficulty in escaping, and while they were feasting, he came into the hall again and sat down next to the princess. The father was furious that his son should behave so shamefully. But the princess reassured him. It was all right, she said. She did not mind at all; he might sit where he pleased. After dinner she called for a bath. They prepared it for her. But Hynek was quicker, and slipped into the bathroom before her. She shut the door and he put on his royal robes, and then they went before his father. The Prince was frightened, since he had thought so ill of his son, and he fell on his knees. But Hynek lifted him up and himself kneeled before him and asked his forgiveness. Then came in the black man. He gave Hynek the sword and bade him cut his head off. Hynek would not repay his kindness in this way. "Then we shall both be unhappy." So when he saw what he was to do, he cut the head off and, when he had done that, an English prince appeared in his stead. He was only eighteen years old. All his followers woke up too. Hynek accompanied him to England, and then took leave of him. How are they all now? I don't know. THE THREE ROSES Once upon a time there was a mother who had three daughters. There was to be a market in the next town, and she said she would go to it. She asked the daughters what she should bring them back. Two of them named a great number of things; she must buy all of them, they said. You know the sort of women, and the sort of things they would want. Well, when they had asked for more than enough, the mother asked the third daughter: "And you, don't you want anything?" "No, I don't want anything; but, if you like, you can bring me three roses, please." If she wanted no more than that, her mother was ready to bring them. When the mother knew all she wanted, she went off to market. She bought all she could, piled it all on her back, and started for home. But she was overtaken by nightfall, and the poor mother completely lost her way and could go no farther. She wandered through the forest till she was quite worn out, and at last she came to a palace, though she had never before heard of any palace there. There was a large garden full of roses, so beautiful that no painter alive could paint them, and all the roses were smiling at her. So she remembered her youngest daughter, who had wished for just such roses. She had forgotten it entirely till then. Surely that was because she was so old! Now she thought: "There are plenty of roses here, so I will take these three." So she went into the garden and took the roses. At once a basilisk came and demanded her daughter in exchange for the roses. The mother was terrified and wanted to throw the flowers away. But the basilisk said that wouldn't be any use, and he threatened to tear her to pieces. So she had to promise him her daughter. There was no help for it, and so she went home. She took the three roses to her daughter and said: "Here are the roses, but I had to pay dearly for them. You must go to yonder castle in payment for them, and I don't even know whether you will ever come back." But Mary seemed as though she didn't mind at all, and she said she would go. So the mother took her to the castle. There was everything she wanted there. Soon the basilisk appeared and told Mary that she must nurse him in her lap for three hours every day. There was no way out, do it she must, and so the basilisk came and she nursed him for three hours. Then he went out, but he came next day and the day after that. On the third day he brought a sword and told poor Mary to cut his head off. She protested that she wasn't used to doing things like that, and do it she could not. But the basilisk said in a rage that, if that was so, he would tear her to pieces. As there was no choice, she went up to him and cut his head off. And as the basilisk's head rolled on the ground, there came forth from his body a long serpent, hissing horribly. He asked her to cut his head off again. Mary did not hesitate this time, but cut his head off at once. The serpent (by the way, he held the golden keys of that palace in his mouth) was immediately changed into a beautiful youth, and he said in a pleasant voice: "This castle belongs to me, and, as you have delivered me, there is no help for it: I must marry you." So there was a great wedding, the castle was full of their attendants, and they all had to play and dance. But the floor was of paper, so I fell through it, and here I am now. THE ENCHANTED PRINCESSES In the days of King Bambita, his two noble daughters oppressed the people, laying heavy taxes on them without the king's knowledge. The people cursed them, and the curses did their work. The princesses vanished. The king sent some of his servants to look for the princesses. But the servants came back empty-handed. None of them had been able to find the princesses. Now, a captain and a lieutenant heard of the king's trouble. So the lieutenant went to the king, and "I see," says he, "that you are in trouble. I will go and look for the princesses." "How much do you want for it?" asked the king. "Twenty pounds." The king agreed, and gave him the money. "If you find them," said he, "half of my kingdom is yours." The lieutenant and the captain had plenty of money now, so they went to an inn and passed the time drinking. On the third day the captain said: "To-day I will go to the king. If he gave you twenty pounds, he is certain to give me more." So he went to the king and said: "I see that your majesty is in trouble. I should like to go and look for the princesses." "How much do you want for it?" said the king. "Thirty pounds." Well, the king gave him the money without any more ado, adding that, if he found the princesses, he would get half of his kingdom. They fell to drinking again and had a splendid time. There was a drummer near them, and he heard them saying that they were to look for the princesses. So he went to the king and said: "I hear that your majesty is prostrated by sore trouble. I, too, would like to look for the princesses." "How much do you want for it?" "Forty pounds, at least." The king gave him the money without more ado. The two officers and the drummer left that inn for another, and so they went on spending their money recklessly in one drinking-house after another. The drummer went with the other two, but he was more careful than they were. He was not such a spendthrift as the two officers. They asked him where he meant to go. "Wherever you go, I will go too," he replied. "Then why don't you join us and lead a gay life?" "That I can't do until I know where to find the princesses." They invited him to join them, but he refused to do it. At last they bought some bread and other food, and they all set out together on their journey. They came to a dark forest, and for a fortnight they searched it through and through, but they could find nothing. They couldn't find their way out of the forest either, so they agreed that one of them should climb to the top of the highest tree to see which way they ought to go. The drummer, being the youngest, climbed up a pine-tree. He called out: "I can see a cottage. Look, I will throw my hat towards it, and do you follow the hat." Well, they went on until they reached the cottage. "Go into the room," says the drummer. "After you," said both the officers at once. So the drummer stepped inside, and an old crone welcomed him. "Welcome, Drummer Anthony," said she. "How did you get here?" "I have come to deliver the princesses, and only for that." "Well, you will find them, but those other two fellows will get them from you by a trick." She gave him a rope three hundred fathoms long and told him to bind it round his body. She also gave him some wine and a sponge. Then she said: "Not far from here there is a well. When you come to it, you must say that you will let yourself down into the well, if the other fellows will drink the fountain dry." When they got to the well, the captain and the lieutenant began to drink the fountain, but it was just as full as before. "If we kept on drinking this fountain till doomsday," they said, "we could not drink it dry." So the drummer took the sponge, and at once the water began to disappear, and soon the well was dry. They began to quarrel as to who should go down the well. The one on the right side said the other ought to go, but at last they agreed that the drummer, who was the lightest, should go. So he went down, and, when he reached the bottom of the well, he found a stone there. He drew it aside, and then he saw the light of the other world. He lowered himself on the rope into the other world. There he saw a beautiful palace. He went towards it. When he reached it, he saw that the table was laid for two persons. He ate his meal and then went into the second room. There he laid himself down to sleep, and when he awoke in the morning, he found the Princess Anne in the third room. "Welcome," she said; "what has brought you here?" He told her that he had come to deliver her. She said: "I don't know whether you will succeed in that. Here is a sword; see if you can brandish it." The drummer took hold of the sword, but he could not even lift it, it was so heavy. Then the princess gave him a ring. "Take this," she said, "and whenever you think of me, you will become strong. I have to hold the dragon in my lap for a whole hour. As soon as he comes, he will smell a man. But you must cut him in two, for then I shall be delivered. Just at nine o'clock he comes." Just at nine o'clock the palace began to tremble and the dragon came in. But the drummer encountered him and struck him in two with the sword. After that the princess took him into another room. "Now you have delivered me," she said. "But my sister is in worse trouble still. She has to hold a dragon in her lap for two hours, and that dragon is even stronger than this one." Then they went into the fourth room, where was the Princess Antonia. She, too, greeted him, and told him that he would be able to deliver her if he could brandish the sword beside her. He tried, but he could not even move it. Then she gave him a ring and told him that, whenever he thought of her, he would have the strength of two hundred men. She said, too, that if he succeeded in setting her free she would marry him. Soon eleven o'clock came. The hall began to tremble and the dragon appeared. But, as he was coming in, Anthony was ready for him near the door, and he managed to cut the dragon in two. Now, when the two princesses had been set free, they gathered all the precious stones they could to take with them, and went to the opening that led into the world. But the drummer had quite forgotten the old crone's warning about the other two fellows, and he sent the princesses up before him. Each of the officers took a princess for himself, and the drummer was left behind at the bottom of the well. When his turn came, he was careful enough to tie a stone to the rope. His companions on the top pulled it up a little way and then suddenly let it drop, throwing down other stones into the well to kill the drummer. But he had remembered the crone's warning that his friends would try to trick him. So he jumped aside and remained there in the other world. He went back to the palace and entered the seventh room. On the table were three boxes. He opened the first and found a whistle inside it. He blew the whistle, and in came some generals and asked what was his majesty's will. He said he had only whistled to find out if they were attending to their duty. Then he looked into the second box, and there he saw a bugle. He blew the bugle, and in came some officers, who said just what the generals had said. In the third box he found a drum. He beat the drum, and immediately he was surrounded by infantry and cavalry, a great multitude of soldiers. He asked whether any of them had ever been in Europe. Two men were found among them who had been shipwrecked. "Where is the ship?" said the drummer. "Here on the seacoast," they replied. At that, Anthony decked himself out in a royal robe and started on his travels for Europe. Meanwhile the two princesses had reached home. One was engaged to be married to the lieutenant, the other to the captain. But when the time for the wedding came, both the princesses, still thinking of Anthony, asked for a delay of one year, and their royal father granted their request. Anthony arrived safely in that land. He met a traveller and said to him, "Look here, why should you not change clothes with me?" He was glad to do so, and Anthony went on to the town in which the princesses lived and sought out a goldsmith. He asked the goldsmith for work. "I haven't work enough for myself," said the goldsmith. "Well," said the drummer, "I have had an order for two rings, although I was only walking the street." "You are a lucky fellow," said the goldsmith, and his wife, when she heard of it, spoke in the drummer's favour, so he was taken on as assistant. "Now," said he, "give me what I want and I will make the rings. But nobody must enter my room: I will take my meals in at the door." On the third day one ring was finished, and this one was meant for the Princess Anne. "You must take this ring to the Princess Anne, master," said he. "So I will," said the goldsmith; "but what is your price for it?" "A thousand pounds," said he. "If that's so, I won't go. They would put me in jail." "Be easy," said Anthony, "nothing will happen to you." So the goldsmith went to the palace, and sent in a message that his assistant had made a ring for the Princess Anne. She sent a message that she had not ordered a ring, but she would look at it. As soon as she saw it, she asked: "How much do you want for this?" He replied that he was almost afraid to say that it was worth a thousand pounds. "Oh! it is worth much more than that," she said, and she paid the sum at once. The goldsmith returned home and told his wife what he had got for the ring. She wondered what sort of person their new assistant was. The master brought the money to him, but the assistant would not accept it. "You can keep the money for yourself," he said, "and I have just finished the ring for the Princess Antonia. You will have to go to the palace again with this." This time the master-goldsmith was ready enough to go. "How much am I to ask for this ring?" he said. "Ask two thousand pounds." So he was brought to the princess, and he told her that his apprentice had made a ring for her. She answered that she had not ordered a ring. "However, show it to me." As soon as she glanced at it, she said: "How much do you want for this?" "Two thousand pounds." "Oh! it's worth much more than that," she said. So she paid down the money and told the master-goldsmith to fetch his assistant to her. As soon as the master came home, he told his wife everything. She was still more astonished. "O Lord!" she said, "I cannot understand it at all." The master told Anthony that the princess bade him come and see her. "She can come to me," was his reply. When the princess heard that, she lost no time, but took some royal garments for him, and drove to Anthony's house in the royal coach. She went straight to him and said, "I am come to bring you home with me, Anthony." She bade him put on the royal robe she had brought with her for him, and they drove together to the palace, and their marriage was celebrated not long after. The two officers thought the king would banish them or inflict some punishment upon them, but he pardoned them and gave them sufficient money to live at the court. Anthony himself did not care for royalty. He and his wife arranged that they would return to the place where he had first found the princesses. So they departed for that land, but a storm drove them on shore near to the place where he had met the old crone. She gave him welcome. "So you are back again," she said. They explained to her that what they wished was to go back to that palace beneath the fountain. "Well," she said, "I will show you the way to the other world, and I will let you down the well." They came to the opening, and Anthony was about to enter the well, but the old hag begged him to wait with her and let the princess go on before. So the princess was let down to the bottom of the well, and then the crone said: "I won't let you follow her unless you first cut off my head." "This is a strange way to repay the good you have done me," said Anthony. "Well, unless you promise this you will never see your princess again." So he had to promise, and with that she waved her wand and a road appeared, which led them straight to the princess. Then Anthony struck off the crone's head, and they found themselves amid crowds of farmers who were ploughing and soldiers standing at attention, and one and all welcoming their new lords. For this land was an enchanted land, and the old crone was a witch. THE TWIN BROTHERS Once there was a princess, and she was under a curse and enchantment, so that she had to spend her life in the shape of a fish. One day a woman happened to be working in the meadow by the river, and she saw a flock of birds flying above the river and talking to the fish. The woman wondered what it was that was there, so she went to the waterside and looked in. All she saw was a fish swimming about. So she said: "I should like to eat you, fish. I feel sure you would do me good." Now, when she said that, the fish answered: "You could save me. You will have twin sons, although you have never had any children before." The woman said that, if she could help her in that, there was nothing the fish could ask that she would not do to deliver her. The fish answered: "Catch me and take me to your field. There you must bury me and plant a rose-tree over me. When the roses first come into bloom you will bear twin sons. After three years, dig in the place where you buried me and you will find two swords, and these you must keep. Your mare will have two foals and your bitch will have two pups, and each of your twins will have a sword, a horse, and a dog. Those swords will have the virtue that they will help your sons to victory over everybody. I shall be delivered as soon as my body has rotted." When the twin sons grew up they were very clever, and so they said: "We must try our luck in the world. We are bold enough. One of us will go to the East and one to the West. Each of us must look at his sword every morning to see if the other needs his help. For the sword will begin to rust as soon as one of us is in peril." So they cast lots which way they should go, and each of them took his sword, his horse, and his dog, and away they went. The first rode through deep forests, and he met a fierce dragon and a lion; so he attacked the dragon, which had nine heads. The lion stayed quiet while the knight attacked the dragon, and at last he succeeded in cutting one of the dragon's heads off. He felt tired then, and the lion took his place; then the knight cut two more heads off the dragon. And so it went on till he had all the heads cut off. Then he cut out the tongues from all the nine heads and kept them, and so went forward on his adventurous journey. Now, it chanced that there were some woodcutters in these forests, and one of them collected all the dragon's heads, having come across them by chance. That dragon used to come to the town and devour one person every visit. This time the lot had fallen upon the princess, and so she was to be devoured by the dragon. So the town was all hung with black cloth. The woodcutter knew all about this, so he went with the heads to the town to sue for the princess, for it had been proclaimed that whoever killed the dragon should be her husband. When the princess saw that such a low-born man was to be her husband she was taken aback, and tried by all the means in her power to delay the wedding. The knight happened to come to the town just then, and he saw a good inn, so he rode up to it. The innkeeper came at once to ask what he could do for him. Now, there were other guests there, and it was a busy place. The guests were all talking of the one matter: when the princess was going to marry the man who had killed the dragon. The wedding ought to have been long ago, but the bride and her parents kept putting it off. The knight listened to all this talk, and then he asked: "Are you sure that it was that woodcutter who killed the dragon?" They answered that it certainly was, for the heads were preserved in the palace. The knight said nothing, but when he thought the proper time had come he rode to the palace. The princess saw him from the window, and she wondered who it might be. He was ushered in, and he went straight to the princess and told her everything. He asked her whether he might attend the wedding. She answered: "I am not at all pleased with my marriage. I would much rather marry you, sir." He asked her why. "If he killed the dragon he must be a great man." "He is such a low-born man," said she, "that it is not likely that he killed the dragon." "I should like to see him," said he. So they brought the woodcutter before him, and the knight asked to see the heads. So they brought the heads. He looked at the heads and said: "There are no tongues in these heads. Where are the tongues?" Then he turned to the woodcutter: "Did you really kill the cruel dragon?" he said. The woodcutter persisted in his story. "And how did you cut the heads off?" "With my hatchet." "Why, you couldn't do it with your hatchet. You are a liar." The woodcutter was taken aback and did not know what to say. He was frightened already, but he said: "It happened that the dragon didn't have any tongues." The knight produced the tongues and said: "Here are the tongues, and it was I who killed the cruel dragon." The princess took hold of him and embraced and kissed him, and she was ready to marry him on the spot. As for the woodcutter, he was kicked out in disgrace, and they put him into jail for some time too. So the princess married the knight and they lived happily together. One day, looking out of the window, he saw in the distance, among the mountains, a black castle. He asked his wife what castle it was and to whom it belonged. "That is an enchanted castle, and nobody who goes into it ever returns." But he could not rest, and he was eager to explore the castle. So one morning he ordered his horse to be saddled, and, accompanied by his dog, he rode to the castle. When they reached it they found the gate open. As he went in he saw men and animals all turned to stone. In the hall an old hag was sitting by the fire. When she saw him she pretended to tremble. "Dear lord," said she, "bind your dog. He might bite me." He said: "Do not be afraid. He will do you no harm." He bent down to pat the dog, and at that moment the hag took her wand and struck him with it. He was turned to stone, and his horse and dog too. The princess waited for her lord, but he did not return. She mourned for him, and the citizens, who loved their lord, were grieved at his loss. Now, the other brother looked at his sword, and the sword began to rust; so he was sure that his brother was in trouble. He felt that he must help him, so he rode off in that direction and came to the town. The town was hung with black flags. As he rode through the streets the citizens saw him, and they thought he was their lord, for he had a horse and a dog just like their lord's horse and dog. When the princess saw him, she embraced him and said: "Where have you been so long, my dear husband?" He said that he had lost his way in the forest and that he had fallen among robbers, and, since he had no choice, he had to pretend to be a robber too, and to promise to stay with them and to show them good hiding-places. The robbers, so he said, admitted him to be of their company, and he had not been able to escape before this. Everybody was delighted, and the lord's brother was careful enough not to say that he was only the brother. But, whenever they went to bed, he put his sword between himself and the lady. The princess was troubled at this, and she tried to find different explanations for the conduct of her supposed husband. One morning, as he was looking out of the window, he saw that same castle, and he asked what castle it was. She answered: "I have told you already that it is an enchanted castle, and that nobody who goes there ever returns." So he thought: "It is surely there that my brother is." He ordered his horse to be saddled and, without saying a word to anybody, he rode off to the castle. As soon as he entered the castle he saw his brother and his dog turned to stone. He saw, too, all the petrified knights and their horses, and the hag sitting and keeping up the fire. He said: "You old hag, unless you bring my brother to life again I'll hew you in pieces with this sword of mine." The hag knew that the sword had magical virtues, and so she said: "Pray, sir, do not be angry with me. Take that box there and rub the ointment beneath his nose and he will come to life again." "Curse you, you evil old hag; do it yourself, and instantly." And he went and caught hold of her wand and struck her with it, and at once she was turned into stone. He had not meant to do that, for he did not know that the wand had such power. He took the box and rubbed the ointment beneath his brother's nose, and the brother came to life again. Then he anointed all the others who had been turned to stone, and they all came to life again. As for the hag, he left her there just as she was. Then the brothers rode off to the princess. When she saw them, she did not know which of them was her husband, they were so like one another. So she said: "What am I to do now? Which of you is my lord?" They came before her and bade her choose the right one. But still she hesitated. So her husband went up to her and took her by the hand and said: "I am the right one and that is my brother." He told her everything, and she was glad that her real husband had come again. So they lived happily together, and, as for the other brother, he went to seek his fortune elsewhere. THE WATERNICK Once upon a time there were two children, a boy and a girl. They only had a mother, who was a widow. One day their mother sent them to get some wood for the fire. Off they went. The girl was just learning to knit, so she put a ball of wool in her pocket. They went on as far as they knew the way. Then suddenly they began to wonder whether they could find their way home. The girl said: "I will bind the end of the thread to a tree, and so we shall be able to find our way back." So they went on till the thread had all run out. Then they turned back, but they found that wild creatures had broken the thread. What were they to do? They wandered on till night fell, and then they saw that they would have to spend the night in the forest. They came to a pond, and they found that they could not go any farther. So they walked round the pond till the Waternick got hold of them. He took them with him, and there they were. When he got home with them, his wife was waiting for him. Round the stove there were some shelves for vessels that they used for catching poor souls in. The Waternick and his wife were delighted with the children; they decided that they would employ them as servants, so Mrs. Waternick took charge of them. The children spent some years in this way and learned about everything under the water. One day the Waternick went away to catch some human souls, and he gave orders to Mrs. Waternick not to leave the children alone. But the old hag fell asleep, and the children walked some distance from the hut, till they thought she would scold them, and so they returned home. But they meant to go farther the next day, if only the old hag went to sleep again. As soon as they were sure that she was asleep they ran out of the hut and went as far as they could. The old hag woke up and cried out: "Where are you, children?" She jumped to her feet and ran after them. They were within a few steps of getting safe away, when, alas! she overtook them. She took them back and forced them to work, and they had to stay at home besides. When the Waternick came home, she told him all about it, and the Waternick said: "Never mind, I'll set them to work, and they won't have time to think about making their way home." So in the morning he took them to the forest and gave them a wooden hatchet and a wooden saw and bade them, fell the trees. "When they are all cut down, you shall go back again." So the Waternick left them, and the children began the work at once. They took the saw and tried to cut down a tree. But the saw soon broke and they were done for. So they took the hatchet, and the hatchet split in two after one stroke. They began to cry. "Things look bad for us," they said. Since they saw that they could not help themselves, they stayed where they were, and presently they fell asleep. I don't know how long they had been sleeping. But it was already time to go back. The Waternick came and asked: "Have you finished?" They said that the hatchet and saw were only made of wood, and that both were broken. He took them home. Next day the Waternick went about his work, while Mrs. Waternick was busy outside the hut. The children looked at the cups on the shelves. The cups were tilted up. So the girl lifted one of them. And she heard the words: "God speed you!" She lifted another, and the same greeting came again. So she kept on lifting the cups till she had lifted all of them. Human souls had been imprisoned under those cups. Now the hag came into the room and she saw that all the cups had been lifted. She began to curse, and she said that the children would certainly get a good thrashing when the old man came home. The children often felt lonely; they thought of their mother and wondered if she were still alive, and what they could do to get away. So they decided that the next day, when the hag was sleeping, they would try how far they could get. "If only we could get as far as home, it would be all right then." In the morning the girl had to comb Mrs. Waternick's hair and dress her in her smart dress. When she had finished, Mrs. Waternick had a sleep. Now the children took to their heels; they were as quick as ravens, trying to get away before Mrs. Waternick should wake. Being swift of foot, they reached the shore. They leapt out and ran straight on again. Of course they heard the hag screeching behind them, but they were on dry land, so they thought: "We needn't care for anything now." The hag soon stopped her pursuit. The children were tired, so they lay down under a tree in the forest and fell asleep. As they were sleeping, somebody woke them up. It was the forester. They told him that they were afraid of falling into the Waternick's hands again. But the forester told them not to be afraid, and asked how they came there. The children told him everything just as it had happened. Now, the forester remembered that he had heard of a widow who had lost her children. So he thought that these must be the children. He said nothing, but he told his wife to get them some food, and asked the children to sit down and eat. The children thought the food was very nice, so he asked them what they were accustomed to eat. They said they were accustomed to eat flowers. So they ate plenty. The forester decided to do all he could to get the children home. At last it was discovered where their mother lived, and so the children came back to her, and they lived with her until they died. THE MAN WHO MET MISERY Once upon a time there lived a rich man, so rich that you might almost say he oozed gold. He had a son, and from his boyhood the lad was a real spendthrift, for he knew nothing about hard times. Yet he had often been told that there was Misery in the world. So when he was grown up, he thought: "Well, I'm sick of staying at home, so I'll go out into the world to see if I can meet Misery." He told this to his father, and his father said at once: "Yes, you can go. If you stay at home, you'll soon turn into a lazy old woman. You'll get experience in the world, and that can't do you any harm." So our Francis--that was his name, though really it doesn't matter very much what his name was--took everything he wanted and started off on his travels. So long as he had enough money, he was all right, he couldn't meet with Misery. But when his money was all spent--that's when everybody feels the pinch--he began to hang his head and his travels lost a good deal of their charm. But he told people his name and his father's name, and for a time they helped him. But at last he came into a country that was quite strange to him. There was a vast desert, through which he walked for a long time, and he began to feel hungry and thirsty, but there was no water--no, not so much as would moisten his tongue. Now, as he went on his way, he saw a flight of stairs going down into a hole, and, without hesitating, down he went. He came into a cellar, and there he saw a man lying on a table. It was an awfully big man, of the kind that used to be called ogres, and he was snoring like a circular saw. Francis looked about him, and he saw all sorts of human bones lying about. He thought: "That's a nice mess. I expect the fellow's a man-eater, and he'll swallow me down like a currant. I'm done for now." He would have liked to go away, but he was afraid to move. But he had a dagger, so he drew it from its sheath without making any noise, and tried to steal up to the ogre quietly. The ogre's head was lying on the table, so he pierced both his eyes with the dagger. The ogre sprang up, cursing horribly. He groped about him and found that he was totally blind. Francis cleared the stairs in two jumps and off he ran, trying to get as far from the ogre as he could. But the ogre knew the place well and kept close on his heels. "To think that a shrimp like that could make me suffer so!" he thought; and yet he found that, run as he would, he couldn't catch the lad. So he cried out: "Wait a bit, you worm! Since you're such a champion and have managed to tackle me, I'll give you something to remember me by." As he said this, he flung a ring at the lad, and the jewel in it shone like flame. The lad heard the ring tinkle as he ran by, so he picked it up and put it on his finger. But as soon as the ring was on his finger, the giant called out: "Where are you, ring?" And the ring answered: "Here I am," and the ogre ran after the sound. Francis jumped on one side, but the ogre called out again, "Where are you?" and the ring answered: "Here!" So it went on for some time, until Francis was so tired that his only thought was: "Well, if he kills me, he kills me." He tried to pull the ring off, but it clung tight, really cutting into the flesh, and the ogre was still following close on his heels. At last--there was no other choice, for the ring kept on calling out "Here I am"--Francis stretched out that finger, and the ogre broke it off with one grip. Off ran Francis, glad enough to get off with his life. When he reached home, they asked him: "Did you meet Misery?" "Indeed I did. I know what it is now. It gave me a nice run for it. It's an awful thing, and there's no joking with it." NINE AT A BLOW Once upon a time there was a tailor, and, whenever he hadn't a job, he used to spend his time mending stockings. One day after dinner the table was covered with flies. The tailor struck at them with a stocking and killed nine of them at a blow. As he hadn't any job in hand, he started out to see the world, and his belt had written on it "Nine at a blow." On his way he met a boy, who asked him to buy a finch from him. He bought it, put it in his knapsack, and went on his way. Then he came to a farm where the farmer's wife was making cheese. He asked her for something to eat, so she gave him some sour milk and a piece of Yorkshire cheese. The tailor drank the milk and put the cheese in his knapsack and went on his way. At last he reached a town. It was a hot day, so he lay down and fell asleep. Now, a giant happened to pass that way, and he saw written in golden letters: "Nine at a blow." So he waked the tailor and asked him: "Have you really killed nine at a blow?" The tailor answered that he had, and the giant said: "Let's have a trial which of us is the stronger. I'll cast a stone, and it will be an hour before it comes down." The tailor said: "I'll cast a stone that won't come down at all." So the giant cast a stone, and it was a full hour before it came down again. Instead of casting a stone, the tailor let the finch go, and, of course, it didn't come back again. So the giant said: "Let's have another try. I'll crush a stone to powder." The tailor said: "I'll squeeze water from a stone." So the giant took a pebble and crushed it to powder. The tailor took the cheese and squeezed it till the water oozed out of it. The giant gave in, and acknowledged that the tailor was the stronger of the two. So they went on together till they came to a cherry-tree growing near a meadow, and the cherries were ripe. They wanted to pick some of the cherries for themselves. So the tailor climbed the tree, but the giant simply bent down the top of the tree and began to pluck the cherries. When he had finished he let go, and the tailor was flung onto a heap of dry grass piled up in the meadow. So the tailor said: "If it hadn't been for my skill in flying, I should have broken my neck," and he promised to teach the giant how to fly. So they went on their way again, and they came to a town. The town was all in mourning. They asked the reason, and they were told that a dragon had taken up his headquarters in the church and was killing the people. The king would give a thousand pounds to whoever could kill the dragon. So they told the king that they would kill the dragon. They ordered a big hammer and a big pair of tongs to be made for them. When they were made, the giant took the tongs and he gave the hammer to the tailor to carry. But the tailor said: "Wouldn't it shame you if people should see us, each carrying such a trifle? Take both the things yourself." When they came near the church door, the giant gave the hammer to the tailor, who stuck fast to it. Then the dragon came dashing out, and flung the tailor behind him, but the giant split him in twain. But the tailor protested: "A nice mess you've made of it. I meant to take the dragon alive. We should have got more money for him so." Then he said: "Now I will teach you how to fly." So they climbed up the church steeple, and the tailor said: "When I say 'One, two, three,' you must jump." And the giant jumped and broke his neck. The tailor told the king that the dragon had killed the giant, so he pocketed the thousand pounds for himself. A CLEVER LASS Once upon a time there was a shepherd. He used to pasture his sheep upon a hill, and one day he saw something glittering on the opposite hill. So he went there to see what it was. It was a golden mortar. He took it up and said to his daughter: "I will give this mortar to our king." But she said: "Don't do that. If you give him the mortar, you won't have the pestle, and he is sure to ask for it, and then you will get into trouble." But the shepherd thought that she was only a silly girl. He took the mortar, and, when he came before the king, he said: "Begging your pardon, Mr. King, I want to give you this mortar." The king answered him roughly: "If you give me the mortar, I must have the pestle as well. Unless the pestle is here within three days, your life will be forfeit." The shepherd began to lament: "My daughter was right when she said that when you had got the mortar you would want the pestle too. I wouldn't listen to her, so it serves me right." "Have you such a clever daughter as that?" asked the king. "Indeed I have," said the shepherd. "Then tell your daughter that I will marry her, if she comes neither walking nor riding, clothed nor unclothed, neither by day nor by night, neither at noon nor in the morning. And I won't ask for the pestle either." The shepherd went home and said: "You can get me out of this, if you go to Mr. King neither clothed nor unclothed," and the rest of it. But the daughter wasn't a bit frightened. She came with the fall of dusk (and that was neither at noon nor in the morning); she dressed herself in fishing-nets; she took a goat, and she partly rode on the goat and partly she walked. And when the king saw that she had only a fishing-net on, that she came with the approach of dusk, and that she was partly walking, partly riding on the goat, he was bound to marry her. But he said to her: "You will be my wife so long as you don't give advice to anybody; but if you do, you must part with me." Well, she didn't give advice to anybody until one day there was a market in the town, and a farmer's mare had a foal at the market. The foal ran away to another farmer, who was there with a gelding, and the farmer said: "This foal belongs to me." They went to law about it, and at last the matter came before the king. And the king, considering that every animal ought to run to its mother, decided that a gelding had had a foal. The farmer who owned the mare went down the stairs, saying over and over again: "The gelding has foaled! the gelding has foaled!" The queen heard him, and she said: "Man, you are talking nonsense." So he told her that he had been at the market, that his mare had foaled, but the foal ran to another farmer who was there with a gelding. "And now," he said, "it has been decided that the gelding has foaled." So he thought there could be no mistake; at any rate, he couldn't help it. When the queen heard this story she said: "To-morrow, my lord the king will go out for a stroll. Take a fishing-net, and begin fishing on the road in front of him. The king will ask you: 'Why are you fishing on a dry road?' And you must answer: 'Why not? it's as hopeful as expecting a gelding to foal.' But you must not say who gave you this advice." So it was. As the king was walking along he saw the farmer fishing on the dry road. He asked him why he was fishing there. "Why not?" said he, "it's as hopeful as expecting a gelding to foal." The king at once began to rate the farmer. "That's not out of your own head," he said, and he kept at the farmer until he let the secret out. So the king came home, summoned the queen, and said to her: "You have been with me for a long time, and you have given advice in spite of all, so you must go to-morrow. But I will allow you to take with you the thing you like best." It was no good arguing. So the king invited all his courtiers and prepared a splendid banquet. When the banquet was finished, the queen said to the king: "Before we part, you must drink this glass of wine to my health," and she had put some opium into the wine on the sly. The king drank it at a draught and fell asleep at once. A carriage was got ready, and the queen put the king in it and drove to her father's old hut. There she laid the king on the straw, and, when he woke up, he asked where he was. "You are with me. Didn't you tell me that I could take the thing I liked best with me?" The king saw how clever she was, and he said: "Now you can give advice to anybody you like." And so they drove home again, and he was king and she queen again. THE SOLDIER AND THE DEVIL A discharged soldier was going home. He had only threepence in his pocket. As he was going through a forest he met a beggar. The beggar asked him for a penny. The soldier gave him one, and went on his way. Then he met another beggar. This beggar was very ill, and he asked the soldier for a penny. So the soldier gave him the other penny. Then he met a third beggar. This beggar was half-dead. The soldier took pity on him and gave him the third penny. Soon after he had left the forest our Lord appeared to him, and in return for those three pennies He granted him three boons. For the first boon the soldier chose a pipe that should be full of tobacco whenever he wished, so that he might always have a smoke handy. The second boon he asked was that, if he wanted to put any one in his knapsack, they should be in it as soon as he said: "Leap into that knapsack." The third boon was that his purse should be full of gold coins whenever he knocked on it. Our Lord said: "So be it!" Soon afterwards he came to a mill and asked for a night's lodging. They said that they only had one room for themselves; the other one was haunted by a devil every midnight. But the soldier wasn't afraid. He said that they could leave him there alone; he didn't mind a bit. He sat down at the table and played cards. When midnight came there was a terrible noise, and the devil appeared, sure enough. When he saw the soldier playing cards he grinned; he was sure he had him. So he sat down opposite him and began to play too. It was nearly one o'clock at last, time for him to go, so he caught hold of the soldier and tried to tear him in pieces. But he had no success. For the soldier said: "Leap into my knapsack," and the devil was in it. Then the soldier threw the sack with the devil in it under the bed, and went to sleep in the bed. In the morning, as soon as he had got up, the millers went to see if the soldier was still alive. They were greatly surprised to find him all right. They said they would give him anything he wanted, but he wouldn't take anything. Off he went, and called at a blacksmith's. He told the blacksmith to give the devil in the sack a good hammering, and then he let the devil go. After that he came into a town. He heard that there was a count's daughter there who was an accomplished cardplayer. She won everybody's money from them. He went to her palace and asked her if she would play with him. She was ready. So they played and played, but she couldn't win all his money from him, for his purse was always fuller than before. It was late by now and the lady was sick of the game, so he went to bed. He put the three precious gifts on the table, but when he got up in the morning they were gone; the lady had stolen them from him. He grieved over his bad luck, but it was no use, and he had to leave the palace. As he went on his way, he saw a fine apple-tree by the side of the road with delicious apples on it. So he took an apple and ate half of it. Then he went on his way, but he was surprised to see that everybody who looked at him ran away from him. So he went to a well and saw that he had horns on his head; that came from his eating the apple. Back he went, and he found a pear-tree; he ate half of a pear and the horns fell off. He thought that he would give the other half of the apple to the lady, and perhaps she would get horns too. So he went and gave her the half apple. She enjoyed it very well, but soon horns grew on her head. The count called together all the doctors and asked them to operate on the horns. But the more they cut at the horns the longer they grew. So the king proclaimed that she would marry the man who should rid her of the horns, but if he failed, his life should be forfeit. So the soldier came back and told the lady that he would rid her of the horns if she would give him his three treasures back. She agreed at once. So he gave her the other half of the pear; she ate it, and the horns fell off. The soldier was quite happy now. One day he met Death, and he said to him: "Leap into my knapsack." And Death was immediately imprisoned in the knapsack. The soldier was carrying Death about for some time, until at last the Lord appeared to him and told him he must not do that: he must let Death go, for people could not die, and there would soon be too many of them in the world. So he let Death go. He wanted to go to Heaven himself. But he went to Hell, and as he drew near Hell the devils closed the gate, they were so frightened of him. When he reached the gate of Heaven, he knocked. St. Peter opened the gate, but he wouldn't let him in. The soldier asked him to let him have just one peep, so that at least he might know what Heaven looked like. Now, he remembered that he still had his soldier's cloak in his knapsack, so he took it out of the knapsack and threw it into Heaven. Then he jumped after it and sat down on it, and then he said he was sitting on his own property. He sat there for a full hundred years, though it only seemed a short time to him. But he couldn't come to an agreement with St. Peter on the case, so our Lord told him that he must first die, for no living people were admitted into Heaven. So the soldier had to leave the premises. He returned to this world, and afterwards he went to Heaven again, and there he is still, as right as rain. OLD NICK AND KITTY Once upon a time there was an old maid-servant on a farm. She was a score or two years old, but she wanted to get married, though nobody would even touch her. She never missed a dance; she was sure to turn up at every one of them, though nobody ever asked her to dance. So at last she said: "I'd dance with Old Nick if only he'd come." The clock struck eleven and a youth clothed in green entered the room. He went straight up to our Kitty and began to dance with her. All the girls couldn't keep from laughing, but they daren't laugh openly. So they held their aprons over their faces. Kitty was very angry, but she kept on dancing like the wind. She thought: "Let the fools laugh; they'd be glad enough to dance with the lad themselves." It was hard upon twelve now, and Old Nick--for Old Nick it was--had to start for home. But Kitty wouldn't let him go. What was he to do with her? He was absolutely at a loss what to do, for she was clinging on to him behind. He went to the pond, thinking he'd be able to throw her in. He tried to do it, but she clasped him round the neck and he couldn't manage it. So off he went to Hell with her. But the people of Hell made an outcry against her and wouldn't let her stay at any price. "Hang it all!" says Old Nick, "I can't go all round the world with her." At last he met a shepherd: "I say, shepherd," says he, "would you like this maiden here?" "A nice maiden that is, the ugly old spinster! Keep her for yourself. You can pickle her." Now, when the devil saw that he was going to fail again, he promised the shepherd a heap of money, only to rid himself of the hideous old crone. But the shepherd refused. "I'll make it so much," says Old Nick. "Well, if you will, I agree." Now, the shepherd was a good-looking fellow, and Kitty was easily persuaded to stay with him. He had lots of money now, and he had the same idea as the devil, to throw her into the pond. What else could he do with such a hideous old hag? He had a great fur coat, and he put it on so high over his head that she couldn't catch hold of his neck, and, plump! off she went into the pond. But, you know, a bad one's a bad one, and you can't get rid of them so easily. So it was with Kitty. She wasn't drowned. A short time after this, Old Nick had an appointment with a man. I don't exactly know how the case stood, but anyhow the devil was to get him. The man asked the shepherd to save him; he was quite ready to pay him well for it. "All right," says the shepherd, "I can do that much for you. Old Nick and I are the best of friends." Now, a crowd of people had collected and they were all wondering how it was going to end. In comes Old Nick. The shepherd runs to meet him and: "Old Kitty's here asking for you," says he. The devil left things as they were, and before you could say "Jack Robinson" he was off. So it all turned out all right. THE KNIGHT BAMBUS There was a poor gamekeeper once, who had suffered from hard times all his life, so as he grew older, he wanted to get rich. He was only an under-forester. One day the forester said: "Near those old ruins, you know the ones I mean, a fox or a roe, or some creature of that sort, often crosses my path, and I can never manage to hit it, though I have shot at it a hundred times. If you happen to be going in that direction, look out for it." When the gamekeeper heard this, the first thing he did was to go to the ruins. Just as he got there, a huge fox appeared with a rustling noise. The gamekeeper felt uneasy, but the fox disappeared at once, so he sat down, put five big charges in his gun, and waited. It wasn't long till the fox appeared again, and this time he was carrying a young fawn in his mouth. The gamekeeper shot at him--boom! The fox cried out, and ran off into the bushes. But the gamekeeper saw that the fawn had run away and hidden itself in a cave. He thought: "The fox cried out, so he has some of my shots in his fur coat. I'll get him some other time." So he went into the ruins through the gate. Within, there was a courtyard all deserted, and with its wall fallen down. So the gamekeeper passed through the courtyard and came into a spacious cellar. There he saw three lamps burning, and looking round, he was filled with amazement. But all this was as nothing, for in the corner were three glittering heaps of golden coins and one heap of big gold pieces. The gamekeeper reflected: "If I had all that, I should give up gamekeeping and have a splendid time." No sooner had he said this than a grey old man appeared and asked: "What are you looking for, gamekeeper?" "Well, I shot at a fox and he ran in somewhere here, and so I'm wandering about looking for him." "You won't get the fox you're looking for, for I am he." "And why are you here in a fox's shape? What's the reason of that?" "I am the Knight Bambus, and all these forests belong to this castle. I was a robber-knight, and so as a punishment I have to keep watch here now." "And how long is it to last?" "When three poor people come here, and each of them takes away two sackfuls of gold, I shall be delivered. I am bound to give all this gold away for nothing. Already I have outlived three generations of my kinsmen here." Then he bade him fetch two leather sacks from the other room and collect the gold into them, filling them up to the brim. He must keep it all for himself and must not tell any one what he had seen. The gamekeeper promised that he wouldn't even tell his wife, Háticka, how he had got the money. So he filled the two sacks up to the brim, and the old man helped him to hoist them on to his shoulders and saw him out of the door. All the time he kept warning him to keep his mouth shut: "For what a woman knows all the world knows; that's gospel truth, sure enough." So the gamekeeper left the castle, carrying those two sacks, and the man shook hands with him before he left. At the border of the forest, near a beech-tree, his wife, Háta, was standing looking for him. She ran up to him. "Great Heavens, Florian! where have you been all this long time? I have been looking everywhere for you for three days." Now Florian was delighted that his wife had come to meet him, so he blurted out: "Háticka, wife, Count Bambus has given me these two sacks of gold pieces. Have a look here--see what heaps of the stuff there are!" and he let one of the sacks fall on the ground. But behold! instead of gold there were only rustling leaves in it. Then he remembered that he was not to say anything about it. He frowned, and his wife burst into tears; and they had to spend the rest of their life, until they died, in poverty just as before. FRANCIS AND MARTIN Once there was a father who had only one son, Francis by name. They had a farmhand called Martin. One day Martin and Francis were ploughing behind the barn. Francis's mother brought their meal for them, and Francis said: "Well, mother, the old man must have a lot more money than he lets on to have. We are not in debt, and yet he's always complaining that he hasn't any money." "Well, my son, you see, he's built that large building." Next day Francis and Martin were ploughing together again. They decided that they must get on the old man's track to see whether he had any money, and where he hid it. Francis promised Martin that, if he could find it out, he would build a cottage for him at the back of the barn. So they agreed that Martin should stay away from church to try to find out if the farmer had any money hidden away at home. When Sunday came, Francis went to church, but Martin kept on saying he wouldn't go, until the farmer forced him to go. So he dressed for church and went out through the farm gate. But he came back on the other side, climbed over the fence, and hid himself in the barn. Soon after this the farmer came into the barn, carrying a basket full of coins. He dug a hole in the threshing-floor, put the money in it, and said: "Black Barabbas! preserve this money for me! Thou black bird! I put it in thy power!" Then he went and fetched a second basket and put it in the hole. But while he was gone to fetch the money, Martin slipped out of his hiding-place, took some of the money, and put it in his boots. Now, the farmer came back again with a third basket, and said once more: "Thou black bird! keep this money for me, and let nobody else have it, unless he gets it by ploughing this threshing-floor with three black goats!" As he was saying these words, a blackbird was soaring above his head and crying out: "Master, what about the money in the boots?" But the farmer did not understand what it meant, and so he went to look at his own boots, which were in the room. But he found no money there, so he was angry and said: "What, you devil! it's rubbish you are talking. I've looked in my boots and there's nothing there." Then he buried the money, stamped down the threshing-floor hard again, and went out. Martin went to the stable, and there he found Francis waiting for him to tell him what the parson's sermon had been about that day, so that he would know what to say if the farmer asked him about it. Soon afterwards the old man was taken ill and died. The two lads were pleased at this, for they hoped that they wouldn't be long about getting the money. Martin got three black goats, he put them in the plough, and sent Francis to plough there. The wind began to blow violently, and the whole barn looked as though it were on fire. He was frightened and stopped ploughing, and immediately the whole barn was just as it had been before. So he went out of the barn and asked Martin to plough for him. Martin started, and, although the wind blew violently enough, he kept on ploughing until he got the money. When Francis had the money, he began to build just as he wanted until he had spent it all. Then he gave Martin the sack. Martin said sorrowfully: "This is the world's gratitude." WITCHES AT THE CROSS Though the witches used to be pretty lively in other places, they were fond of climbing up and down the cross that stands by the road to Malá Cermá (near Slaný). Joe Hilma heard tell of this, so he took his horse and off he rode to see. He took with him a piece of chalk which had been blessed, and made a circle with it. Then he went into the circle and waited till midnight. Then, sure enough, he saw the witches, a great swarm of them, climbing up and down the cross. They didn't see him while this was going on, but when he rode out of the circle, off went the witches after him. He galloped home at full speed. When he rode into the yard they were close on his heels. They couldn't go any farther, for they had no power to do it. I don't know how it happened, but one of them flung a burning broom after him. The broom hit the door, and the door was burned. Joe had quite enough of seeing the witches. THE WITCH AND THE HORSESHOES Once there was a farmer's wife--I can't tell you which one--who was a witch. Now these folks used to have a feast every Eve of St. Philip and St. James. As soon as they began to burn the brooms she couldn't rest: go she must. So she stripped her clothes off, and, standing under the chimney, she anointed herself with some ointment. When she had finished, she said: "Fly, but don't touch anything." And away she flew in the twinkling of an eye. Yes, that was just how it was. But the farmhand was watching all this from the stables, and he watched carefully where she put the ointment. So he went in too, stripped his clothes off, and anointed himself. He said: "Fly, but don't touch anything." And off he flew till he came to the place where the witches were having their feast. Now, when he came there, the farmer's wife knew him, and, to hide herself from him, she turned herself into a white horse. But he did not lose sight of the horse. He mounted it and went to the smith with it, and told him to shoe it. Next day the woman had four horseshoes on, two on her hands and two on her feet. And she had to stay like that always! THE HAUNTED MILL There was a haunted mill, and, dear me, what was it like! A rope-dancer came there with some monkeys. In the evening the Waternick came with a basketful of fishes. He made a fire and fried the fishes. Meanwhile the monkeys had been sitting behind the stove, but when the Nick put the fishes in the pan and was tasting whether they were done, the monkeys came from behind the stove, and one of them put its paw into the pan. The man smacked him over the paw and said: "Get away, pussy! You didn't catch them, so don't eat them." And the monkey ran away. After awhile comes another monkey and puts his paw in the pan. He smacked him too and said the same. But the rope-dancer had a bear, too, which was lying under the table all the time; and, when he heard the Waternick speak, he came from under the table, ran straight to the pan, and put his paw into it. The Waternick did the same to him as he had done to the monkeys. But the bear couldn't stand that. He sprang upon the poor Waternick and gave him a good beating. The Waternick had to run off, leaving the fishes behind. He didn't haunt the mill any more, and that's how they got rid of him. 
5324	----	Scanned and proofread by John B. Hare for sacred-texts.com January 2002 Orignal HTML version at http://www.sacred-texts.com/goth/bow/index.htm Prepared for Project Gutenberg by Curtis Weyant June 2002 [Note: Greek text is in curly braces, i.e., {}.] [Note: Italics have been indicated by an underscore character before and after the italicized text. For example, _this is italicized text_.] THE BOOK OF WERE-WOLVES by SABINE BARING-GOULD CONTENTS CHAPTER I INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER II LYCANTHROPY AMONG THE ANCIENTS Definition of Lycanthropy--Marcellus Sidetes--Virgil--Herodotus--Ovid--Pliny--Agriopas--Story from Petronius--Arcadian Legends--Explanation offered CHAPTER III THE WERE-WOLF IN THE NORTH Norse Traditions--Manner in which the Change was effected--Vlundar Kvda--Instances from the Völsung Saga--Hrolf's Saga--Kraka--Faroëse Poem--Helga Kvida--Vatnsdæla Saga--Eyrbyggja Saga CHAPTER IV THE ORIGIN OF THE SCANDINAVIAN WERE-WOLF Advantage of the Study of Norse Literature--Bear and Wolf-skin Dresses--The Berserkir--Their Rage--The Story of Thorir--Passages from the Aigla--The Evening Wolf--Skallagrim and his Son-Derivation of the Word "Hamr:" of "Vargr"--Laws affecting Outlaws--"To become a Boar"--Recapitulation CHAPTER V THE WERE-WOLF IN THE MIDDLE AGES Stories from Olaus Magnus of Livonian Were-wolves--Story from Bishop Majolus--Story of Albertus Pericofcius--Similar occurrence at Prague--Saint Patrick--Strange incident related by John of Nüremberg--Bisclaveret--Courland Were-wolves--Pierre Vidal--Pavian Lycanthropist--Bodin's Stories--Forestus' Account of a Lycanthropist--Neapolitan Were-wolf CHAPTER VI A CHAPTER OF HORRORS Pierre Bourgot and Michel Verdung--'Me Hermit of S. Bonnot--The Gandillon Family--Thievenne Paget--The Tailor of Châlons--Roulet 69 Chapter VII JEAN GRENIER On the Sand-dunes--A Wolf attacks Marguerite Poirier--Jean Grenier brought to Trial--His Confessions--Charges of Cannibalism proved--His Sentence--Behaviour in the Monastery--Visit of Del'ancre 85 CHAPTER VIII FOLK-LORE RELATING TO WERE-WOLVES Barrenness of English Folk-lore--Devonshire Traditions--Derivation of Were-wolf--Cannibalism in Scotland--The Angus Robber--The Carle of Perth--French Superstitions--Norwegian Traditions--Danish Tales of Were-wolves--Holstein Stories--The Werewolf in the Netherlands--Among the Greeks; the Serbs; the White Russians; the Poles; the Russians--A Russian Receipt for becoming a Were-wolf--The Bohemian Vlkodlak--Armenian Story--Indian Tales--Abyssinian Budas--American Transformation Tales--A Slovakian Household Tale--Similar Greek, Béarnais, and Icelandic Tales CHAPTER IX NATURAL CAUSES OF LYCANTHROPY Innate Cruelty--Its Three Forms--Dumollard--Andreas Bichel--A Dutch Priest--Other instances of Inherent Cruelty--Cruelty united to Refinement--A Hungarian Bather in Blood--Suddenness with which the Passion is developed--Cannibalism; in pregnant Women; in Maniacs--Hallucination; how Produced--Salves--The Story of Lucius--Self-deception 130 CHAPTER X MYTHOLOGICAL ORIGIN OF THE WERE-WOLF MYTH Metempsychosis--Sympathy between Men and Beasts--Finnbog and the Bear--Osage and the Beaver--The Connexion of Soul and Body--Buddism--Case of Mr. Holloway--Popular ideas concerning the Body--The derivation of the German Leichnam--Feather Dresses--Transmigration of Souls--A Basque Story--Story from the Pantschatantra--Savage ideas regarding Natural Phenomena--Thunder, Lightning, and Cloud--The origin of the Dragon--John of Bromton's Dragon a Waterspout--The Legend of Typhoeus--Allegorizing of the Effects of a Hurricane--Anthropomorphosis--The Cirrus Cloud, a Heavenly Swan--Urvaci--The Storm-cloud a Daemon--Vritra and Rakschasas--Story of a Brahmin and a Rakschasas CHAPTER XI THE MARÉCHAL DE REZT I: THE INVESTIGATION OF CHARGES Introduction--History of Gilles de Laval--The Castle of Machecoul--Surrender of the Marshal--Examination of Witnesses--Letter of De Retz--The Duke of Brittany reluctant to move--The Bishop of Nantes CHAPTER XII THE MARÉCHAL DE REZT II: THE TRIAL The Appearance of the Marshal--Pierre de l'Hospital--The Requisition--The Trial adjourned--Meeting of the Marshal and his Servants--The Confession of Henriet--Pontou persuaded to confess all--The adjourned Trial not hurried on--The hesitation of the Duke of Brittany CHAPTER XIII MARÉCHAL DE RETZ III: THE SENTENCE AND EXECUTION The adjourned Trial--The Marshal Confesses--The Case handed over to the Ecclesiastical Tribunal--Prompt steps taken by the Bishop--The Sentence--Ratified by the Secular Court--The Execution CHAPTER XIV A GALICIAN WERE-WOLF The Inhabitants of Austrian Galicia--The Hamlet of Polomyja--Summer Evening in the Forest--The Beggar Swiatek--A Girl disappears--A School-boy vanishes--A Servant-girl lost--Another Boy carried of--The Discovery made by the Publican of Polomyja--Swiatek locked up--Brought to Dabkow--Commits suicide Chapter XV ANOMALOUS CASE--THE HUMAN HYENA Ghouls--Story from Fornari--Quotation from Apuleius--Incident mentioned by Marcassus--Cemeteries of Paris violated--Discovery of Violator--Confession of M. Bertrand CHAPTER XVI A SERMON ON WERE-WOLVES The Discourses of Dr. Johann--The Sermon--Remarks THE BOOK OF WERE-WOLVES. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. I shall never forget the walk I took one night in Vienne, after having accomplished the examination of an unknown Druidical relic, the Pierre labie, at La Rondelle, near Champigni. I had learned of the existence of this cromlech only on my arrival at Champigni in the afternoon, and I had started to visit the curiosity without calculating the time it would take me to reach it and to return. Suffice it to say that I discovered the venerable pile of grey stones as the sun set, and that I expended the last lights of evening in planning and sketching. I then turned my face homeward. My walk of about ten miles had wearied me, coming at the end of a long day's posting, and I had lamed myself in scrambling over some stones to the Gaulish relic. A small hamlet was at no great distance, and I betook myself thither, in the hopes of hiring a trap to convey me to the posthouse, but I was disappointed. Few in the place could speak French, and the priest, when I applied to him, assured me that he believed there was no better conveyance in the place than a common charrue with its solid wooden wheels; nor was a riding horse to be procured. The good man offered to house me for the night; but I was obliged to decline, as my family intended starting early on the following morning. Out spake then the mayor--"Monsieur can never go back to-night across the flats, because of the--the--" and his voice dropped; "the loups-garoux." "He says that he must return!" replied the priest in patois. "But who will go with him?" "Ah, ha,! M. le Curé. It is all very well for one of us to accompany him, but think of the coming back alone!" "Then two must go with him," said the priest, and you can take care of each other as you return." "Picou tells me that he saw the were-wolf only this day se'nnight," said a peasant; "he was down by the hedge of his buckwheat field, and the sun had set, and he was thinking of coming home, when he heard a rustle on the far side of the hedge. He looked over, and there stood the wolf as big as a calf against the horizon, its tongue out, and its eyes glaring like marsh-fires. Mon Dieu! catch me going over the marais to-night. Why, what could two men do if they were attacked by that wolf-fiend?" "It is tempting Providence," said one of the elders of the village;" no man must expect the help of God if he throws himself wilfully in the way of danger. Is it not so, M. le Curé? I heard you say as much from the pulpit on the first Sunday in Lent, preaching from the Gospel." "That is true," observed several, shaking their heads. "His tongue hanging out, and his eyes glaring like marsh-fires!" said the confidant of Picou. "Mon Dieu! if I met the monster, I should run," quoth another. "I quite believe you, Cortrez; I can answer for it that you would," said the mayor. "As big as a calf," threw in Picou's friend. "If the loup-garou were _only_ a natural wolf, why then, you see"--the mayor cleared his throat--"you see we should think nothing of it; but, M. le Curé, it is a fiend, a worse than fiend, a man-fiend,--a worse than man-fiend, a man-wolf-fiend." "But what is the young monsieur to do?" asked the priest, looking from one to another. "Never mind," said I, who had been quietly listening to their patois, which I understood. "Never mind; I will walk back by myself, and if I meet the loup-garou I will crop his ears and tail, and send them to M. le Maire with my compliments." A sigh of relief from the assembly, as they found themselves clear of the difficulty. "Il est Anglais," said the mayor, shaking his head, as though he meant that an Englishman might face the devil with impunity. A melancholy flat was the marais, looking desolate enough by day, but now, in the gloaming, tenfold as desolate. The sky was perfectly clear, and of a soft, blue-grey tinge; illumined by the new moon, a curve of light approaching its western bed. To the horizon reached a fen, blacked with pools of stagnant water, from which the frogs kept up an incessant trill through the summer night. Heath and fern covered the ground, but near the water grew dense masses of flag and bulrush, amongst which the light wind sighed wearily. Here and there stood a sandy knoll, capped with firs, looking like black splashes against the grey sky; not a sign of habitation anywhere; the only trace of men being the white, straight road extending for miles across the fen. That this district harboured wolves is not improbable, and I confess that I armed myself with a strong stick at the first clump of trees through which the road dived. This was my first introduction to were-wolves, and the circumstance of finding the superstition still so prevalent, first gave me the idea of investigating the history and the habits of these mythical creatures. I must acknowledge that I have been quite unsuccessful in obtaining a specimen of the animal, but I have found its traces in all directions. And just as the palæontologist has constructed the labyrinthodon out of its foot-prints in marl, and one splinter of bone, so may this monograph be complete and accurate, although I have no chained were-wolf before me which I may sketch and describe from the life. The traces left are indeed numerous enough, and though perhaps like the dodo or the dinormis, the werewolf may have become extinct in our age, yet he has left his stamp on classic antiquity, he has trodden deep in Northern snows. has ridden rough-shod over the mediævals, and has howled amongst Oriental sepulchres. He belonged to a bad breed, and we are quite content to be freed from him and his kindred, the vampire and the ghoul. Yet who knows! We may be a little too hasty in concluding that he is extinct. He may still prowl in Abyssinian forests, range still over Asiatic steppes, and be found howling dismally in some padded room of a Hanwell or a Bedlam. In the following pages I design to investigate the notices of were-wolves to be found in the ancient writers of classic antiquity, those contained in the Northern Sagas, and, lastly, the numerous details afforded by the mediæval authors. In connection with this I shall give a sketch of modern folklore relating to Lycanthropy. It will then be seen that under the veil of mythology lies a solid reality, that a floating superstition holds in solution a positive truth. This I shall show to be an innate craving for blood implanted in certain natures, restrained under ordinary circumstances, but breaking forth occasionally, accompanied with hallucination, leading in most cases to cannibalism. I shall then give instances of persons thus afflicted, who were believed by others, and who believed themselves, to be transformed into beasts, and who, in the paroxysms of their madness, committed numerous murders, and devoured their victims. I shall next give instances of persons suffering from the same passion for blood, who murdered for the mere gratification of their natural cruelty, but who were not subject to hallucinations, nor were addicted to cannibalism. I shall also give instances of persons filled with the same propensities who murdered and ate their victims, but who were perfectly free from hallucination. CHAPTER II. LYCANTHROPY AMONG THE ANCIENTS. What is Lycanthropy? The change of manor woman into the form of a wolf, either through magical means, so as to enable him or her to gratify the taste for human flesh, or through judgment of the gods in punishment for some great offence. This is the popular definition. Truly it consists in a form of madness, such as may be found in most asylums. Among the ancients this kind of insanity went by the names of Lycanthropy, Kuanthropy, or Boanthropy, because those afflicted with it believed themselves to be turned into wolves, dogs, or cows. But in the North of Europe, as we shall see, the shape of a bear, and in Africa that of a hyæna, were often selected in preference. A mere matter of taste! According to Marcellus Sidetes, of whose poem {Greek _perì lukanðrw'pou_} a fragment exists, men are attacked with this madness chiefly in the beginning of the year, and become most furious in February; retiring for the night to lone cemeteries, and living precisely in the manner of dogs and wolves. Virgil writes in his eighth Eclogue:-- Has herbas, atque hæc Ponto mihi lecta venena Ipse dedit Mris; nascuntur plurima Ponto. His ego sæpe lupum fieri et se conducere sylvis Mrim, sæpe animas imis excire sepulchris, Atque satas alio, vidi traducere messes. And Herodotus:--"It seems that the Neuri are sorcerers, if one is to believe the Scythians and the Greeks established in Scythia; for each Neurian changes himself, once in the year, into the form of a wolf, and he continues in that form for several days, after which he resumes his former shape."--(Lib. iv. c. 105.) See also Pomponius Mela (lib. ii. c. 1) "There is a fixed time for each Neurian, at which they change, if they like, into wolves, and back again into their former condition." But the most remarkable story among the ancients is that related by Ovid in his "Metamorphoses," of Lycaon, king of Arcadia, who, entertaining Jupiter one day, set before him a hash of human flesh, to prove his omniscience, whereupon the god transferred him into a wolf:-- [1] [1. OVID. Met. i. 237; PAUSANIAS, viii. 2, § 1; TZETZE _ad Lycoph._ 481; ERATOSTH. _Catas._ i. 8.] In vain he attempted to speak; from that very instant His jaws were bespluttered with foam, and only he thirsted For blood, as he raged amongst flocks and panted for slaughter. His vesture was changed into hair, his limbs became crooked; A wolf,--he retains yet large trace of his ancient expression, Hoary he is as afore, his countenance rabid, His eyes glitter savagely still, the picture of fury. Pliny relates from Evanthes, that on the festival of Jupiter Lycæus, one of the family of Antæus was selected by lot, and conducted to the brink of the Arcadian lake. He then hung his clothes on a tree and plunged into the water, whereupon he was transformed into a wolf. Nine years after, if he had not tasted human flesh, he was at liberty to swim back and resume his former shape, which had in the meantime become aged, as though he had worn it for nine years. Agriopas relates, that Demænetus, having assisted at an Arcadian human sacrifice to Jupiter Lycæus, ate of the flesh, and was at once transformed into a wolf, in which shape he prowled about for ten years, after which he recovered his human form, and took part in the Olympic games. The following story is from Petronius:-- "My master had gone to Capua to sell some old clothes. I seized the opportunity, and persuaded our guest to bear me company about five miles out of town; for he was a soldier, and as bold as death. We set out about cockcrow, and the moon shone bright as day, when, coming among some monuments. my man began to converse with the stars, whilst I jogged along singing and counting them. Presently I looked back after him, and saw him strip and lay his clothes by the side of the road. My heart was in my mouth in an instant, I stood like a corpse; when, in a crack, he was turned into a wolf. Don't think I'm joking: I would not tell you a lie for the finest fortune in the world. "But to continue: after he was turned into a wolf, he set up a howl and made straight for the woods. At first I did not know whether I was on my head or my heels; but at last going to take up his clothes, I found them turned into stone. The sweat streamed from me, and I never expected to get over it. Melissa began to wonder why I walked so late. 'Had you come a little sooner,' she said, 'you might at least have lent us a hand; for a wolf broke into the farm and has butchered all our cattle; but though be got off, it was no laughing matter for him, for a servant of ours ran him through with a pike. Hearing this I could not close an eye; but as soon as it was daylight, I ran home like a pedlar that has been eased of his pack. Coming to the place where the clothes had been turned into stone, I saw nothing but a pool of blood; and when I got home, I found my soldier lying in bed, like an ox in a stall, and a surgeon dressing his neck. I saw at once that he was a fellow who could change his skin (_versipellis_), and never after could I eat bread with him, no, not if you would have killed me. Those who would have taken a different view of the case are welcome to their opinion; if I tell you a lie, may your genii confound me!" As every one knows, Jupiter changed himself into a bull; Hecuba became a bitch; Actæon a stag; the comrades of Ulysses were transformed into swine; and the daughters of Prtus fled through the fields believing themselves to be cows, and would not allow any one to come near them, lest they should be caught and yoked. S. Augustine declared, in his _De Civitate Dei_, that he knew an old woman who was said to turn men into asses by her enchantments. Apuleius has left us his charming romance of the _Golden Ass_, in which the hero, through injudicious use of a magical salve, is transformed into that long-eared animal. It is to be observed that the chief seat of Lycanthropy was Arcadia, and it has been very plausibly suggested that the cause might he traced to the following circumstance:--The natives were a pastoral people, and would consequently suffer very severely from the attacks and depredations of wolves. They would naturally institute a sacrifice to obtain deliverance from this pest, and security for their flocks. This sacrifice consisted in the offering of a child, and it was instituted by Lycaon. From the circumstance of the sacrifice being human, and from the peculiarity of the name of its originator, rose the myth. But, on the other hand, the story is far too widely spread for us to attribute it to an accidental origin, or to trace it to a local source. Half the world believes, or believed in, were-wolves, and they were supposed to haunt the Norwegian forests by those who had never remotely been connected with Arcadia: and the superstition had probably struck deep its roots into the Scandinavian and Teutonic minds, ages before Lycaon existed; and we have only to glance at Oriental literature, to see it as firmly engrafted in the imagination of the Easterns. CHAPTER III. THE WERE-WOLF IN THE NORTH. In Norway and Iceland certain men were said to be _eigi einhamir_, not of one skin, an idea which had its roots in paganism. The full form of this strange superstition was, that men could take upon them other bodies, and the natures of those beings whose bodies they assumed. The second adopted shape was called by the same name as the original shape, _hamr_, and the expression made use of to designate the transition from one body to another, was at _skipta hömum_, or _at hamaz_; whilst the expedition made in the second form, was the hamför. By this transfiguration extraordinary powers were acquired; the natural strength of the individual was doubled, or quadrupled; he acquired the strength of the beast in whose body he travelled, in addition to his own, and a man thus invigorated was called _hamrammr_. The manner in which the change was effected, varied. At times, a dress of skin was cast over the body, and at once the transformation was complete; at others, the human body was deserted, and the soul entered the second form, leaving the first body in a cataleptic state, to all appearance dead. The second hamr was either borrowed or created for the purpose. There was yet a third manner of producing this effect-it was by incantation; but then the form of the individual remained unaltered, though the eyes of all beholders were charmed so that they could only perceive him under the selected form. Having assumed some bestial shape, the man who is _eigi einhammr_ is only to be recognized by his eyes, which by no power can be changed. He then pursues his course, follows the instincts of the beast whose body he has taken, yet without quenching his own intelligence. He is able to do what the body of the animal can do, and do what he, as man, can do as well. He may fly or swim, if be is in the shape of bird or fish; if he has taken the form of a wolf, or if he goes on a _gandreið_, or wolf's-ride, he is fall of the rage and malignity of the creatures whose powers and passions he has assumed. I will give a few instances of each of the three methods of changing bodies mentioned above. Freyja and Frigg had their falcon dresses in which they visited different regions of the earth, and Loki is said to have borrowed these, and to have then appeared so precisely like a falcon, that he would have escaped detection, but for the malicious twinkle of his eyes. In the Vælundar kviða is the following passage:-- I. I. Meyjar flugu sunnan From the south flew the maidens Myrkvið igögnum Athwart the gloom, Alvitr unga Alvit the young, Orlög drýgja; To fix destinies; þær á savarströnd They on the sea-strand Settusk at hvilask, Sat them to rest, Dró sir suðrnar These damsels of the south Dýrt lín spunnu. Fair linen spun. II. II. Ein nam þeirra One of them took Egil at verja Egil to press, Fögr mær fíra Fair maid, in her Faðmi ljósum; Dazzling arms. Önnur var Svanhvít, Another was Svanhwit, Svanfjaðrar dró; Who wore swan feathers; En in þriðja And the third, þeirra systir Their sister, Var i hvítan Pressed the white Háls Völundar. Neck of Vlund. The introduction of Smund tells us that these charming young ladies were caught when they had laid their swan-skins beside them on the shore, and were consequently not in a condition to fly. In like manner were wolves' dresses used. The following curious passage is from the wild Saga of the Völsungs:-- "It is now to be told that Sigmund thought Sinfjötli too young to help him in his revenge, and he wished first to test his powers; so during the summer they plunged deep into the wood and slew men for their goods, and Sigmund saw that he was quite of the Völsung stock. . . . Now it fell out that as they went through the forest, collecting monies, that they lighted on a house in which were two men sleeping, with great gold rings an them; they had dealings with witchcraft, for wolf-skins hung up in the house above them; it was the tenth day on which they might come out of their second state. They were kings' sons. Sigmund and Sinfjötli got into the habits, and could not get out of them again, and the nature of the original beasts came over them, and they howled as wolves--they learned "both of them to howl. Now they went into the forest, and each took his own course; they made the agreement together that they should try their strength against as many as seven men, but not more, and. that he who was ware of strife should utter his wolf's howl. "'Do not fail in this,' said Sigmund, 'for you are young and daring, and men would be glad to chase you.' Now each went his own course; and after that they had parted Sigmund found men, so he howled; and when Sinfjötli heard that, he ran up and slew them all-then they separated. And Sinfjötli had not been long in the wood before he met with. eleven men; he fell upon them and slew them every one. Then he was tired, so he flung himself under an oak to rest. Up came Sigmund and said, 'Why did you not call out?' Sinfjötli replied, 'What was the need of asking your help to kill eleven men?' "Sigmund flew at him and rent him so that he fell, for he had bitten through his throat. That day they could not leave their wolf-forms. Sigmund laid him on his back and bare him home to the hall, and sat beside him, and said, 'Deuce take the wolf-forms!"'--Völsung Saga, c. 8. There is another curious story of a were-wolf in the same Saga, which I must relate. "Now he did as she requested, and hewed down a great piece of timber, and cast it across the feet of those ten brothers seated in a row, in the forest; and there they sat all that day and on till night. And at midnight there came an old she-wolf out of the forest to them, as they sat in the stocks, and she was both huge and grimly. Now she fell upon one of them, and bit him to death, and after she had eaten him all up, she went away. And next morning Signy sent a trusty man to her brothers, to know how it had fared with them. When he returned he told her of the death of one, and that grieved her much, for she feared it might fare thus with them all, and she would be unable to assist them. "In short, nine nights following came the same she-wolf at midnight, and devoured them one after another till all were dead, except Sigmund, and he was left alone. So when the tenth night came, Signy sent her trusty man to Sigmund, her brother, with honey in his hand, and said that he was to smear it over the face of Sigmund, and to fill his mouth with it. Now he went to Sigmund, and did as he was bid, after which he returned home. And during the night came the same she-wolf, as was her wont, and reckoned to devour him, like his brothers. "Now she snuffed at him, where the honey was smeared, and began to lick his face with her tongue, and presently thrust her tongue into his mouth. He bore it ill, and bit into the tongue of the she-wolf; she sprang up and tried to break loose, setting her feet against the stock, so as to snap it asunder: but he held firm, and ripped the tongue out by the roots, so that it was the death of the wolf. It is the opinion of some men that this beast was the mother of King Siggeir, and that she had taken this form upon her through devilry and witchcraft."--(c. 5.) There is another story bearing on the subject in the Hrolfs Saga Kraka, which is pretty; it is as follows:-- "In the north of Norway, in upland-dales, reigned a king called Hring; and he had a son named Björn. Now it fell out that the queen died, much lamented by the king, and by all. The people advised him to marry again, and so be sent men south to get him a wife. A gale and fierce storm fell upon them, so that they had to turn the helm, and run before the wind, and so they came north to Finnmark, where they spent the winter. One day they went inland, and came to a house in which sat two beautiful women, who greeted them well, and inquired whence they had come. They replied by giving an account of their journey and their errand, and then asked the women who they were, and why they were alone, and far from the haunts of men, although they were so comely and engaging. The elder replied--that her name was Ingibjorg, and that her daughter was called Hvit, and that she was the Finn king's sweetheart. The messengers decided that they would return home, if Hvit would come with them and marry King Hring. She agreed, and they took her with them and met the king who was pleased with her, and had his wedding feast made, and said that he cared not though she was not rich. But the king was very old, and that the queen soon found out. "There was a Carle who had a farm not far from the king's dwelling; he had a wife, and a daughter, who was but a child, and her name was Bera; she was very young and lovely. Björn the king's son, and Bera the Carle's daughter, were wont, as children, to play together, and they loved each other well. The Carle was well to do, he had been out harrying in his young days, and he was a doughty champion. Björn and Bera loved each other more and more, and they were often together. Time passed, and nothing worth relating occurred; but Björn, the king's son, waxed strong and tall; and he was well skilled in all manly exercises. "King Hring was often absent for long, harrying foreign shores, and Hvit remained at home and governed the land. She was not liked of the people. She was always very pleasant with Björn, but he cared little for her. It fell out once that the King Hring went abroad, and he spake with his queen that Björn should remain at home with her, to assist in the government, for he thought it advisable, the queen being haughty and inflated with pride. "The king told his son Björn that he was to remain at home, and rule the land with the queen; Björn replied that he disliked the plan, and that he had no love for the queen; but the king was inflexible, and left the land with a great following. Björn walked home after his conversation with the king, and went up to his place, ill-pleased and red as blood. The queen came to speak with him, and to cheer him; and spake friendly with him, but he bade her be of. She obeyed him that time. She often came to talk with him, and said how much pleasanter it was for them to be together, than to have an old fellow like Hring in the house. "Björn resented this speech, and struck her a box in the ear, and bade her depart, and he spurned her from him. She replied that this was ill-done to drive and thrust her away: and 'You think it better, Björn, to sweetheart a Carle's daughter, than to have my love and favour, a fine piece of condescension and a disgrace it is to you! But, before long, something will stand in the way of your fancy, and your folly.' Then she struck at him with a wolf-skin glove, and said, that he should become a rabid and grim wild bear; and 'You shall eat nothing but your father's sheep, which you shall slay for your food, and never shall you leave this state.' After that, Björn disappeared, and none knew what had become of him; and men sought but found him not, as was to be expected. We must now relate how that the king's sheep were slaughtered, half a score at a time, and it was all the work of a grey bear, both huge and grimly. "One evening it chanced that the Carle's daughter saw this savage bear coming towards her, looking tenderly at her, and she fancied that she recognized the eyes of Björn, the king's son, so she made a slight attempt to escape; then the beast retreated, but she followed it, till she came to a cave. Now when she entered the cave there stood before her a man, who greeted Bera, the Carle's daughter; and she recognized him, for he was Björn, Hring's son. Overjoyed were they to meet. So they were together in the cave awhile, for she would not part from him when she had the chance of being with him; but he said that this was not proper that she should be there by him, for by day he was a beast, and by night a man. "Hring returned from his harrying, and he was told the news, of what had taken place during his absence; how that Björn, his son, had vanished, and also, how that a monstrous beast was up the country, and was destroying his flocks. The queen urged the king to have the beast slain, but he delayed awhile. "One night, as Bera and Björn were together, he said to her:--'Methinks to-morrow will be the day of my death, for they will come out to hunt me down. But for myself I care not, for it is little pleasure to live with this charm upon me, and my only comfort is that we are together; but now our union must be broken. I will give you the ring which is under my left hand. You will see the troop of hunters to-morrow coming to seek me; and when I am dead go to the king, and ask him to give you what is under the beast's left front leg. He will consent.' "He spoke to her of many other things, till the bear's form stole over him, and he went forth a bear. She followed him, and saw that a great body of hunters had come over the mountain ridges, and had a number of dogs with them. The bear rushed away from the cavern, but the dogs and the king's men came upon him, and there was a desperate struggle. He wearied many men before he was brought to bay, and had slain all the dogs. But now they made a ring about him, and he ranged around it., but could see no means of escape, so he turned to where the king stood, and he seized a man who stood next him, and rent him asunder; then was the bear so exhausted that he cast himself down flat, and, at once, the men rushed in upon him and slew him. The Carle's daughter saw this, and she went up to the king, and said,--'Sire! wilt thou grant me that which is under the bear's left fore-shoulder?' The king consented. By this time his men had nearly flayed the bear; Bera went up and plucked away the ring, and kept it, but none saw what she took, nor had they looked for anything. The king asked her who she was, and she gave a name, but not her true name. "The king now went home, and Bera was in his company. The queen was very joyous, and treated her well, and asked who she was; but Bera answered as before. "The queen now made a great feast, and had the bear's flesh cooked for the banquet. The Carle's daughter was in the bower of the queen, and could not escape, for the queen had a suspicion who she was. Then she came to Bera with a dish, quite unexpectedly, and on it was bear's flesh, and she bade Bera eat it. She would not do so. 'Here is a marvel!' said the queen; 'you reject the offer which a queen herself deigns to make to you. Take it at once, or something worse will befall you.' She bit before her, and she ate of that bite; the queen cut another piece, and looked into her mouth; she saw that one little grain of the bite had gone down, but Bera spat out all the rest from her mouth, and said she would take no more, though she were tortured or killed. "'Maybe you have had sufficient,' said the queen, and she laughed."--(Hrolfs Saga Kraka, c. 24-27, condensed.) In the Faroëse song of Finnur hin friði, we have the following verse:-- Hegar íð Finnur hetta sær. When this peril Finn saw, Mannspell var at meini, That witchcraft did him harm, Skapti hann seg í varglíki: Then he changed himself into a were-wolf: Hann feldi allvæl fleiri. He slew many thus. The following is from the second Kviða of Helga Hundingsbana (stroph. 31):-- May the blade bite, Which thou brandishest Only on thyself, when it Chimes on thy head. Then avenged will be The death of Helgi, When thou, as a wolf, Wanderest in the woods, Knowing nor fortune Nor any pleasure, Haying no meat, Save rivings of corpses. In all these cases the change is of the form: we shall now come to instances in which the person who is changed has a double shape, and the soul animates one after the other. The Ynglinga Saga (c. 7) says of Odin, that "he changed form; the bodies lay as though sleeping or dead, but he was a bird or a beast, a fish, or a woman, and went in a twinkling to far distant lands, doing his own or other people's business." In like manner the Danish king Harold sent a warlock to Iceland in the form of a whale, whilst his body lay stiff and stark at home. The already quoted Saga of Hrolf Krake gives us another example, where Bödvar Bjarki, in the shape of a huge bear, fights desperately with the enemy, which has surrounded the hall of his king, whilst his human body lies drunkenly beside the embers within. In the Vatnsdæla Saga, there is a curious account of three Finns, who were shut up in a hut for three nights, and ordered by Ingimund, a Norwegian chief, to visit Iceland and inform him of the lie of the country, where he was to settle. Their bodies became rigid, and they sent their souls the errand, and, on their awaking at the end of three days, gave an accurate description of the Vatnsdal, in which Ingimund was eventually to establish himself. But the Saga does not relate whether these Finns projected their souls into the bodies of birds or beasts. The third manner of transformation mentioned, was that in which the individual was not changed himself, but the eyes of others were bewitched, so that they could not detect him, but saw him only under a certain form. Of this there are several examples in the Sagas; as, for instance, in the Hromundar Saga Greypsonar, and in the Fostbræðra Saga. But I will translate the most curious, which is that of Odd, Katla's son, in the Eyrbyggja Saga.--(c. 20.) "Geirrid, housewife in Mafvahlið, sent word into Bolstad, that she was ware of the fact that Odd, Katla's son, had hewn off Aud's hand. "Now when Thorarinn and Arnkell heard that, they rode from home with twelve men. They spent the night in Mafvahlið, and rode on next morning to Holt: and Odd was the only man in the house. "Katla sat on the high seat spinning yarn, and she bade Odd sit beside her; also, she bade her women sit each in her place, and hold their tongues. 'For,' said she, 'I shall do all the talking.' Now when Arnkell and his company arrived, they walked straight in, and when they came into the chamber, Katla greeted Arnkell, and asked the news. He replied that there was none, and he inquired after Odd. Katla said that he had gone to Breidavik. 'We shall ransack the house though,' quoth Arnkell. 'Be it so,' replied Katla, and she ordered a girl to carry a light before them, and unlock the different parts of the house. All they saw was Katla spinning yarn off her distaff. Now they search the house, but find no Odd, so they depart. But when they had gone a little way from the garth, Arnkell stood still and said: 'How know we but that Katla has hoodwinked us, and that the distaff in her hand was nothing more than Odd.' 'Not impossible!' said Thorarinn; 'let us turn back.' They did so; and when those at Holt raw that they were returning, Katla said to her maids, 'Sit still in your places, Odd and I shall go out.' "Now as they approached the door, she went into the porch, and began to comb and clip the hair of her son Odd. Arnkell came to the door and saw where Katla was, and she seemed to be stroking her goat, and disentangling its mane and beard and smoothing its wool. So he and his men went into the house, but found not Odd. Katla's distaff lay against the bench, so they thought that it could not have been Odd, and they went away. However, when they had come near the spot where they had turned before, Arnkell said, 'Think you not that Odd may have been in the goat's form?' 'There is no saying,' replied Thorarinn; 'but if we turn back we will lay hands on Katla.' 'We can try our luck again,' quoth Arnkell; 'and see what comes of it.' So they returned. "Now when they were seen on their way back, Katla bade Odd follow her; and she lea him to the ash-heap, and told him to lie there and not to stir on any account. But when Arnkell, and his men came to the farm, they rushed into the chamber, and saw Katla seated in her place, spinning. She greeted them and said that their visits followed with rapidity. Arnkell replied that what she said was true. His comrades took the distaff and cut it in twain. 'Come now!' said Katla, 'you cannot say, when you get home, that you have done nothing, for you have chopped up my distaff.' Then Arnkell and the rest hunted high and low for Odd, but could not find him; indeed they saw nothing living about the place, beside a boar-pig which lay under the ash-heap, so they went away once more. "Well, when they got half-way to Mafvahlið, came Geirrid to meet them, with her workmen. 'They had not gone the right way to work in seeking Odd,' she said, 'but she would help them.' So they turned back again. Geirrid had a blue cloak on her. Now when the party was seen and reported to Katla, and it was said that they were thirteen in number, and one had on a coloured dress, Katla exclaimed, 'That troll Geirrid is come! I shall not be able to throw a glamour over their eyes any more.' She started up from her place and lifted the cushion of the seat, and there was a hole and a cavity beneath: into this she thrust Odd, clapped the cushion over him, and sat down, saying she felt sick at heart. "Now when they came into the room, there were small greetings. Geirrid cast of her the cloak and went up to Katla, and took the seal-skin bag which she had in her hand, and drew it over the head of Katla. [1] Then Geirrid bade them break up the seat. They did so, and found Odd. Him they took and carried to Buland's head, where they hanged him. . . . But Katla they stoned to death under the headland." [1. A precaution against the "evil eye." Compare _Gisla Saga Surssonnar_, p. 34. _Laxdæla Saga_, cc. 37, 38.] CHAPTER IV. THE ORIGIN OF THE SCANDINAVIAN WERE-WOLF. One of the great advantages of the study of old Norse or Icelandic literature is the insight given by it into the origin of world-wide superstitions. Norse tradition is transparent as glacier ice, and its origin is as unmistakable. Mediæval mythology, rich and gorgeous, is a compound like Corinthian brass, into which many pure ores have been fused, or it is a full turbid river drawn from numerous feeders, which had their sources in remote climes. It is a blending of primæval Keltic, Teutonic, Scandinavian, Italic, and Arab traditions, each adding a beauty, each yielding a charm, bat each accretion rendering the analysis more difficult. Pacciuchelli says:--"The Anio flows into the Tiber; pure as crystal it meets the tawny stream, and is lost in it, so that there is no more Anio, but the united stream is all Tiber." So is it with each tributary to the tide of mediæval mythology. The moment it has blended its waters with the great and onward rolling flood, it is impossible to detect it with certainty; it has swollen the stream, but has lost its own identity. If we would analyse a particular myth, we must not go at once to the body of mediæval superstition, but strike at one of the tributaries before its absorption. This we shall proceed to do, and in selecting Norse mythology, we come upon abundant material, pointing naturally to the spot whence it has been derived, as glacial moraines indicate the direction which they have taken, and point to the mountains whence they have fallen. It will not be difficult for us to arrive at the origin of the Northern belief in were-wolves, and the data thus obtained will be useful in assisting us to elucidate much that would otherwise prove obscure in mediæval tradition. Among the old Norse, it was the custom for certain warriors to dress in the skins of the beasts they had slain, and thus to give themselves an air of ferocity, calculated to strike terror into the hearts of their foes. Such dresses are mentioned in some Sagas, without there being any supernatural qualities attached to them. For instance, in the Njála there is mention of a man _i geitheðni_, in goatskin dress. Much in the same way do we hear of Harold Harfagr having in his company a band of berserkir, who were all dressed in wolf-skins, _ulfheðnir_, and this expression, wolf-skin coated, is met with as a man's name. Thus in the Holmverja Saga, there is mention of a Björn, "son of _Ulfheðin_, wolfskin coat, son of _Ulfhamr_, wolf-shaped, son of _Ulf_, wolf, son of _Ulfhamr_, wolf-shaped, who could change forms." But the most conclusive passage is in the Vatnsdæla Saga, and is as follows:--"Those berserkir who were called _ulfheðnir_, had got wolf-skins over their mail coats" (c. xvi.) In like manner the word _berserkr_, used of a man possessed of superhuman powers, and subject. to accesses of diabolical fury, was originally applied to one of those doughty champions who went about in bear-sarks, or habits made of bear-skin over their armour. I am well aware that Björn Halldorson's derivation of berserkr, bare of sark, or destitute of clothing, has been hitherto generally received, but Sveibjörn Egilsson, an indisputable authority, rejects this derivation as untenable, and substitutes for it that which I have adopted. It may be well imagined that a wolf or a bear-skin would make a warm and comfortable great-coat to a man, whose manner of living required him to defy all weathers, and that the dress would not only give him an appearance of grimness and ferocity, likely to produce an unpleasant emotion in the breast of a foe, but also that the thick fur might prove effectual in deadening the blows rained on him in conflict. The berserkr was an object of aversion and terror to the peaceful inhabitants of the land, his avocation being to challenge quiet country farmers to single combat. As the law of the land stood in Norway, a man who declined to accept a challenge, forfeited all his possessions, even to the wife of his bosom, as a poltroon unworthy of the protection of the law, and every item of his property passed into the hands of his challenger. The berserkr accordingly had the unhappy man at his mercy. If he slew him, the farmer's possessions became his, and if the poor fellow declined to fight, he lost all legal right to his inheritance. A berserkr would invite himself to any feast, and contribute his quota to the hilarity of the entertainment, by snapping the backbone, or cleaving the skull, of some merrymaker who incurred his displeasure, or whom he might single out to murder, for no other reason than a desire to keep his hand in practice. It may well be imagined that popular superstition went along with the popular dread of these wolf-and-bear-skinned rovers, and that they were believed to be endued with the force, as they certainly were with the ferocity, of the beasts whose skins they wore. Nor would superstition stop there, but the imagination of the trembling peasants would speedily invest these unscrupulous disturbers of the public peace with the attributes hitherto appropriated to trolls and jötuns. The incident mentioned in the Völsung Saga, of the sleeping men being found with their wolf-skins hanging to the wall above their heads, is divested of its improbability, if we regard these skins as worn over their armour, and the marvellous in the whole story is reduced to a minimum, when we suppose that Sigmund and Sinfjötli stole these for the purpose of disguising themselves, whilst they lived a life of violence and robbery. In a similar manner the story of the northern "Beauty and Beast," in Hrolf's Saga Kraka, is rendered less improbable, on the supposition that Björn was living as an outlaw among the mountain fastnesses in a bearskin dress, which would effectually disguise him--_all but his eyes_--which would gleam out of the sockets in his hideous visor, unmistakably human. His very name, Björn, signifies a bear; and these two circumstances may well have invested a kernel of historic fact with all the romance of fable; and if divested of these supernatural embellishments, the story would resolve itself into the very simple fact of there having been a King Hring of the Updales, who was at variance with his son, and whose son took to the woods, and lived a berserkr life, in company with his mistress, till he was captured and slain by his father. I think that the circumstance insisted on by the Saga-writers, of the eyes of the person remaining unchanged, is very significant, and points to the fact that the skin was merely drawn over the body as a disguise. But there was other ground for superstition to fasten on the berserkir, and invest them with supernatural attributes. No fact in connection with the history of the Northmen is more firmly established, on reliable evidence, than that of the berserkr rage being a species of diabolical possession. The berserkir were said to work themselves up into a state of frenzy, in which a demoniacal power came over them, impelling them to acts from which in their sober senses they would have recoiled. They acquired superhuman force, and were as invulnerable and as insensible to pain as the Jansenist convulsionists of S. Medard. No sword would wound them, no fire would barn them, a club alone could destroy them, by breaking their bones, or crushing in their skulls. Their eyes glared as though a flame burned in the sockets, they ground their teeth, and frothed at the mouth; they gnawed at their shield rims, and are said to have sometimes bitten them through, and as they rushed into conflict they yelped as dogs or howled as wolves. [1] [1. Hic (Syraldus) septem filios habebat, tanto veneficiorum usu callentes, ut sæpe subitis furoris viribus instincti solerent ore torvum infremere, scuta morsibus attrectare, torridas fauce prunas absumere, extructa quævis incendia penetrare, nec posset conceptis dementiæ motus alio remedii genere quam aut vinculorum injuriis aut cædis humanæ piaculo temperari. Tantam illis rabiem site sævitia ingenii sive furiaram ferocitas inspirabat.--_Saxo Gramm_. VII.] According to the unanimous testimony of the old Norse historians, the berserkr rage was extinguished by baptism, and as Christianity advanced, the number of these berserkir decreased. But it must not be supposed that this madness or possession came only on those persons who predisposed themselves to be attacked by it; others were afflicted with it, who vainly struggled against its influence, and who deeply lamented their own liability to be seized with these terrible accesses of frenzy. Such was Thorir Ingimund's son, of whom it is said, in the _Vatnsdæla Saga_, that "at times there came over Thorir berserkr fits, and it was considered a sad misfortune to such a man, as they were quite beyond control." The manner in which he was cured is remarkable; pointing as it does to the craving in the heathen mind for a better and more merciful creed:-- "Thorgrim of Kornsá had a child by his concubine Vereydr, and, by order of his wife, the child was carried out to perish. "The brothers (Thorsteinn and Thorir) often met, and it was now the turn of Thorsteinn to visit Thorir, and Thorir accompanied him homeward. On their way Thorsteinn asked Thorir which he thought was the first among the brethren; Thorir answered that the reply was easy, for 'you are above us all in discretion and talent; Jökull is the best in all perilous adventures, but I,' he added, 'I am the least worth of us brothers, because the berserkr fits come over me, quite against my will, and I wish that you, my brother, with your shrewdness, would devise some help for me.' "Thorsteinn said,--'I have heard that our kinsman, Thorgrim, has just suffered his little babe to be carried out, at the instigation of his wife. That is ill done. I think also that it is a grievous matter for you to be different in nature from other men.' "Thorir asked how he could obtain release from his affliction . . . . Then said Thorsteinn, 'Now will I make a vow to Him who created the sun, for I ween that he is most able to take the ban of you, and I will undertake for His sake, in return, to rescue the babe and to bring it up for him, till He who created man shall take it to Himself-for this I reckon He will do!' After this they left their horses and sought the child, and a thrall of Thorir had found it near the Marram river. They saw that a kerchief had been spread over its face, but it had rumpled it up over its nose; the little thing was all but dead, but they took it up and flitted it home to Thorir's house, and he brought the lad up, and called him Thorkell Rumple; as for the berserkr fits, they came on him no more." (c. 37) But the most remarkable passages bearing on our subject will be found in the _Aigla_. There was a man, Ulf (the wolf) by name, son of Bjálfi and Hallbera. Ulf was a man so tall and strong that the like of him was not to be seen in the land at that time. And when he was young he was out viking expeditions and harrying . . . He was a great landed proprietor. It was his wont to rise early, and to go about the men's work, or to the smithies, and inspect all his goods and his acres; and sometimes he talked with those men who wanted his advice; for he was a good adviser, he was so clear-headed; however, every day, when it drew towards dusk, he became so savage that few dared exchange a word with him, for he was given to dozing in the afternoon. "People said that he was much given to changing form (_hamrammr_), so he was called the evening-wolf, _kveldúlfr_."--(c. 1.) In this and the following passages, I do not consider _hamrammr_ to have its primary signification of actual transformation, but simply to mean subject to fits of diabolical possession, under the influence of which the bodily powers were greatly exaggerated. I shall translate pretty freely from this most interesting Saga, as I consider that the description given in it of Kveldulf in his fits greatly elucidates our subject. "Kveldulf and Skallagrim got news during summer of an expedition. Skallagrim. was the keenest-sighted of men, and he caught sight of the vessel of Hallvard and his brother, and recognized it at once. He followed their course and marked the haven into which they entered at even. Then he returned to his company, and told Kveldulf of what he had seen . . . . Then they busked them and got ready both their boats; in each they put twenty men, Kveldulf steering one and Skallagrim the other, and they rowed in quest of the ship. Now when they came to the place where it was, they lay to. Hallvard and his men had spread an awning over the deck, and were asleep. Now when Kveldulf and his party came upon them, the watchers who were seated at the end of the bridge sprang up and called to the people on board to wake up, for there was danger in the wind. So Hallvard and his men sprang to arms. Then came Kveldulf over the bridge and Skallagrim with him into the ship. Kveldulf had in his hand a cleaver, and he bade his men go through the vessel and hack away the awning. But he pressed on to the quarter-deck. It is said the were-wolf fit came over him and many of his companions. They slow all the men who were before them. Skallagrim did the same as he went round the vessel. He and his father paused not till they had cleared it. Now when Kveldulf came upon the quarter-deck he raised his cleaver, and smote Hallvard through helm and head, so that the haft was buried in the flesh; but he dragged it to him so violently that he whisked Hallvard into the air., and flung him overboard. Skallagrim cleared the forecastle and slew Sigtrygg. Many men flung themselves overboard, but Skallagrim's men took to the boat and rowed about, killing all they found. Thus perished Hallvard with fifty men. Skallagrim and his party took the ship and all the goods which had belonged to Hallvard . . . and flitted it and the wares to their own vessel, and then exchanged ships, lading their capture, but quitting their own. After which they filled their old ship with stones, brake it up and sank it. A good breeze sprang up, and they stood out to sea. It is said of these men in the engagement who were were-wolves, or those on whom came the berserkr rage, that as long as the fit was on them no one could oppose them, they were so strong; but when it had passed off they were feebler than usual. It was the same with Kveldulf when the were-wolf fit went off him--he then felt the exhaustion consequent on the fight, and he was so completely 'done up,' that he was obliged to take to his bed." In like manner Skallagrim had his fits of frenzy, taking after his amiable father. "Thord and his companion were opposed to Skallagrim in the game, and they were too much for him, he wearied, and the game went better with them. But at dusk, after sunset, it went worse with Egill and Thord, for Skallagrim became so strong that he caught up Thord and cast him down, so that he broke his bones, and that was the death of him. Then he caught at Egill. Thorgerd Brák was the name of a servant of Skallagrim, who had been foster-mother to Egill. She was a woman of great stature, strong as a man and a bit of a witch. Brák exclaimed,--'Skallagrim! are you now falling upon your son?' (hamaz þú at syni þínum). Then Skallagrim let go his hold of Egill and clutched at her. She started aside and fled. Skallagrim. followed. They ran out upon Digraness, and she sprang off the headland into the water. Skallagrim cast after her a huge stone which struck her between the shoulders, and she never rose after it. The place is now called Brak's Sound."--(c. 40.) Let it be observed that in these passages from the _Aigla_, the words að hamaz, hamrammr, &c. are used without any intention of conveying the idea of a change of bodily shape, though the words taken literally assert it. For they are derived from _hamr_, a skin or habit; a word which has its representatives in other Aryan languages, and is therefore a primitive word expressive of the skin of a beast. The Sanskrit ### _carmma_; the Hindustanee ### _cam_, hide or skin; and ### _camra_, leather; the Persian ### _game_, clothing, disguise; the Gothic _ham_ or _hams_, skin; and even the Italian _camicia_, and the French _chemise_, are cognate words. [1] [1. I shall have more to say on this subject in the chapter on the Mythology of Lycanthropy.] It seems probable accordingly that the verb _að hamaz_ was first applied to those who wore the skins of savage animals, and went about the country as freebooters; but that popular superstition soon invested them with supernatural powers, and they were supposed to assume the forms of the beasts in whose skins they were disguised. The verb then acquired the significance "to become a were-wolf, to change shape." It did not stop there, but went through another change of meaning, and was finally applied to those who were afflicted with paroxysms of madness or demoniacal possession. This was not the only word connected with were-wolves which helped on the superstition. The word _vargr_, a wolf, had a double significance, which would be the means of originating many a were-wolf story. _Vargr_ is the same as _u-argr_, restless; _argr_ being the same as the Anglo-Saxon _earg_. _Vargr_ had its double signification in Norse. It signified a wolf, and also a godless man. This _vargr_ is the English _were_, in the word were-wolf, and the _garou_ or _varou_ in French. The Danish word for were-wolf is _var-ulf_, the Gothic _vaira-ulf_. In the _Romans de Garin_, it is "Leu warou, sanglante beste." In the _Vie de S. Hildefons_ by Gauthier de Coinsi,-- Cil lon desve, cil lou garol, Ce sunt deable, que saul Ne puent estre de nos mordre. Here the loup-garou is a devil. The Anglo-Saxons regarded him as an evil man: _wearg_, a scoundrel; Gothic _varys_, a fiend. But very often the word meant no more than an outlaw. Pluquet in his _Contes Populaires_ tells us that the ancient Norman laws said of the criminals condemned to outlawry for certain offences, _Wargus esto_: be an outlaw! In like manner the Lex Ripuaria, tit. 87, "Wargus sit, hoe est expulsus." In the laws of Canute, he is called verevulf. (_Leges Canuti_, Schmid, i. 148.) And the Salic Law (tit. 57) orders: "Si quis corpus jam sepultum effoderit, aut expoliaverit, _wargus_ sit." "If any one shall have dug up or despoiled an already buried corpse, let him be a varg." Sidonius Apollinaris. says, "Unam feminam quam forte _vargorum_, hoc enim nomine indigenas latrunculos nuncupant," as though the common name by which those who lived a freebooter life were designated, was varg. In like manner Palgrave assures us in his _Rise and Progress of the English Commonwealth_, that among the Anglo, Saxons an _utlagh_, or out-law, was said to have the head of a wolf. If then the term _vargr_ was applied at one time to a wolf, at another to an outlaw who lived the life of a wild beast, away from the haunts of men "he shall be driven away as a wolf, and chased so far as men chase wolves farthest," was the legal form of sentence--it is certainly no matter of wonder that stories of out-laws should have become surrounded with mythical accounts of their transformation into wolves. But the very idiom of the Norse was calculated to foster this superstition. The Icelanders had curious expressions which are sufficiently likely to have produced misconceptions. [1. SIDONIUS APOLLINARIS: Opera, lib. vi. ep. 4.] Snorri not only relates that Odin changed himself into another form, but he adds that by his spells he turned his enemies into boars. In precisely the same manner does a hag, Ljot, in the Vatnsdæla Saga, say that she could have turned Thorsteinn and Jökull into boars to run about with the wild beasts (c. xxvi.); and the expression _verða at gjalti_, or at _gjöltum_, to become a boar, is frequently met with in the Sagas. "Thereupon came Thorarinn and his men upon them, and Nagli led the way; but when he saw weapons drawn he was frightened, and ran away up the mountain, and became a boar. . . . And Thorarinn and his men took to run, so as to help Nagli, lest he should tumble off the cliffs into the sea" (Eyrbyggja Saga, c. xviii.) A similar expression occurs in the Gisla Saga Surssonar, p. 50. In the Hrolfs Saga Kraka, we meet with a troll in boar's shape, to whom divine honours are paid; and in the Kjalnessinga Saga, c. xv., men are likened to boars--"Then it began to fare with them as it fares with boars when they fight each other, for in the same manner dropped their foam." The true signification of _verða at gjalti_ is to be in such a state of fear as to lose the senses; but it is sufficiently peculiar to have given rise to superstitious stories. I have dwelt at some length on the Northern myths relative to were-wolves and animal transformations, because I have considered the investigation of these all-important towards the elucidation of the truth which lies at the bottom of mediæval superstition, and which is nowhere so obtainable as through the Norse literature. As may be seen from the passages quoted above at length, and from an examination of those merely referred to, the result arrived at is pretty conclusive, and may be summed up in very few words. The whole superstructure of fable and romance relative to transformation into wild beasts, reposes simply on this basis of truth--that among the Scandinavian nations there existed a form of madness or possession, under the influence of which men acted as though they were changed into wild and savage brutes, howling, foaming at the mouth, ravening for blood and slaughter, ready to commit any act of atrocity, and as irresponsible for their actions as the wolves and bears, in whose skins they often equipped themselves. The manner in which this fact became invested with supernatural adjuncts I have also pointed out, to wit, the change in the significance of the word designating the madness, the double meaning of the word _vargr_, and above all, the habits and appearance of the maniacs. We shall see instances of berserkr rage reappearing in the middle ages, and late down into our own times, not exclusively in the North, but throughout France, Germany, and England, and instead of rejecting the accounts given by chroniclers as fabulous, because there is much connected with them which seems to be fabulous, we shall be able to refer them to their true origin. It may be accepted as an axiom, that no superstition of general acceptance is destitute of a foundation of truth; and if we discover the myth of the were-wolf to be widely spread, not only throughout Europe, but through the whole world, we may rest assured that there is a solid core of fact, round which popular superstition has crystallized; and that fact is the existence of a species of madness, during the accesses of which the person afflicted believes himself to be a wild beast, and acts like a wild beast. In some cases this madness amounts apparently to positive possession, and the diabolical acts into which the possessed is impelled are so horrible, that the blood curdles in reading them, and it is impossible to recall them without a shudder. CHAPTER V. THE WERE-WOLF IN THE MIDDLE-AGES. Olaus Magnus relates that--"In Prussia, Livonia, and Lithuania, although the inhabitants suffer considerably from the rapacity of wolves throughout the year, in that these animals rend their cattle, which are scattered in great numbers through the woods, whenever they stray in the very least, yet this is not regarded by them as such a serious matter as what they endure from men turned into wolves. "On the feast of the Nativity of Christ, at night, such a multitude of wolves transformed from men gather together in a certain spot, arranged among themselves, and then spread to rage with wondrous ferocity against human beings, and those animals which are not wild, that the natives of these regions suffer more detriment from these, than they do from true and natural wolves; for when a human habitation has been detected by them isolated in the woods, they besiege it with atrocity, striving to break in the doors, and in the event of their doing so, they devour all the human beings, and every animal which is found within. They burst into the beer-cellars, and there they empty the tuns of beer or mead, and pile up the empty casks one above another in the middle of the cellar, thus showing their difference from natural and genuine wolves. . . . Between Lithuania, Livonia, and Courland are the walls of a certain old ruined castle. At this spot congregate thousands, on a fixed occasion, and try their agility in jumping. Those who are unable to bound over the wall, as; is often the case with the fattest, are fallen upon with scourges by the captains and slain." [1] Olaus relates also in c. xlvii. the story of a certain nobleman who was travelling through a large forest with some peasants in his retinue who dabbled in the black art. They found no house where they could lodge for the night, and were well-nigh famished. Then one of the peasants offered, if all the rest would hold their tongues as to what he should do, that he would bring them a lamb from a distant flock. [1. OLAUS MAGNUS: _Historia de Vent. Septent_. Basil. 15, lib. xviii. cap. 45.] He thereupon retired into the depths of the forest and changed his form into that of a wolf, fell upon the flock, and brought a lamb to his companions in his mouth. They received it with gratitude. Then he retired once more into the thicket, and transformed himself back again into his human shape. The wife of a nobleman in Livonia expressed her doubts to one of her slaves whether it were possible for man or woman thus to change shape. The servant at once volunteered to give her evidence of the possibility. He left the room, and in another moment a wolf was observed running over the country. The dogs followed him, and notwithstanding his resistance, tore out one of his eyes. Next day the slave appeared before his mistress blind of an eye. Bp. Majolus [1] and Caspar Peucer [2] relate the following circumstances of the Livonians:-- [1. MAJOLI _Episc. Vulturoniensis Dier. Canicul._ Helenopolis, 1612, tom. ii. colloq. 3.] [2. CASPAR PEUCER: _Comment. de Præcipuis Divin. Generibus_, 1591, p. 169.] At Christmas a boy lame of a leg goes round the country summoning the devil's followers, who are countless, to a general conclave. Whoever remains behind, or goes reluctantly, is scourged by another with an iron whip till the blood flows, and his traces are left in blood. The human form vanishes, and the whole multitude become wolves. Many thousands assemble. Foremost goes the leader armed with an iron whip, and the troop follow, "firmly convinced in their imaginations that they are transformed into wolves." They fall upon herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, but they have no power to slay men. When they come to a river, the leader smites the water with his scourge, and it divides, leaving a dry path through the midst, by which the pack may go. The transformation lasts during twelve days, at the expiration of which period the wolf-skin vanishes, and the human form reappears. This superstition was expressly forbidden by the church. "Credidisti, quod quidam credere solent, ut illæ quæ a vulgo Parcæ vocantur, ipsæ, vel sint vel possint hoc facere quod creduntur, id est, dum aliquis homo nascitur, et tunc valeant illum designare ad hoc quod velint, ut quandocunque homo ille voluerit, in lupum transformari possit, quod vulgaris stultitia, _werwolf_ vocat, aut in aliam aliquam figuram?"--Ap. Burchard. (d. 1024). In like manner did S. Boniface preach against those who believed superstitiously in it strigas et fictos lupos." (_Serm_. apud Mart. et Durand. ix. 217.) In a dissertation by Müller [1] we learn, on the authority of Cluverius and Dannhaverus (_Acad. Homilet._ p. ii.), that a certain Albertus Pericofcius in Muscovy was wont to tyrannize over and harass his subjects in the most unscrupulous manner. One night when he was absent from home, his whole herd of cattle, acquired by extortion, perished. On his return he was informed of his loss, and the wicked man broke out into the most horrible blasphemies, exclaiming, "Let him who has slain, eat; if God chooses, let him devour me as well." [1. De {Greek _Lukanðrwpía_}. Lipsiæ, 1736.] As he spoke, drops of blood fell to earth, and the nobleman, transformed into a wild dog, rushed upon his dead cattle, tore and mangled the carcasses and began to devour them; possibly he may be devouring them still (_ac forsan hodie que pascitur_). His wife, then near her confinement, died of fear. Of these circumstances there were not only ear but also eye witnesses. (_Non ab auritis tantum, sed et ocidatis accepi, quod narro_). Similarly it is related of a nobleman in the neighbourhood of Prague, that he robbed his subjects of their goods and reduced them to penury through his exactions. He took the last cow from a poor widow with five children, but as a judgment, all his own cattle died. He then broke into fearful oaths, and God transformed him into a dog: his human head, however, remained. S. Patrick is said to have changed Vereticus, king of Wales, into a wolf, and S. Natalis, the abbot, to have pronounced anathema upon an illustrious family in Ireland; in consequence of which, every male and female take the form of wolves for seven years and live in the forests and career over the bogs, howling mournfully, and appeasing their hunger upon the sheep of the peasants. [1] A duke of Prussia, according to Majolus, had a countryman brought for sentence before him, because he had devoured his neighbour's cattle. The fellow was an ill-favoured, deformed man, with great wounds in his face, which he had received from dogs' bites whilst he had been in his wolf's form. It was believed that he changed shape twice in the year, at Christmas and at Midsummer. He was said to exhibit much uneasiness and discomfort when the wolf-hair began to break out and his bodily shape to change. [1. PHIL. HARTUNG: _Conciones Tergeminæ_, pars ii. p. 367.] He was kept long in prison and closely watched, lest he should become a were-wolf during his confinement and attempt to escape, but nothing remarkable took place. If this is the same individual as that mentioned by Olaus Magnus, as there seems to be a probability, the poor fellow was burned alive. John of Nüremberg relates the following curious story. [1] A priest was once travelling in a strange country, and lost his way in a forest. Seeing a fire, he made towards it, and beheld a wolf seated over it. The wolf addressed him in human-voice, and bade him not fear, as "he was of the Ossyrian race, of which a man and a woman were doomed to spend a certain number of years in wolf's form. Only after seven years might they return home and resume their former shapes, if they were still alive." He begged the priest to visit and console his sick wife, and to give her the last sacraments. This the priest consented to do, after some hesitation, and only when convinced of the beasts being human beings, by observing that the wolf used his front paws as hands, and when he saw the she-wolf peel off her wolf-skin from her head to her navel, exhibiting the features of an aged woman. [1. JOHN EUS. NIERENBERG _de Miracul. in Europa_, lib. ii. cap. 42.] Marie de France says in the Lais du Bisclaveret:-- [1] Bisclaveret ad nun en Bretan Garwall Papelent li Norman. * * * * Jadis le poet-hum oir Et souvent suleit avenir, Humes pluseirs Garwall deviendrent E es boscages meisun tindrent [1. An epitome of this curious were-wolf tale will be found in Ellis's _Early English Metrical Romances_.] There is an interesting paper by Rhanæus, on the Courland were-wolves, in the Breslauer Sammlung. [2] The author says,--"There are too many examples derived not merely from hearsay, but received on indisputable evidence, for us to dispute the fact, that Satan--if we do not deny that such a being exists, and that he has his work in the children of darkness--holds the Lycanthropists in his net in three ways:-- [2. Supplement III. _Curieuser_ und nutzbarer Anmerkungen von Natur und Kunstgeschichten, gesammelt von Kanold. 1728.] "1. They execute as wolves certain acts, such as seizing a sheep, or destroying cattle, &c., not changed into wolves, which no scientific man in Courland believes, but in their human frames, and with their human limbs, yet in such a state of phantasy and hallucination, that they believe themselves transformed into wolves, and are regarded as such by others suffering under similar hallucination, and in this manner run these people in packs as wolves, though not true wolves. "2. They imagine, in deep sleep or dream, that they injure the cattle, and this without leaving their conch; but it is their master who does, in their stead, what their fancy points out, or suggests to him. "3. The evil one drives natural wolves to do some act, and then pictures it so well to the sleeper, immovable in his place, both in dreams and at awaking, that he believes the act to have been committed by himself." Rhanæus, under these heads, relates three stories, which he believes be has on good authority. The first is of a gentleman starting on a journey, who came upon a wolf engaged in the act of seizing a sheep in his own flock; he fired at it, and wounded it, so that it fled howling to the thicket. When the gentleman returned from his expedition he found the whole neighbourhood impressed with the belief that he had, on a given day and hour, shot at one of his tenants, a publican, Mickel. On inquiry, the man's Wife, called Lebba, related the following circumstances, which were fully corroborated by numerous witnesses:--When her husband had sown his rye he had consulted with his wife how he was to get some meat, so as to have a good feast. The woman urged him on no account to steal from his landlord's flock, because it was guarded by fierce dogs. He, however, rejected her advice, and Mickel fell upon his landlord's sheep, but he had suffered and had come limping home, and in his rage at the ill success of his attempt, had fallen upon his own horse and had bitten its throat completely through. This took place in the year 1684. In 1684, a man was about to fire upon a pack of wolves, when he heard from among the troop a voice exclaiming--"Gossip! Gossip! don't fire. No good will come of it." The third story is as follows:--A lycanthropist was brought before a judge and accused of witchcraft, but as nothing could be proved against him, the judge ordered one of his peasants to visit the man in his prison, and to worm the truth out of him, and to persuade the prisoner to assist him in revenging himself upon another peasant who had injured him; and this was to be effected by destroying one of the man's cows; but the peasant was to urge the prisoner to do it secretly, and, if possible, in the disguise of a wolf. The fellow undertook the task, but he had great difficulty in persuading the prisoner to fall in with his wishes: eventually, however, he succeeded. Next morning the cow was found in its stall frightfully mangled, but the prisoner had not left his cell: for the watch, who had been placed to observe him, declared that he had spent the night in profound sleep, and that he had only at one time made a slight motion with his head and hands and feet. Wierius and Forestus quote Gulielmus Brabantinus as an authority for the fact, that a man of high position had been so possessed by the evil one, that often during the year he fell into a condition in which he believed himself to be turned into a wolf, and at that time he roved in the woods and tried to seize and devour little children, but that at last, by God's mercy, he recovered his senses. Certainly the famous Pierre Vidal, the Don Quixote of Provençal troubadours, must have had a touch of this madness, when, after having fallen in love with a lady of Carcassone, named Loba, or the Wolfess, the excess of his passion drove him over the country, howling like a wolf, and demeaning himself more like an irrational beast than a rational man. He commemorates his lupine madness in the poem _A tal Donna_:-- [1] [1. BRUCE WHYTE: _Histoire des Langues Romaines_, tom. ii. p. 248.] Crowned with immortal joys I mount The proudest emperors above, For I am honoured with the love Of the fair daughter of a count. A lace from Na Raymbauda's hand I value more than all the land Of Richard, with his Poïctou, His rich Touraine and famed Anjou. When _loup-garou_ the rabble call me, When vagrant shepherds hoot, Pursue, and buffet me to boot, It doth not for a moment gall me; I seek not palaces or halls, Or refuge when the winter falls; Exposed to winds and frosts at night, My soul is ravished with delight. Me claims my she-wolf (_Loba_) so divine: And justly she that claim prefers, For, by my troth, my life is hers More than another's, more than mine. Job Fincelius [1] relates the sad story of a farmer of Pavia, who, as a wolf, fell upon many men in the open country and tore them to pieces. After much trouble the maniac was caught, and he then assured his captors that the only difference which existed between himself and a natural wolf, was that in a true wolf the hair grew outward, whilst in him it struck inward. In order to put this assertion to the proof, the magistrates, themselves most certainly cruel and bloodthirsty wolves, cut off his arms and legs; the poor wretch died of the mutilation. This took place in 1541. The idea of the skin being reversed is a very ancient one: _versipellis_ occurs as a name of reproach in Petronius, Lucilius, and Plautus, and resembles the Norse _hamrammr_. [1. FINCELIUS _de Mirabilibus_, lib. xi.] Fincelius relates also that, in 1542, there was such a multitude of were-wolves about Constantinople that the Emperor, accompanied by his guard, left the city to give them a severe correction, and slew one hundred and fifty of them. Spranger speaks of three young ladies who attacked a labourer, under the form of cats, and were wounded by him. They were found bleeding in their beds next morning. Majolus relates that a man afflicted with lycanthropy was brought to Pomponatius. The poor fellow had been found buried in hay, and when people approached, he called to them to flee, as he was a were wolf, and would rend them. The country-folk wanted to flay him, to discover whether the hair grew inwards, but Pomponatius rescued the man and cured him. Bodin tells some were-wolf stories on good authority; it is a pity that the good authorities of Bodin were such liars, but that, by the way. He says that the Royal Procurator-General Bourdin had assured him that he had shot a wolf, and that the arrow had stuck in the beast's thigh. A few hours after, the arrow was found in the thigh of a man in bed. In Vernon, about the year 1566, the witches and warlocks gathered in great multitudes, under the shape of cats. Four or five men were attacked in a lone place by a number of these beasts. The men stood their ground with the utmost heroism, succeeded in slaying one puss, and in wounding many others. Next day a number of wounded women were found in the town, and they gave the judge an accurate account of all the circumstances connected with their wounding. Bodin quotes Pierre Marner, the author of a treatise on sorcerers, as having witnessed in Savoy the transformation of men into wolves. Nynauld [1] relates that in a village of Switzerland, near Lucerne, a peasant was attacked by a wolf, whilst he was hewing timber; he defended himself, and smote off a fore-leg of the beast. The moment that the blood began to flow the wolf's form changed, and he recognized a woman without her arm. She was burnt alive. [1. NYNAULD, _De la Lycanthropie_. Paris, 1615, p. 52.] An evidence that beasts are transformed witches is to be found in their having no tails. When the devil takes human form, however, he keeps his club-foot of the Satyr, as a token by which he may be recognized. So animals deficient in caudal appendages are to be avoided, as they are witches in disguise. The Thingwald should consider the case of the Manx cats in its next session. Forestus, in his chapter on maladies of the brain, relates a circumstance which came under his own observation, in the middle of the sixteenth century, at Alcmaar in the Netherlands. A peasant there was attacked every spring with a fit of insanity; under the influence of this he rushed about the churchyard, ran into the church, jumped over the benches, danced, was filled with fury, climbed up, descended, and never remained quiet. He carried a long staff in his hand, with which he drove away the dogs, which flew at him and wounded him, so that his thighs were covered with scars. His face was pale, his eyes deep sunk in their sockets. Forestus pronounces the man to be a lycanthropist, but he does not say that the poor fellow believed himself to be transformed into a wolf. In reference to this case, however, he mentions that of a Spanish nobleman who believed himself to be changed into a bear, and who wandered filled with fury among the woods. Donatus of Altomare [1] affirms that he saw a man in the streets of Naples, surrounded by a ring of people, who in his were-wolf frenzy had dug up a corpse and was carrying off the leg upon his shoulders. This was in the middle of the sixteenth century. [1. _De Medend. Human. Corp_. lib. i. cap. 9.] CHAPTER VI. A CHAMBER OF HORRORS. Pierre Bourgot and Michel Verdung--'Me Hermit of S. Bonnot--The Gandillon Family--Thievenne Paget--The Tailor of Châlons--Roulet. IN December, 1521, the Inquisitor-General for the diocese of Besançon, Boin by name, heard a case of a sufficiently terrible nature to produce a profound sensation of alarm in the neighbourhood. Two men were under accusation of witchcraft and cannibalism. Their names were Pierre Bourgot, or Peter the Great, as the people had nicknamed him from his stature, and Michel Verdung. Peter had not been long under trial, before he volunteered a full confession of his crimes. It amounted to this:-- About nineteen years before, on the occasion of a New Year's market at Poligny, a terrible storm had broken over the country, and among other mischiefs done by it, was the scattering of Pierre's flock. "In vain," said the prisoner, "did I labour, in company with other peasants, to find the sheep and bring them together. I went everywhere in search of them. "Then there rode up three black horsemen, and the last said to me: 'Whither away? you seem to be in trouble?' "I related to him my misfortune with my flock. He bade me pluck up my spirits, and promised that his master would henceforth take charge of and protect my flock., if I would only rely upon him. He told me, as well, that I should find my strayed sheep very shortly, and he promised to provide me with money. We agreed to meet again in four or five days. My flock I soon found collected together. At my second meeting I learned of the stranger that he was a servant of the devil. I forswore God and our Lady and all saints and dwellers in Paradise. I renounced Christianity, kissed his left hand, which was black and ice-cold as that of a corpse. Then I fell on my knees and gave in my allegiance to Satan. I remained in the service of the devil for two years, and never entered a church before the end of mass, or at all events till the holy water had been sprinkled, according to the desire of my master, whose name I afterwards learned was Moyset. "All anxiety about my flock was removed, for the devil had undertaken to protect it and to keep off the wolves. "This freedom from care, however, made me begin to tire of the devil's service, and I recommenced my attendance at church, till I was brought back into obedience to the evil one by Michel Verdung, when I renewed my compact on the understanding that I should be supplied with money. "In a wood near Chastel Charnon we met with many others whom I did not recognize; we danced, and each had in his or her hand a green taper with a blue flame. Still under the delusion that I should obtain money, Michel persuaded me to move with the greatest celerity, and in order to do this, after I had stripped myself, he smeared me with a salve, and I believed myself then to be transformed into a wolf. I was at first somewhat horrified at my four wolf's feet, and the fur with which I was covered all at once, but I found that I could now travel with the speed of the wind. This could not have taken place without the help of our powerful master, who was present during our excursion, though I did not perceive him till I had recovered my human form. Michel did the same as myself. "When we had been one or two hours in this condition of metamorphosis, Michel smeared us again, and quick as thought we resumed our human forms. The salve was given us by our masters; to me it was given by Moyset, to Michel by his own master, Guillemin." Pierre declared that he felt no exhaustion after his excursions, though the judge inquired particularly whether he felt that prostration after his unusual exertion, of which witches usually complained. Indeed the exhaustion consequent on a were-wolf raid was so great that the lycanthropist was often confined to his bed for days, and could hardly move hand or foot, much in the same way as the berserkir and _ham rammir_ in the North were utterly prostrated after their fit had left them. In one of his were-wolf runs, Pierre fell upon a boy of six or seven years old, with his teeth, intending to rend and devour him, but the lad screamed so loud that he was obliged to beat a retreat to his clothes, and smear himself again, in order to recover his form and escape detection. He and Michel, however, one day tore to pieces a woman as she was gathering peas; and a M. de Chusnée, who came to her rescue, was attacked by them and killed. On another occasion they fell upon a little girl of four years old, and ate her up, with the exception of one arm. Michel thought the flesh most delicious. Another girl was strangled by them, and her blood lapped up. Of a third they ate merely a portion of the stomach. One evening at dusk, Pierre leaped over a garden wall, and came upon a little maiden of nine years old, engaged upon the weeding of the garden beds. She fell on her knees and entreated Pierre to spare her; but he snapped the neck, and left her a corpse, lying among her flowers. On this occasion he does not seem to have been in his wolf's shape. He fell upon a goat which he found in the field of Pierre Lerugen, and bit it in the throat, but he killed it with a knife. Michel was transformed in his clothes into a wolf, but Pierre was obliged to strip, and the metamorphosis could not take place with him unless he were stark naked. He was unable to account for the manner in which the hair vanished when he recovered his natural condition. The statements of Pierre Bourgot were fully corroborated by Michel Verdung. Towards the close of the autumn of 1573, the peasants of the neighbourhood of Dôle, in Franche Comté, were authorized by the Court of Parliament at Dôle, to hunt down the were-wolves which infested the country. The authorization was as follows:-- "According to the advertisement made to the sovereign Court of Parliament at Dole, that, in the territories of Espagny, Salvange, Courchapon, and the neighbouring villages, has often been seen and met, for some time past, a were-wolf, who, it is said, has already seized and carried off several little children, so that they have not been seen since, and since he has attacked and done injury in the country to some horsemen, who kept him of only with great difficulty and danger to their persons: the said Court, desiring to prevent any greater danger, has permitted, and does permit, those who are abiding or dwelling in the said places and others, notwithstanding all edicts concerning the chase, to assemble with pikes, halberts, arquebuses, and sticks, to chase and to pursue the said were-wolf in every place where they may find or seize him; to tie and to kill, without incurring any pains or penalties. . . . Given at the meeting of the said Court, on the thirteenth day of the month September, 1573." It was some time, however, before the loup-garou was caught. In a retired spot near Amanges, half shrouded in trees, stood a small hovel of the rudest construction; its roof was of turf, and its walls were blotched with lichen. The garden to this cot was run to waste, and the fence round it broken through. As the hovel was far from any road, and was only reached by a path over moorland and through forest, it was seldom visited, and the couple who lived in it were not such as would make many friends. The man, Gilles Garnier, was a sombre, ill-looking fellow, who walked in a stooping attitude, and whose pale face, livid complexion, and deep-set eyes under a pair of coarse and bushy brows, which met across the forehead, were sufficient to repel any one from seeking his acquaintance. Gilles seldom spoke, and when he did it was in the broadest patois of his country. His long grey beard and retiring habits procured for him the name of the Hermit of St. Bonnot, though no one for a moment attributed to him any extraordinary amount of sanctity. The hermit does not seem to have been suspected for some time, but one day, as some of the peasants of Chastenoy were returning home from their work, through the forest, the screams of a child and the deep baying of a wolf, attracted their notice, and on running in the direction whence the cries sounded, they found a little girl defending herself against a monstrous creature, which was attacking her tooth and nail, and had already wounded her severely in five places. As the peasants came up, the creature fled on all fours into the gloom of the thicket; it was so dark that it could not be identified with certainty, and whilst some affirmed that it was a wolf, others thought they had recognized the features of the hermit. This took place on the 8th November. On the 14th a little boy of ten years old was missing, who had been last seen at a short distance from the gates of Dole. The hermit of S. Bonnot was now seized and brought to trial at Dole, when the following evidence was extracted from him and his wife, and substantiated in many particulars by witnesses. On the last day of Michaelmas, under the form of a wolf, at a mile from Dole, in the farm of Gorge, a vineyard belonging to Chastenoy, near the wood of La Serre, Gilles Gamier had attacked a little maiden of ten or twelve years old, and had slain her with his teeth and claws; he had then drawn her into the wood, stripped her, gnawed the flesh from her legs and arms, and had enjoyed his meal so much, that, inspired with conjugal affection, he had brought some of the flesh home for his wife Apolline. Eight days after the feast of All Saints, again in the form of a were-wolf, he had seized another girl, near the meadow land of La Pouppe, on the territory of Athume and Chastenoy, and was on the point of slaying and devouring her, when three persons came up, and he was compelled to escape. On the fourteenth day after All Saints, also as a wolf, he had attacked a boy of ten years old, a mile from Dôle, between Gredisans and Menoté, and had strangled him. On that occasion he had eaten all the flesh off his legs and arms, and had also devoured a great part of the belly; one of the legs he had rent completely from the trunk with his fangs. On the Friday before the last feast of S. Bartholomew, he had seized a boy of twelve or thirteen, under a large pear-trees near the wood of the village Perrouze, and had drawn him into the thicket and killed him, intending to eat him as he had eaten the other children, but the approach of men hindered him from fulfilling his intention. The boy was, however, quite dead, and the men who came up declared that Gilles appeared as a man and not as a wolf. The hermit of S. Bonnot was sentenced to be dragged to the place of public execution, and there to be burned alive, a sentence which was rigorously carried out. In this instance the poor maniac fully believed that actual transformation into a wolf took place; he was apparently perfectly reasonable on other points, and quite conscious of the acts he had committed. We come now to a more remarkable circumstance, the affliction of a whole family with the same form of insanity. Our information is derived from Boguet's _Discours de Sorciers_, 1603-1610. Pernette Gandillon was a poor girl in the Jura, who in 1598 ran about the country on all fours, in the belief that she was a wolf. One day as she was ranging the country in a fit of lycanthropic madness, she came upon two children who were plucking wild strawberries. Filled with a sudden passion for blood, she flew at the little girl and would have brought her down, had not her brother, a lad of four years old, defended her lustily with a knife. Pernette, however, wrenched the weapon from his tiny hand, flung him down and gashed his throat, so that he died of the wound. Pernette was tom to pieces by the people in their rage and horror. Directly after, Pierre, the brother of Pernette Gandillon, was accused of witchcraft. He was charged with having led children to the sabbath, having made hail, and having run about the country in the form of a wolf. The transformation was effected by means of a salve which he had received from the devil. He had on one occasion assumed the form of a hare, but usually he appeared as a wolf, and his skin became covered with shaggy grey hair. He readily acknowledged that the charges brought against him were well founded, and he allowed that he had, during the period of his transformation, fallen on, and devoured, both beasts and human beings. When he desired to recover his true form, he rolled himself in the dewy grass. His son Georges asserted that he had also been anointed with the salve, and had gone to the sabbath in the shape of a wolf. According to his own testimony, he had fallen upon two goats in one of his expeditions. One Maundy-Thursday night he had lain for three hours in his bed in a cataleptic state, and at the end of that time had sprung out of bed. During this period he had been in the form of a wolf to the witches' sabbath. His sister Antoinnette confessed that she had made hail, and that she had sold herself to the devil, who had appeared to her in the shape of a black he-goat. She had been to the sabbath on several occasions. Pierre and Georges in prison behaved as maniacs, running on all fours about their cells and howling dismally. Their faces, arms, and legs were frightfully scarred with the wounds they had received from dogs when they had been on their raids. Boguet accounts for the transformation not taking place, by the fact of their not having the necessary salves by them. All three, Pierre, Georges, and Antoinnette, were hung and burned. Thievenne Paget, who was a witch of the most unmistakable character, was also frequently changed into a she-wolf, according to her own confession, in which state she had often accompanied the devil over hill and dale, slaying cattle, and falling on and devouring children. The same thing may be said of Clauda Isan Prost, a lame woman, Clauda Isan Guillaume, and Isan Roquet, who owned to the murder of five children. On the 14th of December, in the same year as the execution of the Gandillon family (1598), a tailor of Châlons was sentenced to the flames by the Parliament of Paris for lycanthropy. This wretched man had decoyed children into his shop, or attacked them in the gloaming when they strayed in the woods, had torn them with his teeth, and killed them, after which he seems calmly to have dressed their flesh as ordinary meat, and to have eaten it with great relish. The number of little innocents whom he destroyed is unknown. A whole cask full of bones was discovered in his house. The man was perfectly hardened, and the details of his trial were so full of horrors and abominations of all kinds, that the judges ordered the documents to be burned. Again in 1598, a year memorable in the annals of lycanthropy, a trial took place in Angers, the details of which are very terrible. In a wild and unfrequented spot near Caude, some countrymen came one day upon the corpse of a boy of fifteen, horribly mutilated and bespattered with blood. As the men approached, two wolves, which had been rending the body, bounded away into the thicket. The men gave chase immediately, following their bloody tracks till they lost them; when suddenly crouching among the bushes, his teeth chattering with fear, they found a man half naked, with long hair and beard, and with his hands dyed in blood. His nails were long as claws, and were clotted with fresh gore, and shreds of human flesh. This is one of the most puzzling and peculiar cases which come under our notice. The wretched man, whose name was Roulet, of his own accord stated that he had fallen upon the lad and had killed him by smothering him, and that he had been prevented from devouring the body completely by the arrival of men on the spot. Roulet proved on investigation to be a beggar from house to house, in the most abject state of poverty. His companions in mendicity were his brother John and his cousin Julien. He had been given lodging out of charity in a neighbouring village, but before his apprehension he had been absent for eight days. Before the judges, Roulet acknowledged that he was able to transform himself into a wolf by means of a salve which his parents had given him. When questioned about the two wolves which had been seen leaving the corpse, he said that he knew perfectly well who they were, for they were his companions, Jean and Julian, who possessed the same secret as himself. He was shown the clothes he had worn on the day of his seizure, and he recognized them immediately; he described the boy whom he had murdered, gave the date correctly, indicated the precise spot where the deed had been done, and recognized the father of the boy as the man who had first run up when the screams of the lad had been heard. In prison, Roulet behaved like an idiot. When seized, his belly was distended and hard; in prison he drank one evening a whole pailful of water, and from that moment refused to eat or drink. His parents, on inquiry, proved to be respectable and pious people, and they proved that his brother John and his cousin Julien had been engaged at a distance on the day of Roulet's apprehension. "What is your name, and what your estate?" asked the judge, Pierre Hérault. "My name is Jacques Roulet, my age thirty-five; I am poor, and a mendicant." "What are you accused of having done?" "Of being a thief--of having offended God. My parents gave me an ointment; I do not know its composition." "When rubbed with this ointment do you become a wolf?" "No; but for all that, I killed and ate the child Cornier: I was a wolf." "Were you dressed as a wolf?" "I was dressed as I am now. I had my hands and my face bloody, because I had been eating the flesh of the said child." "Do your hands and feet become paws of a wolf?" "Yes, they do." "Does your head become like that of a wolf-your mouth become larger?" "I do not know how my head was at the time; I used my teeth; my head was as it is to-day. I have wounded and eaten many other little children; I have also been to the sabbath." The _lieutenant criminel_ sentenced Roulet to death. He, however, appealed to the Parliament at Paris; and this decided that as there was more folly in the poor idiot than malice and witchcraft, his sentence of death should be commuted to two years' imprisonment in a madhouse, that he might be instructed in the knowledge of God, whom he had forgotten in his utter poverty. [1] [1. "La cour du Parliament, par arrêt, mist l'appellation et la sentence dont il avoit esté appel au néant, et, néanmoins, ordonna que le dit Roulet serait mis à l'hospital Saint Germain des Prés, où on a accoustumé de mettre les folz, pour y demeurer l'espace de deux ans, afin d'y estre instruit et redressé tant de son esprit, que ramené à la cognoissance de Dieu, que l'extrême pauvreté lui avoit fait mescognoistre."] CHAPTER VII. JEAN GRENIER On the Sand-dunes--A Wolf attacks Marguerite Poirier--Jean Grenier brought to Trial--His Confessions--Charges of Cannibalism proved--His Sentence--Behaviour in the Monastery--Visit of Del'ancre. One fine afternoon in the spring, some village girls were tending their sheep on the sand-dunes which intervene between the vast forests of pine covering the greater portion of the present department of _Landes_ in the south of France, and the sea. The brightness of the sky, the freshness of the air puffing up off the blue twinkling Bay of Biscay, the hum or song of the wind as it made rich music among the pines which stood like a green uplifted wave on the East, the beauty of the sand-hills speckled with golden cistus, or patched with gentian-blue, by the low growing _Gremille couchée_, the charm of the forest-skirts, tinted variously with the foliage of cork-trees, pines, and acacia, the latter in full bloom, a pile of rose-coloured or snowy flowers,--all conspired to fill the peasant maidens with joy, and to make their voices rise in song and laughter, which rung merrily over the hills, and through the dark avenues of evergreen trees. Now a gorgeous butterfly attracted their attention, then a flight of quails skimming the surface. "Ah!" exclaimed Jacquiline Auzun," ah, if I had my stilts and bats, I would strike the little birds down, and we should have a fine supper." "Now, if they would fly ready cooked into one's mouth, as they do in foreign parts!" said another girl. "Have you got any new clothes for the S. Jean?" asked a third; "my mother has laid by to purchase me a smart cap with gold lace." "You will turn the head of Etienne altogether, Annette!" said Jeanne Gaboriant. "But what is the matter with the sheep?" She asked because the sheep which had been quietly browsing before her, on reaching a small depression in the dune, had started away as though frightened at something. At the same time one of the dogs began to growl and show his fangs. The girls ran to the spot, and saw a little fall in the ground, in which, seated on a log of fir, was a boy of thirteen. The appearance of the lad was peculiar. His hair was of a tawny red and thickly matted, falling over his shoulders and completely covering his narrow brow. His small pale-grey eyes twinkled with an expression of horrible ferocity and cunning, from deep sunken hollows. The complexion was of a dark olive colour; the teeth were strong and white, and the canine teeth protruded over the lower lip when the mouth was closed. The boy's hands were large and powerful, the nails black and pointed like bird's talons. He was ill clothed, and seemed to be in the most abject poverty. The few garments he had on him were in tatters, and through the rents the emaciation of his limbs was plainly visible. The girls stood round him, half frightened and much surprised, but the boy showed no symptoms of astonishment. His face relaxed into a ghastly leer, which showed the whole range of his glittering white fangs. "Well, my maidens," said he in a harsh voice, "which of you is the prettiest, I should like to know; can you decide among you?" "What do you want to know for?" asked Jeanne Gaboriant, the eldest of the girls, aged eighteen, who took upon herself to be spokesman for the rest. "Because I shall marry the prettiest," was the answer. "Ah!" said Jeanne jokingly; "that is if she will have you, which is not very likely, as we none of us know you, or anything about you." "I am the son of a priest," replied the boy curtly. "Is that why you look so dingy and black?" "No, I am dark-coloured, because I wear a wolf-skin sometimes." "A wolf-skin!" echoed the girl; "and pray who gave it you?" "One called Pierre Labourant." "There is no man of that name hereabouts. Where does he live?" A scream of laughter mingled with howls, and breaking into strange gulping bursts of fiendlike merriment from the strange boy. The little girls recoiled, and the youngest took refuge behind Jeanne. "Do you want to know Pierre Labourant, lass? Hey, he is a man with an iron chain about his neck, which he is ever engaged in gnawing. Do you want to know where he lives, lass? Ha., in a place of gloom and fire, where there are many companions, some seated on iron chairs, burning, burning; others stretched on glowing beds, burning too. Some cast men upon blazing coals, others roast men before fierce flames, others again plunge them into caldrons of liquid fire." The girls trembled and looked at each other with scared faces, and then again at the hideous being which crouched before them. "You want to know about the wolf-skin cape?" continued he. "Pierre Labourant gave me that; he wraps it round me, and every Monday, Friday, and Sunday, and for about an hour at dusk every other day, I am a wolf, a were-wolf. I have killed dogs and drunk their blood; but little girls taste better, their flesh is tender and sweet, their blood rich and warm. I have eaten many a maiden, as I have been on my raids together with my nine companions. I am a were-wolf! Ah, ha! if the sun were to set I would soon fall on one of you and make a meal of you!" Again he burst into one of his frightful paroxysms of laughter, and the girls unable to endure it any longer, fled with precipitation. Near the village of S. Antoine de Pizon, a little girl of the name of Marguerite Poirier, thirteen years old, was in the habit of tending her sheep, in company with a lad of the same age, whose name was Jean Grenier. The same lad whom Jeanne Gaboriant had questioned. The little girl often complained to her parents of the conduct of the boy: she said that he frightened her with his horrible stories; but her father and mother thought little of her complaints, till one day she returned home before her usual time so thoroughly alarmed that she had deserted her flock. Her parents now took the matter up and investigated it. Her story was as follows:-- Jean had often told her that he had sold himself to the devil, and that he had acquired the power of ranging the country after dusk, and sometimes in broad day, in the form of a wolf. He had assured her that he had killed and devoured many dogs, but that he found their flesh less palatable than the flesh of little girls, which he regarded as a supreme delicacy. He had told her that this had been tasted by him not unfrequently, but he had specified only two instances: in one he had eaten as much as he could, and had thrown the rest to a wolf, which had come up during the repast. In the other instance he had bitten to death another little girl, had lapped her blood, and, being in a famished condition at the time, had devoured every portion of her, with the exception of the arms and shoulders. The child told her parents, on the occasion of her return home in a fit of terror, that she had been guiding her sheep as usual, but Grenier had not been present. Hearing a rustle in the bushes she had looked round, and a wild beast bad leaped upon her, and torn her clothes on her left side with its sharp fangs. She added that she had defended herself lustily with her shepherd's staff, and had beaten the creature off. It had then retreated a few paces, had seated itself on its hind legs like a dog when it is begging, and had regarded her with such a look of rage, that she had fled in terror. She described the animal as resembling a wolf, but as being shorter and stouter; its hair was red, its tail stumpy, and the head smaller than that of a genuine wolf. The statement of the child produced general consternation in the parish. It was well known that several little girls had vanished in a most mysterious way of late, and the parents of these little ones were thrown into an agony of terror lest their children had become the prey of the wretched boy accused by Marguerite Poirier. The case was now taken up by the authorities and brought before the parliament of Bordeaux. The investigation which followed was as complete as could be desired. Jean Grenier was the son of a poor labourer in the village of S. Antoine do Pizon, and not the son of a priest, as he had asserted. Three months before his seizure he had left home, and had been with several masters doing odd work, or wandering about the country begging. He had been engaged several times to take charge of the flocks belonging to farmers, and had as often been discharged for neglect of his duties. The lad exhibited no reluctance to communicate all he knew about himself, and his statements were tested one by one, and were often proved to be correct. The story he related of himself before the court was as follows:-- "When I was ten or eleven years old, my neighbour, Duthillaire, introduced me, in the depths of the forest, to a M. de la Forest, a black man, who signed me with his nail, and then gave to me and Duthillaire a salve and a wolf-skin. From that time have I run about the country as a wolf. "The charge of Marguerite Poirier is correct. My intention was to have killed and devoured her, but she kept me off with a stick. I have only killed one dog, a white one, and I did not drink its blood." When questioned touching the children, whom he said he had killed and eaten as a wolf, he allowed that he had once entered an empty house on the way between S. Coutras and S. Anlaye, in a small village, the name of which he did not remember, and had found a child asleep in its cradle; and as no one was within to hinder him, he dragged the baby out of its cradle, carried it into the garden, leaped the hedge, and devoured as much of it as satisfied his hunger. What remained he had given to a wolf. In the parish of S. Antoine do Pizon he had attacked a little girl, as she was keeping sheep. She was dressed in a black frock; he did not know her name. He tore her with his nails and teeth, and ate her. Six weeks before his capture he had fallen upon another child, near the stone-bridge, in the same parish. In Eparon he had assaulted the hound of a certain M. Millon, and would have killed the beast, had not the owner come out with his rapier in his hand. Jean said that he had the wolf-skin in his possession, and that he went out hunting for children, at the command of his master, the Lord of the Forest. Before transformation he smeared himself with the salve, which be preserved in a small pot, and hid his clothes in the thicket. He usually ran his courses from one to two hours in the day, when the moon was at the wane, but very often he made his expeditions at night. On one occasion he had accompanied Duthillaire, but they had killed no one. He accused his father of having assisted him, and of possessing a wolf-skin; he charged him also with having accompanied him on one occasion, when he attacked and ate a girl in the village of Grilland, whom he had found tending a flock of geese. He said that his stepmother was separated from his father. He believed the reason to be, because she had seen him once vomit the paws of a dog and the fingers of a child. He added that the Lord of the Forest had strictly forbidden him to bite the thumb-nail of his left hand, which nail was thicker and longer than the others, and had warned him never to lose sight of it, as long as he was in his were-wolf disguise. Duthillaire was apprehended, and the father of Jean Grenier himself claimed to be heard by examination. The account given by the father and stepmother of Jean coincided in many particulars with the statements made by their son. The localities where Grenier declared he had fallen on children were identified, the times when he said the deeds had been done accorded with the dates given by the parents of the missing little ones, when their losses had occurred. The wounds which Jean affirmed that he had made, and the manner in which he had dealt them, coincided with the descriptions given by the children he had assaulted. He was confronted with Marguerite Poirier, and he singled her out from among five other girls, pointed to the still open gashes in her body, and stated that he had made them with his teeth, when he attacked her in wolf-form, and she had beaten him off with a stick. He described an attack he had made on a little boy whom he would have slain, had not a man come to the rescue, and exclaimed, "I'll have you presently." The man who saved the child was found, and proved to be the uncle of the rescued lad, and he corroborated the statement of Grenier, that he had used the words mentioned above. Jean was then confronted with his father. He now began to falter in his story, and to change his statements. The examination had lasted long, and it was seen that the feeble intellect of the boy was wearied out, so the case was adjourned. When next confronted with the elder Grenier, Jean told his story as at first, without changing it in any important particular. The fact of Jean Grenier having killed and eaten several children, and of his having attacked and wounded others, with intent to take their life, were fully established; but there was no proof whatever of the father having had the least hand in any of the murders, so that he was dismissed the court without a shadow of guilt upon him. The only witness who corroborated the assertion of Jean that he changed his shape into that of a wolf was Marguerite Poirier. Before the court gave judgment, the first president of assize, in an eloquent speech, put on one side all questions of witchcraft and diabolical compact, and bestial transformation, and boldly stated that the court had only to consider the age and the imbecility of the child, who was so dull and idiotic--that children of seven or eight years old have usually a larger amount of reason than he. The president went on to say that Lycanthropy and Kuanthropy were mere hallucinations, and that the change of shape existed only in the disorganized brain of the insane, consequently it was not a crime which could be punished. The tender age of the boy must be taken into consideration, and the utter neglect of his education and moral development. The court sentenced Grenier to perpetual imprisonment within the walls of a monastery at Bordeaux, where he might be instructed in his Christian and moral obligations; but any attempt to escape would be punished with death. A pleasant companion for the monks! a promising pupil for them to instruct! No sooner was he admitted into the precincts of the religious house, than he ran frantically about the cloister and gardens upon all fours, and finding a heap of bloody and raw offal, fell upon it and devoured it in an incredibly short space of time. Delancre visited him seven years after, and found him diminutive in stature, very shy, and unwilling to look any one in the face. His eyes were deep set and restless; his teeth long and protruding; his nails black, and in places worn away; his mind was completely barren; he seemed unable to comprehend the smallest things. He related his story to Delancre, and told him how he had run about formerly in the woods as a wolf, and he said that he still felt a craving for raw flesh, especially for that of little girls, which he said was delicious, and he added that but for his confinement it would not be long before he tasted it again. He said that the Lord of the Forest had visited him twice in the prison, but that he had driven him off with the sign of the cross. The account be then gave of his murders coincided exactly with what had come out in his trial; and beside this, his story of the compact he had made with the Black One, and the manner in which his transformation was effected, also coincided with his former statements. He died at the age of twenty, after an imprisonment of seven years, shortly after Delancre's visit. [1] [1. DELANCRE: _Tableau de l'Iinconstance_, p 305.] In the two cases of Roulet and Grenier the courts referred the whole matter of Lycanthropy, or animal transformation, to its true and legitimate cause, an aberration of the brain. From this time medical men seem to have regarded it as a form of mental malady to be brought under their treatment, rather than as a crime to be punished by law. But it is very fearful to contemplate that there may still exist persons in the world filled with a morbid craving for human blood, which is ready to impel them to commit the most horrible atrocities, should they escape the vigilante of their guards, or break the bars of the madhouse which restrains them. CHAPTER VIII. FOLK-LORE RELATING TO WERE-WOLVES. Barrenness of English Folk-lore--Devonshire Traditions--Derivation of Were-wolf--Cannibalism in Scotland--The Angus Robber--The Carle of Perth--French Superstitions--Norwegian Traditions--Danish Tales of Were-wolves--Holstein Stories--The Werewolf in the Netherlands--Among the Greeks; the Serbs; the White Russians; the Poles; the Russians--A Russian Receipt for becoming a Were-wolf--The Bohemian Vlkodlak--Armenian Story--Indian Tales--Abyssinian Budas--American Transformation Tales--A Slovakian Household Tale--Similar Greek, Béarnais, and Icelandic Tales. ENGLISH folk-lore is singularly barren of were-wolf stories, the reason being that wolves had been extirpated from England under the Anglo-Saxon kings, and therefore ceased to be objects of dread to the people. The traditional belief in were-wolfism must, however, have remained long in the popular mind, though at present it has disappeared, for the word occurs in old ballads and romances. Thus in Kempion-- O was it war-wolf in the wood? Or was it mermaid in the sea? Or was it man, or vile woman, My ain true love, that mis-shaped thee? There is also the romance of _William and the Were-wolf_ in Hartshorn; [1] but this professes to be a translation from the French:-- [1. HARTSHORN: _Ancient Metrical Tales_, p. 256. See also "The Witch Cake," in CRUMEK'S _Remains of Nithsdale Song_.] For he of Frenche this fayre tale ferst dede translate, In ese of Englysch men in Englysch speche. In the popular mind the cat or the hare have taken the place of the wolf for witches' transformation, and we hear often of the hags attending the devil's Sabbath in these forms. In Devonshire they range the moors in the shape of black dogs, and I know a story of two such creatures appearing in an inn and nightly drinking the cider, till the publican shot a silver button over their heads, when they were instantly transformed into two ill-favoured old ladies of his acquaintance. On Heathfield, near Tavistock, the wild huntsman rides by full moon with his "wush hounds;" and a white hare which they pursued was once rescued by a goody returning from market, and discovered to be a transformed young lady. Gervaise of Tilbury says in his _Otia Imperalia_-- "Vidimus frequenter in Anglia, per lunationes, homines in lupos mutari, quod hominum genus _gerulfos_ Galli vocant, Angli vero _wer-wlf,_ dicunt: _wer_ enim Anglice virum sonat, _wlf_, lupum." Gervaise may be right in his derivation of the name, and were-wolf may mean man-wolf, though I have elsewhere given a different derivation, and one which I suspect is truer. But Gervaise has grounds for his assertion that _wér_ signifies man; it is so in Anglo-Saxon, _vair_ in Gothic, _vir_ in Latin, _verr_, in Icelandic, _vîra_, Zend, _wirs_, old Prussian, _wirs_, Lettish, _vîra_, Sanskrit, _bîr_, Bengalee. There have been cases of cannibalism in Scotland, but no bestial transformation is hinted at in connection with them. Thus Bthius, in his history of Scotland, tells us of a robber and his daughter who devoured children, and Lindsay of Pitscottie gives a full account. "About this time (1460) there was ane brigand ta'en with his haill family, who haunted a place in Angus. This mischievous man had ane execrable fashion to take all young men and children he could steal away quietly, or tak' away without knowledge, and eat them, and the younger they were, esteemed them the mair tender and delicious. For the whilk cause and damnable abuse, he with his wife and bairns were all burnt, except ane young wench of a year old who was saved and brought to Dandee, where she was brought up and fostered; and when she came to a woman's years, she was condemned and burnt quick for that crime. It is said that when she was coming to the place of execution, there gathered ane huge multitude of people, and specially of women, cursing her that she was so unhappy to commit so damnable deeds. To whom she turned about with an ireful countenance, saying:--'Wherefore chide ye with me, as if I had committed ane unworthy act? Give me credence and trow me, if ye had experience of eating men and women's flesh, ye wold think it so delicious that ye wold never forbear it again.' So, but any sign of repentance, this unhappy traitor died in the sight of the people." [1] [1. LINDSAY'S _Chronicles of Scotland_, 1814, p. 163.] Wyntoun also has a passage in his metrical chronicle regarding a cannibal who lived shortly before his own time, and he may easily have heard about him from surviving contemporaries. It was about the year 1340, when a large portion of Scotland had been devastated by the arms of Edward III. About Perth thare was the countrie Sae waste, that wonder wes to see; For intill well-great space thereby, Wes nother house left nor herb'ry. Of deer thare wes then sic foison (profusion), That they wold near come to the town, Sae great default was near that stead, That mony were in hunger dead. A carle they said was near thereby, That wold act settis (traps) commonly, Children and women for to slay, And swains that he might over-ta; And ate them all that he get might; Chwsten Cleek till name behight. That sa'ry life continued he, While waste but folk was the countrie. [1] [1. WYNTOUN'S _Chronicle_, ii. 236.] We have only to compare these two cases with those recorded in the last two chapters, and we see at once how the popular mind in Great Britain had lost the idea of connecting change of form with cannibalism. A man guilty of the crimes committed by the Angus brigand, or the carle of Perth, would have been regarded as a were-wolf in France or Germany, and would have been tried for Lycanthropy. S. Jerome, by the way, brought a sweeping charge against the Scots. He visited Gaul in his youth, about 880, and he writes:--"When I was a young man in Gaul, I may have seen the Attacotti, a British people who live upon human flesh; and when they find herds of pigs, droves of cattle, or flocks of sheep in the woods, they cut off the haunches of the men and the breasts of the women, and these they regard as great dainties;" in other words they prefer the shepherd to his flock. Gibbon who quotes this passage says on it: "If in the neighbourhood of the commercial and literary town of Glasgow, a race of cannibals has really existed, we may contemplate, in the period of the Scottish history, the opposite extremes of savage and civilized life. Such reflections tend to enlarge the circle of our ideas, and to encourage the pleasing hope that New Zealand may produce in a future age, the Hume of the Southern hemisphere." If traditions of were-wolves are scanty in England, it is quite the reverse if we cross the water. In the south of France, it is still believed that fate has destined certain men to be lycanthropists--that they are transformed into wolves at full moon. The desire to run comes upon them at night. They leave their beds, jump out of a window, and plunge into a fountain. After the bath, they come out covered with dense fur, walking on all fours, and commence a raid over fields and meadows, through woods and villages, biting all beasts and human beings that come in their way. At the approach of dawn, they return to the spring, plunge into it, lose their furry skins, and regain their deserted beds. Sometimes the loup-garou is said to appear under the form of a white dog, or to be loaded with chains; but there is probably a confusion of ideas between the were-wolf and the church-dog, bar-ghest, pad-foit, wush-hound, or by whatever name the animal supposed to haunt a churchyard is designated. In the Périgord, the were-wolf is called louléerou. Certain men, especially bastards, are obliged at each full moon to transform themselves into these diabolic beasts. It is always at night that the fit comes on. The lycanthropist dashes out of a window, springs into a well, and, after having struggled in the water for a few moments, rises from it, dripping, and invested with a goatskin which the devil has given him. In this condition, the louléerous run upon four legs, pass the night in ranging over the country, and in biting and devouring all the dogs they meet. At break of day they lay aside their goatskins and return home. Often they are ill in consequence of having eaten tough old hounds, and they vomit up their undigested paws. One great nuisance to them is the fact that they may be wounded or killed in their louléerou state. With the first effusion of blood their diabolic covering vanishes, and they are recognized, to the disgrace of their families. A were-wolf may easily be detected, even when devoid of his skin; for his hands are broad, and his fingers short, and there are always some hairs in the hollow of his hand. In Normandy, those who are doomed to be loups-garoux, clothe themselves every evening with a skin called their _hère_ or _hure_, which is a loan from the devil. When they run in their transformed state, the evil one accompanies them and scourges them at the foot of every cross they pass. The only way in which a werewolf can be liberated from this cruel bondage, is by stabbing him three times in the forehead with a knife. However, some people less addicted to allopathic treatment, consider that three drops of blood drawn by a needle, will be sufficient to procure release. According to an opinion of the vulgar in the same province, the loup-garou is sometimes a metamorphosis forced upon the body of a damned person, who, after having been tormented in his grave, has torn his way out of it. The first stage in the process consists in his devouring the cerecloth which enveloped his face; then his moans and muffled howls ring from the tomb, through the gloom of night, the earth of the grave begins to heave, and at last, with a scream, surrounded by a phosphorescent glare, and exhaling a ftid odour, he bursts away as a wolf. In Le Bessin, they attribute to sorcerers the power of metamorphosing certain men into beasts, but the form of a dog is that principally affected by them. In Norway it is believed that there are persons who can assume the form of a wolf or a bear (Huse-björn), and again resume their own; this property is either imparted to them by the Trollmen, or those possessing it are themselves Trolls. In a hamlet in the midst of a forest, there dwelt a cottager named Lasse, and his wife. One day he went out in the forest to fell a tree, but had forgot to cross himself and say his paternoster, so that some troll or wolf-witch (varga mor) obtained power over him and transformed him into a wolf. His wife mourned him for many years, but, one Christmas-eve, there came a beggar-woman, very poor and ragged, to the door, and the good woman of the house took her in, fed her well, and entreated her kindly. At her departure the beggar-woman said that the wife would probably see her husband again, as he was not dead, but was wandering in the forest as a wolf. Towards night-fall the wife went to her pantry to place in it a piece of meat for the morrow, when, on turning to go out, she perceived a wolf standing before her, raising itself with its paws on the pantry steps, regarding her with sorrowful and hungry looks. Seeing this she exclaimed, "If I were sure that thou wert my own Lasse, I would give thee a bit of meat." At that instant the wolf-skin fell off, and her husband stood before her in the clothes he wore on the unlucky morning when she had last beheld him. Finns, Lapps, and Russians are held in particular aversion, because the Swedes believe that they have power to change people into wild beasts. During the last year of the war with Russia, when Calmar was overrun with an unusual number of wolves, it was generally said that the Russians had transformed their Swedish prisoners into wolves, and sent them home to invest the country. In Denmark the following stories are told:-- A man, who from his childhood had been a were-wolf, when returning one night with his wife from a merrymaking, observed that the hour was at hand when the evil usually came upon him; giving therefore the reins to his wife, he descended from the vehicle, saying to her, "If anything comes to thee, only strike at it with thine apron." He then withdrew, but immediately after, the woman, as she was sitting in the vehicle, was attached by a were-wolf. She did as the man had enjoined her, and struck it with her apron, from which it rived a portion, and then ran away. After some time the man returned, holding in his mouth the rent portion of his wife's apron, on seeing which, she cried out in terror,--"Good Lord, man, why, thou art a were-wolf!" "Thank thee, wife," said he, "now I am free." And from that time he was no more afflicted. If a female at midnight stretches between four sticks the membrane which envelopes the foal when it is brought forth, and creeps through it, naked, she will bear children without pain; but all the boys will be were-wolves, and all the girls maras. By day the were-wolf has the human form, though he may be known by the meeting of his eyebrows above the nose. At a certain time of the night he has the form of a dog on three legs. It is only when another person tells him that he is a were-wolf, or reproaches him with being such, that a man can be freed from the ban. According to a Danish popular song, a hero transformed by his step-mother into a bear, fights with a knight:-- For 'tis she who bath bewitched me, A woman false and fell, Bound an iron girdle round me, If thou can'st not break this belt, Knight, I'll thee destroy! * * * * The noble made the Christian sign, The girdle snapped, the bear was changed, And see! he was a lusty knight, His father's realm regained. _Kjæmpeviser_, p. 147. When an old bear in Ofodens Priestegjeld was killed, after it had caused the death of six men und sixty horses, it was found to be girded with a similar girdle. In Schleswig and Holstein they say that if the were-wolf be thrice addressed by his baptismal name, he resumes his human form. On a hot harvest day some reapers lay down in the field to take their noontide sleep, when one who could not sleep observed that the fellow next to him rose softly, and having girded himself with a strap, became a were-wolf. A young man belonging to Jägerup returning late one night from Billund, was attacked, when near Jägerup, by three were-wolves, and would probably have been torn to pieces, had he not saved himself by leaping into a rye-field, for there they had no more power over him. At Caseburg, on the isle of Usedom, a man and his wife were busy in the field making hay, when after some time the woman said to the man that she had no more peace, she could stay no longer, and went away. But she had previously desired her husband to promise, that if perchance a wild beast should come that way, he would cast his hat at it and then run away, and it would do him no injury. She had been gone but a short while, when a wolf came swimming across the Swine, and ran directly towards the haymakers. The man threw his hat at it, which the animal instantly tore to rags. But in the meantime a boy had run up with a pitchfork, and he dabbed the wolf from behind: in the same moment it became changed, and all saw that the boy had killed the man's wife. Formerly there were individuals in the neighbourhood of Steina, who, by putting on a certain girdle, could transform themselves into were-wolves. A man of the neighbourhood, who had such a girdle, forgot one day when going out to lock it up, as was his wont. During his absence, his little son chanced to find it; he buckled it round him., and was instantaneously turned into an animal, to all outward appearance like a bundle of peat-straw, and he rolled about like an unwieldy bear. When those who were in the room perceived this, they hastened in search of the father, who was found in time to come and unbuckle the belt, before the child had done any mischief. The boy afterwards said, that when he had put on the girdle, he was seized with such a raging hunger, that he was ready to tear in pieces and devour all that came in his way. The girdle is supposed to be made of human skin, and to be three finger-breadths wide. In East Friesland, it is believed, when seven girls succeed each other in one family, that among them one is of necessity a were-wolf, so that youths are slow in seeking one of seven sisters in marriage. According to a curious Lithuanian story related by Schleicher in his _Litauische Märchen_, a person who is a were-wolf or bear has to remain kneeling in one spot for one hundred years before he can hope to obtain release from his bestial form. In the Netherlands they relate the following tale:--A man had once gone out with his bow to attend a shooting match at Rousse, but when about half way to the place, he saw on a sudden, a large wolf spring from a thicket, and rush towards a young girl, who was sitting in a meadow by the roadside watching cows. The man did not long hesitate, but quickly drawing forth an arrow, took aim, and luckily hit the wolf in the right side, so that the arrow remained sticking in the wound, and the animal fled howling to the wood. On the following day he heard that a serving-man of the burgomaster's household lay at the point of death, in consequence of having been shot in the right side, on the preceding day. This so excited the archer's curiosity, that he went to the wounded man, and requested to see the arrow. He recognized it immediately as one of his own. Then, having desired all present to leave the room, he persuaded the man to confess that he was a were-wolf and that he had devoured little children. On the following day he died. Among the Bulgarians and Sloyakians the were-wolf is called _vrkolak_, a name resembling that given it by the modern Greeks {Greek _brúkolakas_}. The Greek were-wolf is closely related to the vampire. The lycanthropist falls into a cataleptic trance, during which his soul leaves his body, enters that of a wolf and ravens for blood. On the return of the soul, the body is exhausted and aches as though it had been put through violent exercise. After death lycanthropists become vampires. They are believed to frequent battlefields in wolf or hyæna shapes, and to suck the breath from dying soldiers, or to enter houses and steal the infants from their cradles. Modern Greeks call any savage-looking man, with dark complexion, and with distorted, misshapen limbs, a {Greek _brúkolakas_}, and suppose him to be invested with power of running in wolf-form. The Serbs connect the vampire and the were-wolf together, and call them by one name _vlkoslak_. These rage chiefly in the depths of winter: they hold their annual gatherings, and at them divest themselves of their wolf-skins, which they hang on the trees around them. If any one succeeds in obtaining the skin and burning it, the vlkoslak is thenceforth disenchanted. The power to become a were-wolf is obtained by drinking the water which settles in a foot-print left in clay by a wolf. Among the White Russians the _wawkalak_ is a man who has incurred the wrath of the devil, and the evil one punishes him by transforming him into a wolf and sending him among his relations, who recognize him and feed him well. He is a most amiably disposed were-wolf, for he does no mischief, and testifies his affection for his kindred by licking their hands. He cannot, however, remain long in any place, but is driven from house to house, and from hamlet to hamlet, by an irresistible passion for change of scene. This is an ugly superstition, for it sets a premium on standing well with the evil one. The Sloyakians merrily term a drunkard a vlkodlak, because, forsooth, he makes a beast of himself. A Slovakian household were-wolf tale closes this chapter. The Poles have their were-wolves, which rage twice in the year--at Christmas and at midsummer. According to a Polish story, if a witch lays a girdle of human skin on the threshold of a house in which a marriage is being celebrated, the bride and bridegroom, and bridesmaids and groomsmen, should they step across it, are transformed into wolves. After three years, however, the witch will cover them with skins with the hair. turned outward; immediately they will recover their natural form. On one occasion, a witch cast a skin of too scanty dimensions over the bridegroom, so that his tail was left uncovered: he resumed his human form, but retained his lupine caudal appendage {_i.e. tail--jbh_}. The Russians call the were-wolf _oborot_, which signifies "one transformed." The following receipt is given by them for becoming one. "He who desires to become an oborot, let him seek in the forest a hewn-down tree; let him stab it with a small copper knife, and walk round the tree, repeating the following incantation:-- On the sea, on the ocean, on the island, on Bujan, On the empty pasture gleams the moon, on an ashstock lying In a green wood, in a gloomy vale. Toward the stock wandereth a shaggy wolf. Horned cattle seeking for his sharp white fangs; But the wolf enters not the forest, But the wolf dives not into the shadowy vale, Moon, moon, gold-horned moon, Cheek the flight of bullets, blunt the hunters' knives, Break the shepherds' cudgels, Cast wild fear upon all cattle, On men, on all creeping things, That they may not catch the grey wolf, That they may not rend his warm skin My word is binding, more binding than sleep, More binding than the promise of a hero! "Then he springs thrice over the tree and runs into the forest, transformed into a wolf." [1] [1. SACHAROW: _Inland_, 1838, No. 17.] In the ancient Bohemian Lexicon of Vacerad (A. D. 1202) the were-wolf is called vilkodlak, and is explained as faunus. Safarik says under that head,- "Incubi sepe improbi existunt mulieribus, et earum peragunt concubitum, quos demones Galli _dusios_ nuncupant." And in another place: "Vilkodlaci, incubi, sive invidi, ab inviando passim cum animalibus, unde et incubi dicuntur ab incubando homines, i. e. stuprando, quos Romani faunos ficarios dicunt." That the same belief in lycanthropy exists in Armenia is evident from the following story told by Haxthausen, in his _Trans-Caucasia_ (Leipzig, i. 322):--"A man once saw a wolf, which had carried off a child, dash past him. He pursued it hastily, but was unable to overtake it. At last he came upon the hands and feet of a child, and a little further on he found a cave, in which lay a wolf-skin. This he cast into a fire, and immediately a woman appeared, who howled and tried to rescue the skin from the flames. The man, however, resisted, and, as soon as the hide was consumed, the woman had vanished in the smoke." In India, on account of the prevalence of the doctrine of metempsychosis, the belief in transformation is widely diffused. Traces of genuine lycanthropy are abundant in all regions whither Buddism has reached. In Ceylon, in Thibet, and in China, we find it still forming a portion of the national creed. In the Pantschatantra is a story of an enchanted Brahmin's son, who by day was a serpent, by night a man. Vikramâditya's father, the son of Indra, was condemned to be an ass by day and a man by night. A modern Indian tale is to this effect:--A prince marries a female ape, but his brothers wed handsome princesses. At a feast given by the queen to her stepdaughters, there appears an exquisitely beautiful lady in gorgeous robes. This is none other than the she-ape, who has laid aside her skin for the occasion: the prince slips out of the room and burns the skin, so that his wife is prevented from resuming her favourite appearance. Nathaniel Pierce [1] gives an account of an Abyssinian superstition very similar to that prevalent in Europe. [1. _Life and Adventures of Nathaniel Pierce_, written by himself during a residence in Abyssinia from 1810-19. London, 1831.] He says that in Abyssinia the gold. and silversmiths are highly regarded, but that the ironworkers are looked upon with contempt, as an inferior grade of beings. Their kinsmen even ascribe to them the power of transforming themselves into hyænas, or other savage beasts. All convulsions and hysterical disorders are attributed to the effect of their evil eye. The Amhara call them _Buda_, the Tigré, _Tebbib_. There are also Mahomedan and Jewish Budas. It is difficult to explain the origin of this strange superstition. These Budas are distinguished from other people by wearing gold ear-rings, and Coffin declares that he has often found hyænas with these rings in their ears, even among the beasts which he has shot or speared himself. But how the rings got into their ears is more than Coffin was able to ascertain. Beside their power to transform themselves into hyænas or other wild beasts, all sorts of other strange things are ascribed to them; and the Abyssinians are firmly persuaded that they rob the graves by midnight, and no one would venture to touch what is called _quanter_, or dried meat in their houses, though they would not object to partake of fresh meat, if they had seen the animal, from which it came, killed before them. Coffin relates, as eye-witness of the fact, the following story:-- Among his servants was a Buda, who, one evening, whilst it was still light, came to his master and asked leave of absence till the following morning. He obtained the required leave and departed; but scarcely had Coffin turned his head, when one of his men exclaimed,--"Look! there he is, changing himself into hyæna," pointing in the direction taken by the Buda. Coffin turned to look, and although he did not witness the process of transformation, the young man had vanished from the spot on which he had been standing, not a hundred paces distant, and in his place was a hyæna running away. The place was a plain without either bush or tree to impede the view. Next morning the young man returned, and was charged by his companions with the transformation: this he rather acknowledged than denied, for he excused himself on the plea that it was the habit of his class. This statement of Pierce is corroborated by a note contributed by Sir Gardner Wilkinson to Rawlinson's _Herodotus_ (book iv. chap. 105). "A class of people in Abyssinia are believed to change themselves into hyænas when they like. On my appearing to discredit it, I was told by one who lived for years there, that no well-informed person doubted it, and that he was once walking with one of them, when he happened to look away for a moment, and on turning again towards his companion, he saw him trotting off in the shape of a hyæna. He met him afterwards in his old form. These worthies are blacksmiths.--G. W." A precisely similar superstition seems to have existed in America, for Joseph Acosta (_Hist. Nat. des Indes_) relates that the ruler of a city in Mexico, who was sent for by the predecessor of Montezuma, transformed himself, before the eyes of those who were sent to seize him, into an eagle, a tiger, and an enormous serpent. He yielded at last, and was condemned to death. No longer in his own house, he was unable to work miracles so as to save his life. The Bishop of Chiapa, a province of Guatemala, in a writing published in 1702, ascribes the same power to the Naguals, or national priests, who laboured to bring back to the religion of their ancestors, the children brought up as Christians by the government. After various ceremonies, when the child instructed advanced to embrace him, the Nagual suddenly assumed a frightful aspect, and under the form of a lion or tiger, appeared chained to the young Christian convert.--(_Recueil de Voyages_, tom. ii. 187.) Among the North American Indians, the belief in transformation is very prevalent. The following story closely resembles one very prevalent all over the world. "One Indian fixed his residence on the borders of the Great Bear lake, taking with him only a dog big with young. In due time, this dog brought forth eight pups. Whenever the Indian went out to fish, he tied up the pups, to prevent the straying of the litter. Several times, as he approached his tent, he heard noises proceeding from it, which sounded like the talking, the laughing, the crying, the wail, and the merriment of children; but, on entering it, he only perceived the pups tied up as usual. His curiosity being excited by the noises he had heard, he determined to watch and learn whence these sounds proceeded, and what they were. One day he pretended to go out to fish, but, instead of doing so, he concealed himself in a convenient place. In a short time he again heard -voices, and, rushing suddenly into the tent, beheld some beautiful children sporting and laughing, with the dog-skins lying by their side. He threw the dog-skins into the fire, and the children, retaining their proper forms, grew up, and were the ancestors of the dog-rib nation."--(_Traditions of the North American Indians_, by T. A. Jones, 1830, Vol. ii. p. 18.) In the same work is a curious story entitled _The Mother of the World_, which bears a close analogy to another world-wide myth: a woman marries a dog, by night the dog lays aside its skin, and appears as a man. This may be compared with the tale of Björn and Bera already given. I shall close this chapter with a Slovakian household tale given by T. T. Hanush in the third volume of _Zeitschrift für Deutsche Mythologie_. _The Daughter of the Vlkolak_ "There was once a father, who had nine daughters, and they were all marriageable, but the youngest was the most beautiful. The father was a were-wolf. One day it came into his head: 'What is the good of having to support so many girls?' so he determined to put them all out of the way. "He went accordingly into the forest to hew wood, and he ordered his daughters to let one of them bring him his dinner. It was the eldest who brought it. "'Why, how come you so early with the food?' asked the woodcutter. "'Truly, father, I wished to strengthen you, lest you should fall upon us, if famished!' "'A good lass! Sit down whilst I eat.' He ate, and whilst he ate he thought of a scheme. He rose and said: I My girl, come, and I will show you a pit I have been digging.' "'And what is the pit for? ' "'That we may be buried in it when we die, for poor folk will not be cared for much after they are dead and gone.' "So the girl went with him to the side of the deep pit. 'Now hear,' said the were-wolf, 'you must die and be cast in there.' "She begged for her life, but all in vain, so he laid hold of her and cast her into the grave. Then he took a great stone and flung it in upon her and crushed her head, so the poor thing breathed out her soul. When the were-wolf had done this he went back to his work, and as dusk came on, the second daughter arrived, bringing him food. He told her of the pit, and brought her to it, and cast her in, and killed her as the first. And so he dealt with all his girls up to the last. The youngest knew well that her father was a were-wolf, and she was grieved that her sisters did not return; she thought, 'Now where can they be? Has my father kept them for companionship; or to help him in his work?' So she made the food which she was to take him, and crept cautiously through the wood. When she came near the place where her father worked, she heard his strokes felling timber, and smelt smoke. She saw presently a large fire and two human heads roasting at it. Turning from the fire, she went in the direction of the axe-strokes, and found her father. "See,' said she, 'father, I have brought you food.' "That is a good lass,' said he. 'Now stack the wood for me whilst I eat.' "'But where are my sisters?' she asked. "'Down in yon valley drawing wood,' he replied 'follow me, and I will bring you to them.' "They came to the pit; then he told her that he had dug it for a grave. 'Now,' said he, 'you must die, and be cast into the pit with your sisters. ' "'Turn aside, father,' she asked, 'whilst I strip of my clothes, and then slay me if you will.' "He turned aside as she requested, and then--tchich! she gave him a push, and he tumbled headlong into the hole he had dug for her. "She fled for her life, for the were-wolf was not injured, and he soon would scramble out of the pit. "Now she hears his howls resounding through the gloomy alleys of the forest, and swift as the wind she runs. She hears the tramp of his approaching feet, and the snuffle of his breath. Then she casts behind her her handkerchief. The were-wolf seizes this with teeth and nails, and rends it till it is reduced to tiny ribands. In another moment he is again in pursuit foaming at the mouth, and howling dismally, whilst his red eyes gleam like burning coals. As he gains on her, she casts behind her her gown, and bids him tear that. He seizes the gown and rives it to shreds, then again he pursues. This time she casts behind her her apron, next her petticoat, then her shift, and at last rums much in the condition in which she was born. Again the were-wolf approaches; she bounds out of the forest into a hay-field, and hides herself in the smallest heap of hay. Her father enters the field, runs howling about it in search of her, cannot find her, and begins to upset the different haycocks, all the while growling and gnashing his gleaming white fangs in his rage at her having escaped him. The foam flakes drop at every step from his mouth, and his skin is reeking with sweat. Before he has reached the smallest bundle of hay his strength leaves him, he feels exhaustion begin to creep over him, and he retires to the forest. "The king goes out hunting every clay; one of his dogs carries food to the hay-field, which has most unaccountably been neglected by the hay-makers for three days. The king, following the dog, discovers the fair damsel, not exactly 'in the straw,' but up to her neck in hay. She is carried, hay and all, to the palace, where she becomes his wife, making only one stipulation before becoming his bride, and that is, that no beggar shall be permitted to enter the palace. "After some years a beggar does get in, the beggar being, of course, none other than her were-wolf father. He steals upstairs, enters the nursery, cuts the throats of the two children borne by the queen to her lord, and lays the knife under her pillow. "In the morning, the king, supposing his wife to be the murderess, drives her from home, with the dead princes hung about her neck. A hermit comes to the rescue, and restores the babies to life. The king finds out his mistake, is reunited to the lady out of the hay, and the were-wolf is cast off a high cliff into the sea, and that is the end of him. The king, the queen, and the princes live happily, and may be living yet, for no notice of their death has appeared in the newspaper." This story bears some resemblance to one told by Von Hahn in his _Griechische und Albanesische Märchen_; I remember having heard a very similar one in the Pyrenees; but the man who flies from the were-wolf is one who, after having stripped off all his clothes, rushes into a cottage and jumps into a bed. The were-wolf dares not, or cannot, follow. The cause of his flight was also different. He was a freemason who had divulged the secret, and the were-wolf was the master of his lodge in pursuit of him. In the Bearnais story, there is nothing similar to the last part of the Slovakian tale, and in the Greek one the transformation and the pursuit are omitted, though the woman-eater is called "dog's-head," much as an outlaw in the north of Europe was said to be wolf-headed. It is worthy of notice in the tale of _The Daughter of the Ulkolak_, that the were-wolf fit is followed by great exhaustion, [1] and that the wolf is given clothes to tear, much as in the Danish stories already related. There does not seem to be any indication of his Laving changed his shape, at least no change is mentioned, his hands are spoken of, and he swears and curses his daughter in broad Slovakian. The fit very closely resembles that to which Skallagrim, the Icelander, was subject. It is a pity that the maid Bràk in the Icelandic tale did not fall upon her legs like the young lady in the hay. [1. Compare this with the exhaustion following a Berserkir fit, and that which succeeded the attacks to which M. Bertrand was subject.] CHAPTER IX. NATURAL CAUSES OF LYCANTHROPY. Innate Cruelty--Its Three Forms--Dumollard--Andreas Bichel--A Dutch Priest--Other instances of Inherent Cruelty--Cruelty united to Refinement--A Hungarian Bather in Blood--Suddenness with which the Passion is developed--Cannibalism; in pregnant Women; in Maniacs--Hallucination; how Produced--Salves--The Story of Lucius--Self-deception. WHAT I have related from the chronicles of antiquity, or from the traditional lore of the people, is veiled under the form of myth or legend; and it is only from Scandinavian descriptions of those afflicted with the wolf-madness, and from the trials of those charged with the crime of lycanthropy in the later Middle Ages, that we can arrive at the truth respecting that form of madness which was invested by the superstitious with so much mystery. It was not till the close of the Middle Ages that lycanthropy was recognized as a disease; but it is one which has so much that is ghastly and revolting in its form, and it is so remote from all our ordinary experience, that it is not surprising that the casual observer should leave the consideration of it, as a subject isolated and perplexing, and be disposed to regard as a myth that which the feared investigation might prove a reality. In this chapter I purpose briefly examining the conditions under which men have been regarded as werewolves. Startling though the assertion may be, it is a matter of fact, that man, naturally, in common with other carnivora, is actuated by an impulse to kill, and by a love of destroying life. It is positively true that there are many to whom the sight of suffering causes genuine pleasure, and in whom the passion to kill or torture is as strong as any other passion. Witness the number of boys who assemble around a sheep or pig when it is about to be killed, and who watch the struggle of the dying brute with hearts beating fast with pleasure, and eyes sparkling with delight. Often have I seen an eager crowd of children assembled around the slaughterhouses of French towns, absorbed in the expiring agonies of the sheep and cattle, and hushed into silence as they watched the flow of blood. The propensity, however, exists in different degrees. In some it is manifest simply as indifference to suffering, in others it appears as simple pleasure in seeing killed, and in others again it is dominant as an irresistible desire to torture and destroy. This propensity is widely diffused; it exists in children and adults, in the gross-minded and the refined., in the well-educated and the ignorant, in those who have never had the opportunity of gratifying it, and those who gratify it habitually, in spite of morality, religion, laws, so that it can only depend on constitutional causes. The sportsman and the fisherman follow a natural instinct to destroy, when they make wax on bird, beast, and fish: the pretence that the spoil is sought for the table cannot be made with justice, as the sportsman cares little for the game he has obtained, when once it is consigned to his pouch. The motive for his eager pursuit of bird or beast must be sought elsewhere; it will be found in the natural craving to extinguish life, which exists in his soul. Why does a child impulsively strike at a butterfly as it flits past him? He cares nothing for the insect when once it is beaten down at his feet, unless it be quivering in its agony, when he will watch it with interest. The child strikes at the fluttering creature because it has _life_ in it, and he has an instinct within him impelling him to destroy life wherever he finds it. Parents and nurses know well that children by nature are cruel, and that humanity has to be acquired by education. A child will gloat over the sufferings of a wounded animal till his mother bids him "put it out of its misery." An unsophisticated child would not dream of terminating the poor creature's agonies abruptly, any more than he would swallow whole a bon-bon till he had well sucked it. Inherent cruelty may be obscured by after impressions, or may be kept under moral restraint; the person who is constitutionally a Nero, may scarcely know his own nature, till by some accident the master passion becomes dominant, and sweeps all before it. A relaxation of the moral check, a shock to the controlling intellect, an abnormal condition of body, are sufficient to allow the passion to assert itself. As I have already observed, this passion exists in different persons in different degrees. In some it is exhibited in simple want of feeling for other people's sufferings. This temperament may lead to crime, for the individual who is regardless of pain in another, will be ready to destroy that other, if it suit his own purposes. Such an one was the pauper Dumollard, who was the murderer of at least six poor girls, and who attempted to kill several others. He seems not to have felt much gratification in murdering them, but to have been so utterly indifferent to their sufferings, that he killed them solely for the sake of their clothes, which were of the poorest description. He was sentenced to the guillotine, and executed in 1862. [1] [1. A full account of this man's trial is given by one who was present, in _All the Year Round_, No. 162.] In others, the passion for blood is developed alongside with indifference to suffering. Thus Andreas Bichel enticed young women into his house, under the pretence that he was possessed of a magic mirror, in which he would show them their future husbands; when he had them in his power he bound their hands behind their backs, and stunned them with a blow. He then stabbed them and despoiled them of their clothes, for the sake of which he committed the murders; but as he killed the young women the passion of cruelty took possession of him, and he hacked the poor girls to pieces whilst they were still alive, in his anxiety to examine their insides. Catherine Seidel he opened with a hammer and a wedge, from her breast downwards, whilst still breathing. "I may say," he remarked at his trial, "that during the operation I was so eager, that I trembled all over, and I longed to rive off a piece and eat it." Andreas Bichel was executed in 1809. [1] [1. The case of Andreas Bichel is given in Lady Duff Gordon's _Remarkable Criminal Trials_.] Again, a third class of persons are cruel and bloodthirsty, because in them bloodthirstiness is a raging insatiable passion. In a civilized country those possessed by this passion are forced to control it through fear of the consequences, or to gratify it upon the brute creation. But in earlier days, when feudal lords were supreme in their domains, there have been frightful instances of their excesses, and the extent to which some of the Roman emperors indulged their passion for blood is matter of history. Gall gives several authentic instances of bloodthirstiness. [1] A Dutch priest had such a desire to kill and to see killed, that he became chaplain to a regiment that he might have the satisfaction of seeing deaths occurring wholesale in engagements. The same man kept a large collection of various kinds of domestic animals, that he might be able to torture their young. He killed the animals for his kitchen, and was acquainted with all the hangmen in the country, who sent him notice of executions, and he would walk for days that he might have the gratification of seeing a man executed. [1. GALL: _Sur les Fonctions du Cerveau_, tom. iv.] In the field of battle the passion is variously developed; some feel positive delight in slaying, others are indifferent. An old soldier, who had been in Waterloo, informed me that to his mind there was no pleasure equal to running a man through the body, and that he could lie awake at night musing on the pleasurable sensations afforded him by that act. Highwaymen are frequently not content with robbery, but manifest a bloody inclination to torment and kill. John Rosbeck, for instance, is well known to have invented and exercised the most atrocious cruelties, merely that he might witness the sufferings of his victims, who were especially women and children. Neither fear nor torture could break him of the dreadful passion till he was executed. Gall tells of a violin-player, who, being arrested, confessed to thirty-four murders, all of which he had committed, not from enmity or intent to rob, but solely because it afforded him an intense pleasure to kill. Spurzheim [1] tells of a priest at Strasbourg, who, though rich, and uninfluenced by envy or revenge, from exactly the same motive, killed three persons. [1. _Doctrine of the Mind_, p. 158.] Gall relates the case of a brother of the Duke of Bourbon, Condé, Count of Charlois, who, from infancy, had an inveterate pleasure in torturing animals: growing older, he lived to shed the blood of human beings, and to exercise various kinds of cruelty. He also murdered many from no other motive, and shot at slaters for the pleasure of seeing them fall from the roofs of houses. Louis XI. of France caused the death of 4,000 people during his reign; he used to watch their executions from a neighbouring lattice. He had gibbets placed outside his own palace, and himself conducted the executions. It must not be supposed that cruelty exists merely in the coarse and rude; it is quite as frequently observed in the refined and educated. Among the former it is manifest chiefly in insensibility to the sufferings of others; in the latter it appears as a passion, the indulgence of which causes intense pleasure. Those bloody tyrants, Nero and Caligula, Alexander Borgia, and Robespierre, whose highest enjoyment consisted in witnessing the agonies of their fellow-men, were full of delicate sensibilities and great refinement of taste and manner. I have seen an accomplished young woman of considerable refinement and of a highly strung nervous temperament, string flies with her needle on a piece of thread, and watch complacently their flutterings. Cruelty may remain latent till, by some accident. it is aroused, and then it will break forth in a devouring flame. It is the same with the passion for blood as with the passions of love and hate; we have no conception of the violence with which they can rage till circumstances occur which call them into action. Love or hate will be dominant in a breast which has been in serenity, till suddenly the spark falls, passion blazes forth, and the serenity of the quiet breast is shattered for ever. A word, a glance, a touch, are sufficient to fire the magazine of passion in the heart, and to desolate for ever an existence. It is the same with bloodthirstiness. It may lurk in the deeps of some heart very dear to us. It may smoulder in the bosom which is most cherished by us, and we may be perfectly unconscious of its existence there. Perhaps circumstances will not cause its development; perhaps moral principle may have bound it down with fetters it can never break. Michael Wagener [1] relates a horrible story which occurred in Hungary, suppressing the name of the person, as it was that of a still powerful family in the country. It illustrates what I have been saying, and shows how trifling a matter may develope the passion in its most hideous proportions. [1. _Beitrage zur philosophischen Anthropologie_, Wien, 1796.] "Elizabeth ------ was wont to dress well in order to please her husband, and she spent half the day over her toilet. On one occasion, a lady's-maid saw something wrong in her head-dress, and as a recompence for observing it, received such a severe box on the ears that the blood gushed from her nose, and spirted on to her mistress's face. When the blood drops were washed off her face, her skin appeared much more beautiful--whiter and more transparent on the spots where the blood had been. "Elizabeth formed the resolution to bathe her face and her whole body in human blood so as to enhance her beauty. Two old women and a certain Fitzko assisted her in her undertaking. This monster used to kill the luckless victim, and the old women caught the blood, in which Elizabeth was wont to bathe at the hour of four in the morning. After the bath she appeared more beautiful than before. "She continued this habit after the death of her husband (1604) in the hopes of gaining new suitors. The unhappy girls who were allured to the castle, under the plea that they were to be taken into service there, were locked up in a cellar. Here they were beaten till their bodies were swollen. Elizabeth not unfrequently tortured the victims herself; often she changed their clothes which dripped with blood, and then renewed her cruelties. The swollen bodies were then cut up with razors. "Occasionally she had the girls burned, and then cut up, but the great majority were beaten to death. "At last her cruelty became so great, that she would stick needles into those who sat with her in a carriage, especially if they were of her own sex. One of her servant-girls she stripped naked, smeared her with honey, and so drove her out of the house. "When she was ill, and could not indulge her cruelty, she bit a person who came near her sick bed as though she were a wild beast. "She caused, in all, the death of 650 girls, some in Tscheita, on the neutral ground, where she had a cellar constructed for the purpose; others in different localities; for murder and bloodshed became with her a necessity. "When at last the parents of the lost children could no longer be cajoled, the castle was seized, and the traces of the murders were discovered. Her accomplices were executed, and she was imprisoned for life." An equally remarkable example will be found in the account of the Mareschal de Retz given at some length in the sequel. He vas an accomplished man, a scholar, an able general, and a courtier; but suddenly the impulse to murder and destroy came upon him whilst sitting in the library reading Suetonius; he yielded to the impulse, and became one of the greatest monsters of cruelty the world has produced. The case of Sviatek, the Gallician cannibal, is also to the purpose. This man was a harmless pauper, till one day accident brought him to the scene of a conflagration. Hunger impelled him to taste of the roast fragments of a human being who had perished in the fire, and from that moment he ravened for man's flesh. M. Bertrand was a French gentleman of taste and education. He one day lounged over the churchyard wall in a quiet country village and watched a funeral. Instantly an overwhelming desire to dig up and rend the corpse which he had seen committed to the ground came upon him, and for years he lived as a human hyæna, preying upon the dead. His story is given in detail in the fifteenth chapter. An abnormal condition of body sometimes produces this desire for blood. It is manifest in certain cases of pregnancy, when the constitution loses its balance, and the appetite becomes diseased. Schenk [1] gives instances. [1. _Observationes Medic_. lib. iv. De Gravidis.] A pregnant woman saw a baker carrying loaves on his bare shoulder. She was at once filled with such a craving for his flesh that she refused to taste any food till her husband persuaded the baker, by the offer of a large sum, to allow his wife to bite him. The man yielded, and the woman fleshed her teeth in his shoulder twice; but he held out no longer. The wife bore twins on three occasions, twice living, the third time dead. A woman in an interesting condition, near Andernach on the Rhine, murdered her husband, to whom she was warmly attached, ate half his body, and salted the rest. When the passion left her she became conscious of the horrible nature of her act, and she gave herself up to justice. In 1553, a wife cut her husband's throat, and gnawed the nose and the left arm, whilst the body was yet warm. She then gutted the corpse, and salted it for future consumption. Shortly after, she gave birth to three children, and she only became conscious of what she had done when her neighbours asked after the father, that they might announce to him the arrival of the little ones. In the summer of 1845, the Greek papers contained an account of a pregnant woman murdering her husband for the purpose of roasting and eating his liver. That the passion to destroy is prevalent in certain maniacs is well known; this is sometimes accompanied by cannibalism. Gruner [1] gives an account of a shepherd who was evidently deranged, who killed and ate two men. Marc [2] relates that a woman of Unterelsas, during the absence of her husband, a poor labourer, murdered her son, a lad fifteen months old. She chopped of his legs and stewed them with cabbage. She ate a portion, and offered the rest to her husband. It is true that the family were very poor, but there was food in the house at the time. In prison the woman gave evident signs of derangement. [1. _De Anthropophago Bucano_. Jen. 1792.] [2. _Die Geistes Krankheiten_. Berlin, 1844.] The cases in which bloodthirstiness and cannibalism are united with insanity are those which properly fall under the head of Lycanthropy. The instances recorded in the preceding chapter point unmistakably to hallucination accompanying the lust for blood. Jean Grenier, Roulet, and others, were firmly convinced that they had undergone transformation. A disordered condition of mind or body may produce hallucination in a form depending on the character and instincts of the individual. Thus, an ambitious man labouring under monomania will imagine himself to be a king; a covetous man will be plunged in despair, believing himself to be penniless, or exult at the vastness of the treasure which he imagines that he has discovered. The old man suffering from rheumatism or gout conceives himself to be formed of china or glass, and the foxhunter tallyhos! at each new moon, as though he were following a pack. In like manner, the naturally cruel man, if the least affected in his brain, will suppose himself to be transformed into the most cruel and bloodthirsty animal with which he is acquainted. The hallucinations under which lycanthropists suffered may have arisen from various causes. The older writers, as Forestus and Burton, regard the were-wolf mania as a species of melancholy madness, and some do not deem it necessary for the patient to believe in his transformation for them to regard him as a lycanthropist. In the present state of medical knowledge, we know that very different conditions may give rise to hallucinations. In fever cases the sensibility is so disturbed that the patient is often deceived as to the space occupied by his limbs, and he supposes them to be preternaturally distended or contracted. In the case of typhus, it is not uncommon for the sick person, with deranged nervous system, to believe himself to be double in the bed, or to be severed in half, or to have lost his limbs. He may regard his members as composed of foreign and often fragile materials, as glass, or he may so lose his personality as to suppose himself to have become a woman. A monomaniac who believes himself to be some one else, seeks to enter into the feelings, thoughts, and habits of the assumed personality, and from the facility with which this is effected, he draws an argument, conclusive to himself, of the reality of the change. He thenceforth speaks of himself under the assumed character, and experiences all its needs, wishes, passions, and the like. The closer the identification becomes, the more confirmed is the monomaniac in his madness, the character of which varies with the temperament of the individual. If the person's mind be weak, or rude and uncultivated, the tenacity with which he clings to his metamorphosis is feebler, and it becomes more difficult to draw the line between his lucid and insane utterances. Thus Jean Grenier, who laboured under this form of mania, said in his trial much that was true, but it was mixed with the ramblings of insanity. Hallucination may also be produced by artificial means, and there are evidences afforded by the confessions of those tried for lycanthropy, that these artificial means were employed by them. I refer to the salve so frequently mentioned in witch and were-wolf trials. The following passage is from the charming _Golden Ass of Apuleius_; it proves that salves were extensively used by witches for the purpose of transformation, even in his day:-- "Fotis showed me a crack in the door, and bade me look through it, upon which I looked and saw Pamphile first divest herself of all her garments, and then, having unlocked a chest, take from it several little boxes, and open one of the latter, which contained a certain ointment. Rubbing this ointment a good while previously between the palms of her hands, she anointed her whole body, from the very nails of her toes to the hair on the crown of her head, and when she was anointed all over, she whispered many magic words to a lamp, as if she were talking to it. Then she began to move her arms, first with tremulous jerks, and afterwards by a gentle undulating motion, till a glittering, downy surface by degrees overspread her body, feathers and strong quills burst forth suddenly, her nose became a hard crooked beak, her toes changed to curved talons, and Pamphile was no longer Pamphile, but it was an owl I saw before me. And now, uttering a harsh, querulous scream, leaping from the ground by little and little, in order to try her powers, and presently poising herself aloft on her pinions, she stretched forth her wings on either Side to their full extent, and flew straight away. "Having now been actually a witness of the performance of the magical art, and of the metamorphosis of Pamphile, I remained for some time in a stupefied state of astonishment. . . . At last, after I had rubbed my eyes some time, had recovered a little from the amazement and abstraction of mind, and begun to feel a consciousness of the reality of things about me, I took hold of the hand of Fotis and said,--'Sweet damsel, bring me, I beseech thee, a portion of the ointment with which thy mistress hath just now anointed, and when thou hast made me a bird, I will be thy slave, and even wait upon thee like a winged Cupid.' Accordingly she crept gently into the apartment, quickly returned with the box of ointment, hastily placed it in my hands, and then immediately departed. "Elated to an extraordinary degree at the sight of the precious treasure, I kissed the box several times successively; and uttering repeated aspirations in hopes of a prosperous flight, I stripped off my clothes as quick as possible, dipped my fingers greedily into the box, and having thence extracted a good large lump of ointment, rubbed it all over my body and limbs. When I was thoroughly anointed, I swung my arms up and down, in imitation of the movement of a bird's pinions, and continued to do so a little while, when instead of any perceptible token of feathers or wings making their appearance, my own thin skin, alas! grew into a hard leathern hide, covered with bristly hair, my fingers and toes disappeared, the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet became four solid hoofs, and from the end of my spine a long tail projected. My face was enormous, my mouth wide, my nostrils gaping, my lips pendulous, and I had a pair of immoderately long, rough, hairy ears. In short, when I came to contemplate my transformation to its full extent, I found that, instead of a bird, I had become--an ASS." [1] [1. APULEIUS, Sir George Head's translation, bk. iii.] Of what these magical salves were composed we know. They were composed of narcotics, to wit, _Solanum somniferum_, aconite, hyoscyamus, belladonna, opium, _acorus vulgaris_, _sium_. These were boiled down with oil, or the fat of little children who were murdered for the purpose. The blood of a bat was added, but its effects could have been _nil_. To these may have been added other foreign narcotics, the names of which have not transpired. Whatever may have been the cause of the hallucination, it is not surprising that the lycanthropist should have imagined himself transformed into a beast. The cases I have instanced are those of shepherds, who were by nature of their employment, brought into collision with wolves; and it is not surprising that these persons, in a condition liable to hallucinations, should imagine themselves to be transformed into wild beasts, and that their minds reverting to the injuries sustained from these animals, they should, in their state of temporary insanity, accuse themselves of the acts of rapacity committed by the beasts into which they believed themselves to be transformed. It is a well-known fact that men, whose minds are unhinged, will deliver themselves up to justice, accusing themselves of having committed crimes which have actually taken place, and it is only on investigation that their self-accusation proves to be false; and yet they will describe the circumstances with the greatest minuteness, and be thoroughly convinced of their own criminality. I need give but a single instance. In the war of the French Revolution, the _Hermione_ frigate was commanded by Capt. Pigot, a harsh man and a severe commander. His crew mutinied, and carried the ship into an enemy's port, having murdered the captain and several of the officers, under circumstances of extreme barbarity. One midshipman escaped, by whom many of the criminals, who were afterwards taken and delivered over to justice, one by one, were identified. Mr. Finlayson, the Government actuary, who at that time held an official situation in the Admiralty, states:--"In my own experience I have known, on separate occasions, _more than six sailors_ who voluntarily confessed to having struck the first blow at Capt. Pigot. These men detailed all the horrid circumstances of the mutiny with extreme minuteness and perfect accuracy; nevertheless, not one of them had ever been in the ship, nor had so much as seen Capt. Pigot in their lives. They had obtained by tradition, from their messmates, the particulars of the story. When long on a foreign station, hungering and thirsting for home, their minds became enfeebled; at length they actually believed themselves guilty of the crime over which they had so long brooded, and submitted with a gloomy pleasure to being sent to England in irons, for judgment. At the Admiralty we were always able to detect and establish their innocence, in defiance of their own solemn asseverations."--(_London Judicial Gazette_, January, 1803.) CHAPTER X. MYTHOLOGICAL ORIGIN OF THE WERE-WOLF MYTH. Transformation into beasts forms an integral portion of all mythological systems. The gods of Greece were wont to change themselves into animals in order to carry out their designs with greater speed, security, and secrecy, than in human forms. In Scandinavian mythology, Odin changed himself into the shape of an eagle, Loki into that of a salmon. Eastern religions abound in stories of transformation. The line of demarcation between this and the translation of a beast's soul into man, or a man's soul into a beast's (metempsychosis) is very narrow. The doctrine of metempsychosis is founded on the consciousness of gradation between beasts and men. The belief in a soul-endowed animal world was present among the ancients, and the laws of intelligence and instinct were misconstrued, or were regarded as a puzzle, which no man might solve. The human soul with its consciousness seemed to be something already perfected in a pre-existing state, and, in the myth of metempsychosis, we trace the yearnings and gropings of the soul after the source whence its own consciousness was derived, counting its dreams and hallucinations as gleams of memory, recording acts which had taken place in a former state of existence. Modern philosophy has resumed the same thread of conjecture, and thinks to see in man the perfected development of lower organisms. After death the translation of the soul was supposed to continue. It became either absorbed into the _nous_, into Brahma, into the deity, or it sank in the scale of creation, and was degraded to animate a brute. Thus the doctrine of metempsychosis was emphatically one of rewards and punishments, for the condition of the soul after death depended on its training during life. A savage and bloodthirsty man was exiled, as in the case of Lycaon, into the body of a wild beast: the soul of a timorous man entered a hare, and drunkards or gluttons became swine. The intelligence which was manifest in the beasts bore such a close resemblance to that of man, in the childhood and youth of the world, that it is not to be wondered at, if our forefathers failed to detect the line of demarcation drawn between instinct and reason. And failing to distinguish this, they naturally fell into the belief in metempsychosis. It was not merely a fancied external resemblance between the beast and man, but it was the perception of skill, pursuits, desires, sufferings, and griefs like his own, in the animal creation, which led man to detect within the beast something analogous to the soul within himself; and this, notwithstanding the points of contrast existing between them, elicited in his mind so strong a sympathy that, without a great stretch of imagination, he invested the beast with his own attributes, and with the full powers of his own understanding. He regarded it as actuated by the same motives, as subject to the same laws of honour, as moved by the same prejudices, and the higher the beast was in the scale, the more he regarded it as an equal. A singular illustration of this will be found in the Finnboga Saga, c. xi. "Now we must relate about Finnbog. Afterward in the evening, when men slept, he rose, took his weapons, and went forth, following the tracks which led to the dairy farm. As was his wont, he stepped out briskly along the spoor till he came to the dairy. There he found the bear lying down, and he had slain the sheep, and he was lying on them lapping their blood. Then said Finnbog: 'Stand up, Brain! make ready against me; that becomes you more than crouching over those sheep's carcases.' "The bear sat up, looked at him, and lay down again. Finnbog said, 'If you think that I am too fully armed to match with you, I will do this,' and he took of his helmet and laid aside his shield. Then he said, Stand up now, if you dare! ' "The bear sat up, shook his head, and then cast himself down again. "Finnbog exclaimed, 'I see, you want us both to be _boune_ alike!' so he flung aside his sword and said, 'Be it as you will; now stand up if you have the heart that I believe you have, rather than one such as was possessed by these rent sheep.' "Then Bruin stood up and prepared to fight." The following story taken from the mouth of an Osage Indian by J. A. Jones, and published in his _Traditions of the North American Indians_, shows how thoroughly the savage mind misses the line of demarcation between instinct and reason, and how the man of the woods looks upon beasts as standing on an equality with himself. An Osage warrior is in search of a wife: he admires the tidy and shrewd habits of the beaver. He accordingly goes to a beaver-hut to obtain one of that race for a bride. "In one corner of the room sat a beaver-woman combing the heads of some little beavers, whose ears she boxed very soundly when they would not lie still. The warrior, _i. e._ the beaver-chief, whispered the Osage that she was his second wife, and was very apt to be cross when there was work to be done, which prevented her from going to see her neighbours. Those whose heads she was combing were her children, he said, and she who had made them rub their noses against each other and be friends, was his eldest daughter. Then calling aloud, 'Wife,' said he, 'what have you to eat? The stranger is undoubtedly hungry; see, he is pale, his eye has no fire, and his step is like that of a moose.' "Without replying to him, for it was a sulky day with her, she called aloud, and a dirty-looking beaver entered. 'Go,' said she, 'and fetch the stranger something to eat.' With that the beaver girl passed through a small door into another room, from which she soon returned, bringing some large pieces of willow-bark, which she laid at the feet of the warrior and his guest. While the warrior-beaver was chewing the willow, and the Osage was pretending to do so, they fell to talking over many matters, particularly the wars of the beavers with the otters, and their frequent victories over them. He told our father by what means the beavers felled large trees, and moved them to the places where they wished to make dams; how they raised to an erect position the poles for their lodges, and how they plastered them so as to keep out rain. Then he spoke of their employments when they had buried the hatchet; of the peace and happiness and tranquillity they enjoyed when gathered into companies, they rested from their labours, and passed their time in talking and feasting, and bathing, and playing the game of bones, and making love. All the while the young beaver-maiden sat with her eyes fixed upon the Osage, at every pause moving a little nearer, till at length she was at his side with her forepaw upon his arm; a minute more and she had placed it around his neck, and was rubbing her soft furry cheek against his. Our ancestor, on his part, betrayed no disinclination to receive her caresses, but returned them with equal ardour. The old beaver seeing what was going on, turned his back upon them, and suffered them to be as kind to each other as they pleased. At last, turning quickly round, while the maiden, suspecting what was coming, and pretending to be abashed, ran behind her mother, he said, 'To end this foolery, what say you to marrying my daughter? She is well brought up, and is the most industrious girl in the village. She will flap more wall with her tail in a day than any maiden in the nation; she will gnaw down a larger tree betwixt the rising of the sun and the coming of the shadows than many a smart beaver of the other sex. As for her wit, try her at the game of the dish, and see who gets up master; and for cleanliness, look at her petticoat?' Our father answered that he did not doubt that she was industrious and cleanly, able to gnaw down a very large tree, and to use her tail to very good purpose; that he loved her much, and wished to make her the mother of his children. And thereupon the bargain was concluded." These two stories, the one taken from Icelandic saga, the other from American Indian tradition, shew clearly the oneness which the uncultivated mind believes to exist between the soul of man and the soul of beast. The same sentiments actuate both man and brute, and if their actions are unlike, it is because of the difference in their formation. The soul within is identical, but the external accidents of body are unlike. Among many rude as well as cultivated people, the body is regarded as a mere garment wrapped around the soul. The Buddist looks upon identity as existing in the soul alone, and the body as no more constituting identity, than the clothes he puts on or takes off. He exists as a spirit; for convenience he vests himself in a body; sometimes that body is human, sometimes it is bestial. As his soul rises in the spiritual scale, the nobler is the animal form which it tenants. Budda himself passed through various stages of existence; in one he was a hare, and his soul being noble, led him to immolate himself, in order that he might offer hospitality to Indra, who, in the form of an old man, craved of him food and shelter. The Buddist regards animals with reverence; an ancestor may be tenanting the body of the ox he is driving, or a descendant may be running at his side barking, and wagging his tail. When he falls into an ecstasy, his soul is leaving his body for a little while, it is laying aside its raiment of flesh and blood and bone, to return to it once more when the trance is over. But this idea is not confined to Buddists, it is common everywhere. The spirit or soul is supposed to be imprisoned in the body, the body is but the lantern through which the spirit shines, "the corruptible body" is believed to "press down the soul," and the soul is unable to attain to perfect happiness till it has shuffled off this earthy coil. Butler regards the members of the body as so many instruments used by the soul for the purpose of seeing, hearing, feeling, &c., just as we use telescopes or crutches, and which may be rejected without injury to our individuality. The late Mr. J. Holloway, of the Bank of England, brother to the engraver of that name, related of himself that, being one night in bed, and unable to sleep, he had fixed his eyes and thoughts with uncommon intensity on a beautiful star that was shining in at the window, when he suddenly found his spirit released from his body and soaring into space. But instantly seized with anxiety for the anguish of his wife, if she discovered his body apparently dead beside her, he returned, and re-entered it with difficulty. He described that returning as a returning from light into darkness, and that whilst the spirit was free, he was alternately in the light or the dark, accordingly as his thoughts were with his wife or with the star. Popular mythology in most lands regards the soul as oppressed by the body, and its liberation is considered a deliverance from the "burden" of the flesh. Whether the soul is at all able to act or express itself without a body, any more than a fire is able to make cloth without the apparatus of boiler and machinery, is a question which has not commended itself to the popular mind. But it may be remarked that the Christian religion alone is that which raises the body to a dignity equal to that of the soul, and gives it a hope of ennoblement and resurrection never dreamed of in any mythological system. But the popular creed, in spite of the most emphatic testimony of Scripture, is that the soul is in bondage so long as it is united to a body, a creed entirely in accordance with that of Buddism. If the body be but the cage, as a poet [1] of our own has been pleased to call it, in which dwells the imprisoned soul, it is quite possible for the soul to change its cage. If the body be but a vesture clothing the soul, as the Buddist asserts, it is not improbable that it may occasionally change its vesture. [1. VAUGHN, _Sitex Scintillans_.] This is self-evident, and thus have arisen the countless tales of transformation and transmigration which are found all over the world. That the same view of the body as a mere clothing of the soul was taken by our Teutonic and Scandinavian ancestors, is evident even from the etymology of the words _leichnam_, _lîkhama_, used to express the soulless body. I have already spoken of the Norse word _hamr_, I wish now to make some further remarks upon it. _Hamr_ is represented in Anglo-Saxon by _hama_, _homa_, in Saxon by _hamo_, in old High German by _hamo_, in old French by _homa_, _hama_, to which are related the Gothic _gahamon_, _ufar-hamon_, _ana-hamon_, {Greek _e?ndúesðai_}, {Greek _e?pendúesðai_}; _and-hamon_, _af-hamon_, {Greek _a?pekdúein_} {Greek _e?kdúesðai?_} thence also the old High German _hemidi_, and the modern _Hemde_, garment. In composition we find this word, as _lîk-hagnr_, in old Norse; in old High German _lîk-hamo_, Anglo-Saxon _lîk-hama_, and _flæsc-hama_, Old Saxon, _lîk-hamo_, modern German _Leich-nam_, a body, _i. e._ a garment of flesh, precisely as the bodies of birds are called in old Norse _fjaðr-hamr_, in Anglo-Saxon _feðerhoma_, in Old Saxon _fetherhamo_, or feather-dresses and the bodies of wolves are called in old Norse _ûlfshamr_, and seals' bodies in Faroëse _kôpahamr_. The significance of the old verb _að hamaz_ is now evident; it is to migrate from one body to another, and _hama-skipti_ is a transmigration of the soul. The method of this transmigration consisted in simply investing the body with the skin of the animal into which the soul was to migrate. When Loki, the Northern god of evil, went in quest of the stolen Idunn, he borrowed of Freyja her falcon dress, and at once became, to all intents and purposes, a falcon. Thiassi pursued him as he left Thrymheimr, having first taken upon him an eagle's dress, and thereby become an eagle. In order to seek Thor's lost hammer, Loki borrowed again of Freyja her feather dress, and as be flew away in it, the feathers sounded as they winnowed the breeze (_fjaðrhamr dunði_). In like manner Cædmon speaks of an evil spirit flying away in feather-dress: "þät he mid feðerhomon fleôgan meahte, windan on wolkne" (Gen. ed. Gr. 417), and of an angel, "þuo þar suogan quam engil þes alowaldon obhana fun radure faran an feðerhamon" (Hêlj. 171, 23), the very expression made use of when speaking of a bird: "farad an feðarhamun" (Hêlj. 50,11). The soul, in certain cases, is able to free itself from the body and to enter that of beast or man--in this form stood the myth in various theological systems. Among the Finns and Lapps it is not uncommon for a magician to fall into a cataleptic condition, and during the period his soul is believed to travel very frequently in bodily form, having assumed that of any animal most suitable for its purpose. I have given instances in a former chapter. The same doctrine is evident in most cases of lycanthropy. The patient is in a state of trance, his body is watched, and it remains motionless, but his soul has migrated into the carcase of a wolf, which it vivifies, and in which it runs its course. A curious Basque story shows that among this strange Turanian people, cut off by such a flood of Aryan nations from any other members of its family, the same superstition remains. A huntsman was once engaged in the chase of it bear among the Pyreneean peaks, when Bruin turned suddenly on him and hugged him to death, but not before he had dealt the brute its mortal wound. As the huntsman expired, he breathed his soul into the body of the bear, and thenceforward ranged the mountains as a beast. One of the tales of the Sanskrit book of fables, the _Pantschatantra_, affords such a remarkable testimony to the Indian belief in metempsychosis, that I am tempted to give it in abstract. A king was one day passing through the marketplace of his city, when he observed a hunchbacked merryandrew, whose contortions and jokes kept the bystanders in a roar of laughter. Amused with the fellow, the king brought him to his palace. Shortly after, in the hearing of the clown, a necromancer taught the monarch the art of sending his soul into a body not his own. Some little while after this, the monarch, anxious to put in practice his newly acquired knowledge, rode into the forest accompanied by his fool, who, he believed, had not heard, or, at all events comprehended, the lesson. They came upon the corpse of a Brahmin lying in the depth of the jungle, where he had died of thirst. The king, leaving his horse, performed the requisite ceremony, and instantly his soul had migrated into the body of the, Brahmin, and his own lay as dead upon the ground. At the same moment, however, the hunchback deserted his body, and possessed himself of that which had been the king's, and shouting farewell to the dismayed monarch, he rode back to the palace, where he was received with royal honours. But it was not long before the queen and one of the ministers discovered that a screw was somewhere loose, and when the quondam king, but now Brahmin, arrived and told his tale, a plot was laid for the recovery of his body. The queen asked her false husband whether it were possible to make her parrot talk, and he in a moment of uxorious weakness promised to make it speak. He laid his body aside, and sent his soul into the parrot. Immediately the true king jumped out of his Brahmin body and resumed that which was legitimately his own, and then proceeded, with the queen, to wring the neck of the parrot. But besides the doctrine of metempsychosis, which proved such a fertile mother of fable, there was another article of popular mythology which gave rise to stories of transformation. Among the abundant superstitions existing relative to transformation, three shapes seem to have been pre-eminently affected--that of the swan, that of the wolf, and that of the serpent. In many of the stories of those transformed, it is evident that the individual who changes shape is regarded with superstitious reverence, as a being of a higher order--of a divine nature. In Christian countries, everything relating to heathen mythology was regarded with a suspicious eye by the clergy, and any miraculous powers not sanctioned by the church were attributed to the evil one. The heathen gods became devils, and the marvels related of them were supposed to be effected by diabolic agency. A case of transformation which had shown the power of an ancient god, was in Christian times considered as an instance of witchcraft. Thus stories of transformation fell into bad odour, and those who changed shapes were no longer regarded as heavenly beings, commanding reverence, but as miserable witches deserving the stake. In the infancy of the world, when natural phenomena were ill-understood, expressions which to us are poetical were of a real significance. When we speak of thunder rolling, we use an expression which conveys no further idea than a certain likeness observed between the detonations and the roll of a vehicle; but to the uninstructed mind it was more. The primæval savage knew not what caused thunder, and tracing the resemblance between it and the sound of wheels, he at once concluded that the chariot of the gods was going abroad, or that the celestial spirits were enjoying a game of bowls. We speak of fleecy clouds, because they appear to us soft and light as wool, but the first men tracing the same resemblance, believed the light vapours to be flocks of heavenly sheep. Or we say that the clouds are flying: the savage used the same expression, as he looked up at the mackerel sky, and saw in it flights of swans coursing over the heavenly lake. Once more, we creep nearer to the winter fire, shivering at the wind, which we remark is howling around the house, and yet we do not suppose that the wind has a voice. The wild primæval men thought that it had, and because dogs and wolves howl, and the wind howled, and because they had seen dogs and wolves, they concluded that the storm-wind was a night-hound, or a monstrous wolf, racing over the country in the darkness of the winter night, ravening for prey. Along with the rise of this system of explaining the operations of nature by analogies in the bestial world, another conclusion forced itself on the untaught mind. The flocks which strayed in heaven were no earthly sheep, but were the property of spiritual beings, and were themselves perhaps spiritual; the swans which flew aloft, far above the topmost peak of the Himalaya, were no ordinary swans, but were divine and heavenly. The wolf which howled so wildly in the long winter night, the hounds, whose bay sounded so. dismally through the shaking black forest, were no mundane wolves and hounds, but issued from the home of a divine hunter, and were themselves wondrous, supernatural beings of godlike race. And so, the clouds having become swans, the swan-clouds were next believed to be divine beings, valkyries, apsaras, and the like, seen by mortals in their feather-dresses, but appearing among the gods as damsels. The storm-wind having been supposed to be a wolf, next was taken to be a tempestuous god, who delighted to hunt on earth in lupine form. I have mentioned also the serpent shape, as being one very favourite in mythology. The ancient people saw the forked and writhing lightning, and supposed it to be a heavenly fiery serpent, a serpent which had godlike powers, which was in fact a divine being, manifesting himself to mortals under that form. Among the North American Indians, the lightning is still regarded as the great serpent, and the thunder is supposed to be his hissing. "Ah!" exclaimed a Magdeburg peasant to a German professor, during a thunder-storm, as a vivid forked gleam shot to earth, "what a glorious snake was that!" And this resemblance did not escape the Greeks. {Greek _é!likes d? e?klámpousi steroph~s ksápuroi_}. _Æsch. Prom._ 1064. {Greek _drákonta pursónwton, ó!s á?platon a?mfeliktòs é!lik? e?froúrei, ktanw'n_}. _Eurip. Herc. F._ 395. And according to Aristotle, {Greek _e!likíai_} are the lightnings, {Greek _grammoeidw~s ferómenoi_}. It is so difficult for us to unlearn all we know of the nature of meteorological phenomena, so hard for us to look upon atmospheric changes as though we knew nothing of the laws that govern them, that we are disposed to treat such explanations of popular myths as I have given above, as fantastic and improbable. But among the ancients all solutions of natural problems were tentative, and it is only after the failure of every attempt made to explain these phenomena on supernatural grounds that we have been driven to the discovery of the true interpretation. Yet among the vulgar a vast amount of mythology remains, and is used still to explain atmospheric mysteries. The other day a Yorkshire girl, when asked why she was not afraid of thunder, replied because it was only her Father's voice; what knew she of the rushing together of air to fill the vacuum caused by the transit of the electric fluid? to her the thunder-clap was the utterance of the Almighty. Still in North Germany does the peasant say of thunder, that the angels are playing skittles aloft, and of the snow, that they are shaking up the feather-beds in heaven. The myth of the dragon is one which admits, perhaps more than any other, of identification with a meteorological phenomenon, and presents to us as well the phase of transition from theriomorphosis to anthropomorphosis. The dragon of popular mythology is nothing else than the thunderstorm, rising at the horizon, rushing with expanded, winnowing, black pennons across the sky, darting out its forked fiery tongue, and belching fire. In a Slovakian legend, the dragon sleeps in a mountain cave through the winter months, but, at the equinox, bursts forth--"In a moment the heaven was darkened and became black as pitch, only illumined by the fire which flashed from dragon's jaws and eyes. The earth shuddered, the stones rattled down the mountain sides into the glens. Right and left, left and right, did the dragon lash his tail, overthrowing pines and beeches, snapping them as rods. He evacuated such floods of water that the mountain torrents were full. But after a while his power was exhausted, he lashed no more with his tail, ejected no more water, and spat no more fire." I think it is impossible not to see in this description, a spring-tide thunderstorm. But to make it more evident that the untaught mind did regard such a storm as a dragon, I think the following quotation from _John of Brompton's Chronicle_ will convince the most sceptical: "Another remarkable thing is this, that took place during a certain month in the Gulf of Satalia (on the coast of Pamphylia). There appeared a great and black dragon which came in clouds, and let down his head into the water, whilst his tail seemed turned to the sky; and the dragon drew the water to him by drinking, with such avidity, that, if any ship, even though laden with men or any other heavy articles, had been near him when drinking, it would nevertheless have been sucked up and carried on high. In order however to avoid this danger, it is necessary, when people see it, at once to make a great uproar, and to shout and hammer tables, so that the dragon, hearing the noise, and the voices of those shouting, may withdraw himself far off. Some people, however, assert that this is not a dragon, but the sun drawing up the waters of the sea; which seems more probable." [1] Such is John of Brompton's account of a waterspout. In Greek mythology the dragon of the storm has begun to undergo anthropomorphosis. Typhus is the son of Tartarus and Terra; the storm rising from the horizon may well be supposed to issue from the earth's womb, and its characteristics are sufficient to decide its paternity. Typhus, the whirlwind or typhoon, has a hundred dragon or serpent heads, the long writhing strive of vapour which run before the hurricane cloud. He belches fire, that is, lightnings issue from the clouds, and his roaring is like the howling of wild dogs. Typhus ascends to heaven to make war on the gods, who fly from him in various fantastic shapes; who cannot see in this ascent the hurricane climbing up the vault of sky, and in the flying gods, the many fleeting fragments of white cloud which are seen drifting across the heavens before the gale! [1. Apud TWYSDEN, Hist. Anglicæ Script. x. 1652. p. 1216.] Typhus, according to Hesiod, is the father of all bad winds, which destroy with rain and tempest, all in fact which went among the Greeks by the name of {Greek _laílaps_}, bringing injury to the agriculturist and peril to the voyager. {Greek _?Ek dè Tufwéos é?st? a?némwn ménos u!gròn á?eptwn, nósfi Nótou Boréw te, kaì a?rgéstew Zefúrou te. oí! ge mèn e?n ðeófin geneh`, ðnhtoïs még? ó?neiar. ai! d? á?llai mapsau~rai e?pipneíousi ðalassan. ai! d? h?'toi píptousai e?s heroeideá pónton, ph~ma méga ðnhtoi~si, kakh~j ðúousin a?éllhj. á?llote d? á?llai a?eísi, diaskidna~si te nh~as, naútas te fðeírousi. kakou~ d? ou? gígnetai a?lkh` a?ndrásin, oí! keínhjsi sinántwntai katà pónton. ai! d? aû? kaì katà gai~an a?peíriton, a?nðemóessan é?rg? e?ratà fðeírousi xamaigenéwn a?nðrw'pwn, pimpleu~sai kóniós te kaì a?rgaléou kolosurtou~ _ } _Hesiod. Theog._ 870, _seq._ In both modern Greek and Lithuanian household mythology the dragon or drake has become an ogre, a gigantic man with few of the dracontine attributes remaining. Von Hahn, in his _Griechische und Albanesische Märchen_, tells many tales of drakes, and in all, the old characteristics have been lost, and the drake is simply a gigantic man with magical and superhuman powers. It is the same among the Lithuanian peasantry. A dragon walks on two legs, talks, flirts with a lady, and marries her. He retains his evil disposition, but has sloughed off his scales and wings. Such is the change which has taken place in the popular conception of the dragon, which is an impersonification of the thunderstorm. A similar change has taken place in the swan-maiden and were-wolf myths. In ancient Indian Vedaic mythology the apsaras were heavenly damsels who dwelt in the tether, between earth and sun. Their name, which signifies "the shapeless," or "those who go in the water "--it is uncertain which. is the correct derivation--is expressive of the white cirrus, constantly changing form, and apparently floating swan-like on the blue heaven-sea. These apsaras, according to the Vedaic creed, were fond of changing their shapes, appearing generally as ducks or swans, occasionally as human beings. The souls of heroes were given to them for lovers and husbands. One of the most graceful of the early Indian myths is the story of the apsaras, Urvaçî. Urvaçî loved Puravaras and became his 'wife, on the condition that she was n-ever to behold him in a state of nudity. They remained together for years, till the heavenly companions of Urvaçî determined to secure her return to them. They accordingly beguiled Puravaras into leaving his bed in the darkness of night, and then with a lightning flash they disclosed him, in his nudity, to his wife, who was thereupon constrained to leave him. He pursued her, full of sorrow at his loss, and found her at length swimming in a large lotus pond, in swan's shape. That this story is not a mere invention, but rests on some mythological explanation of natural phenomena, I think more than probable, as it is found all over the world with few variations. As every Aryan branch retains the story, or traces of it, there can be no doubt that the belief in swan-maidens, who swam in the heavenly sea, and who sometimes became the wives of those fortunate men who managed to steal from them their feather dresses, formed an integral portion of the old mythological system of the Aryan family, before it was broken up into Indian, Persian, Greek, Latin, Russian, Scandinavian, Teutonic, and other races. But more, as the same myth is found. in tribes not Aryan, and far removed from contact with European or Indian superstition,--as, for instance, among Samoyeds and American Indians,--it is even possible that this story may be a tradition of the first primæval stock of men. But it is time for me to leave the summer cirrus and turn to the tempest-born rain-cloud. It is represented in ancient Indian mythology by the Vritra or Râkshasas. At first the form of these dæmons was uncertain and obscure. Vritra is often used as an appellative for a cloud, and kabhanda, an old name for a rain-cloud, in later times became the name of a devil. Of Vritra, who envelopes the mountains with vapour, it is said, "The darkness stood retaining the water, the mountains lay in the belly of Vritra." By degrees Vritra stood out more prominently as a dæmon, and he is described as a "devourer" of gigantic proportions. In the same way Râkshasas obtained corporeal form and individuality. He is a misshapen giant "like to a cloud," with a red beard and red hair, with pointed protruding teeth, ready to lacerate and devour human flesh. His body is covered with coarse bristling hair, his huge mouth is open, he looks from side to side as he walks, lusting after the flesh and blood of men, to satisfy his raging hunger, and quench his consuming thirst. Towards nightfall his strength increases manifold. He can change his shape at will. He haunts the woods, and roams howling through the jungle; in short, he is to the Hindoo what the were-wolf is to the European. A certain wood was haunted by a Râkschasa; he one day came across a Brahmin, and with a bound reached his shoulders, and clung to them, exclaiming, "Heh! go on with you!" And the Brahmin, quaking with fear, advanced with him. But when he observed that the feet of the Râkschasa were as delicate as the stamens of the lotus, he asked him, How is it that you have such weak and slender feet? The Râkschasa replied, "I never walk nor touch the earth with my feet. I have made a vow not to do so." Presently they came to a large pond. Then the Râkschasa bade the Brahmin wait at the edge whilst he bathed and prayed to the gods. But the Brahmin thought: "As soon as these prayers and ablutions are over, he will tear me to pieces with his fangs and eat me. He has vowed not to walk; I will be off post haste!" so he ran away, and the Râkschasa dared not follow him for fear of breaking his VOW. (_Pantschatantra_, v. 13.) There is a similar story in the Mahâbhârata, xiii., and in the Kathâ Sarit Sâgara, v. 49-53. I have said sufficient to show that natural phenomena gave rise to mythological stories, and that these stories have gradually deteriorated, and have been degraded into vulgar superstitions. And I have shown that both the doctrine of metempsychosis and the mythological explanations of meteorological changes have given rise to abundant fable, and among others to the popular and wide-spread superstition of lycanthropy. I shall now pass from myth to history, and shall give instances of bloodthirstiness, cruelty, and cannibalism. CHAPTER XI. THE MARÉCHAL DE RETZ.-I. THE INVESTIGATION OF CHARGES. The history of the man whose name heads this chapter I purpose giving in detail, as the circumstances I shall narrate have, I believe, never before been given with accuracy to the English public. The name of Gilles de Laval may be well known, as sketches of his bloody career have appeared in many biographies, but these sketches have been very incomplete, as the material from which they were composed was meagre. M. Michelet alone ventured to give the public an idea of the crimes which brought a marshal of France to the gallows, and his revelations were such that, in the words of M. Henri Martin, "this iron age, which seemed unable to feel surprise at any amount of evil, was struck with dismay." M. Michelet derived his information from the abstract of the papers relating, to the case, made by order of Ann of Brittany, in the Imperial Library. The original documents were in the library at Nantes, and a great portion of them were destroyed in the Revolution of 1789. But a careful analysis had been made of them, and this valuable abridgment, which was inaccessible to M. Michelet, came into the hands of M. Lacroix, the eminent French antiquarian, who published a memoir of the marshal from the information he had thus obtained, and it is his work, by far the most complete and circumstantial which has appeared, that I condense into the following chapters. "The most monstrously depraved imagination," says M. Henri Martin, "never could have conceived what the trial reveals." M. Lacroix has been obliged to draw a veil over much that transpired, and I must draw it closer still. I have, however, said enough to show that this memorable trial presents horrors probably unsurpassed in the whole volume of the world's history. During the year 1440, a terrible rumour spread through Brittany, and especially through the ancient _pays de Retz_, which extends along the south of the Loire from Nantes to Paimbuf, to the effect that one of the most famous and powerful noblemen in Brittany, Gilles de Laval, Maréchal de Retz, was guilty of crimes of the most diabolical nature. Gilles de Laval, eldest son of Gay de Laval, second of his name, Sire de Retz, had raised the junior branch of the illustrious house of Laval above the elder branch, which was related to the reigning family of Brittany. He lost his father when he was aged twenty, and remained master of a vast territorial inheritance, which was increased by his marriage with Catharine de Thouars in 1420. He employed a portion of their fortune in the cause of Charles VII., and in strengthening the French crown. During seven consecutive years, from 1426 to 1433, he was engaged in military enterprises against the English; his name is always cited along with those of Dunois, Xaintrailles, Florent d'Illiers, Gaucourt, Richemont, and the most faithful servants of the king. His services were speedily acknowledged by the king creating him Marshal of France. In 1427, he assaulted the Castle of Lude, and carried it by storm; he killed with his own hand the commander of the place; next year he captured from the English the fortress of Rennefort, and the Castle of Malicorne; in 1429, he took an active part in the expedition of Joan of Arc for the deliverance of Orleans, and the occupation of Jargeau, and he was with her in the moat, when she was wounded by an arrow under the walls of Paris. The marshal, councillor, and chamberlain of the king participated in the direction of public affairs, and soon obtained the entire confidence of his master. He accompanied Charles to Rheims on the occasion of his coronation, and had the honour of bearing the oriflamme, brought for the occasion from the abbey of S. Remi. His intrepidity on the field of battle was as remarkable as his sagacity in council, and he proved himself to be both an excellent warrior and a shrewd politician. Suddenly, to the surprise of every one, he quitted the service of Charles VII., and sheathed for ever his sword, in the retirement of the country. The death of his maternal grandfather, Jean de Craon, in 1432, made him so enormously wealthy, that his revenues were estimated at 800,000 livres; nevertheless, in two years, by his excessive prodigality, he managed to lose a considerable portion of his inheritance. Mauléon, S. Etienne de Malemort, Loroux-Botereau, Pornic, and Chantolé, he sold to John V., Duke of Brittany, his kinsman, and other lands and seigneurial rights he ceded to the Bishop of Nantes, and to the chapter of the cathedral in that city. The rumour soon spread that these extensive cessions of territory were sops thrown to the duke and to the bishop, to restrain the one from confiscating his goods, and the other from pronouncing excommunication, for the crimes of which the people whisperingly accused him; but these rumours were probably without foundation, for eventually it was found hard to persuade the duke of the guilt of his kinsman, and the bishop was the most determined instigator of the trial. The marshal seldom visited the ducal court, but he often appeared in the city of Nantes, where he inhabited the Hôtel de la Suze, with a princely retinue. He had, always accompanying him, a guard of two hundred men at arms, and a numerous suit of pages, esquires, chaplains, singers, astrologers, &c., all of whom he paid handsomely. Whenever he left the town, or moved to one of his other seats, the cries of the poor, which had been restrained during the time of his presence, broke forth. Tears flowed, curses were uttered, a long-continued wail rose to heaven, the moment that the last of the marshal's party had left the neighbourhood. Mothers had lost their children, babes had been snatched from the cradle, infants had been spirited away almost from the maternal arms, and it was known by sad experience that the vanished little ones would never be seen again. But on no part of the country did the shadow of this great fear fall so deeply as on the villages in the neighbourhood of the Castle of Machecoul, a gloomy château, composed of huge towers, and surrounded by deep moats, a residence much frequented by Do Retz, notwithstanding its sombre and repulsive appearance. This fortress was always in a condition to resist a siege: the drawbridge was raised, the portcullis down, the gates closed, the men under arms, the culverins on the bastion always loaded. No one, except the servants, had penetrated into this mysterious asylum and had come forth alive. In the surrounding country strange tales of horror and devilry circulated in whispers, and yet it was observed that the chapel of the castle was gorgeously decked with tapestries of silk and cloth of gold, that the sacred vessels were encrusted with gems, and that the vestments of the priests were of the most sumptuous character. The excessive devotion of the marshal was also noticed; he was said to hear mass thrice daily, and to be passionately fond of ecclesiastical music. He was said to have asked permission of the pope, that a crucifer should precede him in processions. But when dusk settled down over the forest, and one by one the windows of the castle became illumined, peasants would point to one casement high up in an isolated tower, from which a clear light streamed through the gloom of night; they spoke of a fierce red glare which irradiated the chamber at times, and of sharp cries ringing out of it, through the hushed woods, to be answered only by the howl of the wolf as it rose from its lair to begin its nocturnal rambles. On certain days, at fixed hours, the drawbridge sank, and the servants of De Retz stood in the gateway distributing clothes, money, and food to the mendicants who crowded round them soliciting alms. It often happened that children were among the beggars: as often one of the servants would promise them some dainty if they would go to the kitchen for it. Those children who accepted the offer were never seen again. In 1440 the long-pent-up exasperation of the people broke all bounds, and with one voice they charged the marshal with the murder of their children, whom they said he had sacrificed to the devil. This charge came to the ears of the Duke of Brittany, but he pooh-poohed it, and would have taken no steps to investigate the truth, had not one of his nobles insisted on his doing so. At the same time Jean do Châteaugiron, bishop of Nantes, and the noble and sage Pierre de l'Hospital, grand-seneschal of Brittany, wrote to the duke, expressing very decidedly their views, that the charge demanded thorough investigation. John V., reluctant to move against a relation, a man who had served his country so well, and was in such a high position, at last yielded to their request, and authorized them to seize the persons of the Sire de Retz and his accomplices. A _serjent d'armes_, Jean Labbé, was charged with this difficult commission. He picked a band of resolute fellows, twenty in all, and in the middle of September they presented themselves at the gate of the castle, and summoned the Sire do Retz to surrender. As soon as Gilles heard that a troop in the livery of Brittany was at the gate, he inquired who was their leader? On receiving the answer "Labbé," he started, turned pale, crossed himself, and prepared to surrender, observing that it was impossible to resist fate. Years before, one of his astrologers had assured him that he would one day pass into the hands of an Abbé, and, till this moment, De Retz had supposed that the prophecy signified that he should eventually become a monk. Gilles de Sillé, Roger de Briqueville, and other of the accomplices of the marshal, took to flight, but Henriet and Pontou remained with him. The drawbridge was lowered and the marshal offered his sword to Jean Labbé. The gallant serjeant approached, knelt to the marshal, and unrolled before him a parchment sealed with the seal of Brittany. "Tell me the tenor of this parchment?" said Gilles de Retz with dignity. "Our good Sire of Brittany enjoins you, my lord, by these presents, to follow me to the good town of Nantes, there to clear yourself of certain criminal charges brought against you." "I will follow immediately, my friend, glad to obey the will of my lord of Brittany: but, that it may not be said that the Seigneur de Retz has received a message without largess, I order my treasurer, Henriet, to hand over to you and your followers twenty gold crowns." "Grand-merci, monseigneur! I pray God that he may give you good and long life." "Pray God only to have mercy upon me, and to pardon my sins." The marshal had his horses saddled, and left Machecoul with Pontou and Henriet, who had thrown in their lot with him. It was with lively emotion that the people in the villages traversed by the little troop, saw the redoubted Gilles de Laval ride through their streets, surrounded by soldiers in the livery of the Duke of Brittany, and unaccompanied by a single soldier of his own. The roads and streets were thronged, peasants left the fields, women their kitchens, labourers deserted their cattle at the plough, to throng the road to Nantes. The cavalcade proceeded in silence. The very crowd which had gathered to see it, was hushed. Presently a shrill woman's voice was raised:-- "My child! restore my child!" Then a wild, wrathful howl broke from the lips of the throng, rang along the Nantes road, and only died away, as the great gates of the Chateau de Bouffay closed on the prisoner. The whole population of Nantes was in commotion, and it was said that the investigation would be fictitious, that the duke would screen his kinsman, and that the object of general execration would escape with the surrender of some of his lands. And such would probably have been the event of the trial, had not the Bishop of Nantes and the grand-seneschal taken a very decided course in the matter. They gave the duke no peace till he had yielded to their demand for a thorough investigation and a public trial. John V. nominated Jean de Toucheronde to collect information, and to take down the charges brought against the marshal. At the same time he was given to understand that the matter was not to be pressed, and that the charges upon which the marshal was to be tried were to be softened down as much as possible. The commissioner, Jean de Toucheronde, opened the investigation on the 18th September, assisted only by his clerk, Jean Thomas. The witnesses were introduced either singly, or in groups, if they were relations. On entering, the witness knelt before the commissioner, kissed the crucifix, and swore with his hand on the Gospels that he would speak the truth, and nothing but the truth: after this he related all the facts referring to the charge, which came under his cognizance, without being interrupted or interrogated. The first to present herself was Perrine Loessard, living at la Roche-Bernard. She related, with tears in her eyes, that two years ago, in the month of September, the Sire de Retz had passed with all his retinue through la Roche-Bernard, on his way from Vannes, and had lodged with Jean Collin. She lived opposite the house in which the nobleman was staying. Her child, the finest in the village, a lad aged ten, had attracted the notice of Pontou, and perhaps of the marshal himself, who stood at a window, leaning on his squire's shoulder. Pontou spoke to the child, and asked him whether he would like to be a chorister; the boy replied that his ambition was to be a soldier. "Well, then," said the squire, "I will equip you." The lad then laid hold of Pontou's dagger, and expressed his desire to have such a weapon in his belt. Thereupon the mother had ran up and had made him leave hold of the dagger, saying that the boy was doing very well at school, and was getting on with his letters, for he was one day to be a monk. Pontou had dissuaded her from this project, and had proposed to take the child with him to Machecoul, and to educate him to be a soldier. Thereupon he had paid her clown a hundred sols to buy the lad a dress, and had obtained permission to carry him off. Next day her son had been mounted on a horse purchased for him from Jean Collin, and had left the village in the retinue of the Sire de Retz. The poor mother at parting had gone in tears to the marshal, and had entreated him to be kind to her child. From that time she had been able to obtain no information regarding her son. She had watched the Sire de Retz whenever he had passed through La Roche Bernard, but had never observed her child among his pages. She had questioned several of the marshal's people, but they had laughed at her; the only answer she had obtained was: "Be not afraid. He is either at Machecoul, or else at Tiffauges, or else at Pornic, or somewhere." Perrine's story was corroborated by Jean Collin, his wife, and his mother-in-law. Jean Lemegren and his wife, Alain Dulix, Perrot Duponest, Guillaume Guillon, Guillaume Portayer, Etienne de Monclades, and Jean Lefebure, all inhabitants of S. Etienne de Montluc, deposed that a little child, son of Guillaume Brice of the said parish, having lost his father at the age of nine, lived on alms, and went round the country begging. This child, named Jamet, had vanished suddenly at midsummer, and nothing was known of what had become of him; but strong suspicions were entertained of his having been carried off by an aged hag who had appeared shortly before in the neighbourhood, and who had vanished along with the child. On the 27th September, Jean de Toucheronde, assisted by Nicolas Chateau, notary of the court at Nantes, received the depositions of several inhabitants of Pont-de-Launay, near Bouvron: to wit, Guillaume Fourage and wife; Jeanne, wife of Jean Leflou; and Richarde, wife of Jean Gandeau. These depositions, though very vague, afforded sufficient cause for suspicion to rest on the marshal. Two years before, a child of twelve, son of Jean Bernard, and another child of the same age, son of Ménégué, had gone to Machecoul. The son of Ménégué had returned alone in the evening, relating that his companion had asked him to wait for him on the road whilst he begged at the gates of the Sire de Retz. The son of Ménégué said that he had waited three hours, but his companion had not returned. The wife of Guillaume Fourage deposed that she had seen the lad at this time with an old hag, who was leading him by the hand towards Machecoul. That same evening this hag passed over the bridge of Launay, and the wife of Fourage asked her what had become of little Bernard. The old woman neither stopped nor answered further than by saying he was well provided for. The boy had not been seen since. On the 28th September, the Duke of Brittany joined another commissioner, Jean Couppegorge, and a second notary, Michel Estallure, to Toucheronde and Chateau. The inhabitants of Machecoul, a little town over which the Sire de Retz exercised supreme power, appeared now to depose against their lord. André Barbier, shoemaker, declared that last Easter, a child, son of his neighbour Georges Lebarbier, had disappeared. He was last seen gathering plums behind the hotel Rondeau. This disappearance surprised none in Machecoul, and no one ventured to comment on it. André and his wife were in daily terror of losing their own child. They had been a pilgrimage to S. Jean d'Angely, and had been asked there whether it was the custom at Machecoul to eat children. On their return they had heard of two children having vanished--the son of Jean Gendron, and that of Alexandre Châtellier. André Barbier had made some inquiries about the circumstances of their disappearance, and had been advised to hold his tongue, and to shut his ears and eyes, unless he were prepared to be thrown into a dungeon by the lord of Machecoul. "But, bless me!" he had said, "am I to believe that a fairy spirits off and eats our little ones?" "Believe what you like," was the advice given to him; "but ask no questions." As this conversation had taken place, one of the marshal's men at arms had passed, when all those who had been speaking took to their heels. André, who had run with the rest, without knowing exactly why he fled, came upon a man near the church of the Holy Trinity, who was weeping bitterly, and crying out,--"O my God, wilt Thou not restore to me my little one?" This man had also been robbed of his child. Licette, wife of Guillaume Sergent, living at La Boneardière, in the parish of S. Croix de Machecoul, had lost her son two years before, and had not seen him since; she besought the commissioners, with tears in her eyes, to restore him to her. "I left him," said she, "at home whilst I went into the field with my husband to sow flax. He was a bonny little lad, and he was as good as he was bonny. He had to look after his tiny sister, who was a year and a half old. On my return home, the little girl was found, but she could not tell me what had become of him. Afterwards we found in the marsh a small red woollen cap which had belonged to my poor darling; but it was in vain that we dragged the marsh, nothing was found more, except good evidence that he had not been drowned. A hawker who sold needles and thread passed through Machecoul at the time, and told me that an old woman in grey, with a black hood on her head, had bought of him some children's toys, and had a few moments after passed him, leading a little boy by the hand." Georges Lebarbier, living near the gate of the châtelet de Machecoul, gave an account of the manner in which his son had evanesced. The boy was apprenticed to Jean Pelletier, tailor to Mme. de Retz and to the household of the castle. He seemed to be getting on in his profession, when last year, about S. Barnabas' day, he went to play at ball on the castle green. He never returned from the game. This youth and his master, Jean Pelletier, had been in the habit of eating and drinking at the castle, and bad always laughed at the ominous stories told by the people. Guillaume Hilaire and his wife confirmed the statements of Lebarbier. They also said that they knew of the loss of the sons of Jean Gendron, Jeanne Rouen, and Alexandre Châtellier. The son of Jean Gendron, aged twelve, lived with the said Hilaire and learned of him the trade of skinner. He had been working in the shop for seven or eight years, and was a steady, hardworking lad. One day Messieurs Gilles de Sillé and Roger de Briqueville entered the shop to purchase a pair of hunting gloves. They asked if little Gendron might take a message for them to the castle. Hilaire readily consented, and the boy received beforehand the payment for going--a gold angelus, and he started, promising to be back directly. But he had never returned. That evening Hiliare and his wife, observing Gilles de Sillé and Roger de Briqueville returning to the castle, ran to them and asked what had become of the apprentice. They replied that they had no notion of where he was, as they had been absent hunting, but that it was possible he might have been sent to Tiffauges, another castle of De Retz. Guillaume Hilaire, whose depositions were more grave and explicit than the others, positively asserted that Jean Dujardin, valet to Roger de Briqueville had told him he knew of a cask secreted in the castle, full of children's corpses. He said that he had often heard people say that children were enticed to the château and then murdered, but had treated it as an idle tale. He said, moreover, that the marshal was not accused of having any hand in the murders, but that his servants were supposed to be guilty. Jean Gendron himself deposed to the loss of his son, and he added that his was not the only child which had vanished mysteriously at Machecoul. He knew of thirty that had disappeared. Jean Chipholon, elder and junior, Jean Aubin, and Clement Doré, all inhabitants of the parish of Thomage, deposed that they had known a poor man of the same parish, named Mathelin Thomas, who had lost his son, aged twelve, and that he had died of grief in consequence. Jeanne Rouen, of Machecoul, who for nine years had been in a state of uncertainty whether her son were alive or dead, deposed that the child had been carried off whilst keeping sheep. She had thought that he had been devoured of wolves, but two women of Machecoul, now deceased, had seen Gilles de Sillé approach the little shepherd, speak to him, and point to the castle. Shortly after the lad had walked off in that direction. The husband of Jeanne Rouen went to the château to inquire after his son, but could obtain no information. When next Gilles de Sillé appeared in the town, the disconsolate mother entreated him to restore her child to her. Gilles replied that he knew nothing about him, as he had been to the king at Amboise. Jeanne, widow of Aymery Hedelin, living at Machecoul, had also lost, eight years before, a little child as he had pursued some butterflies into the wood. At the same time four other children had been carried off, those of Gendron, Rouen, and Macé Sorin. She said that the story circulated through the country was, that Gilles de Sillé stole children to make them over to the English, in order to obtain the ransom of his brother who was a captive. But she added that this report was traced to the servants of Sillé, and that it was propagated by them. One of the last children to disappear was that of Noël Aise, living in the parish of S. Croix. A man from Tiffauges had said to her (Jeanne Hedelin) that for one child stolen at Machecoul, there were seven carried away at Tiffauges. Macé Sorin confirmed the deposition of the widow Hedelin., and repeated the circumstances connected with the loss of the children of Châtellier, Rouen, Gendron, and Lebarbier. Perrine Rondeau had entered the castle with the company of Jean Labbé. She had entered a stable, and had found a heap of ashes and powder, which had a sickly and peculiar smell. At the bottom of a trough she had found a child's shirt covered with blood. Several inhabitants of the bourg of Fresnay, to wit, Perrot, Parqueteau, Jean Soreau, Catherine Degrépie, Gilles Garnier, Perrine Viellard, Marguerite Rediern, Marie Carfin, Jeanne Laudais, said that they had heard Guillaume Hamelin, last Easter, lamenting the loss of two children. Isabeau, wife of Guillaume Hamelin, confirmed these depositions, saving that she had lost them seven years before. She had at that time four children; the eldest aged fifteen, the youngest aged seven, went together to Machecoul to buy some bread, but they did not return. She sat up for them all night and next morning. She heard that another child had been lost, the son of Michaut Bonnel of S. Ciré de Retz. Guillemette, wife of Michaut Bonnel, said that her son had been carried off whilst guarding cows. Guillaume Rodigo and his wife, living at Bourg-neuf-en-Retz, deposed that on the eve of last S. Bartholomew's day, the Sire do Retz lodged with Guillaume Plumet in his village. Pontou, who accompanied the marshal, saw a lad of fifteen, named Bernard Lecanino, servant to Rodigo, standing at the door of his house. The lad could not speak much French, but only bas-Breton. Pontou beckoned to him and spoke to him in a low tone. That evening, at ten o'clock, Bernard left his master's house, Rodigo and his wife being absent. The servant maid, who saw him go out, called to him that the supper table was not yet cleared, but he paid no attention to what she said. Rodigo, annoyed at the loss of his servant, asked some of the marshal's men what had become of him. They replied mockingly that they knew nothing of the little Breton, but that he had probably been sent to Tiffauges to be trained as page to their lord. Marguerite Sorain, the chambermaid alluded to above, confirmed the statement of Rodigo, adding that Pontou had entered the house and spoken with Bernard. Guillaume Plumet and wife confirmed what Rodigo and Sorain had said. Thomas Aysée and wife deposed to the loss of their son, aged ten, who had gone to beg at the gate of the castle of Machecoul; and a little girl had seen him drawn by an offer of meat into the château. Jamette, wife of Eustache Drouet of S. Léger, had sent two sons, one aged ten, the other seven, to the castle to obtain alms. They had not been seen since. On the 2nd October the commissioners sat again, and the charges became graver, and the servants of the marshal became more and more implicated. The disappearance of thirteen other children was substantiated under circumstances throwing strong suspicion on the inmates of the castle. I will not give the details, for they much resemble those of the former depositions. Suffice it to say that before the commissioners closed the inquiry, a herald of the Duke of Brittany in tabard blew three calls on the trumpet, from the steps of the tower of Bouffay, summoning all who had additional charges to bring against the Sire de Retz, to present themselves without delay. As no fresh witnesses arrived, the case was considered to be made out, and the commissioners visited the duke, with the information they had collected, in their hands. The duke hesitated long as to the steps he should take. Should he judge and sentence a kinsman, the most powerful of his vassals, the bravest of his captains, a councillor of the king, a marshal of France? Whilst still unsettled in his mind as to the course he should pursue, he received a letter from Gilles de Retz, which produced quite a different effect from that which it had been intended to produce. "MONSIEUR MY COUSIN AND HONOURED SIRE,-- "IT is quite true that I am perhaps the most detestable of all sinners, having sinned horribly again and again, yet have I never failed in my religious duties. I have heard many masses, vespers, &c., have fasted in Lent and on vigils, have confessed my sins, deploring them heartily, and have received the blood of our Lord at least once in the year. Since I have been languishing in prison, awaiting your honoured justice, I have been overwhelmed with incomparable repentance for my crimes, which I am ready to acknowledge and to expiate as is suitable. "Wherefore I supplicate you, M. my cousin, to give me licence to retire into a monastery, and there to lead a good and exemplary life. I care not into what monastery I am sent, but I intend that all my goods, &c., should be distributed among the poor, who are the members of Jesus Christ on earth . . . . Awaiting your glorious clemency, on which I rely, I pray God our Lord to protect you and your kingdom. He who addresses you is in all earthly humility," "FRIAR GILLES, Carmelite in intention." The duke read this letter to Pierre de l'Hospital, president of Brittany, and to the Bishop of Nantes, who were those most resolute in pressing on the trial. They were horrified at the tone of this dreadful communication, and assured the duke that the case was so clear, and the steps taken had been so decided, that it was impossible for him to allow De Retz to escape trial by such an impious device as he suggested. In the meantime, the bishop and the grand-seneschal had set on foot an investigation at the castle of Machecoul, and had found numerous traces of human remains. But a complete examination could not be made, as the duke was anxious to screen his kinsman as much as possible, and refused to authorize one. The duke now summoned his principal officers and held a council with them. They unanimously sided with the bishop and de l'Hospital, and when John still hesitated, the Bishop of Nantes rose and said: "Monseigneur, this case is one for the church as much as for your court to take up. Consequently, if your President of Brittany does not bring the case into secular court, by the Judge of heaven and earth! I will cite the author of these execrable crimes to appear before our ecclesiastical tribunal." The resolution of the bishop compelled the duke to yield, and it was decided that the trial should take its course without let or hindrance. In the meantime, the unhappy wife of Gilles de Retz, who had been separated from him for some while, and who loathed his crimes, though she still felt for him as her husband, hurried to the duke with her daughter to entreat pardon for the wretched man. But the duke refused to hear her. Thereupon she went to Amboise to intercede with the king for him who bad once been his close friend and adviser. CHAPTER XII. THE MARÉCHAL DE RETZ.--II. THE TRIAL. On the 10th October, Nicolas Chateau, notary of the duke, went to the Château of Bouffay, to read to the prisoner the summons to appear in person on the morrow before Messire de l'Hospital, President of Brittany, Seneschal of Rennes, and Chief Justice of the Duchy of Brittany. The Sire de Retz, who believed himself already a novice in the Carmelite order, had dressed in white, and was engaged in singing litanies. When the summons had been read, he ordered a page to give the notary wine and cake, and then he returned to his prayers with every appearance of compunction and piety. On the morrow Jean Labbé and four soldiers conducted him to the hall of justice. He asked for Pontou and Henriet to accompany him, but this was not permitted. He was adorned with all his military insignia, as though to impose on his judges; he had around his neck massive chains of gold, and several collars of knightly orders. His costume, with the exception of his purpoint, was white, in token of his repentance. His purpoint was of pearl-grey silk, studded with gold stars, and girded around his waist by a scarlet belt, from which dangled a poignard in scarlet velvet sheath. His collar, cufs, and the edging of his purpoint were of white ermine, his little round cap or _chapel_ was white, surrounded with a belt of ermine--a fur which only the great feudal lords of Brittany had a right to wear. All the rest of his dress, to the shoes which were long and pointed, was white. No one at a first glance would have thought the Sire do Retz to be by nature so cruel and vicious as he was supposed to be. On the contrary, his physiognomy was calm and phlegmatic, somewhat pale, and expressive of melancholy. His hair and moustache were light brown, and his beard was clipped to a point. This beard, which resembled no other beard, was black, but under certain lights it assumed a blue hue, and it was this peculiarity which obtained for the Sire do Retz the surname of Blue-beard, a name which has attached to him in popular romance, at the same time that his story has undergone strange metamorphoses. But on closer examination of the countenance of Gilles de Retz, contraction in the muscles of the face, nervous quivering of the mouth, spasmodic twitchings of the brows, and above all, the sinister expression of the eyes, showed that there was something strange and frightful in the man. At intervals he ground his teeth like a wild beast preparing to dash upon his prey, and then his lips became so contracted, as they were drawn in and glued, as it were, to his teeth, that their very colour was indiscernible. At times also his eyes became fixed, and the pupils dilated to such an extent, with a sombre fire quivering in them, that the iris seemed to fill the whole orbit, which became circular, and sank back into the head. At these moments his complexion became livid and cadaverous; his brow, especially just over the nose, was covered with deep wrinkles, and his beard appeared to bristle, and to assume its bluish hues. But, after a few moments, his features became again serene, with a sweet smile reposing upon them, and his expression relaxed into a vague and tender melancholy. "Messires," said he, saluting his judges, "I pray you to expedite my matter, and despatch as speedily as possible my unfortunate case; for I am peculiarly anxious to consecrate myself to the service of God, who has pardoned my great sins. I shall not fail, I assure you, to endow several of the churches in Nantes, and I shall distribute the greater portion of my goods among the poor, to secure the salvation of my soul." "Monseigneur," replied gravely Pierre de l'Hospital: "It is always well to think of the salvation of one's soul; but, if you please, think now that we are concerned with the salvation of your body." "I have confessed to the father superior of the Carmelites," replied the marshal, with tranquillity; "and through his absolution I have been able to communicate: I am, therefore, guiltless and purified." "Men's justice is not in common with that of God, monseigneur, and I cannot tell you what will be your sentence. Be ready to make your defence, and listen to the charges brought against you, which M. le lieutenant du Procureur de Nantes will read." The officer rose, and read the following paper of charges, which I shall condense:-- "Having heard the bitter complaints of several of the inhabitants of the diocese of Nantes, whose names follow hereinafter (here follow the names of the parents of the lost children), we, Philippe do Livron, lieutenant assesseur of Messire le Procureur de Nantes, have invited, and do invite, the very noble and very wise Messire Pierre de l'Hospital, President of Brittany, &c., to bring to trial the very high and very powerful lord, Gilles de Laval, Sire de Retz, Machecoul, Ingrande and other places, Councillor of his Majesty the King, and Marshal of France: "Forasmuch as the said Sire de Retz has seized and caused to be seized several little children, not only ten or twenty, but thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, one hundred, two hundred, and more, and has murdered and slain them inhumanly, and then burned their bodies to convert them to ashes: "Forasmuch as persevering in evil, the said Sire, notwithstanding that the powers that be are ordained of God, and that every one should be an obedient subject to his prince, . . . has assaulted Jean Leferon, subject of the Duke of Brittany, the said Jean Leferon being guardian of the fortress of Malemort, in the name of Geoffrey Leferon, his brother, to whom the said lord had made over the possession of the said place: "Forasmuch as the said Sire forced Jean Leferon to give up to him the said place, and moreover retook the lordship of Malemort in despite of the order of the duke and of justice: "Forasmuch as the said Sire arrested Master Jean Rousseau, sergeant of the duke, who was sent to him with injunctions from the said duke, and beat his men with their own staves, although their persons were under the protection of his grace: "We conclude that the said Sire de Retz, homicide in fact and in intent according to the first count, rebel and felon according to the second, should be condemned to suffer corporal punishment, and to pay a fine of his possessions in lands and goods held in fief to the said nobleman, and that these should be confiscated and remitted to the crown of Brittany." This requisition was evidently drawn up with the view of saving the life of the Sire de Retz; for the crime of homicide was presented without aggravating circumstances, in such a manner that it could be denied or shelved, whilst the crimes of felony and rebellion against the Duke of Brittany were brought into exaggerated prominence. Gilles de Retz had undoubtedly been forewarned of the course which was to be pursued, and he was prepared to deny totally the charges made in the first count. "Monseigneur," said Pierre de l'Hospital, whom the form of the requisition had visibly astonished: "What justification have you to make? Take an oath on the Gospels to declare the truth." "No, messire!" answered the marshal. "The witnesses are bound to declare what they know upon oath, but the accused is never put on his oath." "Quite so," replied the judge. "Because the accused may be put on the rack and constrained to speak the truth, an' please you." Gilles de Retz turned pale, bit his lips, and cast a glance of malignant hate at Pierre de l'Hospital; then, composing his countenance, he spoke with an appearance of calm:-- "Messires, I shall not deny that I behaved wrongfully in the case of Jean Rousseau; but, in excuse, let me say that the said Rousseau was full of wine, and he behaved with such indecorum towards me in the presence of my servants, that it was quite intolerable. Nor will I deny my revenge on the brothers Leferon: Jean had declared that the said Grace of Brittany had confiscated my fortress of Malemort, which I had sold to him, and for which I have not yet received payment; and Geoffrey Leferon had announced far and wide that I was about to be expelled Brittany as a traitor and a rebel. To punish them I re-entered my fortress of Malemort.--As for the other charges, I shall say nothing about them, they are simply false and calumnious." "Indeed exclaimed Pierre de l'Hospital, whose blood boiled with indignation against the wretch who stood before him with such effrontery. "All these witnesses who complain of having lost their children, lied under oath!" "Undoubtedly, if they accuse me of having anything to do with their loss. What am I to know about them, am I their keeper?" "The answer of Cain!" exclaimed Pierre de l'Hospital, rising from his seat in the vehemence of his emotion. "However, as you solemnly deny these charges, we must question Henriet and Pontou." "Henriet, Pontou!" cried the marshal, trembling; "they accuse me of nothing, surely!" "Not as yet, they have not been questioned, but they are about to be brought into court, and I do not expect that they will lie in the face of justice." "I demand that my servants be not brought forward as witnesses against their master," said the marshal, his eyes dilating, his brow wrinkling, and his beard bristling blue upon his chin: "a master is above the gossiping tales and charges of his servants." "Do you think then, messire, that your servants will accuse you?" "I demand that I, a marshal of France, a baron of the duchy, should be sheltered from the slanders of small folk, whom I disown as my servants if they are untrue to their master." "Messire, I see we must put you on the rack, or nothing will be got from you." "Hola! I appeal to his grace the Duke of Brittany, and ask an adjournment, that I may take advice on the charges brought against me, which I have denied, and which I deny still." "Well, I shall adjourn the case till the 25th of this month, that you may be well prepared to meet the accusations." On his way back to prison, the marshal passed Henriet and Pontou as they were being conducted to the court. Henriet pretended not to see his master, but Pontou burst into tears on meeting him. The marshal held out his hand, and Pontou kissed it affectionately. "Remember what I have done for you, and be faithful servants," said Gilles de Retz. Henriet recoiled from him with a shudder, and the marshal passed on. "I shall speak," whispered Henriet; "for we have another master beside our poor master of Retz, and we shall soon be with the heavenly one." The president ordered the clerk to read again the requisition of the lieutenant, that the two presumed accomplices of Gilles de Retz might be informed of the charges brought against their master. Henriet burst into tears, trembled violently, and cried out that he would tell all. Pontou, alarmed, tried to hinder his companion, and said that Henriet was touched in his head, and that what he was about to say would be the ravings of insanity. Silence was imposed upon him. "I will speak out," continued Henriet and yet I dare not speak of the horrors which I know have taken place, before that image of my Lord Christ; "and he pointed tremblingly to a large crucifix above the seat of the judge. "Henriet." moaned Pontou, squeezing his hand, "you will destroy yourself as well as your master." Pierre de l'Hospital rose, and the figure of our Redeemer was solemnly veiled. Henriet, who had great difficulty in overcoming his agitation, than began his revelations. The following is the substance of them:-- On leaving the university of Angers, he had taken the situation of reader in the house of Gilles de Retz. The marshal took a liking to him, and made him his chamberlain and confidant. On the occasion of the Sire de la Suze, brother of the Sire de Retz, taking possession of the castle of Chantoncé, Charles de Soenne, who had arrived at Chantoncé, assured Henriet that he had found in the oubliettes of a tower a number of dead children, some headless, others frightfully mutilated. Henriet then thought that this was but a calumny invented by the Sire de la Suze. But when, some while after, the Sire de Retz retook the castle of Chantoncé and had ceded it to the Duke of Brittany, he one evening summoned Henriet, Pontou, and a certain Petit Robin to his room; the two latter were already deep in the secrets of their master. But before confiding anything to Henriet, De Retz made him take a solemn oath never to reveal what he was about to tell him. The oath taken, the Sire de Retz, addressing the three, said that on the morrow an officer of the duke would take possession of the castle in the name of the duke, and that it was necessary, before this took place, that a certain well should be emptied of children's corpses, and that their bodies should be put into boxes and transported to Machecoul. Henriet, Pontou, and Petit Robin went together, furnished with ropes and hooks, to the tower where were the corpses. They toiled all night in removing the half-decayed bodies, and with them they filled three large cases, which they sent by a boat down the Loire to Machecoul, where they were reduced to ashes. Henriet counted thirty-six children's heads, but there were more bodies than heads. This night's work, he said, bad produced a profound impression on his imagination, and he was constantly haunted with a vision of these heads rolling as in a game of skittles, and clashing with a mournful wail. Henriet soon began to collect children for his master, and was present whilst he massacred them. They were murdered invariably in one room at Machecoul. The marshal used to bathe in their blood; he was fond of making Gilles do Sillé, Pontou, or Henriet torture them, and he experienced intense pleasure in seeing them in their agonies. But his great passion was to welter in their blood. His servants would stab a child in the jugular vein, and let the blood squirt over him. The room was often steeped in blood. When the horrible deed was done, and the child was dead, the marshal would be filled with grief for what he had done, and would toss weeping and praying on a bed, or recite fervent prayers and litanies on his knees, whilst his servants washed the floor, and burned in the huge fireplace the bodies of the murdered children. With the bodies were burned the clothes and everything that had belonged to the little victims. An insupportable odour filled the room, but the Maréchal do Retz inhaled it with delight. Henriet acknowledged that he had seen forty children put to death in this manner, and he was able to give an account of several, so that it was possible to identify them with the children reported to be lost. "It is quite impossible," said the lieutenant, who had been given the cue to do all that was possible to save the marshal--"It is impossible that bodies could be burned in a chamber fireplace." "It was done, for all that, messire," replied Henriet. "The fireplace was very large, both at the hotel Suze, and also at Machecoul; we piled up great faggots and logs, and laid the dead children among them. In a few hours the operation was complete, and we flung the ashes out of the window into the moat." Henriet remembered the case of the two sons of Hamelin; he said that, whilst the one child was being tortured, the other was on its knees sobbing and praying to God, till its own turn came. "What you have said concerning the excesses of Messire de Retz," exclaimed the lieutenant du procureur, "seems to be pure invention, and destitute of all probability. The greatest monsters of iniquity never committed such crimes, except perhaps some Cæsars of old Rome." "Messire, it was the acts of these Cæsars that my Lord of Retz desired to imitate. I used to read to him the chronicles of Suetonius, and Tacitus, in which their cruelties are recorded. He used to delight in hearing of them, and he said that it gave him greater pleasure to hack off a child's head than to assist at a banquet. Sometimes he would seat himself on the breast of a little one, and with a knife sever the head from the body at a single blow; sometimes he cut the throat half through very gently, that the child might languish, and he would wash his hands and his beard in its blood. Sometimes he had all the limbs chopped off at once from the trunk; at other times he ordered us to hang the infants till they were nearly dead, and then take them down and cut their throats. I remember having brought to him three little girls who were asking charity at the castle gates. He bade me cut their throats whilst he looked on. André Bricket found another little girl crying on the steps of the house at Vannes because she had lost her mother. He brought the little thing--it was but a babe--in his arms to my lord, and it was killed before him. Pontou and I had to make away with the body. We threw it down a privy in one of the towers, but the corpse caught on a nail in the outer wall, so that it would be visible to all who passed. Pontou was let down by a rope, and he disengaged it with great difficulty." "How many children do you estimate that the Sire de Retz and his servants have killed?" "The reckoning is long. I, for my part, confess to having killed twelve with my own hand, by my master's orders, and I have brought him about sixty. I knew that things of the kind went on before I was admitted to the secret; for the castle of Machecoul had been occupied a short while by the Sire do la Sage. My lord recovered it speedily, for he knew that there were many children's corpses hidden in a hayloft. There were forty there quite dry and black as coal, because they had been charred. One of the women of Madame de Retz came by chance into the loft and saw the corpses. Roger de Briqueville wanted to kill her, but the maréchal would not let him." "Have you nothing more to declare? "Nothing. I ask Pontou, my friend, to corroborate what I have said." This deposition, so circumstantial and detailed, produced on the judges a profound impression of horror. Human imagination at this time had not penetrated such mysteries of refined cruelty. Several times, as Henriet spake, the president had shown his astonishment and indignation by signing himself with the cross. Several times his face had become scarlet, and his eyes had fallen; he had pressed his hand to his brow, to assure himself that he was not labouring under a hideous dream, and a quiver of horror had run through his whole frame. Pontou had taken no part in the revelation of Henriet; but when the latter appealed to him he raised his head, looked sadly round the court, and sighed. "Etienne Cornillant, alias Pontou, I command you in the name of God and of justice, to declare what you know." This injunction of Pierre do l'Hospital remained unresponded to, and Pontou seemed to strengthen himself in his resolution not to accuse his master. But Henriet, flinging himself into the arms of his accomplice, implored him, as he valued his soul, no longer to harden his heart to the calls of God; but to bring to light the crimes he had committed along with the Sire do Retz. The lieutenant du procureur, who hitherto had endeavoured to extenuate or discredit the charges brought against Gilles do Retz, tried a last expedient to counterbalance the damaging confessions of Henriet, and to withhold Pontou from giving way. "You have heard, monseigneur," said he to the president, "the atrocities which have been acknowledged by Henriet, and you, as I do, consider them to be pure inventions of the aforesaid, made out of bitter hatred and envy with the purpose of ruining his master. I therefore demand that Henriet should be put on the rack, that he may be brought to give the lie to his former statements." "You forget," replied de l'Hospital, "that the rack is for those who do _not_ confess, and not for those who freely acknowledge their crimes. Therefore I order the second accused, Etienne Cornillant, alias Pontou, to be placed on the rack if he continues silent. Pontou! will you speak or will you not?" "Monseigneur, he will speak!" exclaimed Henriet. Oh, Pontou, dear friend, resist not God any more." "Well then, messeigneurs," said Pontou, with emotion; "I will satisfy you; I cannot defend my poor lord against the allegations of Henriet, who has confessed all through dread of eternal damnation." He then fully substantiated all the statements of the other, adding other facts of the same character, known only to himself. Notwithstanding the avowal of Pontou and Henriet, the adjourned trial was not hurried on. It would have been easy to have captured some of the accomplices of the wretched man; but the duke, who was informed of the whole of the proceedings, did not wish to augment the scandal by increasing the number of the accused. He even forbade researches to be made in the castles and mansions of the Sire de Retz, fearing lest proofs of fresh crimes, more mysterious and more horrible than those already divulged, should come to light. The dismay spread through the country by the revelations already made, demanded that religion and morality, which had been so grossly outraged, should be speedily avenged. People wondered at the delay in pronouncing sentence, and it was loudly proclaimed in Nantes that the Sire de Retz was rich enough to purchase his life. It is true that Madame de Retz solicited the king and the duke again to give pardon to her husband; but the duke, counselled by the bishop, refused to extend his authority to interfere with the course of justice; and the king, after having sent one of his councillors to Nantes to investigate the case, determined not to stir in it. CHAPTER XIII. MARÉCHAL DE RETZ.--III. THE SENTENCE AND EXECUTION. On the 24th October the trial of the Maréchal de Retz was resumed. The prisoner entered in a Carmelite habit, knelt and prayed in silence before the examination began. Then he ran his eye over the court, and the sight of the rack, windlass, and cords made a slight shudder run through him. "Messire Gilles de Laval," began the president; "you appear before me now for the second time to answer to a certain requisition read by M. le Lieutenant du Procureur de Nantes." "I shall answer frankly, monseigneur," said the prisoner calmly; "but I reserve the right of appeal to the benign intervention of the very venerated majesty of the King of France, of whom I am, or have been, chamberlain and marshal, as may be proved by my letters patent duly enregistered in the parliament at Paris--" "This is no affair of the King of France," interrupted Pierre de l'Hospital; "if you were chamberlain and marshal of his Majesty, you are also vassal of his grace the Duke of Brittany." "I do not deny it; but, on the contrary, I trust to his Grace of Brittany to allow me to retire to a convent of Carmelites, there to repent me of my sins." "That is as may be; will you confess, or must I send you to the rack?" "Torture me not!" exclaimed Gilles de Retz "I will confess all. Tell me first, what have Henriet and Pontou said?" "They have confessed. M. le Lieutenant du Procureur shall read you their allegations." "Not so," said the lieutenant, who continued to show favour to the accused; "I pronounce them false, unless Messire de Retz confirms them by oath, which God forbid!" Pierre de l'Hospital made a motion of anger to check this scandalous pleading in favour of the accused, and then nodded to the clerk to read the evidence. The Sire do Retz, on hearing that his servants had made such explicit avowals of their acts, remained motionless, as though thunderstruck. He saw that it was in vain for him to equivocate, and that he would have to confess all. "What have you to say?" asked the president, when the confessions of Henriet and Pontou had been read. "Say what befits you, my lord," interrupted the lieutenant du procureur, as though to indicate to the accused the line he was to take: "are not these abominable lies and calumnies trumped up to ruin you?" "Alas, no!" replied the Sire do Retz; and his face was pale as death: "Henriet and Pontou have spoken the truth. God has loosened their tongues." "My lord! relieve yourself of the burden of your crimes by acknowledging them at once," said M. do l'Hospital earnestly. "Messires!" said the prisoner, after a moment's silence: "it is quite true that I have robbed mothers of their little ones; and that I have killed their children, or caused them to be killed, either by cutting their throats with daggers or knives, or by chopping off their heads with cleavers; or else I have had their skulls broken by hammers or sticks; sometimes I had their limbs hewn off one after another; at other times I have ripped them open, that I might examine their entrails and hearts; I have occasionally strangled them or put them to a slow death; and when the children were dead I had their bodies burned and reduced to ashes." "When did you begin your execrable practices?" asked Pierre de l'Hospital, staggered by the frankness of these horrible avowals: "the evil one must have possessed you." "It came to me from myself,--no doubt at the instigation of the devil: but still these acts of cruelty afforded me incomparable delight. The desire to commit these atrocities came upon me eight years ago. I left court to go to Chantoncé, that I might claim the property of my grandfather, deceased. In the library of the castle I found a Latin book--_Suetonius_, I believe--full of accounts of the cruelties of the Roman Emperors. I read the charming history of Tiberius, Caracalla, and other Cæsars, and the pleasure they took in watching the agonies of tortured children. Thereupon I resolved to imitate and surpass these same Cæsars, and that very night I began to do so. For some while I confided my secret to no one, but afterwards I communicated it to my cousin, Gilles de Sillé, then to Master Roger de Briqueville, next in succession to Henriet, Pontou, Rossignol, and Robin." He then confirmed all the accounts given by his two servants. He confessed to about one hundred and twenty murders in a single year. "An average of eight hundred in less than seven years!" exclaimed Pierre de l'Hospital, with a cry of pain: "Ah! messire, you were possessed! " His confession was too explicit and circumstantial for the Lieutenant du Procureur to say another word in his defence; but he pleaded that the case should be made over to the ecclesiastical court, as there were confessions of invocations of the devil and of witchcraft mixed up with those of murder. Pierre de l'Hospital saw that the object of the lieutenant was to gain time for Mme. de Retz to make a fresh attempt to obtain a pardon; however he was unable to resist, so he consented that the case should be transferred to the bishop's court. But the bishop was not a man to let the matter slip, and there and then a sergeant of the bishop summoned Gilles de Laval, Sire do Retz, to appear forthwith before the ecclesiastical tribunal. The marshal was staggered by this unexpected citation, and he did not think of appealing against it to the president; he merely signed his readiness to follow, and he was at once conducted into the ecclesiastical court assembled hurriedly to try him. This new trial lasted only a few hours. The marshal, now thoroughly cowed, made no attempt to defend himself, but he endeavoured to bribe the bishop into leniency, by promises of the surrender of all his lands and goods to the Church, and begged to be allowed to retire into the Carmelite monastery at Nantes. His request was peremptorily refused, and sentence of death was pronounced against him. On the 25th October, the ecclesiastical court having pronounced judgment, the sentence was transmitted to the secular court, which had now no pretext upon which to withhold ratification. There was some hesitation as to the kind of death the marshal was to suffer. The members of the secular tribunal were not unanimous on this point. The president put it to the vote, and collected the votes himself; then he reseated himself, covered his head, and said in a solemn voice:-- "The court, notwithstanding the quality, dignity, and nobility of the accused, condemns him to be hung and burned. Wherefore I admonish you who are condemned, to ask pardon of God, and grace to die well, in great contrition for having committed the said crimes. And the said sentence shall be carried into execution to-morrow morning between eleven and twelve o'clock." A similar sentence was pronounced upon Henriet and Pontou. On the morrow, October 26th, at nine o'clock in the morning, a general procession composed of half the people of Nantes, the clergy and the bishop bearing the blessed Sacrament, left the cathedral and went round the city visiting each of the principal churches, where masses were said for the three under sentence. At eleven the prisoners were conducted to the place of execution, which was in the meadow of Biesse, on the further side of the Loire. Three gibbets had been erected, one higher than the others, and beneath each was a pile of faggots, tar, and brushwood. It was a glorious, breezy day, not a cloud was to be seen in the blue heavens; the Loire rolled silently towards the sea its mighty volumes of turbid water, seeming bright and blue as it reflected the brilliancy and colour of the sky. The poplars shivered and whitened in the fresh air with a pleasant rustle, and the willows flickered and wavered above the stream. A vast crowd had assembled round the gallows; it was with difficulty that a way was made for the condemned, who came on chanting the _De profundis_. The spectators of all ages took up the psalm and chanted it with them, so that the surge of the old Gregorian tone might have been heard by the duke and the bishop, who had shut themselves up in the château of Nantes during the hour of execution. After the close of the psalm, which was terminated by the _Requiem æternam_ instead of the _Gloria_, the Sire de Retz thanked those who had conducted him, and then embraced Pontou and Henriet, before delivering himself of the following address, or rather sermon:-- "My very dear friends and servants, be strong and courageous against the assaults of the devil, and feel great displeasure and contrition for your ill deeds, without despairing of God's mercy. Believe with me, that there is no sin, however great, in the world, which God, in his grace and loving kindness, will not pardon, when one asks it of Him with contrition of heart. Remember that the Lord God is always more ready to receive the sinner than is the sinner to ask of Him pardon. Moreover, let us very humbly thank Him for his great love to us in letting us die in full possession of our faculties, and not cutting us off suddenly in the midst of our misdeeds. Let us conceive such a love of God, and such repentance, that we shall not fear death, which is only a little pang, without which we could not see God in his glory. Besides we must desire to be freed from this world, in which is only misery, that we may go to everlasting glory. Let us rejoice rather, for although we have sinned grievously here below, yet we shall be united in Paradise, our souls being parted from our bodies, and we shall be together for ever and ever, if only we endure in our pious and honourable contrition to our last sigh." [1] Then the marshal, who was to be executed first, left his companions and placed himself in the hands of his executioners. He took off his cap, knelt, kissed a crucifix, and made a pious oration to the crowd much in the style of his address to his friends Pontou and Henriet. [1. The case of the Sire de Retz is one to make us see the great danger there is in trusting to feelings in matters of religion. "If thou wilt enter into life, keep the commandments," said our Lord. How many hope to go to heaven because they have pious emotions!] Then he commenced reciting the prayers of the dying; the executioner passed the cord round his neck, and adjusted the knot. He mounted a tall stool, erected at the foot of the gallows as a last honour paid to the nobility of the criminal. The pile of firewood was lighted before the executioners had left him. Pontou and Henriet, who were still on their knees, raised their eyes to their master and cried to him, extending their arms,-- "At this last hour, monseigneur, be a good and valiant soldier of God, and remember the passion of Jesus Christ which wrought our redemption. Farewell, we hope soon to meet in Paradise! The stool was cast down, and the Sire de Retz dropped. The fire roared up, the flames leaped about him, and enveloped him as be swung. Suddenly, mingling with the deep booming of the cathedral bell, swelled up the wild unearthly wail of the _Dies iræ_. No sound among the crowd, only the growl of the fire, and the solemn strain of the hymn Lo, the Book, exactly worded, Wherein all hath been recorded; Thence shall judgment be awarded. When the Judge his seat attaineth, And each hidden deed arraigneth, Nothing unavenged remaineth. What shall I, frail man, be pleading? Who for me be interceding? When the just are mercy needing. King of Majesty tremendous, Who dost free salvation send us, Fount of pity! then befriend us. * * * * Low I kneel, with heart-submission; See, like ashes, my contrition-- Help me in my last condition! Ah I that day of tears and mourning! From the dust of earth returning, Man for judgment must prepare him! Spare, O, God, in mercy spare him! Lord, who didst our souls redeem, Grant a blessed requiem! AMEN. Six women, veiled, and robed in white, and six Carmelites advanced. bearing a coffin. It was whispered that one of the veiled women was Madame de Retz, and that the others were members of the most illustrious houses of Brittany. The cord by which the marshal was hung was cut, and he fell into a cradle of iron prepared to receive the corpse. The body was removed before the fire had gained any mastery over it. It was placed in the coffin., and the monks and the women transported it to the Carmelite monastery of Nantes, according to the wishes of the deceased. In the meantime, the sentence had been executed upon Pontou and Henriet; they were hung and burned to dust. Their ashes were cast to the winds; whilst in the Carmelite church of Our Lady were celebrated with pomp the obsequies of the very high, very powerful, very illustrious Seigneur Gilles de Laval, Sire de Retz, late Chamberlain of King Charles VII., and Marshal of France! CHAPTER XIV. A GALICIAN WERE-WOLF. The inhabitants of Austrian Galicia are quiet, inoffensive people, take them as a whole. The Jews, who number a twelfth of the population, are the most intelligent, energetic, and certainly the most money-making individuals in the province, though the Poles proper, or Mazurs, are not devoid of natural parts. Perhaps as remarkable a phenomenon as any other in that kingdom--for kingdom of Waldimir it was--is the enormous numerical preponderance of the nobility over the untitled. In 1837 the proportions stood thus: 32,190 nobles to 2,076 tradesmen. The average of execution for crime is nine a year, out of a population of four and a half millions,--by no means a high figure, considering the peremptory way in which justice is dealt forth in that province. Yet, in the most quiet and well-disposed neighbourhoods, occasionally the most startling atrocities are committed, occurring when least expected, and sometimes perpetrated by the very person who is least suspected. Just sixteen years ago there happened in the circle of Tornow, in Western Galicia-the province is divided into nine circles-a circumstance which will probably furnish the grandames with a story for their firesides, during their bitter Galician winters, for many a long year. In the circle of Tornow, in the lordship of Parkost, is a little hamlet called Polomyja, consisting of eight hovels and a Jewish tavern. The inhabitants are mostly woodcutters, hewing down the firs of the dense forest in which their village is situated, and conveying them to the nearest water, down which they are floated to the Vistula. Each tenant pays no rent for his cottage and pitch of field, but is bound to work a fixed number of days for his landlord: a practice universal in Galicia, and often productive of much discontent and injustice, as the proprietor exacts labour from his tenant on those days when the harvest has to be got in, or the land is m best condition for tillage, and just when the peasant would gladly be engaged upon his own small plot. Money is scarce in the province, and this is accordingly the only way in which the landlord can be sure of his dues. Most of the villagers of Polomyja are miserably poor; but by cultivating a little maize, and keeping a few fowls or a pig, they scrape together sufficient to sustain life. During the summer the men collect resin from the pines, from each of which, once in twelve Years, they strip a slip of bark, leaving the resin to exude and trickle into a small earthenware jar at its roots; and, during the winter, as already stated, they fell the trees and roll them down to the river. Polomyja is not a cheerful spot--nested among dense masses of pine, which shed a gloom over the little hamlet; yet, on a fine day, it is pleasant enough for the old women to sit at their cottage doors, scenting that matchless pine fragrance, sweeter than the balm of the Spice Islands, for there is nothing cloying in that exquisite and exhilarating odour; listening to the harp-like thrill of the breeze in the old grey tree-tops, and knitting quietly at long stockings, whilst their little grandchildren romp in the heather and tufted fern. Towards evening, too, there is something indescribably beautiful in the firwood. The sun dives among the trees, and paints their boles with patches of luminous saffron, or falling over a level clearing, glorifies it with its orange dye, so visibly contrasting with the blue-purple shadow on the western rim of unreclaimed forest, deep and luscious as the bloom on a plum. The birds then are hastening to their nests, a ger-falcon, high overhead, is kindled with sunlight; capering and gambolling among the branches, the merry squirrel skips home for the night. The sun goes down, but the sky is still shining with twilight. The wild cat begins to hiss and squall in the forest, the heron to flap hastily by, the stork on the top of the tavern chimney to poise itself on one leg for sleep. To-whoo! an owl begins to wake up. Hark! the woodcutters are coming home with a song. Such is Polomyja in summer time, and much resembling it are the hamlets scattered about the forest, at intervals of a few miles; in each, the public-house being the most commodious and best-built edifice, the church, whenever there is one, not remarkable for anything but its bulbous steeple. You would hardly believe that amidst all this poverty a beggar could have picked up any subsistence, and yet, a few years ago, Sunday after Sunday, there sat a white-bearded venerable man at the church door, asking alms. Poor people are proverbially compassionate and liberal, so that the old man generally got a few coppers, and often some good woman bade him come into her cottage, and let him have some food. Occasionally Swiatek--that was the beggar's name, went his rounds selling small pinchbeck ornaments and beads; generally, however, only appealing to charity. One Sunday, after church, a Mazur and his wife invited the old man into their hut and gave him a crust of pie and some meat. There were several children about, but a little girl, of nine or ten, attracted the old man's attention by her artless tricks. Swiatek felt in his pocket and produced a ring, enclosing a piece of coloured glass set over foil. This he presented to the child, who ran off delighted to show her acquisition to her companions. "Is that little maid your daughter?" asked the beggar. "No," answered the house-wife, "she is an orphan; there was a widow in this place who died, leaving the child, and I have taken charge of her; one mouth more will not matter much, and the good God will bless us." "Ay, ay! to be sure He will; the orphans and fatherless are under His own peculiar care." "She's a good little thing, and gives no trouble," observed the woman. "You go back to Polomyja tonight, I reckon." "I do--ah!" exclaimed Swiatek, as the little girl ran up to him. You like the ring, is it not beautiful? I found it under a big fir to the left of the churchyard,there may be dozens there. You must turn round three times, bow to the moon, and say, 'Zaboï!' then look among the tree-roots till you find one." "Come along!" screamed the child to its comrades; "we will go and look for rings." "You must seek separately," said Swiatek. The children scampered off into the wood. "I have done one good thing for you," laughed the beggar, "in ridding you, for a time, of the noise of those children." "I am glad of a little quiet now and then," said the woman; "the children will not let the baby sleep at times with their clatter. Are you going?" "Yes; I must reach Polomyja to-night. I am old and very feeble, and poor"--he began to fall into his customary whine-- very poor, but I thank and pray to God for you." Swiatek left the cottage. _That little orphan was never seen again._ The Austrian Government has, of late years, been vigorously advancing education among the lower orders, and establishing schools throughout the province. The children were returning from class one day, and were scattered among the trees, some pursuing a field-mouse, others collecting juniper-berries, and some sauntering with their hands in their pockets, whistling. "Where's Peter?" asked one little boy of another who was beside him. "We three go home the same way, let us go together." "Peter!" shouted the lad. "Here I am!" was the answer from among the trees; "I'll be with you directly." "Oh, I see him!" said the elder boy. "There is some one talking to him." "Where?" "Yonder, among the pines. Ah! they have gone further into the shadow, and I cannot see them any more. I wonder who was with him; a man, I think." The boys waited till they were tired, and then they sauntered home, determined to thrash Peter for having kept them waiting. _But Peter was never seen again._ Some time after this a servant-girl, belonging to a small store kept by a Russian, disappeared from a village five miles from Polomyja. She had been sent with a parcel of grocery to a cottage at no very great distance, but lying apart from the main cluster of hovels, and surrounded by trees. The day closed in, and her master waited her return anxiously, but as several hours elapsed without any sign of her, he--assisted by the neighbours--went in search of her. A slight powdering of snow covered the ground, and her footsteps could be traced at intervals where she had diverged from the beaten track. In that part of the road where the trees were thickest, there were marks of two pair of feet leaving the path; but owing to the density of the trees at that spot and to the slightness of the fall of snow, which did not reach the soil, where shaded by the pines, the footprints were immediately lost. By the following morning a heavy fall had obliterated any further traces which day-light might have discovered. _The servant-girl also was never seen again._ During the winter of 1849 the wolves were supposed to have been particularly ravenous, for thus alone did people account for the mysterious disappearances of children. A little boy had been sent to a fountain to fetch water; the pitcher was found standing by the well, but _the boy had vanished_. The villagers turned out, and those wolves which could be found were despatched. We have already introduced our readers to Polomyja, although the occurrences above related did not take place among those eight hovels, but in neighbouring villages. The reason for our having given a more detailed account of this cluster of houses--rude cabins they were--will now become apparent. In May, 1849, the innkeeper of Polomyja missed a couple of ducks, and his suspicions fell upon the beggar who lived there, and whom he held in no esteem, as he himself was a hard-working industrious man, whilst Swiatek maintained himself, his wife, and children by mendicity, although possessed of sufficient arable land to yield an excellent crop of maize, and produce vegetables, if tilled with ordinary care. As the publican approached the cottage a fragrant whiff of roast greeted his nostrils. "I'll catch the fellow in the act," said the innkeeper to himself, stealing up to the door, and taking good care not to be observed. As he threw open the door, he saw the mendicant hurriedly shuffle something under his feet, and conceal it beneath his long clothes. The publican was on him in an instant, had him by the throat, charged him with theft, and dragged him from his seat. Judge of his sickening horror when from beneath the pauper's clothes rolled forth the head of a girl about the age of fourteen or fifteen years, carefully separated from the trunk. In a short while the neighbours came up. The venerable Swiatek was locked up, along with his wife, his daughter--a girl of sixteen--and a son, aged five. The hut was thoroughly examined, and the mutilated remains of the poor girl discovered. In a vat were found the legs and thighs, partly raw, partly stewed or roasted. In a chest were the heart, liver, and entrails, all prepared and cleaned, as neatly as though done by a skilful butcher; and, finally, under the oven was a bowl full of fresh blood. On his way to the magistrate of the district. the wretched man flung himself repeatedly on the ground, struggled with his guards, and endeavoured to suffocate himself by gulping clown clods of earth and stones, but was prevented by his conductors. When taken before the Protokoll at Dabkow, he stated that he had already killed and--assisted by his family--eaten six persons: his children, however, asserted most positively that the number was much greater than he had represented, and their testimony is borne out by the fact, that the remains of _fourteen_ different caps and suits of clothes, male as well as female, were found in his house. The origin of this horrible and depraved taste was as follows, according to Swiatek's own confession:-- In 1846, three years previous, a Jewish tavern in the neighbourhood had been burned down, and the host had himself perished in the flames. Swiatek, whilst examining the ruins, had found the half-roasted corpse of the publican among the charred rafters of the house. At that time the old man was craving with hunger, having been destitute of food for some time. The scent and the sight of the roasted flesh inspired him with an uncontrollable desire to taste of it. He tore off a portion of the carcase and satiated his hunger upon it, and at the same time he conceived such a liking for it, that he could feel no rest till he had tasted again. His second victim was the orphan above alluded to; since then--that is, during the period of no less than three years--he had frequently subsisted in the same manner, and had actually grown sleek and fat upon his frightful meals. The excitement roused by the discovery of these atrocities was intense; several poor mothers who had bewailed the loss of their little ones, felt their wounds reopened agonisingly. Popular indignation rose to the highest pitch: there was some fear lest the criminal should be torn in pieces himself by the enraged people, as soon as he was brought to trial: but he saved the necessity of precautions being taken to ensure his safety, for, on the first night of his confinement, he hanged himself from the bars of the prison-window. CHAPTER XV. ANOMALOUS CASE.--THE HUMAN HYÆNA. It is well known that Oriental romance is full of stories of violators of graves. Eastern superstition attributes to certain individuals a passion for unearthing corpses and mangling them. Of a moonlight night weird forms are seen stealing among the tombs, and burrowing into them with their long nails, desiring to reach the bodies of the dead ere the first streak of dawn compels them to retire. These ghouls, as they are called, are supposed generally to require the flesh of the dead for incantations or magical compositions, but very often they are actuated by the sole desire of rending the sleeping corpse, and disturbing its repose. There is every probability that these ghouls were no mere creations of the imagination, but were actual resurrectionists. Human fat and the hair of a corpse which has grown in the grave, form ingredients in many a necromantic receipt, and the witches who compounded these diabolical mixtures, would unearth corpses in order to obtain the requisite ingredients. It was the same in the middle ages, and to such an extent did the fear of ghouls extend, that it was common in Brittany for churchyards to be provided with lamps, kept burning during the night, that witches might be deterred from venturing under cover of darkness to open the graves. Fornari gives the following story of a ghoul in his _History of Sorcerers_:-- In the beginning of the 15th century, there lived at Bagdad an aged merchant who had grown wealthy in his business, and who had an only son to whom he was tenderly attached. He resolved to marry him to the daughter of another merchant, a girl of considerable fortune, but without any personal attractions. Abul-Hassan, the merchant's son, on being shown the portrait of the lady, requested his father to delay the marriage till he could reconcile his mind to it. Instead, however, of doing this, he fell in love with another girl, the daughter of a sage, and he gave his father no peace till he consented to the marriage with the object of his affections. The old man stood out as long as he could, but finding that his son was bent on acquiring the hand of the fair Nadilla, and was equally resolute not to accept the rich and ugly lady, he did what most fathers, under such circumstances, are constrained to do, he acquiesced. The wedding took place with great pomp and ceremony, and a happy honeymoon ensued, which might have been happier but for one little circumstance which led to very serious consequences. Abul-Hassan noticed that his bride quitted the nuptial couch as soon as she thought her husband was asleep, and did not return to it, till an boar before dawn. Filled with curiosity, Hassan one night feigned sleep, and saw his wife rise and leave the room as usual. He followed cautiously, and saw her enter a cemetery. By the straggling moonbeams he beheld her go into a tomb; he stepped in after her. The scene within was horrible. A party of ghouls were assembled with the spoils of the graves they had violated., and were feasting on the flesh of the long-buried corpses. His own wife, who, by the way, never touched supper at home, played no inconsiderable part in the hideous banquet. As soon as he could safely escape, Abul-Hassan stole back to his bed. He said nothing to his bride till next evening when supper was laid, and she declined to eat; then he insisted on her partaking, and when she positively refused, he exclaimed wrathfully,--"Yes, you keep your appetite for your feast with the ghouls!" Nadilla was silent; she turned pale and trembled, and without a word sought her bed. At midnight she rose, fell on her husband with her nails and teeth, tore his throat, and having opened a vein, attempted to suck his blood; but Abul-Hassan springing to his feet threw her down, and with a blow killed her. She was buried next day. Three days after, at midnight, she re-appeared, attacked her husband again, and again attempted to suck his blood. He fled from her, and on the morrow opened her tomb, burned her to ashes, and cast them into the Tigris. This story connects the ghoul with the vampire. As will be seen by a former chapter, the were-wolf and the vampire are closely related. That the ancients held the same belief that the witches violate corpses, is evident from the third episode in the _Golden Ass_ of Apuleius. I will only quote the words of the crier:-- "I pray thee, tell me," replied I, "of what kind are the duties attached to this funeral guardianship?" "Duties!" quoth the crier; "why, keep wide awake all night, with thine eyes fixed steadily upon the corpse, neither winking nor blinking, nor looking to the right nor looking to the left, either to one side or the other, be it even little; for the witches, infamous wretches that they are! can slip out of their skins in an instant and change themselves into the form of any animal they have a mind; and then they crawl along so slyly, that the eyes of justice, nay, the eyes of the sun himself, are not keen enough to perceive them. At all events, their wicked devices are infinite in number and variety; and whether it be in the shape of a bird, or a dog, or a mouse, or even of a common house-fly, that they exercise their dire incantations, if thou art not vigilant in the extreme, they will deceive thee one way or other, and overwhelm thee with sleep; nevertheless, as regards the reward, 'twill be from four to six aurei; nor, although 'tis a perilous service, wilt thou receive more. Nay, hold! I had almost forgotten to give thee a necessary caution. Clearly understand, that it the corpse be not restored to the relatives entire, the deficient pieces of flesh torn off by the teeth of the witches must be replaced from the face of the sleepy guardian." Here we have the rending of corpses connected with change of form. Marcassus relates that after a long war in Syria, during the night, troops of lamias, female evil spirits, appeared upon the field of battle, unearthing the hastily buried bodies of the soldiers, and devouring the flesh off their bones. They were pursued and fired upon, and some young men succeeded in killing a considerable number; but during the day they had all of them the forms of wolves or hyænas. That there is a foundation of truth in these horrible stories, and that it is quite possible for a human being to be possessed of a depraved appetite for rending corpses, is proved by an extraordinary case brought before a court-martial in Paris, so late as July 10th, 1849. The details are given with fulness in the _Annales Medico-psychologiques_ for that month and year. They are too revolting for reproduction. I will, however, give an outline of this remarkable case. In the autumn of 1848, several of the cemeteries in the neighbourhood of Paris were found to have been entered during the night, and graves to have been rifled. The deeds were not those of medical students, for the bodies had not been carried of, but were found lying about the tombs in fragments. It was at first supposed that the perpetration of these outrages must have been a wild beast, but footprints in the soft earth left no doubt that it was a man. Close watch was kept at Père la Chaise; but after a few corpses had been mangled there, the outrages ceased. In the winter, another cemetery was ravaged, and it was not till March in 1849, that a spring gun which had been set in the cemetery of S. Parnasse, went off during the night, and warned the guardians of the place that the mysterious visitor had fallen into their trap. They rushed to the spot, only to see a dark figure in a military mantle leap the wall, and disappear in the gloom. Marks of blood, however, gave evidence that he had been hit by the gun when it had discharged. At the same time, a fragment of blue cloth, torn from the mantle, was obtained, and afforded a clue towards the identification of the ravisher of the tombs. On the following day, the police went from barrack to barrack, inquiring whether officer or man were suffering from a gun-shot wound. By this means they discovered the person. He was a junior officer in the 1st Infantry regiment, of the name of Bertrand. He was taken to the hospital to be cured of his wound, and on his recovery, he was tried by court-martial. His history was this. He had been educated in the theological seminary of Langres, till, at the age of twenty, he entered the army. He was a young man of retiring habits, frank and cheerful to his comrades, so as to be greatly beloved by them, of feminine delicacy and refinement, and subject to fits of depression and melancholy. In February, 1847, as he was walking with a friend in the country, he came to a churchyard, the gate of which stood open. The day before a woman had been buried, but the sexton had not completed filling in the grave, and he had been engaged upon it on the present occasion, when a storm of rain had driven him to shelter. Bertrand noticed the spade and pick lying beside the grave, and--to use his own words:--"A cette vue des idées noires me vinrent, j'eus comme un violent mal de tête, mon cur battait avec force, je no me possédais plus." He managed by some excuse to get rid of his companion, and then returning to the churchyard, he caught up a spade and began to dig into the grave. "Soon I dragged the corpse out of the earth, and I began to hash it with the spade, without well knowing what I was about. A labourer saw me, and I laid myself flat on the ground till he was out of sight, and then I cast the body back into the grave. I then went away, bathed in a cold sweat, to a little grove, where I reposed for several hours, notwithstanding the cold rain which fell, in a condition of complete exhaustion. When I rose, my limbs were as if broken, and my head weak. The same prostration and sensation followed each attack. Two days after, I returned to the cemetery, and opened the grave with my hands. My hands bled, but I did not feel the pain; I tore the corpse to shreds, and flung it back into the pit." He had no further attack for four months, till his regiment came to Paris. As he was one day walking in the gloomy, shadowy, alleys of Père la Chaise, the same feeling came over him like a flood. In the night he climbed the wall, and dug up a little girl of seven years old. He tore her in half. A few days later, he opened the grave of a woman who had died in childbirth, and had lain in the grave for thirteen days. On the 16th November, he dug up an old woman of fifty, and, ripping her to pieces, rolled among the fragments. He did the same to another corpse on the 12th December. These are only a few of the numerous cases of violation of tombs to which he owned. It was on the night of the 15th March that the spring-gun shot him. Bertrand declared at his trial, that whilst he was in the hospital he had not felt any desire to renew his attempts, and that he considered himself cured of his horrible propensities, for he had seen men dying in the beds around him, and now: "Je suis guéri, car aujourd'hui j'ai peur d'un mort." The fits of exhaustion which followed his accesses are very remarkable, as they precisely resemble those which followed the berserkir rages of the Northmen, and the expeditions of the Lycanthropists. The case of M. Bertrand is indubitably most singular and anomalous; it scarcely bears the character of insanity, but seems to point rather to a species of diabolical possession. At first the accesses chiefly followed upon his drinking wine, but after a while they came upon him without exciting cause. The manner in which he mutilated the dead was different. Some he chopped with the spade, others he tore and ripped with his teeth and nails. Sometimes he tore the mouth open and rent the face back to the ears, he opened the stomachs, and pulled off the limbs. Although he dug up the bodies of several men he felt no inclination to mutilate them, whereas he delighted in rending female corpses. He was sentenced to a year's imprisonment. CHAPTER XVI. A SERMON ON WERE-WOLVES. THE following curious specimen of a late mediæval sermon is taken from the old German edition of the discourses of Dr. Johann Geiler von Keysersperg, a famous preacher in Strasbourg. The volume is entitled: "_Die Emeis_. Dis ist das Büch von der Omeissen, und durch Herr der Künnig ich diente gern. Und sagt von Eigenschafft der Omeissen, und gibt underweisung von der Unholden oder Hexen, und von Gespenst, der Geist, und von dem Wütenden Heer Wunderbarlich." This strange series of sermons was preached at Strasbourg in the year 1508, and was taken down and written out by a barefooted friar, Johann Pauli, and by him published in 1517. The doctor died on Mid-Lent Sunday, 1510. There is a Latin edition of his sermons, but whether of the same series or not I cannot tell, as I have been unable to obtain a sight of the volume. The German edition is illustrated with bold and clever woodcuts. Among other, there are representations of the Witches' Sabbath, the Wild Huntsman, and a Werewolf attacking a Man. The sermon was preached on the third Sunday in Lent. No text is given, but there is a general reference to the gospel for the day. This is the discourse:-- [1] [1. Headed thus:--"Am drittë sontag à fastê, occuli, predigt dé doctor vô dê Werwölffenn."] "What shall we say about were-wolves? for there are were-wolves which run about the villages devouring men and children. As men say about them, they run about full gallop, injuring men, and are called ber-wölff, or wer-wölff. Do you ask me if I know aught about them? I answer, Yes. They are apparently wolves which cat men and children, and that happens on seven accounts:-- 1. Esuriem Hunger. 2. Rabiem Savageness. 3. Senectutem Old age. 4. Experientiam Experience. 5. Insaniem Madness. 6. Diabolum The Devil. 7. Deum God. The first happens through hunger; when the wolves find nothing to eat in the woods, they must come to people and eat men when hunger drives them to it. You see well, when it is very cold, that the stags come in search of food up to the villages, and the birds actually into the dining-room in search of victuals. "Under the second head, wolves eat children through their innate savageness, because they are savage, and that is (propter locum coitum ferum). Their savageness arises first from their condition. Wolves which live in cold places are smaller on that account, and more savage than other wolves. Secondly, their savageness depends on the season; they are more savage about Candlemas than at any other time of the year, and men must be more on their guard against them then than at other times. It is a proverb, 'He who seeks a wolf at Candlemas, a peasant on Shrove Tuesday, and a parson in Lent, is a man of pluck.' . . . Thirdly, their savageness depends on their having young. When the wolves have young, they are more savage than when they have not. You see it so in all beasts. A wild duck, when it has young poults, you see what an uproar it makes. A cat fights for its young kittens; the wolves do ditto. "Under the third head, the wolves do injury on account of their age. When a wolf is old, it is weak and feeble in its leas, so it can't ran fast enough to catch stags, and therefore it rends a man, whom it can catch easier than a wild animal. It also tears children and men easier than wild animals, because of its teeth, for its teeth break off when it is very old; you see it well in old women: how the last teeth wobble, and they have scarcely a tooth left in their heads, and they open their mouths for men to feed them with mash and stewed substances. "Under the fourth head, the injury the were-wolves do arises from experience. It is said that human flesh is far sweeter than other flesh; so when a wolf has once tasted human flesh, he desires to taste it again. So he acts like old topers, who, when they know the best wine, will not be put off with inferior quality. "Under the fifth head, the injury arises from ignorance. A dog when it is mad is also inconsiderate, and it bites any man; it does not recognize its own lord: and what is a wolf but a wild dog which is mad and inconsiderate, so that it regards no man. "Under the sixth head, the injury comes of the Devil, who transforms himself, and takes on him the form of a wolf So writes Vincentius in his _Speculum Historiale_. And he has taken it from Valerius Maximus in the Punic war. When the Romans fought against the men of Africa, when the captain lay asleep, there came a wolf and drew his sword, and carried it off. That was the Devil in a, wolf's form. The like writes William of Paris,--that a wolf will kill and devour children, and do the greatest mischief. There was a man who had the phantasy that he himself was a wolf. And afterwards he was found lying in the wood, and he was dead out of sheer hunger. "Under the seventh head, the injury comes of God's ordinance. For God will sometimes punish certain lands and villages with wolves. So we read of Elisha,--that when Elisha wanted to go up a mountain out of Jericho, some naughty boys made a mock of him and said, 'O bald head, step up! O glossy pate, step up!' What happened? He cursed them. Then came two bears out of the desert and tore about forty-two of the children. That was God's ordinance. The like we read of a prophet who would set at naught the commands he had received of God, for he was persuaded to eat bread at the house of another. As he went home he rode upon his ass. Then came a lion which slew him and left the ass alone. That was God's ordinance. Therefore must man turn to God when He brings wild beasts to do him a mischief: which same brutes may He not bring now or evermore. Amen." It will be seen from this extraordinary sermon that Dr. Johann Geiler von Keysersperg did not regard werewolves in any other light than natural wolves filled with a lust for human flesh; and he puts aside altogether the view that they are men in a state of metamorphosis. However, he alludes to this superstition in his sermon on wild-men of the woods, but translates his lycanthropists to Spain. THE END. 
37472	----	ZANZIBAR TALES Told by Natives of the East Coast of Africa Translated from the Original Swahili By GEORGE W. BATEMAN Illustrated by WALTER BOBBETT Chicago A. C. McClurg & Co. 1901. TO MY READERS. Thirty years ago Central Africa was what people who are fond of airing their learning would call a terra incognita. To-day its general characteristics are pretty well known. Then, as now, the little island of Zanzibar, situated just south of the equator, on the east coast, was the starting place of all expeditions into the interior, and Unguja (pronounced Oon-goo'jah), the big town of that island, the place where the preparations for plunging into the unknown were made. At that period these expeditions consisted, almost without exception, of caravans loaded with beads and cotton cloth, which were exchanged among the inland tribes for elephants' tusks and slaves--for Unguja boasted the only, and the last, open slave-market in the world then. The few exceptions were a would-be discoverer now and then, or a party of rich white men going to hunt "big game;" that is, travelling hundreds--aye, thousands--of miles, and enduring many hardships, for the momentary pleasure of holding a gun in such a position that when they pulled the trigger the bullet hit such a prominent mark as an elephant or a lion, which was living in its natural surroundings and interfering with no one. Between you and me, I don't mind remarking that many of their expeditions ended, on their return to Unguja, in the purchase of a few elephants' tusks and wild animal skins in the bazaars of that thriving city, after the method pursued by unsuccessful anglers in civilized countries. But even the most successful of these hunters, by reason of having followed the few beaten paths known to their guides, never came within miles of such wonderful animals as those described by the tribesmen from the very center of the dark continent. If you have read any accounts of adventure in Africa, you will know that travelers never mention animals of any kind that are gifted with the faculty of speech, or gazelles that are overseers for native princes, or hares that eat flesh. No, indeed; only the native-born know of these; and, judging by the immense and rapid strides civilization is making in those parts, it will not be long before such wonderful specimens of zoölogy will be as extinct as the ichthyosaurus, dinornis, and other poor creatures who never dreamed of the awful names that would be applied to them when they were too long dead to show their resentment. As to the truth of these tales, I can only say that they were told to me, in Zanzibar, by negroes whose ancestors told them to them, who had received them from their ancestors, and so back; so that the praise for their accuracy, or the blame for their falsity, lies with the first ancestor who set them going. You may think uncivilized negroes are pretty ignorant people, but the white man who is supposed to have first told the story of "The House that Jack Built" was a mighty poor genius compared with the unknown originator of "Goso, the Teacher," who found even inanimate things that were endowed with speech, which the pupils readily understood and were not astonished to hear; while "Puss in Boots" was not one-half so clever as the gazelle that ran things for Haamdaanee. It would be a severe task to rattle off "Goso" as you do "The House that Jack Built." Don't stumble over the names in these tales; they are very easy. Every one is pronounced exactly as it is spelled, and the accent is always on the last syllable but one; as, Poon'dah, the donkey; Haam-daa'nee, etc. Finally, if the perusal of these tales interests you as much as their narration and translation interested me, everything will be satisfactory. GEORGE W. BATEMAN. Chicago, August 1, 1901. CONTENTS PAGE To my Readers 5 I. The Monkey, the Shark, and the Washerman's Donkey 17 II. The Hare and the Lion 31 III. The Lion, the Hyena, and the Rabbit 47 IV. The Kites and the Crows 57 V. Goso, the Teacher 67 VI. The Ape, the Snake, and the Lion 81 VII. Haamdaanee 99 VIII. Mkaaah Jeechonee, the Boy Hunter 155 IX. The Magician and the Sultan's Son 183 X. The Physician's Son and the King of the Snakes 197 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "Throw me some food, my friend" 18 "Miss Poonda, I am sent to ask your hand in marriage" 23 Bookoo and the hare started off immediately 33 Soongoora crept out and ran away while the lion was looking up 35 The lion continued rubbing on a piece of rock 39 The lion, the hyena, and the rabbit go in for a little farming 49 Said the hyena, "I'm thinking" 51 "I should say not" 59 They found him lying down 63 When they found the gazelle they beat it 75 "Mother, we are always hungry" 83 "Where are you going, son of Adam?" 89 Neeoka filled the bag with chains of gold and silver 93 Dropping the diamond wrapped in leaves into the sultan's lap 115 The gazelle wept with the old woman 147 They crept cautiously through the bushes 167 They camped for the night 173 The magician gave the youth all the keys 185 Right into the big pot! 191 "I scared him away" 215 ZANZIBAR TALES. I. THE MONKEY, THE SHARK, AND THE WASHERMAN'S DONKEY. Once upon a time Kee'ma, the monkey, and Pa'pa, the shark, became great friends. The monkey lived in an immense mkooyoo tree which grew by the margin of the sea--half of its branches being over the water and half over the land. Every morning, when the monkey was breakfasting on the kooyoo nuts, the shark would put in an appearance under the tree and call out, "Throw me some food, my friend;" with which request the monkey complied most willingly. This continued for many months, until one day Papa said, "Keema, you have done me many kindnesses: I would like you to go with me to my home, that I may repay you." "How can I go?" said the monkey; "we land beasts can not go about in the water." "Don't trouble yourself about that," replied the shark; "I will carry you. Not a drop of water shall get to you." "Oh, all right, then," said Mr. Keema; "let's go." When they had gone about half-way the shark stopped, and said: "You are my friend. I will tell you the truth." "Why, what is there to tell?" asked the monkey, with surprise. "Well, you see, the fact is that our sultan is very sick, and we have been told that the only medicine that will do him any good is a monkey's heart." "Well," exclaimed Keema, "you were very foolish not to tell me that before we started!" "How so?" asked Papa. But the monkey was busy thinking up some means of saving himself, and made no reply. "Well?" said the shark, anxiously; "why don't you speak?" "Oh, I've nothing to say now. It's too late. But if you had told me this before we started, I might have brought my heart with me." "What? haven't you your heart here?" "Huh!" ejaculated Keema; "don't you know about us? When we go out we leave our hearts in the trees, and go about with only our bodies. But I see you don't believe me. You think I'm scared. Come on; let's go to your home, where you can kill me and search for my heart in vain." The shark did believe him, though, and exclaimed, "Oh, no; let's go back and get your heart." "Indeed, no," protested Keema; "let us go on to your home." But the shark insisted that they should go back, get the heart, and start afresh. At last, with great apparent reluctance, the monkey consented, grumbling sulkily at the unnecessary trouble he was being put to. When they got back to the tree, he climbed up in a great hurry, calling out, "Wait there, Papa, my friend, while I get my heart, and we'll start off properly next time." When he had got well up among the branches, he sat down and kept quite still. After waiting what he considered a reasonable length of time, the shark called, "Come along, Keema!" But Keema just kept still and said nothing. In a little while he called again: "Oh, Keema! let's be going." At this the monkey poked his head out from among the upper branches and asked, in great surprise, "Going? Where?" "To my home, of course." "Are you mad?" queried Keema. "Mad? Why, what do you mean?" cried Papa. "What's the matter with you?" said the monkey. "Do you take me for a washerman's donkey?" "What peculiarity is there about a washerman's donkey?" "It is a creature that has neither heart nor ears." The shark, his curiosity overcoming his haste, thereupon begged to be told the story of the washerman's donkey, which the monkey related as follows: "A washerman owned a donkey, of which he was very fond. One day, however, it ran away, and took up its abode in the forest, where it led a lazy life, and consequently grew very fat. "At length Soongoo'ra, the hare, by chance passed that way, and saw Poon'da, the donkey. "Now, the hare is the most cunning of all beasts--if you look at his mouth you will see that he is always talking to himself about everything. "So when Soongoora saw Poonda he said to himself, 'My, this donkey is fat!' Then he went and told Sim'ba, the lion. "As Simba was just recovering from a severe illness, he was still so weak that he could not go hunting. He was consequently pretty hungry. "Said Mr. Soongoora, 'I'll bring enough meat to-morrow for both of us to have a great feast, but you'll have to do the killing.' "'All right, good friend,' exclaimed Simba, joyfully; 'you're very kind.' "So the hare scampered off to the forest, found the donkey, and said to her, in his most courtly manner, 'Miss Poonda, I am sent to ask your hand in marriage.' "'By whom?' simpered the donkey. "'By Simba, the lion.' "The donkey was greatly elated at this, and exclaimed: 'Let's go at once. This is a first-class offer.' "They soon arrived at the lion's home, were cordially invited in, and sat down. Soongoora gave Simba a signal with his eyebrow, to the effect that this was the promised feast, and that he would wait outside. Then he said to Poonda: 'I must leave you for a while to attend to some private business. You stay here and converse with your husband that is to be.' "As soon as Soongoora got outside, the lion sprang at Poonda, and they had a great fight. Simba was kicked very hard, and he struck with his claws as well as his weak health would permit him. At last the donkey threw the lion down, and ran away to her home in the forest. "Shortly after, the hare came back, and called, 'Haya! Simba! have you got it?' "'I have not got it,' growled the lion; 'she kicked me and ran away; but I warrant you I made her feel pretty sore, though I'm not strong.' "'Oh, well,' remarked Soongoora; 'don't put yourself out of the way about it.' "Then Soongoora waited many days, until the lion and the donkey were both well and strong, when he said: 'What do you think now, Simba? Shall I bring you your meat?' "'Ay,' growled the lion, fiercely; 'bring it to me. I'll tear it in two pieces!' "So the hare went off to the forest, where the donkey welcomed him and asked the news. "'You are invited to call again and see your lover,' said Soongoora. "'Oh, dear!' cried Poonda; 'that day you took me to him he scratched me awfully. I'm afraid to go near him now.' "'Ah, pshaw!' said Soongoora; 'that's nothing. That's only Simba's way of caressing.' "'Oh, well,' said the donkey, 'let's go.' "So off they started again; but as soon as the lion caught sight of Poonda he sprang upon her and tore her in two pieces. "When the hare came up, Simba said to him: 'Take this meat and roast it. As for myself, all I want is the heart and ears.' "'Thanks,' said Soongoora. Then he went away and roasted the meat in a place where the lion could not see him, and he took the heart and ears and hid them. Then he ate all the meat he needed, and put the rest away. "Presently the lion came to him and said, 'Bring me the heart and ears.' "'Where are they?' said the hare. "'What does this mean?' growled Simba. "'Why, didn't you know this was a washerman's donkey?' "'Well, what's that to do with there being no heart or ears?' "'For goodness' sake, Simba, aren't you old enough to know that if this beast had possessed a heart and ears it wouldn't have come back the second time?' "Of course the lion had to admit that what Soongoora, the hare, said was true. "And now," said Keema to the shark, "you want to make a washerman's donkey of me. Get out of there, and go home by yourself. You are not going to get me again, and our friendship is ended. Good-bye, Papa." II. THE HARE AND THE LION. One day Soongoo'ra, the hare, roaming through the forest in search of food, glanced up through the boughs of a very large calabash tree, and saw that a great hole in the upper part of the trunk was inhabited by bees; thereupon he returned to town in search of some one to go with him and help to get the honey. As he was passing the house of Boo'koo, the big rat, that worthy gentleman invited him in. So he went in, sat down, and remarked: "My father has died, and has left me a hive of honey. I would like you to come and help me to eat it." Of course Bookoo jumped at the offer, and he and the hare started off immediately. When they arrived at the great calabash tree, Soongoora pointed out the bees' nest and said, "Go on; climb up." So, taking some straw with them, they climbed up to the nest, lit the straw, smoked out the bees, put out the fire, and set to work eating the honey. In the midst of the feast, who should appear at the foot of the tree but Sim'ba, the lion? Looking up, and seeing them eating, he asked, "Who are you?" Then Soongoora whispered to Bookoo, "Hold your tongue; that old fellow is crazy." But in a very little while Simba roared out angrily: "Who are you, I say? Speak, I tell you!" This made Bookoo so scared that he blurted out, "It's only us!" Upon this the hare said to him: "You just wrap me up in this straw, call to the lion to keep out of the way, and then throw me down. Then you'll see what will happen." So Bookoo, the big rat, wrapped Soongoora, the hare, in the straw, and then called to Simba, the lion, "Stand back; I'm going to throw this straw down, and then I'll come down myself." When Simba stepped back out of the way, Bookoo threw down the straw, and as it lay on the ground Soongoora crept out and ran away while the lion was looking up. After waiting a minute or two, Simba roared out, "Well, come down, I say!" and, there being no help for it, the big rat came down. As soon as he was within reach, the lion caught hold of him, and asked, "Who was up there with you?" "Why," said Bookoo, "Soongoora, the hare. Didn't you see him when I threw him down?" "Of course I didn't see him," replied the lion, in an incredulous tone, and, without wasting further time, he ate the big rat, and then searched around for the hare, but could not find him. Three days later, Soongoora called on his acquaintance, Ko'bay, the tortoise, and said to him, "Let us go and eat some honey." "Whose honey?" inquired Kobay, cautiously. "My father's," Soongoora replied. "Oh, all right; I'm with you," said the tortoise, eagerly; and away they went. When they arrived at the great calabash tree they climbed up with their straw, smoked out the bees, sat down, and began to eat. Just then Mr. Simba, who owned the honey, came out again, and, looking up, inquired, "Who are you, up there?" Soongoora whispered to Kobay, "Keep quiet;" but when the lion repeated his question angrily, Kobay became suspicious, and said: "I will speak. You told me this honey was yours; am I right in suspecting that it belongs to Simba?" So, when the lion asked again, "Who are you?" he answered, "It's only us." The lion said, "Come down, then;" and the tortoise answered, "We're coming." Now, Simba had been keeping an eye open for Soongoora since the day he caught Bookoo, the big rat, and, suspecting that he was up there with Kobay, he said to himself, "I've got him this time, sure." Seeing that they were caught again, Soongoora said to the tortoise: "Wrap me up in the straw, tell Simba to stand out of the way, and then throw me down. I'll wait for you below. He can't hurt you, you know." "All right," said Kobay; but while he was wrapping the hare up he said to himself: "This fellow wants to run away, and leave me to bear the lion's anger. He shall get caught first." Therefore, when he had bundled him up, he called out, "Soongoora is coming!" and threw him down. So Simba caught the hare, and, holding him with his paw, said, "Now, what shall I do with you?" The hare replied, "It's of no use for you to try to eat me; I'm awfully tough." "What would be the best thing to do with you, then?" asked Simba. "I think," said Soongoora, "you should take me by the tail, whirl me around, and knock me against the ground. Then you may be able to eat me." So the lion, being deceived, took him by the tail and whirled him around, but just as he was going to knock him on the ground he slipped out of his grasp and ran away, and Simba had the mortification of losing him again. Angry and disappointed, he turned to the tree and called to Kobay, "You come down, too." When the tortoise reached the ground, the lion said, "You're pretty hard; what can I do to make you eatable?" "Oh, that's easy," laughed Kobay; "just put me in the mud and rub my back with your paw until my shell comes off." Immediately on hearing this, Simba carried Kobay to the water, placed him in the mud, and began, as he supposed, to rub his back; but the tortoise had slipped away, and the lion continued rubbing on a piece of rock until his paws were raw. When he glanced down at them he saw they were bleeding, and, realizing that he had again been outwitted, he said, "Well, the hare has done me to-day, but I'll go hunting now until I find him." So Simba, the lion, set out immediately in search of Soongoora, the hare, and as he went along he inquired of every one he met, "Where is the house of Soongoora?" But each person he asked answered, "I do not know." For the hare had said to his wife, "Let us remove from this house." Therefore the folks in that neighborhood had no knowledge of his whereabouts. Simba, however, went along, continuing his inquiries, until presently one answered, "That is his house on the top of the mountain." Without loss of time the lion climbed the mountain, and soon arrived at the place indicated, only to find that there was no one at home. This, however, did not trouble him; on the contrary, saying to himself, "I'll hide myself inside, and when Soongoora and his wife come home I'll eat them both," he entered the house and lay down, awaiting their arrival. Pretty soon along came the hare with his wife, not thinking of any danger; but he very soon discovered the marks of the lion's paws on the steep path. Stopping at once, he said to Mrs. Soongoora: "You go back, my dear. Simba, the lion, has passed this way, and I think he must be looking for me." But she replied, "I will not go back; I will follow you, my husband." Although greatly pleased at this proof of his wife's affection, Soongoora said firmly: "No, no; you have friends to go to. Go back." So he persuaded her, and she went back; but he kept on, following the footmarks, and saw--as he had suspected--that they went into his house. "Ah!" said he to himself, "Mr. Lion is inside, is he?" Then, cautiously going back a little way, he called out: "How d'ye do, house? How d'ye do?" Waiting a moment, he remarked loudly: "Well, this is very strange! Every day, as I pass this place, I say, 'How d'ye do, house?' and the house always answers, 'How d'ye do?' There must be some one inside to-day." When the lion heard this he called out, "How d'ye do?" Then Soongoora burst out laughing, and shouted: "Oho, Mr. Simba! You're inside, and I'll bet you want to eat me; but first tell me where you ever heard of a house talking!" Upon this the lion, seeing how he had been fooled, replied angrily, "You wait until I get hold of you; that's all." "Oh, I think you'll have to do the waiting," cried the hare; and then he ran away, the lion following. But it was of no use. Soongoora completely tired out old Simba, who, saying, "That rascal has beaten me; I don't want to have anything more to do with him," returned to his home under the great calabash tree. III. THE LION, THE HYENA, AND THE RABBIT. Once upon a time Sim'ba, the lion, Fee'see, the hyena, and Keetee'tee, the rabbit, made up their minds to go in for a little farming. So they went into the country, made a garden, planted all kinds of seeds, and then came home and rested quite a while. Then, when the time came when their crops should be about ripe and ready for harvesting, they began to say to each other, "Let's go over to the farm, and see how our crops are coming along." So one morning, early, they started, and, as the garden was a long way off, Keeteetee, the rabbit, made this proposition: "While we are going to the farm, let us not stop on the road; and if any one does stop, let him be eaten." His companions, not being so cunning as he, and knowing they could outwalk him, readily consented to this arrangement. Well, off they went; but they had not gone very far when the rabbit stopped. "Hullo!" said Feesee, the hyena; "Keeteetee has stopped. He must be eaten." "That's the bargain," agreed Simba, the lion. "Well," said the rabbit, "I happened to be thinking." "What about?" cried his partners, with great curiosity. "I'm thinking," said he, with a grave, philosophical air, "about those two stones, one big and one little; the little one does not go up, nor does the big one go down." The lion and the hyena, having stopped to look at the stones, could only say, "Why, really, it's singular; but it's just as you say;" and they all resumed their journey, the rabbit being by this time well rested. When they had gone some distance the rabbit stopped again. "Aha!" said Feesee; "Keeteetee has stopped again. Now he must be eaten." "I rather think so," assented Simba. "Well," said the rabbit, "I was thinking again." Their curiosity once more aroused, his comrades begged him to tell them his think. "Why," said he, "I was thinking this: When people like us put on new coats, where do the old ones go to?" Both Simba and Feesee, having stopped a moment to consider the matter, exclaimed together, "Well, I wonder!" and the three went on, the rabbit having again had a good rest. After a little while the hyena, thinking it about time to show off a little of his philosophy, suddenly stopped. "Here," growled Simba, "this won't do; I guess we'll have to eat you, Feesee." "Oh, no," said the hyena; "I'm thinking." "What are you thinking about?" they inquired. "I'm thinking about nothing at all," said he, imagining himself very smart and witty. "Ah, pshaw!" cried Keeteetee; "we won't be fooled that way." So he and Simba ate the hyena. When they had finished eating their friend, the lion and the rabbit proceeded on their way, and presently came to a place where there was a cave, and here the rabbit stopped. "H'm!" ejaculated Simba; "I'm not so hungry as I was this morning, but I guess I'll have to find room for you, little Keeteetee." "Oh, I believe not," replied Keeteetee; "I'm thinking again." "Well," said the lion, "what is it this time?" Said the rabbit: "I'm thinking about that cave. In olden times our ancestors used to go in here, and go out there, and I think I'll try and follow in their footsteps." So he went in at one end and out at the other end several times. Then he said to the lion, "Simba, old fellow, let's see you try to do that;" and the lion went into the cave, but he stuck fast, and could neither go forward nor back out. In a moment Keeteetee was on Simba's back, and began eating him. After a little time the lion cried, "Oh, brother, be impartial; come and eat some of the front part of me." But the rabbit replied, "Indeed, I can't come around in front; I'm ashamed to look you in the face." So, having eaten all he was able to, he left the lion there, and went and became sole owner of the farm and its crops. IV. THE KITES AND THE CROWS. One day Koongoo'roo, sultan of the crows, sent a letter to Mway'way, sultan of the kites, containing these few words: "I want you folks to be my soldiers." To this brief message Mwayway at once wrote this short reply: "I should say not." Thereupon, thinking to scare Mwayway, the sultan of the crows sent him word, "If you refuse to obey me I'll make war upon you." To which the sultan of the kites replied, "That suits me; let us fight, and if you beat us we will obey you, but if we are victors you shall be our servants." So they gathered their forces and engaged in a great battle, and in a little while it became evident that the crows were being badly beaten. As it appeared certain that, if something were not done pretty quickly, they would all be killed, one old crow, named Jeeoo'see, suddenly proposed that they should fly away. Directly the suggestion was made it was acted upon, and the crows left their homes and flew far away, where they set up another town. So, when the kites entered the place, they found no one there, and they took up their residence in Crowtown. One day, when the crows had gathered in council, Koongooroo stood up and said: "My people, do as I command you, and all will be well. Pluck out some of my feathers and throw me into the town of the kites; then come back and stay here until you hear from me." Without argument or questioning the crows obeyed their sultan's command. Koongooroo had lain in the street but a short time, when some passing kites saw him and inquired threateningly, "What are you doing here in our town?" With many a moan he replied, "My companions have beaten me and turned me out of their town because I advised them to obey Mwayway, sultan of the kites." When they heard this they picked him up and took him before the sultan, to whom they said, "We found this fellow lying in the street, and he attributes his involuntary presence in our town to so singular a circumstance that we thought you should hear his story." Koongooroo was then bidden to repeat his statement, which he did, adding the remark that, much as he had suffered, he still held to his opinion that Mwayway was his rightful sultan. This, of course, made a very favorable impression, and the sultan said, "You have more sense than all the rest of your tribe put together; I guess you can stay here and live with us." So Koongooroo, expressing much gratitude, settled down, apparently, to spend the remainder of his life with the kites. One day his neighbors took him to church with them, and when they returned home they asked him, "Who have the best kind of religion, the kites or the crows?" To which crafty old Koongooroo replied, with great enthusiasm, "Oh, the kites, by long odds!" This answer tickled the kites like anything, and Koongooroo was looked upon as a bird of remarkable discernment. When almost another week had passed, the sultan of the crows slipped away in the night, went to his own town, and called his people together. "To-morrow," said he, "is the great annual religious festival of the kites, and they will all go to church in the morning. Go, now, and get some wood and some fire, and wait near their town until I call you; then come quickly and set fire to the church." Then he hurried back to Mwayway's town. The crows were very busy indeed all that night, and by dawn they had an abundance of wood and fire at hand, and were lying in wait near the town of their victorious enemies. So in the morning every kite went to church. There was not one person left at home except old Koongooroo. When his neighbors called for him they found him lying down. "Why!" they exclaimed with surprise, "are you not going to church to-day?" "Oh," said he, "I wish I could; but my stomach aches so badly I can't move!" And he groaned dreadfully. "Ah, poor fellow!" said they; "you will be better in bed;" and they left him to himself. As soon as everybody was out of sight he flew swiftly to his soldiers and cried, "Come on; they're all in the church." Then they all crept quickly but quietly to the church, and while some piled wood about the door, others applied fire. The wood caught readily, and the fire was burning fiercely before the kites were aware of their danger; but when the church began to fill with smoke, and tongues of flame shot through the cracks, they tried to escape through the windows. The greater part of them, however, were suffocated, or, having their wings singed, could not fly away, and so were burned to death, among them their sultan, Mwayway; and Koongooroo and his crows got their old town back again. From that day to this the kites fly away from the crows. V. GOSO, THE TEACHER. Once there was a man named Go'so, who taught children to read, not in a schoolhouse, but under a calabash tree. One evening, while Goso was sitting under the tree deep in the study of the next day's lessons, Paa, the gazelle, climbed up the tree very quietly to steal some fruit, and in so doing shook off a calabash, which, in falling, struck the teacher on the head and killed him. When his scholars came in the morning and found their teacher lying dead, they were filled with grief; so, after giving him a decent burial, they agreed among themselves to find the one who had killed Goso, and put him to death. After talking the matter over they came to the conclusion that the south wind was the offender. So they caught the south wind and beat it. But the south wind cried: "Here! I am Koo'see, the south wind. Why are you beating me? What have I done?" And they said: "Yes, we know you are Koosee; it was you who threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it." But Koosee said, "If I were so powerful would I be stopped by a mud wall?" So they went to the mud wall and beat it. But the mud wall cried: "Here! I am Keeyambaa'za, the mud wall. Why are you beating me? What have I done?" And they said: "Yes, we know you are Keeyambaaza; it was you who stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it." But Keeyambaaza said, "If I were so powerful would I be bored through by the rat?" So they went and caught the rat and beat it. But the rat cried: "Here! I am Paan'ya, the rat. Why are you beating me? What have I done?" And they said: "Yes, we know you are Paanya; it was you who bored through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it." But Paanya said, "If I were so powerful would I be eaten by a cat?" So they hunted for the cat, caught it, and beat it. But the cat cried: "Here! I am Paa'ka, the cat. Why do you beat me? What have I done?" And they said: "Yes, we know you are Paaka; it is you that eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it." But Paaka said, "If I were so powerful would I be tied by a rope?" So they took the rope and beat it. But the rope cried: "Here! I am Kaam'ba, the rope. Why do you beat me? What have I done?" And they said: "Yes, we know you are Kaamba; it is you that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it." But Kaamba said, "If I were so powerful would I be cut by a knife?" So they took the knife and beat it. But the knife cried: "Here! I am Kee'soo, the knife. Why do you beat me? What have I done?" And they said: "Yes, we know you are Keesoo; you cut Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it." But Keesoo said, "If I were so powerful would I be burned by the fire?" And they went and beat the fire. But the fire cried: "Here! I am Mo'to, the fire. Why do you beat me? What have I done?" And they said: "Yes, we know you are Moto; you burn Keesoo, the knife; that cuts Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it." But Moto said, "If I were so powerful would I be put out by water?" And they went to the water and beat it. But the water cried: "Here! I am Maa'jee, the water. Why do you beat me? What have I done?" And they said: "Yes, we know you are Maajee; you put out Moto, the fire; that burns Keesoo, the knife; that cuts Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it." But Maajee said, "If I were so powerful would I be drunk by the ox?" And they went to the ox and beat it. But the ox cried: "Here! I am Ng'om'bay, the ox. Why do you beat me? What have I done?" And they said: "Yes, we know you are Ng'ombay; you drink Maajee, the water; that puts out Moto, the fire; that burns Keesoo, the knife; that cuts Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it." But Ng'ombay said, "If I were so powerful would I be tormented by the fly?" And they caught a fly and beat it. But the fly cried: "Here! I am Een'zee, the fly. Why do you beat me? What have I done?" And they said: "Yes, we know you are Eenzee; you torment Ng'ombay, the ox; who drinks Maajee, the water; that puts out Moto, the fire; that burns Keesoo, the knife; that cuts Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it." But Eenzee said, "If I were so powerful would I be eaten by the gazelle?" And they searched for the gazelle, and when they found it they beat it. But the gazelle said: "Here! I am Paa, the gazelle. Why do you beat me? What have I done?" And they said: "Yes, we know you are Paa; you eat Eenzee, the fly; that torments Ng'ombay, the ox; who drinks Maajee, the water; that puts out Moto, the fire; that burns Keesoo, the knife; that cuts Kaamba, the rope; that ties Paaka, the cat; who eats Paanya, the rat; who bores through Keeyambaaza, the mud wall; which stopped Koosee, the south wind; and Koosee, the south wind, threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. You should not have done it." The gazelle, through surprise at being found out and fear of the consequences of his accidental killing of the teacher, while engaged in stealing, was struck dumb. Then the scholars said: "Ah! he hasn't a word to say for himself. This is the fellow who threw down the calabash that struck our teacher Goso. We will kill him." So they killed Paa, the gazelle, and avenged the death of their teacher. VI. THE APE, THE SNAKE, AND THE LION. Long, long ago there lived, in a village called Keejee'jee, a woman whose husband died, leaving her with a little baby boy. She worked hard all day to get food for herself and child, but they lived very poorly and were most of the time half-starved. When the boy, whose name was 'Mvoo' Laa'na, began to get big, he said to his mother, one day: "Mother, we are always hungry. What work did my father do to support us?" His mother replied: "Your father was a hunter. He set traps, and we ate what he caught in them." "Oho!" said 'Mvoo Laana; "that's not work; that's fun. I, too, will set traps, and see if we can't get enough to eat." The next day he went into the forest and cut branches from the trees, and returned home in the evening. The second day he spent making the branches into traps. The third day he twisted cocoanut fiber into ropes. The fourth day he set up as many traps as time would permit. The fifth day he set up the remainder of the traps. The sixth day he went to examine the traps, and they had caught so much game, beside what they needed for themselves, that he took a great quantity to the big town of Oongoo'ja, where he sold it and bought corn and other things, and the house was full of food; and, as this good fortune continued, he and his mother lived very comfortably. But after a while, when he went to his traps he found nothing in them day after day. One morning, however, he found that an ape had been caught in one of the traps, and he was about to kill it, when it said: "Son of Adam, I am Neea'nee, the ape; do not kill me. Take me out of this trap and let me go. Save me from the rain, that I may come and save you from the sun some day." So 'Mvoo Laana took him out of the trap and let him go. When Neeanee had climbed up in a tree, he sat on a branch and said to the youth: "For your kindness I will give you a piece of advice: Believe me, men are all bad. Never do a good turn for a man; if you do, he will do you harm at the first opportunity." The second day, 'Mvoo Laana found a snake in the same trap. He started to the village to give the alarm, but the snake shouted: "Come back, son of Adam; don't call the people from the village to come and kill me. I am Neeo'ka, the snake. Let me out of this trap, I pray you. Save me from the rain to-day, that I may be able to save you from the sun to-morrow, if you should be in need of help." So the youth let him go; and as he went he said, "I will return your kindness if I can, but do not trust any man; if you do him a kindness he will do you an injury in return at the first opportunity." The third day, 'Mvoo Laana found a lion in the same trap that had caught the ape and the snake, and he was afraid to go near it. But the lion said: "Don't run away; I am Sim'ba Kong'way, the very old lion. Let me out of this trap, and I will not hurt you. Save me from the rain, that I may save you from the sun if you should need help." So 'Mvoo Laana believed him and let him out of the trap, and Simba Kongway, before going his way, said: "Son of Adam, you have been kind to me, and I will repay you with kindness if I can; but never do a kindness to a man, or he will pay you back with unkindness." The next day a man was caught in the same trap, and when the youth released him, he repeatedly assured him that he would never forget the service he had done him in restoring his liberty and saving his life. Well, it seemed that he had caught all the game that could be taken in traps, and 'Mvoo Laana and his mother were hungry every day, with nothing to satisfy them, as they had been before. At last he said to his mother, one day: "Mother, make me seven cakes of the little meal we have left, and I will go hunting with my bow and arrows." So she baked him the cakes, and he took them and his bow and arrows and went into the forest. The youth walked and walked, but could see no game, and finally he found that he had lost his way, and had eaten all his cakes but one. And he went on and on, not knowing whether he was going away from his home or toward it, until he came to the wildest and most desolate looking wood he had ever seen. He was so wretched and tired that he felt he must lie down and die, when suddenly he heard some one calling him, and looking up he saw Neeanee, the ape, who said, "Son of Adam, where are you going?" "I don't know," replied 'Mvoo Laana, sadly; "I'm lost." "Well, well," said the ape; "don't worry. Just sit down here and rest yourself until I come back, and I will repay with kindness the kindness you once showed me." Then Neeanee went away off to some gardens and stole a whole lot of ripe paw-paws and bananas, and brought them to 'Mvoo Laana, and said: "Here's plenty of food for you. Is there anything else you want? Would you like a drink?" And before the youth could answer he ran off with a calabash and brought it back full of water. So the youth ate heartily, and drank all the water he needed, and then each said to the other, "Good-bye, till we meet again," and went their separate ways. When 'Mvoo Laana had walked a great deal farther without finding which way he should go, he met Simba Kongway, who asked, "Where are you going, son of Adam?" And the youth answered, as dolefully as before, "I don't know; I'm lost." "Come, cheer up," said the very old lion, "and rest yourself here a little. I want to repay with kindness to-day the kindness you showed me on a former day." So 'Mvoo Laana sat down. Simba Kongway went away, but soon returned with some game he had caught, and then he brought some fire, and the young man cooked the game and ate it. When he had finished he felt a great deal better, and they bade each other good-bye for the present, and each went his way. After he had traveled another very long distance the youth came to a farm, and was met by a very, very old woman, who said to him: "Stranger, my husband has been taken very sick, and I am looking for some one to make him some medicine. Won't you make it?" But he answered: "My good woman, I am not a doctor, I am a hunter, and never used medicine in my life. I can not help you." When he came to the road leading to the principal city he saw a well, with a bucket standing near it, and he said to himself: "That's just what I want. I'll take a drink of nice well-water. Let me see if the water can be reached." As he peeped over the edge of the well, to see if the water was high enough, what should he behold but a great big snake, which, directly it saw him, said, "Son of Adam, wait a moment." Then it came out of the well and said: "How? Don't you know me?" "I certainly do not," said the youth, stepping back a little. "Well, well!" said the snake; "I could never forget you. I am Neeoka, whom you released from the trap. You know I said, 'Save me from the rain, and I will save you from the sun.' Now, you are a stranger in the town to which you are going; therefore hand me your little bag, and I will place in it the things that will be of use to you when you arrive there." So 'Mvoo Laana gave Neeoka the little bag, and he filled it with chains of gold and silver, and told him to use them freely for his own benefit. Then they parted very cordially. When the youth reached the city, the first man he met was he whom he had released from the trap, who invited him to go home with him, which he did, and the man's wife made him supper. As soon as he could get away unobserved, the man went to the sultan and said: "There is a stranger come to my house with a bag full of chains of silver and gold, which he says he got from a snake that lives in a well. But although he pretends to be a man, I know that he is a snake who has power to look like a man." When the sultan heard this he sent some soldiers who brought 'Mvoo Laana and his little bag before him. When they opened the little bag, the man who was released from the trap persuaded the people that some evil would come out of it, and affect the children of the sultan and the children of the vizir. Then the people became excited, and tied the hands of 'Mvoo Laana behind him. But the great snake had come out of the well and arrived at the town just about this time, and he went and lay at the feet of the man who had said all those bad things about 'Mvoo Laana, and when the people saw this they said to that man: "How is this? There is the great snake that lives in the well, and he stays by you. Tell him to go away." But Neeoka would not stir. So they untied the young man's hands, and tried in every way to make amends for having suspected him of being a wizard. Then the sultan asked him, "Why should this man invite you to his home and then speak ill of you?" And 'Mvoo Laana related all that had happened to him, and how the ape, the snake, and the lion had cautioned him about the results of doing any kindness for a man. And the sultan said: "Although men are often ungrateful, they are not always so; only the bad ones. As for this fellow, he deserves to be put in a sack and drowned in the sea. He was treated kindly, and returned evil for good." VII. HAAMDAANEE. Once there was a very poor man, named Haamdaa'nee, who begged from door to door for his living, sometimes taking things before they were offered him. After a while people became suspicious of him, and stopped giving him anything, in order to keep him away from their houses. So at last he was reduced to the necessity of going every morning to the village dust heap, and picking up and eating the few grains of the tiny little millet seed that he might find there. One day, as he was scratching and turning over the heap, he found a dime, which he tied up in a corner of his ragged dress, and continued to hunt for millet grains, but could not find one. "Oh, well," said he, "I've got a dime now; I'm pretty well fixed. I'll go home and take a nap instead of a meal." So he went to his hut, took a drink of water, put some tobacco in his mouth, and went to sleep. The next morning, as he scratched in the dust heap, he saw a countryman going along, carrying a basket made of twigs, and he called to him: "Hi, there, countryman! What have you in that cage?" The countryman, whose name was Moohaad'eem, replied, "Gazelles." And Haamdaanee called: "Bring them here. Let me see them." Now there were three well-to-do men standing near; and when they saw the countryman coming to Haamdaanee they smiled, and said, "You're taking lots of trouble for nothing, Moohaadeem." "How's that, gentlemen?" he inquired. "Why," said they, "that poor fellow has nothing at all. Not a cent." "Oh, I don't know that," said the countryman; "he may have plenty, for all I know." "Not he," said they. "Don't you see for yourself," continued one of them, "that he is on the dust heap? Every day he scratches there like a hen, trying to get enough grains of millet to keep himself alive. If he had any money, wouldn't he buy a square meal, for once in his life? Do you think he would want to buy a gazelle? What would he do with it? He can't find enough food for himself, without looking for any for a gazelle." But Moohaadeem said: "Gentlemen, I have brought some goods here to sell. I answer all who call me, and if any one says 'Come,' I go to him. I don't favor one and slight another; therefore, as this man called me, I'm going to him." "All right," said the first man; "you don't believe us. Well, we know where he lives, and all about him, and we know that he can't buy anything." "That's so," said the second man. "Perhaps, however, you will see that we were right, after you have a talk with him." To which the third man added, "Clouds are a sign of rain, but we have seen no signs of his being about to spend any money." "All right, gentlemen," said Moohaadeem; "many better-looking people than he call me, and when I show them my gazelles they say, 'Oh, yes, they're very beautiful, but awfully dear; take them away.' So I shall not be disappointed if this man says the same thing. I shall go to him, anyhow." Then one of the three men said, "Let us go with this man, and see what the beggar will buy." "Pshaw!" said another; "buy! You talk foolishly. He has not had a good meal in three years, to my knowledge; and a man in his condition doesn't have money to buy gazelles. However, let's go; and if he makes this poor countryman carry his load over there just for the fun of looking at the gazelles, let each of us give him a good hard whack with our walking-sticks, to teach him how to behave toward honest merchants." So, when they came near him, one of those three men said: "Well, here are the gazelles; now buy one. Here they are, you old hypocrite; you'll feast your eyes on them, but you can't buy them." But Haamdaanee, paying no attention to the men, said to Moohaadeem, "How much for one of your gazelles?" Then another of those men broke in: "You're very innocent, aren't you? You know, as well as I do, that gazelles are sold every day at two for a quarter." Still taking no notice of these outsiders, Haamdaanee continued, "I'd like to buy one for a dime." "One for a dime!" laughed the men; "of course you'd like to buy one for a dime. Perhaps you'd also like to have the dime to buy with." Then one of them gave him a push on the cheek. At this Haamdaanee turned and said: "Why do you push me on the cheek, when I've done nothing to you? I do not know you. I call this man, to transact some business with him, and you, who are strangers, step in to spoil our trade." He then untied the knot in the corner of his ragged coat, produced the dime, and, handing it to Moohaadeem, said, "Please, good man, let me have a gazelle for that." At this, the countryman took a small gazelle out of the cage and handed it to him, saying, "Here, master, take this one. I call it Keejee'paa." Then turning to those three men, he laughed, and said: "Ehe! How's this? You, with your white robes, and turbans, and swords, and daggers, and sandals on your feet--you gentlemen of property, and no mistake--you told me this man was too poor to buy anything; yet he has bought a gazelle for a dime, while you fine fellows, I think, haven't enough money among you to buy half a gazelle, if they were five cents each." Then Moohaadeem and the three men went their several ways. As for Haamdaanee, he stayed at the dust heap until he found a few grains of millet for himself and a few for Keejeepaa, the gazelle, and then went to his hut, spread his sleeping mat, and he and the gazelle slept together. This going to the dust heap for a few grains of millet and then going home to bed continued for about a week. Then one night Haamdaanee was awakened by some one calling, "Master!" Sitting up, he answered: "Here I am. Who calls?" The gazelle answered, "I do!" Upon this, the beggar man became so scared that he did not know whether he should faint or get up and run away. Seeing him so overcome, Keejeepaa asked, "Why, master, what's the matter?" "Oh, gracious!" he gasped; "what a wonder I see!" "A wonder?" said the gazelle, looking all around; "why, what is this wonder, that makes you act as if you were all broken up?" "Why, it's so wonderful, I can hardly believe I'm awake!" said his master. "Who in the world ever before knew of a gazelle that could speak?" "Oho!" laughed Keejeepaa; "is that all? There are many more wonderful things than that. But now, listen, while I tell you why I called you." "Certainly; I'll listen to every word," said the man. "I can't help listening!" "Well, you see, it's just this way," said Keejeepaa; "I've allowed you to become my master, and I can not run away from you; so I want you to make an agreement with me, and I will make you a promise, and keep it." "Say on," said his master. "Now," continued the gazelle, "one doesn't have to be acquainted with you long, in order to discover that you are very poor. This scratching a few grains of millet from the dust heap every day, and managing to subsist upon them, is all very well for you--you're used to it, because it's a matter of necessity with you; but if I keep it up much longer, you won't have any gazelle--Keejeepaa will die of starvation. Therefore, I want to go away every day and feed on my own kind of food; and I promise you I will return every evening." "Well, I guess I'll have to give my consent," said the man, in no very cheerful tone. As it was now dawn, Keejeepaa jumped up and ran out of the door, Haamdaanee following him. The gazelle ran very fast, and his master stood watching him until he disappeared. Then tears started in the man's eyes, and, raising his hands, he cried, "Oh, my mother!" Then he cried, "Oh, my father!" Then he cried, "Oh, my gazelle! It has run away!" Some of his neighbors, who heard him carrying on in this manner, took the opportunity to inform him that he was a fool, an idiot, and a dissipated fellow. Said one of them: "You hung around that dust heap, goodness knows how long, scratching like a hen, till fortune gave you a dime. You hadn't sense enough to go and buy some decent food; you had to buy a gazelle. Now you've let the creature run away. What are you crying about? You brought all your trouble on yourself." All this, of course, was very comforting to Haamdaanee, who slunk off to the dust heap, got a few grains of millet, and came back to his hut, which now seemed meaner and more desolate than ever. At sunset, however, Keejeepaa came trotting in; and the beggar was happy again, and said, "Ah, my friend, you have returned to me." "Of course," said the gazelle; "didn't I promise you? You see, I feel that when you bought me you gave all the money you had in the world, even though it was only a dime. Why, then, should I grieve you? I couldn't do it. If I go and get myself some food, I'll always come back evenings." When the neighbors saw the gazelle come home every evening and run off every morning, they were greatly surprised, and began to suspect that Haamdaanee was a wizard. Well, this coming and going continued for five days, the gazelle telling its master each night what fine places it had been to, and what lots of food it had eaten. On the sixth day it was feeding among some thorn bushes in a thick wood, when, scratching away some bitter grass at the foot of a big tree, it saw an immense diamond of intense brightness. "Oho!" said Keejeepaa, in great astonishment; "here's property, and no mistake! This is worth a kingdom! If I take it to my master he will be killed; for, being a poor man, if they say to him, 'Where did you get it?' and he answers, 'I picked it up,' they will not believe him; if he says, 'It was given to me,' they will not believe him either. It will not do for me to get my master into difficulties. I know what I'll do. I'll seek some powerful person; he will use it properly." So Keejeepaa started off through the forest, holding the diamond in his mouth, and ran, and ran, but saw no town that day; so he slept in the forest, and arose at dawn and pursued his way. And the second day passed like the first. On the third day the gazelle had traveled from dawn until between eight and nine o'clock, when he began to see scattered houses, getting larger in size, and knew he was approaching a town. In due time he found himself in the main street of a large city, leading direct to the sultan's palace, and began to run as fast as he could. People passing along stopped to look at the strange sight of a gazelle running swiftly along the main street with something wrapped in green leaves between its teeth. The sultan was sitting at the door of his palace, when Keejeepaa, stopping a little way off, dropped the diamond from its mouth, and, lying down beside it, panting, called out: "Ho, there! Ho, there!" which is a cry every one makes in that part of the world when wishing to enter a house, remaining outside until the cry is answered. After the cry had been repeated several times, the sultan said to his attendants, "Who is doing all that calling?" And one answered, "Master, it's a gazelle that's calling, 'Ho, there!'" "Ho-ho!" said the sultan; "Ho-ho! Invite the gazelle to come near." Then three attendants ran to Keejeepaa and said: "Come, get up. The sultan commands you to come near." So the gazelle arose, picked up the diamond, and, approaching the sultan, laid the jewel at his feet, saying, "Master, good afternoon!" To which the sultan replied: "May God make it good! Come near." The sultan ordered his attendants to bring a carpet and a large cushion, and desired the gazelle to rest upon them. When it protested that it was comfortable as it was, he insisted, and Keejeepaa had to allow himself to be made a very honored guest. Then they brought milk and rice, and the sultan would hear nothing until the gazelle had fed and rested. At last, when everything had been disposed of, the sultan said, "Well, now, my friend, tell me what news you bring." And Keejeepaa said: "Master, I don't exactly know how you will like the news I bring. The fact is, I'm sent here to insult you! I've come to try and pick a quarrel with you! In fact, I'm here to propose a family alliance with you!" At this the sultan exclaimed: "Oh, come! for a gazelle, you certainly know how to talk! Now, the fact of it is, I'm looking for some one to insult me. I'm just aching to have some one pick a quarrel with me. I'm impatient for a family alliance. Go on with your message." Then Keejeepaa said, "You don't bear any ill will against me, who am only a messenger?" And the sultan said, "None at all." "Well," said Keejeepaa, "look at this pledge I bring;" dropping the diamond wrapped in leaves into the sultan's lap. When the sultan opened the leaves and saw the great, sparkling jewel, he was overcome with astonishment. At last he said, "Well?" "I have brought this pledge," said the gazelle, "from my master, Sultan Daaraa'ee. He has heard that you have a daughter, so he sent you this jewel, hoping you will forgive him for not sending something more worthy of your acceptance than this trifle." "Goodness!" said the sultan to himself; "he calls this a trifle!" Then to the gazelle: "Oh, that's all right; that's all right. I'm satisfied. The Sultan Daaraaee has my consent to marry my daughter, and I don't want a single thing from him. Let him come empty-handed. If he has more of these trifles, let him leave them at home. This is my message, and I hope you will make it perfectly clear to your master." The gazelle assured him that he would explain everything satisfactorily, adding: "And now, master, I take my leave. I go straight to our own town, and hope that in about eleven days we shall return to be your guests." So, with mutual compliments, they parted. In the meantime, Haamdaanee was having an exceedingly tough time. Keejeepaa having disappeared, he wandered about the town moaning, "Oh, my poor gazelle! my poor gazelle!" while the neighbors laughed and jeered at him, until, between them and his loss, he was nearly out of his mind. But one evening, when he had gone to bed, Keejeepaa walked in. Up he jumped, and began to embrace the gazelle, and weep over it, and carry on at a great rate. When he thought there had been about enough of this kind of thing, the gazelle said: "Come, come; keep quiet, my master. I've brought you good news." But the beggar man continued to cry and fondle, and declare that he had thought his gazelle was dead. At last Keejeepaa said: "Oh, well, master, you see I'm all right. You must brace up, and prepare to hear my news, and do as I advise you." "Go on; go on," replied his master; "explain what you will, I'll do whatever you require me to do. If you were to say, 'Lie down on your back, that I may roll you over the side of the hill,' I would lie down." "Well," said the gazelle, "there is not much to explain just now, but I'll tell you this: I've seen many kinds of food, food that is desirable and food that is objectionable, but this food I'm about to offer you is very sweet indeed." "What?" said Haamdaanee. "Is it possible that in this world there is anything that is positively good? There must be good and bad in everything. Food that is both sweet and bitter is good food, but if food were nothing but sweetness would it not be injurious?" "H'm!" yawned the gazelle; "I'm too tired to talk philosophy. Let's go to sleep now, and when I call you in the morning, all you have to do is to get up and follow me." So at dawn they set forth, the gazelle leading the way, and for five days they journeyed through the forest. On the fifth day they came to a stream, and Keejeepaa said to his master, "Lie down here." When he had done so, the gazelle set to and beat him so soundly that he cried out: "Oh, let up, I beg of you!" "Now," said the gazelle, "I'm going away, and when I return I expect to find you right here; so don't you leave this spot on any account." Then he ran away, and about ten o'clock that morning he arrived at the house of the sultan. Now, ever since the day Keejeepaa left the town, soldiers had been placed along the road to watch for and announce the approach of Sultan Daaraaee; so one of them, when he saw the gazelle in the distance, rushed up and cried to the sultan, "Sultan Daaraaee is coming! I've seen the gazelle running as fast as it can in this direction." The sultan and his attendants immediately set out to meet his guests; but when they had gone a little way beyond the town they met the gazelle coming along alone, who, on reaching the sultan, said, "Good day, my master." The sultan replied in kind, and asked the news, but Keejeepaa said: "Ah, do not ask me. I can scarcely walk, and my news is bad!" "Why, how is that?" asked the sultan. "Oh, dear!" sighed the gazelle; "such misfortune and misery! You see, Sultan Daaraaee and I started alone to come here, and we got along all right until we came to the thick part of the forest yonder, when we were met by robbers, who seized my master, bound him, beat him, and took everything he had, even stripping off every stitch of his clothing. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" "Dear me!" said the sultan; "we must attend to this at once." So, hurrying back with his attendants to his house, he called a groom, to whom he said, "Saddle the best horse in my stable, and put on him my finest harness." Then he directed a woman servant to open the big inlaid chest and bring him a bag of clothes. When she brought it he picked out a loin-cloth, and a long white robe, and a black overjacket, and a shawl for the waist, and a turban cloth, all of the very finest. Then he sent for a curved sword with a gold hilt, and a curved dagger with gold filigree, and a pair of elegant sandals, and a fine walking-cane. Then the sultan said to Keejeepaa, "Take some of my soldiers, and let them convey these things to Sultan Daaraaee, that he may dress himself and come to me." But the gazelle answered: "Ah, my master, can I take these soldiers with me and put Sultan Daaraaee to shame? There he lies, beaten and robbed, and I would not have any one see him. I can take everything by myself." "Why," exclaimed the sultan, "here is a horse, and there are clothes and arms. I don't see how a little gazelle can manage all those things." But the gazelle had them fasten everything on the horse's back, and tie the end of the bridle around his own neck, and then he set off alone, amidst the wonder and admiration of the people of that city, high and low. When he arrived at the place where he had left the beggar-man, he found him lying waiting for him, and overjoyed at his return. "Now," said he, "I have brought you the sweet food I promised. Come, get up and bathe yourself." With the hesitation of a person long unaccustomed to such a thing, the man stepped into the stream and began to wet himself a little. "Oh," said the gazelle, impatiently, "a little water like that won't do you much good; get out into the deep pool." "Dear me!" said the man, timidly; "there is so much water there; and where there is much water there are sure to be horrible animals." "Animals! What kind of animals?" "Well, crocodiles, water lizards, snakes, and, at any rate, frogs; and they bite people, and I'm terribly afraid of all of them." "Oh, well," said Keejeepaa, "do the best you can in the stream; but rub yourself well with earth, and, for goodness' sake, scrub your teeth well with sand; they are awfully dirty." So the man obeyed, and soon made quite a change in his appearance. Then the gazelle said: "Here, hurry up and put on these things. The sun has gone down, and we ought to have started before this." So the man dressed himself in the fine clothes the sultan had sent, and then he mounted the horse, and they started; the gazelle trotting on ahead. When they had gone some distance, the gazelle stopped, and said, "See here: nobody who sees you now would suspect that you are the man who scratched in the dust heap yesterday. Even if we were to go back to our town the neighbors would not recognize you, if it were only for the fact that your face is clean and your teeth are white. Your appearance is all right, but I have a caution to give you. Over there, where we are going, I have procured for you the sultan's daughter for a wife, with all the usual wedding gifts. Now, you must keep quiet. Say nothing except, 'How d'ye do?' and 'What's the news?' Let me do the talking." "All right," said the man; "that suits me exactly." "Do you know what your name is?" "Of course I do." "Indeed? Well, what is it?" "Why, my name is Haamdaanee." "Not much," laughed Keejeepaa; "your name is Sultan Daaraaee." "Oh, is it?" said his master. "That's good." So they started forward again, and in a little while they saw soldiers running in every direction, and fourteen of these joined them to escort them. Then they saw ahead of them the sultan, and the vizirs, and the emirs, and the judges, and the great men of the city, coming to meet them. "Now, then," said Keejeepaa, "get off your horse and salute your father-in-law. That's him in the middle, wearing the sky-blue jacket." "All right," said the man, jumping off his horse, which was then led by a soldier. So the two met, and the sultans shook hands, and kissed each other, and walked up to the palace together. Then they had a great feast, and made merry and talked until night, at which time Sultan Daaraaee and the gazelle were put into an inner room, with three soldiers at the door to guard and attend upon them. When the morning came, Keejeepaa went to the sultan and said: "Master, we wish to attend to the business which brought us here. We want to marry your daughter, and the sooner the ceremony takes place, the better it will please the Sultan Daaraaee." "Why, that's all right," said the sultan; "the bride is ready. Let some one call the teacher, Mwaalee'moo, and tell him to come at once." When Mwaaleemoo arrived, the sultan said, "See here, we want you to marry this gentleman to my daughter right away." "All right; I'm ready," said the teacher. So they were married. Early the next morning the gazelle said to his master: "Now I'm off on a journey. I shall be gone about a week; but however long I am gone, don't you leave the house till I return. Good-bye." Then he went to the real sultan and said: "Good master, Sultan Daaraaee has ordered me to return to our town and put his house in order; he commands me to be here again in a week; if I do not return by that time, he will stay here until I come." The sultan asked him if he would not like to have some soldiers go with him; but the gazelle replied that he was quite competent to take care of himself, as his previous journeys had proved, and he preferred to go alone; so with mutual good wishes they parted. But Keejeepaa did not go in the direction of the old village. He struck off by another road through the forest, and after a time came to a very fine town, of large, handsome houses. As he went through the principal street, right to the far end, he was greatly astonished to observe that the town seemed to have no inhabitants, for he saw neither man, woman, nor child in all the place. At the end of the main street he came upon the largest and most beautiful house he had ever seen, built of sapphire, and turquoise, and costly marbles. "Oh, my!" said the gazelle; "this house would just suit my master. I'll have to pluck up my courage and see whether this is deserted like the other houses in this mysterious town." So Keejeepaa knocked at the door, and called, "Hullo, there!" several times; but no one answered. And he said to himself: "This is strange! If there were no one inside, the door would be fastened on the outside. Perhaps they are in another part of the house, or asleep. I'll call again, louder." So he called again, very loud and long, "Hul-lo, th-e-re! Hul-lo!" And directly an old woman inside answered, "Who is that calling so loudly?" "It is I, your grandchild, good mistress," said Keejeepaa. "If you are my grandchild," replied the old woman, "go back to your home at once; don't come and die here, and bring me to my death also." "Oh, come," said he, "open the door, mistress; I have just a few words I wish to say to you." "My dear grandson," she replied, "the only reason why I do not open the door is because I fear to endanger both your life and my own." "Oh, don't worry about that; I guess your life and mine are safe enough for a while. Open the door, anyhow, and hear the little I have to say." So the old woman opened the door. Then they exchanged salutations and compliments, after which she asked the gazelle, "What's the news from your place, grandson?" "Oh, everything is going along pretty well," said he; "what's the news around here?" "Ah!" sighed the old creature; "the news here is very bad. If you're looking for a place to die in, you've struck it here. I've not the slightest doubt you'll see all you want of death this very day." "Huh!" replied Keejeepaa, lightly; "for a fly to die in honey is not bad for the fly, and doesn't injure the honey." "It may be all very well for you to be easy about it," persisted the old person; "but if people with swords and shields did not escape, how can a little thing like you avoid danger? I must again beg of you to go back to the place you came from. Your safety seems of more interest to me than it is to you." "Well, you see, I can't go back just now; and besides, I want to find out more about this place. Who owns it?" "Ah, grandson, in this house are enormous wealth, numbers of people, hundreds of horses, and the owner is Neeo'ka Mkoo', the wonderfully big snake. He owns this whole town, also." "Oho! Is that so?" said Keejeepaa. "Look here, old lady; can't you put me on to some plan of getting near this big snake, that I may kill him?" "Mercy!" cried the old woman, in affright; "don't talk like that. You've put my life in danger already, for I'm sure Neeoka Mkoo can hear what is said in this house, wherever he is. You see I'm a poor old woman, and I have been placed here, with those pots and pans, to cook for him. Well, when the big snake is coming, the wind begins to blow and the dust flies as it would do in a great storm. Then, when he arrives in the courtyard, he eats until he is full, and after that, goes inside there to drink water. When he has finished, he goes away again. This occurs every other day, just when the sun is overhead. I may add that Neeoka Mkoo has seven heads. Now, then, do you think yourself a match for him?" "Look here, mother," said the gazelle, "don't you worry about me. Has this big snake a sword?" "He has. This is it," said she, taking from its peg a very keen and beautiful blade, and handing it to him; "but what's the use in bothering about it? We are dead already." "We shall see about that," said Keejeepaa. Just at that moment the wind began to blow, and the dust to fly, as if a great storm were approaching. "Do you hear the great one coming?" cried the old woman. "Pshaw!" said the gazelle; "I'm a great one also--and I have the advantage of being on the inside. Two bulls can't live in one cattle-pen. Either he will live in this house, or I will." Notwithstanding the terror the old lady was in, she had to smile at the assurance of this little undersized gazelle, and repeated over again her account of the people with swords and shields who had been killed by the big snake. "Ah, stop your gabbling!" said the gazelle; "you can't always judge a banana by its color or size. Wait and see, grandma." In a very little while the big snake, Neeoka Mkoo, came into the courtyard, and went around to all the pots and ate their contents. Then he came to the door. "Hullo, old lady," said he; "how is it I smell a new kind of odor inside there?" "Oh, that's nothing, good master," replied the old woman; "I've been so busy around here lately I haven't had time to look after myself; but this morning I used some perfume, and that's what you smell." Now, Keejeepaa had drawn the sword, and was standing just inside the doorway; so, when the big snake put his head in, it was cut off so quickly that its owner did not know it was gone. When he put in his second head it was cut off with the same quickness; and, feeling a little irritation, he exclaimed, "Who's inside there, scratching me?" He then thrust in his third head, and that was cut off also. This continued until six heads had been disposed of, when Neeoka Mkoo unfolded his rings and lashed around so that the gazelle and the old woman could not see one another through the dust. Then the snake thrust in his seventh head, and the gazelle, crying: "Now your time has come; you've climbed many trees, but this you can not climb," severed it, and immediately fell down in a fainting fit. Well, that old woman, although she was seventy-five years of age, jumped, and shouted, and laughed, like a girl of nine. Then she ran and got water, and sprinkled the gazelle, and turned him this way and that way, until at last he sneezed; which greatly pleased the old person, who fanned him and tended him until he was quite recovered. "Oh, my!" said she; "who would have thought you could be a match for him, my grandson?" "Well, well," said Keejeepaa; "that's all over. Now show me everything around this place." So she showed him everything, from top to bottom: store-rooms full of goods, chambers full of expensive foods, rooms containing handsome people who had been kept prisoners for a long time, slaves, and everything. Next he asked her if there was any person who was likely to lay claim to the place or make any trouble; and she answered: "No one; everything here belongs to you." "Very well, then," said he, "you stay here and take care of these things until I bring my master. This place belongs to him now." Keejeepaa stayed three days examining the house, and said to himself: "Well, when my master comes here he will be much pleased with what I have done for him, and he'll appreciate it after the life he's been accustomed to. As to his father-in-law, there is not a house in his town that can compare with this." On the fourth day he departed, and in due time arrived at the town where the sultan and his master lived. Then there were great rejoicings; the sultan being particularly pleased at his return, while his master felt as if he had received a new lease of life. After everything had settled down a little, Keejeepaa told his master he must be ready to go, with his wife, to his new home after four days. Then he went and told the sultan that Sultan Daaraaee desired to take his wife to his own town in four days; to which the sultan strongly objected; but the gazelle said it was his master's wish, and at last everything was arranged. On the day of the departure a great company assembled to escort Sultan Daaraaee and his bride. There were the bride's ladies-in-waiting, and slaves, and horsemen, and Keejeepaa leading them all. So they traveled three days, resting when the sun was overhead, and stopping each evening about five o'clock to eat and sleep; arising next morning at day-break, eating, and going forward again. And all this time the gazelle took very little rest, going all through the company, from the ladies to the slaves, and seeing that every one was well supplied with food and quite comfortable; therefore the entire company loved him and valued him like the apples of their eyes. On the fourth day, during the afternoon, many houses came into view, and some of the folks called Keejeepaa's attention to them. "Certainly," said he; "that is our town, and that house you see yonder is the palace of Sultan Daaraaee." So they went on, and all the company filed into the courtyard, while the gazelle and his master went into the house. When the old woman saw Keejeepaa, she began to dance, and shout, and carry on, just as she did when he killed Neeoka Mkoo, and taking up his foot she kissed it; but Keejeepaa said: "Old lady, let me alone; the one to be made much of is this my master, Sultan Daaraaee. Kiss his feet; he has the first honors whenever he is present." The old woman excused herself for not knowing the master, and then Sultan Daaraaee and the gazelle went around on a tour of inspection. The sultan ordered all the prisoners to be released, the horses to be sent out to pasture, all the rooms to be swept, the furniture to be dusted, and, in the meantime, servants were busy preparing food. Then every one had apartments assigned to him, and all were satisfied. After they had remained there some time, the ladies who had accompanied the bride expressed a desire to return to their own homes. Keejeepaa begged them not to hurry away, but after a while they departed, each loaded with gifts by the gazelle, for whom they had a thousand times more affection than for his master. Then things settled down to their regular routine. One day the gazelle said to the old woman: "I think the conduct of my master is very singular. I have done nothing but good for him all the time I have been with him. I came to this town and braved many dangers for him, and when all was over I gave everything to him. Yet he has never asked: 'How did you get this house? How did you get this town? Who is the owner of this house? Have you rented all these things, or have they been given you? What has become of the inhabitants of the place?' I don't understand him. And further: although I have done nothing but good for him, he has never done one good thing for me. Nothing here is really his. He never saw such a house or town as this since the day he was born, and he doesn't own anything of it. I believe the old folks were right when they said, 'If you want to do any person good, don't do too much; do him a little harm occasionally, and he'll think more of you.' However, I've done all I can now, and I'd like to see him make some little return." Next morning the old woman was awakened early by the gazelle calling, "Mother! Mother!" When she went to him she found he was sick in his stomach, feverish, and all his legs ached. "Go," said he, "and tell my master I am very ill." So she went upstairs and found the master and mistress sitting on a marble couch, covered with a striped silk scarf from India. "Well," said the master, "what do you want, old woman?" "Oh, my master," cried she, "Keejeepaa is sick!" The mistress started and said: "Dear me! What is the matter with him?" "All his body pains him. He is sick all over." "Oh, well," said the master, "what can I do? Go and get some of that red millet, that is too common for our use, and make him some gruel." "Gracious!" exclaimed his wife, staring at him in amazement; "do you wish her to feed our friend with stuff that a horse would not eat if he were ever so hungry? This is not right of you." "Ah, get out!" said he, "you're crazy. We eat rice; isn't red millet good enough for a gazelle that cost only a dime?" "Oh, but he is no ordinary gazelle. He should be as dear to you as the apple of your eye. If sand got in your eye it would trouble you." "You talk too much," returned her husband; then, turning to the old woman, he said, "Go and do as I told you." So the old woman went downstairs, and when she saw the gazelle, she began to cry, and say, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" It was a long while before the gazelle could persuade her to tell him what had passed upstairs, but at last she told him all. When he had heard it, he said: "Did he really tell you to make me red millet gruel?" "Ah," cried she, "do you think I would say such a thing if it were not so?" "Well," said Keejeepaa, "I believe what the old folks said was right. However, we'll give him another chance. Go up to him again, and tell him I am very sick, and that I can't eat that gruel." So she went upstairs, and found the master and mistress sitting by the window, drinking coffee. The master, looking around and seeing her, said: "What's the matter now, old woman?" And she said: "Master, I am sent by Keejeepaa. He is very sick indeed, and has not taken the gruel you told me to make for him." "Oh, bother!" he exclaimed. "Hold your tongue, and keep your feet still, and shut your eyes, and stop your ears with wax; then, if that gazelle tells you to come up here, say that your legs are stiff; and if he tells you to listen, say your ears are deaf; and if he tells you to look, say your sight has failed you; and if he wants you to talk, tell him your tongue is paralyzed." When the old woman heard these words, she stood and stared, and was unable to move. As for his wife, her face became sad, and the tears began to start from her eyes; observing which, her husband said, sharply, "What's the matter with you, sultan's daughter?" The lady replied, "A man's madness is his undoing." "Why do you say that, mistress?" he inquired. "Ah," said she, "I am grieved, my husband, at your treatment of Keejeepaa. Whenever I say a good word for the gazelle you dislike to hear it. I pity you that your understanding is gone." "What do you mean by talking in that manner to me?" he blustered. "Why, advice is a blessing, if properly taken. A husband should advise with his wife, and a wife with her husband; then they are both blessed." "Oh, stop," said her husband, impatiently; "it's evident you've lost your senses. You should be chained up." Then he said to the old woman: "Never mind her talk; and as to this gazelle, tell him to stop bothering me and putting on style, as if he were the sultan. I can't eat, I can't drink, I can't sleep, because of that gazelle worrying me with his messages. First, the gazelle is sick; then, the gazelle doesn't like what he gets to eat. Confound it! If he likes to eat, let him eat; if he doesn't like to eat, let him die and be out of the way. My mother is dead, and my father is dead, and I still live and eat; shall I be put out of my way by a gazelle, that I bought for a dime, telling me he wants this thing or that thing? Go and tell him to learn how to behave himself toward his superiors." When the old woman went downstairs, she found the gazelle was bleeding at the mouth, and in a very bad way. All she could say was, "My son, the good you did is all lost; but be patient." And the gazelle wept with the old woman when she told him all that had passed, and he said, "Mother, I am dying, not only from sickness, but from shame and anger at this man's ingratitude." After a while Keejeepaa told the old woman to go and tell the master that he believed he was dying. When she went upstairs she found Daaraaee chewing sugar-cane, and she said to him, "Master, the gazelle is worse; we think him nearer to dying than getting well." To which he answered: "Haven't I told you often enough not to bother me?" Then his wife said: "Oh, husband, won't you go down and see the poor gazelle? If you don't like to go, let me go and see him. He never gets a single good thing from you." But he turned to the old woman and said, "Go and tell that nuisance of a gazelle to die eleven times if he chooses to." "Now, husband," persisted the lady, "what has Keejeepaa done to you? Has he done you any wrong? Such words as yours people use to their enemies only. Surely the gazelle is not your enemy. All the people who know him, great and lowly, love him dearly, and they will think it very wrong of you if you neglect him. Now, do be kind to him, Sultan Daaraaee." But he only repeated his assertion that she had lost her wits, and would have nothing further of argument. So the old woman went down and found the gazelle worse than ever. In the meantime Sultan Daaraaee's wife managed to give some rice to a servant to cook for the gazelle, and also sent him a soft shawl to cover him and a pillow to lie upon. She also sent him a message that if he wished, she would have her father's best physicians attend him. All this was too late, however, for just as these good things arrived, Keejeepaa died. When the people heard he was dead, they went running around crying and having an awful time; and when Sultan Daaraaee found out what all the commotion was about he was very indignant, remarking, "Why, you are making as much fuss as if I were dead, and all over a gazelle that I bought for a dime!" But his wife said: "Husband, it was this gazelle that came to ask me of my father, it was he who brought me from my father's, and it was to him I was given by my father. He gave you everything good, and you do not possess a thing that he did not procure for you. He did everything he could to help you, and you not only returned him unkindness, but now he is dead you have ordered people to throw him into the well. Let us alone, that we may weep." But the gazelle was taken and thrown into the well. Then the lady wrote a letter telling her father to come to her directly, and despatched it by trusty messengers; upon the receipt of which the sultan and his attendants started hurriedly to visit his daughter. When they arrived, and heard that the gazelle was dead and had been thrown into the well, they wept very much; and the sultan, and the vizir, and the judges, and the rich chief men, all went down into the well and brought up the body of Keejeepaa, and took it away with them and buried it. Now, that night the lady dreamt that she was at home at her father's house; and when dawn came she awoke and found she was in her own bed in her own town again. And her husband dreamed that he was on the dust heap, scratching; and when he awoke there he was, with both hands full of dust, looking for grains of millet. Staring wildly he looked around to the right and left, saying: "Oh, who has played this trick on me? How did I get back here, I wonder?" Just then the children going along, and seeing him, laughed and hooted at him, calling out: "Hullo, Haamdaanee, where have you been? Where do you come from? We thought you were dead long ago." So the sultan's daughter lived in happiness with her people until the end, and that beggar-man continued to scratch for grains of millet in the dust heap until he died. If this story is good, the goodness belongs to all; if it is bad, the badness belongs only to him who told it. VIII. MKAAAH JEECHONEE, THE BOY HUNTER. Sultan Maaj'noon had seven sons and a big cat, of all of whom he was very proud. Everything went well until one day the cat went and caught a calf. When they told the sultan he said, "Well, the cat is mine, and the calf is mine." So they said, "Oh, all right, master," and let the matter drop. A few days later the cat caught a goat; and when they told the sultan he said, "The cat is mine, and the goat is mine;" and so that settled it again. Two days more passed, and the cat caught a cow. They told the sultan, and he shut them up with "My cat, and my cow." After another two days the cat caught a donkey; same result. Next it caught a horse; same result. The next victim was a camel; and when they told the sultan he said: "What's the matter with you folks? It was my cat, and my camel. I believe you don't like my cat, and want it killed, bringing me tales about it every day. Let it eat whatever it wants to." In a very short time it caught a child, and then a full-grown man; but each time the sultan remarked that both the cat and its victim were his, and thought no more of it. Meantime the cat grew bolder, and hung around a low, open place near the town, pouncing on people going for water, or animals out at pasture, and eating them. At last some of the people plucked up courage; and, going to the sultan, said: "How is this, master? As you are our sultan you are our protector,--or ought to be,--yet you have allowed this cat to do as it pleases, and now it lives just out of town there, and kills everything living that goes that way, while at night it comes into town and does the same thing. Now, what on earth are we to do?" But Maajnoon only replied: "I really believe you hate my cat. I suppose you want me to kill it; but I shall do no such thing. Everything it eats is mine." Of course the folks were astonished at this result of the interview, and, as no one dared to kill the cat, they all had to remove from the vicinity where it lived. But this did not mend matters, because, when it found no one came that way, it shifted its quarters likewise. So complaints continued to pour in, until at last Sultan Maajnoon gave orders that if any one came to make accusations against the cat, he was to be informed that the master could not be seen. When things got so that people neither let their animals out nor went out themselves, the cat went farther into the country, killing and eating cattle, and fowls, and everything that came its way. One day the sultan said to six of his sons, "I'm going to look at the country to-day; come along with me." The seventh son was considered too young to go around anywhere, and was always left at home with the women folk, being called by his brothers Mkaa'ah Jeecho'nee, which means Mr. Sit-in-the-kitchen. Well, they went, and presently came to a thicket. The father was in front and the six sons following him, when the cat jumped out and killed three of the latter. The attendants shouted, "The cat! the cat!" and the soldiers asked permission to search for and kill it, which the sultan readily granted, saying: "This is not a cat, it is a noon'dah. It has taken from me my own sons." Now, nobody had ever seen a noondah, but they all knew it was a terrible beast that could kill and eat all other living things. When the sultan began to bemoan the loss of his sons, some of those who heard him said: "Ah, master, this noondah does not select his prey. He doesn't say: 'This is my master's son, I'll leave him alone,' or, 'This is my master's wife, I won't eat her.' When we told you what the cat had done, you always said it was your cat, and what it ate was yours, and now it has killed your sons, and we don't believe it would hesitate to eat even you." And he said, "I fear you are right." As for the soldiers who tried to get the cat, some were killed and the remainder ran away, and the sultan and his living sons took the dead bodies home and buried them. Now when Mkaaah Jeechonee, the seventh son, heard that his brothers had been killed by the noondah, he said to his mother, "I, too, will go, that it may kill me as well as my brothers, or I will kill it." But his mother said: "My son, I do not like to have you go. Those three are already dead; and if you are killed also, will not that be one wound upon another to my heart?" "Nevertheless," said he, "I can not help going; but do not tell my father." So his mother made him some cakes, and sent some attendants with him; and he took a great spear, as sharp as a razor, and a sword, bade her farewell, and departed. As he had always been left at home, he had no very clear idea what he was going to hunt for; so he had not gone far beyond the suburbs, when, seeing a very large dog, he concluded that this was the animal he was after; so he killed it, tied a rope to it, and dragged it home, singing, "Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people." When his mother, who was upstairs, heard him, she looked out of the window, and, seeing what he had brought, said, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people." So he left the carcass outside and went in to talk about it, and his mother said, "My dear boy, the noondah is a much larger animal than that; but if I were you, I'd give the business up and stay at home." "No, indeed," he exclaimed; "no staying at home for me until I have met and fought the noondah." So he set out again, and went a great deal farther than he had gone on the former day. Presently he saw a civet cat, and, believing it to be the animal he was in search of, he killed it, bound it, and dragged it home, singing, "Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people." When his mother saw the civet cat, she said, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people." And he threw it away. Again his mother entreated him to stay at home, but he would not listen to her, and started off again. This time he went away off into the forest, and seeing a bigger cat than the last one, he killed it, bound it, and dragged it home, singing, "Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people." But directly his mother saw it, she had to tell him, as before, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people." He was, of course, very much troubled at this; and his mother said, "Now, where do you expect to find this noondah? You don't know where it is, and you don't know what it looks like. You'll get sick over this; you're not looking so well now as you did. Come, stay at home." But he said: "There are three things, one of which I shall do: I shall die; I shall find the noondah and kill it; or I shall return home unsuccessful. In any case, I'm off again." This time he went farther than before, saw a zebra, killed it, bound it, and dragged it home, singing, "Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people." Of course his mother had to tell him, once again, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people." After a good deal of argument, in which his mother's persuasion, as usual, was of no avail, he went off again, going farther than ever, when he caught a giraffe; and when he had killed it he said: "Well, this time I've been successful. This must be the noondah." So he dragged it home, singing, "Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people." Again his mother had to assure him, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people." She then pointed out to him that his brothers were not running about hunting for the noondah, but staying at home attending to their own business. But, remarking that all brothers were not alike, he expressed his determination to stick to his task until it came to a successful termination, and went off again, a still greater distance than before. While going through the wilderness he espied a rhinoceros asleep under a tree, and turning to his attendants he exclaimed, "At last I see the noondah." "Where, master?" they all cried, eagerly. "There, under the tree." "Oh-h! What shall we do?" they asked. And he answered: "First of all, let us eat our fill, then we will attack it. We have found it in a good place, though if it kills us, we can't help it." So they all took out their arrowroot cakes and ate till they were satisfied. Then Mkaaah Jeechonee said, "Each of you take two guns; lay one beside you and take the other in your hands, and at the proper time let us all fire at once." And they said, "All right, master." So they crept cautiously through the bushes and got around to the other side of the tree, at the back of the rhinoceros; then they closed up till they were quite near it, and all fired together. The beast jumped up, ran a little way, and then fell down dead. They bound it, and dragged it for two whole days, until they reached the town, when Mkaaah Jeechonee began singing, "Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people." But he received the same answer from his mother: "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people." And many persons came and looked at the rhinoceros, and felt very sorry for the young man. As for his father and mother, they both begged of him to give up, his father offering to give him anything he possessed if he would only stay at home. But he said, "I don't hear what you are saying; good-bye," and was off again. This time he still further increased the distance from his home, and at last he saw an elephant asleep at noon in the forest. Thereupon he said to his attendants, "Now we have found the noondah." "Ah, where is he?" said they. "Yonder, in the shade. Do you see it?" "Oh, yes, master; shall we march up to it?" "If we march up to it, and it is looking this way, it will come at us, and if it does that, some of us will be killed. I think we had best let one man steal up close and see which way its face is turned." As every one thought this was a good idea, a slave named Keerobo'to crept on his hands and knees, and had a good look at it. When he returned in the same manner, his master asked: "Well, what's the news? Is it the noondah?" "I do not know," replied Keeroboto; "but I think there is very little doubt that it is. It is broad, with a very big head, and, goodness, I never saw such large ears!" "All right," said Mkaaah Jeechonee; "let us eat, and then go for it." So they took their arrowroot cakes, and their molasses cakes, and ate until they were quite full. Then the youth said to them: "My people, to-day is perhaps the last we shall ever see; so we will take leave of each other. Those who are to escape will escape, and those who are to die will die; but if I die, let those who escape tell my mother and father not to grieve for me." But his attendants said, "Oh, come along, master; none of us will die, please God." So they went on their hands and knees till they were close up, and then they said to Mkaaah Jeechonee, "Give us your plan, master;" but he said, "There is no plan, only let all fire at once." Well, they fired all at once, and immediately the elephant jumped up and charged at them. Then such a helter-skelter flight as there was! They threw away their guns and everything they carried, and made for the trees, which they climbed with surprising alacrity. As to the elephant, he kept straight ahead until he fell down some distance away. They all remained in the trees from three until six o'clock in the morning, without food and without clothing. The young man sat in his tree and wept bitterly, saying, "I don't exactly know what death is, but it seems to me this must be very like it." As no one could see any one else, he did not know where his attendants were, and though he wished to come down from the tree, he thought, "Maybe the noondah is down below there, and will eat me." Each attendant was in exactly the same fix, wishing to come down, but afraid the noondah was waiting to eat him. Keeroboto had seen the elephant fall, but was afraid to get down by himself, saying, "Perhaps, though it has fallen down, it is not dead." But presently he saw a dog go up to it and smell it, and then he was sure it was dead. Then he got down from the tree as fast as he could and gave a signal cry, which was answered; but not being sure from whence the answer came, he repeated the cry, listening intently. When it was answered he went straight to the place from which the sound proceeded, and found two of his companions in one tree. To them he said, "Come on; get down; the noondah is dead." So they got down quickly and hunted around until they found their master. When they told him the news, he came down also; and after a little the attendants had all gathered together and had picked up their guns and their clothes, and were all right again. But they were all weak and hungry, so they rested and ate some food, after which they went to examine their prize. As soon as Mkaaah Jeechonee saw it he said, "Ah, this is the noondah! This is it! This is it!" And they all agreed that it was it. So they dragged the elephant three days to their town, and then the youth began singing, "Oh, mother, this is he, The noondah, eater of the people." He was, naturally, quite upset when his mother replied, "My son, this is not the noondah, eater of the people." She further said: "Poor boy! what trouble you have been through. All the people are astonished that one so young should have such a great understanding!" Then his father and mother began their entreaties again, and finally it was agreed that this next trip should be his last, whatever the result might be. Well, they started off again, and went on and on, past the forest, until they came to a very high mountain, at the foot of which they camped for the night. In the morning they cooked their rice and ate it, and then Mkaaah Jeechonee said: "Let us now climb the mountain, and look all over the country from its peak." And they went and they went, until after a long, weary while, they reached the top, where they sat down to rest and form their plans. Now, one of the attendants, named Shindaa'no, while walking about, cast his eyes down the side of the mountain, and suddenly saw a great beast about half way down; but he could not make out its appearance distinctly, on account of the distance and the trees. Calling his master, he pointed it out to him, and something in Mkaaah Jeechonee's heart told him that it was the noondah. To make sure, however, he took his gun and his spear and went partly down the mountain to get a better view. "Ah," said he, "this must be the noondah. My mother told me its ears were small, and those are small; she told me the noondah is broad and short, and so is this; she said it has two blotches, like a civet cat, and there are the blotches; she told me the tail is thick, and there is a thick tail. It must be the noondah." Then he went back to his attendants and bade them eat heartily, which they did. Next he told them to leave every unnecessary thing behind, because if they had to run they would be better without encumbrance, and if they were victorious they could return for their goods. When they had made all their arrangements they started down the mountain, but when they had got about half way down Keeroboto and Shindaano were afraid. Then the youth said to them: "Oh, let's go on; don't be afraid. We all have to live and die. What are you frightened about?" So, thus encouraged, they went on. When they came near the place, Mkaaah Jeechonee ordered them to take off all their clothing except one piece, and to place that tightly on their bodies, so that if they had to run they would not be caught by thorns or branches. So when they came close to the beast, they saw that it was asleep, and all agreed that it was the noondah. Then the young man said, "Now the sun is setting, shall we fire at it, or let be till morning?" And they all wished to fire at once, and see what the result would be without further tax on their nerves; therefore they arranged that they should all fire together. They all crept up close, and when the master gave the word, they discharged their guns together. The noondah did not move; that one dose had been sufficient. Nevertheless, they all turned and scampered up to the top of the mountain. There they ate and rested for the night. In the morning they ate their rice, and then went down to see how matters were, when they found the beast lying dead. After resting and eating, they started homeward, dragging the dead beast with them. On the fourth day it began to give indications of decay, and the attendants wished to abandon it; but Mkaaah Jeechonee said they would continue to drag it if there was only one bone left. When they came near the town he began to sing, "Mother, mother, I have come From the evil spirits, home. Mother, listen while I sing; While I tell you what I bring. Oh, mother, I have killed The noondah, eater of the people." And when his mother looked out, she cried, "My son, this is the noondah, eater of the people." Then all the people came out to welcome him, and his father was overcome with joy, and loaded him with honors, and procured him a rich and beautiful wife; and when he died Mkaaah Jeechonee became sultan, and lived long and happily, beloved by all the people. IX. THE MAGICIAN AND THE SULTAN'S SON. There was once a sultan who had three little sons, and no one seemed to be able to teach them anything; which greatly grieved both the sultan and his wife. One day a magician came to the sultan and said, "If I take your three boys and teach them to read and write, and make great scholars of them, what will you give me?" And the sultan said, "I will give you half of my property." "No," said the magician; "that won't do." "I'll give you half of the towns I own." "No; that will not satisfy me." "What do you want, then?" "When I have made them scholars and bring them back to you, choose two of them for yourself and give me the third; for I want to have a companion of my own." "Agreed," said the sultan. So the magician took them away, and in a remarkably short time taught them to read, and to make letters, and made them quite good scholars. Then he took them back to the sultan and said: "Here are the children. They are all equally good scholars. Choose." So the sultan took the two he preferred, and the magician went away with the third, whose name was Keejaa'naa, to his own house, which was a very large one. When they arrived, Mchaa'wee, the magician, gave the youth all the keys, saying, "Open whatever you wish to." Then he told him that he was his father, and that he was going away for a month. When he was gone, Keejaanaa took the keys and went to examine the house. He opened one door, and saw a room full of liquid gold. He put his finger in, and the gold stuck to it, and, wipe and rub as he would, the gold would not come off; so he wrapped a piece of rag around it, and when his supposed father came home and saw the rag, and asked him what he had been doing to his finger, he was afraid to tell him the truth, so he said that he had cut it. Not very long after, Mchaawee went away again, and the youth took the keys and continued his investigations. The first room he opened was filled with the bones of goats, the next with sheep's bones, the next with the bones of oxen, the fourth with the bones of donkeys, the fifth with those of horses, the sixth contained men's skulls, and in the seventh was a live horse. "Hullo!" said the horse; "where do you come from, you son of Adam?" "This is my father's house," said Keejaanaa. "Oh, indeed!" was the reply. "Well, you've got a pretty nice parent! Do you know that he occupies himself with eating people, and donkeys, and horses, and oxen and goats and everything he can lay his hands on? You and I are the only living things left." This scared the youth pretty badly, and he faltered, "What are we to do?" "What's your name?" said the horse. "Keejaanaa." "Well, I'm Faaraa'see. Now, Keejaanaa, first of all, come and unfasten me." The youth did so at once. "Now, then, open the door of the room with the gold in it, and I will swallow it all; then I'll go and wait for you under the big tree down the road a little way. When the magician comes home, he will say to you, 'Let us go for firewood;' then you answer, 'I don't understand that work;' and he will go by himself. When he comes back, he will put a great big pot on the hook and will tell you to make a fire under it. Tell him you don't know how to make a fire, and he will make it himself. "Then he will bring a large quantity of butter, and while it is getting hot he will put up a swing and say to you, 'Get up there, and I'll swing you.' But you tell him you never played at that game, and ask him to swing first, that you may see how it is done. Then he will get up to show you; and you must push him into the big pot, and then come to me as quickly as you can." Then the horse went away. Now, Mchaawee had invited some of his friends to a feast at his house that evening; so, returning home early, he said to Keejaanaa, "Let us go for firewood;" but the youth answered, "I don't understand that work." So he went by himself and brought the wood. Then he hung up the big pot and said, "Light the fire;" but the youth said, "I don't know how to do it." So the magician laid the wood under the pot and lighted it himself. Then he said, "Put all that butter in the pot;" but the youth answered, "I can't lift it; I'm not strong enough." So he put in the butter himself. Next Mchaawee said, "Have you seen our country game?" And Keejaanaa answered, "I think not." "Well," said the magician, "let's play at it while the butter is getting hot." So he tied up the swing and said to Keejaanaa, "Get up here, and learn the game." But the youth said: "You get up first and show me. I'll learn quicker that way." The magician got into the swing, and just as he got started Keejaanaa gave him a push right into the big pot; and as the butter was by this time boiling, it not only killed him, but cooked him also. As soon as the youth had pushed the magician into the big pot, he ran as fast as he could to the big tree, where the horse was waiting for him. "Come on," said Faaraasee; "jump on my back and let's be going." So he mounted and they started off. When the magician's guests arrived they looked everywhere for him, but, of course, could not find him. Then, after waiting a while, they began to be very hungry; so, looking around for something to eat, they saw that the stew in the big pot was done, and, saying to each other, "Let's begin, anyway," they started in and ate the entire contents of the pot. After they had finished, they searched for Mchaawee again, and finding lots of provisions in the house, they thought they would stay there until he came; but after they had waited a couple of days and eaten all the food in the place, they gave him up and returned to their homes. Meanwhile Keejaanaa and the horse continued on their way until they had gone a great distance, and at last they stopped near a large town. "Let us stay here," said the youth, "and build a house." As Faaraasee was agreeable, they did so. The horse coughed up all the gold he had swallowed, with which they purchased slaves, and cattle, and everything they needed. When the people of the town saw the beautiful new house and all the slaves, and cattle, and riches it contained, they went and told their sultan, who at once made up his mind that the owner of such a place must be of sufficient importance to be visited and taken notice of, as an acquisition to the neighborhood. So he called on Keejaanaa, and inquired who he was. "Oh, I'm just an ordinary being, like other people." "Are you a traveler?" "Well, I have been; but I like this place, and think I'll settle down here." "Why don't you come and walk in our town?" "I should like to very much, but I need some one to show me around." "Oh, I'll show you around," said the sultan, eagerly, for he was quite taken with the young man. After this Keejaanaa and the sultan became great friends; and in the course of time the young man married the sultan's daughter, and they had one son. They lived very happily together, and Keejaanaa loved Faaraasee as his own soul. X. THE PHYSICIAN'S SON AND THE KING OF THE SNAKES. Once there was a very learned physician, who died leaving his wife with a little baby boy, whom, when he was old enough, she named, according to his father's wish, Hassee'boo Kareem' Ed Deen'. When the boy had been to school, and had learned to read, his mother sent him to a tailor, to learn his trade, but he could not learn it. Then he was sent to a silversmith, but he could not learn his trade either. After that he tried many trades, but could learn none of them. At last his mother said, "Well, stay at home for a while;" and that seemed to suit him. One day he asked his mother what his father's business had been, and she told him he was a very great physician. "Where are his books?" he asked. "Well, it's a long time since I saw them," replied his mother, "but I think they are behind there. Look and see." So he hunted around a little and at last found them, but they were almost ruined by insects, and he gained little from them. At last, four of the neighbors came to his mother and said, "Let your boy go along with us and cut wood in the forest." It was their business to cut wood, load it on donkeys, and sell it in the town for making fires. "All right," said she; "to-morrow I'll buy him a donkey, and he can start fair with you." So the next day Hasseeboo, with his donkey, went off with those four persons, and they worked very hard and made a lot of money that day. This continued for six days, but on the seventh day it rained heavily, and they had to get under the rocks to keep dry. Now, Hasseeboo sat in a place by himself, and, having nothing else to do, he picked up a stone and began knocking on the ground with it. To his surprise the ground gave forth a hollow sound, and he called to his companions, saying, "There seems to be a hole under here." Upon hearing him knock again, they decided to dig and see what was the cause of the hollow sound; and they had not gone very deep before they broke into a large pit, like a well, which was filled to the top with honey. They didn't do any firewood chopping after that, but devoted their entire attention to the collection and sale of the honey. With a view to getting it all out as quickly as possible, they told Hasseeboo to go down into the pit and dip out the honey, while they put it in vessels and took it to town for sale. They worked for three days, making a great deal of money. At last there was only a little honey left at the very bottom of the pit, and they told the boy to scrape that together while they went to get a rope to haul him out. But instead of getting the rope, they decided to let him remain in the pit, and divide the money among themselves. So, when he had gathered the remainder of the honey together, and called for the rope, he received no answer; and after he had been alone in the pit for three days he became convinced that his companions had deserted him. Then those four persons went to his mother and told her that they had become separated in the forest, that they had heard a lion roaring, and that they could find no trace of either her son or his donkey. His mother, of course, cried very much, and the four neighbors pocketed her son's share of the money. To return to Hasseeboo. He passed the time walking about the pit, wondering what the end would be, eating scraps of honey, sleeping a little, and sitting down to think. While engaged in the last occupation, on the fourth day, he saw a scorpion fall to the ground--a large one, too--and he killed it. Then suddenly he thought to himself, "Where did that scorpion come from? There must be a hole somewhere. I'll search, anyhow." So he searched around until he saw light through a tiny crack; and he took his knife and scooped and scooped, until he had made a hole big enough to pass through; then he went out, and came upon a place he had never seen before. Seeing a path, he followed it until he came to a very large house, the door of which was not fastened. So he went inside, and saw golden doors, with golden locks, and keys of pearl, and beautiful chairs inlaid with jewels and precious stones, and in a reception room he saw a couch covered with a splendid spread, upon which he lay down. Presently he found himself being lifted off the couch and put in a chair, and heard some one saying: "Do not hurt him; wake him gently," and on opening his eyes he found himself surrounded by numbers of snakes, one of them wearing beautiful royal colors. "Hullo!" he cried; "who are you?" "I am Sulta'nee Waa' Neeo'ka, king of the snakes, and this is my house. Who are you?" "I am Hasseeboo Kareem Ed Deen." "Where do you come from?" "I don't know where I come from, or where I'm going." "Well, don't bother yourself just now. Let's eat; I guess you are hungry, and I know I am." Then the king gave orders, and some of the other snakes brought the finest fruits, and they ate and drank and conversed. When the repast was ended, the king desired to hear Hasseeboo's story; so he told him all that had happened, and then asked to hear the story of his host. "Well," said the king of the snakes, "mine is rather a long story, but you shall hear it. A long time ago I left this place, to go and live in the mountains of Al Kaaf', for the change of air. One day I saw a stranger coming along, and I said to him, 'Where are you from?' and he said, 'I am wandering in the wilderness.' 'Whose son are you?' I asked. 'My name is Bolookee'a. My father was a sultan; and when he died I opened a small chest, inside of which I found a bag, which contained a small brass box; when I had opened this I found some writing tied up in a woolen cloth, and it was all in praise of a prophet. He was described as such a good and wonderful man, that I longed to see him; but when I made inquiries concerning him I was told he was not yet born. Then I vowed I would wander until I should see him. So I left our town, and all my property, and I am wandering, but I have not yet seen that prophet.' "Then I said to him, 'Where do you expect to find him, if he's not yet born? Perhaps if you had some serpent's water you might keep on living until you find him. But it's of no use talking about that; the serpent's water is too far away.' "'Well,' he said, 'good-bye. I must wander on.' So I bade him farewell, and he went his way. "Now, when that man had wandered until he reached Egypt, he met another man, who asked him, 'Who are you?' "'I am Bolookeea. Who are you?' "'My name is Al Faan'. Where are you going?' "'I have left my home, and my property, and I am seeking the prophet. "'H'm!' said Al Faan; 'I can tell you of a better occupation than looking for a man that is not born yet. Let us go and find the king of the snakes and get him to give us a charm medicine; then we will go to King Solomon and get his rings, and we shall be able to make slaves of the genii and order them to do whatever we wish.' "And Bolookeea said, 'I have seen the king of the snakes in the mountain of Al Kaaf.' "'All right,' said Al Faan; 'let's go.' "Now, Al Faan wanted the ring of Solomon that he might be a great magician and control the genii and the birds, while all Bolookeea wanted was to see the great prophet. "As they went along, Al Faan said to Bolookeea, 'Let us make a cage and entice the king of the snakes into it; then we will shut the door and carry him off.' "'All right,' said Bolookeea. "So they made a cage, and put therein a cup of milk and a cup of wine, and brought it to Al Kaaf; and I, like a fool, went in, drank up all the wine and became drunk. Then they fastened the door and took me away with them. "When I came to my senses I found myself in the cage, and Bolookeea carrying me, and I said, 'The sons of Adam are no good. What do you want from me?' And they answered, 'We want some medicine to put on our feet, so that we may walk upon the water whenever it is necessary in the course of our journey.' 'Well,' said I, 'go along.' "We went on until we came to a place where there were a great number and variety of trees; and when those trees saw me, they said, 'I am medicine for this;' 'I am medicine for that;' 'I am medicine for the head;' 'I am medicine for the feet;' and presently one tree said, 'If any one puts my medicine upon his feet he can walk on water.' "When I told that to those men they said, 'That is what we want;' and they took a great deal of it. "Then they took me back to the mountain and set me free; and we said good-bye and parted. "When they left me, they went on their way until they reached the sea, when they put the medicine on their feet and walked over. Thus they went many days, until they came near to the place of King Solomon, where they waited while Al Faan prepared his medicines. "When they arrived at King Solomon's place, he was sleeping, and was being watched by genii, and his hand lay on his chest, with the ring on his finger. "As Bolookeea drew near, one of the genii said to him 'Where are you going?' And he answered, 'I'm here with Al Faan; he's going to take that ring.' 'Go back,' said the genie; 'keep out of the way. That man is going to die.' "When Al Faan had finished his preparations, he said to Bolookeea, 'Wait here for me.' Then he went forward to take the ring, when a great cry arose, and he was thrown by some unseen force a considerable distance. "Picking himself up, and still believing in the power of his medicines, he approached the ring again, when a strong breath blew upon him and he was burnt to ashes in a moment. "While Bolookeea was looking at all this, a voice said, 'Go your way; this wretched being is dead.' So he returned; and when he got to the sea again he put the medicine upon his feet and passed over, and continued to wander for many years. "One morning he saw a man sitting down, and said 'Good-morning,' to which the man replied. Then Bolookeea asked him, 'Who are you?' and he answered: 'My name is Jan Shah. Who are you?' So Bolookeea told him who he was, and asked him to tell him his history. The man, who was weeping and smiling by turns, insisted upon hearing Bolookeea's story first. After he had heard it he said: "'Well, sit down, and I'll tell you my story from beginning to end. My name is Jan Shah, and my father is Tooeegha'mus, a great sultan. He used to go every day into the forest to shoot game; so one day I said to him, "Father, let me go with you into the forest to-day;" but he said, "Stay at home. You are better there." Then I cried bitterly, and as I was his only child, whom he loved dearly, he couldn't stand my tears, so he said: "Very well; you shall go. Don't cry." "'Thus we went to the forest, and took many attendants with us; and when we reached the place we ate and drank, and then every one set out to hunt. "'I and my seven slaves went on until we saw a beautiful gazelle, which we chased as far as the sea without capturing it. When the gazelle took to the water I and four of my slaves took a boat, the other three returning to my father, and we chased that gazelle until we lost sight of the shore, but we caught it and killed it. Just then a great wind began to blow, and we lost our way. "'When the other three slaves came to my father, he asked them, "Where is your master?" and they told him about the gazelle and the boat. Then he cried, "My son is lost! My son is lost!" and returned to the town and mourned for me as one dead. "'After a time we came to an island, where there were a great many birds. We found fruit and water, we ate and drank, and at night we climbed into a tree and slept till morning. "'Then we rowed to a second island, and, seeing no one around, we gathered fruit, ate and drank, and climbed a tree as before. During the night we heard many savage beasts howling and roaring near us. "'In the morning we got away as soon as possible, and came to a third island. Looking around for food, we saw a tree full of fruit like red-streaked apples; but, as we were about to pick some, we heard a voice say, "Don't touch this tree; it belongs to the king." Toward night a number of monkeys came, who seemed much pleased to see us, and they brought us all the fruit we could eat. "'Presently I heard one of them say, "Let us make this man our sultan." Then another one said: "What's the use? They'll all run away in the morning." But a third one said, "Not if we smash their boat." Sure enough, when we started to leave in the morning, our boat was broken in pieces. So there was nothing for it but to stay there and be entertained by the monkeys, who seemed to like us very much. "'One day, while strolling about, I came upon a great stone house, having an inscription on the door, which said, "When any man comes to this island, he will find it difficult to leave, because the monkeys desire to have a man for their king. If he looks for a way to escape, he will think there is none; but there is one outlet, which lies to the north. If you go in that direction you will come to a great plain, which is infested with lions, leopards, and snakes. You must fight all of them; and if you overcome them you can go forward. You will then come to another great plain, inhabited by ants as big as dogs; their teeth are like those of dogs, and they are very fierce. You must fight these also, and if you overcome them, the rest of the way is clear." "'I consulted with my attendants over this information, and we came to the conclusion that, as we could only die, anyhow, we might as well risk death to gain our freedom. "'As we all had weapons, we set forth; and when we came to the first plain we fought, and two of my slaves were killed. Then we went on to the second plain, fought again; my other two slaves were killed, and I alone escaped. "'After that I wandered on for many days, living on whatever I could find, until at last I came to a town, where I stayed for some time, looking for employment but finding none. "'One day a man came up to me and said, "Are you looking for work?" "I am," said I. "Come with me, then," said he; and we went to his house. "'When we got there he produced a camel's skin, and said, "I shall put you in this skin, and a great bird will carry you to the top of yonder mountain. When he gets you there, he will tear this skin off you. You must then drive him away and push down the precious stones you will find there. When they are all down, I will get you down." "'So he put me in the skin; the bird carried me to the top of the mountain and was about to eat me, when I jumped up, scared him away, and then pushed down many precious stones. Then I called out to the man to take me down, but he never answered me, and went away. "'I gave myself up for a dead man, but went wandering about, until at last, after passing many days in a great forest, I came to a house, all by itself; the old man who lived in it gave me food and drink, and I was revived. "'I remained there a long time, and that old man loved me as if I were his own son. "'One day he went away, and giving me the keys, told me I could open the door of every room except one which he pointed out to me. "'Of course, when he was gone, this was the first door I opened. I saw a large garden, through which a stream flowed. Just then three birds came and alighted by the side of the stream. Immediately they changed to three most beautiful women. When they had finished bathing, they put on their clothes, and, as I stood watching them, they changed into birds again and flew away. "'I locked the door, and went away; but my appetite was gone, and I wandered about aimlessly. When the old man came back, he saw there was something wrong with me, and asked me what was the matter. Then I told him I had seen those beautiful maidens, that I loved one of them very much, and that if I could not marry her I should die. "'The old man told me I could not possibly have my wish. He said the three lovely beings were the daughters of the sultan of the genii, and that their home was a journey of three years from where we then were. "'I told him I couldn't help that. He must get her for my wife, or I should die. At last he said, "Well, wait till they come again, then hide yourself and steal the clothes of the one you love so dearly." "'So I waited, and when they came again I stole the clothes of the youngest, whose name was Sayadaa'tee Shems. "'When they came out of the water, this one could not find her clothes. Then I stepped forward and said, "I have them." "Ah," she begged, "give them to me, their owner; I want to go away." But I said to her, "I love you very much. I want to marry you." "I want to go to my father," she replied. "You cannot go," said I. "'Then her sisters flew away, and I took her into the house, where the old man married us. He told me not to give her those clothes I had taken, but to hide them; because if she ever got them she would fly away to her old home. So I dug a hole in the ground and buried them. "'But one day, when I was away from home, she dug them up and put them on; then, saying to the slave I had given her for an attendant, "When your master returns tell him I have gone home; if he really loves me he will follow me," she flew away. "'When I came home they told me this, and I wandered, searching for her, many years. At last I came to a town where one asked me, "Who are you?" and I answered, "I am Jan Shah." "What was your father's name?" "Taaeeghamus." "Are you the man who married our mistress?" "Who is your mistress?" "Sayadaatee Shems." "I am he!" I cried with delight. "'They took me to their mistress, and she brought me to her father and told him I was her husband; and everybody was happy. "'Then we thought we should like to visit our old home, and her father's genii carried us there in three days. We stayed there a year and then returned, but in a short time my wife died. Her father tried to comfort me, and wanted me to marry another of his daughters, but I refused to be comforted, and have mourned to this day. That is my story.' "Then Bolookeea went on his way, and wandered till he died." Next Sultaanee Waa Neeoka said to Hasseeboo, "Now, when you go home you will do me injury." Hasseeboo was very indignant at the idea, and said, "I could not be induced to do you an injury. Pray, send me home." "I will send you home," said the king; "but I am sure that you will come back and kill me." "Why, I dare not be so ungrateful," exclaimed Hasseeboo. "I swear I could not hurt you." "Well," said the king of the snakes, "bear this in mind: when you go home, do not go to bathe where there are many people." And he said, "I will remember." So the king sent him home, and he went to his mother's house, and she was overjoyed to find that he was not dead. Now, the sultan of the town was very sick; and it was decided that the only thing that could cure him would be to kill the king of the snakes, boil him, and give the soup to the sultan. For a reason known only to himself, the vizir had placed men at the public baths with this instruction: "If any one who comes to bathe here has a mark on his stomach, seize him and bring him to me." When Hasseeboo had been home three days he forgot the warning of Sultaanee Waa Neeoka, and went to bathe with the other people. All of a sudden he was seized by some soldiers, and brought before the vizir, who said, "Take us to the home of the king of the snakes." "I don't know where it is," said Hasseeboo. "Tie him up," commanded the vizir. So they tied him up and beat him until his back was all raw, and being unable to stand the pain he cried, "Let up! I will show you the place." So he led them to the house of the king of the snakes, who, when he saw him, said, "Didn't I tell you you would come back to kill me?" "How could I help it?" cried Hasseeboo. "Look at my back!" "Who has beaten you so dreadfully?" asked the king. "The vizir." "Then there's no hope for me. But you must carry me yourself." As they went along, the king said to Hasseeboo, "When we get to your town I shall be killed and cooked. The first skimming the vizir will offer to you, but don't you drink it; put it in a bottle and keep it. The second skimming you must drink, and you will become a great physician. The third skimming is the medicine that will cure your sultan. When the vizir asks you if you drank that first skimming say, 'I did.' Then produce the bottle containing the first, and say, 'This is the second, and it is for you.' The vizir will take it, and as soon as he drinks it he will die, and both of us will have our revenge." Everything happened as the king had said. The vizir died, the sultan recovered, and Hasseeboo was loved by all as a great physician. 
42359	----	TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE ENGLISH LAKES. BY THE LATE WILSON ARMISTEAD _Author of "The Flora of Liverpool," etc._ LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL & CO GLASGOW: THOMAS D. MORISON 1891 _PREFACE._ No part of the world possesses so many charms for the contemplative mind as the admirable scenery of our English Lake District. None can furnish so wide a field for the excursions of a playful imagination, as those peaceful glens which are formed by the fantastic sweeps of our northern mountains. The lover of nature, whose delight it is to traverse this romantic region, beholds here scenes the most lovely opening out on every hand. Mountains and dales wild enough, in all conscience, amidst which are hidden placid, silver lakes, embosomed in the most delicious, fairyland valleys, diversified with beautiful mansions, and snow-white cottages, nestling in all the luxuriance of their native woods and coppices. It has been justly said that the district from Lancaster, and the Bay of Morecambe, to the borders of Scotland, includes in its territory the richest valleys, the wildest mountains, the dreariest moorlands, the greenest meadows, the most barren rocks, the thickest and most verdant woods, the sweetest towns and villages, the smoothest rivers, which the salmon loves to haunt; the most turbulent mountain streams, in whose dark pools, here and there, the speckled trout finds a dwelling-place; the gayest garden flowers, the loveliest heaths that ever grew wild, high hills, deep mines, noble families, and the loveliest maidens of the land. Whether we contemplate the sublime grandeur of its mountains, or listen to the melodious murmurs of the distant waterfalls, or meditate along the margins of its woodland streams in the evening's calm, we must be enchanted with the scene, and feel fully prepared to exclaim with the poet:-- "Lives there a man with soul so dead, As never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!" The Lake District has long been regarded as the romantic "classic ground" of England. The Tour of Gray and others formerly, and the works and residence of some of the most celebrated poets of our day, have thrown a "sacred halo" around it in the eye of the stranger, endeared as it is by living and departed genius; and have exalted the enthusiasm with which the visitor surveys a region that embodies more variety of charming scenery, and of picturesque magnificence, than an equal space of our own or of any other country. In extent, indeed, the sister kingdoms may surpass it, but not in beauty; and, save in their "diadem of snow," its mountains may be said to rival the sublimity of the Alps, without their vastness. Where, in all Europe, in all the wide world, can more lovely and enchanting spots be found than are embosomed amongst the lakes and mountains of Cumberland and Westmorland? The increased and increasing facilities afforded for visiting the unrivalled scenery of the Lake district, naturally excite a corresponding desire to supply the tourist with every incident connected with this interesting locality. The great number of popular publications as Guides and Tours to the Lakes, which, at different intervals, have been eagerly received, is a striking proof of the patriotic interest that attaches to the district. These, though they are, many of them, replete with valuable information, and render the traveller much necessary aid, are most of them deficient in their allusion to the history and traditions of some of the more remarkable sites of this romantic region. To supply this deficiency, in part, is the object of the present Work. The interest of a country abounding in spots the most attractive in themselves, is greatly enhanced by the local associations attaching to it, its connection with bygone days, be they of the historical or legendary kind; for, "Holier seems the ground To him who catches on the gale The spirit of a mournful tale, Embodied in the sound." In the following pages are narrated a few of the romantic stories the country affords. The district, it is true, is not particularly rich in historical incidents; nor has it been the scene of many great events; yet, it has been justly said by a popular writer, what it wants in history it more than makes up in poetry. True, it may appear to be richer in scenery than in legend, and in poetry than romance; but, the fact is, its legends and romance have been neglected. The district is highly suggestive of both, but it has had no Sir Walter Scott to make the most of them. A part of the land so famous for beauty and for song, independent of its Border proximity, is one peculiarly favourable to the lovers of old legends; its atmosphere is one in which fancy most delights to soar and to hover, and it contains a mine of materials for romance yet almost untouched. The fierce feuds and stormful outgoings of the adjoining Borders, are full of interest and of romance peculiar to themselves. "Battles have assailed the banks" of nearly every stream--some of the strongholds yet remain, wherein the mosstroopers, clad in steel from head to foot, issued forth in the morning light--the hills are there, with the heath, across which they sped on gallant steeds, with lances outstretched, and gleaming helmets--the paths are yet green amid the dun moor along which they drove their spoil--and in solitary farm-houses, or lonely cottages, ancient dames may yet be met with, who can repeat, in song or story, the wild deeds which their mothers saw, and their sires performed. Once there were more castles than churches in the country, to defend it from the Scot; and though these castles now, for the most part, stand solitary monuments of past ages and conditions of things, yet around them still linger the fame of heroic deeds, and the twilight melancholy of once absorbing woes. Besides its many other interesting monuments of antiquity, 'tis not without its aged monasteries and "ivy-mantled towers." It has been truly said the spirit of romance is departing from the land in which we dwell. Our forests are felled where the freebooters of former days flourished--the fish are chased from our lakes by steamboats--the hills of heath, where the deer roved, are enclosed, and ploughed and harrowed over periodically--the green slopes and dusky dells, where nobles chased the roe, and the sunny glades of the forest into which they emerged, with gallant trains and bridles ringing, and their hunting gear glittering in the glorious sunlight of the olden time--all these are gone; and as we wander over the land, we find mostly drains and furrows, stone dykes, and straight fences, where the heather hung its blue bells unseen from year to year, save by the gorcock or the hare, or the myriads of wild bees that circled round the breathing flowers, and, humming within their tiny cells, sought out the sweet treasures which nature had hidden there. Our castles and abbeys are in ruins--our Border-keeps are mouldering to the ground--the battle grounds have been torn up by the plough--our briery glens and leafy shaws, consecrated by immortal song to past loves, have been ruthlessly desecrated--our ancient sports are at an end--we are a changed people--and the olden time is truly gone. Let it never be thought that we rejoice not in the present because we regret the past. We feel, and are thankful for the blessings and comforts which the improved arts of the age impart to us; we exult in the progress of science throughout the land; we can even look with complacency upon a railroad, though it intersect, with its prosaic line, the woodlands where we first felt the poetry of life--though the very hawthorn, beneath which we breathed our vows of eternal fidelity to her who now lies nightly in our bosom, has been rooted up to prepare a path for it. We see all this, and we think of it without regret. Our reason approving, consents to it; yet our imagination answers, "The spirit of romance is departing from us, and we sigh for the olden time." Imagination is a faculty in which we delight, and phrenologists say that men are happy only in the active exercise of their faculties. Therefore it is, that, leaving the practical speculations of the arts and sciences, we have chosen to select a field wherein imagination may fly her boldest flight, and we have allowed our fancy to rove amid scenes of fictitious bliss or woe, or amidst the real sorrows and joys of many an "owre true tale." I only add that, should the pleasure of the tourist be enhanced by a perusal of any of the following tales connected with the Lake district, it will confer a still greater pleasure on the writer, even than that of culling them, from time to time, during his visits to those nooks hallowed by poetry, or consecrated by history, which a frequent residence in this locality has afforded him the opportunity of exploring. They are offered to the lover of nature, and to the admirer of the picturesque, with the hope that, whilst delighting in nature's sublimities, which are self-evident, proclaiming, at every step, their Divine original, he may not pass by unheeded some of the remarkable spots of history or romance without feeling interested in their associations. CONTENTS. HELWISE; OR, THE ILL-FATED LOVERS: PAGE A TALE OF MUNCASTER HALL, 13 ST. HERBERT, THE HERMIT OF DERWENTWATER, 22 THE LOVERS' VOWS: A TALE OF FURNESS ABBEY, 28 THE STONE OF WALLOW CRAG; OR, THE POET OF KENTMERE, 30 THE SKULLS OF CALGARTH. A LEGEND OF WINDERMERE LAKE, 43 THE LUCK OF EDEN HALL. A TALE OF THE MUSGRAVES, 45 THE MAID OF HARDRA SCAR; OR, THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER, 50 THE TWO BROTHERS. A TALE OF ENNERDALE, 52 EMMA; OR, THE MURDERED MAID. A TRAGEDY OF THE LAKE DISTRICT, 68 ASSOCIATIONS OF CARLISLE: HISTORICAL, POETICAL, AND ROMANTIC, 72 THE DRUIDS' SACRIFICE. A LEGEND OF KESWICK, 102 THE HEIGHTS OF HELVELLYN; OR, THE UNFORTUNATE TOURIST, 111 THE REGATTA; OR, THE LOVERS OF DERWENTWATER, 117 THE SHEPHERD OF GREEN-HEAD GHYLL. A TALE OF GRASMERE VALE, 124 THE INSCRIBED ROCKS OF WINDERMERE. 138 EDGAR, THE LORD OF ENNERDALE. A TRADITION OF WOTOBANK, NEAR EGREMONT, 140 LADY EVA AND THE GIANT. A LEGEND OF YEWDALE, 151 KIRKBY LONSDALE BRIDGE. A LEGEND, 156 THE SPECTRE ARMY. A WEIRD TALE OF SOUTRA FELL, 160 RUSTIC POETS OF THE LAKE DISTRICT. JOHN OLDLAND AND JAMIE MUCKELT, 173 THE HART'S-HORN TREE. A TRADITION OF PENRITH, 177 THE QUAKERESS BRIDE. A TALE OF THE MOUNTAINS, 178 THE BEAUTY OF BUTTERMERE; OR, TRAGEDY IN REAL LIFE, 197 THE BORDER FREEBOOTERS; OR, A FIGHT IN BORROWDALE, 222 JOSSY WITH WHIPS. A PARISH CHARACTER, 226 EMMA AND SIR EGLAMORE. A LEGEND OF ULLSWATER, 228 THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. A LEGEND OF THE VALE OF ST. JOHN, 234 TALES AND LEGENDS OF ENGLISH LAKES. HELWISE; OR, THE ILL-FATED LOVERS: A TALE OF MUNCASTER HALL. Though ample testimony is borne to the simple and engaging manners of the Lake residents, I must confess there is a little Vandalism among them. They do not feel that generous love and veneration for the glorious remains of other years which ought to warm the breast of every Englishman. My uncle was indignant at the inattention paid to the scattered ruins of Penrith Castle. "The Turks," he observed, "could only have turned the ruined habitations of the Christian nobles into cattle-sheds and pigstyes!" We sat ourselves down at the edge of the moat, where the disgusting inroads of modern improvements would least obtrude themselves on our view, to contemplate the ruined strength and fallen grandeur of our ancestors. We were scarcely seated when an elderly gentleman, on whose countenance a cheerful good nature was visibly impressed, approached us. My uncle invited him to take a seat on our green sofa, with which invitation he smilingly complied. My uncle, whose ideas were at least two centuries old, opened the conversation by an allusion to those times when our old northern castles shone in all their splendour; and their inhabitants possessed their original power. "How much of their outward dignity have the higher classes lost," observed my uncle, "since literature and commerce have shed their genial influence on our favoured isle." "Yes," replied the stranger; "and how much have the lower classes been elevated since that period. The ranks of society are less distinct; and the system of equality is perhaps as nearly realised as the well-being of society could admit." "In some respects it may be so," said my father; "but I think that we might yet dispense with some of that pride which separates man from his brother man." "If one may believe report," said my sister, "there was more love in former times than there is now. People were kinder then; men were more faithful; and unions in general more happy than they are at present." "I can tell you a story on that subject," replied the stranger, "which will be interesting to the young people, and I hope no way disagreeable to old ones. For I count the person who cannot sympathise in a love story to be unfit for any social duty, and calculated for nothing but the cloister or the cell." "By all means," exclaimed my sister, "let us hear it. If there be anything about the firm faith of a female heart, it will be pleasing." "If there be anything," said my uncle, "about the manners of our ancestors, it will be instructive." "If there be anything," said my father, "about the villany of man in it, it must be true." "There will be something about all these," replied the stranger, and he now related the story. It was customary in the times to which I allude, said our garrulous acquaintance, for the owners of these old halls and castles to retain each a jester in his mansion, called by the common people a fool. According to custom Sir Allan Pennington had a jester, whose name was Thomas Skelton, but whose common appellation was Tom Fool of Muncaster. But I shall have occasion to mention him in the course of my story; as he performed a tragical part in it--rather too much so, to be enumerated among the drolleries of a common jester. I will, however, give you the tale as I have often heard the parson repeat it to an old maiden aunt of mine, with whom I was brought up; and who never heard it without a copious flow of tears. The morning was most delightful (this was the parson's uniform way of introducing the story), when the level beams of the sun first gleamed on the smooth surface of Devoke Water, and informed the joyous villagers that it was the First of May. The wooden clogs were stripped from the feet of the blooming damsels, and the leathern shoes, which had been carefully preserved from the preceding year, and many of which had adorned the feet of their mothers and grandmothers, were taken out of the paper which enveloped them. The oil with which they had been rubbed twelve months before was polished by the warm hand to a fine gloss. Every garden was robbed of its bloom to form garlands and chaplets in order to beautify what could not be beautified; for what--the parson would say, looking languishingly at my aunt--could add beauty to a Cumberland maiden? The Maypole was reared in a delightful meadow on the banks of Devoke Water; and the maidens blooming in beauty, and the youths bounding in health, repaired thither from the surrounding cottages. As the festive dance commenced, the soul of innocent gaiety began to expand. The festoons of flowers waving from the Maypole, and the garlands of the damsels, all gently agitated by a slight breeze, gave a gracefulness to the scene which no language can describe. It seemed as if the exhilarating breath of spring gave elasticity to the youthful limb, and a higher zest to the spirits, as the lively music gave emotion to the nimble feet of the light-footed dancers. At the first pause in the dance every eye was attracted towards a most heavenly maiden, attired in the simple garb of a Cumberland shepherdess. She came tripping along the meadow in the full glow of her beauty, and, with a smile, joined the maiden circle. Every tongue was inquiring, "Wha is she?"--and every eye was eager to obtain a glance of her charms. Several of the most respectable shepherds offered to lead her to the dance, but she modestly refused. Among the rest Wild Will of Whitbeck, as he was generally called, urged her to favour him with her hand. "I only came," said she, "to be a spectator of these innocent gaities; and, should I share in them, I should wish to procure a more modest partner." "A modest partner!" exclaimed Will, "yan et darn't luik at ya: yan etle stand eating his thooms, and just whisperen la doon, 'will ya dance?' A poor feckless thing et darn't lait a sweetheart withoot its minny ga wi' it." "You will please to leave me, shepherd," replied the maid, "and carry your raillery to other ears where it may be more agreeable." "I'll hev a kiss furst," said Will, "for that canny feace and filed tongue hez quite laid ma ith brears." "Forbear your rudeness, for God's sake," cried the damsel; "or you may repent it." "By all the powers af love and beauty," exclaimed the carpenter's son, stepping up at that moment, "unless he stands off he shall repent it. Will you take a dance with me, fair maiden?" She willingly complied. But the elder and more experienced part of the company said they observed a glance pass between them, which said they had met before. This renewed the inquiry who the damsel might be, but in vain. Will retired in a gloomy rage, swearing that he would discover who the girl was, and have revenge on the carpenter, if it cost him his life. The lovers heard not his threats, but repaired to the Maypole; and, as they danced around it, sang the following roundelay:-- "What are monarchs' courts, my dear? Can their splendour yield them bliss? Can the thrones and crowns of kings Yield a joy as sweet as this? Dancing round the Maypole! Here no care or pain, my dear, Can into our bosom steal; Heaven itself can scarce surpass Pleasures such as these we feel, Dancing round the Maypole! Now, returning Spring, my dear, Wakes the birds on every spray-- We, whose hearts are formed for love, Sure may be as blithe as they. Dancing round the Maypole! Hark the song of love, my dear, Every heart and tongue employ; And shall we, less fond than they, Mix not in the general joy, Dancing round the Maypole! Let our glowing hearts, my dear, Revel in the burning bliss;-- Speak our feelings through our eyes, And seal our union with a kiss, Dancing round the Maypole!" Various were the conjectures respecting the unknown shepherdess; though all the country maids agreed that she was not what she seemed. "Be wha she will," said Wild Will of Whitbeck, "I'll hunt it oot." "She's niver worth it," observed a girl, who probably thought Will might employ his time better. But Will was not to be driven from his purpose. And some of those who had been refused by the fair unknown urged Will to make his promise good. Therefore, when the evening drew on, and the young people began to pair off towards home, Will, and two of his companions who were not more agreeably occupied, followed Richard, the carpenter's son, and his lovely partner, towards home. But little did they expect to see her sheltered in Muncaster Hall. As the lovers stood exchanging vows of eternal constancy at the garden gate, their pursuers heard enough to inform them that the maid was Helwise, daughter of Sir Allan Pennington; and to convince them that their faith was mutually plighted. "Noo," said Will, "I hev him o' the hip. For Sir Ferdinand Hoddleston, of Millum Castle, wants et wed that leddy; an' if I yance let him kna et this silly carpenter follows her, he'll meak an example on him." When Will informed the neighbours next Sunday of his discovery, they were struck with astonishment at the handsome young carpenter's audacity, as they termed it. The young women hoped and trusted that Sir Allan would never know; for it would be a pity that so nice a young man should be hanged--as he was sure to be, if Sir Allan knew that he courted his daughter. At the same time they thought he might have been content with one of the shepherd girls; yet it was hard he should be hanged for love. He deserved to be sent out of the country, the young men observed. The maidens thought it would be a pity to send him away; but they might put him in a nunnery, or something of that sort. Wild Will of Whitbeck gave no opinion on the subject--his plans were deeper. He knew Sir Ferdinand and his temper well. He had often attended him in his sporting excursions; and, owing to his never-failing flow of rustic wit, could any time find admittance at Millum Castle, where his drolleries would beguile Sir Ferdinand of a melancholy hour. Will, therefore, adopted this plan to make Sir Ferdinand the avenger of the insult he had received from the carpenter, and the repulse he had met with from the lovely Helwise. "We had fine spooart o'th first o' May," said Will; "but I got cruel ill vext." "What happened to vex thee?" inquired Sir Ferdinand. "Wya, ye see," said Will, "Sir Allan's daughter donned hersell like a country hoody, an thought et naebody could a kent her, but I kent her weel eneugh." "And did that vex thee?" replied Sir Ferdinand. "I sa her," replied Will, "an mear oor an' that, I followed em heam, an sa em give yan another a kiss. When she put her arms roond his neck, I war stark wood. What! war Dick better ner me?" The train was now laid. Will had roused Sir Ferdinand's vengeance, without giving the least hint that he suspected such a thing. "Shall I!" exclaimed Sir Ferdinand, as soon as Will had retired, "Shall I be made a fool of by a carpenter's son? Shall such a wretch as that presume to be my rival in the affections of the loveliest maid in Cumberland? Curse the idea! He shall be taught to know his duty better. No, I scorn to apply to Sir Allan. I will be my own avenger. Were he removed I should be at peace. That will do. He dies!" Once resolved, Sir Ferdinand felt no rest till his scheme was accomplished. The morning had scarcely dawned till he mounted and rode for Muncaster Hall. Few of the family were stirring when Sir Ferdinand arrived. Tom Fool, however, was up, and hastened to meet the knight, who had often expressed himself pleased with Tom's rustic wit. "Good morning, Tom," said Sir Ferdinand, "what makes you laugh so this morning, Tom?" "Lord Lucy's footman," replied Tom, "put a trick on me the last time he was here; and I have been paying him back what I owed him, for I would be in no man's debt." "How hast thou managed thy revenge?" returned Sir Ferdinand. "He asked me," said Tom, "if the river was passable; and I told him it was, for nine of our family had just gone over. ('They were nine geese,' whispered Tom, 'but I did not tell him that.') The fool set into the river, and would have been drowned, I believe, if I had not helped him out." "If thou'lt revenge me of a scoundrel who lives here," said Sir Ferdinand, "I'll make a man of thee." "You'll do what Sir Allan could never do, then," replied Tom, with a laugh. "But who is it, pray?" "'Tis the carpenter," replied the knight. "I owe him a grudge, too," said Tom; "for I put those three shillings which you gave me into a hole, and I found them weezend every time I went to look at them; and now they are only three silver pennies. I have just found out that Dick has weezend them." "Then kill him, Tom, with his own axe, when he is asleep sometime; and I'll see that thou takes no harm for it," replied Sir Ferdinand. "He deserves it, and I'll do it," said Tom. "There's three crowns for thee," said Sir Ferdinand, "and he'll not weezen them, if thou follow my advice." Tom wanted no further inducement. His own injuries, and the hopes of reward from Sir Ferdinand soon influenced him. And the next day, while the unsuspecting carpenter was taking his after-dinner nap, and dreaming probably of the incomparable beauties of his adorable Helwise, Tom entered the shed, and, with one blow of the axe, severed the carpenter's head from his body. "There," said Tom to the servants, "I have hid Dick's head under a heap of shavings; and he will not find that so easily, when he awakes, as he did my shillings." Sir Ferdinand was grievously disappointed in his scheme; for the lovely Helwise had buried her heart in the same grave that held the remains of her sleeping lover. It was in vain that Sir Ferdinand urged the tenderness and sincerity of his passion. She was deaf to his entreaties. Her heart was cold, and no human power could warm it. The noisy mirth of the hall she could hear unmoved; the mazy intricacies of the festive dance could not reanimate her; the glowing beauties of the summer landscape were gloomy and dull as December. She resolved to seclude herself from the giddy world, and brood over her own sorrows in a nunnery. She therefore retired to the Benedictine Convent of Maiden Castle--the ruins of which are still visible behind higher end of Soulby Fell; where she passed her few remaining days in piety and silent solitude. The conscience of Sir Ferdinand left him no repose; and, to stifle recollections which became continually more insupportable, he joined the army, and soon after fell in the battle of Bosworth Field, fighting against the Earl of Richmond. He left a very handsome estate in the neighbourhood of Kirksancton to St. Mary's Abbey of Furness, to purchase masses for the repose of his own soul, and the soul of the young carpenter. ST. HERBERT, THE HERMIT OF DERWENTWATER. Amongst the beautiful isles of Derwentwater, that named St. Herbert's Island deserves a more than ordinary notice, as well for its beauty as its historical associations. This insulated paradise includes an extent of four or five acres, well covered with wood, and is situated near the centre of the lake. It obtained its name from St. Herbert, a priest and confessor, who, "to avoid the intercourse of man, and that nothing might withdraw his attention from unceasing mortification and prayer," about the middle of the 7th century, chose this island for his lonely abode. "St. Herbert hither came, And here for many seasons, from the world Removed, and the affections of the world, He dwelt in solitude." The locality was well adapted to the severity of his religious life; he was surrounded by the lake, from whence he received his simple diet. On every hand the voice of waterfalls excited the most solemn strains of meditation--rocks and mountains were his daily prospect, inspiring his mind with ideas of the might and majesty of the Creator. That St. Herbert had his hermitage on this island is certain from the authority of the venerable Bede, as well as from tradition, and nowhere could ancient eremite find more profound peace, or a place of so great beauty, whence to bear on the wings of imagination his orisons to heaven. St. Herbert was particularly distinguished for his friendship to St. Cuthbert, bishop of Lindisfarne, with whom he was contemporary; and, according to a legendary tale, at the intercession of St. Herbert both these holy men expired on the same day, and in the same hour and minute, which, according to Bede, was in 678 or 687. At Lindisfarne, expecting death, The good St. Cuthbert lay, With wasted frame and feeble breath; And monks were there to pray. The brotherhood had gathered round, His parting words to hear, To see his saintly labours crown'd, And stretch him on the bier. His eyes grew dim; his voice sunk low; The choral song arose; And ere its sounds had ceas'd to flow, His spirit found repose. At that same hour, a holy man, St. Herbert, well renown'd, Gave token that his earthly span Had reach'd its utmost bound. St. Cuthbert, in his early years, Had led him on his way; When the tree falls, the fruit it bears Will surely, too, decay. The monks of Lindisfarne meanwhile, Were gazing on their dead; At that same hour, in Derwent isle, A kindred soul had fled. There is but little information on record respecting St. Herbert, and had it not been for his intimacy with St. Cuthbert, his name probably would not have been handed down to posterity at all. In truth, he did little more than pray and meditate on this spot. It was his wish to live and die unknown. Though one in spirit, St. Cuthbert and the Hermit of Derwentwater were entirely dissimilar in character. St. Cuthbert was bishop of Lindisfarne, an eminent preacher in his day, whose eloquence influenced the will of many, and whose active zeal contributed to the advancement of the then dominant church, of which he was one of the main pillars and rulers. St. Herbert was altogether a man of prayer. He retired from the world to this solitude, and passed his days in devotion. The two saints used to meet once a year for spiritual communion. Which had most influence with the Ruler of heaven we cannot say. The venerable Bede writes thus of the Hermit of Derwentwater:--"There was a certain priest, revered for his uprightness and perfect life and manners, named Herberte, who had a long time been in union with the man of God (St. Cuthbert of Farn Isle), in the bond of spiritual love and friendship. For living a solitary life in the isle of that great and extended lake, from whence proceeds the river of Derwent, he used to visit St. Cuthbert every year, to receive from his lips the doctrine of eternal life. When this holy priest heard of St. Cuthbert's coming to Lugubalia, he came after his usual manner, desiring to be comforted more and more, with the hope of everlasting blisse, by his divine exhortations. As they sate together, and enjoyed the hopes of heaven, among other things the bishop said: "'Remember, brother, Herberte, that whatsoever ye have to say and ask of me, you do it now, for after we depart hence, we shall not meet again, and see one another corporally in this world; for I know well the time of my dissolution is at hand, and the laying aside of this earthly tabernacle draweth on apace.' "When Herberte heard this, he fell down at his feet, and with many sighs and tears beseeched him, for the love of the Lord, that he would not forsake him, but to remember his faithful brother and associate, and make intercession with the gracious God, that they might depart hence into heaven together, to behold His grace and glory whom they had in unity of spirit served on earth; for you know I have ever studied and laboured to live according to your pious and virtuous instructions; and in whatsoever I offended or omitted, through ignorance and frailty, I straight-way used my earnest efforts to amend after your ghostly counsel, will, and judgment. At this earnest and affectionate request of Herbertes, the bishop went to prayer, and presently being certified in spirit that his petition to heaven would be granted,-- "'Arise,' said he, 'my dear brother, weep not, but let your rejoicing be with exceeding gladness, for the great mercy of God hath granted unto us our prayer.' "The truth of which promise and prophecy was well proved in that which ensued; for their separation was the last that befel them on earth; on the same day, which was the 19th day of March, their souls departed from their bodies, and were straight in union in the beatific sight and vision; and were transported hence to the kingdom of heaven, by the service and hands of angels." It is probable the hermit's little oratory or chapel might be kept in repair after his death, as a particular veneration appears to have been paid to this retreat, and the memory of the saint; for, at the distance of almost seven centuries, we find this place resorted to in holy services and processions, and the hermit's memory celebrated in religious offices.[1] The remains of the hermitage are still visible; and near to these hallowed ruins stands a small grotto of unhewn stone, called the New Hermitage, erected some years ago by Sir Wilfrid Lawson, to whose representative the island at present belongs. The dwelling of the anchorite consisted of two apartments, one of which, about twenty feet in length by sixteen in width, appears to have been his chapel; the other, whose dimensions are considerably less, was his cell. The passion for solitude and a recluse life which reigned in the days of this saint, and was cherished by the monastic school, at first sight may appear to us uncouth and enthusiastic; yet when we examine into those times, our astonishment will cease, if we consider the estate of those men, who, under all the prejudices of education, were living in an age of ignorance, vassalage, and rapine; and we shall rather applaud than condemn a devotee, who, disgusted with the world and the sins of men, consigns his life to the service of the Deity in retirement. We may suppose we hear the saint exclaiming with the poet-- "Blest be that hand Divine, which gently laid My heart at rest beneath this humble shade; The world's a stately bark, on dangerous seas, With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril; Here on a single plank, thrown safe on shore, I hear the tumult of the distant throng, As that of seas remote or dying storms; And meditate on scenes more silent still, Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of death. Here, like a shepherd gazing from his hut, Touching his reed or leaning on his staff, Eager ambition's fiery chase I see; I see the circling hunt of noisy men Burst law's enclosures, leap the mounds of right, Pursuing and pursued, each other's prey; As wolves for rapine, as the fox for wiles, Till Death, that mighty hunter, earths them all." Young's _Excursion_. Wordsworth has the following beautiful lines on the Hermit of Derwentwater:-- "If thou, in the dear love of some one friend, Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts Will sometimes, in the happiness of love, Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot; and, stranger, not unmoved Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones, The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's cell. There stood his threshold; there was spread the roof That sheltered him, a self-secluded man, After long exercise in social cares, And offices humane, intent to adore The Deity with undistracted mind, And meditate on everlasting things In utter solitude. But he had left A fellow-labourer, whom the good man loved As his own soul. And when, with eye upraised To heaven, he knelt before the crucifix, While o'er the lake the cataract of Ladore Pealed to his orison, and when he paced Along the beach of this small isle, and thought Of his companion, he would pray that both (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So prayed he! As our chroniclers report, Though here the hermit numbered his last hours, Far from St. Cuthbert, his beloved friend, Those holy men died in the self-same day." [1] In the register of Bishop Appleby, in 1374, there is an indulgence of forty days to any inhabitant of the parish of Crossthwaite, that should attend the Vicar to St. Herbert's Isle, on the 13th of April, yearly, that being the anniversary of his death, there to celebrate mass in memory of St. Herbert. Processions and ceremonies of this kind had, in those days, a powerful effect on the minds of the lower orders of society. Perhaps it was better they should have some religion, though tinctured with a degree of superstition, than have been possessed of minds irreverent towards heaven, and souls totally absorbed in the darkness of ignorance, and given up to gross licentiousness. THE LOVERS' VOWS: A TALE OF FURNESS ABBEY. I can just remember the circumstance; it happened when I was a boy and went to Urswick school. Matilda--I will not mention her other name, because her friends are still living--Matilda was one of the loveliest females I ever knew. Her father had a small estate at ----, near Stainton; and she being his only child, he fondly imagined that her beauty and her fortune would procure her a respectable match. But alas! how often do your parents err in their calculations on the happiness which, they fondly imagine, will arise from the conduct of their children! Matilda had accompanied James, a neighbouring farmer's son, to school, when infancy gave room to no other thoughts but those of play. James had ever distinguished the lovely Matilda for his playmate; for her he had collected the deepest tinged May gowlings that grew in the meadows below the village; he spared no pains to procure the finest specimens of hawthorn blossoms, to place in her bonnet; and would artlessly compliment her on her appearance under the flowery wreath. He was always ready to assist her in conning her lessons at school, and oftener wrought her questions than she did herself. At an early age James was removed from school, and bound to an Ulverstone trader. Matilda and James met or heard of each other no more, till he had completed his eighteenth year, and the hard and active service in which he was employed had given his fine manly form an appearance at once imposing and captivating. Matilda, too, was improved in every eye, but particularly in James'. Never had James seen so lovely a maid as his former playmate. That friendship which had been so closely cemented in infancy, required very little assistance from the blind god to ripen it into love. Their youthful hearts were disengaged; they had neither of them ever felt an interest for any person, equal to what they had felt for each other; and they soon resolved to render their attachment as binding and as permanent, as it was pure and undivided. The period had arrived when James must again trust himself to the faithless deep, when he must leave his Matilda to have her fidelity tried by other suitors; and she must trust her James to the temptation of foreign beauties. Both, therefore, were willing to bind themselves by some solemn pledge to live but for each other. For this purpose, they repaired, on the evening before James' departure, to the ruins of Furness Abbey. It was a fine autumnal evening; the sun had set in the greatest beauty; and the moon was hastening up the eastern sky, through a track slightly interspersed with thin fleecy clouds, which added to its beauty, rather than impaired it. They knelt in the roofless quire, near where the altar formerly stood; and, fondly locked in each other's arms, they repeated, in the presence of heaven, their vows of deathless love. James was dressed in his best seaman's dress--a blue jacket, with a multitude of silver-plated buttons, and white trowsers; while Matilda leaned on his neck in a dress of the purest white muslin, carelessly wrapped in a shawl of light blue. I have been thus particular, said the narrator in describing their dresses, because this is the picture I would paint:--I would sketch an east view of the abbey, looking in at the large east window, where two lovers were kneeling, folded in each other's arms--the moonbeams just striking upon the most prominent parts of their figures--the deep shadows occasioned by the broken columns and scattered fragments, should recede into the distance--the dark gray ruins, and the deep green and brown of the oaks, slightly but brilliantly gilded by the moon, should peep out of the lengthened gloom with sparkling effect. But on the figures I would bestow the greatest attention. What manly vigour I would give to his attitude! What sweetness, what loveliness to hers! But what became of the betrothed lovers? Their fate was a melancholy one. James returned to his ship, and never returned from his voyage. He was killed by the first broadside of a French privateer, which the captain foolishly ventured to engage with. For Matilda, she regularly went to the Abbey to visit the spot where she last saw him; and there she would stand for hours, with her hands clasped on her breast, gazing on that heaven which alone had been witness to their mutual vows. Indeed, I think this would make a picture almost equal to the other. How fine a contrast would the light and fairy form of Matilda make with the broken fragments of the ruined Abbey; it would give a life and effect to the picture which you have no conception of. I am confident if you once drew a picture of this kind, you would never again sketch a scene without a story to it. THE STONE OF WALLOW CRAG; OR, THE POET OF KENTMERE. Charles Williams was one of those individuals who are "born to blush unseen." It is probable, therefore, that his name is unknown, and that his merits might have slept in obscurity but for us. We suspect that he has never been heard of before, and it is very likely that he never will be again. Charles had no long line of ancestors whose merits he could impute to himself. His great-grandfather had, to be sure, been the most noted wrestler in his day; and had annually won the belt at Bowness and at Keswick, but his prowess was forgot by all but his immediate descendants; and even his hard-earned belts had long since been cut up for repairing cart gear. Though Charles was only the son of a small farmer, yet there was one thing on which the family prided itself--there was a W. W. over the kitchen door which "Was a sartan sign," his mother argued, "et that hoos hed belengd to them sometime lang sen." There was one circumstance which we ought not to omit; particularly as it excited no inconsiderable interest, at the time, through all the neighbourhood of Kentmere. On the very day, and as far as we can ascertain, at the very hour, when Charles was born, a huge stone, self-moved, rolled down Wallow Crag into Hawes Water! The old women could and would account for it no other way than that he was born to be droond. Mr. Gough, who was then beginning to exhibit the first dawning of that genius which has procured him the esteem and admiration of all true lovers of rational philosophy, would gladly have convinced them that it was nothing but the effects of a thaw which had taken place only a few days before. But they argued that "Thear hed been many a tha afoar, but niver a stane rolled doon Wallow Crag afoar." Charles however grew up to be a boy, just as if this ominous stone had continued to sit secure on the mountain's ridge. But it might be said of him that "a strange and wayward wight was he." While other boys were ranging through the woods in pursuit of bird-nests, Charles would stretch himself on a smooth-faced rock, and pore on the adjacent landscape like one half crazed. To retire into a lonely wood behind his father's house, and teach a little brook, which ran through it, to take a thousand fantastic forms, was to Charles the sweetest recreation he could enjoy. The perpetual wings of time had now spread fifteen or sixteen winters over the vale of Kentmere, since the stone rolled into Hawes Water, and Charles was grown a tall and graceful boy. The little time which his father had spared him to school, had not been misemployed by the active youth; and though he felt a diffidence about entering into conversation, it was generally allowed that, when he did unloosen his tongue, he could argue any man in the valley, except the parson, who never stopt to hear anybody speak but himself, and the schoolmaster, who never spoke at all. One evening about this time, as Charles was returning from an accustomed ramble, where he had been enjoying a view of the mist slowly gathering among the mountain heads to the north, he was aroused from his reverie by a shrill scream; a young female had been pursuing a footpath over the adjoining field, and was at that instant closely followed by a neighbour's bull. Charles, with the speed of lightning, was at the girl's side; and, with a presence of mind oftener found in boys than men, he snatched the umbrella out of her hand, and unfurled it in the enraged animal's face. The astonished beast retreated a few paces, and, according to a standing rule among mad bulls, having been foiled in its first attempt, it did not make a second attack. Charles, with that gallantry which is a concomitant of generous minds, proposed to see the affrighted maid to her father's dwelling. Maria was a girl whom Charles had known from her infancy; he had played with her at school, but he never before observed that she possessed anything superior to the other girls of the dale. But this evening, as she hung on his arm and thanked him with such a pair of soft blue eyes so kindly--as the colour varied so often on her cheek--and her bosom throbbed so agitatedly, he discovered that Maria possessed more charms than all the valley beside. This evening's adventure formed an epoch in the life of Charles Williams. All his actions were now influenced by one all-powerful impulse. Ardent in his admiration of nature's charms, that ardour was now transferred from the general beauties of creation to the particular beauties of the lovely Maria. Indeed, Maria was peculiarly formed to please the fancy, and captivate the heart, of a youth like Charles. There was a symmetry in her limbs, an elegance in her person, and a simple gracefulness in her motions, which rendered her an agreeable object even to the most indifferent observer. But the charms of her mind were the gems on which be placed the highest value. There was a sombre shade of seriousness, perfectly distinct from melancholy, which none could behold without feeling interested. This seriousness, however, had nothing in it inimical to that lively joyance which gives so delicious a zest to our youthful days. She even possessed a vivacity that accompanied all her actions, and threw her real character into the distance. Though endued with the keenest sensibility, she appeared all life and gaiety. Wherever she was, she was the soul of the little company--her lively wit and her smiling beauty procured her attention wherever she showed herself. This beautiful mixture of the gay and the grave assumed, on some occasions, such strange contrasts, that she seemed to be composed of inconsistencies. Often in her little evening rambles with her young companions, after having put them all in good humour with themselves and with one another, by her little flattering railleries and harmless frolics, she would in an instant bound away from the group with the elastic grace of a mountain nymph--abruptly enter the cottage of some sick or suffering neighbour, with a smile on her countenance, like the angel of comfort charged with blessings, kindly inquire after their various wants and distresses, soothe them with consolatory hopes of better days, offer all those little assistances which old and decaying age accepts so gratefully at the hands of youth, and after mingling a sigh or a tear with theirs, again join her gay companions as though nothing had occurred. In the innocent society of this amiable maiden, Charles passed the sweetest hours of his existence. His former boyish pursuits were renounced. The windmill, on a rock at a little distance, though nearly matured, was never completed; the water-works in the wood were permitted to run to ruin, even the perpetual motion in the room over the old kitchen, which was in a state of great forwardness, was neglected for a time, and eventually relinquished. It is supposed, our intelligent correspondent says, that if Charles had never been in love, it is probable that he had never been a poet. And in confirmation of this idea, we observe that his first productions are of the amatory kind--"odes to beauty," "lines to Maria," "acrostics," &c. Among these fragments, we found a little airy piece without a head but we suppose intended for Maria: "If all the world was made of kisses, And all those kisses were made for me, And I was made for you, my love, How happy we should be! If all the graces were join'd in one, And all the wit and beauty too, They'd make a maid like you, my love, They'd make a maid like you!" Some of his lyric pieces exhibit a strange mixture of philosophy and passion, learning and love. In the eleventh page of the manuscript before us, we find as curious a specimen of this kind as we ever recollect. It is much interlined and seems never to have been finished. ON LOVE. "Newton's keen observant eye, Found a power pervade creation; Ignorant of when or why, He fondly called it gravitation. But 'tis love that binds the spheres-- Love's the real central-forces-- Wheels them round their varying years, Impels them on, and shapes their courses. Nature all abounds in love, What is there but feels its power? Hear it warbling in the grove! See it blooming in a flower! What's attraction, pray, but love? And affinity's the same." But the tender passion does not seem to have engrossed all his poetical powers, as we find several pieces both grave and gay on different subjects. One of these we shall select as it seems to possess some originality, and has been occasioned apparently by that influx of strangers which generally enlivens the lake district during the summer months; some of whom have probably noticed our mountain bard, if we may judge from one of the stanzas. THE STRANGER AT THE LAKES. "When summer suns lick up the dew, And all the heavens are painted blue, 'Tis then with smiling cheeks we view, The stranger at the Lakes. When morning tips with gold the boughs, And tinges Skiddaw's cloud-kiss'd brows, Then round the lake the boatman rows, The stranger at the Lakes. When gray-rob'd evening steps serene, Across the sweetly-varied green, Beside some cascade may be seen The stranger at the Lakes. Embosomed here the rustic bard, Who oft has thought his fortune hard, Is pleas'd to share the kind regard Of strangers at the Lakes. He whose ideas never stray Beyond the parson's gig and gray, Stares at the carriage and relay Of strangers at the Lakes. As by his cot the phæton flies, The peasant gapes with mouth and eyes, And to his wond'ring family cries, 'A stranger at the Lakes!' Sometimes when brewers' clerks appear, And Boniface is short of gear, He says, 'Kind Sirs, we've had, this year, Few strangers at the Lakes.' At Christmas, Poll, the barmaid, shows Her lustre gown and new kid shoes, And says, 'I tipp'd the cash for those From strangers at the Lakes.' But could the post-horse neighing say What he has suffer'd night and day, 'Tis much, I think, if he would pray For strangers at the Lakes." Time, it is said, has wings; but Charles never observed that it even moved, till he found himself in his twentieth year. That love which at first sought only to relieve itself in the society of its object, now began to assume a determined character. But to any but lovers, the description of love scenes would be irksome. It will be quite sufficient if we hint at the affair, and leave our readers to fill up the outline. We will only therefore assure them on the best authority, that Charles set out no less than three several times with a resolute determination to declare the full extent of his passion, and solicit the fair hand of Maria; and that as soon as he saw the maid, his purpose "dissolved like the baseless fabric of a vision;" that Charles at length conquered this timidity, and urged his suit with such ardour, that he was heard afterwards to say he believed love was like steam, the more it was compressed, the greater was its elasticity; that Maria received the declaration with all due bashfulness, and promised to be his bride as soon as she had completed her twenty-first year; that Charles, as is usual on such occasions, flew home on the wings of ecstasy, &c. It seems to have been about this time that the following birthday ode was written--perhaps while he was suffering under the effects of his own bashfulness:-- "Maria, this is just the day, Some twenty years ago, they say, You fill'd your mother's arms; A little puling sprig of love, So kindly dropp'd from heaven above, To bless me with your charms. Obeying custom, I intend Some little birthday gift to send-- But stay, what must it be? Of beauty you have quite a share, Accomplish'd too, as well as fair, And richer far than me. I would not ever have it said, I offer'd trinkets to the maid, Which you might scorn to take; I'll offer then no works of art; I'll give you, love, an honest heart-- Pray, keep it for my sake." Our correspondent says he would be happy if he could here conclude his narrative, as Sir Walter Scott does, with a happy marriage; for however delightful the transition from sorrow to joy may be, the reverse, even in description, has no charms. But poor Charles was doomed to be hurled from the height of his felicity to the lowest depths of despair. The joyful promise had scarcely escaped the lovely lips of Maria, and while her lover was yet giddy with his joy, when the amiable maid was attacked by a severe illness, which baffled all the doctor's skill. If entreaties for human or divine aid could have prolonged the existence of the ill-fated Maria, she had not died. Charles was ever at her pillow--his studies were relinquished--his poetry was neglected--and the dying Maria filled the whole extent of his capacious mind. But all was vain; the grisly monster Death had selected her as his victim, and he would not quit his hold; he was deaf alike to the lamentations of a parent, the regrets of friends, and the distractions of a betrothed lover. Though every succeeding morning showed how great was the havoc that disease was making in her tender frame, and the period of her suffering was evidently approaching, Charles still hoped she would soon be well. If she was more than usually debilitated, he observed that the fever had left her, and she only wanted her strength recruiting, and they would then renew their walks. If the hectic flush overspread her cheeks, he hailed it as the sign of returning health. And thus he hoped even against hope. His reason would have convinced him she was dying, if reason had been allowed to speak; but he wished her to live, and he would not stoop to think that she would die. Thus he fulfilled the remarks of the poet-- "We join in the fraud, and ourselves we deceive, What we wish to be true, love bids us believe." When at last the pale hue of death overspread her once-blooming cheek, when she turned her languid eye towards her lover and faltered "farewell," when she closed her faded eyes and expired in prayer, Charles stood by the bedside like a being bereft of power and motion. The deepest despair overwhelmed him--his hopes were blasted--his fond creation of future bliss was in an instant destroyed, and his mind received a shock too powerful for nature to sustain. From this moment a smile was never seen to illuminate his features, the most gloomy and secluded places were his favourite haunts. He avoided society as if the breath of man was pestilential; and occupied his time in brooding over his own melancholy. In his manuscript we find a number of melancholy effusions, which were evidently written about this time; and clearly bespeak a mind bordering on the gloomy verge of insanity. But as they are some of them by far the best pieces in the collection--a proof that poetry and madness are nearly allied--we will select two which tend to illustrate the awful state of the writer's mind. THE EVENING WALK. "How soothing to the soul the shade Which evening spreads around! How bright the dewy gems that braid The foliage of the ground. No sound is heard thro' ether wide, From hill or coppice green, Save where the streamlet seems to chide The stillness of the scene. Contagion catches on the soul, And lulls e'en grief to rest; No more contending passions roll Along the troubled breast. I seem a moment to have lost The sense of former pain; As if my peace had ne'er been crost, Or joy could spring again. But ah! 'tis there!--the pang is there; Maria breathes no more! So fond, so constant, kind, and fair, Her reign of love is o'er. No more through scenes like these shall we Together fondly stray; Till night itself would seem to me More genial than the day. I feel the cold night's gathering gloom Infect my throbbing breast; It tells me that the friendly tomb Alone can give me rest. I then shall sleep the sleep serene, Where she so long has slept; Nor be the wretch I long have been, Nor weep as I have wept." THE CHURCHYARD. "Here, then, my weary head shall rest, Here weep and sigh alone; And press the marble to my breast, And kiss the senseless stone. I'm calmer now--a silv'ry sound Is whisp'ring in my ear; That tells me this is sacred ground, And she is hov'ring near. Celestial stillness reigns around, Serenely beats my breast; Maria's spirit treads this ground, And hushes me to rest. I see Maria hov'ring there-- She waves her wings of light; Angelic music fills the air, And charms the ear of night. Stay, lovely maiden, longer stay, And bless thy lover's eyes; And do not soar so fast away To seek thy native skies. 'Tis gone--the lovely vision's gone! And night's dim shades prevail; Again, I feel myself alone, And pour my fruitless wail. I seem like one who madly raves Among the silent dead; And start to hear the hollow graves Re-echo to my tread. But I shall soon forget my woes, And dry my ev'ry tear, And rest as unconcern'd as those Who sleep serenely here." So far from having a salutary effect upon the mind of Charles, time seems only to have increased the despondency that had enveloped and clouded the reasoning faculties of our poet. We find, in a subsequent part of the volume, the following lines, which show that his mind was giving way under the pressure of acute distress:-- "Ah! tell me not of busy life-- Its bustling folly--joyless strife-- Can these dispel my care? No--let me seek some cavern drear, Where not a sound can meet my ear, But groans of death, and shrieks of fear, The music of despair? The black'ning storm, the driving rain, Shall cool the fever in my brain, And lull me to repose: Then, when the thunders o'er me roll, And spirits scream and goblins howl, The tempest shall compose my soul, And cheat me of my woes." About six months did Charles continue in this deplorable condition, attracting the sympathy of all who beheld him. And often when he passed the cottage doors, where, in happier days, he had accompanied Maria on her errands of benevolence, the objects of his former bounty would look after him with a sigh, and say, "Poor Charles! Poor Charles!" Though he generally spent the day in rambling about the woods and hills, the hour of his return seldom exceeded that of nightfall. One evening, however, he delayed his return; his parents made every enquiry, but in vain. He had been seen on Harter-fell in the afternoon, but no further tidings could be obtained. Early next morning the melancholy suspicion was confirmed--he was found drowned. It is rumoured in the vale, says our friend, but he will not vouch for its truth, that he was found in the very spot where the stone rolled down when he was born. It appears that he had meditated this act from the following lines, which shall conclude our extracts:-- "And what is death, that I should dread To mingle with the silent dead? 'Tis but a pang--and pangs are o'er; A throb--and throbbing is no more; One struggle--and that one my last: A gasp--a groan--and all is past!" THE SKULLS OF CALGARTH. A LEGEND OF WINDERMERE LAKE. This old mansion of Calgarth, on the banks of Lake Windermere, is built much in the style of Levens and Sizergh. Some of the rooms have been elegantly finished; but, having been a long time in the possession of farmers, who occupy but a part of it, it is much gone out of repair, and has, on the whole, a melancholy appearance. This circumstance, in concurrence with the superstitious notions which have ever been common in country places, and the particular mentioned hereafter, have probably given rise to a report, which has long prevailed, that the house is haunted. And many are the stories of frightful visions and mischievous deeds which the goblins of the place are said to have performed, to terrify and distress the harmless neighbourhood. These fables are not yet entirely disbelieved. Spectres still are seen, and there are two human skulls, which have lain in the window of a large room as long as can be remembered, whose history and reputed properties are too singular not to contribute something to this story of "the haunted house," and to let them be passed over in this route. It has been a popular tale in these parts of immemorial standing, that these skulls formerly belonged to two poor old people, who were unjustly executed for a robbery; to perpetuate their innocence, some ghost brought them there; and that they are, for that end, indestructible, and in effect, "immoveable." For, it is said, to what place soever they were taken, or however used, they were still presently seen again in their old dormitory, the window. As the report goes, they have been buried, burned, powdered, and dispersed in the winds, and upon the lake, several times, to no purpose as to their removal and destruction: so far, says common fame. Certain it is these human remains still exist, and it would be thought an impeachment of the taste and curiosity of the nymphs and swains of the neighbouring villages, if they could not say they had once seen the skulls of Calgarth. As a more rational account of the matter (though still lame and unsatisfactory), it is told by some, that there formerly lived in the house a famous doctress, who had two skeletons by her, for the usual purposes of her profession; and the skulls happening to meet with better preservation than the rest of the bones, they were accidentally honoured with this singular notice. But, be their origin what it may, their legend is too whimsical and improbable to deserve being recorded, otherwise than as an instance of the never-failing credulity of ignorance and superstition. THE LUCK OF EDEN HALL. A TALE OF THE MUSGRAVES. Eden Hall, the seat of the chief of the famous border clan of Musgrave, is a large and handsome edifice, on the west bank of the river Eden, built in the taste which prevailed about the time of the Charles's. Being bordered with trees, it forms an elegant feature in the pleasure grounds. There is here preserved, with scrupulous care, an old and anciently-painted glass goblet, called the "Luck of Edenhall," which would appear, from the following traditionary legend, to be wedded to the fortunes of its present possessors. The butler, in going to procure water at St. Cuthbert's well, in the neighbourhood (rather an unusual employment for a butler) came suddenly upon a company of fairies, who were feasting and making merry on the green sward. In their flight they left behind this glass, and one of them returning for it, found it in the hands of the butler. Seeing that its recovery was hopeless, she flew away, singing aloud-- "If that glass should break or fall, Farewell the luck of Eden Hall." The connection of the prosperity of the family with the integrity of an inanimate object, has frequently been one of the playthings of tradition, and traces of the superstition are found in ancient fable. There is a legend of this kind attached to a pear, preserved in a silver box at Coalstoun, the seat of the Earl of Dalhousie, near Haddington; and there is or was, a glass cap at Muncaster castle, given by Henry VI. to Sir John Pennington, which, from the general opinion of the King's sanctity, and that he entailed with the gift a blessing on the family, was called "the Luck of Muncaster." The initials, I. H. S., are marked upon the case containing the goblet at Eden Hall, sufficiently showing the sacred uses to which it was originally appropriated. Philip, Duke of Wharton, alludes to it in his ballad, called-- THE DRINKING MATCH OF EDEN HALL. "God prosper long, from being broke, The 'Luck of Eden Hall!' A doleful drinking bout I sing, There lately did befal. To chase the spleen with cup and cann, Duke Philip took his way; Babes yet unborn shall never see The like of such a day. The stout and ever-thirsty duke A vow to God did make; His pleasure within Cumberland Those live-long nights to take. Sir Musgrave, too, of Martindale, A true and worthy knight; Estoon with him a bargain made In drinking to delight. The bumpers swiftly pass about, Six in an hand went round; And, with their calling for more wine, They made the hall resound. Now, when these merry tidings reach'd The Earl of Harold's ears, And am I, quoth he, with an oath, Thus slighted by my peers? Saddle my steed, bring forth my boots, I'll be with them right quick, And, master sheriff, come you too, We'll know this scurvy trick. Lo, yonder doth Earl Harold come, Did one at table say: 'Tis well, reply'd the mettl'd Duke, How will he get away? When thus the Earl began:--Great Duke, I'll know how this did chance, Without inviting me:--sure this You did not learn in France. One of us two, for this offence, Under the board shall lie: I know thee well; a Duke thou art, So some years hence shall I. But trust me, Wharton, pity 'twere So much good wine to spill, As those companions here may drink, Ere they have had their fill. Let thou and I, in bumpers full, This grand affair decide, Accurs'd be he, Duke Wharton said, By whom it is deny'd. To Andrews, and to Hotham fair, Then many a pint went round: And many a gallant gentleman Lay sick upon the ground. When, at the last, the Duke found out He had the Earl secure, He ply'd him with a full pint-glass, Which laid him on the floor. Who never spake more words than these, After he downwards sunk; My worthy friends, revenge my fall, Duke Wharton sees me drunk. Then, with a groan, Duke Philip held The sick man by the joint; And said, Earl Harold, stead of thee, Would I had drank this pint. Alack, my very heart doth bleed, And doth within me sink! For surely a more sober Earl Did never swallow drink. With that the sheriff, in a rage, To see the Earl so smit, Vow'd to revenge the dead-drunk peer Upon renowned St. Kitt. Then stepp'd a gallant squire forth, Of visage thin and pale; Lloyd was his name, and of Gany Hall, Fast by the river Swale; Who said, he would not have it told Where Eden river ran, That, unconcerned, he should sit by, So, sheriff, I'm your man. Now, when these tidings reach'd the room, Where the Duke lay in bed, How that the squire thus suddenly Upon the floor was laid: O heavy tidings! quoth the Duke, Cumberland thou witness be, I have not any captain, more Of such account as he. Like tidings to Earl Thanet came, Within as short a space, How that the under sheriff, too, Was fallen from his place. Now God be with him, said the Earl, Sith 'twill no better be; I trust I have within my town As drunken knights as he. Of all the number that were there, Sir Rains he scorned to yield; But, with a bumper in his hand, He stagger'd o'er the field. Thus did this dare contention end, And each man of the slain Were quickly carried off to sleep, Their senses to regain. God bless the King, the Duchess fat, And keep the land in peace; And grant that drunkenness henceforth 'Mong noblemen may cease!" &c. J. H. Wiffen wrote a short poem upon the "Luck of Eden Hall," and the German poet, Upland, has a ballad upon the same subject. The Musgraves are a family of great antiquity and reputation. They came to England with the Conqueror, and settled first in Musgrave, in Westmoreland; then at Hartley Castle, in the same county; and, finally, at their present residence at Eden Hall. Sir Philip Musgrave, who was commander-in-chief of the king's troops for Cumberland and Westmoreland, in the Parliamentary war, just walks across the stage in Scott's legend of Montrose; but, by mistake the novelist calls him Sir Miles. THE MAID OF HARDRA SCAR; OR, THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. In the early part of the summer of 1807, a very handsome young lady, apparently about twenty-two, came to the village of Hawes, and took lodgings there. She positively refused to tell either her name or the place of her residence. Her manners were highly accomplished, though her behaviour sometimes assumed a degree of wildness and incoherence, which raised doubts as to the state of her mind. Her dress was rather rich than splendid; and white was her customary attire. A broad pink ribbon was always tied round her waist, with two ends behind, reaching to her feet. It was observed that she took particular pleasure in seeing these ribbons flutter in the wind, as she rambled over the adjoining fells. Curiosity, that busy personage in most places, and particularly so in the village of Hawes was eager to trace the history of the mysterious visitor, but in vain. The most distant allusion to the subject always produced silence. Some supposed that she was a young lady who had been crossed in love, and had fled hither to brood over her disappointment in solitude; indeed her conduct rather sanctioned such an opinion, for she kept no company. When she saw any one, it was to administer relief or to enquire after their wants. Others thought she might be some young widow, who had chosen to linger out her existence in obscurity in such a secluded spot as that. This opinion did not want support for she was constant in her visits to all the widows in the village, beside lodging with one. Others again thought she was betrothed to some military officer, and chose to escape the importunities of other lovers, by hiding herself here till peace should restore her future husband to her arms. Such were a few of the many surmises which at that time constituted the tea-table gossip at Hawes. Though each party felt confident that its own opinion was right, it remained only vague conjecture; for the young lady herself never dropped a single hint which could in the least turn the scale of imagination to the side of certainty. One evening, having taken her accustomed ramble, she did not return; and the widow with whom she lodged became extremely impatient and uneasy. Inquiries were made in all directions, but no one had seen her. Several young men volunteered to search her usual haunts, but nothing could be found. For several weeks, and even months, the sudden disappearance of the fair stranger continued to occupy the principal attention of the village. Nor will this appear surprising, when you recollect that only seldom anything occurs in a place like that of a romantic nature; yet the hearts of the inhabitants are as open to the sympathies of humanity in that place as in others. At last it was remembered that a carriage, with the blinds up, had called to water the horses at Mr. Clark's on that evening; and had driven forward without any one alighting. At the time it was considered to be an empty carriage; but when the fair stranger was found to have disappeared so mysteriously the same evening, it was concluded that she had been carried off by her friends in this very carriage. Without attempting to explain how this was, she was never heard of after that day. The picture I would draw from this story is simply this:--One of her usual walks was up the glen to Hardra waterfall. Every day, when the weather would permit, did she traverse this glen. After viewing the immense column of water which there is precipitated over the projecting rock into the unfathomable cistern at its foot, she would ascend the steep acclivity which leads to the top of the rock. Upon a natural rude column of stone on the left hand side, which appears to have been torn from the parent rock during some convulsion of nature, would she stand for hours, her long pink ribbons fluttering in the mountain breeze. I know of no finer subject than this for a picture. The broken and overhanging rocks--the loose fragments at their feet--the cascade itself, the finest in the country--the brook fretting and foaming down the rugged glen--the stunted trees, and matted foliage, which protrude from the fissures of this natural wall--the huge erect pillar of stone, which rears its detached mass above the adjoining rock--and one of the loveliest females I ever saw, attired in flowing white drapery, which, with the ribbons, fluttered and played upon the wind--could you find a subject equal to this for interest, one equal to it for sublimity and beauty? THE TWO BROTHERS. A TALE OF ENNERDALE. "These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perch'd on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. But, for that moping son of idleness, Why can he tarry yonder?--In our churchyard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name--only the turf we tread And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sat Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves, Of his old cottage,--as it chanced, that day, Employ'd in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who turned her large round wheel in the open air With back and forward steps. Towards the field In which the parish chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the priest had sent Many a long look of wonder: and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path That from his cottage to the churchyard led, He took his way, impatient to accost The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 'Twas one well-known to him in former days, A shepherd lad,--who, ere his sixteenth year, Had left that calling, tempted to entrust His expectations to the fickle winds And perilous waters--with the mariners A fellow-mariner--and so had fared Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear'd Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard The tones of waterfalls and inland sounds Of caves and trees:--and, when the regular wind Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail, And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, Lengthening invisibly its weary line Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours Of tiresome indolence, would often hang Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam Flash'd round him images and hues that wrought In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome, Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep, Saw mountains--saw the forms of sheep that grazed On verdant hills--with dwellings among trees, And shepherds clad in the same country gray Which he himself had worn. And now at last From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, To his paternal home he is return'd, With a determined purpose to resume The life he had lived there; both for the sake Of many darling pleasures, and the love Which to an only brother he has borne In all his hardships, since that happy time When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two Were brother shepherds on their native hills. --They were the last of all their race; and now, When Leonard had approach'd his home, his heart Fail'd in him; and, not venturing to inquire Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved, Towards the churchyard he had turn'd aside; That as he knew in what particular spot His family were laid, he thence might learn If still his brother lived, or to the file Another grave was added.--He had found Another grave, near which a full half-hour He had remain'd; but, as he gazed, there grew Such a confusion in his memory, That he began to doubt; and he had hopes That he had seen this heap of turf before-- That it was not another grave, but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walk'd Through fields which once had been well known to him: And O what joy the recollection now Sent to his heart! He lifted up his eyes, And, looking round, imagined that he saw Strange alteration wrought on every side Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks And everlasting hills themselves were changed. By this the priest, who down the field had come Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate Stopp'd short,--and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency, Ay, thought the vicar smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arch'd the gate Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appear'd, The good man might have communed with himself, But that the stranger, who had left the grave, Approach'd; he recognised the priest at once, And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued: LEONARD. You live, Sir, in these dales a quiet life; Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come And welcome gone, they are so like each other, They cannot be remember'd? Scarce a funeral Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen months; And yet, some changes must take place among you; And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks Can trace the finger of mortality, And see, that with our threescore years and ten We are not all that perish.----I remember (For many years ago I passed this road) There was a foot-way all along the fields By the brook-side--'tis gone--and that dark cleft! To me it does not seem to wear the face Which then it had. PRIEST. Nay, Sir, for aught I know, That chasm is much the same-- LEONARD. But, surely, yonder-- PRIEST. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That does not play you false.--On that tall pike (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two springs that bubbled side by side, As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other; the huge crag Was rent with lightning--one hath disappear'd; The other, left behind, is flowing still.[2]---- For accidents and changes such as these, We want not store of them;--a waterspout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you, To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract!--a sharp May-storm Will come with loads of January snow, And in one night send twenty score of sheep To feed the ravens: or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks; The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge-- A wood is fell'd:--and then for our own homes! A child is born or christen'd, a field plough'd, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, The old house-clock is decked with a new face; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries--one serving, Sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fireside-- Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to these valleys! LEONARD. Yet your churchyard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, Cross-bones nor skull--type of our earthly state Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. PRIEST. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me! The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread If every English churchyard were like ours; Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth: We have no need of names and epitaphs; We talk about the dead by our firesides. And then for our immortal part! we want No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains. LEONARD. Your dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these graves? PRIEST. For eight-score winters past, With what I've witness'd, and with what I've heard, Perhaps I might; and on a winter-evening, If you were seated at my chimney's nook, By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round; Yet all in the broad highway of the world. Now there's a grave--your foot is half upon it-- It looks just like the rest; and yet that man Died broken-hearted. LEONARD. 'Tis a common case. We'll take another: who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves? It touches on that piece of native rock Left in the churchyard wall. PRIEST. That's Walter Ewbank. He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produced by youth and age Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. Through five long generations had the heart Of Walter's forefathers o'erflow'd the bounds Of their inheritance, that single cottage-- You see it yonder!--and those few green fields. They toil'd and wrought, and still, from sire to son, Each struggled, and each yielded as before A little--yet a little--and old Walter, They left to him the family heart, and land With other burthens than the crop it bore. Year after year the old man still kept up A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond, Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank, And went into his grave before his time. Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him God only knows, but to the very last He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale: His pace was never that of an old man: I almost see him tripping down the path With his two grandsons after him;--but you, Unless our landlord be your host to-night, Have far to travel--and on these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer-- LEONARD. But those two orphans! PRIEST. Orphans!--such they were-- Yet not while Walter lived:--for, though their parents Lay buried side by side as now they lie, The old man was a father to the boys, Two fathers in one father:--and if tears, Shed when he talk'd of them where they were not, And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, This old man, in the day of his old age, Was half a mother to them.--If you weep, Sir, To hear a stranger talking about strangers, Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred! Ay--you may turn that way--it is a grave Which will bear looking at. LEONARD. These boys--I hope They loved this good old man?-- PRIEST. They did--and truly: But that was what we almost overlook'd, They were such darlings of each other. For, Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter, The only kinsman near them, and though he Inclined to them, by reason of his age, With a more fond, familiar tenderness, They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, And it all went into each other's hearts. Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, Was two years taller; 'twas a joy to see, To hear, to meet them!--From their house the school Is distant three short miles--and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every water-course And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps Remain'd at home, go staggering through the fords, Bearing his brother on his back. I've seen him On windy days, in one of those stray brooks-- Ay, more than once I've seen him--mid-leg deep, Their two books lying both on a dry stone Upon the hither side; and once I said, As I remember, looking round these rocks And hills on which we all of us were born, That God who made the great book of the world Would bless such piety-- LEONARD. It may be then-- PRIEST. Never did worthier lads break English bread; The finest Sunday that the autumn saw With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, Could never keep these boys away from church, Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach. Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner Among these rocks, and every hollow place Where foot could come, to one or both of them Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills; They played like two young ravens on the crags; Then they could write, ay, and speak too as well As many of their betters--and for Leonard! The very night before he went away, In my own house I put into his hand A Bible, and I'd wager house and field That, if he is alive, he has it yet. LEONARD. It seems, these brothers have not lived to be A comfort to each other-- PRIEST. That they might Live to such end, is what both old and young In this our valley all of us have wish'd, And what, for my part, I have often pray'd: But Leonard-- LEONARD. Then James is still left among you? PRIEST. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: They had an uncle:--he was at that time A thriving man, and traffick'd on the seas; And, but for that same uncle, to this hour Leonard had never handled rope or shroud. For the boy loved the life which we lead here: And though of unripe years, a stripling only, His soul was knit to this his native soil. But, as I said, old Walter was too weak To strive with such a torrent; when he died, The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep, A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:-- Well--all was gone, and they were destitute. And Leonard, chiefly for his brother's sake, Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. If there were one among us who had heard That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, From the great Gavel,[3] down by Leeza's banks, And down the Enna, far as Egremont, The day would be a very festival; And those two bells of ours, which there you see Hanging in the open air--but, O, good Sir! This is sad talk--they'll never sound for him-- Living or dead. When last we heard of him, He was in slavery among the Moors Upon the Barbary coast. 'Twas not a little That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt, Before it ended in his death, the youth Was sadly cross'd--Poor Leonard! when we parted, He took me by the hand, and said to me, If ever the day came when he was rich, He would return, and on his father's land He would grow old among us. LEONARD. If that day Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him; He would himself, no doubt, be happy then As any that should meet him-- PRIEST. Happy! Sir-- LEONARD. You said his kindred all were in their graves, And that he had one brother-- PRIEST. That is but A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; And Leonard being always by his side Had done so many offices about him, That, though he was not of a timid nature, Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy In him was somewhat check'd; and, when his brother Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, The little colour that he had was soon stolen from his cheek; he droop'd, and pined, and pined-- LEONARD. But these are all the graves of full-grown men! PRIEST. Ay, Sir, that pass'd away: we took him to us; He was the child of all the dale--he lived Three months with one, and six months with another; And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love; And many, many happy days were his. But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief His absent brother still was at his heart. And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found (A practice till this time unknown to him) That often, rising from his bed at night, He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping He sought his brother Leonard.--You are moved; Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you, I judged you most unkindly. LEONARD. But this youth How did he die at last? PRIEST. One sweet May morning (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd lambs, With two or three companions, whom their course Of occupation led from height to height Under a cloudless sun, till he, at length, Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge The humour of the moment, lagg'd behind. You see yon precipice;--it wears the shape Of a vast building made of many crags; And in the midst is one particular rock That rises like a column from the vale, Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar. Upon its aëry summit crown'd with heath, The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, Lay stretch'd at ease; but, passing by the place On their return, they found that he was gone. No ill was fear'd; but one of them by chance Entering, when evening was far spent, the house Which at that time was James's home, there learned That nobody had seen him all that day; The morning came, and still he was unheard of; The neighbours were alarm'd, and to the brook Some hasten'd, some towards the lake; ere noon They found him at the foot of that same rock-- Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after I buried him, poor youth, and there he lies! LEONARD. And that then is his grave!--Before his death You say that he saw many happy years? PRIEST. Ay, that he did-- LEONARD. And all went well with him?-- PRIEST. If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. LEONARD. And you believe, then, that his mind was easy? PRIEST. Yes, long before he died, he found that time Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless His thoughts were turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talk'd about him with a cheerful love. LEONARD. He could not come to an unhallow'd end! PRIEST. Nay, God forbid!--You recollect I mention'd A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured That, as the day was warm, he had lain down Upon the grass, and waiting for his comrades, He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep He to the margin of the precipice Had walk'd, and from the summit had fallen headlong. And so, no doubt, he perished: at the time, We guess, that in his hands he must have held His shepherd's staff: for midway in the cliff It had been caught; and there for many years It hung, and moulder'd there. The priest here ended-- The stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt A gushing from his heart, that took away The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; And Leonard, when they reach'd the churchyard gate, As the priest lifted up the latch, turned round, And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!" The vicar did not hear the words: and now, Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated That Leonard would partake his homely fare; The other thank'd him with a fervent voice, But added, that, the evening being calm, He would pursue his journey. So they parted. It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short, And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd All that the priest had said: his early years Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes, And thoughts which had been his an hour before, All press'd on him with such a weight, that now This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd A place in which he could not bear to live: So he relinquish'd all his purposes. He travell'd on to Egremont: and thence, That night, he wrote a letter to the priest, Reminding him of what had pass'd between them; And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, That it was from the weakness of his heart He had not dared to tell him who he was. This done, he went on shipboard, and is now A seaman, a grey-headed mariner. [2] This actually took place on Kidstow Pike, at the head of Hawes Water. [3] The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale. The Leeza is a river which flows into the lake of Ennerdale; on issuing from the lake it changes its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont. EMMA; OR, THE MURDERED MAID. A TRAGEDY OF THE LAKE DISTRICT. On the death of Emma's father, she found herself, with a widowed mother, deprived, at one stroke, of nearly all the comforts, and the means of procuring them, which she had enjoyed during her father's lifetime. A small jointure of thirty pounds a-year was all that remained to her mother, for her father had died insolvent. This thirty pounds a-year Emma thought might support her mother, if she could support herself. Determined to burden no one for her subsistence, and believing that humble servitude was, in the eyes of Heaven and of men, more honourable than a mean and degrading dependence on the bounty of friends for a precarious supply of our temporary wants. Her mother strenuously opposed Emma's resolution of going to service. She would subject herself to any privations, rather than her young and lovely daughter would be reduced to this severe necessity--she would work for hire--she would beg--she would borrow--she should almost steal, rather than Emma should be compelled to labour. Her mother's entreaties, however, so far from having the desired effect of preventing her going to service, only confirmed Emma in her previous resolution. Should she be a burden to her mother--to that mother who expressed so tender a solicitation for her welfare--who was rapidly descending the downhill of life--who had all her days been accustomed to the elegances of taste? No, no; rather than take anything from her, she would add a little to her comforts; and a portion of her yearly wage should be set apart as a present to her mother. The affectionate mother, who had never before parted a single day with her daughter, saw her set out to her place of service (a gentleman's family among the lakes, where her father had been upon terms of intimacy) with an aching heart. She felt as if she was parting with her for the last time; and required all the resolution she was mistress of to tear herself from her dear Emma. "Go," she said, "and take a mother's fondest, warmest blessing; and if you should find yourself unable to accomplish your resolution, or feel any inconvenience, return and share what Heaven has left us, with an affectionate mother. It is not much, Heaven knows; but I could doubly enjoy it, were it less, if I had you to share it." Emma assured her mother, that if any unforeseen difficulty occurred, she would instantly repair to her natal home; and cheered her with a promise of constantly writing. This pacified, but did not console her mother. She knew too well the independent spirit of her daughter to hope for her return, except on some awful emergency. Time rolled on, and repeated letters, both from Emma and her mistress, assured the mother that all was well, and that Emma was healthy and happy. At length Emma sent the joyful intelligence that she would come over on Whitsun Sunday morning, and spend the week with her. Emma arose, with buoyant spirits, packed up a small bundle of necessaries in a handkerchief, put her wages in her bosom, and set out to see and cheer her affectionate parent. The morning was extremely fine, and she amused herself with the bright and varied prospect, till the road, descending a steep hill, led her into a richly romantic valley. A copse of wood overhung the road, a huge rock formed the fence on that side next the wood, and seemed like a natural wall. Over the rock fell, in three or four unequal cascades, the stream of a brook which might be heard tumbling through the wood to a considerable distance. Close to the place where the water left the wood, one part of the rock shot up to an immense height, bearing no very distant resemblance to the ruins of an old castle. From a fissure in the rock grew the stump of an old oak, whose branches had apparently been lopped by the wind, except one, which, bending down almost to the stream, had escaped its ravages by its humble situation. On a large stone, in this romantic spot, Emma sat down to rest herself awhile, and slake her thirst at the stream. Though Emma's heart did not entertain a thought but of the joy her mother would feel on receiving the first-fruits of her first wages, every bosom was not warmed by so generous an impulse. Sam the cow-lad at Emma's master's had ascertained that she had that day received her wages, and was gone to her mother's; and he instantly formed the resolution to rob the generous girl of the hard earned pittance. By a nearer route, over the hills, he sought to meet her in this solitary spot, where there was little possibility of being surprised in the action. While Emma was thus meditating on the happiness which she would soon feel in her mother's arms, Sam came up and commanded her to deliver up her money; she entreated him to leave her a little for a present to her mother, but the human fiend (and human fiends are the worst fiends), refused to leave her a farthing. He had secured the booty, and Emma was preparing to pursue her journey, when the horrid thought entered his head, that unless he added murder to his robbery, he would be liable to punishment for his crime. There was not a moment for deliberation; and the lovely, the young, the innocent Emma fell a corpse at the wretch's feet. Fear added wings to the speed of the villain, and he fled, as if from the face of heaven. The day passed on with the same calm serenity as if nothing had happened. Noon came to the widow's cottage but no Emma arrived. As the evening drew on the mother's unhappiness increased; and she set out to meet her daughter, for whose fate she felt most keenly, without being able to assign any cause. As the sun was sinking, amid a rich profusion of evening tints, which threw a dazzling lustre over all the scene, the widow reached the vale where her murdered daughter slept her last long sleep. But the pencil alone can finish the picture--words are of no utility. It would be superfluous to say that I would have the last picture sketched at the moment when the mother first discovers that it is the lifeless body of her daughter that lies stained with its own gore, that she is bending over. Cold must be that heart that would not feel the full force of such a piece. Poor would the richest landscape you ever drew appear, when compared with this. It is strange that those who profess to have hearts so open to the beauties of nature, should reject the loveliest object in it. Adam, though placed in the midst of Paradise, was not content till Eve was added to its other beauties; nor would I ever draw a picture without such an enlivening object. Beside, in most of our fine sublime scenes about the lakes, we lose the principal zest of the piece by having nothing beautiful to contrast with the rugged. The more wild and terrible the scene I had to paint, the greater care would I take to introduce some lovely female form to mark the contrast; then "Each would give each a double charm, Like pearls upon an Ethiop's arm." HISTORICAL, POETICAL, AND ROMANTIC ASSOCIATIONS OF CARLISLE. No one versed in ballad lore--no reader of old poetry and romance, can approach Carlisle for the first time without pleasurable emotion. Carlisle is the border city--the city of King Arthur and his knights. It has been the scene of many a stout siege and bloody feud; of many a fierce foray, and mournful execution, and of many a just punishment upon traitors and reivers. It is, consequently, not to be pictured to the imagination without unusual interest. Old traditions of events like these have made it among the most remarkable of the cities of England; and it would be difficult to name another around which are clustered so many memories of such various degrees of attraction to the poetical and historical antiquary. Its approach from the south, though striking, gives no idea of its antiquity and former feudalism. It is situated in an extensive plain, surrounded in the distance by mountains, amongst which Saddleback, Skiddaw, and Crossfell, are prominent; and from afar off, with the smoke of its households hanging over it, does undoubtedly impress the imagination with ideas of the romantic. Nearer approach, however, dissipates this illusion. We lose sight of the valley, being in it, and of the mountains, in the presence of immediate objects. Tall chimneys rear their heads in considerable numbers, pouring forth steam and smoke, and with square buildings and their numerous windows, prove incontestably that modern Carlisle is a manufacturing city, and has associations very different from those of its former history. On entrance, the contrast between the past and the present becomes still more vivid. We see that its walls and gates have disappeared; that its streets are clean, wide and comfortable, which no ancient streets in England ever were; and that it has altogether a juvenile, busy, and thriving appearance, giving few signs (to the eye at least) that it has been in existence above a century. It is true that two venerable relics, its castle and its cathedral, remain to attest its bygone grandeur and glory; but these are not immediately visible, and have to be sought out by the enquiring stranger; whilst all around him is modern and prosaic; and a mere reduplication of the same characteristics of English life and manners that he must have seen in a hundred other places. Still, however, it is "merry Carlisle," and "bonnie Carlisle," although, like all other mundane things, it has been changed by time; and is quite as much King Arthur's city as England is King Arthur's England; and brimfull of associations which the traveller will be at no loss to recall, of the crime and sorrow--the "fierce wars and faithful loves" of our ancestors, from the year 800 downwards to 1745. Not that Carlisle is only a thousand years old. It has a much earlier origin than the year 800, having been founded by the Romans. By them it was called Luguballium, or Luguvallum, signifying the tower or station by the wall, and was so named from its contiguity to the wall of Severus. The Saxons, disliking this long and awkward name, abbreviated it into Luel; and afterwards in speaking of it, called it Caer-luel, or the city of Luel; from whence comes its present designation of Carlisle. It is supposed to have been during the Saxon period, if not the chief city, the frequent residence of that great mythic personage, King Arthur, where he With fifty good and able Knights that resorted unto him And were of his round table: Did hold his jousts and tournaments, Whereto were many pressed, Wherein some knights did far excel And eke surmount the rest. Among these knights, Sir Lancelot du Lake, Sir Bevis, and Sir Gawaine are the most conspicuous in tradition. One of the most celebrated of our most ancient ballads relates to the latter, and to his marriage with the mis-shapen lady that afterwards became so fair. The story is a very beautiful one; and was the model upon which Chaucer founded his Wife of Bath's Tale. It is worth repeating, for the sake of those to whom the uncouth rhymes of ancient days are not familiar; but though it is likely enough that the number of these is but few, it is too interesting, as connected with Carlisle, to be left unmentioned in a chapter expressly devoted to the poetical antiquities of the place. THE MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE. King Arthur lives in merry Carleile, And seemly is to see: And there with him queene Guenever, That bride so bright of blee. And there with him queene Guenever, That bride so bright in bowre; And all his barons about him stoode, That were both stiffe and stowre. The king a royale Christmasse kept, With mirth and princelye cheare; To him repaired many a knighte, That came both farre and neare. And when they were to dinner sette, And cups went freely round: Before them came a faire damsèlle, And knelt upon the ground. A boone! a boone! O kinge Arthùre, I beg a boone of thee; Avenge me of a carlish knighte, Who hath shent my love and me. At Tearne-Wadling,[4] his castle stands, Near to that lake so fair, And proudlye rise the battlements, And streamers deck the air. Noe gentle knighte, nor ladye gay, May pass that castle-walle; But from that foule discurteous knighte, Mishappe will them befalle. Hee's twyce the size of common men, Wi' thewes, and sinewes stronge, And on his backe he bears a clubbe, That is both thicke and longe. This grimme baròne, 'twas our harde happe, But yester morne to see; When to his bowre he bare my love, And sore misused me. And when I told him, King Arthùre As lyttle shold him spare; Goe tell, sayd he, that cuckold kinge, To meete me if he dare. Upp then sterted King Arthùre, And sware by hille and dale, He ne'er wolde quitt that grimme baròne, Till he had made him quail. King Arthur sets off in a great rage. The opprobrious term, which galled him the more because it was true, fired his blood, and he challenged the "grimme baròne" to mortal combat. Sir Gawaine, who seems to have been of a stature as gigantic as the famous Sir Hugh Cæsar, who is buried at Penrith, conquered him by enchantment: his sinews lost their strength, his arms sank powerless at his side; and he only received the boon of life at the hands of his enemy by swearing upon his faith as a knight, to return upon New Year's day, and bring "true word what thing it was that women most desired." Go fetch my sword Excalibar: Goe saddle mee my steede, Nowe, by my faye, that grimme baròne Shall rue this ruthfulle deede. And when he came to Tearne-Wadling, Beneath the castle-walle; "Come forth; come forth; thou proud baròne, Or yielde thyself my thralle." On magicke grounde that castle stoode, And fenc'd with many a spelle: Noe valiant knighte could tread thereon, But straite his courage felle. Forth then rush'd that carlish knight, King Arthur felte the charme: His sturdy sinews lost their strengthe, Down sunke his feeble arme. Nowe yield thee, yield thee, King Arthùre, Nowe yield thee unto mee: Or fighte with mee, or lose thy lande, Noe better terms maye bee. Unlesse thou sweare upon the rood, And promise on thy faye, Here to returne to Tearne-Wadling Upon the New Yeare's daye: And bringe me worde what thing it is All women moste desyre: This is thy ransome, Arthùre, he says, Ile have noe other hyre. King Arthur then helde up his hande, And sweare upon his faye, Then tooke his leave of the grimme baròne, And faste hee rode awaye. And he rode east, and he rode west, And did of all inquyre, What thing it is all women crave, And what they most desyre. King Arthur made due inquiry; but it was not so easy a matter to discover the secret. Some told him riches, pompe, or state; Some rayment fine and brighte; Some told him mirthe; some flatterye; And some a jollye knighte: In letters all King Arthur wrote, And seal'd them with his ringe; But still his minde was helde in doubte, Each tolde a different thinge. As New Year's day approached, his tribulation increased; for though he might have told the "grimme baròne" with much truth many things that women did much desire, he was not at all sure that his version of what they most desired, would hit the fancy of the Lord of Tarn-Wadling, who had set him to expound the riddle. He would not give up, however, and one day,-- As ruthfulle he rode over a more, He saw a ladye sitte Between an oke, and a greene holléye, All clad in "red scarlette." Her nose was crookt and turned outwàrde, Her chin stoode all awreye; And where as sholde have been her mouthe, Lo! there was set her eye: Her haires, like serpents, clung aboute Her cheekes of deadlye hewe: A worse-form'd ladye than she was, No man mote ever viewe. This ill-conditioned damsel tells him the secret, however, upon condition that he will bring her a "fair and courtly knight to marry her,"--a condition which, considering all the circumstances, must have seemed to the good king as bad as the jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. The great secret is, as she expresses it, "that all women will have their wille, and this is their chief desyre," which Arthur forthwith tells to the "grimme baròne;" and so acquits himself as far as he is concerned. The other trouble, however, still remains, and fills the king's mind with anxiety. Queen Guinevere, who was outraged as well as her husband by the opprobrious message of the "grimme baròne," but who had never thought of the very obvious solution of the riddle he had been set, comes out to meet him on his return, and inquires how he has sped. He details his new tribulation in having promised to procure a fair knight to marry this ugly, mis-shapen creature. Comfort is nearer at hand than he thought, and Sir Gawaine, his own nephew, "his sister's son," bids him "be merrye and lighte," for he will marry her, however foul and loathsome she may be. He does so accordingly:-- And when they were in wed-bed laid, And all were done awaye: "Come turne to me, mine owne wed-lord, Come turne to mee, I praye." Sir Gawaine scant could lift his head, For sorrowe and for care; When lo! instead of that lothelye dame, He sawe a young ladye faire. Sweet blushes stayn'd her rud-red cheeke, Her eyen were blacke as sloe; The ripening cherrye swellde her lippe, And all her necke was snowe. Agreeably surprised at the change, Sir Gawaine soon learns to love the lady. She informs him that, by a cruel fate, she cannot be fair both night and day; and asks him which he prefers. He hints that the night would be most pleasant; to which she replies:-- What when gaye ladyes goe with their lordes To drinke the ale and wine; Alas! then I must hide myself, I must not go, with mine? "My faire ladyè, Sir Gawaine sayd, I yield me to thy skille; Because thou art my owne ladye Thou shalt have all thy wille." The spell is broken. She tells him her history; and that henceforth she shall be fair both night and day. My father was an aged knighte, And yet it chanced soe, He took to wife a false ladyè, Whiche broughte me to this woe. Shee witch'd mee, being a faire younge maide, In the grene forèst to dwelle; And there to abide in lothlye shape, Most like a fiend of helle. Midst mores and mosses, woods, and wilds; To lead a lonesome life: Till some yonge faire and courtlye knighte Wolde marrye me for his wife: Nor fully to game mine owne trewe shape, Such was her devilish skille; Until he wolde yielde to be ruled by mee, And let mee have all my wille. She witch'd my brother to a carlish boore, And made him stiffe and stronge; And built him a bowre on magicke grounde, To live by rapine and wronge. But now the spelle is broken throughe, And wronge is turnde to righte; Henceforth I shall bee a faire ladyè, And hee a gentle knighte. Another ballad, equally celebrated, though not so beautiful, also relates to King Arthur's residence at Carlisle, and to the truth of the imputation cast upon Queen Guinevere by the "grimme baròne" of the last story. It is entitled "The Boy and the Mantle," commencing somewhat uncouthly:-- In the third day of May, To Carleile did come A kind curteous child That cold much of wisdome. This "child" brings that wondrous mantle which no lady who is not chaste can wear; and it is tried upon all the dames of the court. When Queen Guinevere put it on, it was suddenly rent from the top to the bottom, and turned in succession all manner of colours, and is told as follows:-- God speed thee, king Arthur, Sitting at thy meate; And the goodly queene Guinevere, I cannott her forgett. I tell you, lords, in this hall; I bid you all to "heede;" Except you be the more surer Is you for to dread. He plucked out of his "porterner," And longer wold not dwell, He pulled forth a pretty mantle, Betweene two nut-shells. Have thou here, king Arthur; Have thou here of mee, Give itt to thy comely queene Shapen as itt is alreadye. Itt shall never become that wiffe, That hath once done amisse. Then every knight in the king's court Began to care for "his." Forth came dame Guinevere; To the mantle shee her "hied;" The ladye shee was newfangle, But yett she was affrayd. When she had taken the mantle; She stoode as shee had beene madd; It was from the top to the toe As sheeres had itt shread. One while was it "gule;" Another while was itt greene; Another while was it wadded: Ill itt did her beseeme. Another while was it blacke And bore the worst hue: By my troth, quoth king Arthur, I thinke thou be not true. She threw down the mantle, That bright was of blee; Fast, with a rudd redd, To her chamber can shee flee. She curst the weaver, and the walker That clothe that had wrought; And bade a vengeance on his crowne, That hither had it broughte. The lady of Sir Kay, another of King Arthur's knights, tries it on with no better success; and the ballad thus corroborates the old traditions reported by the earliest historians, that the court of the British King was anything but a pure one, "and that Queen Guinevere was noted for breach of faith to her husband," especially with her husband's friend, Sir Lancelot du Lake, the hero himself of many a goodly ballad; and of some passages in the Morte Arthur. Mixing the real with the fabulous history of Carlisle, and taking both in chronological order, we must leave these ancient ballads to relate that, during the period of the British Kings, Carlisle suffered from the incursions of the Scots and Picts, by whom it was ultimately reduced to ruins; it was rebuilt by Egfrid, King of Northumberland, who surrounded and fortified it with a wall; founded a monastery and a college of secular priests. It was once more destroyed by the Danes, about the year 900, who threw down the walls, burned its houses, chiefly built of wood, and killed every person in it, man, woman, and child. It remained in ruins, it is believed, for nearly 200 years. On the return of William Rufus from Alnwick, after concluding a peace with the turbulent Scotch, he passed over the remains of this once celebrated city, and observing that it must have been a place of great strength, and could be made so again, he resolved to rebuild it for the protection of the border. He did so: and Carlisle became of more importance than it had ever been before. Its castle was built and garrisoned; and every means taken to render it a stronghold both for offensive and defensive warfare. Henry the First completed what Rufus had so well begun, erected Carlisle into an Episcopal see in the year 1132, making Athelwold, his confessor, the first bishop. In Evans's Collection of Old Ballads is one relating to a bishop of Carlisle at this early period. It is entitled "Bishop Thurston and the King of Scots," and contains some beautiful passages which render it worthy of all the publicity that can be given to it; especially as the whole composition inculcates sentiments of abhorrence for warfare, rare at the time it was penned, but now, happily, in the ascendant. Soon after King Stephen's departure for Normandy, A.D. 1137, the King of Scotland entered England in a hostile manner. Stephen's Government was not in a position to resist an invasion at that time; and the miseries of war were averted by the interposition of the venerable Bishop Thurston, who prevailed upon the Scotch King to meet him at Roxburgh, and used such arguments as induced him to return to his own country in peace. They are said to have been arguments of Christian charity, and not the arguments of policy and the sword, which bishops as well as barons could use in those days. A few stanzas will show the excellent spirit of the ballad. Through the fair country of Tiviotdale King David marched forth; King David and his princely son, The heroes of the North. And holy Thurston fro' merry Carlisle, In haste his way doth wind, With many a cross-bearer before, And many a knight behind. The arguments used by the bishop to dissuade the invader are of universal interest, and as applicable now as then:-- Out then spoke the holy Thurston, And full of woe spake he, "O Christ, thy kingdom of heavenly bliss, Alas, when shall we see! For here on earth is nought but sin, And kings for pride do ill, And when they with each other war The poor folks blood must spill. What hath the husbandman done wrong That he must spoil his grain? What the poor widow, and what the child, That they must all be slain? And what is the simple maid to blame To be made of lust the prey? And what the lowly village priest That they so oft do slay? And when the doleful day of doom Shall call ye from the grave, From the crying blood of these innocents What tyrants shall ye save? Now think thee well, O mortal King, And thy misdeeds bemoan, And think what will save thy hapless soul, When all thy pomp is gone. Nor fancy that alms will save thy soul, Though bounteous they be given; Nor the rearing of abbeys all rich endowed Will carry thy soul to heaven." From the time of Henry I. the place began to prosper, though it appears from Stowe that, in 1829, a great portion of it was burned down. In the year 1300, King Edward I. summoned his barons and knights to meet him here on the feast-day of St. John the Baptist, to prepare for the invasion of Scotland; which was afterwards commenced by the siege of Carlaverock castle. The same monarch also summoned a Parliament to meet here in the year 1307, the last parliament of his reign. A complete list of the members who attended is to be found in Stowe's _Annals_, including, says the historian, "eighty-seven earls and barons, twenty bishops, sixty-one abbots, and eight priors, besides many deacons, archdeacons and other inferior clerks. The subject of their deliberations was the Scottish war, and the sore annoyance given by Robert Bruce. The King remained here from January, when the Parliament was summoned, during all the winter and summer, disposing of many things concerning Scotland at his pleasure," but vexing himself to death at his inability, from sickness and other causes, to march against Robert Bruce. He had some revenge, however, for a party of his men "capturing one Thomas, that was a knight, and one Alexander, that was a priest and dean of Glasgow," who had been sent by Robert Bruce to "allure away the English people by gentle persuasion;" he had them summarily hanged, drawn, and quartered, and placed their heads upon the gates of Carlisle--those gates where the heads of so many Scotchmen were afterwards to grin in ghastly horror until 1745. Among the poetical and historical associations connected with Carlisle, the famous battle of Otterbourne, and the still more famous ballad which celebrates it, must not be omitted. In the twelfth year of Richard II., A.D. 1388, the Scotch made a great raid over the border, and ravaged the whole country about Carlisle, driving away large quantities of cattle, and taking no less than 300 men prisoners. Another division of them extended their ravages into the counties of Northumberland and Durham; and grew so insolent as to render a vigorous effort necessary to crush them, on the part of the English. It fell about the Lammas tide When yoemen win their hay, The doughty Douglass 'gan to ride In England to take a prey. The Earl of Fife withoute strife _He bound him over Solway_. The great wolde even together ride The race they may rue for aye. The version of the ballad, as given by Percy, is the only one of the many versions extant which makes allusion to the party that ravaged Carlisle. The main interest is centred around Newcastle, and on the doings of the other division of the Scotch. There is, however, another ballad of which Carlisle is more exclusively the theme. It is somewhat less known to the English reader, not being found in Percy's _Reliques_; and describes a scene which was very common to the border for a long period. Mr. Gilbert has illustrated it by a picturesque sketch. The principal portions of this ballad, sufficient to tell the story, are here transcribed. In the year 1596, William Armstrong, of Kinmont, better known as Kinmont Willie, a noted reiver, or border trooper, and stealer of Englishmen's cattle, was taken prisoner by Lord Scrope, the Warden of the Western Marches, and safely lodged in Carlisle Castle. A truce existed at the time between Lord Scrope and the Lord of Buccleugh, who severally watched over the interests of the English and Scottish sides of the border; and the Lord of Buccleugh, incensed that the truce had been broken by the capture of Willie, demanded that he should be set at liberty. Lord Scrope refused; and the Lord of Buccleugh, with a small body of two hundred men, performed the daring feat of surprising the castle of Carlisle, and rescuing his countryman. The "fause Sakelde," alluded to in the ballad, was the then possessor of Corby castle, and sheriff of Cumberland--the chief of the powerful family of the Salkeldes; and "Hairibee" was the slang phrase for the place of execution at Carlisle. KINMONT WILLIE. O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde, O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scrope, How they have taken bold Kinmont Willie On Hairibee to hang him up? Had Willie had but twenty men-- But twenty men as stout as he, Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en Wi' eight score in his company. They bound his legs beneath the steed, They tied his hands behind his back, They guarded him, five score on each side, And brought him over the Liddel-rack. They led him through the Liddel-rack, And also through the Carlisle sands, They brought him to Carlisle Castell To be at my Lord Scrope's commands. Now word is gone to the bold keeper In Branksome hall where that he lay, That Lord Scrope had taken Kinmont Willie Between the hours of night and day. He struck the table with his hand, He made the red wine spring on hie-- "Now Christ's curse on my head," he said, "But avenged on Lord Scrope I will be. "O is my helmet a widow's cap, Or my lance a wand of the willow tree? Or my arm a lady's lily hand, That an English Lord should lightly me? "And have they taken him, Kinmont Willie, Against the truce of Border tide? And forgotten that the bold Buccleugh Is keeper here on the Scottish side? "And have they taken him, Kinmont Willie, Withouten either dread or fear, And forgotten that the bold Buccleugh, Can back a steed and shake a spear? "O were there war between the lands, As well as I wot that there is none, I would slight Carlisle Castell high, Though it were builded of marble stone. "I would set that Castell in a low, And sloken it with English blood, There's never a man in Cumberland Should tell where Carlisle Castell stood. "But since nae war's between the lands And there is peace and peace should be; I'll neither harm English lad or lass, And yet the Kinmont shall go free." Then on we held for Carlisle town And at Staneshaw bank the Eden we crossed, The water was great and mickle of spait But there never a man nor horse we lost. And when we reached the Staneshaw bank, The wind was rising loud and hie, And there the laird gar'd leave our steeds For fear that they should stamp and nie. And when we left the Staneshaw bank, The wind began full loud to blaw, But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, When we came beneath the castle wa'. We crept on knees and held our breath, Till we placed the ladders against the wa', And ready was bold Buccleugh himself To mount the first before us a'. He has ta'en the watchman by the throat, He flung him down upon the lead; "Had there not been peace between our land, Upon the other side thou hadst gaed." "Now sound our trumpet," quoth Buccleugh, Let's waken Lord Scrope, right merrilie; Then loud the Warder's trumpet blew, "Wha daur meddle wi' me?" Wi' coulters and wi' forehammers We garred the bars bang merrilie, Until we came to the inner prison, Where Kinmont Willie he did lie. And when we came to the lower prison, Where Kinmont Willie he did lie. "O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, Upon the morn that thou's to die?" "O, I sleep saft, and I wake aft, It's long since sleeping was fley'd frae me! Gie my service back to my wife and bairns, And a' gude fellows that speir for me!" The Red Rowan has lifted him up The starkest man in Teviotdale; "Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, Till of Lord Scrope I take farewell. "Farewell, farewell, my good Lord Scrope, My good Lord Scrope, farewell," he cried, "I'll pay you for my lodging maill, When first we meet on the border side." Then shoulder high, with shout and cry, We bore him down the ladder lang, At every stride Red Rowan made I wot the Kinmont's airms played clang. "O, mony a time," quoth Kinmont Willie, "I have ridden horse both wild and woad, But a rougher beast than Red Rowan, I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode!" We scarce had reached the Haneshaw bank, When all the Carlisle hills were rung, And a thousand men on horse and foot Came wi' the keen Lord Scrope along. Buccleugh has turned to Eden water, Even where it flowed from bank to brim, And he has plunged in wi' a' his band And safely swam them thro' the stream. He turned him on the other side, And at Lord Scrope his glove flung he, "If ye like na' my visit in merry England, In fair Scotland come visit me!" This was a daring exploit, and has been gallantly sung. The words seem to come out of the mouth of one of the very moss troopers who had acted a part in the achievement, and the whole composition is rough but finely flavoured; and strongly dramatic. Queen Elizabeth, when she heard of it, was highly indignant, and "stormed not a little." Two years afterwards, the "bold Buccleugh" was in England, and Elizabeth was anxious to see so doughty a chieftain. He was presented accordingly, and Elizabeth, in a rough and peremptory manner, demanded of him how he had dared to undertake an enterprise so desperate and presumptuous! "What is it," replied the undaunted Scot, "that a man dare not do?" Elizabeth, struck with his boldness, turned to a lord in waiting, and said, "with ten thousand men such as this, our brother of Scotland might shake the firmest throne in Europe." There is another ballad relating to the same Lord Scrope, and the execution of a noted reiver, named "Hughie the Græme," who had made woeful havoc in his time among the farmsteads of the Marches, and the cattle of "merry England." Hughie did not escape Hairibee. The actual offence for which he suffered was his stealing the Bishop of Carlisle's mare. The following is the ballad:-- HUGHIE THE GR�ME. Gude Lord Scroope's to the hunting gane, He has ridden our moss and muir; And he has grippit Hughie the Græme, For stealing o' the bishop's mare. "Now, Good Lord Scroope, this may not be! Here hangs a broadsword by my side; And if that thou canst conquer me, The matter it may soon be tryed. "I ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief, Although my name be Hughie the Græme; I'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds, If God but grant me life and time. "Then do your worst now, good Lord Scroope, And deal your blows as hard as you can; It shall be tried within an hour, Which of us two is the better man." But as they were dealing their blows so free, And both so bloody at the time, Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall, All for to take brave Hughie the Græme. Then they ha'e gribbit Hughie the Græme, And brought him up through Carlisle town; The lasses and lads stood on the walls, Crying, "Hughie the Græme, thou'se ne'er gae down!" Then ha'e they chosen a jury of men, The best that were in Carlisle town: And twelve of them cried out at once, "Hughie the Græme, thou must gae down!" Then up bespake him gude Lord Hume, As he sat by the judge's knee: "Twenty white owsen, my gude Lord, If you'll grant Hughie the Græme to me." "O no, O no, my gude Lord Hume! Forsooth, and sae it mauna be; For were there but three Græmes of the name, They suld be hanged a' for me." 'Twas up and spake the gude Lady Hume, As she sat by the judge's knee: "A peck of white pennies, my gude lord judge, If you'll grant Hughie the Græme to me." "O no, O no, my gude Lady Hume! Forsooth and so it mustna be; Were he but the one Græme of the name, He suld be hanged high for me." "If I be guilty," said Hughie the Græme, "Of me my friends shall have small talk:" And he has leaped fifteen feet and three, Tho' his hands they were tied behind his back. He looked over his left shoulder, And for to see what he might see; There was he aware of his ould father, Came tearing his hair most piteously. "O hauld your tongue, my father," he says, "And see that ye dinna weep for me! For they may ravish me o' my life, But they canna banish me fro' heaven hie. "Fare ye weel, fair Maggie, my wife! The last time we came ower the muir, 'Twas thou bereft me of my life, And wi' the bishop thou play'd the whore. "Here, Johnnie Armstrong, take thou my sword, That is made o' the metal sae fine; And when thou comest to the English side, Remember the death of Hughie the Græme." There are two or more versions of the foregoing: one in Ritson's Collection; and one communicated by Burns to Johnson's Museum. The ballad of Hobbie Noble relates to a hero of the same stamp, who suffered about the same period, at the same place, for a similar love for English oxen and sheep. Hobbie was an Englishman; who, finding less difference in the laws of "mine and thine" on the Scotch side of the border, and more sympathy with such loose notions of property as he possessed, established himself among the Scotch, and helped them to ravage the country to Carlisle southward, whenever opportunity offered. The Scotch, however, proved false to him. The Armstrongs, amongst whom he was residing, were bribed by the English to decoy him over the border upon pretence of a raid or foray; where he was delivered up to a party from Carlisle castle, that had long been on the look-out for him. By these he was taken to Carlisle, and hanged on Hairibee in less than twenty-four hours afterwards. HOBBIE NOBLE. Foul fa' the breast first treason bred in! That Liddesdale may safely say: For in it there was baith meat and drink, And corn unto our geldings gay. And we were a' stout-hearted men, As England she might often say; But now we may turn our backs and flee, Since brave Noble is sold away. Now Hobbie was an Englishman, And born in Bewcastle dale; But his misdeeds they were so great, They banished him to Liddesdale. At Kershope foot the tryst was set, Kershope of the lilye lee; And there was traitor Sim o' the Mains, And with him a private companie. Then Hobbie has graithed his body fair, Baith wi' the iron and wi' the steil; And he has ta'en out his fringed gray, And there brave Hobbie he rade him weel. Then Hobbie is down the water gane, E'en as fast as he could hie! Tho' a' should ha'e bursten and broken their hearts, Frae that riding tryst he wad na be. "Weel be ye met, my feres five! And now, what is your will wi' me?" Then they cried a' wi' ae consent, Thou'rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me. "Wilt thou with us into England ride, And thy safe warrand we will be? If we get a horse worth a hundred pound, Upon his back thou sune sall be." "I dare not by day into England ride, The land-serjeant has me at feid; And I know not what evil may betide, For Peter of Whitfield, his brother is dead. "And Anton Shiel he loves not me, For I gat twa drifts o' his sheep; The great Earl of Whitfield loves me not, For nae gear frae me he e'er could keep. "But will ye stay till the day gae down, Until the night come o'er the grund, And I'll be a guide worth ony twa That may in Liddesdale be found? "Though the night be black as pick and tar I'll guide ye o'er yon hill sae hie, And bring ye a' in safety back, If ye'll be true and follow me." He has guided them o'er moss and muir, O'er hill and hope, and mony a down; Until they came to the Foulbogshiel, And there, brave Noble, he lighted down. But word is gane to the land serjeant, In Askerton where that he lay-- "The deer that ye ha'e hunted sae lang, Is seen into the Waste this day." "Then Hobbie Noble is that deer! I wot he carries the style fu' hie; Aft has he driven our bluidhounds back, And set ourselves at little lee. "Gar warn the bows of Hartlie burn; See they sharp their arrows on the wa'; Warn Willeva and Speir Edom, And see the morn they meet me a'. "Gar meet me on the Rodric-haugh, And see it be by break o' day: And we will on to Conscouthart-green, For there, I think, we'll get our prey." Then Hobbie Noble has dreimit a dreim, In the Foulbogsheil, where that he lay; He dreimit his horse was aneith him shot, And he himself got hard away. The cocks could craw, the day could daw, And I wot sae even fell down the rain; Had Hobbie na awakened at that time, In the Foulbogshiel he had been ta'en or slain. "Awake, awake, my feres five! I trow here make a fu' ill day; Yet the worst cloak o' this company, I hope shall cross the Waste this day." Now Hobbie thought the gates were clear, But even, alas! it was na sae; They were beset by cruel men and keen That away brave Hobbie might na gae. "Yet follow me, my feres five, And see ye keip of me guid ray; And the worst cloak o' this company, Even yet may cross the Waste this day." But the land-serjeant's men came Hobbie before, The traitor Sim came Hobbie behin', So had Noble been wight as Wallace was, Away, alas! he might na win. Then Hobbie had but a laddie's sword, But he did mair than a laddie's deed; For that sword had cleared Conscouthart-green, Had it not broke o'er Jerswigham's head. Then they ha'e ta'en brave Hobbie Noble, Wi's ain bowstring the band him sae; But his gentle heart was ne'er sae sair, As when his ain five bound him on the brae. They ha'e ta'en him on for west Carlisle; They asked him if he ken'd the way? Though much he thought, yet little he said; He knew the gate as weel as they. They ha'e ta'en him up the Ricker-gate; The wives they cast their windows wide; And every wife to another can say; "That's the man loosed Jock o' the Side!" "Fy on ye, woman, why ca' ye me man? For it's nae man that I'm used like; Am but like a forfoughen hound, Has been fighting in a dirty syke." They ha'e had him up through Carlisle town, And set him by the chimney fire; They gave brave Noble a loaf to eat, And that was little his desire, They gave him a wheaten loaf to eat, And after that a can of beer; And they a' cried with one consent, "Eat, brave Noble, and make gude cheir! "Confess my lord's horse, Hobbie," they said, "And to-morrow in Carlisle thou's na die." "How can I confess them," Hobbie says, "When I never saw them with my e'e?" The Hobbie has sworn a fu' great aith, By the day that he was gotten and born, He never had onything o' my lord's, That either eat him grass or corn. "Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton! For I think again I'll ne'er thee see: I wad ha'e betrayed nae lad nor alive, For a' the gowd o' Christentie. "And fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale! Baith the hie land and the law; Keep ye weel frae the traitor Mains! For gowd and gear he'll sell ye a'. "Yet wad I rather be ca'd Hobbie Noble, In Carlisle where he suffers for his fau't, Than I'd be ca'd the traitor Mains, That eats and drinks o' the meal and maut." Referring the reader to Percy's _Reliques_ for "Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesley," a long and interesting ballad of this period, or somewhat earlier, we conclude this portion of the poetical antiquities of Carlisle by a very beautiful and touching ballad, "the lament of the border widow." It is founded upon the story of Cockburn of Henderland, a noted disturber of the English districts; who did not, however, suffer at Carlisle, though he had ravaged its neighbourhood; nor at the hands of the English, whose laws he had violated. James the Fifth, scandalized at the excesses of these border reivers, made an excursion into their country in 1529, and executed summary justice upon several of the most turbulent and lawless of them, including the famous Johnnie Armstrong, Adam Scot of Tushielaw, and Cockburn of Henderland. The latter was hanged, by the King's order, over the gate of his own keep, or tower, while his lady fled to the banks of a mountain-stream, called the Henderland burn, and sat down at the foot of a foaming cataract, to drown, amid the sound of the roaring waters, the noise of the drums that announced the close of her husband's existence. The place where she sat is still shown to the stranger. The author of the ballad is unknown. It was taken down from recitation in the Ettrick forest, and is as affecting a ballad as any in the language, abounding with touches of genuine pathos, and most lovely simplicity of sorrow. Exquisite is the whole composition; and many of the passages are worthy of the greatest of poets. My love, he built me a bonny bower, And clad it a' wi' lilye flower, A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, Than my true love he built for me. There came a man by middle day, He spied his sport and went away, And brought the King that very night, Who brake my bower and slew my knight. He slew my knight, to me sae dear, He slew my knight and poined his gear; My servants all for life did flee, And left me in extremitie. I sewed his sheet, making my moan; I watched the corpse myself alone; I watched the body night and day, No living creature came that way. I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat, I digged a grave and laid him in, And happed him with the sod sae green. But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the mould on his yellow hair! O think na ye my heart was wae When I turned about away to gae! Nae living man I'll love again, Since that my lovely knight is slain; Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair I'll bind my heart for evermair. The devoted wife was buried with her husband. In a deserted burial place, which once surrounded the keep of Henderland, the monument was lately, and perhaps is still, to be seen. It is a large stone, broken into three parts, but some armorial bearings are traceable, and the following inscription--legible though much defaced, "HERE LYES PERYS OF COKBURNE AND HIS WYFE, MARJORY." During the civil wars with the "Roses," Carlisle suffered severely; sometimes from the one party and sometimes from the other--a calamity which it shared, however, with all the other principal towns of the kingdom. In the formidable rising against Henry the Eighth, led originally by Sir Robert Aske, and known as the Pilgrimage of Grace, the city was besieged by 8000 men. They were under the command of Nicholas Musgrave, Thomas Gilley, and others, who appeared as leaders of the movement, after it had been abandoned by Aske and its other originators. The citizens, knowing that the Duke of Norfolk was marching to their relief, sallied out upon their besiegers, and put them to flight. Seventy of the leaders were captured by the Duke; but Musgrave, the prime mover, escaped. The others were hanged and beheaded, and their heads placed upon the gates of the city. This happened in the year 1537. Little more than a century afterwards, Carlisle suffered a severer siege by the Scotch and Parliamentary forces, under General Lesley. It was defended for the Royalists by Sir Thomas Glenham; and surrendered on the 28th of June, 1645, after having held out for more than six months. During the siege, the distress of the garrison and the inhabitants was so severe, that the flesh of horses, dogs, rats, and other vermin was eaten. Bread was exhausted and hemp-seed substituted; which in its turn became so dear as to be unpurchasable by all except the most wealthy. A coinage of silver pieces, of three shillings value, was instituted in the castle during the siege, from the plate of the inhabitants, which was sent in for the purpose. The diary of Isaac Tullie, a resident in the city during the siege, preserved among the Harleian MSS. in the British Museum, states that "the citizens were so shrunk from starvation, that they could not choose but laugh at one another, to see their clothes hang upon them as upon men on gibbets, for one might put one's head and fists between the doublets and shirts of many of them." [4] A note to this passage in "Percy's Reliques" (the editor of which, it must be stated, modernised and added to this ballad), informs us that Tearne-Wadling is near Hesketh, on the road from Penrith, where there is a tradition still in existence that an old castle once stood upon the spot. THE DRUIDS' SACRIFICE. A LEGEND OF KESWICK. Mark yon altar ... See this wide circus Skirted with unhewn stone; they awe my soul, As if the very Genius of the place Himself appeared, and with terrific tread Stalked through his drear domain.... Know that thou stand'st on consecrated ground-- The mighty pile of magic-planted rocks, Thus ranged in mystic order, marks the place Where but at times of holiest festival The Druid led his train. MASON. The old road between Keswick and Penrith passes over a rough hill, called Castle Rigg, which the new road now avoids. In a field adjoining this road, on the right hand side going to Penrith, just on the crown of the hill, and at the distance of a mile and a-half east by north from Keswick, are the remains of a Druidical Temple, popularly named the Druids' Stones. These interesting memorials of the primeval age of Britain consist of forty-eight rude, unhewn blocks of granite, thirty-eight of which are disposed in an oval figure, of which the diameter is thirty-four yards from north to south, and nearly thirty from east to west: the remaining ten stones form an oblong square on the eastern side of the oval area. The latter enclosure, which is seven yards by three, is supposed to have been the sacred place, exclusively appropriated to the Druidical order, where the priests assembled to perform their mystical rites, and to determine on matters of government and judicature. The largest of the stones is upwards of seven feet in height, and may weigh about eight tons, but the greater number measure only three or four feet in height; they mostly stand in an erect position. The situation of this ancient place for superstitious worship has been skilfully chosen, when considered with reference to the idolatrous superstitions of the Druids; the objects of which were to subdue the mind with appalling images, and to extort obedience through the agency of terror. It is seated in the neighbourhood of Skiddaw, Blencathara, and Helvellyn, and some of the highest mountains of Cumberland, whose clouded summits impended over the sacrificial altar, casting obscure shadows through its precincts. Hither the trembling worshippers repaired, to hear and to acknowledge the teachings and denunciations of their potent masters. In the eyes of the barbarian Britons, alike ignorant, credulous, and superstitious, the place would appear to be the very sanctuary of Omnipotence, and the Druid ministers themselves an impersonation of their gods. Wind and cloud, storm and tempest, wrought powerfully in the abstruse mysteries and terrific incantations constituting the Druidical worship; and the mind was prostrated, with terrific awe, at the shrine where natural sublimity combined with human cunning to thrill its scarcely awakened faculties. Here, at midnight, every Druid, summoned by the terrible horn, never sounded but upon high occasions, and descending from his mountain or secret cave, might assemble, without intrusion from one sacrilegious footstep, and celebrate a festival. "By rites of such strange potency, As, done in open day, would dim the sun, Though 'throned in noontide brightness." The tourist will tread this once hallowed circle, where the Druids offered their adorations to Deity, and sat in judgment on their fellow-men, with a mixture of awe and veneration, so well expressed by the poet:-- "Skirted with unhewn stone, it awes my soul As if the very Genius of the place Himself appeared, and with terrific tread Stalked through this drear domain." In spite of the ravages of time, assisted by the destructive hand of man, many Druidical monuments still remain amongst the seclusions of the lakes and mountains of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and many are the strange tales connected with them. For the interest of our readers, we select the following:-- In times long gone by, when these mountains reared their naked heads to the clouds--when their sides were clothed with oak, and their feet were wet with morasses--when the wild cow and the wolf contested the mastership of the unclaimed property--when human feet had never trod these hills or vales--a mighty warrior left his companions in the south and journeyed hitherward. His followers, as they traversed the forests towards the north, met with a beautiful river, at the foot of a gentle hill, well clothed with wood. The warrior said to his companions, let us here construct our tents. Here is wood for shelter and fire; and this river and these mountains will supply us with food. Then they fixed poles in the ground, and fastened them together with wicker-work of branches, and covered them with the green sod from the ground. And the warrior said, the old oak trees around our dwellings will shelter us from the storm in winter, and shade us from the sun in summer. Thus they continued to pass the time in hunting the wild deer among the hills, and in fishing in the adjoining river; and as they were not disturbed by wars, they rapidly increased in strength and numbers. Their ancient priests or Druids retired farther north, because their solemn rites required the greatest privacy; and the mistletoe, their sacred emblem, abounded more among the northern forests. Besides, stones to construct their temples of were more easily procured among these hills; and being far from the haunts of men, they could indulge in the gloomy contemplation of the vindictive character of the Deity--for they knew him only as a Being capable of revenging every insult offered to His name. When their town was become very populous, there lived in it a youth of superior strength and agility, who was remarked for being particularly expert with the bow, and so swift that few could outstrip him in the race. At feats of strength or skill, he was ever foremost: and, in attacking the wolf, or the wild cow, few possessed so daring a soul. It is an old maxim, with few exceptions, that love is the companion of bravery--and Mudor loved the gentle Ella. They had retired, at an early age, to a grove farther up the river, where stood the image of their God Mogan, which had been purchased of some Phenician merchants, along with some iron hatchets, in exchange for the skins of beasts, slain in the chase. Before this rude representation of the Deity they mutually pledged their vows; and to render those pledges more binding, they each stained a blue sun on their breasts, as a memorial that their faith should be as durable as the light of that luminary. No one felt so proud on hearing the praise of Mudor as Ella did--no one hailed his return from the chase, loaded with spoils, with the warmth of Ella--nor did any one so much admire the elegance of the blue symbols of his prowess and his faith, which were painted on his skin, as did the faithful Ella. Reared in two adjoining cabins, their infant sports had been together. For her he had plunged into the morass to procure the richest and sweetest water-lilies--he had climbed the loftiest oak to gain the cushat eggs--and the scarf of squirrel skins which screened her from the cold, was the produce of his most early adventures in the chase. Thus circumstanced, their hearts were knit together by those ties which bind the savage as well as the civilized; for the heart of the naked Indian who treads the burning sands of the desert is as warm to the tender impressions of love as the prince who stretches his limbs on a silken couch, or reposes on a bed of down. These faithful lovers dreamt of no unkindly fate interfering, when a fever broke out in the town, and swept away a number of its inhabitants. Application was made to the priest of Mogan to avert the awful visitation by prayer; but he returned for answer, that the wickedness of the people had offended the Great Invisible, and the fever was sent as a just punishment. The Druids, therefore, who resided in the neighbourhood, made a pilgrimage to one of their largest temples, situated among the mountains, in the midst of a vast forest. The Arch-Druid, having gathered the mistletoe, just as the rising sun licked the dew from its berries, and performed a number of other rites, to obtain answer from the Great Spirit, informed them that Heaven would not be appeased unless a young virgin was immolated as a sacrifice for the sins of the inhabitants. When this intelligence was announced, the utmost dismay seized on every heart. Parents trembled for their daughters, and the daughters trembled for themselves; for no one knew on whom the lot would fall. The Druids of the neighbouring groves assembled together, and cast lots, according to their established usage. The lot fell on Ella! Sad was the heart of Mudor when he heard this; and vainly did he entreat that some other victim might be selected in her stead. It was the irrevocable decree of heaven, and the priests had not the power to alter it. No one felt the sentence less severely than Ella did. She resigned herself to the will of the Deity; and would not render unavailable the sacrifice by any vain and foolish complaints. Still the affection she felt for Mudor would steal across her mind, and a momentary wish that she might have lived to fulfil her vows would interrupt her devotional complacency. The morning arrived when Ella was to be conveyed far into the deserts, among the northern mountains, to the gloomy dell, where Heaven would alone be appeased. Mudor, at a humble distance, followed the procession of the Druids, and separating himself from the crowd which usually assembled to witness those awful rites of the Druid priests, appeared like one who had no conception of what was passing before him. They at length arrived at the place of sacrifice, which was a gloomy dell, in the midst of a forest, near the banks of a river, surrounded by magnificent scenery. This dell was a curious cavity in the rock, of considerable extent, and rendered almost dark by the overhanging branches of the ancient oaks which grew above it. A small circular area, surrounded with large upright stones, was the place of sacrifice. The priests assembled to perform their horrid rites; while the gaping crowd hung in the fissures of the rock on each side, or sat on the branches of the trees, waiting the celebration of the awful ceremony. The bards, with their heads crowned with oak, advanced to the north side of the circle; and after paying obedience to the sun, they chanted the following hymn:-- "Being great, who reign'st alone, Veiled in clouds, unseen, unknown, Centre of the vast profound, Clouds of darkness close thee round. "Thy nod makes storms and tempests rise, Thy breath makes thunder shake the skies, Thy frown turns noon-day into night, And makes the sun withdraw his light. "Beneath thy anger we expire, The victims of thy vengeful ire; Destruction rules at thy command, And ruin blackens all the land." A small cabin of basket-work was erected near the western side of the circle, in the lowest part of the dell, with a door opening towards the Druidical circle. In this the youthful Ella was to be immolated. She was brought into the circle; a garland of oak leaves was bound round her neck, a chaplet of wild flowers placed on her head, and a piece of mistletoe in her hand. Thus adorned she was led to the centre of the circle, and supported there by two aged priests, while the bards chanted the following invocation to the sun:-- FIRST BARD. "See, thy destined victim see, Bright, and chaste, and pure as thee, Let this sinless virgin please thee, Sinful man could ne'er appease thee." SECOND BARD. "Round her brows the wild flowers see, Emblems of thy purity-- Touch'd by mortal's fingers never;-- Round her breast the oak survey, Which like thee can ne'er decay-- Innocence endures for ever." THIRD BARD. "Spirit! who no birth has known, Springing from thyself alone, We thy living emblem show In the mystic mistletoe:-- Springs and grows without a root-- Yields without flower its fruit-- Seeks from earth no mother's care-- Lives and blooms the child of air." FOURTH BARD. "Thou dost thy mystic circle trace Along the vaulted blue profound, And, emblematic of thy race, We tread our mystic circle round." ALL THE BARDS. "Shine upon us, mighty God-- Raise this drooping world of ours-- Send from thy divine abode, Cheering sun and fruitful showers." The lovely Ella was then enclosed in the wicker cabin: a quantity of dry withered leaves, and small dry branches, were laid all round the cabin ready to set fire to. Every one of the crowd was obliged to furnish at least one stick towards producing a fire to consume the victim. But Mudor stood at a distance, determined rather to incur the vengeance of the Invisible Spirit than add one particle to the destruction of his adorable Ella. The Arch-Druid took two pieces of wood, and exposing them to the sun, rubbed them together, while all the bards chanted the following verse:-- "Sun descend in a ray of light, Wrapp'd in thy power and clad in thy might; Come in a red and a fiery stream, Come in a bright and glowing beam; Come in thy flaming chariot down, Burn the wood in a flame of thy own." The friction of the two pieces of wood had the desired effect--they took fire. The sticks and leaves round the cabin which contained the ill-fated Ella were instantly in a blaze. As the flames arose the bards chanted, with loud voices, the following verses:-- "Mighty Sovereign of the skies, Accept this virgin sacrifice, Let her spotless soul atone For wicked actions not her own. As to death her spirit stoops, As she faints and as she droops, Lay aside thy fiery crown And spare, O spare, her native town! She was good, and she was kind, And she possess'd a heavenly mind; Wicked man could ne'er atone For his sins and crimes alone, A purer victim must be found To wash the stain away." The bards stopped short, and raised their hands with astonishment--the crowd shrieked out with fear--and all the rites were suspended; for at that moment a flood of water burst out from the fissures of the rock on every side, and came rolling down the dell like a river. The wicket hurdle in which Ella was confined was instantly surrounded by the flood--the fire was quenched, and she came out unhurt. It is said that a voice was heard by the Arch-Druid of solemn import, intimating that human victims were not acceptable to the Deity--that a greater sacrifice was about to be offered--and that the reign of Druidism was at an end. The Arch-Druid, turning his face towards the sun for a moment, and then to the other priests, remarked that some mighty change was surely about to take place among them; for this was a miracle they could have no conception of. The assembly dispersed in consternation; and the devoted Ella was happily restored to the arms of the overjoyed Mudor, with whom she lived to a good old age; and the rock has occasionally poured forth its stream ever since. THE HEIGHTS OF HELVELLYN; OR, THE UNFORTUNATE TOURIST. In making an ascent of Helvellyn, some tourists are bold enough to traverse the giddy and dangerous heights of Striding Edge: "but this road," says the Bard of the Lakes, "ought not to be taken by any one with weak nerves, as the top in many places scarcely affords room to plant the foot, and is beset with awful precipices on either side." The path on one part of the pass is certainly not more than two yards broad, and a tremendous precipice descending on each side makes it truly appalling and perilous. Mr. Baines, who, with a companion, ascended Helvellyn by this pass some years ago, thus describes it:--"The ridge we were upon--Striding Edge--was the shorter but more rugged path; and, in spite of the warnings of our boatman, we chose it, being incited by curiosity, and perhaps quite as much by the motive which actuates most men in fighting duels--a fear lest our courage should be called in question if we declined the danger. We therefore addressed ourselves to the passage of Striding Edge; but if we had seen the most dangerous part before we came to it, we should have been content to take the safer though more cowardly branch of the alternative offered to us. As we ascended, the hill became more steep and rugged, till at length the ridge presented nothing but rocks, the narrow edges of which lay upwards in the direction of the sky. Their sides became steeper and steeper, and it was with difficulty that we crept along paths not wider than a goat-track, to avoid clambering among the crags which formed the very ridge of the hill. At length it became impossible to find footing on the side, and we betook ourselves of necessity to the ridge itself. We now came in view of the most formidable part of Striding Edge, and found that it rather deserved to be compared to a narrow wall, several hundred feet in height, connecting the hill which we had been ascending with the head of the mountain, than to the steep roof of a house. It appeared to us to be absolutely precipitous on each side, and the top of the rocky wall was not more than from one to two yards wide, whilst in some places we could not see, before we came to it, as much ground as would serve to plant a foot upon--the rocks presenting their sharp and rugged edges upwards, like slates or tiles standing on end. If we had had a guide, all this would have been much less terrific, because he would have led the way, and shown us where to place every footstep. The possibility that we might, after all, have taken a wrong direction, or that in some part of the pass we should find ourselves in a situation where we could neither advance nor retreat, gave us considerable alarm. Neither of us, however, expressed our fears at the time; and I felt myself bound to keep up both my own spirits and George's, as the blame would have been chiefly mine if any accident had happened. I therefore talked loudly and confidently as we scrambled along, keeping all my eyes about me, and giving him such instructions as his want of experience in climbing rendered necessary. He said little or nothing, and never ventured to cast a look either at the tarn which lay several hundred feet below us on one side, or to the equally awful depth on the other; but, fixing his eyes on the ridge itself as if he were fascinated, he crept on after me as cautiously and yet as fast as he could. In this way we crossed the long and dangerous pass of Striding Edge, till we came to the last ascent of the mountain." A melancholy interest attaches to this spot, from the fate of a young man who perished in its locality some years ago. It was here that Charles Gough, of Manchester, a frequent visitor to the Lakes, met with an accident which caused his death. This unfortunate "young lover of nature," confiding in his knowledge of the country, attempted to cross Helvellyn from Patterdale to Wythburn by the pass of Striding Edge just described. He set out late one afternoon early in the spring of 1805, without any guide, and attended by no companion but his faithful dog. Darkness, it is supposed, came on before his expectation, and a fall of snow having partially concealed the path, rendered it still more dangerous. He wandered from the track, and his body was found in one of those deep recesses where human foot rarely treads. It could never be ascertained whether he was killed by falling from the rocks, or he perished from hunger. Let us hope that death came with friendly care to shorten sufferings that might have been yet more awful. Three months elapsed before his remains were discovered; when the faithful dog, which was his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles amidst the wilds of Cumberland and Westmorland, was discovered still watching over the lifeless remains of his master. This striking and affecting instance of canine faithfulness has been commemorated by Wordsworth in his beautiful poem entitled _Fidelity_. A barking sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts, and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks: And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; And instantly a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green. The dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions too are wild and shy; With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry. Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow, or on height: Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes the ear; What is the creature doing here? It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps till June December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land, From trace of human foot or hand. There, sometimes doth the leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crag repeats the raven's croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud-- And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams, and the sounding blast That, if it could, would hurry past; But that enormous barrier binds it fast. Not free from boding thoughts awhile The shepherd stood: then makes his way Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones, As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human figure on the ground; The appall'd discoverer, with a sigh Looks round to learn the history. From those abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fall'n, that place of fear! At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recall'd the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remember'd too the very day, On which the traveller pass'd this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This dog had been, through three months' space, A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain, that since that day, When this ill-fated traveller died, The dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourish'd here through such long time, He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great, Above all human estimate. The melancholy circumstances connected with the death of Charles Gough have also been beautifully depicted by the powerful pen of Sir Walter Scott, who has paid a pleasing tribute to the "pilgrim of nature" in some highly pathetic stanzas, which, by the by, are rendered additionally interesting from the following anecdote connected with them:--"Our two charming poets, Walter Scott and Campbell, walking together" (says Ryan, in his _Poetry and the Poets_), "and speaking of this incident, each agreed, in the spirit of amicable rivalship, to make it the subject of a poem. Scott, on his way home, composed the following exquisite lines, which he sent the next day to Campbell, who returned them with this reply:--'I confess myself vanquished: if I were to live a thousand years, I could never write anything equal to this, on the same subject;' and he never attempted it." I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still--save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And, starting around me, the echoes replied. On the right, Striding Edge round the Red Tarn was bending, And Catchedecam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in front was impending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer died. Dark green was that spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast, abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay: Not yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much-loved remains of his master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber-- When the wind waved his garments how oft didst thou start-- How many long days and long nights didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?-- And ah! was it meet that no requiem read o'er him; No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him; And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him, Unhonoured the pilgrim from life should depart? When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With escutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And the pages stand mute by the canopied pall; Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming, In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, wildered, he drops from some rock high in stature, And draws his last breath by the side of his dam: And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With but one faithful friend to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecam. Charles Gough is said to have been a young gentleman of talent, and of an amiable disposition. His remains peacefully repose in the chapel-yard at Patterdale. THE REGATTA; OR, THE LOVERS OF DERWENTWATER. An annual regatta takes place on Derwentwater, when the several sports of racing, rowing, and wrestling, are maintained with great spirit. The following is an excellent description of one of these occasions in former times:--"At eight o'clock in the morning a vast concourse of ladies and gentlemen appeared on the side of Derwent Lake, where a number of marquees, extending about 400 yards, were erected for their accommodation. At twelve, such of the company as were invited by Mr. Pocklington passed over in boats to the island which bears his name; and, on their landing, were saluted by a discharge of his artillery, consisting of five four pounders and one nine pounder. This might properly be called the opening of the regatta; for as soon as the echo of this discharge had ceased, a signal gun was fired, and five boats, which lay upon their oars (on that part of the lake which runs nearest the town of Keswick), instantly pushed off the shore and began the race. A view from any of the attendant boats, of which there were several, presented a scene which beggars all description. The sides of the hoary mountains were clad with spectators, and the glassy surface of the lake was variegated with numbers of pleasure barges, which, trimmed out in all the gayest colours, and glittering in the rays of the meridian sun, gave a new appearance to the celebrated beauties of this matchless vale. The contending boats passed Pocklington's Island, and rounding St. Herbert's Isle and Rampsholme, edged down by the outside of Lord's Island, describing, in the race, almost a perfect circle, and, during the greatest part of it, in full view of the company. "About three o'clock preparations were made for a sham attack on Pocklington's Island. The fleet, consisting of several barges, armed with small cannon and muskets, retired out of view, behind Friar Crag, to prepare for action; previous to which a flag of truce was sent to the governor, with a summons to surrender on honourable terms. A defiance was returned; soon after which the fleet was seen advancing with great spirit before the batteries, and instantly forming a curved line, a terrible cannonading began on both sides, accompanied with a dreadful discharge of musketry. This continued for some time, and being echoed from hill to hill in an amazing variety of sounds, filled the ear with whatever could produce astonishment and awe. All nature seemed to be in an uproar; which impressed, on the awakened imagination, the most lively ideas of "the war of elements" and "crush of worlds." After a severe conflict, the enemies were driven from the attack in great disorder. A _feu-de-joie_ was then fired in the port, and oft repeated by the responsive echoes. The fleet, after a little delay, formed again; and practising a variety of beautiful manoeuvres, renewed the attack. Uproar again sprung up, and the deep-toned echoes of the mountains again joined in solemn chorus; which was heard at the distance of ten leagues to leeward, through the easterly opening of that vast amphitheatre, as far as Appleby. "The garrison at last capitulated; and the entertainment of the water being finished, towards the evening the company rowed to Keswick, to which place, from the water's edge, a range of lamps was fixed, very happily disposed, and a number of fire-works played off. An assembly room, which was built for the purpose, next received the ladies and gentlemen, and a dance concluded this annual festivity. "Whilst we sat to regale, the barge put off from shore, to a station where the finest echoes were to be obtained from the surrounding mountains. The vessel was provided with six brass cannon, mounted on swivels; on discharging one of these pieces the report was echoed from the opposite rocks, where, by reverberation, it seemed to roll from cliff to cliff, and return through every cave and valley, till the decreasing tumult died away upon the ear. "The instant it ceased the sound of every distant waterfall was heard; but for an instant only; for the momentary stillness was interrupted by the returning echo on the hills behind; where the report was repeated like a peal of thunder bursting over our heads, continuing for several seconds, flying from haunt to haunt, till once more the sound gradually declined. Again the voice of waterfalls possessed the interval, till to the right the more distant thunders arose upon some other mountains, and seemed to take its way up every winding dale and creek; sometimes behind, on this side, or on that, in wondrous speed running its dreadful course; when the echo reached the mountains within the line and channel of the breeze, it was heard at once on the right and left at the extremities of the lake. In this manner was the report of every discharge re-echoed seven times distinctly." The following descriptive poem appeared on the occasion of a regatta at Keswick:-- "Scarcely had day's bright god begun his course, And chas'd the misty vapours from the lake, When, ardent all for pleasure, forth there sprung A bright assemblage of firm, active youths, And virgins blushing like the op'ning bud. Nay, some there were who sought the sportive scene Whom frozen age had bow'd with iron hand; Drawn by the force of curiosity, Or by the workings of parental care, To watch and guard their blooming daughter's steps. The neigh'bouring rustics, too, with massy limbs, Inur'd to toil, inur'd to fun and rain; Each led his fav'rite damsel to the sight, And talk'd of love, or laugh'd with hearty roar. "And now the vessels all in order range, To try the fortune of the wat'ry race. The rowers sit; their eyes with ardour glow, Attentive watching the appointed sign. And now the gun, the signal for the course. Rends with its iron voice th' o'ervaulting sky, And distant rocks, redoubling, echo back The horrid note. Instantly they start, And, adverse looking, try their utmost skill. Big swells each bulky muscle, strain'd with toil; O'er their knit brows the drops of labour pour, Whilst on their faces anxious fear and hope Alternate sit depicted. Now they come Almost within the grasp of victory: Then, then what rapture fires the victor's mind, When with his toil-strained arm he shakes the flag, And shouts, applauding, echo all around. "Now o'er the azure lake the horrid din Of mimic war resounds; the echoing cliffs Reverberate, in doubled thunder, back The awful sounds: fierce peal succeeds to peal, In savage dire confusion. Had the rocks, Which awful frown above this limpid plain, Been shaken from their venerable seats, Rift by the bolts of Jove, and scattered round, No sound more loud, more awful, could be heard! The hero, who, inur'd to bloody war, Has stood by Elliot, or by Rodney's side, Whilst million-winged deaths were whistling round, Now feels his heart beat high; strong throbs each pulse, His kindling eyes flash fire: upright he stands, As when on some dread, memorable day He saw the Frenchmen strike, or Spaniards burn. His tender spouse, the dear, the soft reward Of all his toils, astonish'd with the din, Clings to his side, half-pleased and half-afraid; When softer echoes roll the distant roar, She smiles; but when the air-affrighting guns With iron clamours shake th' impending rocks, She trembling presses hard her husband's hand, And weeps to think the perils he has 'scap'd. "But hark! 'tis silent! see, the fleet retires! The mellow horns now pour victorious sounds, Whilst every rock returns the softened strain. O! now for Shakspeare, or for Milton's muse, To paint this mingled tide of harmony! Each cliff, each rock, each mountain, wood, and dale, Return a varied note; it floats in air; It mixes, meets, returns; 'tis soft, 'tis loud: As if th' unnumber'd spirits of the rock Held their aërial concerts 'midst the hills; And to his golden harp each join'd his voice, To welcome to their bower the 'Fairy Queen.' "Thus joyous and delightful pass'd the day, Yet not unruffled was this tide of joy: The fair, the innocent Amelia was The pride and flower of all the virgin throng! Her long Damoetas loved, she too loved him, But looks alone revealed the mutual flame, For virgin modesty had bound their thoughts In chains, as yet unbroken. On this day, Whilst she in rapture viewed th' enchanting scene (Urged by the motion of the limpid wave), Her vessel rolling, headlong plunged her in The blue profound! She sank, then rose again; Then sank, to rise no more! Damoetas, near, Beheld her fall: of life regardless then, He leaped into the flood; with nervous arm He cut the crystal deep, and plunging down, Seized, and brought her up again to life. "Restored now, she op'd her radiant eyes, And looking gratitude ineffable, 'Is it then you, Damoetas? you whom long My virgin heart hath own'd!' She could no more: The rosy hue again forsook her cheek, The light her eyes, and pallid death awhile Seemed to return and re-demand his prey. What then, Damoetas, were the dire alarms That rent thy manly bosom? Love, despair, Grief, and astonishment, exert at once The utmost of their force to tear thy soul! But see, the rose again resumes its seat Upon her cheek! again her op'ning eye Beams softened lustre! Kneeling by her side Damoetas press'd her hand; in falt'ring words Propos'd his am'rous suit. Her parents near, Relieved now from the heart-corroding fear, First poured in tender words their grateful hearts, Then to Damoetas gave the willing hand Of their beloved Amelia. Instant joy Flushed lively in his cheek, and fired his heart With all the rapt'rous bliss of mutual love. He tried in vain to speak, for words, alas! Could ill express tumultuous joys like his; He stammer'd, blush'd, and thanked them in thought. "And now the fiery charioteer of day Drove down the western steep his blazing car, When homeward all return to close their sports, And usher in with dance the sable night. The sprightly music sounds, the youths advance, And blooming virgins from the beauteous group: Then joined in couples, active as the light, They tread the mazy dance; the swains the while Join in sweet toil, and press the given hand, And slyly talk of love; or else, askance, Speak by their looks the feelings of the heart." THE SHEPHERD OF GREEN-HEAD GHYLL. A TALE OF GRASMERE VALE. If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is in truth an utter solitude; Nor should I have made mention of this dell But for one object which you might pass by-- Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnished with events, Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved:--not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this tale, while I was yet a boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts: And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful poets, who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone. Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength; his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes When others heeded not, he heard the south Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, "The winds are now devising work for me!" And, truly, at all times, the storm--that drives The traveller to a shelter--summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him and left him on the heights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed The common air; the hills, which he so oft Had climbed with vigorous steps; which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill, or courage, joy or fear; Which like a book preserved the memory Of the dumb animals whom he had saved, Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts, So grateful in themselves, the certainty Of honourable gain; these fields, these hills, Which were his living being, even more Than his own blood--what could they less? had laid Strong hold on his affections, were to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself. His days had not been passed in singleness. His helpmate was a comely matron, old-- Though younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life, Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had Of antique form, this large for spinning wool, That small for flax; and if one wheel had rest, It was because the other was at work. The pair had but one inmate in their house, An only child, who had been born to them When Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old--in shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only son, With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, The one of an inestimable worth, Made all their household. I may truly say, That they were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. When day was gone, And from their occupations out of doors The son and father were come home, even then, Their labour did not cease; unless when all Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal Was ended, Luke (for so the son was named) And his old father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card wool For the housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field. Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge That in our ancient uncouth country style Did with a huge projection overbrow Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the housewife hung a lamp; An aged utensil, which had performed Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn and late, Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, Which going by from year to year had found And left the couple neither gay perhaps Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Living a life of eager industry. And now when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, There by the light of this old lamp they sat, Father and son, while late into the night The housewife plied her own peculiar work. Making the cottage through the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. This light was famous in its neighbourhood, And was a public symbol of the life The thrifty pair had lived. For, as it chanced, Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, And westward to the village near the lake; And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the house itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. Thus living on through such a length of years, The shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his helpmate; but to Michael's heart This son of his old age was yet more dear-- Less from instinctive tenderness, the same Blind spirit, which is in the blood of all-- Than that a child, more than all other gifts, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature needs must fail. Exceeding was the love he bare to him, His heart, and his heart's joy! For oftentimes Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, Had done him female service, not alone For pastime and delight, as is the use Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. And, in a latter time, ere yet the boy Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, Albeit of a stern unbending mind, To have the young one in his sight, when he Had work by his own door, or when he sat With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool, Beneath that large old oak, which near their door Stood--and, from its enormous breadth of shade, Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was called The Clipping Tree,[5] a name which yet it bears. There while they two were sitting in the shade, With others round them, earnest all and blythe, Would Michael exercise his heart with looks Of fond correction and reproof bestowed Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. And when by heaven's good grace the boy grew up A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old, Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hands a sapling, which he hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipp'd He as a watchman oftentimes was placed At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; And, to his office prematurely called, There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hinderance and a help; And for this cause not always, I believe, Receiving from his father hire of praise; Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform. But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, He with his father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the shepherd loved before Were dearer now? that from the boy there came Feelings and emanations--things which were Light to the sun and music to the wind; And that the old man's heart seemed born again. Thus in his father's sight the boy grew up: And now when he had reached his eighteenth year, He was his comfort and his daily hope. While in this sort the simple household lived From day to day, to Michael's ear there came Distressful tidings. Long before the time Of which I speak, the shepherd had been bound In surety for his brother's son, a man Of an industrious life, and ample means; But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly Had prest upon him, and old Michael now Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture; A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, At the first hearing, for a moment took More hope out of his life than he supposed That any old man ever could have lost. As soon as he had gathered so much strength That he could look his trouble in the face, It seemed that his whole refuge was to sell A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve; he thought again, And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, "I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave. Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself Has scarcely been more diligent than I; And I have lived to be a fool at last To my own family. An evil man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us; and if he were not false, There are ten thousand to whom loss like this Had been no sorrow. I forgive him; but 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. When I began, my purpose was to speak Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; He shall possess it, free as is the wind That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, Another kinsman, he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man, Thriving in trade, and Luke to him shall go, And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift, He quickly will repair this loss, and then May come again to us. If here he stay, What can be done? Where every one is poor, What can be gained?" At this the old man paused, And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy looking back into past times. There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, He was a parish-boy; at the church door They made a gathering for him--shillings, pence, And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares; And, with this basket on his arm, the lad Went up to London, found a master there, Who out of many, chose the trusty boy To go and overlook his merchandize Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich, And left estates and monies to the poor, And at his birth-place built a chapel, floored With marble which he sent from foreign lands. These thoughts and many others of like sort, Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, And her face brightened. The old man was glad, And thus resumed:--"Well, Isabel! this scheme These two days has been meat and drink to me. Far more than we have lost is left us yet. We have enough; I wish indeed that I Were younger; but this hope is a good hope. Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best Buy for him more, and let us send him forth To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: If he could go, the boy should go to-night." Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth With a light heart. The housewife for five days Was restless morn and night, and all day long Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare Things needful for the journey of her son. But Isabel was glad when Sunday came To stop her in her work; for, when she lay By Michael's side, she through the last two nights Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep: And when they rose at morning she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by themselves Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go: We have no other child but thee to lose, None to remember--do not go away, For if thou leave thy father he will die." The youth made answer with a jocund voice: And Isabel, when she had told her fears, Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire. With daylight Isabel resumed her work; And all the ensuing week the house appeared As cheerful as a grove in spring: at length The expected letter from their kinsman came, With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the boy; To which requests were added, that forthwith He might be sent to him. Ten times or more The letter was read over; Isabel Went forth to show it to the neighbours round; Nor was there at that time on English land A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old man said, "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The housewife answered, talking much of things Which if at such short notice he should go, Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had designed To build a sheepfold; and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked; And soon as they had reached the place he stopped. And thus the old man spake to him:--"My son, To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, And all thy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories: 'twill do thee good When thou art from me; even if I should speak Of things thou canst not know of.----After thou First cam'st into the world--as oft befals To new-born infants--thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from thy father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love. Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fireside First uttering, without words, a natural tune; When thou, a feeble babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed month, And in the open fields my life was passed, And on the mountains, else I think that thou Had'st been brought up upon thy father's knees. But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, As well thou know'st in us, the old and young Have played together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Luke had a manly heart; but at these words He sobbed aloud. The old man grasped his hand, And said, "Nay, do not take it so: I see That these are things of which I need not speak. Even to the utmost I have been to thee A kind and a good father; and herein I but repay a gift which I myself Received at others' hands; for, though now old Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who loved me in my youth. Both of them sleep together: here they lived, As all their forefathers had done; and when At length their time was come, they were not loth To give their bodies to the family mould. I wish that thou shouldst live the life they lived: But 'tis a long time to look back, my son, And see so little gain from threescore years. These fields were burthened when they came to me; Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled: God bless'd me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free. It looks as if it never could endure Another master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou shouldst go." At this the old man paused; Then pointing to the stones near which they stood, Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: "This was a work for us, and now, my son, It is a work for me; but lay one stone Here; lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. Nay, boy, be of good hope; we both may live To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong and hale: do thou thy part, I will do mine. I will begin again With many tasks that were resigned to thee; Up to the heights, and in among the storms, Will I without thee go again, and do All works which I was wont to do alone, Before I knew thy face. Heaven bless thee, boy Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast With many hopes; it should be so: yes, yes, I knew that thou couldst never have a wish To leave me, Luke; thou hast been bound to me Only by links of love; when thou art gone, What will be left to us! But I forget My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, When thou art gone away, should evil men Be thy companions, think of me, my son, And of this moment: hither turn thy thoughts, And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou Mayst bear in mind the life thy fathers lived, Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare-thee-well; When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see A work which is not here--a covenant-- 'Twill be between us. But, whatever fate Befal thee, I shall love thee to the last. And bear thy memory with me to the grave." The shepherd ended here, and Luke stooped down, And, as his father had requested, laid The first stone of the sheepfold. At the sight The old man's grief broke from him, to his heart He pressed his son, he kissed him and wept; And to the house together they returned. Hushed was that house in peace, or seeming peace, Ere the night fell; with morrow's dawn the boy Began his journey, and when he had reached The public way, he put on a bold face; And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, That followed him till he was out of sight. A good report did from their kinsman come, Of Luke and his well-doing; and the boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, Which, as the housewife phrased it, were, throughout, "The prettiest letters that were ever seen." Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months passed on, and once again The shepherd went about his daily work With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour He to that valley took his way, and there Wrought at the sheepfold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and at length He in the dissolute city gave himself To evil courses; ignominy and shame Fell on him, so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding place beyond the seas. There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart. I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the old man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up upon the sun, And listened to the wind; and, as before, Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, And for the land, his small inheritance. And to that hollow dell from time to time Did he repair, to build the fold of which His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet, The pity which was then in every heart For the old man: and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thither went, And never lifted up a single stone. There, by the sheepfold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, with that his faithful dog, Then old, beside him lying at his feet. The length of full seven years from time to time He at the building of this sheepfold wrought, And left the work unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel Survive her husband: at her death the estate Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. The cottage, which was named the Evening Star, Is gone; the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought In all the neighbourhood; yet the oak is left That grew beside their door; and the remains Of the unfinished sheepfold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. [5] Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing. THE INSCRIBED ROCKS OF WINDERMERE. Our boatman told us, that at a short distance on the eastern side of Windermere lake, were some inscriptions on the rocks, which were the greatest curiosities of the place. The guide-book having made no mention of them, we were the more anxious to see what they were, and were rowed ashore accordingly, at a point not far from Lowood Inn. Here we found every smooth surface afforded by the rocks--every slab on the stratified formation--covered with inscriptions, engraved with much toil, in letters varying from six to twenty or twenty-four inches in height. On one large red stone of at least ten feet square, was engraved "1833. MONEY. LIBERTY. WEALTH. PEACE;"--a catalogue of blessings very much to be desired. On another stone was the simple date "1688:" expressive enough of the engraver's political sentiments. And on another, in larger characters, "A SLAVE LANDING ON THE BRITISH STRAND, BECOMES FREE." All the largest stones, and slabs, some of which were horizontal, others vertical, and the rest inclined at various angles, and the whole of them giving evidence that the place had formerly been a quarry, were covered with inscriptions of a like purport. The following are a few of the most striking. One immense surface of rock bore the following names, which are transcribed in the original order:--"SUN. BULWER. DRYDEN. DAVY. BURNS. SCOTT. BURDETT. GARRICK. KEMBLE. GRAY. KEAN. MILTON. HENRY BROUGHAM. JAMES WATT. PROFESSOR WILSON. DR. JENNER." To which were added the words in characters equally conspicuous, "THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS." "MAGNA CHARTA." This slab was a testimony, apparently, of the engraver's admiration of great intellect. One close alongside side of it was of a different style, and bore the date "1836," followed by the words, "WILLIAM IV. PRESIDENT JACKSON. LOUIS PHILIPPE. BRITANNIA RULES THE WAVES." Next to that again was a still larger surface of rock on which was indented, "NATIONAL DEBT, £800,000,000. O SAVE MY COUNTRY, HEAVEN! GEORGE III. AND WILLIAM PITT." "MONEY IS THE SINEW OF WAR." "FIELD MARSHAL WELLINGTON. HEROIC ADMIRAL NELSON. CAPTAIN COOK. ADMIRAL RODNEY." One stone, at least eight feet square, bore but one word in letters a yard long, and that was significant enough--viz. "STEAM." On inquiring of the boatman who it was that had expended so much labour, he pointed out another stone, on which were the words, "John Longmire, Engraver," and informed us that it was a person of that name, who had spent about six years of his prime in this work--labouring here alone, and in all weathers--and both by night and by day. He took great pleasure in the task; and was, as the boatman took pains to impress upon us, rather "dull" at the time. This phrase, as he afterwards explained, implies, in this part of the country, that he was deranged; and I thought, when looking with renewed interest upon these mementos of his ingenuity and perseverance, misapplied though they were, that it was a happy circumstance that an afflicted creature could have found solace under calamity, in a manner so harmless. There was a method in the work, and a sense, too, in the poor man's ideas, which showed that his sympathies were in favour of the moral and intellectual advancement of mankind; and that, amid the last feeble glimmerings of his own reason, he could do honour to those whose intellect had benefited and adorned our age. I could learn no further particulars of him; our friend, the boatman, not being able to say whether he were dead or alive, or whether his "dullness" had ever manifested itself in a more disorderly manner than in these inscriptions. EDGAR, THE LORD OF ENNERDALE. A TRADITION OF WOTOBANK, NEAR EGREMONT. In the neighbourhood of Egremont, there is a romantic hill called Wotobank, with which a traditionary story is connected, and from which its name is said to have originated. The tale relates that "a lord of Egremont, with his lady Edwina and servants, was hunting the wolf; during the chase, the lady was missing, and after a long and painful search, her body was found lying on this romantic acclivity, or bank, mangled by a wolf, which was in the very act of ravenously tearing it to pieces. The sorrow of the husband, in the first transports of his grief, was expressed by the words--"Wo to this bank!"--whence the hill obtained the name of "Wotobank." Mrs. Cowley has adopted this legend for the subject of her beautiful poem "Edwina." After ascending Skiddaw, and casting a glance around:-- "Here--across the tangley dells; There--on the misty distant fells," the poetess thus proceeds:-- --"But chiefly, Ennerdale, to thee I turn, And o'er thy healthful vales heart-rended mourn! --For ah! those plains, those vales, those sheltering woods, Nourish'd by Bassenthwaite's contiguous floods, Once witness'd such a sad and heavy deed As makes the aching memory recede." Then introducing the Lord of Ennerdale, she continues:-- "He, the sole heir of Atheling was known, Whose blood, stern Scotland! 'midst thy heaths has flown. Not five and twenty summers o'er his head Had led their orbs, when he preferr'd to wed The sweet Edwina. Blooming were the charms Which her fond father gave to Henry's arms. Long had he woo'd the charming, bashful maid, Who, yet to listen to Love's tales afraid, By many modest arts--(so Love ordains) Increas'd his passion, though increas'd his pains. At length the nuptial morn burst from the sky, Bidding prismatic light before her fly; Soft purple radiance streamed around her car, Absorbing all the beams of every star;-- Roses awaken'd as she pass'd along, And the high lark perform'd his soaring song, Whilst pinks, their fragrance shaking on the air, The proud carnation's glories seem'd to share; The breezes snatch'd their odours as they flew, And gave them in their turn pellucid dew, Which fed their colours to a higher tone, Till all the earth a vegetative rainbow shone. Beneath her husband's roof the matchless fair Graced each delight, and each domestic care. Her plastic needle bade fresh flow'rets grow; And, hung in rich festoons, around her glow; In cooling grots her shellwork seized the eye, With skill arrang'd, to show each melting dye; Her taste the garden everywhere sustain'd, In each parterre her vivid fancy reign'd. Submissive yews in solid walls she form'd, Or bade them rise a castle, yet unstorm'd; In love the eagle hover'd o'er its nest, Or seem'd a couchant lion sunk to rest. Her husband's sports his lov'd Edwina shar'd, For her the hawking party was prepar'd; She roused the wolf--the foaming boar she chased, And Danger's self was in her presence graced. Thus roll'd two years on flowery wheels along, Midst calm domestic bliss, and sport, and song. O, Edgar! from pernicious Gallia's shore, Hadst thou, immoral youth! return'd no more, Such years tho' lengthen'd time had sweetly run, Down to the faintest beams of life's last sun. But thou returnd'st! and thy voluptuous heart, Which from temptation never knew to start, Seized on Edwina as a lawful prize-- All dead to Honour's voice, and Conscience' secret cries. Edgar to Ennerdale oft bent his way, His form was courtly, and his manners gay; To Henry he would speak of wars he'd seen, Of tournaments, and gaudes, 'midst peace serene. When for Edwina's ear the tale was fram'd The beauties of bright Gallia's court were nam'd, Their lives, their loves, all past before her view, And many things were feign'd he never knew. At length the prudent fair remark'd the style, And saw beneath his ease distorted guile;-- For virtue in his tales ne'er found a place, Nor maiden vigilance, nor matron grace, But wild and loose his glowing stories ran, And thus betray'd the black designing man. As when, in eastern climes, 'midst hours of play, A sweet boy (wand'ring at the close of day, Along the margin of a gadding stream, Whilst Hope around him throws her fairy dream) Sudden beholds the panther's deadly eye, And turns, by impulse strong, his step to fly-- So turn'd Edwina, when she saw, reveal'd, The net th' ensnaring youth had hop'd conceal'd: Whenever he appear'd her air grew cold, And awed to mute despair this baron bold; He by degrees forbore to seek her gate, Who sat enshrin'd within, in Virtue's state. But his wild wishes did not cease to rage, Nor did he strive their fever to assuage-- For sinful love is ever dear to sin, Its victims self-correction ne'er begin; But, hurried on by hell, pursue their road, Nor heed surrounding woes, nor tremble at their God! The huntsman blew his horn, ere listless day Had from his shoulder thrown his robe of gray, Ere he had shaken from his shining hair The rosy mists which irrigate the air. Lord Henry heard--and from his pillow sprung, And bold responsive notes he cheerily sung; Then, "Wake my love!" the happy husband cried, To her, who, sweetly slumbering at his side, Wish'd still, thus slumbering, to wear the morn, And almost chid the tyrant horn-- Yet quick she rose, and quick her busy maids, Folding her yellow locks in careless braids, Equipp'd her for the field--sweeping she flew, Like a slim arrow from the graceful yew. Her jet-black steed more lively seem'd to bound, When the light burden on his back he found-- The jet-black steed her husband had bestow'd, When first, a huntress, at his side she rode; Long was his streaming main, his eye of fire, Proved his descent from no ignoble sire; He sprung 'midst Araby's far distant plains, Whose sands the bleeding violet never stains. And now the day in all his glories drest, Seem'd at the bugle's call to shake off rest. He pour'd his beams around in ample floods-- Rivers of light descended on the woods; The plains, the valleys drank the radiant shower, Each plant received it, and each gentle flower. The Hunt inspir'd, the ambient æther rent With varied sounds, as their keen course they bent: The dogs, deep-mouth'd, in chorus form'd the cry, And sent their forest greetings to the sky; The horn's full tone swell'd each pervading note, And harmony and joy around the country float. At length a boar, thro' a dark coppice side, Amidst the rustling bushes seem'd to glide; Cautious he moved, like a fell thief of night, Strung by his fears to unintended flight. Close to the earth he softly crept along, And shrubs, and underwood around him throng; But ah! in vain he creeps, the air so thin, Catches th' effluvia from his reeking skin, The titillations to the hounds' keen nostrils fly, Who instantly the brown recesses try. When turn'd before them into open view, Quick transports from each bosom flew; The huntsman's law the churning savage found, They suffer'd his escape twelve roods of ground, Ere loose was let the eager mad'ning pack, To follow in the bristly monster's track; At length in close pursuit they pour along, Urged or retarded by their Leader's thong. O'er hills, through brakes, he led them many an hour, Straining each nerve--exhausting ev'ry power: Now hears the dogs' faint mouthings far behind, Then scents them as around a beck they wind-- With dread and joy alternately is fill'd Now high with hope, and now with terror chill'd; Then in despair he turns to meet the foe, And rage and madness in his eyeballs glow-- When Henry, darting on before the rest, Fix'd the bright lance within his heaving breast, His struggling breast convulsive motions strain, His spouting veins the foaming coursers stain: The death-notes issue from the brazen horn, And from th' enormous trunk the head is torn. Straight with the tusk-arm'd head upon his spear, Lord Henry turn'd to Her--for ever dear! To lay the bleeding trophy at her feet, And make his triumph more sincerely sweet-- But horror! no Edwina could be seen, Nor on the hill's soft slope, or pasture green; Not shelter'd, near the torrent's fall she lay, Nor on the forest's edge, escaped the day, Nor was she on the plain--the valleys too, Gave no Edwina to the aching view. Wonder and dread compress her husband's heart, O'er the surrounding scene his eye-beams dart; He moves--stands still--terror lifts up his hair, He seems the pale-cheek'd spectre of despair. And now was heard her steed's sonorous neigh, Whose voice the rocks' firm echoes would obey; Bounding, he comes towards them from the plain, But his sweet mistress held no guiding rein-- The reins float loosely, as he cleft the air, No mistress sweet, with guiding hand, was there! From all but Henry burst terrific cries, Silent his dread--and quite suppress'd his sighs. His manly features sink, his eyelids close, And all his lineaments express his woes. Speech! O, how weak, when mighty sorrows spring, When fears excessive to the bosom cling! Words may to lighter troubles give a show, But find no place where griefs transcendent grow. At length they each a different way diverge, Some to the mountain's haughty brow emerge, Others pursue the plain--the wood--the dell, Appointing where to meet, their fortune dear, to tell. And now, O Lady! Empress of the day, My pensive pen pursues thee on thy way! Amidst the heat and fury of the chace, When the fleet horsemen scarce the eye could trace. A road succinct Edwina meant to take, And push'd her steed across an ancient brake; But in the thicket tangled and dismayed, And of the thorny solitude afraid, Again she turn'd her horse--ah! turn'd in vain, She miss'd the op'ning to the neighb'ring plain. At length dismounting, tremblingly she strove, To force a path, through briars thickly wove; The horse releas'd, straight vanish'd from her eye, And o'er opposing brambles seem'd to fly-- The distant hounds his prick'd-up ears invade, And quick he skims o'er ev'ry glen and glade. His mistress, thus forsook, with prickles torn, And weeping oft with pain, and all forlorn, At length achiev'd a path, and saw a rill, To which she mov'd, her ruby mouth to fill;-- Her taper'd hand immers'd beneath the stream, Flash'd through the glassy wave with pearly gleam, It bore the living moisture to her lips, And eagerly the panting beauty sips, The shining freshness o'er her brow she threw, And bless'd the current as it sparkling flew; Then on its borders sought a short repose, Whilst round her, doddergrass, and pansies rose. Sleep soon, unbidden, caught her in his snare, And folded in his arms the weary fair, Two aspen trees in one smooth bark were bound, And threw a thin and trembling shadow round, The waters gently tinkled as they fell, And a near sheep sustained a silvery bell, Whilst breezes o'er her temples softly stray'd, And 'midst her floating ringlets, leaping, played, Who would not wish to linger in such rest, Where waters, shades, and sounds, make sleeping blest? But, Powers Sublime! who tread the burning air, And give to sainted charity your care, Where roved ye now?--Where waved your filmy wings, Where struck your harps their million-bearing strings? If on Light's rays, swift shot from pole to pole, Your essences supine you chose to roll, Or the rich glowing tapestry to weave, Which must the sun's retiring orb receive, Yet still you should have left each task undone, Fled from the glowing west--forsook the sun, Rush'd in whole troops, nor left one sylph behind, And all your cares to Ennerdale confined: Clung round the aspens where Edwina slept, And o'er her form your anxious vigils kept-- Whose slumbers long spun out their rosy dreams, And still consoled her 'midst the noontide beams. When a hard grasp which seized her listless hands, Rude, snapt asunder their narcotic bands, She started, and she found,--O! hated sight, Close at her side the am'rous villain knight, Who tried in specious terms his hopes to paint-- Inspir'd by ev'ry fiend, he call'd on every saint! Surprise, at first, held mute Edwina's tongue, And many changes on his theme he rung, Ere she could pour her chaste, her proud disdain, Or check with cold contempt his odious strain. At length she spoke. So once, Judean Fair! Thou turn'd'st upon the sober, hoary pair Who slunk, with wanton thoughts and aspect grave, To watch thee, rising from the gelid wave. Insulted Virtue thunder'd from thy tongue, And o'er thy eye indignant lightnings hung, Swift came the vollied speech;--grand was thy tone, And Chastity in bright effulgence shone. Around the ivory form dark myrtles grew, To snatch thee from the gazing monster's view; Through their deep foliage came thy pointed words, Thy glance was fire--thy sentences were swords! Such were Edwina's tones, her look, her air, Striking the young seducer with despair! Yes, young he was, in beauty's fullest prime, Untarnish'd yet, untouch'd by withering time! O'er his red cheek soft dimples playful ran, Whilst grace and sinewy strength proclaimed The man! His charms, his passion, sweet Edwina spurned, And with unfeigned abhorrence, stately turned; Then walk'd with mien composed across the moor, Though tremblings seized her heart, and doubtings sore. But Edgar soon she heard, step quick behind, And then to mad'ning fears her soul resigned. She seemed to borrow from the wind its wings, When from its southern portal first it springs-- Flying, as borne upon the billowy air, Urged by distraction on, and blank despair. Her base pursuer spurr'd by dire intent, Kept closely in the track the fair one went; Nor hurried much, but thought her failing feet Would soon retard a course so wondrous fleet-- He thought aright, and in his felon arms, Pressed Henry's beauteous wife, half wild with dread alarms. Scarce had he dared to grasp her sinking frame, When with the quickness of devouring flame, A furious wolf from out the bordering wood With eyes all glaring near Edwina stood-- The brindled hair rose stiff upon his chine, Of ghastly, deathful joy, the horrid sign; His clinging sides confessed his famished state, And his deep howl proclaimed a victim's fate. The coward fled!--O! now my pen forbear, Nor with the shrieks of terror rend the air!-- The wolf's fell teeth--but O! I check the song, Nor can the horrid, agonizing chord prolong. The savage, starting from his bleeding prey, Rush'd to his haunt, and briefly fled away; Approaching steps declared swift danger nigh, And forc'd--too late! the unglutted beast to fly. Those steps were Henry's!--he first reached the spot, For him to reach it, was the dreadful lot! He saw her marble bosom torn--her mangled head; He saw--mysterious fate! Edwina dead! Those eyes were closed, whose rich and beamy light, Would shed a lustre on pale Sorrow's night-- Dumb was that honied mouth, whose graceful speech, Beyond the schoolman's eloquence would reach! The snowy arms which lately clasped her lord, Now streaked with flowing blood--O! thought abhorred! Before his starting eyes, all lifeless hang, And give him more than death's last, rending pang. His cries of agony spread o'er the plain, And reached the distant undulating main; His screams of anguish struck with terror more Than the lank wolf's most desolating roar. Vain his attendants sooth--in vain they pray, In stormy grief he wearied down the day. A furious maniac now he raged around, And tore the bushes from the embracing ground, Then spent, all prone upon the earth he fell, And from his eyes the gushing torrents swell; When sorrow could articulate its grief, When words allowed a transient short relief, "Woe to thee, Bank!" were the first sounds that burst, "And be thy soil with bitter offspring curst! "Woe to thee, Bank, for thou art drunk with gore, "The purest heart of woman ever bore!" "Woe to thee, Bank!" the attendants echoed round, And pitying shepherds caught the grief-fraught sound. Thus, to this hour, through every changing age, Through ev'ry year's still ever-varying stage, The name remains; and Wo-to-Bank is seen, From ev'ry mountain bleak, and valley green-- Dim Skiddaw views it from his monstrous height, And eagles mark it in their dizzy flight; The Bassenthwaite's soft murmurs sorrow round, And rocks of Buttermere protect the ground, Rills of Helvellyn raging in their fall, Seem on Lodore's rough sympathy to call-- From peak to peak they wildly burst away, And form, with rushing tone, a hollow, dirge-like lay. Not rocks, and cataracts and alps alone, Paint out the spot, and make its horrors known. For faithful lads ne'er pass, nor tender maid, But the soft rite of tears is duly paid; Each can the story to the traveller tell, And on the sad disaster, pitying dwell-- Thus Wo-to-Bank, thou'rt known thy swains among, And now thou liv'st within an humble stranger's song!" LADY EVA AND THE GIANT. A LEGEND OF YEWDALE. As you enter the romantic vale of Yewdale, about a quarter of a mile above the saw-mills, by looking over the hedge to your right, you may perceive, near to the verge of the precipitous bank of Yewdale Beck, and a few yards from the roadside, a long narrow mound which seems to be formed of solid stone covered with moss, but which a nearer inspection would show to be composed of several blocks fitted so closely together as to prove the mound to have had an artificial, and not a natural origin. You observe it is somewhere between three and four yards long. That singular accumulation of lichen-clad rock has been known for centuries amongst the natives of Yewdale and the adjacent valleys, by the romance-suggesting designation of Girt Will's Grave. How it came by that name, and how Cauldron Dub and Yewdale Bridge came to be haunted, my task is now to tell. Some few hundred years ago, the inhabitants of these contiguous dales were startled from their propriety, if they had any, by a report that one of the Troutbeck giants had built himself a hut, and taken up his abode in the lonely dell of the Tarns, above Yewdale Head. Of course you have read the history and exploits of the famous Tom Hickathrift, and remembering that he was raised at Troutbeck, you will not be much surprised when I tell you that it was always famous for a race of extraordinary size and strength; for even in these our own puny days, the biggest man in Westmoreland is to be found in that beautiful vale. The excitement consequent upon the settlement of one of that gigantic race in this vicinity soon died away, and the object of it, who stood somewhere about nine feet six out of his clogs, if they were in fashion then, and was broad in fair proportion, became known to the neighbours as a capital labourer, ready for any such work as was required in the rude and limited agricultural operations of the period and locality--answered to the cognomen of "Girt (great) Will o' t' Tarns," and, once or twice, did good service as a billman under the Knight of Conistone, when he was called upon to muster his powers to assist in repelling certain roving bands of Scots or Irish, who were wont, now and again, to invade the wealthy plains of low Furness. The particular Knight who was chief of the Flemings of Conistone, at the period of the giant's location at the Tarns, was far advanced in years, and, in addition to some six or eight gallant and stately sons, had "One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well." And Eva le Fleming, called by the country people "the Lady Eva," was famed throughout the broad north for her beauty and gentleness, her high-bred dignity and her humble virtues; but it is not with her that my story has to do. She, like the mother of "the gentle lady married to the Moor," had a maid called Barbara, an especial favourite with her mistress, and, in her own sphere, deemed quite as beautiful. In fact, it was hinted that, when she happened to be in attendance upon her lady on festive or devotional occasions, the eyes of even knights and well-born squires were as often directed to the maid as to the mistress, and seemed to express as much admiration in one direction as the other. And when mounted on the Lady Eva's own palfrey, bedecked in its gayest trappings, she rode, as she oftentimes did, to visit her parents at Skelwith, old and young were struck with her beauty, and would turn, as she ambled past, to gaze after her, and to wonder at the elegance of her figure, the ease of her deportment, and the all-surpassing loveliness of her features. Her lady, notwithstanding the disparity of their rank, loved her as a sister, and it was whispered amongst her envious fellow-servants, that her mistress's fondness made her assume airs unbecoming her station. True enough it was that she seemed sufficiently haughty and scornful in her reception of the homage paid to her charms by the young men of her own rank, and by many above it. The only one to whom she showed the slightest courtesy on these occasions was wild Dick Hawksley, the Knight's falconer, and he was also the only one who appeared to care no more for her favours than for her frowns. The Lady Eva, as well befits high-born dames, was somewhat romantic in her tastes, and would often row for hours upon the lake, and wander for miles through the woods, or even upon the mountains, unattended, save by her favourite bower-maiden. And one evening in autumn, after having been confined for two whole days to the hall, by heavy and incessant rain, tired of playing chess with her father, and battledore with her younger brothers, or superintending the needlework of her maids, and tempted by the brilliant moonlight and now unobscured skies, she summoned Barbara, and set out upon a stroll by the lake side. The pair were sauntering along a path cut through the dense coppice, the lady leaning in condescending affection upon the shoulder of her maiden, and listening to a recital of how, on her return from some of her visits to her parents, she had been waylaid by Great Will of the Tarns, and how on a recent evening he had attempted to seize her rein, and would have stopped her, had she not whipped the palfrey and bounded past him. The lady was expressing her indignation at this insolence, when a gigantic figure sprang upon the pathway, and, snatching up the screaming Barbara with the same ease with which she herself would have lifted an infant, vanished on the instant amongst the thick hazels. The Lady Eva stood for a minute struck powerless with terror and astonishment at this audacious outrage; but the sound of the monster crashing his headlong course through the coppice, and the half-stifled screams of his captive, soon recalled her suspended faculties, and then "Fair" Eva "through the hazel-grove Flew, like a startled cushat dove," back to the hall, where, breathless with terror and exertion, she gave the alarm that Barbara had been carried off by the giant. There was noisy and instantaneous commotion amongst the carousing gentles at the upper, and the loitering lacqueys at the lower end of the hall. Dick Hawksley, and a few more, darted off in immediate pursuit on foot, while several rushed to the stables, in obedience to the call of their young masters, who were, one and all, loudly vociferating for their horses. Scarce a minute passed, ere half a dozen Flemings, attended by as many mounted followers, were spurring like lightning through the wood in the direction of Yewdale. They came in sight of the giant and his burthen as he neared Cauldron Dub, with the light-heeled falconer close behind, calling loudly upon him to stay his flight; but he held on with tremendous strides, till he reached the brow over the pool, when, finding that the horsemen were close upon him, and that it was hopeless to try to carry his prize farther, he stopped--uttered one terrible shout of rage and disappointment--and whirled his shrieking victim into the flooded beck, resuming his now unencumbered flight with increased speed. Dick Hawksley rushed over the bank a little lower down, and the horsemen, abandoning the chase, galloped to the brink of the stream, which was high with the recent rains. They saw the falconer plunge into the torrent, as the bower maiden, yet buoyant with her light garments, was borne rapidly down. They saw him seize her with one hand, and strike out gallantly for the bank with the other, but the current was too strong for him, encumbered as he was with the girl in his grasp. The devoted pair were swept down the stream, at a rate that made the spectators put their horses to a gallop to keep them in sight, even while the exertions of the brave falconer sufficed to sustain their heads above water, which was only till they came under the bridge, where the water, pent in by the narrow arch, acquired four-fold force, and there they heard him utter a hoarse cry of despair, and the gallant Hawksley and the Lady Eva's beauteous favourite were seen no more, till their bodies were found, days after, on the shore far down the lake. One or two of the horsemen continued to gallop down the side of the beck, in the bootless hope of being able even yet to render them some aid, but the most of them turned their horses' heads, and went off once more at their utmost speed in pursuit of the murderous giant. He, considering the chase at an end, had slackened his pace, and they were not long in overtaking him. Great Will struck out manfully with his club (time out of mind the giant's favourite weapon) as they rushed upon him, but they speedily surrounded him, and, amid a storm of vengeful yells and bitter execrations, the Giant of the Tarns was stretched upon the sward, "with the blood running like a little brook" from a hundred wounds; for he was so frightfully slashed and mangled by their swords, that, as my informant naively averred, there was not so much whole skin left upon his huge body as would have made a tobacco-pouch. It will be apparent enough to the most obtuse intellect, that, after such events as these, the localities where they occurred must, of necessity, be haunted; and, as the ghosts of murderers, as well as of murderees, if they be right orthodox apparitions, always appear to be re-enacting the closing scene of their earthly career, it is scarcely required of me to dilate farther upon the manner of their appearance. Of course I do not expect, and certainly do not wish to be called upon to prove the even-down truth of every particular of the story, with which I have been doing my little best to amuse you; but the assured fact of the Dub and the bridge being haunted, and that by sundry most pertinacious spirits, I am ready to maintain against all comers. KIRKBY LONSDALE BRIDGE. A LEGEND. Near to the bridge which crosses the Lune, not far from Kirkby Lonsdale, the scenery is truly romantic. The river, which is here of considerable width, winds through the bottom of the valley, and is overshadowed by the trees that grow upon its banks. Its current is roughened by the rocks which form its bed, some of which stand up in huge moss-grown blocks in the midst of the stream. The water is clear to a great depth, and the steep grassy banks, and abundance of trees which close in the prospect, give it an air of seclusion. This stream is plentifully stocked with trout and salmon, and here the angler may sit and watch the gilded fly with a devotion worthy of a Davy or a Walton. The singular construction of the bridge renders it an object of curiosity; and when viewed in connection with the river and valley of the Lune, it forms one of the most romantic prospects on which the eye can dwell. It is composed of three beautifully ribbed arches, the centre one rising to the height of thirty-six feet above the stream. It is a lofty, firm and handsome structure, but so narrow as almost to deserve the taunt cast upon the "auld brig of Ayr:"-- "Where twa wheelbarrows trembled when they met:" at least no two carriages of a larger size can pass each other; but, for the security of the foot passengers, there are angular recesses in the battlements, corresponding with the projecting piers. Antiquity has cast her veil over this erection, and a consequent obscurity envelopes its history. If, however, we may rely on popular tradition, the building is to be ascribed to an unmentionable personage; of whom it is said, "that he built the bridge one windy night, and that in fetching the stones from a distance, he let fall the last apronfull as he flew over a fell hard by." This gentleman has been "a bridge-builder," "time out of mind," notwithstanding the improbability of his employing "himself in works of so much real utility to men." Such an historical fact may, however, account for the huge blocks of stone found in various parts of the neighbouring moors. "Still grand, and beautiful, and good, Has Lonsdale bridge unshaken stood, And scorned the swollen, raging flood, For many ages; Though antiquaries, who have tried Some date to find, in vain have pryed In ancient pages. Then hear what old tradition says:-- Close by the Lune in former days Lived an old maid, queer all her ways, In Yorkshire bred; Though now forgot what she was named, For cheating she was always famed, 'Tis truly said. She had a cow, a pony too; When o'er the Lune, upon the brow, Had passed one night these fav'rites two, 'Twas dark and rainy; Her cow was o'er, she knew her bellow, Her pony too, poor little fellow, She heard him whinny. Alack, alack a day! she cries, As overflowed her streaming eyes, When lo! with her to sympathise, Old Nick appears; 'Pray, now, good woman, don't despair, But lay aside all anxious care, And wipe your tears. 'To raise a bridge I will agree, That in the morning you shall see, But mine for e'er the first must be That passes over; So by these means you'll soon be able To bring the pony to his stable, The cow her clover.' In vain were sighs and wailings vented, So she at last appeared contented, It was a bargain, she consented, For she was Yorkshire; Now home she goes in mighty glee, Old Satan, too, well pleased he, Went to his work, Sir. When Ilus' son surrounded Troy With walls that nothing might destroy, Two gods some time he did employ, But never paid 'em; Here Satan, certain of his prize, With building made a desp'rate noise, So fast he laid on. In short, the morning streaks appear, The bridge is built and Satan there, When this old lady now drew near, Her lap-dog with her; 'Behold the bridge,' the tempter cries, 'Your cattle, too, before your eyes, So hie you thither.' But mark! she well the bargain knew, A bun then from her pocket drew, And showed it first to little Cue, Then overthrew it; Now flew the bun, now ran the dog, For eager was the mangy rogue, Nor stood to view it. 'Now, crafty Sir, the bargain was, That you should have what first did pass Across the bridge, so now, alas! The dog's your right,' The cheater cheated, struck with shame, Squinted and grinned, then in a flame He vanished quite." THE SPECTRE ARMY. A WEIRD TALE OF SOUTRA FELL. Souter Fell, or Soutra Fell as it is sometimes called, is a considerable mountain situated to the eastward of Skiddaw and Blencathara. The west and north sides are barricaded with steep rocks, apparently 900 yards in height, and everywhere difficult of access. A very remarkable phenomenon has exhibited itself on this mountain, which, though difficult to account for satisfactorily, is too well authenticated by numerous spectators to be discredited. We allude to the appearance of troops of visionary horsemen, crossing the mountains, advancing, retreating, and performing different military evolutions--an optical delusion which has been observed in this vicinity, to the great astonishment of the rustics of the vale. "As when a shepherd of the Hebrid isles Placed far amid the melancholy main (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles, Or that aërial beings sometimes deign To stand, embodied, to our senses plain), Sees on the naked hill or valley low, The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain, A vast assembly moving to and fro; Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show." THOMSON. The following account of this singular appearance, which is scarcely paralleled in history, is contained in Hutchison's History of Cumberland, the particulars being collected by Mr. Smith, who observes that he went himself to examine the spectators, who asserted the facts very positively. "On midsummer eve, 1735, a servant in the employ of William Lancaster, of Blakehills, about half a mile from Souterfell, related that he saw the east side of the mountain, towards the summit, covered with a regular marching army for above an hour together. They consisted of distinct bodies of troops, which appeared to proceed from an eminence in the north end, and marched over a niche in the top, marked A and B in the sketch given in the above work; but as no other person in the neighbourhood had seen a similar appearance, he was discredited and laughed at. "Two years after, on midsummer eve also, between the hours of eight and nine, William Lancaster himself imagined that several gentlemen were following their horses at a distance, as if they had been hunting; and taking them for such, paid no regard to it, till about ten minutes after, again turning his head towards the place, they appeared to be mounted, and a vast army following, five in rank, crowding over at the same place, where the servant said he saw them two years before. He then called his family, who all agreed in the same opinion; and what was most extraordinary, he frequently observed that some one of the five would quit the ranks, and seem to stand in a fronting posture, as if he was observing and regulating the order of their march, or taking account of the numbers, and after some time appeared to return full-gallop to the station he had left, which they never failed to do as often as they quitted their lines, and the figure that did so was generally one of the middlemost men in the rank. As it grew later, they seemed more regardless of discipline, and rather had the appearance of people riding from a market, than an army, though they continued crowding on, and marching off, as long as there was light to see them." This phenomenon was no more observed till the remarkably serene midsummer evening which preceded the last Scotch rebellion. The parties who had witnessed it on the previous occasion, having been much ridiculed for their report, were determined to call a greater number of witnesses of this strange phenomenon; and having first observed it rigidly, and with great caution themselves, and being fully assured they were not deceived as to the actual appearances, they convened about twenty-six persons from different places in the neighbourhood to bear testimony to the existence of the fact. These all affirmed, and attested before a magistrate, that they saw a similar appearance to that just described, but not conducted with the same regularity, having also the appearance of carriages interspersed. The numbers of the troops were incredible, for they filled lengthways nearly half a mile, and continued so in a brisk march for above an hour, and would probably have done so much longer had not the darkness of approaching night intervened. "Anon appears a brave, a gorgeous show Of horsemen shadows, moving to and fro. * * * * * Silent the visionary warriors go, Wending in ordered pomp their upward way, Till the last banner of the long array Had disappeared, and every trace is fled Of splendour--save the beacon's spiry head, Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning red." WORDSWORTH. The horse and man, upon strict looking at, appeared to be but one being, rather than two distinct ones, but they did not at all resemble clouds or vapours of any kind. William Lancaster observed that he never considered these aërial images to be real beings, because of the impracticability of a march over the precipices they seemed to traverse, where horses' hoofs had never trod before. They did not, however, appear to be any less real than on the former occasion; for so convinced were the spectators of the reality of what they had seen, that, as soon as the sun had dawned next morning, several of them climbed the mountain, through an idle expectation of finding the marks of horses' feet, after so numerous an army; but when they arrived at the supposed scene of action, not the mark of a single hoof was discernible, nor have any tidings been received of troops being in the neighbourhood up to this time.[6] Though this part of the country, like every other, where cultivation has been lately introduced, abounds in all the _aniles fabellæ_ of fairies, ghosts, and apparitions, these are never even fabled to have been seen by more than one or two persons at a time, and the view is always said to be momentary. But in this case the twenty-six spectators saw all alike the same changes, and at the same time, as they discovered by asking each other questions as any change took place. Nor was this wonderful phenomenon observed by these individuals only; it was seen by every person, at every cottage, for a mile round; neither was it confined to a momentary view; for, from the time it was first observed, the appearance must have lasted at least two hours and a half, viz., from half-past seven, till the night coming on prevented the further view; nor yet was the distance such as could impose rude resemblances on the eyes of credulity. The whole story has certainly much of the air of a romance, and it may appear to some fittest for Amadis de Gaul, or Glenville's System of Witches, than for insertion here as a fact. But although it may be difficult to reconcile its probability, and beyond even philosophy to explain, yet such is the evidence we have of its occurrence, that I do not myself entertain the slightest doubt of its having actually taken place as here related. The whole, however, was unquestionably an optical delusion. As instances have frequently occurred in which the forms and action of human beings have been pictured in the clouds, or in vapour, it seems highly probable, on a consideration of all the circumstances of the case, that certain vapours must have hovered round the mountain when these appearances were observed. It is also possible that these vapours may have been impressed with the shadowy forms which seemed to "imitate humanity," by a particular operation of the sun's rays, united with some singular, but unknown, refractive combination then taking place in the atmosphere. It has been remarked that these appearances were observed most particularly on the eve of the last Scotch Rebellion, when troops of horsemen might be privately exercising at no great distance. Indeed, the Editor of the _Lonsdale Magazine_, without giving his authority, observes, that it was afterwards actually discovered "to have been the rebels exercising on the western coast of Scotland, whose movements had been reflected by some fine transparent vapour similar to the Fata Morgana."[7] Instances are recorded of the phenomena of spectral armies having been occasionally witnessed in other localities. It has been stated that a troop of phantom horsemen was seen coursing over the heights of Helvellyn the day before the battle of Marston Moor.[8] Hutchinson, in his _History of Cumberland_, relates the following as a parallel instance with that of Soutra Fell. In the spring of 1707, early in a serene morning, was observed by two persons in Leicestershire an appearance of an army marching along, till going behind a great hill it disappeared. The forms of pikes, and carbines were distinguishable; the march was not entirely in one direction, but was at the first like the junction of two armies, and the meeting of generals.[9] There is also a well-authenticated statement of a similar phenomenon, witnessed not long ago, on the Mendip Hills, in Somersetshire;[10] and Speed tells us of something of a like nature as preceding a dreadful intestine war.[11] Something of this kind may have given rise to Ossian's grand and awful mythology. These optical illusions, occurring on Soutra Fell, form a subject peculiarly adapted for "the poet's pen," and are finely illustrated in the following poem, written in conformity with the popular belief of the lake villagers, that it really was a presentiment of the Scotch Rebellion, and that the horrors of the final battle were depicted in a prophetic manner. There can be no impiety in supposing, as this happened immediately before that rebellion which was intended to subvert the liberty, the law, and the religion of England, that though immediate prophecies may have ceased, these visionary beings might be directed to warn mankind of approaching tumults. "Look how the world's poor people are amazed At apparitions, signs, and prodigies, Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed, Infusing them with dreadful prophecies." SHAKESPEARE'S _Venus and Adonis_. A VISIONARY TALE OF THE SCOTCH REBELLION. While yet I gazed on Soutra's fell, A sight appeared (I live and tell!), Strange, ominous, and yet obscure, But fate has wrought the vision sure; Too soon explained, it bodes no good, But desolation marks, and blood, I saw at once in full career Equestrian troops dire-armed appear, Descending swift the mountains steep No earthly steed could footstep keep; Yet many hundreds were their might. The glitt'ring stars revealed the sight-- Lightnings, forbidding to conceal, Burst, 'midst drawn swords and helmets' steel. On me when burst their dreadful gleam Faint my sunk soul emits a scream; And Walter Selby thus began-- (Walter still less, or more than man) Shouting till every echo round The mountain nymphs appalled resound; "Saw ever man such gallant sight? A thousand steeds on Soutra's height, Its fierce descent--in martial pride A thousand riders stem its side, With managed pride and daring front! What mortal force shall bide their brunt? See how they gallop down yon rock!-- What mortal eye can bear the shock? The roe of Soutra's lightest bound Shrinks from the delvy deep profound, Where not the falcon strains her flight Above the eagled eyrey's height. O, for a steed so sure and swift That might me with these horsemen lift-- These airy knights! My wanton brown, Famed far and wide for fleet renown, That darts o'er Derwent like a bird, Matched with such palfrey and its lord With wonder froze, its progress slow, Would think the Derwent ceased to flow. Ne'er gossamer in summer race So swift, so sylphy held the chace. Alarm in every village dwells, For we all know what this foretells-- A battle lost, a ruined cause. I heard my father say there was Then seen on dread Helvellyn's side An armed host like this to ride: Yet difference marked--beneath a crown The eye of royalty there frowns; A regal glaive, like mailed Mars, That streams a meteor thro' the wars, Points at their head to Marston Moor, Soon to be drenched with British gore. On those whose standard new unfurls, Menace the coronets of earls; The wode weird sisters waft each count, And thanes ride wild at their surmount. "Now Heav'n's right hand protect us!" cried The dame that shares stern Wilton's pride; (Once bride of Grey, for beauty famed, And oft for boast of lineage named; But now her blood, by age grown cold, Yet tumult's in her mortal mould); "What evils shall I yet sustain! Portentous scene--terrific train! What follows these?" with instant breath The pedlar cries; "misfortune--death: To many, misery--death, to some-- Some who are present, sure will come Death sudden, early--" "Cease thy croak, Thou northern raven," Walter spoke; "If they are phantoms, let them pass-- For men of mist what care e'er was In constant souls; if flesh and bone, (Such by their bearing are alone This gallant band) as I believe, As such I greet them and receive, Good, gallant soldiers for our King-- For them shall then the welkin ring." No sooner said, but seized his horn; Around the mountain echoes borne Resounds the bugle far and wide. The spectred steedmen then descried A mile's full quarter, seem'd to halt; The youth again, with lips at fault, Seized mad the ill-directed horn; His hand the pedlar seized with scorn; "Unhallowed, dare not thus deride What heaven's all pregnant powers confide, For man's instruction is this vision sent;" (With that the bugle from his hand he rent); "Young gentleman, be wise, be ruled:" The lost musician stood in silence school'd. The shadowy troops with sword and lance, And martial pride elate, advance; Within a hundred yards they seem; Terrific now their hauberks gleam-- As dazzling more than mortal sight. Yet 'midst my trance of wild affright, I marked them, as along they went, And living forms as such they meant, I then imagined that I knew Of many men in dreadful hue-- Death's pale discolour--doomed the ghost to yield, Instance exact to perish in the field, Or in cold blood to wait their doom-- The scaffold's fate--without a tomb; Pride of the Stuart's strength, nor unallied, In blood, that Brunswick's happier host defied; The Maxwells, Boyds, Drummonds, and Gordons famed, Scots, Ogilvies, Camerons, Foresters, high named! One youth there was--for now the battle raged, A band more powerful, vengeance nigh presaged, A fierce assault proclaims the adverse power-- One youth there was, amidst destruction's lour, Turned still the stream and every foe defied, Oft raised his arm, and oft in blood 'twas dyed; And, as his faint companions fell, he stood Erect in arms, and drenched in hostile blood; At last his prowess sunk--a falchion keen Light' on his helmet, and burst the warrior's screen; Then, as he fell, a visage too well known Burst on my view, with death's stern front though prone, 'Twas Selby's self--his dread eidolon's form, Like Brutus threatened in Philippi's storm. Selby looked thunderstruck with wild amaze, But mortal eye could not abide the gaze. He sunk, forestalled the agonies of death, And on the ground suspended was his breath; His horn then sounds the melody of woe, Some few sad notes that reach the issue's flow, E're the seer's hand had checked his purpose bold; Such notes the furies whilsom did unfold, When Plato gave to Proserpine his hand, And love stood awed, nor dared his force withstand The tyrant's force--we wait all frenzied o'er, And Selby yet alive, as dead, deplore. All this was horror, but how faint the view To what too soon all real must ensue, Shall I relate how sunk each noble name? Too well 'tis known in blasts of hideous fame; In prose 'tis written, and in verse 'tis strung, And songs funereal the dire dirge have sung. The ruined castle, and the prostrate hall, The exile's wand'ring, and the hero's fall; Sons unattainted, sires suspicion haunts, And childless sires their offspring's exit taunts; Where such is heard in lamentation's air, And more sunk deep in silence of despair; Feelings of family perpetual burn, And tears incessant fill the nation's urn. Such was the scene ere dire Culloden's plain The northern ravens glutted with the slain; Nor rested then, for in the ebon car The dire Erynnis of fell civil war Held yoked her dark steeds from the fatal field, A part succeeded reckless yet to yield, With colours flying, and the pibroch's sound, As if they scorned the violated ground, As vengeance filled their bosoms fraught with ire, As if they sought a respite to retire, On adverse fortune scorned to waste their strength, But thought calamity would reach its length; Then, to return--but nobler thoughts evince, Convinced by reason they salute their Prince, Convinced, revere the majesty of laws, Nor wreck their fortunes in a desperate cause; 'Twas thus each fought with still undaunted heart, And each 'twas thought maintained the better part. Now civil war has spent its savage rage, Say, shall we now for anarchy engage? Exhaust all purpose of heaven-granted life, For no one purpose but the love of strife. Rather than that, let's seek the pristine Cain, Or rather seek with Lamech's force to reign, Lamech, than Cain, the seven times told more curs'd, For even Cain was not yet found the worst. Then check this brutal rage, while yet there's power, While yet the monster's something to devour; While not by treason borne, to ruin hurled, Stands in its frame the firm majestic world. Another curious and interesting phenomenon was once observed on Souter Fell, somewhat differing from that already described, though probably resulting from the same combined causes. "One summer evening, in the year 1743, the servant of Mr. Wren, of Wilton Hall, was sitting at the door with his master, when they both saw the figure of a man with a dog, pursuing some horses along the mountain side, a place so steep that a horse could scarcely keep his footing upon it. These visionary forms appeared to run at an amazing pace, till they got out of sight at the lower end of the Fell. Mr. Wren and his servant next morning ascended the steep mountain, expecting to find the man dead, being persuaded he must be killed in galloping at so furious a rate; but to their surprise, they found not a shoe, nor even any vestige whatever of man, dog, or horse."[12] This story they sometime concealed; at length, however, they ventured to relate it, and were (as might be expected), heartily laughed at. Nearly allied to this is another atmospheric phenomenon, occasionally seen among the mountains, though of rare occurrence. It consists of an aërial figure, depicted on a dense or misty atmosphere, not unfrequently assuming a grotesque or highly magnified appearance. The same phenomenon has been observed amongst the Scotch mountains. Mr. Smith, M.P. for Norwich, witnessed it in ascending Ben Nevis. On the crown of that mountain there is a crater-like hollow, in which was a misty vapour. In the midst of this appeared a human figure in motion. Mr. Smith held up his hands, and the figure did the same.[13] This appearance is most rationally explained on the principles of refraction and reflection, the shadowy form being no other than the image of a reality, favourably posited with relation to the refracting medium and the observer's eye. This man-in-the-mist was doubtless the shadow of the real man, created by his coming between the vapour and the sun; yet perhaps the aërial beings that have been said to people the Highland mountains, may be traced to some such origin. The appearance of the Spectre of the Broken, an aërial figure which is sometimes seen amongst the Hartz mountains of Hanover, may be accounted for in the same manner. The following is an interesting account of this phenomenon by M. Hane:--"Having ascended the Broken Mountain," says he, "for the thirtieth time, I was at length so fortunate as to have the pleasure of seeing this phenomenon. The sun rose about four o'clock, and the atmosphere being quite serene towards the east, its rays could pass without any obstruction over the Heinrichshöhe mountain. In the south-west, however, towards the mountain Achtermannshöhe, a brisk west wind carried before it thin transparent vapours. About a quarter-past four I looked round, to see whether the atmosphere would permit me to have a free prospect to the south-west, when I observed, at a very great distance towards the Achtermannshöhe, a human figure of a monstrous size! A violent gust of wind having almost carried away my hat, I clapped my hand to it: and in moving my arm towards my head, the colossal figure did the same. "The pleasure which I felt at this discovery can hardly be described; for I had already walked many a weary step in the hope of seeing this shadowy image, without being able to gratify my curiosity. I immediately made another movement, by bending my body, and the colossal figure before me repeated it. I was desirous of doing the same thing once more, but my colossus had vanished. I remained in the same position, waiting to see whether it would return; and in a few minutes it again made its appearance on the Achtermannshöhe. I then called the landlord of the neighbouring inn, and having both taken the position which I had taken alone, we looked towards the Achtermannshöhe, but did not perceive anything. We had not, however, stood long, when two such colossal figures were formed over the above eminence, which repeated their compliments, by bending their bodies as we did, after which they vanished. We retained our position, kept our eyes fixed on the spot, and in a little time the two figures again stood before us, and were joined by a third," that of a traveller who then came up and joined the party. "Every movement made by us these figures imitated; but with this difference, that the phenomenon was sometimes weak and faint, sometimes strong and well defined."[14] [6] From Hutchinson's _History of Cumberland_, and Rev. C. C. Clarke's _One Hundred Wonders of the World_. [7] _Lonsdale Magazine_, vol. ii. p. 313. [8] _Coniston Hall_, by Rev. W. GRESLEY, M.A., p. 135. [9] Hutchinson's _History of Cumberland_, p. 420, vol. i. [10] _Westmoreland and Cumberland Illustrated_, p. 217. [11] _Lonsdale Magazine_, vol. ii. p. 425. [12] Clarke's _Wonders of the World_. [13] Wilkinson's _Tours to the British Mountains_, pp. 64, 65. [14] Clarke's _Wonders of the World_, pp. 434, 435. RUSTIC POETS OF THE LAKE DISTRICT. JOHN OLDLAND AND JAMIE MUCKELT. Among the various traits of local character in the English Lake district, there is not perhaps, one more amusing than that propensity to rhyming which a number of individuals has exhibited, in all the rustic grace of native ignorance. A few instances of this nature can only be admitted within the limited compass of these pages, but they will not be without their interest to those who feel a pleasure in tracing the unassisted efforts of natural genius. John Oldland was an inhabitant of Crosthwaite, existing about the beginning of the last century. His propensity to rhyming was such, that many of his rhymes, as they are provincially called, are still repeated by the older inhabitants of the neighbourhood. A few, and but a few of these rhymes, we shall here insert. When he attended Ulverston market, as he generally did, he put up at the Dog, in Dalton Gate, then kept by Betty Woodburn and her husband, though now gone and forgotten. Audland, as he was called, was so much addicted to rhyming, that he did it on all occasions with various success; the following, though still remembered, is one of his clumsy attempts:--Calling one Thursday at the public-house door with some other farmers, the landlord replied in his politest manner, "Coming, Sir." On which Audland, looking up at the sign, observed:-- "This dog he runs wi' his tail to the south, But co' on the landlord, an' he'll gi' mouth." Once when his landlady, at the Dog, had urged him to clear off a long score, which he had run up at the house, he gave her the following promissory note, which was accepted:-- "I, John Oldland, Befoar I gang hence, Owe Betty Woodburn Just six and two pence. An', Thursday come sennet, I'll pay off the auld scoar, An' wha knas but I may Spend twice as mich moar." The smartest of John's rhymes was made on the occasion of his being put to trouble (as it is properly termed in the provincial dialect) by a lawyer, for some debt which he had incurred at Ulverston; a proof that not only poets, but all who meddle with rhyme, are poor. John repeated with emphasis-- "God mead men, An' men mead money; God mead bees, An' bees mead honey; But the D--l mead lawyers an' tornies, An' pleac'd 'em at U'ston and Daltan i' Forness." We shall only have room to notice another of these "rustic bards." He too was a Crosthwaite man, but of a more recent date. We do not intend to insinuate that there is any predisposing cause about Crosthwaite, that inclines the inhabitants to rhyme, but it happens that we remember these two at the present moment; by an association of ideas, the one has probably conjured up the other. Jamie Muckelt was undoubtedly the best rhymer in that part of the country; and, consequently his rhymes have been more carefully preserved than those of any other. We have room, however, for only a few specimens. Jamie was a farmer; and once, returning from the market he had overset, or, as he called it, capsized the cart. His wife was angry, and eagerly inquired the cause of such an accident. Jamie, with that _sang froid_ for which he was so remarkable, only replied, "Caerlessly, thou may depend-- Pooin' away at t' helter end." A common footpath led through a field in which Jamie had a crop of pease one year. These held out a temptation, Jamie considered, to passengers to be taking tithe in kind. To prevent these depredations he fixed up a board, on which he painted or chalked the following lines:-- "Pray ye, nebbers, dunnet pull; I'll gi' ye a pey-scode when they're full. If ye it 'em when they're swash, They'll fill yer belly full o' trash." Muckelt happened once to be at the Punch Bowl in Crosthwaite, in company with Dr. Bell. Jamie's rhyming abilities were pretty well known, and perhaps sometimes a little envied. Be that as it may, the Doctor challenged Jamie to rhyme him for a wager. Jamie, without a moment's study, produced the following stanza:-- "At your request, I'll du me best; But ya' thing I implore-- If Dr. Bell Can du as well, To trouble me no more." The Doctor acknowledged himself outdone, and paid his forfeit. On another occasion Jamie had staid at the Punch Bowl till he was rather top-heavy, and fell into the fire and burnt himself. The next day he went to the house to discharge his bill, and gave them, in addition to their regular charge, the following verse:-- "Thear is some men, for want o' sense, Will run ther sels to vast expense; An' I mesel, for want o' greace, Fell into t' fire an' burnt me feace." Meeting with a friend one day, in the shambles at Kendal, he said, "Come, nebber, let us join, If thou'll buy t' leg I'll buy t' loin; If thou'll buy t' head I'll buy t' pluck; An' we'll hev a quart at t' Dog an' Duck." Many other instances of this rhyming propensity, through all the country, might be produced, would our limits permit. THE HART'S-HORN TREE. A TRADITION OF PENRITH. Four miles from Penrith, near the road to Appleby, and in the district which, to this day, bears the name of Whinfell Forest, there formerly stood a fine oak, which bore the name of Hart's-Horn Tree, a name it acquired from a tradition to this effect. In the time of the first Robert de Clifford, about the year 1333, Edward Baliol, King of Scotland, came into Westmorland, and stayed some time with that Lord, at his castles of Appleby, Brougham, and Pendragon. During his visit they ran a stag by a single greyhound, out of Whinfell Forest to Redkirke in Scotland, and back again to the same place. Being both spent, the stag leaped over the pales, and died there; but the greyhound attempting to leap, fell, and died on the opposite side. As a memorial of this incident, the stag's horns were nailed upon a tree just by; and the dog being named Hercules, this couplet obtained currency amongst the people-- "Hercules kill'd Hart-a-grease,[15] And Hart-a-grease killed Hercules." "Then went they down into a laund, These noble archers three; Eche of them slew a hart of greece, The best that they could see." _Song of Adam Bell._ In course of time, it is stated, the horns became grafted, as it were, upon the tree, by reason of its bark growing over their root, and there they remained more than three centuries, till, in the year 1648, one of the branches was broken off by some of the army; and ten years afterwards, the remainder was secretly taken down by some mischievous people in the night. "So, now," says Lady Ann Clifford, in her _Diary_, "there is no part thereof remaining, the tree itself being so decayed, and the bark of it so peeled off, that it cannot last long; whereby we may see time brings to forgetfulness many memorable things in this world, be they ever so carefully preserved--for this tree, with the hart's horn in it, was a thing of much note in these parts." In another part of the same forest, which, like many other forests in this country, as Skiddaw forest, Inglewood forest, &c., has no trace of what it has been but the name, there stood, a few years ago, three enormous oak trees, known by the name of the "Three Brothers." One of them measured thirteen yards in girth. [15] Dr. Percy, in a note to the poem, a stanza of which is given below, explains "heart o' grease," or "greece," to mean a fat animal, from the French word _graisse_. THE QUAKERESS BRIDE. A TALE OF THE MOUNTAINS. The moon shone full upon the dial of Saint Paul's, and showed the hour-pointer far advanced towards midnight, as Edward Fletcher paused for a moment to inquire the time, and then pursued his way in deep and silent meditation. At an early age, by the death of both his parents, he had been left to the care of an unmarried uncle, who, after giving him a good education, had placed him in a merchant's office, and had since enabled him to become the principal of a mercantile establishment. He had now been for two years the master of a lucrative and increasing business, and being naturally of a social disposition, he began to court the company of those of his own rank. In this way he had spent the evening, and, having accompanied some of his fair companions to their homes, he was returning to his own lodgings in a distant part of the metropolis. The warm and genial influence of Society had called into action the softer emotions of his heart, freed them from the icy fetters which long and arduous attention to business had thrown over them, and caused them again to burst forth and to roll onward in an unbroken current, bearing his thoughts to that far distant period, when, in the twilight of memory, the forms of past events are dim and indistinctly visible. And he lingered on the recollection with a melancholy pleasure, for it was the happiest period of his existence. He was then the loved and caressed of parents who were now no more. Those joyous days were passed among the pleasant hills and valleys of Westmorland, and now he was confined among the din and bustle of the city. He remembered one fair girl, who was more than his playmate, with whom "he roamed about the braes," pulling the cowslips or the early violets; or at evening sat under the shadow of a spreading elm, telling her the stories which he had read during the day, and listening to the little hymns which her mother had taught her; but of her he knew nothing--she too, probably, was with the dead. Then he thought of his school-days, with their mischievous tricks and their active sports, and their hard lessons, and the noble boys who were his comrades. Some of them, the gentlest and the most beloved, were also gone to their rest; and the hardy, the active, and enterprising, were pursuing their separate courses of adversity or success; many, like himself, were still bachelors, whilst others enjoyed the delights of domestic felicity in the bosoms of their families. This last subject was one on which he had often deeply pondered. Arrived at that time of life, when the enthusiasm of youth has subsided, before the indifference of age has commenced, he had long felt the solitude of his orphan state; he had been convinced that he did not move in the sphere for which Providence had designed him. He was alone, among strangers; he was exposed to the thousand little discomforts which are inseparable from the lot of him who has no place which he can feel to be a home. He engaged in the duties of life without spirit or energy, more in imitation of the example of others, than from any heartfelt incitement to action. If prosperity smiled on him, he viewed it with indifference, but the frowns of adversity chilled and depressed him. He wished for some one to share with him in the former, and, by participation, to render the latter less irksome, instead of being compelled to feel the whole weight of its gloom on his own mind, and to brood over his misfortunes in cheerless solitude. His observation had convinced him that marriage alone would give full zest to joy, and soften the stings of sorrow; and now, his heart, softened by the society which he had just left, and by his recollections of former days, nourished and gradually matured the conviction, till at length he firmly resolved to abjure the state, to him miscalled, of "single-blessedness." By this time he had reached his own door. He had passed through one moon-lit street after another, occupied with his own reflections, unheeding alike the artless laugh of voice, the shout of the drunken reveller, and the noise and tumult of the thronging crowd which poured from one of the theatres. "Yes," said he, "I'll marry." The rapper was in his hand, and it fell with a heavy knock, as if sounding an "Amen" to his recently-formed resolution. He retired to his couch, but not to repose. His thoughts continued to oppress and agitate him, and he tossed about restless and sleepless. The hour of midnight, tolled from the neighbouring belfry, had been succeeded by "the wee short hours ayont the twal," gradually lengthening and announcing the dawn of day, before he fell into a short and broken slumber. When he arose he sought his counting-house, but the time passed slowly and heavily on. He spent the day in a state of abstraction, relieved only by a conviction that it was his duty to exert himself more than ever. He would relapse for a while into indolence, and then, suddenly rousing from his stupor, recommence his employment with renewed but short-lived energy; and he rejoiced when the approach of evening allowed him to escape, and to accept the invitation of his friend, Charles Manson, to walk with him in the Regent's Park. Charles, who was some years his junior, and was studying for the medical profession, was a youth of sanguine temperament--one of those who love to view things on their bright side; who sincerely enjoy the delights of life; and who, if they are visited by affliction, feel it deeply for a time, but soon forget it. He was in high spirits. The fineness of the weather, the number and gay appearance of the company in the Park, and his relaxation from the labours of the day, all tended to enliven him, and animated his converse. Scarcely an equipage rolled by, or a horseman passed them, without furnishing him with occasion for an approving or satirical remark. Edward, however, seemed not to heed his observations, or, if he noticed them at all, it was by a cold nod, or a single syllable of assent. He passed in silence the various natural and architectural beauties of the place, on which he was accustomed to dilate. The fine Doric portico, and massive grandeur of the Colosseum, the splendid facade of Cumberland Place, the innumerable curiosities of the Zoological Gardens, and the rural loveliness of the wooded lake, were alike unheeded. At length Charles stopped, and, looking his companion attentively in the face, said to him, "Edward, thou art in love." "In love," he replied, with a feeble laugh, "not I indeed, what can have given thee such an idea?" "Thy remarkably grave deportment, moping abstraction, and disregard for all that's worth seeing. Thou hast passed unnoticed many of thy favourite subjects of remark; thou hast allowed the most magnificent carriages, and some of our greatest public characters, to pass thee unobserved, coldly assenting to my words, or 'nodding thy head like a mandarin in a tea-shop'--I am persuaded that thou art in love." "Well, Charles, I own that, though not yet in love, I trust I soon shall be, and that my love will be consummated by lasting union. I have long compared the delights of marriage with the discomforts of the bachelor, and last night, bringing my notions to a point, I came to the resolution to marry." "Make no such rash resolve," said Charles, "but consider the inconveniences as well as the comforts of matrimony. For my own part, having given myself up to the pursuit of study, I am satisfied that a wife would retard my progress. It would be impossible for me to pay that undivided attention to my profession, which my duty, not more than my inclination demands. Few eminent men have been married. The rule which prevents Roman Catholic clergymen from being so, was doubtless the result of great experience and deep conviction on the part of its framers, that it tended to draw the thoughts from the functions of the sacerdotal office. So study and celibacy for me; or if I be married, let my library be my bride." "And a wife and happiness for me!" replied Edward. "What benefit is there in amassing a large store of knowledge, which may never be required, and at the same time neglecting the enjoyment of female society, and despising its aid as the minister of virtue. The reasons which induce thee to continue single do not affect me, and, in fact, I should rather seek a wife to incite me to great exertion, than merely continue in the spiritless pursuit of wealth or knowledge." "And what," asked Charles, "are the requisite qualities of such a wife?" "She must," said Edward, "be a woman whose virtues are the fruit of religious conviction; she must be modest without affectation, and cheerful without boldness; lovely in person, and accomplished in mind." "Let me try to guess who she is," said Charles; and he named some of their female acquaintance who, he thought, best answered the description. But no! Edward's ideas of female excellence were so refined, that none of these came up to the standard. Each had some fault which might have passed unobserved by others, but could not escape the discriminating eye of our philosophic bachelor. Lucy was "a blue stocking." She spent her time in the study of foreign languages and abstruse sciences; and her mind, occupied in such recondite pursuits, could not be expected to bend to the homely and unpretending duties of a household. Elizabeth was "a butterfly:"--a giddy, thoughtless child of nature, content with the powers which nature had bestowed, and regardless of cultivating and improving them; enjoying the present, as though it comprised the whole period of her existence, and as if there would be no future which called for preparation. An imprudent woman was unsuitable for a wife. Emma was "an egotist." All her regard seemed to be spent upon her own person. She was constantly admiring herself in the mirror, arranging some irregularity in the fold of her kerchief, or some unevenness in her sleeves, or trying some new posture to show her form to advantage: and she who was filled with self-love would care little for the happiness of her husband. Mary ran into the opposite extreme. He admired simplicity, but he disliked negligence. Some part of her dress was often in disorder; a string was wanting in her cap, or a lock of hair hung loosely over her forehead; and neatness was an indispensable requisite for the partner of his life. Jane was "a chatter-box;" gay and volatile, her tongue ran on in ceaseless prattle, without giving utterance to one idea, the result either of observation or reflection. Her words sounded prettily enough to the ear, but they left no impression on the mind; and thought and foresight ought to belong to every one who might become the head of a family. Judith was "a mere negation." She was, perhaps, blameless in regard to the actual commission of offence, but she was supine and indolent in virtuous exertion. If she did no evil, she did little good. The course of her life was one dead level, without rise and without depression. She acted so as to save appearances with the world; but her heart was a stranger to every generous impulse, her hand was seldom stretched out in active benevolence, and her mind was ignorant of the practical operation of religion and piety. He looked to marriage for a stimulus to renewed exertion, but he could expect no aid from one so listless and apathetic. "Most exact of men!" exclaimed Charles, "thy conduct is a perfect anomaly. Attempting to reason on the most illogical of all passions--laying down a proposition that thou wilt marry, before falling in love, and finding fault with those of the fair sex, who are admired and followed, even by those who never wish to be lovers. Throw off this fastidiousness; or, depend upon it, that it will be long before thou art a husband, and before I am left alone in the ranks of celibacy." They parted--but the feeling daily increased and became stronger in the mind of Edward. He sought society more eagerly than ever; but though he felt a transient gratification in its variety, he found, in the retrospect, nothing but disappointment. He met with none on whom he could centre his affections. Each had some fault which rendered her unfit for a wife. He met with many whom he admired, many whom he could respect as friends, but none whom he could love with that fervour and singleness of heart which he considered due to her whom he should make his own. And yet he saw his companions select their partners, and live apparently in married felicity. Even the fair ones whom he had so severely criticised and censured, were respectively united to admiring and joyous husbands. Yet in vain did he seek for some pure, spotless being, who might realize his opinion of the feminine character; love seemed to be a tempting fruit hung beyond his reach. He began to doubt whether he was not differently constituted from the generality of his species, and incapable of their susceptibilities; yet when he thought of his early affections to his parents and the fair companion of his youth, and when he referred to the feelings that even now burned in his bosom, he was convinced that he only wanted the opportunity to prove himself possessed of the finest sympathies of humanity. It was midsummer: the fashionable part of the community had left London for their seats in the country, and Edward, tired of its suffocating heat, its forsaken squares, and desolate streets, resolved also to leave it, and revisit, for the first time since his boyhood, the beautiful scenery of his native Westmorland. He took the coach to Kendal, and there left it; preferring to proceed on foot, as allowing him greater liberty in choosing his route, and in diverging from the high roads when interest or curiosity might prompt him to wander. For a week he rambled through the most picturesque districts of the country, climbing its hills, while the exercise and the bracing air improved his health; rowing on its lakes, and treading its flowery meads, which spoke of peace and comfort to his mind; or gazing on its waterfalls till his sorrow and disquiet were forgotten in the contemplation. But what were his feelings as he approached the place of his nativity? He stole up the narrow lane that led to it from the main road, and cautiously drew near. He thought that the little croft behind was strangely diminished in size, and that the house had an altered and more homely appearance than he expected; yet over the arch-way were the initials of his parents' names, "R. & S. F., 1795." He looked through the garden-gate, and at the well-known door sat the mistress of the house, employed with needlework, whilst a young child gambolled along the walks. How often had his mother sat there, occupied in the same manner, and smiled on his infant frolics! He found that his parents were forgotten, and the names of the neighbours were strange to him; even the heavy-clogged hind, of whom he made the inquiry, who was homeward "dragging his weary way," eyed him, as if half-suspicious of some sinister intention. Amid all his distress, he had been accustomed to reflect on that place, and on the early days he had spent there, with feelings of pleasure: when the clouds gathered blackest around him, he remembered them as a gleam of sunshine in his existence, which, overcast as it had been, might yet dispel the shades, and shed its bright glory over the evening of his days. And thus to be awakened to the sad reality, to find himself unknown on the threshold of his father's house, an alien in the place of his birth; to seek in vain for the friends of his youth; to feel that he was alone in the world, and must buffet with it single-handed; to find his last remaining solace depart, and thus to become fully aware of the solitariness of his situation--convinced him alike that he had drawn an overcharged picture of the past, and that doubt and uncertainty appertained to the future-- "He turned and left the spot; Ah, do not deem him weak, For dauntless was that youthful heart, Though a tear was on his cheek." He pursued his journey; and, on the morrow, after a long ramble across the hills, reached a small and secluded village, where he thought to remain for a day or two. After he had dined, he went out to enjoy the fine views which its vicinity afforded. The road lay along the side of a hill which, on the one hand, was covered with heather, interspersed with large stones, whose grey and wrinkled fronts looked out from the purple blossoms dancing in the breeze, like age surveying the pastimes of youth; and, on the other, was bordered by trees, whose light waving branches gave an occasional glimpse of the lake beyond them. A small avenue opening it to the view, and offering a smooth bank for his seat, he lay down to repose. The green boughs overhead shaded him from the rays of the sun; before him, in the distance, were some of Westmorland's loftiest hills, standing boldly out in the clear blue sky, heathery-clad at their tops, but, at their base, yellow with waving corn, green with luxuriant pastures, or dark with extensive woods; whence rose the smoke of the peasant's cot, the spire of a village church, or the bold front of some magnificent mansion; while, immediately before him, the lake spread its expanse of beauty, its waters calm as a mirror, or curled by the breeze into mimic and noiseless wavelets. A boat moved slowly from behind one of the islands, rowed by one whose dress showed him to be no professed sailor, and in the pause between the grating of the oars on its side, and their splashing in the water, the sound of a soft voice came in song from a lady sitting at the stern. This "touched the string on which hung all his sorrows." "And is there not," said he--"is there not some being like that for me; is there none on earth to whom I may speak of love? Am I, alone, of all my race doomed to drag on a long and weary life, a solitary, friendless creature? I have formed my notions of excellence at an elevation to which human nature does not attain; I will banish these vain ideas; lower my scale of excellence, as to the external and less important parts of personal character, and return into the world, determined to be pleased, to imitate the example of my fellowmen, and, like them, to be happy." He was roused by a voice near him, and, on turning, he perceived a mendicant asking alms of a young plainly-dressed lady. He arose from his recumbent posture, and, for the first time, attracted her attention. She gave but one enquiring glance, blushed deeply, slipped the money hurriedly into the extended palm, and went on her way, followed by the benedictions of the grateful sufferer. By that mysterious principle, that sort of mental magnetism, existing in every bosom, by which we are instantly and unaccountably attracted to one whom we have never seen before, but whom we feel an irresistible desire often to meet--a feeling which time or distance may perhaps diminish, but which nothing but death can extinguish--Edward felt, as he returned to his inn, determined, if it were possible, to have an interview with the fair stranger. Often did she pass before him in the visions of the night; often was his sleep broken by his dreams, but they were dreams of happiness and joy. The Sabbath morn called him to seek the meeting-house of his sect, which was situate at a short distance from the village. There it stood, with its gray walls and flagged roof--its bright small-paned windows, and weather-beaten door and shutters; its shade of arching lime-trees, and its green grave-yard, surrounded by a low wall and an humble wicket, on which the peasant might lean and moralise; for the dread of desecration which encircles the burial places in cities with palisadoes and chevaux-de-frise had not reached the inhabitants of that peaceful land. Its interior corresponded with the neatness and simplicity of its outward appearances. The walls seemed to have been recently white-washed, and the sand on the floor cracked beneath his tread, as he sought a seat on one of the old oaken forms. Few were the assembled worshippers. An aged man, dressed in the good old-fashioned drab coat, and three-decked hat, from beneath which hung a few locks of reverend gray, sat under the gallery, resting upon his staff; beneath him was a stout, hale man, of the middle age, whose features bespoke him to be his son, and whose wife was sitting on the adjoining form. The seat parallel to that on which Edward sat, contained some young women, whose features he could not discern; and several, whose dress showed them to be servants, or not connected with the body, were scattered about on the back benches. But though small was the assembly, and humble the place of gathering, whether it arose from the quiet that reigned around, the effect of the past week's journey, or the events connected with it, never did Edward feel more of the pure spirit of devotion, never did he retire from a house of worship more strengthened and refreshed in spirit. At the close of the meeting, the old friend kindly shook him by the hand, and invited him to his house. Pleased with his venerable appearance, and wishing to become further acquainted with him, Edward accepted the invitation. "Come," said the ancient, "thou's stronger nor me, let me lean on thy airm;" and, thus supported on the one hand, and with his stick in the other, they walked at a slow pace through two or three fields, and then found themselves at his door. His house was of brick, overgrown in the front with large pear-trees, whose dark foliage strongly contrasted with the clean white windows. A small plot before it, defended by a green paling, was filled with pinks, roses, campanulas, and other summer flowers; at the one end a large, well-stocked orchard extended down the hill-side beyond which, in the distance, were seen the blue waters of the lake; and, at the other, was the farm-yard, with its various out-buildings, its herds of lowing cattle, and troops of poultry. The old man introduced his son, who had arrived before them, by the name of James Summers, and then turning to Edward, said, "but as I don't knaw tha name, I can only half perform my duty." "My name," he said "is Edward Fletcher." "From thy dialect," said the son, "I suppose thou art from London." "Yes, I live there at present, but I was born at Rockgill, about twelve miles to the west of this place." "What!" inquired the son, "was thy father's name Richard Fletcher?" "It was," Edward replied, "but he has been long dead." "I know he has; he was an intimate friend of ours; in fact we were his next neighbours, till the advanced age and increasing infirmities of my father, rendered it necessary for me to assist in the management of his farm. I am heartily glad to see thee; thou must protract thy stay with us, for we have been too long separated to part soon." "Ay," added his wife, "many a time have I dandled thee on my knee when a child, and Eliza and thou used to wander about together from morning till night." "What's getten them?" asked the old man, "they are langer nor common in comin' in." As he spoke the door opened, and the sisters entered the room. "Why," said the old man, "ye ran off to-day, and didn't come an' help me hame as ye used to do!" "O! grandfather," said Eliza, "we saw thou wast too well assisted to need our aid." "Ay, and wha think ye my helper was?--naebody else but Edward Fletcher, that used to play wi' thee when ye were bairns, and that thou sae often talks aboot." Edward observed her blush deeply at this remark. He had at once recognized her as the lady who had yesterday crossed his path, and as he now accosted her, he felt all his prepossessions in her favour incalculably increased. Her personal appearance was very pleasing. She was rather tall. Her form was slender and graceful, and her complexion exceedingly fair. Her chestnut hair was parted on her forehead, a few stray tresses escaped from the border of her cap, and her light blue eyes sparkled with innocent cheerfulness and unobtrusive benevolence. Her sister, a few years younger, was also a lovely girl, but her form and features were less fully developed. Placed on this footing, Edward soon felt himself at home, and was delighted with the family into whose society he had fallen; but his observation was chiefly directed to the elder daughter. The more he saw, and the more he conversed with her, the more strongly did she rivet his affections. He found her possessed of a naturally strong, and highly-cultivated mind, stored with knowledge of the most useful kind; with a sweet and gentle disposition, and with a heart in which religion and virtue held supreme place. As he conversed with her, and found that her language breathed of an intellectual and religious spirit, he thought that in her were gathered all the qualities which he had so long sought for in vain. But it was not till the cool of the day, when they walked together by the lake, that he became fully aware of the change which the events of the last twenty-four hours had wrought upon him. He was with her, whose mere glance had spoken to his inmost heart; her who was the playmate of his infancy--the only human being, except his parents, to whom he had ever looked with a higher feeling than that of esteem: he found that his first impression was increased by future acquaintance; that her features feebly shadowed forth her mental excellence, her modesty, good sense, and religious feeling;--he was with her in his native land at the close of that day, when, if the mind may be allowed to dwell upon any earthly feeling, it is upon that of honourable youthful love, the most purified of mortal passions. They talked of the joys of former days, of the many little incidents which formed the chain of remembrance of their past pleasure, of the mutual thoughts of each other which had lingered in their bosoms; and before the expiration of Edward's sojourn the foundation was laid of a connection which might only terminate with life. He returned to the metropolis an altered man. His gloom and abstraction had vanished, and he pursued his vocation with redoubled assiduity. But still his heart was absent in "the north countrie," and many a journey did he take thither, no longer to admire the beauty of its scenery, but to indulge himself with the company of her, whose lot in after life was to be bound up with his own. She accepted the offer of his hand; the consent of her parents was asked and received, the requisite formalities gone through, and the necessary arrangements completed, when he asked his friend Charles to accompany him to his marriage. After some demur, on account of the pressing nature of his studies, and the difference of opinion between them as to the propriety of the step, Charles consented to go with him. When they arrived at the house, they were of course warmly welcomed. The morrow was appointed for the wedding, and, as many relatives had been invited from distant parts, great preparations were making for their accommodation. Eliza seized the opportunity of stealing away, unobserved, once more to visit her chosen walks and favourite seats, and to bid adieu to the scenes where she had spent the blissful days of youth. When she returned, she retired to her room, and having thrown off her bonnet and gloves, she pondered on the circumstances of her present situation. She was about to leave a peaceful home, tender parents, and affectionate friends; but to-morrow she would be a bride: she would gain one who was more to her than all these, who would cherish and protect her; and the tear that trickled adown her cheek, was gilded by the beam of a pure and subdued love. Then, turning her thoughts to Him who made, and had preserved her, she uttered a sincere and fervent prayer for his continued mercy and protection. Never, perhaps, was the old meeting-house so filled as on the morning of the marriage. Besides the procession of friends and relatives from the house, the neighbours had gathered from far and near to witness the nuptial ceremony of one who was universally respected and beloved: and though there were none of those signs of outward show by which such occasions are commonly distinguished, though there was no firing of cannon, no ringing of bells, no flying of flags, yet it was not less a union of two faithful hearts, nor did their vow of "affection until death" sound less solemnly and impressively on the ears of the hushed assembly. O not in the halls of the noble and proud, Where fashion assembles her glittering crowd, Where all is in beauty and splendour array'd, Were the nuptials perform'd of the meek Quaker maid. Nor yet in the temple those rites which she took, By the altar, the mitre-crown'd bishop, and book: Where oft in bright jewels doth stand the fair bride, To whisper those vows which through life shall abide. The building was humble yet sacred to Him, Before whom the pomp of religion is dim; Whose presence is not to the temple confin'd, But dwells with the contrite and lowly of mind. 'Twas there, all unveil'd, save by modesty stood The Quakeress Bride, in her pure satin hood, Her charms unadorn'd by the garland or gem, Yet fair as the lily just plucked from the stem. A tear glisten'd bright in her dark shaded eye, And her bosom half utter'd a tremulous sigh, As the hand she had pledged was confidingly given, And the low murmured accents recorded in heaven. I've been at the bridal where wealth spread the board, Where the sparkling red wine in rich goblets was pour'd: Where the priest in his surplice from ritual read, And the solemn response was impressively said. I've seen the fond sire, in his thin locks of gray, Give the pride of his heart to the bridegroom away; While he brush'd the big tear from his deep-furrowed cheek, And bow'd the assent which his lips might not speak. But in all the array of the costlier scene, Nought seem'd in my eye so sincere in its mien; No language so fully the heart to resign, As the Quakeress Bride's, "Until death I am thine!" Edward found in wedlock all the happiness of which he was in quest; nay, in his relation of a husband and a parent, he partook of many a heartfelt joy, and many a dear and tender feeling, which, in his days of speculative bachelorhood, he was not able to anticipate. No longer a dweller among strangers, living in the cold and cheerless atmosphere of a hired lodging, and meeting only from the other inmates of the house with that common-place regard which exists between those who have little community of feeling, he was happy in the delights of his home, in the smiles of his child, in the warm affection of his loved and lovely wife. He no longer sought the company of others as a relief from his cares; he found an enchaining attraction to his own fireside. No longer neglectful, or indifferent to the result of his mercantile engagements, he entered upon them with increased ardour, not with the base and grovelling view of amassing unprofitable wealth, but as an honourable employment, affording him the means of supporting those who are dependent upon him, and of relieving the distresses of his fellow-creatures. In difficulty, his wife was a constant, judicious adviser. She endeavoured to mitigate his afflictions, she attended him with unremitting care in sickness, she heightened his joys, and alleviated his sorrows. Her intellectual endowments qualified her to be his companion in study, and she trod with him the humbler walks of literature and science. Her mild and amiable disposition softened every harsh and unkind feeling of his heart, while her piety assisted him in endeavouring to perform those high and holy duties which man owes to his Maker. No longer ill at ease with himself or the world, he became a useful member of the great human family, desirous of fulfilling his allotted part, by engaging actively in schemes of philanthropy, and in the exercise of a pure, unostentatious benevolence. So apparent, indeed, was his happiness, that it was soon rumoured even of Charles Manson, that, having become a convert to his opinions, and being convinced that domestic life is the surest source of present happiness, and a genial nursery of those qualities which fit us for future felicity, had taken more than one trip among the green hills of Westmorland, in quest of a companion for life. My tale is simple, but so are truth, and virtue, and happiness; and to enforce this moral is the purpose of my story. I might have filled my canvas with the brilliant colours and iris tints of romance and fiction; but the eye of the spectator would have been dazzled, and he would have found nothing on which to rest his gaze: the chaste and sober hues of truth alone are healthful to the mental sight. If in this humble colouring I have so traced the picture of Edward and Eliza, as to show that marriage is one of the first of blessings, and that its joys, though removed from the superficial and fastidious, may yet be attained by the simple and sincere; if I have at all shown what are the qualities to be sought for in a virtuous wife, and how, and where they may be found; if thus my humble page shall have shed a beam of hope over the desponding and the solitary, its object will be attained. "Domestic happiness! thou only bliss Of paradise, that has survived the fall! Though few now taste thee unimpaired and pure, Or tasting, long enjoy thee; too infirm, Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets Unmixed with drops of bitter, which neglect Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup; Thou art the nurse of virtue; in thine arms She smiles appearing as in truth she is, Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again. Thou art not known where pleasure is adored, That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist. And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm Of novelty, her fickle, frail support. For thou art meek and constant, hating change, And finding, in the calm of truth-tried love, Joys that her stormy raptures never yield." THE BEAUTY OF BUTTERMERE; OR, TRAGEDY IN REAL LIFE. John Hatfield, who acquired the appellation of the Keswick Impostor, and whose extraordinary villany excited universal hatred, was born in 1759, at Mortram, in Cheshire, of low parentage, but possessing great natural abilities. His face was handsome, his person genteel, his eyes blue, and his complexion fair. After some domestic depredations--for in his early days he betrayed an iniquitous disposition--he quitted his family, and was employed as traveller to a linen-draper in the north of England. In the course of this service, he became acquainted with a young woman, who was nursed, and resided at a farmer's house in the neighbourhood of his employer. She had been, in her earlier life, taught to consider the people with whom she lived as her parents. Remote from the gaieties and follies of polished life, she was unacquainted with the allurements of fashion, and considered her domestic duties as the only object of her consideration. When this deserving girl had arrived at a certain age, the honest farmer explained to her the secret of her birth; he told her, that, notwithstanding she had always considered him as her parent, he was, in fact, only her poor guardian; and that she was the natural daughter of Lord Robert Manners, who intended to give her £1000, provided she married with his approbation. This discovery soon reached the ears of Hatfield; he immediately paid his respects at the farmer's, and having represented himself as a young man of considerable expectations in the wholesale linen business, his visits were not discountenanced. The farmer, however, thought it incumbent on him to acquaint his lordship with a proposal made to him by Hatfield, that he would marry the young woman, if her relations were satisfied with their union, but on no other terms. This had so much the appearance of an honourable and prudent intention, that his lordship, on being made acquainted with the circumstances, desired to see the lover. He accordingly paid his respects to the noble and unsuspecting parent, who, conceiving the young man to be what he represented himself, gave his consent at the first interview; and, the day after the marriage took place, presented the bridegroom with a draft on his banker for £1,500. This took place about 1771 or 1772. Shortly after the receipt of his lordship's bounty, Hatfield set off for London; hired a small phæton; was perpetually at the coffee-houses in Covent Garden; described himself to whatever company he chanced to meet, as a near relation of the Rutland family; vaunted of his parks and hounds; but as great liars have seldom good memories, he so varied in his descriptive figures, that he acquired the appellation of _Lying Hatfield_. The marriage portion now exhausted, he retreated from London, and was scarcely heard of for about ten years, when he again visited the metropolis, having left his wife, with three daughters, to depend on the precarious charity of her relations. Happily she did not long survive; and the author of her calamities, during his stay in London, soon experienced calamity himself, having been arrested, and committed to King's Bench prison, for a debt amounting to the sum of £160. Several unfortunate gentlemen, then confined in the same place, had been of his parties when he flourished in Covent Garden, and perceiving him in great poverty, frequently invited him to dinner; yet such was his unaccountable disposition, that notwithstanding he knew there were people present who were thoroughly acquainted with his character, still he would continue to describe his Yorkshire park, his estate in Rutlandshire, settled upon his wife, and generally wind up the whole with observing how vexatious it was to be confined at the suit of a paltry tradesman for so insignificant a sum, at the very moment when he had thirty men employed in cutting a piece of water near the family mansion in Yorkshire. At the time Hatfield became a prisoner in the King's Bench, the unfortunate Valentine Morris, formerly governor of St. Vincent's, was confined in the same place. This gentleman was frequently visited by a clergyman of the most benevolent and humane disposition. Hatfield soon directed his attention to this good man, and one day earnestly invited to attend him to his chamber; after some preliminary apologies, he implored the worthy pastor never to disclose what he was going to communicate. The divine assured him the whole should remain in his bosom. "Then," said Hatfield, "you see before you a man nearly allied to the house of Rutland, and possessed of estates (here followed the old story of the Yorkshire park, the Rutlandshire property, &c., &c.,); yet notwithstanding all this wealth, continued he, I am detained in this wretched place for the insignificant sum of £160. But the truth is, Sir, I would not have my situation known to any man in the world but my worthy relative, his Grace of Rutland. Indeed, I would rather remain a captive for ever. If you would have the goodness to pay your respects to this worthy nobleman, and frankly describe how matters are, he will at once send me the money by you; and this mighty business will not only be instantly settled, but I shall have the satisfaction of introducing you to a connection which may be attended with happy consequences." The honest clergyman readily undertook the commission; paid his respects to the Duke, and pathetically described the unfortunate situation of his amiable relative. His Grace of Rutland, not recollecting at the moment such a name as Hatfield, expressed his astonishment at the application. This reduced the worthy divine to a very awkward situation, and he faltered in his speech, when he began making an apology; which the Duke perceiving, he very kindly observed, that he believed the whole was some idle tale of an impostor, for that he never knew any person of the name mentioned, although he had some faint recollection of hearing Lord Robert Manners, his relation, say that he had married a natural daughter of his to a tradesman in the north of England, and whose name he believed was Hatfield. The Reverend was so confounded that he immediately retired and proceeded to the prison, where he gave the impostor, in the presence of Mr. Morris, a most severe lecture. But the appearance of this venerable man, as his friend, had the effect which Hatfield expected; for the Duke sent to inquire if he was the man that married the natural daughter of Lord Robert Manners, and, being satisfied as to the fact, despatched a messenger with £200, and had him released. In 1784, his Grace of Rutland was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland; and shortly after his arrival in Dublin, Hatfield made his appearance in that city. He immediately, on his landing, engaged a suite of rooms at a hotel in College Green, and represented himself as nearly allied to the Viceroy, but that he could not appear at the castle until his horses, servants, and carriages were arrived, which he ordered, before leaving England, to be shipped at Liverpool. The easy and familiar manner in which he addressed the master of the hotel, perfectly satisfied him that he had a man of consequence in his house, and matters were arranged accordingly. This being adjusted, Hatfield soon found his way to Lucas's coffee-house, a place which people of a certain rank generally frequent; and, it being a new scene, the Yorkshire park, the Rutlandshire estate, and the connection with the Rutland family, stood their ground very well for about a month. At the expiration of this time, the bill at the hotel amounted to £60 and upwards. The landlord became importunate, and after expressing his astonishment at the non-arrival of Mr. Hatfield's domestics, etc., requested he might be permitted to send in his bill. This did not in the least confuse Hatfield; he immediately told the master of the hotel, that very unfortunately his agent, who received the rents of his estates in the north of England, was then in Ireland, and held a public employment; he lamented that his agent was not then in Dublin, but he had the pleasure to know his stay in the country would not exceed three days. This satisfied the landlord; and at the expiration of the three days, he called upon the gentleman whose name Hatfield had given him, and presented the account. Here followed another scene of confusion and surprise. The supposed agent of the Yorkshire estate very frankly told the man who delivered the bill, that he had no other knowledge of the person who sent him than what common report furnished him with, that his general character in London was that of a romantic simpleton whose plausibilities had imposed on several people, and plunged himself into repeated difficulties. The landlord retired, highly thankful for the information, and immediately arrested his guest who was lodged in the prison of the Marshalsea. Hatfield had scarcely seated himself in his new lodgings, when he visited the jailor's wife in her apartment, and in a whisper, requested of her not to tell any person that she had in her custody a near relation of the then Viceroy. The woman, astonished at the discovery, immediately showed him into the best apartment in the prison, had a table provided, and she, her husband, and Hatfield, constantly dined together, for nearly three weeks, in the utmost harmony and good humour. During this time he had petitioned the Duke for another supply, who, apprehensive that the fellow might continue his impositions in Dublin, released him, on condition of his immediately quitting Ireland; and his grace sent a servant, who conducted him on board the packet that sailed the next tide for Holyhead. In 1792, he came to Scarbro', introduced himself to the acquaintance of several persons of distinction in that neighbourhood, and insinuated that he was, by the interest of the Duke of Rutland, soon to be one of the representatives in parliament for the town of Scarbro'. After several weeks' stay at the principal inn, his imposture was detected by his inability to pay the bill. Soon after his arrival in London, he was arrested for this debt, and thrown into prison. He had been eight years and a half in confinement, when a Miss Nation, of Devonshire, to whom he had become known, paid his debts, took him from prison, and gave him her hand in marriage. Soon after he was liberated, he had the good fortune to prevail with some highly respectable merchants in Devonshire to take him into partnership with them; and, with a clergyman to accept his drafts to a large amount. He made upon this foundation a splendid appearance in London; and, before the general election, even proceeded to canvass the rotten burgh of Queenborough. Suspicions in the meantime arose, in regard to his character, and the state of his fortune. He retired from the indignation of his creditors, and was declared a bankrupt, in order to bring his villanies to light. Thus, having left behind his second wife and two infant children at Tiverton, he visited other places; and, at length, in July, 1802, arrived at the Queen's Head in Keswick, in a handsome travelling carriage, but without any servant, where he assumed the name of the Hon. Alexander Augustus Hope, brother of the Earl of Hopetoun, M.P., for Linlithgow. From Keswick, as his head-quarters, he made excursions in every direction amongst the neighbouring valleys; meeting, generally, a good deal of respect and attention, partly on account of his handsome equipage, and still more from his visiting cards, which designated him as "the Honourable Alexander Augustus Hope." Some persons had discernment enough to doubt of this; for his breeding and deportment, though showy, had a tinge of vulgarity about it; he was grossly ungrammatical in his ordinary conversation. He received letters under this assumed name--which might be through collusion with accomplices--but he himself continually franked letters by that name. That being a capital offence, not only a forgery, but (as a forgery on the post-office) sure to be prosecuted, nobody presumed to question his pretensions any longer; and henceforward, he went to all places with the consideration attached to an earl's brother. All doors flew open at his approach; boats, boatmen, nets, and the most unlimited sporting privileges, were placed at the disposal of the "Honourable" gentleman; and the hospitality of the whole country taxed itself to offer a suitable reception to the patrician Scotchman. Nine miles from Keswick, by the nearest route, lies the lake of Buttermere. Its margin, which is overhung by some of the loftiest and steepest of Cumbrian mountains, exhibits on either side few traces of human neighbourhood; the level area, where the hills recede enough to allow of any, is of a wild, pastoral character, or almost savage; the waters of the lake are deep and sullen; and the barrier mountains, by excluding the sun for much of its daily course, strengthen the gloomy impressions. At the foot of this lake (that is, at the end where its waters issue), lie a few unornamented fields, through which rolls a little brook-like river, connecting it with the larger lake of Crummock; and at the edge of this little domain, upon the roadside, stands a cluster of cottages, so small and few, that, in the richer tracts of the islands, they would scarcely be complimented with the name of hamlet. One of these, the principal, belonged to an independent proprietor, called, in the local dialect, a "Statesman;" and more, perhaps, for the sake of gathering any little local news, than with much view to pecuniary profit at that era, this cottage offered the accommodations of an inn to traveller and his horse. Rare, however, must have been the mounted traveller in those days, unless visiting Buttermere for itself, for the road led to no further habitations of man, with the exception of some four or five pastoral cabins, equally humble, in Gatesgarth dale. Hither, however, in an evil hour for the peace of this little brotherhood of shepherds, came the cruel spoiler from Keswick, and directed his steps to the once happy cottage of poor Mary, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, an old couple, who kept the inn, and had, by their industry, gained a little property. She was the only daughter, and probably her name had never been known to the public, but for the account given of her by the author of _A Fortnight's Ramble to the Lakes in Westmorland, Lancashire, and Cumberland_. His errand was to witness or share in char-fishing; for in Derwentwater (the lake of Keswick) no char is found, which breeds only in the deeper waters, such as Windermere, Crummock, Buttermere, &c. Hatfield now became acquainted with an Irish gentleman, an M.P., who had been resident with his family some months at Keswick. With this gentleman, and under his immediate protection, there was likewise a young lady of family and fortune, and of great personal attractions. One of the means which Hatfield used to introduce himself to this respectable family was the following:--Understanding that the gentleman had been a military man, he took an army list from his pocket, and pointed to his assumed name, the Honourable Alexander Augustus Hope, lieutenant-colonel of the 14th regiment of foot. This new acquaintance daily gained strength; and he shortly paid his addresses to the daughter of the above gentleman, and obtained her consent. The wedding clothes were bought; but previously to the wedding-day being fixed, she insisted that the pretended Colonel Hope should introduce the subject formally to her friends. He now pretended to write letters; and, while waiting for the answers, proposed to employ that time in a trip to Lord Hopetoun's seat, &c. From this time he played a double game; his visits to Keswick became frequent, and his suit to the young lady assiduous and fervent. Still, however, both at Keswick and Buttermere, he was somewhat shy of appearing in public. He was sure to be engaged in a fishing expedition on the day on which any company was expected at the public house at Buttermere; and he never attended the church at Keswick but once. Finding his schemes baffled to obtain this young lady and her fortune, he now applied himself wholly to gain possession of Mary Robinson, who was a fine young woman of eighteen, and acted as waiter. In a situation so solitary, the stranger had unlimited facilities for enjoying her company, and recommending himself to her favour. Among the neighbours he made the most minute inquiries into every circumstance relating to her and her family. Doubts about his pretensions never arose in so simple a place as this; they were over-ruled before they could well have arisen, by the opinion now general in Keswick, that he really was what he pretended to be; and thus, with little demur, except in the shape of a few natural words of parting anger from a defeated or rejected rustic admirer, the young woman gave her hand in marriage to the showy and unprincipled stranger. He procured a licence, and they were married in the church of Lorton, on the 2nd of October, 1802. A romantic account of the circumstance found its way almost immediately into the newspapers. It thus fell under the notice of various individuals in Scotland, who knew that Colonel Hope, who was said to have married the flower of Buttermere, had been abroad the whole summer, and was now residing in Vienna. Mr. Charles Hope, then Lord Justice Clerk, afterwards President of the Court of Session (a son-in-law of the Earl of Hopetoun), made the fact known, and prompted inquiries which led to the detection of the imposture. On the day previous to his marriage, Hatfield wrote to Mr. Mansfield, informing him, that he was under the necessity of being absent for ten days on a journey into Scotland, and sent him a draft for thirty pounds, drawn on Mr. Crumpt, of Liverpool, desired him to cash it, and pay some small debts in Keswick with it, and send him over the balance, as he feared he might be short of cash on the road. This Mr. Mansfield immediately did, and sent him ten guineas in addition to the balance. On the Saturday, Wood, the landlord of the Queen's Head, returned from Lorton with the public intelligence, that Colonel Hope had married the Beauty of Buttermere. As it was clear, whoever he was, that he had acted unworthily and dishonourably, Mr. Mansfield's suspicions were of course awakened. He instantly remitted the draft to Mr. Crumpt, who immediately accepted it. Mr. Mansfield wrote to the Earl of Hopetoun. Before the answer arrived, the pretended honourable returned with his wife to Buttermere. He went only as far as Longtown, when he received two letters, seemed much troubled that some friends whom he had expected had not arrived there, stayed three days, and then told his wife that he would again go back to Buttermere. From this she was seized with fears and suspicions. They returned, however, and their return was made known at Keswick. The late Mr. Harding, the barrister, and a Welsh judge, passing through Keswick, heard of this impostor, and sent his servant over to Buttermere with a note to the supposed Colonel Hope, who observed, "that it was a mistake, and that it was for a brother of his." However, he sent for four horses, and came over to Keswick; drew another draft on Mr. Crumpt for twenty pounds, which the landlord at the Queen's Head had the courage to cash. Of this sum he immediately sent the ten guineas to Mr. Mansfield, who came and introduced him to the judge, as his old friend Colonel Hope. But he made a blank denial that he had ever assumed the name. He had said his name was Hope, but not that he was the honourable member for Linlithgow, &c., &c.; and one who had been his frequent intimate at Buttermere gave evidence to the same purpose. In spite, however, of his impudent assertions, and those of his associate, the evidence against him was decisive. A warrant was given by Sir Frederick Vane on the clear proof of his having forged and received several franks as the member for Linlithgow; and he was committed to the care of a constable, but allowed to fish on the lake. Having, however, found means to escape, he took refuge for a few days on board a sloop off Ravenglass, and then went in the coach to Ulverston, and was afterwards seen at a hotel in Chester. In the meantime the following advertisement, setting forth his person and manners, was in the public prints:-- "Notorious Impostor, Swindler, and Felon! "John Hatfield, who lately married a young woman, commonly called the Beauty of Buttermere, under an assumed name; height about five feet ten inches, aged about forty-four, full face, bright eyes, thick eyebrows, strong, but light beard, good complexion, with some colour, thick, but not very prominent nose, smiling countenance, fine teeth, a scar on one of his cheeks near his chin, very long thick light hair, and a great deal of it gray, done up in a club; stiff, square-shouldered, full breast and chest, rather corpulent, and strong limbed, but very active; and has rather a spring in his gait, with apparently a little hitch in bringing up one leg; the two middle fingers of his left hand are stiff from an old wound; he has something of the Irish brogue in his speech; fluent and elegant in his language, great command of words, frequently puts his hand to his heart; very fond of compliments, and generally addressing himself to persons most distinguished by rank or situation; attentive in the extreme to females, and likely to insinuate himself where there are young ladies. He was in America during the war; is fond of talking of his wounds and exploits there, and of military subjects, as well as of Hatfield Hall, and his estates in Derbyshire and Cheshire; and of the antiquity of his family, whom he pretends to trace to the Plantagenets. He makes a boast of having often been engaged in duels; he has been a great traveller also, by his own account, and talks of Egypt, Turkey, and Italy; and, in short, has a general knowledge of subjects, which, together with his engaging manners, is well calculated to impose on the credulous. He had art enough to connect himself with some very respectable merchants in Devonshire, as a partner in business, but having swindled them out of large sums, he was made a separate bankrupt in June, 1802. He cloaks his deception under the mask of religion, appears fond of religious conversation, and makes a point of attending divine service and popular preachers." Besides blighting the prospects of the poor girl, he had nearly ruined her father by running up a debt of eighteen pounds. His dressing-case, a very elegant piece of furniture, was left behind, and on being opened at Keswick by warrant of a magistrate, was found to contain every article that the most luxurious gentleman could desire, but no papers tending to discover his real name. Afterwards, Mary herself, searching more narrowly, discovered that the box had a double bottom, and in the intermediate recess, found a number of letters addressed to him by his wife and children, under the name of Hatfield. The story of the detection immediately became as notorious as the marriage had been. Though he was personally known in Cheshire to many of the inhabitants, yet this specious hypocrite had so artfully disguised himself, that he quitted the town without any suspicions before the Bow Street officers reached that place in quest of him. He was then traced to Brielth, in Brecknockshire, and was at length apprehended about sixteen miles from Swansea, and committed to Brecon jail. He had a cravat on, with his initials, J. H., which he attempted to account for by calling himself John Henry. Before the magistrates he declared himself to be Ludor Henry; and in order to prepossess the honest Cambrians in his favour, boasted that he was descended from an ancient family in Wales, for the inhabitants of which country he had ever entertained a sincere regard. He was, however, conveyed up to town by the Bow Street officers, where he was examined on his arrival before the magistrates. The solicitor for his bankruptcy attended to identify his person, and stated, that the commission of bankruptcy was issued against Hatfield in June, 1802; that he attended the last meeting of the commissioners, but the prisoner did not appear, although due notice had been given in the _Gazette_, and he himself had given notice to the prisoner's wife, at Wakefield near Tiverton, Devon. Mr. Parkyn, the solicitor to the Post-office, produced a warrant from Sir Frederick Vane, Bart., a magistrate for the county of Cumberland, against the prisoner, by the name of the Hon. Alexander Augustus Hope, charging him with felony, by pretending to be a member of parliament of the United Kingdom, and franking several letters by the name of A. Hope, to several persons, which were put into the Post-office at Keswick, in Cumberland, in order to evade the duties of postage. Another charge for forgery, and the charge for bigamy, were explained to him, but not entered into, as he was committed for trial for these charges at the next assizes at Carlisle. He conducted himself with the greatest propriety during his journey to town, and on his examination; but said nothing more than answering a few questions put to him by Sir Richard Ford and the solicitors, affecting to consider himself a persecuted individual, and representing, in particular, that, in the alliance with Mary Robinson, he had been rather sinned against than sinning. Mary, on the other hand, who was now announced to be likely to bear a child to her pretended husband, refused to become accessory to his prosecution. The utmost she could be prevailed on to do against Hatfield was to address the following letter to Sir Richard Ford:-- "The man whom I had the misfortune to marry, and who has ruined me and my aged parents, always told me he was the Hon. Colonel Hope, the next brother of the Earl of Hopetoun. Your grateful and unfortunate servant, MARY ROBINSON." At the fourth examination of the impostor, on the 27th of December, this letter was read aloud by the clerk, in the open court. To quote from a chronicle of the time:--"The simplicity of this letter, which, though it breathes the soft murmur of complaint, is free from all virulence, excited in the breast of every person present an emotion of pity and respect for the unmerited sorrows of a female, who has in this whole matter manifested a delicacy of sentiment, and nobleness of mind, infinitely beyond her sphere of education. The feelings of Hatfield could not be enviable; yet he exhibited no symptom of contrition; and when remanded for further examination, retired with the most impenetrable composure." He was then dressed in a black coat and waistcoat, fustian breeches, and boots, and wore his hair tied behind. His appearance was respectable, though quite in dishabille. The Duke of Cumberland, and several other gentlemen, were present at his examination; in the course of which the following letter was produced:-- "BUTTERMERE, _Oct._ 1, 1802. "DEAR SIR,--I have this day received Mr. Firkman's kind letter from Manchester, promising me the happiness of seeing you both in about ten days, which will indeed give me great pleasure; and you can, too, be of very valuable service to me at this place, particulars of which, when we meet, though I shall probably write to you again in a few days. The chief purpose for which I write this, is to desire you will be so good as to accept a bill for me, dated Buttermere, the 1st of October, at ten days, and I will either give you cash for it here, or remit to you in time, whichever way you please to say. It is drawn in favour of Nathaniel Montgomery More, Esq. Be pleased to present my best respects to your lady; and say, I hope, ere the winter elapses, to pay her my personal respects; for if you will manage so as to pass a little time with me in Scotland, I will promise to make Liverpool in my way to London. With the truest esteem, I am, Dear Sir, yours ever, A. HOPE." "KESWICK, _October the 1st, 1802_. JOHN CRUMPT, Esq., Liverpool. Free, A. HOPE." This letter, it was proved, passed free of postage. Another letter was also produced from his wife at Tiverton, and a certificate of his marriage with Mary of Buttermere. His trial came on August 15th, 1803, at the Assizes for Cumberland, before the Honourable Alexander Thompson, Knt. He stood charged upon the three following indictments:-- 1. With having assumed the name and title of the Honourable Alexander Augustus Hope, and pretending to be a member of parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland; and with having, about the month of October last, under such false and fictitious name and character, drawn a draft or bill of exchange, in the name of Alexander Hope, upon John Crumpt, Esq., for the sum of £20, payable to George Wood, of Keswick, Cumberland, innkeeper, or order, at the end of fourteen days from the date of the said draft or bill of exchange. 2. With making, uttering, and publishing as true, a certain false, forged, and counterfeit bill of exchange, with the name of Alexander Augustus Hope thereunto falsely set and subscribed, drawn upon John Crumpt, Esq., dated the 1st of October, 1802, and payable to Nathaniel Montgomery More, or order, ten days after date, for £30 sterling. 3. With having assumed the name of Alexander Hope, and pretending to be a member of parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, the brother of the right Hon. Lord Hopetoun, and a colonel in the army; and under such false and fictitious name and character, at various times in the month of October, 1802, having forged and counterfeited the hand-writing of the said Alexander Hope, in the superscription of certain letters or packets, in order to avoid the payment of the duty on postage. The prisoner pleaded not guilty to the charge. The three several indictments having been read, Mr. Scarlett opened the case in an address to the jury; and gave an ample detail of the prisoner's guilt. In support of what he had advanced, he called Mr. Quick, who was clerk in the house at Tiverton, where Hatfield was partner, who swore to his hand-writing. The Rev. Mr. Nicholson swore that when the prisoner was asked his name, he said it was a comfortable one--Hope. The evidence for the prosecution having closed, the prisoner addressed himself to the jury. He said he felt some degree of satisfaction in being able to have his sufferings terminated, as they must of course be by their verdict. For the space of nine months he had been dragged from prison to prison, and torn from place to place, subject to all the misrepresentations of calumny. "Whatever will be my fate," said he, "I am content; it is the award of justice, impartially and virtuously administered. But I will solemnly declare that in all my transactions, I never intended to defraud or injure the persons whose names have appeared in the prosecution. This I will maintain to the last of my life." After the evidence was gone through, his lordship, Sir A. Thompson, summed up the whole of the evidence and commented upon such parts as peculiarly affected the fate of the prisoner. "Nothing," said his lordship, "could be more clearly proved, than that the prisoner did make the bill or bills in question under the assumed name of Alexander Augustus Hope, with an intention to defraud. That the prisoner used the additional name of Augustus was of no consequence in this question. The evidence proved clearly that the prisoner meant to represent himself to be another character; and under that assumed character, he drew the bills in question. If anything should appear in mitigation of the offences with which the prisoner was charged, they must give them a full consideration; and though his character had been long shaded with obloquy, yet they must not let this in the least influence the verdict they were sworn to give." The jury consulted about ten minutes, and then returned a verdict--Guilty of Forgery. During the whole of the trial the court was excessively crowded. The prisoner's behaviour was proper and dignified; and he supported his situation from first to last with unshaken fortitude. He employed himself, during the greatest part of his trial, in writing notes on the evidence given, and in conversing with his counsel. When the verdict of the jury was given, he manifested no relaxation of his accustomed demeanour. After the court adjourned, he retired from the bar, and was ordered to attend the next morning to receive the sentence of the law. The crowd was immense; and he was allowed a post-chaise from the town-hall to the jail.[16] At eight o'clock the next morning, the court met again, when the prisoner appeared at the bar to receive his sentence. Numbers of people gathered together to witness this painful duty of the law passed upon one whose appearance, manners, and actions, had excited a most uncommon degree of interest. After proceeding in the usual form, the judge addressed the prisoner in the following impressive terms:-- "John Hatfield, after the long and serious investigation of the charges which have been preferred against you, you have been found guilty by a jury of your country. "You have been distinguished for crimes of such magnitude, as have seldom, if ever, received any mitigation of capital punishment; and in your case, it is impossible it can be limited. Assuming the person, name, and character, of a worthy and respectable officer of a noble family in this country, you have perpetrated and committed the most enormous crimes. The long imprisonment you have undergone has afforded time for your serious reflection, and an opportunity for your being deeply impressed with a sense of the enormity of your crimes, and the justness of that sentence which must be inflicted upon you; and I wish you to be seriously impressed with the awfulness of your situation. I conjure you to reflect with anxious care and deep concern on your approaching end, concerning which much remains to be done. Lay aside now your delusions and impositions, and employ properly the short space you have to live. I beseech you to employ the remaining part of your time in preparing for eternity, so that you may find mercy at the hour of death, and in the day of judgment. Hear, now, the sentence of the law:--That you be carried from hence to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, and there to be hung by the neck till you are dead; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul!" A notion very generally prevailed that he would not be brought to justice; and the arrival of the mail was daily expected with the greatest impatience. No pardon arriving, Saturday, September 3, 1803, was at last fixed upon for the execution. The gallows was erected the preceding night, between twelve and three, on an island formed by the river Eden, on the north side of the town, between the two bridges. From the hour when the jury found him guilty, he behaved with the utmost serenity and cheerfulness. He talked upon the topics of the day with the greatest interest or indifference. He could scarcely ever be brought to speak of his own case. He neither blamed the verdict, nor made any confession of his guilt. He said he had no intention to defraud those whose names he forged; but was never heard to say that he was to die unjustly. None of his relations ever visited him during his confinement. The alarming nature of the crime of forgery, in a commercial country, had taught him, from the beginning, to entertain no hope of mercy. By ten in the morning of September 3, his irons were struck off; he appeared as usual, and no one observed any alteration or increased agitation whatever. Soon after ten o'clock he sent for the _Carlisle Journal_, and perused it for some time. A little after he had laid aside the paper, two clergymen (Mr. Pattison of Carlisle and Mr. Mark of Burgh-on-Sands), attended and prayed with him for about two hours, and drank coffee with him. After they left him, about twelve, he wrote some letters, and in one he enclosed his penknife; it was addressed to London. About this time he also shaved himself; though intrusted with a razor, he never seems to have meditated an attempt upon his life; but it was generally reported on Friday night that he had poisoned himself, though without foundation. To all who spoke with him, he pretended that what he had to suffer was a matter of little consequence. He preferred talking on indifferent subjects. At three, he dined with the jailer, and ate heartily. Having taken a glass or two of wine, he ordered coffee. He took a cup a few minutes before he set out for the place of execution. The last thing he did was to read a chapter from the 2d Corinthians. He had previously marked out this passage for his lesson before he was to mount the scaffold. The sheriffs, the bailiffs, and the Carlisle volunteer cavalry, attended at the jail door about half-past three, together with a post-chaise and hearse. He was then ordered into the turnkey's lodge, for the purpose of being pinioned, where he inquired of the jailer, who were going in the chaise with him? He was told the executioner and the jailer. He immediately said, "Pray, where is the executioner? I should wish much to see him." The executioner was sent for. Hatfield asked him how he was, and made him a present of some silver in a paper. During the time of his being pinioned, he stood with resolution, and requested he might not be pinioned tight, as he wished to use his handkerchief on the platform; which was complied with. A prodigious crowd had assembled; this was the market day, and people had come from the distance of many miles out of mere curiosity. Hatfield, when he left the prison, wished all his fellow-prisoners might be happy; he then took farewell of the clergyman, who attended him to the door of the chaise, and mounted the steps with much steadiness and composure. The jailer and executioner went in along with him. The latter had been brought from Dumfries upon a retaining fee of ten guineas. It was exactly four o'clock when the procession moved from the jail. Passing through the Scotch gate, in about twelve minutes it arrived at the Sands. Half the yeomanry went before the carriage, and the other half behind. Upon arriving on the ground, they formed a ring round the scaffold. It is said that he wished to have the blinds drawn up, but that such an indulgence was held inconsistent with the interest of public justice. When he came in sight of the tree, he said to the jailer, he imagined that was the tree (pointing at it) that he was to die on. On being told yes, he exclaimed, "O! a happy sight--I see it with pleasure!" As soon as the carriage-door had been opened by the under-sheriff, he alighted with his two companions. A small-cart, boarded over, had been placed under the gibbet, and a ladder was placed against it, which he instantly ascended. He was dressed in a black jacket, black silk waistcoat, fustian pantaloons, shoes, and white cotton stockings. He was perfectly cool and collected. At the same time, his conduct displayed nothing of levity, of insensibility, or of hardihood. He was more anxious to give proof of resignation than of heroism. His countenance was extremely pale, but his hand never trembled. He immediately untied his neckerchief, and placed a bandage over his eyes. Then he desired the hangman, who was extremely awkward, to be as expert as possible about it, and that he would wave a handkerchief when he was ready. The hangman, not having fixed the rope in its proper place, he put up his hand and turned it himself. He also tied his cap, took his handkerchief from his own neck, and tied it about his head also. Then he requested the jailer would step on the platform and pinion his arms a little harder, saying, that when he had lost his senses he might attempt to lift them to his neck. The rope was completely fixed about five minutes before five o'clock; it was slack, and he merely said, "May the Almighty bless you all." Nor did he falter in the least, when he tied the cap, shifted the rope, and took his handkerchief from his neck. He several times put on a languid and piteous smile. He at last seemed rather exhausted and faint. Having been near three weeks under sentence of death, he must have suffered much, notwithstanding his external bearing; and a reflection of the misery he had occasioned must have given him many an agonizing throb. Having taken leave of the jailer and sheriff, he prepared himself for his fate. He was at this time heard to exclaim, "My spirit is strong, though my body is weak." Great apprehensions were entertained that it would be necessary to tie him up a second time. The noose slipped twice, and he fell down about eighteen inches. His feet at last were almost touching the ground; but his excessive weight, which occasioned this accident, speedily relieved him from pain. He expired in a moment, and without any struggle. The ceremony of his hands being tied behind his back, was satisfied by a piece of white tape passed loosely from one to the other; but he never made the smallest effort to relieve himself. He had calculated so well, that his money lasted exactly to the scaffold. As they were setting out, the hangman was going to search him. He threw him half-a-crown, saying, "This is all my pockets contain." He had been in considerable distress before he received a supply from his father. He afterwards lived in great style, frequently making presents to his fellow felons. He was considered in the jail as a kind of emperor; he was allowed to do whatever he pleased, and no one took offence at the air of superiority which he assumed. He was cut down after he had hung about an hour. On the preceding Wednesday he had applied to one of the clergymen who attended him, to recommend him a tradesman to make his coffin. Mr. Bushby, of Carlisle, took measure of him. He did not appear at all agitated while Mr. Bushby was so employed; but told him that he wished the coffin to be a strong oak one, plain and neat. "I request, Sir," he added, "that after I am taken down, I may be put into the coffin immediately, with the apparel I may have on, and afterwards closely screwed down, put into the hearse which will be in waiting, carried to the churchyard, and be interred in the evening." A spot was fixed upon in a distant corner of the churchyard, far from the other tombs. No priest attended, and the coffin was lowered without any religious service. Notwithstanding Hatfield's various and complicated enormities, his untimely end excited considerable commiseration. His manners were extremely polished and insinuating, and he was possessed of qualities which might have rendered him an ornament to society. The unfortunate Mary of Buttermere went from home to avoid the impertinent visits of unfeeling curiosity. She was much affected; and, indeed, without supposing that any part of her former attachment remained, it is impossible that she could view his tragical fate with indifference. When her father and mother heard that Hatfield had certainly been hanged, they both exclaimed, "God be thanked!" On the day of his condemnation, Wordsworth and Coleridge passed through Carlisle, and endeavoured to obtain an interview with him. Wordsworth succeeded; but, for some unknown reason, the prisoner steadily refused to see Coleridge; a caprice which could not be penetrated. It was true that he had, during his whole residence at Keswick, avoided Coleridge with a solicitude which had revived the original suspicions against him in some quarters, after they had generally subsided. However, if not him, Coleridge saw and examined his very interesting papers. These were chiefly letters from women whom he had injured, pretty much in the same way, and by the same impostures, as he had recently practised in Cumberland. Great was the emotion of Coleridge when he afterwards recurred to these letters, and bitter--almost vindictive--was the indignation with which he spoke of Hatfield. One set of letters appeared to have been written under too certain a knowledge of his villany towards the individual to whom they were addressed; though still relying on some possible remains of humanity, or perhaps (the poor writer might think) on some lingering relics of affection for herself. The other set was even more distressing; they were written under the first conflicts of suspicions, alternately repelling with warmth the gloomy doubts which were fast arising, and then yielding to their afflicting evidence; raving in one page under the misery of alarm, in another courting the delusions of hope, and luring back the perfidious deserter--here resigning herself to despair, and there again labouring to show that all might yet be well. Coleridge said often, in looking back upon that frightful exposure of human guilt and misery, that the man who, when pursued by these heart-rending apostrophes, and with this litany of anguish sounding in his ears, from despairing women, and from famishing children, could yet find it possible to enjoy the calm pleasures of a lake tourist, and deliberately to hunt for the picturesque, must have been a fiend of that order which, fortunately, does not often emerge amongst men. It is painful to remember that, in those days, amongst the multitudes who ended their career in the same ignominious way, and the majority for offences connected with the forgery of bank notes, there must have been a considerable number who perished from the very opposite cause; namely, because they felt, too passionately and profoundly for prudence, the claims of those who looked up to them for support. One common scaffold confounds the most flinty hearts and the tenderest. However, in this instance, it was in some measure the heartless part of Hatfield's conduct which drew upon him his ruin; for the Cumberland jury, it has been asserted, declared their unwillingness to hang him for having forged a frank; and both they, and those who refused to aid his escape, when first apprehended, were reconciled to this harshness entirely by what they had heard of his conduct to their injured young fellow-countrywoman. She, meantime, under the name of the Beauty of Buttermore, became an object of interest to all England. Dramas and melo-dramas were produced in the London theatres upon her story; and for many a year afterwards, shoals of tourists crowded to the secluded lake and the little homely cabaret, which had been the scene of her brief romance. It was fortunate for a person in her distressing situation, that her home was not in a town; the few and simple who had witnessed her imaginary elevation, having little knowledge of worldly feelings, never for an instant connected with her disappointment any sense of the ludicrous, or spoke of it as a calamity to which her vanity might have co-operated. They treated it as unmixed injury, reflecting shame upon nobody but the wicked perpetrator. Hence, without much trial to her womanly sensibilities, she found herself able to resume her situation in the little inn; and this she continued to hold for many years. In that place, and in that capacity, she was seen repeatedly. She was greatly admired, and became the subject of the poet's song; but "sorrow," to use the beautiful language of Ossian, "sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shaded her soul." [16] The jail and court-house were at that period divided by the street. The jail, etc., has been rebuilt, and there is now a passage from one to the other. THE BORDER FREEBOOTERS; OR, A FIGHT IN BORROWDALE. In olden time, when the contiguous countries of England and Scotland held no amicable relation to each other, it may well be supposed that the mountain ridges forming the line of demarcation between the two territories would frequently be the scene of fierce contention between a rival people. The proximity of the English and Scots in the neighbourhood of the border line, and the inoperative character of the laws, arising from the disorders of the feudal system, which filled both countries with chiefs and petty governors, eager, and sufficiently powerful, to make aggressions and reprisals on each other, are of themselves a sufficient explanation of the causes which led to those continued strifes called the Border warfare. The deep enmity of the hostile parties towards each other overthrew, in a good measure, all moral obligation and honourable feeling. Incursions were frequently made from the north, less for the purpose of contention in arms, than for committing depredations on cattle and property. Hence the name of freebooters came to be applied to the Border clans, and ultimately with much justice; for in course of time it was deemed matter of indifference by either party whether they preyed on their rival neighbours, or on their own countrymen. Instances are, however, on record in which the Border feuds were distinguished by a romantic and chivalrous feeling, that may well be supposed to have animated great and noble minds, in an age when the most powerful sceptre was the sword, and martial prowess the most estimable quality of mankind:-- "Those were the days, the olden days When Border feuds ran high, And the men of the North ofttimes sallied forth On deeds of chivalry. O! heaven gie rest to the souls of a' Wha lived in those times o' disorder; There were gude men and brave in the olden day, On baith sides o' the Border." Summoning forth "far forgotten things," we will refer to a desperate struggle between two rival clans of Border freebooters, under the stupendous rocks of Honister Crag and Yew Crag. Late in the evening, at the autumnal season of a year over which passing centuries have thrown a darkening veil, the weary and harassed Borderers of Borrowdale were summoned together by the sound of the slogan, or war-cry of their band. The scouts, who had been sent forth in different directions, to give timely notice of any hostile approaches, returned to their chief, who sat ruminating by his watch-fire, on a neighbouring mountain, and reported the sudden irruption of the Scottish clan, that had swept before them a rich booty of cattle, lying at the foot of Borrowdale hawse. By passing in small companies through well-reconnoitred passes of the mountains, the Scots had contrived to elude the observation of the night guard, till their whole force had again united. They then divided into two companies, one of which drove their booty towards the frontier, and the other remained to protect the rear, and baffle their opponents, if they attempted pursuit. The war-shout of the despoiled clan rung through the mountains, and the Cumberland men repaired one and all to their chief, each one mounted on his pricker--a name applied to their small horses--which were both fleet and sufficiently spirited to overcome a laborious ascent into the hills. Among the Scottish freebooters none were found possessed of greater skill and daring, in the management of their predatory excursions, than the Græmes. This clan it was who had undertaken and accomplished the capture of Borrowdale, which even in those days of enterprise, was looked upon as an astonishing instance of successful temerity. These troopers were commanded by the younger Græme, a bold, hardy chieftain; and his aged father, the Ossian of the clan, followed in all their expeditions to infuse warlike feeling into their hearts, by reciting "the tale of other times," and the bold enterprises of his past days, when the feebleness of age had not arrived. All the Border clans cherished feelings of deadly animosity against each other; and this hereditary hate was even greater than their desire for plunder. When the division of the Highland band, under the direction of the two Græmes, had succeeded in diverting the enemy from the track which their comrades had taken, they separated among the hills, there to wait the signal, when a favourable opportunity should present for rushing down in all their strength upon the Cumberland men, and working out the measure of their hatred against them. After fruitless attempts to recover the spoils which had been wrested from them, the English Borderers resolved to retaliate on the Scottish frontier; and, accordingly, collecting all their power, commenced their march through the desolate region of Borrowdale. Information was speedily conveyed to the younger Græme, that the enemy were approaching. The appointed signal was then given, and the Highlanders once more crowded round their leader. The Scottish chief determined to suspend his attack till the enemy should arrive in the defile between Honister Crag and Yew Crag, when his followers would have the advantage of assailing their foe from the overhanging precipices. They marched along in single rank, through the passes of the mountains, towards the appointed spot, singing their favourite war-song:-- "Sons of the mountain chief, on to the battle-field! Clansmen and Highlanders, grasp ye the sword and shield; On the rock or in defile, we'll not be ensnared, When the foe is awaiting, are we not prepared? On, let us meet them, our bucklers shall cover us; Our refuge the hills, and heaven's vault over us: O'er the steep of the crag, down the side of the scar, Let us rush on the foe, in the thunder of war. Their bugles sound cheerly: Behold them advancing! With waving of plumes, and their chargers all prancing; Yet the mountains that ring to their proud horses' tread, They shall echo ere long to the fall of the dead!" The Highlanders concealed themselves behind the rocky fragments strewn on the side of Yew Crag, till the English, advancing at a rapid rate, had reached the point in Gatesgarthdale, which lay directly opposite to their ambuscade. Young Græme sprung on his feet, and waved his claymore towards the enemy. The signal was answered by a volley of musketry from the hill; and instantly several horses, without riders, flew through the defile. The elder Græme singled forth the English leader. Sinking on one knee, he raised his musket with deadly certainty, and ere the sound of the death-shot could reach his victim, the white steed that bore him was left unfettered by the rein. Furious at the loss of their leader, the troopers wheeled their horses round the precipice on which the Græmes and a few of their followers were stationed; and before the remainder of the Highland band could afford succour, the younger Græme, together with several of his clan, had met the death of heroes. The English then dashed forward on their expedition, not caring to continue the battle under the disadvantages of their position. The Highlanders gathered round their fallen leader, and raised loud lament for the warrior, whose blood was streaming in their view. The old chieftain gazed wildly on his son; and his frame, which seventy winters had not palsied, shook with tremor. The body was laid in an opening on the hill-side, and every clansman brought a fragment of rock, to raise a rude memorial to his chief. On the summit of the pile they placed his bonnet, shield, and claymore, that neither friend nor foe should thereafter pass it with irreverence. JOSSY WITH WHIPS. A PARISH CHARACTER. Joseph Robinson, better known by the name of "Jossy with Whips," was a well-known character in the parish of Orton in Westmorland. He had his regular rounds, which he constantly travelled; and his accustomed houses, where his never-failing alms was duly received by this self-instituted collector. Some are still living who can recollect the harmless idiot and all his singular accoutrements. He never appeared without six or eight whips in his hands: a little stick, with a piece of string attached to the end of it, would any time supply honest Joseph with an excellent whip. A piece of an old coat, tied to his body with a hayband, was his usual upper garment; his legs were usually covered with haybands, tier above tier; and a profusion of hemp strings, in his opinion, adorned his person. These simple ornaments were to Joseph as dear and as honourable as the red and blue ribbons which are so anxiously struggled for by his fellows in the higher walks of life. In his hat he wore a fox's brush and peacock feathers, thus aping the fancied splendour of eastern magnificence. Jossy was a quiet, inoffensive being; and the farmers through all the south of Westmorland would as soon have thought of neglecting any of their just debts, as of refusing the accustomed donation made to him. An out-house was his usual place of lodging; and habit had rendered this so natural to him, that a bed never entered his circumscribed ideas. After Joseph, like his intelligent fellow-mortals, had been consigned to his "narrow house," a young man, in the parish of Orton, composed the following elegy to his memory:-- "Beneath this lowly, grass-encircled spot, Lie the remains of Joseph of the Knot. Death, grisly tyrant, no distinction shows 'Twixt him who all, and him who nothing knows. Yes, ye! ye mighty sons of boasted wit! All--all, like Joseph, must to death submit. Though on his fingers many a ring he bore, And round his brow the gaudy honours wore, For him his plumes although the peacock shed, And reynard's brush graced Joseph's hoary head; Though armed with whips he constantly appeared, Death mocked his honours, nor his armour feared. But ah! despise not Joseph's humble lot-- His life so mean--his death so soon forgot: In the last day--that great decisive day, When death shall yield his temporary prey-- By lords, by kings, his fate may be desired-- Where nothing's given, nothing is required." EMMA AND SIR EGLAMORE. A LEGEND OF ULLSWATER. About a quarter of a mile from Lyulph's Tower, a hunting seat of the late Duke of Norfolk, on the banks of Ullswater, is a lonely brook, the Airey or Aira, which, at Aira Force, falls over the rocks a height of 80 feet, into a beautiful and deep glen, covered with luxuriant foliage of fern and sweet-scented hawthorns. A picturesque bridge unites the precipitous rocks down which the foaming torrent pursues its ceaseless course. This beautiful waterfall is the scene of the touching legend of the "Somnambulist," which has been versified by Wordsworth. The tale is, that Emma, a beautiful lady, betrothed to one Sir Eglamore, was walking in her sleep on the banks of the fall; and that her lover, who had unexpectedly returned after a long absence--so long as to have affected her health--was struck with the apparition of the maid, who had become subject to night wanderings. He watched her for some time plucking the twigs from the trees, and casting them into the stream, uncertain whether she were a real object, or a mere phantom of his imagination. He touched her, and, suddenly breaking her slumber, the affrighted maid shrieked, and, starting back, fell down the rocks into the stream below. The knight plunged in after her, and rescued her; but, though consciousness returned for a short period, and she recognised him, she expired within a few minutes upon the bank. The heart-broken knight built a cell upon the edge of the fall, and lived there in solitude for several years, shunning all intercourse with the world. List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower At eve, how softly then Doth Aira Force, that torrent hoarse, Speak from the woody glen! Fit music for a solemn vale! And holier seems the ground To him who catches on the gale The spirit of a mournful tale, Embodied in the sound. Not far from that fair sight whereon The pleasure-house is reared, As story says, in antique days, A stern-brow'd house appeared; Foil to a jewel rich in light There set, and guarded well; Cage for a bird of plumage bright, Sweet voiced, nor wishing for a flight Beyond her native dell. To win this bright bird from her cage, To make this gem their own, Came barons bold, with store of gold, And knights of high renown; But one she prized, and only one; Sir Eglamore was he; Full happy season, when was known, Ye dales and hills! to you alone Their mutual loyalty. Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen, The brook, and bowers of holly; Where passion caught, what nature taught, That all but love is folly; Where fact and fancy stooped to play, Doubt came not, nor regret, To trouble hours that wing their way, As if through an immortal day, Whose sun could never set. But in old times love dwelt not long Sequester'd with repose; Best throve the fire of chaste desire, Fanned by the breath of foes. "A conquering lance is beauty's test, And proves the lover true;" So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed The drooping Emma to his breast, And looked a blind adieu. They parted,--Well with him it fared Through wide-spread regions errant; A knight of proof in love's behoof, The thirst of fame his warrant: And she her happiness can build On woman's quiet hours; Though faint, compared with spear and shield, The solace beads and masses yield, And needlework and flowers. Yet blest was Emma when she heard Her champion's praise recounted; Though brain would swim, and eyes grow dim, And high her blushes mounted; Or when a bold heroic lay She warbled from full heart; Delightful blossoms for the May Of absence! but they will not stay, Born only to depart. Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills Whatever path he chooses; As if his orb, that owns no curb, Received the light hers loses. He comes not back; an ampler space Requires for nobler deeds; He ranges on from place to place, Till of his doings is no trace, But what her fancy breeds. His fame may spread, but in the past Her spirit finds its centre; Clear sight she has of what he was, And that would now content her. "Still is he my devoted knight?" The tear in answer flows; Month falls on month with heavier weight; Day sickens round her, and the night Is empty of repose. In sleep she sometimes walked abroad, Deep sighs with quick words blending, Like that pale queen, whose hands are seen With fancied spots contending; But she is innocent of blood: The moon is not more pure That shines aloft, while through the wood She threads her way, the sounding flood Her melancholy lure. While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, And owls alone are waking, In white arrayed glides on the maid, The downward pathway taking, That leads her to the torrent's side, And to a holly bower; By whom on this still night descried? By whom in that lone place espied? By thee, Sir Eglamore! A wandering ghost, so thinks the knight, His coming step has thwarted, Beneath the boughs that heard their vows, Within whose shade they parted. Hush, hush, the busy sleeper see! Perplexed her fingers seem, As if they from the holly tree Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly Flung from her to the stream. What means the spectre? Why intent To violate the tree, Thought Eglamore, by which I swore Unfading constancy? Here am I, and to-morrow's sun, To her I left, shall prove That bliss is ne'er so surely won As when a circuit has been run Of valour, truth, and love. So from the spot whereon he stood He moved with stealthy pace; And, drawing nigh with his living eye, He recognised the face: And whispers caught, and speeches small, Some to the green-leaved tree, Some mutter'd to the torrent-fall:-- "Roar on, and bring him with thy call; I heard, and so may he!" Soul-shattered was the knight, nor knew If Emma's ghost it were, Or bodying shade, or if the maid Her very self stood there. He touched; what followed who shall tell? The soft touch snapped the thread Of slumber--shrieking back she fell, The stream it whirled her down the dell Along its foaming bed. In plunged the knight!--when on firm ground The rescued maiden lay; Her eyes grew bright with blissful light, Confusion passed away; She heard, ere to the throne of grace Her faithful spirit flew, His voice--beheld his speaking face; And, dying, from his own embrace, She felt that he was true. So was he reconciled to life: Brief words may speak the rest; Within the dell he built a cell, And there was sorrow's guest; In hermit's weeds repose he found, From vain temptations free, Beside the torrent dwelling, bound By one deep heart-controlling sound, And awed to piety. Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course, Nor fear memorial lays, Where clouds that spread in solemn shade, Are edged with golden rays! Dear art thou to the light of heaven, Though minister of sorrow; Sweet is thy voice at pensive even; And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven, Shalt take thy place with Yarrow. THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. A LEGEND OF THE VALE OF ST. JOHN. In travelling from Ambleside to Keswick, after passing Wythburn Chapel, the high road winds by the base of Helvellyn and the margin of the Lake of Thirlmere, or Leatheswater, which latter it afterwards leaves by a very steep ascent, exhibiting, in all their grandeur, the Fells of Borrowdale. Arrived at the top of this ascent, a very exquisite landscape presents itself below, extending over the Vale of Legberthwaite; or, more euphoniously and modernly, the Vale of St. John's. In the midst of this valley is a fantastic pile of rocks, which, from their resemblance to the walls and towers of a dilapidated and time-worn fortress, are known as the Castle Rock. Hutchinson, in his _Excursion to the Lakes_, describes this singular scene with much poetic feeling. "We now gained the Vale of St. John's," he says, "a very narrow dell, hemmed in by mountains, through which a small brook makes many meanderings, washing little enclosures of grass-ground, which stretch up the rising of the hills. In the widest part of the dale you are struck with the appearance of an ancient ruined castle, which seems to stand upon the summit of a little mount, the mountains around forming an amphitheatre. This massive bulwark shows a front of various towers, and makes an awful, rude, and Gothic appearance, with its lofty turrets and ragged battlements; we traced the galleries, the bending arches, the buttresses. The greatest antiquity stands characterised in its architecture; the inhabitants near it assert it is an antediluvian structure. "The traveller's curiosity is roused, and he prepares to make a nearer approach, when that curiosity is put upon the rack by his being assured that, if he advances, certain genii who govern the place, by virtue of their supernatural art and necromancy, will strip it of all its beauties, and, by enchantment, transform the magic walls. The vale seems adapted for the habitation of such beings; its gloomy recesses and retirements look like haunts of evil spirits. There was no delusion in the report; we were soon convinced of its truth; for this piece of antiquity, so venerable and noble in its aspect, as we drew near changed its figure and proved no other than a shaken massive pile of rocks, which stand in the midst of this little vale, disunited from the adjoining mountains, and have so much the real form and resemblance of a castle, that they bear the name of the Castle Rocks of St. John." "The inhabitants to this day," says Mackay, "believe these rocks to be an antediluvian structure, and assert that the traveller, whose curiosity is aroused, will find it impossible to approach them, as the guardian genii of the place transform the walls and battlements into naked rocks when any one draws near." Nothing, in the whole range of mythological fable, could be more beautiful than this popular superstition, which ascribes the disappearance of "the castle," on a near approach, to supernatural agency. Frigid philosophy would say, these fragments of rock, when viewed from afar, bear strong resemblance to an old fortress; but on approaching nearer the illusion vanishes, and they are found to be a shapeless mass of stone. Poetry clothes this fact in beautiful imagery; she warns the intruder to survey the structure at a distance; for should he have the temerity to advance upon it, the incensed genii of the place will, by spells "of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion," transform its fair proportions into a mis-shapen pile of rocks. This pleasing fiction emanated from the same poetical spirit that wrought, in the elder days of Greece, the splendid fable of Aurora, in her saffron-coloured robe, opening the gates of the morning to the chariot of the sun. The genius of Sir Walter Scott has rendered the beautiful Vale of St. John classic ground, by having selected it for the principal scene of his "Bridal of Triermain." This is purely a tale of chivalry of Arthur's days, when midnight fairies danced the maze; and it is at the fantastic Castle Rock that Sir Walter represents King Arthur's amorous dalliance with its fairy inhabitants in their halls of enchantment, when he was on his way to Carlisle. Our limits will not admit the whole of "The Bridal of Triermain." We give, however, such portions as will sufficiently connect the thread of the narrative, in which it will be observed that Sir Roland de Vaux, the Baron of Tremain, is introduced. This branch of Vaux, with its collateral alliances, is now represented by the family of Braddyl, of Conishead Priory, near Furness Abbey. THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. Where is the Maiden of mortal strain, That may match with the Baron of Trierman? She must be lovely, and constant, and kind, Holy and pure, and humble of mind, Blithe of cheer and gentle of mood, Courteous, and generous, and noble of blood-- Lovely as the sun's first ray When it breaks the clouds of an April day; Constant and true as the widow'd dove, Kind as a minstrel that sings of love; Pure as the fountain in rocky cave, Where never sunbeam kissed the wave; Humble as maiden that loves in vain, Holy as hermit's vesper strain; Gentle as breeze that but whispers and dies, Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in its sighs; Courteous as monarch the morn he is crowned, Generous as spring-dews that bless the glad ground; Noble her blood as the currents that met In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet; Such must her form be, her mood, and her strain, That shall match with Sir Roland of Triermain. Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to sleep, His blood it was fevered, his breathing was deep. He had been pricking against the Scot, The foray was long and the skirmish hot; His dinted helm and his buckler's plight Bore token of a stubborn fight. All in the castle must hold them still, Harpers must lull him to his rest, With the slow soft tunes he loves the best, Till sleep sink down upon his breast, Like the dew on a summer hill. It was the dawn of an autumn day, The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray, That like a silvery crape was spread Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head, And faintly gleamed each painted pane Of the lordly halls of Triermain, When that Baron bold awoke. Starting he woke, and loudly did call, Rousing his menials in bower and hall, While hastily he spoke. "Hearken, my minstrels! Which of ye all Touched his harp with that dying fall, So sweet, so soft, so faint, It seem'd an angel's whisper'd call To an expiring saint? And hearken, my merry-men! What time or where Did she pass, that maid with her heavenly brow, With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair, And her graceful step and her angel air, And the eagle-plume in her dark-brown hair, That pass'd from my bower e'en now!" Answer'd him Richard de Bretville; he Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy-- "Silent, noble chieftain, we Have sat since midnight close, When such lulling sounds as the brooklet sings, Murmur'd from our melting strings, And hush'd you to repose, Had a harp-note sounded here, It had caught my watchful ear, Although it fell as faint and shy As bashful maiden's half-formed sigh, When she thinks her lover near." Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall, He kept guard in the outer-hall-- "Since at eve our watch took post, Not a foot has thy portal cross'd; Else had I heard the steps, though low, And light they fell, as when earth receives, In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves That drop when no winds blow."-- "Then come thou thither, Henry, my page, Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage, When that dark castle, tower, and spire, Rose to the skies a pile of fire, And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill, And the shrieks of death, that wildly broke Through devouring flame and smothering smoke, Made the warrior's heart-blood chill. The trustiest thou of all my train, My fleetest courser thou must rein, And ride to Lyulph's tower, And from the Baron of Trierman Greet well that Sage of power. He is sprung from Druid sires, And British bards that tuned their lyres To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise, And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.[17] Gifted like his gifted race, He the characters can trace, Graven deep in elder time Upon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime: Sign and sigil well doth he know, And can bode of weal and woe, Of kingdoms' fall, and fate of wars, From mystic dreams and course of stars. He shall tell if middle earth To that enchanting shape gave birth, Or if 'twas but an airy thing, Such as fantastic slumbers bring, Fram'd from the rainbow's varying dyes, Or fading tints of western skies. For, by the blessed rood I swear, If that fair form breathe vital air, No other maiden by my side Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride!" The faithful Page he mounts his steed, And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead, Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain, And Eden barr'd his course in vain. He pass'd red Penrith's Table round,[18] For feats of chivalry renown'd, Left Mayburgh's mound[19] and stones of power, By Druids raised in magic hour, And traced the Eamont's winding way, Till Ulfo's lake[20] beneath him lay. Onward he rode, the pathway still Winding betwixt the lake and hill; Till, on the fragment of a rock, Struck from its base by lightning shock, He saw the hoary sage: The silver moss and lichen twined, With fern and deer-hair check'd and lined, A cushion fit for age; And o'er him shook the aspin-tree, A restless rustling canopy. Then sprung young Henry from his selle, And greeted Lyulph grave, And then his master's tale did tell, And then for counsel crave. The Man of Years mused long and deep, Of time's lost treasures taking keep, And then, as rousing from a sleep, His solemn answer gave. "That maid is born of middle earth, And may of man be won, Though there have glided since her birth Five hundred years and one. But where's the knight in all the north, That dare the adventure follow forth, So perilous to knightly worth, In the valley of St. John? Listen, youth, to what I tell, And bind it on thy memory well; Nor muse that I commence the rhyme Far distant 'mid the wrecks of time. The mystic tale, by bard and sage, Is handed down from Merlin's age." [17] Dunmailraise is one of the grand passes from Cumberland into Westmorland. It takes its name from a cairn, or pile of stones, erected it is said, to the memory of Dunmail, the last king of Cumberland, who was slain and buried there. [18] A circular entrenchment, about half a mile from Penrith, is thus popularly termed. The circle within the ditch is about one hundred and sixty paces in circumference, with openings, or approaches, directly opposite to each other. As the ditch is on the inner side, it could not be intended for the purpose of defence, and it has been reasonably conjectured, that the enclosure was designed for the solemn exercise of feats of chivalry; and the embankment around for the convenience of the spectators. [19] Higher up the river Eamont than Arthur's Round Table, is a prodigious enclosure of great antiquity, formed by a collection of stones upon the top of a gently sloping hill, called Mayburgh. In the plain which it encloses there stands erect an unhewn stone of twelve feet in height. Two similar masses are said to have been destroyed during the memory of man. The whole appears to be a monument of Druidical times. [20] Ullswater. LYULPH'S TALE. "King Arthur has ridden from merry Carlisle, When Pentecost was o'er: He journey'd like errant-knight the while, And sweetly the summer sun did smile On mountain, moss, and moor. Above his solitary track Rose huge Blencathara's ridgy back, Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun Cast umber'd radiance red and dun, Though never sunbeam could discern The surface of that sable tarn,[21] In whose black mirror you may spy The stars, while noontide lights the sky. The gallant King he skirted still The margin of that mighty hill; Rock upon rocks incumbent hung, And torrents, down the gullies flung, Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on, Recoiling now from crag and stone, Now diving deep from human ken, And raving down its darksome glen. The Monarch judged this desert wild, With such romantic ruin piled, Was theatre by nature's hand For feat of high achievement plann'd. "He rode, till over down and dell The shade more broad and deeper fell; And though around the mountain's head Flow'd streams of purple, and gold, and red, Dark at the base, unblest by beam, Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd the stream. With toil the King his way pursued By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood, Till on his course obliquely shone The narrow valley of Saint John, Down sloping to the western sky, Where lingering sunbeams love to lie. Right glad to feel those beams again, The King drew up his charger's rein; With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight, As dazzled with the level light, And, from beneath his glove of mail, Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale, While 'gainst the sun his armour bright Gleam'd ruddy like the beacon's light. "Paled in by many a lofty hill, The narrow dale lay smooth and still, And, down its verdant bosom led, A winding brooklet found its bed. But, midmost of the vale, a mound Arose with airy turrets crown'd, Buttress, and rampire's circling bound, And mighty keep and tower; Seem'd some primeval giant's hand, The castle's massive walls had plann'd, A ponderous bulwark to withstand Ambitious Nimrod's power. Above the moated entrance slung, The balanced drawbridge trembling hung, As jealous of a foe; Wicket of oak, as iron hard, With iron studded, clench'd, and barr'd, And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guard The gloomy pass below. But the gray walls no banners crown'd, Upon the watch-tower's airy round, No warder stood his horn to sound, No guard beside the bridge was found, And, where the Gothic gateway frown'd, Glanced neither bill nor bow. "Beneath the castle's gloomy pride, In ample round did Arthur ride Three times; nor living thing he spied, Nor heard a living sound, Save that, awakening from her dream, The owlet now began to scream, In concert with the rushing stream, That wash'd the battled mound. He lighted from his goodly steed, And he left him to graze on bank and mead; And slowly he climb'd the narrow way That reached the entrance grim and gray, And he stood the outward arch below, And his bugle-horn prepared to blow, In summons blithe and bold, Deeming to rouse from iron sleep The guardian of this dismal Keep, Which well he guess'd the hold Of wizard stern, or goblin grim, Or pagan of gigantic limb, The tyrant of the wold. "The ivory bugle's golden tip Twice touch'd the Monarch's manly lip, And twice his hand withdrew. --Think not but Arthur's heart was good! His shield was cross'd by the blessed rood, Had a pagan host before him stood, He had charged them through and through; Yet the silence of that ancient place Sunk on his heart, and he paused a space Ere yet his horn he blew. But, instant as its 'larum rung, The castle gate was open flung, Portcullis rose with crashing groan Full harshly up its groove of stone; The balance-beams obey'd the blast, And down the trembling drawbridge cast; The vaulted arch before him lay, With nought to bar the gloomy way, And onward Arthur paced, with hand On Caliburn's[22] resistless brand. "A hundred torches, flashing bright, Dispelled at once the gloomy night That lour'd along the walls, And show'd the King's astonish'd sight The inmates of the halls. Nor wizard stern nor goblin grim, Nor giant huge of form and limb, Nor heathen knight, was there; But the cressets, which odours flung aloft, Show'd by their yellow light and soft, A band of damsels fair. Onward they came, like summer wave That dances to the shore; An hundred voices welcome gave, And welcome o'er and o'er! An hundred lovely hands assail The bucklers of the monarch's mail, And busy labour'd to unhasp Rivet of steel and iron clasp. One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair, And one flung odours on his hair; His short curl'd ringlets one smooth'd down, One wreathed them with a myrtle-crown. A bride upon her wedding-day, Was tended ne'er by troop so gay. "Loud laugh'd they all,--the King, in vain, With questions task'd the giddy train; Let him entreat, or crave, or call, 'Twas one reply--loud laugh'd they all. Then o'er him mimic chains they fling, Framed of the fairest flowers of spring. While some their gentle force unite, Onward to drag the wondering knight, Some, bolder, urge his pace with blows, Dealt with the lily or the rose. Behind him were in triumph borne The warlike arms he late had worn. Four of the train combined to rear The terrors of Tintadgel's spear;[23] Two, laughing at their lack of strength, Dragg'd Caliburn in cumbrous length; One, while she aped a martial stride, Placed on her brows the helmet's pride; Then scream'd, 'twixt laughter and surprise, To feel its depth o'erwhelm her eyes. With revel-shout, and triumph-song, Thus gaily march'd the giddy throng. "Through many a gallery and hall They led, I ween, their royal thrall; At length, beneath a fair arcade Their march and song at once they staid. The eldest maiden of the band, (The lovely maid was scarce eighteen,) Raised, with imposing air, her hand, And reverent silence did command, On entrance of their Queen, And they were mute--But as a glance They steal on Arthur's countenance Bewilder'd with surprise, Their smother'd mirth again 'gan speak, In archly dimpled chin and cheek, And laughter-lighted eyes. "The attributes of those high days Now only live in minstrel-lays; Nor Nature, now exhausted, still Was then profuse of good and ill. Strength was gigantic, valour high, And wisdom soar'd beyond the sky, And beauty had such matchless beam As lights not now a lover's dream. Yet e'en in that romantic age, Ne'er were such charms by mortal seen, As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage, When forth on that enchanted stage, With glittering train of maid and page, Advanced the castle's Queen! While up the hall she slowly pass'd, Her dark eye on the King she cast, That flash'd expression strong; The longer dwelt that lingering look, Her cheek the livelier colour took, And scarce the shame-faced King could brook The gaze that lasted long. A sage, who had that look espied, Where kindling passion strove with pride, Had whisper'd, 'Prince, beware! From the chafed tiger rend the prey, Rush on the lion when at bay, Bar the fell dragon's blighted way, But shun that lovely snare!'-- "At once, that inward strife suppress'd, The dame approach'd her warlike guest, With greeting in that fair degree, Where female pride and courtesy Are blended with such passing art As awes at once and charms the heart. A courtly welcome first she gave, Then of his goodness 'gan to crave Construction fair and true Of her light maidens' idle mirth, Who drew from lonely glens their birth, Nor knew to pay to stranger worth And dignity their due; And then she pray'd that he would rest That night her castle's honour'd guest. The Monarch meetly thanks express'd; The banquet rose at her behest, With lay and tale, and laugh and jest, Apace the evening flew. "The lady sate the Monarch by, Now in her turn abash'd and shy, And with indifference seem'd to hear The toys he whisper'd in her ear. Her bearing modest was and fair, Yet shadows of constraint were there, That show'd an over-cautious care Some inward thought to hide; Oft did she pause in full reply, And oft cast down her large dark eye, Oft check'd the soft voluptuous sigh, That heav'd her bosom's pride. "Another day, another day, And yet another, glides away! The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane, Maraud on Britain's shores again. Arthur, of Christendom the flower, Lies loitering in a lady's bower; The horn, that foemen wont to fear, Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer, And Caliburn, the British pride, Hangs useless by a lover's side. "Another day, another day, And yet another, glides away! Heroic plans in pleasure drowned, He thinks not of the Table Round; In lawless love dissolved his life, He thinks not of his beauteous wife: Better he loves to snatch a flower From bosom of his paramour, Than from a Saxon knight to wrest The honours of his heathen crest; Better to wreathe, 'mid tresses brown, The heron's plume her hawk struck down, Than o'er the altar give to flow The banners of a Paynim foe. Thus, week by week, and day by day, His life inglorious glides away; But she, that soothes his dream, with fear Beholds his hour of waking near. "Three summer months had scantly flown, When Arthur, in embarrass'd tone, Spoke of his liegemen and his throne; Said, all too long had been his stay, And duties, which a monarch sway, Duties, unknown to humbler men, Must tear her knight from Guendolen. She listened silently the while, Her mood expressed in bitter smile; Beneath her eye must Arthur quail, And oft resume the unfinished tale, Confessing, by his downcast eye, The wrong he sought to justify. He ceased. A moment mute she gazed, And then her looks to heaven she raised; One palm her temples veiled, to hide The tear that sprung in spite of pride; The other for an instant pressed The foldings of her silken vest! "At her reproachful sign and look The hint the monarch's conscience took. Eager he spoke--'No, Lady, no! Deem not of British Arthur so, Nor think he can deserter prove To the dear pledge of mutual love. I swear by sceptre and by sword, As belted knight and Britain's lord, That if a boy shall claim my care, That boy is born a kingdom's heir; But, if a maiden Fate allows, To choose that maid a fitting spouse, A summer-day in lists shall strive My knights--the bravest knights alive,-- And he, the best and bravest tried, Shall Arthur's daughter claim for bride.'-- He spoke, with voice resolved and high-- The lady deigned him not reply. "At dawn of morn, ere on the brake His matins did a warbler make, Or stirred his wing to brush away A single dewdrop from the spray, Ere yet a sunbeam through the mist, The castle-battlements had kissed, The gates revolve, the drawbridge falls, And Arthur sallies from the walls. Doff'd his soft garb of Persia's loom, And steel from spur to helmet-plume, His Lybian steed full proudly trode, And joyful neighed beneath his load. The Monarch gave a passing sigh To penitence and pleasures by, When, lo! to his astonished ken, Appeared the form of Guendolen. "Beyond the utmost wall she stood, Attired like huntress of the wood: Sandalled her feet, her ankles bare, And eagle-plumage decked her hair; Firm was her look, her bearing bold, And in her hand a cup of gold. 'Thou goest!' she said, 'and ne'er again Must we two meet; in joy or pain. Full fain would I this hour delay, Thought weak the wish--yet wilt thou stay? --No! thou look'st forward. Still attend,-- Part we like lover and like friend.' She raised the cup--'Not this the juice The sluggish vines of earth produce; Pledge we, at parting, in the draught Which Genii love!'--she said and quaffed; And strange unwonted lustres fly From her flushed cheek and sparkling eye. "The courteous monarch bent him low, And, stooping down from saddlebow, Lifted the cup, in act to drink. A drop escaped the goblet's brink-- Intense as liquid fire from hell, Upon the charger's neck it fell. Screaming with agony and fright, He bolted twenty feet upright-- --The peasant still can show the dint Where his hoofs lighted on the flint.-- From Arthur's hand the goblet flew, Scattering a shower of fiery dew, That burned and blighted where it fell![24] The frantic steed rushed up the dell, As whistles from the bow the reed; Nor bit nor rein could check his speed, Until he gained the hill; Then breath and sinew failed apace, And, reeling from the desperate race, He stood, exhausted, still. The Monarch, breathless and amazed, Back on the fatal castle gazed---- Nor tower nor donjon could he spy, Darkening against the morning sky; But, on the spot where once they frowned, The lonely streamlet brawled around A tufted knoll, where dimly shone Fragments of rock and rifted stone. Musing on this strange hap the while, The King wends back to fair Carlisle; And cares, that cumber royal sway, Wore memory of the past away. "Full fifteen years, and more, were sped, Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's head. Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought, The Saxons to subjection brought: Rython, the mighty giant, slain By his good brand, relieved Bretagne: The Pictish Gillamore, in fight, And Roman Lucius, owned his might; And wide were through the world renowned The glories of his Table Round. Each knight, who sought adventurous fame, To the bold court of Britain came, And all who suffered causeless wrong, From tyrant proud or faitour strong, Sought Arthur's presence to complain, Nor there for aid implored in vain. "For this the King, with pomp and pride, Held solemn court at Whitsuntide, And summoned Prince and Peer-- All who owed homage for their land, Or who craved knighthood from his hand, Or who had succour to demand-- To come from far and near. "The heralds named the appointed spot, As Caerleon or Camelot, Or Carlisle fair and free. At Penrith, now, the feast was set, And in fair Eamont's vale were met The flower of chivalry. "When wine and mirth did most abound, And harpers played their blithest round, A shrilly trumpet shook the ground, And marshals cleared the ring; A maiden, on a palfrey white, Heading a band of damsels bright, Paced through the circle, to alight And kneel before the King. Arthur, with strong emotion, saw Her graceful boldness checked by awe, Her dress like huntress of the wold, Her bow and baldric trapped with gold, Her sandalled feet, her ankles bare, And the eagle-plume that decked her hair. Graceful her veil she backward flung-- The King, as from his seat he sprung, Almost cried,'Guendolen!' But 'twas a face more frank and wild, Betwixt the woman and the child, Where less of magic beauty smiled Than of the race of men; And in the forehead's haughty grace, The lines of Britain's royal race, Pendragon's you might ken. "Faltering, yet gracefully she said-- 'Great Prince! behold an orphan maid, In her departed mother's name, A father's vowed protection claim! The vow was sworn in desert lone, In the deep valley of St. John.' At once the King the suppliant raised, And kissed her brow, her beauty praised; His vow, he said, should well be kept, Ere in the sea, the sun was dipped,-- Then conscious glanced upon his queen: But she, unruffled at the scene, Of human frailty construed mild, Looked upon Lancelot and smiled. "'Up! up! each knight of gallant crest Take buckler, spear, and brand! He that to-day shall bear him best, Shall win my Gyneth's hand. And Arthur's daughter, when a bride, Shall bring a noble dower; Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide, And Carlisle town and tower.' Then might you hear each valiant knight, To page and squire that cried, 'Bring my armour bright, and my courser wight! 'Tis not each day that a warrior's might May win a royal bride.' Then cloaks and caps of maintenance In haste aside they fling; The helmets glance, and gleams the lance, And the steel-weaved hauberks ring. Small care had they of their peaceful array, They might gather it that wolde; For brake and bramble glitter'd gay, With pearls and cloth of gold. "Within trumpet sound of the Table Round Were fifty champions free, And they all arise to fight that prize,-- They all arise but three. The knights they busied them so fast, With buckling spur and belt, That sigh and look, by ladies cast, Were neither seen nor felt. "From pleading, or upbraiding glance, Each gallant turns aside, And only thought, 'If speeds my lance, A queen becomes my bride! She has fair Strath-Clyde, and Reged wide, And Carlisle tower and town; She is the loveliest maid, beside, That ever heired a crown.' So in haste their coursers they bestride, And strike their visors down. "The champions, arm'd in martial sort, Have throng'd into the list, And but three knights of Arthur's court Are from the tourney miss'd. "Now caracol'd the steeds in air, Now plumes and pennons wanton'd fair, As all around the lists so wide In panoply the champions ride. King Arthur saw, with startled eye, The flower of chivalry march by, The kingdom's shield in hour of need, Too late he thought him of the woe Might from their civil conflict flow; For well he knew they would not part Till cold was many a gallant heart. His hasty vow he 'gan to rue, And Gyneth then apart he drew; To her his leading-staff resign'd, But added caution grave and kind. "'Thou see'st my child, as promise-bound, I bid the trump for tourney sound. Take thou my warder, as the queen And umpire of the martial scene; But mark thou this:--as Beauty bright Is polar star to valiant knight, As at her word his sword he draws, His fairest guerdon her applause, So gentle maid should never ask Of knighthood vain and dangerous task; And Beauty's eyes should ever be Like the twin stars that soothe the sea, And Beauty's breath should whisper peace, And bid the storm of battle cease. I tell thee this, lest all too far These knights urge tourney into war. Blithe at the trumpet let them go, And fairly counter blow for blow:-- No striplings these, who succour need, For a raised helm or fallen steed. But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm, And threatens death or deadly harm, Thy sire entreats, thy king commands, Thou drop the warder from thy hands. Trust thou thy father with thy fate, Doubt not he choose thee fitting mate; Nor be it said, through Gyneth's pride A rose of Arthur's chaplet died.' "A proud and discontented glow O'ershadowed Gyneth's brow of snow; She put the warder by:-- 'Reserve thy boon, my liege,' she said, 'Thus chaffer'd down and limited. Debased and narrow'd, for a maid, Of less degree than I. No petty chief, but holds his heir At a more honour'd price and rare Than Britain's King holds me! Although the sun-burn'd maid, for dower, Has but her father's rugged tower, His barren hill and lee.' King Arthur swore, 'By crown and sword, As belted Knight, and Britain's lord, That a whole summer's day should strive His knights, the bravest knights alive!'-- 'Recal thine oath! and to her glen Poor Gyneth can return agen; Not on thy daughter will the stain, That soils thy sword and crown, remain. But think not she will e'er be bride Save to the bravest, proved and tried; Pendragon's daughter will not fear For clashing sword or splinter'd spear, Nor shrink though blood should flow.' "He frown'd and sigh'd, the Monarch bold:-- 'I give--what I may not withhold; For not for danger, dread, or death, Must British Arthur break his faith. Too late I mark thy mother's art Hath taught thee this relentless part. Use, then, the warder, as thou wilt; But, trust me, that, if life be spilt, In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace, Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place.' With that he turn'd his head aside, Nor brook'd to gaze upon her pride, As, with the truncheon raised, she sate The arbitress of mortal fate; Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks disposed, How the bold champions stood opposed, For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell Upon his ear like passing bell! Then first from sight of martial fray Did Britain's hero turn away. "But Gyneth heard the clangour high, As hears the hawk the partridge cry. So well accomplish'd was each knight, To strike and to defend in fight, Their meeting was a goodly sight, While plate and mail held true. The lists with painted plumes were strown, Upon the wind at random thrown, But helm and breastplate bloodless shone, It seem'd their feather'd crests alone Should this encounter rue. "But soon too earnest grew their game, The spears drew blood, the swords struck flame, And, horse and man, to ground there came Knights, who shall rise no more! Gone was the pride the war that graced, Gay shields were cleft, and crests defaced, And steel coats riven, and helms unbraced, And pennons stream'd with gore. Gone, too, were fence and fair array, And desperate strength made deadly way At random through the bloody fray, And blows were dealt with headlong sway, Unheeding where they fell; And now the trumpet's clamour seem Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream, Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream, The sinking seaman's knell! "Already gasping on the ground Lie twenty of the Table Round, Of chivalry the prime. Arthur, in anguish, tore away From head and beard his tresses gray, And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay, And quaked with ruth and fear; But still she deem'd her mother's shade Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade The sign that had the slaughter staid, And chid the rising tear. Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell, Helias the White, and Lionel, And many a champion more; Rochemont and Dinadam are down, And Ferrand of the Forest Brown Lies gasping in his gore. Vanoc, by mighty Morolt press'd Even to the confines of the list, Young Vanoc of the beardless face (Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race), O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled, His heart's-blood died her sandals red. But then the sky was overcast. Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's blast, And, rent by sudden throes, Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth, And from the gulf,--tremendous birth!-- The form of Merlin rose. "Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyed The dreary lists with slaughter dyed, And sternly raised his hand;-- 'Madmen,' he said, 'your strife forbear! And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear The doom thy fates demand! Long shall close in stony sleep Eyes for ruth that would not weep; Iron lethargy shall seal Heart that pity scorn'd to feel. Yet, because thy mother's art Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart, And for love of Arthur's race, Punishment is blent with grace, Thou shalt bear thy penance lone In the valley of Saint John, And this doom shall overtake thee; Sleep, until a knight shall wake thee, For feats of arms as far renown'd As warrior of the Table Round. Long endurance of thy slumber Well may teach the world to number All their woes from Gyneth's pride, When the Red Cross champions died.' "As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eye Slumber's load begins to lie; Fear and anger vainly strive Still to keep its light alive. Twice, with effort and with pause, O'er her brow her hand she draws; Twice her strength in vain she tries, From the fatal chair to rise; Merlin's magic doom is spoken, Vanoc's death must now be wroken. Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall, Curtaining each azure ball, Slowly as on summer eves Violets fold their dusky leaves. The weighty baton of command Now bears down her sinking hand, On her shoulder droops her head: Net of pearl and golden thread, Bursting, gave her locks to flow O'er her arm and breast of snow. And so lovely seem'd she there, Spell-bound in her ivory chair, That her angry sire, repenting, Craved stern Merlin for relenting, And the champions, for her sake, Would again the contest wake; Till, in necromantic night, Gyneth vanish'd from their sight. "Still she bears her weird alone, In the Valley of Saint John; And her semblance oft will seem, Mingling in a champion's dream, Of her weary lot to plain, And crave his aid to burst her chain. While her wondrous tale was new, Warriors to her rescue drew, East and west, and south and north, From the Liffy, Thames, and Forth. Most have sought in vain the glen, Tower nor castle could they ken; Not at every time or tide, Nor by every eye descried, Fast and vigil must be borne, Many a night in watching worn, Ere an eye of mortal powers Can discern those magic towers. Of the persevering few, Some from hopeless task withdrew, When they read the dismal threat Graved upon the gloomy gate. Few have braved the yawning door, And those few return'd no more. In the lapse of time forgot, Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot; Sound she sleeps as in the tomb, Till waken'd by the trump of doom." THIS IS THE END OF LYULPH'S TALE. We must now Resume the legendary strain Of the bold Knight of Triermain. That lord, on high adventure bound, Hath wandered forth alone, And day and night keeps watchful round In the valley of Saint John. When first began his vigil bold, The moon twelve summer nights was old, And shone both fair and full; High in the vault of cloudless blue, O'er streamlet, dale, and rock, she threw Her light composed and cool. Stretched on the brown hill's heathy breast, Sir Roland eyed the vale; Chief where, distinguished from the rest, Those clustering rocks upreared their crest, The dwelling of the fair distressed, As told grey Lyulph's tale. Thus as he lay, the lamp of night Was quivering on his armour bright, In beams that rose and fell, And danced upon his buckler's boss, That lay beside him on the moss, As on a crystal well. Ever he watch'd, and oft he deemed, While on the mound the moonlight streamed, It altered to his eyes; Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan change To buttress'd walls their shapeless range, Fain think, by transmutation strange, He saw grey turrets rise. But scarce his heart with hope throbb'd high, Before the wild illusions fly, Which fancy had conceived. For, seen by moon of middle night, Or by the blaze of noontide bright, Or by the dawn of morning light, Or evening's western flame, In every tide, at every hour, In mist, in sunshine, and in shower, The rocks remain'd the same. Oft has he traced the charmed mound, Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it round, Yet nothing might explore, Save that the crags so rudely piled, At distance seen, resemblance wild To a rough fortress bore. Yet still his watch the Warrior keeps, Feeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps, And drinks but of the well; Ever by day he walks the hill, And when the evening gale is chill, He seeks a rocky cell, Like hermit poor to bid his bead, And tell his Ave and his Creed, Invoking every saint at need, For aid to burst his spell. And now the moon her orb has hid, And dwindled to a silver thread, Dim seen in middle heaven, While o'er its curve careering fast, Before the fury of the blast The midnight clouds are driven. The brooklet raved, for on the hills The upland showers had swoln the rills, And down the torrents came; Mutter'd the distant thunder dread, And frequent o'er the vale was spread A sheet of lightning flame. De Vaux, within his mountain cave (No human step the storm durst brave), To moody meditation gave Each faculty of soul, Till, lull'd by distant torrent sound, And the sad winds that whistled round, Upon his thoughts, in musing drown'd, A broken slumber stole. Twas then was heard a heavy sound (Sound, strange and fearful there to hear, 'Mongst desert hills, where, leagues around, Dwelt but the gorcock and the deer): As, starting from his couch of fern, Again he heard, in clangor stern, That deep and solemn swell,-- Twelve times, in measured tone, it spoke, Like some proud minster's pealing clock, Or city's larum bell. What thought was Roland's first when fell, In that deep wilderness, the knell Upon his startled ear? To slander, warrior, were I loth, Yet must I hold my minstrel troth,-- It was a thought of fear. But lively was the mingled thrill That chased that momentary chill, For Love's keen wish was there, And eager Hope, and Valour high, And the proud glow of Chivalry, That burn'd to do and dare. Forth from the cave the Warrior rush'd, Long ere the mountain-voice was hush'd, That answer'd to the knell; For long and far the unwonted sound, Eddying in echoes round and round, Was toss'd from fell to fell; And Glaramara answer flung, And Grisdale-pike responsive rung, And Legbert heights their echoes swung, As far as Derwent's dell. Forth upon trackless darkness gazed The Knight, bedeafen'd and amazed, Till all was hush'd and still, Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar, And the night-blast that wildly bore Its course along the hill. Then on the northern sky there came A light, as of reflected flame, And over Legbert-head, As if by magic art controll'd, A mighty meteor slowly roll'd Its orb of fiery red; Thou wouldst have thought some demon dire Came mounted on that car of fire, To do his errand dread. Far on the sloping valley's course, On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse, Shingle and Scree, and Fell and Force, A dusky light arose: Display'd, yet alter'd was the scene; Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen, Even the gay thicket's summer green, In bloody tincture glows. De Vaux had mark'd the sunbeams set, At eve, upon the coronet Of that enchanted mound, And seen but crags at random flung, That, o'er the brawling torrent hung, In desolation frown'd. What sees he by that meteor's lour?-- A banner'd castle, keep, and tower, Return the lurid gleam, With battled walls and buttress fast, And barbican and ballium vast, And airy flanking towers, that cast Their shadows on the stream. 'Tis no deceit! distinctly clear Crenell and parapet appear, While o'er the pile that meteor drear Makes momentary pause; Then forth its solemn path it drew, And fainter yet and fainter grew Those gloomy towers upon the view, As its wild light withdraws. Forth from the cave did Roland rush, O'er crag and stream, through brier and bush; Yet far he had not sped, Ere sunk was that portentous light Behind the hills, and utter night Was on the valley spread. He paused perforce, and blew his horn, And, on the mountain echoes borne, Was heard an answering sound, A wild and lonely trumpet-note,-- In middle air it seemed to float High o'er the battled mound; And sounds were heard, as when a guard Of some proud castle, holding ward, Pace forth their nightly round. The valiant Knight of Triermain Rung forth his challenge-blast again, But answer came there none; And 'mid the mingled wind and rain, Darkling he sought the vale in vain, Until the dawning shone; And when it dawn'd, that wondrous sight, Distinctly seen by meteor-light, It all had passed away! And that enchanted mount once more A pile of granite fragments bore, As at the close of day. Steel'd for the deed, De Vaux's heart Scorn'd from his venturous quest to part, He walks the vale once more; But only sees, by night or day, That shatter'd pile of rocks so gray, Hears but the torrent's roar. Till when, through hills of azure borne, The moon renew'd her silver horn, Just at the time her waning ray, Had faded in the dawning day, A summer mist arose; Adown the vale the vapours float, And cloudy undulations moat That tufted mound of mystic note, As round its base they close. And higher now the fleecy tide Ascends its stern and shaggy side, Until the airy billows hide The rock's majestic isle; It seem'd a veil of filmy lawn, By some fantastic fairy drawn Around enchanted pile. The breeze came softly down the brook, And sighing as it blew, The veil of silver mist it shook, And to De Vaux's eager look Renew'd that wondrous view, For, though the loitering vapour braved The gentle breeze, yet oft it waved It's mantle's dewy fold: And still, when shook that filmy screen, Were towers and bastions dimly seen, And Gothic battlements between Their gloomy length unroll'd, Speed, speed, De Vaux, ere on thine eye Once more the fleeting vision die! --The gallant knight can speed As prompt and light as when the hound Is opening, and the horn is wound, Careers the hunter's steed. Down the steep dell his course amain Hath rivall'd archer's shaft; But ere the mound he could attain, The rocks their shapeless form regain, And, mocking loud his labour vain, The mountain spirits laugh'd. Far up the echoing dell was borne Their wild unearthly shout of scorn. Wroth wax'd the Warrior.--"Am I then Fool'd by the enemies of men, Like a poor hind, whose homeward way Is haunted by malicious fay? Is Triermain become your taunt, De Vaux your scorn? False fiends, avaunt!" A weighty curtal-axe he bare; The baleful blade so bright and square, And the tough shaft of heben wood, Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued. Backward his stately form he drew, And at the rocks the weapon threw, Just where one crag's projected crest Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest, Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's shock Rent a huge fragment of the rock, If by mere strength, 'twere hard to tell, Or if the blow dissolved some spell, But down the headlong ruin came, With cloud of dust and flash of flame. Down bank, o'er bush, its course was borne, Crush'd lay the copse, the earth was torn, Till staid at length, the ruin dread Cumber'd the torrent's rocky bed, And bade the waters' high-swoln tide Seek other passage for its pride. When ceased that thunder, Triermain Survey'd the mound's rude front again; And lo! the ruin had laid bare, Hewn in the stone, a winding stair, Whose moss'd and fractured steps might lend The means the summit to ascend; And by whose aid the brave De Vaux Began to scale these magic rocks, And soon a platform won, Where, the wild witchery to close, Within three lances' length arose The Castle of Saint John! No misty phantom of the air, No meteor-blazon'd show was there: In morning splendour, full and fair, The massive fortress shone. Embattled high and proudly tower'd, Shaded by pond'rous flankers, lower'd The portal's gloomy way. Though for six hundred years and more, Its strength had brook'd the tempest's roar, The scutcheon'd emblems which it bore Had suffer'd no decay: But from the eastern battlement A turret had made sheer descent, And, down in recent ruin rent, In the mid torrent lay. Else, o'er the castle's brow sublime, Insults of violence or of time Unfelt had pass'd away. In shapeless characters of yore. The gate this stern inscription bore:-- INSCRIPTION. "Patience waits the destined day, Strength can clear the cumber'd way. Warrior, who hast waited long, Firm of soul, of sinew strong, It is given to thee to gaze On the pile of ancient days. Never mortal builder's hand This enduring fabric plann'd; Sign and sigil, word of power, From the earth raised keep and tower. View it o'er, and pace it round, Rampart, turret, battled mound. Dare no more! To cross the gate Were to tamper with thy fate; Strength and fortitude were vain, View it o'er--and turn again."-- "That would I," said the warrior bold, "If that my frame were bent and old, And my thin blood dropp'd slow and cold As icicle in thaw; But while my heart can feel it dance, Blithe as the sparkling wine of France, And this good arm wields sword or lance, I mock these words of awe!" He said; the wicket felt the sway Of his strong hand, and straight gave way, And, with rude crash and jarring bray, The rusty bolts withdraw; But o'er the threshold as he strode, And forward took the vaulted road, An unseen arm, with force amain, The ponderous gate flung close again, And rusted bolt and bar Spontaneous took their place once more, While the deep arch with sullen roar Return'd their surly jar. "Now closed is the gin and the prey within By the Rood of Lanercost! But he that would win the war-wolf's skin, May rue him of his boast." Thus muttering, on the Warrior went, By dubious light down steep descent. Unbarr'd, unlock'd, unwatch'd, a port Led to the Castle's outer court: There the main fortress, broad and tall, Spread its long range of bower and hall, And towers of varied size, Wrought with each ornament extreme, That Gothic art, in wildest dream Of fancy, could devise; But full between the Warrior's way And the main portal arch, there lay An inner moat; Nor bridge nor boat Affords De Vaux the means to cross The clear, profound, and silent fosse. His arms aside in haste he flings, Cuirass of steel and hauberk rings And down falls helm, and down the shield, Rough with the dints of many a field. Fair was his manly form, and fair His keen dark eye, and close curl'd hair, When, all unarm'd, save that the brand Of well-proved metal graced his hand, With nought to fence his dauntless breast But the close gipon's under-vest, Whose sullied buff the sable stains Of hauberk and of mail retains,-- Roland De Vaux upon the brim Of the broad moat stood prompt to swim. Accoutred thus he dared the tide, And soon he reached the farther side, And enter'd soon the Hold, And paced a hall, whose walls so wide Were blazon'd all with feats of pride, By warriors done of old. In middle lists they counter'd here, While trumpets seem'd to blow; And there, in den or desert drear, They quell'd gigantic foe, Braved the fierce griffon in his ire, Or faced the dragon's breath of fire. Strange in their arms, and strange in face, Heroes they seem'd of ancient race, Whose deeds of arms, and race, and name, Forgotten long by later fame, Were here depicted, to appal Those of an age degenerate, Whose bold intrusion braved their fate In this enchanted hall. For some short space, the venturous Knight With these high marvels fed his sight, Then sought the chamber's upper end, Where three broad easy steps ascend To an arch'd portal door, In whose broad folding leaves of state Was framed a wicket window-grate, And ere he ventured more, The gallant Knight took earnest view The grated wicket-window through. O, for his arms! Of martial weed Had never mortal Knight such need!-- He spied a stately gallery; all Of snow-white marble was the wall, The vaulting, and the floor; And, contrast strange! on either hand There stood array'd in sable band Four maids whom Afric bore; And each a Lybian tiger led, Held by as bright and frail a thread As Lucy's golden hair, For the leash that bound these monsters dread Was but of gossamer, Each Maiden's short barbaric vest, Left all unclosed the knee and breast, And limbs of shapely jet; White was their vest and turban's fold, On arms and ankles rings of gold In savage pomp were set; A quiver on their shoulders lay, And in their hand an assagay. Such and so silent stood they there, That Roland wellnigh hoped He saw a band of statues rare, Station'd the gazer's soul to scare; But, when the wicket oped, Each grisly beast 'gan upward draw, Roll'd his grim eye, and spread his claw, Scented the air, and lick'd his jaw; While these weird Maids, in Moorish tongue, A wild and dismal warning sung. "Rash adventurer, bear thee back! Dread the spell of Dahomay! Fear the race of Zaharak,[25] Daughters of the burning day! "When the whirlwind's gusts are wheeling, Ours it is the dance to braid; Zarah's sands in pillars reeling, Join the measure that we tread, When the Moon has donn'd her cloak, And the stars are red to see, Shrill when pipes the sad Siroc, Music meet for such as we. "Where the shatter'd columns lie, Showing Carthage once had been, If the wandering Santon's eye Our mysterious rites hath seen,-- Oft he cons the prayer of death, To the nations preaches doom, 'Asrael's brand hath left the sheath! Moslems, think upon the tomb!' "Ours the scorpion, ours the snake, Ours the hydra of the fen, Ours the tiger of the brake, All that plagues the sons of men. Ours the tempest's midnight wrack, Pestilence that wastes by day-- Dread the race of Zaharak! Fear the spell of Dahomay!" Uncouth and strange the accents shrill Rung those vaulted roofs among, Long it was ere, faint and still, Died the far-resounding song. While yet the distant echoes roll, The Warrior communed with his soul. "When first I took this venturous quest, I swore upon the rood, Neither to stop, nor turn, nor rest, For evil or for good. My forward path too well I ween, Lies yonder fearful ranks between; For man unarm'd, 'tis bootless hope With tigers and with fiends to cope-- Yet, if I turn, what waits me there, Save famine dire and fell despair?-- Other conclusion let me try, Since, choose howe'er I list, I die. Forward, lies faith and knightly fame; Behind, are perjury and shame. In life or death I hold my word!" With that he drew his trusty sword, Caught down a banner from the wall, And enter'd thus the fearful hall. On high each wayward Maiden threw Her swarthy arm, with wild haloo! On either side a tiger sprung-- Against the leftward foe he flung The ready banner, to engage With tangling folds the brutal rage; The right-hand monster in mid air He struck so fiercely and so fair, Through gullet and through spinal bone The trenchant blade hath sheerly gone. His grisly brethren ramp'd and yell'd, But the slight leash their rage withheld, Whilst, 'twixt their ranks, the dangerous road Firmly, though swift, the champion strode. Safe to the gallery's bound he drew, Safe pass'd an open portal through; And when against pursuit he flung The gate, judge if the echoes rung! Onward his daring course he bore, While, mix'd with dying growl and roar, Wild jubilee and loud hurra Pursued him on his venturous way. "Hurra, hurra! Our watch is done! We hail once more the tropic sun. Pallid beams of northern day, Farewell, farewell! Hurra, hurra! "Five hundred years o'er this cold glen Hath the pale sun come round again; Foot of man, till now, hath ne'er Dared to cross the Hall of Fear. "Warrior! thou, whose dauntless heart Gives us from our ward to part. Be as strong in future trial, Where resistance is denial. "Now for Afric's glowing sky, Zwenga wide and Atlas high, Zaharak and Dahomay!---- Mount the winds! Hurra, hurra!" The wizard song at distance died, As if in ether borne astray, While through waste halls and chambers wide The Knight pursued his steady way. Till to a lofty dome he came, That flash'd with such a brilliant flame, As if the wealth of all the world Were there in rich confusion hurl'd. For here the gold, in sandy heaps, With duller earth incorporate, sleeps; Was there in ingots piled, and there Coin'd badge of empery it bare; Yonder, huge bars of silver lay, Dimm'd by the diamond's neighbouring ray, Like the pale moon in morning day; And in the midst four maidens stand, The daughters of some distant land. Their hue was of the dark-red dye, That fringes oft a thunder sky; Their hands palmetto baskets bare, And cotton fillets bound their hair; Slim was their form, their mien was shy, To earth they bent the humbled eye, Folded their arms, and suppliant kneel'd, And thus their proffer'd gifts reveal'd. CHORUS. "See the treasures Merlin piled, Portion meet for Arthur's child. Bathe in Wealth's unbounded stream, Wealth that avarice ne'er could dream!" FIRST MAIDEN. "See these clots of virgin gold! Sever'd from the sparry mould, Nature's mystic alchemy In the mine thus bade them lie; And their orient smile can win Kings to stoop, and saints to sin."-- SECOND MAIDEN. "See these pearls that long have slept; These were tears by Naiads wept For the loss of Marinel. Tritons in the silver shell Treasured them, till hard and white As the teeth of Amphitrite."-- THIRD MAIDEN. "Does a livelier hue delight? Here are rubies blazing bright, Here the emerald's fairy green, And the topaz glows between; Here their varied hues unite, In the changeful chrysolite."-- FOURTH MAIDEN. "Leave these gems of poorer shine, Leave them all, and look on mine! While their glories I expand, Shade thine eyebrows with thy hand. Mid-day sun and diamond's blaze Blind the rash beholder's gaze."-- CHORUS. "Warrior, seize the splendid store; Would 'twere all our mountains bore! We should ne'er in future story, Read, Peru, thy perish'd glory!" Calmly and unconcerned, the Knight Waved aside the treasures bright: "Gentle Maidens, rise, I pray! Bar not thus my destined way. Let these boasted brilliant toys Braid the hair of girls and boys! Bid your streams of gold expand O'er proud London's thirsty land. De Vaux of wealth saw never need, Save to purvey him arms and steed, And all the ore he deign'd to hoard Inlays his helm and hilts his sword." Thus gently parting from their hold, He left, unmoved, the dome of gold. And now the morning sun was high, De Vaux was weary, faint, and dry; When lo! a plashing sound he hears, A gladsome signal that he nears Some frolic water-run; And soon he reach'd a court-yard square, Where, dancing in the sultry air, Toss'd high aloft, a fountain fair Was sparkling in the sun. On right and left, a fair arcade, In long perspective view displayed Alleys and bowers, for sun or shade: But, full in front, a door, Low-brow'd and dark, seem'd as it led To the lone dwelling of the dead, Whose memory was no more. Here stopp'd De Vaux an instant's space, To bathe his parched lips and face, And mark'd with well-pleased eye, Refracted on the fountain stream, In rainbow hues, the dazzling beam Of that gay summer sky. His senses felt a mild control, Like that which lulls the weary soul, From contemplation high Relaxing, when the ear receives The music that the greenwood leaves Make to the breezes' sigh. And oft in such a dreamy mood, The half-shut eye can frame Fair apparitions in the wood, As if the nymphs of field and flood In gay procession came. Are these of such fantastic mould, Seen distant down the fair arcade, These maids enlink'd in sister-fold, Who, late at bashful distance staid, Now tripping from the greenwood shade, Nearer the musing champion draw, And, in a pause of seeming awe, Again stand doubtful now?-- Ah, that sly pause of witching powers! That seems to say, "To please be ours, Be yours to tell us how." Their hue was of the golden glow That suns of Candahar bestow, O'er which in slight suffusion, flows A frequent tinge of paly rose; Their limbs were fashion'd fair and free, In nature's justest symmetry; And, wreathed with flowers, with odours graced, Their raven ringlets reached the waist: In eastern pomp, its gilding pale The hennah lent each shapely nail, And the dark sumah gave the eye More liquid and more lustrous dye. The spotless veil of misty lawn, In studied disarrangement, drawn The form and bosom o'er, To win the eye, or tempt the touch, For modesty show'd all too much-- Too much, yet promised more. "Gentle Knight, a while delay," Thus they sung, "thy toilsome way, While we pay the duty due To our Master and to you. Over Avarice, over Fear, Love triumphant led thee here; Warrior, list to us, for we Are slaves to Love, are friends to thee. Though no treasured gems have we, To proffer on the bended knee, Though we boast nor arm nor heart For the assagay or dart, Swains allow each simple girl Ruby lip and teeth of pearl! Or, if dangers more you prize, Flatterers find them in our eyes. "Stay, then, gentle Warrior, stay, Rest till evening steal on day; Stay, O, stay!--in yonder bowers We will braid thy locks with flowers, Spread the feast and fill the wine, Charm thy ear with sounds divine, Weave our dances till delight Yield to languor, day to night. "Then shall she you most approve, Sing the lays that best you love, Soft thy mossy couch shall spread, Watch thy pillow, prop thy head, Till the weary night be o'er-- Gentle Warrior, wouldst thou more? Wouldst thou more, fair Warrior,--she Is slave to Love and slave to thee." O, do not hold it for a crime In the bold hero of my rhyme. For Stoic look, And meet rebuke, He lack'd the heart or time; And round the band of sirens trip, He kiss'd one damsel's laughing lip, And press'd another's proffer'd hand, Spoke to them all in accents bland, But broke their magic circle through; "Kind Maids," he said, "adieu, adieu! My fate, my fortune, forward lies." He said, and vanish'd from their eyes; But, as he dared that darksome way, Still heard behind their lovely lay: "Fair Flower of Courtesy, depart! Go, where the feelings of the heart With the warm pulse in concord move; Go, where Virtue sanctions Love!" Downward De Vaux through darksome ways And ruin'd vaults has gone, Till issue from their wilder'd maze, Or safe retreat, seem'd none, And e'en the dismal path he strays Grew worse as he went on. For cheerful sun, for living air, Foul vapours rise and mine-fires glare, Whose fearful light the dangers show'd That dogg'd him on that dreadful road. Deep pits, and lakes of waters dun, They show'd, but show'd not how to shun, These scenes of desolate despair, These smothering clouds of poison'd air, How gladly had De Vaux exchanged, Though 'twere to face yon tigers ranged! Nay, soothful bards have said, So perilous his state seem'd now, He wish'd him under arbour bough With Asia's willing maid. When, joyful sound! at distance near A trumpet flourish'd loud and clear, And as it ceased, a lofty lay Seem'd thus to chide his lagging way:-- "Son of Honour, theme of story, Think on the reward before ye! Danger, darkness, toil despise; 'Tis ambition bids thee rise. "He that would her heights ascend, Many a weary step must wend; Hand and foot and knee he tries, Thus ambition's minions rise. "Lag not now, though rough the way, Fortune's mood brooks no delay; Grasp the boon that's spread before ye, Monarch's power, and Conqueror's glory!" It ceased. Advancing on the sound, A steep ascent the Wanderer found, And then a turret stair: Nor climb'd he far its steepy round Till fresher blew the air, And next a welcome glimpse was given, That cheer'd him with the light of heaven. At length his toil had won A lofty hall with trophies dress'd, Where, as to greet imperial guest, Four maidens stood, whose crimson vest Was bound with golden zone. Of Europe seem'd the damsels all; The first a nymph of lively Gaul, Whose easy step and laughing eye Her borrow'd air of awe belie; The next a maid of Spain, Dark-eyed, dark-hair'd, sedate, yet bold; White ivory skin and tress of gold, Her shy and bashful comrade told For daughter of Almaine, These maidens bore a royal robe, With crown, with sceptre, and with globe, Emblems of empery; The fourth a space behind them stood, And leant upon a harp, in mood Of minstrel ecstacy. Of merry England she, in dress Like ancient British Druidess: Her hair an azure fillet bound, Her graceful vesture swept the ground, And, in her hand displayed, A crown did that fourth Maiden hold, But unadorned with gems and gold, Of glossy laurel made. At once to brave De Vaux knelt down These foremost maidens three, And proffer'd sceptre, robe, and crown, Liegedom and seignorie, O'er many a region wide and fair, Destined, they said, for Arthur's heir; But homage would he none:-- "Rather," he said, "De Vaux would ride, A Warden of the Border-side, In plate and mail, than, robed in pride, A monarch's empire own; Rather, far rather, would he be, A free-born knight of England free, Than sit on Despot's throne." So pass'd he on, when that fourth Maid, As starting from a trance, Upon the harp her finger laid; Her magic touch the chords obey'd, Their soul awaked at once! SONG OF THE FOURTH MAIDEN. "Quake to your foundations deep, Stately towers and banner'd keep, Bid your vaulted echoes moan, As the dreaded step they own. "Fiends, that wait on Merlin's spell, Hear the footfall! mark it well! Spread your dusky wings abroad, Bound ye for your homeward road! "It is HIS, the first who e'er Dared the dismal Hall of Fear; His, who hath the snares defied Spread by Pleasure, Wealth, and Pride. "Quake to your foundations deep, Bastion huge, and turret steep! Tremble, keep! and totter, tower! This is Gyneth's waking hour." Thus while she sung, the venturous Knight Has reach'd a bower, where milder light Through crimson curtains fell; Such softened shade the hill receives, Her purple veil when twilight leaves Upon its western swell. That bower, the gazer to bewitch, Had wondrous store of rare and rich As e'er was seen with eye; For there, by magic skill, I wis, Form of each thing that living is Was limn'd in proper dye. All seemed to sleep--the timid hare On form, the stag upon his lair, The eagle in her eyrie fair Between the earth and sky. But what of pictured rich and rare Could win De Vaux's eye-glance, where, Deep slumbering in the fatal chair, He saw King Arthur's child! Doubt, and anger, and dismay From her brow had passed away, Forgot was that fell tourney-day, For, as she slept, she smiled: It seem'd that the repentant Seer Her sleep of many a hundred year With gentle dreams beguiled. That form of maiden loveliness, 'Twixt childhood and 'twixt youth, That ivory chair, that sylvan dress, The arms and ankles bare, express Of Lyulph's tale the truth. Still upon her garment's hem Vanoc's blood made purple gem, And the warder of command Cumber'd still her sleeping hand; Still her dark locks dishevelled low From net of pearl o'er breast of snow; And so fair the slumberer seems, That De Vaux impeached his dreams, Vapid all and void of might, Hiding half her charms from sight. Motionless a while he stands, Folds his arm and clasps his hands, Trembling in his fitful joy, Doubtful how he should destroy The long-enduring spell; Doubtful, too, when slowly rise Dark-fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes, What these eyes shall tell,-- "St. George! St. Mary! can it be, That they will kindly look on me!" Gently, lo! the Warrior kneels, Soft that lovely hand he steals, Soft to kiss, and soft to clasp-- But the warder leaves her grasp; Lightning flashes, rolls the thunder! Gyneth startles from her sleep, Totters tower, and trembles keep, Burst the castle-walls asunder! Fierce and frequent were the shocks,-- Melt the magic halls away; ----But beneath their mystic rocks, In the arms of bold De Vaux Safe the princess lay; Safe and free from magic power, Blushing like the rose's flower Opening to the day; And round the Champion's brows were bound The crown that Druidess had wound, Of the green laurel-bay. And this was what remain'd of all The wealth of each enchanted hall, Garland and the Dame: But where should Warrior seek the meed, Due to high worth for daring deed, Except from LOVE and FAME. Our lovers, briefly be it said, Wedded as lovers wont to wed, When tale or play is o'er; Lived long and blest, loved fond and true, And saw a numerous race renew The honours that they bore. Know, too, that when a pilgrim strays, In morning mist or evening maze, Along the mountain lone, That fairy fortress often mocks His gaze upon the castled rocks Of the Valley of St. John: But never man since brave De Vaux The charmed portal won. 'Tis now a vain illusive show, That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow, Or the fresh breeze hath blown. THE END. [21] The small lake called Scales-tarn, which lies so deeply embosomed in the recesses of the huge mountain called Saddleback, more poetically Blencathara, is of such great depth, and so completely hidden from the sun, that it is said its beams never reach it, and that the reflection of the stars may be seen on its surface at mid-day. [22] This was the name of King Arthur's well known sword, sometimes also called Excalibar. [23] Tintadgel Castle, in Cornwall, is reported to have been the birthplace of King Arthur. [24] The author has an indistinct recollection of an adventure somewhat similar to that which is here ascribed to King Arthur, having befallen one of the ancient Kings of Denmark. The horn in which the burning liquor was presented to that Monarch is said still to be preserved in the Royal Museum at Copenhagen. [25] Zaharak, or Zaharah, is the Arab name of the Great Desert. Transcriber's Note Obvious typographical errors were repaired, as listed below. Other apparent archaic spellings, inconsistencies or errors have been retained. Missing, extraneous, or incorrect punctuation has been corrected and hyphenation has been made consistent. Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold (=bold=). Page x, "HADRA" changed to "HARDRA" for consistency. (THE MAID OF HARDRA SCAR;) Page 5, "fairlyland" changed to "fairyland". (... embosomed in the most delicious, fairyland valleys, diversified with beautiful mansions, and snow-white cottages...) Page 48, "Uppn" changed to "Upon". (Vow'd to revenge the dead-drunk peer Upon renowned St. Kitt.) Page 68, "EEMA" changed to "EMMA". (EMMA; OR, THE MURDERED MAID.) Page 78, "roul" changed to "foul". (... for he will marry her, however foul and loathsome she may be.) Page 91, "word" changed to "words". (The words seem to come out of the mouth of one of the very moss troopers who had acted a part in the achievement, and the whole composition is rough but finely flavoured;) Page 141, "glow" changed to "grow". (Her plastic needle bade fresh flow'rets grow;) Page 147, "bare" changed to "bore". (It bore the living moisture to her lips,...) Page 149, "tbe" changed to "the". (And forc'd--too late! the unglutted beast to fly.) Page 163, "fabelloe" changed to "fabellæ". (... abounds in all the _aniles fabellæ_ of fairies, ghosts, and apparitions,...) Page 166, no closing double quotation mark has been added to "Saw ever man such gallant sight?" This appears as in the original, as the closing of the quotation could occur in numerous places. Page 171, "phenomonen" changed to "phenomenon" for consistency. (The same phenomenon has been observed amongst the Scotch mountains.) Page 185, "lift" changed to "left". (It was midsummer: the fashionable part of the community had left London for their seats in the country,...) Page 188, "unaccounably" changed to "unaccountably". (... by which we are instantly and unaccountably attracted to one whom we have never seen before,...) Page 217, "waiscoat" changed to "waistcoat" for consistency. (He was dressed in a black jacket, black silk waistcoat, fustian pantaloons, shoes, and white cotton stockings.) Page 222, "way" changed to "may". (... it may well be supposed that the mountain ridges forming the line of demarcation between the two territories...) 
26755	----	CORNWALL'S WONDERLAND by MABEL QUILLER-COUCH. 1914 This e-text was prepared from a version published in 1914. PREFACE. With a vivid recollection of the keen enjoyment I myself found in the strange and wonderful Romances and Legends of Old Cornwall, now so rapidly being forgotten; with a remembrance too of the numerous long and involved paragraphs--even pages--that I skipped, as being prosy or unintelligible, written as they were in a dialect often untranslatable even by a Cornish child, I have here tried to present a few of these tales in simpler form, to suit not only Cornish children, but those of all parts. M.Q.C. CONTENTS. HOW CORINEUS FOUGHT THE CHIEF OF THE GIANTS. THE GIANT OF ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT. THE LEGEND OF THE TAMAR, THE TAVY, AND THE TAW. THE STRANGE STORY OF CHERRY HONEY. THE FAIRIES ON THE GUMP. THE FAIRY OINTMENT. THE EXCITING ADVENTURE OF JOHN STURTRIDGE. THE TRUE STORY OF ANNE AND THE FAIRIES. BARKER AND THE BUCCAS. LUTEY AND THE MERMAID. THE WICKED SPECTRE. THE STORY OF THE LOVERS' COVE. THE SILVER TABLE. CRUEL COPPINGER, THE DANE. MADGE FIGGY, THE WRECKER. HOW MADGE FIGGY GOT HER PIG. THE STORY OF SIR TRISTRAM AND LA BELLE ISEULT. HOW CORINEUS FOUGHT THE CHIEF OF THE GIANTS Long, long ago, when Cornwall was almost a desert land, cold, bleak, and poor, and inhabited only by giants, who had destroyed and eaten all the smaller people, Brutus and Corineus came with a large Trojan army intending to conquer England, or Albion as it was then called, and landed at Plymouth for that purpose. These two valiant chiefs had heard strange tales of the enormous size of the people in that part of the island, so, like wise generals, before venturing inland themselves, they sent parties of their men to explore, and find out what they could of the inhabitants. The soldiers, who had never heard anything about the giants, went off very full of glee, and courage, thinking, from the miserable look of the country, that they had only some poor half-starved, ignorant savages to hunt out, and subdue. That was how they started out. They returned nearly scared to death, rushing into camp like madmen, pursued by a troop of hideous monsters all brandishing clubs as big as oak trees, and making the most awful noises you can possibly imagine. When, though, Brutus and Corineus saw these great creatures they were not in the least frightened, for, you see, they had already heard about them. So they quietly and quickly collected their army, reassured the terrified men, and, before the giants knew what was happening, they marched upon them, and assailed them vigorously with spears and darts. The giants, who were really not at all brave men, were so frightened at this attack, and at the pain caused by the arrows and spears,--weapons they had never seen before,--that they very soon turned tail and ran for their lives. They made direct for the Dartmoor hills, where they hoped to find shelter and safe hiding-places, and indeed, all did manage to escape except one, and that was the great Gogmagog, the captain, who was so badly injured that he could not run. When Gogmagog saw his cowardly companions all running away, and leaving him to do the best he could for himself, he bellowed and bellowed with rage and fear until the birds nearly dropped down from the sky with fright. After a while, though, he began to think he had better stop drawing attention to himself, and look about for a means of escape, and this was no slight task, for he could scarcely move a step, and his great big body was not at all easy to conceal. Indeed, the only means he could see open to him was to lie down in one of the great ditches which lay here and there all over the land, and trust to the darkness concealing him until the soldiers had returned to camp. Alas, though, for poor Gogmagog's plans, the moon was at the full, and every place was almost as light as by day. The Trojan soldiers too were so excited and pleased with their giant-hunting, that they could not bear to give it up and return to camp until they had at least one giant to take back as a trophy. So they prowled here, and prowled there, until at last they caught sight of the great bulky body stretched out in the ditch. Gogmagog, of course, had no chance of escape, he was surrounded and captured, and bound, and the Trojans, rejoicing greatly, dragged him back a prisoner to their camp on Plymouth Hoe. Here, although he was carefully guarded, he was treated with great kindness, fed bountifully, and nursed until his wounds were healed. When at last he was quite recovered, Brutus, who was very anxious to come to terms with the giants, discussed with him various ways of settling the question they had come with their army to decide, namely, who should be the possessor of the country. He proposed this plan, and that plan, and the other, but none seemed to please Gogmagog, and while the general talked and talked, and tried to come to terms, Gogmagog just sat stolidly listening, and only opening his great mouth to disagree with the general's proposal. The truth was, the giant had a great idea of his own cunning, and he was trying to think of some way by which he could get the better of the invaders, and yet avoid further battles and discharges of arrows. "For," as he said, "you never knew where you were with they things. They had done for you before you'd got time to turn round. Clubs or fists he was equal to, but he didn't see no fun in they sharp little things that stuck right into you, and wouldn't come out until they was cut out." Thinking of clubs and fists reminded him of wrestling, which was practised a great deal in Cornwall, even in those days, and very little anywhere else. "The very thing!" thought the wily giant, for it wasn't likely the Trojans knew anything about it, and even if they did, they were only little bits of chaps compared with himself and the other giants. So, after a time, he proposed to Brutus that they should settle matters by "a scat to wrastling," the best man, of course, to have the country. Rather to Gogmagog's surprise Brutus agreed at once, and it was quickly settled that the giant himself and the best man in the Trojan army should be the two to try their skill. This man was Corineus, who accepted the challenge instantly. After this the day was soon fixed, and Gogmagog was allowed to send and tell his friends, and bid them all come to Plymouth to witness the great event. The giants, being assured that no arrows or spears would be used against them, came with alacrity, and both they and the Trojans were in a wild state of excitement which increased and increased as the great day drew near. At last the longed-for time arrived. A ring was formed on the Hoe, the giants all sitting on one side, and the Trojans on the other, and the struggle began. Oh, it was a fine sight to see two such men pitted against each other, the giant, the finest of his race, and the splendid, stalwart soldier, the enormous strength of the one faced by the skill and coolness of the other, to see them grapple each other and struggle for the mastery as never men had struggled before in hand-to-hand warfare. Such a sight had never been seen in Cornwall until that day, nor ever will be again. It lasted long, and for long the result was doubtful. "Th' little un can't hold out much longer, mun," cried one of the giants. "Cap'en's only playing with un yet." But just at that very moment Corineus, who was playing a very clever game, dashed in unexpectedly, caught the giant by the girdle, and grasping it like a vice, shook the astonished and breathless monster with all his might and main. The giant, bewildered and gasping, swayed backwards and forwards at his mercy, at first slightly, then more and more, as he failed to regain his balance, until, gathering all his strength for one last effort, Corineus gave him one tremendous push backwards, and sent him clean over, so that he measured his great length upon the ground, and the country for miles round shook with the force of his fall. Gogmagog gave one awful groan, which sounded like thunder all over the land, making the giantesses, who were left at home, exclaim nervously, "Oh dear, oh dear, there must be an earthquake somewhere! How very unsettled the country is!" Gogmagog was so stunned and breathless with his fall, that for some time he could not collect his wits, or get up again, so he lay there moaning and puffing until his hard breathing had lashed the sea into fury. The other giants were too frightened to speak or move, for they were quite certain there was magic being used against them, for strength alone could never have overthrown their 'Cap'en' like that, certainly not the strength of 'a little whipper-snapper like that there Corinoos.' While, though, they were staring open-mouthed, and the giant, never expecting another attack, lay there still puffing and blowing, and trying to think how he could get off facing his opponent again, Corineus had been gathering up all his power to finish his task, and now, dashing in suddenly on his foe, he seized him by the legs, and dragging him to the edge of the cliff, he sent him, with one mighty push, rolling over and over down the sides of the steep cliff into the sea below. The fearful roar which broke from the giant's throat as he disappeared, the crashing and thudding of his body as it dashed from point to point of the jagged rocks, made even those hardened savages sicken and turn pale, but worst of all was the crash with which he came to the bottom, where his body struck a rock with such violence that it was dashed into a thousand pieces, and his spouting blood dyed the sea crimson for miles and miles around. After that all turned away pale and sobered, the soldiers to their camp, the giants to their homes, their cowardly hearts full of terror of these new-comers, and the feasting they had promised themselves by way of keeping up their victory was postponed indefinitely. So ended the fight between the giant and the Trojan. It was not playing the game, but the giants were too cowardly to demand revenge, or to attempt to punish Corineus, and so the land and all in it fell to the Trojans. Later, when Brutus had conquered all Albion, and was dividing some of it amongst his chiefs, Corineus begged that he might have the giant country, for he loved hunting the great lumbering fellows, and turning them out of their caves and hiding-places. So it was given to him, and he called it Cornwall, because that was something like his own name, and in time he cleared out all the giants, and in their stead there settled there an honest, manly people, who worked and tilled the land, and dug up tin, and did everything that was good, and honourable and industrious, and this is the kind of people who live there still. THE GIANT OF ST. MICHAEL'S MOUNT. I am sure most of you have heard of St. Michael's Mount, the strange, beautiful, mountain island, which rises up out of the sea down by Penzance; a mountain island with a grand old castle crowning its summit, and a picturesque group of cottages nestling at its base. If you have not, you must coax your parents to take you down there for your next summer holiday, then you will be able to see the Mount, and visit it too. And when you are on it you must think to yourself, "Now I am standing where the Giant Cormoran once stood." You must look out over the sea, too, which surrounds the giant's Mount, and try to picture to yourself a large forest in the place of it, and the sea six long miles away, for that was how it was in Cormoran's time, until one day the sea rose quite suddenly, a huge mountain of water, and rushing over the six miles of land, covered it and the forests too, even above the tops of the tallest trees. Everything for miles around was swallowed up, except the Mount, which was saved by reason of its great height. From that day to this the sea has never receded, and St. Michael's Mount has remained an island, completely cut off from the mainland, except at low tide, when you can, if you are quick, just manage to walk across. Years before this, Cormoran had built up the Mount for a home for himself. When first he came to the spot it was all forest, with one large white rock in the midst of it. As he lay on this rock resting, he made up his mind to build himself a hill here, all of white rocks, like the one on which he reclined, where he could live in safety, and keep an eye on the surrounding country. It was a big task he had set himself, for all the blocks of granite of which it was to be made, had to be brought from a neighbouring hill, those close by being of the pink, or green, or grey kinds, and he would have none of these. Perhaps he would have changed his mind about it had he had to carry all the stone himself, but he, the great lazy fellow, made his wife Cornelian fetch all the heaviest blocks, while he lay idly by and watched her. Cornelian, who thought the work was very hard indeed, did not see why the green rocks would not do as well as the white, they would be even prettier, in her opinion, so one day when her husband was asleep she knocked off a great green rock, and picking it up in her apron, hurried back as fast as she could to get it fixed in its place before he should wake. She could not manage it though, poor soul, for just as she was reaching her destination the giant opened his eyes, and as soon as he had opened them he caught sight of the green rock she was carrying. Then, oh, what a temper he was in at being disobeyed! He did not say anything, but he got quietly up from his resting-place as soon as she had passed, and followed her, but so softly that she did not notice anything until he was close to her, when he gave her such a blow that she fell staggering under it. Her apron-strings broke, down fell the green stone to the ground, and there it has stayed from that day to this, for no human power has been able to move it. Cormoran was an old giant, and a very ugly one. He had only one eye, and that was in the middle of his forehead; he had lost nearly all his teeth, too. It would have been better for his appearance had he lost them quite all, for those that were left were broken, jagged, and discoloured, and were anything but ornamental. He was a perfect monster to look at, and, oh, he was such a dreadful thief! All the people who lived anywhere near him went in terror of him, for when he was hungry he would just cross to the mainland, steal the very best cow or sheep in the neighbourhood, sling it across his shoulders and go home with it. And as he was very often hungry, the poor farmer folks were nearly eaten out of house and home by the bad old giant. On the Pengerswick estate near by, there were some particularly good cattle, which Master Cormoran had taken a great fancy to, and to which he helped himself pretty freely without ever being caught, or punished. Of course, the more he stole the bolder he got, for having so often got off scot-free, he grew to think he was always going to get off scot-free, and that was where he made his mistake. One day he took it into his head that he would very much like another of these fine, choice animals, so picking up a rope he started off, and wading across to Pengerswick Cove, landed there as usual, thinking he was going to help himself without any trouble and be home again by dinner-time. It happened, though, that the Lord of Pengerswick had just returned from the East, where he had been learning all sorts of magic and spells. Cormoran, however, knew nothing of this, and if he had he would probably only have laughed and sneered, and turned up his great nose in scorn, for he believed in nothing but giants, and only in two of them,--himself, and the Trecrobben Hill giant. As Master Cormoran approached, the Lord of Pengerswick, who knew by means of magic all about his coming, and knowing his thieving ways, determined to punish the old thief for all the mischief he had done during his absence. So he began at once to work his spells, meaning to give the giant a very unpleasant time. Cormoran, never dreaming of any trouble in store for him, landed as usual; but, somehow, when he reached the Cove he did not feel very well, his head felt muzzy and confused: he thought perhaps the sun had been too much for him as he came along. Instead, too, of catching one of the cattle at once, as usual, he had the works of the world to get one, the beasts seemed as slippery as eels, and he was so dull in the head, he hardly knew what he was about. However, after a great deal of trouble, and losing his temper more than once, he managed to catch a fine calf, and tying its four feet together, he slung it round his neck, and prepared to hurry back to the Mount to have a good feast. He walked, and he walked, and he walked as fast as his feet could carry him, but though he went very quickly, and it was really no distance back to the Cove, he somehow could not get any nearer to the end of his journey; the path seemed all strange to him, too, and for the life of him he could not tell where he was. At last, when he was so tired that he was ready to drop, he came in sight of a great black rock in Pengerswick Cove. It was a rock he did not remember seeing before, and thinking he was once again on the wrong path he turned to go back. But this, he found to his surprise, was what he could not do. The rock, as if by magic, was drawing him nearer and nearer. It was like a magnet, and struggle as he would, he could not keep away from it. He tried to turn round, he tried to draw back, he even lay down on the ground and dug his heels with all his strength into the sand. But still he felt himself being drawn on and on until he actually touched the rock, and the moment he touched it he found to his horror that he was fastened to it as though by iron bands. Oh, how he struggled to get free, how he twisted and turned, and kicked! All in vain, though. He might as well have lain still and gone to sleep for all the good he did. By degrees, too, he felt himself growing more and more helpless, he could not move hand or foot, he grew colder and stiffer, and stiffer and colder, until at last he was as if turned to stone, except that his senses were more acute than ever they had been before. To add to his torments, too, the calf which he had slung across his shoulders, struggled and kicked and bellowed until the old thief was black and blue, and nearly deafened. He was nearly scared to death, too, for fear someone would hear the creature's noise, and come in search of it, to find out what was the matter. He tried and tried to throw off his burden, but nothing would loosen it, and all the night long he had to bear the bleating and the bellowing in his ear, and the incessant kicking and butting, for, for the whole of the night the giant had to remain there; and probably he would have been there for the rest of his life, had not the Lord of Pengerswick thought he would like to have some more fun with him. Early in the morning the Enchanter mounted his horse and rode down to the Cove to have a look at Master Cormoran, and to give him a piece of his mind before he removed the spell and let him go, and a piece of something else as well! Cormoran quaked when he saw the old lord coming, for he looked every bit as angry as he really was, and first he lashed the giant with his tongue, and then he lashed him with his whip, and he flogged him and flogged him until in his agony Cormoran kicked and struggled so hard that he broke away from the rock and leaped right into the sea. This was the way the Enchanter removed the spell! Once free from that terrible rock, Cormoran soon reached home, but the lesson he had had was one that he never forgot, and he never troubled that part of the country again, so the people all around had good cause to thank the Lord of Pengerswick. Poor Cornelian, his wife, had a sad time of it, though, for so sore was the giant from his beating, and so angry and mortified, that his temper became something worse than ever. Indeed, I cannot find words to describe it. Poor Cornelian herself was very kind and good-tempered, and a very hard-working giantess, and she was very much to be pitied for having such a disagreeable, grumpy old husband. Cornelian, though, had one great fault, and that was that she was very, very inquisitive. I do not know that she ever did any harm to anyone but herself by it. It brought about her own death, though, in a very dreadful manner. And this was how it was. Cormoran and the Trecrobben Hill giant were very friendly and neighbourly one with the other, and they used to borrow and lend to each other any little thing they happened to want, just as ordinary people do who are on very good terms with one another. One day Cormoran was wanting the cobbling-hammer to mend his boots, but the hammer was up at Trecrobben's,--they only had one between them. So he went out and shouted, "Halloa, up there! Hi! Trecrobben, throw us down the cobblen hammer, wust-a?" They always threw across to each other what they wanted. "To be sure," called back Trecrobben; "here, look out and catch un!" Hearing a lot of noise and shouting, Cornelian must needs bustle out to find out what it was all about, and running from the dark house to the bright sunshine, her eyes were so dazzled, she did not see the great hammer coming hurtling through the air, as it did at that very moment, and whack! crack! it caught her a terrible blow right between the eyes, even crashing in the mighty bone of her forehead. Down she fell with a groan right at her husband's feet, and when he turned her over she was as dead as the fatal hammer itself! Then what a to-do there was! The two giants wept and roared over the corpse, they wrung their hands and tore their hair, but it was all of no use, they could not bring poor Cornelian back to life again. Their sighs and groans only wrecked a ship or two out at sea, and blew the roofs off some houses at Market Jew. So they stopped, and set to work to bury poor Cornelian. They thought it best to get her out of sight as quickly as possible, it made them weep so to see her lying there dead. Where they laid her, though, no one knows. Some say it was in the court of the castle, others that they lifted Chapel Rock and put her under; but there are others who say that they only rolled her over the edge of the cliffs and into the sea! You will always, though, find some people ready to say unkind things about everyone. Cormoran himself met his death some years later at the hands of Jack the Giant-Killer, but as you probably know that story, I will not repeat it here. THE LEGEND OF THE TAMAR, THE TAVY, AND THE TAW. In the days when fairies, giants, and witches, gnomes and piskies, and dwarfs, and all the other Big People and Little People dwelt on the land or under it, there lived in a huge cavern, deep, deep down in the heart of the earth, two gnomes, husband and wife, busy, practical little people, who spent their lives digging and delving in the very bowels of the earth. They had no cravings for a more beautiful life, no desire to see the sunshine, the flowers, the green grass, or the wide blue sea. They wanted nothing better, or beyond the life which had always been theirs. To them, though, there was sent a little daughter, whom they called Tamara. She was a lovely, golden-haired sprite, as unlike her parents as the sun the night, and they were filled with happiness and pride, and wonder of her beauty. When Tamara was old enough, they would have set her to work with them, but Tamara did not like the cold, dark cavern, or the silence and bareness of her underground home. She was an earth-loving child, and had a passion for the upper world, whither she would escape as often as she possibly could, for the sun, the flowers, the birds, the happy life which surrounded her up there, were a never-failing joy to her. Her parents scolded and scolded; they warned her that the earth was full of giants, and if she were captured by one of them, nothing could save her; but she paid no heed to them at all, for she did not know what fear was, she could not believe that anyone could harm her. And they had petted and humoured her, and allowed her her own way in so many things, she did not see why she should not do as she liked in this. She hated the cold, gloomy underground, so why should she stay there, she argued, and she ran away more and more to the upper world, and spent her days in roaming over the moors chasing the birds and butterflies, or, when she was tired, lying on a bank of moss and ferns, gazing up at the glorious sun, and basking in its kindly warmth. At length one day, Tawridge and Tavy, sons of two Dartmoor giants, met sweet Tamara as she was wandering amongst the furze and bracken, and straightway fell in love with her. They had only seen giantesses up to that time, who, though very fine and striking in appearance, are never pretty, and these two young giants had never in their lives seen anything so delicate and so lovely as Tamara, or dreamed that it was possible that such beautiful maidens could exist. Straightway each of them lost his great big heart to the dainty maiden, and could not bear to lose sight of her. So afraid were they that she would vanish, and they would never see her again, that they followed her far and wide over the moor, trying to coax her to come and talk with them. But Tamara, like a laughing, mischievous sprite, ran from them laughing, led them over moor and river, always evading them, never letting them reach her. The more though that she tantalized and teased them, the more the poor fellows loved her, and they sighed for her until their great hearts were like to break. One morning, Tamara got away earlier than usual from her cavern home. She awoke long before her parents, and after gazing for some time at the darkness which filled the cave, and shivering in the chill, damp air, she thought of the upper world where the morning sun would be shining on the dewy grass, and the birds be singing their first glad song; and as she pictured it all the longing to be up there grew stronger than she could bear. She rose quietly, and without disturbing her parents, left her home for the last time. In the upper world all was as she had pictured it, and lost in the joy and beauty of it, Tamara wandered on and on until she came to a place called Morwenstow, and a dainty little pool in the hollow of a rock. The sun was so warm, and the pool so lovely, Tamara felt she must step into it; so, laying aside her robe, she played and swam about in the fresh clear water until she was quite tired out, when she dressed herself in her robe again, and shaking her long golden locks to dry them, she lay down under the shelter of a hawthorn-bush, and soon fell fast asleep. Ah me! how sweet she looked, with her delicate cheeks so rosy after her bathe, her lovely lashes resting on them, her cloud of golden hair spread all about her! and so thought Tavy and Tawridge when they came along and found her! At the sight of her they stood speechless with admiration, but the great stupid fellows were as quiet and careful not to waken her as fairies would have been. They just sat down near her and gazed and gazed at her with great faithful dog-like eyes. Presently a thrush began to sing hard by, and with a little stretch and a sleepy sigh Tamara opened her big blue eyes. When she caught sight of her guardians and captors, she broke into a little rippling laugh and sprang to her feet, but this time she could not escape. "Do not leave us," they pleaded. "We will not hurt you, Tamara. We may be big and ugly, but we have good hearts. Have pity on us, lovely one, for you know how we worship you, and how our lives are spent in seeking you. Such a love for you fills our hearts we know no rest away from you." They pleaded long and earnestly, those two love-stricken giants, they called her by every sweet and endearing name that they could think of, and Tamara listened, and made no further attempt to run away. Their devotion pleased her, it was so new and strange, and she loved to feel her power. So the morning sped away. Deep down in the dark earth, the industrious little gnomes paused in their labours and wondered where Tamara was. "She does not often stay so long," said the mother; "I trust no harm has befallen her." "What a trouble she is to us!" said the father, growing angry because he was alarmed. "We should be glad we have no more children, or we should have to spend all our time looking after them, to see they came to no harm. We should never have time for our work, and never know peace of mind." "Yes, yes," said the mother impatiently, "but Tamara! Where can she be? The earth is full of giants, and I am full of fears. I cannot rest, I must go and seek her, and you must come too. She is so beautiful, and so thoughtless and full of life." So they mounted to the upper world, and began their weary search for their naughty little daughter; and by and by they found her seated on a couch of sweet, soft heather, between the two giants. They were still telling her of their love for her,--there was so much, it took long to tell,--and beseeching her to choose one of them for her own faithful lover. The father gnome was very much alarmed at this sight, for what could he, no taller than a tulip, do against two such monstrous creatures? Their thumbs alone were as big as his whole body. All that was left to be done was to appeal to Tamara, and each in turn, and both together, the father and mother begged and commanded their runaway child to return to her home. But Tamara was as obstinate as could be. "No, I want to stay here," she said, "these good boys love me, and they will break their hearts when I leave them. You would not have me make them so unhappy, would you? I want, too, to hear all about their country and their people, for I love it, and I love them, and I hate the cold, dark cavern, with its eternal work, work, work!" Then she turned entreatingly to the giants, "You will not let me be taken back, will you?" she cried, her beautiful eyes full of appealing. "No, no!" they cried joyfully, "we will take care of you, little Tamara." Even, though, as they spoke, a deep sleep fell upon them. The gnome, thoroughly angry, had cast a spell upon them, and poor Tamara saw herself in an instant deprived of both her protectors. She was deeply mortified, but more determined than ever not to go back to her dark, gloomy home. No pleadings, or coaxings, or commands had any power to move her. Her mother appealed to her, her father scolded, all in vain. Anger was roused on both sides, until at length in ungovernable rage the father cursed his daughter, and as his curse fell on her, the weeping girl was changed into a crystal stream, which soon became a river; a beautiful, rapid river, for ever winding its way with a low, sad murmur, in storm or sunshine, through the land she loved so well, on and on to the great salt ocean. The angry parents, heartbroken and desolate, had returned to their lonely home, and Tamara, with low, sad sighs, was fleeing further and further from her sleeping lovers, when Tavy at last awoke. He sat up and glared around him, too dazed to realize at first all that had happened. He looked at Tawridge, lying fast asleep, and recollection began to return,--he looked for Tamara,--she was gone! In a frenzy of fear lest he should have lost his new-found love for ever, he rushed hither and thither, wildly searching for her,--but, of course, in vain. "Tamara! Tamara!" he called despairingly; no answer came. No sound reached him but the sweet, sad voice of a stream hard by, a stream he did not remember to have heard before. He was too full of his troubles, though, to pay heed to such trifles now. Flying as fast as the wind to his father amongst the hills, he told him his pitiful tale, but the giant already knew all that had happened, for he had powers his son had not. "My boy," he said sadly, "your Tamara is gone. Cruelly taken from you. I cannot bring her back to you, but I can send you to her. Grieved I shall be to lose my son, but I cannot keep you here and see your life filled with endless pain." Then the old giant kissed his son, and as he kissed him he turned him into a stream, which, noisy and turbulent as poor Tavy himself had been of old, rushed madly on over rock and moor, seeking his lost love. Wildly he dashed ahead, seeking to overtake her, until at last in a gentle valley where she loitered slowly, he came upon her, and, happy that they had met at last, hand in hand they glided softly onwards to the eternal sea. During all this time poor Tawridge slept on, dreaming of Tamara, that she was his, and nothing could part them; but alas, alas for his waking! He opened his eyes and found it was but a dream! Tamara was gone, Tavy was gone, and he was left alone. "They have gone together!" was his first thought, but then he remembered the arrival of the father and mother, and his second thought was that Tamara had been taken back to her home by her parents, and that Tavy had killed himself in despair. And Tawridge was filled with a double grief, for he had really loved poor Tavy. In the hills there lived an Enchanter, and to him Tawridge ran for help, and of him he learnt the truth,--that both were lost to him, and were together. The knowledge drove him to frenzy. Without a thought for his father or mother, or anyone else who loved him, he begged and implored the Enchanter to turn him into a stream too, that he might follow the others and overtake them, and once again be with his lost love, or near her. At last the old Enchanter consented, and Tawridge was turned into a swiftly flowing river; and there his troubles might have ended, and the three friends have been reunited, but, as he was going back, Tawridge mistook the way, and, instead of flowing towards the sea with Tamara and Tavy, he rushed on wildly seeking them in the wrong direction. Calling to them with heartbroken cries and moans, he hurried faster and faster in his longing to overtake them, but always in the wrong direction, ever and ever flowing farther from them, never to meet his lost love again. To this day the Tamar and the Tavy run always side by side, and the Taw, still sighing and moaning sadly, rushes in the opposite direction, and never can the enchantment be removed from Tamara and her lovers, until we, having grown better and wiser, become friends again with the Big People and the Little People we have driven from us by our ignorance and narrow minds. THE STRANGE STORY OF CHERRY HONEY. Cherry Honey, with her father and mother, and a half-score of brothers and sisters, lived in a little hut at Trereen, in the parish of Zennor. They were very poor people, terribly poor, for all they had to live on was what they could get out of a few acres of ground that they owned,--ground as barren as any you could find thereabouts, and that is saying a good deal. For food they lived mostly on fish and potatoes, except on Sundays, when they had pork, and the broth it was boiled in; and twice a year, at Christmas and Feast-day, they had, as a great luxury, white bread. Whether fish and potatoes make people strong, or whether the air at Trereen was specially good, I can't tell, but sure enough it is that all Tom Honey's children grew up into fine, handsome men and women, and not one weakly one amongst them. They were a lively crew too, as merry as grigs in spite of the cold and the hunger that they felt pretty often, and the liveliest and merriest of the lot was Cherry. She was full of pranks and mischief, and led the others a pretty life. When the miller's boy came to know if they wanted to send any corn to be ground, Cherry would slip out, mount his horse, which he left fastened up close by, and off she would go, racing as hard as she could go all along the very edge of the cliff, and away to the Downs, the miller's boy racing and yelling after her, but he might as well have tried to catch a will-o'-the-wisp. So Cherry went on very happily, working very hard and playing too, until she reached the age of sixteen or so, when she began to feel a wish to see more life than that lonely moor provided, and have a change from the tiny hut which could not hold a half of them comfortably. She wanted a new gown too, her mother had promised it to her ever since she was thirteen, and she had looked forward to it even more than she did to Feasten-Sunday, for she had never had a new frock in her life. She could not enjoy Feasten-Sunday either, unless she was dressed as nicely as other girls. Year after year, though, she was disappointed, there was no money and no new dress, and poor Cherry had to content herself with a clean apron over her shabby old frock, which had been patched and mended until there was only one piece of the original left, and no one but Cherry herself could have told which that was. She was not fit to go to church or to fair, and she felt it very hard that she could never enjoy herself. And then, to make matters worse, her great friend Tamsin Bray, who was a year younger than Cherry, had a beautiful frock all trimmed with ribbons, and she wore it to Nancledry to the preaching there, and had a fine time there, full of adventures and new experiences, as she took care to tell poor Cherry when she came back, making Cherry feel more dissatisfied than ever. She knew she was a prettier girl than Tamsin, and would get more admiration if she only had the chance. After that Cherry could no longer go on bearing things as they were. If her mother couldn't buy her a new frock, she would go to work, and earn one for herself, she determined. So she told her parents she was going to look for a situation, and nothing they could say could make her change her mind, so they gave up trying to. "Why don't 'ee try and get a place down to Towednack?" asked her mother, who wanted her not to go far from home. "Iss, fay, mother," answered Cherry sharply, "a likely tale I'm going to live in a place where the cow ate the bell-rope, and where they've nothing but fish and taties all the year round, except Sundays, when they have conger-pie! Dear no, I'm going where I can get butcher's meat sometimes, and a bit of saffern cake when I wants it!" So Cherry packed up her few garments, which made but a very small bundle, and started off, after promising her father not to go too far, and to come home soon. She had been so restless and uneasy, that the poor man thought she was bewitched, or something. He feared, too, that she might get carried off by pirates, for there were many of them about Cornwall in those days, and Cherry was an attractive-looking girl, and rather flighty, as her mother often said. When Cherry had said 'good-bye' and kissed them all, and got outside, she had not the slightest notion which way to go, so she took the road to Ludgvan and Gulval, and walked on briskly enough for a time; but when she turned round for a last look at the old home, and found that it was no longer in sight, she felt so miserable that she had a very good mind to turn round and go back. It was the first time she had ever been away, and she felt very home-sick and lonesome. Indeed, the outlook was enough to damp her spirits and even frighten her, for she had no friends to go to, nor a situation. She did not even know where she should find shelter that night, and she had only one penny in her pocket. However, she started on again, and trudged along the lonely road until she came to the four cross-roads on the Lady Downs. Here she paused again, and rested while she tried to make up her mind which of the four roads she should take. All around her the Downs stretched, looking bleak and wild; and all the stories she had ever heard of highwaymen and pirates, witches and fairies, came rushing helter-skelter through her poor brain until she felt too terrified to walk on or to turn back; and at last she sat down on a big stone by the side of the road and burst out crying. She did cry too, most bitterly, and never stopped until she had made up her mind to retrace her steps, and go home as fast as she could go. Having settled that, she felt much happier, and drying her eyes she started up, only too anxious to get out of that great wilderness. She wondered if her brothers and sisters would laugh at her. Yes, she felt sure that they would, but she did not care, she told herself. She would soon play them some trick that would make them laugh the other side of their faces. Her father and mother would welcome her back gladly, she knew. So she turned her face towards home, and was trying not to feel ashamed of her want of pluck,--when she saw a gentleman on the road just ahead of her, and walking towards her. She was astonished, and just a little alarmed, for a moment before there was not a soul to be seen. She was so astonished that she quite forgot her manners, and stood staring and staring at the gentleman until he had come quite close to her. Then he stared hard at Cherry, but it was not a rude stare, and he took off his hat so politely, and smiled so pleasantly, that Cherry was quite impressed. "Can you tell me the way to Towednack?" he asked in a voice as pleasant as his smile. "Yes, sir," answered Cherry, curtseying. "If you'll please to walk a little way with me, sir, I'll put you in the right road." The gentleman thanked her, and as he walked along beside her, he asked which way she was going, and where she lived, and he was so kind and had such a pleasant way with him, that Cherry had soon told him her history, and how she had left home to go to look for a 'place,' and how she had felt so lonesome on the Downs, and so home-sick, that she had changed her mind and was going straight back again. "Well, this is strange!" exclaimed the gentleman. "Of all the good luck this is the greatest! I have come out to-day to see if I can find a good active girl in one of the villages, for I want a servant; and here I find just what I am looking for, a handsome, sharp young woman, cleanly and honest." He could judge for himself what sort of a girl Cherry was, by her appearance, and her clean, well-mended frock. He went on to tell her that he was a widower with one little boy, for whom he wanted a nurse, and would Cherry come and take the post? He talked for a long time very earnestly and winningly. Cherry did not understand a half that he said, but she understood enough to make her feel that this would be a better situation for her than she had ever dreamed of getting, and before very long she consented to go. The gentleman seemed very pleased, and away they started together at once, the stranger talking very fast all the time, and making himself so entertaining that Cherry never noticed how far they were going, nor in what direction. They walked through such beautiful lanes that it was quite a pleasure to be in them, hung as they were with honeysuckles and roses, and many other beautiful flowers, such as Cherry rarely saw anywhere near her bleak home. By and by the light began to fail, which rather surprised Cherry, who had no idea the day was so far gone. She had no watch or means of telling the time, so she supposed it was all right, and that she had sat crying longer than she thought. Presently they came to a river, and Cherry wondered how she should cross it, for it had grown so dark by that time she could not see stepping-stones, or bridge, or anything. However, while she was wondering, the gentleman just picked her up in his arms and carried her across, and then on they walked again. They went down, down and down a very steep lane now, a lane which got narrower and narrower, and was so steep and long, Cherry thought it would never end. Not that she minded much, for she did not feel tired, and the gentleman had given her his arm, that she might not stumble, and she felt so excited and happy she could have walked on through the sweet-scented darkness for ever. She had not much further to go, though, for presently they came to a gate which the gentleman opened. "This is your new home, Cherry," he said kindly, and Cherry found herself suddenly in the most beautiful garden you can imagine. It was full of lovely flowers and luscious fruits, while flitting about everywhere, or perching on the trees, were birds of all sizes and colours, tiny blue birds, large scarlet birds, some that flashed like silver, and gold, and beaten copper, in the sunlight. For oddly enough the sun was shining brightly in the garden, though it had long been dark outside. Cherry stood and stared about her in open-eyed amazement. "Dear, dear," she thought to herself, "'tis just like the fairy-tales Gammer tells us winter evenings!" and she began to wonder if she could have got into an enchanted place, and if she should presently see fairies, or enchanted people there. But no, it could not be any fairy-tale, for there was her new master standing by her as big as Farmer Chenoweth, and down the path came running a little boy, calling "Papa! papa!" just as any ordinary mortal child would. Though, as Cherry said afterwards, there was something uncanny about the child, for he had such an odd, old face and expression, and eyes as cunning as might be, and so bright and piercing they seemed to look you through and through; yet he appeared to be no more than four years old. Before the child could reach them, an old woman came running out after him, and seizing him by the arm dragged him roughly back to the house. She was a bony, ill-tempered looking old woman, and before she retired, grumbling at the child and shaking him, she favoured Cherry with such an evil glance that the poor girl felt more than half inclined to turn and run right away. "That's my late wife's grandmother," explained the widower; "she is a cross-grained old catamaran, and the reason she eyed you so unpleasantly is that she knows I have brought you here to take her place. Make haste and learn your work, Cherry, for I want to send the cross old dame about her business," which was hardly a respectful way in which to speak of his grandmother-in-law. He took Cherry into the house, which was even more beautiful than the garden; brilliant light, like sunshine, lighted up every room, flowers grew everywhere, mirrors and pictures lined the walls, and as for the ornaments, the carpets, curtains and other beautiful things, you could never believe what their beauty was unless you could see them. "It is all so grand," said Cherry to herself, "'tis too much to take in all at once. It makes my head swim, and I'd like something to eat for a change." She was really very, very hungry, for she had had nothing to eat all day but a slice of bread and treacle. Hardly had the thought come into her head, when Aunt Prudence,--as the old grandmother was called,--began to lay a table with all kinds of delicious food, to which she bade Cherry sit down and eat. Cherry did not require a second bidding, you may be quite sure, nor did she stop until she had made a very good meal indeed. After that she was told her duties. She was to sleep in the room with the child, and in the morning to take him and bathe him in a spring in the garden. After she had bathed him she was to anoint his eyes with some ointment she would find in a little box in a cleft in the rock. She was to be very careful indeed to put the little box back where she took it from, and on no account to touch her own eyes with it. After that was all done she was to milk the cow, and give the child a basin of the last milk she drew. You can imagine how all this raised Cherry's curiosity, and how she longed to get the little boy to tell her about everything, but, as he always threatened to tell Aunt Prudence, directly she asked him a question, she thought it better to hold her tongue, and try to find out things for herself. When she had been told all her duties, she was conducted to her room by the old lady, who bade her keep her eyes shut, whether she was asleep or not, or she might wish too late that she had. She forbade her, too, to talk to the child about anything. So Cherry was rather frightened by the time she got to bed, and until she fell asleep she kept her eyes and her mouth fast closed, but fortunately, thanks to her tiring day and her good supper, she did not stay awake long. The next morning as soon as she was awake she got up and began her work, but when she had bathed the boy in the stream to which he led her, and had put the ointment on his eyes, she did not know how to set about her next task, for there was not a cow to be seen anywhere. "Call her," said the boy, when she told him her trouble. So Cherry called, "Coo-o, coo-o, coo-o-o," just as she did at home, and at once a pretty sleek cow came from somewhere,--it might have been out of the ground, as far as Cherry could tell. Anyhow, there she was, and Cherry sat down and milked her, and gave the boy his breakfast, and when she had done the cow walked away again and disappeared. After that Cherry went indoors, where the Grandmother provided her with a big breakfast all to herself, after which she told her of some more of her duties. Cherry was to keep in the kitchen, and clean the pots and pans with water and sand, scald the milk, make the butter, and do anything else she was told. Above all she was to avoid curiosity, to keep to the kitchen, and never try to enter or look into a room that was locked. Cherry felt that this was very hard, for, as I said before, she was full of curiosity, and wanted to find out all she could about these strange people she had got amongst. She could scarcely endure old Aunt Prudence with her scoldings and growlings, for the old woman never ceased grumbling at both the girl and her grandson-in-law for bringing her there. "I knew Robin would bring some stupid thing from Zennor," she would say, and she would scowl at Cherry until the girl grew quite nervous. She tried to get as far away from the old woman as she could, but, as Cherry said, the old soul seemed to have eyes all over her head, for she always had one on Cherry, no matter where she was or what she was doing. The happiest time of Cherry's life here was when her housework was done, and her master called to her to come and help him in the garden; for he was always kind and gentle to her, and always rewarded her with a word of praise. Aunt Prudence, though, was not always a cross old tyrant; she had her kinder moods, and in one of them she told Cherry that if she was a good girl, and did her work quickly, she would take her into those parts of the house where she had been forbidden to go, and show her some of the wonderful sights of the place! Oh, how delighted Cherry was, and how she did hurry through her work! She felt that now she was going to be made happy for the rest of her life, and would have nothing left to wish for. She got through her work so quickly, that it was still quite early when they started off together on their sight-seeing. First of all they came to a door opening out of a passage, and here Aunt Prudence told Cherry to take off her shoes. This done, they opened the door and entered, letting it fall silently behind them. The passage was very low and very dark, and Cherry, who had to feel her way by the wall, felt rather nervous, for she could not see where her next step would take her. Before very long, though, they came to a room where the light was bright, it was a beautiful room, with a floor like glass, but, oh, how frightened Cherry was when she stepped into it! for ranged all round the walls, on shelves or on the floor, were a lot of people turned to stone. Some had no arms, others no legs, while of others there were only the head and shoulders. Some heads had no ears, others had no noses, and some few were without either. Oh, it was a horrid sight, and Cherry was terribly frightened lest they should all come to life suddenly, and set on her and tear off her limbs too. She told Aunt Prudence, "she was mortal fear't of 'em, for she'd heard tell on 'em up to Zennor, and everybody said there was never no knowing what they wouldn't be up to. She'd thought all along that she'd got in with the Little People, only her master was such a fine upstanding man, she'd never have took him for a fairy." Aunt Prudence only laughed at her, and seeing that she really was afraid, took a greater pleasure in making her go further. There was a curious-looking thing standing in the room, like a coffin on six legs, and this Aunt Prudence insisted on Cherry's giving a good polishing to. So Cherry had to set to and rub it with all her might and main, for she dared not disobey the old lady; but the more she rubbed the more the old lady scolded her to rub harder, and Cherry rubbed harder and harder and harder, until at last she nearly upset the thing. She threw out her arms and seized, but as it tottered it gave out the most soul-piercing, unearthly yell it was possible for anyone ever to hear. "They'm coming to life! They'm coming to life!" shrieked out Cherry, and from sheer fright she fell on the floor in a fit. All this noise and uproar reached the master's ears, and up he came, to know what it was all about. And oh, he was angry when he found out. First of all he ordered old Aunt Prudence out of the house then and there, and then he picked up Cherry and carried her to the kitchen, where he soon brought her to her senses again, but, strangely enough, she could not remember what had happened, or why she was there. Her memory of what she had seen had quite gone, and though she was always afraid, after that, to go into that part of the house again, she could not remember in the least why it was, or anything that had happened there. Cherry felt much happier now, and did not worry herself about it, for Aunt Prudence and her terrifying eye were gone, and she was left sole mistress. So time passed on, and Cherry's master was so kind to her that the days flew by like hours, and very soon a whole year was gone. During all this time she had never once thought of her home, or her parents, or her old life. She had everything she could wish, and you would have thought she was bound to be happy; but no, nothing of the sort! She soon grew accustomed to her happiness, and then she began to want the things she had not got. Her curiosity increased every day. She longed to know more about the mysterious part of the house, and a hundred other things that she should never have troubled her head about. She was particularly anxious to find out all about her master, for his movements were certainly very strange, and puzzled Cherry. He went off every morning soon after his early breakfast, and when he came back he shut himself into the room where the stone figures were, and Cherry was certain, for she had crept up and listened at the door, that she could hear him talking to them! What _could_ she do to get to know more, she wondered. She thought and thought, and then one day her thoughts flew to the ointment. She had often noticed how very bright and peculiar the little boy's eyes became after she had anointed them, and that he often seemed able to see things that were hidden from her. Cherry grew very excited, she felt sure she had discovered the secret. So the next morning, after she had bathed him and given him his breakfast, she sent him away to play for a few minutes, and whisking out the ointment pot again, she brushed the least bit of it over one of her eyes with the tip of her finger. Oh, how it burned and smarted! and oh, how she did rub her eye and try to get the nasty stuff out! But it would not come. She ran to the stream and knelt down to bathe it,--and as she knelt and looked in the water she saw, at the very bottom, dozens and dozens of little people, playing and dancing, and enjoying themselves as though they were on dry land. And there, too, as gay as any, and as small as any, was her master himself. Bewildered and frightened, Cherry sprang to her feet, but as she turned to run she saw everything was changed. There were Little People everywhere, hanging on the trees overhead, swarming over the ground at her feet, swinging on the flowers, some astride the stalks, others curled up in the cups, all exquisitely dressed, and flashing with gold and jewels; and all as merry as crickets. Cherry thought she was bewitched sure enough, and she was so frightened she did not know what to do. At night back rode her master, as big and handsome as ever, and very unlike the little piskyman she had seen at the bottom of the water. He went straight up to the locked-up room where the stone figures were, and very soon Cherry heard sounds of most lovely music issuing thence. So things went on day after day, the widower rode off every morning dressed as any ordinary gentleman would be to follow the hounds, and never came back again until night, when he retired at once to his own rooms. All this was almost too much for poor Cherry's brain. She felt that if she did not find out more, she should die of curiosity. Knowing so much only made her long to know more. At last, one night after her master had gone to the enchanted room, Cherry crept up to the door, and instead of only listening at it as usual, she knelt down and peeped through the keyhole, which, for once, was not covered. Inside the room she saw her master in the midst of a number of ladies, some of whom were singing, and their voices sounded like silver bells; others were walking about, but one, the most beautiful of all, was sitting at the coffin on six legs, performing on it as though it were a piano. She had long dark hair streaming right down to the floor, and a blue gown all trimmed with sparkling silver, her shoes were blue with diamond stars on the toes, and round her neck she had a string of turquoises set in diamonds. Poor Cherry was very much hurt and mortified when she saw her beloved master with all those lovely ladies, but oh, how miserable she felt when she saw him kiss the lovely lady in blue and silver! She did not say anything, though,--indeed, she had no one to speak to,--and she went about her work as usual, but the next morning when her master came into the garden and began to talk to her as usual she answered him quite shortly and rudely, and when he asked her what was the matter with her, she told him to leave her to herself. If he wanted to talk he could go and talk to the Little People he was so fond of. Her master was very much surprised and annoyed when he heard this, for he knew that she had been disobedient, and had used the Fairy Ointment. He did not scold her, though, but he told her simply and mournfully, and in a tone which gave her no hope, that they must part. "You will have to go home, Cherry; you have disobeyed my orders. I can have no one spying and watching me. I must send you away, my child." He spoke so sadly that Cherry's heart felt as though it must break. "And I must have Aunt Prudence back," he added, with a sigh. Very, very unhappy was poor Cherry when she went to bed that night, and she had only just cried herself to sleep when her master came and woke her, telling her to get up and dress. Without a word, but choked with sobs, she obeyed him, and when she was ready she found him waiting for her, with a lantern and a large bundle of beautiful clothes that he had tied up for her. As soon as they had had some food they started, and miles and miles and miles they walked, for the way seemed ten times as long as when they came. For one thing it was all uphill now, and for another, Cherry's heart was heavy, and a heavy heart makes heavy feet. It was nearly daybreak when at last they reached the Lady Downs, and came to a standstill. The sun was just rising over the great lonely moor. "We must part now, my poor child," said her master. "You are severely punished for your curiosity, but it cannot be otherwise. Good-bye, Cherry; do your duty, and try to get the better of your failing, and if you are a good girl I will come to these Downs sometimes to see you." Then kissing her, he turned away and disappeared as suddenly as he had first appeared. Dazed and stupefied, scarcely able to realize all the trouble that had befallen her, Cherry sat for a long time where he had left her. In her thoughts she went over and over her happy life for the past year, all that she had had, and lost. By and by the sun came out in its full strength and warmed her, and roused her sufficiently to look about her, and wonder what she should do next, for, of course, she could not stay where she was. Presently she noticed that she was sitting on the very same stone at the cross-roads where, on the day she left home, she had sat and cried, and the strange gentleman had first appeared to her. The recollection brought back to her more painfully than ever her own foolishness and wickedness, and all that she had lost, and oh, how miserable she did feel, and how she cried and cried, and how she longed and longed for her dear, good master to come again and forgive her. He did not come, though, and by and by, as the day had worn far on, Cherry felt that she had better seek her home before nightfall. Listlessly enough she rose and trudged along the old familiar roads to her father's house, with miserable eyes she recognized the old landmarks, but without any pleasure, until at last she came to the poor little hut she called 'home.' It looked poorer, and meaner, and more comfortless than ever, after the luxuries she had grown accustomed to. Her mother and all the rest of them were sitting at dinner when Cherry opened the door. At the sound of the latch Mrs. Honey looked up, and gave one big screech. "Why, 'tis Cherry!" she cried, "or her ghost! Cross her, father. Cross her!" And when Cherry, taking no notice of her screams, advanced into the kitchen, they all backed away from her, one on top of another, each trying to get behind someone else, for they had long since made up their minds that Cherry was dead, and never for a moment dreamed that this apparition was Cherry herself, living flesh and blood. Not until she flopped into a chair, saying wearily, "Give me a dish of tay, mother, for goodness sake, I'm so wisht I don't know how to bear with myself." "Tisn't no ghost, mother," cried Tom Honey, his courage reviving; "no ghost would want such poor trade as tay." Then the others plucked up their spirits, too, and crowded round her, asking a dozen questions, and all at the same time; and for the sake of peace and quiet Cherry told them her wonderful adventures from the day she left them, and, as was to be expected, not one believed a word of it. "The maid's mazed," said her father, and the others agreed. But as time went on Cherry repeated the tale so often, and always the same; and she cried so bitterly for her master and his little boy, that they were obliged to believe her, in spite of themselves. "There must be some truth in it," they said, "it couldn't all be fancy." Poor Cherry! She was never happy again after her experience. Many people said she was bewitched, others declared she was wrong in her mind, but that was only because whenever there was a moonlight night, she wandered on the Lady Downs hour after hour, longing and hoping to see her master. For hours together, too, she would sit on the stone at the four cross-roads, in sunshine or snow, wind or rain, with the tears coursing down her cheeks, and such a pain at her heart, that she hardly knew how to endure it. He never came, though. To all appearances he had entirely forgotten poor, faulty Cherry, and by and by she died, unable to bear the loneliness any longer. THE FAIRIES ON THE GUMP. Down by St. Just, not far from Cape Cornwall and the sea, is a small hill,--or a very large mound would, perhaps, be the truer description,-- called 'The Gump,' where the Small People used to hold their revels, and where our grandfathers and grandmothers used to be allowed to stand and look on and listen. In those good old times fairies and ordinary people were all good friends together, and it is because they were all such friends and trusted one another so, that our grandfathers and grandmothers were able to tell their grandchildren so many tales about fairies, and piskies, and buccas, and all the rest of the Little People. People believed in the Fairies in those days, so the Fairies in return often helped the people, and did them all sorts of kindnesses. Indeed, they would do so now if folks had not grown so learned and disbelieving. It seems strange that because they have got more knowledge of some matters, they should have grown more ignorant of others, and declare that there never were such things as Fairies, just because they have neither the eyes nor the minds to see them! Of course, no one could expect the sensitive little creatures to appear when they are sneered at and scoffed at. All the same, though, they are as much about us as ever they were, and if you or I, who do believe in the Little People, were to go to the Gump on the right nights at the right hour, we should see them feasting and dancing and holding their revels just as of old. If, though, you do go, you must be very careful to keep at a distance, and not to trespass on their fairy ground, for that is a great offence, and woe be to you if you offend them! There was, once upon a time, a grasping, mean old fellow who did so, and pretty well he was punished for his daring. It is his story I am going to tell you, but I will not tell you his name, for that would be unpleasant for his descendants, but I will tell you this much,--he was a St. Just man, and no credit to the place either, I am sure. Well, this old man used to listen to the tales the people told of the Fairies and their riches, and their wonderful treasures, until he could scarcely bear to hear any more, he longed so to have some of those riches for himself; and at last his covetousness grew so great, he said to himself he must and would have some, or he should die of vexation. So one night, when the Harvest Moon was at the full, he started off alone, and very stealthily, to walk to the Gump, for he did not want his neighbours to know anything at all about his plans. He was very nervous, for it is a very desolate spot, but his greed was greater than his fear, and he made himself go forward, though he longed all the time to turn tail and hurry home to the safe shelter of his house and his bed. When he was still at some distance from the enchanted spot, strains of the most exquisite music anyone could possibly imagine reached his ear, and as he stood listening it seemed to come nearer and nearer until, at last, it was close about him. The most wonderful part, though, of it all was that there was nothing to be seen, no person, no bird, not an animal even. The empty moor stretched away on every side, the Gump lay bare and desolate before him. The only living being on it that night was himself. The music, indeed, seemed to come from under the ground, and such strange music it was, too, so gentle, so touching, it made the old miser weep, in spite of himself, and then, even while the tears were still running down his cheeks, he was forced to laugh quite merrily, and even to dance, though he certainly did not want to do either. After that it was not surprising that he found himself marching along, step and step, keeping time with the music as it played, first slowly and with stately tread, then fast and lively. All the time, though, that he was laughing and weeping, marching or dancing, his wicked mind was full of thoughts as to how he should get at the fairy treasure. At last, when he got close to the Gump, the music ceased, and suddenly, with a loud crashing noise which nearly scared the old man out of his senses, the whole hill seemed to open as if by magic, and in one instant every spot was lighted up. Thousands of little lights of all colours gleamed everywhere, silver stars twinkled and sparkled on every furze-bush, tiny lamps hung from every blade of grass. It was a more lovely sight than one ever sees nowadays, more lovely than any pantomime one has ever seen or ever will see. Then, out from the open hill marched troops of little Spriggans. Spriggans, you must know, are the Small People who live in rocks and stones, and cromlechs, the most mischievous, thievish little creatures that ever lived, and woe betide anyone who meddles with their dwelling-places. Well, first came all those Spriggans, then a large band of musicians followed by troops of soldiers, each troop carrying a beautiful banner, which waved and streamed out as though a brisk breeze were blowing, whereas in reality there was not a breath of wind stirring. These hosts of Little People quickly took up their places in perfect order all about the Gump, and, though they appeared quite unconscious of his presence, a great number formed a ring all round the old man. He was greatly amazed, but, "Never mind," he thought, "they are such little whipper-snappers I can easily squash them with my foot if they try on any May-games with me." As soon as the musicians, the Spriggans, and the soldiers had arranged themselves, out came a lot of servants carrying most lovely gold and silver vessels, goblets, too, cut out of single rubies, and diamonds, and emeralds, and every kind of precious stone. Then came others bearing rich meats and pastry, luscious fruits and preserves, everything, in fact, that one could think of that was dainty and appetizing. Each servant placed his burden on the tables in its proper place, then silently retired. Can you not imagine how the glorious scene dazzled the old man, and how his eyes glistened, and his fingers itched to grab at some of the wonderful things and carry them off? He knew that even one only of those flashing goblets would make him rich for ever. He was just thinking that nowhere in the world could there be a more beautiful sight, when, lo and behold! the illumination became twenty times as brilliant, and out of the hill came thousands and thousands of exquisitely dressed ladies and gentlemen, all in rows, each gentleman leading a lady, and all marching in perfect time and order. They came in companies of a thousand each, and each company was differently attired. In the first the gentlemen were all dressed in yellow satin covered with copper-coloured spangles, on their heads they wore copper-coloured helmets with waving, yellow plumes, and on their feet yellow shoes with copper heels. The flashing of the copper in the moonlight was almost blinding. Their companions all were dressed alike in white satin gowns edged with large turquoises, and on their tiny feet pale blue shoes with buckles formed of one large turquoise set in pearls. The gentlemen conducted the ladies to their places on the Gump, and with a courtly bow left them, themselves retiring to a little distance. The next troop then came up, in this the gentlemen were all attired in black, trimmed with silver, silver helmets with black plumes, black stockings and silver shoes. Their ladies were dressed in pink embroidered in gold, with waving pink plumes in their hair, and golden buckles on their pink shoes. In the next troop the men were dressed in blue and white, the ladies in green, with diamonds all around the hem of the gown, diamonds flashing in their hair, and hanging in long ropes from their necks; on their green shoes single diamonds blazed and flashed. So they came, troop after troop, more than I can describe, or you could remember, only I must tell you that the last of all were the most lovely. The ladies, all of whom had dark hair, were clad in white velvet lined with the palest violet silk, while round the hems of the skirts and on the bodices were bands of soft white swansdown. Swansdown also edged the little violet cloaks which hung from their shoulders. I cannot describe to you how beautiful they looked, with their rosy, smiling faces, and long black curls. On their heads they wore little silver crowns set with amethysts, amethysts, too, sparkled on their necks and over their gowns. In their hands they carried long trails of the lovely blossom of the wistaria. Their companions were clad in white and green, and in their left hands they carried silver rods with emerald stars at the top. It really seemed at one time as though the troops of Little People would never cease pouring out of the hill. They did so at last, though, and as soon as all were in their places the music suddenly changed, and became more exquisite than ever. The old man by this time seemed able to see more clearly, and hear more distinctly, and his sense of smell grew keener. Never were such flashing gems as here, never had any flowers such scents as these that were here. There were now thousands of little ladies gathered on the Gump, and these all broke out into song at the same instant, such beautiful singing, too, so sweet and delicate. The words were in an unknown tongue, but the song was evidently about some great personages who were about to emerge from the amazing hill, for again it opened, and again poured forth a crowd of Small People. First of all came a bevy of little girls in white gauze, scattering flowers, which, as soon as they touched the ground, sprang up into full life and threw out leaves and more flowers, full of exquisite scents; then came a number of boys playing on shells as though they were harps, and making ravishing music, while after them came hundreds and hundreds of little men clad in green and gold, followed by a perfect forest of banners spreading and waving on the air. Then last, but more beautiful than all that had gone before, was carried a raised platform covered with silk embroidered with real gold, and edged with crystals, and on the platform were seated a prince and princess of such surpassing loveliness that no words can be found to describe them. They were dressed in the richest velvet, and covered with precious stones which blazed and sparkled in the myriad lights until the eye could scarce bear to look at them. Over her lovely robe the princess's hair flowed down to the floor, where it rested in great shining, golden waves. In her hand she held a golden sceptre, on the top of which blazed a diamond as large as a walnut, while the prince carried one with a sapphire of equal size. After a deal of marching backwards and forwards, the platform was placed on the highest point of the Gump, which was now a hill of flowers, and every fairy walked up and bowed, said something to the prince and princess, and passed on to a seat at the tables. And the marvel was that though there were so many fairies present, there was not the slightest confusion amongst them, not one person moved out of place at the wrong moment. All was as quiet and well-arranged as could possibly be. At length all were seated, whereupon the prince gave a signal, on which a number of footmen came forward carrying a table laden with dainty food in solid gold dishes, and wines in goblets of precious stones which they placed on the platform before the prince and princess. As soon as the royal pair began to eat, all the hosts around them followed their example, and such a merry, jovial meal they had. The viands disappeared as fast as they could go, laughter and talk sounded on all sides, and never a sign did any of them give that they knew that a human being was watching them. If they knew it, they showed not the slightest concern. "Ah!" thought the old miser to himself. "I can't get all I'd like to, but if I could reach up to the prince's table I could get enough at one grab to set me up for life, and make me the richest man in St. Just parish!" Stooping down, he slowly and stealthily dragged himself nearer and nearer to the table. He felt quite sure that no one could see him. What he himself did not see was that hundreds of wicked little Spriggans had tied ropes on to him, and were holding fast to the ends. He crawled and crawled so slowly and carefully that it took him some time to get over the ground, but he managed it at last, and got quite close up to the lovely little pair. Once there he paused for a moment and looked back,--perhaps to see if the way was clear for him to run when he had done what he meant to do. He was rather startled to find that all was as dark as dark could be, and that he could see nothing at all behind him. However, he tried to cheer himself by thinking that it was only that his eyes were dazzled by looking at the bright lights so long. He was even more startled, though, when he turned round to the Gump again, to find that every eye of all those hundreds and thousands of fairies on the hill was looking straight into his eyes. At first he was really frightened, but as they did nothing but look, he told himself that they could not really be gazing at him, and grew braver with the thought. Then slowly bringing up his hat, as a boy does to catch a butterfly, he was just going to bring it down on the silken platform and capture prince and princess, table, gold dishes and all, when hark! A shrill whistle sounded, the old man's hand, with the hat in it, was paralysed in the air, so that he could not move it backwards or forwards, and in an instant every light went out, and all was pitchy darkness. There were a whir-r-r and a buzz, and a whir-r-r, as if a swarm of bees were flying by him, and the old man felt himself fastened so securely to the ground that, do what he would, he could not move an inch, and all the time he felt himself being pinched, and pricked, and tweaked from top to toe, so that not an inch of him was free from torment. He was lying on his back at the foot of the Gump, though how he got there he could never tell. His arms were stretched out and fastened down, so that he could not do anything to drive off his tormentors, his legs were so secured that he could not even relieve himself by kicking, and his tongue was tied with cords, so that he could not call out. There he lay, no one knows how long, for to him it seemed hours, and no one else but the fairies knew anything about it. At last he felt a lot of little feet running over him, but whose they were he had no idea until something perched on his nose, and by the light of the moon he saw it was a Spriggan. His wicked old heart sank when he realized that he had got into their clutches, for all his life he had heard what wicked little creatures they were. The little imp on his nose kicked and danced and stamped about in great delight at finding himself perched up so high. We all know how painful it is to have one's nose knocked, even ever so little, so you may imagine that the old miser did not enjoy himself at all. Master Spriggan did, though. He roared with laughter, as though he were having a huge joke, until at last, rising suddenly to his feet and standing on the tips of his tiny toes, he shouted sharply, "Away! away! I smell the day!" and to the old man's great relief off he flew in a great hurry, followed by all his mischievous little companions who had been playing games, and running races all over their victim's body. Left at last to himself, the mortified old man lay for some time, thinking over all that had happened, trying to collect his senses, and wondering how he should manage to escape from his bonds, for he might lie there for a week without any human being coming near the place. Till sunrise he lay there, trying to think of some plan, and then, what do you think he saw? Why, that he had not been tied down by ropes at all, but only by thousands of gossamer webs! And there they were now, all over him, with the dew on them sparkling like the diamonds that the princess had worn the night before. And those dewdrop diamonds were all the jewels he got for his night's work. When he made this discovery he turned over and groaned and wept with rage and shame, and never, to his dying day, could he bear to look at sparkling gold or gems, for the mere sight of them made him feel quite ill. At last, afraid lest he should be missed, and searchers be sent out to look for him, he got up, brushed off the dewy webs, and putting on his battered old hat, crept slowly home. He was wet through with dew, cold, full of rheumatism, and very ashamed of himself, and very good care he took to keep that night's experiences to himself. No one must know his shame. Years after, though, when he had become a changed man, and repented of his former greediness, he let out the story bit by bit to be a lesson to others, until his friends and neighbours, who loved to listen to anything about fairies, had gathered it all as I have told it to you here. And you may be quite sure it is all true, for the old man was not clever enough to invent it. THE FAIRY OINTMENT. Now I will tell you a story of a very foolish woman, whose curiosity got the better of her, and of how she was punished. The old woman's Christian name was Joan. I will not tell her surname, for it does not make any difference to the story, and there may be some of her descendants left who would not like it to be known. Joan was housekeeper to Squire Lovell. The name of his house shall be kept a secret too, but I will tell you this much, that he lived a few miles out of Penzance. Now one Saturday afternoon it fell out that Joan wanted to go to Penzance Market to get herself a pair of shoes, and to buy some groceries and several Christmas things for the house, for it was Christmas Eve, and the Squire had a lot of folks coming to supper that very night. So, the weather being fine, Joan started off soon after her twelve o'clock dinner, to walk into Penzance to market. Having, though, a great fancy for company, and loving a little gossip, she thought she would step in on her way to see if her friend Betty Trenance was going to market too. It would be so nice to have each other's company on the way. Now many persons in those parts told some very queer stories about Betty Trenance, and amongst themselves some called her a witch, and were afraid of her. Joan, though, argued that if she was a witch, there was all the more reason for keeping friendly with her. And if one did not offend Betty, she was always ready to give one a cup of tea, or do anything to oblige one. Betty lived down at Lamorna Cove, which was a little way out of Joan's road, but she did not mind that if she could get Betty's company. She walked quickly, though, for the days were short, and she had a long way to go, and to be back in time to cook the Squire's supper. On her way she met two of Betty's elder children carrying baskets of fish on their backs, and down in the Cove she saw all the younger ones at play with the limpets and crabs in the rock-pools, and paddling about in the water. But she could not stay to watch them, for she had no time to spare, so she hurried on to the cottage. When she got there, though, to her astonishment she found the front door was closed and fastened, not only latched either, but bolted! This was such an unusual thing in those parts, that Joan was quite startled. At first she thought something must really have gone amiss, then she comforted herself by deciding that Betty had already started for the market, and had locked the children out to keep them from ransacking the place. Just, though, as she had settled all this in her mind, and was about to turn away, the sound of voices reached her, and voices talking very earnestly, too. Joan looked round her nervously, the voices sounded quite near to her, but there was no sight or sign of any living thing except some seagulls, and Betty's old black cat. What did it all mean? Joan was frightened, but her curiosity made her stay and try to get to the bottom of the mystery. She stood quite still and listened very closely. Yes, there were the voices again, plainly enough, but where? She tiptoed close up to the door and placed her ear against the keyhole. This time she heard Tom Trenance's voice quite distinctly,--Tom was Betty's husband. He was talking very earnestly to someone too, more earnestly than she had ever heard him speak in her life before, but, try as she would, she could not make out to whom he was speaking, nor what he was saying. This was more than inquisitive Joan could endure. She must know what was going on in that cottage, or she would know no peace day or night, for thinking about it. So she made up her mind to knock and knock until those inside were obliged to come to the door, but first of all she thought she would have a peep in through the finger-hole by the latch. So she stooped down and put her eye to the hole, and there she saw Tom sitting on the settle, and after all it was only Betty that he was talking to. Betty was standing beside him with a little box in her hand, from which she took something that looked like ointment, which she smeared over her husband's eyes, and all the time she did it she seemed to be mumbling some verses or something that sounded like a charm. There seemed to be other voices as well, though, and to Joan's great annoyance she could not see from whence they came. All this put old Joan in a fearful flutter. People had always told her that Betty was a witch, and that Tom had the power of the evil eye, and now she began to believe them. You would not have thought so to look at him, for though they were very piercing, they were handsome hazel eyes, clear and kind-looking,--unless he was angered, and _then_-- Completely mystified, and more inquisitive than ever, Joan went round to the window by the chimney, to see if from there she could hear what they were saying; but it was of no use. The door of the cottage was on the landward side, and the windows of the cottage were to seaward, and round the kitchen window was a great bush of honeysuckle and 'Traveller's Joy,' which prevented anyone's getting quite close, and what with the sound of the sea, the singing of the birds, and the shouting of the children below, one might as well have been a mile off, for all one could hear! Back tiptoed Joan again, and sat down on the bench outside the house to think, but her curiosity would not let her keep still, so up she jumped again, and peeped through the door once more. This time she saw that Tom was standing up, preparing to come out; so not wanting to be caught prying, she tapped at the door, and lifting the latch at the same time, walked in as if she had but that moment arrived. She was so excited by what she was doing that she did not notice that the door opened quite easily now. She went in so quickly, too, that she was just in time to see Betty push something under the dried ferns at the back of the chimney. After saying "good day," and hearing what she had come for, Tom went out, leaving them to make their plans by themselves, but Betty, though she seemed pleased to see her friend, could not be persuaded to go to market with her. She was very sorry, she said, but she was very bad, she had not been well for days, and she still had a good day's work to get through making ready for Christmas. She was not too busy, though, to make a cup of tea, and Joan must stay and have one with her, and away she bustled to the talfat,[1] where she had a special case of tea put away. This was Joan's opportunity, and she seized it. As soon as Betty's back was turned, she whipped the pot of ointment out from under the ferns, stuck her finger in it, and popped the pot back again, in no time. But no sooner had she touched her eye with the ointment than, oh! such a pain shot through it, she very nearly shrieked aloud. It was as though a red-hot knitting needle had been run right through her eyeball! And, oh, the smarting and the burning that followed! To prevent a sound escaping her she had to hug and squeeze herself with all her might, she dared not open her lips to speak, and the tears poured down her cheeks like rain. It was lucky for her that Betty had some trouble in dragging the chest of tea from under the bed, for if she had come back quickly she could not have helped seeing what Joan had been doing. By the time she returned, though, the worst of the pain was over, and keeping up her hand to that side of her face, Joan managed to conceal the injured eye, and Betty was too busy with her fire and her kettle to be very observant. "I'm glad you came in to have a cup with me, and drink my health, it being Christmas Eve and all," said Betty as they drew up to the table. Then, having drunk each other's health, they had a third cup to drink the health of the children, for, as Joan said, "there wasn't a healthier, handsomer family in the whole parish." Then they drank the health of the mermaids, for it is always wise to be civil to them, and after that Joan rose to go. Before she could go, though, she felt she must manage to open her injured eye, which still watered and smarted a good deal. So she rubbed it and blinked and winked until at last she managed to part the lids,--when, lo and behold! to her amazement and alarm she saw that the house, which she had thought empty save for herself and Betty, was simply thronged with Little People! There was not a spot that was free of them! They were climbing up the dressers, hanging on to the beams, swinging on the fishing nets, hanging across them, playing pranks on the clock, on the table, and the mantelpiece, sliding down the saucepan handles, riding races on mice,-- they were everywhere, in fact, and up to every kind of game. They were all very beautifully dressed. Most of the little men wore green velvet, trimmed with scarlet, and their long green caps, which most of them were waving frantically, had long scarlet feathers in them. They all wore little red boots, too, and large silver spurs,--at least, large for fairies. The ladies were very consequential little people indeed, and swept about in their long-trained gowns as though they were Court ladies at a Drawing-room. On their little shoes they had diamond buckles, and their great steeple-crowned hats were garlanded with beautiful flowers. Such flowers as are seldom seen on Christmas Eve, but the Little People have gardens under the sea where the flowers bloom in wonderful beauty all the year round. Fishermen see them sometimes on moonlight nights, when the water is clear and the wind calm, and if they listen closely they can hear exquisite fairy music floating across the waters from bay to bay. Back in the corner by Betty's wood heap were a lot of Spriggans, poor depressed little creatures, dirty and sullen-looking. They were not lively like the others, for you know they have to guard the Fairy treasures all the year round, and they get no fun at all, as other fairies do. So they are naturally not very lively. While Joan was standing gazing, open-mouthed, bewildered by what she saw, strains of the most beautiful music reached her ears, and gradually a change began to come over the whole house. It was no wonder that she thought her head was turned! The music came nearer and nearer, and mingling with it was the tramp of hundreds of little feet; at last it came quite close, and through the window marched a regiment of robins as unconcernedly as a regiment of soldiers entering their barracks. Quite gravely they stepped down from the window, marched across the room, and flew up to the beam, where they perched themselves in perfect order, and began to sing as hard as they possibly could. In a moment or two they were followed through the window by a regiment of wrens, and then by a regiment of Little People, all playing on every kind of musical instrument ever invented, and on a number made out of reeds, and shells, such as had never been seen before or since. Stepping down gracefully from the window to the floor, the band, followed by numbers of little ladies and gentlemen, carrying branches of herbs and flowers, marched with stately tread past old Betty Trenance, bowed to her in a most respectful manner in passing, then arranged themselves in perfect order behind her. Last of all came another troop of fairies, and these took the herbs and flowers brought by the little ladies and gentlemen and placed them in Betty's apron. "These are what she makes her salves and ointments of," thought Joan to herself; "no wonder she is thought so clever." This done, all the other fairies who had been playing about the house came down to the floor and joined the new-comers. Such a crowd never was seen! No sooner had the flowers and herbs been heaped in Betty's lap than another troop of fairies came forward with fox-glove bells full of dyes, which they poured over Betty's dress, when in a moment her russet gown was changed to the softest white velvet, her apron to the filmiest lace, edged all round with a delicate fringe of harebells and snowdrops. Other fairies outlined the quilted 'diamonds' of her petticoat with silver cord. When her dress had been transformed in this way, all the troop of Little People came forward with dainty bunches of flowers to complete her toilet, sweet wild flowers they were, delicate speedwells and forget-me-nots with their fresh green, and their innocent blue eyes; the warm scarlet pimpernel, violets, snowdrops, heather bells, and ladies' white petticoats. Some of each and every kind of flower we find in the lanes and hedges. The little ladies stitched a small nosegay in each 'diamond' of Betty's petticoat, and every nosegay was different. The tiniest flowers of all they laid on sprays of feathery moss, others had background of graceful ferns, or delicate grass. Around the hem of the skirt were sprays of pink and white dog-roses, while the bodice was wreathed with tiny pink and white convolvulus. Sparkling at Betty's throat were such brilliant jewels that Joan had to look away, her eyes were so dazzled. The strangest part of all this was that Betty did not seem in the least surprised at what was going on, and was apparently quite unaware that Joan was watching her. As soon as the gown was completed, another group of the clever little creatures clambered up to the top of the high-backed chair in which Betty was seated, and began to arrange her hair. Some had quaint little pots in their hands from which they poured delicate perfumes over Betty's head,-- Joan picked up one of the pots, which they threw aside when empty, and found to her astonishment that it was only a poppy head. Then they carefully arranged every curl and wave of Betty's hair, until she looked as beautiful as a queen, and as dignified and stately, too; for Betty, though a mischievous witch, was not at all like our ideas of one. She was as clean as a new pin, and as neat and tidy as anyone could be. Her features were unusually handsome, and her thick dark hair, which reached the ground when she sat down, was full of the prettiest curls and waves. As soon as the last curl was arranged, and her tire-maidens satisfied, they placed a spray of jessamine amongst her tresses, and jumped down, their task completed. All this time the music was playing the most bewitching melodies. Very soon after this Joan began to have a feeling that Betty wished her gone. The Little People, too, were making signs that she could not fail to understand, and such hideous grimaces at her, too, that made her long to box their ears. Of course, neither Betty nor the fairies knew that she had used the Fairy Ointment, and could see them, and to save herself from being found out, she bade her friend 'goodbye' with all speed. When Joan got outside, though, she could not resist one more sly peep in, just to make sure she had not been dreaming. So down went her eye to the finger-hole again, but all she saw was the kitchen, with its sanded floor and bright turf fire, the key-beam with the nets hanging across it, and Betty stitching away as fast as her fingers could fly. "This is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard tell of," said Joan to herself. "I'll have another look." Down went her eye again, but the right one this time, and, lo and behold! there was the kitchen turned into a splendid banqueting hall, hung around with tapestry representing everything that had ever happened in the world. The talfat-rail was turned into a balcony hung with pale blue satin, where sat a number of little ladies and gentlemen watching the dancing which was going on below. The costumes of all were magnificent, the cottage was as beautiful as a bit of Fairyland, and seated on a golden chair of state under a velvet canopy was Betty Trenance looking as royal as a queen. Betty, though, seemed to be keeping a sharp eye on the door, and as she had a crowd of wicked little piskies about her, Joan thought it wise to get away to safer quarters. So off she hurried, but as she went she met numbers of fairies all hurrying away to Betty's cottage, while from the rocks below came the doleful wail of the mermaids, and all was so uncanny Joan was glad to hurry along as fast as she knew how. She was really scared by this time, and the light was growing dim, for it was already past three o'clock. Once arrived at Penzance, Joan did her marketing quickly, but by the time she had finished she was very tired and very hungry, for she had had nothing to eat since twelve o'clock dinner, and had been trudging about for hours. So, having a piece of saffron cake in her basket, she turned into an inn in Market Jew Street, to get something to drink with it, and a place to sit down for a while to rest. When she got there she found the house so crowded that she had to sit on a bench outside, and here she met a lot of friends, and had a thorough good gossip. They drank each other's health too, and passed the compliments of the season, until Joan remembered all of a sudden that she ought to have been on her way home by that time, for the Squire would be very angry if she were not there to see to things for the supper-party. Up she jumped in a great flurry, and had said 'good-bye' all round when she suddenly remembered that she had not yet bought several of the things she had come to town on purpose to get. She was dreadfully vexed, but there was no time to stay and think about it, she had just to hurry back into the market and make her purchases as quickly as possible. At last she had really bought everything, and was about to leave, when unfortunately some wonderful bargains caught her eye, and it did seem to her sinful to go away without taking a glance at them when she might never have such a chance again. So she lingered by the stalls, and wandered up and down having a good look at everything, when whom should she see doing the very same thing but Tom Trenance! He did not see Joan, so she thought she would go up and speak to him, and ask if he was going home soon, for it would be nice to have his company on the way. He was so busy, though, darting about from stall to stall, that Joan could never get up to him. But she could see what he was doing, and the sight made Joan's blood boil with indignation! He was helping himself to everything that took his fancy! Yarn, stockings, boots, spoons, clothing, until the wonder was that he could manage to stow the things away. The oddest part of all, though, was that nobody seemed to see him. Joan looked again and again to make sure she was not dreaming, but no, he was there right enough, and pocketing things as fast as he could, right under the stall-keepers' very noses, and they paying no heed whatever to him! Joan could bear it no longer! She could not stand by and see such wickedness going on; it made her blood boil with indignation. So over she bustled and touched him on the arm. "Tom Trenance," she cried, "I'm downright ashamed of 'ee! I wonder you ain't above carrying on such dishonest ways, and you with children to set an example to! I didn't think you capable of such wickedness." Tom for a minute looked, and was too much taken aback to speak. But he quickly recovered himself. "Why, Joan," he said, taking no notice of her accusations, "I take it very kind and neighbourly of 'ee to come up and speak. What sharp eyes you've got! Now which of them did you 'appen to catch sight of me with?" "Which? Why, both, of course," cried Joan, but she put up her hand first over one and then over the other, and found she could only see Tom with the right one. "Why, no, I can't see 'ee with both," she cried in astonishment. "The left one don't seem to be a bit of good!" "The right one is it?" said Tom, and his look went through her like a gimlet. Then, pointing his finger at it, he muttered:-- "Thou wicked old spy-- Thou shalt no more see me, Nor peep nor pry With that charmed eye." And at that very moment a sharp pain shot through her right eye. It was so sharp that she screamed aloud, and from that moment she never could see with it again. Yelling, and pressing her fist into her throbbing eyeball, she rushed hither and thither, calling to people to come and help her, and to go and catch Tom Trenance, all in one breath; but as they could not see Tom,--nor could she, either, now,--they unkindly said the poor soul was crazy, which, of course, was most unjust and cruel of them, and shows what mistakes people can make. Of course, it was the Fairy Ointment on her eye which enabled her to see so much, and it was that same ointment which rendered Tom Trenance invisible to everyone but to her. How poor Joan ever found her way back to Market Jew Street again she never could tell, but when she did arrive there she had, of course, to stay a little while and tell her sad story, so that it was really quite late and dark before she started for home; and then, what with the darkness and her blindness she could only crawl along. She groped her way painfully down Voundervoor and over the Green, stumbling over the ruts and sandy banks until she was very nearly driven crazy. Through only being able to see with her left eye, she kept bearing away to the left side of the road, and I cannot tell you how many times she fell into the ditch, marketing and all! And so afraid was she of falling into the sea, and so close did she keep to the other side of the road away from it, that at last she went right through the hedge and fell over into a place called 'Park-an-Shebbar!' Luckily one of the farm-boys was in the field, and helped her up and picked up her parcels for her; then, seeing how bad she was, he took her into the house to rest and recover, for she seemed quite dazed by that time. There they gave her something to bring her round, and presently she began to feel better and able to go on again. By this time she was very anxious to get home, so the lad helped her over the stream and set her on the right road once more. This time Joan stepped out briskly, for she was really very troubled about the Squire's supper, and all the people who were expected to it. If she did not get home soon, they would have arrived first, and, oh, how angry the Squire would be! By the time, though, that she got to the top of Paul Hill, she was so tired she felt she could not go another step without a rest, so, though she could badly spare the time, she dropped with a sigh of relief on to a soft green spot, when, oh! what a shriek she gave! for the soft green spot was a duck-pond covered with duck-weed! How she got out of the pond she could never tell, but she did and crept over to the other side of the road, where she fell back on the hedge quite exhausted. "Oh dear, oh dear!" she moaned, "I'm nearly dead. Oh, if only I'd got our old Dumpling here to give me a lift; or any other quiet old horse I'd be thankful for. I shall never reach home to-night on my two feet, I'm sure, they are ready to drop off already!" Barely had she uttered her wish when there by the roadside stood an old white horse, cropping quietly away at the brambles and dead ferns. How he came there I can't tell you. Whether he had been there all the time without her seeing him, or whether he came by magic, no one can say, but there he was. Many persons in Dame Joan's place would have been afraid to mount him, fearing witchcraft, or fairies' pranks, but Joan was too tired to have many scruples. So up she got and untied his feet, for he was hobbled, put the rope round his head, and then managed somehow to clamber up on his back, basket and all. It was hard work, but she got settled after a bit, then picking up the rope, called to him to start. "Gee wug! gee wo!" she called, "get up, you lazy old faggot!" and she hammered away at his side with her heels with all her might--and her shoes were none of the daintiest! but in spite of her coaxings and her threats, her kicks and her thumps, the old horse did not move an inch. "Come up, can't you! Gee wug, come here!" She beat him and kicked him again until she was really too tired to move hand or foot; then, when she had given up in despair, the tiresome creature made a start. But such a start! he went at a slow snail's pace, and try as Joan would she could not make him go faster. At last, though, when she reached the top of a hill, there came from the valley below the cry of hounds, devil's hounds they must have been, for no others would be out at that time of night. As soon as the sounds reached the old horse's ears, he pricked them up, whinnied loudly, and with a toss of his head and a fling of his tail started away like any young colt. Away, away, uphill and downhill they tore as fast as the wind. Joan clung to the horse's mane with both hands, and yelled and yelled to him to stop. She might as well, though, have held her breath. All her marketing flew out of her basket, her precious beaver hat was carried away, her shawl was whisked off her back! On and on the old horse tore, jumping over everything that came in his way, until Joan was nearly flung from his back. Presently, too, to her horror she saw that the creature was growing bigger and bigger, and higher and higher; soon he shot up above the trees, then he was as high as the church tower. Poor Joan, perched on his back, grew sick, giddy, and terrified. She was afraid now to slip off lest she should be dashed to pieces, and was afraid to stay there lest she should fall off. For miles and miles they travelled like this, until at last they came to Toldave Moor, on the further side of which there was, Joan knew, a deep black pool, and for this pool, to Joan's horror, the monster galloped straight! "If I don't slip off now, I shall surely be drowned outright!" thought poor Joan, for the pond was deep, she felt her powers were failing her; her hands were numb, her limbs cramped. She knew she could not swim. "Better a dry death than a wet one, it will save my clothes, anyway!" So, letting go her hold of the creature's mane, she was about to let herself slide down, when the wind caught her and carried her right off the horse's back. They were going at a terrific rate, and the wind was very keen on the moor; it lifted her right up in the air, high above the horse, and then, just as she thought she was going to disappear through the clouds, she was dropped plump into the rushes by the edge of the very pool itself. At the same moment the air became filled with the most awful clamour, such yells and cries, and terrible laughter as no living being had ever heard before. Poor old Joan thought her last hour had really come, and gave herself up for lost, for when she looked round she saw the fearful great creature she had been riding, disappearing in the distance in flames of fire, and tearing after it, helter-skelter, pell-mell, was a horrible crew of men and dogs and horses. Two or three hundred of them there must have been, and not one of the lot had a head on his shoulders. Joan would have screamed, too, if she had not been stricken dumb with fright; so, very nearly scared to death, trembling with cold and fear, there she lay until they had disappeared. How she scrambled out of her soft, damp resting-place she could never tell, but she did, somehow, and got as far as Trove Bottom, though without any shoes, for they had come off in the ditch. Her shawl was gone, too, and all her marketing, and, worst of all, her precious broad-brimmed beaver hat. There was a linhay down at the Bottom, where Squire Lovell kept a lot of sheep, and into that Joan crept, and lay down, and from sheer exhaustion fell asleep and slept till morning. How much longer she would have slept no one knows, but on Sunday mornings it was the Squire's habit to go down and look over his sheep, and on this Sunday, though it was Christmas Day, he visited them as usual. His entrance with his boys and his dogs and his flashing lantern woke old Joan with a start, and so certain was she that they were the horse, and the huntsmen, and their hounds come again, that she sprang up in a frenzy of terror. "Get out, get out!" she cried, "let a poor old woman be!" But instead of the hollow laugh of the huntsmen, it was the Squire's voice that answered her. "Why, here's our poor old lost Joan!" he cried, amazed, "and frightened out of her wits, seemingly! Why, Joan," he said, "whatever have you been spending the night out here for? We've been scouring the country for you, for hours!" "Oh, Master!" she cried, almost in tears as she dropped trembling at his feet, "for the sake of all the years I've served 'ee from your cradle up, do 'ee let me die in peace, and bury me decent!" and then, her tongue once set going, she poured out all the long tale of the dreadful things that had happened to her since she set out for Penzance Market. How long she would have talked no one knows, but the Squire sent for his men, and between them they carried her home, and warmed and fed and comforted her, for she was black and blue, wet to the skin, and half frozen. However, with all their care she soon recovered, and when she was dry, and warm, and rested she poured out all her adventures and disasters. To her astonishment, though, and anger and pain, they refused to believe a word of it. They did not pity her a bit; they even laughed at her. Indeed, they tried to make her believe that the enchanted steed was only the miller's old white horse, that the demon huntsman and his hounds were no more nor less than her own son John riding across the moor with the dogs, in search of her, that her lost eye must have been scratched out by a 'fuz'-bush; and so they went on pooh-poohing the whole of her story,-- which was very nearly the most aggravating thing of all she had had to bear. One thing, though, Joan had not told them, and that was about her stealing the Fairy Ointment, or they would have known that she had been pisky-led that night, by order of the Fairies, as a punishment, and would one and all have agreed that she richly deserved it. [1] A 'talfat' is a raised floor at one end of a cottage, on which a bed is placed. Sometimes it is divided off by a wooden partition, but more often there is only a bar, to prevent the sleeper falling out of bed. THE EXCITING ADVENTURE OF JOHN STURTRIDGE. One of the greatest feast-days in Cornwall, and the most looked forward to, is St. Picrons' Day, which falls just before Christmas. It is the special day of the tinners and streamers, their greatest holiday in the year, and on it they have a great merry-making. Picrons was the discoverer of tin in Cornwall, so they say, so, of course, it is the bounden duty of those who earn their living by it, to keep up his day with rejoicings. It is not of St. Picrons, though, that I am going to tell you, but of John Sturtridge, a streamer, and what befell him one year when he had been keeping up St. Picrons' Day. He had been up to the 'Rising Sun' to the great supper that was always held there, and to the merry-making after it, and had enjoyed himself mightily. Enjoyed himself so much, in fact, that he did not greatly relish having to turn out, when both were ended, and face a long walk home. It was a bitterly cold night, and the road was a lonely one, all across Tregarden Downs. However, it had to be faced, and nothing was gained by putting it off, so John started, and at first he got along pretty well. True, he found the roads very puzzling, and difficult to follow, but that may have been the fault of the moonlight, or the will-o'-the-wisps. Anyhow, if he did not get on very rapidly, he got on somehow, and presently reached the Downs. Now Tregarden Downs is a horribly wild, uncanny stretch of country, a place where no one chooses to walk alone after nightfall, and, though John was in a cheerful mood, and did not feel at all frightened, he quickened his steps, and pulled hot-foot for home and bed. He kept a sharp eye on the cart-tracks, too, for he had no fancy for going astray here as he had done in the lanes. Whether, though, he did go a little astray or not, no one can say, but all of a sudden what should he come upon right across his path, but a host of piskies playing all sorts of games and high jinks under the shelter of a great granite boulder. Whatever John's feelings may have been at the sight of them, the piskies were not troubled by the sight of John. They were not in the least alarmed, the daring little imps. They only burst into roars of wicked laughter, which pretty nearly scared the wits out of poor John, and made him take to his heels and run for his life! If only he could get off the Downs, he thought, he would be safe enough, but the Downs, of which he knew every yard, seemed to-night to stretch for miles and miles, and, try as he would, he could not find his way off them. He wandered round and round, and up and down, and to and fro, until at last he was obliged to admit to himself that he did not know in the least where he was, for he could not find a single landmark to guide him. It is a very unpleasant thing to lose yourself on a big lonely Down, on a bleak winter's night, but it is ten times more unpleasant when you are pursued all the way by scores of mischievous little sprites, who shriek with laughter at you all the time, and from sheer wickedness delight in leading you into all the marshy places, the prickily 'fuz'-bushes, and rough boulders they can find, and nearly die of laughter when you prick or bump yourself, or get stuck in the mud. John was thoroughly frightened, and thoroughly out of temper, and was meditating how he could punish his little tormentors, when suddenly from all sides rose a shrill cry. "Ho and away for Par Beach! Ho and away for Par Beach! Ho and away for Par Beach!" Hardly knowing what he was doing John shouted, too. "Ho and away for Par Beach!" he yelled at the top of his voice, and almost before he had said the words he was caught high up in the air, and in another minute found himself on the great stretch of sands at Par. As soon as they had recovered their breath the piskies all formed up in rings and began to dance as fast as their little feet could move, and John with them. "Ho and away for Squire Tremaine's cellar!" The shrill cry rang out again, even as they danced. John again repeated the cry, and in a flash found himself in the cellars at Heligan,--Squire Tremaine's place,--with his mischievous little companions swarming all over them. John felt no fear of them now. He joined them in all their pranks, and had a good time running from cask to cask, and bottle to bottle, opening everything and tasting the contents of most. John at last became so confused he could not remember who he was or where he was; in fact, he was so confused and so sleepy that when the piskies called out, "Ho and away for Par Beach!" try as he would he could not speak, so the piskies flew off, and John was left behind alone. John did not mind it in the least, at first, for it was much more pleasant in the shelter of the cellar, with plenty of wine to warm him, than it would be out on the desolate sands at Par, where the wind blows keenly enough to take one's ears off. John did mind, though, the next morning, when the butler came and discovered him. He was groping his way between two rows of casks, trying to find his way to Luxulyan, he explained to the butler, but the butler, instead of putting him in the right road, led him at once to Squire Tremaine's study, where John told the wonderful story of his adventures. Strangely enough, though, neither the Squire nor anyone else would believe a word of them, and without any consideration for poor John's feelings, they popped him into Bodmin Jail almost as quickly as the piskies and he had popped into the cellar. And worse still, before much time had elapsed, they tried him, convicted him, and sentenced him to be hanged. Poor John! Here was a dreadful state of affairs, and all brought on an innocent man by those wicked piskies! There was no escape either, or hope of reprieve, for people were not so tender-hearted in those days as in these, and a man was not only sentenced to death for a trifle, but no one ever took any trouble to get him off. Well, the fatal day came, and John was brought to the gallows, where a large crowd was gathered to see the execution; and there stood John, with the clergyman imploring him to confess, and free his mind of a load of falsehood; and the hangman waiting with the noose in his hand, waiting to slip it over poor John's head, when suddenly a beautiful little lady, dressed in white and silver, appeared in the midst of the crowd gathered at the gallows-foot. No one saw her come, no one knew how she got there; but without a word from her, not knowing, indeed, why they did so, every man, woman, and child stood back and left a clear pathway for her right up to the scaffold. There she paused, and stood, with her eyes fixed on the prisoner, who, however, did not see her, for he was too frightened to notice anything that was going on around him--until, "Ho and away for France!" rang out a sweet voice, which John recognized in a moment. With the sound of it his poor dazed senses returned, and the spirit to seize the chance of escape offered him. "Ho and away for France!" he yelled. There was no danger of his not being able to shout this time! And then, before anyone there could collect his senses, the officers of justice saw their prisoner whisked away from out of their very grasp, and John was in France long before the executioner and the chaplain, the jailers and the crowd, had ceased gaping stupidly at each other. THE TRUE STORY OF ANNE AND THE FAIRIES. More than two hundred years ago there lived in the parish of St. Teath, a poor labouring man called Jefferies, and this man had one daughter, called Anne. Anne was a sweetly pretty girl, and a very intelligent one, too; but she was a terrible hoyden. She shocked all the old ladies in the village, and all the prim people, dreadfully, and instead of being ashamed, she seemed to glory in it. Everyone wondered how she came to have such a spirit, and whom she took after, for her mother was as quiet and meek a little woman as ever was born, and always had been; while her father was a stern, silent man, who looked upon his flighty daughter as a thorn in his side, a cross laid upon him for his good. But the fact remains that Anne was the most daring of all the young people in the parish, doing things that even the boys were afraid to do, for she had no fear, nothing awed her, and there was nothing she would not attempt. In those days the fairies and piskies, witches and goblins of all sorts were all over the land, and everyone knew it, and was more or less in awe of them. The young people appealed to the fairies for everything, to be helped in their work, to get love-draughts, to be made beautiful, and to know their fortunes. At the same time they all, except Anne, would have been scared to death if they had caught sight of one. Anne, indeed, often boldly declared that she longed to see them, and would love to have a talk with them; and she made up her mind that she would, too, and when once Anne had got an idea into her head, she generally managed to carry it out. So, without saying anything to anyone, she went out every evening as soon as the sun was gone down, and wandered about looking into the fox-glove bells, and under the ferns, examining the Fairy Rings and every other likely spot, singing:-- Fairy fair and fairy bright, Come and be my chosen sprite! For though she had got a very good and true sweetheart, named Tom, she had a great fancy for a fairy one. Perhaps she was thinking of the lovely presents that people said the fairies gave, or perhaps she thought that she would like to live in a palace, and be dressed in silks and velvet, none of which things could poor Tom give her, of course. On moonlight nights Anne crept away by herself to the banks of the stream which ran through the valley, and here, walking against the current, she would sing:-- Moon shines bright, water runs clear, I am here, but where's my fairy dear? She sang it wistfully enough to touch the heart of any fairy, but though she went on for a long time repeating all the charms she knew, and trying, by every means she could think of, to please the Little People, and though she often nearly put her hand on one during her searches, the Little People never showed themselves to her. They noticed her, though, and were only biding their time. One beautiful warm summer's day, Anne, having finished her housework early, took her knitting and went and sat in an arbour at the foot of the garden, for she never could bear to be cooped up indoors if she could possibly get out. She had not been sitting there very long when she heard a rustling amongst the bushes, but she took no notice of it, for she felt it was sure to be her lover, coming to have a talk with her; and now that she was so possessed with the thought of a fairy lover, she had ceased to care for poor Tom, and was extremely cool and off-hand with him. So, at the sound of the rustling, even when it was repeated, she did not even raise her eyes from her knitting, or turn her head. Presently, though, the bushes were rustled more violently, and then someone gave a little laugh. Anne moved this time, for the laugh was certainly not Tom's laugh. A lane ran along at the back of the arbour, a lane which one had to pass down to get to the garden gate, and it was from here that the laugh came. Anne peeped carefully out through the trellis-work and bushes to try to see who it was who was laughing at her, but not a sign of any living being could she see. She felt annoyed, for it is extremely unpleasant to feel that someone is looking at you through a peep-hole, and making game of you. Anne grew so vexed she could not keep her vexation to herself. "Well," she said aloud, feeling sure it was Tom who was trying to tease her, "you may stay there till the moss grows over you, before ever I'll come out to you." A burst of laughter, peculiarly sweet and ringing, greeted her words. "Oh," she thought to herself, "whoever can it be? I'm certain sure Tom could never laugh like that. Who can it be, I wonder?" She felt really nervous now, for there was something unnatural about it all, but she tried to reassure herself by thinking that nothing could happen to her in broad daylight such as it was then. Besides which, she did not know of anyone who wished to harm her, for she was a favourite with everyone in the village. She waited anxiously, though, to see what would happen next. She went on with her knitting, seemingly paying no heed to anything, but her ears were strained to catch the least sound, and when, after a little while, the garden gate was softly opened and closed again, she heard it distinctly, and glancing up to see who was coming, she saw to her astonishment, not Tom, or anyone else she knew, but six little pisky gentlemen, handsome little creatures, with pleasant smiles and brilliantly shining eyes. To her astonishment they did not seem at all disturbed at seeing her, but came up and ranged themselves in a row before her and bowed to the ground. They were all dressed alike in green knickerbockers and tunics, edged with scarlet, and tiny green caps, and one, the handsomest of the lot, had a beautiful red waving feather at one side of his. They stood and looked at Anne and smiled, and Anne, not at all frightened now, but pleased, smiled back at them. Then he with the red feather stepped in front of the others, and bowing to her in the most courtly manner, addressed her with a charming friendliness which set her at ease at once. Whether this strange little gentleman was really attracted by her charms, or whether he acted in the same way to every pretty girl he met, one cannot say, but he certainly looked at Anne very affectionately and admiringly, and poor Anne's heart was captured at once. She was certain there never had been such a charming little gentleman before, nor ever could be again, nor one with such good taste. Stooping down she held out her hand, whereupon the little gentleman stepped into it, and Anne lifted him to her lap. From her lap he soon climbed to her shoulder, and then he kissed her, and not only kissed her once, but many times, and Anne thought him more charming than ever. Presently he called his companions, and they climbed up and kissed Anne, too, and patted her rosy cheeks, and smoothed her hair. But while one of them was patting her cheek, he ran his finger across her eyes, and Anne gave a terrible scream, for with his touch she felt as though a needle had been run through her eyeballs, and when she tried to open them again she found she was blind. At the same moment she felt herself caught up in the air, and for what seemed to her a very long time she was carried through it at a tremendous rate. At last they came to a stop, whereupon one of the Little Men said something which Anne could not understand, and, behold, her eyesight at once came back! And now, indeed, she had something to use it on, for she found herself in what seemed to be a perfectly gorgeous palace, or rather two or three palaces joined together, all built of gold and silver, with arches and pillars of crystal, large halls with walls of burnished copper, and beautiful rooms inlaid with precious marbles. Outside was a perfect paradise of a garden, filled with lovely flowers, and trees laden with fruit or blossom. Birds were singing everywhere, such rare birds, too! Some were all blue and gold, others a bright scarlet, then again others shone like silver or steel. There were large lakes full of gold and silver fish, and marble fountains throwing jets of water high into the air. Here and there were dainty bowers covered with roses, and filled within with soft moss carpets and luxurious couches. Walking about everywhere in this lovely place were scores of little ladies and gentlemen, dressed in rich silks and velvets, and with precious stones sparkling and flashing from their fingers, their hair, their shoes, indeed they seemed to sparkle all over, like flowers covered with dewdrops. Some strolled along the walks, others reclined in the bowers, some floated in little scarlet or ivory boats on the lakes, others sat under the blossoming trees. There seemed, indeed, no end to them, and to Anne's great astonishment, neither they nor her six companions seemed small now, also, to her great delight, she was dressed as beautifully as any of them, and wore as beautiful jewels. Though she did not know it, she had shrunk to their size, and a very lovely little fairy she made. Her gown was of white silk, with a long train bordered all round with trails of green ivy, and over her shoulders she wore a long green silk cloak with a little scarlet hood. Her hair looked as though it had been dressed by a Court hairdresser, and amidst the puffs and curls sparkled emeralds and diamonds, like trembling stars. Her little green slippers had silver heels, and diamond buckles on the toes, round her waist hung a diamond girdle, on her neck, too, and fingers gems sparkled and flashed with every movement. Oh, how proud and delighted Anne did feel, and how eagerly she hoped that she might always live like this! Instead of having one cavalier as most of the ladies had, she had six, but the one with the red feather was her favourite, and hour by hour he and Anne grew more deeply in love with one another. Unfortunately, though, the other five began to grow very jealous, and they kept such a watch on Anne and her friend, that the poor lovers had no chance to get away and talk by themselves, or exchange even a look, or a kiss, or a handclasp. However, when people are determined they usually succeed in the end, and one day Anne and her handsome lover managed to slip away unobserved. Hand in hand they ran to a garden which lay at some little distance from the others, one that was seldom used, too, and where the flowers grew so tall and in such profusion that they soon were completely hidden amongst them. Here they made their home, and here they lived for a time as happily as any two people could who loved each other more than all the world beside. Alas, though, their happiness was too great to last! They had not been in their beautiful retreat very long, when one day they heard a great noise and disturbance, and to Anne's dismay the five little men followed by a crowd of fairies, equally angered, burst in on them. They had traced the lovers to the garden, and even to the lily-bell in which they had made their home. With drawn swords and faces full of anger, they surrounded the lily and commanded the lovers to come down. Nearly mad with jealousy as they were, they heaped the most cruel and insulting speeches on the poor little pair. Furious with indignation Anne's lover sprang down, sword in hand, and faced his attackers, but what could one do against such odds? His sword was knocked out of his hand, he himself was overpowered by the numbers who hurled themselves on him. For a while he fought desperately, his back to the wall, his courage unfailing, but the blows fell on him so fast and furious, that in a few minutes he lay bleeding and lifeless at poor Anne's feet. What happened next Anne never knew. She remembered looking down on her dead lover through eyes almost blind with tears, she remembered seeing his blood staining her dainty green slippers, and splashing her gown, then someone passed a hand over her eyes, and she could see nothing. She was as blind as she had been once before. All about her she heard strange noises, like the whirring and buzzing of numberless insects; she felt herself being carried through the air at a terrific rate, until her breath was quite taken away,--then she was placed on a seat, and in a moment her sight came back to her. She was back in the arbour where she had first seen the fairies, but, instead of six little men, she now saw about six-and-twenty big men and women all staring at her with frightened eyes and open mouths. "She's very bad," they were whispering, "poor maid, she do look ill! 'Tis a fit she's had, and no mistake!" Then seeing her open her eyes and look about her, they crowded nearer. "Why, Anne, child, you've been in a fit, haven't 'ee?" Anne lifted her arm and looked at it and her hand; there was not a single jewel on either. She glanced down over her gown,--it was of linsey-woolsey, not silk or velvet. She closed her eyes again that they might not see the tears that sprang to them. "I don't know if I've been in a fit," she said wearily, but to herself she added sadly, "I know, though, that I've been in love." BARKER AND THE BUCCAS. Perhaps some of you have never heard about the 'Buccas,' or 'Knockers,' as some people call them, the busy little people about the same size as piskies, who are said to be the souls of the Jews who used to work in the tin mines in Cornwall. The Buccas live always in rocks, mines, or wells, and they work incessantly pickaxing, digging, sifting, etc., from one year's end to the other, except on Christmas Day, Easter Day, All Saints' Day, and the Jews' Sabbath. On those days their little tools are laid aside, and all is quiet, but on every other you can, if you listen, hear them hammer, hammer, dig, dig, and their tongues chattering all the time. A lot of these little people lived and worked within the sides of a well in one particular part of Cornwall, the name of which I will not tell you, for in the first place you would not be able to pronounce it if I did; and in the second, you might be tempted to go there and disturb them, which would make them angry, and bring all kinds of ill-luck and trouble upon yourself. The story I am going to tell you is of someone who did disturb them, and pried upon them after laughing at them. The name of the youth was Barker, a great, idle, hulking fellow, who lived in the neighbourhood of the well where these little Buccas dwelt. Now this Barker often heard the neighbours talking about the Buccas, and praising their industry, and, like most idle people, he disliked hearing others praised for doing what he knew he ought to do but would not. So, to annoy the neighbours, and the Buccas, too, he declared he "didn't believe there wasn't no such things. Seeing was believing, and when they showed him a Bucca 'twould be soon enough for him to b'lieve there was such things." And he repeated this every time the little men were mentioned. "'Tis nowt but dreams," he sneered, "there ba'nt no Buccas in Fairy Well, no more nor I'm a Bucca." "You a Bucca!" cried the neighbours, "why, they wouldn't own such a lazy good-for-nothing. They does more work in a morning than you'd get through in a year, you who never does a hand's-turn for anybody and haven't sense enough to earn your own bread!" "I've sense enough to find out if there's any such things as Buccas in that there well, and I'll go there and watch and listen till I finds out something, and if there's Buccas there I'll catch one!" So away he went to spend his time idly lying amidst the tall grass and ferns which grew thickly around the well. This sort of job suited him to a nicety, for the sun was warm and pleasant, and he did no work, for, said he, if he was to work he wouldn't be able to hear any sounds that might come from below. And for once he spoke the truth. Day after day Barker went and lay by the Fairy Well, and at first he heard never a sound but the birds singing, and the bees humming, and his own breathing. By and by, though, other sounds began to make themselves heard by him, noises of digging and hammering, and numbers of little voices talking and laughing merrily. Barker could not at first make out what they said, but he could understand that they were always busy. Instead, though, of taking them as an example, the lazy fellow only said to himself gleefully that if others worked so hard, there was the less need for him to do so! Having discovered that his neighbours were right, and that there really were such people as Buccas, you would have thought that he would have hurried home to tell of his discoveries; but no, he liked the lazy life, lying in the sun by the well, doing nothing. So he kept quiet about his discovery, and every day started off for his favourite spot, making the excuse that he was still watching for Buccas. As the days passed by he began to understand what the little workmen said, and he gathered from their talk that they worked in sets, and that each set worked for eight hours,--which was, of course, the origin of the Eight Hours Day we hear so much about. He also found that when they had finished they hid away their tools, and every day in a fresh place. I cannot tell you why they hid them, or from whom, unless it was those other 'little people,' the Fairies and Piskies, who love to be up to mischief when they are not doing good. It could not have been from each other that they hid the things, for they talked together about the hiding-places. One evening, when the day's work was coming to an end, Barker heard the usual discussion begin. "I shall hide mine in this cleft in the rock," said one. "Very well, then I will hide mine under the ferns." "Oh," said a third, "I shall leave mine _on Barker's knee_." You may be sure it gave Barker quite a shock to hear his own name spoken in those mysterious regions, it frightened him, too, but before he could stir his big, lazy body and run away,--as he meant to do,--he felt three hard blows, bang! whack! bang! and then a heavy weight fell crash upon his knee. Barker roared and bellowed like a great calf, for the pain was very great, and he was a big coward. "Take it away! take it away!" he cried, but the only answer was peal upon peal of mocking laughter. "Oh my poor knee, oh my poor knee, I'm lame for life! Take away them tools! Oh my, oh my!" but the more he screamed, the more the Buccas laughed. They laughed and laughed until they were tired, then they vanished, and Master Barker was left to make his way home as best he could. He did not want to tell the neighbours how he got his stiff knee, but pretended he had had a fall; the neighbours, though, soon found out, and pretty well he was laughed at for a long time wherever he went. Never again did Barker doubt the existence of the Buccas, never again did he speak disrespectfully of them, nor could he forget the lesson he had been taught, for to his dying day he had a stiff knee, and nothing would cure it. Now, if ever you hear of anyone having 'Barker's knee' you will know that he has spoken rudely of the Buccas, and that the Buccas have paid him out. LUTEY AND THE MERMAID. One lovely summer evening many, many years ago, an old man named Lutey was standing on the seashore not far from that beautiful bit of coast called the Lizard. On the edge of the cliff above him stood a small farm, and here he lived, spending his time between farming, fishing, and, we must admit it, smuggling, too, whenever he got a chance. This summer evening he had finished his day's work early, and while waiting for his supper he strolled along the sands a little way, to see if there was any wreckage to be seen, for it was long since he had had any luck in that way, and he was very much put out about it. This evening, though, he was no luckier than he had been before, and he was turning away, giving up his search as hopeless, when from somewhere out seaward came a long, low, wailing cry. It was not the melancholy cry of a gull, but of a woman or child in distress. Lutey stopped, and listened, and looked back, but, as far as he could see, not a living creature was to be seen on the beach but himself. Even though while he listened the sound came wailing over the sand again, and this time left no doubt in his mind. It was a voice. Someone was in trouble, evidently, and calling for help. Far out on the sands rose a group of rocks which, though covered at high water, were bare now. It was about half ebb, and spring tide, too, so the sea was further out than usual, so far, in fact, that a wide bar of sand stretched between the rocks and the sea. It was from these rocks that the cry seemed to come, and Lutey, feeling sure that someone was out there in distress, turned and walked back quickly to see if he could give any help. As he drew near he saw that there was no one on the landward side, so he hurried round to the seaward,--and there, to his amazement, his eyes met a sight which left him almost speechless! Lying on a ledge at the base of the rock, partially covered by the long seaweed which grew in profusion over its rough sides, and partially by her own hair, which was the most glorious you can possibly imagine, was the most beautiful woman his eyes had ever lighted upon. Her skin was a delicate pink and white, even more beautiful than those exquisite little shells one picks up sometimes on the seashore, her clear green eyes sparkled and flashed like the waves with the sun on them, while her hair was the colour of rich gold, like the sun in its glory, and with a ripple in it such as one sees on the sea on a calm day. This wonderful creature was gazing mournfully out at the distant sea, and uttering from time to time the pitiful cry which had first attracted Lutey's attention. She was evidently in great distress, but how to offer her help and yet not frighten her he knew not, for the roar of the sea had deadened the sound of his footsteps on the soft sand, and she was quite unconscious of his presence. Lutey coughed and hem'd, but it was of no use--she could not or did not hear; he stamped, he kicked the rock, but all in vain, and at last he had to go close to her and speak. "What's the matter, missie?" he said. "What be doing all out here by yourself?" He spoke as gently as possible, but, in spite of his gentleness, the lovely creature shrieked with terror, and diving down into the deep pool at the base of the rock, disappeared entirely. At first Lutey thought she had drowned herself, but when he looked closely into the pool, and contrived to peer through the cloud of hair which floated like fine seaweed all over the top of it, he managed to distinguish a woman's head and shoulders underneath, and looking closer he saw, he was sure, a fish's tail! His knees quaked under him, at that sight, for he realized that the lovely lady was no other than a mermaid! She, though, seemed as frightened as he was, so he summoned up his courage to speak to her again, for it is always wise to be kind to mermaids, and to avoid offending them, for if they are angry there is no knowing what harm they may do to you. "Don't be frightened, lady," he said coaxingly; "I wouldn't hurt 'ee for the world, I wouldn't harm a living creature. I only wants to know what your trouble is." While he was speaking, the maiden had raised her head slightly above the water, and now was gazing at him with eyes the like of which he had never seen before. "I 'opes she understands Carnish," he added to himself, "for 'tis the only langwidge I'm fluent in." "Beautiful sir," she replied in answer to his thoughts, "we sea-folk can understand all languages, for we visit the coast of every land, and all the tribes of the world sail over our kingdom, and oft-times come down through the waters to our home. The greatest kindness you can do me is to go away. You are accustomed to women who walk, covered with silks and laces. We could not wear such in our world, sporting in the waves, swimming into caverns, clambering into sunken ships. You cannot realize our free and untrammelled existence." "Now, my lovely lady," said old Lutey, who did not understand a half of what she was saying, "don't 'ee think anything about such trifles, but stop your tears and tell me what I can do for 'ee. For, for sure, I can help 'ee somehow. Tell me how you come'd here, and where you wants to get to." So the fair creature floated higher in the water, and, gradually growing braver, she presently climbed up and perched herself on the rock where Lutey had first seen her. Her long hair fell about her like a glorious mantle, and she needed no other, for it quite covered her. Holding in her hand her comb and mirror, and glancing from time to time at the latter, she told the old man her story. "Only a few hours ago," she said sadly, "I was sporting about with my husband and children, as happy as a mermaiden could be. At length, growing weary, we all retired to rest in one of the caverns at Kynance, and there on a soft couch of seaweed my husband laid himself down to sleep. The children went off to play, and I was left alone. For some time I watched the crabs playing in the water, or the tiny fish at the bottom of the pools, but the sweet scent of flowers came to me from the gardens of your world, borne on the light breeze, and I felt I must go and see what these flowers were like whose breath was so beautiful, for we have nothing like it in our dominions. Exquisite sea-plants we have, but they have no sweet perfume. "Seeing that my husband was asleep, and the children quite happy and safe, I swam off to this shore, but when here I found I could not get near the flowers; I could see them on the tops of the cliffs far, far beyond my reach, so I thought I would rest here for a time, and dress my hair, while breathing in their sweetness. "I sat on, dreaming of your world and trying to picture to myself what it was like, until I awoke with a start to find the tide far out, beyond the bar. I was so frightened I screamed to my husband to come and help me, but even if he heard me he could not get to me over that sandy ridge; and if he wakes before I am back, and misses me, he will be so angry, for he is very jealous. He will be hungry, too, and if he finds no supper prepared he will eat some of the children!" "Oh, my dear!" cried Lutey, quite horrified, "he surely wouldn't never do such a dreadful thing!" "Ah, you do not know Mermen," she said sorrowfully. "They are such gluttons, and will gobble up their children in a moment if their meals are a little late. Scores of my children have been taken from me. That is how it is," she explained, "that you do not oftener see us sea-folk. Poor children, they never learn wisdom! Directly their father begins to whistle or sing, they crowd about him, they are so fond of music, and he gets them to come and kiss his cheek, or whisper in his ear, then he opens wide his mouth, and in they go.--Oh dear, what shall I do! I have only ten little ones left, and they will all be gone if I don't get home before he wakes!" "Don't 'ee take on so, my dear. The tide will soon be in, and then you can float off as quick as you like." "Oh, but I cannot wait," she cried, tears running down her cheeks. "Beautiful mortal, help me! Carry me out to sea, give me your aid for ten minutes only, and I will make you rich and glorious for life. Ask of me anything you want, and it shall be yours." Lutey was so enthralled by the loveliness of the mermaid, that he stood gazing at her, lost in wonder. Her voice, which sounded like a gentle murmuring stream, was to him the most lovely music he had ever heard. He was so fascinated that he would have done anything she asked him. He stooped to pick her up. "First of all, take this," she said, giving him her pearl comb, "take this, to prove to you that you have not been dreaming, gentle stranger, and that I will do for you what I have said. When you want me, comb the sea three times with this, and call me by my name, 'Morwenna,' and I will come to you. Now take me to the sea." Stooping again he picked her up in his arms. She clung tightly to him, twining her long, cool arms around his neck, until he felt half suffocated. "Tell me your wishes," she said sweetly, as they went along; "you shall have three. Riches will, of course, be one." "No, lady," said Lutey thoughtfully, "I don't know that I'm so set on getting gold, but I'll tell 'ee what I should like. I'd dearly love to be able to remove the spells of the witches, to have power over the spirits to make them tell me all I want to know, and I'd like to be able to cure diseases." "You are the first unselfish man I have met," cried the mermaid admiringly, "you shall have your wishes, and, in addition, I promise you as a reward, that your family shall never come to want." In a state of great delight, Lutey trudged on with his lovely burthen, while she chatted gaily to him of her home, of the marvels and the riches of the sea, and the world that lay beneath it. "Come with me, noble youth," she cried, "come with me to our caves and palaces; there are riches, beauty, and everything mortal can want. Our homes are magnificent, the roofs are covered with diamonds and other gems, so that it is ever light and sparkling, the walls are of amber and coral. Your floors are of rough, ugly rocks, ours are of mother-of-pearl. For statuary we have the bodies of earth's most beautiful sons and daughters, who come to us in ships, sent by the King of the Storms. We embalm them, so that they look more lovely even than in life, with their eyes still sparkling, their lips of ruby-red, and the delicate pink of the sea-shell in their cheeks. Come and see for yourself how well we care for them, and how reposeful they look in their pearl and coral homes, with sea-plants growing around them, and gold and silver heaped at their feet. They crossed the world to get it, and their journeys have not been failures. Will you come, noble stranger? Come to be one of us whose lives are all love, and sunshine, and merriment?" "None of it's in my line, I'm thinking, my dear," said Lutey. "I'd rather come across some of the things that have gone down in the wrecks, wines and brandy, laces and silks; there's a pretty sight of it all gone to the bottom, one time and another, I'm thinking." "Ah yes! We have vast cellars full of the choicest wines ever made, and caves stored with laces and silks. Come, stranger, come, and take all you want." "Well," answered the old smuggler, who was thinking what a fine trade he could do, if only he could reach those caves and cellars, "I must say I'd like to, 'tis very tempting, but I should never live to get there, I'm thinking. I should be drownded or smothered before I'd got half-way." "No, oh no, I can manage that for you. I will make two slits under your chin, your lovely countenance will not suffer, for your beard will hide them. Such a pair of gills is all you want, so do not fear. Do not leave me, generous-hearted youth. Come to the mermaid's home!" They were in the sea by this time, and the breakers they wanted to reach were not far off. Lutey felt strangely tempted to go with this Siren; her flashing green eyes had utterly bewitched him by this time, and her promises had turned his head. She saw that he was almost consenting, almost in her power. She clasped her long, wet, finny fingers more closely round his neck, and pressed her cool lips to his cheeks. Another instant, and Lutey would have gone to his doom, but at that moment there came from the shore the sound of a dog barking as though in distress. It was the barking of Lutey's own dog, a great favourite with its master. Lutey turned to look. At the edge of the water the poor creature stood; evidently frantic to follow its master, it dashed into the sea and out again, struggling, panting. Beyond, on the cliff, stood his home, the windows flaming against the sun, his garden, and the country round looking green and beautiful; the smoke was rising from his chimney, --ah, his supper! The thought of his nice hot meal broke the spell, and he saw his danger. "Let me go, let me go!" he shrieked, trying to lower the mermaid to the ground. She only clung the more tightly to him. He felt a sudden fear and loathing of the creature with the scaly body, and fish's tail. Her green eyes no longer fascinated him. He remembered all the tales he had heard of the power of mermaids, and their wickedness, and grew more and more terrified. "Let me go!" he yelled again, "unwind your gashly great tail from about my legs, and your skinny fingers from off my throat, or I'll--I'll kill you!" and with the same he whipped his big clasp-knife from his pocket. As the steel flashed before the mermaid's eyes she slipped from him and swam slowly away, but as she went she sang, and the words floated back to Lutey mournfully yet threateningly. "Farewell, farewell for nine long years. Then, my love, I will come again. Mine, mine, for ever mine!" Poor Lutey, greatly relieved to see her disappear beneath the waves, turned and waded slowly back to land, but so shaken and upset was he by all that had happened, that it was almost more than he could accomplish. On reaching the shore he just managed to scramble to the shed where he kept many of the treasures he had smuggled from time to time, but having reached it he dropped down in a deep, overpowering sleep. Poor old Ann Betty Lutey was in a dreadful state of mind when supper-time came and went and her husband had not returned. He had never missed it before. All through the night she watched anxiously for him, but when breakfast-time came, and still there was no sign of him, she could not rest at home another minute, and started right away in search of him. She did not have to search far, though. Outside the door of the shed she found the dog lying sleeping, and as the dog was seldom seen far from his master, she thought she would search the shed first,--and there, of course, she found her husband. He was still sound asleep. Ann Betty, vexed at once at having been frightened for nothing, shook him none too gently. "Here, Lutey, get up to once, do you hear!" she cried crossly. "Why ever didn't 'ee come in to supper,--such a beautiful bit of roast as I'd got, too! Where've 'ee been? What 'ave 'ee been doing? What 'ave 'ee been sleeping here for?" Lutey raised himself into a sitting position. "Who are you?" he shouted. "Are you the beautiful maiden come for me? Are you Morwenna?" "Whatever are you talking about? You haven't called me beautiful for the last thirty years, and I ain't called Morwenna. I'm Ann Betty Lutey, your own lawful wife, and if you don't know me, you must be gone clean out of your mind." "Ann Betty Lutey," said the old man solemnly, "if you're my lawful wife you've had a narrow escape this night of being left a widow woman, and you may be thankful you've ever set eyes on me again." "Come in and have some breakfast," said Ann Betty Lutey sternly, "and if you ain't better then I'll send for the doctor. It's my belief your brain is turned." Lutey got up obediently and went in to his breakfast; indeed, he was glad enough of it, for he was light-headed from want of food. His breakfast did him good. Before he had finished it he was able to tell his wife about his adventure the night before, and he told it so gravely and sensibly that Ann Betty believed every word of it, and no longer thought his brain was turned. Indeed, she was so much impressed by his story that before many hours had passed she had gone round to every house in the parish spreading the news, and to prove the truth of it she produced the pearl comb. Then, oh dear, the gossiping that went on! It really was dreadful! The women neglected their homes, their children, and everything else for the whole of that week; and for months after old Lutey was besieged by all the sick and sorry for miles and miles around, who came to him to be cured. He did such a big business in healing people, that not a doctor for miles round could earn a living. Everyone went to old Lutey, and when it was found that he had power over witchcraft, too, he became the most important man in the whole country. Lutey had been so rude and rough to the mermaiden when he parted from her, that no one would have been surprised if she had avenged herself on him somehow, and punished him severely. But no, she was true to all her promises. He got all his wishes, and neither he nor his descendants have ever come to want. Better far, though, would it have been for him had it been otherwise, for he paid dearly enough for his wishes in the end. Nine years from that very time, on a calm moonlight night, Lutey, forgetting all about the mermaid and her threats, arranged to go out with a friend to do a little fishing. There was not a breath of wind stirring, and the sea was like glass, so that a sail was useless, and they had to take to the oars. Suddenly, though, without any puff of wind, or anything else to cause it, the sea rose round the boat in one huge wave, covered with a thick crest of foam, and in the midst of the foam was Morwenna! Morwenna! as lovely as ever, her arms outstretched, her clear green eyes fixed steadily, triumphantly on Lutey. She did not open her lips, or make a sign, she only gazed and gazed at her victim. For a moment he looked at her as though bewildered, then like one bereft of his senses by some spell, he rose in the boat, and turned his face towards the open sea. "My time is come," he said solemnly and sadly, and without another word to his frightened companion he sprang out of the boat and joined the mermaid. For a yard or two they swam in silence side by side, then disappeared beneath the waves, and the sea was as smooth again as though nothing had happened. From that moment poor Lutey has never been seen, nor has his body been found. Probably he now forms one of the pieces of statuary so prized by the mermaiden, and stands decked with sea-blossoms, with gold heaped at his feet. Or, maybe, with a pair of gills slit under his chin, he swims about in their beautiful palaces, and revels in the cellars of shipwrecked wines. The misfortunes to his family did not end, though, with Lutey's disappearance, for, no matter how careful they are, how far they live from the sea, or what precautions they take to protect themselves, every ninth year one of old Lutey's descendants is claimed by the sea. THE WICKED SPECTRE. There was once upon a time a good old Cornish family of the name of Rosewarne. Well-born, well-to-do gentlepeople they were, who had always lived in their own fine old house on their own estate, and never knew what it was to want any comfort or luxury. The family in time, though, grew larger than their income, and their pride and their dignity were greater than either, so that in trying to support the large family according to their larger dignity, the poor little income got quite swallowed up and the whole family of Rosewarne became involved in poverty and great difficulties. Mr. Rosewarne, the father of the last of the family to live on the property, employed for his lawyer and man of business an attorney called Ezekiel Grosse, and, as so often happens, as fast as Mr. Rosewarne went down in the world, his lawyer went up. Ezekiel grew rich, no one knew how, and prospered in every way; Mr. Rosewarne grew poor, and lost in every way. Nothing on the property paid, and at last, to his great grief and never-ceasing regret, Mr. Rosewarne had to sell his beloved home and everything belonging to him. Then, who should come forward to buy it, as soon as ever it was put up for sale, but his own lawyer, Ezekiel Grosse! Everybody wondered, and most people declared that Ezekiel could not have made such a large sum honestly by his business; that he must have other and less straight methods of getting money. Anyhow, whether he made it honestly, or dishonestly, he had enough to buy the estate he coveted, and as soon as the old family could turn out, he himself took up his abode in the fine old house, and a very proud man he was. If, though, he was a proud man as he sat in the spacious library, or wandered through the lofty rooms and noble old hall, he could not have been a very happy one, and very little enjoyment could he have got out of his new possession, for, from the very hour he entered and took up his abode there, such unearthly and mysterious noises, such fearful screams and gruesome groans worried and haunted and dogged him, as made his hair stand on end, and nearly scared him out of his wits. A ghost, too, appeared in the park as soon as night fell. As Ezekiel crossed the park he would be suddenly confronted by a white, worn face and a pair of great, ghastly, luminous eyes. It would rise up from the ground in front of him, or pop round trees and bushes at him, or, on raising his eyes, he would find it confronting him over a hedge. And before very long the ghost, not content with making noises in the house, and haunting the park, took it into his head to enter the house, and make that his permanent home. When Ezekiel came face to face with him indoors, he thought he was not such a terrible ghost after all, and much of his fear left him, for the ghost to look at seemed only an infirm old man. Indeed the lawyer found him less terrifying than the horrible uncanny sounds which seemed to come from nowhere, and could not be accounted for. By and by, though, the ghost's visits were repeated so often, and he began to make such mysterious signs and movements, that the surly lawyer soon lost patience, and before long grew so seriously angry that he determined to put an end to the annoyance and rid himself of his tormentor once and for all. The very next night as Ezekiel sat alone in his office looking over some papers, and making up his accounts, the ghost glided into the room as usual, and taking up his position opposite, at once began to make the usual mysterious and extraordinary signs. The lawyer was very irritable, he had lost an important case, and was out of spirits, he was unusually nervous, too. For a while he bore the presence of the ghost and his extraordinary behaviour with a certain amount of patience, then suddenly he lost his temper. "For pity's sake tell me what it is you want with me, and be done with it, can't you?" he cried angrily. The ghost immediately stopped his gesticulations, and spoke. "Ezekiel Grosse," said he, in a hollow, ghostly voice, "Ezekiel Grosse, follow me. I can show you buried gold, the wealth for which thou longest." Now no man in the world loved gold better than did the attorney, but he was anything but a brave man, and even he himself knew that he was not a good one, and the thought of going alone with this uncanny guide, to some desolate spot where no one could see or hear him if he called for help, made his teeth chatter and his knees tremble. He hesitated, and gazed searchingly at the little old ghost, but to save his life he could not utter a word. He nearly suffocated with longing to possess the secret and know where the treasure lay, but he dared not ask; and all the time the spectre stood staring at him with unwinking scornful eyes, as if the sight of the cowardly, trembling man gave him unfeigned pleasure. At length, beckoning Ezekiel to follow him, he turned and walked towards the door. Then Ezekiel, fearful of losing the secret and the wealth, threw aside every feeling but greed, and sprang to follow--at least, he tried to spring, but so firmly was he secured to his chair he could not budge. "Come," said the ghost imperatively. Ezekiel tried again, but great as was his longing to find the gold, he could not obey. "Gold," whispered the ghost in a whining, craven tone, "don't you hear me, man? Gold!" "Where?" gasped the lawyer, making another desperate struggle. "Come with me, and you shall see," answered the spectre, moving further through the doorway; and the lawyer struggled like a madman to get free from the chair and to follow. "Come, man, come," shrieked the ghost in a perfectly awful voice. "Ezekiel Grosse, I command thee." And with that Ezekiel, by a power stronger than his own, was forced to rise and to follow the old man wheresoever he led him. Out through the hall they went, down through the park, and on and on by ways the attorney did not know, until at last they arrived at a little dell. The night was pitchy dark, and nothing could Ezekiel see but the ghostly figure gliding along ahead of him, all lit by a weird phosphorescent light. In the dell was a small granite cairn, and here the ghost stopped and looked around for the attorney. "Ezekiel Grosse," said he, when Ezekiel had come up and was standing on the other side of the cairn. "Ezekiel Grosse, thou longest for gold. So did I! I won the prize, but I found no pleasure in it. Beneath those stones lies treasure enough to make thee richer than thou hast ever dreamed of. Dig for it, it is yours. Obtain it and keep it all to yourself, and be one of the rich men of the earth, and when thou art happiest I will come and look upon you." With that the spectre disappeared, and Ezekiel, overcome with fright and amazement, was left alone by the cairn. "Well," he said at last, recovering his courage, "I don't care if you are ghost or devil, I will soon find out if you are telling me lies or not!" A harsh laugh sounded through the darkness, as though in answer to his brave words, and once again the attorney trembled with fear. He did not begin his search that night, but taking careful note of the exact spot, he returned to his house to think over all that had happened; and what he decided was that he was not going to let any squeamishness stand in the way of a fortune. "I'll tip over that old cairn," he said, with a great show of coolness, "and I'll search every foot of ground under it and around it, and it shall not be my fault if the treasure is not found!" So, a night or two later, armed with a crowbar and other tools, away he started secretly, and found his way again to the lonely dell, where he soon dispersed the stones of the cairn and began his digging. The ground was hard and flinty, and the work anything but easy, but he had not far to dig before he came across something, something hard and round, which increased his excitement until it nearly suffocated him. Feverishly he dug and dug, and cleared away the earth until at last he had laid bare a large metallic urn sunk deep in the ground, an urn so large and heavy that though he used his utmost strength, and his strength by that time was almost that of a madman, he could not move it, much less carry it home with him; and having brought no light he could not even examine it. So all he could do that night was to cover it over again with earth, and replace the stones on the top so that no one, coming upon it, should guess that the cairn had been touched. Ezekiel scarcely knew how to live through the next twenty-four hours, and as soon as it was dark on the following evening he crept out of his house, with a dark lantern concealed beneath his cloak. He knew his way to the dell so well now that he reached there very quickly, and with very little trouble he threw down the cairn and laid bare the urn again. By the light of the lantern he soon forced open the lid, in spite of the trembling of his eager, covetous fingers. The lid off he went to plunge his hand in boldly, when to his unspeakable delight he found the thing full to the brim of gold coins of all sorts and sizes, and from all countries, coins of the rarest and most valuable description! Glancing round every now and then to see that he was not followed, or that no one had come upon him accidentally, he loaded every pocket in his clothing with his treasure, then he buried the urn, rebuilt the cairn, and hurried back to his house anxious to conceal his wealth in a place of safety. From that time forward, whenever he could get out without arousing the suspicions of his servants, he went night after night to the cairn, until he had brought away every coin, and had them all carefully hidden in Rosewarne House. And now, his treasure safe, himself the richest man in the county, Ezekiel Grosse began to feel perfectly happy. He built new wings on to the old house, he laid out the gardens, and made improvements everywhere; even in his own clothing and his personal appearance. The people round could not help noticing the changes that were taking place, the money that was being spent, and the improvements that were being made. You may be quite sure, too, that the attorney took care to parade his wealth, for, having money, a fine house, fine clothes, and carriages and servants, indeed, everything but friends, he began to want friends too, and people to whom to show off his grandeur. And before very long, though everyone knew his character, and what he had been and what he had done, the neighbouring gentry began to seek his acquaintance, and many of them declared themselves his friends. After that the attorney broke forth in quite a new way, he began to give entertainments more lavish and splendid than anything of the kind ever known in the county. Everyone flocked to him, people plotted and struggled to get invitations from him. They quite ignored the fact that but a little while before he had been a poor rogue of an attorney whom they all despised, and that he had come by his wealth by means which no one had been able to fathom. They all seemed to be bewitched, to be under some spell. High revels were constantly held at Rosewarne House, now, and the gayest and liveliest of all the people gathered there was the master himself. He was as happy at this time as a man could be, and a great part of his happiness was due to the fact that he had never set eyes on his ghostly visitor since the night he conducted him to the treasure in the dell. Months went by, the feastings and gaieties grew more and more splendid, the hospitality more and more profuse, those who had not his acquaintance, craved it, and everyone bowed before the 'Lord of Rosewarne,' as in time he came to be called. Indeed, he went about as though he were the lord of the whole county, and everyone his inferior. He travelled always in a chaise and four, he kept numberless carriages, horses, servants. He was elected to every high position in the county, and he was never tired of preaching of the beauty of honesty and uprightness, and our duty to our poorer brethren. So things went on until one Christmas Eve, when there was gathered at Rosewarne a large company of the most beautiful and well-born of all the families in Cornwall. Such a gathering had seldom been seen as was gathered that night in the great hall for the ball Ezekiel Grosse was giving; and in the kitchen was an equally large party engaged in the same form of enjoyment. Food and wine were provided in lavish profusion, everything was on a most sumptuous scale. Merriment ran high, everyone was in the gayest of spirits, and gayest of all was Ezekiel. Now he felt the power of wealth, now he was positive that all other things were as nothing to it; for had it not made him the most popular, the most important, the most welcomed and sought-after man in the county? All had just reached the very highest pitch of mirth and excitement that could be reached, when a sudden chill, as though the hand of death were on them, fell on the company! The dancing ceased, no one quite knew why, and the dancers looked at each other uneasily, each frightened by the other's pallor. Then, suddenly, whence, or how come, no one knew,--in the middle of the hall they saw a little old man standing gazing at the host with eyes from which darted a hatred which was perfectly venomous. Everyone wanted to ask who he was, and how he had come, but no one dared. They looked at Ezekiel Grosse, expecting him in his usually haughty way to demand what right he had there;--but Ezekiel Grosse stood like a figure hewn out of stone. It all took place in about a minute, and then the old man vanished in the same mysterious way that he had come. As soon as he had gone, the host, who a moment before had been petrified with terror, as quickly recovered himself, and burst into uproarious laughter. It was forced laughter, though, unnatural mirth, as most of those present could not help feeling. "Ha, ha! my friends. What do you think of my little surprise? How do you like my Father Christmas? Cleverly managed, was it not? But you all look rather alarmed by his sudden movements. I hope my little joke has not frightened you. Hand round the wine and punch there, then we will on with the dancing again!" Try as he would, though, he could not put new life into the evening's festivities, the mirth was dead, the pleasure overcast, for there was still that strange deathlike chill in the air. The guests, frightened, and convinced that something was wrong, made various excuses and one by one took their departure. From that evening everything was changed. Ezekiel Grosse and his entertainments were never the same again. He never acknowledged any difference, and he gave more parties, and issued more invitations than ever, but at every feast, every dance, every entertainment of any sort, there was always one uninvited guest, a little wizened, weird old man, who sat back in his chair and never spoke to anyone, but gazed all the time at Ezekiel with stern, uncanny eyes which frightened all who caught sight of them. Indeed, the effect he had on the guests was extraordinary; under the chill of his presence they could not talk, or eat or drink, or keep up any appearance of enjoyment. Ezekiel was the bravest of them. He tried to encourage them to talk and laugh,--talking and laughing loudly himself all the time, but all was unnatural. His apologies for his strange visitor were numerous. He was an old friend who liked to come to him and see new faces and young life, but was too old to do more than look on. He was deaf and dumb, that was why his conduct was so strange. Sometimes the little old man sat unmoved while these stories were told, at other times, though, he would spring up, and with a burst of mocking laughter would disappear no one knew how. By and by, of course, Ezekiel Grosse's friends began to leave him. They declined his invitations, and omitted to include him in theirs, so that in a comparatively short time he had not a single friend remaining of all those he had spent so much upon. Disappointed and miserable, he soon became the wreck of his old self. Alone in his luxurious house now, save for his old clerk John Cull, he could never be said to be quite alone, either, for wherever he went, or whatever he did, the spectre haunted him persistently. Under this persecution the attorney became a brokendown, miserable man, with every feature stamped with terror. For a long time he bore with the merciless ghost without complaining, but at last he came to an end of his endurance. In heart-rending terms, with tears and piteous pleading, he begged the old man to go away and leave him. He had been punished sufficiently, he said. But his prayers were poured into deaf ears. The spectre absolutely refused to go, and for some time stuck to his word. Then, at last he consented, on one condition, and that was that Ezekiel should give up all his wealth to someone the spectre should name. "Who am I to give it to?" gasped Ezekiel humbly. "To John Cull, the man you have overworked and underpaid for years. John Cull, your clerk and dependent." Ezekiel Grosse had been given wealth, happiness, friends, only to be deprived of all, to be lowered in the eyes of all men, with not one to pity him. This was the punishment designed by the frightful spectre, who was no more nor less than an ancestor of the family Ezekiel Grosse had robbed, the Rosewarnes. He had planned to punish the lawyer by whose wickedness his family had been robbed and made homeless, and he carried through his plan. Poor Ezekiel Grosse did not live long in his disappointment and shame. He was found dead one day, with strange marks upon him, and people who saw it say that when he died the weird little spectre stood beside him with a pleased smile on his face. As soon as it was dark, he disappeared, and the story goes that he took Ezekiel's body with him, for from that day to this it has never been seen. THE STORY OF THE LOVERS' COVE. This is a sad story,--at least, some will think it sad! It is not about fairies, or giants, or witches, but about two lovers who loved each other above and beyond everything else in the world;--which is uncommon, for most people love themselves in that way first, and someone else next. These two lovers loved each other passionately and devotedly. They used to meet in the Lovers' Cove, or Porthangwartha,--which means the same,-- and many a happy meeting they had, and well did everything go until they told their friends. After that there was such a talk and such a stir, and such hardness and misery, that the lovers never again knew what it was to be happy. The parents said that they _should not_ love each other,--which was foolish, for they could not prevent it; that they should never meet and never marry, which was cruel, for this they could prevent, and did. So the poor lovers led a life of utter wretchedness, for they were persecuted sadly, and were breaking their hearts for each other. At last their persecutors ended by driving the young man away. He determined to go to the West Indies. Then the relations congratulated themselves heartily that they had got their own way, and parted the lovers for ever. In spite of all their precautions, though, those two poor heart-broken lovers managed to meet once more; and as it was to be their very last sight of each other for they did not know how long, perhaps for ever, it was a very, very sad parting indeed. It was in the Lovers' Cove that they met, and there, under the frosty light of the moon, they bade each other their sad good-byes, and while they clung to each other for the last time, they made a solemn vow that, living or dead, they would meet again in that same place at that same hour of the same day three years hence. So the young man sailed away, and the girl lived with her parents, going about her duties quietly and patiently, and, in spite of her sadness, with a look of hope in her eyes that increased and increased as the weeks and months slipped by. Her parents noticed it, and told themselves that she had forgotten the banished lover, and would soon learn to care for one of those they approved of. When, though, she had refused to listen to any of the others who came wooing her, they began to fear that they were mistaken, and were puzzled to know what it was that was driving the wistfulness from her face, and the languor from her step. So the long years dragged to a close, and at last, as it was bound to do, the end of the three years drew very near, and with each day the girl's step grew lighter and more buoyant, her eyes glistened and her lips curved in a smile that was new to them. Now and then even a snatch of song burst from them. Her parents had no doubt now that she had quite forgotten the lover whose name had not been mentioned in her presence since the day he sailed. Then, at last, the three years were really past and gone, the last day dawned and wore away to evening, and then night fell, moonlit, still, beautiful, a fitting night for lovers who were to meet once more, whether living or dead. In the Cove it was as light as day, one could count each wave as it rose and fell, and see distinctly the white foam at its edge as it broke on the beach. The sands gleamed like silver in the sad white light save where the rocks threw dark shadows. All round the coast the witches and wizards were busy manufacturing their spells. High up on a cliff overlooking the Lovers' Cove an old woman,-- not a witch,--was sitting preparing her herbs and simples,--which must always be done by moonlight,--when suddenly she was startled to see down in the Cove below her the figure of the maiden swiftly crossing the sands. The old dame, who recognized the girl, was startled for it was nearly twelve o'clock, and in that part most people are in bed by nine. Swiftly and unhesitatingly the girl made her way to a rock far out on the sands, and close to the water. Up the rock she climbed, and sat herself down as though it had been noon on a fine summer's day. Did not she know, wondered the old woman nervously, that the tide was rapidly rising, and the rock being fast surrounded? Apparently, though, the maiden did not know, or care, for there she sat immovable, her face turned towards the sea, gazing at it with bright intent eyes, as though searching its face for something. At last the old woman grew so alarmed she could endure the suspense no longer. The girl's danger increased every moment, and she felt it her duty to go and warn her, and give her what help she could. So with trembling limbs and fast-beating heart she hurried as fast as she was able down the side of the cliff. The path, though, was rough and winding, and she was old. At one point the end of the beach where the girl sat was cut off from her view. It was only for a moment, certainly, yet when the old dame caught sight of her again, she saw, to her amazement, that a fine young sailor had also mounted the rock, and was seated close beside her! He too, sailor though he was, seemed quite unconscious of their danger. They sat there on the water-surrounded rock, he with arm around the girl, she with her head on his breast, oblivious of everything but each other. "Oh ho! my young woman!" said the old dame to herself, "so this is how you pass your time while your lover is away! and after the way you pretended to love him, too!" She felt quite cross, for she was very tired and very frightened and in no mood to smile at lovers' foolishness. She sat herself down on a rock by the path they would have to ascend, determined to await their return, partly to give the maiden a good sound scolding for her reckless behaviour, and partly to satisfy her curiosity by seeing who the young man was who had won her heart away from the absent lover. The lovers, though, appeared in no hurry to move. There they sat clinging together, with the moon shining down coldly on them, and the water gleaming around them. The wind had died away until there seemed to be scarcely a breath of air stirring, and the sea lay as calm as a lake. The whole scene resembled Fairyland, with the lovers as two spirits watching over the Cove. The tide rose higher and higher, and the only sound to be heard in that lone, desolate spot was the lazy plash of the waves on the shore, and around the cliffs. In a short time the water rose so high that the rock was almost covered; to get off it now the lovers would have to swim; yet still they paid no heed. They seemed lost to everything but each other. It was all so ghostly and uncanny that the poor old woman grew wild with nervousness and excitement. She called and called to them at the top of her voice, but she failed to make it reach them. The plash of the waves and the sighing of the gently heaving sea seemed to swallow it up. And when at last a wave came up and washed right over them, she shrieked aloud, distracted by her own helplessness, and covered her eyes with her apron. She could not bear to look and watch them being drowned. With her face hidden she waited, breathless, for their shrieks for help,-- but none came. She uncovered her eyes and looked at the rock,--it was bare, save for the water which now covered it. She gazed frantically around, first at the beach, then out to sea; the beach was empty, save for herself, but out on the sea were the two lovers, floating out on the scarcely moving waters, hand in hand, gazing into each other's eyes, smiling happily and without sign of struggle. Further and further away they drifted. Then across the still waters came the sound of sweet low voices singing, and in the stillness which hung over everything the very words sounded distinctly:-- I am thine, Thou art mine, Beyond control; In the wave Be the grave Of heart and soul. Slowly, slowly they passed out through the moonlit sea, sweetly chanting their pathetic song; until at last they turned and faced the shore; and in that moment the old woman recognized in the sailor the lonely maiden's lover, who had been driven away by her parents so long before. One long look they took at the Lovers' Cove and the black rock on which they had met, then turned their happy faces to each other, their lips meeting in one long, long kiss, and while their lips were meeting they sank quickly beneath the waves. A few days later the maiden's body was found not far from the Lovers' Cove; and some time after news reached the village that on the very night that she had been seen with him on the rock he had been killed in a foreign land. THE SILVER TABLE. Off Cudden Point, in the parish of Perranuthnoe, there lies buried in the sea, treasure enough to make anyone who finds it, one of the wealthiest persons in the whole county. Now and then, during the spring-tides, when the water is very low, small portions of it are found, just enough to keep up the excitement, and cause dozens of children from all the neighbourhood round to gather there in a swarm, to search among the seaweeds, and dig in the sands, and venture out in the sea itself as far as they dare. It is only about once in a blue moon that they do come upon treasure, but there is always the hope that any hour or day may bring them a big find. Jewellery and coins, and silver goblets, are some of the treasures they seek, but the greatest of all is no less a thing than a table, a large and massive table, too, made of solid silver. I am sure you would like to know why they expect such a prize, so I will tell you. Many, many years ago there lived in those parts a very wealthy man. He was also a very wicked one, indeed it was said that he was no other than the Lord of Pengerswick, of whom you will have read in another of these stories. It was rather difficult to say for certain, for the wicked old man being an enchanter could go about in all kinds of disguises, so that only those who had the gift of 'second sight' could discover him. Anyhow, if this rich, bad man was not the Lord of Pengerswick he was someone just as wicked, and just as rich. I believe, though, it was that old enchanter, and, at any rate, we will call him so for the time. The old gentleman had plenty of money and he spent it freely too, for it cost him no trouble to get. He ground it out of the poor, and in the most cruel manner. As he got it so easily he did not mind wasting it, and he kept 'open house' as they call it,--that is, he always had a houseful of visitors, men and women who were nearly as bad as he was, and he provided them with every kind of luxury, and pleasure, and amusement that he could think of. They rode pell-mell over the country on fiery, unmanageable horses, breaking down the farmers' hedges, trampling down the land, hunting, shooting, dancing and gambling! They did anything and everything that was wild, and foolish, and exciting, in order to make the days pass pleasantly. One very, very hot summer's day, though, when the sun was pouring down pitilessly, scorching up everything, and there was scarcely a breath of air to be found, and it was too hot to dance, or to ride, or do anything tiring, this gay crew thought they would like to spend some hours on the sea, where it was cooler than on the land. So the Lord of Pengerswick, always glad to show off his possessions, ordered his largest and most sumptuous barge to be set afloat, and stored with every kind of luxury, and every sort of dainty thing he could think of, and the gay party went on board. Seated on silken cushions under an awning of cloth of gold, they began at once to feast on the marvellous dainties spread for them on a large solid silver table, and all the time they feasted and laughed and jested, delicate music and singing wafted towards them from the far end of the boat, to charm their ears if they cared to listen. While, though, the awning sheltered them from the sun, it also concealed from them a little cloud which presently appeared in the sky; and the music, talk and laughter drowned the sound of a little breeze that sighed round the vessel. The little breeze sighed, and went away unnoticed, but presently returned, not little now, but very big, and determined to be heard; but they were, by this time, making such a noise on board, that even the louder breeze went unheeded, until, grown quite angry, in a gust of fury it struck the boat--and what happened next no one knows, for none were left to tell the tale,--except the breeze, and he went scuffling off to another point. This only is known, that where the barge had floated nothing was to be seen but a desolate expanse of water, but for years and years afterwards, when the wind was in the right direction, the fishermen heard sounds of laughter and talking coming up from the bottom of the sea, the rattle of plates and the jingle of glasses, and through it all the strains of sweet music, and deep voices singing. If the moon was in the right quarter and the water very still, far down beneath the waves could be seen the gleaming silver table, and the wicked old Lord of Pengerswick and his guests still seated round it keeping up their revels. The feasting must all have ceased by this time, though, for no sound is ever heard now, and it is long since anyone has caught sight of the pleasure-loving crew. A part of the treasure has been cast up by the sea, and seized by the descendants of the poor people the old lord robbed, and it seems quite possible that if they only wait long enough, and the tide goes out far enough, someone will be so fortunate as to find the silver table. CRUEL COPPINGER, THE DANE. One of the most terrific storms ever known was raging on the north coast of Cornwall. The gale, blowing up channel from the southwest, broke with such fury on that bold, unsheltered piece of coast by Morwenstow, that the wreckers, who were gathered on the shore and heights above, had more than enough to do to keep their feet. The rain came down in driving sheets, shutting off the sea from their eager eyes, so that they could see nothing of the prey they were watching for. Beaten down, drenched, well-nigh frozen, even these hardy men were on the point of giving way before the fury of the hurricane, when suddenly from out the sheets of driving rain loomed a vessel, a foreigner. If she had been a phantom ship, as at first they thought she must be, she could not have appeared more strangely, suddenly, or unexpectedly. But it was no phantom battling so bravely, yet so hopelessly with the fierce waves, ploughing her way through them, defying their efforts to draw her down and devour her. She rolled and lurched heavily, and was driven closer and closer on to the jagged rocks of that cruel coast; her sails were in rags, and she herself was utterly beyond control. As she drew nearer, the terror-stricken faces of those on board could be plainly seen, clinging to each other or to the masts, praying, gesticulating, or too frightened to do anything but gaze with fixed and ghastly eyes at the awful fate awaiting them. Standing near the wheel was a man who, even at such a time, seemed to hold himself apart from the rest. He was of gigantic size, towering above the heads of the rest of them. He had stripped himself of his clothing, and was evidently awaiting a suitable moment to plunge off the vessel into the boiling ocean, and fight his hand-to-hand battle with death. At last the right moment came. Without an instant's hesitation he plunged over the side into the raging waters. Then rising again, in a moment or two, to the surface, like a perfect Hercules, he fought his way through the billows, his strong arm and massive chest defying their power. On, on he went, now riding on the top of a huge boiling mountain of water, now down in the hollow, with the raging sea rising above him, so that it seemed he must be swallowed and crushed in their embrace. Long the struggle continued, and the excitement on shore grew intense, for no one thought it possible that he could reach the land alive. But, after a terrible fight which would have exhausted anyone not endowed with supernatural powers, his bravery was rewarded, and with one tremendous leap he landed safely on the shore, well beyond the deadly clutch of the waves. All the people of the country-side seemed now to have gathered to witness the marvellous combat, men and women, on horse and on foot, wreckers, fishermen, and what not,--and into the midst of them all rushed the dripping stranger. Apparently not in the least exhausted, he snatched the scarlet cloak off the shoulders of an old woman, and wrapping it about himself, as suddenly sprang up behind a young woman, who was sitting on her horse watching the wreck, and urging the animal on to a furious gallop, rode off in the direction of the young woman's home. The people shouted and screamed, for they thought the poor girl was being carried off, no one knew where, by the Evil One himself; but the strange cries, which they took to be the language of the Lower Regions, were only a foreign tongue, and the horse made for its own stable by instinct. When Miss Dinah Hamlyn and her reeking steed dashed into the courtyard of her own home, closely clasped by a tall wicked-looking man wrapped in a scarlet cloak, the outcry was doubled. There was nothing to be done, though, but to give the stranger a suit of Mr. Hamlyn's clothes, and some food, and very comely he looked in the long coat, the handsome waistcoat, knee-breeches, and buckled shoes. He accepted the clothes, and the food, and indeed all their attention, as a matter of course, and having informed them that his name was Coppinger, and that he was a Dane, he seemed to think he had done all that was required of him, and settled down in the family circle as though he were one of them, and as welcome as though he were an old family friend. Of the distressed vessel, and the rest of the shipwrecked crew, nothing more was seen from the moment the big man left her. How or where she disappeared no one knew, all eyes had been fixed on the struggling swimmer from the moment he leapt into the sea; and when they had looked again the ship had gone, and no trace or sign of her or her crew was ever found on that coast, or on any other. At first Coppinger made himself most agreeable to the people he had appeared amongst, he was pleasant and kind beyond anything you can imagine. Miss Dinah Hamlyn thought him a very attractive man, indeed, and not only forgave him for his first treatment of her, but thought it something to be proud of. Old Mr. Hamlyn liked the man, too, and was as kind to him as could be, giving him the best he had, and even at last consenting to his marriage with Miss Dinah herself, though against his own feelings. Coppinger had given out that he was a Dane of noble birth and great wealth, who had run away to escape marrying a lady he disliked. Old Farmer Hamlyn did not like his daughter to marry a 'furriner,' and he considered that people should marry in their own stations; but Dinah herself loved the man all the better for what he had told them, and between them they soon overcame the father's scruples, and the wedding-day was fixed. The wedding-day had to be postponed, though, for Farmer Hamlyn fell ill, grew rapidly worse, and in a very short time was dead and buried. As soon as this was over a great change came over things. Master Coppinger began to show himself in his true character, and a very black character indeed his was! So black and so bad that for generations his mere name was a terror to the people who lived in that part of the world, and is detested to this day. As soon as poor Farmer Hamlyn had passed away, Coppinger made himself master and controller of the house and all in it, even to the smallest domestic affairs. Dinah he persuaded to marry him at once, and hardly had she done so, when all the evil in his character made itself known, and as though to make up for having so long suppressed his wicked passions, he utterly threw off all appearance of goodness or respectability, and poor respectable Farmer Hamlyn's quiet, happy home became a den of thieves and vagabonds, and a meeting-place for all the lawless characters in the county. Then it very soon came out that the whole country-side was infested with a body of smugglers, wreckers, poachers, robbers, and murderers, over all of whom 'Cruel Coppinger,' as he came to be called by the honest people in the neighbourhood, was captain and ringleader. He and his gang worked their own wicked will, and the poor inhabitants of the place were completely in their power, for there were no magistrates, or rich men of power in that part, and no revenue officer dared show himself. The clergyman was scared into silence, and Coppinger and his band ruled the country-side. Very soon a regular system of smuggling was carried on. All sorts of strange vessels appeared on that part of the coast, and were guided by signals to a safe creek or cove, where they were unloaded, and the valuable, illegal spoil brought in and hidden in the huge caves, which no one but Coppinger and his crew dared to enter, for it would have meant torture and death. By and by one particular vessel, the 'Black Prince,' Coppinger's own, which he had had built for him in Denmark, became a perfect terror to all the other vessels in the parts she frequented. Coppinger and his crew sailed the seas as though they belonged to them, robbing, murdering, and doing every evil thing they could think of. If a vessel chased them, they led her into such dangerous parts of the coast that her whole crew invariably perished, while the 'Black Prince' glided out by some intricate passage, and got safely off. If one of the poor landsmen offended any of the gang, away he was dragged to Coppinger's vessel, and there made to serve until he was ransomed, and as the people were almost reduced to beggary by the rogues, there was very little chance of the poor fellow's ever being free again. Wealth poured into their clutches, and Coppinger soon began to have enormous quantities of gold, which he spent lavishly. Amongst other things he bought a farm, which bordered on the sea, but the lawyer to whom he was to pay the money was taken aback at receiving it in coins from pretty nearly every country in the world, doubloons, ducats, dollars, pistoles! At first he refused to accept them, but a look from Coppinger, and a threat, made him change his mind. He accepted the coins without another word, and handed over the papers. Of course, when Coppinger realized his power, and saw how everyone feared him, he grew more and more daring. He closed up bridle-paths, to which he had no possible right, and made new ones, where he had no right to make them, and forbade anyone but his own friends to use them after a certain hour in the evening, and no one dared disobey him. Their roads were called 'Coppinger's Tracks,' and all met at a headland called 'Steeple Brink,' a huge hollow cliff which ran three hundred feet sheer up from the beach, while the vast, roomy cave beneath it ran right back into the land. Folks said it was as large as Kilkhampton Church, and they were not far wrong. This was called 'Coppinger's Cave,' and here took place such scenes of wickedness and cruelty as no one can imagine in these days. Here all the stores were kept, wines, spirits, animals, silks, gold, tea, and everything of value that they could lay hands on. No one but the crew ever dared to show themselves there, for it was more than their lives were worth, the crew being bound by a terrible oath to help their captain in any wickedness he might choose to perpetrate. So it came to pass that all, whether of his band or not, gave in to him, and were ruled by him as though they were slaves and he their lord. His own house, too, was full of misery and noisy, disgraceful scenes. When John Hamlyn died, Coppinger had obtained possession somehow of everything belonging to him, with the exception of a large sum of money which went to the widow. Coppinger meant to have this money too, though, so he began by getting small sums from his mother-in-law from time to time, until she at last refused to give him any more, and even his threats and coaxings failed to move her. Cruel Coppinger was not a man to be baulked in any way, so he soon hit upon a plan. Taking his wife to her room, he tied her to the post of the great bedstead, then calling in her mother he told her that he was going to flog Dinah with the cat-o'-nine-tails which he held in his hand, until she handed over to him the money he had asked her for. They knew quite well that he would be as good as his word, and that refusal meant death by torture to Dinah; so the poor mother was compelled to give in, and finding that this plan answered his purpose so well, he repeated the performance until he had had nearly every penny poor old Mrs. Hamlyn was possessed of. Amongst the numerous animals he owned, there was one favourite mare, --a vicious, uncontrollable creature,--on which he used to scour the country at a terrible pace, spreading terror wherever he went. He never cared in the least how many people or animals he knocked over and trampled to death; the more weak and helpless they were the more he seemed to love to hurt them. One evening, after spending a few festive hours at a neighbour's house, he was just on the point of departing when he happened to notice seated by the hearth a poor little half-witted tailor, who always went by the name of 'Uncle Tom.' Uncle Tom was a very quiet, extremely nervous little man, well-known and pitied by all. He went from house to house all over the countryside, doing a day's work at one house, and half a day's at another, and in most houses he was given a meal in addition to his trifling pay, for everyone liked him, he was always willing and obliging, and had never harmed anyone in his life. "Hulloa, Uncle Tom!" cried Coppinger boisterously, going up and laying a heavy hand on the thin, shaking shoulder of the little tailor. "We are both bound for the same direction. Come along with me, I'll give you a lift on my mare." The old man shrank away nervously, mumbling all sorts of excuses, for he above all people lived in deadly terror of Cruel Coppinger, also of his vicious mare, and the idea of being at the mercy of them both nearly scared away what few wits he had. The sight of his terror, though, only made Coppinger more determined to frighten him. He loved to torment so helpless a victim, and the other people present, partly from love of mischief, but chiefly to please Coppinger, egged the tormentor on. In spite of his struggles and entreaties they hoisted the poor little tailor on to the back of the prancing, restive beast, and held him there while Coppinger sprang up. No sooner were they both mounted than up reared the mare, danced round on her hind legs a time or two, and then sprang away along the road at a rate which it made one gasp to witness. Tom clung in sheer terror to his big tormentor, afraid of falling off, yet afraid to stay on. Coppinger, guessing perhaps that the little man in his terror might spring off, undid his belt, and passed it round the little tailor's body, buckling it securely around them both. Then, having fastened his victim to him, beyond all hope of escape, he urged the mare on to a more furious pace than ever. They tore through the air at lightning speed. Tom shrieked and prayed to be put down,--to be told whither he was to be taken,--what Coppinger meant to do with him; and pleaded to be killed at once, rather than tortured. They dashed on past his own little cottage, and his wife at the door, catching sight of the pair, nearly fainted to see her poor husband in the grasp of the tyrant. On they went and on, without sign of stopping. They leapt ditches and hedges, animals, waggons, people, anything that came in their way, until, coming at last to a steep hill, they slackened their pace a little, and Coppinger condescended to speak. "I promised the Devil I would bring him a tailor," he said, "for his clothes sadly need mending, and I am going to carry you to him to-night. It will not be very hard work, and he won't harm you as long as you do what he bids you." So terrified was poor little Uncle Tom on hearing this awful fate, that he had a fit then and there from fright, and the violence of his struggles was such that the belt gave way, and he was flung from the racing mare, right into the ditch by the roadside. There he lay all night, and there he was found in the morning, not only battered and bruised and half frozen, but with his poor weak mind quite gone. "He would never sew for the Devil," he kept repeating over and over and over again, "he would never sew for the Devil, nor for Coppinger either. He believed Coppinger was the Devil, and he might do his work himself, Uncle Tom would never work for such as he!" Never again did poor Uncle Tom get back his reason, or do another stroke of work to support himself and his wife,--but Coppinger had had his joke, and thought it a very fine one. Countless were the cruel pranks he played on the poor, the helpless, and defenceless, until at last people became afraid to go outside their houses, and were afraid to stay in them, for every day brought some new wickedness done by him, and every fresh one was worse than the last. Coppinger had one child, a boy; he was deaf and dumb, and as uncanny a child as his father was a man. He was a beautiful boy to look at, with soft fair skin and golden hair, but he had his father's cruel eyes, and his father's cruel nature. From his babyhood his mischievousness and wickedness knew no bounds; any bird, or animal, or even child that came within his reach he would torment almost to death, and the more his victim writhed and screamed, the greater was his delight. When he was but six he was found one day on the headland, dancing in frantic joy, and pointing with gestures of delight to the beach below. Hurrying down they found the mangled and bleeding corpse of a little child, his companion, whom he had enticed to the edge of the cliff, and, by an unexpected push, sent headlong on to the rocks beneath. From that day he was always to be found on the tragic spot, and when a stranger passed he would make unearthly sounds of delight, and pointing down to the beach, dance and throw himself about in ecstasy. All this time Coppinger and his gang grew more and more reckless and daring, until they were the scourge of the country-side. To what lengths they might have gone, no earthly powers can tell, but money became scarce, and times grew bad for them. Armed King's cutters came, not singly, but in great numbers, and tidings of danger were brought to Cruel Coppinger by strangely dressed foreigners. And so, at last, things came to a climax, and deliverance was at hand for the poor suffering people. Just such another time as preceded Coppinger's arrival, burst again on that coast; the rain and hail came down in sheets, the gale blew furiously all day. At sunset a vessel appeared off the coast--full-rigged. Presently a rocket went up from the Gull Rock,--a little rock island with a creek on the landside, a spot where many smugglings had taken place. A gun answered from the ship, again both signals were sent up. Then, on the topmost peak of the rock, appeared the huge form of Coppinger. He waved his sword, and a boat immediately put off from the ship, with two men at each oar, for the tide is terribly strong just there. They neared the rock, rode boldly through the surf, and were steered into the Gull Creek by someone who evidently knew the coast well. Then Coppinger, who was standing impatiently awaiting them, leapt on board and took the command. Their efforts to get back to the vessel were enormous. Like giants they laboured at their oars to force a path through the boiling, seething waters. Once, as they drew off-shore, one of the rowers, either from loss of strength or of courage, relaxed his hold for a moment; in an instant a cutlass waved above his head, and one swift cruel stroke cut him down. It was the last brutal deed that Cruel Coppinger was ever seen to do. He and his men reached the ship and got on board. What happened afterwards no one knows, for at the same moment she disappeared like some ghostly, phantom ship, nobody knows where or how. Then, in even more fearful violence than before, the storm raged and beat on that coast. Hail, thunder, lightning, hurricanes of wind blinded, deafened, or killed all who were exposed to it. Round Coppinger's home it expended the very utmost of its fury; trees were torn up by the roots, the thatch was blown off the outhouses, chimneys fell, windows were blown in, and, as Dinah, terrified by the uproar and destruction racing round her, stood holding her uncanny child in her arms, through the roof and ceiling came crashing a monstrous thunderbolt, surrounded by flames, and fell hissing at the very foot of Cruel Coppinger's chair. MADGE FIGGY, THE WRECKER. Those of you who know Land's End, and that part of it called Tol-pedn-penwith, cannot fail to have been struck by a huge cliff there, in shape like a ladder, or flight of steps, formed of massive blocks of granite, piled one upon another, and on the top of which there is perched what looks like, and is, a monstrous granite chair. 'Madge Figgy's Chair' is its name, for in it Madge Figgy, who was a wrecker by trade, used to sit and call up the storms, and here, while the rough, cruel Atlantic boiled and lashed in impotent fury over the face of the ladder, Madge sat cool and unconcerned, keeping a sharp look out for any vessels coming in on that terrible coast. As well as being a wrecker, Madge Figgy was one of the most cruel and wicked witches in the county; and hour after hour she would sit in her chair plotting mischief, or hurling curses at any unfortunate person or thing who had happened to offend her. The poor country-folk were afraid of their very lives of her, and whatever wicked things she told them to do, they had to do them, for they knew her power and lived in terror of offending her. Amongst the witches she was the leader in all their frolics and revels and wickedness. Getting astride her broomstick she would fly right away across the sea to some foreign land, a band of her friends and cronies after her, and right well did they enjoy themselves,--which was more than anyone else did who came across them while on their wicked revels. Madge Figgy's home was in a little cottage in a cove not far from her ladder and chair, and this cove was a nest of a gang of the worst wreckers in Cornwall, gathered together by old Madge to help her in her cruel work. No one can count how many noble vessels they lured on to the rocks of that dangerous coast, how many bodies they stripped and cast back into the sea again; while as for the treasure they had divided amongst themselves!-- they had quite enough to live on for the rest of their lives, even if they never did another stroke of mischief. That, though, was not what they cared about. They loved wrecking and robbing, and all their evil ways, and would have been quite miserable if they had had to live quiet, respectable stay-at-home lives. Where all were so wicked there were none to shame them into being any better, and they flaunted their stolen riches as shamelessly as though they had come by everything honestly. It was quite a common sight to see the great, clumsy country-women and girls going about their work dressed in costly silks and velvets, all of the richest character and most beautiful colouring, digging and ploughing, cooking and scrubbing with valuable jewellery on their great arms and their coarse red hands, sparkling gems in their ears, and very likely a tiara that would have made a queen envious, fastened round their untidy, unbrushed hair. Of all the crew, though, Madge and her husband were the very worst. Most of them did abide by the old saying, 'Honour amongst wreckers,' but not those two. If they could cheat or trick even their friends they would do so; and did, too, very often. One particularly stormy day, Madge Figgy sat in her great chair in high glee. A tempest such as was seldom known, even on that coast, was raging round her, and close on to the rocks below her was drifting a Portuguese Indiaman which she had lured in to be dashed to fragments on the terrible rocks by the boiling, maddened breakers which towered up like mountains, then broke and fell with all their force on the helpless vessel. Madge Figgy kicked her heels and clapped her hands with joy as she watched, for the huge vessel laden with valuables of the costliest kind was a prize such as they did not often get, and Madge in her mind was already reckoning up her gains. Far better for the Indiaman had she dropped her treasure overboard and sent it to the bottom of the sea, where she would be ere long; for Madge could tell at any distance what a ship's cargo was worth, and if it was a small one she let the vessel sail on in peace. Up aloft was the old witch dancing and singing, and down below struggled the perishing crew, captain, sailors, passengers, men, women and children, shrieking aloud for help, but seeing never a living creature coming to give them a hand. Their cries might have melted hearts of iron, but not the hearts of those who were hiding behind the rocks watching with greedy interest for the moment when they might go down and seize their prey. One by one the cries ceased as the sea swallowed up the poor struggling creatures, then presently the vessel broke up, and in on the waves came floating cases, casks, chests, broken spars, mingled with the dead bodies of men and women and little babies. As fast as they appeared they were seized on, and quickly stripped of everything that was of value, the ladies were robbed of their jewels and dresses, and even of their long hair, and even the babies were robbed of the necklaces which still hung around their chubby necks. When the bodies were stripped they were not thrown into the sea again, but were carried away and buried in a great green hollow near Perloe Cove, with a stone at the head of each to mark the spot. Though the graves cannot be distinguished now, the hollow may yet be seen. For weeks after the wreck of the Portuguese Indiaman, the wreckers were continually finding gold and jewels washed in to the sand, and now and again more bodies were washed ashore, all richly dressed. Oh, it was a fine haul the wreckers had after that black storm, but one very curious thing happened such as had never happened before. Amongst the bodies washed in was that of a beautiful lady, dressed in the richest of robes, and wearing more magnificent jewellery than any of the other poor creatures. In addition to her jewellery, too, she had, fastened about her, a very large amount of money and treasure, as though, poor lady, she had thought that she could not only save herself, but a great deal else as well. When Madge Figgy, who had claimed this body, had finished stripping it, she stood gazing at it very attentively for a long time. She appeared to be troubled about something, almost frightened, in fact, and turning to the rest of the gang she forbade them to divide any of the spoil, or even to touch a single thing. There was a fine row at that, of course, for they had all been counting on a rich share, and they vowed they would have it, too! They quarrelled, and fought, and a good deal of blood was spilt, but Madge took care of herself and got the better of them all, too, for it would have taken more than a gang of wreckers to outwit that wicked old woman. She declared that there was a mark on the body which she understood, though no one else could, and that if they divided any of the things belonging to it, ill-luck would befall them all, and no one knew where it would end. "Trust a witch to know a witch!" she cried. She got her way, as she generally did, for they were all afraid of her, and everything belonging to the poor lady was put into a chest which stood in Madge's kitchen, while the body was carried to the hollow and buried with the others. The very night, though, after they had laid her in her grave, a very curious thing happened. Out from the grave there came, as soon as darkness fell, a little blue light. For a moment it flickered and gleamed on the newly made mound, then glided swiftly away up over the cliffs until it reached Madge Figgy's great granite chair. Up into the chair it glided, and there it stayed for a long time, a weird, mysterious gleam, looking most uncanny in the darkness. Then out of the chair it glided and made its way to Madge Figgy's cottage, where it floated across the threshold and straight to the chest where the dead lady's belongings lay. All the wreckers were watching it, and all, except old Madge, were very nearly terrified out of their senses. They felt sure that at last their wickedness was to meet with its punishment, that the Evil One had come to carry them away, and their hours on earth were numbered. Madge Figgy tried hard to laugh away their fears and cheer them up. She wanted no 'chicken-hearts' about her, men who would refuse to take part in her wicked work, or even carry tales where she did not want them carried. "Get along, you great stupids, you!" cried Madge, trying to put some spirit into them, "it will all come right in time. I know all about it!" It took a long time, though, and the people began to lose faith in Madge's cleverness; for three long months the little blue flame crept out of the dead lady's grave at nightfall, glided to Madge Figgy's chair, and then to the chest in the cottage, and nothing could stop it. At the end of three months, when the people of the Cove were feeling they could not bear this thing any longer, there came to Madge's cottage one day a curiously dressed stranger. From his appearance all who saw him concluded that he was a foreigner, but from what part of the world he came no one could tell, for never a word escaped his lips. Madge Figgy's old husband, who was home alone when the stranger arrived, was very nearly scared to death. Firstly because the sight of a stranger always frightened any of that wicked crew, and secondly because of the man's signs and curious gesticulations. Old Figgy thought that he was a madman, sure enough. After some time, though, and a good many signs and misunderstandings, the old man gathered that the stranger wished to see the graves of the poor souls who went down in the wreck of the Portuguese Indiaman. Old Figgy put on his cap readily enough to show him the way, only too thankful to get him out of the house; but as soon as ever they had started on the right road, the stranger did not need any further guidance, he walked on by himself straight to the hollow, and making his way direct to the grave of the Portuguese lady he threw himself on it passionately, and broke into the most violent outburst of grief imaginable. For some time old Figgy stood watching him in astonishment, until the foreigner, looking up, caught sight of him, and signed to him to go away; then returning to the grave, again, he threw himself on it once more and stayed there weeping and moaning until nightfall. When darkness crept on up rose the little blue flame from the grave as before, but, instead of going to Madge Figgy's chair it made its way to the cottage, and gliding on to the chest, gleamed there with twice its usual brilliancy. The foreigner, who had followed the flame closely, went, without let or hindrance from the old witch or anyone, straight to the chest, and clearing away with one sweep all the rubbish and lumber which were piled on it, opened it as if he had known it all his life, picked out everything in it that had belonged to the lady, then, without touching anything else that the chest contained, closed it again, and, after giving liberal gifts to every wrecker in the place, departed as mysteriously as he had come. Anything of his history, or whence he came, was never discovered, but from the moment he left Madge Figgy's cottage neither he nor the little blue flame was ever seen again by any of them. HOW MADGE FIGGY GOT HER PIG. Madge Figgy, as you already know, spent most of her life in injuring someone. After she had left her cottage by the sea, where she spent so much of her time in robbing the dead, she went to live in St. Buryan, and there she spent her time in robbing the living, and doing any other mischief that came into her head to do. One of her victims here was her near neighbour, Tom Trenoweth, a hard-working, struggling man who spent all his days trying to make both ends meet, and mostly failing, poor fellow. Now Tom had a sow, a fine great creature, on which he set great store, for when she was fattened up enough he meant to take her to Penzance Market, where he hoped to sell her for at least twenty shillings, for she was worth that and more of any man's money. As ill-luck would have it, though, Madge Figgy caught sight of the sow one day, and from that moment she could not rest until she had got it for herself. Over she bustled to Tom's house in a great hurry. "Tom," she said, "I've taken a fancy to that sow of yours, and I'll give 'ee five shillings for her, now this very minute, if you'll sell her. Four would be a good price, but I've set my mind on having her, and I don't mind stretching a point for a friend." "I ain't going to sell her now," said Tom, "I'm fattening her up for market, and it's a long sight more than five shillings I'm thinking I'll get for her. So keep your money, Madge, you may want it yet," he added meaningly. "Very well," replied the witch, shaking her finger at Tom, and wagging her head; "I won't press 'ee to sell the pig, but mark my words, before very long you will wish you had!" and away she went without another word. Poor Tom! He did mark her words, and many a time he remembered them with sorrow, for from the moment they were uttered his sow began to fail. She ate and drank as much as ever he chose to give her, and seemed to enjoy her food, too, but instead of growing fatter she grew leaner and leaner, and from being a fine great beast, nearly fit for a Christmas market, she became a poor, spare-looking thing that no one would say 'thank you' for. "Are you willing to sell her now, Tom?" cried cruel old Madge, popping her head round the door of the pig-sty one day, when Tom was feeding the animal. "No, and I wouldn't sell her to you for her weight in gold," cried Tom, too desperate now to care whether he offended the woman or not. "So get home to your own house, you ill-wishing cross-grained old witch!" Madge Figgy only smiled. "Don't lose your temper, Tom, my dear," she said sweetly, "'tis for me to do that. Just wait a bit, and I'll be bound that before another week is out you'll be glad to get rid of her, even to me!" and away trotted the mischievous old creature, cackling to herself, and rubbing her hands with glee. "I'll fatten the pig up somehow," cried Tom desperately, and he began giving her more than double her usual quantity of food at each meal. He gave her enough, indeed, to fatten two pigs, and nearly ruined himself to do it; but the more she ate the thinner she grew, and before the week was out she was merely skin and bone. "I can't afford to spend no more on 'ee," said Tom sorrowfully, and he made up his mind to take her to market the very next day before she got any worse. So, early the following morning they started off to walk to the market. Tom tied a string around the sow's leg to prevent her running away, but there was little enough fear of her doing that, for the poor thing could scarcely stand for weakness. In fact, she kept on falling down from sheer inability to support herself, and Tom had to pick her up and put her on her feet again, for she had not got the strength to get up by herself. After a long time, for they only went at a snail's pace, they came to the high road. "I believe I'll have to take and carry her on my back," said Tom dolefully, "or we shan't get to market till night." But hardly had he spoken the words when the sow took to her heels, and ran as if she had been a stag with the hounds after her! Poor Tom was nearly shaken to bits, and his arms were pretty nearly dragged from his body, for over hedges and ditches she went, and over everything else that came in her way, dragging Tom after her, until at last he had to drop the rope and let her take her chance, for his strength was all gone, and he had no breath left. As soon, though, as Tom let go his hold of the rope, the creature stopped her mad race, and walked along as quietly and soberly as the best-behaved pig that ever breathed. She went, though, every way but the right one, and this she did for mile upon mile, taking Tom after her, until at last they came to Tregenebris Downs. Here, where the two roads branch off, the one to Sancreed and the other to Penzance, Tom caught hold of the rope again, and tried once more to lead her to market, but the moment she came to the cross-roads, the sow started off at full speed again, jerking the rope out of Tom's hand, and careering away by herself until she got under Tregenebris Bridge. Here, though, she was forced to stop, for she stuck fast, and could not move backwards or forwards, for Tregenebris Bridge was a queer, old-fashioned construction, more like a big drain-pipe than anything, except that it was smaller in the middle than at the ends. Consequently, as she could not go through it and come out the other side, and she would not come back, she had to stay where she was. Tom did not know what to do. He could not reach her to pull her out, and all his holloaing and shouting was so much waste of breath. He pelted her with stones and lumps of turf, first her head and then her tail, until he was tired, but he might just as well have left her, for all the good it did. She only grunted, and planted her feet more obstinately. At last Tom, being quite worn out, sat down to rest, and waited to see what she would do if left to herself, but though he waited and waited till evening, the pig never budged. Tom, though, grew so hungry that he hardly knew how to bear with himself. He had had nothing to eat or drink since five in the morning, and he had tramped miles upon miles since that time. "There don't seem much chance of the contrairy old thing's coming out, so I may as well go home to get some supper," he said at last. "If anybody finds her they'll know she's mine, for there isn't such another poor miserable creature in the parish. So here goes." But no sooner had he made a start than whom should he see coming towards him but Madge Figgy. Madge was smiling to herself as she walked along, as though she were very well pleased about something. "Hulloa, Tom Trenoweth!" she cried, pretending to be surprised. "What are you doing here?" "Well," said Tom, "that's more than I can tell you, but I ain't here for my own pleasure, I can assure you of that, and if you want to know more you can look under the bridge and find out for yourself." "What's that grunting in there? Surely never your old sow! Well, she can't have fattened much if she's got in there! Are you in the mind to part with her now, Tom? What will you let me have her for now?" "If you've got a bit of something to eat in your basket, for pity's sake let me have it, for I'm famished; and if you can get the old thing out of that there pipe you're welcome to her for your trouble," said Tom sullenly, for he felt small at giving in to his enemy after all. "I've got a beautiful new kettle loaf in my basket, Tom; take it and welcome, do." Tom seized the loaf and began to eat ravenously. "Thank 'ee," said he, pretending to smile. "I think I've got the best of that bargain, for anyway I've got a good loaf, and it'll take more than you to get out my old pig!" "Ha, ha!" laughed Madge Figgy, "I'm glad you are pleased, Tom, ha, ha! refused five shillings, and took a twopenny loaf! I'm pleased with my share of the bargain, and I'm glad you are." Then turning towards the pig she called softly, "Chug! chug! chug! Come on, chug! chug! chug!" Out walked the old sow at once, and going up to the witch, she trotted away down the road after her as tamely as a dog. THE STORY OF SIR TRISTRAM AND LA BELLE ISEULT. Long, long ago, when Arthur was King of England, and King Mark was King of Cornwall,--for there were many petty kings, who held their lands under King Arthur,--there was born in Lyonesse a little boy, a king's son. Instead, though, of there being great joy and rejoicing at the birth of the little heir, sorrow reigned throughout Lyonesse, for his father, King Melodias, had been stolen away by enchantment, no one knew where. Nor could anyone tell how to release him, and the heartbroken queen was dying of grief, for she loved her husband very dearly. When she saw her little son her tears fell fast on his baby face. "Call him Tristram," she said, "for he was born in sorrow," and as she spoke she fell back dead. Little Tristram wailed right lustily, as though he fully realized his orphan state, and wept with pity for his own sad fate; and good cause he had to wail, too, poor little man, had he but known it, for already the greedy barons had cast their eyes on his land, longing to possess it and rule it. With only a baby boy standing between them and it, their way was easy enough. His death could easily be accomplished. Fortunately, though, for him, and everyone else in the land, King Melodias was just then released from enchantment by Merlin the wizard, and came hurrying joyfully to his home, to embrace his beloved wife. Great was his grief when he found that she was dead, great was the moan he made in his sorrow. With great pomp and splendour he buried her, and for seven years lived a lonely life, mourning her. At the end of that time he married again, but the stepmother hated little Tristram, the heir, and longed to destroy him, that her own child might be king. So one day she placed some poison in a cup for him to drink, but her own child, being thirsty, drank the poison and died. The queen, broken-hearted at the loss of her boy, and horror-stricken at what she had done, hated her stepson more than ever after this, and once again she tried to kill him in the same manner. This time, though, King Melodias, spying the tempting-looking drink, took it up and was about to drink it, when the queen, seeing what he was about to do, rushed in and snatched it from him. Then he discovered her guilt, and his anger knew no bounds. "Thou traitress!" he cried, "confess what manner of drink this is, or here and now I will run this sword through thy heart!" So she confessed, and was tried before the barons, and by their judgment was given over to be burnt to death. The faggots were prepared, the queen was bound to the stake, and they were beginning to light the fire when little Tristram, flinging himself on his knees, besought his father with such entreaties to pardon her, that the king could not refuse. So the queen was released, and in time the king forgave her. But, though he forgave her, he could never trust her again, and to protect little Tristram from her, he was sent to France, where he continued for some time, learning to joust and hunt, and do all things that were right and brave and noble; and seven years passed before he returned to his home in Lyonesse. Lyonesse was the furthest point of Cornwall; it joined what we now call 'Land's End,' and stretched out through the sea until it reached the Scilly Islands, a wild, rugged, beautiful spot, washed on either side by the glorious Atlantic sea. One day, though, that glorious Atlantic rose like a mountain above Lyonesse, and where in the morning had been a beautiful city with churches and houses, and fertile lands, in the evening there was only a raging, boiling sea, bearing on its bosom fragments of the lost world it had devoured. This, though, was long after the time of which I am writing now. For two years after his return from France, Tristram lived in Lyonesse, and then it happened that King Anguish of Ireland sent to King Mark of Cornwall to demand seven years' truage that was due to him. But when the demand reached King Mark, he and his knights absolutely refused to pay the money, and sent the messenger back, with none too polite a message, to say so. If he wanted the debt settled, they said, he could send the noblest knight of his court to fight for it, otherwise the king might whistle for his money. King Anguish was furiously enraged when this message reached him, and calling to him at once Sir Marhaus, his biggest and trustiest knight, sent him without delay to Cornwall to fight this battle. So Sir Marhaus set sail, and King Mark was troubled when he heard who was coming against him, for he knew well he had no knight to match him. At last Sir Marhaus arrived, but he did not land at once; for seven days he abode in his ship, and each day he sent to King Mark a stern demand for the money. The king had no intention of paying the money, but he sorely wanted a knight to fight for him. One worthy by birth and skill to meet this great champion; and in great ado he sent all over the country in search of such a one. At last, when none was to be found at home, someone counselled the king to send to King Arthur at Camelot for one of the Knights of the Round Table; but that could not be, for Sir Marhaus himself was a Round Table knight, and they, of course, never fought each other, unless it was in private quarrel. When at last the news of all this reached young Tristram's ears, he felt very greatly mortified that there could not be found in Cornwall a knight to fight for their rights, and his heart burned within him to go and save the honour of the West Country. He went to his father, King Melodias. "It seems to me," he cried impetuously, "a shame to us all, that Sir Marhaus, who is brother to the Queen of Ireland, should go back and say we Cornishmen have no one worthy to fight him." "Alas," answered the king, "know ye not that Sir Marhaus is one of the noblest of Arthur's knights, the best knights of the world? Beyond those of the Table Round I know none fit to match him." "Then," cried Tristram, "I would I were a knight, for if Sir Marhaus departs to Ireland unscathed, I will never more hold up my head for very shame. Sir, give me leave to go to my uncle, King Mark, that I may by him be made a knight." King Melodias could deny his son nothing, so, "Do as your courage bids you," he said, and Tristram, filled with joy, rode away at once to his uncle's court, and as soon as he arrived there he heard nothing but great dole made that no one could be found to fight the Irish knight. "Who are you?" asked the king, when Tristram presented himself before him, "and whence come you?" he added, looking admiringly at the handsome stranger. "Sir, I am Tristram of Lyonesse; I come from King Melodias, whose son I am; my mother was your sister." Then King Mark rejoiced greatly, for he saw in this stalwart nephew a champion for Cornwall, and, having knighted him, he sent word to Sir Marhaus to say he had found a champion to do battle with him. "I shall fight with none but of the blood-royal," Sir Marhaus sent back word; "your champion must be either a king's son or a queen's." Whereupon King Mark sent word to say that his champion was better born than ever Sir Marhaus was, and that his name was Tristram of Lyonesse, whose father was a king, and his mother a queen, and a king's sister. So it was arranged that the fight should take place on an island near, and thither Sir Tristram went in a ship with his horse, and his man Gouvernail, and all that he could need. And so noble he looked, and so brave, and of so good heart, that not one who saw him depart could refrain from weeping, for they never thought to see him return alive. So, on the island those two noble knights met, and Sir Marhaus was sad to see one so young and well-favoured come against him. "I sore repent," said he, "of your courage, for hear me that against all the noblest and trustiest knights of the world have I been matched and never yet been beaten. So take my counsel, and return again to your ship while you are able." "Sir," said Sir Tristram, throwing up his head proudly, "I have been made a knight that I might come against you, and I have sworn never to leave you until you are conquered or I am dead, for I will fight to the death to rescue Cornwall from the old truage." So they lowered their spears, and without more ado the fight began, and such a fight as that was never seen or known before in Cornwall. At the very first charge they met with such force that Sir Marhaus's spear wounded Sir Tristram in the side, and horses and riders were sent rolling on the ground; but soon they were on their feet again, and freeing themselves of their horses and spears, they pulled out their shields and fought with swords. With their swords they slashed and smote each other until the blood poured from them in streams, and so courageous were they, and determined not to give in, that they fought on and on until it seemed as though that struggle would last for ever. They hurled at each other with such fury that the blood ran down them in streams, dyeing the ground all round, yet neither prevailed in the least degree. By and by, though, Sir Tristram, being the younger and the better-winded, proved the fresher, and drawing up all his strength for one last effort, he smote Sir Marhaus on the helm with such force that Sir Marhaus fell on his knees, and the sword cleaving through helmet and skull stuck so fast in the bone that Sir Tristram had to pull three times at it with all his might before he could get it free, and when it did come, a piece of the edge of the sword was left behind in the skull. Overcome with pain and shame at his defeat, Sir Marhaus with a mighty effort raised himself to his feet, and without speaking one word, flung from him his sword and his shield, and staggered away to his ship. "Ah!" mocked Sir Tristram, "why do you, a knight of the Table Round, flee from a knight so young and untried as I?" But Sir Marhaus made as though he did not hear the taunts, but hurrying on board his ship, set sail with all possible speed. "Well, Sir Knight," laughed Tristram, "I thank you for your sword and shield; I will keep them wherever I go, and the shield I will carry to the day of my death." So Sir Marhaus returned to Ireland, and there, in spite of all that physicians could do, he soon died of his disgrace and his wounds; and after he was dead, the piece of sword-blade, which could not be extracted before, was found embedded in his brainpan. When the queen, his sister, saw the piece of sword-blade which was taken from her brother's skull, she asked that she might have it; and putting it away in a secret spot she vowed a solemn vow that when she had found out who had done this thing, she would never rest until she had had revenge. But about that time Sir Tristram, who had been severely wounded himself, was also lying at the point of death, neither knowing nor caring to know of the blessings and praises showered upon him; and great was the grief that filled the hearts of all the leeches and surgeons for whom King Mark had sent, for not one was of any avail, and the gallant young knight who had saved the honour of Cornwall was more than like to die. At last, when hope was well-nigh dead, there came a lady to the court who told King Mark that his nephew would never recover from his wounds unless he went to the land whence the poisoned spear came, for there only could he be healed. So, with all speed was a vessel prepared, and on board it Sir Tristram was carried, and with his man Gouvernail, his dogs, his horses, and his harp, he sailed until he came to Ireland. Here they all landed, and Sir Tristram was borne carefully on shore, to a castle prepared for him, where he was laid on a bed, and there on his bed he lay day after day, playing on his harp so exquisitely that all the people crowded to listen to him, for such music had never been heard in that country before. By and by the news of the presence of this wonderful player was carried to the king and queen, who were dwelling not very far away: and the king and queen sent for him to come to them; but when they found that he was a wounded knight, they had him brought to the castle, and there his wound was dressed and every care taken of him, for now they all grew to have a great admiration and liking for him. But who he was, or where he came from, they had no idea, for he had not told anyone his real name, or the story of the joust in which he got his wound. Now in all that land there was no better surgeon than the king's own daughter, the lady Iseult,--who, because of her loveliness, was known as La Belle Iseult.--So presently the king, who came to feel a greater and greater liking for Sir Tristram, and was anxious to see him well again, gave him over to the charge of his daughter, in whose skill he had great faith; for none other seemed able to heal him. So La Belle Iseult nursed him, and attended to his wound, and soon, at the bottom of it, she found the poison, which she removed, and quickly healed him. Before this end was reached, though, Sir Tristram had grown to love his beautiful nurse, and she her patient; for La Belle Iseult with her flower-like face and large grey eyes, her broad, low brow, round which her gleaming golden hair waved softly, and fell in heavy waves to her knees, was wondrously lovable. And Sir Tristram was more than passing noble, and his manners were gentle and courteous. When he grew stronger he taught Iseult to play the harp, and they sang songs together, so that they saw much of one another. Someone else loved Iseult also, and this was Sir Palamides the Saracen, and many fair gifts he brought the lady to win her love. But ladies are not to be won thus, and Iseult did not love the Saracen knight. Indeed, she besought Sir Tristram to joust with him and conquer him, that she might be rid of him, both of which Sir Tristram did, though Sir Palamides had put to the worse many brave knights before, and most men were afraid of him. Sir Tristram, whom Iseult had arrayed in white harness, rode against him on a white horse and threw him, and Sir Palamides was sore ashamed and would have crept secretly from the field, and from the crowds of knights and ladies watching the jousts, had not Sir Tristram gone after him and bid him return and finish the joust. So Palamides returned and fought again, but once more Sir Tristram overthrew him, and this time wounded him so sore that he was at his mercy. "Now," said Sir Tristram, "swear to me that you will do as I command, or I will slay you outright." Sir Palamides seeing his stern face, and remembering his strength, promised. "Then," said Sir Tristram, "promise never more to come near the lady La Belle Iseult, also that for a twelvemonth and a day you will bear no armour, nor wear any harness of war." "Alas," cried Sir Palamides, "I shall be for ever ashamed and disgraced," but he had to promise, and in fierce vexation he cut to pieces the harness he then wore, and threw the pieces from him. No one but La Belle Iseult knew who the knight was who had jousted with the Saracen, until some time after; and when it was known, Sir Tristram was loved more than ever by the king and queen, as he was already by their daughter. So month after month Sir Tristram lingered on in Ireland, and did many a noble deed during that time, and there he might have gone on living to the end of the chapter, if it had not been for a sore mischance which befell thus. One day, while Sir Tristram was absent, the queen and the lady Iseult were wandering up and down his room, when the queen suddenly espied Sir Tristram's sword lying on a couch, and seeing it to be of fine workmanship and delicately wrought, she lifted it the better to examine it, and she and Iseult stood admiring it together. Then presently the queen drew the sword slowly from out its scabbard, and there, within an inch and a half of the point, she espied the broken edge of the blade. Thrusting the weapon into Iseult's hands she ran to her chamber, where she had, safely locked away, the piece of steel which had been taken from her brother's skull; and bringing it back fitted it to the broken blade exactly. At that her anger knew no bounds, nor her mortification that they should have treated so well, and grown to love, the slayer of her brother. Sir Tristram happening to return at that moment, her anger so overmastered her that, seizing the sword, she rushed on him and would have slain him there and then, had not Gouvernail caught her and wrested the weapon from her. Being frustrated she ran in a frenzy of hate to her husband. "My lord," she cried, "we have here, in our very home, the destroyer and slayer of my brother, your most noble and trusty knight." "Who is he?" cried King Anguish, springing to his feet, "and where?" "Sir, it is this same knight whom your daughter has healed, and whom we have loved and treated well. I beseech you have no mercy on him, for he deserves none." "Alas, alas," cried the king, "I am right sorry, for he is as noble a knight as ever I saw. Do him no violence. Leave him to me, and I will deal with him according to my best judgment." So the king, who loved Sir Tristram, and could not bring himself to have him slain, went to Tristram's chamber, and there he saw him dressed, and ready to mount his horse. Then and there the king told him all that he had learnt, and said, "I love you too well to do you harm, therefore I give you leave to quit this court on one condition, that you tell me your real name, and if you really slew my brother-in-law, Sir Marhaus." So Tristram told him all his story, and then took leave of the king and all the court; and great was the grief at his departure, but by far the saddest leave-taking was that between him and La Belle Iseult, for they loved each other very dearly. And when they parted Sir Tristram swore to be ever her true and faithful knight, and she, that for seven years she would marry no one else, unless by his consent or desire. Then each gave the other a ring, and with a last long kiss they parted. So Sir Tristram returned at last to Cornwall, and there stayed with his uncle Mark, at Tintagel, and great were the rejoicings that he had returned recovered of his wound, and stronger and more noble-looking than ever. When, though, he had been back a little time, a great quarrel arose between King Mark and his nephew, and their feelings grew very hot and angry towards one another. It was about a beautiful lady that they quarrelled, a lady whom King Mark loved more than passing well. He thought that Sir Tristram loved her too, and she him, and he was so jealous of Sir Tristram that one day he and his knights, disguised, rode after him to see if he had gone to meet her. And as Tristram came riding back King Mark bore down on him, and they fought until the king was so wounded that he lay on the ground as though dead, and Sir Tristram rode on his way. He never knew that it was his uncle with whom he had fought, but from that day to the day of his death, though they were fair-spoken to each other, the king never forgave his nephew or loved him again. Indeed, he hated him so much that he ever plotted to injure him, and at last one day he thought of a plan by which he could ruin Tristram's happiness, and probably get him killed as well. Now it happened that when Sir Tristram had first returned from Ireland he had told his uncle of La Belle Iseult, of her beauty, and grace, and skill; for his heart was ever filled with love and admiration for her, and to him she was the very fairest woman in the world. So to wound Sir Tristram, and to take a sore and cruel revenge upon him, King Mark determined to ask her in marriage for himself, and to make his cruelty the greater, he determined that Sir Tristram should be the knight who should go to Ireland as his ambassador to ask her hand of King Anguish, her father. Sending for Sir Tristram he laid his commands upon him, rejoicing in the heavy task he was laying upon him, watching him closely to note how he would bear it. But Sir Tristram, though sad at heart and deeply troubled, bore himself bravely, and accepted the task; for to have refused it would have been a cowardice and a shame, and not the conduct of a true knight. Without delay he set about preparing for his sad journey. He had made ready a large vessel, fitted in the most sumptuous manner possible, and taking with him some chosen knights dressed in the most goodly style, he set sail from Tintagel for Ireland. Before they had got far, though, a fierce storm burst over them, and beat their vessel about until she was driven back to England, to the coast of Camelot, where King Arthur dwelt, and right glad they were to take to the land. There, when they were landed, Sir Tristram set up his tent, and hanging his shield without it, lay down to rest. Hardly, though, was he lain down, before two knights of the Round Table, Sir Ector de Maris and Sir Morganor, came and rapped on the shield, bidding him come forth and joust. "Wait awhile," called back Sir Tristram, "and I will bring you my answer." Then he hastily dressed himself, and came out to the two impatient knights, and without much ado he first smote down Sir Ector and then Sir Morganor, with the same spear. "Whence come you, and whose knight are you?" they asked as they lay on the ground, unable to rise because of their bruises. "My lords," answered Sir Tristram, "I am from Cornwall." "Alas, alas, I am sore ashamed that any Cornish knight should have overcome me," cried Sir Ector. And so ashamed was he that he put off his armour and went away on foot, for he would not ride. Now it happened about this time that King Anguish of Ireland was sent for to appear at King Arthur's court at Camelot, to answer a charge of treason brought against him by Sir Blamor de Ganis, and Sir Bleoberis, his brother; which was that he had slain at his court a cousin of theirs and of Sir Launcelot. The king, who had not known for why he was sent, was sore abashed when he heard the charge, for he knew there were only two ways to settle the matter, either he must fight the accuser himself, or he must get a knight to do so for him, and very heavy-hearted he was, for Sir Blamor was a powerful knight, and one of the trustiest of the Table Round, and King Anguish knew that now Sir Marhaus was dead he had no knight in Ireland to match him. Three days he had in which to decide upon his answer, and great was his perplexity as to what it should be. Meanwhile, Gouvernail went unto his master and told him that King Anguish was arraigned for murder, and was in great distress. Whereupon Sir Tristram replied, "This is the best news I have heard these seven years, that the King of Ireland hath need of my help. I dare be sworn there is no knight in England, save of Arthur's court, that dare do battle with Sir Blamor de Ganis. Bring me to the king then, Gouvernail, for to win his love I will take this battle on myself." So Gouvernail went to King Anguish, and told him that a knight wished to do him service. "What knight?" said he. "Sir Tristram of Lyonesse," answered Gouvernail, "who, for your goodness to him in your own land, would fain assist you in this." Then was the king right overjoyed, and went unto Sir Tristram's pavilion, and when Sir Tristram saw him he would have knelt and held his stirrup for him to dismount, but the king leapt lightly to the ground, and they embraced each other with great gladness, and the king told his tale. "Sir," said Sir Tristram, "for your good grace to me, and for the sake of your daughter, Belle Iseult, I will fight this battle, but you must grant me two requests. The first is, you must give me your own word that you were not consenting unto this knight's death; the second, that if I win this battle you shall give me as reward whatsoever reasonable thing I ask." Whereupon the king swore to both of them, and then went to tell his accusers that he had a knight ready to fight Sir Blamor. Then King Arthur commanded Sir Tristram and Sir Blamor to appear before the judges, and when they came many kings and knights who were present recognized Sir Tristram as the young unknown knight who had fought and conquered Sir Marhaus of Ireland, and the excitement grew intense, for two lustier knights than Sir Tristram and Sir Blamor could not have been found. So the time was fixed, and the combatants retired to their tents to prepare for battle. "Dear brother," said Bleoberis to Blamor, "remember of what kin you are, and how Sir Launcelot is our cousin, and suffer death rather than shame, for none of our blood was yet shamed in battle." "Fear not," answered Sir Blamor stoutly, "that I will ever disgrace our kin. Yonder knight is a goodly man, but I swear I will never yield, nor say the loth word. He may smite me down by his chivalry, but he shall slay me before I say the loth word." So the two champions rode to meet each other from opposite sides of the lists, and they feutred their spears and charged each other with so great force that it sounded as though the heavens were sending forth loud thunders, and then Sir Tristram by his great strength bore Sir Blamor to the ground, and his horse under him. He was quickly clear of his horse, though, and on his feet again. "Alight, Sir Tristram," he cried, pulling out his sword, "my horse has failed me, but the earth shall not." So together they rushed, and lashed at each other in fury, slashing and tearing, foining, and making such fearful strokes that the kings and knights held their breath in horror and amazement that two men could use each other so, and neither give in. But so fierce were they that their stabs and cuts might have been falling on men of wood, so little heed did they pay. So fast and furiously they fought, that the wonder was they had breath to keep on; but Sir Blamor was the more furious, and therefore the less wary, so that by and by Sir Tristram saw an opportunity and smote him such a crushing blow on the head that he fell over on his side, and Sir Tristram stood over him. Then was Sir Blamor's shame piteous. "Kill me, Sir Tristram," he cried, "as you are a noble knight, for I would not live. Not to be lord of the whole universe would I endure with shame; and I will never say the loth word, so the victory is not yours unless you slay me." Sir Tristram was sore perplexed what to do. He could not bring himself to kill this noble knight; but for his party's sake he must, unless Sir Blamor would say the loth word. So he went to the assembled kings, and kneeling before them he besought them that they would take the matter into their hands. "For," said he, "it is a cruel pity that such a noble knight should be slain, and I pray God he may not be slain or shamed by me. I beseech the king, whose champion I am, that he will have mercy upon this good knight." Sir Bleoberis, though, as hotly demanded that his brother should be slain outright, until the judges gave him stern reproof. "It shall not be," they said, "both King Anguish and his champion knight have more mercy than thou," and they went to King Anguish, and he, good man, gave up his claim, and resigned the loth word, as each champion was proved of good faith. And so it was settled, and so rejoiced were Sir Bleoberis and his brother, and right grateful for their goodness, that they swore eternal friendship to King Anguish and Sir Tristram, and each kissed the other, and swore a vow that neither would come against the other in combat. Then King Anguish and Sir Tristram set sail for Ireland, with great splendour and gladness, and right welcome was Sir Tristram when the people heard what he had done for their king and for them. Great were the rejoicings, and great the joy, but the joy of Iseult was greater than all the rest together, for she still loved Sir Tristram with all her heart and soul. Then as the days came and went, much did King Anguish marvel that Sir Tristram had not made his second request, but Sir Tristram was fain to postpone doing so, for he was heavy-hearted at his task. At last King Anguish asked him, saying, "Sir Knight, you have not yet asked of me your reward." "Alas," said Sir Tristram sadly, "the time is come. I would ask you for your daughter Iseult to take back with me to Cornwall,--not for myself, but to wed the king, my uncle Mark; for full well he knows how she surpasseth all in beauty, and wisdom, and charm, for I myself have told him of her, until he desireth her greatly for his queen and lady." "Ah me!" cried King Anguish in amazement, and, "Ah me!" he sighed, "I would you had asked her for yourself, Sir Tristram. Right glad would I have been to have called you 'son!'" "That can never be now," said Sir Tristram gently; "I should be false to my trust, and for ever shamed. My uncle commanded me to come, and I have promised." So a great feasting and merry-making began, and all things were made ready for La Belle Iseult to sail to another land to be made a queen. Now whether the queen, Iseult's mother, saw that Sir Tristram and her daughter loved each other, or whether she feared that her daughter might not love King Mark, no one will ever know, but she set to work to concoct a love-drink, brewing it from delicate herbs and simples, which when ready she enclosed in a golden flask. This she handed to Dame Bragwaine, La Belle Iseult's waiting-woman, bidding her guard it with all care, and not let it out of her sight until La Belle Iseult and King Mark were wedded, when she was to give it to them that they might each drink of it, so that a great and holy love should rise and grow between them, never to die until their lives ended. So, on a certain day a dainty vessel, all painted white and silver, and furnished with the utmost richness and beauty, set sail from Ireland. At the prow glittered a golden swallow, all set with gems, and on board were Tristram and Iseult. Silently, swiftly they glided through the waters, the sun shone softly, the breeze lightly caressed the dainty, bird-like vessel and the white fluttering canvas, as though afraid to breathe on anything so lovely as the lady lying amidst her silken cushions and cloth of gold. Then it stole modestly away, only to return again, full fain to touch her golden hair, or her delicate cheek. The scent of the land-flowers filled the air, for the vessel was gaily bedecked with all the fairest and most delicate. In this little nest of luxury sat Tristram and Iseult, he so stalwart, noble, bronzed, she so surpassingly beautiful, gentle and lovable. All through the long, warm days they sat listening each to the other's talk, and when the sun went down and left them to the fair white light of the moon, they still sat and talked, or looked at each other, for the mere sight of each filled the other's heart with joy. Oh the pity of it all! the pity of it! Such a nobly-matched pair was never seen before nor since. Iseult made Sir Tristram tell her of the battles he had fought, of the countries he had seen, and of the people of this new land towards which she was hastening; for all was strange to her, and a great heaviness filled her heart at the thought of King Mark and his court. That her mind might not dwell on it, she asked him of Queen Guinevere, the fame of whose beauty had spread to all lands. "Alas, alas for her beauty!" cried Sir Tristram. "It has been the undoing of many good men and true, who have died for love of her. Her beauty has been a sore curse to her, poor lady." "Then," answered Iseult, looking up at him with serious, innocent eyes, "right thankful I am that my face will never bring ill-fortune to any man!" And Sir Tristram had to turn from her to hide his pain, for his love for her was greater than ever. On and on they sailed, full fain that their voyage might last as long as might be, for perfect was their happiness to be together thus, and everything was fair and peaceful. But at last one day the sun was hid by the clouds which gathered in the sky above them, the wind howled threateningly around the vessel, increasing in violence as the hours dragged by, until the danger of the dainty craft was great. Ill indeed would it have been with them but for the might of Sir Tristram's arm, for the vessel was not one built to battle with tempests and mighty seas. With all his strength and skill he guided her through the troubled waters, and Iseult sat and watched him at his task, marvelling at his power. "Ah," she thought, "had I been a man I would have been just like to him." And, without fear of danger, so perfectly did she trust in him, she lay and gazed at him with admiring, wistful eyes. From time to time he came to her to encourage and reassure her, but although she felt no fear, she did not tell him so, so dearly did she love to hear his voice, and feel his care for her. At last when the danger was over he came to her again, dropping beside her almost exhausted. "Iseult, my throat is parched and burning, my tongue cleaves to my mouth. Give me some drink," he pleaded. Pleased to do his bidding, glad to be able to help him, Iseult rose and ran below. But in the confusion caused by the storm nowhere could she find aught wherewith to quench his thirst. Dame Bragwaine, half dead with terror of the storm, fatigue, and sickness, lay in a sort of stupor on her couch, and Iseult, ever kind and thoughtful for others, would not disturb her to help her in her search. Here and there she sought, and high and low, but nowhere could she find wine or aught else to drink. Right vexed and disappointed, she was returning empty-handed to the deck where Sir Tristram impatiently awaited her, when, close by the couch of Dame Bragwaine, she spied a beautiful golden flask full of a rich sparkling liquid. With a cry of relief she snatched it up, and running up on deck, "Drink, drink," she cried, unloosing the fastening, "the perfume is intoxicating. Such wine I never before beheld." "Nay, sweet Lady Iseult," cried Sir Tristram, pressing it back into her hands; "deign first to put your lips to it; do me that honour, or I will never taste it." So to her sweet parted lips she raised the flask, and drank, and then, smiling and glad, she handed it to him. Alas, alas, unhappy pair, who might have been so happy! No sooner had they tasted of that fatal drink than through their hearts and brains poured a love so great, so deep, so surpassing, that never a greater could exist in this world. And in their hearts it dwelt for evermore, never leaving them through weal or woe. At last, alas, after many adventures and many dangers, the happy voyage ended, the coast of Cornwall was reached, and Sir Tristram had to lead La Belle Iseult to the king. And King Mark when he saw her was so amazed at her beauty that he loved her there and then, and with great pomp and rejoicing the marriage took place at once. But La Belle Iseult loved none but Sir Tristram, and he her. For a while all went well, but only for a little while, for King Mark, told by his knights of the love Queen Iseult and Sir Tristram bore each other, grew sore jealous of Sir Tristram, and hating him more and more, longed for a chance to do him harm. But Tristram gave him no chance, for he was the noblest and trustiest knight of all the court, and though he fought and jousted continually no harm came to him until one unhappy day, when he was lying sleeping in a wood, there came along, a man whose brother Sir Tristram had killed; when the man saw Sir Tristram lying there asleep he shot an arrow at him, and the arrow went through Tristram's shoulder. Sir Tristram was on his feet in a moment, and killed the man; but his own hurt was a grievous one, for the arrow had been a poisoned one, so, what with his poisoned wound and what with his sorrow that Iseult was so kept a prisoner by King Mark, that he could neither see her nor hear from her, he was very ill for a long time, and like to die. And no one had the skill to cure him but La Belle Iseult, and she might not do so. Hearing, though, by some means, of his sad condition she sent to him a message by Dame Bragwaine's cousin, bidding him to go to Brittany, for King Howell's daughter, Iseult la Blanche Mains,--or Iseult of the White Hands,--could cure him, and no one else. So he took a ship and went, and this other Iseult healed his wounds, and restored him to perfect health. But she grew to love him, too, for he was a man to whom all women's hearts softened. She was but a child, this White-handed Iseult. She had barely reached her sixteenth year. And though she thought of her unasked love with shame, and though she ever strove to hide it, it shone in her soft brown eyes, and pale face, and filled Sir Tristram's heart with pain for her. So he left the court and sailed the seas again, hoping that she would forget him, and learn to love someone else. Now, though Sir Tristram could not tear the love of La Belle Iseult from his heart, he did not spend his life in moans and sad regrets. He gave his life to helping the oppressed, and destroying the oppressors; to helping to right wrongs, and in all ways living a good and noble life worthy of the lady who loved him. His liking for the sea was great, too, so that he spent many days and nights on board his own good ship, and often he thought of the time when La Belle Iseult crossed the sea with him, of the sunny days and starry nights, the peace, the joy, and the happiness of that sweet time. And his heart ached cruelly, and he was full of sadness, for he was a very lonely man now, with no hope of happiness before him. Then one day in his loneliness came the thought of that other lonely heart,--kind little Iseult of the White Hands, and of her love for him. "She suffers as I do," he said. "Why should two women suffer so for my sake? I cannot love her as she deserves, but I will try to make her happy." So, turning the vessel's head, he made once more for Brittany, and there he found that an earl called Grip was making great war upon King Howell, and was getting the mastery. So Sir Tristram joyfully went to the king's aid, and after mowing down Grip's knights right and left, he killed the earl himself, and so won the battle. Right royally was Sir Tristram received after that, and King Howell in his joy would have given him his whole kingdom had he so desired. But Sir Tristram would accept no reward. What he had done, was done for Iseult's sake, he said. And a love grew up in Tristram's heart for the gentle maiden, for who could help loving one kind and beautiful! So they were married with great rejoicings, and all the kingdom was glad, and so was Sir Tristram, for now, he thought, he could quench that fatal love for Iseult of Cornwall, and could spend the rest of his days in this sunny land, happy with his sweet child-wife. Alas! alas! Once more the deadly love-drink did its work! No sooner had he placed the ring on his bride's finger, than the love for the other Iseult returned stronger than ever. "I have been false to my lady!" he cried to himself remorsefully, "for I swore ever to be her true knight, loyal to her alone." And such sorrow and repentance filled his heart that his love for his bride was killed. He concealed his pain so well, though, that little Iseult was happy, never doubting that her husband loved her,--but all the days and nights that passed were full for Tristram of yearning for his love, and a great longing to be again in Cornwall. At last one day there arrived at the castle a knight from King Arthur's court at Camelot; and of him Sir Tristram asked, "Say they aught of me at court?" "Truly," answered the knight, "they speak of you with shame, for Sir Launcelot says you are a false knight to your lady, and his love for you is dead, so that he longs to meet with you that he may joust with you." Sore troubled indeed was Sir Tristram at this, for he loved Sir Launcelot, and coveted his respect, and to be deemed traitor to the lady for whom he would have laid down his life, hurt him most of all. From that time his longing to return to Tintagel and his love for La Belle Iseult grew daily more and more unconquerable, until at last he could no longer bear it, and one day set sail from Brittany, leaving his poor little lonely wife behind to mourn his absence, and yearn for his return; for as yet she had not found out that there was no love at all in his heart for her. But on a day soon after he had left her there was brought to her the story of his love for that other Iseult, and of hers for him. Then was the young wife filled with shame that ever she had showed her love for him, and jealousy raged in her, turning her love to bitter hate, and her heart hardened so that night and day she longed to be revenged. Thus a whole year passed away, and Tristram and Queen Iseult loved each other as dearly as ever; but King Mark in his jealous anger kept them so watched that they could never see or speak one to the other, and they had no peace or joy in life, until at last they could bear the pain no longer, and one day they managed to escape together and to reach the Castle of Joyous Gard, where the king had no power to reach them, even had he known where they were hid. Of their love and happiness there no tongue can tell, and of the peace and joy of their life, for they loved each other above all else, and when they were together nothing had power to pain them. But at last, on a sad, sad day, the trusty Gouvernail came to Sir Tristram with word that a summons had been sent him from King Arthur, to go to the aid of Sir Triamour of Wales, for he was sore beset by a monster named Urgan, and needed help. Sir Tristram could in no wise, of course, neglect this summons, for that would have been the direst disgrace to him, and never more in all his life would he have been able to show himself anywhere but as a treacherous and loathly knight, and, though it broke his heart to send her from him, La Belle Iseult loved him too well to have him so disgrace himself. So they parted; and a sadder parting never had been in this world, for they knew with a sure and certain knowledge that never again would they be allowed to meet; and their hearts were full of a love and sorrow almost too great to be borne. With tears and kisses they said farewell, vowing each to be true to the other till death, and after. So Sir Tristram rode away into Wales, and Queen Iseult being discovered by King Mark, was made to return to him, only to be made a prisoner in the great grim castle at Tintagel, where all day long she sat sad and lonely, looking out over the sea, and musing sadly on all the bitterness life had held for her and for her lover. And her husband, jealous, wrathful, never slackened his watch over her, night or day. A harder lot was Iseult's than her lover's, for he had change and action to distract his thoughts, and all the excitement of battle; but she had nothing to do but sit and think on all that might have been, until her heart was near to breaking. Meanwhile, Sir Tristram arrived in Wales and met the monster Urgan, a huge, hideous creature with no notion of fighting, or chivalry, for the moment he beheld Sir Tristram, he rushed upon him, and would have dashed him to the ground, but that Sir Tristram by good hap saw what was coming, and swerved aside so that the blow fell harmless. And while the giant roared with rage and mortification, and tried to recover his balance, Sir Tristram swiftly drew his sword, and swinging it lightly round his head, cut the monster's right hand clean off at the wrist with one sharp stroke. Maddened by the pain, Urgan fumbled with his left hand until he drew from his belt a short steel dagger which had been tempered with sorcery, and springing on Sir Tristram they closed together, and long and fiercely they fought until the cliffs trembled with the struggle, and the ground was sodden with blood. Great ado had Sir Tristram to avoid the huge bulk of the giant, and greater and greater grew the strain upon his strength, until a blow from him sent the giant rolling over in the gory mud. He was soon on his feet again, but the moment had given Sir Tristram time to get his breath. Then they closed again, and the blows fell faster and more furiously than ever. The giant's groans of rage and excitement might have been heard for miles around, while the earth flew about them until they could scarce be seen. Between every joint of their corslets the blood ran down in streams, but the sight only infuriated them the more. At last, with a fierce roar between bitter laughter and pain, Urgan smote Sir Tristram with such fury that he cracked his shield in half, and then before Sir Tristram could recover himself he smote him again so that he would have killed him had not the blow by great good chance turned aside. But, turning aside as it did, it gave Sir Tristram the chance he coveted, and rushing in on the giant before he had recovered his foothold, he smote him with such force and skill that he cleft him clean through; and in his agony Urgan leapt so high in the air that he fell back over the edge of the cliff, and dropped heavily into the sea. His task accomplished, Sir Tristram got into his ship again and sailed away, and as he passed Tintagel, where his unhappy love lay a prisoner in the castle, his heart felt like to break; and his yearning for her was so great, it seemed as though it must bring her to him in spite of her jailers. But they were parted, those two, by a fate as strong as death. And she lay immured in her castle home, while he sailed on and on, not heeding nor caring whither he went, for all that he loved dwelt on that bleak iron-bound coast, as far from him as though the whole wide world lay between them. And so at last, not heeding whither he sailed, he came to that sunny land where his wife Iseult dwelt, praying always for revenge because she had been scorned by him. On the coast at Brittany he landed, close by his own castle, but no sooner had he stepped ashore than he was met by a knight who knelt before him and besought his aid. "Noble sir," cried he, "I am in sore distress. Some robbers, who infest this land like a scourge, met me as I was riding along with my new-made bride, and I being alone and single-handed, they quickly mastered me, and binding me, carried my bride away. And how to rescue her I know not. Come to my aid, sir, I beseech you, for you look a noble and trusty knight." Sir Tristram, glad to have some distraction from his sorrow, was only too ready to help others who suffered for love's sake. So to Iseult he sent a message to say he had arrived, and would have been with her but for the quest, which he was bound to accomplish for his honour's sake, and for the sake of his knighthood. Then he departed, and he and the knight rode along the seashore in search of the robbers. All night they slept in the wood by the sea, but as soon as morning broke there sounded close at hand a great trampling of horses and clanking of arms, and soon came along the robber band, with the pale-faced, terrified lady in their midst, fastened to one of the robbers. At this sight the hapless young husband could no longer restrain himself. With a fierce cry he flew at the man to whom his bride was bound, while Sir Tristram, cool and strong, closed with the band and slew three before they had tried to defend themselves. And so the unequal battle began, and so it raged; but with so much courage and fierceness did the two knights fight for their just cause, that soon nearly all the robber band lay lifeless on the ground. The young knight, though, was himself by that time wounded by the last remaining of the band, and ill would it have gone with him, for the reeking sword was raised high to give him the final blow, when Sir Tristram with a cry of triumph rushed in and clove the man so that he never breathed again. Thus was all accomplished, and gladly was Sir Tristram returning on his homeward way, when one of the robbers who had made his escape and lay concealed, shot at Sir Tristram from his hiding-place, and the arrow pierced Sir Tristram in that same wound whereof he had nearly died before he went to Ireland, and La Belle Iseult cured him. And now he felt like to die again. Scarcely could he stagger home through the long miles of that rugged forest by the sea; his eyes were faint and blinded, his legs shook under him. Parched, trembling, well-nigh dead, he reached at last his castle gates, but there his strength failed him, and with a terrible cry he fell prostrate on the ground. At the sound forth came soldiers and servants, and strong men lifted him in kindly arms and laid him gently on a bed, calling aloud for someone to come and dress his wound. Over by the window of the big hall sat Iseult la Blanche Mains, gazing with stony, unseeing eyes out over the golden sea, paying no heed to the noise and bustle going on about her. She had recognized that cry of pain at the gate, and knew her husband had returned sore stricken, but never, never once did she turn her head to look at him, nor move to give him comfort or assistance. And Tristram, ill though he was, felt the change in her manner to him, and grieved in his heart that all was not as it should have been, for he could not bear to cause pain to any woman. As soon as he could speak he called to her, humbly, "Iseult, my wife!" At that she rose and went to him, but sullenly, and stood looking at him as though he were a stranger. "Kiss me," he whispered, and at his bidding she stooped and kissed him, but it was as though an icicle had brushed his cheek, and a black cloud of misery settled down upon him, and despairing longing for her who would have been so gentle and kind to him; and towards his wife his heart hardened. And she, poor little Iseult, her heart aching sorely with love and jealousy and bitter pain, returned to her seat, and no movement did she make to heal her lord of his wound, though she alone could do so. But in her heart she had vowed that she would not give him health and life only that he might leave her again to go to that other Iseult. So, stern and cold she sat by the window looking out upon the sea, and never spake one gentle word, or tried to win his love. And thus three days and nights passed by, and ever the husband and wife drifted more and more apart. Sir Tristram's wound refused to heal, his strength failed him more and more, but still his wife made no attempt to save him. At last there came a day when Sir Tristram could no longer endure his lonely, loveless life, or his pain of mind and body, with never a kindly word or deed to comfort him. This hard, reproachful woman tortured him hour by hour with her sullen face and hard eyes, her cruel, cold indifference. And his love for that other Iseult, so tender, and true, and loving, burnt like fire in his veins and consumed him. So calling to him Ganhardine, his wife's brother, who loved him greatly, he bade him, by the love they bore each other, to take his ship 'The Swan,' and with all speed sail in her to England; and there to land at Tintagel, and by fair means or foul to convey to Queen Iseult the ring which he there gave him. To tell her, too, how that he, Sir Tristram, was like to die, but could not die in peace till he had seen her face once more. "Then if it be that she comes, hoist a white sail that I may know my love still loves me, and is on her way. If not, then let the sail be black, that I may know, and die." And Iseult of the White Hands heard each word he spake, and never a word she said; but her rage and jealousy well-nigh consumed her. So Sir Ganhardine left upon his errand, and sailed for Tintagel in 'The Swan,' and the journey did not take him long, for the ship flew through the waters like a real bird, as though she knew she was bound on her master's errand, and that his life depended on her swiftness. Dark it was when Ganhardine arrived, for it was winter-time, when storms rage full violent on that bleak coast. And at once he landed, and was made welcome by King Mark, for a stranger, and a noble one, was ever welcome in that lone country; and the king's heart never misgave him that this was a messenger from Sir Tristram. Now it happened that Dame Bragwaine knew Sir Ganhardine, for they had been lovers in days gone by, and more than glad they were to see each other again. So with Bragwaine's gladly given help, Ganhardine conveyed Sir Tristram's ring to Queen Iseult in a cup of wine, so that when the queen drank, there at the bottom of the cup lay Sir Tristram's ring, one that she had given him long ago. And there she saw it, and her pale sad face lit up with such a wondrous joy that she had some ado to conceal her emotion from the king and those around her who were ever keeping her watched. Deftly, though, she slipped the ring out of her mouth, and deftly she presently managed to slip it into her bosom, marvelling much the while whence and how it came, and why. And her anxiety and longing nigh drove her beside herself. For until all the inmates of the castle had retired to rest, naught could she learn of the mystery, or of the stranger who had come to the castle. But once within her own apartments, where she was no longer watched and guarded as of yore, she quickly, at Dame Bragwaine's bidding, muffled herself to the eyes, and creeping softly down a flight of secret stairs, she got out of the castle by a private passage-way and reached the spot where 'The Swan' lay moored, and where Sir Ganhardine awaited her with his message and his sad story. When she heard tell of Sir Tristram's sad plight, and how that he was like to die, but could not die in peace till he had once more beheld her, there was no need to plead with her to leave all and go to him. Almost before the tale was told her she had stepped on board the ship, and without one glance behind her or one regret she set sail upon the stormy wintry sea to go to her true love, as fast as the faithful 'Swan' could carry her. And in her joy that once again she should be with him, once again she should see him, she almost forgot his sore plight, for hard it was for her to believe that Sir Tristram could be like to die. Meanwhile death was drawing nearer and nearer to Sir Tristram. His restlessness aggravated his wound, his anxious, tortured mind increased his fever, so that truly he was like to die at any moment. And all the time, a little way from him sat White-handed Iseult, pale and cold without, the better to bide the burning rage within. "Iseult! Iseult!" cried the sick man in his sleep. "I am here. What would you?" she answered coldly, and he opened his eyes with a half-doubting joy in them; but his heart sank like lead, and all the joy died out of him, for the voice was not the voice of his love, nor the face her face, and sore wearily he sighed, and turned his face away. "I wronged you past all forgiveness when I married you," he said, "for my heart had long been given to La Belle Iseult, whose sworn knight I was; but I did love you, I thought I could make you happy. Have you no pity? Can you feel no mercy for me now?" he cried piteously. "I feel nothing," she answered bitterly; "between you, you have killed my heart, and all that was good in me." So his heart yearned all the more for the gentler, more tender Iseult. Wearily he moved in his bed and watched for the first gleam of daylight. Slowly the hours dragged by, relieved only by the plash, plash of the waves against the castle walls, or the sighs of the sick man. Then within a while he spoke again. "My wife," he said, "when morning comes, look across the sea, and tell me if you see a ship coming, and if its sails be black or white, that I may the sooner be out of this miserable uncertainty." Obediently she rose, and sat watching until the first ray of dawn, when, skimming over the sea through the morning mist, she saw the dainty 'Swan,' with her white sails like wings gleaming through the dimness. Over the wide waters she flew, until she drew close to the castle, and the anchor was cast. Then from out her sprang Ganhardine, and following quickly after him came La Belle Iseult. Too impatient to wait for help she sprang lightly on the shore, and stood there breathless, eager, glad. And so for the first time Iseult la Blanche Mains saw that other Iseult, and as she stood on the shore in her white gown, with her golden hair falling out under her hood like a mantle over her shoulders, the unhappy wife marvelled not that Tristram loved so fair a creature, and her heart sank at sight of her beauty, and fiercer burnt her jealousy. "They come," she said sullenly, turning to her husband. "Ah!" he cried, with a deep groan of intolerable suspense. "Of thy mercy tell me, and do not torture me!" "The sails are black," she answered in a cold, hard voice. Then was the terrified woman sore afraid, for with a mighty effort Sir Tristram sprang from his bed, and took one step across the floor, and in a voice that made even her heart throb and bleed with pity, "Iseult--my love--my love!" he cried. Then a sudden darkness falling upon him, he flung out his arms as though to catch at something. "Iseult--Iseult--my love--come--to me!" he gasped in broken tones, and with a thud fell at his wife's feet, dead. "I come, my love, I come!" rang out a sweet voice, full of love and tenderness and joy; and up the castle steps flew La Belle Iseult, and across the hall to where he lay. And never a look she gave at the pale, unhappy wife. Never a glance at aught beside that form. "Tristram, my beloved! I am here. I am with you--with you for all time," she cried, flinging herself on her knees beside him. And never another word did she speak,--for when they raised her, her spirit had followed his to where none could part them more. So died those two who had lived and loved so sadly and so truly. And when he was dead there was found round Sir Tristram's sword-belt the story of the fatal love-draught, and when he read it deep was the grief and bitter the remorse of King Mark that he had ever parted those two so bound together, and driven them to such despair. Once more 'The Swan' sailed over the sea to Tintagel, and this time she bore Sir Tristram and his love together, for side by side they were to be buried in a dainty chapel made for them alone, that at last they should never more be parted. But in time the sea, jealous for those lovers whose doom she had seen, came up and drew that dainty chapel into her own bosom. And there, where none can see them, the lovers sleep in peace for evermore, wrapped round and guarded by the blue waters of the deep Atlantic sea. 
37187	----	ULSTER FOLKLORE [Illustration: PLATE I. [_R. Welch, Photo._ HARVEST KNOT.] ULSTER FOLKLORE BY ELIZABETH ANDREWS, F.R.A.I. WITH FOURTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS LONDON: ELLIOT STOCK 7, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 1913 INTRODUCTION In 1894 I was at the meeting of the British Association at Oxford, and had the good fortune to hear Professor Julius Kollmann give his paper on "Pygmies in Europe," in which he described the skeletons which had then recently been discovered near Schaffhausen. As I listened to his account of these small people, whose average height was about four and a half feet, I recalled the description of Irish fairies given to me by an old woman from Galway, and it appeared to me that our traditional "wee-folk" were about the size of these Swiss dwarfs. I determined to collect what information I could, and the result is given in the following pages. I found that the fairies are, indeed, regarded as small; but their height may be that of a well-grown boy or girl, or they may not be larger than a child beginning to walk. I once asked a woman if they were as small as cocks and hens, but she laughed at the suggestion. I had collected a number of stories, and had become convinced that in these tales we had a reminiscence of a dwarf race, when I read some of Mr. David MacRitchie's works, and was gratified to find that the traditions I had gathered were in accordance with the conclusions he had drawn from his investigations in Scotland. A little later I made his acquaintance, and owe him many thanks for his great kindness and the encouragement he has given me in my work. As will be seen in the following pages, tradition records several small races in Ulster: the Grogachs, who are closely allied to the fairies, and also to the Scotch and English Brownies; the short Danes, whom I am inclined to identify with the Tuatha de Danann; the Pechts, or Picts; and also the small Finns. My belief is that all these, including the fairies, represent primitive races of mankind, and that in the stories of women, children, and men being carried off by the fairies, we have a record of warfare, when stealthy raids were made and captives brought to the dark souterrain. These souterrains, or, as the country people call them, "coves," are very numerous. They are underground structures, built of rough stones without mortar, and roofed with large flat slabs. Plate II. shows a fine one at Ardtole, near Ardglass, Co. Down. The total length of this souterrain is about one hundred and eight feet, its width three feet, and its height five feet three inches.[1] The entrance to another souterrain is shown in the Sweathouse at Maghera[2] (Plate III.). As a rule, although the fairies are regarded as "fallen angels," they are said to be kind to the poor, and to possess many good qualities. "It was better for the land before they went away" is an expression I have heard more than once. The belief in the fairy changeling has, however, led to many acts of cruelty. We know of the terrible cases which occurred in the South of Ireland some years ago, and I met with the same superstition in the North. I was told a man believed his sick wife was not herself, but a fairy who had been substituted for her. Fortunately the poor woman was in hospital, so no harm could come to her. Much of primitive belief has gathered round the fairy--we have the fairy well and the fairy thorn. It is said that fairies can make themselves so small that they can creep through keyholes, and they are generally invisible to ordinary mortals. They can shoot their arrows at cattle and human beings, and by their magic powers bring disease on both. They seldom, however, partake of the nature of ghosts, and I do not think belief in fairies is connected with ancestral worship. Sometimes I have been asked if the people did not invent these stories to please me. The best answer to this question is to be found in the diverse localities from which the same tale comes. I have heard of the making of heather ale by the Danes, and the tragic fate of the father and son, the last of this race, in Down, Antrim, Londonderry, and Kerry. The same story is told in many parts of Scotland, although there it is the Picts who make the heather ale. I have been told of the woman attending the fairy-man's wife, acquiring the power of seeing the fairies, and subsequently having her eye put out, in Donegal and Derry, and variants of the story come to us from Wales and the Holy Land. I am aware that I labour under a disadvantage in not being an Irish scholar, but most of those in Down, Antrim, and Derry from whom I heard the tales spoke only English, and in Donegal the peasants who related the stories knew both languages well, and I believe gave me a faithful version of their Irish tales. Some of these essays appeared in the _Antiquary_, others were read to the Archæological Section of the Belfast Naturalists' Field Club, but are now published for the first time _in extenso_. All have been revised, and additional notes introduced. To these chapters on folklore I have added an article on the Rev. William Hamilton, who, in his "Letters on the North-East Coast of Antrim," written towards the close of the eighteenth century, gives an account of the geology, antiquities, and customs of the country. The plan of the souterrain at Ballymagreehan Fort, Co. Down, was kindly drawn for me by Mr. Arthur Birch. I am much indebted to the Council of the Royal Anthropological Institute for their kindness in allowing me to reproduce the plan of the souterrain at Knockdhu from Mrs. Hobson's paper, "Some Ulster Souterrains," published in the _Journal_ of the Institute, vol. xxxix., January to June, 1909. My best thanks are also due to Mrs. Hobson for allowing me to make use of her photograph of the entrance to this souterrain. The other illustrations are from photographs by Mr. Robert Welch, M.R.I.A., who has done so much to make the scenery, geology, and antiquities of the North of Ireland better known to the English public. BELFAST, _August, 1913_. FOOTNOTES: [1] See "Ardtole Souterrain, Co. Down," by F. J. Bigger and W. J. Fennell in _Ulster Journal of Archæology_, 1898-99, pp. 146, 147. [2] I am much indebted to Mr. S. D. Lytle of that town for kind permission to reproduce this view. CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION V FAIRIES AND THEIR DWELLING-PLACES 1 A DAY AT MAGHERA, CO. LONDONDERRY 14 ULSTER FAIRIES, DANES, AND PECHTS 24 FOLKLORE CONNECTED WITH ULSTER RATHS AND SOUTERRAINS 36 TRADITIONS OF DWARF RACES IN IRELAND AND IN SWITZERLAND 47 FOLKLORE FROM DONEGAL 64 GIANTS AND DWARFS 84 THE REV. WILLIAM HAMILTON, D.D. 105 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PLATES I. HARVEST KNOT _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE II. SOUTERRAIN AT ARDTOLE, ARDGLASS, CO. DOWN 1 III. ENTRANCE TO SWEATHOUSE, MAGHERA 14 IV. RUSH AND STRAW CROSSES 17 V. HARVEST KNOTS 19 VI. "CHURN" 20 VII. ENTRANCE TO SOUTERRAIN AT KNOCKDHU 30 VIII. THE OLD FORT, ANTRIM 36 IX. GREY MAN'S PATH, FAIR HEAD 49 X. TORMORE, TORY ISLAND 73 XI. VALLEY NEAR ARMOY, WHENCE, ACCORDING TO LEGEND, EARTH WAS TAKEN TO FORM RATHLIN 90 XII. FLINT SPEARHEAD AND BASALT AXES FOUND UNDER FORT IN LENAGH TOWNLAND 97 PLANS SOUTERRAIN AT BALLYMAGREEHAN 6 SOUTERRAIN AT KNOCKDHU 30 [Illustration: PLATE II. [_R. Welch, Photo._ SOUTERRAIN AT ARDTOLE, ARDGLASS CO. DOWN.] Fairies and their Dwelling-places[3] In the following notes I have recorded a few traditions gathered from the peasantry in Co. Down and other parts of Ireland regarding the fairies. The belief is general that these little people were at one time very numerous throughout the country, but have now disappeared from many of their former haunts. At Ballynahinch I was told they had been blown away fifty years ago by a great storm, and the caretaker of the old church and graveyard of Killevy said they had gone to Scotland. They are, however, supposed still to inhabit the more remote parts of the country, and the old people have many stories of fairy visitors, and of what happened in their own youth and in the time of their fathers and grandfathers. We must not, however, think of Irish fairies as tiny creatures who could hide under a mushroom or dance on a blade of grass. I remember well how strongly an old woman from Galway repudiated such an idea. The fairies, according to her, were indeed small people, but no mushroom could give them shelter. She described them as about the size of children, and as far as I can ascertain from inquiries made in many parts of Ulster and Munster, this is the almost universal belief among the peasantry. Sometimes I was told the fairies were as large as a well-grown boy or girl, sometimes that they were as small as children beginning to walk; the height of a chair or a table was often used as a comparison, and on one occasion an old woman spoke of them as being about the size of monkeys. The colour red appears to be closely associated with these little people. In Co. Waterford, if a child has a red handkerchief on its head, it is said to be wearing a fairy cap. I have frequently been told of the small men in red jackets running about the forts; the fairy women sometimes appear in red cloaks; and I have heard more than once that fairies have red hair. A farmer living in one of the valleys of the Mourne Mountains said he had seen one stormy night little creatures with red hair, about the size of children. I asked him if they might not have been really children from some of the cottages, but his reply was that no child could have been out in such weather. An old woman living near Tullamore Park, Co. Down, described vividly how, going out to look after her goat and its young kid, she had heard loud screams and seen wild-looking figures with scanty clothing whose hair stood up like the mane of a horse. She spoke with much respect of the fairies as the gentry, said they formerly inhabited hills in Tullamore Park, and that care was taken not to destroy their thorn-bushes. She related the following story: As a friend of hers was sitting alone one night, a small old woman, dressed in a white cap and apron, came in and borrowed a bowl of meal. The debt was repaid, and the meal brought by the fairy put in the barrel. The woman kept the matter secret, and was surprised to find her barrel did not need replenishing. At last her husband asked if her store of meal was not coming to an end; she replied that she would show him she had sufficient, and lifted the cover of the barrel. To her astonishment it was almost empty; no doubt, had she kept her secret, she would have had an unlimited supply of meal. I have heard several similar stories, and have not found that any evil consequences were supposed to follow from partaking of food brought by the fairies. Men have been carried off by them, have heard their beautiful music, seen them dancing, or witnessed a fairy battle without bringing any misfortune on themselves. On the other hand, according to a story I heard at Buncrana, Co. Donegal, a little herd-boy paid dearly for having entered one of their dwellings. As he was climbing among the rocks, he saw a cleft, and creeping through it came to where a fairy woman was spinning with her "weans," or children, around her. His sister missed him, and after searching for a time, she too, came to the cleft, and looking down saw her brother, and called to him to come out. He came, but was never able to speak again. In another case deafness followed intercourse with the fairies. An elderly man at Maghera, Co. Down, told me that his brother when four or five years old went out with his father. The child lay down on the grass. After a while the father heard a great noise, and looking up saw little men about two feet in height dancing round his son. He called to them to be gone, and they ran towards a fort and disappeared. The child became deaf, and did not recover his hearing for ten years. He died at the age of seventeen. To cut down a fairy thorn or to injure the house of a fairy is regarded as certain to bring misfortune. An old woman also living at Maghera, related how her great-grandmother had received a visit from a small old woman, who forbade the building of a certain turf-stack, saying that evil would befall anyone who injured the chimneys of her house. The warning was disregarded, the turf-stack built, and before long four cows died. I was told that when a certain fort in Co. Fermanagh was levelled to the ground misfortune overtook the men who did the work, although, apparently, they were only labourers, many of them dying suddenly. It was also said that where this fort had stood there were caves or hollows in the ground into which the oxen would fall when ploughing. An attempt to bring a fort near Newcastle under cultivation is believed to have caused the sudden death of the owner. The fairies are celebrated as fine musicians; they ride on small horses; the women grind meal, and the sound of their spinning is often heard at night in the peasants' cottages. The following story is related as having occurred at Camlough, near Newry. A woman was spinning one evening when three fairies came into the house, each bringing a spinning-wheel. They said they would help her with her work, and one of them asked for a drink of water. The woman went to the well to fetch it. When there she was warned, apparently by a friendly fairy, that the others had come only to mock and harm her. Acting on the advice of this friend, the woman, as soon as she had given water to the three, turned again to the open door, and stood looking intently towards a fort. They asked what she was gazing at, and the reply was: "At the blaze on the fort." No sooner had she uttered these words than the three fairies rushed out with such haste that one of them left her spinning-wheel behind, which, according to the story, is now to be seen in Dublin Castle. The woman then shut her door, and put a pin in the keyhole, thus effectually preventing the return of her visitors. In this story we have probably an allusion to the signal fires which are believed by the peasantry to have been lit on the forts in time of danger, one fort being always within view of another. These forts, or raths, appear to have been the favourite abode of the fairies. To use the language of the peasantry, these little people live in the "coves of the forths," an expression which puzzled me until I found that coves, or caves, meant underground passages--in other words, souterrains. There are a number of these souterrains in the neighbourhood of Castlewellan, and with a young friend, who helped me to take a few rough measurements, I explored several. [Illustration: PLAN OF BALLYMAGREEHAN SOUTERRAIN.] Ballymagreehan Fort is a short distance from Castlewellan, near the Newry Road. It is a small fort, and on the top we saw the narrow entrance to the souterrain. Passing down through this, we found ourselves in a short passage, or chamber, which led us to another passage at right angles to the first. It is about forty feet in length and three feet in width; the height varies from four to five feet. The roof is formed of flat slabs, and the walls are carefully built of round stones, but without mortar. At one end this passage appeared to terminate in a wall, but at the other it was only choked with fallen stones and débris, and I should think had formerly extended farther. Herman's Fort is another small fort on the opposite side of Castlewellan, in the townland of Clarkill. Climbing to the top of it, we came to an enclosure where several thorn-bushes were growing. The farmer who kindly acted as our guide showed us two openings. One of these led to a narrow chamber fully six feet high, the other to a passage more than thirty feet in length and about three feet wide, while the height varied from three and a half feet in one part to more than five feet in another. I was told that water is always to be found near these forts, and was shown a well which had existed from time immemorial; the sides were built of round stones without mortar, in the same way as the walls of the passage. We heard here of another souterrain about a mile distant, called Backaderry Cove. It is on the side of a hill close to the road leading from Castlewellan to Dromara. A number of thorn-bushes grow near the place, but there is no mound, either natural or artificial. Creeping through the opening, we found ourselves in a passage about forty feet in length; a chamber opens off it nine feet in length, and between five and six feet in height, while the height of the passage varies from four and a half to five and a half feet. There is a tradition that this passage formerly connected Backaderry with Herman's Fort. Ballyginney Fort is near Maghera. I only saw the entrance to the souterrain, but from what I heard I believe that here also there is a chamber opening off the passage. The farmer on whose land the fort is situated told me that one dry summer he had planted flax in the field adjoining the fort. The small depth of soil above the flat slabs affected the crop, so that by the difference in the flax it was easy to trace where the passage ran below the field. We have seen that the fairies are believed to inhabit the souterrains; they are also said to live inside certain hills, and in forts where, so far as is known, no underground structure exists. I may mention as an example the large fort on the Shimna River, near Newcastle, where I was told their music was often to be heard. There may be many souterrains whose entrance has been choked up, and of which no record has been preserved. Mr. Bigger gave last session an interesting account of one discovered at Stranocum; another was accidentally found last September in a field about three miles from Newry. Mr. Mann Harbison, who visited the souterrain, writes to me that the excavation has been made in a circular portion which is six feet wide and five feet high. A gallery opens out of this chamber, and is in some places not more than three feet six inches high. The building of the forts and souterrains is ascribed by the country people to the Danes, a race of whom various traditions exist. They are said to have had red hair; sometimes they are spoken of as large men, sometimes as short men. One old woman, who had little belief in fairies, told me that in the old troubled times in Ireland people lived inside the forts; these people were the Danes, and they used to light fires on the top as a signal from one fort to another. I heard from an elderly man of Danes having encamped on his grandmother's farm. Smoke was seen rising from an unfrequented spot, and when an uncle went to investigate the matter he found small huts with no doors, only a bundle of sticks laid across the entrance. In one of the huts he saw a pot boiling on the fire, and going forward he began to stir the contents. Immediately a red-haired man and woman rushed in; they appeared angry at the intrusion, and when he went out threw a plate after him. The traditions in regard both to Danes and fairies are very similar in different parts of Ireland. In Co. Cavan the country people spoke of the beautiful music of the fairies, and told me of their living in a fort near Lough Oughter. One woman said they were sometimes called Ganelochs, and were about the size of children, and an old man described them as little people about one or two feet high, riding on small horses. In Co. Waterford I was told that the fairies were not ghosts: they lived in the air. One man might see them while they would be invisible to others. In an interesting lecture on the "Customs and Superstitions of the Southern Irish," the Rev. J. B. Leslie, who has kindly allowed me to quote from his manuscript, describes the fairies as "a species of beings neither men nor angels nor ghosts.... They are connected in the popular imagination with the Danish forts which are common in the country. In these they seem to have their abode underground. At night they hold here high revels--in grand banqueting-halls--and in these revels there must always, I believe, be a living human being. The fairies are often called the 'good people'; some think they are 'fallen angels.' They are usually thought of as harmless creatures, unless, of course, they are interfered with, when the power they wield is very great. They are very fond of games; some testify that they have seen them play football, others hurley, while playing at marbles is a special pastime, and I have even heard of persons who have discovered 'fairy marbles' near or in these forts. No one will interfere with the forts; they fear the power and anger of the fairies." While the fairies are generally associated with the forts, I heard both in Co. Down and Co. Kerry of their living in caves in the mountains, and a lad whom I met near the Gap of Dunloe described them as having cloven feet and black hair. A boatman at Killarney spoke of the Leprechauns as little men about three feet in height, wearing red caps. He thought the fairies might be taller, and spoke of their living in the forts. He said these forts had been built by the Danes, who must have been small men, when they made the passages so low. We thus see that fairies and Danes are both associated with these ancient structures. Although the Irish peasant speaks of these Danes having been conquered by Brian Boru, the structure and position of the raths and souterrains point to their having been the work of one of the earlier Irish races rather than of the medieval Norsemen. Their name appears to identify them with the Tuatha de Danann whose necromantic power is celebrated in Irish tales, and of whom, according to O'Curry, one class of fairies are the representatives. I know that some high authorities regard the Tuatha de Danann and the fairies as alike mythological beings. The latter are certainly in popular legend endowed with superhuman attributes; they can transport people long distances, creep through keyholes, and the fairy changeling, when placed on the fire, can escape up the chimney and grin at his tormentors. If we ask the country people who are the fairies, the reply is frequently, "Fallen angels." According to an old woman in Donegal, these angels fell, some on the sea, some on the earth, while some remained in the air; the fairies were those who fell on the earth. These "fallen angels" may be the representatives of the spirits whom the pagan Irish worshipped and strove to propitiate, and some of the tales relating to the fairies may have their origin in the mythology of a primitive people. But the raths and souterrains are certainly the work of human hands, and I would suggest that in the legends connected with them we have a reminiscence of a dwarf race who rode on ponies, were good musicians, could spin and weave, and grind corn. The traditions would point to their being red-haired. Mr. Mann Harbison has kindly written to me on this subject, and expresses his belief that the souterrains "were constructed by a diminutive race, probably allied to the modern Lapps, who seem to be the survivors of a widely distributed race." In another letter he says: "The universal idea of fairies is very suggestive. The tall Celts, when they arrived, saw the small people disappear in a mysterious way, and, without stopping to investigate, imagined they had become invisible. If they had had the courage or the patience to investigate, they would have found that they had passed into their souterrain." In his work "Fians, Fairies, and Picts," Mr. David MacRitchie argues that these three names belong to similar if not identical dwarf races in Scotland. The Tuatha de Danann he also regards as of the same race as the fairies, or, to give them their Irish name, the Fir Sidhe, the men of the green mounds. The remains of the ancient cave-dwellers point to a primitive race of small size inhabiting Europe. Dr. Munro, in his work "Prehistoric Problems," refers to the skeletons discovered at Spy in Belgium by MM. Lohest and De Pudzt. He describes them as examples of a very early and low type of the human race, and states that Professor Fraipont, who examined them anatomically, "came to the conclusion that the Spy men belonged to a race relatively of small stature, analogous to the modern Laplanders, having voluminous heads, massive bodies, short arms, and bent legs. They led a sedentary life, frequented caves, manufactured flint implements after the type known as Moustérien, and were contemporary with the Mammoth."[4] Let us compare this description with that in the ballad of "The Wee, Wee Man":[5] "His legs were scarce a shathmont's[6] length, And thick and thimber was his thigh; Between his brows there was a span, And between his shoulders there was three." I do not, however, mean to suggest that the builders of the raths and souterrains were contemporary with the men of Spy, but rather that a small race of primitive men may have existed until a comparatively late period in this country. Leading a desultory warfare with their neighbours, they would carry off women and children, and injure the cattle with their stone weapons. We should note that in the traditions of the peasantry, and also in the old ballads, those who have been carried off by the fairies can frequently be released from captivity, and they return, not as ghosts, but as living men or women. May we not see in these legends traces of a struggle between a primitive race, whose gods may have been, like themselves, of diminutive stature, and their more civilized neighbours, who accepted the teaching of the early Christian missionaries? FOOTNOTES: [3] Communicated to Belfast Naturalists' Field Club, January 18, 1898. [4] P. 141. [5] "Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs," published anonymously, but known to have been collected by David Herd (vol. i., p. 95, ed. 1776). [6] The fist closed with thumb extended, and may be considered a measure of about six inches. A Day at Maghera, Co. Londonderry[7] One fine morning last August I found myself in the quaint old town of Maghera. My first visit was to the post-office, where I bought some picture-cards, and inquired my way to Killelagh Church, the Cromlech, and the Sweat-house, as it is called, where formerly people indulged in a vapour-bath to cure rheumatism and other complaints. I was told to follow the main street. This I did, and when I came to the outskirts of the town I tried to get a guide, and spoke to a boy at one of the cottages. He, however, knew very little, but fortunately saw an elderly man coming down the road, who consented to show me the way, and proved an excellent guide. His name is Daniel McKenna, a coach-builder by trade. His father, who was teacher in Maghera National School for thirty-five years, knew Irish well, and I understand gave Dr. Joyce information in regard to some of the place-names in Co. Derry. Taking a road which led in a north-westerly direction, we came to the Cromlech, and a few yards farther on saw the old Church of Killelagh. [Illustration: PLATE III. ENTRANCE TO SWEATHOUSE, MAGHERA.] My guide pointed out that the doorstep was much worn, doubtless by the feet of those who during many centuries had passed over it; he showed me, too, the strong walls, and said the mortar had been cemented with the blood of bullocks. This probably recalls an ancient custom, when an animal--in still earlier times it might be a human being[8]--was slain to propitiate or drive away the evil spirits and secure the stability of the building. A similar tradition exists in regard to Roughan Castle, the stronghold of Phelim O'Neill, in Co. Tyrone. Leaving Killelagh Church, we continued our walk, and I asked my guide about the customs and traditions of the country. He told me that on Hallow Eve Night salt is put on the heads of children to protect them from the fairies. These fairies, or wee folk, are about three feet in height, some not so tall; they are of different races or tribes, and have pitched battles at the Pecht's graveyard. This is a place covered with rough mounds and very rough stones, and is looked on as a great playground of the fairies; people passing through it are often led astray by them. The Pechts, or Picts, were described to me as having long black hair, which grew in tufts; they were small people, about four feet six inches in height, thick set, nearly as broad as they were long, strong in arms and shoulders, and with very large feet. When a shower of rain came on, they would stand on their heads and shelter themselves under their feet. Some years ago I was told a similar story in Co. Antrim of the Pechts lying down and using their feet as umbrellas.[9] I regretted we had not time to visit a large fort we passed on the way to Ballyknock Farmhouse. Here we left the road, and, passing through some fields, came to the old Sweat-house. As you will see from the photograph kindly given to me by Mr. Lytle of Maghera, the entrance is on the side of a bank. It is a much more primitive structure than those at the Struel Wells, near Downpatrick. No mortar has been used in its construction, and I should say it is an old souterrain, or part of a souterrain. The following are rough measurements: Height of entrance 2 feet. Width of entrance 15 inches. Height of interior 5 feet 5 inches. Width of interior 3 feet. Length of interior 9 feet. [Illustration: PLATE IV. [_R. Welch, Photo._ RUSH AND STRAW CROSSES.] This building, as already mentioned, was used by those suffering from rheumatism, and near the entrance is a well in which the patients bathed to complete the cure. While we were resting I asked about rush crosses, which are put up in many cottages at Maghera, and, gathering some rushes, Daniel McKenna showed me how they were made. He told me that on St. Bridget's Eve, January 31, children are sent out to pull rushes, which must not be cut with a knife. When these rushes are brought in, the family gather round the fire and make the crosses, which are sprinkled with holy water. The wife or eldest daughter prepares tea and pancakes, and the plate of pancakes is laid on the top of the rush cross. Prayers are said, and the family partake of St. Bridget's supper. The crosses are hung up over doors and beds to bring good luck. In former times sowans or flummery was eaten instead of pancakes. I have heard of similar customs in other places. At Tobermore those who bring in the rushes ask at the door, "May St. Bridget come in?" "Yes, she may," is the answer. The rushes are put on a rail under the table while the family partake of tea. Afterwards the crosses are made, and, as at Maghera, hung up over doors and beds.[10] This custom probably comes to us from pre-Christian times. The cross in its varied forms is a very ancient symbol, sometimes representing the sun, sometimes the four winds of heaven. Schlieman discovered it on the pottery of the Troad; it is found in Egypt, India, China, and Japan, and among the people of the Bronze Period it appears frequently on pottery, jewellery, and coins. Now, St. Bridget had a pagan predecessor, Brigit, a poetess of the Tuatha de Danann, and whom we may perhaps regard as a female Apollo. Cormac, in his "Glossary," tells us she was a daughter of the Dagda and a goddess whom all poets adored, and whose two sisters were Brigit the physician and Brigit the smith. Probably the three sisters represent the same divine or semi-divine person whom we may identify with the British goddess Brigantia and the Gaulish Brigindo. May we not see, then, in these rush crosses a very ancient symbol, used in pagan times, and which was probably consecrated by early Christian missionaries, and given a new significance? [Illustration: PLATE V. [_R. Welch, Photo._ HARVEST KNOTS.] The harvest knots or bows are connected with another old custom which was, until recently, observed at Maghera. When the harvest was gathered in, the last handful of oats, the corn of this country, was left standing. It was plaited in three parts and tied at the top, and was called by the Irish name "luchter." The reapers stood at some distance, and threw their sickles at the luchter, and the man who cut it was exempt from paying his share of the feast. Daniel McKenna told me he had seen some fine sickles broken in trying to hit the luchter. It was afterwards carried home; the young girls plaited harvest knots and put them in their hair, while the lads wore them in their caps and buttonholes. A dance followed the feast. The knots, with the ears of corn attached, are, I am told, the true old Irish type, while it is thought that the smaller ones were made after a pattern brought from England by the harvest reapers on their return home. I heard of the same custom at Portstewart and also in the Valley of the Roe, where the last sheaf of oats was called the "hare," and the throwing of the sickles was termed the "churn." In some places the last sheaf itself was called the "churn," but by whatever name it was known the man who hit it was regarded as the victor, and was given the best seat at the feast, or a reward of some kind. An old woman above ninety years of age repeated to me a song about the churn, or kirn, and she and many others remember well the custom and the feast which followed, when both whisky and tea were served. In some districts the last sheaf is termed the "Cailleagh,"[11] or old wife. A similar custom in Devonshire has been described by Mr. Pearse Chope in the _London Devonian Year Book_ for 1910, p. 127. Here corn is wheat, and a sheaf of the finest ears, termed the "neck," is carried by one of the men to an elevated spot; the reapers form themselves into a ring, and each man holding his hook above his head, they all join in "the weird cry, 'A neck! a neck! a neck! We ha' un! we ha' un! we ha' un!' This is repeated several times, with the occasional variation: 'A neck! a neck! a neck! God sa' un! God sa' un! God sa' un!' After this ceremony the man with the neck has to run to the kitchen, and get it there dry, while the maids wait with buckets and pitchers of water to 'souse' him and the neck." Mr. Chope adds that in most cases the neck is more or less in the form of a woman, and undoubtedly represented the spirit of the harvest, and that "the main idea of the ceremony seems to have been that in cutting the corn the spirit was gradually driven into the last handful.... As it was needful to cut the corn and bury the seed, so it was necessary to kill the corn spirit in order that it might rise again in fresh youth and vigour in the coming crop."[12] I think we may safely assume that the Irish churn had a similar origin, and that in throwing the sickles the aim of the ancient reapers was to kill the spirit of the corn. [Illustration: PLATE VI. [_R. Welch, Photo._ "CHURN"] We have seen that in the North of Ireland the last sheaf is frequently termed the "hare," and in many other countries the corn spirit takes the form of an animal. In his recent volumes of the _Golden Bough_, entitled "Spirits of the Corn and the Wild," Dr. Frazer mentions many animals, such as the wolf, goat, fox, dog, bull, cow, horse, hare, which represent the corn spirit lurking in the last patch of standing corn. He tells us that "at harvest a number of wild animals, such as hares, rabbits, and partridges, are commonly driven by the progress of the reaping into the last patch of standing corn, and make their escape from it as it is being cut down.... Now, primitive man, to whom magical changes of shape seem perfectly credible, finds it most natural that the spirit of the corn, driven from his home in the ripe grain, should make his escape in the form of the animal, which is seen to rush out of the last patch of corn as it falls under the scythe of the reaper."[13] To return to Maghera. The morning passed swiftly as I listened to my guide's description of these old customs, and it was after two o'clock when I said good-bye to him at his cottage, and found myself again in the main street of Maghera. I now wished to visit the Fort of Dunglady, and after a refreshing cup of tea, engaged a car. The driver knew the country well, and, going uphill and downhill, we passed through the village of Culnady, and were soon close to this fine fort. A few minutes' walk, and I stood on the outer rampart, and gazed across the inner circles at the cattle grazing on the central enclosure. This fort was visited in 1902 by the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, when a very interesting paper, written by Miss Jane Clark of Kilrea, was read. She mentions that Dr. O'Donovan considered this fort one of the most interesting he had met with; not so magnificent as the Dun of Keltar at Downpatrick, but much better fortified, and states that a map of the time of Charles I. represents Dunglady Fort as a prominent object, and shows three houses built upon it, one of considerable size. Quoting from an unpublished letter of Mr. J. Stokes, she refers to the triple rampart, which makes the diameter of the whole to be three hundred and thirty feet. There was formerly a draw well in the middle of the fort, and at one time it was used as a burial-ground by members of the Society of Friends. Miss Clark also referred to a smaller fort at Culnady, which had been demolished. The two mounds in the centre of this rath had been formed of earth on a stone foundation. A rapid drive brought me back to Maghera in time for a short visit to the ruins of the Church of St. Lurach, popularly known in the district as St. Lowry. There is a curious sculpture of the Crucifixion over the west doorway, which is shown in the sketch of this doorway by Petrie in Lord Dunraven's "Notes on Irish Architecture."[14] I must now conclude this account of my visit to Maghera, but may I mention that farther north there are other interesting antiquities? The large cromlech, called the Broadstone, is some miles from Kilrea. There are several forts in the neighbourhood of that town, which draws its supply of water from a fairy well. FOOTNOTES: [7] Read before the Archæological Section of the Belfast Naturalists' Field Club, January 15, 1913. [8] In "My Schools and Schoolmasters" (chap. x., pp. 222-223, ed. 1854), Hugh Miller describes the goblin who haunted Craig House, near Cromarty Firth, as a "grey-headed, grey-bearded, little old man," and the apparition was thus explained by a herdboy: "_Oh! they're saying_ it's the spirit of the man that was killed on the foundation-stone just after it was laid, and then built intil the wa' by the masons, that he might keep the castle by coming back again; and _they're saying_ that a' the verra auld houses in the kintra had murderit men builded intil them in that way, and that they have a' o' them this bogle." In "The Study of Man," Professor Haddon gives a number of allusions to the human sacrifice in the building of bridges (pp. 347-356). [9] See p. 27. [10] In Plate IV. the larger cross is of rushes, the smaller one is made of straw. [11] Mr. McKean kindly informs me that he has found this name or its modification "Collya" in Counties Armagh, Monaghan, and Tyrone; also near Cushendall, Co. Antrim, where the ceremony is called "cutting the Cailleagh." He was told this Cailleagh was an old witch, and by "killing" her and taking her into the house you got good luck. At Ballyatoge, at the back of Cat Carn Hill, near Belfast, in the descent to Crumlin, the custom is called "cutting the Granny." At Ballycastle, Co. Antrim, the plait or braid is called the "car-line." [12] Dr. Frazer also describes this Devonshire custom (see _Golden Bough_, "Spirits of the Corn and the Wild," vol. i., pp. 264-267). [13] "Spirits of the Corn and the Wild," vol. i., pp. 304, 305. [14] Vol. i., p. 115. Ulster Fairies, Danes and Pechts[15] The fairy lore of Ulster is doubtless dying out, but much may yet be learned about the "gentle" folk, and as we listen to the stories told by the peasantry, we may well ask ourselves what is the meaning of these old legends. Fairies are regarded on the whole as a kindly race of beings, although if offended they will work dire vengeance. They have no connection with churchyards, and are quite distinct from ghosts. One old woman, who had much to say about fairies, when asked about ghosts, replied rather scornfully, that she did not believe in them. The fairies are supposed to be small--"wee folk"--but we must not think of them as tiny creatures who could hide in a foxglove. To use a North of Ireland phrase, they are the size of a "lump of a boy or girl!" and have been often mistaken for ordinary men or women, until their sudden disappearance marked them as unearthly. A farmer in Co. Antrim told me that once when a man was taking stones from a cave in a fort, an old man came and asked him would it not be better to get his stones elsewhere than from those ancient buildings. The other, however, continued his work; but when the stranger suddenly disappeared, he became convinced that his questioner was no ordinary mortal. In after-life he often said sadly: "He was a poor man, and would always remain a poor man, because he had taken stones from that cave." The cave was no doubt a souterrain. An elderly woman in Co. Antrim told me that when a child she one evening saw "a little old woman with a green cloak coming over the burn." She helped her to cross, and afterwards took her to the cottage, where her mother received the stranger kindly, told her she was sorry she could not give her a bed in the house, but that she might sleep in one of the outhouses. The children made Grannie as comfortable as they could, and in the morning went out early to see how she was. They found her up and ready to leave. The child who had first met her said she would again help her across the burn--"But wait," she added, "until I get my bonnet." She ran into the house, but before she came out the old woman had disappeared. When the mother heard of this she said: "God bless you, child! Don't mind Grannie; she is very well able to take care of herself." And so it was believed that Grannie was a fairy. I have also heard of a little old man in a three-cornered hat, at first mistaken for a neighbour, but whose sudden disappearance proved him to be a fairy. In the time of the press-gang a crowd was seen approaching some cottages. Great alarm ensued, and the young men fled; but it was soon discovered that these people did not come from a man-of-war--they were fairies. A terrible story, showing how the fairies can punish their captives, was told me by an old woman at Armoy, in Co. Antrim, who vouched for it as being "candid truth." A man's wife was carried away by the fairies; he married again, but one night his first wife met him, told him where she was, and besought him to release her, saying that if he would do so she would leave that part of the country and not trouble him any more. She begged him, however, not to make the attempt unless he were confident he could carry it out, as if he failed she would die a terrible death. He promised to save her, and she told him to watch at midnight, when she would be riding past the house with the fairies; she would put her hand in at the window, and he must grasp it and hold tight. He did as she bade him, and although the fairies pulled hard, he had nearly saved her, when his second wife saw what was going on, and tore his hand away. The poor woman was dragged off, and across the fields he heard her piercing cries, and saw next morning the drops of blood where the fairies had murdered her. Another woman was more fortunate; she was carried off by the fairies at Cushendall, but was able to inform her friends when she and the fairies would be going on a journey, and she told them that if they stroked her with the branch of a rowan-tree she would be free. They did as she desired. She returned to them, apparently having suffered no injury, and in the course of time she married. This story was told me by a man ninety years of age, living in Glenshesk, in the north of Co. Antrim. He spoke of the fairies as being about two feet in height, said they were dressed in green, and had been seen in daylight making hats of rushes. In Donegal I was also told that the fairies wore high peaked hats made of plaited rushes; but there, as in most parts of Ulster, and indeed of Ireland, the fairies are said to wear red, not green. In Antrim the fairies, like their Scotch kinsfolk, dress in green, but even there are often said to have red or sandy hair. The Pechts are spoken of as low, stout people, who built some of the "coves" in the forts. An old man, living in the townland of Drumcrow, Co. Antrim, showed me the entrance to one of these artificial caves, and gave me a vivid description of its builders. "The Pechts," he said, "were low-set, heavy-made people, broad in the feet--so broad," he added, with an expressive gesture, "that in rain they could lie down and shelter themselves under their feet." He spoke of them as clad in skins, while an old woman at Armoy said they were dressed in grey. I have seldom heard of the Pechts beyond the confines of Antrim, although an old man in Donegal spoke of them as short people with large, unwieldy feet. The traditions regarding the Danes vary; sometimes they are spoken of as a tall race, sometimes as a short race. There is little doubt that the tall race were the medieval Danes, while in the short men we have probably a reminiscence of an earlier race. A widespread belief exists throughout Ireland that the Danes made heather beer, and that the secret perished with them. According to an old woman at the foot of the Mourne Mountains, the Danes had the land in old times, but at last they were conquered, and there remained alive only a father and son. When pressed to disclose how the heather beer was made, the father said: "Kill my son, and I will tell you our secret"; but when the son was slain, he cried: "Kill me also, but our secret you shall never know!" I have the authority of Mr. MacRitchie for stating that a similar story is known in Scotland from the Shetlands to the Mull of Galloway, but there it is told of the Picts. We all remember Louis Stevenson's ballad of heather ale--how the son was cast into the sea: "And there on the cliff stood the father, Last of the dwarfish men. "True was the word I told you: Only my son I feared; For I doubt the sapling courage That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall never avail; Here dies in my bosom The secret of heather ale." The secret appears, however, to have been preserved for many centuries. After visiting Islay in 1772, the Welsh traveller and naturalist, Pennant, states that "Ale is frequently made in this island from the tops of heath, mixing two-thirds of that plant with one of malt."[16] Probably these islanders were descendants of the Picts or Pechts. I do not know if there is any record of the making of heather beer in Ireland in later times, but I heard the story of the lost secret in Down, in Kerry, in Donegal, in Antrim, and everywhere the father and the son were the last of the Danes. Does not this point to the Irish Danes being a kindred race to the Picts? If we may be allowed to hold that the Tuatha de Danann are not altogether mythical, I should be inclined to believe that they are the short Danes of the Irish peasantry, who built the forts and souterrains. I visited some Danes' graves near Ballygilbert, in Co. Antrim; it appeared to me that there were indications of a stone circle, the principal tomb was in the centre, the walls built without mortar, and I was told that formerly it had been roofed in with a flat stone. Various ridges were pointed out to me as marking the small fields of these early people. I was also shown their houses, built, like the graves, without mortar. Within living memory these old structures were much more perfect than at present, many of them having the characteristic flat slab as a roof; but fences were needed, and the Danes' houses offered a convenient and tempting supply of stones. In the same neighbourhood I was shown a building of uncemented stone with flat slabs for the roof, and was told it had been built by the fairies. [Illustration: _SOUTERRAIN of KNOCKDHU Co. Antrim PLAN Drawn by Florence Hobson from the measurements made by M Hobson_] In the same district I visited a fine souterrain at the foot of Knockdhu, which was afterwards fully explored and measured by Mrs. Hobson. She describes it as "a souterrain containing six chambers, with a length of eighty-seven feet exclusive of a flooded chamber."[17] Mrs. Hobson photographed the entrance to this souterrain, which is reproduced in Plate VII. [Illustration: PLATE VII. ENTRANCE TO SOUTERRAIN AT KNOCKDHU.] From the foregoing traditions it will be seen that Pechts, Danes, and fairies are all associated with the remains of primitive man. I may add that the small pipes sometimes turned up by the plough are called in different localities Danes', Pechts', or fairies' pipes. The peasantry regard the Pechts and the Danes as thoroughly human; with the fairies it is otherwise. They are unearthly beings, fallen angels with supernatural powers; but, while quick to revenge an injury or a slight, on the whole friendly to mankind. "It was better for the country before they went away," was the remark made to me by an old woman from Garvagh, Co. Derry, and I have heard the same sentiment expressed by others. They are always spoken of with much respect, and are often called the "gentry" or the "gentle folk." We hear of fairy men, fairy women, and fairy children. They may intermarry with mortals, and an old woman told me she had seen a fairy's funeral. Now, do these stories give us only a materialistic view of the spirit world held by early man, or can we also trace in them a reminiscence of a pre-Celtic race of small stature? The respect paid to the fairy thorn is no doubt a survival of tree-worship, and in the banshee we have a weird being who has little in common with mortal woman. On the other hand, the fairies are more often connected with the artificial Forts and souterrains than with natural hills and caves. These forts and souterrains, as we have seen, are also the habitations of Danes and Pechts. They are sacred spots--to injure them is to court misfortune; but I have not heard them spoken of as sepulchres. I have already mentioned that I have rarely, if ever, found among the peasantry any tradition of fairies a few inches in height. In one of the tales in "Silva Gadelica" (xiv.) we read, however, of the lupracan being so small that the close-cropped grass of the green reached to the thigh of their poet, and the prize feat of their great champion was the hewing down of a thistle at a single stroke. Such a race could not have built the souterrains, and probably owe their origin to the imagination of the medieval story-teller. The lupracan were not, however, always of such diminutive size. In a note to this story Mr. Standish H. O'Grady quotes an old Irish manuscript[18] in which a distinctly human origin is ascribed to these luchorpan or wee-bodies. "Ham, therefore, was the first that was cursed after the Deluge, and from him sprang the wee-bodies (pygmies), fomores, 'goatheads' (satyrs), and every other deformed shape that human beings wear." The old writer goes on to tell us that this was the origin of these monstrosities, "which are not, as the Gael relate, of Cain's seed, for of his seed nothing survived the Flood."[19] It is true that in this passage the lupracan or wee-bodies are associated with goatheads; but whether these are purely fabulous beings, or point to an early race whose features were supposed to resemble those of goats, or who perhaps stood in totem relationship to goats, it would be difficult to say. What we have here are two medieval traditions, the one stating that the pygmies are descendants of Cain, the other classing them among the descendants of Ham. Does the latter contain a germ of truth, and is it possible that at one time a people resembling the pygmies of Central Africa inhabited these islands? Those who have visited the African dwarfs in their own haunts have been struck by the resemblance between their habits and those ascribed to the northern fairies, elves, and trolls. Sir Harry Johnston states that anyone who has seen much of the merry, impish ways of the Central African pygmies "cannot but be struck by their singular resemblance in character to the elves and gnomes and sprites of our nursery stories." He warns us, however, against reckless theorizing, and says: "It may be too much to assume that the negro species ever inhabited Europe," but adds that undoubtedly to his thinking "most fairy myths arose from the contemplation of the mysterious habits of dwarf troglodyte races lingering on still in the crannies, caverns, forests, and mountains of Europe after the invasion of neolithic man."[20] Captain Burroughs refers to the stories of these mannikins to be found in all countries, and adds that "it was of the highest interest to find some of them in their primitive and aboriginal state."[21] He speaks of the red and black Akka, and Sir Harry Johnston also describes the two types of pygmy, one being of a reddish-yellow colour, the other as black as the ordinary negro. In the yellow-skinned type there is a tendency on the part of the head hair to be reddish, more especially over the frontal part of the head. The hair is never absolutely black--it varies in colour between greyish-greenish-brown, and reddish.[22] We have seen how Irish fairies and Danes have red hair, but I should infer of a brighter hue than these African dwarfs. The average height of the pygmy man is four feet nine inches, of the pygmy woman four feet six inches,[23] and although we cannot measure fairies, I think the Ulster expression, "a lump of a boy or girl," would correspond with this height. I do not know the size of the fairy's foot, but, as we have seen, both Danes and Pechts have large feet, and so has the African pygmy.[24] One of the great marks of the fairies is their vanishing and leaving no trace behind, and Sir Harry Johnston speaks of the baboon-like adroitness of the African dwarfs in making themselves invisible in squatting immobility.[25] Dr. Robertson Smith has shown that "primitive man has to contend not only with material difficulties, but with the superstitious terror of the unknown, paralyzing his energies and forbidding him freely to put forth his strength to subdue nature to his use."[26] In speaking of the Arabian "jinn," he states "that even in modern accounts _jinn_ and various kinds of animals are closely associated, while in the older legends they are practically identified,"[27] and he adds that the stories point distinctly "to haunted spots being the places where evil beasts walk by night."[28] He also shows that totems or friendly demoniac beings rapidly develop into gods when men rise above pure savagery,[29] and he cites the ancestral god of Baalbek, who was worshipped under the form of a lion.[30] If we see, then, that early man, terrified by the wild beasts, whether lions or reptiles, ascribed to them superhuman powers, may not a similar mode of thought have caused one race to invest with supernatural attributes another race, strangers to them, and possibly of inferior mental development? The big negro is often afraid to withhold his banana from the pygmy, and the dwarfish Lapps and Finns have long been regarded as powerful sorcerers by their more civilized neighbours. In like manner the little woman, inhabiting her underground dwelling at the foot of the sacred thorn-bush, might well be looked upon as an uncanny being, and in after-ages popular imagination might transform her into the weird banshee, the woman of the fairy mound, whose wailing cry betokens death and disaster. FOOTNOTES: [15] Reprinted from the _Antiquary_, August, 1906. [16] "Voyage to the Hebrides in 1772," p. 229. For a full discussion of the subject, see Mr. MacRitchie's "Memories of the Picts," in the _Scottish Antiquary_ for 1900. [17] See "Some Ulster Souterrains," _Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute_, vol. xxxix., January-June, 1909. The plan was drawn by Miss Florence Hobson from the measurements made by Mrs. Hobson. [18] Rawl., 486, f.49, 2. [19] "Silva Gadelica" (translation and notes), pp. 563, 564. [20] "Uganda Protectorate," vol. ii., pp. 516, 517. [21] "Land of the Pygmies," pp. 173, 174. [22] "Uganda Protectorate," vol. ii. See pp. 527, 530; also coloured frontispiece. [23] "Uganda Protectorate," vol. ii., p. 532. [24] _Ibid._, p. 532. [25] _Ibid._, p. 513. [26] "The Religion of the Semites," p. 115. [27] _Ibid._, pp. 122, 123. [28] _Ibid._, p. 123. [29] _Ibid._, note _b_, p. 424. [30] _Ibid._, p. 425. Folklore connected with Ulster Raths and Souterrains[31] As the title of this paper I have given "Folklore connected with Ulster Raths and Souterrains," but if I used the language of the country-people I should speak, not of raths and souterrains, but of forths and coves. In these coves it is believed the fairies dwell, and here they keep as prisoners women, children, even men. These subterranean dwellings may not be known to mortals. I heard of a lad being kept for several days in the fort of the Shimna, near Newcastle, Co. Down, and I was told that the great rath at Downpatrick had been a very gentle place, meaning one inhabited by fairies. In neither of these forts is there, as far as is known, a souterrain, nor is there one in the old fort at Antrim, a typical rath. In many cases we do find the entrance to a souterrain is in a fort. I may mention Ballymagreehan Fort, the stone fort near Altnadua Lough in Co. Down, and Crocknabroom, near Ballycastle. Although not in Ulster, I may also refer to a fine example of a rath with a souterrain in it, the Mote of Greenmount, described by the Rev. J. B. Leslie in his "History of Kilsaran, Co. Louth."[32] [Illustration: PLATE VIII. [_R. Welch, Photo._ THE OLD FORT, ANTRIM.] Many souterrains have no fort above them. Take, for example, the one near Scollogstown, Co. Down, with its numerous bridges, which it would be decidedly unpleasant to face if little men were behind them shooting arrows. Also Cloughnabrick Cave, near Ballycastle, which is not built with stones, but hollowed out of the basaltic rock. Fairies are not the only race connected with raths and souterrains. We have two others, Danes and Pechts. It is generally believed that the Danes built the forts; hence we find many of them called "Danes' forts." I will describe one named from the townland in which it is situated, Ballycairn Fort. It stands on a high bank overlooking the Bann, about a mile north of Coleraine. The entire height is about twenty-six feet; at perhaps twelve feet from the ground a flat platform is reached, and at one end of this the upper part of the fort rises in a circular form for about fourteen or fifteen feet. I was told the Danes who built it were short, stout people, and as they had no wheelbarrows they carried the earth in their leathern aprons. Here we seem to come in contact with a very primitive people, probably wearing the skins of wild animals, and who are said, like the fairies, to have sandy or red hair. As far as is known no souterrain exists in Ballycairn Fort, although I was shown a stone at the side which my guide said might be the entrance to a "cove"; it appeared to me to be simply a piece of rock appearing above the sod, or possibly a boulder. There is a tradition of fairies living in this fort, as it is said that in "long ago" times the farmers used to threaten their boys if they were not doing right, that the fairies would come out of the fort and carry them away. Many of the souterrains in this part of the world are now blocked up, and of some the entrance is no longer known, although they have been explored within living memory; others have been destroyed. There was a souterrain a short distance from Ballycairn fort in a field opposite to Cranogh National School. The master of this school told me that fifteen or sixteen years ago these underground buildings existed, but now they have been all quarried away. He also mentioned a tradition that there was a subterranean passage under the Bann. On the opposite bank of the river, near Portstewart, I heard of several of these underground dwellings. One was on the land of an old farmer eighty-four years of age. He told me he had been in this cave, but no one could get in now. It had been hollowed out by man, but the walls were not built of stones. There were several rooms; you dropped from one to another through a narrow hole. The rooms were large, but low in the roof; in one of them a quantity of limpet-shells were found. He added that some said that the Danes had built these caves, others that the clans made them as places of refuge. He added that the Danes of those days had sandy hair and were short people; not like the sturdy Danes of the present day. These are well known to the seafaring population of Ulster, and we sometimes find the old Danes spoken of as a tall, fair race; probably this is a true description of the medieval sea-rovers. The short Danes I should be inclined to identify with the Tuatha de Danann, and I believe that, notwithstanding the magical portents which abound in the tales that have come down to us, we have here a very early people who had made some progress in the arts. This double use of the name Dane seems at times to have perplexed the older writers. The Rev. William Hamilton, in his "Letters on the North-East Coast of Antrim," published towards the end of the eighteenth century, gives a description of the coal-mines of Ballycastle[33] and of the very ancient galleries, with the pillars, left by the prehistoric miners, supporting the roof, which had been discovered some twelve years before he wrote. He tells us that the people of the place ascribed them to the Danes, but argues that these were never peaceable possessors of Ireland, and that it is not "to the tumultuary and barbarous armies of the ninth and tenth centuries ... we are to attribute the slow and toilsome operations of peace." He mentions how the stalactite pillars found in these galleries marked their antiquity, and ascribes them to some period prior to the eighth century, "when Ireland enjoyed a considerable share of civilization." In the same way John Windele, writing in the _Ulster Journal of Archæology_ for 1862, speaks of the mines in Waterford having been worked by the ancient inhabitants, and adds: "One almost insulated promontory is perforated like a rabbit-burrow, and is known as the 'Danes' Island,' the peasantry attributing these ancient mines, like all other relics of remote civilisation, to the Danes."[34] From my own experience I can corroborate this statement. An artificial island in Lough Sessiagh, in Co. Donegal, was shown to me as the work of the Danes. The forts on Horn Head and at Glenties are also ascribed to them. The use of the souterrains was not confined to prehistoric times. The one at Greenmount appears to have been inhabited by the medieval Danes, as a Runic inscription, engraved on a plate of bronze, has been discovered in it, the only one as yet found in Ireland. In 1317 every man dwelling in an ooan, or caher's souterrain, was summoned to join the army of Domched O'Brian.[35] The French traveller, Jorevin de Rocheford, speaks of subterranean vaults where the peasants assembled to hear Mass,[36] and in still more recent times the smuggler and the distiller of illicit whisky found them convenient places of concealment. In a former paper I referred to the lost secret of the heather beer, and the tragic ending of the last of the Danes.[37] As the story was told me near Ballycairn Fort, the father said: "Give my son the first lilt of the rope, and I will reveal our secret"; but when the son was dead the father cried: "Slay me also, for none shall ever know how the heather beer was brewed!" In a paper read to this club Mr. McKean[38] mentioned that this story had been told to him in Kerry, where I, too, heard it. It appears to be almost universal in Ulster. When visiting Navan Fort, the ancient Emania, near Armagh, I was told that on this fort the Danes made heather beer. I asked if any heather grew in the neighbourhood, but the answer was, not now. There are variants of the tale. In some parts of Donegal it is wine, not beer, that the Danes are said to have made. As a rule the slaughter is taken for granted, and very little said about it; but a farmer in Co. Antrim gave me a full account of the massacre, how at a great feast a Roman Catholic sat beside each Dane, and at a given signal plunged his dirk into his neighbour's side, until only one man and his son remained alive; then followed the usual sequel. These short Danes are said to have had large feet, and one man described their arms as so long that they could pick anything off the ground without stooping. Long arms are also a characteristic of the traditional dwarf of Japan, probably an ancestor of the Aino.[39] As I mentioned in a previous paper,[40] large feet are also a traditional characteristic of the Pechts, who are generally said to have been clad in skins or in grey clothes. They have occasionally superhuman attributes ascribed to them. The same man who spoke of the long arms of the Danes said the Pechts could creep through keyholes--they were like "speerits"--and he evidently regarded both them and the fairies as evil spirits. At the same time he said they would thresh corn or work for a man, but if they were given food, they would be offended, and go away. I think the close connection between Danes, Pechts, and fairies will be apparent to all, although the fairy has more supernatural characteristics, and in the banshee assumes a very weird form. Lady Fanshawe has described the apparition she saw when staying, in 1649, with the Lady Honora O'Brien, as a woman in white, with red hair and ghastly complexion, who thrice cried "Ahone!" and vanished with a sigh more like wind than breath. This was apparently the ghost of a murdered woman, who was said to appear when any of the family died, and that night a cousin of their hostess had passed away.[41] Similar stories, as we all know, exist at the present day. Except in the case of the banshee, fairies rarely partake of the nature of ghosts, and I should note that in her description of the apparition Lady Fanshawe does not use the word "banshee." In many respects the fairies are akin to mortals--there are fairy men, fairy women, and fairy children. Fairies often live under bushes, and I was told in Co. Armagh that it would be a very serious matter to cut down a "lone" thorn-bush; those growing in rows were evidently less sacred. Did the thorn-bush hide the entrance to the subterranean dwelling? The fairies are quick to revenge an injury or an encroachment on their territory. A fire which occurred at Dunree on Lough Swilly was attributed to the fairies, who were supposed to be angry because the military had carried the works of their modern fort too near the fairy rock. In some places the raths have been cultivated, but, as a rule, this is looked upon as very unlucky, and sure to bring dire misfortune on the man who attempts it. On the other hand, there appears to be no objection to growing crops on the top of a souterrain. Many are, it is true, afraid to enter these dark abodes, and others consider it unwise to carry anything out of them. I have never heard them spoken of as tombs, and the fairies are regarded, not as ghosts, but as fallen angels, to whom no Church holds out a hope of salvation. Only in one instance did a woman tell me that as fairies were good to the poor, she thought there would be hope for them hereafter. The Irish fairy remains a pagan; the ancient well of pre-Christian days may be consecrated to the Christian saint, and patterns held beside it, but no pious pilgrim prays on the rath or below the fairy rock. We may now ask ourselves the meaning of these legends. The rath and souterrain are undoubtedly the work of primitive man, yet here we have the Sidh, inhabited by the fairy and the Tuatha de Danann. In the "Colloquy of the Ancients"[42] we are told it was out of a Sidh, Finn's chief musician, the dwarf Cnu deiriol came, and from another Sidh came Blathnait, whom the small man espoused. It was fairy music which Cnu taught to the musicians of the Fianna. It was out of a Sidh in the south that Cas corach, son of the Olave of the Tuatha de Danann, came to the King of Ulidia.[43] In Derrick's "Image of Ireland," written in 1578, and published in 1581, the Olympian gods call upon certain little mountain gods, whom I should be inclined to identify with the fairies, to come to their aid: "Let therefore little Mountain Gods A troupe (as thei maie spare) Of breechlesse men at all assaies, Both leauvie and prepare With mantelles down unto the shoe To lappe them in by night; With speares and swordes and little dartes To shield them from despight."[44] May I, in conclusion, express my belief that in the traditions of fairies, Danes, and Pechts the memory is preserved of an early race or races of short stature, but of considerable strength, who built underground dwellings, and had some skill in music and in other arts? They appear to have been spread over a great part of Europe. It is possible that, as larger races advanced, these small people were driven southwards to the mountains of Switzerland, westward towards the Atlantic, and northward to Lapland, where their descendants may still be found. No doubt there is a large supernatural element, especially in the stories of the fairies; but the same may be said of the tales of witches in the seventeenth century. The witch was undoubtedly human, yet she was believed, and sometimes believed herself, to possess superhuman powers, and to be in communication with unearthly beings. We must also remember the widespread belief in local spirits or gods, and a taller race of invaders might well fear the magic of an earlier people long settled in the country, even if the latter were inferior in bodily and mental characteristics. FOOTNOTES: [31] Read before the Archæological Section of the Belfast Naturalists' Field Club, February 12, 1908. [32] Pp. 12-20. Several sections of this rath are given; also a view showing Greenmount in 1748, and a plan of the same date--both from Wright's "Louthiana," published in that year. [33] Part I., Letter IV., Edition 1822. [34] _Ulster Journal of Archæology_, 1861-62, p. 212. [35] See "Prehistoric Stone Forts of Northern Clare," by Thomas J. Westropp, M.A., M.R.I.A. (_Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland_, vol. vi., fifth series, 1896). [36] See "Illustrations of Irish History," by C. Litton Falkiner, p. 416. He considers it probable that Jorevin de Rochefort was Albert Jouvin de Rochefort, Trésorier de France. [37] See Ulster Fairies, Danes and Pechts, p. 28. [38] See Annual Report of Belfast Naturalists' Field Club, 1907-08, "A Holiday Trip to West Kerry," p. 73. [39] See Mr. David MacRitchie's "Northern Trolls," read at the Folklore Congress, Chicago, 1893, p. 12. [40] See Ulster Fairies, Danes and Pechts, p. 27. [41] See "Memoirs of Anne, Lady Fanshawe," edited by Herbert C. Fanshawe, pp. 57-59. [42] Translated by Mr. S. H. O'Grady in "Silva Gadelica," volume with translation and notes. (For Cnu and Blathnait, see pp. 115-117.) [43] _Ibid._, pp. 187, 188. [44] P. 38, Edinburgh, 1883; edited by John Small, M.A., F.S.A.Scot. Traditions of Dwarf Races in Ireland and in Switzerland[45] In the traditions alike of Switzerland and of Ireland we hear of a dwarfish people, dwellers in mountain caves or in artificial souterrains, who are gifted with magical powers. The quaint figure of the Swiss dwarf with his peaked cap has been made familiar to us by the carvings of the peasantry, and in Antrim and Donegal the Irish fairy is said to wear a peaked cap of plaited rushes. With rushes he also makes a covering for his feet.[46] Closely allied to the fairy is the Grogach, with his large head and soft body, who appears to have no bones as he comes tumbling down the hills. These Grogachs I heard of in North-East Antrim, and in them, as in the fairies, the supernatural characteristics preponderate. I was told that both were full of magic, and had come from Egypt. We have, however, two other small races who are usually regarded by the peasantry as strictly human, the Pechts and the Danes.[47] Two traditions regarding Danes exist: sometimes we hear of tall Danes, doubtless the medieval sea-rovers; sometimes of small Danes, the builders of many of the raths and souterrains. While the Danes are the great builders throughout Ireland, some of the raths and souterrains, especially those in North-East Antrim, are said to have been made by the Pechts. Last summer I visited one of these, the cave of Finn McCoul. It is a souterrain situated in Glenshesk, about three miles from Ballycastle. The ground above it is perfectly flat, no fort or any inequality to mark the spot; indeed, the farmer who kindly opened it for me had at first a difficulty in knowing in what part of the field to dig, as the entrance had been covered. On my second visit, however, I found he had discovered the spot. Entering a narrow passage, I crept through an opening from one and a half to two feet high, and found myself in a narrow chamber eight or nine feet long and little over four feet in height. The roof was formed of large flat slabs, which I was told were whinstone (basalt). At the opposite end of this chamber there was another narrow opening, leading, I presume, to a passage. I did not, however, venture farther; but I understand this artificial cave extends for about twenty perches underground, and has several chambers. [Illustration: PLATE IX. [_R. Welch, Photo._ GREY MAN'S PATH, FAIR HEAD.] I was told that this cave was the hiding-place of Finn McCoul. His garden was pointed out to me on rising ground at some little distance, and I was also informed that about fifty years ago his castle stood on the hill; but nothing now remains of it, the stones having been used when roads were made. The following story was related to me on the spot: A Scotch giant came over to fight Finn McCoul, but was conquered and slain. To celebrate this victory Finn invited the Grey Man of the Path to a feast; but as hares and rabbits would have been too small to furnish a repast for this giant, Finn took his dog and went out to hunt red deer. They were unsuccessful, and in anger he slew his dog Brown,[48] which afterwards caused him much sorrow. In the Grey Man of the Path we have, doubtless, a purely mythical character, an impersonation of the mists which gather round Benmore,[49] while Finn McCoul, or MacCumaill, is one of Ireland's greatest traditional heroes. According to a well-known legend, he was a giant, and united Scotland and Ireland by a stupendous mole, of which the cave at Staffa and the Giant's Causeway are the two remaining fragments. In Glenshesk he is only a tall man, between seven and eight feet in height. Sometimes he is said to have been chief of the Pechts; sometimes he is spoken of as their master, and it is said they worked as slaves to him and the Fians. According to tradition, the Pechts were very numerous, and must have carried the heavy slabs for the roof of Finn McCoul's cave a distance of several miles. Although usually looked on as strictly human, supernatural characteristics are sometimes attributed to them. Like the Swiss "Servan," both they and the Grogachs have been known to thresh corn or do other work for the farmers. I was told at Ballycastle of one man who always laid out at night the bundles of corn he expected the Grogach to thresh, and each morning the appointed task was accomplished. One night he forgot to lay the corn on the floor of the barn, and threw his flail on the top of the stack. The poor Grogach imagined that he was to thresh the whole, and set to work manfully; but the task was beyond his strength, and in the morning he was found dead. The farmer and his wife buried him, and mourned deeply the loss of their small friend. Clough-na-murry Fort is said to be a "gentle"[50] place, yet an old man living near it told me he did not believe in the Grogachs; he thought it was the Danes who had worked for the farmers. He said these Danes were a persevering people, and that when they were in distress they would thresh corn for the farmers, if food were left out for them. Others say that the Danes were too proud to work. One does not hear much of Brownies in Ulster; but I have been told they were hairy people who did not require clothes, but would thresh or cut down a field of corn for a farmer. On one occasion, out of gratitude for the work done, some porridge was left for them on plates round the fire. They ate it, but went away crying sadly: "I got my mate an' my wages, An' they want nae mair o' me." Although, according to some, the Grogachs gladly accept food, others say that they and the Pechts are offended if it is offered to them, and leave to return no more. I have not often heard of clothes being offered to the Pechts or Grogachs, but the Rev. John G. Campbell relates a story of a Brownie in Shetland who ground grain in a hand-quern at night. He was rewarded for his labours by a cloak and hood left for him at the mill. These disappeared in the morning, and with them the Brownie, who never came back.[51] A similar tale is told of a Swiss dwarf. At Ems, in Canton Valais, a miller engaged the services of a "Gottwerg," and the little man worked early and late, sometimes rising in the night to see that all was in order. The mill produced twice as much as formerly, and at the end of the year the dwarf was rewarded by a garment made of the best wool. He put it on, jumped for joy, and crying out, "Now I am a handsome man, I have no more need to grind rye," he disappeared, and was not seen again.[52] In these tales from Ireland, Scotland, and Switzerland, may there not be a reminiscence of a conquered race of small stature, but considerable strength, who worked either as slaves or for some small gift? No doubt they were badly fed, and their clothing would be of the scantiest. Like the Danes and the Pechts, the fairies live underground. There is a widespread story of a fairy woman who begs a cottager not to throw water out at the doorstep, as it falls down her chimney. The request is invariably granted. Some of these "wee folk" dwell in palaces under the sea. I heard a story at Ballyliffan, in Co. Donegal, of men being out in a boat which was nearly capsized by a heavy sea raised by a fairy. At last one sailor cried out to throw a nail against the advancing wave; this was done, and the nail hit the fairy. That night a woman, skilled in healing, received a message calling upon her to go to the courts below the sea. She consented, extracted the nail, and cured the fairy woman, but was careful not to eat any food offered to her. This fairy is said to have promised a man a pot of gold if he would marry her, but he refused. An old man at Culdaff told me another tale of the sea. A fishing-boat was nearly overwhelmed, when a fairy-boat was seen riding on the top of a great wave, and a voice from it cried: "Do not harm that boat; an old friend of mine is in it." The voice belonged to a man who was supposed to be dead; but he had been carried off by the fairies, and would not allow them to injure his old friend. If the Irish fairy has power over the waves, the Swiss dwarf can divert the course of the devastating landslip. I was told by an elderly man in the Bernese Oberland of the destruction of Burglauenen, a village near Grindelwald. All the cottages were overwhelmed by a landslip except one poor hut, which had given shelter to a dwarf, who was seen, seated on a stone, directing the moving mass away from the abode of his friends. A similar story is told of the destruction of Niederdorf, in the Simmenthal.[53] One Sunday evening a feeble little man clad in rags came to the village; he knocked at several houses, praying the inmates to give him, for the love of God, a night's shelter. Everywhere he was refused--one hard-hearted woman telling him to go and break stones--until he came to a poor basket-maker and his wife, who gave him the best they had, and when he left he promised that God would reward them. A week later the village was destroyed by a terrible landslip, but here also the dwarf saved the dwelling of those who had befriended him. In this story and in many others the Swiss dwarf appears as a good Christian, but sometimes a rude and terrible form of paganism is attributed to him. In the tale of the "Gotwergini im Lötschental"[54] these dwarfs are accused of devouring children, and are said to have buried an old woman alive. She was apparently one of themselves. When they were laying her in the pit she wept bitterly, and begged that she might go free, saying she could still cook. But the dwarfs showed no pity: placing some bread and wine beside her, they covered in the grave. Is this an instance of the primitive barbarism of killing those no longer able to work, which is said still to exist among the Todas of India, and of which traces have been found in the customs of Scandinavia and other countries?[55] The Irish fairy never appears as a Christian.[56] He is regarded by the peasant as a fallen angel, and no Church holds out to him the hope of salvation. I was told in Inishowen that a priest walking between Clonmany and Ballyliffan was surrounded by the "wee folk," who asked anxiously if they could be saved. He threw his book towards them, bade them catch it, and he would give them an answer; but at the sight of the breviary they scattered and fled.[57] The Protestant Bible and hymn-book are equally dreaded by them, and are used as a spell against their influence. I was told in the North of Antrim of a woman who was nearly carried off by the fairies because her friends had omitted to leave these books beside her. Luckily her husband, who was sleeping by the fire, awoke in time to save her. A pair of scissors, a darning-needle, or any piece of iron, would have been efficacious as a charm, so would the husband's trousers, if thrown across the bed. While, as we have seen, the fairies are endowed with many supernatural qualities, they have much in common with ordinary mortals; there are fairy men, fairy women, and fairy children. I have more than once heard of a fairy's funeral; they intermarry with mortals, and I have been told that those who bear the name of Ferris are descended from fairies. I presume Ferris is a corruption of Fir Sidhe. Fairies are never associated with churchyards, nor are they usually looked on as the spirits of the departed. The banshee may, indeed, partake to some extent of a ghostly character. Lady Wilde speaks of her as the "spirit of death--the most weird and awful of all the fairy powers," and adds, "but only certain families of historic lineage or persons gifted with music and song are attended by this spirit."[58] It has often been stated that the banshee is an appanage of the great, but this is not the belief of the peasantry of Ulster: many families in humble life have a banshee attached to them. When in a curragh on Lough Sessiagh, in Co. Donegal, the neighbouring hill of Ben Olla was pointed out to me, and I was also shown a small cottage in which a girl named Olla had lived. She was carried off by the fairies, and her wailing was heard before the death of her mother, and again before the death of several members of her family. A farmer, or even a labourer, may have a banshee attached to his family--a little white creature was the description given to me by a woman who said she had seen one; others say that banshees are like birds. To leave these weird apparitions, it will be seen that the ordinary fairy, the Grogach, the Pecht, and the Dane, all inhabit underground dwellings, although the fairy and Grogach are regarded more in the light of supernatural beings. To cut down a fairy or a "Skiough" bush is to court misfortune, sometimes to attempt an impossible task. In Glenshesk some men tried to cut down a Skiough bush, but the hatchet broke; after several failures they gave up, and the bush still flourishes. Another bush was transplanted, but returned during the night. To the Danes and Pechts the building of all the raths and souterrains is ascribed, and in North-East Antrim the Pechts are said to have been so numerous that, when making a fort, they could stand in a long line, and hand the earth from one to another, no one moving a step. A similar story is told of the Scotch Pechts by the Rev. Andrew Small in his "Antiquities of Fife" (1823).[59] Speaking of the Round Tower of Abernethy, "The story goes," he says, "that it was built by the Pechts ... and that while the work was going on they stood in a row all the way from the Lomond Hill to the building, handing the stones from one to another.... That it has been built of freestone from the Lomond Hill is clear to a demonstration, as the grist or nature of the stone points out the very spot where it has been taken from--namely, a little west, and up from the ancient wood of Drumdriell, about a mile straight south from Meralsford." According to popular tradition in Scotland, these Pechts or Picts were great builders, and many of the edifices ascribed to them belong to a comparatively late period. Mr. MacRitchie suggests that in the erection of some of these the Picts may have been employed as serfs or slaves.[60] He believes the Pechts to be the Picts of history. Mr. W. C. Mackenzie, on the other hand, has suggested that they are an earlier dwarf race, the Pets or Peti, who have been confused by the peasantry with the Picts.[61] This is a matter I must leave to others to decide; but I may remark in passing that in an ancient poem on the Cruithnians, preserved in the book of Lecan, we have a suggestion that these Cruithnians or Picts were a smaller race than their enemies, the Tuath Fidga. We are told how "God vouchsafed unto them, in munificence, For their faithfulness--for their reward-- To protect them from the poisoned arms Of the repulsive horrid giants."[62] Then follows an account of the cure discovered by the Cruithnian Druid--how he milked thrice fifty cows into one pit, and bathing in this pit appears to have healed the warriors and preserved them from harm. In an article on "The Fairy Mythology of Europe in its Relation to Early History,"[63] Mr. A. S. Herbert identifies the early dwarf race with Palæolithic man, and states that from such skeletons as have been unearthed "it is believed that they were a people of Mongolian or Turanian origin, short, squat, yellow-skinned, and swarthy." Professor J. Kollmann, of Basle, speaking of dwarf races, describes "the flat, broad face, with a flat, broad, low nose and large nose roots."[64] Compare these statements with the description given by Harris in the eighteenth century of the native inhabitants of the northern and eastern coasts of Ireland. "They are," he says, "of a squat sett Stature, have short, broad Faces, thick Lips, hollow Eyes, and Noses cocked up, and seem to be a distinct people from the Western Irish, by whom they are called Clan-galls--_i.e._, the offspring of the Galls. The curious may carry these observations further. Doubtless a long intercourse and various mixtures of the natives have much worn out these distinctions, of which I think there are yet visible remains."[65] We have, indeed, had in Ireland from very early times a mingling of various races, but in the North we are in the home of the Irish Picts or Cruithnians, and possibly this description of Harris may indicate that some of the inhabitants in his day bore marks of a dwarfish ancestry. I have already drawn attention to a statement in an old Irish manuscript[66] that the Luchorpan or wee-bodies, the Fomores and others, were of the race of Ham. Keating also speaks of the Fomorians being sea-rovers of the race of Cam (Ham), who fared from Africa,[67] and states that among the articles of tribute exacted by them from the race of Neimhidh were two-thirds of the children. Unless these were all slaughtered, we have here an intermingling of races, and in the same way it would be quite possible that Finn McCoul might be a tall man, and yet the leader of the small Pechts. The capture of women and children has been a common practice among savage races, and this I believe to be the origin of many fairy-tales, rather than any reference to the abode of the dead. Throughout the "Colloquy of the Ancients," Finn and the Fianna frequently enter the green sidh--the mound where the Tuatha de Danann dwell, and from which the fairies derive their name "fir-sidh." Sometimes they fight as allies of the inmates; frequently they intermarry with them.[68] Throughout this colloquy the dwellers in the sidh possess many magical powers, but they hardly appear as gods of the ancient Irish, and the verse in Fiacc's hymn referring to the worship of the Sidis is not among the stanzas regarded as genuine by Professor Bury.[69] We see that both in Ireland and Switzerland there are many legends of dwarf races who inhabit underground dwellings. In Switzerland their skeletons have been found. Those discovered by Dr. Nuesch at Schweizersbild, near Schaffhausen, have been minutely described by Dr. J. Kollmann, Professor of Anatomy at Basle.[70] This burial-place dates from the early Neolithic period; in it are found skeletons belonging to men of ordinary height, and in close proximity the graves of dwarfs. The neighbourhood of Schaffhausen appears to be rich in the remains of early man; several skeletons have been found in the cave of Dachsenbüel, two of them of small men, "such as in Africa would be accounted pygmies."[71] Professor Kollmann mentions several other places in Switzerland where skeletons of dwarfs have been found, as also in the Grotte des Enfants on the Bay of Genoa. He also speaks of dwarf races existing at the present day in Sicily, Sardinia, Sumatra, the Philippine Islands, besides the well-known Veddas of Ceylon, the Andaman Islanders, and the African pygmies. He believes that these small people represent the oldest form of human beings, and that from them the taller races have been evolved. How long did these primitive people continue to exist in Ireland and in Switzerland? It would be difficult to say. Tradition ascribes to them a strong physique, but even if they could hold their own with the taller races in the Neolithic period, it must have been hard for them to contend with those who used weapons of bronze or iron, and, as we have seen, iron is specially obnoxious to the fairies. The people, however, who built the large number of souterrains dotted over Antrim and Down could not be easily exterminated. Many of them may have been enslaved or gradually absorbed in the rest of the population; others would take refuge in retired spots, such as are still spoken of as "gentle" or haunted by fairies. If I might hazard a conjecture, I should say that both in Ireland and in Switzerland dwarf races had survived far into Christian times, perhaps to a comparatively recent period. The Irish fairy may possibly represent those who refused to accept the teaching of St. Patrick and St. Columbkill, while St. Gall and other Irish monks may have numbered Swiss dwarfs among their converts. Be this as it may, we have certainly in Ulster the tradition of two dwarf races, the small Danes and the Pechts, who are undoubtedly human. We are shown their handiwork, and, primitive as are their underground dwellings, the builders of the souterrains had advanced far beyond the stage when man could only find shelter in the caves provided for him by Nature. How many centuries did he take to learn the lesson? It is a far-reaching question, but here fairy-tales and popular legends are silent. They keep no count of time, although they may bring to us whispers from long-past ages. FOOTNOTES: [45] Reprinted from the _Antiquary_, October, 1909. [46] May it not be that Cinderella's glass shoe was really green and derived its name from the Irish word _glas_, denoting that colour, which is familiar to us in place-names? I make this conjecture with diffidence. I know the usual explanation is that the shoe was made of a kind of fur called in Old French vair, and that a transcriber changed this word into _verre_. Miss Cox, in her "Cinderella," mentions that she had only found six instances of a glass shoe. As Littré says in the article on _vair_ in his Dictionary, a _soulier de verre_ is absurd. A fur slipper, however, does not appear very suitable for a ball. [47] See Ulster Fairies, Danes and Pechts, p. 27 _et seq._ [48] This is, no doubt, a corruption of Bran. [49] The Grey Man's Path is a fissure on the face of Benmore or Fair Head, by which a good climber can ascend the cliff. It has been suggested that this Grey Man is one of the old gods, possibly Manannan, the Irish sea-god. In the _Ulster Journal of Archæology_ for 1858, vol. vi., p. 358, there is an account given of the Grey Man appearing near the mouth of the Bush River to two youths, who believed they would have seen his cloven foot had he not been standing in the water. They had at first mistaken the apparition for an ordinary man. [50] A place inhabited by fairies, or "gentlefolk." [51] "Superstitions of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland," p. 188. [52] Dr. J. Jegerlehner, "Was die Sennen erzählen, Märchen und Sagen aus dem Wallis," pp. 102, 103. [53] See "Der Untergang des Niederdorfs" in "Sagen und Sagengeschichten aus dem Simmenthal," vol. ii., pp. 29-44, by D. Gempeler. [54] See "Am Herdfeuer der Sennen, Neue Märchen und Sagen aus dem Wallis," pp. 26-31, by Dr. J. Jegerlehner. [55] See "Folklore as an Historical Science," by Sir G. Laurence Gomme, pp. 67-78. [56] I have heard of only one exception. [57] Patrick Kennedy, in "A Belated Priest," tells how the "good people" surrounded a priest on a dark night, and asked him to declare that at the Last Day their lot would not be with Satan. He replied by the question, "Do you adore and love the Son of God?" There came no answer but weak and shrill cries, and with a rushing of wings the fairies disappeared (see "Fictions of the Irish Celts," p. 89). In "The Priest's Supper," the good people are anxious to know if their souls will be saved at the Last Day, but when an interview with a priest is suggested to them they fly away (see "Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland," by T. Crofton Croker, pp. 36-42). [58] "Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions of Ireland," vol. i., p. 250. [59] It is quoted by Mr. David MacRitchie in "Testimony of Tradition," p. 67. [60] "Testimony of Tradition," p. 68. [61] See "The Picts and Pets" in the _Antiquary_ for May, 1906, p. 172. [62] "The Irish Version of the Historia Britonum of Nennius," edited, with a translation and notes, by James H. Todd, D.D., F.T.C. (Dublin, 1848). The verse quoted is given at p. lxix, additional notes. [63] See the _Nineteenth Century_, February, 1908. [64] See "Ein dolichokephaler Schädel aus dem Dachsenbüel und die Bedeutung der kleinen Menschenrassen für das Abstammungsproblem der Grossen." His words are: "In dem platten, breiten Gesicht sitzt dann eine platte, breite, niedrige Nase, mit breiter Nasenwürzel." He is speaking of the characteristics of the present dwarf races found throughout the world, and quotes the authority of Hagen. [65] Sir James Ware's "Antiquities of Ireland," translated, revised, and improved, with many material additions, by Walter Harris, Esq., vol. ii., chap. ii., p. 17 (Dublin, 1764). The above is taken from one of the additional notes by Harris. [66] Quoted by Mr. Standish H. O'Grady in "Silva Gadelica" (translation and notes), pp. 563, 564. See Ante p. 32. [67] Keating's "History of Ireland," book i., chap. viii. Translation by P. W. Joyce, LL.D., M.R.I.A. [68] See Cael's "Wooing of Credhe" in "The Colloquy of the Ancients"; "Silva Gadelica," by Standish H. O'Grady, volume with translation and notes, pp. 119-122. [69] See "Life of St. Patrick," p. 264. [70] See Der Mensch, "Separat-Abzug aus den Denkschriften der Schweiz Naturforschenden Gesellschaft," Band xxxv, 1896. [71] See the paper already referred to, "Ein dolichokephaler Schädel," etc. Professor J. Kollmann's words are: "Die man in Africa wohl zu den Pygmäen zählen wurde." Folklore from Donegal[72] The stories current among the peasantry are varied, especially in Donegal, where we hear of giants and fairies, of small and tall Finns, of short, stout Firbolgs or Firwolgs, of Danes who made heather ale, and sometimes of Pechts with their large feet. According to one legend, the fairies were angels who had remained neutral during the great war in heaven. They are sometimes represented as kindly, but often as mischievous. Near Dungiven, in Co. Derry, I was told of a friendly fairy who, dressed as an old woman, came one evening to a cottage where a poor man and his wife lived. She said to the wife that if the stone at the foot of the table were lifted she would find something that would last her all her days. As soon as the visitor was gone, the wife called to her husband to bring a crowbar; they raised the stone, and under it was a crock of gold. The old man who related this story to me had himself found in a bog a crock covered with a slate. He hoped it might be full of gold, but it only contained bog butter, which he used for greasing cart-wheels. A carman at Rosapenna told me how the fairies would lead people astray, carrying one man off to Scotland. A girl had her face twisted through their influence, and had to go to the priest to be cured. "He was," the man added, "one of the old sort, who could work miracles, of whom there are not many nowadays." Near Finntown a girl had offended the fairies by washing clothes in a "gentle" burn, or stream haunted by the little people. Her eyes were turned to the back of her head. She, too, invoked the aid of a priest, and his blessing restored them to their proper place. Donegal fairies appear able to adapt themselves to modern conditions. I was told at Finntown they did not interfere with the railway, as they sometimes enjoyed a ride on the top of the train. Although usually only seen in secluded spots, they occasionally visit a fair or market, but are much annoyed if recognized. In the following story we have an illustration of intercourse between fairies and human beings: An old woman at Glenties was called upon by a strange man to give her aid at the birth of a child. At first she refused, but he urged her, saying it was not far, and in the end she consented. When he brought her to his dwelling she saw a daughter whom she had supposed to be dead, but who was now the wife of the fairy man. The daughter begged her not to let it be known she was her mother, and, giving her a ring, bade her look on it at times and she would know when they could meet. She also added that her husband would certainly offer a reward, but she implored her mother not to accept it, but to ask that the red-haired boy might be given to her. "He will not be willing to part from him," the daughter added; "but if you beg earnestly, he will give him to you in the end." The mother attended her daughter, and when his child was born the fairy man offered her a rich reward, but she refused, praying only that the red-haired boy might be given to her. At first the father refused, but when she pleaded her loneliness, he granted her request. The daughter was well pleased, told her mother they might meet at the fair on the hill behind Glenties, but warned her that even if she saw the fairy man she must never speak to him. The old woman returned to her home, taking her grandson, the red-haired boy, with her. She kept the ring carefully, and it gave her warning when she would meet her daughter on the hill at Glenties. These interviews were for a long time a great comfort to mother and daughter, but one day, in the joy of her heart, the mother shook hands with and spoke to the fairy man. He turned to her angrily asking how she could see him, and with that he blew upon her eyes, so that she could no longer discern fairies. The precious ring also disappeared, and she never again saw her daughter. Variants of this story were told to me by an old woman at Portstewart, and by a man whom I met near Lough Salt during the Rosapenna Conference of Field Clubs. In these versions there is no mention of the red-haired boy, nor of the old woman being the mother of the fairy man's wife; she is simply called in to attend to her. When rubbing ointment on the infant, she accidentally draws her hand across one of her eyes and acquires the power of seeing the fairies. Shortly afterwards she meets the fairy man at a market or fair, and inquires for his wife. He is annoyed at being recognized, asks with which eye she sees him, blows upon it, and puts it out.[73] In another Donegal legend the fairies gain possession of a bride, and would have kept her in captivity had not their plans been frustrated by a mortal. This is the story as told to me near Gweedore, and also at Kincasslagh, a small seaport in the Rosses. Owen Boyle lived with his mother near Kincasslagh, and worked as a carpenter. One Hallow Eve, on his return home, he found a calf was missing, and went out to look for it. He was told it was behind a stone near the spink or rock of Dunathaid, and when he got there he saw the calf, but it ran away and disappeared through an opening in the rock. Owen was at first afraid to follow, but suddenly he was pushed in, and the door closed behind him. He found himself in a company of fairies, and heard them saying: "This is good whisky from O'Donnel's still. He buried a nine-gallon keg in the bog; it burst, the hoops came off, and the whisky has come to us." One of the fairies gave Owen a glass, saying he might be useful to them that night. They asked if he would be willing to go with them, and, being anxious to get out of the cave, he at once consented. They all mounted on horses, and away they went through Dungloe, across the hills to Dochary, then to Glenties, and through Mount Charles to Ballyshannon, and thence to Connaught. They came to a house where great preparations were being made for a wedding. The fairies told Owen to go in and dance with any girl who asked him. He was much pleased to see that he was now wearing a good suit of clothes, and gladly joined in the dance. After a time there was a cry that the bride would choose a partner, and the partner she chose was Owen Boyle. They danced until the bride fell down in a faint, and the fairies, who had crept in unseen, bore her away. They mounted their horses and took the bride with them, sometimes one carrying her and sometimes another. They had ridden thus for a time when one of the fairies said to Owen: "You have done well for us to-night." "And little I have got for it," was the reply; "not even a turn of carrying the bride." "That you ought to have," said the fairy, and called out to give the bride to Owen. Owen took her, and, urging his horse, outstripped the fairies. They pursued him, but at Bal Cruit Strand he drew with a black knife a circle round himself and the bride, which the fairies could not cross. One of them, however, stretched out a long arm and struck the bride on the face, so that she became deaf and dumb. When the fairies left him, Owen brought the girl to his mother, and in reply to her questions, said he had brought home one to whom all kindness should be shown. They gave her the best seat by the fire; she helped in the housework, but remained speechless. A year passed, and on Hallow Eve Owen went again to Dunathaid. The door of the cave was open. He entered boldly, and found the fairies enjoying themselves as before. One of them recognized him, and said: "Owen Boyle, you played us a bad trick when you carried off that woman." "And a pretty woman you left with me! She can neither hear nor speak!" "Oh!" said another, "if she had a taste of this bottle, she could do both!" When Owen heard these words he seized the bottle, ran home with it, and, pouring a little into a glass, gave it to the poor girl to drink. Hearing and speech were at once restored. Owen returned the bottle to the fairies, and, before long, he set out for Connaught, taking the girl with him to restore her to her parents. When he arrived, he asked for a night's lodging for himself and his companion. The mother, although she said she had little room, admitted them, and soon Owen saw her looking at the girl. "Why are you gazing at my companion?" he asked. "She is so like a daughter of mine who died a twelvemonth ago." "No," replied Owen; "she did not die; she was carried off by the fairies, and here she is." There was great rejoicing, and before long Owen was married to the girl, the former bridegroom having gone away. He brought her home to Kincasslagh, and not a mile from the village, close to Bal Cruit Strand, may be seen the ring which defended her and Owen from the fairies. It is a very large fairy ring, but why the grass should grow luxuriantly on it tradition does not say. During the Field Club Conference at Rosapenna a variant of this story was told me by a lad on the heights above Gortnalughoge Bay. Here the man who rode with the fairies was John Friel, from Fanad. They went to Dublin and brought away a young girl from her bed, leaving something behind, which the parents believed to be their dead daughter. Meanwhile the young girl was taken northwards by the fairies. As they drew near to Fanad, John Friel begged to be allowed to carry her, and quickly taking her to his own cottage, kept her there with his mother. The girl was deaf and dumb, but there was no mention of the magic circle or of the blow from the fairy's hand. At the end of the year John Friel, like Owen Boyle, pays another visit to the fairies, overhears their conversation, snatches the bottle, and a few drops from it restore speech and hearing to the girl. He takes her to Dublin. Her parents cannot at first believe that she is truly their daughter, but the mother recognizes her by a mark on the shoulder, and the tale ends with great rejoicing.[74] In these stories we see the relations between fairies and mortals. The fairy man marries a human wife; he appears solicitous for her health, and is willing to pay a high reward to the nurse, but the caution his wife gives to her mother shows her fear of him, and when the latter forgets this warning and speaks to the husband, he effectively stops all intercourse between her and her daughter. In another story we see that it was the living girl who was carried off, and only a false image left to deceive her parents.[75] It is true that, through the magic of the fairies, she becomes deaf and dumb, but when this is overcome, she returns home safe and sound. The black knife used by Owen Boyle was doubtless an iron knife, that metal being always obnoxious to the fairies. Stories of children being carried off by fairies are numerous. There was a man lived near Croghan Fort, not far from Lifford, who was short, and had a cataract--or, as the country-people call it, a pearl--on his eye. He was returning home after the birth of his child, when he met the fairies carrying off the infant. They were about to change a benwood into the likeness of a child, saying: "Make it wee, make it short; Make it like its ain folk; Put a pearl in its eye; Make it like its Dadie." Here the man interrupted them, throwing up sand, and exclaiming: "In the name of God, this to youse and mine to me!" They flung his own child at him, but it broke its hinch, or thigh, and was a cripple all its days. [Illustration: PLATE X. [_R. Welch, Photo._ TORMORE, TORY ISLAND.] It is not often that fairies are associated with the spirits of the departed, but in Tory Island and in some other parts of Donegal it is believed that those who are drowned become fairies. In Tory Island I also heard that those who exceeded in whisky met the same fate. According to the inhabitants of this island, fairies can make themselves large or small; their hair may be red, white, or black; but they dress in black--a very unusual colour for fairies to appear in. It may perhaps be explained by remembering that Tory Island, or Toirinis, was a stronghold of the Fomorians, whom Keating describes as "sea rovers of the race of Cam, who fared from Africa."[76] I need hardly add that "Cam" is an old name for "Ham." I should infer that the fairies of Tory Island represent a dark race. King Balor, it is true, is not of diminutive stature. I heard much of this chieftain with the eye at the back of his head, which, if uncovered, would kill anyone exposed to its gaze. He knew it had been said in old times that he should die by the hand of his daughter's son, and he determined his daughter should remain childless. He shut her up in Tormore, with twelve ladies to wait on her. Balor had no smith on the island, but at Cloghanealy, on the mainland, there lived a smith who had the finest cow in the world, named Glasgavlen. He kept a boy to watch it, but, notwithstanding this precaution, two of Balor's servants carried off the cow. When the herd-boy saw it was gone, he wept bitterly, for the smith had told him his head would be taken off if he did not bring her back. Suddenly a fairy, Geea Dubh, came out of the rock, and told the boy the cow was in Tory, and if he followed her advice he would get it back. She made a curragh for him, and he crossed over to Tory, but he did not get the cow. The tale now becomes confused. We hear of twelve children, and how Balor ordered them all to be drowned, but his daughter's son was saved. The fairy told the herd-boy that, if the child were taken care of, it would grow up like a crop which, when put into the earth one day, sprouts up the next. The boy took service under Balor, and the child was sent to the ladies, who brought him up for three years. At the end of that time the herd boy took him to the mainland, where he grew up a strong youth, and worked for the smith. On one occasion Balor sent messengers across to the mainland, but the lad attacked them and cut out their tongues. The maimed messengers returned to Tory, and when Balor saw them he knew that he who had done this deed was the dreaded grandson. He set out to kill him; but when the youth saw Balor approaching the forge, he drew the poker from the fire and thrust it into the eye at the back of the King's head. The wounded Balor called to his grandson to come to him, and he would leave him everything. The youth was wise; he did not go too near Balor, but followed him from Falcarragh to Gweedore. "Are you near me?" was the question put by the King as he walked along, water streaming from his wounded eye; and this water formed the biggest lough in the world, three times as deep as Lough Foyle. I have given this story as it was told to me by an elderly man in a cottage on Tory Island. A version of it is related by the late Most Rev. Dr. MacDevitt in the "Donegal Highlands." It is referred to by Mr. Stephen Gwynn, M.P., in "Highways and Byways in Donegal and Antrim," and a very full narrative is given by Dr. O'Donovan in a note in his edition of the "Annals of the Four Masters."[77] Dr. O'Donovan states that he had the story from Shane O'Dugan, whose ancestor is said to have been living in Tory in the time of St. Columbkille. Here we read of the stratagem by which Balor, assuming the shape of a red-haired little boy, carried off the famous cow Glasgavlen from the chieftain MacKineely, and it is not the herdboy, but the chieftain himself, who is wafted across to Tory Island and introduced to Balor's daughter. Three sons are born; Balor orders them all to be drowned, but the eldest is saved by the friendly banshee and taken to his father, who places him in fosterage under his brother, the great smith Gavida. After a time MacKineely falls a victim to the vengeance of Balor, and is beheaded on the stone Clough-an-neely, where the marks of his blood may still be seen. Balor now deems himself secure. He often visits the forge of Gavida, and one day, when there, boasts of his conquest of MacKineely. No sooner has he uttered the proud words than the young smith seizes a glowing rod from the furnace and thrusts it through Balor's basilisk eye so far that it comes out at the other side of his head. It will be noted that in this version Balor's death is instantaneous; nothing is said about the deep lough formed by the water from his eye. According to O'Flaherty's "Ogygia," Balor was killed at the second battle of Moyture "by a stone thrown at him by his grandson by his daughter from a machine called Tabhall (which some assert to be a sling)."[78] If Balor is the grim hero of Tory Island, on the mainland we hear much of Finn McCoul. I was informed that he had an eye at the back of his head, and was so tall his feet came out at the door of his house. How large the house was, tradition does not say. The island of Carrickfinn opposite to Bunbeg is said to have been a favourite hunting-ground of Finn McCoul. When crossing over to this island, I was told by the boatman that the Danes were stout, small, and red-haired, and that they lived in the caves. The Finns, he said, were even smaller, dark yellow people. Near Loughros Bay I saw the Cashel na Fian, but whether it was built by tall or small Finns I do not know. Part of the wall was standing, built in the usual fashion with stones without mortar. This cashel was on a height, and near it I was shown some old fields, the ridges farther apart than those of the present day, and I was told they might be the fields of those who built the cashel, or perhaps of the Firbolgs. The old man who acted as my guide softened the _b_ in the Irish manner, and spoke of those people as the Firwolgs; he said they were short and stout, and cultivated the lands near the sea. To the Danes are ascribed the kitchen-middens on Rosguill, and the lad I met above Gortnalughoge Bay, told me they lived and had their houses on the water, I should infer after the fashion of the lake-dwellers. He could not tell me the height of these Danes, but those who built the forts and cashels have often been described to me as short and red-haired. As I have stated on former occasions, I should be inclined to identify these short Danes with the Tuatha de Danann. I visited one of their cashels above Dungiven, under which there is a souterrain, and I also went to one on a hill above Downey's pier at Rosapenna. I believe it is the Downey's Fort marked on the Ordnance Survey map. It appeared to be regarded as an uncanny spot; treasure is said to be hidden under it, and I had a difficulty in getting anyone to take me to it. A little girl, however, acted as guide, and a young farmer, who had at first refused, joined me on the top. I took some very rough measurements of this cashel. From the outer circumference it was about 60 by 60 feet; the walls had fallen inwards, so it was impossible to say how thick they had been originally, but the space free from stones in the centre measured about 25 by 25 feet. The young farmer told me of some rocks at a place he called Dooey, on which crosses were inscribed. I believe that near Mevagh, in addition to the spiral markings, which were visited by many members of the Conference, there is another rock on which crosses are also inscribed. Firbolgs, Danes, Finns, and Pechts, of whom I have spoken on former occasions, are all strictly human; and if the fairy has been more spiritualized, I think, in many of the traditions, we may see how closely he is allied to ancient and modern pygmies. Fairies intermarry freely with the human race; they are not exempt from death, and sometimes come to a violent end. At Kincasslagh a graphic story was told me by an old woman of how two banshees attacked a man when he was crossing the "banks" at Mullaghderg. His faithful dog had been chained at home, but, knowing the danger, escaped, saved his master, and killed one of the banshees. Her body was found next morning in the sand: she had wonderful eyes, small legs, and very large feet. I may mention that large feet are characteristic of the Pechts. It is true that those who are drowned may become fairies, but if a fisherman be missing, who shall say whether he lies at the bottom of the ocean or has been carried captive to a lonely cave. In later times, when the fairies were associated with fallen angels, one who had not received the last rites of the Church might naturally be supposed to become a fairy. In the tales of the giants we are brought face to face with beings of great strength, but in a low stage of civilization. Balor, we have seen, had no smith on Tory Island, and in a story of the fight between the giant Fargowan and a wild boar, his sister Finglas goes to his assistance with her apron filled with stones. Misled by the echo, she jumps backwards and forwards across Lough Finn until at last her long hair becomes entangled and she is drowned. It is believed that her coffin was found when the railway was being made; the boards were 14 feet long. Sometimes the works of Nature are ascribed to the giants; we have all heard of Finn McCoul as the artificer of the Giant's Causeway, and near Glenties I was shown perched blocks, which had been thrown by the giants. On the other hand, these giants, with all their magic, are often very human; perhaps we are listening to the tales of a small race, who exaggerated the feats of their large but savage neighbours. Writing in 1860, J. F. Campbell, in his introduction to the "Tales of the West Highlands," says: "Probably, as it seems to me, giants are simply the nearest savage race at war with the race who tell the tales. If they performed impossible feats of strength, they did no more than Rob Roy, whose putting-stone is now shown to Saxon tourists ... in the shape of a boulder of many tons."[79] Turning to fairies, the same writer says: "I believe there was once a small race of people in these islands, who are remembered as fairies.... They are always represented as living in green mounds. They pop up their heads when disturbed by people treading on their houses. They steal children. They seem to live on familiar terms with the people about them when they treat them well, to punish them when they ill-treat them.... There are such people now. A Lapp is such a man; he is a little flesh-eating mortal, having control over the beasts, and living in a green mound, when he is not living in a tent or sleeping out of doors, wrapped in his deerskin shirt."[80] Since these words were written, our knowledge of dwarf races has been greatly increased; their skeletons have been found in Switzerland and other parts of Europe. We are all familiar with the pygmies of Central Africa, and the members of this Club will remember the interesting photographs of them shown by Sir Harry Johnston. Besides the Andamnan Islanders, we have dwarf races in various parts of Asia, and doubtless we have all read with interest the account of the New Guinea dwarfs, sent by the members of the British Expedition, who are investigating that Island under many difficulties. Dr. Eric Marshall describes these pygmies as "averaging four feet six inches to four feet eight inches in height, wild, shy, treacherous little devils; these little men wander over the heavy jungle-clad hills, subsisting on roots and jungle produce, hunting the wallaby, pig, and cassowary, and fishing in the mountain torrents.... The only metal tool they possessed was a small, wedge-shaped piece of iron, one inch by two inches, inserted into a wooden handle, and answering the purpose of an axe, and with this the whole twenty-acre clearing had been made. None but those who have worked and toiled in this dense jungle can really appreciate the perseverance and patience necessary to accomplish this, for many of the trees are from twelve to fifteen feet in circumference."[81] Throughout Donegal we find many traces of the primitive belief that men or women can change themselves into animals. At Rosapenna I was told of a hare standing on its hind-legs like an old woman and sucking a cow, the inference being plainly that the witch had transformed herself into a hare. I heard similar stories at Glenties. Here I was told of a man who killed a young seal, but was startled when the mother, weeping, cried out in Irish: "My child, my child!" Never again did he kill a seal. A story illustrating the same belief is told by John Sweeney, an inspector of National Schools, who wrote about forty years ago a series of letters describing Donegal and its inhabitants.[82] In his account of Arranmore he says: "Until lately the islanders could not be induced to attack a seal, they being strongly under the impression that these animals were human beings metamorphosed by the power of their own witchcraft. In confirmation of this notion, they used to repeat the story of one Rodgers of their island, who, being alone in his skiff fishing, was overtaken by a storm, and driven on the shore of the Scotch Highlands. Having landed, he approached a house which was close to the beach, and on entering it was accosted by name. Expressing his surprise at finding himself known in a strange country, and by one whom he had never seen, the old man who addressed him bared his head, and, pointing to a scar on his skull, reminded Rodgers of an encounter he had with a seal in one of the caves of Arranmore. 'I was,' he said, 'that seal, and this is the mark of the wound you inflicted on me. I do not blame you, however, for you were not aware of what you were doing.'" I fear I have lingered too long over these old-world stories. To me they point to a far-distant past, when Ulster was covered with forests, in which the red deer and perhaps the Irish elk roamed, and inhabited by rude tribes, some of them of dwarfish stature, others tall; but these giants were apparently even less civilized than their smaller neighbours. Wars were frequent; the giant could hurl the unwieldy mass of stone, and the dwarfish man could send his arrow tipped with flint. Even more common was the stealthy raid, when women and children were carried off to the gloomy souterrain. How long did these rude tribes survive? It would be difficult to say; possibly until after the days of St. Patrick and St. Columkill. I will not, however, indulge in a fancy sketch. The pressing need is not to interpret but to collect these old tales. The antiquary of the future, with fuller knowledge at his command, may be better able to decipher them; but if they are allowed to perish, one link with the past will be irretrievably lost. FOOTNOTES: [72] Read before the Archæological Section of the Belfast Naturalists' Field Club, February 8, 1911. [73] In "Celtic Folklore," vol. i., p. 210 _et seq._, Sir John Rhys relates a similar story. Here the woman is brought to a place which appears to her to be the finest she has ever seen. When the child is born the father gives her ointment to anoint its eyes, but entreats her not to touch her own with it. Inadvertently she rubs her finger across her eye, and now she sees that the wife is her former maidservant Eilian, and that she lies on a bundle of rushes and withered leaves in a cave. Not long afterwards the woman sees the husband in the market at Carnarvon, and asks for Eilian. He is angry, and, inquiring with which eye she sees him, puts it out with a bulrush. From Palestine we have another variant of this story. The Rev. J. E. Hanauer, in "Folklore of the Holy Land," pp. 210 _et seq._, tells of a woman at El Welejeh who had spoken unkindly to a frog. The next night, on waking, she found herself in a cave surrounded by strange, angry-looking people; one of these "Jân" reproached her bitterly, saying that the frog was his wife, and threatening her with dire consequences unless a son were born. She assisted at the birth of the child, who was fortunately a boy, and was given a _mukhaleh_ or _kohl_ vessel, and was bidden to rub some of this _kohl_ on the infant's eyes. When she had done this, she rubbed some on one of her own eyes, but before she had time to put any on the other the vessel was angrily taken from her. She was rewarded with onion-leaves, which in the morning turned to gold. Some time afterwards this woman was shopping at El Kuds, when she saw the Jennizeh pilfering from shop to shop. She spoke to her and kissed the baby, but the other answered fiercely, and, poking her finger into the woman's eye, put it out. [74] In "Guleesh na Guss Dhu," Dr. Douglas Hyde gives us a similar tale from Co. Mayo. See "Beside the Fire," pp. 104-128. [75] In "Folk Tales from Breffny," by B. Hunt, there is a story (pp. 99-103), "The Cutting of the Tree," which tells of how the fairies, when baffled in their endeavour to carry off the mistress of the house, left in the kitchen a wooden image "cut into the living likeness of the woman of the house." [76] See _ante_, p. 60. [77] Pp. 18-21. [78] "Ogygia," part iii., chap. xii. [79] Pp. xcix, c. [80] Pp. c, ci. [81] See _Morning Post_, December 28, 1910. In his work, "Pygmies and Papuans," which gives the results of this expedition, Mr. A. F. R. Wollaston also describes these pygmies (see especially pp. 159-161). [82] I was shown a MS. copy of some of these letters by a relative of the writer at Burtonport. I believe they were written for a newspaper, and were afterwards republished in "The Derry People," under the title "The Rosses Thirty Years Ago." They contain much interesting information in regard to the traditions current among the peasantry. Giants and Dwarfs[83] The population of Ulster is derived from many sources, and in its folklore we shall find traces of various tribes and people. I shall begin with a tale which may have been brought by English settlers. In "Folklore as an Historical Science" Sir G. Laurence Gomme has given several variants of the story of the Pedlar of Swaffham and London Bridge. Most of these come from England, Scotland, and Wales, but among them there are also a Breton and a Norse version. I have found a local variant in Donegal. An elderly woman told me that at Kinnagoe a "toon" or small hamlet about three miles from Buncrana, there lived a man whose name, she believed, was Doherty. He dreamt one night that on London Bridge he should hear of a treasure. He set out at once for London, and when he came there walked up and down the bridge until he was wearied. At last a man accosted him and asked him why he loitered there. In reply, Doherty told his dream, upon which the other said: "Ah, man! Do you believe in drames? Why, I dreamt the other night that at a place called Kinnagoe a pot of gold is buried. Would I go to look for it? I might loss my time if I paid attention to drames." "That's true," answered Doherty, who now hurried home, found the pot of gold, bought houses and land, and became a wealthy man. Whether this story embodies an earlier Irish legend I do not know, but I should say that the mention of London Bridge points to its having been brought over by English settlers. Sir G. L. Gomme tells us that "the earliest version of this legend is quoted from the manuscripts of Sir Roger Twysden, who obtained it from Sir William Dugdale, of Blyth Hall, in Warwickshire, in a letter dated January 29, 1652-53. Sir William says of it that 'it was the tradition of the inhabitants, as it was told me there.'" May not some of the planters brought over by the Irish Society have carried this legend from their English home, giving it in the name Kinnagoe a local habitation? Most of our folklore comes, however, from a very early period. Our Irish fairy, although regarded as a fallen angel, is not the medieval elf, who could sip honey from a flower, but a small old man or woman with magical powers, swift to revenge an injury, but often a kindly neighbour. No story is told more frequently than that of the old fairy woman who borrows a "noggin" of meal, repays it honestly, and rewards the peasant woman by saying that her kist will never be empty, generally adding the condition as long as the secret is kept. The woman usually observes the condition until her husband becomes too inquisitive. When she reveals the secret the kist is empty. Another widespread tale is that of the fairy woman who comes to the peasant's cottage, sometimes to beg that water may not be thrown out at the door, as it comes down her chimney and puts out the fire; sometimes to ask, for a similar reason, that the "byre," or cowhouse, may be removed to another site. In some tales it is a fairy man who makes the request. If it is refused, punishment follows in sickness among the cattle; if complied with, the cows flourish and give an extra supply of milk. In one instance the "wee folk" provided money to pay a mason to build the new cowhouse. We may smile, and ask how the position of the cowhouse could affect the homes of the fairies; but if these small people lived in the souterrains, as tradition alleges, we may even at the present day find these artificial caves under inhabited houses. At a large farmhouse on the border of Counties Antrim and Londonderry I was told one ran under the kitchen. At another farm near Castlerock, Co. Londonderry, the owner opened a trapdoor in his yard, and allowed me to look down into a souterrain. At Finvoy, Co. Antrim, I was shown one of these caves over which a cottage formerly stood. A souterrain also runs under the Glebe House at Donaghmore, Co. Down. The following extract is from a work[84] in preparation, by the Rev. Dr. Cowan, Rector of the parish, who, in describing this souterrain, writes: "The lintel to the main entrance is the large stone which forms the base of the old Celtic cross, which stands a few yards south of the church. Underneath the cross is the central chamber, which is sixty-two feet long, three feet wide and upwards of four feet high, with branches in the form of transepts about thirty feet in length. From these, again, several sections extend ... one due north terminating at the Glebe House (a distance of two hundred yards) underneath the study, where, according to tradition, some rich old vicar in past times fashioned the extreme end into the dimensions of a wine-cellar." According to another tradition--an older one, no doubt--this chamber under the study was the dressing-room of the small Danes, who after their toilet proceeded through the underground passages to church. They had to pass through many little doors, down stairs, through parlours, until they came to the great chamber under the cross where the minister held forth. I shall not attempt to guess to what old faith this minister or priest belonged, or what were the rites he celebrated; but the stairs probably represent the descent from one chamber to another, and the little doors the bridges found in some souterrains, and, I believe, at Donaghmore, where one stone juts out from the floor, and a little farther on another comes down from the roof, leaving only a narrow passage, so that one must creep over and under these bridges to get to the end of the cave. The Danes are regarded by the country people as distinctly human, and yet there is much in them that reminds us of the fairies; indeed, I was told by two old men--one in Co. Antrim, and the other in Co. Derry--that they and the wee-folk are much the same. In a former paper[85] I referred to the difference in dress ascribed to the fairies in various parts of the country. I am inclined to believe that this indicates a variety of tribes among the aboriginal inhabitants. In the fairies who dress in green may we not have a tradition of people who stained themselves with woad or some other plant? These fairies are chiefly heard of in North-East Antrim. In some parts of that county they are said to wear tartan, but in other parts of Ulster the fairies are usually, although not universally, described as dressing in red. Do these represent a people who dyed themselves with red ochre, or who simply went naked? In Tory Island I was told the fairies dressed in black; and Keating informs us that the Fomorians, who had their headquarters at Toirinis, or Tory Island, were "sea-rovers of the race of Cam, who fared from Africa."[86] Stories of the fairies or wee-folk are to be found everywhere in Ulster, and the Danes are also universally known; but one hears of the Pechts, chiefly in the north-east of Antrim, where the Grogach is also known. The following story was told to me in Glenariff, Co. Antrim: A Grogach herded the cattle of a farmer, and drove them home in the evening. He was about the size of a child, and was naked. A fire was left burning at night so that he might warm himself, and after a time the daughter of the house made him a shirt. When the Grogach saw this he thought it was a "billet" for him to go, and, crying bitterly, he took his departure, and left the shirt behind him. As I pointed out on a former occasion,[87] in many respects the Grogach resembles the Swiss dwarf. The likeness to the Brownie is also very marked. At Ballycastle I was told the Grogach was a hairy man about four feet in height, who could bear heat or cold without clothing. Patrick Kennedy has described a Gruagach as a giant, and states that the word "Gruagach" has for root _gruach_--"hair," giants and magicians being "furnished with a large provision of that appendage."[88] This Gruagach was closely related to the fairies, and, indeed, we shall find later in a Donegal story a giant ogress spoken of as a fairy woman. In Scotland, as well as in the South of Ireland, the name is Gruagach, but in Antrim I heard it pronounced "Grogach." I was also told near Cushendall that the Danes were hairy people. One does not hear so much about giants in Antrim as in Donegal, but in Glenariff I was told of four, one of whom lifted a rock at Ballycastle and threw it across the sea to Rathlin--a distance of five or six miles. Great as this feat was, a still greater was reported to me near Armoy,[89] where I was shown a valley, and was told the earth had been scooped out and thrown into the sea, where it formed the Island of Rathlin. The grave of the giant Gig-na-Gog is to be seen some miles from Portrush on the road to Beardiville.[90] I could not, however, hear anything of Gig-na-Gog, except that he was a giant. In the stories of giants we no doubt often have traditions of a tall race, who are sometimes represented as of inferior mental capacity. At other times we appear to be listening to an early interpretation of the works of Nature. The Donegal peasant at the present day believes that the perched block on the side of the hill has been thrown by the arm of a giant. In the compact columns of the Giant's Causeway and of Fingal's Cave at Staffa primitive man saw a work of great skill and ingenuity, which he attributed to a giant artificer; and Finn McCoul is credited with having made a stupendous mole, uniting Scotland and Ireland. This Finn McCoul has many aspects. He does not show to much advantage in the following legend, which I heard on the banks of Lough Salt in Donegal: Finn was a giant but there was a bigger giant named Goll, who came to fight Finn, and Finn was afraid. His wife bade him creep into the cradle, and she would give an answer to Goll. When the latter appeared, he asked where was Finn. The wife replied he was out, and she was alone with the baby in the cradle. Goll looked at the child, and thought, if that is the size of Finn's infant, what must Finn himself be? and without more ado he turned and took his departure.[91] This Finn had an eye at the back of his head, and was so tall his feet came out at the door of his house. We are not told, however, what was the size of the house. [Illustration: PLATE XI. [_R. Welch, Photo._ VALLEY NEAR ARMOY, WHENCE, ACCORDING TO LEGEND, EARTH WAS TAKEN TO FORM RATHLIN.] In this tale Finn shows little courage, but as a rule he is represented as a noted hero. I was told a long story at Glenties in Donegal of the three sons Finn had by the Queen of Italy. He had seen her bathing in Ireland, and he stole her clothes, so she had to stay until she could get them back. After a time she found them, and returned to her own country, where she gave birth to three sons--Dubh, Kian, and Glasmait. When they were fourteen years of age the King of Italy sent them away that they might go to their father Finn. They arrived in Ireland, and when Finn saw them he said: "If those three be the sons of a King, they will come straight on; if not, they will ask their way." The lads came straight on, knelt before Finn, and claimed him as their father. He asked them who was their mother, and when they said the Queen of Italy, Finn remembered the stolen clothes, and received them as his sons. One day the followers of Finn could not find his dividing knife, and Dubh determined to go in search of it. He put a stick in the fire, and said he would be back before the third of it was burnt out. He followed tracks, and came to a house where there was a great feast. He sat down among the men, and saw they were cutting with Finn's knife. It was passed from one to another until it came to Dubh, who, holding it in his hand, sprang up and carried it off. When Dubh got home he wakened Kian and said: "My third of the stick is burnt, and now do you see what you can do." Kian followed the tracks, and got to the same place. He found the men drinking out of a horn. One called for whisky, another for wine, and whatever was asked, the horn gave. Kian heard them say it was Finn's horn, and that his knife had been carried off the previous night. Kian waited, and when the horn came he grasped it tightly and ran off home, where he found his third of the stick was burnt. He waked Glasmait, and told him two-thirds of the night had passed, and it was now his turn to go out. Glasmait followed the same tracks, but when he came to the house blood was flowing from the door, and, looking in, he saw the place full of corpses. One man only remained alive. He told Glasmait how they had all been drinking when someone ran off with Finn McCoul's horn. "One man blamed another," he said; "they quarrelled and fought until everyone was killed except myself. Now I beseech you throw the ditch[92] upon me and bury me. I do not wish to be devoured by the fairy woman, who will soon be here. She is an awful size, and upon her back is bound Finn McCoul's sword of light,[93] which gives to its possessor the strength of a hundred men." The man gave Glasmait some hints to aid him in the coming fight, and added: "Now I have told you all, bury me quick." Glasmait threw the ditch upon him, and hid himself in a corner. The Banmore, or large woman, now came in, and began her horrible repast. She chose the fat men; three times she lifted Glasmait, but rejected him as too young and lean. At last she lay down to sleep. Glasmait followed the advice he had received. He touched her foot, but jumped aside to avoid the kick. He touched her hand, but jumped aside to avoid her slap. When she was again asleep, he drew his sword and cut the cords which bound the sword of light to her back, and seized upon it. She roused herself, and for two hours they fought, until in the end Glasmait ripped open her body, when, behold, three red-haired boys sprang out and attacked him. He slew two of them, but the third escaped. Glasmait returned home with the sword of light, and found his third of the stick burnt. The three sons now presented their father with the dividing knife, the drinking horn, and the sword of light, and there was great rejoicing that these had been recovered. Some time after this a red-haired boy appeared, and begged to be taken into Finn's service for a twelvemonth, saying he could kill birds and do any kind of work. When asked what wages he looked for, he replied that he hoped when he died, Finn and his men would put his body in a cart, which would come for it, and bury him where the cart stopped. The red-haired boy worked well, but at the end of the year he suddenly died. A cart drawn by a horse appeared, and Finn and his men tried to place the body in it; but it could not be moved until the horse wheeled round and did the work itself, starting immediately afterwards with its load. Finn and his men followed, but a great mist came on, so that they could not see clearly. At last they arrived at an old, black castle standing in a glen. Here they found the table laid, and sat down to eat, but before long the red-haired boy appeared alive, and cried vengeance upon Finn and his sons. The men tried to draw their swords, but found them fastened to the ground, and the red-haired boy cut off fifty heads. Now, however, the great Manannan appeared. He bade the red-haired boy drop his sword, or he would give him a slap that would turn his face to the back of his head. He also bade him replace the heads on the fifty men. The red-haired boy had to submit, and after that he troubled Finn no more. Manannan dispelled the mist, and brought Finn and his men back to their own home, where they feasted for three days and three nights. This somewhat gruesome story contains several points of interest. The stealing of the clothes is an incident which occurs with slight variations in many folk-tales. In "The Stolen Veil"[94] Musäus tells us how the damsel of fairy lineage was detained when her veil was carried off, and it was only after she had recovered it that she was able, in the guise of a swan, to return to her home. We have read, too, of how the Shetlander captured the sealskin of the Finn woman, without which she could not return as a seal to her husband.[95] It should also be noted that the fairy ogress is a large woman, apparently a giantess, while her three sons have the red hair so often associated with the fairies. At the end of the tale Finn and his men are saved by Manannan, the Celtic god of the sea, who has given his name to the Isle of Man. In Balor of Tory Island the great Fomorian chief, we have another giant, with an eye at the back of his head, which dealt destruction to all who encountered its gaze. I was told in Tory Island that when Balor was mortally wounded water fell so copiously from his eye that it formed the biggest lough in the world, deeper even than Lough Foyle.[96] These giants belonged to an olden time and a very primitive race. They have passed away, and are no longer like the fairies--objects of fear or awe. The fairies, being believed to be fallen angels, are especially dreaded on Hallow Eve night. In some places oatmeal and salt are put on the heads of the children to protect them from harm. I first heard of this custom in the valley of the Roe, where there are a large number of forts said to be inhabited by the fairies. The neighbourhood of Dungiven on that river is rich in antiquities. I was told there was a souterrain under the Cashel or "White Fort," said to have been built by the Danes. There is another under Carnanban Fort, and not far from this there are the stone circles at Aghlish. An old woman of ninety-six showed them to me, and said it was a very gentle[97] place, and it would not be safe to take away one of the stones. [Illustration: PLATE XII. [_R. Welch, Photo._ FLINT SPEARHEAD AND BASALT AXES FOUND UNDER FORT IN LENAGH TOWNLAND.] Here we have an instance of the strong belief that to interfere in any way with stone, tree, or fort, belonging to the fairies is certain to bring disaster. About sixty-five years ago, when the railway was being made between Belfast and Ballymena, an old fort with fairy bushes in the townland of Lenagh stood on the intended track, and had to be removed. The men working on the line were most unwilling to meddle with either fort or bushes. One, however, braver than the rest began to cut down a thorn, when he met with an accident which strengthened the others in their refusal. In the end the fort had to be blown up, I believe by the officials of the railway, and underneath it a very fine spearhead and other implements were found.[98] A fort near Glasdrumman, Co. Down, was demolished by the owner, but the country-people noted that the man who struck the first blow was injured and died soon afterwards, while the owner himself became a permanent invalid. A woman living near this fort related that in the evening after the work was begun she heard an awful screech from the fort; presumably the fairies were leaving their home. A curious story was told me by an old woman in the Cottage Hospital at Cushendall. A man at Glenravel named M'Combridge went out one evening to look for his heifer, but could not find it. He saw a great house in one of his fields, where no house had been before, and, wondering much at this, he went in. An old woman sat by the fire, and soon two men came in leading the heifer. They killed it with a blow on the head and put it into a pot. M'Combridge was too much afraid to make any objection; he rose, however, to leave the house, but the old woman said: "Wait; you must have some of the broth of your own heifer." Three times she made him partake of the broth, and he was then unable to leave the house. She put him to bed, and the man gave birth to a son. He fell asleep, but was wakened by something touching his ear, and found himself on the grass near his home, and the heifer close to his ear. This fantastic story no doubt represents a dream, but does it contain a reminiscence of the couvade, where, after the birth of the child, the father goes to bed? Sir E. B. Tylor, in the "Early History of Mankind," has shown how widespread this custom was both in the Old and the New World. In these stories, drawn from various parts of Ulster, we seem to hear echoes of a very distant past. The giants often appear as savages of low intelligence. In the fairies, I think, we may plainly see a tradition of a dwarf race, although it is true that the country-people do not regard them as human beings; indeed, I was told in Co. Tyrone that when the fairies were annoying a man he threw his handkerchief at them, and asked if among them all they could show one drop of blood. This, being spirits, they could not do. In the Grogach the human element is more pronounced, and both Danes and Pechts are usually regarded as men and women like ourselves, although of smaller stature. It will thus be seen that in Ulster we have traditions of giants, fairies, Grogachs, Danes, and Pechts; and in Donegal I was also told of a small race of yellow Finns. Can we identify any of these with the prehistoric races of the British Isles and of Europe? It has been held by many that the relics of Palæolithic man do not occur in Ireland, but the Rev. Frederick Smith has found his implements, some of them glaciated, at Killiney[99]; and Mr. Lewis Abbott, who has made the implements of early man a special study, believes that Palæolithic man lived and worked in Ireland. In a letter to me he states that this opinion is based on material in his possession. "I have," he writes, "the Irish collection of my old friend, the late Professor Rupert Jones; in this there are many immensely metamorphosed, deeply iron-stained (and the iron, again, in turn further altered), implements of Palæolithic types.... They are usually very lustrous or highly 'patinated,' as it is called." In his recent paper, "On the Classification of the British Stone Age Industries,"[100] in describing the club studs, Mr. Abbott writes: "I have found very fine examples in the Cromer Forest bed, and under and in various glacial deposits in England and Ireland." How long Palæolithic man survived in Ireland it would be difficult to say, but in such characters as the fairy ogress we are brought face to face with a very low form of savagery. It will be noted that her sons are red-haired. Now, I have often found red hair ascribed to fairies and Danes, but not to Pechts. This persistent tradition has led me to ask whether red was the colour of the hair in some early races of mankind. The following passage in Dr. Beddoe's Huxley Lecture[101] favours an affirmative answer: "There are, of course, facts, or reported facts, which would lead one to suspect that red was the original hair colour of man in Europe--at least, when living in primitive or natural conditions with much exposure, and that the development of brown pigment came later, with subjection to heat and malaria, and other influences connected with what we call 'civilisation.'" We have seen that the implements of early man are found in spots sacred to the fairies. The Rev. Gath Whitley considers the Piskey dwarfs the earliest Neolithic inhabitants of Cornwall, and describes them as a small race who hunted the elk and the deer, and perhaps, like the Bushmen, danced and sang to the light of the moon.[102] Our traditional Irish fairies bear a strong resemblance to these Piskey dwarfs of Cornwall, and also to the Welsh fairies of whom Sir John Rhys writes that when fairyland is cleared of its glamour there seems to be disclosed "a swarthy population of short, stumpy men, occupying the most inaccessible districts of our country.... They probably fished and hunted and kept domestic animals, including, perhaps, the pig, but they depended largely on what they could steal at night or in misty weather. Their thieving, however, was not resented, as their visits were believed to bring luck and prosperity."[103] This description might apply to our Ulster fairies, who in many of the stories appear as a very primitive people. In some of the tales, however, the fairies are represented in a higher state of civilisation. They can spin and weave; they inhabit underground but well-built houses, and in the Irish records they are closely associated with the Tuatha de Danann. I believe these Tuatha de Danann are the small Danes, who, according to tradition, built the raths and souterrains. The late Mr. John Gray[104] would ascribe a Mongoloid origin to them. In a letter written to me shortly before his death he stated his belief that the Danes and Pechts "were of the same race, and were identical with a short, round-headed race which migrated into the British Isles about 2,000 B.C. at the beginning of the Bronze Age.... The stature of these primitive Danes and Pechts was five feet three inches, and they must have looked very small men to the later Teutonic invaders of an average stature of five feet eight and a half inches." In his papers, "Who built the British Stone Circles?"[105] and "The Origin of the Devonian Race,"[106] Mr. Gray has fully described this round-headed race, who buried in short cists, and whom he believes to have been a colony from Asia Minor of Akkadians, Sumerians, or Hittites, who migrated to England by sea in order to work the Cornish tin-mines and the Welsh copper-mines. For a fuller exposition of these views I must refer the reader to Mr. Gray's very interesting articles. In regard to the Tuatha de Danann, according to Keating,[107] they came from Greece by way of Scandinavia. This might lead us to infer a northern origin, or, at least, that they had taken a different route from those who came by the Mediterranean to the West of Europe. They appear to have known the use of metals and to have ploughed the land. Dr. O'Donovan, in writing of these Tuatha de Danann, says: "From the many monuments ascribed to this colony by tradition and in ancient Irish historical tales, it is quite evident that they were a real people, and from their having been considered gods and magicians by the Gaedhil or Scoti who subdued them, it may be inferred that they were skilled in arts which the latter did not understand." Referring to the colloquy between St. Patrick and Caoilte MacRonain, Dr. O'Donovan says that it appears from this ancient Irish text that "there were very many places in Ireland where the Tuatha de Dananns were then supposed to live as sprites or fairies." He adds: "The inference naturally to be drawn from these stories is that the Tuatha de Dananns lingered in the country for many centuries after their subjugation by the Gaedhil, and that they lived in retired situations, which induced others to regard them as magicians."[108] What is here averred of the Tuatha de Danann may be true of other primitive races who may have survived long in Ireland. It is difficult to exterminate a people, and they could not be driven farther west. It appears to me that in the traditions of the Ulster peasantry we see indications of a tall, savage people, and of various races of small men. Some were in all probability veritable dwarfs, like those whose skeletons have been found in Switzerland, near Schaffhausen. Others may have been of the stature of the round-headed race described by Mr. John Gray, but in tradition they all--fairy, Grogach, Pecht, and Dane--appear as little people. In these tales we have not a clear outline--the picture is often blurred--but as we see the red-haired Danes carrying earth in their aprons to build the forts, the Pechts handing from one to another the large slabs to roof the souterrains, and the Grogachs herding cattle, we catch glimpses of the life of those who in long past ages inhabited Ireland. FOOTNOTES: [83] Reprinted from the _Antiquary_, August, 1913. [84] "An Ancient Irish Parish, Past and Present." [85] See Ulster Fairies, Danes, and Pechts, p. 27. [86] Keating, "History of Ireland," book i., chap. viii. (translation by P. W. Joyce, LL.D., M.R.I.A.). See _ante_, p. 60. [87] See Traditions of Dwarf Races in Ireland and in Switzerland, pp. 50-52. [88] "Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts," second edition, p. 123 note. [89] A village about six miles from Ballycastle, where there is a round tower. [90] It is referred to in the "Guide to Belfast and the Adjacent Counties," by the Belfast Naturalists' Field Club, 1874, pp. 205, 206; also by Borlase in "Dolmens of Ireland," vol. i., p. 371. [91] A similar tale, but with more details, is related of Finn by William Carleton. It was first published in Chambers' _Edinburgh Journal_ in January, 1841, with the title, "A Legend of Knockmary," and was reprinted in Carleton's collected works under the title "A Legend of Knockmany." It is given by Mr. W. B. Yeates in his "Irish Fairy and Folk Tales." In Carleton's tale Finn's opponent is not Goll, but Cuchullin. In the notes first published in Chambers' _Journal_ reference is, however, made to Scotch legends about Finn McCoul and Gaul, the son of Morni, whom I take to be the same as Goll. A version of the story is also given by Patrick Kennedy in "Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts," under the title "Fann MacCuil and the Scotch Giant," pp. 179-181. This Scotch giant is named Far Rua, and the fort to which he journeys is in the bog of Allen. [92] In Ireland "ditch" is used for an earth fence. [93] Claive Solus was the name given to it by the old woman, who narrated the story, and she translated it "sword of light." [94] See J. K. A. Musäus, "Volksmährchen der Deutschen," edited by J. L. Klee (Leipzig, 1842); "Der geraubte Schleier," pp. 371-429. [95] See "The Testimony of Tradition" (London, 1890, pp. 1-25), by Mr. David MacRitchie, F.S.A.Scot.; also by the same author, "The Aberdeen Kayak and its Congeners." Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, vol. xlvi. (1911-12), pp. 213-241. Mr. MacRitchie believes that the magic sealskin was a Kayak. [96] See p. 75. [97] Fairy-haunted. [98] This spearhead is in the possession of Mr. Robert Bell, a member of the Belfast Naturalists' Field Club, from whom I heard this narrative. [99] "The Stone Age in North Britain and Ireland," by the Rev. Frederick Smith, Appendix, p. 396. [100] See _Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute_, vol. xli., 1911, p. 462. [101] "Colour and Race," delivered before the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, October 31, 1905. [102] "Footprints of Vanished Races in Cornwall," by the Rev. D. Gath Whitley, published in the _Journal of the Royal Institution of Cornwall_, 1903, vol. xv., part ii., p. 283. [103] "Celtic Folklore," vol. ii., chap. xii., pp. 668, 669. [104] Treasurer to the Anthropological Institute. [105] Read before Section H of the British Association at the Dublin Meeting, September, 1908, published in _Nature_, December 24, 1908, pp. 236-238. [106] Published in _London Devonian Year-Book_, 1910. [107] "History of Ireland," book i., chap. x. [108] See "Annals of the Four Masters," vol. i., note at p. 24. The Rev. William Hamilton, D.D.[109] AN EARLY EXPONENT OF THE VOLCANIC ORIGIN OF THE GIANT'S CAUSEWAY "Here, hapless Hamilton, lamented name! To fire volcanic traced the curious frame, And, as his soul, by sportive fancy's aid, Up to the fount of time's long current strayed, Far round these rocks he saw fierce craters boil, And torrent lavas flood the riven soil: Saw vanquished Ocean from his bounds retire, And hailed the wonders of creative Fire." DRUMMOND. These lines are taken from a poem, "The Giant's Causeway," written in 1811, when the nature of the basaltic rocks was regarded as doubtful, and many held that their origin was to be traced to the action of water rather than fire. Hamilton is rightly brought forward as a champion of the volcanic theory. In his "Letters concerning the Northern Coast of Antrim," published towards the close of the eighteenth century, he adduces strong reasons to show that the Giant's Causeway is no isolated freak of Nature, but part of a vast lava field which covered Antrim and extended far beyond the Scottish islands. Nor does he confine his attention to geology, but fulfils the promise on the title page, giving an account of the antiquities, manners, and customs of the country. To those who care to read of this part of the world before the days of railroads and electric tramways, when Portrush was a small fishing village, and the lough which divides Antrim from Down bore the name of the ancient city of Carrickfergus, this old volume will possess many attractions. Three copies lie before me; two belong to editions published in the author's lifetime; the third was printed in Belfast in 1822, and contains a short memoir and a portrait of Dr. Hamilton. The latter is taken from one of those black silhouettes by which, before the art of photography was known, our grandfathers strove to preserve an image of those they loved. In this imperfect likeness we can see below the wig a massive forehead, and features which betoken no small determination of character. We can well believe that we are gazing on the face of a scholar, a man of science, a divine, of one who believed that death, even in the tragic form in which it came to him, was but the laying aside of a perishable machine, the casting away of an instrument no longer able to perform its functions. William Hamilton was born in December, 1757, in Londonderry, where the family had resided for nearly a century, his grandfather having been one of the defenders of the city during the famous siege. Little is known of his boyhood. Before he was fifteen he entered the University of Dublin, and after a distinguished career obtained a fellowship in 1779. It was while continuing his theological and literary studies that his attention was drawn to the new sciences of chemistry and mineralogy. We can imagine the ardent student attracting around him a band of kindred spirits, who, meeting on one evening of the week under the name of Palæosophers, studied the Bible and ancient writings bearing on its interpretation, and the next, calling themselves Neosophers, discussed the phenomena of Nature, and the discoveries of Cavendish, or the views of Buffon and Descartes. Nor did his marriage in 1780 to Sarah Walker interrupt these pursuits. Hamilton was one of the founders of the Royal Irish Academy, and dedicated his "Letters concerning the Coast of Antrim" to the Earl of Charlemont, the first president of that body. The book opens with an account of his visit to the Island of Raghery or Rathlin, where he was charmed with the primitive manners of the people and the friendly relations existing between them and their landlord. He examined the white cliffs, the dark basaltic columns, and the ruins of the old castle, where Robert Bruce is said to have made a gallant defence against his enemies. Here he found cinders embedded in the mortar, showing that the lime used in building the walls had been burnt with coal. This is adduced as a proof that the coal-beds near Fair Head had been known at an early period, possibly at a time anterior to the Danish incursions of the ninth and tenth centuries--a view confirmed by the discovery of an ancient gallery extending many hundred yards underground, and in which the remains of the tools and baskets of the prehistoric miners were found. In a later letter a history is given of the Giant's Causeway, and of the various opinions which have been held regarding its origin. Beginning with the old tradition[110] that the stones had been cut and placed in position by the giant, Fin McCool or Fingal, when constructing a mighty mole to unite Ireland to Scotland, Hamilton alludes to the crude notions exhibited in some papers published in the early Transactions of the Royal Society. He criticizes severely "A True Prospect of the Giant's Causeway," printed in 1696 for the Dublin Society, showing how the imagination of the artist had planted luxuriant forest-trees on the wild bay of Port Noffer, and transformed basaltic rocks into comfortable dwelling-houses. The two beautiful paintings made by Mrs. Susanna Drury in 1740 are referred to in very different language, and anyone who has seen engravings of these will endorse his opinion, and feel that this lady has depicted, with almost photographic accuracy, the Causeway and the successive galleries of basaltic columns, which lend a weird and peculiar grandeur to the headlands of Bengore. A large portion of Hamilton's work is occupied with a minute investigation of these headlands, and of the lofty promontory of Fair Head. A description is given of the jointed columns of the Causeway, whose surface presents a regular and compact pavement of polygon stones; we are told that this basaltic rock contains metallic iron, and that he has himself observed how, in the semicircular Bay of Bengore, the compass deviates greatly from its meridian, and each pillar or fragment of a pillar acts as a natural magnet. He also points out that columnar rocks are found in many parts of Antrim, and traces the basaltic plateau from the shores of Lough Foyle to the valley of the Lagan; nay more, he bids us extend our gaze, and remember "that whatever be the reasonings that fairly apply to the formation of the basaltes in our island, the same must be extended with little interruption over the mainland and western isles of Scotland, even to the frozen island of Iceland, where basaltic pillars are to be found in abundance, and where the flames of Hecla still continue to blaze."[111] Hamilton argues, in opposition to the views of many of his contemporaries, that the vicinity of the Giant's Causeway to the sea has nothing whatever to do with the peculiar structure of its jointed columns, which he ascribes to their having been formed by the crystallization of a molten mass. The following are his words: "Since, therefore, the basaltes and its attendant fossils[112] bear strong marks of the effects of fire, it does not seem unlikely that its pillars may have been formed by a process, exactly analogous to what is commonly denominated crystallization by fusion.... For though during the moments of an eruption nothing but a wasteful scene of tumult and disorder be presented to our view, yet, when the fury of those flames and vapours, which have been struggling for a passage, has abated, everything then returns to its original state of rest; and those various melted substances, which, but just before, were in the wildest state of chaos, will now subside and cool with a degree of regularity utterly unattainable in our laboratories."[113] It is true that modern geologists would not apply the term "crystallization" to the process by which the basaltic columns have been formed, but all would agree that they have assumed their peculiar shape during the slow cooling of the molten lava of which they consist; thus Professor James Thomson[114] states that the division into prisms has arisen "by splitting, through shrinkage, of a very homogeneous mass in cooling." It would be tedious to repeat the reasoning by which Hamilton, following in the steps of the French geologists, Desmarest and Faujas de St. Fond, establishes the volcanic origin of the basalt. It is true, he assumes the position of an impartial narrator, and brings forward at considerable length the objections which had been urged against this theory, but only to show that each one of them admits of a full and complete answer. Thus he states that the absence of volcanic cones does not embarrass the advocates of the system: "According to them, the basaltes has been formed under the earth itself and within the bowels of those very mountains where it could never have been exposed to view until, by length of time or some violent shock of nature, the incumbent mass must have undergone a very considerable alteration, such as should go near to destroy every exterior volcanic feature. In support of this, it may be observed that the promontories of Antrim do yet bear very evident marks of some violent convulsion, which has left them standing in their present abrupt situation, and that the Island of Raghery and some of the western isles of Scotland do really appear like the surviving fragments of a country, great part of which might have been buried in the ocean."[115] We thus see that Hamilton clearly perceived that great changes, sufficient to sweep away lofty mountains, had taken place since those old lava streams had flowed over the land. It is true that science has advanced since his day with gigantic strides. Some things which he regarded as doubtful have become certain, and others which he regarded as certain have become doubtful, yet I trust that the preceding extracts will show that his account of the basaltic rocks of Antrim may still be read with interest and profit. As an antiquarian, Hamilton touches on the evidences of early culture in Ireland. He mentions the large number of exquisitely wrought gold ornaments found in the bogs, and translates for us a poem of St. Donatus, which, although doubtless a fancy sketch, shows the reputation enjoyed by the island in the ninth century. "Far westward lies an isle of ancient fame By nature bless'd, and Scotia is her name, An island rich--exhaustless is her store Of veiny silver and of golden ore; Her fruitful soil for ever teems with wealth, With gems her waters, and her air with health. Her verdant fields with milk and honey flow, Her woolly fleeces vie with virgin snow; Her waving furrows float with bearded corn, And arms and arts her envy'd sons adorn. No savage bear with lawless fury roves, No rav'ning lion thro' her sacred groves; No poison there infects, no scaly snake Creeps through the grass, nor frog annoys the lake. An island worthy of its pious race, In war triumphant, and unmatch'd in peace."[116] In referring to the doctrines and practices of the ancient Irish Church, Hamilton enters on the field of controversy. It shows how widely his book was known when we find the _Giornale Ecclesiastico_ of Rome taking exception to some of his views. This criticism led to the insertion in the second edition of the work, of a letter[117] dealing more fully with ecclesiastical matters. The reasoning, even when supported by the high authority of Archbishop Ussher, may possibly fail to convince us of the identity of the Church of St. Patrick and St. Columba with the Church of the Reformation; but we shall find abundant proof of the vigour and independence which characterized not only the early monks, but the Irish schoolmen of the Middle Ages. Before this letter was published, Hamilton had accepted the living of Clondevaddock in Donegal, and had taken up his abode amid the wild but beautiful scenery surrounding Mulroy Bay. Here he expected to spend a tranquil life, watching over the education of his large family, and combining with his clerical duties the pursuit of science and literature. In a favourable situation for observing variations of temperature and the action of rain, wind, and tide, he pursued the investigation of a subject which had already engaged his attention before leaving Dublin. In a memoir[118] published after his death he suggests that the cutting down of the forests may have affected a sensible change in the climate of Ireland, and gives several instances of the encroachment of the sea sand on fertile and inhabited land. Perhaps the most striking is that of the town of Bannow in Wexford. It was a flourishing borough in the early part of the seventeenth century, while in his day the site was marked only by a few ruins, appearing above heaps of barren sand, and where at the time of an election a fallen chimney was used as the council table of that ancient and loyal corporation. When we read the closing pages of this paper it is difficult to believe that troubled times were so near at hand; and even when he wrote his "Letters on the French Revolution," Hamilton could not have foreseen that he was soon to fall before the same spirit of wild vengeance, which claimed so many noble victims on the banks of the Seine and the Loire. He acted as magistrate as well as clergyman, and during nearly seven years he was treated with respect and confidence by the people among whom he lived. No doubt the majority of them did not regard him as their pastor, but they appreciated his efforts for their temporal welfare; we are told that the country was advancing in industry and prosperity, and remained tranquil when other parts of Ulster were greatly disturbed. At last, however, the revolutionary wave reached this remote district, and a trivial incident inflamed the minds of the inhabitants against Dr. Hamilton. On Christmas night, 1796, while the memorable storm which in the south drove the French fleet from Bantry Bay was at its height, a brig, laden with wine from Oporto, was shipwrecked on the coast of Fanet, not far from Dr. Hamilton's dwelling. In those days the peasantry regarded whatever was brought to them by the sea as lawful booty, and were little disposed to brook the interference of magistrate or clergyman. We are told "that Dr. Hamilton's active exertions on this melancholy occasion gave rise to feelings of animosity on the part of some of his parishioners." This animosity was fomented by popular agitators. A stormy period ensued. One evening a band of insurgents surrounded the parsonage demanding the release of some prisoners, and for more than twenty-four hours the house was closely besieged. Two of the servants made their way with difficulty to the beach, hoping to escape by sea and bring succour from Derry, but they found holes had been bored in the boats, which rendered them unserviceable. Dr. Hamilton acted with much courage and coolness. He refused to accede to the demands of his assailants, saying he was not to be intimidated by men acting in open violation of the laws; at the same time, by repressing the ardour of the guard of soldiers, he showed his anxiety to prevent bloodshed. In company with a naval officer, he undertook the perilous task of passing in disguise through the rebel cordon, and returned with a body of militia. On seeing this reinforcement, the peasantry lost courage, and, throwing away their arms, dispersed quickly to their homes, so that the victory was achieved without loss of life. The country now became apparently more tranquil, and in early spring Dr. Hamilton paid a visit to the Bishop of the diocese at Raphoe. He was returning to his parish, when the roughness of the weather delayed his crossing Lough Swilly, and he turned aside to see a brother clergyman near Fahan. He was easily prevailed upon to pass the night in the hospitable rectory of Sharon, and no doubt the visit of an old college friend was hailed with delight by the crippled Dr. Waller, whose infirmities obliged him to lead a secluded life. Probably the conversation turned on the state of the country; Dr. Waller, his wife, and her niece would inquire about the perils from which their guest had recently escaped. Perhaps they would congratulate themselves on the security of their neighbourhood compared with the wilder parts of Donegal. Suddenly the tramp of a band of men was heard. It is said that Dr. Hamilton's quick ear first caught the sound, and knew it to be his death-knell; but he was not the only victim--his hostess fell before him. Let us hear the story of that terrible tragedy as it was reported to the Irish House of Commons. Speaking on March 6, 1797, four days after the event, Dr. Brown said: "As that gentleman (Dr. Hamilton) was sitting with the family in Mr. Waller's house, several shots were fired in upon them, the house was broken open, and Mrs. Waller, in endeavouring to protect her helpless husband by covering him with her body, was murdered. Mr. Hamilton, from the natural love of life, had taken refuge in the lower apartments. Thence they forced him, and as he endeavoured to hold the door they held fire under his hand until they made him quit his hold. They then dragged him a few yards from the house, and murdered him in the most inhuman and barbarous manner."[119] From a letter written by Dr. Hall to the _Gentleman's Magazine_ (March, 1797), we learn that the assassins retired unmolested and undiscovered. Nor were any of them ever brought to justice, although popular tradition, among both Catholics and Protestants, says that misfortune dogged their footsteps, and each one of them came to an untimely end. Dr. Hamilton's body remained exposed during the night, and was only removed the following morning, when it was taken to Londonderry and interred in the Cathedral graveyard. Here his name is recorded on the family tombstone; and in 1890 his descendants erected a tablet to his memory in the chancel of the Cathedral. Hamilton obtained the degree of Doctor of Divinity in 1794, and shortly before his death he was elected a Corresponding Member of the Royal Society of Edinburgh. We have seen how he was cut off in the full vigour of mind and body--his last memoir unprinted--and surely we may echo the lament of his contemporaries, and feel that he was one who had conferred honour on his native land. Yet, while they mourned his loss as a public calamity, his friends would recall his words, and remember that to him death was but the entrance to a new life--the casting away of a covering which formed no part of his true self. FOOTNOTES: [109] Reprinted from the _Sun_, May, 1891. [110] See Letter I., part ii., edition 1822. [111] Letter VI., part ii., pp. 183, 184. Compare with this passage the following enunciation of the results of modern geological investigation. "A marked feature of this period in Europe was the abundance and activity of its volcanoes.... From the south of Antrim, through the west coast of Scotland, the Faröe Islands and Iceland, even far into Arctic Greenland, a vast series of fissure eruptions poured forth successive floods of basalt, fragments of which now form the extensive volcanic plateaux of these regions." (Sir A. Geikie, "Geological Sketches at Home and Abroad," pp. 347, 348). [112] Hamilton uses this word in its old meaning of rock or stone. He expressly states that basalt does not contain the slightest trace of animal or vegetable remains. [113] Letter VII., part ii., pp. 187, 188, 189. [114] See "Collected Papers," p. 430, edited by Sir Joseph Larmor, Sec. R.S., M.P., and James Thomson, M.A. [115] Letter VII., part ii., p. 194. [116] Letter IV., part i., p. 52. [117] Letter V, part i. [118] See Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy, vol. vi., p. 27. [119] See report in the _Belfast Newsletter_, March 6-10, 1797. INDEX Abbott, W. J. Lewis, F.G.S., 99, 100 Abernethy Round Tower, 57 Aino, 42 Antrim, old fort at, 36 Ardtole souterrain, vi Armoy, 26, 90 Arranmore, 82 Backaderry souterrain, 7 Ballycairn Fort, 37, 38, 41 Ballycastle, 39, 50, 89 Ballyginney Fort and Souterrain, 7, 8 Ballyliffan, 52, 55 Ballymagreehan Fort and Souterrain, 6 Balor, 73-76, 79 Banshee, 31, 35, 42, 43, 56, 78 Beddoe, Dr., 100, 101 Bell, Robert, 97 Boyle, Owen, saves bride from fairies, 68-71 Bridget, Eve of St., 17, 18 Brownie, 51, 89 Burglauenen, destruction of, 53 Bury, Professor, 61 Cailleagh, 19 Campbell, J. F., 79, 80 Castlewellan, 6, 7 Chope, R. Pearse, B.A., 19, 20 "Churn," 19, 20 Cinderella, 47 Clark, Miss Jane, 22 Coal-mines, ancient, near Ballycastle, 39, 107-8 Columbkill, St., 63, 83 Cowan, Rev. Dr., 86, 87 Cruithnians, 58 Culdaff, 53 Culnady, 21, 22 Cushendall, 89, 98 Danes, 8-11, 28-31, 34, 37-42, 45, 51, 57, 77, 78, 88, 89, 102, 104 Derrick's Image of Ireland, 44, 45 Donaghmore, Co. Down, souterrain at, 86, 87 Donatus, St., poem describing Scotia or Ireland, 112 Downpatrick, rath at, 22, 36 Drumcrow, 27 Drury, Mrs. Susanna, 108 Dunglady Fort, 21, 22 Dunloe, Gap of, 10 Emania, 41 Fair Head, 49, 107, 108 Fairies, capture of women and children by, 26, 69-73 compared with African pygmies, 33, 34 dress of, 27, 88 a dwarf race, 13, 45, 104 dwelling under sea, 52, 53 inhabit forts and souterrains, 8, 31, 36, 86 intermarriage with the human race, 65 _et seq._ vanish, 25, 34 Fanshawe, Lady, 42, 43 Fargowan, 79 Fiacc's hymn, 61 Finglas, 79 Finn McCoul, 48-50, 76, 79, 90-95, 108 Finn, Lough, 79 Finns, 64, 78 Finntown, 65 Finvoy, 86 Frazer, J. G., D.C.L., 20, 21 Friel, John, saves young girl from the fairies, 71 Gempeler, D., 53 Giants, 79, 89, 90, 96, 99 Giant's Causeway, 50, 90, 105, 108-111 Glasdrumman Fort, 97, 98 Glenties, 65, 66, 79 Goll, 91 Gomme, Sir G. L., 54, 84, 85 Gottwerg and Gottwergini, 52, 54 Gray, John, B.Sc., 102, 104 Greenmount, Mote at, 36, 37, 40 Grey Man of the Path, 49 Grogach, 47, 50, 51, 57, 89, 99, 104 Gweedore, 68, 75 Ham, 32, 60, 73 Hamilton, Rev. W., D.D., F.T.C.D., 39, 105-118 Hanauer, Rev. J. E., 67 Harbison, Mann, 8, 11, 12 Harris, 59, 60 Harvest knots, 18, 19 Heather ale, 28, 29, 41 Herd (David), 13 Herman's Fort and Souterrain, 6, 7 Hobson, Mrs., viii, 30 Hunt, B., 72 Hyde, Dr. Douglas, 71 Infant carried off by fairies, but saved by father, 72, 73 Jegerlehner, Dr. J., 52, 54 Johnston, Sir Harry, 33, 34, 80 Keating, 60, 88, 103 Killelagh Church, 14, 15 Kilrea, 23 Kincasslagh, 68, 70, 78 Knockdhu, souterrain at, 30 Kollmann, Professor Julius, v, 59, 61, 62 Lenagh Townland, fort blown up, 97 Leprechaun, Lupracan, Luchorpan, 10, 32 Leslie, Rev. J. B., 9, 37 London Bridge legend, 84, 85 Luchter, 18 Lurach, St., church of, 22 Lytle, S. D., vi, 16 Maghera, Co. Down, 4, 7 Maghera, Co. Londonderry, 14-23 Manannan, 49, 95, 96 McKean, E. J., B.A., 19, 41 McKenna, Daniel, 14, 17, 18 MacKenzie, W. C., F.S.A.Scot., 58 MacRitchie, David, F.S.A.Scot., v, 12, 28, 29, 42, 57, 58, 96 Marshall, Dr. Eric, 81 Mortar, cemented with the blood of bullocks, 15 Mourne Mountains, 2, 28 Munro, Dr., 12 Neosophers, 107 New Guinea, pygmies in, 80, 81 Niederdorf, destruction of, 53, 54 Nuesch, Dr., 61 O'Donovan, Dr., 22, 75, 76, 103 O'Grady, Standish H., 32, 44, 61 O'Neill, Phelim, castle of, 15 Oughter, Lough, 9 Palæolithic man, 59, 99, 100 Palæosophers, 107 Patrick, St., 61, 63, 83 Pechts, 15, 16, 27, 31, 50, 57, 78, 99, 102, 104 Pennant, 29 Piskey Dwarfs of Cornwall, 101 Portstewart, 19, 38, 67 Rathlin Island, 90, 107 Red hair ascribed to fairies and Danes, 2, 9, 34, 37, 100 possibly the original hair colour in Europe, 100 Rhys, Sir John, 67, 101 Rochefort, Jorevin de, 40, 41 Roe, Valley of the, 19, 96, 97 Rosapenna, 65, 67, 71 Roughan Castle, 15 Rowan tree, 27 Rush crosses, 17, 18 Schaffhausen, skeletons of dwarfs discovered near, v, 61, 62, 104 Seals, belief that human beings could change into, 81, 82 Sealskin of Finn woman, 96 Sea sand, encroachment on land, 114 Smith, Dr. Robertson, 34, 35 Smith, Rev. Frederick, 99 Sidh, 44, 61 Sidis, 61 Silva Gadelica, 32, 44, 61 Souterrains, 6-8, 16, 30, 31, 36-41, 86, 87 Spy, men of, 12, 13 Staffa, 50 Stone circles at Aghlish, 97 Stranocum, souterrain at, 8 Sweeney, John, 82 Sword of light, 93, 94 Thomson, Professor James, 110 Tobermore, 17 Todas, 54 Tormore, 73 Tory Island, 73-76, 88, 96 Tuatha de Danann, 11, 12, 18, 29, 77, 102, 103 Tullamore Park, 2, 3 Wee, wee man, 13 Whitley, Rev. Gath, 101 Windele, John, 40 THE END ELLIOT STOCK, 7, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON, E.C. Transcriber's Note Illustrations have been moved near the relevant section of the text. Inconsistencies have been retained in spelling, hyphenation and grammar, except where indicated in the list below: - "FAIRHEAD" changed to "FAIR HEAD" on Page xiii - Period added after "inches" on Page 16 - Bracket added after "1854" in Footnote 8 - Period changed to comma after "304" in Footnote 13 - Comma changed to period after "1906" in Footnote 15 - Quote added before "furnished" on Page 89 - Period added after "669" in Footnote 103 - Period and quote added after "regions" in Footnote 111 - Period removed after "104" in Page 119 - Period added after "B" on Page 120 - "Niederdorff" changed to "Niederdorf" on Page 120 
47053	----	DOMESTIC FOLK-LORE. BY REV. T. F. THISELTON DYER, M.A., OXON., _Author of "British Popular Customs" and "English Folk-lore."_ CASSELL, PETTER, GALPIN & CO.: _LONDON, PARIS & NEW YORK._ [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] PREFACE. For the name "Folk-lore" in its present signification, embracing the Popular Traditions, Proverbial Sayings, Superstitions, and Customs of the people, we are in a great measure indebted to the late editor of _Notes and Queries_--Mr. W. J. Thoms--who, in an anonymous contribution to the _Athenæum_ of 22nd August, 1846, very aptly suggested this comprehensive term, which has since been adopted as the recognised title of what has now become an important branch of antiquarian research. The study of Folk-lore is year by year receiving greater attention, its object being to collect, classify, and preserve survivals of popular belief, and to trace them as far as possible to their original source. This task is no easy one, as school-boards and railways are fast sweeping away every vestige of the old beliefs and customs which, in days gone by, held such a prominent place in social and domestic life. The Folk-lorist has, also, to deal with remote periods, and to examine the history of tales and traditions which have been handed down from the distant past and have lost much of their meaning in the lapse of years. But, as a writer in the _Standard_ has pointed out, Folk-lore students tread on no man's toes. "They take up points of history which the historian despises, and deal with monuments more intangible but infinitely more ancient than those about which Sir John Lubbock is so solicitous. They prosper and are happy on the crumbs dropped from the tables of the learned, and grow scientifically rich on the refuse which less skilful craftsmen toss aside as useless. The tales with which the nurse wiles her charge asleep provide for the Folk-lore student a succulent banquet--for he knows that there is scarcely a child's story or a vain thought that may not be traced back to the boyhood of the world, and to those primitive races from which so many polished nations have sprung." The field of research, too, in which the Folk-lorist is engaged is a most extensive one, supplying materials for investigation of a widespread character. Thus he recognises and, as far as he possibly can, explains the smallest item of superstition wherever found, not limiting his inquiries to any one subject. This, therefore, whilst enhancing the value of Folk-lore as a study, in the same degree increases its interest, since with a perfect impartiality it lays bare superstition as it exists among all classes of society. Whilst condemning, it may be, the uneducated peasant who places credence in the village fortune-teller or "cunning man," we are apt to forget how oftentimes persons belonging to the higher classes are found consulting with equal faith some clairvoyant or spirit-medium. Hence, however reluctant the intelligent part of the community may be to own the fact, it must be admitted that superstition, in one form or another, dwells beneath the surface of most human hearts, although it may frequently display itself in the most disguised or refined form. Among the lower orders, as a writer has observed, "it wears its old fashions, in the higher it changes with the rapidity of modes in fashionable circles." Indeed, it is no matter of surprise that superstition prevails among the poor and ignorant, when we find the affluent and enlightened in many cases quite as ready to repose their belief in the most illogical ideas. In conclusion, we would only add that the present little volume has been written with a view of showing how this rule applies even to the daily routine of Domestic Life, every department of which, as will be seen in the following pages, has its own Folk-lore. T. F. THISELTON DYER. _Brighton, May, 1881._ CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. BIRTH AND INFANCY. PAGE Value of Superstitions--Lucky Days and Hours of Birth--The Caul--The Changeling--The Evil Eye--"Up and not Down"--Rocking the Empty Cradle--Teeth, Nails, and Hands--The Maple and the Ash--Unchristened Children 1 CHAPTER II. CHILDHOOD. Nursery Literature--The Power of Baptism--Confirmation--Popular Prayers--Weather Rhymes--School Superstitions--Barring out 16 CHAPTER III. LOVE AND COURTSHIP. Love-tests--Plants used in Love-charms--The Lady-bird--The Snail--St. Valentine's Day--Midsummer Eve--Hallowe'en--Omens on Friday 23 CHAPTER IV. MARRIAGE. Seasons and Days propitious to Marriage--Superstitions connected with the Bride--Meeting a Funeral--Robbing the Bride of Pins--Dancing in a Hog's Trough--The Wedding-cake--The Ring 36 CHAPTER V. DEATH AND BURIAL. Warnings of Death--The Howling of Dogs--A Cow in the Garden--Death-presaging Birds--Plants--The Will-o'-the-Wisp--The Sympathy between Two Personalities--Prophecy--Dying Hardly--The Last Act--Place and Position of the Grave 48 CHAPTER VI. THE HUMAN BODY. Superstitions about Deformity, Moles, &c.--Tingling of the Ear--The Nose--The Eye--The Teeth--The Hair--The Hand--Dead Man's Hand--The Feet 65 CHAPTER VII. ARTICLES OF DRESS. New Clothes at Easter and Whitsuntide--Wearing of Clothes--The Clothes of the Dead--The Apron, Stockings, Garters, &c.--The Shoe--The Glove--The Ring--Pins 81 CHAPTER VIII. TABLE SUPERSTITIONS. Thirteen at Table--Salt-spilling--The Knife--Bread, and other Articles of Food--Wishing Bones--Tea-leaves--Singing before Breakfast--Shaking Hands across the Table 100 CHAPTER IX. FURNITURE OMENS. Folk-lore of the Looking-glass--Luck of Edenhall-- Clock-falling--Chairs--Beds--The Bellows 111 CHAPTER X. HOUSEHOLD SUPERSTITIONS. Prevalence and Continuity of Superstitions--Sneezing-- Stumbling--A Whistling Woman--Sweeping--Breaking Crockery--Fires and Candles--Money--Other Superstitions 120 CHAPTER XI. POPULAR DIVINATIONS. Bible and Key--Dipping--Sieve and Shears--Crowing of the Cock--Spatulamancia--Palmistry and Onymancy--Look-divination-- Astrology--Cards--Casting Lot--Tea-stalks 134 CHAPTER XII. COMMON AILMENTS. Charm-remedies--For Ague--Bleeding of the Nose--Burns--Cramp-- Epilepsy--Fits--Gout--Headache, &c. 148 CHAPTER XIII. MISCELLANEOUS HOUSEHOLD LORE. Horse-shoes--Precautions against Witchcraft--The Charmer--Second Sight--Ghosts--Dreams--Nightmare 169 INDEX 181 DOMESTIC FOLK-LORE. CHAPTER I. BIRTH AND INFANCY. Value of Superstitions--Lucky Days and Hours of Birth--The Caul--The Changeling--The Evil Eye--"Up and not Down"--Rocking the Empty Cradle--Teeth, Nails, and Hands--The Maple and the Ash--Unchristened Children. Around every stage of human life a variety of customs and superstitions have woven themselves, most of which, apart from their antiquarian value, as having been bequeathed to us from the far-off past, are interesting in so far as they illustrate those old-world notions and quaint beliefs which marked the social and domestic life of our forefathers. Although, therefore, many of these may appear to us meaningless, yet it must be remembered that they were the natural outcome of that scanty knowledge and those crude conceptions which prevailed in less enlightened times than our own. Probably, if our ancestors were in our midst now, they would be able in a great measure to explain and account for what is often looked upon now-a-days as childish fancy and so much nursery rubbish. In the present chapter it is proposed to give a brief and general survey of the folk-lore associated with birth and infancy, without, however, entering critically into its origin or growth, or tracing its transmigration from one country to another. Commencing, then, with birth, we find that many influences are supposed to affect the future fortune and character of the infant. Thus, in some places great attention is paid to the day of the week on which the child is born, as may be gathered from the following rhyme still current in Cornwall:-- "Sunday's child is full of grace, Monday's child is full in the face, Tuesday's child is solemn and sad, Wednesday's child is merry and glad, Thursday's child is inclined to thieving, Friday's child is free in giving, Saturday's child works hard for his living"-- a piece of folk-lore varying, of course, in different localities. By general consent, however, Sunday is regarded as a most lucky day for birth, both in this country and on the Continent; and according to the "Universal Fortune-teller"--a book very popular among the lower classes in former years--"great riches, long life, and happiness" are in store for those fortunate beings born on Sunday, while in Sussex they are considered safe against drowning and hanging. Importance is also attached to the hour of birth; and the faculty of seeing much that is hidden from others is said to be granted to children born at the "chime hours," _i.e._, the hours of three, six, nine, or twelve--a superstition found in many parts of the Continent. There is, too, an idea prevalent in Germany that when a child is born in leap-year either it or its mother will die within the course of the year--a notion not unknown in our own country. Again, from time immemorial various kinds of divination have been in use for the purpose of discovering the sex of an infant previous to its birth. One of these is by means of a shoulder-of-mutton bone, which, after the whole of the flesh has been stripped clean off, must be hung up the last thing at night over the front door of the house. On the following morning the sex of the first person who enters, exclusive of the members of the household, indicates the sex of the child. We will next turn to some of the countless superstitions connected with the new-born child. A highly popular one refers to the caul--a thin membrane occasionally found covering the head at birth, and deemed specially lucky, as indicating, among other things, that the child will never be drowned. It has been, in consequence, termed the "holy" or "fortunate hood," and great care is generally taken that it should not be lost or thrown away, for fear of the death or sickness of the child. This superstitious fancy was very common in the primitive ages of the Church, and St. Chrysostom inveighs against it in several of his homilies. The presence of a caul on board ship was believed to prevent shipwreck, and owners of vessels paid a large price for them. Most readers will, no doubt, recollect how Thomas Hood wrote for his early work, "Whims and Oddities," a capital ballad upon this vulgar error. Speaking of the jolly mariner who confidently put to sea in spite of the ink-black sky which "told every eye a storm was soon to be," he goes on to say-- "But still that jolly mariner Took in no reef at all; For in his pouch confidingly He wore a baby's caul." It little availed him, however; for as soon as the storm in ruthless fury burst upon his frail bark, he "Was smothered by the squall. Heaven ne'er heard his cry, nor did The ocean heed his _caul_!" Advocates also purchased them, that they might be endued with eloquence, the price paid having often been from twenty to thirty guineas. They seem to have had other magical properties, as Grose informs us that any one "possessed of a caul may know the state of health of the person who was born with it. If alive and well, it is firm and crisp; if dead or sick, relaxed and flaccid." In France the luck supposed to belong to a caul is proverbial, and _être né coiffé_ is an expression signifying that a person is extremely fortunate. Apart from the ordinary luck supposed to attach to the "caul," it may preserve the child from a terrible danger to which, according to the old idea, it is ever exposed--namely, that of being secretly carried off and exchanged by some envious witch or fairy for its own ill-favoured offspring. This superstition was once very common in many countries, and was even believed by Martin Luther, if we are to rely on the following extract from his "Table Book:"--"Changelings Satan lays in the place of the genuine children, that people may be tormented with them. He often carries off young maidens into the water." This most reprehensible of the practices attributed to the fairies is constantly spoken of by our old writers, and is several times mentioned by Shakespeare. In the speech of Puck, in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ (Act ii., sc. 1), that jovial sprite says of Titania's lovely boy--the cause of quarrel between the King and Queen of Elfland:-- "She never had so sweet a changeling." In the _Winter's Tale_ (Act iv., sc. 4) the Shepherd, on discovering the babe Perdita, tells the Clown, "It was told me I should be rich by the fairies. This is some changeling." As a preservation against this danger, sundry charms are observed. Thus, in the North of England, a carving-knife is still hung from the head of the cradle, with the point suspended near the child's face. In the Western Isles of Scotland idiots are believed to be the fairies' changelings, and in order to regain the lost child, parents have recourse to the following device:--They place the changeling on the beach, below high-water mark, when the tide is out, and pay no heed to its screams, believing that the fairies, rather than allow their offspring to be drowned by the rising waters, will convey it away and restore the child they had stolen. The sign that this has been done is the cessation of the child's crying. In Ireland, too, the peasants often place the child supposed to be a changeling on a hot shovel, or torment it in some other way. A similar practice is resorted to in Denmark, where the mother heats the oven, and places the child on the peel, pretending to put it in; and sometimes she whips it severely with a rod, or throws it into the water. The only real safeguard, however, against this piece of fairy mischief is baptism, and hence the rite has generally been performed among the peasantry as soon as possible after birth. Another danger to which the new-born child is said to be exposed, and to counteract which baptism is an infallible charm, is the influence of the "evil eye;" certain persons being thought to possess the power of inflicting injury by merely looking on those whom they wish to harm. Although this form of superstition has been gradually dying out for many years past, yet it still retains its hold in certain country places. It is interesting to trace this notion as far back as the time of the Romans; and in the late Professor Conington's translation of the "Satires of Persius" we find it thus laughably spoken of:--"Look here! A grandmother or a superstitious aunt has taken baby from his cradle, and is charming his forehead against mischief by the joint action of her middle finger and her purifying spittle; for she knows right well how to check the evil eye." Confining ourselves, however, to instances recorded in our own country, we find that, even now-a-days, various charms are practised for counteracting the baneful influence of this cruel species of witchcraft. Thus, in Lancashire, some of the chief consist in spitting three times in the child's face, turning a live coal in the fire, exclaiming, "The Lord be with us;" whilst in the neighbourhood of Burnley "drawing blood above the mouth" was once a popular antidote. Self-bored or "lucky stones" are often hung by the peasantry behind their cottage doors; and in the South of England a copy of the apocryphal letter of our Lord to Abgarus, King of Edessa, may occasionally be seen pasted on the walls. In many places, when a child pines or wastes away, the cause is often attributed to the "evil eye," and one remedy in use against this disaster is the following:--Before sunrise it is brought to a blacksmith of the seventh generation, and laid on the anvil. The smith then raises his hammer as if he were about to strike the hot iron, but brings it gently down on the child's body. This is done three times, after which the child is considered certain to amend. This superstition survives in Cornwall; and the late Mr. Hawker, of Morwenstow, a noted authority on such topics, tells us that two-thirds of the inhabitants of the Tamar side firmly believe in the power of the evil eye. In Scotland this piece of folk-lore has prevailed extensively from time immemorial, and one of the charms to avert it is the "gold and silver water." A sovereign and a shilling are put into water, which is sprinkled over the patient in the name of the Trinity. Again, in the Highlands of Scotland, ash-sap is given to new-born children, because, in common with the rowan, that tree is supposed to possess the property of resisting the attacks of witches, fairies, and other imps of darkness. The Irish think that not only their children but their cattle are "eye-bitten" when they fall suddenly sick. Among other important items of folk-lore associated with birth may be mentioned the popular belief that a child should go up in the world before it goes down. On leaving its mother's room for the first time, it is considered absolutely necessary that it should be carried _up-stairs_ before it goes _down-stairs_, otherwise it will always keep low in the world, and never rise in after-life either to riches or distinction. When, however, as often happens, the mother's room is on the top storey, the nurse overcomes the obstacle by placing a chair near the door, on which she steps before leaving the room. In Yorkshire it is further stated that a new-born infant should always be placed first in the arms of a maiden before any one else touches it. It has been aptly questioned by Mr. Henderson, in his "Folk-lore of the Northern Counties," whether we may not trace in this practice an outgrowth of the mediæval belief that the Virgin Mary was present at the birth of St. John the Baptist, and received him first in her arms. Some, too, will never permit an infant to sleep upon bones--that is, the lap--a piece of folk-lore founded on some degree of truth; for it has been pointed out that it is undoubtedly better for a child to support it throughout its whole length, than to allow its head or legs to hang down, as they might probably do if the infant was sleeping on the lap. Again, there is a common idea that a baby and a kitten cannot thrive in the same house; and should, therefore, as is not unfrequently the case, a cat have kittens at the time of a birth, these are immediately either destroyed or given away. Few nurses, also, can be found courageous enough to weigh a young child, from a superstitious conviction that it is unfortunate so to do, the child often dying, or, at any rate, not thriving afterwards. Equally unlucky, too, is it considered to rock baby's empty cradle, it being an omen of its death--a belief which also prevails in Scotland. The same notion exists in many parts of the Continent, and the Swedish folk tell us that it should be avoided, as it is apt to make the child noisy and given to crying. It is also deprecated on another ground, that it is ominous of another claimant for that place of rest--a piece of folk-lore which the Sussex peasantry express in the following rhyme:-- "If you rock the cradle empty, Then you shall have babies plenty." Many consider it a bad sign when the first tooth makes its appearance in the upper jaw, denoting, it is said, that the child will not survive its infancy. Whilst speaking of teeth, it may be noted that they occupy an important place in the folk-lore of infancy. Many readers will no doubt recollect how the Duke of Gloucester, in _3 Henry VI._ (Act v., sc. 6), when describing the peculiarities connected with his birth, relates that-- "The midwife wondered, and the women cried, 'O Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!' And so I was, which plainly signified That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog." In Sussex it is still customary for little children to wear a necklace of beads made from the root of the peony, as this is supposed to act as a charm in assisting the cutting of their teeth. In the same county, too, the peasantry have a great dislike to throwing away the cast teeth of young children, believing that should any be accidentally found and gnawed by an animal, the child's new tooth would exactly correspond with the animal's which had bitten the old one. Once more, in Scotland and the North of England, when the first teeth come out, sundry precautions are taken, to make sure that the fresh ones may be sound and healthy. One of these consists in filling the cavity with salt, after which the tooth must be burnt, while the following formula is repeated:-- "Fire! fire! burn bone; God send me my tooth again." This practice exists in Sweden, and likewise in Switzerland, where the tooth is wrapped up in paper, with a little salt, and then thrown into the fire. The teeth, however, are not the only objects of superstition in infancy, similar importance being attached to the nails. In many places, for instance, it is considered imprudent to cut them till baby is a year old, and then they should be bitten off, or else there is a likelihood of its growing up dishonest, or of its being, as the Sussex peasantry say, "light-fingered." Anyhow, special attention is to be paid to the day of the week on which the child's nails are cut, if there be any truth in a well-known proverb-- "Better a child had ne'er been born, Than cut his nails on a Sunday morn." The same warning is given in Germany, and if it is disregarded, it is said that the child will be liable to stammer as it grows up. A curious Northumberland belief affirms that if the first parings of a child's nails are carefully buried under an ash-tree, it will turn out in after-life a capital singer. It is also a popular fancy in nursery folk-lore that the child's future career in this world can be easily augured from the little specks on its nails, a species of palmistry still extensively credited by even educated persons, and one, too, not confined to infancy. Again, the infant's tiny hands are not free from superstition, and here and there, throughout the country, there is a notion that for the first few months after its birth the right one should remain unwashed, the reason assigned for this strange piece of eccentricity being that it may gather riches. According to another idea, children born open-handed are said to be of a bountiful disposition. In Scotland, too, great attention is paid as to which hand a child uses when taking up for the first time a spoon to eat. If it should happen to be the left, then, alas! he is doomed to be an unlucky fellow all through his life. Indeed, as far as we can judge from the numerous items of folk-lore still in vogue, it would seem that the early period of infancy, in one way or another, furnishes countless opportunities for ascertaining what kind of life is in store for the child in years to come, almost every trivial action being regarded as indicative of something or other that shall befall it. Although many of these ideas may seem to us in this nineteenth century apparently senseless, yet it must be remembered they are frequently survivals of primitive culture, and are interesting as having been handed down to us from the distant past. According to an old superstition, parents desirous of securing long life for their children should pass them through the branches of a maple. A few years ago one of these trees had long been resorted to for this purpose in West Grinstead Park, and as soon as a rumour spread through the parish that it was about to be demolished, quite a consternation prevailed in the neighbourhood. Similar properties are supposed to belong to the ash, weakly infants that do not thrive being drawn through a cleft in its trunk. This charm, as performed in Cornwall, is thus:--A large knife is inserted into the trunk of a young ash, about a foot from the ground, and a vertical opening made for about three feet. Two men then forcibly pull the parts asunder, and hold them so, whilst the mother passes the child through the cleft three times. The ceremony does not end here, as the child has to be washed for three successive mornings in the dew from the leaves of the "charmed ash." This supposed magical property of the ash has an additional interest, when we consider that some thousands of years ago our ancestors regarded it as one of their wonder-working trees, and associated it with some of their oldest traditions. At the present day, too, it is the subject of an extensive folk-lore, to which we shall have occasion to refer in a succeeding chapter. Again, if a baby frets and does not appear to thrive, it is supposed by some to be "longing." Thus, a Sussex nurse one day said to a lady, "Baby is so uncommon fretty, I do believe he must be longing for something." When asked what he could be longing for, she replied, "Something that his mother longed for, but did not get, before he was born, and the best way to satisfy him would be, I think, to try him with a brandied cherry, or some hare's brains." This piece of superstition, however, is not confined to Sussex. Once more, in addition to the popular notion that cats suck the breath of infants and so cause their death--one, indeed, without a particle of truth--there is another in which poor pussy is the victim, an illustration of which we quote from "Rambles in an Old City," by a Norfolk author:--"Not long since a woman, holding quite a respectable rank among the working classes, avowed herself determined to 'drownd' the cat as soon as ever her baby, which was lying ill, should die. The only explanation she could give for this determination was that the cat jumped upon the nurse's lap as the baby lay there soon after it was born, from which time it ailed, and ever since that time the cat had regularly gone under its bed once a day and coughed twice. These mysterious actions of poor 'Tabby' were assigned as the cause of the baby wasting, and its fate was to be sealed as soon as that of the poor infant was decided. That the baby happened to be the twenty-fourth child of his mother, who had succeeded in rearing only four of the two dozen, was a fact that seemed to possess no weight whatever in her estimation." This strange antipathy to our domestic animal no doubt took its origin in the old belief that the cat's is one of the numerous forms which witches are fond of assuming, and on this account, in days gone by, poor pussy was oftentimes subjected to gross ill-treatment at the hands of the ignorant classes. At the present day, in Germany, there is a deep-rooted belief that witches, when bent on doing mischief, take the form of a cat, and many stories are current of their frightening their victims by appearing as "the nightmare;" or, if dishonestly disposed, of their drinking their neighbour's beer. Returning, however, again to the subject of our present chapter, there is a superstitious fancy in the North of England that it is unlucky to walk over the graves of unchristened children, which is vulgarly called "unchristened ground," the person who does so rendering himself liable to catching the fatal disease of the "grave-scab." This complaint, we are told by Mr. Henderson, "comes on with a trembling of the limbs and hard breathing, and at last the skin burns as if touched with hot iron," in allusion to which an old ballad tells us-- "And it ne'er will be cured by doctor on earth, Tho' every one should tent him, oh! He shall tremble and die like the elf-shot eye, And return from whence he came, oh!" There is, however, a remedy, though not easy of attainment--"It lies in the wearing a sark, thus prepared:--The lint must be grown in a field which shall be manured from a farmyard heap that has not been disturbed for forty years. It must be spun by Habbitrot, the queen of spinsters; it must be bleached by an honest bleacher, in an honest miller's mill-dam, and sewed by an honest tailor. On donning this mysterious vestment, the sufferer will at once regain his health and strength." Unfortunately the necessary conditions for the successful accomplishment of this charm are so difficult, that he must be a clever man who can fulfil them. In the South of England, on the other hand, we do not find the same dread attaching to the graves of still-born children. Thus on a certain occasion, when one of the Commissioners of Devonport complained that a charge of one shilling and sixpence should have been made upon the parish authorities for the grave and interment of a still-born child, he added that "when he was a young man it was thought lucky to have a still-born child put into an open grave, as it was considered to be a sure passport to heaven for the next person buried there." According to another superstitious notion, if a mother frets and pines after her baby when it is dead, it is said that it cannot rest, and will come back to earth again. Various stories are on record of children thus visiting their mothers after death, an instance of which we quote from the "Dialect of Leeds:"--It appears that soon after the birth of the mother's next child, the previous one that had died entered her room with eyes deeply sunken, as if with much weeping, and on approaching the bed, said, "Mother, I can't rest if you will go on fretting." She replied, "Well, lad, I wean't fret any more." He then looked upon the bed and said, "Let's luke at it, mother!" She turned down the coverlet and let him look at her new-born babe. "It'll die," he said, and vanished. These, then, are some of the boundless dangers and difficulties that are supposed to beset the beginnings of life; and, taking into consideration the importance of that momentous crisis, when a fresh actor is introduced upon the world's great stage, it is not surprising that this event has, in most ages and countries, been associated with divers superstitions, and given rise to sundry customs, each of which has helped to invest man's entry into this world with all that grandeur which such a solemn occasion requires. CHAPTER II. CHILDHOOD. Nursery Literature--The Power of Baptism--Confirmation--Popular Prayers--Weather Rhymes--School Superstitions--Barring out. It must not be supposed that childhood has no special folk-lore of its own. It is, in fact, of a most varied kind, many of the old traditionary beliefs and practices associated with the nursery being relics of what the Scandinavian mothers taught their children in days of long ago. The familiar fairy-tales of our own childhood still form the nursery literature in most homes, and are of unusual interest as embodying not only the myths and legends of the ancient Aryan race, but their conceptions about the world around them. Thus, for instance, the well-known story of "Cinderella," like many others of the same character, such as "Jack the Giant Killer," or "Beauty and the Beast," are to be found in almost all countries, and although the versions differ in some respects, yet they point to a common origin at a very remote period. Indeed, it is curious that there should still exist among the children of the nineteenth century an undying love for these survivals of Aryan literature, couched in such graceful and simple language that few modern compositions can be found to equal them. In reading, therefore, about the dwellers in Wonderland, the young mind is unconsciously taking in primitive notions about the workings of nature as seen in the succession of day and night, the changes of the seasons, and so on. In the story of "Cinderella," we have the ancient nature-myth of the sun and the dawn, representing the morning sun in the form of a fairy prince pursuing Cinderella, the dawn, to claim her for his bride, whilst the envious clouds, her sisters, and the moon, her stepmother, strive to keep her in the background. It would, however, take too long and require a book of itself to discuss the history and meaning of these fairy tales which so delight the childish fancy, and exercise such a wholesome influence, inculcating some of the noblest sentiments and loftiest teachings of the founders of our race. Referring then more particularly to the superstitions connected with childhood, we would, first of all, briefly speak of those relating to certain outward circumstances, which are believed to affect more or less the child's welfare in life. Thus, it is a deep-rooted belief that a child never thrives until after its baptism; and in cases of illness the clergyman is more often perhaps sent for by the poor from a belief in the physical virtue of the sacred rite itself, rather than from any actual conviction of its religious importance. Indeed, how much potency is supposed to reside in baptism may be gathered from the countless superstitions with which it is associated, the omission of this rite being attended more often than not with fatal results. Hence it is frequently performed as soon as possible after birth, one reason being, as we have already seen, that so long as the child remains unbaptised it is thought to be at the mercy of ill-disposed fairies, and subject to the influence of the evil eye. According to another popular fancy, not confined to our own country, should a child have the misfortune to die unchristened, it is doomed either to flit restlessly around its parents' abode, or to wander about in deserted spots, daily repining over its hard and unenviable lot. In Germany, tradition says that such children are transformed into that delusive little meteor known as the will-o'-the-wisp, and so ceaselessly hover between heaven and earth. On one occasion, we are told of a Dutch parson who, happening to go home to his village late one evening, fell in with no less than three of these fiery phenomena. Remembering them to be the souls of unbaptised children, he solemnly stretched out his hand and pronounced the words of baptism over them. Much, however, to his terrible consternation and surprise, in the twinkling of an eye a thousand or more of these apparitions suddenly made their appearance--no doubt all equally anxious to be christened. The good man, runs the story, was so terribly frightened, that forgetting all his good intentions, he took to his heels and ran home as fast as his legs could take him. In Lusatia, where the same superstition prevails, the souls of these unhappy children, which hover about in the form of will-o'-the-wisps, are said to be relieved from their unhappy wanderings so soon as any pious hand throws a handful of consecrated ground after them. In Scotland, to make quite sure of baptism being altogether propitious, it was deemed highly important that the person entrusted with the care of the child should be known by common report to be lucky. She was generally provided with a piece of bread and cheese, which she presented to the first person she met as an offering from the infant. If the party readily accepted and partook of the proffered gift, it was undoubtedly a good omen; but if refused it was considered tantamount to wishing evil to the child. Hence the future destiny of the little one was often augured from this superstitious ceremony, which, by-the-by, is also practised in the West of England, but the events of its after-life only too often belied the weal and woe predicted for it. Again, it is thought highly necessary that the child should cry at its baptism, or else ill-luck will sooner or later overtake it, the idea being that, when the child screams and kicks, the evil spirit is in the act of quitting it; its silence, on the other hand, indicating that it is too good for this wicked world. An amusing little episode in illustration of this curious superstition is related by Mrs. Latham, in the "Folk-lore Record:"--"I was lately present at a christening in Sussex, when a lady of the party, who was grandmother of the child, whispered in a voice of anxiety, 'The child never cried; why did not the nurse rouse it up?' After we had left the church she said to her, 'O nurse, why did not you pinch baby?' And when the baby's good behaviour was afterwards commented upon, she observed, with a very serious air, 'I wish that he had cried.'" In the same county it is considered unlucky to divulge a child's intended name before its baptism; and the water sprinkled on its forehead at the font must on no account be wiped off. Whilst on the subject of baptism, we would just note that in former years peculiar curative properties were supposed to reside in water that had been used at this rite, and on this account it was employed for various disorders. It was also regarded in Scotland as a preservative against witchcraft; and eyes bathed in it were rendered for life incapable of seeing ghosts. It may not be inappropriate to allude here to the superstitions relative to confirmation, following in due time, as this rite does, on baptism. In Norfolk, for instance, it is considered unlucky to be touched by the bishop's left hand; and in Devonshire, also, where a similar notion prevails, young people look upon his right hand as the lucky one, and should it not be their privilege to receive it, they leave the church much disappointed. In some of the northern counties, we are informed that the unfortunate recipients of the left hand are doomed, then and there, to a life of single blessedness. This is not the only species of superstition belonging to confirmation, for instances are on record of persons who, although confirmed in their early life, have again presented themselves for confirmation in their old age, under a conviction that the bishop's blessing would cure them of some bodily ailment. It is related that, at one of the confirmations of the venerable Bishop Bathurst, an old woman was observed eagerly pressing forward to the church. A by-stander, somewhat amazed at her odd conduct, and struck with her aged appearance, inquired if she was going to be confirmed, and, being answered in the affirmative, expressed his astonishment that she should have procrastinated it to such an advanced time of life. The old woman, however, resented his reproof, replying "that it was not so; that she had already been bishopped seven times, and intended to be again, it was so good for her rheumatism!" In some cases the prayers taught by the poor to their children are curious. Thus, a popular prayer, formerly in use, and not yet forgotten, is evidently a relic of Roman Catholic times, having been handed down from a period anterior to the Reformation. As the reader will see, the version below contains a distinct appeal to certain saints for their intercession with God on the child's behalf:-- "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Bless the bed I lie upon; Four corners to my bed, Four angels at its head, One to watch, two to pray, And one to bear my soul away; God within and God without, Sweet Jesus Christ all round about; If I die before I wake, I pray to God my soul to take." It has been pointed out that it is very singular that this prayer should have survived the great change which took place in religious opinion in the sixteenth century, and that it even still remains in use. There are many variations of it, and the following two distiches obtained from Lancashire are quaint, having been written, it has been thought, by the Puritans, in ridicule:-- "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Hold the horse that I leap on. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Take a stick and lay upon." A Lincolnshire clergyman, anxious to learn something of the nature of the prayers said by the children of the agricultural poor, visited some of their cottages a few years ago in the evening, and listened to the little ones as they said their prayers. The concluding portion, he tells us, was always intercession for relations, but the form it generally took was peculiar. In the first place, it was not, as is the case with the more educated classes, "Pray God bless father and mother," &c., but "Pray for father, pray for mother, pray for brothers and sisters," and so on. In certain cases, through carelessness and rapidity, the words had degenerated into "Pray father, pray mother," &c. There can be no doubt that originally the prayer was this:--"Pray for father;" then a _Pater noster_, or an _Ave Maria_, or both, would be said; then "Pray for mother," &c. After the Reformation, as time went on, the constant repetition of the _Pater_ and the use of the _Ave Maria_ would gradually die out with the change of religious ideas, and thus the prayer would assume its present form, "Pray for father, pray for mother." Referring, in the second place, to the superstitions of children, we find an immense number of curious rhymes on various subjects used by them throughout the country. While many of these have, no doubt, been taught them by nurserymaids, a great part, as Mr. Chambers has pointed out in his "Popular Rhymes of Scotland," may be thought to have taken their rise in the childish imagination during that familiar acquaintance with natural objects, which it is one of the most precious privileges of the young to enjoy in rural districts. Besides, too, we must not forget that children seem to have a peculiar love for all natural objects, often finding pleasure in looking at some wayside flower, or in watching the movements of some tiny insect, which in after-years do not bring them the same interest. The fact, indeed, that the young mind is a true admirer of nature in all probability accounts for many of those pleasing rhymes which constitute much of the child's folk-lore. Some of the charms, for instance, used to influence the weather are curious, and it is worthy of note that these, in many cases, are not confined to childhood only, but are frequently found in the mouths of our peasants. Thus the child's appeal to rain for its departure has become a general charm, and is familiar to most readers:-- "Rain, rain, go to Spain, Fair weather, come again." Aubrey considers this rhyme of great antiquity, and says that "it is derived from the Gentiles." Often in summer-time, when a thunder-shower interrupts some out-door game, one may hear a chorus of young voices shouting-- "Rain, rain, go away, Come another summer's day." Or, as other versions have it, "Come again on washing-day." The appearance of a rainbow is generally, too, the signal for various marks of dissatisfaction on the part of the young, who, besides entreating it to vanish as soon as possible, frequently try to charm it away. This they do by placing a couple of straws or twigs crossways on the ground, and so, to quote their phrase, "cross out the rainbow." Another way is to make a cross of two sticks, and to lay four pebbles on it, one at each end. Again, some of the rhymes relating to snow are highly quaint, the following being repeated when it makes its first appearance:-- "The men of the East Are picking their geese, And sending their feathers here away, here away." When, however, boys wish the snow to go away, they sing:-- "Snow, snow, give over, The cow's in the clover." Thunder, in the North of England, is called by children "Rattley-bags," and during a storm the boys are in the habit of singing:-- "Rowley, Rowley, Rattley-bags, Take the lasses and leave the lads." There is a rhyme which is often repeated by the juvenile folks in the north and midland counties upon seeing the new moon, which, perhaps, may have an indirect allusion to its supposed lucky influence:-- "I see the moon and the moon sees me, God help the parson that baptised me!"-- containing, evidently, a congratulation upon their birth. Boys, too, have a curious saying respecting the reflection of the sun's beams upon a ceiling, which they term "Jack-a-dandy beating his wife with a stick of silver." If a mischievous boy, with a piece of looking-glass, throws the reflection into the eyes of a neighbour, the latter complains "he's throwing Jack-a-dandy in my eyes." Passing on to other charm-rhymes connected with natural objects, there are a very numerous class relating to the animal creation. In evening-time, for instance, when the dew begins to fall, boys are fond of hunting the large black snails, on discovering which they exclaim:-- "Snail, snail, put out your horn, Or I'll kill your father and mother i' th' morn." This charm, however, is not confined to our own country, but under a variety of forms is found on the Continent. In Scotland, too, children prognosticate the coming weather from the movements of this little creature:-- "Snailie, snailie, shoot out your horn, And tell us if it will be a bonny day the morn." School-life, again, has its customs and superstitions, many of which have been transmitted from generation to generation; and childhood, indeed, would seem quite incomplete without them. Thus, according to an odd notion universally accepted in days gone by, and still received with implicit faith, if the master's cane is carefully nicked at the upper end, and a hair inserted, it will, as soon as used, split immediately to the very tip. In school-games, the usual antipathy to odd numbers is found, and a child is easily persuaded to give away a marble to make the number even. A kind of divination, also, is still frequently employed by boys to settle matters of difficulty, such, for example, as who shall be the leaders in a game, the choice of partners, and other details which are deemed of equal importance. The mode of procedure is this:--A long stick is thrown into the air, and caught by one of the parties. Each one then grasps it hand over hand, and he who succeeds in getting the last hold is the successful party. Mr. Henderson says that an odd expression was formerly connected with the lending a knife among boys for the cutting up of a cake or other dainty, the borrowers being asked to give it back "laughing," _i.e._, with some of the good things it was used to cut. Among the many old school customs, we may close our present chapter by mentioning a popular one known as "barring out," upon which, it may be remembered, Miss Edgeworth has founded one of her instructive stories. The practice consisted in "barring out" the masters from the scene of their educational labours, the agents in this ceremony being the pupils of the school. It was an occasion of no small disorder-- "Not school-boys at a barring out, Raised ever such incessant rout." Addison is reported to have been the leader of a barring out at the Lichfield Grammar School, and to have displayed on the occasion a spirit of disorderly daring very different to that timid modesty which so characterised his after-life. So much, then, for the folk-lore of childhood, a subject indeed full of interest, and possessing a worth far beyond the circle of its own immediate influence, inasmuch as even the simplest nursery jingle or puerile saying has often been found of help in proving the affinity of certain races, and has an ethnological value which the student of comparative philology would be slow to underrate in his task of research. CHAPTER III. LOVE AND COURTSHIP. Love-tests--Plants used in Love-charms--The Lady-bird--The Snail--St. Valentine's Day--Midsummer Eve--Hallowe'en--Omens on Friday. No event in human life has, from the earliest times, been associated with a more extensive folk-lore than marriage, which is indeed no matter of surprise, considering that this is naturally looked upon as the happiest epoch--the _summum bonum_--of each one's career in this world. Hence, to write a detailed account of the charms, omens, and divinations, as well as of the superstitions and customs, connected with marriage, including its early stages of love and courtship, would require a volume for itself, so varied and widespread is this subject of universal interest. In the present chapter, however, have been collected together, in as condensed a form as possible, some of the principal items of folk-lore connected with love and courtship, as we find them scattered here and there throughout the country. Commencing, then, with love-divinations, these are of every conceivable kind, the anxious maiden apparently having left no stone unturned in her anxiety to ascertain her lot in the marriage state. Hence in her natural longings to raise the veil of futurity, the aspirant to matrimony, if she be at all of a superstitious turn of mind, seldom lets an opportunity pass by without endeavouring to gain from it some sign or token of the kind of husband that is in store for her. As soon, too, as the appointed one has at last presented himself, she is not content to receive with unreserved faith his professions of love and life-long fidelity; but, in her sly moments, when he is not at hand, she proves the genuineness of his devotion by certain charms which, while they cruelly belie his character, only too often unkindly deceive the love-sick maiden. In the first place, we may note that love-tests have been derived from a variety of sources, such as plants, insects, animals, birds, not to mention those countless other omens obtained from familiar objects to which we shall have occasion to allude. At the outset, however, it may not be uninteresting to quote the following account of love-charms in use about one hundred and fifty years ago, and which was written by a young lady to the editor of the _Connoisseur_:-- "Arabella was in love with a clever Londoner, and had tried all the approved remedies. She had seen him several times in coffee grounds with a sword by his side; he was once at the bottom of a tea-cup in a coach and six, with his two footmen behind it. On the last May morning she went into the fields to hear the cuckoo; and when she pulled off her left shoe, she found a hair in it the exact colouring of his. The same night she sowed hempseed in the back yard, repeating the words:-- 'Hempseed I sow, hempseed I hoe, And he that is my true love, Come after me and mow.' After that she took a clean shift and turned it, and hung it on the back of a chair; and very likely he would have come and turned it, for she heard a step, and being frightened could not help speaking, and that broke the spell. The maid Betty recommended her young mistress to go backwards, without speaking a word, into the garden on Midsummer Eve, and gather a rose, keep it in a clean sheet of paper without looking in it till Christmas Day, it will be as fresh as in June; and if she sticks this rose in her bosom, he that is to be her husband will come and take it out. Arabella had tried several other strange fancies. Whenever she lies in a strange bed, she always ties her garters nine times round the bed-post, and knits nine knots in it, saying all the time:-- 'This knot I knit, this knot I tie, To see my love as he goes by, In his apparel and array, As he walks in every day.' On the last occasion Mr. Blossom drew the curtains and tucked up the clothes at the bed's feet. She has many times pared an apple whole, and afterwards flung the peel over her head, and on each occasion the peel formed the first letter of his Christian name or surname." Referring to the use of plants in love-charms, they are very numerous. One popular one consists in taking the leaves of yarrow, commonly called "nosebleed," and tickling the inside of the nostrils, repeating at the same time these lines:-- "Green 'arrow, green 'arrow, you bear a white blow, If my love love me, my nose will bleed now; If my love don't love me, it 'ont bleed a drop; If my love do love me, 'twill bleed every drop." Some cut the common brake or fern just above the root to ascertain the initial letters of the future wife's or husband's name; and the dandelion, as a plant of omen, is much in demand. As soon as its seeds are ripe they stand above the head of the plant in a globular form, with a feathery top at the end of each seed, and then are without any difficulty detached. When in this condition the flower-stalk must be carefully plucked, so as not to injure the globe of seeds, the charm consisting in blowing off the seeds with the breath. The number of puffs that are required to blow every seed clean off indicates the number of years that must elapse before the person is married. Again, nuts and apples are very favourite love-tests. The mode of procedure is for a girl to place on the bars of the grate a nut, repeating this incantation:-- "If he loves me, pop and fly; If he hates me, live and die." As may be imagined, great is the dismay if the anxious face of the inquirer gradually perceives the nut, instead of making the hoped-for pop, die and make no sign. Again, passing on to insects, one means of divination is to throw a lady-bird into the air, repeating meanwhile the subjoined couplet:-- "Fly away east, and fly away west, Show me where lives the one I like best." Should this little insect chance to fly in the direction of the house where the loved one resides, it is regarded as a highly-favourable omen. The snail, again, was much used in love-divinations, many an eager maiden anxious of ascertaining her lover's name following the example of Hobnelia, who, in order to test the constancy of her Lubberkin, did as follows:-- "Upon a gooseberry bush a snail I found, For always snails near sweetest fruit abound. I seized the vermin, home I quickly sped, And on the hearth the milk-white embers spread; Slow crawled the snail, and, if I right can spell, In the soft ashes marked a curious L. Oh! may this wondrous omen lucky prove, For 'L' is found in Lubberkin and Love." Three magpies are said to prognosticate a wedding; and in our rural districts the unmarried of either sex calculate the number of years of single blessedness still allotted to them by counting the cuckoo's notes when they first hear it in the spring. Some days are considered specially propitious for practising love-divinations. Foremost among these is St. Valentine's Day, a festival which has been considered highly appropriate for such ceremonies, as there is an old tradition that on this day birds choose their mates, a notion which is frequently alluded to by the poets, and particularly by Chaucer, to which reference is made also in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_:-- "Good morrow, friends, St. Valentine is past; Begin the wood-birds but to couple now." Thus, the Devonshire young ladies have a fancy that on St. Valentine's Day they can, if they wish, make certain of their future. If so disposed, they go into the churchyard at midnight, with some hempseed in their hand, which, after they have walked round the church a certain number of times, they scatter on either side as they return homewards, repeating a certain charm. It is supposed that the true lover will be seen taking up the hempseed just sown, attired for the ceremony in a winding-sheet. Another species of love-divination once observed consisted in obtaining five bay leaves, four of which the anxious maiden pinned at the four corners of her pillow, and the fifth in the middle. If she was fortunate enough to dream of her lover, it was a sure sign that he would be married to her in the course of the year. Again, some young people would boil an egg hard, and, after taking out the contents, fill the shell with salt, the charm consisting in eating the shell and salt on going to bed at night without either speaking or drinking after it. A further method of divination was practised in the following way:--The lady wrote her lovers' names upon small pieces of paper, and, rolling them up in clay, put them into a tub of water. The first that rose to the surface was to be not only her Valentine, but, in all probability, her future husband. Another time, which has been equally popular from time immemorial for such superstitious practices, is Midsummer Eve. People gathered on this night the rose, St. John's wort, trefoil, and rue, each of which was supposed to have magical properties. They set orpine in clay upon pieces of slate in their houses, under the name of a Midsummer man. As the stalk next morning was found to incline to the right or left, the anxious maiden knew whether her lover would prove true to her or not. Hallowe'en, again, has been supposed to be the time, of all other times, when supernatural influences prevail, and on this account is regarded as a night of sure divination in love matters. All kinds of devices have, therefore, been resorted to at this season, and in the North of England many superstitions still linger on, where this festival is known as "nutcrack-night," from nuts forming a prominent feature in the evening feast. Once more, Christmas Eve is well known to love-sick swains and languishing maidens as an excellent day for obtaining a glimpse into futurity. Numerous are the spells and ceremonies by which this is attempted. Thus in some places, at "the witching hour of night," the young damsel goes into the garden and plucks twelve sage leaves, under the belief that she will see the shadowy form of her future husband approach her from the opposite end of the ground. In trying this delicate mode of divination great care must be taken not to break or damage the sage-stalk, as should this happen serious consequences might ensue. The following barbarous charm was also much practised in days gone by:--The heart was taken from a living pigeon, stuck full of pins, and laid on the hearth, and while it was burning, the form of the young person's future partner was believed to become visible to mortal eye. Friday has been held a good day of the week for love omens, and in Norfolk the following lines are repeated on three Friday nights successively, as on the last one it is believed that the young lady will dream of her future husband:-- "To-night, to-night, is Friday night, Lay me down in dirty white, Dream who my husband is to be; And lay my children by my side, If I'm to live to be his bride." There are numerous other modes of matrimonial divination which still find favour in the eyes of those who prefer the married state to that of virginity. Thus the seeds of butter-dock must be scattered on the ground by a young unmarried girl half an hour before sunrise on a Friday morning in a lonesome place. She must strew the seeds gradually on the grass, saying these words:-- "I sow, I sow! Then, my own dear, Come here, come here, And mow, and mow." After this she will see her future husband mowing with a scythe at a short distance from her. She must, however, display no symptoms of fear, for should she cry out in alarm he will immediately vanish. This method is said to be infallible, but it is regarded as a bold, desperate, and presumptuous undertaking. Some girls, again, make a hole in the road where four ways meet, and apply their ear to it, with the hope of learning of what trade their future husband is to be. It is unnecessary, however, to illustrate this part of our subject further, for the preceding pages amply show how varied and extensive are the omens and divinations connected with an event without which life is considered in the eyes of most persons incomplete. Although these may seem trivial and often nonsensical, yet they have often exercised an important influence over that period of anxious suspense which intervenes between courtship and marriage, often tantalising and damping in a cruel manner the hopes of many an ardent lover. CHAPTER IV. MARRIAGE. Seasons and Days propitious to Marriage--Superstitions connected with the Bride--Meeting a Funeral--Robbing the Bride of Pins--Dancing in a Hog's Trough--The Wedding-cake--The Ring. In selecting the time for the marriage ceremony precautions of every kind have generally been taken to avoid an unlucky month and day for the knot to be tied. Indeed, the old Roman notion that May marriages are unlucky survives to this day in England, a striking example, as Mr. Tylor has pointed out in his "Primitive Culture," of how an idea, the meaning of which has perished for ages, may continue to exist simply because it has existed. That May with us is not a month for marrying may easily be seen any year from the list of weddings in the _Times_ newspaper, the popular belief being summed up in the familiar proverb, "Marry in May and you'll rue the day." Some of the numerous reasons assigned for the ill-luck attaching to this month are the following:--That women disobeying the rule would be childless; or if they had children, that the first-born would be an idiot, or have some physical deformity; or that the married couple would not live happily together in their new life, but soon become weary of each other's society--superstitions which still retain their hold throughout the country. In spite, however, of this absurd prejudice, it seems that in days gone by May was honoured in feudal England as the month of all months especially congenial to lovers. Most readers are no doubt acquainted with the following stanza in the "Court of Love:"-- "I had not spoke so sone the words, but she, My soveraine, did thank me heartily, And saide, 'Abide, ye shall dwell still with me Till season come of May, for then truly The King of Love and all his company Shall holde his feste full rially and well,' And there I bode till that the season fell." On the other hand, June is a highly popular month for marrying, one reason perhaps being that the earth is then clothed in her summer beauty, and that this is a season of plenty. At any rate, this notion may be traced up to the time of the Romans, and thus when Ovid was anxious about the marriage of his daughter, he-- "Resolved to match the girl, and tried to find What days unprosp'rous were, what moons were kind; After June's sacred Ides his fancy strayed, Good to the man and happy to the maid." Among the other seasons admitting or prohibiting matrimony may be mentioned the following, contained in a well-known rhyme:-- "Advent marriages doth deny, But Hilary gives thee liberty; Septuagesima says thee nay, Eight days from Easter says you may; Rogation bids thee to contain, But Trinity sets thee free again." Equal importance has been attached by some to the day of the week on which the marriage is performed. Thus Friday, on account of its being regarded as an inauspicious and evil day for the commencement of any kind of enterprise, is generally avoided, few brides being found bold enough to run the risk of incurring bad luck from being married on a day of ill-omen. In days gone by, Sunday appears to have been a popular day for marriages; although, as Mr. Jeaffreson, in his amusing history of "Brides and Bridals," remarks, "A fashionable wedding, celebrated on the Lord's Day in London, or any part of England, would now-a-days be denounced by religious people of all Christian parties as an outrageous exhibition of impiety. But in our feudal times, and long after the Reformation, Sunday was, of all days of the week, the favourite one for marriages. Long after the theatres had been closed on Sundays, the day of rest was the chief day for weddings with Londoners of every social class." The brides of Elizabethan dramas are usually represented as being married on Sunday. Thus in the _Taming of the Shrew_, Petruchio, after telling his future father-in-law "that upon Sunday is the wedding-day," and laughing at Katharine's petulant exclamation, "I'll see thee hanged on Sunday first," says:-- "Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu; I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace: We will have rings, and things, and give array; And, kiss me, Kate, we will be married o' Sunday." Among the Scottish people, we are informed by the Registrar-General, there is a peculiar fondness for marrying on the last day of the year. Indeed, there are more marriages in Scotland on that day than in any week of the year, excepting, of course, the week in which that day occurs. Thus, in the year 1861, the returns give the number of marriages in the eight principal towns as averaging about twenty-five a day, exclusive of Sunday, as marrying is one of the things not to be done on this day in Scotland. On the 31st of December, however, in the same towns there were between 400 and 500 marriages. Curious to say, too, in Scotland, Friday seems to be considered a lucky day for weddings; for Mr. Watson, the City Chamberlain of Glasgow, affirms that "it is a well-established fact that nine-tenths of the marriages in Glasgow are celebrated on a Friday; only a few on Tuesday and Wednesday; Saturday and Monday are still more rarely adopted, and I have never heard of such a thing in Glasgow as a marriage on Sunday." Leaving seasons and days considered propitious for marriage, we find, in the next place, a number of superstitions associated with that prominent and all-important personage on such an occasion, the bride. Thus it is above all things necessary that the sun should shine on her--"Blest is the bride that the sun shines on!"--a notion, indeed, which, it has been suggested, had a practical application in years gone by when marriages were celebrated in the church porch. A wet day, at such a time, was a serious matter, especially as our forefathers had not the many contrivances of modern times for preservation from rain. Whereas, now-a-days, young ladies when alluding to being married speak of "going to church," formerly they spoke of "visiting the church-porch." After prevailing for centuries, this ancient usage was discountenanced, if not actually abolished, by the ecclesiastical reformers of Edward VI.'s reign, who "ordained that the performance of the binding ceremony should take place in the body of the church." Referring again to the bride, it is deemed absolutely necessary by very many that she should weep on her wedding-day, if it be only a few tears, the omission of such an act being considered ominous of her future happiness. It is, too, the height of ill-luck for either the bride or the bridegroom to meet a funeral on going to or coming from the church, for if it happen to be that of a female, it is an indication that the bride will not live long, and if it should be that of a male, then the bridegroom is doomed to an early death. In the North of England there is a strong prejudice against a marriage taking place while there is a grave open in the churchyard. In many parts of the country, also, special care is taken that the bees are informed of a wedding, and as a mark of respect to them their hives are decorated with a favour. In Sussex a bride on her return home from church is often robbed of all the pins about her dress by the single women present, from a belief that whoever possesses one of them will be married in the course of a year. Much excitement and amusement are occasionally caused by the youthful competitors for this supposed charm; and the bride herself is not unfrequently the victim of rather rough treatment. According to another piece of superstition, the bride, in removing her bridal robe and chaplet at the completion of the marriage ceremonies, must take care to throw away every pin worn on this eventful day. Evil fortune, it is affirmed, will sooner or later inevitably overtake the bride who keeps even one pin used in the marriage toilet. Woe also to the bridesmaids if they retain one of them, as their chances of marriage will thereby be materially lessened, and anyhow they must give up all hope of being wedded before the following Whitsuntide. Again, in some parts of Yorkshire, to rub shoulders with the bride or bridegroom is considered an augury of a speedy marriage; and a piece of folk-lore prevalent in the neighbourhood of Hull is to this effect: "Be sure when you go to get married that you don't go in at one door and out at another, or you will always be unlucky." Cuthbert Bede, in "Notes and Queries," records an instance of a similar superstition that occurred at a wedding in a Worcestershire village in October, 1877. He says, "The bride and bridegroom at the conclusion of the ceremony left the church by the chancel door, instead of following the usual custom of walking down the church and through the nave door. One of the oldest inhabitants, in mentioning this to me, said that it 'betokened bad luck,' and that she had never known a like instance but once in her life when the married couple went out of the church through the chancel door, and the bride was a widow before the twelve months was out." Alluding briefly to other superstitions associated with marriage, we are told in the North of England that she who receives from the bride a piece of cheese, cut by her before leaving the table, will be the next bride among the company. In Yorkshire, too, when a newly-married couple first enter their house, a hen is brought and made to cackle as a sign of good luck. The old Roman practice, also, of lifting the bride over the threshold of her husband's home, had its counterpart in Scotland within the present century, it being customary to lift the young wife over the doorstep, lest any witchcraft or evil eye should be cast upon and influence her. Indeed, we are informed that the same practice prevailed in the North of England some years ago--an interesting survival of the primitive superstitions of our ancestors. Another curious custom which was once practised in different parts of the country was that of the elder sister dancing in a hog's trough in consequence of the younger sister marrying before her. "Upon one occasion," says Mr. Glyde in his "Norfolk Garland," "a brother went through the ceremony also; and the dancers performed their part so well that the trough itself was danced to pieces." It was considered the most correct thing to dance in green stockings. It was also customary in former years for elder sisters to dance barefooted at the marriage of a younger one, as otherwise they would inevitably become old maids. Hence Katharine says to her father, in allusion to Bianca:-- "She is your treasure, she must have a husband. I must dance barefoot on her wedding-day, And for your love to her lead apes in hell." The last line, the meaning of which, however, is somewhat obscure, expresses a common belief as to the ultimate fate of old maids. Malone, on this passage, remarks that in Shakespeare's time "to lead apes" was one of the employments of a bear-ward, who often carried about one of those animals along with his bear. Referring in the next place to some of the chief ceremonies associated with marriage, we may note that "the putting up of the banns" is not without its superstitions, for in the North of England it is considered highly unlucky for a young woman to be present at church when this important event takes place, any children she may hereafter have running the terrible risk of being born deaf and dumb. Thus, a Worcestershire girl, some years since, refused to attend church and hear the publication of her own banns, lest by doing so she should bring the curse of dumbness on her offspring. She stated that one of her friends had transgressed this rule "by hearing herself asked out at church," and in due course had six children, all of whom were deaf and dumb. Again, the wedding-cake, without which no wedding would be considered complete, is evidently a survival of the symbolical corn-ears originally worn by the bride, and which in after-times were made into cakes and sprinkled upon the bride's head. In course of time these cakes were by degrees converted into one large mass, enriched with almond paste; and that the ingredients of a wedding-cake in the seventeenth century did not differ materially from one at the present day may be gathered from Herrick, who says:-- "This day, my Julia, thou must make, For mistress bride, the wedding-cake; Knead but the dough, and it will be To paste of almonds turned by thee; Or kiss it thou but once or twice, And for the bride-cake there'll be spice." Indeed, corn in one form or another has always entered into the marriage-ceremony, a practice which, as Sir John Lubbock, in his "Origin of Civilisation," has pointed out, may be found among remote savages or semi-civilised people. It would be difficult to enumerate the many superstitions, beliefs, and usages that have at different times clustered round the wedding-cake, some of which are as popular as ever. In days gone by, either corn ears or fragments of broken biscuit or cake were dropped on the newly-married couple on their return from church, a custom which is still kept up in some country districts. In Scotland and the North of England, for instance, as soon as the bride returns to her new home, one of the oldest inhabitants, who has been stationed on the threshold in readiness, throws a plateful of shortbread over her head, taking care that it falls outside the house. This is immediately scrambled for, as it is considered most fortunate to secure a piece, however small. Thus, just a century ago, Smollett, in his "Expedition of Humphrey Clinker" (1771), described how Mrs. Tabitha Lismahago's wedding-cake was broken over her head, and its fragments distributed among the bystanders, who imagined that to eat one of the hallowed pieces would insure the unmarried eater the delight of seeing in a vision the person to be his wife or her husband. Numerous other divinations, also, have been practised by means of wedding-cake, one of the most popular being that of passing it through a wedding-ring, and placing it under the pillow to dream upon. In some parts of Lancashire and Cumberland it is customary to put a ring amongst the ingredients of the wedding-cake, and to invite the guests in turn to cut a slice. The person who is fortunate enough to hold the knife when it comes upon the hidden ring is considered to be sure of happiness during the ensuing twelve months. Again, Mr. Henderson mentions an exciting custom practised in the North at the wedding-feast. He says:--"The bride sticks her knife into the cheese, and all at table endeavour to seize it. He who succeeds without cutting his fingers in the struggle thereby insures happiness in his married life. The knife is called 'the best man's prize,' because the 'best man' generally secures it. Should he fail to do so, he will indeed be unfortunate in his matrimonial views. The knife is, at any rate, a prize for male hands only; the maidens try to possess themselves of a 'shaping' of the wedding-dress, for use in certain divinations regarding their future husbands." The custom of throwing the shoe for luck at a bridal couple we shall notice elsewhere, a practice which is perhaps the principal source of merry-making and fun at most weddings. We must not omit to allude to that indispensable little article at a marriage, the wedding-ring, concerning which so much has been written. The Puritans, it may be remembered, tried to abolish it, on account of, as they thought, its superstitious and heathen origin. Thus, Butler, in his "Hudibras," says:-- "Others were for abolishing That tool of matrimony, a ring, With which the unsanctified bridegroom, Is marry'd only to a thumb." Though, however, the ring of gold is generally looked upon as a necessity in the marriage-ceremony, yet it is not legally so, but there is a very strong prejudice against being married without it, and it would be no easy task to find a couple brave enough to act in opposition to this universal superstition. Thus, by way of example, Mr. Jeaffreson, in his "Brides and Bridals," tells us that the poor Irishman is so convinced that a marriage lacks validity unless it has been solemnised with a golden ring, that, when he is too needy to buy a circlet of the most precious metal, he hires a hoop of gold for use on his wedding-day. Not long since a tradesman, in a market town at Munster, made a considerable addition to his modest income by letting out rings of gold to persons about to marry, who restored the trinkets to their owner after being wedded at church. A case is related, on the other hand, of a party that came to the church and requested to be married with a church key. It was "a parish wedding," and the parish authorities, though willing to pay the church fees, because, as the account runs, "they were glad to get rid of the girl," had not felt disposed to provide the wedding-ring. The clerk, however, feeling some hesitation as to the substitution of the church key, stepped into a neighbouring house, and there borrowed an old _curtain ring_, with which the marriage was solemnised. Again, most ladies are especially particular in their notions respecting their wedding-ring, objecting under any pretence to take it off from their finger, extending, it would seem, the expression of "till death us do part," even to this pledge and token of matrimony. In various parts of the country we find many a curious marriage custom, of which, however, we can only give one or two instances. Thus, in some parts of Kent, it was formerly customary to strew the pathway to the church of the bridal couple, not with flowers, but with emblems of the bridegroom's trade. A carpenter, for instance, walked on shavings, a paperhanger on slips of paper, a blacksmith on pieces of old iron, and so on. In some parts of Durham the bridal party was, in days gone by, generally escorted to church by men armed with guns, which they fired again and again in honour of the festive occasion. In Scotland there was an amusing custom, called "Creeling the bridegroom." A basket or creel was filled with heavy stones and fixed to the bridegroom's shoulder, and with this burden he was obliged to run about until his wife unfastened the creel. CHAPTER V. DEATH AND BURIAL. Warnings of Death--The Howling of Dogs--A Cow in the Garden-- Death-presaging Birds--Plants--The Will-o'-the-Wisp--The Sympathy between Two Personalities--Prophecy--Dying Hardly--The Last Act--Place and Position of the Grave. The superstitions associated with the last stage of human life are most numerous; and that this should be so is not surprising when it is considered how, from the earliest time, a certain dread has been attached to death, not only on account of its awful mysteriousness, but owing to its being the crisis of an entirely new phase of the soul's existence. Commencing then with popular omens, it may be noted that every incident out of the common course of natural events is looked upon by the superstitious as indicative of approaching death. Hence we find the credulous ever conjuring up in their minds imaginary prognostications of this sad occurrence, which, apart from the needless terror they cause, are based on no foundation of truth. Foremost among these is the howling of a dog at night, a superstition which, while not confined to our own country, appears to have been almost as well known in ancient times as at the present day. As a plea, however, for its prevalence, even among the educated, we might urge that it is not unnatural for the mind, when unstrung and overbalanced by the presence of sickness and impending death, to be over-sensitive, and to take notice of every little sound and sight which may seem to connect themselves with its anxiety. Out of the innumerable instances which are recorded in our own country respecting this popular superstition, may be mentioned one which happened a few years ago at Worthing. It appears that no slight consternation was caused by a Newfoundland dog, the property of a clergyman in the neighbourhood, lying down on the steps of a house and howling piteously, refusing to be driven away. As soon as it was known that a young lady, long an invalid, had died there, so much excitement took place that news of the occurrence reached the owner of the dog, who came to Worthing to inquire into the truth of it. Unfortunately, however, for the lovers of and believers in the marvellous, it eventually turned out that the dog had by accident been separated from his master late in the evening, and had been seen running here and there in search of him, and howling at the door of the stable where he put up his horse, and other places which he often visited in Worthing. It happened, moreover, that his master had been in the habit of visiting the particular house where the young lady had died, which at once accounted for the apparent mystery. In the same way, indeed, other similar instances of this superstition might be easily cleared up, if only properly investigated at the time of the occurrence. The howling of the dog is ascribed by some to its keen sense of the odour of approaching mortal dissolution; whereas others affirm that this animal can see the spirits which hover round the house of sickness, ready at the moment of death to bear away the soul of the departed one to its distant home. In Aryan mythology the dog is said to see ghosts, and in Germany, at the present day, a dog howling before a house portends either a death or a fire. In Wales, it is thought that horses, too, have the gift of seeing spirits. Carriage-horses, it is said, have been known to display every sign of the utmost terror, although the occupants of the carriage could see no cause for alarm. Such an occurrence is considered highly ominous, and thought to forebode that a funeral will soon pass by that way, bearing to his resting-place some person not dead at the time of the horse's fright. Whilst speaking of animals in connection with death, it may be noted that an ox or a cow breaking into a garden is an omen of death. In illustration of this notion a correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ relates the following narrative as written down by himself about the time to which it relates. He says, "Though I laugh at the superstition, the omen was painfully fulfilled in my case. About the middle of March, 1843, some cattle were driven close to my house, and the back door being open, three got into our little bit of garden, and trampled it. When our school-drudge came in the afternoon, and asked the cause of the confusion, she expressed great sorrow and apprehension on being told--said that it was a bad sign--that we should hear of three deaths within the next six months. Alas! in April we heard of dear J----'s murder; a fortnight after A---- died; and to-morrow, August 10th, I attend the funeral of my excellent son-in-law. I have just heard of the same omen from another quarter. But what is still more remarkable is that when I went down to Mr. M----'s burial, and was mentioning the superstition, they told me that while he was lying ill, a cow got into the front garden and was driven out with great difficulty. It is still a common saying in Scotland, when any one is dangerously ill, and not likely to recover, 'The black ox has trampled upon him.'" Another common omen of death is the hovering of birds around a house, and their tapping against the window-pane. Amongst the death-presaging birds may be mentioned the raven, the crow, and the swallow. The crowing of the cock, also, at the dead of night is regarded as equally ominous. The appearance of a jackdaw is in some parts of the country much dreaded. Thus a correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ tells us, that a stonemason at Clifton related to him an accident that happened to a workman at the suspension bridge over the Avon, at the time when the river was simply spanned by a single chain, placing much emphasis on the fact that a single jackdaw had been noticed by some of the workmen perched upon the centre of the chain, and had been regarded by them as a precursor of death. We must not omit the evil reputation of the owl and the magpie; and a well-known superstition current in some parts that to catch a sparrow and keep it confined in a cage is an omen of death. Once more, it is a bad sign when an invalid asks for a dish of pigeons to eat, such an occurrence being considered an omen of his approaching death. Some also affirm that if one hears the cuckoo's first note when in bed, illness or death is certain to come upon the hearer or one of his family. If any one be about to die suddenly, or lose a relation, the cuckoo will light upon a piece of touchwood, or rotten bough, and _cuckoo_. Plants, in the next place, are sometimes regarded as ominous of approaching mortality. When, for example, an apple-tree or pear-tree blooms twice in the year it denotes a death in the family. If, too, green broom be picked when in bloom it is believed that the father or mother will die in the course of the year. Mrs. Latham, in her "West Sussex Superstitions," gives the following touching little anecdote:--"A poor girl, who was lingering in the last stage of consumption, but whose countenance had always lighted up with pleasure at the sight of flowers, appeared one morning so exceedingly restless and unhappy after a fresh nosegay of gay spring flowers had been laid upon her bed, that I asked her if the scent of them was disagreeable to her. 'Oh, no!' she exclaimed, 'they are very nice indeed to smell; but yet I should be very glad if you would throw away that piece of yellow broom; for they do say that death comes with it if it is brought into the house in blossom during the month of May.'" According to a Yorkshire superstition, if a child gathers the germander speedwell its mother will die during the year; and others consider it equally unlucky to bring the first snowdrop of the year into the house. To dream that a tree is uprooted in one's garden is regarded as a death-warning to the owner. Indeed plants may be said to hold an important place in the folk-lore of death, so many curious legends and quaint superstitions having clustered round them both in ancient and modern times. Thus, to quote one further instance, if yew is accidentally brought into the house at Christmas among the evergreens, it is looked upon as a sign that a death will occur in the family before the end of the year. Among other omens of death, may be noticed the will-o'-the-wisp, which has on this account been much dreaded, its undulating movement being carefully observed, from an anxiety to ascertain in which direction it disappears, as it is supposed to be-- "The hateful messenger of heavy things, Of death and dolour telling" to the inhabitants of the house nearest that spot. We have heard also of an occasion in which considerable uneasiness was created by a pale light moving over the bed of a sick person, and after flickering for some time in different parts of the room to vanish through the window. It happened, however, that the mystery was cleared up soon afterwards, for, on a similar light appearing, it was found to proceed from a luminous insect, which proved to be the male glow-worm. In the same way the "corpse-candles" in Wales, also called the "fetch-lights," or "dead man's candles," are regarded as forerunners of death. Sometimes this unlucky sign appears in the form of a plain yellow candle, in the hand of a ghost, and at other times it looks like "a stately flambeau, stalking along unsupported, burning with ghastly blue flame." It is considered highly dangerous to interfere with this fatal portent, and persons who have attempted to check its course are reported to have been severely afflicted in consequence, many being actually struck down on the spot where they stood as a punishment for their audacity. There is a popular idea prevalent in Lancashire that to build or even to rebuild a house is always fatal to one member of the family--generally to the one who may have been the principal promoter of the plans for the building or alteration. Again, we are also told how the household clock has been known to depart from its customary precision in order to warn its owner of approaching death by striking _thirteen_. A clergyman relates that one evening he called on an old friend more than eighty years of age, who had lost her husband about six months before. Whilst sitting with her he heard the clock strike the hour in an adjoining room, and counted it _seven_. Being surprised that it was no later he involuntarily took out his watch, and found that it was in reality _eight_ o'clock. The old lady noticing this remarked, "Ah! the clock lost a stroke against my poor husband's death, and I have not altered it since." According to another very common superstition there seems to be a kind of sympathy and harmony between two personalities, whereby dying persons themselves announce their departure to their friends in certain mysterious ways. Countless instances are on record of such supposed forebodings of death. A curious and interesting example of this species of folk-lore happened not so very long ago, in connection with the lamented death of Mr. George Smith, the eminent Assyriologist. This famous scholar died at Aleppo, on the 19th of August, 1876, at or about the hour of six in the afternoon. On the same day, and at about the same time, a friend and fellow-worker of Mr. Smith's--Dr. Delitzsch--was passing within a stone's-throw of the house in which Mr. Smith had lived whilst in London, when he suddenly heard his own name uttered aloud in a "most piercing cry," which, says _The Daily News_ (Sept. 12th, 1876) thrilled him to the marrow. The fact impressed him so strongly that he looked at his watch, noted the hour, and, although he did not mention the circumstance at the time, recorded it in his note-book. Again, as a further illustration, we are told how on board one of Her Majesty's ships lying off Portsmouth, the officers being one day at mess, a young lieutenant suddenly laid down his knife and fork, pushed away his plate, and turned extremely pale. He then rose from the table, covered his face with his hands, and retired. The president of the mess, supposing him to be ill, sent to make inquiries. At first he was unwilling to reply; but on being pressed he confessed that he had been seized by a sudden and irresistible impression that a brother he had in India was dead. "He died," said he, "on the 12th August, at six o'clock; I am perfectly convinced of it." No argument could overthrow his conviction, which in due course of time was verified to the letter. Events of this kind, which in the minds of many seem to point to a mysterious sympathy between two individuals, are explained by others as simply the result of "fancy and coincidence." Any one, it is argued, may fall into a brown study, and emerge from it with a stare, and the notion that he heard his name spoken. That is the part of fancy, and the simultaneous event is the part of coincidence. Against this theory it will always be argued that these coincidences are too many to be accidental, and this position, as a writer in _The Daily News_ has shown, will generally be met by counter-efforts to weaken the evidence for each individual case, and so to reduce the cumulative evidence to nothing. Taking into consideration however, the countless instances which are on record of this kind, many of them apparently resting on evidence beyond impeachment, we must, whilst allotting to them the credence they deserve, honestly admit they are occasionally beyond the limits of human explanation. From a very early period there has existed a belief in the existence of the power of prophecy at that period which precedes death. It probably took its origin in the assumed fact that the soul becomes divine in the same rate as the connection with the body is loosened. It has been urged in support of this theory that at the hour of death the soul is, as it were, on the confines of two worlds, and may possibly at the same moment possess a power which is both prospective and retrospective. Shakespeare in his _Richard II._ (Act ii., sc. 1) makes the dying Gaunt, alluding to his nephew, the young and self-willed king, exclaim:-- "Methinks I am a prophet new inspired, And thus expiring do foretell of him." Again in _1 Henry IV._ (Act v., sc. 4), the brave Percy, when in the agonies of death, conveys the same idea in the following words:-- "O, I could prophesy, But that the earthy and cold hand of death Lies on my tongue." Some have sought for the foundation of this belief in the forty-ninth chapter of Genesis:--"And Jacob called his sons, and said, Gather yourselves together, that I may tell you that which shall befall you in the last days. And when Jacob had made an end of commanding his sons, he gathered up his feet into his bed, and yielded up the ghost, and was gathered unto his people." This notion has not died out, but still prevails in Lancashire and other parts of England. Referring to death itself, there is a widespread belief that deaths mostly occur during the ebbing of the tide: a superstition to which Charles Dickens has so touchingly alluded in "David Copperfield." While the honest-hearted Mr. Peggotty sat by the bedside of poor Barkis, and watched life's flame gradually growing dimmer, he said to David Copperfield, "People can't die along the coast except when the tide's pretty nigh out. They can't be born unless it's pretty nigh in. Not properly born till flood. He's agoing out with the tide--he's agoing out with the tide. It's ebb at half-arter three, slack water half an hour. If he lives till it turns, he'll hold his own till past the flood, and go out with the next tide." And after many hours' watching, "it being low water, he went out with the tide." Persons, too, are said to "die hard," to quote a popular phrase, or, in other words, to have a painful and prolonged death, when there are pigeons' feathers in the bed. Hence, some will not allow dying persons to lie on a feather bed at all, maintaining that it very much increases the pain, and retards the inevitable crisis of their departure. Many, on the other hand, have a superstitious feeling that it is a great misfortune, nay, even a judgment, not to die in a bed. Many are the anecdotes illustrative of the former superstition, one or two of which we will quote. Thus a Sussex nurse one day told the wife of her clergyman that "never did she see any one die so hard as old Master Short; and at last she thought (though his daughter said there were none) that there must be game-feathers in the bed. She, therefore, tried to pull it from under him, but he was a heavy man and she could not manage it alone, and there was no one with him but herself, and so she got a rope and tied it round him and pulled him by it off the bed, and he went off in a minute quite comfortable, just like a lamb." Again, one day, when an old woman near Yarmouth was speaking of the burning of game-feathers as a precaution in case of death, her neighbours said to her, "Of course we don't believe that can have anything to do with a hard death," whereupon she replied, "Then you yourself use such feathers." "Oh, no; we always burn them, unless we want them for a chair-cushion." The same notion prevails in Yorkshire with regard to cocks' feathers. According to another popular fancy a person cannot die comfortably under the cross-beam of a house, and we are told of the case of a man of whom it was said at his death, that after many hours' hard dying, being removed from the position under the cross-beam, he departed peaceably. Again, the interval between death and burial has generally been associated with various superstitious fears and practices. Thus, as soon as the corpse is laid out there is still a widespread custom of placing a plate of salt upon the breast, the reason being no doubt to prevent the body swelling; although there is a belief that it acts as a charm against any attempt on the part of evil spirits to disturb the body. Pennant tells us that formerly in Scotland, "the corpse being stretched on a board and covered with a coarse linen wrapper, the friends laid on the breast of the deceased a wooden platter, containing a small quantity of salt and earth, separate and unmixed; the earth an emblem of the corruptible body, the salt as an emblem of the immortal spirit." Mr. Napier, in his "Folk-Lore of the West of Scotland," points out that we may find another explanation for the plate of salt on the breast in the "sin-eaters," persons who, in days gone by, when a person died, were sent for to come and eat the sins of the deceased. On their arrival their first act was to place a plate of salt and one of bread on the breast of the corpse, repeating a series of incantations, after which they devoured the contents of the plates. By this ceremony the deceased person was supposed to be relieved of such sins as would have kept his spirit hovering about his relations to their discomfort and annoyance. It is customary, especially among the poor, for those who visit a house while the dead body is lying in it to touch the corpse, thereby showing that they owe the departed one no grudge. This practice, in all probability, originated in the belief that a corpse would bleed at the touch of the murderer, constant allusions to which we find in old authors. The practice of watching the dead body until its burial is not yet obsolete, a custom indeed which, among the Irish, is even still occasionally the scene of the most unseemly revelries, those present oftentimes indulging in excessive drinking and riotous merry-making. In days gone by, however, this practice was attended with every mark of respect to the deceased one, the leading idea being to see that the devil did not carry off the body. Lastly, since the formation of cemeteries, many of the quaint old funeral customs which formerly existed in many of our country villages have passed away. Now-a-days, the "last act," as the committal of the body to the grave has been termed, has been shorn of much of its pomp. Thus, in the North of England it was customary, only a few years ago, to carry "the dead with the sun" to the grave, a practice corresponding with the Highland usage of making "the deazil," or walking three times round a person, according to the course of the sun. On one occasion, in the village of Stranton, near West Hartlepool, the vicar was standing at the churchyard gate, awaiting the arrival of the funeral procession, when, much to his surprise, the entire group, who had come within a few yards of him, suddenly turned back and marched round the churchyard wall, thus traversing its west, north, and east boundaries. On inquiring the reason of this extraordinary procedure, one of the mourners quickly replied, "Why, ye wad no hae them carry the dead again the sun; the dead maun ay go wi' the sun." This is not unlike a Welsh custom mentioned by Pennant, who tells us that when a corpse was conveyed to the churchyard from any part of the town, great care was always taken that it should be carried the whole distance on the right-hand side of the road. A curious custom, which still survives at Welsh funerals, is termed "the parson's penny." After reading the burial service in the church, the clergyman stands behind a table while a psalm is being sung. In the meantime each of the mourners places a piece of money on the table for his acceptance. This ceremony is regarded as a token of respect to the deceased, although it was no doubt originally intended to compensate the clergyman for praying for the soul of the departed. In some Welsh parishes a similar custom, called "spade-money," is observed. As soon as the corpse has been committed to its resting-place, the grave-digger presents his spade as a receptacle for donations, these offerings, which often amount to a goodly sum, being regarded as his perquisites. From time immemorial there has been a popular prejudice among the inhabitants of rural villages against "burial without the sanctuary." This does not imply in unconsecrated ground, but on the north side of the church, or in a remote corner of the churchyard. The origin of this repugnance is said to have been the notion that the northern part was that which was appropriated to the interment of unbaptised infants, excommunicated persons, or such as had laid violent hands upon themselves. Hence it was generally known as "the wrong side of the church." In many parishes, therefore, this spot remained unoccupied while the remaining portion of the churchyard was crowded. White, in his "History of Selborne," alluding to this superstition, says that as most people wished to be buried on the south side of the churchyard, it became such a mass of mortality that no person could be interred "without disturbing or displacing the bones of his ancestors." A clergyman of a rural parish in Norfolk says:--"If I were on any occasion to urge a parishioner to inter a deceased relative on the north side of the church, he would answer me with some expression of surprise, if not of offence, at the proposal, 'No, sir, it is not in the sanctuary.'" Great attention has, also, generally been paid to the position of the grave, the popular idea being from east to west, while that from north to south has been considered not only dishonourable, but unlucky. Indeed, the famous antiquary, Thomas Hearne, was so particular on this point that he left orders for his grave to be made straight by a compass, due east and west. In _Cymbeline_ (Act iv., sc. 2), Guiderius, speaking of the apparently dead body of Imogen disguised in man's apparel, says:-- "Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east; My father hath a reason for 't." It is worthy of notice that the burial of the dead among the Greeks was in the line of east and west; and thus it is not to late and isolated fancy, but to the carrying on of ancient and widespread solar ideas, as Mr. Tylor has so clearly shown, that we trace the well-known legend that the body of Christ was laid towards the east, and the Christian usage of digging graves east and west. A pretty custom was once observed in many of our country villages at the funeral of a young unmarried girl, or of a bride who died in her honeymoon; a chaplet of flowers being carried before the corpse by a girl nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and afterwards hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. Among other customs connected with burial may be mentioned "funeral feasts," which have prevailed in this and other countries from the earliest times, and are supposed to have been borrowed from the _Coena feralis_ of the Romans: an offering, consisting of milk, honey, wine, aloes, and strewed flowers, to the ghost of the deceased. In a variety of forms this custom has prevailed amongst most nations, the idea being that the spirits of the dead feed on the viands set before them. In Christian times, however, these funeral offerings have passed into commemorative banquets, under which form they still exist amongst us. In the north of England the funeral feast is called "an arval," and the loaves that are sometimes distributed among the poor are termed "arval bread." The poor seem to have always been fond of inviting a large number of friends to attend a funeral. Instances are on record of a barrel of beer, two gallons of sack, and four gallons of claret being consumed at a funeral, and the cost of wine has been five times more than the cost of the coffin. In one of the parishes on the borders of Norfolk there is a tradition, says Mr. Glyde in his "Norfolk Garland," that when the warrior Sir Robert Atte Tye was buried, four dozen of wine were drunk, according to his last directions, over his grave, before the coffin was covered with earth. Many curious anecdotes might be given of funerals having been solemnised within the church-porch, and of the scruples entertained by great men as to the practice of interment in churches. A part of the churchyard, too, was occasionally left unconsecrated for the purpose of burying excommunicated persons. Among some of the superstitions associated with burial we may just note that it is considered by some unlucky to meet a funeral; and that, according to another notion, the ghost of the last person buried keeps watch over the churchyard till another is buried, to whom he delivers his charge. CHAPTER VI. THE HUMAN BODY. Superstitions about Deformity, Moles, &c.--Tingling of the Ear--The Nose--The Eye--The Teeth--The Hair--The Hand--Dead Man's Hand--The Feet. In the preceding pages we have given a brief survey of that widespread folk-lore with which the life of man has been invested, stage by stage, from the cradle to the grave. In like manner the popular imagination has, in most countries from the earliest times, woven round the human body a thick network of superstitions, many of which, while of the nature of omens, are supposed to indicate certain facts, such as the person's character, the events connected with his life, and to give that insight into his future career which eager curiosity would strive to ascertain. Thus, according to an old prejudice, which is not quite extinct, those who are defective or deformed are marked by nature as prone to mischief, in accordance with which notion Shakespeare makes Margaret, speaking of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, in _King Richard III._ (Act i., sc. 3), say:-- "Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rotting hog Thou that was seal'd in thy nativity The slave of nature and the son of hell." Moles, too, have generally been thought to denote good or ill-luck from their position on the body. Thus one on the throat is a sign of luck, but one on the left side of the forehead near the hair is just the reverse. Again, a mole on either the chin, ear, or neck is an indication of riches, but one on the breast signifies poverty. Indeed, if we are to believe the "Greenwich Fortune-teller," a popular chap-book in former years, omens to be drawn from moles are almost unlimited. Referring, however, more especially to the folk-lore associated with the different parts of the human body, this, as we have already stated, is very extensive, being in many cases the legacy bequeathed to us by our ancestors. Commencing, then, with the ear, there is a well-known superstition that a tingling of the right one is lucky, denoting that a friend is speaking well of one; a tingling of the left implying the opposite. This notion differs according to the locality, as in some places it is the tingling of the left ear which denotes the friend, and the tingling of the right ear the enemy. Shakespeare, in _Much Ado about Nothing_ (Act iii., sc. 1), makes Beatrice say to Ursula and Hero, who had been talking of her, "What fire is in mine ears?" in allusion, it is generally supposed, to this popular fancy, which is old as the time of Pliny, who says, "When our ears tingle some one is talking of us in our absence." Sir Thomas Browne also ascribes the idea to the belief in guardian angels, who touch the right or left ear according as the conversation is favourable or not to the person. The Scotch peasantry have an omen called the "death-bell"--a tingling in the ears which is believed to announce some friend's death. Hogg alludes to this superstition in his "Mountain Bard":-- "O lady, 'tis dark, an' I heard the death-bell, An' I darena gae yonder for gowd nor fee," and gives also an amusing anecdote illustrative of it:--"Our two servant-girls agreed to go on an errand of their own, one night after supper, to a considerable distance, from which I strove to persuade them, but could not prevail; so, after going to the apartment where I slept, I took a drinking-glass, and coming close to the back of the door made two or three sweeps round the lip of the glass with my finger, which caused a loud shrill sound, and then overheard the following dialogue:-- "_B._ 'Ah, mercy! the dead-bell went through my head just now with such a knell as I never heard.' "_I._ 'I heard it too.' "_B._ 'Did you indeed? That is remarkable. I never knew of two hearing it at the same time before.' "_I._ 'We will not go to Midgehope to-night.' "_B._ 'I would not go for all the world! I shall warrant it is my poor brother Wat. Who knows what these wild Irish may have done to him?'" The itching of the nose, like that of the ears, is not without its signification, denoting that a stranger will certainly appear before many hours have passed by, in allusion to which Dekker, in his "Honest Whore," says:--"We shall ha' guests to-day; my nose itcheth so." In the north of England, however, if the nose itches it is reckoned a sign that the person will either be crossed, vexed, or kissed by a fool; whereas an old writer tells us that "when a man's nose itcheth it is a signe he shall drink wine." Many omens, too, are gathered from bleeding of the nose. Thus Grose says, "One drop of blood from the nose commonly foretells death or a very severe fit of sickness; three drops are still more ominous;" and according to another notion one drop from the left nostril is a sign of good luck, and _vice versâ_. Bleeding of the nose seems also to have been regarded as a sign of love, if we may judge from a passage in Boulster's "Lectures," published early in the seventeenth century:--"'Did my nose ever bleed when I was in your company?' and, poor wretch, just as she spake this, to show her true heart, her nose fell a-bleeding." Again, that bleeding of the nose was looked upon as ominous in days gone by, we may gather from Launcelot's exclamation in the _Merchant of Venice_ (Act ii., sc. 5), "It was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black Monday last at six o'clock"--a superstition to which many of our old writers refer. Among further superstitions connected with the nose we may mention one in Cornwall, known as "the blue vein," an illustration of which occurs in Mr. Hunt's "Popular Romances of the West of England," who relates the following little anecdote:--"A fond mother was paying more than ordinary attention to a fine healthy-looking child, a boy about three years old. The poor woman's breast was heaving with emotion, and she struggled to repress her sighs. Upon inquiring if anything was really wrong, she said, 'The old lady of the house had just told her that the child could not live long because he had a blue vein across his nose.'" This piece of folk-lore, which caused the anxious mother such distress, is not confined to the West of England, but crops up here and there throughout the country. While speaking of the nose, we may just note that it is the subject of various proverbs. Thus "to put the nose out of joint" means to supplant one in another's favour, and the popular one of "paying through the nose," implying extortion, may, it has been suggested, have originated in a poll-tax levied by Odin, which was called in Sweden a nose-tax, and was a penny per nose or poll. Once more, we have the term "nose of wax" applied to a person who is very accommodating, and one may occasionally hear the phrase "wipe the nose" used in the sense of affront. Leaving the nose, however, we find similar odd fancies attached to the eye. In many places we are told that "it's a good thing to have meeting eyebrows, as such a person will never know trouble," although, curious to say, on the Continent quite a different significance is attributed to this peculiarity. In Greece, for instance, it is held as an omen that the man is a vampire, and in Denmark and Germany it is said to indicate that he is a werewolf. In China, also, there is a proverb that "people whose eyebrows meet can never expect to attain to the dignity of a minister of state." There can be no doubt that, according to the general idea, meeting eyebrows are not considered lucky:-- "Trust not the man whose eyebrows meet, For in his heart you'll find deceit." Thus, Charles Kingsley, in "Two Years Ago," speaks of this idea in the following passage:--"Tom began carefully scrutinising Mrs. Harvey's face. It had been very handsome. It was still very clever, but the eyebrows clashed together downwards above her nose, and rising higher at the outward corners, indicated, as surely as the restless down-drop eye, a character self-conscious, furtive, capable of great inconsistencies, possibly of great deceit." Again, the itching of the right eye is considered a lucky omen, an idea that is very old, and may be traced as far back as the time of Theocritus, who says:-- "My right eye itches now, and I shall see my love." According to the antiquary Grose, however, who collected together so many of the superstitions prevalent in his day, "When the right eye itches, the party affected will shortly cry; if the left, they will laugh." The power of fascination has generally been considered to be a peculiar quality of the eye, a notion by no means obsolete, and numerous charms have been resorted to for counteracting its influence. In our chapter on "Birth and Infancy" we have already spoken of the danger to which young children are said to be subject from the malevolent power of some evil eye, and of the pernicious effects resulting from it. Shakespeare gives several references to it, one of which occurs in the _Merry Wives of Windsor_ (Act v., sc. 5), where Pistol says of Falstaff:-- "Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth." And once more, in _Titus Andronicus_ (Act ii., sc. 1), Aaron speaks of Tamora as "----fetter'd in amorous chains-- And faster bound to Aaron's charming eyes, Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus." It was not very long ago that a curious case of this superstition was brought before the guardians of the Shaftesbury Union, in which an applicant for relief stated his inability to work because he had been "overlooked" by his sister-in-law. Although his wife had resorted for help to a wise-woman, yet she was unable to remove the spell under which he lay, and thus the unfortunate man, incapable of labour, applied for relief, which he did not obtain. In the next place, some of the superstitions connected with the teeth are quaint, and afford opportunities to the credulous for drawing omens of various kinds. Thus, to dream about teeth is held to be a warning that sorrow of some kind is at hand; and it is even unluckier still to dream of one's teeth falling out. It is also frequently the custom, for the sake of luck, to throw a tooth when extracted into the fire, a practice which, as we have already seen, is frequently most scrupulously kept up in the case of young children, to make sure of the remainder of their teeth coming properly. Furthermore, to have teeth wide apart is a sign of prosperity, and is said to indicate one's future happiness in life. As an instance of this piece of folk-lore we may quote the following, narrated by a correspondent in _Notes and Queries_:--"A young lady the other day, in reply to an observation of mine, 'What a lucky girl you are!' replied, 'So they used to say I should be when at school.' 'Why?' 'Because my teeth were set so far apart; it was a sure sign I should be lucky and travel.'" Trivial as many of these superstitions may seem, yet they are interesting, inasmuch as they show how minutely the imagination has at different times surrounded the human body with countless items of odd notions, some of which in all probability originated from practical experience, while others have been the result of a thousand circumstances, to ascertain the history of which would be a matter of long and elaborate research. Passing on to the hair, there is a popular notion that sudden fright or violent distress will, to use Sir Walter Scott's words, "blanch at once the hair." Thus, in Shakespeare's _1 Henry IV._ (Act ii., sc. 4), Falstaff, in his speech to Prince Henry, says:-- "Thy father's beard is turned white with the news." Although this has been styled "a whimsical notion," yet in its support various instances of its occurrence have been from time to time recorded. The hair of Ludwig of Bavaria, for example, it is said, became almost suddenly white as snow on his learning the innocence of his wife, whom he had caused to be put to death on a suspicion of infidelity; and the same thing, we are told, happened to Charles I. in a single night, when he attempted to escape from Carisbrooke Castle. A similar story is told of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, when her flight from France was checked at Varennes. According to another notion, excessive fear has occasionally caused the hair to stand on end, a belief which Shakespeare has recorded. In _Hamlet_ (Act iii., sc. 4), in that famous passage where the Queen is at a loss to understand her son's mysterious conduct and strange appearance, during his conversation with the ghost which is hidden to her eyes, she says:-- "And, as the sleeping soldiers in th' alarm, Your bedded hair, like life in excrements, Starts up, and stands on end." Once more, too, in that graphic scene in the _Tempest_ (Act i., sc. 2), where Ariel describes the shipwreck, he says:-- "All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, Then all afire with me; the king's son, Ferdinand, With hair up-staring--then like reeds, not hair-- Was the first man that leap'd." The sudden loss of hair is considered unlucky, being said to prognosticate the loss of children, health, or property; whereas many consider it imprudent to throw it away, or to leave the smallest scrap lying about. One reason assigned for this notion is that if hair is left about, birds might build their nests with it, a fatal thing for the person from whose head it has fallen. Thus, should a magpie use it for any such purpose--by no means an unlikely circumstance--the person's death will be sure to happen "within a year and a day." Some say, again, that hair should never be burnt, but only buried, a superstition founded on a tradition that at the resurrection its owner will come in search of it. On the other hand, it is customary with some persons to throw a piece of their hair into the fire, drawing various omens from the way it burns. Should it gradually smoulder away, it is an omen of death; but its burning brightly is a sign of longevity, and the brighter the flame the longer the life. In Devonshire, too, if the hair grows down on the forehead and retreats up the head above the temples, it is considered an indication that the person will have a long life. There is a very prevalent idea that persons who have much hair or down on their arms are, to quote the common expression, "born to be rich," although the exception, in this as in many other similar cases, rather proves the rule; but abundance of hair on the head has been supposed to denote a lack of brains, from whence arose an odd proverb, "Bush natural, more hair than wit." Once more, Judas is said to have had red hair, and hence, from time immemorial, there has been a strong antipathy to it. Shakespeare, in _As You Like It_ (Act iii., sc. 4), alludes to this belief, when he makes Rosalind say of Orlando:-- "His very hair is of the dissembling colour." To which Celia replies:-- "Something browner than Judas's." It has been conjectured, however, that the odium attached to red hair took its origin in this country from the aversion felt to the red-haired Danes. One reason, perhaps, more than another why this dislike to it arose, originated in the circumstance that the colour was thought ugly and unfashionable, and the antipathy to it, therefore, would naturally be increased by this opinion. Thus, in course of time, a red beard was also held in contempt, and was regarded as an infallible token of a vile disposition. Yellow hair, too, was formerly esteemed a deformity, and in ancient tapestries both Cain and Judas are represented with yellow beards, in allusion to which, in the _Merry Wives of Windsor_ (Act i., sc. 4), Simple, when interrogated, says of his master, "He hath but a little wee face, with a little yellow beard--a Cain-coloured beard." While alluding to beards, we may note that in former years they gave rise to various customs, many of which, however, have long ago fallen into disuse. Thus, dyeing beards was a common practice, and our readers may recollect how Bottom, in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ (Act i., sc. 2), is perplexed as to what beard he should wear in performing his part before the Duke. He says, "I will discharge it either in your straw-coloured beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow." It was evidently quite as much the habit for gentlemen to dye their beards in Shakespeare's day as it is said to be for ladies to dye their locks now-a-days. When beards, too, were the fashion, to mutilate or cut off one was considered an irreparable outrage. Pursuing our subject, we find that the cheek is not without its quota of folk-lore; for, like the ear, nose, and eye, it is considered ominous when one's cheek itches. According to Grose, "If the right cheek burns, some one is speaking to the person's advantage; if the left, to their disadvantage." One may still occasionally hear the following charm uttered by a person whose cheek suddenly burns:-- "Right cheek! left cheek! why do you burn? Cursed be she that doth me any harm; If she be a maid, let her be staid; If she be a widow, long let her mourn; But if it be my own true love--burn, cheek, burn." Again, the hand has been honoured with a very extensive folk-lore, and the following extract from an old writer shows that nearly every peculiarity of the hand has been made emblematical of some personal trait of character. Thus, we are told:--"A great thick hand signifies one not only strong, but stout; a little slender hand, one not only weak, but timorous; a long hand and long fingers betoken a man not only apt for mechanical artifice, but liberally ingenious. Those short, on the contrary, note a fool, and fit for nothing; a hard brawny hand signifies one dull and rude; a soft hand, one witty, but effeminate; a hairy hand, one luxurious. Long joints signify generosity; yet, if they be thick withal, one not so ingenious. The often clapping and folding of the hands note covetousness; and their much moving in speech, loquacity. Short and fat fingers mark a man out as intemperate and silly; but long and lean, as witty. If his fingers crook upward, that shows him liberal; if downward, niggardly. Long nails and crooked signify one to be brutish, ravenous, and unchaste; very short nails, pale and sharp, show him subtle and beguiling." Among other omens, we are told that the itching of the right hand signifies that it will shortly receive money, whereas if the left hand be the one to itch, it is a sign that money will before very many days have to be paid away. In Suffolk the peasants have the following rhyme on the subject:-- "If your hand itches, You're going to take riches; Rub it on wood, Sure to come good; Rub it on iron, Sure to come flying; Rub it on brass, Sure to come to pass; Rub it on steel, Sure to come a deal; Rub it on tin, Sure to come agin." A moist hand is said to denote an amorous constitution, and in _2 Henry IV._ (Act i., sc. 2), the Lord Chief Justice enumerates a dry hand among the characteristics of age and debility. Palmistry, or divination by means of the hands, a species of fortune-telling still much practised, we have already described in another chapter. A superstition, however, which we must not omit to mention, is the practice of rubbing with a dead hand for the purpose of taking away disease, instances of which, even now-a-days, are of occasional occurrence. Mr. Henderson mentions a case that happened about the year 1853. The wife of a pitman at Castle Eden Colliery, who was suffering from a wen in the neck, went alone, according to advice given her by a "wise woman," and lay all night in the out-house, with the hand of a corpse on her wen. She had been assured that the hand of a suicide was an infallible cure. The shock, at any rate, to her nervous system from that terrible night was so great that she did not rally for some months, and eventually she died from the wen. As a further specimen of this incredible superstition, we may quote the following case, which happened some years ago in an Eastern county. A little girl of about eight years of age had from birth been troubled with scrofulous disease, and had been reared with great difficulty. Her friends consulted the "wise man" of the neighbourhood, who told the mother that if she took the girl and rubbed her naked body all over with the hand of a dead man she would be cured. The experiment was tried, and the poor little girl was nearly killed with fright, and, of course, made no progress whatever towards health. Many of our readers are, no doubt, acquainted with the famous "dead man's hand," which was formerly kept at Bryn Hall, in Lancashire. It is said to have been the hand of Father Arrowsmith, a priest who, according to some accounts, was put to death for his religion in the time of William III. Preserved with great care in a white silken bag, this hand was resorted to by many diseased persons, and wonderful cures are reported to have been effected by this saintly relic. Thus, we are told of a woman who, afflicted with the small-pox, had this dead hand in bed with her every night for six weeks; and of a poor lad who was rubbed with it for the cure of scrofulous sores. It is, indeed, generally supposed that practices of this kind are rare and of exceptional occurrence, but they are far more common than might be imagined, although not recorded in newspapers. This is, however, in a great measure owing to the fact that those who believe in and have recourse to such rites observe secresy, for fear of meeting with ridicule from others. The nails, also, as we have mentioned in our chapter on Childhood, have their folk-lore, the little specks which are seen on them being regarded as ominous. Many have their particular days for cutting the nails. Of the numerous rhymes on the subject, we may quote the following as a specimen, from which it will be seen that every day has its peculiar virtue:-- "Cut them on Monday, you cut them for health; Cut them on Tuesday, you cut them for wealth; Cut them on Wednesday, you cut them for news; Cut them on Thursday, a new pair of shoes; Cut them on Friday, you cut them for sorrow; Cut them on Saturday, see your true love to-morrow; Cut them on Sunday, the devil will be with you all the week." This old rhyming-saw differs in various localities, although in the main points it is the same; as by general consent both Friday and Sunday are regarded as most inauspicious days for cutting both the nails and hair. Once more, to sit cross-legged is said to produce good fortune; and occasionally at a card-table one may find some superstitiously-inclined person sitting in this attitude with a view of securing good luck. Sir Thomas Browne, on the contrary, tells us that in days gone to "sit cross-legged, or with the fingers pectinated" or shut together, was accounted a sign of bad luck: a superstition alluded to by Pliny. Referring to the feet, we cannot do more than just allude to two or three items of folk-lore with which they are connected. Thus, a flat-footed person is generally considered to have a bad temper, a notion indeed which daily experience often proves to be incorrect. The itching of the foot has been supposed to indicate that its owner will shortly undertake a strange journey; while that unpleasant sensation popularly styled "the foot going to sleep," is often charmed away by crossing the foot with saliva. When the division between the toes is incomplete, and they are partially joined, they are called "twin toes," and are said to bring good luck. This section of our "Domestic Folk-lore" might have been prolonged to an almost indefinite extent had space permitted, but as the preceding pages amply bear witness to the prevalence of such ideas, we will proceed to discuss another, and, it is to be hoped, not less interesting class of superstitions. CHAPTER VII. ARTICLES OF DRESS. New Clothes at Easter and Whitsuntide--Wearing of Clothes--The Clothes of the Dead--The Apron, Stockings, Garters, &c.--The Shoe--The Glove--The Ring--Pins. One would scarcely expect to find a host of odd fancies attached to such matter-of-fact necessities as articles of dress, but yet they hold a prominent place in our domestic folk-lore. However trivial at first sight these may seem, they are nevertheless interesting, in so far as they illustrate certain features of our social history, and show from another point of view how superstition is interwoven with all that appertains to human life. Beginning, then, with a well-known piece of folk-lore, most persons wear new clothes on Easter-Day, mindful of the old admonition:-- "At Easter let your clothes be new, Or else be sure you will it rue" --a notion that still retains its hold on the popular mind, few being found bold enough to transgress this long-rooted custom. In the North of England, so strong is the feeling on this point, that young people rarely omit visiting the nearest market-town prior to Eastertide, to buy some new article of dress or personal ornament, as otherwise they believe the birds--notably rooks--will spoil their clothes. A similar fancy prevails with regard to Whitsuntide, and many would consider that they had forfeited their good luck for the next twelve months if they did not appear in "new things" on Whitsunday. The superstitions relating to clothes are very numerous, varying in different localities. Thus, according to a Suffolk notion, "if you have your clothes mended on your back, you will be ill-spoken of," or as they say in Sussex, "you will come to want." Again, many before putting on a new coat or dress, take care to place some money in the right-hand pocket, as this insures its always being full. If by mistake, however, the money is put in the left-hand pocket, then the person will never have a penny so long as the coat lasts. It is also a very prevalent belief that if one would secure luck with any article of dress, it must be worn for the first time at church. Equal attention, too, is paid by many to the way they put on each article of dress--as, in case of its being accidentally inside out, it is considered an omen of success. It is necessary, however, if one wishes the omen to hold good, to wear the reversed portion of attire with the wrong side out till the regular time comes for taking it off. If reversed earlier, the luck is immediately lost. The idea of the "hind-side before" is so closely related to that of "inside out," that one can hardly understand their being taken for contrary omens; yet, "It is worthy of remark, in connection with this superstition," says a correspondent of Chambers's "Book of Days," "that when William the Conqueror, in arming himself for the battle of Hastings, happened to put on his shirt of mail with the hind-side before, the bystanders seem to have been shocked by it, as by an ill-omen, till William claimed it as a good one, betokening that he was to be changed from a duke to a king." Another piece of superstition tells us that the clothes of the dead never last very long, but that as the body decays, so in the same degree do the garments and linen which belonged to the deceased. Hence, in Essex there is a popular saying to the effect that "the clothes of the dead always wear full of holes." When therefore a person dies, and the relatives, it may be, give away the clothes to the poor, one may frequently hear a remark of this kind, "Ah, they may look very well, but they won't wear; they belong to the dead." A similar belief prevails in Denmark, where a corpse is not allowed to be buried in the clothes of a living person, lest as the clothes rot in the grave, that person to whom they belonged should waste away and perish. In accordance also with a superstition prevalent in the Netherlands, the rings of a dead friend or relative are never given away, as it is a sure sign that the giver too will soon die. An absurd notion exists in many parts--one much credited by our country peasantry--that if a mother gives away all the baby's clothes in her possession, she will be sure to have another addition to her family, although the event may be contrary to all expectation. Among other items of folk-lore associated with clothes, we may mention that in the North of England to put a button or hook into the wrong hole while one is dressing in the morning, is held to be a warning that some misfortune will happen in the course of the day; and in Northamptonshire it is said that servants who go to their places in black will never stay the year out. A Dorsetshire superstition is that if a gentleman accidentally burns the tail of his coat, or a lady the hem of her skirt, during a visit at a friend's house, it is a proof they will repeat their visit. Another article of dress that has its superstitions is the apron, which some women turn before the new moon, to insure good luck for the ensuing month. In Yorkshire, when a married woman's apron falls off, it is a sign that something is coming to vex her; when, however, the apron of an unmarried girl drops down, she is frequently the object of laughter, as there is considered no surer sign than that she is thinking about her sweetheart. Again, if a young woman's petticoats are longer than her dress, this is a proof that her mother does not love her so much as her father, a notion which extends as far as Scotland. This piece of folk-lore may have originated in the mother not attending so much to the child's dress as was her duty, whereas, however much the father may love his child, he may at the same time be perfectly ignorant of the rights and wrongs of female attire: an excuse which does not hold good in the case of the mother. Some of the descriptions of plants in use among the rural peasantry refer to the petticoat. Thus, the poppy is said to have a red petticoat and a green gown; the daffodil, a yellow petticoat and green gown, and so on; these fancies being the subject of many of our old nursery rhymes, as, for instance:-- "Daffadown-dilly is come up to town, In a yellow petticoat and a green gown." Passing on in the next place to stockings, it is lucky, as with other articles of dress, to put one wrong-side out, but unlucky to turn it on discovering one's mistake. Some, too, consider it a matter of importance as to which foot they put the stocking on first when dressing themselves in the morning--the luck of the day being supposed in a great measure to depend on this circumstance--as to clothe the left foot before the right one is a sign of misfortune. "Flinging the stocking" was an old marriage custom, being really a kind of divination, which Misson, in his "Travels through England," thus describes:--"The young men, it seems, took the bride's stockings, and the girls those of the bridegroom, each of whom, sitting at the foot of the bed, threw the stocking over their heads, endeavouring to make it fall upon that of the bride or her spouse; if the bridegroom's stocking, thrown by the girls, fell upon the bridegroom's head, it was a sign that they themselves would soon be married; and similar luck was derived from the falling of the bride's stockings, thrown by the young men." There is a superstitious notion in some places that when the bride retires to rest on her wedding-night, her bridesmaids should lay her stockings across, as this act is supposed to guarantee her future prosperity in the marriage state. Another use to which the stocking has been put is its being hung up to receive presents at Christmas-time, a custom which, as Mr. Henderson points out, the Pilgrim Fathers carried to America, and bequeathed to their descendants. It is curious to find even the garter an object of superstition, being employed by young women in their love divinations on Midsummer Eve, a period, it must be remembered, considered most propitious for such ceremonies. Their mode of procedure is this:--The maiden anxious to have a peep of her future husband must sleep in a county different from that in which she usually resides, and on going to bed must take care to knit the left garter about the right stocking, repeating the following incantation, and at every pause knitting a knot:-- "This knot I knit To know the thing I know not yet; That I may see The man that shall my husband be; How he goes, and what he wears, And what he does all days and years." On retiring to rest the wished-for one will appear in her dreams, wearing the insignia of his trade or profession. Again, as a popular object of superstition the shoe is unrivalled, and antiquaries are still undecided as to why our forefathers invested this matter-of-fact article of dress with such mysterious qualities, selecting it as the symbol of good fortune, one of the well-known uses in which it has been employed being the throwing of it for luck, constant allusions to which practice occur in our old writers. Thus, Beaumont and Fletcher, in _The Honest Man's Fortune_, refer to it:-- "Captain, your shoes are old; pray put 'em off, And let one fling 'em after us." And Ben Jonson, in his _Masque of the Gipsies_, represents one of the gipsies as saying:-- "Hurle after an old shoe, I'll be merry what e'er I doe." This custom, which was once so prevalent, has not yet died out, for in Norfolk, whenever servants are going after new situations, a shoe is thrown after them, with the wish that they may succeed in what they are going about. Some years ago, when vessels engaged in the Greenland whale fishery left Whitby, in Yorkshire, the wives and friends of the sailors threw old shoes at the ships as they passed the pier-head. Indeed, this practice is frequently observed in towns on the sea-coast, and a correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ informs us that one day, when at Swansea, he received a shoe on his shoulder which was intended for a young sailor leaving his home to embark upon a trading voyage. Tennyson has not omitted to speak of this piece of superstition:-- "For this thou shalt from all things seek Marrow of mirth and laughter; And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall throw her old shoe after." As an emblem of good luck, the shoe is thrown with much enthusiasm after a bridal couple. Various explanations have been given of this popular custom. Some think that it was originally intended as a sham assault on the bridegroom for carrying off the bride; and hence a survival of the old ceremony of opposition to the capture of a bride. Others again are of opinion that the shoe was in former times a symbol of the exercise of dominion and authority over her by her father or guardian; the receipt of the shoe by the bridegroom, even if accidental, being an omen that the authority was transferred to him. Thus, in the Bible, the receiving of a shoe was an evidence and symbol of asserting or accepting dominion or ownership; whereas the giving back of the shoe was the symbol of resigning it. Another reason for throwing the shoe is given in the following old rhyme:-- "When Britons bold Wedded of old, Sandals were backward thrown, The pair to tell That, ill or well, The act was all their own." Throwing the shoe after the wedded pair was, also, no doubt intended as an augury of long life to the bride. In Yorkshire the ceremony of shoe-throwing is termed "thrashing," and the older the shoe the greater the luck; and in some parts of Kent the mode of procedure is somewhat peculiar. After the departure of the bride and bridegroom the single ladies are drawn up in one row, and the bachelors in another. When thus arranged, an old shoe is thrown as far as possible, which the fair sex run for: the winner being considered to have the best chance of marriage. She then throws the shoe at the gentlemen, when the first who gets it is believed to have the same chance of matrimony. A somewhat similar custom prevails in Germany, where the bride's shoe is thrown among the guests at the wedding, the person who succeeds in catching it being supposed to have every prospect of a speedy marriage. Many auguries are still gathered from the shoe. Thus young girls on going to bed at night place their shoes at right angles to one another, in the form of the letter T, repeating this rhyme:-- "Hoping this night my true love to see, I place my shoes in the form of a T." As in the case of the stocking, great importance is attached by many superstitious persons as to which shoe they put on first, in allusion to which Butler, in his "Hudibras," says:-- "Augustus, having b' oversight Put on his left shoe 'fore his right, Had like to have been slain that day By soldiers mutin'ing for pay." An old writer speaking of Jewish customs tells us that "some of them observe, in dressing themselves in the morning, to put on the right stocking and right shoe first without tying it. Then afterwards to put on the left shoe, and so return to the right; that so they may begin and end with the right one, which they account to be the most fortunate." A Suffolk doggrel respecting the "wear of shoes" teaches us the following:-- "Tip at the toe: live to see woe; Wear at the side: live to be a bride; Wear at the ball: live to spend all; Wear at the heel: live to save a deal." Among some of the many charms in which the shoe has been found efficacious, may be mentioned one practised in the North of England, where the peasantry, to cure cramp, are in the habit of laying their shoes across to avert it. Mrs. Latham, in her "West Sussex Superstitions," published in the "Folk-lore Record," tells us of an old woman who was at a complete loss to understand why her "rheumatics was so uncommon bad, for she had put her shoes in the form of a cross every night by the side of her head, ever since she felt the first twinge." In the same county, a cure for ague consists in wearing a leaf of tansy in the shoe. It is curious that the shoe should have entered into the superstitions associated with death. According to an Aryan tradition, the greater part of the way from the land of the living to that of death lay through morasses, and vast moors overgrown with furze and thorns. That the dead might not pass over them barefoot, a pair of shoes was laid with them in the grave. Hence a funeral is still called in the Henneberg district "dead-shoe," and in Scandinavia the shoe itself is known as "hel-shoe." There are countless other items of folk-lore connected with the shoe: thus in days gone by the phrase, "Over shoes, over boots" was equivalent to the popular phrase, "In for a penny, in for a pound," an allusion to which we find in Taylor's "Workes" (1630):-- "Where true courage roots, The proverb says, once over shoes, o'er boots." Again, "to stand in another man's shoe" is a popular expression for occupying the place or laying claim to the honours of another. "Looking for dead men's shoes" is still an every-day phrase denoting those who are continually expecting some advantage which will accrue to them on the death of another. The shoe-horn, too, from its convenient use in drawing on a tight shoe, was formerly applied in a jocular metaphor to subservient and tractable assistants. Thus, for instance, Shakespeare in _Troilus and Cressida_ (Act v., sc. 1) makes Thersites in his railing mood give this name to Menelaus, whom he calls "a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain, hanging at his brother's (Agamemnon's) leg." It was also employed as a contemptuous phrase for danglers after young women. A further article of dress that has had much honour conferred upon it is the glove, holding as it does a conspicuous place in many of our old customs and ceremonies. Thus in days gone by it was given, by way of delivery or investiture, in sales or conveyances of lands and goods. It was also employed as the token of a challenge to fight, a symbolical staking, perhaps of the prowess of the hand to which the glove belonged. Hence to hang up a glove in church was a public challenge, very much as a notice affixed to a church-door is a public notice. _Apropos_ of this custom, a story is given in the life of the Rev. Bernard Gilpin, of the diocese of Durham, who died in 1583. It appears that he observed a glove hanging high up in his church, and ascertaining that it was designed as a challenge to any one who should dare to displace it, he desired his sexton to do so. "Not I, sir, I dare do no such thing," he replied. Whereupon the parson called for a long staff, and taking it down himself, put it in his pocket. Preaching afterwards on the subject, he denounced this unseemly practice, saying, "Behold, I have taken it down myself," and producing the glove, he exhibited it to the whole congregation as a spectacle of honour. This custom, we are told, does not appear to have been much older in this country than the thirteenth century, for Matthew Paris, in writing of the year 1245, speaks of it expressly as French. Noblemen wore their ladies' gloves in front of their hats, a practice mentioned by Drayton as having been in vogue at the battle of Agincourt:-- "The noble youth, the common rank above, On their courveting coursers mounted fair, One wore his mistress' garter, one her glove, And he her colours whom he most did love; There was not one but did some favour wear; And each one took it on his happy speed, To make it famous by some knightly deed." The gift of a pair of gloves was at one time the ordinary perquisite of those who performed some small service; and in process of time, to make the reward of greater value, the glove was "lined" with money; hence the term "glove-money." Relics of the old custom still survive in the presentation of gloves to those who attend weddings and funerals. It is difficult, however, to discover the connection between gloves and a stolen kiss. Our readers, for example, may recollect how, in Sir Walter Scott's "Fair Maid of Perth," Catharine steals from her chamber on St. Valentine's morn, and catching Henry Smith asleep, gives him a kiss; then we have the following:--"Come into the booth with me, my son, and I will furnish thee with a fitting theme. Thou knowest the maiden who ventures to kiss a sleeping man, wins of him a pair of gloves." Gloves are still given to a judge at a maiden assize, a custom which, it has been suggested, originated in a Saxon law, which forbade the judges to wear gloves while sitting on the Bench. Hence, to give a pair of gloves to a judge was tantamount to saying that he need not trouble to come to the Bench, but might wear gloves. Again, in bygone times gloves were worn as a mark of distinction by sovereigns, ecclesiastical dignitaries, and others; their workmanship being excessively costly, richly embroidered as they were and decorated with jewels. "The association of gloves with ecclesiastical dignity survived," says Mr. Leadam in the _Antiquary_, "the Reformation in England; for although they ceased to be worn in the services of the Church, yet as late as the reign of Charles II. bishops upon their consecration were accustomed to present gloves to the archbishop, and to all who came to their consecration banquet. The lavender gloves with golden fringes which do often adorn their portraits, may still remind our modern prelates of the ancient glories of their predecessors." It was also customary to hang a pair of white gloves on the pews of unmarried villagers who had died in the flower of their youth, and at several towns in England it has been customary from time immemorial to announce a fair by hoisting a huge glove upon a pole--a practice which exists at Macclesfield, Portsmouth, Southampton, and Chester; the glove being taken down at the conclusion of the fair. Hone, in his description of Exeter Lammas Fair, says:--"The charter for this fair is perpetuated by a glove of immense size, stuffed and carried through the city on a very long pole, decorated with ribbons, flowers, &c., and attended with music, parish beadles, and the nobility. It is afterwards placed on the top of the Guildhall, and then the fair commences; on the taking down of the glove the fair terminates." Mr. Leadam also quotes a passage from the "Speculum Saxonicum" which throws light on the origin of this custom:--"No one is allowed to set up a market or a mint, without the consent of the ordinary or judge of that place; the king ought also to send a glove as a sign of his consent to the same." The glove, therefore, was the king's glove, the earliest form of royal charter, the original sign-manual. Among other items of folk-lore connected with this useful article of dress, we may mention that the term "right as my glove" is a phrase, according to Sir Walter Scott, derived from the practice of pledging the glove as the sign of irrefragable faith. Gloves, too, were in olden times fashionable new year's gifts, having been far more expensive than now-a-days. When Sir Thomas More was Lord Chancellor, he happened to determine a case in favour of a lady named Croaker, who, as a mark of her gratitude, sent him a new year's gift in the shape of a pair of gloves with forty angels in them. But Sir Thomas returned the money with the following letter:--"Mistress, since it were against good manners to refuse your new year's gift, I am content to take your gloves, but as for the lining I utterly refuse it." In the time of Queen Elizabeth, the rural bridegroom wore gloves in his hat as a sign of good husbandry; and on the "Border" to bite the glove was considered a pledge of deadly vengeance, in allusion to which Sir Walter Scott, in his "Lay of the Last Minstrel," says:-- "Stern Rutherford right little said, But bit his glove and shook his head." The ring, apart from its eventful history, has from the most remote period been surrounded, both in this and other countries, not only with a most extensive legendary lore, but with a vast array of superstitions, a detailed account of which would be impossible in a small volume like the present one; so we must confine ourselves to some of the most popular. In the first place, then, certain mysterious virtues have been supposed to reside in rings, not so much on account of their shape as from the materials of which they have been composed. Thus, they have been much worn as talismans or charms, being thought to be infallible preservatives against unseen dangers of every kind. Referring to some of these, we find, for instance, that the turquoise ring was believed to possess special properties, a superstition to which Dr. Donne alludes:-- "A compassionate turquoise, that doth tell, By looking pale, the wearer is not well." Fenton, too, in his "Secret Wonders of Nature," describes the stone:--"The turkeys doth move when there is any peril prepared to him that weareth it." The turquoise ring of Shylock, which, we are told in the _Merchant of Venice_ (Act iii., sc. 1), he would not part with for a "wilderness of monkeys," was, no doubt, valued for its secret virtues. The carbuncle, again, amongst other properties, was said to give out a natural light, to which it has been supposed Shakespeare alludes in _Titus Andronicus_ (Act ii., sc. 3), where, speaking of the ring on the finger of Bassianus, he says:-- "Upon his bloody finger he doth wear A precious ring, that lightens all the hole, Which, like a taper in some monument, Doth shine upon the dead man's earthy cheeks, And shows the ragged entrails of the pit." A piece of popular superstition makes it unlucky to wear an opal ring, although this lovely stone has always been an object of peculiar admiration from the beautiful variety of colours which it displays, and in the Middle Ages was even thought to possess the united virtues of all the gems with whose distinctive colours it was emblazoned. The diamond was believed to counteract poison, a notion which prevailed to a comparatively late period; though, according to another belief, it was considered the most dangerous of poisons, and as such we find it enumerated among the poisons administered to Sir Thomas Overbury, when a prisoner in the Tower. An emerald ring was thought to insure purity of thought; and a toadstone ring was worn as an amulet to preserve new-born children and their mothers from fairies. Among the omens associated with rings, we may briefly note that to lose a ring which has been given as a pledge of affection is unlucky; as also is the breaking of a ring on the finger; while further superstitions relating to the wedding-ring have been noticed at length in our chapter on marriage. In days gone by, too, "medicated rings" were held in great repute, and were much used for the cure of diseases, instances of which we find among the remedies still in use for cramp, epilepsy, and fits. Silver seems to have been considered highly efficacious; and rings made of lead, mixed with quicksilver, were worn as charms against headaches and other complaints. Dactylomancy, or divination by rings, is not quite forgotten among eager aspirants after matrimony, one mode being to suspend a ring by a thread or hair within a glass tumbler, notice being taken as to how many times it strikes the sides of the glass without being touched. Once more, there is an old piece of folk-lore on the colours of stones in "keepsake rings":-- "Oh, green is forsaken, And yellow is forsworn, But blue is the prettiest colour that's worn." Passing from the ring to another article of dress--perhaps the most insignificant--namely, the pin, we nevertheless find it invested with all kinds of curious superstitions. Thus, it is said that on seeing a pin, one should always pick it up for the sake of good luck, as those who omit to do so run into imminent danger of being overtaken by misfortune, a notion embodied in the following rhyme:-- "See a pin and pick it up, All the day you'll have good luck; See a pin and let it lie, All the day you'll have to cry." Why, however, North-country people are so persistent in their refusal to give one another a pin, it is not easy to discover. When asked for a pin, they invariably reply, "You may take one; but, mind, I do not give it." One of the most popular species of enchantment to which pins have been applied is that sometimes employed in counteracting the evil effects of witchcraft. One mode is by "pin-sticking," a case of which recently occurred in the parish of Honiton Clyst, in Devonshire. A landlord having lost one of his tenants, certain repairs and improvements were found necessary to prepare for the next. In carrying out the work a chimney had to be explored, when, in the course of the operation, there was found carefully secreted a pig's heart stuck all over with thin prickles, evidently a substitute for pins. This is supposed to have been done by the direction of some "wise" or cunning person, as a means of taking revenge on the witch to whose incantations the party considered some mischief due, in the belief that the heart of the ill-wisher would be pierced in like manner, until it eventually became as pulseless as that of the pig. It appears, too, that pins were largely used in a particular species of sorcery. Whenever, for instance, some malevolent individual wished to carry out her ill-natured designs, she made a clay image of the person she intended to harm, baptised the said image with the name of the party whom it was meant to represent, and stuck it full of pins or burnt it. Where the pins were placed the person whom it represented was afflicted with pain, and as the figure wasted, so he was said to waste away. Shakespeare alludes to this superstition, and in _Richard III._ (Act iii., sc. 4) makes the Duke of Gloucester say to Hastings:-- "Then be your eyes the witness of this ill, See how I am bewitch'd; behold, mine arm Is, like a blasted sapling, withered up! And this is Edward's wife, that monstrous witch Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore, That by their witchcraft thus have marked me." Pins, too, have been in extensive demand for divination, and here and there throughout the country we find "wishing wells," into which if the passers-by only drop a crooked pin and breathe their wish, it is said they may rest assured of its fulfilment at some future date. So much, then, for our illustrations of the folk-lore of dress, a subject which, interesting though it is, we have now discussed at sufficient length. CHAPTER VIII. TABLE SUPERSTITIONS. Thirteen at Table--Salt-spilling--The Knife--Bread, and other Articles of Food--Wishing Bones--Tea-leaves--Singing before Breakfast--Shaking Hands across the Table. It is frequently found that even strong-minded persons are not exempt from the prejudice against sitting down to dinner when there are only thirteen present. Many amusing anecdotes are recorded of the devices resorted to for avoiding the consequences supposed to be incurred by the neglect of this superstition--the notion being that one of the thirteen, generally the youngest, will die within the next twelve months. To avoid, therefore, any such contingency, many persons, should they be disappointed in one of their guests, have the empty place filled by a child, and should one not always be forthcoming, no slight inconvenience is occasionally produced. Not very long ago a case was recorded in which a lady, not being able at the last moment to make up the number fourteen, had her favourite cat seated at the table, hoping thereby to break the fatal spell attaching to the unlucky number thirteen. The origin popularly assigned to this widespread superstition is the fact that thirteen was the number at the Last Supper, Judas being the thirteenth. A correspondent of the _Gentleman's Magazine_, however, writing at the close of the last century, says that it is "founded on the calculations adhered to by the insurance offices, which presume that out of thirteen persons, taken indiscriminately, one will die within a year." But this is not the probable origin, that which connects it with the Last Supper being no doubt the correct one. Some, says Lord Lyttelton, in _Notes and Queries_, have carried the superstition "to the extent of disliking the number thirteen at all times; but the commoner form limits it to Friday--not that there is any ground for fact in this, for the Last Supper was on the fifth, not the sixth day of the week. Sailors are held somewhat superstitious, and I knew an eminent naval officer who actually would walk out of the room when the conjunction happened on a Friday, after the death of the wife and eldest daughter, both of which events were preceded by the said conjunction." Among other instances of this piece of superstition, we may quote the following, related by Addison in the _Spectator_:--"I remember," he says, "I was one in a mixed assembly that was full of wine and mirth, when on a sudden an old woman unluckily observed that there were thirteen of us in company. This remark struck a panic terror into several who were present, insomuch that one or two of the ladies were going to leave the room; but a friend of mine, taking notice that one of our female companions was likely to become a mother, affirmed there were fourteen in the room, and that instead of portending that one in the company should die, it plainly foretold that one of them should be born. Had not my friend found this expedient to break the omen, I question not but half the women in the company should have fallen sick that very night." Again, we may give another anecdote recorded by Rachel, the celebrated _tragédienne_. On her return from Egypt, in the spring of 1857, she installed herself in a villa in the neighbourhood of Montpellier. There she received a visit from the poet Ponsard and Arséne Houssaye, the latter of whom was making a tour as inspector of the Departmental Museums. "Do you recollect the dinner we had at the house of Victor Hugo, at the close of the repetition of _L'Angelo_?" she said to the former. "You remember there were _thirteen_ of us. There was Hugo and his wife, you and your wife, Rebecca and I, Girardin and his wife, and some others. Well! where to-day are the thirteen? Victor Hugo and his wife are in Jersey; your wife is dead; Madame de Girardin is dead; my poor Rebecca is dead; Gerard de Nerval, Oradie, Alfred de Musset are dead. I--say no more. There remain but Girardin and you. Adieu! my friends. Never laugh at thirteen at a table!" Anecdotes, indeed, relating to this superstition are without number, and form many an amusing episode in the lives of noted characters. It may be mentioned here that the number thirteen is considered ominous in other ways. Fuller, by way of example, tells us how a covetous courtier complained to King Edward VI. that Christ College, Cambridge, was a superstitious foundation, consisting of a master and twelve fellows, in imitation of Christ and His twelve Apostles. He, therefore, advised the king to take away one or two fellowships, so as to dissolve that unlucky number. "Oh, no," replied the king, "I have a better way than that to mar their conceit; I will add a thirteenth fellowship to them," which he accordingly did. Another equally popular superstition is the ill-luck supposed to attach to salt-spilling: one notion being that to upset the salt-cellar while in the act of handing it to any one is a sign of an impending quarrel between the parties. It is also said to indicate sorrow or trouble to the person spilling it, and to counteract the evil consequences of this unlucky act one should fling some salt over the shoulder. Gay speaks of this popular fancy in the fable of the "Farmer's Wife and the Raven":-- "The salt was spilt, to me it fell, Then to contribute to my loss, My knife and fork were laid across." Indeed constant allusions are found to this widespread superstition both in our old and modern writers. Gayton, describing two friends, says:-- "I have two friends of either sex, which do Eat little salt, or none, yet are friends too, Of both which persons I can truly tell, They are of patience most invincible Whom out of temper no mischance at all Can put--no, if towards them the salt should fall." This piece of folk-lore dates back up to the time of the Romans, and at the present day is not limited to our own country. It has been suggested that it may have originated from the circumstance that salt was formerly used in sacrifices, and that to spill it when once placed on the head of the victim was regarded as a bad omen. Bailey, however, assigns a very different reason, telling us that salt was considered by the ancients incorruptible, and on this account was made the symbol of friendship. If it, therefore, was spilt, the persons between whom it happened thought their friendship would not be of long duration. Some people dislike even so much as to put salt on another person's plate, considering this act equivalent to wishing one's neighbour misfortune. Hence there is a well-known couplet:-- "Help me to salt, Help me to sorrow." A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ relates how one day he offered to help an old Highland lady at dinner to some salt from the cellar, which stood much nearer to him than to her; when she gravely put back his hand, and drew away her plate, saying at the same time, with a kind of shudder, between her teeth, "Help me to salt, help me to sorrow." The ill-luck may be averted by a second help. Salt has also been considered a powerful safeguard against evil spirits; and in Scotland it was once customary in brewing to throw a handful of salt on the top of the mash to ward off witches. Again, as an interesting illustration of the change which has passed over our domestic manners, we may quote the phrase "to sit above the salt," that is, in a place of honour, whereby a marked and invidious distinction was formerly maintained among those at the same table. A large salt-cellar was usually placed about the middle of a long table, the places above which were assigned to the guests of distinction, those below to inferiors and poor relations. It argues little for the delicacy of our ancestors that they should have permitted such ill-natured distinctions at their board; often, as it has been said, placing their guests "below the salt" for no better purpose than that of mortifying them. Hence Ben Jonson, speaking of the characteristics of an insolent coxcomb, says:--"His fashion is not to take knowledge of him that is beneath him in clothes. He never drinks below the salt." Among the many other odd items of folk-lore associated with the table, we may mention in the next place those relating to the knife. Thus, to let a knife drop is a sign that a visitor is coming to the house; and to lay the knife and fork crosswise on one's plate is an omen that crosses and troubles will soon occur. Equally unlucky, too, is it to give any kind of knife away, for, as Gay in his "Shepherd's Week" says:-- "But woe is me! such presents luckless prove, For knives, they tell me, always sever love." Indeed, this superstition is not confined to a knife, but extends to any sharp or cutting instrument, such as a pair of scissors, a razor, &c. To avoid the danger of such a misfortune, some trifling recompense must be made in return. This superstition was confuted by a versifier of the last century--the Rev. Samuel Bishop--who presented a knife to his wife on her fifteenth wedding-day, with a copy of some very clever verses of which the following are a specimen:-- "A knife, dear girl, cuts love, they say, Mere modish love perhaps it may; For any tool of any kind Can separate what was never joined; The knife that cuts our love in two Will have much tougher work to do; Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit, Down to the vulgar size of merit," &c. Some consider it unlucky to find a knife, from a notion that it will bring ill-luck to them; while others again often place a knife near a sleeping child as a charm to preserve it from danger, a belief to which Herrick thus refers:-- "Let the superstitious wife Near the child's heart lay a knife; Point be up, and haft be down; While she gossips in the town. This 'mongst other mystic charms Keeps the sleeping child from harms." Even the loaf of bread, too, without which the most frugal board would be incomplete, has not escaped without its quota of folk-lore. Thus, many a housewife still marks the sign of the cross upon her loaf before placing it in the oven, just as the Durham butcher does to the shoulder of a sheep or lamb after taking off the skin--the notion probably being to protect it against the injurious influence of witchcraft. In many parts of Scotland peasants were formerly in the habit of making a cross on their tools, considering that by so doing they would be rendered safe against the mischievous pranks of the fairy folks as they went on their midnight errands. Again, if a loaf accidentally parts in the hand while an unmarried lady is cutting it, this either prognosticates that she will not be married during the next twelve months, or, what is still worse, that there will be a dissension of some kind in the family. Some, too, have a superstitious objection to turning a loaf upside-down after cutting it. Herrick refers to the custom of carrying a crust of bread in the pocket for luck's sake--a practice which is not quite obsolete:-- "If ye fear to be affrighted When ye are, by chance, benighted; In your pocket for a trust Carry nothing but a crust, For that holy piece of bread Charms the danger and the dread." While speaking of bread it may not be inappropriate to refer to a few other articles of fare around which superstition has cast its mantle. Thus, eggs have an extensive folk-lore both in this and other countries. Many persons, for instance, after eating an egg take special care to crush the shell; the omission of this ceremony, as they fancy, being attended with ill-luck. Sir Thomas Browne informs us that the real reason is to prevent witchcraft: "lest witches should draw or prick their names therein, and veneficiously mischief their person, they broke the shell." It is also considered a bad omen to bring eggs into the house after dark, and many persons avoid burning egg-shells lest the hens should cease to lay. According to a superstition current in the West of England, one should always make a hole through an egg-shell before throwing it away, as, unless this is done, there is a danger of witches using them to put to sea for the purpose of wrecking ships. Beaumont and Fletcher in their "Women Pleased" allude to this notion:-- "The devil should think of purchasing that egg-shell To victual out a witch for the Burmoothies." Just as it is considered, too, unlucky to bring eggs into the house after dark, so the same prejudice exists with regard to taking them out. One day, we are told in the _Stamford Mercury_ (Oct. 29, 1852), a person in want of some eggs called at a farmhouse and inquired of the good woman whether she had any eggs to sell, to which she replied that she had a few scores to dispose of. "Then I'll take them home with me in the cart," was his answer, to which she somewhat indignantly replied, "That you will not; don't you know the sun has gone down? You are welcome to the eggs at a proper hour of the day, but I would not let them go out of the house after the sun is set on any consideration whatever." A Norfolk superstition warns persons against eating the marrow of pork lest they should go mad; and, in the North of England, we are told that should the meat for dinner shrink in the pot, it presages a downfall in life. Should it swell, on the contrary, to a large size, it denotes that the head of the family will be prosperous in his undertakings. These odd fancies vary in different localities, and in out-of-the-way districts where the railway has not yet penetrated, they still retain their hold on the primitive and uncultivated minds of our agricultural peasantry. At the same time, however, occasional survivals of many of these old worn-out superstitions crop up in unexpected quarters, showing they are not completely dead. Thus, our children still practise their divination by means of the "wishing bone" of a fowl, and are, moreover, ever on the alert to discover, what they consider, infallible omens from any article of food which nursery tradition has stamped as possessing such remarkable qualities. As we have already pointed out in another chapter, tea-leaves often afford to both old and young a constant source of amusement; and we may, now and then, find some elderly damsel, who still aspires to enter one day on the marriage state, taking care to put the milk into her tea before the sugar lest she should lose her chance of securing a sweetheart. Mrs. Latham, too, tells us how matrimonial fortunes are often told by seers at home from the grounds or sediment remaining at the bottom of a tea-cup; and where to unenlightened eyes nothing is apparent but a little black dust floating in a slop, those who have the wit to do so may discern a hidden meaning. Again, among the host of small superstitions connected with our daily meals, one at the very outset relates to breakfast; there being a widespread belief that if a person sings before breakfast, he will cry before supper. This notion probably has some reference to another popular one, namely, that high spirits forebode evil, proving the forerunner of adversity. Many anecdotes illustrative of this theory have been recorded at various times. In the last act of _Romeo and Juliet_, Romeo is introduced as saying:-- "If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand; My bosom's lord sits lightly on his throne; And all this day an unaccustomed spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts." In the evidence given at the inquest upon the bodies of four persons killed by an explosion at a firework manufactory in Bermondsey, October 12th, 1849, one of the witnesses stated:--"On Friday they were all very merry, and Mrs. B. said she feared something would happen before they went to bed, because they were so happy." If, in a social gathering of any kind, an unmarried person is inadvertently placed between a man and his wife, it is an indication that the individual so seated will be married within the course of a year. Many consider it unlucky to shake hands across the table; and there is also an old superstition mentioned by Grose, that, in eating, to miss the mouth and let the food fall is a bad omen, betokening approaching sickness. Once more, if a person in rising from table overturns his chair, this is not a very fortunate occurrence, as it is said to show that he has been speaking untruths. Without further extending our list of the superstitious beliefs and practices that have clustered round the table--to which many of our readers will doubtless be able to make their own additions--we may briefly sum up this branch of the subject by saying:-- "'Tis a history Handed from ages down; a nurse's tale, Which children open-eyed and mouth'd devour, And thus, as garrulous ignorance relates, We learn it and believe." CHAPTER IX. FURNITURE OMENS. Folk-lore of the Looking-glass--Luck of Edenhall--Clock-falling--Chairs--Beds--The Bellows. The desire to gather omens from the various surrounding objects of every-day life has naturally included articles of furniture; and hence we find signs and portents attached to certain of these which are implicitly credited by many, from the highest to the lowest, who, notwithstanding, would consider themselves deeply insulted if the idea of their being superstitious were only so much as hinted at by some sceptical friend. Among the most common of these odd fancies are those relating to the looking-glass. As a piece of furniture this is most necessary, and its very importance is, perhaps, the chief reason why superstition has invested it with those mysterious qualities which certainly do not belong in the same ratio to chairs and tables. A chair, however beautiful and costly in its manufacture, may nevertheless be cruelly broken with perfect impunity; whereas, if some wretched, dilapidated looking-glass is accidentally cracked, the inmates of the house are thoroughly discomposed, from a conviction that such an event is sure to be followed by misfortune of some kind or other. In Cornwall, the supposed penalty for such an offence is seven years of sorrow; and a Yorkshire proverb informs us that this unfortunate occurrence entails "seven years' trouble, but no want." It has also been said to foretell the speedy decease of the master of the house; and in Scotland it is regarded as an infallible sign that some member of the family will shortly die. It has been suggested that this popular superstition dates very many years back, and probably originated in the terror inspired by the destruction of the reflected human image--an interesting illustration of how the formation of certain ideas is often determined by mere analogy. A similar style of thinking also underlies the mediæval necromancer's practice of making a waxen image of his enemy, and shooting at it with arrows in order to bring about his death. The folk-lore, however, of the looking-glass does not end here; for many consider it the height of ill-luck to see the new moon reflected in a looking-glass or through a window-pane; and some mothers studiously prevent their youngest child looking in one until a year old. It is also associated with marriage and death. Thus, in the South of England it is regarded as a bad omen for a bride on her wedding morning to take a last peep in the glass when she is completely dressed in her bridal attire, before starting for the church. Hence very great care is generally taken to put on a glove or some slight article of adornment after the final lingering and reluctant look has been taken in the mirror. The idea is that any young lady who is too fond of the looking-glass will be unfortunate when married. This is by no means the only occasion on which superstitious fancy interferes with the grown-up maiden's peeps into the looking-glass. Thus, Swedish young ladies are afraid of looking in the glass after dark, or by candle-light, lest by so doing they should forfeit the goodwill of the other sex. The practice of covering the looking-glass, or removing it from the chamber of death, still prevails in some parts of England--the notion being that "all vanity, all care for earthly beauty, are over with the deceased." It has also been suggested that, as the invisible world trenches closely upon the visible one in the chamber of death, a superstitious dread is felt of some spiritual being imaging himself forth in the blank surface of the mirror. Mr. Baring Gould considers that the true reason for shrouding the looking-glass before a funeral was that given him in Warwickshire, where there is a popular notion that if a person looks into a mirror in the chamber of death he will see the corpse looking over his shoulder. Again, Brand informs us that looking-glasses were generally used by magicians "in their superstitious and diabolical operations." He quotes an old authority, who says:--"Some magicians, being curious to find out by the help of a looking-glass, or a glass full of water, a thing that lies hidden, make choice of young maids to discern therein those images or sights which a person defiled cannot see." Sometimes, too, our ancestors dipped a looking-glass into the water when they were anxious to ascertain what would become of a sick person. Accordingly as he looked well or ill in the glass, when covered with the drops of water, so they foretold whether he would recover or not. Mirrors were also regarded by our forefathers as the most effective agencies in divining secrets and bringing to light hidden mysteries. Thus, there is a tradition that the Gunpowder Plot was discovered by Dr. John Dee with his magic mirror. We find in a prayer-book, printed by Baskett in 1737, an engraving which depicts the following scene:--In the centre is a circular looking-glass, in which is the reflection of the Houses of Parliament by night, and a person entering carrying a dark lantern. On the left side there are two men in the costume of James's time looking into the mirror--one evidently the king, the other probably Sir Kenelm Digby. On the right side, at the top, is the eye of Providence darting a ray on to the mirror; and below are some legs and hoofs, as if evil spirits were flying out of the picture. This plate, says a correspondent of _Notes and Queries_, "would seem to represent the method by which, under Providence (as is evidenced by the eye), the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot was at that time seriously believed to have been effected. The tradition, moreover, must have been generally believed, or it never could have found its way into a prayer-book printed by the king's printer." It may be noted, however, that as the fame of Dee's magic mirror was at its zenith about the time of the Gunpowder Plot, this may have led to the mirror being adopted as a popular emblem of discovery, or "throwing light" upon a subject. Hence it has been reasonably suggested that the mirror in the print may simply be a piece of artistic design, rather than evidence of its actual employment in the discovery. In days gone by, too, it appears to have been customary for both sexes to wear small looking-glasses--a fantastic fashion much ridiculed by Ben Jonson and others of his time. Men even wore them in their hats--an allusion to which custom we find in Ben Jonson's _Cynthia's Revels_ (Act ii., sc. 1): "Where is your page? Call for your casting-bottle, and place your mirror in your hat as I told you." We may infer that this was the very height of affectation by the manner in which the remark is introduced. While men of fashion wore mirrors as brooches or ornaments in their hats, ladies carried them at their girdles or on their breasts. Thus Lovelace makes a lady say:-- "My lively shade thou ever shalt retaine In thy inclosed feather-framed glasse." It was a popular superstition in former years that fine glass, such as that of Venice, would break if poison were put into it. To this curious notion Massinger thus gracefully alludes:-- "Here crystal glasses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . This pure metal So innocent is, and faithful to the mistress, Or master, that possesses it, that rather Than hold one drop that's venomous, of itself It flies in pieces, and deludes the traitor." This is among the errors noticed by Sir Thomas Browne, who says, "And although it be said that poison will break a Venice glass, yet have we not met with any of that nature. Were there a truth herein, it were the best preservative for princes and persons exalted to such fears, and surely far better than divers now in use." It may not be inappropriate here to refer to the well-known tradition connected with the "Luck of Edenhall." From time immemorial there has been a current belief that any one who had the courage to rush upon a fairy festival and snatch from the merry throng their drinking-glass, would find it prove to him a constant source of good fortune, supposing he could carry it across a running stream. A glass has been carefully preserved at Edenhall, Cumberland, which was in all probability a sacred chalice; but the legend is that the butler, one day going to draw water, surprised a company of fairies who were amusing themselves on the grass near the well. He seized the glass that was standing upon its margin, which the fairies tried to recover, but, after an ineffectual struggle, they vanished, crying:-- "If that glass do break or fall, Farewell the luck of Edenhall." The good fortune, however, of this ancient house was never so much endangered as by the Duke of Wharton, who, on one occasion having drunk the contents of this magic glass, inadvertently dropped it, and here most assuredly would for ever have terminated the luck of Edenhall, if the butler, who stood at his elbow to receive the empty glass, had not happily caught it in his napkin. Referring, however, more particularly to our subject, we find several items of folk-lore associated with the clock. Thus, in the North of England, there is a superstition called "Clock-falling," the idea being that if a woman enters a house after her confinement, and before being churched, the house-clock will immediately fall on its face. So strong was this belief in years past that a woman would never think of transgressing this rule under any circumstances whatever. In some places the house-clock is stopped on the occasion of a death, no doubt to remind the survivors that with the deceased one time is over, and that henceforth the days and hours are no longer of any account to him. A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ informs us that he knew "an intelligent, well-informed gentleman in Scotland who, among his last injunctions on his death-bed, ordered that as soon as he expired the house-clock was to be stopped, a command which was strictly obeyed." Aubrey also tells us that formerly it was customary for people of a serious turn of mind to say, every time they heard the clock strike, "Lord, grant my last hour may be my best hour." Chairs, again, have their superstitions. It is regarded as a bad omen, for instance, if, when a person leaves a house, he replaces the chair on which he has been sitting against the wall, the probability being that he will never visit the house again. The chair on which a woman sits after her confinement to receive the congratulations of her friends is popularly termed "a groaning chair," an allusion to which we find in "Poor Robin's Almanack":-- "For a nurse, the child to dandle, Sugar, soap, spiced pots, and candle, A groaning chair, and eke a cradle." Another article of furniture not without its folk-lore is the bed. Thus some superstitious persons always have their bedsteads placed parallel to the planks of the floor, considering it unlucky to sleep across the boards. Others again pay particular attention to the point of the compass towards which the head should be when in bed, a belief we find existing even among the Hindoos, who believe that to sleep with the head to the north will cause one's days to be shortened. To lie in the direction of the south they say is productive of longevity, whereas the east and west, it is asserted, are calculated to bring riches and change of scene respectively. Various theories in this country have been, at different times, started as to the proper position of the bedstead during the hours of sleep, which find ready acceptance among those who are ever ready to grasp any new idea, however fanciful it may be. A correspondent of _The Builder_, writing on the subject, says:--"So far as my own observations have gone, I know that my sleep is always more sound when my head is placed to the north. There are persons whom I know, the head of whose bed is to the north, and who, to awake early, will reverse their usual position in the bed, but without knowing the reason why, beyond 'that they could always wake earlier,' the sleep being more broken." An eminent physician in Scotland states that, when he failed by every other prescription to bring sleep to invalid children, he recommended their couches or little beds to be turned due north and south--the head of the child being placed towards the north--a process which he had always found successful in promoting sleep. After all, however, as has been so often said, the best prescription for a good night's rest is a healthy body and a sound mind. The well-known phrase, "to get out of bed the wrong way," or "with the left leg foremost," is generally said of an ill-tempered person; the term having originated in an ancient superstition, which regarded it as unlucky to place the left foot first on the ground on getting out of bed. Once more, as a mark of the simplicity of ancient manners, it was customary for persons even of the highest rank to sleep together, an allusion to which practice occurs in _Henry V._, where Exeter says:-- "Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow, Whom he hath cloy'd and grac'd with kingly favours." In conclusion, we may take one further illustration on this subject from that useful little article, the bellows, to place which on a table is considered extremely unlucky, and few servants will either do it or allow it to be done. CHAPTER X. HOUSEHOLD SUPERSTITIONS. Prevalence and Continuity of Superstitions--Sneezing--Stumbling--A Whistling Woman--Sweeping--Breaking Crockery--Fires and Candles--Money--Other Superstitions. It has often been asked how that formidable array of superstitions, which are so firmly established in most houses, came into being, and what is their origin? Although indeed one may occasionally smile at the "reign of terror" which these frequently exercise over their credulous believers, yet it must be admitted they are not limited to any one class. In discussing and comparing the intellectual condition of one class of society with another, we are apt, while passing censure on the one for its odd notions and fanciful beliefs, to forget how the other often cherishes the very same, although it may be in a more disguised form. Thus, by way of example, whereas some ignorant persons resort to a cunning man or "wise woman" for advice in case of emergency, many an educated person is found consulting with equal faith a clairvoyant or spirit-medium. While, too, some uneducated person believes in a particular omen, which is condemned by an intelligent community as the height of folly, many cultivated people, as we have said, may be found who hesitate before sitting down to dinner when the party consists of thirteen. However much, therefore, we may dislike to own the fact, we must acknowledge that superstition is a distinct element in the human character, although under the influence of education it has not the same opportunity for development as in the case of those whose mental powers have never been thoroughly trained. These superstitions, beliefs, and practices, too, it must be remembered, have not sprung up in a day, but have been handed down from generation to generation in popular traditions, tales, rhymes, and proverbs, and consequently have become so interwoven with the daily life as to make it no easy task to root them out. It has been truly said:-- "How superstitiously we mind our evils! The throwing down salt, or crossing of a hare, Bleeding at nose, the stumbling of a horse, Or singing of a cricket, are of power To daunt whole man in us." As Mr. Tylor has truly shown, when a custom or superstition is once fairly started in the world, disturbing influences may long affect it so slightly that it may keep its course from generation to generation, as a stream once settled in its bed will flow on for ages. Thus thousands of superstitions, the true meanings of which have perished for centuries, continue to exist simply because they have existed. A striking example of this fact may be found in the widespread folk-lore associated with the act of sneezing in this and other countries, which may be traced back to the most remote period. Thus, in the classic ages of Greece and Rome, we read of the lucky sneeze of Telemachus, and of Aristotle's remark that people consider a sneeze as divine, but not a cough. On account of sneezing being deemed lucky, it has always been customary to salute the sneezer, a custom which the ancient Greeks claimed to have derived from Prometheus, who stole celestial fire to animate his newly-made figure of clay. Tradition says that as the fire permeated its frame, the creature sneezed, which caused Prometheus to invoke blessings on it. Anyhow the practice of salutation on sneezing dates from the earliest times, and it is interesting to find a superstition of this kind, which may be looked on as a curiosity of primitive civilisation, still existing in our midst. Thus, in the Midland counties, grandmothers still exclaim, "God help you!" when they hear a child sneeze; and it is a very common notion that to sneeze three times before breakfast is a pledge that one will soon receive a present of some kind. The sneezing of a cat is considered an evil omen, it being a sign that the family will all have colds. According to a Scotch superstition a new-born child is in the fairy spells until it sneezes, but when this takes place all danger is past. A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ tells us that he once overheard "an old and reverend-looking dame crooning over a new-born child, and then, watching it intently and in silence for nearly a minute, she said, taking a huge pinch of snuff, 'Oich! Oich! No yet--no yet.' Suddenly the youngster exploded in a startling manner, into a tremendous sneeze; when the old lady suddenly bent down and, as far as I could see, drew her fore-finger across the brows of the child, very much as if making the sign of the cross (although as a strict Calvinist she would have been scandalised at the idea), and joyfully exclaimed, 'God sain the bairn it's _no a warlock_.'" Indeed it is a very prevalent idea that no idiot ever sneezed or could sneeze. Some attach importance to the day on which a person sneezes; and in the West of England it is said that-- "Sneeze on Sunday morning fasting, You'll enjoy your own true love to everlasting." Another household superstition which has come down to us from the far-off past is connected with stumbling; frequent allusions to which occur in the classic writers. Thus, at the present day to stumble up-stairs is considered unlucky by some, but just the reverse by others. Grose remarks that to stumble up the stairs is a prognostic of good luck, and in some places it is supposed to indicate that the stumbler if unmarried will cease to be so before the year is out. Others affirm that to stumble in the morning as soon as one goes out of doors is a sign of ill-luck. As an instance of this omen in ancient times, it is stated that Tiberius Gracchus, as he was leaving his house on the day of his death, stumbled upon the threshold with such violence that he broke the nail of his great toe. It is not necessary, however, to quote further cases of this superstition in years gone by, it being sufficient for our purpose to show that it has been handed down to us by our ancestors, and that stumbling, like sneezing, has always been regarded as an ominous act. Again, stumbling at a grave has been ranked among unlucky omens, a superstition to which Shakespeare refers in _Romeo and Juliet_ (Act v., sc. 3), where Friar Laurence says:-- "How oft to-night Have my old feet stumbled at graves." We may also compare Gloucester's words in _3 Henry VI._ (Act v., sc. 3):-- "For many men that stumble at the threshold Are well foretold that danger lurks within." Hence various charms have been practised to counteract the supposed ill-effect of this unlucky act, upon which Poor Robin, in his "Almanack for 1695," quaintly remarks:--"All those who, walking the streets, stumble at a stick or stone, and when they are past it turn back again to spurn or kick the stone they stumbled at, are liable to turn students in Goatam College, and upon admittance to have a coat put upon him, with a cap, a bauble, and other ornaments belonging to his degree." Again, in most places there is a very strong antipathy to a woman whistling about a house, or even out of doors, this act being said to be always attended with fatal results. Thus, there is a Cornish saying to the following effect:--"A whistling woman and a crowing hen are the two unluckiest things under the sun;" and the Northamptonshire peasantry have this rhyme which is to the same purport:-- "A whistling woman and crowing hen Are neither fit for God nor men." Or, according to another version:-- "A whistling wife and a crowing hen Will call the old gentleman out of his den." Why there should be this superstitious dislike to a woman's whistling it is difficult to decide, but at the same time it is a curious fact that one seldom hears any of the fair sex amusing themselves in this manner. Mr. Henderson informs us that the seafaring part of the population on the coast of Yorkshire have the same dread of hearing a woman whistle. A few years ago, when a party of friends were going on board a vessel at Scarborough, the captain astonished them by declining to allow one of them to enter it. "Not that young lady," he said, "she whistles." Curiously enough the vessel was lost on her next voyage; so, had the poor girl set foot on it, the misfortune would certainly have been ascribed to her. According to one legend, this superstition originated in the circumstance that a woman stood by and whistled while she watched the nails for the Cross being forged. A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ assigns another origin. He tells us that one day, after attempting in vain to get his dog to obey orders to come into the house, his wife essayed to whistle, when she was suddenly interrupted by a servant, a Roman Catholic, who exclaimed in the most piteous accents, "If you please, ma'am, don't whistle. Every time a woman whistles, the heart of the Blessed Virgin bleeds." The French, it seems, have a similar prejudice to hearing a woman whistle about a house, their proverb being as follows:--"Une poule qui chante le coq, et une fille qui siffle, portent malheur dans la maison." There are numerous signs and omens connected with household work. Thus, in Suffolk, the people say that if after sweeping a room the broom is accidentally left up in a corner, strangers will visit the house in the course of that day; while others affirm, in the Northern counties, that to sweep dust out of the house by the front door is equivalent to sweeping away the good fortune and happiness of the family. Care should rather be taken to sweep inwards--the dust being carried out in a basket or shovel--and then no harm will happen. Furthermore, the spider, which in daily life is little noticed except for its cobweb, the presence of which in a house generally betokens neglect, is by no means an unfriendly intruder. Although the servant oftentimes ruthlessly sweeps this uncared-for little visitor away from the wall, yet a common proverb reminds us that-- "If you wish to live and thrive, Let the spider run alive," ill-luck being supposed to quickly overtake those who kill or even so much as injure it. It was a notion formerly prevalent in many parts of Scotland that should a servant wilfully kill a spider, she would certainly break a piece of crockery or glass before the day was out. One reason why the spider is protected against ill-usage is that it is supposed to bring prosperity; but the real cause, perhaps, is due to the influence of an old legend which relates how, when Christ lay in the manger at Bethlehem, the spider came and spun a web over the spot where He was, thus preserving His life by screening Him from all the dangers that surrounded Him. Referring to the breaking of crockery, of which we have just spoken, there is a prevalent idea that if a servant breaks two things she will break a third. On one occasion the mistress of a household in Suffolk was not a little horrified at seeing one of her servants take up a coarse earthenware basin and deliberately throw it down upon the brick floor. "What did you do that for?" she not unnaturally inquired. "Because, ma'am, I'd broke two things," answered the servant, "so I thout the third better be this here," pointing to the remains of the least valuable piece of pottery in the establishment, which had been sacrificed to glut the vengeance of the offended ceramic deities. A correspondent of Chambers' "Book of Days," alluding to another piece of superstition of this kind, tells us that he once had a servant who was very much given to breaking glass and crockery. Plates and wine-glasses used to slip out of her hands as if they had been soaped; even spoons came jingling to the ground in rapid succession. "Let her buy something," said the cook, "and that will change the luck." "Decidedly," said the mistress, "it will be as well that she feel the inconvenience herself." "Oh, I didn't mean that, ma'am!" was the reply; "I meant that it would change the luck." A few days after this conversation, on being asked whether she had broken anything more, she answered, "No, sir, I haven't broken nothing since I bout the 'tater dish." Unluckily, however, this was too good to last; the breaking soon re-commenced, and the servant was obliged to go. A superstitious dread still attaches in household matters to Friday as being an unlucky day, and many will not even so much as turn a bed for fear of some misfortune befalling them. Thus, in Northamptonshire, we are told the housewife allows the bed to remain unturned; and a Sussex saying admonishes persons "never to begin a piece of work on Friday, or they will never finish it." We may note here that one tradition assigns a very early origin to the unfortunate reputation of Friday, affirming that it was on this day that Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit. It is considered very unlucky to change servants on this day of the week, and many try to avoid, if possible, doing so. That bright and ever-cheerful companion of our homes in winter time, the fire, has given rise to a host of omens and portents, many of which at times create no small consternation when the events supposed to be prognosticated are not of a very lucky character. A hollow cinder, for example, thrown out of the fire by a jet of gas from burning coals is looked upon as a coffin if it be long, but as a money-box if it be round. Some, too, exclaim on seeing the fire suddenly blaze up that a stranger is near; whereas in the Midland counties if the fire burn brightly after it has been stirred, this is considered a sign that the absent lover, wife, or husband, as the case may be, is in good spirits. A very popular charm for reviving a fire when it has burnt down is to set the poker across the hearth, with the fore-part leaning against the top bar of the grate. The poker and top bar thus combined form a _cross_, and so defeat the malice of the witches and demons who preside over smoky chimneys. One notion is that the poker when in this position creates a draught, but the real meaning of this harmless superstition is, perhaps, the one that we have just given. Various items of weather-lore, also, have been derived from the way fires burn, an enumeration of which we find in Willsford's "Nature's Secrets":--"When our common fires do burn with a pale flame, they presage foul weather. If the fire do make a buzzing noise, it is a sign of tempests near at hand. When the fire sparkleth very much, it is a sign of rain. If the ashes on the hearth do clodder together of themselves, it is a sign of rain. When pots are newly taken off the fire, if they sparkle, the soot upon them being incensed, it is a sign of rain. When the fire scorcheth and burneth more vehemently than it useth to do, it is a sign of frosty weather; but if the living coals do shine brighter than commonly at other times, expect then rain. If wood, or any other fuel, do crackle and wind break forth more than ordinary, it is an evident sign of some tempestuous weather near at hand; the much and sudden falling of soot presages rain." Once more, there is a curious notion that if a person sit musing and intently looking into the fire, it is a sign that a badly-disposed person is either fascinating him for evil, or throwing an evil spell over him. When this is the case, in order to break the spell, some one without speaking or attracting notice should take the tongs and turn the centre piece of coal in the grate right over, at the same time repeating certain words. While speaking of fires, we may note that there is a belief among the Yorkshire peasants that it is unlucky to allow a light to be taken out of their houses on Christmas Day--a superstition which prevails in Lancashire with regard to New Year's Day. A few years ago a man was summoned at Bradford on a charge of wilful damage by breaking a pane of glass in a cottage window. Having entered for the purpose of lighting his candle, the woman of the house strongly remonstrated, but offered him instead a few matches. The man then created a disturbance, and on the husband trying to eject him he broke the window. Omens, too, from candles are very numerous. Thus, we may note that in some of the Northern counties a bright spark in the candle predicts the arrival of a letter, and if it drops on the first shake, it is an indication that the letter has already been posted. To snuff out a candle accidentally is a sign of matrimony, and a curious mode of divination is still practised by means of a pin and a candle. The anxious lover, while the candle is burning, takes a pin and cautiously sticks it through the wax, taking care that it pierces the wick, repeating meanwhile the following rhyme:-- "It's not this candle alone I stick, But A. B.'s heart I mean to prick; Whether he be asleep or awake, I'd have him come to me and speak." She then patiently watches, for if the pin remains in the wick after the candle has burnt below the place in which it was inserted, then the loved one will be sure to appear; but should the pin drop out, it is a sign that he is faithless. There are, however, a host of other superstitions relating to home-life, some of which we can only briefly describe, scattered as they are here and there over the United Kingdom, and varying in different localities. Thus, according to a well-known superstition, if a person suddenly shivers, it is a sign that some one is walking over his future grave, a notion which is not limited to any particular county, extending as far north as Scotland. It is fortunate, however, that all persons are not subject to this sensation, otherwise the inhabitants of those districts or parishes whose burial-grounds are much frequented would, as an old antiquarian writer has observed, "live in one continued fit of shaking." Some, too, deem it unlucky to turn back after they have once started on some errand, or to be recalled and told of something previously forgotten. This superstition extends beyond our own country, and is found on the Continent, as for example in Sweden, where it is considered unadvisable not only to turn round when one is going on business, lest it should turn out ill, but even so much as to look back. At the present day, too, in the Midland counties, children are frequently cautioned by their parents not to walk backwards when going on some errand, it being regarded as a sure sign that misfortune will befall them if they disobey this injunction. Akin to this superstition, there are several others of a similar kind, among which we may include the supposed ill-luck of walking under a ladder; and North-country people have a dislike to meeting a left-handed person on a Tuesday morning, although on other days it is considered fortunate to do so. Referring to the many other items of folk-lore associated with our daily life, we must not omit those relating to money. Thus, it is generally acknowledged to be a bad omen to find it; and to insure health and prosperity, one should always turn a piece of money in one's pocket on first seeing the new moon, and on hearing the cuckoo in spring. There is, too, the common custom of the lower orders to spit on money for "luck's sake," a practice which is not only found in foreign countries, but may be traced back to ancient times. Misson, in his "Travels in England," describes this piece of superstition as it prevailed in this country in former years:--"A woman that goes much to market told me t'other day that the butcher-women of London, those that sell fowls, butter, eggs, etc., and in general most tradespeople, have a peculiar esteem for what they call a _handsel_, that is to say, the first money they receive in the morning they kiss it, spit upon it, and put it in a pocket by itself." Many, too, as a charm against poverty, carry a piece of money, with a hole in it, or one that is bent, in allusion to which Gay says:-- "This silver ring beside, Three silver pennies, and a nine-pence bent, A token kind to Brunkinet is sent." Others, again, dislike "counting their gains," a superstition which, it has been suggested, may have some connection with David's sin in numbering the people of Israel and Judah. Hence some regard with feelings of strong antipathy our own decennial census, and it is only the compulsion of the law which induces them to comply with this national means of ascertaining the state of the population. Among minor superstitions, it is said that smoke and dust always follow the fairest; and if without any neglect, but even with care, articles of steel, such as keys, knives, &c., continually become rusty, it is a sign that some kind-hearted person is laying up money for one's benefit. When, too, as often by coincidence happens, two persons in conversation are on the point of telling each other the same thing, it is an indication that some lie will before long be told about them; others think that if the two immediately join hands and wish silently, their desires cannot fail to come to pass. Some again, have a strong objection either to being weighed or to having their likeness taken, the latter superstition being mentioned by Mr. Napier as prevalent in some parts of Scotland. Once more, there is a belief among the Sussex peasantry that bottles which have contained medicine should never be sold, or else they will soon be required to be filled again for some one in the house. These are some of the quaint superstitions with which even the trivial occurrences of home life are surrounded, and although, according to one view, many of these have little or no foundation for their existence beyond their traditionary history, yet it is a remarkable fact that they should have preserved their characteristic traits in spite of the long course of years through which they have travelled down to us from the past. CHAPTER XI. POPULAR DIVINATIONS. Bible and Key--Dipping--Sieve and Shears--Crowing of the Cock--Spatulamancia--Palmistry and Onymancy--Look-divination--Astrology--Cards--Casting Lot--Tea-stalks. The practice of divination, or foretelling future events, has existed amongst most nations in all ages; and, although not so popular as in days gone by, yet it still retains its hold on the popular mind. Many of the methods for diving into futurity are extremely curious, and instances of them occasionally find their way into the papers. In a previous chapter we have already shown how numerous are the divinations practised in love affairs, and what an importance is attached to them by the maiden bent on ascertaining her lot in the marriage state. There are, however, many other ends to which this species of superstition is employed, one being the detection of guilt. Thus, a common method is by the "Bible and the Key," which is resorted to more or less by the humbler classes from one end of the United Kingdom to the other, the mode of procedure being as follows:--The key is placed on a certain chapter, and the Sacred Volume closed and fastened tightly. The Bible and the key are then suspended to a nail, the accused person's name is repeated three times by one of those present, while another recites these words:-- "If it turns to thee thou art the thief, And we all are free." This incantation being concluded, should the key be found to have turned, it is unanimously agreed that the accused is the guilty one. Not very long ago, a lady residing at Ludlow having lost a sheet made use of this test. Armed with a copy of the Sacred Book, she perambulated the neighbourhood, placing the key in the volume near several houses. At last, on arriving before a certain door, it was alleged that the key with much alacrity began, of its own accord, to turn; whereupon the owner of the lost sheet uttered the suspected person's name as loudly as she could; after which, it is said, the Bible turned completely round and fell on the ground. Again, a year or two ago, at Southampton, a boy working on a collier was charged with theft, the only evidence against him being such as was afforded by the ordeal of the Bible and key. It seems that the mate and some others swung a Bible attached to a key with a piece of yarn, the key being placed on the first chapter of Ruth. While the Bible was turning, the names of several persons suspected were called over, but on mention of the prisoner's the book fell on the ground. The bench, of course, discharged the prisoner. Closely akin to this method of divination is the well-known mediæval diversion known as the _Sortes Virgilianæ_, which consisted in opening a volume of Virgil's works, and forecasting the future from some word or passage selected at random. The Sacred Book is now the modern substitute, and there is no doubt but that the superstition is thousands of years older than even the Virgil of the Augustan age. This custom, practised in many parts of England on New Year's Day, is called "Dipping." A Bible is laid on the table at breakfast-time, and those who wish to consult it open its pages at random; it being supposed that the events of the ensuing year will be in some way foreshown by the contents of the chapter contained in the two open pages. Sometimes the anxious inquirer will take the Bible to bed with him on New Year's Eve, and on awaking after twelve o'clock, open it in the dark, mark a verse with his thumb, turn down a corner of the page, and replace the book under the pillow. That verse is said to be a prophecy of the good or bad luck that will befall him during the coming year. This as a mode of divination is extensively practised. Another form of this superstition consists in foretelling the events in a man's life from the last chapter of the Book of Proverbs, the thirty-one verses of this chapter being supposed to have a mystical reference to the corresponding days of the month. Thus, it is predicted of persons born on the 14th that they will get their "food from afar." A correspondent of _Notes and Queries_, writing from a Northamptonshire village, tells us that "this is so fully believed in by some that a boy has actually been apprenticed to a _linen_-draper, for no other reason than because he was born on the 24th of the month; whilst those born on the 13th would be sent to a _woollen_-draper. The twenty-fourth verse speaks of 'fine linen,' and the thirteenth of 'wool.'" Another means of discovering a guilty person is by the "Sieve and Shears," one of those divinatory instruments upon which such implicit reliance has been placed by superstitious folk from time out of mind, described as it is in the "Hudibras" as "Th' oracle of sieve and shears, That turns as certain as the spheres." The sieve is held hanging by a thread, or else by the points of a pair of shears stuck into its rim, it being supposed to turn, or swing, or fall at the mention of a thief's name, and give similar signs for other purposes. This ancient rite was formerly known as the "Trick of the Sieve and Scissors," and was generally practised among the Greeks for ascertaining crime. We find an allusion to it in Theocritus:-- "To Agrio, too, I made the same demand; A cunning woman she, I cross'd her hand: She turn'd the sieve and shears, and told me true, That I should love, but not be lov'd by you." Among other modes of divination practised for the same purpose, there is one by the crowing of the cock. Thus, a farmer in Cornwall having been robbed of some property, invited all his neighbours into his cottage, and when they were assembled he placed a cock under the "brandice" (an iron vessel formerly much used by the peasantry in baking), he then asked each one to touch the brandice with the third finger, and say, "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, speak." Every one did as they were directed, and yet no sound came from beneath the brandice. The last person was a woman who occasionally laboured for the farmer in his field. She hung back, hoping to pass unobserved amidst the crowd. The neighbours, however, would not permit her to do so, and no sooner had she touched the brandice than, before she could even utter the prescribed words, the cock crew. Thereupon she fainted on the spot, and on recovering confessed her guilt. In the North of England there was formerly a curious process of divination in the case of a person bewitched:--A black hen was stolen, the heart taken out, stuck full of pins, and roasted at midnight. It was then supposed that the "double" of the witch would come and nearly pull the door down. If, however, the "double" was not seen, any one of the neighbours who had passed a remarkably bad night was fixed upon. Referring in the next place to what may be considered the principal object of divination, a knowledge of futurity, we find various mystic arts in use to gain this purpose. Foremost among these may be reckoned "Spatulamancia," "reading the speal-bone," or "divination by the blade-bone," an art which is of very ancient origin. It is, we are told by Mr. Tylor, especially found in Tartary, whence it may have spread into all other countries where we hear of it. The mode of procedure is as follows:--The shoulder-blade is put on the fire till it cracks in various directions, and then a long split lengthwise is reckoned as "the way of life," while cross-cracks on the right and left stand for different kinds of good and evil fortune, and so on. In Ireland, Camden speaks of looking through the blade-bone of a sheep, to discover a black spot which foretells a death; and Drayton in his "Polyolbion" thus describes it:-- "By th' shoulder of a ram from off the right side par'd, Which usually they boile, the spade-bone being bar'd, Which when the wizard takes, and gazing thereupon Things long to come foreshows, as things done long agone." This species of divination was in days gone by much practised in Scotland, and a good account of the Highland custom of thus divining is given by Mr. Thoms in the "Folk-Lore Record" (i. 177), from a manuscript account by Mr. Donald McPherson, a bookseller of Chelsea, a Highlander born, and who was well acquainted with the superstitions of his countrymen:--"Before the shoulder-blade is inspected, the whole of the flesh must be stripped clean off, without the use of any metal, either by a bone or a hard wooden knife, or by the teeth. Most of the discoveries are made by inspecting the spots that may be observed in the semi-transparent part of the blade; but very great proficients penetrate into futurity though the opaque parts also. Nothing can be known that may happen beyond the circle of the ensuing year. The discoveries made have relation only to the person for whom the sacrifice is offered." Chiromancy, or palmistry, as a means of unravelling hidden things, still finds favour not only with gipsy fortune-tellers, but even with those who profess to belong to the intelligent classes of society. This branch of fortune-telling flourished in ancient Greece and Italy, as we are informed it still does in India, where to say, "It is written on the palms of my hands," is the ordinary way of expressing what is looked upon as inevitable. The professors of this art formerly attributed to it a Divine origin, quoting as their authority the following verse from the Book of Job: "He sealeth up the hand of every man, that all men may know his work;" or as the Vulgate renders the passage: "Qui in manu omnium hominum signa posuit"--"Who has placed signs in the hand of all men"--which certainly gives it a more chiromantical meaning. Thus chiromancy, or palmistry, traces the future from an examination of the "lines" of the palm of the hand, each of which has its own peculiar character and name, as for instance the line of long life, of married life, of fortune, and so on. However childish this system may be, it still has its numerous votaries, and can often be seen in full force at our provincial fairs. Referring to its popularity in this country in former years, we find it severely censured by various writers. Thus one author of the year 1612 speaks of "vain and frivolous devices of which sort we have an infinite number, also used amongst us, as namely in palmistry, where men's fortunes are told by looking on the palms of the hand." A superstition akin to palmistry is onymancy, or divination by the finger-nails, which is still a widespread object of belief. Sir Thomas Browne, in his "Vulgar Errors," describing it, admits that conjectures "of prevalent humours may be gathered from the spots on the nails," but rejects the sundry prognostications usually derived from them, such as "that spots on the tops of the nails signify things past, in the middle things present, and at the bottom events to come; that white specks presage our felicity, blue ones our misfortunes; that those in the nail of the thumb have significations of honour, of the fore-finger riches." As practised at the present day, this mode of divination differs in various counties. Thus, in Sussex, we are told by Mrs. Latham that the fortune-tellers commence with the thumb, and say "A gift," judging of its probable size by that of the mark. They then touch the fore-finger, and add "A friend;" and should they find a spot upon the nail of the middle finger, they gravely affirm it denotes the existence of an enemy somewhere. It is the presence or absence of such a mark on the third finger that proves one's future good or ill success in love; whereas one on the little finger is a warning that the person will soon have to undergo a journey. Again, some profess to be able to tell events by the face, or "look-divination"--a species of physiognomy which was formerly much believed in by all classes of society, and may still be met with in country villages. Indeed, there is scarcely a mark on the face which has not been supposed to betoken something or other; and in a book of "Palmistry and Physiognomy," translated by Fabian Withers, 1656, are recorded sundry modes of divination from "upright eyebrows, brows hanging over, narrow foreheads, faces plain and flat, lean faces, sad faces, sharp noses, ape-like noses, thick nostrils," &c. However foolish these may appear, yet there will always be simple-minded persons ready to make themselves miserable by believing that the future events of their life--either for weal or woe--are indelibly written on their face. Equally illogical and fanciful is that pseudo-science, astrology, whereby the affairs of men, it is said, can be read from the motions of the heavenly bodies. A proof of the extensive belief at the present day in this mode of divination may be gathered from the piles of "Zadkiel's Almanacks" which regularly appear in the fashionable booksellers' windows about Christmas-time. That educated people, who must be aware how names of stars and constellations have been arbitrarily given by astronomers, should still find in these materials for calculating human events, is a curious case of superstitious survival. Very many, for instance, are firmly convinced that a child born under the "Crab" will not do well in life, and that another born under the "Waterman" is likely to meet with a watery death, and so forth. This science, as is well known, is of very old institution, and originated in a great measure in the primitive ages of the world, when animating intelligences were supposed to reside in the celestial bodies. As these mythical conceptions, however, have long ago passed away under the influence of civilisation, one would scarcely expect to find in our enlightened nineteenth century so great a number of intellectual persons putting faith in such a system of delusion. In this respect, happily, we are not worse than our Continental neighbours; for there are many districts in Germany where the child's horoscope is still regularly kept with the baptismal certificate in the family chest. In days gone by, this kind of divination was very widely credited in this country, and by most of our old writers is most unsparingly condemned. Thus Shakespeare, in _King Lear_ (Act i., sc. 2), has ridiculed it in a masterly way, when he represents Edmund as saying: "This is the excellent foppery of the world, that when we are sick in fortune--often the surfeit of our own behaviour--we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars, as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence." Sir Thomas Browne goes so far as to attribute divination by astrology to Satan, remarking how he "makes the ignorant ascribe natural effects to supernatural causes; and thus deludes them with this form of error." And another old writer sensibly adds that, although astrologers undertake "to tell all people most obscure and hidden secrets abroad, they at the same time know not what happens in their own houses and in their own chambers." In spite, however, of the frequent denunciations of this popular form of superstition, it appears that they had little effect, for James I. was notorious for his credulity about such delusions; and both Charles I. and Cromwell are said to have consulted astrologers. A further form of divination still much practised is by a pack of cards, most of these being supposed to have a symbolical meaning; the king of hearts, for example, denoting a true-loving swain, and the king of diamonds indicating great wealth. The following quaint lines, extracted from an old chap-book quoted in Brand's "Popular Antiquities," describe this mode of fortune-telling as it was formerly consulted by our credulous countrymen:-- "This noble king of diamond shows, Thou long shalt live where pleasure flows; But when a woman draws the king, Great melancholy songs she'll sing. He that draws the ace of hearts, Shall surely be a man of parts; And she that draws it, I profess, Will have the gift of idleness." Indeed, scarcely a month passes without several persons being punished for extorting money from silly people, on the pretence of revealing to them by card-divination their future condition in life. Among the gipsies this is the favourite form of fortune-telling; and its omens are eagerly received by anxious aspirants after matrimony, who are ever desirous to know whether their husbands are to be tall or short, dark or fair, rich or poor, and so on. Mrs. Latham tells us of a certain woman who was reported to be skilful in such matters, and was in the habit of confidently foretelling with a pack of cards her fellow-servants' coming lot in matrimony. The mode of procedure was as follows:--The cards were dealt round by the diviner, with much mystical calculation, and the fortunate maiden who found the ace of diamonds in her heap was to marry a rich man. The one, however, who was unlucky enough to have the knave of clubs or spades was destined to have nothing but poverty and misery in her wedded state. Again, the presence of the king of diamonds or of hearts in hand was a sign that the possessor's partner for life would be a fair man, while the king of clubs or spades gave warning that he would be dark. To find in one's heap either the knave of hearts or of diamonds was most ominous, as it revealed an unknown enemy. Again, divination by casting lot has not yet fallen into disuse. According to some this means of deciding doubtful matters is of God's appointment, and therefore cannot fail, the following text being quoted as a proof: "The lot is cast into the lap; but the whole disposing thereof is of the Lord" (Proverbs xvi. 33). In Lancashire, when boys do not wish to divide anything they decide "who must take all" by drawing "short cuts." A number of straws, pieces of twine, &c., of different lengths, are held by one not interested, so that an equal portion of each is alone visible; each boy draws one, and he who gets the longest is entitled to the prize. A new-laid egg affords another means of diving into futurity. The person anxious to be enlightened about his future perforates with a pin the small end of an egg, and lets three drops of the white fall into a basin of water, which soon diffuse themselves on the surface into a variety of fantastic shapes. From these the fortune-teller will predict the fortune of the credulous one, the character of his future wife, and a variety of particulars concerning his domestic happiness. A similar practice is kept up in Denmark, where young women melt lead on New Year's Eve, and after pouring it into water, observe on the following morning what form it has assumed. If it resembles a pair of scissors, they will inevitably marry tailors; if a hammer, their husbands will be smiths, and so on. Divination by a staff was formerly a common practice in Scotland. When a person wished to go on a pleasure excursion into the country, and was unsettled in his mind as to which way to go, he resorted to this form of consulting fate. Taking a stick, he would poise it perpendicularly, and then leave it to fall of itself; and he would select the direction towards which it pointed while it lay on the ground. It has been suggested by some of our Biblical scholars that it is to this sort of divination that the prophet Hosea referred when he said "Their staff declareth unto them;" but this is mere conjecture. Among other common modes of divination may be mentioned that by tea-stalks. If two appear on the surface of a cup of tea, they should be placed on the back of the left hand, and struck with the back of the right. If they remain unmoved on the left, or adhere to the right, then it is an omen that the absent loved one will remain faithful. Tea-stalks are also said to foretell visitors, indicating the person to be visited by floating to the side of the individual. We might easily extend our list of popular divinations, but space forbids our doing so; and those already enumerated in the preceding pages have perhaps given a sufficient idea of the devices which have been resorted to, from time to time, by our superstitious country-folk for gaining an insight into futurity. CHAPTER XII. COMMON AILMENTS. Charm-remedies--For Ague--Bleeding of the Nose--Burns--Cramp--Epilepsy--Fits--Gout--Headache, &c. At the present day, in spite of the "march of intellect," there is still a widespread belief in the prevention and cure of the common ailments of life by certain remedies, which take the form of charms and amulets, or are preserved in those countless quaint recipes which, from time immemorial, have been handed down from parent to child. Indeed, thousands of our population place far greater faith in their domestic treatment of disease than in the skill of medical science, one of the chief requirements being that the patient should submit to the treatment recommended for his recovery with a full and earnest belief that a cure will be effected. Hence, however eccentric the remedy for some complaint may be, we occasionally find not only the ignorant but even educated classes scrupulously obeying the directions enjoined on them, although these are often by no means easy of accomplishment. Therefore, as most of the ordinary ailments of every-day life have what are popularly termed in folk-medicine their "charm-remedies," we shall give a brief account of some of these remedies in the present chapter, arranging the diseases they are supposed to cure in alphabetical order. _Ague._--No complaint, perhaps, has offered more opportunities for the employment of charms than this one, owing in a great measure to an old superstition that it is not amenable to medical treatment. Thus, innumerable remedies have been suggested for its cure, many of which embody the strangest superstitious fancies. According to a popular notion, fright is a good cure, and by way of illustration we may quote the case of a gentleman, afflicted by this disease in an aggravated form, who entertained a great fear of rats. On one occasion he was accidentally confined in a room with one of these unwelcome visitors, and the intruder jumped upon him. The intensity of his alarm is said to have driven out the ague, and to have completely cured him. An amusing anecdote is also told of a poor woman who had suffered from this unenviable complaint for a long time. Her husband having heard of persons being cured by fright, one day came to her with a very long face, and informed her that her favourite pig was dead. Her first impulse was to rush to the scene of the catastrophe, where she found to her great relief that piggy was alive and well. The fright, however, had done its work, and from that day forth she never had a touch of ague, although she resided in the same locality. A Sussex remedy prescribes "seven sage leaves to be eaten by the patient fasting seven mornings running;" and in Suffolk the patient is advised to take a handful of salt, and to bury it in the ground, the idea being that as the salt dissolves so he will lose his ague. A Devonshire piece of folk-lore tells us that a person suffering from ague may easily give it to his neighbour by burying under his threshold a bag containing the parings of a dead man's nails, and some of the hairs of his head. Some people wear a leaf of tansy in their shoes, and others consider pills made of a spider's web equally efficacious, one pill being taken before breakfast for three successive mornings. _Bleeding of the Nose._--A key, on account of the coldness of the metal of which it is composed, is often placed on the person's back; and hence the term "key-cold" has become proverbial, an allusion to which we find in _King Richard III._ (Act i., sc. 2), where Lady Anne, speaking of the corpse of King Henry VI., exclaims:-- "Poor key-cold figure of a holy king." A Norfolk remedy consists in wearing a skein of scarlet silk round the neck, tied with nine knots in the front. If the patient is a male, the silk should be put on and the knots tied by a female, and _vice versâ_. In some places a toad is killed by transfixing it with some sharp-pointed instrument, after which it is enclosed in a little bag and suspended round the neck. _Burn or Scald._--According to a deep-rooted notion among our rural population, the most efficacious cure for a scald or burn is to be found in certain word-charms, mostly of a religious character. One example runs as follows:-- "There came two angels from the north, One was Fire, and one was Frost. Out Fire: in Frost, In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." Many of our peasantry, instead of consulting a doctor in the case of a severe burn, often resort to some old woman supposed to possess the gift of healing. A person of this description formerly resided in a village in Suffolk. When consulted she prepared a kind of ointment, which she placed on the part affected, and after making the sign of the cross, repeated the following formula three times:-- "There were two angels came from the north, One brought fire, the other brought frost; Come out fire, go in frost, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." This, as the reader will see, is in substance the same as the one quoted above, and is a fair sample of those used in other localities. _Cramp._--Of the many charms resorted to for the cure of this painful disorder, a common one consists in wearing about the person the patella or knee-cap of a sheep or lamb, which is known in some places as the "cramp-bone." This is worn as near the skin as possible, and at night is laid under the pillow. In many counties finger-rings made from the screws or handles of coffins are still considered excellent preservatives, and in Lancashire it is prevented by either placing the shoes at bed-time with the toes just peeping from beneath the coverlet, or by carrying brimstone about with one during the day. Some, again, wear a tortoise-shell ring, while others have equal faith in tying the garter round the left leg below the knee. In days gone by a celebrated cure for this complaint was the "cramp-ring," allusions to which we find in many of our old authors. Its supposed virtue was conferred by solemn consecration on Good Friday. _Epilepsy._--The remedies for this terrible disorder are extremely curious, and in most cases vary in different localities. One, however, very popular charm is a ring made from a piece of silver money collected at the offertory. A correspondent of Chambers's "Book of Days" tells us that when he was a boy a person "came to his father (a clergyman) and asked for a 'sacramental shilling,' _i.e._, one out of the alms collected at the Holy Communion, to be made into a ring and worn as a cure for epilepsy." In the North of England "a sacramental piece," as it is usually called, is the sovereign remedy for this complaint. Thirty pence are to be begged of thirty poor widows. They are then to be carried to the church minister, for which he is to give the applicant a half-crown piece from the communion alms. After being "walked with nine times up and down the church aisle," the piece is then to have a hole drilled in it, and to be hung round the neck by a ribbon. It has been suggested that these widows' pence may have some reference to the widow's mite which was so estimable in the eyes of Christ. According to one notion, persons afflicted with epileptic fits are supposed to be bewitched, and the following extraordinary remedy is sometimes resorted to for their cure. A quart bottle is filled with pins, and placed in front of the fire until the pins are red-hot. As soon as this takes place it is supposed they will prick the heart of the witch, who to avoid the pain caused by the red-hot pins will release her victim from the suffering she has imposed upon him. This mode of disenchantment seems to have been of common occurrence; and sometimes, when old houses are under repair, bottles full of pins are found secreted in out-of-the-way places. Another remedy is for the patient to creep, head foremost, down three pair of stairs, three times a day, for three successive days. Sir Thomas Brown, too, discourses of the virtues of mistletoe in this complaint; and Sir John Colbach, writing in the year 1720, strongly recommends it as a medicine, adding that this beautiful plant must have been designed by the Almighty "for further and more noble purposes than barely to feed thrushes, or to be hung up superstitiously in houses to drive away evil spirits." _Erysipelas._--This distemper has been popularly called "St. Anthony's Fire," from the legend that it was miraculously checked by that saint when raging in many parts of Europe in the eleventh century. An amulet formerly worn to ward it off was made of the elder on which the sun had never shone. "If," says an old writer, "the piece between the two knots be hung about the patient's neck, it is much commended. Some cut it in little pieces, and sew it in a knot in a piece of a man's shirt." A remedy in use among the lower orders, and extending as far as the Highlands, is to cut off one half of the ear of a cat, and to let the blood drop on the part affected--a practice which is evidently a survival of the primitive notion that a living sacrifice appeased the wrath of God. _Fits._--Numerous indeed have been the charms invented for those suffering from this malady, and in many cases they are "marvellously mystical withal." Thus that little animal the mole has been in request, as the following mystic prescription will show. A gentleman residing in 1865, on the border ground of Norfolk and Suffolk, was one day asked by a neighbour to catch a live mole, as "her darter's little gal was subject to fits, and she had been told that if she got a live mole, cut the tip of his nose off, and let nine drops bleed on to a lump of sugar, and gave that to the child, 'twas a sartin cure." Here again we have the same notion of a sacrifice, one which, it may be noticed, underlies many of the charms of this kind. A Devonshire remedy is to go into a church at midnight and to walk three times round the Communion table, while many single women wear a silver ring on the wedding-ring finger, made out of sixpences which have been begged from six young bachelors. _Gout._--The periodical attacks of this disease have from the earliest times been subjected to the influence of charms, blackberries being considered by the Greeks a good specific. Culpeper has bequeathed to us a curious remedy. He says, "Take an owl, pull off her feathers, and pull out her guts; salt her well for a week, then put her into a pot, and stop it close, and put her into an oven, that so she may be brought into a mummy, which, being beat into powder and mixed with boar's grease, is an excellent remedy for gout, anointing the grieved place by the fire." The germander speedwell has been esteemed highly efficacious, and the Emperor Charles V. is reported to have derived benefit from it. _Headache._--Cures to alleviate this tiresome pain are numberless. Mrs. Latham mentions what is considered by the Sussex peasantry a sure way of avoiding it in the spring, a piece of superstition we have already noticed: "No hair, either cut or combed from the head, must be thrown carelessly away, lest some bird should find it and carry it off, in which case the person's head would ache during all the time that the bird was busy working the spoil into its nest. 'I knew how it would be,' exclaimed a servant, 'when I saw that bird fly away with a bit of my hair that blew out of the window this morning when I was dressing; I knew I should have a clapping headache, and so I have.'" In some counties the common corn-poppy is called "headache," from the cephalalgic tendency of the scent. _Hydrophobia._--From the most remote period no disease, perhaps, has possessed such a curious history, or been invested with so many superstitions as hydrophobia, and the countless remedies suggested for its cure form an important chapter in folk-medicine. In tracing back its history, we find that it was not only regarded by our ancestors with the same horror as now-a-days, but that every conceivable device was resorted to for removing its fatal effects. Thus, Pliny relates the case of a Roman soldier who was cured by the dog-rose, a remedy said to have been revealed to the man's mother in a dream. Among sundry other remedies he enumerates the hair of a man's head, goose-grease, fuller's earth, colewort, fish-brine, &c., as applications to the wounds. The favourite cure of Dioscorides was hellebore, and Galen's principal one was the river-crab. Sucking the wound seems also to have been considered efficacious. Passing on to modern times, the extraordinary remedies still employed are a convincing proof of the extent to which superstition occasionally reaches. The list, indeed, is not an inviting one, consisting amongst other things of the liver of a male goat, the tail of a shrew-mouse, the brain and comb of a cock, the worm under the tongue of a mad dog, horse-dung, pounded ants, and cuckoo soup. It may seem, too, incredible to us that less than a century ago the suffocation of the wretched victim was not unfrequently resorted to, and instances of this barbarous practice may be found in the periodical literature of bygone years. Thus, in _The Dublin Chronicle_ (28th October, 1798), the following circumstances are recorded:--"A fine boy, aged fourteen, was bitten by a lady's lap-dog near Dublin. In about two hours the youth was seized with convulsive fits, and shortly after with hydrophobia; and, notwithstanding every assistance, his friends were obliged to smother him between two feather beds." In the year 1712, four persons were tried at York Assizes for smothering a boy, who had been bitten by a mad dog, on a similar plea as that uttered by Othello:-- "I that am cruel am yet merciful: I would not have thee linger in thy pain." As recently as the year 1867 this mode of death was put into execution in the town of Greenfield, Michigan. A little girl having been seized with hydrophobia, a consultation was held by the physicians, and as soon as it had been decided by them that she could not recover, her parents put an end to her sufferings by smothering her to death. The folk-lore of this disease is most extensive, and as our space is limited we cannot do better than recommend our readers to consult Mr. Dolan's capital volume on "Rabies, or Hydrophobia," which contains an excellent description of the antiquity and history of this cruel complaint, and of superstitions which surround it. _Hysteria._--This disorder, which assumes so many deceptive forms, was formerly known as "the mother," or "hysterica passio," an allusion to which occurs in _King Lear_ (Act ii., sc. 4), where Shakespeare represents the king as saying, "O, how this mother swells up toward my heart! _Hysterica passio!_ down, thou climbing sorrow, Thy element's below!" Some of the charms used for its cure are much the same as those employed in cases of epilepsy, a favourite one being the wearing of a ring made of a certain number of silver pieces obtained from persons of the opposite sex. _Jaundice._--Many of the remedies recommended for this complaint are not of a very agreeable kind, as, for instance, the following one mentioned by a correspondent of _Notes and Queries_, first, as having been resorted to in a Dorsetshire parish, where the patient was ordered to eat nine lice on a piece of bread and butter. One popular charm in days gone by, and certainly not of a very refined character, was known as the cure by transplantation, and consisted in burying in a dunghill an odd number of cakes made of ashes and other ingredients. _Lameness._--Sleeping on stones, on a particular night, is an old method of curing lameness practised in Cornwall. _Lumbago._--In Dundee it is customary to wear round the loins as a cure for lumbago a hank of yarn which has been charmed by a wise woman, and girls may be seen with single threads of the same round the head as an infallible specific for tic-douloureux. _Measles._--In the quarterly return of the marriages, births, and deaths registered in the provinces, &c., in Ireland, published in October, 1878, we find the following extraordinary cure for measles, administered with what results will be seen:--"Sixty-three cases of measles appear on the medical relief register for past quarter, but this does not represent a third of those affected, the medical officers being only called in when the usual amount of local nostrums had been tried without effect. Every case seen suffered from violent diarrhoea, caused by the administration of a noxious compound called _crooke_. This consists of a mixture of porter, sulphur, and the excrement of the sheep collected in the fields. Every unfortunate child that showed any symptom of measles was compelled to drink large quantities of this mixture. All ordinary remedies failed to stop the diarrhoea thus produced, in many cases the children nearly dying from exhaustion." Repulsive as this piece of folk-medicine is, yet it is only one of a most extensive class of the same kind, many being most revolting. It is difficult to conceive how either ignorance or superstition could tolerate any practice of so senseless and indelicate a nature. _Paralysis._--One of the popular charms for this disease is the same as that used in the case of epilepsy, namely, a silver ring made from money solicited from a certain number of persons. Cowslips, too, have been esteemed highly efficacious, and have on this account been termed "Herbæ Paralysis" by medical writers. For the same reason they are called "Palsyworts" in many country places. _Rheumatism._--Professors of the healing art have advised the sufferer to carry about in his pocket the right fore-foot of a female hare, while others consider a potato equally efficacious. A Cornish cure is to crawl under a bramble which has formed a second root in the ground, or to drink water in which a thunder-stone has been boiled. There is, also, a strong belief that a _galvanic ring_, as it is called, worn on the finger will serve as an excellent preservative. "A large number of persons," says Mr. Glyde in his "Norfolk Garland," "may be seen with a clumsy-looking silver ring, which has a piece of copper let into the inside, and this, though in constant contact throughout, is supposed (aided by the moisture of the hand) to keep up a gentle but continual galvanic current, and so alleviate rheumatism." A Sussex remedy is to place the bellows in the sufferer's chair that he may lean against them, and so have his rheumatism charmed away. _Spasms._--The belief in the curative powers of the form of the cross still holds its sway in the popular mind, and in the case of spasms, or that painful state of the feet in which they are said "to sleep," it is used under an impression that it allays the pain. _Small-pox._--The curative properties attributed to some colours is illustrated by the treatment formerly employed in cases of small-pox. Thus, red bed-coverings were thought to bring the pustules to the surface of the body, and the patient was recommended to look at red substances. Purple dye, pomegranate seeds, or other red ingredients were dissolved in his drink, with the idea that as red is the colour of the blood, so disorders of the blood system should be treated by red. The renowned English physician, John of Gaddesden, introduced the practice into this country, and tried its efficacy on one of the sons of King Edward I., adding to his report, "et est bona cura." Fried mice are considered in some counties a good specific for this complaint, it being thought necessary by some that they should be fried alive. _Sprain._--Many of the charms practised in an accident of this kind are of a semi-religious character, and of a not very reverent form. Thus, to cure a sprain, a thread called the "wresting-thread" is tied round the injured part, after which the following formula is repeated:-- "Our Saviour rade, His fore-foot slade, Our Saviour lighted down; Sinew to sinew--joint to joint, Blood to blood, and bone to bone, Mend thou in God's name." This incantation, which, it has been suggested, may have originated in some legend of Christ's life, is frequently mentioned in the witch trials of the early part of the seventeenth century. _Sty._--To prevent or cure this disorder, known in some places as "west," it is customary on the first sight of the new moon to seize a black cat by the tail, and after pulling from it one hair, to rub the tip nine times over the pustule. As this charm, however, is often attended with sundry severe scratches, a gold ring has been substituted, and is said to be equally beneficial. This superstition is alluded to by Beaumont and Fletcher, in the _Mad Lovers_ (Act v., sc. 4):-- "----I have a sty here, Chilax. _Chil._ I have no gold to cure it, not a penny." Earrings are considered a good remedy for sore eyes; and in districts where the teasle is grown for use in the manufacture of broadcloth, a preservative against them is found in the water which collects in the hollow cups of that plant. Pure rain-water is reported to be another infallible remedy. This must be carefully collected in a clean open vessel during the month of June, and if preserved in a bottle will, it is said, remain pure for any length of time. _Thrush._--There is a popular notion that a person must have this complaint once in his life, either at his birth or death. Norfolk nurses prefer to see it in babies, on the plea that it is healthy, and makes them feed more freely; but if it appears in a sick adult person he is generally given over as past recovery. Some of the remedies for this disease are curious, as, for instance, a Cornish one, which recommends the child to be taken fasting on three consecutive mornings, "to have its mouth blown into" by a posthumous child. In Devonshire the parent is advised to take three rushes from any running stream, and to pass them separately through the mouth of the infant. Afterwards the rushes should be thrown into the stream again, and as the current bears them away, so will the thrush, it is said, depart from the child. Should this prove ineffectual, the parent is recommended to capture the nearest duck that can be found, and to place its beak, wide open, within the mouth of the sufferer. As the child inhales the cold breath of the duck, the disease, we are told, will gradually disappear. A further charm consists in reading the eighth Psalm over the child's head three times every day on three days in the week for three successive weeks. _Toothache._--This common ailment, which produces so much discomfort, unfortunately rarely meets with a degree of sympathy proportionate to the agony it occasions, but has nevertheless been honoured with an extensive folk-lore; and the quaint remedies that superstitious fancy has suggested for its cure would occupy a small volume if treated with anything like fulness. Selecting some of the best known, we may mention one which, in point of efficacy, is considered by many as unsurpassed, namely, a tooth taken from the mouth of a corpse, and worn round the neck as an amulet. Occasionally a double-nut is carried in the pocket for the same purpose. There is a belief, too, that the possession of a Bible or a Prayer Book, with the following legend written in it, is an effectual charm:--"All glory, all glory, all glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ was walking in the Garden of Gethsemane, He saw Peter weeping. He called him unto Him, and said, 'Peter, why weepest thou?' Peter answered and said, 'Lord, I am grievously tormented with pain--the pain of my tooth.' Our Lord answered and said, 'If thou wilt believe in Me, and My words abide with thee, thou shalt never feel any more pain in thy tooth.' Peter said, 'Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief.' In the name, &c., God grant M. N. ease from the pain in his tooth." These charm formulas, which constitute an important element in folk-lore literature, are still extensively used in this country to arrest or cure some bodily disease; and they are interesting as being in most cases modified forms of those used by our Anglo-Saxon ancestors. _Typhus Fever._--Even for so dangerous a disease as typhus fever, our peasantry do not hesitate to practise their own remedies. One consists in applying the skirt of a sheep to the soles of the feet, and keeping it there for several hours, under a notion that this will draw away the fever from the head. Some years ago a clergyman in Norfolk, whilst visiting a poor man suffering from this complaint, found that his wife had placed the spleen of a cow on the soles of his feet, having been assured that it was an efficacious remedy. There is another story that the rector of a Norfolk parish was solicited for the loan of the church plate to lay on the stomach of a child, which was much swelled from some mesenteric disease, this being held to be an excellent remedy in such cases. _Warts._--These have been regarded as prognostications of good or bad luck according to their position on the body, those on the right hand foreboding riches, whereas one on the face is believed to indicate troubles of various kinds. It would be difficult to enumerate the many methods that have been adopted to charm or drive them away, most persons disliking these ugly little excrescences, and willingly resorting to any means, however eccentric, to lose them. As in the case of so many other charms, most of those used also for this complaint are of the nature of a sacrifice, the warts being transferred to a substitute. Thus, the person is recommended to count his warts, to wrap in a piece of paper a pebble for each, and then to throw the parcel away, in the hope that its unfortunate finder will get them. Another remedy is to open the warts to the quick, and to rub them with the juice of a sour apple, which should afterwards be buried, and as it decomposes the warts will die away. Some rub the wart with eels' blood, and others believe in the efficacy of the ashen tree. After picking each wart with a pin, they stick it into the bark, and repeat this rhyme:-- "Ashen tree, ashen tree, Pray buy these warts of me." An Irish servant's formula is to pass his hand over the warts, making the sign of the cross, at the same time bidding them, in God's name, depart and trouble him no more. He then gives some one a slip of paper, on which is written "Jesus Christ, that died upon the cross, put my warts away," to drop by the roadside. It is thought that as it perishes, so, too, will the warts vanish. Another plan is to steal a piece of raw meat, rub the warts with it, and throw it away, a charm mentioned by Southey in "The Doctor." Other remedies are the juice of ants, spiders' webs, pigs' blood, while tying a horse-hair round each wart is considered efficacious. Another method is to blow on the warts nine times when the moon is full; and in some places boys take a new pin, cross the warts with it nine times, and cast it over the left shoulder. These, then, are some of the principal cures for warts, most of them, as we have already said, belonging to the category of vicarious charms, which have at all times been one of the favourite resources of poor mortals in their difficulties--such charms being sacrifices made on the principle so widely adopted--_Qui facit per alium facit per se_. _Wen._--The same notion of vicariousness enters into the cures recommended for wens, one of the most efficacious being the touch of a dead man's hand. And Grose informs us how, in days gone by, children were brought by their nurses to be stroked with the hands of dead criminals, even whilst they were hanging on the gallows. In Northamptonshire numbers of sufferers were in the habit of congregating round the gallows, in order to receive "the dead-stroke," the notion being that as the hand of the man mouldered away, so the wen would by degrees decrease. In Gloucestershire an ornamental necklace made of plaited hair from a horse's tail is thought to be a good remedy. _Whooping-Cough._--This common enemy of childhood has, from time immemorial, afforded ample opportunity to the superstitiously-inclined to devise sundry charms for its cure, of which the following are a few:--Passing the patient three times under the belly and three times over the back of a donkey; or let the parent of the afflicted child catch a spider, and hold it over the head of the child, repeating three times:-- "Spider, as you waste away, Whooping-cough no longer stay." The spider must then be hung up in a bag over the mantlepiece, and when it has dried up the cough will have disappeared. There is a notion in Cheshire that this complaint can be cured by holding a toad or frog for a few moments with its head within the child's mouth, whereas in Norfolk the patient is advised either to drink some milk which a ferret has lapped, or to allow himself to be dragged three times round a gooseberry bush or bramble, and then three times again after three days' interval. In Sussex the excrescence often found on the briar-rose, and known as the "Robin Redbreast's Cushion," is worn as an amulet; and in Suffolk, if several children in a family are taken ill, some of the hair of the oldest child is cut into small pieces, put into some milk, and the mixture given to its brothers and sisters to drink. Some, again, procure hair from the dark cross on the back of a donkey, and having placed it in a bag, hang it round the child's neck. A Scotch remedy is to place a piece of red flannel round the patient's neck; the virtue residing, says Mr. Napier, not in the flannel but in the red colour, red having been a colour symbolical of triumph and victory over all enemies. As may be seen, therefore, from the extensive use of charm-remedies in household medicine, the physician's province has been assailed by the widespread belief in such imaginary remedies. Indeed, those who believe in the prevention and cure of disease by supernatural means are far more numerous than one would imagine, having their representatives even among the higher classes. However much we may ridicule the superstitious notions of our rural peasantry, or speak with compassion of the African negro who carries about him some amulet as a preservative against disease or as a safeguard against any danger that may befall him, yet we must admit that there is in England also a disposition to retain, with more or less veneration, those old-world notions which in the time of our forefathers constituted, as it were, so many articles of faith. CHAPTER XIII. MISCELLANEOUS HOUSEHOLD LORE. Horse-shoes--Precautions against Witchcraft--The Charmer--Second Sight--Ghosts--Dreams--Nightmare. The belief in witchcraft, which in years gone by was so extensively entertained, has not yet died out, and in many of our country villages it is regarded as one of those secret dangers to which every home is more or less exposed. Hence we find various devices still resorted to for the purpose of counteracting the supposed hurtful influences of this baneful power, instances of which we subjoin. Thus, according to a common idea, one of the best preservatives is a horse-shoe nailed to the threshold. The reason of this is said to be that Mars, the god of war, and the war-horse, was thought to be an enemy to Saturn, who, according to a mediæval idea, was the liege lord of witches. Thus, iron instruments of any kind have been said to keep witches at bay, a superstition which has been traced back to the time of the Romans, who drove nails into the walls of their houses as an antidote against the plague. Mr. Napier says that he has seen the horse-shoe in large beer-shops in London, and was present in the parlour of one of these when an animated discussion arose as to whether it was most effective to have the shoe nailed behind the door or upon the first step of the door. Both positions had their advocates, and instances of extraordinary luck were recounted as having attended them. In Lancashire, where there are, perhaps, more superstitions connected with this subject than in any other county of England, we find numerous traditions relating to the evil actions of the so-called witches in former years, many of which have become household stories among the peasants. At the present day the good housewife puts a hot iron into the cream during the process of churning to expel the witch from the churn; and dough in preparation for the baker is protected by being marked with the figure of a cross. In some places a "lucky stone"--a stone with a hole through it--is worn as an amulet, and crossed straws and knives laid on the floor are held in high repute. A belief, too, which was once very prevalent, and even still lingers on, was that the power of evil ceased as soon as blood was drawn from the witch. An instance of this superstition occurred some years ago in a Cornish village, when a man was summoned before the bench of magistrates and fined for having assaulted the plaintiff and scratched her with a pin. Not many years ago a young girl in delicate health living in a village near Exeter was thought to have been bewitched by an old woman of that place, and, according to the general opinion, the only chance of curing her was an application of the witch's blood. Consequently the girl's friends laid wait one day for the poor old woman, and scratching her with a nail till the blood flowed, collected the blood. This they carried home, and smeared the girl with it in the hope that it would insure recovery. Curious to say, she finally got well, an event which, it is needless to add, was attributed to this charm. It is still thought by many that witchcraft, like hydrophobia, is contagious, and that the person, if only slightly scratched by a witch, rapidly becomes one. The faculty of witchcraft is also said to be hereditary, and in some places families are pointed out as possessing this peculiarity. Again, witches are supposed to have the power of changing their shape and resuming it again at will, a notion which was very popular in past years, the cat's and the toad's being the forms they were thought to assume. Hence the appearance of a toad on the doorstep is taken as a certain sign that the house is under evil influence, and the poor reptile is often subjected to some cruel death. Cats, also, were formerly exposed to rough usage, one method being to enclose them with a quantity of soot in wooden bottles suspended on a line. The person who succeeded in beating out the bottom of the bottle as he run under it and yet escaping the contents was the hero of the sport, a practice to which Shakespeare alludes in _Much Ado about Nothing_, where Benedick says:-- "Hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me." It is only natural, too, that in _Macbeth_, Shakespeare, in his description of the witches, should have associated them with the cat, their recognised agent. Another important character whose supernatural powers are still credited is the "charmer." She is generally an elderly woman of good reputation, and supposed to be gifted with extraordinary powers, by means of which she performs wonderful feats of skill. By her incantations and mysterious ceremonies she stops blood, cures all manner of diseases, and is, in short, regarded as almost a miracle-worker. At the same time, however, it must not be imagined that she exercises her power gratuitously, as oftentimes her charges are very high, and it is only by patient saving that the poor can accumulate enough to satisfy her exorbitant demands. This kind of superstition has been already incidentally alluded to in the chapter on "Common Ailments;" and it is one that still holds its ground in our country districts. These supposed charmers, however, do not always make a trade of their art; for, on the contrary, it is supposed by some of them that any offer of pecuniary remuneration would break the spell, and render the charm of no avail. Again, there is still an extensive belief in "second sight," certain persons being thought to possess the faculty of peeping into futurity, and revealing future events to their fellow-creatures. Many of the Highlanders lay claim to this power, which was called by the ancient Gaels "shadow-sight." "Nor less availed his optic sleight, And Scottish gift of second-sight." Sometimes, says Mr. Napier, the person fell into a trance, "in which state he saw visions; at other times the visions were seen without the trance condition. Should the seer see in a vision a certain person dressed in a shroud, this betokened that the death of that person would surely take place within a year. Should such a vision be seen in the morning, the person seen would die before that evening; should such a vision be seen in the afternoon, the person seen would die before next night; but if the vision were seen late in the evening, there was no particular time of death intimated, further than that it would take place within the year. Again, if the shroud did not cover the whole body, the fulfilment of the vision was at a great distance. If the vision were that of a man with a woman standing at his left hand, then that woman would be that man's wife, although they may both at the time of the vision be married to others." The case is related of a man living near Blackpool who foretold death and evil events from his visions. Men of superior ability were credulous enough to visit him, and to give implicit faith to his marvellous stories. A species of superstition that may be said to reign supreme in almost every home is the belief in ghosts, there being few households that do not contain those who believe in ghostly visitants. In this respect, therefore, we are not superior to our less instructed forefathers whose experiences have been transmitted to us in many of those weird and thrilling stories which are to be found recorded in many of our old county histories. Indeed, there is scarcely a village in England that does not boast of the proud distinction of having its haunted house or spot. Hence as nightfall approaches with its sombre hues of darkness, few persons can be found bold enough to visit such mysterious localities, for-- "Grey superstition's whisper dread, Debars the spot to vulgar tread." Although many of these grotesque stories which have been from time to time associated with certain old houses are simply legendary and destitute of any truth, yet it cannot be denied that while occasionally causing fear even to the strong-minded they have acted most injuriously upon the credulous and superstitious. According to an old fancy, ghosts of every description vanish at cock-crow, in allusion to which Shakespeare makes the ghost of Hamlet's father vanish at this season:-- "It faded on the crowing of the cock." One night, however, in the year has been said to be entirely free from spiritual manifestations of every kind--namely Christmas Eve--an idea to which Marcellus refers, who, speaking of the ghost, says:-- "Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long, And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." But on other days of the year, every noise at night, however trivial, which cannot be satisfactorily explained by inquisitive minds, is thought by the superstitious to indicate that spirits are walking abroad; such illogical persons forgetting how in the stillness of the night sounds, which at other times would pass unnoticed, attract attention, and thus assume an exaggerated importance. In this way the whistling of the wind, the creaking of the floor, and a host of other natural noises have in the deceptive hours of midnight terrified their nervous victim, and filled the overwrought fancy with the most alarming delusions. An amusing volume might be written showing how most of the ghost stories connected with so-called haunted houses have arisen. Thus, as Mrs. Latham points out in her "West Sussex Superstitions," there is very little doubt but that the ghosts formerly seen wandering in blue flames, near lonely houses on the coast, "were of an illicit class of spirits, raised by the smugglers in order to alarm and drive all others but their accomplices from their haunts." On one occasion, for instance, the unearthly noises heard night after night in a house at Rottingdean caused such alarm among the servants, that they all gave warning, when one night the noises ceased, and soon afterwards a gang of smugglers who had fallen into the hands of the police confessed to having made a secret passage from the beach close by the house, and said that, wishing to induce the occupiers to abandon it, they had been in the habit of rolling at the dead of night tub after tub of spirits up the passage, and so caused it to be reported that the place was haunted. Ghosts are said to be especially fond of walking abroad on certain nights, the chief of these being St. Mark's Eve, Midsummer Eve, and Hallowe'en. Hence various methods have been resorted to for the purpose of invoking them with a view of gaining an insight into futurity, love-sick maidens, as we have said, seizing these golden opportunities for gaining information about their absent lovers. It must not be supposed, too, that apparitions are confined to the spirits of the departed, as throughout the country there are the most eccentric traditions of headless animals having been seen at sundry times rushing madly about at night-time. Leaving, however, the subject of ghosts, we find in the next place an extensive folk-lore associated with dreams. We have already incidentally alluded to the many divinations practised for the sake of acquiring information by means of them on certain subjects, but we may further note that dreams are by some supposed occasionally to intimate not only future events, but things which are actually happening at a distance. Hence a "Dictionary of Dreams" has been framed whereby the inquirer, if he be credulously disposed, can learn the meaning and signification of any particular dream which he may recollect. Thus, it is said that to dream of death denotes happiness and long life, but to dream of gathering a nosegay is unlucky, signifying that our best and fairest hopes shall wither away like flowers in a nosegay. Dreaming about balls, dances, &c., indicates coming good fortune; and thus we are told that those-- "Who dream of being at a ball No cause have they for fear; For soon will they united be To those they hold most dear." To give one further illustration, to dream that one is walking in a garden, and that the trees are bare and fruitless, is a very bad omen, being said to indicate that one's friends will either become poor or forsake one. If the garden, on the other hand, should be in bloom, it is a propitious sign. Portents of approaching death are said to be received through dreams; and we will quote an example of this from Mr. Henderson, which happened, it is affirmed, some years ago in the family of an Irish bishop:--"A little boy came down-stairs one morning, saying, 'Oh, mamma, I have had such a nice dream. Somebody gave me such a pretty box, and I am sure it was for me, for there was my name on it. Look, it was just like this;' and, taking up a slate and pencil, the child drew the shape of a coffin. The parents gazed at one another in alarm, not lessened by the gambols of the child, who frolicked about in high health and spirits. The father was obliged to go out that morning, but he begged the mother to keep the child in her sight through the day. She did so, till, while she was dressing to go out in her carriage, the little boy slipped away to the stables, where he begged the coachman to take him by his side while he drove to the house door, a thing he had often done before. On this occasion, however, the horses were restive, the driver lost control over them, and the child was flung off and killed on the spot." Shylock, it may be remembered, in the _Merchant of Venice_, referring to his dream, says:-- "There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night." Many curious charms are still practised to ward off that unpleasant sensation popularly known as nightmare, which both in this and other countries has given rise to a variety of superstitions. According to one old notion, this disagreeable feeling was produced by some fairy, under a disguised form, visiting the person, and worrying him while asleep by certain mischievous pranks. Thus, in Germany, the nightmare is said to appear at times in the shape of a mouse, a weasel, or a toad, and occasionally, too, in the form of a cat. One German story relates how a joiner was, night by night, much plagued with the nightmare, when he at last saw it steal into his room about midnight in the form of a cat. Having at once stopped up the hole through which the cat had entered, he lost no time in seizing the animal and nailing it by one paw to the ground. Next morning, however, much to his horror and surprise, he discovered a handsome young lady with a nail driven through her hand. He accordingly married her, but one day he uncovered the hole which he had stopped up, whereupon she instantly escaped through it in the shape of a cat, and never returned. There are numerous stories of a similar kind, in most cases the sequel being the same. Among the charms still in use as a preservative against nightmare may be mentioned a stone with a natural hole in it hung over the sleeper, or a knife laid under the foot of the bedstead, both being considered of equal efficacy. In Lancashire the peasantry believe that nightmare appears in the form of a dog, and they try to counteract its influence by placing their shoes under the bed with the toe upwards, on retiring to rest. Not very long ago, too, at the West Riding Court at Bradford, in a case of a husband and wife who had quarrelled, the woman stated that the reason why she kept a coal-rake in her bedroom was that she suffered from nightmare, and had been informed that the rake would keep it away. The best charm after all, however, for this common disorder is to be careful that one's digestive organs are not upset by incautious suppers eaten just before retiring to rest. It only remains for us, in conclusion, to add once more that the preceding pages are not intended to be by any means exhaustive, our object having been to give a brief and general survey of that extensive folk-lore which has, in the course of years, woven itself around the affairs of home-life. However much this may be ridiculed on the plea of its being the outcome of credulous belief, yet it constitutes an important element in our social life, which the historian in years to come will doubtless use when he studies the character of the English people in this and bygone centuries. INDEX. Abgarus, Letter of Christ to, 7 Ague, Charms against, 149 Apes, Leading, 43 Apple-peel as a love-test, 30 Apple-tree blooming twice, a sign of Death, 52 Apron, Superstitions about, 84 Articles of Dress, 81 "Arval" and "Arval Bread," 64 Aryan Myths and Legends, 16 Astrology, Divination by, 144 Auguries gathered from Shoes, 89 Baby and Kitten, 8 Banns, Superstitions about putting up, 43 Baptism, how rendered propitious in Scotland, 19 ---- Effect of, on Children, 18 Barring out, 27 ---- Addison's conduct at, 27 Beards, Dyeing of, 76 Bed, Folk-lore about, 118 ---- Position of, 119 Bellows, Superstition about, 120, 160 Bent piece of money, 133 Best man's prize, 46 Bible and Key, 135 Birds, Presages of Death by, 51 Birth and Infancy, Folk-lore relating to, 2 "Bishopping," good for rheumatism, 21 Bishop's Left Hand, Superstition respecting, 20 Biting the Glove, 95 "Black Ox" in Scotland, 51 Blade-bone, Divination by, 139 Bleeding of the Nose, 68, 150 ---- as a sign of love, 68 Blue Vein across Nose, 69 Brake or Fern, Divination by, 31 Bread, Superstitions about, 107 Breaking Egg-shells, 108 Bride and Looking-glass, 113 ---- Sun shining on, 40 Brides of Elizabethan Dramas, 39 Bride's Stockings, 86 Broom left in Room after Sweeping, 126 Burial of Dead among Greeks, 63 "Burial without the Sanctuary," 62 Burn or Scald, 151 Burning Hair, Omens from, 74 ---- tail of Coat, &c., 84 Butter-dock, Scattering Seeds of, 35 Cæna feralis of Romans, 64 Candle in Ghost's Hand, 54 Candles, Omens from, 130 Carbuncle in Ring, 96 Cards, Divination by, 144 Carrying the Dead with the Sun, 61 Casting Lot, Divination by, 146 Cat, Sneezing of, 123 Cats and Toads, Form of, assumed by Witches, 177 ---- Sucking Child's Breath, 13 Caul, Superstition about, 3, 4 ---- Hood's Ballad about, 3 ---- Price paid for, 4 Chairs, Superstitions about, 111, 118 Changelings, Superstitions about, 4 ---- Luther's remarks on, 4 Character of Book, 180 Charm-remedies, 148 Charmer, her power, 172 Charms against changing Children, 5 ---- to detect Changelings, 5 ---- against stumbling, 124 Cheeks, Itching of, 77 Cheese given by Bride, 42 Child Dying unchristened, 18 Childhood's Folk-lore, 16 "Chime Hours," Birth at, 2 Chiromancy, or Palmistry, 140 Christmas Eve, Divinations on, 34 Christ's College, Cambridge, Fellowships at, 103 Churchyard Lore, 61 Cinderella, a Nature-myth, 17 "Clock-falling," 117 ---- striking thirteen, 54 ---- losing stroke, 55 Clothes of the Dead, 83 Cock-crowing at Night, 52 "Connoisseur," Love-tests in, 29 Corn in Marriage Ceremony, 44 "Corpse-candles" in Wales, 54 Counting one's Gains, 133 Covering Looking-glass at Death, 113 Cramp, Charms against, 151 "Creeling" the Bridegroom in Scotland, 48 Crockery, Breaking of, 127 Cross on Dough, 170 Crowing Hen, 125 ---- of a Cock, 138 Crying at Baptism, 19 ---- Anecdote regarding, 20 ---- at Wedding, 40 Cuckoo's Notes, 32 ---- First Note heard in Bed, Ominous of Illness or Death, 52 "Cunning Man," 121 Curious Marriage Customs, 47 Cutting the Nails, 80 Dactylomancy, or Divination by Rings, 98 Dandelion, Divination by, 31 Days of Week, Sneezing on, 123 Dead Children cannot rest if Mothers fret for them, 15 ---- Hand, Rubbing with, 78 ---- Anecdotes respecting, 78 ---- Man's Hand at Bryn Hall, Lancashire, 79 Death and Burial, Superstition respecting, 48 ---- Announced by the Dying, 55 ---- Bell in Scotland, 67 ---- Anecdote of Hogg about, 67 Dee, Dr., and Magic Mirror, 114 Destiny of Children, how augured in Scotland, 19 Diamond, potent against Poison, 97 "Dipping," in Bible, 136 Divination among Children, 26 ---- by Pins, 100 ---- of Sex of unborn Infant, 3 Dog, Howling of, at Death, how caused, 50 Doorstep, Lifting Bride over, 42 Drawing Blood from Witch, 171 Dreams, What denoted by, 177 Dutch Parson and Will-o'-the-Wisp, 18 "Dying Hard," 58 Ears, Tingling of, 66 Easter Day, New Clothes on, 82 Ecclesiastical Dignity and Gloves, Association of, 94 Eggs, Divination by, 146 ---- Superstitions about, 108 Elder Sister Dancing in Hog's trough at younger Sister's Marriage, 43 Emerald, and Purity of Thought, 97 Epilepsy, Remedies for, 152 Erysipelas, Amulets against, 153 Evil Eye, 6 ---- in "Satires of Persius," 6 ---- Lancashire belief about, 6 Exeter Lammas Fair, 94 Eye, Omens relating to, 70 "Eye-biting" in Ireland, 7 Eye-brows, Meeting of, 70 Eyes, Itching of, 70 Face, or Look-divination, 142 Fair, Opening of, announced by hanging out Glove, 94 Fairy-tales, What embodied in, 16 Feet, Folk-lore about, 80 ---- Itching of, 80 "Fetch-lights," 54 Finger-nails, Superstitions about, 10 ---- in Germany, 10 ---- in Northumberland, 11 ---- in Scotland, 11 Fire, Omens and Portents of, 129 First Teeth, Precautions taken when they come out, 10 ---- Tooth in Upper Jaw, 8 Fits, Charms against, 154 Flat Feet and Bad Temper, 80 Flinging the Stocking, 85 Foot going to Sleep, 81 Fretting Baby, 12 Friday, an Unlucky Day, 128 ---- Good for Love-omens, 35 ---- Inauspicious for Marrying, 38 ---- Lucky for Marrying in Scotland, 39 Funeral Feasts, 64 ---- Meeting of, by Bride or Bridegroom, 40 ---- Meeting a, 65 ---- of Unmarried Girl, Custom at, 64 Furniture Omens, 111 Garters, Superstitions about, 86 ---- Tying Knots in, 30 Gathering Rose on Midsummer Eve, 30 Getting out of Bed the wrong way, 119 Ghosts, Belief in, 174 ---- do not appear on Christmas Eve, 175 ---- Favourite Days for appearance of, 176 ---- seen by Animals, 50 Gloucester, Duke of, Born with Teeth, 9 Glove, Use of, at Fairs, 95 Glove-money, 93 Gloves, Superstitions about, 92 Going in at one Door and out at another at Marriage, 41 "Going up" at Birth, 8 Gout, Charms against, 155 "Grave Scab," 14 ---- Remedy for, 14 Graves, Position of, 63 Green Yarrow, 31 Grounds at bottom of Tea-cup, 110 Hair, Superstitions respecting, 72 ---- Omens from Growth of, 74 ---- Sudden Loss of, 74 Hallowe'en, Divination on, 34 Hands, Emblematic of Character, 77 ---- Itching of, 77 Headache, Cures for, 155 Headless Animals, 176 Helping to Salt, 104 Hen cackling at Wedding, 42 Hollow Cinder a Coffin, 129 Home-life, Superstitions relating to, 131 Horoscope in Germany, 143 Horse-shoes as Amulets, 169 Hot Iron in Cream, 170 Household Superstitions, 120 Howling of a Dog at Night indicative of Death, 49 Human Body, Superstitions about, 65 Hydrophobia, Cures for, 156 Hysteria, Remedies for, 158 Idiots cannot sneeze, 123 Invalid asking for Pigeons, 52 Itching of the Nose, 68 "Jack-a-Dandy," 25 Jackdaw, Omen of Death, 52 Jacob's Prophecies, 57 Jaundice, Remedies for, 158 Jewish Customs respecting Shoes, 90 June popular for marrying, 37 Keepsake Rings, Colours in, 93 Knife, Folk-lore relating to, 105 ----, Giving away, unlucky, 106 ----, Finding, unlucky, 106 Lady-bird, Divination by, 31 Lameness, Cure for, 158 Last Day of Year, Marrying on, in Scotland, 39 Leap-year, Birth in, 3 Lending Knife to cut Cake, 26 Long Life, how to secure, 12 Looking-glass, Fancies about, 112 Love and Courtship, 28 Love-tests, 28 ----, whence derived, 29 "Luck of Edenhall," 116 "Lucky Stone" as Amulet, 170 Lucky Stones, 7 Lumbago, Cure for, 159 Magicians and Looking-glasses, 114 Magpie using Hair, 74 Maiden Assize, Gloves at, 93 Making "the Deazil," 61 "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John," 21 May Marriages unlucky, 36 Measles, Cure for, 159 Medicated Rings, 97 Medicine Bottles, selling, 134 Melted Lead, Divination by, 146 Midsummer Eve, Practices on, 33 Misfortune not to die in one's Bed, 53 Moist and dry Hands, 78 Moles, Omens drawn from, 66 Money and the New Moon, 132 Nails, Signification of, 77 Necklace of Peony Beads, 10 New Clothes, Superstitions relating to, 82 ---- Moon in Looking-glass, 113 Nicking Schoolmaster's Cane, 26 Nightmare, Charms against, 178 ----, Curious Stories about, 179 North Side of Church, Burial in, 63 Nose, Omens relating to, 68 "Nose out of Joint," and "Paying through Nose," 69 Number Thirteen, Superstitions about, 100, 101 "Nutcrack-night," 34 Nuts and Apples, Divination by, 31 Odd Numbers, Antipathy to, in School Games, 25 Omens associated with Rings, 97 ---- of approaching Death, 49 Onymancy, or Divination by the Finger-nails, 141 Opal Ring, unlucky to wear, 97 Open Grave at Wedding, 41 "Over-looking," Superstitions about, 71 Overturning Chair, 111 Ovid on June Marriages, 38 Ox or Cow breaking into Garden, Omen of Death, 51 ----, Anecdote respecting, 51 Palmistry, or Divination by the Hands, 78 Paralysis, Charms for, 160 "Parson's Penny" in Wales, 62 Picking Broom in Bloom unlucky, 52 ----, Anecdote respecting, 53 Pigeons' Feathers in Bed, 58 ---- Heart, Divination by, 34 Pin in Candle, 131 Pins, Superstitions about, 98 ---- in Witchcraft and Sorcery, 99 ----, Robbing Bride of, 41 Plants and Petticoats, 85 ---- in Love-charms, 30 ----, Omens of Death derived from, 52 Poker across Bars of Grate, 129 Popular Divinations, 134 Pork, eating Marrow of, 109 Position of Grave, 63 Prayers of Poor in Lincolnshire, 22 ----, Origin of, 23 ---- Taught by poor People to their Children, 21 Prevalence of Superstitions, 122 Prophesying before Death, 57 Puritans and Wedding-ring, 46 Rain, Rhymes about, 24 Rainbow, crossing out, 24 "Rattley-bags," 25 Rebuilding House fatal, 54 Red Hair and Beard, 75 Reversing Articles of Dress, 83 Rheumatism and Shoes, 90 ----, Charms against, 160 Rhymes used by Children, 23 Rings, Legendary Lore of, 95 ---- as Talismans, 96 ---- of dead Friend, 84 Rocking empty Cradle, 9 Rubbing Shoulders with Bride or Bridegroom, 41 Rural Bridegroom and Gloves, 95 St. Valentine's Day, 32 ----, Divination on, in Devonshire, 33 Salt on Breast of Corpse, 60 Salt-spilling, Superstitions about, 103 Seasons admitting or prohibiting Matrimony, 38 Second Sight, 173 Selling Eggs after dark, 108 "Shaping" of Wedding Dress for Divination, 46 Shift, Divination by, 30 Shivering as a portent, 131 Shoeing-horn and Shakespeare, 91 Shoe-throwing, 87 ---- at Weddings, 46 Shoes, Rhymes on, 90 ----, Superstitions about, 87 Shortbread at Wedding, 45 Sieve and Shears, 137 "Sin-eaters" in Scotland, 60 Sitting above and below the Salt, 105 ---- cross-legged, 80 Sleeping on Bones, 8 Small-pox, Remedies for, 161 Smith, Mr. G., the Assyriologist, and Dr. Delitzsch, 55 Snail, Divination by, 32 Snails, Rhymes about, 25 Sneezing and Sneezers, 122 Snow, Rhymes about, 24 _Sortes Virgilianæ_, 136 Sowing Hempseed, 29 "Spade-money" in Wales, 62 Spark in Candle, 130 Spasms, Cure for, 160 Spatulamancia, 139 Specks on the Nails, 79 Speedwell and Snowdrop, 53 Spider, Superstitions about, 126 Spitting on Money, 132 Sprains, Charms for, 161 Staff, Divination by, 146 Standing in another's Shoes, 91 ---- on end, of Hair, 73 Stillborn Children, Graves of, 15 Stockings, Superstitions about, 85 Stolen Kisses and Gloves, 93 Stopping House Clock at Death, 117 Stumbling Up-stairs, 123 ---- on Threshold, 124 ---- at Grave, 124 Sty, Prevention and Cure of, 162 Sudden whitening of Hair, 73 Sunday good Day to marry, 38 ---- Lucky for Birth, 2 Superstitions about Marriage, 42 ----, value of, 1 ----, in what interesting, 1 ----, whence sprung, 1 Sussex Superstition about Children born on Sunday, 2 Sweeping, Superstitions about, 126 Symbolism of shoes, 88 Table Superstitions, 100 Tea-leaves, Divination by, 109 Tea-stalks, Divination by, 147 Teeth, Superstitions respecting, 72 Thirteen at Table, 101, 102 Three Magpies sign of a Wedding, 32 Thrush, Charm against, 163 Toothache, Charms against, 163 Touching Corpse among Poor, 60 Turning Back after starting, 132 Turquoise in Ring, 96 Typhus Fever, Remedies for, 165 "Unchristened Ground," 14 "Universal Fortune-teller," 2 Unmarried Person between Man and Wife, 111 Venetian Glass, Breaking of, by poisoned Draught, 116 Virgin Mary at Birth of John the Baptist, 8 Warts, Charms against, 165, 166 Watching dead Body, 61 Water used at Baptism, 20 Weakly Infants, how treated in Cornwall, 12 Wearing Looking-glasses, 115 Weather, Charms to influence, 23 Weather-lore from Fires, 129 Wedding-cake, 44 Wedding-ring, Divination by, 45 ---- placed in Wedding-cake, 45 ---- hired in Ireland, 47 ----, Notions about, 47 Wens, Cures for, 167 Whistling Woman, 125 White Gloves and Death of the Unmarried, 94 Whitsuntide, new Clothes on, 82 Whooping-cough, Cures for, 167 Will-o'-the-Wisp, Omen of Death, 53 William I. at Hastings, 83 Wine, &c., drank at Funerals, 64 "Wise Woman," 121 "Wishing-bone" of Fowl, 109 Witch taking form of Cat, 14 Witchcraft, Divination in, 138 ---- Precautions against, 169 Worthing, case of Dog howling at, 49 "Wrong Side of Church," 62 Yellow Hair and Beard, 75 Yew, at Christmas, 53 Young, Lieutenant, Announcement of Brother's Death to, 56 Zadkiel's Almanack, 142 CASSELL, PETTER, GALPIN & CO., BELLE SAUVAGE WORKS, LONDON, E.C. * * * * * Transcriber's Note: _Underscores_ surround italicized text. Obvious typographical errors were repaired. Valid archaic spellings were retained. The entry for "INDEX," at the bottom of the Contents page, did not appear in the original. It has been added for the convenience of the reader. 
53617	----	available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/legendaryyorkshi00ross LEGENDARY YORKSHIRE by FREDERICK ROSS, F.R.H.S., Author of "Celebrities of Yorkshire Wolds," "Yorkshire Family Romance," etc. Hull: William Andrews & Co., The Hull Press. London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent, & Co., Limited. 1892. _NOTE._ Of this book 500 copies have been printed, and this is No. ... Contents. PAGE THE ENCHANTED CAVE 1 THE DOOMED CITY 15 THE "WORM" OF NUNNINGTON 34 THE DEVIL'S ARROWS 51 THE GIANT ROAD-MAKER OF MULGRAVE 70 THE VIRGIN'S HEAD OF HALIFAX 80 THE DEAD ARM OF ST. OSWALD THE KING 100 THE TRANSLATION OF ST. HILDA 117 A MIRACLE OF ST. JOHN 131 THE BEATIFIED SISTERS OF BEVERLEY 147 THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY 168 THE MIRACLES AND GHOST OF WATTON 176 THE MURDERED HERMIT OF ESKDALE 195 THE CALVERLEY GHOST 214 THE BEWITCHED HOUSE OF WAKEFIELD 231 LEGENDARY YORKSHIRE. The Enchanted Cave. Who is there that has not heard of the famous and redoubtable hero of history and romance, Arthur, King of the British, who so valiantly defended his country against the pagan Anglo-Saxon invaders of the island? Who has not heard of the lovely but frail Guenevera, his Queen, and the galaxy of female beauty that constituted her Court at Caerleon? Who has not heard of his companions-in-arms--the brave and chivalrous Knights of the Round Table, who went forth as knights-errant to succour the weaker sex, deliver the oppressed, liberate those who had fallen into the clutches of enchanters, giants, or malicious dwarfs, and especially in quest of the Holy Graal, that mystic chalice, in which were caught the last drops of blood of the expiring Saviour, and which, in consequence, became possessed of wondrous properties and marvellous virtue of a miraculous character? If such there be, let him lose no time in perusing Sir John Mallory's "La Morte d'Arthur," the "Chronicles of Geoffrey of Monmouth," the "Mabinogian of the Welsh," or the more recent "Idylls of the King," of Tennyson. According to Nennius, after vanquishing the Saxons in many battles, he crossed the sea, and carried his victorious arms into Scotland, Ireland, and Gaul, in which latter country he obtained a decisive victory over a Roman army. Moreover, that during his absence Mordred, his nephew, had seduced his queen and usurped his government, and that in a battle with the usurper, in 542, at Camlan, in Cornwall, he was mortally wounded; was conveyed to Avalon (Glastonbury), where he died of his wound, and was buried there. It is also stated that in the reign of Henry II. his reputed tomb was opened, when his bones and his magical sword "Excaliber" were found. This is given on the authority of Giraldus Cambrensis, who informs us that he was present on the occasion. But the popular belief in the West of England was that he did not die as represented, his soul having entered the body of a raven, which it will inhabit until he reappears to deliver England in some great extremity of peril. This is what is told us by old chroniclers of Western England, the Welsh bards, and some romance writers; but in Yorkshire we have a different version of the story. It is true, say our legends, that Arthur was a mighty warrior, the greatest and most valiant that the island of Britain has produced either before or since; a man, moreover, of the most devout chivalry and gentle courtesy, and withal so pure in his life and sincere in his piety as a Christian, that he alone is worthy to find the Holy Graal, if not in his former life, in that which is forthcoming--for he is not dead, but reposes in a spell-bound sleep, along with his knights, Sir Launcelot, Sir Gawaine, Sir Perceval, etc., and that the time is coming when the needs of England will be such as only his victorious arm, wielding his magically wrought Excaliber, can rescue from irretrievable ruin. He sleeps--it is asserted--along with his knights, in a now undiscoverable cavern beneath the Castle of Richmond, whence he will issue in the fulness of time, scatter the enemies of England like chaff before the wind, as he so frequently dispersed the hordes of Teuton pagans, and place England on a higher eminence among the nations of the earth than it has ever previously attained. This enchanted cave has been seen but once, and by one man only. It happened in this wise:-- Once on a time there dwelt in Richmond one Peter Thompson. At what period he flourished is not recorded, but it matters not, although a little trouble in searching the parish registers and lists of burgesses of the town might reveal the fact. He gained a living by the fabrication of earthenware, and hence was popularly known amongst his comrades and townspeople as Potter Thompson. He was a simple and meek-minded man, small in stature and slender in limb, never troubling himself with either general or local politics. His voice was never heard at the noisy meetings of the vestry, nor did he join in the squabbles attendant on the meetings of the electors for the choice of their municipal governors or representatives in Parliament; he merely recorded his vote for the candidate who came forward as the representative of the colour he supported, leaving the shouting and quarreling and cudgel-playing to those of his fellow-townsmen who had a liking for such rough work. As for himself, he was only too glad when he had discharged his duty as a citizen to get back to his clay and his wheel, for he was an industrious little fellow, had plenty of work, and was thus enabled, by living a frugal life, to lay by a little money, and would have lived a comfortable and happy life but for one circumstance. Unfortunately, Peter Thompson was a married man; not that matrimony, in the abstract, is a misfortune, but he was unfortunate inasmuch as his wife was a termagant, and made his life miserable. Her tongue went clack, clack, clacking all day long; nothing that he did was right. She declared herself to be the greatest fool in Richmond to have united herself to an insignificant little wretch like him; and even when the bed curtains were drawn around them at night, the poor fellow was kept awake for an hour or more while she dinned into his ears a lecture on his manifold faults and his failures of duty as a husband. Peter seldom replied, but bore it all with meekness, and allowed her to go on with her monologue until she was tired, or ceased for want of breath. At times, when she was more exasperating than usual, he would start up from his wheel, clap his hat on his head, and rush out of the house to escape her pertinacious scolding. At such times he would go wandering about the hills and picturesque scenery by which Richmond is environed, and especially about the hill on which stands the Castle, and amongst the castle ruins, remaining away for three or four hours, moodily meditating on the mischance or infatuation which had led him to ally himself with so untoward a helpmate. It chanced one day that Peter, unable to endure the persecution of his wife's tongue, rushed out of his house with the full intention of throwing himself into the Swale, so as to end his misery there and then. It was a brilliant summer's day, and there was a glorious sheen cast over hill and vale, rock and ravine, the silvery river winding between its emerald-hued banks and the clumps of foliaged woodland--over the Castle keep standing pre-eminently above all other buildings, church tower, ruined friary, antique bridge, and the quaint houses of the burghers, with the tower of Easby gleaming in the distance, imparting to the whole scene, which is one of the most picturesque in Yorkshire--which is saying a great deal, and which for natural beauty can scarcely be surpassed in England--a charm which had a wonderful effect on Peter's perturbed mind. He was a lover of nature in all her aspects, and an ardent admirer of the landscape beauties which surrounded his native town; and he began to reflect, as he ran down the slope, that if he carried out his purpose, he would never more be able to delight his eyes with the lovely prospects of nature so lavishly displayed before him at that moment; and by the time he reached the river's bank he had almost determined to live on and find compensation for his domestic discomforts in his communings with nature--or at least, continued he to himself--"I will take another turn among the hills and rocks and old ivy-mantled ruins, before I bid good-bye to it all." He wandered along round the base of the Castle hill, his spirits becoming more elevated the farther he went, as he gazed on the glorious landscape which gradually became revealed to his view. Anon he fell into a contemplative mood, and reasoned calmly and philosophically on the wisdom of disregarding the minor ills of life, when it was possible for him as a compensating alternative to revel in the delights he was now enjoying, and he soon forgot altogether his purpose of terminating his woes and his life together from the parapet of Swale bridge. Onward he wandered; when suddenly turning a corner he came upon a spot altogether unknown to him--a ravine which seemed to wind away under the Castle hill, walled in with rugged rocks, from whose crevices sprang upward trees and shrubs, whilst underfoot was a flooring of rough scattered stones and fragments of fallen rocks, which appeared not to have been trodden for centuries. Astonished at the sight, for he imagined that he knew every nook in the neighbourhood, he rubbed his eyes to ascertain whether he was dreaming; but he found himself to be fully awake, and the unknown ravine to be a palpable reality. It just flashed across his mind that sorcery had been at work, and that what he beheld was the result of necromancy, for in his time enchanters, warlocks, wizards, and witches were rife in the land; but Peter had a bold heart, and he resolved upon solving the mystery by an exploration of the recesses of the ravine, let what would come of it. Summoning up all his courage, Peter entered the ravine, stumbling now and then over the stones bestrewn along his pathway. The road wound about, now to one side then to another, and the trees overhead to stretch out towards each other so as to overshadow the ravine and impart a twilight effect, which, as Peter proceeded onward, deepened into gloom, and eventually almost to darkness. At this period, when he was compelled to move along with caution, he encountered what at first seemed to be a wall of rock forming the end of the ravine. On feeling it carefully he found it to be a huge boulder which obstructed his path, but, his courage failing him not, he found means to clamber over it and land safely on the further side. On looking about him, as well as he could by the dim light, he found that he had alighted on the entrance to a cavern, the boulder seeming as if it had been placed there to prevent the intrusion of unauthorised persons, and then he imagined that it might be the cave of a gang of banditti, and was at once their treasure house and their refuge in times of peril; and this idea seemed to be confirmed by the circumstance that he could perceive, in the extreme distance, a glimmer of light. He felt that it would be extremely dangerous to be discovered in the purlieus of their haunt, but curiosity got the better of his fears, and he resolved upon going forward, mentally adding "After all it may be nothing more than the daylight streaming in at the other end, and by going on I may come out into the open air without having to return by the rough, shinbreaking road by which I have come;" and onward he went, feeling his way by the rocky walls cautiously and slowly, and, it must be added, with some degree of trepidation. As he proceeded along, the distant light increased, and could be seen beaming through an opening like a doorway, with a mild effulgence resembling moonlight. Clearly it could not be the light of the sun streaming in through the aperture, and Peter, becoming more convinced that he was either approaching a robbers' haunt or a scene of enchantment, crept along as silently as possible, with some timidity, it is true; but having come thus far, and his curiosity being excited to the utmost pitch, he determined to carry out his adventure to the end. As he approached the portal, he stood to listen; but not the slightest sound broke the death-like stillness, and concluding from this that the cave was not occupied--at least, was not at present--he ventured onward with silent footstep, and stood within the illuminated aperture. What was his amazement cannot be told at beholding the scene before him. The opening gave entrance to a lofty and spacious cavern, its walls glittering with crystals and spars, whilst from the roof depended a profusion of stalactites, glistening and scintillating with hues of spectroscopic brilliancy. The light which was diffused around seemed to be something supernatural; it was not that of the sun, nor that of the moon, nor was it our modern electric light; but seemed to be an intensity of phosphoric radiance--soft, mild, and provocative of slumber--which came not from any lamp or other visible source, but appeared to be self-evolved from the atmosphere. In the centre of the cave, upon a rocky table or couch, lay the figure of a kingly personage, resting his head on his right hand, after the fashion of the recumbent effigies in our mediæval churches. He was clad in resplendent armour and a superb over-cloak, with a golden crown, studded with precious stones, encircling his head. By his side was a circular shield emblazoned with arms, which would have told Peter, had he been versed in heraldry, that the owner was the famous King Arthur; whilst close by, suspended from the wall, were a diamond-hilted sword in a chased golden scabbard, and a highly ornamented horn, such as were used by military leaders for collecting their scattered troops. Around the King lay his twelve Knights of the Round Table, some prostrate on the floor, others reposing on fragments and projections of the rocks, each one handsome in figure and reclining in unstudied natural grace, presenting a study for a painter. They all lay as still as death save that their heaving chests and audible breathing showed that they were wrapped in profound slumber. Peter gazed upon them for a while with wondering eyes, keeping within the doorway, so as to have the road clear behind him for escape, in case of any hostile demonstration on the part of the knights. As they still slumbered on, without any sign of awakening, he plucked up courage enough to go amongst them; and, attracted by the splendour of the sword, he took it down to examine it more closely; then took it by the handle, and half drew it from its sheath. The moment he had done so, the sleepers around him gave symptoms of awakening, turned themselves, and seemed to be preparing to rise; but the spell of disenchantment was not complete. Peter, terribly alarmed at what he saw, pushed back the sword into the scabbard, threw it on the floor, and hurried with all speed to the doorway; whilst the half-awakened slumberers sank back again into deep sleep. Peter, not noticing this, rushed through the opening, thinking the knights were following him to inflict some terrible punishment on him--perhaps that of death--for his presumptuous intrusion. It was but a few moments, and he reached the boulder which defended the entrance, and which was much more difficult to scale from that side. He was endeavouring to find projections to enable him to clamber up, when he heard a hollow sepulchral voice exclaim from the cave:-- "Potter, Potter Thompson, If thou had'st either drawn The sword or blown the horn, Thoud'st been the luckiest man That ever yet was born." With teeth chattering, hair on end, and a cold perspiration suffusing his forehead, he made a desperate effort, scrambled somehow or other over the stone, and running with fleet footstep, regardless of the rough roadway, gained the open air without any other damage than a few bruises and a terrible fright. He went home, and had to encounter a fearful scolding for remaining out so long and neglecting his work. He told his wife the tale of his adventures, but she only laughed it to scorn, saying, "You old fool! and so you have fallen asleep on the hillside and want to persuade me that your dream was a reality. It's a pretty thing that you should leave your wheel and go mooning about in this way, leaving your faithful wife to suffer the effects of your idleness." Many a time since then did Peter seek for the ravine but could never find it; but it is confidently assumed that Arthur and his knights are still slumbering under the Castle hill. The Doomed City. Through the valley of Wensleydale, in the North Riding of Yorkshire, flows the river Yore or Ure, passing onward to Boroughbridge, below which town it receives an insignificant affluent--the Ouse--when it assumes that name, under which appellation it washes the walls of York, and proceeds hence to unite with the Trent in forming the estuary of the Humber; but although it loses its name of Yore before reaching York, the capital city of the county is indebted to it for the name it bears. The river in passing through Wensleydale reflects on its surface some of the most romantic and charming landscape scenery of Yorkshire, and that is saying a great deal, for no other county can equal it in the variety, loveliness, and wild grandeur of its natural features. "In this district, Wensleydale, otherwise Yorevale or Yorevalle," says Barker, "a variety of scenery exists, unsurpassed in beauty by any in England. Mountains clothed at their summits with purple heather, interspersed with huge crags, and at their bases with luxuriant herbage, bound the view on either hand. Down the valley's centre flows the winding Yore, one of the most serpentine rivers our island boasts--now boiling and foaming, in a narrow channel, over sheets of limestone--now forming cascades only equalled by the cataracts of the Nile--and anon spreading out into a broad, smooth stream, as calm and placid as a lowland lake. On the banks lie rich pastures, occasionally relieved, at the eastern extremity of the valley, by cornfields. There are several smaller dales branching out of Wensleydale--of which they may, indeed, be accounted part. Of these the principal are Bishopdale and Raydale, or Roedale--the valley of the Roe--which last contains Lake Semerwater, a sheet of water covering a hundred and five acres, and about forty-five feet deep. Besides this lake, the natural objects of interest in the district best known are Aysgarth Force, Hardraw-scaur, Mill Gill, and Leyburn Shall--the last a lofty natural terrace from which the eye may range from the Cleveland Hills at the mouth of the Tees to those bordering upon Westmoreland." The valley is exceedingly rich in historic memories and noble monuments of the architectural past--"castles and halls inseparably united with English story, and abbeys whose names, whilst our national records shall be written, must for ever remain on the scroll; with fortresses which have been the palaces and prisons of kings. Of these, Bolton Castle, the home of the Scropes, and one of the prisons of Mary, Queen of Scots, and Middleham Castle, where dwelt the great Nevill, the king-maker, and the frequent and favourite residence of the Duke of Gloucester, afterwards King Richard III., and the venerable remains of Yorevale, or Jervaux, and of Coverham Abbeys, are alone sufficient to immortalise a district of country." In former times the dale was covered by a dense forest, the home of countless herds of deer, wild boars, wolves, and other wild animals. There were no roads, but glades and trackways, intricate and winding, very difficult and puzzling to traverse, so that travellers often became benighted, without being able to find other shelter than that afforded by trees and bushes. At the village of Bainbridge there is still preserved the "forest horn," which was blown every night at ten o'clock from Holyrood to Shrovetide, to guide wanderers who had lost their way to shelter and safety from the prowling beasts of prey. A bell also was rung at Chantry, and a gun fired at Camhouse with the same object. In the first century of the Christian era there existed in the valley of Roedale a large and for that time splendid city, inhabited by the Brigantian Celts. It nestled in a deep hollow, surrounded by picturesque hills and uplands, and was environed by the majestic trees of the forest, where the Druids performed the mystical rites and ceremonials of their religion. The houses were built of mud and wattles, and thatched with straw or reeds, and the city was a mere assemblage of such private residences, without any of the public buildings, such as churches, chapels, town houses, assembly rooms, baths, or literary institutions, such as now-a-days appertain to every small market town; yet it was spoken of as a "magnificent city," and such it perhaps might be as compared with other and smaller towns and villages. It was about the time when Flavius Vespasian annexed Britain to the Roman Empire, and the Brigantes had been partially subdued by Octavius Scapula, the Roman Governor of Britain, but before York had become Eboracum--the Altera Roma of Britain--and the influence of the conquerors of the world had not penetrated to this remote and secluded spot in the forest of Wensleydale, so that the people of the city still retained their old religion, customs, and habits of life; still stained their bodies with woad, clothed themselves with the skins of animals, and still fabricated their weapons and implements of bronze. Joseph of Arimathea had planted the cross on Glastonbury Hill, but the people of this city had never even heard of the new religion that had sprung up in Judea, and went on sacrificing human beings to their bloodthirsty god, cutting the sacred mistletoe from the oaks of their forest, and drawing the beaver from the water, emblematic of the salvation of Noah and his family at the deluge, of which they had a dim tradition. The angels of heaven took great interest in the efforts of the apostles who, in obedience to their Master's command, went forth from Judea to preach the gospel of glad tidings and the doctrine of the cross to all mankind, and had especially noted the erection of the Christian standard on Glastonbury Hill, in the barbarous and benighted island of the Atlantic. One of the heavenly host, indeed, became so much interested in the conversion of the natives of this isle--which he foresaw would, in the distant centuries, become a great centre of evangelical truth, and, by means of missionaries, the foremost promulgator of religious light to other benighted peoples of the earth--that he determined to descend thither, and, under the guise of a human form, go about amongst the people, and in some measure prepare them for the reception of the teachings of the companions of St. Joseph. Midwinter had come, the period when the sun seemed to the Britons to be farthest away from the earth, and when, according to the experience of the past, he would commence his return with his vivifying rays; and the Druids were holding joyous ceremonial in celebration of this annually recurring event. The sun was viewed as a superhuman beneficent being who journeyed across the heavens daily to dispense heat and life, and to cause the fruits and flowers and cereals to bloom and fructify, and give forth food for men and animals, who in summer approached near to the earth, and in winter retired to a distance from it--for what end or purpose they knew not. Nevertheless they deemed it wise to propitiate him by two great ceremonials of worship--the one at midsummer, attended by blazing "Baal-fires" on the hills (a custom which still survives in some parts of Yorkshire, where, on Midsummer-eve, "beal-fires" are lighted), a festival of rejoicing and thanksgiving for the ripening crops and fruits; the other at midwinter, which partook more of the character of a supplicating worship, imploring him, now that he was far distant, not to withdraw himself entirely from the earth, but return as he had been wont to do, and again cheer the world with his beams of brightness and warmth. On the occasion of this particular festival, the weather was stormy and cold; the pools were frozen over, and the ground covered with snow, whilst a chilling sleet, driven by a biting north-eastern wind, beat upon those who were exposed to its influence in the open air. The festival was proceeding in a cleared space of the forest circled round by lofty trees, which was the open-air natural temple of the Druids; its walls built by the hand of their god, and its dome-like roof the floor of the habitation where he dwelt. Whilst the Druids were engaged in offering up prayers, the bards in singing anthems of praise, and the vates investigating the entrails of slain animals, to read therein forecasts of the future and the will of the gods, especially of the Sun God, in whose honour the festival was held, the venerable figure of an aged man might be seen descending the hill and approaching the city. He seemed to be bowed down with the infirmities of age, and to breast with difficulty the forcible rushing of the wind. His white flowing beard, which reached almost to his waist, was glittering with incrustations of ice; and his legs trembled as he came along, leaning on his staff, with feeble and uncertain footsteps. He was clad in a long gabardine, which he wrapped tightly round him, to protect his frame as much as possible from the inclemency of the weather; his head was covered by a hat with broad flapping brim; and his feet were sandalled, to shield them from the roughness of the road. He came amongst the cottages and passed from door to door, asking for shelter and food, but everywhere was repulsed, and at times with contumely and opprobrious epithets. No one would take him in beneath their roof; no one had charity enough to give him a crust or a cup of metheglin, and onward he went until he came to the spot where the festival was progressing under the direction of the Arch-Druid, a man of extreme age, but of commanding stature and majestic port. The appearance of the angel (for he it was, in the guise of infirm and poverty-stricken humanity) caused some sensation, chiefly in consequence of his peculiar and outlandish dress, and all eyes were directed upon him as he walked boldly and unhesitatingly, but with halting step, to the centre of the circle where the hierarchs were grouped. The angel, addressing himself to the Arch-Druid, inquired, "Whom is it that you worship in this fashion?" "Who are you," replied the Druid, "that you know not that our midwinter festival is in honour of the great and gloriously shining God, who reveals himself to us in his daily march across the sky?" "Then you worship the creature instead of the creator?" "How the creature? He whom we worship was never created, but has existed from all eternity." "Alas! blind mortals, you labour under a Satanic delusion. Know that what you, in your ignorance, worship is but an atom in the great and resplendent universe of worlds and suns, called into existence by the fiat of Him whom I serve, who alone is self-existent, immortal, and the Creator of all men and all things." "You speak in parables, stranger, and in an impious strain. Mean you to say that the god-sun is not great and powerful, he who causes the herbage to grow and the trees to give forth fruit? Can he do this if he be not a god?" "He is merely the instrument of the one Almighty God, whose Son, on the anniversary of this day, became incarnate on earth, and died on the cross in a land far distant from this, that man might not be subjected to the penalty for disobedience to His laws, thus dying in his stead, to satisfy the ends of justice." "And you say that he, a mere man, who died in the distant land you speak of, was the son of one who created the sun?" "Most certainly." "Then I must say that you speak rank blasphemy." And the priests and other officials re-echoed the shout, "Blasphemy! blasphemy!" and the people around took it up, and the cry of "Blasphemy!" rose up from a thousand tongues. "Slay him! stone him!" was then cried by the excited people, and they began to take up stones and hurl them at the old man, who, shaking the snow of the city from his sandals, and saying "Woe be unto you," passed through the surrounding crowd, and disappeared amongst the forest trees. The dusky shades of evening, or rather afternoon, were drawing in as the angel passed through the wood; and as, in his incarnate form, he was subject to all the sufferings and discomforts humanity is liable to, he feared that he would have to pass the night, with all its inclemency of weather, with no other shelter than that afforded by a tree trunk or the branches of a bramble bush, but after wandering some time he came upon a cleared space, where he found some sheep huddling together on the lee side of a rising ground, and judging that where sheep were men would not be far distant, he passed up the hillside and gladly hailed a gleam of light issuing from a cottage window. He approached and knocked at the door, which was opened by a comely, middle-aged dame, whilst, by the fire of peat, sat a man whom he presumed to be her husband, occupied in eating his evening meal, with a shepherd dog by his side, eagerly looking out for the bones and chance pieces of meat which his master might think proper to throw him. "Good dame," said he to the woman, "have you charity enough to give me shelter from the storm, a crust of bread to allay the cravings of hunger, and permission to imbibe warmth from your fire into my aged and frozen limbs?" "Yes, that indeed we have, venerable father," replied she. "Come in and seat you by the fire, and we will see what the cottage can supply in the way of victuals." He stepped in, and was welcomed with equal kindness by the husband, who placed for him a seat near the fire, took off his coat, which he suspended before the fire to dry, and gave him a sheepskin to throw over his shoulders; whilst the dame bustled about in the way of cooking some slices of mutton and bringing out some of her best bread, with a wooden drinking vessel filled with home-made barley liquor, not unlike the ale of after days. He was then invited to seat himself at the table, a board resting on two trestles, and ate heartily of the viands before him. After the meal, and when he was thoroughly warmed and made comfortable, he entered into conversation with the worthy couple, and ascertained that the man was a shepherd, and made a fairly comfortable living out of his small flock of sheep, which supplied him and his wife with raiment and flesh meat for food, besides a small surplus for barter to procure other necessaries. He told them that he was a wanderer on the face of the earth, not a Briton, but allied to people who lived in the far east near the sun rising, and that he had come hither to tell the Britons of the true God, and that they whom they worshipped were not gods at all; to all which they listened with wonderment and awe, but displayed none of the bigotry and hostility to adverse faiths which had been so practically shown in the city. With eloquent tongue he explained to them the mysteries of the Christian religion, but they comprehended him not, such matters being entirely beyond the capacities of their understandings. Nevertheless they were much interested in some of the narratives, such as the nativity and the visit of the Magi; the miraculous cures of the sick; the crucifixion, the resurrection, and the ascension, all which were told with great graphic power, and listened to with rapt ears; and they sat on late into the night in this converse, and then a bed of several layers of straw was made for the stranger in a warm corner of the cottage, and a couple of sheep skins given him for coverlets. The following morning broke bright and cheerful, a complete contrast to the preceding day. The sun came out with a radiance as brilliant as it was possible for a midwinter sun to do, and lighted up the hills, on which the snow crystals glistened, and the roofs of the houses in the valley below, with a splendour seldom beheld at that period of the year, and the people of the city hailed the sight as a response to their festival prayers, that the God of Day would still continue to shower his blessings upon them, and bring forth their crops and fruits in due course. The guest at the shepherd's cottage, wearied with his wanderings and the buffeting of the storm, slept long after the sun had risen; but his hosts had been up betimes, the shepherd having gone to look after his sheep, and his wife to prepare a warm breakfast for him on his return. When this was ready, and the shepherd had come home, their guest was awakened, and partook with them of their meal of sheep's flesh, brown bread, and ewe's milk. He had performed certain devotions on rising, such as his entertainers understood not, but which they assumed to be acts of adoration and thanksgiving to his God. Resuming his cloak, now thoroughly dried, his flapped hat, and his long walking staff, he went out to pursue his journey. With his hosts he stood on the elevated ground on which the cottage was situated, and looked down upon the city in the valley below, from which there rose up the busy hum of voices of men going about their vocations for the day, with them the first of their new-born year. The stranger looked down upon the city for some moments in silence; then stretching forth his arms towards it, he exclaimed, "Oh city! thou art fair to look upon, but thou art the habitation of hard, unfeeling, and uncharitable men, who regard themselves alone, and neither respect age nor sympathise with poverty and infirmity! Thou art the abode of those who worship false gods, and shut their ears to, nay, more, maltreat those who would point out their errors and lead them into the path of truth; therefore, oh city! it is fitting that thou shouldst cease to cumber the earth; that thou shouldst be swept away as were Sodom and Gomorrah. As for you," he added, turning to the shepherd and his wife, "you took the stranger in under your roof, sheltered him from the storm, fed him when ahungered, and comforted him as far as your means permitted. For this accept my thanks and benison, and know that my benison is worth the acceptance, for I am not what I seem--a frail mortal--but one of those who stand round the throne of the God I told you of last evening, which is in the midst of the stars of the firmament. May your flocks increase, and your crops never fail; may you live to advanced age, and see your children and children's children grow up around you, wealthy in this world's wealth, honoured, and respected." Turning again towards the city, and again stretching forth his arms over it, the mysterious stranger cried out in a voice that might be heard in the streets below:-- "Semerwater, rise; Semerwater, sink; And swallow all the town, save this lile House, where they gave me meat and drink." Immediately a loud noise was heard, as of the bursting up of a hundred fountains from the earth, and the water rushed upward from every part of the city like the vomiting of volcanoes; the inhabitants cried out with terror-fraught shouts, and attempted to escape up the hills, but were swept back by the surging flood, which waved and dashed like the waves of the tempestuous sea. Higher and higher rose the water; overwhelmed the houses and advanced up the sides of the hill, engulfing everything and destroying every vestige of life, and eventually it settled down into the vast lake as it may now be seen. It may be thought that this was a cruel act of revenge on the part of the angel, but we have the authority of Milton, that the angelic mind was susceptible of the human weakness of ambition; why, therefore, should it not be actuated by that other human passion of revenge? The shepherd and his wife gazed on the spectacle of the destruction of the city with awe-stricken countenances, when another spectacle filled them with equal amazement. They turned their eyes upon their guest, who still stood by them, but who was undergoing a wonderful transformation. From an aged and infirm man he was becoming youthful in appearance, of noble figure, with lineaments of celestial beauty, and an aureola of golden light flashing round his head. His tattered and way-worn garments seemed to be melting into thin air and passing away, and in their place appeared a long white robe, as if woven of the snow crystals of the surrounding hills; whilst from his shoulders there streamed forth a pair of pinions, which he now expanded, and waving an adieu to his late entertainers, he rose up into the air, and in a few minutes had passed beyond their sight. The shepherd's flocks soon began to multiply wonderfully, and he speedily became one of the richest men of the countryside. His sons grew up and prospered as their father had, and their descendants flourished for many generations in their several branches as some of the most important and wealthy families of the district. The old man and his wife abandoned the old Druidical religion, and prayed to the unknown God of whom their guest spoke on the memorable evening preceding the destruction of the city; and when the Apostles of Christianity came hither, were among the first converts. There may be sceptics who may doubt the truth of this legend, but there the Lake of Semerwater still remains, and what can be a more convincing proof of its truth, as old Willet was wont to say, when pointing to the block of wood at the door of his inn at Chigwell, as a triumphant proof of the truth of the story he had been narrating. The rustics of the neighbourhood also assert that they have seen, fathoms deep in the lake, the chimneys and church spires of the engulfed city; but as there were neither churches nor chimneys when that city was in existence, we are inclined to believe that this is an optical delusion. The "Worm" of Nunnington. A charming pastoral scene might have been witnessed in the picturesque valley of Ryedale, northward of Malton, and not far distant from the spot where, in after ages, sprung up the towers of Byland Abbey, one fair midsummer eve in the earlier half of the sixth century--a scene that would have gladdened the heart of a painter, and made him eager to transfer it to canvas, to display it on the walls of the next Royal Academy Exhibition, had painters and Royal Academy Exhibitions been then in vogue. It was in a village near the banks of the Rye--the precursor of what is now called Nunnington; what was its Celtic name we are informed not, but it was a Celtic village, and inhabited by Celtic people, who had been Christianised, and taught the usages and habits of civilized life during the supremacy of the Romans in the island, who had now departed to defend the capital of the world against the incursions of the hordes of barbarians who were thundering at its gates, leaving the Britons, enervated by civilisation and its attendant luxuries, a prey to the Picts and Scots and the Teutonic pirates who infested the surrounding seas. It was an age of chivalry and romance; the half real, half mythical Arthur ruled over the land, and made head against the Scots and the Teutons, defeating both in several battles. He instituted the chivalric Order of Knights of the Round Table--whose members were patterns of valour and exemplars in religion, and who went forth as knights-errant to correct abuses, protect the fairer and weaker sex, chastise oppressors, release those who were under spells of enchantment, and do battle with giants, ogres, malicious dwarfs, and enchanters, also with dragons, hippogriffs, wyverns, serpents, and other similarly obnoxious creatures. Who hath not read of their marvellous adventures and valorous exploits in the quest of the Sang-real, the histories of Sir Launcelot and Sir Tristram, La Morte d'Arthur, and the Idylls of the King? Witches and warlocks, sorcerers and ogres, tyrants and oppressors, then abounded in the land, and beauteous damsels, the victims of their cruelty and lust, so that there was plenty of work, to say nothing of the reptiles of the forests, for the entire army of valiant knights who went forth from Caerleon on the Usk in quest of adventures, inspired by the approving smile of Queen Guinevere and of the fair ladies in whose honour they placed lance in rest, and whose supremacy of beauty they vowed to maintain in many a joust and tournament. The village lay in a spot where nature had spread out some of her loveliest features of valley, upland, and meandering river of silvery sheen running through the midst; whilst trees of luxuriant foliage, in groups and thickets of forest land, enshrined the whole as a fitting framework for the sylvan picture. Farmsteads were scattered about, and a cluster of humbler cottages, the habitations of the serf class of farm labourers constituted the village. As we have seen, it was Midsummer Eve, a day of festival and rejoicing which had been observed from time immemorial, for now the sun approached the nearest to the zenith with its fructifying beams, and in celebration of the event a huge bonfire had been built up on an eminence outside the village; whilst around it, hand in hand, danced the youths and maidens with much glee and merriment, with boisterous mirth, and many a joke and song, and moreover with no lack of flirtation between the lads and lasses, who footed it merrily, and became more and more vigorous in the dances as the flames mounted higher and higher. Although they knew it not, this village carnival was a survival of the paganism of the past, when the remote ancestors of the existing generation worshipped Baal, the great Sun God. It had come down through centuries of homage to the creature instead of the Creator, and having been regarded as a great holiday, did not suffer extinction at the advent of Christianity, but was permitted to be retained in that capacity, without any reference to religious ceremonial, which in course of time was entirely forgotten. And it is a remarkable instance of the vitality of ancient customs to observe that in some parts of Yorkshire, in Holderness to wit, "Beal fires" are lighted on Midsummer Eve, even to the present day. The elders of the village were seated about in groups on the turf, watching the upblazing of the fire, casting approving smiles on the joyous gambols and incipient match-making of their progeny, and talking of their own juvenile days, when they were equally happy partners in the circling dance. The blue sky overhead was cloudless, and in the western horizon the setting sun shot forth beams of golden light; and all was hilarity and happiness. A queen of the festival had been chosen--the most beautiful maiden of the village, a sweet girl of eighteen, with brilliant complexion, melting blue eyes, and flowing curls of flaxen hue. A platform of boughs had been improvised upon which to carry her on the shoulders of a half-dozen young bachelors back to the village with songs of triumph, and the procession had just been arranged, when a loud hissing sound was heard to issue from the neighbouring forest, a sound which in these days would have been attributed to a passing railway train; but which then sounded strange and unearthly, and spread consternation among the merrymakers, who turned and looked with panic-stricken countenances in the direction from whence the sound came. The first impulse of the crowd was to fly to their homes, from the unknown object of dread, but curiosity prompted a counter-impulse, a desire to see what gave rise to the fear-inspiring sound. Nor had they long to wait, for a few minutes after a monstrous reptile, with the body of a serpent and the head of a dragon, its mouth seeming, to their excited imaginations, to breathe out flame, issued from the wood and came across the open space with fearful but graceful undulations towards the terrified villagers. The air appeared to become charged, too, with a pestiferous influence, issuing from the nostrils of the monster, which increased in intensity the nearer it came. With shrieks and wild cries, those who had been dancing so merrily but a few minutes before took to their heels to find refuge in their cottages, exclaiming, "Oh, that Sir Peter Loschi were here to deliver us from the monster!" All reached their habitations and barred their doors; all save one, the beautiful young queen of the festival, the pride of the village--the beloved of every one--who, fascinated like a bird by the eyes of the reptile, had stood gazing upon it so long that she was quite in the rear of the fugitives, and was overtaken by the serpent, who immediately coiled the foremost part of its body round her, and in this fashion carried her back into the forest. As she did not reappear, it was concluded that she had been devoured; and day after day one young damsel after another disappeared after going to the spring for water, or on other open-air errands, all of whom, it was doubted not, had furnished meals for the monster. Indeed, at times he was seen carrying them off as he had done the poor little queen, until at length the village seemed to be becoming depopulated of its maidenhood. The men at times went armed with bludgeons to attack the serpent in his cave on the hill side, but were ever driven back by the poisonous exhalations of the animal's breath, which seemed to render them faint and powerless; and two or three of the bolder spirits who approached the nearest to the den died under its influence. And the people continued to cry, "Oh, Sir Peter Loschi, why do you tarry?"--for in him lay all their hope of deliverance. This Sir Peter Loschi, whose aid was so frequently and fervently invoked, was the owner of a castle and certain broad acres in the vicinity. He was a Celt of unadulterated blood, although his name has nothing Celtic about it. Single names were then only used, with the exception of an addition of some personal characteristic or locality, for distinction sake when there were two persons bearing the same, and we may suppose that the two names of Peter and Loschi originally formed one word, which has become altered and corrupted in passing from generation to generation, in a similar manner to that of George Zavier, which became transmuted through Georgy Zavier, etc., to eventually Corky Shaver. Be that as it may, he was the last male of a long line of ancient British knights and warriors, and was himself not inferior to any of his ancestors in military skill and almost reckless daring, having fought with distinction against the wild hordes of Picts and Scots, who came down from their desolate northern mountains to make raids on the more fertile lands of the Britons south of the Border, and against the piratical Saxons and Angles who were endeavouring to get a foothold on the island. He was one of King Arthur's Knights of the Round Table, and was often at the Court of Queen Guinevere at Caerleon, consorting with his brother knights in the mutual recital of their adventures, in friendly tilting matches, and in dallying with the fair ladies of the Court, one of whom he had chosen as the mistress of his heart, and whose favour he wore in front of his helmet at many a passage of arms in the courtyard of a castle or in the field of a tournament. Occasionally he went forth for periods of six or twelve months as a knight-errant, for the purpose of redressing wrongs, slaying enchanters, etc., and was known as the Knight of the Sable Plume, from that ornamental appendage of his casque. The cognisance that he bore on his shield was a chevron arg. between three plumes sable, on ground or; and many a doughty deed had he performed, young as he still was, under this cognisance. He did not spend much time at his ancestral home in Ryedale, being so much occupied at Court and in the quest of adventures as a knight-errant, only going there occasionally to regulate matters relating to his household and estates, look after his vassals and retainers, and make arrangements for the well-being of the villagers. He had now been absent about three years, having, at the instance of his ladye-love at Caerleon, donned his armour, taken his lance in hand, and gone for that space of time to protect the impotent, redress the injured and oppressed, and slay giants and sorcerers, as a test of his valour, at the end of which said period, if he had acquitted himself as a preux-chevalier, she might possibly consent to become the mistress of Ryedale Castle. The period was now drawing to a close, and he had performed many a valorous deed; he had slain a gigantic Saxon in single combat; he had recovered the standard of King Arthur from some half-dozen Picts, who had seized it after killing the bearer of it; he had rescued a damsel from the hands of an enchanter; another from the fangs and claws of a lion, and a third from a giant who was dragging her along by the hair of her head; he had killed a dragon, a griffin, and a hippogriff, had done many another wondrous and valorous deed, and was now going back to Caerleon to claim the hand of the lady at whose behest he had performed all these marvellous achievements, little dreaming all the time that his own people in Ryedale were in sore need of his stalwart arm and trusty sword. As the knight had been northward, it was necessary to pass through what is now Yorkshire on his way to Caerleon, and he deemed it expedient to call at his Ryedale Castle to see how matters had been going on there during his long absence. It was about a month after the first appearance of the "worm," when the villagers were beginning to experience the truth of the saying that "hope deferred maketh the heart sick," having lost many members of their community through the propensity of the serpent for human flesh, and no Sir Peter coming to deliver them from the ravages of the monster, when the figure of a horseman, with a nodding black plume, was seen "pricking o'er the plain," who was immediately recognised as the veritable Sir Peter Loschi, which gave rise to an exhilarating shout of welcome from the villagers, who cried, "Now shall we be delivered from the ravenous worm." Sir Peter rode on to his castle, where the first being to welcome him was a favourite mastiff, who came gambolling about him with the most affectionate demonstrations of rejoicing at seeing his master once more. The following morning a deputation of the villagers waited upon him, explained their troubles in respect to the worm, and prayed for his assistance in ridding them of the monster. He inquired into the particulars, and having been accustomed in his travels to several encounters with noxious animals of this character, he readily understood what he would have to deal with, and promised his aid, but added that as some preparations would be necessary, the enemy being of an exceptional description, he would not be able to undertake it within a month, and that they must endure it the best they could in the interval. Sir Peter got a sight of the serpent, and a formidable monster he appeared to be, more terrible than any he had previously met with; and he saw that it behoved him to make special provision for the combat. He pondered the matter over for a few days, and then mounted his steed and rode to Sheffield, where he employed certain cunning artificers to make him a complete suit of armour studded with razor blades. Although razors are alluded to by Homer, and have been used by the Chinese for unknown centuries, it is doubtful whether they were a staple manufacture on the banks of the Sheaf and the Rivelin in the sixth century. It is true that Chaucer speaks of a "Sheffield whittle," but this was eight centuries afterwards, and it is equally to be doubted whether Sheffield, even as a village, existed at that time; but anachronisms are of small moment in legends, and we are required to accept it as a fact, that the knight had his novel suit of armour fabricated in the valley of the Sheaf. When it was completed, he returned with it to Ryedale, and gladly was he welcomed by the villagers, as the serpent had been committing more ravages amongst the population. He had a sword, a Damascus blade of wonderful keenness, which possessed certain magical properties, similar to those of King Arthur's famous Excaliber; and one morning, after donning his armour, he took the sword in his hand and went forth to the combat. His dog accompanied him, and it was with difficulty that he was prevented from leaping up in caressing gambols against the sharp razor blades. The serpent had its den in the side of a wooded eminence near East Newton, by Stonegrave, which has since then gone by the name of Loschy Hill, in memory of the great fight between the Knight and the Dragon. Sir Peter, who was on foot, strode along boldly towards the hill, followed by his dog, which seemed to be perfectly aware that some exciting sport was before them, as he rushed about hither and thither, sniffing the air, as if his keen scent gave him intimation that game of an unusual character was not far off, and he barked and growled, as if in defiance of the foe; whilst the villagers stood afar off, with eager countenances, to watch the progress of the combat. As the knight came nearer, he became aware of a pestiferous odour that seemed to contaminate the air; and the dog scented and sniffed, and gave vent to more prolonged growlings and louder barking, and seemed to tremble with excitement in anticipation of the coming fray. The serpent had not yet breakfasted, and seeing the man and dog approach, darted from his den and made for the dog, with which he thought to stay his appetite as a first mouthful, but the dog was too nimble and eluded his attack, leaping upon one of the curves of its body and biting it with mad excitement; whilst the knight struck it a blow with his sword which almost cut off its head, but the wound healed up instantly, and the serpent coiled itself round his body, in order to crush the life out of him, and then devour him at its leisure. It had not, in doing so, taken into account the razor blades, which cut its body in a multitude of gashes, and caused the blood to stream down on the earth; but this was not of much consequence, as it immediately uncoiled and rolled itself on the earth, when all the wounds closed up. Foiled in this attack, the monster then began to vomit out a poisonous vapour, so horrible and overcoming that the knight seemed ready to sink under its influence, but rallying his energies, he aimed a blow which cut the serpent in two, but the severed parts joined again immediately. All this time the monster was hissing in a fearful manner, and breathing out poison, and the knight began to fear he must succumb and become its prey; but determined not to give in so long as he could continue the fight, he aimed another blow with his sword and severed a portion of the tail end, although feeling persuaded that it would become reunited as before; but his dog, evidently a sagacious animal, having witnessed the former reunion, seized it in its teeth and ran off with it to a neighbouring hill, then returned and carried away other portions as they were cut off successively. The serpent writhed with pain, but afraid, or seeing the uselessness of attacking the razor-armed man, made many attempts to seize the dog, but in vain, as he was too agile to be caught; therefore he depended more on the venom of his breath at this juncture, which he continued to pour forth, and which he knew must eventually overpower his enemy. The dog had returned from his third or fourth journey and came up to his master, wagging his tail in seeming congratulation of the cleverness with which they were gradually accomplishing the destruction of the foe, when the serpent made a spring upon him, but at the same instant the knight's magic sword descended upon his neck and severed the head from the body, which the dog at once seized and carried off to a distance, placing it on a hill near where Nunnington Church now stands. The monster was now dead which had caused so much terror and desolation, and the villagers shouted with joy as they saw the head carried past by the dog. Meanwhile the knight stood by the remaining portion of the body as it lay prone on the earth, quivering with the remains of its vitality. He was exhausted with his exertions, but more by the poisonous exhalation which the body still gave forth, but in rapidly diminishing volume. He was recovering from its effects and was waiting awhile to gain sufficient energy to leave the scene of his triumph, when the dog returned, but apparently in a very languid condition; still, however, evincing marks of satisfaction and pleasure at the conquest he and his master had achieved. The knight stooped down to pat caressingly his faithful companion, who, in return, reached up and licked his face. Unfortunately, in carrying away the head, the seat of the venom, the dog had imbibed the poison, and in licking his master's face had imparted the virus to him, and a few minutes were sufficient to produce its fatal effects, the knight and his dog falling to the earth together, and when the villagers came up they found both dead. Although the villagers were rejoiced at the death of the serpent, their lamentations were equally great over the fate of the knight, who had sacrificed his life for their deliverance; and for many a month and year did they cherish his memory and mourn his death. In Nunnington Church there is a monument of a knight, a recumbent effigy, with a dog crouching at his feet; and this, tradition says, is the tomb of the valorous Sir Peter Loschi and his equally valorous dog, who were buried together, and the monument erected in grateful memory of their achievement. The Devil's Arrows. One of the most interesting localities in broad Yorkshire, rich in historic lore and fruitful in legend, is that which comprehends within its limits the twin towns of Aldborough and Boroughbridge, on the river Ure. Their history extends back to the Celtic and Roman times, when Aldborough or Iseur, the Isurium of the Romans, was the capital of the Brigantian Celts, and near by ran northward from York a great Roman road, which crossed the Ure by a ford, which was supplanted after the Conquest by a wooden bridge, which gave rise to a great convergence of roads at this point, and the growth of a town, which obtained the name of Boroughbridge, _i.e._, the borough by the bridge. This spot, says Dr. Stukeley, was in the British time "the scene of the great Panegyre of the Druids, the midsummer meeting of all the country round, to celebrate the great quarterly sacrifice, accompanied with sports, games, races, and all kinds of exercises, with universal festivity. This was like the Olympian and Nemean meetings and games among the Grecians." Between the two towns there stands protruding from the earth three rough-hewn and weather-worn obelisks of rag-stone or mill-stone grit, which could not have been brought from a distance of less than seven miles, and gave rise to a sense of wonder how such stupendous masses could have been brought hither and placed upright in position by the Celts with their utter lack of mechanical appliances. The northernmost rises eighteen feet, the southernmost twenty-two and a half feet, and the centre one also twenty-two and a half feet above the ground, and from an excavation made under the latter, it was found to have an entire length of thirty feet six inches. The estimated weight of the northernmost is thirty-six tons, and of the other two thirty tons each. Originally there were four stones, which were seen by Leland in Henry VIII.'s time; but one of them fell or was removed for the sake of the materials--useful for road repairing--in the seventeenth century. Camden imagined them to be factitious compositions of sand, lime, and small pebbles cemented together; but there is no doubt they were quarried at Plumpton, the rock there corresponding exactly with their grit. The Romans made use of them as metæ, the turning point in their chariot races. There have been varying and differing conjectures by antiquaries as to their origin and purpose, but all agree as to their remote antiquity, dating back certainly 1800 years, the most probable conjecture as to their purpose being that they were connected in some way with Druidical worship. They go by the name of "The Devil's Arrows," and tradition gives an account of their origin altogether different from antiquarian conjectures, and much more in accordance with their popular designation. Thus runs the legend:-- It was soon after the Crucifixion that certain Apostles of the Cross, headed by Joseph of Arimathea, found their way from Palestine to the remote and benighted isle of Britain, in obedience to the Divine command to go forth and preach the Gospel to every creature. After their disembarkation they proceeded inland until they came to Glastonbury; and ascending the hill there, Joseph struck his walking staff in the earth and proclaimed that there should be established the first Christian church of Britain, and in confirmation thereof his staff miraculously took root, put forth branches, and although it was midwinter--Christmas Day--budded and blossomed into a rose, as its successors here continued to do on every successive Christmas Day. The Apostles preached to the barbarian people, made some converts, and erected a temporary wooden church for the performance of divine service, which was the precursor of the magnificent Abbey that afterwards rose on the site, and flourished in great prosperity until its extinction under the sacrilegious hand of Henry the Eighth. When the new faith had taken root at Glastonbury, the Apostles divided themselves into bands of two or three, and departed north, south, east, and west, to proclaim the glad tidings in other parts of the island. One of these bands, going northwards, preached to the Cornabii and the Coritani of Mid-Britain, and then passed onward to the Brigantes, the greatest and most warlike of the kingdoms of Britain. They travelled on foot, staff in hand, and subsisted on the charity of the people; but had often to endure great hardships, having often to pass through scantily peopled districts, where wild fruits were their only food, the water of the wayside brooks their drink, and their sleeping couches the heather of the moor or the turf under the canopy of a forest tree. But all these discomforts they endured with cheerfulness, besides perils from wolves, wild boars, and other denizens of the woodlands, feeling assured that their Master would reward them a thousand-fold for their sufferings in His service. On entering the Brigantian kingdom they learned that the capital city was Iseur, some considerable distance northward, and thither they bent their way in the hope of enlightening the King in spiritual matters as a means of facilitating the conversion of his people. With wearied steps they passed from village to village, through forests and swamps, and over black moorlands, fording the rivers where practicable, or where they were too deep for so doing going along the bank until they met with a fisherman or villager to ferry them across in his coracle; and in due course, after many days of toilsome journeying, came to the city of Iseur. The city stood in a forest clearing, surrounded by a stockade of felled trees, with an entrenchment for protection against enemies, and for the security of their flocks and herds against the attacks of wild beasts. In the centre stood the King's Palace, a tolerably spacious edifice built of unhewn blocks of stone, placed in cyclopean fashion without mortar; and scattered around were the mud-built and straw-thatched dwellings of the people. There was no temple of their deity, the gods of the Britons disdaining mortal-built places of worship. But adjacent was a separate forest clearing, with a circling of huge forest oaks, on which grew the sacred mistletoe, which constituted a temple not built with hands; and in which was a pool of water, indispensable in the ceremonials of their religion, where the beaver abounded, and was used as an emblem of the flood, of which the Britons had a tradition; and here were constructed the wickerwork forms of gigantic human beings, which at certain seasons were filled with men, women, and children, and burnt to propitiate the wrath of their god. They proceeded to the palace of the King and asked for an audience, which was granted them after some demur; the King feeling uncertain, from the description his attendants gave of their foreign aspect, outlandish dresses, and imperfect utterance of the British language, whether they might not be enemies, assassins, or sorcerers come hither to take his life or subject him to some other evil. He received them seated on a sort of throne, clad in a white, coarsely woven tunic of wool reaching half way down his thighs, and leaving the lower limbs altogether uncovered, and over his shoulders a wolf-skin mantle, whilst he supported his dignity by holding in his right hand a long bronze-headed spear, with a richly-carved shaft. By his side sat his Queen, and at his feet gambolled three or four children, whilst around him stood representatives of the Druidical hierarchy--the Druids proper or high priests, the Eubates or soothsayers, and the Bards who chanted anthems to the glory of their god and recited odes in praise of the warriors and great men of their race. The King inquired of the strangers who they were and what was their purpose in thus coming to his court. The Apostles replied that they were people of a far distant land, near the sunrising, and had come hither to show them their errors in worshipping false gods, and point out to them the true object of worship, the one only God, the Maker of heaven and earth, and the awarder of happiness or misery in the future life beyond the grave. A murmur of dissatisfaction arose at this announcement amongst the Druids, who whispered amongst themselves that it was fitting such blasphemers should be offered up as sacrifices to their god. "Truly," said the King, "you have come on a strange errand; we are firm believers in and devout worshippers of the one Supreme God, as you pretend to be. Do we not yearly offer up on His altars hundreds of human victims to propitiate His good-will? What more would you have? We believe what you do, and a great deal more, for we have a host of minor deities whom we pay adoration to. Methinks you had better return to your own country and not trouble us with your hallucinations, so as to cause a schism in the faith. We are content with our own belief, which teaches us that when we die the souls of those who have done justly will pass gradually into a higher and higher sphere, until at length, when perfectly purified, it will become absorbed in the essence of the Deity, or become an inferior god; whilst those of the wicked will be transformed to the bodies of inferior and unclean animals, and eventually be annihilated." The Apostles upon this explained briefly the principles of the Christian religion, the fall of man and his loss of the divine favour, his necessary condemnation to temporal and eternal death, and the redemptorial scheme, in which God himself, or rather his Son, who was identical with himself, suffered death on the cross, taking upon himself, in lieu of man, the threatened penalty. "Is your God dead, then?" inquired the King; "or is it possible for God to die. If so, our faith is better than yours, for our God is immortal." The Apostles then entered into an elaborate disquisition on the subtleties of the necessity and nature of the Divine scheme for the salvation of the human race, but the reasonings were too abstruse for the King's comprehension, as, indeed, were they for the more cultured minds of the Druids; therefore the King declined any further discourse on the subject, adding that he was perfectly willing that they should be courteously treated and have fair play, as they had come so far with the intent, as it seemed to them, of doing him and his people a service; therefore he would appoint a day on which they should have a full and fair discussion with the Druids on the merits of the respective faiths, and in the meantime they should be hospitably entertained at his cost, and with this the audience terminated. It happened that at this time the Father of Evil was prowling about Britain, with the object of thwarting the efforts of St. Joseph and his band of missionaries for the evangelisation of the land. He employed himself chiefly about Glastonbury and its neighbourhood, the primitive and central seat of British Christianity, and centuries elapsed before he relaxed his persistent attempt to eradicate the faith, hostile to himself, which had taken root there. Nine hundred years afterwards we find that he was a perpetual annoyance to the holy St. Dunstan in his Glastonbury cell, continually intruding upon him when engaged in his studies, and offering to him the most seductive temptations, until, on one occasion, he made his appearance before him when he was engaged on some blacksmith work, and commenced tempting him to sell his soul to him for unbounded wealth and the highest temporal distinction. The saint, however, was proof against his temptations, and resolved to free himself once for all from his importunities, took his red-hot tongs from the fire, and seized him by the nose. The devil roared out lustily with the pain, although one would fancy, from fire being his natural element, that it would not incommode him greatly; nevertheless, he prayed abjectly to be released from the tongs, but the saint would not release him until he promised to give him no further annoyance. He had followed in the footsteps of the three Apostles on the northern mission, and was present, although invisible, at the interview with the King of the Brigantes; and when the conference between the Apostles and the Druids was arranged by the King, he determined upon presenting himself at the meeting in a more tangible and palpable form, to overthrow the arguments of the former by the power of his eloquence and logical force of reasoning, feeling exceedingly loth to run the risk of losing so cherished a section of his dominions, which would ensue in case the King should be convinced by the preaching and the powerful arguments of the Apostles. The conference was appointed to come off on the slopes of the Hambleton Hills, at the foot of Roulston Crag and there, on the auspicious morning, might be seen a large assemblage gathered together, presenting a very animated and picturesque grouping. The King, as president of the assembly, took his seat on an improvised throne. He was clothed in the most splendid of his regal vestments, and held in his hand his bronze-headed spear, as an emblem of his Royal authority. On his right stood a group of Druids, clad in long white linen robes, with circlets of oak leaves round their heads, and on his left the three Christian Apostles, in their weather-stained Oriental garments, whilst scattered around, was a considerable number of Brigantian warriors, courtiers, agriculturists, and serfs more or less garmented in coarse woollen fabrics or skins of animals, or without clothing of any kind, but with painted or tattooed skins, on which were depicted figures of the sun, the moon, and sundry animals. The King opened the proceedings by stating the object of the meeting, and calling upon the Apostles to explain what they wished to inculcate, promising them a fair and candid hearing, and assuring them that if what they said appeared at all consonant with reason, it should have due consideration. In all respects the meeting was very similar to that which was convened nearly 600 years afterwards by Eadwine, King of Northumbria, for a discussion of the merits of Christianity, between St. Paulinus, the apostle of Rome, and Coiffi, the High Priest of Woden, which resulted in the second establishment of Christianity in the district, which constitutes the modern Yorkshire. Just as one of the Apostles was commencing to speak, a venerable Druid, with a beard reaching half-way down to his waist, and attired in the official long white robe, entered the assembly, and made his obeisance to the King, who inquired who he was and whither he had come. "I am the High Priest, oh King," he replied, "of the great and famous forest temple of Llyn yr a vanc" (on the site of the modern Beverley). "A report came thither that certain strangers had come to the Court of Iseur from some distant land, to promulgate a foreign and damnable heresy; and I, as being well versed in the truths of our faith, and gifted with an eloquent tongue, have been deputed by my brethren to attend this conference, and aid, to the best of my ability, in discomfiting these foreign heretics, whose object is to uproot our holy religion and substitute a false theological creed." "You are welcome!" said the King. "Take your place among your brother Druids on my right. Give heed to what the strangers have to say, and reply to their arguments as your reason and lengthened experience may dictate." The stranger took the place indicated, and the King bade the Apostles tell what they had to say on the object of their mission, upon which the eldest looking of the three, stretching forth his arms as Raphael depicted Paul when preaching at Athens, commenced his harangue by giving an outline of the history of man as recorded in the Scriptures, his fall from innocence and perfection, by the seductions of the enemy of mankind, who for his rebellious ambition had been banished from heaven and cast down into hell, and who since then had been going to and fro in the earth tempting man to sin against his Maker, in which he had been so successful that God repented of having made man, and had caused all mankind to perish save one family, and then explained that afterwards, when the earth had again become populated, he compassionated man's fallen estate, and had sent his Son to take on himself the penalty due to man's transgression, that all, through him, might be placed in a state of salvation from that death eternal which they inherited from the transgression of their first ancestor; and wound up by imploring the King and all present to abandon their impotent and bloodthirsty gods, believe in the God of Mercy whom they proclaimed, and accept the salvation offered through the merits of Him who was crucified. The Druid, who had come afar, then rose and craved permission to reply, which was granted, and he stood forth on a mass of rock, with a majestic presence and dignified air. He laughed to scorn the fables which they had listened to, which were only fit to delude the ears of silly old women, and could not be accepted for a moment by men endowed with the faculty of reasoning. "We are told," said he, "that man was made perfect, and was at the same time fallible; that God is immutable, and yet repented; that a creature, the work of His hands, has become His rival, and from what we hear has become even more potent than his Maker; has set up a rival kingdom, and is able to wrest from the hands of God three-fourths of the beings whom He creates, a God who is asserted to be omnipotent; with many such subtle questions, inquiring--Can these be compatible with reason, and can you, as men of sense, believe them?" He then descanted on the superior merits of the Druidical religion, contrasting its "simple truth" with the "absurd fables told us by these foreigners;" concluding with a forcible and eloquent appeal to those who listened to him not to abandon the gods of their fathers, and go hankering after strange gods, especially such as were recommended by such baseless arguments and improbable tales as they had just heard. When he concluded a murmur of applause agitated the assembly like a rustling of leaves in the forest, and the King said, "Venerable father, thou speakest well; thy words are those of truth; and it only remains to bid these strangers depart from our shores and return to the land from whence they have come, bearing with them our thanks for having come so far to teach us what they conceive to be the truth, but which we are unable to accept as consonant with reason." In the vehemence of his oratorical action, the Druid had caught up the skirt of his robe, and the apostle had spied protruding therefrom a cloven foot, and moreover that the heat issuing therefrom had caused the upper part of the rock on which it was placed to become partially liquefied, or rather gelatinised, so that it adhered to the foot. Suspecting, therefore, whom he had to deal with, he cried out on receiving the order to depart, "Hearken, oh King, I have told you of the arch-enemy of God and mankind, who tempted the first man to sin, and still goes about luring men to perdition; behold he--even he--is present in this assembly, and has been addressing you in advocacy of the false religion, which you, in your ignorance, maintain. Him will I unmask;" and addressing himself to the Druid, he cried in a stern and commanding voice, "Satan, I defy thee! in the name of the Saviour of mankind, I command thee to display thyself in thy proper person, and depart hence to the hell from whence thou comest." In an instant, at that adjuration, the Druid's robe and the venerable beard fell from him, and he stood revealed in all his hideous deformity, with a malignant scowl on his countenance, and springing up, he took flight, impregnating the air with a sulphurous perfume, carrying with him a mass of rock, weighing several tons, which adhered to his foot. At this unanswerable demonstration of truth of the religion proclaimed by the Apostles, the King, and even the Druids, became converted, and underwent the ceremony of baptism; and the Apostles were empowered to go throughout Brigantium and preach the Gospel, which resulted in the conversion of multitudes, and the Brigantes became a Christian people. Satan, however, although foiled so signally, set his wits to work to be avenged on the King for deserting his standard. He recollected the piece of rock which he had brought from Roulston and dropped in his flight some seven or eight miles from Iseur, the King's capital city, and this he resolved upon making use of to destroy that city. Accordingly he winged his way thither, and splitting up the rock fashioned it into four huge obelisk-like forms, and standing upon How-hill, he hurled them at Iseur, crying out:-- "Borobrig, keep out of the way, For Auldboro town I will ding down." It may be observed _en passant_ that there is a slight anachronism here, as Aldborough was not so called until the Saxon age, and Boroughbridge did not come into existence until after the Conquest. But that is a matter of not much consequence in a legend. The stones which were thus intended to "ding down" the King's city were miraculously intercepted in their flight, falling and fixing themselves firmly in the earth between the city and the fords over the Ure (Boroughbridge), where three of them, still called "The Devil's Arrows," may be seen at this day. The Giant Road-Maker of Mulgrave. The stately Castle of Mulgrave, now the home of the Phipps family--Marquises of Normanby--was built by Peter de Malo-lacu or de Mauley, in the reign of King John. Cox says, "he built a castle here for his defence, which, from its beauty and the grace it was to this place, he named it Moultgrace, but because it proved afterwards a great grievance to the neighbours thereabouts, the people, who will in such cases take a liberty to nickname places and things by changing one letter for another--c for v--called it Moultgrave, by which name alone for many ages it hath been and is now everywhere known, though the reason thereof is by few understood." A previous castle, with the barony, had been held by the de Turnhams, and the last male heir, Robert, having died without issue male, the barony and castle were inherited by his only daughter, Isabel, who, as was then the law respecting heiresses, became a ward of the Crown, and her hand at the disposal of the King. This Peter de Malo-lacu, or Peter of the Evil Eye, was a Poictevin of brutal and ferocious character, who was made use of by King John as the instrument for the murder of his nephew Arthur, for which piece of service he rewarded the murderer with the hand of the fair Isabel, with her inheritance. But long before the de Mauleys and the de Turnhams, a noble Saxon family were lords of the surrounding domain, and dwelt in a castle on an eminence here, about three or four miles from the seashore at Whitby. Leland says (_temp._ Hen. 8), "Mongrave Castel standeth on a craggy hille, and on eche side of it is a hille far higher than that whereon the castel standeth. The north hille on the topp of it hath certain stones, commonly caul'd Wadda's grave, whom the people there say to have bene a gigant and owner of Mongrave." And Camden, "Hard by upon a steep hill near the sea (which yet is between two that are much higher) a castle of Wade, a Saxon Duke, is said to have stood; who, in the confused anarchy of the Northumbrians, so fatal to the petty Princes, having combined with those that murdered King Ethered, gave battel to King Ardulph at Whalley, in Lancashire, but with such ill-sucess that his army was routed and himself forced to fly. Afterwards he fell into a distemper, which killed him, and was interred on a hill here between two solid rocks, about seven foot high, which being at twelve foot distance from one another, occasions a current opinion that he was of gyant-like stature." It is with this Duke Wada that we are concerned. He appears to have been a Saxon, or rather an Anglian noble of considerable consequence in the kingdom of Northumbria, and to have taken a conspicuous part in the political movements of that troublous period, when, as Speed narrates, "the Northumbrians were sore molested with many intruders or rather tyrants that banded for the soueraintie for the space of thirtie years." He was a man of gigantic stature and a champion of redoubtable energy in war, dealing death around him and cumbering the field with the bodies of those who had fallen beneath the blows of his ponderous mace. He was indeed a true son of Woden in all respects, excepting that he had relinquished the hope of banqueting in the halls of the Walhalia, and appropriating the skulls of his enemies as drinking vessels; for through the influence of St. Hilda's Abbey of Streoneshalh, in the immediate vicinity, he had adopted the tenets of, if he did not regulate his life altogether according to, the principles of Christianity. Now Wada was a married man, and had a helpmate of stature and proportions corresponding with his own. They were a well-matched couple, and seemed to have lived together in a state of ordinary connubial happiness, there being but one thing to disturb the even tenor of their lives, and that was that the lady had to go in all sorts of weather across a moor to milk her cows--a long and dreary journey even in summer, along the rough and stone strewn trackway, but more especially in winter, when the snow was frequently knee deep, and the bitter blasts of the north-east wind came careering over the sea and sweeping with relentless fury across the bleak and shelterless moorland. Wada's Castle was a massive structure of stone, with round-headed unglazed windows, and a turret which commanded a fine outlook over the sea on one side, and the moorlands and Cleveland hills on the other. The rooms were of large size, as befitted the abode of a giant, but presented few of the appliances of comfort that are deemed commonplace essentials now-a-days. The walls were of bare stone, without drapery of any kind, and no ornamentation excepting some zigzag mouldings; the roofs were vaulted, and in those of large size supported at the intersections by one or more stunted round pillars; the windows were small, without glass, and furnished with wooden shutters to exclude the wind and rain in the inclement seasons of the year; and the furniture consisted of rough-hewn deal or oaken tables, and shapeless benches or stools, with an oaken coffer to hold valuables, and side shelves to hold wooden platters and vessels of earthenware. The fire in cold weather was made on the floor, of logs of wood or cuttings of peat, the smoke escaping as it could through the doorways or windows. It was in such a room as this that Wada and his wife sat at breakfast, one rainy and boisterous morning. After devouring an enormous quantity of beef and swine's flesh, with manchets of oaten bread, washed down by repeated draughts of ale, Wada, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, rose and went to look forth at the weather. Wada was not a ferocious giant, dragging along half-a-dozen damsels, with one hand, by their hair, to immure them in his dungeons, and grind their bones to make his bread, as was the wont of the Cornish giants of old; nor was he, like them, stupid and weak-minded, so as to be easily outwitted and destroyed by the immortal Jack. On the contrary, although valiant in war, he abused not his great strength by tyrannising and oppressing his vassals, lived on good terms with his neighbours, and was gentle and tender in all his domestic relations. Hence, when he looked through his window and saw the sea foaming with wrath, and a few fisher-boats tossed about by the waves in their endeavour to gain shelter in Whitby Bay, and saw the sleet driving across the moor, he heaved a sigh, saying, "Methinks, sweetheart, thou wilt have a rough passage over the moor this morning; would to Heaven that it were not necessary for thee so to do." "I care not much," she replied, "for the falling rain and the boisterous wind, rough as they may be, but experience more inconvenience and suffering from the roughness of the road I have to traverse daily, so bestrewn is it with obstacles and stumbling-blocks, and so many bog-holes and quagmires have I to pass through." Now it chanced that a short while before this Wada, in one of his wanderings, came upon the road constructed by the Romans, from Eboracum, by way of Malton to the Bay of Filey, and was struck by the facilities it gave for travelling, as compared with the more modern Saxon roads, if roads they could be called, which were mere trackways, formed and trodden down by the feet of men and animals. When his wife made the above reply, this recurred to his memory, and after a few minutes musing, the thought struck him--Why should not he make a road on this pattern for the benefit of his wife, whom he loved so dearly, and whose toil and labours he would be glad to lessen at any cost to himself? After turning the matter over in his mind as to the practicability of the project, he came to the conclusion that it was perfectly feasible. There was plenty of material close at hand, in the shingle on the beach, and he had sufficient strength and energy to level the inequalities and fill up the boggy places, so as to make a firm foundation, and to spread over the whole a layer of the stones gathered from the sea shore. Yes; it was perfectly practicable, and could be accomplished at the mere expense of a little labour. He explained the project to his wife, who was delighted with it, and undertook to bring up the stones whilst he placed them in position after forming the foundation. They lost no time in commencing the work; he with his spade in the levelling and bog-filling operations, and she carrying up the shingle in her apron; and it went on apace day after day and week after week, soon presenting the appearance of a newly macadamised road of modern times, and was duly appreciated by Lady Wada in her daily tramps across the moor. It chanced that when the road was nearly completed, in one of her journeys from the beach, laden with shingle, her apron strings gave way and her load fell to the earth, and there it was left (some twenty cart-loads), and remained until recent times as a monument of her industry and strength, and an incontestable evidence of the truth of the narrative. It was after this that Wada joined in the insurrection against Ethelred, the son of Moll, who, after his restoration from exile, put to death the Princes Alfus and Alwin, sons of King Alfwald, who were the rightful heirs to the crown, and repudiated his wife to marry Elfled, the daughter of Offa, King of Mercia, "which things," says Speed, "sate so neere the hearts of his subjects that they rebelliously rose in arms, and at Cobre miserably slew him, the 18th day of April, the yeare of Christ Jesus, 794." After which Wada and his confederates were defeated in battle by Duke Ardulph, one of the aspirants to the Crown, and fled to his castle, where he died of a terrible disorder, and was buried, as stated, between two huge stones. The road leading from Dunsley Bay towards Malton still exists, and goes by the name of "Wada's Causeway," and one of the ribs of Wada's wife is preserved in the present Mulgrave Castle, but the present age is so incredulous in respect to the chronicles of the past that there are sceptics who assert that it is nothing more than the bone of a whale. Wada was the ancestor of the widely ramified family of Wade, one of whom, at least--Marshal Wade--inherited the road-making skill of his ancestor. After the rebellion of 1715 he was sent into the Highlands as military governor, with the object of thoroughly subduing the country and rendering it less available as a place of refuge for rebels. With this view he constructed a series of military roads, where there had previously been only trackways, with which the people were so delighted that they set up a stone near Fort Augustus, with the inscription:-- "If you had seen these roads before they were made, You would lift up your hands and bless General Wade." The Virgin's Head of Halifax. In the romantic and somewhat sterile region of south-western Yorkshire, verging on the county of Lancaster, lies a valley, or rather what has the aspect of a valley, from its nestling under the shadows of some hills of considerable height. On the slope of an aclivity stands the modern town of Halifax, with its forest of lofty chimneys, its pretty park, and its many palatial structures, devoted to charitable and philanthropic purposes, due chiefly to the benevolence of the Crossleys, who, from a humble origin, have, within the memory of living persons, become manufacturing princes of the locality, and who, in consideration of their mercantile enterprise and the philanthropic use of the wealth they have acquired, have been honoured with a baronetcy. It is one of the most flourishing, or what Leland would term "quick," towns of the Yorkshire clothing district, and in recent times has increased rapidly in population, wealth, and importance. It is not even mentioned in Domesday-Book, nor does its name appear in any record until the twelfth century, when Earl Warren made a grant of the church to the priory of Lewes, in Sussex. About the middle of the fifteenth century it consisted of but thirteen houses, which during the following hundred years increased to 520. In 1764, the parish, which, however, is very extensive, being seventeen miles in length by an average width of eleven, contained 8,244 families; and in 1811 the population numbered 73,815, that of the town being 9,159, since which period of eighty years it has been more than nontupled, the census of 1891 giving the population at 82,900. The town of Halifax owes its prosperity to its mineral wealth. It is certainly not the place for the agriculturist or the cattle breeder. In an Act passed _temp._ Philip and Mary, it is recited, "whereas the parish of Halifax, being planted in waste and moors, where the ground is not apt to bring forth any corn or good grass, but in rare places and by exceeding and great industry of the inhabitants; and the same inhabitants altogether do live by cloth making, and the greatest part of them neither getteth corn nor is able to keepe horse to carry wools, etc.;" and Camden, in 1574, observes that there are 12,000 men in the parish, who outnumber the sheep, whereas in other parts we find thousands of sheep and but few men, "but of all others, nothing is so admirable in this town as the industry of the inhabitants, who, notwithstanding an unprofitable, barren soil, not fit to live upon, have so flourished in the cloth trade, which within these seventy years they first fell to, that they are both very rich and have gained a reputation for it above their neighbours, which confirms the truth of the old observation that a barren country is a great whet to the industry of the natives." For the first three or four centuries after the Conquest, England was a great wool-growing but not a wool-manufacturing country. Sheep-breeding was a great source of income to the Cistercians, who, with all the private wool-growers, exported their produce to the spinners and weavers of the Low Countries. It was not until King Edward III., with great sagacity, foreseeing that England might manufacture as well as produce the raw material, and thus share in the profits arising out of that industry, invited over a number of Flemish artisans and settled them in Norfolk and Yorkshire, prohibiting the exportation of wool excepting under a tax of 50s. per pack. This was the foundation of the clothing industry of the West Riding, which has since then expanded so enormously; and Halifax was one of the first places to apply itself to the spinning and weaving of wool. As stated above, although poverty-stricken in an agricultural point of view, it possessed great mineral wealth in the shape of almost limitless deposits of coal, which was a valuable essential even in those primitive times, but which has become an absolute essential since the introduction of steam-power looms. It is supposed that the manufacture was introduced into Halifax about the year 1414; but it was then on a very limited scale, and it was not until the beginning of the eighteenth century that the first great advance took place, by the erection of looms for the weaving of shalloons, everlastings, moreens, shags, etc., since which time damasks, and more recently still, carpets, have taken prominent places in the industries of the town; indeed, Halifax has absorbed a considerable portion of the trade which belongs legitimately to Kidderminster. Although the town of Halifax is of comparatively modern origin, the name is unmistakably Saxon, indicating that previously to the Conquest there was a village or hamlet of some description to which that appellation was given. One tradition asserts that there was a hermitage dedicated to St. John the Baptist, in the valley, and that within it was preserved the face of the saint, which attracted vast numbers of pilgrims, and caused the name of the place of resort to be called Hali-fax, or Holy-face; and there may possibly be some substratum of truth in this, as the parish church is dedicated to the same saint. Dr. Whitaker partially adopts this theory, but his etymologies are frequently rather fanciful. He refers to this hermitage of St. John, "whose imagined sanctity attracted a great concourse of people in every direction, to accommodate whom there were four separate roads from different points of the compass, which converged in the valley, and hence the name Halifax, which is half Saxon and half Norman, signifying the Holy-ways, fax in Norman-French being an old plural noun, denoting highways." Camden gives a brief outline of the legend given below, which he heard from the people of the vicinity, adding--"and thus the little village of Horton, or as it was sometimes called, 'The Chapel in the Grove,' grew up to a large town, assuming the new name of Halig-fax, or Halifax, which signifies holy hair, for fax is used by the English on the other side Trent to signify hair, and that the noble family of Fairfax in these parts are so named from their fair hair." That the valley was esteemed a place of peculiar sanctity in the early ages is a matter of which there can be little doubt, and this is sufficiently evidenced by one fact alone. Within its precincts was born, about the end of the twelfth or beginning of the thirteenth century, John, the foremost mathematician of the age, author of "Tractatus de Sphæri Mundi," "De Computo Ecclesiastes," and "De Algorismo," who was honoured with a public funeral at the expense of the University of Paris, who assumed the name of Johannes de Sancto Bosco, or John of the Holy Wood. And here it may be incidentally noticed that the Holy Wood has since then produced other men upon whom the mantle of Johannes seems to have fallen. Here was born, in 1556, Henry Briggs, the eminent mathematician; Gresham, Professor of Geometry, Savilian Professor at Oxford, and author of "Arithmetica Logarithmica," an improvement on Napier, containing logarithms of 30,000 natural numbers; Jesse Ramsden, the famous optician, and improver of the Hadley quadrant, who died A.D. 1800; and at Horton, seven miles distant, Abraham Sharpe, one of the best mathematicians and astronomers of his time, who died in 1742. The shadows of evening were falling upon the valley, and the outlines of the rugged, verdureless hills were gradually becoming more and more indistinct, as Father Aelred, having passed out of his little chapel of St. John the Baptist, where he had been performing the vesper service, proceeded to his lonely habitation, and after a simple meal of wild fruits and a draught of water from the little streamlet trickling down the hillside, sat him down to read for the hundredth time a transcript of a portion of Cædmon's Scriptural poems, after which he spent some time in prayer and self-communion, and then cast himself upon his sackcloth, which was spread over a layer of rough gravel, to slumber for a short time, in this mortifying and penitential fashion, to rise again at midnight for other devotional exercises. Father Aelred was a man of thirty or thirty-five years of age, of pale countenance and emaciated frame, with sunken eyes and hollow voice, the result of rigorous fasting, long vigils, mortification of the flesh, and severe penitential exercises. In his boyhood he had been regarded, from his gravity of aspect, love of learning, and incipient piety, as one who was destined to become a light of the church of the coming generation, and was sent for his education to the famous School of Streoneshalh, established by the Lady Hilda, and at that time under the superintendence of her successor, the Princess Elfleda, where he imbibed Scriptural instruction from the lips of the then venerable Cædmon, a monk of the house. He became a novice of the house, passed the requisite examinations satisfactorily, and was in due course admitted as a fully accredited member of the fraternity. The strictness of his piety was such that he shortly found the life of a monk not to answer his longings for a higher life of holiness and a position where he could be of service to the souls of his fellowmen. He therefore left the shelter of Whitby, and wandered about for some weeks, until he came into the wild and barren-looking mountainous district of the west, and finding there a secluded valley, shut in by towering hills and frowning rocks--a spot with a very sparse and scattered population, and removed far away from the noise and turmoil of the world--he resolved to make it his home, and to settle down in it as a hermit, shutting out all intercourse with his fellowmen and women, save in the way of imparting spiritual teaching and consolation to the few simple unsophisticated rustics who dwelt in the valley. He found a cavern in the hillside, which he enlarged and fashioned into a habitation wherein to live; fitting the entrance with a door, to shelter him from the cold winter winds and prevent the intrusion of wild animals, above which he made an orifice for the admission of light, which he glazed with a thinly scraped sheet of horn, such as King Alfred's lanterns were made of, and furnished the interior with two sections of a tree trunk, the larger to serve as a table, the smaller as a seat; a shelf on which he kept his eatables, with a knife, an earthen platter, and a drinking horn, a piece of rough sackcloth for his bed, and over it, fixed to the rock, a roughly-shapen cross, the emblem of his faith, beside which hung a knotted rope for the purpose of penitential flagellation. At a few rods distance he erected with his own hands, from timber cut by himself, a small chapel--a temple of God, sufficiently rude and unpretentious in point of architecture, but answering every purpose for which it was intended, that of a place of assembly for the simple and unlettered people of the valley, where they might join in the worship of God; and here Aelred every evening performed divine service and catechised the small flock of which he had constituted himself the pastor, and on Sundays performed three full services, with a sermon and the administration of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper. And thus he came to be looked upon in the district as a most holy man, as indeed he was, and but little below a saint, who might be expected any day to commence the working of miracles, in the cure of the sick and afflicted. There was one peculiarity about Aelred's character, which amounted almost to a monomania. He entertained a shrinking horror of fair-featured, beautiful women--not that there were many such in his solitary valley, they being, as a rule, embrowned by exposure to the sun, and their features corrugated by marks of rough toil and the troubles of life even from girlhood, and as such they experienced his sympathy and Christian charity; and the little children were always treated by him with tenderness and love, in imitation of his Divine Master, who had said "for of such is the kingdom of Heaven." But for the vain and frivolous of the sex, who seemed to deem nothing of supreme importance save the adornment of their persons, he felt profound scorn and contempt, mixed with a modicum of pity, and marvelled why they were sent into the world at all, unless, it might be, to test the virtue of man by the temptation of their fascinating allurements. It happened, however, that not far distant a benevolent and wealthy lady had established a religious home for females. It was not exactly a nunnery, although it possessed many of the features of one, the inmates not being debarred from matrimony, although absolute chastity was an essential while resident there; nor were they garbed in unbecoming costumes, nor compelled to sacrifice that pride and ornament of woman, her hair; besides which they were allowed a certain amount of liberty in the way of visiting their friends, which was not accorded to a regular nun. The ladies of this establishment were wont to go to Father Aelred to confess their little peccadilloes, to which he saw no reasonable objection, as they were generally very homely, ill-favoured specimens of the sex, as is usually the case with the inmates of nunneries, and thus were in no way perilous to his chaste soul and holy communings. Had they been otherwise, it is probable that he might have declined the office of father confessor to them, and closed the door of St. John's Chapel against their intrusion. It is a well-known psychological fact that the body and the mind act and re-act upon each other to their respective well-being or detriment, and that if the one is neglected or abused the other suffers in proportion; and this fact was evidenced in the case of Father Aelred. As we have observed, he was a man of intense and fervid piety, the whole of his thoughts being concentrated on one sole object--the salvation of his own soul and that of his fellow-creatures. Hence he fasted for prolonged periods, denied himself a sufficient measure of sleep, such as nature demanded, subjected himself to severe self-flagellations, and in other ways outraged nature, fancying that by these mortifications of the flesh he was promoting the health of his soul. But the laws of nature are never broken with impunity, and he had to pay the penalty; instead of invigorating he impaired the powers of the spiritual portion of his dual entity, which, although distinct from, is essentially interwoven with the material half. At first he merely experienced lassitude, depression of spirits, and a harassing dread that after all his religious aspirations and rigid observance of the duties of the Church, he might find himself cast into the bottomless pit at last. These were followed by distressing dreams and visions of the Judgment Day, the frown and sentence of the arbiter of his eternal destiny, and the jeering scoffs of the enemy of souls, as he passed into the region of everlasting weeping and wailing. Deeming these to be proofs of the weakness of his faith and the languor of his religious life, he was led to redouble the rigour of his asceticism, the natural result being to intensify the malady he sought to cure. From seeing fearful visions in his dreams at night, he began to see horrible figures of demons by day, who crowded about him, with scoffing grimaces and leering looks, sometimes, as it seemed to his ears, as if uttering threats and sarcastic allusions to his assumed piety, or anon indulging in demoniac yells of laughter. Of course he attributed all these to the machinations of the devil, and prayed for deliverance from them; but he was haunted by them day and night, with increasing persistency, until at length the sanity of his mind gave way, and he became in fact a maniac, not, however, so pronounced as to render it evident to others, or prevent his performance of his priestly offices, nor did he relax his private devotional exercises. On the evening above mentioned, when the holy father returned home from the chapel and sat down to the perusal of the transcript of Cædmon, which he had brought from Whitby, he was particularly disturbed in mind, and could not concentrate his thoughts upon what he was reading, which perpetually recurred at the evening service in the chapel and the advent of a new member of his congregation; besides which an imp had squatted himself on the table opposite him, and sat there grinning at him in a most diabolical fashion. It was the usual custom of the sisterhood of the religious house of which mention has been made to attend his evening service; and on this occasion a new member of the sisterhood was present for the first time. She had been just admitted as a novice, and was young and beautiful, with the fair, clear complexion, blue eyes, and long flaxen hair of the Anglian race, a striking contrast to the elderly, homely featured spinsters whom she accompanied. The moment he caught sight of her face, Aelred experienced a species of fascination, similar to that of the bird in the presence of the serpent, and although he battled with the feeling, he could not shake it off. To his eyes, she seemed like an angel come down from heaven, and the more he struggled to avert his thoughts from contemplating her celestial beauty, the more he felt impelled to turn his eyes again and again to where she sat. He felt it was wrong, so he brought the service to an abrupt close and hastened home to purify his soul, by prayer, from what he deemed the lust of the eye. But the vision was ever present in his mind's eye, so much so that he scarcely heeded or was conscious of the grinning imp on the table. He had retired to his sackcloth couch, after a wholesome application of the knotted rope and a prolonged prayer before the cross, and eventually fell asleep, but his dreams were all of the fair vision he had seen in the chapel, and for that night he was not haunted by his usual demon visitants. A few days afterwards the Mother Superior of the little convent came to the chapel for confession, and brought with her her new daughter, to whom she introduced Aelred as her future father confessor, and it was with a strange unusual throbbing of his heart that he looked upon her fair form, as she bowed herself beneath his paternal greeting; but when he listened to her soft, silvery accents as she told him in confession her little sins of thought, his heart softened as it had never done before to any woman. These feelings, however, involuntary as they were, caused him much alarm, and he strove to banish them as being perilous to his soul, but it was impossible to drive the fair, and as he thought, angelic, image from his mind. A week passed by, to him a week of sad spiritual tribulation, for when in prayer his mind wandered away; nor was he able to fix his thoughts in contemplation, the angelic vision ever rising up to distract and perplex him. One day when she came to confess she said to him--"Holy father, I have fallen into grievous sin; I have made the probationary vow of abstraction from the world and of devotion to the sole service of God." "That is well, my daughter," said Aelred; "persevere in that resolution, and God will bless you both now and for ever." "But, father," she continued, "I have suffered a fearful lapse; I have looked back upon the world, and have almost regretted having taken the vows." "Backsliding," said Aelred in reply, "is, as you term it, a grievous sin; but it is remediable by prayer, penitence, and fasting. But tell me more in detail the evil thoughts which have assailed your soul." "I almost fear to tell you," she answered. "Then can I not advise you in the matter excepting in general terms. Confide in me; it is but speaking to God through me, and he will inspire me with words of remedial comfort; otherwise I cannot grant absolution." Thus urged, she stated that previously to entering the convent she scarcely knew what the passion of love meant, but since then it had sprung up in her heart with a vehemence that it seemed to be impossible to suppress. She had seen one since she came into the valley, a pious and godly man, who had at the first sight animated her breast with the passion in so intense a degree that it glowed and raged within her like a furnace. The holy man at once concluded that he himself was the person she referred to, and he felt his heart beating wildly with an hitherto unexperienced emotion, and at the same time his brow became bedewed with perspiration, caused by an apprehensive terror of the dangerous position in which he found himself placed. He stood silent and almost paralysed, looking down upon her with fearful forebodings as to what she would confess further, when she, wondering at his silence, cast a furtive glance upward from her hitherto downcast eyes. Everyone knows that there is wondrous eloquence in the glance of a female eye, and as her's met his, he felt at once that it meant impassioned love--lawless love, and it stirred up within his disordered mind all the narrow bigotry of his sentiments in respect to sexual love. He still stood silently gazing upon her, when all at once a fearful idea flashed across his mind, which caused him to pass at once from a person of slightly distempered intellect into a perfect madman. The idea was that the girl before him was none other than Satan himself, who, not having been able to tempt him to sin by means of his imps in their repulsive demoniac forms, had assumed the semblance of a lovely virgin to allure him to carnal sin. Rising up to his full height, with eyeballs glaring and features distorted with indignant rage, he cried, "Satan, I know thee, and I defy thee; but no more shalt thou tempt man in that shape at least," and with that he dealt her a violent blow, and she fell senseless on the floor. "Ah!" cried he, "thou hast found thy match in me, but my work is not yet completed; thy head shall be placed aloft as a warning to others," and with that he procured a knife and severed her head from her body, which he then took out and fixed on the trunk of a yew tree, just where it begins to ramify, and when that was completed he rushed up the mountain with wild shouts of triumph and maniacal gesticulations. The young novice not returning to the convent, search was made for her, and her headless body was discovered in the chapel, lying in a pool of blood, but it was not until the following day that the head was found fixed in the yew tree. On attempting to remove it, it was found that the long hair had taken root in the tree trunk, and was spreading downwards in thin filaments, and as this was looked on as a miracle, it was left there. Suspicion of the murder attached itself to the hermit-priest, and as he had been seen going up the mountain in a distraught state of mind, search was made for him in that direction, and his body was found at the foot of a precipice down which he had fallen, but whether through accident or for the purpose of suicide could never be known. Camden says--"Her head was hung upon an ew-tree, where it was reputed holy by the vulgar, till quite rotten, and was visited in pilgrimage by them, every one picking off a branch of the tree as a holy relique. By this means the tree became at last a mere trunk, but still retained its reputation of sanctity among the people, who believed that those little veins, which are spread out like hair in the rind between the bark and the body of the tree, were indeed the very hair of the virgin. This occasioned such resort of pilgrims to it that Horton, from a little village grew up to a large town, assuming the name of Halig-fax, or Halifax, which signifies holy hair." The Dead Arm of St. Oswald the King. The Anglian kingdom of Northumbria, of which York was the capital, presented in the seventh century one almost continuous series of battles and murders, massacres of the people, and desolation of the land. Ethelfrid, grandson of Ida, founder of the kingdom of Bernicia, and Eadwine, son of Ælla, founder of that of Deira, succeeded their fathers in their respective kingdoms about the same time; but the former, who had married Acca, Eadwine's sister, usurped his brother-in-law's throne and drove him into exile, who afterwards, by the assistance of Redwald, King of the East Angles, in the year 617, defeated and slew Ethelfrid in battle, and became King of Northumbria and eighth Bretwalda, or paramount monarch of Britain. He was converted to Christianity, and Penda, the pagan King of Mercia, in order to extirpate the heretical religion, invaded Northumbria, and defeated Eadwine at Hethfield, who was slain in the fight. This happened in 633, and Penda then went into East Anglia on the same mission, leaving Cadwalla, a Welsh Prince, his ally, although a Christian, as Governor of Northumbria, who made York his headquarters, and ruled the people, especially those who had embraced Christianity and were the most devoted adherents of the family of Eadwine, with the most ruthless barbarity. On the death of Ethelfrid, his sons, Eanfrid and Oswald, fled into Scotland along with Osric, son of Ælfrid, King Eadwine's uncle, where they had been converted to Christianity under the teaching of the monks of Iona, or, as Speed puts it, "had bin secured in Scotland all his (Eadwine's) reigne, and among the Red-shanks liued as banished men, where they learned the true Religion of Christ, and had receiued the lauer of Baptisme." On hearing of the death of Eadwine, they returned to Northumbria, were welcomed by the people, and assumed the crowns--Osric of Deira, and Eanfrid of Bernicia. Cadwalla was still, however, potent in Northumbria, holding York and tyrannising over the people, and they were scarcely seated on their thrones when he slew Osric in battle, and caused Eanfrid to be put to death when he came before him to sue for peace. Seeing that Christianity was almost extinct in the land, the people having reverted to the old faith, they both deemed it expedient to renounce Christianity and restore the worship of Woden, respecting which Bede says, "To this day that year (the year during which they reigned) is looked upon as unhappy and hateful to all good men; as well on account of the apostasy of the English Kings, who had renounced the faith, as of the outrageous tyranny of the British King. Hence it has been agreed by all who have written about the reigns of the Kings to abolish the memory of these perfidious Monarchs, and to assign that year to the reign of the following King, Oswald, a man beloved of God." Oswald was an altogether different man from his brother Eanfrid, a man of genuine faith, who had imbibed the true principles of Christianity, sincere in his devotions, and prepared to undergo any suffering, even death itself, rather than apostatise from what he was fully convinced was the truth. On the death of his brother he collected around him a small army of devoted followers, and with these advanced to meet Cadwalla, relying on the justice of his cause, the bravery of his handful of men, and the assistance of God. He set up his standard, a cross, emblematic of his faith, at Denisbourne, near Hagulstad (Hexham), "and this done," says Bede, "raising his voice, he cried to his army, 'Let us all kneel and jointly beseech the true and living God Almighty, in his mercy, to defend us, from the haughty and fierce enemy, for he knows that we have undertaken a just war for the safety of our nation.' All did as he had commanded, and accordingly, advancing towards the enemy with the first dawn of day, they obtained the victory, as their faith deserved." He adds, "In that place of prayer very many miraculous cures have been performed, as a token and memorial of the King's faith, for even to this day many are wont to cut off small chips from the wood of the holy Cross, which being put into water, men or cattle drinking thereof or sprinkled with that water are immediately restored to health." He then gives some instances, one of Bothelme, a brother of the church of Hagulstad, which was afterwards built on the spot, who broke his arm by falling on the ice, causing "a most raging pain," when he was given a portion of moss from the then old cross, which he placed in his bosom, and went to bed forgetting that he had it, but "awaking in the middle of the night, he felt something cold lying by his side, and putting his hand to feel what it was, he found his arm and hand as sound as if he had never felt any such pain." Cadwalla was utterly defeated and slain, and his vast army (vast as compared with Oswald's small band of heroes) cut to pieces and dispersed. Having thus freed his country from the one disturbing element, he applied himself to its regeneration and restoration from anarchy and desolation to peace and good order. First and foremost, his object was the re-conversion of his people from the paganism into which they had lapsed, to Christianity, and to light afresh the lamp of truth, which had been almost altogether extinguished through the vigorous zeal of Penda on behalf of his ancestral gods of the north. With this object in view he sent to Iona for missionaries, to preach and teach throughout Northumbria, and Aidan was sent at the head of a body of monks, whose headquarters were fixed on the island of Lindisfarne, as resembling that of Iona, from whence they came, hoping to make it, like the latter, a centre of evangelical light to the mainland of Northumbria. Here they lived under the rule of Columba, the founder of Iona, in monastic seclusion, when at home, which was but seldom, as they were constantly on foot, staff in hand, tramping about through forests and moors and wild places of Oswald's kingdom. The King created a bishopric, to comprehend the whole of his territories, and constituted Aidan the first Bishop, who, it is said--such was the zeal of his subaltern monkish priests--baptised 15,000 converts in seven days. Besides this, the King caused churches and monasteries to be erected in various parts of his realm, and completed the church which King Eadwine had commenced at York, the forerunner of the magnificent fane which now adorns that city and is one of the most glorious specimens of Gothic architecture in England. Nor was Oswald less active in civil and secular matters, and in promoting the welfare of his people. He governed his kingdom with great wisdom and prudence, and under his peaceful sceptre the land was rapidly recovering from the effects of Cadwalla's desolating hand. He was the fifth King of Deira, ninth of Bernicia, third of Northumbria, and the ninth Bretwalda or Supreme King of the island, "at which times the whole Iland flourished both with peace and plenty, and acknowledged their subjection vnto King Oswald. For, as Bede reporteth, all the nations of Britannie which spake foure languages, that is to say, Britaines, Red-shankes, Scots, and Englishmen, became subject vnto him. And yet being aduanced to so Royall Majesty, he was notwithstanding (which is maruellous to be reported), lowly to all; gracious to the poore, and bountifull to strangers." It was a cold spring day; the sun shone brightly, but imparted little warmth; the trees were leafless, and the early flowers looked sickly and languid, the effect of a long continuance of north-easterly winds, which on this particular day came coursing over the ocean, and were roystering with boisterous glee and in fearful gusts round the towers of Bamborough Castle, and through the openings in the walls which served the purpose of the glazed windows of after-times. It was Easter-tide, and here King Oswald had come from York, where he had kept his Court, to celebrate this important festival of the Church in the ancestral castle of his race. The feast was laid in the banqueting-room, a tolerably large but gloomy and, to nineteenth century eyes, a wretchedly appointed apartment, with but few of the appliances of modern comfort. A fire of wood burnt on the hearth, the smoke at times passing up the wide chimney, at others driven inward by a down-current of the wind, and sent in curling wreaths along the vaulted roof. The room was lighted by means of narrow recessed openings and arrow slits, useful in times of siege, but inconveniently narrow for the admission of light, yet wide enough to afford free entrance to the chilling wind. The walls were of bare stones, and the furniture a table of rough planks running down the centre, with a smaller cross table, on a sort of dais. At the latter table were seated King Oswald, with his Queen Kineburga, daughter of Kingils, the sixth monarch and first Christian King of the West Saxons, on the one hand, and Bishop Aidan on the other. Along the other table sat some nobles and thegns, three or four of the monks of Lindisfarne, and below these the house carles and outdoor retainers of the King's household. On the cross table was placed a large silver dish filled with venison, wild boar's flesh, and other dainties; and distributed down the long table were earthen dishes containing meat of various kinds, wooden platters and knives, with drinking horns, and small loaves of barley bread; and on the table stood flagons of ale that had been brewed specially for the festival. At the King's request the Bishop pronounced benediction on the food, with special reference to Him in whose memory the festival was celebrated, and who alone could administer the bread of life. He had scarcely finished, and the guests were beginning to handle their knives preparatory to an attack on the smoking viands, which gave forth a most appetising odour, when a sound as of a multitude of persons outside attracted their notice, and immediately after voices were heard: "In the name of Him who rose from the tomb this blessed morning, give us whereof to eat, that we starve not and die by the wayside." The King sent one of his house carles out to inquire who and what they were, who presently returned, saying that they were a band of some dozen mendicants, formerly well-to-do husbandmen, and their families, whose homes and crops had been destroyed by Cadwalla's followers, and that they were utterly destitute, deprived of the means of living, and dependent on charity for food until they could find means to replace themselves on their farms. "Unfortunate creatures," exclaimed the King; "a fearful retribution awaits that so-called Christian prince in that world to which his crimes have sent him through our instrumentality by God's providence;" and, taking up the large silver dish, continued, "It is better that we celebrate not this festival, than that the poor of our realm die of starvation. Take this, Wilfrid, and portion out its contents among the famishing crowd, and when they have eaten, cut up the dish and distribute the fragments, that they may have the wherewithal to procure food on the morrow." Aidan, the Bishop, who was afterwards canonised, was struck with admiration at the pious and charitable act of the King, which he warmly applauded; and taking hold of his right arm, prayed that that arm and hand which had passed forth the dish might never become corrupt, but for ever remain fresh, in token and remembrance of this pious act of self-abnegation; and instead of feasting, this Easter day was spent by Oswald, his Queen, and the Bishop in fasting and prayer. Penda, the pagan King of Mercia, was still living, and still as inveterately hostile to the new heresy as when he had made his raid on Northumbria, and trampled it out by the defeat and death of the Royal convert of Paulinus; and now, when Oswald had been eight years on the throne; had brought his kingdom, by wisdom and good government, into a condition of peace and prosperity; and had re-established Christianity on a sure and firm basis, he heard with some dismay that the heathen King was muttering threats against him, and gathering his forces together for another invasion, and a second suppression of the religion that sought the dethronement of Woden as the god of heaven. Yet although he heard these tidings with dismay, he felt assured of the Divine protection, remembering how signally he had defeated Cadwalla by fighting under the standard of the Cross, despite the disparity of numbers. He remembered, too, what miseries were inflicted on the Northumbrians by the marching of hostile bands to and fro, leaving, as they usually did, a desert behind them strewn with the corpses of men, women, and children; and he determined that, rather than allow his people to be subjected again to these sufferings, he would be beforehand with the enemy and carry the war, with its resultant ravages, into his own land. He therefore hastily assembled his fighting men, and again uplifting the standard of the Cross marched into Mercia, his troops, like those of Cromwell a thousand years afterwards, singing psalms and anthems as they passed along. Penda had collected together a large army, and the rival hosts met at Masserfield, in the modern Shropshire. They rushed towards each other in mortal conflict, the one with shouts of "Hallelujah!" the other with cries of "Aid us, great Woden, thou mighty god of battle!" The fight was long and obstinately contested, and victory seemed to waver from one side to the other until towards evening, when an arrow struck Oswald and he fell to the ground, although not mortally wounded; but a cry arose amongst his followers that he was slain, and, thinking that their God had deserted them, they were stricken with panic, threw down their arms, and fled in every direction, hotly pursued by the Mercians, who mercilessly killed all the fugitives whom they overtook. Although stricken down and faint from loss of blood, Oswald still lived, and witnessed with anguish of mind the cowardly and ignominious flight of his army. The Mercians came over the field, killing those of the fallen who were merely wounded; but when they came to Oswald they spared him, whom they had recognised, and brought him, with staggering steps and downcast heart, into the presence of their chief. "Thou art he, then," said Penda, addressing him, "who darest to invade my dominions--the dominions of a descendant of Woden--thou, a worshipper of false gods!" "It is even I," replied Oswald, in a weak voice; "I, Oswald, King of the Northumbrians, successor to the sainted Eadwine, who is now standing by the throne of the one true God, Jehovah, the God whom I worship, on whose arm I put my trust, and who, if He, in His inscrutable providence, hath delivered me up to thy cruel behests, will save my soul, that portion of me, my real self, which thou cannot touch, and bring me to dwell with Him for ever, in that heaven which thou canst never reach, unless thou repentest and abandonest thy false demon-gods, who can only conduct thee to the flames of hell." "Blaspheming heretic," cried Penda, "I care not for the heaven thou speakest of; sufficient for me will be the Halls of Walhalla, where, amid everlasting banqueting, I will use thy skull as my drinking-cup. Still, I will give thee one chance of life. Renounce thy false god; restore the worship of Woden in Northumbria, and thou shalt be replaced on thy throne as my tributary, whilst I, as monarch of Mercia, Northumbria, and East Anglia, extending from the Thames to the Forth, and from sea to sea, shall become the Bretwalda of Britain." "Never, O King," replied Oswald "will I prove recreant to the truth. Thou mayest rend my sceptre from my grasp; thou mayest slay my kindred and massacre my people; thou mayest torture me, and put an end to my temporal existence; but never will I renounce that faith which affords me a secure hope of everlasting blessedness, whilst thou, if thou continuest the instrument of false gods, shalt be weeping and gnashing thy teeth in the torments of the bottomless pit." "Then," roared out Penda, "thy death be on thy own head. Soldiers, hew the blasphemer to pieces!" And immediately he was stricken by half-a-dozen swords, and fell exclaiming, "Lord Jesus, into thy hands I commend my soul." The ferocious pagan, kicking the body with his foot as the last insult, gave directions for it to be cut into fragments, and scattered abroad to be devoured by birds of prey and the wild beasts of the forest; and his behests were at once carried into execution. And the birds and the beasts gathered together to the horrible carnival, and soon there was nothing left but the bare bones, saving one arm, which none of them would touch, and it remained entire and perfect as in life. Some time after the battle of Masserfield the arm of the King was found, fresh and undecayed, and was conveyed to Northumbria and deposited in a magnificent shrine, where it remained uncorrupted for nine centuries, at first in the chapel of St. Peter, Bamborough Castle, and afterwards, when the Danes began to ravage the coast, in the monastery of Peterborough, whither it was removed, as Ingulphus informs us, for safety. The scattered bones were afterwards collected, by the pious care of Offryd, Oswald's niece, the daughter of Oswy, the illegitimate half-brother of Oswald, his successor on the throne of Northumbria, and slayer of Penda in battle. She had become Queen of Mercia by her marriage with Ethelred, son and successor of Penda, who, after his father's death, had embraced Christianity. She placed the relics in the monastery of Bardney, in Lincolnshire, and his "standard of gold and purple over the shrine;" but when the Danes became troublesome in Lindsey they were removed to Gloucester, "and there, in the north side of the vpper end of the quire of the cathedrall church, continueth a faire monument of him, with a chappell set betwixt two pillers in the same church." At all these places--Masserfield, afterwards called Oswestry, after the martyr; at the place of burial of the relics; and at the shrines of the uncorrupted arm--throughout those nine hundred years some most wonderful miracles were performed, which are duly recorded in the pages of Bede and other writers; even a few grains of the dust which settled on the shrine of the arm, when mixed with water and drunk, were a sovereign specific for almost any disease. Winwick, in Lancashire, disputes with Oswestry the claim of having been the place of St. Oswald's death, as there is St. Oswald's Well there; and from an inscription in the church it appears to have been anciently called Masserfelte; moreover there is a tradition that he had a palace there, which was within his dominions, although his usual places of residence were Bamborough and occasionally York. The village of Oswaldkirk, near Helmsley, derives its name from him, and there are several churches in Yorkshire and elsewhere dedicated to him. The Translation of St. Hilda. St. Hilda was the nursing-mother of the infant Saxon Church; the instructress of Bishops; the preceptrix of scholars and learned men; and the patroness of Cædmon, the first Saxon Christian poet--the Milton of his age. The Abbey over which she ruled with so much piety and prudence was, during her life and afterwards, one of the great centres of civilization and Christian light of the kingdom of Northumbria, and diffused its rays, beaming with celestial radiance, even beyond the bounds of that great northern monarchy. She was a scion of the royal race of Ælla, the founder of the kingdom of Deira, or Southern Northumbria; the daughter of Hererick (nephew of Eadwine, King of Northumbria), by his wife the Lady Breguswith; was born in the year 614, and died in 680. She was converted to Christianity by the preaching of Paulinus, and was baptised along with her great-uncle and his court, in 627. Six years afterwards Eadwine was slain in battle by Penda, the heathen King of Mercia, and the nascent religion of Christianity stamped out, Paulinus flying for shelter with the widowed Queen and her children, to the court of her brother, the King of Kent. What became of Hilda during this period of anarchy we know not; but it seems evident that the afflictions and persecutions she underwent served only to deepen her faith and cause her to cling more closely to the Cross of Christ. In 647, when she was thirty-three years of age, she resolved upon devoting her life entirely to the service of God, and with that view journeyed into East Anglia, where her nephew Heresuid reigned as King, and where her cousin, the pious Anne, resided. Her intention was to proceed hence to Chelles, in France, to join her sister, St. Herewide, who had retired to a nunnery there; but for some reason or other she lingered for twelve months in East Anglia. At the end of this period she was granted a plot of land on the Wear, upon which she erected a small house and resided there, in modest seclusion, for the space of a year, when the fame of her piety having spread abroad, she was appointed Abbess of Hartlepool, a nunnery founded by Hein, the first woman who assumed the nun's habit in Northumbria, and who had now retired to the nunnery of Calcaceaster (Tadcaster). In her new capacity she set about her work with devoted zeal, regulating the discipline, reforming abuses, promulgating new and wholesome rules, and enforcing a strict attention to religious duties, in which she was aided by the counsels of her friend Aidan, Bishop of Lindisfarne, who, at the instance of King Oswald, had come from Iona to re-convert his subjects to the faith which had been trampled out by Penda. In the year 642, Oswald, the second founder of Christianity in Northumbria, fell, like his predecessor Eadwine, under the ferocious sword of Penda, and was succeeded by Oswy in Bernicia, and Oswine in Deira; but in 650, Oswy caused the king of Deira to be murdered, and assumed the sceptre of Northumbria, north and south. Five years after this, Penda, with unabated zeal for his god--Woden--again made an inroad into Northumbria, with the intent of slaying the third Christian king of that realm. At first Oswy attempted to buy him off by bribes, but the Mercian potentate refused his offers, declaring that nothing would content him but the death of the King, and the utter extirpation of Christianity. "Then," said Oswy, "if the pagan will not accept our gifts, we will offer them to one who will--the Lord our God;" and he prepared for battle, making a vow that if God would vouchsafe him the victory he would erect a monastery, endow it with twelve farms, and dedicate his newly-born daughter to holy virginity and His service. With a comparatively small force, he marched against Penda, "confiding in the conduct of Christ," met him near Leeds, and, as the Saxon chronicle says, "Slew King Penda, with thirty men of the Royal race with him, and some of them were kings, among whom was Ethelhere, brother of Anne, King of the East Angles; and the Mercians became Christians." This great and decisive victory, the last conflict in England between heathendom and Christianity, was the turning-point in Hilda's career of eminence. Had Penda again been the victor, Northumbria would again perhaps have lapsed into paganism, and the future saint never have been heard of beyond the vicinity of Hartlepool. As it was, King Oswy, mindful of his vow, erected a monastery at Streoneshalh, on the bank of the Esk, where it falls into the sea in Whitby Bay. It was placed on a lofty headland, with a steep ascent from the little fishing hamlet at its foot and a precipitous escarpment to the sea. It was formed for both male and female recluses, and the fame of Hilda for piety and judicious government was such that she was selected by the King as the most fitting for the government of the establishment. Under her rule Streoneshalh became not only a model monastic house, but a great school of secular and theological learning. During her superintendence, not less than five of her scholars attained the mitre, all of them illustrious prelates of the Saxon Church--St. John, of Beverley; St. Wilfrid, of Ripon; and Bosa, Archbishops of York; Hedda, Bishop of Dorchester; and Oftfor, Bishop of Worcester. "Thus," says Bede, "this servant of Christ, whom all that knew her called 'mother,' for her singular piety and grace, was not only an example of good life to those that lived in her monastery, but afforded occasion of amendment and salvation to many who lived at a distance, to whom the fame was brought of her industry and virtue." Fuller observes, "I behold her as the most learned female before the Conquest, and may call her the she-Gamaliel at whose feet many learned men had their education." During her Abbacy, the famous Synod, convened by King Oswy, was held within the walls of Streoneshalh, to settle the vexed questions of the time for the celebration of Easter, and of the tonsure, which were subjects of warm dispute between the ancient British Church and that of Rome, the Northumbrians adhering to the former, as inculcated by the missionary monks of Iona, who had been brought hither by Oswald, and who now occupied the sees of York and Lindisfarne. The King, who had been educated in Scotland, and consequently held to the British modes, presided, whilst his son, Prince Alfred, who had been in Rome, supported the Romanist views. On the British side were ranged the Abbess Hilda, Colman, Bishop of Lindisfarne, and the venerable Cedd, Bishop of the East Saxons; on the Romanist, Agilbert, Bishop of the West Saxons, Wilfrid of Ripon, then a priest, Romanus, and James the Deacon. The dispute was settled in favour of the Romish rule, chiefly through the eloquence and force of argument of Wilfrid, who afterwards made so conspicuous a figure in the Northumbrian Church; and Colman, with his British clergy returned to Iona. The Abbess was as famous for miracles as for her other qualities. On the coast of Whitby are found great numbers of specimens of the petrified Cornu Ammonis, commonly called snake stones, resembling as they do coiled-up snakes, without heads. This is how their origin is accounted for. When the Abbey was first built, the neighbourhood was infested by snakes, which were a great annoyance to the brethren and sisters of the monastery, and the Abbess, by means of prayer, caused them all to be changed into stone. "And how, of thousand snakes, each one Was changed into a coil of stone When holy Hilda prayed: Themselves, within their holy bound, Their stony folds had often found, They told how sea fowls' pinions fail, As over Whitby's towers they sail, And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, They do their homage to the saint." The Abbess founded some cells in divers places dependant on the Abbey, one of which was at Hackness, near Scarborough, which she made use of as a retreat from the bustle and cares of Streoneshalh, where she could, undisturbed, devote her time more strictly to the exercises of fasting, prayer, and meditation, returning to her duties at the Abbey refreshed and invigorated spiritually, and the better enabled to undergo the distractions incident to her position as head of a community of differing and often perplexing temperaments. To these cells also she frequently sent her nuns, to give them an opportunity for cultivating closer communion with God, for their spiritual edification. For the last six years of her life the Abbess suffered greatly from severe indisposition, which frequently laid her prostrate for weeks together, "Yet during all this time she never failed to return thanks to her Maker, or publicly and privately to instruct the flock committed to her charge, admonishing them to serve God in health, and thank Him for adversity or bodily infirmity." Among the nuns under her care was one from Ireland named Bega, who was most exemplary in her attention to the duties of her religious calling, eminently endowed with spiritual grace, and conspicuous for her humility, self-abnegation, and all the virtues which adorn a Christian life; which qualities endeared her to the venerable Abbess, and they came to regard each other as mother and daughter rather than as Lady Superior and ordinary nun of a religious establishment. During the long illness of the Abbess, Bega was her constant attendant and nurse, and accompanied her in her occasional retreats at Hackness. One afternoon they were seated together in the Abbess's private room, when the invalid seemed to be rallying in health and entering upon one of her alternate periods of comparative convalescence. Bega had been reading to her a new paraphrase of a portion of the Bible, the composition of Cædmon, the cow-boy poet of Streoneshalh. She laid down the manuscript at the conclusion, expressing a hope that the Abbess had not been wearied by her imperfect reading, and that in spite of defective knowledge of the characters on the part of the reader, she had been enabled to follow the sense and appreciate the beauty of the rendering. "Nothing from the pen of Cædmon," said the Abbess, "ever wearies me; on the contrary, his compositions are so redolent of spiritual beauty that they seem to refresh my soul, and invigorate my body as well. Indeed, at this moment I feel so much better in health that if no relapse occurs in the interval, I propose on the morrow relieving our good Prioress from the duties which I have delegated upon her during my sickness." "Happy am I," replied Bega at hearing this, "and I trust that God, if he sees fit, may preserve you for many years to come, in the superintendence and guidance of this holy house. But, mother dear, your restoration of bodily strength emboldens me to solicit a boon." "What is it my dear child? Anything that I can grant shall be yours. I promise this without knowing what you wish, feeling assured that you will solicit nothing that is inconsistent either with your maidenly character or with your altar-made vows." "I pray for nothing unbeseeming my character in such respects; but, holy mother, of late I fear I have experienced some spiritual declension, and that I have become more carnally minded than becomes one whose thoughts should be centred on Christ alone, and I pray you, mother dear, to permit me to retire into more entire seclusion from the world, that I may by abstinence, prayer, and close communion with God, be restored to a more wholesome frame of soul." "Your boon is granted, my child, gladly; repair at once to Hackness, and may God shed his blessing upon your pious aspiration for a higher life of holiness." The following day Bega was escorted to the cell, where the Abbess, with an almost Cistercian eye for sylvan beauty, had planted it, that in the midst of a natural Paradise it might bloom as a spiritual Eden, and there she at once commenced a season of wholesome asceticism and religious exercises. A week passed away, and Bega, absorbed in her devotional exercises, had become emaciated by the rigour of her fasting without heeding it; and as is usual in such cases, her spirit had become more etherealised and more susceptible of supernatural influences. After vespers one evening she returned to her lonely sleeping apartment, a bare and scantily furnished room, and lay down on her bed, consisting of a thin layer of straw on a hard, wooden pallet, with nothing more than a coarse rug for her coverlet. She slept for a short space, then awoke and rose to repeat the nocturnes, kneeling on the rough flooring stones. She then lay down again and composed herself to sleep, and was in the half-conscious state between sleeping and waking when she was aroused by hearing a passing-bell boom forth, which sounded like that of Streoneshalh, which was miles beyond earshot, and was the more remarkable as the bell of Hackness was much smaller and altogether different in tone. She listened with soul-thrilling awe, and thought, "Can it be that the holy mother is departing at this moment to her heavenly rest, and that the sound of the passing-bell is miraculously brought to mine ears?" Scarcely had the thought flashed across her mind, when, looking upward, the vaulted roof seemed to be melting away, like a mist under the influence of the morning sun. In a very short space of time it disappeared altogether, and there was presented to the eye of the gazer the expanse of sky studded with stars, sparkling like clusters of diamonds. Presently the knell of the passing-bell ceased. And there broke upon her ear the sound of distant vocal music. As it came nearer, it seemed different from any music she had ever heard; unearthly; heavenly; so ravishingly sweet was the melody. The words she was unable to comprehend, but there was something about them which seemed to declare them of celestial origin. With raptured ears she listened as the choir, which appeared to be floating in the air, came on and on until it sounded as if immediately overhead. All this while, too, a constantly increasing effulgence of supernatural light was diffusing itself over the firmament, and when the music came into close proximity to the cell, there burst upon her sight a vision, the glory of which she could have hitherto formed no conception of. It was that of a convoy of angels, fairer and more lovely in form and feature than anything ever conceived by artist or poet, or than ever trod the earth. It was they who were chanting the divine melody as they floated along overhead with an upward tendency; and in their midst was the beautified soul of the sainted mother of Streoneshalh, which they were escorting to the everlasting realms of purity and peace; of eternal rest, and an endless duration of unalloyed happiness. The rapt eyes of Bega were not allowed to rest long on this celestial vision; the group ascended higher and higher; the voices became fainter and fainter, until they were altogether lost; and Bega overcome with emotion, fell into an ecstatic trance, and when she awoke from it there was nothing to be seen but the glimmer of the moonshine on the walls and roof of her cell. The next day a messenger arrived announcing the death of the Abbess, which he stated occurred immediately after nocturnes on the preceding night. Bega remained a little while at Streoneshalh, and then went into Cumberland, and provided a religious house, called after her, St. Bees, where she spent the remainder of a most holy life. A Miracle of St. John. Two thousand years ago, what is now the East Riding of Yorkshire was chiefly forest land, with the exception of the Wold uplands, which were pastures, almost destitute of trees, having some semblance to the swelling and rolling waves of the ocean, where the Brigantes fed their flocks and herds, where they dwelt in scattered hamlets, and where they now sleep in their multitudinous tumuli. In the lowlands at the foot, the forest was very dense, and was the home of wolves, boars, deer, and other wild animals, which were hunted by the natives, who fed upon their flesh and clothed themselves with their skins. This was called the forest of Deira, and in one spot by the river Hull, a few miles distant from the Humber, was a cleared space, with an eminence in the midst, and at its foot, extending westward, a pool of water, afterwards a marsh or moor, and since drained, forming now a portion of the town of Beverley, its former condition being indicated by two parallel streets--Minster-moorgate, the place of the moor by the Minster; and Keldgate, the place of springs. This was a Druidical open air temple, where the mystical rites of Druidism were performed. When the primitive Christian religion was introduced into Britain, it is presumed that a Christian church was established here, on the rising ground by the lake, as the early Christians built their churches, where practicable, on spots held sacred by the people, which supposition seems to be confirmed by the express statement that St. John rebuilt, not built, the church in Deira Wood. This early church, doubtless a very rude affair of timber and thatch, was destroyed or allowed to fall into ruin when the Saxons and Angles overspread the land and replaced the religion of Christ by that of Odin. It might possibly be repaired during the short period after the second introduction of Christianity by Paulinus and the conversion of King Eadwine, but, if so, would be again destroyed a few years after, under the desolating hands of Penda of Mercia, and Cadwalla, as it lay in ruins until the beginning of the eighth century, when it was restored on a grander scale by John, Archbishop of York. St. John, the learned and pious prelate, one of the brightest luminaries of the Saxon Church, was a member of a noble Saxon family, a native of Harpham on the Wolds. He was born in the year 640, studied in the famous Theological School of St. Hilda at Streoneshalh, and became successively Bishop of Hagulstat (Hexham) and Archbishop of York, which latter see he held, with unblemished reputation and great usefulness, for a period of more than thirty-three years. He was almost incessantly employed in going about his vast diocese, rectifying abuses, regulating disordered affairs, exhorting the lax, and commending the faithful. In one of these visitations he came to the place in the forest of Deira which had been, half a millennium previously, the Llyn-yr-Avanc of the Celts, and, according to some antiquaries, the Peturia of the Romans, a conjecture which is supported by the discovery of a tesselated pavement and other Roman remains, where he found the ruins of the old primeval British Church. The beauty and seclusion of the spot struck him as being eminently fitted for the establishment of a monastery, and probably the thought flashed across his mind that hither he would like to retire, in his declining years, to finish his life, after the cares and anxieties of his prelateship, in the calm of cloistered existence and in the company of a pious brotherhood. He did not allow the idea to pass away from his thoughts, but soon after made arrangements for carrying it out. He rebuilt the choir of the old church, founded a monastery of Black Monks, of the order of St. Columba, and an oratory for nuns, south of the church, which afterwards was converted into the parish church of St. Martin; erected the church of St. Nicholas, in the manor of Riding; placed seven secular priests and other ministers of the altar in the head church, and appointed Brithunus the first Abbot of the monastery, with superintendence over the other establishments. In 717, he resigned his see, being then feeble and oppressed by the infirmities of age, and retired to his monastery, where he died in 721, and was buried in the porch at the eastern end of the church. After St. John, the next greatest benefactor to the church and town of Beverley was Athelstan the Great, King of Saxon England. Indeed, he may be considered the founder of the secular, as St. John was of the ecclesiastical, town. The town and church had been destroyed by the Danes in 867, but a few years after the dispersed canons and monks returned, and repaired, as far as they could, their ruined buildings, so as to be able to continue the celebration of the services; but they remained in a dilapidated state for nearly half a century, when Athelstan laid the foundations of the future grandeur of the church, and of the commercial importance of the town. He had heard of the sanctity of St. John, and the wonderful series of miracles he had performed, both during his life and after his death, and having occasion to chastise Constantine, King of Scotland, for abetting the Danish Anlaf of Northumbria in an invasion of that portion of his dominions--for he had by conquest added northern England to his government, and was in truth the first King of England, rather than Egbert--he visited Beverley on his march to Scotland, and implored the aid of the Saint, leaving his dagger on the altar as a pledge that, if successful, he would bestow princely benefactions on the church and town. By the assistance of St. John, who appeared to him in a vision, he was the victor in the decisive battle of Brunnanburgh, and nobly he kept his word. He made the church a college of secular canons; endowed it with four thraves of corn from every plough in the East Riding; and made it a place of sanctuary, as a refuge for criminals, with a stone frid-stool, still in the Minster. He granted a charter to the town, constituting it the capital of the East Riding, with many privileges and extraordinary rights; in consequence of which opulent merchants flocked to the town, and it soon began to flourish mightily, and became one of the wealthiest and most important of the trading towns of the realm. He also assigned the manor to the Archbishops of York, who built a palace there on the south of the church; vied with each other in their patronage of the town, and in adding to and endowing the collegiate church. In the beginning of the eleventh century Archbishop Puttock added a chancellor, a precentor, and a sacrist to the establishment, and erected a costly shrine for the relics of St. John, to which they were translated with great pomp in 1037. Archbishop Kinsius erected a western tower to the church, and Aldred, who held the see at the time of the Conquest, rebuilt the choir, and ornamented it with paintings and other decorative work, completed the refectory and dormitory of the monastery, and increased the number of canons from seven to eight, changing them at the same time from canons to prebendaries. At this time--the period of the Conquest and of the legend--we may assume from the usual characteristics of the church architecture of the time, that the church was an oblong building of two stories, divided into a nave and chancel, with a low tower at the western end. There would probably be a lower and an upper range of circular-headed windows, with doorways of the same character, decorated with zigzag mouldings, and in the interior would be a double row of massive stunted columns, supporting semi-circular arches, and at the eastern end, in the chancel, the superb shrine of St. John, which was attracting pilgrims from all parts, and was beginning to be encrusted with the silver and the gold and the gems, bestowed for that purpose by the pilgrims in grateful remembrance of wonderful cures effected upon them by the miracle working of the saint. Such would most probably be the church in which occurred the incidents narrated in our legend. When the Norman Duke William had won the battle of Hastings, and subdued southern and mid England, and had been crowned King in the place of the slain Harold, he discovered that he was not really King of England, but of a part only--that portion north of the Humber, forming the old Saxon kingdom of Northumbria of the Heptarchy, and one of the Vice-Royal Earldoms of Saxon England, continuing to maintain its independence with stubborn tenacity; and it was not until after much bloodshed that he overcame the sturdy Northumbrians of a mixed Anglian and Danish race, and garrisoned York, the capital, with a Norman garrison to keep the province in subjection. No sooner, however, was his back turned than the people, under Gospatric, Waltheof, and other Danish and Saxon leaders, broke out afresh in insurrection, massacred the Norman garrison at York, and vowed to drive that people and their Duke, the usurper of Harold's throne, from Northumbria at least, if not from England altogether. It was after one of the most formidable risings that the Conqueror swore that "by the splendour of God" he would utterly destroy and exterminate the Northumbrians, so that no more rebellions should rise to trouble him in that quarter of his dominions; and with this view he marched northwards, crossed the Humber--probably at Brough--and encamped at a spot some seven miles westward of Beverley, purposing to proceed henceward to York on the morrow. On his road from the Humber to his encampment he had burnt the villages and crops, and slain the villagers who came in his way, but the majority, taking the alarm, fled to Beverley, hoping to find safety within the limits of the League of Sanctuary, thinking that even so merciless a soldier as Duke William would respect its hallowed precincts. But he, godly in a sense, and superstitious as he was, entertained no such scruples, and he had no sooner seen his army encamped than he despatched Thurstinus, one of the captains, with a body of Norman soldiers to ravage and plunder the town. The people of Beverley and the fugitives who had fled thither deemed themselves safe under the protection of their patron saint; nevertheless they felt some alarm when the news was brought that the ruthless Conqueror lay so near them, and still more when they heard that a detachment was marching upon the town with hostile intentions. The church was filled with devotees, who prostrated themselves before the saint's shrine, imploring him not to abandon his church and town in this extremity. The day had been gloomy and downcast, but when they were thus supplicating the holy saint the sun came shining through one of the windows directly upon the shrine, and lighted it up with a brilliance that seemed supernatural, which was looked upon as a favourable response to the prayers of the supplicants. Thurstinus and his followers had by this time entered the town, but had, so far, done no injury to either person or property. As they approached the church, they perceived before them a venerable figure, clad in canonical raiment, with gold bracelets on his arms, moving across the churchyard, towards the western porch. The sight of the golden bracelets excited the cupidity of one of the subalterns of the corps, who darted after him, sword in hand, and overtook him just as he was passing through the portal. The soldier had but placed his foot within the church, when the aged man turned towards him and exclaimed, "Vain and presumptuous man! darest thou enter my church, the sacred temple of Christ, sword in hand, with bloodthirsty intent? This shall be the last time that thine hand shall draw the sword," and instantly the sword fell from his grasp, and he sank down on the ground, stricken by a deadly paralysis. Thurstinus, not witting what had happened to his officer, came riding up, with drawn sword, with the intent of passing into the church to despoil it of its valuables; but on entering the doorway he was confronted by the aged man with the bracelets, who stretched forth his arm, and said to him, "No further, sacrilegious man; wouldst thou desolate my church? Know that it is guarded by superhuman power, and thou must pay the penalty of thy impious temerity!" and immediately he fell from his horse to the pavement with a broken neck, his face turned backward, and his feet and hands distorted "like a misshapen monster." At this manifest interposition of Heaven the Normans fled back to the encampment with terror-stricken countenances, and the people in the church looked round for their deliverer, but he had vanished, and they then knew that it was St. John himself, who had come down from heaven to protect his town and church from the insult and ravages of Norman ferocity. When the soldiers reached the camp they reported to their superior officer the result of their expedition and the horrible death of their leader, which they could not attribute to anything less than supernatural power. The report in due course reached the King, who summoned the soldiers into his presence, and listened to their narrative with superstitious awe. "Truly," said he, "this John must be a potent saint, and it were well not to meddle with what appertains to him, lest worse evil befal us. He may possibly use his influence in thwarting our designs against the rebels of this barbarous northern region. Let not his town and the lands pertaining to his church be injured, or subject to the chastisement and just vengeance we intend against those who have dared to raise the standard of revolt against our divinely ordained authority; but rather let them be protected, for it were bootless and perilous to fight against Heaven. Onward then to York, and when we have, by such severity as the case warrants, effectually crushed the spirit of revolt, we will consider what further can be done to propitiate this saint, whom it were well to conciliate by gifts, so that he may be led in gratitude to recompense us by assisting in the consolidation of our power, which is not yet established on sufficiently firm foundations." He found no difficulty in suppressing the insurrection when he reached York, putting to the sword those of the insurgents who remained there after their leaders had fled towards Scotland. In order to prevent any future rising, with any possible chance of success or gleam of hope, he then meditated and carried out a cold-blooded scheme, which might have been deemed a measure of policy, but which for ferocity equalled any act of cruelty perpetrated by the most atrocious tyrant of pagan ages. He sent forth his men with swords and torches, to the north, the west, and the east, and for an extent of sixty miles, from York to Durham, by several miles in breadth, laid the country desolate. Villages, churches, monasteries, and castles, with the granaries of corn and the standing crops, were all destroyed by fire, and every person, man, woman, child, or priest, met with was slaughtered without mercy; and when the work had been accomplished, this vast extent of country bore the aspect of a Western American prairie after it had been swept by fire, leaving only the charred stumps of the trees standing, with this difference, however, that there only the half-burnt bodies of animals, such as were not able to escape by flight, are found; whilst here, scattered profusely on the wood-side, and round their once cheerful and happy homesteads, lay the rotting and putrefying corpses of human beings, on which the wolves and birds of prey were battening and gorging themselves; and it took many and many a year before this region recovered itself and became again a country of farmsteads and villages, of crops and fruit trees, and of an industrious population. William of Malmesbury says that not less than 100,000 persons perished in this fearful act of vengeance; and Alured of Beverley, a monkish writer, and treasurer of St. John's Church, states that "The Conqueror destroyed men, women, and children, from York even to the western sea, except those who fled to the church of the glorious confessor, the most blessed John, Archbishop, at Beverley, as the only asylum." An indisputable proof of the desolation wrought on the lands appears in the Domesday Book, which in most places in Yorkshire is described as waste or partially waste, and which is represented as of no value or of much less value than in King Edward's time; whilst in Beverley and the lands of St. John there is scarcely any waste mentioned, and the value is given as the same or nearly the same as in the reign of the Confessor. Under Bevreli we read, "Value in King Edward's time, to the Archbishop 24 pounds, to the Canons 20 pounds, the same as at present." The King not only exempted the town and demesne from devastation, but became a notable benefactor thereto. He added to the possession of the church certain lands at Sigglesthorne, and granted the following confirmatory charter:--"William the King greets friendly all my Thanes in Yorkshire, French and English. Know ye that I have given St. John at Beverley sac and soc over all the lands which were given in King Edward's days to St. John's Minster, and also over the lands which Ealdred, the Archbishop, hath since obtained in my days, whether in this Thorp or in Campland. It shall all be free from me and all other men, excepting the Bishop and the Minster priests; and no man shall slay deer, nor violate what I have given to Christ and St. John. And I will that there shall be, for ever, monastic life and canonical congregation so long as any man liveth. God's blessing be with all Christian men who assist at this holy worship. Amen." And from this time the town flourished greatly, and grew rapidly in population and wealth. As to the church, it became more than ever the resort of pilgrims, who left rich presents on the shrine of St. John. In the year 1188 the old Saxon church was destroyed by fire, which may be deemed a fortunate occurrence, as men were stimulated at this, the best period of Gothic architecture, to erect over the relics of St. John a structure worthy of his eminence and fame; and the outcome of this impulse was the uprising of the existing magnificent church, which is now the great architectural glory of the East Riding. The Beatified Sisters of Beverley. In the south aisle of the nave of Beverley Minster may be seen an uninscribed canopied altar tomb. It is a very fine specimen of the Early Decorated style, manifestly dating from the period of Edward II. or the earlier portion of the reign of his successor. It is covered with a massive slab of Purbeck marble, rising above which is an exquisitely proportioned pointed arch or canopy, with pinnacles and turrets, crocketted work and finials, all elaborately chiselled and carefully finished. History records not whose mortal remains are deposited in the tomb: there it stands like the Sphynx on the sands of Egypt, maintaining a mysterious silence as to its origin, "a thing of beauty," displaying its elegance of form and the charms of its sculptured features to all beholders; but seeming to say--"Admire the perfection of my symmetry if you will, but inquire not whose relics I enshrine, whether of noble or saint. Unlike my more gorgeous sister tomb, in the choir, near the altar, which blazons forth the glory of the Percys, I choose, with Christian humility, and recognising the fact that death renders all equal, and that in the sight of the Almighty Judge a Percy is no better for all his glories than the pauper--to draw a veil over the earthly greatness of the family to which I belong." Although history is thus silent in respect to the origin of the tomb, tradition is less reticent, and from its oral records we learn, not perhaps all that can be desired, but a narrative that probably has a basis of truth. About a mile westward of Beverley Westwood, on the road to York, lies the pretty picturesque village of Bishop Burton, with its church on an eminence commanding an extensive view of the Wold lands on one hand, and of the country sloping down to the Humber on the other. It is environed by groups of patriarchal trees, including a noble specimen of the witch elm on the village green, with a trunk forty-eight feet in circumference, and which is held in great veneration by the villagers; and in the valley below is a small lake, which doubtless supplied fish to the household of the Archbishops of York when they had a palace here. It is a very ancient village, dating from the Celtic period, when it formed a burial place of the Druids and British chieftains. One of the numerous tumuli was opened in 1826. It was seventy yards in circumference, and was found to contain several skeletons of our remote forefathers of that race. From some tesselated pavements which have been discovered, it appears also to have been occupied afterwards by the Romans. At the end of the seventh and beginning of the eighth century, the Lordship of South Burton, as it was then called, was held by Earl Puch, a Saxon noble. Its name was changed, after the Conquest, to Bishop Burton, from the circumstance that it belonged to the Archbishops of York, and their having a palace in the village, where Archbishop John le Romayne died in 1295. At this time South Burton formed a sort of oasis in a vast wilderness of forest, extending for miles in every direction, including the now open breezy upland of Beverley Westwood, then infested by wolves, through which ran trackways to Beverlega, where stood the recently founded church and monastery of St. John, northward of which, at the foot of the Wolds, lay another extent of forest land, called Northwood, perpetuated to this day in the name of the street--Norwood. Earl Puch's mansion was an erection of timber, with few of the appliances of modern domestic life, with a large hall, wherein he dined with his family and guests at the upper end of a long table, and his retainers and domestics at the lower end. More in the interior were the Lady Puch's bower and other private and sleeping apartments of the family; with inferior rooms for the household servants, the swineherds, cowherds, huntsmen, and other outdoor menials sleeping in the outhouses, with the animals of which they had charge. Earl Puch had built a church in the village, a very primitive specimen of architecture, consisting of nave and chancel, of timber and wattles, with round-headed doors and windows, and rude zigzag ornamentation. It had neither tower nor transept, lacked bells, and its pulpit, altar, and font were fashioned of rough-hewn wood. Yet was it sufficient for the wants of the age, and served the purpose of worship, the heart being rightly tuned, as the most gorgeous cathedral of after ages. St. John had now resigned the Archbishopric of York, and had retired to his monastery at Beverlega, to spend the remnant of his life in prayer, devotional exercises, and the seclusion of the cloister. The Earl, a pious man, was on very friendly terms with the ex-Archbishop, and invited him to come and consecrate his church, just finished, to which John readily assented, and, despite his years and infirmities, on the appointed day took up his walking staff and went on foot through Westwood to South Burton, meditating by the way on his past life, on his ancestral home at Harpham-on-the-Wolds, his student's life under St. Hilda at the Abbey of Streoneshalh, his episcopal career at Hagulstadt, his experience on the Archiepiscopal Throne of York, and his retirement to the Abbey of Beverlega, acknowledging, with grateful thanksgiving, the Providential hand that had sustained him through his varied course of life. On the arrival of the ex-Prelate at South Burton, he found the family in great grief in consequence of the illness of the Lady Puch, who had been stricken down by a severe attack of fever, which threatened to terminate her life. She was an exceedingly devout woman, assiduous in her attention to the duties of religion, charitable to the poor, and a great blessing to the poor and destitute of the village. A great portion of her time was spent in the educational training of her two lovely daughters, now approaching womanhood, and who much resembled her in the piety of their lives. She had now lain in bed a month, suffering agonies of torment, and expecting every day would be her last. Her husband wished to postpone the consecration of the church in consequence of her critical condition, but she would not listen to it. "Why," said she, "should the poor people be deprived of the privilege of hearing the service of God performed in a consecrated edifice because I, a poor insignificant mortal like themselves, am labouring under this affliction? Let the consecration take place the same as if I were well and able to take part in the ceremony; the thought of what is taking place will be more beneficial to me than all the doctor's medicine that shall be given me;" and it was determined that the ceremony should be proceeded with as if there were no impediment in the way. Brithunus, a disciple of St. John, and the first abbot of his monastery, had also come over to assist in the ceremony, and to him we are indebted for a narrative of the miracle which accompanied it, as well as of many another notable miracle performed by St. John, which he communicated to Bede, who interwove them into his Ecclesiastical History. The consecration was duly performed according to the Anglo-Saxon style, with singing, prayers, the sprinkling of holy water, and a proclamation from the Archbishop that the edifice was now rendered sacred, and become a temple of the Living God, concluding with a benediction. "Then," says Brithunus, "the Earl desired him to dine at his house, but the Bishop declined, saying he must return to the monastery. The Earl pressing him more earnestly, vowed he would give alms to the poor if the Bishop would break his fast that day in his house. I joined my entreaties to his, promising in like manner to give alms for the relief of the poor if he would go and dine at the Earl's house and give his blessing. Having at length, with great difficulty, prevailed, we went in to dine." The banquet was served with the profusion and splendour of the time, consisting chiefly of boar's flesh, venison, fish, and birds, eaten from platters of wood, with an ample supply of wine, which was passed round in flagons of silver. In the course of the repast, the conversation was confined almost exclusively to two topics--the new church and the hopes that were entertained of its becoming a blessing to the neighbourhood, and the illness of the Earl's wife, with which the Bishop sympathised with much kindly feeling. "Can nothing be done," inquired the Earl, "by means of the church to alleviate her sufferings, if not to restore her to health? The physicians are at their wit's end; they know nothing of the nature of the disease, and the remedies they give seem rather to aggravate than cure it. Peradventure the blessing of a holy man might have a beneficial effect." "The issues of life and death," replied the Bishop, "are in the hands of God alone. Sometimes it is even impious to attempt to overrule His ordinations, which, although often inscrutable and productive of affliction and suffering, are intended for some ultimate good." At this moment one of the lady's handmaidens entered the banqueting-room with a message from her mistress to the effect that her pains had materially lessened since the consecration had taken place, and that she desired a draught of the holy water that had been used, feeling an inward conviction that it, accompanied by the Bishop's blessing, would be of great service. "The Bishop then," continues Brithunus, "sent to the woman that lay sick some of the holy water which he had blessed for the consecration of the church, by one of the brothers that went along with me, ordering him to give her some to drink, and wash the place where her greatest pain was with some of the same. This being done, the woman immediately got up in health, and perceiving that she had not only been delivered from her tedious distemper, but at the same time recovered the strength which she had lost, she presented the cup to the Bishop and me, and continued serving us with drink, as she had begun, till dinner was over, following the example of Peter's mother-in-law, who, having been sick of a fever, arose at the touch of our Lord, and having at once received health and strength, ministered to them." The two young daughters of the Earl, on witnessing the miraculous restoration to health of their beloved mother, had retired together to their chamber to offer up their heartfelt thanksgivings to God for her recovery, and before the Bishop's departure came down to the banqueting-hall and received his blessing. They were exceedingly lovely both in form and feature, and when they entered the hall, with modest downcast eyes, it seemed to those present as if two angelic beings from the celestial sphere had deigned to visit them. "Come hither, my children," said their mother, "and thank the good Bishop for interceding with heaven on my behalf, and who has thus been instrumental in delivering me from the terrible disease under which I have been labouring for so long a period." In response, the young maidens went to the Bishop, and kneeling at his feet, expressed their gratitude to him for what he had done, and implored his blessing. Placing his hands on their heads, he said, "My dear daughters in Christ, attribute not to me, a sinful mortal, that which is due alone to our Merciful Father in Heaven, who has seen fit first to afflict your mother with grievous trials for some wise purpose, and then suddenly to restore her to health, that her soul may be purified so as to enable her to pass through this lower world, untainted by the grosser sins, but, like all fallible mortals, to be still open to lesser temptations, that in the end she may be rendered meet to enter that higher sphere of existence which is reserved for those who live holy lives here below. May God bless you, my dear daughters, tread in the footsteps of your saintly mother, that you also may be made meet for the same inheritance of light." So saying, the Bishop took up his staff, and bidding farewell to the Earl and his family, wended his way, accompanied by Brithunus and the monks, through Westwood to his home at Beverlega. From this time the two young ladies continued to grow in stature and loveliness of person, as well as in fervent piety and the grace of God. They had sprung up into young womanhood, and many were the suitors for their hands who came fluttering about South Burton, knowing well that, as the Earl had no son, nor was likely to have one, they must, if they survived him, become his co-heiresses. But they refused to listen to the flatteries and protestations of everlasting love of these young fellows, not so much because they saw through the hollowness and feigned nature of their professions of love, but because they had determined to live lives of celibacy, devoted solely to the service of God. St. John made repeated visits to South Burton, and nothing afforded them greater spiritual comfort and holy pleasure than lengthened converse with him on the things that pertain to everlasting life. But a couple of years after the consecration of the church he passed away to his rest and reward, "with his memory overshadowed by the benedictions of mankind," and was buried in the portico of the church of Beverlega, which he had founded. A few years after this the two maidens, with the full consent of their parents, entered the convent of St. John, at Beverlega, to spend the remainder of their lives in the holy seclusion of the cloister. The Earl was an extensive landed proprietor, with possessions in and about South Burton, and others on the banks of the Hull, near Grovehill, a landing-place of the Romans, and now a suburb of Beverley, with some extensive manufacturing works. When his daughters entered the convent he bestowed upon it the manor of Walkington, lying southward of South Burton and abutting on Beverley Westwood. At the same time he made a grant to the people of Beverlega of a tract of swampy land on the banks of the Hull, to serve as a common pasturage for their cattle. This tract of land, now called Swinemoor, is still held by the burgesses of Beverley, forming one of the four valuable pastures, containing, in the aggregate, nearly 1,200 acres, the property of the freemen of the borough. There are reasons for believing that a Christian Church existed on the shores of the Beaver Lake, in the wood of Deira, the site of the modern Beverley, in the time of the Ancient British Apostolic Christianity, which had formerly been the scene of the Druidical religion, which was destroyed by the pagan Saxons, and re-edified by St. John the Archbishop. In one of his progresses through his diocese, he came to this clearing in the wood of Deira, with its sacred beaver-lake, formerly called Llyn yr Avanc, now Inder-a-wood, and was struck by its sylvan beauty and its quiet seclusion. He found there a very small wooden church, thatched with reeds, which he determined to restore and enlarge, and founded, in connection with it, a religious house for both sexes--a monastery for men and a nunnery for women. He added to it a choir, and appointed seven priests to officiate at the altar; built the monastery, and endowed it with lands for its support. Hither he retired when enfeebled by age, and here he was buried in the porch of his church in the year 721. It was to this nunnery that the Sisters Agnes and Agatha went, and after a period of probation, were despoiled of their hair, and assumed the veil of the sisterhood. The religious houses of the Saxons were not the luxurious abodes that they became in after years. The life led there was one of ascetic severity, with bare walls, hard pallets, scanty food of the simplest description, a continuous series of prayers and religious exercises, accompanied by frequent fastings, penances, and fleshly mortification, to all which the two sisters submitted with cheerfulness, as conducive to the spiritual health of their souls. They were never found sleeping when the summons for divine service was sounded forth, and they were ever willing to perform the most menial duties as tending to keep within them a spirit of Christian humility. Their profound piety and rigorous attention to disciplinary matters excited the admiration of the Mother Superior, but never would they lend ear to praises from her lips, lest it should engender spiritual pride, the aim of their lives being to rank as the lowest servants of the servants of Christ. And thus the years passed along in one monotonous but ever-blessed sameness, ever dwelling within the walls and precincts of the nunnery, save on two occasions, when they went to South Burton to attend the funerals of their parents. It was the eve of the Nativity, a bright starlight night, as that over Bethlehem when the three wise men of the East came thither guided by the wandering star. The nuns were assembled in their chapel for an early service, amongst whom were the two sisters apparently absorbed in divine meditation. The nuns then retired for their evening refection and silent contemplation in their cells until midnight, when the bell summoned them again to the chapel for midnight Mass, which was to usher in the holy day. At this service there was a strange and unwonted omission; the two sisters were absent. "Where are the Sisters Agnes and Agatha?" inquired the Abbess; "surely something has befallen them, else they would not be absent, especially on such an occasion as this. Go and search diligently for them." Every corner of the building and the grounds outside were searched, but in vain; not a vestige of them could be found; and at length, as the hour of midnight was close at hand, the Mass was proceeded with. The following day, that of the Nativity, was devoted to the usual festal, religious duties; but a heaviness of heart pervaded the assembly, as the sisters had not re-appeared, and no tidings of them could be heard. Days, weeks, and months passed away, and no clue to their mysterious disappearance presented itself until the eve of St. John, their patron saint. The vespers had been sung, with special reference to the coming day, and the nuns had gone out to breathe the air of the summer evening, whilst the Abbess, taking the key of the tower, unlocked the door and went up the stone stairs to the top, a place not much frequented, where she thought to offer up her prayers beneath the open dome of heaven, without any intervening walls. She had just placed her foot on the topmost stair when she was startled at beholding the two sisters lying locked in each other's arms and with upward turned eyes. At the first glance she supposed them to be dead, but a moment after was undeceived by their rising, and saying, "Mother, dear! it will soon be time for the midnight Mass; but how is this? We lay down an hour ago, under the sky of a winter night, but now we have awakened under the setting sun of a summer eve." "An hour ago! my children," replied the Abbess, "it is now months since you disappeared on the eve of the Nativity, and months since the midnight Mass of the birth of our Saviour was sung. Can it be you have been sleeping here all through the interval?" "Mother, dear," they replied, after some further questionings and explanations, "we have not been sleeping, we have been transported to heaven, and have seen sights inconceivable to the human eye, and heard music such as has never been listened to in this lower world. The heaven that we have visited is no mere localised spot, but extends throughout infinite space. It possesses no land or water; no mountains and valleys; no rivers, or lakes, or trees, or material objects of any kind; but has picturesque scenery, impalpable and cloudlike, of the most ravishing beauty. It is peopled by myriads of angelic beings and beatified mortals, unsubstantial and etherealised, all of exquisitely symmetrical figures, and with gloriously radiant features, beaming with happiness and smiling with serenity. Unlike the popular opinion, it is not a place of idle lounging and repose, but of intense activity, all being engaged in employments which afford an intensity of pleasurable emotions. The Almighty Father and Creator of all this realm of beauty and of all these glorified creatures it was not possible for us to see with our mortal eyes, but we were perfectly cognisant of His influence and presence everywhere throughout the infinitude of space. But oh! the music! here, on earth, it is termed divine, but our sweetest melodies are but a jarring discord of sounds compared with that of heaven; mortal ear cannot form the faintest conception of its sublime grandeur and unutterable loveliness." Thus spake they to the astonished Abbess, who at once recognised the fact of their miraculous transportation to the realms of light for a temporary sojourn there, that on their return to earth they might be the means of comforting and encouraging those who by holy lives of asceticism, self-denial, and prayer, were wending their way thitherwards; and she conducted them down to their sister nuns, to whom again they had to narrate the visions that had been vouchsafed to them. "There is joy in the convent of Beverley, Now these saintly maidens are found, And to hear their story right wonderingly The nuns have gathered around; The long-lost maidens, to whom was given To live so long the life of heaven." The Sisters further stated that the first spirit they met was the holy St. John, the founder of their convent, whom they immediately recognised, although he had cast off his earthly integuments, and appeared in a glorified form, but in semblance as when he performed the miracle at South Burton. He welcomed them with affectionate warmth, and told them that their parents were now enjoying the reward of their virtuous and pious lives, but that they could not be permitted to see them until they themselves had finally passed away from earthly life. He further told them that he kept a watchful eye over his town and monastery in Inder-a-wood, with affectionate love, which should be seen in after ages, in the promotion of their prosperity. The next day the festival of St. John was celebrated in the monastery and church, with more than usual interest and devotion. Towards the close of it-- "The maidens have risen, with noiseless tread They glide o'er the marble floor; They seek the Abbess with bended head: 'Thy blessing we would implore, Dear mother! for e'er the coming day Shall blush into light, we must hence away.' The Abbess hath lifted her gentle hands, And the words of peace hath said, 'O vade in pacem;' aghast she stands, 'Have their innocent spirits fled?' Yes, side by side lie these maidens fair, Like two wreaths of snow in the moonlight there." At the same time the church became lighted up with a supernatural roseate hue, and sounds of celestial music ravished the ears of the assembly. The Sisters were laid side by side by tender and reverent hands in a tomb near the altar of the church, and now-- "Fifty summers have come and passed away, But their loveliness knoweth no decay; And many a chaplet of flowers is hung, And many a bead told there; And many a hymn of praise is sung, And many a low-breathed prayer; And many a pilgrim bends the knee At the shrine of the Sisters of Beverley." The tomb of the Sisters was destroyed in the great fire of 1188, which destroyed not only St. John's Church and monastery, but the whole town besides. They were afterwards rebuilt--the Minster in the superb style which it now presents--and it was in remembrance of these sainted Sisters that the uninscribed tomb was placed in the new church. This legend has formed the subject of an exquisite poem, which appeared in the pages of the _Literary Gazette_, and has been attributed to the pen of Alaric A. Watts, which, however, is open to doubt. The Dragon of Wantley. Once on a time--as the old storytellers were wont to commence their tales of love, chivalry, and romance--there dwelt in the most wild and rugged part of Wharncliffe Chase, near Rotherham, a fearful dragon, with iron teeth and claws. How he came there no one knew, or where he came from; but he proved to be a most pestilent neighbour to the villagers of Wortley--blighting the crops by the poisonous stench of his breath, devouring the cattle of the fields, making no scruple of seizing upon a plump child or a tender young virgin to serve as a _bonne-bouche_ for his breakfast table, and even crunching up houses and churches to satisfy his ravenous appetite. Wortley, is situated in the parish of Penistone, and belongs now, as it has done for centuries, to the Wortley family. Before the dissolution of monasteries, the Rectory of Penistone belonged to the Abbey of St. Stephen, Westminster, and was granted, when the Abbey was dissolved, to Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, who out of the proceeds established in Sheffield a set of almshouses. The impropriation of the great tithes were let to the Wortley family, who, by measures of oppression and extortion, contrived to get a great deal more than they were entitled to, and Nicholas Wortley insisted on taking the tithes in kind, but was opposed by Francis Bosville, who obtained a decree (17th Elizabeth) against him; but Sir Francis Wortley, in the succeeding reign, again attempted to enforce payment in kind, with so much disregard to the suffering he inflicted upon the poor that they determined upon finding out some champion who would dare to attack this redoubtable dragon in his den at Wantley, so as to put an end, once and for all, to the destruction of their crops, the loss of their cattle, and the desolation of their ruined homes. Foremost in this movement was one Lyonel Rowlestone, who married the widow of Francis Bosville; and the parishioners entered into an agreement to unite in opposition to the claims of the Wortleys. The parchment on which it is written is dated 1st James I., and bristles with the names and seals of the people of Penistone of that time, and is still extant. In the neighbourhood, on a moor not far from Bradfield, stood a mansion called More or Moor Hall, and was inhabited by a family who had resided there from the time of Henry II., but of whom little is known, excepting the wonderful achievement of one member of the family, "More of More Hall," who slew the Dragon of Wantley. The family had for their crest a green dragon, and there was formerly in Bradfield Church a stone dragon, five feet in length, which had some connection with the family. To this worthy, who, it is supposed, may have been an attorney or counsellor, the parishioners of Penistone, having decided upon appealing to the law courts, applied to undertake their case, and make battle on the terrible dragon in his den among the rocks of the forest of Wharncliffe. He readily complied with their wish, and with great boldness and valour prepared for the conflict by going to Sheffield and ordering a suit of armour, studded with spikes--that is, arming himself with the panoply of law, and then went forth and made the attack. The fight is said, in the ballad narrative, to have lasted two days and nights, probably the duration of the lawsuit, and in the end he killed the dragon, or won his suit, thus relieving the people of Penistone from any further annoyance or unjust exaction from that quarter. Sir Francis Wortley persuaded his cousin Wordsworth, the freehold lord of the manor (ancestor, lineal or collateral, of the Poet Wordsworth), to stand aloof in the matter, and now the Wortley and the Wordsworth are the only estates in the parish that pay tithes. To commemorate the event an exceedingly humorous and cleverly satirical ballad was written, which, being also a lively burlesque on the ballad romances of chivalry, served the same purpose towards them that Cervantes' "Don Quixote" did for the prose fictions of the same character. Thus opens the ballad-- "Old stories tell how Hercules A dragon slew at Gerna, With seven heads and fourteen eyes To see and well discerna; But he had a club, this dragon to drub, Or he had ne'er I warrant ye; But More of More Hall with nothing at all, He slew the dragon of Wantley. "This dragon had two furious wings, Each one upon each shoulder; With a sting in his tail, as long as a flail, Which made him bolder and bolder. He had long claws, and in his jaws Four and forty teeth of iron; With a hide as tough as any buff, Which did him round environ." It then goes on to describe how "he ate three children at one sup, as one would eat an apple." Also all sorts of cattle and trees, the forest beginning to diminish very perceptibly, and "houses and churches," which to him were geese and turkeys, "leaving none behind." "But some stones, dear Jack, that he could not crack, Which on the hills you will finda." These stones are supposed to be a reference to the Lyonel Rowlestone, who was the leader of the opposition. There are many local allusions of a similar character, which would no doubt add much to the keenness of the satire and the humour, but which are lost to us through our ignorance of the circumstances and persons alluded to. "In Yorkshire, near fair Rotherham," was his den, and at Wantley a well from which he drank. "Some say this dragon was a witch, Some say he was a devil; For from his nose a smoke arose And with it burning snivel." "Hard by a furious knight there dwelt," who could "wrestle, play at quarter-staff, kick, cuff, and huff; and with his hands twain could swing a horse till he was dead, and eat him all up but his head." To this wonderful athlete came "men, women, girls, and boys, sighing and sobbing, and made a hideous noise--O! save us all, More of More Hall, thou peerless knight of these woods; do but slay this dragon, who won't leave us a rag on, we'll give thee all our goods." The Knight replied-- "Tut, tut," quoth he, "no goods I want; But I want, I want, in sooth, A fair maid of sixteen, that's brisk and keen, With smiles about her mouth; Hair black as sloe, skin white as snow, With blushes her cheeks adorning; To anoint me o'er night, e'er I go to the fight, And to dress me in the morning." This being agreed to, he hied to Sheffield, and had a suit of armour, covered with spikes five or six inches long, made, which, when he donned it, caused the people to take him for "an Egyptian porcupig," and the cattle for "some strange, outlandish hedgehog." When he rose in the morning, "To make him strong and mighty He drank, by the tale, six pots of ale And a quart of _aqua vitæ_." Thus equipped and with his valour braced up, he went to Wantley, concealing himself in the well, and when the dragon came to drink, he shouted "Boh," and struck the monster a blow on the mouth. The knight then came out of the well, and they commenced fighting, for some time without advantage on either side--without either receiving a wound. At length, however, after fighting two days and a night, the dragon gave him a blow which made him reel and the earth to quake. "But More of More Hall, like a valiant son of Mars," returned the compliment with such vigour that-- "Oh! quoth the dragon, with a deep sigh, And turned six times together; Sobbing and tearing, cursing and swearing Out of his throat of leather; More of More Hall! O, thou rascal! Would I had seen thee never; With the thing on thy foot, thou has pricked my gut And I'm quite undone for ever. "Murder! murder! the dragon cry'd. Alack! alack! for grief; Had you but mist that place, you could Have done me no mischief. Then his head he shaked, trembled and quaked, And down he laid and cry'd, First on one knee, then on back tumbled he: So groan'd, kick't, and dy'd." Henry Carey, in 1738, brought out an opera on the subject, entitled "The Dragon of Wantley," abounding in humour, and a fine burlesque on the Italian operas of the period, then the rage of fashion. And in 1873, Poynter exhibited at the Royal Academy a picture of "More of More Hall and the Dragon." The Miracles and Ghost of Watton. In a sweetly sequestered spot, environed by patriarchal trees of luxuriant foliage, between the towns of Driffield and Beverley, nestles a Tudoresque building, which goes by the name of Watton Abbey, although it never was an abbey, but a Gilbertine Priory. It is now a private residence, and was occupied for many years as a school, the existing buildings apparently having been erected since the dissolution, and there are but few remains of the original convent, saving a portion of the nunnery, now converted into stables, a hollow square indicating the site of the kitchen and the moat which originally surrounded the entire enclosure. A couple of centuries ago there were extensive remains of the old priory, but they were removed for the purpose of repairing Beverley Minster. Moreover, the abbey has a haunted room, which, however, has no connection with the monastic times, although the ghost that haunts it is usually designated "The Headless Nun of Watton," but belongs to the civil war period of the seventeenth century. The fact is that story tellers of the legend confound two altogether different narratives--the one of a trangressing nun of the twelfth century, and the other of a murdered lady of the seventeenth, combining their two histories into one story, as if their persons were identical. A nunnery was established here in a very early period of Anglo-Saxon Christianity, probably soon after its re-introduction into Northumbria by King Oswald, as we find St. John of Beverley performing a miracle there, which would be about the year 720, after he had resigned his Bishopric and retired to Beverley. It appears that he was an intimate friend of the Lady Prioress--Heribury--and made frequent visits to Watton to administer spiritual advice and ghostly consolation to the inmates under her charge. On one occasion when he went thither, he found the Prioress's daughter suffering great agony from a diseased and swollen arm, the result of unskilful bleeding, and was solicited to go to her chamber and give her his blessing, which might be the means of alleviating the pain. He inquired when she had been bled, and was told on the fourth day of the moon, which he said was a very inauspicious day, quoting Archbishop Theodore as his authority, and he feared his prayers would be of no avail. Nevertheless he went to her room, prayed for her restoration to health, gave her his blessing, and went down to dinner. They had, however, scarcely seated themselves when a servant came in, stating that all her pain had gone, her swollen arm had been reduced to its natural size, and that she was perfectly restored to health, and was dressing to come down and dine with them. The nunnery was destroyed, it is presumed, by the Danes at the same time that the Monastery of Beverley perished at their hands, in the ninth century, and it lay waste and desolate until the twelfth century, although we find from the Domesday survey that there were then a church and priest in the village. In 1148-9, Eustace Fitz John, Lord of Knaresborough, and a favourite of King Henry I., at the instance of Murdac, Archbishop of York, refounded the convent, in atonement for certain crimes he had committed. It was established for thirteen canons and thirty-six nuns of the new Gilbertine order, who were to live in the same block of buildings, but with a party wall for the separation of the sexes; the canons "to serve the nuns perpetually in terrene as well as in divine matters." He endowed it with the Lordship of Watton, with all its appurtenances in pure and perpetual alms for the salvation of his soul, and those of his wife, his father and mother, brothers and sisters, friends and servants. Archbishop Murdac was at the time resident at Beverley, the gates of York having been shut against him; and it may be that the fact of his predecessor, St. John, the patron-saint of the town where he dwelt, having performed a great miracle there, was what influenced him in his desire to see a resuscitation of the monastery. He was a remarkable man, and had led a somewhat adventurous life. Archbishop Thurstan was his patron, and gave him some preferments in the church of York, which he resigned at the pressing invitation of St. Bernard, founder of the Cistercians, to become a monk at Clervaux. Soon after he was sent by his superior to found a Cistercian house at Vauclair, of which he was appointed the first abbot, in 1131, where he remained until 1143, when, at the recommendation of St. Bernard, he was elected Abbot of Fountains. Under his judicious and able government the abbey prospered and threw off not less than seven offshoots--those of Kirkstall, Lix, Meaux, Vaudy, and Woburn. On the death of Archbishop Thurstan, King Stephen desired the canons to elect William Fitzherbert, his nephew and their treasurer, in his place, which they were willing to do, but the Cistercians, headed by Murdac, suspecting that undue influence had been made use of, vehemently opposed his election, and Pope Eugenius, on the appeal of St. Bernard, suspended Fitzherbert. Fitzherbert, out of revenge, went with his friends to Fountains, broke open the door, searched ineffectually for Murdac, then fired the abbey, and retired. This act caused a great sensation, and the Archbishop was deprived in 1147. The same year an assembly met at Richmond, and elected Murdac as Archbishop, who immediately went to Rome and obtained his pall from Pope Eugenius; but on his return found York barred against his entrance, upon which he retired to Beverley. Stephen, the King, refused to recognise him, sequestering the stalls of York, and fining the town of Beverley for harbouring him. It was at this time that he promoted the re-establishment of Watton, and placed within its walls a child of four years of age to be educated, with a view of taking the veil. In retaliation, he excommunicated Puisnet, Treasurer of York, and laid the city under an interdict. Puisnet was afterwards elected Bishop of Durham, upon which Murdac excommunicated the Prior and Archdeacon, who came to Beverley to implore pardon, and could only obtain absolution on acknowledging their fault and submitting to scourging at the entrance to Beverley Minster. He died at Beverley in the same year (1153), and was buried in York Cathedral. Elfleda, the child whom Murdac had placed in the convent, was a merry, vivacious little creature; and whilst but a child was a source of amusement to the sisterhood, who, although prim and demure in bearing, and some of them sour-tempered and acid in their tempers, were wont to smile at her youthful frolics and ringing laugh; but as she grew older, her outbursts of merriment, and the sallies of wit that began to animate her conversation, were checked, as being inconsistent with the character of a young lady who was now enrolled as novice, preparatory to taking the veil. As she advanced towards womanhood her form gradually developed into a most symmetrical figure; and her features became the perfection of beauty, set off with a transparent delicacy of complexion, such as would have rendered her a centre of attraction even among the beauties of a Royal Court. This excited the jealousy of the sisters, who were chiefly elderly and middle-aged spinsters, whose homely and somewhat coarse features had proved detrimental to their hopes of obtaining husbands. They began to treat her with scornful looks, chilling neglect, and petty persecutions; but when she, later on, evinced a manifest repugnance to convent life, ridiculed the ways of the holy sisters, and even satirised them, they charged her with entertaining rebellious and ungodly sentiments, and subjected her to penances and other modes of wholesome correction, such as they considered would subdue her worldly spirit. Sprightly and light-hearted as she was, Elfleda was not happy, immured as she was within these detested walls, and condemned to assist in wearisome services, such as she thought might perhaps be congenial to the souls of her elder sisters, whose hopes of worldly happiness and conjugal endearment had been blighted, but which were altogether unsuited for one so beautiful (for she knew that she was fair, and was vain of her looks) and so cheerful-minded as herself; and she longed with intense desire to make her escape, mingle with the outer world, and have free intercourse with the other sex. According to the charter of endowment, the lay brethren of the monastery were entrusted with the management of the secular affairs of the nunnery, which necessitated their admission within its portals on certain occasions for conference with the prioress. On these occasions Elfleda would cast furtive and very un-nunlike glances upon their persons. She was particularly attracted by one of them, a young man of prepossessing mien and seductive style of speech, and she felt her heart beat wildly whenever he came with the other visitors. He noticed her surreptitious glances, and saw that she was exceedingly beautiful, and his heart responded to the sentiment he felt that he had inspired in hers. They maintained this silent but eloquent language of love for some time, and soon found means of having stolen interviews under the darkness of night, when vows of everlasting love were interchanged, and led, eventually, to consequences which at the outset were not dreamt of by the erring pair. Suspicion having been excited by her altered form, she was summoned before her superiors on a charge of "transgressing the conventual rules and violating one of the most stringent laws of monastic life," and as concealment was impossible, she boldly confessed her fault, adding that she had no vocation for a convent life, and desired to be banished from the community. This request could not be listened to for a moment. The culprit had brought a scandal and indelible stain upon the fair fame of the house, which must, at any cost, be concealed from the world; and her open avowal of her guilt raised in the breasts of the pious sisterhood a perfect fury of indignation, and a determination to inflict immediate and condign punishment on her. It was variously suggested that she should be burnt to death, that she should be walled up alive, that she should be flayed, that her flesh should be torn from her bones with red-hot pincers, that she should be roasted to death before a fire, etc.; but the more prudent and aged averted these extreme measures, and suggested some milder forms of punishment, which were at once carried out. The miserable object of their vengeance was stripped of her clothing, stretched on the floor, and scourged with rods until the blood trickled down profusely from her lacerated back. She was then cast into a noisome dungeon, without light, fettered by iron chains to the floor, and supplied with only bread and water, "which was administered with bitter taunts and reproaches." Meanwhile the young man, her paramour, had left the monastery, and as the nuns were desirous of inflicting some terrible punishment upon him for his horrible crime, they extorted from Elfleda, under promise that she should be released and given up to him, the confession that he was still in the neighbourhood in disguise, and that not knowing of the discovery that had been made, he would come to visit her, and make the usual signal of throwing a stone on the roof over her sleeping cell. The Prioress made this known to the brethren of the monastery, and arranged with them for his capture. The following night he came, looked cautiously round, and then threw the stone, when the monks rushed out of ambush, cudgelled him soundly, and then took him a prisoner into the house. "The younger part of the nuns, inflamed with a pious zeal, demanded the custody of the prisoner, on pretence of gaining further information. Their request was granted, and taking him to an unfrequented part of the convent, they committed on his person such brutal atrocities as cannot be translated without polluting the page on which they are written; and, to increase the horror, the lady was brought forth to be witness of the abominable scene." Whilst lying in her dungeon, Elfleda became penitent, and conscious of having committed a gross crime, and one night whilst sleeping in her fetters, Archbishop Murdac appeared to her and charged her with having cursed him. She replied that she certainly had cursed him for having placed her in so uncongenial a sphere. "Rather curse yourself," said he, "for having given way to temptation." "So I do," she answered, "and I regret having imputed the blame to you." He then exhorted her to repentance and the daily repetition of certain psalms, and then vanished,--a vision which afforded her much consolation. The holy sisters were now much troubled on the question of what should be done with the infant which was expected daily, and preparations were made for its reception; when Elfleda was again visited by the Archbishop, accompanied by two women who, "with the holy aid of the Archbishop, safely delivered her of the infant, which they bore away in their arms, covered with a fair linen cloth." When the nuns came the next morning they found her in perfect health and restored to her youthful appearance, without any signs of the accouchement, and charged her with murdering the infant,--a very improbable idea, seeing that she was still chained to the floor. She narrated what had occurred, but was not believed. The next night all her fetters were miraculously removed, and when her cell was entered the following morning she was found standing free, and the chains not to be found. The Father Superior of the convent was then called in, and he invited Alured, Abbot of Rievaulx, to assist him in the investigation of the case, who decided that it was a miraculous intervention, and the Abbot departed, saying, "What God hath cleansed call not thou common or unclean, and whom He hath loosed thou mayest not bind." What afterwards became of Elfleda is not stated, but we may presume that after these miraculous events she would be admitted as a thrice holy member of the sisterhood, despite her little peccadillo. Alured of Rievaulx, the monkish chronicler, narrates the substance of the above circumstances, and vouches for their truth. "Let no one," says he, "doubt the truth of this account, for I was an eye-witness to many of the facts, and the remainder were related to me by persons of such mature age and distinguished piety, that I cannot doubt the accuracy of the statement." This is the story of the frail and unfortunate nun; the other, which is usually dovetailed on the former, is of much more recent date. In the present house there is a chamber wainscoted throughout with panelled oak, one of the panels forming a door, so accurately fitted that it cannot be distinguished from the other panels. It is opened by a secret spring, and communicates with a stone stair that goes down to the moat; it may be that the room was a hiding-place for the Jesuits or priests of the Catholic Church when they were so ruthlessly hunted down and barbarously executed in the Elizabethan and Jacobean reigns. The room is reputed to be haunted by the ghost of a headless lady with an infant in her arms, who comes, or came thither formerly, to sleep nightly, the bed-clothes being found the following morning in a disordered state, as they would be after a person had been sleeping in them. If by chance any person had daring enough to occupy the room, the ghost would come, minus the head, dressed in blood-stained garments, with her infant in her arms, and would stand motionless at the foot of the bed for a while, and then vanish. A visitor on one occasion, who knew nothing of the legend, was put to sleep in the chamber, who in the morning stated that his slumbers had been disturbed by a spectral visitant, in the form of a lady with bloody raiment and an infant, and that her features bore a strange resemblance to those of a lady whose portrait hung in the room; from which it would appear that on that special occasion she had donned her head. According to the legend, a lady of distinction who then occupied the house was a devoted Royalist in the great civil war which resulted in the death of King Charles. It was after the battle of Marston Moor, which was a death-blow to the Royalists north of the Humber, and when the Parliamentarians dominated the broad lands of Yorkshire, that a party of fanatical Roundheads came into the neighbourhood of Watton, "breathing out threatenings and slaughter" against the "malignants," and especially against such as still clung to the "vile rags of the whore of Babylon," vowing to put all such to the sword. The Lady of Watton, who was a devout Catholic, heard of this band of Puritan soldiers, who were "rampaging" over the Wolds, and of the barbarous murders of which they had been guilty. Her husband was away fighting in the ranks of the King down Oxford way, and she was left without any protector excepting a handful of servants, male and female, who would be of no use against a band of armed soldiers, and it was with great fear and trembling that she heard of their arrival at Driffield, some three or four miles distant, where they had been plundering and maltreating "the Philistines;" fearing more for her infant than herself, as she believed the prevalent exaggerated rumour, that it was a favourite amusement with them to toss babies up in the air and catch them on the points of their pikes. At length news was brought that the marauders were on the march to Watton, for the purpose of plundering it, as the home of a malignant, and the lady, for better security, shut herself, with her child and her jewels, in the wainscoted room, hoping in case of extremity to escape by means of a secret stair, and in the meanwhile committed herself and child to the care of the Virgin Mother. It was not long ere the band of soldiers arrived and hammered at the door, calling aloud for admittance, but met with no response. They were about breaking down the door, and went in search of implements for the purpose, when they caught sight of a low archway opening upon the moat, which they guessed to be a side entrance to the house, and crossing the moat, they found the stair, which they ascended and came to the panel, which they concluded was a disguised door. A few blows sufficed to dash it open, and they came into the presence of the lady, who was prostrate before a crucifix. Rising up, she demanded what they wanted, and wherefore this rude intrusion. They replied that they had come to despoil the "Egyptian" who owned the mansion, and if he had been present, to smite him to death as a worshipper of idols and an abomination in the eyes of God. An angry altercation ensued, the lady, who possessed a high spirit, making a free use of her tongue in upbraidings and reproaches for their dastardly conduct on the Wolds, of which she had heard, to which they listened very impatiently, and replied in coarse language not fit for a lady's ears, at the same time demanding the plate and other valuables of the house. She scornfully refused to give them up, and told them that if they wanted them they must find them for themselves, and at length so provoked them by her taunts that they cried, "Hew down with the sword the woman of Belial and the spawn of the malignant," and suiting the action to the word, they caught her child from her arms, dashed its brains out against the wall, and then cut her down and "hewed" off her head, after which they plundered the house and departed with their spoil. It must not be supposed that these ruffians were a fair specimen of the brave, God-fearing men who fought under Fairfax, and put Newcastle and Rupert to flight at Marston Moor, who fought with the sword in one hand and the Bible in the other, who laid the axe at the root of Royal abitrary prerogative, and were the real authors of the civil and religious liberty which we now enjoy. But, as in all times of civil commotion, there were evil-minded wretches who, for purpose of plunder, assumed the garb and adopted the phraseology of the noble-minded soldiers of Fairfax and Hampden, and the Ironsides of Cromwell, out-Puritaned them in their hypocritical cant, bringing disgrace and scandal upon the armies with which they associated themselves. And such were the villains who despoiled Watton, and slew so barbarously the poor lady and her infant; and from that time the ghost of the lady has haunted the room in which the deed was perpetrated. In the year 1780, Mr. Bethell, the then occupier of the house, was giving a dinner-party in the dining-room, which adjoined the haunted apartment. When they were seated over their wine the host related the story of the ghost, and had scarcely finished it when an unearthly sound issued from the floor beneath their feet. Consternation seized on the party. They concluded that it was the ghost, and to their imagination the candles began to emit a blue, ghostly light. It seemed to be a confirmation of the truth of the story; but they summoned up courage enough to make an examination, and although it was approaching the "witching hour of night," they sent for a carpenter, who took up some planks of the floor, and found--not the ghost, but the nest of an otter from the moat, who had made there a home for her progeny, whose cries had alarmed them; and thus was dissipated what might otherwise have been deemed a veritable supernatural visitation. The Murdered Hermit of Eskdale. Sir Richard de Veron was a distinguished knight of the North Riding, who held a considerable estate by knight's service of the De Brus family in Cleveland. He was one of the heroes of the Battle of the Standard, in 1138, who went forth at the behest of Archbishop Thurstan to oppose the invasion of David of Scotland, and who signally defeated that monarch. A few years after, he joined the forces of the Empress Maud, whose pretensions to the throne of England he considered to be more legitimate than those of Stephen, and fought on her side at Lincoln, in 1141, when the King was defeated and taken prisoner, continuing to uphold her cause until she was compelled to retire from England. The war being thus brought to an end, and the adherents of the Empress generally declining to take service under a King whom they deemed a usurper, and by whom they were looked upon with suspicion, De Veron sheathed his sword and retired to his family and home in Cleveland. He had a wife, whom he dearly loved, and two children, a boy--his heir, and a sweet little daughter for whom he entertained the most tender affection; indeed, although he delighted in the clash of arms and the exciting revelry of war, he was never so truly happy as when in the midst of his family, teaching his young son to ride, practice at the target, and follow his hounds in pursuit of the wild animals of the chase; or listening to the prattle of his little daughter, when taking lessons from her mother in reading, music, or embroidery work. Thus happily passed a few months after his return from his martial pursuits, when one morning, news was brought that a case of plague had occurred in the village, causing, as it always did, great consternation not only amongst the villagers, but in the knight's mansion, which stood half a mile away from the village. It was hoped that it might be an isolated case, and such rude remedial measures as were then known were adopted to prevent the spread of the infection, but within a week another case was reported, and another and another in rapid succession, after which it spread with fearful speed, until half the population succumbed to it, and were hastily buried without the usual funeral rites. In a month the disease appeared to be dying out, the deaths were fewer and fewer day by day, and it was fondly hoped that the terrible infliction was passing away, but it was not until three-fourths of the people had fallen victims to its pestilential fury. Although Sir Richard hesitated not to go down to the village and employ himself in administering food, medicine, and consolation to the afflicted, he took every known precaution against coming into too close contact with the infected; he kept his family closely shut up at home, and occupied a separate set of apartments himself, not allowing them to come into his presence; but notwithstanding all his preventive measures he was at last stricken down. He gave positive orders that he should be left alone, and if it was God's will that he should die, he declared his resolution that he would die alone, and with affectionate earnestness sent a message to his wife, entreating her to remain apart from him, and not imperil her dear life by coming to his bedside. But she, true wife as she was, heeded not the risk to her own life, so long as she could afford comfort and spiritual consolation to him, in what might very probably be his last few moments on earth, and regardless of the injunction, hastened, on receiving the message, to the room where he lay. He reproached her gently for exposing herself to the risk of infection, but was met by assurances that it was not possible for her to remain away whilst he was lying there requiring careful tendence, with all the servants standing aloof panic-stricken, or flying from the house. He implored her to retire, but she replied that she might or might not take the infection; that was as God pleased, and if she did she might or might not fall a victim, but most assuredly if she left him alone and shut herself up away from him she would die of anxiety, or, in case of his death, of a broken heart. Finding remonstrance useless, he was fain to submit to her nursing, and happily during the night the malady passed its crisis, his strong, healthy constitution enabling him to battle successfully with the disease, and he gradually became convalescent. Happiness again seemed to be dawning over the household, but it was not destined to last long. The faithful wife, who had watched so tenderly over his sick bed, regardless of the risk she ran, maintained her health so long as her services were needed, but in her ministrations she had imbibed the seed of the fatal malady, and now, when her husband was restored to health, the terrible plague spot made its appearance, and so rapidly did the disease develop itself that, within twenty-four hours, she fell a victim to its remorseless energy. It was a fearful blow to Sir Richard, but this was not all the suffering he had to undergo. Scarcely had he returned from the obsequies of his wife, when his two children caught the infection, and in another four-and-twenty hours they were both carried off, leaving him bereft of all the best-beloved of his soul, and sunk in the depths of desolation and despair. For some months he remained in his silent and cheerless home in a state of profound apathy, taking no interest in the avocations devolving on him as the lord of an extensive estate. It is true he befriended, pecuniarily, the numerous widows and orphans left in the village by the ruthless pestilence that had swept over it, and he contributed large sums of money to the Church for prayers and masses for the souls of the departed, not only of his own family, but of his vassals and dependants. Nothing seemed capable of rousing him from the despondency into which he had fallen; the sports of the field were altogether neglected; the cheerful companionship of friends presented no attractions for him, and he sat at home hour after hour through the live-long day, plunged in moody melancholy and repining meditation on his irreparable loss, and the utter extinction of all that was worth living for. And thus passed week after week and month after month, Time, the great mollifier of grief, seeming to impart no balm to his sorrow-stricken soul. The only person whom he admitted as a visitor, besides those who came on imperative business matters, was Father Anselm, a pious and devout man, the priest of the village church. It was in his company only, and in listening to his spiritual converse, that he felt any relief from the grief that oppressed him, and gradually, after many interviews, he began to look upon his affliction as a providential dispensation, intended for some wise purpose. Gradually also he became more weaned from earthly and secular things, and his soul to become more spiritualised, and he began to experience a feeling of attraction to the cloister. One day he mentioned this to his spiritual adviser, and Father Anselm, rejoicing thereat, warmly applauded the feeling, urging that such self-devotion would be most acceptable to God, and that it was only in religious meditation and prayer that he would be vouchsafed that true consolation which religion alone could give. The holy father perhaps was not altogether single-minded in thus fostering the idea of assuming the cowl, for he was a true Churchman, considering that the promotion of the temporal aggrandisement of the Church was an essential part of the duty of a Christian, a sentiment then universally prevalent, and not unusual now. He knew that Sir Richard was the owner of broad acres, and that now he had no heir to inherit them, and he often made delicate and incidental allusions to the fact, which seemed to produce an impression on the mind of the knight. At last an opportunity offered itself of speaking out more openly. With a profound sigh, Sir Richard one day said, when the conversation had turned upon his estates and possessions, "Alas! why should I trouble or concern myself about these lands and the improvements that might be made on them? I shall never more be able to derive pleasure from the possession of them, and I have no heir to bequeath them to. What is the good of riches if they do not afford happiness? A crust and water from the wayside brook with happiness is better than untold wealth accompanied with sorrow and anguish of heart." Father Anselm saw his opportunity, and pertinently asked, "Since you have no heir, why not make the holy Church of Christ your heir? By doing so you would garner up for yourself riches in heaven--an eternity of inconceivable happiness compared with which in duration your present suffering is but as the pang of a moment." Sir Richard sat musing for the space of a quarter of an hour, and then said, "Holy Father, what you say seems good, fitting, and worthy of consideration. Give me a week to think it over, and at the expiration of that period I will commune with you further on the subject," and Father Anselm took his departure. At the week's end, when they met again, Sir Richard opened the subject by saying, "Venerable Father, I have since our last meeting given deep consideration to your counsels, and have come to the resolution of doing as you advise me. I have determined on assuming the monkish habit; spending the remainder of my life in pious communion with some holy brotherhood; and on resigning my possessions into the hands of the Church of God." "It is good," replied Father Anselm. "Have you thought of any specific house on which to bestow your donation?" "It occurred to me," continued Sir Richard, "to become a canon of the Augustinian house recently founded by my feudal Lord, Robert de Brus, at Guisborough, and to add my lands to its further endowment." "Permit me to counsel you otherwise," said the Father, "Guisborough, as an Augustinian house, is not so strict in its discipline as other monastic houses, and is already very fairly endowed. But there is another, of the Benedictine order, where you would have an opportunity of cultivating a more strictly religious and less secular frame of mind--I mean Whitby, a holy spot, once sanctified by the presence of the blessed St. Hilda. It was founded by King Oswy in 687, was laid in ruins by the sacrilegious Danes in 867, and so remained for another couple of hundred years, when God moved the heart of Will de Percy to refound it as a Priory. Within the last few years it has again been converted into an Abbey; but it lacks endowment for the due maintenance of its superior dignity. Let me advise you, therefore, to cast in your lot with these Benedictines, and win the approval of God by bestowing your wealth in his service, where it is much needed." Sir Richard assented to this suggestion, caused a deed of gift to be drawn, in which he conveyed his lands to the Abbot and convent of Whitby, and entered the house as a novice; and in due time, at the expiration of his novitiate, was admitted as a monk. Brother Jerome (to use his monastic appellation) soon attracted notice by the fervour of his piety, his asceticism, and a strict and sincere observance of the conventual rules; as well as by his humility and obedience to the ordinances of his superiors. It chanced that after he had been in the house a few years, the Prior, whose position was that of sub-Abbot in the house, sickened and died; and, at a meeting of the chapter to elect his successor, Brother Jerome was suggested as the most fitting, by his manifest piety and abilities, for the office; but he resolutely declined taking it upon himself, preferring, as he said, to be rather a hewer of wood or drawer of water--the servant of the brotherhood--than to hold any superior office. In the course of his meditations he was wont to cast a retrospective glance on his past life, and to grieve over his career as a soldier and a shedder of blood; especially did he mourn over the excesses of barbarous cruelty into which he had been drawn in emulation of the ferocity of his fellow-soldiers, when marching under the banner of the Empress, remembering with tears of bitter remorse, the burning villages, the homeless people, the corpse-strewn fields, and the widows and orphans they left in their rear. The more he thought of these past phases of his life, the more intense became his self-reproaches and the compunction excited by a sense of guilt and sin. He sought by mortification and maceration of the flesh to make atonement for these blood-stained deeds, but despite these self-inflicted punishments, he was not able to find rest for his soul. For ever, when prostrate in prayer, would they rise up before him, and the enemy of mankind would whisper in his ear, "Thou fool! what is the good of praying and fasting and weeping? Thy sins are too heinous for pardon; thou hast given up thy possessions to secure a heritage in heaven, but thy guilt is so damning that thou wilt assuredly find its gate shut against thee. Instead of leading a miserable and wretched life here in the cloister, return to the world and enjoy life while it lasts, for in either case there is nothing to hope for in the future." Jerome took counsel of the Abbot, an old, wise, and experienced Christian, who at once detected the cloven hoof in the temptation, and was successful in convincing the tempted one of the fact, advising him to go on in the course he was pursuing, assuring him that there was mercy for the vilest of sinners if penitent, which afforded him great consolation. Nevertheless the remorse-stricken sinner considered that his misdeeds had been such that he could scarcely do sufficient in the way of mortification to obliterate the guilt of the past, and he determined upon withdrawing himself entirely from communion with his fellow-creatures, even from the Holy Brotherhood of Whitby, and devote the remainder of his life to meditation and prayer altogether apart from the world. Connected with the Abbey there was, in a solitary place of the forest which fringed the banks of the Esk, a chapel where the monks were wont to retire at certain seasons for the purpose of devotion, away from the bustle and distraction inevitable in a large community; and in close proximity to this chapel, Jerome built for himself a wooden hut in which to pass his remaining years as a hermit, secluded from society, living on wild fruit and roots, quenching his thirst from the streamlet which trickled past, and spending his days and nights in prayer, flagellation, and abstinence. Resident in the neighbourhood of Whitby were two landed proprietors--Ralph de Perci, Lord of Sneton, and William de Brus, Lord of Ugglebarnby, who were great lovers of hunting and other field sports, and near them lived one Allatson, a gentleman and freeholder. The three were boon companions, and constantly meeting in the pursuance of country sports, and at each other's houses for the purpose of carousing together. One night when they were thus assembled together they arranged to go boar-hunting on the following day, which was the 16th of October, 5th Henry II., in the forest of Eskdale; and soon after dinner they met, attired in their hunting garbs, with boar-staves in their hands, and accompanied by a pack of boar-hounds, yelping and barking, and as eager for the sport as their masters. A boar was soon started, which plunged into the recesses of the forest, followed by the hounds in full cry, and by the hunters, shouting to encourage them. Onward they rushed, through brake and briar, the huge animal clearing a pathway through the tangled underwood, which enabled his pursuers to follow without much impediment. Onward they went in hot speed, the hounds sometimes overtaking the boar, and tearing him with their fangs, and the hunters beating him with their staves, maddening him with rage, and causing him to turn upon his pursuers, and rend the dogs with his fangs, as he would also the hunters, could he have escaped the environment of the dogs; and then he would dash onward again, evidently becoming more and more exhausted from wounds and bruises and loss of blood, until at length they came in sight of the chapel and hermitage; from which point we cannot do better than continue the narrative in the words of Burton, as given in his "Monasticon Ebor." "The boar," says he, "being very sore and very hotly pursued, and dead run, took in at the chapel door and there died, whereof the hermit shut the hounds out of the chapel and kept himself within at his meditations, the hounds standing at bay without. "The gentlemen called to the hermit (Brother Jerome), who opened the door. They found the boar dead, for which they, in very great fury (because their hounds were put from their game) did, most violently and cruelly, run at the hermit with their boar staves, whereby he died soon after." Fearful of the consequences of their crime, they fled to Scarborough, and took sanctuary in the church; but the Abbot of Whitby, who was a friend of the King, was authorised to take them out, "whereby they came in danger of the law, and not to be privileged, but likely to have the severity of the law, which was death." The hermit, who had been brought to Whitby Abbey, lay at the point of death when the prisoners were brought thither; and hearing of their arrival, he besought the Abbot that they might be brought into his presence; and when they made their appearance said to them, "I am sure to die of these wounds you gave me." "Aye," quoth the Abbot, "and they shall surely die for the same." "Not so," continued the dying man, "for I will freely forgive them my death if they will be contented to be enjoined this penance for the safeguard of their souls." "Enjoin what penance you will," replied the culprits, "so that you save our lives." Then Brother Jerome explained the nature of the penance:--"You and yours shall hold your lands of the Abbot of Whitby and his successors in this manner. That upon Ascension Eve, you, or some of you, shall come to the woods of Strayheads, which is in Eskdale, the same day at sunrising, and there shall the abbot's officer blow his horn, to the intent that you may know how to find him; and he shall deliver unto you, William de Brus, ten stakes, eleven strutstowers, and eleven yethers, to be cut by you, or some of you, with a knife of one penny price; and you, Ralph de Perci, shall take twenty and one of each sort, to be cut in the same manner; and you, Allatson, shall take nine of each sort to be cut as aforesaid, and to be taken on your backs and carried to the town of Whitby, and to be there before nine of the clock the same day before mentioned. If at the same hour of nine of the clock it be full sea, your labour or service shall cease; but if it be not full sea, each of you shall set your stakes at the brim and so yether them, on each side of your yethers, and so stake on each side with your strowers, that they may stand three tides, without removing by the force thereof. Each of you shall make and execute the said service at that very hour, every year, except it shall be full sea at that hour; but when it shall so fall out, this service shall cease.... You shall faithfully do this, in remembrance that you did most cruelly slay me; and that you may the better call to God for mercy, repent unfeignedly for your sins, and do good works. The officer of Eskdale side shall blow--'Out on you! out on you! out on you!' for this heinous crime. If you, or your successors, shall refuse this service, so long as it shall not be full sea, at the aforesaid hour, you, or yours, shall forfeit your lands to the Abbot of Whitby, or his successors. This I entreat, and earnestly beg that you may have lives and goods preserved for this service; and I request of you to promise, by your parts in Heaven, that it shall be done by you and your successors as it is aforesaid requested, and I will confirm it by the faith of an honest man." Then the hermit said, "My soul longeth for the Lord; and I do freely forgive these men my death, as Christ forgave the thief upon the cross," and in the presence of the Abbot and the rest, he said, moreover, these words, "In manas tuas, domine, commendo spiritum, meum, avinculis enim mortis redemisti me Domine veritatis. Amen." So he yielded up the ghost the 8th day of December, A.D. 1160, upon whose soul God have mercy. Amen. In 1753, the service was rendered by the last of the Allatsons, the Lords of Sneton and Ugglebarnby having, it is supposed, bought off their share of the penance. He held a piece of land, of £10 a year, at Fylingdales, for which he brought five stakes, eight yethers, and six strutstowers, and whilst Mr. Cholmley's bailiff, on an antique bugle horn, blew "out on you," he made a slight edge of them a little way into the shallow of the river. Burton, writing in 1757, adds, "This little farm is now out of the Allatson family, but the present owner performed the service last Ascension Eve, A.D. 1756." The horn garth or yether hedge, as the fence was called, was constructed yearly on the east side of the Esk for the purpose of keeping cattle from the landing places. Charlton, in his history of Whitby, discredits this tradition, saying that there were no such persons as those mentioned, and no chapel, only a hermitage in the forest; that the making of the horn garth is of much older date than that indicated, and that there is no record in the annals of the abbey of its ever having been made by way of penance; concluding that it is altogether a monkish invention. The Calverley Ghost. A little northward of the road from Bradford to Leeds, four miles distant from the former and seven from the latter, lies the village of Calverley, the seat of a knightly family of that name for some 600 years. They occupied a stately mansion, which was converted into workmen's tenements early in the present century, and the chapel transformed into a wheelwright's shop. Near by is a lane, a weird and lonesome road a couple of centuries ago, overshadowed as it was by trees, which cast a ghostly gloom over it after the setting of the sun. It was not much frequented excepting in broad daylight, and even then only by the bolder and more stout-hearted of the village rustics, whilst the majority would as soon have dared to sleep in the charnel-house under the church as have passed down it by night, or even in the gloaming. Instances were known of strangers having unwittingly gone through it, all of whom, however, came forth with trembling limbs and scared faces, their hair erect on their heads, and the perspiration streaming down from their foreheads. When questioned as to what they had seen, the reply was always the same, a cloudlike apparition, thin, transparent, and unsubstantial, bearing the semblance of a human figure, with no seeming clothing, but simply a misty, impalpable shape; the features frenzied with rage and madness, and in the right hand the appearance of a bloody dagger. The apparition, they averred, seemed to consolidate into form out of a mist which environed them soon after entering the lane, and continued to accompany them, but without sound, sign, or motion, save that of gliding along, accommodating itself to the pace of the terrified passenger, which was usually that of a full run, until the other end of the lane was reached, when it melted again into a mere shapeless mass of vapour. The apparition was that of the disquieted soul of a certain Walter Calverley, which was denied the calm repose of death, and condemned to flit about this lane, as a penance for a great and unnatural crime of which he had been guilty. Various attempts were made to exorcise the restless spirit, but all were ineffectual until some very potent spiritual agencies were employed, which were successful in "laying the ghost," but only for a time, as they operate only so long as a certain holly tree, planted by the hand of the delinquent, continues to flourish, when that decays the ghost may again be looked for. The Calverleys (originally Scott) were a family of distinction in Yorkshire from the time of Henry I. to the period of the great Civil War, intermarrying with some of the best families, and producing a succession of notable men. John Scott was steward to Maud, daughter of Malcolm Canmore, King of Scotland, and niece of Edgar the Atheling, the last scion of the Saxon race of English Kings; he accompanied her to England on the occasion of her alliance with King Henry I., and married Larderina, daughter of Alphonsus Gospatrick, Lord of Calverley and other Yorkshire manors, who was descended from Gospatrick, Earl of Northumbria, who so stoutly supported the claims of Edgar the Atheling to the crown of England in opposition to that of the usurping conqueror, William the Norman. By this marriage, John Scott became _j.u._ Lord of Calverley. William, his grandson, gave the vicarage of Calverley to the chantry of the Blessed Virgin, York Cathedral, _temp._ Henry III. John, his descendant, in the fourteenth century, assumed the name of de Calverley in lieu of Scott. Sir John, Knight, his son, had issue three sons and a daughter, Isabel, who became Prioress of Esholt. John, his son, was one of the squires to Anne, Queen of Richard II. He fought in the French wars, was captured there, and beheaded for some "horrible crime, the particulars of which are not known," and dying _cæl_, was succeeded by his brother, Walter, whose second son, Sir Walter, was instrumental in the rebuilding of the church of Calverley, and caused his arms--six owls--to be carved on the woodwork. Sir John, Knight, his son, was created a Knight-Banneret, and slain at Shrewsbury, 1403, fighting under the banner of Henry IV. against the Percies. Dying _s.p._, his brother Walter succeeded, whose second son, Thomas, was ancestor, by his wife, Agnes Scargill, of the Calverleys of Morley and of county Cumberland. Sir William, his grandson, was created a Knight-Banneret for valour in the Scottish wars, by the Earl of Surrey; his grandson, Sir William Knight, was Sheriff of Yorkshire, and died 1571; Thomas, his second son, was ancestor of the Calverleys of county Durham. Sir Walter, his son, had issue three sons, of whom Edmund, the third, was ancestor of the Calverleys of counties Sussex and Surrey. William, the eldest son of Sir Walter, whose portrait was exhibited at York in 1868, married Catherine, daughter of Sir John Thornholm, Knight, of Haysthorpe, near Bridlington. This lady was a devoted Catholic, and suffered much persecution for adhering to her faith and giving refuge to proscribed priests, the estates being sequestered and some manors sold to pay the fine for recusancy. They had issue Walter, the subject of this tradition. Walter Calverley was born in the reign of Elizabeth, and in his youth witnessed the relentless persecutions which his family, being adherents of the old faith, had to endure from the ascendant Protestantism, which held the reins of government. Those of the reformed religion were wont to style Mary the "Bloody Queen," for the number of executions and barbarities which, in the name of religion, stained the annals of her reign; but it was a notable instance of the pot-and-kettle style of vituperation, as the burning and hanging and quartering and pressing to death of Jesuits and seminary priests, and of lay men and women who afforded them refuge, went on as merrily during the reigns of her two following successors, as did the roasting of heretics at Smithfield and elsewhere under Bonner and Gardiner. He was witness, when a boy, of the barbarous treatment to which his mother was subjected for worshipping God according to the dictates of her conscience and for daring to shelter priests of her persuasion. Walter was a lad of strong passions and vehement spirit, and the sight of the sufferings endured by the friends and co-religionists of his family drove him almost to madness. He would stamp his foot, clench his fist, and vow vengeance upon the perpetrators, and it is highly probable that he consorted and plotted with Guy Fawkes and others of the gunpowder conspirators at Scotton, near Knaresborough, and might have had a hand in the great plot itself, which culminated and collapsed in the same year that he committed the crime which cost him his life. He married Philippa, daughter of the Hon. Henry Brooke, fifth son of George, fourth Baron Cobham, and sister of John, first Baron of the second creation, and by her had issue three sons, the third of whom, Henry, succeeded to the estates, whose son, Sir Walter, was a great sufferer in person and estate for his loyalty during the Civil War, and who was father of Sir Walter, who was created a baronet by Queen Anne in 1711, the title becoming extinct in 1777, on the death, without surviving issue, of his son, Sir Walter Calverley-Blackett. For a few years the newly-married couple lived in tolerable harmony and happiness, such as falls to the lot of most married people. They looked forward to giving an heir to the family estates who should perpetuate the name in lineal descent; but the months and years passed by, and they began to experience the truth that "hope deferred maketh the heart sick," as no heir made his appearance, which was an especial disappointment to the Lord of the Calverley domain, and gave rise to the idea that he had married one who was barren, and incapable of giving him an heir. Brooding over this impediment to his hopes, he grew moody and discontented; treated his wife not only with neglect, but upbraided her with opprobrious epithets, treated her with cold and cruel disfavour, and in his occasional violent outbursts of passion would wish her dead, that he might marry again to a more fruitful wife. Moreover he gave way to over-indulgence in deep potations of ale, sack, and "distilled waters," which added fire and force to his naturally fierce temperament, and rendered him almost maniacal in his acts. He was profuse in his hospitality to his neighbours, frequently giving dinner parties to his roystering friends, with whom he would sit until late in the night, or rather until early in the morning carousing over their cups. Amongst the friends who thus visited him was a certain country squire of the name of Leventhorpe, a young fellow of handsome figure and insinuating address, who would drink his bottle with the veriest toper, and yet would conduct himself in the company of ladies with the utmost decorum and most fascinating demeanour, would converse with them on flowers and birds and tapestry work, and quote with admirable accentuation and feeling passages from the writings of the popular poets, or recite with pathos and humour the novelettes of the Italian romancists, which then were the delight of every lady's boudoir. He was introduced by Calverley to his wife, and she being naturally of a lively, vivacious disposition, and, like ladies of the present age, a passionate admirer of works of fiction and imagination, she took great pleasure in his society, as, indeed, he did in hers, and he was consequently a constant visitor at Calverley Hall, whether invited or not, and whether the lady's husband was at home or not; but always was he gladly welcome, and in pure innocence and without any idea of impropriety, by the lady. On his side, too, he went to the house as a man might do to that of a sister, without any sentiment save that of friendship, or, at the utmost, a feeling of platonic love. Not so, however, the lady's husband. He began to feel annoyed and disquieted at witnessing their growing intimacy, but hitherto saw no reason to doubt the fidelity of his wife. Some twelve months after the introduction of Leventhorpe to the Hall, symptoms became evident of the probable birth of a child, and Calverley at first hailed the prospect with satisfaction, praying and hoping that it might prove to be the long-wished-for son and heir. In due course the child was born, and of the desired sex, and great were the rejoicings and splendid the banqueting at the christening. The next year a second son made his appearance, and then dark thoughts and suspicions began to flit across Calverley's mind. He considered it strange that no child should have been born during the early years of his marriage, but that immediately after Leventhorpe's introduction to the house his wife began to prove fruitful, and had borne two children, with the prospect of a third. He brooded over these dark thoughts by night and day until they ripened into positive jealousy and the belief that the children were Leventhorpe's, and not his own. Influenced by these sentiments, he drank still more deeply, and was frequently subjected to _delirium tremens_ and maniacal fits of passion, which rendered him the terror of all by whom he was surrounded. He could not openly accuse Leventhorpe of a breach of the seventh commandment, of which he believed him guilty, as he had no basis of fact upon which to ground the charge; but he found means to quarrel with him on some frivolous point, and made use of such expressions of vituperation as he thought would impel him to demand satisfaction at the sword's point; but Leventhorpe was a quiet, peaceable man, who swallowed the affront, attributing it to the deranged state of his friend's mind, induced by too free application to the bottle; and he simply abstained from visiting the house. "He is a coward as well as a knave," said Calverley to himself. "No gentleman would listen to such language as I have used and submit to it patiently like a beaten cur, without resenting it with his sword, and this circumstance proves his guilt, and the certainty of my suspicions; but I will be amply revenged on both him and his paramour and their progeny;" and he drank and drank day after day, and more and more deeply, until he at length brought himself to a state fitting him for a madhouse and personal restraint. Many a time he sought for Leventhorpe, with the hope of provoking him to fight, but was not able to accomplish his purpose, as circumstances had called Leventhorpe to London, where he remained some months. In the meantime the third child was born, and as the mother's health was delicate, it was sent out to nurse at a farm-house some two or three miles distant, and it was then that Calverley charged his wife, to her face, with adultery, adding that he felt positively assured that the children were Leventhorpe's. She indignantly repelled the charge, assuring him, with an appeal to the Virgin Mary as to the truth of what she was saying, that the children were his and nobody else's; but he would not listen to her denials--called her tears, which were flowing profusely, the hypocritical tears of a strumpet, and cursed and swore at her, threatening a dire vengeance on her and her seducer, and finally left her in a fit of hysterics in the hands of her women, who had rushed in on hearing her screams. He then went downstairs to his dining room and sat down to dinner, but could not eat much, each mouthful as he swallowed it seeming as if it would choke him. "Take these things away," he exclaimed in a furious tone to his servants, "and bring me sack, and plenty of it." The terrified menials saw that he was in one of his maniacal moods, and knew that it would be aggravated by drinking, but dared not disobey him. The sack was placed on the table, and he dismissed the attendants with a curse. Flagon after flagon he poured out and drank in rapid succession, which soon produced its natural effect. "Ah, demon!" said he, "have you come again to torment me? Why sit you there, opposite me, grinning and gesticulating? You are an ugly devil, sure enough, with your fiery eyes, your pointed horns, and your barbed tail. You tell me that it were but just to murder my wife, Leventhorpe, and their brats, and I don't know but what the advice is good. Aye, twirl your tail as a dog does when he is pleased; you think you have got another recruit for your nether kingdom, and you are right. I live here a hell upon earth, and I do not see that I shall be much the worse off with you below; besides I shall have the satisfaction of vengeance, and that will repay me amply for any after-death punishment. Aye, grin on, but leave me now to finish this bottle in quietness, for I cannot drink with comfort whilst you are grimacing and jibing at me there." He spoke this in a loud tone of voice, to which the scared servants were listening at the door, after which he continued to drain goblet after goblet, giving forth utterances more and more incoherent, until at length he fell from his chair with a heavy thump on the floor. Hearing this, the servants entered, and found him, as they had often found him before, in a state of senseless intoxication, and carried him up to bed. Having slept off his debauch, he awoke late the following morning with a raging thirst, which he endeavoured to assuage by deep draughts of ale. Breakfast he could eat none, but continued drinking until his familiar demon again made his appearance, and seemed to incite him to the fulfilment of his vow of revenge. Leventhorpe was out of his reach, but the other destined victims were at hand, and what more fitting time than the present for the execution of his purpose? He selected a dagger from his store of weapons, and carefully sharpened it to a fine point; then gave directions to have his horse saddled and brought to the door of the hall to await his pleasure. As he had three or four men-servants, who might hinder him in his intent, he sent them on several errands about the estate, and when they had departed, leaving only the female domestics in the house, he went, dagger in hand, into the hall, where he found his eldest son playing. Seizing him by the hair of his head, he stabbed him in three or four places, and, taking him in his arms, carried him bleeding to his mother's apartment. "There," said he, throwing the body down, "is one of the fruits of your illicit intercourse, and the others must share the same fate." So saying, he laid hold of his second son, who was in the room, and stabbed him to the heart. The mother, shrieking with terror and agony, rushed forward to save the child, but was too late, and herself received three or four blows from the dagger, and fell senseless to the floor, but more from horror and fright than from her wounds, which were but slight, thanks to a steel stomacher which she wore. Imagining that he had killed her as well as the children, he mounted his horse and rode towards the village, where his youngest child was at nurse, with the intention of killing it also, but on the road he was thrown from his horse, and before he could re-mount was secured by his servants, who had gone in pursuit of him. He was taken before the nearest magistrate--Sir John Bland, of Kippax--and in the course of his examination stated that he had meditated the deed for four years, and that he was fully convinced that the children were not his. He was committed to York Castle and brought to trial, but refusing to plead, was subjected to _peine forte et dure_. He was taken to the press-yard, stripped to his shirt, and laid on a board with a stone under his back; his arms were stretched out and secured by cords; another board was placed over his body, upon which were laid heavy weights one by one, he being asked in the intervals if he still refused. He bore the agony with firmness and endurance, even when the great pressure broke his ribs and caused them to protrude from the sides. As weight after weight was added, nothing could be extorted from him save groans caused by the intensity of the pain, which at length ceased and the weights were removed, revealing a mere mass of crushed bloody flesh and mangled bones. The two children died, and the third lived to succeed to the estates. The mother also recovered, and married for her second husband Sir Thomas Burton, Knight. "Two Most Unnatural and Bloodie Murthers, by Master Calverley, a Yorkshire gentleman, upon his wife and two children, 1605." Edited by J. Payne Collier, 1863. "A Yorkshire Tragedy, not so new as lamentable, by Mr. Shakespeare; acted at the Globe, 1608. London 1619. With a portrait of the brat at nurse." Attributed to Shakespeare (without proof) by Stevens and others. "The Fatal Extravagance. By Joseph Mitchell, 1720." A play based on the same subject, and performed at the Lincoln's Inn Theatre. The incident is also introduced by Harrison Ainsworth in his romance of "Rookwood." The Bewitched House of Wakefield. In the earlier half of the seventeenth century, and during the Commonwealth, there dwelt in a mud-walled and thatched cottage, in the environs of Wakefield, a "wise woman," as she was styled, named Jennet Benton, with her son, George Benton. He had been a soldier in the Parliamentarian army, but, since its disbandment, had loafed about Wakefield without any ostensible occupation, living, as it appeared, on his mother's earnings in her profession. As a "wise woman," she was resorted to by great numbers of people--by persons who had lost property, to gain a clue to the discovery of the pilferers--by men to learn the most propitious times for harvesting, sheepshearing, etc.--by matrons to obtain charms for winning back their dissipated or unfaithful husbands to domestic life, as it existed the first few months after marriage--and by young men and maidens for consultation with her on matters of love; and, as no advice was given without its equivalent in the coin of the realm, she made a very fair living, and was enabled to maintain her son in idleness, who was wont to spend a great part of his time in pot houses, with other quondam troopers, their chief topics of discourse being disputed points of controversy between the Independents and Presbyterians, and revilings of the Popish whore of Babylon and her progeny, the Church of England. Although not imbued with much of the spirit of piety, Benton, in his campaigning career, had imbibed much of the fanaticism, superstition, and phraseology of the lower class of the Puritans, such of them as assumed the hypocritical garb of Puritanism to curry favour with their superiors, who were, as a rule, men of sincere piety, and, in so doing, somewhat overdid the part by altogether out-Puritaning them in the extravagance of their outbursts of zeal, and in the almost blasphemous use of Scriptural expressions. Such was Benton amongst his companions, and he passed for a fairly godly man. With his mother, however, he cast off all this assumption of religion and the use of Bible phrases, for she was a woman who despised all religions alike, and sneered equally at the "snivelling cant" of the Puritans, the proud arrogance of the Bishops of the Church, and the "absurd drivellings" of the Separatists; but these ideas she was sufficiently wise to keep to herself, or confide them to her son alone. She even went occasionally to church and conventicle, that she might stand well with her customers, who were of all sects. She had, besides, a voluble tongue, and was not deficient in intelligence, so that she was able to converse with all, each one according to his doctrinal bias, so as to leave an impression that she was not opposed but rather inclined to the particular theological dogma then under discussion. There was, however, a vague idea prevalent in Wakefield that Mother Benton was a witch, had intercourse with the Devil, and was a dangerous person to deal with otherwise than on friendly terms. She was old, wrinkled, and ungainly in features; unmistakable characteristics of the sisterhood. She was possessed of wisdom in occult matters seemingly superhuman, which could only be derived from a compact with Satan. She had a huge black cat, presumably an imp, her familiar, who would bristle up his hair and spit viciously at the old woman's visitors until restrained by her command. On one occasion, however, a handsome young man came from her cottage followed by the cat, which was observed to purr and rub himself affectionately against his legs, who, it was assumed, could be none other than the Father of Evil himself, who had assumed that guise to pay a friendly visit to his servant and disciple. She was also sometimes away from her cottage for a night, and the inquiry arose--for what purpose, excepting to attend a Sabbath of the witches. It is true she had never been seen passing through the air astride of her broom, but it was noticed that whenever she was absent on such occasions her broom, which usually stood outside her cottage door, disappeared also, and was found in its place again on her return. At this time the belief in witchcraft was universally prevalent, as we find in the narrative of the witches of Fuystone, in the forest of Knaresborough, who played such pranks in the family of Edward Fairfax, the translator of Tasso, about the same time. Indeed it was considered as impious then to doubt their existence as it is now-a-days of their master and instigator, for is there not a Scriptural precept--"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live?" and was there not a witch of Endor who summoned the spirit of Samuel? Besides, had not many decrepit half-witted old women, when subjected to torture, confessed that they had entered into compact with the Devil, bargaining their souls for length of years and the power of inflicting mischief on their neighbours? It is quite certain that the evidences of Mother Benton being one of the sisterhood of Satan were so palpable that had she not been so useful in Wakefield in her vocation of a "wise woman" she would have been subjected to the usual ordeal, by way of testing whether she were a witch or not. This ordeal consisted of stripping the accused, tying her thumbs to her great toes and throwing her into a pond: if she floated, it was a proof that she, having rejected the baptismal water of regeneration, the water rejected her, and she was hauled out and burnt at the stake as an undoubted witch, but if she sank and were drowned she was declared innocent; so that, were she guilty or innocent of the foul crime, the result was pretty much the same, excepting in the mode of terminating her existence. At this time one Richard Jackson held a farm called Bunny Hall, under a Mr. Stringer, of Sharlston, which lay near to Jennet Benton's cottage. Over one of Jackson's fields was a pathway, really for the use of the tenant of the farm, but which was used on sufferance by others, Jennet and her son frequently having occasion to pass along it. Jackson, however, in consequence of the damage done to his crops by passengers, disputed the right of the public, and issued a public notice that after a certain date it would be closed. The people of Wakefield, in reply to the notice, asserted that it was an ancient footpath that had belonged to the public time out of mind, and that they intended to continue the use of it in spite of Jackson's prohibition. Jennet and her son were the ringleaders of this opposition, and after the closure of the path, passed over the railings placed across the entrance, and were going along as they had been wont to do, when they were met by Daniel Craven, one of Jackson's servants, who told them that they could not be allowed to cross the field as it was private property. An angry altercation ensued, in the course of which George Benton took up a piece of flint and threw it with great force at Craven, "wherewith he cut his overlipp and broake two teeth out of his chaps," and thus having overcome their opponent they went onward and out at the other end. An action for trespass was then laid against George Benton by Farmer Jackson, who appears to have won his cause, as Benton "submitted to it, and indevors were used to end the difference, which was composed and satisfaction given unto the said Craven;" satisfaction of a pecuniary nature, no doubt. A few days after the judicial termination of the case, "Jackson _v._ Benton," the farmer was riding home from Wakefield market. He had to pass Jennet's cottage on his road, and he thought to accost her in a conciliatory style, as he did not wish to be at variance with his neighbours, especially with one who had the reputation of being "a wise woman," whose services he might require in cases of pilfering, sheep stealing, and the like; in cases of sickness amongst his children, or a murrain amongst his cattle; or in other cases beyond the ken of ordinary mortals; hence he considered it politic to remain on good terms with her, although he had felt it his duty to maintain the action for trespass. As he approached the cottage, the old woman was seated outside her door, watching a cauldron suspended from cross sticks, in which was simmering a decoction of herbs, to eventuate in a love philtre probably for some love-sick maiden. By her side was seated her black cat, who bridled up and spat viciously at the farmer as he came up. "Ah, mother Benton," said he, reining up, "busy as usual, I see, preparing something for the benefit of one of your clients." "It is no business of yours what I am preparing," she replied. "I sent not for you, nor do I want your conversation or interference in my concerns. Go your way, or it may be the worse for you." "Nay, good dame, be not angry, I came not to interfere with your concerns; I merely stopped on my road home to say 'good even' to you, and to see if I could be of any service to you, for I desire to cultivate the good-will of my neighbours." "And a pretty way you have of doing so by prosecuting them in law courts for maintaining the rights of themselves and their ancestors for generations past." "That I was compelled to do, good Jennet, for the maintenance of my own rights. It was a necessity forced upon me, but I bear no ill-will to either you or your son. And see, as a proof thereof, I have brought you a new kirtle from Wakefield," at the same time drawing from his saddlebags a flaming scarlet garment of that kind, which he threw into her lap. "Farmer Jackson," said she, "come not here with your honied lips and deceitful expressions of friendship. I want none of your gifts," and taking up the kirtle, she rent it into a dozen pieces, and thrust them into the fire under the cauldron. "Listen to me one moment," commenced Jackson, but the old beldame, rising up into a majestic attitude, interrupted him with, "I will listen no more to your hypocritical palaver. You have done me a grievous wrong in citing my son before your law courts, it is an unpardonable offence, and soon shall you know what it is to incur the wrath of Jennet Benton, the wise woman of Wakefield. Within a twelvemonth and a day, Farmer Jackson, shall you find at what cost you set the myrmidons of the law upon me and my belongings, and from that time to your life's end shall you rue that day's work. It is I, the wise woman of Wakefield, who say it, and see if I am not a true soothsayer, and merit the appellation I bear. That is all I have got to say," and she passed into her cottage, whilst the farmer rode homeward, not without a foreboding of impending evil. We have many narratives on record of houses that have been the scenes of remarkable disturbances and strange apparitions, of furniture moved from place to place without apparent agency, of domestic utensils thrown about by no perceptible impelling power, and of noises attributable to no human cause, problems that in many cases have never been solved, but which have usually been ascribed to some mischievous goblin, or to the ghost of some unhappy person who has come by death unfairly and by foul means. Farmer Jackson's house and homestead from this time, for the period of a year and a day, became haunted in this fashion, but here there could be no doubt as to the cause. It was the spell cast over it by the machinations of the witch, Jennet Benton, and it was in fact not a haunted but a bewitched house. As Jackson rode home he thought of the curse laid upon him by the witch, but being a strong-minded man he did not entertain the current superstition as to the superhuman diabolic power said to be possessed by such persons, and he felt little or no apprehension on that score; yet he inclined so far to the popular belief as to fear that by some means she might cast incantations over his cattle and crops, so as to cause the former to sicken and die, and the latter to wither and come to naught. On reaching his home he stabled his horse, and going indoors he accosted his wife with some cursory remark, but she made no reply, and he thought to himself, "She is sullen to-night--in one of her tantrums; what's the matter, I wonder." He then sat down to supper, with his children about him, and a couple of maid-servants employed in some domestic duty, when his wife inquired, "Why are you all so silent; are you all dumb; have you got anything to tell me about the doings at the market, husband, goodman?" "What on earth do you mean?" inquired Jackson; "I spoke to you when I came in, and there has been noise enough among the children since then to waken the Seven Sleepers." Mrs. Jackson still stood staring, with a vacant countenance, and said, after a pause, "Why don't you reply? It seems as if one were in the charnel-house of the church, surrounded by the dead." It then occurred to Jackson that his wife must have suddenly become stone deaf, and by means of signs and such writing as the family had at command, he ascertained that such was the fact; but he dreamt not that it was the beginning of the witch's spell. A night or two after, one of the children was stricken by an epileptic fit, throwing itself about with great violence and twisting its body with strange contortions, with convulsive writhings, and requiring to be held down by three or four persons to prevent its doing itself an injury. One morning the swineherd of the farm came into the room where Jackson was sitting at breakfast, and with a scared countenance told him that a herd of swine that had been shut up in a barn the previous night "had broake thorrow two barn dores," and had fled no one knew whither. A search was immediately instituted, but it was not until after two or three days that a portion of the herd was found at a considerable distance from the farm, the remainder being lost altogether. On another occasion Jackson himself, "although helthfull of body, was suddenly taken without any probable reason to be given or naturall cause appearing, being sometimes in such extremity that he conceived himselfe drawne in pieces at the hart, backe, and shoulders." During the first fit he heard the sound of music and dancing, as if in the room where he lay. He partially recovered the following day, but at twelve o'clock the next night he had another fit, and during its continuance he heard a loud ringing of bells, accompanied by sounds of singing and dancing. He inquired of his wife, who appears by this time to have recovered her sense of hearing, what the bell-ringing and singing meant; but she replied that she heard nothing of it, as also did his man. "He asked them againe and againe if they heard it not. At last he and his wife and servant heard it (what?) give three hevie groones. At that instant doggs did howle and yell at the windows as though they would heve puld them in pieces." Jackson now became fully convinced that he was enduring all these trials and sufferings from the curse of the witch Jennet, and he expressed this opinion to his friends who came to condole with him. They, with neighbourly feeling, proposed to put the question to the test by submitting the old woman to the usual ordeal of the horse pond; but he would not hear of this, not even yet, with such probable evidence, believing that Satan could be authorised to endow old women with such mischievous powers. By the counsel of his friends, however, he sanctioned the sending a deputation to Jennet to investigate the matter. The deputation went to her cottage and told her their errand, but she only laughed at them. "It is true," said she, "that I called down the wrath of Heaven upon him and his belongings for his cruel persecution of a helpless widow and her orphan son; and if God has listened to my supplication, and sent calamity upon him, it is intended as a warning to him that, for the future, he may be more merciful to the poor and unprotected. If he chooses to blame any one, he must attribute his punishment to a much higher power than a feeble mortal such as I am." During all this time Jackson's house was rendered almost uninhabitable by noises and apparitions, so that the servants fled from it panic-stricken, and others could not be found to take their places. The commencement of the disturbances was some six months after the utterance of the curse. The family were seated at supper when a tremendous crash was heard in the next room, as if some heavy metal vessel had been flung violently on the floor. Supposing it to be something that had fallen from a shelf or a hook in the ceiling, they went into the room, but found nothing to account for the noise. At other times it would seem as if all the doors of the house were being slammed to, or the windows shaken as by a storm of wind, although there was not the slightest agitation in the atmosphere. Then would occur shrieks as of persons in distress, groans as of sufferers in agonies of pain, and bursts of demoniac laughter, with a flapping of huge bat-like wings. "Apparitions like blacke dogges and catts were also scene," which darted out from under the furniture and usually passed out up the chimney, it being immaterial whether or not a fire was blazing in the grate. Along with all these disturbances in the house and unaccountable illnesses of the various members of the household, the horses and cattle of the farm were subjected to similar inflictions, much to the detriment of Jackson's material prosperity. Week after week news came in of the death of horses, cows, and sheep: and in his deposition at York, Jackson said that "since the time the said Jennet and George Benton threatened him he hath lost eighteen horses and meares, and he conceives he hath had all this loss by the use of some witchcraft or sorcerie by the said Jennet and George Benton." For a twelvemonth and a day these disturbances, sufferings, and losses continued, rendering Jackson almost bankrupt, and then they all at once ceased. Being fully convinced that these troubles had been caused by the diabolical incantations of the witch Jennet, he brought a charge against her and her son, at York, of practising witchcraft against him, and they were tried at the assizes on the 7th June, 1656. The depositions of the trial are printed in a volume published by the Surtees Society in 1861, entitled "Depositions from the Castle of York relating to offences committed in the northern counties during the seventeenth century. Edited by J. Raine." _ELEGANTLY BOUND IN CLOTH GILT, DEMY 8vo., 6s._ YORKSHIRE FAMILY ROMANCE. By FREDERICK ROSS, F.R.H.S. AUTHOR OF "THE RUINED ABBEYS OF ENGLAND," "CELEBRITIES OF YORKSHIRE WOLDS," "BIOGRAPHIA EBORACENSIS," "THE PROGRESS OF CIVILISATION," ETC. Amongst Yorkshire Authors Mr. FREDERICK ROSS occupies a leading place. For over sixty years he has been a close student of the history of his native county, and perhaps no author has written so much and well respecting it. His residence in London has enabled him to take advantage of the important stores of unpublished information contained in the British Museum, the Public Record Office, and in other places. He has also frequently visited Yorkshire to collect materials for his works. His new book is one of the most readable and instructive he has written. It will be observed from the following list of subjects that the work is of wide and varied interest, and makes a permanent contribution to Yorkshire literature. CONTENTS: The Synod of Streoneshalh. The Doomed Heir of Osmotherley. St. Eadwine, the Royal Martyr. The Viceroy Siward. Phases in the Life of a Political Martyr. The Murderer's Bride. The Earldom of Wiltes. Blackfaced Clifford. The Shepherd Lord. The Felons of Ilkley. The Ingilby Boar's Head. The Eland Tragedy. The Plumpton Marriage. The Topcliffe Insurrection. Burning of Cottingham Castle. The Alum Workers. The Maiden of Marblehead. Rise of the House of Phipps. The Traitor Governor of Hull. IMPORTANT NOTICE.--The Edition is limited to 500 copies, and the greater part are sold. The book will advance in price in course of time. HULL: WILLIAM ANDREWS & CO., THE HULL PRESS. London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent, & Co., Ltd. _Elegantly bound in cloth gilt, demy 8vo., price 6s._ Old Church Lore. By WILLIAM ANDREWS, F.R.H.S., _Author of "Curiosities of the Church," "Old-Time Punishments," "Historic Romance," etc._ CONTENTS. The Right of Sanctuary--The Romance of Trial--A Fight between the Mayor of Hull and the Archbishop of York--Chapels on Bridges--Charter Horns--The Old English Sunday--The Easter Sepulchre--St. Paul's Cross--Cheapside Cross--The Biddenden Maids Charity--Plagues and Pestilences--A King Curing an Abbot of Indigestion--The Services and Customs of Royal Oak Day--Marrying in a White Sheet--Marrying under the Gallows--Kissing the Bride--Hot Ale at Weddings--Marrying Children--The Passing Bell--Concerning Coffins--The Curfew Bell--Curious Symbols of the Saints--Acrobats on Steeples--A carefully-prepared Index. ILLUSTRATED. PRESS OPINIONS. "A worthy work on a deeply interesting subject.... We commend this book strongly."--_European Mail._ "An interesting volume."--_The Scotsman._ "Contains much that will interest and instruct."--_Glasgow Herald._ "Mr. Andrews' book does not contain a dull page.... Deserves to meet with a very warm welcome."--_Yorkshire Post._ "Mr. Andrews, in 'Old Church Lore,' makes the musty parchments and records he has consulted redolent with life and actuality, and has added to his works a most interesting volume, which, written in a light and easy narrative style, is anything but of the 'dry-as-dust' order. The book is handsomely got up, being both bound and printed in an artistic fashion."--_Northern Daily News._ HULL: WILLIAM ANDREWS & CO., THE HULL PRESS. London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent, & Co., Ltd. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. 
54637	----	CORNISH FEASTS AND FOLK-LORE. BY MISS M. A. COURTNEY, AUTHOR OF "GLOSSARY OF WORDS USED IN WEST CORNWALL." REVISED AND REPRINTED FROM THE FOLK-LORE SOCIETY JOURNALS, 1886-87. PENZANCE: BEARE AND SON, 21, MARKET PLACE. 1890. PREFACE. Few Cornish people are probably aware how wide-spread still with us is the belief in charms and charmers, ghosts, and all other superstitions; nor that there are witches in our county, shunned and dreaded by some who fear their supposed power to ill-wish those who offend them, and sought out by others who want by their aid to avert the evil eye, or by their incantations to remove the spells already cast on them and their cattle by an ill-wisher who has "overlooked" them. Folk-lore is an almost inexhaustible subject. There must be many charms in use here that have not come under my notice; a few are too coarse to record, as are some of the tales. A book on folk-lore cannot in this century contain original matter; it must be compiled from various sources. I have when quoting from other writers given my authority, and to communications from friends generally appended their names. To "One and All" I beg leave to tender my sincere thanks. M. A. Courtney. CORNISH FEASTS AND "FEASTEN" CUSTOMS. Cornwall has always been a county largely given to hospitality, and, as "all Cornish gentlemen are cousins," they have from time immemorial made it a practice to meet at each other's houses to celebrate their feasts and saints' days. Since "there are more saints in Cornwall than there are in heaven," these friendly gatherings must necessarily be very numerous. Each parish has its own particular saint to which its church is dedicated. The feasts held in their honour, probably dating from the foundation of the churches, are kept on the nearest Sunday and Monday to dedication day, called by the people "feasten" Sunday and Monday. Every family, however poor, tries to have a better dinner than usual on feasten Sunday; generally a joint of meat with a "figgy-pudden" (a baked or boiled suet-pudding with raisins in it). On the preceding Saturdays large quantities of "plum cake" are baked; light currant cakes raised with barm (yeast), and coloured bright yellow with saffron (as dear as "saffern" is a very common simile in Cornwall). This "saffern cake" at tea is often supplemented with "heavy cake" (a delicacy peculiar to the county), a rich currant paste, about an inch thick, made with clotted cream, and eaten hot. The Western hounds meet in all the villages situated at a convenient distance from their kennel, at ten o'clock on feasten Mondays, and, after a breakfast given by the squire of the parish to the huntsmen, start for their run from somewhere near the parish church (the "church town"). Three or four houses clustered together, and even sometimes a single house, is called in Cornwall "a town," a farmyard is "a town place," and London is often spoken of as "Lunnon church town." The first of the West Penwith feasts is that of Paul, a parish close to Penzance, which has not the Apostle Paul but St. Pol-de-Lion for its patron saint. It falls on the nearest Sunday to 10th of October. An old proverb says, "Rain for Paul, rain for all," therefore, should the day be wet, it is of course looked upon by the young people as a bad sign for their future merry-makings. An annual bowling-match was formerly held on feasten Monday, between Paul and Mousehole men (Mousehole is a fishing village in the same parish); the last of them took place sixty years ago. Up to that time the bowling-green, an artificially raised piece of ground, was kept in order by the parishioners. No one in the neighbourhood now knows the game; the church schools are built on a part of the site, and the remainder is the village playground. If there were ever any other peculiar customs celebrated at Paul feast they are quite forgotten, and the Monday night's carousal at the public-houses has here, as elsewhere, given place to church and chapel teas, followed by concerts in the school-rooms, although there are still a few "standings" (stalls) in the streets, for the sale of gingerbread nuts and sweetmeats, and one or two swings and merry-go-rounds, largely patronised by children. October 12th. A fair, called Roast Goose Fair, is held at Redruth. On the nearest Saturday to Hallowe'en, October 31st, the fruiterers of Penzance display in their windows very large apples, known locally as "Allan" apples. These were formerly bought by the inhabitants and all the country people from the neighbourhood (for whom Penzance is the market-town), and one was given to each member of the family to be eaten for luck. The elder girls put theirs, before they ate them, under their pillows, to dream of their sweethearts. A few of the apples are still sold; but the custom, which, I have lately been told, was also observed at St. Ives, is practically dying out. On "Allantide," at Newlyn West, two strips of wood are joined crosswise by a nail in the centre; at each of the four ends a lighted candle is stuck, with apples hung between them. This is fastened to a beam, or the ceiling of the kitchen, and made to revolve rapidly. The players, who try to catch the apples in their mouths, often get instead a taste of the candle. In Cornwall, as in other parts of England, many charms were tried on Hallowe'en to discover with whom you were to spend your future life, or if you were to remain unmarried, such as pouring melted lead through the handle of the front door key. The fantastic shapes it assumed foretold your husband's profession or trade. Rolling three names, each written on a separate piece of paper, tightly in the centre of three balls of earth. These were afterwards put into a deep basin of water, and anxiously watched until one of them opened, as the name on the first slip which came to the surface would be that of the person you were to marry. Tying the front door key tightly with your left leg garter between the leaves of a Bible at one particular chapter in the Song of Solomon. It was then held on the forefinger, and when the sweetheart's name was mentioned it turned round. Slipping a wedding-ring on to a piece of cotton, held between the forefinger and thumb, saying, "If my husband's name is to be ---- let this ring swing!" Of course, when the name of the person preferred was spoken, the holder unconsciously made the ring oscillate. I have, when a school-girl, assisted at these rites, and I expect the young people still practise them. In St. Cubert's parish, East Cornwall, is a celebrated Holy well, so named, the inhabitants say, from its virtues having been discovered on All Hallows-day. It is covered at high spring tides. St. Just feast (which, when the mines in that district were prosperous, was kept up with more revelry than almost any other) is always held on the nearest Sunday to All Saints'-day. Formerly, on the Monday, many games were played, viz.--"Kook, a trial of casting quoits farthest and nearest to the goal, now all but forgotten" (Bottrell), wrestling, and kailles, or keels (ninepins), &c. Much beer and "moonshine" (spirit that had not paid the duty) were drunk, and, as the St. Just men are proverbially pugnacious, the sports often ended with a free fight. A paragraph in a local paper for November, 1882, described a St. Just feast in those days as "A hobble, a squabble, and a 'hubbadullion' altogether." Rich and poor still at this season keep open house, and all the young people from St. Just who are in service for many miles around, if they can possibly be spared, go home on the Saturday and stay until the Tuesday morning. A small fair is held in the streets on Monday evening, when the young men are expected to treat their sweethearts liberally, and a great deal of "foolish money" that can be ill afforded is often spent. In many Cornish parishes the bells are rung on November 4th, "Ringing night." The celebration of Gunpowder Plot has quite died out in West Cornwall, but in Launceston, and in other towns in the eastern part of the county, it is still observed. As regularly as the 5th of November comes around, fireworks are let off, and bonfires lit, to lively music played by the local bands. "This year, 1884, 'Young Stratton' celebrated the Fifth with much more than his customary enthusiasm. A good sum was raised by public subscription by the energy of Mr. C. A. Saunders. The Bude fife and drum band headed a grotesque procession, formed at Howl's Bridge, and second in order came a number of equestrian torch-bearers in all kinds of costumes, furnished by wardrobes of Her Majesty's navy, the Royal Marines, the Yeomanry, and numerous other sources. 'Guido Faux' followed in his car, honoured by a postilion and a band of Christy Minstrels; then came foot torch-bearers, and a crowd of enthusiastic citizens, who 'hurraed' to their hearts' content. Noticeable were the banners, 'Success to Young Stratton,' the Cornish arms, and 'God save the Queen.' The display of fireworks took place from a field overlooking the town, and the inhabitants grouped together at points of vantage to witness the display. The bonfire was lit on Stamford Hill, where the carnival ended. Good order and good humour prevailed."--(Western Morning News.) When I was a girl, I was taught the following doggerel rhymes, which were on this day then commonly chanted:-- "Please to remember the fifth of November! A stick or a stake, for King George's sake. A faggot or rope, to hang the Pope. For Gunpowder Plot, shall never be forgot, Whilst Castle Ryan stands upon a rock." This was in Victoria's reign; where Castle Ryan stands I have never been able to learn. The old custom formerly practised in Camborne, of taking a marrow-bone from the butchers on the Saturday before the feast, which is held on the nearest Sunday to Martinmas, was, in 1884, revived in its original form. "A number of gentlemen, known as the 'Homage Committee,' went round the market with hampers, which were soon filled with marrow-bones, and they afterwards visited the public-houses as 'tasters.'"--(Cornishman.) One night in November is known in Padstow as "Skip-skop night," when the boys of the place go about with a stone in a sling; with this they strike the doors, and afterwards slily throw in winkle-shells, dirt, &c. Mr. T. Q. Couch says: "They strike violently against the doors of the houses and ask for money to make a feast." At St. Ives, on the Saturday before Advent Sunday, "Fair-mo" (pig fair) is held. This town is much celebrated locally for macaroons; a great many are then bought as "fairings." The St. Ives fishing (pilchard) season generally ends in November, consequently at this time there is often no lack of money. The feast of St. Maddern, or Madron feast, which is also that of Penzance (Penzance being until recently in that parish), is on Advent Sunday. The last bull-baiting held here was on the "feasten" Monday of 1813, and took place in the field on which the Union is now built. The bull was supplied by a squire from Kimyel, in the neighbouring parish of Paul. A ship's anchor, which must have been carried up hill from Penzance quay, a distance of nearly three miles, was firmly fixed in the centre of the field, and to it the bull was tied. Bull-baiting was soon after discontinued in Cornwall. The following account of the last I had from a gentleman who was well known in the county. He said, "This I think took place in a field adjoining Ponsandane bridge, in Gulval parish, at the east of Penzance, in the summer of 1814. I remember the black bull being led by four men. The crowd was dispersed early in the evening by a severe thunderstorm, which much alarmed the people, who thought it (I was led to believe) a judgment from heaven."--(T.S.B.) The second Thursday before Christmas is in East Cornwall kept by the "tinners" (miners) as a holiday in honour of one of the reputed discoverers of tin. It is known as Picrous-day. Chewidden Thursday (White Thursday), another "tinners'" holiday, falls always on the last clear Thursday before Christmas-day. Tradition says it is the anniversary of the day on which "white tin" (smelted tin) was first made or sold in Cornwall. On Christmas-eve, in East as well as West Cornwall, poor women, sometimes as many as twenty in a party, call on their richer neighbours asking alms. This is "going a gooding." At Falmouth the lower classes formerly expected from all the shopkeepers, of whom they bought any of their Christmas groceries, a slice of cake and a small glass of gin. Some of the oldest established tradespeople still observe this custom; but it will soon be a thing of the past. In some parts of the county it is customary for each household to make a batch of currant cakes on Christmas-eve. These cakes are made in the ordinary manner, coloured with saffron, as is the custom in these parts. On this occasion the peculiarity of the cakes is, that a small portion of the dough in the centre of each top is pulled up and made into a form which resembles a very small cake on the top of a large one, and this centre-piece is usually called "the Christmas." Each person in a house has his or her especial cake, and every person ought to taste a small piece of every other person's cake. Similar cakes are also bestowed on the hangers-on of the establishment, such as laundresses, sempstresses, charwomen, &c.; and even some people who are in the receipt of weekly charity call, as a matter of course, for their Christmas cakes. The cakes must not be cut until Christmas-day, it being probably "unlucky to eat them sooner."--(Geo. C. Boase, Notes and Queries, 5th series, Dec. 21st, 1878.) The materials to make these and nearly all the cakes at this season were at one time given by the grocers to their principal customers. In Cornwall, as in other English counties, houses are at Christmas "dressed up" with evergreens, sold in small bunches, called "Penn'orths of Chris'mas"; and two hoops fastened one in the other by nails at the centres are gaily decorated with evergreens, apples, oranges, &c., and suspended from the middle beam in the ceiling of the best kitchen. This is the "bush," or "kissing bush." At night a lighted candle is put in it, stuck on the bottom nail; but once or twice lately I have seen a Chinese lantern hanging from the top one. In a few remote districts on Christmas-eve children may be, after nightfall, occasionally (but rarely) found dancing around painted lighted candles placed in a box of sand. This custom was very general fifty years ago. The church towers, too, are sometimes illuminated. This of course, on the coast can only be done in very calm weather. The tower of Zennor church (Zennor is a village on the north coast of Cornwall, between St. Ives and St. Just) was lit up in 1883, for the first time since 1866. When open chimneys were universal in farmhouses the Christmas stock, mock, or block (the log), on which a rude figure of a man had been chalked, was kindled with great ceremony; in some parts with a piece of charred wood that had been saved from the last year's "block." A log in Cornwall is almost always called a "block." "Throw a block on the fire." Candles painted by some member of the family were often lighted at the same time. The choir from the parish church and dissenting chapels go from house to house singing "curls" (carols), for which they are given money or feasted; but the quaint old carols, "The first good joy that Mary had," "I saw three ships come sailing in," common forty years ago, are now never heard. The natives of Cornwall have been always famous for their carols; some of their tunes are very old. Even the Knockers, Sprig-gans, and all the underground spirits that may be always heard working where there is tin (and who are said to be the ghosts of the Jews who crucified Jesus), in olden times held mass and sang carols on Christmas-eve. In the beginning of this century at the ruined baptistery of St. Levan, in West Cornwall (Par-chapel Well), all the carol-singers in that district, after visiting the neighbouring villages, met and sang together many carols. Mr. Bottrell says, "One was never forgotten, in which according to our West Country version, Holy Mary says to her dear Child:-- 'Go the wayst out, Child Jesus, Go the wayst out to play; Down by God's Holy Well I see three pretty children, As ever tongue can tell.' "This for its sweet simplicity is still a favourite in the west." An old carol or ballad, "Come and I will sing you," etc., known to many old people in all parts of the county, has been thought by some to be peculiar to Cornwall; but this is an error, as it has been heard elsewhere. At the plentiful supper always provided on this night, [1] egg-hot, or eggy-hot, was the principal drink. It was made with eggs, hot beer, sugar, and rum, and was poured from one jug into another until it became quite white and covered with froth. A sweet giblet pie was one of the standing dishes at a Christmas dinner--a kind of mince-pie, into which the giblets of a goose, boiled and finely chopped, were put instead of beef. Cornwall is noted for its pies, that are eaten on all occasions; some of them are curious mixtures, such as squab-pie, which is made with layers of well-seasoned fat mutton and apples, with onions and raisins. Mackerel pie: the ingredients of this are mackerel and parsley stewed in milk, then covered with a paste and baked. When brought to table a hole is cut in the paste, and a basin of clotted cream thrown in it. Muggetty pie, made from sheep's entrails (muggets), parsley, and cream. "The devil is afraid to come into Cornwall for fear of being baked in a pie." There is a curious Christmas superstition connected with the Fogo, Vug, or Vow (local names for a cove) at Pendeen, in North St. Just. "At dawn on Christmas-day the spirit of the 'Vow' has frequently been seen just within the entrance near the cove, in the form of a beautiful lady dressed in white, with a red rose in her mouth. There were persons living a few years since who had seen the fair but not less fearful vision; for disaster was sure to visit those who intruded on the spirit's morning airing."--(Bottrell, Traditions, &c., West Cornwall, 2nd series.) The following is an account by an anonymous writer of a Christmas custom in East Cornwall:-- "In some places the parishioners walk in procession, visiting the principal orchards in the parish. In each orchard one tree is selected, as the representative of the rest; this is saluted with a certain form of words, which have in them the form of an incantation. They then sprinkle the tree with cider, or dash a bowl of cider against it, to ensure its bearing plentifully the ensuing year. In other places the farmers and their servants only assemble on the occasion, and after immersing apples in cider hang them on the apple-trees. They then sprinkle the trees with cider; and after uttering a formal incantation, they dance round it (or rather round them), and return to the farmhouse to conclude these solemn rites with copious draughts of cider. "In Warleggan, on Christmas-eve, it was customary for some of the household to put in the fire (bank it up), and the rest to take a jar of cider, a bottle, and a gun to the orchard, and put a small bough into the bottle. Then they said:-- "Here's to thee, old apple-tree! Hats full, packs full, great bushel-bags full! Hurrah! and fire off the gun." --(Old Farmer, Mid Cornwall, through T. Q. Couch, Sept. 1883, W. Antiquary.) The words chanted in East Cornwall were:-- "Health to thee, good apple-tree, Pocket-fulls, hat-fulls, peck-fulls, bushel-bag fulls." An old proverb about these trees runs as follows:-- "Blossom in March, for fruit you may search, Blossom in April, eat you will, Blossom in May, eat night and day." "At one time small sugared cakes were laid on the branches. This curious custom has been supposed to be a propitiation of some spirit."--(Mrs. Damant, Cowes, through Folk-Lore Society.) From Christmas to Twelfth-tide parties of mummers known as 'Goose or Geese-dancers' paraded the streets in all sorts of disguises, with masks on. They often behaved in such an unruly manner that women and children were afraid to venture out. If the doors of the houses were not locked they would enter uninvited and stay, playing all kinds of antics, until money was given them to go away. "A well-known character amongst them, about fifty years ago (1862), was the hobby-horse, represented by a man carrying a piece of wood in the form of a horse's head and neck, with some contrivance for opening and shutting the mouth with a loud snapping noise, the performer being so covered with a horse-cloth or hide of a horse as to resemble the animal, whose curvetings, biting and other motions he imitated. Some of these 'guise-dancers' occasionally masked themselves with the skins of the head of bullocks having the horns on."--(The Land's End District, by R. Edmonds.) Sometimes they were more ambitious and acted a version of the old play, "St. George and the Dragon," which differed but little from that current in other countries. Bottrell, in his Traditions in W. Cornwall (2nd series), gives large extracts from another Christmas-play, "Duffy and the Devil." It turns upon the legend, common in all countries, of a woman who had sold herself to a devil, who was to do her knitting or spinning for her. He was to claim his bargain at the end of three years if she could not find out his name before the time expired. Of course, she gets it by stratagem; her husband, who knows nothing of the compact, first meets the devil, whilst out hunting, the day before the time is up, and makes him half-drunk. An old woman in Duffy's pay (Witch Bet) completes the work, and in that state the devil sings the following words, ending with his name, which Bet remembers and tells her mistress:-- "I've knit and spun for her Three years to the day; To-morrow she shall ride with me Over land and over sea. Far away! far away! For she can never know That my name is 'Tarraway.'" Bet and some other witches then sing in chorus:-- "By night and by day We will dance and play With our noble captain, Tarraway! Tarraway!" Mr. Robert Hunt in his Romances and Drolls of Old Cornwall has a variation of this play, in which the devil sings-- "Duffy my lady, you'll never know--what? That my name is Ferry-top, Ferry-top--top." These "goose-dancers" became such a terror to the respectable inhabitants of Penzance that the Corporation put them down about ten years since, and every Christmas-eve a notice is posted in conspicuous places forbidding their appearance in the streets, but they still perambulate the streets of St. Ives. Guise-dancing wit must have very much deteriorated since the beginning of the present century, as writers before that time speak of the mirth it afforded; and the saying, "as good as a Christmas-play," is commonly used to describe a very witty or funny thing. It was the custom in Scilly eighty years ago for girls to go to church on Christmas morning dressed all in white, verifying the old proverb--"pride is never a-cold." "On Porthminster Beach on Christmas-day, as seen from the Malakoff, St. Ives, at nine o'clock in the morning the boys began to assemble on the beach with their bats and balls. As soon as twelve youths arrived a game commenced, called 'Rounders.' The first thing to be done was to right up the 'bickens.' This accomplished, the sides were chosen in the following manner:--Two of the best players, whom we will call Matthew and Phillip, went aside and selected two objects--the new and old pier. The old pier was Matthew and the new pier was Phillip. After this was arranged the 'mopper' selected the old pier, which meant he would rather have Matthew his side than Phillip. Then Phillip selected some one for his side; and so it went on until the whole twelve were elected one side or the other. Then they tossed up for the first innings. Phillip's side won the toss, and it was their luck to go in first. While they are taking off their jackets and getting ready to go in I will briefly describe the game. "The bickens, four in number, were piles of sand thrown up; each one being about ten yards from one another, and arranged so as to form a square. In the centre of the square the bowler was placed with ball in hand. Behind the batsman stands the 'tip,' while the other four were off a long way waiting for the long hits. The coats off, in went the first batsman. The ball was thrown towards him and he tipped it. The tip instantly took the ball and threw it at the batsman, and hit him before he arrived at the first bicken, and he was consequently out. The second batsman had better luck; for on the ball being thrown to him he sent it out to sea, and by that means he ran a rounder, or in other words he ran around the four bickens without being hit by the ball. The next batsman went in. The ball was thrown to him, when, lo! it went whizzing into the bowler's hands and was caught. This unlucky hit and lucky catch got the whole side out, before three of them had a chance to show their skill. The other side then went in, laughing at the discomfiture of their opponents. The tables, however, were very soon turned; for the very first hit was caught, and this produced a row, and the game was broken up! "I then went to the next lot: They were playing 'catchers.' There is only one bicken required in this game, and at this stood a lad called Watty, with bat and ball in hand. At last he hit the ball, and up it went flying in the air, descended, and passed through the hands of a boy named Peters. Peters took the ball from the sand and asked Watty, 'How many?' Watty replied-- 'Two a good scat, [2] Try for the bat.' "Peters threw the ball to the bicken, but it stopped about three lengths short. Watty took the ball up and again sent it a great way. The question was again asked, and Watty gave the same answer. Again the ball was thrown to the bicken, but this time with better success; for it stopped at the distance of the length of the bat and so was within the distance named. Williams then went in. He was a strong lusty fellow, and the ball was sent spinning along the sand. It was picked up by Curnow, who asked, 'How many?' 'Three a good scat, Try for the bat.' "The ball was thrown home and rolled about three bats from the bicken. This point, however, was the breaking-up of the game, for Williams said it was more than three bats off, whilst Curnow maintained that it was not three bats off, and there being no chance of a compromise being arrived at the game was broken up. "The next party was one of young men. They were playing rounders with a wooden ball, instead of an india-rubber one, as is generally used. They were twelve each side, and the bickens were about 20 yards distant. By this time the tide was out a great way, so that there was no fear of the ball being knocked to sea, as was the case with the other boys. When I got there they had been playing for about an hour, and the side that was in had been in about half of that time. The first hit I saw was 'a beauty!' The ball was sent about 75 yards, and the result was a rounder. Two or three other persons went in and did the same thing, and so the game went on for about an hour longer, when one of the fellows knocked up a catcher and was caught. This side had stayed in for about one hour and a half. The other side went in at about a quarter to three, and after playing about another hour they went home to tea. "I went to tea also, but was soon up in the Malakoff again. It was so dark that the play was stopped for the time. At about seven o'clock the older part of the town began to congregate, and about a quarter-past seven they began to play 'Thursa.' This game is too well known to need description, and I need only say that it was played about one hour, when they began to form a ring with the intention, I supposed, of playing that best of all games, 'Kiss-in-the-Ring'."--(Cornishman, 1881.) On St. Stephen's-day, 26th December, before the days of gun-licences, every man or boy who could by any means get a gun went out shooting, and it was dangerous to walk the lanes. The custom is said to have had its origin in the legend of one of St. Stephen's guards being awakened by a bird just as his prisoner was going to escape. A similar practice prevailed in the neighbourhood of Penzance on "feasten Monday," the day after Advent Sunday; but on that day I have never heard of any religious idea connected with it. In the week after Christmas-day a fair is held at Launceston (and also at Okehampton in Devonshire), called "giglet fair" (a "giglet or giglot" is a giddy young woman). It is principally attended by young people. "At this 'giglet market,' or wife-market, the rustic swain was privileged with self-introduction to any of the nymphs around him, so that he had a good opportunity of choosing a suitable partner if tired of a single life."--(Britton and Brayley's Devon and Cornwall.) It is unlucky to begin a voyage on Childermas (Innocents'-day), also to wash clothes, or to do any but necessary household work. On New Year's-eve in the villages of East Cornwall, soon after dusk, parties of men, from four to six in a party, carrying a small bowl in their hands, went from house to house begging money to make a feast. They opened the doors without knocking, called out Warsail, and sang,-- "These poor jolly Warsail boys Come travelling through the mire." This custom was common fifty years since, and may still be observed in remote rural districts. There is one saint whose name is familiar to all in Cornwall, but whose sex is unknown. This saint has much to answer for; promises made, but never intended to be kept, are all to be fulfilled on next St. Tibbs's-eve, a day that some folks say "falls between the old and new year;" others describe it as one that comes "neither before nor after Christmas." Parties are general in Cornwall on New Year's-eve to watch in the New Year and wish friends health and happiness; but I know of no peculiar customs, except that before retiring to rest the old women opened their Bibles at hap-hazard to find out their luck for the coming year. The text on which the fore-finger of the right hand rested was supposed to foretell the future. And money, generally a piece of silver, was placed on the threshold, to be brought in the first thing on the following day, that there might be no lack of it for the year. Nothing was ever lent on New Year's-day, as little as possible taken out, but all that could be brought into the house. "I have even known the dust of the floor swept inwards."--(T. Q. Couch, W. Antiquary, September, 1883.) Door-steps on New Year's-day were formerly sanded for good luck, because I suppose people coming into the house were sure to bring some of it in with them sticking to their feet. Many elderly people at the beginning of the present century still kept to the "old style," and held their Christmas-day on Epiphany. On the eve of that day they said "the cattle in the fields and stalls never lay down, but at midnight turned their faces to the east and fell on their knees." Twelfth-day (old Christmas-day) was a time of general feasting and merriment. Into the Twelfth-day cake were put a wedding-ring, a sixpence, and a thimble. It was cut into as many portions as there were guests; the person who found the wedding-ring in his (or her) portion would be married before the year was out; the holder of the thimble would never be married, and the one who got the sixpence would die rich. After candlelight many games were played around the open fires. I will describe one:--"Robin's alight." A piece of stick was set on fire, and whirled rapidly in the hands of the first player, who repeated the words-- "Robin's alight, and if he go out I'll saddle your back." It was then passed on, and the person who let the spark die had to pay a forfeit.--(West Cornwall.) This game in East Cornwall was known as "Jack's alive." "Jack's alive and likely to live, If he die in my hand a pawn I'll give." In this county forfeits are always called "pawns"; they are cried by the holder of them, saying,-- "Here's a pawn and a very pretty pawn! And what shall the owner of this pawn do?" After the midnight supper, at which in one village in the extreme West a pie of four-and-twenty blackbirds always appeared, many spells to forecast the future were practised. The following account of them was given to me by a friend. He says--"I engaged in them once at Sennen (the village at the Land's End) with a lot of girls, but as my object was only to spoil sport and make the girls laugh or speak, it was not quite satisfactory. I suppose the time to which I refer is over forty years ago. After making up a large turf fire, for hot 'umers' (embers) and pure water are absolutely necessary in these divinations, the young people silently left the house in single file, to pull the rushes and gather the ivy-leaves by means of which they were to learn whether they were to be married, and to whom; and if any, or how many, of their friends were to die before the end of the year. On leaving and on returning each of these Twelfth-night diviners touched the 'cravel' with the forehead and 'wished.' The cravel is the tree that preceded lintels in chimney corners, and its name from this custom may have been derived from the verb 'to crave.' Had either of the party inadvertently broken the silence before the rushes and ivy-leaves had been procured they would all have been obliged to retrace their steps to the house and again touch the cravel; but this time all went well. When we came back those who wished to know their fate named the rushes in pairs, and placed them in the hot embers: one or two of the engaged couples being too shy to do this for themselves, their friends, amidst much laughing, did it for them. The manner in which the rushes burned showed if the young people were to be married to the person chosen or not: some, of course, burnt well, others parted, and one or two went out altogether. The couples that burnt smoothly were to be wedded, and the one named after the rush that lasted longest outlived the other. This settled, one ivy-leaf was thrown on the fire; the number of cracks it made was the number of years before the wedding would take place. Then two were placed on the hot ashes; the cracks they gave this time showed how many children the two would have. We then drew ivy-leaves named after present or absent friends through a wedding ring, and put them into a basin of water which we left until the next morning. Those persons whose leaves had shrivelled or turned black in the night were to die before the next Twelfth-tide, and those who were so unfortunate as to find their leaves spotted with red, by some violent death, unless a 'pellar' (wise man) could by his skill and incantations grant protection. These prophecies through superstition sometimes unluckily fulfilled themselves." During the twelve days of Christmas card-playing was a very favourite amusement with all classes. Whilst the old people enjoyed their game of whist with 'swabbers,' the young ones had their round games. I will append the rules of two or three for those who would like to try them. Whist (or whisk, as I have heard an old lady call it and maintain that that was its proper name) with "swabbers." This game, which was played as recently as 1880, nightly, by four maiden ladies at Falmouth, is like ordinary whist; but each player before beginning to play puts into the pool a fixed sum for "swabs." The "swab-cards" are--ace and deuce of trumps, ace of hearts and knave of clubs. The four cards are of equal value; but should hearts be trumps the ace would count double. "Board-'em," a round game that can be played by any number of players, from two to eight; it is played for fish, and there must never be less than six fish in the pool. Six cards are dealt to each person; and the thirteenth, if two are playing, the nineteenth if three, and so on, is turned up for trumps. The fore-hand plays; the next player, if he has one, must follow suit, if not, he may play another suit, or trump. The highest card of the original suit, if not trumped, takes the trick and one or more fish, according to the number staked. If you have neither card in your hand that you think will make a trick you may decline to play, in which case you only lose your stake; but should you play and fail to take a trick you pay for the whole company, and are said to "be boarded." "Ranter-go-round" was formerly played in four divisions marked with chalk upon a tea-tray; or even, in some cases, on a bellows--it is now played on a table, and is called "Miss Joan." Any number of players may join in it. The first player throws down any card of any suit, and says:-- "Here's a ---- as you may see. 2nd Player--Here's another as good as he. 3rd Player--And here's the best of all the three. 4th Player--And here's Miss Joan, come tickle me." The holder of the fourth card wins the trick. He sometimes added the words wee-wee; but these are now generally omitted. If the person sitting next to the fore-hand has neither one of the cards demanded (one of the same value as the first played, in another suit), he pays one to the pool, as must all in turn who fail to produce the right cards. The player of the third may have the fourth in his hand, in which case all the others pay. The holder of the most tricks wins the game and takes the pool. I once, about thirty years since, at this season of the year, joined some children at Camborne who were playing a very primitive game called by them "pinny-ninny." A basin turned upside down was placed in the centre of a not very large round table. The players were supplied with small piles of pins--not the well-made ones sold in papers, but clumsy things with wire heads--"pound-pins." A large bottle full of them might, then, always be seen in the general shop window of every little country village. Each in turn dropped a pin over the side of the basin, and he whose pin fell and formed a cross on the top of the heap was entitled to add them to his own pile. This went on until one player had beggared all the others. Poor children before Christmas often begged pins to play this game, and their request was always granted by the gift of two. A wishing-well, near St. Austell, was sometimes called Pennameny Well, from the custom of dropping pins into it. Pedna-a-mean is the old Cornish for "heads-and-tails."--(See Divination at St. Roche and Madron Well.) All Christmas-cakes must be eaten by the night of Twelfth-tide, as it is unlucky to have any left, and all decorations must be taken down on the next day, because for every forgotten leaf of evergreen a ghost will be seen in the house in the course of the ensuing year. This latter superstition does not prevail, however, in all parts of Cornwall, as in some districts a small branch is kept to scare away evil spirits. January 24th, St. Paul's-eve, is a holiday with the miners, and is called by them 'Paul pitcher-day,' from a custom they have of setting up a water-pitcher, which they pelt with stones until it is broken in pieces. A new one is afterwards bought and carried to a beer-shop to be filled with beer. "There is a curious custom prevalent in some parts of Cornwall of throwing broken pitchers and other earthen vessels against the doors of dwelling-houses on the eve of the conversion of St. Paul, thence locally called 'Paul pitcher-night.' On that evening parties of young people perambulate the parishes in which the custom is retained, exclaiming as they throw the sherds, 'St. Paul's-eve and here's a heave.' According to the received notions the first heave cannot be objected to; but, upon its being repeated, the inhabitants of the house whose door is thus attacked may, if they can, seize the offenders and inflict summary justice upon them."--(F.M., Notes and Queries, March, 1874.) I have heard of this practice from a native of East Cornwall, who told me the pitchers were filled with broken sherds, filth, &c. The weather on St. Paul's-day still, with the old people, foretells the weather for the ensuing year, and the rhyme common to all England is repeated by them:-- "If St. Paul's-day be fine and clear," &c. St. Blazey, a village in East Cornwall, is so named in honour of St. Blaize, who is said to have landed at Par, a small neighbouring seaport, when he came on a visit to England. His feast, which is held on 3rd February, would not be worth mentioning were it not for the fact that--"This saint is invoked in the county for toothache, while applying to the tooth the candle that burned on the altar of the church dedicated to him. The same candles are good for sore-throats and curing diseases in cattle."--(Mrs. Damant, Cowes.) On the Monday after St. Ives feast, which falls on Quinquagesima Sunday, an annual hurling-match is held on the sands. Most writers on Cornwall have described the old game. The following account is taken from The Land's End District, 1862, by R. Edmonds:-- "A ball about the size of a cricket-ball, formed of cork, or light wood, and covered with silver, was hurled into the air, midway between the goals. Both parties immediately rushed towards it, each striving to seize and carry it to its own goal. In this contest, when any individual having possession of the ball found himself overpowered or outrun by his opponents, he hurled it to one of his own side, if near enough, or, if not, into some pool, ditch, furze, brake, garden, house, or other place of concealment, to prevent his adversaries getting hold of it before his own company could arrive." The hurlers, quaintly says Carew (Survey of Cornwall, p. 74), "Take their next way ouer hills, dales, hedges, ditches--yea, and thorou bushes, briers, mires, plashes, and rivers whatsoever--so as you shall sometimes see twenty or thirty lie tugging together in the water, scrambling and scratching for the ball. A play verily both rude and rough." Hurling between two or more parishes, and between one parish and another, has long ceased in Cornwall: but hurling by one part of a parish against another is still played at St. Ives, as well as other places in Cornwall. At St. Ives all the Toms, Wills, and Johns are on one side, while those having other Christian names range themselves on the opposite. At St. Columb (East Cornwall) the townspeople contend with the countrymen; at Truro, the married men with the unmarried; at Helston, two streets with all the other streets; on the 2nd of May, when their town-bounds are renewed. "Fair-play is good play," is the hurlers' motto. This is sometimes engraven on their balls in the old Cornish language. Private families possess some of these balls won by their ancestors early in the last century that are religiously handed down as heirlooms. A Druidic circle at St. Cleer, in East Cornwall, is known as the Hurlers, from a tradition that a party of men hurling on a Sunday were there for their wickedness turned into stone. 'Peasen or Paisen Monday' is the Monday before Shrove Tuesday; it is so called in East Cornwall from a custom of eating pea-soup there on this day. This practice was once so universal in some parishes that an old farmer of Lower St. Columb, who had a special aversion to pea-soup, left his home in the morning, telling his wife that he should not come back to dinner, but spend the day with a friend. He returned two or three hours after in great disgust, as at every house in the village he had been asked to stay and taste their delicious pea-soup. "This day also in East Cornwall bears the name of 'Hall Monday,' why, I know not. And at dusk on the evening of the same day it is the custom for boys, and in some cases for those above the age of boys, to prowl about the streets with short clubs, and to knock loudly at every door, running off to escape detection on the slightest sign of a motion within. If, however, no attention be excited, and especially if any article be discovered, negligently exposed or carelessly guarded, then the things are carried away, and on the following morning are seen displayed in some conspicuous place, to disclose the disgraceful want of vigilance supposed to characterise the owner. The time when this is practised is called 'Nicky Nan' night, and the individuals concerned are supposed to represent some imps of darkness, that seize on and expose unguarded moments."--(Polperro, p. 151, by T. Q. Couch.) A custom nearly similar to this was practised in Scilly in the last century. The dinner on Shrove Tuesday in many Cornish houses consists of fried eggs and bacon, or salt pork, followed by the universal pancake, which is eaten by all classes. It is made the full size of the pan, and currants are put into the batter. In Penzance large quantities of limpets and periwinkles are gathered in the afternoon by poor people, to be cooked for their supper. This they call "going a-trigging." Any kind of shell-fish picked up at low water in this district is known as "trig-meat." Many other customs were formerly observed in Penzance on Shrove Tuesday, peculiar, I believe, to this town. Women and boys stood at the corners of the streets, with well-greased, sooty hands, which they rubbed over people's faces. I remember, not more than thirty years ago, seeing a little boy run into a house in a great hurry, and ask for what was he wanted. He had met a woman who had put her hands affectionately on each side of his face, and said, "Your father has been looking for you, my dear." She had left the marks of her dirty fingers. The butchers' market was always thoroughly cleaned in the afternoon, to see if the town hose were in perfect repair, and great merriment was often excited by the firemen turning the full force of the water on some unwary passer-by. People, too, were occasionally deluged by having buckets of water thrown over them. Every Shrove Tuesday after dusk men and boys went about and threw handfuls of shells, bottles of filth, etc., in at the doors. It was usual then for drapers to keep their shops open until a very late hour; and I have been told that boys were occasionally bribed by the assistants to throw something particularly disagreeable in on the floors, that the masters might be frightened, and order the shops to be shut. Still later in the evening signs were taken down, knockers wrenched off, gates unhung and carried to some distance. This last was done even as far down as 1881. Pulling boats up and putting them in a mill-pool (now built over) was a common practice at Mousehole in the beginning of the century. "In Landewednack, on Shrove Tuesday, children from the ages of six to twelve perambulate the parish begging for 'Col-perra' (probably an old Cornish word); but, whatever be its meaning, they expect to receive eatables or half-pence. As few refuse to give, they collect during the day a tolerable booty, in the shape of money, eggs, buns, apples, etc. The custom has existed from time immemorial, but none of the inhabitants are acquainted with its origin."--(A Week in the Lizard, by Rev. C. A. Johns, B.B., F.L.S.) I have been favoured by the Rev. S. Rundle, Godolphin, with the formula repeated by the children on this occasion (now almost forgotten): "Hen-cock, han-cock, give me a 'tabban' (morsel), or else 'Col-perra' shall come to your door." Boys at St. Ives, Scilly, and other places, went about with stones tied to strings, with which they struck the doors, saying:-- "Give me a pancake, now! now! now! Or I'll knock in your door with a row, tow, tow!" This custom has only lately (if it has yet) quite died out. The rhyme at Polperro ran thus:-- "Nicky, Nicky, Nan, Give me some pancake, and then I'll be gone, But if you give me none I'll throw a great stone, And down your door shall come." T. Q. Couch. Cock-fighting at Shrovetide was once a very favourite amusement in Cornwall, and in some of the most remote western villages has until recently been continued. "The Cock-pit" at Penzance, a small part of which still remains as a yard at the Union Hotel, belonged to and was kept up by the Corporation until (I think) the beginning of the present century. "Sir Rose Price, when young, was a great patron of the pit between the years 1780-1790. His father disapproved, and in consideration of his son giving up cock-fighting bought him a pack of hounds, the first foxhounds west of Truro."--(T.S.B.) "At St. Columb, about sixty years ago, on Shrove Tuesday, each child in a dame's school was expected by the mistress to bring an egg, and at twelve o'clock the children had an egg-battle. Two children stood facing each other, each held an egg, and struck the end of it against that of the opponent lengthwise, the result being that one or both were broken. "An unbroken egg was used again and again to fight the rest, and so the battle raged until all, or all but one, of the eggs were broken. The child who at the end of the fight held a sound egg was considered to be the conqueror, and was glorified accordingly. To save the contents of the eggs, which were the perquisite of the mistress, she held a plate beneath; and at the end of the battle the children were dismissed. And the old lady having picked out all the broken shells, proceeded to prepare her pancakes, of which she made her dinner."--(Fred. W. P. Jago, M.B., Plymouth, W. Antiquary, March, 1884.) "It must be now about thirty years ago that I was a day-scholar at the National School of St. Columb, and it was the custom then for each boy and girl to bring an egg. One of the senior boys stood at a table and wrote the name of the donor upon each. At about eleven o'clock the schoolmaster would produce a large punchbowl, and as he took up each egg he read the name, and broke the egg into the bowl. Eggs at that time were sold at three for a penny."--(W. B., Bodmin, W. Antiquary, March, 1884.) In the eastern part of the county at the beginning of Lent a straw figure dressed in cast-off clothes, and called "Jack-o'-lent," was not long since paraded through the streets and afterwards hung. Something of this kind is common on the Continent. The figure is supposed to represent Judas Iscariot. A slovenly ragged person is sometimes described as a "Jack-o'-lent." 1st March.--In Mid-Cornwall, people arise before the sun is up, and sweep before the door to sweep away fleas.--(T. Q. Couch, W. Antiquary, September, 1883.) 5th March.--St. Piran's day is a miners' holiday. St. Piran is the patron saint of "tinners," and is popularly supposed to have died drunk. "As drunk as a Piraner" is a Cornish proverb. The first Friday in March is another miners' holiday, "Friday in Lide." It is marked by a serio-comic custom of sending a young man on the highest "bound," or hillock, of the "works," and allowing him to sleep there as long as he can, the length of his siesta being the measure of the afternoon nap of the "tinners" throughout the ensuing twelve months.--(T. Q. Couch.) Lide is an obsolete term for the month of March still preserved in old proverbs, such as "Ducks won't lay 'till they've drunk Lide water. Of a custom observed at Little Colan, in East Cornwall, on Palm Sunday, Carew says: "Little Colan is not worth observation, unlesse you will deride or pity their simplicity, who sought at our Lady Nant's well there to foreknowe what fortune should betide them, which was in this manner. Upon Palm Sunday these idle-headed seekers resorted thither with a Palme cross in one hand and an offring in the other. The offring fell to the Priest's share, the crosse they threwe into the well; which if it swamme the party should outliue the yeere; if it sunk a short ensuing death was boded; and perhaps not altogether vntimely, while a foolish conceite of this 'halsening' myght the sooner helpe it onwards." Holy Thursday.--On that Thursday, and the two following Thursdays, girls in the neighbourhood of Roche, in East Cornwall, repair to his holy or wishing well before sunrise. They throw in crooked pins or pebbles, and, by the bubbles that rise to the surface, seek to ascertain whether their sweethearts will be true or false. There was once a chapel near this well, which was then held in great repute for the cure of all kinds of diseases, and a granite figure of St. Roche stood on the arch of the building that still covers it. "Goody Friday" (Good Friday) was formerly kept more as a feast than a fast in Cornwall. Every vehicle was engaged days beforehand to take parties to some favourite place of resort in the neighbourhood, and labourers in inland parishes walked to the nearest seaport to gather "wrinkles" (winkles), &c. On the morning of Good Friday at St. Constantine, in West Cornwall, an old custom is still observed of going to Helford river to gather shell-fish (limpets, cockles, &c.); this river was once famous for oysters, and many were then bought and eaten on this day. "Near Padstow, in East Cornwall, is the tower of an old church dedicated to St. Constantine. In its vicinity the feast of St. Constantine used to be annually celebrated, and has only been discontinued of late years. Its celebration consisted in the destruction of limpet-pies, and service in the church, followed by a hurling match."--(Murray's Cornwall.) Another writer says: "The festival of St. Constantine" (March 9th) "was until very lately kept at St. Merran" (Constantine and Merran are now one parish) "by an annual hurling match, on which occasion the owner of Harlyn" (a house in the neighbourhood) "had from time immemorial supplied the silver ball. We are informed, on good authority, that a Shepherd's family, of the name of Edwards, held one of the cottages in Constantine for many generations under the owners of Harlyn, by the annual render of a Cornish pie, made of limpets, raisins, and sweet herbs, on the feast of St. Constantine."--(Lysons' Magna Britannia.) At St. Day a fair was formerly held on Good Friday, now changed to Easter Monday. "On Good Friday, 1878, I saw a brisk fair going on in the little village of Perran Porth, Cornwall, not far from the curious oratory of St. Piran, known as Perranzabuloe."--(W. A. B. C., Notes and Queries, April 23rd, 1881.) But, although many still make this day a holiday, the churches are now much better attended. Good Friday cross-buns of many kinds are sold by the Cornish confectioners; some, highly spiced, are eaten hot with butter and sugar; a commoner bun is simply washed over the top with saffron, and has a few currants stuck on it. There is one peculiar, I believe, to Penzance: it is made of a rich currant paste highly covered with saffron; it is about an eighth of an inch thick, and four inches in diameter, and is marked with a large cross that divides it into four equal portions. "In some of our farmhouses the Good Friday bun may be seen hanging to a string from the bacon-rack, slowly diminishing until the return of the season replaces it by a fresh one. It is of sovereign good in all manners of diseases afflicting the family or cattle. I have more than once seen a little of this cake grated into a warm mash for a sick cow."--(T. Q. Couch, Polperro.) There is a superstition that bread made on this day never gets mouldy. Many amateur gardeners sow their seeds on Good Friday; superstition says then they will all grow. "There is a widely known belief in West Cornwall, that young ravens are always hatched on Good Friday."--(T. Cornish, W. Antiquary, October, 1887.) On Easter Monday, at Penzance, it was the custom within the last twenty years to bring out in the lower part of the town, before the doors, tables, on which were placed thick gingerbread cakes with raisins in them, cups and saucers, etc., to be raffled for with cups and dice, called here "Lilly-bangers." Fifty years since a man, nicknamed Harry Martillo, with his wife, the "lovelee," always kept one of these "lilly-banger stalls" at Penzance on market day. He would call attention to his gaming-table by shouting-- "I've been in Europe, Ayshee, Afrikee, and Amerikee, And come back and married the lovelee." I have heard that both used tobacco in three ways, and indulged freely in rum, also "tom-trot" (hardbake), strongly flavoured with peppermint. Of course a lively market would influence the dose, and as for "lovelee," it must have been in Harry's partial eyes.--(H.R.C.) "Upon little Easter Sunday, the freeholders of the towne and mannour of Lostwithiel, by themselves or their deputies, did there assemble, amongst whom one (as it fell to his lot by turne), bravely apparelled, gallantly mounted, with a crowne on his head, a scepter in his hand, a sword borne before him, and dutifully attended by all the rest also on horseback, ride thorow the principal streete to the Church; there the Curate in his best 'beseene' solemne receiud him at the Church-yard stile, and conducted him to heare diuine seruice; after which he repaired with the same pompe to a house fore-prouided for that purpose, made a feast to his attendants, kept the table's end himselfe, and was serued with kneeling, assay, and all other rites due to the estate of a Prince; with which dinner the ceremony ended, and every man returned home again."--(Carew.) The ancient custom of choosing a mock mayor was observed at Lostwithiel, on 10th October, 1884, by torchlight, in the presence of nearly a thousand people. The origin of both these customs is now quite forgotten. "A custom still existing at St. John's, Helston, and also at Buryan. The last mayor of the Quay, Penzance, was Mr. Robinson, a noted authority on sea fishing, etc. He died about ten years ago."--(H.R.C.) April 1st. The universal attempts at fooling on this day are carried on in Cornwall as elsewhere, and children are sent by their schoolfellows for penn'orths of pigeon's milk, memory powder, strap-oil, etc., or with a note telling the receiver "to send the fool farther." When one boy succeeds in taking in another, he shouts after him, Fool! fool! the "guckaw" (cuckoo). Towednack's (a village near St. Ives) "Cuckoo" or "Crowder" feast is on the nearest Sunday to the 28th April. Tradition accounts for the first name by the story of a man who there gave a feast on an inclement day in the end of April. To warm his guests he threw some faggots on the fire (or some furze-bushes), when a cuckoo flew out of them, calling "Cuckoo! cuckoo!" It was caught and kept, and he resolved every year to invite his friends to celebrate the event. This, too, is said to be the origin of the feast. "Crowder" in Cornwall means a fiddler, and the fiddle is called a "crowd." In former days the parishioners of Towednack were met at the church door on "feasten" day by a "crowder," who, playing on his "crowd," headed a procession through the village street, hence its second name. The only May-pole now erected in Cornwall is put up on April 30th, at Hugh Town, St. Mary's, Scilly. Girls dance round it on May-day with garlands of flowers on their heads, or large wreaths of flowers from shoulder to waist. Dr. Stephen Clogg, of Looe, says that "May-poles are still to be seen on May-day, at Pelynt, Dulver, and East and West Looe."--(W. Antiquary, August, 1884.) In the beginning of this century, boys and girls in Cornwall sat up until twelve o'clock on the eve of May-day, and then marched around the towns and villages with Musical Instruments, collecting their friends to go a-maying. May-day is ushered in at Penzance by the discordant blowing of large tin horns. At daybreak, and even earlier, parties of boys, five or six in number, assemble at the street corners, from whence they perambulate the town blowing their horns and conchshells. They enter the gardens of detached houses, stop and bray under the bed-room windows, and beg for money. With what they collect they go into the country, and at one of the farmhouses they breakfast on bread and clotted cream, junket, &c. An additional ring of tin (a penn'orth) is added to his horn every year that a boy uses it. Formerly, on May-morn, if the boys succeeded in fixing a "May bough" over a farmer's door before he was up, he was considered bound to give them their breakfasts; and in some parts of the county, should the first comer bring with him a piece of well-opened hawthorn, he was entitled to a basin of cream. "In West Cornwall it is the custom to hang a piece of furze to a door early in the morning of May-day. At breakfast-time the one who does this appears and demands a piece of bread and cream with a basin of 'raw-milk' (milk that has not been scalded and the cream taken off). "In Landrake, East Cornwall, it was the custom to give the person who plucked a fern as much cream as would cover it. It was also a practice there to chastise with stinging nettles any one found in bed after six on May-morning."--(Rev. S. Rundle, Vicar, Godolphin.) Young shoots of sycamore, as well as white thorn, are known as May in Cornwall, and from green twigs of the former and from green stalks of wheaten corn the children of this county make a rude whistle, which they call a "feeper." Until very lately parties of young men and women rose betimes on May-day and went into the country to breakfast; going a "a junketing" in the evening has not yet been discontinued. At Hayle, on May-day (1883), as usual, groups of children, decorated with flowers and gay with fantastic paper-clothes, went singing through the streets. In the evening bonfires were lit in various parts of the town, houses were illuminated with candles, torches and fire-balls burnt until a late hour. The last is a new and dangerous plaything: a ball of tow or rags is saturated with petroleum, set fire to, and then kicked from one place to another; it leaves a small track of burning oil wherever it goes. "On May-morning, in Polperro, the children and even adults go out into the country and fetch home branches of the narrow-leaved elm, or flowering boughs of white thorn, both of which are called 'May.' At a later hour all the boys sally forth with bucket, can, or other vessel, and avail themselves of a license which the season confers--to 'dip' or wellnigh drown, without regard to person or circumstance, the passenger who has not the protection of a piece of 'May' conspicuously stuck in his dress; at the same time they sing, 'The first of May is Dipping-day.' This manner of keeping May-day is, I have heard, common in Cornwall. We are now favoured with a call from the boy with his pretty garland, gay with bright flowers and gaudily-painted birds'-eggs, who expects some little gratuity for the sight."--(T. Q. Couch.) "At East and West Looe the boys dress their hats with flowers, furnish themselves with bullocks' horns, in which sticks of two feet long are fixed, and with these filled with water they parade the streets and dip all persons who have not the sprig of May in their hats."--(Bond.) "First of May you must take down all the horse-shoes (that are nailed over doors to keep out witches, &c.) and turn them, not letting them touch the ground."--(Old farmer, Mid-Cornwall, through T. Q. Couch, W. Antiquary, September, 1883.) May-day at Padstow is Hobby-horse day. A hobby-horse is carried through the streets to a pool known as Traitor's-pool, a quarter of a mile out of the town. Here it is supposed to drink: the head is dipped into the water, which is freely sprinkled over the spectators. The procession returns home, singing a song to commemorate the tradition that the French, having landed in the bay, mistook a party of mummers in red cloaks for soldiers, hastily fled to their boats and rowed away. "The May-pole on the first of May at Padstow has only been discontinued within the last six or eight years (1883). It was erected in connection with the 'Hobby-horse' festival by the young men of the town, who on the last eve of April month would go into the country, cut a quantity of blooming yellow furze, and gather the flowers then in season, make garlands of the same; borrow the largest spar they could get from the shipwright's yard, dress it up with the said furze and garlands, with a flag or two on the top, and hoist the pole in a conspicuous part of the town, when the 'Mayers,' male and female, would dance around it on that festival-day, singing-- 'And strew all your flowers, for summer is come in to-day. It is but a while ago since we have strewed ours In the merry morning of May,' &c. "The May-pole was allowed to remain up from a week to a fortnight, when it was taken down, stripped, and the pole returned."--(Henry Harding, Padstow, W. Antiquary, August, 1883.) "Formerly all the respectable people at Padstow kept this anniversary, decorated with the choicest flowers; but some unlucky day a number of rough characters from a distance joined in it, and committed some sad assaults upon old and young, spoiling all their nice summer clothes, and covering their faces and persons with smut. From that time--fifty years since--(1865) the procession is formed of the lowest. "The May-pole was once decorated with the best flowers, now with only some elm-branches and furze in blossom. The horse is formed as follows: The dress is made of sackcloth painted black--a fierce mask--eyes red, horse's head, horse-hair mane and tail; distended by a hoop--some would call it frightful. Carried by a powerful man, he could inflict much mischief with the snappers, &c. No doubt it is a remnant of the ancient plays, and it represents the devil, or the power of darkness. They commence singing at sunrise. 'THE MORNING-SONG. 'Unite and unite, and let us all unite, For summer is comen to-day; For whither we are going we all will unite, In the merry morning of May. 'Arise up, Mr. ----, and joy you betide, For summer is comen to-day; And bright is your bride that lays by your side, In the merry morning of May. 'Arise, up Mrs. ----, and gold be your ring, For summer is comen to-day; And give us a cup of ale, the merrier we shall sing In the merry morning of May. 'Arise up, Miss ----, all in your smock of silk, For summer is comen to-day; And all your body under as white as any milk, In the merry morning of May. 'The young men of Padstow might if they would, For summer is comen to-day; They might have built a ship and gilded her with gold, In the merry morning of May. 'Now fare you well, and we bid you good cheer, For summer is comen to-day; He will come no more unto your house before another year, In the merry morning of May.'" (George Rawlings, September 1st, 1865, through R. Hunt, F.R.S., Droles, &c., Old Cornwall.) Mr. Rawlings all through his song has written "For summer has come unto day," but this is clearly a mistake. He also gives another which he calls the "May-Song," but it is not as well worth transcribing: it bears in some parts a slight resemblance to that sung at the Helston Hal-an-tow. Mr. George C. Boase, in an article on "The Padstow May-Songs," has many additional verses in "The Morning-Song." He also gives "The Day-Song," sung in honour of St. George, of which I will quote the first verse, and the last paragraph of his paper. "Awake, St. George, our English knight O! For summer is a-come and winter is a-go, And every day God give us His grace, By day and by night O! Where is St. George, where is he O! He is out in his long boat, all on the salt sea O! And in every land O! the land that ere we go. Chorus--And for to fetch the summer home, the summer and the May O! For the summer is a-come and the winter is a-go, etc." The only account of "The Hobby-horse" found in the Cornish histories is in Hitchins and Drew's Cornwall (vol. i., p. 720; vol. ii., pp. 525, 529), where it is stated that there is a tradition of St. George on horseback having visited the neighbourhood of Padstow, where the indentation of his horse's hoofs caused a spring of water to arise. The spot is still known as St. George's well, and water is said to be found there even in the hottest summer.--(W. Antiquary.) In East Cornwall they have a custom of bathing in the sea on the three first Sunday mornings in May. And in West Cornwall children were taken before sunrise on those days to the holy wells, notably to that of St. Maddern (Madron), near Penzance, to be there dipped into the running water, that they might be cured of the rickets and other childish disorders. After being stripped naked they were plunged three times into the water, the parents facing the sun, and passed round the well nine times from east to west. They were then dressed, and laid by the side of the well, or on an artificial mound re-made every year, called St. Maddern's bed, which faced it, to sleep in the sun: should they do so and the water bubble it was considered a good sign. Not a word was to be spoken the whole time for fear of breaking the spell. A small piece torn (not cut) from the child's clothes was hung for luck (if possible out of sight) on a thorn which grew out of the chapel wall. Some of these bits of rag may still sometimes be found fluttering on the neighbouring bushes. I knew two well-educated people who in 1840, having a son who could not walk at the age of two, carried him and dipped him in Madron well (a distance of three miles from their home,) on the first two Sundays in May; but on the third the father refused to go. Some authorities say this well should be visited on the first three Wednesdays in May; as was for the same purpose another holy well at Chapel Euny (or St. Uny) near Sancred. The Wesleyans hold an open-air service on the first three Sunday afternoons in May, at a ruined chapel near Madron well, in the south wall of which a hole may be seen, through which the water from the well runs into a small baptistry in the south-west corner. Parties of young girls to this day walk there in May to try for sweethearts. Crooked pins, or small heavy things, are dropped into the well in couples; if they keep together the pair will be married; the number of bubbles they make in falling shows the time that will elapse before the event. Sometimes two pieces of straw formed into a cross, fastened in the centre by a pin, were used in these divinations. An old woman who lived in a cottage at a little distance formerly frequented the well and instructed visitors how to work the charms; she was never paid in money, but small presents were placed where she could find them. Pilgrims from all parts of England centuries ago resorted to St. Maddern's well: that was famed, as was also her grave, for many miraculous cures. The late Rev. R. S. Hawker, Vicar of Morwenstow, in East Cornwall, published a poem, called "The Doom Well of St. Madron," on one of the ancient legends connected with it. "A respectable tradesman's wife in Launceston tells me that the townspeople here say that a swelling in the neck may be cured by the patients going before sunrise on the first of May to the grave of the last young man (if the patient be a woman), to that of the last young woman (if a man) who had been buried in the churchyard, and applying the dew, gathered by passing the hand three times from the head to the foot of the grave, to the part affected by the ailment. I may as well add that the common notion of improving the complexion by washing the face with the early dew in the fields on the first of May prevails in these parts (East Cornwall), and they say that a child who is weak in the back may be cured by drawing him over the grass wet with the morning dew. The experiment must be thrice performed, that is, on the mornings of the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd of May."--(H. G. T., Notes and Queries, 14th December, 1850.) The 8th of May is at Helston given up to pleasure, and is known as Flora-day, Flurry-day, Furry-day, and Faddy. To "fade" meant in old English to dance from country to town. A legend says this day was set apart to commemorate a fight between the devil and St. Michael, in which the first was defeated. The name Helston has been fancifully derived from a large block of granite which until 1783 was to be seen in the yard of the Angel hotel, the principal inn of the place. This was the stone that sealed Hell's mouth, and the devil was carrying it when met by St. Michael. Why he should have burdened himself with such a "large pebble" (as Cornish miners call all stones) is quite unknown. The fight and overthrow are figured on the town-seal. The week before Flora-day is in Helston devoted to the "spring-clean," and every house is made "as bright as a new pin," and the gardens stripped of their flowers to adorn them. The revelry begins at day-break, when the men and maidservants with their friends go into the country to breakfast; these are the "Hal-an-tow." They return about eight, laden with green boughs, preceded by a drum and singing an old song, the first verses of which ran thus:-- "Robin Hood and Little John They both are gone to fair, O! And we will to the merry greenwood To see what they do there, O! And for to chase--O! To chase the buck and doe. Refrain--With Hal-an-tow! Rumbelow! For we are up as soon as any O! And for to fetch the summer home, The summer and the May O! For summer is a-come O! And winter is a-gone O! The whole of this song may be found with the music in the Rev. Baring Gould's "Songs of the West," and the first verse set to another tune in Specimens of Cornish Provincial Dialect, by Uncle Jan Trenoodle. (Sandys.) The Hal-an-tow are privileged to levy contributions on strangers coming into the town. Early in the morning merry peals are rung on the church-bells, and at nine a prescriptive holiday is demanded by the boys at the grammar-school. At noon the principal inhabitants and visitors dance through the town. The dancers start from the market-house, and go through the streets; in at the front doors of the houses that have been left open for them, ringing every bell and knocking at every knocker, and out at the back, but if more convenient they dance around the garden, or even around a room, and return through the door by which they entered. Sometimes the procession files in at one shop-door, dances through that department and out through another, and in one place descends into a cellar. All the main streets are thus traversed, and a circuit is made of the bowling-green, which at one end is the extreme limit of the town. Two beadles, their wands wreathed with flowers, and a band with a gaily-decorated drum, head the procession. The dance ends with "hands across" at the assembly room of the Angel hotel, where there is always a ball in the evening. Non-dancers are admitted to this room by a small payment (which must be a silver coin), paid as they go up the stairs either to the landlord or a gentleman,--one stands on each side of the door. The gentlemen dancers on entering pay for their partners, and by established custom, should they be going to attend the evening ball, they are bound to give them their tickets, gloves, and the first dance. The tradespeople have their dance at a later hour, and their ball at another hotel. The figure of the Furry dance, performed to a very lively measure, is extremely simple. To the first half of the tune the couples dance along hand-in-hand; at the second the first gentleman turns the second lady and the second gentleman the first. This change is made all down the set. Repeat. I have appended the tune, to which children have adopted the following doggerel:-- "John the bone (beau) was walking home, When he met with Sally Dover, He kissed her once, he kissed her twice, And he kissed her three times over." Some writers have made the mistake of imagining that the tune sung to the Hal-an-tow and the Furry dance are the same. Formerly, should any person in Helston be found at work on Flora-day, he was set astride on a pole, then carried away on men's shoulders to a wide part of the Cober (a stream which empties itself into Loe-pool close by), and sentenced to leap over it. As it was almost impossible to do this without jumping into the water, the punishment was remitted by the payment of a small fine towards the day's amusement. Others say the offender was first made to jump the Cober and then set astride on a pole to dry. In many of the villages around Helston the children, on Flora-day, deck themselves with large wreaths, which they wear over one shoulder and under the other arm; and at Porthleven I observed, in 1884, in addition to these wreaths, several children with large white handkerchiefs arranged as wimples, kept on their heads with garlands of flowers. One of the first objects on entering the village of St. Germans (East Cornwall) is the large walnut-tree, at the foot of what is called Nut-tree Hill. Many a gay May-fair has been witnessed by the old tree. In the morning of the 28th of the month splendid fat cattle from some of the largest and best farms in the county quietly chewed the cud around its trunk; in the afternoon the basket-swing dangled from its branches filled with merry, laughing boys and girls from every part of the parish. On the following day the mock mayor, who had been chosen with many formalities, remarkable only for their rude and rough nature, starting from some "bush-house" where he had been supping too freely of the fair-ale, was mounted on wain or cart, and drawn around it, to claim his pretended jurisdiction over the ancient borough, until his successor was chosen at the following fair. Leaving the nut-tree, which is a real ornament to the town, we pass by a spring of water running into a large trough, in which many a country lad has been drenched for daring to enter the town on the 29th of May without the leaf or branch of oak in his hat.--(R. Hunt, F.R.S., Drolls, &c., Old Cornwall.) The wrestlers of Cornwall and their wrestling-matches are still famous, and in the May of 1868 4,000 assembled one day on Marazion Green, and 3,000 the next, to see one. The wrestlers of this county have a peculiar grip, called by them "the Cornish-hug." Any odd, foolish game is in West Cornwall called a May-game (pronounced May-gum), also a person who acts foolishly; and you frequently hear the expression--"He's a reg'lar May-gum!" There is a proverb that says--"Don't make mock of a May-gum, you may be struck comical yourself one day." Whit-Sunday.--It was formerly considered very unlucky in Cornwall to go out on this day without putting on some new thing. Children were told that should they do so "the birds would foul them as they walked along." A new ribbon, or even a shoe-lace, would be sufficient to protect them. Whit-Monday is generally kept as a holiday, and is often made an excuse for another country excursion, which, if taken in the afternoon, ends at some farm-house with a tea of Cornish "heavy-cream cake," followed (in the evening) by a junket with clotted-cream. Carew speaks of a feast kept in his time on Whit-Monday at the "Church-house" of the different parishes called a "Church-ale." It was a sort of large picnic, for which money had been previously collected by two young men--"wardens," who had been previously appointed the preceding year by their last "foregoers." This custom has long ceased to exist. The Wesleyans (Methodists) in Cornwall hold an open-air service on Whit-Monday at Gwennap-pit. The pit is an old earth-round, excavated in the hill-side of Carn Marth, about three miles from the small village of Gwennap, and one from Redruth. This amphitheatre, which is then usually filled, is capable of holding from four to five thousand people, and is in shape like a funnel. It is encircled from the bottom to the top with eighteen turf-covered banks, made by cutting the earth into steps. It is admirably adapted for sound, and the voice of the preacher, who stands on one side, about half way up, is distinctly heard by the whole congregation. Wesley, when on a visit to Cornwall, preached in Gwennap-pit to the miners of that district, and this was the origin of the custom. Many excursion-trains run to Redruth on Whit-Monday, and a continuous string of vehicles of every description, as well as pedestrians, may be seen wending their way from the station to the pit, which is almost surrounded by "downs," and in a road close by rows of "standings" (stalls) are erected for the sale of "fairings." An annual pleasure-fair goes on at the same time at Redruth, and many avail themselves of the excursion-trains who have not the least intention of attending the religious service. "In Mid-Cornwall, in the second week of June, at St. Roche and in one or two adjacent parishes, a curious dance is performed at their annual 'feasts.' It enjoys the rather undignified name of 'Snails' creep,' but would be more properly called 'The Serpent's Coil.' "The following is scarcely a perfect description of it:--The young people being all assembled in a large meadow, the village band strikes up a simple but lively air, and marches forward, followed by the whole assemblage, leading hand-in-hand (or more closely linked in case of engaged couples), the whole keeping time to the tune with a lively step. The band or head of the serpent keeps marching in an ever-narrowing circle, whilst its train of dancing followers becomes coiled around it in circle after circle. It is now that the most interesting part of the dance commences, for the band, taking a sharp turn about, begins to retrace the circle, still followed as before, and a number of young men with long, leafy branches in their hands as standards, direct this counter-movement with almost military precision."--(W. C. Wade, W. Antiquary, April, 1881.) A game similar to the above dance is often played by Sunday-school children in West Cornwall, at their out-of-door summer-treats, called by them "roll-tobacco." They join hands in one long line, the taller children at the head. The first child stands still, whilst the others in ever-narrowing circles dance around singing, until they are coiled into a tight mass. The outer coil then wheels sharply in a contrary direction, followed by the remainder, retracing their steps. 23rd of June. In the afternoon of Midsummer-eve little girls may be still occasionally met in the streets of Penzance with garlands of flowers on their heads, or wreaths over one shoulder. This custom was, within the last fifty years, generally observed in West Cornwall. And in all the streets of our towns and villages groups of graceful girls, rich as well as poor, all dressed in white, their frocks decorated with rows of laurel-leaves ("often spangled with gold-leaf"--Bottrell), might in the afternoon have been seen standing at the doors, or in the evening dancing along with their brothers or lovers. In Penzance, and in nearly all the parishes of West Penwith, immediately after nightfall on the eves of St. John and St. Peter, the 23rd and 28th of June, lines of tar-barrels, occasionally broken by bonfires, were simultaneously lighted in all the streets, whilst, at the same time, bonfires were kindled on all the cairns and hills around Mount's Bay, throwing the outlines in bold relief against the sky. "Then the villagers, linked in circles hand-in-hand, danced round them to preserve themselves against witchcraft, and, when they burnt low, one person here and there detached himself from the rest and leaped through the flames to insure himself from some special evil. The old people counted these fires and drew a presage from them."--(Bottrell.) Regularly at dusk the mayor of Penzance sent the town-crier through the streets to give notice that no fireworks were allowed to be let off in the town; but this was done simply that he should not be held responsible if any accident happened, for he and all in Penzance knew quite well that the law would be set at defiance. Large numbers of men, women, and boys came up soon after from the quay and lower parts of the town swinging immense torches around their heads; these torches (locally known as "to'ches") were made of pieces of canvas about two feet square, fastened in the middle either to a long pole or a strong chain, dipped until completely saturated in tar. Of course they required to be swung with great dexterity or the holder would have been burnt. The heat they gave out was something dreadful, and the smoke suffocating. Most of the inhabitants dressed in their oldest clothes congregated in groups in the street, and a great part of the fun of the evening consisted in slyly throwing squibs amongst them, or in dispersing them by chasing them with hand-rockets. The greatest good humour always prevailed, and although the revellers were thickest in a small square surrounded by houses, some of them thatched, very few accidents have ever happened. A band stationed here played at intervals. No set-pieces were ever put off, but there were a few Roman-candles. Between ten and eleven a popular mayor might often have been seen standing in the middle of this square (the Green Market), encircled by about a dozen young men, each holding a lighted hand-rocket over the mayor's head. The sparks which fell around him on all sides made him look as if he stood in the centre of a fountain of fire. The proceedings finished by the boys and girls from the quay, whose torches had by this time expired, dancing in a long line hand in hand through the streets, in and out and sometimes over the now low burning tar-barrels, crying out, "An eye, an eye." At this shout the top couple held up their arms, and, beginning with the last, the others ran under them, thus reversing their position. A year or two ago, owing to the increasing traffic at Penzance, the practice of letting off squibs and crackers in the streets was formally abolished by order of the mayor and corporation. Efforts are still made and money collected for the purpose of reviving it, with some little success; but the Green Market is no longer the scene of the fun. A few boys still after dusk swing their torches, and here and there some of the old inhabitants keep up the custom of lighting tar-barrels or bonfires before their doors. A rite called the Bonfire Test was formerly celebrated on this night. Mr. R. Hunt, F.R.S., has described it in his Drolls, &c. Old Cornwall:--"A bonfire is formed of faggots of furze, ferns, and the like. Men and maidens, by locking hands, form a circle, and commence a dance to some wild native song. At length, as the dancers become excited, they pull each other from side to side across the fire. If they succeed in treading out the fire without breaking the chain, none of the party will die during the year. If, however, the ring is broken before the fire is extinguished, 'bad luck to the weak hands,' as my informant said (1865). All the witches in West Cornwall used to meet at midnight on Midsummer-eve at Trewa (pronounced Troway), in the parish of Zennor, and around the dying fires renewed their vows to their master, the Devil. Zennor boasts of some of the finest coast scenery in Cornwall, and many remarkable rocks were scattered about in this neighbourhood; several of them (as does the cromlech) still remain, but others have been quarried and carted away, amongst them one known as Witches' Rock, which if touched nine times at midnight kept away ill-luck, and prevented people from being 'over-looked' (ill-wished)." On Midsummer-day (June 24th) two pleasure fairs are held in Cornwall: one at Pelynt, in the eastern part of the county, where in the evening, from time immemorial, a large bonfire has been always lighted in an adjoining field by the boys of the neighbourhood (some writers fix on the summer solstice as the date of Pelynt fair, but this, I believe, is an error); and the second on the old quay at Penzance. It is called "Quay Fair," to distinguish it from Corpus Christi fair, another and much larger one held at the other extremity of the town, and which lasts from the eve of Corpus Christi until the following Saturday. Quay fair was formerly crowded by people from the neighbouring inland towns and villages; their principal amusement was to go out for a short row, a great number in one boat, the boatmen charging a penny a head. This was taking a "Pen'nord of Say." When not paid for, a short row is a "Troil." (Troil is Old-Cornish for a feast). Although this fair has not yet been discontinued, the number of those attending it grows less and less every year, and not enough money is taken to encourage travelling showmen to set up their booths. The old charter allowed the public-houses at the quay to keep open all night on the 24th of June, but such is no longer the case. Quay fair was sometimes known as Strawberry fair, and thirty years ago many strawberries were sold at it for twopence a quart. They were not brought to market in pottles, but in large baskets containing some gallons, and were measured out to the customers in a tin pint or quart measure. They were eaten from cabbage-leaves. Before the end of the day, unless there were a brisk sale, the fruit naturally got much bruised. They are still sold in the same way, but are not nearly as plentiful. Many of the strawberry fields, through which the public footpaths often went, have been turned up, and are now used for growing early potatoes. On St. John's-day Cornish miners place a green bough on the shears of the engine-houses in commemoration of his preaching in the wilderness. This day is with Cornish as with other maidens a favourite one for trying old love-charms. Some of them rise betimes, and go into the country to search for an even "leafed" ash, or an even "leafed" clover. When found, the rhymes they repeat are common to all England. An old lady, a native of Scilly, once gave me a most graphic description of her mother and aunt laying a table, just before midnight on St. John's-day, with a clean white cloth, knives and forks, and bread and cheese, to see if they should marry the men to whom they were engaged. They sat down to it, keeping strict silence-- "For, if a word had been spoken, The spell would have been broken." As the clock struck twelve, the door (which had purposely been left unbarred) opened, and their two lovers walked in, having, as they said, met outside, both compelled by irresistible curiosity to go and see if there were anything the matter with their sweethearts. It never entered the old lady's head that the men probably had an inkling of what was going on, and to have hinted that such was the case would, I am quite sure, have given dire offence. The following charm is from the W. Antiquary:--Pluck a rose at midnight on St. John's-day, wear it to church, and your intended will take it out of your button-hole.--(Old Farmer, Mid-Cornwall, through T. Q. Couch.) "It was believed that if a young maiden gathered a rose on Midsummer-day, and folding it in white paper, forbore to look at it or mention what she had done until the following Christmas-day, she would then find the flower fresh and bright; and further if she placed it in her bosom and wore it at church, the person most worthy of her hand would be sure to draw near her in the porch, and beseech her to give him the rose."--Neota--Launcells. Charlotte Hawkey. In connection with Midsummer bonfires, I mentioned those on St. Peter's-eve; although they are no longer lighted at Penzance, the custom (never confined to West Cornwall) is in other places still observed. Many of the churches in the small fishing villages on the coast are dedicated to this saint, the patron of fishermen, and on his tide the towers of these churches were formerly occasionally illuminated. On St. Peter's-eve, at Newlyn West, in 1883, many of the men were away fishing on the east coast of England, and the celebration of the festival was put off until their return, when it took place with more than usual rejoicings. The afternoon was given up to aquatic sports, and in the evening, in addition to the usual bonfires and tar-barrels, squibs, hand and sky-rockets were let off. The young people finished the day with an open-air dance, which ended before twelve. In this village effigies of objectionable characters, after they have been carried through the streets, are sometimes burnt in the St. Peter's bonfire. I have often in Cornwall heard red-haired people described "as looking as if they were born on bonfire night." At Wendron, and many other small inland mining villages, the boys at St. Peter's-tide fire off miniature rock batteries called "plugs." I must now again quote from Mr. T. Q. Couch, and give his account of how this day is observed at Polperro. "The patron saint of Polperro is St. Peter, to whom the church, built on the seaward hill (still called chapel hill) was dedicated. His festival is kept on the 10th of July (old style). At Peter's-tide is our annual feast or fair. Though a feeble and insignificant matter, it is still with the young the great event of the year. On the eve of the fair is the prefatory ceremony of a bonfire. The young fishermen go from house to house and beg money to defray the expenses. At nightfall a large pile of faggots and tar-barrels is built on the beach, and, amid the cheers of a congregated crowd of men, women, and children (for it is a favour never denied to children to stay up and see the bonfire), the pile is lighted. The fire blazes up, and men and boys dance merrily round it, and keep up the sport till the fire burns low enough, when they venturously leap through the flames. It is a most animated scene, the whole valley lit up by the bright red glow, bringing into strong relief front and gable of picturesque old houses, each window crowded with eager and delighted faces, while around the fire is a crowd of ruddy lookers-on, shutting in a circle of impish figures leaping like salamanders through the flames. "The next day the fair begins, a trivial matter, except to the children, who are dressed in their Sunday clothes, and to the village girls in their best gowns and gaudiest ribbons. Stalls, or 'standings,' laden with fairings, sweetmeats, and toys, line the lower part of Lansallos Street, near the strand. There are, besides, strolling Thespians; fellows who draw unwary youths into games of hazard, where the risk is mainly on one side; ballad-singers; penny-peep men, who show and describe to wondering boys the most horrid scenes of the latest murder; jugglers and tumblers also display their skill. In the neighbouring inn the fiddler plays his liveliest tunes at twopence a reel, which the swains gallantly pay. The first day of the fair is merely introductory, for the excitement is rarely allayed under three. The second day is much livelier than the first, and has for its great event the wrestling-match on the strand, or perhaps a boat-race. On the third day we have the mayor-choosing, never a valid ceremony, but a broad burlesque. The person who is chosen to this post of mimic dignity is generally some half-witted or drunken fellow, who, tricked out in tinsel finery, elects his staff of constables, and these, armed with staves, accompany his chariot (some jowster's huckster's cart, dressed with green boughs) through the town, stopping at each inn, where he makes a speech full of large promises to his listeners, of full work, better wages, and a liberal allowance of beer during his year of mayoralty. He then demands a quart of the landlord's ale, which is gauged with mock ceremony, and if adjudged short of measure is, after being emptied, broken on the wheel of the car. Having completed the perambulation of the town, his attendants often make some facetious end of the pageant by wheeling the mayor in his chariot with some impetus into the tide."--Polperro, 1871, pp. 156-159. The ceremony of choosing a mock mayor was also observed at Penryn (near Falmouth), but it took place in the autumn, on a day in September or October, when hazel-nuts were ripe, and "nutting day" was kept by the children and poor people. The journeymen tailors went from Penryn and Falmouth to Mylor parish, on the opposite side of the river Fal. There they made choice of the wittiest among them to fill that office. His title was the "Mayor of Mylor." When chosen, he was borne in a chair upon the shoulders of four strong men from his "goode towne of Mylor" to his "anciente borough of Penryn." He was preceded by torch-bearers and two town-sergeants, in gowns and cocked hats, with cabbages instead of maces, and surrounded by a guard armed with staves. Just outside Penryn he was met with a band of music, which played him into the town. The procession halted at the town-hall, where the mayor made a burlesque speech, often a clever imitation of the phrases and manners of their then sitting parliamentary representative. This speech was repeated with variations before the different inns, the landlords of which were expected to provide the mayor and his numerous attendants liberally with beer. The day's proceedings finished with a dinner at one of the public-houses in Penryn. Bonfires, &c., were lighted, and fireworks let off soon after dusk. It was popularly believed that this choosing of a mock mayor was permitted by a clause in the town charter. A festival, supposed to have been instituted in honour of Thomas-à-Beckett, called "Bodmin-Riding," was (although shorn of its former importance) until very recently held there on the first Monday and Tuesday after the 7th of July. In the beginning of this century all the tradespeople of the town, preceded by music and carrying emblems of their trades, walked in procession to the Priory. They were headed by two men, one with a garland and the other with a pole, which they presented and received back again from the master of the house as the then representative of the Prior. Mr. T. Q. Couch had the following description of this ceremony from those who took part in its latest celebration:-- "A puncheon of beer having been brewed in the previous October, and duly bottled in anticipation of the time, two or more young men, who were entrusted with the chief management of the affair, and who represented 'the Wardens' of Carew's Church-ales, went round the town (Bodmin) attended by a band of drummers and fifers, or other instruments. The crier saluted each house with--'To the people of this house, a prosperous morning, long life, health, and a merry riding.' The musicians then struck up the riding-tune, a quick and inspiriting measure, said by some to be as old as the feast itself. The householder was solicited to taste the riding-ale, which was carried round in baskets. A bottle was usually taken in, and it was acknowledged by such a sum as the means or humour of the townsmen permitted, to be spent on the public festivities of the season. Next morning a procession was formed (all who could afford to ride mounted on horse or ass, smacking long-lashed whips), first to the Priory to receive two large garlands of flowers fixed on staves, and then in due order to the principal streets to the town-end, where the games were formerly opened. The sports, which lasted two days, were of the ordinary sort--wrestling, foot-racing, jumping in sacks, &c. It is worthy of remark that a second or inferior brewing from the same wort was drunk at a minor merry-making at Whitsuntide."--(Popular Antiquities, Journal Royal Institute of Cornwall, 1864.) In former days the proceedings ended in a servants'-ball, at which dancing was kept up until the next morning's breakfast-hour. A very curious carnival was originally held under a Lord of Misrule, in July, on Halgaver Moor, near Bodmin, thus quaintly described by Carew:-- "The youthlyer sort of Bodmin townsmen vse to sport themselves by playing the box with strangers whom they summon to Halgauer. The name signifieth the Goat's Moore, and such a place it is, lying a little without the towne, and very full of quauemires. When these mates meet with any rawe seruing-man or other young master, who may serue and deserue to make pastime, they cause him to be solemnely arrested, for his appearance before the Maior of Halgauer, where he is charged with wearing one spurre, or going vntrussed, or wanting a girdle, or some such felony. After he had been arraygned and tryed, with all requisite circumstances, iudgement is given in formal terms, and executed in some one vngracious pranke or other, more to the skorne than hurt of the party condemned. Hence is sprung the prouerb when we see one slouenly appareled to say he shall be presented at Halgauer Court (or take him before the Maior of Halgauer). "But now and then they extend this merriment with the largest, to preiudice of ouer-credulous people, persuading them to fight with a dragon lurking in Halgauer, or to see some strange matter there, which concludeth at least with a trayning them into the mire."--(Survey of Cornwall.) Heath says in his Description of Cornwall, "These sports and pastimes were so liked by King Charles II., when he touched at Bodmin on his way to Scilly, that he became a brother of the jovial society." "Taking-day."--"An old custom, about which history tells us nothing, is still duly observed at Crowan, in West Cornwall. Annually, on the Sunday evening previous to Praze-an-beeble fair (July 16th) large numbers of the young folk repair to the parish church, and at the conclusion of the service they hasten to Clowance Park, where still large crowds assemble, collected chiefly from the neighbouring villages of Leeds-town, Carnhell-green, Nancegollan, Blackrock, and Praze. Here the sterner sex select their partners for the forthcoming fair, and, as it not unfrequently happens that the generous proposals are not accepted, a tussle ensues, to the intense merriment of passing spectators. Many a happy wedding has resulted from the opportunity afforded for selection on 'Taking-day' in Clowance Park."--(Cornishman, July, 1882.) At St. Ives, on the 25th July, St. James's-day, they hold a quiennial celebration of the "Knillian-games." These have been fully described by the late J. S. Courtney in his Guide to Penzance, as follows:-- "Near St. Ives a pyramid on the summit of a hill attracts attention. This pyramid was erected in the year 1782, as a place of sepulture for himself, by John Knill, Esq., some time collector of the Customs at St. Ives, and afterwards a resident in Gray's Inn, London, where he died in 1811. The building is commonly called 'Knill's Mausoleum'; but Mr. Knill's body was not there deposited, for, having died in London, he was, according to his own directions, interred in St. Andrew's church, Holborn. The pyramid bears on its three sides respectively the following inscriptions, in relief, on the granite of which it is built: 'Johannes Knill, 1782.' 'I know that my Redeemer liveth.' 'Resurgam.' On one side there is also Mr. Knill's coat-of-arms, with his motto, 'Nil desperandum.' "In the year 1797, Mr. Knill, by a deed of trust, settled upon the mayor and capital burgesses of the borough of St. Ives, and their successors for ever, an annuity of ten pounds, as a rent-charge, to be paid out of the manor of Glivian, in the parish of Mawgan, in this county, to the said mayor and burgesses in the town-hall of the said borough, at twelve o'clock at noon, on the feast of the Nativity of St. John (Midsummer-day) in every year; and, in default, to be levied by the said mayor and burgesses by distress on the said manor. The ten pounds then received are to be immediately paid by the mayor and burgesses to the mayor, the collector of customs, and the clergyman of the parish for the time being, to be by them deposited in a chest secured by three locks, of which each is to have a key; and the box is left in the custody of the mayor. "Of this annuity a portion is directed to be applied to the repair and support of the mausoleum; another sum for the establishment of various ceremonies to be observed once every five years; and the remainder 'to the effectuating and establishing of certain charitable purposes.'" The whole affair has, however, been generally treated with ridicule. In order, therefore, to show that Mr. Knill intended a considerable portion of his bequest to be applied to really useful purposes, we annex a copy of his regulations for the disposal of the money: "First. That, at the end of every five years, on the feast-day of St. James the Apostle, Twenty-five pounds shall be expended as follows, viz. Ten pounds in a dinner for the Mayor, Collector of Customs, and Clergyman, and two persons to be invited by each of them, making a party of nine persons, to dine at some tavern at the borough. Five pounds to be equally divided among ten girls, natives of the borough, and daughters of seamen, fishermen, or tinners, each of them not exceeding ten years of age, who shall between ten and twelve o'clock in the forenoon of that day dance, for a quarter of hour at least, on the ground adjoining the Mausoleum, and after the dance sing the 100th Psalm of the Old Version, 'to the fine old tune' to which the same was then sung in St. Ives church. "One pound to the fiddler who shall play to the girls while dancing and singing at the Mausoleum, and also before them on their return home therefrom. "Two pounds to two widows of seamen, fishermen, or tinners of the borough, being 64 years old or upwards, who shall attend the dancing and singing of the girls, and walk before them immediately after the fiddler, and certify to the Mayor, Collector, and Clergyman that the ceremonies have been duly performed. "One pound to be laid out in white ribbons for breast-knots for the girls and widows, and a cockade for the fiddler, to be worn by them respectively on that day and the Sunday following. One pound to purchase account-books from time to time and pay the Clerk of the Customs for keeping the accounts. The remaining Five pounds to be paid to a man and wife, widower, or widow, 60 years of age or upwards, the man being an inhabitant of St. Ives, and a seaman, fisherman, tinner, or labourer, who shall have bred up to the age of ten years and upwards, the greatest number of legitimate children by his or her own labour, care, and industry, without parochial assistance, or having become entitled to any property in any other manner. "Secondly. When a certain sum of money shall have accumulated in the chest, over and above what may have been required for repairs of the Mausoleum and the above payments, it is directed that on one of the fore-mentioned days of the festival 'Fifty' pounds shall be distributed in addition to the 'Twenty-five' pounds spent quiennially in the following manner; that is Ten pounds to be given as a marriage-portion to the woman between 26 and 36 years old, being a native of St. Ives, who shall have been married to a seaman, fisherman, tinner, or labourer, residing in the borough, between the 31st of December previously, and that day following the said feast-day, that shall appear to the Mayor, Collector, and Clergyman, the most worthy, 'regard being had to her duty and kindness to her parents, or to her friends who have brought her up.' "Five pounds to any woman, single or married, being an inhabitant of St. Ives, who in the opinion of the aforesaid gentlemen shall be the best knitter of fishing-nets. "Five pounds to be paid to the woman, married or single, inhabitant of St. Ives, or otherwise, who shall, by the same authorities, be deemed to be the best curer and packer of pilchards for exportation. "Five pounds to be given between such two follower-boys as shall by the same gentlemen be judged to have best conducted themselves of all the follower-boys in the several concerns, in the preceding fishing-season. (A follower is a boat that carries a tuck-net in pilchard-fishing.) "And Twenty-five pounds, the remainder of the said Fifty, to be divided among all the Friendly Societies in the borough, instituted for the support of the Members in sickness or other calamity, in equal shares. If there be no such Society, the same to be distributed among ten poor persons, five men and five women, inhabitants of the borough, of the age of 64 years or upwards, and who have never received parochial relief." The first celebration of the Knillian games, which drew a large concourse of people, took place in Knill's lifetime on July 25th, 1801. The chorus then sung by the 10 virgins was as follows:-- 'Quit the bustle of the bay, Hasten, virgins, come away: Hasten to the mountain's brow, Leave, oh! leave, St. Ives below. Haste to breathe a purer air, Virgins fair, and pure as fair. Quit St. Ives and all her treasures, Fly her soft voluptuous pleasures, Fly her sons and all the wiles Lurking in their wanton smiles; Fly her splendid midnight halls, Fly the revels of her balls, Fly, oh! fly, the chosen seat Where vanity and fashion meet! Thither hasten: form the ring, Round the tomb in chorus sing.' These games have been repeated every five years up to the present time. Morvah feast, which is on the nearest Sunday to the 1st August, is said to have been instituted in memory of a wrestling-match, throwing of quoits, &c., which took place there one Sunday, "when there were giants in the land." On the following Monday there was formerly a large fair, and although Morvah is a very small village without any attractions, the farmers flocked to it in great numbers to drink and feast, sitting on the hedges of the small fields common in West Cornwall. "Three on one horse, like going to Morvah Fair," is an old proverb. On August 5th a large cattle-fair is held in the village of Goldsithney, in the parish of Perran-Uthnoe. Lysons, in 1814, says:--"There is a tradition that this fair was originally held in Sithney, near Helston, and that some persons ran off with the glove, by the suspension of which to a pole the charter was held, and carried it off to this village, where, it is said, the glove was hung out for many years at the time of the fair. As some confirmation of the tradition of its removal it should be mentioned that the lord of the manor, a proprietor of the fair, used to pay an acknowledgment of one shilling per annum to the churchwardens of Sithney." The same author makes the statement that Truro fair, on November 19th, belongs to the proprietors of Truro Manor, as high lords of the town, and that a glove is hung out at this fair as at Chester; he also says that these same lords claim a tax called smoke-money from most of the houses in the borough. In Cornwall the last sheaf of corn cut at harvest-time is "the neck." This in the West is always cut by the oldest reaper, who shouts out, "I hav'et! I hav'et! I hav'et!" The others answer, "What hav'ee? What hav'ee? What hav'ee?" He replies, "A neck! A neck! A neck!" Then altogether they give three loud hurrahs. The neck is afterwards made into a miniature sheaf, gaily decorated with ribbons and flowers; it is carried home in triumph, and hung up to a beam in the kitchen, where it is left until the next harvest. Mr. Robert Hunt says that "after the neck has been cried three times they (the reapers) change their cry to 'we yen! we yen!' which they sound in the same prolonged and slow manner as before, with singular harmony and effect three times." After this they all burst out into a kind of loud, joyous laugh, flinging up their hats and caps into the air, capering about, and perhaps kissing the girls. One of them gets the "neck," and runs as hard as he can to the farm-house, where the dairy-maid or one of the young female domestics stands at the door prepared with a pail of water. If he who holds the "neck" can manage to get into the house in any way unseen, or openly by any other way than the door by which the girl stands with the pail of water, then he may lawfully kiss her; but if otherwise he is regularly soused with the contents of the bucket. The object of crying the "neck" is to give notice to the surrounding country of the end of the harvest, and the meaning of "we yen" is we have ended. The last sheaf of the barley-harvest (there is now but little grown) was the "crow-sheaf," and when cut the same ceremony was gone through; but instead of "a neck," the words "a crow" were substituted. When "the neck" is cut at the house of a squire, the reapers sometimes assemble at the front of the mansion and cry "the neck," with the addition of these words, "and for our pains we do deserve a glass of brandy, strong beer, and a bun."--(John Hills, Penryn, W. Antiquary, October, 1882.) In East Cornwall "the neck," which is made into a slightly different shape, is carried to the mowhay (pronounced mo-ey) before it is cried (a mowhay is an inclosure for ricks of corn and hay). One of the men then retires to a distance from the others and shouts the same formula. It is hung up in the kitchen until Christmas-day, when it is given to the best ox in the stalls. The harvest-home feast in the neighbourhood of Penzance goes by the name of "gool-dize," or "gool-an-dize." In Scilly it is known as the "nickly thize." Farmers there at that season of the year formerly killed a sheep, and as long as any portion of it was left the feast went on. Ricks of corn in Cornwall are often made, and left to stand in the "arish-fields" (stubble-fields) where they were cut. These are all called "arish-mows," but from their different shapes they have also the names of "brummal-mows" and "pedrack-mows." Probus and Grace fair is held on the 17th of September, through a charter granted by Charles II. after his restoration, to a Mr. Williams of that neighbourhood, with whom he had lived for some time during the Civil Wars. Probus is in East Cornwall, and its church is famed for its beautiful tower. Tradition has it that this church was built by Saint Probus, but for want of funds he could not add the tower, and in his need asked St. Grace to help him. She consented, but when the church was consecrated Probus praised himself, but made no mention of her. Then a mysterious voice was heard, repeating the following distich:-- "St. Probus and Grace, Not the first but the la-ast." This town, consequently, has two patron saints. I know of no other feasten ceremonies in this month; but here, as elsewhere, the children of the poor make up parties "to go a blackberrying." This fruit, by old people, was said not to be good after Michaelmas, kept by them 10th October (old style); after that date they told you the devil spat on them, and birds fouled them. I knew an old lady whose birthday falling on that day she religiously kept it by eating for the last time that year blackberry-tart with clotted cream. This brings me round to the month from which I started. Many of the feasts are of course omitted, as no local customs are now connected with them. There must be one for nearly every Sunday in the year, and a mere record of their names would be most wearisome. I cannot do better, therefore, than finish this portion of my work with two quotations. The first, from "Parochalia," by Mr. T. Q. Couch, Journal Royal Institute of Cornwall, 1865, runs thus:-- "The patron saint of Lanivet feast is not known; it is marked by no particular customs, but is a time for general visiting and merry-making, with an occasional wrestling-match. A local verse says:-- "On the nearest Sunday to the last Sunday in A-prel, Lanivet men fare well. On the first Sunday after the first Tuesday in May, Lanivrey men fare as well as they." In some parishes the fatted oxen intended to be eaten at these feasts were, the day before they were killed, led through the streets, garlanded with flowers and preceded by music. Quotation number two is what Carew wrote in 1569:-- "The saints' feast is kept upon dedication-day by every householder of the parish within his own doors, each entertayning such forrayne acquaintance as will not fayle when their like time cometh about to requite him with the like kindness." These remarks, and the jingling couplets, could be equally well applied to all the unmentioned feasts. LEGENDS OF PARISHES, ETC. Cornish people possess in a marked degree all the characteristics of the Celts. They are imaginative, good speakers and story-tellers, describing persons and things in a style racy and idiomatical, often with appropriate gestures. Their proverbs are quaint and forcible, they are never at a lack for an excuse, and are withal very superstitious. Well-educated people are still to be met with in Cornwall who are firm believers in apparitions, pixies (fairies, called by the peasantry pisgies), omens, and other supernatural agencies. Almost every parish has a legend in connection with its patron saint, and haunted houses abound; but of the ghosts who inhabit them, unless they differ from those seen elsewhere, I shall say but little. This county was once the fabled home of a race of giants, who in their playful or angry moments were wont to hurl immense rocks at each other, which are shown by the guides at this day as proofs of their great strength. To illustrate how in the course of time truth and fiction get strangely mingled, I will mention the fact that old John of Gaunt is said to have been the last of these giants, and to have lived in a castle on the top of Carn Brea (a high hill near Redruth). He could stride from thence to another neighbouring town, a distance of four miles. I do not know if he is supposed to be the one that lies buried under this mighty carn, and whose large protruding hand and bony fingers time has turned to stone. Here, too, in the dark ages, a terrific combat took place between Lucifer and a heavenly host, which ended in the former's overthrow. A small monument has been erected on Carn Brea, to the memory of Lord de Dunstanville; and I once heard an old woman, after cleaning a room, say, "It was fine enough for Lord de Dunstanville." Every child has heard of Jack the Giant Killer, who, amongst his other exploits, killed by stratagem the one who dwelt at St. Michael's Mount: "I am the valiant Cornishman Who slew the giant Cormoran." He did not however confine himself to this neighbourhood, for of an ancient earth-work near Looe, known as the "Giant's Hedge," it is said:-- "Jack the giant had nothing to do, So he made a hedge from Lerrin to Looe." But the sayings and doings of these mighty men have been told far better than I could tell them in Mr. Halliwell Phillipps' book, Rambles in West Cornwall by the Footsteps of the Giants; Mr. Robert Hunt's Drolls, Traditions, and Superstitions of West Cornwall; Mr. Bottrell's Hearthside Stories of West Cornwall; and by many other writers. Tourists visit West Cornwall to see the Land's End and its fine coast scenery, and express themselves disappointed that none of the country people in that district know anything of King Arthur. They forget that Uther's [3] heir was washed up to Merlin's feet by a wave at the base of "Tintagel Castle by the Cornish sea," which is in the eastern part of the county. This castle was built on one of the grandest headlands in Cornwall (slate formation). The ruins of King Arthur's Castle are most striking. They are situated partly on the mainland and partly on a peninsula, separated by a ravine, once said to have been spanned by a drawbridge connecting the two. The ascent of this promontory, owing to the slippery nature of the path cut in the friable slate, is far from pleasant; and, as there was a stiff breeze blowing when I mounted it, I thought old Norden was right when he said: "Those should have eyes who would scale Tintagel." You are, however, amply repaid for your trouble when you get to the top. In addition to telling you of the grandeur of the castle in good King Arthur's days, the guides show you some rock basins to which they have given the absurd names of "King Arthur's cups and saucers." Tradition assigns to this king another Cornish castle as a hunting-seat, viz.--the old earth-round of Castle-an-dinas, near St. Columb, from whence it is said he chased the wild deer on Tregoss Downs. A dreary drive through slate-quarries takes you from Tintagel to Camelford. Near that town is Slaughter Bridge, the scene of a great battle between King Arthur and his nephew Modred, whom by some writers he is said to have killed on the spot; others have it that Arthur died here of a wound from a poisoned arrow shot by Modred, and that, after receiving his death wound at Camelford, he was conveyed to Tintagel Castle, where, surrounded by his knights, he died. All the time he lay a-dying supernatural noises were heard in the castle, the sea and winds moaned, and their lamentations never ceased until our hero was buried at Glastonbury. Then, in the pauses of the solemn tolling of the funeral bells, sweet voices came from fairy-land welcoming him there, from whence one day he will return and again be king of Cornwall. No luck follows a man who kills a Cornish chough (a red legged crow), as, after his death, King Arthur was changed into one. "In the parish of St. Mabyn, in East Cornwall, and on the high road from Bodmin to Camelford, is a group of houses (one of them yet a smith's shop), known by the name of Longstone. The legend which follows gives the reason of the name: "In lack of records I may say: 'In the days of King Arthur there lived in Cornwall a smith. This smith was a keen fellow, who made and mended the ploughs and harrows, shod the horses of his neighbours, and was generally serviceable. He had great skill in farriery, and in the general management of sick cattle. He could also extract the stubbornest tooth, even if the jaw resisted, and some gyrations around the anvil were required. "'There seems ever to have been ill blood between devil and smith, and so it was between the fiend and the smith-farrier-dentist of St. Mabyn. At night there were many and fierce disputes between them in the smithy. The smith, as the rustics tell, always got the advantage of his adversary, and gave him better than he brought. This success, however, only fretted Old Nick, and spurred him on to further encounters. What the exact matter of controversy on this particular occasion was is not remembered, but it was agreed to settle it by some wager, some trial of strength and skill. A two-acred field was near; and the smith challenged the devil to the reaping of each his acre in the shortest time. The match came off, and the devil was beaten, for the smith had beforehand stealthily stuck here and there over his opponent's acre some harrow-tines or teeth. "'The two started well, but soon the strong swing of the fiend's scythe was brought up frequently by some obstruction, and as frequently he required the whetstone. The dexterous and agile smith went on smoothly with his acre, and was soon unmistakeably gaining. The devil, enraged at his certain discomfiture, hurled his whetstone at his rival, and flew off. The whetstone, thrown with great violence, after sundry whirls in the air, fell upright into the soil at a great depth, and there remained a witness against the Evil One for ages. The devil avoided the neighbourhood whilst it stood, but in an evil hour the farmer at Treblethick, near, threw it down. That night the enemy returned, and has haunted the neighbourhood ever since. "'This monolith was of granite, and consequently brought hither from a distance, for the local stone is a friable slate. It yielded four large gate-posts, gave spans to a small bridge, and left much granite remaining.'"--T. Q. Couch, Notes and Queries, April, 1883. Upon St. Austell Down is an upright block of granite, called "the giant's staff, or longstone," to which this legend is attached:--"A giant, travelling one night over these hills, was overtaken by a storm, which blew off his hat. He immediately pursued it; but, being impeded by a staff which he carried in his hand, he thrust this into the ground until his hat could be secured. After wandering, however, for some time in the dark, without being able to find his hat, he gave over the pursuit and returned for the staff; but this also he was unable to discover, and both were irrevocably lost. In the morning, when the giant was gone, his hat and staff were both found by the country people about a mile asunder. The hat was found on White-horse Down, and bore some resemblance to a mill-stone, and continued in its place until 1798, when, some soldiers having encamped around it, they fancied, it is said, as it was a wet season, this giant's hat was the cause of the rain, and therefore rolled it over the cliff. The staff, or longstone, was discovered in the position in which it remains; it is about twelve feet high, and tapering toward the top, and is said to have been so fashioned by the giant that he might grasp it with ease."--Murray's Guide. There is another longstone in the parish of St. Cleer, [4] about two miles north of Liskeard, which bears an inscription to Doniert (Dungerth), a traditional king of Cornwall, who was drowned in 872. In fact, these "menhirs," supposed to be sepulchral monuments, are to be found scattered all over the county. The following curious bit of folk-lore appeared in the Daily News of March 8th, 1883, communicated by the Rev. J. Hoskyns Abrahall, Coombe Vicarage, near Woodstock:--"A friend of mine, who is vicar of St. Cleer, in East Cornwall, has told me that at least one housemaid of his--I think his servants in general--very anxiously avoided killing a spider, because Parson Jupp, my friend's predecessor (whom he succeeded in 1844), was, it was believed, somewhere in the vicarage in some spider--no one knew in which of the vicarage spiders." Spiders are often not destroyed because of the tradition that one spun a web over Christ in the manger, and hid him from Herod. There are other superstitions current in Cornwall somewhat similar to the above. Maidens who die of broken hearts, after they have been deceived by unfaithful lovers, are said to haunt their betrayers as white hares. The souls of old sea-captains never sleep; they are turned into gulls and albatrosses. The knockers (a tribe of little people), who live underground in the tin-mines, are the spirits of the Jews who crucified our Saviour, and are for that sin compelled on Christmas morning to sing carols in his honour. "Jew" is a name also given to a black field-beetle (why, I know not). It exudes a reddish froth: country children hold it on their hands and say, "Jew! Jew! spit blood!" "A ghost at Pengelly, in the parish of Wendron, was compelled by a parson of that village after various changes of form to seek refuge in a pigeonhole, where it is confined to this day."--Through Rev. S. Rundle. After this digression I will return to St. Cleer, and, beginning with its holy well, briefly notice a few others. It is situated not far from the church, and was once celebrated as a "boussening," or ducking-well for the cure of mad people. Considerable remains of the baptistery, which formerly enclosed it, are still standing, and outside, close by, is an old stone cross. Carew says,--"There were many bowssening places in Cornwall for curing mad people, and amongst the rest one at Alter Nunne, in the hundred of Trigges, called S. Nunne's well, and because the manner of this bowssening is not so vnpleasing to heare as it was vneasie to feele, I wil (if you please) deliuer you the practise, as I receyued it from the beholders. The water running from S. Nunne's well fell into a square and close-walled plot, which might be filled at what depth they listed. Vpon this wall was the franticke person set to stand, his backe toward the poole, and from thence with a sudden blow in the brest, tumbled headlong into the pond, where a strong fellowe, provided for the nonce, tooke him and tossed him vp and downe, alongst and athwart the water, vntill the patient by foregoing his strength had somewhat forgot his fury. Then was hee conueyed to the church and certain Masses sung ouer him; vpon which handling if his wits returned S. Nunne had the thanks: but if there appeared small amendment, he was bowssened againe and againe, while there remayned in him any hope of life for recouery." The same writer says of Scarlet's "well neare vnto Bodmin, howbeit the water should seem to be healthfull, if not helpfull: for it retaineth this extraordinary quality, that the same is waightier than the ordinary of his kind, and will continue the best part of a yeere without alteration or sent or taste, only you shall see it represent many colours, like the Rain-bowe which (in my conceite) argueth a running throu some minerall veine and therewithall a possessing of some vertue." I must give one more quotation from Carew before I finish with him, about a well at Saltash:--"I had almost forgotten to tell you that there is a well in this towne whose water will not boyle peason to a seasonable softnes." The holy wells in Cornwall are very numerous; the greater part were in olden times enclosed in small baptisteries. Luckily the poor people believe that to remove any of the stones of the ruins of these chapels would be fatal to them and to their children, and for that reason a great number yet remain. It is considered unlucky, too, to cart away any of the druidical monuments ("pieces of ancientcy"), and many are the stories told of the great misfortunes that have fallen on men who have so done. The innocent oxen or horses who drag them away are always sure to die, and their master never prosper. Persistent ill-luck also follows any one defiling these wells; and a tradition is current in one of the "West Country" parishes, of a gentleman, who, after he had washed his dogs, afflicted with the mange, in its holy well, fell into such poverty that his sons were obliged to work as day labourers. Mr. T. Q. Couch, in Notes and Queries, vol. x., gives this legend in connection with St. Nunn's well in Pelynt:--"An old farmer once set his eyes upon the granite basin and coveted it; for it was not wrong in his eyes to convert the holy font to the base uses of the pig's stye; and accordingly he drove his oxen and wain to the gateway above for the purpose of removing it. Taking his beasts to the entrance of the well, he essayed to drag the trough from its ancient bed. For a long time it resisted the efforts of the oxen, but at length they succeeded in starting it, and dragged it slowly up the hill-side to where the wain was standing. Here, however, it burst away from the chains which held it, and, rolling back again to the well, made a sharp turn and regained its old position, where it has remained ever since. Nor will any one again attempt its removal, seeing that the farmer, who was previously well-to-do in the world, never prospered from that day forward. Some people say, indeed, that retribution overtook him on the spot, the oxen falling dead, and the owner being struck lame and speechless." This St. Nunn's well is not the "boussening" well formerly mentioned, but another dedicated to the same saint, and is resorted to as a divining and wishing well; it is commonly called by the people of that district the "Piskies' well." Pins are thrown into it, not only to see by the bubbles which rise on the water whether the wisher will get what he desires, but also to propitiate the piskies and to bring the thrower good luck. This county has many other divining wells which were visited at certain seasons of the year by those anxious to know what the future would bring them. Amongst them the Lady of Nant's well, in the parish of Colan, was formerly much frequented on Palm Sunday, when those who wished to foretell their fate threw into the water crosses made of palms. There was once in Gulval parish, near Penzance, a well which was reported to have had great repute as a divining well. People repaired to it to ask if their friends at a distance were well or ill, living or dead. They looked into the water and repeated the words: "Water, water, tell me truly, Is the man that I love duly On the earth, or under the sod, Sick or well? in the name of God." Should the water bubble up quite clear, the one asked for was in good health; if it became puddled, ill; and should it remain still, dead. Of the wells of St. Roche, St. Maddern (now Madron), and St. Uny, I have spoken in the first part of this work. The waters from several wells are used for baptismal rites (one near Laneast is called the "Jordan"), and the children baptized with water from the wells of St. Euny (at the foot of Carn Brea, Redruth) and of Ludgvan (Penzance), &c., it was asserted could never be hanged with a hempen rope; but this prophecy has unfortunately been proved to be false. The water from the latter was famed too as an eye-wash, until an evil spirit, banished for his misdeeds by St. Ludgvan, to the Red Sea, spat into it from malice as he passed. The Red Sea is the favourite traditional spot here for the banishment of wicked spirits, and I have been told stories of wicked men whose souls, immediately after their death, were carried off to well-known volcanoes. Almost all these holy wells were once noted for the curing of diseases, but the water from St. Jesus' well, in Miniver, was especially famed for curing whooping-cough. St. Martin's well, in the centre of Liskeard at the back of the market, known as "Pipe Well," from the four iron pipes through which four springs run into it, was formerly not only visited for the healing qualities of its chief spring, but for a lucky stone that stood in it. By standing on this stone and drinking of the well's water, engaged couples would be happy and successful in their married life. It also conferred magical powers on any person who touched it. The stone is still there, but has now been covered over and has lost its virtue. The saints sometimes lived by the side of the holy wells named after them, notably St. Agnes (pronounced St. Ann), who dyed the pavement of her chapel with her own blood. St. Neot in whose pool were always three fish on which he fed, and whose numbers never grew less. [5] St. Piran, the titular saint of tin-miners, who lived 200 years and then died in perfect health. Of these three saints many miraculous deeds are related; but they would be out of place in this work, and I will end my account of the wells by a description of St. Keyne's, more widely known outside Cornwall through Southey's ballad than any of the others. It is situated in a small valley in the parish of St. Neot, and was in the days of Carew and Norden arched over by four trees, which grew so closely together that they seemed but one trunk. Both writers say the trees were withy, oak, elm, and ash (by withy I suppose willow was meant). They were all blown down by a storm, and about 150 years ago, Mr. Rashleigh, of Menabilly, replaced them with two oaks, two elms, and one ash. I do not know if they are living, but Mr. J. T. Blight in 1858, in his book on Cornish Crosses, speaks of one of the oaks being at that time so decayed that it had to be propped. The reputed virtue of the water of St. Keyne's well is, (as almost all know), that after marriage "whether husband or wife come first to drink thereof they get the mastery thereby."--Fuller. "In name, in shape, in quality, This well is very quaint; The name, to lot of 'Kayne' befell, No ouer--holy saint. "The shape, four trees of diuers kinde, Withy, oke, elme, and ash, Make with their roots an arched roofe, Whose floore this spring doth wash. "The quality, that man or wife, Whose chance or choice attaines, First of this sacred streame to drinke, Thereby the mastry gaines."--Carew. Southey makes a discomfited husband tell the story, who ends thus: "I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i'faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church." St. Keyne not only thus endowed her well, but during her stay at St. Michael's Mount she gave the same virtue to St. Michael's chair. This chair is the remains of an old lantern on the south-west angle of the tower, at a height of upwards of 250 feet from low water. It is fabled to have been a favourite seat of St. Michael's. Whittaker, in his supplement to Polwhele's History of Cornwall, says, "It was for such pilgrims as had stronger heads and bolder spirits to complete their devotions at the Mount by sitting in this St. Michael's chair and showing themselves as pilgrims to the country round;" but it most probably served as a beacon for ships at sea. To get into it you must climb on to the parapet, and you sit with your feet dangling over a sheer descent of at least seventy feet; but to get out of it is much more difficult, as the sitter is obliged to turn round in the seat. Notwithstanding this, and the danger of a fall through giddiness, which, of course, would be certain death, for there is not the slightest protection, I have seen ladies perform the feat. Curiously enough Southey has also written a ballad on St. Michael's chair, but it is not as popular as the one before quoted; it is about "Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife," "a terrible shrew was she." In pursuance of a vow made when Richard "fell sick," they went on a pilgrimage to the Mount, and whilst he was in the chapel, "She left him to pray, and stole away To sit in St. Michael's chair. "Up the tower Rebecca ran, Round and round and round; 'Twas a giddy sight to stand atop And look upon the ground. "'A curse on the ringers for rocking The tower!' Rebecca cried, As over the church battlements She strode with a long stride. "'A blessing on St. Michael's chair!' She said as she sat down: Merrily, merrily rung the bells, And out Rebecca was thrown. "Tidings to Richard Penlake were brought That his good wife was dead; 'Now shall we toll for her poor soul The great church bell?' they said. "'Toll at her burying,' quoth Richard Penlake, 'Toll at her burying,' quoth he; 'But don't disturb the ringers now In compliment to me.'" Old writers give the name of "Caraclowse in clowse" to St. Michael's Mount, which means the Hoar Rock in the Wood; and that it was at one time surrounded by trees is almost certain, as at very low tides in Mount's Bay a "submarine forest," with roots of large trees, may still be clearly seen. At these seasons branches of trees, with leaves, nuts, and beetles, have been picked up. Old folks often compared an old-fashioned child to St. Michael's Mount, and quaintly said, "she's a regular little Mount, St. Michael's Mount will never be washed away while she's alive." Folk-lore speaks of a time when Scilly was joined to the mainland, which does not seem very improbable when we remember that within the last twenty-five years a high road and a field have been washed away by the sea between Newlyn and Penzance. An old lady, whose memory went back to the beginning of the present century, told me that she had often seen boys playing at cricket in some fields seaward of Newlyn, of which no vestige in my time remained. But the Lyonnesse, as this tract of land (containing 140 parish churches) between the Land's End and Scilly was called, and where, according to the Poet Laureate, King Arthur met his death-wound, "So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea, Until King Arthur's Table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their lord, King Arthur...." is reputed to have been suddenly overwhelmed by a great flood. Only one man of all the dwellers on it is said to have escaped death, an ancestor of the Trevilians (now Trevelyan). He was carried on shore by his horse into a cove at Perran. Alarmed by the daily inroad of the sea, he had previously removed his wife and family. Old fishermen of a past generation used to declare that on clear days and moonlight nights they had often seen under the water the roofs of churches, houses, &c., of this submerged district. Whether the memory of this flood is perpetuated by the old proverb, "As ancient as the floods of Dava," once commonly current in West Cornwall, but which I have not heard for years, I know not, as I have never met with any one who could tell me to what floods it referred. Tradition also speaks of a wealthy city in the north of Cornwall, called Langarrow, which for its wickedness was buried in sand, driven in by a mighty storm. All that coast as far west as St. Ives is sand, known as "Towans," and the sand is always encroaching. There is a little church now near Padstow, dedicated to St. Enodock, which is often almost covered by the shifting drifts. It is in a solitary situation, and service is only held there once a year, when a path to it has to be cut through the sand. It is said that the clergyman, in order to keep his emoluments and fees, has been sometimes obliged to get into it through a window or hole in the roof. About eight miles from Truro is the lost church of Perranzabuloe, which for centuries was supposed to have been a myth, but the shifting of the sand disclosed it in 1835. In Hayle Towans is buried the castle of Tendar, the Pagan chief who persecuted the Christians, and in the neighbouring parish of Lelant that of King Theodrick, who, after beheading, in Ireland, many saints, crossed over to Cornwall on a millstone. Many of the Cornish saints are reputed to have come into Cornwall in the same way as this king; but St. Ia, the patron saint of St. Ives, chose a frailer vessel. She crossed from Ireland on a leaf. The afore-mentioned lost city was most likely a very small place, as I asked an old woman three or four years ago, who lived not far from the little village of Gwithian, where I could get something I wanted, and she told me, "In the city." The bay between this place and St. Ives (St. Ives Bay) has the reputation of being haunted at stormy times before a shipwreck by a lady in white, who carries a lantern. At Nancledra, a village near St. Ives, was formerly a logan rock, which could only be moved at midnight; and children were cured of rickets by being placed on it at that hour. It refused to rock for those who were illegitimate. Not far from here is Towednack, and there is a legend to the effect that the devil would never allow the tower of its church to be completed, pulling down at night what had been built up in the day. When a person makes an incredible statement he is in West Cornwall told "To go to Towednack quay-head where they christen calves." (No part of this parish touches the sea.) Mr. Robert Hunt records a curious test of innocency which, not long since, was practised in this parish. "A farmer in Towednack having been robbed of some property of no great value was resolved, nevertheless, to employ a test which he had heard the 'old people' resorted to for the purpose of catching the thief. He invited all his neighbours into his cottage, and, when they were assembled, he placed a cock under the 'brandice' (an iron vessel, formerly much employed by the peasantry in baking when this process was carried out on the hearth, the fuel being furze and ferns). Every one was directed to touch the brandice with his, or her, third finger, and say: 'In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, speak.' Every one did as they were directed, and no sound came from beneath the brandice. The last person was a woman, who occasionally laboured for the farmer in his fields. She hung back, hoping to pass unobserved amongst the crowd. But her very anxiety made her a suspected person. She was forced forward, and most unwillingly she touched the brandice, when, before she could utter the words prescribed, the cock crew. The woman fell faint on the floor, and when she recovered, she confessed herself to be the thief, restored the stolen property, and became, it is said, 'a changed character from that day.'" The following was told me by a friend. It took place in a school of one of our western parishes about sixty years ago:--"It was in the days of quill pens, and the master had lost his penknife. Every boy pleaded not guilty. At twelve the master said no boy should leave the school for half-an-hour, when he would return and see if they had found his knife. The door was locked, and at the appointed time he came back with a small, round table, on which he had inverted a 'half-strike' (4 gallons) measure. The table was placed in the middle of the gangway; the master stood by the side of it, and asked if they had found his knife. All said 'No!' 'Well then,' answered he, 'come out slowly one at a time and let each touch this measure with the right forefinger, and the bantam-cock under it will crow at the thief.' The boys went out boldly, as they passed touching the tub, but the master missed one whom from the first he had suspected. He again locked the door, searched the rooms, and there, under a desk, not in his own place, he found the boy hiding. He began to cry, confessed the theft, and gave up the knife." Another test of innocency, practised in bygone days, was to kindle a fire on one of the table-mên (large flat stones), so common in villages in West Cornwall. A stick lit at this was handed to the accused, who had to put out the fire by spitting on it. It is well-known that fear dries up saliva. It is still supposed in remote districts that no one can bear witness to a misdemeanour, seen through glass. I will describe another rough ordeal before I go on to the legends of the Land's End district. It is called "Riding the hatch," or "heps" (a half-door often seen at small country shops). Any man formerly accused of immorality was brought before a select number of his fellow parishioners, and by them put to sit astride the "heps," which was shaken violently backwards and forwards: if he fell into the house he was judged innocent; but out on the road, guilty. When any one has been brought before his superiors and remanded he is still figuratively said "to have been made to ride the 'heps.'" Hands are washed, as by Pontius Pilate, to clear a person from crime, and to call any one "dirty-fingered" is to brand him as a thief. On a bench-end in Zennor church there is a very singular carving of a mermaid. To account for it Zennor folks say that hundreds of years ago a beautifully-attired lady, who came and went mysteriously, used occasionally to attend their church and sing so divinely that she enchanted all who heard her. She came year after year, but never aged nor lost her good looks. At last one Sunday, by her charms, she enticed a young man, the best singer in the parish, to follow her: he never returned, and was heard of no more. A long time after, a vessel lying in Pendower cove, into which she sailed one Sunday, cast her anchor, and in some way barred the access to a mermaid's dwelling. She rose up from the sea, and politely asked the captain to remove it. He landed at Zennor, and related his adventure, and those who heard it agreed that this must have been the lady who decoyed away the poor young man. Not far from St. Just is the solitary, dreary cairn, known as Cairn Kenidzhek (pronounced Kenidjack), which means the "hooting cairn," so called from the unearthly noises which proceed from it on dark nights. It enjoys a bad reputation as the haunt of witches. Close under it lies a barren stretch of moorland, the "Gump," over it the devil hunts at night poor lost souls; he rides on the half-starved horses turned out here to graze, and is sure to overtake them at a particular stile. It is often the scene of demon fights, when one holds the lanthorn to give the others light, and is also a great resort of the pixies. Woe to the unhappy person who may be there after night-fall: they will lead him round and round, and he may be hours before he manages to get out of the place away from his tormentors. Here more than once fortunate persons have seen "the small people" too, at their revels, and their eyes have been dazzled by the sight of their wonderful jewels; but if they have ever managed to secrete a few, behold next morning they were nothing but withered leaves, or perhaps snail-shells. "Sennen Cove was much frequented by mermaids. This place was also resorted to by a remarkable spirit called the Hooper--from the hooping, or hooting sounds it was accustomed to make. In old times, according to tradition, a compact cloud of mist often came in from over the sea, when the weather was by no means foggy, and rested on the rocks called Cowloc, thence it spread itself like a curtain of cloud quite across Sennen Cove. By night a dull light was mostly seen amidst the vapour, with sparks ascending as if a fire burned within it: at the same time hooping sounds were heard proceeding therefrom. People believed the misty cloud shrouded a spirit, which came to forewarn them of approaching storms, and that those who attempted to put to sea found an invisible force--seemingly in the mist--to resist them. A reckless fisherman and his son, however, disregarding the token, launched their boat and beat through the fog with a "threshal" (flail); they passed the cloud of mist which followed them, and neither the men nor the hooper were ever more seen in Sennen Cove. This is the only place in the county where any tradition of such a guardian spirit is preserved."--Bottrell. The same author tells a story of a reputed astrologer called Dionysius Williams, who lived in Mayon, in Sennen, a century ago. He found his furze-rick was diminishing faster than it ought, and discovered by his art that some women in Sennen Cove were in the habit of taking it away at night. The very next night, when all honest folks should be in bed, an old woman from the Cove came as was her wont to his rick for a "burn" [6] of furze. She made one of no more than the usual size but could not lift it, neither could she after she had lightened her "burn" by half. Frightened, she tried to take out the rope and run away, but she could neither draw it out nor move herself. Of course Mr. Williams had put a spell upon her, and there she had to remain in the cold all night. He came out in the morning and released her, giving her, as she was poor, the furze. Neither she nor the other women ever troubled him again. Before proceeding any further, to make an allusion in the next legend intelligible, I must say something about Tregeagle (pronounced Tregaygle), the Cornish Bluebeard, who was popularly supposed to have sold his soul to the devil, that his wishes might be granted for a certain number of years; and who, in addition to several other crimes, is accused of marrying and murdering many rich heiresses to obtain their money. One day, just before his death, he was present when one man lent a large sum to another without receiving receipt or security for it (the money was borrowed for Tregeagle). Soon after Tregeagle's death the borrower denied that he had ever had it, and the case was brought into Bodmin Court to be tried, when the defendant said, "If Tregeagle ever saw it I wish to God that Tregeagle may come into court and declare it." No sooner were the words spoken than Tregeagle appeared, and gave his witness in favour of the plaintiff, declaring "that he could not speak falsely; but he who had found it so easy to raise him would find it difficult to lay him." The money was paid, but the wretched man was followed night and day by the spirit, and great labour had the parsons and wise men before they could finally rid him of his tormentor. There are many versions of this transaction. Tregeagle himself is said in another to have received the money for an estate of which he was steward, and not to have entered it in his books. His ghost was doomed to do many impossible things, such as to empty Dosmery pool, near Bodmin Moor, with a limpet shell that had a hole in the bottom. This pool had the reputation, too, of being bottomless; but it has lately been cut into and drained by the workers of the granite quarries. Strange tales are told in that neighbourhood of his appearing to people, and of his dismal howls at not being able to fulfil his tasks. Mothers all over Cornwall when their children are loudly crying may be often heard to declare "that they are roaring worse than Tregeagle." "A tradition of the neighbourhood says that on the shores of this lonely mere (Dosmery pool) the ghosts of bad men are ever employed in binding the sand in bundles with 'beams' (bands) of the same. These ghosts, or some of them, were driven out (they say horsewhipped out) by the parson from Launceston."--H. G. T. Notes and Queries, December, 1850. Tregeagle had also to remove the sand from one cove to another, where the sea always returned it. It was on one of these expeditions that either by accident or design he dropped a sackful at the mouth of Loe-pool, near Helston. (When in wet seasons the waters of this pool rise to such a height as to obstruct the working of the mills on its banks, and heavy seas have silted up the sand at its mouth, the Mayor of Helston presents by ancient custom two leather purses containing three halfpence each as his dues to the lord of Penrose who owns Loe-pool, and asks for permission to cut a passage through the bar to the sea). Another of Tregeagle's tasks is to make and carry away a truss of sand bound with a rope of sand from Gwenvor (the cove at Whitsand Bay) near the Land's End. But his unquiet spirit finds no rest, for whilst he is trying to do his never-ending work the devil hunts him from place to place, until he hides for refuge in a hermit's ruined chapel on St. Roche's rocks (East Cornwall). When the sea roars before a storm, people in the Land's End district say "Tregeagle is calling," and often, too, his voice may be heard lamenting around Loe-pool. [7] The substance of the following I had from a Penzance man (H. R. C.), to whom I must own I am indebted for much information about Cornish folk-lore. All his life he has in his business mingled with the peasantry of West Cornwall, and, unlike myself, he comes from a long line of Cornishmen. "You know Gwenvor Sands, in Whitsand Bay, at the Land's End, and have heard of the unresting spirit of Tregeagle, by whom that spot is haunted. He foretells storms, and calls before the wind reaches home. I have often heard him howling before a westerly hurricane in the still of midnight at my house in Penzance, a distance of ten miles." Tradition tells that on these sands, many centuries ago, some foreigners landed, and fought a great battle with the inhabitants, under King Arthur, on Vellan-drucher Moor. "Where Madron, Gulval, and Zennor meet, there is a flat stone where Prince Arthur and four British kings dined, and the four kings collected the native Cornish who fought under them at the battle of Vellan-drucher."--(Bottrell.) This was long before the Spaniards (pronounced Spanyers) in 1595 came ashore at the same place from a galley "high by day" (in broad daylight), and burnt Vellan-dreath, a mill close by. These foreigners are popularly supposed to be red-haired Danes, and they stayed so long "that the birds built in the rigging of their ships." In all the western parishes of Cornwall there has existed time out of mind a great antipathy to certain red-haired families, who are said to be their descendants, and, much to their disgust, they are often hailed as Danes (pronounced Deanes). Indeed this dislike was carried so far that few would allow any members of their families to intermarry with them. In addition to the usual country gossip in the beginning of this century amongst the women of this district whilst knitting at their doors (for the Cornish are famous "knitsters"), or sitting round "breeding" (netting) fishing-nets, they had one never-failing topic of conversation in their fears that the foreigners would land once more on Gwenvor Sands, or at Priest's Cove, [8] in Pendeen, near St. Just. Who these strangers were to be they were not at all sure, but they knew that the red-haired Danes were to come again, when Vellan-drucher (a water mill-wheel) would once more be worked with blood, and the kings for the last time would dine around the Garrick Zans (Table Mên); and the end of the world would come soon after: for had not Merlin so prophesied more than a thousand years ago? Garrick Zans is the old name for a large flat stone, the Table Mên (pronounced Mayon), at Sennen, near the Land's End, and seven mythical Saxon kings are said to have dined at it when on a visit to Cornwall, A.D. 600. "Around it old folk went nine times daily, from some notion that is was lucky and good against witchcraft."--(Bottrell.) Off the Land's End is a very striking rock rising out of the sea. It is known as the Irish Lady, from the fact that an Irish vessel was once wrecked on it, and out of all on board one poor lady alone managed to scramble up to the top; but no boat could get to her, and, exhausted by fatigue, she fell into the water, and was drowned. Her spirit still haunts the spot. This is most probably a fanciful tale, as the rock bears some resemblance to a human figure. "During a dreadful thunderstorm and hurricane on the 30th January, 1648, the day on which King Charles was beheaded, a large stone figure of a man, called the 'Armed Knight,' which stood in an upright position at the extremity of the Land's End, forty fathoms above the level of the sea, was thrown down. On the same day a ship riding in St. Ives Bay, having on board the king's wardrobe and other furniture belonging to the royal family, bound for France, broke from her moorings, and ran ashore on the rocks of Godrevy Island, where all on board, about sixty persons, were drowned, except one man and a boy."--G. S. Gilbert's Cornwall. The name of Armed Knight has been transferred to another pile of rocks off the Land's End. The "stone figure" thrown down was most probably a natural formation, as one of the rocks there now bears the fanciful name of Dr. Johnson's Head, from a supposed likeness. Other versions of this legend say "that the Armed Knight was only ninety feet high, with an iron spire on its top." Porthgwarra in olden times was known as Sweethearts' Cove from the following circumstance: The daughter of a well-to-do farmer loved a sailor, who was once one of her father's serving-men. Her parents, especially her mother, disapproved of the match; and when the young man returned from sea and came to see his sweetheart, he was forbidden the house. The lovers however met, and vowed to be true to each other, Nancy saying, "That she would never marry any other man," and William, "That, dead or alive, he would one day claim her as his bride." He again went to sea, and for a long time no tidings came, neither from nor of him. Poor Nancy grew melancholy, and spent all her days, and sometimes nights, looking out seaward from a spot on the cliff, called then Nancy's Garden, now Hella Point. She gradually became quite mad; and one night fancied she heard her lover tapping at her bed-room window, and calling her to come out to him, saying: "Sleepest thou, sweetheart? Awaken, and come hither, love. My boat awaits us at the cove. Thou must come this night, or never be my bride." She dressed, went to the cove, and was never seen again. Tradition says that the same night William appeared to his father, told him that he had come for his bride, and bade him farewell; and that next day the news arrived of his having been drowned at sea. Bottrell gives this legend under the title of "The Tragedy of Sweet William and Fair Nancy." Not far from the parish of St. Levan is a small piece of ground--"Johanna's Garden," which is fuller of weeds than of flowers. The owner of it was one Sunday morning in her garden gathering greens for her dinner, when she saw St. Levan going by to catch some fish for his. He stopped and greeted her, upon which she reproved him for fishing on a Sunday, and asked him what he thought would be his end if he did so. He tried to convince her that it was not worse than picking greens, but she would not listen to reason. At last St. Levan lost patience, and said, "From this time for ever thou shalt be known, if known at all, as the Foolish Johanna, and thy garden shall ever continue to bear, as now, more hemlocks and nettles than leeks and lentils. Mark this! to make thy remembrance the more accursed for all time to come, if any child of thy name be baptised in the waters of Parchapel-well (close at hand) it shall become a fool, like thyself, and bad luck follow it."--Bottrell. There is a cleft-stone in St. Levan churchyard called St. Levan's stone; but it is said to have been venerated in the days of King Arthur; and Merlin, who once visited these parts with him, uttered this prophecy concerning it:-- "When, with panniers astride, A pack-horse can ride Through St. Levan's stone, The world will be done." Unless some earthquake splits it further the world will last thousands of years longer. On an almost inaccessible granite peak seaward of the pile of rocks known as Castle Treryn (pronounced Treen), once the haunt and meeting-place of witches, on the summit of which is perched the far-famed Cornish logan-rock, is a sharp peak with a hole in it, large enough to insert a hand. At the bottom lay an egg-shaped stone, traditionally called the key of the castle, which, although easily shifted, had for ages defied all attempts at removal. It was said that should any one ever succeed in getting it out, Castle Treryn--in fact the whole cairn--would immediately disappear. It was unfortunately knocked out by the men who replaced the logan-rock, thrown down by Lieutenant Goldsmith. Its position was often altered by heavy seas, and from it the old folk formerly foretold the weather. In Buryan parish, named after an Irish saint, a king's daughter, who came into Cornwall with some of her companions in the fifth century, is the famous circle of Dawns Myin, or the Merry Maidens, originally consisting of nineteen upright stones. They are nineteen maidens, who for their sin of dancing on a Sunday were all turned into stone. Two mênhirs in a neighbouring field are the pipers, who at the same time suffered the same fate. Of these and other stone circles an old writer says, "No man when counting them can bring the stones twice the same number." Not far from Buryan, between Sennen and Penzance, is a very solitary weird spot--a disused Quakers' burial-ground. In its lonely neighbourhood is sometimes seen by a privileged few, "high by day," the spirit of a huntsman, followed by his dogs. He is dressed in the hunting costume of bygone ages; he suddenly appears (for neither his horse's hoofs nor his dogs' feet make any sound), jumps over an adjacent hedge, and is as suddenly lost to view. I do not know if tradition has ever connected this huntsman with Wild Harris of Kenegie, [9] who was killed when hunting by a fall from his horse--it was frightened by a white hare, the spirit of a deserted maiden, which crossed its path. His ghost, in his hunting-dress, appeared standing at the door of his house the night he was buried--the funeral, according to an old custom, had taken place at midnight. For years after he might be met in the vicinity of his home, and he and his boon companions were often heard carousing at nights in a summer-house on the bowling-green. Few then cared to pass Kenegie after dark, for his was said not to be the only spirit that haunted the place. Wild Harris's ghost was finally laid to rest by a famous ghost-laying parson, and put as a task to count the blades of grass nine times in an enclosure on the top of Castle-an-Dinas, an old earth fortification near where he is said to have met his death. [10] Ghosts only "walk" (appear) in the parish where their bodies were buried. On the opposite side of Buryan to the Quakers' burial-ground is the parish of Paul (St. Pol-de-Leon). Its church was burnt by the Spaniards in 1595. They landed on a rock, said to have been named after Merlin--Merlin's car, and marched from Paul to Penzance, which they also fired in several places. I am afraid the inhabitants did not make a very bold stand against them; for Merlin had prophesied centuries before-- "That they should land on the rock of Merlin, Who would burn Paul, Penzance, and Newlyn." And this caused them to lose courage, and falsify the old proverb: "Car and Pen, Pol and Tre, Would make the devil run away." Close by the highway, where the Buryan road joins the high-road from Paul to Penzance, is a smoothly-cut, conical granite stone, popularly supposed to have been placed there in memory of some woman who was found murdered at that spot, with nothing on to identify her, and with only a thimble and ring in her pocket. It really marks the place where an ancient gold ring, three inches and a half in diameter, bearing the motto, "In hac spe vivo," was discovered in 1781. In the same parish, a short walk from this place, are some Druidical remains, which have the curious name of "Kerris roundago." Some stones taken from it to repair Penzance pier were fatal to the horses who drew them, although they were young and healthy. In the adjacent parish of Newlyn, a fishing village, the favourite resort of artists, a great deal of gossiping on summer evenings goes on around the small wells (here called peeths), whilst the women wait patiently for each in turn to fill her earthen pitchers; some of the most industrious bring their knitting in their pockets with them. Opposite one of these wells, towering over St. Peter's church, is a striking pile of rocks, "Tolcarn." On the summit are some curious markings in the stones, which, when a child, I was told were the devil's footprints; but the following legend, which I give on the authority of the Rev. W. S. Lach-Szyrma, Vicar of St. Peter's, is quite new to me:-- "The summit of the rock is reticulated with curious veins of elvan, about which a quaint Cornish legend relates that the Bucca-boo, or storm-god of the old Cornish, once stole the fishermen's net. Being pursued by Paul choir, who sang the Creed, he flew to the top of Paul hill and thence over the Coombe to Tolcarn, where he turned the nets into stone." We have now reached the town of Penzance, and through its streets folks of the last generation often heard rumbling at midnight an old-fashioned coach drawn by headless horses; or saw a procession of coffins slowly wending its way to the churchyard. It was unlucky to meet this, as death was sure soon to follow, and tradition speaks of a woman who accidentally struck against one and died in the same night. A coach with headless horses and coachman, also just before Christmas, went through the streets of Penryn; this coachman had the power of spiriting away people who met and stared at him, unless they turned their heads and averted the evil by some mystical signs. In Penzance town were many haunted houses, but space will only allow of my noticing a few. One in Chapel Street (formerly Our Lady's Street) was tenanted by the spirit of Mrs. Baines, an eccentric old lady. At the back of her house was a very fine orchard well stocked with fruit-trees, which the boys were too fond of visiting. She determined at last that her gardener should watch for them, armed with an old blunderbuss, charged with peas and small shot. She gave him strict orders should he see any one, to say one, two, three, and then fire. He watched two nights, but the boys were too cunning for him, and still the fruit went. On the third, Mrs. Baines, thinking to catch him napping, went herself into the garden and began to shake the apples down from one of the trees. Some say that the man recognised his mistress, and, vexed at her suspecting him, said one, two, three, as quickly as he could utter the words, and fired; others, that he was sleeping, and awakened by the noise she made, shot her by mistake, exclaiming, "I know-ee, you thief, I do; now I'll sarve-ee out, I will." Terrified after he had done the deed, he ran off into the country and there hid himself for some days. The poor old lady was more frightened than hurt, and all the shot were successfully extracted by her doctor; but very soon after this adventure she died. From this time her house and grounds began to have an evil reputation; Mrs. Baines's ghost, dressed in antiquated garb, a quaint lace cap on her powdered hair, lace ruffles hanging from her sleeves, and a short mode mantle over her shoulders, was often seen walking in the gardens or standing under an apple-tree, leaning on the gold-headed cane she always carried. Indoors, too, her high-heeled shoes were plainly heard night after night tapping on the floors as she paced up and down the rooms, which noise was often varied by the whirring of her spinning-wheel. For some time the house was unoccupied, now it is divided into two, and the ghost has been laid to rest. But long after Mrs. Baines ceased to appear her wheel was heard. At last it was discovered that some leather, which had been nailed around a door to keep out draughts, was loose in places, and that the whistling of the wind through this made the peculiar sound. Mr. Bottrell says "that her spirit was laid by a parson, whose name he thinks was Singleton, and he succeeded in getting her away to the Western Green (west of Penzance), which was then spread over many acres of land, where the waves now roll. [11] Here this powerful parson single-handed bound her to spin from the banks, ropes of sand for the term of a thousand years, unless she, before that time, spun a sufficiently long and strong one to reach from St. Michael's Mount to St. Clement's Isle (across the bay)." About a stone's throw from Mrs. Baines's house, on an eminence above Quay street, stood in her days Penzance Chapel of Ease (for Penzance was then in Madron parish), called our Lady's or St. Mary's Chapel. On the same site was built, in 1835, the present parish church of St. Mary's. Here, in the memory of a few who still survive, a gentleman in the early part of this century did penance, and afterwards walked from thence through the streets to his house, wrapped in a sheet, with a lighted taper in his hand. It was usual then, as now, for the Mayor and Corporation of Penzance, with the mace-bearers and constables, to go once a month in state to church. Before the reading of the first lesson the mace-bearers left, and visited the public-houses, in order to see that they were shut during service time. When the sermon began they came back and returned to their seats in order to be in readiness to escort the Mayor home. Quay street was once the most fashionable part of Penzance, but the large houses are now divided into smaller tenements; in some of them bits of finely-moulded ceilings, &c., still exist. One of the houses reputed to have been haunted was torn down in 1813, when the skeleton of a man was found built into a wall. It was, of course, put down to be the sailor's whose spirit was so often seen there, and who (tradition said) had been murdered in that house for the sake of his money. It was well known that he had brought back great riches from foreign parts. There is a myth that Sir Walter Raleigh landed at Penzance Quay when he returned from Virginia, and on it smoked the first tobacco ever seen in England, but for this statement I believe there is not the slightest foundation. Several western ports, both in Devon and Cornwall, make the same boast. It is a fact, however, that the news of Nelson's death was first heard here. It was brought into the port by two fishermen, who had it from the crew of a passing vessel. A small company of strolling actors were playing that night at the little theatre then standing over some stables in Chapel street, and the play was stopped for a few moments whilst one of the actors told the audience. Another haunted house, at the opposite side of Penzance, is celebrated in a poem called "The Petition of an Old Uninhabited House," written and published in 1811, by the Rev. C. V. Le Grice, who was then Vicar of Madron. He was a friend of Charles Lamb, who mentions him in his "Essay on Christ's Hospital." About this house a lady once told me a strange story, that I will relate. Forty years ago, she, a perfect stranger to the place, never having been in Penzance before, came to it with her husband and her first child, for she was then a young wife. As they meant to settle in the town, they went to this hotel, where they intended staying until they could get a suitable house. On the evening of their arrival, her husband having gone out, she sat alone before the fire nursing her child, when she suddenly saw a little old man, in a very old-fashioned dress, come into the room. He sat down in a chair near her, looked steadfastly into the fire, and, after some time, without saying a word, he rose and left. On her husband's return, she told him of her queer visitor. The next morning they made enquiries about him, and found that the hotel had been built on the site of the old uninhabited house; that nearly the whole of it had been destroyed, but a few of the best rooms remained; and that they were in a haunted chamber. She declared that she could never sleep there another night, and, temporarily, they engaged some furnished lodgings. These old rooms are now pulled down and billiard and other rooms cover the place where they stood. Outside the boundary-stone, west of Penzance, stands, in its own grounds, a house to which additions have been made by many succeeding generations. Tradition, of course, gave it a ghost. With the other members of my family I lived there for several years, but none of us ever saw it. I am bound, however, to state that we never slept in the haunted chamber. For a short period it was occupied by a groom, who one morning came to me with a very long face, and said he dared not sleep there any more, for some mysterious being came night after night, and pulled all the bed-clothes off him; rather than do so, he would sleep in the harness-room. Still further west of Penzance is a much larger house, to which, like the former, many additions have been made. And up its avenue, after dark, a carriage may be often heard slowly making its way until it reaches the hall-door, where it stops. In this house, about sixty years ago, lived, in very great style, a gentleman, who was a regular autocrat, and of him one of his old servants related to me this anecdote, which is curious as an illustration of the manners of those times. When in his employ, he gave an answer to some question, which afterwards his master discovered to be an untruth. The next Sunday he made him, as the congregation came out, stand at Madron church door, by a tombstone covered with loaves of bread. Of these, he had to give one to each poor person that passed, and say, in an audible tone, "I, William ----, last week told my master a lie." Mr. G. B. Millett, in his Penzance Past and Present, gives a tale well known in this district, about the drinking habits of our ancestors, which, as I am now on the subject of manners, I will quote. "A particular gentleman, not far from Penzance, loved good liquor, and one evening had gathered some of his jovial companions together, determined to make a night of it. His wife, having had some experience of such gatherings before, with wise precaution, saw as much wine taken out of the cellar as she thought would be good for her husband and his friends. Then, safely locking the strong oak door, she put the key in her pocket, and announced her intention of spending the evening with some lady friends. The hours were passing pleasantly away, and, with a smile of inward satisfaction, she was congratulating herself upon the success of her forethought, when a heavy stumbling noise was heard upon the stairs, and shortly afterwards two burly footmen staggered into the room, groaning under the weight of a ponderous cellar door, with its posts and lintel, which had been sent by their master for the mistress to unlock." The manor of Conerton, which at one time nearly included the whole of West Penwith, had many privileges in Penzance. Before the days of county courts the lord held a monthly court here for the trial of small cases not criminal. Its prison, a wretched place (visited by Howard), no longer exists, but people were confined there early in this century--sometimes for long periods. I was once shown a beautiful patchwork quilt made by a poor woman, who had been imprisoned for debt. Until within the last fifty years every butcher in Penzance market had to pay to the bailiff of this manor at Christmas a marrow-bone or a shilling. The first butcher who refused to pay it also defied one of the bye-laws of the market that compelled them to wear white sleeves over their blue blouses. He was brought before the magistrates, and declared "that he would be incarcerated before he would do it." The following is a favourite story handed down amongst the butchers from father to son. A solicitor in Penzance had a very large dog that was in the habit of coming into their market and stealing joints of meat from the stalls. One day one of them went to the lawyer, and said,--"Please sir, could I sue the owner of a dog for a leg of mutton stolen from my stall?" "Certainly, my good man." "Then, please sir, the dog is yours, and the price of the mutton is 4s. 6d." The money was paid, and the man was going away in triumph, when he was called back by these words: "Stay a moment, my good man, a lawyer's consultation is 6s. 8d., you owe me the difference:" which sum the discomfited butcher had to pay. Every stream in Cornwall however small is called a river (pronounced revvur). One flows into the sea west of Penzance, between it and Newlyn, known as Laregan, and another at the east in Gulval parish, as Ponsandane river. There is an old rhyme about them that runs thus: "When Ponsandane calls to Laregan river, There will be fine weather. But we may look for rain When Laregan calls to Ponsandane." Years ago there was a marsh between Penzance and Newlyn, now covered by the sea, known to the old people as the "Clodgy;" when the sea moaned there they said, "Clodgy is calling for rain." Sometimes at the present day it is "Bucca" is calling, Bucca being the nickname in Penzance for the inhabitants of Newlyn. "Penzance boys up in a tree, Looking as wisht (weak, downcast) as wisht can be; Newlyn 'Buccas,' strong as oak, Knocking them down at every poke." The weather at Mount's Bay is also foretold by the look of the Lizard land, which lies south: "When the Lizard is clear, rain is near." The marsh on Marazion Green still exists, and not many years ago no one cared to cross it after nightfall, especially on horseback, for at a certain spot close by the marsh a white lady was sure to arise from the ground, jump on the rider's saddle, and, like the "White Lady of Avenel," ride with him pillion-fashion as far as the Red river [12] that runs into the sea just below the smelting-works at Chyandour, a suburb of Penzance. The last person who saw her was a tailor of this town, who died in 1840. He was commonly called "Buck Billy," from his wearing till the day of his death a pigtail, a buff waistcoat, and a blue coat with yellow buttons. Marazion, or Market-jew, which latter is a corruption of its old Cornish name, Marghaisewe, meaning a Thursday's market, is a small town exactly opposite St. Michael's Mount. Until its present church was built its mayor sat in a very high seat with his back against a window. This is the origin of the Cornish proverb: "In your own light, like the mayor of Market-jew." This mayor is jokingly said to have three privileges. The first is, "That he may sit in his own light;" the second, "Next to the parson;" and the third, "If he see a pig in a gutter he may turn it out and take its place." [13] In the churchyard of the neighbouring parish of St. Hilary is a monument to the Rev. John Penneck, M.A., who, in the early part of the last century, was Chancellor of Exeter Cathedral. His ghost is very eccentric, sometimes getting into a passion, and on these occasions raising a great storm of wind. In the parish of Breage, near the sea, about four miles from Marazion, are the ruins of Pengersick Castle, of which only some fragments of walls and a square tower now stand. Some of the upper rooms in the latter have fallen in, and they are all in a state of decay. The lower have oak-panels curiously carved and painted, but time has almost effaced the designs. The most perfect is one representing "Perseverance," under which are the following lines: "What thing is harder than the rock? What softer is than water cleere? Yet wyll the same, with often droppe, The hard rock perce as doth a spere. Even so, nothing so hard to attayne, But may be hadde, with labour and payne." So many are the legends told of the former inhabitants of Pengersick, that it would be almost impossible at this date to decide which is the original. These ruins stand on the site of a much older castle, and in it dwelt, far back in the dark ages, a very wicked man, who, when he was fighting in foreign parts, forgetting his wife at home, courted a king's daughter, who gave him a magic sword, which ensured in every battle the victory to its owner. He deceived and left her; but she, with her son in her arms, followed him to his home by the Mount. There she met him, and upbraided him with his cruelty, and in a fit of passion he threw them both into the sea. The lady was drowned, and after her death she was changed into a white hare, which continually haunted the old lord; but her boy was picked up alive by a passing ship. The lord's wife afterwards died, and he married again a woman as bad as himself, reputed to be a witch, who was very cruel to her step-son, who lived with his father at the castle. One night there was a great storm in Mount's Bay, and the young man went down to the shore to see if there were any vessels in distress, and spied on the beach an almost exhausted sailor, who had been washed in by the waves, and whom he bade his servants carry to his home, and put into his own bed. When he revived, all were struck by the marvellous resemblance to the young heir; and they conceived a great affection for each other. Together they went to Marazion to see if they could find the vessel from whose deck the stranger had fallen into the sea. It was safe in harbour, and the captain, whom the sailor had always thought to be his father, told him then for the first time, "How, when he was an infant, he had rescued him from drowning where last night he had nearly lost his life." Thus they were discovered to be brothers, and a day or two after, when out hunting, guided by the white hare, they accidentally came upon the miraculous sword that had disappeared when his mother was drowned. Then these two brothers sailed away from Cornwall, and dwelt in peace in the land of a strange princess; where the Cornishman studied, under a celebrated master, astrology and all other occult sciences. After some time the old lord of Pengersick met his death in this wise: As he was riding out one fine morning, the white hare suddenly sprang up in front of his horse and startled it, so that it ran madly with its rider into the sea, where both were swallowed up. When this news was brought to him, the Cornishman bade his brother an affectionate farewell, and, with his wife, a learned princess, went back to Pengersick, where they lived happily for several generations, for amongst many other wonderful things, the young lord had discovered an elixir of life which, had they so wished, would have kept them alive to the present day. (See Bottrell.) In addition to being well versed in occult lore, Pengersick's wife was a fine musician; she could with her harp charm and subdue evil spirits, and compel the fish in Mount's Bay, also the mermaids who then dwelt there, to come out of the sea. Another account of the old lord's death says that he and a party of his friends were dining in his yacht around a silver table when she went down, and all on board perished. This happened off Cudden Point, which juts into the sea just opposite Pengersick. Children living there formerly used to go down to the beach at low water to try and find this silver table. (A ship laden with bullion is reported to have been lost here in the time of Queen Elizabeth.) "The present castle," one tradition says, "was built in the reign of Henry VIII. by a merchant who had acquired immense wealth beyond the seas, and who loaded an ass with gold, and broke its back. He sold the castle to a Mr. Milliton, who, having slain a man, shut himself up in it to escape punishment." Another legend says that Sir William Milliton built it, and, soon after its completion, married a very rich but extremely ugly and shrewish woman, of whom he tried by various ways to rid himself but in vain. One day, after a desperate quarrel, he begged her forgiveness, and asked her, in proof of having pardoned him, to sup with him that evening in a room overlooking the sea. She agreed; and at the conclusion of the feast they pledged each other in goblets of rich wine. Then Sir William's looks altered, and, in a fierce voice, he said, "Woman, now prepare for death! You have but a short time to live, as the wine that you have just drunk was poisoned." "Then we die together," she answered, "for I had my suspicions, and mixed the contents of the goblets." Up to this time the moon, which was at its full, had been shining brightly through the open windows, for it was a warm summer night, when suddenly a frightful storm of thunder and lightning arose, the winds lashed the waves to fury, and the moon was darkened. The servants, alarmed by this, and the unearthly fiendish yells that came from the banqueting hall, rushed upstairs, and there found the bodies of their master and mistress dead on the floor; and through the open window they saw, by the light of the moon which for a moment shone through a rift in the clouds, their souls borne away on the wings of a demon in the shape of a bird. The original name of Breage parish was Pembro; but St. Breaca, hearing that the inhabitants were at a loss to raise the money for a peal of bells, offered to extricate them from their difficulty on condition that they should call the parish after her. The condition was accepted, the bells were hung, and the parish henceforth was known as that of St. Breage.--Through Rev. S. Rundle. St. Germoe (Geronicus) an Irish king, who was converted to Christianity in the fifth century, is said to have been the foster-son of Breaca (or Breage), with whom he crossed over into Cornwall where they settled. Two churches in adjoining parishes are dedicated to them; St. Germoe is reputed to have been the founder of his, and there is a curious structure at the north-east of the churchyard, known as St. Germoe's chair or King Germoe's throne. "There is more than one story attached to this chair. One is to the effect that the saint sat in the central chair with two assessors, one on either side of him; another legend is that the priests rested in the chair; whilst a third is that pilgrims to the tomb of the saint also rested therein. Be that as it may, however, it is possible that this is a shrine, and that the body of St. Germoe rests underneath it."--Rev. W. A. Osborne, Transactions Penzance Natural History Society, 1886, 1887. At Great Work Mine (Huel Vor) near by, a narrow level (not far down) is still thought to have been made by Christian slaves, when the first church at Germoe was built. "Germoe, little Germoe lies under a hill, When I'm in Germoe I count myself well; True love's in Germoe, in Breage I've got none, When I'm in Germoe I count myself at home."-- Through Rev. S. Rundle. All Cornishmen at one time were supposed to be "wreckers," and from the peninsular-shape of their county came the proverb, "'Tis a bad wind that blows no good to Cornwall." But the dwellers in Breage and Germoe must in olden times, from the following distich, have been held in worse repute than their neighbours: "God keep us from rocks and shelving sands, And save us from Breage and Germoe men's hands." The most noted and daring Cornish smuggler of the last century, Coppinger, a Dane, lived on the north coast, and of him a legendary catalogue of dreadful tales is told, all to be found in the Rev. R. S. Hawker's book, the Footprints of Former Men in Far Cornwall. He lays the scene of his exploits in the neighbourhood of Hartland Bay, my informant near Newquay. He swam ashore here in the prime of life, in the middle of a frightful storm, from a foreign-rigged vessel that was seen in the offing, and of which nothing more was ever heard or known. Wrapped in a cloak, that tradition says he tore from off the shoulders of an old woman who was on the beach, he jumped up behind a farmer's daughter, who had ridden down to see the wreck, and was by her taken to her father's house, where he was fed, clothed, and most hospitably received. He was a fine, handsome, well-built man, and gave himself out to be most highly connected in his own country. He soon won the young woman's affections, and at her father's death, which took place not long after, he easily induced her to marry him; but it was far from a happy union. Luckily they had but one child--a deaf and dumb idiot, who had inherited his father's cruel disposition, and delighted in torturing all living things. It is even said that he cunningly killed one of his young playmates. Coppinger, after his marriage, organized a band of smugglers, and made himself their captain; and quickly through his misdeeds earned the title of cruel Coppinger. One legend relates that he once led a Revenue cutter into a dangerous cove, of which he alone knew the soundings, and that he and his crew came out of it in safety, but the other vessel with all on board perished. Mr. Hawker calls Coppinger's ship the "Black Prince," and says he had it built for himself in Denmark, and that men who had made themselves in any way obnoxious to him on land were carried on board her, and compelled by fearful oaths to enrol themselves in her crew. In 1835 an old man of the age of ninety-seven related to this writer that when a youth he had been so abducted, and after two years' service he had been ransomed by his friends with a large sum. "And all," said the old man, very simply, "because I happened to see one man kill another, and they thought I should mention it." The same author gives him a wonderfully fleet horse, which no one but Coppinger could master, and says that on its back he made more than one hairbreadth escape. He has also a marvellous account of his end, in which he disappears as he came, in a vessel which he boarded in a storm of thunder, lightning, and hail. As soon as he was in her, "she was out of sight in a moment, like a spectre or a ghost." For this he quotes the following verse:-- "Will you hear of the cruel Coppinger? He came from a foreign kind; He was brought to us from the salt water, He was carried away by the wind." The one thing certain about him is, that at one time he amassed money enough by smuggling to buy a small freehold estate near the sea, the title-deeds of which, signed with his name, still exist. But in his old age, I have been told, he was reduced to poverty, and subsisted on charity. That in those bygone days smuggling was thought no sin every one knows. And who has not heard the oft-quoted apocryphal anecdote of the Cornish clergyman, who--when he was in the middle of his sermon and some one opened the church door and shouted in, "A wreck! a wreck!"--begged his parishioners to wait whilst he took off his gown that they might all start fair. The following is, however, a genuine letter of the last century from a vicar in the eastern part of the county to a noted smuggler of that district:-- "Martin Rowe, you very well know, That Cubert's vicar loves good liquor, One bottle's all, upon my soul. You'll do right to come to-night; My wife's the banker, she'll pay for the anker." To the same jovial vicar is credited this grace, given to his hostess' horror at her table after he had dined out several days in succession, and had rabbits offered him, a dish he detested:-- "Of rabbits young and rabbits old, Of rabbits hot and rabbits cold, Of rabbits tender, rabbits tough, I thank the Lord we've had enough." Inland from Breage is the small hamlet of Leed's-town (called after the Duke of Leeds, who has property in Cornwall). It is the seat of the following short story:--"The Leed's-town ghost runs up and down stairs in a house during the night, and then sits in a corner of the room weeping and sleeking her hair. It is the ghost of a young woman who was engaged to be married to a man who refused to become her husband until she gave him certain deeds kept in a box in the above room. As soon as the deeds were in his possession, he realised the property and escaped to America, leaving the luckless girl to bemoan her loss. She went mad: night and day she was searching for her deeds; sometimes she would sit and wail in the spot where the box had been. At length she died: her spirit, however, had no rest, and still constantly returns to keep alive the memory of man's perfidy."--Through Rev. S. Rundle. Close to Leed's-town, at the foot of Godolphin-hill, is the old house, or hall, of Godolphin. The basement-floor of the original house alone remains: it consists of a long façade supported by pillars of white granite, the interior containing many objects of interest well worth a visit. Opposite the inhabited part of the house is the King's room, opening on the King's garden. (The title of King's room was given to it from the legend that Charles II. once slept there.) You could leave it by five ways; as there were three doors, one exit through the floor, and another through the roof. Godolphin is held by a very curious tenure, said to have originated in a bet between the representatives of the Godolphin and St. Aubyn families on a snail race. As the Godolphin snail was being beaten, its owner pricked it with a pin to make it go faster, but it drew in its horns and refused to move, consequently the other won. The following is the ceremony which takes place every Candlemas. Before sunrise a person, appointed as reeve by the Rev. St. Aubyn Molesworth St. Aubyn, the lord of the manor of Lamburn, in the parish of Perranzabuloe (near Truro), knocks at the ancient outer door of the quadrangle, and repeats this demand thrice:--"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Here come I the reeve of the manor of Lamburn, to demand my lord's dues, eight groats and a penny in money, a loaf, a cheese, a collar of brawn, and a jack of the best ale in the house. God save the Queen and the lord of the manor." It is said at the outer door of the quadrangle, at the inner door, and for the third and last time at the table in the kitchen (which is one of the oldest and not the least interesting rooms). The above high lordship is paid by the Duke of Leeds to the St. Aubyn family, to whom should they fail an heir the estate reverts. There is another curious tenure in this part of Cornwall, which as I am on the subject I will, before proceeding further, quote. "The parsonage of St. Grade, with a small portion of land, including an orchard, is held of the manor of Erisey by the following tenure, viz., that on Easter-day, yearly, the parson provide a dinner for the master and mistress of Erisey house, and their man and maid, with a pan of milk for a greyhound bitch."--Lake, Helston and Lizard. The old manor-house of Erisey is in Ruan Major (near the Lizard), and of one of the family the following story is told:--"He was dancing with other ladies and gentlemen at Whitehall before James I., and, through the violent motion and action of his body in the middle of the dance, had his cap slip from his head and fall to the ground; but he instantly with his foot tossed it on his head again, and proceeded without let or hindrance with his part in that dance, to the admiration of all who saw it, which gave occasion to King James to enquire who that active gentleman was, and being told that his name was Erisey, he forthwith replied, 'I like the gentleman very well, but not his name of Heresey!'" The rector of Ruan Minor by ancient usage and prescription (which is always admitted) claims a right of sending a horse into a certain field in the parish of Landewednack, whenever it is cropped with corn, and taking away as many sheaves as the horse can carry away on its back. "At Jew's Lane Hill, near Godolphin, a Jew is said to have hung himself on a tree still pointed out, and was buried beneath the road. His ghost appears in the shape of a bull and a fiery chariot. This superstition has been known for generations."--M. H., through Rev. S. Rundle. CORNWALL STONE. "I remember this stone a rough cube about three feet in height; it stood by the wayside forty or fifty years ago about a quarter of a mile from the old Godolphin mansion near the coast, where the nobility and gentry of the county were wont periodically to assemble to hear the news from Court. The servants who waited on their masters at the banquet diligently listened to the conversation, and afterwards spread the information thus collected among the crowd assembled for the purpose around Cornwall stone."--G. F. W., Western Antiquary, 1881. An old writer on the Scilly Isles mentions a rock on Bryher, one of the smallest of the islands, where the neighbours were wont to collect to hear and repeat the news. He calls it the News Rock. Between Helston and the Lizard lies the parish of St. Keverne; unlike the other parishes of Cornwall it contains no mines. To account for this it is said that St. Keverne cursed it when he lived there, for the want of respect shown him by its inhabitants. Hence the proverb "No metal will run within the sound of St. Keverne's bells." St. Just, from the Land's End district, once paid a visit to St. Keverne, who entertained him for several days to the best of his power. After his departure his host missed some valuable relics, and determined to go in pursuit of his late guest, and try, if possible, to get them from him. As he was passing over Crousadown, about two miles from St. Keverne church, he pocketed three large stones, each weighing about a quarter of a ton, to use if St. Just should offer any resistance. He overtook him at a short distance from Breage and taxed him with the theft, which was indignantly denied. From words the saints came to blows, and St. Keverne flung his stones with such effect that St. Just ran off, throwing down the relics as he ran. These stones lay for centuries where they fell, about four hundred yards from Pengersick Lane, as when taken away by day, they were in bygone times always brought back at night. Going along the coast from Breage to the Lizard the solitary church of Gunwalloe is passed, built so close to the sea that the waves wash its graveyard walls. It is said to have been erected as a thank-offering by some man who escaped drowning when shipwrecked. "In the sandbanks near it (or, as others say, at Kennack cove), the notorious buccaneer Avery is reported to have buried several chests of treasure previously to his leaving England on the voyage from which he never returned. So strongly did this opinion prevail that Mr. John Knill, collector of the Customs at St. Ives, procured about the year 1770 a grant of treasure trove, and expended some money in a fruitless search."--Rev. C. A. Johns, Week at the Lizard. Near by is Mullion parish, of which the celebrated ghost-layer, the Rev. Thomas Flavel, who died in 1682, was the vicar, and the following quaint lines to his memory may still be read in the chancel of his church:-- "Earth take thine earth, my sin let Satan havet, The world my goods, my soul my God who gavet; For from these four, Earth, Satan, World, and God, My flesh, my sin, my goods, my soul I had." Of him the Rev. C. A. Johns writes:--"This Thomas Flavel, during his life, attained great celebrity for his skill in the questionable art of laying ghosts. His fame still lingers in the memories of the more superstitious of the inhabitants through the following ridiculous stories. On one occasion when he had gone to church his servant-girl opened a book in his study, whereupon a host of spirits sprang up all round her. Her master observed this, though then occupied at church, closed his book, and dismissed the congregation. On his return home he took up the book with which his servant had been meddling, and read backwards the passage which she had been reading, at the same time laying about him lustily with his walking-cane, whereupon all the spirits took their departure, but not before they had pinched the servant-girl black and blue. His celebrity, it seems, was not confined to his own parish, for he was once called on to lay a very troublesome ghost in an adjoining parish. As he demanded the large fee of five guineas for his services, two of the persons interested resolved to assure themselves, by the evidence of their own eyes, that the ceremony was duly performed. They accordingly, without apprising one another of their intention, secreted themselves behind two graves in the churchyard a short time before the hour named for the absurd rites. In due time the ghost-layer entered it with a book in one hand and a horsewhip in the other. On the first smack of the whip the watchers raised their heads simultaneously, caught a glimpse of each other, and were both so terrified that they scampered off in opposite directions, leaving the operator to finish his business as he might. So popular are superstitions of this kind, and so long do they linger, that to the present day a spot is pointed out on the downs, named 'Hervan Gutter,' where Thomas Flavel's own ghost was laid by a clergyman, of whom he said before his death, 'When he comes I must go.' In olden days there were several of these ghost-laying clergymen in Cornwall, of whom, before going on with the legends of the parishes, I will mention three known in folk-lore. In the parish of Ladock, on the east side of Truro, dwelt rather more than a century ago the famed ghost-layer, the Rev. Mr. Woods, who, when walking, usually carried an ebony stick with a silver head, on which was engraved a pentacle, and on a broad silver ring below planetary signs and mystical figures. Of him Mr. Bottrell tells many thrilling tales; I will only give the substance of one. Mr. Woods was usually a match for most demons, whom he would change into animals and thrash with his whip; but one more cunning than the rest defied him, by taking the shape of an unknown coal-black bird, and perching on the church tower, from whence during divine service he made all sorts of queer noises, disturbing the congregation, and inciting the irreverent to laughter. He was too high up to be exorcised or reached with the whip. At last the clergyman, at his wit's end, remembered that the Evil One could not endure the sight of innocent children, and he sent his clerk round to all the mothers of his parish who had unchristened children, asking them to bring them to church on the next Sunday to have the rite performed. As he was a great favourite with his people all the mothers, and they were eight, readily agreed to come. But as twelve is the mystical number he invited four other mothers whose children had recently been baptised, to come as well, and bring their children and sponsors with them. The eight children were christened, and the parson walked out of church followed by the twelve mothers with their infants in their arms. The clerk arranged them in lines five deep, the mothers in front, opposite the belfry door. Mr. Woods directed each to pass her child from one to the other of its sponsors, and then hand it to him that he might hold it up for the demon to see; but for some time the cunning bird hid himself behind a pinnacle, and nothing would induce him to look, until one of the children, growing tired, began to cry, and all the others chimed in, screaming in chorus at the top of their voices. Then the demon hopped down from his perch and peered over the parapet to try and find out what could be the matter. The sight of the twelve children had such an effect upon him that he too gave an unearthly yell and flew away never to re-appear. The church bells were soon after put in order, and it is well known that no evil spirit ever ventures within sound of their ringing." "One of the three Jagos, who were Vicars of Wendron, was much renowned for his powers of necromancy. He was in the habit of taking people to St. Wendron Cross, where a man called Tucker was buried, and asking them whether they had a mind to see Tucker man; he would make him rise from the dead as a mark of delicate attention to them."--Cornubiana, Rev. S. Rundle, Penzance Natural History Society, 1885-1886. I will close this list of worthies by a short notice of Parson Dodge, a vicar of Talland, a village on the south coast of Cornwall, and then give an encounter of the famous Nonconformist divine, John Wesley, with some spirits whom he vanquished at St. Agnes on the north. The church of Talland is not in the centre of the parish, but near the sea; a legend accounts for its position thus: It was begun at a spot called Pulpit, but each night a voice was heard saying: "If you will my wish fulfil, Build the church on Talland hill;" and the stones put up by day were removed. (Tales similar to this are told of many Cornish churches. The work of removal is sometimes carried on by the devil; at Altarnon he was accompanied by a hare and a deer.) Of this church, about a hundred and fifty years ago, the Rev. Richard Dodge was vicar. He had such command over the spirit-world that he could raise and lay ghosts at his will, and by a nod of his head banish them to the Red Sea. His parishioners looked up to him with great awe, and were afraid of meeting him at midnight, as he was sure then, whip in hand, to be pursuing and driving away the demons, that in all kinds of shapes were to be seen hovering around him. Amongst his other eccentricities he was fond of frequenting his churchyard at the dead of night. Parson Dodge's fame was not confined to his own immediate district, and one day he received a letter from a fellow-clergyman, the Rev. Grylls, rector of Lanreath, asking his assistance in exorcising a man habited in black, who drove a sable coach, drawn by headless horses, across Black-a-down (a neighbouring moor), as this apparition, when they happened to meet it, frightened his people almost out of their wits. He acceded to this request, and late at night the two clergymen rode to the spot, where they waited for some time, but seeing nothing decided to separate and return to their respective homes. Mr. Dodge, however, had not gone very far when his horse obstinately refused to proceed a step further in a homeward direction: this he interpreted to be a sign from heaven which he must obey, and giving it the rein he allowed it to go as it willed. It wheeled round and went back at a great pace to the moor. Here through the gloom he saw standing the black coach with the headless horses: its driver had dismounted, and the Rev. Grylls lay in a swoon at his feet. Mr. Dodge was terribly alarmed, but managed to keep his presence of mind, and began to recite a prayer: before he could finish it the driver said--"Dodge is come! I must be gone!" jumped on to his seat and disappeared for ever. Mr. Grylls' parishioners now arrived in search of their rector; they knew there must be something amiss, for his horse, startled by the horrible spectres, had thrown its rider and galloped off, never stopping until it reached its stable (his friend's, through fright, had also been, until the apparition vanished, almost unmanageable). They found him senseless, supported in Mr. Dodge's arms; but he soon revived, and they took him home, although it was some days before his reason recovered from the shock. A much fuller account of this may be found in the History of Polperro, by Mr. T. Q. Couch. It has also been published by Mr. Robert Hunt in his Popular Romances of the West of England. The Rev. R. S. Hawker, in his Footprints of Former Men in Far Cornwall, gives some very interesting extracts from the "Diurnal" of one Parson Rudall, of Launceston, who in 1665, with the sanction of his Bishop, laid the Botathen ghost--the spirit of a young woman by name Dorothy Dinglet, who could not rest in her grave--"Unquiet because of a certain sin." It is a very well-known fact that the Rev. John Wesley was a firm believer in supernatural agencies; he compiled a book of ghost-stories, that was lent to me when I was about ten years old by a kind but ignorant woman, the reading of which caused me many sleepless nights. "On one occasion Wesley could, when at St. Agnes, find no place to pass the night save a house which had the reputation of being haunted. However, he was not deterred; he entered and went to bed. But he could not rest, for there was a terrible tumult below; the sound of carriages was heard, the noise of feet, and fearful oaths. At length he could bear it no longer; he descended, and then found the large hall filled with guests. They greeted him with loud welcome, and begged him to be seated. He consented, saying, however, that he must say grace first. This remark was hailed with roars of laughter. Nothing daunted he began--"Jesus, the Name high over all." He did not finish; in a moment the lights were extinguished, he was alone, and from that time the house was no more haunted.--Through Rev. S. Rundle. Clergymen in Cornwall are still supposed to be able to drive out evil spirits. A poor, half-crazed woman, yet living in Madron parish, near Penzance, went about ten years since to the house of a clergyman then residing there, and asked him to walk around her, reading some passages from the Bible, to exorcise the ghost of her dead sister, who had entered into her, she said, and tormented her in the shape of a small fly, which continually buzzed in her ear. Once before the Board of Guardians she talked sensibly for some time, then suddenly stopped and exclaimed, shaking her head: "Be quiet, you brute! don't you see I am talking to the gentlemen?" We must now, after this long digression, return to Mullion. Between it and the Lizard is a fine headland, the Rill, and on its summit are a number of loose, rough stones, known as the Apron String, which the country people say were brought here by an evil spirit, who intended to build with them a bridge across to France for the convenience of smugglers. He was hastening along with his load, which he carried in his apron, when one of its strings broke, and in despair he gave up the idea. On the opposite side of the Lizard, at the mouth of Helford river, stands the church of St. Anthony in Meneage; like that of Gunwalloe it is little above the level of the sea, and is, also according to tradition, a votive offering. Some people of high rank, crossing over from Normandy to England, were caught in a storm, and in their peril vowed to St. Anthony that they would build a church in his honour if he would bring them safe into harbour. The saint heard their prayers, and the church was erected on the spot where they landed. Helford river, in Carew's days, was the haunt of pirates, and of it he says: "Falmouth's ower neere neighbourhood lesseneth his vse and darkeneth his reputation, as quitting it onely to the worst sort of Seafarers, I mean Pirats, whose guilty breasts with an eye in their backs, looke warily how they may goe out, ere they will aduenture to enter, and this at unfortified Hailford cannot be controlled, in which regard it not vnproperly brooketh his common term of Helford and the nickname of Stealford." On the subject of pirates a friend writes:--"The popular play of 'The Pirates of Penzance' had not its origin in that town, but in the little fishing village of Penberth, near the Land's End; but that, alas! is in its 'custom port.' The captain of the pirate vessel, and all his ship's crew, were wrestlers. They would go out to the small Spanish, Dutch, and other merchant ships, and would ask for provisions, or tender assistance, and on making sure that the ship was unarmed they would overpower the sailors and plunder it. This was before the time when the Trinity Corporation had begun its work on our Cornish coast. From Helford we will proceed to Penryn--the scene of Lillo's play, "Fatal Curiosity." The legend on which it is founded is as follows: A gentleman who had rashly squandered his own and his wife's fortune, sent their only son early into the world to seek his. During his absence his parents were reduced to penury; but he prospered, returned home, and sought them out. He did not at first disclose to them who he was, intending to do so later on, but begged to be allowed to rest in their house, and whilst he was sleeping asked his mother to take charge of a casket for him. Her curiosity impelled her to open it, and her avarice was so inflamed at the sight of the rich jewels it contained that she incited her husband by prayers and reproaches to murder the poor young man. After the fatal deed was done, the unhappy pair discovered him to be their son. It has been said that a party of Spaniards landed at Penryn in 1565, intending to plunder the town, but were alarmed by the sound of a drum beaten by some strolling players, and made a hasty retreat. Before the year 1600 there were only a few houses where Falmouth now stands, called Pennycomequick, which name tradition declares was given it from the following: A woman, who had been a servant to a Mr. Pendarves, left his employ, and went there to reside, where, I suppose, she kept an ale-house, as the story says that he ordered her to brew a cask of ale, and on a certain day he and some friends would come and drink it. The ale was brewed; but in the meantime a Dutch vessel put into the creek, and she sold it all to the sailors. When her former master and his friends arrived at the appointed time, he was of course very angry. Her excuse was that the "penny comed so quick" that she could not refuse it. The name really means the head of the valley of the creek. There is a pyramidal monument at the south end of Falmouth erected by one of the Killigrews to the memory of Sir Walter Raleigh, who had been entertained by an ancestor at their family-seat of Arwenack, when there was only one other house in the place. There is a red stain on it, "A blood-mark," the old people said, "that would not wash out, splashed there from the body of a man employed in making it, who fell from its top and was killed." On the coast just outside the town is Gyllanvaes, or William's Grave, which is pointed out as the place where King Henry I.'s son, who was drowned on his passage from Normandy to England, was buried. On the opposite side of Falmouth harbour, where St. Anthony's church now stands, was formerly the priory of St. Mary de Vale, and King Henry VIII. is reported to have landed here in 1537, and told the prior that it would soon be destroyed, and he with all his brethren turned out. It was; but the prior left his curse behind him, and the first holder of the lands lost all his family by untimely deaths, and he himself committed suicide. Of all the creeks up the Fal from Falmouth to Truro, most marvellous tales of smugglers and their daring deeds are told; and of King Harry's passage, where a ferry-boat crosses the river, this legend: That it is called after bluff King Hal, who forded it with his queen (sometimes Katherine of Arragon) on his back. To have accomplished this feat he must have been taller than the sons of Anak, for in the middle the water is several fathoms deep. At the head of one of these creeks is Veryan parish. And there is a tradition that should its church clock strike on the Sunday morning during the singing of the hymn before the sermon, or before the Collect against Perils at Evening Prayer (which does not often happen), there will be a death in the parish before the next Sunday. On a hill near Veryan is a barrow, in which Gerennius, a mythical king of Cornwall, was said to have been buried many centuries ago, with his crown on his head, lying in his golden boat with silver oars. It was opened in 1855, when nothing but a kistvaen (a rude stone chest) containing his ashes was found. His palace of Dingerein was in the neighbouring village of Gerrans. A subterranean passage, now known as Mermaid's Hole, one day discovered when ploughing a field, was supposed to have led from it to the sea. Treasures of great value are reputed to be hidden under all the Cornish menhirs and barrows. Carew tells of a gentleman who was persuaded that by digging under a menhir near Fowey he would get great riches. "Wherefore, in a faire moone-shine night, thither with certaine good fellowes hee hyeth to dig it up. A working they fall, their labour shortneth, their hope increaseth, a pot of gold is the least of their expectation. But see the chance. In midst of their toyling the skie gathereth clouds, the moonelight is overcast with darknesse, downe fals a mightie showre, up riseth a blustering tempest, the thunder cracketh, the lightning flasheth. In conclusion, our money-seekers washed instead of loden, or loden with water instead of yellow earth, and more afraid than hurt, are forced to abandon their enterprise and seeke shelter of the next house they could get into." Malpas (pronounced Mopus) ferry was, nearly a century ago, kept by a woman called "Jenny Mopus," who was quite a character. "Wemmin and pigs" she used to declare were the worst things to ferry across. The water bounds of the borough of Truro are renewed every six years, and the following curious ceremony takes place: On reaching the limits of their jurisdiction, the mayor, town clerk, members of corporation, &c., go on shore, when a writ for the sum of 999l. 19s. 11 3/4d. is produced against a person present, selected beforehand. He is arrested by the bailiff of the borough, on which two of the party offer themselves as bail, and the prisoner is liberated. Not far from Perranworthal is one of the most celebrated Cornish Tol-mên, Mên-an-tol, or holed stones. This is an immense egg-shaped mass of granite, perched on a dreary hill nearly 700 feet above the sea, and is thought to weigh 750 tons. It is generally known as the Cornish Pebble, and is supported on the points of two other stones leaving a hollow space beneath. In this it differs from other Mên-an-tol which have the orifice in the centre of the stone (hence their name). There are many in the county. The one at Madron is sometimes called the Crick Stone. It gets this name because in days not very long ago people afflicted with rheumatism, sciatica, &c., in May, and at certain other seasons of the year, crawled on all fours nine times around these Mên-an-tol from east to west, and, if thin enough, squeezed themselves through the aperture. This was then thought such a sovereign remedy for these diseases that parents brought their weak-backed children and carried them around. To work the charm properly there must always be two people, one of each sex, who stand one on each side of the stone. The child, if a male, must first be passed from the woman to the man; if a girl, from the man to the woman, and always from the left of the one to the right of the other. Some sort of divination, too, was formerly practised on these Mên-an-tol by pins laid cross-ways on the top. In the parish of St. Dennis the church is dedicated to that saint. And when St. Dennis had his head cut off at Paris, blood, a legend says, fell on the stones of this churchyard; a similar occurrence often afterwards foretold other calamities. [14] The exact centre of the county is reputed to be a hole in a field at Probus, a neighbouring parish. At Boconnoc, near Lostwithiel, not long ago stood the stump of an old oak, in which, in 1644, when Charles I. made this seat his head-quarters, the royal standard was fixed. It bore variegated leaves. According to tradition, they changed colour when an attempt was made to assassinate the king whilst he was receiving the sacrament under its branches. The ball passed through the tree, and a hole in its trunk was formerly pointed out in confirmation of the story. Heath, in his Description of Cornwall, 1750, speaks of two other trees of the same kind to be seen in this county. "In Lanhadron Park," he says, "there grows an oak that bears leaves speckled with white, as another, called Painter's Oak, grows in the hundred of East. Some are of opinion that divers ancient families of England are preadmonished by oaks bearing strange leaves." A turtle-dove is said to be seen by the Bassetts of Tehidy, in Camborne, before death, and to another Cornish family a white bird appears. The church of St. Neot, in the parish of St. Neot, is celebrated for its beautifully-painted glass. One of the windows contains many legends of this saint, but they have all been too fully described by other writers to require a lengthy notice from me. St. Neot is the reputed brother of King Alfred, and lived some hundreds of years before the present church dedicated to him was erected. But folk-lore has it that it was built at night entirely by his own hands, and that he drew from a neighbouring quarry, by the help of reindeer, all the stones he used in the building. He is described as a man of short stature, and tradition also says that after the church was finished he found that he was not tall enough to reach the keyhole of the door, and could not therefore unlock it. To remedy this defect he put a stone opposite (still pointed out), from which, when he stood on it, he could throw the key into the lock with unerring precision. About a mile to the west of it, is an elevated spot with a square entrenchment; an ancient granite cross stands at one corner. There is a story attached to it which runs thus:--The crows in this neighbourhood were in his time so numerous that the farmers could not, fearing the mischief they might do in their absence, leave their fields and young crops to attend St. Neot's discourses. He, on hearing of it, determined to put a stop both to the excuse and the thieving habits of the birds, and one day ordered them all to enter this enclosure, from whence they could not stir until he gave the signal; upon which they all immediately flew away and returned no more. "The church of St. Mawgan, in Kerrier, was formerly at Carminowe, at the end of the parish. It was removed thence to its present site on account of the ghoulish propensities of the giants, who used to dig up the dead from their graves. The inhabitants tried in vain to destroy them by making deep pits, and covering them over with 'sprouse' (light hay or grass) so that the unwary giants, walking over them as on firm ground, might fall into them and be killed. As this project failed, they were reluctantly compelled to remove the church to its present place, beyond the reach of their troublesome neighbours."--Rev. S. Rundle, Penzance Natural History Society, 1885-1886. The fine old mansion of Cottrell, situated on the River Tamar, was built in the reign of Henry VII.; it belongs to the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe, and is full of quaint treasures, many of the rooms and the furniture they contain dating from the time of Queen Elizabeth. But the only part that concerns us is a little chapel in the woods perched on a rock overhanging the river, of which this legend is told. It was erected by Sir Richard Edgcumbe, who was a partizan to Henry, Duke of Richmond, the rival of Richard III. A party of soldiers were sent to take him prisoner, but he managed to elude them and escaped into the woods, where his pursuers were so close upon his heels that he would certainly have been captured had not his cap, as he was climbing down this rock, fallen off his head and floated on the stream. On seeing it the men, thinking that Sir Richard had in despair drowned himself, gave up the chase. He shortly after crossed over to Brittany, where he stayed until the news came of the defeat and death of the king, when he returned home, and, in gratitude for his miraculous escape, caused this chapel to be built. Dupath Well, not far from Cottrell, was, according to tradition, the scene of a desperate duel between two Saxons, called by one authority Colan and Gotlieb, who were both suitors for the hand of the fair lady Gither; but the Rev. R. S. Hawker, who has written a ballad on part of the legend, gives the name of Siward to the younger and favoured one who killed his rival, but who himself in the combat received a wound from which he soon after died. The same author has also put into verse the well-known story of Bottreaux bells. Bottreaux is the parish church of Boscastle, a corruption of Bottreaux castle, and its tower is, and always has been, silent. When it was built the inhabitants, who had long been jealous of the beautiful peal at Tintagel, a neighbouring village, aided by the Lord of Bottreaux, raised enough money to buy a set for themselves, cast by a famous London founder. But when the ship that brought them was nearly in port the sound of Tintagel bells was in the calm evening borne across the water. The pilot, a native of that parish, hearing them, piously crossed himself, and thanked God that he should soon be safe on shore. On this the captain grew very wroth, and said, "Thank the ship and the canvas at sea, thank God on shore." "No!" meekly replied the pilot, "we should thank God at sea as well as on land." At this the captain grew still more angry, swore and blasphemed, and with an oath exclaimed, "Not so, thank yourself and a fair wind." Upon which a violent storm suddenly arose, the ship became unmanageable, struck on a rock, and went down. All on board, with the exception of the pilot, were drowned. Above the roar of the winds and waves the eager watchers from the shore, who were waiting for the arrival of the vessel with her precious freight, could hear the solemn tolling of their bells. And still before a gale their warning chimes sound from their ocean bed, but woe to the unhappy ship's crew that hears them, for wreck, misfortunes, and deaths are sure to follow. The following proverb would seem to infer that Boscastle, as well as no bells, has no market: "All play and no play, like Boscastle Market, which begins at twelve o'clock and ends at noon." Mevagissey church, on the opposite coast, has neither tower nor bells, and there is a standing joke against its people that they sold their bells to pay the cost of pulling down the tower. Gorran men, who live in an adjoining parish, seem in former days to have been rivals to the famous "Wise men of Gotham," from the absurd deeds attributed to them, such as "Trying to throw the moon over the cliffs," "Building a hedge to keep in the moonlight," &c. The inhabitants of more than one parish in Cornwall are said "to have built a hedge to keep in the 'guckaw' (cuckoo)." In fact, of nearly all the parishes in the county some joke is current in the neighbouring villages. Not far from Boscastle is the beautiful waterfall of St. Nighton's Kieve, and close by are the ruins of a cottage, once the habitation of two ladies, who took possession of it at night. They evidently had seen better days, but their names and from whence they came remain a mystery, as from the date of their arrival they held no communication with the outer world. They kept no servant, and from the villagers bought for themselves the necessaries of life, asking but few questions, and not answering any. At first they took long solitary walks in the most secluded spots of the district; when met they were rarely conversing, and never spoke to a stranger. These walks were gradually discontinued, and one day a rumour spread through the village that one of the poor ladies was dead. Tradition says that the neighbours found the other weeping silent tears by the side of the corpse. After the funeral the survivor daily grew more infirm and but rarely left the house, and one morning soon after, no smoke issuing from the chimneys of the cottage, the villagers peeped in through the uncurtained windows and saw her sitting dead in her chair. The friends were buried in one grave, and their secret died with them. In Wellcombe church, near Morwenstow, against the font in the north wall is a door called the "devil's door," opened at baptisms at the Renunciation, that the devil, which is then supposed to come out of the child, may be able to get away. Trecarrel, in East Cornwall, formerly belonged to the Trecarrels, the last of whom built Launceston church. A singular story has been handed down from the sixth century of the birth and death of his only son. His father is described as having been very learned in philosophy, astrology, astronomy, and other sciences; and it is said that, having surveyed the planetary orbs just as his child was about to be brought into the world, he perceived that the time was unfavourable to its birth, and foreboded a speedy and accidental death to the child. Overcome with these gloomy ideas he hastened to the house, and requested the midwife to delay the birth (if it were possible) for one hour; but nature, conspiring with fate on the downfall of his house, turned a deaf ear to his entreaties, and a son was born, to the great joy of all present except to him who was the most interested in the event. The child, however, grew up in a very promising way, until a servant-maid, having placed him to stand near a bowl of water in order to wash him, chanced to have forgotten the towel, and having stepped into another room to procure one, on her return found the boy dead, having fallen into the water with his head foremost: and in consequence of this unfortunate event the father spent a large part of his large property in charitable purposes, and in building and repairing churches in the county of Cornwall.--J. C. Gilbert. A story of a similar nature is related of one of the Arundells, of whom it had been foretold "that he should die in the sands." To prevent this he left his house of Efford, near Stratton, and took up his abode at Trerice, another of his estates, about three-and-a-half miles from Newquay. But the Earl of Oxford, having surprised and taken St. Michael's Mount, Sir John Arundell, who was then sheriff of Cornwall, marched there to besiege and retake it for the king, Edward IV. Here his fate overtook him, for in a skirmish on Marazion sands he lost his life, and was buried in the chapel at the Mount. A funeral procession goes through Stratton before the death of the Bathes of Kilkhampton. Between Stratton and the village of Marham, about half-a-mile from the former town, in the orchard of Binamy farm-house, is an old quadrangular moat, all that remains to show where stood the castle of the Blanchminsters, an old family now, I believe, extinct in this neighbourhood. Of one of them, who lived in the reign of Edward I. and went with him on a crusade, folk-lore still tells some strange but--through the lapse of time--vague tales. His name was Ranulph de Blanchminster, corrupted by the country people into old Blowmanger, and it is said that after he had been absent for two or three years in the Holy Land, his wife, I suppose thinking that he was dead, married another baron. On his return he shut himself up alone in his castle, with the drawbridge generally raised to keep off intruders. No one was with him when he died; but after his death a will was found leaving the greater part of his property for the benefit of the poor of the parish of Stratton. His effigy may be seen in the church, in the habit of a Crusader, grasping a sword, with his feet resting on the back of a lion. Through his interest Stratton had the charter of its market. His spirit haunts Binamy grounds (avoided after dark by the superstitious) in the form of a hare, which always starts out of the moat and manages to elude the dogs. Of the doings of the famous Grenvilles of Stow,--Sir Beville, the brave Royalist leader, who lost his life at the battle of Lansdowne in 1643,--Admiral Sir Richard, immortalized by Tennyson in his ballad "The Revenge,"--and of his son, Sir John, who served under Sir Walter Raleigh and died at sea,--I shall say nothing, these noted men belonging more to history than folk-lore. Under the same head, too, may be classed the Cornish female Whittington, Thomasine Bonaventure, of St. Mary Wike (now Week St. Mary), who lived in the fourteenth century; the daughter of a labourer, she herself was a shepherdess. A London merchant, when travelling in Cornwall, lost himself on our moors, and accidentally met her with her sheep. He asked of her the way, and was so much struck by her good looks and intelligence that he begged her from her parents and took her back with him to be a servant to his wife. In her new situation she conducted herself with so much propriety that on his wife's death he courted and married her. Soon after he himself died, and left her a wealthy widow. Her next marriage was to a much richer man, named Henry Gall. Widowed a second time, and again inheriting her husband's money, she took for her third and last husband Sir John Percival, Lord Mayor of London. Him, too, she outlived, and after his death returned to her native village, where she employed her great riches in works of charity. Amongst her other good deeds she founded and endowed a chantry there, together with a free school, and lodgings for masters, scholars, and officers. The Rev. R. S. Hawker, in his book before-quoted, has a legend which he calls "The first Cornish Mole. A Morality." I, however, suspect it to be a pure invention of this author; but as it is very pretty, I will give the substance of it. Alice of the Coombe was a very beautiful, but proud and vain, damsel; the only child of her widowed mother, with whom she dwelt at Morwenstow. It chanced one day that they, with all the neighbouring gentry, had been bidden to a grand banquet at Stow; and, as she had set her love on the great and noble Sir Beville Grenville, its owner, Alice, to win his affections, dressed herself in her richest robe--"a woven velvet, glossy and soft"--and put on her fairest jewellery. Her mother, when she saw her thus attired, struck by her exceeding grace and beauty, said, "Often shall I pray to-night that the Grenville heart may yield. Aye, thy victory shall be my prayer." The haughty maiden replied, "With the eyes I now see in that glass, and with this vesture, meet for a queen, I lack no trusting prayer." At this a sudden cry was heard, and the damsel disappeared from their sight for ever. Shortly after, the Coombe gardener discovered in the garden a small, unknown hillock, and on top of it shone a ring, which was recognized as the one the lady wore on the day she vanished. A close examination showed that an old Cornish couplet was now traced on it, which the parish priest interpreted to mean-- "The earth must hide Both eyes with pride." As he uttered these words a low cry was heard at his feet, and there "They beheld, O wondrous and strange! a small dark creature, clothed in a soft velvet skin, in texture and in hue like the robe of Lady Alice, and they saw as it groped into the earth that it moved along without eyes in everlasting night." "She, herself had become THE FIRST MOLE OF THE HILLOCKS OF CORNWALL." Before finishing this section of my work I must say a few words about the Islands of Scilly and their legends. The Rev. H. J. Whitfield, M.A., in 1852, published a book on this subject, but his legends are for the most part purely fictitious, and its title, Scilly and its Legends, a little misleading. The Scilly Isles, just off the Land's End, are very numerous, but only five are inhabited; some are mere rocks in the sea, and, counting those, they are said to be a hundred and fifty. The largest is St. Mary's, and the dwellers on it are apt to look with contempt on the inhabitants of the other islands (the Off Islands). The word Scilly is sometimes derived from Sullèh, rocks dedicated to the sun, and sometimes from Sillyas, a conger. This fish is very plentiful on these coasts, and a ridiculous rhyme says that Scilly fare consists of-- "Scads and 'tates, scads and 'tates, Scads, and 'tates, and conger, And those who can't eat scads and 'tates-- Oh, they must die of hunger." Occasionally the saying runs: "Oh! the Scillonians live on fish and 'taties every day, and conger-pie for Sundays." In the beginning of this century, before steam-boats were invented, when communication between Scilly and Penzance (the mainland) depended upon wind and weather, in winter its people were often reduced to great straits for want of provisions, which gave rise to the proverb, "There is always a feast or a fast in Scilly." This is, however, now far from being the truth, and it is one of the most prosperous parts of Great Britain; its inhabitants, as a rule, are well educated, they are noted for their courteous manners; and for its beautiful scenery Scilly is well worth a visit. The dialect of its poorer people, as also the tones of their voices (each island has its peculiarity), differ from those of the same class in West Cornwall. Their pronunciation rather resembles the Irish. Thread with them is tread, the th at the beginning of words being rarely sounded, pint is point, and point pint. Irreverent people declare that when Ireland was made some little bits of earth fell from the shovel and formed Scilly. Certain it is that when St. Patrick drove out all venomous reptiles from the former place he did the same kind service to the latter. The island of St. Agnes was particularly favoured, for until recently there was not a rat on it, they were introduced from a wrecked vessel. Small as St. Mary's is (about three miles long and nine around) it boasts of two capitals; the modern one dates from the time of Queen Elizabeth, and is called Hugh Town; before that Old Town was the principal village. At the east of Old Town Bay is Tolman Point (a corruption, I suppose, of Tôl Mên, the holed stone). Of it an old legend says when Scilly was under the monks of Tavistock, and Old Town the only port of St. Mary's, that they drew a chain from "Tollman head" across the entrance, and levied a toll from all who embarked and landed there, not excepting the fishermen. It was abolished by Richard Plantagenet, who, coming disguised to the port, was not recognized by the friar in charge, who demanded from him his dues. Upon which Earl Richard, in a fit of passion, struck him dead at his feet. According to Leland, "Inniscan longid to Tavestock, and there was a poor celle of monkes of Tavestock. Sum caulle this Trescau." There was a settlement of Benedictine monks here long before the Norman Conquest; their cell was dedicated to St. Nicholas. St. Nicholas, as well as St. Peter, is the patron saint of fishermen; the former also takes school-boys under his protection. Fragments of Tresco Abbey which was then founded still exist. It was independent until the reign of Edward I., when it was joined to Tavistock. The same monarch, Edward I., made Ranulph de White Monastery (supposed to be Ranulph de Blankminster, or Randolph de Blancheminster), according to an old archive, constable of these islands, with the castle of Ennor, in Old Town, on his "Paying yearly, at the feast of St. Michael the Archangel, 300 birds, called puffins, or 6s. 8d." Traces of these monastic visitors are to be found in a pile of rocks at St. Mary's, called Carn Friars (a farm near by bears the same name), and one of the most highly cultivated and sheltered spots, where a few trees grow, is known as Holy Vale. Whitfield places a nunnery there, and says Holy Vale takes its name from a miraculous rosebush that grew in it, and that "One of its flowers was deemed to have the power, if worn, to preserve its bearer from mortal sin," but no other authority mentions it. Giants, of course, frequently played a great part in the history of Scilly. Buzza's Hill, just beyond Hugh Town (St. Mary's), commemorates a giant of the name of Bosow, who made his home on its summit (now crowned by a Spanish windmill), and from whom the family of Bosow were descended. One of the finest promontories on the same island is Giant's Castle--Troutbeck says, built by the Danes. Here, too, is Giant's Chair, where the Arch Druid used in former days to sit and watch the sun rise. Druidical remains are scattered all over the different islands, and the many "barrows" are known as "giants' graves." "In the old abbey gardens at Tresco is a curious stone, about four feet long, two feet wide, and six inches in thickness, in an upright position. Near the top are two holes, one above the other (one being somewhat larger than the other), through which a man might pass his hand. It is supposed to be an old Druidical betrothal or wishing-stone, and used before the monks built the abbey at Tresco. Young people, engaged to be married, would pass their hands through the holes, and, joining them together, would so plight their troth. As a wishing-stone, or to break a spell, a ring would be passed through the holes with some incantations."--J. C. Tonkin's Guide to the Isles of Scilly. The finest headland on St. Mary's is Peninnis, and some of the sheltered nooks under its rocks have rather curious names. One of them is known as Sleep's Abode (or Parlour), and close by is Pitt's Parlour, which commands a lovely view; it is so called after a Mr. Pitt, who, when on a visit to Scilly, spent his summer evenings there with a chosen party of friends. An old lady, a native of Scilly, long since dead, told me that tradition said Mr. Pitt came to Scilly in consequence of a bet he made with a gentleman (I believe the then governor of the islands), who, when in London, spoke in the highest terms of the morality of its women, and offered to lay a heavy wager that not a single courtesan could be found there. Mr. Pitt took up the bet, travelled down to Scilly, and for a long time seemed likely to lose it; but at last, by a large bribe, he overcame the virtue of one very poor woman, and, in gratitude, allowed her a small pension until her death. At the foot of Peninnis is Piper's Hole (in which there is a pool of fresh water). This is said to be the entrance of a subterranean passage leading to the island of Tresco, where another Piper's Hole is shown as the exit. Old people told marvellous tales of rash people venturing in so far that they never returned, but died in it overcome by fatigue--the passage being too narrow for them to turn. Also of dogs who disappeared in the hole at St. Mary's, and after many days crept out from the one in Tresco, very emaciated, and almost hairless. The Rev. J. W. North, in his Week in the Isles of Scilly, has an interesting account of Piper's Hole at Tresco. Half-way down Giant's Castle, the steep carn before mentioned on St. Mary's, lies a very inaccessible cave known as Tom Butt's Bed, from the fact that a boy of that name hid himself there in Queen Anne's time three days and three nights out of sight of the press-gang. The wreck of Sir Cloudesley Shovel in 1707, upon Gilston Rock, in Porth Hellick Bay, near Old Town, is of course a matter of history. Very many traditions have, however, gathered around this sad event, related by many authors. I must briefly retell them, as no book of this kind would be complete without them. The admiral, accompanied by the whole of his fleet, was returning home from Toulon, after the capture of Gibraltar, in his ship the Association. When they were off Scilly, on October 22nd, 1707, the weather became thick and dirty, and orders were given "to lie-to." This was in the afternoon. Later on, about six, Sir Cloudesley again made sail, but two hours after his ship showed signals of distress, which were answered from several of the others. In two minutes she struck on the Gilston Rock, sank immediately, and all on board perished. The Eagle and the Romney with their crews shared the same fate; the Firebrand also was lost, but her captain with most of her men were saved. "The other men-of-war with difficulty escaped by having timely notice." In this storm between fifteen hundred and two thousand people were drowned in one night. A day or two before this took place, one man, a native of Scilly, is said to have persistently warned the officer of the watch on board the Association that unless their ship's course was altered she, with all the fleet, would soon be on the Scilly rocks amongst the breakers. These warnings so exasperated the officer that he repeated them to his admiral, and he, vexed that a common sailor should think that he knew better than his superiors how to navigate a vessel, summarily ordered him to be hanged at the yard-arm for inciting the others to insubordination and mutiny. The man before his execution begged, as a great favour, that the chaplain should be allowed to read him one of the Psalms. His request was granted, and he chose the 109th, repeating after the reader in a loud voice all the curses it contains. And with his last breath he prophesied that the admiral, with those who saw him hanged, would find a watery grave. Up to that time the weather had been fair, but as soon as his body had been committed to the sea it changed, the wind began to blow, and his shipmates were horrified to see the corpse out of its winding-sheet, face up, following in their wake, and even before their vessel struck they gave themselves up for lost men. Some say that Sir Cloudesley's body came ashore on a hatch, on which he had endeavoured to save himself, with his favourite little dog dead by his side. Others, that after the wreck it was cast naked on Porth Hellick beach, where it was discovered by a soldier, who took off his ring which he still wore, and buried him in the sands. Another account, on the authority of Robert, second Lord Romney, Sir Cloudesley Shovel's grandson, runs thus:--"There is one circumstance relating to Sir Cloudesley Shovel's death that is known to very few persons, namely, he was not drowned, having got to shore, where, by the confession of an ancient woman, he was put to death. This, many years after, when on her death-bed, she revealed to the minister of the parish, declaring she could not die in peace until she had made this confession, as she was led to commit this horrid deed for the sake of plunder. She acknowledged having, among other things, an emerald ring in her possession, which she had been afraid to sell lest it should lead to a discovery. This ring, which she delivered to the minister, was by him given to James, Earl of Berkeley, at his particular request, Sir Cloudesley Shovel and himself having lived on the strictest footing of friendship." In the place and manner of his burial all traditions agree. Where he lay is still pointed out--a bare spot surrounded by green grass. And the Scillonians will tell you that, because he so obstinately refused to hear a warning, and wantonly threw away so many lives, God, to keep alive the memory of this great wickedness, permits nothing to grow on his grave. Another legend has it that the man who gave the warning escaped death, as the storm suddenly arose whilst the Psalm was being read, before the order for his execution could be carried out, and that he was the only person on board the Association who was not drowned. When Lady Cloudesley Shovel heard of the wreck, she asked that a search might be made for her husband's body. A soldier showed a ring which he had in his possession, which was immediately recognised as Sir Cloudesley Shovel's. The body was dug up and identified by the marks of his wounds. The ring was forwarded to his wife, and she, in gratitude for the soldier's kindness in giving her husband a decent burial, rewarded him with a pension for life. Sir Cloudesley's body was embalmed, first taken to Plymouth by sea, where for some time it lay in state, and finally to London, where it was interred in Westminster Abbey. The abbey at Tresco, formerly under the jurisdiction of the monks of St. Nicholas [15] at Tavistock, has been already mentioned. The abbey house, built on its site, is the seat of Mr. Dorrien Smith (the Proprietor, as the Scillonians call him). The gardens that surround it are very beautiful, and famed for the tropical plants that here grow out of doors. There is an anecdote related of one of the inhabitants of Tresco, who, when asked what they did for firewood in a spot where no trees grew, answered, "We kindle our fires from the loppings of our geranium hedges." Tresco, like St. Levan, at the Land's End, was in bygone days the favourite haunt of witches. A poor man there walking out at nightfall had the misfortune to meet with a party of them taking a moonlight ride on their broomsticks. A relation of his was one of the number, and she warned him, in a stentorian voice, that if he ever mentioned what he had accidentally seen, he should bear the marks of their wrath until his dying day. For a long time the secret weighed heavily upon him, and at last he could not refrain from telling his wife. The witches, in revenge, turned his black hair white in a single night. The Rev. H. G. Whitfield, in his Legends of Scilly, gives some marvellous tales of the family of "Dick the Wicked." They were all hardened wreckers, who generations ago lived on this island, and who also had the gift of second sight. Dick himself, according to this writer, when ill and unrepentant, was, by Satanic agency, taken out of his bed and borne, wrapt in a long loose coat, which he was in the habit of wearing, some considerable distance from his house. Here his friends discovered him on the following morning. On this island stands Cromwell's castle, built during his Protectorate. Old people thought that he in person visited it. The large china tankard, out of which he was said to have drunk his breakfast-beer, still exists. On a hill above are the ruins of Charles's castle. Scilly always remained loyal and true to the unfortunate monarch, and this verse of a ballad told me by a Scillonian was not written of one of them: "In Cromwell's days I was for him, But now, my boys, I'm for the king; For I can turn, boys, with the tide, And wear my coat on the strongest side." St. Warna, who presided over wrecks, was the patron saint of St. Agnes, another of the principal islands. She crossed over here from Ireland in a wicker-boat covered with hides, and landed at St. Warna's bay. Like many other saints she had her holy-well; and often the superstitious inhabitants of St. Agnes (five families in all), who enjoyed the reputation of being the most daring and unscrupulous amongst the Scilly wreckers of those days, threw crooked pins into it, and daily invoked and prayed her to send them "a rich wreck." There was no church on it then, and its people rarely visited the other islands. But it chanced one fine morning the entire population started in their boats for the church of Ennor, in St. Mary Old Town, as two of them wished to be married. After the ceremony was over the clergyman in the presence of most of his parishioners, who had assembled to witness it (between whom and the men of St. Agnes there was always a bitter feud), rebuked them for their lawless deeds. They, angry at being put to shame before their enemies, answered with many profane and mocking words, and were with difficulty restrained from coming to blows. So incensed were they that they took no notice of the signs which heralded a coming storm, and hastily got on board their boats to return to their own home, which none of them were ever destined to reach, as it broke with great fury when they were about half-way across. When close to land and the rowers were straining every nerve to get there, one wave larger than the rest broke over them, and every soul found a watery grave. This was of course said to be a judgment on them for their wicked ways. (Leland briefly chronicles it.) From that time St. Warna's well was neglected; there was no one left the day after twelfth-day, as had been the custom, to clean it out and return her thanks for her bounty: it gradually got filled with stones, and at the present day is little more than a hole. There is a curious labyrinth on this island called "Troy-town," which it is popularly supposed to represent; but all intricate places in Cornwall are so denominated, and I have even heard nurses say to children when they were surrounded by a litter of toys that they looked as if they were in Troy-town. A peculiar mode of punishment was formerly practised in Scilly. The offenders were placed in a chair called a "ducking chair," and publicly at St. Mary's quay-head "ducked" in the salt water. FAIRIES. The fairies of Cornwall may be divided into four classes, the Small People, the Pixies (pronounced Piskies or or Pisgies), the Spriggans, and the Knockers. The first are harmless elfish little beings known all over England, whose revels on fine summer nights have often been described by those favoured individuals who have accidentally had the privilege of seeing them. As a rule they, however, wish to think themselves invisible, and in this county it is considered unlucky to call them by the name of fairies. The stories told about them by our old folk differed but slightly from those related elsewhere. There was the well-known cow that gave the finest yield of milk, and retained it all the year round when others of the herd ran dry, but always ceased the flow at a certain time, and if efforts were made to draw more from her, kicked over the the milking-pail. The milkmaid discovered that the cow belonged to the small people, by reason of her wearing in her hat a bunch of flowers having in it a four-leaved clover, which rendered them visible, when she saw them climbing up the cow's legs and sucking at her teats. The greedy mistress, when the maid told her of this discovery, contrary to advice, washed the poor animal all over with salt water, which fairies particularly dislike (as well as the smell of fish and grease), in order to drive them away. Of course she succeeded in her object, and by so doing brought nothing but ill-luck for ever after on herself and family. When unmolested, fairies bring good fortune to places they frequent; but they are spiteful if interfered with, and delight in vexing and thwarting people who meddle with them. It is well known "that they can't abear those whom they can't abide." Then there were the tales of persons spirited away to fairyland, to wait upon the small people's children and perform various little domestic offices, where the time has passed so pleasantly that they have forgotten all about their homes and relations, until by doing a forbidden thing they have incurred their master's anger. They were then punished by being thrown into a deep sleep, and on awakening found themselves on some moor close to their native villages. These unhappy creatures never, after their return, settled down to work, but roamed about aimlessly doing nothing, hoping and longing one day to be allowed to go back to the place from whence they had been banished. They had first put themselves into the fairies' power by eating or drinking something on the sly, when they had surprised them at one of their moonlight frolics; or by accepting a gift of fruit from the hands of one of these little beings. There are also two or three legends of curious women, who by underhand dealings have got hold of a mysterious box of green ointment belonging to the fairies, which, rubbed on the eyes, gave them the power of seeing them by daylight, when they look old, withered, and grey, and hate to be spied upon by mortals. These women are always interrupted when they have put the ointment on one eye before they have time to anoint both, and by an inadvertent speech they invariably betray their ill-gotten knowledge. They cannot resist making an exclamation when they see a fairy pilfering or up to some mischievous trick. Neither can they keep the secret of the side on which they see, and they are quickly made to pay the penalty of their misdeeds by a well-directed blow from the elf's fist, which deprives them of the sight of that eye for ever. All these old wives' tales are fully related by Mr. Bottrell in his three series of Traditions, &c., of West Cornwall. Fairies haunt the ancient monuments of this county, and are supposed to be the beings who bring ill-luck on the destroyers of them. "Not long ago a woman of Moushal (a village near Penzance) told me that troops of small people, not more than a foot-and-a-half high, used, on moonlight nights, to come out of a hole in the cliff, opening on to the beach, Newlyn side of the village, and but a short distance from it. The little people were always dressed very smart, and if anyone came near them would scamper away into the hole. Mothers often told their children that if they went under cliffs by night the small people would carry them away into 'Dicky Danjy's hole.'"--Bottrell. These small people are said to have been half-witted people who had committed no mortal sin, but who, when they died, were not good enough to go to Heaven. They are always thought, in some state, to have lived before. The small people go about in parties, but pisky in his habits, at least in West Cornwall, is a solitary little being. I gather however, from Mr. T. Q. Couch's History of Polperro that in the eastern part of the county the name of Pisky is applied indiscriminately to both tribes. He says two only of them are known by name, and quotes the following rhyme: "Jack o' the lantern! Joan the wad, Who tickled the maid and made her mad; Light me home, the weather's bad." Here in the west he is a ragged merry little fellow (to laugh like a pisky is a common Cornish simile), interesting himself in human affairs, threshing the farmer's corn at nights, or doing other work, and pinching the maidservants when they leave a house dirty at bed-time. Margery Daw, in our version of the nursery-song, meets with punishment at his hands for her misdoings-- "See saw, Margery Daw, Sold her bed and lay upon straw; Sold her bed and lay upon hay, And pisky came and carried her away. For wasn't she a dirty slut To sell her bed and lie in the dirt?" Should the happy possessor of one of these industrious, unpaid fairy servants (who never object to taking food left for them by friends) express his thanks aloud, thus showing that he sees him, or try to reward him for his services by giving him a new suit of clothes, he leaves the house never to return, and in the latter case may be heard to say: "Pisky fine, pisky gay! Pisky now will fly away." Or in another version: "Pisky new coat, and pisky new hood, Pisky now will do no more good."--(T.Q.C.) Mr. Cornish, the Town Clerk of Penzance, mentioned at an antiquarian meeting recently held in that town, "that there was a brownie still existing in it; that a gentleman, whose opinion he would take on many matters, had told him that he had often seen it sitting quietly by the fireside." When mischievously inclined pisky often leads benighted people a sad dance; like Will of the Wisp, he takes them over hedges and ditches, and sometimes round and round the same field, from which they in vain try to find their way home (although they can always see the path close at hand), until they sit down and turn their stockings the wrong side out, as an old lady, born in the last century, whom I well knew, once told me she had done. To turn a pocket inside out has the same effect. But to quote the words of a late witty Cornish doctor, "Pisky led is often whiskey led." Mr. T. Q. Couch in his before-mentioned book has two or three amusing stories of their merry pranks. One is called "A Voyage with the Piskies." A Polperro lad meeting them one night as he was going on an errand heard them say in chorus, "I'm for Portallow Green" (a place in the neighbourhood). Repeating the cry after them, "quick as thought he found himself there surrounded by a throng of laughing piskies." The next place they visited was Seaton Beach, between Polperro and Plymouth; the third and last cry was "I'm for the King of France's cellar." Again he decided on joining them, dropped the bundle he was carrying on the sands, and "immediately found himself in a spacious cellar, engaged with his mysterious companions in tasting the richest wines." Afterwards they strolled through the palace, where in a room he saw all the preparations made for a feast, and could not resist the temptation of pocketing one of the rich silver goblets from the table. The signal for their return was soon given, and once more he found himself on Seaton Beach, where he had just time to pick up his bundle before he was whisked home. All these voyages were made in the short space of five minutes. When on his return he told his adventures they were listened to with incredulity until he produced the goblet, which proved the truth of his tale. After having been kept for generations this trophy has disappeared. "These little creatures seem sometimes," Mr. Couch says, "to have delighted in mischief for its own sake. Old Robin Hicks, who formerly lived in a house at 'Quay Head' (Polperro), has more than once, on stormy winter nights, been alarmed at his supper by a voice sharp and shrill--'Robin! Robin! your boat is adrift.' Loud was the laughter and the tacking of hands (clapping) when they succeeded in luring Robin as far as the quay, where the boat was lying safely at its moorings." Another of his legends is about a fisherman of his district, John Taprail, long since dead, who was, on a frosty night, aroused from his sleep by a voice which called to him that his boat was in danger. He went down to the beach to find that some person had played a practical joke on him. As he was returning he saw a group of piskies sitting in a semicircle under a much larger boat belonging to one of his neighbours. They were dividing a heap of money between them by throwing a piece of gold alternately into each of the hats which lay before them. John was covetous, and forgot that piskies hate to be spied upon; so he crept up and pushed his hat slily in with the others. When the pile was getting low he tried to get off with his booty without their detecting the fraud. He had got some distance before the cheat was discovered; then they pursued him in such hot haste that he only escaped with his treasure by leaving his coat-tails in their hands. "The pisky's midwife" is common,--a mortal who has been decoyed into fairyland discovers it by accidentally rubbing her eye with a bit of soap whilst washing the baby. Like those who have stolen and applied the green ointment, she loses the sight of it by a blow from an angry pisky's fist. She meets and recognizes the father at a fair where, as usual, he is pilfering, and foolishly asks after the welfare of mother and child. But all these stories in West Cornwall would be told of the "small people," as well as the well-known "Colman Grey" (of course the name varies), which relates how a farmer one day found a poor, half-starved looking bantling, sitting alone in the middle of a field, whom he took home and fed until he grew quite strong and lively. A short time after a shrill voice was suddenly heard calling thrice upon "Colman Grey." Upon which the imp cried "Ho! ho! ho! my daddy is come!" flew through the keyhole, and was never heard of after. Unbaptised children were, in this county at the beginning of the century, said to turn, when they died, into piskies; they gradually went through many transformations at each change, getting smaller until at last they became "Meryons" [16] (ants) and finally disappeared. Another tradition is that they were Druids, who, because they would not believe in Christ, were for their sins condemned to change first into piskies; gradually getting smaller, they too, as ants, at last are lost. It is on account of these legends considered unlucky to destroy an ant's nest, and a piece of tin put into one could, in bygone days, through pisky power be transmuted into silver, provided that it was inserted at some varying lucky moment about the time of the new moon. Moths were formerly believed in Cornwall to be departed souls, and are still, in some districts, called piskies. There is also a green bug which infests bramble-bushes in the late autumn that bears the same name, and one of the reasons assigned for blackberries not being good after Michaelmas is that pisky spoils them then. Pisky is in some places invoked for luck at the swarming of bees. It was once a common custom in East Cornwall, when houses were built, to leave holes in the walls by which these little beings could enter; to stop them up would drive away good luck. And in West Cornwall knobs of lead, known as pisky's paws or pisky feet, were placed at intervals on the roofs of farm-houses to prevent the piskies from dancing on them and turning the milk sour in the dairies. Country people in East Cornwall sometimes put a prayer book under a child's pillow as a charm to keep away piskies. I am told that a poor woman, near Launceston, was fully persuaded that one of her children was taken away and a pisky substituted, the disaster being caused by the absence of a prayer book on one particular night.--H. G. T., Notes and Queries, December, 1850. Small round stones, known as "Pisky Grinding Stones," are occasionally found in Cornwall; they are most probably parts of old spindles. If piskies are kind and helpful little beings, spriggans or sprites are spiteful creatures, never doing a good turn for anyone. It is they who carry off poor babies from their mothers, when they have been obliged to leave them for a few hours alone, putting their own ugly, peevish brats in their cradles, who never thrive under the foster-mother's care, in spite of all the trouble they may bestow upon them. Mr. Bottrell tells the story of a spriggan, a married man with a family, who took the place of a poor woman's child one evening when she was at work in the harvest field. For although an innocent baby held in the arms is thought in Cornwall to protect the holder from mischief caused by ghosts and witches, it has no power over these creatures, who are not supposed to have souls. The scene of this legend was under Chapel Carn Brea, on the old road from Penzance to St. Just in Penwith. The mother, Jenny Trayer by name, was first alarmed on her return one night from her work in the harvest field by not finding her child in its cradle, but in a corner of the kitchen where in olden days the wood and furze for the then general open fires were kept. She was however too tired to take much notice, and went to bed, and slept soundly until the morning. From that time forth she had no peace; the child was never satisfied but when eating or drinking, or when she had it dandling in her arms. The poor woman consulted her neighbours in turn as to what she should do with the changeling (as one and all agreed that it was). One recommended her to dip it on the three first Wednesdays in May in Chapel Uny Well, [17] which advice was twice faithfully carried out in the prescribed manner. The third Wednesday was very wet and windy, but Jenny determined to persevere in this treatment of her ugly bantling, and holding the brat (who seemed to enjoy the storm) firmly on her shoulders, she trudged off. When they got about half-way, a shrill voice from behind some rocks was heard to say, "Tredrill! Tredrill! Thy wife and children greet thee well." Not seeing anyone, the woman was of course alarmed, and her fright increased when the imp made answer in a similar voice, "What care I for wife or child, When I ride on Dowdy's back to the Chapel Well, And have got pap my fill?" After this adventure, she took the advice of another neighbour, who told her the best way to get rid of the spriggan and have her own child returned was "to put the small body upon the ashes' pile, and beat it well with a broom; then lay it naked under a church stile; there leave it and keep out of sight and hearing till the turn of night; when nine times out of ten the thing will be taken away and the stolen child returned." This was finally done; all the women of the village after it had been put upon a convenient pile "belabouring it with their brooms," upon which it naturally set up a frightful roar. After dark it was laid under the stile, and there next morning the woman "found her own 'dear cheeld' sleeping on some dry straw," most beautifully clean and wrapped in a piece of chintz. "Jenny nursed her recovered child with great care, but there was always something queer about it, as there always is about one that has been in the fairies' power--if only for a few days." There are many other tales of changelings, but they resemble each other so much that they are not worth relating. In the one before quoted from Mr. Bottrell he gives a third charm for getting a child restored, as follows: "Make by night a smoky fire, with green ferns and dry. When the chimney and house are full of smoke as one can bear, throw the changeling on the hearthstone; go out of the house, turn three times round; when one enters, the right child will be restored." Spriggans, too, guard the vast treasures that are supposed to be buried beneath our immense carns and in our cliff castles. No matter if the work be carried on by night or by day, they are sure to punish the rash person who ventures to dig in hopes of securing them. When he has got some way down, he finds himself surrounded by hundreds of ugly beings, in some cases almost as tall as he, who scare the unhappy man until he loses all control over himself, throws down his tools, and rushes off as fast as he can possibly go. The fright often makes him so ill that he has to lie for days in bed. Should he ever summon up courage to return to the spot, he will find the pit refilled, and no traces to show that the ground had been disturbed. Knockers (pronounced knackers) are mine fairies, popularly supposed to be (as related elsewhere) the souls of the Jews who crucified Christ, sent by the Romans to work as slaves in the tin mines. In proof of this, they are said never to have been heard at work on Saturdays, nor other Jewish festivals. They are compelled to sing carols at Christmas time. Small pieces of smelted tin found in old smelting-works are known as "Jews' bowels." These fairies haunt none but the richest tin mines, and many are reputed to have been discovered by their singing and knocking underground; and miners think when they hear them that it is a sign of good luck, because when following their noises they often chance on lodes of good ore. When a miner goes into an "old level" and sees a bright light, it is a sure sign that he will find tin there. Knockers like spriggans are very ugly beings, and, if you do not treat them in a friendly spirit, very vindictive. "As stiff as Barker's knee" is a common saying in Cornwall; he having in some way angered the knockers, either by speaking of them disrespectfully or by not leaving (as was formerly the custom) a bit of his dinner on the ground for them (for good luck), they in revenge threw all their tools in his lap, which lamed him for the rest of his life. Mr. Bottrell tells a similar story of a man named Tom Trevorrow, who when he was working underground heard the knockers just before him, and roughly told them "to be quiet and go." Upon which, a shower of stones fell suddenly around him, and gave him a dreadful fright. He seems however to have quickly got over it, and soon after, when eating his dinner, a number of squeaking voices sang, "Tom Trevorrow! Tom Trevorrow! Leave some of thy 'fuggan' [18] for bucca, Or bad luck to thee to-morrow!" But Tom took no notice and ate up every crumb, upon which the knockers changed their song to "Tommy Trevorrow! Tommy Trevorrow! We'll send thee bad luck to-morrow; Thou old curmudgeon, to eat all thy fuggan, And not leave a 'didjan' [19] for bucca." After this such persistent ill-luck followed him that he was obliged to leave the mine. Bucca is the name of a spirit that in Cornwall it was once thought necessary to propitiate. Fishermen left a fish on the sands for bucca, and in the harvest a piece of bread at lunch-time was thrown over the left shoulder, and a few drops of beer spilled on the ground for him, to ensure good luck. Bucca, or bucca-boo, was, until very lately (and I expect in some places still is) the terror of children, who were often when crying told "that if they did not stop he would come and carry them off." It was also the name of a ghost; but now-a-days to call a person a "great bucca" simply implies that you think him a fool. There were two buccas-- "'Bucca Gwidden,' the white, or good spirit, 'Bucca Dhu,' the black, malevolent one." SUPERSTITIONS: MINERS', SAILORS', FARMERS'. Although Cornish miners, or "tinners" as they are generally called, are a very intelligent, and since the days of Wesley a religious body of men, many of their old-world beliefs still linger. To this day it is considered unlucky to make the form of a cross on the sides of a mine, and when underground you may on no account whistle for fear of vexing the knockers and bringing ill-luck, but you may sing or even swear [20] without producing any bad effect. Down one mine-shaft a black goat is often seen to descend, but is never met below; in another mine a white rabbit forebodes an accident. "The occurrence of a black cat in the lowest depths of a mine will warn the older miners off that level until the cat is exterminated."--Thomas Cornish, Western Antiquary, October, 1887. A hand clasping the ladder and coming down with, or after a miner, foretells misfortune or death. This superstition prevails, also, in the slate quarries of the eastern part of the county. The miners in the slate quarries of Delabole have a tradition that the right hand of a miner, who committed suicide, is sometimes seen following them down the ladders, grasping the rings as they let them go, holding a miner's light between the thumb and finger. It forebodes ill to the seer.--Esmè Stuart. See "Tamsin's Choice," Longman, June, 1883. Miners, too, had some superstition in regard to snails, known in Cornwall as "bullhorns;" for if they met one on their way to work they always dropped a bit of their dinner or some grease from their lanthorn before him for good-luck. Miraculous dreams are related; warnings to some miners, which have prevented on particular days their going down below with their comrades, when serious accidents have happened and several have lost their lives. Rich lodes, too, have been discovered through the dreams of fortunate women, who have been shown in them where their male relatives should dig for the hidden treasure. "'Dowsing' (divining with the rod) is of course believed in here as elsewhere, and some men are known as noted 'dowsers.' A forked twig of hazel (also called a 'dowser') is used by our Cornish miners to discover a vein of ore; it is held loosely in the hand, the point towards the 'dowser's' breast, and it is said to turn round when the holder is standing over metal." Miners still observe some quaint old customs; a horse-shoe is sometimes placed on a convenient part of the machinery, which each, as he goes down to his day's work, touches four times to ensure good-luck. These must be "Tributers" (pronounced trib-ut-ers), who work on "trib-ut," when a percentage is paid on ores raised; in contradistinction to "Tut-workers," who are paid by the job. A miner, going underground with shoes on, will drive all the mineral out of the mine.--Cornubiana, Rev. S. Rundle. In 1886, at St. Just in Penwith two men of Wheal Drea had their hats burnt one Monday morning, after the birth of their first children. Three hundred fathoms below the ground at Cook's Kitchen mine, near Camborne, swarms of flies may be heard buzzing, called by the men, for some unknown reason, "Mother Margarets." From being bred in the dark, they have a great dislike to light. Swallows in olden times were thought to spend the winter in deep, old disused Cornish tin-works; also in the sheltered nooks of its cliffs and cairns. It is the custom here to jump on seeing the first in spring. A water-wagtail, in Cornwall a "tinner," perching on a window-sill, is the sign of a visit from a stranger. Carew says--"The Cornish tynners hold a strong imagination, that in the withdrawing of Noah's floud to the sea the same took his course from east to west, violently breaking vp, and forcibly carrying with it the earth, trees, and rocks, which lay anything loosely neere the vpper face of the ground. To confirme the likelihood of which supposed truth, they doe many times digge vp whole and huge timber-trees, which they conceiue at that deluge to haue been ouerturned and whelmed." Miners frequently in conversation make use of technical proverbs, such as "Capel rides a good horse." Capel is schorl, and indicates the presence of tin. "It's a wise man that knows tin" alludes to the various forms it takes. To an old tune they sing the words-- "Here's to the devil, with his wooden spade and shovel, Digging tin by the bushel, with his tail cocked up." And on the signboard of a public-house in West Cornwall a few years ago (and probably still) might be read-- "Come all good Cornish boys [21] walk in, Here's brandy, rum, and shrub, and gin; You can't do less than drink success To copper, fish, and tin." Miners believe that mundic (iron pyrites) being applied to a wound immediately cures it; of which they are so sure that they use no other remedy than washing it in the water that runs through the mundic ore.--A Complete History of Cornwall, 1730. It is an easy transition from mines to fish, the next staple industry of Cornwall, and to the superstitions of its fishermen and sailors. Fish is a word in West Cornwall applied more particularly to pilchards (pelchurs). They frequent our coasts in autumn. "When the corn is in the shock, Then the fish are on the rock." And if on a close foggy day in that season you ask the question,--"Do you think it will rain?" the answer often is--"No! it is only het (heat) and pelchurs," that sort of weather being favourable for catching them. "A good year for fleas is a good year for fish," the proverb says; and when eating a pilchard the flesh must be always taken off the bone from the tail to the head. To eat them from head to tail is unlucky, and would soon drive the fish from the shore. There are many other wise sayings about pilchards; but I will only give one more couplet, which declares that-- "They are food, money, and light, All in one night." [22] Should pilchards when in bulk [23] make a squeaking noise, they are crying for more, and another shoal will quickly be in the bay. Fishermen dread going near the spot where vessels have been wrecked, as the voices of the drowned often call to them there, especially before a storm. Sometimes their dead comrades call them by their names, and then they know for certain that they will soon die; and often when drowning the ghosts of their friends appear to them. They are seen by them sometimes taking the form of animals. Mr. Bottrell speaks of a farmer's wife who was warned of her son's death by the milk in the pans ranged round her dairy being agitated like the sea waves in a storm. There is a legend common to many districts of a wrecker who rushed into the sea and perished, after a voice had been heard to call thrice, "The hour is come, but not the man." He was carried off by the devil in a phantom ship seen in the offing. But ships haunted with seamen's ghosts are rarely lost, as the spirits give the sailors warning of storms and other dangers. In a churchyard near the Land's End is the grave of a drowned captain, covered by a flat tombstone; proceeding from it formerly the sound of a ghostly bell was often heard to strike four and eight bells. The tale goes that when his vessel struck on some rocks close to the shore, the captain saw all his men safely off in their boat, but refused himself to leave the ship, and went down in her exactly at midnight, as he was striking the time. His body was recovered, and given decent burial, but his poor soul had no rest. An unbelieving sailor once went out of curiosity to try if he could hear this bell; he did, and soon after sailed on a voyage from which he never returned. Spectre ships are seen before wrecks; they are generally shrouded in mist; but the crew of one was said to consist of two men, a woman, and a dog. These ships vanish at some well-known point. Jack Harry's lights, too, herald a storm; they are so called from the man who first saw them. These appear on a phantom vessel resembling the one that will be lost. On boarding a derelict, should a live cat or other animal be found, it is thrown into the sea and drowned, under the idea that if any living thing is in her, the finders can claim nothing from the owners. In fact she is not a derelict. The apparition of a lady carrying a lanthorn always on one part of the Cornish coast [24] foretells a storm and shipwrecks. She is supposed to be searching for her child who was drowned, whilst she was saved, because she was afraid to trust it out of her arms. For the legends of "The Lady of the Vow" and "The Hooper or Hooter of Sennen Cove," see ante, p. 71. [25] Mermaids are still believed in, and it is very bad to offend them, for by their spite harbours have been filled up with sand. They, however, kindly take idiot children under their protection. The lucky finder of one of their combs or glasses has the power (as long as it remains in his possession) of charming away diseases. Boats are said to come to a sudden standstill when over the spot where lies the body of a drowned man, for whom search is being made. The body is supposed to rise when drowned, on the seventh, eighth, or ninth day. Sailors regard many things as bad omens, such "as a loaf of bread turned upside-down on a table." (This will bring some ship to distress.) They will not begin a voyage on Childermas-day, nor allow a piece of spar-stone (quartz) to be carried on board a vessel: that would ensure her striking on a rock. Of course, they neither whistle when there, nor speak of hares, two most unlucky things; and should they meet one of these animals on their way to the place of embarkation they think it far wiser to turn back home, and put off sailing for a tide. Hares (as already noticed) play a great part in Cornish folk-lore. The following amusing story I had from a friend:--"Jimmy Treglown, a noted poacher living in a village of West Cornwall, became converted at a revival meeting; he was tempted on his way to class-meeting one Sunday morning soon after by the devil in the form of a beautiful hare. Jimmy said, 'There thee art, my dear; but I waan't tooch thee on a Sunday--nor yet on a weeky day, for that matter.' He went briskly on his way for a few paces, and then, like Lot's wife, he was tempted to look behind him. Alas! in Jimmy's own words, 'There she was in her seat, looking lovely. I tooked up a stone, and dabbed at her. Away she runned, and fare-ee well, religion. Mine runned away with her. I went home, and never went to class no more. [26] You see it was the devil, and 'simmen to me' (seeming) I heard 'un laugh and say, 'Ah! ah! Jimmy, boy, I had thee on the hip then. Thee must confess thee'st had a fair fall.' So I gave in, and never went nigh the 'people' (Wesleyans) no more. Nobody should fire at hares of this sort, except with a silver bullet; they often appear as white, but the devil knowed I couldn't be fooled with a white 'un.'" Nothing is too ridiculous to be told of hares. Another old man from St. Just (still living) once recited this anecdote in our kitchen, and from his grave manner evidently expected it to be believed:--"I was out walking (he said) one Sunday morning, when I saw a hare in a field which I longed to have; so I shied a bit of 'codgy wax' (cobbler's wax), the only thing I had in my pocket, at 'un, when he ran away. What was my surprise on getting over a stile to see two hares in the next field face to face, the 'codgy wax' had stuck to the nose of the first, and he in his fright had runned against the other, and was holden 'un fast, too. So I quietly broke the necks of both, and carried em home." "The grapes are sour" is in Cornwall often changed to "Lev-un go! he's dry eaten after all," as the old man said when he couldn't catch the hare. Sailors and fishermen have naturally many weather proverbs, of which I will give a few:-- "A north wind is a broom for the Channel." "A Saturday's moon is a sailor's curse." "A Saturday's and Sunday's moon Comes once in seven years too soon." "Between twelve and two you'll see what the day will do." "A southerly wind with a fog bring an easterly wind in 'snog' (with certainty)." "Friday's noon is Sunday's doom." "Friday and the week are never alike." "There's never a Saturday in the year But what the sun it doth appear," etc. "Weather dogs" are pillars of light coloured like the rainbow, which appear on the horizon generally over the sea in unsettled weather, and always foretell storms. The inland dwellers of Cornwall have also their wise sayings on this subject. Rooks darting around a rookery, sparrows twittering, donkeys braying, are signs of rain. Cats running wildly about a house are said to bring storms on their tails. Some of their omens are simply ludicrous, such as "We may look for wet when a cat, in washing its face, puts its paw over its ear," or when "hurlers" (small sparks) play about the bars of a grate. A cock crowing on a stone is a sign of fine weather; on the doorstep, of a stranger. But here it is well known "That fools are weather-wise," and "That those that are weather-wise are rarely otherwise." In West Cornwall, not very long ago farmers, before they began to break up a grass field or plough for sowing, always turned the faces of the cattle attached to the plough towards the west and solemnly said, "In the name of God let us begin," and then with the sun's course proceeded on their work. Everything in this county, even down to such a small thing as taking the cream off the milk-pans set round the dairy, must for luck be done from left to right. Invalids, on going out for the first time after an illness, must walk with, not against, the sun, for fear of a relapse. Farmers here are taught that if they wish to thrive they must "rise with the craw (crow), go to bed with the yow (ewe)," not be "like Solomon the wise, who was loth to go to bed and loth to rise," for does not "the master's eye make the mare fat?" "A February spring," according to one proverb, "is not worth a pin," and another says "a dry east wind raises the spring." Sayings current in other counties, such as "a peck of March dust is worth a king's ransom," are also quoted, but those I shall not give. There should be as many frosty mornings in May as in March, for "a hot May makes a fat church-hay." A wet June makes a dry September. "Cornwall will stand a shower every day, and two for Sundays." There is always a black month before Christmas. The farmer too is told-- "A rainbow in the morn, put your hook in the corn; A rainbow in the eve, put your hook in the sheave." In Cornwall, as well as in Devon, there is an old prophecy quoted to the effect, that "in the latter days there will be no difference between summer and winter, save in the length of the days and the greenness of the leaf." It is erroneously asserted to be in the Bible.--Cornubiana, Rev. S. Rundle, Transactions Penzance Natural History Society, etc., 1885-1886. "Countrymen in Cornwall, if the breeze fail whilst they are winnowing, whistle to the spriggan, or air spirit, to bring it back."--Comparative Folk-lore, Cornhill, 1876. A swarm of bees in May is worth a "yow" (ewe) and lamb same day. It is considered lucky in these parts for a stray swarm to settle near your house; and if you throw a handkerchief over it you may claim it as your own. To sell them is unlucky; but you may have an understanding with a purchaser that he will give you an equivalent for your bees. The inside of hives should be rubbed with "scawnsy buds" (elderflowers) to prevent a new swarm from leaving them. Honey should be always taken from the hive on St. Bartholomew's Day, he being the patron saint of bees. Of course all the principal events happening in the families to whom they belonged, in this as in other counties, were formerly whispered to them, that the bees might not think themselves neglected, and leave the place in anger. At a recent meeting of the Penzance Natural History and Antiquarian Society a gentleman mentioned that when a boy he had seen thirty hives belonging to Mr. Joshua Fox, of Tregedna, tied up in crape (an universal practice) because of a death in the Fox family. Another at the same time said that when, some years since, the landlady of the "First and Last" Inn, at the Land's End, died, the bird-cages and flower-pots were also tied with crape, to prevent the birds and plants from dying. When withering, because this has not been done, if the plants be remembered in time and crape put on the pots, they may revive. Enquiring a short time ago what had become of a fine maiden-hair fern that we had had for years, I was told "that we had neglected to put it into mourning when a near relative of our's had died, or to tell it of his death; and therefore it had gradually pined away." After a death, pictures, but especially portraits of the deceased, are also supposed to fade. Snails as well as bees are thought here to bring luck, for "the house is blest where snails do rest." Children on meeting them in their path, for some reason stamp their feet and say, "Snail! snail! come out of your hole, Or I will beat you black as a coal." Another Cornish farmers' superstition is that "ducks won't lay until they have drunk 'Lide' (March) water;" and the wife of one in 1880 declared "that if a goose saw a Lent lily (daffodil) before hatching its goslings it would, when they came forth, destroy them." Some witty thieves, many years ago, having stolen twelve geese from a clergyman in the eastern part of the county, tied twelve pennies and this doggerel around the gander's neck-- "Parson Peard, be not afeard, Nor take it much in anger, We've bought your geese at a penny a-piece, And left the money with the gander." Hens must never be put to sit on an even number of eggs, eleven or thirteen are lucky numbers; Basilisks are hatched from cock's eggs. When cocks crow children are told that they say, "Cock-a-doodle-doo! Grammer's lost her shoe, Down by the barley moo (mow), And what will grammer do, Cock-a-doodle-doo." Moles in this county are known as "wants," and once in the Land's End district I overtook an old man and asked him what had made so many hillocks in a field through which we were passing. His answer was, "What you rich people never have in your houses, 'wants.'" To this day in Cornwall, when anything unforeseen happens to our small farmers, or they have the misfortune to lose by sickness some of their stock, they still think that they are "ill-wished," and start off (often on long journeys) to consult a "pellar," or wise man, sometimes called "a white witch" (which term is here used indiscriminately for persons of both sexes). The following I had from a dairy-man I know, who about twelve years ago quarrelled with a domestic servant, a woman living in a neighbouring house. Soon after, from some reason, two or three of his cows died; he was quite sure, he told me, that she had "overlooked" and "ill-wished" him. To ease his mind he had consulted a "pellar" about the matter, who had described her accurately to him, and, for payment, removed the "spell" (I do not know what rites were used), telling him to look at his watch and note the hour, as he would find, when he returned home, that a cow he had left sick would have begun at that moment to recover (which he says it did). The "pellar" also added, "The woman who has 'ill-wished' you will be swaddled in fire and lapped in water;" and by a strange coincidence she emigrated soon after, and was lost in the ill-fated Cospatrick, that was burnt at sea. Water from a font is often stolen to sprinkle "ill-wished" persons or things. The two next examples were communicated to me by a friend: "Some twenty-six years ago a farmer in a neighbouring village (West Cornwall) sustained during one season continual losses from his cows dying of indigestion, known as 'loss of cud,' 'hoven-blown,' etc. After consulting an old farrier called Armstrong he was induced to go to a 'pellar' in Exeter. His orders were to go home, and, on nearing his farm, he would see an old woman in a field hoeing turnips, and that she was the party who had cast the 'evil eye' on him. When he saw her he was to lay hold of her and accuse her of the crime, then tear off some of her dress, take it to his farm, and burn it with some of the hair from the tails of his surviving stock. These directions were fully carried out, and his bad health (caused by worry) improved, and he lost no more cows. A spotted clover that grew luxuriantly that summer was no doubt the cause of the swelling." "Another farmer in the same village eighteen years since lost all his feeding cattle from pleuro-pneumonia; believing them to be 'ill-wished' by a woman, he also consulted the Exeter 'pellar.' He brought home some bottles of elixir, potent against magic, and made an image of dough, pierced it from the nape of the neck downward, in the line of the spine, with a very large blanket-pin. In order to make the agonies of the woman with the 'evil eye' excruciating in the last degree, dough and pin were then burnt in a fire of hazel and ash. The cure failed, as anyone acquainted with the disease might have forecast." Besides those remedies already mentioned for curing cattle, you may employ these:--"Take some blood from the sick animal by wounding him; let the blood fall on some straw carefully held to the place--not a drop must be lost; burn the straw; when the ill-wisher will be irresistibly drawn to the spot; then by violence you can compel him to take off the spell." Or, "Bleed one animal to death to save the whole herd." A local newspaper, in 1883 (Cornishman), gives the following:--"Superstitions die hard.--A horse died the other day on a farm in the neighbourhood of St. Ives. Its carcase was dragged on a Sunday away up to the granite rock basins and weather-worn bosses of Trecoben hill, and there burnt, in order to drive away the evil spell, or ill-wishing, which afflicted the farm where the animal belonged." I, a few years since, saw a dying cat taken out of a house on a mat, by two servants, that it might not die inside and bring ill-luck. "In 1865 a farmer in Portreath sacrificed a calf, by burning, for the purpose of removing a disease which had long followed his horses and cows." And in another case a farmer burnt a living lamb, to save, as he said, "his flock from spells which had been cast on them."--Robert Hunt. The Cornishman, in another paragraph, says:--"Our Summercourt (East Cornwall) correspondent witnessed an amusing affair on Thursday morning (April, 1883). Seeing a crowd in the street, he asked the reason, and found that a young lady was about to perform the feat of throwing a pig's nose over a house for good luck! This is how it was done. The lady took the nose of a pig, that was killed the day before, in her right hand, stood with her back to the house, and threw the nose over her head, and over the house, into the back garden. Had she failed in the attempt her luck was supposed to be bad." "Whet your knife on Sunday, you'll skin on Monday," is a very old Perranuthnoe and St. Hilary (West Cornwall) superstition, so that, however blunt your knife may be, you must use it as it is, lest by sharpening it you bring ill-luck on the farmer, and he lose a sheep or bullock. Mr. T. Q. Couch, W. Antiquary, 1883, says of one, "He is an old-fashioned man, and, amongst his other 'whiddles' (whims), keeps a goat amongst his cattle for the sake of keeping his cows from slipping their calves." Branches of care (mountain ash) were, in the east of the county, hung over the cattle in their stalls to prevent their being "ill-wished," also carried in the pocket as a cure and prevention of rheumatism. "Rheumatism will attack the man who carries a walking stick made of holly."--Cornubiana, Rev. S. Rundle. The belief in witchcraft in West Cornwall is much more general than most people imagine. Several cases have lately come under my own notice; one, that of a man-servant in our employ who broke a blood-vessel, and for a long time was so ill that his life was despaired of. He was most carefully attended by a Penzance physician, who came to see him three times a day. But directly that his strength began to return he asked permission to go to Redruth to consult a "pellar," as he was quite sure that he had been "overlooked" and "ill-wished." An old Penzance man, afflicted with rheumatism, who gained his living by selling fruit in the streets, fancied himself ill-wished. He went to Helston to see a "wiseman" residing there, to whom he paid seven-and-sixpence, with a further promise of five pounds on the removal of the "spell." As he was too poor to pay this himself a brother agreed to do it for him, but somehow failed to perform his contract. Now the poor old man thinks that the pellar's ill-wishes are added to his former pains. The "pellars" wore formerly magical rings, with a blue stone in them, said to have been formed by snakes breathing on hazel-twigs. Our country-people often searched for these stones. CHARMS, Etc. Many are the charms against ill-wishing worn by the ignorant. I will quote some mentioned by Mr. Bottrell: "A strip of parchment inscribed with the following words forming a four-sided acrostic:-- S A T O R A R E P O T E N E T O P E R A R O T A S "At the time of an old lady's decease, a little while ago, on her breast was found a small silk bag containing several charms, among others a piece of parchment, about three inches square, having written on one side of it 'Nalgah' (in capital letters); under this is a pen-and-ink drawing something like a bird with two pairs of wings, a pair extended and another folded beneath them. The creature appears to be hovering and at the same time brooding on a large egg, sustained by one of its legs, whilst it holds a smaller egg at the extremity of its other leg, which is outstretched and long. Its head, round and small, is unlike that of a bird. From the rudeness of the sketch and its faded state it is difficult to trace all the outlines. Under this singular figure is the word 'Tetragrammaton' (in capitals); on the reverse in large letters-- 'Jehovah.' 'Jah, Eloim.' 'Shadday.' 'Adonay.' 'Have mercy on a poor woman.' "A pellar of great repute in the neighbourhood tells me that this is inscribed with two charms, that Nalgah is the figure only. The Abracadabra is also supplied, the letters arranged in the usual way. Another potent spell is the rude draft of the planetary signs for the Sun, Jupiter, and Venus, followed by a cross, pentagram, and a figure formed by a perpendicular line and a divergent one at each side of it united at the bottom. Under them is written, 'Whosoever beareth these tokens will be fortunate, and need fear no evil.' The charms are folded in a paper on which is usually written, 'By the help of the Lord these will do thee good,' and inclosed in a little bag to be worn on the breast." People in good health visited these pellars every spring to get their charms renewed, and bed-ridden people who kept theirs under their "pillow-beres" were then visited by the pellar for the same purpose. "Of amulets mention must be made of certain small crystal balls called 'kinning stones,' held in high esteem for cure of ailments of the eye. I examined one of these 'kinning stones' recently, which had been lent to a person with a bad eye, who on recovering from his ailment had returned it to the owner. It proved to be a translucent, blueish-white globular crystal, about one-and-a-quarter inch in diameter; in texture, horny rather than vitreous; apparently not made of glass, but perhaps of rock crystal; pierced by a hole containing a boot lace for suspension; having striæ running through the substance of the crystal perpendicular to the hole. It had been for many generations in possession of the family of the owner, who valued it very highly, 'but was willing to lend it to anyone to do good.' This kind of amulet is worn around the neck, the bad eye being struck with the crystal every morning. There are other 'kinning stones' within reach, but examples are not common; their virtues are familiar to the people, and instances are to be met with among the country folk, whose recovery from a 'kinning' in the eye ('kennel,' West Cornwall) is attributed solely to the use of these charms."--Notes on the Neighbourhood of Brown Willy (North Cornwall), Rev. A. H. Malan, M.A. In every small Cornish village in olden times (and the race is not yet extinct) lived a charmer or "white witch." Their powers were not quite as great as those of a pellar, but they were thoroughly believed in, and consulted on every occasion for every complaint. They were not only able to cure diseases, but they could, when offended, "overlook" and ill-wish the offender, bringing ill-luck on him, and also on his family and farm-stock. The seventh son of the seventh son, or seventh daughter of the seventh daughter, were born with this gift of charming, and made the most noted pellars; but anyone might become a witch who touched a Logan rock nine times at midnight. These Logan rocks are mentioned elsewhere as being in Cornwall their favourite resorts, and to them they went, it is said, riding on ragwort stems, instead of the traditional broomsticks. Or, he might, says another authority, use the following charm: "Go to the chancel of a church to sacrament, hide away the bread from the hands of the priest, at midnight carry it around the church from south to north, crossing east three times. The third time a big toad, open-mouthed, will be met, put the bread in it; as soon as swallowed he will breathe three times upon the man, and from that time he will become a witch. Known by five black spots diagonally placed under the tongue." There is also a strange glare in the eye of a person who can "overlook," and the eyelids are always red. Witches could in this country change themselves into toads, as well as hares. Mr. Robert Hunt relates the story of one who met her death in that form, and Mr. T. Q. Couch tells the tale of a sailor who was a "witch," who received several injuries whilst in the shape of that animal. When a very small child, having a "kennel" (an ulcer) on my eye, I was unknown to my parents taken by an old servant to a Penzance "charmer," who then made a great deal of money by her profession. All I can remember about it is, that she breathed on it, made some curious passes with her hands and muttered some incantation. About twelve years ago, a woman who lived in the "west country" (Land's End district) as well as being a "white witch was a famous knitster," and we amongst others frequently gave her work. When she brought it back she was treated by our maids, who lived in great fear of her "ill-wishing" them, to the best our kitchen could afford; and many were the marvellous stories she told me of her power to staunch blood, etc., when doctors failed. It was not necessary for her to see the person; she could cure them sitting by her fireside if they were miles away. Witches are also consulted about the recovery of stolen property, which, by casting their spells over the thief, it is still supposed they can compel him to return. A part of Launceston Castle is locally known as Witch's Tower, from the tradition that one was burnt at its foot; no grass grows on the spot. Another is said to have met with the same fate on a flat stone close to St. Austell market-house. "Charms are still in use by the simple-minded for thrush, warts, and various complaints; also for the cure of cattle, when some evil disposed person has 'turned a figure upon (i.e. bewitched) them;' and white witches--those who avert the evil eye--have not yet ceased out of the land."--Notes on the Neighbourhood of Brown Willy (North Cornwall), Rev. A. H. Malan, M.A. I will give some of their charms culled from various sources, and remedies for diseases still used in Cornwall:--Take three burning sticks from the hearth of the "overlooker," make the patient cross over them three times and then extinguish with water. Place nine bramble-leaves in a basin of "Holy Well's water, pass each leaf over and from the diseased part, repeating three times to each leaf. Three virgins came from the east, one brought fire, the others brought frost. Out fire! In frost! In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." Or take a stick of burning furze from the hearth, pass over and above the diseased part, repeating the above nine times. If you can succeed by any means in drawing blood from the "ill-wisher" you are certain to break and remove the spell. Stick pins into an apple or potatoe, carry it in your pocket, and as it shrivels the "ill-wisher" will feel an ache from every pin, but this I fancy does not do the person "overlooked" any good. Another authority says, "Stick pins into a bullock's heart, when the 'ill-wisher' will feel a stab for every one put in, and in self-defence take off the curse." A friend writes, "An old man called Uncle Will Jelbart, who had been with the Duke of Kent in America, and also a very long time in the Peninsular, about forty years ago lived in West Cornwall; he had a small pension, and in addition made a good income by charming warts, wildfire (erysipelas), cataracts, etc. He used to spit three times and breathe three times on the part affected, muttering, 'In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost I bid thee begone.' For cataract he pricked the small white 'dew-snail' (slug), found about four a.m., with a hawthorn spine, and let a drop fall into the eye; and in the case of skin diseases occasionally supplemented the charm with an ointment made of the juice extracted from house-leeks and 'raw-cream;' he sometimes changed the words and repeated those which with slight variations are known all over Cornwall--'Three virgins,' etc. "The crowfoot locally known as the 'kenning herb' is in some districts used in incantations for curing 'kennings' or 'kennels' (ulcers in the eye). 'Three ladies (or virgins) come from the east: One with fire and two with frost; Out with thee, fire, and in with thee, frost: In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.' "This is often said nine times over a scald. In prose it begins thus: 'As I passed over the river Jordan, I met with Christ. He said, What aileth thee? Oh Lord, my flesh doth burn. The Lord said unto me, Two angels,'" etc. A lady once told me that about forty years ago she was taken to a "charmer," who stood in a Cornish market-place on fixed days, to have her warts cured. The remedies for this childish complaint are very numerous. I once had my forehead rubbed with a piece of stolen beef, which was then buried in a garden, to send them away, the idea being that as the beef decayed the warts would fall off or dwindle gradually. There are two or three other ways of getting rid of them of a similar kind. Touch each wart with a new pin, enclose them in a bottle, either bury them in a newly-made grave of the opposite sex, or at four cross-roads; as the pins rust, the warts will disappear. Or, touch them with a knot made in a piece of string (there should be as many knots as there are warts), bury it; when the rope decays so will the warts. The two next are selfish remedies. Touch each wart with a pebble, put the stones in a bag, throw them away, and the finder will get them and they will leave you. Or, in coming out of church, wish them on some part of another person's body (or on a tree); they will go from you and appear on him, or on the spot named. One method employed by professional "charmers" is to take two pieces of charred stick from a fire, form them into a cross and place them on the warts, and repeat one of the formulæ above quoted. Yet another is to wash the hands in the moon's rays focussed in a dry metal basin, saying, "I wash my hands in this thy dish, Oh man in the moon, do grant my wish, And come and take away this." The moon too is invoked for the curing of corns. "Corns down here! No corns up there!" is repeated nine times. The fore-finger pointing first to the ground and then to the sky. When pricked by a thorn, use one of the following charms:-- "Christ was of a virgin born: And he was pricked by a thorn, And it did never 'bell' (fester), And I trust in Jesus this never will." Or, "Christ was crowned with thorns, The thorns did bleed but did not rot, No more shall thy--(mentioning the part affected): In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." In prose: "When Christ was upon the middle earth the Jews pricked him, his blood sprung up into heaven, his flesh never rotted nor 'fustered,' no more I hope will not thine. In the name," etc.--From Mr. T. Q. Couch, who gives two others very similar. FOR TETTERS. "Tetter, tetter, thou hast nine sisters, God bless thee, flesh, and preserve thee, bone; Perish thou, tetter, and be thou gone: In the name," etc. "Tetter, tetter, thou hast eight sisters," etc. This charm is thus continued until it comes to the last, which is,-- "Tetter, tetter, thou hast no sister," etc.--Bottrell. TOOTHACHE. In prose and verse slightly varied, common in all parts of the county,-- "Christ passed by his brother's door, Saw Peter his brother lying on the floor; What aileth thee, brother?-- Pain in thy teeth? Thy teeth shall pain thee no more: In the name of," etc. This is to be worn in a bag around the neck. Mr. T. Q. Couch gives this charm in prose. It begins thus: "Peter sat at the gate of the Temple, and Christ said unto him, What aileth thee?" etc. Another remedy against toothache is, always in the morning to begin dressing by putting the stocking on the left foot.--Through Rev. S. Rundle. A knuckle-bone is often carried in the pocket as a cure and preventive of cramp. I once saw an old woman turn out her pocket; amongst its contents, as well as the knuckle-bone, was the tip of an ox-tongue kept for good luck. Slippers on going to bed are, when taken off, for the same complaint often placed under the bed with the soles upwards, or on their heels against the post of the bed with their toes up. The following is from Mr. T. Q. Couch: "The cramp is keenless, Mary was sinless when she bore Jesus: let the cramp go away in the name of Jesus." All the charms published by the above-named author in his History of Polperro were taken from a manuscript book, which belonged to a white witch. When a foot has "gone to sleep" I have often seen people wet their forefingers in their mouths, stoop and draw the form of a cross on it. This is said to be an infallible remedy. Mr. Robert Hunt has a rather similar cure for hiccough: "Wet the forefinger of the right hand with spittle, and cross the front of the left shoe (or boot) three times, repeating the Lord's Prayer backwards." The most popular cure with children is a heaping spoonful of moist sugar. A sovereign remedy for hiccough and almost every complaint is a small piece of a stale Good Friday bun grated into a glass of cold water. This bun is hung up in the kitchen from one year to the other. Bread baked on this day never gets mouldy. FOR A STRAIN. "Christ rode over the bridge, Christ rode under the bridge; Vein to vein, strain to strain, I hope God will take it back again." FOR AGUE. When our Saviour saw the cross, whereon he was to be crucified, his body did shake. The Jews said, "Hast thou an ague?" Our Saviour said, "He that keepeth this in mind, thought, or writing, shall neither be troubled with ague or fever." FOR WILDFIRE (Erysipelas). "Christ, he walketh over the land, Carried the wildfire in his hand, He rebuked the fire, and bid it stand; Stand, wildfire, stand (three times repeated): In the name of," etc.--T. Q. Couch. Mr. Robert Hunt gives in his book on Old Cornwall a Latin charm for the staunching of blood. I find, however, on making inquiries that it is not the one generally used, which is as follows: "Christ was born in Bethlehem, Baptised in the river Jordan; There he digged a well, And turned the water against the hill, So shall thy blood stand still: In the name," etc. There are other versions all much alike. A prose one runs thus: "Baptised in the river Jordan when the water was wild, the water was good, the water stood, so shall thy blood. In the name," etc.--T. Q. C. The Rev. S. Rundle says a charmer once told him the charm for staunching blood consisted in saying a verse from the Psalms; but she could not read, and he was inclined to believe the form was, "Jesus came to the river Jordan, and said, 'Stand,' and it stood; and so I bid thee, blood, stand. In the name," etc. For bleeding at the nose, a door-key is often placed against the back. Cuts are plugged with cobwebs, flue from a man's hat, tobacco leaves, and occasionally filled with salt. Club-moss is considered good for eye diseases. On the third day of the moon, when the thin crescent is seen for the first time, show it the knife with which the moss for the charm is to be cut, and repeat, "As Christ healed the issue of blood, So I bid thee begone: In the name of," etc. Mr. Robert Hunt says, "Do thou cut what thou cuttest for good!" "At sun-down, having carefully washed the hands, the club-moss is to be cut kneeling. It is to be carefully wrapped in a white cloth, and subsequently boiled in water taken from the spring nearest its place of growth. This may be used as a fomentation. Or the club-moss made into an ointment with butter made from the milk of a new cow." A "stye" on the eye is often stroked nine times with a cat's tail; with a wedding ring taken from a dead woman's, or a silver one from a drowned man's, hand. The belief in the efficacy of a dead hand in curing diseases in Cornwall is marvellous. I, in a short paper read at an Antiquarian meeting, gave this instance, related to me by a medical man about ten years ago (now dead). A day or two after, a number of other cases in proof of my statement appeared, to my surprise, in our local papers, which, as well as my own, I will transcribe. "Once I attended a poor woman's child for an obstinate case of sore eyes. One day when leaving the house the mother said to me, 'Is there nothing more, doctor, I can do for my little girl?' I jokingly answered, 'Nothing, unless you care to stroke them with a dead man's hand.' About a week after I met the woman in the streets, who stopped me, and said, 'My child's eyes are getting better at last, doctor.' I expressed myself pleased that the ointment I had given her was doing good. To my astonishment, she replied, 'Oh, it is not that, we never used it; we took your advice about the dead man's hand.' Until she recalled it to my memory, I had quite forgotten my foolish speech." "I am one of those who can bear testimony to the fact of a cure having been effected by the means above-named. I was born with a disfigurement on my upper lip. My mother felt a great anxiety about this, so my nurse proposed that a dead man's hand should be passed seven times over my lip. I was taken to the house of one Robin Gendall, Causewayhead, Penzance, who at that time was lying dead, and his hand was passed over my lip in the manner named. By slow degrees my friends had the satisfaction of seeing that the charm had taken effect."--Octogenarian. "I may add my testimony to Miss Courtney's remarks as to the belief in Cornwall in the virtue of the touch of a diseased part by a dead man's hand. A case came under my knowledge at Penzance of a child who had from birth a peculiar tuberous formation at the junction of the nose with the forehead, which the medical men would not cut for fear of severing veins. The child was taken by her mother to a friend's house, in which were lying the remains of a young man who had just died from consumption. The deceased's hand was passed over the malformation seven times, and it soon began to grow smaller and smaller." "I have myself seen the child since Miss Courtney read her paper (November, 1881), and, though the mark is still apparent, I am assured it is surely, if slowly, disappearing. A relation of mine also tells me that, like Miss Courtney, she was taken to the Penzance witch for the purpose of having a 'stye' removed from one of her eyes by charming."--Tramp. I was told of many other cases--one by another surgeon; but it would be useless to repeat them. I will end with one I have taken from Notes and Queries, December, 1859:-- "A lady, who was staying lately at Penzance, attended a funeral, and noticed that whilst the clergyman was reading the burial service a woman forced her way through the pall-bearers to the edge of the grave. When he came to the passage, 'Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,' she dropped a white cloth upon the coffin, closed her eyes, and apparently said a prayer. On making inquiries as to the cause of this proceeding, this lady found that a superstition exists amongst the peasantry in that part, that if a person with a sore be taken secretly to a corpse, the dead hand passed over the sore place, and the bandage afterwards be dropped upon the coffin during the reading of the burial service, a perfect cure will be the result. This woman had a child with a bad leg, and she had followed this superstition with a firm belief in its efficacy. The peasants, also, to the present day wear charms, believing they will protect them from sickness and other evils. The wife of the clergyman of the parish was very charitable in attending the sick and dispensing medicines, and one day a woman brought her a child having sore eyes to have them charmed, having more faith in that remedy than in medicines. She was greatly surprised to find that medicines only were given to her."--E. R. There is no virtue in the dead hand of a near relation. A curious old troth plight was formerly practised in Cornwall: The couple broke a wedding ring taken from the finger of a corpse, and each kept one half. The editor of a local paper (Cornishman) once obtained a piece of rope, with which a man was hanged, for a poor woman who had walked fourteen miles to Bodmin in the hopes of getting it, that she might effect the cure of her sore eyes. The Rev. S. Rundle writes that "a Cornish surgeon recommended a charmer as being more efficacious than himself in curing shingles. According to the same authority, a liquid composed of bramble and butter-dock leaves is poured on the place, whilst a light stick is waved over the decoction by the charmer, who repeats an incantation." It is popularly supposed in Cornwall that should shingles meet around your waist, you would die. The cures and charms against epilepsy are also very numerous, and very generally used here. Thirty pence are collected at the church door by the person afflicted, from one of the opposite sex, changed for sacrament money (silver), and made into a ring to be worn day and night. Very lately, at St. Just-in-Penwith, a young woman begged from young men pennies to buy a silver ring, a remedy which she believed would cure her fits. Another charm, which it requires a person of strong nerves to perform, is to walk thrice round a church at midnight, then enter and stand before the altar. In connection with this rite the Rev. S. Rundle relates the following:--"At Crowan (a village in West Cornwall), an epileptic subject entered the church at midnight. As he was groping his way through the pitchy dark, his heart suddenly leaped, and almost stood still. He uttered shriek upon shriek, for his hand had grasped a man's head. He thought it was the head of the famous Sir John St. Aubyn. He was removed in a fainting state, and it was then discovered that he had seized the head of the sexton, who had come in to see that nothing was done to frighten the man. The unfortunate fellow never recovered from the shock, but died in a lunatic asylum." "A middle-aged Camborne man was subject to violent fits until two years ago, when some one told him to kill a toad, put one of its legs in a bag, and wear it suspended by a string around his neck. He did so, and has never had a fit since."--Cornishman, December, 1881. "In Cornwall a black cock is buried on the spot where the person is first attacked by epilepsy" (to avert a similar attack).--Comparative Folk-Lore, Cornhill, 1876. For other charms see Addenda, A Bundle of Charms, by the Rev. A. H. Malan, M.A. Toads are also worn as charms for other diseases in this county:--"On the 27th July, 1875, I was lodging with a very intelligent grazier and horse-dealer, at Tintagel, Cornwall, when he was knocked down by a very serious attack of quinsey, to which he had been subject for many years. He pulled through the crisis; and on being sufficiently recovered he betook himself to a 'wise woman' at Camelford. She prescribed for him as follows:--'Get a live toad, fasten a string around its throat, and hang it up till the body drops from the head; then tie the string around your own neck, and never take it off, night or day, till your fiftieth birthday. You'll never have quinsey again.' When I left Tintagel, I understood that my landlord, greatly relieved in mind, had already commenced the operation."--Augustus Jessop, D.D. When a kettle won't boil, instead of the old adage, "A watched pot never boils," Cornish people say, "There is a toad or a frog in it." It is here considered lucky for a toad to come into the house. This charm for yellow jaundice I culled from the Western Antiquary. "I was walking in a village churchyard near the town of St. Austell (I think in the autumn of 1839), when I saw a woman approach an open grave. She stood by the side of it and appeared to be muttering some words. She then drew out from under her cloak a good-size baked meal-cake, threw it into the grave and then left the place. Upon inquiry I found the cake was composed of oatmeal mixed with dog's urine, baked, and thrown into the grave as a charm for the yellow jaundice. This cure was at that time commonly believed in by the peasantry of the neighbourhood."--Joseph Cartwright, March, 1883. Snakes avoid and dread ash-trees; a branch will keep them away. Our peasantry believe however much you may try to kill quickly an adder or snake, it will never die before sunset. Mr. Robert Hunt says, "When an adder is seen, a circle is to be rapidly drawn around it and the sign of the cross made within it, whilst the first two verses of the 68th Psalm are repeated." This is to destroy it; there are also charms to be said for curing their bites, when they are apostrophised "under the ashen leaf." The following old charm is to make them destroy themselves, by twisting themselves up to nothing:-- "Underneath this 'hazelen mot' [27] There's a 'braggaty' [28] worm, with a speckled throat, Now! nine 'double' [29] hath he. Now from nine double, to eight double, From eight double, to seven double, From seven double, to six double, From six double, to five double, From five double, to four double, From four double, to three double, From three double, to two double, From two double, to one double, Now! no double hath he." The words of charms must be muttered (they lose their efficacy if recited aloud), and the charmer must never communicate them to one of the same sex, for that transfers the power of charming to the other person. Of superstitious rites practised for the cure of whooping-cough, etc., I will speak a little further on. Cornishmen in the last century from their cradles to their graves might have been guided in their actions by old women's "widdles" (superstitions), some as already shown are still foolishly followed; but I hope that few people are silly enough at the present day to leave their babies' heads a twelvemonth unwashed, under the mistaken notion that it would be unlucky to do it. I have often and very recently seen the creases in the palms of children's hands filled with dirt; to clean them before they were a year old would take away riches--they would live and die poor. Their nails, too, for the same period should be bitten, not cut, for that would make them thieves. Hair at no age must be cut at the waning of the moon, that would prevent its growing luxuriantly; locks shorn off must be always burnt, it is unlucky to throw them away; then birds might use them in their nests and weave them in so firmly that there would be a difficulty in your rising at the last day. Children's first teeth are burnt to prevent dog's or "snaggles" irregular teeth coming in their stead. Coral necklaces are worn to ensure easy teething; the beads are said to change their colour when the wearer is ill. "All locks are unlocked to favour easy birth (or death)."--A. H. Bickford, M.D., Camborne, 1883. Cornishmen in the West are said to be born with tails; they drop off when the Tamar is crossed. "A popular notion amongst old folks is, that when a boy is born on the waning moon the next birth will be a girl, and vice versâ. They also say that when a birth takes place on the growing of the moon, the next child will be of the same sex." A child born in the interval between the old and new moons is fated to die young, and babies with blue veins across their noses do not live to see twenty-one. A cake called a groaning cake is made in some houses in Cornwall after the birth of a child, of which every caller is expected to partake. The mother often carries "a groaning cake" when she is going to be "upraised" (churched); this she gives to the first person she meets on her way. "Kimbly" is the name of an offering, generally a piece of bread or cake, still given in some rural districts of this county to the first person met when going to a wedding or a christening. It is sometimes presented to anyone who brings the news of a a birth to an interested party. Two young men, I knew about thirty years ago, were taking a walk in West Cornwall; crossing over a bridge they met a procession carrying a baby to the parish church, where the child was to be baptised. Unaware of this curious custom, they were very much surprised at having a piece of cake put into their hands. A magistrate wrote to the Western Morning News, in January, 1884, saying, that on his way to his petty sessions he had had one of these christening cakes thrust into his hand, but unluckily he did not state in what parish this happened. This called forth several letters on the subject, parts of which I will quote. "About thirty years ago at the christening of a brother (in the Meneage district, Helston), and when the family party were ready for the walk to the afternoon service in Cury church, I well recollect seeing the old nurse wrap in a pure white sheet of paper what she called the 'cheeld's fuggan.' [30] This was a cake with plenty of currants and saffron, about the size of a modern tea-plate. It was to be given to the first person met on returning, after the child was christened. It happened that, as most of the parishioners were at the service, no one was met until near home, almost a mile from the church, when a tipsy village carpenter rambled around a corner, right against our party, and received the cake. Regrets were expressed that the 'cheeld's fuggan' should have fallen to the lot of this notoriously evil liver, and my idea was that it was a bad omen. However as my brother has always been a veritable Rechabite, enjoys good health, a contented mind, and enough of this world's goods to satisfy every moderate want, no evil can thus far be traced to the mischance."--J. C., Western Morning News. "'Kimbly' in East Cornwall is the name of a thing, commonly a piece of bread, which is given under peculiar circumstances at weddings and christenings. When the parties set out from the house to go to church, or on their business, one person is sent before them with this selected piece of bread in his or her hand (a woman is commonly preferred for this office), and the piece is given to the first individual that is met. I interpret it to have some reference to the idea of the evil eye and its influence, which might fall on the married persons or on the child, which is sought to be averted by this unexpected gift. It is also observed in births, in order that by this gift envy may be turned away from the infant or happy parents. This 'kimbly' is commonly given to the person bringing the first news to those interested in the birth."--T. Q. Couch, Western Morning News. "I witnessed this custom very frequently at Looe, in South-east Cornwall, from fifty to sixty-five years ago. I believe it is correct to say that this gift was there a small cake, made for the occasion, and termed the 'christening-crib,' a crib of bread or cake being a provincialism for a bit of bread," etc.--William Pengelly, Western Morning News. Children, when they leave small bits of meat, etc., on their plates, are in Cornwall often told "to eat up their cribs." "On the afternoons of Good Friday, little girls of Carharrack, in the parish of Gwennap (West Cornwall), take their dolls to a stream at the foot of Carnmarth, and there christen them. Occasionally a young man will take upon himself the office of minister, and will sprinkle and name the dolls."--Charles James, Gwennap. The Rev. S. Rundle, Vicar of Godolphin, says, "That once he was sent for to baptise a child, around whose neck hung a little bag, which the mother said contained a bit of a donkey's ear, and that this charm had cured the child of a most distressing cough." "In some parts of Cornwall it is considered a sure sign of being sweethearts if a young man and woman 'stand witness together,' i.e. become godfather and godmother of the same child."--T. C. But not in all, for I remember once hearing in Penzance a couple refuse to do so, saying that it was unlucky. "First at the font, never at the altar." When I was young, old nurses often breathed in babies' mouths to cure the thrush, thrice repeating the second verse of the Eighth Psalm, "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings," etc. "May children and 'chets' (kittens) never thrive," and it is unlucky to "tuck" (short coat) children in that month. "Tuck babies in May, You'll tuck them away." It is of course considered an unfortunate month for marriages. Neither should babies "be tucked" on a week day, but on a Sunday, which day should also be chosen for leaving off any article of clothing; as then you will have the prayers of every congregation for you, and are sure not to catch cold. A friend lately sent me the following charm of one year's duration which prevents your feeling or taking a cold. "Eat a large apple at Hallow-een under an apple-tree just before midnight; no other garment than a bed-sheet should be worn. A kill or cure remedy." An empty cradle should never be rocked unless you wish to have a large family, for-- "Rock the cradle empty You'll rock the babies plenty." Rev. S. Rundle says, "It is unlucky to rock an empty cradle, as the child will die."--Cornubiana. The jingles which follow are often repeated by Cornish nurse-maids with appropriate actions to amuse their little charges. First, touching each part of the face as mentioned with the forefinger, "Brow brender, [31] Eye winker, Nose dropper, Mouth eater, Chin chopper, Tickle-tickle." Second-- "Tap a tap shoe, [32] that would I do, If I had but a little more leather. We'll sit in the sun till the leather doth come, Then we'll tap them both together." Here the two little feet are struck lightly one against the other. Several letters have lately appeared in the Western Morning News, giving different versions of the old rhymes-- "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Pray bless the bed that I 'lay' on, Four corners to my bed, Four angels there are spread, Two 'to' foot and two 'to' head, And six will carry me when I'm dead." Although attributed by the correspondents to Cornwall, I have always understood that they were known all over England. Children with rickets were taken by their parents on the three first Sundays in May to be dipped at sunrise in one of the numerous Cornish holy wells, and then put to sleep in the sun, with sixpence under their heads. Small pieces torn from their clothes were left on the bushes to propitiate the pixies. For the same disease they were passed nine times through a Mên-an-tol (holed stone). A man stood on one side, and a woman on the other, of the stone. The child was passed with the sun from east to west, and from right to left; a boy from the woman to the man, a girl from the man to the woman. This order is always, in these charms, strictly observed. As lately as 1883, in the village of Sancred, West Cornwall, a little girl, suffering from whooping-cough, was passed from a man to a woman nine times under a donkey's belly; a little boy standing the while at the donkey's head feeding it with "cribs" of wheaten bread. My informant did not know if on this occasion any incantation was repeated. Another family, he tells me, some years back were in the same neighbourhood cured of the whooping-cough by donkey's hair, which was dried on the baking iron of the open hearth, reduced to powder, and administered to them. There are very various ways of doing this, one is between thin slices of bread and butter. Some authorities say the latter ingredients must belong to a couple called John and Joan. Mr. Robert Hunt gives a charm which in a measure combines the two above-mentioned. "The child must be passed naked nine times over the back and under the belly of a female donkey. Three spoonfuls of milk drawn from the teats of the animal, three hairs cut from its back, and three from its belly, are to stand in the milk three hours, and to be given in three doses repeated on three mornings." Mr. Hunt also says, "There were some doggerel lines connected with the ceremony which have escaped my memory, and I have endeavoured in vain to find anyone remembering them. They were to the effect that as Christ placed the cross on the ass's back when he rode into Jerusalem and so rendered the animal holy, if the child touched where Jesus sat it should cough no more." I will quote another of Mr. Hunt's charms. "Gather nine spar-stones (quartz) from a running stream, taking care not to interrupt the free passage of the water in doing so. Then dip a quart of water from the stream, which must be taken in the direction in which the stream runs--by no means must the vessel be dipped against the stream. Then make the nine stones red-hot, and throw them into the quart of water. Bottle the prepared water, and give the afflicted child a wine-glass of this water for nine mornings." Other remedies are to cross the child over running water nine times, or under a bramble bough bent into the ground (this latter and through a cleft ash are also tried for hernia). Some nurses take children, with whooping-cough, out for a walk, in hopes of meeting a man on a white or piebald horse. Should they be fortunate enough to do so, they ask the rider how they can cure the patient: his advice is always implicitly followed. Children with dirty habits are often told that a "mousey pasty" shall be cooked for their dinners. Cornish children are warned by their nurses not to grimace, lest, whilst so doing, the wind should change and their faces always remain contorted. There is another form in which this warning is often given: "Don't make mock of a 'magum' (May-game), for you may be struck comical yourself one day." "Magum" in most cases means a facetious person, one who is full of merry pranks; and the expressions, "He's a reg'lar magum," or "He's full of his magums," are often heard. But the idea intended to be conveyed in the first saying is that it is wrong to make fun of a person suffering from an infirmity, which may at any time afflict the jeerer. The puritanical notion of Sunday lingers in the belief in Cornwall that it is unlucky to use a scissors on that day, even to cut your nails; you must "Cut them on Monday, before your fast you break, And you'll have a present in less than a week." Children here are pleased to see "gifts" (white spots) on their thumb-nails, as "Gifts on the thumb are sure to come, But gifts on the finger are sure to linger." Occasionally white spots on the five fingers are named as follows: "A gift, a friend, a foe, a true lover, a journey to go." Should the little ones, when picking flowers, sting themselves with nettles, they are of course in this locality, as elsewhere in England, taught to rub the spot with dock-leaves, repeating the words, "In dock, out nettle;" but they are often told in addition to wet the place affected with their spittle, and make a cross over it with their thumb-nails, pressed down as heavily as possible. School-boys and school-girls often years ago practised a cruel jest on their more innocent companions. They induced them to pick a nettle by saying "Nettles won't sting this month." When the children were stung and complained, the retort was, "I never said they would not sting you." The blue scabious in Cornwall is never plucked. It is called the devil's bit, and the superstition is handed down from one generation of children to another that, should they transgress and do so, the devil will appear to them in their dreams at night. But anyone who wishes to dream of the devil should pin four ivy-leaves to the corners of his pillow. Flowers plucked from churchyards bring ill-luck, and even visitations from spirits on the plucker. Wrens and robins are sacred in the eyes of Cornish boys, for "Hurt a robin or a wran, Never prosper, boy nor man." A groom who had, when a lad, shot a robin and held it in one of his hands told me that it shook ever after. But they always chase and try to kill the first butterfly of the season; and, should they succeed, they will overcome their enemies--I suppose, in football, etc. "To hear the first cuckoo of spring on the right ear is lucky, on the left unlucky; as many times as it repeats its notes will the number of years be before the hearer is married. The cuckoo song-- 'In April, come he will, In May, he sings all day, In June, he alters his tune, In July, he prepares to fly, Come August, go he must'-- is known all over the county, with additions and slight variations, such as-- 'In March, he sits upon his perch, In Aperel, he tunes his bell.'" --South-east Cornwall, W. Pengelly. "A bat in Cornwall is called an 'airy-mouse;' village boys address it as it flits over their heads in the following rhymes-- 'Airy-mouse, airy-mouse! fly over my head, And you shall have a crust of bread, And when I brew, or when I bake, You shall have a piece of my wedding cake.'" --Polperro, T. Q. Couch. Sometimes in West Cornwall they say-- "Bit-bat! bit-bat! come under my hat." Earwigs they hold in detestation, as they believe that, should they get into their ears, they will cause madness. There is a legend popular amongst them which relates that a poor man was once driven frantic by a very queer sensation in his head. At last, not being able to bear it any longer, he went into a meat-market, laid it down upon a block, and asked a butcher to chop it off. Whilst in this recumbent position an earwig crept out of his ear, and the pain instantly ceased. Our school-boys have other fallacies, such as, the pain caused by a "custice," i.e. a stroke across the palm of the hand with a cane, may be neutralised by placing two hairs on it crossways. Also that the wound made by a nail can be kept from festering by wrapping the nail in a piece of fat bacon to prevent its rusting. School-girls' superstitions are more sentimental, and often connected with wishing. If, when talking together, one accidentally makes a rhyme, she wishes; and, should she be asked a question before she speaks again, to which she can answer Yes, she thinks that she is sure to get it. When an eyelash falls out its owner puts it on the tip of her nose, wishes and blows at it; should she blow it off, she will have her wish. Should she by chance hear a dog dreaming, she stands up, puts a foot on each side of it, and then wishes. Years ago one gravely told me that if I wanted to know a dog's dreams I must throw a pocket-handkerchief over it when sleeping and keep it there until it awoke; then, before getting into bed, put it under my pillow, and I should have the same dream. Dreams in Cornwall are always said to go by contraries. "If you dream of the dead you will hear tell of the living," etc. To dream anyone is kissing you is a sign of deceit. "Of fruit out of season, trouble without reason." "A Friday's dream on Saturdays told Is sure to come true, be it ever so old." To see if a friend loves her, a Cornish girl pulls out a hair from her friend's head, and then tries to suspend it by the root from the palm of her own hand. If this can be done the test is successful. When a little older there are many ways in which our maidens "try for their sweethearts." A few of the rules prescribed for these rites, which have been handed down from generation to generation, may be worth transcribing. "Draw a bracken fern, cut it at the bottom of the stalk; there you will find your lover's initials." Take an apple-pip between the forefinger and the thumb, flip it into the air, saying, "North, south, east, west, tell me where my love doth rest," and watch the direction in which it falls. Go into the fields at the time of the new moon and pluck a piece of herb yarrow; put it when going to bed under your pillow, saying-- "Good night, fair yarrow, Thrice good night to thee; I hope before to-morrow's dawn My true love I shall see." If you are to be married your sweetheart will appear to you in your dreams. "Look out of your bed-room window on St. Valentine's morn, note the first man you see, and you will marry the same, or one of the name." To lose your apron or your garter shows that your lover is thinking of you. Three candles burning at the same time is the sign of a wedding; and the girl who is nearest to the door, the cupboard, and the shortest candle, will be married first. When two people accidentally say the same thing at the same time the one who finishes first will be married first. There are a great number of omens similar to these last, equally stupid, and not worthy of notice. "Friday is a cross day for marriage," and "If you marry in Lent you'll live to repent." Should you in marrying "Change the name, and not the letter, You'll change for the worse, and not for the better." but it is lucky if your initials form a word. "The young men of a place, when they know that a person is paying attention to a girl or woman, seize hold of him, place him in a wheelbarrow, in which they wheel him up and down until they are tired, when they upset him on the nearest pile or in a pond. This is called riding in the 'one-wheel coach;' and to say that a man has ridden in the 'one-wheel coach' is tantamount to the expression that he has 'gone-a-courting.'"--Rev. S. Rundle, Transactions Penzance Natural History Society, etc., 1885-1886. When a younger sister marries first the elder is said to dance in the "bruss" (short twigs of heath or furze), from an old custom of dancing without shoes on the furze prickles which get detached from the stalk. Only old maids can rear a myrtle, and they will not blossom when trained against houses where there are none. It is considered extremely unlucky here to break or lose your wedding-ring, also for a wedding-cake to crack after baking. A lady told me of one made for a couple she knew, which fell to pieces when taken out of the oven. Before the wedding-day came the bride had sickened of some disorder, was dead, and buried. A hole in a loaf, too, foretells a separation in a family; and to turn one upside down on a table wrecks a vessel. "If a hare cross the path of a wedding party, the bride or bridegroom will die within seven years."--Rev. S. Rundle, Cornubiana. "A young woman who has been three times a bridesmaid will never be a bride." "It was an old custom, religiously observed until lately in Zennor and adjacent parishes on the north coast of Cornwall, to waylay a married couple on their wedding night and flog them to bed with cords, sheep-spans, or anything handy for the purpose, believing that this rough treatment would ensure them happiness and the 'heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord,' of a numerous family. At more modish weddings the guests merely entered the bridal chamber, and threw stockings in which stones or something to make weight were placed, at the bride and bridegroom in bed. The first one hit of the happy pair betokened the sex of their first-born."--Bottrell. Should there be a great discrepancy between the ages of the bride and bridegroom, or the marriage of a couple in any way be a matter of notoriety, they are in West Cornwall on their wedding night often treated to a "shallal," a serenade on tin-kettles, pans, marrow-bones, &c. Any great noise in this part of the county is described as being "a reg'lar shallal." In olden times (in fact the custom is not quite discontinued at the present day, for I heard a whisper of one having taken place in a small fishing-village two years ago) married people accused of immorality were in Cornwall punished by a "riding." I will give the description of one by Mr. T. Q. Couch. "A cart was got, donkeys were harnessed in, and a pair personating the guilty or suspected were driven through the streets, attended by a train of men and boys. At Polperro (East Cornwall) the attendants acted as trumpeters; the bullocks' horns used by the fishermen at sea for fog or night signals were always available for the purpose. The mummers were very cautious, by careful disguise in dress or voice, and avoiding of anything directly libellous in their rather ribald dialogue, to keep themselves out of the clutches of the law. I remember one riding when an old rusty cannon of the smuggling period was waked up from its long quiet for service for the occasion, and bursting, led to the mutilation of several and the death of one." On the borders of Devon and in that county this ceremony was known as a "mock-hunt." A lock of hair hanging down over the forehead is in Cornwall called "a widow's lock;" (and children are still here told when it falls down "to shed their hair back out of their eyes.") A foolish warning says, "Go thro' a gate when there's a stile hard by, You'll be a widow before you die." The sudden appearance of rats or mice in Cornish houses is said to be a certain forerunner of sickness and death. Many curious tales are told in confirmation of this superstition; one I particularly remember was in connection with a young man who was killed on the West Cornwall Railway. After the accident, they vanished as quickly as they came. It is also considered to be very unlucky for a bird to perch on the window-sill of a sick person's room, farewell then to all chances of recovery; and strange birds coming into a house (especially a robin through the back door) foretell the death of some one in it, or connected with the family. I was once where a little child lay dying, a small brown bird sang on the window-sill, the nurse told me that it was waiting to carry away the child's soul. "But when a flea bites a sick person he is sure not to be dangerously ill, as it is well known that they never bite those who have had their death-stroke." The superstitions that you cannot die easily on pillows stuffed with wild birds' feathers, and that life goes out with the tide, are as current here as in other places. Death in Cornwall is often spoken of as "going round land," and "gone dead" is a common idiom. A threat to kill is occasionally conveyed in the words "I will give you your quietus." In some cases it is supposed that life may be restored after death if when the breath stops the body be violently shaken. When a member of a family dies, his death it is said will bring two others with it, [33] from the idea that one misfortune never comes alone. A Cornish country vicarage was lately startled by the tolling at an unwonted hour of the church bell. On sending to ascertain the cause of the disturbance an "old inhabitant was found in the belfry, who had been engaged in the absence or illness of the usual sexton to dig the grave. He said in explanation that in his time it was always usual for the gravedigger to toll the bell three times before breaking the consecrated ground."--J. H. C., Notes and Queries, 5th series, vol. ii., August, 1874. A corpse should never be carried to church by a new road, and should a hearse stop on its way to the churchyard there will soon be another death in the house. Singing funerals, or as they are called in Cornwall buryings (pronounced "berrins"), were once almost universal (and one may still occasionally be met). The mourners and friends following the coffin sang as they walked through the streets or lanes their favourite hymns, often to most elaborate tunes. "To shaw our sperrits lev-us petch [34] The laast new berrin tune."--Tregellas. Few people in old days were buried on the north side of a church. Flowers and shrubs planted in Cornish churchyards are never plucked, from the fear that the spirits of the departed will at night visit the desecrator. Should an urn found in a "barrow" be taken into a house, the person whose ashes it contained will haunt it; it must be broken up and the pieces hidden. Cross-roads, the former burying-place of suicides, are after nightfall avoided, such spots being haunted; but if you have courage to go there at midnight and wish, you will get your wish. With a few general superstitions I shall bring this part to an end. It is unlucky in Cornwall to see the new moon first over the left shoulder, or through a window, especially if the day should happen to be a Friday. To ensure good luck on your first sight of her, you should curtsey, spit on your money and turn it in your pocket. (A man well paid for any chance job early in the day calls it here "a hansel," and spits on the money for good luck.) If you particularly desire anything, look at the new moon and wish before you speak. You may also wish when you see a falling star, and if you can succeed in framing it before it disappears your wish will be granted. Seeing the new moon in the old moon's arms is a sign of a change in the weather, so is a star passing over it. The change will be for the worse if the moon goes over the star. "Herbs for drying must be gathered at full moon; winter fruit picked and stored at full moon, not to lose its plumpness. Timber should be felled on the bating of the moon, because the sap is then down, and the wood will be more durable."--Bottrell. Card-table Superstitions:--"Good luck in cards, bad luck in a husband (or wife)." "A shuffling cut is good for the dealer." "1 2 3 4 played in succession kiss the dealer." To cut an honour for the trump card is unlucky, for "When quality opens the door there is poverty behind;" but "Good luck lurks under a black deuce" (it should be touched by the cutter). Superstitions connected with the body:--A twitching in the eyelid is lucky; but you must not say when it comes nor when it goes. Right eye itching, a sign of laughter; but left over right, you'll cry before night. Right cheek burning, some one praising you; left one, abusing (a knot tied in the apron-string will cause the slanderer to bite his or her tongue); but left or right are both good at night. "If the cheek burns, someone is talking scandal of you. I have often heard the lines spoken:-- Right cheek! left cheek! why do you burn? Cursed be she that doth me any harm; If she be a maid, let her be staid; If she be a widow, long let her mourn; But if it be my own true love--burn, cheek, burn!"--T. Q. Couch. Nose itching, you will be kissed, cursed, or vexed; or shake hands with a fool. Right hand itching, someone will pay or give you money; but the left you will be the payer. In regard to the former, "If you rub it on wood, It will be sure to come good." Sneeze on Sunday morning fasting, Enjoy your true love for everlasting. On every other morning it is lucky to sneeze once before breakfast; but not twice. Fire Superstitions:--A difficulty in kindling the fire in the mornings is a sign of anger; burning only on one side, of a separation in the family (some say of a wedding). A flake of smut on the bar of the grate shows that a stranger is coming to the house. Should the fire be burning brightly, he will bring good news; but if the contrary, bad. If after you poke the fire it burns up brightly, your sweetheart is in a good temper; but should it not improve he is in a bad one. A coal popping out of the fire is either a cradle or coffin, or a purse. It is allowed to cool and then examined to find out the shape; if pronounced to be a purse, it is shaken close to the ear, when should it jingle it is said to contain money. I once saw this done in a school by its mistress. It is unlucky to put a bellows on a table. "Ladies' trees," small branches of dried seaweed, are sometimes hung up in chimneys to protect houses from fire; or a Passover biscuit suspended by a string from a nail in the wall. A bright spark on a candle foretells a letter, but if pointed out it never arrives. There are so many unlucky omens in Cornwall that to believe in them all would make life miserable, and to enumerate them would fill a volume. The major part of them too are silly and not worth transcribing; three or four of them as examples will, I am quite sure, amply suffice. "A work begun on Friday is never ended." "If you sing afore bite, You'll cry before night." "It is unlucky to sing carols before Christmas;" or before the first "arish mow [35]" is made. Also, "To scat [36] hands before Christmas," i.e., beat them for warmth. "It is unlucky to pour out water or any other liquor back-handed." "It is unlucky to lend, or say thank you for a pin." And "If you see a pin, and pass it by, You'll want a pin before you die." "It is unlucky to mend your clothes on you, for then you will never grow rich." It is unlucky to wear a hole in the bottom of a shoe, for "A hole in the sole, You'll live to spend whole." Servants who come to their places after noon never stay, etc., etc. CORNISH GAMES. Many old games worth recording are still played by Cornish children, out of doors in summer, indoors in winter, and at their numerous school-treats. To those common elsewhere, other names in Cornwall are often given, and different words sung. Some well known thirty-five years ago, now (1890) live only in the memory of those who were children then, or linger in a very fragmentary state in some remote country districts. Such as "Here come three dukes a-riding." To play this the children were divided into two parties. In the first were only the three dukes; in the second the other players, who stood in a long line, linked hand in hand, facing them,--the mother in the middle, with her daughters ranged according to size on each side of her. One duke was chosen as spokesman, and he began the following dialogue, which was sung; the party singing advanced and retreated, whilst the others stood still:-- "Here 'comes' three dukes a-riding, a-riding-- Here 'comes' three dukes a-riding, to court your daughter Jane." "My daughter Jane is yet too young To bear your silly, flattering tongue." "Be she young or be she old, She for her beauty must and shall be sold." "So fare thee well, my lady gay, We'll take our horse and ride away, And call again another day." "Come back! come back! you Spanish knight, And clean your spurs, they are not bright." "My spurs are bright as 'rickety rock' (and richly wrought), And in this town they were not bought, And in this town they shan't be sold, Neither for silver, copper, nor gold. So fare thee well," etc. "Come back! come back! you Spanish Jack (or coxcomb)." "Spanish Jack (or coxcomb) is not my name, I'll stamp my foot (stamps) and say the same. So fare thee well," etc. "Come back! come back! you Spanish knight, And choose the fairest in your sight." The dukes retired, consulted together, and then selected one, singing-- "This is the fairest I can see, So pray young damsel walk with me." When all the daughters had been taken away, they were brought back to their mother in the same order, the dukes chanting:-- "We've brought your daughter, safe and sound, And in her pocket a thousand pound, And on her finger a gay gold ring, We hope you won't refuse to take her in." "I'll take her in with all my heart, For she and 'me' were loth to part." The Rev. S. Rundle, vicar of Godolphin, near Helston, saw some children lately in his neighbourhood playing a portion of this game, when to "Here comes three dukes a-riding" they added--"My rancy, dancy dukes." Mr. Halliwell Phillips, in his Nursery Rhymes and Tales of England, has published three versions of it, but the game as played in Cornwall has some additional couplets. PRAY, PRETTY MISS. For this--quite, I think, a thing of the past--the children (a boy and girl alternately) formed a ring. One stood in the middle holding a white handkerchief by two of its corners: if a boy he would single out one of the girls, dance backwards and forwards opposite to her, and sing-- "Pray, pretty Miss, will you come out? Will you come out? will you come out? Pray, pretty Miss, will you come out, To help me in my dancing?" If the answer were "No!" spoken with averted head over the left shoulder, the rhyme ran-- "Then you are a naughty Miss! Then you are a naughty Miss! Then you are a naughty Miss! Won't help me in my dancing." Occasionally three or four in turn refused. When the request was granted the words were changed to-- "Now you are a good Miss! Now you are a good Miss! Now you are a good Miss! To help me in my dancing." The handkerchief was then carefully spread on the floor; the couple knelt on it and kissed: the child formerly in the middle joined the ring, and the other took his place, or if he preferred it, remained in the centre; in that case the children clasped hands and sang together-- "Pray, pretty Miss (or Sir)," etc. The last to enter the ring had always the privilege of selecting the next partner. In all these childish games, to prevent disputes, and decide who shall be middleman, hide first, etc., one or other of the following formulæ is always recited by the eldest of the party, who as he repeats the words points with his forefinger at each player in succession until he comes to the end of the rhyme. The person then indicated goes out:-- "Vizzery, vazzery, vozery-vem, Tizzery, tazzery, tozery-tem, Hiram, jiram, cockrem, spirem, Poplar, rollin, gem." "There stands a pretty maid in a black cap, If you want a pretty maid in a black cap, Please to take 'she.'"--(East Cornwall). "Ene, mene, mona, mi, Pasca, lara, bona (or bora), bi, Elke, belke, boh!" "Eggs, butter, cheese, bread, Stick, stack, stone, dead!"--(West Cornwall). To this latter there are several nonsensical modern editions. A game with a jingle somewhat like the first is played by children at Newlyn West, near Penzance, called-- "Vesey, vasey, vum." One child is blindfolded, the others hide something, and shout-- "Vesey, vasey, vum, Buck-a-boo has come! Find if you can and take it home, Vesey, vasey, vum!" A search is then made for the hidden object: when found the finder in his turn is blindfolded. After this digression I will give all the other forgotten games before describing those still played. "FRISKEE, FRISKEE, I WAS, AND I WAS." Known elsewhere as "Now we dance looby, looby, looby." To play it the children formed a ring and danced around, singing-- "Friskee, friskee, I was, and I was A drinking of small beer." They then stopped suddenly and said, "Right arms in!" (all were extended towards the centre of the circle); "Right arms out!" (all wheeled round with arms outstretched in the contrary direction); "Shake yourselves a little and little and turn yourselves about." The circle was reformed, "Friskee," etc., was repeated, and the game went on until all the different parts of the body had been named. "FOOL, FOOL, COME TO SCHOOL." All the children in this game, except one who left the room, called themselves by the name of some bird, beast or fish. The child outside was brought in, and one chosen as schoolmaster said-- "Fool! fool! come to school, And find me out the ----:" giving the assumed name of one of the players. If the fool fixed on the right person, he stayed in and the other went out, which of course involved re-naming; but if he made a mistake they all cried out-- "Fool! fool! go back to school, And learn your letters better." He retired, pretended to knock his head against the door, and returned, when he was again asked in the same words to name some other player. Some of the games were much rougher, such as "Pig in the middle and can't get out," and "Solomon had a great dog." For the first, one of the children stood in the centre, whilst the others danced around him in a circle, saying, "Pig in the middle and can't get out." He replied, "I've lost my key but I will get out," and threw the whole weight of his body suddenly on the clasped hands of a couple to try and unlock them. When he had succeeded he changed the words to, "I've broken your locks, and I have got out." One of the pair whose hands he had opened took his place, and he joined the ring. For the second, the players knelt in a line; the one at the head, in a very solemn tone, chanted, "Solomon had a great dog;" the others answered in the same way, "Just so" (this was always the refrain). Then the first speaker made two or three more ridiculous speeches, ending with, "And at last this great dog died, and fell down," giving at the same time a violent lurch against his next neighbour, who, not expecting it, fell against his, and so on to the end of the line. "SCAT" (Cornish for "slap"). A paper-knife, or thin slip of wood, was placed by one player on his open palm. Another took it up quickly, and tried to "scat" his opponent's hand before he could draw it away. Sometimes a feint of taking the paper-knife was made three or four times before it was really done. When the "scat" was given, the "scatter" in his turn rested the knife on his palm. HOLE IN THE WALL. A person, who did not know the trick, was blindfolded, another stood in the corner of the room with his mouth open. The forefinger of the blindfolded player was carefully guided around the walls of the room to find the hole, until at last it was put into the open mouth, when it was sharply bitten. MALAGA, MALAGA RAISINS (a forfeit game). The players sat in a circle. One acquainted with the trick took a poker in his right hand, made some eccentric movements with it, passed it to his left, and gave it to his next neighbour on that side, saying, "Malaga, Malaga raisins, very good raisins I vow," and told him to do the same. Should he fail to pass it from right to left, when he in his turn gave it to his neighbour, without being told where the mistake lay he was made to pay a forfeit. SHE SAID, AND SHE SAID. This required a confederate, who left the room. The other in the secret asked a person inside to whisper to him whom she (or he) loved, then called in his companion, and the following dialogue was carried on:-- "She said, and she said! And what did she say?" "She said that she loved." "And whom did she love? Suppose she said she loved ----?" "No! she never said that, whatever she said." An indefinite number of names were mentioned before the right one. When that came, to the surprise of the whisperer, the answer was-- "Yes! she said that." The secret was very simple, the name of a widow or widower was always given before that whispered. The two next are played everywhere, but the words I believe are peculiar to Cornwall. DROP THE HANDKERCHIEF. This is much too common to require a description. I will therefore only give the doggerel, which is recited by the holder of the handkerchief as he walks around the ring:-- "I sent a letter to my love, I carried water in my glove, And by the way I dropped it. I did so! I did so! I had a little dog that said 'Bow! wow!' I had a little cat that said 'Meow! meow!' Shan't bite you, shan't bite you, Shall bite you." Throws the handkerchief, and chases the girl. HOW MANY MILES TO BABYLON? To this game, known elsewhere as "Thread the Needle," the following lines are chanted:-- "How many miles to Babylon? Three score and ten. Can I get there by candle-light? Yes! if your legs are long and straight. Then open your gates as high as the sky, And let King George and all his troops pass by." RULES OF CONTRARY. Four children hold a handkerchief by the four corners, one moves a finger over it saying, as fast as possible-- "Here I go round the rules of contrary, Hopping about like a little canary, When I say 'Hold fast' leave go; When I say 'Leave go' hold fast." Any player making a mistake pays a forfeit. LADY QUEEN ANNE. A very pretty version of this old English game is often played at juvenile parties in Cornwall. One child is chosen to remain in the room, whilst the others go outside and consult together as to whom shall hold the ball (some small thing). They then troop in, with their hands either hidden under the skirts of their dresses, or clasped in such a way that Lady Queen Anne, by looking at them, cannot tell which has it; all repeating-- "Here come we to Lady Queen Anne, With a pair of white gloves to cover our hand; As white as a lily, as fair as the rose, But not so fair as you may suppose." L. Q. A. "Turn, ladies, turn!" (Whirl round.) "The more we turn the more we may, Queen Anne was born on Midsummer day." L. Q. A. "The king sent me three letters, I never read them all, So pray, Miss ----, deliver the ball." Should she have guessed correctly, all the party curtsey, and say-- "The ball is yours and not ours, You must go to the garden and gather the flowers." And the child who had the ball takes the queen's seat, whilst she retires with the others; but should she have made a mistake, the same party go out again, saying as they curtsey-- "The ball is yours and not ours, (Repeat) We," etc. Mr. Halliwell Phillips, in his book before quoted, has shorter versions of this, with different rhymes. Another game which has descended from generation to generation is-- OLD WITCH. The children chose from their party an old witch (who is supposed to hide herself) and a mother. The other players are the daughters, and are called by the names of the week. The mother says that she is going to market, and will bring home for each the thing that she most wishes for. Upon this they all name something. Then, after telling them upon no account to allow anyone to come into the house, she gives her children in charge of her eldest daughter Sunday, and goes away. In a moment, the witch makes her appearance, and asks to borrow some trifle. Sunday at first refuses, but, after a short parley, goes into the next room to fetch the required article. In her absence the witch steals the youngest of the children (Saturday), and runs off with her. Sunday, on her return, seeing that the witch has left, thinks there must be something wrong, and counts the children, saying, "Monday, Tuesday," etc., until she comes to Saturday, who is missing. She then pretends to cry, wrings her hands, and sobs out--"Mother will beat me when she comes home." On the mother's return, she, too, counts the children, and, finding Saturday gone, asks Sunday where she is. Sunday answers, "Oh, mother! an old witch called, and asked to borrow ----, and, whilst I was fetching it, she ran off with Saturday." The mother scolds and beats her, tells her to be more careful in the future, and again sets off for the market. This is repeated until all the children but Sunday have been stolen. Then the mother and Sunday, hand in hand, go off to search for them. They meet the old witch, who has them all crouching down in a line behind her. Mother. Have you seen my children? O. W. Yes! I think, by Eastgate. The mother and Sunday retire, as if to go there, but, not finding them, again return to the witch, who this time sends them to Westgate, then to Southgate and Northgate. At last one of the children pops her head up over the witch's shoulder, and cries out, "Here we are, mother." Then follows this dialogue:-- M. I see my children, may I go in? O. W. No! your boots are too dirty. M. I will take them off. O. W. Your stockings are too dirty. M. I will take them off. O. W. Your feet are too dirty. M. I will cut them off. O. W. Then the blood will stream over the floor. The mother at this loses patience, and pushes her way in, the witch trying in vain to keep her out. She, with all her children, then chase the witch until they catch her; when they pretend to bind her hand and foot, put her on a pile, and burn her, the children fanning the imaginary flames with their pinafores. Sometimes the dialogue after "Here we are, mother," is omitted, and the witch is at once chased. Mr. Halliwell Phillips calls this the "Game of the Gipsy," and gives some rhymes to which it is played, but I have never heard them in this county. The next, a game quite unknown to me, I took down from the lips of a little girl in West Cornwall, in 1882, who told me it was a great favourite with her and her playmates. GHOST AT THE WELL. One of the party is chosen for ghost (if dressed in white so much the better); she hides in a corner; the other children are a mother and daughters. The eldest daughter says: "Mother, mother, please give me a piece of bread and butter." M. Let me (or "leave me") look at your hands, child. Why, they are very dirty. E. D. I will go to the well and wash them. She goes to the corner, the ghost peeps up, and she rushes back, crying out-- "Mother! mother! I have seen a ghost." M. Nonsense, child! it was only your father's nightshirt I have washed and hung out to dry. Go again. The child goes, and the same thing happens. She returns, saying-- "Yes, mother! I have seen a ghost." M. Nonsense, child! we will take a candle, and all go together to search for it. The mother picks up a twig for a candle, and they set off. When they come near to the ghost, she appears from her hiding-place, mother and children rush away in different directions; the ghost chases them until she has caught one, who in her turn becomes ghost. MOTHER, MOTHER, MAY I GO OUT TO PLAY? I thought this game was a thing of the past, but I came on some children playing it in the streets of Penzance, in 1883. It may be played by any number, and, as in the two former games, one is chosen for mother. This is the dialogue: C. Mother, mother, may I (or we) go out to play? M. No, child! no, child! not for the day. C. Why, mother? why, mother? I won't stay long. M. Make three pretty courtesies, and away! begone! C. One for mammy, one for daddy, one for Uncle John. The child, as she mentions the names, spreads out the skirts of her dress and courtesies, after which she retires to a little distance, and then returns. M. Where, child! where, child! have you been all the day? C. Up to granny's. M. What have you been doing there? The answer to this is often "Washing dolls' clothes," but anything may be mentioned. M. What did she give you? The reply is again left to the child's fancy. M. Where's my share? C. The cat ate it. What's in that box, mother? M. Twopence, my child. C. What for, mother? M. To buy a stick to beat you, and a rope to hang you, my child. The child at this tries to snatch at the box, the mother chases her until she has caught her (when there are several children, until she has caught one), she then pretends to beat her, and puts her hands around her neck as if she were going to hang her. HERE I SIT ON A COLD GREEN BANK. The children form a ring around one of the party, who sits in the middle, and says: "Here I sit on a cold green bank, On a cold and frosty morning." Then those in the circle dance round her, singing: "We'll send a young man (or woman) to take you away, To take you away, to take you away; We'll send a young man to take you away, On a cold and frosty morning." Child. "Pray tell me what his name shall be?" Or, "Pray, whom will you send to take me away?" Circle. "We'll send Mr. ---- to take you away." This is repeated three times with the refrain, "On a cold," etc. after which the dancing and singing cease, and the child is asked, "Sugar, sweet, or vinegar, sour?" Her answer is always taken in a contrary sense, and sung, as before, three times, whilst the children circle round. The one in the middle then rises to her feet. The boy (or girl) named advances and kisses her, they change places, and the game begins again. JOGGLE ALONG. This is a very favourite open-air game. To play it there must be an uneven number. He (or she) stands in the middle, whilst the others, arm in arm, circle around him singing:-- "Come all ye young men, with your wicked ways, Sow all your wild oats in your youthful days, That we may live happy, that we may live happy, That we may live happy when we grow old. The day is far spent, the night's coming on, Give us your arm, and we'll 'joggle along.'" That we may live happy, etc., etc. At the words "joggle along," they all drop the arm of the person they are leading, and try to catch the arm of the player in front of them, whilst the middle man tries at the same time to get a partner. Should he succeed, the player left without one takes his place. (Repeat.) I am indebted to the Rev. S. Rundle, vicar of Godolphin, for another set of words to this game, which he calls-- THE JOLLY MILLER, And, under this title, a lady, two years since, saw some children playing it at St. Ives, in Cornwall. "There was a jolly miller, lived by himself, By grinding corn he got his wealth; One hand in the upper, the other in the bag, As the wheel went round, they all called 'Grab.'" In this county "Tom Tiddler's Ground" is known as "Mollish's Land," "Cat and Mouse" as "The Duffan Ring," and "Blind Man's Buff" as "Blind Buck-a-Davy." To this last the following words are repeated, which I have never seen in print. One of the players takes the blind person by the shoulders, and says: "How many horses has your father got in his stables?" A. Three. "What colour are they?" A. Red, white, and grey. (Whirling him round.) "Then turn about, and twist about, and catch whom you may." To make barley bread (in other districts, "Cockley bread") this rhyme is used in West Cornwall:-- "Mother has called, mother has said, 'Make haste home, and make barley bread.' Up with your heels, down with your head, That is the way to make barley bread." BOBBY BINGO. Of this, which is a very common game at school-treats in some parts of West Cornwall, I have only lately, through the kindness of the Rev. S. Rundle, succeeded in getting a description. He saw some children, in 1884, playing it in his parish (Godolphin, Helston). A ring is formed, into the middle of which goes a child holding a stick, the others with joined hands run round in a circle, singing-- "There was a farmer had a dog, His name was Bobby Bingo; B. I. N. G. O., His name was Bobby Bingo." When they have finished singing they cease running, whilst the one in the centre pointing with his stick asks them in turn to spell Bingo. If they all spell it correctly they again move round singing; but, should either of them make a mistake, he or she has to take the place of the middle man. WEIGH THE BUTTER, WEIGH THE CHEESE, is rather dangerous, and now but rarely played. Two children stand back to back with their arms locked. One stoops as low as he can, supporting the other on his back, and says, "Weigh the butter;" he rises, and the second stoops in his turn with "Weigh the cheese." The first repeats with "Weigh the old woman;" and it ends by the second, with "Down to her knees." LIBBETY, LIBBETY, LIBBETY-LAT. A game of a very different character, which pleases young children. The child stands before a hassock, and as if he were going up-stairs puts on it first his right and then his left foot, gradually quickening his steps, keeping time to the words:-- "Libbety, libbety, libbety-lat, Who can do this? and who can do that? And who can do anything better than that?" This ends the games in which children of both sexes join. I must next give those exclusively for boys. I will begin by a very old one: SHIP SAIL is a game usually played with marbles; one boy puts his hand into his trousers pocket and takes out as many marbles as he feels inclined; he closes his fingers over them, and holds out his hand with the palm down to the opposite player, saying, "Ship sail, sail fast. How many men on board?" A guess is made by his opponent; if less, he has to give as many marbles as will make up the true number; if more, as many as he said over. But should the guess be correct he takes them, and then in his turn says "Ship sail," etc. BUCK SHEE, BUCK, is another game of chance, and is generally played by three boys in the following way. One stands with his back to a wall, the second stoops down with his head against the stomach of the first boy, "forming a back," the third jumps on it, and holds up his hand with the fingers distended, saying-- "Buck shee, buck, shee buck, How many fingers do I hold up?" Should the stooper guess correctly, they all change places and the jumper forms the back. Another and not such a rough way of playing this game is for the guesser to stand with his face towards a wall, keeping his eyes shut. Leap-frog is known in Cornwall as "Leap the long-mare," and there is a curious variation of it called-- ACCROSHAY. A cap or small article is placed on the back of the stooping boy by each in turn as he jumps over him. The first as he jumps says "Accroshay," the second "Ashotay," the third "Assheflay," and the last "Lament, lament, Leleeman's (or Leleena's) war." The boy who in jumping knocks off either of the things has to take the place of the stooper. BUCKEY-HOW. For this the boys divide into sides; one "stops at home," the other goes off to a certain distance agreed on beforehand and shouts "Buckey-how." The boys "at home" then give chase, and, when they succeed in catching an adversary, they bring him home and there he stays until all on his side are caught, when they in turn become the chasers. CUTTERS AND TRUCKLERS (SMUGGLERS). A remembrance of the old smuggling days. The boys divide into two parties; the "trucklers" try to reach some given point before the cutter catches them. MARBLE PLAYING is a favourite recreation with the young fishermen in West Cornwall; "Pits" and "Towns" are the common games. Boys who hit their nails are looked on with great contempt, and are said "to fire Kibby." When two are partners and one in playing accidentally hits the other's marble, he cries out "no custance," meaning that he has a right to put back the marble struck; should he fail to do so, it would be considered out of the game. To steal marbles is "to strakey." To make ducks and drakes with a stone on the water is in Cornwall called "Tic-Tac-Mollard." COCK-HAW. This game is, I believe, known in other counties as "Cob-nut," but in Cornwall the boys give the name of "Victor-nut" to the fruit of the common hazel, and play it to the words: "Cock-haw! First blaw! Up hat! Down cap! Victor!" The nut that cracks another is called a "cock battler." Children under the title of "Cock battler" often in country walks play a variation of Cock-haw with the "Hoary plantain," which they hold by the tough stem about two inches from the head; each in turn tries to knock off the head of his opponent's flower. WINKY-EYE. A rural game, played in the spring. An egg taken from a bird's nest is placed on the ground, at some distance off--the number of paces having been previously fixed. Blindfolded, one after the other, the players attempt with a stick to hit and break it. UPPA, UPPA HOLYE (pronounced oopa, oopa holly). When the writer was a boy, the following were the words used in the boys' game of fox-hunting. When the hounds (the boys) were "at fault" the leader cried-- "Uppa, uppa holye, If you don't speak My dogs shan't folly." (East Cornwall. F. W. P. Jago, M.B., Plymouth.) Boys here, as probably elsewhere, are very fond of hitting each other and then running away, shouting-- "Last blaw, never graw, For seven years to come." The old Cornish game of "Hurling" I have already described under the head of "Feasten Customs." Cricket, football, and lawn tennis are of course played in Cornwall. TOM TODDY, an old drinking game, now I expect known to but few. Each person in succession has to drink a glass of beer or spirits, on the top of which a piece of lighted candle has been put, whilst the others sing-- "Tom Toddy es come hoam, come hoam, Tom Toddy es come hoam, Weth es eyes burnt, and his nawse burnt, And es eye-lids burnt also. Tom Toddy es," etc. Specimens of Cornish Provincial Dialect.--Uncle Jan Trenoodle. Of the old dance "Letterpooch," the name only is remembered. BALLADS, Etc. There are a few well-known old Cornish ballads, which have already been printed and reprinted; my apology for again introducing them here, must be, that a work of this kind would not be complete without them. "John Dory," "An old ballad on a Duke of Cornwall's Daughter," "The Stout Cripple of Cornwall," and "The Baarley Mow," may all be found in Specimens of Cornish Provincial Dialect, by Uncle Jan Trenoodle (Sandys); "Tweedily, Tweedily, Twee,"--Through Rev. S. Rundle, in Transactions Penzance Natural History and Antiquarian Society, 1887-88; "Ye sexes give ear to my fancy," T. Q. Couch, Polperro, Cornwall; and "A fox went forth one moonshining night," Edward Pole, in Notes and Queries, 1854; "The Long Hundred," a song of Numbers, W. Pengelly, Notes and Queries, 1873; "When shall we be married?" which I heard many years ago in Scilly, and of which I only remember three verses, I have never seen in print. The Rev. S. Baring Gould, M.A., is now making a collection of the "Traditional Ballads and Songs of the West of England." Part I. has been published; it contains "Sweet Nightingale," said to be a favourite with the miners of Cornwall and Devon; this must be in North Cornwall, as the nightingale is unknown in the western part of the county, scared away, according to the country-folk, "by the sweet singing of its men and women." And "The Hunting of Arscott of Tetcot," of which as it has been recast, I will only transcribe the first four lines. "In the month of November, in the year fifty-two (1652), Three jolly fox-hunters, all sons of the blue, Came o'er from Pencarrow, not fearing a wet coat, To have some diversion, with Arscott of Tetcot," etc. "Trelawny" was for many years supposed to be a genuine old Cornish ballad, and as such was accepted and admired by several well-known literary men; but it was written by the late Rev. R. Hawker, Vicar of Morwenstowe; only the lines-- "And shall Trelawny die? Here's twenty thousand Cornishmen, Will know the reason why!"-- being ancient. JOHN DORY. As it fell on a holy day, And upon a holytide a: John Dory brought him an ambling nag, To Paris for to ride a. And when John Dory to Paris was come, A little before the gate a; John Dory was fitted, the porter was witted, To let him in thereat a. The first man that John Dory did meet, Was good King John of France a; John Dory could well of his courtesie, But fell down in a trance a. A pardon, a pardon, my liege and my king, For my merry men and for me a: And all the churls in merry England I'll bring them bound to thee a. And Nichol was then a Cornish man A little beside Bohyde a; He manned him forth a goodly bark, With fifty good oars of a side a. Run up, my boy, into the main top, And look what thou can'st spy a; Who, ho! who, ho! a good ship do I see, I trow it be John Dory a. They hoist their sails both top and top, The mizen and all was tried a, And every man stood to his lot, Whatever should betide a. The roaring cannons then were plied, And dub-a-dub went the drum a: The braying trumpets loud they cried, To courage both all and some a. The grappling hooks were brought at length, The brown bill and the sword a; John Dory at length, for all his strength, Was clapt fast under board a. This song is mentioned by Carew in his Survey of Cornwall; in it he says--"the prowesse of one Nicholas, sonne to a widdow neere Foy is deskanted upon." (He was one of the "Fowey gallants.") AN OLD BALLAD, ON A DUKE OF CORNWALL'S DAUGHTER; WHO AFTER HER MARRIAGE TO A KING OF ALBION, WAS DIVORCED FOR THE SAKE OF A FAVOURITE MISTRESS; AND HER EXEMPLARY REVENGE ON THEM BOTH. When Humber in his wrathful rage King Albanact in field had slain, Whose bloody broils for to assuage, King Locrin then applied his pain; And with a host of Britons stout, At length he found king Humber out: At vantage great he met him then, And with his host beset him so, That he destroyed his warlike men, And Humber's power did overthrow; And Humber, which for fear did fly, Leapt into a river desp'rately; And being drowned in the deep, He left a lady there alive, Which sadly did lament and weep, For fear they should her life deprive. But by her face that was so fair, The king was caught in Cupid's snare: He took this lady to his love, Who secretly did keep it still; So that the queen did quickly prove, The king did bear her most good will: Which though by wedlock late begun, He had by her a gallant son. Queen Guendolin was griev'd in mind, To see the king was alter'd so: At length the cause she chanc'd to find, Which brought her to much bitter woe. For Estrild was his joy (God wot), By whom a daughter he begot. The Duke of Cornwall being dead, The father of that gallant queen: The king with lust being overlaid, His lawful wife he cast off clean: Who with her dear and tender son, For succour did to Cornwall run. Then Locrin crowned Estrild bright, And made of her his lawful wife: With her which was his heart's delight, He sweetly thought to lead his life. Thus Guendolin, as one forlorn, Did hold her wretched life in scorn. But when the Cornish men did know The great abuse she did endure, With her a number great did go, Which she by prayer did procure. In battle then they march'd along, For to redress this grievous wrong. And near a river called Store, The king with all his host she met; Where both the armies fought full sore, But yet the queen the field did get: Yet ere they did the conquest gain, The king was with an arrow slain. Then Guendolin did take in hand, Until her son was come to age, The government of all the land; But first her fury to assuage, She did command her soldiers wild, To drown both Estrild and her child. Incontinent then they did bring Fair Estrild to the river-side, And Sabrine, daughter to a king, Whom Guendolin could not abide; Who being bound together fast, Into the river they were cast: And ever since that running stream Wherein the ladies drowned were, Is called Severn through the realm, Because that Sabrine died there. Thus those that did to lewdness bend, Were brought unto a woful end. YE SEXES GIVE EAR. Ye sexes give ear to my fancy; In the praise of good women I sing. It is not of Doll, Kate, nor Nancy, The mate of a clown nor a king. Old Adam when he was created, Was lord of the universe round; But his happiness was not completed, Until that a helpmate was found. He had all things for food that was wanting, Which give us content in this life; He had horses and foxes for hunting, Which many love more than a wife. He'd a garden so planted by nature, As man can't produce in this life; But yet the all-wise great Creator Saw still that he wanted a wife. Old Adam was laid in a slumber, And there he lost part of his side; And when he awoke, in great wonder He beheld his most beautiful bride. With transport he gazed all on her, His happiness then was complete; And he blessed the bountiful Donor, Who on him bestowed a mate. She was not took out of his head, To reign or to triumph o'er man: She was not took out of his feet, By man to be trampled upon. But she was took out of his side, His equal and partner to be: Though they are united in one, Still the man is the top of the tree. Then let not the fair be despised By man, as she's part of himself; For a woman by Adam was prized More than the whole world with its pelf. Then man without woman's a beggar, Tho' of the whole world he's possessed; And a beggar that has a good woman, With more than the world he is blest. A FOX WENT FORTH. A fox went forth one moonshining night, And he prayed to the moon to give him good light, For he'd many miles to trot that night, Before he got home to his den O, His den O, his den O. For he'd many miles to trot that night, Before he got home to his den O. And when he came unto a wood, As on his hinder legs he stood, A little bit of goose will do me good, Before I get home to my den O. My den O, my den O. So off he set to a farmer's yard, The ducks and the geese were all of them scared; The best of you all shall grease my beard, Before I get home to my den O. He seized the great goose by the neck And flung it all across his back, The young ones cried out, quack, quack, quack, And the fox went home to his den O. Old mother Slipper-slopper jumped out of bed, She open'd the window and popp'd out her head,-- John! John! John! the great goose is dead. And the fox has gone home to his den O. So John went up unto a hill, And blew his horn both loud and shrill; Says the fox This is very pretty music, still I'd rather be safe in my den O. But when he came unto the den, Where he had young ones, nine and ten, Crying out, Daddy Fox, you must go there again, For we think its a lucky town O. The fox and his wife they had such a strife, They never ate a better goose in all their life; They tore it abroad, without fork or knife, And the little ones pick'd the bones O. TWEEDILY, TWEEDILY, TWEE (North Cornwall). There was an old couple and they were poor; They lived in a house that had but one door, Tweedily, tweedily, twee. Now this old man went far from home, And left his old wife to stay at home, Tweedily, tweedily, twee. Now this old man came home at last, And found his door and windows fast, Tweedily, tweedily, twee. Ah, I've bin sick whilst you've gone, If you'd bin in the garden you could've heard me groan. Tweedily, tweedily, twee. An I'm sorry for that, cries he; An I'm sorry for that, cries he; Tweedily, tweedily, twee. Then pluck me an apple from yonder tree, That will I willingly do, cries he; That will I willingly do, cries he; Tweedily, tweedily, twee. Pop goes the ladder, and down goes he, An that's cleverly done, cries she; An that's cleverly done, cries she; Tweedily, tweedily, twee. WHEN SHALL WE BE MARRIED? When shall we be married, Willy, my pretty lad? To-morrow if you think it fit. Not before to-morrow, Willy, my pretty lad? Would you have me be married to-night? I should think the girl was mad. What shall we have for dinner, Willy, my pretty lad? Roast beef and plum pudding if you think it fit. Shan't we have anything else, Willy, my pretty lad? Would you have me to spend all my money? I should think the girl was mad. Who shall we have to dinner, Willy, my pretty lad? Father and mother, if you think it fit. Shan't we have anyone else, Willy, my pretty lad? Would you have me ask the king and queen? I should think the girl was mad. SWEET NIGHTINGALE. My sweetheart, come along, Don't you hear the fond song, The sweet notes of the nightingale flow? Don't you hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in the valley below? Pretty Betty, don't fail, For I'll carry your pail Safe home to your cot as we go; You shall hear the fond tale Of a sweet nightingale, As she sings in the valley below. Pray let me alone, I have hands of my own, Along with you, Sir, I'll not go, To hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in the valley below. Pray sit yourself down With me on the ground, On this bank where the primroses grow; You shall hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in the valley below. The couple agreed, And were married with speed, And soon to the church did they go; No more is she afraid For to walk in the shade, Nor sit in those valleys below. THE STOUT CRIPPLE OF CORNWALL. WHEREIN IS SHEWED HIS DISSOLUTE LIFE AND DESERVED DEATH. Of a stout cripple that kept the high-way, And begg'd for his living all time of the day, A story I'll tell you that pleasant shall be, The Cripple of Cornwall surnamed was he. He crept on his hands and his knees up and down, In a torn jacket and a ragged torn gown, For he had never a leg to the knee; The Cripple of Cornwall surnamed was he. He was of a stomach courageous and stout, For he had no cause to complain of the gout; To go upon stilts most cunning was he, With a staff on his neck most gallant to see. Yea, no good fellowship would he forsake, Were it in secret a horse for to take; His stool he kept close in a hollow tree, That stood from the city a mile, two, or three. Thus all the day long he begg'd for relief, And all the night long he played the false thief; For seven years together this custom kept he, And no man knew him such a person to be. There were few graziers went on the way, But unto the Cripple for passage did pay, And every brave merchant that he did descry, He emptied their purses ere they did pass by. The noble Lord Courtney, both gallant and bold, Rode forth with great plenty of silver and gold, At Exeter there a purchase to pay, But that the false Cripple the journey did stay. For why, the false Cripple heard tidings of late, As he sat for alms at the nobleman's gate; This is, quoth the Cripple, a booty for me, And I'll follow it closely as closely may be. Then to his companions the matter he mov'd, Which their false actions before had prov'd; They make themselves ready, and deeply they swear The money's their own before they come there. Upon his two stilts the Cripple did mount, To have the best share it was his full account, All clothed in canvass down to the ground, He took up his place his mates with him round. Then came the Lord Courtney with half-a-score men, Yet little suspecting these thieves in their den, And they perceiving them come to their hand, In a dark evening bid them to stand. Deliver thy purse, quoth the Cripple, with speed, We be good fellows and therefore have need, Not so, quoth Lord Courtney, but this I'll tell ye, Win it and wear it, else get none of me. With that the Lord Courtney stood in his defence, And so did his servants, but, ere they went hence, Two of the true men were slain in this fight, And four of the thieves were put to the flight. And while for their safeguard they run thus away, The jolly bold Cripple did hold them in play, And with his pike-staff he wounded them so, As they were unable to run or to go. With fighting the Lord Courtney was out of breath, And most of his servants were wounded to death, Then came other horsemen riding so fast, The Cripple was forced to fly at the last. And over a river that run there beside, Which was very deep, and eighteen foot wide, With his long staff and his stilts leaped he, And shifted himself in an old hollow tree; Then throughout the city was hue and cry made, To have these thieves apprehended and staid; The Cripple he creeps on his hands and his knees, And in the high-way great passing he sees. And as they came riding he begging doth say, O give me one penny, good masters, I pray, And thus unto Exeter creeps he along, No man suspecting that he had done wrong. Anon the Lord Courtney he spies in the street, He comes unto him and kisses his feet, God save your honor and keep you from ill, And from the hands of your enemies still. Amen, quoth Lord Courtney, and therewith threw down Unto the poor Cripple an English crown, Away went the Cripple, and thus he did think, Five hundred pounds more will make me to drink. In vain that hue and cry it was made, They found none of them though the country was laid, But this grieved the Cripple night and day, That he so unluckily missed of his play. Nine hundred pounds this Cripple had got By begging and thieving, so good was his lot; A thousand pound he would make it, he said, And then he would give over his trade. But as he striv'd his mind to fulfil, In following his actions so lewd and so ill, At last he was taken the law to suffice, Condemned and hanged at Exeter 'size. Which made all men amazed to see That such an impudent cripple as he Should venture himself such actions as they, To rob in such sort upon the high-way. THE BAARLEY MOW (a harvest song). Here's a health to the baarley mow, my braave boys, Here's a health to the baarley mow. We'll drenk et out of the jolly brown boul, Here's a health to the baarley mow. Chorus. Here's a health to the baarley mow, my braave boys, Here's a health to the baarley mow. We'll drenk et out of the nepperkin, [37] boys, Here's a health to the baarley mow. The nepperkin, and the jolly brown boul. Chorus.--Here's a health, etc. We'll drenk et out of the quaarter pint, boys, Here's a health to the baarley mow. The quaarter pint, nepperkin, and the jolly brown boul. Chorus.--Here's a health, etc. This goes on through very many verses until all the different parts of liquid measure are exhausted; the three last verses are-- We'll drenk et out of the well, my braave boys, Here's a health to the baarley mow. The well, the hoosghead, [38] the haalf hoosghead, ainker, [39] the haalf ainker, gallon, the pottle, the quaart, the pint, the haalf a pint, quaarter pint, nepperkin, and the jolly brown boul. Chorus.--Here's a health, etc. We'll drenk et out of the rever, my boys, Here's a health to the baarley mow. The rever, the well, etc. Chorus.--Here's a health, etc. We'll drenk et out of the ocean, my boys, Here's a health to the baarley mow. The ocean, the rever, the well, etc. Chorus.--Here's a health, etc. "At Looe, in East Cornwall, it was usual forty years ago, and probably it is still, for labourers to sing 'The Long Hundred' (a song of numbers), when throwing ballast with shovels from a sand barge into a ship. The object was said to be threefold; 'to keep time (i.e. work simultaneously), to prevent anyone from shirking his share of work, and to cheer themselves for the labour,' which was by no means light. A shovelful of ballast was delivered by every man with each line of the song, which ran thus:-- THE LONG HUNDRED. 'There goes one. One there is gone. Oh, rare one! And many more to come To make up the sum Of the hundred so long. 'There goes,' etc. on to twenty. "The song, it will be seen, consisted of twenty six-line stanzas; hence when it was completed, each man had thrown on board one hundred and twenty, i.e. 'a long hundred,' shovelfuls of ballast. After a pause both the song and the ballasting were resumed, and so on to the end."--W. Pengelly. There are a great many jingling local rhymes and modern dialect poems not worth recording; I will only quote two of the first:-- ELICOMPANE. "What is your name?--Elicompane. Who gave you that name?--My master and dame. How long will you keep it?--As long as I like it. How long will that be?--As long as me and my master agree." Polwhele calls a tomtit "Elicompane;" and says "There is a vulgar tradition that it is a bird by day and a toad by night." UNCLE JAN DORY. "I'll tell 'ee a story 'bout Uncle Jan Dory, Who lived by the side of a well, He went to a 'plomp' (pump), and got himself drunk, And under the table he fell." The Cornish peasantry of the last century were very fond of riddles, but most of them will not bear repetition; they are (as well as many of their sayings and rhymes) much too broad for the taste of this generation, and would only be tolerated in the days when "a spade was called a spade." There are two exceptions that I know worth transcribing; one has already appeared with its answer, through the Rev. S. Rundle, in Transactions Penzance Natural History and Antiquarian Society, 1885-86. "Riddle me! riddle me right! Guess where I was to last Saturday night. Up in the old ivy tree, Two old foxes under me, Digging a grave to bury me. First I heard the wind blow, Then I heard the cock crow, Then I saw the chin-champ chawing up his bridle, Then I saw the work-man working hisself idle." Answer.--A young woman made an appointment to meet her sweetheart; arriving first at the place, she climbed into an ivy-covered tree to await his coming. He came in company with another man, and not seeing her "the two old foxes" began to dig a grave, in which from her hiding-place she heard that after murdering they intended putting her. The "chin-champ" was the horse on which they rode away, when they failed to discover her. "Working hisself idle," is working in vain. "As I went over London bridge Upon a cloudy day, I met a fellow, clothed in yellow, I took him up and sucked his blood, And threw his skin away." What was he? Answer.--An orange. With a nonsensical acrostic on the word Finis, well known in the beginning of this century, I must end this (I fear) long, rambling work. "F--for Francis, I--for Jancis, N--for Nich'las Bony; I--for John the water-man, S--for Sally Stony." M. A. Courtney. ADDENDA. Helston Borough Bounds, page 20.--At the close of this ceremony eleven dozen buns are thrown amongst the crowd to be scrambled for. One is always reserved for the Mayor. Wells, page 65.--Some wells in Cornwall (not holy) were famed for their wonderful virtues: I will mention two. The water of the first, which was west of Penzance, was esteemed a sovereign cure for sore eyes. People from far and near visited it, and even carried away the water in bottles. It was, however, best if possible to walk to the well before breakfast, and there bathe the eyes. The second was at Castle Chûn, between Penzance and St. Just; its water endowed the drinkers with perpetual youth. Both have dried up within the last fifty years. Ghosts, page 99.--The following quaint story was told me by a girl whose grandmother was the friend mentioned. In the last century there lived in Trezelah (a hamlet in the parish of Gulval, near Penzance), a widow who had been deprived of her rights. Walking one day in the fields near her home she saw a strange spotted dog who seemed to know her; she met it a second time, and decided when she next went out to take a friend with her. Again she saw it (her friend did not), and said "In the Name of the Lord, speak to me." It changed into her husband, who told her to be ready at a certain time, when he would fetch her. Soon after, her friend being in the house, the woman, who was giving her children their supper, said "The time is come, I must be gone;" she then put on her sun-bonnet and went out. She was away about an hour, when she suddenly appeared with a great noise, as if someone had hurled her in through the door. Her story was that her husband had taken her up in his arms and carried her over the tree-tops as far as Ludgvan Church, where he deposited her on the Church-stile, from whence she saw a great many spirits, some good and some bad. The latter wanted her to join them, but her husband bade her remain where she was. What they told her was never known; but by their aid she got back her rights. Then her husband bore her home again by the way they had come; but before he parted from her said "I must take something from you; either your eyesight, or your hearing." She preferred losing the latter, and from that hour could never hear a word. One of her shoes that in her flight through the air had caught on a tree-top, seven years after was placed on her window-sill. Farmers' Superstitions, page 141.--"If you can throw fire over a witch you will break the spell." "Bleeding a white hen on a millstone prevents danger from the mill; for they say a mill will have blood every seven years." Charms, page 144.--"Some were provided with little bags of earth, teeth, or bones taken from a grave." "Most of the very religious folks had a verse of scripture, concluded with the comfortable assurance that by the help of the Lord the white witch hopes to do them good."--Bottrell. Epilepsy, page 154.--Another authority says that the thirty pence collected by thirty young men at the Church door is deposited for a half-crown, from which the centre is cut. The flat ring left is worn by the epileptic person day and night.--Through Rev. A. H. Malan, M.A. "The Bundle of Charms," Rev. A. H. Malan, M. A., is unavoidably omitted. Burning the Witch, page 180.--Still played. A pole about five feet long is placed with its ends resting on low stools, or bottles. On this a person sits lengthways with crossed ankles. He (or she) holds in his hand a long stick with a slit at one end, into which the paper effigy of the witch is stuck. This must be burnt at a candle placed on the floor at a short distance from the sitter; he must not support himself in any way, nor leave his perch. NOTES [1] A very general one for poor people in some parts of the county on Christmas-eve was pilchards and unpeeled potatoes boiled together in one "crock." [2] Scat, a blow, a slap. [3] Uther is still used as a Christian name in Cornwall. [4] The Cornish manner of pronouncing the name of St. Clare. [5] Supposed to have been shads, vulgarly here called "Chuck-cheldern," from the number of bones in them. [6] Burn, a, load, a burden. [7] A fuller account of Tregeagle and his wonderful doings may be found in Bottrell's Traditions, West Cornwall. [8] A monastery existed there, and in 1883 portions of the building were still standing. [9] A gentleman's seat in the parish of Gulval, near Penzance. [10] There is a small enclosure near the castle, where several members of the family of Hosking were interred, owing to a quarrel that Mr. Hosking had with the vicar of Ludgvan over some tithes. The last funeral took place in 1823. On one of the stones is inscribed, "It is virtue alone that consecrates this ground," and "Custom is the idol of fools." [11] The Penzance Promenade is built on part of it. In my childhood it was said to be one of the resorts of "Spring-heeled Jack," of whom I then lived in mortal dread. [12] A small stream coloured by running through tin mining works. [13] Marazion is no longer a Corporate town. [14] Dennis is a very common Cornish surname. [15] "Old Monk" is a term of contempt in Cornwall, applied to old or young men. "I saw the old monk coming down the garden" (a youth of twenty). [16] The word Meryons is also used in Cornwall as a term of endearment, "She's faather's little Meryon." [17] See ante, "Cornish Feasts and Feasten Customs." [18] Fuggan, a cake made of flour and raisins often eaten by miners for dinner. [19] Didjan, a tiny bit. [20] Some say you must neither whistle nor swear, but you may sing and laugh. [21] All men are boys in Cornwall. [22] Train-oil is expressed from them. [23] To "bulk" pilchards is to place them, after they have been rubbed with salt, in large regular heaps, alternately heads and tails. [24] St. Ives. [25] And "Cornish Feasts and Customs." [26] The illiterate Cornish often double their negatives: "I don't know, not I;" "I'll never do it, no, never no more." [27] Hazelen mot--root of a hazel tree. [28] Braggaty--spotted. [29] Double--a ring. [30] Fuggan, a flat cake. [31] Brend, to knit the brows. [32] Tap a shoe, to sole. [33] A similar superstition prevails about breakages, and a servant who has had the misfortune to break a valuable piece of china will sometimes smash a common basin or tea-cup to arrest the ill-luck. [34] "Pitch a tune," to give the keynote. [35] "Arish mow," a rick of corn made in the field where it was cut. [36] Scat, to slap. [37] A gill. [38] Cornish for hogshead. [39] Anker. 
54724	----	FOLK TALES OF BREFFNY BY B. HUNT MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 1912 INTRODUCTION Many of the stories in this volume were told by an old man who said he had more and better learning nor the scholars. "The like of them," he declared, "do be filled with conceit out of books, and the most of it only nonsense; 'tis myself has the real old knowledge was handed down from the ancient times." The spread of education and cheap literature robbed him of audience: the boys read of adventure by land and sea, the girls interested themselves in the fate of heroes with marble-white complexion and coal-black moustache. But it happened that the old man took a contract to break stones for lime, and a child with an insatiable desire for information came to watch him at work. "I promise you will walk the world, like a Queen of ancient days, renowned for learning and wit," he assured her, delighted to find a listener at last. The child was only seven years old, and could not remember all she heard, so most of his lore died with him. "The King's Daughter of France," "The Dark Oath," and "Nallagh's Child" were told by other friends. The Folk Tale is essentially dramatic and loses much when it is written down; moreover it is often put into a form unsuited to the spirit of naïve philosophy from whence it springs. The peasant of ancient race is more akin to the aristocratic type than the bourgeois can ever be--and the story told from generation to generation bears greater resemblance to the work of a poet than to that of the popular novelist, who is the bourgeois of literature. Superstition in a race is merely the proof of imagination, the people lacking fairy lore must also lack intelligence and wit. B. HUNT. CONTENTS PAGE I. The King's Daughter of France 1 II. The Cow of a Widow of Breffny 13 III. Kate Ellen's Wake 21 IV. The Dark Oath 29 V. Fairy Gold 37 VI. M'Carthy of Connacht 45 VII. Nallagh's Child 65 VIII. The Enchanted Hare 73 IX. The Bridge of the Kist 81 X. The Child and the Fiddle 89 XI. The Cutting of the Tree 97 XII. The Little Settlement 105 XIII. The Tillage in the Fort 115 XIV. The New Deck of Cards 121 XV. The Lifting of a Child 127 XVI. The Voice at the Door 135 XVII. The Earl's Son of the Sea 143 XVIII. The Girl and the Fairies 153 XIX. Good-night, my Brave Michael 159 XX. The Lad and the Old Lassie's Song 165 XXI. The Basket of Eggs 169 XXII. The Broken Branch 175 XXIII. Digging for Gold 179 XXIV. Story of a Churn 183 XXV. The Gankeynogue in the Oak Chest 187 XXVI. The Maker of Brogues 193 Glossary 197 I THE KING'S DAUGHTER OF FRANCE There was once an old man of Ireland who was terrible poor, and he lived by his lone in a small wee house by the roadside. At the morning of the day he would go for to gather sticks in a wood was convenient to that place, the way he'd have a clear fire to be sitting at of an evening. It fell out one time, of a cold night, that Paddy heard a knock at the door. He went over, and when he opened it he seen a little boy in a red cap standing without. "Let you come in and take an air to the fire," says he, for he always had a good reception for every person. The boy with the red cap walked in, and he stopped for a good while conversing. He was the best of company, and the old man didn't find the time passing until he rose for to go. "Let you come in and rest yourself here any evening you are out in these parts," says he. The very next night the little fellow was in it again, and the night after that, warming himself at the clear fire and talking away. "Paddy," says he, the evening he was in it for the third time, "Paddy, I do be thinking it is bitter poor you are!" "I am, surely," says the old man. "Well, let you pay attention to me, it is the truth I'm speaking, you'll have more gold than ever you'll contrive for to spend." "I could go through a fair share of gold," says Paddy. "I am determined for to make a rich man of you," the little boy goes on. "There is a lady at the point of death, and she is the King's daughter of France. I have a bottle here in my pocket, and that is the cure for the disease is on her. I'll be giving it to you, and let you set out for France at the morning of the day. When you come to the King's palace the servants will bid you be gone for an ignorant beggar, but let you not be heeding them at all. Don't quit asking to see the King, and in the latter end they'll give in to you. It is with himself the most difficulty will be, for that man will think it hard to believe the likes of a poor old Irishman could have a better cure nor all the doctors in the world. A power of them allowed they'd have her right well in no time, and it is worse they left her. The King is after giving out that the next person coming with a false cure be to lose their life. Let you not be scared at that decree, for you are the man shall succeed. You may promise to have the lady fit to ride out hunting in nine days. Three drops from the bottle is all you have to give her, and that for three mornings after other." Paddy paid great heed to all the boy in the red cap was telling him. He took the wee bottle that was to make him a rich man, and he made ready for to set out at the morning of the day. He was a long time travelling the world before he came to the palace where the King's daughter of France was lying at the point of death. The servants made a great mock of the poor old Irishman, but he paid no attention to their words at all. In the latter end he got seeing the King, and that gentleman allowed the likes of Paddy could never succeed when the doctors of the world were after failing. "I'd only be having the head cut off you, my poor old man!" says he. "I'm not the least bit in dread, your honour," says Paddy. "The lady is bound to be ready to ride out hunting in nine days, if she uses my medicine." His perseverance and courage won over the King of France, and permission was given for a trial of the cure. The first morning, after taking the three drops from the bottle, the lady turned in her bed. The second morning, after the treatment, she sat up and ate her food. The third morning, when she had taken the three drops, the King's daughter of France rose from her bed. And in nine days she was ready to ride out hunting. They could not do enough for Paddy, there was great gratitude in them. Well, the reward he accepted was a big sack of gold, and that was the load he brought home to his cabin in Ireland. The first evening he was sitting by his clear fire, the little boy came in at the door. "Didn't I do well for you, Paddy?" says he. "You did surely. I have more gold in that sack than ever I'll contrive for to spend." "Ah, not at all! It is twice as much I'll be getting for you." "Is it another King's daughter has need of a cure?" asks Paddy. "No, but a different business entirely. There is a great bully to be fought in the City of Dublin, and yourself is the man shall win it." "Do you tell me so!" says Paddy. "In troth I do. The man you have to fight is a big, fierce fellow no one can get the better of. He has the youth of the world battered to pieces, the way no person comes forward against him any more. There is a fine purse of money put up for to entice a champion to face him; and there will be great laughter when yourself puts in an appearance. They will ask if you are wishful to fight with gloves on your hands, but it is your bare fists are the best. Let you say you'll toss for which it is to be, but toss with the half-crown I give you, and you are certain to win. Myself is coming to that place for to second you, and it's bound to be the grandest bully was seen in the City of Dublin." With that the little fellow went away out of the house. And at the morning of the day my brave old Paddy started for Dublin. He wasn't too long on the road, for he got a lift from a man was driving there to see the bully. Well, there was odious laughing and cheering when the crowd saw the champion was come to accept the challenge. The big man was after battering the youth of the world, allowed he had no notion of striving against the likes of Paddy. But when no person else came forward they were bound for to accept him, and they asked would he wear gloves on his fists. "We'll be tossing for that," says he, bringing out the half-crown he had from the little boy in the red cap. He won the toss, sure enough, and he allowed it was bare-handed he'd strive. All the time he was looking round, anxious like, but he could see no sign of the one that was to second him. He went into the ring in odious dread; but then the little fellow came and stood beside him. My brave Paddy let out and he struck the champion one blow, and didn't he lay him dead at his feet. It was then there was roaring and cheering for the old man. And in all the confusion the little lad got away; Paddy never seen where he went. The whole crowd took up a terrible great collection of money for the champion was after destroying the man with a single blow. That lot of gold, along with the purse was promised for the fight, filled a sack as full as it could hold. So Paddy went home well rewarded, and not a bit the worse of his jaunt to the City of Dublin. The first evening he was sitting by his own fireside, the little boy in the red cap came in at the door. "Didn't I do well for you, Paddy?" says he. "You did, surely. It is rich for life I am owing to your contrivances." "Then will you be doing me a service in return for all?" asks the little fellow. "Indeed then, I will," says Paddy. "We have all arranged for to cross over to France this night. We intend for to bring away the lady you cured, the King's daughter of that country," says the boy. "But we cannot contrive for to accomplish the like unless we have flesh and blood along with us. Will you come?" "Aye, surely!" says Paddy. With that the two went out at the door and across the road into a field. It was thronged with regiments of the Good People, past belief or counting. They were running every way through the field, calling out: "Get me a horse, get me a horse!" And what were they doing only cutting down the bohlans and riding away on them. "Get me a horse, get me a horse!" says old Paddy, calling out along with them. But the fellow in the red cap came over to him looking terrible vexed. "Don't let another word out of you," says he, "except one of ourselves speaks first. Mind what I'm telling you or it will be a cause of misfortune." "I'll say no more except in answer to a question," says Paddy. With that they brought him a white yearling calf, and put him up for to ride upon it. He thought it was a queer sort of a horse, but he passed no remarks. And away they rode at a great pace, the Good People on the bohlans and Paddy on the yearling calf. They made grand going, and it wasn't long before they came to a big lake had an island in the middle of it. With one spring the whole party landed on the island and with another they were safe on the far shore. "Dam, but that was a great lep for a yearling calf," says Paddy. With that one of the Good People struck him a blow on the head, the way the sense was knocked out of him and he fell on the field. At daylight the old man came to himself, and he lying on the field by the big lake. He was a long journey from home, and he was weary travelling round the water and over the hills to his own place. But the worst of all was the sacks of gold: didn't every bit of the fortune melt away and leave him poor, the way he was before he came in with the Good People. II THE COW OF A WIDOW OF BREFFNY In the ancient times a man the name of M'Gauran ruled in these parts. He was a cruel tyrant surely and prouder than the High King of Ireland or O'Rourke was a Prince in Breffny. He conceited for to build a house would stand to the end of time, a stronghold past the art of man to overthrow or the fury of the wind to batter down. He gave out that all the bullocks in his dominions were to be slaughtered and mortar wet with the blood of them. Evenly the cows were not spared at the latter end, the way a powerful lamentation went up from the poor of the world were looking on the lonesome fields. You that are young will be thinking the blackness of his spirit and the cruelty of his heart brought a curse on him to rot the flesh off his living bones. You will be expectant of the story of a king, and he walking the provinces of Ireland a skeleton and a warning to the eyes of man. But the aged and wise have understanding to know of the tribulation laid out for the good and the just, they putting their sorrows over them in this world where the evil have prosperity. The like will be enduring for a short space only, and a queer fate waits the wicked in the age-long hours of eternity. Proud is the tyrant and wealthy till they set him in the clay: humbled with fear is his spirit at the journey's end. There was a widow woman had her little dwelling convenient to where M'Gauran was building his castle. Gold she had none, nor evenly a coin was of silver, one cow only was her riches on the earth. (And surely them that had heart to molest her like would be robbing the dead of the raiment is with them in the grave.) Herself was more nor horrid lonesome the day she seen the creature driven from her by a man of the chiefs, he having a lengthy knife in his hand. At the fall of night a traveller came to the poor woman's cabin door. He was a bent, aged man with a sorrowful countenance on him, and the garments did cover him were rags. She invited him within, giving him the kindly welcome, and she set out what food was in the place for his refreshment. "It is destroyed I am with a parching drouth is splitting my gullet," says he, "and I walking the mountainy ways since the screech of dawn. The sun was splitting the bushes at the noon of day, and the fury of it was eating into my skin. But no person took compassion on me at all." With that the widow set a mug of milk before him, and it the last drop was in the countryside. He drank it down, middling speedy, and he held out the cup to be filled again. "'Tis a heart scald surely," says herself, "that I be to refuse the request of a man is weary walking the territory of Ireland, since the rising sun brought light on his path. There is a king in these parts, stranger, and he has the cattle destroyed on the poor of the world, the way he will have a lasting mortar to his house." "Isn't yourself after giving me the loveliest mug of sweet milk?" says he, like one was doubtful of the honesty of her words. "The last drop was in this townland, stranger, and it is heart glad I am that it refreshed you. I had but the one cow only, the grandest milker in the land, and she was driven from me this day--up yonder to the masons are working with their shovels dripping red." "I am thinking it is four strong walls in the pit of Hell are building for that chieftain's soul. Maybe it's red hot they'll be, and he imprisoned within them for a thousand years and more," says the traveller. "Let there be what masonry there will in the next world, the wealth of the people cements his castle there beyond. For the cow and the milk and the butter are the gold of the dwellers on the land," says the widow. "But let you be resting a while in this place: what haste is on you to depart?" For she seen he was rising to be gone. He raised his hand in benediction, and the voice of him speaking was that sweet it charmed the birds off the bushes, the way they flew round him in the darkening night. "May the blessing of the King of Heaven be upon you. May He send you a cow will never run dry, and you milking her at all seasons of the year to the day of your departure from the world." With that the place was bare of his presence. He was gone the like of a spirit has power to travel the land unseen. At the morning of the day following the poor woman stood at her cottage door, facing out to the mountains are a long journey from that place. Didn't she see a great wonder:--A piece fell clean from the hillside and from it came a cow, white as the driven snow, she travelling faster nor the wind. The widow seen all as clear as we do be regarding the rising of the sun in the Eastern sky. Whatever power was laid on her eyes the distance was no obstruction to her vision that day. But it was not until the creature came and stood by herself that she bethought her of the benediction of the traveller, and the cow would never run dry. That was the beast had the great renown on her: people came from every art and part to be looking on her. The milk she gave was richer nor the best of cream, and the butter off it was the best in Ireland. The day the widow died, a young child seen the white cow travelling away to the mountains. And no man beheld her more, nor evenly heard tell of the like. But the Gap of Glan confronts us to this day, and that is where the creature rose to the light of the world. III KATE ELLEN'S WAKE Kate Ellen lived by her lone for her husband was employed overseas. She was a strange sort of a creature, pale and scared looking, with one blue eye in her head and the other one grey. She had some kind of disease that came at her with a fluttering in her heart. Sometimes she would die of it for a couple of hours, and all the while she was dead she'd be dreaming she was drowning. There was a fort not a many perches distant from my poor Kate Ellen's house, and that was a noted place for the Good People to be out diverting themselves. Moreover it was well known to the neighbours that herself used to be away with them, but she allowed there was no truth in the report. Now it happened of a May eve that a young child seen her, and she milking the cushogues along with a score of the fairies. Another night a man on his way from a distant fair found her on the road before him riding with the little horseman. One day Kate Ellen came into the kitchen of a friend's house, and she stopped there chatting for an hour's time. She allowed that she'd surely die in a short space for the disease was making great ravages and the doctors could take no hold of it at all. "No person can give me the least relief in the world," says she. "And I'll be making but the one request of my friends and neighbours, let there be no whiskey at the wake." "Sure the like was never heard tell of before," says the woman of the house. "What use would there be in a dry wake?" "Maybe no use at all, as you are after saying," answers Kate Ellen. "But let you pay heed to my words or there's like to be a queer story told at the end of time." "'Tis the raving of death is on you, my poor creature," says the woman of the house. "Sure you'll be the beautiful corpse and every one of us paying our best respects to the same." Not a long after Kate Ellen was found in her own house and she lying dead on the floor. All the friends and neighbours gathered in for the wake, and what had they along with them only a beautiful jar of the best whiskey. They could not think to give in to the arrangement herself set out, that they'd remain in the place with a parching drouth for company. The whole party were sitting round, and the jar of itself was in the middle of the floor. There came a noise and shouting on the street, like as if there was a powerful assembly of people without; and then a great battering on the windows. The door opened wide and the disturbance came into the kitchen, yet no person sitting there seen a heth that was not in it from the start. It was a queer gathering surely, for the friends and neighbours of the dead were silent and still, and the crying went round them on the air. After a while didn't the jar of whiskey let a lep out of it and begin for to roll on the floor. It was turned again and every drop teemed from it before the watching eyes. Yet no person seen the Good People were handling the drink and roving through the house. Then the disturbance passed from the kitchen, and away down the field, whatever was last for to go closed the door behind all. A man stood up and he says: "This is no right gathering surely, and we would do well to be gone." With that another opens the door, and all made ready to depart. But when they looked out and seen the fort all thronged with lights they grew fearful to quit the house. There was the powerfullest laughter and cheering down among the thorn trees of the circle, and there came a blast of the loveliest music--fiddles and pipes and voices singing. "It is the Good People are having the whole beautiful wake down there beyond," says a man. "Sure it is well known Kate Ellen was in league with themselves." "By the powers, it is more like a wedding they are conducting this hour," says another. "Come on away home," says a third, "what enticement is on us stop when the drink is gone from us to the fairies are fiddling with joy!" But they bid him depart by his lone, for the rest were in dread of passing the fort before day. He was a bold, daring sort of a man, and it's likely he'd have gone only for his brother taking a hold of his coat. "You'll be taken by the Good People," says he, "and they in great humour after whipping off with the whiskey before our eyes." Sure it was more nor horrid wonderful that Kate Ellen had understanding for to know what might be taking place on the night of her departure from home. Maybe it's in agreement she was to be going for good with the fairies and not to her grave at all. IV THE DARK OATH In the ancient times there was a young lad, and he gifted with a temper was a fright to the world of man. He never controlled his speech but took delight in letting great oaths and curses out of him, they rising continually in his heart like water in a spring well. There were few of the neighbours had a mind to make free with himself, sure it was an odious dread came upon them and they regarding the villainy of his heart lepping out at his mouth with the words speaking. All the time he was middling great with another gosoon of the one age who would not be warned from his company. The two would be travelling the roads and roaming the fields of Connacht from the screech of dawn to dark. But for all their diversions together they fell out on a summer's day, and it was blows they gave one another until a strong perspiration ran down from them and the air moved before their eyes like the stars of heaven on a frosty night. Neither could gain the mastery, and at long last they be to quit striving for they were bone weary and feeble as an infant child. The one was hasty in his speech let a dark oath that he would be the death of his companion, evenly if the power of the lonesome grave itself was set between them to hold him from the fulfilment of his vow. In three days from the time the words were spoken he died of a strange, sudden sickness. The other had a great satisfaction on him, he having no dread of a man was rotting in the clay, where rich and poor are alike and the strong have no mastery above the weak. But in a short while a warning came to the lad in a dream, the way he walked the world in fear from that out:-- He seen a field where he was standing by his lone to confront a black bull was charging down. The eyes of the beast were glowing red as burning fire, and it was no right thing surely. There was such a fluttering of dread on the boy that he could not endeavour for to run, but he stood like a growing rush does be waving with the breeze. Three times the likeness of the great black bull came down against him, wounding him with the curved and lengthy horns were upon it; with that he awoke. "The devil will be gifting the spirit of the dead with the form of a living beast, the way he'll get bringing me the dark destruction he promised, and I looking fearful at the flames are burning in his eyes," thinks the lad. Sure enough, in a month's time, he was in a field, and the appearance of the black bull came against him. Three times it struck him, the way he was tormented with the agony of the goring horns. With that the likeness of the living beast faded from the place leaving the young lad sore and sorry but alive. He had peace for a short space only to be thinking on his escape. Didn't a second warning come in the night to restore the cold fear to his heart:-- He seen a black goat come at him in standing leps, and the eyes of it were glowing like a turf in the heart of a strong fire. "It is less power the devil be's giving him this time," thinks the lad. "All the while 'tis an ill hour stands before me: the like of yon beast will be middling weighty and it striking me in a standing lep with no one of its four feet upon the ground." All came about as it was put on his eyes in the vision. Not a many days went by before the likeness of the great black goat threw its strength against him in the field. Three sore batterings he be to endure, the way he was left lying on the grass with every bone of him tormented in pain and a cold fear at his soul. When the wounds were healed on his body and the passing of time restored his mind to a better peace, didn't he behold a third dream of the night:-- He stood in the lane between his house and the field, and the appearance of a great turkey cock flew down upon him from the sky. At that he let a hearty laugh, and he roused up in his bed. "Sure the devil has little wit to be thinking I'll take my death from the like," says he. "And how would it be possible a fine, stout-hearted lad could be scared by the fowls of the sky!" He laughed that night, and he laughed at the noon of day when the bird flew against him in the lane. But the appearance of the turkey cock opened the joining of his skull with one blow of the beak like a sharpened knife was upon it. The second stroke and the third dashed the brains from his head and scattered them grey on the brown and dusty path. And that is the how he came to a bad death as his companion promised him, and the dark oath was accomplished no spite of the power of the grave. We that are yet in this world know well where we are, but ignorance is on us of where we be to repair. Sure the passing of the spirit is the strangest and awfullest thing was ever devised or heard tell of. It was said in the ancient times and is well known to this present that the soul quits the body by the joining of the skull. The eyes have seen evil, the ears have heard it, and the mouth has made laughter and speech of the same: how then would they be a right and a fitting doorway for the feet of the spirit to pass! Moreover, I have heard tell that the skull of man and the skull of woman are different one from another--and it is the soul of herself has the sorest departure from the flesh. V FAIRY GOLD It happened one time that a poor man dreamt three nights after other of a sack of fairy gold was buried in under the roots of a lone bush and it growing in a field convenient to his house. "It may be there is nothing in it," says he to himself. "But I will be digging in that place and if I find a treasure it will be a big reward for the labour." He never let on a word of his intentions to any person, nor did he evenly pass any remark on the strange dreams were after coming to him. At the fall of the day he took a loy in his hand and set out for the lone bush. He was not a great while at work before the steel blade struck against a substance that had no feel of clay, and the man was full sure it was not a stone he was after striking against. He wraught hard to bring whatever was in it to light--and what had he only a powerful fine sack of pure gold and splendid jewels. He raised it up on his shoulders and set out for home, staggering under the load. It was maybe a hundredweight of treasure he had with him, and he went along planning out the uses of that wealth. Sure the burden was a rejoicement to him and no hardship at all evenly if it had him bent double like an aged and crippled man. When he came to his own place he went to the byre, and it was there he put down the sack in front of three cows were standing in the bails. For he was not wishful to be making a display of that splendour before the neighbours all, and it was likely he would find some person within making their cailee. Sure enough when he went in on the door of the house he seen two men sitting by the fire and they in no haste to depart. Now the strangers had the English only, and the people of the house spoke Irish with one another. Says himself, using the Gaelic, "I have a beautiful treasure without--bars of fine gold are in it, and jewels would be the delight of a queen of the world." "Oh, bring it into the house," says she. "Sure it will rise my heart to be looking on the like; the hunger of it is put on my eyes by your words speaking." "I have better wit than to make display of my fortune to every person is living in the land," says he. "Let you content yourself until the two men have departed, and then we'll fetch the sack in from the byre where I left it in front of the cows." When the man and woman of the house were shut of the company they went out to the yard, and they fair wild with delight. Himself told the story of the three dreams and the finding of the gold in under the roots of the lone bush. "Did you spit on it?" she inquires. "I did not," says he. With that she allowed he was after making a big mistake. "How would that be?" he asks. "My father had great knowledge of the like," says herself. "I often heard him tell of how those treasures do be enchanted, and power is on them for to melt away. But if a man was to spit on fairy gold he'd get keeping it surely." "Amn't I after bringing it this far," says he, "and the weight of it destroying my shoulders with bruises and pains. Not the least sign of melting was on yon article and it a warrant to bring down the scales at a hundred and more." With that they went into the byre, and they seen the three cows were striving to break out of the bails. "They are in dread of what's lying there in front," says herself. "The cattle of the world have good wisdom surely, and they do be looking on more nor the eye of man gets leave to behold." "Quit raving about the cows," says he. "Look at my lovely sack and it bulging full." When the two went up to the head of the bails the woman let a great cry out of her. "What are you after bringing to this place from among the roots of the lone bush? It has the movement of life in it--and how could the like be treasure at all!" "Hold your whisht, woman," says the husband, and he middling vexed at her words. "Will you look at the bag is turning over on the ground?" says she. He seen there was truth in her words, but all the while he would not give in to be scared. "It is likely a rat is after creeping in," he allows, "and he is having his own times striving to win out." "Let you open the sack, and I will be praying aloud for protection on us--for it is no right thing is in it at all," says herself. With that he went over and he turned the hundredweight of treasure until he had it propped up against the bails. When he began for to open the bag the cows went fair wild, striving and roaring and stamping to get away from the place entirely. The head of a great eel looked out from under the man's hand where he was groping for the treasure. The eyes of it were the colour of flame and as blinding to the sight as the naked sun at noon of a summer's day. The man gave one lep that carried him to the door and there the paralysis of dread held him down. Herself let a scream could be heard in the next townland, but she never asked to stir from where she was standing. The appearance of the eel twisted itself out of the sack and travelled along the ground, putting the six feet of its length into the awfullest loops and knots were ever seen. Then it reared up its head and neck to stand swaying for a while, a full half of it in the air. The man and woman were convenient to the door but the both were too scared to go out on it; they watched the eel and they seen it twist up round a bail until the head of it was touching the roof. Didn't it break away out through the thatch, and whether it melted off the face of the earth or travelled to other parts was never heard tell. But the likeness of that beast was the whole and only treasure came out of the sack the poor man dug from under the roots of the lone bush where the fairy gold was hid. VI M'CARTHY OF CONNACHT I There was a fine young gentleman the name of M'Carthy, he had a most beautiful countenance and for strength and prowess there was none to equal him in the baronies of Connacht. But he began to dwine away, and no person knew what ailed him. He used no food at all and he became greatly reduced, the way he was not able to rise from his bed and he letting horrid groans and lamentations out of him. His father sent for three skilled doctors to come and find out what sort of disease it might be, and a big reward was promised for the cure. Three noted doctors came on the one day and they searched every vein in young M'Carthy's body, but they could put no name on the sickness nor think of a remedy to relieve it. They came down from the room and reported that the disease had them baffled entirely. "Am I to be at the loss of a son is the finest boy in all Ireland?" says the father. Now one of the doctors had a man with him was a very soft-spoken person, and he up and says: "Maybe your honours would be giving me permission to visit the young gentleman. I have a tongue on me is that sweet I do be drawing the secrets of the world out of men and women and little children." Well they brought him up to the room and they left him alone with M'Carthy. He sat down by the side of the bed and began for to flatter him, the like of such conversation was never heard before. At long last he says, "Let your Lordship's honour be telling me--What is it ails you at all?" "You will never let on to a living soul?" asks M'Carthy. "Is it that I'd be lodging an information against a noble person like yourself?" says the man. With that the young gentleman began telling the secrets of his heart. "It is no disease is on me," says he, "but a terrible misfortune." "'Tis heart scalded I am that you have either a sorrow or a sickness, and you grand to look on and better to listen to," says the other. "It is in love I am," says M'Carthy. "And how would that be a misfortune to a fine lad like yourself?" asks the man. "Let you never let on!" says M'Carthy. "The way of it is this: I am lamenting for no lady is walking the world, nor for one is dead that I could be following to the grave. I have a little statue has the most beautiful countenance on it was ever seen, and it is destroyed with grief I am that it will never be speaking to me at all." With that he brought the image out from under his pillow, and the loveliness of it made the man lep off the chair. "I'd be stealing the wee statue from your honour if I stopped in this place," says he. "But let you take valour into your heart, for that is the likeness of a lady is living in the world, you will be finding her surely." With that he went down to the three doctors and the old man were waiting below. For all his promises to young M'Carthy he told the lot of them all he was after hearing. The doctors allowed that if the gentleman's life was to be saved he must be got out of his bed and sent away on his travels. "For a time he will be hopeful of finding her," says the oldest doctor. "Then the whole notion will pass off him, and he seeing strange lands and great wonders to divert him." The father was that anxious for the son's recovery that he agreed to sell the place and give him a big handful of money for the journey. "It is little I'll be needing for myself from this out, and I am old man near ripe for the grave," says he. So they all went up to the room and told young M'Carthy to rise from his bed and eat a good dinner, for the grandest arrangements out were made for his future and he'd surely meet the lady. When he seen that no person was mocking him he got into the best of humour, and he came down and feasted with them. Not a long afterwards he took the big handful of money and set out on his travels, bringing the statue with him. He went over the provinces of Ireland, then he took sea to England and wandered it entirely, away to France with him next and from that to every art and part of the world. He had the strangest adventures, and he seen more wonders than could ever be told or remembered. At the latter end he came back to the old country again, with no more nor a coin or two left of the whole great fortune of money. The whole time he never seen a lady was the least like the wee statue; and the words of the old doctor were only a deceit for he didn't quit thinking of her at all. M'Carthy was a handsome young gentleman, and if it was small heed he had for any person he met it was great notice was taken of him. Sure it was a Queen, no less, and five or six princesses were thinking long thoughts on himself. The hope was near dead in his heart and the sickness of grief was on him again when he came home to Ireland. Soon after he landed from the ship he chanced to come on a gentleman's place, and it a fine big house he never had seen before. He went up and inquired of the servants if he would get leave to rest there. He was given a most honourable reception, and the master of the house was well pleased to be entertaining such an agreeable guest. Now himself happened to be a Jew, and that is the why he did not ask M'Carthy to eat at his table, but had his dinner set out for him in a separate room. The servants remarked on the small share of food he was using, it was scarcely what would keep the life in a young child; but he asked them not to make any observation of the sort. At first they obeyed him, yet when he used no meat at all on the third day, didn't they speak with their master. "What is the cause of it at all?" he says to M'Carthy. "Is the food in this place not to your liking? Let you name any dish you have a craving for, and the cook will prepare it." "There was never better refreshment set before an emperor," says M'Carthy. "It is civility makes you that flattering," answers the Jew. "How would you be satisfied with the meat is set before you when you are not able to use any portion of it at all?" "I doubt I have a sickness on me will be the means of my death," says M'Carthy. "I had best be moving on from this place, the way I'll not be rewarding your kindness with the botheration of a corpse." With that the master of the house began for to speak in praise of a doctor was in those parts. "I see I must be telling you what is in it," says M'Carthy. "Doctors have no relief for the sort of tribulation is destroying me." He brought out the statue, and he went over the whole story from start to finish. How he set off on his travels and was hopeful for awhile; and how despair got hold of him again. "Let you be rejoicing now," says the Jew, "for it is near that lady you are this day. She comes down to a stream is convenient to this place, and six waiting maids along with her, bringing a rod and line for to fish. And it is always at the one hour she is in it." Well, M'Carthy was lepping wild with delight to hear tell of the lady. "Let you do all I'm saying," the Jew advises him. "I'll provide you with the best of fishing tackle, and do you go down to the stream for to fish in it too. Whatever comes to your line let you give to the lady. But say nothing might scare her at all and don't follow after her if she turns to go home." The next day M'Carthy went out for to fish, not a long was he at the stream before the lady came down and the six waiting maids along with her. Sure enough she was the picture of the statue, and she had the loveliest golden hair was ever seen. M'Carthy had the luck to catch a noble trout, and he took it off the hook, rolled it in leaves and brought it to the lady, according to the advice of the Jew. She was pleased to accept the gift of it, but didn't she turn home at once and the six waiting maids along with her. When she went into her own house she took the fish to her father. "There was a noble person at the stream this day," she says, "and he made me a present of the trout." Next morning M'Carthy went to fish again, and he seen the lady coming and her six waiting maids walking behind her. He caught a splendid fine trout and brought it over to her; with that she turned home at once. "Father," says she, when she went in, "the gentleman is after giving me a fish is bigger and better nor the one I brought back yesterday. If the like happens at the next time I go to the stream I will be inviting the noble person to partake of refreshment in this place." "Let you do as best pleases yourself," says her father. Well, sure enough, M'Carthy got the biggest trout of all the third time. The lady was in the height of humour, and she asked would he go up to the house with her that day. She walked with M'Carthy beside her, and the six waiting maids behind them. They conversed very pleasantly together, and at last he found courage for to tell her of how he travelled the world to seek no person less than herself. "I'm fearing you'll need to set out on a second journey, the way you will be coming in with some other one," says she. "I have an old father is after refusing two score of suitors were asking me off him. I do be thinking I'll not get joining the world at all, unless a king would be persuading himself of the advancement is in having a son-in-law wearing a golden crown upon his head. The whole time it is great freedom I have, and I walking where it pleases me with six waiting maids along with me. The old man has a notion they'd inform him if I was up to any diversion, but that is not the way of it at all." "It is funning you are, surely," says M'Carthy. "If himself is that uneasy about you how would it be possible you'd bring me to the house to be speaking with him?" "He is a kindly man and reasonable," says she, "and it is a good reception you'll be getting. Only let you not be speaking of marriage with me, for he cannot endure to hear tell of the like." Well, the old man made M'Carthy welcome, and he had no suspicion the two were in notion of other. But didn't they arrange all unbeknownst to him, and plan out an elopement. M'Carthy went back to the Jew, and he told him all. "But," says he, "I am after spending my whole great fortune of money travelling the territory of the world. I must be finding a good situation the way I'll make suitable provision for herself." "Don't be in the least distress," says the Jew. "I did not befriend you this far to be leaving you in a bad case at the latter end. I'll oblige you with the loan of what money will start you in a fine place. You will be making repayment at the end of three years when you have made your profit on the business." The young gentleman accepted the offer, and he fair wild with delight. Moreover, the Jew gave himself and the lady grand assistance at the elopement, the way they got safe out of it and escaped from her father was raging in pursuit. M'Carthy was rejoicing surely, and he married to a wife was the picture of the statue. Herself was in the best of humour too, for it was small delight she had in her own place, roaming the fields or stopping within and six waiting maids along with her. A fine, handsome husband was the right company for her like. They bought a lovely house and farm of land with the money was lent by the Jew; and they fixed all the grandest ever was seen. After a while M'Carthy got a good commission to be an officer, the way nothing more in the world was needful to their happiness. II M'Carthy and his lady had a fine life of it, they lacking for no comfort or splendour at all. The officer's commission he had, brought himself over to England from time to time, and the lady M'Carthy would mind all until he was home. He saved up what money was superfluous, and all was gathered to repay the loan to the Jew only for a few pounds. Well it happened that M'Carthy went to England, and there he fell in with a droll sort of a man was the best of company. They played cards together and they drank a great power of wine. In the latter end a dispute came about between them, for the both claimed to have the best woman. "I have a lady beyond in Ireland," says M'Carthy, "and she is an ornament to the roads when she is passing along. But no person gets seeing her these times and that is a big misfortune to the world." "What's the cause?" asks the Englishman. "I'd have a grief on me to think another man might be looking on her and I not standing by," says M'Carthy. "So she gives me that satisfaction on her promised word: all the time I do be away she never quits the house, and no man body is allowed within." The Englishman let a great laugh out of him at the words. "You are simple enough!" says he. "Don't you know rightly when you are not in it herself will be feasting and entertaining and going on with every diversion?" M'Carthy was raging at the impertinence of him, and he offered for to fight. "What would that be proving?" says the Englishman. "Let you make a powerful big bet with myself that I will not be able for to bring you a token from your lady and a full description of her appearance." "I'll be winning the money off you, surely!" says M'Carthy. "Not at all," says the Englishman. "I'm not in the least uneasy about it, for I'm full sure it's the truth I'm after speaking of how she does be playing herself in your absence." "You'll find me in this place and you coming back," says M'Carthy. "Let you be prepared with the money to have along with you." The Englishman took ship to Ireland, and he came to the house of the lady M'Carthy. Herself was in the kitchen making a cake, and she seen the man walking up to the door. Away she run to the parlour, and in the hurry she forgot the lovely pearl ring she took off her finger when she began at the cooking. Well, he found the door standing open, and he seen the ring on the kitchen table. It was easy knowing it was no common article would be in the possession of any one but the mistress of the house. What did the lad do, only slip in and put it in his pocket. With that the waiting maid came and asked his business, the lady M'Carthy was after sending her down. "Oh, no business at all," says he. "But I am weary travelling and I thought I might rest in this place." He began for to flatter the girl and to offer her bribes, and in the latter end he got her to speak. She told him all what the mistress of the house was like; how she had a mole under her right arm and one on her left knee. Moreover she gave him a few long golden hairs she got out of the lady's comb. The Englishman went back to M'Carthy, brought him the tokens, and demanded the payment of the bet. And that is the way the poor gentleman spent the money he had saved up for the Jew. M'Carthy sent word to his wife that he was coming home, and for her to meet him on the ship. She put her grandest raiment upon her and started away at once. She went out to the ship and got up on the deck where she seen her husband standing. When she went over to him he never said a word at all, but he swept her aside with his arm the way she fell into the water. Then he went on shore full sure he had her drowned. But there was another ship coming in, and a miller that was on her seen the lady struggling in the sea. He was an aged man, yet he ventured in after her and he saved the poor creature's life. Well, the miller was a good sort of a man and he had great compassion for herself when she told him her story. She had no knowledge of the cause of her husband being vexed with her, and she thought it hard to believe the evidence of her senses that he was after striving to make away with her. The miller advised the lady M'Carthy to go on with the ship was sailing to another port, for may be if she went home after the man he would be destroying her. When the ship came into harbour the news was going of a great lawsuit. The miller heard all, and he brought word to the lady that M'Carthy was in danger of death. "There are three charges against him," says the miller. "Your father has him impeached for stealing you away and you not wishful to be with him: that is the first crime." "That is a false charge," says she, "for I helped for to plan the whole elopement. My father is surely saying all in good faith, but it is a lie the whole time." "A Jew has him accused for a sum of money was borrowed, and it due for repayment: that is the second crime," says the miller. "The money was all gathered up for to pay the debt," says the lady. "Where can it be if M'Carthy will not produce it?" "The law has him committed for the murder of yourself: and that is the third crime," says the miller. "And a false charge too, seeing you saved me in that ill hour. I am thinking I'd do well to be giving evidence in court of law, for it's maybe an inglorious death they'll be giving him," says she. "Isn't that what he laid out for yourself?" asks the miller. "It is surely, whatever madness came to him. But I have a good wish for him the whole time." "If that is the way of it we had best be setting out," says he. The lady and the miller travelled overland, it being a shorter journey nor the one they were after coming by sea. When they got to the court of law wasn't the judge after condemning M'Carthy; and it was little the poor gentleman cared for the sentence of death was passed on him. "My life is bitter and poisoned on me," says he, "maybe the grave is the best place." With that the lady M'Carthy stood up in the court and gave out that she had not been destroyed at all, for the miller saved her from the sea. They began the whole trial over again, and herself told how she planned the elopement, and her father had no case at all. She could not tell why M'Carthy was wishful to destroy her, and he had kept all to himself at the first trial. But by degrees all was brought to light: the villainy of the Englishman and the deceit was practised on them by him and the servant girl. It was decreed that the money was to be restored by that villain, and the Jew was to get his payment out of it. The lady M'Carthy's father was in such rejoicement to see his daughter and she alive, that he forgave herself and the husband for the elopement. Didn't the three of them go away home together and they the happiest people were ever heard tell of in the world. VII NALLAGH'S CHILD In the ancient days there were a power of the Good People travelling the land of Breffny. It was easy knowing they were middling proud and conceity in themselves, for they rode upon what appeared to be horses and had music with them, no less! Children were changed by the fairies too, and no matter what way they were reared the like never grew to be right things. There was once a man the name of Nallagh, lived in a tidy little place beyond the river. The wife and himself had one child, a gosoon, that could never be learned to speak, nor walk, nor stand upright, nor evenly to crawl upon the floor. The whole time the creature had all his makes and shapes natural and good only for a powerful great head was on him. The mother had her own times minding the youngster. Evenly when he was right big she'd be lifting him out of the bed, at the morning of the day, and fixing him up in a chair. There he'd sit, watching the fire until the fall of night, seemingly contented and in the best of humour. He had great observation for all that would be doing in the place, and if the least thing went astray he'd have an odious cor on him. The fire was his whole delight, when a turf fell and the sparks flew he'd open his mouth until you'd swear he was going to let a crow out of him. But never a sound came at all. It happened one time that Nallagh and the wife went to market, leaving the servant boy and servant girl to mind the place. "Let you keep up a good fire for the youngster, the way he will not be lonesome, and he looking on the glowing turf is his whole delight. Let you attend to your business the same as if myself was standing by to bid you do all things particular and tasty," says the mistress, and she going out at the door. Not a long were the two by their lone before they quit working and began for to play themselves through the kitchen. Says the servant boy: "We'd do well to be making a little feast, considering herself is not in it, and the wee coley but a silent creature will not be clashing on us at all." With that they brought the best of butter, cream and the like from the dairy, and the girl mixed all in a meskin for to make a butter cake. They built the fire with turf enough to roast the dinner of a giant, set the pot-hooks in the ears of the pan and let down the crook for to hang it on. "With the help of the Living Powers, that'll be the luscious bit," says the servant girl, putting down the batter for to bake. The whole time they were at their diversions Nallagh's child never quit watching the pair. Maybe it's in expectation he was of getting his taste of the feast. The butter cake was doing nicely, turning a grand colour and a lovely smell rising off it. The two heroes were in the best of humour, chatting other and funning, when all of a sudden the servant boy chanced to look out over the half door. "I declare to man, we're destroyed entirely," says he. "Himself and the mistress are without!" Sure enough it was Nallagh and the wife were after delaying in the market but a short space only. The girl, hearing tell of them coming in on her sooner nor they were expected, had the wit to whip the butter cake off the fire, and she slipped it in under the chair where the child was all times sitting. "It's the queer old cor he's putting on his countenance," says she. "But what about it, considering he is unable for to clash on us!" With that the father and mother came into the kitchen. And the four near fell dead with wonderment and fear, for when he seen the parents the wee lad cried out: "Hot, hot under my chair!" The servants were in odious dread, full sure they'd be found out and hunted from the place. For the butter cake was steaming mad from the fire, and the child never quit shouting: "Hot, hot under my chair!" He didn't let another word out of him but only the one thing, saying it maybe a hundred times after other: "Hot, hot under my chair." Well, if he was to say it a hundred times, or a thousand itself, Nallagh and the wife could not know what in under the shining Heaven he was striving for to tell. They were all of a tremblement with the wonder of the speech coming to him, and they never thought to consider was there sense in the words at all. It was a great miracle, surely, to hear the creature that never made a sound before, and he roaring out: "Hot, hot under my chair!" The old people were that put about they never thought to look round the place to see was anything astray; and I promise you the two heroes didn't ask to clash on themselves. The whole house was left through other until the fall of night, and every person in it was weary to the world with the dread and surprise was on them. After dark the mother puts the son to bed, fixing him up right comfortable. But it was not a sweet rest was laid out for the people of that house. In the darkness of the black midnight, a powerful great storm shook the place. It was like as if the four winds of Heaven were striving together, and they horrid vexed with one another. There were strange noises in it too, music and shouting, the way it was easy knowing the Good People were out playing themselves, or maybe disputing in a war. Thinking the child might be scared at the commotion, herself took a light in her hand and went over to his bed. "Is all well with you, sonny?" says she, for she had a fashion of speaking with him, evenly if it was no answers he'd give. But the little fellow was not in it at all, he was away travelling the world with the Fairy horsemen were after coming for him. The whole disturbance died out as speedy and sudden as it came. The music dwined in the far distance and the wind was still as the dawn of a summer's day. Sure it was no right tempest at all but an old furl blast the Good People had out for their diversion. The child was never restored to Nallagh and the wife. The fairies left them in peace from that out; they never heard the music on the distant hills, nor the regiments of horsemen passing by. The whole time it was lonesome they'd be, and they looking on the empty chair where the strange child delighted to sit silent, watching the turf was glowing red. VIII THE ENCHANTED HARE There was a strong farmer one time and he had nine beautiful cows grazing on the best of land. Surely that was a great prosperity, and you'd be thinking him the richest man in all the countryside. But it was little milk he was getting from his nine lovely cows, and no butter from the milk. They'd be churning in that house for three hours or maybe for five hours of a morning, and at the end of all a few wee grains of butter, the dead spit of spiders' eggs, would be floating on the top of the milk. Evenly that much did not remain to it, for when herself ran the strainer in under them they melted from the churn. There were great confabulations held about the loss of the yield, but the strength of the spoken word was powerless to restore what was gone. Herself allowed that her man be to have the evil eye, and it was overlooking his own cattle he was by walking through them and he fasting at the dawn of day. The notion didn't please him too well, indeed he was horrid vexed at her for saying the like, but he went no more among the cows until after his breakfast time. Sure that done no good at all--it was less and less milk came in each day. And butter going a lovely price in the market, to leave it a worse annoyance to have none for to sell. The man of the house kept a tongue hound that was odious wise. The two walked the cattle together, and it happened one day that they came on a hare was running with the nine cows through the field. The hound gave tongue and away with him after the hare, she making a great offer to escape. "Maybe there is something in it," says the man to himself. "I have heard my old grandfather tell that hares be's enchanted people; let it be true or no, I doubt they're not right things in any case." With that he set out for to follow his tongue hound, and the hunt went over the ditches and through the quick hedges and down by the lake. "Begob it's odious weighty I am to be diverting myself like a little gosoon," says the man. And indeed he was a big, hearty farmer was leaving powerful gaps behind him where he burst through the hedges. There was a small, wee house up an old laneway, and that was where the hunt headed for. The hare came in on the street not a yard in front of the tongue hound, and she made a lep for to get into the cabin by a hole on the wall convenient to the door. The hound got a grip of her and she rising from the ground. But the farmer was coming up close behind them and didn't he let a great crow out of him. "Hold your hold, my bully boy! Hold your hold!" The tongue hound turned at the voice of the master calling, and the hare contrived for to slip from between his teeth. One spring brought her in on the hole in the wall, but she splashed it with blood as she passed, and there was blood on the mouth of the hound. The man came up, cursing himself for spoiling the diversion, but he was well determined to follow on. He took the coat off his back and he stuffed it into the opening the way the hare had no chance to get out where she was after entering, then he walked round the house for to see was there any means of escape for what was within. There wasn't evenly a space where a fly might contrive to slip through, and himself was satisfied the hunt was shaping well. He went to the door, and it was there the tongue hound went wild to be making an entry, but a lock and a chain were upon it. The farmer took up a stone and he broke all before him to get in after the hare they followed so far. "The old house is empty this long time," says he, "and evenly if I be to repair the destruction I make--sure what is the price of a chain and a lock to a fine, warm man like myself!" With that he pushed into the kitchen, and there was neither sight nor sign of a hare to be found, but an old woman lay in a corner and she bleeding. The tongue hound gave the mournfullest whine and he juked to his master's feet, it was easy knowing the beast was in odious dread. The farmer gave a sort of a groan and he turned for to go away home. "It's a queer old diversion I'm after enjoying," says he. "Surely there's not a many in the world do be hunting hares through the fields and catching old women are bleeding to death." When he came to his own place the wife ran out of the house. "Will you look at the gallons of beautiful milk the cows are after giving this day," says she, pulling him in on the door. Sure enough from that out there was a great plenty of milk and a right yield of butter on the churn. IX THE BRIDGE OF THE KIST There was once a man the name of Michael Hugh, and he was tormented with dreams of a kist was buried in under a bridge in England. For awhile he took no heed to the visions were with him in the stillness of the night, but at long last the notion grew in his mind that he be to visit that place and find out was there anything in it. "I could make right use of a treasure," thinks he to himself. "For 'tis heart scalded I am with dwelling in poverty, and a great weariness is on me from toiling for a miserable wage." Then he bethought of the foolishness of making the journey if all turned out a deceit. "Sure I'll be rid of belief in the dreams are driving me daft with their grandeur and perseverance," says he. "Evenly failure will bring a sort of satisfaction for I'll get fooling whatever spirit does be bringing the vision upon me." So my brave Michael Hugh took an ash plant in his hand, and away with him oversea to England to discover the bridge of the kist. He was a twelvemonth travelling and rambling with no success to rise his heart, and he began for to consider he had better return to his own place. But just as he was making ready to turn didn't he chance on a strong flowing river, and the sight near left his eyes when he found it was spanned by the bridge he was after dreaming of. Well Michael Hugh went over and he looked down on the black depth of water was flowing in under the arch. "It'll be a hard thing surely to be digging for a kist in that place," says he. "I'm thinking a man would find a sore death and no treasure at all if he lepped into the flood. But maybe it's laid out for me to gather my fortune here, and some person may come for to give me instruction." With that he walked up and down over the bridge, hoping for further advice since he could not contrive a wisdom for his use. There was a house convenient to the river, and after awhile a man came from it. "Are you waiting on any person in this place?" says he to Michael Hugh. "It's bitter weather to be abroad and you be to be as hardy as a wild duck to endure the cold blast on the bridge." "I'm hardy surely," Michael Hugh makes his answer. "But 'tis no easy matter to tell if I'm waiting on any person." "You're funning me," says the Englishman. "How would you be abroad without reason, and you having a beautiful wise countenance on you?" With that Michael Hugh told him the story of the dreams that brought him from Ireland, and how he was expectant of a sign to instruct him to come at the kist. The Englishman let a great laugh. "You're a simple fellow," says he. "Let you give up heeding the like of visions and ghosts, for there is madness in the same and no pure reason at all. There's few has more nor better knowledge than myself of how they be striving to entice us from our work, but I'm a reasonable man and I never gave in to them yet." "Might I make so free as to ask," says Michael Hugh, "what sort of a vision are you after resisting?" "I'll tell you and welcome," says the Englishman. "There isn't a night of my life but I hear a voice calling: 'Away with you to Ireland, and seek out a man the name of Michael Hugh. There is treasure buried in under a lone bush in his garden, and that is in Breffny of Connacht.'" The poor Irishman was near demented with joy at the words, for he understood he was brought all that journey to learn of gold was a stone's throw from his own little cabin door. But he was a conny sort of a person, and he never let on to the other that Michael Hugh was the name of him, nor that he came from Breffny of Connacht. The Englishman invited him into his house for to rest there that night, and he didn't spare his advice that dreams were a folly and sin. "You have me convinced of the meaning of my visions," says Michael Hugh. "And what's more I'll go home as you bid me." Next morning he started out, and he made great haste with the desire was on him to get digging the gold. When he came to his own place in Connacht he made straight for a loy and then for the lone bush. Not a long was he digging before he hoked out a precious crock full of treasure, and he carried it into the house. There was a piece of a flag stone lying on top of the gold, and there was a writing cut into it. What might be the meaning of that Michael Hugh had no notion, for the words were not Gaelic nor English at all. It happened one evening that a poor scholar came in for to make his cailee. "Can you read me that inscription, mister?" asks Michael Hugh, bringing out the flag. "Aye surely," says the poor scholar. "That is a Latin writing, and I am well learned in the same." "What meaning is in it?" asks the other. "'The same at the far side,'" says the scholar. "And that is a droll saying surely when it gives no information beyond." "Maybe it will serve my turn, mister!" says Michael Hugh, in the best of humour. After the scholar was gone on his way, didn't himself take the loy and out to the garden. He began for to dig at the far side of the lone bush, and sure enough he found a second beautiful kist the dead spit of the first. It was great prosperity he enjoyed from that out. And he bought the grandest of raiment, the way the neighbours began for to call him Michael Hughie the Cock. X THE CHILD AND THE FIDDLE There was a woman one time, and she had the fretfullest child in all Ireland. He lay in the cradle and lamented from morning to night and from dark to the dawn of day. There was no prosperity nor comfort in that house from he came to it. All things went astray within in the kitchen and without upon the farm: the cattle fell sick, the potatoes took a blight, there was not a taste of butter on the churn, and evenly the cat began for to dwine and dwine away. But of all the misfortunes that come the woefullest was the continual strife between the man and woman of the house, and they a couple that were horrid fond aforetime. It happened when the child was about eighteen months of age that a strange man was hired to work on the farm. Surely he'd never have ventured into the place if he had heard tell of the ill luck was in it, but he was from distant parts and didn't know a heth. One day he chanced to be in from the work a while before the master of the house, and herself was gone to the spring for water. The hired man sat down by the kitchen fire, taking no heed of the child was watching him from the cradle. The little fellow quit his lamenting; he sat up straight, with a countenance on him like a wise old man. "I will be playing you a tune on the fiddle, for I'm thinking 'tis fond of the music you are," says he. The man near fell into the fire with wonderment to hear the old-fashioned talk. He didn't say one word in answer, but he waited to see what would be coming next. The small weak infant pulled a fiddle out from under the pillow of the cradle, and he began for to play the loveliest music was ever heard in this world. He had reels and jigs, songs and sets; merry tunes would rise the heart of man and mournful tunes would fill the mind with grief. The man sat listening, and he was all put through other, thinking the child was no right thing. After a time the little lad quit playing, he put back the fiddle where he took it from and began at his old whimpering again. Herself came in at the door with a bucket of water in her hand. Well the man walked out and he called her after him. "That is a strange child you have, mistress," says he. "A strange child, surely, and a sorrowful," she makes answer. "It is tormented with his roaring you are, no person could be enduring it continually." "Did ever he play on the fiddle in your hearing?" asks the man. "Is it raving you are?" says she. "I am not, mistress," he answers. "He is after giving me the best of entertainment with reels and marches and jigs." "Let you quit funning me!" says she, getting vexed. "I see you are doubting my words," he replies. "Do you stand here without where he'll not be looking on you at all. I'll go into the kitchen, and maybe he'll bring out the fiddle again." With that he went in, leaving herself posted convenient to the window. Says he to the child, "I'm thinking there's not above a score of fiddlers in all Ireland having better knowledge of music nor yourself. Sure that is a great wonder and you but an innocent little thing." "Maybe it's not that innocent I am," says the child. "And let me tell you there isn't one fiddler itself to be my equal in the land." "You're boasting, you bold wee coley," says the man. The child sat up in a great rage, pulled the fiddle from under the pillow and began for to play a tune was grander nor the lot he gave first. The man went out to herself. "Are you satisfied now?" he asks. "My heart beats time to his reels," says she. "Run down to the field and send the master to this place that he may hear him too." The man of the house came up in a terrible temper. "If it's lies you are telling me, I'll brain the pair of you with the loy," says he, when he heard the news of the fiddle. "Put your ear to the window it's soft he is playing now," says his wife. But the words weren't out of her mouth before a blast of loud music was heard. Himself ran in on the door, and he seen the gosoon sitting up playing tunes. "Let you be off out of this," says he, "or I'll throw you at the back of the fire, for you are no right thing at all." With that the little fellow made a powerful great lep out of the cradle, across the floor and away with him out over the fields. But he left his fiddle behind, and the master of the house threw it down on the burning turf. And that was no true fiddle at all, only a piece of an old bog stick was rotten with age. XI THE CUTTING OF THE TREE There was a wild sort of a lad the name of Francis Pat, and he was a great warrant to be entertaining the people with his airy talk. He was the whole go in every spree and join was held in the countryside; and the neighbours all had a fine welcome when he'd come to make his cailee. He joined the world when he was about thirty years of age, and he got a fine sensible woman with a nice little handful of money. Herself didn't care to be rambling at all, and she'd sit with her stitching or knitting when he went out after dark. It chanced one time, not a long from they were married, that Francis Pat went to a raffle was held in the next townland. When the company set out for to go away home, in the black darkness of the night, every person in it was afraid to pass down by the fort. "What is on you at all?" says Francis Pat. "I think scorn on the lot of you are in dread of the Good People." "God be with them--and their faces from us, their backs to us, the way they're good friends," says an old man. "I have great experience to know that it's a danger to evenly make fun in speech of the like." "Away with you by the long hard road," says Francis Pat. "'Tis I will walk my lone past the fort, and I dare the fairies to molest me." The neighbours strove to break his intention, but he was persistent and proud. When he came to the fort he seen a light, he heard voices speaking and the blows of an axe against wood. "There is one more daring nor myself abroad this hour," thinks Francis Pat. "I never heard tell of any person having audacity to interfere with the trees of the circle." Curiosity came on him to know who could it be, and he juked over to the light. He seen no sign of the men, however he peeped, but he heard the words and the blows. "Where'll we carry the wood?" says a voice. "To the house on the hill," says another. "We be to bring out the wife of Francis Pat, and the tree may stop there in her stead." "He'll never know the differ," says the first. "It's a fine thing surely to make an image from a tree that a man couldn't know from herself." With that there was great laughter and cheering, but the lad didn't wait to hear more--he sped away home to the house on the hill. Not a heth did he let on to the wife about what he was after discovering, but he had a strong oath taken in his own mind that the fairies should not lift her from him. He bolted the door of the kitchen, and the two went into the room. After awhile there came a cry on the street without, and it dwined away into the byre. The cows began for to stamp and strive to get free of the bails. "Let you go out and see what ails the creatures," says herself. "There is nothing on them," says he. "I'll not leave this place till the sun rises for day." Then there came a powerful blast of wind, and the pigs set up the awfullest lamentation. "I'm not that lazy but I'll find out what it is," says herself. "You'll stop where you are," says he. "Didn't you hear the blast going by, and every person knows that pigs see the wind?" "Whatever they're beholding this minute is a sore distress to the creatures," she answers. "Aye!" he allows. "The wind is red, and that is the cause of them crying." There came a crash on the door of the kitchen and it blew in; the plates were dashed off the dresser, and the saucepans fell from the nails on the wall. Francis Pat had to hold herself by the arm to keep her from running to gather the delf. Voices came shouting, and there was a stamping of feet through the house. The woman began for to cry and to roar, but himself kept a hold on her and nothing enticed him away. At dawn the commotion died out. "What was it at all?" asks herself. "Sure what would it be only a wind was fit to batter the horns off the cows!" says Francis Pat. When they went into the kitchen what did they find only the image lying on the floor. The wood was cut into the living likeness of the woman of the house, and the Good People had thrown it there in the anger of the disappointment was on them. So my brave Francis Pat told his wife the whole story of the cutting of the tree. XII THE LITTLE SETTLEMENT There was a strong farmer one time and he was the boastfullest man in all Ireland. He had a tidy, comfortable place, sure enough, but to hear him speaking you'd be thinking his house was built of silver and thatched with the purest gold. Herself was a very different sort of a person, kindly and simple-hearted; she took no pleasure in making out she had more property and grandeur than another body; and she was neither envious, uncharitable, nor a clash. The two had but one child, a daughter, and she was their whole delight. Bride was a beautiful white girl with a countenance on her would charm a king from his golden throne to be walking the bogs with herself. The boys were flocking after her by the score, and she had but to raise her hand to draw any one of them to her side. But, being a seemly, well-reared lass, she took her diversion without any consideration of marriage at all--well satisfied her father would be making a fitting settlement for her when the time came. The youth of the world will always be playing themselves and chatting together, all the while them that have right wit and a good upbringing do leave their settlement in the hands of the parents have the best understanding for the same. "I'm thinking," says himself one evening, "that it's old and stiff I am growing. It might be a powerful advantage to take a son-in-law into the place, the way I'd get sitting in peace by the hearth, and he out in the fields attending to the management of all." "Bride is full young to be joining the world," says his wife. "But I will not be putting any hindrance in the way of it, for maybe it's better contented she'd be to have a fine man of her own, foreby to be looking on an old pair like ourselves, and we dozing by the fire of an evening." "I'll be making a little settlement for her, surely," says himself. The next day he gave out through the country that Bride was to be married. What with the little handful of money, the fine farm of land and the looks of the girl, the suitors were coming in plenty. There were strong farmers, small farmers, tradesmen and dealers; a cow doctor, a blacksmith, and evenly a man that travelled in tea. Himself was disgusted with all; he put out the farmers and dealers very civil and stiff, but the tea man he stoned down the road for a couple of miles. The next suitor to come was a beautiful young lad the name of Shan Alec. He was a tasty worker, and he had the best of good money was left him by his da. Now if you were to seek all Ireland ten times through, I'll go bail you wouldn't be finding a more suitable match nor Shan Alec and Bride. The girl and her mother were fair wild with delight, but they got an odious disappointment for didn't himself run the poor boy out of the house. "I'm surprised at you," says the wife. "Why couldn't you have wit and give that decent lad an honourable reception?" "Is it to give my daughter to yon country coley?" says he. "And I the warmest man in these parts." "A better match for her like isn't walking this earth," says the wife. "Hold your whisht, woman," says he. "I'd sooner let the devil have her than see her join the world with Shan Alec." "What is on you at all to be speaking such foolishness?" asks herself. "I'd have you to know," says he, "that I'll have a gentleman for my son-in-law and no common person at all." "It is the raving of prosperity is on you," says she. "And that is the worst madness out." "Speak easy," says he, "or maybe I'll correct you with the pot stick." With that she allowed he be to be gone daft entirely, or he'd never have such an unseemly thought as to raise his hand to a woman. "Hold your whisht," he answers. "Surely 'tis both hand and foot I'll be giving you unless you quit tongueing." Not a long afterwards a splendid gentleman came to the house, and he riding on a horse. "I have heard tell," says he to the farmer, "that you are seeking a suitable settlement for your daughter." "If your honour wants a wife," says himself. "Let you be stepping in, for it's maybe in this house you'll find her." With that the gentleman got down off his horse, and it was an honourable reception they made him. Evenly herself was content to remember the scorn put on poor Shan Alec, when she seen the magnificent suitor was come. The gentleman had a smile on his face when he heard all the boasts of the farmer. "My good man," says he, "I think scorn on your money and land, for I'd have you to know that I am a King in my own place. But that girl sitting by the hearth has a lovely white countenance on her, and her heart I am seeking for love of the same." "Oh mother," says Bride in a whisper, "will you send him away?" "Is it raving you are?" asks herself. "I'd go through fire and water for my poor Shan Alec!" says Bride. "Will you hold your whisht," says her mother. "That is no right talk for a well-reared girl." The farmer and the gentleman made their agreement and opened the bottle of whiskey. There was to be a nice little feast for to celebrate the settlement, and the cloth was set in the parlour on account of the grandeur of the suitor and he not used to a kitchen at all. When the supper was served didn't the servant girl call the mistress out to the kitchen. "Oh mam," says she. "I couldn't get word with you in private before. Let you hunt that lad from the place." "And why, might I ask?" says herself. "Sure how would he be a right gentleman and he having a foot on him like a horse?" says the girl. With that the mistress began to lament and to groan. "What'll I do! What'll I do, and I scared useless with dread?" "I'll go in and impeach him," says the servant girl. In she went to the parlour. "Quit off out of this," says she. "We'll have no horse feet in this place." The master got up to run her from the room. "Look under the table at your lovely gentleman's foot!" says she. The farmer done as she bid, but he was that set in his own conceit he just answers: "What harm is in a reel foot? It's no ornament surely, but that's all there is to it." "Many's the reel foot I've laid eyes on," she says. "But yon is the hoof of a horse." "It's truth you are speaking," says the gentleman. "I am the devil and no person less." "Quit off from here," says the servant. "A decent girl, like us two, need never be fearing your like. I'd hit you a skelp with the pot stick as soon as I'd stand on a worm." "You can't put me out," says the devil. "For the man of the house has me promised his daughter." "There is no person living," says Bride, "might have power on the soul of another. If my sins don't deliver me into your hand the word of my da is no use." "Then I'll be taking himself," says the devil, making ready to go. "You may wait till he's dead," cries the woman of the house. "He made you no offer of his bones and his flesh." "The tongues of three women would argue the devil to death," says he, and away with him in a grey puff of smoke. The man and woman of the house began for to pray. But says Bride to the servant: "Let you slip off to Shan Alec and bid him come up--for it's maybe an honourable reception is waiting him here." XIII THE TILLAGE IN THE FORT There was a man in these parts, and he thought it hard to see a square inch of ground go to loss. He had a small wee farm on the top of a windy hill, and there was a fort on the sweetest of the fields. He couldn't pass by but he'd think of how much potatoes might be grown within in the circle. Well with the dint of consideration didn't he finally decide for to plant it. He never let on to his wife, but away out with the loy, and he made great work before the fall of night. When he came in he carried a lengthy thorn root in his hand. "What are you holding?" asks herself. "An old thorn I hoked out of the ground," says he. "I brought it in for the fire." "Is it making gaps in the quick hedges you are?" she asks. "Not at all," says he. "I have the circle beyond rooted up for to set potatoes in it." "Is it the fort!" says she. When she heard what he was after doing she began for to roar and to cry. "It is destroyed we are in this ill hour," she lamented. "The Good People will be following us surely with the black wrath of vengeance and spite. Never before did I hear of a man setting spuds in a fort." "Quit raving," says he. "Many and many's the time I have seen them, they riding down by the hill; their fiddles and fifes I have heard, their shouts and their laughs. But I had no cause for a dread till it come on me now," she replies. With that herself took the thorn from the fire, where he was after casting it down; she left it out on the door of the house. "Let their branch stop beyond on the street," says she, "the way they will not be entering here and they seeking for to bring it away." In the black darkness of midnight there came the awfullest cry on the street, on past the house and into the byre. Then a great lamentation came from the cows and the ass. "The creatures are a killing this night," says herself. The man rose out of his bed and he kindled a light. He had the heart to go out to the beasts to see what ailed them at all. There was no loss on the cows nor the ass, and the cry and the shouting were gone. He went back to the house, but not a long was he in before the very same trouble rose in the byre. Out with him again to make sure what was wrong, and he found not a single heth astray. He was back in his bed when a third cry passed on the wind. The ass let a roar was more nor horrid lonesome, and the cows were stamping and roaring with dread. All the while there was nothing in it when the master went out. There was no sound more until hard on the break of day. A laugh that was hateful to hear passed the house, and a hand struck hard on the window. Himself rose early, and he opened the door. What did he see only the ass lying dead on the street, and the two cows were destroyed in the byre. "'Twas the fairies, surely," says he. "And they brought this destruction upon me for hoking a hole in their farm." "It's a powerful great price they're after charging you for the hire of a small piece of ground," says herself, coming out. "But the thorn stick is gone off the street where I threw it last night, and if that had remained in the house they'd have murdered ourselves." XIV THE NEW DECK OF CARDS Of all the contrivances of the art and learning of man there is none more curious nor cards. They have a connection with beings are not right things at all, and it is well known that an Evil Angel can house himself for a while in a new deck of cards. There was a young lad called Terry the Luck, and he a great warrant for gaining all games of skill and of chance. He was that strongly renowned the roulette men would warn him away from their boards in a fair, and the thimble trick man fled clean from the street when he come; the gosoons were in dread to toss pence with himself for the coin fell head or tail as he called. Now it happened one night that Terry the Luck was on his way home from the sports, and he carried a new deck of cards in his hand. He was in the best of humour for he was after winning a powerful bet on a race. Part of the gain was snug in his pocket, and the remainder had paid for the drink of his friends and himself. The road to his home was lonely, for he lived in a backward townland. The river passed within sight of his door, and it spanned by a bridge was four arches long. When Terry the Luck set his foot on the bridge didn't he wheel away round and start in the wrong direction. "That's a strange thing," says he. "Sure my legs were right steady till now." With that he went at it again, but he couldn't succeed for to cross. He went back about twenty yards and took a run at it--that was no use either. Well any person that seen his antics that night would have died of the laughter. Back he'd go and race up to the bridge for all he was worth, but whenever his foot came upon it he'd turn like a leaf on the wind and away to where he started from. What was more nor horrid vexatious for the poor fellow was to see the light shining in his own kitchen window beyond, and he not fit to get home. "'Tis enchanted I am," says he. At long last he thought of the new deck of cards, and he laid them down by the roadside before he made another attempt to go home. He passed the bridge without the least hindrance, but when he went into the house he began to consider it was all a foolishness only. "What use is there in laying out money for cards, and throwing them there to be rotting with damp?" says he. Back he went across the river to fetch the new deck of cards. But if he was to strive till he died of exhaustion he couldn't get over the bridge and they in his hand. "I'll lay them in under a stone until dawn," says he. "Maybe whatever is in them will quit before then." So he settled his cards in a safe hiding hole, and away with him to his bed. He rose with the early dawn for to bring out the deck. But there wasn't a heth to be found where he stowed it away--and the earth by the stone was all burnt into ash. XV THE LIFTING OF A CHILD There was a woman, a short while since, and she lived on a snug little farm convenient to the lough. She went to the byre for to milk, of a May morning, and no person stopped in the house only a young child in the cradle. Not a long was herself without, maybe the half of an hour, and when she came in there was no appearance of any disorder or strife in the kitchen. But the poor wee child lay cold and dead in the cradle. The mother began for to roar and lament, and her heart was feeble with dread. There came a knock on the door, and a neighbouring man lifted the latch and walked in. He never let on to observe the woeful countenance of herself, but he says, in a hearty voice: "Will you tell me how is the child?" "He is after dying on us," she answers. "And he right well this hour past." The man went over to the cradle, and he lepped three foot off the floor when he seen the wee corpse lying there. "It's the strangest thing at all," she laments. "And what'll I be saying to himself when he lands in from his work." "Let you be telling him," says the man, "that the little fellow is in my house this day." "'Tis queer advice you are speaking to be bidding me utter the like of yon lie, forenenst the innocent corpse," says herself. "Not a lie in the world, mam," he answers. "Sure I am just after leaving your child by my own kitchen fire, and he wrapped up in a shawl." With that she took a hold of the pot stick for to run him from the place--she was odious vexed to think he'd make mock of her sore lamentations. "Ar'n't you the ungrateful besom," says he, "to go destroying a decent neighbour with a pot stick, and he after saving your son from the power of the Good People?" "Let you tell a straight story, or quit off from here," she answers. "For I am heart scalded listening to your old nonsense and lies." "'Tis striving I was not to give you your death of a scare," says he. "But the strangest thing is after coming to pass in this house. Let you sit down and have good courage, the way I'll be telling you a rejoiceful news." With that herself brought him over a chair, dusting it clean on her apron, then she pulled up the creepy and sat down to attend to his words. "Did you hear any noise of disturbance," says he, "wherever you were?" "I did not," she answers. "And not a far was I from this place at all. I went to the byre for to milk; and no noise was in it only the cow breathing and the splash of the milk in the can." "That's more nor horrid strange," says he. "For I was passing down by the lough and I heard a powerful commotion up here. There was laughter and cheering, the tramp of men's boots on the street, and horses galloping by. Thinks I to myself, 'The fairies are out contriving some old villainy this morning of May.' What did I do only walk up among them, and I seen no person at all. When I came to the house the poor wee child was a handing out on the window, but I could not behold the fairies were at the lifting. "Well I'd have you to know I'm a brave and venturesome man, with a heart as strong as an eagle! What did I do only make my way in among the whole throng of Good People, and I standing on their feet, and pushing them off to the wall to make space for myself. I took a hold of the child for to pull him from the invisible hands were lifting him out, and, as sure as I'm sitting here, I brought him safe from the lot. "There went a whole roar of annoyance from the fairies, and they mounted up on their horses and away. But I brought the little fellow to my own house for fear they'd return for him to this place." The poor mother was wild with delight to hear tell the son was alive. "Let's be going to fetch him," says she. "And he'll never be left in the house by his lone from this out." The two went down to the neighbour's house, and sure enough the child was in it asleep by the fire. The man had to carry him home, for herself was exhausted with fright. "Maybe the Good People are gone up to remove what they left in the cradle," says she. But when they went into the kitchen wasn't the old corpse in it yet. "We be to bury yon article," says herself. But the man allowed there was no need to be treating the like the same as a right thing. "Throw it in on the back of the fire," says he. Herself was in dread to lay her hand on the likeness of the child. So the man lifted it out of the cradle and threw it down on the fire. And it blazed away up the chimney for a second's time and departed in a puff of smoke. XVI THE VOICE AT THE DOOR There was one time a poor widow woman he name of Cathleen the Hollow, for her house was down in a dip of the ground. She had two fine beautiful sons, Shan the Hollow and Hughie Cathleen. Shan was a dancer could step on a plate and not put a break in the delf; and Hughie could sing every ballad and song was ever heard tell of at all. They were wild daring lads, too, the way there was great talk of them in the countryside. And the lamentations of the youth of the world were more nor a fright when news came round to the neighbours that Hughie was dead. He lay down of a Friday night, and he in the best of health, on the Saturday morning the brother went to rouse him, and found him perished dead. Well there was a most elegant wake, not a one in those parts but paid respect to the corpse. And there wasn't the least suspicion but that Hughie come by his death of some natural cause. It was maybe a fortnight after the burying that the sleep quit Shan the Hollow entirely. If evenly he began for to doze in his bed he'd be roused up again by a rap on the door--but when he stepped out there was no person visible there. "Oh mother," says he, "I'm thinking poor Hughie is walking the world." "He is not," says she. "For he was a decent lad would find peace in the grave. But there is some person making free with this house, for not a day goes by but I miss some article of food." Shan let it be, but his mind was uneasy for Hugh. And not a long after he heard a voice go past in the night, and it singing a beautiful song. He rose and he went to the door. "Oh Hughie," says he, "is that your spirit travelling the earth?" "It's myself is walking the world, and I not buried at all," says the voice. "The Good People have me away, and the corpse was an old image cut from bog stick that they left in my bed to deceive you." "Then it's yourself is using the food from this house, my poor boy?" says Shan. "Aye, indeed," says the voice, "and sometimes it's little I find. It does be hard on me to refuse the noble refreshment the fairies set out, but if I'd eat of the like I could never escape from their power. Do you tell herself to leave me a mug of sweet milk and a morsel of bread on the sill of the window, to keep me from hungering more." "You'll have the best in the house left ready against you come," says Shan. "But will you tell me what way am I to contrive a rescue?" "It's easy enough," says the voice. "But I'm diverting myself with the fairies, and I'll not be coming home for a while. They took me out oversea to America and showed me the wonders are there. Sure maybe it's in France I'll be at the dawning of day!" "I'd liefer sit by our own fireside than travel the realms of the world with their like," says Shan. "Let you give them the slip and come home." "I seen the King's daughter of Spain, and a Queen of the East," says the voice. "For let me be telling you there's few like myself with the fairies, the way they are showing me great respect." Shan gets vexed at the words and he says: "Is it boasting forenenst your own brother you are? Sure we come of a poor stock of people, and I have heard tell there are lords of the fairies." "It's my singing has them crazed about me," says the voice, "for they have right understanding for music and songs." "Is there any man or woman of these parts excepting yourself abroad with them now?" asks Shan. "Not a one at this present. But at dark to-morrow we are going for to lift young Cassidy's wife." Well Shan kept inquiring of Hughie when would he like to come home. At long last the lad gave out he'd be ready in three weeks from that hour. "Let you come to the fort," says he, "and meet the whole host of the fairies. We'll give them the slip at the gap." With that the voice went away off the street, singing till the sound dwined out in the distance. But my poor Shan was that put about he couldn't decide what to do. At the dawn of the morning he set off to visit the Priest, and he informed him every word he was after hearing. Well his Reverence couldn't believe there was anything in it only a dream of the night. "Let your Reverence go to the Cassidy's and keep herself from their hands," says Shan. "For the Good People are determined to lift her away." "Go home now and attend to your farm," says the Priest. "'Tis the raving of grief is on you for the brother you lost." Still and all his Reverence set out for Cassidy's that evening to see was anything wrong. Didn't he find the Good People before him and they had herself brought away. "Oh if only I had come in time," says he. "But I might be some hindrance to them yet." With that he went down to the hollow, and Shan was sitting within in the house. Says the Priest: "Let you not stir from this for the calling of voices that pass. You are after informing me of an intention you have for to rescue your brother on a set and certain night. Now give me your promise to make no attempt of the sort--for it's into the power of the fallen angels you'd go, and you'd not get him rescued at all." "I be to make an offer anyway," says Shan. "Very well," says the Priest. "I'll send four strong men of this parish to rope you down in your bed on that ill night." Didn't they hold my poor Shan from his offer to bring home the brother, and surely it was well done for his own destruction was in it. But the voice came no more to the window and the bread lay uncut on the sill. XVII THE EARL'S SON OF THE SEA When the Good People fell from the Heavens above, didn't some of them sink in the sea, and there they are dwelling this day. Many and many a story is told of their diversions and how they be wrecking the ships; but the strangest account I ever heard tell was the fisherman's daughter that met the Earl's son of the sea. She was travelling the sands by her lone, on the west coast of Ireland, and when she came near to the rocks she heard the notes of a harp. Of course she was curious to know who was out playing in that place and no dwelling near; so over she went towards the sound, and what did she come on only a beautiful yellow-haired man. "It's destroyed in a short space you'll be," she calls out, "for the tide is beginning to rise and you'll be dashed dead on the rocks." "Do you know who I am?" says he. "I do not," she answers. "But you're surely a stranger to these parts or you wouldn't sit there with the waves beginning to rise." "Maybe I travelled this bay before you were born," says he. With that she let a laugh out of her. "I'm thinking the two of us are about the one age," says she. "So quit your old-fashioned talk and come on out of that till I show you the way up the cliff." "You're a beautiful girl," says the stranger, "and the wish is on me to please you. Climb up out of reach of the rising sea and I'll play you a tune on the harp." Well she travelled back over the sand and up by the path to the cliff, never doubting but the stranger was following on. But when she looked down she seen him below on the rock. "It is drownded you'll be," she calls out. "Let you not be uneasy," says he. With that he began for to play on the harp, and the music enchanted the fisherman's child and the tears ran down from her eyes. When she looked again to the rock wasn't the stranger washed from it and a big white wave curled up from the place. "I'm after finding and losing a beautiful boy," says she, and she went away home lamenting his death. Not a long after she was travelling the sands, and she heard the music again. There was himself sitting up on the rock as sound as a salmon at play. "I doubt you're no right thing," says she. "Maybe not," he allows. "But I'll rise your heart with a tune--if it was crying I had you the last time it's laughing I'll see you this day." With that he played the cleverest dancing tune on the harp, and he had the fisherman's daughter in the best of humour. After a while he says, "I'm thinking you have a poor way of living in your home, for it's hard set to earn a bit and a sup that the fishermen are in this place." "We're miserable, surely," she answers. "I'll be making you a great advancement," says he. "For I'd have you to know that there's plenty of wealth in my power. Let you quit from your own friends and marry myself. It's a beautiful castle I'll build you, out on a rock in the ocean, and jewels and pearls for your portion to wear." "A lonesome life," says she, "to be watching the wild birds fly over the waves, and maybe a ship passing by. Moreover you are no right thing, evenly if you have the appearance of a beautiful gentleman. It's a poor man of these parts will join the world with myself." "Sure I'm an Earl's son of the sea," he allows. But the grandeur didn't tempt her at all. "A sea marriage would be no marriage," she answers, and with that she bid him good-day. "Let your man never travel the sea," he answers, "for I'll destroy the ship from under his feet and leave him dead on a wave." He lepped down into the water and away with him from out of her sight. The fisherman's daughter never heard him out harping again, nor seen a sight of his face. And after a while she forgot the queer lad entirely. Didn't she marry a farmer inland, and it was a comfortable life they enjoyed. But a notion took himself that he'd prosper more in the States, for he was greedy for gold. He took passage for the two on a great big ship, and away with them from Ireland. Not a long were they at sea before a sudden furl blast met the ship, and a wave twenty times as high as a house stood up over the deck and broke down. Every person was killed dead and smashed into the wood of the ship only the fisherman's daughter. She felt the vessel sink down from under her and she looked up and seen a beautiful castle rise up on a rock on the sea. The Earl's son came past on a wave and he lifted her up by the hair of her head for to land her out on the rock. The fisherman's daughter lived in that place for fourteen years and she lamenting the lonesome hours of each day. She seen the wild gulls flying and whales and every sort sailing the waves. She took no delight in the jewels nor the dresses were stored in that house, and the Earl's son of the sea allowed she grew ugly and old. It happened one day he was travelling in other parts that herself seen a ship coming down, and she waved a white flag out the window. A man came out from the ship in a small little boat, and who was it only her own brother Michael. "Oh sister dear," says he, "is it sitting on a rock you are for fourteen weary years? Sure we heard tell of the loss of the vessel was bringing you out to the States." "It's a fine castle is here," says she. "But it's lonesome I am for my home." "I see no more nor a rock and it green with the weed of the sea," says Michael. "It's on your eyes that there's more in it, for I see nothing at all." With that she told him the whole story. And he was in dread for to bring her away lest the Earl's son might destroy them. "I'll tell you what I'll do," says he. "It's back to Ireland I'll sail, and I'll get an image made the down likeness of yourself. When we set that up on the rock himself will believe you are in it, and we may get away." So he rowed his wee boat to the ship and home he sailed to Ireland. He got the finest image made, and it the dead spit of herself. With that in his keeping he travelled the sea till he came to the rock and his sister still sat there lamenting. But she had a red flag hung out and that was the sign they'd agreed for him not to come near. So he be to wait until she put up a white one, and then he knew that the Earl's son was not near. He got her safe to the boat, and they left the old image stuck up on the rock. "There's two little fellows like sea-monkeys he's left to watch when he's gone," says herself. "But they didn't see me slip out and they'll never think but the statue is me. I haven't the least fear of them bringing him word there is anything wrong, but if he returns we are lost for he won't be that easy deceived." They made great sailing to Ireland, and the ship was coming in on the harbour the way they were sure they'd come safe. What did they see only the Earl's son and he riding on a big white wave to catch up to them. The image was with him, and he threw it after the ship the way a hole was cleft in her side and she sank. But the fisherman's daughter, her brother, and the sailors got on shore in a boat before he came at them again. They seen him from the shore, and he flittering something with his two hands. What was it only the sea-monkeys, and he threw the bits of them up on the shore. He came in himself, but they pelted him from it with stones for his power was lost on the land. But not a one of that family to this present day may venture into the waves, for the Earl's son watches out to destroy them for vengeance and spite. XVIII THE GIRL AND THE FAIRIES There was a beautiful young girl living in these parts, and she was greatly admired by every person that seen her. It happened when she was about nineteen years of age that she fainted one day on the street before the house, where she was washing the spuds for dinner. The mother and sister went out for to carry her in, and they laid her down on the bed--the poor girl never rose from it more. Maybe a week she was lingering dying, not a word ever came from her lips and she used no food at all. Not a long after the burying her mother heard a rapping on the window, close upon midnight. She rose and she says, "Oh Bridget dear, is it you?" "It is indeed, mamma," says a voice. "Let you give me a drink of sweet milk and a small taste of bread." "I've heard tell of the dead were uneasy, but never of one needing food," says the mother. "The fairies have me away," answers Bridget. "'Tis myself is living this day, and you are after giving decent burial to an old thing they left in my place." With that the poor mother brought milk and bread to the window and handed it out. "Will you ever contrive to get home, my poor Bridget?" says she. "Aye surely," answers the girl, "if the men of this place are worthy their keep. Let you make inquiries among them until you find two strong daring boys are willing to attempt my rescue." She went away off the street, and the mother went back to her bed. The next evening there were some of the neighbours came in, and herself gave out all she was after hearing. There were two clever lads in it and they promised for to bring the girl snug and safe to her home. Not a long after Bridget came back to the window to speak with the mother, so when she heard of the offer was made she says: "The Good People are going away over the moor on Wednesday night and I must journey with them. It is mounted on horses we'll be, and tell the two lads I told them to stand by the gap and watch for the squad going through. I'll be upon the third grey horse to go by, and let the two lads take a hold of me, one at each side. Now if they're not full sure they'll have courage and daring to hold their hold, let them not come near me at all. For if I pass on with the fairies they'll kill me dead for vengeance that night." The mother promised she'd give the lads great warning to keep their hold and do all as Bridget was saying. Well on the Wednesday night the venturesome lads went down to the gap of the fort field, and there they stood waiting one at each side of the pass. Not a long were they in it before the Good People began to go through. One grey horse went down beside another and a third came behind with Bridget sitting upon his back. The two lads caught a hold of her, but didn't the horse let a stag lep and they lost their grip on the girl. She gave the lonesomest cry as she was carried from them, and the fairies began for to cheer and to laugh. "We'll follow the Good People on," says one of the boys, "and maybe we'll vanquish them yet." So the two travelled after the riders, away towards the moor. The river flows convenient to that place, and a fine bridge spans it across. It was there that the awfullest cry rose out of the throng of the fairies, and when the boys came on to the bridge they seen it all red with my poor Bridget's blood. The horsemen were after dashing her down on the stones to her death. XIX GOOD-NIGHT, MY BRAVE MICHAEL There was a big gathering of neighbours sitting round a fire, telling stories of an evening, and some person says: "There's the strongest bolt and lock in all Ireland on the door there beyond, and it couldn't be broken at all." With that the Good People were listening outside began for to laugh. Didn't they whip the lock off the door and away with them through the fields. Says the man of the house: "I'm thinking there's danger abroad; let the lot of you stop here till dawn." But there was a big, venturesome man in it and he allowed he'd go home no spite of the fairies. He started off by his lone, and he had a wet sort of field to pass through with a great shaking scraw to one side. It was an awful and dangerous place to any person not used to the like, but he knew his way by the pass. He was travelling at a good speed when all on a sudden he heard the tramping of a score of horses behind him. Then they came up round himself, but he seen no person at all nor a sign of a horse or an ass. "The fairies are in it," says he. With that one of them took a hold of him by the collar and turned him round on the path. "Good-night, my brave Michael," says the horsemen. Then another of them took him by the shoulder and faced him away round again. "Good-night, my brave Michael," says he. Well the whole score of fairies kept turning him round until he seen the stars dropping down from the sky and his ears were deafened with a sound like the sea. And every one that took him by the shoulder would say: "Good-night, my brave Michael, good-night!" The poor fellow didn't know what in under the shining Heaven was he to do. He seen they were setting him astray, but he couldn't continue for to keep on the path, and he was in odious dread they'd furl him into the shaking scraw where he'd sink from the sight of man. A sudden thought struck his mind of a saying he heard from his ma. He whipped the coat off his back and he put it on with the wrong side turned out. And then he found he was standing alone in the field, on the edge of the scraw, and no person near him at all. So he went away home without any mishap, but indeed he was trembling with dread. XX THE LAD AND THE OLD LASSIE'S SONG There was a young lad living in these parts, not long since at all, and his name was Francis John. It chanced of a May morning that water was scarce for the tea, the way his mother put a bucket in his hand and hunted him off to the spring. Now an old lassie lived by her lone in a little wee house was built right close to the path. The door stood open that morning, and my brave Francis John looked in when he went on his way to the well. He seen the old girl sitting on a small creepy stool by the fire, with a row of clay images baking in front of the turf. Wasn't she singing a song--and a queer cracked voice was her own--every word of it came good and plain to the ears of the lad. Ye that I bake before the fire, Bring me the milk from my neighbour's byre; Gather the butter from off the churn And set it forenenst me before you burn. Francis John didn't ask to disturb her diversions at all, so he went on his way and filled up his can at the spring. But all the road home the old lassie's song tormented his mind, and as he came in at the door he began for to sing: Ye that she bakes before the fire, Bring me the milk from the neighbour's byre; Gather the butter from off the churn And set it forenenst me before you burn. With the power of the words coming from him didn't the boots on his feet fill up with sweet milk, and it running out on the lace holes. "Man, but that's an enchanted song," says he. And what did he do only step into four pounds of butter that fell on the threshold before him, for he never remarked it at all! XXI THE BASKET OF EGGS There was a woman one time, and she on her way to the market, counting the price of her basket of eggs. "If eggs are up," says she, "I'll be gaining a handful of silver, and evenly if prices be down I'll not do too badly at all for I have a weighty supply." With that she remarked a little wee boy sitting down by the hedge, he stitching away at a brogue. "If I had a hold of yon lad," says she, "I'd make him discover a treasure--for the like of him knows where gold does be hid." She juked up behind him, like a cat would be after a bird, and she caught a strong grip of his neck. Well he let an odious screech out of him, for he was horrid surprised. "I have you, my gosoon," says she. "Oh surely you have, mam," he answers. "The strength of your thumb is destroying my thrapple this day." "Will you show me a treasure?" says she. "I'd have you to know," he replies, "that the pot of gold I could convey you in sight of is guarded by the appearance of a very strange frog." "What do I care for the creeping beasts of the world," says she. "Worse nor a frog wouldn't scare me at all." "You're a terrible fine woman, mistress dear," says the leprachaun. "I've travelled a power of the earth and I never came in with your equal." "Go on with your old-fashioned chat," she replies, but she was middling well pleased all the same. "I'm a small little fellow," says he, "and I couldn't keep up with yourself. But it's light in the body I am, the way I'd be never a burden at all and I sitting up on the handle of the basket." "Up with you," she answers, "for I'll soon put you down to walk by my side if you are not speaking the truth." But she didn't find the least burden more on the basket when himself was on the handle. He was a great warrant to flatter, and he had her in humour that day all the while he was watching out for a chance to escape, but she kept a hold of his ear. What did he do only put his two wee hands down into the basket and he began for to bail out the eggs. She fetched him a terrible clout, but the harder she beat him the faster he threw out the eggs. "Oh mam! oh mam!" says he, "what for are you skelping my head?" "To make you quit breaking my eggs, you unmannerly coley," says she. "Sure it's doing you favour I am," he replies. "I'd have you to know when I spill an egg on the ground a well-grown spring chicken leps out." "Quit raving," says she. "If you doubt my word," he makes answer, "let you turn and look back at the chickens are flocking along." With that she turned her head, and the leprachaun slipped from her grasp. He made one spring from the basket into the hedge, and he vanished away from the place. "The wee lad has fooled me entirely," says she, "and my beautiful eggs are destroyed--but I am the finest woman he's seen, and that is a good thing to know!" XXII THE BROKEN BRANCH There was a man in the olden time, and he owned a snug little farm. What did he do, of a winter's day, only break a great branch off a lone bush for to burn in the fire. A thorn went into his hand and it pierced it through. "That was a sore jag," says he. But there was a little grey woman sitting in under the lone bush, and she let a terrible laugh. There were two of the neighbours seen what occurred, and they passing down through the field. One of them ran away home, but the other, a venturesome lad, came across. "What are you after doing, my poor fellow?" says he. "I am after destroying my hand with a thorn," says the man. The neighbour allowed there was worse in it nor that. "Did you hear the grey woman laugh?" he inquires. "There is no woman here," says the other. "I seen her a while past, and I coming down to your side. She was sitting in under the bush, but now she is gone. When you drove the thorn through your hand she let a lamentable laugh that was worse nor a cry." The man didn't believe it at all. But the jag in his hand festered up and he died for breaking the branch of the thorn. XXIII DIGGING FOR GOLD In the ancient times a poor decent labouring man dreamt three nights of finding a kist was hid in the fort near his home. So away there he went for to dig, and not long was he working at all when he came on the beautiful gold. "In troth I am rich from this out," he calls at the height of his voice. With that the whole treasure fell down through the earth: he should not have spoken at all. Then there came a powerful great cat, and it was the guard of the kist. Now the man had the wit to take hold of the appearance before him, and let it strive never so hard it could not contrive to escape. "I'll hold you," says he, "till you tell me where is the gold!" "Dig at the far side," says a voice. But whether it came from the cat was past the man's wit for to know. Well he went over and began for to dig at the far side, and he came on a big copper pot. But no gold was in it at all. XXIV STORY OF A CHURN There was a woman renowned for making the best of good butter. Now it chanced in the spring that her man had three boys hired for to work at the setting of spuds. One morning they passed through the house when the churn was a making, and not one put his hand to the work nor uttered a blessing upon it. Herself was horrid annoyed to think they'd be that unseemly and ignorant, yet she passed no remark of the sort. Didn't her whole morning's work go to loss for no yield come on the churn. She was not very great with her neighbours, and the first time she chanced for to speak of what happened that day was next time she seen her own mother. The old woman says: "If you have one of them three lads impeached for taking the yield from the churn, let you write his name backwards on a small slip of paper and burn it in a shovel over the fire." "What good'll that be?" asks the daughter. "It will be the means of restoring the butter was lifted away," says the mother. "I doubt not--and it two months and more since the loss," says the young woman. But she brought out the paper and ink for to write down the name of the lad she impeached. She set it down backwards and burnt it over the fire. "Now," says the mother, "go out to the churn." What did she find only five pounds of butter sitting within on the dry wood! XXV THE GANKEYNOGUE IN THE OAK CHEST There was once a man of these parts and he had a great longing for to find a treasure. It chanced one evening that he seen a gankeynogue in the field, sitting in under a bush, and he says: "Yon lad will surely be worth a powerful weight of gold." With that he went over and caught a hold of the gankey. "Let you discover a treasure," says he, "or else I'll keep you like a dog on a chain from this out." "Keep away!" says the gankey. "How would a poor creature like myself be finding treasure for a strong farmer!" "Let you not let on to be miserable," says the man, "for well I know it's great wealth you enjoy." "Is it me!" says the gankeynogue. "Sure I support a lengthy family entirely by my own industry." But the farmer would not believe a word of the sort. He carried the gankey to his house and put him into a big oak chest. "You'll never get out except for to show me where treasure is lodged," he allows. But the gankeynogue wasn't in notion of giving the least information. He sat up in the oak chest, hammering, shouting and singing until he had the people's heads light. All the while the farmer was determined to get the better of him and he never agreed to let him go. The lad was his tenth day in the chest when the man of the house came running in that evening, shouting at the top of his voice: "Darragh fort's on fire! Darragh fort's on fire!" With that the gankey began the most woeful lamentations, and he hammering like mad to get out of the chest. "What ails you at all?" asks the farmer. "My wife and family are in that place," says the gankey. "Let me away to bring them safe from the fire." "Will you show me a treasure?" asks the man. "Aye surely!" says the gankeynogue. "But let's go first to Darragh fort to save my weak family, and then I'll bestow the treasure." So the two started off for Darragh fort, and it not on fire at all--that was a story the man was after inventing for to scare the gankeynogue. When they landed in sight of the place the man allowed the fire be to have burnt out. Didn't the gankey make a run and lep in among the trees. "I'm safe from you now," says he. But the man never let on to be vexed that he couldn't see the lad any more, he listened to his voice speaking for to know the direction he went. Then he lay down in that part of the fort and let on to be asleep. After a while he heard the gankeynogue telling his wife about how he was kept in the chest. "I was ten days in that place," says he. "And I full of venom against the farmer. But it's the cunning lad I am, for I never let on where the treasure is buried at all." "Where is it?" asks the gankeynogue's wife. "Under a stone in the street before his house," says the gankey. "And herself tripped and spilled a bucket of milk just over the place this morning. I was looking out on a hole in the chest, and still I never let on one word when I seen what happened." "You're a wise little fellow, sure enough," says his wife. The farmer got up and away home with him after hearing what they said. He asked herself where she spilled the milk at the morning of the day. "By that stone," says she, setting her foot on a flag in the street. He brought the loy and a crowbar for to hoke up the place, and didn't he discover a beautiful treasure of gold. XXVI THE MAKER OF BROGUES There was a young lad travelling the road to a fair, and he passed convenient to a field had a sand pit in the middle of it. What did he see, sitting up in that place with his legs dangling over the edge of the pit, only a little wee man making brogues. The lad took one lep into the field and he walked up to the cobbler. "Good-morning, mister!" says he. "Might I make so bold as to ask what work you are doing this hour of the morning dew, and what makes you fancy the edge of a pit for a seat?" "'Tis making brogues I am," says the leprachaun, "and they for the Good People's wear." "I'm thinking you're watching a treasure," says the lad. "I'm not," says the leprachaun. "But I know where there's plenty hid." "You be to discover it for me," says the lad. "Let you wait till this one pair of brogues is made," says the fairy. So the lad agreed and he sat down to watch him at work. "Begob," says he, "I never seen any person could hammer in nails such a rate." "It's a slow worker I'm counted in these parts," says the leprachaun. "Let you look down into the pit at the man is cobbling below. I warrant it's three nails he's driving for each one of mine." The lad looked over the edge. "There is no man in it at all!" says he. With that the leprachaun let a laugh. "There is not," says he. "There's a sore chastisement waiting on you for deceiving me," answers the other. But when he stood on his feet and looked round wasn't the leprachaun gone. "I'm the fool of the whole wide world," says the lad, and he travelled away to the fair. GLOSSARY A power of, a large number. Bohlan, rag-weed. Loy, a sort of spade peculiar to the west and north-west of Ireland. Lone bush, a hawthorn growing at a distance from all other trees. The lone bushes are dedicated to the fairies, and must not be cut down. Cailee, a visit. Join the world, to marry. To allow, to declare. Gankeynogue, possibly a synonym of leprachaun, used only in the northern districts. A stone barred with fossil reed is said to be the Gankeynogue's pipe. Fort. The forts referred to are the circular enclosures supposed to have been made, in pre-Christian days, by the Tuatha de Danaan. Breffny, the counties of Cavan and Leitrim, originally part of Connaught, though Cavan is now in Ulster. 
56034	----	FOLKLORE OF SCOTTISH LOCHS AND SPRINGS. BY JAMES M. MACKINLAY, M.A., F.S.A.Scot. GLASGOW: WILLIAM HODGE & Co. 1893. PREFATORY NOTE. No work giving a comprehensive account of Well-worship in Scotland has yet appeared. Mr. R. C. Hope's recent volume, "Holy Wells: Their Legends and Traditions," discusses the subject in its relation to England. In the following pages an attempt has been made to illustrate the more outstanding facts associated with the cult north of the Tweed. Various holy wells are referred to by name; but the list makes no claim to be exhaustive. J. M. M. 4 Westbourne Gardens, Glasgow, December, 1893. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. Worship of Water, 1 II. How Water became Holy, 24 III. Saints and Springs, 39 IV. More Saints and Springs, 56 V. Stone Blocks and Saints' Springs, 72 VI. Healing and Holy Wells, 86 VII. Water-Cures, 108 VIII. Some Wonderful Wells, 128 IX. Witness of Water, 140 X. Water-Spirits, 155 XI. More Water-Spirits, 171 XII. Offerings at Lochs and Springs, 188 XIII. Weather and Wells, 213 XIV. Trees and Springs, 230 XV. Charm-Stones in and out of Water, 241 XVI. Pilgrimages to Wells, 263 XVII. Sun-Worship and Well-Worship, 280 XVIII. Wishing-Wells, 314 XIX. Meaning of Marvels, 324 Among the works consulted are the following, the titles being given in alphabetical order:-- A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland. By John MacCulloch, M.D. 1819. A Description of the Western Islands. By M. Martin. Circa 1695. A Handbook of Weather Folklore. By the Rev. C. Swainson, M.A. A Historical Account of the belief in Witchcraft in Scotland. By Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe. A Journey through the Western Counties of Scotland. By Robert Heron. 1799. Ancient Legends: Mystic Charms and Superstitions of Ireland. By Lady Wilde. An Etymological Dictionary of the Scottish Language. By John Jamieson, D.D. Annals of Dunfermline and Vicinity. By Ebenezer Henderson, LL.D. Antiquities and Scenery of the North of Scotland. By Rev. Charles Cordiner. 1780. Archæological Sketches in Scotland: Districts of Kintyre and Knapdale. By Captain T. P. White. A Tour in Scotland and Voyage to the Hebrides, MDCCLXXII. By Thomas Pennant. A Tour in Scotland, MDCCLXIX. By Thomas Pennant. Britannia; or, A Chorographical Description of the Flourishing Kingdoms of England, Scotland, and Ireland, and the Islands adjacent, from the Earliest Antiquity. By William Camden. Translated from the edition published by the Author in MDCVII. Enlarged by the latest discoveries by Richard Gough. The second edition in four volumes. 1806. Celtic Heathendom. By Professor John Rhys. Celtic Scotland: A History of Ancient Alban. By William Forbes Skene. Churchlore Gleanings. By T. F. Thiselton Dyer. Daemonologie in Forme of a Dialogve. Written by the High and Mightie Prince James, by the Grace of God King of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland; Defender of the Faith. 1603. Descriptive Notices of some of the Ancient Parochial and Collegiate Churches of Scotland. By T. S. Muir. Domestic Annals of Scotland from the Reformation to the Revolution. By Robert Chambers, LL.D. Ecclesiological Notes on some of the Islands of Scotland. By T. S. Muir. English Folklore. By the Rev. T. F. Thiselton Dyer, M.A. Essays in the Study of Folk Songs. By the Countess Evelyn Martinengo-Cesaresco. Ethnology in Folklore. By G. L. Gomme. Folklore. Folklore Journal. Folklore of East Yorkshire. By John Nicholson. Folklore of Shakespeare. By Rev. T. F. Thiselton Dyer, M.A. Oxon. Folklore; or, Superstitious Beliefs in the West of Scotland within this Century. By James Napier, F.R.S.E. Gairloch in North-west Ross-shire: Its Records, Traditions, Inhabitants, and Natural History. By John H. Dixon. Historical and Statistical Account of Dunfermline. By Rev. Peter Chalmers, A.M. Kalendars of Scottish Saints. By the late Alexander Penrose Forbes, Bishop of Brechin. Letters from a Gentleman in the North of Scotland to his Friend in London. Burt's Letters. 1754. List of Markets and Fairs now and formerly held in Scotland. By Sir James David Marwick, LL.D. Memorabilia Domestica; or, Parish Life in the North of Scotland. By the late Rev. Donald Sage, A.M., Minister of Resolis. New Statistical Account of Scotland. Circa 1845. Notes and Queries. Notes on the Folklore of the North-east of Scotland. By the Rev. Walter Gregor. Notes on the Folklore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders. By William Henderson. Observations on Popular Antiquities, including the whole of Mr. Bourne's Antiquitates Vulgares. By John Brand, A.M. Old Glasgow: The Place and the People. By Andrew MacGeorge. Old Scottish Customs, Local and General. By E. J. Guthrie. Ordnance Gazetteer of Scotland. Edited by Francis H. Groome. Peasant Life in Sweden. By L. Lloyd. Popular Antiquities of Great Britain. By John Brand, M.A. Popular Romances of the West of England. By Robert Hunt, F.R.S. Popular Tales of the West Highlands. By J. F. Campbell. Pre-historic Annals of Scotland. By Daniel Wilson, LL.D. Pre-historic Man. By Daniel Wilson, LL.D. Primitive Culture. By Edward B. Tylor, D.C.L. Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. Old Series, 1851-1878; New Series, 1878-1891. Rambles in the Far North. By R. Menzies Fergusson. Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland; or, The Traditional History of Cromarty. By Hugh Miller. Scotland in Early Christian Times. By Joseph Anderson, LL.D. Scotland in Pagan Times: The Bronze and Iron Ages. By Joseph Anderson, LL.D. Scotland in the Middle Ages. By Professor Cosmo Innes. Social Life in Scotland. By Charles Rogers, LL.D. Statistical Account of Scotland. By Sir John Sinclair. Circa 1798. The Antiquary. The Archæological Journal. Published under the direction of The Council of the Royal Archæological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland. The Book of Days: A Miscellany of Popular Antiquities in connection with the Calendar. Edited by R. Chambers. The Darker Superstitions of Scotland. By John Graham Dalyell. 1834. The Early Scottish Church: Ecclesiastical History of Scotland from the First to the Twelfth Centuries. By the Rev. Thomas M'Lauchlan. The Every-Day Book. By William Hone. The Folklore of Plants. By T. F. Thiselton Dyer. The Gentleman's Magazine Library--Manners and Customs. Edited by G. L. Gomme, F.S.A. The Gentleman's Magazine Library--Popular Superstitions. Edited by G. L. Gomme, F.S.A. The Golden Bough: A Study in Comparative Religion. By J. G. Frazer, M.A. The History of St. Cuthbert. By Charles, Archbishop of Glasgow. The History of St. Kilda. By the Rev. Kenneth Macaulay, minister of Ardnamurchan. 1769. The Legendary Lore of the Holy Wells of England, including Rivers, Lakes, Fountains, and Springs. By R. C. Hope, F.S.A. The Origin of Civilisation. By Sir J. Lubbock, Bart. The Past in the Present. By Arthur Mitchell, M.D., LL.D. The Popular Rhymes of Scotland. By Robert Chambers. 1826. The Popular Superstitions and Festive Amusements of the Highlanders of Scotland. By William Grant Stewart. The Surnames and Placenames of the Isle of Man. By A. W. Moore, M.A. Traditions, Superstitions, and Folklore (chiefly Lancashire and the North of England). By Charles Hardwick. Tree and Serpent Worship. By James Fergusson, D.C.L., F.R.S. 'Twixt Ben Nevis and Glencoe: The Natural History, Legends, and Folklore of the West Highlands. By the Rev. Alexander Stewart, LL.D. Unique Traditions, chiefly of the West and South of Scotland. By John Gordon Barbour. Wayfaring in France. By E. H. Barker. Weather-lore: A Collection of Proverbs, Sayings, and Rules concerning the Weather. By R. Inwards, F.R.A.S. Witch, Warlock, and Magician. By W. H. Davenport Adams. FOLKLORE OF SCOTTISH LOCHS AND SPRINGS. CHAPTER I. WORSHIP OF WATER. Archaic Nature-worship--Deification of Water Metaphors--Divination by Water--Persistence of Paganism--Shony--Superstitions of Sailors and Fishermen--Sea Serpent--Mer-folk--Sea Charms--Taking Animals into the Sea--Rescuing from Drowning--Ancient Beliefs about Rivers--Dead and Living Ford--Clay Image--Dunskey--Lakes--Dow Loch--St. Vigeans--St. Tredwell's Loch--Wells of Spey and Drachaldy--Survival of Well-worship--Disappearance of Springs--St. Margaret's Well--Anthropomorphism of Springs--Celtic Influence--Cream of the Well. In glancing at the superstitions connected with Scottish lochs and springs, we are called upon to scan a chapter of our social history not yet closed. A somewhat scanty amount of information is available to explain the origin and growth of such superstitions, but enough can be had to connect them with archaic nature-worship. In the dark dawn of our annals much confusion existed among our ancestors concerning the outer world, which so strongly appealed to their senses. They had very vague notions regarding the difference between what we now call the Natural and the Supernatural. Indeed all nature was to them supernatural. They looked on sun, moon, and star, on mountain and forest, on river, lake, and sea as the abodes of divinities, or even as divinities themselves. These divinities, they thought, could either help or hurt man, and ought therefore to be propitiated. Hence sprang certain customs which have survived to our own time. Men knocked at the gate of Nature, but were not admitted within. From the unknown recesses there came to them only tones of mystery. In ancient times water was deified even by such civilised nations as the Greeks and Romans, and to-day it is revered as a god by untutored savages. Sir John Lubbock, in his "Origin of Civilisation," shows, by reference to the works of travellers, what a hold this cult still has in regions where the natives have not yet risen above the polytheistic stage of religious development. Dr. E. B. Tylor forcibly remarks, in his "Primitive Culture," "What ethnography has to teach of that great element of the religion of mankind, the worship of well and lake, brook and river, is simply this--that what is poetry to us was philosophy to early man; that to his mind water acted not by laws of force, but by life and will; that the water-spirits of primæval mythology are as souls which cause the water's rush and rest, its kindness and its cruelty; that, lastly, man finds in the beings which, with such power, can work him weal and woe, deities with a wider influence over his life, deities to be feared and loved, to be prayed to and praised, and propitiated with sacrificial gifts." In speaking of inanimate objects, we often ascribe life to them; but our words are metaphors, and nothing more. At an earlier time such phrases expressed real beliefs, and were not simply the outcome of a poetic imagination. Keats, in one of his Sonnets, speaks of "The moving waters at their priest-like task Of pure ablution round Earth's human shore." Here he gives us the poetical and not the actual interpretation of a natural phenomenon. We may, if we choose, talk of the worship of water as a creed outworn, but it is still with us, though under various disguises. Under the form of rites of divination practised as an amusement by young persons, such survivals often conceal their real origin. The history of superstition teaches us with what persistence pagan beliefs hold their ground in the midst of a Christian civilisation. Martin, who visited the Western Islands at the close of the seventeenth century, found how true this was in many details of daily life. A custom connected with ancient sea-worship had been popular among the inhabitants of Lewis till about thirty-years before his visit, but had been suppressed by the Protestant clergy on account of its pagan character. This was an annual sacrifice at Hallow-tide to a sea god called Shony. Martin gives the following account of the ceremony:--"The inhabitants round the island came to the church of St. Mulvay, having each man his provision along with him; every family furnished a peck of malt, and this was brewed into ale; one of their number was picked out to wade into the sea up to the middle, and, carrying a cup of ale in his hand, standing still in that posture, cried out with a loud voice, saying, 'Shony, I give you this cup of ale, hoping that you'll be so kind as to send us plenty of sea-ware for enriching our ground the ensuing year,' and so threw the cup of ale into the sea. This was performed in the night-time." Sailors and fishermen still cherish superstitions of their own. Majesty is not the only feature of the changeful ocean that strikes them. They are keenly alive to its mystery and to the possibilities of life within its depths. Strange creatures have their home there, the mighty sea serpent and the less formidable mermen and mermaidens. Among the Shetland islands mer-folk were recognised denizens of the sea, and were known by the name of Sea-trows. These singular beings dwelt in the caves of ocean, and came up to disport themselves on the shores of the islands. A favourite haunt of theirs was the Ve Skerries, about seven miles north-west of Papa-Stour. They usually rose through the water in the shape of seals, and when they reached the beach they slipped off their skins and appeared like ordinary mortals, the females being of exceeding beauty. If the skins could be snatched away on these occasions, their owners were powerless to escape into the sea again. Sometimes these creatures were entangled in the nets of fishermen or were caught by hooks. If they were shot when in seal form, a tempest arose as soon as their blood was mingled with the water of the sea. A family living within recent times was believed to be descended from a human father and a mermaid mother, the man having captured his bride by stealing her seal's skin. After some years spent on land this sea lady recovered her skin, and at once returned to her native element. The members of the family were said to have hands bearing some resemblance to the forefeet of a seal. "Of all the old mythological existences of Scotland," remarks Hugh Miller, in his "Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland," "there was none with whom the people of Cromarty were better acquainted than with the mermaid. Thirty years have not yet gone by since she has been seen by moonlight sitting on a stone in the sea, a little to the east of the town; and scarcely a winter passed, forty years earlier, in which she was not heard singing among the rocks or seen braiding up her long yellow tresses on the shore." The magical power ascribed to the sea is shown in an Orcadian witch charm used in the seventeenth century. The charm had to do with the churning of butter. Whoever wished to take advantage of it watched on the beach till nine waves rolled in. At the reflux of the last the charmer took three handfuls of water from the sea and carried them home in a pail. If this water was put into the churn there would be a plentiful supply of butter. Sea water was also used for curative purposes, the patient being dipped after sunset. This charm was thought to savour strongly of the black art. Allusion has been made above to the rising of a storm in connection with the wounding of a sea-trow in Shetland. According to an Orcadian superstition, the sea began to swell whenever anyone with a piece of iron about him stept upon a certain rock at the Noup Head of Westray. Not till the offending metal was thrown into the water did the sea become calm again. Wallace, a minister at Kirkwall towards the end of the seventeenth century, mentions this belief in his "Description of the Isles of Orkney," and says that he offered a man a shilling to try the experiment, but the offer was refused. It does not seem to have occurred to him to make the experiment himself. Among the ancient Romans the bull was sacred to Neptune, the sea god, and was sacrificed in his honour. In our own country we find a suggestion of the same rite, though in a modified form, in the custom prevailing at one time of leading animals into the sea on certain festivals. In the parish of Clonmany in Ireland it was formerly customary on St. Columba's Day, the ninth of June, to drive cattle to the beach and swim them in the sea near to where the water from the Saint's well flowed in. In Scotland horses seem at one time to have undergone a similar treatment at Lammas-tide. Dalyell, in his "Darker Superstitions of Scotland," mentions that "in July, 1647, the kirk-session of St. Cuthbert's Church, Edinburgh, resolved on intimating publicly 'that non goe to Leith on Lambmes-day, nor tak their horses to be washed that day in the sea.'" A belief at one time existed that it was unlucky to rescue a drowning man from the grasp of the sea. This superstition is referred to by Sir Walter Scott in "The Pirate," in the scene where Bryce the pedlar warns Mordaunt against saving a shipwrecked sailor. "Are you mad," said the pedlar, "you that have lived sae lang in Zetland, to risk the saving of a drowning man? Wot ye not, if you bring him to life again, he will be sure to do you some capital injury?" We discover the key to this strange superstition in the idea entertained by savages that the person falling into the water becomes the prey of the monster or demon inhabiting that element; and, as Dr. Tylor aptly remarks, "to save a sinking man is to snatch a victim from the very clutches of the water-spirit--a rash defiance of deity which would hardly pass unavenged." Folklore thus brings us face to face with beliefs which owe their origin to the primitive worship of the sea. It also allows us to catch a glimpse of rivers, lakes, and springs as these were regarded by our distant ancestors. When we remember that, according to a barbaric notion, the current of a stream flows down along one bank and up along the other, we need not be surprised that very crude fancies concerning water at one time flourished in our land. Even to us, with nineteenth-century science within reach, how mysterious a river seems, as, in the quiet gloaming or in the grey dawn, it glides along beneath overhanging trees, and how full of life it is when, swollen by rain, it rushes forward in a resistless flood! How much more awe-inspiring it must have been to men ignorant of the commonest laws of Nature! Well might its channel be regarded as the home of a spirit eager to waylay and destroy the too-venturesome passer-by. Rivers, however, were not always reckoned the enemies of man, for experience showed that they were helpful, as well as hurtful, to him. The Tiber, for instance, was regarded with reverence by the ancient inhabitants of Rome. Who does not remember the scene in one of Macaulay's Lays, where, after the bridge has been hewn down to block the passage of Lars Porsena and his host, the valiant Horatius exclaims-- "O Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray; A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day?" Then with his harness on his back he plunges headlong into the flood, and reaches the other side in safety. In Christian art pagan symbolism continued long to flourish. Proof of this bearing on the present subject is to be found in a mosaic at Ravenna, of the sixth century, representing the baptism of Christ. The water flows from an inverted urn, held by a venerable figure typifying the river god of the Jordan, with reeds growing beside his head, and snakes coiling around it. In our own country healing virtue was attributed to water taken from what was called a dead and living ford, i.e., a ford where the dead were carried and the living walked across. The same belief was entertained with regard to the water of a south-running stream. The patient had to go to the spot and drink the water and wash himself in it. Sometimes his shirt was taken by another, and, after being dipped in the south-running stream, was brought back and put wet upon him. A wet shirt was also used as a Hallowe'en charm to foretell its owner's matrimonial future. The left sleeve of the shirt was to be dipped in a river where "three lairds' lands met." It was then to be hung up overnight before the fire. If certain rules were attended to, the figure of the future spouse would appear and turn the sleeve in order to dry the other side. In the Highlands the water of a stream was used for purposes of sorcery till quite lately. When any one wished evil to another he made a clay image of the person to be injured, and placed it in a stream with the head of the image against the current. It was believed that, as the clay was dissolved by the water, the health of the person represented would decline. The spell, however, would be broken if the image was discovered and removed from the stream. In the counties of Sutherland and Ross the practice survived till within the last few years. Near Dunskey, in the parish of Portpatrick, Wigtownshire, is a stream which, at the end of last century, was much resorted to by the credulous for its health-giving properties. Visits were usually paid to it at the change of the moon. It was deemed specially efficacious in the case of rickety children, whose malady was then ascribed to witchcraft. The patients were washed in the stream, and then taken to an adjoining cave, where they were dried. In modern poetry a river is frequently alluded to under the name of its presiding spirit. Thus, in "Comus," Milton introduces Sabrina, a gentle nymph, "That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream," and tells us that "The shepherds at their festivals Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays, And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffodils." Lakes have always held an important place in legendary lore. Lord Tennyson has made us familiar with the part played by the Lady of the Lake in Arthurian romance. Readers of the Idylls will recollect it was she who gave to the king the jewelled sword Excalibur, and who, on the eve of his passing, received it again. The wounded Arthur thus addresses Sir Bedivere:-- "Thou rememberest how, In those old days, one summer morn, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword--and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it, like a king." Scottish lochs form a striking feature in the landscape, and must have been still more fitted to arrest attention in ancient times when our land was more densely wooded than it is now. Dr. Hugh Macmillan, in his "Holidays on High Lands," alludes to the differences in the appearance of our lochs. "There are moorland tarns," he says, "sullen and motionless as lakes of the dead, lying deep in sunless rifts, where the very ravens build no nests, and where no trace of life or vegetation is seen--associated with many a wild tradition, accidents of straying feet, the suicide of love, guilt, despair. And there are lochs beautiful in themselves and gathering around them a world of beauty; their shores fringed with the tasselled larch; their shallows tesselated with the broad green leaves and alabaster chalices of the water-lily, and their placid depths mirroring the crimson gleam of the heather hills and the golden clouds overhead." Near the top of Mealfourvounie, in Inverness-shire, is a small lake at one time believed to be unfathomable. How this notion arose it is difficult to say, for when soundings were taken the depth was found to be inconsiderable. In the parish of Penpont, Dumfriesshire, about a mile to the south of Drumlanrig, is a small sheet of water called the Dow, or Dhu Loch, i.e., Black Loch. Till towards the end of last century the spot was much frequented for its healing water. A personal visit was not essential. When a deputy was sent he had to bring a portion of the invalid's clothing and throw it over his left shoulder into the loch. He then took up some water in a vessel which he carefully kept from touching the ground. After turning himself round sun-ways he carried the water home. The charm would be broken if he looked back or spoke to anyone by the way. Among the people of the district it was a common saying, when anyone did not respond to the greeting of a passer-by, that he had been at the Dow Loch. Pilgrimages to the loch seem to have been specially popular towards the close of the seventeenth century, for in the year 1695 the Presbytery of Penpont consulted the Synod of Dumfries about the superstitious practices then current. The Synod, in response to the appeal, recommended the clergy of the district to denounce from their pulpits such observances as heathenish in character. There were persons still alive in the beginning of the present century who had seen the offerings, left by the pilgrims, floating on the loch or lying on its margin. To the passer-by, ignorant of the superstitious custom, it might seem that a rather untidy family washing was in progress. The Church of St. Vigeans, in Forfarshire, is well known to antiquaries in connection with its interesting sculptured stones. An old tradition relates that the materials for the building were carried by a water-kelpie, and that the foundations were laid on large bars of iron. Underneath the structure was said to be a deep lake. The tradition further relates that the kelpie prophesied that an incumbent of the church would commit suicide, and that, on the occasion of the first communion after, the church would sink into the lake. At the beginning of the eighteenth century the minister of the parish did commit suicide, and so strong was the superstition that the sacramental rite was not observed till 1736. In connection with the event several hundred people took up a position on a neighbouring rising ground to watch what would happen. These spectators have passed away, but the church remains. St. Tredwell's Loch in Papa-Westray, Orkney, was at one time very famous, partly from its habit of turning red whenever anything striking was about to happen to a member of the Royal Family, and partly from its power to work cures. On a small headland on the east of the loch are still to be seen the ruins of St. Tredwell's Chapel, measuring twenty-nine feet by twenty-two, with walls fully four feet in thickness. On the floor-level about thirty copper coins were found some years ago, the majority of them being of the reign of Charles the Second. At the door of the chapel there was at one time a large heap of stones, made up of contributions from those who came to pay their vows there. Mr. R. M. Fergusson, in his "Rambles in the Far North," gives the following particulars about the loch:--"In olden times the diseased and infirm people of the North Isles were wont to flock to this place and get themselves cured by washing in its waters. Many of them walked round the shore two or three times before entering the loch itself to perfect by so doing the expected cure. When a person was engaged in this perambulation nothing would induce him to utter a word, for, if he spoke, the waters of this holy loch would lave his diseased body in vain. After the necessary ablutions were performed they never departed without leaving behind them some piece of cloth or bread as a gift to the presiding genius of the place. In the beginning of the eighteenth century popular belief in this water was as strong as ever." Superstitions had a vigorous life last century. Pennant, who made his first tour in Scotland in 1769, mentions that the wells of Spey and Drachalday, in Moray, were then much visited, coins and rags being left at them as offerings. Nowadays holy wells are probably far from the thoughts of persons living amid the stir and bustle of city life, but in rural districts, where old customs linger, they are not yet forgotten. In the country, amidst the sights and sounds of nature, men are prone to cherish the beliefs and ways of their forefathers. Practices born in days of darkness thus live on into an era of greater enlightenment. "The adoration of wells," remarks Sir Arthur Mitchell in his "Past in the Present," "may be encountered in all parts of Scotland from John o' Groats to the Mull of Galloway," and he adds, "I have seen at least a dozen wells in Scotland which have not ceased to be worshipped." "Nowadays," he continues, "the visitors are comparatively few, and those who go are generally in earnest. They have a serious object which they desire to attain. That object is usually the restoration to health of some poor little child--some 'back-gane bairn.' Indeed the cure of sick children is a special virtue of many of these wells. Anxious mothers make long journeys to some well of fame, and early in the morning of the 1st of May bathe the little invalid in its waters, then drop an offering into them by the hands of the child--usually a pebble, but sometimes a coin--and attach a bit of the child's dress to a bush or tree growing by the side of the well. The rags we see fastened to such bushes have often manifestly been torn from the dresses of young children. Part of a bib or little pinafore tells the sad story of a sorrowing mother and a suffering child, and makes the heart grieve that nothing better than a visit to one of these wells had been found to relieve the sorrow and remove the suffering." Mr. Campbell of Islay bears witness to the same fact. In his "Tales of the West Highlands" he says, "Holy healing wells are common all over the Highlands, and people still leave offerings of pins and nails and bits of rag, though few would confess it. There is a well in Islay where I myself have, after drinking, deposited copper caps amongst a hoard of pins and buttons and similar gear placed in chinks in the rocks and trees at the edge of the 'Witches' well.'" A striking testimony to the persistence of faith in such wells is borne by Mr. J. R. Walker in volume v. (new series) of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," where he describes an incident that he himself witnessed about ten years ago on the outskirts of Edinburgh. Mr. Walker writes, "While walking in the Queen's Park about sunset, I casually passed St. Anthony's Well, and had my attention attracted by the number of people about it, all simply quenching their thirst, some probably with a dim idea that they would reap some benefit from the draught. Standing a little apart, however, and evidently patiently waiting a favourable moment to present itself for their purpose, was a group of four. Feeling somewhat curious as to their intention I quietly kept myself in the background, and by-and-by was rewarded. The crowd departed and the group came forward, consisting of two old women, a younger woman of about thirty, and a pale sickly-looking girl--a child three or four years old. Producing cups from their pockets, the old women dipped them in the pool, filled them, and drank the contents. A full cup was then presented to the younger woman and another to the child. Then one of the old women produced a long linen bandage, dipped it in the water, wrung it, dipped it in again, and then wound it round the child's head, covering the eyes, the youngest woman, evidently the mother of the child, carefully observing the operation and weeping gently all the time. The other old woman not engaged in this work was carefully filling a clear glass bottle with the water, evidently for future use. Then, after the principal operators had looked at each other with an earnest and half solemn sort of look, the party wended its way carefully down the hill." Agricultural improvements, particularly within the present century, have done much to abolish the adoration of wells. In many cases ancient springs have ceased to exist through draining operations. In the parish of Urquhart, Elginshire, a priory was founded in 1125. Towards the end of last century the site was converted into an arable field. The name of Abbey Well, given to the spring whence the monks drew water, long kept alive the memory of the priory; but in recent times the well itself was filled up. St. Mary's Well, at Whitekirk, in Haddingtonshire, has also ceased to be, its water having been drained off. Near Drumakill, in Drymen parish, Dumbartonshire, there was a famous spring dedicated to St. Vildrin. Close to it was a cross two feet and a half in height, with the figure of the saint incised on it. About thirty years ago, however, the relic was broken up and used in the construction of a farmhouse, and not long after, the well itself was drained into an adjoining stream. In the middle ages the spring at Restalrig, near Edinburgh, dedicated to St. Margaret, the wife of Malcolm Canmore, was a great attraction to pilgrims. The history of the well is interesting. There is reason to believe that it was originally sacred to the Holy Rood; and tradition connects it with the fountain that gushed out at the spot where a certain hart suddenly vanished from the sight of King David I. Mr. Walker, in the volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland" already referred to, throws out the suggestion that the well may have had its dedication changed in connection with the translation of Queen Margaret's relics about 1251, on the occasion of her canonization. With regard to the date of the structure forming the covering of the well, Mr. Walker, as an architect, is qualified to give an opinion, and from an examination of the mason marks on it he is inclined to think that the building was erected about the same time as the west tower of Holyrood Abbey Church, viz., about 1170. The late Sir Daniel Wilson, in his "Memorials of Edinburgh in the Olden Time," gives the following account of the structure, which, however, he by mistake describes as octagonal instead of hexagonal:--"The building rises internally to the height of about four and a half feet, of plain ashlar work, with a stone ledge or seat running round seven of the sides, while the eighth is occupied by a pointed arch which forms the entrance to the well. From the centre of the water which fills the whole area of the building, pure as in the days of the pious queen, a decorated pillar rises to the same height as the walls, with grotesque gurgoils, from which the water has originally been made to flow. Above this springs a beautifully groined roof, presenting, with the ribs that rise from corresponding corbels at each of the eight angles of the building, a singularly rich effect when illuminated by the reflected light from the water below. A few years since, this curious fountain stood by the side of the ancient and little frequented cross-road leading from the Abbeyhill to the village of Restalrig. A fine old elder tree, with its knotted and furrowed branches, spread a luxuriant covering over its grass-grown top, and a rustic little thatched cottage stood in front of it, forming altogether a most attractive object of antiquarian pilgrimage." The spot, however, was invaded by the North British Railway Company, and a station was planted on the site of the elder tree and the rustic cottage, the spring and its Gothic covering being imbedded in the buildings. Some years later the water disappeared, having found another channel. The structure was taken down stone by stone and rebuilt above St. David's Spring, on the north slope of Salisbury Crags, where it still stands. In cases like the above, man interfered with nature and caused the disappearance of venerated springs. But it was not always so. In the parish of Logierait, in Perthshire, there was a spring that took the matter into its own hands, and withdrew from public view. This was the spring called in Gaelic Fuaran Chad, i.e., Chad's Well. An annual market used to be held close by in honour of the saint, on the 22nd August. The spring was gratified and bubbled away merrily. The market, however, was at length discontinued. In consequence Fuaran Chad took offence, and sent in its resignation. In one instance, at least, the belief in the efficacy of a spring survived the very existence of the spring itself. This was so in the case of a healing well near Buckie, in Banffshire, filled up some years ago by the tenant on whose farm it was situated. So great was its fame that some women whose infants were weakly went to the spot and cleared out the rubbish. Water again filled the old basin, and there the infants were bathed. While being carried home they fell asleep, and the result was in every way to the satisfaction of the mothers. Certain characteristics of water specially recommended it as an object of worship in primæval times. Its motion and force suggested that it had life, and hence a soul. Men therefore imagined that by due attention to certain rites it would prove a help to them in time of need. What may be called the anthropomorphism of fountains has left traces on popular superstitions. The interest taken by St. Tredwell's Loch in the national events has been already alluded to, and other examples will be noticed in future chapters. One point may be mentioned here, viz., the power possessed by wells of removing to another place. St. Fillan's Spring, at Comrie, in Perthshire, once took its rise on the top of the hill Dunfillan, but tradition says that it quitted its old site for the present one, at the foot of a rock, a quarter of a mile further south. In the article on Comrie in the "Old Statistical Account of Scotland," the well is described as "humbled indeed, but not forsaken." A more striking instance of flitting is mentioned by Martin as having occurred in the Hebrides. In his account of Islay, he says, "A mile on the south-west side of the cave Uah Vearnag is the celebrated well Toubir-in-Knahar, which, in the ancient language, is as much as to say, 'the well has sailed from one place to another'; for it is a received tradition of the vulgar inhabitants of this isle, and the opposite isle of Colonsay, that this well was first at Colonsay until an impudent woman happened to wash her hands in it, and that immediately after, the well, being thus abused, came in an instant to Islay, where it is like to continue, and is ever since esteemed a catholicon for diseases by the natives and adjacent islanders." Perhaps the instance that puts the greatest strain on credulity is that of the spring dedicated to St. Fergus on the hill of Knockfergan, in Banffshire. Tradition reports that this spring came in a miraculous manner from Italy, though how it travelled to its quiet retreat in Scotland we do not know. There must have been some special attraction about the well, for a market known as the Well-Market used to be held beside it every year. On one occasion a fight took place about a cheese. In consequence the market was transferred to the neighbouring village of Tomintoul, where it continues to be held in August, under the same name. In his "Romances of the West of England," the late Mr. Robert Hunt puts in a plea for the preservation of holy wells and other relics of antiquity, though he allows "that it is a very common notion amongst the peasantry that a just retribution overtakes those who wilfully destroy monuments, such as stone circles, crosses, wells, and the like," and he mentions the case of an old man who altered a holy well at Boscaswell, in St. Just, and was drowned the following day within sight of his house. Mr. Hunt is speaking of Cornish wells; but the same is doubtless true of those north of the Tweed. Springs that can fly through the air and go through certain other wonderful performances can surely be trusted to look after themselves. In hot Eastern lands, fountains were held in special reverence. This was to be expected, as their cooling waters were there doubly welcome. In accounting for the presence of the cult in the temperate zones of Europe, we do not need to trace it to the East as Lady Wilde does in her "Ancient Legends of Ireland." "It could not have originated," she says, "in a humid country ... where wells can be found at every step, and sky and land are ever heavy and saturated with moisture. It must have come from an Eastern people, wanderers in a dry and thirsty land, where the discovery of a well seemed like the interposition of an angel in man's behalf." In our own land there are no districts where well-worship has held its ground so firmly as those occupied by peoples of Celtic blood, such as Cornwall, Wales, Ireland, the Isle of Man, and the Scottish Highlands. A curious instance of the survival of water-worship among our Scottish peasantry was seen in the custom of going at a very early hour on New-Year's morning to get a pailful of water from a neighbouring spring. The maidens of the farm had a friendly rivalry as to priority. Whoever secured the first pailful was said to get the flower of the well, otherwise known as the ream or cream of the well. On their way to the spring the maidens commonly chanted the couplet-- "The flower o' the well to our house gaes, An' I'll the bonniest lad get." This referred to the belief that to be first at the well was a good omen of the maiden's matrimonial future. It is a far cry from archaic water-worship to this New-Year's love charm, but we can traverse in thought the road that lies between. CHAPTER II. HOW WATER BECAME HOLY. Change from Paganism to Christianity--Columba--Spirits of Fountains--Hurtful Wells--Stone Circles--Superstitions regarding them--Standing Stones and Springs--Innis Maree--Maelrubha--Influence of early Saints--Names of Wells--Stone-coverings--Sacred Buildings and Springs--Privilege of Sanctuary--Some Examples--Freedstoll--Preceptory of Torphichen and St. John's Well--Cross of Macduff and Nine-wells. We come next to ask how water became holy in the folklore sense of the word. Fortunately we get a glimpse of springs at the very time when they passed from pagan to Christian auspices. The change made certain differences, but did not take away their miraculous powers. We get this glimpse in the pages of Adamnan, St. Columba's biographer, who narrates an incident in connection with the saint's missionary work among the Picts in the latter half of the sixth century. Adamnan tells us of a certain fountain "famous among the heathen people, which the foolish men, having their senses blinded by the devil, worshipped as God. For those, who drank of this fountain, or purposely washed their hands or feet in it, were allowed by God to be struck by demoniacal art, and went home either leprous or purblind, or at least suffering from weakness or other kind of infirmity. By all these things the pagans were seduced and paid divine honour to the fountain." Columba made use of the popular belief in the interests of the new faith, and blessed the fountain in the name of Christ in order to expel the demons. He then took a draught of the water and washed his hands and feet in it, to show that it could no longer do harm. According to Adamnan the demons deserted the fountain, and many cures were afterwards wrought by it. In Ireland more than a century earlier, St. Patrick visited the fountain of Findmaige, called Slan. Offerings were wont to be made to it, and it was worshipped as a god by the Magi of the district. It is difficult to determine exactly from what standpoint our pagan ancestors regarded wells. The nature-spirits inhabiting them, styled demons by Adamnan, were malignant in disposition, if we judge by the case he mentions; but we must not therefore conclude that they were so in every instance. Perhaps it is safe to infer that most of them were considered favourable to man, or the reverse, according as they were or were not propitiated by him. Even in modern times, some springs have been regarded as hurtful. The well of St. Chad, at Lichfield, for instance, causes ague to anyone drinking its water. Even its connection with the saint has not removed its hurtful qualities. In west Highland Folk-Tales allusion is made to poison wells, and such are even yet regarded with a certain amount of fear. In the article on the parish of Kilsyth in the "Old Statistical Account of Scotland," it is stated that Kittyfrist Well, beside the road leading over the hill to Stirling, was believed to be noxious. Successive wayfarers, when tired and heated by their climb up hill, may have drunk injudiciously of the cold water, and thus the superstition may have originated. Stone circles have given rise to much discussion. They are perhaps best known by their popular name of Druidical temples. Whatever were the other purposes served by them, there is hardly any doubt that they were primarily associated with interments. Dr. Joseph Anderson has pointed out that a certain archæological succession can be traced. Thus we find first, burial cairns minus stones round them, then cairns plus stones, and finally, stones minus cairns. At one time there was a widely-spread belief that men could be transformed into standing stones by the aid of magic. This power was attributed to the Druids. There are also traditions of saints thus settling their heathen opponents. When speaking of the island of Lewis, Martin says, "Several other stones are to be seen here in remote places, and some of them standing on one end. Some of the ignorant vulgar say that they were men by enchantment turned into stones. Such monoliths are still known to the Gaelic-speaking inhabitants of Lewis as Fir Chreig, i.e., false men. We learn from the "New Statistical Account of Scotland" that the two standing stones at West Skeld, in Shetland, were believed by the islanders to have been originally wizards or giants. Close to the roadside on Maughold Head, in the Isle of Man, stands an ancient runic cross. A local tradition states that the cross was once an old woman, who, when carrying a bundle of wool, cursed the wind for hindering her on her journey, and was petrified in consequence. With superstitions thus clinging to standing-stones it is not to be wondered that springs in their neighbourhood should have been regarded with special reverence. In the "Old Statistical Account of Scotland" allusion is made to Tobir-Chalaich, i.e., Old Wife's Well, situated near a stone circle in the parish of Keith, Banffshire, and to another well not far from a second circle in the same parish. The latter spring ceased to be visited about the middle of last century. Till then offerings were left at it by persons seeking its aid. The writer of the article on the island of Barry, Inverness-shire, in the same work, says, "Here, i.e., at Castle-Bay, there are several Druidical temples. Near one of these is a well which must have been once famous for its medicinal quality, as also for curing and preventing the effects of fascination. It is called Tobbar-nam-buadh or the Well of Virtues." Under the heading "Beltane," in "Jamieson's Scottish Dictionary," the following occurs:--"A town in Perthshire, on the borders of the Highlands, is called Tillie (or Tullie) Beltane, i.e., the eminence or rising ground of the fire of Baal. In the neighbourhood is a Druidical temple of eight upright stones, where it is supposed the fire was kindled. At some distance from this, is another temple of the same kind, but smaller, and near it a well still held in great veneration. On Beltane morning, superstitious people go to this well and drink of it, then they make a procession round it, as I am informed, nine times; after this, they in like manner go round the temple." Gallstack Well, at Drumlanrig, in Dumfriesshire, is near a group of standing stones. From examples like the above, we may infer that some mysterious connection was supposed to exist between standing stones and their adjacent wells. In the Tullie Beltane instance indeed, stones and well were associated together in the same superstitious rite. A striking instance of Christianity borrowing from paganism is to be seen in the reverence paid to the well of Innis Maree, in Loch Maree, in Ross-shire. This well has been famous from an unknown past. It is dedicated to St. Maelrubha, after whom both loch and island are named. Maelrubha belonged to the monastery of Bangor, in Ireland. In the year 673, at the age of thirty-one, he settled at Applecrossan, now Applecross, in Ross-shire, and there founded a church as the nucleus of a conventual establishment. Over this monastery he presided for fifty-one years, and died a natural death in 722. A legend, disregarding historical probabilities, relates that he was slain by a band of pagan Norse rovers, and that his body was left in the forest to be devoured by wild beasts. His grave is still pointed out in Applecross churchyard, the spot being marked by a pillar slab with an antique cross carved on it. For centuries after his death he was regarded as the patron saint, not only of Applecross, but of a wide district around. Pennant, who visited Innis Maree in 1772, thus describes its appearance: "The shores are neat and gravelly; the whole surface covered thickly with a beautiful grove of oak, ash, willow, wicken, birch, fir, hazel, and enormous hollies. In the midst is a circular dike of stones, with a regular narrow entrance, the inner part has been used for ages as a burial-place, and is still in use. I suspect the dyke to have been originally Druidical, and that the ancient superstition of Paganism had been taken up by the saint, as the readiest method of making a conquest over the minds of the inhabitants. A stump of a tree is shown as an altar, probably the memorial of one of stone; but the curiosity of the place is the well of the saint; of power unspeakable in cases of lunacy." Whatever Pennant meant by Druidical, there is reason to believe that the spot was the scene of pre-Christian rites. In the popular imagination the outlines of Maelrubha's character seem to have become mixed up with those of the heathen divinity worshipped in the district. Two circumstances point to this. Firstly, as Sir Arthur Mitchell remarks in the fourth volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," "The people of the place speak often of the God Mourie instead of St. Mourie, which may have resulted from his having supplanted the old god." Secondly, as the same writer shows, by reference to old kirk session records, it was customary in the parish to sacrifice a bull to St. Mourie. This was done on the saint's day, the 25th of August. The practice was still in existence in the latter half of the 17th century, and was then denounced as idolatrous. We thus see that the sacredness of springs can be traced back through Christianity to paganism, though there is no doubt that in some instances it took its rise from association with early saints. In deciding the question of origin, however, care must be taken, for, as already indicated, the reverence anciently paid to wells led to their selection by the early missionaries. The holy wells throughout the land keep alive their names. An excellent example of a saint's influence on a particular district is met with in the case of St. Angus, at Balquhidder, in Perthshire. In his "Notes in Balquhidder" in the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," vol. ix. (new series), Mr. J. Mackintosh Gow remarks, "Saint Angus, the patron saint of the district, is said to have come to the glen from the eastward, and to have been so much struck with its marvellous beauty that he blessed it. The remains of the stone on which he sat to rest are still visible in the gable of one of the farm buildings at Easter Auchleskine, and the turn of the road is yet called 'Beannachadh Aonghais' (Angus's blessing). At this spot it was the custom in the old days for people going westward to show their respect for the saint by repeating, 'Beannaich Aonghais ann san Aoraidh' (Bless Angus in the oratory or chapel), at the same time reverently taking off their bonnets. The saint, going west, had settled at a spot below the present kirk, and near to a stone circle, the remains of which, and of the oratory, persons now living remember to have seen." After alluding to another stone circle in a haugh below the parish church manse, Mr. Gow mentions that this haugh is the stance of the old market of Balquhidder, long a popular one in the district. It was held on the saint's day in April and named Feill-Aonghais, after him. In the immediate neighbourhood there is a knoll called "Tom Aonghais," i.e., Angus's hillock. In the grounds of Edinchip there is a curing well called in Gaelic, "Fuaran n'druibh chasad," i.e., the Whooping-cough Well, beside the burn "Alt cean dhroma." "It is formed of a water-worn pot hole in the limestone rock which forms the bed of the burn, and is ten or twelve inches in diameter at the top and six inches deep. There must be a spring running into the hollow through a fissure, as no sooner is it emptied than it immediately refills, and contains about two quarts of water. The well can easily be distinguished by the large moss-covered boulder, round and flat, like a crushed ball, and about seven feet in diameter, which overshadows it, and a young ash tree of several stems growing by its side." This well was famous for the cure of whooping-cough, and children were brought to it till within recent years. The water was given in a spoon made from the horn of a living cow. When the patients could not visit the spring in person, a bottleful of the healing liquid was taken to their homes, and there administered. The district round the lower waters of Loch Awe, now comprising the united parishes of Glenorchy and Inishail was held to be under the patronage of Connan. There is a well at Dalmally dedicated to him. According to a local tradition he dwelt beside the well and blessed its water. In addition to springs named after particular saints, there are some bearing the general appellation of Saints' Wells or Holy Wells. There are Holy Rood and Holy Wood Wells, also Holy Trinity and Chapel Wells. There are likewise Priors', Monks', Cardinals', Bishops', Priests', Abbots', and Friars' Wells. Various springs have names pointing to no ecclesiastical connection whatever. To this class belong those known as Virtue Wells, and those others named from the various diseases to be cured by them. On the Rutherford estate, in the parish of West Linton, Peeblesshire, there is a mineral spring called Heaven-aqua Well. Considering the name, one might form great expectations as to its virtues. There is much force in the remarks of Dr. J. Hill Burton, in his "Book Hunter." He says, "The unnoticeable smallness of many of these consecrated wells makes their very reminiscence and still semi-sacred character all the more remarkable. The stranger in Ireland, or the Highlands of Scotland, hears rumours of a distinguished well, miles on miles off. He thinks he will find an ancient edifice over it, or some other conspicuous adjunct. Nothing of the kind. He has been lured all that distance, over rock and bog, to see a tiny spring bubbling out of the rock, such as he may see hundreds of in a tolerable walk any day. Yet, if he search in old topographical authorities, he will find that the little well has ever been an important feature of the district; that century after century it has been unforgotten; and, with diligence he may perhaps trace it to some incident in the life of the saint, dead more than 1200 years ago, whose name it bears." There are a few wells with a more or less ornamental stone covering, such as St. Margaret's Well, in the Queen's Park, Edinburgh, and St. Michael's Well, at Linlithgow. St. Ninian's Well, at Stirling, and also at Kilninian, in Mull; St. Ashig's Well, in Skye; St. Peter's Well, at Houston, in Renfrewshire; Holy Rood Well, at Stenton, in Haddingtonshire; and the Well of Spa, at Aberdeen, also belong to this class. As already indicated, standing stones and the wells near them were associated together in the same ritual act. A curious parallelism can be traced between this practice and one connected with Christian places of worship. Near the Butt of Lewis are the ruins of a chapel anciently dedicated to St. Mulvay, and known in the district as Teampull-mòr. The spot was till quite lately the scene of rites connected with the cure of insanity. The patient was made to walk seven times round the ruins, and was then sprinkled with water from St. Ronan's Well hard by. In Orkney it was believed that invalids would recover health by walking round the Cross-kirk of Wasbister and the adjoining loch in silence before sunrise. In some instances sacred sites were walked round without reference to wells, and, in others, wells without reference to sacred sites. But when the two were neighbours they were often included in the same ceremony. In the early days when Christianity was preached, the structures of the new faith were occasionally planted close to groups of standing stones, and it may be assumed that in some instances, at least, the latter served to supply materials for building the former. Even in our own day it is not uncommon for Highlanders to speak of going to the clachan, i.e., the stones, to indicate that they are going to church. The reverence paid to the pagan sites was thus transferred to the Christian, and any fountain in the vicinity received a large share of such reverence. In former times, both south and north of the Tweed, churches and churchyards were regarded with special veneration as affording an asylum to offenders against the law. In England the Right of Sanctuary was held in great respect during Anglo-Saxon times, and after the Norman Conquest laws were passed regulating the privileges of such shelters. When a robber or murderer was pursued, he was free from capture if he could reach the sacred precincts. But he had to enter unarmed. His stay there was only temporary. After going through certain formalities he was allowed to travel, cross in hand, to some neighbouring seaport to quit his country for ever. In the reign of Henry VIII., however, a statute was passed forbidding criminals thus to leave their native land on the ground that they would disclose state secrets, and teach archery to the enemies of the realm. In the north of England, Durham and Beverley contained noted sanctuaries. In various churches there was a stone seat called the Freedstoll or Stool of Peace, on which the criminal, when seated, was absolutely safe. Such a seat, dating from the Norman period, is still to be seen in the Priory Church at Hexham, where the sanctuary was in great request by fugitives from the debatable land between England and Scotland. The only other Freedstoll still to be found in England is in Beverley Minster. The Right of Sanctuary was formally abolished in England in the reign of James I., but did not cease to be respected till much later. Such being the regard in the middle ages for churches and their burying-grounds, it is easy to understand why fountains in their immediate neighbourhood were also reverenced. Several sanctuaries north of the Tweed were specially famous. In his "Scotland in the Middle Ages," Professor Cosmo Innes remarks, "Though all were equally sacred by the canon, it would seem that the superior sanctity of some churches, from the relics presented there, or the reverence of their patron saints, afforded a surer asylum, and thus attracted fugitives to their shrines rather than to the altars of common parish churches." The churches of Stow, Innerleithen, and Tyningham were asylums at one time specially favoured. The church on St. Charmaig's Island, in the Sound of Jura--styled also Eilean Mòr or the Great Island--was formerly a noted place of refuge among the Inner Hebrides. So much sanctity attached to the church of Applecross that the privileged ground around it extended six miles in every direction. In connection with his visit to Arran, Martin thus describes what had once been a sanctuary in that island: "There is an eminence of about a thousand paces in compass on the sea-coast in Druim-cruey village, and it is fenced about with a stone wall; of old it was a sanctuary, and whatever number of men or cattle could get within it were secured from the assaults of their enemies, the place being privileged by universal consent." The enclosure was probably an ancient burying-ground. The Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, otherwise known as the Knights of Rhodes, and also as the Hospitallers, received recognition in Scotland as an Order about the middle of the twelfth century. They had possessions in almost every county, but their chief seat was at Torphichen, in Linlithgowshire, where the ruins of their preceptory can still be seen. This preceptory formed the heart of the famous sanctuary of Torphichen. In the graveyard stands a stone, resembling an ordinary milestone with a Maltese cross carved on its top. All the ground enclosed in a circle, having a radius of one mile from this stone, formed a sanctuary for criminals and debtors. Other four stones placed at the cardinal points showed the limits of the sanctuary on their respective sides. At some distance to the east of the preceptory is St. John's Well, "to which," the writer of the article in the "New Statistical Account of Scotland" says, "the Knights of St. John used to go in days of yore for a morning draught;" and he adds, "whether its virtues were medicinal or of a more hallowed character tradition can not exactly inform us, but still its waters are thought to possess peculiar healing powers, if not still rarer qualities which operate in various cases as a charm." Perhaps no Scottish sanctuary has been more talked about than the one at Holyrood Abbey, intended originally for law-breakers in general, but latterly for debtors only. De Quincey found a temporary home within its precincts. Through recent legislation, chiefly through the Debtors (Scotland) Act of 1880, the sanctuary has been rendered unnecessary, and its privileges, though never formally abolished, have accordingly passed away. In a pass of the Ochils, near Newburgh, overlooking Strathearn, is a block of freestone three and a half feet high, four and a half feet long, and nearly four feet broad at the base. This formed the pedestal of the celebrated cross of Macduff, and is all that remains of that ancient monument. The shaft of the cross was destroyed at the time of the Reformation, in the sixteenth century. In former days the spot was held to be a privilege and liberty of girth. When anyone claiming kinship to Macduff, Earl of Fife, within the ninth degree committed slaughter in hot blood and took refuge at the cross, he could atone for his crime by the payment of nine cows and a colpindach or year-old cow. Those who could not make good their kinship were slain on the spot. Certain ancient burial mounds, at one time to be seen in the immediate neighbourhood, were popularly believed to be the graves of those who thus met their death, and a local superstition asserted that their shrieks could be heard by night. A fountain, known as the Nine Wells, gushes out not far from the site of the cross, and in it tradition says that the manslayer who was entitled to claim the privilege of sanctuary washed his hands, thereby freeing himself from the stain of blood. CHAPTER III. SAINTS AND SPRINGS. Columba's Miracle--His Wells--Deer--Drostan's Springs--His Relics--His Fairs--His Connection with Caithness--Urquhart--Adamnan--His Wells--Tom Eunan--Feil Columcille--Adamnan's Visit to Northumbria--His Church Dedications--Kieran--His Cave--Campbeltown--Book of the Gospels--Kieran's Church at Errigall-keroge--His Wells--Bridget--Her Legend--Bridewell--Bridget's Wells--Abernethy--Torranain--Ninian--His Influence--His Cave--Candida Casa--Ninian and Martin--Ninian's Springs--St. Martin's Well--Martinmas--Martin of Bullion's Day--Bullion Well--Kentigern--Fergus--Arbores Sancti Kentigerni--His Wells--Thanet Well--St. Enoch's Well--Cuthbert--His Wells and Bath--His Career--Palladius--His Miracle--Paldy's Well and Paldy's Fair--His Chapel--Ternan--His Wells--Church of Arbuthnot--Brendan--Bute--Kilbrandon Sound--Well at Barra--Boyndie and Cullen--Machar--His Cathedral and Well--Tobar-Mhachar--Constantine--Govan--Kilchouslan Church--St. Cowstan's Well--Serf--Area of his Influence. The annals of hagiology are full of the connection between saints and springs. On one occasion a child was brought to Columba for baptism, but there was no water at hand for the performance of the rite. The saint knelt in prayer opposite a neighbouring rock, and rising, blessed the face of the rock. Water immediately gushed forth, and with it the child was baptised. Adamnan, who tells the story, says that the child was Lugucencalad, whose parents were from Artdaib-muirchol (Ardnamurchan), where there is seen even to this day a well called by the name of St. Columba. There are many wells in Scotland named after him. As might be expected, one of these is in Iona. Almost all are along the west coast and in the Hebrides. The name of Kirkcolm, in Wigtownshire, signifies the Church of Columba. The parish contains a fountain dedicated to him, known as Corswell or Crosswell, from which the castle headland and lighthouse of Corsewall have derived their name. A certain amount of sanctity still clings to the fountain. Macaulay, in his "History of St. Kilda" published in 1764, describes a spring there called by the inhabitants Toberi-Clerich, the cleric in question being, according to him, Columba. "This well," he says, "is below the village, ... and gushes out like a torrent from the face of a rock. At every full tide the sea overflows it, but how soon that ebbs away, nothing can be fresher or sweeter than the water. It was natural enough for the St. Kildians to imagine that so extraordinary a phenomenon must have been the effect of some supernatural cause, and one of their teachers would have probably assured them that Columba, the great saint of their island and a mighty worker of miracles, had destroyed the influence which, according to the established laws of nature, the sea should have had on that water." This spring resembles one in the parish of Tain, in Ross-shire, known as St. Mary's Well. The latter is covered several hours each day by the sea, but when the tide retires its fresh, sweet water gushes forth again. According to an old tradition, Drostan, a nephew of Columba, accompanied the latter when on a journey from Iona to Deer in Buchan, about the year 580, and was the first abbot of the monastery established there. The name of the place, according to the "Book of Deer," was derived from the tears (in Gaelic, der or deur, a tear), shed by Drostan on the departure of his uncle. In reality, the name comes from the Gaelic dair, signifying an oak. There are five springs dedicated to Drostan. They are all in the east country, between Edzell and New Aberdour. At the latter place his relics were preserved, and miracles of healing were wrought at his tomb. The spring near Invermark Castle is popularly known as Droustie's Well. A market, called St. Drostan's Fair, is still held annually at Old Deer in December. Insch, in Aberdeenshire, has also a St. Drostan's Fair. Drostan was reverenced in Caithness, where he was tutelar saint of the parishes of Halkirk and Canisbay. In "The Early Scottish Church" the Rev. Dr. M'Lauchlan mentions that Urquhart in Inverness-shire, was called Urchudain, Maith Dhrostan, i.e., St. Drostan's Urquhart. Adamnan, Columba's biographer, became abbot of Iona in 679, and died there in 704. There are wells to him at Dull, in Perthshire, and at Forglen in Banffshire. His name occurs in Scottish topography, but shortened, and under various disguises. In the form of St. Oyne he has a well in Rathen parish, Aberdeenshire, where there is a mound--probably an ancient fortified site--also called St. Oyne's. About six miles north-east of Kingussie, in Inverness-shire, is the church of the quoad sacra parish of Inch, on a knoll projecting into the loch of the same name. The knoll is called Tom Eunan, i.e., the hill of Adamnan, to whom the church was dedicated. Within the building is still to be seen a fine specimen of the four-cornered bronze bell used in the early Celtic church. According to a local tradition it was once carried off, but kept calling out, "Tom Eunan! Tom Eunan!" till brought back to its home. We find that Adamnan and Columba were associated together in the district. An annual gathering, at one time held there in honour of the latter, was named Feil Columcille, i.e., Columba's Fair, and was much resorted to. Women usually appeared on the occasion in white dresses in token of baptism. An old woman, who died in 1882, at the age of ninety, was in the habit of showing the white dress worn by her in her young days at the fair. It finally served her as a shroud. Adamnan visited the Northumbrian court when Egfrid was king. His errand was one of peace-making; for he went to procure the release of certain Irish captives who had been made prisoners by Egfrid, During his stay in Northumbria he became a convert to the Roman view as against the Celtic in the two burning questions of that age, viz., the time for holding Easter, and the nature of the tonsure. Though he did not get his friends in Scotland to see eye to eye with him on these points, he seems to have been generally popular north of the Tweed. Eight churches at least were dedicated to him, mainly in the east country between Forvie, in Aberdeenshire, and Dalmeny, in West Lothian. One of these dedications was at Aboyne. Skeulan Well there contains Adamnan's name in a corrupted form. Kieran, belonging like Columba to the sixth century, was also like him from Ireland. He selected a cave some four miles from Campbeltown as his dwelling-place, and there led the life of an ascetic. He died in 543 in his thirty-fourth year. Pennant thus describes the cave:--"It is in the form of a cross, with three fine Gothic porticoes for entrances, ... had formerly a wall at the entrance, a second about the middle, and a third far up, forming different apartments. On the floor is the capital of a cross and a round basin cut out of the rock, full of fine water, the beverage of the saint in old times, and of sailors in the present, who often land to dress their victuals beneath this shelter." This basin is more minutely described by Captain T. P. White in his "Archæological Sketches in Scotland." He says, "There is a small basin, nearly oval in shape, neatly scooped out of a block, two feet long by one and a half wide, which exactly underlies a drip of water from the roof of the cave. The water supply is said never to have failed and always to keep the little basin full. Tradition calls it the saint's font or holy well." Kieran is commemorated in Kinloch-Kilkerran, the ancient name of the parish of Campbeltown. The word means literally the head of the loch of Kieran's cell. On one occasion Kieran dropped his book of the Gospels into a lake. Sometime after it was recovered in an uninjured state through the instrumentality of a cow. The cow went into the water to cool itself, and brought out the volume attached to its hoof. Another bovine association is connected with the building of St. Kieran's Church on a hill at Errigall-keroge, in County Tyrone, Ireland. The saint had an ox which, during the day, drew the materials for the building, and in the evening was slaughtered to feed the workmen. The bones were thrown each evening into a well at the foot of the hill, and, morning by morning, the accommodating animal appeared ready for the day's work. The well is still held to be miraculous. There is a spring dedicated to Kieran at Drumlithie, in Glenbervie parish, Kincardineshire, and another at Stonehaven, in the same county. There is one in Troqueer parish, Kirkcudbrightshire, locally known as St. Jergon's or St. Querdon's Well, these names being simply an altered form of Kieran. Bridget or Bride, an Irish saint, was popular in Scotland. She received baptism from Patrick, and died in 525 after a life of great sanctity. She was celebrated as a worker of miracles. She made a cow supply an enormous quantity of milk to satisfy the wants of three thirsty bishops who came to visit her. She also cured diseases. On one occasion two men suffering from leprosy came to her to be healed. She made the sign of the cross over water, and told them to wash in it. One of the two did so and was instantly restored to health; but, refusing to help the other, he at once became leprous again, while his companion was as suddenly made whole. On another occasion she used the sign of the cross to stay a company bent on the capture of a maiden who had sought refuge in the saint's nunnery. Perhaps her most wonderful miracle was the hanging of her gown on a sunbeam, a somewhat unusual cloak-peg, and one that, from the nature of the case, had not to be sought in a dark press. Her principal monastery was at Kildare, so named after the oak (dair) under whose shade her cell was built. Adjoining St. Bride's Churchyard in London is a spring dedicated to the saint, and popularly styled Bride's Well. The palace built in the immediate neighbourhood went by the name of Bridewell. It was handed over by Edward VI. to the city of London as a workhouse and place of correction. At a later date the name became associated with other houses used for a similar purpose. "Hence it has arisen," remarks Chambers in his "Book of Days," "that the pure and innocent Bridget, the first of Irish nuns, is now inextricably connected in our ordinary national parlance with a class of beings of the most opposite description." There are fully a dozen wells in Scotland bearing her name. These are chiefly to be found in the counties of Wigtown, Dumfries, Peebles, Lanark, Renfrew, Dumbarton, Perth, Fife, and Aberdeen. A monastery was founded in Bridget's honour at Abernethy, in Perthshire, probably in the eighth century, and she had churches on the mainland and among the Western Islands. A curious superstition connected with Bridget has survived to the present time, at least in one of these islands. It has to do with a certain magical flower styled torranain, that must be plucked during the influx of the tide, and is of virtue to protect cows from the evil eye, and to make them give a plentiful supply of milk. The Rev. Dr. Stewart, in his "'Twixt Ben Nevis and Glencoe," quotes the incantation associated with it forwarded to him by a correspondent in Uist. The following is one of the stanzas:-- "Let me pluck thee, Torranain! With all thy blessedness and all thy virtue. The nine blessings came with the nine parts. By the virtue of the Torranain. The hand of St. Bride with me I am now to pluck thee." A saint who could give efficacy to a spell was quite the sort of person to be entrusted with the custody of springs. Ninian, popularly called Ringan, devoted his life mainly to missionary work among the Picts of Galloway, although he extended his influence as far north as the Tay. He seems to have been honoured in Aberdeenshire, if we may judge by a fresco, representing him, discovered about thirty years ago in the pre-Reformation Church of Turriff, and regard was had for him as far north as the Shetland Isles. Even the Scot abroad did not forget him. Chalmers, in his "Caledonia," says that, "in the church of the Carmelite Friars of Bruges in Flanders, the Scottish nation founded an altar to St. Ninian, and endowed a chaplain who officiated at it." A cave by the sea in the parish of Glasserton, in Wigtownshire, was his favourite retreat. This cave was explored about ten years ago, and several stones, marked with incised crosses, were discovered. Ninian brought masons from France, and at Whithorn built Candida Casa--the first stone church in Scotland. It was in course of construction in the year 397. Ninian then heard of the death of Martin of Tours, and to the latter the new church was dedicated. These two saints are found side by side in the matter of church dedications. Thus, Martin was patron of Ulbster, in Caithness: not far off was a church to Ninian. Strathmartin, in Forfarshire, was united in 1799 to the parish of Mains, the latter claiming Ninian as its tutelar saint. Sinavey Spring, in Mains parish, near the site of the ancient Castle of Fintry, is believed to represent St. Ninian's name in a corrupted form. His springs are numerous, and have a wide range from the counties of Wigtown and Kirkcudbright to those of Forfar and Kincardine. There is a well to him near Dunnottar Castle, in the last-mentioned county. In the island of Sanda, off the Kintyre coast, is a spring named after him. It had a considerable local celebrity in former times. St. Ninian's Well in Stirling is a familiar spot in the district. There is a well sacred to Martin in the Aberdeenshire parish of Cairnie. Martinmas (November 11th) came long ago into our land as a church festival. It still remains with us as a familiar term-day. An incident in Martin's biography has a bearing on our subject, through the connection between the name of the festival commemorating it and certain of our place-names. In Scotland, the fourth of July used to be known as Martin of Bullion's Day, in honour of the translation of the saint's body to a shrine in the cathedral of Tours. There is some uncertainty about the origin of the term Bullion, though, according to the likeliest etymology, it is derived from the French bouiller, to boil, in allusion to the heat of the weather at that time of the year. There is an old proverb that if the deer rise up dry and lie down dry on Martin of Bullion's Day, there will be a good gose-harvest, i.e., an early and plentiful one. An annual fair was appointed to be held at Selkirk and in Dyce parish, Aberdeenshire, in connection with the festival. There are traces of both Martin and Bullion in Scottish topography. In Perthshire there is the parish of St. Martin's, containing the estate of St. Martin's Abbey. Some miles to the east is Strathmartin in Forfarshire, already alluded to, and not far from it in the same county we find Bullionfield in the parish of Liff and Benvie. It is probable that these names are in some way connected together. In Ecclesmachan parish in Linlithgowshire, there is, as far as we know, no trace of Martin in any dedication of chapel or spring; but Bullion is represented. There is a spring of this name issuing from the trap rocks of the Tor Hill. It is a mineral well. The water is slightly impregnated with sulphuretted hydrogen. In former times it was much resorted to by health-seekers, but it is now neglected. Ninian consecrated a graveyard beside the Molendinar at Cathures, now Glasgow. About a hundred years later Kentigern, otherwise Mungo, bishop of the Strathclyde kingdom, brought to this cemetery from Carnock the body of Fergus, an anchorite, on a cart drawn by two wild bulls. Over the spot where Fergus was buried was built, at a later date, the crypt of what was to have been the south transept of the cathedral, had that portion of the structure ever been reared. The crypt is now popularly called Blackadder's Aisle, though, as Dr. Andrew MacGeorge points out in his "Old Glasgow," it ought to be called Fergus' Isle. It was so named in a minute of the kirk-session in 1648, and an inscription in long Gothic letters on a stone in the roof of the aisle tells the same tale. Kentigern took up his abode on the banks of the Molendinar, and gathered round him a company of monks, each dwelling in a separate hut. In the twelfth century the spot was surrounded by a dense forest, and in 1500 the "Arbores sancti Kentigerni" were landmarks in the district. Kentigern's Well, now in the lower church of the cathedral, must, from the very fact of its inclusion within the building, have been deemed sacred before the cathedral was reared. Other examples of wells within churches are on record, though not in Scotland. There is a spring in St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin. The cathedrals of Carlisle, Winchester, and Canterbury, and the minsters of York and Beverley, as well as one of two English parish churches, either now have or once had wells within their walls. The Rev. T. F. Thiselton Dyer gives several examples in his "Church Lore Gleanings," and remarks, "Such wells may have been of special service in Border churches, which, like the cathedral of Carlisle, served as places of refuge for the inhabitants in case of sudden alarm or foray." Besides his well in the cathedral, Kentigern had another dedicated to him at Glasgow, close to Little St. Mungo's Church, in the immediate neighbourhood of the trees already mentioned. There are fully a dozen wells sacred to him north of the Tweed. As might be expected, these are almost all to be found in the counties south of the Forth and Clyde, and particularly in those to the west of that district. There is one in Kincardineshire, at Kinneff, locally known as Kenty's Well. Under the name of St. Mongah's Well there is a spring dedicated to him in Yorkshire at Copgrove Park four miles from Boroughbridge. A bath close by, supplied with water from this spring, was formerly much frequented by invalids of all ages, who remained immersed for a longer or shorter time in its intensely cold water. Other wells to Kentigern are to be met with in the north of England. The parish of Crossthwaite in Cumberland has its church dedicated to him. The spot was the thwaite or clearing in the wood where he set up his cross. Thanet Well, in Greystoke parish in the same county, is believed to have derived its name from Tanew or Thenew, Kentigern's mother, familiar to the citizens of Glasgow as St. Enoch. St. Enoch's Well, close to St. Enoch's Square in that burgh, used to be a favourite resort of health-seekers. It has now no existence. Cuthbert, besides a well at St. Boswell's, in Roxburghshire, had a bath in Strath Tay, a rock-hewn hollow full of water where he periodically passed several hours in devotion. This famous Northumbrian missionary was born about 635, and spent his early boyhood as a shepherd on the southern slopes of the Lammermoors. He lived for thirteen years as a monk in the monastery of Old Melrose, situated two miles east from the present Melrose on a piece of land almost surrounded by the Tweed. On the death of Boisil, Cuthbert was appointed prior. He afterwards became bishop of Lindisfarne. During his stay at Melrose he visited the land of the Niduarian Picts, in other words the Picts of Galloway, and left a record of his journey in the name of Kirkcudbright, i.e., the Church of Cuthbert. Various other churches were dedicated to him in the south of Scotland and in the north of England. A well-known Edinburgh parish bears his name. He was honoured as far south as Cornwall. St. Cuby's Well, locally called St. Kilby's, between Duloe and Sandplace in that county is believed to have been dedicated to him. There is a good deal of uncertainty about the history of Palladius. He is believed to have been a missionary from Rome to the Irish in the fifth century, and to have suffered martyrdom for the faith. It is recorded of him that on one occasion, by removing some turf in the name of the Holy Spirit, he caused a spring to gush forth to supply water for baptism. He is popularly associated with Kincardineshire, though there is reason to believe that he had no personal connection with the district. A spring in Fordoun parish is locally known as Paldy's Well, and an annual market goes by the name of Paldy's or Paddy's Fair. A chapel was dedicated to him there, and received his relics, brought thither by his disciple Terrananus, whose name is still preserved in Banchory-Ternan, and who seems to have belonged to the district. Ternan has a well at Banchory-Devenick, and another at Kirkton-of-Slains, in Buchan. The old church of Arbuthnot was dedicated to him. It was for this church that the Missal, Psalter, and Office of the Virgin, now in the possession of Viscount Arbuthnot, were written and illuminated towards the end of the fifteenth century, these being the only complete set of Service-Books of a Scottish Church that have come down to us from pre-Reformation times. Brendan of Clonfert in Ireland, visited several of the Western Isles during the first half of the sixth century, and various churches were afterwards dedicated to him there. He is connected also with Bute. The name Brandanes, applied to its inhabitants, came from him, and he bids fair to be remembered in the name of Kilbrandon Sound, between Arran and Kintyre. He was patron of a well in the island of Barra and was tutelar saint of Boyndie and Cullen in Banffshire; but we are not aware that any well at either of these places was called after him. A curious legend is related to account for the origin of the See of Aberdeen. According to it Machar or Macarius, along with twelve companions, received instructions from Columba to wander over Pictland, and to build his cathedral-church where he found a river making a bend like a bishop's staff. Such a bend was found in the Don at Old Aberdeen. St. Machar's Cathedral, built beside it, keeps alive the saint's memory. In the neighbouring grounds of Seton is St. Machar's Well. Though now neglected, it was honoured in former times, and its water was used at baptisms in the cathedral. Under the name of Mocumma or Mochonna, Macarius appears as one of the followers of Columba on his memorable voyage from Ireland to Iona. He is said to have visited Pope Gregory the Great at Rome, and to have been for a time bishop of Tours. In Strathdon, Aberdeenshire, is a well sacred to him called Tobar-Mhachar, pronounced in the district Tobar-Vacher. Constantine, known also by his other names of Cowstan, Chouslan, and Cutchou, was a prince of Cornwall in the sixth century, and was acquainted with Columba and Kentigern. He relinquished his throne and crossed over to Ireland, where he turned monk. At a later date he came to the west of Scotland, and founded a monastery at Golvedir, believed to be Govan, near Glasgow, and, according to Fordun, became its abbot. Kilchouslan Church, on the north side of Campbeltown Bay, Kintyre, was built in his honour. In its graveyard there is, or was till quite lately, a round stone about the size of a grinding stone. In the centre is a hole large enough to let the hand pass through. There is a tradition that if a man and woman eloped, and were able to join hands through this hole before being overtaken by their kinsfolk they were free from further pursuit. In the spring of 1892 an interesting find of old coins was made in the same graveyard. These consisted of groats and half-groats, some of English and some of Scottish coinage, the earliest belonging to the reign of Edward II. of England. According to Martin, the well of St. Cowstan at Garrabost, in Lewis, was believed never to boil any kind of meat, though its water was kept over the fire for a whole day. This well is on a steep slope at the shore. Not far off once stood St. Cowstan's Chapel, but its site is now under tillage. Serf or Servanus, who flourished during the latter half of the seventh century, was connected with the district north of the Firth of Forth, particularly with Culross, and the island named after him in Loch Leven, where he founded a monastery. At Dysart, Serf had a cave, and in it tradition says that he held a discussion with the devil. The name of Dysart indeed, comes from this desertum or retreat. Serf had a cell at Dunning, in Strathearn, where he died in the odour of sanctity. He had also some link with the parish of Monzievaird, where the church was dedicated to him, and where a small loch still goes by the name of St. Serf's Water. There is a well sacred to him at Alva. St. Shear's Well, at Dumbarton, retains his name in an altered form. Early last century this spring was put to a practical purpose, as arrangements were then made to lead its water across the Leven by pipes to supply the burgh. CHAPTER IV. MORE SAINTS AND SPRINGS. Ronan--Dow Well--Influence on Topography--Ronan's Springs--Pol Ronan and Feill Ronan--Fergus--His Well in Banffshire--Glamis--His Relics--His Wells at Montrose and Wick--Helen--St. Helen's Kirk--Her Springs--Her connection with Britain--Her Wells and Churches in England--Welsh Traditions--St. Abb's Well--Ebba--Aidan--His Wells--Boisil--His Springs--St. Boswell's Fair--Bathan--Abbey St. Bathan's--His Well there--Boniface--His Well and Fair at Rosemarkie--Catherine of Alexandria--Her Legend--Her Wells--Various other Dedications--Lawrence--His Wells--St. Lawrence's Fair--His Church Dedications--Laurencekirk--Margaret--Her connection with Queensferry and Forfar--Her Wells at Edinburgh--Her Cave and Spring at Dunfermline--Wells dedicated to various Characters in Sacred Story. In any notice of early saints Ronan must not be forgotten, especially when we remember that perhaps no spring, thanks to Sir Walter Scott, is so familiar to the general reader as St. Ronan's Well. It has been commonly identified with the mineral well at Innerleithen, in Peeblesshire for long held in much favour in cases of eye and skin complaints, and also for the cure of dyspepsia. The spring is situated a short distance above the town on the skirt of Lee Pen. The writer of the article on Innerleithen parish in the "New Statistical Account of Scotland" says that this spring "was formerly called the 'Dow-well' from the circumstance that, long before the healing virtues of the water were discovered, pigeons from the neighbouring country resorted to it." The name, however, is more probably derived from the Gaelic dhu or dubh, signifying black. This is all the more likely when we remember that the ground around was wet and miry before the spring was put into order, and the present pump-room built, in 1826. We find marks of Ronan in Scottish topography. In Dumbartonshire is Kilmaronock, meaning, literally, the Church of my little Ronan; Kilmaronog near Loch Etive has the same signification. Dr. Skene refers to these two dedications, and adds, "Ronan appears to have carried his mission to the Isles. He has left his trace in Iona, where one of the harbours is Port Ronan. The church, afterwards the parish church, was dedicated to him, and is called Teampull Ronaig, and its burying-ground, Cladh Ronan. Then we find him at Rona, in the Sound of Skye, and another Rona, off the coast of Lewis; and, finally, his death is recorded in 737 as Ronan, abbot of Cinngaradh or Kingarth, in Bute." Ronan is patron of various springs. There is one sacred to him near Kilmaronock, another in the Aberdeenshire parish of Strathdon, and another, already referred to, beside Teampull Mòr, in the Butt of Lewis. The parish of Strowan, now joined to that of Monzievaird, has a well to the saint. This was to be expected, since the name of the parish is merely an altered form of St. Rowan or Ronan. About a hundred yards above the bridge of Strowan, there is a deep pool in the river Earn, called Pol-Ronan, and a piece of ground hard by was formerly the site of the yearly gathering known as Feill-Ronan or St. Ronan's Fair. The parish of St. Fergus, in Buchan, known till the year 1616 as Langley, commemorates an Irish missionary of the eighth century, who led a roving life, if we can believe the tradition, that he evangelised Caithness, Buchan, Strathearn, and Forfarshire, as well as attended an Ecclesiastical Council at Rome. The legend that his well in Kirkmichael parish, Banffshire, was at one time in Italy may be connected with his visit to Rome. Concerning this spring, the Rev. Dr. Gregor gives the following particulars:--"Fergan Well is situated on the south-east side of Knock-Fergan, a hill of considerable height on the west side of the river Avon, opposite the manse of Kirkmichael. The first Sunday of May and Easter Sunday were the principal Sundays for visiting it, and many from the surrounding parishes, who were affected with skin diseases or running sores, came to drink of its water, and to wash in it. The hour of arrival was twelve o'clock at night, and the drinking of the water and the washing of the diseased part took place before or at sunrise. A quantity of the water was carried home for future use. Pilgrimages were made up to the end of September, by which time the healing virtues of the water had become less. Such after-visits seem to have begun in later times." Fergus died at Glamis, and his relics soon began to work cures. His head was carried off to the monastery of Scone, and was so much esteemed in later times that, by order of James IV., a silver case was made for it. His cave and well are to be seen at Glamis. There is a spring dedicated to him near Montrose, and there is another at Wick. Various other saintly personages have left traces of their names in holy wells. Chalmers, in his "Caledonia," mentions that the ancient church of Aldcamus, in Cockburnspath parish, Berwickshire, was dedicated to Helen, mother of Constantine, and that its ruins were known as St. Helen's Kirk. A portion of the building still stands. To the north of it is a burying-ground; but, curiously enough, as Mr. Muir points out in his "Ancient Churches of Scotland," the spot does not appear ever to have been used for purposes of sepulture. We do not know surely of any spring to Helen in the immediate neighbourhood, but there is one at Darnick, near Melrose. Another is in Kirkpatrick-Fleming parish, Dumfriesshire. Perhaps the best known is St. Helen's Well, beside the highway from Maybole to Ayr, about two-and-a-half miles from the former town. It was much resorted to on May Day for the cure of sickly children. On Timothy Pont's map, of date 1654, there is a "Helen's Loch" marked a little to the south-west of Camelon, in Stirlingshire. Some writers have attempted to claim Helen as a native of Britain, and Colchester and York have, for different reasons, been fixed on as her birth-place. The circumstance that Constantine was proclaimed Emperor at the latter town, on the death there of his father, Constantius Chlorus, probably gave rise to the tradition. Anyhow, Helen seems to have been held in high honour in England. In an article in the "Archæological Journal" for December, 1891, Mr. Edward Peacock mentions that there are at least fifteen wells named after her south of the Tweed. He adds, "there are many churches dedicated to the honour of St. Helen in England, but they are very irregularly distributed. None seems to occur in Cumberland, Westmoreland, or Essex. The rest of the English shires, for which we have authentic information, give the following results:--Devonshire, three; Durham, two; Kent, one; Lincolnshire, twenty-eight; Northumberland, three; Nottinghamshire, fifteen; Yorkshire, thirty-two." Helen's name occurs in Welsh legends; but, as Mr. Peacock observes, "early history is so much distorted in them, that, if we did not know of her from more authentic sources, we might well believe Helen to have been a mere creation of the fervid Keltic imagination." As far as is known there are neither wells nor church dedications to her in the Principality. At Ayton, in Berwickshire, we find St. Abb's Well, recalling Abb or Æbba, who, in the seventh century, presided over a monastery on the headland still bearing her name, and in whose honour the priory at Coldingham was founded by Edgar, son of Malcolm Canmore, some four centuries and a half later. Her monastery on the headland was founded by Aidan, who was sent from Iona to the North of England in response to a request from King Oswald, of Bernicia, for a missionary to preach Christianity to his pagan subjects. This was about the year 635. Aidan made the island of Lindisfarne, off the coast of Northumberland, his head-quarters. It is still known as Holy Island. Aidan has not been forgotten in the matter of wells. There are four to him, viz., at Menmuir and at Fearn, in Forfarshire; at Balmerino, in Fife; and at Cambusnethan, in Lanarkshire. This last, called St. Iten's Well, was noted for the cure of asthma and skin-disease. Boisil, abbot of the monastery of Old Melrose, about the middle of the seventh century, still lives in the name of the Roxburghshire village and parish of St. Boswell's. There is a spring in the parish bearing the name of The Well-brae Wall. Boswell's own spring is popularly styled the Hare-well. Not far from both is St. Boswell's Burn, a tributary of the Tweed. The local fair held on July 18th, in honour of the saint, used to be a notable one in the border counties, and was frequented by large numbers of gipsies who set up booths for the sale of their wares. Bathan, who flourished in the early seventh century, had to do with Shetland, and with the region about the Whittadder, in Berwickshire. Abbey St. Bathans, in the latter county, is named after him. His well is on one of the haughs beside the river, not far from the ruined nunnery. Its water is believed never to freeze. Boniface belonged to the same century. He is said to have preached Christianity at Gowrie, in Pictavia, and afterwards at Rosemarkie, in the Black Isle, where he died at the age of eighty, and was buried in the church of St. Peter. A well and a fair at Rosemarkie still keep alive his memory. The fame of Catherine of Alexandria travelled to Scotland at a comparatively early period. This holy maiden was noted for her learning. Indeed she was so wise that Maxentius the Emperor called her a "second Plato." The Emperor's compliments, however, stopped there, for he ordered her to be executed on account of her contempt for paganism. The wheel, her usual attribute in art, was not the instrument of her martyrdom, as it was miraculously destroyed. She met her death by being beheaded, and, immediately thereafter, her body was carried by angels to Mount Sinai. These and other legendary incidents must have conduced to make the saint popular. St. Catherine's Balm-well, at Liberton, Mid-Lothian, had a high reputation for curing skin-disease. Martin speaks of a well to St. Catherine on the south coast of Eigg, reckoned by the islanders a specific in all kinds of disease. He gives the following account of its dedication by Father Hugh, a priest, and of the respect paid to the spring in consequence:--"He (the priest) obliged all the inhabitants to come to this well, and then employed them to bring together a great heap of stones at the head of the spring by way of penance. This being done, he said Mass at the well, and then consecrated it; he gave each of the inhabitants a piece of wax candle, which they lighted, and all of them made the Dessil,--of going round the well sun-ways, the priest leading them; and from that time it was accounted unlawful to boil any meat with the water of this well." In the south-west of Scotland, Catherine has, or had, three wells, viz., at Stoneykirk, at Low Drumore, and at Old Luce, opposite the Abbey. In the north-east there are three, viz., at Fyvie, Aberdeenshire; and in Alvah parish, Banffshire; and at Banff itself. At Shotts, in Lanarkshire, the fountain by the roadside immediately below the parish church is, or at least was, locally known as Cat's or Kate's Well--a contraction of the Saint's name--reminding one of the Kate Kennedy celebration at St. Andrews University, which originated in connection with the gift of a bell by Bishop Kennedy in honour of the saint. The ruins of Caibeal Cairine, i.e., Catherine's Chapel, are in Southend parish, Kintyre, and two farms called North and South Carine are in the immediate neighbourhood. Captain White, when exploring the district, sought for St. Catherine's Well in the adjoining glen, but failed to find it. A chapel to the saint once stood in the quondam town of Kincardine in the Mearns. Its graveyard alone remains. St. Catherine's Fair, held at Kincardine till the year 1612, was then transferred to the neighbouring Fettercairn. There is perhaps no place-name more familiar to visitors to Inveraray than St. Catherine's, on the opposite shore of Loch Fyne. It was in St. Catherine's Aisle, within the parish church of Linlithgow, that James IV. saw the mysterious apparition that warned him to beware of Flodden. At Port-Erin, in the Isle of Man, is a spring close to the beach, and on a stone beside it in old lettering, can be read the piece of advice:-- "St. Catherine's Well, Keep me clean." Lawrence is represented by various springs, viz., by one in Kirkcudbrightshire, at Fairgirth; by one in Elginshire, at New Duffus; and by two in Aberdeenshire, at Kinnord; and at Rayne, where a horse market, called Lawrence Fair, is still held annually in August. Near the Fairgirth spring stand the ivy-clad ruins of St. Lawrence's Chapel, at one time surrounded by a graveyard. The parish of Slamannan, in Stirlingshire, was anciently called St. Lawrence, its pre-Reformation church having been dedicated to him. An excellent spring, not far from the parish church, is known as St. Lawrence's Well. There is reason to believe that all these dedications relate to Lawrence, who, about the middle of the third century, suffered at Rome, by being broiled over a slow fire, and in whose honour the Escurial in Spain was built in the form of a gridiron--the supposed instrument of his martyrdom. Laurencekirk, in Kincardineshire, anciently called Conveth, received its name, not from the martyr, but from Lawrence, archbishop of Canterbury, successor of Augustine, early in the seventh century. He is said to have visited the Mearns. The church of Conveth was named in his honour Laurencekirk. As far as we know, however, there is no spring to him in the district. Margaret, queen and saint, wife of Malcolm Canmore, was a light amid the darkness of the eleventh century. Indeed she was a light to many later centuries. The secret of her beneficial influence lay in her personal character, and she undoubtedly did much to recommend civilisation to a barbarous age. At the same time it must not be forgotten that through her English training she was unable to appreciate either the speech or the special religious institutions of her Scottish subjects, and that, accordingly, the changes introduced by her were not all reforms. When sketching her influence on the history of her time, the Rev. Dr. M'Lauchlan, in his "Early Scottish Church," observes, "She was somewhat unwillingly hindered from entering a monastery by her marriage with Malcolm, and the latter repaid the obligation by unbounded devotion to her and readiness to fall in with all her schemes. She was brought up in the Anglo-Saxon Church, as that Church was moulded by Augustine and other emissaries of Rome, and was in consequence naturally opposed to many of the peculiarities of the Scottish Church, which was still without diocesan bishops, and had many things in its forms of worship peculiar to itself." Dunfermline was Malcolm's favourite place of residence, and many were the journeys made by his wife between it and Edinburgh. The names of North and South Queensferry, where she crossed the Forth, tell of these royal expeditions. Malcolm and Margaret were associated with the town of Forfar. Local topography has still its King's Muir, and its Queen's Well to testify to the fact; and on the Inch of Forfar Loch, where Margaret had a residence, an annual celebration was long held in her honour. She had a spring at Edinburgh Castle, described as "the fountain which rises near the corner of the King's Garden, on the road leading to St. Cuthbert's Church." St. Margaret's Well--once at Restalrig, now in the Queen's Park--has already been referred to. At Dunfermline there is a spring in a cave where, according to tradition, she spent many an hour in pious meditation. The cave is about seven feet in height, fully eight in breadth, and varies in depth from eight to eleven. "This cave," remarks the Rev. Peter Chalmers in his "History of Dunfermline," "is situated at a short distance north from the Tower Hill, and from the mound crossing the ravine on which part of the town stands. There is at present a small spring well at the bottom, the water of which rises at times and covers the whole lower space; but anciently, it is to be presumed, there was none, or at least it must have been covered, and prevented from overflowing the floor, which would either have been formed of the rock or have been paved." A considerable amount of rubbish accumulated in the cave, but this was removed in 1877. "During the process of clearing out the cave," remarks Dr. Henderson in his "Annals of Dunfermline," "two stone seats or benches were discovered along the base of the north and south sides, but there were no carvings or devices seen on them. Near the back of the cave a small sunk well was found, but it is now covered over with a stone flag." Several Scripture characters have wells named after them. St. Matthew has springs at Kirkton, Dumfriesshire, and at Roslin, Midlothian. St. Andrew's name is attached to wells at Sandal, in Kintyre; at North Berwick, in East Lothian; at Shadar, in Lewis; and at Selkirk--this last having been uncovered in 1892, after remaining closed, it is believed, for fully three hundred years. A spring at St. Andrews, called Holy Well, is understood to have been dedicated either to Andrew or to Regulus. St. Paul has springs at Fyvie and at Linlithgow; St. Philip is patron of one in Yarrow parish, Selkirkshire; St. James has one at Garvock, in Aberdeenshire; St. Thomas has three--at Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire; at Crieff, in Perthshire; and near Stirling; and St. John has a considerable number of springs. Some of these are to the Evangelist, and some to the Baptist. It is often difficult to know to which of the two the patronage of a given well should be ascribed. Of the four chapels along the east wall of the lower church of Glasgow Cathedral, the one next to St. Mungo's Well was dedicated in pre-Reformation times to St. John the Evangelist. It would have been more appropriately dedicated to the Baptist. St. John's Wells are to be found at Moffat, in Dumfriesshire; at Logie Coldstone, in Aberdeenshire; near Fochabers, in Elginshire; at Inverkeithing, Balmerino; and Falkland, in Fife; at Kinnethmont, and in New Aberdour, in Aberdeenshire; at Marykirk, in Kincardineshire; at Kirkton of Deskford, at Ordiquhill, and also near the old church of Gamrie, in Banffshire; at Stranraer, in Wigtownshire; at Dunrobin, in Sutherland; and elsewhere. There are more than a dozen wells to St. Peter. These are to be found mainly in counties in the south-west, and in the north-east. In the latter district there is a well at Marnoch, in Banffshire, called Petrie's Well. St. Anne, the reputed mother of the Virgin, presided over wells at Ladykirk, in Berwickshire; near the old church of St. Anne, in Dowally parish, Perthshire; and at Glass, on the Deveron. The Virgin herself was specially popular as the patroness of fountains. There are over seventy dedicated to her under a variety of names, such as, St. Mary's Well, Maria Well, &c. The town of Motherwell, in Lanarkshire, was so called after a famous well to the Virgin. Tobermory, in Mull--literally, Well of Mary--was originally a fountain. A village was built beside it, in 1788, as a fishing centre for the British Fisheries' Company. A curious legend about the now ivy-clad ruins of the church of St. Mary in Auchindoir parish, Aberdeenshire, is thus referred to by Mr. A. Jervise in the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," vol. viii. (old series):--"According to tradition, it was originally proposed to rebuild the church at a place called Kirkcairns (now Glencairns) to the south of Lumsden village, and but for the warning voice of the Virgin, who appears to have been a good judge both of locality and soil, the kirk would have been placed in an obscure sterile district. Besides being in the neighbourhood of good land, fine views of the upper part of Strathbogie and of the surrounding hills are obtained from the present site.... St. Mary's Well is about a hundred yards to the west." If Michael the Archangel did not fold his wings over any Scottish wells, he at least gave name to several. There is a St. Michael's Spring in Kirkmichael parish, Banffshire, and another at Dallas in Elginshire. In both cases, the ancient church was dedicated to him. Culsalmond, in Aberdeenshire, and Applegarth, in Dumfriesshire, have, and Edinburgh once had, a St. Michael's Well. The best known is probably the one at Linlithgow, with its quaint inscription--"Saint Michael is kinde to straingers." Mr. J. R. Walker--to whose list of Holy Wells in the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," vol. v. (new series), we have been indebted for various useful hints--remarks, "The building covering this well dates only from 1720.... It is conjectured that the statue was taken from the Cross-well when restored about that date and placed here to represent St. Michael, who is the patron saint of Linlithgow Church.... With the exception of the statue, which is undoubtedly of much earlier date than 1720, the structure shows the utter absence of architectural knowledge--especially Gothic--characteristic of the last century in Scotland. Michael was tutelar saint, not only of the church, but also of the burgh of Linlithgow. In the town Arms he is represented with outspread wings, standing on a serpent whose head he is piercing with a spear. He was also the guardian of the burgh of Dumfries. At Inverlussa, in North Knapdale parish, Argyllshire, may be seen the ancient chapel and burying-ground of Kilmichael. A well in the immediate neighbourhood is dedicated, not to the archangel, but to some local ecclesiastic, whose name is now forgotten. In reference to this spring, Captain White says, "Trickling out from under a rock, is the Priest's Well (Tobar-ant-Sagairt), famous, like many another spring of so-called holy water, for its miraculous healing virtues. I believe the country people have by no means lost their faith in its powers." The extent of the archangel's popularity in Scotland is shown by his impress on topography. Among place-names we find at least three Kilmichaels, and there are five parishes called Kirkmichael, respectively in the counties of Dumfries, Ayr, Perth, Ross and Cromarty, and Banff. A chapel is said to have been dedicated to him at a very early date on the top of the Castle Rock at Edinburgh. Another once stood in the demesne of Lovat, where was founded, about 1232, a Priory for French monks, who were so struck with the beauty of the spot that they called it Beau-lieu, now Beauly. Far west, in the outer Hebrides, he had faithful votaries. On the island of Grimisay, close to North Uist, a chapel styled Teampull Mhicheil was built in his honour towards the close of the fourteenth century. It was the work of Amie, otherwise Annie, wife of John of Isla, first Lord of the Isles, and was used by her as an oratory when prevented by rough weather from crossing the Minch to visit her friends in Lorne. That the archangel should have had wells named after him is therefore not surprising. CHAPTER V. STONE BLOCKS AND SAINTS' SPRINGS. Stone Beds and Chairs--Cave Life--Dwarfie Stone--Stone Boats--Balthere--His Corpse--His Well and Cradle--Marnan--His Influence on Topography--His Head--St. Marnan's Chair and Well--Muchricha--Cathair Donan--St. Donan's Well--Patrick--His Wells--St. Patrick's Vat--Quarry at Portpatrick--Columbanus--Mark of his Hand--Kentigern's Chair and Bed--His connection with Aberdeenshire--The Lady's Bed--Thenew--Columba's Bed and Pillow--Holy Island--Traces of Molio--St. Blane's Chapel--Kilmun--Inan--St. Innian's Well--Tenant's Day--St. Inan's Chair and Springs--Kevin--Print of Virgin's Knee--Traces of Columba at Keil--St. Cuthbert's Stane--St. Madron's Bed--Mean-an-Tol--Morwenna--St. Fillan's Chair--St. Fillan's Spring--Water for Sore Eyes--The Two Fillans--Their Dedications--Queen Margaret's Seat--St. Bonnet's Spring--The Fairies' Cradle--The Pot o' Pittenyoul--Church of Invergowrie--Greystane--Cadger's Bridge--Wallace's Seat and Well. Beds and Chairs of stone are connected with various early saints, and as such relics are often associated with holy wells, some notice of these may not be without interest. We have already seen that cave life was rather popular among these early missionaries. Anything of a rocky nature was therefore quite in line with their ascetic ways. Hoy, one of the Orkney Islands, famous for its wild scenery, and specially for the pillar of rock popularly styled The Old Man, contains a curious monument of antiquity in the shape of a large block of sandstone called The Dwarfie Stone, hollowed out long ago by some unknown hand. The chamber, thus excavated, contains two beds hewn out of the stone, one of them having a pillow of the same hard material. On the floor of the chamber is a hearth where a fire had evidently burned, and in the roof is a hole for the escape of the smoke. Legend reports that a giant and his wife abode within; but the hollow space was more probably the retreat of some hermit--perhaps, of more than one, seeing there are two couches; though, possibly, one of the supposed couches may have been a table and the other a bed. Perhaps the anchorite had his spring whither he wandered daily to slake his thirst; but, as far as we know, there is no tradition regarding any holy well in the neighbourhood. Martin, in connection with his visit to Orkney, refers to a stone in the chapel of Ladykirk, in South Ronaldshay, called St. Magnus's Boat. The stone was four feet in length, and tapered away at both ends; but its special feature was the print of two human feet on the upper surface. A local tradition affirmed that when St. Magnus wanted on one occasion to cross the Pentland Firth to Caithness he used this stone as his boat, and that he afterwards carried it to Ladykirk. According to another tradition, the stone served in pre-Reformation times for the punishment of delinquents, who were obliged to stand barefooted upon it by way of penance. There is a St. Magnus's Well, not in South Ronaldshay, however, but at Birsay, in the mainland of Orkney. When Conval crossed from Ireland to Scotland, in the seventh century, he, too, made a block of stone do duty as a boat. It found a resting-place beside the river Cart, near Renfrew, and was known as Currus Sancti Convalli. By its means miraculous cures were wrought on man and beast. A rock at the mouth of Aldham Bay, in Haddingtonshire, is known as St. Baudron's Boat, and tradition says that he crossed on it from the Bass, where he had a cell. This saint--called also Balthere and Baldred--founded the monastery of Tyningham, and died early in the seventh century. He must have been popular in the district, for, if we can believe an old legend, the parishioners of the churches of Aldham, Tyningham, and Prestonkirk tried to get possession of his relics. To satisfy their demands his body was miraculously multiplied by three, and each church was thus provided with one. Near Tantallon Castle is St. Baldred's Well, and a fissure in the cliff at Whitberry, not far from the mouth of the Tyne, is known as St. Baldred's Bed or Cradle. Marnan or Marnoch, besides giving name to the town of Kilmarnock, in Ayrshire, and to the Island of Inchmarnoch, off Bute, is remembered in the name of the Banffshire parish of Marnoch, where he laboured as a missionary in the seventh century. His head was kept as a revered relic in the church of Aberchirder, and solemn oaths were sworn by it. Use was also made of it for therapeutic purposes. It was periodically washed, and the water was given to the sick for the restoration of their health. This was not an isolated case. Bede tells us, that after Cuthbert's death, some of the water in which his body was washed, was given to an epileptic boy along with some consecrated earth, and brought about a cure. A stone, called St. Marnan's Chair, is, or was till lately, to be seen at Aberchirder; and a spring, near the parish manse, bears the saint's name. About a mile and a half from the church of Aboyne, in Aberdeenshire, is St. Muchricha's Well, and beside it is a stone marked with a cross. At one time, this stone was removed. According to a local tradition, it was brought back by Muchricha, the guardian of the well, who seemed unwilling to lose sight of the lost property. In the parish of Kildonan, Sutherland, two or three blocks of stone, placed in the form of a seat, went by the name of Cathair Donan, i.e., Donan's Chair. In his cille or church, Donan taught the truths of Christianity; and, seated in his cathair, he administered justice to the people of the district. There is a St. Donan's Well in Eigg, the island where the saint and his companion clerics were murdered by the natives early in the seventh century. Patrick, the well-known missionary of Ireland, was reverenced also in Scotland. There is a well dedicated to him in the parish of Muthill, Perthshire, and close to it once stood a chapel, believed to have borne his name. From the article on Muthill parish, in the "New Statistical Account of Scotland," we learn that in former times the inhabitants of the district held the saint's memory "in such veneration that, on his day, neither the clap of the mill was heard nor the plough seen to move in the furrow." There is a well dedicated to him in Dalziel parish, Lanarkshire. About sixty yards from St. Patrick's temple, in the island of Tyree, is a rock, with a hollow on the top, two feet across and four feet deep, known to the islanders as St. Patrick's Vat. At any rate it was so named at the end of last century. In a quarry at Portpatrick, Wigtownshire, used in connection with the harbour works, once flowed a spring dedicated to the saint. On the rock below were formerly to be seen certain marks, said, by tradition, to be the impression made by his knees and left hand. Columban or Columbanus, belonged, like Columba, to the sixth century. Ireland was also his native land. When he left it he travelled, not north like Columba, but south, and sought the sunny lands of France and Italy. In the latter country he founded the monastery of Bobbio among the Apennines. A writer in the "Antiquary" for 1891 remarks, in connection with a recent visit to this monastery, "I was taken to see a rock on the summit of a mountain called La Spanna, near the cave to which the saint is said to have retired for prayer and meditation. The impression of the saint's left hand is still shown upon the face of this rock. The healing power of the patron's hand is believed by the peasantry of the surrounding country to linger still in the hollow marking, and many sufferers, climbing to this spot, have found relief from laying their hand within its palm." In addition to his well beside the Molendinar, at Glasgow, Kentigern had a chair and bed, both of stone. Concerning the latter, Bishop Forbes, in his "Kalendars of Scottish Saints," says, "Kentigern's couch was rather a sepulchre than a bed, and was of rock, with a stone for a pillow, like Jacob. He rose in the night and sang psalms and hymns till the second cock-crowing. Then he rushed into the cold stream, and with eyes fixed on heaven he recited the whole psalter. Then, coming out of the water he dried his limbs on a stone on the mountain called Galath, and went forth for his day's work." Kentigern's work took him beyond the limits of Strathclyde. He seems to have visited the uplands of Aberdeenshire. The church of Glengairn, a parish now incorporated with Tullich and Glenmuick, was probably founded by him. At any rate, it was dedicated to him. A tradition of his untiring zeal survived in Aberdeenshire down to the beginning of last century. According to a proverb then current, systematic beneficence was said to be "like St. Mungo's work, which was never done." The Isle of May, in the Firth of Forth, has, on one of its rocky sides, a small cave called The Lady's Bed, containing a pool in its floor. As Mr. Muir points out in his "Ecclesiological Notes," it is traditionally associated with Thenew, Kentigern's mother, "who," according to the legend, "after being cast into the sea at Aberlady, was miraculously floated to the May, and thence, in the same manner, to Culross, where she was stranded and gave birth to the saint." Columba, when in Iona, had a stone slab as a bed, and a block of stone as a pillow. Adamnan mentions that, after the saint's death, this pillow stone was placed as a monument over his grave. Guarding Lamlash Bay, where Haco gathered his shattered fleet after the battle of Largs, in 1263, is Holy Island, known to the Norsemen as Melansay. In this island is a cave, at one time inhabited by the hermit Molio, and below it, near the beach, is his Holy Well, for centuries reckoned efficacious in the cure of disease. A large block of sandstone, flat on the top, with a series of recesses like seats cut round its margin, constitutes the saint's chair and table combined. Molio was educated in Bute by his uncle Blane, to whom the now ruined St. Blane's Chapel was dedicated. He afterwards went to Ireland, and was placed under Munna, who is still remembered in the name of Kilmun, on Holy Loch, in the Firth of Clyde. Inan, probably the same as Finan, gave name to Inchinnan, in Renfrewshire, though the ancient church of the parish was dedicated, not to him, but to Conval. The church at Lamington, in Lanarkshire, was dedicated to Inan. St. Innian's Well is in the parish. He is the patron saint of Beith, in Ayrshire. The annual fair held there in August is popularly called Tenant's Day--Tenant being a corruption of St. Inan. St. Inan's Well and St. Inan's Chair keep his memory fresh in the district. Some particulars about them are given by Mr. Robert Love in the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland", vol. xi.:--"This chair is in the rocky hill-face at the west end of the Cuff hills, and from its elevated position a wide tract of country from south to north is overlooked. At the base of the hill, and distant from the chair some hundred yards, is a well called St. Inan's Well, a double spring, which issues from the rock at two points close by each other, and which is almost unapproachable in respect of its abundance and purity. This chair is formed in part, possibly by nature, out of the rock of the hill. Its back and two sides are closed in, while, in front, to the west, it is open. The seat proper is above the ground in front about two feet two inches, is two feet four inches in breadth, and one foot four inches in depth backwards." Visitors to the seven churches at Glendalough, in county Wicklow, Ireland, are usually shown St. Kevin's Seat on a block of rock. As a proof of its genuineness the mark made by the saint's leg and the impression of his fingers are duly pointed out by the local guide. In Kirkmaiden parish, Wigtownshire, the print of the Virgin's knee was at one time shown on a stone where she knelt in prayer. There was a chapel dedicated to her in the neighbourhood. In Southend parish, Kintyre, are the remains of St. Columba's Chapel, standing in the ancient burying-ground of Keil. In his "Ecclesiological Notes" Mr. Muir observes, "Under an overhanging rock, close by on the roadside, is St. Columba's Well, and on the top of a hillock, overlooking the west end of the burial ground there is a flat rock bearing on its top the impress of two feet, made, it seems, by those of the saint whilst he stood marking out and hallowing the spot on which his chapel should rest." In Bromfield parish, Cumberland, is a piece of granite rock called St. Cuthbert's Stane, and near it is a copious spring of remarkably pure water. Brand, in his "Popular Antiquities," says that "this spring, probably from its having been anciently dedicated to the same St. Cuthbert, is called Helly Well, i.e., Haly or Holy Well." Mr. R. C. Hope, in his "Holy Wells," refers to a block of stone near St. Madron's Spring, in Cornwall, locally known as St. Madron's Bed. We are told that "on it impotent folk reclined when they came to try the cold water cure." In the same parish is a pre-historic relic in the form of a granite block with a hole in the centre of it. It is known in Cornish as Mean-an-Tol, i.e., the Stone of the Hole. Its name in English is The Creeping Stone. Sickly children were at one time passed through the hole a certain number of times, in the belief that a cure would follow. This superstitious custom recalls what was at one time done beside St. Paul's Well, in the parish of Fyvie, Aberdeenshire. Close to the well were the ruins of an old church. One of its stones was supported on other two with a space below. It went by the name of The Shargar Stone--shargar signifying a weakly child. The stone, in this instance, got its name from the custom in the district of mothers passing their ailing children through the space below the stone, in the belief that whatever hindered their growth would thereby be removed. Mr. Hope recounts a tradition concerning Morwenstowe, in Devon, and its patron saint, Morwenna, to the effect that when the parishioners wished to build a church, Morwenna brought a large stone from the foot of the cliff to form the font. Feeling fatigued by the climb she laid down the stone to rest herself, and from the spot a spring gushed forth. On the top of green Dunfillan, in the parish of Comrie, is a rocky seat known in the district as Fillan's Chair. Here, according to tradition, the saint sat and gave his blessing to the country around. Towards the end of last century, and doubtless even later, this chair was associated with a superstitious remedy for rheumatism in the back. The person to be cured sat in the chair, and then, lying on his back, was dragged down the hill by the legs. The influence of the saint lingering about the spot was believed to insure recovery. St. Fillan's Spring, at the hill-foot, has already been referred to, in connection with its mysterious change of site. It was much frequented at one time by old and young, especially on 1st May and 1st August. The health seekers walked or were carried thrice round the spring from east to west, following the course of the sun. The next part of the ritual consisted in the use of the water for drinking and washing, in throwing a white stone on the saint's cairn, near the spring, and in leaving a rag as an offering before departing. In 1791 not fewer than seventy persons visited the spot at the dates mentioned. The writer of the article on Comrie in the "Old Statistical Account of Scotland" supplies these particulars, and adds, "At the foot of the hill there is a basin made by the saint on the top of a large stone, which seldom wants water, even in the greatest drought, and all who are distressed with sore eyes must wash them three times with this water." Fillan, to whom Comrie parish is thus so much indebted, flourished about the sixth century, and must not be confounded with the other missionary of the same name, who dwelt more than a century later, in the straths of the Fillan and the Dochart, between Tyndrum and Killin. Concerning the former, Dr. Skene writes in his "Celtic Scotland": "Fillan, called Anlobar or 'the leper,' whose day is 20th June, is said in the Irish calendar to have been of Rath Erenn in Alban, or the fort of the Earn in Scotland, and St. Fillans, at the east end of Loch Earn, takes its name from him; while the church of Aberdour, on the northern shore of the Firth of Forth, is also dedicated to him." The other Fillan had his Chapel and Holy Pool halfway between Tyndrum and Crianlarich. He is also connected with Fife. At Pittenweem, in that county, his cave is to be seen, and in it is his holy well, supplied with water from crevices in the rock. At the mill of Killin, in Perthshire, once stood a block of stone, known as St. Fillan's Chair. Close to the spot flows the Dochart, and some person or persons, whose muscles were stronger than their antiquarian instincts, sought not unsuccessfully to throw the relic into the river. The Renfrewshire parish of Killallan, united in 1760 to that of Houston, got its name from Fillan. Its ancient church, now ruined, was dedicated to him. Near the ruins, are a stone with a hollow in it and a spring, called respectively St. Fillan's Seat and St. Fillan's Well. About two miles and a half to the south-east of Dunfermline, is a block of stone, believed to be the last remnant of a group of pre-historic Standing Stones. According to tradition, it was used by Queen Margaret, as a seat where she rested, when on her way to and from the ferry over the Forth. A farm in the immediate neighbourhood is called St. Margaret's Stone Farm, after the block in question. In his "Annals of Dunfermline" Dr. Henderson says, "In 1856 this stone was removed to an adjacent site, by order of the road surveyor, in order to widen the road which required no widening, as no additional traffic was likely to ensue, but the reverse; it is therefore much to be regretted that the old landmark was removed. It is in contemplation to have the old stone replaced on its old site (as nearly as possible) and made to rest, with secure fixings, on a massive base or plinth stone." Not far from the town of Cromarty is St. Bennet's Spring, beside the ruins of St. Bennet's Chapel. Close to the spot once stood a stone trough, termed The Fairies' Cradle. Hugh Miller, in his "Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland," says that this trough was "famous for virtues derived from the saint, like those of the well. For, if a child was carried away by the fairies and some mischievous imp left in its place, the parents had only to lay the changeling in this trough, and, by some invisible process, their child would be immediately restored to them. The Fairies' Cradle came to a sudden end about the year 1745. It was then broken to pieces by the parish minister, with the assistance of two of his elders, that it might no longer serve the purposes of superstition." The following, from the Rev. Dr. Gregor's "Folklore of the North-East of Scotland," has certainly nothing to do with a saint, but in other respects, has a bearing on the subject in hand:--"The Pot o' Pittenyoul is a small but romantic rock-pool in a little stream called the 'Burn o' the Riggins,' which flows past the village of Newmills of Keith. On the edge of the pool are some hollows worn away by the water and the small stones and sand carried down by the stream. These hollows to a lively imagination have the shape of a seat, and the story is, that the devil, at some far-back time, sat down on the edge of the pool and left his mark." Probably at an equally distant date, the devil made his presence felt, further south, though in a different way. He had great objections to a church built at Invergowrie, in Perthshire, and, in order to knock it down, hurled a huge boulder across the Tay from the opposite coast of Fife. We are not aware that the stone struck the church. At any rate it can be seen in the grounds of Greystane, a property to which, according to local tradition, it gave name. Sir William Wallace, though never canonized, had certainly more of the saint about him than the last-mentioned personage. We find various traditions concerning him in the Upper Ward of Lanarkshire. His connection with Lanark is well known. At Biggar, he is said, by Blind Harry, to have defeated the English, who greatly outnumbered his forces. This battle took place on Biggar Moss. A few days before the fight, he entered the enemy's camp, disguised as a cadger or pedlar, to discover the strength of the English army. Being pursued, he turned on his assailants while crossing a bridge over Biggar Water, a little to the west of the town. A foot-bridge there still goes by the name of The Cadger's Bridge. A rock with a hollow in it, lying to the north of Vizzyberry, is locally styled Wallace's Seat, and a spring near the spot is still known as Wallace's Well. CHAPTER VI. HEALING AND HOLY WELLS. Healing and Holy--Modern Health-resorts--King's Ease--Poorhouse of Ayr--Muswell--St. Martin's Chapel--Alum Wells--Petrifying Springs--Peterhead--Moss of Melshach--Well of Spa--Chapel Wells at Kirkmaiden--Medan--St. Catherine's Balm Well--The Sciennes--St. Bernard's Well--Non-mineral Wells--Early Saints--Water for Discipline--For Baptism--Burghead--Lough Shanan--Tobar-an-easbuig--Poetry and Superstition--Heljabrün--Trinity Hospital and Well--St. Mungo's Well--Fuaran n'Gruarach--Spring in Athole--Fiddler's Well--Water as a Prophylactic. Healing and holy have an etymological kinship. The one is commonly associated with matters relating to the body, and the other with those relating to the soul. If the body is healed, it is said to be whole and its owner hale; and if the soul is healed, it is said to be holy. All these words have one idea in common, and hence we need not wonder that healing wells were, as a rule, reckoned holy wells, and vice versa. When speaking of the virtues of such wells, Mrs. Stone, in her "God's Acre," puts the point exactly, if somewhat quaintly, when she says, "Before chemistry was born, when medical science was little known, these medical virtues, so plainly and indisputably ostensible, were attributed to the beneficence of the saint or angel to whom the spring had been dedicated." Many still go to Moffat, Bridge-of-Allan, and Strathpeffer to drink the waters, but probably, none of those health-seekers now rely on magic for a cure. It was quite otherwise in former times. Cures wrought at Lourdes are still believed, by many, to be due to the blessing of the water by the Virgin Mary. Not far from the highway between Ayr and Prestwick once stood a lazar-house called King's Ease or King's Case, known in the sixteenth century as Kilcaiss. Its ruins were to be seen till well on in the present century. According to tradition, the hospital was founded for lepers by King Robert Bruce, who was himself afflicted with a disease believed to be leprosy. This was done as a thank-offering, for benefit received from the water of a neighbouring well. The spring was doubtless sacred to some saint, probably to Ninian, to whom the hospital was dedicated, and we can safely infer that the patron got the credit of the cure. To maintain the lepers the king gifted various lands to the hospital, among others, those of Robertlone, in Dundonald parish, and of Sheles and Spital-Sheles, in Kyle Stewart. The right of presentation to the hospital was vested in the family of Wallace of Craigie. At a later date the lands belonging to the charity passed into other hands. In the third volume of his "Caledonia," published in 1824, Chalmers remarks, "The only revenue that remained to it was the feu-duties payable from the lands granted in fee-firm, and these, amounting to 64 bolls of meal and 8 marks Scots of money, with 16 threaves of straw for thatching the hospital, are still paid. For more than two centuries past the diminished revenue has been shared among eight objects of charity in equal shares of 8 bolls of meal and 1 mark Scots to each. The leprosy having long disappeared, the persons who are now admitted to the benefit of this charity are such as labour under diseases which are considered as incurable, or such as are in indigent circumstances." In the time of Charles I., the persons enjoying the benefit of the charity lived in huts or cottages in the vicinity of the chapel. In 1787 the right of presentation was bought from the Wallaces by the burgh of Ayr, and the poorhouse there is thus the lineal descendant of King Robert's hospital. Mr. R. C. Hope, in his "Holy Wells," alludes to the interesting fact that Bruce had a free pass from the English king to visit Muswell, near London, close to the site of the Alexandra Palace. This well, dedicated to St. Lazarus, at one time belonged to the hospital order of St. John's, Clerkenwell, and was resorted to in cases of leprosy. Bruce's foundation at Ayr recalls another at Stony Middleton, in Derbyshire. The latter, however, was a chapel, and not a hospital. Tradition says that a crusader, belonging to the district, was cured of leprosy by means of the mineral water there, and that in gratitude he built a chapel and dedicated it to his patron saint, Martin. In glancing at the history of holy wells, it is not difficult to understand why certain springs were endowed with mysterious properties. When there were no chemists to analyse mineral springs, anyone tasting the water would naturally enough think that there was something strange about it, a notion that would not vanish with the first draught. The wonder, too, would grow if the water was found to put fresh vigour into wearied frames. Alum wells, like the one in Carnwath parish, Lanarkshire, would, through their astringent qualities, arrest attention. A well at Halkirk, Caithness, must have been a cause of wonder, if we judge by the description given of it in the "Old Statistical Account of Scotland," where we read, that "on its surface lies always a thin beautiful kind of substance, that varies like the plumage of the peacock displayed in all its glory to the rays of the sun." The petrifying power of certain springs would also tend to bring them into notice. There is a famous well of this kind near Tarras Water, in Canonbie parish, Dumfriesshire. In Kirkmaiden parish, Wigtownshire, is a dropping cave, known as Peter's Paps. In former times it was resorted to by persons suffering from whooping-cough. The treatment consisted in standing with upturned face below the drop, and allowing it to fall into the open mouth. For more than two centuries and a half, the mineral waters of Peterhead have been famous for both internal and external use, though their fame is not now so great as formerly. Towards the end of the seventeenth century, they were spoken of as one of the six wonders of Buchan. The principal well is situated to the south of the town, and is popularly called the Wine Well. Its water is strongly impregnated with carbonic acid, muriate of iron, muriate of lime, and muriate of soda. The chalybeate spring in the Moss of Melshach, in Kennethmont parish, had at one time a considerable local reputation for the cure of man and beast. Clothes of the former and harness of the latter were left beside the well. Visits were paid to it in the month of May. Another Aberdeenshire health-resort formerly attracted many visitors, viz., Pannanich, near Ballater, with its four chalybeate springs. These are said to have been accidentally discovered, about the middle of last century, but were then probably only rediscovered. They were at first found beneficial in the case of scrofula, and were afterwards deemed infallible in all diseases. In his "Antiquities and Scenery of the North of Scotland," Cordiner, under date 1776, writes: "In coming down these hilly regions, stopped the first night at 'Pananach-lodge:' an extensive building opposite to the strange rocks and pass of Bolliter. There, a mineral well and baths, whose virtues have been often experienced, are become much frequented by the infirm. The lodge, containing a number of bed-chambers, and a spacious public room, is fitted up for the accommodation of those who come to take the benefit of the waters. Goat whey is also there obtained in the greatest perfection." Almost a century later, another visitor to the spot, viz., Queen Victoria, thus writes, in her "More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in the Highlands": "I had driven with Beatrice to Pannanich wells, where I had been many years ago. Unfortunately, almost all the trees which covered the hills have been cut down. We got out and tasted the water, which is strongly impregnated with iron, and looked at the bath and at the humble, but very clean, accommodation in the curious little old inn, which used to be very much frequented." The Well of Spa, at Aberdeen, was more famous in former times than it is now. There are two springs, both of them chalybeate. The amount of iron in the water, however, diminished very considerably more than fifty years ago--a change due to certain digging operations in the neighbourhood. The present structure connected with the well was renovated in 1851. It was built in 1670 to replace an earlier one, repaired by George Jamieson, the artist, but soon afterwards completely demolished by the overflowing of the adjoining Denburn. The present building, according to Mr. A. Jervise, in the fourth volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," "bears representations of the Scottish Thistle, the Rose of England, and the Fleur-de-lis of France, surmounting this inscription:-- 'As heaven gives me So give I thee.' Below these words is a carving of the rising sun, and the following altered quotation from Horace:-- 'Hoc fonte derivata Salus In patriam populumque fluat.' "It appears," continues Mr. Jervise, "that the virtues of this Spa were early known and appreciated, for in 1615 record says that there was 'a long wyde stone which conveyed the waters from the spring, with the portraicture of six Apostles hewen upon either side thereof.' It is described as having then been 'verie old and worne.'" An unusual kind of holy well, viz., one, in which salt water takes the place of fresh, is to be found in the case of the Chapel Wells in Kirkmaiden parish, Wigtownshire, half way between the bays of Portankill and East Tarbet. About thirty yards to the north-west are the ruins of St. Medan's Chapel, partly artificial and partly natural, a cave forming the inner portion. In days gone by, the spot was much frequented on the first Sunday of May (O.S.), called Co' Sunday, after this cave or cove. Dr. Robert Trotter, who examined the chapel and the wells in 1870, gives the results of the observations in the eighth volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland" (new series). He says, "These wells--three natural cavities in a mass of porphyritic trap--are within the tide mark, and are filled by the sea at high water of ordinary tides. The largest is circular, five feet in diameter at the top, and four feet at one side, shelving down to five feet at the other, and is wider inside than at the top, something like a kailpot in fact, and it is so close to the edge of the rock that at one place its side is not two inches thick. The other wells almost touch it, and are about one foot six inches wide and deep respectively." Sickly children were brought to be bathed, the time selected being just before sunrise. Dr. Trotter mentions that children are still brought occasionally, sometimes from long distances. The ceremony described to him by an eyewitness was as follows:--"The child was stripped naked, and taken by the spaul--that is, by one of the legs--and plunged headforemost into the big well till completely submerged; it was then pulled out, and the part held on by was dipped in the middle well, and then the whole body was finished by washing the eyes in the smallest one, altogether very like the Achilles and Styx business, only much more thorough. An offering was then left in the old chapel, on a projecting stone inside the cave behind the west door, and the cure was complete." Much uncertainty attaches to Medan or Medana, the tutelar saint of the spot. One legend makes her a contemporary of Ninian. According to another, she lived about one hundred years later. Dr. Skene thinks she is probably the same as Monenna, otherwise Edana, who is said to have founded churches in Galloway, and at Edinburgh, Stirling and Longforgan. Kirkmaiden parish, at one time called Kirkmaiden in Ryndis, is believed to be named after her, like the other parish known as Kirkmaiden in Farnes, now united to the parish of Glasserton. An incident in her history has a bearing on the present subject. According to the Aberdeen Breviary, she fled from her home in Ireland to escape from the importunities of a certain noble knight who sought to marry her. Accompanied by two handmaidens, she crossed to Galloway and took up her abode in the Rhinns. The knight followed her. When Medana saw him she placed herself along with her maidens on a rock in the sea. By a miracle, this rock became a boat, and she was conveyed over the water to Farnes. Again the knight appeared. This time Medana sought refuge among the branches of a tree, and, from this coign of vantage, asked her lover what it was that made him pursue her so persistently. "Your face and eyes," replied the knight. Thereupon Medana plucked out her eyes and threw them down at the feet of her lover, who was so filled with grief and penitence that he immediately departed. On the spot where her eyes fell a spring of water gushed forth, and in it Medana washed her face, doubtless thereby restoring her sight. There is much to favour the view taken by Dr. Trotter: that "possibly the well was the original institution; the cave a shelter or dwelling for the genius who discovered the miraculous virtues of the water, and his successors; and the chapel a later edition for the benefit of the clergy, who supplanted the old religion by grafting Christianity upon it, St. Medana being a still later institution." St. Catherine's Balm Well, at Liberton, near Edinburgh, is still considered beneficial in the treatment of cutaneous affections. The spring is situated on a small estate, called after it, St. Catherine's. Peter Swave, who visited Scotland in 1535, on a political mission, mentions that near Edinburgh there was a spot in a monastery where oil flowed out of the ground. This was his way of describing the Balm Well. Bitumenous particles, produced by decomposition of coal in seams beneath, intermittently appear on the surface of the water. This curious phenomenon must have attracted attention at a very early period, and one can easily understand why the well was in consequence regarded with superstitious reverence. When speaking of this well, Brome, who visited Scotland about 1700, observes, "It is of a marvellous nature, for as the coal whereof it proceeds is very apt quickly to kindle into a flame, so is the oil of a sudden operation to heal all scabs and tumours that trouble the outward skin; and the head and hands are speedily healed by virtue of this oil, which retains a very sweet smell." According to Boece, the fountain sprang from a drop of oil, brought to Queen Margaret of Scotland, from the tomb of St. Catherine on Mount Sinai. The same writer mentions that Queen Margaret built a chapel to St. Catherine, in the neighbourhood of the spring. In 1504 an offering was made by James IV. in this chapel, described as "Sanct Kathrine's of the oly, i.e., oily well." The later history of the spring is thus referred to by Sir Daniel Wilson, in his "Memorials of Edinburgh in the Olden Time": "When James VI. returned to Scotland, in 1617, he visited the well, and commanded it to be enclosed with an ornamental building with a flight of steps to afford ready access to the healing waters; but this was demolished by the soldiers of Cromwell, and the well now remains enclosed with plain stone-work, as it was partially repaired at the Restoration." About three miles to the north of the well, once stood the Convent of St. Catherine of Sienna--a religious foundation which gave name to the part of Edinburgh still called "The Sciennes." What Sir Daniel Wilson describes as "an unpicturesque fragment of the ruins" served to the middle of the present century, and perhaps, even later, as a sheep-fold for the flocks pasturing in the adjoining meadow. Lord Cockburn, in his "Memorials of His Time," mentions that in his boyhood, about 1785, "a large portion of the building survived." Before the Reformation the nuns of this convent walked annually in solemn procession to the Balm Well. The saints to whom the convent and the spring were respectively dedicated were, of course, not identical, though bearing the same name. The coincidence of name, however, evidently led to these yearly visits. As it may be taken for granted that the two Catherines were on friendly terms, the pilgrimages doubtless proved a benefit to all who took part in them. At any rate, it is safe to assume that the health of the pilgrims would be the better, and not the worse, for their walk in the fresh country air. In the valley below the Dean Bridge, Edinburgh, close to the Water of Leith, is the sulphur spring known as St. Bernard's Well--traditionally connected with Bernard the Abbot of Clairvaux. In his "Journey through Scotland," about 1793, Heron remarks: "The citizens of Edinburgh repaired eagerly to distant watering-places, without inquiring whether they might find medicinal water at home. But within these few years, Lord Gardenstone became proprietor of St. Bernard's Well. His lordship's philanthropy and public spirit suggested to him the possibility of rendering its waters more useful to the public. He has, at a very considerable expense, built a handsome Grecian edifice over the spring, in which the waters are distributed by a proper person, and at a very trifling price. His lordship's endeavours have accomplished his purpose. The citizens of Edinburgh are now persuaded that these waters are salutary in various cases; and have, particularly, a singular tendency to give a good breakfasting appetite; in consequence of which, old and young, males and females, have, for these two or three last summers, crowded to pay their morning respects to Hygeia in the chapel which Lord Gardenstone has erected to her." The last allusion is to a statue of Hygeia placed within the building on its erection, in 1789. The goddess of health, however, eventually showed signs of decrepitude; and, about a hundred years later, the original statue was replaced by one in marble through the liberality of the late Mr. William Nelson, who also restored the pump-room and made the surroundings more attractive. Coming next to consider the case of springs not possessing medicinal qualities, in other words, such as have no taste save that of clear and sparkling water, we find here, too, many a trace of superstition. Springs of this kind were probably holy wells first, and then healing wells. We have already seen that, in a large number of instances, fountains became sacred through their connection with early saints. It usually happened that the Christian missionary took up his abode near some fountain, or river, whence he could get a supply of water for his daily needs. In later times the well or stream was endowed with miraculous properties. Water was also used for purposes of bodily discipline. It was a practice among some of the early saints to stand immersed in it while engaged in devotion. The colder the water, the better was it for the purpose. Special significance, too, was given to water through its connection with baptism, particularly when the rite was administered to persons who had only recently emerged from heathenism. At Burghead, in Elginshire, is an interesting rock-cut basin supplied with water from a spring. Burghead is known to have been the site of an early Christian church, and Dr. James Macdonald believes that the basin in question was anciently used as a baptistery. All trace of it, and well-nigh all memory of it, had vanished till the year 1809. Extensive alterations were then in progress at the harbour, and a scarcity of water was felt by the workmen. A hazy tradition about the existence of a well, where the ground sounded hollow when struck, was revived. Digging operations were begun, and, at a depth of between twenty and thirty feet below the surface, the basin was discovered. We quote the following details from Dr. Macdonald's article on the subject in the "Antiquary" for April, 1892:--"Descending into a hollow by a flight of twenty well-worn steps, most of them also hewn out of the solid rock, we come upon the reservoir. The dimensions of the basin or piscina are as follow--greatest breadth of the four sides, ten feet eight inches, eleven feet, ten feet ten inches, and ten feet seven inches respectively; depth, four feet four inches. One part of the smooth bottom had been dug up at the time of the excavations, either because it had projected above the rest, as if for some one to stand upon, or because it was thought that by doing so the capacity of the well and perhaps the supply of the water would be increased. Between the basin and the perpendicular sides of the reservoir a small ledge of sandstone has been left about two feet six inches in breadth. These sides measure sixteen feet three inches, sixteen feet seven inches, sixteen feet nine inches, and seventeen feet respectively; and the height from the ledge upwards is eleven feet nine inches. The angles, both of the basin and its rock walls, are well rounded. In one corner the sandstone has been left in the form of a semi-circular pedestal, measuring two feet nine inches by one foot ten inches, and one foot two inches in height; whilst in that diagonally opposite there is a circular hole, five inches in diameter and one foot four inches in depth. From the ledge, as you enter, two steps of irregular shape and rude workmanship lead down into the basin. The sides of the reservoir are fissured and rent by displacement of the strata; and portions of the rock, that have given way from time to time, have been replaced by modern masonry. The arched roof is also modern." An Irish legend accounts for the origin of Lough-shanan, in County Clare, by connecting it with the baptism of Senanus, from whom it derived its name. "The saint, while still an infant, was miraculously gifted with speech and told his mother to pluck three rushes in a valley near her home. When this was done, a lake appeared, and in it Senanus was baptised according to a form of words prescribed by himself." In the eighth volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland" (new series), Sir Daniel Wilson gives an account of the ancient burying-ground of Kilbride, some three miles from Oban. "I had visited the venerable cemetery repeatedly," he tells us, "and had carefully investigated its monuments, without heeding the sacred fountain which wells up among the bracken and grass, about a dozen yards from the gate of the churchyard, and flows in a stream down the valley. Yet, on inquiry, I learned that it was familiarly known as Tober-an-easbuig, i.e., The Bishop's Well or The Holy Well. Here, as we may presume, the primitive missionary and servant of St. Bridget, by whom Christianity was introduced into the wild district of Lorne, baptised his first converts; and here, through many succeeding generations, the neophytes were signed with the sign of the cross, and taught the mystic significance of the holy rite." The thoughts suggested by the sight of a crystal spring are alluded to by Mr. Hunt in his "Romances of the West of England," where he says, "The tranquil beauty of the rising waters, whispering the softest music, like the healthful breathing of a sleeping infant, sends a feeling of happiness through the soul of the thoughtful observer, and the inner man is purified by its influence, as the outer man is cleansed by ablution." This is the poetic view; but the superstitious view is not far to seek. In the "Home of a Naturalist," Mrs. Saxby thus recounts a Shetland superstition of a gruesome kind:--"There is a fine spring well near Watlie, called Heljabrün, and the legend of it is this: A wandering packman (of the Claud Halcro class) was murdered and flung into Heljabrün. Its water had always been known to possess healing power, and, after becoming seasoned by the unfortunate pedlar's remains, the virtue in the water became even more efficacious. People came from far and near to procure the precious fluid. All who took it away had to throw three stones or a piece of 'white money' into the well, and the water never failed to cure disease." On Soutra Hill, the most westerly ridge of the Lammermoors, once stood the hospital built by Malcolm IV., about 1164, for the reception of wayfarers. It was dedicated to the Holy Trinity. Every vestige of the building was removed between forty and fifty years ago except a small aisle, appropriated in the seventeenth century by the Pringles of Beatman's Acre as a burial vault. A short distance below the site of the hospital is a spring of pure water, locally known as Trinity Well. In former times it was much visited for its healing virtues. A similar reputation was for long enjoyed by St. Mungo's Well, on the west side of St. Mungo's Hill, in the parish of Huntly, Aberdeenshire. In Fortingall parish, Perthshire, on the hillside near the Old Castle of Garth, is a limpid spring called by the natives Fuaran n' Gruarach, and also Fuaran n' Druibh Chasad, signifying the Well of the Measles and the Well of the Whooping-Cough respectively. Mr. James Mackintosh Gow describes the locality in an article in the eighth volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland" (new series). He says, "It was famous in the district for the cure of these infantile diseases, and nearly all I spoke to on the subject had themselves been taken to the well, or had taken their own children to drink the water; and when an epidemic of the maladies occurred my informant remarked on the curious and amusing spectacle the scene presented on a summer morning, when groups of children, with their mothers, went up the hill in procession. The last epidemic of whooping-cough occurred in 1882, when all the children of the neighbourhood were taken to the well." Some forty yards higher up the slope than the well, is an earth-fast boulder of mica schist, having on one of its sides two natural cavities. The larger of these holds about a quart and is usually filled with rain water. "It was the custom," Mr. Gow tells us, "to carry the water from the well (perhaps the well was at one time at the foot of the stone) and place it in the cavity, and then give the patients as much as they could take, the water being administered with a spoon made from the horn of a living cow, called a beodhare or living horn; this, it appears, being essential to effect a cure." On the farm of Balandonich, in Athole, is a spring famous, till a comparatively recent period, for the cure of various maladies. A story is told in the district of a woman, unable to walk through rheumatism, having been brought in a wheel-barrow from her home four miles away. She bathed her limbs in the spring, and returned home on foot. Hugh Miller, in his "Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland," recounts a tradition concerning a certain spring near the town of Cromarty known as Fiddler's Well, from the name of the young man who discovered its virtues. The water gushes out from the side of a bank covered with moss and daisies. The tradition, considerably abbreviated, is as follows:--William Fiddler and a companion were seized with consumption at the same time. The latter died not long afterwards, and Fiddler, though wasted to a shadow, was able to follow his friend's body to the grave. That night, in a dream, he heard the voice of his dead companion, who told him to meet him at a certain spot in the neighbourhood of the town. Thither he went, still in his dream, and seated himself on a bank to await his coming. Then, remembering that his friend was dead, he burst into tears. "At this moment a large field-bee came humming from the west and began to fly round his head.... It hummed ceaselessly round and round him, until at length its murmurings seemed to be fashioned into words, articulated in the voice of his deceased companion--'Dig, Willie, and drink!' it said, 'Dig, Willie, and drink!' He accordingly set himself to dig, and no sooner had he torn a sod out of the bank than a spring of clear water gushed from the hollow." Next day he took the bee's advice. He found a spring, drank the water, and regained his health. Hugh Miller adds, "its virtues are still celebrated, for though the water be only simple water it must be drunk in the morning, and as it gushes from the bank; and, with pure air, exercise, and early rising for its auxiliaries, it continues to work cures." We need not multiply examples of non-mineral healing wells. Whatever benefit may be derived from them cannot be ascribed to any specially medicinal quality in their waters. The secret of their popularity is to be sought for in the annals of medical folklore, and not in those of scientific medicine. Certain springs got the credit of warding off disease. On the island of Gigha, near the west coast of Kintyre, is a farm called Ardachad or High Field. Tradition says that a plague once visited the island, but that the people, belonging to the farm, escaped its ravages. This immunity was ascribed to the good offices of a well, in an adjoining field. The high situation of the farm and the presence of good water would tend to prolong health, without the intervention of magic. The Rev. Dr. Gregor, in his "Folklore of the North-East of Scotland," alludes to St. Olaus' Well in Cruden parish, Aberdeenshire. Its virtues are recorded in the couplet-- "St. Olav's Well, low by the sea Where peat nor plague shall never be." On the top of the Touch Hills, in Stirlingshire, rises St. Corbet's Spring. The belief formerly prevailed that whoever drank its water before sunrise on the first Sunday of May would have life prolonged for another year. As a consequence, crowds flocked to the spot early on the day in question. In 1840 some old people were still living who, in their younger days, had taken part in these annual pilgrimages. In mediæval times, the belief prevailed that no one baptised with the water of Trinity Gask Well, Perthshire, would be attacked by the plague. When water for baptism was drawn from some holy well in the neighbourhood, its use, in most instances, was doubtless due to a belief in its prophylactic power. As already mentioned, baptisms in St. Machar's Cathedral, Old Aberdeen, were at one time administered in water taken from the saint's spring. Before the Reformation the water used at the chapel of Airth, in Stirlingshire, is believed to have been procured from a well, dedicated to the Virgin, near Abbeyton Bridge. We do not know of any spring in Scotland with a reputation for the prevention of hydrophobia. St. Maelrubha's Well, on Innis Maree, is said to have lost its efficacy for a time through contact with a mad dog. What happened, when a mad bull was plunged into the Holy Pool at Strathfillan, will be alluded to later. In the village of Les Saintes Maries, in the south of France, is an interesting twelfth-century church with a well in the crypt. The water, when drunk, is said to prevent any evil consequences from the bite of a mad dog. Mr. E. H. Barker gives an account of this well in his "Wayfaring in France." He says, "The curé told me that about thirty people, who had been bitten by dogs said to be rabid, came annually to drink the water; and, he added, 'not one of them has ever gone mad.' M. Pasteur had become a formidable rival of the well." CHAPTER VII. WATER-CURES. Trying different Springs--Curing all Diseases--Fivepennies Well --Water and Dulse--Special Diseases--Toothache--Sore Eyes-- Blindness--Headaches and Nervous Disorders--Deafness-- Whooping-cough--Gout--Sores--Ague--Sterility--Epilepsy-- Sacrifice of a Cock--St. Tegla's Well--Insanity--Severe Treatment --Innis-Maree--Struthill--Teampull-Mòr--Hol y Pool--Fillan's History and Relics--Persistence of Superstition. Some people apply to different doctors in succession, in the hope that new professional advice may bring the coveted boon of health. For the same reason visits were paid to different consecrated wells. On the principle that "far fowls have fair feathers," a more or less remote spring was resorted to, in the hope that distance might lend special enchantment to its water. Certain springs had the reputation of healing every ailment. A spring of this kind is what Martin calls "a catholicon for all diseases." He so styles various springs in the Western Isles, and one in the Larger Cumbrae in the Firth of Clyde. Fivepennies Well, in Eigg, had some curious properties. "The natives told me," he says, "that it never fails to cure any person of their first disease, only by drinking a quantity of it for the space of two or three days; and that if a stranger lie at this well in the night-time, it will procure a deformity in some part of his body, but has no such effect on a native; and this, they say, hath been frequently experimented." A noted fountain in the Orkney group was the well of Kildinguie in the Island of Stronsay. It is situated not far from the beach. To reach it one has to walk over a long stretch of sand. Its fame at one time spread over the Scandinavian world, and even Denmark sent candidates for its help. Besides drinking the water, health-seekers frequently ate some of the dulse to be found on the shore. A local saying thus testified to the advantages of the combined treatment: "The well of Kildinguie and the dulse of Guiyidn can cure all maladies except black death." In the Island of Skye is a spring called Tobar Tellibreck. The natives, at one time, held that its water, along with a diet of dulse, would serve for a considerable time instead of ordinary food. Other springs were resorted to for particular complaints. Toothache is distressingly common, and commonly distressing; but, strange to say, very few wells are specially identified with the ailment. Indeed, we know of only three toothache wells in Scotland. One is in Strathspey, and is known as Fuaran Fiountag, signifying the cool refreshing spring. The second is in the parish of Kenmore, at the foot of Loch Tay. The third is in Glentruim, in Inverness-shire. Another well at Kenmore was resorted to for the cure of sore eyes. In the parish of Glass, close to the river Deveron, is an ancient church dedicated to St. Wallach. Some thirty yards below its burying-ground is a well, now dry, except in very rainy weather. Its water had the power of healing sore eyes. The water of St. John's Well, at Balmanno, in the parish of Marykirk, Kincardineshire, was a sovereign remedy for the same complaint. Beside the road close to the farmhouse of Wester Auchleskine, at Balquhidder, in Perthshire, once stood a large boulder containing a natural cavity. The water in this hollow was also noted for the cure of sore eyes--the boulder being called in consequence Clach-nan-Sul, i.e., the stone of the eyes. In 1878, by order of the road trustees, the boulder was blasted, on the ground that it was a source of danger to vehicles in the dark, and its fragments were used as road metal. The Dow Well, at Innerleithen, was formerly much visited for the restoration of weak sight. A well in Cornwall, dedicated to St. Ludvan, miraculously quickened the sense of sight. In Ireland, a spring at Gougou Barra, between Glengariff and Cork, is believed by the peasantry to cure blindness. In 1849, Miss Bessie Gilbert, a daughter of the late Bishop Gilbert of Chichester, who had lost her sight when a child, visited the spring along with some of her relatives. Curiosity, however, was her only motive. Her biographer relates that "the guide besought Bessie in the most earnest and pathetic manner to try the water, saying that he was sure it would restore her sight, and entreating her brothers and sisters to urge her to make use of it." Headaches and nervous disorders were cured by water from Tobar-nim-buadh or the Well of Virtues in St. Kilda. Deafness was also cured by it. At the entrance to Munlochy Bay, in the Black Isle of Cromarty, is a cave known in the neighbourhood as Craig-a-Chow, i.e., the Rock of Echo. Tradition says that in this cave a giant once lived. If not the retreat of a giant, it was, at any rate, of smugglers. What specially concerns us is that it contains a dripping well, formerly much in request. Its water is particularly cold. Like the St. Kilda spring, it was believed to remove deafness. Of Whooping-cough Wells, a noted one was at Straid, in Muthill parish, Perthshire. Invalids came to it from considerable distances. Early in the present century a family travelled from Edinburgh to seek its aid. The water was drunk immediately after sunset or before sunrise, and a horn from a live ox had to convey it to the patient's lips. This was not an uncommon practice. Perhaps it may have been due to some vague notion, that life from the animal, whence the horn came, would be handed on, via the spoon and the water, to the invalid. The Straid horn was kept by a woman in the immediate neighbourhood, who acted as a sort of priestess of the well. A well at the Burn of Oxhill, in the parish of Rathven, Banffshire, had a local celebrity for the cure of the same complaint. Sufferers from gout tried the efficacy of a spring in Eckford parish, Roxburghshire, styled Holy Well or Priest's Well. A spring in the churchyard of Logiepert parish, Forfarshire, removed sores, and another in Martin's Den, in the same parish, was reckoned anti-scorbutic. Another noted Forfarshire spring was in Kirkden parish, with the reputation of curing swellings of the feet and legs. Lochinbreck Loch, in Balmaghie parish, Kirkcudbrightshire, was visited from time immemorial for the cure of ague. Indeed, there was hardly a bodily ailment that could not be relieved by the water of some consecrated spring. Springs were sometimes believed to cure female barrenness. Wives, anxious to become mothers, formerly visited such wells as those of St. Fillan at Comrie, and of St. Mary at Whitekirk, and in the Isle of May. In this connection, Mr. J. R. Walker, in his article in the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," volume v. (new series), observes, "Many of the wells dedicated to 'Our Lady,' i.e., St. Mary (Virgin Mary) and to St. Brigid, the Mary of Ireland, were famous for the cure of female sterility, which, in the days when a man's power and influence in the land depended on the number of his clan or tribe, was looked upon as a token of the divine displeasure, and was viewed by the unfortunate spouses with anxious apprehension, dread, doubt, jealousy, and pain. Prayer and supplication were obviously the methods pursued by the devout for obtaining the coveted gift of fertility, looked upon, by females especially, as the most valuable of heavenly dispensations; and making pilgrimages to wells under the patronage of the Mother of our Lord would naturally be one of the most common expedients." Epilepsy, with its convulsions and cries, seldom fails to arrest attention and call forth sympathy. In times less enlightened than our own, the disease was regarded with awe as of supernatural origin; and remedies, always curious and sometimes revolting, were tried in order to bring relief. We may assume that the water of consecrated springs was used for this purpose; but, as far as we know, no Scottish fountain was systematically visited by epileptic patients. After enumerating a variety of folk-cures for the disease in question, Sir Arthur Mitchell, in an article on Highland Superstitions bearing on Lunacy in the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," volume iv., remarks, "For the cure of the same disease, there is still practised in the North of Scotland a formal sacrifice--not an oblique but a literal and downright sacrifice--to a nameless but secretly acknowledged power, whose propitiation is desired. On the spot where the epileptic first falls a black cock is buried alive, along with a lock of the patient's hair and some parings of his nails. I have seen at least three epileptic idiots for whom this is said to have been done." The same writer adds, "Dr. G----, of N----, informs me that some time ago he was called on to visit a poor man belonging to the fishing population who had suddenly died, and who had been subject to epileptic seizures. His friends told the doctor that at least they had the comfort of knowing that everything had been done for him which could have been done. On asking what remedies they had tried, he was told that, among other things, a cock had been buried alive below his bed, and the spot was pointed out." This sacrifice of a cock in Scotland is of special significance, for it formed a distinctive feature of the ritual once in vogue in Wales at the village of Llandegla, Denbighshire. St. Tegla's Well there, was believed to possess peculiar virtue in curing epilepsy. Pennant gives a minute account of the ceremony as practised in his days. The following is a summary:--"About two hundred yards from the church rises a small spring. The patient washes his limbs in the well, makes an offering into it of fourpence, walks round it three times, and thrice repeats the 'Lord's Prayer.' These ceremonies are never begun till after sunset. If the afflicted be of the male sex, he makes an offering of a cock; if of the fair sex, a hen. The fowl is carried in a basket, first round the well, after that into the churchyard, when the same orisons and the same circumambulations are performed round the church. The votary then enters the church, gets under the communion table, lies down with the Bible under his or her head, is covered with the carpet or cloth, and rests there till break of day, departing after offering sixpence, and leaving the fowl in the church. If the bird dies, the cure is supposed to have been effected, and the disease transferred to the devoted victim." As regards the cock or hen, the ceremony in this case was quite as much a sacrifice as in the Scottish example. St. Tegla merely took the place of the pagan divinity who had been first in the field, and to whom offerings had been made. In former times, sacrificing a living animal was also resorted to occasionally to cure disease in cattle. An ox was buried alive in a pit, and the pit having been filled with earth, the other members of the herd were made to walk over the spot. In 1629, Isabel Young, spouse to George Smith, portioner of East Barnes, Haddingtonshire, was tried for witchcraft. From her indictment we learn that she was accused, inter alia, of having buried a "quick ox, with a cat and a quantity of salt," in a pit as a sacrifice to the devil, the truth being that a live ox had been so treated by her husband as a charm to cure his cattle, which were diseased. A remarkable circumstance bearing on this point is alluded to by Mr. A. W. Moore in his "Surnames and Place-names of the Isle of Man," under the heading of Cabbal-yn-Oural-Losht, i.e., Chapel of the Burnt Sacrifice. "This name," he tells us, "records a circumstance which took place in the nineteenth century, but which, it is to be hoped, was never customary in the Isle of Man. A farmer, who had lost a number of his sheep and cattle by murrain, burnt a calf as a propitiatory offering to the Deity on this spot, where a chapel was afterwards built. Such facts point to the same notion as that already indicated in connection with St. Tegla's Well, viz., that disease is due to some malignant being, whose favour is to be sought by the offering up of a living creature. In no department of medical science have methods of treatment changed more within recent years than in that of insanity. Enlightened views on the subject now prevail among the educated classes of society; and the old notion that a maniac can be restored to mental health by treating him like a criminal, or by administering a few shocks to his already excited nerves, is fortunately a thing of the past. At least it no longer holds sway in our lunatic asylums. In the minds of the ignorant and credulous, however, the old leaven still works. Lady Wilde, in her "Ancient Cures, Charms, and Usages of Ireland," alludes to a method of treatment in fashion till lately among the peasantry there. When anyone showed signs of insanity 'a witch-doctor' was called in. This potent individual sprinkled holy water about the room and over the patient; and after uttering certain incantations--understood by the by-standers to be 'Latin prayers'--proceeded to beat him with a stout cudgel. In the end the ravings of the lunatic ceased, or as it was put, "the devil was driven out of him." In Cornwall, at St. Nun's Well, the expulsive power of a new terror used to be tried. According to Carew, the modus operandi was as follows:--"The water running from St. Nun's Well fell into a square and enclosed walled plat, which might be filled at what depth they listed. Upon this wall was the frantic person put to stand, his back towards the pool, and from thence, with a sudden blow in the breast, tumbled headlong into the pond; where a strong fellow, provided for the nonce, took him and tossed him up and down, alongst and athwart the water, till the patient, by foregoing his strength, had somewhat forgot his fury. Then was he conveyed to the church, and certain masses said over him, upon which handling, if his right wits returned, St. Nun had the thanks; but if there appeared small amendment, he was bowsened again and again, while there remained in him any hope of life or recovery." North of the Tweed the treatment was hardly less soothing. When a lunatic was being rowed over to Innis Maree to drink the water of St. Maelrubha's Well there, he was jerked out of the boat by the friends who accompanied him. A rope had previously been tied round his waist, and by this he was pulled back into the boat; but before he could gather together his all-too-scattered wits, he was in the water again. As a rule this was done, not once or twice, but repeatedly, and in the case of both sexes. Such was the method up to a comparatively recent date. Pennant thus describes what was done in 1772:--"The patient is brought into the sacred island; is made to kneel before the altar, viz., the stump of a tree--where his attendants leave an offering in money; he is then brought to the well and sips some of the holy water; a second offering is made; that done, he is thrice dipped in the lake; and the same operation is repeated every day for some weeks." This towing after a boat to cure insanity was not an isolated instance. Early in the present century, the wife of a man living at Stromness in Orkney, went mad through the incantations of another female believed to be a witch. The man bethought him of the cure in question, and, out of love for his afflicted wife, dragged her several times up and down the harbour behind his boat. Mr. R. M. Fergusson, who mentions this case in his "Rambles in the Far North," says that the woman "bobbed about behind the boat like a cork, and remained as mad as ever." The well at Struthill, in Muthill parish, Perthshire, once had a considerable reputation for the cure of insanity. It was customary to tie patients at night to a stone near the spring, and recovery would follow if they were found loose in the morning. An adjoining chapel was ordered to be demolished in 1650 by the Presbytery of Auchterarder, on the ground of its being the scene of certain superstitious rites, but the spring continued to be visited till a much later date. At Teampull-mòr in Lewis, in addition to walking round the ruins, and being sprinkled with water from St. Ronan's Well, the insane person was bound and left all night in the chapel on the site of the altar. If he slept, he would recover; but if he remained awake, there was no hope of a cure. In the Struthill and Teampull-mòr instances, as well as that of Strathfillan mentioned below, the binding of the patient was an essential part of the treatment; and in two at least of the cases the loosening of the bonds was reckoned an omen of good. The mysterious loosening of bonds used to be an article of common belief. Dalyell, in his "Darker Superstitions of Scotland," remarks, "Animals were sometimes liberated supernaturally. In the Isle of Enhallow, a horse tied up at sunset would wander about through the night; and while the kirk session took cognisance of a suspected witch who had exercised her faculties on a cow, the animal, though firmly secured, was found to be free, and in their vicinity when the investigation closed." The Holy Pool of St. Fillan was famous for the cure of various diseases, but specially of insanity. It is referred to in "Marmion" as "St. Fillan's blessed well Whose springs can frenzied dreams dispel And the craz'd brain restore." It is not, however, a well, but a pool, in the river Fillan, about two miles lower down than Tyndrum. To correctly estimate the reverence paid to this sacred pool, we must glance at the influence, exerted by Fillan on the district during his life-time, and afterwards by means of his relics. The saint flourished in the early eighth century. He was born in Ireland. His father was Ferodach, and his mother was Kentigerna, daughter of a prince of Leinster. She afterwards came to Scotland and led the life of a recluse, on Inch Cailleach, an island in Loch Lomond. According to the Aberdeen Breviary, Fillan was born with a stone in his mouth, and was at once thrown into a lake where he was ministered to by angels for a year. He was then taken out and baptised by Bishop Ybarus, and at a later date received the monastic habit from Muna, otherwise called Mundus. Devoting himself to solitary meditation he built a cell close to Muna's monastery. On one occasion, a servant went to call him to supper, and looking through a chink in the wall, saw the saint busy writing, his uplifted left hand throwing light over the book in lieu of a candle. Whatever may be thought of the incident, few will deny its picturesqueness. In competent hands it might be made the subject of a striking picture. Fillan afterwards went to Lochalsh, where he dedicated a church to his uncle Congan, the founder of the monastery of Turriff, in Aberdeenshire. We next find Fillan in the principal scene of his missionary work, viz., in Glendochart, in that portion of the glen anciently called Siracht, and now Strathfillan. This area formed a separate parish till 1617, but was then united to the parish of Killin. Fillan arrived with seven serving clerics, and tradition says that he built his church at a spot miraculously pointed out to him. The neighbourhood was, and is full of interest. "Glendochart," writes Mr. Charles Stewart in "An Gaidheal," "is not celebrated for terrific mountain scenery like Glencoe or the Coolins, but has a grandeur of a different character. Lofty mountains, clothed, here in heather, there in green; cloudy shadows frequently flitting across their sides, and serried ridges of multiplied lines and forms of varied beauty, and along their sides strangely shaped stones and boulders of rocks deposited by the ancient glaciers. Along the strath there are stretches of water, its course broken occasionally by lochs; sometimes wending its way slowly and solemnly through green meadows, and anon rushing along as at the celebrated bridge of Dochart, at Killin, with fire and fury." The same writer mentions that three spots, where Fillan was wont to teach the natives of the Strath, are still pointed out, viz., at the upper end of Glendochart, where the priory was afterwards built, halfway down the glen at Dun-ribin, and at the lower end at Cnoc-a-bheannachd, i.e., Hill of the Blessing, near Killin. Fillan instructed the people in agriculture, and built mills for grinding corn. Out of compliment to him, the mill at Killin was idle on his festival, (Jan. 9th), as late as the middle of the present century. Indeed there was a superstition in the district that it would not be lucky to have it working on that day. Fillan also instituted fairs for the sale and barter of local produce. His fair is still held at Killin in January. The miraculous element in his history did not end with his life. He seems to have died somewhere about Lochearn, and his body was brought back to Glendochart, by way of Glen Ogle. When the bearers reached the point where Glendochart opens upwards and downwards, a dispute arose as to the destination of their burden. Some wished the saint's body to be buried at Killin and others at Strathfillan. Behold a marvel! When they could not agree, they found that instead of one coffin there were two, and so each party was satisfied. Robert Bruce's fight with the followers of Macdougall of Lorne took place near St. Fillan's Church, at a spot, afterwards named Dalrigh or the King's Field. On that occasion, an earnest prayer was addressed to the saint of the district, and through his intercession victory came to Bruce. So at least runs the legend. After his success at Bannockburn, the King in gratitude founded St. Fillan's Priory, in Strathfillan, and endowed it with the neighbouring lands of Auchtertyre, and with the sheep-grazing of Bein-mhannach or the Monk's Mountain, in Glenlyon. Indeed, if tradition speaks truth, Bruce had a double reason to be grateful to Fillan, for the victory at Bannockburn, was attributed to the presence in the Scottish camp, of a relic of the saint, said to be an arm-bone set in silver. The relic, however, as Dr. John Stuart shows, in the twelfth volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," was probably his Coig-gerach or pastoral staff, popularly, but erroneously called his Quigrich. It is said to have been kept at Auchlyne, in a chapel called Caipal-na-Faraichd, and when the chapel was burnt to have been rescued by a person, either then, or afterwards, called Doire or Dewar, whose descendants became its custodiers. The subsequent history of the relic is curious. In 1782 it was at Killin in the keeping of Malice Doire. In 1818 it was taken to Canada, where it remained for some sixty years. Through the patriotic zeal of Sir Daniel Wilson it was then sent back to Scotland, and now forms one of the treasures in the National Museum of Antiquities, at Edinburgh. The sanctity of Fillan thus distilled like a fertilising dew over the district of Glendochart. We need not, therefore, be surprised that, in days darker than our own, a thriving crop of superstitions was the result. It is certainly a striking testimony to the enduring influence of the saint, that the pool, believed to have been blessed by him, retained its fame till within the memory of persons still living. Possibly the pool was reverenced even before his time. Towards the end of last century, as many as two hundred persons were brought annually to the spot. The time selected was usually the first day of the quarter, (O.S.), and the immersion took place after sunset. The patients, with a rope tied round their waist, were thrown from the bank into the river. This was usually done thrice. According to previous instructions, they picked up nine stones from the bottom of the stream. After their dip they walked three times round three cairns in the immediate neighbourhood, and at each turn added a stone to the cairn. An English antiquary, who visited the spot in 1798, writes, "If it is for any bodily pain, fractured limb or sore, that they are bathing, they throw upon one of these cairns that part of their clothing which covered the part affected; also, if they have at home any beast that is diseased, they have only to bring some of the meal which it feeds upon and make it into paste with these waters, and afterwards give it to him to eat, which will prove an infallible cure; but they must likewise throw upon the cairn the rope or halter with which he was led. Consequently the cairns are covered with old halters, gloves, shoes, bonnets, nightcaps, rags of all sorts, kilts, petticoats, garters, and smocks. Sometimes they go as far as to throw away their halfpence." After the ceremony at the cairns the patient was led to the ruins of St. Fillan's Chapel, about half a mile away, and there tied to a stone with a hollow in it, large enough to receive the body, the unfortunate person being fastened down to a wooden framework. The patient was then covered with hay, and left in this condition all night. As at Struthill, if the bonds were found loose in the morning, he or she would recover; but if not, the case was counted hopeless, or at least doubtful. As the writer of the article on the parish, in the "New Statistical Account of Scotland," shrewdly observes, "The prospect of the ceremony, especially in a cold winter evening, might be a good test for persons pretending insanity." At the time when he wrote, viz., in 1843, the natives of the parish had ceased to believe in the efficacy of the holy pool, but it was still visited by invalids from a distance. It was usual, after the fastening process already described, to place St. Fillan's bell on the head of the patient by way of helping on the cure. This bell is quadrangular in shape. Its size and appearance are thus described by Dr. Joseph Anderson in his "Scotland in Early Christian Times": "It is an elegant casting of bronze, stands twelve inches high and measures nine by six inches wide at the mouth. The ends are flat, the sides bulging, the top rounded. In the middle of the top is the loop-like handle, terminating where it joins the bell in two dragonesque heads with open mouths." The bell weighs eight pounds fourteen ounces. In the fifteenth century the relic seems to have been held in special honour, for it graced the coronation of James IV. in 1488. After the Reformation, it was locked up for some time, to prevent its use for the superstitious purpose alluded to above. But, as a rule, it lay on a tombstone in the Priory graveyard, protected only by the reverence paid to it in the district. There was a belief that, if carried off, it would return of its own accord, ringing all the way. In 1798 this belief was put to a severe test, for in that year the English antiquary, already quoted, removed the relic. "In order," he says, "to ascertain the truth or falsehood of the ridiculous story of St. Fillan's bell, I carried it off with me, and mean to convey it, if possible, to England. An old woman, who observed what I was about, asked me what I wanted with the bell, and I told her that I had an unfortunate relation at home out of his mind, and that I wanted to have him cured. 'Oh, but,' says she, 'you must bring him here to be cured, or it will be of no use.' Upon which I told her he was too ill to be moved, and off I galloped with the bell back to Tyndrum Inn." The bell was taken to England. About seventy years later, its whereabouts was discovered, and it was sent back to Scotland. Like the crozier of the same saint, it is now in the Antiquarian Museum at Edinburgh. If we may believe a local tradition, the Holy Pool lost its miraculous virtue in the following manner, though, after what the English antiquary mentioned about its water being mixed with meal, and given to diseased cattle, we see no reason why it should have been so particular. A farmer who had a mad bull thought that, if the sacred water could heal human ills, it would be efficacious also in the case of the lower animals. So he plunged his infuriated beast into the stream. What was the effect on the bull we do not know: but since then the virtue has departed from the water. Except for a pleasure dip on a hot summer's day, no one need now apply at the Holy Pool. The unbroken reputation of such health resorts, for centuries, is certainly remarkable. Strathfillan kept up its fame for over a thousand years. At Gheel, in Belgium, for fully twelve hundred years, successive generations of lunatics sought relief at St. Dympna's Well. We must not be too hard on the ages before our own; for, though in some respects dark, in other respects they had a good deal of light. Nevertheless, severe things might be said about them. From a present-day point of view, it might be argued that those, who took their insane friends to get cured in the manner described, required, like the patients themselves, a little rearrangement of their wits. CHAPTER VIII. SOME WONDERFUL WELLS. Wells Wonderful as to Origin--Tre Fontane--Springs where Saints were Beheaded--St. Alban's Spring--Covenanter's Spring--St. Vynning's Spring--Scottish and English Hagiology--Springs from Graves--Cuthbert--Milburga--Mysterious Lakes--Hell-Hole at Tunstall--King Henry's Well-- Bringing Sea to Morpeth--Plymouth Water-supply--Fitz's Well--Good Appetite--Dogs' Well--Singular Springs in Lewis and Barray--Well in the Wall--Toubir-ni-Lechkin--Power of Wells over Lower Animals--Black Mere--Well at Gillsland--Intermittent Springs--Powbate Well--St. Ludvan's Well--St. Keyne's Well. The epithet wonderful may fitly be applied to whatever springs are endowed by popular credulity with mysterious properties. Those already considered have been mainly associated with the removal or prevention of disease. It is now proposed to glance at certain other characteristics. Some springs are wonderful as to their origin. Who does not know the legend connected with Tre Fontane, in the vicinity of Rome, where water bubbled up at the three places touched by St. Paul's severed head? We do not recollect any Scottish instance of a well coming into being in this way; but in England we have St. Osyth's Well in Essex, where that saint was beheaded by the Danes, and in Wales, St. Winifred's Well in Flintshire. Concerning the latter, Chambers, in his "Book of Days," thus writes:--"Winifred was a noble British maiden of the seventh century; a certain Prince Cradocus fell in love with her, and, finding his rough advances repulsed, cut off the lady's head. Immediately after doing this, the prince was struck dead, and the earth, opening, swallowed up his body. Meanwhile, Winifred's head rolled down the hill; where it stopped, a spring gushed forth--the blood from the head colouring the pebbles over which it flowed, and rendering fragrant the moss growing around." Sweden has its St. Eric's Spring at Upsala, marking the place where Eric, the king, was beheaded about the middle of the twelfth century. St. Oswald's Well at Winwick, in Lancashire, is said to indicate the spot where that famous Northumbrian king received his death-wound when fighting against Penda, the pagan ruler of Mercia. On a hill in Hertfordshire, a fountain arose to quench the thirst of Alban, England's proto-martyr, who suffered there about 300 A.D. According to a Kincardineshire tradition, a spring in Dunnottar Castle miraculously appeared for behoof of the Covenanters, who were confined there in 1685. In Holywood parish, Dumfriesshire, (so called from its oak forest, sacred even in pre-Christian times), a fountain sprang up at the intercession of Vynning, the patron of a well at Kilwinning, in Ayrshire. In Scottish hagiology, fountains usually gush forth to supply water for baptism. In English legends they spring up as a tribute to spots where the corpses of saintly persons have rested. Thus, water issued from the graves of Ethelbert at Marden, in Herefordshire, and of Withburga at East Dereham, in Norfolk, and also from that of Frideswide at Oxford. St. Frideswide's Fair at the last-mentioned place was a noted holiday in the middle ages. It lasted a week, and, during its continuance, the keys of the city were in the keeping of the prior, having been handed over by the mayor, who ceased for the time to be responsible for the peace of the burgh. At Trondhjem, in Norway, a spring arose to mark the spot where King Olaf was buried, about the middle of the eleventh century. Cuthbert was greatly honoured by the gushing forth of springs, both during his lifetime and after his death. While at Lindisfarne, he was seized with a desire for still greater retirement, and accordingly withdrew to Farne Island, one of the Fern group, two miles distant from Bamborough, and six from Lindisfarne. This island was then haunted by evil spirits; but these he drove away, as Guthlac did from the marshes of Crowland, in Lincolnshire. Cuthbert set about building a cell in Farne Island, and, with the help of angels, the work was satisfactorily completed. Unfortunately, there was no fresh water to be had; but the want was soon supplied. In response to the saint's prayers, a spring arose in the floor of his cell. Bede says, "This water, by a most remarkable quality, never overflowed its first limits, so as to flood the floor, nor yet ever failed, however much of it might be taken out; so that it never exceeded or fell short of the daily wants of him who used it for his sustenance." The miracle did not end here. When Eistan of Norway was ravaging the coast of Northumberland in the twelfth century, he landed on Farne Island and destroyed the property of the hermits, whose retreat it then was. The spring, unwilling to give help to the robber bands, dried up. Thirst, accordingly, compelled them to quit the island. No sooner had they left than the spring reappeared and gladdened the spot once more. After Cuthbert's death, his body was carried from place to place for safety. In his "History of St. Cuthbert," Archbishop Eyre remarks, "There is a legendary tradition, that when the bearers of St. Cuthbert's body journeyed northwards from Yorkshire and came to Butterby, near Croxdale, they set down the coffin on the right bank before crossing the river, and immediately a saline spring burst out upon the spot. After fording the river they again rested the coffin, and a spring of chalybeate water rose up where they had laid down the body. A third time the weary travellers, struggling up the rugged pass, were compelled to lay their precious burden on the ground, and a sweet stream of water gushed out of the rock to refresh them." Prior to this, Cuthbert's relics had rested a while at Melrose. Tradition says that, on resuming their wanderings, they floated down the Tweed in a stone coffin as far as Tillmouth, on the English Border. The fragments of a sarcophagus, said to be the coffin in question, are still to be seen there beside the ruins of St. Cuthbert's Chapel. This incident is thus referred to in "Marmion":-- "Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore. They rested them in fair Melrose: But though, alive, he loved it well, Not there his reliques might repose; For, wondrous tale to tell! In his stone coffin forth he rides (A ponderous bark for river tides), Yet light as gossamer it glides, Downward to Tillmouth cell." A Shropshire legend narrates that, on one occasion, Milburga, who is still remembered in the name of Stoke St. Milborough, was riding in all haste to escape from certain enemies. She fell at length exhausted from her horse; but, at her command, the animal struck a stone with his hoof, and water gushed out for her refreshment. In a neighbouring field some men were sowing grain, and the saint prophesied that in the evening they would gather the ripe corn. She instructed them to tell her enemies, on their arrival, that she had passed when the crop was being sown. The miracle duly happened, and Milburga's foes were disconcerted in consequence. Shropshire and Yorkshire have strange traditions about the sudden appearance of lakes, sometimes overwhelming human dwellings. In the latter case, the tops of houses are said to be visible through the water. Additional picturesqueness is occasionally given, by the introduction into the story of vanished bells, sending forth from the depths their soft cadences. At Tunstall, in Norfolk, a boggy piece of ground, locally known as Hell-Hole, is marked by frequently rising bubbles. The devil once carried off the bells of the church, and, when pursued, plunged into the marsh. The bubbles are due to the bells sinking lower and lower into the abyss. Such beliefs about lakes form an interesting supplement to Scottish superstitions. When Henry VI. was in hiding in Bolton Hall, in Yorkshire, he wished to have a bath in the hot summer weather. His host, anxious to supply what was lacking to the comfort of the royal fugitive, used a hazel twig in his garden, in the hope of discovering water. The indications being favourable, a well was dug, and the king was enabled to cool himself to his heart's content. The spring still bears the king's name. Michael Scott, who was born in Fife in the thirteenth century, and was regarded by his contemporaries as a dabbler in the black art, had a pupil in the north of England who undertook a marvellous feat, viz., to bring the sea up the Wansbeck river to Morpeth. Certain incantations were gone through, and the magician started from the coast, followed by the tide. All went well till within about five miles from the town, when he became alarmed by the roaring of the water, and looked back. So the spell was broken, and Morpeth remained inland. This recalls the story accounting for the introduction of a good water-supply into Plymouth. When there was a scarcity in the sixteenth century, Sir Francis Drake, the naval hero, rode up to Dartmoor, and uttered some magical words over a spring there. He immediately turned his horse and galloped back to the town, followed by a copious stream. Certain wells could put in a good claim to the title of wonderful on the ground of the effects they were able to produce. If a spring could act as a sign-post to guide the wayfarer, who had strayed from his path, it might surely be classed among marvels! This is what a certain well on Dartmoor, in Devonshire, could do, at least in the sixteenth century. A man of the name of Fitz and his wife, when crossing the moor in the year 1568, lost their way. They lighted on the well in question, drank its water, and found the lost track without the least difficulty. In gratitude, Fitz afterwards raised a memorial of stone over the well "for the benefit of all pixy-led travellers." In Germany, before a meal, the ceremony of wishing one's friend a good appetite is still kept up. Such a salutation must have been unnecessary in the Island of Harris, at least in Martin's time, for he tells us of a spring, then lately discovered, that could produce an appetite whenever wanted. "The natives," he says, "find by experience that it is very effectual for restoring lost appetite; all that drink of it become very soon hungry though they have eat plentifully but an hour before." A small quantity of its water might with advantage be added to the contents of the "loving cup" at the Lord Mayor's banquets, and on other festive occasions both in, and out of the Metropolis. Martin speaks of another marvel in Harris. "A large cave in the face of a hill hath," he says, "two wells in it, one of which is excluded from dogs, for they say that if a dog do but taste of the water, the well presently dryeth up; and for this reason, all such as have occasion to lodge there take care to tie their dogs that they may not have access to the water. The other well is called the Dogs' Well, and is only drunk by them." The student of folklore cannot fail to find Martin a congenial companion, as he records a variety of quaint Hebridean customs that might have been passed over in silence by a more matter-of-fact writer. When in the Island of Lewis, he was told of a fountain at Loch Carloway "that never whitened linen," though the experiment had been often tried. In connection with his visit to Barray, he says, "The natives told me there is a well in the village Tangstill, the water of which, being boiled, grows thick like puddle. There is another well, not far from Tangstill, which, the inhabitants say, in a fertile year, throws up many grains of barley in July and August. And they say that the well of Kilbar throws up embryos of cockles, but I could not discern any in the rivulet, the air being at that time foggy." This reminds one of the Well in the Wall in Checkly parish, Staffordshire, said to throw out small bones like those of chickens and sparrows all the year round except in the months of July and August. Toubir-ni-Lechkin, in Jura, rising on a hill near Tarbert, was a noted fountain. Martin mentions that its water was counted "lighter by one half" than any other water in the island, and that a great quantity of it might be drunk at one time without causing inconvenience. He further says, "The river Nissa receives all the water that issues from this well, and this is the reason they give why salmons here are in goodness and taste far above those of any other river whatever." The power of some wells over the lower animals was remarkable. A spring at Harpham, in the East Riding of Yorkshire, dedicated to St. John of Beverley, was believed to subdue the fiercest animal. A raging bull, when brought to it, became as gentle as a lamb. A spring of this kind would indeed be a great boon in the country to timid, town-bred tourists when crossing fields where there are cattle. To the margin of such a spring they could retreat and there feel safe. Black Mere, at Morridge, near Leek, in Staffordshire, was credited with the power of frightening away animals. Cattle would not drink its water, and birds would not fly over it. A mermaid was believed to dwell in its depths. A reminiscence of this belief is to be found in the name of "The Mermaid," a wayside inn in the neighbourhood frequented by sportsmen. Some wells keep a sharp look-out on the use made of their water. A certain spring at Gilsland, in Cumberland, wished to dispense its favours freely, i.e., without making the public pay for them. The proprietor of the ground, however, resolved to turn, what he counted, an honest penny, and built a house over the spring for the sale of the water. The fountain, much aggrieved at this, forthwith dried up. The house, not being required, was taken down, and the benevolent water once more made its appearance. Intermittent springs have been observed from an early date, and strange notions have been formed about them. They are usually associated in their ebbing and flowing with some particular river. In some instances such a connection can be only imaginary, notably in the case of the Keldgate Springs at Cottingham, in Yorkshire, thought to be influenced by the river Derwent twenty miles away. An ebbing and flowing well at the foot of Giggleswick Scar, near Settle, in the same county, was represented by Michael Drayton under the poetic guise of a nymph flying from the pursuit of an unwelcome lover. Gough, in his edition of Camden's "Britannia," of date 1806, has the following about a spring near Paisley:--"Bishop Gibson says that in the lands of Newyards, near Paisley, is a spring which ebbs and flows with the tide though far above any ground to which the tide comes. Mr. Crawford, in his 'History of the Shire of Renfrew,' applies this to a spring in the lands of Woodside, which is three miles from the Clyde, and half-a-mile from Paisley bridge, and the ground much higher than the river." The name of Dozmare Lake, in Cornwall, signifies in Cornish a drop of the sea, the lake having been so called from a belief that it was tidal. The absurdity of the belief is proved by the fact that the sheet of water is eight hundred and ninety feet above the sea. The lake is said to be unfathomable, and has for a haunting spirit a giant who is doomed to empty it by means of a limpet shell. A singular superstition is, or was till quite lately, cherished in Peeblesshire, that Powbate Well, close to Eddlestone, completely fills with its water the high hill on whose top it is situated. Chambers, in his "Popular Rhymes of Scotland," gives the following particulars about the spring:--"The mouth, called Powbate E'e, is covered over by a grate to prevent the sheep from falling into it; and it is supposed that, if a willow wand is thrown in, it will be found some time after, peeled at the water-laugh, a small lake at the base of the hill supposed to communicate with Powbate. Of course the hill is expected to break some day like a bottle and do a great deal of mischief. A prophecy, said to be by Thomas the Rhymer, and bearing evident marks of his style, is cited to support the supposition: 'Powbate, an ye break, Tak' the Moorfoot in yere gate; Moorfoot and Mauldslie, Huntlycote, a' three, Five kirks and an Abbacie!'" In explanation of this prophecy Chambers remarks: "Moorfoot, Mauldslie, and Huntlycote are farm-towns in the immediate neighbourhood of the hill. The kirks are understood to have been those of Temple, Carrington, Borthwick, Cockpen, and Dalkeith; and the abbacy was that of Newbottle, the destruction of which, however, has been anticipated by another enemy." The Scottish imagination, in attributing wonderful properties to springs, has not gone the length of ascribing to any the power possessed by St. Ludvan's Well in Cornwall. This fountain has been already referred to as the giver of increased sight. But it had the still more marvellous power of preventing any one baptised with its water from being hanged by a hempen rope. Nor have we heard of any spring north of the Tweed that could be a match for another Cornish well, viz., that of St. Keyne, familiar to readers of Southey. Whoever, after marriage, first drank of its water would be the ruler of the house. On one occasion a bridegroom hurried to make sure of this right, but was chagrined to find that he had been anticipated: his bride had taken a bottleful of the water with her to church. CHAPTER IX. WITNESS OF WATER. Recovery from Illness--Hydromancy--Mirror--Juno's Pool--Prediction and Cure--Methods of Augury--Portents of Death--Water like Blood--Springs and National Annals--Heritable Jurisdictions--Water and Witchcraft--Devil's Mark--Water Ordeal--Abbey of Scone--Elgin Orderpot--Witch's Stone--Repeal of Penal Statutes--Witchcraft in the North--Insanity--Wild Murdoch. "Am I likely to recover?" is a question on many a patient's lips. "Ask your doctor;" and if the case looks serious, "Have a consultation" is the answer nowadays. Formerly, the answer was "Go to a consecrated well," or "Get some one else to go in your stead, and you will get a reply." There is no reason to believe that every sacred spring was credited with this power; but many undoubtedly were. Hydromancy has been a favourite mode of divination. "The conscious water" could predict the future, and questions connected with health were laid before it for its decision. The Greeks dipped a mirror into a well, and foretold health or sickness from the appearance of the watery lines on its surface. A pool in Laconia, sacred to Juno, revealed approaching good or evil fortune respectively, by the sinking or floating of wheaten cakes thrown into it, and auguries were also drawn from the movements of stones when dropt into it. Springs, therefore, deserved the respect shown to them by the confiding public. Indeed they not only told of recovery; they supplied the medicine required to ensure it, and were thus doctors and druggists combined. Sometimes the omen was unpropitious. In many cases the prophecy would work out its own fulfilment. There was a well in the Island of Lewis that caused either instant death or recovery to the patient who tested its virtues: but a speedy fulfilment like this was exceptional. St. Andrew's Well at Shadar, in Lewis, was much esteemed for its power of augury. A tub, containing some of its water, was taken to the house of the patient, and a small wooden dish was placed on the surface of the water. If this dish turned sunways, it showed that the patient would recover; but if in an opposite direction, that he would die. In reference to this instance, Mr. Gomme, in his "Ethnology in Folklore," observes, "I am inclined to connect this with the vessel or cauldron so frequently occurring in Celtic tradition, and which Mr. Nutt has marked as 'a part of the gear of the oldest Celtic divinities' perhaps of divinities older than the Celts." On one occasion two parishioners of Fodderty, in Ross-shire, consulted Tobar-na-domhnuich in that parish in behalf of a sick friend. When they placed their pitcher on the surface of the water, the vessel moved round from south to west, as in the last instance, and they hastened back to their friend with the good news. This was in the year 1832. About the same time, a woman brought her sick child to be bathed in the well, but was surprised and not a little terrified to see a strange creature, with glaring eyes, leap into it as she approached. Love for her child made her brave. Overcoming her fear, she dislodged the creature, and bathed the little invalid. In the end, however, she must have regarded the appearance of the creature as a bad omen, for the child did not recover. The usual way of consulting the spring in question was to draw water from it before sunrise, and to convey the water to the invalid's house. The patient was then immersed in it, and if it remained clear the circumstance pointed to recovery; but if it assumed a brownish colour, the illness would end in death. In former times a shirt was thrown into St. Oswald's Well, in Yorkshire, by way of augury. The floating of the shirt foretold returning health. The sinking foretold death. When a portion of an invalid's clothing was flung into the Dow Loch, in Dumfriesshire, the same rule held good. As may be noticed, the augury in these two cases was the reverse of that in the case of Juno's pool above alluded to. There were other ways in which wells acted the prophet. If a certain worm in a spring on the top of a particular hill in Strathdon was found alive, the patient would recover. A well at Ardnacloich in Appin contained a dead worm, if the patient's illness would prove fatal; but a living one, if otherwise. The Virgin's Well, near the ancient church of Kilmorie on the shores of Loch Ryan in Wigtownshire, had an ingenious way of predicting the future. If the patient, on whose account the water was sought, would recover, the fountain flowed freely; but if the malady would end in death, the water refused to gush forth. Montluck Well, in the grounds of Logan in the same county, got the credit of acting on a similar principle. When speaking of this spring, Symson says, "it is in the midst of a little bog to which several persons have recourse to fetch water for such as are sick, asserting (whether it be truth or falsehood I shall not determine) that if the sick person shall recover, the water shall so bubble and mount up when the messenger dips in his vessel, that he will hardly get out dry shod by reason of the overflowing of the well; but if the sick person be not to recover, there shall not be any such overflowing in the least." We find a belief in the south-west of England corresponding to this in the south-west of Scotland. Gulval Well, in Fosses Moor there, was resorted to by persons anxious to know the fate of absent friends. If the person inquired about was dead, the water remained perfectly still; if sick, it bubbled, though in a muddy fashion; but if well, it sent out a sparkling gush. Mr. Hunt mentions the case of a woman, who, with her babe in her arm, consulted the spring about her absent husband, under the guidance of an aged female who acted as the guardian of the well. "Obeying the old woman's directions, she knelt on the mat of bright green grass which grew around, and, leaning over the well so as to see her face in the water, she repeated after her instructor: 'Water, water, tell me truly, Is the man I love truly On the earth, or under the sod, Sick or well,--in the name of God?' Some minutes passed in perfect silence, and anxiety was rapidly turning cheeks and lips pale, when the colour rapidly returned. There was a gush of clear water from below, bubble rapidly followed bubble sparkling brightly in the morning sunshine. Full of joy, the young mother rose from her knees, kissed her child, and exclaimed, 'I am happy now!'" At Barenton in Brittany is a spring still believed in by the peasantry. A pin is dropt into the well, and if good fortune is in store, the water sends up bubbles; but if not, it remains quite still. The quantity of water in St. Maelrubha's Well on Innis-Maree varied from time to time. When a patient was brought for treatment and there was a scanty supply, the omen was considered unfavourable; but when the water was abundant, the saint was deemed propitious, and the hope of recovery was consequently great. The fly at St. Michael's Well in Banffshire was looked upon as a prophet. In the "Old Statistical Account of Scotland" we read, that, "if the sober matron wished to know the issue of her husband's ailment, or the love-sick nymph that of her languishing swain, they visited the Well of St. Michael. Every movement of the sympathetic fly was regarded in silent awe; and as he appeared cheerful or dejected, the anxious votaries drew their presages." At Little Conan in Cornwall is a spring, sacred to Our Lady of Nants. It was at one time resorted to on Palm Sunday by persons anxious to know whether they would outlive the year. A cross, made of palm, was thrown into the water. If it floated, the thrower would survive the twelvemonth; but if it sank, he would die within that time. Maidens used to visit Madron Well in the same county on May morning to forecast their matrimonial fate. They took two pieces of straw, about an inch in length, and placing them crosswise fastened them together with a pin. The cross was then thrown into the spring. The rising bubbles were carefully counted, for they corresponded in number with the years that would elapse before the arrival of the wedding-day. Portents of death were sometimes furnished by lochs and springs. At Harpham in Yorkshire there is a tradition that a drummer lad in the fourteenth century was accidentally drowned in a certain spring by a St. Quintin--Lord of the Manor. Ever afterwards the sound of a drum was heard in the well on the evening before the death of one of the St. Quintin family. Camden, in his "Britannia," tells of a sheet of water in Cheshire called Blackmere Lake, lying in the district where the Brereton family had lands, and records the local belief that, just before any heir of that house died, trunks of trees were seen floating on its surface. Water occasionally gave warning by turning red like blood. A certain fountain, near the Elbe, in Germany, was at one time believed to do this, in view of an approaching war. St. Tredwell's Loch, in Papa-Westray, Orkney, has already been referred to, in connection with its habit of turning red, whenever anything remarkable was about to happen to a member of the Royal Family. When the Earl of Derwentwater was beheaded, in 1716, the news spread that the stream flowing past his estate of Dilston Hall in Northumberland ran with blood. The same was said of the river at Bothel, in the parish of Topenhow, in Cumberland, on the occasion of the execution of Charles I., in 1649. There was at one time a well in Canterbury Cathedral. After the assassination of Thomas à Becket the sweepings of his blood and brains from the floor were thrown into it, and more than once afterwards the water turned red and effected various miraculous cures. Lady Wilde, in her "Ancient Legends of Ireland," narrates how one of the holy wells of Erin lost its efficacy for curing purposes through having been touched by a murderer. The priest of the district took some of its water and breathed on it thrice in the name of the Trinity, when, lo! a mysterious change came over it, and it appeared red like blood! The murderer was captured and handed over to justice, and the well once more began to work cures. Some springs seemed anxious to be behind the scenes (though before the event) in connection with various incidents in British annals. A spring at Warlingham, in Surrey, rises before any great event in our country's history. At any rate it did so before three great events in the seventeenth century, viz., the Restoration, the Plague, and the Revolution. The famous Drumming Well at Oundle, in Northamptonshire, was also specially active in the seventeenth century. By making a sound like the beating of a drum, it announced the approach of a Scottish army, and gave warning of the death of Charles II. In the same century a pool in North Tawton parish, Devonshire, even though dry in summer, became full of water at the driest season before the death of a prince, and remained so till the event happened. Two centuries earlier a certain well at Langley Park, in Kent, had a singular way of foretelling the future. In view of a battle it became dry, though rain fell heavily. If there was to be no fighting, it appeared full of water, even during the greatest drought. A spring at Kilbarry, in the island of Barra, Outer Hebrides, served the same purpose, but its mode of augury was different. In this case, as Dalyell records in his "Darker Superstitions," drops of blood appeared in prospect of war; but little bits of peat, if peace was to remain unbroken. Walcott mentions, in his "Scoti-Monasticon," that there was at Kilwinning, in Ayrshire, "a sacred fountain which flowed in 1184, and at other times, before a war or trouble, with blood instead of water for eight successive days and nights." When Marvel-sike Spring, near Brampton Bridge, in Northamptonshire, overflowed its customary limits, people used to interpret its conduct as signifying approaching dearth, the death of some great person, or some national disturbance. In these days, when so keen an interest is taken in the proceedings of Parliament, it is a pity that there is no spring in our land capable of announcing the probable date of a dissolution. Such a spring would relieve the public mind from much uncertainty, and would benefit the trade and commerce of the country. Heritable jurisdictions were abolished in Scotland soon after the Stuart rising of 1745. This privilege, enjoyed till then by many landowners north of the Tweed, was popularly known as the "right of pit and gallows," the pit being for the drowning of women and the gallows for the hanging of men. In 1679, a certain woman, Janet Grant by name, was convicted of theft in the baronial court of Sir Robert Gordon of Gordonstone, held at Drainie, in Elginshire, and was sentenced to be drowned in Spynie Loch. In this and other similar cases water was used as a means of execution. In the case of witchcraft it was called in as a witness in the trial. The criminal proceedings for the detection and punishment of so-called witches form a painfully dark chapter in Scottish history. As Mr. W. H. Davenport Adams pointedly puts it, in his "Witch, Warlock, and Magician," "The common people for a time might have been divided into two classes, 'witches and witchfinders.'" The same writer observes, "Among the people of Scotland, a more serious-minded and imaginative race than the English, the superstition of witchcraft was deeply rooted at an early period. Its development was encouraged not only by the idiosyncracies of the national character, but also by the nature of the country and the climate in which they lived. The lofty mountains, with their misty summits and shadowy ravines, their deep obscure glens, were the fitting homes of the wildest fancies, the eeriest legends, and the storm--crashing through the forests, and the surf beating on the rocky shore, suggested to the ear of the peasant or fisherman the voices of unseen creatures--of the dread spirits of the waters and the air." A favourite method of discovering whether an accused person was guilty or not, was that technically known as pricking. It was confidently believed that every witch had the "devil's mark" somewhere on her person. The existence of this mark could be determined: for if a pin was thrust into the flesh with the result that neither blood came, nor pain was felt, the spot so punctured was the mark in question. This showed, without doubt, that the accused was guilty of the heinous crime laid to her charge. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, in his "History of Witchcraft in Scotland," gives instances of the finding of the "devil's mark." He mentions the case of Janet Barker, a servant in Edinburgh, who acknowledged that she possessed this particular mark between her shoulders. A pin was stuck into the spot and remained there for an hour without her being aware of its presence. Such, at least, was the way of stating the case in 1643. With this simple test at command it is not easy to understand why water should have been required to give evidence. But so it was. Among various nations the water-ordeal has been in fashion. It was specially popular in Scotland a couple of centuries ago. Part of the bay at St. Andrews is still styled the Witches' Lake, recalling by its name the crude notions and cruel practices of our ancestors. A pool in the Carron, near Dunnottar Church in Kincardineshire, at one time served a similar purpose. As we have seen, the sinking or the floating of an object thrown into water in cases of sickness told of death or recovery. In like manner innocence or guilt could be determined in the case of persons accused of sorcery. If the person sank, she was innocent; but guilty, if she floated. King James VI.--a great authority on the subject--explains why this was so. In his "Daemonologie," he says, "As in a secret murther, if the dead carcase be at any time thereafter handled by the murtherer, it will gush out of blood, as if the blood were raging to the Heaven for revenge of the murtherer (God having appointed that secret supernatural sign for trial of that secret unnatural crime), so that it appears that God hath appointed (for a supernatural sign of the monstrous impiety of witches) that the water shall refuse to receive them in her bosom that have shaken off them the sacred water of baptism and wilfully refused the benefit thereof." The Abbey of Scone, in Perthshire, founded by Alexander I., in 1114, received from him a charter confirming the right of using the water-ordeal for the detection of witchcraft. The place of trial was a small island in the Tay, half-way between the abbey and the bridge of Perth. According to the practices, common at such trials, the accused was thrown into the water, wrapped up in a sheet, and having the thumbs and the great toes fastened together. The chances of life were certainly not great under the circumstances, for, if the poor creature floated, she had soon to exchange water for fire. The stake was her goal. If she sank, the likelihood was that she would be drowned. Bundled up in the manner described, she was scarcely in a position to rescue herself; and the bystanders were in no humour to give a helping hand. Close to the town of Elgin was once a witch-pool, known as the Order Pot, so called from its having been the place of ordeal. Through time it was filled up, mainly with rubbish from the ruins of the cathedral, in fulfilment, it was believed, of the prophecy of Thomas the Rhymer that "The Order Pot and Lossie grey Shall sweep the Chanonry kirk away." In the seventeenth century a woman who was accused of having brought disease on a certain man through her sorceries was thrown into the pool. She sank, and the crowd, who had collected to witness the trial, exclaimed, "To Satan's kingdom she hath gone." The incident is of interest since the view of her case, then taken, was contrary to the one usually held, as explained above. Perhaps the people standing by thought that the devil was so eager to get his own, that he would not lose the chance of securing his victim at once. Elginshire has another memorial of the black art in the form of The Witch's Stone at Forres. It consists of a boulder about a yard in diameter and probably marks the spot where unhappy females convicted of witchcraft were executed. About the year 1790 some one wished to turn the stone to good account for building purposes and broke it into three pieces. The breaker, however, was compelled to put it together again, and the iron then used to clasp it is still in position. Legend accounts for the breakage in a less prosaic way. When the boulder was being carried by a witch through the air in her apron, the apron-string broke, and, as a result, the stone was broken too. The spot was formerly reckoned ill-omened. It would be too much to say that belief in the black art has vanished from the Highlands; though, fortunately for the good sense of our age, as well as for those who live in it, witch pools are not now in requisition. Pennant bears witness to the fact that belief in witchcraft ceased in Perthshire soon after the repeal, in 1736, of the penal statutes against witches. In more northern districts it continued a vital part of the popular creed till much later. The Rev. Donald Sage mentions, in his "Memorabilia Domestica," that the Rev. Mr. Fraser, minister of Killearnan in Ross-shire, about 1750, was much troubled with somnolency even in the pulpit. He was in consequence thought to be bewitched--a notion that he himself shared. Two women were fixed on, as the cause of his unnatural slumbers. It was believed that they had made a clay image representing the minister and had stuck pins into it. Certain pains felt by him were ascribed to this cause. Had it not been for the Act of 1736, it would doubtless have fared ill with the supposed witches. Witches, however, were not alone in their power of floating. According to a popular belief in the north-west Highlands, insane people cannot sink in water. Sir Arthur Mitchell, in the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," volume iv., refers to the case of a certain madman--Wild Murdoch by name--concerning whom strange stories were told. He was born on the small island of Melista, near the coast of Lewis, used only for occasional habitation in connection with the pasturing of cattle. Anyone born in the island is believed to become insane. The superstition about not sinking was certainly put to a severe test in Wild Murdoch's case. "It is said," remarks Sir Arthur, "that his friends used to tie a rope round his body, make it fast to the stern of the boat, and then pull out to sea, taking the wretched man in tow. The story goes that he was so buoyant that he could not sink; 'that they tried to press him down into the water;' that he could swim with a stone fastened to him; that when carried to the rocky holms of Melista or Greinan, round which the open Atlantic surges, and left there alone, he took to the water and swam ashore." CHAPTER X. WATER-SPIRITS. Influence of Scenery--Science and Superstition--Loch-nan-Spoiradan --Lochan-nan-Deaan--Lochan-Wan and its Sacrifice--Jenny Greenteeth --Poetry and Superstition--Tweed and Till--Dee and Don-- Folk-practices for Finding a Drowned Body--Deeside Tradition-- Salt used by Tweed Fishers for Good Luck--Guardian-Spirit of Conan--Peg Powler--Water-kelpies--Nikr--Halliwell Boggle--Robin Round Cap--Round Hole, near Flamborough--Aberdeenshire Kelpy Legends--Some Sutherland Kelpies--Story about an Islay Kelpy-- Mermaids in the North. "One of the great charms of Highland landscape is the gleam of still water that so often gives the element of repose in a scene of broken cliff and tumbled crag, of noisy cascade and driving cloud. No casual tourist can fail to notice what a wonderful variety of lakes he meets with in the course of any traverse he may take across the country. Among the higher mountains there is the little tarn nestling in a dark sunless corry, and half-encircled with grim snow-rifted crags. In the glen, there is the occasional broadening of the river into a lake that narrows again to let the stream rush down a rocky ravine. In the wider strath there is the broad still expanse of water, with its fringe of wood and its tree-covered islets. In the gneiss region of the North-West, there is the little lochan lying in its basin of bare rock and surrounded with scores of others all equally treeless and desolate." So writes Professor Sir A. Geikie in his "Scenery of Scotland." His point of view is that of a scientific observer, keenly alive to all the varied phenomena of nature. But amid the scenes described lived men and women who looked at the outer world through the refracting medium of superstition. They saw the landscape, but they saw also what their own imagination supplied. In Strathspey, is a sheet of water bearing the Gaelic name of Loch-nan-Spoiradan or the Lake of Spirits. What shape these spirits assumed we do not know, but there was no mistake about the form of the spirit who guarded Lochan-nan-Deaan, close to the old military road between Corgarff and Tomintoul. The appearance of this spirit may be gathered from the Rev. Dr. Gregor's remarks in an article on "Guardian Spirits of Wells and Lochs" in "Folklore" for March, 1892. After describing the loch, he says, "It was believed to be bottomless, and to be the abode of a water-spirit that delighted in human sacrifice. Notwithstanding this blood-thirsty spirit, the men of Strathdon and Corgarff resolved to try to draw the water from the loch, in hope of finding the remains of those that had perished in it. On a fixed day a number of them met with spades and picks to cut a way for the outflow of the water through the road. When all were ready to begin work, a terrific yell came from the loch, and there arose from its waters a diminutive creature in shape of a man with a red cap on his head. The men fled in terror, leaving their picks and spades behind them. The spirit seized them and threw them into the loch. Then, with a gesture of defiance at the fleeing men, and a roar that shook the hills, he plunged into the loch and disappeared amidst the water that boiled and heaved as red as blood." Near the boundary, between the shires of Aberdeen and Banff, is a small sheet of water called Lochan-wan, i.e., Lamb's Loch. The district around is now a deer forest, but at one time it was used for grazing sheep. The tenants around had the privilege of pasturing a certain number of sheep. Dr. Gregor says, "Each one that sent sheep to this common had to offer in sacrifice, to the spirit of the loch, the first lamb of his flock dropped on the common. The omission of this sacrifice brought disaster; for unless the sacrifice was made, half of his flock would be drowned before the end of the grazing season." As in the case of Lochan-nan-Deaan, an attempt was made to break the spell by draining the loch, but this attempt, though less tragic in its result, was equally unavailing. On three successive days a channel was made for the outflow of the water, but each night the work was undone. A watch was set, and at midnight of the third day hundreds of small black creatures were seen to rise from the lake, each with a spade in his hand. They set about filling up the trench and finished their work in a few minutes. Mr. Charles Hardwick, in "Traditions, Superstitions, and Folklore," published in 1872, tells of a folk-belief, prevalent in the North of England, particularly in Lancashire. "I remember well," he says, "when very young, being cautioned against approaching to the side of stagnant pools of water partially covered with vegetation. At the time, I firmly believed that if I disobeyed this instruction a certain water 'boggart,' named Jenny Greenteeth, would drag me beneath her verdant screen and subject me to other tortures besides death by drowning." Poetry and superstition regard external nature from the same standpoint, in as much as both think of it as animate. But there is a difference. The one endows nature with human qualities, and knows that it does so through the imagination; the other does the same, and believes that there is no imagination in the matter. The work of the former is well expressed by Dr. E. B. Tylor, when he observes, "In all that water does, the poet's fancy can discern its personality of life. It gives fish to the fisher and crops to the husbandman, it swells in fury and lays waste the land, it grips the bather with chill and cramp and holds with inexorable grasp its drowning victim." That rivers were monsters hungering, or perhaps, one should say, thirsting, for human victims is a fact borne witness to by poetry as well as by superstition. An example of this occurs in the following popular rhyme connected with the Scottish Border:-- "Tweed said to Till, 'What gars ye rin sae still'? Till said to Tweed, 'Though ye rin wi' speed, An' I rin slaw, Yet whare ye droon ae man, I droon twa.'" Some Aberdeenshire lines have the same theme:-- "Bloodthirsty Dee Each year needs three; But bonny Don, She needs none." According to folklore, there is no doubt that rivers are "uncanny." Beneath their rippling surface dwells a being who keeps a lookout for the unwary traveller and seeks to draw him into the dark depths. A belief in such a being is not always explicitly avowed. But there are certain folk-practices undoubtedly implying it. When anyone is drowned in a river, the natural way to find the body is to drag the stream in the neighbourhood of the accident. But superstition has recourse to another method. A loaf of bread, with or without quicksilver in it, is placed on the surface of the water and allowed to drift with the current. The place where the loaf becomes stationary marks the spot where the body lies concealed. According to another method, a boat is rowed up and down the stream, and a drum is beat all the time. When the boat passes over the resting place of the body the drum will cease to sound. This was done in Derbyshire no longer ago than 1882, in order to find the corpse of a young woman who had fallen into the Derwent. In such practices there is a virtual recognition of a water-spirit who can, by certain rites, be compelled to give up his prey, or at any rate to disclose the whereabouts of the victim. A Deeside tradition supplies a good illustration of this. A man called Farquharson-na-Cat, i.e., Farquharson of the Wand, so named from his trade of basketmaking, had on one occasion to cross the river just above the famous linn. It was night. He lost his footing, was swept down into the linn, and there drowned. Search was made for his body, but in vain. His wife, taking her husband's plaid, knelt down on the river's brink, and prayed to the water-spirit to give her back her dead. She then threw the plaid into the stream. Next morning her husband's corpse, with the plaid wrapped round it, was found lying on the edge of the pool. Till quite lately, fishing on the Tweed was believed to be influenced by the fairies of the river. Salt was thrown into the water, and sprinkled on the nets to insure a plentiful catch of fish. This was really the offering of a sacrifice to the river-spirits. Frequently the guardian of the flood appeared in distinctly human shape. An excellent example of this is to be found in Hugh Miller's "My Schools and Schoolmasters," where a picturesque description is given of the spirit haunting the Conan. Hugh Miller was an expert swimmer, and delighted to bathe in the pools of that Ross-shire stream. "Its goblin or water-wraith," he tells us, "used to appear as a tall woman dressed in green, but distinguished chiefly by her withered, meagre countenance, ever distorted by a malignant scowl. I knew all the various fords, always dangerous ones, where of old she used to start, it was said, out of the river before the terrified traveller to point at him as in derision with her skinny finger, or to beckon him invitingly on; and I was shown the very tree to which a poor Highlander had clung when, in crossing the river by night, he was seized by the goblin, and from which, despite of his utmost exertions, though assisted by a young lad, his companion, he was dragged into the middle of the current, where he perished. And when in swimming at sunset over some dark pool, where the eye failed to mark, or the foot to sound, the distant bottom, the twig of some sunken bush or tree has struck against me as I passed, I have felt, with sudden start, as if touched by the cold, bloodless fingers of the goblin." At Pierse Bridge, in Durham, the water-spirit of the Tees went by the name of Peg Powler, and there were stories in the district, of naughty children having been dragged by her into the river. In the Highlands and Lowlands alike, the spirit inhabiting rivers and lakes was commonly known as the water-kelpy. A south country ballad says:-- "The side was steep, the bottom deep Frae bank to bank the water pouring; And the bonnie lass did quake for fear, She heard the water-kelpie roaring." Who does not remember Burns's lines in his "Address to the Deil"?-- "When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin' icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord By your direction; An' 'nighted travellers are allur'd To their destruction. An' aft your moss-traversin' spunkies Decoy the wight that late and drunk is: The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes. Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise." The kelpy corresponded in attributes with the Icelandic Nikr; whence has come our term Old Nick, popularly applied to the devil. A well-known picture by Sir Noel Paton has familiarised the story of "Nickar, the soulless," who is there represented as a creature with frog-like feet, but with a certain human look about him, crouching among sedge by the side of water, and playing his ghittern--an instrument resembling a guitar. He appears, however, more melancholy and less mischievous than the other members of his fraternity. A kelpy that idled away his time with music and made no attempt to drown anybody, was quite an exceptional being. In Sweden, where Nikr was regarded with awe, ferry-men at specially dangerous parts of rivers warned those who were crossing in their boat not even to mention his name, lest some mishap should follow. In his "Saxons in England," Mr. J. M. Kemble thus refers to other manifestations of the same creature:--"The beautiful Nix or Nixie who allures the young fisher or hunter to seek her embraces in the wave which brings his death; the Neck who seizes upon and drowns the maidens who sport upon his banks; the river-spirit who still yearly, in some parts of Germany, demands tribute of human life, are all forms of the ancient Nicor." The same writer continues:--"More pleasing is the Swedish Stromkarl, who, from the jewelled bed of his river, watches with delight the children gambol in the adjoining meadows, and singing sweetly to them in the evening, detaches from his hoary hair the sweet blossoms of the water-lily, which he wafts over the surface to their hands." In his "Folklore of East Yorkshire," Mr. J. B. Nicholson alludes to a haunted pool between Bewholme and Atwick, at the foot of the hill on which Atwick Church stands. This pool is shaded by willows, and is believed to be haunted by a spirit known in the district as the Halliwell Boggle. In connection with Robin Round Cap Well, in the same district, Mr. Nicholson tells a story--found also in the south of Scotland--of a certain house-spirit or brownie, who proved so troublesome to the farmer whom he served that his master resolved to remove to other quarters. The furniture was accordingly put in carts and a start was made for the new home. On the way, a friend accosted the farmer and asked if he was flitting. Before he could reply, a voice came from the churn--"Ay, we're flitting!" and, behold, there sat Robin Round Cap. The farmer, seeing that he could not thus rid himself of the spirit, returned to his old home; but, afterwards, he succeeded in charming the brownie into a well, where he still remains. The same writer relates a superstition about a certain round hole near Flamborough where a girl once committed suicide. "It is believed," he says, "that anyone bold enough to run nine times round this place will see Jenny's spirit come out, dressed in white; but no one has yet been bold enough to venture more than eight times, for then Jenny's spirit called out:-- 'Ah'll tee on my bonnet An' put on me shoe, An' if thoo's nut off Ah'll seean catch thoo!' A farmer, some years ago, galloped round it on horseback, and Jenny did come out, to the great terror of the farmer, who put spurs to his horse and galloped off as fast as he could, the spirit after him. Just on entering the village, the spirit, for some reason unknown, declined to proceed further, but bit a piece clean out of the horse's flank, and the old mare had a white patch there to her dying day." In the "Folklore Journal" for 1889, Dr. Gregor relates some kelpy legends collected by him in Aberdeenshire. On one occasion a man had to cross the Don by the bridge of Luib, Corgarff, to get to his wife who was then very ill. When he reached the river, he found that the bridge--a wooden one--had been swept away by a flood. He despaired of reaching the other bank, when a tall man suddenly appeared and offered to carry him across. The man was at first doubtful, but ere long accepted the proffered help. When they reached the middle of the river, the kelpy, who had hitherto shown himself so obliging, sought to plunge his burden beneath the water. A struggle ensued. The man finally found a foothold, and, disengaging himself from the kelpy, scrambled in all haste up the bank. His would-be destroyer, disappointed of his victim, hurled a boulder after him. This boulder came to be known as the Kelpy's Stane. Passers-by threw a stone beside it till eventually a heap was formed, locally styled the Kelpy's Cairn. A Braemar kelpy stole a sackful of meal from a mill to give it to a woman for whom he had taken a fancy. As the thief was disappearing, the miller caught sight of him and threw a fairy-whorl at his retreating figure. The whorl broke his leg, and the kelpy fell into the mill-race and was drowned. Such was the fate of the last kelpy seen in Braemar. Sutherland, too, abounded in water-spirits. They used to cross the mouth of the Dornoch Firth in cockle-shells, but, getting tired of this mode of transit, they resolved to build a bridge. It was a magnificent structure, the piers being headed with pure gold. A countryman, happening to pass, saw the bridge, and invoked a blessing on the workmen and their work. Immediately, the workmen vanished, and their work sank beneath the waves. Where it spanned the Firth there is now a sandbar dangerous to mariners. Miss Dempster, who recounts this legend in the "Folklore Journal" for 1888, supplies further information about the superstition of the district. A banshee, adorned with gold ornaments and wearing a silk dress, was seen hurrying down a hill near the river Shin, and finally plunging into one of its deep pools. These banshees were commonly web-footed, and seemed addicted to finery, if we may judge from the instance just given, and from another mentioned by Mr. Campbell in his "Tales of the West Highlands." He there speaks of one who frequented a stream about four miles from Skibo Castle in Dornoch parish. The miller's wife saw her. "She was sitting on a stone, quiet, and beautifully dressed in a green silk dress, the sleeves of which were curiously puffed from the wrists to the shoulder. Her long hair was yellow like ripe corn, but on nearer view she had no nose." Miss Dempster narrates the following incident connected with the water-spirit haunting another Sutherland river:--"One, William Munro, and the grandfather of the person from whom we have this story, were one night leading half-a-dozen pack-horses across a ford in the Oikel, on their way to a mill. When they neared the river bank a horrid scream from the water struck their ears. 'It is the Vaicgh,' cried the lad, who was leading the first horse, and, picking up some stones, he sent a shower of them into the deep pool at his feet. She must have been repeatedly hit, as she emitted a series of the most piercing shrieks. 'I am afraid,' said Monro, 'that you have not done that right, and that she will play us an ugly trick at the ford.' 'Never mind, we will take more stones,' he answered, arming himself with a few. But the kelpy had had enough of stones for one night." Off the Rhinns of Islay is a small island formerly used for grazing cattle. A strong tide sweeps past the island, making the crossing of the Sound dangerous. A story, related by Mr. Campbell, tells that on a certain boisterous night a woman was left in charge of a large herd of cattle on the island. She was sitting in her cabin, when all at once she heard strange noises outside, and, looking up, saw a pair of large eyes gazing in at her through the window. The door opened, and a strange creature strode in. He was tall and hairy, with a livid covering on his face instead of skin. He advanced towards the woman and asked her name. She replied in Gaelic, "Mise mi Fhin"--"Me myself." He then seized her. In her terror she threw a ladleful of boiling water on the intruder. Yelling with pain he bounded out of the hut. These unearthly voices asked what was the matter, and who had hurt him? "Mise mi Fhin"--"Me myself," replied the creature. The answer was received with a shout of laughter from his mysterious companions. The woman rushed out of the hut, and dislodging one of the cows lay down on the spot, at the same time making a magical circle round her on the ground. All night she heard terrible sounds mingling with the roaring of the wind. In the morning the supernatural manifestations disappeared, and she felt herself safe. It had not fared, however, so well with the cow, for, when found, it was dead. In Chapter I. reference was made to mermen and mermaids, and little requires to be added in the present connection. In the south of Scotland the very names of these sea-spirits have a far-off sound about them. No one beside the Firths of Forth and Clyde expects nowadays to catch sight of such strange forms sitting on rocks, or playing among the breakers; but among our Northern Isles it is otherwise. Every now and again (at long intervals, perhaps) the mysterious mermaid makes her appearance, and gives new life to an old superstition. About three years since, one was seen at Deerness in Orkney. She reappeared last year, and was then noticed by some lobstermen who were working their creels. She had a small black head, white body, and long arms. Somewhat later, a creature, believed to be this mermaid, was shot not far from the shore, but the body was not captured. In June of the present year another mermaid was seen by the Deerness people. At Birsay, recently, a farmer's wife was down at the sea-shore, and observed a strange creature among the rocks. She went back for her husband, and the two returned quite in time to get a good view of the interesting stranger. The woman spoke of the mermaid as "a good-looking person"; while her husband described her as "having a covering of brown hair." Curiosity seems to have been uppermost in the minds of the couple, for they tried to capture the creature. In the interests of folklore, if not of science, she managed to escape, and was quickly lost to sight beneath the waves. Perhaps, as the gurgling waters closed over her, she may have uttered an au revoir, or whatever corresponds to that phrase in the language of the sea. The following story about a mermaid, told by Mr. J. H. Dixon in his "Gairloch," published in 1886, is fully credited in the district where the incident occurred:--"Roderick Mackenzie, the elderly and much respected boat-builder at Port Henderson, when a young man, went one day to a rocky part of the shore there. Whilst gathering bait he suddenly spied a mermaid asleep among the rocks. Rorie 'went for' that mermaid, and succeeded in seizing her by the hair. The poor creature in great embarrassment cried out that if Rorie would let go she would grant him whatever boon he might ask. He requested a pledge that no one should ever be drowned from any boat he might build. On his releasing her the mermaid promised that this should be so. The promise has been kept throughout Rorie's long business career--his boats still defy the stormy winds and waves." Mr. Dixon adds, "I am the happy possessor of an admirable example of Rorie's craft. The most ingenious framer of trade advertisements might well take a hint from this veracious anecdote." CHAPTER XI. MORE WATER-SPIRITS. Water-horses and Water-bulls--Highland Superstition--Spiritual Water-demon and Material Water-monster--Water-bulls of Loch Llundavrà and Loch Achtriachtan--Water-horses of Loch Treig--Kelpy of Loch Ness--Water-horse Bridles--Pontage Pool--Kelpy's Footprint--MacCulloch and Sir Walter Scott--Recent Example of Belief in Water-monster--Tarroo-Ushtey in the Isle of Man--Other Water-spirits--Dragon--Black-dog--Fly--Fish--De mons--Origin of Well-worship. So far we have been dealing with water-spirits more or less human in form. Another class consists of those with the shape and attributes of horses and bulls. The members of this class are connected specially with Highland districts. Lonely lochs were their favourite haunts. In treeless regions, a belief in such creatures would naturally arise. Any ordinary animal in such an environment would appear of a larger size than usual, and the eye of the beholder would transmit the error to his imagination, thereby still further magnifying the creature's bulk. In some instances, the notion might arise even when there was no animal on the scene. A piece of rock, or some other physical feature of the landscape would be enough to excite superstitious fancies. Mr. Campbell remarks, "In Sutherland and elsewhere, many believe that they have seen these fancied animals. I have been told of English sportsmen who went in pursuit of them, so circumstantial were the accounts of those who believed they had seen them. The witnesses are so numerous, and their testimony agrees so well, that there must be some old deeply-rooted Celtic belief which clothes every object with the dreaded form of the Each Uisge, i.e., Water-horse." When waves appeared on a lake, and there seemed no wind to account for them, superstitious people readily grasped at the idea that the phenomenon was due to the action of some mysterious water-spirit. As Dr. Tylor points out, there seems to have been a confusion "between the 'spiritual water-demon' and the 'material water-monster.'" Any creature found in or near the water would naturally be reckoned its guardian spirit. The Rev. Dr. Stewart gives the following particulars about water-horses and water-bulls in his "'Twixt Ben Nevis and Glencoe." They are thought of "as, upon the whole, of the same shape and form as the more kindly quadrupeds after whom they have been named, but larger, fiercer, and with an amount of 'devilment' and cunning about them, of which the latter, fortunately, manifest no trace. They are always fat and sleek, and so full of strength and spirit and life that the neighing of the one and the bellowing of the other frequently awake the mountain echoes to their inmost recesses for miles and miles around.... Calves and foals are the result of occasional intercourse between these animals and their more civilised domestic congeners, such calves bearing unmistakable proofs of their mixed descent in the unusual size and pendulousness of their ears and the wide aquatic spread of their jet black hoofs; the foals, in their clean limbs, large flashing eyes, red distended nostrils, and fiery spirit. The initiated still pretend to point out cattle with more or less of this questionable blood in them, in almost every drove of pure Highland cows and heifers you like to bring under their notice." The lochs of Llundavrà and Achtriachtan, in Glencoe, were at one time famous for their water-bulls; and Loch Treig for its water-horses, believed to be the fiercest specimens of that breed in the world. If anyone suggested to a Lochaber or Rannoch Highlander that the cleverest horse-tamer could "clap a saddle on one of the demon-steeds of Loch Treig, as he issues in the grey dawn, snorting, from his crystal-paved sub-lacustral stalls, he would answer, with a look of mingled horror and awe, 'Impossible!' The water-horse would tear him into a thousand pieces with his teeth and trample and pound him into pulp with his jet-black, iron-hard, though unshod hoofs!" A noted demon-steed once inhabited Loch Ness, and was a cause of terror to the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. Like other kelpies, he was in the habit of browsing along the roadside, all bridled and saddled, as if waiting for some one to mount him. When any unwary traveller did so, the kelpy took to his heels, and presently plunged into deep water with his victim on his back. Mr. W. G. Stewart, in his "Highland Superstitions and Amusements," tells a story to show that the kelpy in question did not always have things his own way. A Highlander of the name of MacGrigor resolved to throw himself in the way of the water-horse in the hope of getting the better of him. The meeting took place in the solitary pass of Slochd-Muichd, between Strathspey and Inverness. The kelpy looked as innocent as usual, and was considerably startled when MacGrigor, sword in hand, struck him a blow on the nose. The weapon cut through the bridle, and the bit, falling to the ground, was instantly picked up by MacGrigor. This was the turning point of the encounter. The kelpy was powerless without his bit, and requested to have it restored. Though a horse, the kelpy had the power of human speech, and conversed, doubtless in excellent Gaelic, with his victor, using various arguments to bring about the restoration of his lost property. Finding that these were unavailing, he prophesied that MacGrigor would never enter his house with the bit in his possession, and when they arrived at the door he planted himself in front of it to block the entrance. The Highlander, however, outwitted the kelpy, for, going round to the back of his house, he called his wife and flung the bit to her through a window. Returning to the kelpy, he told him where the bit was, and assured him that he would never get it back again. As there was a rowan cross above the door the demon-steed could not enter the house, and presently departed uttering certain exclamations not intended for benedictions. Those who doubt the truthfulness of the narrative may have their doubts lessened when they learn that this was not the only case of a water-horse's bit becoming the property of a human being. The Rev. Dr. Stewart narrates an anecdote bearing on this. A drover, whose home was in Nether Lochaber, was returning from a market at Pitlochry by way of the Moor of Rannoch. Night came on; but, as the moon was bright, he continued his journey without difficulty. On reaching Lochanna Cuile, he sat down to refresh himself with bread, cheese, and milk. While partaking of this temperate repast he caught sight of something glittering on the ground, and, picking it up, he found it to be a horse's bridle. Next morning he was astonished to find that the bit and buckles were of pure silver and the reins of soft and beautifully speckled leather. He was still more surprised to find that the bit when touched was unbearably hot. A wise woman from a neighbouring glen was called in to solve the mystery. She at once recognised the article to be a water-horse's bridle, and accounted for the high temperature of the bit on the ground that the silver still retained the heat that it possessed when in a molten state below ground. The reins, she said, were made of the skin of a certain poisonous serpent that inhabited pools frequented by water-horses. According to her directions, the bridle was hung on a cromag or crook of rowan wood. Its presence brought a blessing to the house, and the drover prospered in all his undertakings. When he died, having no children of his own, he bequeathed the magical bridle to his grandnephew, who prospered in his turn. A pool in the North Esk, in Forfarshire, called the Ponage or Pontage Pool, was at one time the home of a water-horse. This creature was captured by means of a magical bridle, and kept in captivity for some time. While a prisoner he was employed to carry stones to Morphie, where a castle was then being built. One day the bridle was incautiously removed, and the creature vanished, but not before he exclaimed-- "Sair back an' sair banes, Carryin' the Laird o' Morphie's stanes; The Laird o' Morphie canna thrive As lang's the kelpy is alive." His attempted verse-making seems to have gratified the kelpy, for when he afterwards showed himself in the pool he was frequently heard repeating the rhyme. The fate of the castle was disastrous. At a later date it was entirely demolished, and its site now alone remains. Some six miles from the Kirkton of Glenelg, in Inverness-shire, is the small sheet of water known in the district as John MacInnes' Loch. It was so called from a crofter of that name who was drowned there. The circumstances are thus narrated by Mr. J. Calder Ross in "Scottish Notes and Queries" for February, 1893: "John MacInnes found the labour of his farm sadly burdensome. In the midst of his sighing an unknown being appeared to him and promised a horse to him under certain conditions. These conditions John undertook to fulfil. One day, accordingly, he found a fine horse grazing in one of his fields. He happened to be ploughing at the time, and at once he yoked the animal to the plough along with another horse. The stranger worked splendidly, and he determined to keep it, though he well knew that it was far from canny. Every night when he stabled it he spread some earth from a mole's hill over it as a charm; according to another version he merely blessed the animal. One night he forgot his usual precautions: perhaps he was beginning to feel safe. The horse noticed the omission, and seizing poor John in his teeth, galloped off with him. The two disappeared in the loch." Water-horses were not always malignant in disposition. On one occasion an Aberdeenshire farmer went with his own horse to a mill to fetch home some sacks of meal. He left the horse at the door of the mill and went in to bring out the sacks. The beast, finding itself free, started for home. When the farmer reappeared and found the creature gone he was much disconcerted, and uttered the wish that he might get any kind of horse to carry his sacks even though it were a water-kelpy. To his surprise, a water-horse immediately appeared! It quietly allowed itself to be loaded with the meal, and accompanied the farmer to his home. On reaching the house he tied the horse to an old harrow till he should get the sacks taken into the house. When he returned to stable the animal that had done him the good turn, horse and harrow were away, and he heard the beast plunging not far off in a deep pool in the Don. If anyone refuses to believe in the existence of water-horses, let him go to the parish of Fearn, in Forfarshire, and there, near the ruined castle of Vayne, he will see on a sandstone rock the print of a kelpy's foot. Noran Water flows below the castle, and the mysterious creature had doubtless its home in one of its pools. In Shetland, such kelpies were known as Nuggles, and showed themselves under the form of Shetland ponies. MacCulloch, the author of "A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland," found the belief in the water-bull a living faith among the people, notably among the dwellers beside Loch Rannoch and Loch Awe. He tells of a farmer who employed his sons to search a certain stream for one of these creatures, while the farmer himself carried a gun loaded with sixpences to be discharged when the monster appeared, silver alone having any effect on such beasts. The same writer, when speaking of the grandeur of the scenery about Loch Coruisk, remarks:--"It is not surprising that Coruisk should be considered by the natives as the haunt of the water-goblin or of spirits still more dreadful. A seaman, and a bold one, whom, on one occasion, I had left in charge of the boat, became so much terrified at finding himself alone that he ran off to join his comrades, leaving it moored to the rock, though in danger of being destroyed by the surge. I afterwards overheard much discussion on the courage of the Southron in making the circuit of the valley unattended. Not returning till it was nearly dark, it was concluded that he had fallen into the fangs of the kelpy." MacCulloch's "Description" consists of a series of letters to Sir Walter Scott. Sir Walter himself has an interesting reference to the same superstition in his "Journal," under date November 23rd, 1827. After enumerating the company at a certain dinner party at which he had been present, he continues: "Clanronald told us, as an instance of Highland credulity, that a set of his kinsmen--Borradale and others--believing that the fabulous 'water-cow' inhabited a small lake near his house, resolved to drag the monster into day. With this view they bivouacked by the side of the lake in which they placed, by way of night-bait, two small anchors such as belong to boats, each baited with the carcase of a dog slain for the purpose. They expected the 'water-cow' would gorge on this bait, and were prepared to drag her ashore the next morning, when, to their confusion of face, the baits were found untouched. It is something too late in the day for setting baits for water-cows." If such conduct seemed wonderful in 1827, what would the author of "Waverley" have thought had he known that more than half-a-century later, people in the Highlands retained a thorough-going belief in such monsters? No longer ago than 1884 rumours were current in Ross-shire that a water-cow was seen in or near a loch on the Greenstone Point, in Gairloch parish. Mr. J. H. Dixon, in his "Gairloch," states that about 1840 a water-cow was believed to inhabit Loch-na-Beiste, in the same parish, and that a serious attempt was then made to destroy the creature. The proprietor tried to drain the loch, which, except at one point, is little more than a fathom in depth; but when his efforts failed he threw a quantity of quicklime into the water to poison the monster. It is reasonable to hold that the trout were the only sufferers. The creature in question was described by two men who saw it as in appearance like "a good sized boat with the keel turned up." Belief in the existence of water-cows prevailed in the south as well as in the north of Scotland. In the Yarrow district there was one inhabiting St. Mary's Loch. Concerning this water-cow, Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, writes: "A farmer in Bowerhope once got a breed of her, which he kept for many years until they multiplied exceedingly; and he never had any cattle throve so well, until once, on some outrage or disrespect on the farmer's part towards them, the old dam came out of the lake one pleasant March evening and gave such a roar that all the surrounding hills shook again, upon which her progeny, nineteen in number, followed her all quietly into the loch, and were never more seen." In the Isle of Man the water-bull was, and perhaps still is believed in by the peasantry. It is called in Manx, tarroo-ushtey. There is much force in Mr. Campbell's conclusion that the old Celts reverenced a destroying water-god, to whom the horse was sacred, or who assumed the form of a horse. A similar notion may have originated the belief in the water-bull. Other creatures, besides those already mentioned, acted in the capacity of water spirits. In Strathmartin, in Forfarshire, is a spring styled the Nine Maidens' Well. These maidens were the daughters of a certain Donewalde or Donald in the eighth century, and led, along with their father, a saintly life in the glen of Ogilvy in the same county. Their spring at Strathmartin must have been well looked after, for it had as its guardian, no less formidable a creature than a dragon. We do not know whether there was any St. George in the vicinity to dispute possession with the monster. In Kildonan parish, Sutherland, a stagnant pool of water, some ten yards long by three broad, was regarded by the inhabitants with superstitious dread. According to tradition, a pot of gold lay hidden below; but no one could reach the treasure as it was guarded by a large black dog with two heads. The Rev. Donald Sage, when noticing this superstition in his "Memorabilia Domestica," remarks, "It is said that a tenant once had attempted to drain the loch and had succeeded, so that the water was all carried off. The only remuneration the unfortunate agriculturist received was to be aroused from his midnight slumbers by a visit from the black dog, which set up such a hideous howl as made the hills reverberate and the poor man almost die with fright. Furthermore, with this diabolical music, he was regularly serenaded at the midnight hour till he had filled up the drain, and the loch had resumed its former dimensions." We do not know whether any later attempt was made to abolish the stagnant pool; but at any rate a dread of the black dog kept it from being again drained till well on in the present century. Sutherland, however, cannot claim a monopoly in the matter of a guardian spirit in the shape of a dog. Concerning Hound's Pool in Dean Combe parish, Devon, the tradition is that it is haunted by a hound doomed to keep guard till the pool can be emptied by a nutshell with a hole in it. Readers of "Peveril of the Peak" can hardly fail to remember the Moddey Dhoo--the black demon-dog--that roamed through Peel Castle, in the Isle of Man. St. Michael's Well in Kirkmichael parish, Banffshire, had for its guardian spirit a much smaller animal than any of the above. It showed itself in the form of a fly that kept skimming over the surface of the water. This fly was believed to be immortal. Towards the end of last century the spring lost its reputation for its cures, and the guardian spirit shared in its neglect. The writer of the article on the parish, in the "Old Statistical Account of Scotland," mentions having met an old man who greatly deplored the degeneracy of the times. A glowing picture is given of this old man's desires. "If the infirmities of years and the distance of his residence did not prevent him, he would still pay his devotional visits to the well of St. Michael. He would clear the bed of its ooze, opening a passage for the streamlet, plant the borders with fragrant flowers, and once more, as in the days of youth, enjoy the pleasure of seeing the guardian fly skim in sportive circles over the bubbling waves, and with its little proboscis imbibe the panacean dews." Consecrated fish have been reverenced, from of old, in East and West alike. In Syria, at the present day, such fish are preserved in fountains; and anciently certain pools in the stream, flowing past Ascalon, were the abodes of fish sacred to Derketo, the Phoenician Venus, who had a temple there. In our own land the same cult prevailed. A curious Cornish legend tells how St. Neot had his well stocked with fish by an angel. These fish were always two in number. Day by day, the saint had one for dinner, and its place was miraculously supplied to keep up the proper number. One day he fell sick, and his servant, contrary to all ascetic precedent, cooked both and set them before his master. The saint was horrified, and had both the fish--cooked though they were--put back into the spring. He sought forgiveness for the rash act, and lo! the fish became alive once more; and as a further sign that the sacrilege was condoned, St. Neot, on eating his usual daily portion, was at once restored to health. In Scotland there were various springs containing consecrated fish. Loch Siant, in the Isle of Skye, described by MacCulloch as "the haunt of the gentler spirits of air and water," abounded in trout; but, as Martin informs us, neither the natives nor strangers ever dared to kill any of them on account of the esteem in which the water was held. This superstition seems to have been specially cherished in the island, for Martin further says, "I saw a little well in Kilbride, in the south of Skie, with one Trout only in it; the natives are very tender of it, and though they often chance to catch it in their wooden pales, they are very careful to preserve it from being destroyed; it has been there for many years." In a well near the church of Kilmore, in Lorne, were two fishes held in much respect in the seventeenth century, and called by the people of the district, Easg Seant, i.e., holie fishes. From Dalyell's "Darker Superstitions of Scotland" we learn that, like those belonging to St. Neot, they were always two in number: they never varied in size: in colour they were black, and according to the testimony of the most aged persons their hue never altered. In Tober Kieran, near Kells, County Meath, Ireland, were two miraculous trout which never changed their appearance. A Strathdon legend, narrated by the Rev. Dr. Gregor, thus accounts for the appearance of fish in Tobar Vachar, i.e., St. Machar's Well, at Corgarff, a spring formerly held in high honour on account of its cures:--"Once there was a famine in the district, and not a few were dying of hunger. The priest's house stood not far from the well. One day, during the famine, his housekeeper came to him and told him that their stock of food was exhausted, and that there was no more to be got in the district. The priest left the house, went to the well, and cried to St. Machar for help. On his return he told the servant to go to the well the next morning at sunrise, walk three times round it, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, without looking into it, and draw from it a draught of water for him. She carried out the request. On stooping down to draw the water, she saw three fine salmon swimming in the well. They were caught, and served the two as food, till supply came to the famine-stricken district from other quarters." According to a Herefordshire tradition, a fish with a golden chain round it was caught in the river Dore, and was afterwards kept in the spring whence the river flows. At Peterchurch, in that county, is a sculptured stone bearing a rude representation of the fish in question. Sometimes the guardian spirit of a loch or well was thought of in the vaguest possible way. In that case the genius loci had neither name nor shape of any kind, the leaving of an offering being the only recognition of his existence. Occasionally the presiding spirit was pictured in the popular imagination in the guise of a demon, commonly with a hazy personality. Callow Pit, in Norfolk, was believed to contain a treasure-chest guarded by such a being. On one occasion an attempt to raise the chest was made, and was on the verge of being successful, when one of the treasure-hunters defied the devil to get his own again. Suddenly the chest was snatched down into the pit, and the ring, attached to the lid, alone remained to tell its tale. This ring was afterwards fixed to the door of Southwood Church. At Wavertree, in Lancashire, once stood a monastery and beside it was a well. When pilgrims arrived, the occupants of the monastery received their alms. If nothing was given, a demon, chained to the bottom of the well, was said to laugh. This notion was either originated or perpetuated by a fifteenth century Latin inscription to this effect, "Qui non dat quad habet. Daemon infra ridet." When wells were dedicated to Christian saints, the latter were usually considered the guardians of the sacred water. This was natural enough. If, for instance, St. Michael was supposed to watch over a spring, why should not his aid have been sought in connection with any wished-for cure? It is interesting, however, to note that this was not so in every instance. In many cases the favourite, because favourable time for visiting a sacred spring, was not the festival of the saint to whom it was dedicated, but, as we shall see hereafter, a day quite distinct from such festival. Petitions, too, were frequently addressed not to the saint of the well, but to some being with a character possessing fewer Christian attributes. All this points to the fact that the origin of well-worship is to be sought, not in the legends of mediæval Christianity, but in the crude fancies of an earlier paganism. CHAPTER XII. OFFERINGS AT LOCHS AND SPRINGS. Votive Offerings--Gifts usually of Small Value--Toubir-nim-buadh --Rumbling Well--Heath--Rags--St. Wallach's Bath--Pins at St. Wallach's Well--Luckiness of Things Crooked--Pins Rising in Wells --Tobar-na-Glas-a-Coille--Lix Well--Pebbles--Coins--St. Jergon's Well--Silver Wells--Brass Well--Well at Avoch Castle--Introduction of Loch Katrine Water into Glasgow--Some Glasgow Springs--St. Thenew's Well--St. Winifred's Well--Dr. Patrick Anderson--Offerings in France--Gifts in Consecrated Buildings--Philosophy of Votive Offerings--Infection in Folklore--Safety of Offerings--Transference of Disease--Results of Theft of Offerings--Pennies in Holy Loch-- Money in Clach-nan-Sul--Well-Dressing--Not Found in Scotland-- Festival at Tissington--Roman and English Fontinalia--Royal Oak-Day at Endon. Offerings at lochs and springs have been incidentally mentioned more than once, but the subject is one deserving separate treatment. Wells were not merely so much water, with stones and turf round them, and lochs, sheets of water, encompassed by moorland or forest. They were, as we have seen, the haunts of spirits, propitious if remembered, but resentful if neglected. Hence no one thought it proper to come to them empty-handed. The principle was, no gift, no cure. Classical literature contains allusions to such votive offerings. Numa sacrificed a sheep to a fountain, and Horace promised to offer to his sweet Bandusian spring a kid not without flowers. Near Toulouse, in France, was a sacred lake, into whose water the neighbouring tribes anciently threw offerings of gold and silver. In our own country, the gifts were, as a rule, of small intrinsic value. When speaking of Toubir-nim-buadh, in St. Kilda, Macaulay says:--"Near the fountain stood an altar on which the distressed votaries laid down their oblations. Before they could touch the sacred water with any prospect of success, it was their constant practice to address the genius of the place with supplication and prayer. No one approached him with empty hands. But the devotees were abundantly frugal. The offerings, presented by them, were the poorest acknowledgments that could be made to a superior being, from whom they had either hopes or fears. Shells and pebbles, rags of linen, or stuffs worn out, pins, needles, or rusty nails, were generally all the tribute that was paid; and sometimes, though rarely enough, copper coins of the smallest value." The appearance of this well is thus described by the author of "Ecclesiological Notes":--"A low square-shaped massy stone building with a stone roof, covers the spring, which, after forming a pool in the floor of the cell, runs down the russet slope like a thread of silver to join the stream in the valley." The offerings, made by the St. Kildians, were indeed much the same as those commonly made in other parts of the country. We get a glimpse of what was done in the south of Scotland from Symson, who, in his quaint "Description of Galloway," remarks:--"In this parish of Bootle, about a mile from the kirk, towards the north, is a well called the Rumbling Well, frequented by a multitude of sick people for all sorts of diseases the first Sunday of May; lying there the Saturday night, and then drinking of it early in the morning. There is also another well, about a quarter of a mile distant from the former, towards the east. This well is made use of by the country people when their cattle are troubled with a disease called by them the Connoch. This water they carry in vessels to many parts and wash their beasts with it, and give it them to drink. It is, too, remembered that at both the wells they leave behind them something by way of a thank-offering. At the first, they leave either money or clothes; at the second, they leave the bands and shackles wherewith beasts are usually bound." The objects, commonly left on the cairns beside the Holy Pool in Strathfillan, have already been enumerated. In addition, bunches of heath, tied with worsted, were occasionally left. The Cheese Well, on Minchmoor, in Peeblesshire, was so called from the pieces of cheese thrown into it by passers-by as offerings to the fairies. Around a certain spring near Newcastle, in Northumberland, the bushes were so covered with shreds of clothing that the spring went by the name of the Rag Well. At St. Oswald's Well, near the foot of Roseberry Topping, in Yorkshire, the pieces of cloth were so numerous that, as a spectator once remarked, they "might have made a fair ream in a paper-mill." A contributor to "Notes and Queries," in 1876, observes:--"The custom of hanging shreds of rags on trees as votive offerings still obtains in Ireland. I remember as a child to have been surreptitiously taken by an Irish nurse to St. John's Well, Aghada, County Cork, on the vigil of the saint's day, to be cured of whooping-cough by drinking three times of the water of the holy well. I shall never forget the strange spectacle of men and women, creeping on their knees in voluntary devotion, or in obedience to enjoined penance, so many times round the well, which was protected by a grey stone hood, and had a few white thorn trees growing near it, on the spines of which fluttered innumerable shreds of frieze and vary-coloured rags, the votive offerings of devotees and patients." In the Isle of Man, also, the custom of hanging up rags was at one time much in vogue. In Malew parish there is Chibber-Undin, signifying the Foundation Well, so called from the foundations of a now almost obliterated chapel hard by. The ritual practised at the well is thus described by Mr. A. W. Moore in his "Surnames and Place-names of the Isle of Man":--"The patients who came to it, took a mouthful of water, retaining it in their mouths till they had twice walked round the well. They then took a piece of cloth from a garment which they had worn, wetted it from the water from the well, and hung it on the hawthorn tree which grew there. When the cloth had rotted away the cure was supposed to be effected." Evidence from Wales to the same effect is furnished by Professor Rhys in "Folklore" for September, 1892. He there gives the following information, lately sent to him by a friend, about a Glamorganshire holy well situated between Coychurch and Bredgled:--"It is the custom," he writes, "for people suffering from any malady to dip a rag in the water, and bathe the affected part. The rag is then placed on a tree close to the well. When I passed it, about three years ago, there were hundreds of these shreds covering the tree, and some had evidently been placed there very recently." Professor Rhys also refers to other Glamorganshire springs where rags are to be seen hanging on trees. Scottish examples of the same superstition are numerous. At Montblairie, in Banffshire, pieces of linen and woollen stuffs were hung on the boughs beside a consecrated well, and farthings and bodles were thrown into the spring itself. The bushes around a well at Houston, in Renfrewshire, were at one time the recipients of many a rag. Hugh Miller, who took so keen an interest in all such relics of superstition, has not failed to notice the custom as practised near his native town of Cromarty. In his "Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland," he says:--"It is not yet twenty years since a thorn bush, which formed a little canopy over the spring of St. Bennet, used to be covered anew every season with little pieces of rag, left on it as offerings to the saint by sick people who came to drink of the water." St. Wallach's Bath, in Strathdeveron, was a popular health-resort till the beginning of the present century. Non-thriving children were brought to it annually in large numbers. No longer ago than 1874 an invalid from the seaside sought its aid. The bath--a cavity in the rock fully a yard in depth--is close to the river, and is supplied with water from a scanty spring, several yards higher up the slope. The supply trickles over the edge of the bath into the river, some four feet below. A bib or other part of the child's clothing was hung on a neighbouring tree or thrown into the bath. Sometimes when the Deveron was in flood, it submerged the bath, and swept these offerings down to the sea. As previously mentioned, St. Wallach's Well, hard by, was much resorted to for the cure of sore eyes. Pins were the usual offerings. They were left in a hole in a stone beside the well. May was the favourite season for visiting the spring, and by the end of the month the hole was often full of pins. This was the case down to a comparatively recent date. Offerings, such as pins, were often thrown into the well itself instead of being left beside its margin. Near Wooler, in Northumberland, on the southern slopes of the Cheviots, is a spring locally styled the Pin Well. A fairy was believed to make it her home, and maidens, as they passed, dropped in a crooked pin to gain her good graces. Crooked pins were rather popular, anything so bent--e.g., a crooked sixpence--being deemed lucky. In the case of more than one English spring the notion prevailed that, when a pin was thrown in, the votary would see the pins already there rise to meet the newcomer. But faith was essential. Otherwise the mysterious vision would be withheld. We do not know that a corresponding belief prevailed north of the Tweed. Between the glens of Corgarff and Glengairn in Aberdeenshire, is the spring known as Tobar-na-Glas-a-Coille or The Well in the Grey Wood. A pin or other piece of metal had to be dropped into it by anyone taking a draught of its water. Whoever neglected this duty, and at any time afterwards again drew water from the spring, was doomed to die of thirst. Some of these votive pins were found at the bottom of the well, no longer ago than the autumn of 1891. Probably very few travellers by the Callander and Oban railway are aware of the existence of an interesting, but now neglected holy well, only a few yards distant from the line. It is situated at the entrance of rugged Glen Ogle, and from the spot a fine view can be had of Ben Lawers, Ben More, and Ben Loy. The well is on Wester Lix farm, and is locally known as the Lix Well. The spring rises in one of the many hillocks in the neighbourhood. The top of the hillock had been levelled. Round the spring is built a wall of stone and turf, about two feet in height, and shaped like a horse-shoe, the opening being to the east. The distance across the enclosed space is about fourteen feet. In the centre is the well, in the form of a parallelogram, two feet by one and a half, with a long drain leading from it through the opening of the horse-shoe. This drain was at one time covered with flagstones. Four shapely lintels of micaceous schist enclose the well. The spot used to be frequented at the beginning of May, the wall already referred to forming a convenient resting-place for visitors. Quartz pebbles were the favourite offerings on these occasions. Immediately behind the well, quite a small cairn of them can still be seen. Pebbles were among the cheapest possible offerings, the only cost being the trouble of picking them up. Coins were rather more expensive; but, as they were commonly of small value, the outlay was trifling even in their case. The more fervent the zeal of the votary, the greater would doubtless be the length he or she would go in the matter of expense. In the parish of Culsalmond, in Aberdeenshire, a gold coin of James I. of Scotland was found associated with an ancient healing-well. Such liberality, however, was rare. After describing St. Maelrubha's Well on Innis Maree in the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," volume iv., Sir Arthur Mitchell observes, "Near it stands an oak tree, which is studded with nails. To each of these was originally attached a piece of the clothing of some patient who had visited the spot. There are hundreds of nails, and one has still fastened to it a faded ribbon. Two bone buttons and two buckles we also found nailed to the tree. Countless pennies and halfpennies are driven edge-ways into the wood--over many the bark is closing, over many it has already closed." Within recent years, another visitor from the south examined one of the coins stuck into the tree. It was ostensibly silver, but proved on examination to be counterfeit. The pilgrim, who left it as an offering, evidently thought that the saint could be easily imposed upon. As in the case of the pins, the coins, given as offerings were, as a rule, thrown into the spring itself. As an example, we may cite the case of St. Jergon's or St. Querdon's Well in Troqueer parish, Kirkcudbrightshire. In an article in the "Transactions of the Dumfries and Galloway Natural History Society" for 1870, Mr. Patrick Dudgeon remarks, "Taking advantage of the very dry summer of last year when the spring was unusually low, I had the well thoroughly cleaned out and put in order, it having been almost obliterated by cattle being allowed to use it as a watering-place. Several hundreds of coins were found at the bottom--almost all being of the smallest description of copper coin, dating from the time of Elizabeth to that of George III.... None were of any particular interest or value; the greatest number are Scottish, and belong to the time of James VI., Charles I., and Charles II. The circumstance that no coins were found of an older date than the reign of Elizabeth is not at all conclusive that offerings of a similar nature had not been made at much earlier periods. It will be observed that the oldest coins are the thinnest, and that, although many are as thin as a sheet of writing paper, the legend on them is perfectly distinct and legible; this, of course, would not have been the case had the thinning process been owing to wear and tear. When first taken out, they were perfectly bright--as new copper--and had all the appearance of having been subjected to the action of an acid. Something in the water has acted very slowly as a solvent on the metal, and, acting quite equally over the whole surface, has reduced the coins to their present state: it is, therefore, reasonable to conclude that, owing to the solvent properties of the water, any coins thrown into the well anterior to the date of those found may have been completely dissolved." Mr. Dudgeon mentions having been told by old people in the neighbourhood, that they remembered the time, when rags and ribbons were hung on the bushes around the well. It is a remarkable circumstance that even since the cleaning out of the spring above referred to, coins have been thrown into it. A recent examination of the spot brought these to light, and showed the persistence of this curious phase of well-worship. What would be styled "a collection in silver" in modern ecclesiastical language was sometimes regarded with special favour. The name of the Silver Wells in different parts of the country can thus be accounted for. There is a Siller Well in Walston parish, Lanarkshire. Arbroath, in Forfarshire; Alvah, in Banffshire; and Fraserburgh, in Aberdeenshire, have each their Silver Well. At Turriff, in the last-mentioned county, there is a farm on the estate of Gask called Silver Wells after a local spring. At Trelevean, in Cornwall, is a spring known as the Brass Well. Its name, however, is derived not from the nature of the offerings left there, but from the colour of the scum on its surface. Close to the ruins of Avoch Castle, in the Black Isle, is a well hollowed out of the conglomerate rock. Tradition says, that the treasures of the castle were thrown into it about the middle of the seventeenth century. This was done, not by way of offering a gift to the presiding spirit of the water, but to prevent the valuables from falling into the hands of Cromwell's troops. A diamond ring was dropped, not very long ago, into St. Molio's Well, on Holy Island, near Lamlash. It fell into the water by accident, and, after remaining in it for some time, was found and restored to its owner. The present ample water-supply of Glasgow from Loch Katrine was introduced in 1859. For about fifty years before that date, the city looked mainly to the Clyde for the supply of its daily needs. Still earlier, it depended entirely on its wells. In 1736 these are believed to have numbered about thirty in all. Among the best known were the Deanside or Meadow Well, Bogle's Well, Barrasyett Well near the foot of Saltmarket, the Priest's or Minister's Well and Lady Well beside the Molendinar, the Arns Well in the Green--so-called from the alders on its brink, and St. Thenew's Well, near what is now St. Enoch's Square. Not far from the well was a chapel dedicated to St. Thenew, with a graveyard round it. Some remains of the chapel were to be seen in 1736, when M'Ure wrote his history of the city. Dr. Andrew MacGeorge, in his "Old Glasgow," when describing St. Thenew's Well, remarks, "It was shaded by an old tree which drooped over the well, and which remained till the end of the last century. On this tree, the devotees, who frequented the well, were accustomed to nail, as thank-offerings, small bits of tin-iron--probably manufactured for that purpose by a craftsman in the neighbourhood--representing the parts of the body supposed to have been cured by the virtues of the sacred spring, such as eyes, hands, feet, ears, and others." Dr. MacGeorge further mentions that the well was cleaned out about a hundred years ago. On that occasion there were "picked out from among the debris at the bottom several of these old votive offerings which had dropped into it from the tree, the stump of which was at that time still standing." Horace tells of a shipwrecked sailor, hanging up his garments, as a thank-offering in the temple of the divinity who delivered him from the angry sea. In like manner, Pennant describes what he saw at St. Winifred's Well, in North Wales. "All infirmities," he says, "incident to the human body, met with relief; the votive crutches, the barrows and other proofs of cures, to this moment remain as evidence pendent over the well." In his "Spring of Kinghorn Craig," published in Edinburgh in 1618, Dr. Patrick Anderson has some curious remarks on the subject of votive offerings. He speaks of wells as being "all tapestried about with old rags, as certaine signes and sacraments wherewith they arle the well with ane arls-pennie of their health." He continues, "So suttle is that false knave making them believe that it is only the virtue of the water, and no thing else. Such people cannot say with David, 'The Lord is my helper,' but the Devill." What can still be seen on the other side of the English Channel is thus described by the Rev. C. N. Barham, in an article on Ragged Relics, in "The Antiquary" for January, 1893:--"At Wierre Effroy, in France, where the water of St. Godeleine's Well is esteemed efficacious for ague, rheumatism, gout, and all affections of the limbs, a heterogeneous collection of crutches, bandages, coils of rags, and other rejected adjuncts of medical treatment, is to be seen hanging upon the surrounding shrubs. They are intended as thank-offerings and testimonies of restoration. Other springs, famous for curing ophthalmia, abound in the same district, and here too, bandages, shades, guards, and rags innumerable are exhibited." The leaving of offerings at wells finds a parallel in the practice, at one time common, of depositing gifts in consecrated buildings. The chapel of St. Tears, in the parish of Wick, Caithness, used to be visited on Childermas (December 28th) by devotees, who left in it pieces of bread and cheese as offerings to the souls of the Holy Innocents slain by Herod. This was done till about the beginning of the present century. Till even a later date it was customary for the inhabitants of Mirelandorn to go to the Kirk of Moss, in the same parish, on Christmas before sunrise. They took bread and cheese as offerings, and placed them along with a silver coin on a certain stone. The Kirk of Moss was dedicated to Duthac, patron saint of Tain; and the gifts were doubtless destined for him. On Eilean Mòr is a chapel said to have been built by Charmaig, the tutelar saint of the island. In a recess in this building is a stone coffin, anciently used for the interment of priests. The following statement occurs in the "Old Statistical Account of Scotland":--"The coffin, also, for ages back, has served the saint as a treasury; and this, perhaps, might be the purpose for which it was originally intended. Till of late, not a stranger set foot on the island who did not conciliate his favour by dropping a small coin into a chink between its cover and side." When we examine the motives prompting to the practice under review, we can discover the working of a principle, vaguely grasped perhaps, but sufficiently understood to serve as a guide to action. This crude philosophy was two-fold. On the one hand, the gift left at a loch or spring was what has been facetiously styled a "retaining fee." It secured the goodwill of the genius loci, and thereby guaranteed to a certain extent the fulfilment of the suppliant's desire. This desire, as we have seen, was commonly the removal of a definite disease. On the other hand, the disease to be removed was in some mysterious way identified with the offering. The latter was the symbol, or rather the embodiment of the former, and, accordingly, to leave the gift was to leave the ailment--the patient being thus freed from both. The corollary to this was, that whoever removed the offering took away also the disease represented by it. According to a well-established law of medical science, infection is transferred from one person to another by clothing, or indeed by whatever comes into contact with the morbid particles from the patient's body. But infection in folklore is something different from this. Disease of any kind, whether usually reckoned infectious or not, passed via the offering to the person lifting it. Hence such gifts had a charmed existence, and were as safe as if under the sweep of the "Ancient Monuments Protection Act." The Rev. Dr. Gregor thus expresses the feeling on this point, as it prevailed till lately in the north-east of Scotland:--"No one would have been foolhardy enough to have even touched what had been left, far less to have carried it off. A child, or one who did not know, was most carefully instructed why such things were left in and around the well, and strict charge was laid not to touch or carry any of them off. Whoever carried off one of such relics contracted the disease of the one who left it." The notion that disease can be transferred lies at the root of various folk-cures. Dalyell, in his "Darker Superstitions," remarks, "It is said that, in the Highlands, a cat is washed in the water which has served for the ablution of an invalid, as if the disease absorbed from one living creature could be received by another, instead of being let free." In some parts of the Highlands, a common cure for an ailing cow was to make the animal swallow a live trout, so that the disease might pass from the one creature to the other. This was done not long ago, at a farm near Golspie, in Sutherland. In Norfolk, as a remedy for whooping-cough, a spider was caught, tied up in a piece of muslin, and pinned over the mantelpiece. The cough disappeared when the spider died. In Gloucestershire, ague was cured in the following way:--A living snail was worn in a bag round the neck for nine days. The snail was then thrown upon the fire when it was believed to shake as if with ague, and the patient recovered. Many more illustrations of this principle might be given, but the above are sufficient to show how it was applied. Symson records an instance in Galloway of swift vengeance following the theft of certain votive offerings. He says, "Hereabout, i.e., near Larg, in Minnigaff parish, is a well called the Gout Well of Larg, of which they tell this story--how that a piper stole away the offering left at this well, but when he was drinking of ale, which he intended to pay with the money he had taken away, the gout, as they say, seized on him, of which he could not be cured, but at that well, having first restored to it the money he had formerly taken away." Accident, rather than disease, sometimes resulted from such sacrilegious acts. The offerings were the property of the guardian spirit who was quick to resent their removal and to punish the doer of the deed. In the district of Ardnamurchan is a cave, associated with Columba, who there baptised some freebooters. The water used for the purpose lay in a hollow of the rock, and, in after times, votive gifts were left beside it. On one occasion, a young man stole some of these, but he did not remain long unpunished, for before reaching home he fell and broke his leg. Tobar-fuar-Mòrie, i.e., The big cold Well, situated at the foot of a steep hill in the parish of Corgarff, Aberdeenshire, consists of three springs about a yard distant from each other. Each spring formerly cured a separate disease--one, blindness; the other, deafness; and the third, lameness. The guardian spirit of the springs lived under a large stone called the kettle stone, because below it was a kettle where she stored her votive offerings. She was somewhat exacting in her demands, for no cure could be expected unless gold was presented. These particulars were obtained in the district by the Rev. Dr. Gregor, who records them in "Folklore" for March, 1892, and adds, "If one tried to rob the spirit, death by some terrible accident soon followed. My informant, more than fifty years ago, when a lad, resolved to remove the kettle stone from its position, and so become possessor of the spirit's gold. He accordingly set out with a few companions all provided with picks and spades, to displace the stone. After a good deal of hard labour the stone was moved from its site, but no kettle full of gold was found. An old woman met the lads on their way to their homes, and when she learnt what they had been doing, she assured them they would all die within a few weeks, and that a terrible death would befall the ring-leader." That the guardians of springs look well after their possessions in the new world, as well as in the old, is proved by the following quotation from Sir J. Lubbock's "Origin of Civilisation":--"In North Mexico," he says, "Lieutenant Whipple found a sacred spring which, from time immemorial 'had been held sacred to the rain-god.' No animal may drink of its waters. It must be annually cleansed with ancient vases, which, having been transmitted from generation to generation by the caciques, are then placed upon the walls, never to be removed. The frog, the tortoise, and the rattlesnake represented upon them, are sacred to Montezuma, the patron of the place, who would consume by lightning any sacrilegious hand that should dare to take the relics away." With the growth of enlightenment men's minds rose above such delusions. Had it not been so, the Holy Wells in our land would still have presented the appearance of rag fairs, or served as museums for old coins. Holy Loch, in Dunnet, Caithness, used to be much resorted to as a place of healing. The invalids walked or were carried round the lake and threw a penny into the water. Some of these pennies have been picked up from time to time by persons who have outgrown the old superstition. The hollow in the Clach-nan-Sul at Balquhidder, already referred to, contained small coins placed there by those who sought a cure for their sore eyes. Mr. J. Mackintosh Gow was told by some one in the district, that "people, when going to church, having forgotten their small change, used in passing to put their hands in the well and find a coin." Mr. Gow's informant mentioned that he had done so himself. In the ceremony known as "well-dressing" or "well-flowering," the offerings took the form of blossoms and green boughs. For different reasons Scotland has not been abreast of England in floral matters. Only in the latter country did the practice take root, and even there only within a somewhat limited area. We must seek for its home in Derbyshire and the adjacent counties. At some places it has died out, while at others it still survives, and forms the excuse for a pleasant holiday. At Bonchurch, Isle of Wight, indeed, St. Boniface's Well was decorated with wreaths of flowers on the saint's day; but this was an exceptional instance so far south. Within comparatively recent years well-flowering has, at one or two places, been either instituted, as at Belper, in Derbyshire, in 1838, or revived, as at St. Alkmund's Well in Derby, in 1870. The clergy and choir of St. Alkmund's Church celebrate the day by meeting at the church and walking in procession to the well. Writing in the seventeenth century, Aubrey says, "In Cheshire, when they went in perambulation, they did bless the springs, i.e., they did read the Gospel at them, and did believe the water was the better." At Droitwich, in Worcestershire, a salt spring, dedicated to St. Richard, used to be annually adorned with flowers. A correspondent of the "Gentleman's Magazine" of 1794 remarks, "In the village of Tissington, in the county of Derby, a place remarkable for fine springs of water, it has been a custom, time immemorial, on every Holy Thursday, to decorate the wells with boughs of trees, garlands of tulips, and other flowers, placed in various fancied devices, and, after prayers for the day at the church, for the parson and singers to pray and sing psalms at the wells." In Hone's "Every Day Book," under date 1826, are the following remarks by a correspondent:--"Tissington 'well-dressing' is a festivity which not only claims a high antiquity, but is one of the few country fêtes which are kept up with anything like the ancient spirit. It is one which is heartily loved and earnestly anticipated; one which draws the hearts of those who were brought up there, but whom fortune has cast into distant places, homewards with an irresistible charm. I have not had the pleasure of witnessing it, but I have had that of seeing the joy which sparkled in the eyes of the Tissingtonians as they talked of its approach and of their projected attendance." The festival is still held in honour at Tissington, and elaborate preparations continue to be made for its celebration. Flowers are arranged in patterns to form mottoes and texts of Scripture, and also devices, such as crosses, crowns, and triangles, while green boughs are added to complete the picture. A correspondent of "Notes and Queries" thus describes the decorations on Ascension Day in 1887: "The name of 'well-dressing' scarcely gives a proper idea of these beautiful structures. They are rather fountains or cascades, the water descending from above, and not rising as in a well. Their height varies from ten to twelve feet, and the original stone frontage is on this day hidden by a wooden erection in the form of an arch or some other elegant design. Over these planks a layer of plaster of Paris is spread, and whilst it is wet, flowers without leaves are stuck in it, forming a most beautiful mosaic pattern. On one the large yellow field ranunculus was arranged in letters, and so a verse of Scripture or of a hymn was recalled to the spectator's mind. On another a white dove was sculptured in the plaster and set in a ground-work of the humble violet. The daisy, which our poet Chaucer would gaze upon for hours together, formed a diaper-work of red and white; the pale yellow primrose was set off by the rich red of the 'ribes.' Nor were the coral berries of the holly, mountain ash, and yew forgotten; they are carefully gathered and stored in the winter to be ready for the May Day fête. It is scarcely possible to describe the vivid colouring and beautiful effect of these favourites of nature arranged in wreaths and garlands and devices of every hue. And then the pure sparkling water, which pours down from the midst of them on to the rustic moss-grown stones beneath, completes the enchantment, and makes this feast of the 'well-flowering' one of the most beautiful of all the old customs that are left in Merrie England." Well-flowering also prevails at Buxton, and is a source of interest to the many visitors to that airy health resort. Such floral devices do not now rank as votive gifts. They are merely decorations. The custom may have originated in the Roman Fontinalia. At any rate it had at one time a corresponding object. The Fontinalia formed an annual flower-festival in honour of the nymphs inhabiting springs. Joyous bands visited the fountains, crowned them with boughs, and threw nosegays into their sparkling water. The parallelism between the Roman and the English Fontinalia is too well marked to be overlooked. In Derbyshire and Staffordshire the ceremony of well-dressing is usually observed on Ascension Day. In more than one instance the festival has attracted to itself various old English sports commonly associated with May Day. Among these may be mentioned May-pole and Morris-dancing and crowning the May-queen. At Endon, in Staffordshire, the festival is celebrated on Royal Oak Day (May 29th), or on the following day if the 29th is a Sunday. The following account--somewhat abbreviated--is from the "Staffordshire Evening Post" of 31st May, 1892, and gives some interesting particulars about the festival: "The secluded village of Endon yesterday celebrated the well-dressing feast. This institution, dear to the heart of every loyal inhabitant, holds foremost rank in the local calends, for it is not a holiday of ordinary frivolous significance, but a thanksgiving festival. The proceeds, which generally amount to some hundreds of pounds, are divided between the poor of the parish and the parochial schools. There are two wells at Endon. One is very old and almost dry, and has long since fallen into disuse. The other alone supplies the village with water. From a very early hour in the morning the whole village was astir, and those people who were gifted with taste and a delicate touch busied themselves in bedecking the wells for the coming ceremony. As the day advanced, crowds of visitors poured in from all parts of the potteries; and towards evening the village green probably held no fewer than two thousand people. The proceedings, which were under the personal guidance of the vicar, commenced a little before two o'clock. A procession of about a hundred and twenty Sunday-school children was formed at the new well, with the Brownedge village brass band at its head. The children carried little flags, which they vigorously waved in excess of glee. The band struck up bravely, and the procession marched in good order up the hill to the old parish church, where a solemn service was conducted. The villagers attended in overwhelming numbers, and completely thronged the building. There was a fully surpliced choir, whose singing, coupled with the music of the organ, greatly added to the impressiveness of the service. Hymns and psalms, selected by the vicar as applicable to a thanksgiving service for water, were sung by the congregation in spirited style. At the conclusion of the service the procession was reformed, the band leading the way back to the new well. Upon arrival, the clergy and choir, who had retained their surplices, walked slowly round the well, singing 'Rock of Ages' and 'A living stream as crystal clear.' Both wells were very beautifully decorated; but the new well was a masterpiece of elaborated art. A large wooden framework had been erected in front of the well, and upon this a smooth surface of soft clay had been laid. The clay was thickly studded with many thousands of flower heads in great variety of kind and hue, and in pictorial as well as geometrical arrangement. There were two very pretty figures of peacocks in daisies, bluebells, and dahlias, and a resplendent motto, 'O, ye wells! bless ye the Lord!' (from the Benedicite) garnished the summit. The old well was almost deserted, although its decorations were well worthy of inspection. Its motto, 'Give me this water' (from the fourth chapter of St. John) was very finely traced, and its centre figures--two white doves and a crown--were sufficiently striking. May-pole dances, including the crowning of the May-queen, occupied the greater part of the afternoon. In the evening the band played for dancing, and there was a repetition of the May-pole dances. After dusk there was a display of fireworks." Though, as already stated, well-dressing was unknown north of the Tweed, any account of votive offerings would be incomplete without a reference to the picturesque ceremony. CHAPTER XIII. WEATHER AND WELLS. Importance of Weather--Its Place in Folklore--Raising the Wind--Witches and Wind-charms--Blue-stone in Fladda--Well in Gigha--Tobernacoragh--Routing-well--Water Cross--Stone in British Columbia--Other Rain-charms--Survivals in Folk-customs--Sympathetic Magic--Dulyn--Barenton--Tobar Faolan--St. Fumac's Image at Botriphnie--Molly Grime. In all ages much attention has been given to the weather, with special reference to its bearings on human well-being. As Mr. R. Inwards truly observes, in his "Weather-lore," "From the earliest times hunters, shepherds, sailors, and tillers of the earth have from sheer necessity been led to study the teachings of the winds, the waves, the clouds, and a hundred other objects from which the signs of coming changes in the state of the air might be foretold. The weather-wise amongst these primitive people would be naturally the most prosperous, and others would soon acquire the coveted foresight by a closer observance of the same objects from which their successful rivals guessed the proper time to provide against a storm, or reckoned on the prospects of the coming crops." Hence, naturally enough, the weather has an important place in folklore. Various prognostications concerning it have been drawn from sun and moon, from animals and flowers; while certain meteorological phenomena have, in their turn, been regarded as prophetic of mundane events. Thus, in the astrological treatise entitled "The Knowledge of Things Unknown," we read that "Thunder in January signifieth the same year great winds, plentiful of corn and cattle peradventure; in February, many rich men shall die in great sickness; in March, great winds, plenty of corn, and debate amongst people; in April, be fruitful and merry with the death of wicked men;" and so on through the other months of the year. One can easily understand why thunder should be counted peculiarly ominous. The effects produced on the mind by its mysterious noise, and on the nerves by the electricity in the air, are apt to lead superstitious people to expect strange events. Particular notice was taken of the weather on certain ecclesiastical festivals, and omens were drawn from its condition. Thus, from "The Husbandman's Practice," we learn that "The wise and cunning masters in astrology have found that man may see and mark the weather of the holy Christmas night, how the whole year after shall be in his making and doing, and they shall speak on this wise. When on the Christmas night and evening it is very fair and clear weather, and is without wind and without rain, then it is a token that this year will be plenty of wine and fruit. But if the contrariwise, foul weather and windy, so shall it be very scant of wine and fruit. But if the wind arise at the rising of the sun, then it betokeneth great dearth among beasts and cattle this year. But if the wind arise at the going down of the same, then it signifieth death to come among kings and other great lords." We do not suppose that anyone nowadays attends to such Yule-tide auguries, but there are not wanting those who have a lingering belief in the power of Candlemas and St. Swithin's Day to foretell the sort of weather to be expected in the immediate future. Witches were believed to be able to raise the wind at their pleasure. In a confession made at Auldearn in Nairnshire, in the year 1662, certain women, accused of sorcery, said, "When we raise the wind we take a rag of cloth and wet it in water, and we take a beetle and knock the rag on a stone, and we say thrice over-- 'I knock this rag upon this stane, To raise the wind in the devil's name. It shall not lie until I please again!'" When the wind was to be allayed the rag was dried. About 1670 an attempt was made to drain some two thousand acres of land belonging to the estate of Dun in Forfarshire. The Dronner's, i.e., Drainer's Dyke--remains of which are still to be seen behind the Montrose Infirmary--was built in connection with the scheme. But the work was destroyed by a terrible storm, caused, it was believed, by a certain Meggie Cowie--the last to be burned for witchcraft in the district. About eighty years before, a notable witch-trial in the time of James VI. had to do with the raising of a storm. A certain woman, Agnes Sampson, residing in Haddingtonshire, confessed that she belonged to a company of two hundred witches, and that they were all in the habit of sailing along the coast in sieves to meet the devil at the kirk of North Berwick. After one of these interviews the woman took a cat and christened it, and, after fixing to it parts of a dead man's body, threw the creature into the sea in presence of the other witches. The king, who was then returning from Denmark with his bride, was delayed by contrary winds, and such a tempest arose in the Firth of Forth that a vessel, containing valuable gifts for the queen on her arrival, sank between Burntisland and Leith. The Rev. T. F. Thiselton Dyer makes the suggestion in his "Folklore of Shakespeare," that it was probably to these contrary winds that the author of "Macbeth" alludes when he makes the witch say-- "Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost." Even down to the end of last century, and probably later, some well-educated people believed that the devil had the power of raising the wind. The phrase, the prince of the power of the air, applied to him in Scripture, was interpreted in a literal way. "The Diary of the Rev. John Mill," minister in Shetland from 1740 till 1803, bears witness to such a belief. In his introduction to the work, the editor, Mr. Gilbert Goudie, tells us: "He (Mill) was often heard talking aloud with his (to others) unseen foe; but those who heard him declared that he spoke in an unknown tongue, presumably Hebrew. After one of these encounters the worthy man was heard muttering, 'Well, let him do his worst; the wind aye in my face will not hurt me.' This was in response to a threat of the devil, that wherever he (Mill) went, he (Satan) should be a-blowing 'wind in his teeth,' in consequence of which Mill was unable ever after to get passage out of Shetland." On the 5th of November, 1605, a terrible storm swept over the north of Scotland and destroyed part of the cathedral at Dornoch. As is well known, the day in question was selected by Guy Fawkes for blowing up the Houses of Parliament. In his "Cathedral of Caithness, at Dornoch," Mr. Hugh F. Campbell tells us: "When the news of the gunpowder plot reached the north, the co-incidence of time at once impressed the imagination of a superstitious age. The storm was invested with an element of the marvellous." Mr. Campbell then quotes the following curious passage from Sir Robert Gordon, specially referring to Satan's connection with the tempest:--"The same verie night that this execrable plott should have been put in execution all the inner stone pillars of the north syd of the body of the cathedral church at Dornogh--lacking the rooff before--were blowen from the verie roots and foundation quyt and clein over the outer walls of the church: such as hath sein the same. These great winds did even then prognosticate and forshew some great treason to be at hand; and as the divell was busie then to trouble the ayre, so wes he bussie by these hiss fyrebrands to trouble the estate of Great Britane." The notion that storms, especially when accompanied by thunder and lightning, were the work of evil spirits, came out prominently during the middle ages in connection with bells. The ringing of bells was believed to drive away the demons, and so allay the tempest. A singular superstition concerning the causation of storms was brought to light in Hungary during the autumn of 1892 in connection with the fear of cholera. At Kidzaes a patient died of what was thought to be that disease, and a post mortem examination was ordered by the local authorities. Strenuous opposition, however, was offered by the villagers on the ground that the act would cause such a hail-storm as would destroy their crops. Feeling ran so high that a riot was imminent, and the project had to be abandoned. Eric, the Swedish king, could control the winds through his enchantments. By turning his cap he was able to bring a breeze from whatever quarter he wished. Mr. G. L. Gomme, in his "Ethnology in Folklore," remarks, "At Kempoch Point, in the Firth of Clyde, is a columnar rock called the Kempoch Stane, from whence a saint was wont to dispense favourable winds to those who paid for them, and unfavourable to those who did not put confidence in his powers--a tradition which seems to have been carried on by the Innerkip witches who were tried in 1662, and some portions of which still linger among the sailors of Greenock." The stone in question consists of a block of grey mica schist six feet in height and two in diameter. It is locally known as Granny Kempoch. In former times sailors and fishermen sought to ensure good fortune on the sea by walking seven times round the stone. While making their rounds they carried in their hand a basket of sand, and at the same time uttered an eerie chant. Newly-married couples used also to walk round the stone by way of luck. At the beginning of the present century a certain woman, Bessie Miller by name, lived in Stromness, in Orkney, and eked out her livelihood by selling winds to mariners. Her usual charge was sixpence. For this sum, as Sir W. Scott tells us, "she boiled her kettle, and gave the barque advantage of her prayers, for she disclaimed all unlawful arts. The wind, thus petitioned for, was sure to arrive, though sometimes the mariners had to wait some time for it." Her house was on the brow of the steep hill above the town, "and for exposure might have been the abode of Eolus himself." At the time of Sir Walter's visit to Stromness, Bessie Miller was nearly a hundred years old, and appeared "withered and dried up like a mummy." We make her acquaintance in the "Pirate," under the name of Norna of the Fitful Head. In his "Rambles in the Far North," Mr. R. M. Fergusson tells of another wind-compelling personage, named Mammie Scott, who also belonged to Stromness, and practised her arts there, till within a comparatively recent date. "Many wonderful tales are told of her power and influence over the weather. Her fame was widely spread as that of Bessie. A captain called upon Mammie one day to solicit a fair wind. He was bound for Stornoway, and received from the reputed witch a scarlet thread upon which were three knots. His instructions were, that if sufficient wind did not arrive, one of the knots was to be untied; if that proved insufficient, another knot was to be untied; but he was on no account to unloose the third knot, else disaster would overtake his vessel. The mariner set out upon his voyage, and, the wind being light, untied the first knot. This brought a stronger breeze, but still not sufficient to satisfy him. The second knot was let down, and away the vessel sped across the waters, round Cape Wrath. In a short time the entrance to Stornoway harbour was reached, when it came into the captain's head to untie the third knot in order to see what might occur. He was too near the end of his voyage to suffer any damage now; and so he felt emboldened to make the experiment. No sooner was the last knot set free than a perfect hurricane set in from a contrary direction, which drove the vessel right back to Hoy Sound, from which she had set out, where he had ample time to repent of his folly." Within the last half-century there lived in Stonehaven an old woman, who was regarded with considerable awe by the sea-faring population. Before a voyage it was usual to propitiate her by the gift of a bag of coals. On one occasion, two brothers, owners of a coasting smack, after setting sail, had to return to port through stress of weather, the storm being due, it was believed, to the fact that one of the brothers had omitted to secure the woman's good offices in the usual way. The brother who was captain of the smack seems to have been a firm believer in wind-charms, for it is related of him that during a more than usually high wind he was in the habit of throwing up his cap into the air with the exclamation, "She maun hae something." She, in this case, was the wind, and not the witch: and the cap was meant as a gift to propitiate the storm. Dr. Charles Rogers, in his "Social Life in Scotland," tells us that "the seamen of Shetland, in tempestuous weather, throw a piece of money into the window of a ruinous chapel dedicated to St. Ronald in the belief that the saint will allay the vehemence of the storm." According to the same writer, "Shetland boatmen still purchase favourable winds from elderly women, who pretend to rule or to modify the storms." "There are now in Lerwick," Dr. Rogers continues, "several old women who in this fashion earn a subsistence. Many of the survivors of the great storm of the 20th of July, 1881--so fatal on northern coasts--assert that their preservation was due to warnings which they received through a supernatural agency." Human skulls have their folklore. The lifting of them from their usual resting-places has, in popular belief, been connected with certain mysterious occurrences. According to a story told by Mr. Wirt Sikes, in his "British Goblins," a man who removed a skull from a church to prove to his companions that he was free from superstition was overtaken by a terrible whirlwind, the result, it was thought, of his rash act. In some Highland districts it used to be reckoned unlucky to allow a corpse to remain unburied. If from any cause, human bones came to the surface, care was taken to lay them below ground again, as otherwise disastrous storms would ensue. We have a good example of the association of wind-charms with water in the case of a certain magical stone referred to by Martin as existing in his day in the island of Fladda, near Skye. There was a chapel to St. Columba on the island, and on the altar lay the stone in question. The stone was round, of a blue colour, and was always moist. "It is an ordinary custom," Martin relates, "when any of the fishermen are detained in the isle by contrary winds, to wash the blue stone with water all round, expecting thereby to procure a favourable wind, which, the credulous tenant, living in the isle, says never fails, especially if a stranger wash the stone." The power of the Fladda stone was equalled by a certain well in Gigha, though in the latter instance a dweller in the island, rather than a stranger, had power over it. When a foreign boat was wind-bound on the island, the master of the craft was in the habit of giving some money to one of the natives, to procure a favourable breeze. This was done in the following way. A few feet above the well was a heap of stones, forming a cover to the spring. These were carefully removed, and the well was cleared out with a wooden dish or clam-shell. The water was then thrown several times towards the point, from which the needed wind should blow. Certain words of incantation were used, each time the water was thrown. After the ceremony, the stones were replaced, as the district would otherwise have been swept by a hurricane. Pennant mentions, in connection with his visit to Gigha, that the superstition had then died out. In this he was in error, for the well continued to be occasionally consulted to a later date. Even within recent years, the memory of the practice lingered in the island; but there seemed some doubt, as to the exact nature of the required ritual. Captain T. P. White was told by a shepherd, belonging to the island, that, if a stone was taken out of the well, a storm would arise and prevent any person crossing over, nor would it abate till the stone was taken back to the well. From the evidence of an Irish example, we find that springs could allay a storm, as well as produce a favourable breeze. The island of Innismurray, off the coast of Sligo, has a sacred well called Tobernacoragh. When a tempest was raging, the natives believed that by draining the water of this well into the sea, the wrath of the elements could be calmed. Mr. Gomme, in his "Ethnology in Folklore," when commenting on the instance, remarks, "In this case the connection between well-worship and the worship of a rain-god is certain, for it may be surmised that if the emptying of the well allayed a storm, some complementary action was practised at one time or other in order to produce rain, and in districts more subject to a want of rain than this Atlantic island, that ceremony would be accentuated at the expense of the storm-allaying ceremony at Innismurray." The Routing Well, at Monktown, in Inveresk parish, Mid-Lothian, was believed to give notice of an approaching storm by uttering sounds resembling the moaning of the wind. As a matter of fact, the noises came from certain disused coal-workings in the immediate neighbourhood, and were due to the high wind blowing through them. The sounds thus accompanied and did not precede the storm. To procure rain, recourse was had to various superstitious practices. Martin tells of a stone, five feet high, in the form of a cross, opposite St. Mary's Church, in North Uist. "The natives," he says, "call it the 'Water Cross,' for the ancient inhabitants had a custom of erecting this sort of cross to procure rain, and when they had got enough, they laid it flat on the ground, but this custom is now disused." Among the mountains of British Columbia, is a certain stone held in much honour by the Indians, for they believe that it will produce rain when struck. Rain-making is an important occupation among uncivilised races, and strange rites are sometimes practised to bring about the desired result. By some savages, human hair is burned for this end. Mr. J. G. Frazer, in "The Golden Bough," has some interesting remarks on rain-production. After enumerating certain rain-charms among heathen nations, he remarks, "Another way of constraining the rain-god is to disturb him in his haunts. This seems the reason why rain is supposed to be the consequence of troubling a sacred spring. The Dards believed that if a cowskin or anything impure is placed in certain springs storms will follow. Gervasius mentions a spring, into which, if a stone or a stick were thrown, rain would at once issue from it and drench the thrower. There was a fountain in Munster such that if it were touched or even looked at by a human being it would at once flood the whole province with rain." Curious survivals of ancient rain-charms are to be found in modern folk-customs. Thus, in connection with the rejoicings of the harvest-home in England, when the last load of grain was being carried on the gaily decorated hock-cart to the farm-yard, it was customary to throw water on those taking part in the ceremony. This apparently meaningless frolic was in reality a rain-charm. A Cornish custom, at one time popular at Padstow on the first of May, can be explained on the same principle. A hobby-horse was taken to the Traitor's Pool, a quarter of a mile from the town. The head was dipped in the pool, and water was sprinkled on the bystanders. Such charms depend for their efficacy on what is called "sympathetic magic." Mimic rain is produced on the earth, in the hope that the same liquid will be constrained to descend from the heavens, to bring fresh fertility to the fields. Professor Rhys, in his "Celtic Heathendom," traces the connection between modern rain-charms and the rites of ancient paganism. He there quotes the following particulars regarding Dulyn, in North Wales, from a description of the place published in 1805:--"There lies in Snowdon Mountain a lake called Dulyn, in a dismal dingle surrounded by high and dangerous rocks; the lake is exceedingly black, and its fish are loathsome, having large heads and small bodies. No wild swan or duck or any kind of bird has ever been seen to light on it, as is their wont on every other Snowdonian lake. In this same lake there is a row of stepping stones extending into it; and if any one steps on the stones and throws water so as to wet the furthest stone of the series, which is called the Red Altar, it is but a chance that you do not get rain before night, even when it is hot weather." The spot was, probably in pre-Christian times, the scene of sacrifices to some local deity. Judging from the dismal character of the neighbourhood, we may safely infer that fear entered largely into the worship paid there to the genius loci. The Fountain of Barenton, in Brittany, was specially celebrated in connection with rain-making. During the early middle ages, the peasantry of the neighbourhood resorted to it in days of drought. According to a time-honoured custom, they took some water from the fountain and threw it on a slab hard by; rain was the result. Professor Rhys reminds us that this fountain "still retains its pluvial importance; for, in seasons of drought, the inhabitants of the surrounding parishes, we are told go to it in procession, headed by their five great banners and their priests ringing bells and chanting psalms. On arriving, the rector of the canton dips the foot of the cross in the water, and it is sure to rain within a week's time." The Barenton instance is specially interesting, for part of the ceremony recalls what happened in connection with a certain Scottish spring, viz., Tobar Faolan at Struan, in Athole. This spring, as the name implies, was dedicated to Fillan. In his "Holiday Notes in Athole," in the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," volume xii. (new series), Mr. J. Mackintosh Gow says, "It is nearly one hundred yards west from the church, at the foot of the bank, and close to the river Garry. It is overgrown with grass and weeds, but the water is as clear and cool as it may have been in the days of the saint. There is no tradition of its having been a curing or healing well, except that in pre-Reformation days, when a drought prevailed and rain was much wanted, an image of the saint, which was kept in the church, used to be taken in procession to the well, and, in order that rain might come, the feet of the image were placed in the water; and this, of course, was generally supposed to have the desired effect." At Botriphnie, in Banffshire, six miles from Keith, the wooden image of St. Fumac used to be solemnly washed in his well on the third of May. We may conclude that the ceremony was intended as a rain-charm. It must have been successful, on at least one occasion, for the river Isla became flooded through the abundance of rain. Indeed, the flooding was so great that the saint's image was swept away by the rushing water. The image was finally stranded at Banff, where it was burned as a relic of superstition by order of the parish minister about the beginning of the present century. In Glentham Church, Lincolnshire, is a tomb, with a figure locally called "Molly Grime." From "Old English Customs and Charities," we learn that, till 1832, the figure was washed every Good Friday with water from Newell Well by seven old maids of Glentham, who each received a shilling, "in consequence of an old bequest connected with some property in that district." Perhaps its testator was not free from a belief in the efficacy of rain-charms. Otherwise, the ceremony seems meaningless. If the keeping clean of the figure was the only object, the seven old maids should not have limited their duties to an annual pilgrimage from the well to the church. CHAPTER XIV. TREES AND SPRINGS. Tree-worship--Ygdrasil--Personality of Plants--Tree-ancestors-- "Wassailing"--Relics of Tree-worship--Connla's Well--Cutting down Trees Unlucky--Spring at Monzie--Marriage Well--Pear-Tree Well --Some Miraculous Trees--External Soul--Its Connection with Trees, &c.--Arms of Glasgow. Trees were at one time worshipped as well as fountains. Ygdrasil, the world-tree of Scandinavian mythology, had three roots, and underneath each, was a fountain of wonderful virtues. This represents the connection between tree and well in the domain of mythology. But the same superstition was connected with ordinary trees and wells. Glancing back over the history of civilisation, we reach a period, when vegetation was endowed with personality. As plants manifested the phenomena of life and death like man and the lower animals, they had a similar kind of existence attributed to them. Among some savages to-day, the fragrance of a flower is thought to be its soul. As there was thus no hard and fast line between man and the vegetable kingdom, the one could be derived from the other; in other words, men could have trees as their ancestors. Curious survivals of such a belief lie both revealed and concealed in the language of to-day. Though we are far separated from such a phase of archaic religion, we speak of the branches of a family. At one time such an expression represented a literal fact, and not a mere metaphor. In like manner, we call a son, who resembles his father, "a chip of the old block." But how few when using the phrase are alive to its real force! Mr. Keary, in his "Outlines of Primitive Belief," observes, "Even when the literal notion of the descent from a tree had been lost sight of, the close connection between the prosperity of the tribe and the life of its fetish was often strictly held. The village tree of the German races was originally a tribal tree with whose existence the life of the village was involved." The picturesque ceremony known as the "Wassailing of Apple-trees," kept up till lately in Devon and Cornwall, carries our thoughts back to the time when tree-worship was a thriving cult in our land. It was celebrated on the evening before Epiphany (January 6th). The farmer, accompanied by his labourers, carried a pail of cider with roasted apples in it into the orchard. The pail was placed on the ground, and each one of the company took from it a cupful of the liquid. They then stood before the trees and repeated the following lines:-- "Health to thee, good apple tree, Well to bear pocket-fulls, hat-fulls, Peck-fulls, bushel bag-fulls." Part of the contents of the cup was then drunk, and the remainder was thrown at the tree amid shouts from the by-standers. Relics of the same cult can be traced in the superstitious regard for such trees as the rowan, the elder, &c., and in the decoration of the May-pole and the Christmas Tree. According to an ancient Irish legend, a certain spring in Erin, called Connla's Well, had growing over it nine mystical hazel trees. Year by year these trees produced their flowers and fruit simultaneously. The nuts were of a brilliant crimson colour and contained in some mysterious way the knowledge of all that was best in poetry and art. Professor O'Curry, in his "Lectures on the Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish," refers to this legend, and says, "No sooner were the beautiful nuts produced on the trees than they always dropped into the well, raising by their fall a succession of shining red bubbles. Now, during this time the water was always full of salmon, and no sooner did the bubbles appear than these salmon darted to the surface and ate the nuts, after which they made their way to the river. The eating of the nuts produced brilliant crimson spots on the bellies of these salmon, and to catch and eat these salmon became an object of more than mere gastronomic interest among those who were anxious to become distinguished in the arts and in literature without being at the pains and delay of long study, for the fish was supposed to have become filled with the knowledge which was contained in the nuts, which, it was believed, would be transferred in full to those who had the good fortune to catch and eat them." In many cases it was counted unlucky to cut down trees, since the spirits, inhabiting them, would resent the injury. In the sixteenth century the parishioners of Clynnog, in Caernarvonshire, refrained from destroying the trees growing in the grounds of St. Beyno. Even though he was their patron saint, he was quite ready to harm anybody who took liberties with his grove. Loch Siant Well, in Skye, was noted for its power to cure headaches, stitches, and other ailments, and was much frequented in consequence. Martin says, "There is a small coppice near to the well, and there is none of the natives dare venture to cut the least branch of it for fear of some signal judgment to follow upon it." Martin also tells us that the same reverence was for long paid to the peat on the island of Lingay. This island, he says, "is singular in respect of all the lands of Uist, and the other islands that surround it, for they are all composed of sand, and this, on the contrary, is altogether moss covered with heath, affording five peats in depth, and is very serviceable and useful, furnishing the island Borera, &c., with plenty of good fuel. This island was held as consecrated for several ages, insomuch that the natives would not then presume to cut any fuel in it." When trees beside wells had rags hung on them as offerings, they would naturally be reverenced, as the living altars for the reception of the gifts. But even when not used for this purpose, they were sometimes thought to have a mysterious connection with the springs they overshadowed. In the parish of Monzie, Perthshire, is a mineral well held in much esteem till about the year 1770. At that time two trees, till then the guardians of the spring, fell, and with their fall its virtue departed. On the right bank of the Clyde, about three-quarters of a mile from Carmyle village, is the once sylvan district of Kenmuir. There, at the foot of a bank, is a spring locally known as "The Marriage Well," the name being derived, it is said, from two curiously united trees beside its margin. These trees were recently cut down. In former times, it was customary for marriage parties, the day after their wedding, to visit the spring, and there pledge the bride and bridegroom in draughts of its sparkling water. On the banks of the Kelvin, close to the Glasgow Botanic Gardens, once flowed a spring styled the Pear-Tree, Pea-Tree, or Three-Tree Well, the last name being probably the original one. In former times it was a recognised trysting-place for lovers. A tragic story is told in connection with it by Mr. James Napier in his "Notes and Reminiscences of Partick." A maiden, named Catherine Clark, arranged to meet her lover there by night, "nor did she ever dream But that he was what he did ever seem." She never returned to her home. "A few days after," remarks Mr. Napier, "her body was found buried near a large tree which stood within a few yards of the Pea-Tree Well. This tree was afterwards known as 'Catherine Clark's Tree,' and remained for many years an object of interest to the visitors to this far-famed well, and many a sympathising lover carved his name in rude letters on its bark. But the tree was also an object of terror to those who had to pass it in dark and lonely nights, and many tales were told of people who had seen a young female form dressed in white, and stained with blood, standing at the tree foot." The tree was removed many years ago. The spring too is gone, the recent extension of the Caledonian Railway to Maryhill having forced it to quit the field. Near the moat of Listerling, in county Kilkenny, Ireland, is a holy well dedicated to St. Mullen, who is said to have lived for a while in its neighbourhood. A fine hawthorn, overshadowing it, grew--if we can believe a local legend--from the staff of the saint, which he there stuck into the ground. This reminds one of the famous Glastonbury Thorn, produced from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea, who fixed it in the ground one Christmas Day. The staff took root at once, put forth branches, and next day was covered with milk-white blossoms. St. Servanus's staff, too, had a miraculous ending. He threw it across the Firth of Forth, and when it fell on the Fife coast, it took root and became an apple-tree. A group of thorn-bushes, near Aghaboe, in Queen's County, Ireland, was dedicated to St. Canice. The spring, overshadowed by them, was much resorted to for the purposes of devotion. At Rearymore, in the same county, some hawthorns, growing beside St. Finyan's spring, were, and doubtless still are, religiously preserved by the natives. In the Isle of Man is Chibber Unjin, signifying The Well of the Ash. Beside it grew an ash tree, formerly decorated with votive offerings. What has been called the external soul has an important place in folklore, and forms the theme of many folk-tales. Primitive man does not think of the soul as spiritual, but as material--as something that can be seen and felt. It can take different shapes. It can leave the body during sleep, and wander about in the guise of an animal, such as a mouse. Considerable space is devoted to this problem in Mr. J. G. Frazer's "Golden Bough." Mr. Frazer there remarks, "There may be circumstances in which, if the life or soul remains in the man, it stands a greater chance of sustaining injury than if it were stowed away in some safe and secret place. Accordingly, in such circumstances, primitive man takes his soul out of his body and deposits it for security in some safe place, intending to replace it in his body when the danger is past; or, if he should discover some place of absolute security, he may be content to leave his soul there permanently. The advantage of this is, that so long as the soul remains unharmed in the place where he has deposited it, the man himself is immortal; nothing can kill his body, since his life is not in it." Sometimes the soul is believed to be stowed away in a tree, injury to the latter involving disaster to the former. The custom of planting trees, and calling them after certain persons may nowadays have nothing to do with this notion; but, undoubtedly, a real connection was at one time believed to exist between the partners in the transaction. A certain oak, with mistletoe growing on it, was mysteriously associated with the family of Hay. The superstition is explained in the following lines:-- "While the mistletoe bats on Errol's oak And that oak stands fast, The Hays shall flourish, and their good grey hawk Shall not flinch before the blast. But when the root of the oak decays And the mistletoe dwines on its withered breast, The grass shall grow on the Earl's hearthstone, And the corbies craw in the falcon's nest." At Finlarig Castle, near Killin, in Perthshire, are several trees, believed to be linked with the lives of certain individuals, connected by family ties with the ruined fortress. Aubrey gives an example of this superstition, as it existed in England in the seventeenth century. He says, "I cannot omit taking notice of the great misfortune in the family of the Earl of Winchelsea, who, at Eastwell, in Kent, felled down a most curious grove of oaks near his own noble seat, and gave the first blow with his own hands. Shortly after, the countess died in her bed suddenly, and his eldest son, the Lord Maidstone, was killed at sea by a cannon bullet." In the grounds of Dalhousie Castle, about two miles from Dalkeith, on the edge of a fine spring is the famous Edgewell Oak. Sir Walter Scott, in his "Journal," under date May 13th, 1829, writes, "Went with the girls to dine at Dalhousie Castle, where we were very kindly received. I saw the Edgewell Tree, too fatal, says Allan Ramsay, to the family from which he was himself descended." According to a belief in the district, a branch fell from this tree, before the death of a member of the family. The original oak fell early in last century, but a new one sprang from the old root. An editorial note to the above entry in the "Journal" gives the following information:--"The tree is still flourishing (1889), and the belief in its sympathy with the family is not yet extinct, as an old forester, on seeing a branch fall from it on a quiet still day in July, 1874, exclaimed, 'The laird's deed, noo!' and, accordingly, news came soon after that Fox Maule, eleventh Earl of Dalhousie, had died." The external soul was sometimes associated with objects other than living trees. Dr. Charles Rogers tells us that "a pear, supposed to have been enchanted by Hugh Gifford, Lord of Yester, a notable magician in the reign of Alexander III., is preserved in the family of Brown of Colston, as heirs of Gifford's estate." The prosperity of the family is believed to be linked with the preservation of the pear. Even an inanimate object would serve the purpose. The glass drinking-cup, known as the "Luck of Edenhall," is connected with the fortunes of the Musgrave family, and great care is taken to preserve it from injury. Tradition says that a company of fairies were making merry beside a spring near the mansion-house, but that, being frightened by some intruder, they vanished, leaving the cup in question, while one of them exclaimed:-- "If this cup should break or fall, Farewell the luck of Edenhall." Some living object, however, either vegetable or animal, was the usual repository of the external soul. A familiar folk-tale tells of a giant whose heart was in a swan, and who could not be killed while the swan lived. Hunting was a favourite occupation among the inhabitants of the Western Isles; but on the mountain Finchra, in Rum, no deer was killed by any member of the Lachlan family, as it was believed that the life of that family was in some way linked with the life of these animals. A curious superstition is mentioned by Camden in his "Britannia." In a pond near the Abbey of St. Maurice, in Burgundy, were put as many fish as there were monks. When any monk was taken ill, one of the fish was seen to float half-dead on the surface of the pond. If the fish died the monk died too, the death of the former giving warning of the fate of the latter. In this case the external soul was thought of as stowed away in a fish. As is well known, the Arms of the City of Glasgow are a bell, a tree, a fish with a ring in its mouth, and a bird. The popular explanation of these emblems connects them with certain miracles, wrought by Kentigern, the patron saint of the burgh. May we not hold that an explanation of their symbolism is to be sought in a principle, that formed an article in the beliefs of men, long before Kentigern was born, as well as during his time and since? The bell, it is true, had, doubtless, an ecclesiastical association; but the other three symbols point, perhaps, to some superstitious notion like the above. In various folk-tales, as well as in Christian art, the soul is sometimes typified by a bird. As we have just seen, it has been associated with trees and fish. We are entitled therefore to ask whether the three symbols may not express one and the same idea under different forms. It is, of course, open to anyone to say that there were fish in the river, on whose banks Kentigern took up his abode, and quite a forest with birds singing in it around his cell, and that no further explanation of the symbolism need be sought. All these, it is true, existed within the saint's environment, but may they not have been regarded as types of the soul under the guise of objects familiar to all, and afterwards grouped together in the burgh Arms? On this hypothesis, the symbols have survived the belief that gave them birth, and serve to connect the practical life of to-day, with the vague visions and crude conjectures of the past. CHAPTER XV. CHARM-STONES IN AND OUT OF WATER. Stone-worship--Mysterious Properties of Stones--Symbolism of Gems --Gnostics--Abraxas Gems--Gems in Sarcophagi--Life-stones--Use of Amulets in Scotland--Yellow Stone in Mull--Baul Muluy--Black Stones of Iona--Stone as Medicine--Declan's Stone--Curing-stones still used for Cattle--Mary, Queen of Scots--Amulet at Abbotsford --Highland Reticence--Aberfeldy Curing-stone--Lapis Ceranius and Lapis Hecticus--Bernera--St. Ronan's Altar--Blue Stone in Fladda --Baul Muluy again--Columba's White Stone--Loch Manaar--Well near Loch Torridon--Stones besides Springs--Healing-stones at Killin-- Their connection with Fillan--Mornish--Altars and Crosses--Iona-- Clach-a-brath--Cross at Kilberry--Lunar Stone in Harris-- Perforated Stones--Ivory--Barbeck's Bone--Adder-beads--Sprinkling Cattle--Elf-bolts--Clach-na-Bratach--Clach Dearg--Lee Penny-- Lockerbie Penny--Black Penny. We have already seen that in early times water was an object of worship. Stones also were reverenced as the embodiments of nature-deities. "In Western Europe during the middle ages," remarks Sir J. Lubbock in his "Origin of Civilisation," "we meet with several denunciations of stone-worship, proving its deep hold on the people. Thus the worship of stones was condemned by Theodoric, Archbishop of Canterbury, in the seventh century, and is among the acts of heathenism forbidden by King Edgar in the tenth, and by Cnut in the eleventh century." Even as late as the seventeenth century, the Presbytery of Dingwall sought to suppress, among other practices of heathen origin, that of rendering reverence to stones, the stones in question having been consulted as to future events. It is not surprising therefore that stones had certain mysterious properties ascribed to them. In all ages precious stones have been deservedly admired for their beauty, but, in addition, they have frequently been esteemed for their occult qualities. "In my youth," Mr. James Napier tells us, in his "Folklore in the West of Scotland," "there was a belief in the virtue of precious stones, which added a value to them beyond their real value as ornaments.... Each stone had its own symbolic meaning and its own peculiar influence for imparting good and protecting from evil and from sickness its fortunate possessor." By the ancient Jews, the topaz and the amethyst were believed to guard their wearers respectively against poison and drunkenness; while the diamond was prized as a protection against Satanic influence. Concerning the last-mentioned gem, Sir John Mandeville, writing about 1356, says, "It makes a man stronger and firmer against his enemies, heals him that is lunatic, and those whom the fiend pursues and torments." By certain sects of the Gnostics, precious stones were much thought of as talismans. Among the sect founded by Basilides of Egypt, the famous Abraxas gems were used as tokens by the initiated. The Gnostics also placed gems inscribed with mystic mottoes in sarcophagi, to remind the dead of certain prayers that were thought likely to aid them in the other world. In Scandinavia, warriors were in the habit of carrying about with them amulets called life-stones or victory-stones. These strengthened the hand of the wearer in fight. In our own country, the use of amulets was not uncommon. A flat oval-shaped pebble, measuring two and a half inches in greatest diameter, was presented in 1864 to the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. It had been worn as a charm by a Forfarshire farmer, who died in 1854 at the age of eighty-four. When in use, it had been kept in a small bag and suspended by a red string round the wearer's neck. Even when stones were not used as amulets, they were sometimes held in superstitious regard. When in Mull, Martin was told of a yellow stone, lying at the bottom of a certain spring in the island, its peculiarity being that it did not get hot, though kept over the fire for a whole day. The same writer alludes to a certain stone in Arran, called Baul Muluy, i.e., "Molingus, his Stone Globe." It was green in colour, and was about the size of a goose's egg. The stone was used by the islanders, when great oaths had to be sworn. It was also employed to disperse an enemy. When thrown among the front ranks, the opposing army would retreat in confusion. In this way the Macdonalds were said to have gained many a victory. When not in use, the Baul Muluy was carefully kept wrapped up in cloth. Among oath-stones, the black stones of Iona were specially famous. These were situated to the west of St. Martin's Cross, and were called black, not from their colour--for they were grey--but from the effects of perjury in the event of a false oath being sworn by them. Macdonald, Lord of the Isles, knelt on them, and, with uplifted hands, swore that he would never recall the rights granted by him to his vassals. Such a hold had these oath-stones taken on the popular imagination, that when anyone expressed himself certain about a particular thing, he gave weight to his affirmation, by saying that he was prepared to "swear upon the black stones." Bishop Pocoke mentions that the inhabitants of Iona "were in the habit of breaking off pieces from a certain stone lying in the church," to be used "as medicine for man or beast in most disorders, and especially the flux." Charm-stones were sometimes associated with early saints. The following particulars about St. Declan's Stone are given by Sir Arthur Mitchell in the tenth volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland":--"We are told in the life of St. Declan that a small stone was sent to him from Heaven while he was saying Mass in a church in Italy. It came through the window and rested on the altar. It was called Duivhin Deaglain or Duivh-mhion Deaglain, i.e., 'Declan's Black Relic.' It performed many miracles during his life, being famous for curing sore eyes, headaches, &c.; and is said to have been found in his grave sometime, I think, during last century. Its size is two and a-fourth by one and three-fourth inches, and on one side there is a Latin cross, incised and looped at the top. At the bottom of the stem of this cross there is another small Latin cross. On the other side of the stone there is a circle, one and a-fourth inch in diameter, and six holes or pits." Curing stones are still used occasionally in connection with the diseases of cattle, particularly in Highland districts; but they have ceased to do duty in the treatment of human ailments. Mary Queen of Scots seems to have been a firm believer in their efficacy. In a letter to her brother-in-law, Henry the Third of France, written on the eve of her execution, the Queen says, "She ventures to send him two rare stones, valuable for the health, which she hopes will be good, with a happy and long life, asking him to receive them as the gift of his very affectionate sister-in law, who is at the point of death, and in token of true love towards him." In a case of curiosities at Abbotsford, there is an amulet that belonged to Sir Walter Scott's mother. It somewhat resembles crocodile skin in colour, and has a setting of silver. The amulet was believed to prevent children from being bewitched. It is nowadays difficult to ascertain the whereabouts of curing-stones in the Highlands, owing to the reticence of those who still have faith in their virtues. Till lately there was one in the neighbourhood of Aberfeldy that had been in use, it is believed, for about three hundred years. In shape, the charm somewhat resembled a human heart, and consisted of a water-worn pebble fully three inches in greatest length. When required for the cure of cattle, it was rubbed over the affected part or was dipped in water, the water being then given to the animal to drink. Recently the family who owned it became extinct, and the charm passed into other hands. Martin gives some curious information with regard to the employment of charm-stones, among the inhabitants of the Western Isles. After describing a certain kind of stone, called lapis ceranius, found in the island of Skye, he remarks, "These stones are by the natives called 'Cramp-stones,' because (as they say) they cure the cramp in cows by washing the part affected with water in which this stone had been steeped for some hours." He mentions also, that in the same island, the stone called lapis hecticus was deemed efficacious in curing consumption and other diseases. It was made red-hot, and then cooled in milk or water, the liquid being drunk by the patient. On Bernera, the islanders frequently rub their breasts with a particular stone, by way of prevention, and say it is a good preservative for health. Martin adds, "This is all the medicine they use: Providence is very favourable to them in granting them a good state of health, since they have no physician among them." In connection with his visit to the island of Rona, the same writer observes, "There is a chapel here dedicated to St. Ronan, fenced with a stone wall round; and they take care to keep it neat and clean, and sweep it every day. There is an altar in it, on which there lies a big plank of wood, about ten feet in length; every foot has a hole in it, and in every hole a stone, to which the natives ascribe several virtues: one of them is singular, as they say, for promoting speedy delivery to a woman in travail." The blue stone in Fladda, already referred to in connection with wind-charms, did duty as an oath-stone, and likewise as a curing-stone, its special function being to remove stitches in the side. The Baul Muluy in Arran, alluded to above, also cured stitches in the side. When the patient would not recover, the stone withdrew from the bed of its own accord. A certain white stone, taken by Columba from the river Ness, near what is now the town of Inverness, had the singular power of becoming invisible, when the illness of the person requiring it would prove fatal. The selection of this stone was made in connection with the saint's visit to the court of Brude, king of the Picts, about the year 563. Adamnan, who tells the story, thus describes an interview between Columba and Brochan (the king's chief Druid or Magus), concerning the liberation of a female slave belonging to the latter: "The venerable man, from motives of humanity, besought Brochan the Druid to liberate a certain Irish female captive, a request which Brochan harshly and obstinately refused to grant. The saint then spoke to him as follows:--'Know, O Brochan, know, that if you refuse to set this captive free, as I advise you, you shall die before I return from this province.' Having said this in presence of Brude the king, he departed from the royal palace, and proceeded to the river Nesa, from which he took a white pebble, and, showing it to his companions, said to them:--'Behold this white pebble, by which God will effect the cure of many diseases.' Having thus spoken, he added, 'Brochan is punished grievously at this moment, for an angel sent from heaven, striking him severely, has broken in pieces the glass cup which he held in his hands, and from which he was in the act of drinking, and he himself is left half-dead.'" Messengers were sent by the king to announce the illness of Brochan, and to ask Columba to cure him. Adamnan continues:--"Having heard these words of the messengers, Saint Columba sent two of his companions to the king with the pebble which he had blessed, and said to them:--'If Brochan shall first promise to free his captive, immerse this little stone in water, and let him drink from it; but if he refuse to liberate her, he will that instant die.' The two persons sent by the saint proceeded to the palace, and announced the words of the holy man to the king and to Brochan, an announcement which filled them with such fear that he immediately liberated the captive and delivered her to the saint's messengers. The stone was then immersed in water, and, in a wonderful manner and contrary to the laws of nature, it floated on the water like a nut or an apple, nor could it be submerged. Brochan drank from the stone as it floated on the water, and instantly recovered his perfect health and soundness of body." The wonderful pebble was kept by King Brude among his treasures. On the day of the king's death, it remained true to itself, for, when its aid was sought, it could nowhere be found. According to a tradition current in Sutherland, Loch Manaar in Strathnaver was connected with another white pebble, endowed with miraculous properties. The tradition, as narrated by the Rev. Dr. Gregor in the "Folklore Journal" for 1888, is as follows:--"Once upon a time, in Strathnaver, there lived a woman who was both poor and old. She was able to do many wonderful things by the power of a white stone which she possessed, and which had come to her by inheritance. One of the Gordons of Strathnaver having a thing to do, wished to have both her white stone and the power of it. When he saw that she would not lend it, or give it up, he determined to seize her, and to drown her in a loch. The man and the woman struggled there for a long time, till he took up a heavy stone with which to kill her. She plunged into the lake, throwing her magic stone before her and crying, 'May it do good to all created things save a Gordon of Strathnaver!' He stoned her to death in the water, she crying, 'Manaar! Manaar!' (Shame! Shame!). And the loch is called the Loch of Shame to this day." The loch had a more than local fame, for invalids resorted to it from Orkney in the north and Inverness in the south: its water was deemed specially efficacious on the first Monday of February, May, August, and November, (O. S.). The second and third of these dates were the most popular. The patient was kept bound and half-starved for about a day previous, and immediately after sunset on the appointed day, he was taken into the middle of the loch and there dipped. His wet clothes were then exchanged for dry ones, and his friends took him home in the full expectation of a cure. Belief in the loch's powers was acknowledged till recently, and is probably still secretly cherished in the district. In a graveyard beside Loch Torridon, in Ross-shire, is a spring, formerly believed to work cures. From time immemorial three stones have been whirling in the well, and it was usual to carry one of these in a bucket of water to the invalid who simply touched the stone. When put back into the well, the stone began to move round and round as before. On one occasion a woman sought to cure her sick goat in the usual way, but the pebble evidently did not care to minister to any creature lower than man, for when replaced in the well, it lay motionless at the bottom ever afterwards. A certain Katherine Craigie, who was burned as a witch in Orkney in 1643, used pebbles in connection with the magical cures wrought by her. Her method, as described by Dr. Rogers in his "Social Life in Scotland," was as follows:--"Into water wherewith she washed the patient she placed three small stones; these, being removed from the vessel, were placed on three corners of the patient's house from morning till night, when they were deposited at the principal entrance. Next morning the stones were cast into water with which the sick person was anointed. The process was repeated every day till a cure was effected." At some wells, what the water lacked in the matter of efficacy was supplied by certain stones lying by their margins. These stones, in virtue of a real or fancied resemblance to parts of the human body--such as the eye or arm--were applied to the members corresponding to them in shape, in the expectation that this would conduce to a cure. At Killin, in Perthshire, there are several stones dedicated to Fillan, at one time much used in the way described. These are, however, not beside a spring, but in the mill referred to in a previous chapter. They lie in a niche in the inner wall, and have been there from an unknown past. Whenever a new mill was built to replace the old one, a niche was made in the wall for their reception. They are some seven or eight in number. The largest of them weighs eight lbs. ten oz. Special interest attaches to at least two of them, on account of certain markings on one side, consisting of shallow rounded hollows somewhat resembling the cup-marks which have proved such a puzzle to archæologists. There is reason to believe that the stones in question were at one time used in connection with milling operations, the hollows being merely the sockets where the spindle of the upper millstone revolved. On the saint's day (the ninth of January), it was customary till not very long ago, for the villagers to assemble at the mill, and place a layer of straw below the stones. This custom has a particular interest, for we find a counterpart to it in Scandinavia, both instances being clearly survivals of stone-worship. "In certain mountain districts of Norway," Dr. Tylor tells us in his "Primitive Culture," "up to the end of the last century, the peasants used to preserve round stones, washed them every Thursday evening (which seems to show that they represented Thor), smeared them with butter before the fire, laid them on the seat of honour on fresh straw, and at certain times of the year steeped them in ale, that they might bring luck and comfort to the house." The ritual here is more elaborate than in the case of the Killin stones; but the instances are parallel as regards the use of straw. Fully a couple of miles from Killin, below Mornish, close to Loch Tay, is the lonely nettle-covered graveyard of Cladh Davi, and on a tombstone in its enclosure lie two roundish stones, believed to belong to the same series as those in the mill, and marked with similar hollows. These stones were thought to cure pectoral inflammation, the hollows being filled with water, and applied to the breasts. The Rev. Dr. Hugh MacMillan, after describing the stones in the volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland" for 1883-84, mentions that "not long since, a woman, who was thus afflicted, came a considerable distance, from the head of Glen Lochay, to make use of this remedy." Charm-stones were sometimes kept on the altars of ancient churches, as in the case of St. Ronan's Chapel, and the church in Iona already referred to. At other times they were associated with crosses. Sir Arthur Mitchell tells of an Irish curing-stone in shape like a dumb-bell, preserved in Killaghtee parish, County Donegal. "There is," he says, "a fragment of a stone cross on the top of a small cairn. In a cleft or hollow of this cross is kept a famous healing stone, in whose virtues there is still a belief. It is frequently removed to houses in which sickness exists, but it is invariably brought back, and those living near the cross can always tell where it is to be found, if it has been so removed." Pennant, in connection with his visit to Iona, speaks of certain stones lying in the pedestal of a cross to the north-west of St. Oran's Chapel. "Numbers who visit this island," he remarks, "think it incumbent on them to turn each of these thrice round, according to the course of the sun. They are called Clach-a-brath--for it is thought that the brath, or 'end of the world,' will not arrive till the stone on which they stand is worn through." Pennant thought that these stones were the successors of "three noble globes of white marble," which, according to Sacheverel, at one time lay in three stone basins, and were turned round in the manner described, but were afterwards thrown into the sea by the order of the ecclesiastical authorities. MacCulloch says that, in his day, the superstition connected with the Clach-a-brath had died out in Iona. We do not think that this was likely. Anyhow he mentions that "the boys of the village still supply a stone for every visitor to turn round on its bed; and thus, in the wearing of this typical globe, to contribute his share to the final dissolution of all things." MacCulloch alludes to the same superstition as then existing on one of the Garveloch Isles. Sometimes hollows were made on the pedestals of crosses, not for the reception of stone-balls, but to supply occupation to persons undergoing penance. A sculptured cross at Kilberry, in Argyllshire, has a cavity of this kind in its pedestal. In connection with his visit to Kilberry, Captain White was told that "one of the prescribed acts of penance in connection with many of the ancient Irish crosses required the individual under discipline, while kneeling before the cross, to scoop out a cavity in the pedestal, pestle-and-mortar fashion; and that such cavities, where now to be seen, show in this way, varying stages of the process." One of the wonders of Harris, when Martin visited the island, was a lunar stone lying in a hole in a rock. Like the tides, it felt the moon's influence, for it advanced and retired according to the increase or decrease of that luminary. Perforated stones were formerly much esteemed as amulets. If a stone, with a hole in it, was tied to the key of a stable-door, it would prevent the witches from stealing the horses. Pre-historic relics of this kind were much used to ward off malign influences from cattle, or to cure diseases caused by the fairies. Ure, in his "History of Rutherglen and Kilbride," refers to a ring of black schistus found in a cairn in the parish of Inchinnan. It was believed to work wonderful cures. About a hundred years ago, a flat reddish stone, having notches and with two holes bored through it, was presented to the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. It came from Islay, and had been used there as a charm. It belonged to the Stone Age, and had, doubtless, served its first possessor as a personal ornament. Ivory had magical properties attributed to it. The famous "Barbeck's Bone"--once the property of the Campbells of Barbeck, in Craignish parish, Argyllshire, and now in the National Museum of Antiquities--is a piece of ivory seven inches long, four broad, and half an inch thick. At one time it had a great reputation in the West Highlands for the cure of insanity. It was counted so valuable that, when it was lent, a deposit of one hundred pounds sterling had to be made. The antiquarian objects, popularly called adder-beads, serpent stones, or druidical beads, were frequently used for the cure of cattle. The beads were dipped in water, and the liquid was then given to the animals to drink. These relics of a long-forgotten past have been found from time to time in ancient places of sepulture, and as they usually occur singly, it has been conjectured that they were placed there as amulets. "Many of them," remarks Sir Daniel Wilson in his "Pre-historic Annals," "are exceedingly beautiful, and are characterised by considerable ingenuity in the variations of style. Among those in the Scottish Museum there is one of red glass spotted with white; another of dark brown glass streaked with yellow; others of pale green and blue glass, plain and ribbed; and two of curiously figured patterns, wrought with various colours interwoven on their surface." A fine specimen of this species of amulet was discovered in a grave mound at Eddertoun, in Ross-shire, during the progress of the railway operations in 1864. The Rev. Dr. Joass, who interested himself in the antiquarian discoveries then made, thus describes the find:--"The glass, of which this bead was composed, was of a dark blue colour, and but partially transparent. It was ornamented by three volutes, which sufficed to surround it. These were traced in a yellow pigment (or enamel) as hard as the glass and seeming to sink slightly below the surface into the body of the bead, as could be seen where this was flattened, as if by grinding at the opposite ends of its orifice." These adder-beads seem to have been common in the seventeenth century. Edward Llwyd, who visited Scotland in 1699, saw fifty different forms of them between Wales and the Scottish Highlands. Crystal balls, he tells us, were frequently put into a tub of water on May Day, the contents of the tub being sprinkled over cattle to keep them from being bewitched. Flint arrow-heads--the weapons of early times--became the amulets of a later age. In folklore they are known as elf-bolts. Popular credulity imagined that they were used by the fairies for the destruction of cattle. When an animal was attacked by some sudden and mysterious disease, it was believed to be "elf-shot" even though no wound could be seen on its body. To cure the cow, the usual method was to make it drink some water in which an elf-bolt had been dipped, on the principle of taking a hair of the dog that bit you. Elf-arrows were at one time thought to be serviceable to man also. The custom was not unknown of sewing one of them in some part of the dress as a charm against the influence of the evil eye. Occasionally one still sees them doing duty as brooches, and in that form, if not now prized as amulets, they are esteemed as ornaments. Sir J. Y. Simpson, in his "Archæological Essays," gives some interesting particulars about two ancient charm-stones, the property of two Highland families for many generations. Of these, the Clach-na-Bratach, or Stone of the Standard, belongs to the head of the Clan Donnachie. It is described as "a transparent, globular mass of rock crystal of the size of a small apple. Its surface has been artificially polished." The stone was picked up by the then chief of the clan shortly before the battle of Bannockburn. It was found in a clod of earth adhering to the standard when drawn out of the ground, and on account of its brilliancy the chief foretold a victory. In later times it was used to predict the fortunes of the clan. We are told that before the battle of Sheriffmuir, in 1715, which proved so disastrous to the cause of the Stuarts, as well as to that of Clan Donnachie, the Clach-na-Bratach was found to have a flaw, not seen till then. When wanted to impart curative virtue to water, the Clach-na-Bratach was dipped in it thrice by the hand of the chief. The other charm-stone alluded to is the Clach Dearg, or Stone of Ardvoirlich. It resembles the Clach-na-Bratach in appearance, though it is somewhat smaller in size. It differs from it, moreover, in being surrounded by four silver bands of eastern workmanship. The charm has belonged to the family of Ardvoirlich from an unknown past, but there is no tradition as to its early history. As a healing agent it has had more than a local fame. When its help was sought certain rules had to be attended to. The person coming to Ardvoirlich was required to draw the water himself, and bring it into the house in the vessel in which the charm was to be dipped. A bottle of this water was then carried to the invalid's home. If the bearer called at any house by the way, it was requisite that the bottle should be left outside, otherwise the water would lose its power. In the mansion-house of Lee, some three miles north of Lanark, is kept the Lee Penny, an amulet of even greater fame than the Clach-na-Bratach or the Clach Dearg. This charm--the prototype of Sir Walter Scott's "Talisman"--is a semi-transparent gem of a dark red colour. It is set in a silver coin, believed to be a groat of Edward the Fourth. In shape it rudely resembles a heart. This circumstance doubtless strengthened the original belief in its magical powers, if, indeed, it did not give rise to it. The tradition is, that Sir Simon Lockhart, an ancestor of the present owner of the estate, left Scotland along with Sir James Douglas, in the year 1330, to convey the heart of Robert Bruce to the Holy Land. Douglas was killed in Spain in a battle with the Moors, and Sir Simon returned to Scotland, bringing the heart with him. He had various adventures in connection with this mission. One of these was the capture of a Saracen prince, who, however, obtained his freedom for a large sum. While the money was being counted out the amulet in question accidentally fell into the heap of coin, and was claimed as part of the ransom. Previous to its appearance in Scotland it had been much esteemed as a cure for hemorrhage and fever. After it was brought to our shores its fame increased rather than waned. During the reign of Charles the First it was taken to Newcastle-on-Tyne to stay a pestilence raging there, a bond for six thousand pounds being given as a guarantee of its safe return. The amulet did its work so well, that to ensure its retention in the town the bond would have been willingly forfeited. It was reckoned of use in the treatment of almost any ailment, but specially in cases of hydrophobia. A cure effected by it at the beginning of last century is on record. Lady Baird of Saughton Hall, near Edinburgh, showed what were believed to be symptoms of rabies from the bite of a dog. At her request the Lee Penny was sent to Saughton Hall. She drank and bathed in water in which it had been dipped, and restoration was the result. The amulet was also used for the cure of cattle, and when every other remedy failed recourse was had to the wonder-working gem. When it was employed for therapeutic purposes, the following was the modus operandi:--It was drawn once round the vessel containing the water to be rendered medicinal, and was then plunged thrice into the liquid; but no words of incantation were used. For this reason the Reformed Church, when seeking to abolish certain practices of heathen origin, sanctioned the continued use of the Lee Penny as a charm. A complaint was made against the Laird of Lee "anent the superstitious using of ane stane set in silver for the curing of diseased cattell." The complaint came before the Assembly which met in Glasgow; but the case was dismissed on the ground that the rite was performed "wtout using onie words such as charmers and sorcerers use in their unlawfull practices; and considering that in nature there are mony things seen to work strange effects, q.r. of no human wit can give a reason." Nevertheless the Laird of Lee was admonished "in the useing of the said stane to tak heed that it be used hereafter w.t. the least scandal that possiblie may be." Belief in the efficacy of the amulet continued to hold its ground in the neighbourhood of Lee till towards the middle of the present century. In 1839 phials of water which had felt its magical touch were to be seen hanging up in byres to protect the cattle from evil influences. Some fifteen years earlier a Yorkshire farmer carried away water from Lee to cure some of his cattle which had been bitten by a mad dog. Attached to the amulet is a small silver chain which facilitated its use when its services were required. The charm is kept in a gold box, presented by the Empress Maria Theresa. Another south-country amulet, not, however, so famous as the Lee Penny, is the piece of silver, known as the Lockerbie Penny. It was, and still is, we suppose, used to cure madness in cattle. In his "Folklore of the Northern Counties," Mr. Henderson gives the following particulars about the charm:--"It is put in a cleft stick and a well is stirred round with it, after which the water is bottled off and given to any animal so affected. A few years ago, in a Northumbrian farm, a dog bit an ass, and the ass bit a cow; the penny was sent for, and a deposit of fifty pounds sterling actually left till it was restored. The dog was shot, the cuddy died, but the cow was saved through the miraculous virtue of the charm." After the death of the farmer who borrowed the Penny, several bottles of water were found stowed away in a cupboard labelled "Lockerbie Water." Mr. Henderson also mentions another Border amulet, known as the Black Penny, for long the property of a family at Hume-byers. It is larger than an ordinary penny, and is believed to be a Roman coin or medal. When brought into use it should be dipped in a well, the water of which runs towards the south. Mr. Henderson adds:--"Popular belief still upholds the virtue of this remedy; but, alas! it is lost to the world. A friend of mine informs me that half a generation back the Hume-byers Penny was borrowed by some persons residing in the neighbourhood of Morpeth and never returned." CHAPTER XVI. PILGRIMAGES TO WELLS. Modern and Ancient Pilgrimages--Benefits from Pilgrimages-- Cuthbert's Shrine at Durham--Cross of Crail--Pilgrims' Well and St. Martha's Hospital at Aberdour--Ninian's Shrine at Whithorn and the Holy Wells of Wigtownshire--Kentigern's Shrine and Spring at Glasgow--Chapel and Well of Grace--Whitekirk--Isle of May--Witness of Archæology--Marmion--Early Attempts in England to regulate Pilgrimages to Wells--Attempts in Scotland after Reformation--Enactments by Church and State--Instances of Visits to Wells--Changed Point of View--Craigie Well--Downy Well--Sugar and Water Sunday in Cumberland--Sacred Dramas at Wells-- Festivities--St. Margaret's Well at Wereham--What happened in Ireland--Patrons--Shell-mound--Selling Water--Fairs at Springs --Some Examples--Secrecy of Visits to Wells. Nowadays people put Murray or Black, or some similar volume, into their portmanteau, and set off by rail on what they call a pilgrimage. In this case the term is a synonym for sight-seeing, usually accomplished under fairly comfortable conditions. In ancient times pilgrimages were, as a rule, serious matters with a serious aim. Shakespeare says, in "Two Gentlemen of Verona":-- "A true devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps." The object of such journeys was to benefit either soul or body, or both. The doing of penance, or the fulfilling of a vow, sent devotees to certain sacred spots, sometimes in distant lands, sometimes within our own four seas. Cuthbert's shrine at Durham, where the saint's body was finally deposited in 1070, after its nearly two hundred years' wanderings, was a noted resort of pilgrims in the middle ages, and many cures were wrought at it. Archbishop Eyre, on the authority of Reginald of Durham, tells of a certain man of noble birth, belonging to the south of England, who could not find relief for his leprosy. He was told to light three candles, and to dedicate them respectively to St. Edmund, St. Etheldrith, and St. Cuthbert, and to visit the shrine of the saint whose candle first burned out. The candles were lighted, and the omen indicated the last-mentioned saint. Accordingly, he travelled to the north country, and, after various religious exercises, drew near the shrine of Cuthbert, and was cured. The shrine in question was known even as far off as Norway. On one occasion, at least, viz., in 1172, its miraculous aid was sought by an invalid from that country. A young man of Bergen, who was blind, deaf, and dumb, had sought relief at Scandinavian shrines for six years, but in vain. The bishop suggested that he should try the virtue of an English shrine, and recommended that lots should be cast, to determine whether it was to be that of St. Edmund, St. Thomas, or St. Cuthbert. The lot fell to St. Cuthbert. The young man passed through Scotland to Durham, and returned home cured. The miracle, doubtless, still further increased the sanctity of the saint's tomb. The Cross of Crail, in Fife, had the power of working wonderful cures; and many were the pilgrims who flocked to it. Aberdour, in the same county, had more than a local fame. The name of The Pilgrims' Well there tells its own tale. This well is now filled up, but for centuries it attracted crowds of pilgrims. In the fifteenth century the spot was so popular that about 1475, at the suggestion of Sir John Scott, vicar of Aberdour, the Earl of Morton granted a piece of land for the erection of an hospital to accommodate the pilgrims. This hospital was named after St. Martha. It is not certain to whom the Pilgrims' Well was dedicated; but Fillan was probably its patron, as the Rev. Wm. Ross conjectures, in an article on the subject in the third volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland." The church of Aberdour was dedicated to the saint in question; and the well was near the old churchyard. Ninian's shrine at Whithorn was the scene of various miracles during the middle ages. In 1425 James the First granted a safe-conduct to all strangers, coming to Scotland to visit it; and James the Fourth made a pilgrimage to it once a year, and sometimes oftener. "It is likely," remarks the Rev. Daniel Conway in an article on consecrated springs in the south-west of Scotland, "that the spots in Wigtownshire, where Holy Wells were, marked the route pursued by pilgrims bent on doing homage to the relics of St. Ninian at Whithorn." Whithorn was not the only shrine visited by James the Fourth. He went repeatedly on pilgrimage to St. Andrews, Dunfermline, and Tain, and left offerings at the shrines of their respective saints. When on pilgrimage the king was usually accompanied by a large retinue, including a company of minstrels. He liked to have his dogs and hawks with him too, to have a little hunting by the way. St. Kentigern's Well, in the so-called crypt of Glasgow Cathedral, has already been mentioned. In the immediate neighbourhood is the spot believed to mark the last resting place of the saint. Till the Reformation his shrine attracted crowds of pilgrims. On special occasions his relics were displayed, including his bones, his hair shirt, and his scourge, and a red liquor that flowed from his tomb. These, along with other relics belonging to the cathedral, were taken to France by Archbishop Beaton in 1560. In the ancient parish of Dundurcus, Elginshire, not far from the river Spey, once stood the Chapel of Grace, and close to it was a well of the same name. The place was a favourite resort of pilgrims. Lady Aboyne went to it once a year, a distance of over thirty miles, and walked the last two miles of the way on her bare feet. In 1638 an attempt was made to put a stop to the pilgrimages, by destroying what then remained of the chapel. The attempt, however, seems to have been fruitless, for in 1775, Shaw, the historian of Moray, mentions that to it "multitudes from the western isles do still resort, and nothing short of violence can restrain their superstition." In 1435, when Æneas Silvius (afterwards Pope Pius the Second) was sailing from the low countries to Scotland on a political mission, he was twice overtaken by a storm, and was in such danger that he vowed to make a pilgrimage, should he escape drowning. At length he reached the Haddingtonshire coast in safety, and, to fulfil his vow, set off barefoot, over ice-covered ground, to Whitekirk, ten miles away, where there were a chapel and well, dedicated to the Virgin. The journey left its mark on the pilgrim, for we are told that he had aches in his joints ever afterwards. St. Adrian's Chapel, in the Isle of May, in the Firth of Forth, had a great reputation before the Reformation. The island has still its Pilgrims' Haven, and its Pilgrims' Well close by. Archæology bears witness to the popularity of pilgrimages in former times. Between Moxley Nunnery, in Yorkshire, and St. John's Well, about a mile away, are the remains of a causeway, laid down for the convenience of devotees. At Stenton, in Haddingtonshire, near the road leading to Dunbar, is the well of the Holy Rood, covered by a small circular building with a conical roof. The well is now filled up. Its former importance is indicated by the fact that the pathway between it and the old church, some two hundred yards off, had a stone pavement, implying considerable traffic to and from the spring. In the quiet Banffshire parish of Inveraven, is a spring, at Chapelton of Kilmaichlie, near the site of an ancient chapel. The spring is now almost forgotten, but its casing of stone shows that, at one time, it was an object of interest in the neighbourhood. The author of "Marmion," when describing the arrival, at Lindisfarne, of the bark containing St. Hilda's holy maids from Whitby, has the following picturesque lines:-- "The tide did now its flood-mark gain, And girdled in the saint's domain: For, with the flow and ebb, its style Varies from continent to isle; Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, The pilgrims to the shrine find way; Twice, every day, the waves efface Of staves and sandalled feet the trace." Towards the end of the same poem, in connection with the Lady Clare's quest of water for the dying Marmion, we find the following reference:-- "Where shall she turn?--behold her mark A little fountain cell, Where water, clear as diamond-spark, In a stone basin fell! Above, some half-worn letters say, 'Drink . weary . pilgrim . drink . and . pray . For . the . kind . soul . of . Sybil . Grey . Who . built . this . cross . and . well.'" In England, during the middle ages, there were various attempts to regulate the custom of making pilgrimages to wells. A canon of King Edgar, of date 963, prohibited the superstitious resorting to fountains, and in 1102, one of the canons of St. Anselm permitted only such wells to be visited as were approved of by the bishop. In Scotland, vigorous efforts were made, after the Reformation, to abolish the practice. Both Church and State combined to bring about this result. In an Act of Parliament, of date 1581, allusion is made to the "pervers inclination of mannis ingyne to superstitioun through which the dregges of idolatrie yit remanis in divers pairtis of the realme be useing of pilgrimage to sum chappellis, wellis, croces, and sic other monumentis of idolatrie, as also be observing of the festual dayis of the santes sumtyme namit their patronis in setting forth of bain fyres, singing of caroles within and about kirkes at certane seasones of the yeir." In 1629 the practice was sternly forbidden by an edict from the Privy Council. In connection with this edict, Dalyell remarks, "It seems not to have been enough that congregations were interdicted from the pulpit preceding the wonted period of resort, or that individuals, humbled on their knees, in public acknowledgment of their offence, were rebuked or fined for disobedience. Now, it was declared that, for the purpose of restraining the superstitious resort, 'in pilgrimages to chappellis and wellis, which is so frequent and common in this kingdome, to the great offence of God, scandall of the kirk, and disgrace of his Majesteis government; that commissioners cause diligent search at all such pairts and places where this idolatrous superstitioun is used, and to take and apprehend all suche persons of whatsomever rank and qualitie whom they sall deprehend going in pilgrimage to chappellis and wellis, or whome they sall know thameselffes to be guiltie of that cryme, and to commit thame to waird, until measures should be adopted for their trial and punishment.'" Prior to the date of the above edict the Privy Council had not been idle, crowds of people were in the habit of making a pilgrimage on May Day to Christ's Well, in Menteith, where they performed certain superstitious rites. Accordingly, in 1624, a Commission was issued to a number of gentlemen belonging to the district instructing them to station themselves beside the well, to apprehend the pilgrims and to remove them to the Castle of Doune. Even such measures did not cause the practice to cease. In 1628 several persons were accused before the kirk-session of Falkirk of going in pilgrimage to the well in question, and being found guilty, were ordered to appear in church three appointed Sundays, clad in the garb of penitents. The same year the following warning was issued by the aforesaid kirk-session:--"It is statute and ordained that if any person or persons be found superstitiously and idolatrously, after this, to have passed in pilgrimage to Christ's Well, on the Sundays of May to seek their health, they shall repent in sacco and linen three several Sabbaths, and pay twenty lib. (Scots) toties quoties for ilk fault; and if they cannot pay it the baillies shall be recommended to put them in ward, and to be fed on bread and water for aught days." Scottish ecclesiastical records, indeed, bear ample testimony to the zeal displayed by the Church in putting a stop to such visits. In his "Domestic Annals of Scotland," Chambers gives the following picture of what was done by the kirk-session of Perth. The example shows the lines usually followed in connection with such prosecutions:--"At Huntingtower there was a well, the water of which was believed to have sanative qualities when used under certain circumstances. In May, 1618, two women of humble rank were before the kirk-session of Perth, 'who, being asked if they were at the well in the bank of Huntingtower the last Sabbath, if they drank thereof, and what they left at it, answered, that they drank thereof, and that each of them left a prin (pin) thereat, which was found to be a point of idolatrie in putting the well in God's room.' They were each fined six shillings, and compelled to make public avowal of their repentance." In the parish of Nigg, Kincardineshire, is St. Fittack's or St. Fiacre's Well, situated close to the sea. It is within easy reach of Aberdeen across the Dee. Many a visit was paid to it by the inhabitants of that burgh, from motives of superstition. The Aberdeen kirk-session, however, did its duty in the matter, and repeatedly forbade such visits. In 1630, "Margrat Davidson, spous to Andro Adam, was adjudget in ane unlaw of fyve poundis to be payed to the collector for directing hir nowriss with hir bairne to Sanct Fiackres Well, and weshing the bairne tharin for recovirie of hir health; and the said Margrat and hir nowriss were ordainit to acknowledge thair offence before the Session for thair fault, and for leaveing ane offering in the well." The saint, to whom the well was dedicated, is believed to have migrated from Scotland to France early in the seventh century, and to have been held in much esteem there. From Butler's "Lives of the Saints" we get the curious information that "the name fiacre was first given to hackney coaches, because hired carriages were first made use of for the convenience of pilgrims who went from Paris to visit the shrine of this saint." A well at Airth, in Stirlingshire, was for long a centre of attraction. What was done there may be learned from some entries in the local kirk-session records quoted in Hone's "Every-Day Book":--"Feb. 3, 1757. Session convenit. Compeared Bessie Thomson, who declairit schoe went to the well at Airth, and that schoe left money thairat and after the can was fillat with water, they keepit it from touching the ground till they cam hom." "February 24th.--Compeired Robert Fuird, who declared he went to the well of Airth and spoke nothing als he went, and that Margrat Walker went with him, and schoe said ye belief about the well, and left money and ane napkin at the well, and all was done at her injunction." "March 21.--Compeired Robert Ffuird who declairit yat Margrat Walker went to ye well of Airth to fetch water to Robert Cowie, and when schoe com thair schoe laid down money in God's name, and ane napkin in Robert Cowie's name." The session ordered the delinquents to be admonished. Years went on, and modes of thought gradually changed. Church and State alike began to respect the liberty of the subject. Though visits continued to be paid to holy wells, they ceased to be reckoned as offences. People might still resort to the spots, so familiar to their ancestors, and so much revered by them; but they no longer found themselves shut up in prison, or made to do penance before the whole congregation. Old customs continued to hold sway, though less stress was laid on the superstitions, lying behind them. Thus it came to pass, that pilgrimages to holy wells became more and more an excuse for mirthful meetings among friends. This was specially true of Craigie Well, in the parish of Avoch, in the Black Isle of Cromarty. The time for visiting the spring was early in the morning of the first Sunday in May. The well was situated near Munlochy Bay, a few yards above high-water-mark, and gets its name from the crags around. A correspondent of Chambers's "Book of Days" thus describes what he saw and heard:--"I arrived about an hour before sunrise, but long before, crowds of lads and lasses from all quarters were fast pouring in. Some, indeed, were there at daybreak who had journeyed more than seven miles. Before the sun made his appearance, the whole scene looked more like a fair than anything else. Acquaintances shook hands in true Highland style, brother met brother, and sister met sister, while laughter and all kinds of country news and gossip were so freely indulged in, that a person could hardly hear what he himself said." Amid all the stir and bustle the spring itself was not neglected, for everyone took care to have a drink. Some used dishes, while others, on hands and knees, sucked up the water with the mouth. These latter were now and again ducked over head and ears by their acquaintances, who much enjoyed the frolic. No one went away without leaving a thread, or patch of cloth on a large briar bush near the spring. Besides St. Fittack's Well, there is another in Nigg parish called Downy Well. It used to be resorted to in May, by persons who drank the water, and then crossed by a narrow neck of land, called The Brig of a'e Hair, to Downy Hill--a green headland in the sea--where they amused themselves by carving their names in the turf. Brand, in his "Popular Antiquities," gives the following particulars about a custom that still prevailed in Cumberland, when he wrote about forty years ago:--"In some parts of the North of England it has been a custom from time immemorial for the lads and lasses of the neighbouring villages to collect together at springs or rivers, on some Sunday in May, to drink sugar and water, where the lasses gave the treat: this is called "Sugar and Water Sunday." They afterwards adjourn to the public-house, and the lads return the compliment in cakes, ale, punch, &c. A vast concourse of both sexes assemble for the above purpose at the Giant's Cave, near Eden Hall in Cumberland, on the third Sunday in May." We do not know whether sacred dramas were ever performed beside Scottish springs; but Stow informs us that the parish clerks of London made an annual pilgrimage to Clark's Well, near the Metropolis, "to play some large history of Holy Scripture." He also mentions that a Miracle Play, lasting eight days, was performed at Skinner's Well in the time of Henry the Fourth. South of the Tweed, springs were often the scenes of festivity. Thus, to take only one example, we find that pilgrims to St. Margaret's Well, at Wereham in Norfolk, were in the habit, in pre-Reformation days, of regaling themselves with cakes and ale, and indulging in music and dancing. What occurred in Ireland down to the beginning of the present century may be gathered from a passage in Mason's "Statistical Account of Ireland" reprinted in the "Folklore Journal" for 1888. After referring to religious assemblies at Holy Wells the writer remarks:--"At these places are always erected booths or tents as in Fairs for selling whisky, beer, and ale, at which pipers and fiddlers do not fail to attend, and the remainder of the day and night (after their religious performances are over and the priest withdrawn) is spent in singing, dancing, and drinking to excess.... Such places are frequently chosen for scenes of pitched battles, fought with cudgels by parties not only of parishes but of counties, set in formal array against each other to revenge some real or supposed injury." In Roman Catholic districts of Ireland, what are called patrons, i.e., gatherings in honour of the patron saints of the place, are still popular. From an article on "Connemara Folklore," by G. H. Kinahan, in the "Folklore Journal" for 1884, we learn that a consecrated spring at Cashla Bay has, beside it, a large conical mound of sea-shells. These are the remains of the shell-fish forming the food of the pilgrims during the continuance of the patron, and cooked by them on the top of the mound. Last century, in Ireland, the custom of carrying the water of famous wells to distant parts, and there selling it, was not unknown. A correspondent of the "Gentleman's Magazine" mentions that about 1750 this was done in connection with a miraculous spring near Sligo; and that, some years earlier, the water of Lough Finn was sold in the district, where he lived, at sixpence, eightpence, and tenpence per quart, according to the different success of sale the carriers had on the road. A thatched cottage stood close to the site of St. Margaret's Well at Restalrig, and was inhabited by a man who carried the water of the spring to Leith for sale. Mr. William Andrews, in his "Old Time Punishments," tells of booths having been set up beside a Lincolnshire gibbet in 1814, to supply provisions for the crowds who came to see a murderer hanging in chains there. Less gruesome were the fairs at one time held in the neighbourhood of springs, though even they had certain unpleasant concomitants, which led in the end to their discontinuance. In the united parish of Dunkeld and Dowally is Sancta Crux Well, at Crueshill. Till towards the middle of the present century, it was such a popular resort, that tents were set up and refreshments sold to the pilgrims. Alcohol was so freely partaken of that drunken brawls often ensued, and right-minded people felt that the gathering would be more honoured in the breach than in the observance. St. Fillan's Fair, at Struan, took place on the first Friday after New Year's Day (O.S.). It was held on a spot close to the church, and not far from St. Fillan's Well. It is now discontinued, but its stance is still known as Croft-an-taggart, i.e., The Priest's Croft. The Well Market, now held at Tomintoul, in Kirkmichael parish, Banffshire, but formerly beside Fergan Well, has already been referred to. Writing in April, 1892, a correspondent, who has resided in the parish for nearly half-a-century, mentions the following particulars concerning the spring:--"The healing virtue of its water is still believed in, especially on the first Sunday of May, when parties still gather and watch the arrival of Sunday morning with special care, many of them remaining there the whole night and part of the Sabbath. Whoever first washes in the water or drinks of it is cured of any disease or sore with which they may be troubled." Our correspondent adds:--"The annual market of the district was held at Fergan Well, and the foundations of the tents or booths where goods were sold are still visible: and very probably there was a kind of mountain dew partaken of stronger than the water that now flows from Fergan Well." We shall have something more to say about fairs in the next chapter. Though modern enlightenment has not entirely abolished the practice of resorting to consecrated springs, it has, as a rule, produced a desire for secrecy on the part of the pilgrims. When superstitious motives are absent, and springs are visited merely from curiosity or love of frolic, there is no sense of shame, and hence no need for concealment. But when the pilgrims regard the practice as a magical rite, they usually prefer to keep the rest of the world in the dark as to their doings. Sir Arthur Mitchell truly remarks in his "Past in the Present"--"It is well enough understood that the business is not a Christian one, and that the engaging in it is not a thing which it would be easy to justify. There is a consciousness that it has not been gone about as an empty, meaningless ceremony, but that it has involved an acknowledgment of a supernatural power controlling human affairs and influenced by certain rites and offerings--a power different from that which is acknowledged by Christians. Hence it happens that there is a difficulty in getting people to confess to these visits, and, of course, a greater difficulty still in getting them to speak, freely and frankly, about the feelings and beliefs which led to them." CHAPTER XVII. SUN-WORSHIP AND WELL-WORSHIP. Fairs--Their Connection with Holy Days--Nature-festivals--Modes of Marking Time--Ecclesiastical Year and Natural Year--Christmas --Fire-festivals--Hallow E'en and Mid-summer Fires--Beltane--Its Connection with Sun-worship--Sun-charms--Carrying Fire--Clavie at Burghead--Fiery-circle--Traces of Sun-worship in Folk-customs-- In Architecture--Turning Sunways--Widdershins--When Wells were Visited--May--Influence of Pagan Rites--Folklore of May Day-- Sundays in May--Sunday Wells--Sunday, why Chosen--Lammas--Festival of St. Peter ad Vincula--Gule of August--Sun and Well-worship-- Time of Day for Using Wells--Fonts of the Cross--Walking Sunways round Wells--Doing the Reverse--Witch's Well--South-running Water. In his "Scottish Markets and Fairs" Sir J. D. Marwick observes:--"Simple home needs, such as plain food and clothing, articles of husbandry, and other indispensable appliances of life gave rise to markets held at frequent fixed times, at suitable centres. But as society grew and artificial needs sprung up, these could only be met by trade; and trade on anything beyond a very limited scale was only then practicable at fairs. Wherever large numbers of persons were drawn together, at fixed times, for purposes of business or religion or pleasure, an inducement was offered to the merchant or pedlar, as well as to the craftsman, to attend, and to provide by the diversity and quality of his wares for the requirements of the persons there congregated." In the last chapter allusion was made to such gatherings in connection with springs. We shall now look at the dates when they were held, in order to trace their connection with nature-festivals. Fairs, as distinguished from markets, were of comparatively rare occurrence at any given place. In the majority of instances, they can be traced back to some gathering held in connection with what were originally holy days, and afterwards holidays. Such holy days commemorated a local saint, the fame of whose sanctity was confined to more or less narrow limits, or one whom Christendom at large delighted to honour; or, again, a leading event in sacred or legendary history deemed worthy of a place in the ecclesiastical year. A few dates when fairs are, or were held at various Scottish centres may be selected from Sir J. Marwick's list. At Abercorn they were held on Michaelmas and St. Serf's Day; at Aberdeen, on Whitsunday, Holy Trinity, Michaelmas, and St. Nicholas's Day; at Charlestown of Aboyne, on Candlemas, Michaelmas, and Hallowmas; at Annan, on Ascension-day and Michaelmas; at Ayr, on Mid-summer and Michaelmas; at Biggar, on Candlemas and Mid-summer; at Clackmannan, on St. Bartholomew's Day; at Cromdale, on St. Luke's Day, St. Peter's Day, Michaelmas, and St. George's Day; at Culross, on St. Serf's Day, Martinmas, and St. Matthew's Day; at Dalmellington, on Fastern's E'en and Hallow E'en; at Dalmeny, on St. John the Baptist's Day and St. Luke's Day; at Doune, on Martinmas, Yule, Candlemas, Whitsunday, Lammas, and Michaelmas; at Dumbarton, on Patrickmas, Mid-summer, and Lammas; at Fraserburgh, on St. John the Baptist's Day and Michaelmas; at Fyvie, on Fastern's Eve, St. Peter's Day, and St. Magdalene's Day; at Hamilton, on St. Lawrence's Day and Martinmas; at Inveraray, on Michaelmas and St. Brandane's Day; at Stranraer, on St. Barnabas' Day and Lammas. Among the fairs at Auchinblae were Pasch Market in April, and one called May Day to be held on the 22nd of that month. This series might be indefinitely enlarged; but as it stands it shows that the leading nature-festivals, such as Yule, Easter, Whitsuntide, Mid-summer, Michaelmas, and Hallowmas have a prominent place among the dates selected. An examination of Sir J. Marwick's list further shows that the dates of fairs were often fixed, not with reference to any particular holy day, but to some day of a particular month, such as the second Tuesday, or the third Thursday. Many of these occur in May. In ancient documents--in Acts of Parliaments, for instance--dates were commonly fixed by a reference to holy days. In Presbyterian Scotland such a method of marking time is not now in fashion, though some relics of the practice survive. We are still familiar with Whitsunday and Martinmas as term-days, but how few now ever think of them as ecclesiastical festivals! The meaning of customs associated with the various holy days has come to be duly recognised by the student of ecclesiastical antiquities. While the Christian year was being evolved in the course of centuries, certain festivals were introduced, as one might say, arbitrarily, i.e., without being linked to any pre-Christian usages. From the point of view of Church celebrations, they have not the same significance as those others that received, as their heritage, certain rights in vogue before the spread of Christianity. In other words, the leading pagan festivals had a new meaning put into them, and, when adopted by the Church, were exalted to a position of honour. In virtue of this, the ecclesiastical year was correlated to the natural year, with its varying seasons and its archaic festivals. There is no doubt that in early times the Church sought to win nations from paganism by admitting as many of the old customs as were deemed harmless. We have seen how this was effected in the case of fountains, as shown by Columba's exorcism of the demons inhabiting springs. The same principle prevailed all round. The old Saturnalia of the Romans, for instance, became the rejoicings of Christmas. To the distinctively Christian aspects of the festival we do not, of course, allude, but to the customs still in vogue at the Yule season; and these are nothing more than a revised edition of the old pagan rites. Among other Aryan peoples the winter solstice was also commemorated by similar merry-makings. Church festivals, such as Candlemas, Easter, St. John's Day, St. Peter's Day, Michaelmas, Hallowmas, Christmas, &c., absorbed many distinctive features of the old pagan fire-festivals, held in connection with the changes of the seasons. The kindling of fires out of doors, on special occasions, is familiar to all of us. They may be called modern folk-customs; but their origin is ancient enough to give them special significance. Even to the present time, twinkling spots of light may be seen along the shores of Loch Tay on Hallow E'en, though the mid-summer fires do not now blaze on our Scottish hills, as they continue to do in Scandinavia and elsewhere. Among the Bavarian Highlands these mid-summer fires are popularly known as Sonnenwendfeuer, i.e., solstice-fires. That they are so called and not St. John's fires (though lighted in connection with his festival) is significant. In Brittany a belief prevailed that if a girl danced nine times round one of the St. John's fires before midnight she would be married within the year. The most important fire-festival in Scotland was that of Beltane at the beginning of May. It was celebrated generally throughout our land. To the south of the Forth several sites are known to have been specially associated with Beltane fires. In Lanarkshire two such sites were, the hills of Tinto and Dechmont. Tinto, indeed, means the hill of fire. It was used for beacon-fires as well as for those connected with nature-festivals, and was well adapted for the purpose, being 2335 feet above the sea, and 1655 feet above the Clyde at its base. Though not nearly so high, Dechmont hill commands a splendid view over the neighbouring country. Early in the present century a quantity of charcoal was discovered near its summit hidden beneath a stratum of fine loam. The country people around expressed no surprise at the discovery, as they were familiar with the tradition that the spot had been used for the kindling of Beltane fires. In Peeblesshire, too, the Beltane festival long held its ground. In the fifteenth century the town of Peebles was the scene of joyous May Day gatherings. From far and near, holiday-makers, dressed in their best, came together to join in the Beltane amusements. Who has not heard of the poem, "Peblis to the Play," attributed to King James the First? The play consisted of a round of rural festivities--archery and horse-racing being the chief recreations. Pennant gives a minute account of Beltane rites as practised about 1772. "On the first of May the herdsmen of every village hold their Bel-tein, a rural sacrifice. They cut a square trench on the ground, leaving the turf in the middle; on that they make a fire of wood, on which they dress a large caudle of eggs, butter, oat-meal, and milk, and bring, besides the ingredients of the caudle, plenty of beer and whisky; for each of the company must contribute something. The rites begin with spilling some of the caudle on the ground by way of libation; on that, every one takes a cake of oatmeal, upon which are raised nine square knobs, each dedicated to some particular being, the supposed preserver of their flocks and herds, or to some particular animal, the real destroyer of them; each person then turns his face to the fire, breaks off a knob, and flinging it over his shoulders, says, 'This I give to thee, preserve thou my horses; this to thee, preserve thou my sheep'; and so on. After that they use the same ceremony to the noxious animals, 'This I give to thee, O fox! spare thou my lambs; this to thee, O hooded crow! this to thee, O eagle!' When the ceremony is over they dine on the caudle; and after the feast is finished, what is left is hid by two persons deputed for that purpose; but on the next Sunday they reassemble and finish the reliques of the first entertainment." An examination of the dates when fire-festivals were held shows that they had a distinct connection with the sun's annual cycle. When several leading Church festivals fell to be observed about the same time of the year, they had often some features in common. Thus the pagan mid-summer festival had as its lineal successor, not only St. John's Day (24th June), but St. Vitus's Day and St. Peter's Day, respectively the fifteenth and the twenty-ninth of the same month. The kindling of fires was a feature of all three. Mediæval fire-festivals were thus the gleanings of rites derived from archaic sun-worship. The question arises, what connection was there between the custom and the cult? Mr. J. G. Frazer, in his "Golden Bough," has collected a variety of facts which go to show that the lighting of these fires was primarily intended to ensure the shining of the sun in the heavens. Mr. Frazer thus sums up the evidence: "The best general explanation of these European fire-festivals seems to be the one given by Mannhardt, namely, that they are sun-charms or magical ceremonies intended to ensure a proper supply of sunshine for men, animals, and plants. Savages resort to charms for making sunshine, and we need not wonder that primitive man in Europe has done the same. Indeed, considering the cold and cloudy climate of Europe during a considerable part of the year, it is natural that sun-charms should have played a much more prominent part among the superstitious practices of European peoples than among those of savages who live nearer the equator. This view of the festivals in question is supported by various considerations drawn partly from the rites themselves, partly from the influence which they are believed to exert upon the weather and on vegetation." After alluding to certain sun-charms, Mr. Frazer continues, "In these the magic force is supposed to take effect through mimicry or sympathy; by imitating the desired result you actually produce it; by counterfeiting the sun's progress through the heavens you really help the luminary to pursue his celestial journey with punctuality and despatch.... The influence which these bonfires are supposed to exert on the weather and on vegetation goes to show that they are sun-charms, since the effects ascribed to them are identical with those of sunshine. Thus, in Sweden, the warmth or cold of the coming season is inferred from the direction in which the flames of the bonfire are blown; if they blow to the south it will be warm, if to the north, cold. No doubt at present the direction of the flames is regarded merely as an augury of the weather, not as a mode of influencing it. But we may be pretty sure that this is one of the cases in which magic has dwindled into divination." Hence a good supply of light and heat is not only foretold, but guaranteed. The view that these fires were reckoned mock-suns is confirmed by the custom, at one time common, of carrying lighted brands round the fields to ensure their fertility. Blazing torches were thus carried in Pennant's time in the middle of June. Martin refers to the carrying of fire in the Hebrides. "There was an antient custom in the Island of Lewis to make a fiery circle about the houses, corn, cattle, &c., belonging to each particular family. An instance of this round was performed in the village Shadir, in Lewis, about sixteen years ago (i.e., circa 1680), but it proved fatal to the practiser, called MacCallum; for, after he had carefully performed this round, that very night following he and his family were sadly surprised, and all his houses, corn, cattle, &c., were consumed with fire. This superstitious custom is quite abolished now, for there has not been above this one instance of it in forty years past." Till a later date in Lewis, fire continued to be carried round children before they were baptised, and round mothers before they were churched, to prevent evil spirits from doing harm. Burghead, in Elginshire, is still the scene of an annual fire-festival, celebrated on the last day of the year (O.S.). It is locally known as the burning of the clavie. On the afternoon of the day in question, careful preparations are made for the ceremony. A tar barrel is sawn across, and of it the clavie is made. A pole of firwood is stuck through the barrel, and held in its place by a large nail driven in by a stone, no hammer being used. The clavie is then filled with tar and pieces of wood. After dark these combustibles are kindled, according to ancient practice, by a burning peat from a neighbouring cottage. The clavie is then lifted by one of the men and carried through the village amid the applause of the inhabitants. Notwithstanding the risk from the burning tar, the possession of the clavie, while on its pilgrimage, is eagerly coveted. In former times, a stumble on the part of the bearer was counted unlucky for himself personally, and for the village as a whole. After being borne about for some time, the still blazing clavie is placed on an adjacent mound called the Doorie, where a stone column was built some years ago for its accommodation. A hole in the top of the column receives the pole. There the clavie is allowed to burn for about half-an-hour, when it is thrown down the slope of the mound. The burning fragments are eagerly snatched up and carried away by the spectators. These fragments were formerly kept as charms to ensure good fortune to their possessors. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the Church discountenanced the burning of the clavie as idolatrous and sinful, and certain penalties were threatened against all who took part in it. The antiquity of the custom may be inferred from the fact, that two hundred years ago it was called old. At that time lights were carried round the boats in the harbour, and certain other ceremonies were performed, all pointing to a pagan origin. Formerly the custom was in vogue, not only at Burghead, but at most of the fishing villages along the Morayshire coast. The object in every case was the same, viz., the blessing of the boats to ensure a good fishing season. A singular survival of sun-worship is to be found in the use of a fiery circle as a curative agent. In the volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland" for 1889-90, the Rev. Dr. Stewart of Nether Lochaber recounts a recent instance of its use in the Highlands. A dwining child, a year and a half old, was pronounced by a "wise woman" of the district to be suffering from the effects of an "evil eye." The rite, called in Gaelic, Beannachd-na-Cuairte, i.e., "Blessing of the Circle," was accordingly resorted to. A straw rope was wound round the greater part of an iron hoop, and, oil being applied, the whole was set on fire. The hoop was then held vertically, and through the blazing circle the child was passed and repassed eighteen times to correspond to the months of its life. The blazing hoop was then extinguished in a neighbouring burn. The result was in every way to the satisfaction of the child's relatives. In the same article Dr. Stewart gives an account, sent to him by a friend, of a similar superstition common in Wigtownshire till about half-a-century ago. In this case, the healing influence came through the channel of the iron tire of a new cart wheel. After fire had been applied to it to make it fit the wheel, the tire was passed over the head of the patient, who was thus placed in the middle of a glowing circle. So much for the traces of sun-worship in rites connected with fire. There are traces of it also in certain folk-customs, at one time common, and not yet extinct. Highlanders were formerly in the habit of taking off their bonnets to the rising sun. Akin to this is the feeling underlying the Venetian expedition to the Lido, annually repeated in July, when thousands cross to that island at dawn, and utter a loud shout when the sun rises above the horizon. In cases where sun-worship is a national cult we naturally expect it to have a marked influence on the sacred customs and architecture of its votaries. One example will suffice. In his "Pre-historic Man," Sir Daniel Wilson thus describes the great annual festival of the Peruvians, held at the summer solstice:--"For three days previous, a general fast prevailed; the fire on the great altar of the sun went out, and in all the dwellings of the land no hearth was kindled. As the dawn of the fourth day approached, the Inca, surrounded by his nobles, who came from all parts of the country to join in the solemn celebration, assembled in the great square of the capital to greet the rising sun. The temple of the national deity presented its eastern portal to the earliest rays, emblazoned with his golden image, thickly set with precious stones, and as the first beams of the morning were reflected back from this magnificent emblem of the god of day, songs of triumph mingled with the jubilant shout of his worshippers. Then, after various rites of adoration, preparations were made for rekindling the sacred fire. The rays of the sun, collected into a focus by a concave mirror of polished metal, were made to inflame a heap of dried cotton; and a llama was sacrificed as a burnt offering to the sun." Even after sun-worship has ceased to be a national cult, we find it continuing to regulate the position of buildings, devoted to a totally different worship. In this way what is commonly styled the "orientation" of Christian churches can be accounted for. Indeed, so much had the sun to do with churches, that when one was built in honour of a particular saint, it was made to face the point of the horizon, where the sun rose on the festival of the saint in question. In our own land much stress used to be laid on the necessity of turning according to the course of the sun, i.e., from left to right. To do so tended to bring prosperity to whatever was being undertaken at the time. Martin often refers to such a turn under the title of Dessil, a word of Gaelic origin, in connection with which, it is interesting to note that in Gaelic Deas signifies both south and to the right. Martin mentions certain stones, round which the inhabitants of the Western Isles made what he calls "a religious turn." In the island of Eigg, he tells us:--"There is a heap of stones called Martin Dessil, i.e., a place consecrated to the saint of that name, about which the natives oblige themselves to make a tour round sunways." It was also customary when anyone wished well to another to walk round him thrice sunways. The following are some of Martin's own experiences in the matter of the Dessil:--"Some are very careful, when they set out to sea, that the boat be first rowed about sunways; and if this be neglected they are afraid their voyage may prove unfortunate. I had this ceremony paid me (when in the island of Ila) by a poor woman after I had given her an alms. I desired her to let alone that compliment, for I did not care for it; but she insisted to make these three ordinary turns, and pray'd that God and MacCharmaig, the patron saint of that island, might bless and prosper me in all my designs and affairs. I attempted twice to go from Ila to Collonsay, and at both times they row'd about the boat sunways, tho' I forbid them to do it; and by a contrary wind the boat and those in it were forced back. I took boat again a third time from Jura to Collonsay, and at the same time forbid them to row about their boat, which they obey'd, and then we landed safely at Collonsay without any ill adventure, which some of the crew did not believe possible for want of the round." This superstition lingered long after Martin's time, and probably still directs the course of many a fishing-boat when being put to sea. In connection with events of moment--such as baptisms, bridals, and burials--the necessity for turning sunways was felt to be specially binding; but even in matters of no particular importance the rule was held to apply. If movement sunways was lucky, movement in a contrary direction was the reverse. Such a movement was, and still is, known as Widdershins or Withershins, the Shetland form being Witherwise. To go Widdershins was to go against the sun, and was hence regarded as a violation of the established order of things. In his "Darker Superstitions" Dalyell remarks:--"The moving widderschynnes, as if withdrawing from the deified orb of day, inferred a guilty retreat, and was associated with the premeditated evil of sorcery." We have thus glanced at the relations of springs to fairs, of fairs to Church festivals, of Church festivals to nature festivals, and of these to sun-worship. We shall now gather together the threads of the argument, and indicate some of the chief points of connection between well-worship and sun-worship. To do this, we must inquire when springs were mainly visited. When a well was under the patronage of a saint, the festival day of that saint was in some cases the day selected. It would be natural to regard this as the rule. But, as a matter of fact, pilgrimages were commonly made on days other than the festival of the patron saint. As may be remembered, the Holy Pool in Strathfillan was mainly resorted to on the first day of the quarter (O.S.); and St. Fillan's Spring at Comrie on 1st May and 1st August. As may be also remembered, the waters of Loch Manaar, in Sutherland, were thought to possess special virtue on the first Monday of February, May, August, and November (O.S.), the second and third of these dates being specially popular. What the practice was at Mochrum Loch, in Wigtownshire, is clear from Symson's account in his "Description of Galloway." "This loch," he says, "is very famous in many writers, who report that it never freezeth in the greatest frosts.... "Whether it had any virtue of old I know not, but sure I am it hath it not now. However, I deny not but the water thereof may be medicinal, having received several credible informations that several persons, both old and young, have been cured of continued diseases by washing therein. Yet still I cannot approve of their washing three times therein, which they say they must do, neither the frequenting there of the first Sunday of February, May, August, and November, although many foolish people affirm that, not only the water of this loch, but also many other springs and wells, have more virtue on those days than any other." Close to the Welltrees meadow in Sanquhar parish, once flowed a spring dedicated to St. Bridget. In his history of the parish, Mr. James Brown tells us that, according to the testimony of the old people, it was customary for the maidens of Sanquhar to resort on May Day to St. Bride's Well, where each presented nine smooth white stones as an offering to the saint. Till about the beginning of the present century, a well at Sigget, in Aberdeenshire, was regularly visited on Pasch Sunday, and the usual offerings were left by the pilgrims. There is, or was a belief at Chapel-en-le-Frith, in Derbyshire, that on Easter Eve a mermaid appears in a certain pool; and at Rostherne, in Cheshire, that another mermaid comes out of the lake there on Easter Day and rings a bell. Mr. Moore mentions that in the Isle of Man Ascension Day and the first Sunday of August were the principal days for visiting consecrated springs. As previously stated, part of the May Day rites at Tullie-Beltane, in Perthshire, consisted in drinking water from a spring, and in walking nine times round it. St. Anthony's Well, near Edinburgh, is not yet forgotten on May Day by people who like to keep up old customs. There is no doubt that of all the months of the year May was the one, when Scottish springs were most visited. The same rule held elsewhere. In his "Romances of the West of England," Mr. Hunt has the following:--"The practice of bathing rickety children on the first three Wednesdays in May is still far from uncommon in the outlying districts of Cornwall. The parents will walk many miles for the purpose of dipping the little sufferers in some well from which the healing virtue has not entirely departed. Among these holy wells, Cubert is far famed. To this well the peasantry still resort, firm in the faith that there, at this special season, some mysterious virtue is communicated to its waters. On these occasions, only a few years since, the crowd assembled was so large that it assumed the character of a fair." A spring at Glastonbury, in Somerset, on account of a miraculous cure, believed to have been wrought by its water, became specially popular about the middle of last century. In 1751, as many as ten thousand persons are said to have visited it during the month of May. The popularity of May did not depend on the better weather following the bleakness of winter and spring. At least, if it did so, it was only in a subordinate degree. To find the main reason, we have to look to the continued influence of ancient pagan rites. As we have seen, May in Scotland was ushered in by the Beltane Festival. We have also seen that its manifestly heathen customs survived till a late period in the midst of a Christian civilisation. On the hypothesis of a pagan origin alone, can certain May Day customs and beliefs be satisfactorily explained. Some Beltane rites still survive in the Highlands, though fires are no longer kindled. In the neighbourhood of Kingussie, Inverness-shire, bannocks and hard-boiled eggs continue to be rolled down the hills on the first of May (O.S.). Till quite lately, these bannocks were used for purposes of divination. They were marked on one side with a cross--the sign of life; and on the other with a circle--the sign of death. Each bannock was rolled down thrice, and its owner's fate was decided by the sign that was on the upper surface oftenest when the bannock rested at the foot of the hill. The time was counted specially suited for love-charms. On May Day, in the north of England, a gold ring was dropped into a syllabub composed of various ingredients. Whoever got hold of the ring with a ladle would be the first among the company to be married. The prophetic powers of May Day are still believed in, in some parts of the north of Ireland. If a maiden places a certain plant below her pillow overnight, she will have a vision of her coming husband. On May Day, the supernatural world was revealed, and witches and other uncanny creatures were abroad. In connection with his visit to Scotland, Pennant says:--"In some parts of the country is a rural sacrifice, different from that before mentioned. A cross is cut on some sticks, which is dipped in pottage, and the Thursday before Easter one of each placed over the sheep-cot, the stable, or the cow-house. On the first of May they are carried to the hill, where the rites are celebrated, all decked with wild flowers, and after the feast is over, replaced over the spots they were taken from." The cross in this case, was, doubtless, made from the wood of the rowan or mountain ash. In the Isle of Man, it was customary, at one time, to gather primroses on May Eve, and strew them before the door of every house to keep away witches. Aubrey tells us:--"'Tis commonly said in Germany that the witches do meet in the night before the first day of May upon an high mountain called the Blocksberg, where they, together with the devils, do dance and feast, and the common people do, the night before the said day, fetch a certain thorn and stick it at their house door, believing the witches can then do them no harm." In our own country, too, hawthorn branches were formerly used on May Day as a charm against witches. The hawthorn had likewise another mystic property attributed to it. The dew on its branches on the first of May had the power of giving beauty to the maiden who washed her face with it. May-dew from the grass was equally efficacious, except when gathered from within a fairy ring, as the fairies would in that case counteract the influence of the charm. A curative power was also ascribed to May-dew. Till quite lately there was a belief in some parts of England that a weakly child would be made strong by being drawn over dewy grass on the morning in question. To effect a complete cure, the treatment had to be repeated on the two following mornings. Dew from the grave of the last person buried in the parish churchyard was counted specially remedial if applied to the affected part before sunrise on May-morning. The May-sun also got the credit of working cures. In his "Nether Lochaber" the Rev. Dr. Stewart tells us that "it was an article of belief in the hygiene code of the old highlanders that the invalid suffering under any form of internal ailment, upon whom the sun of May once fairly shed its light, was pretty sure of a renewed lease of life until at least the next autumnal equinox." The old English custom, known as "going a-Maying," when old and young flocked into the woods early on May-morning to gather flowers and green boughs, was handed on from a time when the worship of trees was an article of religious faith. Another old custom in England, viz., the blowing of horns at an early hour on the first of May, had probably its origin in pre-Christian times. It still survives in Oxfordshire and Cornwall. From Hone's "Every-Day Book" we learn that till the third decade of the present century, and doubtless later, the poorer classes in Edinburgh poured forth at daybreak from street and lane to assemble on Arthur's Seat to see the sun rise on May-morning. Bagpipes and other musical instruments enlivened the scene, nor were refreshments forgotten. About six o'clock a crowd of citizens of the wealthier class made their appearance, while the majority of the first-comers returned to the town. At nine o'clock the hill was practically deserted. Two centuries earlier an attempt was made by the kirk-session of Perth to put a stop to an annual gathering on May Day at a cave in the face of Kinnoul hill adjoining the town. This cave was called the Dragon Hole, and was the scene of ancient rites of a superstitious nature. Other illustrations might be selected from the Folklore of May Day, but those given above show that the season was held in much superstitious regard. Accordingly, we need not be surprised that well-worship took its place among the rites of May Day, and of May Month also, since the whole of May was deemed a charmed time. The Sundays of May--particularly the first--were very frequently chosen for visits to consecrated springs. The Chapel Wells in Kirkmaiden parish have already been referred to in connection with Co' Sunday. The White Loch of Merton, and St. Anthony's Spring at Maybole, and others that might be named were principally resorted to on the first Sunday of May. Indeed, wells occasionally got their name from the fact of their being visited on Sundays. Thus Tobordmony, near Cushendall, in County Antrim, signifies in Irish the Sunday Well. There is a farm in Athole called Pit-alt-donich or Balandonich. The name is derived by Mr. J. Mackintosh Gow from the Gaelic Pit-alt-didon-ich, and is interpreted by him as meaning "the hamlet of the Sunday burn." There is a spring on the farm, formerly much frequented on the first Sunday of May (O.S.). In the Isle of Man is a spring called Chibber Lansh, consisting of three pools. In former times it had a considerable reputation for the cure of sore eyes; but it was thought to exert its power on Sundays alone. Pilgrims frequently spent Saturday night beside springs in order to begin the required ritual on the following morning. The question why Sunday was specially selected is one of interest. Its choice may have been due in part to the fact, mentioned by Dalyell, that, in ruder society, the precise course of time requires some specific mark, and in part, to the notion underlying the popular saying, "the better the day, the better the deed." But there was undoubtedly another factor in the selection of the day. We have seen that the chief Church festivals borrowed certain rites from other festivals earlier in the field. In like manner, Sunday was the heir of usages quite unconnected with it in origin; or, to change the metaphor, it was a magnet attracting to itself various stray particles of paganism that remained after the break up of the old Nature-worship. Students of English history in the seventeenth century cannot fail to remember, how strenuously the Puritans sought to put down Sunday amusements, and how even the edicts of James the First and Charles the First permitted only certain games to be played on Sunday, certain others being declared inconsistent with the aim of that Christian festival. Bourne, in his "Popular Antiquities," published in 1725, remarks:--"In the southern parts of this nation the most of country villages are wont to observe some Sunday in a more particular manner than the other common Sundays of the year, viz., the Sunday after the Day of Dedication, i.e., the Sunday after the Day of the Saint to whom their church was dedicated. Then the inhabitants deck themselves in their gaudiest clothes, and have open doors and splendid entertainments for the reception and treating of their relations and friends who visit them on that occasion from each neighbouring town. The morning is spent for the most part at church, the remaining part of the day in eating and drinking, and so is also a day or two afterwards, together with all sorts of rural pastimes and exercises, such as dancing on the green, wrestling, cudgelling, &c. Agreeable to this, we are told that formerly, on the Sunday after the Encoenia, or Feast of the Dedication of the Church, it was usual for a great number of the inhabitants of the village, both grown and young, to meet together at break of day, and to cry, 'Holy Wakes, Holy Wakes,' and after Matens go to feasting and sporting, which they continued for two or three days." Quoting from the "Presbyterie Buik of Aberdein, 19th June, 1607, in M.S." Dalyell observes:--"In the North of Scotland, young men conducted themselves 'pro phanelie on the Sabboathes in drinking, playing at futteball, dancing, and passing fra paroche to paroche--and sum passes to St. Phitallis Well to the offence of God and ewill of mony.'" In connection with this, a remark from Dr. J. A. Hessey's Bampton Lecture on Sunday may be quoted. When comparing it with the Holy days instituted in mediæval times, he says, the former perhaps "was even worse observed than the other days, for in spite of the Church, men had a vague impression that it was one of specially allowed intermission of ordinary employments. This they interpreted to mean of more special permission of dissipation than the other days noted in the kalendar." After describing the island of Valay, near North Uist, where there were Chapels to St. Ulton and St. Mary, Martin says, "Below the Chapel there is a flat thin stone call'd Brownie's Stone upon which the antient inhabitants offer'd a cow's milk every Sunday." That this offering of milk, though made on Sundays, was a pagan and not a Christian rite, can hardly be disputed. At some places, e.g., at Glasgow, Crail, and Seton, Sunday was at one time the weekly market day, but by an Act of James the Sixth, in 1579, the holding of markets on Sunday was prohibited throughout the realm. The Sundays in May were certainly the most popular for visits to springs, but these occurring about the time of the other leading nature-festivals were also in fashion. Sun-worship, as we have seen, was the back-ground of all such festivals. We need not wonder, therefore, that consecrated springs were frequented on a day whose very name suggested a reminiscence of a solar pagan cult. We have discussed Beltane, let us now look at one other leading nature-festival, viz., Lammas, on the first day of August, to discover what light it throws on our subject. The Church dedicated the opening day of August to St. Peter ad Vincula. A curious mediæval legend arose to connect this dedication with another name for the festival, viz., the Gule of August. At the heart of this legend was the Latin word Gula, signifying the throat. The daughter of Quirinus, a Roman tribune, had some disease of the throat which was miraculously cured through kissing St. Peter's chains, and so the day of the chains was designated the Gule of August. As a matter of fact, the word is derived from the Cymric Gwyl, a feast or holiday, and we have confirmation of the etymology in the circumstance, that in Celtic lands the time was devoted to games, and other recreations. In Ireland a celebrated fair, called Lugnasadh, was held at Tailtin (now Teltown), in Meath, for several days before and after the first of August, and there was another at Cruachan, now Rath Croghan, in Roscommon. A third was held at Carman, now Wexford. Its celebration was deemed so important that, as Professor Rhys tells us, in his "Celtic Heathendom," "among the blessings promised to the men of Leinster from holding it were, plenty of corn, fruit, and milk, abundance of fish in their lakes and rivers, domestic prosperity, and immunity from the yoke of any other province. On the other hand, the evils to follow from the neglect of this institution were to be failure and early greyness on them and their kings." In legendary accounts of Carman, the place has certain funereal associations. "If we go into the story of the fair of Carman," Professor Rhys observes, "we are left in no doubt as to the character of the mythic beings whose power had been brought to an end at the time dedicated to that fair; they may be said to have represented the blighting chills and fogs that assert their baneful influence on the farmer's crops. To overcome these and other hurtful forces of the same kind, the prolonged presence of the sun-god was essential, in order to bring the corn to maturity." That the Gule of August was a Nature-festival may be further inferred from the fact that among many Anglo-Saxon peoples it was called Hlâf-mæsse, i.e., Loaf-mass, eventually shortened into Lammas. Our English ancestors offered on that day bread made from the early grain, as the first-fruits of the harvest. In Scotland, the Lammas rites were handed down from an unknown past and survived till the middle of last century. They were closely connected with country life, and were taken part in, mainly by those who had to do with the tending of cattle. The herds of Mid-Lothian held Lammas in special favour. For some weeks prior to that date they busied themselves in building what were called Lammas towers, composed of stones and sods. These towers were about seven or eight feet high, sometimes more. On the day of the festival they were surmounted by a flag formed of a table-napkin decked with ribbons. During the building of the towers attempts were sometimes made by rival parties to throw them down, and accordingly they had to be kept constantly watched. On Lenie hill and Clermiston hill two such towers used to be built, about two miles apart, but within sight of each other. These were the respective trysting-places of herds belonging to different portions of Cramond and Corstorphine parishes. On Lammas morning the herds met at their respective towers, and, after a breakfast of bread and cheese, marched to meet each other, blowing horns, and having a piper at their head. Colours were carried aloft by each party, and the demand to lower them was the signal for a contest, which sometimes ended in rather a curious manner. Games for small prizes closed the day's proceedings. At one time temporary structures formed of sods and sticks, and known as Lammas houses, were built in South Wales in connection with the festival. Inside these a fire was kindled for the roasting of apples. Anyone, by paying a penny, could enter and have an apple. Professor Rhys speaks of other Lammas rites in the Principality. "Gwyl Awst," he observes, "is now a day for fairs in certain parts of Wales, and it is remembered, in central and southern Cardiganshire, as one on which the shepherds used, till comparatively lately, to have a sort of pic-nic on the hills. One farmer's wife would lend a big kettle for making in it a plentiful supply of good soup or broth, while, according to another account, everybody present had to put his share of fuel on the fire with his own hands. But, in Brecknockshire, the first of August seems to have given way sometime before Catholicism had lost its sway in Wales, to the first holiday or feast in August; that is to say, the first Sunday in that month. For then crowds of people, early in the morning, make their way up the mountains called the Beacons, both from the side of Caermarthenshire and Glamorgan; their destination used to be the neighbourhood of the Little Van Lake, out of whose waters they expected, in the course of the day, to see the Lady of the Lake make her momentary appearance." Professor Rhys bears further witness to the connection of Lammas rites with our present subject when he says, "A similar shifting from the first of August to the first Sunday in that month, has, I imagine, taken place in the Isle of Man. For, though the solstice used to be, in consequence probably of Scandinavian influence, the day of institutional significance in the Manx summer, inquiries I have made in different parts of the island, go to show that middle-aged people, now living, remember that, when they were children, their parents used to ascend the mountains very early on the first Sunday in August (O.S.), and that in some districts at least they were wont to bring home bottles full of water from wells noted for their healing virtues." Another proof that the ceremonies of Lammas-tide had some link with those of archaic Water-worship is to be found in the circumstance mentioned by Dalyell, that, "in Ireland the inhabitants held it an inviolable custom to drive their cattle into some pool or river on the first Sunday of August as essential to the life of the animals during the year." This was regularly done till towards the end of the seventeenth century. It may be remembered that in Scotland, during the same century, horses were washed in the sea at Lammas, doubtless with the same end in view. We shall now glance at some traces of Sun-worship in the rites of Well-worship. In countries where the worship of the sun had an acknowledged place in the popular religion, the temples to that luminary were found associated with fountains. In his "Holy Land and the Bible," the Rev. J. Cunningham Geikie remarks, "The old name of Bethshemish, which means the house of the sun, is now changed to Ain Thenis--the fountain of the sun--living water being found in the valley below. Both point to the Philistine Sun-worship, and both names are fitting, for every sun-house or temple needed, like all other ancient sanctuaries, a fountain near it to supply water for ablutions and libations." When evidence of this kind fails us, we have another kind within reach, viz., that derived from the employment of fire to symbolise the sun on the principle already explained. At St. Bede's Well, near Jarrow, in Durham, it used to be customary to kindle a bonfire on Mid-summer Eve. In connection with the same festival a bonfire was lighted at Toddel-Well, near Kirkhampton in Cumberland, and the lads and lasses, who were present, were in the habit of leaping through the flames. In a cave at Wemyss, in Fife, is a well, to which young people at one time carried blazing torches on the first Monday of January (O.S.). The time of day when consecrated springs were made use of has a bearing on the point under review. The water was thought to have a peculiar efficacy either just after sunset or just before sunrise. The moment when the sun was first seen above the horizon was also reckoned particularly favourable. To the same class of superstitions belongs the Scandinavian belief, referred to by Mr. Lloyd in his "Peasant Life in Sweden," that the water of certain sacred springs, known as Fonts of the Cross, was turned into wine at sunrise. The survival of rites of archaic Sun-worship in the practice of making a turn sun-ways has been already referred to. In conclusion, we shall glance at the bearings of the practice on the question of Well-worship. To make a visit to a spring effectual, when a cure was wanted, the invalid had to pace round it from left to right, in recognition of the fact that the sun moved in the same direction. The sun, being the source of vitality, why should not an imitation of its daily motion tend to produce the same result? When speaking of Loch Siant Well, in Skye, Martin says:--"Several of the common people oblige themselves by a vow to come to this well, and make the ordinary tour about it call'd Dessil. They move thrice round the well, proceeding sunways from east to west, and so on. This is done after drinking of the water. Sometimes it was done elsewhere before drinking of the water." The importance of this motion comes clearly into view in the case of St. Andrew's Well, at Shadar, in Lewis, referred to in a previous chapter. When the wooden dish, floating on the surface of the water, turned round sun-ways, the omen was a sign that the patient concerned would recover, but a turning in the opposite direction foreboded ill." In reference to Chapel Uny Well, in Cornwall, Mr. Hunt says:--"On the first three Wednesdays in May, children suffering from mesenteric diseases are dipped three times in this well, against the sun, and dragged three times around the well on the grass in the same direction." Mr. Lloyd tells us that, in Sweden, a remedy for whooping-cough is to drink water, "that drops from a mill-wheel, which revolves ansols, that is, in a contrary direction to the course of the sun." These two examples, however, are exceptions to the rule. They may, perhaps, be explained on the principle that what is in itself evil, because contrary to nature, brings good when converted into a charm. To walk round a well widdershins was to commit an act of sorcery. Mr. J. G. Barbour, in his "Unique Traditions of the West and South of Scotland," recounts the trial and fate of a lonely old woman, who lived in the Kirkcudbrightshire parish of Irongray, early in the seventeenth century. She was accused of witchcraft, and, when convicted of the crime, met her death by being rolled down hill inside a blazing tar barrel. Various were the charges brought against her, one of them being that, at certain hours she walked round the spring near her cottage wuddershins. Mr. Barbour adds, "The well, from which she drew the water for her domestic use, and where the young rustic belles washed their faces, still retains the name of the Witch's Well." Faith in the benefit of turning sun-ways and faith in the efficacy of south-running water belong to the same class of superstitions. Both have a direct reference to the sun's course. The water of a stream flowing to meet the sun, when its mid-day beams are casting their sweet influences upon the earth, must absorb and retain a power to bless and heal. So, at least, men thought, nor were they slow to take advantage of the virtue that mingled with the water. Bodily ailments were cured by washing in it, and it was used as one of the many remedies to remove the evil effects of witchcraft. In this, as in the other rites previously alluded to, we see the influence of a cult that did not pass away, when the sun ceased to be worshipped as a divinity. In other words, Well-worship cannot be adequately understood if we leave out of account archaic Sun-worship, and its modern survivals. CHAPTER XVIII. WISHING-WELLS. Fulfilment of Wishes by Divination--Love Charms--Hallow E'en Rites, &c.--Wishing Tree--Wishing Holes--St. Govan's Chapel and Well--Walsingham Wells--Wishing Stone in St. John's Well--Healing Wells and Wishing Wells--St. David's Well--Bride's Well--Marriage--Special Times for Wishing--St. Warna and Wrecks--Wishing Well at West Kilbride--St. Anthony's Spring. To bring about the accomplishment of a cherished desire by means of certain rites has been a favourite mode of divination. By this method it was thought that destiny could be coerced, and the wish made the father of its own fulfilment. The means were various; but, underlying them all, was the notion that the doing of something, in the present, guaranteed the happening of something in the future. A mere wish was not sufficient. A particular spot, hallowed by old associations, had to be visited, and a time-honoured ceremony observed. But the ritual might be of the simplest. It was perchance to some rustic gate that the village maiden stole in the gathering gloaming, and there, with beating heart, breathed the wish that was to bring a new happiness into her life. Love charms, indeed, form an important group of wishing superstitions. To this class belong Hallow E'en rites, such as eating an apple before a mirror, and sowing hemp seed. These rites gave the maiden a vision of her destined husband. In the one case, she saw his face in the glass, and in the other, she saw him in the attitude of pulling hemp. The dumb-cake divination, on the Eves of St. Mark and St. John, also belongs to the same class of charms. Not more than three must take part in the mystical ceremony. Concerning the cake, an English rule says:-- "Two make it, Two bake it, Two break it, and the third must put it under each of their pillows, but not a word must be spoken all the time." Fasting on St. Agnes's Eve was requisite on the part of any maiden, who sought on that festival to have a vision of her bridegroom to be. According to an old Galloway custom, a maiden pulled a handful of grass when she first saw the new moon. While she pulled she repeated the rhyme-- "New moon, new moon, tell me if you can, Gif I have a hair like the hair o' my gudeman." The grass was then taken into the house, and carefully examined. If a hair was found amongst the grass, it would correspond in colour with the hair of the coming husband. In connection with all such charms, it is certainly true what an old song says that "love hath eyes." Her Majesty the Queen visited Innis Maree in September, 1877. When describing her visit, Mr. Dixon, in his "Gairloch," says:--"She fixed her offering in the wishing tree, a pleasantry which most visitors to the island repeat, it being common report that a wish silently formed, when any metal article is attached to the tree, will certainly be realised. It is said that if anyone removes any offering that has been fixed on the tree, some misfortune, probably the taking fire of the house of the desecrator, is sure to follow." On a hill near Abbotsbury, in Dorset, stands St. Catherine's Chapel. In its south doorway are wishing holes. The knee is placed in one of the holes, and the hands in the two above; and in this posture the visitor performs the wishing ceremony. Half-way down the cliff near Stackpole Head, in Pembrokeshire, is an ancient structure of rude masonry styled St. Govan's Chapel, at one time the retreat of some recluse. Professor Cosmo Innes, in the third volume of the "Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland," gives an account of a visit to the spot, and adds:--"The curious part of St. Govan's abode is his bed, or rather his coffin, for it is a vertical interstice between two immense slabs of rock, into which a body of common size can be forced with some difficulty, the prisoner remaining upright. The rock is polished by the number of visitors fitting themselves into the saint's bed of penance, and the natives make you feel in the inner surface the indentures caused by the ribs of the saint!" The polishing is mainly due to the fact that the space has for long been used for wishing purposes. Those who desire to test the efficacy of the spell must turn themselves round within the hollow and think of nothing else during the process, except what they are wishing for--a rather difficult test under the circumstances! Close to the chapel is St. Govan's Well, under a covering of stone-work. The spring had formerly a great reputation as a health resort. Beside the remains of the once splendid monastic buildings at Walsingham, in Norfolk, are wishing wells consisting of two small circular basins of stone. In pre-Reformation times they were much resorted to for the cure of disease. Being close to St. Mary's Chapel, they were appropriately dedicated to the Virgin, to whom the gift of healing was ascribed. Since then they have been popular as wishing wells. The necessary ritual is thus described by Brand in his "Popular Antiquities":--"The votary, with a due qualification of faith and pious awe, must apply the right knee, bare, to a stone placed for that purpose between the wells. He must then plunge to the wrist each hand, bare also, into the water of the wells which are near enough to admit of this immersion. A wish must then be formed, but not uttered with the lips, either at the time or afterwards, even in confidential communication to the dearest friend. The hands are then to be withdrawn, and as much of the water as can be contained in the hollow of each is to be swallowed. Formerly the object of desire was most probably expressed in a prayer to the Virgin. It is now only a silent wish, which will certainly be accomplished within twelve months, if the efficacy of the solemn rite be not frustrated by the incredulity or some other fault of the votary." Pennant tells of a cistern connected with St. John's Well, near Moxley Nunnery, at one time much used for bathing. Near these, and below the surface of the water, was a piece of rock called the Wishing Stone. Anyone who kissed this stone with firm belief in the efficacy of the charm would have his desire granted. In this case the power of securing the fulfilment of wishes went hand in hand with the power of curing diseases. Generally speaking, however, as in the case of Walsingham just mentioned, the former power supersedes the latter. In other words, healing wells are transformed into wishing wells. When such is the case, they are, as far as folklore is concerned, in the last stage of their history. In the wood, clothing the steep hill of Weem, in Perthshire, is St. David's Well, said to be named after a former laird who turned hermit. The spring has a considerable local fame, and many have been the wishes silently breathed over its water. Part of an ancient stone cross lies at its margin, and on it the visitor kneels while framing his or her wish. Visitors to wishing wells commonly drop into the water a coin, pin, or pebble, thus keeping up, usually without being aware of the fact, the custom of offering a gift to the genius loci. The Rev. Dr. Gregor thus describes what was dropped into the Bride's Well, in the neighbourhood of Corgarff, Aberdeenshire:--"This well was at one time the favourite resort of all brides for miles around. On the evening before the marriage, the bride, accompanied by her maidens, went 'atween the sun an' the sky' to it. The maidens bathed her feet and the upper part of her body with water drawn from it. This bathing ensured a family. The bride put into the well a few crumbs of bread and cheese, to keep her children from ever being in want." Desires of any kind may be cherished at wishing-wells, but there is no doubt that matters matrimonial usually give direction to the thoughts. According to a Yorkshire belief, whoever drops five white pebbles into the Ouse, near the county town, when the minster clock strikes one on May morning, will see on the surface of the water whatever he or she wishes. Near Dale Abbey, in Derbyshire, is a certain holy well. To get full advantage of its help, one has to go between the hours of twelve and three on Good Friday, drink the water thrice, and wish. There is no doubt about the meaning of the following lines from the Bard of Dimbovitza, a collection of Roumanian Folk-Songs:-- "There, where on Sundays I go alone, To the old, old well with the milk-white stone, Where by the fence, in a nook forgot, Rises a Spring in the daisied grass, That makes whoso drinks of it love--alas! My heart's best belovèd, he drinks it not." In Sir Walter Scott's "Pirate" one of the characters expresses the wish that providence would soon send a wreck to gladden the hearts of the Shetlanders. At the other extremity of Britain, viz., in the Scilly Isles, the same hope was at one time cherished. St. Warna, who had to do with wrecks, was the patron saint of St. Agnes, one of the islands of the group. She had her holy well, and there the natives anciently dropped in a crooked pin and invoked the saint to send them a rich wreck. It would be useless to attempt to give a list of Scottish wishing-wells; but the following may be mentioned. There is one in West Kilbride parish, Ayrshire, close to a cave at Hunterston. There is another at Ardmore, in Dumbartonshire. At Rait, in Perthshire, is St. Peter's Wishing-well. In the united parishes of Kilcalmonell and Kilberry, in Argyllshire, is the ancient ecclesiastical site of Kilanaish. "Near the burial-ground," Captain White tells us, "is its holy well, where it is proper to wish the usual three wishes, which, on my last visit to the place, our party, including one lady, devoutly did." The same writer gives the following particulars about another Argyllshire spring:--"Near the Abbey of Saddell, Kintyre, is a fine spring of the class known throughout Scotland as Wishing-wells, which has always borne the name of Holy-well. It had the usual virtues and wishing powers ascribed to it. A pretty little pillar with cross cut upon it which has been mistaken for one of ancient date is scooped out into a small basin to catch the drip of the water. It was erected by a Bishop Brown, when residing at Saddell, in the beginning of the present century, to replace another one that had formerly stood there. Beside it, flows a stream called Alt-nam-Manach (the Monk's Burn), and this, with the spring, no doubt formed the water supply of the monastery." St. Anthony's Well, beside St. Anthony's ruined Chapel, near Edinburgh, is probably the best known of Scottish wishing-wells. Its sanative virtues have already been alluded to, but it is nowadays more noted for its power of securing the fulfilment of wishes than the recovery of health. A pleasant picture of the romantic spot is given by Sir Daniel Wilson in his "Memorials of Edinburgh in the Olden Time":--"The ancient Hermitage and Chapel of St. Anthony, underneath the overhanging crags of Arthur's Seat, are believed to have formed a dependency of the preceptory at Leith, and to have been placed there, to catch the seaman's eye as he entered the Firth, or departed on some long and perilous voyage; when his vows and offerings would be most freely made to the patron saint, and the hermit who ministered at his altar. No record, however, now remains to add to the tradition of its dedication to St. Anthony; but the silver stream, celebrated in the plaintive old song, 'O waly, waly up yon bank,' still wells clearly forth at the foot of the rock, filling the little basin of St. Anthony's Well, and rippling pleasantly through the long grass into the lower valley." The song in question gives expression to the grief of Lady Barbara Erskine, wife of James, Marquis of Douglas, in the time of Charles II., in connection with her desertion by her husband-- 1. "O waly, waly up the bank And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burnside, Where I and my love wont to gae! I lean'd my back unto an aik, I thoucht it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak: Sae my true love did lichtly me. 2. O waly, waly, but love be bonnie A little time while it is new; But when it's auld, it waxes cauld, And fades away like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my heid, Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true love has me forsook, And says he'll never love me mair. 3. Now Arthur's Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne'er be pressed by me. St. Anton's Well shall be my drink Since my true love has forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle death! when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie! 4. 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart's grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow toun We were a comely sicht to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel in cramasie. 5. But had I wist, before I kissed, That love had been sae ill to win, I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. O! oh! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee. And I mysel were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me!" Fortunately, the associations of St. Anthony's Well have not all been so sad as the above. Many a hopeful moment has been passed beside its margin. A little girl from Aberdeenshire, when on a visit to friends in Edinburgh, made trial of the sacred spring. She was cautioned not to tell anyone what her wish was, else the charm would have no effect. On her return home, however, her eagerness to know whether the wish had, in the meantime, been fulfilled, quite overcame her ability to keep the secret. Her first words were, "Has the pony come?" St. Anthony must have been in good humour with the child, for he provided the pony, thus evidently condoning the breach of silence in deference to her youth. Surely there must be something in wishing-wells, after all, besides water. CHAPTER XIX. MEANING OF MARVELS. Mystery of a Spring--Marvel and Magic--Misinterpretation of Natural Phenomena--Healing Power of Springs--Peterhead--Poetry and Superstition--MacCulloch--Mistake about a Tree--Strange Appearances of Nature--Spring at Kintail--Disappearance of Spring near Perth--Saints and Storms--St. Milburga--Water like Blood--Origin of Belief in Guardian Spirits--Why Gifts were Offered--Weather Charms--Coincidences--Prophecy of Water--Philosophy of Wishing Wells--Worship of Trees and Springs--Charm-Stones--Continued Reverence for Holy Wells--Conclusion. Mr. J. M. Barrie is a true interpreter of the youthful mind when he says, in the "Little Minister," "Children like to peer into wells to see what the world is like at the other side." Grown-up people are also alive to the mystery of a spring. "Look into its depth," observes Mr. E. H. Barker in his "Wayfaring in France," "until the eye, getting reconciled to the darkness, catches the gleam of the still water far below the ferns that hang from the gaping places in the mossy wall, and you will find yourself spellbound by the great enchantress, Nature, while understanding nothing of the mysterious influence." In days of less enlightenment "the weight of all this unintelligible world" was even more felt than now, and the minds of men were ever on the outlook for the marvellous. What is to us a source of not unpleasing mystery was then a cause of dread. We marvel and make poetry. Our far-off ancestors trembled and sought refuge in magical rites. We still speak of the charms of nature, but the phrase has to us an altered meaning. When we remember how little science there was at one time, we need not be surprised that the phenomena of the outer world were misinterpreted, and hence gave rise to fallacies. This was markedly so in the case of springs. While quenching thirst--a natural function to perform--they became endowed with virtues of an exceptional character, and were esteemed as the givers of health. Even amid the darkness of those distant days we can detect a glimmering of light, for such ideas were not wholly false. Erroneous ideas seldom are. Springs have indeed a health-giving power. Whether or not we accept the full-blown doctrines of modern hydropathy, we must allow that cold water is an excellent tonic. As an acute writer has remarked, "Cold braces the nerves and muscles, and, by strengthening the glands, promotes secretion and circulation, the two grand ministers of health." Allusion has been made to the mineral waters of Peterhead. The secret of their power is well described by Cordiner in his "Antiquities and Scenery of the North of Scotland," where he says:--"A mineral well in the summer months gives great gaiety to the place; its salutary virtues have been long, I believe, justly celebrated. The salt-water baths adjoining are much frequented in nervous disorders: their effect in strengthening the constitution is often surprising. Owing to the open peninsulated situation, the air of this place is esteemed peculiarly pure and healthful; even the fogs rising from the sea are thought to be medicinal; the town is therefore much enlivened by the concourse of company who frequent it on these accounts. Without derogating anything from the merits of the baths and mineral, one may reasonably conclude that the custom of walking several hours before breakfast, and meeting the morning breezes from the sea along these cool and refreshing shores, the probability of meeting with choice of companions as an inducement to these early rambles, the perpetual cheerfulness indulged by society entirely disengaged from business and care, and their various inventions to chase away languor, probably contribute no less to the health of the company than the peculiar virtues of the healing spring." Truth can commonly be found underlying superstition. The power, possessed by certain aspects of external nature to soothe the troubles of the mind, is one of the commonplaces of modern poetry. This thought, when rendered into folklore, becomes the idea that certain spots are "places of safety from supernatural visitants." Such was the belief connected with Our Lady's Well, at Threshfield, near Linton, in Craven, Yorkshire. Whoever took refuge there was free from the power of magical spells. When sailing among the sea-lochs of Lewis, MacCulloch had an experience which he thus describes in his "Western Islands":--"On one occasion the water was like a mirror, but black as jet, from its depth and from the shadow of the high cliffs which overhung it. The tide, flowing with the rapidity of a torrent, glided past without a ripple to indicate its movement, while the sail aloft was filled by a breeze that did not reach the surface. There was a death-like silence while the boat shot along under the dark rocks like an arrow; to a poetical imagination it might have appeared under a supernatural influence: like the bark of Dante, angel-borne." If such were the reflections of an educated man like MacCulloch, what must have been the thoughts of our ignorant forefathers when confronted by the ever-recurring marvels of the outer world! Nature is still misinterpreted by credulous people through a lack of knowledge of her laws. A good example of this, bearing, not, however, on water, but on tree-worship, is given by Dr. J. Fergusson, in his "Tree and Serpent Worship." A god was said to have appeared in a certain date-palm in a village a few miles from Tessore, and the tree was promptly adorned by the Brahmins with garlands and offerings. Dr. Fergusson observes:--"On my inquiring how the god manifested his presence, I was informed that, soon after the sun rose in the morning, the tree raised its head to welcome him, and bowed it down again when he departed. As this was a miracle easily tested, I returned at noon and found it was so. After a little study and investigation, the mystery did not seem difficult of explanation. The tree had originally grown across the principal pathway through the village, but at last hung so low that, in order to enable people to pass under it, it had been turned aside and fastened parallel to the road. In the operation the bundle of fibres which composed the root had become twisted like the strands of a rope. When the morning sun struck on the upper surface of them, they contracted in drying, and hence a tendency to untwist, which raised the head of the tree. With the evening dews they relaxed, and the head of the tree declined." In the chapter on "Some Wonderful Wells," we glanced at the mysterious origin of certain springs. In ancient times, no less than in the present, strange sights must have been witnessed. We have not a monopoly of thunderstorms, earthquakes, landslips, or deluges of rain. The same phenomena prevailed in early times. The difference is, that we have science to keep them in their proper place. During the heavy rains of January 1892, a spring near the house of Rurach, at Kintail, in Ross-shire, suddenly burst its bounds and became a raging torrent. Usually the surplus water from the spring flowed away in the form of a trickling stream, but on the occasion in question it rushed on with such force and volume that it scooped out a channel twenty feet deep and forty feet broad. The event not unnaturally caused a good deal of wonder in the neighbourhood. Had it happened several centuries earlier, some malignant water-spirit would doubtless have been reckoned the active agent. During the operations connected with the formation of the railway tunnel through Moncrieff Hill, close to Perth, the water of a certain spring in the neighbourhood suddenly failed. It happened that a clergyman, whose manse stood not far from the spring, sent, when in the extremity of illness, for a draught of its water. It was his last draught. He died immediately after; and at the same time, the spring dried up. The coincidence did not pass without remark in the district, but whether or not it gave rise to a superstition we do not know. In the dark ages it certainly would have done so. In the annals of hagiology, the early saints were associated in a special way with water. They had, for instance, the power of allaying storms. St. Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, exercised this power more than once. Adamnan records the same miracle in connection with Columba, abbot of Iona; and Cainneck, abbot of Aghaboe. According to a Shropshire legend, Milburga, when followed by a certain prince, was saved from her unwelcome pursuer by the river Corve rising in flood after she had crossed. The superstition that water, under certain circumstances, assumed the hue of blood, as in the case of St. Tredwell's Loch in Orkney, &c., claims special attention. We call this belief a superstition, inasmuch as a special miracle was thought to be involved in the matter; but we nowadays know, that such appearances show themselves without any miracle at all, except the constant miracle without which there would be no natural law. Modern bacteriology has proved the existence of a certain microscopic plant, technically styled Hæmatococcus Pluvialis and popularly known in Germany as Blutalge. In "Notes and Queries" for 12th March, 1892, Dr. G. H. F. Nuttall of Baltimore, observes:--"In Central Europe it has been found in pools formed by the rain in rocky hollows and stone troughs, &c. Hæmatococcus often becomes intimately mixed with the pollen of conifers and minute particles of plants which are known to be carried hundreds of miles by occasional currents of air. The rain drops in the heavens condense about such minute particles, and in falling, carry them down to the earth's surface, where, under proper conditions, these little plants multiply with enormous rapidity." Dr. Nuttall adds, "Besides the Hæmatococcus Pluvialis, we have a Bacterium which has often deceived people into the belief that they were dealing with bona-fide blood. This Bacterium is easily cultivated in the laboratory. It is one of the so-called chromogenic or colour-producing Bacteria, and bears the name Bacillus Prodigiosus, on account of its exceedingly rapid growth. This very minute plant has undoubtedly been the cause of terror among superstitious people. The organism will only produce its colour in the presence of oxygen, and, as a consequence, red spots appear only on the surface of the moist nutrient medium on which it may fall." Undoubtedly some such explanation would account for certain red spots, alluded to by Mr. Hunt, which appeared from time to time on the stones in the churchyard of the Cornish parish of St. Denis. According to the belief of the district, the spots were marks of blood, and their appearance foretold the occurrence of some untoward event in English history. We have spoken of the guardian spirits of lochs and springs. That such spirits should have been thought to exist is not surprising. Since water is one of the necessaries of life for man and beast, animals had to frequent pools and rivers. What more natural than that, in days of ignorance, these animals should have been regarded as in some mysterious way connected with the spots they frequented. In the same way, fish darting about in the water would be considered its indwelling spirits. It may not seem to us at all needful, that lochs and springs should have guardian spirits at all. But man, in a certain stage of development, thinks of nature, organic and inorganic alike, as having a life akin to his own, with powers superior to his own. From a belief in guardian spirits, to a belief in the necessity of offering gifts to them is an easy transition. A present is sometimes an expression of good-will, sometimes of a desire to obtain benefits to the giver. Offerings at lochs and springs were undoubtedly of the latter class, and were intended either to avert evil or to procure good. In ancient times in India, when a dragon presided over a spring, the people of the district were in the habit of invoking his aid, when they wanted rain or fine weather. Certain ceremonies were necessary to procure the boon. "The chief characteristic of the serpents throughout the East in all ages," remarks Dr. Fergusson, "seems to have been their power over the wind and the rain, which they exert for either good or evil as their disposition prompts." As we have seen, certain wells in our own land could control the weather. This was so, even when the guardian spirit of the spring assumed no definite shape. The rites required to obtain the desired object were nothing less than an acknowledgment of the spirit's existence. The origin of the connection between weather and wells can only be guessed at. It appears that the splashing of a spring when an object was thrown into it, or the sprinkling of the water over the neighbouring ground, was thought to cause rain, through what may be called a dramatic representation of a shower. Why this should have been so, cannot be determined with certainty. Probably accidental acts of the kind described were followed, in some instances, by a fall of rain, and the belief may have sprung up that between the two there existed the relation of cause and effect. There was thus a confusion between what logicians call the post hoc and the propter hoc. The same explanation may perhaps account for the belief that a favourable breeze could be obtained, as in the case of the Gigha Well, by the performance of certain definite rites. Few circumstances in life have more power to arrest attention than coincidences. Two events occur about the same time, and we exclaim, "What a singular coincidence!" that is, if we are not of a superstitious temperament. If we are, we talk mysteriously about omens and such like direful topics. To some minds, an omen has a peculiar fascination. It lifts them above the level of their ordinary daily life. The postman rings the bell, and letters are handed in. A message boy is seen at the door, and a parcel is delivered. These, and many more such, are incidents of frequent occurrence. They are reckoned commonplace. We know all about them. But let anything unusual happen, anything that stirs the sense of awe within us, we, at least some of us, instantly conclude that there is magic in the matter. An unprepossessing old woman takes a look at a child when passing. The child ceases to thrive. There are whispers about "the evil eye." Yes, there is no doubt about it. The child must have been bewitched. Is it not probable that the prophetic power ascribed to wells may be accounted for on this principle? Certain appearances were observed, and certain events followed. Water gushed freely from a spring, when drawn for the use of an invalid. The invalid recovered. Of course he did, for the omen was favourable. As in private, so in public matters. Pools of water were observed to have something peculiar about them. Some crisis in the history of our nation soon succeeded. What sensible person could fail to discern a connection between the two sets of circumstances? So men, even some wise ones, have argued. Wishing-wells, from their very nature, have a special claim on popular credulity. When a desire is eagerly cherished, we leave no stone unturned to bring about its fulfilment. There is something, be it what it may, that we eagerly covet. How are we to get it? In the stir and pressure of our day's work, we do not see any avenue leading to the fulfilment of our wish. In the quiet morning or evening, when the birds are singing overhead, we go alone to some woodland well, and there, by the margin, gather our thoughts together. One particular thought lies close to our heart, and on it we fix our attention. In the still moments, while we listen to the bubbling spring, our mind lights on a clew, and our thoughts follow it into the future. We brace ourselves up for following it in reality. We see how our design may be accomplished. We take the road that has been revealed to our inward eye, and finally reach the goal of our desire. How does this come about? We may have stooped over the spring, and with certain accompanying rites, have breathed our wish. We return to our daily work with the desire still lying close to our heart. Days, or weeks, or months pass, and at last, behold, what we were so anxious for, is ours! The charm has been successful. Of course it has. But what of the impulse towards definite action that came to us, when we were free from the touch of our ordinary troubles, and quiet-voiced Nature was our teacher and our own soul our prophet? At any rate, we went to the wishing well, and the boon we sought we can now call our own. The question remains, are all desires granted, either through visits to wishing-wells or in any other way? The experiences of life give a definite answer in the negative. How then are believers in the power of wishing-wells to account for such failures? The rites were duly attended to, yet there was no result. Why was the charm not effectual? Any sincere answer to the question ought to be an acknowledgment of ignorance. In thus attempting to explain the philosophy of wishing-wells, we do not imply that the subjective element is the secret of success in every case. We are merely pointing out that it may be so in some cases. In other cases, according to the principle mentioned above, an explanation will be supplied by the theory of coincidences. When trees and springs were alike reckoned divinities, it was natural enough to conclude, that any tree, overshadowing a spring, was somehow mysteriously connected with it. Belief in such mysterious relations continued, as we have seen, even after tree-worship ceased as a popular cult. Certain superstitions, still in vogue in the west, are undoubtedly relics of tree-worship. In India and some other Eastern lands, the cult still nourishes vigorously. A writer in the "Cornhill Magazine" for November, 1872, remarks:--"The contrast between the acknowledged hatred of trees as a rule by the Bygas (an important tribe in Central India), and their deep veneration for certain others in particular, is very curious. I have seen the hillsides swept clear of forests for miles, with but here and there a solitary tree left standing. These remain now the objects of the deepest veneration; so far from being injured, they are carefully preserved, and receive offerings of food, clothes, and flowers, from the passing Bygas, who firmly believe that tree to be the home of a spirit." We need not linger over the consideration of charm-stones in their connection with wells. In some instances, like that of the Lee Penny, they gave efficacy to water as a healing agent; but in others, as in the case of the Loch Torridon Spring, water gave efficacy to them. Indeed, they acted and reacted on each other in such a way that, in some instances, it is difficult to determine whether the talisman brought healing virtue to the water, or vice versa. To find the solution of the problem, we should have to carry our thoughts back to the remote days when stones and wells had a life of their own, and were thus qualified to act independently. One can understand why holy wells retained their popularity. Even though they did not always effect a cure, people continued to believe in them and to seek their aid. Consecrated springs might throw cold water (metaphorically) on many a cherished hope; but, for all that, they remained, as of old, objects of reverence. The secret of their power lay in their appeal to the imagination. Understanding might say, it is absurd to expect that my ailment can be removed in this way; but imagination protested that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in my philosophy. The rites to be gone through--the choice of the fitting season, the keeping of silence, the leaving of a gift--all conduced to throw a halo of romance around the practice. There was thus an appeal to the unknown and mysterious, that gave to well-worship a strange charm. It stirred up any latent poetry in a man's nature, and linked him to something beyond himself. Springs have a double charm. They are interesting for their own sake, and for the sake of the folklore that has gathered round them. They are "like roses, beautiful in themselves, that add to their own perfection the exquisite loveliness of a mossy dell." In conclusion, take away what is distinctively mediæval in well-worship, and paganism is left. We find this paganism entering like a wedge into the substance of a Christian civilisation. It may have changed its colour, but it is paganism notwithstanding. Well-worship has a definite value as a survival. It serves to unite our own age of science with one in the far past, when laws of nature, as we understand them, were unknown. As a cult it has forsaken the busy haunts of men, but lingers still in quiet places, especially among the mountains. Superstitions die hard. The epitaph of this one has still to be written. Those who are waiting for its last breath need not be surprised if they have to wait yet a while. 
56699	----	[Illustration: Cover art] [Frontispiece: "'No small beast did that,' he said. 'You are lucky to be alive, Tullum.'" (Page 15.)] THE STONE AXE OF BURKAMUKK BY MARY GRANT BRUCE ILLUSTRATED BY J. MACFARLANE WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD. LONDON AND MELBOURNE 1922 FOREWORD Year by year the old black tribes are dying out, and many of their legends and beliefs are dying with them. These legends deal with the world as the blacks knew it; with the Bush animals and birds; the powers of storm, flood, fire, thunder, and magic, and the beings who they thought controlled these powers; with the sun, moon and stars; and with the life and death of men and women. Many of the old tales are savage enough, but through them runs a thread of feeling for the nobler side of life, so far as these wild people could grasp it. The spirit of self-sacrifice is seen in them, and greed, selfishness and cruelty are often punished as they deserve. We are apt to look on the blacks as utter barbarians, but, as we read their own old stories, we see that they were boys and girls, men and women, not so unlike us in many ways, and that they could admire what we admire in each other, and condemn what we would condemn. The folk-tales of a people are the story of its soul, and it would be a pity if the native races of our country were to vanish altogether before we had collected enough of their legends to let their successors know what manner of people lived in Australia for thousands of years before the white man came. Some valuable collections have indeed been made, but they are all too few; and there must even to-day be many people, especially in the wilder parts of Australia, who are in touch with the aborigines, and could, if they would, get the old men and women to tell them the stories which were handed down to them when they were children. In the hope of persuading all young Australians who have the opportunity to collect and preserve what they can of the ancient life and legends of Australia, I have put into modern English a few of the tales which may still be had from some old blackfellow or gin. M.G.B. CONTENTS I The Stone Axe of Burkamukk II Waung, the Crow III The Emu who would Dance IV Booran, the Pelican V The Story of the Stars VI How Light Came VII The Frog that Laughed VIII The Maiden who found the Moon IX Mirran and Warreen X The Daughters of Wonkawala XI The Burning of the Crows XII Kur-bo-roo, the Bear XIII Wurip, the Fire-Bringer I THE STONE AXE OF BURKAMUKK CHAPTER I The camp lay calm and peaceful under the spring sunlight. Burkamukk, the chief, had chosen its place well: the wurleys were built in a green glade well shaded with blackwood and boobyalla trees, and with a soft thick carpet of grass, on which the black babies loved to roll. Not a hundred yards away flowed a wide creek; a creek so excellent that it fed a swamp a little farther on. The blacks loved to be near a swamp, for it was as good as a storehouse of food: the women used to go there for lily-pads and sedge-roots, and the men would spear eels in its muddy waters, while at times big flocks of duck settled on it, besides other water-fowl. Burkamukk was a very wise chief, and all his people were fat, and therefore contented. As blacks count wealth, the people of Burkamukk were very well off. They had plenty of skin rugs, so that no one went cold, even in the winter nights; and the women had made them well, sewing them together with the sinews of animals, using for their needles the small bone of a kangaroo's hind-leg, ground to a fine point. It was hard work to sew these well, but the men used to take pains to get good skins, pegging them out with tea-tree spikes and dressing them with wood-ashes and fat, which they rubbed in until the skins were soft and supple; and so the women thought that the least they could do was to sew them in the very best way. Being particular about the rugs made the women particular about other things as well, and they had a far better outfit than could be found in most camps. Each woman had a good pitchi, a small wooden trough hollowed out of the soft wood of the bean-tree, in which food was kept. When the tribe went travelling the pitchi was as useful as a suit-case is to a white Australian girl; the lubras packed them with food, and carried them balanced on their heads, or slung to one hip by a plait of human hair, or a fur band; and sometimes a big pitchi was made by a proud father and beautifully carved with a stone knife, and used as a cradle for a fat black baby. Then the women used to weave baskets made of a strong kind of rush, ornamented with coloured patterns and fancy stitches, and each one had, as well, a bag made of the tough inner bark of the acacia tree, or sometimes of a messmate or stringy bark, in which she kept food, sticks and tinder for starting a fire, wattle-gum for cement, shells, tools, and all sorts of charms to keep off evil spirits. They had a queer kind of cooking-pot, in which they used to dissolve gum and manna. These pots were made out of the big rough lumps that grow out of old gum-trees, hollowed out by a chisel made of a kangaroo's thighbone. The women used to put gum and manna in these and place them near the fire, so that the water gradually heated without burning the wood. There was no pottery among the blacks, and so they could never boil food, but they contrived to make pleasant warm drinks in these wooden pots. When it came to baking, however, the women of the tribe were well able to turn out toothsome roasts. Their ovens were holes in the ground, plastered with mud, and then filled with fire until the clay was very hot. When the temperature was right the embers were taken out, and the holes lined with wet grass. The food--flesh, fish, or roots--was packed in rough rush baskets and placed in the ovens, and covered with more wet grass, hot stones, gravel, and earth, until the holes were quite air-tight. The women liked to do this in the evening, so that the food cooked slowly all night; and often all the cooking was done in a few big ovens, and next morning each family came to remove its basket of food. And if you had come along breakfastless just as the steaming baskets were taken out, and had been asked to join in eating a plump young bandicoot or wallaby or a fat black fish--well, even though there were no plates or knives or forks, I do not think you would have grumbled at your meal. The men of Burkamukk's tribe were well armed. Their boomerangs, spears and throwing-sticks were all of the best, and they had, in addition, knives made of splinters of flint or sharpened mussel-shell, lashed into handles. Some had skinning knives made of the long front teeth of the bandicoot, with the jaw left on for a handle; and they worked kangaroo bones into all kinds of tools. But Burkamukk himself had a wonderful weapon, the only one in all that district--a mighty axe. It was made of green stone, wedge-shaped, and sharply ground at one edge. This was grasped in the bend of a doubled piece of split sapling, and tightly bound round with kangaroo sinews; and the handle thus formed was additionally strengthened by being cemented to the head by a mixture of gum and shell lime. It was not a very easy matter to make that cement. First, mussel shells were burned to make the lime, and pounded in a hollow stone. Then wattle-gum was chewed for a long time and placed between sheets of green bark, which were laid in a shallow hole in the ground and covered with hot ashes until the gum was dissolved, when it was kneaded with the lime into a tough paste. The blacks would have been badly off without that cement, but not all of them would go to the trouble of making it as thoroughly as did the men of Burkamukk's tribe. All the best workmanship had gone to the manufacture of Burkamukk's axe, and the whole tribe was proud of it. Sometimes the chief would lend it to the best climbers among his young men, who used it to cut steps in the bark of trees when they wanted to climb in search of monkey-bears or 'possums; or he would let them use it to strip sheets of bark from the trees, to make their wurleys. Those to whom the axe was lent always showed their sense of the honour done them by making payment in kind--the fattest of the game caught, or a finely-woven rush mat, would be laid at the chief's door. If this had not been done Burkamukk would probably have looked wise next time some one had wished to borrow his axe, and would have remarked that he had work for it himself. Even though he occasionally lent the axe, Burkamukk never let it go out of his sight. It was far too precious a possession for that. He, too, went hunting when the axe went, or watched it used to prise great strips of thick bark off the trees, and he probably worried the borrower very much by continually directing how it should be handled. Not that the young men would have taken any risks with it. It was the chief's axe, but its possession brought dignity upon the whole tribe. Other chiefs had axes, more or less excellent, but there was no weapon in all the countryside so famous as the axe of Burkamukk. I doubt whether the Kings of England have valued their Crown Jewels so highly as Burkamukk valued his stone treasure with the sapling handle. Certainly they cannot have found them half so useful. On this spring afternoon Burkamukk was coming up from the swamp where he had been spearing eels. He had been very successful: Koronn, his wife, walked behind him carrying a dozen fine specimens, and thinking how good a supper she would be able to cook, and how delighted her little boy Tumbo would be; for of all things Tumbo loved to eat eel. Just at the edge of the camp Burkamukk stopped, frowning. A hunting-party of young men had evidently just returned; they were the centre of a group in the middle of the camp, and still they were carrying their spears and throwing-sticks. They were talking loudly and gesticulating, and it was clear that those who listened to them were excited and distressed; there were anxious faces and the women were crying "Yakai!" (Alas!). The chief strode up to the group. "What is the matter?" he asked. The men turned, saluting him respectfully. "We have fallen upon evil times, Chief," their leader answered. "Little game have we caught, and we have lost Kon-garn." "Lost him! How?" "There is a great and terrible beast in the country to which we went," answered Tullum, the young warrior. "The men of the friendly tribe we passed told us of him, but we thought they were joking with us, for it seemed a foolish tale, only fit to make women afraid. They told us of a great kangaroo they call Kuperee, larger than a dozen kangaroos and fiercer than any animal that walks on the earth; and they warned us not to go near his country." "A kangaroo as large as a dozen!" said Burkamukk. "Ky! but I would like to see such a beast The whole tribe could feed on him." "Ay, they might, if one had the luck to be able to kill him," said Tullum sorrowfully. "But a kangaroo of that size is no joke to encounter." "What!" said Burkamukk. "Do you mean me to believe that there is truly such a kangaroo?" "There is indeed," Tullum answered. "We also did not believe. We went on, thinking that the other tribe merely wished to keep us away from a good hunting-ground. We took no precautions, and we came upon him suddenly." "And he was a big kangaroo, do you say?" Tullum flung out his hands. "There are no words to tell you of his bigness, O, Chief!" he said--and his voice shook with terror. "Never has such an animal been seen before. Black is he, and huge, and fierce; and when he saw us he roared and rushed upon us. There was no time to do battle: he was on us almost before one could fling a spear. Kon-garn was nearest, and he went down with one blow of the monster's foot, his head crushed. Me he struck at, but luckily for me I was almost out of his reach. Still, he touched me--see!" He moved aside his 'possum-skins, and showed long wounds, running from his shoulder to his wrist--wounds that looked as though they had been made by great claws. Burkamukk looked at them closely. "No small beast did that," he said. "You are lucky to be alive, Tullum." "Ay," said Tullum briefly. "Indeed, I thought for a while that I was as dead as Kon-garn. But I managed to dodge behind a tree, and the bush was thick, so that by great good fortune I got away. Kuperee gave chase, but we all scattered, and luckily the one he chose to follow was Woma, who is the swiftest of us all; and Woma gave him the slip without much trouble, for Kuperee is so great that he cannot get through the trees quickly. So we came together again after a day and a night, and travelled home swiftly." "And none of you went back to avenge Kon-garn?" the chief asked, sternly. Tullum looked at him with a curious mixture of shame and defiance. "Nay," he said. "None of us have ever been reckoned cowards--and yet we did not go back. An ordinary enemy would not have made us afraid, but there is something about Kuperee that turns the very heart to water. We hated ourselves--we hate ourselves still--for not going back. The blood of Kon-garn cries out to us for vengeance on his slayer, and in our sleep we see our comrade, with his head crushed by that terrible foot. And yet we could not turn. We have come home to you like frightened children, and shame is on our heads. We know not how to face Kon-garn's wife, who sits there and cries 'Yakai!' before her wurley." Another of the warriors, Woma the Swift-footed, spoke up, with sullen anger in his voice. "We are shamed," he said, "but there is Magic in it. No true animal is Kuperee, but an evil spirit. No man could possibly stand before him." To put anything they could not understand down to the score of Magic and evil spirits was the usual custom of the blacks; but this time it seemed more than usually likely to be true. The Meki-gar, or medicine-men, nodded wisely, and the women all shuddered and wailed afresh, while the men looked anxious and afraid. Burkamukk thought for a moment before replying. He was a very wise chief, and while he was just as afraid of Magic as any other blackfellow, still he had the safety of his tribe to consider. "That is all very well," he said, at length. "Very likely it is true. But it may not be true after all: Kuperee may be no more than a very wonderful kangaroo who has managed to grow to an enormous size. If that is so, he will want much food, and gradually he will hunt farther and farther, all over the country, until at last he will come here. Then we shall all suffer." "Ay," said the men. "That is true. But what can we do?" "I will not sit down quietly until I know for certain that Kuperee is Magic," said Burkamukk, striking the ground with the butt of his eel-spear. "If indeed he be Magic, then it will be the part of the Meki-gar to deal with him. But first I would have my young men prove whether they cannot avenge Kon-garn. It is in my mind that this Kuperee is no more than a huge animal; and I want his blood. Who will shed it for me?" There was no lack of brave warriors among the men of Burkamukk. A shout went up from them, and immediately forty or fifty sprang before him, waking all the Bush echoes with their yells of defiance against Kuperee or any other giant animal, whether kangaroo or anything else. Only Tullum and the hunters who had been with him hung back; and they were unnoticed in the general excitement. "Ye are too many," Burkamukk said, surveying them proudly. "Ten such men should be a match for any kangaroo." He ran his eye over them rapidly and counted out half a score by name. Then he bade the other volunteers fall back, so that the chosen warriors were left standing alone. "It is well," he said. "Namba shall be your leader, and you will obey him in all things. Find out from Tullum where to look for this Kuperee, and see that you go warily, and that your weapons are always ready. Go; seek Kuperee, and ere seven sleeps have gone, bring me his tail to eat!" He stalked towards his wurley. The young men, shouting yells of battle, rushed for their weapons. In ten minutes they had gone, running swiftly over the plain, and the camp was quiet again, save for the cries of Kon-garn's wife as she mourned for her husband. But alas! within a few days the wife of Kon-garn was not the only woman to bewail her dead. In less than a week the hunting-party was back, and without three of its bravest warriors. The survivors told the same story as Tullum and his men. They had found Kuperee, this time roaming through the Bush in search of food; and he had uttered a roar and rushed upon them. They had fought, they said, but unavailingly: spears and throwing-sticks seemed to fall back blunted from the monster's hide, and two of the men had been seized and devoured, while the third, Namba, who rushed wildly in, frantically endeavouring to save them, had been crushed to earth with one sweeping blow. Then terror, overwhelming and unconquerable, had fallen on the seven men who remained, and they had fled, never stopping until they were far away. Weaponless and ashamed, they crept back to the camp with their miserable story. Burkamukk heard them in silence. Other chiefs might have been angry, and inflicted fierce punishments, but he knew that to such men there could be no heavier penalty than to return beaten and afraid. He nodded, when they had finished. "Then it would surely seem that Kuperee is Magic," he said. "Therefore no man can deal with him, save only the medicine-men. Go to your wurleys and rest." The Meki-gar were not at all anxious for the task of ridding the earth of Kuperee, but since their art, like that of all medicine-men, consisted in saying as little as possible, they dared not show their disinclination. Instead, they accepted Burkamukk's instructions in owl-like silence, making themselves look as wise as possible, and nodding as though giant kangaroos came their way--and were swept out of it--every day in the week. Then they withdrew to a lonely place outside their camp and began their spells. They lit tiny fires and burned scraps of kangaroo-hide, throwing the ashes in the air and uttering terrible curses against Kuperee. Also they secretly weaved many magic spells, sitting by their little fires and keeping a sharp look-out lest any of the tribe should see what they were doing--an unnecessary precaution, since the tribe was far too terrified of Magic to go anywhere near them. When they had been at work for what they considered a sufficient length of time, they packed up all their charms in skin bags, and returned to the camp, where they told Burkamukk that Kuperee was probably dead, as a result of their incantations. "But if he is not," said their head man, "then it is because we have nothing belonging to Kuperee himself to make spells with. If we had so much of a hair of his tail, or even one of the bones that he has gnawed, then we could make such a spell that nothing in the world could stand against it. As it is, we have done wonderful things, and he is very likely dead. Certainly no other Meki-gar could have done as much." Burkamukk thanked the Meki-gar very respectfully. He did not understand their Magic at all, and he was badly afraid of all Magic; still, he knew that the Meki-gar did not always succeed in their undertakings, and he felt that though their spells were, no doubt, strong, there was quite a chance that Kuperee was stronger. He would have felt much happier had the Meki-gar been able to prove that the enemy was dead. "If I could give them a hair of his tail," thought he, "there would be no need for spells, since Kuperee will certainly be dead before he allows anyone to meddle with his tail." It was with some bitterness that he dismissed the wise men, giving them a present of roasted wallaby. It was not long before proof came that the Magic of the Meki-gar had been at fault. Burkamukk's young men, out hunting, met a hunting-party of a friendly tribe, from whom they learned that the great kangaroo was fiercer and more powerful than ever, and had slain many men in the country to the north. As Burkamukk had foreseen, he was ranging farther and farther afield, so that no district could feel safe from him. It could be only a question of time before Kuperee would wander down to his country. Burkamukk held a council of war that night, at which all the warriors and the Meki-gar were present. The chief wanted to lead his best men against the monster, but the Meki-gar opposed the suggestion vigorously, saying that it was not right for the head of the tribe to run into a danger such as this. An ordinary battle was all very well, but this was Magic, and against it chiefs were just as ordinary men: and where would the tribe be without its mighty head? The warriors supported the Meki-gar, and they all argued about it until Burkamukk was ready to lose his temper. He had no wish to see his best hunters grow fewer and fewer--already two expeditions had ended in disaster and loss. The discussion was becoming an angry one when suddenly the chief's two eldest sons, Inda and Pilla, rose and spoke. They were young men, but already they were renowned hunters, famous at tracking and killing game: and besides their skill with weapons, it was said that they had learned from the Meki-gar much wisdom beyond the knowledge of ordinary men. Straight and tall as young rushes, they faced their father. "Let us go," Inda said--"Pilla and I. Numbers are useless against Kuperee; it is only cunning that will slay him, and for that two men are better than a score. Give us a trial, and if we fail, then will be time enough to talk of a great expedition." The chief looked at them with angry unhappiness. "And if you fail?" he said. "Then I shall have lost my sons." "What of that?" asked Pilla. "You have other sons, and we will have died for the tribe. That is the right of a chief's son. Other men's sons have tried, and some of them have died. Now it is our turn." A murmur of dissent ran round the circle, for Pilla and Inda were much loved; and they were very young. But Burkamukk looked at them proudly, though his face was very sad. "They say rightly," he said. "They are the chief's sons, and it is their privilege, if need be, to die for the tribe. Go, then, my sons, and may Pund-jel make your hearts cunning and your aim steady when you meet Kuperee." "There is one thing we desire," Inda said. "Will you lend us your stone axe, my father? It seems to us that Kuperee will fall to no ordinary weapon, and a dream has come to us that bids us take the axe. But that is for you to say. It is a great thing to ask; but if we live we will bring it back to you in safety." Burkamukk signed to a young man who stood near him, and bade him fetch the axe from his wurley. When it came, he handed it to his sons. "It is a great treasure, but you are my sons, and you are worthy to bear it," he said. "Never before has it left my sight in the hands of any warrior, and I would that I were the one to wield it against Kuperee. Good luck go with it and with you, my sons!" So Inda and Pilla made themselves ready to go, preparing as if they were to take part in a splendid corroboree. They painted themselves with white stripes, and over and under their eyes and on their cheeks drew streaks of red ochre. Round their heads they wore twisted bands of fur, and in these bands they stuck plumes, made of the white quill feathers of a black swan's wing. Kangaroo teeth were fastened in their hair, and necklaces of the same teeth hung down upon their breasts. From their shoulders hung the tails of yellow dingos. They wore belts and aprons of wallaby skin, and, fastened behind to these belts, stiff upright tufts of the neck feathers of the emu, like the tail of a cock. They bore many weapons, and each took it in turn to carry the stone axe of Burkamukk. The whole tribe came out to watch them go, and while the men were envious, the women wailed sadly, for they were young, and it seemed that they were going forth to die. CHAPTER II Pilla and Inda travelled swiftly through the Bush for the first two days of their journey. They passed through good hunting country, where they were tempted by the sign of much game, but they would not allow themselves to turn aside, greatly as they longed for fresh meat. They carried a little food with them, and were fortunate in finding much boombul, which the white people afterwards called manna--a sweet white substance rather like small pieces of loaf-sugar, with a very delicate flavour. Boombul drops from the leaves and small branches of some kinds of gum-trees, and the blacks loved to eat it, so Pilla and Inda thought themselves very lucky. They met friendly blacks now and then, as they travelled, and heard many stories of the ferocity of Kuperee. Some of the reports were very terrifying. It was difficult to find out how huge he was, for he seemed to grow in size according to the terror of the men who had seen him: some of whom said he was as large as any gum-tree. But all were agreed as to his fierceness. He devoured men in a single gulp: he struck them down as one might strike a yurkurn, or lizard: his swiftness in pursuit was terrible to see. The man he chased had no chance whatever, unless he managed to reach thick timber, where Kuperee's size prevented his taking the gigantic leaps which so quickly ended a chase on open ground. And about all the tales hung the sense of blind fear which the great beast seemed to inspire. No matter how brave a fighting-man might be, the sight of Kuperee seemed to turn his heart to water, making him long only to flee like a frightened child. Their voices shook with terror as they spoke of him. "It seems to me," said Inda, as they journeyed on, after having talked to some of these hunters, "that our first thought should be for ourselves. All these men have thought themselves very brave, and have gone out to meet Kuperee, never doubting that they would not be afraid: and they have become very afraid indeed. Now you and I are no cowards in ordinary fighting, and we have had no fear of ourselves. But I think we had better make up our minds that we certainly shall become afraid, and decide what to do. I do not wish to lose my senses and run away like a beaten pickaninny." "That is good sense," said Pilla. "Perhaps if we managed to keep our heads during our first terror it might pass after a time, so that we should again be as men." "That is my idea," Inda answered. "And if Kuperee did not happen to see us while we were afraid, so much the better for us. I do not believe that fear will be with us always, but still, we are no better than all these other men. I believe we will get an attack of it, and then it will pass off, like an attack of sickness, if we treat it properly." "Yes," said Pilla, nodding. "But if we run away we shall be afraid for ever--always supposing we are not dead." "If we run away, the one that Kuperee runs after will certainly be dead," Inda said. "Therefore, let us go very warily, and perhaps we can manage so that he does not see us during our first fear." "It is a queer thing," Pilla said, laughing, "for hunters to go out making certain of being afraid." "I think it is a safe thing just now," said Inda shortly. "This hunting is not like other hunting." So they went on, keeping a very sharp look-out, and having their weapons always ready. The stone axe of Burkamukk was rather troublesome to them, for their hands were encumbered with spears and throwing-sticks, and they were not used to carrying an axe: so, at last, Inda twisted strings of bark and slung it across his shoulders, where it felt much more comfortable. Soon they came upon traces of the great beast they sought. The forest began to be full of his tracks, and the saplings had been pulled about and gnawed by some creature larger than anything they had ever seen. And then, one evening, they heard running feet, and, leaping to one side, spear in hand, they saw half a dozen men, racing through the Bush, blind with terror. One slipped and fell near where they were standing, and rolled almost to their feet. Pilla and Inda drew him into a thicket. "Is Kuperee after you?" they asked. The man rolled his eyes upwards. "He has slain two of us, and is now in pursuit of us all," he panted. "Let me go!" He scrambled to his feet and dashed away. Pilla and Inda crouched low in the thicket, seeing nothing. But presently they heard a mighty pounding through the trees fifty yards away: and though nothing was visible, the sound of those great leaps was so terrifying in itself that they found themselves trembling. The pounding died away in the direction in which the blacks had gone. "Ky! what a tail he must have, that makes the earth shake as he goes!" Inda muttered. "Never have I heard anything like it! Art afraid, Pilla?" "Very much, I believe," said Pilla. "But it will pass, I feel sure. Brother, it seems to me that Kuperee's den must be not far off, and it would be safe to try to find it, since he has gone southward for his hunting: and most likely he will return slowly. Let us push on, while we can go quickly." "That is good talk," Inda answered. "Perhaps we can hide ourselves near his den, and watch him without being seen. I should like to get my terror over in a high tree." "I, too," said Pilla. "I fancy the attack might pass more quickly. Let us hurry." They pushed onward as fast as possible. It was not hard to find the way, for the blacks had fled too madly to trouble about leaving tracks, and the marks of their running made a clear path, to native eyes. Soon, too, they came upon Kuperee's tracks--great footprints and deep depressions in the earth where his enormous tail had hit the ground at every bound. Then the Bush became more and more beaten down, as though some great animal roamed through it constantly; and at last they found the body of a hunter, struck down from behind as he ran. "It was no playful tap that killed him," said Pilla, with a shudder. "The other, I suppose, was eaten as Kuperee loves to eat men, in one gulp. See, Inda--is not that where he sleeps?" They were near a cleared space, where the ground was much trampled. Bones lay here and there, and in the shadow of a dense lightwood tree in the middle the grass showed clearly where a great body had often lain. No kangaroo has any kind of hole, for they love the Bush to sleep in, and Kuperee was evidently like other kangaroos in this. Probably he changed his home often; but this was a good place, ringed about with bushes that made it quiet and hard to find, so that no enemy was likely to come upon him too suddenly; while, from his lair under the lightwood, he could see anything approach. "Men, or animals, or leaves--it does not seem to matter to him what he eats," said Inda, looking at the lair. "No wonder he grows huge. Pilla, I am very afraid, but I feel I will not always be afraid. Let us climb up into the lightwood tree; he will never see us among its thick leaves. Then he will come home tired, and perhaps we can spear him as he sleeps." They climbed up into the dense branches, mounting high, and choosing stout limbs to lie on where they could peer down below; and they fixed their spears and other weapons so that they could use them easily. The stone axe of Burkamukk was much in Inda's way in climbing, and finally he untied it from his shoulders. "I do not see how I can use this in the tree," he said. "See, I will strike it into the trunk, so that we can get at it handily if we need it." He smote it against the trunk, and the wood held it fast. Then he and Pilla took their places, and watched for the coming of Kuperee. They had not long to wait. Presently came, far off, the sound of great bounds and breaking saplings; not, as they had heard it last, in the fierceness of pursuit, but slowly, as a man may return home after successful hunting. The brothers felt their hearts thumping as they waited. Nearer and nearer came the sound, and soon the bushes parted and a mighty kangaroo hopped into the clearing. So huge was he, so black and fierce, that they caught at each other in terror. Never had they dreamed of any kangaroo like this. His fur was thick and long, and of a glossy black; his head carried proudly aloft, his great tail like the limb of a tree. And in his gleaming eyes, and on his fierce face, was an expression of cunning and ferocity that, even more than his size, made him unlike any animal the Bush had ever known. Something of mystery and terror seemed to surround him; it was indeed clear that he was Magic. Pilla and Inda trembled so that they feared that the lightwood would shake and reveal them to the monster. He sat down, out on the clear space, and rubbed his mouth with his forepaws, sniffing at the air so that they fell into a further terror, thinking he had smelt them out. But one blackfellow smells much like another, and Kuperee had recently dealt with three blacks: if he noticed any unusual odour he put it down to his late meal. He felt sleepy and well-fed; he had enjoyed both his run and his meal. Now, he only wanted sleep. He hopped towards the lightwood, and at his coming Pilla and Inda felt themselves gripped by overmastering fear. Their teeth chattered; their dry tongues seemed to choke them. They clung to their boughs, dreading lest their trembling hold should loosen, bringing them tumbling at his feet. So, gripping with toes and fingers, with sweating cheeks pressed closely to the limbs, with staring eyes that peered downwards, they watched the dreadful beast come. He came in under the tree and lay down, stretching himself out to sleep; and in a few moments his heavy breathing showed that he had passed quietly into slumber. As they watched, something of their terror left the brothers. Asleep, Kuperee was not so horrible; he looked, indeed, not so unlike any other kangaroo, with his fierce eyes veiled and the strength of his great body relaxed. "I believe my time of fear is passing," Inda whispered. "He is but a kangaroo, after all." "Yes, but what a terrible one!" murmured Pilla, as well as his chattering teeth would let him. "Still, we are mighty hunters, and no fools: unless he is really Magic we should be able to subdue him. I am beginning to feel a man again." "We do not know for certain that he is Magic. Let us believe, then, that he is not, and that will help us," Inda whispered. "Why should we not spear him as he lies?" "We might easily do it. Let us creep to the lower boughs, where we shall have more room to move our arms. Art afraid any longer, Inda?" "Not as I was," Inda replied. "At least, not while he sleeps." "Then let us try to arrange that he shall never wake," Pilla murmured. Very softly, with infinite caution, they crept down the tree, until they came to the great lower limbs. Here they had space to swing their arms, and they made their weapons ready. Below, the huge kangaroo never stirred. His deep breathing, telling of sound slumber, was music in the ears of the brothers. They nodded a signal to each other as they poised their first spears. So swiftly did they throw that before Kuperee was aroused from his sleep a shower of throwing-sticks and spears had hurtled through the air. Not one missed; the mark was easy, and the brothers were proved hunters. The weapons sped fast and true. But a terrible thing happened. Each point, as it struck Kuperee's fur, became blunt, and, instead of piercing him in fifty places, the weapons fell back from him, spent and useless. With a groan of fear, the brothers grasped at the branches and swung themselves aloft. Below, Kuperee's roar of fury drowned all other sounds. He sprang to his feet, his eyes blazing. He had received no injury, but he had been touched--that in itself was an indignity he had never suffered before. With another earth-shaking roar he looked about for his foes. To be attacked from the air was a new experience for Kuperee. All his other enemies had come upon him out of the Bush, and it never occurred to him, in his rage, to look upward, where the shaking of the branches would certainly have revealed the terrified Pilla and Inda. Instead, seeing nothing, Kuperee made sure that the trees concealed the attackers. He roared again, dreadfully, and bounded across the clearing. The Bush closed behind him, but the sky rang with the echo of his terrible voice and the thud of the leaps that carried him rapidly away. Kuperee sleeping and Kuperee awake and angry were two very different beings, and with the first movement of the monster all their fear had come back to Pilla and Inda. As roar succeeded roar they became more and more weak with terror. Their grip on the boughs relaxed with the trembling of their hands, and even as Kuperee bounded away they lost their hold and tumbled bodily out of the tree. It was not far to the ground, but Pilla happened to fall first, and Inda fell on top of him, and they managed to hurt each other a good deal. They were in that excited and over-wrought state when anything seems an injury, and each lost his temper. "You did that on purpose!" Pilla said, striking at his brother. "Take that!" "Would you!" said Inda, between his teeth. "I'll teach you to hit me!" He stooped and picked up one of the throwing-sticks and flung it at his brother. It hit Pilla violently on the nose, and made him furiously angry. He gathered an armful of the fallen spears, and, running back, threw them at Inda so swiftly that there was no time to dodge. They hit him all over his body, and though they had all become blunt, they hurt very badly. The blood was streaming from Pilla's nose, and when he had thrown all his spears he stopped to wipe it off with a tuft of grass. The pause gave them time to think, and they stared at each other. Suddenly they burst out laughing. "What fools we are!" they said. "Yes, we are indeed fools," said Inda, rubbing his bruises. "Kuperee may be back at any moment, and here we will be found, fighting each other like a couple of stupid boys. I am sorry I hurt you, brother." "You have certainly done that," said Pilla, caressing his nose gently. "There will be a dint down my nose for ever--the bone is broken, I think. Why don't you hit Kuperee as hard as that?" "I will, if I get the chance," Inda said. "And you yourself are no child when it comes to throwing spears--a good thing for me that they were blunt. Yes, brother, we are the biggest fools in the Bush. Now what are we to do?" "Save yourself!" screamed Pilla. "Here comes Kuperee!" The great kangaroo came bounding back through the bushes, and the brothers, wild with terror, flung themselves at the lightwood tree. Up they went, but only just in time. Inda's heel was grazed by Kuperee's claw as he gained the safety of the lower branches. He climbed up swiftly, and, clinging together, they looked down at their foe. "He cannot climb!" gasped Pilla. "No, but he will have the tree down!" cried his brother. Kuperee was flinging himself against the tree, until it rocked beneath the blows of his great body. Again and again came the dull thud as he drew himself back and came dashing against the trunk. Gradually it yielded, beginning to lean sidewards. Lower and lower it came, and Kuperee, rising high on his hind-legs and tail, clawed upward at Inda. As the hunter, with a cry of despair, tried to pull himself higher, Pilla, leaning from an upper branch, thrust something into his hand. "It is the stone axe of our father," he gasped. "Strike with it, brother!" Inda grasped the handle, and smote downward with all his might. The keen edge of the stone caught Kuperee in the forehead, and sank into his head. He fell back, wrenching the axe from Inda's hand. One more terrific roar rent the air--a cry of pain and anger fearful to hear. Then, with a dull groan the monster sank sidewards to the grass. He was dead. It was long before Pilla and Inda dared to quit the shelter of the leaning tree. They could scarcely believe that their enemy was dead, until they saw the mighty limbs stiffen, and beheld a crow perch, unmolested, on Kuperee's head. Then the brothers came down from the tree and clasped each other's hands. "That was a good blow of yours," said Pilla. "Ay, but it would never have been struck had you not put the axe into my hands," said Inda. "I had forgotten all about it. Our names will live long, brother." "That will be agreeable, but I wish my nose were not so sore," said Pilla. "And your bruises--how are they?" "Sore enough--but I had almost forgotten them. Ky, but I am hungry, Pilla!" "I, too," said Pilla, looking with interest at the great dead body. "Well, at least we have plenty of food--Burkamukk said long ago that Kuperee should be enough for the whole tribe. Let us skin him carefully, for his hide will be a proud trophy to take back to our father--if we can but carry it." "We shall eat him while it is drying," Inda said. "Then the skin will be lighter, and we shall be exceedingly strong. Come, brother--my hunger grows worse." They fell to work on the huge carcass with their sharp skinning-knives, made of the thigh-bones of kangaroos. And then befel the most wonderful thing of all. CHAPTER III Inda and Pilla took off the black hide of Kuperee, and pegged it out carefully with sharp sticks. Then they came back to the body, and their eyes glistened with satisfaction. Meat is the best thing in the world to a blackfellow, and never before had either seen so much meat. It was almost staggering to think that it was theirs, and to be eaten. All they had feared and suffered became as nothing in the prospect of that tremendous feast. "Yakai!" mourned Pilla. "We shall never finish it all before it goes bad, not though we eat day and night without ceasing--as I mean to do." "And I also," agreed Inda. "Let us make ovens before we begin to cut him up--we shall waste less time that way. Some of him will certainly go bad, but we will do our best." They were turning aside to gather sticks when Pilla suddenly caught at his brother's arm. He happened to seize a bruised part, and Inda was justly annoyed. "Take care, blockhead!" he said, shaking him off roughly. "I ache all over--is it not enough for you?" Pilla took no notice. He was staring at the skinned body of Kuperee, with eyes that were almost starting from his head. "Look!" he gasped. "Look! He moves!" Inda leaped to one side. "Moves!" he uttered. "Are you mad?" "I saw his side move," Pilla repeated. "See--there it is again!" Something bulged under the stripped skin of the monster. The brothers leaped backward. "But he is certainly dead," gasped Inda. "Have we not skinned him? Can a skinned animal move--even if he be Kuperee?" "Let us leave him and go home," muttered Pilla. "He is very bad Magic." But that was more than Inda could bring himself to do. "Leave him!" he exclaimed. "Leave the most wonderful feast ever heard of in all the Bush! No, I will not. Magic or no Magic, he is dead, and I will see what moves." He sprang forward, knife in hand, and with a quick movement slit open the body. Out popped a head--a black head, with fear and pain and bewilderment on its features. Inda sprang back, raising his knife to defend himself. "Let me out!" begged the head. "It is horrible in here--no air, no light, nothing but dead men! Let me out, I say!" "Are you Magic?" gasped Inda. "Magic? I?" The wild eyes rolled in astonishment. "I am Kanalka, of the Crow Tribe, But an hour ago Kuperee swallowed me at a gulp, when he came upon me in the forest. I do not know why I am not dead--but I live yet, though I was wishing to die when suddenly you let the light in to my prison. Make your hole larger, friend, and let me out." "Do you say there are dead men there?" demanded Pilla. "He is full of them. I only am alive, I suppose because I was the last eaten. Be quick! be quick!" Half doubting, half afraid, Inda opened the great body, and helped Kanalka out. He staggered and fell helplessly to the ground. Pilla and Inda did not trouble about him. One after another, they took from Kuperee ten black hunters, laying them in a row upon the grass. Last of all they took out Kon-garn and three others of their own tribe, and they wailed over them. Kanalka, who had somewhat recovered, came and looked curiously at the row of men. "Would you not say that they were alive?" he asked. "They do not look as though they were anything but asleep." "I think it is Magic," said Inda, very much afraid. "Two moons have gone by since Kon-garn, who lies there, was eaten, and yet he looks as though asleep. Kuperee was a strange host, truly, to keep you all in such good condition!" The gaze of Kanalka wandered to the stone axe of Burkamukk, which lay on the grass near Kuperee. Instantly he became interested. He had seen many dead men, but no such axe as this had come his way. "Is that the mighty axe of which all the tribes have heard?" he asked eagerly. "Ky! what a beauty! Never have I seen such a one! I should like to handle it." He picked it up and tested its weight, while Pilla and Inda watched him carefully, for they knew that the axe was a treasure beyond anything in the Bush, and that a man would risk almost anything to possess it. They need not, however, have feared Kanalka. He was a simple-minded fellow, and was merely lost in admiration. "A beauty, indeed!" he exclaimed. "It will be something to tell my people, that in the one day I escaped from the body of Kuperee and handled the stone axe of Burkamukk! Was it with this that you killed the monster?" "Ay," said Inda. "It clove his skull--one blow was enough, though our spears had fallen blunted from his hide." "A marvel, indeed!" cried Kanalka. "It would be a mighty weapon at close quarters in a fight. One would swing it round--thus--and bring it down upon the enemy's head----" He illustrated his meaning, swinging the axe aloft and bringing it down over the head of the silent form of Kon-garn. Just before it reached the head he checked it, letting it do no more than touch Kon-garn--a touch no heavier than the sweep of a butterfly's wing. Kon-garn yawned, sneezed, and sat up. With a yell of terror the three blacks started backwards, tripped over each other, and fell in a heap. Kon-garn surveyed the struggling mass calmly. "Where am I?" he asked. "And what is all this about? Is it you, Pilla and Inda?" They struggled to their feet and looked at him distrustfully. "You are dead," said Pilla firmly. "Why do you talk?" "I do not know why, indeed, since it is evident that I am talking to fools," said Kon-garn rudely. "What has happened to you, that you and this stranger have suddenly gone mad? Ky! how hungry I am! Have you food?" The brothers suddenly began to laugh helplessly. "Food!" said Inda. "There is more food than ever you saw before, Kon-garn, and a few minutes ago you were part of it." "That is a riddle I am too tired to guess," said Kon-garn crossly. "I only wish that any food were part of me, for I feel as though I had never eaten in my life." "It is certainly two moons at least since last you ate," Pilla told him. "I said already that you were mad, and I grow more sure of it every minute," said poor Kon-garn. "Who are these who lie beside me?" "They are dead men; and a moment ago you too were dead," Inda said. Kon-garn became afraid, as well as cross. It was clear that everybody was mad, and he had heard that it was wise to humour mad people, or they might do you an injury. So he hid his feelings and looked at the brothers as kindly as his bewilderment and hunger would let him. "Dead, was I?" he said. "Then how did I come to life?" "This man touched you with the stone axe of Burkamukk," Inda answered. "Dear me, how simple!" said Kon-garn. "None of our Meki-gar know anything half so easy. But why does he not go on, and bring all these other dead men to life too?" "Indeed," said Kanalka suddenly, "I do not know." He flung himself upon the stone axe, which he had let fall in his terror, and touched another still form with it. Instantly the black hunter came to life. Kanalka uttered a wild yell of amazement and triumph. Then Inda snatched the axe from him and ran along the line, touching one man after another; and when he had come to the end there were ten blackfellows sitting up and rubbing their eyes, and most of them were asking eagerly for food. The brothers drew back a few paces and looked at them. "It is clear," said Pilla, "that Kuperee was Magic, and that when our father's stone axe entered his skull it became Magic too. More than ever we must guard it carefully, since it seems to have the power of life and death." He lowered his voice, speaking to Inda. "I will lash it to your shoulders, brother--we are among strangers, and it will be safer so." He lashed the axe to Inda's shoulders firmly, and the other men looked on. Each knew exactly why he was doing it, and respected him for his caution, since each knew that had chance thrown in his way the mighty stone axe he would not have been proof against the temptation of trying to get possession of it. Then they all talked together, and were very amazed at what had happened to them; but since they were able to put everything down to Magic, nothing worried them much, and they were quite relieved to find themselves alive, and to think of seeing their wives and children again. More than anything, they were overjoyed at the magnificent feast that awaited them. And what a feast it was! Never again in all their lives did such a chance come to them. The wild black never asked for any trimmings with his food: he would, indeed, eat anything that came his way, but meat, meat only, and still more meat, was what his soul most desired. And now meat awaited them, in a huge mountain; and they were hungry beyond belief. "We will cut up Kuperee," said Pilla and Inda, "since we alone have knives. The rest of you must make fire, and prepare ovens." The men scattered to their tasks. Some gathered sticks; others scooped out holes in the ground for the ovens; others teased dry messmate bark for tinder for the man who was making the fire. This was Kon-garn, and he did it very quickly. Pilla lent him one of his most useful household necessaries, which he always carried with him--a piece of dry grass-tree cane, having a hole bored through to the pith on its upper side, and a pointed piece of soft wood; and these were just as useful to the blacks as a box of matches would be to you. Kon-garn sat down on the ground, holding the bit of grass-tree firmly down with his feet, and pressed the point of the soft wood into the little hole. Then he held it upright between his palms and twirled it rapidly. Within two minutes smoke began to curl round the twirling point, and another man carefully put some teased bark, soft and dry, round the hole and blew on it. A moment more and a thin tongue of flame licked through the tinder; more and more was fed to it, and then leaves and twigs; and in five minutes there was a blazing fire, while Kon-garn restored to Pilla his two flame-making sticks, very little the worse for wear. The blacks did not usually light a large fire, after the fashion of white men, who like to make a campfire so big that they roast their faces while their backs remain cold. The way the blacks preferred was to make two little fires, and to sit between them, so that they were kept warm on both sides. But on this occasion they made a very big blaze, so that they should quickly have enough fire to heat the ovens; and then they made the big fire long and narrow, so that they could sit on each side of it and cook. While the ovens were getting hot they took small pieces of the Kangaroo meat and speared them on green sticks, holding them before the coals. They were all so desperately hungry that they did not care much whether the meat was properly cooked--as soon as the first pieces were warmed through they stuffed them into their mouths, and then ran to Pilla and Inda for more. Pilla and Inda were working hard at cutting up Kuperee, and though they did not mind the hungry men beginning without them, they became annoyed when they came again and again for fragments. "Do not forget that we are hungry too," Pilla growled. "We have travelled far before we killed Kuperee and let you all out, and now we are cutting up your meat for you. If you do not bring us some cooked pieces we must go and cook for ourselves." That made the others afraid, for the cutting-up of so huge an animal as Kuperee was no light work, and none of them had knives. So they fed the brothers with toothsome morsels as they worked, and the cutting went on unchecked, until the ovens were hot and there was a pile of joints ready to be put in. This was done, wrapping the joints in green leaves. Then they carried to the fire the great heap of small pieces of meat left from the cutting-up, and cooked and ate, and ate and cooked, all through the night. Even in ordinary life it would have astonished you to see how much meat a black could eat--a well-fed blackfellow, with a wife who kept his wurley well supplied with roots and grubs and all the other pleasant things they loved. But these blacks had had no food, some of them for weeks, and it seemed that they would never stop. The great pile of pieces dwindled until there were none left, and then they hacked more off, and cooked and ate until the ovens were ready and the smoking joints came out. They were so hot that you would not have cared to touch them without a knife and fork; but the blacks seized them and tore them to pieces and gnawed them, until nothing remained but well-picked bones. And then they cooked more. Pilla and Inda were the first to give in, and they had eaten enough for twenty white men. They waddled off to a thicket and flung themselves under a bush, sleeping back to back, so that the stone axe of Burkamukk was safe between them. But the others had no thought for anything but Kangaroo, and even the mighty axe could not have tempted them from that tremendous gorge. They ate on, all through the day. Towards night some of them gave in; then, one by one, they could eat no more, and most of them went to sleep where they sat before the fire. But dawn on the next day showed the steadfast Kon-garn, rotund beyond belief, and eating still. And by that time Pilla and Inda had slept off their light repast, and were ready to begin all over again. They camped for more than a week by the carcass of Kuperee, and ate it until it was no longer pleasant to eat, even for a blackfellow. Then they began to think it was time to return to their tribes. So they greased their bodies comfortably all over, and set off through the forest, a peaceful and happy band, far too well-fed to think of quarrelling. When they came near the head-quarters of each tribe they marched to its camp in a proud procession, returning the warriors who had been mourned as dead: and great were the rejoicings throughout the country, and rich rewards of furs and weapons and food were showered upon Inda and Pilla. The stone axe of Burkamukk became more famous than ever, and every one wanted to look at the wonderful weapon that had slain Kuperee. Songs were made about the two heroes, and for ages afterwards mothers used to tell their children about them, and hope that their boys would be as brave as Burkamukk's sons. At last they drew near to their own camp. They halted the night before a few hours' journey away, and by good luck they met a couple of boys out hunting, and sent them in to tell the tribe that they were coming. They had no idea of coming in unheralded, for they knew they had done a great deed, and they meant to return in state. Besides, although the rescued men were with them, the load of presents they had received was far too heavy to be carried comfortably. They got up early and painted themselves in stripes and put on their finest feathers and furs. Inda carried the stone axe of Burkamukk, and Pilla had only a spear. Long before they were ready to start they were met by some of the men of the tribe who had come out to welcome them. These loaded themselves with the gifts, and with Pilla and Inda stalking in front, and the rescued men behind, they formed themselves into a procession and marched for home. Near the camp another procession came out to meet them: Burkamukk, their father, marching at the head of all his tribe. First came the Meki-gar, very solemn, and inwardly very disgusted that the honour of slaying Kuperee had not fallen to them; then came all the warriors and the old men, then the boys, and lastly the women and children. They were shouting greetings and praises and singing songs of welcome. Burkamukk halted as his sons drew near. They came up to him and knelt before him and Inda laid the stone axe at his feet. "We bring you back your mighty weapon, my father," he said. "It has slain your enemy." Then all the tribe shouted afresh, and the warriors leaped in the air, and the whole country was filled with the sound of their rejoicings. And they bore Pilla and Inda home in triumph, naming them the most famous heroes of all the tribes of the Bush. But the Magic of Kuperee was not done with them yet. They feasted late that night, and the sun was high overhead before they woke next day. They were in a wurley by themselves, but outside the boys of the tribe were clustered, peeping in to see the mighty warriors. Pilla stretched himself, and flung out an arm, which struck Inda. "Take care!" Inda said, angrily, waking up. "You hurt me." "Why, I hardly touched you," Pilla answered. "You must have been dreaming." "Well, it is no dream that I am very sore," said Inda. "All my body seems covered with bruises, just as it was after our fight under the tree of Kuperee." "That is queer," said Pilla, "for my nose also feels terribly sore. That must have been a mighty blow that you dealt it." He felt it tenderly. "It feels queer, too. Does it look curious?" "There is a furrow down it, but then there always has been, since our fight," said Inda. "You look not much worse than usual. But I--see, is there anything wrong with me?" He flung off his wallaby-skin rug, and sat up. Pilla uttered a cry. "Ky! you are all over spots! Did I really hit you in all those places?" "You must have done so," said Inda, crossly. "Lucky for me that the spears were blunt!" "I feel most extraordinary," said Pilla, suddenly "It is just as though I were shrinking--and indeed, I have no cause to shrink, seeing how much I ate last night. But my skin is getting all loose." "And mine too!" cried Inda, faintly. "There is Magic at work upon us, my brother!" Then a mist drifted over the wurley, and strange cries came out of it. The boys, watching outside, clutched at each other in fear. And presently, when the mist blew away, Pilla and Inda were not to be seen, nor were they ever seen more. Instead, within the wurley crouched two little animals, new to the blacks, which uttered faint squeaks and scurried away through the camp into the Bush. There they live now, and through them are the sons of Burkamukk remembered. Pilla is the plump 'possum, who has always a furrow down his nose; and Inda is the native-cat, whose skin is covered all over with spots. For the Magic of Kuperee lived after him, so that the blunt weapons that had struck him had strange power, just as there was power of life in the stone axe that had killed him. But though they lived no longer as men, the names of Pilla and Inda were always held in great honour, since through their courage and wisdom the tribes lived in security, free from the wickedness of Kuperee. II WAUNG, THE CROW CHAPTER I Very long ago--so long that the oldest blacks could not remember anything about it themselves--there was a legend of the first coming of Fire. Fire came with a group of seven strange women, the Kar-ak-ar-ook, who brought it from some unknown country. They dwelt with the blacks, and showed them how to use the new and wonderful thing: but they were very selfish, and would give none away. Instead, they kept it in the end of their yam-sticks, and when the people begged for it, they only laughed at them. They alone knew how to make it, and they never told the secret to anyone. So the blacks took counsel together. "We might as well have never learned that there was Fire at all," said one. "Better," said another. "Before it came, we were content: but now, every one is sighing for it, and cannot get it." "My wife is a weariness to me," said a third. "Always she pesters me to bring Fire to her, and makes my mouth water by telling me of the beautiful food she could cook if she had it. It is almost enough to make a man lose his appetite!" "But who that has once tasted cooked food can ever forget it?" another said, licking his lips. "Such flavour! Such juiciness! Twice the Kar-ak-ar-ook gave Fire to my wife, and let her roast wallaby and snipe--and since those glorious meals it is hard to eat them raw." "Ay, that is so," said one. "To my woman also, they gave Fire twice, and she cooked me wombat and iguana. Ky! how much I ate, and how sick I was afterwards! But it was worth it." "And fish!" said another. "No one who eats raw fish can imagine what a difference Fire makes to it. It is indeed a wonderful thing. The first time I saw it, I picked it up, admiring its pretty colour, and it stung me severely. In my wrath I kicked it, but its sting was still there, and it gave me a very sore foot. Now I know that it is Magic, and must not be touched, save with a stick--and then the stick becomes part of it. It is all very curious." "It is worse than curious that such a thing should be, and be held only by the power of women," said an old man, angrily. "If we had fire, the winter cold would not strike so keenly to old bones. Why should we submit to these women, the Kar-ak-ar-ook? Let us kill them, if necessary, and take it from them for ourselves." But no one moved, and all looked uneasy. "The women are Magic," said one, at length. "The magic-men know that." "Yes, and the women's Magic is stronger than theirs," another answered. "They have weaved spells, but what good have they done?" "Now, they say that unless they let some Fire drop by accident, we can never get it from them: and if they do let it fall, then they will be just like other women, and have no power at all. I would like to see that!" said a big fellow, eagerly. "It would be very good for them, and they would make useful wives for some of us, for they know all about cooking food. I would not mind marrying one of them myself!" he added, in a patronizing tone, at which everybody laughed. Another big man spoke. His name was Waung, and he was tall and powerful. "It is all very ridiculous," he said. "No woman lives in the world who can get the better of a man. I have half a mind to get Fire from them myself." "You!" said the others, and they all joined in roars of laughter. For Waung was a lazy man, and had never done much good for himself. "You! You would go to sleep instead of finding a way to get the better of the Kar-ak-ar-ook!" This made Waung very angry. "You are all fools!" he said, rudely. "I will certainly take the trouble to get Fire, and will make one of the women my wife, and she shall cook in my wurley. But then I will have their Magic, and none of you will get any Fire from me, of that you may be sure. Then you will all be sorry!" But this only made the men laugh more, and the noise of their mirth set the laughing-jackasses shouting in the trees. Very seldom had the camp heard so fine a joke. Waung was filled with fury. He strode away from them, with his head in the air, shouting fierce threats. No one took the least notice of them, because he was known to be a boaster and a talker; but it was very amusing to see him go, and the blacks were always glad of a chance for laughter. Even after Waung had gone into his wurley, he could hear the echo of their merriment; and whenever two or three went past, they were still talking about him and laughing. "A pity Waung is such a fool!" they said. "But perhaps it is as well, for if there were no fools we would not have such good jokes!" And that did not make Waung feel any better. Next day he went to the Kar-ak-ar-ook's wurley, and met them going out to dig for yams. Their dilly-bags were on their shoulders; and they held their yam-sticks, and he could see Fire gleaming in the hollow tops. Waung looked at the digging ends of the sticks, and saw that they were very blunt. He said: "I will sharpen your yam-sticks for you." The Kar-ak-ar-ook thanked him, with a twinkle in their eyes. They knew there was some reason for such politeness from Waung. So they held the yam-sticks for him to cut, and though once or twice he tried to make them fall, as if by accident, so long as they had even a finger upon them they did not move. So Waung realized that Fire was not to be obtained in that way. When he had finished the points, he stood up. "I am sick of the tribe," he said, angrily. "They are silly people, and they turn me into a joke. If you like, I will come out and help you to get food--and, I can tell you, I know where to hunt. Will you hunt with me?" Now the Kar-ak-ar-ook were suspicious of Waung, but they were lazy women. It did not amuse them at all to go hunting by themselves every day, for they were not clever at it, and it took them a long time to find enough game to cook. Moreover, they were fond of food, and never had enough. They knew that no one could take away their yam-sticks so long as they held them; and so they were not afraid of Waung. "Perhaps what you say is true," one answered slowly. "At any rate, I do not care. You may come with me if you wish, and sometimes we will give you some cooked food." So the camp got used to the sight of Waung and the women going out to hunt together; and after a while they forgot that they used to laugh at them, and they had to find another joke. They envied Waung very much if they saw him eating scraps of cooked meat given him by the women: and you may be sure that Waung did not give any scraps away. He became quite good friends with the women, though they were always suspicious of him, and gave him no chance of handling their yam-sticks. The fire in the hollow tops never went out. Waung could not guess how they managed to keep it alive there, and it puzzled him very much. But he never forgot that he had vowed to take it from them, and he made many plans that came to nothing, because the Kar-ak-ar-ook were always watchful. At last Waung hit upon an idea. Out in the scrub he found a nest of young snakes, and these he managed to tame, for he was a very cunning man. Even when they were nearly full-grown they would do his bidding, and he taught them many queer tricks. Then he went in search of an ant-hill, and sought until he found a very large one. For the Kar-ak-ar-ook had told him that they loved ants' eggs more than any kind of food. One night, Waung took his snakes, and buried them in the ant-hill, saying, "Stay there until I send to let you out." They looked at him with their fierce, beady eyes, and wriggled round until they made themselves nests in the soft earth, which caused the ants very great inconvenience and alarm. Then Waung covered them up and went home, taking the Kar-ak-ar-ook a little kangaroo-rat that he had killed. The women were hungry, and the sight of Waung's offering did not please them. "It is very small," they said, discontentedly. "What is the matter with you? You have brought us scarcely any food for three days." Waung laughed, swinging his spear. "Hunting has been bad," he said, carelessly. "I have been lazy, perhaps--or the game was scarce. But I have a treat for you to-morrow." "What is that?" they asked, eagerly, looking up from skinning the kangaroo-rat. "What would you say to ants' eggs?" "We like them more than anything else," they cried. "Have you found some?" "I have found a very big hill," Waung said. "It should be full of eggs." "And you will take us there?" Waung did not want to seem too eager. He hesitated. "I do not want the eggs," he said, at length. "A man wants something he can bite--eggs are for women. But will you cook me a wallaby if I take you there?" "Where is the wallaby?" asked the Kar-ak-ar-ook. "I have not caught it yet. But I have set a snare in a track I know--and while you dig ants' eggs I have no doubt I can get one. That does not matter, however--I can get one some time. Will you cook it for me, if I show you the ants' nest?" The Kar-ak-ar-ook promised, for the temptation of the ants' eggs was very strong. They ate all the kangaroo-rat, and found it quite too small for their appetites: so they went to sleep hungry, and were still hungrier when they awoke in the morning. They had only a few yams for breakfast, and so they were very eager to start when Waung sauntered up to their wurley. They all went a little way into the Bush, and then came upon the great ant-hill. At the sight, the Kar-ak-ar-ook ran forward, with their sticks ready to dig. Waung said: "I will go on to my snare, and come back to you." But he went slowly. The women had not taken any notice of what he said. They plunged their yam-sticks into the hill, and began throwing out the earth quickly. Then they uttered a loud scream, for the snakes came tumbling out of the loosened earth and ran this way and that, hissing fiercely--and some ran at them. Waung turned back at their cries. "Hit them with your sticks!" he shouted. "Kill them." The Kar-ak-ar-ook hit furiously at the snakes with the pointed end of their yam-sticks. But a stiff, pointed stick is not much use for killing snakes, as Waung well knew, and he called to them roughly: "That is no good--use the thick ends!" The women swung their sticks round at his cry, and brought the thick ends down across the snakes' backs. The blows were so strong that many of the snakes were killed at once--but that was not the only thing that happened. Fire flew out of the hollow ends of the sticks, and, in great coals, rolled down the side of the ant-hill. The coals met and joined, so that they were all one very large coal. Waung had been watching like a cat. He had picked up two flat pieces of green stringy-bark; and now he leaped forward, snapped up Fire between them, and fled. Behind him came the Kar-ak-ar-ook, screaming. But as Waung stole the Fire, their Magic left them, and they were helpless. Then Bellin-Bellin, the Musk-Crow, who carries the whirlwind in his bag, heard the voice of Pund-jel speaking to him out of the clouds, commanding him to let loose his burden. So Bellin-Bellin, obedient, but greatly afraid, untied the strings of his bag, and the whirlwind leapt out with a wild rush. It caught the Kar-ak-ar-ook, and whirled them up into the sky, where you may still see them, clustered together, for they were turned into stars. Now they are called the Pleiades, or Seven Sisters. But the blacks know that they are the Kar-ak-ar-ook women, and that they live together in the sky, still carrying Fire on the ends of their yam-sticks. [Illustration: "It caught the Kar-ak-ar-ook and whirled them up into the sky."] CHAPTER II Waung went proudly back to the tribe, and when they saw that he had actually stolen Fire from the women, they were both glad and astonished, and clustered round him, calling him many pleasant things. Waung was quite ready to listen to them; but he had no intention of being generous now that he had brought Fire with him. He saw his way to a lazy life, and he was not the man to lose such a good chance. So after they had praised him very loudly and sung loud songs about his bravery and wit, he went off into his wurley, and put Fire in a hole in the ground. Then he sat in the doorway and carved a boomerang. The people looked at each other, not knowing what to do next. "How is this?" they said. "Will he not give Fire to us all?" No one could answer this question. They chattered together for a while. Then one said, "What is worth having is worth asking for"; and he went up to Waung's wurley and greeted him civilly. "Good-day, Waung," he said. "Will you give me some fire to do my cooking?" "I have only enough for myself," said Waung, and went on with his carving. "But Fire grows, if you will let it," said the man. "Will you not make it grow, so that each of us may have some?" "I cannot spare any," was all that Waung would answer. So the man went back to his friends, and told them what Waung said. Then one after another came to Waung, and begged him for a little bit of Fire. But the reply was always the same, and they went away, very sorry that they had ever laughed at Waung. For now he remembered the laughter, and he determined to have his revenge. In the morning, when the tribe was astir they found that Waung had made a very large oven in front of his wurley, and had hid Fire there. Also he had caught a wallaby in his snare, and all the air was full of the fragrant smell of cooking. It made all the people's mouths water, and they hated Waung exceedingly. But they feared that with the Kar-ak-ar-ook's Fire Waung had also captured their Magic, and so they did not dare to attack him. So they held a council together, and all talked very fast and angrily: but at the end of it, there was nothing accomplished. Talking did not mend the matter at all, and against Magic, what could anyone do? Then a woman came running, and said she had a message, and though women were not supposed to speak in council, she was told to deliver it at once. "Waung says he will cook our food!" said she, and stopped for breath. A great shout of joy went up from the men. "But he will not do it for nothing," went on the woman. At this all their faces lengthened suddenly. The blacks stopped in the middle of their joyful shout, and waited with their mouths wide open to hear what was to follow. "He says he will cook for us. But we are to supply him with food, and firewood, and all that he wants, and he will keep for himself all the food he likes best. And if we do not perform all that he tells us to do, he will take Fire away altogether." There was silence when the woman had finished speaking, and then a deep groan of anger went up from the people. They all talked very fast again, each trying to speak more loudly than the others, all except the husband of the woman who had brought the news, and he was busy beating her with his waddy because she had brought so insolent a message, and had allowed them to think at first that it was good news. The poor lubra tried to say that they had not given her time to say it all at once, but the husband was too busy to listen. But neither talking nor beating made the matter any better. So Waung became the real ruler of the tribe, in everything but name, since food is the most important thing in the world to the blacks, and the greater part of their food became dependent upon him. Nothing could be cooked unless Waung would do it, and they soon found that unless he were in a good temper he would not do it at all. He took the best parts of all that they brought to him to cook, so that no man knew what he would get back; and when one took a fat young wallaby or a black duck it was quite likely that Waung would give him something tough and stringy when he went back for his cooked meal, declaring that it was what he had left in his oven. Neither would he take any trouble over the cooking. The people brought their food, and put it in the oven themselves, and Waung took it out when it pleased him. Sometimes he did not take it out until it was burned black and tasteless, while at others they would find it only half-cooked, and cold. But no amount of talking would make Waung alter his ways, and at last he became so proud that if anyone argued with him he would refuse to cook for a week, except for himself. This naturally stopped all argument in the camp, but it did not make the people love Waung any better. He grew very fat and lazy, for he ate huge quantities of food, and very seldom went out of his wurley. When he did, he carried Fire with him in a little hollow stick, and no one dared go near him, or near his wurley, for fear of his enchantments. As a matter of fact, Waung had no enchantments at all, and no Magic. But he was very cunning, and he knew how easy it was to make the blacks think he had amazing powers. The magic-men, too, found that none of their spells had any effect upon Waung, and so they told the tribe that he certainly had magic help. It was very convenient to be able to say this when they were beaten, for Magic was a thing that could not possibly be argued about. The months went by, and the people became very unhappy. Waung's evil temper made them all miserable and afraid. There have been many bad kings in history, but only Waung ever had the power of depriving all his people of their dinner, if they failed to please him. It is a very terrible punishment when it is inflicted often, especially when dinner is the only meal of the day. Now that the people had grown used to cooked food, they did not like raw meat; so they depended on Waung's mercy. And Waung had very little mercy. It amused him greatly to see the people hungry and to have them come begging to him to cook their food. He would laugh loud and long, reminding them of the time when they had jeered at him about Fire. Afterwards, he would go into his wurley and sleep, saying, "Fire is asleep to-day, and I cannot wake it." At last, Pund-jel, Maker of Men, looked down at the world and saw how unhappy the blacks were under the cruelties of Waung. It made him very angry. He was stern and hard himself, but he saw no reason why this fellow, lazy and ill-natured, should make his people hungry and miserable. So he sent a message to the ear of each man in the tribe, telling him what to do. The blacks thought they had dreamed the message. They woke in the morning, confused and angry, they hardly knew why; and each man said to his neighbour, "I have dreamed about Waung," and the other would answer, "I, too, have dreamed about him." They gathered into groups, talking about Waung and about the dream that had come to them; and then the groups began to drift towards Waung's wurley. Waung looked out, and saw them coming. At once he became uneasy, for he knew that he had never seen such threatening faces and angry eyes. It made him afraid, and he began to put Fire to heat his oven, which had been cold for five days. The blacks came close to the wurley, growling and muttering. They circled round, still half-afraid. Then one, suddenly becoming brave, shouted a word of angry abuse at Waung; and that was all the others wanted. They joined the first man in loud and threatening shouts and fierce abuse, casting at him every evil name they could think of, and saying that the time had come for him to answer for his bad deeds. Then one picked up a stone and flung it at him, hitting him on the shoulder. Waung had no weapons outside his wurley. He became terrified, gazing round him with hopeless eyes that saw no way of escape. Then he stooped to his oven, and saw that Fire lay there in a mass of red coals. "I will give you back Fire!" he shouted. He thrust a flat stone into the coals, and with it flung Fire far and wide among the blacks. Some of it hit the men and burned them, as he hoped, but others picked it up and ran with it to their wurleys, so that they might never again be without it in their homes. To and fro in the air the burning pieces flew as Waung hurled them from him. So fast they fell that the people were almost afraid again. It seemed as though Waung were making Fire, so that he might fight them with it. And then a strange thing happened. All the coals that had fallen in the dry grass nearest the wurley turned and began to burn back towards Waung. They met in a circle of flame. Gradually it burned until it came to the wurley, and there it wrapped Waung, and his oven, and all that belonged to him, in a sheet of flame. Out of it came Waung's dreadful cries for help; but no man dared go near the fire, nor would anyone have lifted a finger to help Waung. The people huddled together, watching, in great fear. Soon the cries ceased, and then the smoke and flame died away, so that they saw the body of Waung, lying across the stones of his oven. He was quite black, like a cinder. The tribe uttered a long shout of triumph, for they knew that he could trouble them no more. Then they heard the voice of Pund-jel, speaking to the thing that lay across the stones. "Fire has made you black," said the voice. "Now you shall be black for ever, and no longer a man. Instead, you shall be a crow, to fly about for ever and utter cries, so that when the people see you they will remember how they were foolishly in bondage to you and your cruelties." The people cast themselves down, in terror at the voice. A drifting cloud of smoke floated from the smouldering ashes of the wurley and blotted everything out. When they looked again, it had lifted, and blown away into the skies. The thing that had lain on the stones was no longer there. But from the limb of a boobyalla tree close by came a harsh croak and, looking, they saw a big black crow that flapped its wings, and looked at them with sullen eyes. Then it said, "Waa-a-a! Waa-a-a-a!" and, rising from the tree, it flew lazily across to a great blackbutt, where it perched on the topmost bough, still croaking evilly. And the people, glad, yet afraid, clustered together, muttering, "See! It is Waung!" III THE EMU WHO WOULD DANCE Long ago, Kari, the Emu, was superior to all other birds. She was so superior that she would not live on the earth. Instead, she had a home up in the clouds, and from there she used to look down at the earth and the queer antics of all the things that lived there. It gave her much food for thought. At that time there were no human beings at all. All the earth was inhabited by animals, birds, and reptiles, and they lived very happily together, as a rule. There were no wars, and every one had enough to eat. While there were no men, Fear did not live on earth either. All the world was a big feeding-ground, where even the smallest and weakest could find a peaceful home. Kari, sitting in her great nest up in the clouds, watched the animals below, both night and day. She thought them strange creatures, and wondered very much how they could be so contented with so many other creatures about them. She was so used to living alone that it seemed to her rather unpleasant to have one's solitude broken upon by others, all of whom might be peculiar enough to think their little affairs as interesting as one's own. Kari thought that nothing could possibly be so interesting as her great lonely nest in the clouds. In reality, it was a very dull old nest, and she was a big, dull bird. She knew no one, and spoke to no one, and thought only her own queer thoughts. But she did not know she was dull, and so she was quite happy. One day she sat in her nest, watching the cloud-masses drift about between her and the world. They cleared away after a while, and she looked down upon a great forest over which she found herself, for, as her nest was in a cloud, it used to float about, and so she never knew what country she might see when she looked down. Sometimes it was a lake, sometimes a mountain, and sometimes the great, rolling sea, which always made her feel rather giddy, because it would not keep still for a moment. But on this day it was a wide forest, green and peaceful. Kari's sight was very keen, and she looked through the tree-tops to the ground below and saw all the animals. It was really almost as good as a circus, but then Kari knew nothing about such a thing as a circus. She watched them with great interest, leaning her long neck over the edge of the cloud in which her nest was built. Suddenly she saw a sight that made her lean forward so far that she very nearly overbalanced and fell out. Far below her was an open space near a bright spot that she knew was water in a little swampy place in a hollow. The grass there was green and soft; there were trees all round it, and it was a very secluded place, except for anyone looking from above, like the inquisitive Kari. But Kari was not looking only at green grass and shining water. She saw a little group of birds that had come out of the swamp, where they had been wading, and had begun to dance. They were Native Companions--Puralkas--but Kari did not know that. All she knew was that they were very beautiful creatures, the most beautiful, she thought, that she had ever seen: and they were doing the most interesting things. Very gracefully they danced to and fro on the patch of green grass. They were tall, slim birds, looking a kind of dim grey colour when seen so far away. Their legs were very long and thin, for they belonged to the tribe of birds called Waders, who get their food by walking in swamps and morasses, and they had neat bodies, not fluffy like some of Kari's own feathers--with which she immediately felt very dissatisfied. Their queer thin heads, with long beaks, were carried on long necks, which twisted about as they danced. They pranced up and down, giving little runs backwards and forwards, marching and stepping in the most curious manner. Never had Kari seen so charming a sight. It made her suddenly envious. Until now, she had regarded all the animals and birds as so much beneath her in every way that it never occurred to her to wish to be like them, or to do anything that they did. But this was the first time that she had seen the Native Companions dance. Kari's cloud drifted away presently, and she could no longer see the queer grey company of long-legged birds prancing on the green spot in the forest. But nothing that now came within her sight interested her at all. She saw the lyre-birds building their mounds in the Bush, and making them gay with all sorts of odd things: bright stones, bits of quartz, gay feathers; and they also danced on their mounds, but it did not please Kari as much as the dance of the Puralkas. The moon showed her the animals that come out at night--wombat, wallaby, wild dogs, and opossums; native bears climbing up the highest trees, and flying-foxes that trailed like clouds between her and the tree-tops. She saw the lizards that live in rocks and on the ground, and the hideous iguanas that run up the trees. Great flocks of screaming cockatoos made the air white, as they flew, the sun gleaming on their yellow crests. There were snakes, too, in the Bush: great carpet-snakes, evil-looking brown and black fellows, and the wicked tiger-snake, with its yellow-patterned back and its quick cruel movements. Once it had amused Kari very much to see the jackass, Merkein, swoop down upon a snake and carry it, struggling, back into a tree. The jackass was a silent bird then, and never made any fuss over his captures: still, it was exciting to see him catch snakes. But now Kari found that none of these things interested or amused her any more. All she wanted to see again was the Puralkas come out of their swamp and dance upon the grass. She watched for a long time, hoping always to catch sight of them again; but though her cloud drifted over all kinds of country, she could not find the Puralkas until at last, one day, as she leaned out, to her great joy the little green space came below her again; and there were the long-legged birds, dancing backwards and forwards as they had done before. She watched them breathlessly, until her cloud began to float away; and then she decided in her mind that she could not bear to let them go again. Indeed, she knew now that unless she could do as they did, she would never feel happy any more. "I have seen all there is in the world," she said, "and nothing is half so beautiful as dancing. I know I could dance far better than the Puralkas, if I only knew the way. I will go down and get them to teach me how to dance. Then I can fly back to my cloud, and for ever after I shall not need to look at the world, for I shall be too happy dancing on the clouds." So Kari spread her great wings and floated down the sky until she came over the little green space among the trees. Then she dropped gently, and finally landed in the swamp, which she did not like at all, because she had never before had her feet wet, nor were they made for wading in the soft mud of a swamp. She scrambled out as quickly as she could, folding her wings over her back. The Puralkas had run back to the edge of their little dancing-ground when they saw the great brown bird coming down from the sky. At first they were inclined to fly away, but they were inquisitive birds, and they waited to see what she would do, though they were quite prepared for flight if she proved to be alarming. But the Emu looked so simple and meek, and she was so comically upset at getting her feet wet, that the Puralkas saw at once that there was no cause for fear. As they were not afraid, they became rather angry, for they did not like strangers to see them dancing. So they clustered together and watched her with unfriendly eyes as she struggled out of the mud and wiped her feet upon the grass. "How are you?" she said, rather breathlessly. "I have been watching you all from my home in the clouds, and I think you are nice little birds!" Now, this made the Puralkas exactly seventeen times more angry than before. They believed that they were quite the most beautiful birds that ever wore feathers, and it made them furious to be addressed in this patronizing manner. Who was this awkward brown monster of a bird, to drop out of nowhere and talk to them as if she were a Queen? They chattered among themselves in a whisper. "She is as ugly as a Jew-lizard," said one. "Did ever anyone see such great coarse feet?" another whispered. "And her legs!--he-he! Why, they are as thick as the trunk of a tree-fern!" "And what a great silly head!" "She is larger than a big rock, but she is more foolish than a coot," said another. "One look at her will tell you that she has no sense." "And what is that ridiculous thing she said about a home in the clouds?" one asked. "As if we did not know that there is nothing in the clouds except rain!" "Why, the big Eagle flew up nearly to the sun the other day; and yet he saw nothing of nests in the clouds," said another. "She must think we are very simple, to come to us with such a tale." "No one could possibly think us simple, unless she were mad," said another. "Every one knows that we are the wisest birds in all the Bush. She means to insult us!" And they all glared at the Emu, much as if she were a tiger-snake. Poor Kari felt very puzzled and unhappy. She felt that she had done a kind and condescending thing in coming down to earth and talking so sweetly to these smaller birds; and she could not make out why they should look at her with such angry eyes. She rubbed her muddy feet on the grass, and began to wish that she had never left her nest in the cloud. "Do you not speak my language?" she asked at last. "Why do you not answer me?" The Puralkas put their heads together again, and whispered. Finally an old Puralka stepped forward with mincing steps and looked her up and down, so that Kari actually blushed. "We know what you say, but we do not know why you say it," said the old Puralka. "Why should you want to know how we are? and how dare you call us nice little birds? We do not know what you are--you are something like a bird, to be sure, but in most ways you are a kind of freak. At any rate, we have no love for strangers." The unfortunate Kari moved her big head from side to side, and looked at the bad-tempered old Puralka in amazement. Her beak opened slowly, but she was too surprised to speak. Nothing like this had ever occurred to her when she lived in the sky. "As for your extraordinary remark about a home in the clouds, we would like to remind you that we were not hatched yesterday," went on the old Puralka. "Not even the swallows nest in the clouds. You are only wasting your time, and we have none to waste on you. Would you mind going away? We want to get on with our dancing." Kari did not know what to say. Her bewildered eyes glanced from one Puralka to another, and, finding no friendly face, came back to the old bird who stood waiting for her to answer or go away. She had never dreamed of anything like this, among her drifting clouds, and her first instinct was to spread her wings and fly back until she found her own peaceful nest. But the Puralka's mention of dancing reminded her of what had brought her to earth, and she felt again all the old longing to watch the grey birds dance. So she summoned up her courage, of which she possessed surprisingly little, considering her size. "I'm sure I don't know why you should be so annoyed," she said meekly. "I mean well, and it grieves me that I have offended you. It was because I thought you _were_ nice little birds that I called you so, but of course I do not think so now--that is, I mean, I----" She broke off, for the old Puralka had uttered something like a snort, and was regarding her with a fixed expression of wrath, and all the other Puralkas had bristled alarmingly. "Oh, I don't know what I really _do_ mean!" said poor Kari helplessly. "You all look at me so unpleasantly. And it is quite true that I have a nest in the clouds--if you will come up, I will show it to you. I live there always, and I have only come down because I hoped that you would teach me to dance!" There was silence for a moment, and then all the Puralkas began to laugh. They laughed so much that they could not stand--they went reeling round the little green patch, and at last they sat down, with their legs sticking out straight in front of them, and laughed more and more. Meanwhile, Kari stood looking at them stupidly. She felt that it was not pleasant laughter. At last they ceased to laugh, and, putting all their heads together, began to whisper. This went on so long that after a while Kari grew tired of standing, and so she sat down and watched them, feeling very unhappy. Overhead a jackass perched on a big gum-tree, and looked at the group, with his wise old head on one side. When they had whispered for a long time, the Puralkas got up and stood in a row, with their wings tightly folded over their backs. The old Puralka came forward. "You must excuse us for laughing," she said. Her voice was not rude now, but there was something in it that made Kari feel as uncomfortable as she had felt when she had been rude before. "We did not mean to hurt your feelings--but we all thought of something funny we saw last month, and so we had to laugh." If Kari had been less simple, she would have known that this was only said out of politeness, but she was very anxious to make friends, so she looked gratefully at the old Puralka and said, timidly, that she was glad they were so merry. "Quite so," said the Puralka. "It is a poor heart that never rejoices. But about dancing--that is a different matter. You see, you have wings." "Eh?" said the Emu stupidly. "Why, of course, I have wings. Why not?" "Well, that is the difficulty," said the Puralka. "Dancing like ours is the most beautiful thing in the world, of course. But no one with wings can learn it. You see, we have none ourselves." The Emu gave a quick look at the Puralkas, standing in a row. They had folded their wings so tightly over their neat bodies that it looked as though they had really none at all; and she looked so hard at their bodies that she did not notice how cunning their eyes were. "Why, I never noticed that yours were gone," she said. "Dear me! how sad! Do you not find it very uncomfortable and awkward?" "No; why should we?" snapped the Puralka. "Wings are really not much use when you once get accustomed to doing without them. Dancing is much better." "But why cannot one have both?" asked Kari. "Simply _because_," said the old Puralka crossly. "We do not know why these things are, and we never ask foolish questions about them. But if you wish to learn our beautiful dancing, you must give up your wings first." "Give up my wings! I could never do that," cried Kari. "Well, dancing is better. But it is for you to say," said the old Puralka. As she spoke, she made a sign to the others, and they began to dance, swaying forward until they almost touched Kari, and then backwards again. Then the line broke up into circles and figures, and they danced round the Emu until her head grew dizzy with their movements, and she felt that to dance so well was even better than to have wings. To and fro they went, faster and faster, until she could scarcely distinguish one from another, and their long thin legs she could hardly see at all. Then, quite suddenly, they all stopped; and Kari blinked at them, and could not speak. "Well?" asked the old Puralka, watching her closely. "Do you not think that wings are only a small price to pay for such dancing?" "Could you teach me?" Kari asked. "Easily, if you give up your wings." Kari gave a great sigh. "Very well," she said. "I cannot live without knowing how to dance as you do." "Then, spread your wings out on this stone," said the Puralka. So Kari spread her great wings across the stone, and the Puralkas cut them off quite close to her body with their sharp beaks. Then they said, "Stand up." Kari stood up, feeling very naked and queer without her wings. Then the Puralkas began to dance again, faster and faster; and they danced upon her wing-feathers that had been cut off, scattering them with their feet until there were not two left together, and the wind came and took the feathers, so that they floated away over the tops of the trees and mounted out of sight. Then the Puralkas laughed again, just as they had laughed before, until Kari's head rang with the noise of it. "When will you teach me?" she asked timidly. "Teach you!" cried the Puralkas. "What a joke! What a joke!" They burst out laughing again. Then, to Kari's amazement, they unfolded their wings and shook them in her face. The whole green patch of grass was full of the fluttering of the long grey wings. "You said you had none!" she cried. "What a joke! What a joke!" screamed the Puralkas, flapping her with their wings. They spun round and round her, their long legs dancing madly, and their wings quivering and fluttering. Then they suddenly mounted into the air, circled about her once or twice, and flew away through the trees. The sound of their wicked laughter grew fainter and fainter until it died away. Kari sat down and put her head down on the ground. After a while she got up and tried to fly, but the little stumps of her wings would not raise her an inch from the earth, and very soon she ceased to try. She sat down again. Later on, she stood up and began to try to dance as the Puralkas had done. She moved her great feet in the same way, and tried to sway about; but it was useless. She looked so comical, hopping round on her thick legs, that the Jackass, which had all the time sat in the gum-tree overhead, broke into a great shout of laughter, and all the Bush rang with the sound. "Ha-ha-ha-ha!--ho-ho-ho-ho!" screamed the Jackass. "Kari is trying to dance--look at her! There never was anything half so funny--ha-ha-ha! ho-ho-ho!" Then Kari knew that she had lost her wings for nothing; that she could never dance like the Puralkas, and that--worst of all--she could never go back to her nest in the clouds. She could not bear the harsh laughter of the Jackass, and so she ran away, her long legs taking great strides, crashing into the undergrowth of the Bush. Then the Jackass flew away, still chuckling to himself that anyone could be so stupid. Soon the little green patch of grass was quite deserted; until the sun set, when the cruel Puralkas came flying back to it and danced again. But Kari never came to it. So the Emu lives on earth, and has forgotten all about the nest she once had in the drifting clouds. She has no friends among the birds, for though she is a bird herself, she has no wings, and cannot fly. She has taught herself to run very fast, and to kick with her big feet, so that it is not wise to make her angry. Because she used to live in the clouds and had no proper training, she will eat the most extraordinary things--stones, and nails, and pieces of iron and glass, which the blacks have brought into the Bush--but they never seem to disagree with her. She is not a very happy bird, for all the time she keeps hoping that her wings will grow long again and that she will be able to fly back to find her cloud-nest. But they never grow. Always since then, Merkein, the Jackass, has been able to laugh. He is called the Laughing Jackass, because of this. He has been a merry fellow ever since he sat on the gum-tree and watched Kari trying to dance, after the cruel Puralkas had robbed her of her wings and left her far away from her nest in the white clouds. IV BOORAN, THE PELICAN CHAPTER I Long ago, black people were scattered all over the earth, and the forests and plains were full of them. But a great flood came. For weeks it rained all day and all night, until nearly all the plains were great swamps. Then the snow was washed from the hills, and the rivers and creeks overflowed their banks, and swept over the country. There was scarcely anything to be seen except the tops of the tallest trees sticking out of the waters that covered the land. All the camps were washed away, and nearly all the people were drowned. In one tribe, the only people left alive were a man and three women. Their camp was near a river; and when the flood came and the river rose and washed away the wurleys, they clung to a great log that lay upon the bank. It was so huge a log that they did not think any flood would ever move it. But they had seen only little floods, and they did not know what the river could do when it rose in its wrath. The water crept higher and higher as they clung to the log, and at length they felt its great length give a little shiver beneath them. Presently it shifted a little, and the water slipped below it; and soon it swung right round until one end pointed over the bank. Still the flood came rising and rising, and presently a wave flowed right over the log and washed off some of the people who were clinging to it. But the man and the three women dug their fingers into knot-holes and cracks, and held on desperately. Then a fresh rush of water took the log, and it bumped heavily three times on the bank and slid off into the water. At first, its weight took it under the surface, and the four blacks, feeling the cold dark water close over their heads, made sure that Death had come for them. Still they gripped the log, and presently it rose, and the current whirled it round and sent it off downstream. It bumped heavily on a snag, and one of the women fell off, crying for help as she went. The man leaned over quickly and by good chance gripped her by the hair. Somehow, half pulled, half climbing, she managed to scramble back, and got another grip upon the sodden wood. Then the flood carried them into the darkness. All through the cold blackness of the night they held to their rocking place of refuge. Sometimes it went aground, with a jar that shook it through its great length, and hung awhile before a fresh spurt of water washed it off again, to float away into the storm-riven night once more. Then there would come bends in the river, when the current would fail to take the log round quickly enough, because it was so long; and it would sail on and ram its nose into the bank, running so far into the soft mud that perhaps an hour would creep past before the washing of the water worked it loose again. Then the log would swing right round, shaking in the eddies, until it seemed that numbed fingers could hold no longer. But still the terrified blacks held on, while their raft spun down the stream once more, with the cold waves splashing over their shivering bodies. Dawn broke slowly, in the mist of driving rain, and showed them a country covered as far as they could see with water. On either side of the river, the topmost ridge of the high banks still could be seen: but soon these were almost submerged and the log floated in the midst of a great brown sea. About two hours after sunrise a sudden swirl of water took the log and floated it out upon the top of the left-hand bank. It came to rest with a shock, and one of the women loosened her grip and fell off, with a mournful little cry that she could hold on no more. But to her surprise, the water was only up to her knees, and the log lay at rest beside her, its voyage over. The man, whose name was Karwin, grunted as he straightened his stiffened limbs, slipping down into the water beside the woman. "That was good luck for you, Murla," he said. "If the water had been any deeper you would have gone for ever, for there is no strength left in me to pull you out." "I thought it was the end," said Murla, her teeth chattering with cold. "And, as far as I can see, it might as well have been the end, for it is better to die quickly than slowly, and we shall never get out of this dreary place." "That is very likely," said Karwin. "But still I am glad to be able to let go of that shaking log and stand upright once more." The other women had scrambled to a sitting position on the log, and were rubbing their stiffened limbs. "I think those who stayed in camp will have died more comfortably than we shall," said one. "How are we to get any food?" "Oh, there will be no food," Karwin answered. "Unless the flood goes down very quickly, we shall certainly starve. I do not even know where we are, and I have no weapons. Ky! none of our forefathers ever knew such a flood! It is something to have seen it!" [Illustration: "'Oh, there will be no food,' Karwin answered."] "That will not do us much good when we are lying dead in the mud," said Murla shortly. "I would rather have a piece of kangaroo now than see the biggest flood that ever was in the world. I have had enough of floods! Do you think the water will come any higher?" "How can I tell?" answered Karwin shortly. Then, because they were all tired, and frozen, and hungry, they quarrelled about it, and became almost warm in the discussion. After awhile, Karwin laughed. "If I had a waddy I would give all three of you something to argue over," he said. "What is the use of becoming angry when there is nothing to be gained by it? It will not take us off this bank, that is certain." "No, but it keeps us from thinking," Murla said. "When I was angry just now I quite forgot that I was hungry." "All women are a little mad," said Karwin scornfully. "No amount of talking could ever make me forget that I was hungry. It is the most important thing in the world." He looked about him. Behind the ridge of the river bank, on which their log lay, the current of the flooded stream swept by, deep and swift. Before, the sea of brown water stretched as far as he could see, broken only by clusters of storm-washed leaves, that were the tops of submerged trees. There, no current ran; but the wind fled along the surface of the water and blew it into ripples and little waves. "I wonder how deep that is," said Karwin thoughtfully. "I will go and see." He took a few careful steps forward. Then his foot slipped, and he slid off the mud of the crest of the bank, and immediately disappeared with a loud splash. The women set up a dreadful screaming, crying "Come back!"--which, under the circumstances, was a very stupid thing to say. For a long moment the world seemed empty before them. Then Karwin's head suddenly popped up out of the water, with his face very wet and angry. He swam to the ridge, but it was not easy to get upon it, for the crest was sharp, and very slippery, as Karwin already knew to his cost. Several times he clawed at it, only to slide back into the deep water, spluttering and wrathful. "Hold on to the log," said Murla, quickly, to one of the women. "Then give your sister your other hand, and she can hold mine." The three formed a chain and found that, by stretching as far as they could reach, Murla could just touch Karwin with her hand. He made a great effort and caught it in a firm grip, and then they pulled all together, and so managed to tug him over the edge of the ridge. Karwin was very angry, and not at all grateful to them. "You might have thought of that sooner," he growled. "Ky! the water is cold, and I sank down into a clump of prickly bushes, so that I am stuck with prickles all over. There is no getting away from this bank, that is certain." "We had suspected that," said Murla, laughing. At this Karwin became worse-tempered than ever, for a blackfellow does not like to be laughed at by a woman, any more than a white man likes it. He threatened to beat them all, and even struck out at one of the women who was grinning, but Murla spoke to him severely. "Don't do that!" she said boldly. "We are all in the same fix together, and we will not be beaten by you. If you strike one of us we will all push you off into the deep water--and this time we will not pull you back. Therefore, you had better be warned." Murla looked so fierce as she spoke that Karwin stopped the hand he was lifting to strike the woman, and scratched his head with it instead. It was quite a new experience for a blackfellow to be ordered about by a lubra, and you can fancy that he did not like it. Still, the other women were clearly prepared to back up Murla; and he did not forget how he had struggled in the water at the edge of the bank before they pulled him in. So, instead of hitting the woman, he growled unpleasantly and waded to one end of the log, where he sat down and gave himself up to very bad temper. This time, however, he kept it inside him, and so it did not hurt anyone. The sisters looked at Murla with great respect, but Murla only laughed at them. She was a pretty woman, for a lubra. Her hair was long and very black and curly, and she was much fairer than most of her tribe, with a fine flat nose and a merry smile. None of her teeth had been knocked out, which happens to many lubras, and so there were no holes in her smile. She was little more than a girl, but she was tall and strong, and very clever. And she was not at all afraid of Karwin. For two days the four castaways sat on their log and watched the flood. Once it rose higher, when a fresh mass of snow was washed from the distant hill-tops, and came down to swell the river; and they thought their log was again about to be carried down-stream, and gave themselves up for lost, for they knew that now they were too weak to hold on for very long. But the log held firm upon the bank, and the danger passed. It was very cold. They plastered themselves all over with a thick coating of mud, hoping that when it dried it would keep them warmer; and this helped them against the cold wind, though it was not at all comfortable in other ways. But worst of all was hunger. On the second day they began to break pieces off the log and chew them, and that, as you can imagine, did very little good. Karwin became more and more bad-tempered, and looked at the women as if it was their fault. Also, he was very sore from the prickles, and the two sisters and Murla spent quite a long time in picking them out of his back, though he was only a little grateful to them. On the second day, the water began to go down. The river still roared and raced past them, bearing on its breast all kinds of things: trees, logs, bushes, interlaced fragments of ruined wurleys, drowned animals, and even dead blacks; but its water slipped back from the bank where their log lay, until it left them on a little mud island, with the brown sea still rippling about them in every direction. The tops of the trees came farther and farther out of the water, and new tree-tops came into view, with their boughs laden with mud. Often they saw little living animals in the brushwood that went drifting by them in the river; and nearly all the floating rubbish was alive with snakes that had taken refuge from the flood. Sometimes the brushwood would break up in the current, and they would see the snakes swimming wildly until the river carried them out of sight. Two came ashore on their island, and Karwin killed them with a stick he had taken out of the river. They ate them, and felt a little better. But they knew that they must soon die if they did not get more food. They watched the river anxiously, hoping that it might bring them something else. Towards evening, they were gazing up-stream, when Murla cried out suddenly. "What is that?" she said, pointing to a dark spot on the water. "It is a bush," said one of the women, in a dull voice. "No, I am certain it is an animal," Murla said. "It is floating towards us. Let us try to get it." So they held hands, as they had done when Karwin fell in, and Karwin slipped into the current, holding Murla's hand tightly. He had found a stick with a sharp hook on one end, where a branch had broken off, and when the dark object came bobbing down-stream he thrust at it fiercely, savage with hunger. The hook caught in it, and very carefully they drew it ashore, and managed to get it on their island. It was a harder matter to get Karwin back, but they managed that too, and then they all lay on the mud and panted, and, except for Murla's fair face, they looked as if they were part of the mud. Their find was a plump young wombat, and it probably saved their lives. Of course they had no way of cooking it, but at the moment that scarcely troubled them; neither did they at all object to the fact that it had been dead for a good while. They ate it all, and long after the moon had come out to cast her white light into the flood it showed them sitting on the log, happily crunching the bones. CHAPTER II Booran was a very clever bird. He was bigger than most of the water-fowl, and very strong. He was also very proud, partly because of his great wings, which would carry his heavy body skimming over the lakes and swamps, and partly because of his beautiful white plumage. All his feathers were perfectly white, and he was so vain about it that he scorned every bird that had coloured or dark plumage. He used to look at his reflection in deep pools, and murmur, "How beautiful I am!" If by any mischance he got a mud-stain on his feathers he was quite unhappy until he had managed to wash it off. Some people might not think a pelican a very lovely bird, but Booran was completely satisfied with himself. Besides being beautiful and white, Booran at that time owned a bark canoe. It made him prouder than ever. It was not a very big canoe, but it was as much as a pelican could comfortably manage. He used to sit in it and paddle it along with his strong wings. There was really no reason why he should have had a canoe at all, for he was quite able to swim about in the water with far less labour than it needed to paddle his boat with his wings. It was only part of his great pride. Still, no other bird had ever thought of having a canoe, so it pleased Booran to think himself superior to them all. No other bird wanted one at all, but he forgot that. The Emu laughed at him openly, and when Booran offered him a trip in his canoe he asked rudely what Booran thought he could do with his long legs in such a cockle shell? That made Booran more indignant than he had ever been since two black swans had risen suddenly under the canoe one day and upset both it and Booran in a very muddy part of a lake. He vowed that no other bird should ever enter it. Sometimes a meek little bird, such as a honey-eater or a bell-bird, would perch on the edge of the canoe and ask to be ferried about; but Booran never would allow it. He used to catch fish, and when he had stored all he could in his pouch he would put the rest in the canoe, so that soon it became all one dreadful smell. Not that any people in the country of the blacks were likely to object to that. They were brought up on smells. When the big flood came, Booran enjoyed himself thoroughly. The river was too swift for him to attempt in his canoe at first, but he paddled about in the water that covered the plains, and poked into a great many things that did not concern him in the least. Sometimes he ran aground, when it was always an easy matter for him to jump overboard and push the canoe off with his great beak. He found all kinds of new things to eat, floating round in the flood-water; and some of them gave him indigestion rather badly. But on the whole it was a very interesting time, and he was very glad that he had a canoe so that he could go about in a stylish manner. It was on the afternoon of the third day after the water had begun to go down, that Booran was first able to try the canoe on the river. The current was still swift, but he kept in the quieter water near each bank, and did not find much difficulty in getting about. He saw a number of strange blacks on a rise near the water, busily building wurleys; but they did not see him, for he dodged under cover of the wattle-trees fringing the bank. Then he pulled down-stream for a little while, until he came to where the banks were lower, and not many trees were to be seen out of the water. He rounded a bend, and came upon Karwin and his companions. Booran's first instinct was to get out of sight. He was afraid of all blackfellows, especially when they had spears and throwing-sticks. But before he could go, the woman Murla saw him, and uttered a great cry of astonishment. At once they believed that it was Magic--so many strange things could be explained that way. They watched the big white bird in his bark canoe, and waited to see what would happen, hoping that he was not an evil spirit who would do them any harm. Seeing them so quiet, and realizing that they were unarmed, Booran allowed his natural curiosity to get the better of him. He paddled across the river, swept down a little by the current, and stopped his canoe in a quiet pool near the mud island, where the castaways sat miserably on their log. They looked so forlorn and unhappy that even his cold and fishy heart was stirred. "Good day," he said. "Good day," Karwin answered. "This is a big flood," Booran remarked. "Yes, it is a very big one. All the land has gone away." "Yes, but it will come back. Fish are scarce, now that the river is high." "That is very likely," said Karwin. Then, having made all these stupid remarks, as all men do before they come to business, they stopped, and looked at the sky, and Booran said, "I wonder if more rain will come!" Murla struck in suddenly. "Men are very strange," she said. "They are always ready to jabber. How is it that you go about in that little boat?" "Because I like it," said Booran shortly, for he did not approve of women talking so freely, neither did he like the question about his canoe. Murla laughed. "You look very funny when you are cross," she said. "I never saw such a dignified pelican." The other women shuddered, for they thought that Booran might be an evil spirit, in which case he would certainly object to such free-and-easy remarks. But Booran looked at Murla, and saw how pretty she was, and suddenly he did not wish to be angry. Instead, he smiled at her; and no one who has not seen it can imagine how peculiar a pelican looks when he smiles. "It is a very useful canoe," he said. "I have been all over the flood-waters in it, and have seen many wonderful things." "Have you any food?" asked Murla eagerly. "No, for I have eaten it all. But I may come across some at any time. Would you like it?" "Like it!" said Murla. "Why, we have only had two snakes and a wombat between us for four days--and the wombat was only a little one. I could eat the quills of a porcupine!" "Dear me," said Booran, looking at her with his foolish little eyes very wide. "That would be very unpleasant, would it not? I quite regret that I ate an old fish that I found in the stern of my canoe this morning. Not that it would have made much of a meal for four people." "It would have given me a breakfast," said Karwin rudely. "But as there is no food, there is no use in talking about it. Tell me, Pelican, have you seen any of our people? We do not know if there are any left alive." "I have seen some blacks, but I do not know if they are your people," Booran answered. "They are across the river, where they are building themselves new huts." "Can't you go and see if they belong to our tribe?" Booran shook his big head decidedly. "Not I," he said. "Most blacks are very uncivil to pelicans, and these had weapons close at hand. I have no wish to be found with a spear sticking in my heart, or in any other part of me." "Did you notice what they were like?" Murla asked eagerly. "I saw a fat woman, and a thin man," said Booran stupidly. "How should I know what they were like? They are not beautiful like pelicans. Oh, and I saw a very tall man, with a red bone through his nose. He was sitting idly on a stump while the others worked." "That was my husband!" said Murla with a faint shriek. "Alas, I thought he was drowned! And the fat woman may be your wife, Goomah," she said to Karwin. "Very likely," said Karwin. "Did you notice if they had food?" "I do not know. But it is likely, for they had fire, and there was a pleasant smell." "If my wife Goomah has food and fire, while I have nothing, there will be trouble," said Karwin wrathfully. "That may be, but we will die here without ever knowing," Murla said. "Long before the water goes down we will have starved to death, and then nothing will matter." She broke off a bit of wood and flung it into the swirling river. "I wish we had never tried to save ourselves, or seen that hateful log!" Now, Booran had been watching Murla, and he thought she looked very capable, and he thought that she could be very useful to him if he could get her away to some place where she could catch fish for him, so that he might spend all his time admiring himself and paddling about in his canoe. But he did not quite know how to manage it. Karwin and the woman went on wrangling. They had not been happy before Booran came with his tidings; but now they could only think of their fellow-blacks feasting and making a warm and comfortable camp, and it made them feel very much worse than they had felt before. They shouted long and loudly in the hope of making the others hear; but no answer came, and the river rushed by them without pity, and they hated their little mud island. All the time, Booran gazed at Murla, and at last he made up his mind that he could not possibly do without her. Whatever happened, he must get her away, and sail with her in his bark canoe to an island where the blacks could never find her. The others were talking so fast that he had time to think out a plan, and when they stopped for lack of breath, he spoke. "I think, if you sat very still and got in and out very carefully, that I could take you across the river, one at a time," he said, speaking in a great hurry. "That thing would sink," said Karwin sulkily, looking at the little canoe with eyes of scorn. "No, it does not sink easily. You would have to be very careful, but it would be safe." Karwin looked at the canoe, and then he looked at the trees that showed round the bend, when the high banks were quite clear of water. It was very tempting to think of getting there--such a little way! He thought hard. Then he said: "You can take Kari first--she is the lightest, and if the canoe does not sink with her, perhaps I will go." Booran did not care which he took first, so long as it was not Murla. But the woman Kari objected very strongly, and made a great outcry, for she thought she would be drowned. However, the others were all agreed that she should go, so there was no use in objecting, and she had to give in. Crying and trembling, she stepped into the canoe, which Booran brought close to the bank. The canoe went down a good deal, but it did not sink, and Booran paddled gently up the stream, keeping very close to the bank, so that the current did not sweep him down. He disappeared round the bend, and for awhile Karwin and the two women who were left watched anxiously, fearing to see the upturned canoe float back empty. But in about ten minutes they saw Booran turn the corner and paddle swiftly down, evidently very pleased with himself. When he got near the mud island he called out, "All is well! I landed her easily on the bank, and she has run to the camp." That made the others eager, and Murla stepped forward to get into the canoe. But Booran stopped her, saying, "Not now--next time!"--and before she could argue, Karwin twisted her out of his way, and stepped into the canoe so hurriedly that it nearly sank, and Booran called out very angrily to him to mind what he was doing. However, the canoe righted itself, and presently Booran had paddled it out of sight again. Murla began to feel a little uneasy, though she scarcely knew why. There was something wrong about the way that Booran looked at her, with his cold eyes that were so like a fish's. She felt she would be glad when she was out of his canoe, and safely on the same side as her people. She did not want to get into the canoe at all; but as it was necessary to do so, she decided to get it over as soon as possible. So she said to the other black woman, "I will go next, Meri." "All right," said Meri, shivering under her little 'possum rug and her coat of mud. "But tell the Pelican to hurry back, or I shall certainly die of cold." Murla waited impatiently until Booran appeared, and when the canoe came alongside the bank she was ready. But Booran looked at her queerly, and said, "Not now--next time! "Why?" asked Murla angrily. "This is my turn." "Not now--next time!" was all Booran would say; and he beckoned to Meri, who was not slow to obey, for she was very tired of waiting. She stepped in, and the canoe moved away from the mud island. Suddenly Murla was very much afraid, although as a rule she did not know what fear meant. She felt that she must not get into Booran's canoe--that there was danger coming very close to her. In a few minutes he would be back for her. A quick resolve came to her mind. Whatever happened, Booran must not find her there when he came back. She slipped off her 'possum rug and wrapped it round a log that had come ashore on their island. It was just as long as she was, and when the rug was wrapped about it, it looked as if she were lying asleep. Then she slipped into the river, and began to swim across. Booran and Meri were out of sight round the bend, and what she wanted to do was to get to the other side before the canoe came back. But it was not an easy matter. The current was swift, and though she was a very strong swimmer, it took her down-stream; and once she thought that she must be drowned. However, just as she was on the point of giving up, she felt the ground under her feet, and scrambled out upon a bank that was nearly all under water. Then she waded along it until she got near the bend. Just then she heard the noise of Booran's wings brushing in the water. She flung herself down on her face--just in time, for the canoe came round the bend, and passed quite close to her. Booran heard the swirl in the water, and glanced round, seeing the ripples; but just then he caught sight of what looked like Murla, lying on the mud island, and he said, "Oh, it was only a water rat!" and paddled on. Murla lay still in the water, holding her breath, until he had floated down the stream. Then she got up very quietly and waded, sinking in the soft mud of the bank until it grew higher, and trees and dry land could be seen. She ran then, casting her eyes wildly about until she saw ahead a little drift of smoke; and presently, toiling up a steep rise in the bank, she came upon the blacks, where already Karwin and Meri and Kari were jabbering loudly, telling all their experiences and hearing those of the others at the same time. They cried out with astonishment when they saw Murla coming along the bank, and asked her why Booran had not brought her in his canoe. When she told them she had been afraid of him, they all laughed at her. But her husband, the tall man with the red bone through his nose, was very angry because she had left her 'possum rug behind, and asked her if she thought rugs like that grew on wild cherry-trees. He went off at once to see if he could get it back, telling her as he went that if he failed, she need not think she was going to have his. Of course, Murla had known that already. Meanwhile, Booran had paddled down to the mud island, and, seeing the form in the 'possum rug, lying under the shelter of the great log, he called to it several times, saying, "Come on, now. It is your turn." But no movement came, and at last he grew angry, and hopped out of the canoe and went on to the island, still calling. There was no answer, and he lost his temper and kicked the figure very hard--with the result that he hurt his foot very much. Then he pulled the rug off roughly, and found only a log underneath. Booran became furious. He had been made to look a fool. For awhile he stamped about the island, screaming in his rage, and when the blacks got to the opposite bank that is how they saw him. Then Booran made up his mind that he would "look out fight," as the blacks do, and kill the husband of the woman. So he took some mud and smeared it on himself in long lines, so that he might be striped as the blacks are when they go fighting: for a blackfellow does not consider himself dressed for battle until he has painted himself in long white streaks with pipeclay. He was so busy painting, and planning how he would slay Murla's husband, that he did not see a black shadow in the sky. It was another pelican, and he came nearer, puzzled to know what could be this strange thing, so like a pelican and yet striped like a fighting man. He could not make it out, but he decided it could not be right; and so he drove at Booran and struck him in the throat with his great beak, killing him. Then he flew away. Now the blacks say, there are no black pelicans any more. They are all black and white, just as Booran was when his Death came to him suddenly out of the sky. The blacks across the river were very much amazed. But when the great black Pelican had sailed away, Murla's husband swam across and got her 'possum rug, which he brought back, tied on top of his head. He gave it back to Murla, and then beat her with his waddy for having been so careless as to leave it behind. So they lived happily ever after. But the river took Booran's little canoe and whisked it away. It bobbed upon the brown water like a walnut shell, spinning in the eddies, and sailing proudly where the water was clear and free. At each mile the river grew wider and fuller, and the little canoe sped onwards on its breast. Then ahead came a long line of gleaming silver, and the river sang that it had nearly reached the sea. The light canoe rocked over the waters of the bar, but came safely through them; and then it floated away westward, into the sunset. But the tide brought it back to shore, and the breakers took it and flung it on the rocks, pounding it on their sharp edges until it was no longer a canoe, but only a twisted bit of bark. The waves went back and left it lying on the beach; and some blacks who came along, hungry and cold, were very glad to find it and use it to start their fire, when it was dry. So Booran's canoe was useful to the blacks until the very end. V THE STORY OF THE STARS Pund-jel, who was Maker of Men, sat in his high place one day and looked at the world. The blacks believed that in the very long ago he had made the first men and women out of clay; and from there they had spread over all the earth. Pund-jel had made them to be good and happy, and for a long while he had been satisfied with them. But now it was different, and he was angry. All over the world he could see his black people. They had grown tall and strong, and he thought them beautiful. They were skilled in hunting, and fierce in battle: the women were clever at making rugs of skins, at cooking, at weaving curious mats and baskets of pliant rushes. The forests were full of game for them---birds, beasts and reptiles, all good to eat: there were fish in the lakes and rivers, fat mud-eels in the creeks and swamps, and gum and manna to be found on every hill-side. The world was a good, green world, and there should have been only happiness. But the people themselves had grown wicked. Pund-jel bent his brows with anger as he looked down upon them. Instead of being peaceful and content, his people had grown fierce and savage. They thought only of fighting and conquest, and were too lazy to work. The laws that he had made for them were as naught in their eyes. They said, "Oh, Pund-jel is very far away. He will never come down into our world to see what we do. Why should we obey him?" So they did just as they pleased, and all the world was evil because of their wickedness. Pund-jel thought gravely as he looked down into his world, and all the sky was dark with the blackness of his frown. "My people have grown too many," he said. "When they were few, each helped the other: there was no time for feuds or fighting, for all had to work together in order to live. Now all is changed. They are many and powerful, and they over-run the world, and each man hates his brother. It were better if I made them fewer, and scattered them far and wide. I will send my whirlwinds upon the earth." So Pund-jel caused storms and fierce winds to arise often, and they swept across the world. In the flat lands there came suddenly whirlwinds of great force, that twisted and eddied through the plains, carrying men aloft in their choking embrace, and letting them fall, broken and dead, miles away from the places where they had lived. On the mountains great hurricanes blew shrieking from peak to peak, tearing up the largest trees by their roots, and tossing them down into the fern-strewn gullies far below. Huge boulders were loosened and went crashing down; and often a landslip followed them, when all the soil would be stripped from a hill-side and fall, thundering, carrying with it hundreds of people and leaving the bare rock behind it, like a scar upon the side of the mountain. Thunder and lightning came and shook the world with terror: mighty trees were riven and shattered, and fires swept through forest and plain, leaving blackness and desolation behind. Then came floods, that covered the low-lying parts of the earth, and made of the rivers roaring torrents, that ran madly to the sea. The world trembled in the terror of the wrath of Pund-jel. And yet, men had grown so wise and cunning that not very many died. When the whirlwinds and hurricanes came, they crept into holes in the hill-sides, or sheltered themselves in deep gullies. They strengthened their houses, so that the wind should not blow them away. Sometimes they floated down the rivers in bark canoes; and a great number found refuge in caves. Those who were killed were the careless ones, who would not take the trouble to protect themselves against the fury of the storms, thinking that they would only be ordinary gales; but though they died, innumerable people were left. Just for a little while, they were afraid. They knew they were wicked, and that Pund-jel must be angry with them; and the thought that possibly the storms were the message of his wrath made them careful for awhile. But as time passed they forgot the storms and whirlwinds, and the fate of their brothers and sisters who had been killed; and they went back to their wickedness, becoming worse than they had been before. And then there came a day when Pund-jel's anger broke anew. One morning a blackness came out of the sky, and in the blackness a flame of gleaming fire. The people clustered together, in terror, and there were cries of "Pund-jel! Pund-jel is coming!" Then the magic-men began to chatter and make Magic, hoping to turn the wrath of the Maker of Men; and the people flung themselves upon the ground, crying aloud, and calling upon the good Spirits to save them. The blackness swooped down upon the earth. In the air were strange whisperings and mutterings, as if even the rustling leaves and the boughs of the trees were crying, "Pund-jel is coming!" And then, out of the glowing heart of the cloud came Pund-jel himself, that he might see these men and women that he had made. He spoke no word. His glance was like lightnings, playing about the stricken eyes of those that gazed. But he trod among the black multitudes, and the noise of the trampling of his feet shook the earth. In his hand he carried his great stone knife, and the sight of it was very terrible. Those who looked upon it fell back blindly. But as he walked on he cut his way among the people, with great sweeps of the cruel weapon, sparing none that came in his way, and cutting them into small fragments. And then the blackness of the cloud received him again, and hid him from the people of the world. But the pieces of the slain were not dead. Each fragment moved, as Tur-ror, the worm, moves; and from them rose a cry. It came from the fragments of those who had been good men and good women, yet who had met Death at the knife of Pund-jel with the guilty ones. Then a great and terrible storm came out of the sky, sweeping over the places where Pund-jel had trod; and with it a whirlwind, that gathered up the pieces of those who had been men, women and children, and they became like flakes of snow, white and whirling in the blackness of the air. They were carried away into the clouds. And when they came to where Pund-jel sat, once more looking down upon the world, he took the flakes that had been bad men and women, and with his hand scattered them so far over the earth that no man could say where they fell. So they passed for ever from the sight of man, and now they lie in the waste places of the world, where there is neither light nor day. But Pund-jel took the snowflakes that had been good men and women, and he made them into stars. Right up into the blue sky he flung them; and the sky caught them and held them fast, and the light of the sun fell upon them so that they caught some of his brightness. There they stay for ever, and you would not know that they are in any way different from the other stars that twinkle at you on a frosty night when the sky is all blue and silver. Only the magic-men, who know everything, can tell you which among the stars were once good men, women and children, before Pund-jel left his high seat to punish the wickedness of the world. VI HOW LIGHT CAME The blacks believed that the earth was quite flat, with the sky arched above it. They had an idea that if anyone could get beyond the edge of the sky he would come to another country, with rivers and trees, where live the ghosts of all the people who have died. Some thought that there was water all round the edge of the earth. They were taught that at first the sky had lain flat on the ground, so that neither sun, moon, nor stars could move, but the magpies came along and propped it up with long sticks, resting some parts on the mountains near the edge. And sometimes word was sent from tribe to tribe, saying that the props were growing rotten, and unless the people sent up tomahawks to cut new props, the sky would fall. In its falling it would burst, and all the people would be drowned. This used to alarm the blacks greatly, and they would make the magic-men weave charms so that the sky should not fall. At first, all the earth was in darkness; and at that time there lived among the blacks a man called Dityi. In his tribe was a very beautiful woman whose name was Mitjen; and she became Dityi's wife. At first Dityi and Mitjen were very happy. They had plenty to eat, and the camp was warm and comfortable, and they loved each other very much. There were no white men, at that time: the blacks ruled all their country, which they thought was the whole world. The forests were full of game, and the rivers of fish: every one had enough, so there was no fighting. And Dityi thought he was the luckiest man in the world, because he had won the love of Mitjen. But a stranger came to the camp: a tall dark-eyed man named Bunjil. He told stories of far-away forests and wonderful things to be found there. The other blacks used to listen to him, greatly interested; and no one listened more attentively than Mitjen, for she had a great longing to see the wonderful places of which Bunjil spoke. When she heard him tell stories of these strange lands of the Bush, she burned to leave her quiet home and go exploring. Dityi could not understand this feeling at all. It interested him to hear Bunjil's tales, but he had no wish to do more than hear them. He was very well satisfied with his life, and thought that his own home was better than any other place could possibly be. But Bunjil soon noticed the dark-eyed girl who never lost a word of his stories. It amused him to see her face light up and her eyes sparkle at his talk; and so he told more and more stories, and did not always trouble to make them true, so long as he could make Mitjen look interested. Sometimes he would meet her wandering alone outside the camp, and then he would tell her, as if he were sorry for her, that this quiet camp was no place for her at all. "You are so beautiful," he would say, "that you should be far away in my wonderful country, where you would see many great men and lovely women; but none more lovely than Mitjen. In this dull hole you are buried alive." None of this was true, but Bunjil spoke exactly as if it were, and after a time Mitjen began to be very discontented. The simple happy life in the Bush pleased her no longer; she only wanted the exciting things of which Bunjil told. At home, everybody was good to her and liked her, but she was only a girl who had to obey other people all the time, and no one but Dityi had ever troubled about telling her that she was beautiful. Moreover, she could see that Bunjil did not think much of Dityi. He called him one day to Mitjen, "an ignorant black fellow," and though Mitjen could not imagine any people who were not black, it sounded very uncomplimentary, and she could not forget it. As soon as he had said it, Bunjil apologized, saying that it was only a slip of the tongue--but in her heart Mitjen knew this was not true. It made her look down on Dityi a little, and wonder if he were really worthy of her. One day she asked him if he would take her to Bunjil's country, and his surprise prevented him from speaking for some time. He could only look at her, with his mouth open. "Go away from home!" he said at last. "Why? What is there to go for?" "To see the world," said Mitjen, tossing her head. "I do not want to stay for ever in this weary place." "But it is the world--or most of it," returned Dityi. "I do not know where Bunjil's country is--but the men there cannot be up to much if they are like him, for he is more useless than anyone I ever saw. He cannot throw a boomerang better than a girl, and with a spear I could beat him with my left hand!" "You are boastful," said Mitjen coldly. "Throwing weapons is not everything." "Well, I don't know how things are managed in Bunjil's country, but it is very important in ours that a man should know how to throw," said Dityi. "Perhaps Bunjil's game comes close to him to be killed, but here a man has to hunt it. Did Bunjil mention if it came ready cooked too? I don't suppose you would want to do any work in that country of his!" This made Mitjen very angry, and she quarrelled fiercely with Dityi for making fun of her; and then Dityi lost his temper and beat her a little, which was quite a usual thing to happen to a woman among the blacks. But Mitjen had been told by Bunjil that in his country a man never raised his hand against a woman. So it made her furious to be beaten by Dityi, though he cared for her too much really to hurt her, and she broke away from him and ran to the camp, sobbing that she hated him and did not want to see him any more. Near the camp she met Bunjil, who asked her why she was crying; and when she told him, he was kind to her, patting her gently, and pretending to be very angry with Dityi. He was safe in doing this, for Dityi had gone off whistling into the Bush--not sorry that he had beaten Mitjen, if it should make her sensible again, but sorry that she was unhappy, and resolved to bring her back a snake or something equally nice for supper. So Bunjil ran no risk in abusing him, and he did it heartily. When they had finished talking, Mitjen walked away from him into the camp with a very determined face. She went straight to her wurley, and though Dityi brought her home a beautiful young snake and a lace-lizard, she would eat nothing and refused to come out of the wurley to speak to him. So Dityi went back to the young men's huts, angry and offended, and Mitjen lay down, turning her face to the wall. She was just as determined; but only her own heart knew how much she was afraid. When the people of the camp awoke, she was gone. Nowhere was there any trace of her. And when the blacks went to look for Bunjil, in his wurley, he was gone, too. Then they fell into a great rage, and the young men painted themselves in white stripes with pipeclay, and went forth in pursuit, carrying all their arms, and led by Dityi. But though they looked for many days, they could never come upon a track; and so at last the other young men gave up the search, and went back to the camp. But Dityi did not go back. There was nothing for him at home now that he had lost Mitjen; and so he went on, hunting through the dark forests for his lost love. Bunjil and Mitjen had fled far into the Bush. For a long time they walked in the creek, so that they would leave no tracks, and if they came to deep holes, they swam them. They were far away from Mitjen's country before they dared to leave the water, and already the girl was tired. But Bunjil would not let her stop to rest, for he knew that they would be pursued. He hurried her on, forgetting now to be gentle when he spoke to her. It was not many days before Mitjen realized the terrible mistake she had made. They fled deeper and deeper into the Bush, but no wonderful country came in sight. She was often cold and hungry, and Bunjil made her work harder than she had ever worked before, doing not only the woman's work, but a large share of the man's. She found out that he was almost too lazy to get food, and if she had not hunted for game herself, she would never have had enough to eat. Bunjil had told her that he loved her, but very soon she knew that this was not true, and that all he had wanted was a woman to cook for him and help him procure food. At first she used to ask him when they would come to his own country, and he would put her off, saying, "Presently--pretty soon." But before long she found that it made him angry to be asked about it; and at last, if she spoke of it, he beat her cruelly. So Mitjen did not ask any more. Then all the memories of Dityi and his love came crowding upon her, and her heart quite broke. She did not want to live any more. She lay down under a big log, and when Bunjil spoke to her there was no answer. So he kicked her, and left her. But after he had slept, he went to see why she lay so still; and he found that she was dead. As he looked at her, a great storm came out of the Bush and whirled him away. It flung him far up in the sky, where you may see him now, if you look closely: a lonely, wandering star, finding no rest anywhere, and no mate. Always he must wander on and on, and never stop, no matter how tired he may be; and the other stars shrink from him, hurrying away if they cross his path. The storm took Mitjen also, and carried her gently into the sky; and there she saw Dityi, who lit it all up, for he had been turned into the Sun, and was giving light to the earth. But always, the blacks say, he is seeking Mitjen. Like a great fire, he leaps through the sky, mourning for his love and going back and forth in ceaseless quest of her. His wurley is in Nganat, just over the edge of the earth; and the bright colour of sunset is caused by the spirits of the dead going in and out of Nganat, while Dityi looks among them for his lost love. But he never finds her; and so next day he begins to hunt again, and goes tramping across the sky. Sometimes he shouts her name--"Mitjen! Mitjen!"--and it is then that we hear Thunder go rolling round the world. But Mitjen never answers. She has been made the Moon, and always she mourns far away and alone. When she sees the glory of the Sun, and hears his trampling feet, she hides herself, for now she is ashamed to let him find her. She only comes from her hiding-place when he sleeps; and then she hurries through the sky, so that she may have the comfort of going in his footsteps, though she knows now that she can never hope to overtake him. Sometimes she sighs, and then a soft breeze flutters over the earth; and the big rain is the tears that relieve her grief. VII THE FROG THAT LAUGHED Before Pund-jel, Maker of Men, peopled the earth with the black tribes, and very long before the first white man came to Australia, the animals which inhabited the land fell into a great trouble. And this is how it happened. Old Conara, the black chief, told it to me while we were fishing for cod in the Murray one hot night; and he had it from his father, whose mother had told him about it; while to her the story had come from her grandfather, who said he was a little boy when his grandfather had told him, saying he had had the story from Conara, the magpie, after whom he was named. And the magpies learn everything, so you see he ought to know. Conara said that once in the long-ago time, all the animals were living very cheerfully together, when suddenly all the water disappeared. They went to sleep with the creeks and swamps full, and the rivers running; and when they woke up, everything was dry. Of course, this was the most terrible thing that could happen to the animals, for though they can manage with very little food in Australia, at a pinch, they must always have plenty of water. They searched everywhere for it, through the scrub and over the plains; and the birds flew great distances, always seeking with their eyes for a gleam of water. But it had quite gone. So the animals held a council of war, and Mirran, the Kangaroo, spoke to them. At a council, some one must always speak first, to tell those present what they know already; and Mirran did this very thoroughly, so that little Kur-bo-roo, the Native Bear, went to sleep and began to climb up the legs of the Emu in his sleep, thinking she was a tree. This led to a disturbance, and it was some time before Mirran could go on again with his speech. Then he found he had forgotten the rest of what he meant to say, so he contented himself by asking them all what they meant to do about it, and remarking that the matter was now open for discussion. This is a remark often made at meetings. Then Mirran sat down thankfully, but in his relief at finishing his speech he sat on Kowern, the Porcupine; and Kowern is the most uncomfortable seat in the Bush. Mirran got up more quickly than he had sat down, and again there was disorder in the meeting, especially as the Jackass was unfeeling enough to laugh. When matters were more quiet, Kellelek, the Cockatoo, made a long speech, but it was hard to understand what he said, because all his brothers would persist in speaking at the same time. Every one knew that he wanted water, but as every one was in the same fix, it did not seem to help along matters to have him say so. Booran, the Pelican, was even more troubled about it than Kellelek, for of course he lived on the water, and he wanted fish badly. All the fish had disappeared, and the eels had buried themselves deep in the soft mud of the beds of the rivers and creeks, and none of the water-fowl had any food. The Red Wallaby, Waat, and old Warreen, the bad-tempered Wombat, made speeches, and so did Meri, the black Dingo, and Tonga, the 'Possum, and a great many other animals. But not one could suggest any means of getting water back, or form an idea as to how it had gone away. They were all talking together, getting rather hot and excited, and very thirsty, when they heard a sudden whirr of wings overhead, and a bird came dropping down into their midst. It was Tarook, the Sea Gull, and though at first they were inclined to be angry at his sudden appearance, they soon saw that he had news to communicate, and so they crowded round him and begged him to speak. Tarook was a proud bird, and did not often leave his beloved sea; so they knew that something important must have brought him so far inshore. He stood in their midst, dainty and handsome, with his snowy feathers and scarlet legs, and carefully brushed a fragment of grass from his wing before replying. "Waga, the Fish-Hawk, came along this morning--in a shocking temper, too--and told me of your difficulties," he said. "Well, we of the sea know what has caused them!" There was an instant hubbub. All the animals and birds cried out at once, saying, "What is it?" Tarook looked at them all calmly. "If you make such a clatter, how can I tell you?" he asked crossly. "I have not much time either, because my mate and I have youngsters to look after, and it is nearly time I got back to find their dinner." The animals became silent at once, and looked at him anxiously. "Three nights ago," said Tarook, "Tat-e-lak, the big Frog, came out of the sea. Every one knows he lives there, but none of us had ever seen him--and he is as large as many wurleys. All the sea was troubled at his coming, and big waves rolled in and beat upon the shore, so that we could scarcely see the rocks for spray. A hollow booming sound came from under the sea, and all our young ones were very much alarmed. Then a wave larger than all the rest put together crashed into the beach, and when it began to roll back we saw Tat-e-lak waddling up the shore. Most frogs hop, but he is so huge that he gets along in a kind of shuffle." "But where did he go?" cried Kadin, the Inguana-lizard. "He waddled away into the plains beyond, and when I flew in to look for him, for awhile I could not find him. Then I heard a strange noise of water sucking, and I flew to where it came from. There was a hollow in the creek bank, and Tat-e-lak was sitting there, with his head in the water, sucking it all up; and as he sucked, he swelled. It was not a nice sight, and soon I flew away." "But where is he now? And what did he do?" asked the animals anxiously. "I did not watch him any more. But the West Wind knows all about him, and he told me when I was out fishing last night. It seems that Tat-e-lak lives under the sea, because of his former sins, and that is why he has grown so huge. But he always wants to come back to land, and sometimes he breaks away from his prison under the sea and gets up to the surface--and a great stir his coming makes: it's very annoying if you're fishing, for it scares all the fish away into the farthest corners of the rocks. But the salt water he has drunk for so long makes him terribly thirsty, and unless he can get fresh water to drink he has to go back to his sea-prison." "Then that is why he has drunk all of ours!" cried the animals. Tarook nodded very hard. "Yes," he said. "It is very seldom that he gets a chance of coming up; and his last three landings have been made in the desert, where he has had no water at all, and has been forced to hurry back meekly to the sea. So he is now more thirsty than he ever was before. The West Wind says he did not stop drinking until this morning--and now there is no water anywhere, as you know." "Then how shall we ever get any more? Are we to die of thirst?" "Well, that I do not know. I have told you all that I know," said Tarook. "Tat-e-lak is somewhere on shore, and so far as I can tell, all the water is inside him. But I do not know where he is, nor if you can do anything. Now I must go back to my young ones, for they will certainly be hungry, and my mate will be cross." He bowed to the Kangaroo, and flew up into the air. Then he went skimming over the forest to the sea. When he had gone, the animals talked again, but there was great grief among them, and they did not know what to do. At last it was agreed that Malian, the Eaglehawk, should fly to the shore and find out anything he could about Tat-e-lak. So huge a Frog, they thought, could not hide himself from the eyes of an Eaglehawk, which can see even a little shrew-mouse in the grass as he flies. So Mirran, the Kangaroo, bade Malian be as quick as possible, and he flew off, while all the people awaited his return as patiently as they could. But they were too thirsty to be very patient. It was evening when Malian returned. The day had seemed very long, and he was tired, for it is not easy to fly for a long while without water. "Tat-e-lak is the most terrible Frog you could imagine," he said. "He is squatting on a rise not far from the sea, and he has drunk so much that he cannot move. His body is swelled up so that he is bigger than anything that ever existed: bigger than the little hill on which he sits. Nothing could possibly be so large as he is. He does not speak at all." "But what is to be done?" cried the other animals. "I asked every one I met, but they could not tell me. So at last I found old Blook, the Bullfrog, for it struck me that he would know more of the ways of other Frogs than anyone else. I found him with great difficulty, and for a long time he was too angry to speak, for he has now no water to remain in, and none to drink. But he knows all about Tat-e-lak. He says that now he has inside him all the waters that should cover the waste places of the earth, but that we shall never have water unless he can be made to laugh!" "To laugh!" cried the animals. "Who can make a Frog laugh?" "Blook knows he cannot, so that is why he is angry," answered Malian. "But that is the only way. If Tat-e-lak laughs, all the water will run out of his mouth, and there will once more be plenty for every one. But unless he laughs he will sit there for ever, unable to move; and soon we shall all die of thirst." The animals talked over this bad news for a long time, and at last they agreed that every one who could be at all funny must go and try to make Tat-e-lak laugh. A great many at once said that they could be funny; but when they were tried, their performances were so dull that most of those who looked on were quite annoyed, and refused to let them go near the Frog, for fear he should lose his temper instead of laughing. However, every one was too thirsty to wait to try all those willing to undertake to make him merry: and they set off through the Bush in a queer company, the animals running, hopping or walking, the snakes and reptiles crawling, and the birds flying overhead. "The water will run back to you before we do!" they cried to the wives and young ones they were leaving behind. But that was just a piece of brave talk, for in reality they did not feel at all sure about it. They hurried through the scrub, getting more and more scattered as they went along, for the swift ones would not wait for those who were slower. In the early morning the leaders came out of the trees, and found themselves on a swampy plain leading to the sea. All the water had dried up, and a creek that had its course through it was also dry. It was a very dreary-looking place. Not far from the beach there was a little hill; and, sitting on it, they saw the monster Frog. He was a terrible creature in appearance, for he was so immense that the hill was lost under him, just like a hugely fat man sitting on a button mushroom. He was so swelled up that it seemed that if anything pricked him he would burst like a balloon; but when they came near him they saw how thick his skin was, and knew that no prick would go through it. His beady eyes were bulging out, and though they tried to attract his attention, he only gazed out to sea and took no notice of them at all. "Well, he has certainly had a great drink, but he does not look as if he had enjoyed it," remarked Mirran, hopping round him. "I should think he would find himself more comfortable under the sea than sitting on that poor little hill!" said Merkein, the Jackass. "He will probably go back to the sea," the Native Companion answered. "Let us hope he will not take all the water with him." "How uncomfortable he must be!--why, he is like a mountain!" hissed Mumung, the Black Snake. "May I not go and bite him?" "Certainly not!" said Mirran hastily. "It might make him angry; or he might die, and we do not want the water poisoned. Unless you can make him laugh, you had better get into your hole!" So Mumung subsided, muttering angrily to himself. Then the animals began to try to make the Frog laugh. It was the first circus that ever was in Australia. They danced and capered and pranced before him, and the birds sang him the most ridiculous songs they could think of, and the insects sat on his head and told him the funniest stories they had gathered in flying round the world: but he did not take the smallest notice of any of them. His bulging eyes saw them all, but not a word did he say. It is very hard to be funny when nobody laughs, and the animals soon became rather disheartened. But Mirran would not let them stop. He himself did most wonderful jumps before the Frog, and once hopped right over the Emu, who looked so comical when she saw the great body sailing over her that all the animals burst out laughing; but the Frog merely looked as though he would like to go to sleep. Then Menak, the Bandicoot, brought his brothers, and performed all kinds of antics; and the 'Possums climbed up a little tree and hung from its boughs, and were very funny in their gymnastics; and the Dingo and his tribe held a coursing match round the hill on which the Frog sat, going so fast that no one could see where one yellow dog ended and the next began; but none of these things amused the Frog at all. He stared straight in front of him, and, if possible, he looked a little more bulgy. But that was all. The animals held another council, and tried to think of other funny things. Mirran remembered how the Jackass had laughed when he had sat down on Kowern, the Porcupine, and though that had been a most unpleasant experience for him, he bravely offered to do it again. Kowern, however, did not like the idea, and scuttled away into a hole, and they had great difficulty in finding him--and when they did find him, it was quite another matter to make him come out. At last they induced him to appear, and to let Mirran sit on him. But it was not a successful experiment. Perhaps Mirran was nervous, for he knew how it felt to sit on Kowern's quills; and so he let himself down gently, and Kowern gave a heavy groan, but no one even smiled. As for the Frog, he was heard to snore. It was all rather hard on Mirran, for the experiment hurt him just as much as if it had been quite successful. So the day went on, and when it was nearly evening, the animals could do no more: and still Tat-e-lak sat and stared stupidly before him, and looked more and more huge and bulgy in the gathering darkness; and Waat, the Red Wallaby, declared that the little hill he sat on was beginning to flatten under his weight. They were quite hopeless, at last. All were so tired and thirsty that they could not have attempted more antics, even had they known any, but, indeed, they had done everything they knew. They sat in a half-circle round the great Frog and looked at him sadly; and the Frog sat on his hill and did not look at anything at all. Just about this time, Noy-Yang, the great Eel, woke up. He was lying in a deep crack in the muddy bed of the creek, and when the mud dried and hardened it pinched him, and he squirmed and woke. To his surprise, there was no water anywhere. Noy-Yang wriggled out of his crack, very astonished and indignant. He found all the creek-bed dry, as you know; so he wriggled across it and up the bank, and came out on a little mud-flat by the sea. There he looked about him. On one side the sea rippled, but Noy-Yang knew that its water was no good for him. On the other was only dry land--the swampy ground he knew and loved, but now there was no water in it. It was very puzzling to a sleepy Eel. He looked a little farther and saw the great Frog sitting on his hill. But he looked so huge that Noy-Yang thought the hill had simply grown bigger while he slept; and though that was surprising, it was not nearly so surprising as finding no water. Then he saw all the animals sitting about him, but he took no notice of them. All he cared for was to get away from this hot, dry mud, and find a cool creek running over its soft bed. So he wriggled on, making very good time across the flat. Nobody saw him, for all the animals were looking miserably at the Frog. Kowern, the Porcupine, had felt very sore and bruised after Mirran had sat on him for the second time. He was a sulky fellow, and he did not want to be sat on any more, even if it were for the good of all the people. "Mirran will be making a habit of this soon," he said crossly; "I will get out of the way." So he hurried off, and got into the nearest hole, which happened to be near the edge of the mud-flat. There he went to sleep. Noy-Yang came wriggling along, hating the hard ground, and only wanting to get to a decent creek. He was in such a hurry that he did not see Kowern, and he wiggled right across him--and it seemed to him that each of Kowern's spines found a different place in his soft body. Noy-Yang cried out very loudly and threw himself backwards to get off those dreadful spikes. He was too sore to creep at all: the only part of him that was not hurt was the very point of his tail, and he stood up on that and danced about in his wrath and pain, with his body wriggling in the air, and his mouth wide open. And when the monster Frog caught sight of the Eel dancing on his tail on the mud-flat, he opened his mouth and let out such a great shout of laughter as had never been heard before in the world or will ever be heard again. Then all the waters came rushing out of the Frog's mouth, and in a moment the dry swamp was filled with it, and a sheet of water rushed over the mud-flat where Noy-Yang was dancing, and carried him away--which was exactly what Noy-Yang liked, and made him forget all his sores. It was not so nice for Kowern, the Porcupine, for he was swept away, too, and as he could not swim, he was drowned. But he was so bad-tempered that nobody cared very much. Tat-e-lak went on laughing, and the water kept pouring out of his open mouth; and as he laughed he shrank and shrank, and his skin became flabby and hung in folds about him. He shrank until he was only as large as a few ordinary frogs put together: and then he gave a loud croak, and dived off into the water. He swam away, and none of the animals ever saw him again. At that moment the animals were much too busy with their own affairs to think much about Tat-e-lak. When the water first appeared they rushed at it eagerly, and each drank as much as he could. Then they felt better, and looked about them. Mirran, the Kangaroo, was the first to make a discovery. "Ky! It will be a flood!" said he. "A flood--nonsense!" said Warreen, the Wombat. "Why, ten minutes ago it was a drought!" "Yes, and now it will be a flood," said Mirran, watching keenly. "Look!" The water had run all over the plain, filling up the swamp, and already the creek showed like a line of silver where but a few moments ago there had been only dry mud. But it was plain that the water could not get away quickly enough. All the plain was like a sea, and there were big waves washing round the little hills. "Save yourselves!" cried Mirran, to the people. "Soon there will be no dry land at all!" He set off with great bounds, thinking of his mate and the little ones he had left in the forest. Behind him came all the people, running, jumping and crawling; and behind them came the water, in one great wave. Some reached the high ground of the forest first, and found safety, and others took refuge on hills, while those that could climb fled up trees. But many could not get away quickly, and the waters caught them, and they were drowned. Next morning the animals who were saved gathered at the edge of the forest and looked over the flood. It stretched quite across the plain, and between it and the sea was only the yellow line of the sand-hummocks. Nearer to the forest were a few little hills, and on these could be seen forlorn figures, huddling together for warmth--for the air had become very cold. "There are some of our people!" cried Mirran in a loud voice. "How are we to rescue them?" No one could answer this question. None of the animals could swim, and if they had been able to do so, they had still no way of getting the castaways to dry land. They could only look at them and weep because they were so helpless. After awhile, Booran, the Pelican, came flying up, in a state of great excitement. "Have you seen them?" he cried. "Waat is there, and little Tonga, the 'Possum, and old Warreen, and a lot of others; and soon they will die of cold and hunger if they are not saved. So I must save them." "You!" said all the animals. "There's no need to say it in that tone!" said Booran angrily. "I can make a canoe and sail over quite easily. It will please me very much to save the poor things." So Booran cut a big bark canoe, which he called Gre. He was very proud of it, and would not let anyone touch it or help him at all; and when it was finished he got in and paddled over to the little islands where the animals shivered and shook, with soaked fur and heavy hearts. They grew excited when they saw Booran coming, and when he arrived, with his canoe, they nearly tipped it over by all trying to get in at once. This was repeated at each island, and at last Booran lost his temper altogether and threatened to leave them all where they were. This dreadful idea made them very meek, and they were quite silent as Booran paddled them towards the shore. Now, Booran had not a pleasant nature. It did not suit him to find people meek, for it at once made him conceited and inclined to be a bully. He felt very important, to be taking so many animals back in his boat; and so he began to say rude things to them, and in every way to be unpleasant. The animals bore this quietly for a time, for they were too cold to want to dispute with him, and besides, they were really very grateful for being saved. But after a while, he became so overbearing that Waat, the Red Wallaby, answered him back sharply, and others joined in. Before they got to shore, they were all quarrelling violently, and when they had only a few yards to go Booran suddenly stopped paddling, and jumped out so quickly that he upset the canoe, and threw all the animals into the water. He swam off, chuckling, and saying, "That will help to cool your bad tempers!" The water was not deep, and the animals escaped with only a ducking. They struggled to the dry land, very wet and miserable. "That was a mean trick to play on us," said little Tonga, his teeth chattering. "I would like to fight Booran, if only he would come ashore. But he will keep out of our way now." "Ky! Look at him!" said Waat. They looked, and they saw Booran coming in rapidly, as though he were floating on the water, and had no power to stop himself. His eyes were fixed and glassy, and his great beak wide open. A wave brought him right up on the shore, and blew over him in a cloud of spray. When the spray had gone, Booran had gone, too; and where he had lain on the bank was a big rock, shaped something like a pelican. That was the story old Conara told me, as we fished for Murray cod together. He said that all his people knew the rock, and called it the Pelican Rock; and it stood on the plain long after Booran and his children's children's children were almost forgotten. To-day the plain is dry, and no water ever lodges there; but when the blacks see the Pelican Rock they think of the time when it was all in flood, when Tat-e-lak, the great Frog, nearly caused all the animals to die of thirst, and when Noy-Yang, the Eel, saved them by dancing on his tail on a mud-flat by the sea. VIII THE MAIDEN WHO FOUND THE MOON CHAPTER I Very long ago, before the white man came to conquer the land, a tribe of black people lived in a great forest. Beyond their country was a range of mountains which separated them from another tribe of fierce and warlike blacks, and on one side they were bounded by the sea. They were a prosperous tribe, for not only was there plenty of game in the forest, to give them food and rugs of skins for clothing, but the sea gave them fish: and fish were useful both to eat and for their bones. The blacks made many things out of fish-bones, and found them very useful for tipping spears and other weapons. Being so powerful a tribe, they were not much molested by other blacks. The mountains to the north were their chief protection. No wandering parties of fighting men were likely to cross them and surprise the tribe, for they were steep and rugged and full of ravines and deep gullies that were difficult to cross, unless you knew the right tracks. The nearest tribe had come over more than once, and great battles had taken place; but the sea-tribe was always prepared, for the noise of their coming was too great to be hidden. There had been great fights, but the sea-tribe had always won. Now they were too strong to fear any attack. So strong were they, indeed, that they did not trouble about fighting, but only wished to be peaceful. Their life was a very simple and happy one, and they did not want anything better. The tribe was called the Baringa tribe, and the name of its chief was Wadaro. He was a tall, silent man, very proud of his people and their country, and of his six big sons--all strong fighting-men, like himself--but most of all, he was proud of his daughter, Miraga. Miraga was just of woman's age, and no girl in all the tribe was so beautiful. She was straight and supple as a young sapling, lissom as the tendrils of the clematis, and beautiful as the dawn striking on the face of the waters. Her deep eyes were full of light, and she was always merry. The little children loved her, and used to bring her blossoms of the red native fuchsia, to twine in her glossy black hair. Most blacks, men and women, look on everything they meet with one thought. They ask, "Is it good to eat?" But Miraga was different. She had made friends with many of the little animals of the Bush, and they were her playmates: bandicoots, shrew-mice, pouch-mice, kangaroo-rats, and other tiny things. They were quite easy to tame, if anyone tried; even snappy little Yikaura, the native cat, with its spotted body and fierce sharp head, became quite gentle with Miraga, and did not try to touch her other pets. She begged the tribe not to eat the animals she loved, and they consented. Of course, in many tribes it would have been necessary to go on using them for food, and any woman who tried to save them would only have been laughed at. But the Baringa folk had so much food that they could easily afford to spare these little furry things. Besides, it was Miraga who asked, and was she not the chief's daughter? However, it was not only because she was the chief's daughter that the people loved Miraga and did what she asked them. She was always kind and merry, and went about the camp singing happily, generally with a cluster of children running after her. If anyone were sick she was very good, bringing food and medicines. Being the daughter of Wadaro, the chief, she might have escaped all work; but instead, she did her share, and used to go out digging for yams and other roots with the other girls of the tribe, the happiest of them all. The tribe beyond the northern hills was called the Burrin. They were very fierce and had many fighting-men; but their country was not so good as that of the Baringa, and they were very jealous of the happy sea-tribe. One time they came to the conclusion that it was long since they had had a fight--and that it would be a very good thing to try and win the Baringa country. They did not want to go over the mountains unprepared. So they sent a picked band of young men, telling them to cross into the land of the Baringas and find out if they were very strong, and if there were still much game in the forest. They were not to fight, but only to prowl in the forest and watch the sea-tribe stealthily. Then they were to return over the mountains with their report, so that the head-men of the Burrin could decide whether it were wise to send all their fighting-men over to try and conquer the Baringa. The little band of Burrin men set off with great pride. Their leader was the chief's son, Yurong, who was stronger than any man of his tribe, and of a very fierce and cruel nature. He was not yet married, although that was only due to an accident. Once he had been about to take a wife, and had gone to her camp and hit her on the head with a waddy, which was one of the blacks' customs in some tribes, before carrying her to his own wurley. But he hit too hard, and the poor girl died--which caused Yurong a great deal of inconvenience, because her parents wanted to kill him too. It was only because he was the chief's son that he escaped with his life. Now he was still unmarried, because no girl would look at him. It made Yurong more bad-tempered than he was naturally, and that is saying a good deal. He had great hopes from the expedition into the Baringa country. If he came back successful, and won a name for himself as a fighter, he thought that all the maidens of his tribe would admire him, and forget that he had been so ready with his stick when he was betrothed first. Yurong and his band left the plain where the Burrin tribe roamed, and journeyed over the mountains. They did not find any great difficulties, for they had been told where to find the best tracks, and they had scarcely any loads to hamper them. It was summer-time, and the lightest of rugs served them for covering at night, even in the keener air of the hills. There was no difficulty in finding food or water, and the stars were their guides. When they came to the country of the Baringas they went very cautiously, for they did not wish to encounter any of Wadaro's men. In the daytime they hid themselves in gullies or in bends of the creek, only coming out when their scouts knew that no enemies were near; but at night they travelled fast, and before long they climbed up a great hill that lay across their path, and from its topmost peak they saw the gleaming line of the sea. Then, watching, they saw camp-fire smoke drifting over the trees; and they knew they had found Wadaro's camp. They became more careful than ever, knowing that now was their greatest danger. Sometimes they hid in trees, or in caves in the rocks, all the time watching, and noting in their memories the number of the men they saw and the signs of abundance of game. There was no doubt that this was a far better country than their own, and they thirsted to possess it. At the same time they could see how strong the Baringas were. Even their womenfolk were tall and straight and strong, and would help to fight for their land and their freedom. The Burrin men used to see them when they went out to dig in the Bush, a merry, laughing band. Always with them was a beautiful girl with red flowers in her hair. Yurong would watch her closely from his hiding-place, and he made up his mind that when the fighting was over this girl should be the chief part of his share of the spoils. He was so conceited that he never dreamed that his tribe would not win. But misfortune fell upon Yurong and his little band. They were prowling round the outskirts of Wadaro's camp one night when a woman, hushing her crying baby to sleep, caught a glimpse of the black forms flitting among the trees. She gave the alarm silently, and silently the fighting-men of the Baringas hurled themselves upon the intruders. There was no time to flee: the Burrin men fought fiercely, knowing that escape was hopeless. One by one, they were killed. Yurong was the last left alive. He turned and ran, when the last of his comrades fell, a dozen Baringas at his heels. The first he slew, turning on him and striking him down; then he ran on wildly, hearing behind him the hard breathing of the pursuing warriors. Suddenly the ground under his feet gave way. He fell, down, down, into blackness, shouting as he went; then he struck icy water with a great splash. When he came to the surface he could see the moonlight far above him, and hear the voices of the Baringa men, loud and excited. Then he went under once more. On the river-bank, steep and lofty, the Baringas watched the black pool where Yurong had disappeared. There was no sign of life there. "He is gone," they said at last. "No man ever came alive out of that place. Well, it is a good thing." They watched awhile longer, and then turned back to the camp, where songs of victory were ringing out among the trees. CHAPTER II But Yurong did not die. When he sank for the second time, he did it on purpose. The fall had not hurt him, and his mind worked quickly, for he knew that only cunning could save him. He swam under water for a few moments, letting himself go with the current. But presently a kind of eddy dragged him down, and he found himself against a wall of rock, which blocked the way, so that there seemed to be no escape. But even in his agony he remembered that so long as the current ran there must be some way out; and he dived deeply into the eddy. It took him through a hole in the rock, far under the water, scraping him cruelly against the edges; but still, he was through, and on the other side he rose, gasping. Here the river was wider and shallower, and not so swift. Yurong let it carry him for awhile; then he scrambled out on one side, and found a hiding-place under a great boulder. He rubbed himself down with rushes, shivering. Then, crouching in his hole, he slept. When he awoke, he knew that now he should not lose a moment in getting back to his tribe. He had learned the fighting strength of the Baringas, with all else that he had come to find out; but, besides that, he had now the deaths of his comrades to avenge. And yet, three days later, Yurong was still in hiding near the enemy's camp. He had made up his wicked mind that when he went away he would take with him the beautiful girl he had so often seen in the forest with her companions. Quite unconscious of her danger, Miraga went about her daily work. The sight of her, and the beauty of her, burned into Yurong's brain; often in the forest he dogged her footsteps, but the other girls were always near her, and he dared not try to carry her away. He knew now she was the chief's daughter, and he smiled to think that through her he could deal the cruellest blow to Wadaro, besides gaining for himself the loveliest wife in all the Bush. But out in the scrub the girls clustered about Miraga, and in the camp the young men were never far from her. There was not one of them who would not have gladly taken her as his bride, but she told her father that she was too young to think of being married, and Wadaro was glad enough to keep her by his side. But Yurong, fiercely jealous, could see that there was one man on whom Miraga's eyes would often turn when he was not looking in her direction--a tall fellow named Konawarr--the Swan--who loved her so dearly that indeed he scarcely gave her a chance to look at him, since he so rarely took his gaze from her! He was the leader of the young fighting-men, and a great hunter; and Yurong thirsted to kill him, as the kangaroos thirst for the creeks in summer, when Drought has laid his withering hand upon the waters. So five days went by. In the forest Yurong hid, living on very little food--for he dared not often go hunting--and always watching the camp; and Miraga, never dreaming of the danger near her, lived her simple, happy life. The children always thronged round her when she moved about the camp, and she would pause to fondle the little naked black babies that tumbled round the wurleys, tossing them in the air until they shouted with laughter. Yurong saw with amazement how the little animals came to her and played at her feet, and it impressed him greatly with a sense of the wealth of the Baringa tribe. "Ky!" he said to himself, "they are able to use food for playthings!" Never before had he dreamed of such a thing. One evening the girls went out into the scrub, yam-digging, each carrying her yam-stick and dilly-bag--the netted bag into which the black women put everything, from food to nose-ornaments. Miraga's was woven of red and white rushes, with a quaint pattern on one side, and she was very proud of it, for it had been Konawarr's gift. She was thinking of his kind eyes as she walked through the trees, brushing aside tendrils of starry clematis and wild convolvulus, and finding a way through musk and hazel thickets. He had looked at her very gently when he gave her the bag, and she knew that she could trust him. She was very happy as she wandered on--so happy that she did not notice for a while that she had strayed some distance from the other girls, and that already the shadows were creeping about the forest to make the darkness. "I am too far from camp," she said aloud. "I must hurry back, or my father will be angry." She turned to retrace her steps, pausing a moment to make sure of her direction. Then, from the gloom of a tall clump of dogwood, something sprang upon her and seized her. She struggled, sending a stifled cry into the forest--but it died as a heavy blow from a waddy took away her senses. Yurong carried her swiftly away. Day came, and found them still fleeing, Miraga a helpless burden in her captor's arms. Days and nights passed, and still they travelled northwards, across the rivers, the forest, and the mountains. They went slowly, for at length Yurong could carry the girl no farther, and at first she was too weak to walk much. Even when she grew stronger she still pretended to be weak, doing all in her power to delay their flight--always straining her ears in the wild hope that behind her she might hear the feet of the men coming to save her--led by Wadaro and by Konawarr. Somewhere, she knew, they were searching for her. But as the days went by, and no help came, her heart began to sink hopelessly. Yurong was not unkind to her. He treated her gently enough, telling her she was to be his wife, but she hated him more and more deeply each hour. Thinking her very weak, he let her travel slowly, and helped her over the rough places, though she shrank from his touch. But he took no risks with her. He kept his weapons carefully out of her reach, and at night, when they slept, he bound her feet and hands with strips of kangaroo-hide, so that she might not try to escape. Then they came to the topmost crest of the mountains, and below them Yurong could see the country of his people. At that, Miraga gave up all hope. They camped on the ridge that night; and for the first time she sobbed herself to sleep. She woke up a while later, with a sound of little whispers in her ears. It was quite dark inside the wurley; but she heard a patter of tiny, scurrying feet, and a few faint squeaks. Miraga lay very still, trembling. Then a shrill little voice came, very close to her. "Mistress--oh, mistress!" "Who is it?" she whispered. "We are your Little People," came the faint voice. "Lie very still, and we will set you free!" On her hand, Miraga felt a patter of tiny feet, like snowflakes falling. They ran all over her body; she felt them down at her bare ankles, and near her face. She knew them now, though it was dark--little Padi-padi, the pouch-mouse, and Punta, the shrew-mouse, and Kanungo, the kangaroo-rat, with the bandicoot, Talka. They were all her friends--her Little People. Dozens of them seemed to be there in the dark, nibbling furiously at the strips of hide on her wrists and ankles. How long the time seemed as she lay, trembling, in great fear lest Yurong should awaken! The very sound of her own breathing was loud in her ears, and the faint rustlings of the Little People seemed a noise that must surely wake the sleeping warrior. But Yurong was tired, and he slept soundly: and the Little People worked hard. At last the bonds fell apart and she was free. Gliding like a snake, she crept out of the wurley, and ran swiftly into the forest that clothed the mountains. But scarcely had she gone when Yurong woke and found she was not there. He sprang to his feet with a shout, grasping his weapons, and rushed outside. There was no sign of Miraga--but his quick ear caught the sound of a breaking twig in the forest, and he raced in pursuit. Again he heard it, this time so close that he knew she could not be more than a few yards away. Then he found himself suddenly on the edge of a great wall of rock, and there was no time to stop. He shouted again, in despair, as he fell--down, down. Then no more sounds came. But just on the edge of the precipice three bandicoots came out of a heap of dry sticks, laughing. "That was easily done," said one. "It was only necessary to jump up and down among the sticks and break a few, and the silly fellow made sure it was Miraga." "Well, he will not make any more foolish mistakes," said his brother. "But is it not surprising to find how simple these humans are!" "All but our mistress," the first said. "Come--we must make haste to follow her, or else we shall have another long hunt. And nobody knows what mischief she may fall into, if we are not there to look after her!" CHAPTER III Miraga ran swiftly into the heart of the forest, glancing back in terror, lest at any moment she should see Yurong. She heard him shout, and the crash of his feet in pursuit as he plunged out of the wurley; and for a moment she gave herself up for lost. He was so swift and so strong: she knew that she could never escape him, once he was on her track. Another cry reached her presently, not so close. It gave her her first throb of hope that Yurong had taken the wrong turning among the trees. Still she was far too terrified to slacken speed. She fled on, not knowing where she was going. A great mountain peak loomed before her, and she fled up it. It was hard climbing, but it seemed to her safer than the dark forest, where at any moment Yurong's black face might appear. Here, at least, she might be safe; at least, he would not think of looking for her in this wild and rugged place. Perhaps, if she hid on the mountain for a few days he would grow tired of looking for her, and go away, back to his own people; and then she could try to find her way home. At the very thought of home, poor Miraga sobbed as she ran: it seemed so long since the happy days in the camp by the sea. The way was strange. She climbed up, among great boulders and jagged crags of rock. Above her the peaks seemed to pierce the sky. Deep ravines were here and there, and she started away from their edges: somewhere, water fell swiftly, racing down some narrow bed among the rocks. So she went on, and the moonlight grew stronger and stronger, until it flooded all the mountain. She fought her way, step by step, up the last great peak. And, suddenly, in the midnight, she came out upon a great and shining tableland: then she knew that in her journeyings she had found the Moon! [Illustration: "Then she knew that in her journeyings she had found the Moon!"] She wandered on, in doubt and fear--fear, not of this strange new land, but of the men she dreaded to find there. But for a long time she saw no people. Only in the dim hours, when the earth-world glowed like a star, but all the moon-country was dark, there came about her the Little People that she knew and loved--Padi-padi, and Punta, Talka and Kanungo. And because she was very lonely, and a lonely woman loves the touch of something small and soft, she took some of them up and carried them with her in her dilly-bag. "How did you know I was lost?" she asked them. "How did we know?" they said, laughing at her. "Why, all the forest sang of it! The magpie chattered it in the dewy mornings, and Moko-Moko, the Bell-Bird, told all about it to the creeks in the gullies. Moko-Moko would not leave his quiet places to tell the other animals, but he knew the creeks would carry the story. Soon there was no animal in all the Bush that did not know where you had gone. Only we could not tell your own stupid people, for they would not understand." "And are they looking for me?" Miraga asked. "They seek for you night and day. Your father has led a party of fighting-men to the east, and Konawarr has gone north with all his friends. They never rest--all the time they seek you. And the women are wailing in the camp, and the little children crying, because you are gone." That made Miraga cry, too. "Can you not take me back?" she begged. "I can go if you will show me the way." But the Little People shook their heads. "No, we cannot do that," they said. "We can help you, and we can talk to you, but we may not take you back. You must find the way yourself." So Miraga wandered on through the Moon-Country. It was very desolate and bare, strewn with rocks and craggy boulders, and to walk long upon it was hard for naked feet. There were no rivers, and no creeks, but a range of mountains rose in one place, and were so grim and terrible that Miraga would not try to climb them. She found stunted trees, bearing berries, which she ate, for she was very hungry. "Perhaps they are poisonous, and will kill me," she said. "I do not think that greatly matters, for I begin to feel that I shall never get home." But the berries were not poisonous. Indeed, Miraga felt better when she had eaten them. Her strength came back to her, and her limbs grew less weary. She put some of the berries into her dilly-bag for the Little People. Then she set off on her wanderings again. She did not know how long she had been in the Moon-Country, after a while. It seemed that she had never done anything but find her way across its rugged plains, seeking ever for the track back to the green Earth-World. So silent and strange was it that she began to think there was no living being upon it but herself and the Little People she carried with her. One day, wandering along a rocky edge, she quite suddenly came upon the camp of the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon. She cried out in fear, and fled. But he was awake, and when he saw this beautiful girl, he rose and gave chase. But Miraga was fleet of foot; and the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon was a fat man, and heavy: for, as the blacks know, he never goes hunting, as men do, but always sits down in the shadow of his mountains. Presently, he saw that the girl was escaping; she drew farther and farther ahead, running like a dingo, and already he was puffing and panting. So he stamped his foot and called to his dogs, and they came out of the holes of the hills--great savage brutes, lean and hungry-looking, of a dark colour. They came, running and growling, and sniffing angrily at the air. Their master waved his hand, and they uttered a long howl and followed swiftly after Miraga. Now, indeed, she thought that her end had come. Mists swam before her eyes, and her feet stumbled: she, whose limbs were so lithe and strong, tottered like a weary old woman. Behind her, the long howls of the dogs woke terror in her heart. They drew nearer; almost she could feel their hot panting breath. But just as she was about to sink down, exhausted, the Little People in the dilly-bag chattered and called to her. "Mistress! Oh, Mistress!" they cried. "Let us out, that we may save you!" She heard them, and fumbled with shaking fingers at the fastening of the bag. It slipped from her shoulders, and fell to the ground; and as it fell, the animals burst out and fled in many directions, some here and some there, squeaking and chattering. And when the fierce Dogs of the Moon saw them, they forgot to pursue Miraga, but turned and coursed swiftly after the animals. Behind them the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon shouted vainly to them. There are no animals in the Moon-Country, and so the Dogs have no chance of hunting; but the sight of the scampering Little People woke their instincts, and they dashed after them wildly. They caught some, and swiftly slew them; others dodged, and leaped, and twisted, escaping into little rockholes, where the dogs could not follow them. The noise of the hunting and the deep baying of the Dogs echoed round the Moon and made thunder boom among the Stars. But Miraga ran on, stumbling for weariness. She knew that the Dogs were no longer close upon her, but she dreaded to hear them again at any moment, for she did not see how such feeble Little People could keep them off for long. So she ran, and as she went, her tears fell for the little friends who had given their lives for her. At last, too tired to see where her stumbling feet had led her, she came to the brink of a great precipice, and fell down and down, until her senses left her. But when she opened her eyes again, it was to meet those of Konawarr; and he was holding her in his arms and calling her name over and over, with his voice full of pity and love; and behind him were his friends--all the band who had been seeking her with him. They were all smiling to her, with welcome and joy on each friendly face. For in her fall she had come back to the dear Earth-World once more, and her sorrows were at an end. So, when the tribes look up to the sky on moonlit nights and see the great shape that looms across the brightness, they say it is the mighty Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon; who, like themselves, is black, but grown heavy and slothful with much idleness and sitting-down. The parents scare idle children with his name, saying that if they do not bestir themselves they, too, will become fat and useless like him. But Miraga used to tell her children another story, and when she told it her eyes would brim with tears. It was the story of the Little People she loved, who followed her to the Moon-Country, and there gave up their lives for her, saving her first from Yurong, and then from the teeth of the Dogs of the Moon. And the children would shiver a little, clustering more closely--all save little Konawarr, who would grasp his tiny boomerang and declare that he would kill anything that dared to hurt his mother. The great dogs still crouch around the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon, waiting to do his bidding. You can see them, if you look closely--dark spots, near the huge figure in the midst of the brightness. They are the fierce Dogs that guard the lonely country in the sky: the Dogs that long ago hunted, howling, after Miraga the Beautiful, across the shining spaces of the Moon. IX MIRRAN AND WARREEN Mirran, the Kangaroo, and Warreen, the Wombat, were once men. They did not belong to any tribe, but they lived together, and were quite happy. Nobody wanted them, and they did not want anybody. So _that_ was quite satisfactory. Warreen was the first. All his tribe had been drowned in a flood, leaving him quite alone. So he found a good camping-place, where there were both shelter and water, and he made himself a camp of bark, which he called, in the language of his tribe, a willum. He was not in a hurry when he was making it, so he did it well, and no rain could possibly come through it. One side of it was a big rock, which made it very strong, so that no wind was likely to blow it away. Overhead a beautiful clump of yellow rock-lilies drooped gracefully. Not that Warreen cared for lilies; and this particular clump annoyed him, for the rock was too steep for him to climb up and eat the lily-roots. He had been living there for some time, very lazy and contented, when one day Mirran appeared. At first Warreen thought he meant to fight, and that also annoyed him, because he hated fighting. But Mirran soon showed him that he only wanted to be friends; and then Warreen discovered that he was very glad to have some one with whom he could talk. So after the manner of men, they sat down and yarned all day. Several times during the day Mirran said, "I must be going." But Warreen always answered, "Oh, don't go yet"; and they went on talking harder than ever. Night came, and Mirran said, "It is really time I made a move." Warreen said, "Why not stay the night? I can put you up." They talked it over for a while, and then it was quite too late for Mirran to go. So he stayed all night, and in the morning Warreen said, "Why not spare me a few days, now that you are here?" Mirran willingly agreed to this, for he had nothing to do, and he thought it very nice of Warreen to put the invitation that way. They became great friends. Mirran was tall and thin and sinewy, while Warreen was very short and dumpy, and exceedingly fat. Also, he was lazy, and he liked having some one to help him get food, at which Mirran was very quick and clever. Mirran also was the last of his tribe. The others had been killed by warlike blacks, and Mirran would have been killed also, but that he managed to swim across a river and get away into the scrub. He was very active and fleet of foot, and delighted in running, which was an exercise that bored Warreen very badly. Soon they made an arrangement by which Mirran did all the hunting, while Warreen dug for yams and other roots, and prepared the food, just as a woman does. It suited them both very well. Mirran had one peculiarity that Warreen at first thought exceedingly foolish. He did not like to sleep indoors. It was summer time when he came, and he would not build himself a willum, but slept upon a soft bed of grass under the stars. If a cold night came, or even a rainy one, he rolled himself in his 'possum rug and slept just as happily. Warreen began by thinking he was mad. But as time went on he often slept outside with Mirran, himself, especially on those nights when they were talking very hard and did not want to leave off. Warreen used to grumble at the hardness of the ground, but he was really very much better for staying outside, in the fresh night-air. His little willum was a very stuffy place. Sometimes he would think about the Winter, and say to Mirran: "When are you going to build your willum?" "Oh, there is plenty of time," Mirran would say. "The cold weather will be here, and then what will you do?" "Oh, I expect I shall have my camp ready in time. It will not take me long to build it, when the time comes." "If you are not very careful, you will find yourself caught by the Winter, and you will not like that," said Warreen. But Mirran only laughed and talked about something else. He hated building, and was anxious to put it off as long as possible. Warreen had a very suspicious mind, and it often made him believe very stupid things. He was the kind of man who was best living alone, because so often he got foolish ideas into his head about other people, and imagined he had cause for offence when there was really none at all. So he began to wonder why Mirran would not build a camp, and the thought came to him that perhaps he did not intend to build at all, but meant to take possession of his own willum. Of course, that was ridiculous, for Mirran was only lazy, and kept saying to himself, "To-morrow I will build"; and when to-morrow came, he would say, "Oh, it is beautiful weather; I need not worry about building for a few days yet." So he went on putting it off, and Warreen went on being suspicious, until sometimes he felt sorry he had ever asked Mirran to live with him. But Mirran sang and joked, and hunted, and had no idea that Warreen was making himself uneasy by such stupid thoughts. One night, clouds came drifting over the sky, after a hot day, and Warreen said, "I am not going to sleep outside to-night." "I don't think it will rain," said Mirran. "It is much cooler out here." "Yes, but one soon forgets that when one is asleep. I hate getting wet," said Warreen. "Well, just as you like," Mirran answered. "For my part, I am too fond of the stars to leave them." So he spread his 'possum rug in a soft place, and lay down. In a few minutes he was fast asleep, and Warreen went off to bed feeling rather bad-tempered, though he could not have told why. In the night, heavy rain came, and the air grew rapidly very cold. Mirran woke up, grumbled a little at the weather, rolled himself in his 'possum rug and crept into the most sheltered corner he could find by the rock, not liking to disturb Warreen by going into the willum. It was too cold to sleep, so he soon uncovered the ashes of their camp fire, and put sticks on it; and there he crouched, shivering, and wishing Warreen would wake up and invite him to sleep in the shelter. But the rain came more and more heavily and a keen wind arose; and a sudden squall put out Mirran's fire. Soon, little channels of water were finding their way in every direction over the hard ground, so that Mirran became very wet and half-frozen. Then he noticed a red glow inside the willum. "That is good," he said, joyfully, "Warreen is awake, and has made himself a fire. Now he will ask me to go and lie down in his hut." He crouched close by the rock for a long time, thinking each moment that Warreen would ask him in. But no sound came, and after a while he came to the conclusion that Warreen could not know he was awake. So he got up and went over to the door of the willum and looked in. The little fire was burning redly, and all looked very cosy and inviting to poor, frozen Mirran. Warreen lay near the fire, and looked at him suspiciously. "Ky! what a night!" said Mirran, his teeth chattering. "You were right about the weather, Warreen, and I was wrong. I have been very sorry for the last hour that my camp is not built. May I come in and sit in that corner?" There was not much vacant space in Warreen's little willum, but it was quite big enough for two at a pinch. In the corner to which Mirran pointed there was nothing. But Warreen looked at him suspiciously, and grunted under his breath. "I want that corner for my head," he said, at last. And he turned over and laid his head there. Mirran looked rather surprised. "Never mind; this place will do," he said, pointing to another corner. "I want that place for my feet," Warreen said. And he moved over and laid his feet there. Still Mirran could not understand that his friend meant to be so churlish. "Well, this place will suit me famously," he said, pointing to where Warreen's feet had been. But that did not please Warreen either. "You can't have that place--I may want it later on," he said, with a snarl. And he turned and lay down between the fire and Mirran, and shut his eyes. Then Mirran realized that Warreen did not mean him to have any warmth or shelter, and he lost his temper. He rushed outside into the wet darkness, and stumbled over a big stone. That was not a lucky stumble for Warreen, for all that Mirran wanted at the moment was a weapon. He picked up the stone and ran back into the willum. Warreen lay by the fire and he flung the stone at him as hard as he could. It hit Warreen on the forehead, and immediately his forehead went quite flat. "That's something for you to remember me by!" said Mirran angrily. "You can keep your dark little hole of a willum and live in it always, just as you can keep your flat forehead. I have done with you!" He turned and ran out of the hut, for he was afraid that if he stayed he would kill Warreen. Behind him, Warreen staggered to his feet and caught hold of his spear, which leaned against the wall near the doorway. He did not make any reply, but he drove the spear into the darkness after Mirran, and it hit him in the back and hung there. Mirran fell down without a word. The light from the fire shone on him as he lay there in the rain, with the spear behind him. Warreen laughed a little, holding by his door-post. "I shall have a flat forehead, shall I?" he said. "Well, you will have more than that. Where that spear sticks, there shall it stick always, and it will be a tail for you. You will never run or jump without it again--and never shall you have a willum." Then he had no more strength left, so he crept back and lay beside his fire, while Mirran lay in the pouring rain. No one saw Warreen and Mirran again as men. But from that time two new animals came into the Bush, and the Magpie and the Minah, those two inquisitive birds who know everything, soon found out their story and told it to all the black people. So everybody knows that Warreen, the Wombat, and Mirran, the Kangaroo, were once men and lived together. They do not live together now, nor do they like each other. The Wombat is fat and surly and lazy, and he lives in a dark, ill-smelling hole in the ground. His forehead is flat, and he does not go far from his hole; and he is no more fond of working for his living than he was when he lived in a willum as a man. The Kangaroo lives in the free open places, and races through the Bush as swiftly as Mirran used to race long ago. But always behind him he carries Moo-ee-boo, as the blacks call his tail, and it has grown so that he has to use it in running and jumping, and now he could not get on without it. He is just as quick and gentle as ever, but when he is angry he can fight with his forepaws, just as a man fights with his hands. Other animals of the Bush have holes and hiding-places, but the Kangaroo has none. He does not look for shelter, but sleeps in the open air. It is difficult to see him, for when he is eating young leaves and grass his skin looks just the same colour as the trees, and you are sometimes quite close to him before his bright eyes are seen watching you eagerly. Then he turns and hops away, faster than a horse can gallop, in great bounds that carry him yards at every stride, with Moo-ee-boo, his long tail, thumping the ground behind him. He has learned to use it--to balance on it and make it help him in those immense leaps that no animal in the Bush can equal. So Warreen did not do him so bad a turn as he hoped when he threw his spear at him that rainy night long ago. X THE DAUGHTERS OF WONKAWALA The Chief Wonkawala was a powerful man, who ruled over a big tribe. They were a fierce and warlike people, always ready to go out against other tribes; and by fighting they had gained a great quantity of property, and roamed unmolested through a wide tract of country--which meant that all the tribe was well-fed. Wonkawala had not always been a chief. He had been an ordinary warrior, but he was fiercer and stronger than most men, and he had gradually worked his way up to power and leadership. There were many jealous of him, who would have been glad to see his downfall; but Wonkawala was wary, as well as brave, and once he had gained his position, he kept it, and made himself stronger and stronger. He had several wives, and in his wurleys were fine furs and splendid weapons and abundance of grass mats. Every one feared him, and he had all that the heart of a black chief could desire, except for one thing. He had no son. Five daughters had Wonkawala, tall and beautiful girls, skilled in all women's work, and full of high courage, as befits the daughters of a chief. Yillin was the eldest, and she was also the bravest and wisest, so that her sisters all looked up to her and obeyed her. Many young warriors had wished to marry her, but she had refused them all. "Time enough," she said to her father. "At present it is enough for me to be the daughter of Wonkawala." Her father was rather inclined to agree with her. He knew that her position as the eldest daughter of the chief--without brothers--was a fine thing, and that once she married she would live in a wurley much like any other woman's and do much the same hard work, and have much the same hard time. The life of the black women was not a very pleasant one--it was no wonder that they so soon became withered and bent and hideous. Hard work, the care of many babies, little food, and many blows: these were the portion of most women, and might well be that even of the daughter of a chief, when once she left her father's wurley for that of a young warrior. So Wonkawala, who was unlike many blacks in being very fond of his daughters, did not urge that Yillin should get married, and the suitors had to go disconsolately away. But there came a time when Wonkawala fell ill, and for many weeks he lay in his wurley, shivering under his fur rugs, and becoming weaker and weaker. The medicine-men tried all kinds of treatment for him, but nothing seemed to do him any good. They painted him in strange designs, and cut him with shell knives to make him bleed: and when he complained of pain in the back they turned him on his face and stood on his back. So Wonkawala complained no more; but the back was no better. After the sorcerers had tried these and many other methods of healing, they declared that some one had bewitched Wonkawala. This was a favourite device of puzzled sorcerers. They had made the tribes believe that if a man's enemy got possession of anything that had belonged to him--even such things as the bones of an animal he had eaten, broken weapons, scraps of furs he had worn, or, in fact, anything he had touched--it could be employed as a charm against him, especially to produce illness. This made the blacks careful to burn up all rubbish before leaving a camping-place; and they were very keen in finding odd scraps of property that had belonged to an unfriendly tribe. Anything of this kind that they found was given to the chief, to be carefully kept as a means of injuring the enemy. A fragment of this description was called a wuulon, and was thought to have great power as a charm for evil. Should one of the tribe wish to be revenged upon an enemy, he borrowed his wuulon from the chief, rubbed it with a mixture of red clay and emu fat, and tied it to the end of a spear-thrower, which he stuck upright in the ground before the camp-fire. Then all the blacks sat round, watching it, but at some distance away, so that their shadows should not fall upon it, and solemnly chanted imprecations until the spear-thrower fell to the ground. They believed that it would fall in the direction of the enemy to whom the wuulon belonged, and immediately they all threw hot ashes in the same direction, with hissing and curses, and prayers that ill-fortune and disease might fall upon the owner. The sorcerers tried this practice with every wuulon in Wonkawala's possession; but whatever effect might have been produced on the owners of the wuulons, Wonkawala himself was not helped at all. He grew weaker and weaker, and it became plain that he must die. The knowledge that they were to lose their chief threw all the blacks into mourning and weeping, so that the noise of their cries was heard in the wurley where Wonkawala lay. But besides those who mourned, there were others who plotted, even though they seemed to be crying as loudly as the rest. For, since Wonkawala had no son, some other man must be chosen to succeed him as chief, and there were at least half a dozen who thought they had every right to the position. So they all gathered their followings together, collecting as many supporters as each could muster, and there seemed every chance of a very pretty fight as soon as Wonkawala should breathe his last. The dying chief was well aware of what was going on. He knew that they must fight it out between themselves, and that the strongest would win; but what he was most concerned about was the safety of his daughters. Their fate would probably be anything but pleasant. Once left without him, they would be no longer the leading girls of the tribe, and much petty spite and jealousy would probably be visited upon them by the other women. Or they might be made tools in the fight for the succession to his position, and mixed up in the feuds and disputes which would ensue: indeed, it might easily happen that they would be killed before the fighting settled down. In any case it seemed to Wonkawala that hardship and danger were ahead of them. He called them to him one evening, and made them kneel down, so close that they could hear him when he spoke in a whisper. "Listen," he said. "I am dying. No, do not begin wailing now--there will be time enough for that afterwards. My day is done, and it has been a good day: I have been a strong man and my name will be remembered as a chief. What can a man want more? But you are women, and my heart is uneasy about you." "Nothing will matter to us, if you die!" said Yillin. "You may think so now," said the chief, looking at her with affection in his fierce eyes. "But my death may well be the least of the bad things that may happen to you. You will be as slaves where you have been as princesses. Even if I am in the sky with Pund-jel, Maker of Men, I shall be unhappy to see that. Therefore, it seems to me that you must leave the tribe." "Leave the tribe!" breathed Yillin, who always spoke for her sisters. "But where should we go?" "I have dreamed that you shall go to the east," said her father. "What is to happen to you I do not know, but you must go. You may fall into the power of another tribe, but I believe they would be kinder to you than your own would be, for there will be much fighting here after I have gone to Pund-jel. I think any other tribe would take you in with the honour that is due to a chief's daughters. In any case, it is better to be slaves among strangers than in the place where you have been rulers." "I would rather die than be a slave here!" said Yillin proudly. "Spoken like a son!" said the old chief, nodding approval. "Get weapons and food ready secretly, all that you can carry: and when the men are away burying me, make your escape. They will be so busy in quarrelling that they will not notice soon that you have gone; and then they will be afraid to go after you, lest any should get the upper hand during their absence. Go to the east, and Pund-jel will decide your fate. Now I am weary, and I wish to sleep." So Yillin and her sisters obeyed, and during the next few days they hid weapons in a secret place outside the camp, and crammed their dilly-bags with food, fire-sticks, charms, and all the things they could carry. Already they could see that there was wisdom in their father's advice. There was much talk that ceased suddenly when they came near, and the women used to whisper together, looking at them, and bursting into rude laughter. Yillin and her sisters held their heads high, but there was fierce anger in their hearts, for but a week back no one would have dared to show them any disrespect. At last, one evening, Wonkawala died, and the whole tribe mourned for him. For days there was weeping and wailing, and all the time the chief's daughters remained within their wurley, seeing no one but the women who brought them food. As the time went on, the manner of these women became more and more curt, and the food they brought less excellent, until, on the last day of mourning, Yillin and her sisters were given worse meals than they had ever eaten before. "Our father spoke truth," said Yillin. "It is time we fled." "Time, indeed," said Peeka, the youngest sister. "Did you see Tar-nar's sneering face as she threw this evil food in to us?" "I would that Wonkawala, our father, could have come to life again to see it," said Yillin with an angry sob. "He would have withered her with his fury. But our day, like his, is done--in our own tribe. Never mind--we shall find luck elsewhere." After noon of that day the men of the tribe bore the body of Wonkawala away, to bury it with honour. The women stayed behind, wailing loudly as long as the men were in sight; but as soon as the trees hid them from view they ceased to cry out, and began to laugh and eat and enjoy themselves. They fell silent, presently, as the five daughters of Wonkawala came out of their wurley and walked slowly across the camp. They were muffled in their 'possum-rugs, scarcely showing their faces. For a moment there was silence, and then one of the women said something to another at which both burst into a cackle of laughter. Then another called to the five sisters, in a familiar and insolent manner. "Where do you go, girls?" "We go to mourn for our father in a quiet place," answered Yillin haughtily. "Oh--then the camp is not good enough for you to mourn in?" cried the woman with a sneer "But do not be away too long--there will be plenty of work to do, for you, now. Remember, you are no longer our mistresses." "No--it is your turn to serve us, now," cried another. "Bring me back some yams when you come--then perhaps there will not be so many beatings for you!" There was a yell of laughter from all the women, amidst which Yillin and her sisters marched out of the camp, with disdainful glances. When they drew near their hiding-place they kept careful watch, in case anyone had followed them. As a matter of fact, all the women were by that time busily engaged in ransacking their wurley, and dividing among them the possessions the sisters had not been able to carry away; so that they were quite safe. They collected their weapons and hurried off into the forest. They had obeyed their father and gone east, and the burial-place was west of the camp, so they met nobody, and their flight was not discovered that night. The men came back to the camp in the evening, hungry and full of eagerness about the fight for the leadership of the tribe, and the women were kept busy in looking after them. The first fight took place that very evening, and though it was not a very big one, it left no time for anyone to wonder what had become of the five sisters. Not until next day did the tribe realize that they had run away; and then, as Wonkawala had foreseen, no one wanted to run after them. Certain young warriors who had thought of marrying them were annoyed, but they could only promise themselves to pursue and capture them when the tribe should again have settled down under new leadership. The five sisters were very sad when they started on their journey, for the Bush is a wide and lonely place for women, and there seemed nothing ahead of them but difficulty and danger. They wept as they hurried through the forest, nor did they dare to sleep for a long time. Only when they were so weary that they could scarcely drag themselves along, did they fling themselves down in a grassy hollow, where tall ferns made a screen from any prying eyes, and a stream of water gave them refreshment. They slept soundly, and dreamed gentle dreams; and when they awoke in the morning it seemed that a great weight had been lifted from their hearts. "I feel so happy, sisters," said Yillin, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "Our father came to me in my sleep, and told me to be of good courage and to smile instead of weeping." "He came to me, also," said Peeka, "and told me there was good luck ahead." "After all," said another of the girls, "what have we to fret about? It is a fine thing to go out and see the world. I am certain that we are going to enjoy ourselves." "It will be interesting, at any rate," said Yillin. "But we must hurry onward, for we are not yet safe from pursuit--though I do not think it will come." They made as much haste as possible for the next few days, until it seemed certain that no one was tracking them down; and with each dawn they felt happier and more free from care. They were lucky in finding game, so that they were well-fed; and on the fifth day they came upon trees loaded with mulga apples, which gave them a great feast. They roasted many of the apples and carried them with them in their food-bowls. Sometimes they came to little creeks, fringed with maidenhair fern, where they bathed; sometimes they passed over great, rolling plains, where they could see for miles, and where kangaroos were feeding in little mobs, dotted here and there on the kangaroo-grass they loved. Flocks of white cockatoos, sulphur-crested, flew screaming overhead, and sometimes they saw the beautiful pink and grey galahs, wheeling aloft, the sunlight gleaming on their grey backs and rose-pink crests. Then they went across a little range of thickly-wooded hills, where the trees were covered with flocks of many-coloured parrots, and the purple-crowned lorikeets flew, screeching--sometimes alighting, like a flock of great butterflies, on a gum-tree, to hang head downwards among the leaves, licking the sweet eucalyptus honey from the flowers with their brush-like tongues. Sometimes, when they had lain very quietly through a hot noon-tide hour, they saw the lyre bird, the shyest bird of all the Bush, dancing on the great mound--twenty or thirty feet high--which it builds for its dome-shaped nest; mocking, as it danced, the cries of half the birds in the country, and waving its beautiful lyre-shaped tail. The magpie woke them in the dawn with its rich gurgling notes; the beautiful blue-wren hopped near them, proud of his exquisite plumage of black and bright blue, chirping his happy little song. They passed swamps, where cranes and herons fished, stalking in the shallows, or flew lazily away with dangling legs; and sometimes they heard the booming of the bittern, which made them very much afraid. At evening they would hear a harsh, clanging cry, and, looking up, they would see a long line of black swans, flying into the sunset. There were other birds too, more than any white boy or girl will ever know about: for these were the old days of Australia, long before the white men had come to settle the country and destroy the Bush with their axes. But there were no rabbits, and no thistles, for Australia was free from them until the white men came. Gradually the daughters of Wonkawala lost all fear. They were perfectly happy, and the Bush no longer seemed lonely to them; they had enough to eat, they were warm at night, and so strong and active, and so skilled in the use of weapons, had their woodland life made them, that they did not seem to mind whether they met enemies or not. They often danced as they went on their way, and made all the echoes of the forest ring with their songs. At last, one day, they found their way barred by a wide river which flowed from north to south. They could, of course, all swim; but it was not easy to see how to get their furs across. They were talking about it, wondering whether they could make a canoe or a raft, when they heard a friendly hail, and, looking across, they saw five girls standing on the opposite bank. "Who are you?" shouted the strangers. "We are the daughters of Wonkawala," they cried. "Who are you?" "We are girls of the Wapiya tribe, out looking for adventures." "Why, so are we, and we have found many." They shouted questions and answers backwards and forwards, until they began to feel acquainted. "What do you eat?" "What furs have you?" "What songs do you sing?" That led to singing, and they sang all their favourite songs to each other, beating two boomerangs together as an accompaniment. When they had finished they felt a great desire to travel together. "It is really a great pity that the river flows between us," cried the daughters of Wonkawala. "How can we join you?" The Wapiya girls laughed. "That is quite easy," they answered. "This is a magic river, and when once your feet have touched it you will be Magic too. Dance straight across!" "You are making fun of us," cried Yillin. "No, indeed, we are not. We cannot cross to you, for on your side there is no Magic. But if you will trust us, and dance across, you will find that you will not sink." This was hard to believe, and the sisters looked at each other doubtfully. Then Yillin took off her rug and handed it to Peeka. "It will be easy enough to try, and at the worst I can only get a wetting," she said. "Follow me if I do not sink." She went down to the water and danced out upon its surface. It did not yield beneath her; the surface seemed to swing and heave as though it were elastic, but it supported her and she danced across with long, sliding steps. Behind her came her sisters; and so delightful was it to dance on the swinging river-top that they burst into singing, and so came, with music and laughter, to the other side. The Wapiya girls met them with open arms. "Ky! You are brave enough to join us!" they cried. "Now we can all go in quest of adventure together, and who knows what wonderful things may befall us!" So they told each other all their histories, and they held a feast; and after they had all eaten, they danced off to the east together, for they were all so happy that their feet refused to walk sedately. Presently they came to an open space where were many tiny hillocks. "This is Paridi-Kadi, the place of ants," said the Wapiya girls. "Here we have often come before, to gather ants' eggs." "Dearly do we love ants' eggs," said little Peeka, licking her lips. "And these are very good eggs," said the eldest of the Wapiya girls, whose name was Nullor. "But the ants defend them well, and those who take them must make up their minds to be bitten." "Ants' eggs are worth a few bites." "Certainly they are. Now let us see if you are really as brave as you say." They attacked the hillocks with their digging-sticks, and unearthed great stores of plump eggs, which they eagerly gathered. But they also unearthed numbers of huge ants of a glossy dark green colour, and these defended their eggs bravely, springing at the girls and biting them whenever they could. "Ky!" said Yillin, shaking one off her arm. "It is as well that these eggs are so very good, for the bites are certainly very bad. We have no ants like these in our country." "Have you had enough?" asked Nullor, laughing. "Enough bites, yes; but not enough eggs," said Yillin, laughing as well. "The eggs are worth the pain." She thrust her digging-stick into a hillock so energetically that she scattered earth and eggs and ants in all directions, and one ant landed on Nullor's nose and bit it severely--whereat Nullor uttered a startled yell of pain, and the daughters of Wonkawala laughed very much. "Who is brave now?" cried little Peeka. Nullor rubbed her nose with a lump of wet earth, which, as she was black, did not have such a curious effect as it would have had on you. "I was taken by surprise," she said, somewhat shamefacedly. "And indeed, my nose is not used to such treatment, for I do not usually poke it into ants' nests!" They ate all the eggs, and rubbed their bites with chewed leaves, which soon took away the stings; and then they danced away together. After a time, Yillin saw an eagle flying low, carrying something in its talons. She flung a boomerang at it, and so well did she aim that she broke its neck, and the great bird came fluttering down. It fell into a pool of water and Yillin jumped in to rescue its prey, for she could see that it was alive. It turned out to be a half-grown dingo, a fine young dog, which was too bewildered, between flying and drowning, to make any objection to being captured. Yillin secured it with a string which she plaited of her own hair and as much of Peeka's as Peeka was willing to part with, and fed it with bits of wallaby; and the dog soon became friendly and licked her hand. "He is a lovely dog," she said, "and I will always keep him. I will call him Dulderana." "I think he will be rather a nuisance," said Nullor. "Anyway, he will soon leave you and go back into the Bush." "I do not think he will," Yillin said. "Well, you cannot teach him to dance or sing," said Nullor, laughing, "so he will have to run behind us." "Of course he will; and he will be very useful in hunting," said Yillin. "We should not have lost that 'possum yesterday if we had had a dog." Dulderana very soon made himself at home, and became great friends with all the girls. It amused him very much when they danced, and though he could not dance himself, he used to caper wildly round them, uttering short, sharp barks of delight. But their singing he did not like at all, and when they began, he used to sit down with his nose pointing skywards, and howl most dismally, until the girls could not sing for laughing. Then they would pelt bits of stick at him until he was sorry. By degrees he learned to endure the singing in silence, but he never pretended to enjoy it. One day, as they went along, they saw in the far distance a silvery gleam. "What is that?" asked Yillin. "It looks like the duntyi, or silver bush," said the Wapiya girls, doubtfully. "That does not grow in our country," said Yillin. "Let us go and look at it." But when they drew near, they saw that it was not a bush at all. Instead, it was a man, a very old man. He had no hair on his head, but his great silver beard hung straggling to his knees, and when the breeze blew it about it was so large that it was no wonder they had mistaken it for a bush. No word did he speak, but he sat and looked at them in silence, and when they greeted him respectfully he only nodded. Something about him made them feel afraid. They clustered together, looking at him. At last he spoke. "I have come too soon," he said. "You are not ready for me yet. Go on." At that Dulderana howled very dismally indeed, and rushed away with his tail between his legs. The girls quite understood how he felt, and they also ran away, never stopping until they were far from the strange old man. "Now, who was that?" Yillin said. Nullor looked uneasy. "I do not know," she said. "This is a strange country, and there is much Magic in it. We will hurry on, or he may perhaps come after us." So they hastened on into the forest, forgetting, for a while, to dance; but then their fear left them, and again their songs rang through the Bush. They passed a clump of black wattle, the trunks of which were covered with gum, in great shining masses, so that they had a splendid feast; for the gum was both food and drink, and what they could not eat they mixed with water and drank, enjoying its sweet flavour. With their bags filled with gum they went on, and one evening they camped among a grove of banksia trees, near a pool of quiet water. It was not very good water to drink, but the Wapiya girls showed the five sisters how to suck it up through banksia cones, which strained out any impurities and gave it a very pleasant taste. They were tired, and lay down early. In the night a great wind sprang up, and with it came a curious booming noise. It woke the daughters of Wonkawala, and they sat up in alarm. "Ky! that must be a huge bittern," said Peeka. "It is not like a bittern," Yillin said. "I have never heard any sound like it. Perhaps it is the Bunyip, of whom our mother used to tell us when we were little--a terrible beast who lives in swamps, and whose voice fills every one with terror." The Wapiya girls woke up, and they also listened. Then they laughed among themselves, but they did not let the sisters see that they were laughing. They seemed to think little of the noise. "It is only the wind howling," they said. "Lie down and sleep, you five inlanders!" "What do you mean by that?" demanded Yillin. But the Wapiya girls only giggled again, and lay down, declaring that no Bunyip was going to spoil their sleep. And as they were so cheerful, the sisters came to the conclusion that they might as well do the same. When they awoke it was day, and the booming was still going on, and the wind felt fresh and wet. The Wapiya girls were already up, and they greeted them with laughter. "We have a surprise for you," said they. "Shut your eyes, and let us lead you." The sisters did so, and felt themselves led forward. Presently the earth became soft and yielding under their feet, and they cried out in alarm, but the others laughed again, and said, "Never mind, you are quite safe." In a moment more they said, "Now, open your eyes!" The sisters did so, and lo! they stood before a great sheet of water with high, tumbling waves. Blue and sparkling was the water, and the big waves came rolling in, gathering themselves up slowly with their tops a mass of foam, which slowly rose and curled over until it plunged down, crashing in a smother of breaking bubbles. The daughters of Wonkawala had never seen anything like it before, and they gasped in amazement. "Ky! what a river!" they cried. "Where is the other side?" The Wapiya girls shouted with laughter. "The other side!" they gasped, when they could speak. "Why, there is no other side. This is the Sea, and it is the end of all things. Have you never heard of it?" "Is _that_ the Sea?" The five sisters stared. "We have heard stories of it from the old men and women, but we never imagined that it was like this. No one could imagine it without seeing it. Have you known it before?" "Oh, yes. We have often camped here with our tribe. Come nearer." They took the sisters down to the edge of the water, and presently a great wave rolled in, broke in a thunderous roar, and came dashing up the sand. The sisters stared at it in amazed admiration at first, and then, as it came nearer, Fear fell upon them, and they screamed and turned to fly. They ran as fast as they could in the yielding sand, but the wave came faster and the water caught them, at first round their ankles and then swiftly mounting to their knees. Then it went back, and the sisters thought that they were slipping back with it, and screamed louder than ever. The Wapiya girls, themselves weak with laughter, caught hold of them. "The Sea!" screamed the sisters. "The Sea is carrying us away!" The others led them up on higher sand and laughed at them until they began to laugh at themselves. "Never before have I seen water that runs backwards and forwards, as though a great giant were shaking it in a bowl," said Yillin. "We are sorry to have been afraid, but it is all very peculiar and unexpected. Are you sure it is not Magic?" "I do not think anyone can be sure of that about the Sea," said Nullor. "It is strange water, and indeed I often think that it is very great Magic indeed. But if it is, it is a good Magic, and we are not afraid of it." "And this queer yellow earth, that slips away under the feet--is that Magic too?" "Oh--the sand. Perhaps it is--who knows. But it will not hurt you. Come on, let us bathe in the Sea, for that is one of the most beautiful things in the world." The daughters of Wonkawala hung back at first, for they were very doubtful of trusting themselves to the magic water. But the others laughed and persuaded them, and they ventured in, paddling at first, until they became used to the rushing breakers. But soon they gained confidence, and before long not even the Wapiya were bolder than they, and they would dive into a breaker and be carried in on its curling top, laughing and playing like so many mermaids: so that the Wapiya girls soon lost any feeling of superiority, and only regained it once, when Peeka, feeling thirsty, scooped up some of a passing wave in her cupped hands and took a deep draught. For the next two minutes Peeka was coughing and spluttering and spitting, while the other girls yelled with laughter. "That is certainly very bad Magic," said Peeka angrily, when she could speak. "What has made the water turn bad?" That set the Wapiya girls off into fresh peals of mirth, and it was some time before they could explain that the water was always salt. Peeka was annoyed, but presently she laughed too. "Oh, well, if that is the worst of its Magic, there is not much to grumble at," she said. "Come on, girls, let us dive into this next one!" And the next moment Peeka's merry black face was half hidden in the flying spray as the breaker bore her ashore. They stayed by the Sea for some days, for the inland girls were too fascinated to leave it, and when they were not bathing in it, they were wandering along the shore, wildly excited over finding shells and seaweed and all the other treasures of the sands. Then one day a great black cloud came up, obscuring all the sky, and instead of being sparkling blue and silver, the water turned to a dull grey and looked dead and oily. The other girls were afraid of it, and would not go into the cold, dark breakers: but Yillin, who loved bathing more than any of them, would not be persuaded, and plunged in for a swim. She did not stay long, for the water felt more and more uncomfortable each moment; so she let a big, sullen breaker carry her in, and, wading out, ran up the beach to the other girls. They started back when they saw her, looking at her with amazement and fear. "What have you done to yourself?" cried Nullor. "I? Nothing. What are you looking at?" Nullor pointed a shaking forefinger at her body, and looking down, Yillin uttered a bewildered cry. No longer was she smooth-skinned and black. Her body and legs were thickly covered with shining scales, so that she gleamed like silver. [Illustration: "Her body and legs were thickly covered with shining scales, so that she gleamed like silver."] "It is the water!" she stammered. "It must be!" "Does it feel pleasant?" inquired Nullor. "It looks quite beautiful." "I do not feel anything at all," Yillin answered. "But it certainly does look well." She gazed at her shining self with interest, and turned round so that the others might see if her back were similarly ornamented. It was, and the other girls grew a little jealous. "Jump in, and see if the Magic will come upon you, too," cried Yillin. They did not lose a moment. Flinging their fur aprons from them, they rushed down the beach and plunged into the dark waves. And lo! when they emerged, they too were covered with silver scales. They stood together on the sand, a shining company. "Let us walk along the shore, and see what else will befall us," said Yillin. They gathered up their property and set off eastwards again. The shore curved out after a time, forming a rocky cape. They rounded this, and found themselves on the coast of a little bay, round which they hurried, anxious to explore some great rocks at the farther point. But when they reached them, they found their way barred. The rocks were a solid wall: a great black cliff that rose sheer from the water, running far out beyond even the farthest line of the breakers. Nowhere was there any way of advancing: the bay was ringed with the dark, smooth cliffs. The little dog Dulderana whimpered as if in fear. "Let us go back!" said the Wapiya girls. "This is not a good place." For a moment the daughters of Wonkawala were inclined to agree. Then there came to them suddenly the vision of their father, who had said, "Go to the east," and they knew they must obey. "We are not afraid," they said. "Go you back, if you wish." "We do not wish to leave you," the Wapiya said sadly. "Nor do we wish to lose you, for we have loved you very much," said the sisters. "But we must go forward. Will you not come?" The Wapiya girls shook their heads. "No," they said. "Something tells us that we must return, and never see you more. But we will always watch for you, and perhaps some day we may hear you coming, singing our old songs, and we will run to meet you." They embraced each other, weeping, and slowly the Wapiya girls went back until the rocky promontory hid them from sight. Then Yillin dashed her tears away. "Come, my sisters!" she cried. They took hands and danced together towards the wall of rock that loomed before them, black, unbroken, forbidding. Yillin was at the end, and as she reached the rock she raised her Wona, or digging-stick, and struck the rock. It split open, and they danced through the cleft. Before them was no more the Sea, but a green country dotted with trees, and covered with thick grass. A little way from them was a low mound, towards which they danced. As they drew near, they saw that some one was sitting on it--a very old man, whose silver beard swept below his feet. He sat motionless, save that his hands were always busy, pulling the long silver hairs from his beard and twisting them into a cord. "It is the old man we met long ago!" whispered the sisters. Somehow, the fear that they had felt when they met him with the Wapiya girls was upon them no longer: and the little dog Dulderana, who had fled from him howling, now ran up to him gaily, frisking round him. The old man put out his hand and fondled him, and Dulderana snuggled against him; then, nestling down with his head on his fore-paws, he looked at Yillin as if to say, "This is my master." Yillin understood the look in his eyes. "Do you like him, Master?" she asked. "We bring him to you as a gift." "That is a good gift," said the old man, looking much pleased. "And you are welcome, my children. I think that this time I have not met you too soon. Are you weary with all your wanderings?" "No, we are never weary," said Yillin. "We have danced, and hunted, and bathed, and sung; and we have forgotten all our sorrows. Our father, Wonkawala, bade us come east, and we obeyed him." "And so you found friends and happiness," said the old man. "Sit down, and tell me of all that you have seen." They sat down in a semi-circle before him, and, speaking one after another, they told him the story of their long journey. He heard them in silence, nodding now and then: and all the time his fingers moved ceaselessly, plaiting the silver hairs into a long cord. It lay in great shining coils at his feet. The little dog nestled beside him, and sometimes, when he paused to adjust a fresh coil, his fingers rested for a moment on its head. He smiled at the sisters when they had finished their story. "It was indeed a great journey; and the Sea has clothed you in silver, so that you are more glorious than any chief's daughters have ever been before," he said. "And now comes the greatest adventure of all." He rose, as he spoke, pointing to the sky. The sisters looked up, and cried out in awe. For as they looked, the clouds parted, and they saw behind them Arawotya, who lives in the sky: a great and gentle Being whose face seemed to have light behind it. He looked down at them kindly, and beckoned. Then he began to lower a long cord, made, like that of the old man, of plaited hair. It reached almost to the top of the mound where they stood. "You are to go up," said the old man. "You first, I last of all. But first we will send up the little dog, that you may see how safe it is." He took his silver cord and tied it round the body of Dulderana, then joining it to the magic cord from the sky. Then Arawotya pulled it up, so gently that the little dog never seemed frightened, and he disappeared behind a cloud. Presently the cord came back again, and one after another the old man tied the girls with it, and Arawotya drew them up to himself. Yillin was the last of the sisters to go, but as she was being pulled up she cut her hand with her digging-stick, and her Pirha, or food-bowl, fell. It was a very beautiful carved Pirha, and, because it had been her father's, Yillin felt very sad. Even when Arawotya had gently received her, and, untying the cord, placed her by her sisters, she peered over the edge of the cloud, trying to see where it had fallen. The old man was being drawn up, and just as he reached the clouds Yillin caught sight of her Pirha, lying on the mound. "See!" she whispered to Peeka. "My Pirha--it lies below. I will just slide down the cord and get it, for it belonged to our father, Wonkawala. Arawotya will forgive me and pull me up again." She slid hurriedly down the cord and joyfully seized the bowl. But when she turned to climb up again she uttered a cry of despair, for the cord was out of her reach. Arawotya had drawn it up. As she looked, it disappeared, and then the cloud-masses swept together, blotting out everything above. She was alone. All that day and night Yillin lay on the mound, weeping, and begging Arawotya to forgive her and take her up to her sisters. But all the clouds had gone, and there was only a clear blue sky, bright with moonlight and dotted with a million stars: and there was no sign of those whom she had lost. She gave herself up to despair. "Yakai!" she moaned. "Better that I had remained a slave in the camp of Wonkawala than have come to this lonely land to die!" Towards morning, exhausted, she fell into a troubled sleep. And in her sleep her father came to her, and his face was grave and kind. "Alas, my daughter!" he said. "You have lost your chance of happiness for the sake of a worthless Pirha. What! did you imagine that you would need a Pirha in the sky?" "No--but because it was yours, my father," she sobbed in her sleep. Wonkawala's face shone with a great light. "Always you were my dear and faithful daughter," he said. "Because of that, there is yet happiness for you. Go forward, and no matter what shall befall you, be of good courage." Then the vision faded, and after that Yillin's sleep was no longer troubled. She woke refreshed in the morning, and although she was lonely for her sisters, there was hope in her heart. She took her weapons and went forward. It was a quiet country. There seemed no men and women in it, nor even any animals; and even the birds were strange to her. She passed over a great rocky plain, making for a green line of trees that seemed to mark the windings of a creek, for she was very thirsty. She found it, a clear wide stream, and drank deeply: then she wandered along its banks. And here at length there was a touch of home, for there were many crimson parrots in the trees, and the noise of their harsh crying to each other was as music in her ears. They had their mates, and to see them made her feel less lonely. She found some roots and berries, which she ate, hoping they were good for food: and when night came, she curled into a hollow under a rock and slept deeply, waking refreshed, eager to go on her way. Then for many days she wandered, following the course of the creek, for she was afraid to go far from water. She was a strange figure in her silvery scales. Whenever she caught sight of herself, mirrored in the water as she bent to drink, it gave her a new throb of amazement. She was wandering along one day when a rustling in the bushes made her glance aside. To her surprise, a dog was looking at her, and she could see that it was a tame one. Yillin had always loved dogs, and she whistled to this one, trying to coax it to play with her. But the dog was suspicious, and backed away from her, growling: then it uttered a few short barks and raced off into the scrub. Two black hunters, who were ranging through the Bush a little way off, stopped, hearing the barking. "My dog has started game of some kind," said one. "He does not bark for nothing." "Let us go and look," said the other. They turned aside in the direction of the sound, and presently came upon the dog, who bounded to his master and licked his hand. "What have you been barking for?" demanded his master, patting him. The dog wagged his tail vigorously and ran a few paces into the bushes. "I believe there is something in that direction," the hunter said. "We might as well go and see, Chukeroo." They moved noiselessly through the scrub, and presently Chukeroo caught his friend's arm. "See, Wonga," he whispered. "There is a demon! Let us fly!" Wonga looked, and saw a strange, glittering figure standing by a tree. He was just as afraid as his friend, but he was also full of curiosity. "It seems to be a woman-demon," he whispered back. "See! it has long hair, and the face is the face of a woman." He pondered, watching the strange apparition. "And it carries weapons--strange, that a demon should go armed, Chukeroo. I should like to get hold of those weapons. They would be worth having in a fight." "You may try, if you like, but I have no fancy for fighting demons," said Chukeroo. "I do not know that I have, either," said Wonga. "Perhaps, though, a woman-demon would not be so terrible to fight. Look how she glitters when she moves! She would be a startling wife for a man to take home to his wurley, Chukeroo." "Every one to his fancy," returned his friend. "Personally I prefer mine black." "You are used to yours, but I have none yet," said Wonga, laughing, for he was a cheerful youth. "Come, I am going to get a nearer look at the demon. Are you afraid?" "Very much, but I suppose I had better come," said Chukeroo grumblingly. "You are a mad-headed fellow, Wonga, and you will get into trouble if you do not take care. I only hope that this is not the sort of demon that the sorcerers tell us about, who can blast men to cinders with a wave of the hand." He followed his friend, and they crept through the bushes until they found a place where they could see the strange being more closely. In their excitement they had forgotten the dog, and suddenly it gave a loud bark. The shining figure turned sharply and ran towards them. "Save yourself!" uttered Chukeroo. "It has seen us!" They turned to run, but in crossing a clear space Chukeroo caught his foot in a trail of clematis and fell headlong, scattering his weapons. Wonga pulled himself up, and raced back to help his friend. Before they could gather all the fallen spears the strange being was upon them. Yillin was as astonished as the black hunters--and as afraid. But she had learned to defend herself, and so she flung her digging-stick at Wonga. It grazed his leg, and made him so angry that he forgot all about being afraid of this demon, and hurled his spears at her. But his fear returned when he saw them glance off her shining scales as though she were covered with glass, and then fall harmlessly to the ground. Chukeroo joined in the fight: but though the aim of both hunters was true, nothing seemed to pierce those magic scales. Moreover, the strange being, having lost her digging-stick, picked up the fallen spears and flung them at their owners so rapidly that they thought themselves lucky in being able to dodge behind trees with whole skins. "She is indeed a demon!" gasped Chukeroo. "She may be, but she is very like a woman," said Wonga. "And I am not going home to tell the other warriors that a woman has stolen my spears, even if she does happen to be a demon. Besides, you know as well as I do that they will not believe us. Even your own wife will laugh at you, and she will not believe." "That is true enough," said Chukeroo gloomily. "What are we to do?" "I will make you armour," said Wonga. "Then we will go back, and when the demon throws the spears at you they will stick in the armour, and I will rush in and secure them." "I do not know that it is much of a plan, but at least I have no better," said Chukeroo. "Be quick, or the demon may come and find us unarmed." So Wonga broke off young saplings, and lashed them round his friend with strips of twisted stringy bark fibre, until nothing of him could be seen, and he had great difficulty in moving. Then, slowly and cautiously, they made their way back to the open space where they had fought. Yillin was standing wearily by a tree with the spears in her hand. She jumped round as they came, and while she flung spear after spear at Chukeroo, Wonga ran through the trees and came behind her. His foot struck against her own digging-stick, and he picked it up and rushed at her. The point caught in her shining scales, and ripped them up as though they were paper. They fell in tatters about her. "Do not kill me!" she cried. "I am a chief's daughter!" "A chief's daughter, are you?" said Wonga. Suddenly his angry face grew soft with pity. "Why, I thought you a demon," he said--"and lo! you are only a poor, frightened little girl!" * * * * * So the wanderings of Yillin came to an end, and though she missed happiness with Arawotya in the sky, yet, as Wonkawala had said in her vision, she found it elsewhere. For Wonga took her home and married her, and his tribe treated her with honour because she was the daughter of a mighty chief; and later on, Wonga became the chief of his own tribe, and she helped him to rule it in wisdom. Very often she was lonely for her four sisters, especially for little Peeka, whom she had loved best of all: but she comforted herself by thinking that they were happy with Arawotya in the sky, and that some day she would find them again. Then, together, they would go at the last to Pund-jel, Maker of Men, and join their father Wonkawala. There were five stars in the southern sky that she liked to watch, for she grew to believe that they were her sisters, and that the tiniest of the five was her little dog Dulderana. They are the stars of the Southern Cross. And it seemed to Yillin that they looked down at her and smiled. Otherwise, Yillin was never lonely, for many children came to her and Wonga, and her wurley always seemed full of jolly black babies and wee lasses and lads. Yillin did not mind however many there were, especially as she did not have to worry about clothes for them. They grew into strong, merry boys and girls, who loved dancing and songs and laughter just as she had always loved them. She used to tell them the story of her wanderings, and when she came to the part about the silver scales that had once covered her, they would pretend to hunt for them on her black skin, and would laugh very much because they could never find any. And Wonga would laugh too, and say, "Ah, well, many men find their wives demons after they have married them, so I was lucky in only thinking that of mine beforehand--and then finding I had made a mistake!" XI THE BURNING OF THE CROWS No one in the Bush ever had a good word to say for the Crows. From the very earliest times they were a noisy, mischievous race, always poking their strong beaks into what did not concern them, and never so happy as when they were annoying other people. Whatever a mother Crow taught her chickens, civility and good manners were not included in the lessons; they were accomplishments for which none of the family had the slightest use. It did not at all trouble the Wokala, as the Crows were called, that they were unpopular. Indeed, they rather gloried in the amount of ill-feeling they were able to excite among the Bush folk. They were powerful birds, well able to hold their own in any quarrel with birds of their own size, and so quick and daring that they would even steal from animals, or attack weak ones, secure in the advantage given them by their strong wings. They made so many enemies, however, that they took to going about in flocks, so that no one dared molest them--not even Wildoo, the Eagle, or Kellelek, the Cockatoo. Especially did Wildoo hate the Wokala. He was always proud, as the King of the Birds has every right to be, and among all birds that fly his word was law. He liked to keep good order, and if any bird displeased him, a few quiet words, possibly accompanied by a discreet peck, or a blow from one of his great wings, was more than enough to bring the offender to his senses. One day he had occasion to punish one of the Wokala, who had stolen the meal laboriously provided by the wife of Wook-ook, the Mopoke, for her husband, who was ill. The Wokala, battered and furious, flew away and told his story to the other Crows; who, equally furious, flew in a mob to the high crag where Wildoo had his nest. There was no one there, for it was too late in the season to find chickens: so the Wokala amused themselves by scattering the nest to pieces, and when Wildoo and his wife came home from hunting they hid among the bushes and screamed all sorts of insulting things at them. Wildoo took no notice, openly. It would have been beneath his dignity to go hunting smaller birds in thick bushes--which the Wokala very well knew. He merely folded his wings and, with his wife, perched on the edge of the rocky shelf where his nest had been, and stared out across the tossing green sea of gum-trees that clothed the rolling hills below, his yellow eyes full of silent anger. Gradually the Wokala grew tired of screaming, and, becoming hungry, flew away. After that the Wokala became more insolent than ever. Even Wildoo was afraid of them, they said; and they kept together in a mob, and lost no chance of being rude to him. More and more they attacked and insulted the other birds, until no one felt safe if there were any chance of the evil Wokala coming near. Again and again complaints came to Wildoo of their wicked doings, and Wildoo heard them in silence, nodding his head, with his brain busy behind his yellow eyes. But he said nothing: until at length the other birds began to ask themselves was it really true that Wildoo was afraid? Wildoo was not at all afraid of a flock of squawking Wokala. But he was very much afraid of being made to look ridiculous. He had no intention of making a false step, and he did not quite know what to do. There was no one for him to talk to, for the Eagle is a lonely bird--not like Chirnip, the Magpie-Lark, or Tautani, the Cormorant, with dozens and dozens of friends. He is a king, and therefore he is lonely: and, being naturally silent, he does not talk much, even to his wife. All by himself he had to think out the problem of what to do about the Wokala; and, meanwhile, the Wokala perched above his nest and insulted him, and dropped bits of stick down upon his rocky shelf, and screamed rude things at his wife, until she said crossly to Wildoo, "I cannot think why you do not make an end of those abominable little white birds. They are a disgrace to any decent Kingdom, and you have not the spirit of a Bandicoot!" This annoyed and hurt Wildoo, but he said nothing--only looked at her until she caught a gleam of fire in the depths of his yellow eyes. Perhaps you did not know that in the very early times all the Wokala were white? They were the whitest of all the birds of the Bush, without a single grey or coloured feather in all their bodies: so that there was a saying in the Bush, "As white as a Wokala." They were very proud of it, too, and thought it quite a disgrace if one of their chickens showed a sign of being even creamy in colour, once he was nearly fledged. They kept themselves very clean, going often to bathe; and when they flew about in a flock their dazzling whiteness almost hurt the eye, while, if they perched in a dead gum-tree, they looked like big snowflakes against the grey branches. Even Kellelek, the Cockatoo, was dingy compared to the gleaming whiteness of the Wokala. Somehow, it seemed to make their bad behaviour worse, since no one would expect a beautiful bird like polished marble to have the manners of a jungle pig. Summer ended early that year, with a great thunder-storm, followed by a month of wild wind and driving rain: and all the birds were rather uncomfortable because the moulting season was scarcely over. Most of all, the Wokala were annoyed. They liked their white feathers so much, and were so proud of their smart appearance, that they always delayed moulting as long as ever they could; and now the bad weather caught them in a worse state than the other birds. When the rains ended, early frosts came, and found the Wokala without any of their new feather cloaks ready. They used to huddle together among the thickest trees, shivering and untidy. In that part of the country there is a great black ironstone hill, treeless and forbidding. Few birds go there, for there is nowhere to perch, and but little food except the tiny rock-lizards that sun themselves in the hot mornings. Wildoo knew it well, for he often flew over it, and occasionally he was accustomed to stand on a shelf at the mouth of a cave near the top--a black hole in the hillside where no one but an Eagle would willingly perch alone. He took refuge in the cave one morning, during a fierce hail-storm; and it was there that an idea came to him. That night as he came flying homewards, he brought in his great talons a bundle of dry sticks, and as he flapped his way over the black ironstone hill, he dropped down on the ledge and made a heap of his sticks on the floor of the cave. The next morning he did the same: and so it went on for many days, until he had a big pile of smooth sticks, something like a great nest. His wife came with him one evening, and was very much amused. "Why have you taken to playing with sticks?" she asked, laughing. "I never saw such a funny heap. Is it a game?" But Wildoo only looked at her sourly, and said, "Be quiet, woman!" after the manner of husbands: and since she was more sensible than most wives, she was quiet. It was after his heap of sticks was ready that Wildoo went to look for the Wokala. They had been far too uncomfortable lately to continue to be rude to him, and, in fact, were keeping out of the way of every one; so that he had some difficulty in finding them, and might have given it up but for Corridella, the Eagle-hawk, who remembered having seen them near a sheltered gully between two hills. "They are cold," said Corridella, laughing, "oh, so cold, and so sorry for themselves. There is no impudence left in them." "Cold indeed must be the night that chills the impudence of the Wokala," said Wildoo. "It is going to be a very cold night," said Corridella. "Already there is a sharp nip of frost in the air. I think that some of the Wokala will be dead before morning, for none of them have their new feather cloaks nearly ready." He chuckled. "Well, no one in the Bush will mourn for them. Perhaps they will realize now that it does not pay to make enemies of every one." "The Wokala will never learn a lesson," answered Wildoo. "They are always satisfied with themselves: and even though some may die, the others will forget all about it, once they have their shining white cloaks and can flock into the tree-tops again. But possibly they may not be so lucky--who can tell?" He also chuckled, looking as wise as an owl. But when Corridella asked him what he meant, he pretended to go to sleep: and Corridella, who knew better than to pester an Eagle with too many questions, said good evening and sailed homeward across the tree-tops. Left to himself, Wildoo waited until no bird was in sight, and then flapped heavily away from his rocky shelf, and dived downward to the gully. It did not take him long to find the Wokala. They did not gleam with the whiteness of snow, for they were moulting and very shabby, and a few were dressed mainly in pin-feathers; but their voices were just as harsh as ever, and guided Wildoo to where they were huddling among some she-oak trees. Already a cold wind was whistling down between the hills, sighing and moaning in the she-oak branches. There is no tree in all Australia so mournful as the she-oak on a cold night, when each long needle seems to sing a separate little song of woe. Already the miserable Wokala were sorry that they had chosen to roost there. Suddenly, great wings darkened the evening sky above them, and, looking up, they saw Wildoo. He perched on a limb of a dead gum-tree far overhead, and looked down at them, laughing. There seemed, to the shivering Wokala, something very terrible in the sound of his laughter. "Kwah!" they whispered. "Wildoo has found us. Now he will be revenged." They knew they could not fly swiftly enough to escape him, and they began to creep downwards, hoping to hide among the bracken fern that clothed the gully. But Wildoo called to them, and, to their astonishment, his voice sounded friendly. "Oh, Wokala!" he cried. "Are you very cold?" "Ay, we are cold," said the Wokala, as well as they could, for their beaks were chattering with fear and shivering. "No wonder, seeing how little you have on," said Wildoo. "A pity you did not get your new white feather cloaks ready earlier, instead of spending your time in annoying honest folk. Well, perhaps you will have more sense next year." "Doubtless we shall, if we live," said the oldest Wokala. "But it seems likely that not many of us will live, for we are nearly frozen already." "How distressing for you!" said Wildoo--"especially as it will be far colder before morning than it is now. These gullies are the chilliest places in the Bush on a frosty night." The beaks of the Wokala chattered anew. "We came for shelter," said the old Wokala miserably. "But you say truth, Wildoo: I think the Frost-Spirit has his home down here. Is it any warmer where you are?" "Very little," said Wildoo--"and the wind is singing through these branches. But I know of a sheltered place, for all that." "Kwah!" said the Wokala, all together. "A sheltered place! Oh, Wildoo, you are great and--and--and beautiful. Will you not tell us where it is?" "Great and beautiful, am I?" said Wildoo, with a chuckle. "That is not the sort of thing you have been calling me all these months. However, it is lucky for you that I am also good-natured; I would not willingly see any of my people die of cold, not even the Wokala, who deserve little of anyone." "Then you will tell us where is the sheltered place?" chattered the Wokala. "Fly across to the Black Mountain," said Wildoo. "There is an ironstone wurley near the top--I will guide you to it, if you like. It is big enough for you all, and there is a fine heap of sticks on which to perch. The wind will not blow inside it, and the morning sun will shine right into it." "It sounds too wonderful to be true," said the Wokala. "Is it dry, this ironstone wurley?" "Dry as old bones," answered Wildoo. "Oh, you would be in luck to get there--you would forget all your troubles." "One would think that impossible," shivered the old Wokala--he was very sorry for himself. "But if you will really guide us there, then be quick, Wildoo, or none of us will be able to fly at all." "Very well," Wildoo answered. "I will go slowly, as I suppose you are all stiff. Follow me, and come down when you see me perch." He spread his great wings and looked down at them for a moment with a little smile; and if they had not been so eager and so cold they might have hesitated at the expression in his yellow eyes. But, as usual, the Wokala thought only of themselves, and as they had learned to believe that Wildoo was afraid of them, they never suspected that he might be leading them into a trap. They cried "Kwah! Kwah!" and rose into the air after him as soon as the flapping of the mighty wings told them that he had left the gum-tree. Even to fly slowly was difficult, so stiff with cold were they: but they all persevered, except one young hen--a pretty young thing, whose weary wings would not do their duty. She made a brave attempt to rise, but before the flight had cleared the big dead gum-tree she had to drop back--thankful to find a secure perch on a jutting limb. "Ky!" she whimpered. "I can never fly all the way to the Black Mountain. I must die here." She crept along the limb until she came to the trunk, and there luck awaited her. In the fork was an old 'possum-hole which had not been used for many seasons. It was dry and warm--sheltered from the bitter wind, and soft underfoot with rotting leaves, pleasant to the touch. The young Wokala hopped in thankfully, and it seemed the last touch to her wonderful good fortune that she immediately met a fine fat grub. She promptly ate it for her supper, tucked her head under her wing, nestled into the farthest corner, and went to sleep, remarking drowsily, "This is better than all Wildoo's ironstone wurleys!" The other Wokala did not notice that the young hen had dropped back--or if they did they did not worry about her. Weary as they were, it took all their strength to keep Wildoo in sight, even though he kept his word and flew slowly. They were thankful when at length he sank lower and came to rest on a big boulder by the mouth of the cave near the mountain-top. The Wokala followed him in a straggling line, and perched on the shelf outside the cave. "There you are," Wildoo said, nodding towards the yawning hole in the hillside. "That is your ironstone wurley, and I will promise you that you will find it dry and free from draughts." "There is nothing living there?" asked the old Wokala, looking a little doubtfully at the cave. "Nothing at all. All you will find there is a heap of dry sticks; you can perch there and keep each other warm. Stay there, if you like it well enough, until your new feather cloaks are ready--you are really scarcely fit for decent society now." Wildoo cast a half-contemptuous glance at the shivering, half-fledged birds, as they clustered on the rocky shelf. Then he flew off again into the gathering darkness. "Whatever is Wildoo about?" asked Kellelek, the Cockatoo, of his hens. "He seems to be leading all the Wokala round the sky. A funny nurse he looked, and with a funny lot of chickens!" "No wonder he waited for dusk before he would be seen with them," said one of his wives contemptuously. "I flew by their tree to-day, and really, they were a positive disgrace. And they always think themselves so smart!" "Oh, they'll be smart enough again," said Kellelek, laughing. "Wait until they have their new feathers on, and you will be just as jealous of them as ever you were. There is no doubt that the Wokala are smart--that is, for people who prefer plain white. I like a good sulphur crest myself--but then, it's all a matter of opinion." "Well, don't let the Wokala know that you admire them, or they will be worse than ever," said his wives, ruffling their feathers angrily. Meanwhile, the Wokala had hesitated just for a moment before entering the cave. Then a fresh blast of cold wind swept across the face of the mountain, and they waited no longer, but fluttered in before it, in a hurrying, jostling flock. It was just as Wildoo had told them: warm and dry, and with a big heap of dry sticks in the middle--just the thing for them to perch on. They hopped up eagerly, huddling together for warmth, scrambling and fighting for the best places. Soon they were all comfortably settled, and at last warmth began to steal back into their shivering bodies. "A good thing we made Wildoo afraid of us," said one sleepily. "Otherwise we should never have known of this splendid wurley." The others uttered drowsy murmurs of "Kwah!" as they drifted into slumber. But far away on his mountain shelf Wildoo sat and waited, his yellow eyes wide and wakeful. The dusk deepened into night, and far off, from his perch on a tall stringy bark tree, old Wook-ook, the Mopoke, sent out his long cry, "Mo--poke! Mo--poke!" Presently came a dim radiance in the east and Wildoo stirred a little. "Peera comes," he muttered. Peera, the Moon, came up slowly, until all the Bush was flooded with her dim light, falling into shadow now and then, when dark clouds drifted across her face. Wildoo waited until she was above the tree-tops, with her beams falling upon the ironstone mountain. Then he took a fire-stick in his talons and flew swiftly away, never pausing until he alighted on the shelf before the cave. He laid the fire-stick down and went softly to the dark opening, listening. There came only the sound of the breathing of the Wokala, with now and then a muffled caw as one dreamed, perhaps, of cold and hunger. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, Wildoo could see them--a huddled white mass upon the heap of sticks. That was all he wanted, and he went back swiftly for his fire-stick, and with it went into the cave. Very softly he slipped it into the dry heart of the heap of sticks below the sleeping Wokala. He waited until little smoke-wreaths began to curl up, and a faint glow came from within the heap. "Now you will be warm enough, my friends!" he muttered. He hurried out of the cave, and flew slowly to the nearest tree, on the hill opposite the Black Mountain. There he perched and waited. Very soon all the dark mouth of the cave was filled with glowing radiance, and clouds of smoke came billowing out and rolled down the hill. Then came loud and terrified cawing, and Wildoo thought he could see dark forms fluttering out through the smoke. His yellow eyes gleamed at the sight. And then clouds came suddenly across the face of the Moon, and a fierce wind blew, with driving rain that beat into the mouth of the cave. It blotted out the glow, and the wind carried away the cries. When all was quiet Wildoo flapped off to his nest. He was back next morning on the boulder outside the cave, and with him all the birds of the Bush, whom he had collected as he came, saying to them, "Come and see what happens to those who insult Wildoo." The black mouth of the ironstone cave looked grim and forbidding, and, peering in, the birds could see the charred ends of the dry sticks, scattered on the floor round a heap of ashes. Then, from the inner recesses of the cave came a strange procession, and at the sight the Kooka burra burst into a peal of laughter. For it was the Wokala. They came slowly--but where were their white feathers, of which they had been so proud? All were gone, singed off close to their bodies; and their bodies were blackened with smoke. Queer, naked birds they looked, creeping out into the sunshine, and there was no pride left in them. They looked up and saw Wildoo and the laughing birds of all the Bush; and with a loud miserable cawing they fled back into the cave. No one saw the Wokala again for a time. But after a long while they came out again, this time with all their feathers fully grown. No longer, however, were they white--the whitest of all birds. Their new feathers were a glossy black! They looked at each other for a moment with a kind of horror. Then they rose into the air with a swift beating of their jet-black wings, and, calling "Kwah! Kwah!" they fled across the sky. And as they flew another cawing was heard, and a white bird rose and flew to meet them--the Wokala hen who had been left behind, and who had taken refuge in the 'possum-hole. She was now the only white Wokala left in all the world. They met in mid-air, and at sight of the strange black birds with the familiar voices the white Wokala uttered a scream and fled away, never to be seen again. Since then, always the Crows have been black. They found their old impudence again after a while, and became what they had been when they were white--always the nuisances of the Bush, vagabonds and robbers and bullies. But still the terror of the ironstone wurley is upon them, and they never venture into caves, but live in the big trees, where they can see far and wide, and where no creeping enemy can come upon them in the darkness. And Wildoo, the King of the Birds, never finds them near his nest, nor need he ever speak to them. One glance from him is enough for the Wokala: they would fly to the deepest recesses of the Bush rather than face the gleam of his yellow eyes. XII KUR-BO-ROO, THE BEAR CHAPTER I Kur-bo-roo was a little black boy baby. His father and mother had no other children, and so they were very proud of him, and he always had enough to eat. It is often very different when there are many hungry pickaninnies to be fed--especially in dry seasons, when roots and yams and berries are hard to find, and a black mother's task of filling her dilly-bag becomes more difficult every day. Then it may happen that the children are quite often hungry, and their ribs show plainly through their black skins: and they learn to pick up all kinds of odd food that white children would consider horrible--insects, grubs, and moths, and queer fungi, which may sometimes give them bad pains--although it is not an easy thing to give a black child indigestion. But Kur-bo-roo had not known any hard times. He was born a cheerful, round baby, quite light in colour at first; and as he darkened he became rounder and jollier. His hair curled in tight little rings all over his head, and his nose was beautifully flat--so flat that his mother did not need to press it down to make him good-looking, as most of the black mothers do to their babies. He was very strong, too, with a straight little back and well-muscled limbs; and when his teeth came they could crunch up bones quite easily, or even the hard nardoo berries. His mother thought he was the most beautiful pickaninny that was ever born, which is an idea all mothers have about their babies. But Kur-bo-roo's mother _knew_ that she was right. He had so many good things to eat that he grew fatter and fatter. His father brought home game--wallaby, wombat, iguana, lace-lizards, porcupines, bandicoots, opossums; and though it was polite to give away a good deal to his wife's father, there was always plenty for little Kur-bo-roo. Then delicious bits of snake came his way, and long white tree-grubs, as well as all the native fruits and berries that the black women find; and he had plenty of creek water to drink. So long as you give a wild blackfellow good water he will always manage to forage for food. Kur-bo-roo did not have to forage. It interested his father and mother tremendously to do all that they could for him, and watch him grow. As soon as he could toddle about, his father made him tiny throwing-sticks and a boomerang, and tried to teach him to throw them; and his mother, squatting in the shade of the wurley, would laugh to see the baby thing struggling with the weapons of a man. And, while she laughed, she was prouder than ever. She used to rub his limbs to make them supple and strong. He did not wear any clothes at all, so that she was never worried about keeping his wardrobe in order. Instead, she was able to give all her time to making him into what she thought to be the best possible kind of boy. And, however that may have been, it is quite certain that there never was a happier pickaninny. It was when Kur-bo-roo was nearly six years old that the evil spirit of Trouble came to him. Sickness fell upon the tribe. No one knew how it came, and the medicine-men could not drive it away. First of all, the people had terrible headaches, and the Meki-gar, or doctor, used to treat them in the usual manner--he would dig out a round sod of earth and, making the patient lie down with his head in the hole, would put the sod on his head, and stand on it, or sit on it, to squeeze out the pain. If this were not successful, he would tie a cord tightly round the patient's head, and cut him with a sharp shell or flint, beating his head with a little stick to make the blood flow freely. These excellent measures had in the past cured many severe headaches. But they could not cure the sickness now. So the Meki-gar had the patient carried out of the camp. The bearers carried him slowly, singing a mournful chant; and behind them came all the sick man's friends, sweeping the ground with boughs, to sweep away the bad power that had caused the disease. This bad power was, the Meki-gar said, the work of a terrible being called Bori. But, whether it was Bori's fault, or whether the tribe had simply brought sickness on themselves by allowing the camp to become very dirty, the Meki-gar could not drive away the sickness. It grew worse and worse, and people died every day. Kur-bo-roo was only a little lad, but he was unhappy and frightened, although he did not understand at all. The air was always full of the sound of the groaning and crying of those people who were ill, and of lamenting and mourning for the dead. Everybody was terribly afraid. The blacks believed that their bad spirits were angry with them, and that nothing could do them any good; and so, many died from sheer fright, thinking that once they were taken ill they were doomed, and that it was no good to make a fight against the mysterious enemy. That was stupid, but they did not know any better. Then there came a heavy rain, and after it was over, and the sun had come out to smile upon a fresh, clean world, the sickness began to get better and pass away. But just at the last, it came to the wurley where Kur-bo-roo lived with his father and mother. Kur-bo-roo could not understand why his parents could not get up and go to find food. They lay in the wurley together, shivering under all the 'possum rugs and talking quickly in queer, high voices that he could not make out at all. They called often for water, and he brought it to them in his little tarnuk, or drinking-vessel, going backwards and forwards to the creek, and up and down its banks, until his little legs were very tired. Long after he was tired he kept on going for water. Then there came a time when they could not lift the tarnuk, and he tried to hold it to their lips, so that they could drink; but he was not very successful, and much of the water was spilt. You see, he was only a very little, afraid boy. He woke up one morning, cold and hungry. There was no more food in the wurley, and no voices: only a great silence. He crept under the 'possum rug to his father and mother, but they were quite still, and when he called to them, they did not answer. He rubbed their cold faces with a shaking little hand, but no warmth came to them. Then he broke into loud, frightened crying, like any other lonely little boy. Presently some of the blacks came to the wurley and pointed at the quiet bodies under the 'possum rug, and jabbered very hard, beckoning to others to come. Kur-bo-roo heard them say "tumble-down" a great many times, and he knew that it meant "dead"; but he did not know that his father and mother would never speak to him any more. Only when an old woman picked him up and carried him away he understood that a terrible thing had happened to him, and he cried more bitterly than ever, calling to his mother. She had always run to him when he called. But now she did not come. CHAPTER II After that, hard times came upon little Kur-bo-roo. There were none of his own family left, for the sickness had taken them all. His father and mother had been the last to die, and that made the blacks think that very probably Bori, the Evil Spirit, had been especially angry with Kur-bo-roo's family, because so many of them had died and the last terrible blow of the disease had fallen on their wurley. Indeed, for awhile they argued as to whether it would not be better to kill Kur-bo-roo too, so that so troublesome a family should be quite stamped out, with no further chance of annoying Bori and bringing trouble upon the tribe. They did not spare him out of any idea of pity; but because so many men and boys had died that the tribe had become seriously weakened, and it seemed foolish to kill a strong and healthy fellow like Kur-bo-roo. It was very important for a tribe to keep up its fighting strength, for there was always a chance that another band of blacks might come upon them and want to fight: in which case the weaker tribe might be swallowed up. So boy babies were thought a good deal of, and for that reason the blacks did not make an end of little Kur-bo-roo. But he had a very bad time, for all that. No one wanted him. He was nobody's boy; and that hurts just the same whether a boy be black or white. Never was there so lonely a little fellow. The other children were half afraid of him, because the fear of Bori's anger yet hung about him; they would not let him join in their games, and took a savage delight in hunting him away from their wurleys. Another black family had taken possession of his father's wurley, and no home was left to him. He used to wander about miserably, often sleeping in the open air, curled up in the shadow of a bush, or in a hollow tree-stump. If it were cold or wet, he would creep noiselessly into a hut when he thought every one would be asleep--and quite often he was kicked out again. He was always hungry now. His father and mother had taken such care of him, and had loved so much to keep him fed, that he had never learned how to find food for himself. He would wander about in the Bush, looking for such things as his mother had brought him, but he knew so little that often he ate quite the wrong things, which made him very sick. He learned a good deal about food in that way, but the learning was not pleasant work. It was a bad year for food. Dry weather had come, and game was scarce; it was hard for the fighting-men to bring home enough for their own children, without having to provide for a hungry boy of six who belonged to nobody. Kur-bo-roo used to hang about the cooking-places in the hope of having scraps of food thrown to him, but not many came his way. When so many were hungry the food was quickly eaten up. Sometimes a woman, pitying the shrinking little lad, would hastily toss him a bone or a fragment of meat; and though you would not have cared for the way it was cooked, Kur-bo-roo thought that these morsels were the most delicious he had ever tasted. You see, a wild blackfellow has not much to think about except food. He has no schools, no daily papers, no market days, or picture shows, or telephones. The wild Bush is his, and all he asks or expects of it is that it shall supply him with food. He knows that it means strength to him, and that strength means happiness, as a rule, when all that he has depends upon his own ability to keep it for himself. He does not reason things that way, for the blackfellow is simple, but he just eats as much as he can whenever he can get it, and that seems to agree with him excellently. That was the principle on which Kur-bo-roo had been brought up, and it had made him the round, black, shiny baby that he had been until his parents died. He was not nearly so round and shiny now. His little body was thin and hard, and he did not look so strong as before. It was not altogether lack of food that had weakened him--the want of happiness had a great deal to do with it. He had found out that the tribe did not like him. Not only was he nobody's boy, but he was the object of a kind of distrust that he could feel without at all understanding it; and he had learnt to shrink and cringe from blows and bitter words. Once he had found a lace-lizard asleep on a rock, and, grasping his tiny waddy, had stolen up to it very carefully, all the instinct of the hunter blazing in his dark, sad eyes. The lizard, when it woke, was quick, but Kur-bo-roo was quicker--the stick came down with all the force of his arm, and he carried off his prey in triumph, meaning to ask a woman who had sometimes been kind to him if she would cook it for him. But just outside the camp three big boys had come upon him as he was carrying his prey, and that had been the last that Kur-bo-roo had seen of his lizard. He had fought for it like a little tiger--quite hopelessly, of course, but to fight had been a kind of dismal satisfaction to him, even though he was badly beaten in addition to losing his dinner; and that was specially unfortunate, for blacks think lizard a very great delicacy indeed. The boys ran off with it, jeering at the sobbing little figure on the ground; and they called him names that, even in his angry soreness, made him think. They said something to do with an evil spirit--he pondered over it, creeping into a clump of bushes. Why should they call him that? Blacks always want a reason for any happening. Sometimes they are satisfied with very foolish reasons; but they must have something to explain occurrences, especially if they are unpleasant ones. The sickness that had fallen on their tribe they put down to Bori, as the medicine-man told them; but when the sickness had gone, it seemed only reasonable to believe that Bori was satisfied and would leave them alone for awhile. So they could not understand why misfortune should still pursue them. Another tribe had stolen part of their country, and they had been too weakened by the sickness to fight for it; and now had come the drought, making food harder than ever to obtain, and causing some of the babies to fall sick and die. They turned to the magic-men or sorcerers for explanation, and these clever people performed a great many extraordinary tricks to make things better. Then, as they were really hard up for some object on which to throw the blame of their failure, it occurred to them to turn suspicion towards little Kur-bo-roo. Kur-bo-roo went on with his unhappy little life, quite ignorant of the storms gathering round his woolly head. No one was ever kind to him, and he could scarcely distinguish one day from another; although he gathered a vague idea that in some way they were linking his name with the Evil Spirit, he did not understand what that meant. He kept on hunting round for food and water, and dodging blows and angry faces. If he had guessed that the magic-men were busily persuading the people that his family and he were the cause of the terrible year through which they had passed, he might have been more uneasy; but, in any case, he was only a very little boy, and perhaps he would not have understood. He had enough troubles to think of without looking out for more. CHAPTER III Then the worst part of the drought happened, for the creek began to run dry. Day after day it ran a little more slowly, and the deep holes at the bends shrank and dwindled away. The fish disappeared completely, having swum down-stream to where deeper waters awaited them; and so another source of food was lost to the tribe. There only remained the black mud-eels, and soon it was hard to find any of these, try as they might. That was bad, but it was nothing in comparison to the loss of the water supply. Without the creek, the tribe could not exist, for the only other drinking-places in their country were swamps and morasses, and these, too, were dried up and useless. So the magic-men and head-men became very anxious, and many were the black glances cast upon the unconscious Kur-bo-roo as he slunk round the camp or hunted for food in the scrub. Then the head-men issued a command that no one should drink from the creek itself, lest the little water remaining should be stirred up and made muddy, or lest anyone should drink too much. Instead of going to the creek to drink, they were permitted to fill their tarnuks, or drinking-vessels, each morning; and then no one was allowed to approach the creek again that day. So in the mornings a long procession of women went down to the bank, where a head-man watched them fill the tarnuks, remaining until the last had hurried away, very much afraid of his fierce eyes. But the new law fell very heavily on Kur-bo-roo, for he had now no tarnuk. The little one made for him by his father long ago had disappeared when he lost everything, and since then he had always been accustomed to drink at the creek. Now, however, he could not do so, and no one would give him a tarnuk, or let him drink from theirs. He would have stolen it very readily, for he was now not at all a well-brought-up little boy, but the tarnuks were hung far beyond his reach. Of course, the magic-men knew how the new law would affect the little fellow. They knew that now it would be impossible for Kur-bo-roo to drink, and after a little he would "tumble-down" and be dead; and then, perhaps, the Evil Spirit would be satisfied, and go away from the tribe. They watched him carefully, and were glad that he became weak and wretched. They had uttered such savage penalties against drinking from the creek that it never occurred to them that he would dare to disobey. But sometimes in the darkness Kur-bo-roo used to creep down for a drink, being, indeed, as desperate as a boy can be, and quite sure that unless he went he must die; and he had become so stealthy in his movements that he was never caught. It did not satisfy his thirst, of course, for it was the hottest part of the summer, and all the blacks were accustomed to drinking a great deal: still, it was something. At least, it kept him alive. Then, one morning, came news of a number of kangaroo feeding two miles away by the creek, and all the camp fell into a state of tremendous excitement at the very idea of such a chance of food. All the men and big boys dashed off at once, and presently the women made up their minds that they would follow them, as it was not at all unlikely that if the men had good luck in their hunt they might immediately sit down and eat a great portion of the game they had killed--in which case there was only a poor look-out for those left in camp. So they gathered up their dilly-bags and sticks, slung the babies on their backs, and ran off into the Bush after the men, leaving the camp deserted. Now, it chanced that Kur-bo-roo knew nothing of all this. He had not spent the night in camp, because, on the evening before, he had been savagely beaten by two big boys, who had caught him alone in the scrub, and when they had finished with him he was too sick and sore to crawl back to the wurleys. He had crept under a bush, and slept there uneasily, for the pain of his bruises kept waking him up. The sun was quite high in the sky before he made up his mind to go back to the camp, in the faint hope that some one would give him food. So he limped slowly through the Bush, wincing when the harsh boughs rubbed against his sore limbs. He stopped at the edge of the camp and rubbed his fists into his eyes, blinking in surprise. No one was in sight; instead of the hum and bustle of the camp, the men sitting about carving their spears and throwing-sticks, the women chattering round the wurleys, the babies rolling on the ground and playing with the dogs, there was only desolation and silence. He approached one hut after another, and poked in a timid head, but he saw no one, and the stillness seemed almost terrible to him. Then, in a corner of one wurley he saw a rush-basket, and from it came a smell that would have been disgusting to anyone but a black, but was pure delight to Kur-bo-roo. His fear vanished as he seized upon the food and ate it ravenously. He came out presently, his thin little body not nearly so hollow as before, and looked about him. The food had made him feel better, but he was terribly thirsty. And then he saw, with a little glad shout, that all about the camp were drinking-vessels, brimming with water--put down wherever their owners had happened to be when they had rushed away to the hunt. Kur-bo-roo did not know anything about that, of course; he only knew that here was water enough to make him forget that he had ever been thirsty. He ran eagerly to the nearest tarnuk and drank and drank until he could drink no more. And with that drink, so the blacks say, a great change came upon little Kur-bo-roo. Kur-bo-roo put down the tarnuk and stood upright, throwing his head back in sheer bodily happiness at once more having had enough to eat and drink. All his bruises and soreness had suddenly gone; he was no longer tired and lonely and unhappy, but strong and well and glad. How wonderfully strong he felt! A new feeling ran through all his body. "I am stronger than anybody ever was before!" he said aloud. And he believed that it was true. He glanced round the deserted camp. It was quiet now, but he felt sure that soon the blacks would come hurrying back. Perhaps they would be there in a moment: Kur-bo-roo listened, half dreading to hear the quick pad-pad of bare feet over the hard, baked ground. No sound came. But he knew that they would return: and then, what would await him? His new strength seemed to burn him. He stretched his arms out, wondering at their hard muscles, although he felt that the drink had been Magic, and so he need not wonder at anything at all. Some good Spirit, perhaps sorry for lonely little boys, had evidently come to help him. Fear suddenly left him altogether, and with its going came a mighty desire for revenge. He did not know what he was going to do, but the new power that was in him urged him on. A little tree grew in front of him. He began to gather up all the drinking-vessels, and, one by one, to hang them upon the boughs. There were very many, and it took a long time, but at last the task was completed, and not a tarnuk was left in the camp. He looked in the wurleys, and found many empty vessels, and these also he hung up in the tree. Then he took the biggest tarnuk of all, and a little tarnuk, and went down to the creek: and with the little tarnuk he filled the big one, dipping up all the water from the creek, until there was none left. There was much water, yet still the big tarnuk held it all, and only the mud of the creek-bed remained where the stream had been rippling past. Even as he looked, that grew dry and hard. Then Kur-bo-roo turned and carried his burden up the bank to his tree, and from the big tarnuk he filled all the empty ones. They held a great deal, and yet the big tarnuk remained quite full. For now there was Magic in everything that Kur-bo-roo touched. He climbed up into the little tree and seated himself comfortably in a fork, where he could see everything, and yet lean back comfortably. A quiver ran through the tree, as if something far underground had shaken it; and suddenly it began to grow. It grew and grew, spreading wide arms to the sky, until it was as large as very many big trees all put together: and its trunk was tall and straight and very smooth. All the time, Kur-bo-roo sat in the fork and smiled. When the tree had finished growing, he heard a sound of voices far below him, and, looking down, he saw the tribe hurrying back through the scrub to their camp. Their hunt had been unsuccessful, for all the kangaroo had got away into the country of another tribe, where they dared not follow: so they were returning, hungry and thirsty, and in a very bad temper, for they had not found any water in the places where they had been. They came angrily back to the camp, and from his seat in the fork of the great tree Kur-bo-roo looked down at them and smiled. The blacks were far too thirsty to look up at any tree. They hurried to the wurleys. Then the first said, "Where is my tarnuk?" and another said, "Wah! my tarnuk has gone!" and a third, "Who has taken all our tarnuks?" They became very angry, and beat their wives because they could find no drinking-vessels and no water: then, becoming desperate because of their thirst, they hurried to the creek. And lo! the creek was dry! They came back from the creek, jabbering and afraid, believing that the Evil Spirits had done this wonderful thing. Presently one saw the big tree, and cried out in astonishment. "Ky! What tree is that?" he exclaimed. They gathered round, staring in amazement at the huge tree: and so they saw all their tarnuks hanging in its branches, and little Kur-bo-roo sitting smiling in the fork. "Wah! is that you?" they called. "Have you any water?" "Yes, here am I, and I have plenty of water," said Kur-bo-roo. "But I will not give you one drop, because you would give me none, although I died of thirst." Some threatened him, and some begged of him, and the women and children wailed round the base of the tree. But Kur-bo-roo smiled down at them, and took no heed of all their anger and their crying. Then a couple of young men took their tomahawks of stone and began to climb the tree, although they were afraid, because it was so big. Still, thirst drove them, and so they came up the tree, cutting notches for their fingers and toes in the smooth trunk, and coming wonderfully quickly. But Kur-bo-roo laughed, and let fall a little water on them from a tarnuk; and as soon as the water touched them, they fell to the ground and were killed. Again and again other men tried to climb the tree, becoming desperate with their own thirst and the crying of the women and children; but always they met the same fate. Always Kur-bo-roo smiled, and splashed a few drops of water upon them: only a drop on each of them, but as the drops touched them their hold loosened, the grip of their toes relaxed, and they fell from the great height, to meet their death on the ground below. So it went on until nearly all the men of the tribe were gone: and Kur-bo-roo sat in the fork of the tree and smiled. And it still went on, all through the moonlit night. But in the dawn two men came back from hunting: Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin, the sons of Pund-jel, Maker of Men. They were very cunning, as well as being very brave, and after they had taken counsel together, they began to climb the tree. But they did not climb as the other men had done, straight up the long line of the smooth trunk. Instead, they climbed round and round, as the clematis creeps when it throws its tendrils about a branch. Kur-bo-rop laughed, just as he had laughed at the others, and waited until they had ascended to a great height. Then he took water, and let it fall--but the men were no longer in the same place, but on the other side, climbing round and round, and he missed them. Again and again he ran to get more, and poured it down; they were very quick, circling about the trunk, and always managed to escape the falling drops. They came to the place where the trunk forked, and swung themselves into the high boughs. Then little Kur-bo-roo began to cry in a terrified voice. But they seized him, not heeding, and beat him until all his bones were broken, and then threw him down. The other blacks uttered a great shout of triumph, and ran to kill him. But the Magic that had helped him came to the aid of little Kur-bo-roo once more, and so he did not die. Suddenly, just as the angry blacks were upon him, with uplifted waddies and threatening faces, he changed under their gaze; and where there had been a little black boy there lay for a moment a Native Bear, his grey fur bristling, and fear filling his soft eyes. Then, very swiftly, he gathered himself up and ran up a tree, until he was out of sight among the branches. Just then the blacks were too thirsty to pursue him. Overhead, Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin were cutting at the branches of the great tree that held the tarnuks; and all the water came out and flowed back to the creek, and again the creek became wide and clear, running swiftly in its bed so that there was drink for all. Then Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin came down to the ground, and the tribe hailed them as heroes. But when they looked for little Kur-bo-roo, the Native Bear, he had fled into another tree, and had disappeared. From that time, the Native Bears became food for the black people. But it is law that they must not break their bones when they kill them, nor must they take off their skin before they cook them. So they take them carefully, hitting them on the head; and they cook them by roasting them whole in an oven of stones, sunk in the ground. If the law were broken, Kur-bo-roo would again become powerful, the magic-men say; and the first thing he would do would be to dry up all the creeks. Now, Kur-bo-roo lives near the creeks and water holes, so that if the people broke the law he might at once carry away the water. He is not very wise, because he was only quite a little boy before he became a Native Bear, and so had not much time to gain wisdom: but he is soft, and fat, and gentle, unless you interfere with him when he wants to climb a tree, and then he can scratch very hard with his sharp claws. All he can do is to climb, and he does not see very well in the daytime: therefore, he thinks that whatever he meets is a tree, and at once he tries to climb it. If the blacks throw things at him when he is sitting in the fork of a tree, he blinks down at them, and sometimes you might think he smiles. But if they climb his tree and come near to knock him down, he cries always, very terribly--just as he cried long ago, when he was Magic and Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin climbed his great tree and threw him to the people far below. XIII WURIP, THE FIRE-BRINGER CHAPTER I Once there was a time when the blacks had no fire. They had not learned the way to make it by rubbing two sticks together; or if they had once known the way, they had forgotten it. And they were very miserable, for it was often cold and wintry, and they had no fire to warm them, nor any way of cooking food. Fire had been theirs once. But there came two women upon the Earth; strange women, speaking in unknown tongues, with great eyes in which there was no fear. They did not love the blacks. They lived in their camps for a time, and built for themselves a wurley, coming and going as they pleased; but always there was hatred in their wild eyes, and the blacks feared them exceedingly. Because they feared them, although they hated them, they gave them food, and the women cooked it for themselves, for at that time the fire blossomed at the door of every hut. But one day, the blacks awoke to find the women gone. They had gone in the night, silently, and with them they took all the fire that the blacks had. There was not even a coal left to start the hearth-blaze for the shivering people. The fighting-men made haste to arm themselves, and started in pursuit of the women. They travelled through swamps and morasses, across boggy lands and creeks fringed with reeds and sedges; all the time seeing nothing of the women, but knowing that they were on the right track, by the faint smell of fire that still hung in the air. "They have gone this way, carrying Fire!" they said. "Soon we shall overtake them." And they pressed on, going faster and faster as the smell of burning wood became stronger and stronger. At last they came out upon a little open space, and, looking across it, they saw a new wurley made of bushes interlaced with reeds. In front of it smoke curled up lazily, and they caught the gleam of red coals, and yellow flame. The two women sat by the fire, motionless. The fighting-men broke into a run, shouting: "Now we will make an end of these women!" they cried fiercely to each other, as they ran, gripping their spears and throwing-sticks. The women sat by the fire taking no heed. So little did they seem to notice the running warriors that it seemed that they did not see them; or, if they did see them, they cared no more than for a line of black swans flying westward into the sunset. One stirred the fire gently, and laid across the red embers a dried stick of she-oak. The other weaved a mat of rushes in a curious device of green and white; and as she twisted them in and out, she smiled. Even when the long shout of the fighting-men sent its echoes rolling round the sky, they did not look up. The glow of the flames shone reflected deep in their eyes. So the fighting-men came on, grim and relentless, burning with the anger of all their long chase and the hot desire for revenge. They tightened their grip on their waddies, since there was nothing to be gained by risking a throwing-stick or a spear when the enemy to be slain was only two women, weak and unarmed. For such defenceless creatures, a blow with a waddy would be sufficient. But, half a spear's cast from the wurley, something they could not see brought them to a sudden, gasping halt. It was as though a wall were there, soft and invisible, but yet a wall. They could not touch it to climb over it, neither could they force their way through. They struck at it, and it was as if their sticks struck the empty air. There was nothing to see but the wurley, and the fire, and the quiet women, and the air was clear and bright. But no step farther could they advance. They circled about the camp, trying at every step to get nearer to the wurley. It was all to no purpose: always the wall met them, though they could not see it. So they came back to the point whence they had started, breathless, angry, and a little afraid. They were brave men, and used to battle, but it is easier to fight a visible enemy than one that lurks, unseen, in the air. It was Magic, and they knew it. Still, their anger burned furiously within them, and one lifted a spear tipped with poisoned bone, and flung it at the women. To see him lift his hand was enough for the band. A storm of spears went hurtling through the air. For a few yards the spears flew straight and true. But then they stopped suddenly in mid-flight, as though an unseen wall had met them. For a moment they seemed to hang in the air, then they fell in a jangling heap among the tussocks. And beyond them, while the terrified warriors shrank together, gesticulating and trembling, the women laid more sticks upon the fire, and smiled. The fighting-men were cunning, and they did not give in easily. Not only were they smarting with the fury of defeat, but the tale was not one they wished to carry back to the tribe, lest they should become a laughing-stock even to the women and young boys. So they drew off, thinking under cover of night to renew the attack in the hope that when the women slept their Magic would also sleep. So, when darkness had fallen, they crept up again, on noiseless feet. But the invisible wall was there, and they could find no gap in its circle; while, all the time, the fire burned redly before the wurley, and the women sat by it, feeding it, and weaving their mats of white and green. At length the warriors became weak for want of food, and weary of the useless struggle; and so they gave up the fight and slowly made their way back, across swamp-land and morass, to the tribe that waited for them, shivering and fireless, in the shadow of the hills. Great and bitter were the lamentations at the news of their defeat. They had been eagerly watched for; and when they came slowly back to the camp, trailing their spears, a long cry of angry disappointment rent the air. It was difficult to believe their story. Who could imagine a wall, strong enough to stop warriors, yet that could not be seen? So they found themselves coldly looked upon, and their wives said unpleasant things to them in their wurleys that night. Quite a number of wives had sore heads next morning--since it was easier to deal with a talkative wife by means of a waddy than by argument. But the wives had the last word, for all that, and the small boys of the tribe used to call jeering words at the disgraced warriors, from the safe concealment of a clump of dogwood, or fern. Meanwhile, there was no cooked food. The tribe was very far from being happy. Then a band of young men, who were not picked warriors, but were anxious to distinguish themselves, made up their minds that they would go forth to find the Fire-Women and slay them, and bring back Fire to the tribe. They were very young men, and so they were confident that they could succeed where the warriors had failed; and for at least a week before they started they went about the camp telling every one how they meant to do it. When they were not doing this, or singing songs about the great deeds they meant to perform--and very queer songs they were--they were polishing their weapons and making new ones, and talking together, at a great rate, of their secret plans. When they were ready, at last, they painted themselves with as much pipe-clay as they were allowed to use, and gathered together to start. "When we have killed the Fire-Women," they said to the tribe, "some of us will turn homewards and wait here and there along the way. Then the others will run with the fire-stick, and as they grow tired those that have gone ahead will take it and run very swiftly back to you. In three days the tribe will be cooking food with the fire which we shall bring. Then we shall get married and have wurleys and fires of our own." All the blacks listened gravely, except the fighting-men who had not brought back anything at all. These men laughed a little, but no one took any notice of their laughter, because they had failed, and it is the way of the world not to think well of failures. The girls thought the band of young warriors wonderfully noble, and smiled upon them a great deal as they marched out of the camp. Of course, the boys were much too proud to smile back again--but then, the girls did not expect them to, and were quite content to do all the smiling. So the little band marched off with a great flourish, and the Bush swallowed them up. "May they come back soon!" said one girl, as she and her companions dug for yams next day. "Ay!" said the others. "We are weary of eating things which are not cooked." "I am weary of being cold," said one. "There is but one 'possum rug in our wurley, and my father takes it always." "There will be great feasting and joy when they bring Fire back," said another. "Perhaps some of us will be married, too." And they laughed and made fun of each other, after the fashion of girls of any colour. But the three days had not past when the young men returned: and when they came, they sneaked back quietly into the camp and tried to look as if they had not gone at all. They had washed the pipe-clay from their bodies, and were all quite anxious to work very hard and make themselves exceedingly useful to the older men; nor were they at all anxious to talk. They gave severe blows to the young boys who clustered round them, clamouring for news, and told them to go and play. But when they were summoned before the leaders, they hung their heads and told the same story as the warriors. They had seen the Fire-Women, they said, and they still sat before their wurley and fed the fire; but the young men could not come near them, nor could any of their weapons reach them. And when they were wearied with much throwing, and their arms had grown stiff and sore, a great fear came suddenly upon them, and they turned and fled homeward through the scrub, never stopping until they came upon the huts they knew. Now they were very much ashamed, and the girls mocked at them, but the warriors shook their heads understandingly. "To fight is no good," they said. "Unless the magic-men can tell us how to beat down the magic wall and conquer the Fire-Women, the tribe will go for ever without Fire. We are wonderfully brave, but we cannot fight witchcraft. Let the magic-men undertake the task, for indeed it is a thing beyond the power of simple men. But is it not for such matters that we keep the magic-men?" Then all the tribe said, "Yes, that is what we have been thinking all along." And they looked expectantly at the magic-men, demanding that they should at once accomplish the business, without any further trouble. Every one became quite pleased and hopeful, except the magic-men themselves--and _they_ were in a very bad temper, because they did not like the task. Still they held their heads high, and made little of the matter, because to do anything else would have been imprudent: and they looked as wise as possible--a thing they had trained themselves to do, whether they knew anything about a matter or not. All kinds of wise men can do this, and it is a very handy habit, because it makes people think them even wiser than they are. They went away by themselves, with dreadful threats of what might happen if the people came near them--not that there was any need for them to take such precautions, for the blacks were much too terrified by them to venture near when they were working any kind of Magic. A great deal of what the blacks called Magic would seem very stupid to you if you watched it now; but they all believed in it firmly, and even those who knew that they deceived others still thought that Magic was a real thing, and that it could be practised upon them. The magic-men shut themselves up for a time; and then they told the men that they had made themselves into crows, and had flown over to watch what the Fire-Women were doing. As all the tribe believed that, they could turn themselves into any animal they chose, and be invisible, nobody thought of doubting this. The magic-men then began to weave spells. They chopped the branches from a young she-oak tree, and cleared away grass and sticks in a circle round it. Then they sharpened the end of the trunk, and drew on the ground the figure of a woman, with the lopped tree growing out of her chest. Afterwards they rubbed themselves all over with charcoal and grease, and danced and sang songs round the tree for some days, expecting the Fire-Women to feel their Magic, so that they would have to rise from their camp and walk, as if in a sleep, to the place of the dance. But the women did not come, and so the magic-men told themselves that they were not yet strong enough. Meanwhile, the tribe clustered some distance off, very frightened and respectful, and also very cold. [Illustration: "They rubbed themselves all over with charcoal and grease, and danced and sang songs round the tree."] The magic-men tried other plans, although they were much hampered because many of their spells needed the use of Fire, and there was none to be had. They tried to kill the women by pointing magic things in the direction of their camp, such as bones, and pieces of quartz-crystal, which were believed to be very deadly; and, going to their old wurley, they put sharp fragments of bone in any footprints they could find, thinking that the women would fall ill and become very lame, and so lose their power. But nothing happened. So they sent one of their number secretly through the Bush, and he returned to tell them that the women were well and unharmed, and that the invisible wall about their camp was just as strong as ever. Then the magic-men knew that they could do no more. They told the people that the only spells that would conquer the Fire-Women were spells in which Fire formed a part; and until they could bring them Fire, they must not expect to be freed from the power of the women. The tribe did not like this, and much lamentation went up; but they were much too afraid of the magic-men to object openly to anything they did. CHAPTER II At this time there lived in the tribe a man called Wurip. He was not a lucky man. Once, in a big tribal fight, most of his relations had been killed; and when he was still quite a young man, his wife died of a mysterious sickness, before they had been married very long. Then, one night, he tripped and fell into a big fire, burning himself terribly. He got better, but his left arm and hand were quite twisted and withered, and were of very little use to him. Had he been a different kind of man, it is not unlikely that he would have been killed by the tribe, for the blacks had no use for maimed or deformed persons. But Wurip was strong, apart from his twisted arm; and also he had a way of muttering to himself that rather frightened people. It was only a habit, but the blacks were always afraid of what they could not understand. So they left him alone. He lived in a little wurley by himself, and though he was lonely, and would have liked to take another wife, he knew that no girl would want a man whose arm and hand were not like those of other men. So he did not try to get married, and gradually he became very solitary. He thought the other men disliked him, and he would go away by himself on hunting expeditions, and wander through the scrub alone. Although he was half a cripple, he soon learned to know the Bush more thoroughly than any man in the tribe, and he trained his shrivelled arm to do a great deal, although at first it had seemed that it must be useless for ever. The other blacks at first gave him nick-names about his arm, but he did not like them, and his eyes were so fierce that they did not let him hear them any more, and to his face only called him by his own name, Wurip, which means "a little bird." Now, Wurip loved his tribe. He had no special friends in it, which was partly his own fault, for he had grown very unsociable, but he was proud of the tribe itself, because it was brave and owned good country, and had been successful in many fights. It made him sore at heart to see it suffering from the want of Fire, and also it hurt his pride that it should have been beaten by women. So he made up his mind that he would try to recover Fire from the wicked Fire-Women. He thought about it for a long time, and laid his plans very carefully. One day he left the camp, carrying no weapons, but only a single waddy. The other blacks said to him: "Where are you going?" Wurip said, "I go to try to get Fire back." "You!" they said. "A little man, and crippled! That is very funny." And all the people laughed at him. Wurip hesitated, and a gleam came into his eyes, so quick and fierce that those who had laughed shrank back. Then he turned on his heel and walked off into the scrub, and the blacks said, "Let him go. He is mad, and he will most likely be killed; and it really does not matter. He is not much use." Into the wild Bush Wurip went, taking short noiseless strides. He was a little man, but he had the quick movements of many little men, and at all times he could move rapidly through the Bush, scarcely making a sound as he went. He passed through the scrub, and came to boggy lands and morasses; his light feet carried him over swamps and across creeks fringed with reeds and sedges. Then he saw a light curl of smoke going lazily skywards, and at the sight his heart gave a leap, for it was long since he had seen Fire. Until then he had travelled very quickly. But now he slackened his speed and went slowly across the plain towards the Fire-Women's camp. As he drew near he could see them, sitting in front of the wurley and weaving their rushes. They did not look up as he came, and he advanced so near them that he began to think that the magic wall could be there no longer. Just as he was wondering if this were indeed true, one of the Fire-Women glanced up and saw him; and almost immediately Wurip felt some invisible object blocking his way, and knew he could go no farther. He stopped, and burst out laughing, and at the sound of his merriment the other Fire-Woman glanced up sharply from her weaving, and the first one paused, with a stick of she-oak wood in her hand, and looked at him in blank astonishment. So silent was the place that Wurip's shout of laughter echoed like a thunderclap. The Fire-Women looked at the little black figure standing among the harsh tussocks of swamp-grass, and he waved to them with his withered arm. But they took no further notice, going on scornfully with their work. Wurip had expected nothing else, and he was not discouraged. He began collecting sticks and brushwood for a wurley, singing as he went about his work, in full view of the two women. He made no further attempt to get through the invisible wall. There was not much timber about, and to find suitable material for his wurley was a difficult task. He walked slowly, using his crippled arm very little, because he hoped that the women would be less careful about him if they regarded him as a one-armed man. Sometimes he felt that they were looking at him, and then he would work with particular awkwardness. Always, however, he sang, and went about with a merry countenance, as if he had not a single care in the world. He built his wurley and went off into the swamp to hunt, returning with some lizards and grubs, and a duck that he had caught just as it settled on a sedgy pool. Standing a little way back from the wall, he called out and threw the duck towards the fire where the women sat. But it fell before it reached them, meeting the unseen obstacle. "What a pity--it is for you!" called Wurip, slowly, so that they could hear easily. "It is a fat duck." And saying this he laughed again, and went into his wurley, where he ate his supper contentedly--although it was not cooked--and went to sleep. In the morning, the women were sitting as before. But the duck had gone, and, looking closely across the little space, Wurip saw that there were feathers lying about near their fire. Also there was a pleasant smell of cooking in the air. This gladdened his heart, for it showed that the women did not mind making him useful, and that was exactly what he wanted. So the days went by, and Wurip lived in his wurley, and the women in theirs. He never saw them away from it. Neither did he try any more to go near it. From time to time he made them friendly signals, or called cheerful greetings to them, but that was all. Each day he went hunting, and good luck always attended him, because it was the time when waterfowl are plentiful, and as no others hunted there, the birds were not afraid. It was quite easy to fill the bag he had made out of rushes. And each evening he put the best of the game on a big stone some distance from his wurley, and in the morning it was always gone. This went on for fourteen days. When he was not hunting, Wurip lay about his camp, always singing contentedly as he carved himself boomerangs or whittled heads for throwing-spears that he never used. Once he carved a bowl from a root that he found, and this also he put on the stone, for the Fire-Women, and they took it. He gathered bundles of the rushes that women of the tribes use in weaving, and left them too. So that he became very useful to them, although he had never heard their voices. Then, after fourteen days, Wurip pretended that he had fallen sick. He did not go out hunting any more, neither did he place offerings upon the big stone. In his wurley he had hidden sufficient food for himself to last him for several days, but he did not let the Fire-Women see him eating. Instead, he crawled out, dragging himself along the ground, and cried out, sorrowfully, waving his withered arm to them. He crawled back into his wurley and ate and slept; but they did not come, as he had hoped they would. Next day he did not go out into the open at all. He kept close within his wurley, and all the exercise he took was to groan very mournfully. He groaned nearly all day, and by the time it was evening he was more tired than if he had hunted for three days. Because he was tired he ate nearly all that remained of his food, after which he felt discouraged, for he realized that it would soon be necessary to go out hunting again, and he wanted to seem ill. So he groaned more loudly than ever, and once or twice cried out as if in pain. Then he fell asleep. The Fire-Women were fierce creatures, but still they were women. It troubled them that this crippled little blackfellow should be ill, too ill to bring them gifts or to busy himself, singing and laughing about his camp. To sit over a fire and weave mats of white and green may, in time, become dull; and it cheered the women to see Wurip and listen to his songs. When he did not appear they took counsel together, agreeing that so small a fellow, with a withered arm, could not be dangerous. So, in the morning, Wurip heard steps, and opening his eyes, he saw one of the women entering his wurley. He almost jumped up; then, remembering, he groaned heavily, and looked at her with a stupid stare. She spoke to him, asking what was the matter, but he only moaned in answer. So she picked him up--it was not difficult, for she was very powerful, and Wurip was quite light--and carried him over to where her sister sat. There seemed to be no invisible wall now: the Fire-Woman walked to the fire, and put Wurip down before it. He nearly shouted, it was so long since he had been near a fire: but, luckily, he remembered to turn the shout into a groan. For some days Wurip pretended to be very ill, and the Fire-Women nursed him--not in the harsh fashion of the medicine-men, but in gentler manner, feeding him, and giving him a comfortable bed to lie on. Wurip was only too glad to lie still and be fed, and it was not hard for him to pretend to be ill, because, being black, he was not required to look pale. Moreover, to taste cooked food once more nearly made him weep with joy. He was very grateful to the Fire-Women, and told them that he was an outcast from the tribe, because of his crippled arm, and he begged that, when he grew better, they would allow him to serve them. The Fire-Women were not sorry to have a servant. Getting food and firewood was not very entertaining for them, and the gathering of rushes was a long and laborious task, which they hated. There could, they thought, be no risk in taking so harmless a person as Wurip to work for them. Still, they were stern with him. They told him that when he was well he must live in his own wurley and only come near theirs when it was necessary. Also, they assured him that if he were unfaithful to them their Magic would strike him dead immediately. This made Wurip think very hard, for he did not want to meet such an unpleasant fate, although he was quite determined to take Fire back to his tribe. He showed great horror at the idea of being unfaithful, and when he thought it was prudent to get better he recovered his strength--not too quickly, for it was very pleasant to be nursed--and then began his duties. The Fire-Women found him an excellent servant. He was always at hand when he was wanted, and he did his work well. There was plenty of food at all times, and very long fine rushes that he found when he was hunting far from the camp. Wood he brought also, but the Fire-Women would never allow him to go near the fire. He laid the sticks at a little distance away: and they tended the fire and cooked the food, giving him a share. Altogether, they were very happy and comfortable, and if he had been able to forget the shivering tribe, Wurip would have been content. Although he was only a servant, he was less lonely than he had been in the company of the other blacks. The Fire-Women were stern with him, but they never made him remember that his arm was crippled--and when he had been with the tribe he could not forget for an instant that he was different to the others. Sometimes in the evenings, as he lay in his wurley, the thought came to him that it would be better to forget the tribe and stay with the Fire-Women. After all, they were good to him in their fierce fashion, and he remembered that he had very little to look forward to, in returning to the big camp. Even if he took back the long-lost Fire, they might be grateful to him for a little while, but he would never be as the other men were. And then Memory would come to him, bringing back pictures of the tribe, half starved and shivering; of the little children who were dying for want of proper food and warmth, and of the cold hearth-stones of his people. However they might treat him, he could not forget that they were his own people. He knew that he must go back to them. CHAPTER III Wurip lay on his back in the shade of a golden wattle and listened idly to the Bush voices talking round him. He heard far more than you would ever hear--voices of whispering leaves and boughs, of rustling grass, and softly-moving bodies. Not a grasshopper could brush through a tussock but Wurip knew that it had passed. Overhead, birds were twittering gaily in the branches. He knew them all--had he been hungry he might have wanted to set snares for some of the little chirping things, but just then he was too well-fed and lazy to trouble about such tiny morsels. He bit long grass-stems lazily, and tried to sleep. A pair of jays flew into a tree close by, and began to chatter to each other, and suddenly Wurip found that he knew what they were saying. Somehow, it did not seem surprising that he should know. Afterwards he wondered if he had dreamed it, but at the moment nothing was strange to him. The jays, eager and chattering, did not notice the little black figure in the grass. They were too full of their subject. "The Fire-Women have nearly finished their weaving," said one. "Soon the last mat will be done. They have worked very quickly since Wurip brought them rushes." "And then they will go away," said the other. "Yes, then they will go quite away, and there will be no more Fire for ever. He-he! what would the tribe say!" "And Wurip!" "Yes, Wurip also. What will he do when they have gone?" "He will go back to his people, I suppose. He cannot go with the Fire-Women. I think, brother," said the smaller jay, "that they mean to sail away on their mats to another country, taking Fire with them." "Certainly they mean to go, and to take Fire with them; did we not hear them talking about it while we perched on their wurley?" said the other. "As for sailing away on their mats, I do not see now that can be. Mats are not like wings. You are a foolish young bird." "Well, why do they make them so strong and large, and how else will they get away?" asked the other, looking down his beak in an abashed way, out still sticking to his point. "You cannot tell me those things." "I do not care to know," said the big jay; and that was untrue, because jays are very inquisitive. "What does it matter? They are only humans. But wonder what Wurip would say, if he knew." "Wurip thinks he will take Fire back to the tribe. But I do not think he will ever get it. The Fire-Women watch him too closely--and anyhow, he is only a little cripple." "He would be excited if he knew what we heard them say--that if they lost any of it now, all the rest would go out, and then their power would leave them, so that they could work no more Magic." "He-he-he!" chattered the other jay. "But he will never know that. They do not talk when he is near." "No, they are wise. It is a very foolish thing to talk," said his brother solemnly. Yet they chattered for a little while longer, and then they flew away. Wurip lay motionless under the wattle-tree, and forgot to bite grass-stems any more. He was not sure whether he was awake or dreaming; and he did not greatly care, because he felt that the warning that had come to him was true, whether he had dreamed it or not. It fitted in with little things he had noticed. Lately the Fire-Women had been very busy at their weaving, working night and day, so that he could hardly bring them rushes quickly enough. A great pile of mats lay ready in a corner of their wurley, and now they were working together at the largest of all. They had seemed restless and excited, too, and talked earnestly together, although they were careful not to let him hear anything, and never to let him go near the fire. Not that they seemed to fear now that he would try to approach it. Wurip had been very careful, never even glancing towards it as he worked about the camp. He was allowed to place his firewood at a certain spot, and took great pains not to go beyond it. In every way in his power he used to try to make them think that he was afraid of Fire and dreaded to go too close to it since he had burned his arm. By this means he seemed to have put their suspicions to sleep, and they regarded him as a harmless little fellow, of whom they need have no fear. He made his way back to the camp, slowly, thinking hard. If the Fire-Women were really going away, he must act, and act quickly. At any time they might finish their work; and then they would disappear for ever, and there would be no more Fire to warm the people of the earth. Wurip drew up his thin little body as he walked, and clenched his fist. He made up his mind that he would act that very night. He found the camp just as usual, with the Fire-Women working at their greatest mat of all, weaving it in and out in a curious device of green and white. One held the white strands, and the other the green; and their black hands worked so quickly that Wurip could scarcely see to which woman they belonged. He looked at it with great admiration, and ventured a timid word of praise. Then he went a little way off and began to skin the native cats and bandicoots that he had brought home. When he had prepared them for cooking, he laid them carefully on crossed sticks and put them in a shady corner. It was growing dusk, and he hurried off to find firewood. All the time, he was turning many plans over and over in his mind, and rejecting one after another as useless. Well, he thought, he must trust to luck. He came back to the camp with his bundle of wood, and began to heap it in the accustomed place, keeping a respectful distance from the Fire, and bending down his eyes, lest their burning desire should be seen. Already the sun had gone away over the edge of the world, and darkness was coming fast. The Fire-Women had been forced to stop weaving, for the pattern of the great mat was too fine to weave by firelight. Generally, when they had finished, one carried the work into the wurley while the other remained outside to watch Wurip and begin the cooking. But the great mat was now too heavy for one to lift, and so they rolled it up, and carried it away together. Wurip, crouching over his heap of firewood, felt his body suddenly stiffened like a steel spring. Under his brows he watched them; and as the wurley hid them, he darted forward, snatched a big fire-stick from the glowing coals, and fled, with great noiseless bounds that carried him in a moment far into the dusk. Behind him he heard a sudden loud anguished cry, and knew that the Fire-Women had found out his theft. For a moment he feared that the magic wall would spring up to bar his way, and he ran as he had never run before. But it did not come; and into his mind swept the words of the jay, that if Fire were taken from the Women, they would lose their power of Magic. He hardly dared to think that could be so--but as he ran on, finding no unseen obstacle in his way, hope surged over him. Magic was a thing against which no man could fight. But if he had only ordinary women to deal with, he was not afraid. A few hundred yards from the wurley, he glanced back, and saw that their fire no longer sent its red gleam into the dusk. His heart leapt with joy, for it seemed as if the jays' story must be true; and if so, the Fire-Women's hearth was cold, and already the only Fire in the world was what he carried. The greatness of the thought caught his breath--surely such an honour should be for the bravest warrior of the tribe, and not for a half-crippled, undersized weakling like him. And behind him came a sudden trampling of running feet, and a cry of such terrible anger that the very waterfowl in the swamps hid themselves in fear. The Fire-Women were on his track. Wurip ran forward, leaping from tussock to tussock sometimes slipping into bog-holes, and scratching his bare limbs on great clumps of sword-grass. In his withered hand he clutched the fire-stick; the other held his waddy, and sometimes he was glad to use it to help himself over rough places. Luckily, he knew the ground well--there was no part of it that he had not studied on his days out hunting, knowing that at any time he might have to make his dash for home. He hid the glow of the fire-stick as much as he could, holding it so close to him that his skin was scorched by it; but his precautions could not conceal it altogether, and to the Fire-Women behind him it was like a red star, twinkling low down upon earth. They came after Wurip swiftly. At first they had uttered savage cries of wrath, and fierce threats of what they would do to Wurip when they caught him; but soon it seemed that they knew that shouts and threats were useless, and after that they hunted him silently, only the quick pad of their feet being heard in the darkness. They were terribly quick feet. Wurip had not dreamed that women could run so fast. Sometimes, as the moon rose, he could see them in pursuit, grim and revengeful, looking like giants in the darkness. His soul was full of terror at the thought of what they would do if they caught him, for he knew that he would be but a little child in their hands. They crossed the swamps and morasses, and the reed-fringed creeks--and here Wurip lost ground, for he had to go very carefully, lest he should slip and so drown the precious fire-stick that he held close to him. Only a blackfellow could have kept it alight so long; but Wurip knew just how to hold it so that the air fanned it enough to keep the dull coals glowing, without letting it burn too quickly away. He heard the Fire-Women splash through the creeks, not far behind him. Then they came into the scrub-country, all running at their wildest speed, for this was the last part of the journey back to the tribe. Then Wurip knew that he must be beaten. He was nearly done--his breath came unevenly, and his limbs were like lead, and would no longer do his bidding. Fierce and untired, close behind him, came the Fire-Women. A little ahead, he knew of a bed of green bracken fern in a gully, and he set his teeth in the resolve to get thus far. They were quite near him when the dark line of the gully showed, somewhat to his left. He threw all his remaining strength into a last spurt of energy, and then, turning from the straight line towards the camp of the tribe, he crept through the scrub to the gully, holding both hands over the fire so that it might not guide the Fire-Women to his place of refuge, and heedless of the cruel burning. He reached the gully safely, and flung himself face downwards among the rank ferns and nettles, panting as if his heart would burst from his body. He heard the Women run past, tirelessly swift; there came to him their angry voices, calling softly, lest they should miss each other in the dim scrub. They had not seen him swerve--that was clear; and Wurip hugged himself with joy to think that for the moment he was safe. When they had passed, and the sound of their feet had died away, he crept from his gully and fled in a northerly direction. He ran all through the dark hours, with long trotting strides, as a dingo runs, and circling round so that he might miss the Fire-Women and come upon the camp from the other side. Sometimes he paused to rest, listening for the sound of the other hastening feet--but they did not come, and at last he believed that he had escaped pursuit. He was very tired--so tired that at last he lost something of the blackfellow's keenness that guides him through even unknown country in the dark. Something seemed to have broken in his chest, from the time of his last mad spurt from the Fire-Women, and now each breath stabbed him. Perhaps it was because he was so tired that at last he became confused altogether, and swerved from the track he had mapped out for himself to get back to the camp; and when dawn broke he was back in the direction where he might expect to meet pursuit. Even as this dawned upon him, he looked up and saw the Fire-Women running silently towards him, their fierce eyes gleaming. Wurip knew it was the end. He fled, knowing as he went that he could not run far. Behind him came the Women, tireless as though they had not spent the night in fruitless chase. He clutched the fire-stick to him, scarcely knowing that it burned his hands and his naked chest. Rounding a clump of saplings, a sob burst from his labouring chest. Before him he saw the familiar camp, the wurleys clustered together; it seemed to smile at him in home-like fashion. So near home, to fail! He spurred himself to the last effort. Then from the camp burst a knot of fighting-men, racing towards him. He caught the glint of the rising sun on their spears and throwing-sticks; and he waved to them, for he could not shout. They came on with great strides: there was music in the sound of their trampling feet. When they came to him, they divided, running past him, and Wurip staggered through the lane they formed. He heard fierce cries and blows behind him, but he did not stop. Before him the camp lay, and never had it smiled to him a welcome so sweet. There were people running out to meet him; men, women, and little children: he could hear their voices, amazed and rejoicing--"Wurip! It is Wurip, bringing us Fire!" He tried to smile at them, but his lips would not move. So he staggered in to the circle of the huts, and there fell upon his face, still grasping the red fire-stick in his blistered hand. It was all red now, for it had burned down to the last few inches. Then, as they clustered round him, lifting him with gentle hands and blessing his name, he smiled at them a little, and died peacefully, happy that he had brought back Fire to his own people. But to the people he did not die. Ever after they honoured his name, calling him the benefactor of the tribe: so that in death he found that honour that forgot he had ever been little and weak, and a cripple. And when you see the little Fire-tailed Finch that hops about so fearlessly, with the bright red feathers making a patch of flame on its sober plumage, you are looking at Wurip, the Fire-bringer, who gave his life to vanquish the wicked Fire-Women and to lay Fire once more upon the hearth-stones of his tribe. _Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_ * * * * * MARY GRANT BRUCE'S POPULAR STORIES Published by WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD. A LITTLE BUSH MAID TIMOTHY IN BUSHLAND MATES AT BILLABONG FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON GLEN EYRE NORAH OF BILLABONG GRAY'S HOLLOW JIM AND WALLY 'POSSUM DICK CAPTAIN JIM DICK LESTER OF KURRAJONG BACK TO BILLABONG 
58816	----	SIMLA VILLAGE TALES OR, FOLK TALES FROM THE HIMALAYAS BY ALICE ELIZABETH DRACOTT LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W. 1906 TO THE ONE I LOVE BEST. PREFACE In introducing "Simla Village Tales" to my readers, I wish to acknowledge gratefully the valuable assistance given me by my sister Mabel Baldwin, who, when I was obliged to leave India suddenly owing to nervous breakdown after the terrible earthquake which visited the Punjaub in April 1905, kindly undertook to complete, from the same sources where I had got them, my collection of folk-tales. Twenty excellent stories contributed by her include "Tabaristan," "The Priest and the Barber," "The Fourth Wife is Wisest," and "Abul Hussain." Of the down-country tales my husband kindly contributed "Anar Pari," "The Dog Temple," "The Beautiful Milkmaid," and "The Enchanted Bird, Music, and Stream." Both my sister and my husband can speak the language fluently, and as the former has resided many years in the Punjaub, I am confident that her translations are as literal as my own. All the tales were taken down in pencil, just as they were told, and as nearly as possible in the words of the narrators, who were village women belonging to the agricultural class of Hindus in the Simla district. I must add a word of thanks to Mr Hallam Murray for his invaluable assistance with the illustrations. In one or two instances I was asked if I would allow a Paharee man, well versed in local folk-lore, to relate a few stories to me; but, for obvious reasons, I was obliged to decline the offer, for many Simla Village tales related to me by women, and not included in this book, were grotesquely unfit for publication. The typical Paharee woman is, as a rule, extremely good-looking, and a born flirt; she has a pleasant, gay manner, and can always see a joke; people who wish to chaff her discover an adept at repartee. The "Simla Village Woman," whose photograph is reproduced, is a very good type. I found her most gentle and lovable. Her little boy, and last surviving child, has died since the photograph was taken last year, yet the young mother bears all her griefs with a fortitude which is really remarkable. Himalayan folk-lore, with its beauty, wit, and mysticism, is a most fascinating study, and makes one grieve to think that the day is fast approaching when the honest rugged hill-folk of Northern India will lose their fireside tales under the influence of modern civilisation. The hurry and rush of official life in India's Summer Capital leaves no time for the song of birds or scent of flowers; these, like the ancient and exquisite fireside tales of its people, have been hustled away into distant valleys and remote villages, where, on cold winter nights, Paharees, young and old, gather together to hear these oft-repeated tales. From their cradle under the shade of ancient deodars, beside the rocks, forests and streams of the mighty Himalayan mountains, have I sought these tales to place them upon the great Bookshelf of the World. A. E. D. CONTENTS PAGE THE CAUSE OF A LAWSUIT BETWEEN THE OWL AND THE KITE 1 A MONKEY OBJECTS TO CRITICISM 2 THE DEAD MAN'S RING 3 THE ORIGIN OF DEATH 5 THE REAL MOTHER 6 THE PRINCESS SOORTHE 12 THE SNAKE'S BRIDE 15 THE POWER OF FATE 20 THE OLD WITCH WHO LIVED IN A FOREST 31 KULLOO, A FAITHFUL DOG 36 THE STORY OF GHOSE 40 THE VIZIER'S SON AND THE RAJAH'S SON 46 THE RAJAH'S SON AND THE VIZIER'S SON 49 BEY HUSLO 53 THE STORY OF PANCH MAR KHAN 56 THE RABBIT AND THE BARBER 59 RUPA AND BISUNTHA 61 SHEIK CHILLI 68 SHEIK CHILLI 70 THE MONKEY, THE TIGER, AND THE PRINCESS 75 THE JACKAL AND THE GUANA 81 THE STORY OF THE BLACK COW 83 THE BRAHMIN AND THE WILD GEESE 88 THE FOUR-GIFTED PRINCESS 93 THE MAN WHO WENT TO SEEK HIS FORTUNE 96 THREE WISE MEN AND THE KING'S DAUGHTER 101 BARBIL'S SON 104 THE TIGER AND THE RATS 107 THE ADVENTURES OF A BIRD 109 THE LEGEND OF NALDERA TEMPLE 111 THE BUNNIAH'S WIFE AND THE THIEF 113 WHO STOLE THE RUBY? 115 THE STORY OF VICKRAMADIT 119 THE WEAVER 125 THE DOG WHO WAS A RAJAH 132 THE FOURTH WIFE IS THE WISEST 135 THE STORY OF PIR SAB 141 THE ORIGIN OF A RIVER 145 THE GOLDEN SCORPIONS 148 THE STORY OF A PEARL 150 THE BUNNIAH'S GHOST 152 BICKERMANJI THE INQUISITIVE 155 THE BRAHMIN'S DAUGHTER 163 ABUL HUSSAIN 166 THE MAGICIAN AND THE MERCHANT 174 THE SNAKE AND THE FROG 180 THE BARBER AND THE THIEF 184 THE STORY OF "PURAN" 186 TABARISTAN 194 THE PAINTED JACKAL 198 THE ENCHANTED BIRD, MUSIC, AND STREAM 200 THE DOG TEMPLE 213 THE BEAUTIFUL MILKMAID 216 A REMEDY FOR SNAKE-BITE 218 A LEGEND OF SARDANA 220 THE STORY OF "BUNJARA TULLAO" 224 THE ANAR PARI, OR POMEGRANATE FAIRY 226 THE CAUSE OF A LAWSUIT BETWEEN THE OWL AND THE KITE The owl and the kite once went to law on these grounds. The owl said that she was the oldest creature in the world, and that when the world was first made, she alone existed. The kite objected. He said that he flew in the air and lived in the trees. To prove which was right they went to law, and the owl pleaded that, since there were no trees at the beginning of the world, the kite was wrong in saying that he had lived in trees. The Judge therefore decided in favour of the owl. A MONKEY OBJECTS TO CRITICISM A monkey once sat on a tree, shivering with cold, as rain was falling, and a little bird sat in its nest on the same tree; and, as it sat, it looked at the monkey and wondered why a creature with hands and feet like a man should shiver in the cold, while a small bird rested in comfort. At last it expressed its thought to the monkey, who replied: "I have not strength to build myself a house, but I have strength to destroy yours," and with that he pulled to pieces the poor little bird's nest, and turned it out with its young. THE DEAD MAN'S RING A young married woman one night listened to the jackals' cry, and heard them say: "Near the river lies a dead man; go and look on his finger and you will find a ring worth nine lakhs of rupees." She therefore rose and went to the riverside, not knowing that her husband secretly followed in her footsteps. Arrived there, she found the dead man, but the ring was difficult to remove, so she drew it off with her teeth. Her husband, who did not know she had understood and acted upon the cry of the jackals, was horrified, and thought she was eating the flesh of the dead man; so he returned home, and when the morning came, took his wife to her mother, and said: "I have brought back your daughter, and refuse to live with her any longer, lest I come to some evil end." He gave no reason for having thus said, and returned to his home. In the evening his wife sat sorrowfully in the garden of her father's house, and the crows came to roost in the peepul trees; and as they came, they said: "In this place are buried four boxes containing hidden treasure: dig and find it, O my daughter." The young girl called her parents and told them the message of the crows. At first they laughed, but, after a while, they dug as she directed, and found treasure which enriched the whole family. The girl then explained the story of the dead man's ring, and her husband gladly forgave her and received her back. THE ORIGIN OF DEATH When God first made the world, He took two handsful of ashes and placed them in a corner and hid Himself. These became a man and a woman. God then called the man by name, saying: "Manoo," and the man replied, "Hoo" instead of "Ha Jee" (Yes Life) respectfully, as he should have done. For this reason was everlasting life denied him, and where he stood, there were his ashes when he died. Even to this day, if a man should scratch himself, a line of white ash of which he was made is seen. If any man addresses another as "Jee" it is accounted to his good. THE REAL MOTHER There was once a Rajah who had seven wives; six of these were rich and dwelt in his Palace, but the seventh was poor, and lived apart in a little mud hut by herself. The Rajah had one great sorrow, and that was that he had no children. One day he went out to shikar (or hunt) and saw an old Fakir lying fast asleep. He did not know that the Fakir had been asleep for twelve years; so he pressed his hands and feet, and the old man awoke. Seeing the Rajah sitting beside him, he thought he had been attending him for twelve years, so he said: "What is your wish, my son?" and the Rajah said: "I have no children. I want neither riches nor honour, but a son." Then the old Fakir gave him his staff, and said: "Go to yonder mango tree and hit it twice, bring away any fruit which may fall to me." The first time the Rajah hit the tree only six mangoes fell, and the next time only one; these he carefully carried to the old Fakir, who told him to take them home, and give one each to the Ranees, and they would each have a son. So the Rajah returned to his Palace, and gave them to his six Ranees, but quite forgot the poor Ranee, who lived apart by herself. The six Ranees did not believe what the old man said, so they just tasted the fruit and then threw it away; but when the poor Ranee heard what had happened, she told her servant to go and look in the drain for any mangoes the others had thrown away, and bring them to her; so the servant brought them, and she carefully ate every one. Three months afterwards she sent for an old nurse, or dhai, who told her that she would soon be a mother. The Rajah was passing by when he saw the old nurse coming out of the poor Ranee's hut, so he made enquiries; and, when he heard the news, there were great rejoicings in the Palace. This made the other six Ranees very angry indeed, and they called the old dhai and told her that if, when the child was born, she would promise to kill it, they would give her a great reward. When the day came the wicked old dhai who was in attendance on the Ranee, said: "Ranee, I must blindfold your eyes." The Ranee consented, and while thus blindfolded, became the mother of six sons and one daughter. As soon as they were born, the old dhai carried them outside and threw them into a hole in a potter's field, and there left them to die, while she told the Ranee that she had given birth to a piece of iron! The poor Ranee was terribly disappointed, and so was the Rajah, but they submitted to what they thought was the will of God. But the potter's wife found the children, and as she was childless, she carried them home and looked well after them, so that they all lived and grew. This came to the ears of the six Ranees, and they called the old dhai, and said: "What is this we hear? you did not kill the children; they are alive and living in the house of the potter, but if you listen to us and go and kill them, we shall give you all the jewels that we possess." So the wicked old woman made some sweet chappatis, or hand cakes, and carried them to the well where the children used to play every day. She found them there playing with their toy horse and toy parrot, cheap toys made of clay by their foster-father, the potter, and they were soon tempted to eat her sweets. No sooner had they done this, when all seven fell down and died. The poor potter and his wife found them thus when they came to search for them some hours later; and, although the woman wept, the man at once set out in search of the old Fakir, and as soon as he found him he told him what had happened. The old Fakir cut his finger and drew some blood: this he gave to the potter, and said: "Go quickly and sprinkle this on the children, and they will live." The potter did as he was told, and the children came to life again, and went to live with their foster-parents as before. This also came to the ears of the six cruel Ranees, and they again called the old dhai and told her she must make another attempt to kill the children. This time she had some difficulty in persuading them to eat her sweets, for they remembered what had happened before; but in the end she succeeded, and left them all lying dead on the ground as before. The poor potter was quite broken-hearted, and again sought help of the old Fakir. The old Fakir said: "Son, I cannot raise the children to life in the same way a second time, but bring them here to me." So he brought them, and the Fakir said: "Dig seven graves, and in the centre an eighth grave for me, and bury us all." This the potter did, and lo! after a time a mango tree sprang from the grave of each brother, a beautiful rose from the grave of the sister, and a chumpa or very sweet-flowering tree from the grave of the old Fakir. One day the servants of the Rajah saw these trees, and, being struck with the beauty of the roses, went to gather some; but as they stretched out their hands to do so, the bough raised itself beyond their reach and said: "Brothers, may I let them gather roses?" And the brothers replied: "Ask the old Fakir." So they asked him, and he said: "None but thy mother may gather roses of thee." Much impressed by what had happened, the Rajah's servants went and told him all they had heard and seen, and forthwith he set out to see the trees. He too tried to gather flowers, but found he could not do so. Then he remembered the old Fakir and the seven mangoes, and sent at once for his six Ranees, to see if any of them could gather the strange roses. Each tried in turn, and the tree said as before: "Brothers, may I give roses to my mother?" The brothers replied: "Ask the old Fakir;" but the answer was always the same: "These are not to gather roses, they are for thy mother alone." On this the Rajah sent for the poor, neglected Ranee, who, as we know, was the real mother; and as soon as she came, the rose branches spread themselves low on the ground, and she was soon covered with beautiful flowers. When this happened the old Fakir's grave opened, and he came back to life, and brought the brothers and sisters with him. He told the whole story of the six Ranees' cruelty, and the old dhai's wickedness to the Rajah, who forthwith ordered them all to be killed, and lived happily ever after in his Palace, with his seven children, and their mother, the once poor, neglected Ranee. THE PRINCESS SOORTHE Two sisters, the daughters of a Rajah, were betrothed to two Princes, the eldest to a poor man with few followers, the youngest to a rich man with many followers. About eight days before their marriage, the elder called the younger and said: "Sister, we shall not be long together, let me comb your hair for you beside the well;" but in her heart she was jealous of her sister Soorthe, and had it in her mind to kill her, for she did not wish her to marry a rich man. Now in the well were some frogs, so the elder sister said: "Sister, do you see these frogs? The name of the Rajah you are about to marry is Dhuddoo, or Frog, and you think that he is a man, but he is, in reality, a frog." This so alarmed Soorthe that she wrote at once to the Rajah to say she would not marry him, and he replied that he accepted her letter and would marry elsewhere; but he was vexed at the letter, and took good care to come in a grand procession which passed beneath the windows of the Princess. She did not know it was her former lover passing by, and asked which man in the procession was the Rajah; thus was it explained to her who he really was, and how her elder sister had deceived her, and as she caught sight of him she foolishly thought he had come back for her; so she let herself down with ropes from her window: but only to fall into the hands of some thieves, who took her away, and left her in the forest, where she was found by a Dhobie, or washerman, who sold her to a dancing girl. This woman taught Soorthe to dance; and, hearing that a Rajah in the vicinity was entertaining a guest, and giving a feast and a nautch, the two set out. This Rajah was entertaining Soorthe's father, although she did not know of it, and when he recognised his own daughter, who had been brought up in strict purdah, dancing in public, like a common dancing girl, his wrath knew no bounds. He ordered her nose to be cut off forthwith, and had her turned out of the kingdom. Thus do the innocent sometimes fall victims to the deceit of others, and thus do they follow in the footsteps of evil associates. THE SNAKE'S BRIDE There was once a Rajah, by name Bunsi Lall, who was charmed by a witch, turned into a snake, and lived under ground, but he constantly wished to go above ground and see the world. So one day he ran away and made himself a house above ground. Now, at this time there was a girl living in that place who had a very cruel stepmother, and this woman made her spend the whole day picking up sticks in the forest. It was there the snake met her, and was struck with her beauty, and one day he said to her: "Sukkia, child of Dukhia (or the one who gives you pain), will you marry me?" But the girl was afraid, for who would marry a snake? She did not know that the snake was Rajah Bunsi Lall, and that he was only a snake by day, but resumed his human form at night, so she went and told her stepmother all about it; and her stepmother, who did not care what became of the girl, said: "Tell him you will marry him if he fills your house with silver." This the girl told him, and he readily agreed. Next day, when her stepmother opened the door, she found her house filled with silver, and readily gave her consent to the marriage; so Sukkia became the snake's bride, and went to live in his house, where all was comfort and happiness for her. After some time her stepmother thought she would go and find out whether the girl was still living; and when she arrived at the snake's house, she found that, contrary to her expectations, Sukkia was both happy and prosperous. Now the stepmother knew the story of the enchantment of Rajah Bunsi Lall, and also that, if he revealed his name, he would be obliged to return again to his former home under ground; and she advised Sukkia to beg him to tell his name, and not to rest day or night until he had done so. When night came, Sukkia asked her husband to tell her his name; but he implored her not to, as it would bring bad luck to her, yet she persisted in asking, and would not be advised, though he turned himself into a snake and fled before her till he reached the river-side, where he again begged her to desist; but the foolish girl would not listen, till he called out: "My name is Rajah Bunsi Lall;" and so saying he disappeared under the water, and she saw him no more. For days and days she wandered the streets and bazaars calling, "Rajah Bunsi Lall, Rajah Bunsi Lall!" but he came not, and she was very unhappy. In the meantime the snake had reached his own country, where arrangements were being made to marry him to another girl; and when his servants came to draw water from the well, they met Sukkia and told her of it. Now Sukkia still wore the ring which Rajah Bunsi Lall had given her, and she begged them to take it to him, which they did; and when his eyes fell upon it he remembered Sukkia, and all she must have suffered because of him, so he went back to the world determined to seek and find her, and then bring her to his own country. Sukkia was delighted to meet him again. and gladly followed him; but the snake's mother soon discovered her, and made up her mind to kill her without delay, so she had a room prepared full of scorpions and snakes, and all sorts of deadly creeping things, and invited Sukkia to sleep there. This plot was discovered in time by Rajah Bunsi Lall; and he had the creatures all removed and the room swept clean and whitewashed, thus Sukkia escaped; but only for a time, for the snake's mother told her she was clever, indeed so clever that a test would be given her to prove her cleverness, and if she failed to give proof of it, she would be put to death. The snake's mother then brought a quantity of mustard seed and strewed it on the floor beside Sukkia, telling her to divide it into equal lots and carefully count each seed. The poor girl began to cry, for she felt this task to be beyond her power, and the snake said all the trouble had been caused through asking his name, but he knew some little birds, who came when he called them by name, and they very soon divided the mustard seed, so once again Sukkia escaped. The next time she went out, it was to follow very miserably in the wedding procession of the snake; and his mother had arranged that Sukkia should have torches to carry on her head and in her two hands, so that, when the wind blew towards her, she would be burnt to death. All happened as arranged, but when Sukkia cried out, "I am burning, I am burning!" Rajah Bunsi Lall heard her and quickly ran to her rescue. Together they ran away and escaped to the upper world, and found their former home, where they lived happily ever after. THE POWER OF FATE There was once a Rajah who had six daughters, none of whom were married, although all were grown up. One day he called them to him, and asked each in turn whether she was satisfied with her lot in life and what fate had given to her. Five of the daughters replied: "Father, our fate is in your hands: you feed and clothe us, and all that is to be provided for our future you will provide: we are well satisfied with our lot in life." The youngest daughter alone kept silent, and this vexed her father, who enquired why she made no reply. "My fate is in no one's hands," she said; "and whatever is to be, will be, whether so willed by my father or not." The Rajah was now angrier than before, and ordered that she should be immediately put to death; but upon second thoughts he decided to send her to a distant forest, and there leave her without food or water, so that she might either be eaten by wild beasts at night, or else die of starvation. So she was placed in a dooly or litter and carried away. The dooly-bearers took her to a very dense jungle, and at length arrived at a clear space, in the centre of which stood a huge oak tree. Here they determined to leave her, so they tied the dooly to the boughs of the tree, where it could swing above ground, and departed. Now the Princess was very religious, so she spent her time in reading, and said her prayers five times a day, believing that if it were her fate to die she would die, but if not, some help would be sent to her. In this way day after day passed by without any relief, and the poor Princess was both hungry and cold, yet she continued to pray each day, until, on the morning of the ninth day, Mahadeo (or God), who had heard her unceasing prayers, called one of his messengers and said: "Some one on the earth is in great pain and sorrow, and her prayers are ever knocking at my door; go thou to seek who it is, and bring me word." So the messenger went forth, and found the poor Princess in her dooly on the tree, so he quickly brought back the news to Mahadeo, who sent him back with food and water to her relief. After she had eaten and drunk, she washed the brass vessels in which her food had come, and continued to pray and give thanks to God. Now each day fresh food and water was sent to her, and for her faith and goodness, Mahadeo determined to give her a reward. Looking out of her dooly one day, she noticed that the earth looked wet in a certain spot, so she dug there with her nails, and found water; not only did she find water, but stones, which were all of solid gold and silver. "My fate has indeed been good," said the Princess, and she forthwith determined to build herself a Palace on that spot, and to surround it with a beautiful garden. Next day she heard a woodman felling trees in the forest, and called loudly to him. The man was afraid, for it was a lonesome spot, where he had never before heard the sound of a human voice, and he thought she must be a spirit; but the Princess assured him that she too was human, and a King's daughter, who had been banished, and promised that if he would only bring her wood to build with, and workmen to make her house, she would pay him in gold daily. Pleased at his luck, the woodman lost no time in calling carpenters and masons, and before long a lovely Palace and garden were made in the once jungly spot, and here the Princess with her servants lived a very happy life together. One day the King, her father, riding by that way, was greatly surprised when he saw what a beautiful house and garden had been made in the midst of the jungle. He sent his servants to enquire whose it was, and to bring word quickly concerning it. The Princess saw her father's servants, and ordered that they should be kindly treated, and fed on the best of food; so they returned well pleased, to tell the King that it was his long-lost daughter, whom he had thought was dead, that owned the Palace, and she had sent a message to ask him to come and see her. The Rajah was indeed surprised, and hastened to find out for himself whether or not the news were true. When the Princess met him she reminded him of what she had said about fate, and her belief that what was to be, would be in spite of all efforts to prevent it, so that the Rajah also was convinced that she was right. After this her sisters came to visit her, and she gave them many beautiful and costly presents. Not long afterwards the Rajah made up his mind to travel, and asked each of his five children what they would like him to bring her on his return. They all wanted something different, and he had almost forgotten to ask his youngest daughter what she wanted, as she already had all that heart could wish, but he felt ashamed to leave her out, so he asked her also. "I have all that I need, O my father, but if, in your travels, you come to a certain city where there is a little box for sale, bring it to me." The Rajah soon bought his five daughters their presents, all but the little box, so when he arrived at the city his youngest daughter had mentioned, he began to enquire if there was a little box for sale. Now it was well known in that place that a certain bunniah had in his safe keeping a magic box which contained a fan, and the soul of a king's son. If any one waved the fan forwards, the Prince would at once appear, but waved backwards he would at once disappear. When the people heard a Rajah asking for a box, they thought that it was this magic box he meant, so they directed him to the bunniah, who said he might have it for five hundred rupees. This seemed a large sum to pay for so small, and, as it appeared to him, common a thing, yet, rather than return without it, the Rajah paid the price and returned to his own country. His five daughters were delighted with their gifts, and he sent the box to the youngest Princess. She soon opened it, took out the fan, and began to wave it. No sooner had she done so when a fine handsome Prince stood in her presence; but, when she waved in the opposite direction from herself, he disappeared. Every morning the Princess summoned the Prince with her fan, and during the day they spent many pleasant hours together playing Pacheesee, or Oriental Chess: in the evening she sent him away. The two were always happy together, and never weary of each other's presence, which, I am told, is a sign of the truest friendship. The five sisters soon came to show their youngest sister their presents; and laughed when they saw a simple little box, asking what made her choose such a plain common thing. Upon this the foolish girl told them the whole secret of the box, and taking out the magic fan, waved it in their presence, and the Prince arrived as before. This made the five elder sisters very angry and jealous; and while they sat together playing chess, they planned mischief in their hearts; so that evening they got some glass, and pounded it into little bits, and this they spread upon the couch on which the Prince was wont to take his midday rest. Next day, when he came, the bits of glass hurt the poor Prince cruelly; but, being a guest, he made no remark, and in the evening departed to his home, where, before long, he became very ill indeed. The King, his father, summoned all the cleverest Hakeems, or native physicians, to his son's bedside; but they could do nothing, and day by day the poor Prince lay at the point of death. In vain the Princess waved her fan; he was too ill to respond, and the five cruel sisters rejoiced to think their plan had succeeded so well. At last the youngest Princess could bear her suspense no longer; so, calling her servants together, she told them she was going by herself to a distant country on a pilgrimage, dressed like a Fakir, and none must follow her. At first her servants would not consent, and declared they would follow wherever she went, but after a time the Princess had her way, and set out on her journey. She wandered many miles that day, and at evening, weary and footsore, sat down under a tree to rest. While she sat there an eagle and a parrot began to talk in a neighbouring branch. "What news?" began the parrot. "Have you not heard of the magic box, and the Princess, and how her sisters placed broken glass on the couch of the Prince, and how even now he lies at the point of death?" "This is indeed sad news; and is there no remedy for his illness?" "The remedy is simple, if they but knew it. You have only to gather the refuse from an eagle's nest, add water to it, and apply it to the hurt, when, after three applications, the glass will come away, and the flesh speedily heal." This conversation was eagerly listened to by the Princess; and afterwards she carefully gathered the refuse beside the eagle's nest, and again started with all haste on her journey. Arrived at the town, she began to cry in the streets, "A Hakeem, a Hakeem!" (or doctor), and was instantly summoned to the King's Palace; for he had promised even to give up his kingdom to any one who would save his son. So the Princess in this disguise hastened into the King's presence, and there arranged to treat the Prince, on condition that no other remedy should be tried by others at the same time. At the first application of her remedy small pieces of glass were seen to drop out, at the second, still more, and, at the last, all fell out, and not one was left! This gave the Prince such relief that he opened his eyes and regained consciousness, but did not recognise in the new Hakeem, dressed as a Fakir, his former friend, the Princess. At last he got well, and was able to leave his room, so the Princess went to the Rajah, and begged permission to return to her own country. "Return to your country when I can give you land and riches and honour here! Why need you do that? Ask me for anything, O wise Hakeem, even for my throne and my kingdom, and you shall have it." "I desire nothing, O King," returned the poor Hakeem, "but would crave of you a few tokens in remembrance of your son. A handkerchief, his sword, a ring from his finger, and his bow and arrows." "These gifts are too small a return for all you have done. You shall have them, and much more, if you will." But the Hakeem refused, and, returning to her home with the tokens she had asked for, once more resumed the dress of a Princess, and, taking out her fan, began to wave it. Immediately the Prince stood in her presence, but she feigned anger with him. "All these many days I have waved my fan, and you have not come! Why have you come to-day, O Prince?" Then the Prince told her of all that had happened, of her sisters' cruelty, of his dangerous illness, and of the wonderful Hakeem who had saved his life, and to whom he should ever be grateful. The Princess was glad indeed to hear all this from his own lips, and, bringing out each gift, laid it before his astonished eyes, while she confessed that it was she herself who had tended him in his illness. The Prince was overcome with joy and gratitude, and asked her to become his wife; so they were married amid great feastings and rejoicings, and lived happily ever after. Such is the power of fate. THE OLD WITCH WHO LIVED IN A FOREST There was once a Brahmin who had five daughters, and after their mother died, he married another woman who was very unkind to them, and treated them cruelly, and starved them. So stingy was she that, upon one occasion, she took a grain of linseed, divided it into five pieces, and gave a piece to each child. "Are you satisfied, sister?" they asked one another, and each replied: "I am satisfied," except the youngest, who said: "I am hungry still." Then the eldest, who had still a morsel of the linseed in her mouth, took it and gave it to her little sister. Soon after their stepmother said to her husband: "These children must be sent away, or else I will go." He did his best to dissuade her, but she insisted; so, taking the five girls, he went with them to the river, where he suggested they should all cross over to the other side. "Father, you go first, and we will follow you." "No, my children, you go first, and I will follow; but, if you should see this umbrella which I carry floating upon the water, you will know that I am drowned and cannot come." So the children crossed over, and waited for him; but soon, to their grief, they saw the umbrella floating down the stream, and then they knew that their father had been drowned. After this they wandered about for many days, and passed through many cities. At last they came to a house in the woods, where a woman was sitting. She seemed very pleased to meet them, and invited them indoors; they went in, little knowing that she was a witch, and meant evil. Next day she told them to go and fetch wood, but kept back the eldest to sweep the house, and to keep her company. In the evening when the other sisters returned, they found their eldest sister was missing; and the witch, who did not wish them to know that she had eaten the child, told them that she had run back to her parents. The next day she did the same thing, and detained the second sister, and so on until only the youngest was left. At last the old witch told her to stay at home that day to sweep the house, and look after it while she went out. The child swept the room, and then, out of curiosity, opened a box which stood in the corner, and, to her horror, she saw inside it the four heads of her sisters! They were all smiling, and she said: "Why do you smile, O my sisters?" "Because you will also come here to-day," they replied. The poor child was much alarmed, and asked what she could do to escape. "Take all the things in this room, and tie them in a bundle, and as you run, throw them on the road. When the old witch comes to look for you, she will see the things, and, while she is picking them up, you will have time to escape." The child quickly did as the heads told her, tied the bundle, and ran away. There was only a broom left in the room, and when the old witch returned she mounted upon it, and flew through the air in hot pursuit. As she went along she found her things strewn on the road, and began picking them up one after another. This gave the child time to run further and further away, until, at last, she came to a peepul tree, and said: "O tree, shelter me!" and the tree opened, and she was hidden within it, all but her little finger, which remained outside, as the tree closed. This the old witch saw and promptly bit off: while she ate it, she regretted more than once that such a dainty morsel had escaped, but she knew there was no getting out the child; so she went away disappointed. Now, soon after, a man came to cut down the tree, but the child cried from inside: "Cut above, and cut below, but do not touch the middle, or you will cut me in half." The voice so amazed the man that he went and told the Rajah about it; and forthwith the Rajah came with all his retinue, and heard the same thing; so they did as the voice advised, and, after carefully opening the tree, found the child, a beautiful young girl, who sat with her hands folded within. "Girl," said the Rajah, "will you walk up to anybody here present to whose caste you belong?" The girl came out and walked up to a Brahmin: this decided the question of her birth, and that she was fitted to become the wife of a Prince. So the Rajah had her taken to his Palace, where they were afterwards married with great pomp, and lived happily ever after. Note.--It may interest my readers to know that the little native girl standing beside the peepul tree in my sketch is still living. She came to us during one of the great Indian famines, and we almost despaired of her life, for although seven years old at that time, she was a living skeleton, her calf measurement being exactly three-and-a-half inches, or half of my wrist! She is now a fine healthy child, and very devoted.--A.E.D. KULLOO, A FAITHFUL DOG A certain Bunniah or merchant married a woman of his own caste, and set out to a distant city. On the way he fell ill with a headache, so she sat by the wayside and pressed his head. While doing so a man passed by, and asked for a little fire to light his cheelum for a smoke, but she replied: "I cannot leave my husband, for I am holding his head while he sleeps." "Put some clothes under his head, and he will sleep," advised the stranger. This she did, but, while giving the fire to the man, he seized her, and, placing her upon his horse, rode away. When the Bunniah awoke, it was to find himself all alone but for his faithful dog Kulloo. "Master," said Kulloo, "let us become Fakirs, and beg from door to door." So they set out to beg, and one day came to the house of the robber who had stolen the Bunniah's wife; and she, not recognising her husband or his dog, gave them money and food. But the dog knew her, and that evening he spoke to his master, and asked him if he too had seen his wife. The Bunniah had not; and, guided by Kulloo, he set out to find her. When they arrived at the robber's house, and made themselves known, the woman was greatly vexed, for the robber was rich, and gave her a very comfortable home; but she pretended to be friendly and invited her husband to dine there that night, telling him that, afterwards, when he had the chance, he could kill the robber. When the Bunniah had gone, she and the robber arranged a trap for him. It was a hole in the floor, very large and deep, with spikes fixed in the sides of it, so that anybody who fell in might die. Over the hole they set a large brass thalee or plate, so that, while the Bunniah leaned heavily upon it to eat his food, both it and he would fall into the hole. All happened as they anticipated; and when the poor Bunniah found himself in a deep hole, full of spikes, he thought his last hour had come. But faithful Kulloo came to his rescue, and, taking out the spikes with his teeth, soon set his master free. The Bunniah then lost no time in seeking the robber, and found him lying fast asleep; so he killed him, and cut off his head, then, taking his wife with him, left the place. Kulloo followed closely, and licked up each drop of blood which fell from the robber's head, lest it might leave a trace of the deed, and get his master into trouble. He was a wise dog, and knew the woman was wicked, so she hated him, and made up her mind that she would neither eat nor drink until he was dead. The Bunniah enquired why she would not touch any food, and she told him she would only do so if he killed Kulloo. This the man refused to do; but, after a while, he consented. Poor Kulloo, when he knew his last hour had come, besought his master to bury him carefully, and to see that his head, which the Bunniah meant to cut off, was buried with him, for a time was yet to come when he would again save his master's life. After Kulloo was dead and buried the wicked woman was happy, and ate and drank as before; but, after a few days, she went and gave notice at the Court that the Bunniah was a cruel robber, who had killed her husband, and stolen her away. The police seized him, and he was taken up for murder; but, just as the Judge was about to pronounce the sentence of death upon him, he remembered faithful Kulloo; and at the same moment the dog appeared! All were surprised when he stood before the Judge, and asked leave to speak. He then told the whole story of the robber and the wicked woman; and thus, for a second time, saved his master's life, but, having said his say, poor Kulloo disappeared and was never seen again. THE STORY OF GHOSE There was once a Ranee who had no children, so she made a great pet of a young squirrel, and fed it day after day. One day it entered her head to deceive the Rajah, so she told him that, before the end of the year, an heir would be born in the Palace. On the appointed day she sent her own nurse (whom she had bribed) to tell the Rajah that the child was born, and was a daughter. The old Brahmin of the Palace hastened to see the young Princess, who was, in reality, no child, but the tame squirrel; so the Ranee persuaded him to go and tell the Rajah that he was now the father of a most lovely daughter: but the stars pointed out that he must not look on her face for twelve years, for, if she looked at him, he would die, and, if he looked at her, she would die. The poor Rajah had no choice but to agree, and thus the Ranee kept up her deception for twelve years, and hid her pet squirrel from everybody. At last, when the twelve years were over, she said one day to her husband: "Do not look upon your daughter's face till she is married, lest evil come upon her, but go you and make arrangements to marry her to a Prince of good family." So they sent the old Brahmin to seek for a husband for her; and he went from place to place, until he came to a city where there was a Rajah who had seven sons, all of whom were married but the youngest, whose name was Shahzadah; so the Brahmin chose him, and all was prepared for the marriage. There was a great feast held, and great rejoicings daily took place in the Palace. When at last the dooly or litter came, for the bride to be carried to her home, the Ranee hid the squirrel inside it, and nobody guessed that there was, in reality, no bride. On reaching his home the young bridegroom had the dooly placed at the door of his zenana, according to Oriental custom, so that none might see his bride enter; and great indeed was his surprise, when he looked inside, to find nobody there but a squirrel. For very shame he held his peace, and told nobody of it, but gave orders in the Palace that he and his wife would live apart by themselves; and she would be in such strict purdah, that even the women of the household would not be allowed to visit her. This gave great offence to everybody; but they put it down to his jealousy, owing to his wife's great beauty, and obeyed. At last his other brother's wife rebelled, and said: "I refuse to do all the household work; your wife must also take her share in it." Shahzadah was now very sad, for he felt the time had come for his secret to be discovered, and he would become the laughing-stock of the whole Palace. The squirrel, who was a great favourite of his, noticed his sadness, and asked him the cause of it. "Why are you sad, O Prince?" "I am sad because they say you must do some of the household work; and how are you to do it, being only a squirrel?" "What is it they want me to do?" "To leepo or plaster the floor." "Well, tell them to do their own portion of the work, and leave me to do mine at my leisure." This was done, and at night the squirrel went and dipped her tail into the limewash and plaster, and soon had the room better done than the other Ranees. In the morning all the household were surprised to see the clever way in which Shahzadah's wife had done her work, and they said: "No wonder you hide your wife, when she is so clever." The next day the task was to grind some corn, and again Shahzadah's heart was heavy, for how could a squirrel turn a heavy stone handmill, and grind corn? But the squirrel said as before: "Tell them to do their work, and to leave mine alone. I will do it when I have finished my bath." When night came, she went into the room, and with her sharp little teeth, kutter, kutter, kutter, soon reduced the corn to powder. Shahzadah was very pleased with her, and so were they all, and nothing more was said until the next day, when the allotted task was to make a native dish called goolgoolahs. This is done by mixing goor, or molasses, with flour and water, and frying it in ghee, or oil, like fritters. The poor little squirrel was indeed at her wits' end how to perform the task, for how could so small an animal make so difficult a dish? She tried, and she tried, but failed each time in her attempts, until it was nearly morning. Just then the God Mahadeo and his wife Parbatti were taking a walk in the dawning light of day. Parbatti saw the poor little squirrel's efforts, and said to Mahadeo: "I will not rest content till you turn that small creature into a human being, so that she can perform her task." At first Mahadeo refused, but, after a time, he took out a knife, and, making a cut in his finger, took the blood from it, and sprinkled it upon the squirrel, who forthwith turned into a most beautiful Princess. Just then, as she sat finishing her task, other members of the Royal Family awoke, and came in; they were greatly amazed at her beauty, and led her by the hand to their own apartments. Meantime, Shahzadah, her husband, was stricken with grief, thinking his poor little squirrel had been burnt to death. He sought her everywhere, and when he could not find her, began to cry: "O my Ghose, my Ghose, where are you?" The women standing there scolded him for this, and said: "Why do you call your beautiful wife a young squirrel? She is not dead, but has at last been found by us, and is with the other Princesses in the Palace." But Shahzadah, who knew nothing of what had happened, only wept the more, for he thought they were making fun of him, so he went to his own room, where he flung himself on his couch, and continued to weep. At last he looked up and saw, standing beside him, a beautiful girl, who said: "Do not weep, O Prince, for I am your squirrel." Then she told him all that had happened. This was indeed good news, and it was not long before the grateful Princess wrote to her foster-mother, who had been so good and kind to her when she was only a helpless little creature, and invited her and her father the Rajah to come on a visit. This was the first time the Rajah had seen or kissed his daughter, and he was indeed pleased to find she was so beautiful. So there were great rejoicings in the Palace, and they all lived happily ever after. THE VIZIER'S SON AND THE RAJAH'S SON The Vizier's and the Rajah's son were great friends, and always together. This made the Rajah very jealous, and he called an old woman whom he knew, and asked her to separate the two. This was a difficult task, as they were such fast friends, but the old woman was anxious to gain a reward, and said she would do it; so she called the Vizier's son, and when he asked her what she required, remained silent. Then she called the Rajah's son, and did the same. After she had gone, the two questioned each other as to what she had said, and neither would believe the other when he declared she had said nothing at all; so they began to suspect one another of deceit, and quarrelled. Thus the old woman sowed dissension in their hearts, and after a time, instead of being friends, they became bitter enemies. The Rajah's son said he insisted on knowing what the old woman had said to the Vizier's son, and if he would not tell it, he must be put to death at the hands of a sweeper, or, in India, low-caste man. The sweeper was just about to do this cruel deed, when the Goddess Parbatti saw him, and implored of Mahadeo, her husband, to intercede; so he sent a large stag to the jungle, and it stood near at hand. When the sweeper saw it, he killed it instead with the bow and arrows, and, taking out its eyes, carried them to the Rajah, and said they were the eyes of the Vizier's son. Thus the Prince was appeased, and again ate, drank, and was merry, until one day, walking in the garden, he saw an earthen vessel, and in it a lock of hair and a small lamp. This, he felt sure, had some significance, so he longed to ask the Vizier's son, who was clever, and would have told him all about it; but he remembered that the Vizier's son was taken away and killed, and he himself had seen his eyes brought back in proof of the deed. Nevertheless he wept day and night, and would not be comforted, so the Rajah, his father, in great distress, sent for the sweeper who had been told to kill the Vizier's son, and implored him to declare the truth concerning his end. Then the man confessed everything, and went and searched for the lad, and brought him back. The two boys became fast friends as before, and the Rajah's son enquired the meaning of the lock of woman's hair and lamp. "It means," said the Vizier's son, "the name of a beautiful Princess called 'Princess of the Lamp,' and she lives in a distant country." So they set out to seek her, and soon found the Palace in which she lived, and outside a girl making a wreath of flowers for the Princess. The Rajah's son begged the girl to let him make the hal or wreath, and, in making it, he placed a letter inside. The Princess was very angry when she found the letter, and made the girl tell her the truth; but she would not receive the Prince after what he had done, so he had to return to his own country: thus was he punished for his cruelty to the Vizier's son. THE RAJAH'S SON AND THE VIZIER'S SON For a second time the friendship of the Rajah's son and the Vizier's son caused great jealousy, so a mischief-maker was called, and he promised he would do all in his power to part them. Then he ordered a dooly and followed them into the forest. At the first opportunity he called to the eldest, who was the Vizier's son, and pretended to whisper in his ear. The Rajah's son at once enquired what the man had said, and would not believe that it was nothing at all, so once again in great anger he ordered his friend to be killed. But the Vizier's son was very clever, and soon persuaded the executioner to spare his life, for he told him the Rajah's son would very soon weary of being alone, and would ask for him back; and if the executioner could not bring him, he would most probably suffer death himself; thus he escaped, and went and hid himself. In the meantime the Rajah's son chanced to walk by the riverside, where he saw a very beautiful woman sitting beside her husband. He admired the woman very much, and communicated his feelings in looks, though he dared not do so in words. The woman replied by first spreading a little green plaster on the ground, on which she placed a brass vessel, or lota, and over that another or smaller lota, on the top of which was a looking-glass, with ashes spread upon it. The Rajah's son looked carefully at what she had done, but could not interpret its meaning, so he bitterly regretted the death of his friend, who was noted for his cleverness, and went at once to the executioner to enquire about him. The executioner owned that he had not killed the boy, and went and called him. Then the friends went together to discover what the woman meant, nor was the Vizier's son long in finding the meaning. The green plaster meant, "In a green spot lives Lota (the name of her husband), and Gudba (or smaller vessel) is the name of the city where we live; the looking-glass means in a house which has many glasses in it; and the ashes mean, 'May these ashes be on your head if you fail to discover my meaning.'" After this clue, it did not take the Vizier's son long to find out where the woman lived, and he put pegs into the wall, one above the other, for his friend to climb up to her window. But before the Rajah's son could reach the top, a Kotwal, or policeman, saw him, and took him away to the lock-up. This was an unexpected turn of affairs, so the Vizier's son quickly dressed himself as a beautiful woman, and asked to see his friend in the prison. He bribed the jailer to let him in, and, once there, made his friend put on his clothes and escape, while he remained prisoner in his stead. Next day the news went abroad that the Kotwal had locked up both the Rajah's son and the Vizier's son in the prison, and the Rajah was very angry about it, and sent at once to find out the reason. They determined to put the matter as to who was innocent and who was guilty to a test; so the Kotwal had a pan of boiling oil prepared, and said who ever plunged his hand into it, who was innocent of crime, would not be burnt. Each dipped his hand in turn, the Rajah's son, the Vizier's son, the woman, and the Kotwal himself, but only the Kotwal had his hand badly burnt, so this ended the whole affair. The Rajah's son meantime had dressed himself as a woman, and taken service in the house of the beautiful woman who was the wife of a Sowcar. Nobody guessed who he was, until one day the Sowcar himself admired him, and tried to be friends with him, thinking he was only a pretty servant-girl; then the Sowcar's wife gave her pretended servant-girl a razor, and said to keep it carefully till the next time the Sowcar came to see her, and then to cut off his nose. The Rajah's son, who was tired of acting the part of a servant-girl, was only too glad to do this; and the Sowcar, rather than let anybody know of his disgrace in having lost his nose, left the country, and thus his wife gained her ends. BEY HUSLO Bey Huslo was a very extravagant woman, who was always being found fault with by her husband, who held up as her examples other women who were thrifty in their habits, and who saved money, and helped to make and build up their husbands' homes. On hearing this Bey Huslo took a pick-axe, and began digging here and there like a mason. Her husband asked what she was doing, and she replied: "Trying to build you a house." He tried to explain that that was not literally meant, and explained again the duties of a wife. "When a good wife falls short of supplies, she borrows two cuttorah's full (or small earthen vessels full) of flour from her neighbour, and thus saves herself the expense of buying any large quantity." That night Bey Huslo, who had taken this saying literally, borrowed two small earthen vessels, and, breaking them into small pieces, put them on the fire to cook! Her husband heard the sound as they grated against the cooking-pot, and asked what she was cooking that made such a noise; but he was very angry indeed when she told him, and scolded her roundly. He told her she was perfectly useless, and that, while he had to go about without clothes, other women were able to spin and weave. She replied that if he would only give her some wool, she could do the same. The man was delighted, and gave her some wool; so she took it to the pond, and told the frogs and toads to weave it into cloth for her. After some days her husband asked her if the cloth was ready, and she said: "I gave it to the frogs and toads to weave for me, and find they have not done so." Then her husband was very angry indeed, and said: "Senseless one, have you ever heard of frogs and toads spinning cloth? Go out of my house this moment!" And, with that, he turned her out, and she went and climbed up into a peepul tree. Soon after some camels came that way, and, as they stretched out their necks and ate the branches, Bey Huslo called out: "Go away, I will not go with you; I will only go when my husband comes to fetch me." But as the camels had only come to eat, and not to fetch her, they made no reply, and went away. After this a dog began to bark at her, but she said again: "Go away, I will not go with you; I will only go with my husband." When night fell some thieves sat sharing their spoils under the tree, and Bey Huslo felt so frightened that she fell off, and dropped in their midst. The thieves did not know what to make of it, and ran away, leaving their stolen property behind. Bey Huslo soon gathered it up and returned to her husband. "Here," she said, "is more than enough for you and for me. We will now live at our ease, and I will have no housekeeping to do, so that you can no longer call me a worthless wife." THE STORY OF PANCH MAR KHAN There was once a weaver who had the habit of slapping his face to kill any flies that settled upon it; and it was rumoured that he killed five at every blow, so he got the name of Panch Mar Khan, which means "a killer of five." People did not know that this name applied to flies, but thought the weaver a brave, strong man, able to kill five of his enemies at a blow, so that he gained a reputation for bravery. One day the Rajah of that place heard some enemies were coming in force to attack his capital. All the fighting men were required to go out and meet them on the morrow; so Panch Mar Khan received notice to be in readiness also. Now he had never touched a weapon in his life, and was horribly frightened at the very idea, so he made up his mind to run away during the night. He saddled his donkey, and, taking two large millstones, set out on his journey; but, as he was passing the enemy's camp, and arrived at a hill just a little above it, the donkey began to kick and to bray, and the two stones rolled down the hill into the enemy's camp with a great noise. They thought an army was after them, and became terror-stricken, so that in the darkness and panic which ensued, many of them were killed. Panch Mar Khan was greatly delighted at his good luck, and, instead of running away, returned to his own home. Next morning, when the soldiers came to call him out to fight the enemy, he very proudly asked: "What enemy? Did I not go out at night, and kill hundreds of our enemies and drive the rest away?" True enough, there was now no camp to be seen, and several dead men were found on the spot; so Panch Mar Khan's reputation as a brave man spread far and wide, and he was handsomely rewarded by the Rajah. Some days after news came that a tiger was prowling about; and a brave man was required to go out that night and kill it. Who was so brave as Panch Mar Khan! So he was deputed to go, but when he heard this he nearly died of fright, and made up his mind that he would run away. So when darkness fell he crept out and caught his donkey by the ear, and led it to its stable, and there tied it to a post, to wait till he was ready to get on its back; but when he returned with a light, what was his surprise to find it was not his donkey, but the tiger that he had led by the ear and tied to a post. Such brave conduct from a mortal to a wild beast had so amazed the tiger, that it was too frightened to resist, so there it remained till morning, and Panch Mar Khan was thought to be the bravest man alive! Next morning he got up early, and went out into the field near his house, and there he suddenly came face to face with the fierce eyes and grinning teeth of a jackal. His other bravery was by mistake, but this was a reality, and so frightened was he, that he fell down and died on the spot. THE RABBIT AND THE BARBER There was a rabbit who asked a barber to shave him; in doing so the barber cut off his ear. "Take my ear," said the rabbit, "and I will take your razors." A little further on he saw an old woman pulling grass with her hands. "Take this," he said, giving her the razor, "and cut grass with it, and I will take your cloth." When she asked him why, he replied: "You have my razor and I have your chudder." Then he went a little further and saw a ghee seller. "Take my chudder and give me your ghee," said the rabbit. So saying, he left the chudder and walked off with the ghee. Not long after he met a woman, and told her to make him some goolgoolahs, or sweets, with the ghee. As soon as they were ready he picked them up and ran away. A little further on was a man with a plough, a horse, and a bullock. "Take these sweets," said the rabbit, "and I will yoke your plough for you." But, instead of doing this, he ran away with the horse, and soon after met a marriage procession, in which the bridegroom was walking beside the bride's litter or dooly. "Get on my horse: why do you walk?" said the rabbit gaily. So the man got on, and the rabbit ran off with the bride; but her husband ran after, and advised his wife to kill the rabbit. When they got to a quiet place, and rested under a tree, she asked the rabbit to let her comb his hair; but as soon as he put his head down, she gave him a severe knock on it, which stunned him, and then ran back to her husband. Thus ended the adventures of the rabbit. RUPA AND BISUNTHA There was once a woman who had no little children of her own; every day she used to watch the sparrows building their nests, and bringing up their young, and it so happened that one day a mother bird died, leaving several young ones. After a time a new mother bird was brought, and she was not at all good to the young fledglings. The woman felt hurt for them, and said to her husband: "If I had children of my own, and after a time I died, would you do as the birds have done, and let my children be unkindly treated?" But the man replied: "These are birds, and I am a man." After some years the woman had two sons, and when they had grown to be big boys, she died. Her husband had forgotten her conversation about the birds, and he married another wife. One day the eldest boy was playing with a ball, when it fell into his stepmother's room. He asked if he might fetch it; but when he went inside, she made it an occasion for all sorts of complaints against him to his father, so his father turned him out of the house, and he went away with his little brother. As they rested that night in the forest, the younger brother lay awake and overheard a conversation between two Night Jars. They talked on many subjects. At length one of the birds remarked: "How little do people guess that he who eats me will become a Rajah, and he who eats you will become a Prime Minister." On hearing this the youngest brother crept out of bed, and taking his gun, shot both birds and cooked them. He ate the female himself, and kept the male for his brother. But while he slept, a venomous snake, which lived in the tree, came down and bit him, so that he died as he slept. In the morning his elder brother awoke, and found a meal prepared for him, so he ate the bird, and then tried to wake his companion, but soon discovered that the boy was dead. This grieved him very much, and he wept bitterly, and determined to wait till he could return and burn his brother in a way befitting to a good caste Hindu, so he placed him in the branches of the tree and went his way. The same day Mahadeo and Parbatti were passing that way, and Parbatti, who is ever described as a wilful Goddess, always wanting her own way, asked Mahadeo to see what was in the tree. They soon found the dead boy; and Parbatti insisted that he should be made alive again, so Mahadeo sprinkled a few drops of blood upon him, and he sat up alive and well. Close to this place a Rajah had just died, and his people placed his crown in the trunk of an elephant, leaving it to him to place it upon the head of any man there; and that man would be their future King. The elephant looked upon them all, and then, walking up to Rupa, placed the crown upon his head. At first the people objected, because he was a stranger, and did not belong to their town, but after a while they accepted him as their King, and thus the words of the bird were fulfilled. In the meantime, Bisuntha came to the same city, and begged a night's shelter. The people were fully aware that night after night a fierce man-eating tiger came to that town, and demanded a man to eat. They did not wish to give one of the men belonging to the town, so Bisuntha, being a stranger, was selected for the tiger, and told to go and sleep in the place where it was likely to come. At night he lay awake thinking, and the tiger came; but Bisuntha had his sword beside him, so he promptly killed the tiger, and placed its ears and whiskers in his pocket. In the morning a sweeper came, thinking to find the stranger dead and his bones scattered about, but, instead, he found the tiger dead, and the stranger lying fast asleep; so he resolved to take all the honour of killing the tiger to himself, and went back to the city with the news that he had killed the tiger single-handed, and saved the man. This story was believed, and the sweeper richly rewarded, but Bisuntha heard nothing. Now there lived in that city a merchant who owned a ship and went to distant cities to trade, but sometimes the ship stuck in the sandbanks, and could not be moved. At such times it was necessary to kill a man, and then the sand was pleased at the sacrifice and let the ship go. It was always difficult to find a man for the purpose, and the Rajah was often asked to select one. Bisuntha, at this time, had taken up service in the house of an oil merchant, and being a stranger, he was selected for a second time, and sent by the Rajah to accompany the merchant, at the risk of his life. At the first sandbank, when the ship was in difficulties and could not be moved, the merchant told Bisuntha he must prepare to die; but Bisuntha said: "You desire your ship to move, whether I die or whether I do not. If I can make it move on for you, will you spare my life?" To this the merchant agreed; and Bisuntha cut his finger, and dropped a few drops of blood into the sea. As soon as he did this the ship moved on, and so the merchant would not part with him, or kill him, but kept him during the whole voyage, and brought him back to the town. Rupa had half forgotten his brother all this while, but one day he was stricken with remorse, and determined to find out what had happened after he had left the forest, with the intention of burning the remains of Bisuntha. In order to get news of him, he sent out a notice that he would pay any one who would come daily and talk with him, for he hoped in the course of conversation that some one would mention the circumstance of the boy who was found dead in a tree in the forest. At length Bisuntha himself came to hear what the Rajah his brother was doing, so he disguised himself as a girl, and went to the Palace. When the Rajah saw him he said: "What have you to say, O my daughter?" and Bisuntha said: "Do you wish me to talk on general subjects or only of myself?" "Of yourself," said Rupa. So the lad began. "There were once two brothers, whose names were Rupa and Bisuntha, and they had a stepmother." Rupa's interest was now breathless, but after telling a small part of the story Bisuntha said he was tired, and would tell the rest next day. The next day he continued, and told how a snake had bitten Bisuntha, and how he had died in the forest, and had been raised to life by Mahadeo and Parbatti. Rupa was now full of anxiety to know the rest, but Bisuntha said he had forgotten it, so nothing could be done. When he came again, he said he remembered that Bisuntha came to a certain town, where the Rajah ordered him to be given to a tiger; how he had escaped the tiger and all other dangers, and had in his pocket the proof. Thus saying he took out the tiger's ears and whiskers, and, as his eyes met his brother's, they recognised each other, and fell upon each other's necks. SHEIK CHILLI The hero of this story was one day walking along with a vessel of oil upon his head. As he walked he kept thinking of the future. "I will sell the oil, and with the money I shall buy a goat, and then I shall sell the kids, and then I shall buy a cow, and sell the milk, till I get a large sum of money; then I shall buy a pair of buffaloes, and a field, and plough the field, and gain more money, and build myself a house, and marry a wife, and have many sons and daughters. And when my wife comes to call me to dinner, I'll say: 'Dhur, away! I'll come when 1 think fit!'" and with that he held up his head suddenly, and away fell the chattie with the oil, and it was all spilt. This upset Sheik Chilli so much that he began to yell: "I have lost my goats, I have lost my cows, I have lost my buffaloes, and my house, and my wife and children." That such dire calamity should befall a man caused great pity, so the bystanders took Sheik Chilli to the Rajah, who asked him how it had all happened. When he heard the story he laughed, and said: "This boy has a good heart, let him be given a reward to compensate him for the loss of his oil." SHEIK CHILLI Sheik Chilli was going to be married, so his mother said: "My son, whatever your wife gives you to eat be content with your nemak panee (literally salt and water, but a native always speaks of his food as his "nemak panee"), and do not grumble, but eat uncomplaining." So when he was married, and his wife placed his food before him, he remembered his mother's warning, and kept repeating, "Nemak panee, nemak panee," till his wife was disgusted, and taking him at his word gave him salt and water to drink. During the night he felt very hungry, and asked her to give him some food, but she said: "I am not going to get up and cook food for you at this hour of the night, but if you will go into a certain room, you will find some honey in a jar on the shelf, eat a little of that." Sheik Chilli, in trying to reach the jar of honey, upset it, and it came pouring down upon him, while he kept calling out, "Stop, stop, I've had enough," till at last, surfeited with honey and smeared with it from head to foot, he returned to his wife, and told her what had happened. She advised him to go into the next room, where he would find some wool, and clean himself with it. He tried to do this, but the wool stuck fast to the honey, and covered his body and his hands, so that he looked more like a sheep than a man, and his wife told him that he had better go and sleep with the sheep until morning, when she would prepare some warm water for him to have a wash. That night some thieves came to steal the sheep, and in the darkness they felt each one to see which was fattest. Sheik Chilli was fast asleep, and they thought he was a very fine sheep; so they put him into a bag and ran away, taking him with them. When he awoke he kept calling out: "Let me go, let me go." This frightened the robbers, who had never heard a sheep call out before, and so they put down the bag and out dropped Sheik Chilli. The robbers asked him who he was, and said: "You must come with us now, for we are just going to rob the house of a very rich Bunniah; while we gather the spoils, you keep watch that he does not wake." Sheik Chilli waited patiently till he thought the robbers were ready to run away; and then he dropped some hot rice, that was in the cooking pot on the fire, upon the hand of the Bunniah's wife. She awoke with a scream, and the robbers ran away. Then Sheik Chilli explained how he had saved the Bunniah from great loss, and was allowed to go free without any more questions being asked. When he got outside he saw a camel laden with all sorts of treasure. The camel-driver had turned aside for a minute or so, and Sheik Chilli could not see him, so he lead off the camel, made over its pack to his mother, and let it walk away empty. Next day there was a great fuss made, and the town-crier went round to say that a camel had strayed, and certain valuable goods were lost. Sheik Chilli's mother heard this, and knowing how simple her son was, she feared he would tell every one where the things were, so she resolved to divert his mind, and that night cooked some goolgoolahs, a very favourite native dish, like fritters, and flung them into the garden; then she woke her son and told him it was "raining goolgoolahs from the sky!" The foolish fellow ran out and called to everybody: "It is raining goolgoolahs! it is raining goolgoolahs!" Everybody thought him a fool, and said: "It is that mad Sheik Chilli; who is going to listen to him?" Next day Sheik Chilli heard the town-crier calling out about the camel, so he promptly said: "My mother has the things; I myself brought the camel to her." Then they all crowded to his mother's door, and she asked: "On what day did you bring the camel, my son?" "The day it rained goolgoolahs, mother." So the people walked away disgusted, and said: "What fool's talk is this? Who ever heard of its raining goolgoolahs? The one statement is as false as the other." After this his mother advised him to return to his wife, who must wonder what had become of him. "And mind," she said, "whatever your wife may say, you must agree, and say 'Acchabat'"--or "Quite right," as we English would say "Good!" or "Very good news!" So he returned to his wife, and the first piece of news she gave him was that her mother had been put into prison, to which he replied, "Acchabat," or "Very good." On this his wife was exceedingly vexed, and turned him out of the house. He returned to his mother, who asked him what had happened. She said: "You are indeed a foolish boy, you should have said, 'Ah ha! Ah ha! this is indeed sad news.' I hope you will remember next time what I have told you." So Sheik Chilli went back to his wife, who greeted him with the news that his mother-in-law had been released. "Ah ha!" said Sheik Chilli, "this is indeed sad news." The mother-in-law, who overheard him, said: "I have had enough of you: take your wife, and go and live in your own mother's house." So she turned him out. THE MONKEY, THE TIGER, AND THE PRINCESS Once upon a time there was a King who had seven sons, and he made up his mind that he would not let them marry unless they married seven sisters, so he sent his Brahmin to seek a Rajah who had seven daughters, and to bring him word. After a time the Brahmin succeeded, and found a Rajah who had seven daughters; so arrangements were speedily made for their marriage. When the time came for the seven Princes to go and fetch their brides, the youngest said to his father: "If we all go, who is to look after the house, and all your property? Let me remain behind, and when my brothers return with their wives, they can bring my bride also." His father thought this a very wise suggestion, so they set out, leaving the youngest brother at home. After the wedding festivities were over, the seven brides were carried along in doolies, with the six Princes for an escort, and they halted for the night near a tank or pond in the forest, but did not know that the place was full of tigers. At night the tigers formed a ring round the camp, and said they would eat every one in it unless one of the Princesses was given up to them. None of the six Princes would give up his wife. At last they decided to leave the seventh Princess to the tigers. When the procession arrived at the Rajah's Palace, the youngest Prince wondered why only six doolies had come, and asked what had become of his bride; but nobody would give him an answer. At last an old man told him what had happened, and the young Prince, who was very angry and disappointed with his brothers, at once set out to seek his bride. On the way he met a rat and a jackal, and they said: "May we go with you?" The Prince consented, and the three set out together, and walked or rode till evening, when they were overcome with fatigue and sat down to rest. The Prince fell asleep, but the jackal said to the rat: "I am very hungry, what shall we do for food? Do you eat the Prince's clothes, and I will eat his horse." No sooner did they agree than they carried out their plan. The rat ate all the clothes worn by the Prince, and the jackal ate his horse, so that when he awoke it was to find himself alone in the forest, without either horse or clothes. Just then a monkey came down from the tree, and asked him what was the matter. "I have told my troubles to two animals before, and do not wish to be betrayed by a third," said the Prince; to which the monkey replied: "A rat is a rat, and a jackal is a jackal, but I am a monkey; come with me and I will help you out of your troubles." Then they went to the Bazaar, where the monkey gave his friend the Prince some money, and told him to buy himself clothes. When he had bought the clothes, he gave him some more money and said to buy himself a sword and ornaments, and lastly to buy himself a horse, and the monkey advised that it should be a thin horse, fleet of limb. Then the two mounted the horse and rode into the forest, where they soon found the Princess sitting tied up in a den, with an old blind tiger in charge of her. The blind tiger held two strings; one was attached to the girl, and the other to a large tiger who had gone out with the rest of the tigers, but who, at the slightest pull of the string, was ready to return to give any assistance required of him. The monkey whispered to the girl to try and free herself, and meantime, he began to sweep the room, and busy himself, so that the old blind tiger might think the girl was busy at her household work. After a time the girl managed to get away, and she fled with the Prince, until the monkey thought they were at a safe distance; then he turned round and dealt several blows to the old blind tiger, who, in her turn, pulled the string. A great big tiger at once came to her assistance, and asked what had happened, but he was enraged to find that the girl had gone, and beat the old tiger soundly, before setting off in hot pursuit. On the way he saw a man, who was in reality the monkey in disguise, sitting beside a funeral pyre. "What is this for?" asked the tiger. "A certain tiger," said the monkey, "has killed his mother to-day, and this is to burn her upon." The tiger felt remorse, for he had not meant to kill the old tiger, so he rushed back to the den, and this gave the fugitives time to escape yet further; but when the tiger found his mother alive and well, he was so angry that he dragged her out of the den by her feet and threw her on the ground. Then he ran back to where the monkey was sitting and found him still busy with the funeral pyre, for he said that an old woman had been dragged out by her feet that day, and she was even now being carried to be burnt. The tiger was filled with remorse at what he had done, and for a second time ran back to the den. By this time both the Prince and the Princess had escaped in safety, and the monkey joined them. They were always good to him, but he pined for the woods and the forests; yet, whenever he asked to be allowed to return, they would not allow it. So one day he determined to make the Princess so angry that she would herself turn him out. He awaited his opportunity, and broke all the thread as she was spinning. The Princess threw something heavy at his head, and he feigned to fall down dead. Great were the lamentations over the faithful monkey, and he was carried in solemn ceremony to be burnt, just as though he were a Rajah's son; but the moment they laid him upon the fire, up he jumped, and ran off. The Princess scolded him for causing her such sorrow, but he explained that since there was no other way of getting back into the forest and regaining his liberty, he had thought this the best way. Then they all came home, and let the monkey sport in the forest as before. THE JACKAL AND THE GUANA A jackal once made itself a throne of bones near the river-side, and levied toll on all the animals that came there to drink water, making each say in turn these words: "Golden is your throne, Silver is its plaster, In your ears are golden earrings, And you sit like a Rajah." This praise pleased the jackal, and he was puffed up with his own importance. One day a guana, or iguana, a very large lizard, called by the natives "Go," came to the river, but when the jackal asked it to repeat the words, it said: "Let me drink first, for I am dying of thirst;" so he let it drink, and when it had finished, it said: "Bones are your throne, With cow dung are they plastered, In your ears are shoes, And you sit like a jackal." This made the jackal wild with anger, so he ran after the Go to kill it, and caught its tail in his teeth, just as the Go was getting into a hole. "Hoo hoo," said the jackal. "Don't say Hoo, say Ha," called the Go; so the jackal said "Ha!" and in order to say it, had to open his mouth, so the Go escaped! THE STORY OF THE BLACK COW There was a certain Brahmin whose wife died leaving him one little son. For some time the two lived happily together, but at last the Brahmin married for a second time, and the woman, who had a daughter of her own, was very unkind to her little stepson. Each day the two children went out together to attend to the cattle, and at night they returned home to eat their food. But the cakes made by the Brahmin's wife for her stepson were of ashes, with just a little flour mixed in to give them the appearance of food, that the Brahmin might not notice; and the child ate in silence, for he was afraid to complain, yet, when he was alone in the forest he wept from hunger, and a black cow, one of the herd, saw this, and asked him what was the matter. The boy told her everything, and presently she beat her hoofs upon the ground. As she did so, sweets of all kinds appeared, which the child ate greedily, and shared with his little sister, warning her the while not to mention at home what the black cow had done, lest the stepmother should be angry. The stepmother meanwhile wondered to see how well the boy looked, and she resolved to keep watch, for she suspected that he drank the milk while tending her cows; so she told her little daughter to keep a good look-out on all his doings, and to let her know. At last the girl confessed that they ate sweets every day, and the black cow provided the feast. That day when the Brahmin came home his wife begged him to sell the black cow, and said she would neither sleep nor eat until this was done. The poor boy was sad indeed when he heard this, and went at once to his favourite, where, throwing himself on the black cow's neck, he wept bitterly. "Do not weep, my child, but get up on my back, and I will carry you to a place of safety where we can still be together." So they escaped to a forest, and there lived in peace and security for many days. Now, in the forest was a hole, which led to the home of the Great Snake, which, together with a bull, holds up the universe. Into this hole the black cow poured five seers of milk daily to feed the snake. This pleased the snake so much that he said one day: "I must go up into the world and see for myself the creature who is so good to me and who sends me such good milk to drink." When he came he saw the black cow grazing with the boy beside her. The cow asked no favours for herself, but when the snake asked what she would like, she said she would like her son, as she called the Brahmin's son, to be clothed in gold from head to foot, and that all his body might shine as gold. This wish the snake readily granted, but both cow and boy afterwards regretted their request, for they feared robbers. One day as the boy had his bath by the river, and combed his long locks of pure gold, some of his golden hair fell into the water, and was swallowed by a fish. This fish was caught by a fisherman, and taken for sale to the King's Palace. When they cut it open all present admired the lovely golden hair, and when the Princess saw it, she said she would never be happy again until she met the owner. The fisherman was asked where he caught the fish, and people were despatched in all directions in boats to search both far and wide. At last a man in one of the boats espied in the distance a beautiful shining object taking a bath by the river-side. Little by little the boat came closer and closer, until it was alongside; then the man called out and asked the bather to come a little nearer. At first the Brahmin's son would not listen, but after a time he came up to the boat, when, to his surprise, he was at once seized, tied up, and carried away. Arrived at the King's Palace he met the Princess, who was very beautiful; and when he saw her he forgot everything else, and thought only of her. After a short time they were married, and spent many happy days together; but some one chanced to offer them a sweet-meat made of curds, such as the black cow often gave her boy, and in a frenzy of remorse, the Brahmin's son remembered his faithful friend and hastened to the place in the distant forest where he had last seen her. Arrived there he found only a few bones of dead cattle strewn about. He was heart-broken at the sight, and gathered all the bones together into a funeral pyre, upon which he declared he would lay down his own life; but just as he was about to do this who should appear but his old friend, the black cow. They were overjoyed to see each other, and she told him she had only kept the bones there to test his affection; but now that she was satisfied that he had not forgotten her, the meeting was full of happiness and joy, so they held a great feast for many days and then went their separate ways as before. THE BRAHMIN AND THE WILD GEESE There was once a Brahmin who had a large family, and was very poor. Every day he went out into the Bazaar to beg, but whether he begged for only an hour, or for the whole day, he seldom succeeded in getting a seer of atta (two pounds of flour). Now this made his wife very angry, for she thought that the longer he begged, the more he should gain. She suspected that he sold what he was given, instead of bringing it home for his family, so she accused him and beat him soundly. The Brahmin was deeply vexed at her treatment, and determined to go to the river and there drown himself; yet when he tried to do so, his courage failed, so he alternately threw himself into the water and then changed his mind and came out again. His conduct attracted the attention of a couple of wild geese, who had their nest near by. "I wonder what that man is doing; I think I will go and see," said the gander; but his wife advised him not, "for who knows the ways of human beings." Yet he would not listen, and going up to the Brahmin, asked him the reason of his strange conduct. The Brahmin told him everything, and when he had done the goose said: "Shut your eyes till I tell you to open them." The Brahmin did as he was told, and on opening his eyes, the goose held out to him in its beak, a most valuable and beautiful ruby. "Take this, my friend, and sell it to a Rajah, and then your troubles will be all over." The Brahmin thanked him warmly, and went off with his treasure to the nearest State; there the Rajah looked at the ruby, but said he could not afford to buy so valuable a gem unless the Brahmin would accept for it seven mule loads of money. This the Brahmin gladly consented to do, and returned to his home a rich man. Some time after this, the poor Rajah who had bought the ruby got leprosy, and called all the physicians he could find to cure him. One of these said he would be cured if he ate the flesh of a wild goose, and applied its fat to his hands. That very day the Rajah sent for the Brahmin, and told him to go without delay and fetch him a wild goose, when he would reward him greatly. Now, the Brahmin loved money, and for his greed of gold, forgot all the kindness of the wild goose, and made up his mind to secure it; so he went to the river as before, and began to try and drown himself. The geese watched him with much concern, for they wondered what had caused this fresh trouble, after all that had been done for him. Perhaps a thief had stolen the ruby. The old gander ran to enquire, but his wife warned him not to go. "What is the matter, O Brahmin?" "Nothing, my friend, except that I wish to behold your face again." "Well, here I am." "Ah, not so far, my friend; come nearer that I may caress you," cried the Brahmin. So the foolish bird came nearer, and no sooner had he done so, than the Brahmin seized him and put him in a bag, with only his head out. As they went along, the poor goose shed bitter tears of reproach, and each tear became a beautiful pearl. The Rajah's son chanced to come that way, saw the pearls, and followed in their track, until he came to the spot where the Brahmin sat. "What is in your bag?" he asked; "and why do pearls fall from it as you walk along?" The Brahmin denied that he had anything in his bag, but the Prince would not listen, and accused him of theft; so at length he opened it, and displayed the wild goose. The poor bird told the Prince of all he had done for the Brahmin, and of the poor return and ingratitude he was having now. This made the Prince very angry, and he at once released the goose, who gladly flew away. The Brahmin then went to the Rajah, and told him what his son had done, and orders were at once given to banish the Prince from the kingdom. Then the Prince went to the river and told the wild goose of his banishment, and, out of gratitude, the goose and his wife brought food and fruit daily, and placed it before him. This went on for some time, and then the geese decided to find a wife for their visitor. Now a lovely Princess lived in a Palace close to that place; and one night, while she slept, the two geese joined wings under her bed, and carried her to the river. In the morning when she awoke she was surprised to find herself in this lonely place. But the Prince met her and told her that he too was banished; and they became great friends and soon afterwards were married. The wild geese gave them many beautiful and valuable gifts, and they went to live in the former home of the Princess. THE FOUR-GIFTED PRINCESS There was once a King, who was sitting with his wife before the fire when they heard a partridge call. The King said: "That sound comes from the left," and his wife said it came from the right, so they had a bet about it, and the Rajah said: "If you are right you may have my kingdom, and I will cease to reign any longer;" so he went out, and found that his wife was right. This being the case, he began to make preparations to leave, and to make over his kingdom to her; but, as he was about to do this, his servants, who knew of the bet, advised him not to be so foolish, but to take another wife, and to do away with this one, rather than part with the kingdom. At first the King would not listen, but after a time he agreed to leave the matter in their hands. That night they waited till the poor Ranee lay asleep, and took her as she slept, placed her in a box, locked it up, and threw it into a river. An old Fakir was in the habit of bathing in the river very early in the morning, and when he came he found the box and opened it. The Ranee was unconscious, but not dead; so he carried her to his own home, and there looked after her until she recovered. Now the Ranee was about to present the kingdom with an heir, and was very miserable to find herself deserted and in a strange home at such a time, so she cried bitterly, and three fairies were sent to her assistance. Soon after this a little daughter was born to her, and when the child was a month old, the three fairies took their leave, but, before going, each determined to leave a parting gift for the little Princess. The first said that whenever she placed her foot on a stone it would turn to either silver or gold. The second said that whenever she laughed sweet scented flowers would fall from her lips. The third said that whenever she cried pearls would fall from her eyes. All these things came to pass, so in time they built a beautiful Palace. One day the Rajah passed that way, and asked the Brahmin how he had built such a lovely Palace in the place of his old mud-hut. The old man told him how he had found the box, and all about the Queen, his wife, whom he thought was dead. The Rajah owned his sin, and implored forgiveness of his wife. At first she refused to forgive him, but after a time she listened, and the Rajah said that, if ever again he did anything to vex or hurt her, the old Fakir might punish him as he thought best. Now the Indian people dread the punishment of a holy Fakir; so the Queen returned to her former Palace, and lived happily ever after. THE MAN WHO WENT TO SEEK HIS FORTUNE There was once a Zemindar or Jhut who was very poor, and he had a brother who was very rich, but the rich brother never helped him at all and often reproached him for his poverty. One day the poor Zemindar determined to go out into the wide world to seek his fortune, and not to return until he had found it. Having thus made up his mind he set out on his journey, and the first thing he came across was a King's Palace, which was in the hands of carpenters and masons; but no sooner had they built it up on one side, than the other side fell down, so that the place was at all times under repairs, and caused its owner much expense and anxiety. As the Zemindar stood watching the place, the King came out, and asked him who he was, and where he was going; so he told him that it was to seek his fortune. "Well, when you get to the place where you find it, will you think of me, and enquire the reason why my Palace is constantly falling down?" This the Zemindar promised to do, and then continued on his journey. The next place he arrived at was a river, and a turtle was on its bank. It asked him whither he was going, and he said: "To seek my fortune." "Friend, remember me when it is found, and say that the poor turtle, although it lives in water, suffers from a severe burning sensation inwardly. Pray enquire the reason of this." So the Zemindar promised, and, as a reward, the turtle bore him across the river on its back. After another long journey, when he was both hungry and footsore, the Zemindar spied in the distance a most beautiful plum tree. It was the season for plums, so he determined to have a good feast of the fruit, and plucked one of the largest and best, but it tasted so bitter that he quickly threw it away, and, turning to the tree in anger and disappointment, cursed it. "You are fair to look at, but otherwise good for nothing," he cried bitterly. "Alas!" replied the tree, "this is what all travellers say to me. Yet I cannot discover why my fruits are bitter. Will you, O traveller, find out for me in your travels, and bring me word?" After leaving the plum tree, the Zemindar went into a thick jungle, and in the midst of it found an old Fakir fast asleep. He did not know that this holy man had slept for twelve years, and was just about to awake. While he stood there the old Fakir opened his eyes, and saw him. "Son, you have looked after me while I was asleep; who are you and where are you going?" "I am going to seek my fortune, for I am a poor man." "Go no further, but return the same way that you have come," said the old Fakir. "Before I go, will you tell me, O holy Fakir, why a certain Rajah's house is always falling down, though he is constantly rebuilding it." "The Rajah has a daughter who is grown up but unmarried; when she is married the trouble will cease." "A turtle is troubled with burning sensations inwardly, and would be glad to know the cause." "The turtle is full of wisdom, but selfishly keeps all its knowledge to itself. Let it tell half it knows to another, and it will become quite well." "There is a beautiful plum tree whose fruits are bitter to the taste. What is the cause of this?" "There is hidden treasure at the root of the tree, and when this is removed, the fruit will be sweet," said the old Fakir. Then the Zemindar thanked him, made a low salaam, and returned the same way he had come. First he met the plum tree, and it at once enquired if he had found out why its fruit was bitter, and he told it the reason. "It is yours to remove that cause, my friend, so dig quickly, and see what there is at my roots." The Zemindar did as he was bid, and found a box full of treasure--pearls, and gold, and rubies--so he tied them in his blanket, and went on his way. At the river his friend the turtle awaited him eagerly; so the Zemindar explained everything, and the turtle said: "I will impart half the knowledge to you as a reward; stoop down and listen." The man did as he was bid, and the creature imparted great wisdom to him in whispers. After this he met the King, who said: "Well, traveller, what news? Have you found your fortune?" "Yes, O King, and the cause of your trouble is, that, until your daughter is married, your house will continue to fall down." "Will you marry her?" said the King. The Zemindar gladly consented, and the marriage took place with great pomp. After it he returned to his own home, and there his elder brother met him. "You see, brother," said the Zemindar, "that you said it was my fate to have but a seer of atta (flour a day), but I have found my good fortune at last." THREE WISE MEN AND THE KING'S DAUGHTER A King had a very beautiful daughter, and was anxious that she should marry some one who had made himself famous in some particular way. Three men in the city came forward and begged the King for her hand in marriage. "But what can you do?" asked the King. "I can tell if a thing is lost, where to find it," said the first, "and produce it if required." The second said: "I can make such wonderful horses out of wood, that they can rise to any height and go anywhere." The third said: "I can shoot with my bow any living thing." The King was pleased, and went and told his daughter, asking her to choose which she would have as a husband. "I will tell you to-morrow," said the girl. The King agreed, but on the morrow she was nowhere to be found, and her father, much distressed, went to the three wise men. "Now," said he to the first, "tell me where my daughter is." "She is with the fairies," he replied, "and unless the one in charge of her is killed, she cannot return." Then the King turned to the other two men. To the horse-maker he said: "Go and make me a horse," and to the other: "Take your bow and arrow, mount the horse, and go and shoot the fairy: bring my daughter back with you." Forthwith the men prepared: the horse was made, and mounted by the man with his bow and arrows, then they all disappeared into the skies. There they found the King's daughter guarded by a fairy. The third man soon shot the fairy with his bow and arrow, and, lifting the Princess upon his horse, returned with her to her father. Now each man felt that he had an equal claim upon her, and had earned her as his wife; so the King asked her to decide. "I will marry the man who shot the fairy," said she, "and no other." This decision being final, they had a grand feast in celebration of her marriage. Moral.--Those who think they have the best claim, do not always attain their desires! BARBIL'S SON A Rajah's son once went to worship at a sacred stone; when there, he beheld a lovely young girl, so, falling on his face before the stone, he said: "If you will but give me this girl as my bride, I will give you my head as a sacrifice." His prayer was granted, and he married the girl. For two months he was so happy that he never remembered his vow, but at the end of that time, a Brahmin came and reminded him of it. So, after bidding his wife a loving farewell, he went sadly away, and, cutting off his head, placed it near the stone as a sacrifice. Now his father, Barbil, missing him, came there to search, and was horrified to find his son's dead body with the head offered to the stone. "What is my life worth to me now? I will also sacrifice myself," said he, and forthwith he too cut off his own head and placed it beside that of his son. The bride, finding neither father nor husband return, went forth in search of them; and, seeing what had happened, determined to add her own life to the sacrifice. She was just about to destroy herself when a voice near by said: "Daughter, do not hurt yourself. The heads alone are off, but if you take them and place them beside the bodies, they will unite again." The delighted girl immediately did as she was directed, and the two heads were united to the bodies, so that she once again saw her husband and father alive. But no sooner did they begin to speak than she found that she had made a terrible mistake, for, in her eagerness to restore the heads to their bodies again, she had not noticed that she had united her husband's head to his father's body, and Barbil's head to her husband's body. While the two men quarrelled over this mistake, the poor girl, greatly distressed, appealed to the Gods to help her. They bade her cease weeping. "The head is the principal thing," said they; "do not mind the body: if you were the daughter of a poor man and married a Prince, Barbil, having taken the form of the Prince, is also of royal blood, so it matters not. Let him that has the head of your husband be your husband again, and he who has the head of the King be the King." Thus they settled the matter, and returned home. Moral.--The head ruleth the body, and not the body the head! THE TIGER AND THE RATS An old tiger became ill in the jungles, and, being unable to use his teeth, was much troubled by rats, who used to come and eat his food before he had time to touch it. Nearly starved to death, he appealed to the fox, who said: "Why do you not keep a cat? you will then soon be rid of your trouble." The tiger thought this an excellent idea, and immediately sent for a cat. Now the cat was a very cunning animal, and thought to herself, how nice it was to be in the service of the tiger. "But," said she, "I will only drive away the rats, because, if I kill them, the tiger will have no further need of me, and my employment will be gone." So she kept watching by the tiger all night and drove away the rats. One day she said to the tiger: "To-night, if you do not mind, I'd like to take a holiday, and would like you to take care of my kitten." "Very well," said the tiger. So the cat brought the kitten, and, leaving it with the tiger, went away. The kitten was a splendid ratter, and, not knowing why it had been put near the tiger, was surprised and delighted to see the rats, which it speedily killed; and then arranged in a line to show its mother on her return in the morning. But as soon as the cat saw them she grew very angry, and said: "What have you done? you have taken away my employment." The poor little kitten said that it did not know that it was not to kill rats, and was very unhappy. Then the tiger came forward, and dismissed them both, saying: "I am now rid of the rats, and require your service no longer." So they went away crestfallen. Moral.--Thus do people often make a convenience of those who are their best friends! THE ADVENTURES OF A BIRD A small bird was once half buried in a puddle and could not escape, so it called to a passing stranger for help. "Take me out, O stranger, and as a reward, you may eat me when my feathers are dried." So the man assisted it; but no sooner were its wings free than it flew away without expressing a word of gratitude. After going a short distance it found a cowrie (or small shell, the smallest current coin in India, and now very rarely used), and joyously exclaimed: "I have found a cowrie, I have money--I am now higher than a Rajah." A Rajah hearing this, sent a man to take away the cowrie. "See," said he, "that bird says it is higher than a Rajah." So he took the cowrie, and brought it to the Rajah. Whereupon the bird said: "See, that Rajah was hungry, so he took away my money." This annoyed the Rajah so much (as only the poorest people deal in cowries) that he immediately restored it to the bird, who, nothing daunted, replied: "See, the Rajah was afraid, and so he has returned my cowrie." This was going a little too far, and the Rajah, in a rage, ordered the offender to be shot. Moral.--Let Well alone. THE LEGEND OF NALDERA TEMPLE At a little distance beyond Mushobra in the Simla district, stands an old, old temple of the Mongolian type, around which hangs a quaint wooden fringe, which causes a strange rattling sound on a windy day. No priest lives within its sacred precincts, and the vicinity being the Viceroy's summer camping ground, the presiding "Deo," or deity, must often be disturbed by the light laughter and chatter of picnic parties from Simla. Many years ago, before the present Rickshaw Road existed, a party of hillmen, gaily laughing and talking as they swung along, carrying a "Dandy" (or kind of litter), arrived at the place. It was about 11 A.M. on a bright October morning, and the keen wit of the men as they exchanged repartee with many bright-eyed Paharee maidens, seemed in keeping with the cool, crisp air and turquoise blue sky; but suddenly a deep silence fell upon them. They had come within sight of a number of enormous boulders which lay scattered, as though hurled by some earthquake or invisible force along the precipitous mountain side. Not a word escaped the lips of the four men till they had turned the corner which bounds Naldera Temple; then they took out their cheelums and smoked while they told this tale: "Years and years ago there stood in this place a beautiful and prosperous city, full of houses and people. "The present Temple stood in its midst, but the people were wicked and sinful, so one day the 'Deo' arose in great wrath and hurled the entire city with its inhabitants down into the precipice, so that not one stone was left standing upon another; and the grey rocks and solitary Temple alone remain to tell the tale of past splendour and prosperity." THE BUNNIAH'S WIFE AND THE THIEF A Bunniah, or merchant, lying awake one night, saw a thief enter the room. So he whispered to his wife: "Wife, wife, a thief is in the room; what are we to do?" Now his wife was a very clever woman, and she replied: "Why are you waking me? I was having such a fine dream." "What did you dream?" asked her husband. "I dreamt that I had three fine sons, and they were named 'Mugwani,' 'Hajee,' and 'Chor.'" (The last name means "thief.") "What silly names!" said the Bunniah. "How could you call out to them?" "By their names, of course," replied she. "But how could you call 'Chor'? If it happened to be night, what would people think?" "Why, I would call him like this, loud: 'Chor!' 'Chor!'" and she jumped up and ran out of the room, followed by her husband, the two calling "Chor! Chor!" as loudly as they could. The thief, thinking they were only pretending, remained silent under the bed, waiting for their return. They soon came back with a number of friends, who caught the thief and took him away to prison. WHO STOLE THE RUBY? A dying King called his three sons to him and gave each of them a ruby. "Keep this," said he, "in remembrance of your father." The three rubies were put into a box and locked up. Some time afterwards, on opening the box, only two rubies were found in it, and the third one was missing. Now the three sons knew that had a thief been there, he would have helped himself to all the stones, so they said within themselves: "One of our friends has done this; let us go and tell the Priest." So they started off together, and on the way met a man, who said: "Friends, have you seen my camel?" "Was it blind?" asked the eldest brother. "Yes," said the man. "Had it no tail?" asked the second. "You are right," said the man. "Was it carrying vinegar?" enquired the third. "Yes," replied the man. "Did you see it?" "No," said the brothers; "we did not see it." "Very strange," returned the man; "you know all about it, and yet you did not see it. I will also go to the Priest and tell him about you." So they went, and the man told the Priest his story. "How is it that you three know all about the camel, and yet you did not see it?" said the Priest. "Well," said the eldest, "I noticed that all the plants and shrubs on the way were eaten on one side only, so I concluded that the animal who had eaten them must have been blind not to see the other side." "How did you know that it had no tail?" "I saw the patch of mud where it sat down," replied the second brother, "and there was an imprint of a body but no tail." The Priest then asked the third boy how he knew that the camel carried vinegar. "Because all along the road were wet patches which smelt of vinegar." These answers pleased the Priest very much, and he gave a feast for the brothers. During the feast he sat down, and, unknown to them, watched and listened to find out what they were talking about. The eldest said: "This grain he has given us to eat was grown in a cemetery." The second said: "And this meat is not killed meat; it is some other flesh." The youngest said: "The Priest himself is a villain." Then the Priest ran out and caught the man who had sold him the grain. "Tell me at once where you gathered this grain?" demanded he. "From a cemetery," confessed the man. After this the Priest sought the butcher, and said: "Where did you get that meat you sold me? Did you kill the sheep?" The butcher admitted that it was the flesh of a goat which had dropped dead, and had not been killed. Going back, the Priest resolved to catch the boys in their own net, and he told them a story about two men and a thief. "Now," said he, when he had finished, "which of the three do you prefer?" The eldest boy said he liked one man, and the second the other, but the third preferred the thief! "Well," said the Priest, "if you prefer the thief, you yourself must be a thief. Where is the third ruby?" On this the boy confessed that he had stolen it; and, taking it out of his pocket, restored it to his brother. The three went home together, and lived happily ever afterwards. THE STORY OF VICKRAMADIT A king once asked his daughters to tell him the reason why they were so comfortable and always clothed in fine raiment, with jewels to wear, and a Palace to live in. They all said: "It is because we are your daughters, O King!" But the youngest said: "I am what I am through my favourable destiny, and not because I happen to be your daughter; if good fortune be destined for us we shall have it under any circumstances." At this the King was very angry, and said: "Leave my Palace at once, and see what your own luck will do for you; methinks your lucky stars will cease to shine once you have left my Palace." But in order to further humiliate her, he determined to get her married to the poorest man in his kingdom, and one who was weak and sickly and about to die. He therefore sent his servants to bring the first sickly-looking pauper they could find. Now it so happened about this time that one Vickramadit, a holy mendicant, was lying outside the Palace gates stricken down with great suffering, and almost at the point of death; and they brought him as the most suitable man for the young Princess to marry. The poor beggar Vickramadit was in reality a great King, who once reigned over the ancient and holy city of Ujjain; but he had abdicated his throne in order to become a "Sanyasi," or begging Fakir, and was then on a pilgrimage to Kasi, the holy city of Benares, where he hoped to pass the rest of his days in prayer, and the deeds of charity for which he was well known. The sickness with which he was stricken down at the gates of the King's Palace was caused through his great love of God's creatures, and happened in this way. One day, as he was walking along footsore and tired, a snake came up to him and said: "Can you give me some water to drink, for I am dying of thirst?" Vickramadit replied: "I have no water in my gourd, having just drank it; but if you will promise not to harm me, you may creep down my throat into my body, and there drink your fill and return satisfied." This the snake promised, but, instead of returning, it remained within him and refused to come back. All that the beggar ate passed into the mouth of the snake; and in this way he soon found himself unable to travel, and obliged to rest, suffering at the same time great agonies from starvation and thirst. When the King's servants found and brought him to the Palace, the young Princess was there and then forced to marry Vickramadit, and expelled from the town with her beggar husband. Both King and Queen expressed a hope at parting that she would soon learn the lesson, that it was all due to them alone that she had fared so well hitherto. As Vickramadit could not travel very far owing to weakness, she took shelter in the first small hut she could find, and there stayed, trying to alleviate his sufferings. Now, near this hut was a mound of earth in which dwelt a snake. In the evenings, as is usual in India, the snake came out of his hole and stood on the mound of earth, where he hissed violently. The snake which lived inside Vickramadit heard the sound, and hissed in reply. Then they began a conversation. The snake on the mound said: "You traitor! You were given permission to drink water; and this is how you treat the holy Fakir, and break your promise to return without doing him any harm! You shall now be given a certain seed to eat which will entirely destroy your body, and you will die in agonies." The other snake replied: "You miser! You 'dog in the manger,' who live over a mound beneath which lies vast treasures and priceless jewels! You know that you cannot use them yourself, and yet you will allow nobody else to touch them! Your end will be that a woman will kill you by pouring boiling milk and butter over you." The young wife heard these two snakes denouncing each other, and determined to act upon what she had overheard. When leaving her father's house, she had managed to hide on her person a small pearl ring, and this she now pawned for a small sum of money, and purchased milk and butter. Warming these to boiling point, she went over at midday and poured them into the snake's hole in the mound. She also sought the seed, which would kill the snake her husband had swallowed, and gave it to him to eat. Thus both snakes were killed, and all danger from them ceased to exist. Vickramadit, after the destruction of the snake, improved rapidly, and soon regained his health and strength. The young wife now turned her attention to the mound of earth, beneath which lay buried treasures. She employed a few men to dig, and they soon unearthed several ghurras, or earthen vessels, full of priceless gems. With these she went away, and very soon founded a great city, over which she made her lord King. Thus Vickramadit once more reigned a King; and no Queen was more famous than the young Princess who had been so cruelly cast adrift by her father. The old father heard of this new King, and of all the riches and splendour of his Court and Queen; and he sent men to enquire if it were true that his daughter was really as great as people reported. The men returned and said: "O King, her riches, the magnificence of her Court and Palace, surpass all we have heard; she is indeed a great Queen, and has founded a mighty city." The King then owned his mistake, and said: "My daughter was right when she said her greatness was due more to her individual luck than to the mere fact that she happened to be born my daughter; for has she not, in spite of all my ill-treatment of her, risen to be Queen, not of a small kingdom such as mine, but of a world-renowned kingdom." Moral.--Thy kismet is thy fate; when that is good, then the most unfavourable circumstances, or the deepest gloom, cannot prevent its asserting itself. THE WEAVER There was a weaver who was unmarried, and all that he could earn in a day, in exchange for the cloth he wove, only amounted to two pounds of either rice or other grain. One day he cooked some kitcherie, [1] and, placing it in a plate, left it to get cool, and went out to sell his cloth. While he was away a jackal came and ate up the kitcherie; and on his return he found the jackal, so he tied it up and beat it severely. Then he cooked some bread, which he ate, and again beat the jackal. The poor creature thought: "Now my life will go, if this man keeps on beating me in this way." When the man next went out to dispose of his cloth, the jackal, tied up by itself, felt very lonely, especially as it could hear its companions howling in the jungles; so it began to howl too, and, hearing it, one of its friends came to see where it was, and finding it, said: "Brother, what are you doing here?" The poor jackal, bruised all over and swollen with the beating it had received, replied: "Friend, a man has caught me, and takes the greatest care of me; see how fat I have grown with eating all the hulwa-poories [2] he gives me. If you will release me, I will tie you here, and you will get a share of the good things." So the two exchanged places, and the first jackal ran back gladly into the jungles. On the return of the weaver he, as usual, began to beat the poor creature, who then spoke, and said: "Why are you beating me?" The weaver, surprised, replied: "I have never heard this jackal speak before!" "That one has gone, and he tied me here in his place, and told me I should get all sorts of good things to eat; but if you will release me, I will arrange a marriage with a King's daughter for you." "What!" said the man, "I am only a poor weaver, and can you really get me married to a King's daughter?" "Yes," returned the jackal. So the weaver released it, and turning itself into a Brahmin, it crossed the river and presented itself at the court of a certain Rajah, to whom it said: "O King, I have found a rich weaver-caste Rajah, who wishes your daughter's hand in marriage." The Rajah, much pleased, consented, and the Brahmin, on getting outside the Palace, once more turned into a jackal, and returned to the weaver. "Follow me," said he, "and I will take you to the King's daughter." So the weaver took up his blanket, which was all he possessed. On their way they met a Dhobie, or washerman, carrying his bundle of clothes. The jackal gave him a gold mohur, and told him to spread all the clean clothes he possessed upon the trees around. Further on they met a cotton-beater, or man who, in the East, beats cotton and prepares it to make up into pillows and quilts; to him they also gave a gold mohur, and asked in return for several large balls of cotton. These they carried on a large plate to the river; and the jackal, leaving the weaver, returned as a Brahmin to the Rajah, who had seen the Dhobie's clothes in the distance, and thought they were tents pitched by his daughter's future husband. The jackal had told the weaver to watch, and, as soon as he saw him enter the Palace, he was to take large lumps of cotton and throw them one by one into the river, so that they might be seen floating down the stream. "The Bridegroom," explained the Brahmin, "has met with a terrible accident; all his possessions and his followers are lost in the river, and only he and I remain, dressed in the clothes in which we stand." Then the Rajah ordered his musicians and followers to come out, and go with horses in great pomp to bring the weaver, who was forthwith married to the Princess. After the marriage the Brahmin said: "This son-in-law of yours has lost all he had; what is the use of his returning to his country? Let him stay here with you." To this the Rajah, who loved his daughter, gladly consented, and gave them a fine house and grounds. Now the weaver, who was not accustomed to good society, or to living with those above his station in life, made a salaam, or obeisance, such as a poor man is wont to do, to his wife every morning, and she began to suspect that he had deceived her, and was not a real Rajah. So she asked him one day to tell her the whole truth about himself, and he did so. "Well," said she, "you have owned it to me, but do not let my father or mother know; for now that I am married to you, things cannot be altered, and it is better that they should remain in ignorance; but whatever my father may ask you to do, promise me that you will do it, always answering 'Yes, I will,' to anything he may suggest." To this the weaver agreed; and shortly afterwards the Rajah called him and enquired if he was willing to help him, and, as promised, the man replied, "Yes, I will." Then he went to his wife and told her, and she commended him. Next day the King told him that two brothers, by name "Darya" and "Barjo," threatened to fight and take his kingdom from him, and he desired his son-in-law to go to the stables and select a horse on which to ride on the morrow to battle. In the stables was a horse that was standing on three legs. "This," thought the weaver, "will just suit me, for it seems lame and has only three legs to go on, and making this an excuse, I'll keep behind all the rest, and out of danger." Now this horse [3] used to eat a quarter of a pound of opium daily, and could fly through the air, so that when the Rajah heard of the selection he was very delighted, and said to himself: "What a clever man this is, that he is able to discover which is the best horse!" The day following he had the horse brought round, and mounted it in fear and trembling, having himself securely tied on lest he should fall off, while, to weight himself equally, he fastened a small millstone on either side. As soon as the groom released the horse, it flew up into the air, then down again, and then up through the branches of trees, which broke off and clung to the weaver's arms and body, so that he presented a strange spectacle. He was terrified, and kept on crying out: "O Darya! Barjo! for your sakes have I come to my death." The two Princes, Darya and Barjo, seeing this strange horse flying through the air, and hearing their names coming from a queer object all covered with branches of trees, were very much alarmed, and said: "If more come like this, we shall indeed be lost; one is enough for us." So they wrote to the King, and said: "We have seen your warrior; stay in your country, and we will stay in ours: we cannot fight." And they sent him a peace-offering. THE DOG WHO WAS A RAJAH A daughter was once born to a Brahmin and his wife, and from the day of its birth a dog came daily and laid down in the house. This made the mother say, in jest, when the child would not cease crying: "Stop, or I shall give you to the dog." And the Brahmin added: "I will give her to the dog when she is grown up." When the girl grew up, he said to the dog one day, in a fit of temper: "Here, take my daughter, and do as you wish with her." The mother now regretted her jest, which had suggested this idea to her husband, and said: "Here, my child, take this handful of seeds, and, as you go, strew them along the road, so that I may know where to find you." As the girl went along she scattered the seeds, and at last she arrived at a field in which was a small baoli, or well. Here she sat down, and told the dog she was thirsty. "Go and drink from the well," said the dog. As she approached the dog followed her, and they saw a ladder leading to the bottom of the well, so that they climbed down and came to a fine house with lovely gardens and flowers, and servants ready to receive them. These belonged to the dog, who was in reality a Rajah, and only assumed the shape of a dog when he left the well. Some time after this the Brahmin expressed a wish to go and visit his daughter. So his wife told him to follow the track of any freshly sprung-up little plants he might see. He followed out her directions, and found the small trees led to the well; and as he felt thirsty, he looked in and saw the ladder; so he descended by it, and found the dog had become a Rajah. Going round the grounds with his daughter, he noticed a house made of gold. "What is this?" asked he. "It is for you, my father." So he went in and found everything perfect, except that in one of the walls was a great crack. "That crack," explained the Rajah, who had joined them, "was caused when you first drank water at the well; and it will remain there until you undo the wrong you did your daughter in giving her to a dog, for you did not then know who he really was. To undo the wrong you must serve me as my cowherd for twelve years, after which time the crack in the wall will close up of its own accord." The Brahmin then went to his wife and told her all that had happened; and they returned together to the Rajah, whose cows he tended for twelve years, after which the crack in the golden wall came together of itself; and thus the wrong was righted. THE FOURTH WIFE IS THE WISEST There was a Bunniah who had an only son, who had married four wives; of these, three were fools, and only one was wise. For some reason the Rajah of that country got angry with the Bunniah, and said that he and all his family were to go away, for he would not permit them to remain in his kingdom any longer; also, they were not to take away any of their jewels or possessions with them, except such things as they were wearing at the time. Hearing this, the youngest of the four wives asked if she might be allowed to bake some bread, to take for them to eat on the journey. This was permitted, and, in kneading the flour, she dropped four very valuable and beautiful rubies into it, and then having cooked the bread, showed it to the people as she left, and said: "See, I take nothing with me except this bread." They journeyed far away into another country, and were very poor. Then the Bunniah said to his youngest daughter-in-law: "Daughter, what are we to do to live? We have no money and no clothes." She was silent for a long time, and then said: "We must sell our jewels, but in the meantime take this"--giving him one of the rubies--"and sell it." Now this ruby was worth a very great deal of money, and the Bunniah took it gratefully, thinking all the time what a wise girl his daughter-in-law was, to think of bringing it as she had done. He then went to a rich merchant, who in reality was not a merchant at all, but a clever thief, and who, as soon as he set eyes on the ruby, knew it to be a valuable one, and determined to have it. "Go," said he to one of his servants, "and bring me a basket full of money that I may pay for this valuable stone;" and as the servant left, he turned to the Bunniah, offering him a chair, and said: "Sit down, friend." Now this chair was a specially prepared one, being kept by the thief as a trap for the unwary. The seat was of raw cotton, under which was a great hole into which anybody who sat on the chair would fall. It was carefully covered over with a piece of clean white cloth, so that nothing was noticed. On it the poor Bunniah sat, and as the soft cotton gave way under him, he found himself in the hole, over which the thief carefully placed a great stone and left him, while he quietly pocketed the ruby. As the Bunniah did not return to his home for many days, his daughter-in-law called her husband, and gave him the second ruby. "Go, seek thy father," said she; "and if you find him, bring me back this ruby, and buy food and clothes with one you will find with him." The young man searched high and low for his father, but, not finding him, he decided to sell his ruby, and by ill chance went to the same merchant who had robbed the Bunniah. The thief treated him in exactly the same way, and, after having stolen the ruby, trapped him into the same hole as his father. Finding that neither husband nor father returned, the woman sold her jewels, and bought clothes and food for the rest of the family; but for herself she secretly bought the outfit of a policeman, or chowkidar, and resolved to work in that capacity. So she presented herself at the King's Court, and he, taking a fancy to the handsome face of the young man (for she was disguised as such), gave her employment. Living in the jungles near that place was a terrible "Rakhas," or evil spirit, and that night, while on duty, the new policeman was startled by a roar like that of a tiger; but as soon as the "Rakhas" perceived him, it assumed the form of a woman, and coming up, said weeping: "The Rajah has hanged my husband, and I wish to see him once more, but cannot reach because the gallows are high." "Climb upon my back," said the policeman. The woman did so, but as soon as she got near enough she began to eat her supposed husband. On this the young policeman, drawing his sword, cut off the woman's head, and as she fell, being enchanted, she disappeared, but a silver anklet from one of her feet was left behind. Next morning the policeman carried the anklet to the King, and told him what had happened, and how the strange woman had disappeared as he struck her with his sword. The King was much pleased at the youth's bravery, and also with the silver anklet, which was full of precious stones of great value, and, turning to the policeman, he said: "Ask what you will, and I will give it to you, even if you ask my daughter in marriage." The man replied: "O King, I ask nothing; but grant me, I pray you, control over the entire bazaar, that I may kill, banish, hang, or release, and do as I like with the people who dwell there." The King granted this request, and having discovered the thief in the supposed merchant, the policeman went to him and boldly demanded the release of his father and son. But the thief denied all knowledge of the affair. Then the young man entered the shop, and, lifting up the great stone, beheld the two unfortunate men, who were nearly starved to death. Having released them, he took the thief to the King, and told him what had happened. After they had hanged the wicked thief, the young policeman changed his clothes and appeared as a woman. The King was greatly surprised, but so pleased at all she had done, that he called her his "daughter," and gave her husband, father, and other relations money and goods, so that they lived in contentment for the rest of their lives. THE STORY OF PIR SAB Very, very far away in the north of India is a big river, and many years ago there lived, not very far from its banks, an old woman who had an only daughter--a beautiful girl, who, when she grew up, was given in marriage to a man who lived in a village on the opposite bank of the river; and all preliminaries being arranged, a day was fixed for the marriage party with the bride to cross over. A gay company with songs and music set out, and everything went well until they reached the middle of the stream. The current is strong and dangerous in that place, and in less time than it takes to say it, the joyous party, with its music and songs and drummers, and the litter which held the bride, was hurled into the seething water, and every soul sank and was drowned. The old woman alone, who had remained at home on account of her feeble age, escaped, and sad indeed was she when she came to hear of her daughter's fate. Her own home grew lonely and uncongenial to her, so, in a half-frenzied state, she betook herself to the river side, and there spent many hours every day calling to the river to give up her dead. This went on for twenty years! One day Pir Sab, a pious Mahamedan, arrived there, and was about to say his prayers when the old woman attracted his attention. "Pray, why do you weep, old woman?" he said. "For my child, a beautiful bride who, with all her wedding guests, was drowned in this river twenty years ago." "Twenty years! and you have mourned so long?" Thus saying, Pir Sab dismounted from his horse, and covering his head with a sheet, he stood by the river and cried: "O river, restore the dead! O river, restore the dead! O river, restore the dead!" At the third cry a bridal party was seen to approach, and the long-lost ones, with the young bride, were restored to the old woman as unchanged as upon the day they were drowned, and in perfect ignorance of the flight of years. A voice was then heard from the Great Unseen, which said: "O Pir Sab, I have heard your prayer. At your first cry these restored ones came forth from the fishes, who had eaten them; at your second call I re-formed them into human form; and at your third call they went forth with life." Now, who was Pir Sab, and how did he possess this power? Mahamed, when he was upon earth, sometimes took flights into Heaven. On such occasions he generally called on anybody near at hand to assist him up, or give him a push upwards. On one occasion he had called thrice for help without meeting with any response, when Pir Sab, a strong man, knelt before him, and with one spring from his shoulder, Mahamed reached the fourth Heavens! In return for this kindness it was granted to Pir Sab to perform miracles. Note.--The man who related this story to me added the following modern miracle: "During the late Chitral expedition there was with Umra Khan's forces a remarkable man, the son of one Akhum Sab, who died some years ago. Now Akhum Sab was a devout man, who never failed to pray every Friday, as all good Mahamedans do, with their faces turned towards Mecca, the holy city, which is four months' journey from the north of India, so that many who wish to visit it cannot. Yet this man used to enter his room, and close the door at two o'clock daily, and come out after seven minutes (you may believe me or not); but, during those seven minutes, he went to Mecca, said his prayers in the holy Mosque there, and returned! This he did every Friday; I have seen it with my own eyes!"--A.E.D. THE ORIGIN OF A RIVER There stands on the old Agra Bombay Road, between Goona in Central India and Jhansi, a small village beside a stream, and this used to be a bathing stage for travellers in the old days, before railways were known in India. In the village there once lived a man whose wife died, leaving an only daughter. The girl, as she grew to womanhood, had a very bad time of it, as all the housework fell upon her shoulders. She had to cook her father's food and carry it to him in the fields; to draw water for the cattle and look after them, besides many other things which took up her time and strength. So she invoked the aid of the Gods. Next time she went to draw water from the well, which was a very deep one, and required a long, long string for the bucket, she looked in, and lo! the water had risen to the top, and was almost overflowing, so that there was no need to draw any; and her father's cattle stood round and drank their fill. Then she filled her chattie with water, and enjoyed a bath in the sunshine. After a time the water sank to its usual level. Thus far all was well, but her father noticed how quickly the cattle had been watered, and how soon his daughter returned home: also he missed the long rope which she always carried on her arm. He began to suspect that some unknown man, a stranger to himself, used to help her, and determined to watch. A great fig tree grew beside the well; and one day he concealed himself in its branches. As usual, his daughter came with the cattle, and all happened as before. He was struck with wonder and amazement at what he saw. Just as the girl was about to take her usual bath, she looked up and saw him. In a moment she felt that he had suspected her of some evil. "Father," cried she, "why do you look with an evil eye on your child? Do you not believe that the Gods have helped her?" But before her father could reply, she sank down to the bottom of the well with the water and never rose again, for the outraged Gods took her to themselves; and, in token of their displeasure, the well was cleft from top to bottom, and hillocks formed on either side. From this spot flows a tiny stream, which, if you follow it, becomes a mighty river. THE GOLDEN SCORPIONS There once lived in a certain village a poor man who went out daily to beg, carrying in his hand a small vessel made from a gourd, such as the Jogis, or holy Fakirs, in India use. In it he carried home his scanty meal of flour each evening. One day he placed the gourd, which was empty at the time, upon the ground, and went to some little distance to drink water. On his return he was amazed to find it full of scorpions. Seizing it on one side, he carefully knocked it against a stone until the venomous things dropped off. Great indeed was his surprise to find when he next looked into his gourd, that several scorpions still clung to it, but had been transformed by the Gods into pure gold, although their forms were retained. Thus the good old man was enriched, but great was his disappointment when he remembered how many scorpions he had thrown away, for these might also have turned into gold had he kept them. Moral.--There is good sometimes in even the evil things in life. THE STORY OF A PEARL A poor workman and his wife were once almost starving. Every day the man gathered sticks and sold them, while the woman remained at home. "Wife," said the man one day, "come, we will both go and gather wood for sale to-day, so that, if we earn enough, we shall not eat rice only, but will buy a small fish, and eat that also." The woman agreed, and having sold their stock of firewood, they returned home with a fish for dinner. On opening it, a small white bead, round and shining, fell upon the floor. The woman was attracted by its brightness, and locked it up in a box. Many days of poverty and hunger visited that household before the woman remembered the pretty stone found in the fish; but at last she thought of it, and took it to a Bunniah, who, as soon as he set eyes upon it, said: "Give me that, and I will give you as much as you can carry away of ghee and food and oil, not only to-day, but for many days, if you will come to my shop." The foolish woman parted with her treasure, not knowing that it was a pearl of great value, and returned home laden with good things. The Bunniah chuckled with delight. He was crafty, like all Bunniahs, and, you may depend, never kept his promise: such was the foolishness of the woman, and such the cunning and greed of the man. THE BUNNIAH'S GHOST Far away in a valley in the Himalayan mountains lies a little village, where once lived a good man who had his home beside a field in which grew a beautiful mulberry tree--so big and so beautiful that it was the wonder of the country round. Hundreds of people were wont to gather together beneath it, and the poor carried away basket loads of its fruit. Thus it became a meeting place where a mela, or fair, was held when the fruit season was on. Now the fame of it reached a certain Rajah who had rented out the land, and one day he came with all his retinue to see it. "There is no such tree in the Royal Gardens," said the Grand Vizier. "It is not meet that a subject should possess what the Rajah hath not," added the Prime Minister. The Rajah replied not a word, for his heart was filled with envy; and that night, before going to bed, he gave orders that, on a certain day, in the early dawn, before anybody was astir, a party of armed men should take their axes to the village, and fell the mulberry tree even with the ground. But ill dreams disturbed the Rajah's rest, and he could not sleep. Could it be fancy, or did he really see a strange man standing before him? The strange man spoke: "O King, live for ever! I am the spirit of a Bunniah (or merchant) who died in yonder village many years ago. During my lifetime I defrauded the people. I gave them short measure and adulterated their food. "When I died and passed into the Land of Unhappy Spirits, the Gods, who are just, O King! decreed that I should give back what I had stolen. My soul therefore went into a mulberry tree, where year after year the people gather fruit, and regain their losses. "In one year more they will be repaid to the uttermost cowrie; [4] but you mean to destroy the tree and drive my soul I know not whither. Wherefore have I come to plead with you to spare it this once, for when a year is past it will die of itself and my soul find its way to that Land of Shadows which is the abode of the Gods--where it will find peace." So the Rajah listened, and the strange man went away. For one year longer the people sat as before under the cool shadow of the mulberry tree, and then it died. And was that all? No: when they cut it down there was found deep in the earth one living root, and that they left, for who can destroy the soul? Hindu Proverb.--"Pün ki jar sada hari." (The roots of charity are always green.) BICKERMANJI THE INQUISITIVE There was a certain Rajah whose name was Bickermanji. He was very inquisitive, and always wished to know everything that was going on in his kingdom, and what his subjects were doing. At night he disguised himself in common clothes and a blanket, and walked quietly in the streets and bazaars to spy on the people. Next day, when complaints were brought to him of the doings of this or that person, he knew all about it. In this way he observed that a certain woman, the wife of a Sowcar, or Bunniah, used to leave her home every night, carrying a ghurra, or chattie, on her head and some food in her hand. Arrived at the river, she floated the chattie, and sat upon it, thus getting a passage to the other side, where she visited a certain Fakir. In the early morning she returned, carrying the chattie full of water for the day's use; and this being an everyday custom with native women in the East, it was never suspected that she had spent nearly the whole night away from her home. Bickermanji observed all this, and wondered to himself how the matter would end. One day the woman's husband, who had been away in another country, returned, so she had to attend to his food, and could not get away as early as usual to carry dainty dishes to the Fakir, who was very angry when she arrived late, and made her excuses on account of her husband's arrival. "What do I care for your husband?" said the Fakir. "Is he better than a holy mendicant? Go this moment and bring me his head." This she did, much to the Fakir's surprise; but, instead of being pleased at her obedience to his wishes, he was angry, and said: "If you killed your husband, you will one day kill me also." So he drove her from his presence, and she returned to her own home, where, taking her husband's head upon her knee, she set up a great weeping and lamentation, which attracted all her neighbours and brought them together. "My husband had only just returned from a journey, bringing money; and see, thieves have stolen his money, and murdered him during the night." Her neighbours believed this, and prepared to carry her husband to the burning ghât, for he was a Hindoo. While they did this, the woman declared that she would follow, and perform the sacred rite of suttee, or being burnt upon her husband's funeral pyre. Although impressed by her supposed devotion to her husband, her friends wrote to Bickermanji, and begged him to prevent her. Bickermanji knew all that had really happened, and meant to show his own wisdom and the woman's crime, also to punish her as he thought best. So he promptly forbade the suttee. The widow then wrote to Rajah Bickermanji's stepmother, a very clever woman, and asked her to intercede, that she might die with her husband. Then his stepmother said: "My son, allow this suttee to take place, and within eight days I will give you my reasons." This aroused the curiosity of his nature, and, much against his will, he consented; so the woman had her own way. He waited impatiently for the eight days to be over, and then went to his stepmother, who ordered a dooly, and, taking with her a goat, asked him to accompany her to the nearest temple. Arrived there, she asked him to stand at the door, and left the goat outside. "If, when I come to the door, I say 'kill,' you are to kill the goat, but if not, stand where you are," were the old woman's instructions as she went to make her offering of fruit and flowers and sweets. Soon she returned, and said: "Kill," so Bickermanji cut off the head of the goat. "Sit upon the head, my son." And he did as he was told, but no sooner had he done so, when the head rose up into the air with him, away through space for hundreds of miles, until he came to a wall which surrounded a space twelve miles square. In this was a garden and beautiful house; and after wandering some little time, Bickermanji found water and food, a comfortable couch to lie upon, and a hookah, or native pipe, to smoke, but not a human being was anywhere to be seen. This puzzled him, but as he was both hungry and tired, he made a good meal, smoked his hookah, and laid down to sleep. "If I sleep, I sleep, if I die, I die; a man can but die once." Now the place belonged to a purree, or winged fairy being, who used to come to it during the night, and remain away all day. The servants came an hour or two beforehand just to see everything was comfortable; and when they found Bickermanji lying fast asleep, they wished to kill him, but an old woman interceded on his behalf, so they let him alone until the purree came. Bickermanji was greatly surprised to see a strange winged being standing before him, and expected immediate death; but the Strange One spoke kindly, and begged him not to fear, but to make the place his home for as long as he liked. Each day passed by quietly, and in the pleasures and ease of his present existence, Bickermanji soon forgot his kingdom, his wife, and his children. Before going away one morning the purree said: "There are four rooms in this house which you must never open; I will point them out to you, but, for the rest, you may use them as you will." This request at once excited Bickermanji's old spirit of curiosity; and, as soon as he found himself alone, he went quickly to the door of the first room and opened it. Within stood a horse, which turned gladly towards him, and said: "I have not seen the light of day, or had an hour's freedom, ever since I was given to the fairy by Rajah Sudra. If you will take me out, I will show you all the world, and even the secret place where the fairies dance." Bickermanji was delighted, and immediately led out the horse, which he saddled, mounted, and rode for a wonderful and delightful ride. In the evening the fairy, or purree, again warned him against opening any of the four forbidden doors; but the very next day he opened the second one, and there found a large elephant chained up. The elephant complained bitterly of its fate, and begged Bickermanji to pity it, and take it out, which, if he did, it would in return show him much that was wonderful in the world; so Bickermanji again had a very interesting day. On the morning following he opened the third door and found a camel inside. It too took him to all sorts of new and interesting places which were the haunts of fairy beings. Now only one door was left, and Bickermanji determined to open that also; and when he did, he beheld a donkey, standing inside. The donkey complained just as the other animals had done, and begged for its release; but as Bickermanji mounted it for his usual ride, he found himself back in his old kingdom. "My back aches," said the donkey; "leave me a while to rest, and go you, in the meantime, to the nearest bazaar for food. When you return you will find me here." But when Bickermanji returned there was no donkey to be seen; so he tore his hair and wept bitterly, asking all the passers-by if any of them had seen his ghuddee, or donkey. Many of the inhabitants of the town recognised him, and said: "Our Rajah has come back, and is asking for his ghuddee," which, in Hindustanee, means "throne" as well as "donkey." At last his stepmother heard of his return, and sent for him. He told her that he would give anything to be able to return to the place from which the donkey had brought him. "Was it not I who sent you there," she replied, "and could not I send you back again? What are you willing to do in order to return? Are you willing to slay your own son to go?" "Yes, I would even do that." "Well, come with me as before to the temple, only, instead of a goat, take your son with you, and a sword. When I say 'kill' you must kill, but not before." So the three went to the temple, and the stepmother stood in the doorway and cried "Kill"; but before the Rajah could raise his sword she rushed forward and seized it. "Stop! do not kill your son. Do you remember the suttee, and how you judged her and wished to punish her for killing her husband on account of a friend, and now you would kill your own son for the sake of pleasure! All that has happened has been done to teach you a lesson; go you to your Palace, and there reign with greater wisdom than before." Moral.--"Judge not, that ye be not judged." THE BRAHMIN'S DAUGHTER A certain Brahmin's wife had no affection for her seven stepdaughters, and persuaded their father to get rid of them. So he invited the girls to come with him on a visit to their grandmother, but on the way he slipped away quietly and left them eating plums in the jungle. After a while they found themselves all alone, and as night fell were very frightened, and hid themselves in the hollow of a large tree. Here a tiger found them and ate six, leaving only the youngest sister alive. She hid in the tree for several days, and at last a Rajah found her, and asked how she had got there. Then she told him the whole story, and he felt pity for her and married her. But she often wondered what had become of her father, and whether he was alive or dead; and when she remembered the fate of her sisters, she secretly made up her mind to be revenged on her stepmother. Then she called a crow, and asked it if it would go to her former home with a letter from her. In the letter she told her father of her sisters' fate and of her own good fortune. The crow carried the news to her father, and, greatly surprised, he read the contents of his daughter's letter to his wife. The woman was mercenary as well as cruel, and advised him to lose no time in visiting her, and bringing back all the money he could secure. So the Brahmin went and spent eight or nine days in the Palace. As he was preparing to return home, the girl called him, and gave him a box containing a snake, a scorpion, and a wasp; and as it was securely locked, he had no suspicion of its contents. "Take this," she said, "and give it with the key to my mother; let her be alone in her room when she receives it, so that she may enjoy my gifts by herself." Then she gave him another box full of clothes and jewels and money for himself. After a long journey, the Brahmin arrived at his home, and said to his wife: "This box is for me, and this one for you; keep it carefully, and open it when you are alone; here is the key." So saying he went out, shut the door, and put on the chain. Soon the woman began to cry: "I'm bitten, I'm bitten!" but he mistook it for "I've eaten, I've eaten!" meaning that he should come and share the feast. So he replied: "I've had my share, you eat what is your own share." When he opened the door, he found her dead, so he packed up his things and returned to his daughter, and lived happily ever after. ABUL HUSSAIN There was a man called Abul Hussain who was once very rich, but had been so foolish in entertaining all his friends that he lost all his money, and became very poor. He and his old mother lived together, and sometimes, when he felt lonely, he would walk out and call in two or three men, any passing strangers whom he chanced to meet, and ask them to come in and have a talk and smoke with him. When they left his house, he never expected to see them again. On one occasion he accosted a man dressed in plain clothes, who, with two others, was taking a stroll, and said: "Friend, come in and have a chat with me." The man--who was really the King--with his two followers, went in; and, after they had talked some time and made merry over wine, Abul said: "I should like to exchange places with the King for just one day." "Why?" asked the King. "Because the Priest who prays in the Musjid here, and his four friends, are very wicked men, and I should like to have them killed." The King, while talking, took out some powder which had the effect of putting a person to sleep, and secretly dropped it into the wine Abul was drinking. Shortly afterwards Abul fell into a deep sleep. The King then said to his servants: "Remove this man and take him to my Palace; change his clothes for some of mine, place him in my bed, and, until I give further orders, recognise him as your King, and let him use as much money as he likes." The servants did as he told them, took up the sleeping man and put him to bed in the King's Palace. Early next morning the servants came to wake Abul, and said: "Will Your Majesty rise this morning?" Abul rubbed his eyes and looked, and behold, he was in a King's room and the King's servant was addressing him! He saw his clothes, and wondered who he was, and what had happened: then he turned to the man and said: "Who am I?" The man replied: "You are our King." "Am I?" returned the puzzled Abul, and, rising, he heard strains of music, and knew that the band was playing, as it always does on the awaking of a King in the morning. He washed and dressed and went with his Vizier to hold court. While there, he said to his courtiers: "There is a man living in a certain house, and his name is Abul, I want you to take to his mother a bag of a thousand rupees. Also go to the Musjid; catch the old Priest, give him one hundred stripes, put him and his four friends on donkeys, and drive them out of the city." All day Abul reigned as King, but when night came, the servants, who had been instructed what to do by the real King, once more put sleeping powder into his wine, and while he slept removed him to his own home, and put him into his own bed again. When he awoke there in the morning he called to his servants, but no one answered, except his old mother, who came and stood beside him. "Why do you call your servants?" she asked. "Because I am a King," he replied. "Who are you?" "I am your mother, my son, and think you must be dreaming. If the King hears about this he will be so angry that perhaps he will have you killed. You are only the son of a poor man; and do not vex the King, for he has been very good, and sent us a present of a thousand rupees yesterday." Abul, however, would not listen, but kept on insisting that he was King, so at last the King had him locked up in prison, declaring that he must be mad. There he was kept until he ceased to say that he was King, and then he was released. On his return home, he once more invited some strange men, and, as before, the King was amongst them, and again surreptitiously put the sleeping powder into Abul's wine, and caused him to be removed and put into his Palace on his bed while he was unconscious. Next morning on waking Abul felt sure that it must be a dream this time, and he kept rubbing his eyes and asking the servants who he was. The servants replied: "Why, you are our King." Abul was more than puzzled, and, pointing to his arms, which still bore the marks of bruises from stripes received in prison, said: "If I am really the King, why have I these bruises? I have been put in prison, and these are the marks where I was beaten." But the servant said: "Your Majesty is dreaming; you are a King, and a very great King." On this Abul got up, and hearing the strains of music, he was so delighted at his lucky position that he began to dance about the room, while the King, who was peeping from a doorway, stood and laughed so much that he was almost choked. At last, being unable to restrain himself longer, he called out: "O Abul, do you wish to kill me with laughter?" On this Abul discovered that the King had been playing a practical joke on him, and he said: "O King, you have given me much misery." "Have I?" said the King. "Well, as much misery as I have given you, so much pleasure shall you now have;" and he gave him a present of heaps of money and a beautiful wife, sending him away with the assurance that he would never be poor any more. Very soon Abul ran through all his money, and, hoping to get some more from the King, planned with his wife to pay another visit to the Palace. Then he went to the King and, crying and wringing his hands, said: "O King, my wife is dead." The King, much shocked and grieved, gave him a than [5] of cloth and a thousand rupees, and told him to go and bury his wife. In the meantime his wife had gone to the Queen's apartments, and there, throwing herself on her face, she wept and said: "O Queen, my husband is dead, and I am most unhappy!" The Queen, deeply grieved, gave her a thousand rupees and a than of cloth, saying: "Go, bury thy dead." Abul and his wife were now most happy, and set to work to make themselves clothes with the new cloth they had received. Now it happened that day that the King went to see his Queen, and, finding her in tears, enquired the cause of her grief. "Abul's wife has just been to say Abul is dead." "No," said the King; "you mean that Abul has just been to say that his wife is dead." "No," replied the Queen, "Abul is dead." "Not at all," returned the King; "Abul's wife is dead," and they fell out and quarrelled about it. Then the King said: "Well, we'll make a contract: if I am wrong, then I'll give you a present of a garden." And the Queen said: "Very well; and if I am mistaken, I will give you my picture gallery." On this the King and Queen together went with a number of followers to the house of Abul. When Abul and his wife saw them coming they were so frightened that they did not know what to do, and, having no time to run away, they both got under the cloth they were sewing, and lay quite still as though they were dead. The King and Queen coming up were surprised indeed to find that both were really dead; but the King, remembering his promise to his wife, said: "Now, if we only could find out who died first." On this Abul crept out quietly, fell at the King's feet, and cried: "Your Majesty, I died first." At the same time his wife crawled out and prostrated herself at the Queen's feet, saying: "Your Majesty, I died first." All the followers began to laugh, and so did the King, who asked Abul why he had done this thing. Abul then confessed how he had squandered all the money which the King had given, and, not knowing how to get any more, had determined to do what he had done. The King, pleased at Abul's cleverness, gave him houses and money, so that he never again suffered any want. THE MAGICIAN AND THE MERCHANT One day a merchant, going for a stroll, came across a date tree; reaching up his hand, he plucked a date and threw the stone away. Now, near the spot where it fell there lived a wicked magician, who suddenly appeared before the frightened merchant, and told him he was going to kill him. "You have put out my son's eye," said he, "by throwing the stone into it, and now you shall pay for the deed with your life." The poor merchant begged and implored for mercy, but the magician refused. At last the merchant asked that he might be allowed to go home and settle his affairs. and distribute his goods amongst his family, after which he promised to return. To this the magician consented, so the merchant departed, and spent a last happy year with his wife and children. Then, after dividing his goods amongst them, bade them farewell, and with many tears, left them, that he might return to the magician and fulfil his promise. Arrived at the spot, he saw an old man, who asked him why he came to such a place. "A wicked magician lives here," said he, "who kills people, or else changes them into animals or birds." "Alas!" cried the unfortunate merchant, "that is just what my fate will be, for I have come in fulfilment of a promise to return after a year and be killed." Just then two other old men came, and, while the four were conversing together, the magician, sword in hand, suddenly appeared and rushed at the merchant to kill him. On this the old man interceded, and said: "O Magician, if what I have suffered be more than you have suffered in the loss of your son's eye, then indeed give this man double punishment: let me, I beg you, tell my story." "Say on," said the magician. "Do you see this deer?" said the old man; "it is my wife. I was once married to a wife, but after a time I wearied of her, and married another wife, who presented me with a son. I took both the woman and her child to my first wife, and asked her to feed and take care of them; but she, being jealous, changed my wife into a cow, and my son into a calf. After a year I returned and enquired after my wife and child. My first wife said: 'Your wife is dead, and for the last two days your child has been missing.' "Now it happened at that time that I wanted to offer a sacrifice, and, asking for a suitable offering, my second wife was brought to me. She fell at my feet, and looked so unhappy that I could not kill her, and sent her away. Then my wife grew very angry, and insisted upon the sacrifice. At last I consented, and the poor cow was killed. [6] "Then I asked for another offering, and the calf was brought. It too looked at me with tearful eyes, and I had not the heart to kill it, but gave it to a cowherd, and told him to bring it back to me after a year. He kept it with his other cattle, and one day a young girl who saw it began to laugh and cry. On this the cowherd asked her reason for such conduct, and she replied: 'That calf is not really what it appears to be, but is a young man, and his mother was the cow who was sacrificed some time ago.' "Then the cowherd ran to me and told me the girl's story, and I went at once to her to ask whether it was really true, and if she could not restore my son to his original shape again. 'Yes,' she replied, 'on two conditions. One, that I may be allowed to marry your son, and the other, that I may do as I please with your first wife.' "To this I consented, so she took some water and sprinkled it upon the calf, which at once turned into my son again. With some of the same water she sprinkled my wife, who there and then turned into a deer. "Now, I might easily kill her if I liked; but, knowing that she is my wife, I take her with me wherever I go." Then the second old man said: "Hear my story. I was one of three brothers. My father died, and we divided his clothes and money amongst us. My eldest brother and I became merchants, but my third brother ran away, wasted and squandered his money, and became a beggar. He returned home, and begged us to forgive him, which we did, and gave him one thousand rupees to buy merchandise. "We three then went across the seas to buy goods. On the seashore I saw a very beautiful woman, and asked her if she would come across the sea with me. She consented; but when my brothers saw her they grew jealous, and, as soon as the ship sailed, they took her and threw her into the sea, and me after her. But she, being an Enchanted Being, rose to the surface of the water unhurt, and, taking me up, carried me to a place of safety on the seashore. "Then she said she was very angry with my brothers and meant to kill them both. I begged in vain that she would spare them, so at last she consented to punish them in some other way instead of killing them. "When next I visited at the house of my brothers, two dogs fell at my feet and cowered before me. Then the woman told me that they were my brothers, and would remain dogs for twelve years, after which time they would resume their natural shapes." The third old man began to tell his story. "I had the misfortune to marry a witch, who, soon after my marriage, turned me into a dog. I fled from the house, and ate such scraps of food as were thrown away by the store-keepers in the market place. "One day one of the men there took me home, but his daughter turned away her head each time she looked at me. At last her father enquired her reason for doing this, and she replied: 'Father, that is not a dog, but a man whose wife is a witch, and it is she who has changed him into a dog. I will restore him again to his former shape.' So she sprinkled water upon me, and I forthwith regained the shape of a man. I then asked her if I might not punish my wife, and she gave me some water and told me to go and sprinkle it upon the wicked witch. "I did this, and she became a donkey! Yet I keep her, and take care of her, and pray you, even as we had mercy, to so have mercy upon this man." So the magician forgave the man, and let him go. THE SNAKE AND THE FROG A Rajah had two sons. The eldest ascended the throne after his father's death, but fearing lest his brother might interfere with him, he ordered him to be killed. The poor boy, hearing of this order, quietly left the house and escaped into the jungles, where he saw a snake with a frog in its mouth which it was trying to swallow. As the young Rajah approached, he heard the frog say: "Oh, if God would only send some one to rescue me from the snake, how thankful I should be." The Rajah, full of pity, threw a stone at the snake, and it immediately released the frog, which hopped away. The snake remained still, dazed by the hurt received by the stone. Now, the Rajah felt sorry for it, and thought to himself: "I have taken away its natural food;" so, quickly cutting off a piece of his own flesh, he threw it to the snake, saying: "Here, take this instead." The snake took it home, and when its wife saw it, she said: "This is very good flesh; where did you get it?" The snake told her what had happened, and she said: "Go back to that man and reward him for what he has done." Then the snake assumed the form of a man, and, going back to the Rajah, said: "I will be your servant, if you will take me." The Rajah agreed, and his new servant followed him. The frog, meantime, had also gone home and told his wife of the narrow escape he had from the snake, and how a man had saved him from its very jaws. "Go back," said she, "and serve him, to prove your gratitude." So he also took the form of a man and offered himself as a servant to the Rajah. "Come," said he, "and we three will live together." Then they entered a city belonging to a great King, and the three of them offered to work for him. "But," said the young Rajah, "I will only work on condition that you pay me a thousand rupees a day." To this the King agreed, and they were employed by him. The young Rajah gave his own two followers one hundred rupees a day; and, after putting aside one hundred for his own requirements, distributed the rest in charity. One day the King went to take a bath in the tank, or pond, and while bathing, his ring slipped off and fell into the water. He therefore called the young Rajah and said to him: "Go and get my ring which is in that tank." This made the youth very sad, "For," thought he, "how am I to get a ring from the bottom of a tank?" But his servant who had once been a frog begged him not to be sad, and said: "I will get it for you." So, quickly taking his old form, he dived into the water and restored the ring to his master, who took it to the King. Some time after this the King's daughter was bitten by a snake, and in great danger of death. "Make my child well," demanded the King of the young Rajah. But this was hard to do, and the youth became sadder than ever. "Do not despair," said his servant who had once been a snake, "but put me into the room where the child is, for I understand the treatment for snake-bite." As soon as this was done he sucked out all the poison, and the child recovered. This so delighted the King that he called the young Rajah and offered him his daughter in marriage as a reward. So the marriage took place, and they lived happily ever afterwards. THE BARBER AND THE THIEF A thief entered the house of a barber, and, carefully making bundles of all he could lay hands upon, was about to take them away when the barber spied him; and, quickly getting out of bed, sat down at the door, thus cutting off the way of escape for the thief, who waited in vain for him to move. The barber sat smoking his hookah, [7] and every now and then refreshed himself by drinking water, occasionally spitting at what looked like a bundle of rags on the floor; but which was in reality the thief. [8] After a while the barber woke his wife by flinging a little water on her. She woke up very angry, and scolded him roundly. "What!" said the barber, "you mind a little water being thrown at you, while this man"--pointing to the thief--"has no objection to being spat upon!" Then the thief found he had been discovered, and implored forgiveness. Thinking he had already suffered sufficient indignities, they forgave him and let him go. THE STORY OF PURAN There was once a shoemaker who had a vegetable garden in which grew a bed of brinjals (or egg plant). Unknown to him, a fairy used sometimes to come and walk there; and one day, while passing the brinjal bushes, a thorn on them caught one of her wings and broke it, so that she was unable to fly, and had to remain where she was. Next time the shoemaker visited his garden he saw a beautiful woman in it; and, not knowing that she was a fairy, asked her to tell him her name, and how she came there. Her only reply was: "I am cold: give me a covering, I pray you." Then he invited her to take shelter in his hut, and gave her a lowie, or warm covering, saying: "Take this and stay as long as you like, and be my daughter." The shoemaker had a kind heart, and was very good to his adopted child, whom he named "Loonar Chumari." Now a Rajah, by name Suliman, sometimes visited the shoemaker's shop; and when he saw the fairy he fell in love with her, and begged for her hand in marriage. The shoemaker consented, and after a time the marriage took place; but Suliman had another wife at his Palace, and a son whose name was Puran: and he was most anxious to find out whether, when he grew up, this son would make a good ruler, so he sent for a Brahmin and enquired. "Yes," declared the Brahmin, "he will be a good ruler, but you must keep him locked up for twelve years in an underground room." This was done, and at the time when Suliman met the fairy, the twelve years had nearly been completed; but the boy refused to remain even a week longer, for he was weary of being locked up for so long. Even his own mother could not influence him in the matter, and so he was released. Now Puran was a very comely youth, and when he made his obeisance to his new stepmother, she was greatly impressed with his handsome face, and thought to herself: "Had I not been in such a hurry I might have married him instead of Suliman." The thought vexed her so much that she made up her mind to get Puran out of her sight by having him killed. She told Suliman that his boy was wanting in respect towards her, and deserving of death. On hearing this, Suliman had a bowl of boiling oil prepared, and, calling his son, said: "My son, if this be indeed true about you, plunge your hand into this boiling oil: if you are innocent no harm will come to you." Puran, without a sign of fear, did as his father bid him, and plunged in his hand, taking it out without a mark. Then Suliman turned to his wife and said: "See, the oil does not burn him." But she replied angrily: "Never mind, I am not content, and shall not rest day or night until you have his eyes put out, and both his hands and his feet cut off, after which you must have him flung into a pit." Suliman, who was completely under the power of the fairy, at last consented to this, and gave the order; but Puran's own mother pleaded so earnestly that her boy's eyes might be spared, that the servants felt sorry for her; and, substituting the eyes of an animal, they left the young man's eyes untouched. Then Puran was thrown into a pit and there left. A Guru, or Priest, who lived near that place used to send his followers daily to bring food and water for him, and one of them, mistaking the dry pit for a well, let down his chattie for water. Whereupon Puran, whose hands and feet had been restored by the Almighty, caught hold of the chattie and would not let it go. The Guru called out: "Let go, or I will bring my book of incantations and crush you into dust." "Try," replied a voice from the bottom of the pit, "for I too can bring my books and crush you to dust." The Guru was frightened, and, returning to the head Guru, his master, told him what had happened. Then the old Guru said: "It must be Puran; I will go and see." So, taking with him a ball of raw cotton, he called out at the top of the pit: "Puran, is that you? If so, and you are an innocent man, I will let down a thread of raw cotton, and you will be able to climb up by it, for it will not break if used by the innocent." "Let it down," replied Puran, and he climbed up safely. The Guru looked at him as he stood up, and then quietly returned to his own home. There he met all his pupils or followers, who are called "Cheelas," and sent them out to bring stores. There were one hundred and thirty-five Cheelas, and before they left he warned them, saying: "Go everywhere except to that magic country where those women live who practise witchcraft." But the men were curious, and, in spite of the warning, went to the witches' country. The witches saw them coming, and laughed gleefully. "Let us play a trick on these young Gurus," they said, "and turn them all into young bulls." This they did, and, leading the creatures to their husbands, said: "See what fine bulls we have brought in exchange for two and a half pounds of flour." The husbands were very pleased, and kept the bulls to carry loads. Meanwhile the old Guru waited for his followers, but as none of them appeared, he sought the aid of his books and discovered what had happened. Then he pronounced his incantations and dried up all the water in the country, with the exception of one well, near which he sat. The witches soon found that they would die of thirst, so they came to the old man's well, but they barely had time to put down their chatties before he turned the lot of them into donkeys and let them graze. Very soon the witches were missed by their husbands, who came to the old Guru and asked if he could give any news. "How can I tell," said he, "when one hundred and thirty-five of my own Gurus are lost and I cannot find them." "But you can recall them, our Father," said the men. "That is what I mean to do;" and so saying, the Guru took out his books and began to read. While he did this, they saw in the distance a herd of one hundred and thirty-five bulls approaching, and each one carried a load of wood or hay. They stood still before the old Guru, who then restored them to their former shapes. Then the witches' husbands were amazed, and said: "O Guru! can you not call our wives also?" "Call them yourselves, my friends, as you have seen me call my men." But the men knew nothing of either witchcraft or incantations, so they besought the Guru to help them. At last he agreed, and asked for a thick, strong stick, which he gave into the hands of one of his Cheelas, and said: "Go knock each of those donkeys a blow on the head with this." The Cheela did as he was told, and the donkeys resumed the shapes of women, all but five old ones which the Guru said must remain donkeys by way of warning. Then the Guru sent his followers forth as before, and coming to the pit where Puran had been found, they saw a dry stick standing near it. "This will do for fire," said they; but when they touched it a feeble voice was heard. So they reported the matter to the old Guru, and when he touched the stick it said, "Guru Jee." On this he recognised Puran, who for years had waited beside the well. "Why did you not go home, my son?" "Because you did not tell me," said Puran, "so I waited here for your orders." Then the Guru held him tenderly and washed the mud off him, and in many days he grew strong again. "Now go home to your parents," said the Guru. But Puran said: "No, I will remain with you." Thus in time he became a very highly respected Guru. TABARISTAN In the country called Tabaristan there lived a rich Rajah, who gave a feast and invited a number of guests. Amongst the guests came a stranger who partook of the good things distributed. The Rajah, on seeing him, enquired who he was. "I am a stranger," said he, "but am willing to serve you, as I have come from a very distant country." The Rajah said he would keep him as a sort of Chowkidar, to guard his house at night. So all night long the stranger used to pace up and down the Palace grounds keeping watch. One night the Rajah came out and, seeing him pacing up and down, asked him who he was. "Why, I am he whom you engaged as a servant." Hardly had he spoken when a loud cry echoed through the grounds, and a voice said: "I am going on, I am going on!" "What is that?" asked the Rajah. "I do not know," said the man, "but I hear it every night." "Go and find out," returned the Rajah. So the man turned to do his bidding. Now the Rajah was very curious, and, quickly wrapping himself in his coat, quietly followed his servant. Outside the garden gate sat a figure covered and clothed in loose white garments. On approaching it the servant said: "Who are you?" "I am Time," replied the figure, "and hold the Rajah's life, which is now nearly over." "Cannot anything be done to spare it?" asked the man. "Yes, it can be spared by the sacrifice of another, and that one must be your son." "I will give not only my son's life, but the lives of all my family and my own," replied the man; "but, if you want only my son, you may have him." Then he went and told his son, who said: "Gladly will I give my life, for what is it in comparison with the life of a Rajah? Come, father, take me soon that I may die." Then the man led his son to the veiled figure, and said: "Here is my son; he is willing to die." Taking a knife, he was about to plunge it into his child when the figure cried: "Enough! You have proved that you were willing not only to give your son, but your whole family, and the Almighty is pleased to spare the Rajah's life for another seven years." Now the Rajah, who had heard every word of the interview, quickly returned to the spot where he had first heard the voice, and there awaited his servant's return. "Well, what was the sound?" asked he, when he saw him. "A man and a woman had quarrelled," replied the servant, "but I have managed to reconcile them, and they have promised not to quarrel for seven years." Then the Rajah left him, and ordered him to appear at his Court the following day. Next day, when the Court was full, the Rajah addressed all his people, and said: "I am resolved to give up my throne and all I possess to this man; for last night, unknown to me, he was willing to give up, not only his son's life but his own, and the lives of all his family, in order to save mine, and for my sake." The poor servant was deeply touched and astonished at the turn matters had so unexpectedly taken, but the Rajah was firm in his resolve, and left his throne and his kingdom. The servant then became Rajah, and ruled wisely and well to the end of his days. THE PAINTED JACKAL A jackal had the habit of visiting the kitchens of several people at night and eating whatever it could find. One day, in visiting the house of a dyer, it put its head into a deep vessel containing blue dye, and, finding the mixture was not good to eat, tried to get its head out again, but could not do so for some time. When at last it managed to escape, its head was dyed a beautiful dark blue colour. He ran away into the jungles, glad to escape, and unconscious of his strange appearance; but the other animals in the jungle thought some new animal had come, and were quite charmed, so that they created him their King. They divided up all the wild creatures, and put their new King next to the jackals, so that when they cried out at nights, he cried too, and nobody found out that he was only a jackal. But one day some young jackals made him angry, so he turned them out and ordered the wolves and foxes to remain nearest to him. That night, when he began to cry and howl, it was at once discovered that he was only a jackal; so all the animals ran at him, bit him, and turned him out. THE ENCHANTED BIRD, MUSIC, AND STREAM There was once a Prince who used to amuse himself by dressing as a poor man, and going about amongst his subjects without their finding out who he was. In this way he found out all that they did, and how they lived. Once, while walking through a gully, he saw three sisters, and overheard their conversation. One said: "If I could marry even a servant of the Prince, how happy I should be! I should eat sweets and all sorts of nice things all day long." The other sister said: "I'd rather marry his cook, for then I should get still better things." But the third sister said: "I'd like best to marry the Prince himself, for then I'd get the best things of all to eat." The Prince went home, and next day, while holding court, gave an order that these three sisters should be brought to him. The order was immediately carried out, and, as the three trembling girls stood before him, they wondered much why they had been summoned. "Now," said he, "tell me what you three were talking about last night?" Terribly alarmed, the eldest confessed that she had said she would like to be the wife of one of the servants, so as to get nice things to eat. The second said she had wished to be the wife of his cook. The third sister hesitated, and then said timidly that she had dared to say she would like best to be the wife of the Prince himself. On this the Prince said: "You may have your wishes." He then ordered the one to be married to one of his servants, and the other to his cook; but the third he married himself. Some time after this, a son was born; but his wife's two sisters, who had begged to be present upon the occasion, and who were very jealous of their sister's position, quietly removed the baby, and put a dog's puppy in its place. The baby they put into a box and flung into the river. Now the Prince's gardener found the box and opened it; and, when he saw what it contained, he was overjoyed, and took the child to his wife, telling her that God had at last given her a son which he would keep and bring up as his own son. Meantime, the Prince was very angry indeed, but forgave his wife at the request of her friends. Some time after this another son was born, which the sisters changed for a kitten, and, putting the babe into a box, threw it into the river as before; but again the gardener found the child and carried him to his wife. Yet a third child was born to the Princess, a little girl, which the two sisters changed for a rat. As before, they placed the child in a box and threw it into the river; and yet a third time did the gardener rescue the babe, and take it to grow up with its two brothers, his adopted boys. By this time the Prince was very angry with his wife, and turned her out of his house. The gardener and his wife, who had loved their adopted children very dearly, died when the boys were about eight or nine years of age. So the boys begged the Prince to give them land of their own, on which to build or cultivate; and he, remembering how fond his gardener had always been of them, granted their request, so they lived there very happily with their little sister. The brothers often went out hunting, and on one occasion, when they were out and their sister alone at home, a very old woman came to her and begged for some water. She willingly gave it, and then asked the old woman very kindly if she would not come in and rest. "Come and see my house," she said, "and tell me what you think of it." The old woman said: "You have everything very nice, but there are three things which you have not got." "And what are those?" "You have no bird, no music, and no stream of water," replied the old woman; "without these your house is nothing." "Where am I to get them?" "You must go to the West." So saying, she went away and left the girl very sad, for she wished for the three things without which her home was incomplete. On the return of her brothers, they asked her why she looked so sad; and she told them of the old woman's visit, and what she had said. "If that is all," cried the eldest brother, "I will go and bring you all three things." The sister at first cried very much, and begged of him not to go, but at last she consented; and as he bade her good-bye, he gave her a string of beads, saying: "As long as I am well, these beads will be separate from each other; but should any misfortune overtake me, or I should die, the beads will be no longer separate, but will be joined together." Then he mounted his horse and rode away. On the way he met an old Fakir. This old man's face was covered with hair, so that he could not see, and he had a very long grey beard. The boy looked at him, and said: "Let me shave you, and you will be able to see better." So the Fakir allowed himself to be shaved, after which he asked the youth where he was going, and on hearing, he advised him not to go. "For," said he, "many have already gone on that quest, but have never returned." Yet the boy persisted. So the old Fakir gave him a ball, and said: "Keep throwing this before you as you go. Stop where the ball stops, and heed no sounds or interruptions on the way." The ball went in the direction of a high mountain, and the boy followed; but in the mountain there were strange hissing sounds and voices all around, which kept shouting to him, and asking who he was and where he came from. He paid no heed to these, until suddenly there came a great clap of thunder, followed by an earthquake. This so startled the boy that he looked round, and in a moment was turned into stone. The poor little sister at home, discovering that she could no longer separate her beads, was grieved indeed, knowing that some harm had befallen her brother; and she wept bitterly. On this her second brother said he would go and seek him, and also find the three things she required for her house. His sister implored him not to leave her, for he was all she had left; but he was determined, so she was obliged to reluctantly consent to his going. Before leaving he gave her a flower, and said: "Sister, as long as this flower keeps fresh, you will know that I am alive and well; but if it should close or fade, you may feel sure that I too am dead." Then he mounted his steed and started on his journey. Soon he met the old Fakir, who warned him as he had warned his brother, saying: "My son, so many have gone on this quest and have lost their lives; your own brother has lost his life, and yet you wish to go. Turn back, I advise you." "No," said the boy, "I am determined to find my brother, and also the bird, music, and stream of water." Then the Fakir gave him also a ball of string, with the same directions which he had given his brother; and he continued on his journey. As he reached the hill, he too heard the same hissing, shouting, and cries to stop; but he heeded nothing, until at last came the peal of thunder and earthquake, which so terrified him that he turned round to look, and he too was turned into stone. At home his poor sister saw her flower fade away and die, and then she knew that her other brother had also come to an untimely end. So she arose and locked her door, and said: "I will go myself and find my brothers." On her way she met the same old Fakir, who accosted her, and asked her whither she was going. He was much grieved when she told him her story, and said: "Brave men have lost their lives, and you, a woman, without half their strength, are going. I pray you be advised and return." "No, no," she returned; "if men have lost their courage, I, a woman, shall not lose mine. I am very brave, and I mean to go." So the Fakir bade her God-speed very sadly, and gave her the same parting gift as he had given her brothers, directing her what to do with it. The first thing she did was to buy some cotton wool, and with it stop her ears, so that she could not hear a sound; then she proceeded on her journey up the hill. The same sounds followed her all the way, but she heard them not, nor did she hear the thunder or heed the earthquake in her anxiety to find her brothers. On and on went she, until she saw a cage hanging on a tree, and in it a bird. She took it with great joy, and said: "I have found my bird, and have only the music and water to get for my home to be perfect." To her delight, the bird heard, and replied: "If you break off a branch of that tree and stick it into the ground, the breeze through its leaves will make the sweetest music you have ever heard; and if you will take a little water from that enchanted stream yonder, and pour it into your garden, it will never cease to flow. Thus you will have both music and stream." The girl did as the bird advised, and heard the sweetest melody in the branch of the tree. Then she filled a vessel with water and prepared to return, but very sorrowfully, for she had found both her brothers turned into stone. She told her trouble to the bird, who said: "Sprinkle some of the water on the stones." This she did, and, to her great surprise, both the lads came to life. They were delighted to see her, and to know that she had succeeded in finding the gifts they had failed to get; and the three returned home and lived very happily together for some time. One day the two brothers thought they would like to go out hunting again. Now they did not know that an order had been passed that nobody was to hunt in that forest except the Prince, and, while they were there, they came face to face with the Prince himself. This alarmed them, and they tried to hide themselves; but he called them, and enquired why they were hunting there against orders. Then they explained that they were in ignorance of his orders when they came, and begged forgiveness. The Prince, pleased at their appearance, enquired who they were, and they said: "The adopted sons of your gardener who died some time ago. Our own parents died when we were young." Then the Prince invited them to his Palace, but they said they could go nowhere without first telling their sister. "Well, ask your sister," said he, "and come to-morrow." On the third day they met the Prince again, and he asked why they had not come; but they pleaded as an excuse that they had forgotten to ask their sister. The Prince then gave them a golden ball and said: "When you see this, you will remember." That night as they were going to bed, the small golden ball rolled out on the floor, and seeing it, they remembered, and told their sister of the Prince's invitation. She was very displeased with them for not having complied with it earlier; and told them that they must go and see him the very next day. On the morrow the two boys went to the Palace, where the Prince received them very kindly, and gave them all sorts of good things to eat and drink, saying to himself: "Had I had children, they would by this time be the same ages as these lads." One day, soon after this, the bird advised the sister of the boys to invite the Prince to dinner. "How can I entertain so grand a man?" said she. "Make him a dish of kheer (rice cooked with milk and sugar); and besides this, to please him, another dish of pearls." "But where shall I get the pearls?" "Send a man to dig beneath that tree, and you will find as many as you require," replied the bird. So the girl did as she was told, and sent a man to dig. He soon found a box full of pearls, and these she placed in a very beautiful dish, and put it alongside the plate of kheer. The Prince accepted the invitation to dinner, and came to the house. After showing him all round, the girl led him at last to the room in which she had prepared dinner; and as her bird was also there, she told it to make a salaam to the Prince, which it did. Then the first dish was uncovered, and the Prince knew that he could not eat it as it was made of pearls; but the bird spoke up and said: "O Prince! are you not yet able to understand the difference between pearls and dross? When your wife bore your children, you believed them to be dogs, cats, or rats, and turned out your poor wife, who was in reality the mother of these"--and she pointed to the two boys and their sister--"your own children, who were exchanged by their wicked aunts for a dog, a cat, a rat, and you believed them." On hearing this, the Prince was astounded; and then the bird told him exactly all that had taken place. Delighted to be once more united to his children, he sought his poor wife, and, throwing himself at her feet, besought her with tears to forgive him. This she very gladly did, and returned with him to the Palace, where her children received her; and they were all very happy ever after. The two wicked sisters were killed by order of the Prince. THE DOG TEMPLE About eleven miles from Raipur, near the village of Jagasar, is a temple built to the memory of a faithful dog of the Bunjara species, and this is the story of how it came to be built. Many years ago a Bunjara Naik, or headman of the clan of Bunjaras, or wandering traders, owed money to a "Marwari," or money-lender at Raipur. When pressed for payment, the Bunjara, who was then standing near the Marwari's shop, said: "Here is my gold necklace, and here is my faithful dog: keep both till I return to my camping-ground near Jagasar, and fetch you the money." The necklace and dog were then left as security, and the man went his way. That night the Marwari's shop was broken into by thieves, and many valuables stolen, among them the golden necklace; but, before the thieves could get clear away with their stolen property, the dog got up and barked and leaped about, and made so much noise that the Marwari and his men got up, caught the thieves, and recovered the property, which was of considerable worth. The Marwari was very pleased, and out of gratitude for what the dog had done, determined to cancel and forgive the debt of his master, the Bunjara. So he wrote a paper to cancel it, tied it to the dog's neck and let it go, saying: "Carry the tidings to your owner." Early next morning the dog trotted off, and was nearing the camping-ground which was his home, when the Bunjara saw him, and, very displeased, he took a stick and struck the poor dog across the head, saying: "You brute! you could not remain even twenty-four hours with the Marwari, though my honour was at stake." The blow killed the dog on the spot, and as he fell, the Bunjara noticed the slip of paper round his neck, and, on reading it, found what joyful news his dog had brought to him. Not only was the debt forgiven, but the reason for it was also stated on the paper. The grief of the Bunjara was great, for in spite of his hasty temper he loved his dog, as all Bunjaras do. He repented his hasty act, and wept most bitterly over his favourite, vowing that he would try and expiate the deed by building a temple to the faithful dog's memory with the money he had recovered. The small temple now standing on the spot where this took place testifies to the fulfilment of that vow, and a small dog carved in stone indicates why the Dog Temple was built. To this day it is deeply revered by all the villagers around, and the story of that faithful dog is often repeated to show how intelligent and true a dog can be. THE BEAUTIFUL MILKMAID At a place called Drug, near Raipur in the Central Provinces of India, there once lived an old woman who had a very beautiful daughter. The old woman was most unwilling that her daughter should go out into the streets, for she said: "You are so beautiful, my daughter, that I tremble lest any one take you from me." But the girl replied: "Mother, I must go and earn our daily food. Let me, I pray you, sell milk and curds as usual: no harm will come to me." The mother very reluctantly let her go; but that day a Rajah happened to pass by and saw her. He noticed how beautiful she was, and stopped his elephant to ask who she was. She told him that she was of humble origin, and only a seller of milk and curds. "Then," said the Rajah, "I shall buy all that you have." "Nay," replied the girl; "surely what is mine is yours, and I offer everything in homage to you." When she persisted in refusing payment the Rajah was angry, and ordered his attendants to scatter the curds, and put the girl into prison for daring to go against his wishes. The order was obeyed, and the beautiful milkmaid found herself a prisoner. While in prison she prayed to her Gods for deliverance, and fashioning a parrot out of clay, breathed life into it and told it to go quickly to her lover, a young man grazing his herds in the hills, and tell him what had happened. The bird flew off and did as he was told; and the lover came down that night with all his clansmen, attacked the Rajah and killed him. Then he rescued the girl, who lived happily ever after as the wife of her brave deliverer. A REMEDY FOR SNAKE-BITE There is in India a small state called Raghoghur, the Rajahs of which are said to possess the power of curing snake-bite, even though it be from the most deadly cobra or karait. This power has been handed down for centuries, and was firmly believed in during the year 1896, and even up to the present moment. Every man bitten by a deadly snake in that place takes a bit of string, ties seven knots in it, and places it round his neck. As he goes along towards the Palace of the Rajah or Raghoghur, he keeps repeating "Jeth Singh," "Jeth Singh," "Jeth Singh," untying each knot while so doing. Arrived at the Palace, he salutes the assembled courtiers, and in their presence undoes the last of the seven knots. This done, the Rajah pours water on the bite and on the man's hands. A Brahmin gives his blessing, and he returns to the village cured. This power descends from father to son, and many are the wonderful cures reported from Raghoghur. A LEGEND OF SARDANA In a city called Sardana there once lived a man whose name was Simru. This man had great riches and lands, and also owned a place of worship. He married a lady of Sardana, who was called "Begum." After a few years of married life Simru died, and his wealthy widow gave alms and much money to the poor. In the same city lived an oil dealer who also died, and the angels took him to Heaven and presented him before the Almighty. "Who have you brought?" asked the Creator. "This man's days upon earth are not yet completed: take him back before his body is buried, and let his spirit re-possess his body; but in the city of Sardana you will find another man of the same name: bring him to me." On leaving the Court of God, some former creditor of the oil dealer's, who had preceded him into the Unseen, recognised him, and laying hold of him, demanded the sum of five rupees which he had owed him during his lifetime. The poor man being unable to pay this debt, the angels once more took him before the Almighty, who asked why they had returned. The angels replied: "O God, there is a man here to whom this oil dealer owes five rupees, and he will not let us return until the debt is paid." The Almighty enquired if this was true, and the oil dealer replied: "Yes, but I am a poor man, and not able to repay it." Then the Almighty said: "In the city of Sardana lives a rich Begum; do you know her?" "Yes, O King." "Well, the Begum's treasury is here, and I will advance you five rupees out of it, if, when you return to earth, you promise faithfully to give it back to the Begum." So the oil dealer gratefully took the loan, paid his debt, and returned with the angels to earth, where he arrived just too late to re-enter his body, which his friends had already taken away to prepare for burial. Watching his opportunity, he waited till they were otherwise engaged, and at once re-entered it; but when he sat up, and began to speak, his terrified friends and relations fled, thinking it was his ghost. On this the oil dealer called out: "Do not fear, I am not a spirit; but God has released me, as my days upon earth are not yet fulfilled. The man who ought to have died is Kungra, the vegetable man; go and see whether he is dead or alive." The friends, on going to the house of Kungra, found that he had just fallen from a wall and been killed on the spot; all his relations were wailing and lamenting his sudden end. Thus everybody knew that the words of the old oil dealer were correct. In the meantime, the oil dealer called his son, and said: "Son, when I went to Heaven I there met a man to whom I owed five rupees, and he caught me and would not let me return before I paid it, so the Almighty advanced me the money from the Begum's treasury in Heaven, and bade me give her back that amount on my return to earth. Therefore do I entreat you, my son, to come with me, and together we will visit the Begum, and give her five rupees." So they took the money and went to the Begum's house. "Who are you?" asked she. The oil dealer then told her the whole story, ending with: "And now I come to return you the five rupees." The Begum was very pleased, and, taking the money, she called her servants and ordered a further sum of one hundred rupees to be added to it. This money she spent on sweets, which were distributed amongst the poor. Many years afterwards the good Begum of Sardana died, but her houses and lands are still in existence; nor does anybody living in that town forget the story of the oilman who died and lived again. [9] THE STORY OF "BUNJARA TULLAO" There is at a place in India called Agar, a tank or pond known as the "Bunjara Tullao," yet no Bunjara will ever drink water there. Many years ago no pond existed in that spot, and in all the country round a water famine prevailed, and the poor were perishing for want of water. A Fakir prophesied that if a man would kill his son and daughter as a sacrifice to the Gods, water would be found and last always. That night a Bunjara slew his two children, and threw them into a deep hole. In the morning when the sun shone and people woke up, lo! there was a large pond in place of the hole, and nothing was seen of the unfortunate children. Then the poor filled their chatties, and went away rejoicing. It is said that sometimes the heads of a boy and girl were seen lifted out of the water, and that they held out their hands to passers-by; but because the peasants put mud into them, they discontinued the practice. In the centre of the "Bunjara Tullao" is a shrine built in memory of its origin. There is another such pond near the Sipri Bazaar, which remains clear and beautiful, notwithstanding the fact that hundreds of people bathe and wash in it. The old "Guru" who lives there explains the reason for this. "Many years ago one of the Gods selected the Sipri Bazaar tank for his bath, and ever since its waters have remained as clear as crystal." Moral.--Thus there is a cause for everything in the world. THE ANAR PARI, OR POMEGRANATE FAIRY Once upon a time there was a King who had seven sons, all of whom were married but the youngest. One day the Queen-mother spoke to her youngest son, and said: "Why are you not married? Do not the maidens of my Court please thee? Perhaps you want what you cannot get, and that is perfection, unless, indeed, you go and seek and marry the Anar Pari, who is the fairest of all fairies, and whose charms are traditional." The Prince then and there registered a vow that he would not marry at all unless he found this pearl of great price, and forthwith started on his quest for her. He put on his armour and five weapons of defence, mounted his favourite steed, and set forth. He had proceeded a good distance when night fell, and he found himself in a forest near a small hut. Entering it, he found it was occupied by a holy Fakir. The Fakir said: "My son, why have you come here? Where are you going? And are you not afraid of the wild animals which infest this forest?" The Prince replied: "Holy Father, I am going on a long journey to try and find the Pomegranate Fairy, so that I may wed her." "You are going a long way indeed," replied the Fakir; "but if you listen to what I tell you, your journey will not be in vain." Next morning he called the young man, and told him that he was going to enchant him and turn him into a parrot, so that he might fly to the island on which the fairy was imprisoned, and guarded day and night by seven hundred dreadful dragons. He also told him that on the island he would find a pomegranate tree with three pomegranates on it, of which he was to pluck and bring away the middle one, for in it dwelt the fairy he was so anxious to find. "But mind you," said the Fakir, "once you have plucked the pomegranate, you are not to wait an instant, or even turn to look back when the dragons come after you, for, if you once look back, all your efforts will be in vain, and you will be killed." Then the young Prince was turned into a parrot and immediately flew off. He flew and flew and flew, till he had crossed seven seas; and in the midst of the seventh sea, he at last spied an island in which was a most lovely garden, where grew an exquisite pomegranate tree, and on it three pomegranates, the centre one most beautiful to behold. He plucked the fruit, and flew as fast as he could, but alas, the dragon who guarded the tree saw him, and called to the other dragons, who, with wild yells and terrifying noises, flew after him. The young Prince in his flight unfortunately looked back to see where they were, and was immediately burnt to a cinder, and fell to the ground with the golden pomegranate which he had worked so hard to obtain. The dragons came up and took away the fruit, but left the burnt body of the bird upon the ground. The Fakir waited long for the return of the parrot, but as it did not come, he set out himself to find it. He was able to cross in safety by making his body invisible, and when he came to the island, the first thing he saw was the burnt body of the parrot lying in the garden. So he took it up, breathed once more the breath of life into it, and let it go, saying: "Try once more, my son, but remember that I said: 'Look not back,' but fly to my hut for safety." Thus saying, he disappeared; and the parrot, watching its chance, very silently approached the tree a second time, stole the fruit, and flew as fast as he could. The dragons pursued, but he reached the hut in safety; and the old Fakir did not lose a moment, but turned him into a small fly, and then secreted the pomegranate on his person, and sat down. Almost immediately the dragons also arrived, and said: "Where is the green parrot who stole the fruit?" "Look and see," said the old Fakir. "I know not what you want; no green parrot is here, nor do I know where the pomegranate is that he took away." Then he went on quietly counting his beads while the dragons searched everywhere; but at last, wearied out and finding nothing, they went away, feeling very angry at the loss of their fairy. As soon as they had gone, the Fakir caused the Prince to resume his original form, and, handing him the pomegranate, said: "Go back to your Palace; and when you have got there, break the pomegranate, and out of it will step the most beautiful woman you have ever seen; take her to be your wife, and may luck go with you." The young Prince then mounted his steed, and thanked the old Fakir for all his assistance. As he neared his father's Palace he came to a well in a garden, and having tied his horse to a tree, he went and rested beside the well, and looked at the pomegranate. "I think I will break it now, and see if a fairy comes out, for if I wait to do so in my father's house before all his courtiers, suppose no fairy appeared, I should be ashamed to death." So saying, he broke it, and immediately a most lovely woman appeared, bright and dazzling as the sun itself. As soon as he beheld her, he was so entranced that he fell into a swoon. Then the fairy lifted his head very gently, and placing it on her knee, allowed him to sleep on. While he slept a young woman of low caste came to draw water. Seeing the beautiful fairy, she enquired of her if the sleeping man was the King's youngest son, and if she was the Anar Pari whom he had gone to seek. Hearing that this was so, she was filled with envy, and planned in her mind how she might take the life of the fairy. So she went up to her, and said: "O fairy, you are most beautiful, but I would be beautiful too if I had on your clothes: come, let us exchange our dresses (or sarees), and see how you look in my clothes." The fairy did as she wished, and the young woman said: "Look how beautiful I am; let us go to the well and behold our reflections in the water to see which is the most beautiful." The fairy bent forward to see herself, and, as she did so, the young woman pushed her so that she fell into the well and sank into the water. Having done this, the wicked young woman woke up the Prince, saying: "Come, let us go to the King's Palace." The Prince looked doubtfully at her, but, being still half asleep, and seeing that she wore the same dress as Anar Pari had on, he assented, believing his passing doubt to be unreasonable. His arrival at the Palace was made an occasion for great rejoicings, and all were glad that he was at last happily married. The new Princess would never allow him to leave her, for she feared that he might return to the well; but one day, unknown to her, he found his way there, and looking in, saw floating upon the water a most exquisite lotus lily of pure white, the most perfect flower he had ever seen. He asked his servants to hook it out for him; but each time they tried to do so, the flower disappeared beneath the water. At last he tried himself to get it, and succeeded easily, for the lily floated towards the hook that he let down. The Prince took the flower home and looked after it with the greatest care; but when his wife heard where it had come from, she went at night and, tearing it into several pieces, flung it out of the window. As the broken fragments of the lotus touched the earth, they turned into a bed of mint which grew luxuriantly. Some of this mint was earned into the King's kitchen, to be used for seasoning dishes; but as the cook began to fry it, a voice was heard from the frying pan, saying: "Here am I, the real Princess, being fried to death, while the wicked woman who threw me into the well has taken my place." The cook when he heard this was afraid, and threw the mint into the garden again. As soon as it touched the ground it became a lovely creeper, which grew and grew until it gradually approached the bed-chamber of the Prince. The false Princess when she saw it at once remembered how she had thrown the fragments of the lotus lily into the garden, and, fearing lest this might be an offshoot from it, she ordered her gardener to uproot the creeper and cut it down at once. The gardener did so, but as he was removing it, the one and only fruit on the tree fell to the ground and rolled under a jessamine bush, where it remained in security. The gardener's daughter, who came every morning to gather flowers from this bush to weave into garlands, accidentally noticed the fruit lying beneath it, picked it up, and carried it home. As she entered the gardener's little hut, the fruit fell to the ground and broke open, and out of it stepped the lovely Anar Pari. The good people of the house were filled with wonder and admiration to see so peerless a being in their humble cottage. They gave her shelter and fed her, the gardener's daughter loving her as a sister, and the gardener as a father. One day, as the gardener's daughter sat weaving her garlands of jessamine for the King's Court, the fairy said: "Please allow me to make one too; and when it is ready, take it and put it on the neck of the youngest Prince." So she made it; and when two garlands were completed they were taken to the Prince and Princess. The Princess noticed that the Prince's garland was made in wonderful fashion, and enquired who had made it. They told her that a very lovely woman living in the gardener's hut had made it, and, suspecting at once that this was Anar Pari come to life again, she thought of some plan by which she could destroy her. The next day she feigned great illness and a very severe headache, which she declared nothing would cure but the placing of a heart of a young and beautiful girl on her forehead. She therefore begged for the heart of the girl who lived in the gardener's hut, and orders were given for her execution. The gardener and his daughter wept most bitterly, and the executioners were feign to spare the life of so lovely a woman; yet they were obliged to fulfil their orders, so they led the girl to the place of execution. Before they killed her she begged that her limbs might be scattered to the four winds, and her two eyes thrown upwards into space. The executioners did as she desired, and her heart was sent to the wicked Princess. As soon as Anar Pari's eyes were thrown into the air, they became a pair of love-birds and flew into the forest. Many days after, the Prince went to hunt in the forest, and was resting himself under the trees when he heard two love-birds talking in the branches, and one was telling the other the story of her life. How she was once Anar Pari, a beautiful fairy, and how a wicked woman had enticed her away from the side of the Prince while he slept, and thrown her down a well, and how the woman was now reigning in her stead as Princess at the Palace. The young Prince was amazed to hear all this, and looking up, cried: "I have at last found you. Come down and be my Fairy Princess once again." Then two laughing, loving eyes appeared, and presently they were set in the form of a woman, and the Prince once again beheld the world-renowned form of Anar Pari. They went together to the Palace, and there the Prince ordered the false Princess to be brought out, and told everybody present the story of her wickedness. The sentence passed upon her was that she was to be buried alive near the well; this was done, and to this day nobody dare go near it. Then the Prince married the fairy, and they lived happily ever afterwards; but the old gardener and his daughter were not forgotten, and very often the beautiful Princess sat with her friends, and the two girls weaved garlands together, and spoke lovingly of the time when Anar Pari had dwelt in the old hut in the garden. NOTES [1] A dish made of rice and lentils cooked together with clarified butter or ghee, and then boiled. [2] Another native dainty made with sugar, etc. [3] This is a well-directed piece of sarcasm against native horse-dealers who drug their horses; also against would-be judges of horse-flesh. [4] The smallest current or shell money of India. [5] A than is a length of cloth which varies from five yards to twenty yards, or more. [6] This story was told by a Mahamedan woman, and I should think it was of Mahamedan origin, as no Hindu would even distantly refer to the slaughter of a cow, and such a story told by a Mahamedan to a Hindu would cause intense ill-feeling. [7] An Indian pipe. [8] To spit upon a man in the East is considered the greatest of indignities. [9] The Begum's property is now in possession of the Jesuits, and the priest who lives there is greatly beloved of the people. 
6607	----	MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND By Charles M. Skinner Vol. 2. THE ISLE OF MANHATTOES AND NEARBY CONTENTS: Dolph Heyliger The Knell at the Wedding Roistering Dirck Van Dara The Party from Gibbet Island Miss Britton's Poker The Devil's Stepping-Stones The Springs of Blood and Water The Crumbling Silver The Cortelyou Elopement Van Wempel's Goose The Weary Watcher The Rival Fiddlers Wyandank Mark of the Spirit Hand The First Liberal Church THE ISLE OF MANHATTOES AND NEARBY DOLPH HEYLIGER New York was New Amsterdam when Dolph Heyliger got himself born there,--a graceless scamp, though a brave, good-natured one, and being left penniless on his father's death he was fain to take service with a doctor, while his mother kept a shop. This doctor had bought a farm on the island of Manhattoes--away out of town, where Twenty-third Street now runs, most likely--and, because of rumors that its tenants had noised about it, he seemed likely to enjoy the responsibilities of landholding and none of its profits. It suited Dolph's adventurous disposition that he should be deputed to investigate the reason for these rumors, and for three nights he kept his abode in the desolate old manor, emerging after daybreak in a lax and pallid condition, but keeping his own counsel, to the aggravation of the populace, whose ears were burning for his news. Not until long after did he tell of the solemn tread that woke him in the small hours, of his door softly opening, though he had bolted and locked it, of a portly Fleming, with curly gray hair, reservoir boots, slouched hat, trunk and doublet, who entered and sat in the arm-chair, watching him until the cock crew. Nor did he tell how on the third night he summoned courage, hugging a Bible and a catechism to his breast for confidence, to ask the meaning of the visit, and how the Fleming arose, and drawing Dolph after him with his eyes, led him downstairs, went through the front door without unbolting it, leaving that task for the trembling yet eager youth, and how, after he had proceeded to a disused well at the bottom of the garden, he vanished from sight. Dolph brooded long upon these things and dreamed of them in bed. He alleged that it was in obedience to his dreams that he boarded a schooner bound up the Hudson, without the formality of adieu to his employer, and after being spilled ashore in a gale at the foot of Storm King, he fell into the company of Anthony Vander Hevden, a famous landholder and hunter, who achieved a fancy for Dolph as a lad who could shoot, fish, row, and swim, and took him home with him to Albany. The Heer had commodious quarters, good liquor, and a pretty daughter, and Dolph felt himself in paradise until led to the room he was to occupy, for one of the first things that he set eyes on in that apartment was a portrait of the very person who had kept him awake for the worse part of three nights at the bowerie in Manhattoes. He demanded to know whose picture it was, and learned that it was that of Killian Vander Spiegel, burgomaster and curmudgeon, who buried his money when the English seized New Amsterdam and fretted himself to death lest it should be discovered. He remembered that his mother had spoken of this Spiegel and that her father was the miser's rightful heir, and it now appeared that he was one of Heyden's forbears too. In his dream that night the Fleming stepped out of the portrait, led him, as he had done before, to the well, where he smiled and vanished. Dolph reflected, next morning, that these things had been ordered to bring together the two branches of the family and disclose the whereabouts of the treasure that it should inherit. So full was he of this idea that he went back to New Amsterdam by the first schooner, to the surprise of the Heer and the regret of his daughter. After the truant had been received with execrations by the doctor and with delight by his mother, who believed that spooks had run off with him, and with astonishment, as a hero of romance, by the public, he made for the haunted premises at the first opportunity and began to angle at the disused well. Presently he found his hook entangled in something at the bottom, and on lifting slowly he discovered that he had secured a fine silver porringer, with lid held down by twisted wire. It was the work of a moment to wrench off the lid, when he found the vessel to be filled with golden pieces. His fishing that day was attended with such luck as never fell to an angler before, for there were other pieces of plate down there, all engraved with the Spiegel arms and all containing treasure. By encouraging the most dreadful stories about the spot, in order to keep the people wide away from it, he accomplished the removal of his prizes bit by bit from their place of concealment to his home. His unaccounted absence in Albany and his dealings with the dead had prepared his neighbors for any change in himself or his condition, and now that he always had a bottle of schnapps for the men and a pot of tea for the women, and was good to his mother, they said that they had always known that when he changed it would be for the better,--at which his old detractors lifted their eyebrows significantly--and when asked to dinner by him they always accepted. Moreover, they made merry when the day came round for his wedding with the little maid of Albany. They likewise elected him a member of the corporation, to which he bequeathed some of the Spiegel plate and often helped the other city fathers to empty the big punch-bowl. Indeed, it was at one of these corporation feasts that he died of apoplexy. He was buried with honors in the yard of the Dutch church in Garden Street. THE KNELL AT THE WEDDING A young New Yorker had laid such siege to the heart of a certain belle--this was back in the Knickerbocker days when people married for love--that everybody said the banns were as good as published; but everybody did not know, for one fine morning my lady went to church with another gentleman--not her father, though old enough to be--and when the two came out they were man and wife. The elderly man was rich. After the first paroxysm of rage and disappointment had passed, the lover withdrew from the world and devoted himself to study; nor when he learned that she had become a widow, with comfortable belongings derived from the estate of the late lamented, did he renew acquaintance with her, and he smiled bitterly when he heard of her second marriage to a young adventurer who led her a wretched life, but atoned for his sins, in a measure, by dying soon enough afterward to leave a part of her fortune unspent. In the lapse of time the doubly widowed returned to New York, where she met again the lover of her youth. Mr. Ellenwood had acquired the reserve of a scholar, and had often puzzled his friends with his eccentricities; but after a few meetings with the object of his young affection he came out of his glooms, and with respectful formality laid again at her feet the heart she had trampled on forty years before. Though both of them were well on in life, the news of their engagement made little of a sensation. The widow was still fair; the wooer was quiet, refined, and courtly, and the union of their fortunes would assure a competence for the years that might be left to them. The church of St. Paul, on Broadway, was appointed for the wedding, and it was a whim of the groom that his bride should meet him there. At the appointed hour a company of the curious had assembled in the edifice; a rattle of wheels was heard, and a bevy of bridesmaids and friends in hoop, patch, velvet, silk, powder, swords, and buckles walked down the aisle; but just as the bride had come within the door, out of the sunlight that streamed so brilliantly on the mounded turf and tombstones in the churchyard, the bell in the steeple gave a single boom. The bride walked to the altar, and as she took her place before it another clang resounded from the belfry. The bridegroom was not there. Again and again the brazen throat and iron tongue sent out a doleful knell, and faces grew pale and anxious, for the meaning of it could not be guessed. With eyes fixed on the marble tomb of her first husband, the woman tremblingly awaited the solution of the mystery, until the door was darkened by something that made her catch her breath--a funeral. The organ began a solemn dirge as a black-cloaked cortege came through the aisle, and it was with amazement that the bride discovered it to be formed of her oldest friends,--bent, withered; paired, man and woman, as in mockery--while behind, with white face, gleaming eyes, disordered hair, and halting step, came the bridegroom, in his shroud. "Come," he said,--"let us be married. The coffins are ready. Then, home to the tomb." "Cruel!" murmured the woman. "Now, Heaven judge which of us has been cruel. Forty years ago you took away my faith, destroyed my hopes, and gave to others your youth and beauty. Our lives have nearly run their course, so I am come to wed you as with funeral rites." Then, in a softer manner, he took her hand, and said, "All is forgiven. If we cannot live together we will at least be wedded in death. Time is almost at its end. We will marry for eternity. Come." And tenderly embracing her, he led her forward. Hard as was the ordeal, confusing, frightening, humiliating, the bride came through it a better woman. "It is true," she said, "I have been vain and worldly, but now, in my age, the truest love I ever knew has come back to me. It is a holy love. I will cherish it forever." Their eyes met, and they saw each other through tears. Solemnly the clergyman read the marriage service, and when it was concluded the low threnody that had come from the organ in key with the measured clang of the bell, merged into a nobler motive, until at last the funeral measures were lost in a burst of exultant harmony. Sobs of pent feeling and sighs of relief were heard as the bridal party moved away, and when the newmade wife and husband reached the portal the bell was silent and the sun was shining. ROISTERING DIRCK VAN DARA In the days when most of New York stood below Grand Street, a roistering fellow used to make the rounds of the taverns nightly, accompanied by a friend named Rooney. This brave drinker was Dirck Van Dara, one of the last of those swag-bellied topers that made merry with such solemnity before the English seized their unoffending town. It chanced that Dirck and his chum were out later than usual one night, and by eleven o'clock, when all good people were abed, a drizzle set in that drove the watch to sleep in doorways and left Broadway tenantless. As the two choice spirits reeled out of a hostelry near Wall Street and saw the lights go out in the tap-room windows they started up town to their homes in Leonard Street, but hardly had they come abreast of old St. Paul's when a strange thing stayed them: crying was heard in the churchyard and a phosphorescent light shone among the tombs. Rooney was sober in a moment, but not so Dirck Van Dara, who shouted, "Here is sport, friend Rooney. Let's climb the wall. If the dead are for a dance, we will take partners and show them how pigeons' wings are cut nowadays." "No," exclaimed the other; "those must perish who go among the dead when they come out of their graves. I've heard that if you get into their clutches, you must stay in purgatory for a hundred years, and no priest can pray you out." "Bah! old wives' tales! Come on!" And pulling his friend with him, they were over the fence. "Hello! what have we here?" As he spoke a haggard thing arose from behind a tombstone, a witchlike creature, with rags falling about her wasted form and hair that almost hid her face. The twain were set a-sneezing by the fumes of sulphur, and Rooney swore afterwards that there were little things at the end of the yard with grinning faces and lights on the ends of their tails. Old Hollands are heady. Dirck began to chaff the beldam on her dilapidation, but she stopped his talk by dipping something from a caldron behind her and flinging it over both of her visitors. Whatever it was, it burned outrageously, and with a yell of pain they leaped the wall more briskly than they had jumped it the other way, and were soon in full flight. They had not gone far when the clock struck twelve. "Arrah! there's a crowd of them coming after," panted Rooney. "Ave Mary! I've heard that if you die with witch broth being thrown over you, you're done for in the next world, as well as this. Let us get to Father Donagan's. Wow!" As he made this exclamation the fugitives found their way opposed by a woman, who looked at them with immodest eyes and said, "Dirck Van Dara, your sire, in wig and bob, turned us Cyprians out of New York, after ducking us in the Collect. But we forgive him, and to prove it we ask you to our festival." At the stroke of midnight the street before the church had swarmed with a motley throng, that now came onward, waving torches that sparkled like stars. They formed a ring about Dirck and began to dance, and he, nothing loth, seized the nymph who had addressed him and joined in the revel. Not a soul was out or awake except themselves, and no words were said as the dance went wilder to strains of weird and unseen instruments. Now and then one would apply a torch to the person of Dirck, meanly assailing him in the rear, and the smart of the burn made him feet it the livelier. At last they turned toward the Battery as by common consent, and went careering along the street in frolic fashion. Rooney, whose senses had thus far been pent in a stupor, fled with a yell of terror, and as he looked back he saw the unholy troop disappearing in the mist like a moving galaxy. Never from that night was Dirck Van Data seen or heard of more, and the publicans felt that they had less reason for living. THE PARTY FROM GIBBET ISLAND Ellis Island, in New York harbor, once bore the name of Gibbet Island, because pirates and mutineers were hanged there in chains. During the times when it was devoted to this fell purpose there stood in Communipaw the Wild Goose tavern, where Dutch burghers resorted, to smoke, drink Hollands, and grow fat, wise, and sleepy in each others' company. The plague of this inn was Yan Yost Vanderscamp, a nephew of the landlord, who frequently alarmed the patrons of the house by putting powder into their pipes and attaching briers beneath their horses' tails, and who naturally turned pirate when he became older, taking with him to sea his boon companion, an ill-disposed, ill-favored blackamoor named Pluto, who had been employed about the tavern. When the landlord died, Vanderscamp possessed himself of this property, fitted it up with plunder, and at intervals he had his gang ashore,--such a crew of singing, swearing, drinking, gaming devils as Communipaw had never seen the like of; yet the residents could not summon activity enough to stop the goings-on that made the Wild Goose a disgrace to their village. The British authorities, however, caught three of the swashbucklers and strung them up on Gibbet Island, and things that went on badly in Communipaw after that went on with quiet and secrecy. The pirate and his henchmen were returning to the tavern one night, after a visit to a rakish-looking vessel in the offing, when a squall broke in such force as to give their skiff a leeway to the place of executions. As they rounded that lonely reef a creaking noise overhead caused Vanderscamp to look up, and he could not repress a shudder as he saw the bodies of his three messmates, their rags fluttering and their chains grinding in the wind. "Don't you want to see your friends?" sneered Pluto. "You, who are never afraid of living men, what do you fear from the dead?" "Nothing," answered the pirate. Then, lugging forth his bottle, he took a long pull at it, and holding it toward the dead felons, he shouted, "Here's fair weather to you, my lads in the wind, and if you should be walking the rounds to-night, come in to supper." A clatter of bones and a creak of chains sounded like a laugh. It was midnight when the boat pulled in at Communipaw, and as the storm continued Vanderscamp, drenched to the skin, made quick time to the Wild Goose. As he entered, a sound of revelry overhead smote his ear, and, being no less astonished than in need of cordials, he hastened up-stairs and flung open the door. A table stood there, furnished with jugs and pipes and cans, and by light of candles that burned as blue as brimstone could be seen the three gallows-birds from Gibbet Island, with halters on their necks, clinking their tankards together and trolling forth a drinking-song. Starting back with affright as the corpses hailed him with lifted arms and turned their fishy eyes on him, Vanderscamp slipped at the door and fell headlong to the bottom of the stairs. Next morning he was found there by the neighbors, dead to a certainty, and was put away in the Dutch churchyard at Bergen on the Sunday following. As the house was rifled and deserted by its occupants, it was hinted that the negro had betrayed his master to his fellow-buccaneers, and that he, Pluto, was no other than the devil in disguise. But he was not, for his skiff was seen floating bottom up in the bay soon after, and his drowned body lodged among the rocks at the foot of the pirates' gallows. For a long time afterwards the island was regarded as a place that required purging with bell, book, and candle, for shadows were reported there and faint lights that shot into the air, and to this day, with the great immigrant station on it and crowds going and coming all the time, the Battery boatmen prefer not to row around it at night, for they are likely to see the shades of the soldier and his mistress who were drowned off the place one windy night, when the girl was aiding the fellow to escape confinement in the guard-house, to say nothing of Vanderscamp and his felons. MISS BRITTON'S POKER The maids of Staten Island wrought havoc among the royal troops who were quartered among them during the Revolution. Near quarantine, in an old house,--the Austen mansion,--a soldier of King George hanged himself because a Yankee maid who lived there would not have him for a husband, nor any gentleman whose coat was of his color; and, until ghosts went out of fashion, his spirit, in somewhat heavy boots, with jingling spurs, often disturbed the nightly quiet of the place. The conduct of a damsel in the old town of Richmond was even more stern. She was the granddaughter, and a pretty one, of a farmer named Britton; but though Britton by descent and name, she was no friend of Britons, albeit she might have had half the officers in the neighboring camp at her feet, if she had wished them there. Once, while mulling a cup of cider for her grandfather, she was interrupted by a self-invited myrmidon, who undertook, in a fashion rude and unexpected, to show the love in which he held her. Before he could kiss her, the girl drew the hot poker from the mug of drink and jabbed at the vitals of her amorous foe, burning a hole through his scarlet uniform and printing on his burly person a lasting memento of the adventure. With a howl of pain the fellow rushed away, and the privacy of the Britton family was never again invaded, at least whilst cider was being mulled. THE DEVIL'S STEPPING-STONES When the devil set a claim to the fair lands at the north of Long Island Sound, his claim was disputed by the Indians, who prepared to fight for their homes should he attempt to serve his writ of ejectment. Parley resulted in nothing, so the bad one tried force, but he was routed in open fight and found it desirable to get away from the scene of action as soon as possible. He retreated across the Sound near the head of East River. The tide was out, so he stepped from island to island, without trouble, and those reefs and islands are to this day the Devil's Stepping-Stones. On reaching Throgg's Neck he sat down in a despairing attitude and brooded on his defeat, until, roused to a frenzy at the thought of it, he resolved to renew the war on terms advantageous entirely to himself. In that day Connecticut was free from rocks, but Long Island was covered with them; so he gathered all he could lay his hands on and tossed them at the Indians that he could see across the Sound near Cold Spring until the supply had given out. The red men who last inhabited Connecticut used to show white men where the missiles landed and where the devil struck his heel into the ground as he sprang from the shore in his haste to reach Long Island. At Cold Spring other footprints and one of his toes are shown. Establishing himself at Coram, he troubled the people of the country for many years, so that between the devil on the west and the Montauks on the east they were plagued indeed; for though their guard at Watch Hill, Rhode Island, and other places often apprised them of the coming of the Montauks, they never knew which way to look for the devil. THE SPRINGS OF BLOOD AND WATER A great drought had fallen on Long Island, and the red men prayed for water. It is true that they could get it at Lake Ronkonkoma, but some of them were many miles from there, and, beside, they feared the spirits at that place: the girl who plied its waters in a phosphor-shining birch, seeking her recreant lover; and the powerful guardians that the Great Spirit had put in charge to keep the fish from being caught, for these fish were the souls of men, awaiting deliverance into another form. The people gathered about their villages in bands and besought the Great Spirit to give them drink. His voice was heard at last, bidding their chief to shoot an arrow into the air and to watch where it fell, for there would water gush out. The chief obeyed the deity, and as the arrow touched the earth a spring of sweet water spouted into the air. Running forward with glad cries the red men drank eagerly of the liquor, laved their faces in it, and were made strong again; and in memory of that event they called the place the Hill of God, or Manitou Hill, and Manet or Manetta Hill it is to this day. Hereabouts the Indians settled and lived in peace, thriving under the smile of their deity, making wampum for the inland tribes and waxing rich with gains from it. They made the canal from bay to sea at Canoe Place, that they might reach open water without dragging their boats across the sand-bars, and in other ways they proved themselves ingenious and strong. When the English landed on the island they saw that the Indians were not a people to be trifled with, and in order to properly impress them with their superiority, they told them that John Bull desired a treaty with them. The officers got them to sit in line in front of a cannon, the nature of which instrument was unknown to them, and during the talk the gun was fired, mowing down so many of the red people that the survivors took to flight, leaving the English masters at the north shore, for this heartless and needless massacre took place at Whale's Neck. So angry was the Great Spirit at this act of cruelty and treachery that he caused blood to ooze from the soil, as he had made water leap for his thirsting children, and never again would grass grow on the spot where the murder had been done. THE CRUMBLING SILVER There is a clay bank on Little Neck, Long Island, where metallic nodules are now and then exposed by rain. Rustics declare them to be silver, and account for their crumbling on the theory that the metal is under a curse. A century ago the Montauks mined it, digging over enough soil to unearth these pellets now and again, and exchanging them at the nearest settlements for tobacco and rum. The seeming abundance of these lumps of silver aroused the cupidity of one Gardiner, a dweller in the central wilderness of the island, but none of the Indians would reveal the source of their treasure. One day Gardiner succeeded in getting an old chief so tipsy that, without realizing what he was doing, he led the white man to the clay bed and showed him the metallic spots glittering in the sun. With a cry of delight Gardiner sprang forward and tore at the earth with his fingers, while the Indian stood by laughing at his eagerness. Presently a shade crossed the white man's face, for he thought that this vast treasure would have to be shared by others. It was too much to endure. He wanted all. He would be the richest man on earth. Stealing behind the Indian as he stood swaying and chuckling, he wrenched the hatchet from his belt and clove his skull at a blow. Then, dragging the body to a thicket and hiding it under stones and leaves, he hurried to his house for cart and pick and shovel, and returning with speed he dug out a half ton of the silver before sunset. The cart was loaded, and he set homeward, trembling with excitement and conjuring bright visions for his future, when a wailing sound from a thicket made him halt and turn pale. Noiselessly a figure glided from the bush. It was the Indian he had killed. The form approached the treasure, flung up its arm, uttered a few guttural words; then a rising wind seemed to lift it from the ground and it drifted toward the Sound, fading like a cloud as it receded. Full of misgiving, Gardiner drove to his home, and, by light of a lantern, transferred his treasure to his cellar. Was it the dulness of the candle that made the metal look so black? After a night of feverish tossing on his bed he arose and went to the cellar to gloat upon his wealth. The light of dawn fell on a heap of gray dust, a few brassy looking particles showing here and there. The curse of the ghost had been of power and the silver was silver no more. Mineralogists say that the nodules are iron pyrites. Perhaps so; but old residents know that they used to be silver. THE CORTELYOU ELOPEMENT In the Bath district of Brooklyn stands Cortelyou manor, built one hundred and fifty years ago, and a place of defence during the Revolution when the British made sallies from their camp in Flatbush and worried the neighborhood. It was in one of these forays on pigs and chickens that a gallant officer of red-coats met a pretty lass in the fields of Cortelyou. He stilled her alarm by aiding her to gather wild-flowers, and it came about that the girl often went into the fields and came back with prodigious bouquets of daisies. The elder Cortelyou had no inkling of this adventure until one of his sons saw her tryst with the red-coat at a distance. Be sure the whole family joined him in remonstrance. As the girl declared that she would not forego the meetings with her lover, the father swore that she should never leave his roof again, and he tried to be as good, or bad, as his word. The damsel took her imprisonment as any girl of spirit would, but was unable to effect her escape until one evening, as she sat at her window, watching the moon go down and paint the harbor with a path of light. A tap at the pane, as of a pebble thrown against it, roused her from her revery. It was her lover on the lawn. At her eager signal he ran forward with a light ladder, planted it against the window-sill, and in less than a minute the twain were running toward the beach; but the creak of the ladder had been heard, and grasping their muskets two of the men hurried out. In the track of the moon the pursuers descried a moving form, and, without waiting to challenge, they levelled the guns and fired. A woman's cry followed the report; then a dip of oars was heard that fast grew fainter until it faded from hearing. On returning to the house they found the girl's room empty, and next morning her slipper was brought in from the mud at the landing. Nobody inside of the American lines ever learned what that shot had done, but if it failed to take a life it robbed Cortelyou of his mind. He spent the rest of his days in a single room, chained to a staple in the floor, tramping around and around, muttering and gesturing, and sometimes startling the passer-by as he showed his white face and ragged beard at the window. VAN WEMPEL'S GOOSE Allow us to introduce Nicholas Van Wempel, of Flatbush: fat, phlegmatic, rich, and henpecked. He would like to be drunk because he is henpecked, but the wife holds the purse-strings and only doles out money to him when she wants groceries or he needs clothes. It was New Year's eve, the eve of 1739, when Vrouw Van Wempel gave to her lord ten English shillings and bade him hasten to Dr. Beck's for the fat goose that had been bespoken. "And mind you do not stop at the tavern," she screamed after him in her shrillest tone. But poor Nicholas! As he went waddling down the road, snapping through an ice-crust at every step, a roguish wind--or perhaps it was one of the bugaboos that were known to haunt the shores of Gravesend Bay--snatched off his hat and rolled it into the very doorway of the tavern that he had been warned, under terrible penalties, to avoid. As he bent to pick it up the door fell ajar, and a pungency of schnapps and tobacco went into his nostrils. His resolution, if he had one, vanished. He ordered one glass of schnapps; friends came in and treated him to another; he was bound to do as much for them; shilling by shilling the goose money passed into the till of the landlord. Nicholas was heard to make a muttered assertion that it was his own money anyhow, and that while he lived he would be the head of his own house; then the mutterings grew faint and merged into snores. When he awoke it was at the low sound of voices in the next room, and drowsily turning his head he saw there two strangers,--sailors, he thought, from their leather jackets, black beards, and the rings in their ears. What was that they said? Gold? On the marshes? At the old Flatlands tide-mill? The talkers had gone before his slow and foggy brain could grasp it all, but when the idea had fairly eaten its way into his intellect, he arose with the nearest approach to alacrity that he had exhibited in years, and left the place. He crunched back to his home, and seeing nobody astir went softly into his shed, where he secured a shovel and lantern, and thence continued with all consistent speed to the tumbledown tide-mill on the marsh,--a trying journey for his fat legs on a sharp night, but hope and schnapps impelled him. He reached the mill, and, hastening to the cellar, began to probe in the soft, unfrozen earth. Presently his spade struck something, and he dug and dug until he had uncovered the top of a canvas bag,--the sort that sailors call a "round stern-chest." It took all his strength to lug it out, and as he did so a seam burst, letting a shower of gold pieces over the ground. He loosed the band of his breeches, and was filling the legs thereof with coin, when a tread of feet sounded overhead and four men came down the stair. Two of them he recognized as the fellows of the tavern. They saw the bag, the lantern, then Nicholas. Laden though he was with gold until he could hardly budge, these pirates, for such they were, got him up-stairs, forced him to drink hot Hollands to the success of their flag, then shot him through the window into the creek. As he was about to make this unceremonious exit he clutched something to save himself, and it proved to be a plucked goose that the pirates had stolen from a neighboring farm and were going to sup on when they had scraped their gold together. He felt the water and mud close over him; he struggled desperately; he was conscious of breathing more freely and of staggering off at a vigorous gait; then the power of all the schnapps seemed to get into his head, and he remembered no more until he heard his wife shrilling in his ears, when he sat up and found himself in a snow-bank close to his house, with a featherless goose tight in his grasp. Vrouw Van Wempel cared less about the state of her spouse when she saw that he had secured the bird, and whenever he told his tale of the pirates she turned a deaf ear to him, for if he had found the gold why did he not manage to bring home a few pieces of it? He, in answer, asked how, as he had none of his own money, she could have come by the goose? He often told his tale to sympathetic ears, and would point to the old mill to prove that it was true. THE WEARY WATCHER Before the opening of the great bridge sent commerce rattling up Washington Street in Brooklyn that thoroughfare was a shaded and beautiful avenue, and among the houses that attested its respectability was one, between Tillary and Concord Streets, that was long declared to be haunted. A man and his wife dwelt there who seemed to be fondly attached to each other, and whose love should have been the stronger because of their three children none grew to years. A mutual sorrow is as close a tie as a common affection. One day, while on a visit to a friend, the wife saw her husband drive by in a carriage with a showy woman beside him. She went home at once, and when the supposed recreant returned she met him with bitter reproaches. He answered never a word, but took his hat and left the house, never to be seen again in the places that had known him. The wife watched and waited, daily looking for his return, but days lengthened into weeks, months, years, and still he came not. Sometimes she lamented that she had spoken hastily and harshly, thinking that, had she known all, she might have found him blameless. There was no family to look after, no wholesome occupation that she sought, so the days went by in listening and watching, until, at last, her body and mind gave way, and the familiar sight of her face, watching from a second floor window, was seen no longer. Her last day came. She had risen from her bed; life and mind seemed for a moment to be restored to her; and standing where she had stood so often, her form supported by a half-closed shutter and a grasp on the sash, she looked into the street once more, sighed hopelessly, and so died. It was her shade that long watched at the windows; it was her waxen face, heavy with fatigue and pain, that was dimly seen looking over the balusters in the evening. THE RIVAL FIDDLERS Before Brooklyn had spread itself beyond Greenwood Cemetery a stone could be seen in Martense's Lane, south of that burial-ground, that bore a hoof mark. A negro named Joost, in the service of the Van Der Something-or-others, was plodding home on Saturday night, his fiddle under his arm. He had been playing for a wedding in Flatbush and had been drinking schnapps until he saw stars on the ground and fences in the sky; in fact, the universe seemed so out of order that he seated himself rather heavily on this rock to think about it. The behavior of the stars in swimming and rolling struck him as especially curious, and he conceived the notion that they wanted to dance. Putting his fiddle to his chin, he began a wild jig, and though he made it up as he went along, he was conscious of doing finely, when the boom of a bell sent a shiver down his spine. It was twelve o'clock, and here he was playing a dance tune on Sunday. However, the sin of playing for one second on the Sabbath was as great as that of playing all day; so, as long as he was in for it, he resolved to carry the tune to the end, and he fiddled away with a reckless vehemence. Presently he became aware that the music was both wilder and sweeter than before, and that there was more of it. Not until then did he observe that a tall, thin stranger stood beside him; and that he was fiddling too,--composing a second to Joost's air, as if he could read his thought before he put it into execution on the strings. Joost paused, and the stranger did likewise. "Where de debble did you come frum?" asked the first. The other smiled. "And how did you come to know dat music?" Joost pursued. "Oh, I've known that tune for years," was the reply. "It's called 'The Devil's joy at Sabbath Breaking.'" "You're a liar!" cried the negro. The stranger bowed and burst into a roar of laughter. "A liar!" repeated Joost,--"for I made up dat music dis very minute." "Yet you notice that I could follow when you played." "Humph! Yes, you can follow." "And I can lead, too. Do you know the tune 'Go to the Devil and Shake Yourself?'" "Yes; but I play second to nobody." "Very well, I'll beat you at any air you try." "Done!" said Joost. And then began a contest that lasted until daybreak. The stranger was an expert, but Joost seemed to be inspired, and just as the sun appeared he sounded, in broad and solemn harmonies, the hymn of Von Catts: "Now behold, at dawn of day, Pious Dutchmen sing and pray." At that the stranger exclaimed, "Well, that beats the devil!" and striking his foot angrily on the rock, disappeared in a flash of fire like a burst bomb. Joost was hurled twenty feet by the explosion, and lay on the ground insensible until a herdsman found him some hours later. As he suffered no harm from the contest and became a better fiddler than ever, it is supposed that the recording angel did not inscribe his feat of Sabbath breaking against him in large letters. There were a few who doubted his story, but they had nothing more to say when he showed them the hoof-mark on the rock. Moreover, there are fewer fiddlers among the negroes than there used to be, because they say that the violin is the devil's instrument. WYANDANK From Brooklyn Heights, or Ihpetonga, "highplace of trees," where the Canarsie Indians made wampum or sewant, and where they contemplated the Great Spirit in the setting of the sun across the meeting waters, to Montauk Point, Long Island has been swept by the wars of red men, and many are the tokens of their occupancy. A number of their graves were to be seen until within fifty years, as clearly marked as when the warriors were laid there in the hope of resurrection among the happy hunting grounds that lay to the west and south. The casting of stones on the death-spots or graves of some revered or beloved Indians was long continued, and was undoubtedly for the purpose of raising monuments to them, though at Monument Mountain, Massachusetts, Sacrifice Rock, between Plymouth and Sandwich, Massachusetts, and some other places the cairns merely mark a trail. Even the temporary resting-place of Sachem Poggatacut, near Sag Harbor, was kept clear of weeds and leaves by Indians who passed it in the two centuries that lapsed between the death of the chief and the laying of the road across it in 1846. This spot is not far from Whooping Boy's Hollow, so named because of a boy who was killed by Indians, and because the rubbing of two trees there in a storm gave forth a noise like crying. An older legend has it that this noise is the angry voice of the magician who tried to slay Wyandank, the "Washington of the Montauks," who is buried on the east end of the island. Often he led his men into battle, sounding the warwhoop, copied from the scream of the eagle, so loudly that those who heard it said that the Montauks were crying for prey. It was while killing an eagle on Block Island, that he might use the plumes for his hair, that this chief disclosed himself to the hostiles and brought on a fight in which every participant except himself was slain. He was secretly followed back to Long Island by a magician who had hopes of enlisting the evil ones of that region against him,--the giants that left their tracks in "Blood-stone Rock" and "Printed Rock," near Napeague, and such renegades as he who, having betrayed his people, was swallowed by the earth, his last agony being marked by a stamp of the foot that left its print on a slab near the Indian burial-ground at Kongonok. Failing in these alliances the wizard hid among the hollows of the moors, and there worked spells of such malice that the chief's hand lost steadiness in the hunt and his voice was seldom heard in council. When the haunt of this evil one was made known, a number of young men undertook to trap him. They went to the hills by night, and moved stealthily through the shrubbery until they were almost upon him; but his familiars had warned him of their approach, though they had wakened him only to betray him for a cloud swept in from the sea, fell about the wretch, burst into flame, and rolled back toward the ocean, bearing him in the centre of its burning folds. Because of the cry he uttered the place long bore the name of Whooping Hollow, and it used to be said that the magician visited the scene of his ill-doing every winter, when his shrieks could be heard ringing over the hills. MARK OF THE SPIRIT HAND Andover, New Jersey, was quaint and quiet in the days before the Revolution--it is not a roaring metropolis, even yet--and as it offered few social advantages there was more gathering in taprooms and more drinking of flip than there should have been. Among those who were not averse to a cheering cup were three boon companions, Bailey, Hill, and Evans, farmers of the neighborhood. They loved the tavern better than the church, and in truth the church folk did not love them well, for they were suspected of entertaining heresies of the most forbidden character. It was while they were discussing matters of belief over their glasses that one of them proposed, in a spirit of bravado, that whichever of the trio might be first to die should come back from the grave and reveal himself to the others--if he could--thus settling the question as to whether there was a future. Not long after this agreement--for consent was unanimous--Hill departed this life. His friends lamented his absence, especially at the tavern, but they anticipated no attempt on his part to express the distinguished consideration that he had felt for his old chums. Some weeks passed, yet there was no sign, and the two survivors of the party, as they jogged homeward to the house where both lived, had begun to think and speak less frequently of the absent one. But one night the household was alarmed by a terrible cry. Bailey got a light and hurried to the bedside of his friend, whom he found deathly white and holding his chest as if in pain. "He has been here!" gasped Evans. "He stood here just now." "Who?" asked Bailey, a creep passing down his spine. "Hill! He stood there, where you are now, and touched me with a hand that was so cold--cold--" and Evans shivered violently. On turning back the collar of his shirt the impression of a hand appeared on the flesh near the shoulder: a hand in white, with one finger missing. Hill had lost a finger. There was less of taverns after that night, for Evans carried the token of that ghostly visit on his person until he, too, had gone to solve the great secret. THE FIRST LIBERAL CHURCH In 1770 the brig Hand-in-Hand went ashore at Good Luck, New Jersey. Among the passengers on board the vessel, that it would perhaps be wrong to call ill fated, was John Murray, founder of Universalism in America. He had left England in despair, for his wife and children were dead, and so broken was he in his power of thought and purpose that he felt as if he should never preach again. In fact, his rescue from the wreck was passive, on his part, and he suffered himself to be carried ashore, recking little whether he reached it or no. After he had been for half an hour or so on the soil of the new country, to which he had made his entrance in so unexpected a manner, he began to feel hungry, and set off afoot along the desolate beach. He came to a cabin where an old man stood in a doorway with a basket of fish beside him. "Will you sell me a fish?" asked Murray. "No. The fish is all yours. I expected you." "You do not know me." "You are the man who is to tell us of God." "I will never preach of Him again." "I built that log church yonder. Don't say that you will not preach in it. Whenever a clergyman, Presbyterian, Methody, or Baptist, came here, I asked him to preach in my kitchen. I tried to get him to stay; but no--he always had work elsewhere. Last night I saw the brig driven on the bar, and a voice said to me, 'In that ship is the man who will teach of God. Not the old God of terrors, but one of love and mercy. He has come through great sorrow to do this work.' I have made ready for you. Do not go away." The minister felt a strange lifting in his heart. He fell on his knees before the little house and offered up a prayer. Long he staid in that place, preaching gentle doctrines and ministering to the men and women of that lonely village, and when the fisherman apostle, Thomas Potter, died he left the church to Murray, who, in turn, bequeathed it, "free, for the use of all Christian people." 
6608	----	MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND By Charles M. Skinner Vol. 3. ON AND NEAR THE DELAWARE CONTENTS: The Phantom Dragoon Delaware Water Gap The Phantom Drummer The Missing Soldier of Valley Forge The Last Shot at Germantown A Blow in the Dark The Tory's Conversion Lord Percy's Dream Saved by the Bible Parricide of the Wissahickon The Blacksmith at Brandywine Father and Son The Envy of Manitou The Last Revel in Printz Hall The Two Rings Flame Scalps of the Chartiers The Consecration of Washington Marion ON AND NEAR THE DELAWARE THE PHANTOM DRAGOON The height that rises a mile or so to the south of Newark, Delaware, is called Iron Hill, because it is rich in hematite ore, but about the time of General Howe's advance to the Brandywine it might well have won its name because of the panoply of war--the sullen guns, the flashing swords, and glistening bayonets--that appeared among the British tents pitched on it. After the red-coats had established camp here the American outposts were advanced and one of the pickets was stationed at Welsh Tract Church. On his first tour of duty the sentry was thrown into great alarm by the appearance of a figure robed from head to foot in white, that rode a horse at a charging gait within ten feet of his face. When guard was relieved the soldier begged that he might never be assigned to that post again. His nerves were strong in the presence of an enemy in the flesh--but an enemy out of the grave! Ugh! He would desert rather than encounter that shape again. His request was granted. The sentry who succeeded him was startled, in the small hours, by a rush of hoofs and the flash of a pallid form. He fired at it, and thought that he heard the sound of a mocking laugh come back. Every night the phantom horseman made his rounds, and several times the sentinels shot at him without effect, the white horse and white rider showing no annoyance at these assaults. When it came the turn of a sceptical and unimaginative old corporal to take the night detail, he took the liberty of assuming the responsibilities of this post himself. He looked well to the priming of his musket, and at midnight withdrew out of the moonshine and waited, with his gun resting on a fence. It was not long before the beat of hoofs was heard approaching, and in spite of himself the corporal felt a thrill along his spine as a mounted figure that might have represented Death on the pale horse came into view; but he jammed his hat down, set his teeth, and sighted his flint-lock with deliberation. The rider was near, when bang went the corporal's musket, and a white form was lying in the road, a horse speeding into the distance. Scrambling over the fence, the corporal, reassured, ran to the form and turned it over: a British scout, quite dead. The daring fellow, relying on the superstitious fears of the rustics in his front, had made a nightly ride as a ghost, in order to keep the American outposts from advancing, and also to guess, from elevated points, at the strength and disposition of their troops. He wore a cuirass of steel, but that did not protect his brain from the corporal's bullet. DELAWARE WATER GAP The Indian name of this beautiful region, Minisink, "the water is gone," agrees with the belief of geologists that a lake once existed behind the Blue Ridge, and that it burst its way through the hills at this point. Similar results were produced by a cataclysm on the Connecticut at Mount Holyoke, on the Lehigh at Mauch Chunk, and Runaway Pond, New Hampshire, got its name by a like performance. The aborigines, whatever may be said against them, enjoyed natural beauty, and their habitations were often made in this delightful region, their councils being attended by chief Tamanend, or Tammany, a Delaware, whose wisdom and virtues were such as to raise him to the place of patron saint of America. The notorious Tammany Society of New York is named for him. When this chief became old and feeble his tribe abandoned him in a hut at New Britain, Pennsylvania, and there he tried to kill himself by stabbing, but failing in that, he flung burning leaves over himself, and so perished. He was buried where he died. It was a princess of his tribe that gave the name of Lover's Leap to a cliff on Mount Tammany, by leaping from it to her death, because her love for a young European was not reciprocated. There is a silver-mine somewhere on the opposite mountain of Minsi, the knowledge of its location having perished with the death of a recluse, who coined the metal he took from it into valuable though illegal dollars, going townward every winter to squander his earnings. During the Revolution "Oran the Hawk," a Tory and renegade, was vexatious to the people of Delaware Valley, and a detachment of colonial troops was sent in pursuit of him. They overtook him at the Gap and chased him up the slopes of Tammany, though he checked their progress by rolling stones among them. One rock struck a trooper, crushed him, and bore him down to the base of a cliff, his blood smearing it in his descent. But though he seemed to have eluded his pursuers, Oran was shot in several places during his flight, and when at last he cast himself into a thicket, to rest and get breath, it was never to rise again. His bones, cracked by bullets and gnawed by beasts, were found there when the leaves fell. THE PHANTOM DRUMMER Colonel Howell, of the king's troops, was a gay fellow, framed to make women false; but when he met the rosy, sweet-natured daughter of farmer Jarrett, near Valley Forge, he attempted no dalliance, for he fell too seriously in love. He might not venture into the old man's presence, for Jarrett had a son with Washington, and he hated a red-coat as he did the devil; but the young officer met the girl in secret, and they plighted troth beneath the garden trees, hidden in gray mist. As Howell bent to take his first kiss that night, a rising wind went past, bringing from afar the roll of a drum, and as they talked the drum kept drawing nearer, until it seemed at hand. The officer peered across the wall, then hurried to his mistress' side, as pale as death. The fields outside were empty of life. Louder came the rattling drum; it seemed to enter the gate, pass but a yard away, go through the wall, and die in the distance. When it ceased, Howell started as if a spell had been lifted, laxed his grip on the maiden's hand, then drew her to his breast convulsively. Ruth's terror was more vague but no less genuine than his own, and some moments passed before she could summon voice to ask him what this visitation meant. He answered, "Something is about to change my fortunes for good or ill; probably for ill. Important events in my family for the past three generations have been heralded by that drum, and those events were disasters oftener than benefits." Few more words passed, and with another kiss the soldier scaled the wall and galloped away, the triple beat of his charger's hoofs sounding back into the maiden's ears like drum-taps. In a skirmish next day Colonel Howell was shot. He was carried to farmer Jarrett's house and left there, in spite of the old man's protest, for he was willing to give no shelter to his country's enemies. When Ruth saw her lover in this strait she was like to have fallen, but when she learned that it would take but a few days of quiet and care to restore him to health, she was ready to forgive her fellow-countrymen for inflicting an injury that might result in happiness for both of them. It took a great deal of teasing to overcome the scruples of the farmer, but he gruffly consented to receive the young man until his hurt should heal. Ruth attended him faithfully, and the cheerful, manly nature of the officer so won the farmer's heart that he soon forgot the color of Howell's coat. Nor was he surprised when Howell told him that he loved his daughter and asked for her hand; indeed, it had been easy to guess their affection, and the old man declared that but for his allegiance to a tyrant he would gladly own him as a son-in-law. It was a long struggle between love and duty that ensued in Howell's breast, and love was victor. If he might marry Ruth he would leave the army. The old man gave prompt consent, and a secret marriage was arranged. Howell had been ordered to rejoin his regiment; he could not honorably resign on the eve of an impending battle, and, even had he done so, a long delay must have preceded his release. He would marry the girl, go to the country, live there quietly until the British evacuated Philadelphia, when he would return and cast his lot with the Jarrett household. Howell donned citizen's dress, and the wedding took place in the spacious best room of the mansion, but as he slipped the ring on the finger of his bride the roll of a drum was heard advancing up the steps into the room, then on and away until all was still again. The young colonel was pale; Ruth clung to him in terror; clergymen and guests looked at each other in amazement. Now there were voices at the porch, the door was flung open, armed men entered, and the bridegroom was a prisoner. He was borne to his quarters, and afterward tried for desertion, for a servant in the Jarrett household, hating all English and wishing them to suffer, even at each other's hands, had betrayed the plan of his master's guest. The court-martial found him guilty and condemned him to be shot. When the execution took place, Ruth, praying and sobbing in her chamber, knew that her husband was no more. The distant sound of musketry reverberated like the roll of a drum. THE MISSING SOLDIER OF VALLEY FORGE During the dreadful winter of the American encampment at Valley Forge six or eight soldiers went out to forage for provisions. Knowing that little was to be hoped for near the camp of their starving comrades, they set off in the direction of French Creek. At this stream the party separated, and a little later two of the men were attacked by Tory farmers. Flying along the creek for some distance they came to a small cave in a bluff, and one of them, a young Southerner named Carrington, scrambled into it. His companion was not far behind, and was hurrying toward the cave, when he was arrested by a rumble and a crash: a block of granite, tons in weight, that had hung poised overhead, slid from its place and completely blocked the entrance. The stifled cry of despair from the living occupant of the tomb struck to his heart. He hid in a neighboring wood until the Tories had dispersed, then, returning to the cave, he strove with might and main to stir the boulder from its place, but without avail. When he reached camp, as he did next day, he told of this disaster, but the time for rescue was believed to be past, or the work was thought to be too exhausting and dangerous for a body of men who had much ado to keep life in their own weak frames. It was a double tragedy, for the young man's sweetheart never recovered from the shock that the news occasioned, and on her tomb, near Richmond, Virginia, these words are chiselled: "Died, of a broken heart, on the 1st of March, 1780, Virginia Randolph, aged 21 years, 9 days. Faithful unto death." In the summer of 1889 some workmen, blasting rock near the falls on French Creek, uncovered the long-concealed cavern and found there a skeleton with a few rags of a Continental uniform. In a bottle beside it was an account, signed by Arthur L. Carrington, of the accident that had befallen him, and a letter declaring undying love for his sweetheart. He had starved to death. The bones were neatly coffined, and were sent to Richmond to be buried beside those of the faithful Miss Randolph. THE LAST SHOT AT GERMANTOWN Many are the tales of prophecy that have been preserved to us from war times. In the beginning of King Philip's war in Connecticut, in 1675, it was reported that the firing of the first gun was heard all over the State, while the drumbeats calling settlers to defence were audible eight miles away. Braddock's defeat and the salvation of Washington were foretold by a Miami chief at a council held in Fort Ponchartrain, on Detroit River, the ambush and the slaughter having been revealed to him in a dream. The victims of that battle, too, had been apprised, for one or two nights before the disaster a young lieutenant in Braddock's command saw his fellow-officers pass through his tent, bloody and torn, and when the first gun sounded he knew that it spoke the doom of nearly all his comrades. At Killingly, Connecticut, in the autumn before the outbreak of the Revolution, a distant roar of artillery was heard for a whole day and night in the direction of Boston, mingled with a rattle of musketry, and so strong was the belief that war had begun and the British were advancing, that the minute men mustered to await orders. It was afterward argued that these noises came from an explosion of meteors, a shower of these missiles being then in progress, invisible, of course, in the day-time. Just after the signing of the Declaration of Independence the royal arms on the spire of the Episcopal church at Hampton, Virginia, were struck off by lightning. Shortly before the surrender of Cornwallis a display of northern lights was seen in New England, the rays taking the form of cannon, facing southward. In Connecticut sixty-four of these guns were counted. At the battle of Germantown the Americans were enraged by the killing of one of their men who had gone out with a flag of truce. He was shot from the windows of Judge Chew's house, which was crowded with British soldiers, and as he fell to the lawn, dyeing the peaceful emblem with his blood, at least one of the Continentals swore that his death should be well avenged. The British reinforcements, sixteen thousand strong, came hurrying through the street, their officers but half-dressed, so urgent had been the summons for their aid. Except for their steady tramp the place was silent; doors were locked and shutters bolted, and if people were within doors no sign of them was visible. General Agnew alone of all the troop seemed depressed and anxious. Turning to an aide as they passed the Mennonist graveyard, he said, "This field is the last I shall fight on." An eerie face peered over the cemetery wall, a scarred, unshaven face framed in long hair and surmounting a body clothed in skins, with the question, "Is that the brave General Gray who beat the rebels at Paoli?" One of the soldiers, with a careless toss of the hand, seemed to indicate General Agnew. A moment later there was a report, a puff of smoke from the cemetery wall, and a bullet whizzed by the head of the general, who smiled wanly, to encourage his men. Summary execution would have been done upon the stranger had not a body of American cavalry dashed against the red-coats at that moment, and a fierce contest was begun. When the day was over, General Agnew, who had been separated from his command in the confusion of battle, came past the graves again. Tired and depressed, he drew rein for a moment to breathe the sweet air, so lately fouled with dust and smoke, and to watch the gorgeous light of sunset. Again, like a malignant genius of the place, the savage-looking stranger arose from behind the wall. A sharp report broke the quiet of evening and awoke clattering echoes from the distant houses. A horse plunged and General Agnew rolled from his saddle, dead: the last victim in the strife at Germantown. A BLOW IN THE DARK The Tory Manheim sits brooding in his farmhouse near Valley Forge, and his daughter, with a hectic flush on her cheek, looks out into the twilight at the falling snow. She is worn and ill; she has brought on a fever by exposure incurred that very day in a secret journey to the American camp, made to warn her lover of another attempt on the life of Washington, who must pass her father's house on his return from a distant settlement. The Tory knows nothing of this; but he starts whenever the men in the next room rattle the dice or break into a ribald song, and a frown of apprehension crosses his face as the foragers crunch by, half-barefoot, through the snow. The hours go on, and the noise in the next room increases; but it hushes suddenly when a knock at the door is heard. The Tory opens it, and trembles as a tall, grave man, with the figure of an athlete, steps into the fire-light and calmly removes his gloves. "I have been riding far," said he. "Can you give me some food and the chance to sleep for an hour, until the storm clears up?" Manheim says that he can, and shuffling into the next room, he whispers, "Washington!" The girl is sent out to get refreshments. It is in vain that she seeks to sign or speak to the man who sits there so calmly before the fire, for her father is never out of sight or hearing. After Washington has finished his modest repast he asks to be left to himself for a while, but the girl is told to conduct him to the room on the left of the landing on the next floor. Her father holds the candle at the foot of the stairs until he sees his guest enter; then he bids his daughter go to her own bed, which is in the chamber on the right of the landing. There is busy whispering in the room below after that, and the dice box is shaken to see to whose lot it shall fall to steal up those stairs and stab Washington in his sleep. An hour passes and all in the house appear to be at rest, but the stairs creak slightly as Manheim creeps upon his prey. He blows his candle out and softly enters the chamber on the left. The men, who listen in the dark at the foot of the stair, hear a moan, and the Tory hurries back with a shout of gladness, for the rebel chief is no more and Howe's reward will enrich them for life. Glasses are filled, and in the midst of the rejoicing a step is heard on the stair. Washington stands before them. In calm, deep tones he thanks the farmer for his shelter, and asks that his horse be brought to the door and his reckoning be made out. The Tory stares as one bereft. Then he rushes aloft, flings open the door of the room on the left, and gazes at the face that rests on the pillow,--a pillow that is dabbled with red. The face is that of his daughter. The name of father is one that he will never hear again in this world. The candle falls from his hand; he sinks to the floor; be his sin forgiven! Outside is heard the tramp of a horse. It is that of Washington, who rides away, ignorant of the peril he has passed and the sacrifice that averted it. THE TORY'S CONVERSION In his firelit parlor, in his little house at Valley Forge, old Michael Kuch sits talking with his daughter. But though it is Christmas eve the talk has little cheer in it. The hours drag on until the clock strikes twelve, and the old man is about to offer his evening prayer for the safety of his son, who is one of Washington's troopers, when hurried steps are heard in the snow, there is a fumbling at the latch, then the door flies open and admits a haggard, panting man who hastily closes it again, falls into a seat, and shakes from head to foot. The girl goes to him. "John!" she says. But he only averts his face. "What is wrong with thee, John Blake?" asks the farmer. But he has to ask again and again ere he gets an answer. Then, in a broken voice, the trembling man confesses that he has tried to shoot Washington, but the bullet struck and killed his only attendant, a dragoon. He has come for shelter, for men are on his track already. "Thou know'st I am neutral in this war, John Blake," answered the farmer,--"although I have a boy down yonder in the camp. It was a cowardly thing to do, and I hate you Tories that you do not fight like men; yet, since you ask me for a hiding-place, you shall have it, though, mind you, 'tis more on the girl's account than yours. The men are coming. Out--this way--to the spring-house. So!" Before old Michael has time to return to his chair the door is again thrust open, this time by men in blue and buff. They demand the assassin, whose footsteps they have tracked there through the snow. Michael does not answer. They are about to use violence when, through the open door, comes Washington, who checks them with a word. The general bears a drooping form with a blood splash on its breast, and deposits it on the hearth as gently as a mother puts a babe into its cradle. As the firelight falls on the still face the farmer's eyes grow round and big; then he shrieks and drops upon his knees, for it is his son who is lying there. Beside him is a pistol; it was dropped by the Tory when he entered. Grasping it eagerly the farmer leaps to his feet. His years have fallen from him. With a tiger-like bound he gains the door, rushes to the spring-house where John Blake is crouching, his eyes sunk and shining, gnawing his fingers in a craze of dismay. But though hate is swift, love is swifter, and the girl is there as soon as he. She strikes his arm aside, and the bullet he has fired lodges in the wood. He draws out his knife, and the murderer, to whom has now come the calmness of despair, kneels and offers his breast to the blade. Before he can strike, the soldiers hasten up, and seizing Blake, they drag him to the house--the little room--where all had been so peaceful but a few minutes before. The culprit is brought face to face with Washington, who asks him what harm he has ever suffered from his fellow countrymen that he should turn against them thus. Blake hangs his head and owns his willingness to die. His eyes rest on the form extended on the floor, and he shudders; but his features undergo an almost joyous change, for the figure lifts itself, and in a faint voice calls, "Father!" The young man lives. With a cry of delight both father and sister raise him in their arms. "You are not yet prepared to die," says Washington to the captive. "I will put you under guard until you are wanted. Take him into custody, my dear young lady, and try to make an American of him. See, it is one o'clock, and this is Christmas morning. May all be happy here. Come." And beckoning to his men he rides away, though Blake and his affianced would have gone on their knees before him. Revulsion of feeling, love, thankfulness and a latent patriotism wrought a quick change in Blake. When young Kuch recovered Blake joined his regiment, and no soldier served the flag more honorably. LORD PERCY'S DREAM Leaving the dissipations of the English court, Lord Percy came to America to share the fortunes of his brethren in the contest then raging on our soil. His father had charged him with the delivery of a certain package to an Indian woman, should he meet her in his rambles through the western wilds, and, without inquiring into the nature of the gift or its occasion, he accepted the trust. At the battle of the Brandywine--strangely foretold by Quaker prophecy forty years before--he was detailed by Cornwallis to drive the colonial troops out of a graveyard where they had intrenched themselves, and though he set upon this errand with the enthusiasm of youth, his cheek paled as he drew near the spot where the enemy was waiting. It was not that he had actual physical fear of the onset: he had dreamed a dream a few nights before, the purport of which he had hinted to his comrades, and as he rode into the clearing at the top of Osborn's Hill he drew rein and exclaimed, "My dream! Yonder is the graveyard. I am fated to die there." Giving a few of his effects to his brother officers, and charging one of them to take a message of love to his betrothed in England, he set his lips and rode forward. His cavalry bound toward the scene of action and are within thirty paces of the cemetery wall, when from behind it rises a battalion of men in the green uniform of the Santee Rangers and pours a withering fire into the ranks. The shock is too great to withstand, and the red-coats stagger away with broken ranks, leaving many dead and wounded on the ground. Lord Percy is the coolest of all. He urges the broken columns forward, and almost alone holds the place until the infantry, a hundred yards behind, come up. Thereupon ensues one of those hand-to-hand encounters that are so rare in recent war, and that are the sorest test of valor and discipline. Now rides forward Captain Waldemar, chief of the rangers and a half-breed Indian, who, seeing Percy, recognizes him as an officer and engages him in combat. There is for a minute a clash of steel on steel; then the nobleman falls heavily to the earth--dead. His dream has come true. That night the captain Waldemar seeks out the body of this officer, attracted by something in the memory of his look, and from his bosom takes the packet that was committed to his care. By lantern-light he reads, carelessly at first, then rapidly and eagerly, and at the close he looks long and earnestly at the dead man, and seems to brush away a tear. Strange thing to do over the body of an enemy! Why had fate decreed that they should be enemies? For Waldemar is the half-brother of Percy. His mother was the Indian girl that the earl, now passing his last days in England, had deceived with a pretended marriage, and the letters promise patronage to her son. The half-breed digs a grave that night with his own hands and lays the form of his brother in it. SAVED BY THE BIBLE It was on the day after the battle of Germantown that Warner, who wore the blue, met his hated neighbor, the Tory Dabney, near that bloody field. By a common impulse the men fell upon each other with their knives, and Warner soon had his enemy in a position to give him the death-stroke, but Dabney began to bellow for quarter. "My brother cried for quarter at Paoli," answered the other, "and you struck him to the heart." "I have a wife and child. Spare me for their sakes." "My brother had a wife and two children. Perhaps you would like to beg your life of them." Though made in mockery, this proposition was caught at so earnestly that Warner at length consented to take his adversary, firmly bound, to the house where the bereaved family was living. The widow was reading the Bible to her children, but her grief was too fresh to gather comfort from it. When Dabney was flung into the room he grovelled at her feet and begged piteously for mercy. Her face did not soften, but there was a kind of contempt in the settled sadness of her tone as she said, "It shall be as God directs. I will close this Bible, open it at chance, and when this boy shall put his finger at random on a line, by that you must live or die." The book was opened, and the child put his finger on a line: "That man shall die." Warner drew his knife and motioned his prisoner to the door. He was going to lead him into the wood to offer him as a sacrifice to his brother's spirit. "No, no!" shrieked the wretch. "Give me one more chance; one more! Let the girl open the book." The woman coldly consents, and when the book is opened for the second time she reads, "Love your enemies." There are no other words. The knife is used, but it is to cut the prisoner's bonds, and he walks away with head hung down, never more to take arms against his countrymen. And glad are they all at this, when the husband is brought home--not dead, though left among the corpses at Paoli, but alive and certain of recovery, with such nursing as his wife will give him. After tears of joy have been shed she tells him the story of the Bible judgment, and all the members of the family fall on their knees in thanksgiving that the blood of Dabney is not upon their heads. PARRICIDE OF THE WISSAHICKON Farmer Derwent and his four stout sons set off on an autumn night for the meeting of patriots at a house on the Wissahickon,--a meeting that bodes no good to the British encamped in Philadelphia, let the red-coats laugh as they will at the rag-tag and bob-tail that are joining the army of Mr. Washington in the wilds of the Skippack. The farmer sighs as he thinks that his younger son alone should be missing from the company, and wonders for the thousandth time what has become of the boy. They sit by a rock that juts into the road to trim their lantern, and while they talk together they are startled by an exclamation. It is from Ellen, the adopted daughter of Derwent and the betrothed of his missing son. On the night that the boy stole away from his father's house he asked her to meet him in this place in a year's time, and the year is up to-night. But it is not to meet him that she is hastening now: she has heard that the British have learned of the patriot gathering and will try to make prisoners of the company. Even as she tells of this there is a sound to the southward: the column is on the march. The farmer's eye blazes with rage and hate. "Boys," he says, "yonder come those who intend to kill us. Let them taste of their own warfare. Stand here in the shadow and fire as they pass this rock." The troopers ride on, chuckling over their sure success, when there is a report of rifles and four of the red-coats are in the dust. The survivors, though taken by surprise, prove their courage by halting to answer the volley, and one of them springs from his saddle, seizes Derwent, and plunges a knife into his throat. The rebel falls. His blood pools around him. The British are successful, for two of the young men are bound and two of them have fallen, and there is a cheer of victory, but the trooper with the knife in his hand does not raise his voice. He bends above the farmer as still as one dead, until his captain claps him on the shoulder. As he rises, the prisoners start in wonder, for the face they see in the lantern-light is that of their brother, yet strange in its haggardness and its smear of blood on the cheek. The girl runs from her hiding-place with a cry, but stands in horror when her foot touches the gory pool in the road. The trooper opens his coat and offers her a locket. It contains her picture, and he has worn it above his heart for a year, but she lets it fall and sinks down, moaning. The soldier tears off his red coat, tramples it in the dust, then vaulting to his saddle he plunges into the river, fords it, and crashes through the underbrush on the other side. In a few minutes he has reached the summit of a rock that rises nearly a hundred feet above the stream. The horse halts at the edge, but on a fierce stab of the spur into his flank he takes the leap. With a despairing yell the traitor and parricide goes into eternity. THE BLACKSMITH AT BRANDYWINE Terrible in the field at Brandywine was the figure of a man armed only with a hammer, who plunged into the ranks of the enemy, heedless of his own life, yet seeming to escape their shots and sabre cuts by magic, and with Thor strokes beat them to the earth. But yesterday war had been to him a distant rumor, a thing as far from his cottage at Dilworth as if it had been in Europe, but he had revolted at a plot that he had overheard to capture Washington and had warned the general. In revenge the Tories had burned his cottage, and his wife and baby had perished in the flames. All day he had sat beside the smoking ruins, unable to weep, unable to think, unable almost to suffer, except dumbly, for as yet he could not understand it. But when the drums were heard they roused the tiger in him, and gaunt with sleeplessness and hunger he joined his countrymen and ranged like Ajax on the field. Every cry for quarter was in vain: to every such appeal he had but one reply, his wife's name--Mary. Near the end of the fight he lay beside the road, his leg broken, his flesh torn, his life ebbing from a dozen wounds. A wagoner, hasting to join the American retreat, paused to give him drink. "I've only five minutes more of life in me," said the smith. "Can you lift me into that tree and put a rifle in my hands?" The powerful teamster raised him to the crotch of an oak, and gave him the rifle and ammunition that a dying soldier had dropped there. A band of red-coats came running down the road, chasing some farmers. The blacksmith took careful aim; there was a report, and the leader of the band fell dead. A pause; again a report rang out, and a trooper sprawled upon the ground. The marksman had been seen, and a lieutenant was urging his men to hurry on and cut him down. There was a third report, and the lieutenant reeled forward into the road, bleeding and cursing. "That's for Mary," gasped the blacksmith. The rifle dropped from his hands, and he, too, sank lifeless against the boughs. FATHER AND SON It was three soldiers, escaping from the rout of Braddock's forces, who caught the alleged betrayer of their general and put him to the death. They threw his purse of ill-gotten louis d'or into the river, and sent him swinging from the edge of a ravine, with a vine about his neck and a placard on his breast. And so they left him. Twenty years pass, and the war-fires burn more fiercely in the vales of Pennsylvania, but, too old to fight, the schoolmaster sits at his door near Chad's Ford and smokes and broods upon the past. He thinks of the time when he marched with Washington, when with two wounded comrades he returned along the lonely trail; then comes the vision of a blackening face, and he rises and wipes his brow. "It was right," he mutters. "He sent a thousand of his brothers to their deaths." Gilbert Gates comes that evening to see the old man's daughter: a smooth, polite young fellow, but Mayland cannot like him, and after some short talk he leaves him, pleading years and rheumatism, and goes to bed. But not to sleep; for toward ten o'clock his daughter goes to him and urges him to fly, for men are gathering near the house--Tories, she is sure,--and they mean no good. Laughing at her fears, but willing to relieve her anxiety, the old man slips into his clothes, goes into the cellar, and thence starts for the barn, while the girl remains for a few minutes to hide the silver. He does not go far before Gates is at his elbow with the whispered words, "Into the stack-quick. They are after you." Mayland hesitates with distrust, but the appearance of men with torches leaves no time for talk. With Gilbert's help he crawls deep into the straw and is covered up. Presently a rough voice asks which way he has gone. Gilbert replies that he has gone to the wood, but there is no need for getting into a passion, and that on no account would it be advisable to fire the stack. "Won't we though?" cries one of the party. "We'll burn the rebel out of house and home," and thrusting his torch into the straw it is ablaze in an instant. The crowd hurries away toward the wood, and does not hear the stifled groan that comes out of the middle of the fire. Gates takes a paper from his pocket, and, after reading it for the last time, flings it upon the flame. It bears the inscription, "Isaac Gates, Traitor and Spy, hung by three soldiers of his majesty's army. Isaac Mayland." From his moody contemplation he rouses with a start, for Mayland's daughter is there. Her eyes are bent on a distorted thing that lies among the embers, and in the dying light of the flames it seems to move. She studies it close, then with a cry of pain and terror she falls upon the hot earth, and her senses go out, not to be regained in woful years. With head low bowed, Gilbert Gates trudges away. In the fight at Brandywine next day, Black Samson, a giant negro, armed with a scythe, sweeps his way through the red ranks like a sable figure of Time. Mayland had taught him; his daughter had given him food. It is to avenge them that he is fighting. In the height of the conflict he enters the American ranks leading a prisoner--Gilbert Gates. The young man is pale, stern, and silent. His deed is known, he is a spy as well as a traitor, but he asks no mercy. It is rumored that next day he alone, of the prisoners, was led to a wood and lashed by arms and legs to a couple of hickory trees that had been bent by a prodigious effort and tied together by their tops. The lashing was cut by a rifle-ball, the trees regained their straight position with a snap like whips, and that was the way Gilbert Gates came to his end. THE ENVY OF MANITOU Behind the mountains that gloom about the romantic village of Mauch Chunk, Pennsylvania, was once a lake of clear, bright water, its winding loops and bays extending back for several miles. On one of its prettiest bits of shore stood a village of the Leni Lenape, and largest of its wigwams, most richly pictured without, most luxurious in its couching of furs within, was that of the young chief, Onoko. This Indian was a man of great size, strength, and daring. Single-handed he had slain the bear on Mauch Chunk [Bear Mountain], and it was no wonder that Wenonah, the fairest of her tribe, was flattered when he sued for her hand, and promptly consented to be his wife. It was Onoko's fortune in war, the chase, and love that roused the envy of Mitche Manitou. One day, as the couple were floating in their shallop of bark on the calm lake, idly enjoying the sunshine and saying pretty things to each other, the Manitou arose among the mountains. Terrible was his aspect, for the scowl of hatred was on his face, thunder crashed about his head, and fire snapped from his eyes. Covering his right hand with his invincible magic mitten, he dealt a blow on the hills that made the earth shake, and rived them to a depth of a thousand feet. Through the chasm thus created the lake poured a foaming deluge, and borne with it was the canoe of Onoko and Wenonah. One glance at the wrathful face in the clouds above them and they knew that escape was hopeless, so, clasping each other in a close embrace, they were whirled away to death. Manitou strode away moodily among the hills, and ever since that time the Lehigh has rolled through the chasm that he made. The memory of Onoko is preserved in the name of a glen and cascade a short distance above Mauch Chunk. It is not well to be too happy in this world. It rouses the envy of the gods. THE LAST REVEL IN PRINTZ HALL "Young man, I'll give thee five dollars a week to be care-taker in Printz Hall," said Quaker Quidd to fiddler Matthews, on an autumn evening. Young Matthews had just been taunting the old gentleman with being afraid to sleep on his own domain, and as the eyes of all the tavern loungers were on him he could hardly decline so flattering a proposition, so, after some hemming and hawing, he said he would take the Quaker at his word. He played but two or three more tunes that evening, did Peter Matthews, and played them rather sadly; then, as Quidd had finished his mulled cider and departed, he took his homeward way in thoughtful mood. Printz Hall stood in a lonely, weed-grown garden near Chester, Pennsylvania, and thither repaired Peter, as next day's twilight shut down, with a mattress, blanket, comestibles, his beloved fiddle, and a flask of whiskey. Ensconcing himself in the room that was least depressing in appearance he stuffed rags into the vacant panes, lighted a candle, started a blaze in the fireplace, and ate his supper. "Not so bad a place, after all," mumbled Peter, as he warmed himself at the fire and the flask; then, taking out his violin, he began to play. The echo of his music emphasized the emptiness of the house, the damp got into the strings so that they sounded tubby, and there were unintentional quavers in the melody whenever the trees swung against the windows and splashed them with rain, or when a distant shutter fell a-creaking. Finally, he stirred the fire, bolted the door, snuffed his candle, took a courageous pull at the liquor, flung off his coat and shoes, rolled his blanket around him, stretched himself on the mattress, and fell asleep. He was awakened by--well, he could not say what, exactly, only he became suddenly as wide awake as ever he had been in his life, and listened for some sound that he knew was going to come out of the roar of the wind and the slamming, grating, and whistling about the house. Yes, there it was: a tread and a clank on the stair. The door, so tightly bolted, flew open, and there entered a dark figure with steeple-crowned hat, cloak, jack-boots, sword, and corselet. The terrified fiddler wanted to howl, but his voice was gone. "I am Peter Printz, governor-general of his Swedish Majesty's American colonies, and builder of this house," said the figure. "'Tis the night of the autumnal equinox, when my friends meet here for revel. Take thy fiddle and come. Play, but speak not." And whether he wished or no, Peter was drawn to follow the figure, which he could make out by the phosphor gleam of it. Down-stairs they went, doors swinging open before them, and along corridors that clanged to the stroke of the spectre's boot heels. Now they came to the ancient reception-room, and as they entered it Peter was dazzled. The floor was smooth with wax, logs snapped in the fireplace, though the flame was somewhat blue, the old hangings and portraits looked fresh, and in the light of wax candles a hundred people, in the brave array of old times, walked, courtesied, and seemed to laugh and talk together. As the fiddler appeared, every eye was turned on him in a disquieting way, and when he addressed himself to his bottle, from every throat came a hollow laugh. Finding his way to a chair he sank into it and put his instrument in position. At the first note the couples took hands, and as he struck into a jig they began to circle swiftly, leaping wondrous high. Faster went the music, for the whiskey was at work in Peter's noddle, and wilder grew the dance. It was as if the storm had come in through the windows and was blowing these people hither and yon, around and around. The fiddler vaguely wondered at himself, for he had never played so well, though he had never heard the tune before. Now loomed Governor Printz in the middle of the room, and extending his hand he ordered the dance to cease. "Thou bast played well, fiddler," he said, "and shalt be paid." Then, at his signal, came two negro men tugging at a strong box that Printz unlocked. It was filled with gold pieces. "Hold thy fiddle bag," commanded the governor, and Peter did so, watching, open mouthed, the transfer of a double handful of treasure from box to sack. Another such handful followed, and another. At the fourth Peter could no longer contain himself. He forgot the injunction not to speak, and shouted gleefully, "Lord Harry! Here's luck!" There was a shriek of demon laughter, the scene was lost in darkness, and Peter fell insensible. In the morning a tavern-haunting friend, anxious to know if Peter had met with any adventure, entered the house and went cautiously from room to room, calling on the watcher to show himself. There was no response. At last he stumbled on the whiskey bottle, empty, and knew that Peter must be near. Sure enough, there he lay in the great room, with dust and mould thick on everything, and his fiddle smashed into a thousand pieces. Peter on being awakened looked ruefully about him, then sprang up and eagerly demanded his money. "What money?" asked his friend. The fiddler clutched at his green bag, opened it, shook it; there was nothing. Nor was there any delay in Peter's exit from that mansion, and when, twenty-four hours after, the house went up in flames, he averred that the ghosts had set it afire, and that he knew where they brought their coals from. THE TWO RINGS Gabrielle de St. Pierre, daughter of the commandant of Fort Le Boeuf, now--Waterford, Pennsylvania, that the French had setup on the Ohio River, was Parisian by birth and training, but American by choice, for she had enjoyed on this lonesome frontier a freedom equal to that of the big-handed, red-faced half-breeds, and she was as wild as an Indian in her sports. Returning from a hunt, one day, she saw three men advancing along the trail, and, as it was easy to see that they were not Frenchmen, her guide slipped an arrow to the cord and discharged it; but Gabrielle was as quick as he, for she struck the missile as it was leaving the bow and it quivered harmlessly into a beech. The younger of the men who were advancing--he was Harry Fairfax, of Virginia--said to his chief, "Another escape for you, George. Heaven sent one of its angels to avert that stroke." Washington, for it was he, answered lightly, and, as no other hostile demonstrations were made, the new-comers pressed on to the fort, where St. Pierre received them cordially, though he knew that their errand was to claim his land on behalf of the English and urge the French to retire to the southwest. The days that were spent in futile negotiation passed all too swiftly for Fairfax, for he had fallen in love with Gabrielle. She would not consent to a betrothal until time had tried his affection, but as a token of friendship she gave him a stone circlet of Indian manufacture, and received in exchange a ring that had been worn by the mother of Fairfax. After the diplomats had returned the English resolved to enforce their demand with arms, and Fairfax was one of the first to be despatched to the front. Early in the campaign his company engaged the enemy near the Ohio River, and in the heat of battle he had time to note and wonder at the strange conduct of one of the French officers, a mere stripling, who seemed more concerned to check the fire of his men than to secure any advantage in the fight. Presently the French gave way, and with a cheer the English ran forward to claim the field, the ruder spirits among them at once beginning to plunder the wounded. A cry for quarter drew Fairfax with a bound to the place whence it came, and, dashing aside a pilfering soldier, he bent above a slight form that lay extended on the earth: the young officer whose strange conduct had so surprised him. In another moment he recognized his mother's ring on one of the slender hands. It was Gabrielle. Her father had perished in the fight, but she had saved her lover. In due time she went with her affianced to his home in Williamsburg, Virginia, and became mistress of the Fairfax mansion. But she never liked the English, as a people, and when, in later years, two sturdy sons of hers asked leave to join the Continental army, she readily consented. FLAME SCALPS OF THE CHARTIERS Before Pittsburg had become worthy to be called a settlement, a white man rowed his boat to the mouth of Chartiers creek, near that present city. He was seeking a place in which to make his home, and a little way up-stream, where were timber, water, and a southern slope, he marked a "tomahawk claim," and set about clearing the land. Next year his wife, two children, and his brother came to occupy the cabin he had built, and for a long time all went happily, but on returning from a long hunt the brothers found the little house in ashes and the charred remains of its occupants in the ruins. Though nearly crazed by this catastrophe they knew that their own lives were in hourly peril, and they wished to live until they could punish the savages for this crime. After burying the bodies, they started east across the hills, leaving a letter on birch bark in a cleft stick at the mouth of Chartiers creek, in which the tragedy was recounted. This letter was afterward found by trappers. The men themselves were never heard from, and it is believed that they, too, fell at the hands of the Indians. Old settlers used to affirm that on summer nights the cries of the murdered innocents could be heard in the little valley where the cabin stood, and when storms were coming up these cries were often blended with the yells of savages. More impressive are the death lights--the will-o'-the-wisps--that wander over the scene of the tragedy, and up and down the neighboring slopes. These apparitions are said to be the spirits of husband and wife seeking each other, or going together in search of their children; but some declare that in their upward streaming rays it can readily be seen that they are the scalps of the slain. Two of them have a golden hue, and these are the scalps of the children. From beneath them drops of red seem to distil on the grass and are found to have bedewed the flowers on the following morning. THE CONSECRATION OF WASHINGTON In 1773 some of the Pietist monks were still living in their rude monastery whose ruins are visible on the banks of the Wissahickon. Chief among these mystics was an old man who might have enjoyed the wealth and distinction warranted by a title had he chosen to remain in Germany, but he had forsworn vanities, and had come to the new world to pray, to rear his children, and to live a simple life. Some said he was an alchemist, and many believed him to be a prophet. The infrequent wanderer beside the romantic river had seen lights burning in the window of his cell and had heard the solemn sound of song and prayer. On a winter night, when snow lay untrodden about the building and a sharp air stirred in the trees with a sound like harps, the old man sat in a large room of the place, with his son and daughter, waiting. For a prophecy had run that on that night, at the third hour of morning, the Deliverer would present himself. In a dream was heard a voice, saying, "I will send a deliverer to the new world who shall save my people from bondage, as my Son saved them from spiritual death." The night wore on in prayer and meditation, and the hours tolled heavily across the frozen wilderness, but, at the stroke of three, steps were heard in the snow and the door swung open. The man who entered was of great stature, with a calm, strong face, a powerful frame, and a manner of dignity and grace. "Friends, I have lost my way," said he. "Can you direct me?" The old man started up in a kind of rapture. "You have not lost your way," he cried, "but found it. You are called to a great mission. Kneel at this altar and receive it." The stranger looked at the man in surprise and a doubt passed over his face. "Nay, I am not mad," urged the recluse, with a slight smile. "Listen: to-night, disturbed for the future of your country, and unable to sleep, you mounted horse and rode into the night air to think on the question that cannot be kept out of your mind, Is it lawful for the subject to draw sword against his king? The horse wandered, you knew and cared not whither, until he brought you here." "How do you know this?" asked the stranger, in amazement. "Be not surprised, but kneel while I anoint thee deliverer of this land." Moved and impressed, the man bowed his knee before one of his fellows for the first time in his life. The monk touched his finger with oil, and laying it on the brow of the stranger said, "Do you promise, when the hour shall strike, to take the sword in defence of your country? Do you promise, when you shall see your soldiers suffer for bread and fire, and when the people you have led to victory shall bow before you, to remember that you are but the minister of God in the work of a nation's freedom?" With a new light burning in his eyes, the stranger bent his head. "Then, in His name, I consecrate thee deliverer of this oppressed people. When the time comes, go forth to victory, for, as you are faithful, be sure that God will grant it. Wear no crown, but the blessings and honor of a free people, save this." As he finished, his daughter, a girl of seventeen, came forward and put a wreath of laurel on the brow of the kneeling man. "Rise," continued the prophet, "and take my hand, which I have never before offered to any man, and accept my promise to be faithful to you and to this country, even if it cost my life." As he arose, the son of the priest stepped to him and girt a sword upon his hip, and the old man held up his hands in solemn benediction. The stranger laid his hand on the book that stood open on the altar and kissed the hilt of his sword. "I will keep the faith," said he. At dawn he went his way again, and no one knew his name, but when the fires of battle lighted the western world America looked to him for its deliverance from tyranny. Years later it was this spot that he revisited, alone, to pray, and here Sir William Howe offered to him, in the name of his king, the title of regent of America. He took the parchment and ground it into a rag in the earth at his feet. For this was Washington. MARION Blooming and maidenly, though she dressed in leather and used a rifle like a man, was Marion, grand-daughter of old Abraham, who counted his years as ninety, and who for many of those years had lived with his books in the tidy cabin where the Youghiogheny and Monongahela come together. This place stood near the trail along which Braddock marched to his defeat, and it was one of the stragglers from this command, a bony half-breed with red hair, called Red Wolf, that knocked at the door and asked for water. Seeing no one but Marion he ventured in, and would have tried not only to make free with the contents of the little house but would have kissed the girl as well, only that she seized her rifle and held him at bay. Still, the fellow would have braved a shot, had not a young officer in a silver-laced uniform glanced through the open door in passing and discovered the situation. He doffed his chapeau to Marion, then said sternly to the rogue, "Retire. Your men are waiting for you." Red Wolf slunk away, and Washington, for it was he, begged that he might rest for a little time under the roof. This request was gladly complied with, both by the girl and by her grandfather, who presently appeared, and the fever that threatened the young soldier was averted by a day of careful nursing. Marion's innate refinement, her gentleness, her vivacity, could not fail to interest Washington, and the vision of her face was with him for many a day. He promised to return, then he rode forward and caught up with the troops. He survived the battle in which seven hundred of his comrades were shot or tomahawked and scalped. One Indian fired at him eleven times, and five of the bullets scratched him; after that the savage forbore, believing that the officer was under Manitou's protection. When the retreating column approached the place where Marion lived he hastened on in advance to see her. The cabin was in ashes. He called, but there was no answer. When he turned away, with sad and thoughtful mien, a brown tress was wrapped around his finger, and in his cabinet he kept it until his death, folded in a paper marked "Marion, July 11, 1755." 
6610	----	MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND By Charles M. Skinner Vol. 5. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH CONTENTS: The Swim at Indian Head The Moaning Sisters A Ride for a Bride Spooks of the Hiawassee Lake of the Dismal Swamp The Barge of Defeat Natural Bridge The Silence Broken Siren of the French Broad The Hunter of Calawassee Revenge of the Accabee Toccoa Falls Two Lives for One A Ghostly Avenger The Wraith Ringer of Atlanta The Swallowing Earthquake The Last Stand of the Biloxi The Sacred Fire of Natchez Pass Christian The Under Land LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH THE SWIM AT INDIAN HEAD At Indian Head, Maryland, are the government proving-grounds, where the racket of great guns and splintering of targets are a deterrent to the miscellaneous visitations of picnics. Trouble has been frequently associated with this neighborhood, as it is now suggested in the noisy symbolry of war. In prehistoric days it was the site of an aboriginal town, whose denizens were like other Indians in their love for fight and their willingness to shed blood. Great was the joy of all these citizens when a scouting party came in, one day, bringing with them the daughter of one of their toughest old hunters and a young buck, from another faction, who had come a-courting; her in the neighboring shades. Capture meant death, usually, and he knew it, but he held himself proudly and refused to ask for mercy. It was resolved that he should die. The father's scorn for his daughter, that she should thus consort with an enemy, was so great that he was on the point of offering her as a joint sacrifice with her lover, when she fell on her knees before him and began a fervent appeal, not for herself, but for the prisoner. She would do anything to prove her strength, her duty, her obedience, if they would set him free. He had done injury to none. What justice lay in putting him to the torture? Half in earnest, half in humor, the chief answered, "Suppose we were to set him on the farther shore of the Potomac, do you love him well enough to swim to him?" "I do." "The river is wide and deep." "I would drown in it rather than that harm should come to him." The old chief ordered the captive, still bound, to be taken to a point on the Virginia shore, full two miles away, in one of their canoes, and when the boat was on the water he gave the word to the girl, who instantly plunged in and followed it. The chief and the father embarked in another birch--ostensibly to see that the task was honestly fulfilled; really, perhaps, to see that the damsel did not drown. It was a long course, but the maid was not as many of our city misses are, and she reached the bank, tired, but happy, for she had saved her lover and gained him for a husband. THE MOANING SISTERS Above Georgetown, on the Potomac River, are three rocks, known as the Three Sisters, not merely because of their resemblance to each other--for they are parts of a submerged reef--but because of a tradition that, more than a hundred years ago, a boat in which three sisters had gone out for a row was swung against one of these rocks. The day was gusty and the boat was upset. All three of the girls were drowned. Either the sisters remain about this perilous spot or the rocks have prescience; at least, those who live near them on the shore hold one view or the other, for they declare that before every death on the river the sisters moan, the sound being heard above the lapping of the waves. It is different from any other sound in nature. Besides, it is an unquestioned fact that more accidents happen here than at any other point on the river. Many are the upsets that have occurred and many are the swimmers who have gone down, the dark forms of the sisters being the last shapes that their water-blurred eyes have seen. It is only before a human life is to be yielded that this low wailing comes from the rocks, and when, on a night in May, 1889, the sound floated shoreward, just as the clock in Georgetown struck twelve, good people who were awake sighed and uttered a prayer for the one whose doom was so near at hand. Twelve hours later, at noon, a shell came speeding down the Potomac, with a young athlete jauntily pulling at the oars. As he neared the Three Sisters his boat appeared to be caught in an eddy; it swerved suddenly, as if struck; then it upset and the rower sank to his death. A RIDE FOR A BRIDE When the story of bloodshed at Bunker Hill reached Bohemia Hall, in Cecil County, Maryland, Albert De Courcy left his brother Ernest to support the dignity of the house and make patriotic speeches, while he went to the front, conscious that Helen Carmichael, his affianced wife, was watching, in pride and sadness, the departure of his company. Letters came and went, as they always do, until rumor came of a sore defeat to the colonials at Long Island; then the letters ceased. It was a year later when a ragged soldier, who had stopped at the hall for supper, told of Albert's heroism in covering the retreat of Washington. The gallant young officer had been shot, he said, as he attempted to swim the morasses of Gowanus. But this soldier was in error. Albert had been vexatiously bogged on the edge of the creek. While floundering in the mud a half dozen sturdy red-coats had lugged him out and he was packed off to the prison-ships anchored in the Wallabout. In these dread hulks, amid darkness and miasma, living on scant, unwholesome food, compelled to see his comrades die by dozens every day and their bodies flung ashore where the tide lapped away the sand thrown over them, De Courcy wished that death instead of capture had been his lot, for next to his love he prized his liberty. One day he was told off, with a handful of others, for transfer to a stockade on the Delaware, and how his heart beat when he learned that the new prison was within twenty miles of home! His flow of spirits returned, and his new jailers liked him for his frankness and laughed at his honest expletives against the king. He had the liberty of the enclosure, and was not long in finding where the wall was low, the ditch narrow, and the abatis decayed--knowledge that came useful to him sooner than he expected, for one day a captured horse was led in that made straight for him with a whinny and rubbed his nose against his breast. "Why!" he cried,--"it's Cecil! My horse, gentlemen--or, was. Not a better hunter in Maryland!" "Yes," answered one of the officers. "We've just taken him from your brother. He's been stirring trouble with his speeches and has got to be quieted. But we'll have him to-day, for he's to be married, and a scouting party is on the road to nab him at the altar." "Married! My brother! What! Ernest, the lawyer, the orator? Ho, ho! Ah, but it's rather hard to break off a match in that style!" "Hard for him, maybe; but they say the lady feels no great love for him. He made it seem like a duty to her, after her lover died." "How's that? Her own--what's her name?" "Helen--Helen Carmichael, or something like that." Field and sky swam before De Courcy's eyes for a moment; then he resumed, in a calm voice, and with a pale, set face, "Well, you're making an unhappy wedding-day for him. If he had Cecil here he would outride you all. Ah, when I was in practice I could ride this horse and snatch a pebble from the ground without losing pace!" "Could you do it now?" "I'm afraid long lodging in your prison-ships has stiffened my joints, but I'd venture at a handkerchief." "Then try," said the commandant. De Courcy mounted into the saddle heavily, crossed the grounds at a canter, and dropped a handkerchief on the grass. Then, taking a few turns for practice, he started at a gallop and swept around like the wind. His seat was so firm, his air so noble, his mastery of the steed so complete, that a cheer of admiration went up. He seemed to fall headlong from the saddle, but was up again in a moment, waving the handkerchief gayly in farewell--for he kept straight on toward the weak place in the wall. A couple of musket-balls hummed by his ears: it was neck or nothing now! A tremendous leap! Then a ringing cry told the astonished soldiers that he had reached the road in safety. Through wood and thicket and field he dashed as if the fiend were after him, and never once did he cease to urge his steed till he reached the turnpike, and saw ahead the scouting party on its way to arrest his brother. Turning into a path that led to the rear of the little church they were so dangerously near, he plied hands and heels afresh, and in a few moments a wedding party was startled by the apparition of a black horse, all in a foam, ridden by a gaunt man, in torn garments, that burst in at the open chancel-door. The bridegroom cowered, for he knew his brother. The bride gazed in amazement. "'Tis the dead come to life!" cried one. De Courcy had little time for words. He rode forward to the altar, swung Helen up behind him, and exclaimed, "Save yourselves! The British are coming! To horse, every one, and make for the manor!" There were shrieks and fainting--and perhaps a little cursing, even if it was in church,--and when the squadron rode up most of the company were in full flight. Ernest was taken, and next morning held his brother's place on the prison-list, while, as arrangements had been made for a wedding, there was one, and a happy one, but Albert was the bridegroom. SPOOKS OF THE HIAWASSEE The hills about the head of the Hiawassee are filled with "harnts," among them many animal ghosts, that ravage about the country from sheer viciousness. The people of the region, illiterate and superstitious, have unquestioning faith in them. They tell you about the headless bull and black dog of the valley of the Chatata, the white stag of the Sequahatchie, and the bleeding horse of the Great Smoky Mountains--the last three being portents of illness, death, or misfortune to those who see them. Other ghosts are those of men. Near the upper Hiawassee is a cave where a pile of human skulls was found by a man who had put up his cabin near the entrance. For some reason, which he says he never understood, this farmer gathered up the old, bleached bones and dumped them into his shed. Quite possibly he did not dare to confess that he wanted them for fertilizers or to burn them for his poultry. Night fell dark and still, with a waning moon rising over the mountains--as calm a night as ever one slept through. Along toward the middle of it a sound like the coming of a cyclone brought the farmer out of his bed. He ran to the window to see if the house were to be uprooted, but the forest was still, with a strange, oppressive stillness--not a twig moving, not a cloud veiling the stars, not an insect chirping. Filled with a vague fear, he tried to waken his wife, but she was like one in a state of catalepsy. Again the sound was heard, and now he saw, without, a shadowy band circling about his house like leaves whirled on the wind. It seemed to be made of human shapes, with tossing arms--this circling band--and the sound was that of many voices, each faint and hollow, by itself, but loud in aggregate. He who was watching realized then that the wraiths of the dead whose skulls he had purloined from their place of sepulture were out in lament and protest. He went on his knees at once and prayed with vigor until morning. As soon as it was light enough to see his way he replaced the skulls, and was not troubled by the "haunts" again. All the gold in America, said he, would not tempt him to remove any more bones from the cave-tombs of the unknown dead. LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP Drummond's Pond, or the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, is a dark and lonely tarn that lies in the centre of this noted Virginia morass. It is, in a century-old tradition, the Styx of two unhappy ghosts that await the end of time to pass its confines and enjoy the sunshine of serener worlds. A young woman of a family that had settled near this marsh died of a fever caused by its malarial exhalations, and was buried near the swamp. The young man to whom she was betrothed felt her loss so keenly that for days he neither ate nor slept, and at last broke down in mind and body. He recovered a measure of physical health, after a time, but his reason was hopelessly lost. It was his hallucination that the girl was not dead, but had been exiled to the lonely reaches of this watery wilderness. He was heard to mutter, "I'll find her, and when Death comes I'll hide her in the hollow of a cypress until he passes on." Evading restraint, he plunged into the fen, and for some days he wandered there, eating berries, sleeping on tussocks of grass, with water-snakes crawling over him and poisonous plants shedding their baneful dew on his flesh. He came to the lake at last. A will-o'the-wisp played along the surface. "'Tis she!" he cried. "I see her, standing in the light." Hastily fashioning a raft of cypress boughs he floated it and pushed toward the centre of the pond, but the eagerness of his efforts and the rising of a wind dismembered the frail platform, and he fell into the black water to rise no more. But often, in the night, is seen the wraith of a canoe, with a fire-fly lamp burning on its prow, restlessly urged to and fro by two figures that seem to be vainly searching for an exit from the place, and that are believed to be those of the maiden and her lover. THE BARGE OF DEFEAT Rappannock River, in Virginia, used to be vexed with shadowy craft that some of the populace affirmed to be no boats, but spirits in disguise. One of these apparitions was held in fear by the Democracy of Essex County, as it was believed to be a forerunner of Republican victory. The first recorded appearance of the vessel was shortly after the Civil War, on the night of a Democratic mass-meeting at Tappahannock. There were music, refreshments, and jollity, and it was in the middle of a rousing speech that a man in the crowd cried, "Look, fellows! What is that queer concern going down the river?" The people moved to the shore, and by the light of their torches a hulk was seen drifting with the stream--a hulk of fantastic form unlike anything that sails there in the daytime. As it came opposite the throng, the torchlight showed gigantic negroes who danced on deck, showing horrible faces to the multitude. Not a sound came from the barge, the halloos of the spectators bringing no response, and some boatmen ventured into the stream, only to pull back in a hurry, for the craft had become so strangely enveloped in shadow that it seemed to melt into air. Next day the Democracy was defeated at the polls, chiefly by the negro vote. In 1880 it reappeared, and, as before, the Republicans gained the day. Just before the election of 1886, Mr. Croxton, Democratic nominee for Congress, was haranguing the people, when the cry of "The Black Barge!" arose. Argument and derision were alike ineffectual with the populace. The meeting broke up in silence and gloom, and Mr. Croxton was defeated by a majority of two thousand. NATURAL BRIDGE Though several natural bridges are known in this country, there is but one that is famous the world over, and that is the one which spans Clear Creek, Virginia--the remnant of a cave-roof, all the rest of the cavern having collapsed. It is two hundred and fifteen feet above the water, and is a solid mass of rock forty feet thick, one hundred feet wide, and ninety feet in span. Thomas Jefferson owned it; George Washington scaled its side and carved his name on the rock a foot higher than any one else. Here, too, came the youth who wanted to cut his name above Washington's, and who found, to his horror, when half-way up, that he must keep on, for he had left no resting-places for his feet at safe and reachable distances--who, therefore, climbed on and on, cutting handhold and foothold in the limestone until he reached the top, in a fainting state, his knife-blade worn to a stump. Here, too, in another tunnel of the cavern, flows Lost River, that all must return to, at some time, if they drink of it. Here, beneath the arch, is the dark stain, so like a flying eagle that the French officer who saw it during the Revolution augured from it a success for the united arms of the nations that used the eagle as their symbol. The Mohegans knew this wonder of natural masonry, for to this point they were pursued by a hostile tribe, and on reaching the gulf found themselves on the edge of a precipice that was too steep at that point to descend. Behind them was the foe; before them, the chasm. At the suggestion of one of their medicine-men they joined in a prayer to the Great Spirit for deliverance, and when again they looked about them, there stood the bridge. Their women were hurried over; then, like so many Horatii, they formed across this dizzy highway and gave battle. Encouraged by the knowledge that they had a safe retreat in case of being overmastered, they fought with such heart that the enemy was defeated, and the grateful Mohegans named the place the Bridge of God. THE SILENCE BROKEN It was in 1734 that Joist Hite moved from Pennsylvania to Virginia, with his wife and boys, and helped to make a settlement on the Shenandoah twelve miles south of Woodstock. When picking berries at a distance from the village, one morning, the boys were surprised by Indians, who hurried with them into the wilderness before their friends could be apprised. Aaron, the elder, was strong, and big of frame, with coarse, black hair, and face tanned brown; but his brother was small and fair, with blue eyes and yellow locks, and it was doubtless because he was a type of the hated white race that the Indians spent their blows and kicks on him and spared the sturdy one. Aaron was wild with rage at the injuries put upon his gentle brother, but he was bound and helpless, and all that he could do was to encourage him to bear a stout heart and not to fall behind. But Peter was too delicate to keep up, and there came a day when he could go no farther. The red men consulted for a few moments, then all of them stood apart but one, who fitted an arrow to his bow. The child's eyes grew big with fear, and Aaron tore at his bonds, but uselessly, and shouted that he would take the victim's place, but no one understood his speech, and in another moment Peter lay dead on the earth, with an arrow in his heart. Aaron gave one cry of hate and despair, and he, too, sank unconscious. On coming to himself he found that he was in a hut of boughs, attended by an old Indian, who told him in rude English that he was recovering from an illness of several weeks' duration, and that it was the purpose of his tribe to adopt him. When the lad tried to protest he found to his amazement that he could not utter a sound, and he learned from the Indian that the fever had taken away his tongue. In the dulness and weakness of his state he submitted to be clothed in Indian dress, smeared with a juice that browned his skin, and greeted by his brother's slayers as one of themselves. When he looked into a pool he found that he had, to all intents, become an Indian. In time he became partly reconciled to this change, for he did not know and could not ask where the white settlements lay; his appearance and his inability to speak would prevent his recognition by his friends, the red men were not unkind to him, and every boy likes a free and out-door life. They taught him to shoot with bow and arrow, but they kept him back if a white settlement was to be plundered. Three years had elapsed, and Aaron, grown tall and strong, was a good hunter who stood in favor with the tribe. They had roamed back to the neighborhood of Woodstock, when, at a council, Aaron overheard a plot to fall on the village where his parents lived. He begged, by signs, to be allowed to go with them, and, believing that he could now be trusted, they offered no objection. Stoic as he had grown to be, he could not repress a tear as he saw his old home and thought of the peril that it stood in. If only he could give an alarm! The Indians retired into the forest to cook their food where the smoke could not be seen, while Aaron lingered at the edge of the wood and prayed for opportunity. He was not disappointed. Two girls came up through the perfumed dusk, driving cows from the pasture, and as they drew near, Aaron, pretending not to see them, crawled out of the bush with his weapons, and made a show of stealthily examining the town. The girls came almost upon him and screamed, while he dashed into the wood in affected surprise and regained the camp. The Indians had heard and seen nothing. The girls would surely give the alarm in town. One by one the lights of the village went out, and when it seemed locked in sleep the red marauders crept toward the nearest house--that of Joist Hite. They arose together and rushed upon it, but at that moment a gun was fired, an Indian fell, and in a few seconds more the settlers, whom the girls had not failed to put on their guard, were hurrying from their hiding-places, firing into the astonished crowd of savages, who dashed for the woods again, leaving a dozen of their number on the ground. Aaron remained quietly standing near his father's house, and he was captured, as he hoped to be. When he saw how his parents had aged with time and grief he could not repress a tear, but to his grief was added terror when his father, after looking him steadily in the eye without recognition, began to load a pistol. "They killed my boys," said he, "and I am going to kill him. Bind him to that tree." In vain the mother pleaded for mercy; in vain the dumb boy's eyes appealed to his father's. He was not afraid to die, and would do so gladly to have saved the settlement; but to die by his father's band! He could not endure it. He was bound to a tree, with the light of a fire shining into his face. The old man, with hard determination, raised the weapon and aimed it slowly at the boy's heart. A surge of feeling shook the frame of the captive--he threw his whole life into the effort--then the silence of three years was broken, and he cried, "Father!" A moment later his parents were sobbing joyfully, and he could speak to them once more. SIREN OF THE FRENCH BROAD Among the rocks east of Asheville, North Carolina, lives the Lorelei of the French Broad River. This stream--the Tselica of the Indians--contains in its upper reaches many pools where the rapid water whirls and deepens, and where the traveller likes to pause in the heats of afternoon and drink and bathe. Here, from the time when the Cherokees occupied the country, has lived the siren, and if one who is weary and downcast sits beside the stream or utters a wish to rest in it, he becomes conscious of a soft and exquisite music blending with the plash of the wave. Looking down in surprise he sees--at first faintly, then with distinctness--the form of a beautiful woman, with hair streaming like moss and dark eyes looking into his, luring him with a power he cannot resist. His breath grows short, his gaze is fixed, mechanically he rises, steps to the brink, and lurches forward into the river. The arms that catch him are slimy and cold as serpents; the face that stares into his is a grinning skull. A loud, chattering laugh rings through the wilderness, and all is still again. THE HUNTER OF CALAWASSEE Through brisk November days young Kedar and his trusty slave, Lauto, hunted along the Calawassee, with hope to get a shot at a buck--a buck that wore a single horn and that eluded them with easy, baffling gait whenever they met it in the fens. Kedar was piqued at this. He drained a deep draught and buttoned his coat with an air of resolution. "Now, by my soul," quoth he, "I'll have that buck to-day or die myself!" Then he laughed at the old slave, who begged him to unsay the oath, for there was something unusual about that animal--as it ran it left no tracks, and it passed through the densest wood without halting at trees or undergrowth. "Bah!" retorted the huntsman. "Have up the dogs. If that buck is the fiend himself, I'll have him before the day is out!" The twain were quickly in their saddles, and they had not been long in the wood before the one-horned buck was seen ahead, trotting with easy pace, yet with marvellous swiftness. Kedar, who was in advance, whipped up his horse and followed the deer into a cypress grove near the Chechesee. As the game halted at a pool he fired. The report sounded dead in the dense wood, and the deer turned calmly, watched his pursuer until he was close at hand, then trotted away again. All day long he held the chase. The dogs were nowhere within sound, and he galloped through the forest, shouting and swearing like a very devil, beating and spurring the horse until the poor creature's head and flanks were reddened with blood. It was just at sunset that Kedar found himself again on the bank of the Calawassee, near the point he had left in the morning, and heard once more the baying of his hounds. At last his prey seemed exhausted, and, swimming the river, it ran into a thicket on the opposite side and stood still. "Now I have him!" cried the hunter. "Hillio, Lauto! He's mine!" The old negro heard the call and hastened forward. He heard his master's horse floundering in the swamp that edged the river--then came a plash, a curse, and as the slave arrived at the margin a few bubbles floated on the sluggish current. The deer stood in the thicket, staring with eyes that blazed through the falling darkness, and, with a wail of fear and sorrow, old Lauto fled the spot. REVENGE OF THE ACCABEE The settlement made by Lord Cardross, near Beaufort, South Carolina, was beset by Spaniards and Indians, who laid it in ashes and slew every person in it but one. She, a child of thirteen, had supposed the young chief of the Accabees to be her father, as he passed in the smoke, and had thrown herself into his arms. The savage raised his axe to strike, but, catching her blue eye raised to his, more in grief and wonder than alarm, the menacing hand fell to his side, and, tossing the girl lightly to a seat on his shoulder, he strode off into the forest. Mile after mile he bore her, and if she slept he held her to his breast as a father holds a babe. When she awoke it was in his lodge on the Ashley, and he was smiling in her face. The chief became her protector; but those who marked, with the flight of time, how his fierceness had softened, knew that she was more to him than a daughter. Years passed, the girl had grown to womanhood, and her captor declared himself her lover. She seemed not ill pleased at this, for she consented to be his wife. After the betrothal the chief joined a hunting party and was absent for a time. On his return the girl was gone. A trader who had been bartering merchandise for furs had seen her, had been inspired by passion, and, favored by suave manners and a white skin, he had won in a day a stronger affection than the Indian could claim after years of loving watchfulness. When this discovery was made the chief, without a word, set off on the trail, and by broken twig, by bended grass and footprints at the brook-edge, he followed their course until he found them resting beneath a tree. The girl sprang from her new lover's arms with a cry of fear as the savage, with knife and tomahawk girt upon him, stepped into view, and she would have clasped his knees, but he motioned her away; then, ordering them to continue their march, he went behind them until they had reached a fertile spot on the Ashley, near the present site of Charleston, where he halted. "Though guilty, you shall not die," said he to the woman; then, to his rival, "You shall marry her, and a white priest shall join your hands. Here is your future home. I give you many acres of my land, but look that you care for her. As I have been merciful to you, do good to her. If you treat her ill, I shall not be far away." The twain were married and went to live on the acres that had been so generously ceded to them, and for a time all went well; but the true disposition of the husband, which was sullen and selfish, soon began to disclose itself; disagreements arose, then quarrels; at last the man struck his wife, and, seizing the deed of the Accabee land and a paper that he had forced her to sign without knowing its contents, he started for the settlements, intending to sell the property and sail for England. On the edge of the village his flight was stayed by a tall form that arose in his path-that of the Indian. "I gave you all," said the chief, "the woman who should have been my wife, and then my land. This is your thanks. You shall go no farther." With a quick stroke of the axe he cleft the skull of the shrinking wretch, and then, cutting off his scalp, the Indian ran to the cottage where sat the abandoned wife, weeping before the embers of her fire. He roused her by tossing on fresh fuel, but she shrank back in grief and shame when she saw who had come to her. "Do not fear," he said. "The man who struck you meant to sell your home to strangers"--and he laid the deed of sale before her, "but he will never play you false or lay hands on you again. Look!" He tossed the dripping scalp upon the paper. "Now I leave you forever. I cannot take you back among my people, who do not know deceit like yours, nor could I ever love you as I did at first." Turning, without other farewell he went out at the door. When this gift of Accabee land was sold--for the woman could no longer bear to live on it, but went to a northern city--a handsome house was built by the new owner, who added game preserves and pleasure grounds to the estate, but it was "haunted by a grief." Illness and ill luck followed the purchase, and the house fell into ruin. TOCCOA FALLS Early in the days of the white occupation of Georgia a cabin stood not far from the Falls of Toccoa (the Beautiful). Its only occupant was a feeble woman, who found it ill work to get food enough from the wild fruits and scanty clearing near the house, and she had nigh forgotten the taste of meat; for her two sons, who were her pride no less than her support, had been killed by savages. She often said that she would gladly die if she could harm the red men back, in return for her suffering--which was not Christian doctrine, but was natural. She was brooding at her fire, one winter evening, in wonder as to how one so weak and old as she could be revenged, when her door was flung open and a number of red men filled her cabin. She hardly changed countenance. She did not rise. "You may take my life," she said, "for it is useless, now that you have robbed it of all that made it worth living." "Hush!" said the chief. "What does the warrior want with the scalps of women? We war on your men because they kill our game and steal our land." "Is it possible that you come to our homes except to kill?" "We are strangers and have lost our way. You must guide us to the foot of Toccoa and lead us to our friends." "I lead you? Never!" The chief raised his axe, but the woman did not flinch. There was a pause, in which the iron still hung menacing. Suddenly the dame looked up and said, "If you promise to protect me, I will lead you." The promise was given and the band set forth, the aged guide in advance, bending against the storm and clasping her poor rags about her. In the darkest part of the wood, where the roaring of wind and groaning of branches seemed the louder for the booming of waters, she cautioned the band to keep in single file, but to make haste, for the way was far and the gloom was thickening. Bending their heads against the wind they pressed forward, she in advance. Suddenly, yet stealthily, she sprang aside and crouched beneath a tree that grew at the very brink of the fall. The Indians came on, following blindly, and in an instant she descried the leader as he went whirling over the edge, and one after another the party followed. When the last had gone to his death she arose to her feet with a laugh of triumph. "Now I, too, can die!" she cried. So saying, she fell forward into the grayness of space. TWO LIVES FOR ONE The place of Macon, Georgia, in the early part of this century was marked only by an inn. One of its guests was a man who had stopped there on the way to Alabama, where he had bought land. The girl who was, to be his wife was to follow in a few days. In the morning when he paid his reckoning he produced a well-filled pocket-book, and he did not see the significant look that passed between two rough black-bearded fellows who had also spent the night there, and who, when he set forth, mounted their horses and offered to keep him company. As they rode through the deserted village of Chilicte one of the twain engaged the traveller in talk while the other, falling a little behind, dealt him a blow with a loaded whip that unseated him. Divining their purpose, and lacking weapons for his own defence, he begged for mercy, and asked to be allowed to return to his bride to be, but the robbers had already made themselves liable to penalty, and two knife-thrusts in the breast silenced his appeals. The money was secured, the body was dropped into a hollow where the wolves would be likely to find and mangle it, and the outlaws went on their way. Men of their class do not keep money long, and when the proceeds of the robbery had been wasted at cards and in drink they separated. As in fulfilment of the axiom that a murderer is sure to revisit the scene of his crime, one of the men found himself at the Ocmulgee, a long time afterward, in sight of the new town--Macon. In response to his halloo a skiff shot forth from the opposite shore, and as it approached the bank he felt a stir in his hair and a touch of ice at his heart, for the ferryman was his victim of years ago. Neither spoke a word, but the criminal felt himself forced to enter the boat when the dead man waved his hand, and he was rowed across, his horse swimming beside the skiff. As the jar of the keel was felt on the gravel he leaped out, urged his horse to the road, sprang to the saddle, and rushed away in an agony of fear, that was heightened when a hollow voice called, "Stay!" After a little he slackened pace, and a farmer, who was standing at the roadside, asked, in astonishment, "How did you get across? There is a freshet, and the ferryman was drowned last night." With a new thrill he spurred his horse forward, and made no other halt until he reached the tavern, where he fell in a faint on the steps, for the strain was no longer to be endured. A crowd gathered, but he did not see it when he awoke--he saw only one pair of eyes, that seemed to be looking into his inmost soul--the eyes of the man he had slain. With a yell of terror and of insane fury he rushed upon the ghost and thrust a knife into its breast. The frenzy passed. It was no ghost that lay on the earth before him, staring up with sightless eyes. It was his fellow-murderer--his own brother. That night the assassin's body hung from a tree at the cross-roads. A GHOSTLY AVENGER In Cuthbert, Georgia, is a gravestone thus inscribed: "Sacred to the memory of Jim Brown." No date, no epitaph--for Jim Brown was hanged. And this is the story: At the close of the Civil War a company of Federal soldiers was stationed in Cuthbert, to enforce order pending the return of its people to peaceful occupations. Charles Murphy was a lieutenant in this company. His brother, an officer quartered in a neighboring town, was sent to Cuthbert one day to receive funds for the payment of some men, and left camp toward evening to return to his troop. That night Charles Murphy was awakened by a violent flapping of his tent. It sounded as though a gale was coming, but when he arose to make sure that the pegs and poles of his canvas house were secure, the noise ceased, and he was surprised to find that the air was clear and still. On returning to bed the flapping began again, and this time he dressed himself and went out to make a more careful examination. In the shadow of a tree a man stood beckoning. It was his brother, who, in a low, grave voice, told him that he was in trouble, and asked him to follow where he should lead him. The lieutenant walked swiftly through fields and woods for some miles with his relative--he had at once applied for and received a leave of absence for a few hours--and they descended together a slope to the edge of a swamp, where he stumbled against something. Looking down at the object on which he had tripped, he saw that it was his brother's corpse--not newly dead, but cold and rigid--the pockets rifled, the clothing soaked with mire and blood. Dazed and terrified, he returned to camp, roused some of his men, and at daybreak secured the body. An effort to gain a clue to the murderer was at once set on foot. It was not long before evidence was secured that led to the arrest of Jim Brown, and there was a hint that his responsibility for the crime was revealed through the same supernatural agency that had apprised Lieutenant Murphy of his bereavement. Brown was an ignorant farm laborer, who had conceived that it was right to kill Yankees, and whose cupidity had been excited by learning that the officer had money concealed about him. He had offered, for a trifling sum, to take his victim by a short cut to his camp, but led him to the swamp instead, where he had shot him through the heart. On the culprit's arrival in Cuthbert he was lynched by the soldiers, but was cut down by their commander before life was extinct, and was formally and conclusively hanged in the next week, after trial and conviction. THE WRAITH RINGER OF ATLANTA A man was killed in Elliott Street, Atlanta, Georgia, by a cowardly stroke from a stiletto. The assassin escaped. Strange what a humming there was in the belfry of St. Michael's Church that night! Had the murderer taken refuge there? Was it a knell for his lost soul, chasing him through the empty streets and beginning already an eternal punishment of terror? Perhaps the guilty one did not dare to leave Atlanta, for the chimes sang in minor chords on several nights after. The old policeman who kept ward in an antiquated guardhouse that stood opposite the church--it was afterward shaken down by earthquake--said that he saw a human form, which he would avouch to be that of the murdered man, though it was wrapped in a cloak, stalk to the doors, enter without opening them, glide up the winding stair, albeit he bent neither arm nor knee, pass the ropes by which the chimes were rung, and mount to the belfry. He could see the shrouded figure standing beneath the gloomy mouths of metal. It extended its bony hands to the tongues of the bells and swung them from side to side, but while they appeared to strike vigorously they seemed as if muffled, and sent out only a low, musical roar, as if they were rung by the wind. Was the murderer abroad on those nights? Did he, too, see that black shadow of his victim in the belfry sounding an alarm to the sleeping town and appealing to be avenged? It may be. At all events, the apparition boded ill to others, for, whenever the chimes were rung by spectral hands, mourners gathered at some bedside within hearing of them and lamented that the friend they had loved would never know them more on earth. THE SWALLOWING EARTHQUAKE The Indian village that in 1765 stood just below the site of Oxford, Alabama, was upset when the news was given out that two of the squaws had given simultaneous birth to a number of children that were spotted like leopards. Such an incident betokened the existence of some baneful spirit among them that had no doubt leagued itself with the women, who were at once tried on the charge of witchcraft, convicted, and sentenced to death at the stake, while a watch was to be set on the infants, so early orphaned, lest they, too, should show signs of malevolent possession. The whole tribe, seventeen hundred in number, assembled to see the execution, but hardly were the fires alight when a sound like thunder rolled beneath their feet, and with a hideous crack and groan the earth opened and nearly every soul was engulfed in a fathomless and smoking pit-all, indeed, save two, for a couple of young braves who were on the edge of the crowd flung themselves flat on the heaving ground and remained there until the earthquake wave had passed. The hollow afterward filled with water and was called Blue Pond. It is popularly supposed to be fathomless, but it was shown that a forest once spread across the bottom, when, but a few years ago, a great tree arose from the water, lifting first its branches, then turning so as to show its roots above the surface, and afterward disappeared. LAST STAND OF THE BILOXI The southern part of this country was once occupied by a people called the Biloxi, who had kept pace with the Aztecs in civilization and who cultivated especially the art of music. In lives of gentleness and peace they so soon forgot the use of arms that when the Choctaws descended on their fields they were powerless to prevent the onset. Town after town they evacuated before the savages, and at last the Biloxi, reduced to a few thousands, were driven to the mouth of the Pascagoula River, Mississippi, where they intrenched themselves, and for a few months withstood the invaders. But the time came when their supplies were exhausted, and every form was pinched with hunger. Flight was impossible. Surrender commonly meant slaughter and outrage. They resolved to die together. On a fair spring morning the river-ward gates of their fort were opened and the survivors of that hapless tribe marched forth, their chief in advance, with resolution on his wasted face, then the soldiers and counsellors, the young men, the women and children, and the babes asleep on the empty breasts of their mothers. As they emerged from the walls with slow but steady step they broke into song, and their assailants, who had retired to their tents for their meal, listened with surprise to the chorus of defiance and rejoicing set up by the starving people. Without pause or swerving they entered the bay and kept their march. Now the waters closed over the chief, then the soldiers--at last only a few voices of women were heard in the chant, and in a few moments all was still. Not one shrank from the sacrifice. And for years after the echo of that death-song floated over he waves. Another version of the legend sets forth that the Biloxi believed themselves the children of the sea, and that they worshipped the image of a lovely mermaid with wondrous music. After the Spaniards had come among this gay and gentle people, they compelled them, by tyranny and murder, to accept the religion of the white man, but of course it was only lip-service that they rendered at the altar. The Biloxi were awakened one night by the sound of wings and the rising of the river. Going forth they saw the waters of Pascagoula heaped in a quivering mound, and bright on its moonlit crest stood a mermaid that sang to them, "Come to me, children of the sea. Neither bell, book, nor cross shall win you from your queen." Entranced by her song and the potency of her glances, they moved forward until they encircled the hill of waters. Then, with hiss and roar, the river fell back to its level, submerging the whole tribe. The music that haunts the bay, rising through the water when the moon is out, is the sound of their revels in the caves below--dusky Tannhausers of a southern Venusberg. An old priest, who was among them at the time of this prodigy, feared that the want of result to his teachings was due to his not being in a perfect state of grace. On his death-bed he declared that if a priest would row to the spot where the music sounded, at midnight on Christmas, and drop a crucifix into the water, he would instantly be swallowed by the waves, but that every soul at the bottom would be redeemed. The souls have never been ransomed. THE SACRED FIRE OF NACHEZ The Indians of the South, being in contact with the civilized races of Central America, were among the most progressive and honorable of the red men. They were ruled by intelligence rather than force, and something of the respect that Europeans feel for their kingly families made them submit to woman's rule. The valley of Nacooche, Georgia, indeed, perpetuates in its name one of these princesses of a royal house, for though she ruled a large tribe with wisdom she was not impervious to the passions of common mortals. The "Evening Star" died by her own hand, being disappointed in love affair. Her story is that of Juliet, and she and her lover--united in death, as they could not be in life--are buried beneath a mound in the centre of he valley. The Indians of that region had towns built for permanency, and possessed some knowledge of the arts, while in religion their belief and rites were curiously like those of the Persian fire-worshippers. It was on the site of the present city in Mississippi which bears their name that the Natchez Indians built their Temple of the Sun. When it was finished a meteor fell from heaven and kindled the fire on their altar, and from that hour the priests guarded he flame continually, until one night when it was extinguished by mischance. This event was believed to be an omen, and the people so took it to heart that when the white men came, directly after, they had little courage to prosecute a war, and fell back before the conqueror, never to hold their ancient home again. PASS CHRISTIAN Senhor Vineiro, a Portuguese, having wedded Julia Regalea, a Spaniard, in South America, found it needful to his fortunes to leave Montevideo, for a revolution was breeding, and no less needful to his happiness to take his wife with him from that city, for he was old and she was young. But he chose the wrong ship to sail on, for Captain Dane, of the Nightingale, was also young, presentable, and well schooled, but heartless. On the voyage to New Orleans he not only won the affection of the wife, but slew the husband and flung his body overboard. Vainly the wife tried to repress the risings of remorse, and vainly, too, she urged Dane to seek absolution from her church. She had never loved her husband, and she had loved Dane from the first, but she was not at heart a bad woman and her peace was gone. The captain was disturbed and suspicious. His sailors glanced at him out of the corners of their eyes in a way that he did not like. Had the woman in some unintentional remark betrayed him? Could he conceal his crime, save with a larger one? Pass Christian was a village then. On a winter night its people saw a glare in the sky, and hurrying to their doors found a ship burning in the gulf. Smacks and row-boats put off to the rescue, but hardly were they under way ere the ship disappeared as suddenly as if the sea had swallowed it. As the night was thick the boats returned, but next morning five men were encountered on the shore-all that were left of the crew of the Nightingale. Captain Dane was so hospitably received by the people of the district, and seemed to take so great a liking for the place, that he resolved to live there. He bought a plantation with a roomy old house upon it and took his fellow-survivors there to live, as he hoped, an easy life. That was not to be. Yellow fever struck down all the men but Dane, and one of them, in dying, raved to his negro nurse that Dane had taken all the treasure from the ship and put it into a boat, after serving grog enough to intoxicate all save the trusted ones of the crew; that he and his four associates fired the ship and rowed away, leaving an unhappy woman to a horrible fate. Senhora Vineiro was pale but composed when she saw the manner of death she was to die. She brought from her cabin a harp which had been a solace of her husband and herself and began to play and sing an air that some of the listeners remembered. It was an "Ave Maria," and the sound of it was so plaintive that even Dane stopped rowing; but he set his teeth when his shoe touched the box of gold at his feet and ordered the men to row on. There was an explosion and the vessel disappeared. On reaching shore the treasure was buried at the foot of a large oak. This story was repeated by the nurse, but she was ignorant, she had no proofs, so it was not generally believed; yet there was a perceptible difference in the treatment of Dane by his neighbors, and among the superstitious negroes it was declared that he had sold himself to the devil. If he had, was it an air from hell that sounded in his ears when he was alone?--the "Ave Maria" of a sinning but repentant woman. The coldness and suspicion were more than he could stand. Besides, who could tell? Evidence might be found against him. He would dig up his treasure and fly the country. It was a year from the night when he had fired his ship. Going out after dark, that none might see him, he stole to the tree and began to dig. Presently a red light grew through the air, and looking up he saw a flaming vessel advancing over the sea. It stopped, and he could see men clambering into a boat at its side. They rowed toward him with such miraculous speed that the ocean seemed to steam with a blue light as they advanced. He stood like a stone, for now he could see the faces of the rowers, and every one was the face of a corpse--a corpse that had been left on board of that vessel and had been in the bottom of the sea for the last twelvemonth. They sprang on shore and rushed upon him. Next morning Dane's body was found beneath the oak with his hands filled with gems and gold. THE UNDER LAND When the Chatas looked into the still depths of Bayou Lacombe, Louisiana, they said that the reflection of the sky was the empyrean of the Under Land, whither all good souls were sure to go after death. Their chief, Opaleeta, having fallen into this bayou, was so long beneath the water that he was dead when his fellows found him, but by working over him for hours, and through resort to prayers and incantations of medicine men, his life returned and he stood on his feet once more. Then he grieved that his friends had brought him back, for he had been at the gates of the Under Land, where the air is blithe and balmy, and so nourishing that people live on it; where it is never winter; where the sun shines brightly, but never withers and parches; and where stars dance to the swing of the breezes. There no white man comes to rob the Indian and teach him to do wrong. Gorgeous birds fly through changing skies that borrow the tints of flowers, the fields are spangled with blossoms of red and blue and gold that load each wind with perfume, the grass is as fine as the hair of deer, and the streams are thick with honey. At sunset those who loved each other in life are gathered to their lodges, and raise songs of joy and thankfulness. Their voices are soft and musical, their faces are young again and beam with smiles, and there is no death. It was only the chiefs who heard his story, for, had all the tribe known it, many who were old and ill and weary would have gone to the bayou, and leaped in, to find that restful, happy Under Land. Those who had gone before they sometimes tried to see, when the lake was still and dappled with pictures of sunset clouds, but the dead never came back--they kept away from the margin of the water lest they should be called again to a life of toil and sorrow. And Opaleeta lived for many years and ruled his tribe with wisdom, yet he shared in few of the merry-makings of his people, and when, at last, his lodge was ready in the Under Land, he gave up his life without a sigh. 
6612	----	MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND By Charles M. Skinner Vol. 7. ALONG THE ROCKY RANGE CONTENTS: Over the Divide The Phantom Train of Marshall Pass The River of Lost Souls Riders of the Desert The Division of Two Tribes Besieged by Starvation A Yellowstone Tragedy The Broad House The Death Waltz The Flood at Santa Fe Goddess of Salt The Coming of the Navajos The Ark on Superstition Mountains The Pale Faced Lightning The Weird Sentinel at Squaw Peak Sacrifice of the Toltecs Ta-Vwots Conquers the Sun The Comanche Rider Horned Toad and Giants The Spider Tower The Lost Trail A Battle in the Air ALONG THE ROCKY RANGE OVER THE DIVIDE The hope of finding El Dorado, that animated the adventurous Spaniards who made the earlier recorded voyages to America, lived in the souls of Western mountaineers as late as the first half of this century. Ample discoveries of gold in California and Colorado gave color to the belief in this land of riches, and hunger, illness, privation, the persecutions of savages, and death itself were braved in the effort to reach and unlock the treasure caves of earth. Until mining became a systematic business, prospectors were dissatisfied with the smaller deposits of precious metal and dreamed of golden hills farther away. The unknown regions beyond the Rocky Mountains were filled by imagination with magnificent possibilities, and it was the hope of the miner to penetrate the wilderness, "strike it rich," and "make his pile." Thus, the region indicated as "over the divide" meaning the continental water-shed-or "over the range" came to signify not a delectable land alone, but a sum of delectable conditions, and, ultimately, the goal of posthumous delights. Hence the phrase in use to-day: "Poor Bill! He's gone over the divide." The Indian's name of heaven--"the happy hunting ground"--is of similar significance, and among many of the tribes it had a definite place in the far Southwest, to which their souls were carried on cobweb floats. Just before reaching it they came to a dark river that had to be crossed on a log. If they had been good in the world of the living they suffered no harm from the rocks and surges, but if their lives had been evil they never reached the farther shore, for they were swept into a place of whirlpools, where, for ever and ever, they were tossed on the torrent amid thousands of clinging, stinging snakes and shoals of putrid fish. From the far North and East the Milky Way was the star-path across the divide. THE PHANTOM TRAIN OF MARSHALL PASS Soon after the rails were laid across Marshall Pass, Colorado, where they go over a height of twelve thousand feet above the sea, an old engineer named Nelson Edwards was assigned to a train. He had travelled the road with passengers behind him for a couple of months and met with no accident, but one night as he set off for the divide he fancied that the silence was deeper, the canon darker, and the air frostier than usual. A defective rail and an unsafe bridge had been reported that morning, and he began the long ascent with some misgivings. As he left the first line of snow-sheds he heard a whistle echoing somewhere among the ice and rocks, and at the same time the gong in his cab sounded and he applied the brakes. The conductor ran up and asked, "What did you stop for?" "Why did you signal to stop?" "I gave no signal. Pull her open and light out, for we've got to pass No. 19 at the switches, and there's a wild train climbing behind us." Edwards drew the lever, sanded the track, and the heavy train got under way again; but the whistles behind grew nearer, sounding danger-signals, and in turning a curve he looked out and saw a train speeding after him at a rate that must bring it against the rear of his own train if something were not done. He broke into a sweat as he pulled the throttle wide open and lunged into a snow-bank. The cars lurched, but the snow was flung off and the train went roaring through another shed. Here was where the defective rail had been reported. No matter. A greater danger was pressing behind. The fireman piled on coal until his clothes were wet with perspiration, and fire belched from the smoke-stack. The passengers, too, having been warned of their peril, had dressed themselves and were anxiously watching at the windows, for talk went among them that a mad engineer was driving the train behind. As Edwards crossed the summit he shut off steam and surrendered his train to the force of gravity. Looking back, he could see by the faint light from new snow that the driving-wheels on the rear engine were bigger than his own, and that a tall figure stood atop of the cars and gestured franticly. At a sharp turn in the track he found the other train but two hundred yards behind, and as he swept around the curve the engineer who was chasing him leaned from his window and laughed. His face was like dough. Snow was falling and had begun to drift in the hollows, but the trains flew on; bridges shook as they thundered across them; wind screamed in the ears of the passengers; the suspected bridge was reached; Edwards's heart was in his throat, but he seemed to clear the chasm by a bound. Now the switch was in sight, but No. 19 was not there, and as the brakes were freed the train shot by like a flash. Suddenly a red light appeared ahead, swinging to and fro on the track. As well be run into behind as to crash into an obstacle ahead. He heard the whistle of the pursuing locomotive yelp behind him, yet he reversed the lever and put on brakes, and for a few seconds lived in a hell of dread. Hearing no sound, now, he glanced back and saw the wild train almost leap upon his own--yet just before it touched it the track seemed to spread, the engine toppled from the bank, the whole train rolled into the canon and vanished. Edwards shuddered and listened. No cry of hurt men or hiss of steam came up--nothing but the groan of the wind as it rolled through the black depth. The lantern ahead, too, had disappeared. Now another danger impended, and there was no time to linger, for No. 19 might be on its way ahead if he did not reach the second switch before it moved out. The mad run was resumed and the second switch was reached in time. As Edwards was finishing the run to Green River, which he reached in the morning ahead of schedule, he found written in the frost of his cab-window these words: "A frate train was recked as yu saw. Now that yu saw it yu will never make another run. The enjine was not ounder control and four sexshun men wor killed. If yu ever run on this road again yu will be recked." Edwards quit the road that morning, and returning to Denver found employment on the Union Pacific. No wreck was discovered next day in the canon where he had seen it, nor has the phantom train been in chase of any engineer who has crossed the divide since that night. THE RIVER OF LOST SOULS In the days when Spain ruled the Western country an infantry regiment was ordered out from Santa Fe to open communication with Florida and to carry a chest of gold for the payment of the soldiers in St. Augustine. The men wintered on the site of Trinidad, comforted by the society of their wives and families, and in the spring the women and camp-followers were directed to remain, while the troops set forward along the canon of the Purgatoire--neither to reach their destination nor to return. Did they attempt to descend the stream in boats and go to wreck among the rapids? Were they swept into eternity by a freshet? Did they lose their provisions and starve in the desert? Did the Indians revenge themselves for brutality and selfishness by slaying them at night or from an ambush? Were they killed by banditti? Did they sink in the quicksands that led the river into subterranean canals? None will ever know, perhaps; but many years afterward a savage told a priest in Santa Fe that the regiment had been surrounded by Indians, as Custer's command was in Montana, and slain, to a man. Seeing that escape was hopeless, the colonel--so said the narrator--had buried the gold that he was transporting. Thousands of doubloons are believed to be hidden in the canon, and thousands of dollars have been spent in searching for them. After weeks had lapsed into months and months into years, and no word came of the missing regiment, the priests named the river El Rio de las Animas Perdidas--the River of Lost Souls. The echoing of the flood as it tumbled through the canon was said to be the lamentation of the troopers. French trappers softened the suggestion of the Spanish title when they renamed it Purgatoire, and--"bullwhackers" teaming across the plains twisted the French title into the unmeaning "Picketwire." But Americo-Spaniards keep alive the tradition, and the prayers of many have ascended and do ascend for the succor of those who vanished so strangely in the valley of Las Animas. RIDERS OF THE DESERT Among the sandstone columns of the Colorado foot-hills stood the lodge of Ta-in-ga-ro (First Falling Thunder). Though swift in the chase and brave in battle, he seldom went abroad with neighboring tribes, for he was happy in the society of his wife, Zecana (The Bird). To sell beaver and wild sheep-skins he often went with her to a post on the New Mexico frontier, and it was while at this fort that a Spanish trader saw the pretty Zecana, and, determining to win her, sent the Indian on a mission into the heart of the mountains, with a promise that she should rest securely at the settlement until his return. On his way Ta-in-ga-ro stopped at the spring in Manitou, and after drinking he cast beads and wampum into the well in oblation to its deity. The offering was flung out by the bubbling water, and as he stared, distressed at this unwelcome omen, a picture formed on the surface--the anguished features of Zecana. He ran to his horse, galloped away, and paused neither for rest nor food till he had reached the post. The Spaniard was gone. Turning, then, to the foot-hills, he urged his jaded horse toward his cabin, and arrived, one bright morning, flushed with joy to see his wife before his door and to hear her singing. When he spoke she looked up carelessly and resumed her song. She did not know him. Reason was gone. It was his cry of rage and grief, when, from her babbling, Ta-in-ga-ro learned of the Spaniard's treachery, that brought the wandering mind back for an instant. Looking at her husband with a strange surprise and pain, she plucked the knife from his belt. Before he could realize her purpose she had thrust it into her heart and had fallen dead at his feet. For hours he stood there in stupefaction, but the stolid Indian nature soon resumed its sway. Setting his lodge in order and feeding his horse, he wrapped Zecana's body in a buffalo-skin, then slept through the night in sheer exhaustion. Two nights afterward the Indian stood in the shadow of a room in the trading fort and watched the Spaniard as he lay asleep. Nobody knew how he passed the guard. In the small hours the traitor was roused by the strain of a belt across his mouth, and leaping up to fling it off, he felt the tug of a lariat at his throat. His struggles were useless. In a few moments he was bound hand and foot. Lifting some strips of bark from the low roof, Ta-in-ga-ro pushed the Spaniard through the aperture and lowered him to the ground, outside the enclosure of which the house formed part. Then, at the embers of a fire he kindled an arrow wrapped in the down of cottonwood and shot it into a haystack in the court. In the smoke and confusion thus made, his own escape was unseen, save by a guardsman drowsily pacing his beat outside the square of buildings. The sentinel would have given the alarm, had not the Indian pounced on him like a panther and laid him dead with a knife-stroke. Catching up the Spaniard, the Indian tied him to the back of a horse and set off beside him. Thus they journeyed until they came to his lodge, where he released the trader from his horse and fed him, but kept his hands and legs hard bound, and paid no attention to his questions and his appeals for liberty. Tying a strong and half-trained horse at his door, Ta-in-ga-ro placed a wooden saddle on him, cut off the Spaniard's clothes, and put him astride of the beast. After he had fastened him into his seat with deer-skin thongs, he took Zecana's corpse from its wrapping and tied it to his prisoner, face to face. Then, loosing the horse, which was plunging and snorting to be rid of his burden, he saw him rush off on the limitless desert, and followed on his own strong steed. At first the Spaniard fainted; on recovering he struggled to get free, but his struggles only brought him closer to the ghastly thing before him. Noon-day heat covered him with sweat and blood dripped from the wales that the cords cut in his flesh. At night he froze uncovered in the chill air, and, if for an instant his eyes closed in sleep, a curse, yelled into his ear, awoke him. Ta-inga-ro gave him drink from time to time, but never food, and so they rode for days. At last hunger overbore his loathing, and sinking his teeth into the dead flesh before him he feasted like a ghoul. Still they rode, Ta-in-ga-ro never far from his victim, on whose sufferings he gloated, until a gibbering cry told him that the Spaniard had gone mad. Then, and not till then, he drew rein and watched the horse with its dead and maniac riders until they disappeared in the yellow void. He turned away, but nevermore sought his home. To and fro, through the brush, the sand, the alkali of the plains, go the ghost riders, forever. THE DIVISION OF TWO TRIBES When white men first penetrated the Western wilderness of America they found the tribes of Shoshone and Comanche at odds, and it is a legend of the springs of Manitou that their differences began there. This "Saratoga of the West," nestling in a hollow of the foot-hills in the shadow of the noble peak of Pike, was in old days common meeting-ground for several families of red men. Councils were held in safety there, for no Indian dared provoke the wrath of the manitou whose breath sparkled in the "medicine waters." None? Yes, one. For, centuries ago a Shoshone and a Comanche stopped here on their return from a hunt to drink. The Shoshone had been successful; the Comanche was empty handed and ill tempered, jealous of the other's skill and fortune. Flinging down the fat deer that he was bearing homeward on his shoulders, the Shoshone bent over the spring of sweet water, and, after pouring a handful of it on the ground, as a libation to the spirit of the place, he put his lips to the surface. It needed but faint pretext for his companion to begin a quarrel, and he did so in this fashion: "Why does a stranger drink at the spring-head when one of the owners of the fountain contents himself with its overflow? How does a Shoshone dare to drink above me?" The other replied, "The Great Spirit places the water at the spring that his children may drink it undefiled. I am Ausaqua, chief of Shoshones, and I drink at the head-water. Shoshone and Comanche are brothers. Let them drink together." "No. The Shoshone pays tribute to the Comanche, and Wacomish leads that nation to war. He is chief of the Shoshone as he is of his own people." "Wacomish lies. His tongue is forked, like the snake's. His heart is black. When the Great Spirit made his children he said not to one, 'Drink here,' and to another, 'Drink there,' but gave water that all might drink." The other made no answer, but as Ausaqua stooped toward the bubbling surface Wacomish crept behind him, flung himself against the hunter, forced his head beneath the water, and held him there until he was drowned. As he pulled the dead body from the spring the water became agitated, and from the bubbles arose a vapor that gradually assumed the form of a venerable Indian, with long white locks, in whom the murderer recognized Waukauga, father of the Shoshone and Comanche nation, and a man whose heroism and goodness made his name revered in both these tribes. The face of the patriarch was dark with wrath, and he cried, in terrible tones, "Accursed of my race! This day thou hast severed the mightiest nation in the world. The blood of the brave Shoshone appeals for vengeance. May the water of thy tribe be rank and bitter in their throats." Then, whirling up an elk-horn club, he brought it full on the head of the wretched man, who cringed before him. The murderer's head was burst open and he tumbled lifeless into the spring, that to this day is nauseous, while, to perpetuate the memory of Ausaqua, the manitou smote a neighboring rock, and from it gushed a fountain of delicious water. The bodies were found, and the partisans of both the hunters began on that day a long and destructive warfare, in which other tribes became involved until mountaineers were arrayed against plainsmen through all that region. BESIEGED BY STARVATION A hundred years before the white men set up their trading-posts on the Arkansas and Platte, a band of mountain hunters made a descent on what they took to be a small company of plainsmen, but who proved to be the enemy in force, and who, in turn, drove the Utes--for the aggressors were of that tribe--into the hills. Most of them took refuge on a castellated rock on the south side of Bowlder Canon, where they held their own for several days, rolling down huge rocks whenever an attempt was made to storm the height; wherefore, seeing that the mountain was too secure a stronghold to be taken in that way, the besiegers camped about it, and, by cutting off the access of the beleaguered party to game and to water, starved every one of them to death. This, too, is the story of Starved Rock, on Illinois River, near Ottawa, Illinois. It is a sandstone bluff, one hundred and fifty feet high, with a slope on one side only. Its summit is an acre in extent, and at the order of La Salle his Indian lieutenant, Tonti, fortified the place and mounted a small cannon on it. He died there afterward. After the killing of Pontiac at Cahokia, some of his people--the Ottawas--charged the crime against their enemies, the Illinois. The latter, being few in number, entrenched themselves on Starved Rock, where they kept their enemies at bay, but were unable to break their line to reach supplies. For a time they secured water by letting down bark vessels into the river at the end of thongs, but the Ottawas came under the bluff in canoes and cut the cords. Unwilling to surrender, the Illinois remained there until all had died of starvation. Bones and relics are found occasionally at the top. There is yet another place of which a similar narrative is extant--namely, Crow Butte, Nebraska, which is two hundred feet high and vertical on all sides save one, but on that a horseman may ascend in safety. A company of Crows, flying from the Sioux, gained this citadel and defended the path so vigorously that their pursuers gave over all attempts to follow them, but squatted calmly on the plain and proceeded to starve them out. On a dark night the besieged killed some of their ponies and made lariats of their hides, by which they reached the ground on the unguarded side of the rock. They slid down, one at a time, and made off all but one aged Indian, who stayed to keep the camp-fire burning as a blind. He went down and surrendered on the next day, but the Sioux, respecting his age and loyalty, gave him freedom. A YELLOWSTONE TRAGEDY Although the Indians feared the geyser basins of the upper Yellowstone country, believing the hissing and thundering to be voices of evil spirits, they regarded the mountains at the head of the river as the crest of the world, and whoso gained their summits could see the happy hunting-grounds below, brightened with the homes of the blessed. They loved this land in which their fathers had hunted, and when they were driven back from the settlements the Crows took refuge in what is now Yellowstone Park. Even here the soldiers pursued them, intent on avenging acts that the red men had committed while suffering under the sting of tyranny and wrong. A mere remnant of the fugitive band gathered at the head of that mighty rift in the earth known as the Grand Canon of the Yellowstone--a remnant that had succeeded in escaping the bullets of the soldiery,--and with Spartan courage they resolved to die rather than be taken and carried away to pine in a distant prison. They built a raft and placed it on the river at the foot of the upper fall, and for a few days they enjoyed the plenty and peace that were their privilege in former times. A short-lived peace, however, for one morning they are aroused by the crack of rifles--the troops are upon them. Boarding their raft they thrust it toward the middle of the stream, perhaps with the idea of gaining the opposite shore, but, if such is their intent, it is thwarted by the rapidity of the current. A few among them have guns, that they discharge with slight effect at the troops, who stand wondering on the shore. The soldiers forbear to fire, and watch, with something like dread, the descent of the raft as it passes into the current, and, with many a turn and pitch, whirls on faster and faster. The death-song rises triumphant above the lash of the waves and that distant but awful booming that is to be heard in the canon. Every red man has his face turned toward the foe with a look of defiance, and the tones of the death-chant have in them something of mockery no less than hate and vaunting. The raft is now between the jaws of rock that yawn so hungrily. Beyond and below are vast walls, shelving toward the floor of the gulf a thousand feet beneath--their brilliant colors shining in the sun of morning that sheds as peaceful a light on wood and hill as if there were no such thing as brother hunting brother in this free land of ours. The raft is galloping through the foam like a racehorse, and, hardened as the soldiers are, they cannot repress a shudder as they see the fate that the savages have chosen for themselves. Now the brink is reached. The raft tips toward the gulf, and with a cry of triumph the red men are launched over the cataract, into the bellowing chasm, where the mists weep forever on the rocks and mosses. THE BROAD HOUSE Down in the canon of Chaco, New Mexico, stands a building evidently coeval with those of the cliff dwellers, that is still in good preservation and is called the Broad House. When Noqoilpi, the gambling god, came on earth he strayed into this canon, and, finding the Moquis a prosperous people, he envied them and resolved to win their property. To do that he laid off a race-track at the bottom of the ravine and challenged them to meet him there in games of chance and strength and skill. They accepted his challenge, and, as he could turn luck to his own side, he soon won not their property alone, but their women and children, and, finally, some of the men themselves. In his greed he had acquired more than he wanted, and as the captives were a burden to him he offered to make a partial restoration if the people would build this house for him. They did so and he gave up some of the men and women. The other gods looked with disapproval on this performance, however, and they agreed to give the wind god power to defeat him, for, now that he had secured his house, he had gone to gambling again. The wind god, in disguise as a Moqui, issued a challenge, and the animals agreed to help him. When the contest in tree-pulling took place the wind god pulled up a large tree while Noqoilpi was unable to stir a smaller one. That was because the beavers had cut the roots of the larger. In the ball contest Noqoilpi drove the ball nearly to the bounds, but the wind god sent his far beyond, for wrapped loosely in it was a bird that freed itself before touching the ground and flew away. In brief, Noqoilpi was beaten at every point and the remaining captives left him, with jeers, and returned to their people. The gambler cursed and raged until the wind god seized him, fitted him to a bow, like an arrow, and shot him into the sky. He flew far out of sight, and presently came to the long row of stone houses where the man lives who carries the moon. He pitied the gambler and made new animals and people for him and let him down to the earth in old Mexico, the moon people becoming Mexicans. He returned to his old haunts and came northward, building towns along the Rio Grande until he had passed the site of Santa Fe, when his people urged him to go back, and after his return they made him their god--Nakai Cigini. THE DEATH WALTZ Years ago, when all beyond the Missouri was a waste, the military post at Fort Union, New Mexico, was the only spot for miles around where any of the graces of social life could be discovered. Among the ladies at the post was a certain gay young woman, the sister-in-law of a captain, who enjoyed the variety and spice of adventure to be found there, and enjoyed, too, the homage that the young officers paid to her, for women who could be loved or liked were not many in that wild country. A young lieutenant proved especially susceptible to her charms, and devoted himself to her in the hope that he should ultimately win her hand. His experience with the world was not large enough to enable him to distinguish between the womanly woman and the coquette. One day messengers came dashing into the fort with news of an Apache outbreak, and a detachment was ordered out to chase and punish the marauding Indians. The lieutenant was put in command of the expedition, but before starting he confided his love to the young woman, who not only acknowledged that she returned his affection, but promised that if the fortune of war deprived him of life she would never marry another. As he bade her good-by he was heard to say, "That is well. Nobody else shall have you. I will come back and make my claim." In a few days the detachment came back, but the lieutenant was missing. It was noticed that the bride-elect grieved but little for him, and nobody was surprised when she announced her intention of marrying a young man from the East. The wedding-day arrived. All was gayety at the post, and in the evening the mess-room was decorated for a ball. As the dance was in full swing a door flew open with a bang, letting in a draught of air that made the candles burn dim, and a strange cry, unlike that of any human creature, sounded through the house. All eyes turned to the door. In it stood the swollen body of a dead man dressed in the stained uniform of an officer. The temple was marked by a hatchet-gash, the scalp was gone, the eyes were wide open and, burned with a terrible light. Walking to the bride the body drew her from the arms of her husband, who, like the rest of the company, stood as in a trance, without the power of motion, and clasping her to its bosom began a waltz. The musicians, who afterward declared that they did not know what they were doing, struck up a demoniac dance, and the couple spun around and around, the woman growing paler and paler, until at last the fallen jaw and staring eyes showed that life was also extinct in her. The dead man allowed her to sink to the floor, stood over her for a moment, wrung his hands as he sounded his fearful cry again, then vanished through the door. A few days after, a troop of soldiers who had been to the scene of the Apache encounter returned with the body of the lieutenant. THE FLOOD AT SANTA FE Many are the scenes of religious miracles in this country, although French Canada and old Mexico boast of more. So late as the prosaic year of 1889 the Virgin was seen to descend into the streets of Johnstown, Pennsylvania, to save her image on the Catholic church in that place, when it was swept by a deluge in which hundreds of persons perished. It was the wrath of the Madonna that caused just such a flood in New Mexico long years ago. There is in the old Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe, in Santa Fe, a picture that commemorates the appearance of the Virgin to Juan Diego, an Indian in Guadalupe, old Mexico, in the sixteenth century. She commanded that a chapel should be built for her, but the bishop of the diocese declared that the man had been dreaming and told him to go away. The Virgin came to the Indian again, and still the bishop declared that he had no evidence of the truth of what he said. A third time the supernatural visitor appeared, and told Juan to climb a certain difficult mountain, pick the flowers he would find there, and take them to the bishop. After a long and dangerous climb they were found, to the Indian's amazement, growing in the snow. He filled his blanket with them and returned to the episcopal residence, but when he opened the folds before the dignitary, he was more amazed to find not flowers, but a glowing picture painted on his blanket. It hangs now in Guadalupe, but is duplicated in Santa Fe, where a statue of the Virgin is also kept. These treasures are greatly prized and are resorted to in time of illness and threatened disaster, the statue being taken through the streets in procession when the rainy season is due. Collections of money are then made and prayers are put up for rain, to which appeals the Virgin makes prompt response, the priests pointing triumphantly to the results of their intercession. One year, however, the rain did not begin on time, though services were almost constantly continued before the sacred picture and the sacred statue, and the angry people stripped the image of its silks and gold lace and kicked it over the ground for hours. That night a violent rain set in and the town was nearly washed away, so the populace hastened the work of reparation in order to save their lives. They cleansed the statue, dressed it still more brilliantly, and addressed their prayers to the Virgin with more energy and earnestness than ever before. GODDESS OF SALT Between Zuni and Pescado is a steep mesa, or table-land, with fantastic rocks weathered into tower and roof-like prominences on its sides, while near it is a high natural monument of stone. Say the Zunis: The goddess of salt was so troubled by the people who lived near her domain on the sea-shore, and who took away her snowy treasures without offering any sacrifice in return, that she forsook the ocean and went to live in the mountains far away. Whenever she stopped beside a pool to rest she made it salt, and she wandered so long about the great basins of the West that much of the water in them is bitter, and the yield of salt from the larger lake near Zuni brings into the Zuni treasury large tolls from other tribes that draw from it. Here she met the turquoise god, who fell in love with her at sight, and wooed so warmly that she accepted and married him. For a time they lived happily, but when the people learned that the goddess had concealed herself among the mountains of New Mexico they followed her to that land and troubled her again until she declared that she would leave their view forever. She entered this mesa, breaking her way through a high wall of sandstone as she did so. The arched portal through which she passed is plainly visible. As she went through, one of her plumes was broken off, and falling into the valley it tipped upon its stem and became the monument that is seen there. The god of turquoise followed his wife, and his footsteps may be traced in outcrops of pale-blue stone. THE COMING OF THE NAVAJOS Many fantastic accounts of the origin of man are found among the red tribes. The Onondagas say that the Indians are made from red earth and the white men from sea-foam. Flesh-making clay is seen in the precipitous bank in the ravine west of Onondaga Valley, where at night the fairies "little fellows" sport and slide. Among others, the Noah legend finds a parallel. Several tribes claim to have emerged from the interior of the earth. The Oneidas point to a hill near the falls of Oswego River, New York, as their birthplace; the Wichitas rose from the rocks about Red River; the Creeks from a knoll in the valley of Big Black River in the Natchez country, where dwelt the Master of Breath; the Aztecs were one of seven tribes that came out from the seven caverns of Aztlan, or Place of the Heron; and the Navajos believe that they emerged at a place known to them in the Navajo Mountains. In the under world the Navajos were happy, for they had everything that they could wish: there was no excess of heat or cold, trees and flowers grew everywhere, and the day was marked by a bright cloud that arose in the east, while a black cloud that came out of the west made the night. Here they lived for centuries, and might have been there to this day had not one of the tribe found an opening in the earth that led to some place unknown. He told of it to the whole tribe. They set off up the passage to see where it led, and after long and weary climbing the surface was reached. Pleased with the novelty of their surroundings, they settled here, but on the fourth day after their arrival their queen disappeared. Their search for her was unavailing until some of the men came to the mouth of the tunnel by which they had reached the upper land, when, looking down, they saw their queen combing her long, black locks. She told them that she was dead and that her people could go to her only after death, but that they would be happy in their old home. With that the earth shut together and the place has never since been open to the eye of mortals. Soon came the cannibal giants who ravaged the desert lands and destroyed all of the tribe but four families, these having found a refuge in a deep canon of the Navajo Mountains. From their retreat they could see a beam of light shining from one of the hills above them, and on ascending to the place they found a beautiful girl babe. This child grew to womanhood under their care, and her charms attracted the great manitou that rides on a white horse and carries the sun for a shield. He wooed and married her, and their children slew the giants that had destroyed the Navajos. After a time the manitou carried his wife to his floating palace in the western water, which has since been her home. To her the prayers of the people are addressed, and twelve immortals bear their petitions to her throne. THE ARK ON SUPERSTITION MOUNTAINS The Pima Indians of Arizona say that the father of all men and animals was the butterfly, Cherwit Make (earth-maker), who fluttered down from the clouds to the Blue Cliffs at the junction of the Verde and Salt Rivers, and from his own sweat made men. As the people multiplied they grew selfish and quarrelsome, so that Cherwit Make was disgusted with his handiwork and resolved to drown them all. But first he told them, in the voice of the north wind, to be honest and to live at peace. The prophet Suha, who interpreted this voice, was called a fool for listening to the wind, but next night came the east wind and repeated the command, with an added threat that the ruler of heaven would destroy them all if they did not reform. Again they scoffed, and on the next night the west wind cautioned them. But this third warning was equally futile. On the fourth night came the south wind. It breathed into Suha's ear that he alone had been good and should be saved, and bade him make a hollow ball of spruce gum in which he might float while the deluge lasted. Suha and his wife immediately set out to gather the gum, that they melted and shaped until they had made a large, rounded ark, which they ballasted with jars of nuts, acorn-meal and water, and meat of bear and venison. On the day assigned Suha and his wife were looking regretfully down into the green valleys from the ledge where the ark rested, listening to the song of the harvesters, and sighing to think that so much beauty would presently be laid waste, when a hand of fire was thrust from a cloud and it smote the Blue Cliffs with a thunder-clang. It was the signal. Swift came the clouds from all directions, and down poured the rain. Withdrawing into their waxen ball, Suha and his wife closed the portal. Then for some days they were rolled and tossed on an ever-deepening sea. Their stores had almost given out when the ark stopped, and breaking a hole in its side its occupants stepped forth. There was a tuna cactus growing at their feet, and they ate of its red fruit greedily, but all around them was naught but water. When night came on they retired to the ark and slept--a night, a month, a year, perhaps a century, for when they awoke the water was gone, the vales were filled with verdure, and bird-songs rang through the woods. The delighted couple descended the Superstition Mountains, on which the ark had rested, and went into its valleys, where they lived for a thousand years, and became the parents of a great tribe. But the evil was not all gone. There was one Hauk, a devil of the mountains, who stole their daughters and slew their sons. One day, while the women were spinning flax and cactus fibre and the men were gathering maize, Hauk descended into the settlement and stole another of Suha's daughters. The patriarch, whose patience had been taxed to its limit, then made a vow to slay the devil. He watched to see by what way he entered the valley. He silently followed him into the Superstition Mountains; he drugged the cactus wine that his daughter was to serve to him; then, when he had drunk it, Suha emerged from his place of hiding and beat out the brains of the stupefied fiend. Some of the devil's brains were scattered and became seed for other evil, but there was less wickedness in the world after Hauk had been disposed of than there had been before. Suha taught his people to build adobe houses, to dig with shovels, to irrigate their land, to weave cloth, and avoid wars. But on his death-bed he foretold to them that they would grow arrogant with wealth, covetous of the lands of others, and would wage wars for gain. When that time came there would be another flood and not one should be saved--the bad should vanish and the good would leave the earth and live in the sun. So firmly do the Pimas rely on this prophecy that they will not cross Superstition Mountains, for there sits Cherwit Make--awaiting the culmination of their wickedness to let loose on the earth a mighty sea that lies dammed behind the range. THE PALE FACED LIGHTNING Twenty miles from the capital of Arizona stands Mount Superstition--the scene of many traditions, the object of many fears. Two centuries ago a tribe of Pueblo dwarfs arrived near it and tilled the soil and tended their flocks about the settlements that grew along their line of march. They were little people, four feet high, but they were a thousand strong and clever. They were peaceful, like all intelligent people, and the mystery surrounding their incantations and sun-worship was more potent than a show of arms to frighten away those natural assassins, the Apaches. After they had lived near the mountain for five years the "little people" learned that the Zunis were advancing from the south and made preparations for defence. Their sheep were concealed in obscure valleys; provisions, tools, and arms were carried up the mountain; piles of stone were placed along the edges of cliffs commanding the passes. This work was superintended by a woman with a white face, fair hair, and commanding form, who was held in reverence by the dwarfs; and she it was--the Helen of a New-World Troy--who was causing this trouble, for the Zunis claimed her on the ground that they had brought her from the waters of the rising sun, and that it was only to escape an honorable marriage with their chief that she had fled to the dwarfs. Be that as it might, the Zunis marched on, meeting with faint resistance until, on a bright afternoon, they massed on a slope of the mountain, seven hundred in number. The Apaches, expecting instant defeat of the "little men," watched, from neighboring hills, the advance of the invaders as they climbed nimbly toward the stone fort on the top of the slope, brandishing clubs and stone spears, and bragging, as the fashion of a red man is--and sometimes of a white one. At a pool outside of the walls stood the pale woman, queenly and calm, and as her white robe and brown hair fluttered in the wind both her people and the foe looked upon her with admiration. When but a hundred yards away the Zunis rushed toward her with outstretched arms, whereupon she stooped, picked up an earthen jar, emptied its contents into the pool, and ran back. In a moment sparks and balls of fire leaped from crevices in the rocks, and as they touched the Indians many fell dead. Others plunged blindly over the cliffs and were dashed to pieces. In a few minutes the remainder of the force was in full retreat and not an arrow had been shot. The Apaches, though stricken with terror at these pyrotechnics, overcame the memory of them sufficiently in a couple of years to attempt the sack of the fort on their own account, but the queen repelled them as she had forced back the Zunis, and with even greater slaughter. From that time the dwarfs were never harmed again, but they went away, as suddenly as they had come, to a secret recess in the mountains, where the Pale Faced Lightning still rules them. Some of the Apaches maintain that her spirit haunts a cave on Superstition Mountain, where her body vanished in a blaze of fire, and this cave of the Spirit Mother is also pointed out on the south side of Salt River. A skeleton and cotton robes, ornamented and of silky texture, were once found there. It is said that electrical phenomena are frequent on the mountain, and that iron, copper, salt, and copperas lying near together may account for them. THE WEIRD SENTINEL AT SQUAW PEAK There is a cave under the highest butte of the Squaw Peak range, Arizona, where a party of Tonto Indians was found by white men in 1868. The white men were on the war-path, and when the Tontos fell into their hands they shot them unhesitatingly, firing into the dark recesses of the cavern, the fitful but fast-recurring flashes of their rifles illuminating the interior and exposing to view the objects of their hatred. The massacre over, the cries and groans were hushed, the hunters strode away, and over the mountains fell the calm that for thousands of years had not been so rudely broken. That night, when the moon shone into this pit of death, a corpse arose, walked to a rock just within the entrance, and took there its everlasting seat. Long afterward a man who did not know its story entered this place, when he was confronted by a thing, as he called it, that glared so fearfully upon him that he fled in an ecstasy of terror. Two prospectors subsequently attempted to explore the cave, but the entrance was barred by "the thing." They gave one glance at the torn face, the bulging eyes turned sidewise at them, the yellow fangs, the long hair, the spreading claws, the livid, mouldy flesh, and rushed away. A Western paper, recounting their adventure, said that one of the men declared that there was not money enough in Maricopa County to pay him to go there again, while the other had never stopped running--at least, he had not returned to his usual haunts since "the thing" looked at him. Still, it is haunted country all about here. The souls of the Mojaves roam upon Ghost Mountain, and the "bad men's hunting-grounds" of the Yumas and Navajos are over in the volcanic country of Sonora. It is, therefore, no unusual thing to find signs and wonders in broad daylight. SACRIFICE OF THE TOLTECS Centuries ago, when Toltec civilization had extended over Arizona, and perhaps over the whole West, the valleys were occupied by large towns--the towns whose ruins are now known as the City of Ovens, City of Stones, and City of the Dead. The people worked at trades and arts that had been practised by their ancestors before the pyramids were built in Egypt. Montezuma had come to the throne of Mexico, and the Aztecs were a subject people; Europe had discovered America and forgotten it, and in America the arrival of Europeans was recalled only in traditions. But, like other nations, the Toltecs became a prey to self-confidence, to luxury, to wastefulness, and to deadening superstitions. Already the fierce tribes of the North were lurking on the confines of their country in a faith of speedy conquest, and at times it seemed as if the elements were against them. The villagers were returning from the fields, one day, when the entire region was smitten by an earthquake. Houses trembled, rumblings were heard, people fell in trying to reach the streets, and reservoirs burst, wasting their contents on the fevered soil. A sacrifice was offered. Then came a second shock, and another mortal was offered in oblation. As the earth still heaved and the earthquake demon muttered underground, the king gave his daughter to the priests, that his people might be spared, though he wrung his hands and beat his brow as he saw her led away and knew that in an hour her blood would stream from the altar. The girl walked firmly to the cave where the altar was erected--a cave in Superstition Mountains. She knelt and closed her eyes as the officiating-priest uttered a prayer, and, gripping his knife of jade stone, plunged it into her heart. She fell without a struggle. And now, the end. Hardly had the innocent blood drained out and the fires been lighted to consume the body, when a pall of cloud came sweeping across the heavens; a hot wind surged over the ground, laden with dust and smoke; the storm-struck earth writhed anew beneath pelting thunder-bolts; no tremor this time, but an upheaval that rent the rocks and flung the cities down. It was an hour of darkness and terror. Roars of thunder mingled with the more awful bellowing beneath; crash on crash told that houses and temples were falling in vast ruin; the mountainsides were loosened and the rush of avalanches added to the din; the air was thick, and through the clouds the people groped their way toward the fields; rivers broke from their confines and laid waste farms and gardens! The gods had indeed abandoned them, and the spirit of the king's daughter took its flight in company with thousands of souls in whose behalf she had suffered uselessly. The king was crushed beneath his palace-roof and the sacerdotal executioner perished in a fall of rock. The survivors fled in panic and the Ishmaelite tribes on their frontier entered their kingdom and pillaged it of all abandoned wealth. The cities never were rebuilt and were rediscovered but a few years ago, when the maiden's skeleton was also found. Nor does any Indian cross Superstition Mountains without a sense of apprehension. TA-VWOTS CONQUERS THE SUN The Indian is a great story-teller. Every tribe has its traditions, and the elderly men and women like to recount them, for they always find listeners. And odd stories they tell, too. Just listen to this, for example. It is a legend among the tribes of Arizona. While Ta-Vwots, the hare god, was asleep in the valley of Maopa, the Sun mischievously burned his back, causing him to leap up with a howl. "Aha! It's you, is it, who played this trick on me?" he cried, looking at the Sun. "I'll make it warm for you. See if I don't." And without more ado he set off to fight the Sun. On the way he stopped to pick and roast some corn, and when the people who had planted it ran out and tried to punish him for the theft he scratched a hole in the ground and ran in out of sight. His pursuers shot arrows into the hole, but Ta-Vwots had his breath with him, and it was an awfully strong breath, for with it he turned all the arrows aside. "The scamp is in here," said one of the party. "Let's get at him another way." So, getting their flints and shovels, they began to dig. "That's your game, is it?" mumbled Ta-Vwots. "I know a way out of this that you don't know." With a few puffs of his breath and a few kicks of his legs he reached a great fissure that led into the rock behind him, and along this passage he scrambled until he came to the edge of it in a niche, from which he could watch his enemies digging. When they had made the hole quite large he shouted, "Be buried in the grave you have dug for yourselves!" And, hurling down a magic ball that he carried, he caved the earth in on their heads. Then he paced off, remarking, "To fight is as good fun as to eat. Vengeance is my work. Every one I meet will be an enemy. No one shall escape my wrath." And he sounded his war-whoop. Next day he saw two men heating rocks and chipping arrow-heads from them. "Let me help you, for hot rocks will not hurt me," he said. "You would have us to believe you are a spirit, eh?" they questioned, with a jeer. "No ghost," he answered, "but a better man than you. Hold me on those rocks, and, if I do not burn, you must let me do the same to you." The men complied, and heating the stones to redness in the fire they placed him against them, but failed to see that by his magic breath he kept a current of air flowing between him and the hot surface. Rising unhurt, he demanded that they also should submit to the torture, and, like true Indians, they did so. When their flesh had been burned half through and they were dead, he sounded his warwhoop and went on. On the day following he met two women picking berries, and told them to blow the leaves and thorns into his eyes. They did so, as they supposed, but with his magic breath he kept the stuff away from his face. "You are a ghost!" the women exclaimed. "No ghost," said he. "Just a common person. Leaves and thorns can do no harm. See, now." And he puffed thorns into their faces and made them blind. "Aha! You are caught with your own chaff I am on my way to kill the Sun. This is good practice." And he slew them, sounded his war-whoop, and went on. The morning after this affair some women appeared on Hurricane Cliff and the wind brought their words to his ears. They were planning to kill him by rolling rocks upon him as he passed. As he drew near he pretended to eat something with such enjoyment that they asked him what it was. He called out, "It is sweet. Come to the edge and I will throw it up to you." With that he tossed something so nearly within their reach that in bending forward to catch it they crowded too near the brink, lost their balance, fell over, and were killed. "You are victims of your own greed. One should never be so anxious as to kill one's self." This was his only comment, and, sounding the warwhoop, he went on. A day later he came upon two women making water jugs of willow baskets lined with pitch, and he heard one whisper to the other, "Here comes that bad Ta-Vwots. How shall we destroy him?" "What were you saying?" asked the hare god. "We just said, 'Here comes our grandson.'" (A common form of endearment.) "Is that all? Then let me get into one of these water jugs while you braid the neck." He jumped in and lay quite still as they wove the neck, and they laughed to think that it was braided so small that he could never escape, when--puff! the jug was shattered and there was Ta-Vwots. They did not know anything about his magic breath. They wondered how he got out. "Easily enough," replied the hare god. "These things may hold water, but they can't hold men and women. Try it, and see if they can." With their consent, Ta-Vwots began weaving the osiers about them, and in a little while he had them caged. "Now, come out," he said. But, try as they might, not a withe could they break. "Ha, ha! You are wise women, aren't you? Bottled in your own jugs! I am on my way to kill the Sun. In time I shall learn how." Then, sounding his war-whoop, he struck them dead with his magic ball and went on. He met the Bear next day, and found him digging a hole to hide in, for he had heard of the hare god and was afraid. "Don't be frightened, friend Bear," said the rogue. "I'm not the sort of fellow to hide from. How could a little chap like me hurt so many people?" And he helped the Bear to dig his den, but when it was finished he hid behind a rock, and as the Bear thrust his head near him he launched his magic ball at his face and made an end of him. "I was afraid of this warrior," said Ta-Vwots, "but he is dead, now, in his den." And sounding his war-whoop he went on. It was on the day following that he met the Tarantula, a clever rascal, who had a club that would deal a fatal blow to others, but would not hurt himself. He began to groan as Ta-Vwots drew near, and cried that he had a pain caused by an evil spirit in his head. Wouldn't Ta-Vwots thump it out? Indeed, he would. He grasped the club and gave him the soundest kind of a thwacking, but when the Tarantula shouted "Harder," he guessed that it was an enchanted weapon, and changing it for his magic ball he finished the Tarantula at a blow. "That is a stroke of your own seeking," he remarked. "I am on my way to kill the Sun. Now I know that I can do it." And sounding his war-whoop he went on. Next day he came to the edge of the world and looked off into space, where thousands of careless people had fallen, and there he passed the night under a tree. At dawn he stood on the brink of the earth and the instant that the Sun appeared he flung the magic ball full in his face. The surface of the Sun was broken into a thousand pieces that spattered over the earth and kindled a mighty conflagration. Ta-Vwots crept under the tree that had sheltered him, but that was of no avail against the increasing heat. He tried to run away, but the fire burned off his toes, then his feet, then his legs, then his body, so that he ran on his hands, and when his hands were burned off he walked on the stumps of his arms. At last his head alone remained, and that rolled over hill and valley until it struck a rock, when the eyes burst and the tears that gushed forth spread over the land, putting out the flames. The Sun was conquered, and at his trial before the other gods was reprimanded for his mischievous pranks and condemned thereafter to travel across the sky every day by the same trail. THE COMANCHE RIDER The ways of disposing of the Indian dead are many. In some places ground sepulture is common; in others, the corpses are placed in trees. South Americans mummified their dead, and cremation was not unknown. Enemies gave no thought to those that they had slain, after plucking off their scalps as trophies, though they sometimes added the indignity of mutilation in killing. Sachem's Head, near Guilford, Connecticut, is so named because Uncas cut a Pequot's head off and placed it in the crotch of an oak that grew there. It remained withering for years. It was to save the body of Polan from such a fate, after the fight on Sebago Lake in 1756, that his brothers placed it under the root of a sturdy young beech that they had pried out of the ground. He was laid in the hollow in his war-dress, with silver cross on his breast and bow and arrows in his hand; then, the weight on the trunk being released, the sapling sprang back to its place and afterward rose to a commanding height, fitly marking the Indian's tomb. Chief Blackbird, of the Omahas, was buried, in accordance with his wish, on the summit of a bluff near the upper Missouri, on the back of his favorite horse, fully equipped for travel, with the scalps that he had taken hung to the bridle. When a Comanche dies he is buried on the western side of the camp, that his soul may follow the setting sun into the spirit world the speedier. His bow, arrows, and valuables are interred with him, and his best pony is killed at the grave that he may appear among his fellows in the happy hunting grounds mounted and equipped. An old Comanche who died near Fort Sill was without relatives and poor, so his tribe thought that any kind of a horse would do for him to range upon the fields of paradise. They killed a spavined old plug and left him. Two weeks from that time the late unlamented galloped into a camp of the Wichitas on the back of a lop-eared, bob-tailed, sheep-necked, ring-boned horse, with ribs like a grate, and said he wanted his dinner. Having secured a piece of meat, formally presented to him on the end of a lodge-pole, he offered himself to the view of his own people, alarming them by his glaring eyes and sunken cheeks, and told them that he had come back to haunt them for a stingy, inconsiderate lot, because the gate-keeper of heaven had refused to admit him on so ill-conditioned a mount. The camp broke up in dismay. Wichitas and Comanches journeyed, en masse, to Fort Sill for protection, and since then they have sacrificed the best horses in their possession when an unfriended one journeyed to the spirit world. Myths and Legends HORNED TOAD AND GIANTS The Moquis have a legend that, long ago, when the principal mesa that they occupy was higher than it is now, and when they owned all the country from the mountains to the great river, giants came out of the west and troubled them, going so far as to dine on Moquis. It was hard to get away, for the monsters could see all over the country from the tops of the mesas. The king of the tribe offered the handsomest woman in his country and a thousand horses to any man who would deliver his people from these giants. This king was eaten like the rest, and the citizens declined to elect another, because they were beginning to lose faith in kings. Still, there was one young brave whose single thought was how to defeat the giants and save his people. As he was walking down the mesa he saw a lizard, of the kind commonly known as a horned toad, lying under a rock in pain. He rolled the stone away and was passing on, when a voice, that seemed to come out of the earth, but that really came from the toad, asked him if he wished to destroy the giants. He desired nothing so much. "Then take my horned crest for a helmet." Lolomi--that was the name of him--did as he was bid, and found that in a moment the crest had swelled and covered his head so thickly that no club could break through it. "Now take my breastplate," continued the toad. And though it would not have covered the Indian's thumb-nail, when he put it on it so increased in bulk that it corseleted his body and no arrow could pierce it. "Now take the scales from my eyes," commanded the toad, and when he had done so Lolomi felt as light as a feather. "Go up and wait. When you see a giant, go toward him, looking in his eyes, and he will walk backward. Walk around him until he has his back to a precipice, then advance. He will back away until he reaches the edge of the mesa, when he will fall off and be killed." Lolomi obeyed these instructions, for presently a giant loomed in the distance and came striding across the plains half a mile at a step. As he drew near he flung a spear, but it glanced from the Indian's armor like hail from a rock. Then an arrow followed, and was turned. At this the giant lost courage, for he fancied that Lolomi was a spirit. Fearing a blow if he turned, he kept his face toward Lolomi, who manoeuvred so skilfully that when he had the giant's back to the edge of a cliff he sprang at him, and the giant, with a yell of alarm, fell and broke his bones on the rocks below. So Lolomi killed many giants, because they all walked back before him, and after they had fallen the people heaped rocks on their bodies. To this day the place is known as "the giants' fall." Then the tribe made Lolomi king and gave him the most beautiful damsel for a wife. As he was the best king they ever had, they treasured his memory after he was dead, and used his name as a term of greeting, so that "Lolomi" is a word of welcome, and will be until the giants come again. THE SPIDER TOWER In Dead Man's Canon--a deep gorge that is lateral to the once populated valley of the Rio de Chelly, Arizona--stands a stark spire of weathered sandstone, its top rising eight hundred feet above its base in a sheer uplift. Centuries ago an inhabitant of one of the cave villages was surprised by hostiles while hunting in this region, and was chased by them into this canon. As he ran he looked vainly from side to side in the hope of securing a hiding-place, but succor came from a source that was least expected, for on approaching this enormous obelisk, with strength well-nigh exhausted, he saw a silken cord hanging from a notch at its top. Hastily knotting the end about his waist, that it might not fall within reach of his pursuers, he climbed up, setting his feet into roughnesses of the stone, and advancing, hand over hand, until he had reached the summit, where he stayed, drinking dew and feeding on eagles' eggs, until his enemies went away, for they could not reach him with their arrows, defended as he was by points of rock. The foemen having gone, he safely descended by the cord and reached his home. This help had come from a friendly spider who saw his plight from her perch at the top of the spire, and, weaving a web of extra thickness, she made one end fast to a jag of rock while the other fell within his grasp--for she, like all other of the brute tribe, liked the gentle cave-dwellers better than the remorseless hunters. Hence the name of the Spider Tower. THE LOST TRAIL The canon of Oak Creek is choked by a mass of rock, shaped like a keystone, and wedged into the jaws of the defile. An elderly Ute tells this story of it. Acantow, one of the chiefs of his tribe, usually placed his lodge beside the spring that bubbled from a thicket of wild roses in the place where Rosita, Colorado, stands to-day. He left his wife--Manetabee (Rosebud)--in the lodge while he went across the mountains to attend a council, and was gone four sleeps. On his return he found neither wife nor lodge, but footprints and hoofprints in the ground showed to his keen eye that it was the Arapahoes who had been there. Getting on their trail he rode over it furiously, and at night had reached Oak Canon, along which he travelled until he saw the gleam of a small fire ahead. A squall was coming up, and the noise of it might have enabled him to gallop fairly into the group that he saw huddled about the glow; but it is not in the nature of an Indian to do that, and, tying his horse, he crawled forward. There were fifteen of the Arapahoes, and they were gambling to decide the ownership of Manetabee, who sat bound beneath a willow near them. So engrossed were the savages in the contest that the snake-like approach of Acantow was unnoticed until he had cut the thongs that bound Manetabee's wrists and ankles--she did not cry out, for she had expected rescue--and both had imperceptibly slid away from them. Then, with a yell, one of the gamblers pointed to the receding forms, and straightway the fifteen made an onset. Swinging his wife lightly to his shoulders Acantow set off at a run and he had almost reached his horse when his foot caught in a root and he fell headlong. The pursuers were almost upon him when the storm burst in fury. A flood of fire rushed from the clouds and struck the earth with an appalling roar. Trees were snapped, rocks were splintered, and a whirlwind passed. Acantow was nearly insensible for a time--then he felt the touch of the Rosebud's hand on his cheek, and together they arose and looked about them. A huge block of riven granite lay in the canon, dripping blood. Their enemies were not to be seen. "The trail is gone," said Acantow. "Manitou has broken it, that the Arapahoes may never cross it more. He would not allow them to take you. Let us thank the Manitou." So they went back to where the spring burst amid the rose-bushes. A BATTLE IN THE AIR In the country about Tishomingo, Indian Territory, troubles are foretold by a battle of unseen men in the air. Whenever the sound of conflict is heard it is an indication that many dead will lie in the fields, for it heralds battle, starvation, or pestilence. The powerful nation that lived here once was completely annihilated by an opposing tribe, and in the valley in the western part of the Territory there are mounds where hundreds of men lie buried. Spirits occupy the valley, and to the eyes of the red men they are still seen, at times, continuing the fight. In May, 1892, the last demonstration was made in the hearing of John Willis, a United States marshal, who was hunting horse-thieves. He was belated one night and entered the vale of mounds, for he had no scruples against sleeping there. He had not, in fact, ever heard that the region was haunted. The snorting of his horse in the middle of the night awoke him and he sprang to his feet, thinking that savages, outlaws, or, at least, coyotes had disturbed the animal. Although there was a good moon, he could see nothing moving on the plain. Yet the sounds that filled the air were like the noise of an army, only a trifle subdued, as if they were borne on the passing of a wind. The rush of hoofs and of feet, the striking of blows, the fall of bodies could be heard, and for nearly an hour these fell rumors went across the earth. At last the horse became so frantic that Willis saddled him and rode away, and as he reached the edge of the valley the sounds were heard going into the distance. Not until he reached a settlement did he learn of the spell that rested on the place. 
6611	----	MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND By Charles M. Skinner Vol. 6. THE CENTRAL STATES AND GREAT LAKES CONTENTS: An Averted Peril The Obstinacy of Saint Clair The Hundredth Skull The Crime of Black Swamp The House Accursed Marquette's Man-Eater Michel de Coucy's Troubles Wallen's Ridge The Sky Walker of Huron The Coffin of Snakes Mackinack Lake Superior Water Gods The Witch of Pictured Rocks The Origin of White Fish The Spirit of Cloudy The Sun Fire at Sault Sainte Marie The Snake God of Belle Isle Were-Wolves of Detroit The Escape of Francois Navarre The Old Lodger The Nain Rouge Two Revenges Hiawatha The Indian Messiah The Vision of Rescue Devil's Lake The Keusca Elopement Pipestone The Virgins' Feast Falls of St. Anthony Flying Shadow and Track Maker Saved by a Lightning-Stroke The Killing of Cloudy Sky Providence Hole The Scare Cure Twelfth Night at Cahokia The Spell of Creve Coeur Lake How the Crime was Revealed Banshee of the Bad Lands Standing Rock The Salt Witch THE CENRAL STATES AND THE GREAT LAKES AN AVERTED PERIL In 1786 a little building stood at North Bend, Ohio, near the junction of the Miami and Ohio Rivers, from which building the stars and stripes were flying. It was one of a series of blockhouses built for the protecting of cleared land while the settlers were coming in, yet it was a trading station rather than a fort, for the attitude of government toward the red men was pacific. The French of the Mississippi Valley were not reconciled, however, to the extension of power by a Saxon people, and the English in Canada were equally jealous of the prosperity of those provinces they had so lately lost. Both French and English had emissaries among the Shawnees when it had become known that the United States intended to negotiate a treaty with them. It was the mild weather that comes for a time in October, when Cantantowit blesses the land from his home in the southwest with rich colors, plaintive perfumes of decay, soft airs, and tender lights a time for peace; but the garrison at the fort realized that the situation was precarious. The Shawnees had camped about them, and the air was filled with the neighing of their ponies and the barking of their dogs. To let them into the fort was to invite massacre; to keep them out after they had been summoned was to declare war. Colonel George Rogers Clarke, of Virginia, who was in command, scoffed at the fears of his men, and would not give ear to their appeals for an adjournment of the meeting or a change of the place of it. At the appointed hour the doors were opened and the Indians came in. The pipe of peace was smoked in the usual form, but the red men were sullen and insolent, and seemed to be seeking a cause of quarrel. Clarke explained that the whites desired only peace, and he asked the wise men to speak for their tribe. A stalwart chief arose, glanced contemptuously at the officer and his little guard, and, striding to the table where Clarke was seated, threw upon it two girdles of wampum--the peace-belt and the war-belt. "We offer you these belts," he said. "You know what they mean. Take which you like." It was a deliberate insult and defiance. Both sides knew it, and many of the men held their breath. Clarke carelessly picked up the war-belt on the point of his cane and flung it among the assembled chiefs. Every man in the room sprang to his feet and clutched his weapon. Then, with a sternness that was almost ferocious, Clarke pointed to the door with an imperative action, and cried, "Dogs, you may go!" The Indians were foiled in their ill intent by his self-possession and seeming confidence, which made them believe that he had forces in the vicinity that they were not prepared to meet. They had already had a bitter experience of his strength and craft, and in the fear that a trap had been set for them they fled tumultuously. The treaty was ratified soon after. THE OBSTINACY OF SAINT CLAIR When the new First Regiment of United States Infantry paused at Marietta, Ohio, on its way to garrison Vincennes, its officers made a gay little court there for a time. The young Major Hamtramck--contemptuously called by the Indians "the frog on horseback," because of his round shoulders--found especial pleasure in the society of Marianne Navarre, who was a guest at the house of General Arthur St. Clair; but the old general viewed this predilection with disfavor, because he had hoped that his own daughter would make a match with the major. But Louisa longed for the freedom of the woods. She was a horsewoman and a hunter, and she had a sentimental fondness for Indians. When Joseph Brandt (Thayendanegea) camped with his dreaded band near the town, it was she who--without her father's knowledge, and in the disguise of an Indian girl--took the message that had been entrusted to a soldier asking the tribe to send delegates to a peace council at the fort. Louisa and Brandt had met in Philadelphia some years before, when both were students in that city, and he was rejoiced to meet her again, for he had made no secret of his liking for her, and in view of the bravery she had shown in thus riding into a hostile camp his fondness increased to admiration. After she had delivered the message she said, "Noble warrior, I have risked my life to obtain this interview. You must send some one back with me." Brandt replied, "It is fitting that I alone should guard so courageous a maiden," and he rode with her through the lines, under the eyes of a wondering and frowning people, straight to the general's door. Soon after, Brandt made a formal demand for the hand of this dashing maid, but the stubborn general refused to consider it. He was determined that she ought to love Major Hamtramck, and he told her so in tones so loud that they reached the ears of Marianne, as she sat reading in her room. Stung by this disclosure of the general's wishes, and doubting whether the major had been true to her--fearful, too, that she might be regarded as an interloper--she made a pretext to return as quickly as possible to her home in Detroit, and left no adieus for her lover. It was not long after that war broke out between the settlers and the Indians, for Brandt now had a personal as well as a race grudge to gratify, though when he defeated St. Clair he spared his life in the hope that the general would reward his generosity by resigning to him his daughter. At all events, he resolved that the "frog on horseback," whom he conceived to be his rival, should not win her. The poor major, who cared nothing for Louisa, and who was unable to account for the flight of Marianne, mourned her absence until it was rumored that she had been married, when, as much in spite as in love, he took to himself a mate. After he had been for some time a widower he met Marianne again, and learned that she was still a maiden. He renewed his court with ardor, but the woman's love for him had died when she learned of his marriage. Affecting to make light of this second disappointment, he said, "Since I cannot be united to you in life, I shall be near you in death." "A soldier cannot choose where he shall die," she answered. "No matter. I shall sleep in the shadow of your tomb." As it fell out they were indeed buried near each other in Detroit. Thus, the stupidity and obstinacy of General St. Clair, in supposing that he could make young folks love to order, thwarted the happiness of four people and precipitated a war. THE HUNDREDTH SKULL In the early part of this century Bill Quick, trapper and frontiersman, lived in a cabin on the upper Scioto, not far from the present town of Kenton, Ohio. One evening when he returned from the hunt he found his home rifled of its contents and his aged father weltering in his blood on the floor. He then and there took oath that he would be revenged a hundredfold. His mission was undertaken at once, and for many a year thereafter the Indians of the region had cause to dread the doom that came to them from brake and wood and fen,--now death by knife that flashed at them from behind a tree, and the next instant whirled through the air and was buried to the hilt in a red man's heart; now, by bullet as they rowed across the rivers; now, by axe that clove their skulls as they lay asleep. Bill Quick worked secretly, and, unlike other men of the place and time, he did not take his trophies Indian-fashion. The scalp was not enough. He took the head. And presently a row of grinning skulls was ranged upon his shelves. Ninety-nine of these ghastly prizes occupied his cabin, and the man was confident that he should accomplish his intent. But the Indians, in terror, were falling away toward the lakes; they were keeping better guard; and ere the hundredth man had fallen before his rifle he was seized with fatal illness. Calling to him his son, Tom, he pointed to the skulls, and charged him to fulfil the oath he had taken by adding to the list a hundredth skull. Should he fail in this the murdered ancestor and he himself would come back to haunt the laggard. Tom accepted the trust, but everything seemed to work against him. He never was much of a hunter nor a very true shot, and he had no liking for war; besides, the Indians had left the country, as he fancied. So he grumbled at the uncongenial task appointed for him and kept deferring it from week to week and from year to year. When his conscience pricked him he allayed the smart with drink, and his conscience seemed to grow more active as he grew older. On returning to the cabin after a carouse he declared that he had heard voices, that the skulls gibbered and cracked their teeth together as if mocking his weakness, and that a phosphorescent glare shone through the sockets of their eyes. In his cups he prattled his secret, and soon the whole country knew that he was under oath to kill a red-skin-and the country laughed at him. On a certain day it was reported that a band of Indians had been seen in the neighborhood, and what with drink and the taunts of his friends, he was impelled to take his rifle and set out once more on the war-path. A settler heard a shot fired not long after. Next day a neighbor passing Tom Quick's cabin tapped at the door, and, receiving no answer, pushed it open and entered. The hundredth skull was there, on the shelves, a bullet-hole in the forehead, and the scalp gone. The head was Quick's. THE CRIME OF BLACK SWAMP Two miles south of Munger, Ohio, in the heart of what used to be called the Black Swamp, stood the Woodbury House, a roomy mansion long gone to decay. John Cleves, the last to live in it, was a man whose evil practices got him into the penitentiary, but people had never associated him with the queer sights and sounds in the lower chambers, nor with the fact that a man named Syms, who had gone to that house in 1842, had never been known to leave it. Ten years after Syms's disappearance it happened that Major Ward and his friend John Stow had occasion to take shelter there for the night--it being then deserted,--and, starting a blaze in the parlor fireplace, they lit their pipes and talked till late. Stow would have preferred a happier topic, but the major, who feared neither man nor devil, constantly turned the talk on the evil reputation of the house. While they chatted a door opened with a creak and a human skeleton appeared before them. "What do you want? Speak!" cried Ward. But waiting for no answer he drew his pistols and fired two shots at the grisly object. There was a rattling sound, but the skeleton was neither dislocated nor disconcerted. Advancing deliberately, with upraised arm, it said, in a husky voice, "I, that am dead, yet live in a sense that mortals do not know. In my earthly life I was James Syms, who was robbed and killed here in my sleep by John Cleves." With bony finger it pointed to a rugged gap in its left temple. "Cleves cut off my head and buried it under the hearth. My body he cast into his well." At these words the head disappeared and the voice was heard beneath the floor, "Take up my skull." The watchers obeyed the call, and after digging a minute beneath the hearth a fleshless head with a wound on the left temple came to view. Ward took it into his hands, but in a twinkling it left them and reappeared on the shoulders of the skeleton. "I have long wanted to tell my fate," it resumed, "but could not until one should be found brave enough to speak to me. I have appeared to many, but you are the first who has commanded me to break my long silence. Give my bones a decent burial. Write to my relative, Gilmore Syms, of Columbus, Georgia, and tell him what I have revealed. I have found peace." With a grateful gesture it extended its hand to Ward, who, as he took it, shook like one with an ague, his wrist locked in its bony clasp. As it released him it raised its hand impressively. A bluish light burned at the doorway for an instant. The two men found themselves alone. THE HOUSE ACCURSED Near Gallipolis, Ohio, there stood within a few years an old house of four rooms that had been occupied by Herman Deluse. He lived there alone, and, though his farming was of the crudest sort, he never appeared to lack for anything. The people had an idea that the place was under ban, and it was more than suspected that its occupant had been a pirate. In fact, he called his place the Isle of Pines, after a buccaneers' rendezvous in the West Indies, and made no attempt to conceal the strange plunder and curious weapons that he had brought home with him, but of money he never appeared to have much at once. When it came his time to die he ended his life alone, so far as any knew--at least, his body was found in his bed, without trace of violence or disorder. It was buried and the public administrator took charge of the estate, locking up the house until possible relatives should come to claim it, and the rustic jury found that Deluse "came to his death by visitation of God." It was but a few nights after this that the Rev. Henry Galbraith returned from a visit of a month to Cincinnati and reached his home after a night of boisterous storm. The snow was so deep and the roads so blocked with windfalls that he put up his horse in Gallipolis and started for his house on foot. "But where did you pass the night?" inquired his wife, after the greetings were over. "With old Deluse in the Isle of Pines," he answered. "I saw a light moving about the house, and rapped. No one came; so, as I was freezing, I forced open the door, built a fire, and lay down in my coat before it. Old Deluse came in presently and I apologized, but he paid no attention to me. He seemed to be walking in his sleep and to be searching for something. All night long I could hear his footsteps about the house, in pauses of the storm." The clergyman's wife and son looked at each other, and a friend who was present--a lawyer, named Maren--remarked, "You did not know that Deluse was dead and buried?" The clergyman was speechless with amazement. "You have been dreaming," said the lawyer. "Still, if you like, we will go there to-night and investigate." The clergyman, his son, and the lawyer went to the house about nine o'clock, and as they approached it a noise of fighting came from within--blows, the clink of steel, groans, and curses. Lights appeared, first at one window, then at another. The men rushed forward, burst in the door, and were inside--in darkness and silence. They had brought candles and lighted them, but the light revealed nothing. Dust lay thick on the floor except in the room where the clergyman had passed the previous night, and the door that he had then opened stood ajar, but the snow outside was drifted and unbroken by footsteps. Then came the sound of a fall that shook the building. At the same moment it was noticed by the other two men that young Galbraith was absent. They hurried into the room whence the noise had come. A board was wrenched from the wall there, disclosing a hollow that had been used for a hiding-place, and on the floor lay young Galbraith with a sack of Spanish coins in his hand. His father stooped to pick him up, but staggered back in horror, for the young man's life had gone. A post-mortem examination revealed no cause of death, and a rustic jury again laid it to a "visitation of God." MARQUETTE'S MAN-EATER Until it was worn away by the elements a curious relief was visible on the bluffs of the Mississippi near Alton, Illinois. It was to be seen as late as 1860, and represented a monster once famous as the "piasa bird." Father Marquette not only believed it but described it as a man-eater in the account of his explorations, where he mentions other zoological curiosities, such as unicorns with shaggy mane and land-turtles three feet long with two heads, "very mischievous and addicted to biting." He even showed a picture of the maneater that accorded rudely with the picture on the rocks. It was said to prey on human flesh, and to be held in fear by the Indians, who encountered it on and near the Mississippi. It had the body of a panther, wings like a bat, and head and horns of a deer. Father Marquette gave it a human face. The sculpture was undoubtedly made by Indians, but its resemblance to the winged bulls of Assyria and the sphinxes of Egypt has been quoted as confirmation of a prehistoric alliance of Old and New World races or the descent of one from the other. It has also been thought to stand for the totem of some great chief-symbolizing, by its body, strength; by its wings, speed; by its head, gentleness and beauty. But may not the tradition of it have descended from the discovery of comparatively late remains, by primitive man, of the winged saurians that crawled, swam, dived, or flew, lingering on till the later geologic period? The legend of the man-eater may even have been told by those who killed the last of the pterodactyls. MICHEL DE COUCY'S TROUBLES Michel De Coucy, of Prairie de Rocher, Illinois, sat before his door humming thoughtfully, and trying to pull comfort out of a black pipe.. He was in debt, and he did not like the sensation. As hunter, boatman, fiddler he had done well enough, but having rashly ventured into trade he had lost money, and being unable to meet a note had applied to Pedro Garcia for a loan at usurious interest. Garcia was a black-whiskered Spaniard who was known to have been a gambler in New Orleans, and as Michel was in arrears in his payments he was now threatening suit. Presently the hunter jumped up with a glad laugh, for two horsemen were approaching his place--the superior of the Jesuit convent at Notre Dame de Kaskaskia and the governor of the French settlements in Illinois, of whom he had asked advice, and who had come from Fort Chartres, on the Mississippi, to give it in person. It was good advice, too, for the effect of it was that there was no law of that time--1750--by which a Spaniard could sue a Frenchman on French territory. Moreover, the bond was invalid because it was drawn up in Spanish, and Garcia could produce no witness to verify the cross at the bottom of the document as of Michel's making. Great was the wrath of the Spaniard when Michel told him this, nor was it lessened when the hunter bade him have no fear--that he might be obliged to repudiate part of the interest, but that every livre of the principal would be forthcoming, if only a little time were allowed. The money lender walked away with clenched fists, muttering to himself, and Michel lit his pipe again. At supper-time little Genevieve, the twelve-year-old daughter of Michel, did not appear. The table was kept waiting for an hour. Michel sat down but could not eat, and, after scolding awhile in a half-hearted fashion, he went to the clearing down the road, where the child had been playing. A placard was seen upon a tree beside the way, and he called a passing neighbor to read to him these words: "Meshell Coosy. French rascal. Pay me my money and you have your daughter. Pedro Garcia." Accustomed as he was to perils, and quick as he generally was in expedient, Michel was overwhelmed by this stroke. The villagers offered to arm themselves and rescue the child, but he would not consent to this, for he was afraid that Garcia might kill her, if he knew that force was to be set against him. In a day or two Michel was told to go to Fort Chartres, as favorable news awaited him. He rode with all speed to that post, went to the official quarters, where the governor was sitting, and as he entered he became almost insane with rage, for Garcia stood before him. Nothing but the presence of others saved the Spaniard's life, and it was some time before Michel could be made to understand that Garcia was there under promise of safe conduct, and that the representatives of King Louis were in honor bound to see that he was not injured. The points at issue between the two men were reviewed, and the governor gave it as his decision that Michel must pay his debt without interest, that being forfeit by the Spaniard's abduction of Genevieve, and that the Spaniard was to restore the girl, both parties in the case being remanded to prison until they had obeyed this judgment. "But I have your promise of safe conduct!" cried the Spaniard, blazing with wrath. "And you shall have it when the girl returns," replied the governor. "You shall be protected in going and coming, but there is no reference in the paper that you hold as to how long we may wish to keep you with us." Both men were marched away forthwith, but Michel was released in an hour, for in that time the people had subscribed enough to pay his debt. The Spaniard sent a messenger to a renegade who had little Genevieve in keeping, and next day he too went free, swearing horribly, but glad to accept the service of an armed escort until he was well out of town. Michel embraced his child with ardor when once she was in his arms again; then he lighted his pipe and set out with her for home, convinced that French law was the best in the world, that Spaniards were not to be trusted, and that it is safer to keep one's earnings under the floor than to venture them in trade. WALLEN'S RIDGE A century ago this rough eminence, a dozen miles from Chattanooga, Tennessee, was an abiding place of Cherokee Indians, among whom was Arinook, their medicine-man, and his daughter. The girl was pure and fair, and when a white hunter saw her one day at the door of her father's wigwam he was so struck with her charm of person and her engaging manner that he resolved not to return to his people until he had won her for his wife. She had many lovers, though she favored none of them, and while the Cherokees were at first loth to admit a stranger to their homes they forgot their jealousy when they found that this one excelled as a hunter and fisherman, that he could throw the knife and tomahawk better than themselves, and that he was apt in their work and their sports. They even submitted to the inevitable with half a grace when they found that the stranger and the girl of whom they were so fond were in love. With an obduracy that seems to be characteristic of fathers, the medicine-man refused his consent to the union, and the hearts of the twain were heavy. Though the white man pleaded with her to desert her tribe, she refused to do so, on the score of duty to her father, and the couple forlornly roamed about the hill, watching the sunset from its top and passing the bright summer evenings alone, sitting hand in hand, loving, sorrowing, and speaking not. In one of their long rambles they found themselves beside the Tennessee River at a point where the current swirls among rocks and sucks down things that float, discharging them at the surface in still water, down the stream. Here for a time they stood, when the girl, with a gush of tears, began to sing--it was her death-song. The white man grasped her hand and joined his voice to hers. Then they took a last embrace and flung themselves into the water, still hand in hand. When the river is low you may hear their death-song sounding there. The manitous of the river and the wood were offended with the medicine-man because of his stubbornness and cruelty, although he suffered greatly because of the death his daughter died, and he the cause of it. For now strange Indians appeared among the Cherokees and drove the deer and bear away. Tall, strong, and large were these intruders, and they hung about the village by day and night--never speaking, yet casting a fear about them, for they would throw great rocks farther than a warrior could shoot an arrow with the wind behind him; they had horns springing from their heads; their eyes were the eyes of wild-cats, and shone in the dark; they growled like animals, shaking the earth when they did so, and breathing flame; they were at the bedside, at the council-fire, at the banquet, seeming only to wait for a show of enmity to annihilate the tribe. At length the people could endure their company no longer, and taking down their lodges they left Wallen's Ridge and wandered far away until they came to a valley where no foot had left its impress, and there they besought the Great Spirit to forgive the wrong their medicine-man had done, and to free them from the terrible spirits that had been living among them. The prayer was granted, and the lodges stood for many years in a safe and happy valley. THE SKY WALKER OF HURON Here is the myth of Endymion and Diana, as told on the shores of Saginaw Bay, in Michigan, by Indians who never heard of Greeks. Cloud Catcher, a handsome youth of the Ojibways, offended his family by refusing to fast during the ceremony of his coming of age, and was put out of the paternal wigwam. It was so fine a night that the sky served him as well as a roof, and he had a boy's confidence in his ability to make a living, and something of fame and fortune, maybe. He dropped upon a tuft of moss to plan for his future, and drowsily noted the rising of the moon, in which he seemed to see a face. On awaking he found that it was not day, yet the darkness was half dispelled by light that rayed from a figure near him--the form of a lovely woman. "Cloud Catcher, I have come for you," she said. And as she turned away he felt impelled to rise and follow. But, instead of walking, she began to move into the air with the flight of an eagle, and, endowed with a new power, he too ascended beside her. The earth was dim and vast below, stars blazed as they drew near them, yet the radiance of the woman seemed to dull their glory. Presently they passed through a gate of clouds and stood on a beautiful plain, with crystal ponds and brooks watering noble trees and leagues of flowery meadow; birds of brightest colors darted here and there, singing like flutes; the very stones were agate, jasper, and chalcedony. An immense lodge stood on the plain, and within were embroideries and ornaments, couches of rich furs, pipes and arms cut from jasper and tipped with silver. While the young man was gazing around him with delight, the brother of his guide appeared and reproved her, advising her to send the young man back to earth at once, but, as she flatly refused to do so, he gave a pipe and bow and arrows to Cloud Catcher, as a token of his consent to their marriage, and wished them happiness, which, in fact, they had. This brother, who was commanding, tall, and so dazzling in his gold and silver ornaments that one could hardly look upon him, was abroad all day, while his sister was absent for a part of the night. He permitted Cloud Catcher to go with him on one of his daily walks, and as they crossed the lovely Sky Land they glanced down through open valley bottoms on the green earth below. The rapid pace they struck gave to Cloud Catcher an appetite and he asked if there were no game. "Patience," counselled his companion. On arriving at a spot where a large hole had been broken through the sky they reclined on mats, and the tall man loosing one of his silver ornaments flung it into a group of children playing before a lodge. One of the little ones fell and was carried within, amid lamentations. Then the villagers left their sports and labors and looked up at the sky. The tall man cried, in a voice of thunder, "Offer a sacrifice and the child shall be well again." A white dog was killed, roasted, and in a twinkling it shot up to the feet of Cloud Catcher, who, being empty, attacked it voraciously. Many such walks and feasts came after, and the sights of earth and taste of meat filled the mortal with a longing to see his people again. He told his wife that he wanted to go back. She consented, after a time, saying, "Since you are better pleased with the cares, the ills, the labor, and the poverty of the world than with the comfort and abundance of Sky Land, you may return; but remember you are still my husband, and beware how you venture to take an earthly maiden for a wife." She arose lightly, clasped Cloud Catcher by the wrist, and began to move with him through the air. The motion lulled him and he fell asleep, waking at the door of his father's lodge. His relatives gathered and gave him welcome, and he learned that he had been in the sky for a year. He took the privations of a hunter's and warrior's life less kindly than he thought to, and after a time he enlivened its monotony by taking to wife a bright-eyed girl of his tribe. In four days she was dead. The lesson was unheeded and he married again. Shortly after, he stepped from his lodge one evening and never came back. The woods were filled with a strange radiance on that night, and it is asserted that Cloud Catcher was taken back to the lodge of the Sun and Moon, and is now content to live in heaven. THE COFFIN OF SNAKES No one knew how it was that Lizon gained the love of Julienne, at L'Anse Creuse (near Detroit), for she was a girl of sweet and pious disposition, the daughter of a God-fearing farmer, while Lizon was a dark, ill-favored wretch, who had come among the people nobody knew whence, and lived on the profits of a tap-room where the vilest liquor was sold, and where gaming, fighting, and carousing were of nightly occurrence. Perhaps they were right in saying that it was witchcraft. He impudently laid siege to her heart, and when she showed signs of yielding he told her and her friends that he had no intention of marrying her, because he did not believe in religion. Yet Julienne deserted her comfortable home and went to live with this disreputable scamp in his disreputable tavern, to the scandal of the community, and especially of the priest, who found Lizon's power for evil greater than his own for good, for as the tavern gained in hangers-on the church lost worshippers. One Sunday morning Julienne surprised the people by appearing in church and publicly asking pardon for her wrong-doing. It was the first time she had appeared there since her flight, and she was as one who had roused from a trance or fever-sleep. Her father gladly took her home again, and all went well until New-Year's eve, when the young men called d'Ignolee made the rounds of the settlement to sing and beg meat for the poor--a custom descended from the Druids. They came to the house of Julienne's father and received his welcome and his goods, but their song was interrupted by a cry of distress--Lizon was among the maskers, and Julienne was gone. A crowd of villagers ran to the cabaret and rescued the girl from the room into which the fellow had thrust her, but it was too late--she had lost her reason. Cursing and striking and blaspheming, Lizon was at last confronted by the priest, who told him he had gone too far; that he had been a plague to the people and an enemy to the church. He then pronounced against him the edict of excommunication, and told him that even in his grave he should not rest; that the church, abandoned by so many victims of his wiles and tyrannies, should be swept away. The priest left the place forthwith, and the morals of the village fell lower and lower. Everything was against it, too. Blight and storm and insect pest ravaged the fields and orchards, as if nature had engaged to make an expression of the iniquity of the place. Suddenly death came upon Lizon. A pit was dug near his tavern and he was placed in a coffin, but as the box was lowered it was felt to grow lighter, while there poured from it a swarm of fat and filthy snakes. The fog that overspread the earth that morning seemed to blow by in human forms, the grave rolled like a wave after it had been covered, and after darkness fell a blue will-o'-the-wisp danced over it. A storm set in, heaping the billows on shore until the church was undermined, and with a crash it fell into the seething flood. But the curse had passed, and when a new chapel was built the old evils had deserted L'Anse Crease. MACKINACK Not only was Mackinack the birthplace of Hiawatha: it was the home of God himself--Gitchi Manitou, or Mitchi Manitou--who placed there an Indian Adam and Eve to watch and cultivate his gardens. He also made the beaver, that his children might eat, and they acknowledged his goodness in oblations. Bounteous sacrifices insured entrance after death to the happy hunting-grounds beyond the Rocky Mountains. Those who had failed in these offerings were compelled to wander about the Great Lakes, shelterless, and watched by unsleeping giants who were ten times the stature of mortals. These giants still exist, but in the form of conical rocks, one of which-called Sugar-Loaf, or Manitou's Wigwam--is ninety feet high. A cave in this obelisk is pointed out as Manitou's abiding-place, and it was believed that every other spire in the group had its wraith, whence has come the name of the island--Michillimackinack (place of great dancing spirits). Arch Rock is the place that Manitou built to reach his home from Sunrise Land the better. There were many such monuments of divinities in the north. They are met with all about the lakes and in the wooded wilderness, the most striking one being the magnificent spire of basalt in the Black Hills region of Wyoming. It is known as Devil's Tower, or Mateo's Tepee, and by the red men is held to be the wigwam of a were-animal that can become man at pleasure. This singular rock towers above the Belle Fourche River to a height of eight hundred feet. Deep beneath Mackinack was a stately and beautiful cavern hall where spirits had their revels. An Indian who got leave to quit his body saw it in company with one of the spirits, and spread glowing reports of its beauties when he had clothed himself in flesh again. When Adam and Eve died they, too, became spirits and continued to watch the home of Manitou. Now, there is another version of this tradition which gives the, original name of the island as Moschenemacenung, meaning "great turtle." The French missionaries and traders, finding the word something too large a mouthful, softened it to Michillimackinack, and, when the English came, three syllables served them as well as a hundred, so Mackinack it is to this day. Manitou, having made a turtle from a drop of his own sweat, sent it to the bottom of Lake Huron, whence it brought a mouthful of mud, and from this Mackinack was created. As a reward for his service the turtle was allowed to sleep there in the sun forever. Yet another version has it that the Great Spirit plucked a sand-grain from the primeval ocean, set it floating on those waters, and tended it until it grew so large that a young wolf, running constantly, died of old age before reaching its limits. The sand became the earth. Prophecy has warned the Winnebagoes that Manibozho (Michabo or Hiawatha) shall smite by pestilence at the end of their thirteenth generation. Ten are gone. All shall perish but one pure pair, who will people the recreated world. Manibozho, or Minnebojou, is called a "culture myth," but the Indians have faith in him. They say that he lies asleep on the north shore of Lake Superior, beneath the "hill of four knobs," known as the Sleeping Giant. There offerings are made to him, and it was a hope of his speedy rising that started the Messiah craze in the West in 1890. LAKE SUPERIOR WATER GODS There were many water gods about Lake Superior to whom the Indians paid homage, casting implements, ornaments, and tobacco into the water whenever they passed a spot where one of these manitous sat enthroned. At Thunder Cape, on the north shore, lies Manibozho, and in the pillared recess of La Chapelle, among the Pictured Rocks, dwelt powerful rulers of the storm to whose mercy the red men commended themselves with quaint rites whenever they were to set forth on a voyage over the great unsalted sea. At Le Grand Portal were hidden a horde of mischievous imps, among whose pranks was the repetition of every word spoken by the traveller as he rested on his oars beneath this mighty arch. The Chippewas worked the copper mines at Keweenaw Point before the white race had learned of a Western land, but they did so timidly, for they believed that a demon would visit with injury or death the rash mortal who should presume to pillage his treasure, unless he had first bestowed gifts upon him. Even then they went ashore with fear, lighted fires around a surface of native copper, hacked off a few pounds of the softened metal, and ran to their canoes without looking behind them. There was another bad manitou at the mouth of Superior Bay, where conflicting currents make a pother of waters. This spirit sat on the bottom of the lake, gazing upward, and if any boatman ventured to cross his domain without dropping a pipe or beads or hatchet into it, woe betide him, for his boat would be caught in a current and smashed against a rocky shore. Perhaps the most vexatious god was he who ruled the Floating Islands. These islands were beautiful with trees and flowers, metal shone and crystals sparkled on their ledges, sweet fruits grew in plenty, and song-birds flitted over them. In wonder and delight the hunter would speed toward them in his canoe, but as he neared their turfy banks the jealous manitou, who kept these fairy lands for his own pleasure, would throw down a fog and shut them out of sight. Never could the hunter set foot on them, no matter how long he kept up his search. THE WITCH OF PICTURED ROCKS On the Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior dwelt an Ojibway woman, a widow, who was cared for by a relative. This relative was a hunter, the husband of an agreeable wife, the father of two bright children. Being of a mean and jealous nature, the widow begrudged every kindness that the hunter showed to his wife--the skins he brought for her clothing, the moose's lip or other dainty that he saved for her; and one day, in a pretence of fine good-nature, the old woman offered to give the younger a swing in a vine pendent from a tree that overhung the lake. The wife accepted, and, seating herself on the vine, was swayed to and fro, catching her breath, yet laughing as she swept out over the water. When the momentum was greatest the old woman cut the stem. A splash was heard--then all was silent. Returning to the lodge, the hag disguised herself in a dress of the missing woman, and sitting in a shadow, pretended to nurse the infant of the household. The hunter, returning, was a little surprised that his wife should keep her face from him, and more surprised that the old woman did not appear for her share of the food that he had brought; but after their meal he took his little ones to the lake, to enjoy the evening breeze, when the elder burst into tears, declaring that the woman in the lodge was not his mother, and that he feared his own mother was dead or lost. The hunter hurled his spear into the earth and prayed that, if his wife were dead, her body might be found, so he could mourn over it and give it burial. Instantly a bolt of lightning came from a passing cloud and shot into the lake, while the thunder-peal that followed shook the stones he stood on. It also disturbed the water and presently something was seen rising through it. The man stepped into a thicket and watched. In a few moments a gull arose from the lake and flew to the spot where the children were seated. Around its body was a leather belt, embroidered with beads and quills, which the hunter recognized, and, advancing softly, he caught the bird--that changed at once into the missing woman. The family set forth toward home, and as they entered the lodge the witch--for such she was--looked up, with a start, then uttered a cry of despair. Bending low, she moved her arms in both imprecation and appeal. A moment later a black, ungainly bird flew from the wigwam and passed from sight among the trees. The witch never came back to plague them. THE ORIGIN OF WHITE-FISH An Indian who lived far in the north was so devoted to the chase that he was never at home for the whole of a day, to the sorrow of his two boys, who liked nothing so much as to sport with him and to be allowed to practise with his weapons. Their mother told them that on no account were they to speak to him of the young man who visited the lodge while their father was away, and it was not until they were well grown and knew what the duty of wives should be that they resolved to disobey her. The hunter struck the woman dead when he learned of her perfidy. So greatly did her spirit trouble them, however, that they could no longer abide in their old home in peace and comfort, and they left the country and journeyed southward until they came to the Sault Sainte Marie. As they stood beside the falls a head came rolling toward them on the earth--the head of the dead woman. At that moment, too, a crane was seen riding on the surface of the water, whirling about in its strongest eddies, and when one of the boys called to it, "O Grandfather, we are persecuted by a spirit; take us across the falls," the crane flew to them. "Cling to my back and do not touch my head," it said to them, and landed them safely on the farther shore. But now the head screamed, "Come, grandfather, and carry me over, for I have lost my children and am sorely distressed," and the bird flew to her likewise. "Be careful not to touch my head," it said. The head promised obedience, but succumbed to curiosity when half-way over and touched the bird's head to see what was the matter with him. With a lurch the crane flung off his burden and it fell into the rapids. As it swept down, bumping against the rocks, the brains were pounded out and strewn over the water. "You were useless in life," cried the crane. "You shall not be so in death. Become fish!" And the bits of brain changed to roe that presently hatched to a delicate white fish, the flesh whereof is esteemed by Indians of the lakes, and white men, likewise. The family pitched a lodge near the spot and took the crane as their totem or name-mark. Many of their descendants bear it to this day. THE SPIRIT OF CLOUDY Among the lumbermen of Alger, Michigan, was William Cloud, an Indian, usually called Cloudy, who was much employed on a chute a mile and a half out of the village. The rains were heavy one spring, and a large raft of logs had been floated down to the chute, where they were held back by a gate until it was time to send them through in a mass. When the creek had reached its maximum height the foreman gave word to the log-drivers to lower the gate and let the timber down. This order came on a chilly April night, and, as it was pitchy dark and rain was falling in sheets, the lumbermen agreed to draw cuts to decide which of them should venture out and start the logs. Cloudy drew the fatal slip. He was a quiet fellow, and without a word he opened the door, bent against the storm, and passed into the darkness. An hour went by, and the men in the cabin laughed as they described the probable appearance of their comrade when he should return, soaked through and through, and they wondered if he was waiting in some shelter beside the path for the middle of the night to pass, for the Indians believed that an evil spirit left the stream every night and was abroad until that hour. As time lengthened the jest and talk subsided and a moody silence supervened. At length one of the number resolved to sally out and see if any mishap had fallen to the Indian. He was joined by three others, and the party repaired to the creek. Above the chute it was seen that the gate--which was released by the withdrawal of iron pins and sank of its own weight-had not quite settled into place, and by the light of a lantern held near the surface of the rushing current an obstruction could be dimly seen. The gate was slightly raised and the object drawn up with pike-poles. It was the mangled body of Cloudy. He was buried beside the creek; but the camp was soon abandoned and the chute is in decay, for between the hours of ten and twelve each night the wraith of the Indian, accompanied by the bad spirit of the stream, ranges through the wood, his form shining blue in the gloom, his groans sounding above the swish and lap of the waters. THE SUN FIRE AT SAULT SAINTE MARIE Father Marquette reached Sault Sainte Marie, in company with Greysolon Du Lhut, in August, 1670, and was received in a manner friendly enough, but the Chippewas warned him to turn back from that point, for the Ojibways beyond were notoriously hostile to Europeans, their chief--White Otter--having taken it on himself to revenge, by war, his father's desertion of his mother. His father was a Frenchman. Inspired by his mission, and full of the enthusiasm of youth and of the faith that had led him safely through a host of dangers and troubles, Marquette refused to change his plans, and even ventured the assertion that he could tame the haughty Otter and bring him to the cross. At dawn he and his doughty henchman set off in a war-canoe, but, on arriving in White Otter's camp and speaking their errand, they were seized and bound, to await death on the morrow. The wife of the chief spoke, out of the kindness of her heart, and asked mercy for the white men. To no avail. The brute struck her to the ground. That night his daughter, Wanena, who had seen Du Lhut at the trading post and had felt the stir of a generous sentiment toward him, appeared before the prisoners when sleep was heaviest in the camp, cut their bonds, led them by an obscure path to the river, where she enjoined them to enter a canoe, and guided the boat to the Holy Isle. This was where the Ojibways came to lay offerings before the image of Manitou, whose home was there believed to be. There the friendly red men would be sure to find and rescue them, she thought, and after a few hours of sleep she led them into a secluded glen where stood the figure rudely carved from a pine trunk, six feet high, and tricked with gewgaws. As they stood there, stealthy steps were heard, and before they could conceal themselves White Otter and eight of his men were upon them. Du Lhut grasped a club from among the weapons that--with other offerings--strewed the earth at the statue's feet and prepared to sell his life dearly. The priest drew forth his crucifix and prayed. The girl dropped to the ground, drew her blanket over her head, and began to sing her death-song. "So the black-coat and the woman-stealer have come to die before the Indian's god?" sneered the chief. "If it be God's will, we will die defying your god and you," replied Marquette. "Yet we fear not death, and if God willed he could deliver us as easily as he could destroy that worthless image." He spoke in an undertone to Du Lhut, and continued, confidently, "challenge your god to withstand mine. I shall pray my God to send his fire from the sky and burn this thing. If he does so will you set us free and become a Christian?" "I will; but if you fail, you die." "And if I win you must pardon your daughter." White Otter grunted his assent. The sun was high and brought spicy odors from the wood; an insect hummed drowsily, and a bird-song echoed from the distance. Unconscious of what was being enacted about her, Wanena kept rocking to and fro, singing her death-song, and waiting the blow that would stretch her at her father's feet. The savages gathered around the image and watched it with eager interest. Raising his crucifix with a commanding gesture, the priest strode close to the effigy, and in a loud voice cried, in Chippewa, "In the name of God, I command fire to destroy this idol!" A spot of light danced upon the breast of the image. It grew dazzling bright and steady. Then a smoke began to curl from the dry grass and feathers it was decked with. The Indians fell back in amazement, and when a faint breeze passed, fanning the sparks into flame, they fell on their faces, trembling with apprehension, for Marquette declared, "As my God treats this idol, so can he treat you!" Then, looking up to see the manitou in flames, White Otter exclaimed, "The white man's God has won. Spare us, O mighty medicine!" "I will do so, if you promise to become as white men in the faith and be baptized." Tamed by fear, the red men laid aside their weapons and knelt at a brook where Marquette, gathering water in his hands, gave the rite of baptism to each, and laid down the moral law they were to live by. Wanena, who had fainted from sheer fright when she saw the idol burning, was restored, and it may be added that the priest who Christianized her also married her to Du Lhut, who prospered and left his name to the city of the lake. News of the triumph of the white men's God went far and wide, and Marquette found his missions easier after that. Du Lhut alone, of all those present, was in the father's secret. He had perpetrated a pious fraud, justified by the results as well as by his peril. A burning-glass had been fastened to the crucifix, and with that he had destroyed the idol. Trading thus on native ignorance a Frenchman named Lyons at another time impressed the Indians at Dubuque and gained his will by setting a creek on fire. They did not know that he had first poured turpentine over it. THE SNAKE GOD OF BELLE ISLE The Indian demi-god, Sleeping Bear, had a daughter so beautiful that he kept her out of the sight of men in a covered boat that swung on Detroit River, tied to a tree on shore; but the Winds, having seen her when her father had visited her with food, contended so fiercely to possess her that the little cable was snapped and the boat danced on to the keeper of the water-gates, who lived at the outlet of Lake Huron. The keeper, filled with admiration for the girl's beauty, claimed the boat and its charming freight, but he had barely received her into his lodge when the angry Winds fell upon him, buffeting him so sorely that he died, and was buried on Peach Island (properly Isle au Peche), where his spirit remained for generations--an oracle sought by Indians before emprise in war. His voice had the sound of wind among the reeds, and its meanings could not be told except by those who had prepared themselves by fasting and meditation to receive them. Before planning his campaign against the English, Pontiac fasted here for seven days to "clear his ear" and hear the wisdom of the sighing voice. But the Winds were not satisfied with the slaying of the keeper. They tore away his meadows and swept them out as islands. They smashed the damsel's boat and the little bark became Belle Isle. Here Manitou placed the girl, and set a girdle of vicious snakes around the shore to guard her and to put a stop to further contests. These islands in the straits seem to have been favorite places of exile and theatres of transformation. The Three Sisters are so called because of three Indian women who so scolded and wrangled that their father was obliged to separate them and put one on each of the islands for the sake of peace. It was at Belle Isle that the red men had put up and worshipped a natural stone image. Hearing of this idol, on reaching Detroit, Dollier and De Galinee crossed over to it, tore it down, smashed it, flung the bigger piece of it into the river, and erected a cross in its place. The sunken portion of the idol called aloud to the faithful, who had assembled to wonder at the audacity of the white men and witness their expected punishment by Manitou, and told them to cast in the other portions. They did so, and all the fragments united and became a monster serpent that kept the place from further intrusion. Later, when La Salle ascended the straits in his ship, the Griffin, the Indians on shore invoked the help of this, their manitou, and strange forms arose from the water that pushed the ship into the north, her crew vainly singing hymns with a hope of staying the demoniac power. WERE-WOLVES OF DETROIT Long were the shores of Detroit vexed by the Snake God of Belle Isle and his children, the witches, for the latter sold enchantments and were the terror of good people. Jacques Morand, the _coureur de bois_, was in love with Genevieve Parent, but she disliked him and wished only to serve the church. Courting having proved of no avail, he resolved on force when she had decided to enter a convent, and he went to one of the witches, who served as devil's agent, to sell his soul. The witch accepted the slight commodity and paid for it with a grant of power to change from a man's form to that of a were-wolf, or _loup garou_, that he might the easier bear away his victim. Incautiously, he followed her to Grosse Pointe, where an image of the Virgin had been set up, and as Genevieve dropped at the feet of the statue to implore aid, the wolf, as he leaped to her side, was suddenly turned to stone. Harder was the fate of another maiden, Archange Simonet, for she was seized by a were-wolf at this place and hurried away while dancing at her own wedding. The bridegroom devoted his life to the search for her, and finally lost his reason, but he prosecuted the hunt so vengefully and shrewdly that he always found assistance. One of the neighbors cut off the wolf's tail with a silver bullet, the appendage being for many years preserved by the Indians. The lover finally came upon the creature and chased it to the shore, where its footprint is still seen in one of the bowlders, but it leaped into the water and disappeared. In his crazy fancy the lover declared that it had jumped down the throat of a catfish, and that is why the French Canadians have a prejudice against catfish as an article of diet. The man-wolf dared as much for gain as for love. On the night that Jean Chiquot got the Indians drunk and bore off their beaver-skins, the wood witches, known as "the white women," fell upon him and tore a part of his treasure from him, while a were-wolf pounced so hard on his back that he lost more. He drove the creatures to a little distance, but was glad to be safe inside of the fort again, though the officers laughed at him and called him a coward. When they went back over the route with him they were astonished to find the grass scorched where the women had fled before him, and little springs in the turf showed where they had been swallowed up. Sulphur-water was bubbling from the spot where the wolf dived into the earth when the trader's rosary fell out of his jacket. Belle Fontaine, the spot was called, long afterward. THE ESCAPE OF FRANCOIS NAVARRE When the Hurons came to Sandwich, opposite the Michigan shore, in 1806, and camped near the church for the annual "festival of savages," which was religious primarily, but incidentally gastronomic, athletic, and alcoholic, an old woman of the tribe foretold to Angelique Couture that, ere long, blood would be shed freely and white men and Indians would take each other's lives. That was a reasonably safe prophecy in those days, and, though Angelique repeated it to her friends, she did not worry over it. But when the comet of 1812 appeared the people grew afraid--and with cause, for the war soon began with England. The girl's brothers fought under the red flag; her lover, Francois Navarre, under the stars and stripes. The cruel General Proctor one day passed through Sandwich with prisoners on his way to the Hurons, who were to put them to death in the usual manner. As they passed by, groaning in anticipation of their fate, foot-sore and covered with dust, Angelique nearly swooned, for among them she recognized her lover. He, too, had seen her, and the recognition had been noticed by Proctor. Whether his savage heart was for the moment softened by their anguish, or whether he wished to heighten their pain by a momentary taste of joy, it is certain that on reaching camp he paroled Francrois until sunset. The young man hastened to the girl's house, and for one hour they were sadly happy. She tried to make him break his parole and escape, but he refused, and as the sun sank he tore himself from her arms and hastened to rejoin his companions in misery. His captors admired him for this act of honor, and had he so willed he could have been then and there received into their tribe. As it was, they allowed him to remain unbound. Hardly had the sun gone down when a number of boats drew up at the beach with another lot of prisoners, and with yells of rejoicing the Indians ran to the river to drive them into camp. Francois's opportunity was brief, but he seized it. In the excitement he had been unobserved. He was not under oath now, and with all speed he dashed into the wood. Less than a minute had elapsed before his absence was discovered, but he was a cunning woodman, and by alternately running and hiding, with gathering darkness in his favor, he had soon put the savages at a distance. A band of English went to Angelique's home, thinking that he would be sure to rejoin her; but he was too shrewd for that, and it was in vain that they fired guns up the chimneys and thrust bayonets into beds. Angelique was terrified at this intrusion, but the men had been ordered not to injure the woman, and she was glad, after all, to think that Francois had escaped. Some days later one of the Hurons came to her door and pointed significantly to a fresh scalp that hung at his belt. In the belief that it was her lover's she grew ill and began to fade, but one evening there came a faint tap at the door. She opened it to find a cap on the door-step. There was no writing, yet her heart rose in her bosom and the color came back to her cheeks, for she recognized it as her lover's. Later, she learned that Francois had kept to the forest until he reached the site of Walkerville, where he had found a canoe and reached the American side in safety. She afterward rejoined him in Detroit, and they were married at the end of the war, through which he served with honor and satisfaction to himself, being enabled to pay many old scores against the red-coats and the Indians. THE OLD LODGER In 1868 there died in Detroit a woman named Marie Louise Thebault, more usually called Kennette. She was advanced in years, and old residents remembered when she was one of the quaintest figures and most assertive spirits in the town, for until a few years before her death she was rude of speech, untidy in appearance, loved nothing or respected nothing unless it might be her violin and her money, and lived alone in a little old house on the river-road to Springwells. Though she made shoes for a living, she was of so miserly a nature that she accepted food from her neighbors, and in order to save the expense of light and fuel she spent her evenings out. Yet she read more or less, and was sufficiently acquainted with Volney, Voltaire, and other skeptics to shock her church acquaintances. Love of gain, not of company, induced her to lease one of her rooms to a pious old woman, from whom she got not only a little rent, but the incidental use of her fuel and light. When the pious one tried to win her to the church it angered her, and then, too, she had a way of telling ghost stories that Kennette laughed at. One of these narratives that she would dwell on with especial self-conviction was that of Lieutenant Muir, who had left his mistress, when she said No to his pleadings, supposing that she spoke the truth, whereas she was merely trying to be coquettish. He fell in an attack on the Americans that night, and came back, bleeding, to the girl who had made him throw his life away; he pressed her hand, leaving the mark of skeleton fingers there, so that she always kept it gloved afterward. Then there was the tale of the two men of Detroit who were crushed by a falling tree: the married one, who was not fatally hurt, begged his mate to call his wife, as soon as his soul was free, and the woman, hearing the mournful voice at her door, as the spirit passed on its way to space, ran out and rescued her husband from his plight. She told, too, of the _feu follet_, or will-o'-the-wisp, that led a girl on Grosse Isle to the swamp where her lover was engulfed in mire and enabled her to rescue him. There was Grand'mere Duchene, likewise, who worked at her spinning-wheel for many a night after death, striking fear to her son's heart, by its droning, because he had not bought the fifty masses for the repose of her soul, but when he had fulfilled the promise she came no more. Another yarn was about the ghost-boat of hunter Sebastian that ascends the straits once in seven years, celebrating his return, after death, in accordance with the promise made to Zoe, his betrothed, that--dead or alive--he would return to her from the hunt at a certain time. To all this Kennette turned the ear of scorning. "Bah!" she cried. "I don't believe your stories. I don't believe in your hell and your purgatory. If you die first, come back. If I should, and I can, I will come. Then we may know whether there is another world." The bargain was made to this effect, but the women did not get on well together, and soon Kennette had an open quarrel with her lodger that ended by her declaring that she never could forgive her, but that she would hold her to her after-death compact. The lodger died, and while talking of her death at the house of a neighbor a boy, who had arrived from town, casually asked Kennette--knowing her saving ways--why she had left the light burning in her house. Grasping a poker, she set off at once to punish the intruder who had dared to enter in her absence, but when she arrived there was no light. On several evenings the light was reported by others, but as she was gadding in the neighborhood she never saw it until, one night, resolved to see for herself, she returned early, softly entered at the back door, and went to bed. Hardly had she done so when she saw a light coming up-stairs. Sitting bolt upright in bed she waited. The light came up noiselessly and presently stood in the room--not a lantern or candle, but a white phosphorescence. It advanced toward her, changing its form until she saw a cloudy likeness to a human being. For the first time in her life she feared. "Come no nearer!" she cried. "I know you. I believe you, and I forgive." The light vanished. From that night it was remarked that Kennette began to age fast--she began to change and become more like other women. She went to church and her face grew softer and kinder. It was the only time that she saw the spirit, but the effect of the visit was permanent. THE NAIN ROUGE Among all the impish offspring of the Stone God, wizards and witches, that made Detroit feared by the early settlers, none were more dreaded than the Nain Rouge (Red Dwarf), or Demon of the Strait, for it appeared only when there was to be trouble. In that it delighted. It was a shambling, red-faced creature, with a cold, glittering eye and teeth protruding from a grinning mouth. Cadillac, founder of Detroit, having struck at it, presently lost his seigniory and his fortunes. It was seen scampering along the shore on the night before the attack on Bloody Run, when the brook that afterward bore this name turned red with the blood of soldiers. People saw it in the smoky streets when the city was burned in 1805, and on the morning of Hull's surrender it was found grinning in the fog. It rubbed its bony knuckles expectantly when David Fisher paddled across the strait to see his love, Soulange Gaudet, in the only boat he could find--a wheel-barrow, namely--but was sobered when David made a safe landing. It chuckled when the youthful bloods set off on Christmas day to race the frozen strait for the hand of buffer Beauvais's daughter Claire, but when her lover's horse, a wiry Indian nag, came pacing in it fled before their happiness. It was twice seen on the roof of the stable where that sour-faced, evil-eyed old mumbler, Jean Beaugrand, kept his horse, Sans Souci--a beast that, spite of its hundred years or more, could and did leap every wall in Detroit, even the twelve-foot stockade of the fort, to steal corn and watermelons, and that had been seen in the same barn, sitting at a table, playing seven-up with his master, and drinking a liquor that looked like melted brass. The dwarf whispered at the sleeping ear of the old chief who slew Friar Constantine, chaplain of the fort, in anger at the teachings that had parted a white lover from his daughter and led her to drown herself--a killing that the red man afterward confessed, because he could no longer endure the tolling of a mass bell in his ears and the friar's voice in the wind. The Nain Rouge it was who claimed half of the old mill, on Presque Isle, that the sick and irritable Josette swore that she would leave to the devil when her brother Jean pestered her to make her will in his favor, giving him complete ownership. On the night of her death the mill was wrecked by a thunder-bolt, and a red-faced imp was often seen among the ruins, trying to patch the machinery so as to grind the devil's grist. It directed the dance of black cats in the mill at Pont Rouge, after the widow's curse had fallen on Louis Robert, her brother-in-law. This man, succeeding her husband as director of the property, had developed such miserly traits that she and her children were literally starved to death, but her dying curse threw such ill luck on the place and set afloat such evil report about it that he took himself away. The Nain Rouge may have been the Lutin that took Jacques L'Esperance's ponies from the stable at Grosse Pointe, and, leaving no tracks in sand or snow, rode them through the air all night, restoring them at dawn quivering with fatigue, covered with foam, bloody with the lash of a thorn-bush. It stopped that exercise on the night that Jacques hurled a font of holy water at it, but to keep it away the people of Grosse Pointe still mark their houses with the sign of a cross. It was lurking in the wood on the day that Captain Dalzell went against Pontiac, only to perish in an ambush, to the secret relief of his superior, Major Gladwyn, for the major hoped to win the betrothed of Dalzell; but when the girl heard that her lover had been killed at Bloody Run, and his head had been carried on a pike, she sank to the ground never to rise again in health, and in a few days she had followed the victims of the massacre. There was a suspicion that the Nain Rouge had power to change his shape for one not less offensive. The brothers Tremblay had no luck in fishing through the straits and lakes until one of them agreed to share his catch with St. Patrick, the saint's half to be sold at the church-door for the benefit of the poor and for buying masses to relieve souls in purgatory. His brother doubted if this benefit would last, and feared that they might be lured into the water and turned into fish, for had not St. Patrick eaten pork chops on a Friday, after dipping them into holy water and turning them into trout? But his good brother kept on and prospered and the bad one kept on grumbling. Now, at Grosse Isle was a strange thing called the rolling muff, that all were afraid of, since to meet it was a warning of trouble; but, like the _feu follet_, it could be driven off by holding a cross toward it or by asking it on what day of the month came Christmas. The worse of the Tremblays encountered this creature and it filled him with dismay. When he returned his neighbors observed an odor--not of sanctity--on his garments, and their view of the matter was that he had met a skunk. The graceless man felt convinced, however, that he had received a devil's baptism from the Nain Rouge, and St. Patrick had no stancher allies than both the Tremblays, after that. TWO REVENGES It is no more possible to predicate the conduct of an Indian than that of a woman. In Detroit lived Wasson, one of the warriors of the dreaded Pontiac, who had felt some tender movings of the spirit toward a girl of his tribe. The keeper of the old red mill that stood at the foot of Twenty-fourth Street adopted her, with the consent of her people, and did his best to civilize her. But Wasson kept watch. He presently discovered that whenever the miller was away a candle shone in the window until a figure wrapped in a military cloak emerged from the shadows, knocked, and was admitted. On the night that Wasson identified his rival as Colonel Campbell, an English officer, he stole into the girl's room through the window and cut her down with his hatchet. Colonel Campbell, likewise, he slew after Pontiac had made prisoners of the garrison. The mill was shunned, after that, for the figure of a girl, with a candle in her hand, frightened so many people by moving about the place that it was torn down in 1795. But the red man was not always hostile. Kenen, a Huron, loved a half-breed girl, whom he could never persuade into a betrothal. One day he accidentally wounded a white man in the wood, and lifting him on his shoulder he hurried with him to camp. It was not long before he found that the soft glances of the half-breed girl were doing more to cure his victim than the incantations of the medicine-man, and in a fit of anger, one day, he plucked forth his knife and fell upon the couple. Her look of innocent surprise shamed him. He rushed away, with an expression of self-contempt, and flung his weapon far into the river. Soon after, the white man was captured by the Iroquois. They were preparing to put him to the torture when a tall Indian leaped in among them, with the cry, "I am Kenen. Let the pale face go, for a Huron chief will take his place." And, as the bonds fell from the prisoner's wrists and ankles, he added, "Go and comfort the White Fawn." The white man was allowed to enter a canoe and row away, but as he did so his heart misgave him: the words of a deathsong and the crackling of flames had reached his ears. HIAWATHA The story of Hiawatha--known about the lakes as Manabozho and in the East as Glooskapis the most widely disseminated of the Indian legends. He came to earth on a Messianic mission, teaching justice, fortitude, and forbearance to the red men, showing them how to improve their handicraft, ridding the woods and hills of monsters, and finally going up to heaven amid cries of wonder from those on whose behalf he had worked and counselled. He was brought up as a child among them, took to wife the Dakota girl, Minnehaha ("Laughing Water"), hunted, fought, and lived as a warrior; yet, when need came, he could change his form to any shape of bird, fish, or plant that he wished. He spoke to friends in the voice of a woman and to enemies in tones like thunder. A giant in form, few dared to resist him in battle, yet he suffered the common pains and adversities of his kind, and while fishing in one of the great lakes in his white stone canoe, that moved whither he willed it, he and his boat were swallowed by the king of fishes. He killed the creature by beating at its heart with a stone club, and when the gulls had preyed on its flesh, as it lay floating on the surface, until he could see daylight, he clambered through the opening they had made and returned to his lodge. Believing that his father had killed his mother, he fought against him for several days, driving him to the edge of the world before peace was made between them. The evil Pearl Feather had slain one of his relatives, and to avenge that crime Hiawatha pressed through a guard of fire-breathing serpents which surrounded that fell personage, shot them with arrows as they struck at him, and having thus reached the lodge of his enemy he engaged him in combat. All day long they battled to no purpose, but toward evening a woodpecker flew overhead and cried, "Your enemy has but one vulnerable point. Shoot at his scalp-lock." Hiawatha did so and his foe fell dead. Anointing his finger with the blood of his foe, he touched the bird, and the red mark is found on the head of every woodpecker to this day. A duck having led him a long chase when he was trying to capture it for food, he angrily kicked it, thus flattening its back, bowing its legs, despoiling it of half of its tail-feathers, and that is why, to this day, ducks are awkward. In return for its service in leading him to where the prince of serpents lived, he invested the kingfisher with a medal and rumpled the feathers of its head in putting it on; hence all kingfishers have rumpled knots and white spots on their breasts. After slaying the prince of serpents he travelled all over America, doing good work, and on reaching Onondaga he organized a friendly league of thirteen tribes that endured for many years. This closed his mission. As he stood in the assemblage of chiefs a white bird, appearing at an immense height, descended like a meteor, struck Hiawatha's daughter with such force as to drive her remains into the earth and shattered itself against the ground. Its silvery feathers were scattered, and these were preserved by the beholders as ornaments for their hair--so the custom of wearing feather head-dresses endures to our time. Though filled with consternation, Hiawatha recognized the summons. He addressed his companions in tones of such sweetness and terms of such eloquence as had never been heard before, urging them to live uprightly and to enforce good laws, and unhappy circumstance!--promising to come back when the time was ripe. The expectancy of his return has led to ghost-dances and similar demonstrations of enmity against the whites. When he had ended he entered his stone canoe and began to rise in air to strains of melting music. Higher and higher he arose, the white vessel shining in the sunlight, until he disappeared in the spaces of the sky. Incidents of the Hiawatha legend are not all placed, but he is thought to have been born near the great lakes, perhaps at Mackinack. Some legends, indeed, credit him with making his home at Mackinack, and from that point, as a centre, making a new earth around him. The fight with his father began on the upper Mississippi, and the bowlders found along its banks were their missiles. The south shore of Lake Superior was the scene of his conflict with the serpents. He hunted the great beaver around Lake Superior and brought down his dam at the Sault Sainte Marie. A depression in a rock on the southern edge of Michipicotea Bay is where he alighted after a jump across the lake. In a larger depression, near Thunder Bay, he sat when smoking his last pipe. The big rocks on the east side of Grand Traverse Bay, near Antrim City, Michigan, are the bones of a stone monster that he slew. So trifling an incident as the kicking of the duck has been localized at Lake Itasca. [It is worth passing mention that this name, which sounds as if it were of Indian origin, is held by some to be composed of the last syllables of _veritas_ and the first letters of _caput_, these words-signifying "the true head"--being applied by early explorers as showing that they were confident of having found the actual source of the Mississippi.] Minnehaha lived near the fall in Minneapolis that bears her name. The final apotheosis took place on the shores of Lake Onondaga, New York, though Hiawatha lies buried under a mountain, three miles long, on the east side of Thunder Bay, Lake Superior, which, from the water, resembles a man lying on his back. The red man makes oblation, as he rows past, by dropping a pinch of tobacco into the water. Some say that Hiawatha now lives at the top of the earth, amid the ice, and directs the sun. He has to live in a cold country because, if he were to return, he would set the earth on fire with his footsteps. THE INDIAN MESSIAH The promise of the return to earth of various benign spirits has caused much trouble among the red men, and incidentally to the white men who are the objects of their fanatic dislike. The New Mexicans believed that when the Emperor Montezuma was about to leave the earth he planted a tree and bade them watch it, for when it fell he would come back in glory and lead them to victory, wealth, and power. The watch was kept in secret on account of the determination of the Spaniards to breakup all fealty to tribal heroes and traditions. As late as 1781 they executed a sentence of death on a descendant of the Peruvian Incas for declaring his royal origin. When Montezuma's tree fell the people gathered on the house-tops to watch the east-in vain, for the white man was there. In 1883 the Sanpoels, a small tribe in Washington, were stirred by the teaching of an old chief, who told them that the wicked would soon be destroyed, and that the Great Spirit had ordered him to build an ark for his people. The remains of this vessel, two hundred and eighty-eight feet long, are still to be seen near one of the tributaries of the Columbia. A frenzy swept over the West in 1890, inspiring the Indians by promise of the coming of one of superhuman power, who was generally believed to be Hiawatha, to threaten the destruction of the white population, since it had been foretold that the Messiah would drive the white men from their land. Early in the summer of that year it was reported that the Messiah had appeared in the north, and the chiefs of many tribes went to Dakota, as the magi did to Bethlehem, to learn if this were true. Sitting Bull, the Sioux chief, told them, in assembly, that it was so, and declared that he had seen the new Christ while hunting in the Shoshone Mountains. One evening he lost his way and was impelled by a strange feeling to follow a star that moved before him. At daybreak it paused over a beautiful valley, and, weary with his walk, he sank on a bed of moss. As he sat there throngs of Indian warriors appeared and began a spirit dance, led by chiefs who had long been dead. Presently a voice spoke in his ear, and turning he saw a strange man dressed in white. The man said he was the same Christ who had come into the world nineteen hundred years before to save white men, and that now he would save the red men by driving out the whites. The Indians were to dance the ghost-dance, or spirit dance, until the new moon, when the globe would shiver, the wind would glow, and the white soldiers and their horses would sink into the earth. The Messiah showed to Sitting Bull the nail-wounds in his hands and feet and the spear-stab in his side. When night came on the form in white had disappeared--and, returning, the old chief taught the ghost-dance to his people. THE VISION OF RESCUE Surmounting Red Banks, twelve miles north of Green Bay, Wisconsin, on the eastern shore, and one hundred feet above the water, stands an earthwork that the first settlers found there when they went into that country. It was built by the Sauks and Outagamies, a family that ruled the land for many years, rousing the jealousy of neighboring tribes by their wealth and power. The time came, as it did in the concerns of nearly every band of Indians, when war was declared against this family, and the enemy came upon them in the darkness, their canoes patroling the shore while the main body formed a line about the fort. So silently was this done that but one person discovered it--a squaw, who cried, "We are all dead!" There was nothing to see or hear, and she was rated for alarming the camp with foolish dreams; but dawn revealed the beleaguering line, and at the lifting of the sun a battle began that lasted for days, those within the earthworks sometimes fighting while ankle-deep in the blood of their fellows. The greatest lack of the besieged was that of water, and they let down earthen jars to the lake to get it, but the cords were cut ere they could be drawn up, the enemy shouting, derisively, "Come down and drink!" Several times they tried to do so, but were beaten back at every sally, and it seemed at last as if extermination was to be their fate. When matters were at their darkest one of the young men who had been fasting for ten days--the Indian custom when divine direction was sought addressed his companions to this effect: "Last night there stood by me the form of a young man, clothed in white, who said, 'I was once alive, but I died, and now I live forever. Trust me and I will deliver you. Be fearless. At midnight I will cast a sleep on your enemies. Go forth boldly and you shall escape.'" The condition was too desperate to question any means of freedom, and that night all but a handful of disbelievers left the fort, while the enemy was in a slumber of exhaustion, and got away in safety. When the besiegers, in the morning, found that the fort had been almost deserted, they fell on the few that remained to repent their folly, and put them to the knife and axe, for their fury was excessive at the failure of the siege. DEVIL'S LAKE Any of the noble rivers and secluded lakes of Wisconsin were held in esteem or fear by the northern tribes, and it was the now-forgotten events and superstitions connected with them, not less than the frontier tendency for strong names, that gave a lurid and diabolical nomenclature to parts of this region. Devils, witches, magicians, and manitous were perpetuated, and Indians whose prowess was thought to be supernatural left dim records of themselves here and there--as near the dells of the Wisconsin, where a chasm fifty feet wide is shown as the ravine leaped by chief Black Hawk when flying from the whites. Devil's Lake was the home of a manitou who does not seem to have been a particularly evil genius, though he had unusual power. The lake fills what is locally regarded as the crater of an extinct volcano, and the coldness and purity kept by the water, in spite of its lacking visible inlets or outlets, was one cause for thinking it uncanny. This manitou piled the heavy blocks of Devil's Door-Way and set up Black Monument and the Pedestalled Bowlder as thrones where he might sit and view the landscape by day--for the Indians appreciated the beautiful in nature and supposed their gods did, too--while at night he could watch the dance of the frost spirits, the aurora borealis. Cleft Rock was sundered by one of his darts aimed at an offending Indian, who owed his life to the manitou's bad aim. The Sacrifice Stone is shown where, at another time, a girl was immolated to appease his anger. Cleopatra's Needle, as it is now called, is the body of an ancient chief, who was turned into stone as a punishment for prying into the mysteries of the lake, a stone on East Mountain being the remains of a squaw who had similarly offended. On the St. Croix the Devil's Chair is pointed out where he sat in state. He had his play spells, too, as you may guess when you see his toboggan slide in Weber Canon, Utah, while Cinnabar Mountain, in the Yellowstone country, he scorched red as he coasted down. The hunter wandering through this Wisconsin wilderness paused when he came within sight of the lake, for all game within its precincts was in the manitou's protection; not a fish might be taken, and not even a drop of water could be dipped to cool the lips of the traveller. So strong was this fear of giving offence to the manitou that Indians who were dying of wounds or illness, and were longing for a swallow of water, would refuse to profane the lake by touching their lips to it. THE KEUSCA ELOPEMENT Keusca was a village of the Dakota Indians on the Wisconsin bluffs of the Mississippi eighteen hundred miles from its mouth. The name means, to overthrow, or set aside, for it was here that a tribal law was broken. Sacred Wind was a coquette of that village, for whose hand came many young fellows wooing with painted faces. For her they played the bone flute in the twilight, and in the games they danced and leaped their hardest and shot their farthest and truest when she was looking on. Though they amused her she cared not a jot for these suitors, keeping her love for the young brave named the Shield--and keeping it secret, for he was her cousin, and cousins might not wed. If a relative urged her to marry some young fellow for whom she had no liking, she would answer that if forced to do so she would fling herself into the river, and spoke of Winonah and Lovers' Leap. She was afraid to wed the Shield, for the medicine-men had threatened all who dared to break the marriage laws with unearthly terrors; yet when the Shield had been absent for several weeks on the war-path she realized that life without his companionship was too hollow to be endured--and she admired him all the more when he returned with two scalps hanging at his belt. He renewed his wooing. He allayed her fears by assurances that he, too, was a medicine-man and could counteract the spells that wizards might cast on them. Then she no longer repressed the promptings of her heart, but yielded to his suit. They agreed to elope that night. As they left the little clearing in the wood where their interview had taken place, a thicket stirred and a girl stole from it, looking intently at their retreating forms. The Swan, they had named her; but, with a flush in her dusky cheeks, her brows dark, her eyes glittering, she more recalled the vulture--for she, too, loved the Shield; and she had now seen and heard that her love was hopeless. That evening she alarmed the camp; she told the parents of Sacred Wind of the threatened violation of custom, and the father rose in anger to seek her. It was too late, for the flight had taken place. The Swan went to the river and rowed out in a canoe. From the middle of the stream she saw a speck on the water to the southward, and knew it to be Sacred Wind and her lover, henceforth husband. She watched until the speck faded in the twilight--then leaning over the side of the boat she capsized it, and passed from the view of men. PIPESTONE Pipestone, a smooth, hard, even-textured clay, of lively color, from which thousands of red men cut their pipe-bowls, forms a wall on the Coteau des Prairies, in Minnesota, that is two miles long and thirty feet high. In front of it lie five bowlders, the droppings from an iceberg to the floor of the primeval sea, and beneath these masses of granite live the spirits of two squaws that must be consulted before the stone can be dug. This quarry was neutral ground, and here, as they approached it, the men of all tribes sheathed their knives and belted up their axes, for to this place the Great Spirit came to kill and eat the buffalo, and it is the blood of this animal that has turned the stone to red. Here, too, the Thunder Bird had her nest, and her brood rent the skies above it with the clashing of their iron wings. A snake having crawled into this nest to steal the unhatched thunders, Manitou caught up a piece of pipestone, hastily pressed it between his hands, giving it the shape of a man, and flung it at the reptile. The stone man's feet stuck fast in the ground, and there he stood for a thousand years, growing like a tree and drawing strength and knowledge out of the earth. Another shape grew up beside him--woman. In time the snake gnawed them free from their foundations and the red-earth pair wandered off together. From them sprang all people. Ages after, the Manitou called the red men to the quarry, fashioned a pipe for them, told them it was a part of their flesh, and smoked it over them, blowing the smoke to north, south, east, and west, in token that wherever the influence of the pipe extended there was to be brotherhood and peace. The place was to be sacred from war and they were to make their pipes from this rock. As the smoke rolled about him he gradually disappeared from view. At the last whiff the ashes fell out and the surface of the rock for miles burst into flame, so that it melted and glazed. Two ovens opened at its foot, and through the fire entered the two spirits Tsomecostee and Tsomecostewondee--that are still its guardians, answering the invocations of the medicine-men and accepting the oblations of those who go to make pipes or carve their totems on the rock. THE VIRGINS' FEAST A game of lacrosse was played by Indian girls on the ice near the present Fort Snelling, one winter day, and the victorious trophies were awarded to Wenonah, sister of the chief, to the discomfiture of Harpstenah, her opponent, an ill-favored woman, neglected by her tribe, and jealous of Wenonah's beauty and popularity. This defeat, added to some fancied slights, was almost more than she could bear, and during the contest she had been cut in the head by one of the rackets--an accident that she falsely attributed to her adversary in the game. She had an opportunity of proving her hatred, for directly that it was known how Wenonah had refused to marry Red Cloud, a stalwart boaster, openly preferring a younger warrior of the tribe, the ill-thinking Harpstenah sought out the disappointed suitor, who sat moodily apart, and thus advised him, "To-morrow is the Feast of Virgins, when all who are pure will sit at meat together. Wenonah will be there. Has she the right to be? Have you not seen how shamelessly she favors your rival's suit? Among the Dakotas to accuse is to condemn, and the girl who is accused at the Virgins' Feast is disgraced forever. She has shown for Red Cloud nothing but contempt. If he shows no anger at it the girls will laugh at him." With this she turned away and left Red Cloud to his meditations. Wenonah, at the door of her brother's wigwam, looked into the north and saw the stars grow pale through streams of electric fire. "The Woman of the North warns us of coming evil," muttered the chief. "Some danger is near. Fire on the lights!" And a volley of musketry sent a shock through the still air. "They shine for me," said Wenonah, sadly. "For I shall soon join our father, mother, and sister in the land of spirits. Before the leaves fell I sat beside the Father of Waters and saw a manitou rise among the waves. It said that my sisters in the sunset world were calling to me and I must soon go to them." The chief tried to laugh away her fancies and comforted her as well as he might, then leading her to the wigwam he urged her to sleep. Next day is the Virgins' Feast and Wenonah is among those who sit in the ring, dressed in their gayest. None who are conscious of a fault may share in the feast; nor, if one were exposed and expelled, might any interpose to ask for mercy; yet a groan of surprise and horror goes through the company when Red Cloud, stalking up to the circle, seizes the girl roughly by the shoulder and orders her away. No use to deny or appeal. An Indian warrior would not be so treacherous or unjust as to act in this way unless he had proofs. Without a word she enters the adjacent wood, draws her knife, and strikes it to her heart. With summer came the fever, and it ravaged through the band, laying low the infant and the counsellor. Red Cloud was the first to die, and as he was borne away Harpstenah lifted her wasted form and followed him with dimming eyes, then cried, "He is dead. He hated Wenonah because she slighted him. I hated her because she was happy. I told him to denounce her. But she was innocent." FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY Several of the Dakotas, who had been in camp near the site of St. Paul, left their families and friends, when the hunting season opened, and went into the north. On their arrival at another village of their tribe, they stayed to rest for a little, and one of the men used the time to ill-advantage, as it fell out, for he conceived an attachment for a girl of this northern family, and on his way southward he wedded her and took her home with him. Proper enough to do, if he had not been married already. The first wife knew that any warrior might take a second, if he could support both; but the woman was stronger than the savage in her nature, and when her husband came back, with a red-cheeked woman walking beside him, she felt that she should never know his love again. The man was all attention to the young wife, whether the tribe tarried or travelled. When they shifted camp the elder walked or rowed behind with her boy, a likely lad of ten or twelve. It was when they were returning down the river after a successful hunt that the whole company was obliged to make a carry around the quick water near the head of St. Anthony's Falls. While the others were packing the boats and goods for transportation by hand to the foot of the cataract, the forsaken wife chose a moment when none were watching to embark with her boy in one of the canoes. Rowing out to an island, she put on all her ornaments, and dressed the lad in beads and feathers as if he were a warrior. Her husband, finding her absent from the party, looked anxiously about for some time, and was horrified to see her put out from the island into the rapid current. She had placed the child high in the boat, and was rowing with a steady stroke down the stream. He called and beckoned franticly. She did not seem to hear him, nor did she turn her head when the others joined their cries to his. For a moment those who listened heard her death-song, then the yeasty flood hid them from sight, and the husband on the shore fell to the earth with a wail of anguish. FLYING SHADOW AND TRACK MAKER The Chippewas and Sioux had come together at Fort Snelling to make merry and cement friendships. Flying Shadow was sad when the time came for the tribes to part, for Track Maker had won her heart, and no less strong than her love was the love he felt for her. But a Chippewa girl might not marry among the Sioux, and, if she did, the hand of every one would be against her should ever the tribes wage war upon each other, and war was nearer than either of them had expected. The Chippewas left with feelings of good will, Flying Shadow concealing in her bosom the trinkets that testified to the love of Track Maker and sighing as she thought of the years that might elapse ere they met again. Two renegade Chippewas, that had lingered behind the band, played the villain after this pleasant parting, for they killed a Sioux. Hardly was the news of this outrage received at the fort ere three hundred warriors were on the trail of their whilom guests and friends, all clamoring for revenge. Among them was Track Maker, for he could not, as a warrior, remain behind after his brother had been shot, and, while his heart sank within him as he thought of the gentle Flying Shadow, he marched in advance, and early in the morning the Chippewas were surprised between St. Anthony's Falls and Rum River, where they had camped without fear, being alike ignorant and innocent of the murder for which so many were to be punished. The Sioux fell upon them and cut down all alike--men, women, and children. In the midst of the carnage Track Maker comes face to face with Flying Shadow, and with a cry of gladness she throws herself into his arms. But there is no refuge there. Gladly as he would save her, he knows too well that the thirst for blood will not be sated until every member of that band is dead. He folds her to his bosom for an instant, looks into her eyes with tenderness--then bowing his head he passes on and never glances back. It is enough. She falls insensible, and a savage, rushing upon her, tears the scalp from her head. The Sioux win a hundred scalps and celebrate their victory with dance and song. Track Maker has returned with more scalps than any, and the maidens welcome him as a hero, but he keeps gravely apart from all, and has no share in the feasting and merry-making. Ever the trusting, pleading, wondering face of Flying Shadow comes before him. It looks out at him in the face of the deer he is about to kill. He sees it in the river, the leaves, the clouds. It rises before him in dreams. The elder people say he is bewitched, but he will have none of their curatives. When war breaks out he is the first to go, the first to open battle. Rushing among his enemies he lays about him with his axe until he falls, pierced with a hundred spears and arrows. It is the fate he has courted, and as he falls his face is lighted with a smile. SAVED BY A LIGHTNING-STROKE There was rough justice in the West in the old days. It had to be dealt severely and quickly, for it was administered to a kind of men that became dangerous if they saw any advantage or any superiority in their strength or numbers over the decent people with whom they were cast. They were uncivilized foreigners and native renegades, for the most part, who had drifted to the frontier in the hope of making a living without work more easily than in the cities. As there were no lawyers or courts and few recognized laws, the whole people constituted themselves a jury, and if a man were known to be guilty it was foolishness for any one to waste logic on his case. And there is almost no record of an innocent man being hanged by lynchers in the West. For minor offences the penalty was to be marched out of camp, with a warning to be very cautious about coming that way again, but for graver ones it was death. In 1840 a number of desperate fellows had settled along Cedar River, near its confluence with the Iowa, who subsisted by means of theft from the frugal and industrious. Some of these men applied themselves especially to horse-stealing, and in thinly settled countries, where a man has often to go twenty or thirty miles for supplies, or his mail, or medical attendance, it is thought to be a calamity to be without a horse. At last the people organized themselves into a vigilance committee and ran down the thieves. As the latter were a conscienceless gang of rascals, it was resolved that the only effectual way of reforming them would be by hanging. One man of the nine, it is true, was supposed before his arrest to be a respectable citizen, but his evil communications closed the ears of his neighbors to his appeals, and it was resolved that he, too, should hang. Not far away stood an oak with nine stout branches, and to this natural gallows the rogues were taken. As a squall was coming up the ceremonies were short, and presently every limb was weighted with the form of a captive. The formerly respectable citizen was the last one to be drawn up, and hardly had his halter been secured before the storm burst and a bolt of lightning ripped off the limb on which he hung. During the delay caused by this accident the unhappy man pleaded so earnestly for a rehearing that it was decided to give it to him, and when he had secured it he conclusively proved his innocence and was set free. The tree is still standing. To the ruffians it was a warning and they went away. Even the providential saving of one man did not detract from the value of the lesson to avoid bad company. THE KILLING OF CLOUDY SKY In the Dakota camp on the bank of Spirit Lake, or Lake Calhoun, Iowa, lived Cloudy Sky, a medicine-man, who had been made repellent by age and accident, but who was feared because of his magic power. At eighty years of age he looked for a third wife, and chose the daughter of a warrior, his presents of blankets and calicoes to the parents winning their consent. The girl, Harpstenah (a common name for a third daughter among the Sioux), dreaded and hated this man, for it was rumored that he had killed his first wife and basely sold his second. When she learned what had been decided for her she rushed from the camp in tears and sat in a lonely spot near the lake to curse and lament unseen. As she sat there the waters were troubled. There was no wind, yet great waves were thrown up, and tumbled hissing on the shore. Presently came a wave higher than the rest, and a graceful form leaped from it, half shrouded in its own long hair. "Do not tremble," said the visitant, for Harpstenah had hidden her face. "I am the daughter of Unktahe, the water god. In four days your parents will give you to Cloudy Sky, as his wife, though you love Red Deer. It is with you to wed the man you hate or the man you love. Cloudy Sky has offended the water spirits and we have resolved upon his death. If you will be our agent in destroying him, you shall marry Red Deer and live long and happily. The medicine-man wandered for years through the air with the thunder birds, flinging his deadly fire-spears at us, and it was for killing the son of Unktahe that he was last sent to earth, where he has already lived twice before. Kill him while he sleeps and we will reward you." As Harpstenah went back to the village her prospective bridegroom ogled her as he sat smoking before his lodge, his face blackened and blanket torn in mourning for an enemy he had killed. She resolved to heed the appeal of the manitou. When Red Deer heard how she had been promised to the old conjurer, he was filled with rage. Still, he became thoughtful and advised caution when she told him of the water spirit's counsel, for the dwellers in the lakes were, of all immortals, most deceitful, and had ever been enemies of the Dakotas. "I will do as I am bidden," she said, sternly. "Go away and visit the Tetons for a time. It is now the moon of strawberries" (June), "but in the moon when we gather wild rice" (September) "return and I will be your wife." Red Deer obeyed, after finding that she would not elope with him, and with the announcement that he was going on a long hunt he took his leave of the village. Harpstenah made ready for the bridal and greeted her future husband with apparent pleasure and submissiveness. He gave a medicine feast in token of the removal of his mourning, and appeared in new clothing, greased and braided hair, and a white blanket decorated with a black hand--the record of a slain enemy. On the night before the wedding the girl creeps to his lodge, but hesitates when she sees his medicine-bag hanging beside the door--the medicine that has kept its owner from evil and is sacred from the touch of woman. As she lingers the night-breeze seems to bring a voice from the water: "Can a Dakota woman want courage when she is forced to marry the man she hates?" She delays no longer. A knife-blade glitters for an instant in the moonlight--and Cloudy Sky is dead. Strange, is it not, that the thunder birds flap so heavily along the west at that moment and a peal of laughter sounds from the lake? She washes the blood from the blade, steals to her father's lodge, and pretends to sleep. In the morning she is loud in her grief when it is made known to her that the medicine-man was no more, and the doer of the deed is never discovered. In time her wan face gets its color and when the leaves begin to fall Red Deer returns and weds her. They seem to be happy for a time, and have two sons who promise to be famous hunters, but consumption fastens on Red Deer and he dies far from the village. The sons are shot by enemies, and while their bodies are on their way to Harpstenah's lodge she, too, is stricken dead by lightning. The spirit of Cloudy Sky had rejoined the thunder birds, and the water manitou had promised falsely. PROVIDENCE HOLE The going of white men into the prairies aroused the same sort of animosity among the Indians that they have shown in other parts of the country when retiring before the advance of civilization, and many who tried to plant corn on the rolling lands of Iowa, though they did no harm to the red men, paid for the attempt with their lives. Such was the fate of a settler who had built his cabin on the Wyoming hills, near Davenport. While working in his fields an arrow, shot from a covert, laid him low, and his scalp was cut away to adorn the belt of a savage. His little daughter, left alone, began to suffer from fears and loneliness as the sun went lower and lower, and when it had come to its time of setting she put on her little bonnet and went in search of him. As she gained the slope where he had last been seen, an Indian lifted his head from the grass and looked at her. Starting back to run, she saw another behind her. Escape seemed hopeless, and killing or captivity would have been her lot had not a crevice opened in the earth close to where she stood. Dropping on hands and knees she hastily crawled in, and found herself in what seemed to be an extensive cavern. Hardly had she time to note the character of the place when the gap closed as strangely as it had opened and she was left in darkness. Not daring to cry aloud, lest Indians should hear her, she sat upright until her young eyes could keep open no longer; then, lying on a mossy rock, she fell asleep. In the morning the sun was shining in upon her and the way to escape was open. She ran home, hungry, but thankful, and was found and cared for by neighbors. "Providence Hole" then passed into the legends of the country. It has closed anew, however. THE SCARE CURE Early in this century a restless Yankee, who wore the uninspiring name of Tompkinson, found his way into Carondelet--or Vuide Poche, the French settlement on the Mississippi since absorbed by St. Louis--and cast about for something to do. He had been in hard luck on his trip from New England to the great river. His schemes for self-aggrandizement and the incidental enlightenment and prosperity of mankind had not thriven, and it was largely in pity that M. Dunois gave shelter to the ragged, half-starved, but still jaunty and resourceful adventurer. Dunois was the one man in the place who could pretend to some education, and the two got on together famously. As soon as Tompkinson was in clothes and funds--the result of certain speculations--he took a house, and hung a shingle out announcing that there he practised medicine. Now, the fellow knew less about doctoring than any village granny, but a few sick people that he attended had the rare luck to get well in spite of him, and his reputation expanded to more than local limits in consequence. In the excess of spirits that prosperity created he flirted rather openly with a number of virgins in Carondelet, to the scandal of Dunois, who forbade him his house, and of the priest, who put him under ban. For the priest he cared nothing, but Dunois's anger was more serious--for the only maid of all that he really loved was Marie Dunois, his daughter. He formally proposed for her, but the old man would not listen to him. Then his "practice" fell away. The future looked as dark for him as his recent past had been, until a woman came to him with a bone in her throat and begged to be relieved. His method in such cases was to turn a wheel-of-fortune and obey it. The arrow this time pointed to the word, "Bleeding." He grasped a scalpel and advanced upon his victim, who, supposing that he intended to cut her throat open to extract the obstacle, fell a-screaming with such violence that the bone flew out. What was supposed to be his ready wit in this emergency restored him to confidence, and he was able to resume the practice that he needed so much. In a couple of years he displayed to the wondering eyes of Dunois so considerable an accumulation of cash that he gave Marie to him almost without the asking, and, as Tompkinson afterward turned Indian trader and quadrupled his wealth by cheating the red men, he became one of the most esteemed citizens of the West. TWELFTH NIGHT AT CAHOKIA It was Twelfth Night, and the French village of Cahokia, near St. Louis, was pleasantly agitated at the prospect of a dance in the old court saloon, which was assembly-room and everything else for the little place. The thirteen holy fires were alight--a large one, to represent Christ; a lesser one, to be trampled out by the crowd, typing Judas. The twelfth cake, one slice with the ring in it, was cut, and there were drink and laughter, but, as yet, no music. Gwen Malhon, a drift-wood collector, was the most anxious to get over the delay, for he had begged a dance from Louison. Louison Florian was pretty, not badly off in possessions and prospects, and her lover, Beaurain, had gone away. She was beginning to look a little scornful and impatient, so Gwen set off for a fiddler. He had inquired at nearly every cabin without success, and was on his way toward the ferry when he heard music. Before him, on the moonlit river, was a large boat, and near it, on the bank, he saw a company of men squatted about a fire and bousing together from a bottle. At a little distance, on a stump, sat a thin, bent man, enveloped in a cloak, and it was he who played. Gwen complimented him and pleaded the disappointment of the dancers in excuse of an urgent appeal that he should hurry with him to the court saloon. The stranger was courteous. He sprang into the road with a limping bound, shook down his cloak so as to disclose a curled moustache, shaggy brows, a goat's beard, and a pair of glittering eyes. "I'll give them a dance!" he exclaimed. "I know one tune. They call it 'Returned from the Grave.' Pay? We'll see how you like my playing." On entering the room where the caperish youth were already shuffling in corners, the musician met Mamzel Florian, who offered him a slice of the cake. He bent somewhat near to take it, and she gave a little cry. He had found the ring, and that made him king of the festival, with the right to choose the prettiest girl as queen. A long drink of red wine seemed to put him in the best of trim, and he began to fiddle with a verve that was irresistible. In one minute the whole company--including the priest, some said--was jigging it lustily. "Whew!" gasped one old fellow. "It is the devil who plays. Get some holy water and sprinkle the floor." Gwen watched the musician as closely as his labors would allow, for he did not like the way the fiddler had of looking at Louison, and he thought to himself that Louison never blushed so prettily for him. Forgetting himself when he saw the fiddler smile at the girl, he made a rush for the barrel where that artist was perched. He bumped against a dancer and fell. At that moment the light was put out and the hall rang with screams and laughter. The tones of one voice sounded above the rest: "By right of the ring the girl is mine." "He has me," Louison was heard to say, yet seemingly not in fear. Lights were brought. Louison and the fiddler were gone, the stranger's cloak and half of a false moustache were on the floor, while Gwen was jammed into the barrel and was kicking desperately to get out. When released he rushed for the river-side where he had seen the boat. Two figures flitted before him, but he lost sight of them, and in the silence and loneliness his choler began to cool. Could it really have been the devil? An owl hooted in the bush. He went away in haste. There was a rumor in after years that Beaurain was an actor in a company that went up and down the great river on a barge, and that a woman who resembled Louison was also in the troupe. But Gwen never told the story of his disappointment without crossing himself. THE SPELL OF CREVE CIUR LAKE Not far west of St. Louis the Lake of Creve Coeur dimples in the breezes that bend into its basin of hills, and there, in summer, swains and maidens go to confirm their vows, for the lake has an influence to strengthen love and reunite contentious pairs. One reason ascribed for the presence of this spell concerns a turbulent Peoria, ambitious of leadership and hungry for conquest, who fell upon the Chawanons at this place, albeit he was affianced to the daughter of their chief. The girl herself, enraged at the treachery of the youngster, put herself at the head of her band--a dusky Joan of Arc,--and the fight waged so furiously that the combatants, what were left of them, were glad when night fell that they might crawl away to rest their exhausted bodies and nurse their wounds. Neither tribe daring to invite a battle after that, hostilities were stopped, but some time later the young captain met the girl of his heart on the shore, and before the amazon could prepare for either fight or flight he had caught her in his arms. They renewed their oaths of fidelity, and at the wedding the chief proclaimed eternal peace and blessed the waters they had met beside, the blessing being potent to this day. Another reason for the enchantments that are worked here may be that the lake is occupied by a demon-fish or serpent that crawls, slimy and dripping, through the underbrush, whenever it sees two lovers together, and listens to their words. If the man prove faithless he would best beware of returning to this place, for the demon is lurking there to destroy him. This monster imprisons the soul of an Ozark princess who flung herself into the lake when she learned that the son of the Spanish governor, who had vowed his love to her, had married a woman of his own rank and race in New Orleans. So they call the lake Creve Coeur, or Broken Heart. On the day after the suicide the Ozark chief gathered his men about him and paddled to the middle of the water, where he solemnly cursed his daughter in her death, and asked the Great Spirit to confine her there as a punishment for giving her heart to the treacherous white man, the enemy of his people. The Great Spirit gave her the form in which she is occasionally seen, to warn and punish faithless lovers. HOW THE CRIME WAS REVEALED In 1853 a Hebrew peddler, whose pack was light and his purse was full, asked leave to pass the night at the house of Daniel Baker, near Lebanon, Missouri. The favor was granted, and that was the last seen of Samuel Moritz; although, when some neighbors shook their heads and wondered how it was that Baker was so well in funds, there were others who replied that it was impossible to keep track of peddlers, and that if Moritz wanted to start on his travels early in the morning, or to return to St. Louis for goods, it mattered to nobody. On an evening in 1860 when there was a mist in the gullies and a new moon hung in the west, Rev. Mr. Cummings, a clergyman of that region, was driving home, and as he came to a bridge near "old man" Baker's farm he saw a man standing on it, with a pack on his back and a stick in his hand, who was staring intently at something beneath the bridge. The clergyman greeted him cheerily and asked him if he would like to ride, whereat the man looked him in the face and pointed to the edge of the bridge. Mr. Cummings glanced down, saw nothing, and when he looked up again the man with the pack had disappeared. His horse at the same moment gave a snort and plunged forward at a run, so that the clergyman's attention was fully occupied until he had brought the animal under control again; when he glanced back and saw that the man was still standing in the bridge and looking over the edge of it. The minister told his neighbors of this adventure, and on returning with two of them to the spot next morning they found the body of old man Baker swinging by the neck from a beam of the bridge exactly beneath where the apparition had stood--for it must have been an apparition, inasmuch as the dust, damped though it had been with dew, showed no trace of footprint. In taking down the body the men loosened the earth on a shelving bank, and the gravel rolling away disclosed a skeleton with some bits of clothing on it that were identified as belongings of Samuel Moritz. Was it conscience, craziness, or fate that led old man Baker to hang himself above the grave of his victim? BANSHEE OF THE BAD LANDS "Hell, with the fires out," is what the Bad Lands of Dakota have been called. The fearless Western nomenclature fits the place. It is an ancient sea-bottom, with its clay strata worn by frost and flood into forms like pagodas, pyramids, and terraced cities. Labyrinthine canons wind among these fantastic peaks, which are brilliant in color, but bleak, savage, and oppressive. Game courses over the castellated hills, rattlesnakes bask at the edge of the crater above burning coal seams, and wild men have made despairing stand here against advancing civilization. It may have been the white victim of a red man's jealousy that haunts the region of the butte called "Watch Dog," or it may have been an Indian woman who was killed there, but there is a banshee in the desert whose cries have chilled the blood that would not have cooled at the sight of a bear or panther. By moonlight, when the scenery is most suggestive and unearthly, and the noises of wolves and owls inspire uneasy feelings, the ghost is seen on a hill a mile south of the Watch Dog, her hair blowing, her arms tossing in strange gestures. If war parties, emigrants, cowboys, hunters, any who for good or ill are going through this country, pass the haunted butte at night, the rocks are lighted with phosphor flashes and the banshee sweeps upon them. As if wishing to speak, or as if waiting a question that it has occurred to none to ask, she stands beside them in an attitude of appeal, but if asked what she wants she flings her arms aloft and with a shriek that echoes through the blasted gulches for a mile she disappears and an instant later is seen wringing her hands on her hill-top. Cattle will not graze near the haunted butte and the cowboys keep aloof from it, for the word has never been spoken that will solve the mystery of the region or quiet the unhappy banshee. The creature has a companion, sometimes, in an unfleshed skeleton that trudges about the ash and clay and haunts the camps in a search for music. If he hears it he will sit outside the door and nod in time to it, while a violin left within his reach is eagerly seized and will be played on through half the night. The music is wondrous: now as soft as the stir of wind in the sage, anon as harsh as the cry of a wolf or startling as the stir of a rattler. As the east begins to brighten the music grows fainter, and when it is fairly light it has ceased altogether. But he who listens to it must on no account follow the player if the skeleton moves away, for not only will it lead him into rocky pitfalls, whence escape is hopeless, but when there the music will intoxicate, madden, and will finally charm his soul from his body. STANDING ROCK The stone that juts from one of the high banks of the Missouri, in South Dakota, gives its name to the Standing Rock Agency, which, by reason of many councils, treaties, fights, feasts, and dances held there, is the best known of the frontier posts. It was a favorite gathering place of the Sioux before the advent of the white man. The rock itself is only twenty-eight inches high and fifteen inches wide, and could be plucked up and carried away without difficulty, but no red man is brave enough to do that, for this is the transformed body of a squaw who was struck into stone by Manitou for falsely suspecting her husband of unfaithfulness. After her transformation she not only remained sentient but acquired supernatural powers that the Sioux propitiated by offerings of beads, tobacco, and ribbons, paint, fur, and game--a practice that was not abandoned until the teachings of missionaries began to have effect among them. Soldiers and trappers think the story an ingenious device to prevent too close inquiry into the lives of some of the nobility of the tribe. The Arickarees, however, regard this stone as the wife of one of their braves, who was so pained and mortified when her husband took a second wife that she went out into the prairie and neither ate nor drank until she died, when the Great Spirit turned her into the Standing Stone. The squaws still resort to it in times of domestic trouble. THE SALT WITCH A pillar of snowy salt once stood on the Nebraska plain, about forty miles above the point where the Saline flows into the Platte, and white men used to hear of it as the Salt Witch. An Indian tribe was for a long time quartered at the junction of the rivers, its chief a man of blood and muscle in whom his people gloried, but so fierce, withal, that nobody made a companion of him except his wife, who alone could check his tigerish rages. In sooth, he loved her so well that on her death he became a recluse and shut himself within his lodge, refusing to see anybody. This mood endured with him so long that mutterings were heard in the tribe and there was talk of choosing another chief. Some of this talk he must have heard, for one morning he emerged in war-dress, and without a word to any one strode across the plain to westward. On returning a full month later he was more communicative and had something unusual to relate. He also proved his prowess by brandishing a belt of fresh scalps before the eyes of his warriors, and he had also brought a lump of salt. He told them that after travelling far over the prairie he had thrown himself on the earth to sleep, when he was aroused by a wailing sound close by. In the light of a new moon he saw a hideous old woman brandishing a tomahawk over the head of a younger one, who was kneeling, begging for mercy, and trying to shake off the grip from her throat. The sight of the women, forty miles from the village, so surprised the chief that he ran toward them. The younger woman made a desperate effort to free herself, but in vain, as it seemed, for the hag wound her left hand in her hair while with the other she raised the axe and was about to strike. At that moment the chief gained a view of the face of the younger woman-it was that of his dead wife. With a snarl of wrath he leaped upon the hag and buried his own hatchet in her brain, but before he could catch his wife in his arms the earth had opened and both women disappeared, but a pillar of salt stood where he had seen this thing. For years the Indians maintained that the column was under the custody of the Salt Witch, and when they went there to gather salt they would beat the ground with clubs, believing that each blow fell upon her person and kept her from working other evil. 
55989	----	CELTIC FOLKLORE WELSH AND MANX BY JOHN RHYS, M.A., D.Litt. HON. LL.D. OF THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH PROFESSOR OF CELTIC PRINCIPAL OF JESUS COLLEGE, OXFORD VOLUME II OXFORD AT THE CLARENDON PRESS MDCCCCI CHAPTER VII TRIUMPHS OF THE WATER-WORLD Une des légendes les plus répandues en Bretagne est celle d'une prétendue ville d'Is, qui, à une époque inconnue, aurait été engloutie par la mer. On montre, à divers endroits de la côte, l'emplacement de cette cité fabuleuse, et les pécheurs vous en font d'étranges récits. Les jours de tempête, assurent-ils, on voit, dans les creux des vagues, le sommet des flèches de ses églises; les jours de calme, on entend monter de l'abîme le son de ses cloches, modulant l'hymne du jour.--Renan. More than once in the last chapter was the subject of submersions and cataclysms brought before the reader, and it may be convenient to enumerate here the most remarkable cases, and to add one or two to their number, as well as to dwell at somewhat greater length on some instances which may be said to have found their way into Welsh literature. He has already been told of the outburst of the Glasfryn Lake (p. 367) and Ffynnon Gywer (p. 376), of Llyn Llech Owen (p. 379) and the Crymlyn (p. 191), also of the drowning of Cantre'r Gwaelod (p. 383); not to mention that one of my informants had something to say (p. 219) of the submergence of Caer Arianrhod, a rock now visible only at low water between Celynnog Fawr and Dinas Dinlle, on the coast of Arfon. But, to put it briefly, it is an ancient belief in the Principality that its lakes generally have swallowed up habitations of men, as in the case of Llyn Syfadon (p. 73) and the Pool of Corwrion (p. 57). To these I now proceed to add other instances, to wit those of Bala Lake, Kenfig Pool, Llynclys, and Helig ab Glannog's territory including Traeth Lafan. Perhaps it is best to begin with historical events, namely those implied in the encroachment of the sea and the sand on the coast of Glamorganshire, from the Mumbles, in Gower, to the mouth of the Ogmore, below Bridgend. It is believed that formerly the shores of Swansea Bay were from three to five miles further out than the present strand, and the oyster dredgers point to that part of the bay which they call the Green Grounds, while trawlers, hovering over these sunken meadows of the Grove Island, declare that they can sometimes see the foundations of the ancient homesteads overwhelmed by a terrific storm which raged some three centuries ago. The old people sometimes talk of an extensive forest called Coed Arian, 'Silver Wood,' stretching from the foreshore of the Mumbles to Kenfig Burrows, and there is a tradition of a long-lost bridle path used by many generations of Mansels, Mowbrays, and Talbots, from Penrice Castle to Margam Abbey. All this is said to be corroborated by the fishing up every now and then in Swansea Bay of stags' antlers, elks' horns, those of the wild ox, and wild boars' tusks, together with the remains of other ancient tenants of the submerged forest. Various references in the registers of Swansea and Aberavon mark successive stages in the advance of the desolation from the latter part of the fifteenth century down. Among others a great sandstorm is mentioned, which overwhelmed the borough of Cynffig or Kenfig, and encroached on the coast generally: the series of catastrophes seems to have culminated in an inundation caused by a terrible tidal wave in the early part of the year 1607 [1]. To return to Kenfig, what remains of that old town is near the sea, and it is on all sides surrounded by hillocks of finely powdered sand and flanked by ridges of the same fringing the coast. The ruins of several old buildings half buried in the sand peep out of the ground, and in the immediate neighbourhood is Kenfig Pool, which is said to have a circumference of nearly two miles. When the pool formed itself I have not been able to discover: from such accounts as have come in my way I should gather that it is older than the growing spread of the sand, but the island now to be seen in it is artificial and of modern make [2]. The story relating to the lake is given as follows in the volume of the Iolo Manuscripts, p. 194, and the original, from which I translate, is crisp, compressed, and, as I fancy, in Iolo's own words:-- 'A plebeian was in love with Earl Clare's daughter: she would not have him as he was not wealthy. He took to the highway, and watched the agent of the lord of the dominion coming towards the castle from collecting his lord's money. He killed him, took the money, and produced the coin, and the lady married him. A splendid banquet was held: the best men of the country were invited, and they made as merry as possible. On the second night the marriage was consummated, and when happiest one heard a voice: all ear one listened and caught the words, "Vengeance comes, vengeance comes, vengeance comes," three times. One asked, "When?" "In the ninth generation (âch)," said the voice. "No reason for us to fear," said the married pair; "we shall be under the mould long before." They lived on, however, and a goresgynnyd, that is to say, a descendant of the sixth direct generation, was born to them, also to the murdered man a goresgynnyd, who, seeing that the time fixed was come, visited Kenfig. This was a discreet youth of gentle manners, and he looked at the city and its splendour, and noted that nobody owned a furrow or a chamber there except the offspring of the murderer: he and his wife were still living. At cockcrow he heard a cry, "Vengeance is come, is come, is come." It is asked, "On whom?" and answered, "On him who murdered my father of the ninth âch." He rises in terror: he goes towards the city; but there is nothing to see save a large lake with three chimney tops above the surface emitting smoke that formed a stinking.... [3] On the face of the waters the gloves of the murdered man float to the young man's feet: he picks them up, and sees on them the murdered man's name and arms; and he hears at dawn of day the sound of praise to God rendered by myriads joining in heavenly music. And so the story ends.' On this coast is another piece of water in point, namely Crymlyn, or 'Crumlin Pool,' now locally called the Bog. It appears also to have been sometimes called Pwll Cynan, after the name of a son of Rhys ab Tewdwr, who, in his flight after his father's defeat on Hirwaen Wrgan, was drowned in its waters [4]. It lies on Lord Jersey's estate, at a distance of about one mile east of the mouth of the Tawe, and about a quarter of a mile from high-water mark, from which it is separated by a strip of ground known in the neighbourhood as Crymlyn Burrows. The name Crymlyn means Crooked Lake, which, I am told, describes the shape of this piece of water. When the bog becomes a pool it encloses an island consisting of a little rocky hillock showing no trace of piles, or walling, or any other handiwork of man [5]. The story about this pool also is that it covers a town buried beneath its waters. Mr. Wirt Sikes' reference to it has already been mentioned, and I have it on the evidence of a native of the immediate neighbourhood, that he has often heard his father and grandfather talk about the submerged town. Add to this that Cadrawd, to whom I have had already (pp. 23, 376) to acknowledge my indebtedness, speaks in the columns of the South Wales Daily News for February 15, 1899, of Crymlyn as follows:-- 'It was said by the old people that on the site of this bog once stood the old town of Swansea, and that in clear and calm weather the chimneys and even the church steeple could be seen at the bottom of the lake, and in the loneliness of the night the bells were often heard ringing in the lake. It was also said that should any person happen to stand with his face towards the lake when the wind is blowing across the lake, and if any of the spray of that water should touch his clothes, it would be only with the greatest difficulty he could save himself from being attracted or sucked into the water. The lake was at one time much larger than at present. The efforts made to drain it have drawn a good deal of the water from it, but only to convert it into a bog, which no one can venture to cross except in exceptionally dry seasons or hard frost.' On this I wish to remark in passing, that, while common sense would lead one to suppose that the wind blowing across the water would help the man facing it to get away whenever he chose, the reasoning here is of another order, one characteristic in fact of the ways and means of sympathetic magic. For specimens in point the reader may be conveniently referred to page 360, where he may compare the words quoted from Mr. Hartland, especially as to the use there mentioned of stones or pellets thrown from one's hands. In the case of Crymlyn, the wind blowing off the face of the water into the onlooker's face and carrying with it some of the water in the form of spray which wets his clothes, howsoever little, was evidently regarded as establishing a link of connexion between him and the body of the water--or shall I say rather, between him and the divinity of the water?--and that this link was believed to be so strong that it required the man's utmost effort to break it and escape being drawn in and drowned like Cynan. The statement, supremely silly as it reads, is no modern invention; for one finds that Nennius--or somebody else--reasoned in precisely the same way, except that for a single onlooker he substitutes a whole army of men and horses, and that he points the antithesis by distinctly stating, that if they kept their backs turned to the fascinating flood they would be out of danger. The conditions which he had in view were, doubtless, that the men should face the water and have their clothing more or less wetted by the spray from it. The passage (§ 69) to which I refer is in the Mirabilia, and Geoffrey of Monmouth is found to repeat it in a somewhat better style of Latin (ix. 7): the following is the Nennian version:-- Aliud miraculum est, id est Oper Linn Liguan. Ostium fluminis illius fluit in Sabrina et quando Sabrina inundatur ad sissam, et mare inundatur similiter in ostio supra dicti fluminis et in stagno ostii recipitur in modum voraginis et mare non vadit sursum et est litus juxta flumen et quamdiu Sabrina inundatur ad sissam, istud litus non tegitur et quando recedit mare et Sabrina, tunc Stagnum Liuan eructat omne quod devoravit de mari et litus istud tegitur et instar montis in una unda eructat et rumpit. Et si fuerit exercitus totius regionis, in qua est, et direxerit faciem contra undam, et exercitum trahit unda per vim humore repletis vestibus et equi similiter trahuntur. Si autem exercitus terga versus fuerit contra eam, non nocet ei unda. 'There is another wonder, to wit Aber Llyn Lliwan. The water from the mouth of that river flows into the Severn, and when the Severn is in flood up to its banks, and when the sea is also in flood at the mouth of the above-named river and is sucked in like a whirlpool into the pool of the Aber, the sea does not go on rising: it leaves a margin of beach by the side of the river, and all the time the Severn is in flood up to its bank, that beach is not covered. And when the sea and the Severn ebb, then Llyn Lliwan brings up all it had swallowed from the sea, and that beach is covered while Llyn Lliwan discharges its contents in one mountain-like wave and vomits forth. Now if the army of the whole district in which this wonder is, were to be present with the men facing the wave, the force of it would, once their clothes are drenched by the spray, draw them in, and their horses would likewise be drawn. But if the men should have their backs turned towards the water, the wave would not harm them [6].' One story about the formation of Bala Lake, or Llyn Tegid [7] as it is called in Welsh, has been given at p. 376: here is another which I translate from a version in Hugh Humphreys' Llyfr Gwybodaeth Gyffredinol (Carnarvon), second series, vol. i, no. 2, p. 1. I may premise that the contributor, whose name is not given, betrays a sort of literary ambition which has led him to relate the story in a confused fashion; and among other things he uses the word edifeirwch, 'repentance,' throughout, instead of dial, 'vengeance.' With that correction it runs somewhat as follows:--Tradition relates that Bala Lake is but the watery tomb of the palaces of iniquity; and that some old boatmen can on quiet moonlight nights in harvest see towers in ruins at the bottom of its waters, and also hear at times a feeble voice saying, Dial a daw, dial a daw, 'Vengeance will come'; and another voice inquiring, Pa bryd y daw, 'When will it come?' Then the first voice answers, Yn y dryded genhedlaeth, 'In the third generation.' Those voices were but a recollection over oblivion, for in one of those palaces lived in days of yore an oppressive and cruel prince, corresponding to the well-known description of one of whom it is said, 'Whom he would he slew; and whom he would he kept alive.' The oppression and cruelty practised by him on the poor farmers were notorious far and near. This prince, while enjoying the morning breezes of summer in his garden, used frequently to hear a voice saying, 'Vengeance will come.' But he always laughed the threat away with reckless contempt. One night a poor harper from the neighbouring hills was ordered to come to the prince's palace. On his way the harper was told that there was great rejoicing at the palace at the birth of the first child of the prince's son. When he had reached the palace the harper was astonished at the number of the guests, including among them noble lords, princes, and princesses: never before had he seen such splendour at any feast. When he had begun playing the gentlemen and ladies dancing presented a superb appearance. So the mirth and wine abounded, nor did he love playing for them any more than they loved dancing to the music of his harp. But about midnight, when there was an interval in the dancing, and the old harper had been left alone in a corner, he suddenly heard a voice singing in a sort of a whisper in his ear, 'Vengeance, vengeance!' He turned at once, and saw a little bird hovering above him and beckoning him, as it were, to follow him. He followed the bird as fast as he could, but after getting outside the palace he began to hesitate. But the bird continued to invite him on, and to sing in a plaintive and mournful voice the word 'Vengeance, vengeance!' The old harper was afraid of refusing to follow, and so they went on over bogs and through thickets, whilst the bird was all the time hovering in front of him and leading him along the easiest and safest paths. But if he stopped for a moment the same mournful note of 'Vengeance, vengeance!' would be sung to him in a more and more plaintive and heartbreaking fashion. They had by this time reached the top of the hill, a considerable distance from the palace. As the old harper felt rather fatigued and weary, he ventured once more to stop and rest, but he heard the bird's warning voice no more. He listened, but he heard nothing save the murmuring of the little burn hard by. He now began to think how foolish he had been to allow himself to be led away from the feast at the palace: he turned back in order to be there in time for the next dance. As he wandered on the hill he lost his way, and found himself forced to await the break of day. In the morning, as he turned his eyes in the direction of the palace, he could see no trace of it: the whole tract below was one calm, large lake, with his harp floating on the face of the waters. Next comes the story of Llynclys Pool in the neighbourhood of Oswestry. That piece of water is said to be of extraordinary depth, and its name means the 'swallowed court.' The village of Llynclys is called after it, and the legend concerning the pool is preserved in verses printed among the compositions of the local poet, John F. M. Dovaston, who published his works in 1825. The first stanza runs thus:-- Clerk Willin he sat at king Alaric's board, And a cunning clerk was he; For he'd lived in the land of Oxenford With the sons of Grammarie. How much exactly of the poem comes from Dovaston's own muse, and how much comes from the legend, I cannot tell. Take for instance the king's name, this I should say is not derived from the story; but as to the name of the clerk, that possibly is, for the poet bases it on Croes-Willin, the Welsh form of which has been given me as Croes-Wylan, that is Wylan's Cross, the name of the base of what is supposed to have been an old cross, a little way out of Oswestry on the north side; and I have been told that there is a farm in the same neighbourhood called Tre' Wylan, 'Wylan's Stead.' To return to the legend, Alaric's queen was endowed with youth and beauty, but the king was not happy; and when he had lived with her nine years he told Clerk Willin how he first met her when he was hunting 'fair Blodwell's rocks among.' He married her on the condition that she should be allowed to leave him one night in every seven, and this she did without his once knowing whither she went on the night of her absence. Clerk Willin promised to restore peace to the king if he would resign the queen to him, and a tithe annually of his cattle and of the wine in his cellar to him and the monks of the White Minster. The king consented, and the wily clerk hurried away with his book late at night to the rocks by the Giant's Grave, where there was an ogo' or cave which was supposed to lead down to Faery. While the queen was inside the cave, he began his spells and made it irrevocable that she should be his, and that his fare should be what fed on the king's meadow and what flowed in his cellar. When the clerk's potent spells forced the queen to meet him to consummate his bargain with the king, what should he behold but a grim ogress, who told him that their spells had clashed. She explained to him how she had been the king's wife for thirty years, and how the king began to be tired of her wrinkles and old age. Then, on condition of returning to the Ogo to be an ogress one night in seven, she was given youth and beauty again, with which she attracted the king anew. In fact, she had promised him happiness Till within his hall the flag-reeds tall And the long green rushes grow. The ogress continued in words which made the clerk see how completely he had been caught in his own net: Then take thy bride to thy cloistered bed, As by oath and spell decreed, And nought be thy fare but the pike and the dare, And the water in which they feed. The clerk had succeeded in restoring peace at the king's banqueting board, but it was the peace of the dead; For down went the king, and his palace and all, And the waters now o'er it flow, And already in his hall do the flag-reeds tall And the long green rushes grow. But the visitor will, Dovaston says, find Willin's peace relieved by the stories which the villagers have to tell of that wily clerk, of Croes-Willin, and of 'the cave called the Grim Ogo'; not to mention that when the lake is clear, they will show you the towers of the palace below, the Llynclys, which the Brython of ages gone by believed to be there. We now come to a different story about this pool, namely, one which has been preserved in Latin by the historian Humfrey Lhuyd, or Humphrey Llwyd, to the following effect:-- 'After the description of Gwynedh, let vs now come to Powys, the seconde kyngedome of VVales, which in the time of German Altisiodorensis [St. Germanus of Auxerre], which preached sometime there, agaynst Pelagius Heresie: was of power, as is gathered out of his life. The kynge wherof, as is there read, bycause he refused to heare that good man: by the secret and terrible iudgement of God, with his Palace, and all his householde: was swallowed vp into the bowels of the Earth, in that place, whereas, not farre from Oswastry, is now a standyng water, of an vnknowne depth, called Lhunclys, that is to say: the deuouryng of the Palace. And there are many Churches founde in the same Province, dedicated to the name of German [8].' I have not succeeded in finding the story in any of the lives of St. Germanus, but Nennius, § 32, mentions a certain Benli, whom he describes as rex iniquus atque tyrannus valde, who, after refusing to admit St. Germanus and his following into his city, was destroyed with all his courtiers, not by water, however, but by fire from heaven. But the name Benli, in modern Welsh spelling Benlli [9], points to the Moel Famau range of mountains, one of which is known as Moel Fenlli, between Ruthin and Mold, rather than to any place near Oswestry. In any case there is no reason to suppose that this story with its Christian and ethical motive is anything like so old as the substratum of Dovaston's verses. The only version known to me in the Welsh language of the Llynclys legend is to be found printed in the Brython for 1863, p. 338, and it may be summarized as follows:--The Llynclys family were notorious for their riotous living, and at their feasts a voice used to be heard proclaiming, 'Vengeance is coming, coming,' but nobody took it much to heart. However, one day a reckless maid asked the voice, 'When?' The prompt reply was to the effect that it was in the sixth generation: the voice was heard no more. So one night, when the sixth heir in descent from the time of the warning last heard was giving a great drinking feast, and music had been vigorously contributing to the entertainment of host and guest, the harper went outside for a breath of air; but when he turned to come back, lo and behold! the whole court had disappeared. Its place was occupied by a quiet piece of water, on whose waves he saw his harp floating, nothing more. Here must, lastly, be added one more legend of submergence, namely, that supposed to have taken place some time or other on the north coast of Carnarvonshire. In the Brython for 1863, pp. 393-4, we have what purports to be a quotation from Owen Jones' Aberconwy a'i Chyffiniau, 'Conway and its Environs,' a work which I have not been able to find. Here one reads of a tract of country supposed to have once extended from the Gogarth [10], 'the Great Orme,' to Bangor, and from Llanfair Fechan to Ynys Seiriol, 'Priestholme or Puffin Island,' and of its belonging to a wicked prince named Helig ab Glannawc or Glannog [11], from whom it was called Tyno Helig, 'Helig's Hollow.' Tradition, the writer says, fixes the spot where the court stood about halfway between Penmaen Mawr and Pen y Gogarth, 'the Great Orme's Head,' over against Trwyn yr Wylfa; and the story relates that here a calamity had been foretold four generations before it came, namely as the vengeance of Heaven on Helig ab Glannog for his nefarious impiety. As that ancient prince rode through his fertile heritage one day at the approach of night, he heard the voice of an invisible follower warning him that 'Vengeance is coming, coming.' The wicked old prince once asked excitedly, 'When?' The answer was, 'In the time of thy grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and their children.' Peradventure Helig calmed himself with the thought, that, if such a thing came, it would not happen in his lifetime. But on the occasion of a great feast held at the court, and when the family down to the fifth generation were present taking part in the festivities, one of the servants noticed, when visiting the mead cellar to draw more drink, that water was forcing its way in. He had only time to warn the harper of the danger he was in, when all the others, in the midst of their intoxication, were overwhelmed by the flood. These inundation legends have many points of similarity among themselves: thus in those of Llynclys, Syfadon, Llyn Tegid, and Tyno Helig, though they have a ring of austerity about them, the harper is a favoured man, who always escapes when the banqueters are all involved in the catastrophe. The story, moreover, usually treats the submerged habitations as having sunk intact, so that the ancient spires and church towers may still at times be seen: nay the chimes of their bells may be heard by those who have ears for such music. In some cases there may have been, underlying the legend, a trace of fact such as has been indicated to me by Mr. Owen M. Edwards, of Lincoln College, in regard to Bala Lake. When the surface of that water, he says, is covered with broken ice, and a south-westerly wind is blowing, the mass of fragments is driven towards the north-eastern end near the town of Bala; and he has observed that the friction produces a somewhat metallic noise which a quick imagination may convert into something like a distant ringing of bells. Perhaps the most remarkable instance remains to be mentioned: I refer to Cantre'r Gwaelod, as the submerged country of Gwydno Garanhir is termed, see p. 382 above. To one portion of his fabled realm the nearest actual centres of population are Aberdovey and Borth on either side of the estuary of the Dovey. As bursar of Jesus College I had business in 1892 in the Golden Valley of Herefordshire, and I stayed a day or two at Dorstone enjoying the hospitality of the rectory, and learning interesting facts from the rector, Mr. Prosser Powell, and from Mrs. Powell in particular, as to the folklore of the parish, which is still in several respects very Welsh. Mrs. Powell, however, did not confine herself to Dorstone or the Dore Valley, for she told me as follows:--'I was at Aberdovey in 1852, and I distinctly remember that my childish imagination was much excited by the legend of the city beneath the sea, and the bells which I was told might be heard at night. I used to lie awake trying, but in vain, to catch the echoes of the chime. I was only seven years old, and cannot remember who told me the story, though I have never forgotten it.' Mrs. Powell added that she has since heard it said, that at a certain stage of the tide at the mouth of the Dovey, the way in which the waves move the pebbles makes them produce a sort of jingling noise which has been fancied to be the echo of distant bells ringing. These clues appeared too good to be dropped at once, and the result of further inquiries led Mrs. Powell afterwards to refer me to The Monthly Packet for the year 1859, where I found an article headed 'Aberdovey Legends,' and signed M. B., the initials, Mrs. Powell thought, of Miss Bramston of Winchester. The writer gives a sketch of the story of the country overflowed by the neighbouring portion of Cardigan Bay, mentioning, p. 645, that once on a time there were great cities on the banks of the Dovey and the Disynni. 'Cities with marble wharfs,' she says, 'busy factories, and churches whose towers resounded with beautiful peals and chimes of bells.' She goes on to say that 'Mausna is the name of the city on the Dovey; its eastern suburb was at the sand-bank now called Borth, its western stretched far out into the sea.' What the name Mausna may be I have no idea, unless it is the result of some confusion with that of the great turbary behind Borth, namely Mochno, or Cors Fochno, 'Bog of Mochno.' The name Borth stands for Y Borth, 'the Harbour,' which, more adequately described, was once Porth Wydno, 'Gwydno's Harbour.' The writer, however, goes on with the story of the wicked prince, who left open the sluices of the sea-wall protecting his country and its capital: we read on as follows:--'But though the sea will not give back that fair city to light and air, it is keeping it as a trust but for a time, and even now sometimes, though very rarely, eyes gazing down through the green waters can see not only the fluted glistering sand dotted here and there with shells and tufts of waving sea-weed, but the wide streets and costly buildings of that now silent city. Yet not always silent, for now and then will come chimes and peals of bells, sometimes near, sometimes distant, sounding low and sweet like a call to prayer, or as rejoicing for a victory. Even by day these tones arise, but more often they are heard in the long twilight evenings, or by night. English ears have sometimes heard these sounds even before they knew the tale, and fancied that they must come from some church among the hills, or on the other side of the water, but no such church is there to give the call; the sound and its connexion is so pleasant, that one does not care to break the spell by seeking for the origin of the legend, as in the idler tales with which that neighbourhood abounds.' The dream about 'the wide streets and costly buildings of that now silent city' seems to have its counterpart on the western coast of Erin--somewhere, let us say, off the cliffs of Moher [12], in County Clare--witness Gerald Griffin's lines, to which a passing allusion has already been made, p. 205:-- A story I heard on the cliffs of the West, That oft, through the breakers dividing, A city is seen on the ocean's wild breast, In turreted majesty riding. But brief is the glimpse of that phantom so bright: Soon close the white waters to screen it. The allusion to the submarine chimes would make it unpardonable to pass by unnoticed the well-known Welsh air called Clychau Aberdyfi, 'The Bells of Aberdovey,' which I have always suspected of taking its name from fairy bells [13]. This popular tune is of unknown origin, and the words to which it is usually sung make the bells say un, dau, tri, pedwar, pump, chwech, 'one, two, three, four, five, six'; and I have heard a charming Welsh vocalist putting on saith, 'seven,' in her rendering of the song. This is not to be wondered at, as her instincts must have rebelled against such a commonplace number as six in a song redolent of old-world sentiment. But our fairy bells ought to have stopped at five: this would seem to have been forgotten when the melody and the present words were wedded together. At any rate our stories seem to suggest that fairy counting did not go beyond the fingering of one hand. The only Welsh fairy represented counting is made to do it all by fives: she counts un, dau, tri, pedwar, pump; un, dau, tri, pedwar, pump, as hard as her tongue can go. For on the number of times she can repeat the five numerals at a single breath depends the number of the live stock of each kind, which are to form her dowry: see p. 8 above, and as to music in fairy tales, see pp. 202, 206, 292. Now that a number of our inundation stories have been passed in review in this and the previous chapter, some room may be given to the question of their original form. They separate themselves, as it will have been seen, into at least two groups: (1) those in which the cause of the catastrophe is ethical, the punishment of the wicked and dissolute; and (2) those in which no very distinct suggestion of the kind is made. It is needless to say that everything points to the comparative lateness of the fully developed ethical motive; and we are not forced to rest content with this theoretical distinction, for in more than one of the instances we have the two kinds of story. In the case of Llyn Tegid, the less known and presumably the older story connects the formation of the lake with the neglect to keep the stone door of the well shut, while the more popular story makes the catastrophe a punishment for wicked and riotous living: compare pp. 377, 408, above. So with the older story of Cantre'r Gwaelod, on which we found the later one of the tipsy Seithennin as it were grafted, p. 395. The keeping of the well shut in the former case, as also in that of Ffynnon Gywer, was a precaution, but the neglect of it was not the cause of the ensuing misfortune. Even if we had stories like the Irish ones, which make the sacred well burst forth in pursuit of the intruder who has gazed into its depths, it would by no means be of a piece with the punishment of riotous and lawless living. Our comparison should rather be with the story of the Curse of Pantannas, where a man incurred the wrath of the fairies by ploughing up ground which they wished to retain as a green sward; but the threatened vengeance for that act of culture did not come to pass for a century, till the time of one, in fact, who is not charged with having done anything to deserve it. The ethics of that legend are, it is clear, not easy to discover, and in our inundation stories one may trace stages of development from a similarly low level. The case may be represented thus: a divinity is offended by a man, and for some reason or other the former wreaks his vengeance, not on the offender, but on his descendants. This minimum granted, it is easy to see, that in time the popular conscience would fail to rest satisfied with the cruel idea of a jealous divinity visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children. One may accordingly distinguish the following stages:-- 1. The legend lays it down as a fact that the father was very wicked. 2. It makes his descendants also wicked like him. 3. It represents the same punishment overtaking father and sons, ancestor and descendants. 4. The simplest way to secure this kind of equal justice was, no doubt, to let the offending ancestors live on to see their descendants of the generation for whose time the vengeance had been fixed, and to let them be swept away with them in one and the same cataclysm, as in the Welsh versions of the Syfadon and Kenfig legends, possibly also in those of Llyn Tegid and Tyno Helig, which are not explicit on this point. Let us for a moment examine the indications of the time to which the vengeance is put off. In the case of the landed families of ancient Wales, every member of them had his position and liabilities settled by his pedigree, which had to be exactly recorded down to the eighth generation or eighth lifetime in Gwyned, and to the seventh in Gwent and Dyfed. Those generations were reckoned the limits of recognized family relationship according to the Welsh Laws, and to keep any practical reckoning of the kind, extending always back some two centuries, must have employed a class of professional men [14]. In any case the ninth generation, called in Welsh y nawfed âch, which is a term in use all over the Principality at the present day, is treated as lying outside all recognized kinship. Thus if AB wishes to say that he is no relation to CD, he will say that he is not related o fewn y nawfed âch, 'within the ninth degree,' or hyd y nawfed âch, 'up to the ninth degree,' it being understood that in the ninth degree and beyond it no relationship is reckoned. Folklore stories, however, seem to suggest another interpretation of the word âch, and fewer generations in the direct line as indicated in the following table. For the sake of simplicity the founder of the family is here assumed to have at least two sons, A and B, and each succeeding generation to consist of one son only; and lastly the women are omitted altogether:-- Tâd I (Father) 1 Brother A : II : B Mâb (Son) 2 : : 2 i Cousin Aa : III : Ba Wyr (Grandson) 3 : : 3 ii Cousin Ab : IV : Bb Gorwyr (Great-Grandson) 4 : : 4 iii Cousin Ac : V : Bc Esgynnyd (G.G.Grandson) 5 : : 5 iv Cousin Ad : VI : Bd Goresgynnyd (G.G.G.Grandson). In reckoning the relationships between the collateral members of the family, one counts not generations or begettings, not removes or degrees, but ancestry or the number of ancestors, so that the father or founder of the family only counts once. Thus his descendants Ad and Bd in the sixth generation or lifetime, are fourth cousins separated from one another by nine ancestors: that is, they are related in the ninth âch. In other words, Ad has five ancestors and Bd has also five, but as they have one ancestor in common, the father of the family, they are not separated by 5 + 5 ancestors, but by 5 + 5 - 1, that is by 9. Similarly, one being always subtracted, the third cousins Ac and Bc are related in the seventh âch, and the second cousin in the fifth âch: so with the others in odd numbers downwards, and also with the relatives reckoned upwards to the seventh or eighth generation, which would mean collaterals separated by eleven or thirteen ancestors respectively. This reckoning, which is purely conjectural, is based chiefly on the Kenfig story, which foretold the vengeance to come in the ninth âch and otherwise in the time of the goresgynnyd, that is to say in the sixth lifetime. This works out all right if only by the ninth âch we understand the generation or lifetime when the collaterals are separated by nine ancestors, for that is no other than the sixth from the founder of the family. The Welsh version of the Llynclys legend fixes on the same generation, as it says yn oes wyrion, gorwyrion, esgynnyd a goresgynnyd, 'in the lifetime of grandsons, great-grandsons, ascensors, and their children,' for these last's time is the sixth generation. In the case of the Syfadon legend the time of the vengeance is the ninth cenhedlaeth or generation, which must be regarded as probably a careless way of indicating the generation when the collaterals are separated by nine ancestors, that is to say the sixth from the father of the family. It can hardly have the other meaning, as the sinning ancestors are represented as then still living. The case of the Tyno Helig legend is different, as we have the time announced to the offending ancestor described as amser dy wyrion, dy orwyrion, a dy esgynydion, 'the time of thy grandsons, thy great-grandsons, and thy ascensors,' which would be only the fifth generation with collaterals separated only by seven ancestors, and not nine. But the probability is that goresgynydion has been here accidentally omitted, and that the generation indicated originally was the same as in the others. This, however, will not explain the Bala legend, which fixes the time for the third generation, namely, immediately after the birth of the offending prince's first grandson. If, however, as I am inclined to suppose, the sixth generation with collaterals severed by nine ancestors was the normal term in these stories, it is easy to understand that the story-teller might wish to substitute a generation nearer to the original offender, especially if he was himself to be regarded as surviving to share in the threatened punishment: his living to see the birth of his first grandson postulated no extraordinary longevity. The question why fairy vengeance is so often represented deferred for a long time can no longer be put off. Here three or four answers suggest themselves:-- 1. The story of the Curse of Pantannas relates how the offender was not the person punished, but one of his descendants a hundred or more years after his time, while the offender is represented escaping the fairies' vengeance because he entreated them very hard to let him go unpunished. All this seems to me but a sort of protest against the inexorable character of the little people, a protest, moreover, which was probably invented comparatively late. 2. The next answer is the very antithesis of the Pantannas one; for it is, that the fairies delay in order to involve all the more men and women in the vengeance wreaked by them: I confess that I see no reason to entertain so sinister an idea. 3. A better answer, perhaps, is that the fairies were not always in a position to harm him who offended them. This may well have been the belief as regards any one who had at his command the dreaded potency of magic. Take for instance the Irish story of a king of Erin called Eochaid Airem, who, with the aid of his magician or druid Dalán, defied the fairies, and dug into the heart of their underground station, until, in fact, he got possession of his queen, who had been carried thither by a fairy chief named Mider. Eochaid, assisted by his druid and the powerful Ogams which the latter wrote on rods of yew, was too formidable for the fairies, and their wrath was not executed till the time of Eochaid's unoffending grandson, Conaire Mór, who fell a victim to it, as related in the epic story of Bruden Dáderga, so called from the palace where Conaire was slain [15]. 4. Lastly, it may be said that the fairies being supposed deathless, there would be no reason why they should hurry; and even in case the delay meant a century or two, that makes no perceptible approach to the extravagant scale of time common enough in our fairy tales, when, for instance, they make a man who has whiled ages away in fairyland, deem it only so many minutes [16]. Whatever the causes may have been which gave our stories their form in regard of the delay in the fairy revenge, it is clear that Welsh folklore could not allow this delay to extend beyond the sixth generation with its cousinship of nine ancestries, if, as I gather, it counted kinship no further. Had one projected it on the seventh or the eighth generation, both of which are contemplated in the Laws, it would not be folklore. It would more likely be the lore of the landed gentry and of the powerful families whose pedigrees and ramifications of kinship were minutely known to the professional men on whom it was incumbent to keep themselves, and those on whom they depended, well informed in such matters. It remains for me to consider the non-ethical motive of the other stories, such as those which ascribe negligence and the consequent inundation to the woman who has the charge of the door or lid of the threatening well. Her negligence is not the cause of the catastrophe, but it leaves the way open for it. What then can have been regarded the cause? One may gather something to the point from the Irish story where the divinity of the well is offended because a woman has gazed into its depths, and here probably, as already suggested (p. 392), we come across an ancient tabu directed against women, which may have applied only to certain wells of peculiarly sacred character. It serves, however, to suggest that the divinities of the water-world were not disinclined to seize every opportunity of extending their domain on the earth's surface; and I am persuaded that this was once a universal creed of some race or other in possession of these islands. Besides the Irish legends already mentioned (pp. 382, 384) of the formation of Lough Neagh, Lough Ree, and others, witness the legendary annals of early Ireland, which, by the side of battles, the clearing of forests, and the construction of causeways, mention the bursting forth of lakes and rivers; that is to say, the formation or the coming into existence, or else the serious expansion, of certain of the actual waters of the country. For the present purpose the details given by The Four Masters are sufficient, and I have hurriedly counted their instances as follows:-- Anno Mundi 2532, number of the lakes formed, 2. ,, ,, 2533, ,, ,, ,, lakes ,, 1. ,, ,, 2535, ,, ,, ,, lakes ,, 2. ,, ,, 2545, ,, ,, ,, lakes ,, 1. ,, ,, 2546, ,, ,, ,, lakes ,, 1. ,, ,, 2859, ,, ,, ,, lakes ,, 2. ,, ,, 2860, ,, ,, ,, lakes ,, 2. ,, ,, 3503, ,, ,, ,, rivers ,, 21. ,, ,, 3506, ,, ,, ,, lakes ,, 9. ,, ,, 3510, ,, ,, ,, rivers ,, 5. ,, ,, 3520, ,, ,, ,, rivers ,, 9. ,, ,, 3581, ,, ,, ,, lakes ,, 9. ,, ,, 3656, ,, ,, ,, rivers ,, 3. ,, ,, 3751, ,, ,, ,, lakes ,, 1. ,, ,, 3751, ,, ,, ,, rivers ,, 3. ,, ,, 3790, ,, ,, ,, lakes ,, 4. ,, ,, 4169, ,, ,, ,, rivers ,, 5. ,, ,, 4694, ,, ,, ,, lakes ,, 1. This makes an aggregate of thirty-five lakes and forty-six rivers, that is to say a total of eighty-one eruptions. But I ought, perhaps, to explain that under the head of lakes I have included not only separate pieces of water, but also six inlets of the sea, such as Strangford Lough and the like. Still more to the point is it to mention that of the lakes two are said to have burst forth at the digging of graves. Thus, A.M. 2535, The Four Masters have the following: 'Laighlinne, son of Parthalon, died in this year. When his grave was dug, Loch Laighlinne sprang forth in Ui Mac Uais, and from him it is named [17].' O'Donovan, the editor and translator of The Four Masters, supposes it to be somewhere to the south-west of Tara, in Meath. Similarly, A.M. 4694, they say of a certain Melghe Molbthach, 'When his grave was digging, Loch Melghe burst forth over the land in Cairbre, so that it was named from him.' This is said to be now called Lough Melvin, on the confines of the counties of Donegal, Leitrim, and Fermanagh. These two instances are mentioned by The Four Masters; and here is one given by Stokes in the Rennes Dindsenchas: see the Revue Celtique, xv. 428-9. It has to do with Loch Garman, as Wexford Harbour was called in Irish, and it runs thus: 'Loch Garman, whence is it? Easy to say. Garman Glas, son of Dega, was buried there, and when his grave was dug then the lake burst throughout the land. Whence Loch Garman.' It matters not here that there are alternative accounts of the name. The meaning of all this seems to be that cutting the green sward or disturbing the earth beneath was believed in certain cases to give offence to some underground divinity or other connected with the world of waters. That divinity avenged the annoyance or offence given him by causing water to burst forth and form a lake forthwith. The nearness of such divinities to the surface seems not a little remarkable, and it is shown not only in the folklore which has been preserved for us by The Four Masters, but also by the usual kind of story about a neglected well door. These remarks suggest the question whether it was not one of the notions which determined surface burials, that is, burials in which no cutting of the ground took place, the cists or chambers and the bodies placed in them being covered over by the heaping on of earth or stones brought from a more or less convenient distance. It might perhaps be said that all this only implied individuals of a character to desecrate the ground and call forth the displeasure of the divinities concerned; and for that suggestion folklore parallels, it is true, could be adduced. But it is hardly adequate: the facts seem to indicate a more general objection on the part of the powers in point; and they remind one rather of the clause said to be inserted in mining leases in China with the object, if one may trust the newspapers, of preventing shafts from being sunk below a certain depth, for fear of offending the susceptibilities of the demons or dragons ruling underground. It is interesting to note the fact, that Celtic folklore connects the underground divinities intimately with water; for one may briefly say that they have access wherever water can take them. With this qualification the belief may be said to have lingered lately in Wales, for instance, in connexion with Llyn Barfog, near Aberdovey. 'It is believed to be very perilous,' Mr. Pughe says, p. 142 above, 'to let the waters out of the lake'; and not long before he wrote, in 1853, an aged inhabitant of the district informed him 'that she recollected this being done during a period of long drought, in order to procure motive power for Llyn Pair Mill, and that long-continued heavy rains followed.' Then we have the story related to Mr. Reynolds as to Llyn y Fan Fach, how there emerged from the water a huge hairy fellow of hideous aspect, who stormed at the disturbers of his peace, and uttered the threat that unless they left him alone in his own place he would drown a whole town. Thus the power of the water spirit is represented as equal to producing excessive wet weather and destructive floods. He is in all probability not to be dissociated from the afanc in the Conwy story which has already been given (pp. 130-3). Now the local belief is that the reason why the afanc had to be dragged out of the river was that he caused floods in the river and made it impossible for people to cross on their way to market at Llanrwst. Some such a local legend has been generalized into a sort of universal flood story in the late Triad, iii. 97, as follows:--'Three masterpieces of the Isle of Prydain: the Ship of Nefyd Naf Neifion, that carried in her male and female of every kind when the Lake of Llïon burst; and Hu the Mighty's Ychen Bannog dragging the afanc of the lake to land, so that the lake burst no more; and the Stones of Gwydon Ganhebon, on which one read all the arts and sciences of the world.' A story similar to the Conwy one, but no longer to be got so complete, as far as I know, seems to have been current in various parts of the Principality, especially around Llyn Syfadon and on the banks of the Anglesey pool called Llyn yr Wyth Eidion, 'the Pool of the Eight Oxen,' for so many is Hu represented here as requiring in dealing with the Anglesey afanc. According to Mr. Pughe of Aberdovey, the same feat was performed at Llyn Barfog, not, however, by Hu and his oxen, but by Arthur and his horse. To be more exact the task may be here considered as done by Arthur superseding Hu: see p. 142 above. That, however, is of no consequence here, and I return to the afanc: the Fan Fach legend told to Mr. Reynolds makes the lake ruler huge and hairy, hideous and rough-spoken, but he expresses himself in human speech, in fact in two lines of doggerel: see p. 19 above. On the other hand, the Llyn Cwm Llwch story, which puts the same doggerel, p. 21, into the mouth of the threatening figure in red who sits in a chair on the face of that lake, suggests nothing abnormal about his personal appearance. Then as to the Conwy afanc, he is very heavy, it is true, but he also speaks the language of the country. He is lured, be it noticed, out of his home in the lake by the attractions of a young woman, who lets him rest his head in her lap and fall asleep. When he wakes to find himself in chains he takes a cruel revenge on her. But with infinite toil and labour he is dragged beyond the Conwy watershed into one of the highest tarns on Snowdon; for there is here no question of killing him, but only of removing him where he cannot harm the people of the Conwy Valley. It is true that the story of Peredur represents that knight cutting an afanc's head off, but so much the worse for the compiler of that romance, as we have doubtless in the afanc some kind of a deathless being. However, the description which the Peredur story gives [18] of him is interesting: he lives in a cave at the door of which is a stone pillar: he sees everybody that comes without anybody seeing him; and from behind the pillar he kills all comers with a poisoned spear. Hitherto we have the afanc described mostly from a hostile point of view: let us change our position, which some of the stories already given enable us to do. Take for instance the first of the whole series, where it describes, p. 7, the Fan Fach youth's despair when the lake damsel, whose love he had gained, suddenly dived to fetch her father and her sister. There emerged, it says, out of the lake two most beautiful ladies, accompanied by a hoary-headed man of noble mien and extraordinary stature, but having otherwise all the force and strength of youth. This hoary-headed man of noble mien owned herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, a number of which were allowed to come out of the lake to form his daughter's dowry, as the narrative goes on to show. In the story of Llyn Du'r Ardu, p. 32, he has a consort who appears with him to join in giving the parental sanction to the marriage which their daughter was about to make with the Snowdon shepherd. In neither of these stories has this extraordinary figure any name given him, and it appears prima facie probable that the term afanc is rather one of abuse in harmony with the unlovely description of him supplied by the other stories. But neither in them does the term yr afanc suit the monster meant, for there can be no doubt that in the word afanc we have the etymological equivalent of the Irish word abacc, 'a dwarf'; and till further light is shed on these words one may assume that at one time afanc also meant a dwarf or pigmy in Welsh. In modern Welsh it has been regarded as meaning a beaver, but as that was too small an animal to suit the popular stories, the word has been also gravely treated as meaning a crocodile [19]: this is in the teeth of the unanimous treatment of him as anthropomorphic in the legends in point. If one is to abide by the meaning dwarf or pigmy, one is bound to regard afanc as one of the terms originally applied to the fairies in their more unlovely aspects: compare the use of crimbil, p. 263. Here may also be mentioned pegor, 'a dwarf or pigmy,' which occurs in the Book of Taliessin, poem vii. (p. 135):-- Gog6n py pegor I know what (sort of) pigmy yssyd ydan vor. There is beneath the sea. Gogwn eu heissor I know their kind, pa6b yny oscord. Each in his troop. Also the following lines in the twelfth-century manuscript of the Black Book of Carmarthen: see Evans' autotype facsimile, fo. 9b:-- Ar gnyuer pegor And every dwarf y ssit y dan mor. There is beneath the sea, Ar gnyuer edeinauc And every winged thing aoruc kyuoethauc. The Mighty One hath made, Ac vei. vei. paup. And were there to each tri trychant tauaud Thrice three hundred tongues-- Nyellynt ve traethaud. They could not relate kyuoetheu [y] trindaud The powers of the Trinity. I should rather suppose, then, that the pigmies in the water-world were believed to consist of many grades or classes, and to be innumerable like the Luchorpáin of Irish legend, which were likewise regarded as diminutive. With the Luchorpáin were also associated [20] Fomori or Fomoraig (modern Irish spelling Fomhoraigh), and Goborchinn, 'Horse-heads.' The etymology of the word Fomori has been indicated at p. 286 above, but Irish legendary history has long associated it with muir, 'sea,' genitive mara, Welsh mor, and it has gone so far as to see in them, as there suggested, not submarine but transmarine enemies and invaders of Ireland. So the singular fomor, now written fomhor, is treated in O'Reilly's Irish Dictionary as meaning 'a pirate, a sea robber, a giant,' while in Highland Gaelic, where it is written fomhair or famhair, it is regularly used as the word for giant. The Manx Gaelic corresponding to Irish fomor and its derivative fomorach, is foawr, 'a giant,' and foawragh, 'gigantic,' but also 'a pirate.' I remember hearing, however, years ago, a mention made of the Fomhoraigh, which, without conveying any definite allusion to their stature, associated them with subterranean places:--An undergraduate from the neighbourhood of Killorglin, in Kerry, happened to relate in my hearing, how, when he was exploring some underground ráths near his home, he was warned by his father's workmen to beware of the Fomhoraigh. But on the borders of the counties of Mayo and Sligo I have found the word used as in the Scottish Highlands, namely, in the sense of giants, while Dr. Douglas Hyde and others inform me that the Giant's Causeway is called in Irish Clochán na bh-Fomhorach. The Goborchinns or Horse-heads have also an interest, not only in connexion with the Fomori, as when we read of a king of the latter called Eocha Eachcheann [21], or Eochy Horse-head, but also as a link between the Welsh afanc and the Highland water-horse, of whom Campbell has a good deal to say in his Popular Tales of the West Highlands. See more especially iv. 337, where he remarks among other things, that 'the water-horse assumes many shapes; he often appears as a man,' he adds, 'and sometimes as a large bird.' A page or two earlier he gives a story which illustrates the statement, at the same time that it vividly reminds one of that part of the Conwy legend which (p. 130) represents the afanc resting his head on the lap of the damsel forming one of the dramatis personæ. Here follows Campbell's own story, omitting all about a marvellous bull, however, that was in the end to checkmate the water-horse:-- 'A long time after these things a servant girl went with the farmer's herd of cattle to graze them at the side of a loch, and she sat herself down near the bank. There, in a little while, what should she see walking towards her but a man, who asked her to fasg his hair [Welsh lleua]. She said she was willing enough to do him that service, and so he laid his head on her knee, and she began to array his locks, as Neapolitan damsels also do by their swains. But soon she got a great fright, for growing amongst the man's hair, she found a great quantity of liobhagach an locha, a certain slimy green weed [22] that abounds in such lochs, fresh, salt, and brackish. The girl knew that if she screamed there was an end of her, so she kept her terror to herself, and worked away till the man fell asleep as he was with his head on her knee. Then she untied her apron strings, and slid the apron quietly on to the ground with its burden upon it, and then she took her feet home as fast as it was in her heart [23]. Now when she was getting near the houses, she gave a glance behind her, and there she saw her caraid (friend) coming after her in the likeness of a horse.' The equine form belongs also more or less constantly to the kelpie of the Lowlands of Scotland and of the Isle of Man, where we have him in the glashtyn, whose amorous propensities are represented as more repulsive than what appears in Welsh or Irish legend: see p. 289 above, and the Lioar Manninagh for 1897, p. 139. Perhaps in Man and the Highlands the horsy nature of this being has been reinforced by the influence of the Norse Nykr, a Northern Proteus or old Nick, who takes many forms, but with a decided preference for that of 'a gray water-horse': see Vigfusson's Icelandic-English Dictionary. But the idea of associating the equine form with the water divinity is by no means confined to the Irish and the Northern nations: witness the Greek legend of the horse being of Poseidon's own creation, and the beast whose form he sometimes assumed. It is in this sort of a notion of a water-horse one is probably to look for the key to the riddle of such conceptions as that of March ab Meirchion, the king with horse's ears, and the corresponding Irish figure of Labraid Lorc [24]. In both of these the brute peculiarities are reduced almost to a minimum: both are human in form save their ears alone. The name Labraid Lorc is distinct enough from the Welsh March, but under this latter name one detects traces of him with the horse's ears in Wales, Cornwall, and Brittany [25]. We have also probably the same name in the Morc of Irish legend: at any rate Morc, Marc, or Margg, seems to be the same name as the Welsh March, which is no other word than march, 'a steed or charger.' Now the Irish Morc is not stated to have had horse's ears, but he and another called Conaing are represented in the legendary history of early Erin as the naval leaders of the Fomori, a sort of position which would seem to fit the Brythonic March also were he to be treated in earnest as an historical character. But short of that another treatment may be suspected of having been actually dealt out to him, namely, that of resolving the water-horse into a horse and his master. Of this we seem to have two instances in the course of the story of the formation of Lough Neagh in the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 39-41:-- There was once a good king named Maired reigning over Munster, and he had two sons, Eochaid and Rib. He married a wife named Ebliu (genitive Eblinde), who fell in love with her stepson, Eochaid. The two brothers make up their minds to leave their father and to take Ebliu with them, together with all that was theirs, including in all a thousand men. They proceed northwards, but their druids persuade them that they cannot settle down in the same district, so Rib goes westwards to a plain known as Tír Cluchi Midir acus Maic Óic, 'the Play-ground of Mider and the Mac Óc,' so called after the two great fairy chiefs of Ireland. Mider visits Rib's camp and kills their horses, then he gives them a big horse of his own ready harnessed with a pack-saddle. They had to put all their baggage on the big horse's back and go away, but after a while the nag lay down and a well of water formed there, which eventually burst forth, drowning them all: this is Loch Ri, 'Rib's Loch, or Lough Ree,' on the Shannon. Eochaid, the other brother, went with his party to the banks of the Boyne near the Brug, where the fairy chief Mac Óc or Mac ind Óc had his residence: he destroyed Eochaid's horses the first night, and the next day he threatened to destroy the men themselves unless they went away. Thereupon Eochaid said that they could not travel without horses, so the Mac Óc gave them a big horse, on whose back they placed all they had. The Mac Óc warned them not to unload the nag on the way, and not to let him halt lest he should be their death. However, when they had reached the middle of Ulster, they thoughtlessly took all their property off the horse's back, and nobody bethought him of turning the animal's head back in the direction from which they had come: so he also made a well [26]. Over that well Eochaid had a house built, and a lid put on the well, which he set a woman to guard. In the sequel she neglected it, and the well burst forth and formed Lough Neagh, as already mentioned, p. 382 above. What became of the big horses in these stories one is not told, but most likely they were originally represented as vanishing in a spring of water where each of them stood. Compare the account of Undine at her unfaithful husband's funeral. In the procession she mysteriously appeared as a snow-white figure deeply veiled, but when one rose from kneeling at the grave, where she had knelt nought was to be seen save a little silver spring of limpid water bubbling out of the turf and trickling on to surround the new grave:--Da man sich aber wieder erhob, war die weisse Fremde verschwunden; an der Stelle, wo sie geknieet hatte, quoll ein silberhelles Brünnlein aus dem Rasen; das rieselte und rieselte fort, bis es den Grabhügel des Ritters fast ganz umzogen hatte; dann rann es fürder und ergoss sich in einen Weiher, der zur Seite des Gottesackers lag. The late and grotesque story of the Gilla Decair may be mentioned next: he was one of the Fomorach, and had a wonderful kind of horse on whose back most of Finn's chief warriors were induced to mount. Then the Gilla Decair and his horse hurried towards Corkaguiny, in Kerry, and took to the sea, for he and his horse travelled equally well on sea and land. Thus Finn's men, unable to dismount, were carried prisoners to an island not named, on which Dermot in quest of them afterwards landed, and from which, after great perils, he made his way to Tír fo Thuinn, 'Terra sub Unda,' and brought his friends back to Erin [27]. Now the number of Finn's men taken away by force by the Gilla Decair was fifteen, fourteen on the back of his horse and one clutching to the animal's tail, and the Welsh Triads, i. 93 = ii. 11, seem to re-echo some similar story, but they give the number of persons not as fifteen but just one half, and describe the horse as Du (y) Moroed, 'the Black of (the) Seas,' steed of Elidyr Mwynfawr, that carried seven human beings and a half from Pen Llech Elidyr in the North to Pen Llech Elidyr in Môn, 'Anglesey.' It is explained that Du carried seven on his back, and that one who swam with his hands on that horse's crupper was reckoned the half man in this case. Du Moroed is in the story of Kulhwch and Olwen called Du March Moro, 'Black the Steed of Moro,' the horse ridden in the hunt of Twrch Trwyth by Gwyn ab Nud, king of the other world; and he appears as a knight with his name unmistakably rendered into Brun de Morois in the romance of Durmart le Galois, who carries away Arthur's queen on his horse to his castle in Morois [28]. Lastly, here also might be mentioned the incident in the story of Peredur or Perceval, which relates how to that knight, when he was in the middle of a forest much distressed for the want of a horse, a lady brought a fine steed as black as a blackberry. He mounted and he found his beast marvellously swift, but on his making straight for a vast river the knight made the sign of the cross, whereupon he was left on the ground, and his horse plunged into the water, which his touch seemed to set ablaze. The horse is interpreted to have been the devil [29], and this is a fair specimen of the way in which Celtic paganism is treated by the Grail writers when they feel in the humour to assume an edifying attitude. If one is right in setting Môn, 'Anglesey,' over against the anonymous isle to which the Gilla Decair hurries Finn's men away, Anglesey would have to be treated as having once been considered one of the Islands of the Dead and the home of Other-world inhabitants. We have a trace of this in a couplet in a poem by the medieval poet, Dafyd ab Gwilym, who makes Blodeuwed the Owl give a bit of her history as follows:-- Merch i arglwyd, ail Meirchion, Wyf i, myn Dewi! o Fon [30]. Daughter to a lord, son of Meirchion, Am I, by St. David! from Mona. This, it will be seen, connects March ab Meirchion, as it were 'Steed son of Steeding,' with the Isle of Anglesey. Add to this that the Irish for Anglesey or Mona was Móin Conaing, 'Conaing's Swamp,' so called apparently after Conaing associated with Morc, a name which is practically March in Welsh. Both were leaders of the Fomori in Irish tales: see my Arthurian Legend, p. 356. On the great place given to islands in Celtic legend and myth it is needless here to expatiate: witness Brittia, to which Procopius describes the souls of the departed being shipped from the shores of the Continent, the Isle of Avallon in the Romances, that of Gwales in the Mabinogion, Ynys Enlli or Bardsey, in which Merlin and his retinue enter the Glass House [31], and the island of which we read in the pages of Plutarch, that it contains Cronus held in the bonds of perennial sleep [32]. Let us return to the more anthropomorphic figure of the afanc, and take as his more favoured representative the virile personage described emerging from the Fan Fach Lake to give his sanction to the marriage of his daughter with the Mydfai shepherd. It is probable that a divinity of the same order belonged to every other lake of any considerable dimensions in the country. But it will be remembered that in the case of the story of Llyn Du'r Ardu two parents appeared with the lake maiden--her father and her mother--and we may suppose that they were divinities of the water-world. The same thing also may be inferred from the late Triad, iii. 13, which speaks of the bursting of the lake of Llïon, causing all the lands to be inundated so that all the human race was drowned except Dwyfan and Dwyfach, who escaped in a mastless ship: it was from them that the island of Prydain was repeopled. A similar Triad, iii. 97, but evidently of a different origin, has already been mentioned as speaking of the Ship of Nefyd Naf Neifion, that carried in it a male and female of every kind when the lake of Llïon burst. This later Triad evidently supplies what had been forgotten in the previous one, namely, a pair of each kind of animal life, and not of mankind alone. But from the names Dwyfan and Dwyfach I infer that the writer of Triad iii. 13 has developed his universal deluge on the basis of the scriptural account of it, for those names belonged in all probability to wells and rivers: in other terms, they were the names of water divinities. At any rate there seems to be some evidence that two springs, whose waters flow into Bala Lake, were at one time called Dwyfan and Dwyfach, these names being borne both by the springs themselves and the rivers flowing from them. The Dwyfan and the Dwyfach were regarded as uniting in the lake, while the water on its issuing from the lake is called Dyfrdwy. Now Dyfrdwy stands for an older Dyfr-dwyf, which in Old Welsh was Dubr duiu, 'the water of the divinity.' One of the names of that divinity was Donwy, standing for an early form Danuvios or Danuvia, according as it was masculine or feminine. In either case it was practically the same name as that of the Danube or Danuvios, derived from a word which is represented in Irish by the adjective dána, 'audax, fortis, intrepidus.' The Dee has in Welsh poetry still another name, Aerfen, which seems to mean a martial goddess or the spirit of the battlefield, which is corroborated and explained by Giraldus [33], who represents the river as the accredited arbiter of the fortunes of the wars in its country between the Welsh and the English. The name Dyfrdonwy occurs in a poem by Llywarch Brydyd y Moch, a poet who flourished towards the end of the twelfth century, as follows [34]:-- Nid kywiw [35] a llwfyr dwfyr dyfyrdonwy Kereist oth uebyd gwryd garwy. With a coward Dyfrdonwy water ill agrees: From thy boyhood hast thou loved Garwy's valour. The prince praised was Llywelyn ab Iorwerth, whom the poet seems to identify here with the Dee, and it looks as if the water of the Dee formed some sort of a test which no coward could face: compare the case of the discreet cauldron that would not boil meat for a coward [36]. The dwy, dwyf, duiu, of the river's Welsh name represent an early form deva or deiva, whence the Romans called their station on its banks Deva, possibly as a shortening of ad Devam; but that Deva should have simply and directly meant the river is rendered probable by the fact that Ptolemy elsewhere gives it as the name of the northern Dee, which enters the sea near Aberdeen. From the same stem were formed the names Dwyf-an and Dwyf-ach, which are treated in the Triads as masculine and feminine respectively. In its course the Welsh Dee receives a river Ceirw not far above Corwen, and that river flows through farms called Ar-dwyfan and Hendre' Ar-dwyfan, and adjoining Ardwyfan is another farm called Foty Ardwyfan, 'Shielings of Ardwyfan,' while Hendre' Ardwyfan means the old stead or winter abode of Ardwyfan. Ardwyfan itself would seem to mean 'On Dwyfan,' and Hendre' Ardwyfan, which may be supposed the original homestead, stands near a burn which flows into the Ceirw. That burn I should suppose to have been the Dwyfan, and perhaps the name extended to the Ceirw itself; but Dwyfan is not now known as the name of any stream in the neighbourhood. Elsewhere we have two rivers called Dwyfor or Dwyfawr and Dwyfach, which unite a little below the village of Llan Ystumdwy; and from there to the sea, the stream is called Dwyfor, the mouth of which is between Criccieth and Afon Wen, in Carnarvonshire. Ystumdwy, commonly corrupted into Stindwy, seems to mean Ystum-dwy, 'the bend of the Dwy'; so that here also we have Dwyfach and Dwy, as in the case of the Dee. Possibly Dwyfor was previously called simply Dwy or even Dwyfan; but it is now explained as Dwy-fawr, 'great Dwy,' which was most likely suggested by Dwyfach, as this latter explains itself to the country people as Dwy-fach, 'little Dwy.' However, it is but right to say that in Llywelyn ab Gruffyd's grant of lands to the monks of Aber Conwy they seem to be called Dwyuech and Dwyuaur [37]. All these waters have in common the reputation of being liable to sudden and dangerous floods, especially the Dwyfor, which drains Cwm Strallyn and its lake lying behind the great rocky barrier on the left as one goes from Tremadoc towards Aber Glaslyn Bridge. Still more so is this the case with the Dee and Bala Lake, which is wont to rise at times from seven to nine feet above its ordinary level. The inundation which then invades the valley from Bala down presents a sight more magnificent than comfortable to contemplate. In fact nothing could have been more natural than for the story elaborated by the writer of certain of the late Triads to have connected the most remarkable inundations with the largest piece of water in the Principality, and one liable to such sudden changes of level: in other words, that one should treat Llyn Llïon as merely one of the names of Bala Lake, now called in Welsh Llyn Tegid, and formerly sometimes Llyn Aerfen. While touching at p. 286 on Gwaen Llifon with its Llyn Pencraig as one of those claiming to be the Llyn Llïon of the Triads, it was hinted that Llïon was but a thinner form of Llifon. Here one might mention perhaps another Llifon, for which, however, no case could be made. I allude to the name of the residence of the Wynns descended from Gilmin Troeddu, namely, Glyn Llifon, which means the river Llifon's Glen; but one could not feel surprised if the neighbouring Llyfni, draining the lakes of Nantlle, should prove to have once been also known as a Llifon, with the Nantlle waters conforming by being called Llyn Llifon. But however that may be, one may say as to the flood caused by the bursting of any such lake, that the notion of the universality of the catastrophe was probably contributed by the author of Triad iii. 13, from a non-Welsh source. He may have, however, not invented the vessel in which he places Dwyfan and Dwyfach: at all events, one version of the story of the Fan Fach represents the Lake Lady arriving in a boat. As to the writer of the other Triad, iii. 97, he says nothing about Dwyfan and his wife, but borrows Nefyd Naf Neifion's ship to save all that were to be saved; and here one may probably venture to identify Nefyd with Nemed [38], genitive Nemid, a name borne in Irish legend by a rover who is represented as one of the early colonizers of Erin. As to the rest, the name Neifion by itself is used in Welsh for Neptune and the sea, as in the following couplet of D. ab Gwilym's poem lv:-- Nofiad a wnaeth hen Neifion It is old Neptune that has swam O Droia fawr draw i Fôn. From great Troy afar to Mona. In the same way Môr Neifion, 'Sea of Neifion,' seems to have signified the ocean, the high seas. To return to the Triad about Dwyfan and Dwyfach, not only does it make them from being water divinities into a man and woman, but there is no certainty even that both were not feminine. In modern Welsh all rivers are treated as feminine, and even Dyfrdwyf has usually to submit, though the modern bard Tegid, analysing the word into Dwfr Dwyf, 'Water of the Divinity or Divine Water,' where dwfr, 'water,' could only be masculine, addressed Llyn Tegid thus, p. 78: Drwyot, er dydiau'r Drywon, Y rhwyf y Dyfrdwyf ei don. Through thee, from the days of the Druids, The Dwfr Dwyf impels his wave. This question, however, of the gender of river names, or rather the sex which personification ascribed them, is a most difficult one. If we glance at Ptolemy's Geography written in the second century, we find in his account of the British Isles that he names more than fifty of our river mouths and estuaries, and that he divides their names almost equally into masculine and feminine. The modern Welsh usage has, it is seen, departed far from this, but not so far the folklore: the afanc is a male, and we have a figure of the same sex appearing as the father of the lake maiden in the Fan Fach story, and in that of Llyn Du'r Ardu; the same, too, was the sex of the chief dweller of Llyn Cwm Llwch; the same remark is applicable also to the greatest divinity of these islands--the greatest, at any rate, so far as the scanty traces of his cult enable one to become acquainted with him. As his name comes down into legend it belongs here, as well as to the deities of antiquity, just as much, in a sense, as the Dee. I refer to Nudons or Nodons, the remains [39] of whose sanctuary were many years ago brought to light on a pleasant hill in Lydney Park, on the western banks of the Severn. In the mosaic floor of the god's temple there is a coloured inscription showing the expense of that part of the work to have been defrayed by the contributions (ex stipibus) of the faithful, and that it was carried out by two men, of whom one appears to have been an officer in command of a naval force guarding the coasts of the Severn Sea. In the midst of the mosaic inscription is a round opening in the floor of nine inches in diameter and surrounded by a broad band of red enclosed in two of blue. This has given rise to various speculations, and among others that it was intended for libations. The mosaics and the lettering of the inscriptions seem to point to the third century as the time when the sanctuary of Nudons was built under Roman auspices, though the place was doubtless sacred to the god long before. In any case it fell in exactly with the policy of the more astute of Roman statesmen to encourage such a native cult as we find traces of in Lydney Park. One of the inscriptions began with D. M. Nodonti, 'to the great god Nudons,' and a little bronze crescent intended for the diadem of the god or of one of his priests gives a representation of him as a crowned, beardless personage driving a chariot with four horses; and on either side of him is a naked figure supposed to represent the winds, and beyond them on each of the two sides is a triton with the fore feet of a horse. The god holds the reins in his left hand, and his right uplifted grasps what may be a sceptre or possibly a whip, while the whole equipment of the god recalls in some measure the Chariot of the Sun. Another piece of the bronze ornament shows another triton with an anchor in one of his hands, and opposite him a fisherman in the act of hooking a fine salmon. Other things, such as oars and shell trumpets, together with mosaic representations of marine animals in the floor of the temple, compel us to assimilate Nudons more closely with Neptune than any other god of classical mythology. The name of the god, as given in the inscriptions, varies between Nudons and Nodens, the cases actually occurring being the dative Nodonti, Nodenti, and Nudente, and the genitive Nodentis, so I should regard o or u as optional in the first syllable, and o as preferable, perhaps, to e in the second, for there is no room for reasonably doubting that we have here to do with the same name as Irish Nuadu, genitive Nuadat, conspicuous in the legendary history of Ireland. Now the Nuadu who naturally occurs to one first, was Nuadu Argetlám or Nuadu of the Silver Hand, from argat, 'silver, argentum,' and lám, 'hand.' Irish literature explains how he came to have a hand made of silver, and we can identify with him on Welsh ground a Llud Llawereint; for put back as it were into earlier Brythonic, this would be Ludo(ns) Lam'-argentios: that is to say, a reversal takes place in the order of the elements forming the epithet out of ereint (for older ergeint), 'silvern, argenteus,' and llaw, for earlier lama, 'hand.' Then comes the alliterative instinct into play, forcing Nudo(ns) Lamargentio(s) to become Ludo(ns) Lamargentio(s), whence the later form, Llud Llawereint, derives regularly [40]. Thus we have in Welsh the name Llûd, fashioned into that form under the influence of the epithet, whereas elsewhere it is Nûd, which occurs as a man's name in the pedigrees, while an intermediate form was probably Nudos or Nudo, of which a genitive NVDI occurs in a post-Roman inscription found near Yarrow Kirk in Selkirkshire. It is worthy of note that the modification of Nudo into Ludo must have taken place comparatively early--not improbably while the language was still Goidelic--as we seem to have a survival of the name in that of Lydney itself. It is very possible that we have Ludo, Llud, also in Porthlud; which Geoffrey of Monmouth gives, iii. 20, as the Welsh for Ludesgata or Ludgate, in London, which gate, according to him, was called after an ancient king of Britain named Lud. He seems to have been using an ancient tradition, and there would be nothing improbable in the conjecture that Geoffrey's Lud was our Llud, and that the great water divinity of that name had another sanctuary on the hill by the Thames, somewhere near the present site of St. Paul's Cathedral, and occupying a post as it were prophetic of Britain's rule of the water-ways in later times. Perhaps as one seems to find traces of Nudons from the estuary of the Thames to that of the Severn and thence to Ireland, one may conclude that the god was one of the divinities worshipped by the Goidels. With regard to the Brythonic Celts, there is nothing to suggest that he belonged also to them except in the sense of his having been probably adopted by them from the Goidels. It might be further suggested that the Goidels themselves had in the first instance adopted him from the pre-Celtic natives, but in that case a goddess would have been rather more probable [41]. In fact in the case of the Severn we seem to have a trace of such a goddess in the Sabrina, Old Welsh Habren, now Hafren, so called after a princess whom Geoffrey, ii. 5, represents drowned in the river: she may have been the pre-Celtic goddess of the Severn, and the name corresponding to Welsh Hafren occurs in Ireland in the form of Sabrann, an old name of the river Lee that flows through Cork. Similarly one now reads sometimes of Father Thames after the fashion of classic phraseology, and in the Celtic period Nudons may have been closely identified with that river, but the ancient name Tamesa or Tamesis [42] was decidedly feminine, and it was, most likely, that of the river divinity from times when the pre-Celtic natives held exclusive possession of these islands. On the whole it appears safer to regard Nudons as belonging to a race that had developed on a larger scale the idea of a patriarchal or kingly ruler holding sway over a comparatively wide area. So Nudons may here be treated as ruled out of the discussion as to the origin of the fairies, to which a few paragraphs are now to be devoted. Speaking of the rank and file of the fairies in rather a promiscuous fashion, one may say that we have found manifold proof of their close connexion with the water-world. Not only have we found them supposed to haunt places bordering on rivers, to live beneath the lakes, or to inhabit certain green isles capable of playing hide-and-seek with the ancient mariner, and perhaps not so very ancient either; but other considerations have been suggested as also pointing unmistakably to the same conclusion. Take for instance the indirect evidence afforded by the method of proceeding to recover an infant stolen by the fairies. One account runs thus: The mother who had lost her baby was to go with a wizard and carry with her to a river the child left her in exchange. The wizard would say, Crap ar y wrach, 'Grip the hag,' and the woman would reply, Rhy hwyr, gyfraglach, 'Too late, you urchin [43].' Before she uttered those words she had dropped the urchin into the river, and she would then return to her house. By that time the kidnapped child would be found to have come back home [44]. The words here used have not been quite forgotten in Carnarvonshire, but no distinct meaning seems to be attached to them now; at any rate I have failed to find anybody who could explain them. I should however guess that the wizard addressed his words to the fairy urchin with the intention, presumably, that the fairies in the river should at the same time hear and note what was about to be done. Another, and a somewhat more intelligible version, is given in the Gwyliedyd for 1837, p. 185, by a contributor who publishes it from a manuscript which Lewis Morris began to write in 1724 and finished apparently in 1729. He was a native of Anglesey, and it is probably to that county the story belongs, which he gives to illustrate one of the phonological aspects of certain kinds of Welsh. That account differs from the one just cited in that it introduces no wizard, but postulates two fairy urchins between whom the dialogue occurs, which is not unusual in our changeling stories: see p. 62. After this explanation I translate Morris' words thus:-- 'But to return to the question of the words approaching to the nature of the thing intended, there is an old story current among us concerning a woman whose children had been exchanged by the Tylwyth Teg. Whether it is truth or falsehood does not much matter, yet it shows what the men of that age thought concerning the sound of words, and how they fancied that the language of those sprites was of a ghastly and lumpy kind. The story is as follows:--The woman whose two children had been exchanged, chanced to overhear the two fairy heirs, whom she got instead of them, reasoning with one another beyond what became their age and persons. So she picked up the two sham children, one under each arm, in order to go and throw them from a bridge into a river, that they might be drowned as she fancied. But hardly had the one in his fall reached the bottom when he cried out to his comrade in the following words:-- Grippiach greppiach Grippiach Greppiach, Dal d'afel yn y wrach, Keep thy hold on the hag. Hi aeth yn rhowyr 'faglach-- It got too late, thou urchin-- Mi eis i ir mwthlach [45].' I fell into the.... In spite of the obscurity of these words, it is quite clear that it was thought the most natural thing in the world to return the fairies to the river, and no sooner were they dropped there than the right infants were found to have been sent home. The same thing may be learned also from the story of the Curse of Pantannas, pp. 187-8 above; for when the time of the fairies' revenge is approaching, the merry party gathered together at Pantannas are frightened by a piercing voice rising from a black and cauldron-like pool in the river; and after a while they hear it a second time rising above the noise of the river as it cascades over the shoulder of a neighbouring rock. Shortly afterwards an ugly, diminutive woman appears on the table near the window, and had it not been for the rudeness of one of those present she would have disclosed the future to them, but, as it was, she said very little in a vague way and went away offended; but as long as she was there the voice from the river was silent. Here we have the Welsh counterpart of the ben síde, pronounced banshee in Anglo-Irish, and meaning a fairy woman who is supposed to appear to certain Irish families before deaths or other misfortunes about to befall them. It is doubtless to some such fairy persons the voices belong, which threaten vengeance on the heir of Pantannas and on the wicked prince and his descendants previous to the cataclysm which brings a lake into the place of a doomed city: witness such cases as those of Llynclys, Syfadon, and Kenfig. The last mentioned deserves some further scrutiny; and I take this opportunity of referring the reader back to pp. 403-4, in order to direct his attention to the fact that the voice so closely identifies itself with the wronged family that it speaks in the first person, as it cries, 'Vengeance is come on him who murdered my father of the ninth generation!' Now it is worthy of remark that the same personifying is also characteristic of the Cyhiraeth [46]. This spectral female used to be oftener heard than seen; but her blood-freezing shriek was as a rule to be heard when she came to a cross-road or to water, in which she splashed with her hands. At the same time she would make the most doleful noise and exclaim, in case the frightened hearer happened to be a wife, Fy ngwr, fy ngwr! 'my husband, my husband!' If it was the man the exclamation would be, Fy ngwraig, fy ngwraig! 'my wife, my wife!' Or in either case it might be, Fy mhlentyn, fy mhlentyn, fy mhlentyn bach! 'my child, my child, my little child!' These cries meant the approaching death of the hearer's husband, wife, or child, as the case might be; but if the scream was inarticulate it was reckoned probable that the hearer himself was the person foremourned. Sometimes she was supposed to come, like the Irish banshee, in a dark mist to the window of a person who has been long ailing, and to flap her wings against the glass, while repeating aloud his or her name, which was believed to mean that the patient must die [47]. The picture usually given of the Cyhiraeth is of the most repellent kind: tangled hair, long black teeth, wretched, skinny, shrivelled arms of unwonted length out of all proportion to the body. Nevertheless it is, in my opinion, but another aspect of the banshee-like female who intervenes in the story of the Curse of Pantannas. One might perhaps treat both as survivals of a belief in a sort of personification of, or divinity identified with, a family or tribe, but for the fact that such language is emptied of most of its meaning by the abstractions which it would connect with a primitive state of society. So it is preferable, as coming probably near the truth, to say that what we have here is a trace of an ancestress. Such an idea of an ancestress as against that of an ancestor is abundantly countenanced by dim figures like that of the Dôn of the Mabinogion, and of her counterpart, after whom the Tribes of the goddess Donu or Danu [48] are known as Tuatha Dé Danann in Irish literature. But the one who most provokes comparison is the Old Woman of Beare, already mentioned, pp. 393-4: she figures largely in Irish folklore as a hag surviving to see her descendants reckoned by tribes and peoples. It may be only an accident that a poetically wrought legend pictures her not so much interested in the fortunes of her progeny as engaged in bewailing the unattractive appearance of her thin arms and shrivelled hands, together with the general wreck of the beauty which had been hers some time or other centuries before. However, the evidence of folklore is not of a kind to warrant our building any heavy superstructure of theory on the supposition, that the foundations are firmly held together by a powerful sense of consistency or homogeneity. So I should hesitate to do anything so rash as to pronounce the fairies to be all of one and the same origin: they may well be of several. For instance, there may be those that have grown out of traditions about an aboriginal pre-Celtic race, and some may be the representatives of the ghosts of departed men and women, regarded as one's ancestors; but there can hardly be any doubt that others, and those possibly not the least interesting, have originated in the demons and divinities--not all of ancestral origin--with which the weird fancy of our remote forefathers peopled lakes and streams, bays and creeks and estuaries. Perhaps it is not too much to hope that the reader is convinced that in the course of this chapter some interesting specimens have, so to say, been caught in their native element, or else in the enjoyment of an amphibious life of mirth and frolic, largely spent hard by sequestered lakes, near placid rivers or babbling brooks. CHAPTER VIII WELSH CAVE LEGENDS Ekei mentoi mian einai nêson, en hê ton Kronon katheirchthai phrouroumenon hypo tou Briareô katheudonta; desmon gar autô ton hypnon memêchanêsthai, pollous de peri auton einai daimonas opadous kai therapontas.--Plutarch. In previous chapters sundry allusions have been made to treasure caves besides that of Marchlyn Mawr, which has been given at length on pp. 234-7 above. Here follow some more, illustrative of this kind of folklore prevalent in Wales: they are difficult to classify, but most of them mention treasure with or without sleeping warriors guarding it. The others are so miscellaneous as to baffle any attempt to characterize them generally and briefly. Take for instance a cave in the part of Rhiwarth rock nearest to Cwm Llanhafan, in the neighbourhood of Llangynog in Montgomeryshire. Into that, according to Cyndelw in the Brython for 1860, p. 57, some men penetrated as far as the pound of candles lasted, with which they had provided themselves; but it appears to be tenanted by a hag who is always busily washing clothes in a brass pan. Or take the following, from J. H. Roberts' essay, as given in Welsh in Edwards' Cymru for 1897, p. 190: it reminds one of an ordinary fairy tale, but it is not quite like any other which I happen to know:--In the western end of the Arennig Fawr there is a cave: in fact there are several caves there, and some of them are very large too; but there is one to which the finger of tradition points as an ancient abode of the Tylwyth Teg. About two generations ago, the shepherds of that country used to be enchanted by one of them called Mary, who was remarkable for her beauty. Many an effort was made to catch her or to meet her face to face, but without success, as she was too quick on her feet. She used to show herself day after day, and she might be seen, with her little harp, climbing the bare slopes of the mountain. In misty weather when the days were longest in summer, the music she made used to be wafted by the breeze to the ears of the love-sick shepherds. Many a time had the boys of the Filltir Gerrig heard sweet singing when passing the cave in the full light of day, but they were subject to some spell, so that they never ventured to enter. But the shepherd of Boch y Rhaiadr had a better view of the fairies one Allhallows night (ryw noson Calangaeaf) when returning home from a merry-making at Amnod. On the sward in front of the cave what should he see but scores of the Tylwyth Teg singing and dancing! He never saw another assembly in his life so fair, and great was the trouble he had to resist being drawn into their circles. Let us now come to the treasure caves, and begin with Ogof Arthur, 'Arthur's Cave,' in the southern side of Mynyd y Cnwc [49] in the parish of Llangwyfan, on the south-western coast of Anglesey. The foot of Mynyd y Cnwc is washed by the sea, and the mouth of the cave is closed by its waters at high tide, but the cave, which is spacious, has a vent-hole in the side of the mountain [50]. So it is at any rate reported in the Brython for 1859, p. 138, by a writer who explored the place, though not to the end of the mile which it is said to measure in length. He mentions a local tradition, that it contains various treasures, and that it temporarily afforded Arthur shelter in the course of his wars with the Gwydelod or Goidels. But he describes also a cromlech on the top of Mynyd y Cnwc, around which there was a circle of stones, while within the latter there lies buried, it is believed, an iron chest full of ancient gold. Various attempts are said to have been made by the more greedy of the neighbouring inhabitants to dig it up, but they have always been frightened away by portents. Here then the guardians of the treasure are creatures of a supernatural kind, as in many other instances, and especially that of Dinas Emrys to be mentioned presently. Next comes the first of a group of cave legends involving treasure entrusted to the keeping of armed warriors. It is taken from Elijah Waring's Recollections and Anecdotes of Edward Williams, Iolo Morgannwg (London, 1850), pp. 95-8, where it is headed 'A popular Tale in Glamorgan, by Iolo Morgannwg'; a version of it in Welsh will be found in the Brython for 1858, p. 162, but Waring's version is in several respects better, and I give it in his words:--'A Welshman walking over London Bridge, with a neat hazel staff in his hand, was accosted by an Englishman, who asked him whence he came. "I am from my own country," answered the Welshman, in a churlish tone. "Do not take it amiss, my friend," said the Englishman; "if you will only answer my questions, and take my advice, it will be of greater benefit to you than you imagine. That stick in your hand grew on a spot under which are hid vast treasures of gold and silver; and if you remember the place, and can conduct me to it, I will put you in possession of those treasures." 'The Welshman soon understood that the stranger was what he called a cunning man, or conjurer, and for some time hesitated, not willing to go with him among devils, from whom this magician must have derived his knowledge; but he was at length persuaded to accompany him into Wales; and going to Craig-y-Dinas [Rock of the Fortress], the Welshman pointed out the spot whence he had cut the stick. It was from the stock or root of a large old hazel: this they dug up, and under it found a broad flat stone. This was found to close up the entrance into a very large cavern, down into which they both went. In the middle of the passage hung a bell, and the conjurer earnestly cautioned the Welshman not to touch it. They reached the lower part of the cave, which was very wide, and there saw many thousands of warriors lying down fast asleep in a large circle, their heads outwards, every one clad in bright armour, with their swords, shields, and other weapons lying by them, ready to be laid hold on in an instant, whenever the bell should ring and awake them. All the arms were so highly polished and bright, that they illumined the cavern, as with the light of ten thousand flames of fire. They saw amongst the warriors one greatly distinguished from the rest by his arms, shield, battle-axe, and a crown of gold set with the most precious stones, lying by his side. 'In the midst of this circle of warriors they saw two very large heaps, one of gold, the other of silver. The magician told the Welshman that he might take as much as he could carry away of either the one or the other, but that he was not to take from both the heaps. The Welshman loaded himself with gold: the conjurer took none, saying that he did not want it, that gold was of no use but to those who wanted knowledge, and that his contempt of gold had enabled him to acquire that superior knowledge and wisdom which he possessed. In their way out he cautioned the Welshman again not to touch the bell, but if unfortunately he should do so, it might be of the most fatal consequence to him, as one or more of the warriors would awake, lift up his head, and ask if it was day. "Should this happen," said the cunning man, "you must, without hesitation, answer No, sleep thou on; on hearing which he will again lay down his head and sleep." In their way up, however, the Welshman, overloaded with gold, was not able to pass the bell without touching it--it rang--one of the warriors raised up his head, and asked, "Is it day?" "No," answered the Welshman promptly, "it is not, sleep thou on;" so they got out of the cave, laid down the stone over its entrance, and replaced the hazel tree. The cunning man, before he parted from his companion, advised him to be economical in the use of his treasure; observing that he had, with prudence, enough for life: but that if by unforeseen accidents he should be again reduced to poverty, he might repair to the cave for more; repeating the caution, not to touch the bell if possible, but if he should, to give the proper answer, that it was not day, as promptly as possible. He also told him that the distinguished person they had seen was Arthur, and the others his warriors; and they lay there asleep with their arms ready at hand, for the dawn of that day when the Black Eagle and the Golden Eagle should go to war, the loud clamour of which would make the earth tremble so much, that the bell would ring loudly, and the warriors awake, take up their arms, and destroy all the enemies of the Cymry, who afterwards should repossess the Island of Britain, re-establish their own king and government at Caerlleon, and be governed with justice, and blessed with peace so long as the world endures. 'The time came when the Welshman's treasure was all spent: he went to the cave, and as before overloaded himself. In his way out he touched the bell: it rang: a warrior lifted up his head, asking if it was day, but the Welshman, who had covetously overloaded himself, being quite out of breath with labouring under his burden, and withal struck with terror, was not able to give the necessary answer; whereupon some of the warriors got up, took the gold away from him, and beat him dreadfully. They afterwards threw him out, and drew the stone after them over the mouth of the cave. The Welshman never recovered the effects of that beating, but remained almost a cripple as long as he lived, and very poor. He often returned with some of his friends to Craig-y-Dinas; but they could never afterwards find the spot, though they dug over, seemingly, every inch of the hill.' This story of Iolo's closes with a moral, which I omit in order to make room for what he says in a note to the effect, that there are two hills in Glamorganshire called Craig-y-Dinas--nowadays the more usual pronunciation in South Wales is Craig y Dinas--one in the parish of Llantrissant and the other in Ystrad Dyfodwg. There was also a hill so called, Iolo says, in the Vale of Towy, not far from Carmarthen. He adds that in Glamorgan the tale is related of the Carmarthenshire hill, while in Carmarthenshire the hill is said to be in Glamorgan. According to Iolo's son, Taliesin Williams [51] or Taliesin ab Iolo, the Craig y Dinas with which the Cave of Arthur (or Owen Lawgoch) is associated is the one on the borders of Glamorgan and Brecknockshire. That is also the opinion of my friend Mr. Reynolds, who describes this craig and dinas as a very bold rocky eminence at the top of the Neath Valley, near Pont Ned Fechan. He adds that in this tale as related to his mother 'in her very young days' by a very old woman, known as Mari Shencin y Clochyd 'Jenkin the Sexton's Mary,' the place of Arthur was taken by Owen Lawgoch, 'Owen of the Red Hand,' of whom more anon. The next Arthurian story is not strictly in point, for it makes no allusion to treasure; but as it is otherwise so similar to Iolo's tale I cannot well avoid introducing it here. It is included in the composite story of Bwca 'r Trwyn, 'the Bogie of the Nose,' written out for me in Gwentian Welsh by Mr. Craigfryn Hughes. The cave portion relates how a Monmouthshire farmer, whose house was grievously troubled by the bogie, set out one morning to call on a wizard who lived near Caerleon, and how he on his way came up with a very strange and odd man who wore a three-cornered hat. They fell into conversation, and the strange man asked the farmer if he should like to see something of a wonder. He answered he would. 'Come with me then,' said the wearer of the cocked hat, 'and you shall see what nobody else alive to-day has seen.' When they had reached the middle of a wood this spiritual guide sprang from horseback and kicked a big stone near the road. It instantly moved aside to disclose the mouth of a large cave; and now said he to the farmer, 'Dismount and bring your horse in here: tie him up alongside of mine, and follow me so that you may see something which the eyes of man have not beheld for centuries.' The farmer, having done as he was ordered, followed his guide for a long distance: they came at length to the top of a flight of stairs, where two huge bells were hanging. 'Now mind,' said the warning voice of the strange guide, 'not to touch either of those bells.' At the bottom of the stairs there was a vast chamber with hundreds of men lying at full length on the floor, each with his head reposing on the stock of his gun. 'Have you any notion who these men are?' 'No,' replied the farmer, 'I have not, nor have I any idea what they want in such a place as this.' 'Well,' said the guide, 'these are Arthur's thousand soldiers reposing and sleeping till the Kymry have need of them. Now let us get out as fast as our feet can carry us.' When they reached the top of the stairs, the farmer somehow struck his elbow against one of the bells so that it rang, and in the twinkling of an eye all the sleeping host rose to their feet shouting together, 'Are the Kymry in straits?' 'Not yet: sleep you on,' replied the wearer of the cocked hat, whereupon they all dropped down on their guns to resume their slumbers at once. 'These are the valiant men,' he went on to say, 'who are to turn the scale in favour of the Kymry when the time comes for them to cast the Saxon yoke off their necks and to recover possession of their country.' When the two had returned to their horses at the mouth of the cave, his guide said to the farmer, 'Now go in peace, and let me warn you on the pain of death not to utter a syllable about what you have seen for the space of a year and a day: if you do, woe awaits you.' After he had moved the stone back to its place the farmer lost sight of him. When the year had lapsed the farmer happened to pass again that way, but, though he made a long and careful search, he failed completely to find the stone at the mouth of the cave. To return to Iolo's yarn, one may say that there are traces of his story as at one time current in Merionethshire, but with the variation that the Welshman met the wizard not on London Bridge but at a fair at Bala, and that the cave was somewhere in Merioneth: the hero was Arthur, and the cave was known as Ogof Arthur. Whether any such cave is still known I cannot tell; but a third and interestingly told version is given in the Brython for 1858, p. 179, by the late Gwynionyd, who gives the story as the popular belief in his native parish of Troed yr Aur, halfway between Newcastle Emlyn and Aber Porth, in South Cardiganshire. In this last version the hero is not Arthur, but the later man as follows:--Not the least of the wonders of imagination wont to exercise the minds of the old people was the story of Owen Lawgoch. One sometimes hears sung in our fairs the words:-- Yr Owain hwn yw Harri 'r Nawfed Syd yn trigo 'ngwlad estronied, &c. This Owen is Henry the Ninth, Who tarries in a foreign land, &c. But this Owen Lawgoch, the national deliverer of our ancient race of Brythons, did not, according to the Troed yr Aur people, tarry in a foreign land, but somewhere in Wales, not far from Offa's Dyke. They used to say that one Dafyd Meirig of Bettws Bledrws, having quarrelled with his father, left for Lloegr [52], 'England.' When he had got a considerable distance from home, he struck a bargain with a cattle dealer to drive a herd of his beasts to London. Somewhere at the corner of a vast moor Dafyd cut a very remarkable hazel stick; for a good staff is as essential to the vocation of a good drover as teeth are to a dog. So while his comrades had had their sticks broken before reaching London, Dafyd's remained as it was, and whilst they were conversing together on London Bridge a stranger accosted Dafyd, wishing to know where he had obtained that wonderful stick. He replied that it was in Wales he had had it, and on the stranger's assuring him that there were wondrous things beneath the tree on which it had grown, they both set out for Wales. When they reached the spot and dug a little they found that there was a great hollow place beneath. As night was spreading out her sable mantle, and as they were getting deeper, what should they find but stairs easy to step and great lamps illumining the vast chamber! They descended slowly, with mixed emotions of dread and invincible desire to see the place. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves near a large table, at one end of which they beheld sitting a tall man of about seven foot. He occupied an old-fashioned chair and rested his head on his left hand, while the other hand, all red, lay on the table and grasped a great sword. He was withal enjoying a wondrously serene sleep; and at his feet on the floor lay a big dog. After casting a glance at them, the wizard said to Dafyd: 'This is Owen Lawgoch, who is to sleep on till a special time, when he will wake and reign over the Brythons. That weapon in his hand is one of the swords of the ancient kings of Prydain. No battle was ever lost in which that sword was used.' Then they moved slowly on, gazing at the wonders of that subterranean chamber; and they beheld everywhere the arms of ages long past, and on the table thousands of gold pieces bearing the images of the different kings of Prydain. They got to understand that it was permitted them to take a handful of each, but not to put any in their purses. They both visited the cave several times, but at last Dafyd put in his purse a little of the gold bearing the image of one of the bravest of Owen's ancestors. But after coming out again they were never able any more to find Owen's subterranean palace. Those are, says Gwynionyd, the ideas cherished by the old people of Troed yr Aur in Keredigion, and the editor adds a note that the same sort of story is current among the peasantry of Cumberland, and perhaps of other parts of Britain. This remark will at once recall to the reader's mind the well-known verses [53] of the Scottish poet, Leyden, as to Arthur asleep in a cave in the Eildon Hills in the neighbourhood of Melrose Abbey. But he will naturally ask why London Bridge is introduced into this and Iolo's story, and in answer I have to say, firstly, that London Bridge formerly loomed very large in the popular imagination as one of the chief wonders of London, itself the most wonderful city in the world. Such at any rate was the notion cherished as to London and London Bridge by the country people of Wales, even within my own memory. Secondly, the fashion of selecting London Bridge as the opening scene of a treasure legend had been set, perhaps, by a widely spread English story to the following effect:--A certain pedlar of Swaffham in Norfolk had a dream, that if he went and stood on London Bridge he would have very joyful news; as the dream was doubled and trebled he decided to go. So he stood on the bridge two or three days, when at last a shopkeeper, observing that he loitered there so long, neither offering anything for sale nor asking for alms, inquired of him as to his business. The pedlar told him his errand, and was heartily laughed at by the shopkeeper, who said that he had dreamt that night that he was at a place called Swaffham in Norfolk, and that if he only dug under a great oak tree in an orchard behind a pedlar's house there, he would find a vast treasure; but the place was utterly unknown to him, and he was not such a fool as to follow a silly dream. No, he was wiser than that; so he advised the pedlar to go home to mind his business. The pedlar very quietly took in the words as to the dream, and hastened home to Swaffham, where he found the treasure in his own orchard. The rest of the story need not be related here, as it is quite different from the Welsh ones, which the reader has just had brought under his notice [54]. To return to Owen Lawgoch, for we have by no means done with him: on the farm of Cil yr Ychen there stands a remarkable limestone hill called y Dinas, 'the Fortress,' hardly a mile to the north of the village of Llandybïe, in Carmarthenshire. This dinas and the lime-kilns that are gradually consuming it are to be seen on the right from the railway as you go from Llandeilo to Llandybïe. It is a steep high rock which forms a very good natural fortification, and in the level area on the top is the mouth of a very long cavern, known as Ogo'r Dinas, 'the Dinas Cave.' The entrance into it is small and low, but it gradually widens out, becoming in one place lofty and roomy with several smaller branch caves leading out of it; and it is believed that some of them connect Ogo'r Dinas with smaller caves at Pant y Llyn, 'the Lake Hollow,' where, as the name indicates, there is a small lake a little higher up: both Ogo'r Dinas and Pant y Llyn are within a mile of the village of Llandybïe [55]. Now I am informed, in a letter written in 1893 by one native, that the local legend about Ogo'r Dinas is that Owen Lawgoch and his men are lying asleep in it, while another native, Mr. Fisher, writing in the same year, but on the authority of somewhat later hearsay, expresses himself as follows:--'I remember hearing two traditions respecting Ogo'r Dinas: (1) that King Arthur and his warriors lie sleeping in it with their right hands clasping the hilts of their drawn swords ready to encounter anyone who may venture to disturb their repose--is there not a dinas somewhere in Carnarvonshire with a similar legend? (2) That Owen Lawgoch lived in it some time or other: that is all that I remember having heard about him in connection with this ogof.' Mr. Fisher proceeds, moreover, to state that it is said of an ogof at Pant y Llyn, that Owen Lawgoch and his men on a certain occasion took refuge in it, where they were shut up and starved to death. He adds that, however this may be, it is a fact that in the year 1813 ten or more human skeletons of unusual stature were discovered in an ogof there [56]. To this I may append a reference to the Geninen for 1896, p. 84, where Mr. Lleufer Thomas, who is also a native of the district, alludes to the local belief that Owen Lawgoch and his men are asleep, as already mentioned, in the cave of Pant y Llyn, and that they are to go on sleeping there till a trumpet blast and the clash of arms on Rhiw Goch rouse them to sally forth to combat the Saxons and to conquer, as set forth by Howells: see p. 381 above. It is needless to say that there is no reason, as will be seen presently, to suppose Owen Lawgoch to have ever been near any of the caves to which allusion has here been made; but that does not appreciably detract from the fascination of the legend which has gathered round his personality; and in passing I may be allowed to express my surprise that in such stories as these the earlier Owen has not been eclipsed by Owen Glyndwr: there must be some historical reason why that has not taken place. Can it be that a habit of caution made Welshmen speak of Owen Lawgoch when the other Owen was really meant? The passage I have cited from Mr. Fisher's letter raises the question of a dinas in Carnarvonshire, which that of his native parish recalled to his mind; and this is to be considered next. Doubtless he meant Dinas Emrys formerly called Din Emreis [57], 'the Fortress of Ambrosius,' situated near Bedgelert, and known in the neighbourhood simply as y Dinas, 'the Fort.' It is celebrated in the Vortigern legend as the place where the dragons had been hidden, that frustrated the building of that king's castle; and the spot is described in Lewis' Topographical Dictionary of Wales, in the article on Bethgelart (Bed-Celert), as an isolated rocky eminence with an extensive top area, which is defended by walls of loose stones, and accessible only on one side. He adds that the entrance appears to have been guarded by two towers, and that within the enclosed area are the foundations of circular buildings of loose stones forming walls of about five feet in thickness. Concerning that Dinas we read in the Brython for 1861, p. 329, a legend to the following effect:--Now after the departure of Vortigern, Myrdin, or Merlin as he is called in English, remained himself in the Dinas for a long time, until, in fact, he went away with Emrys Ben-aur, 'Ambrosius the Gold-headed'--evidently Aurelius Ambrosius is meant. When he was about to set out with the latter, he put all his treasure and wealth into a crochan aur, 'a gold cauldron,' and hid it in a cave in the Dinas, and on the mouth of the cave he rolled a huge stone, which he covered up with earth and sods, so that it was impossible for any one to find it. He intended this wealth to be the property of some special person in a future generation, and it is said that the heir to it is to be a youth with yellow hair and blue eyes. When that one comes near to the Dinas a bell will ring to invite him to the cave, which will open of itself as soon as his foot touches it. Now the fact that some such legend was once currently believed about Bedgelert and Nanhwynain is proved by the curious stories as to various attempts made to find the treasure, and the thunderstorms and portents which used to vanquish the local greed for gold. For several instances in point see the Brython, pp. 329-30; and for others, showing how hidden treasure is carefully reserved for the right sort of heir, see p. 148 above. To prove how widely this idea prevailed in Carnarvonshire, I may add a short story which Mrs. Williams-Ellis of Glasfryn got from the engineer who told her of the sacred eel of Llangybi (p. 366):--There was on Pentyrch, the hill above Llangybi, he said, a large stone so heavy and fixed so fast in the ground that no horses, no men could move it: it had often been tried. One day, however, a little girl happened to be playing by the stone, and at the touch of her little hand the stone moved. A hoard of coins was found under it, and that at a time when the little girl's parents happened to be in dire need of it. Search had long been made by undeserving men for treasure supposed to be hidden at that spot; but it was always unsuccessful until the right person touched the stone to move. The failure of the wrong person to secure the treasure, even when discovered, is illustrated by a story given by Mr. Derfel Hughes in his Antiquities of Llandegai and Llanllechid, pp. 35-6, to the effect that a servant man, somewhere up among the mountains near Ogwen Lake, chanced to come across the mouth of a cave with abundance of vessels of brass (pres) of every shape and description within it. He went at once and seized one of them, but, alas! it was too heavy for him to stir it. So he resolved to go away and return early on the morrow with a friend to help him; but before going he closed the mouth of the cave with stones and sods so as to leave it safe. While thus engaged he remembered having heard how others had like him found caves and failed to refind them. He could procure nothing readily that would satisfy him as a mark, so it occurred to him to dot his path with the chippings of his stick, which he whittled all the way as he went back until he came to a familiar track: the chips were to guide him back to the cave. So when the morning came he and his friend set out, but when they reached the point where the chips should begin, not one was to be seen: the Tylwyth Teg had picked up every one of them. So that discovery of articles of brass--more probably bronze--was in vain. But, says the writer, it is not fated to be always in vain, for there is a tradition in the valley that it is a Gwydel, 'Goidel, Irishman,' who is to have these treasures, and that it will happen in this wise:--A Gwydel will come to the neighbourhood to be a shepherd, and one day when he goes up the mountain to see to the sheep, just when it pleases the fates a black sheep with a speckled head will run before him and make straight for the cave: the sheep will go in, with the Gwydel in pursuit trying to catch him. When the Gwydel enters he sees the treasures, looks at them with surprise, and takes possession of them; and thus, in some generation to come, the Gwydyl will have their own restored to them. That is the tradition which Derfel Hughes found in the vale of the Ogwen, and he draws from it the inference which it seems to warrant, in words to the following effect:--Perhaps this shows us that the Gwydyl had some time or other something to do with these parts, and that we are not to regard as stories without foundations all that is said of that nation; and the sayings of old people to this day show that there is always some spite between our nation and the Gwydyl. Thus, for instance, he goes on to say, if a man proves changeable, he is said to have become a Gwydel (Y mae wedi troi'n Wydel), or if one is very shameless and cheeky he is called a Gwydel and told to hold his tongue (Taw yr hen Wydel); and a number of such locutions used by our people proves, he thinks, the former prevalence of much contention between the two sister-nations. Expressions of the kind mentioned by Mr. Hughes are well known in all parts of the Principality, and it is difficult to account for them except on the supposition that Goidels and Brythons lived for a long time face to face, so to say, with one another over large areas in the west of our island. The next story to be mentioned belongs to the same Snowdonian neighbourhood, and brings us back to Arthur and his Men. For a writer who has already been quoted from the Brython for 1861, p. 331, makes Arthur and his following set out from Dinas Emrys and cross Hafod y Borth mountain for a place above the upper reach of Cwmllan, called Tregalan, where they found their antagonists. From Tregalan the latter were pushed up the bwlch or pass, towards Cwm Dyli; but when the vanguard of the army with Arthur leading had reached the top of the pass, the enemy discharged a shower of arrows at them. There Arthur fell, and his body was buried in the pass so that no enemy might march that way so long as Arthur's dust rested there. That, he says, is the story, and there to this day remains in the pass, he asserts, the heap of stones called Carned Arthur, 'Arthur's Cairn': the pass is called Bwlch y Saethau, 'the Pass of the Arrows.' Then Ogof Llanciau Eryri is the subject of the following story given at p. 371 of the same volume:--After Arthur's death on Bwlch y Saethau, his men ascended to the ridge of the Lliwed and descended thence into a vast cave called Ogof Llanciau Eryri, 'the young Men of Snowdonia's Cave,' which is in the precipitous cliff on the left-hand side near the top of Llyn Llydaw. This is in Cwm Dyli, and there in that cave those warriors are said to be still, sleeping in their armour and awaiting the second coming of Arthur to restore the crown of Britain to the Kymry. For the saying is:-- Llancia' 'Ryri a'u gwyn gyll a'i hennill hi. Snowdonia's youths with their white hazels will win it. As the local shepherds were one day long ago collecting their sheep on the Lliwed, one sheep fell down to a shelf in this precipice, and when the Cwm Dyli shepherd made his way to the spot he perceived that the ledge of rock on which he stood led to the hidden cave of Llanciau Eryri. There was light within: he looked in and beheld a host of warriors without number all asleep, resting on their arms and ready equipped for battle. Seeing that they were all asleep, he felt a strong desire to explore the whole place; but as he was squeezing in he struck his head against the bell hanging in the entrance. It rang so that every corner of the immense cave rang again, and all the warriors woke uttering a terrible shout, which so frightened the shepherd that he never more enjoyed a day's health; nor has anybody since dared as much as to approach the mouth of the cave. Thus far the Brython, and I have only to remark that this legend is somewhat remarkable for the fact of its representing the Youths of Eryri sleeping away in their cave without Arthur among them. In fact, that hero is described as buried not very far off beneath a carned or cairn on Bwlch y Saethau. As to the exact situation of that cairn, I may say that my attention was drawn some time ago to the following lines by Mr. William Owen, better known as Glaslyn, a living bard bred and born in the district:-- Gerllaw Carned Arthur ar ysgwyd y Wydfa Y gorwed gwedillion y cawr enwog Ricca. Near Arthur's Cairn on the shoulder of Snowdon Lie the remains of the famous giant Ricca. These words recall an older couplet in a poem by Rhys Goch Eryri, who is said to have died in the year 1420. He was a native of the parish of Bedgelert, and his words in point run thus:-- Ar y drum oer dramawr, On the ridge cold and vast, Yno gorwed Ricca Gawr. There the Giant Ricca lies. From this it is clear that Rhys Goch meant that the cairn on the top of Snowdon covered the remains of the giant whose name has been variously written Ricca, Ritta, and Rhita. So I was impelled to ascertain from Glaslyn whether I had correctly understood his lines, and he has been good enough to help me out of some of my difficulties, as I do not know Snowdon by heart, especially the Nanhwynain and Bedgelert side of the mountain:--The cairn on the summit of Snowdon was the Giant's before it was demolished and made into a sort of tower which existed before the hotel was made. Glaslyn has not heard it called after Ricca's name, but he states that old people used to call it Carned y Cawr, 'the Giant's Cairn.' In 1850 Carned Arthur, 'Arthur's Cairn,' was to be seen on the top of Bwlch y Saethau, but he does not know whether it is still so, as he has not been up there since the building of the hotel. Bwlch y Saethau is a lofty shoulder of Snowdon extending in the direction of Nanhwynain, and the distance from the top of Snowdon to it is not great; it would take you half an hour or perhaps a little more to walk from the one carned to the other. It is possible to trace Arthur's march from Dinas Emrys up the slopes of Hafod y Borth, over the shoulder of the Aran and Braich yr Oen to Tregalan--or Cwm Tregalan, as it is now called--but from Tregalan he would have to climb in a north-easterly direction in order to reach Bwlch y Saethau, where he is related to have fallen and to have been interred beneath a cairn. This may be regarded as an ordinary or commonplace account of his death. But the scene suggests a far more romantic picture; for down below was Llyn Llydaw with its sequestered isle, connected then by means only of a primitive canoe with a shore occupied by men engaged in working the ore of Eryri. Nay with the eyes of Malory we seem to watch Bedivere making, with Excalibur in his hands, his three reluctant journeys to the lake ere he yielded it to the arm emerging from the deep. We fancy we behold how 'euyn fast by the banke houed a lytyl barge wyth many fayr ladyes in hit,' which was to carry the wounded Arthur away to the accompaniment of mourning and loud lamentation; but the legend of the Marchlyn bids us modify Malory's language as to the barge containing many ladies all wearing black hoods, and take our last look at the warrior departing rather in a coracle with three wondrously fair women attending to his wounds [58]. Some further notes on Snowdon, together with a curious account of the Cave of Llanciau Eryri, have been kindly placed at my disposal by Mr. Ellis Pierce (Elis [59] o'r Nant) of Dolwydelan:--In the uppermost part of the hollow called Cwmllan is Tregalan, and in the middle of Cwm Tregalan is a green hill, or rather an eminence which hardly forms a hill, but what is commonly called a boncyn [60] in Carnarvonshire, and between that green boncyn and the Clogwyn Du, 'Black Precipice,' is a bog, the depth of which no one has ever succeeded in ascertaining, and a town--inferred perhaps from tre in Tregalan--is fabled to have been swallowed up there. Another of my informants speaks of several hillocks or boncyns as forming one side of this little cwm; but he has heard from geologists, that these green mounds represent moraines deposited there in the glacial period. From the bottom of the Clogwyn Du it is about a mile to Bwlch y Saethau. Then as to the cave of Llanciau Eryri, which nobody can now find, the slope down to it begins from the top of the Lliwed, but ordinarily speaking one could not descend to where it is supposed to have been without the help of ropes, which seems incompatible with the story of the Cwm Dyli shepherd following a sheep until he was at the mouth of the cave; not to mention the difficulty which the descent would have offered to Arthur's men when they entered it. Then Elis o'r Nant's story represents it shutting after them, and only opening to the shepherd in consequence of his having trodden on a particular sod or spot. He then slid down unintentionally and touched the bell that was hanging there, so that it rang and instantly woke the sleeping warriors. No sooner had that happened than those men of Arthur's took up their guns--never mind the anachronism--and the shepherd made his way out more dead than alive; and the frightened fellow never recovered from the shock to the day of his death. When these warriors take up their guns they fire away, we are told, without mercy from where each man stands: they are not to advance a single step till Arthur comes to call them back to the world. To swell the irrelevancies under which this chapter labours already, and to avoid severing cognate questions too rudely, I wish to add that Elis o'r Nant makes the name of the giant buried on the top of Snowdon into Rhitta or Rhita instead of Ricca. That is also the form of the name with which Mrs. Rhys was familiar throughout her childhood on the Llanberis side of the mountain. She often heard of Rhita [61] Gawr having been buried on the top of Snowdon, and of other warriors on other parts of Snowdon such as Moel Gynghorion and the Gist on that moel. But Elis o'r Nant goes further, and adds that from Rhita the mountain was called Wydfa Rhita, more correctly Gwydfa Rita, 'Rhita's Gwydfa.' Fearing this might be merely an inference, I have tried to cross-examine him so far as that is possible by letter. He replies that his father was bred and born in the little glen called Ewybrnant [62], between Bettws y Coed and Pen Machno, and that his grandfather also lived there, where he appears to have owned land not far from the home of the celebrated Bishop Morgan. Now Elis' father often talked, he says, in his hearing of 'Gwydfa Rhita.' Wishing to have some more definite evidence, I wrote again, and he informs me that his father was very fond of talking about his father, Elis o'r Nant's grandfather, who appears to have been a character and a great supporter of Sir Robert Williams, especially in a keenly contested political election in 1796, when the latter was opposed by the then head of the Penrhyn family. Sometimes the old man from Ewybrnant would set out in his clocs, 'clogs or wooden shoes,' to visit Sir Robert Williams, who lived at Plas y Nant, near Bedgelert. On starting he would say to his family, Mi a'i hyibio troed Gwydfa Rhita ag mi do'n ol rwbrud cin nos, or sometimes foru. That is, 'I'll go round the foot of Rhita's Gwydfa and come back some time before night': sometimes he would say 'to-morrow.' Elis also states that his father used to relate how Rhita's Gwydfa was built, namely by the simple process of each of his soldiers taking a stone to place on Rhita's tomb. However the story as to Rhita Gawr being buried on the top of Snowdon came into existence, there can be no doubt that it was current in comparatively recent times, and that the Welsh name of y Wydfa, derived from it, refers to the mountain as distinguished from the district in which it is situated. In Welsh this latter is Eryri, the habitat, as it were, of the eryr, 'eagle,' a bird formerly at home there as many local names go to prove, such as Carreg yr Eryr [63], 'the Stone of the Eagle,' mentioned in the boundaries of the lands on Snowdon granted to the Abbey of Aberconwy in Llewelyn's charter, where also Snowdon mountain is called Wedua vawr, 'the Great Gwydfa.' Now, as already suggested, the word gwydfa takes us back to Rhita's Carned or Cairn, as it signified a monument, a tomb or barrow: Dr. Davies gives it in his Welsh-Latin Dictionary as Locus Sepulturæ, Mausoleum. This meaning of the word may be illustrated by a reference in passing to the mention in Brut y Tywysogion of the burial of Madog ab Maredyd. For under the year 1159 we are told that he was interred at Meifod, as it was there his tomb or the vault of his family, the one intended also for him (y 6ydua [64]), happened to be. Against the evidence just given, that tradition places Rhita's grave on the top of Snowdon, a passing mention by Derfel Hughes (p. 52) is of no avail, though to the effect that it is on the top of the neighbouring mountain called Carned Lywelyn, 'Llewelyn's Cairn,' that Rhita's Cairn was raised. He deserves more attention, however, when he places Carned Drystan, 'Tristan or Tristram's Cairn,' on a spur of that mountain, to wit, towards the east above Ffynnon y Llyffaint [65]. For it is worthy of note that the name of Drystan, associated with Arthur in the later romances, should figure with that of Arthur in the topography of the same Snowdon district. Before leaving Snowdon I may mention a cave near a small stream not far from Llyn Gwynain, about a mile and a half above Dinas Emrys. In the Llwyd letter (printed in the Cambrian Journal for 1859, pp. 142, 209), on which I have already drawn, it is called Ogo'r Gwr Blew, 'the Hairy Man's Cave'; and the story relates how the Gwr Blew who lived in it was fatally wounded by a woman who happened to be at home, alone, in one of the nearest farm houses when the Gwr Blew came to plunder it. Its sole interest here is that a later version [66] identifies the Hairy Man with Owen Lawgoch, after modifying the former's designation y Gwr Blew, which literally meant 'the Hair Man,' into y Gwr Blewog, 'the Hairy Man.' This doubtful instance of the presence of Owen Lawgoch in the folklore of North Wales seems to stand alone. Some of these cave stories, it will have been seen, reveal to us a hero who is expected to return to interfere again in the affairs of this world, and it is needless to say that Wales is by no means alone in the enjoyment of imaginary prospects of this kind. The same sort of poetic expectation has not been unknown, for instance, in Ireland. In the summer of 1894, I spent some sunny days in the neighbourhood of the Boyne, and one morning I resolved to see the chief burial mounds dotting the banks of that interesting river; but before leaving the hotel at Drogheda, my attention was attracted by a book of railway advertisement of the kind which forcibly impels one to ask two questions: why will not the railway companies leave those people alone who do not want to travel, and why will they make it so tedious for those who do? But on turning the leaves of that booklet over I was inclined to a suaver mood, as I came on a paragraph devoted to an ancient stronghold called the Grianan of Aileach, or Greenan-Ely, in the highlands of Donegal. Here I read that a thousand armed men sit resting there on their swords, and bound by magic sleep till they are to be called forth to take their part in the struggle for the restoration of Erin's freedom. At intervals they awake, it is said, and looking up from their trance they ask in tones which solemnly resound through the many chambers of the Grianan: 'Is the time come?' A loud voice, that of the spiritual caretaker, is heard to reply: 'The time is not yet.' They resume their former posture and sink into their sleep again. That is the substance of the words I read, and they called to my mind the legend of such heroes of the past as Barbarossa, with his sleep interrupted only by his change of posture once in seven years; of Dom Sebastian, for centuries expected from Moslem lands to restore the glories of Portugal; of the Cid Rodrigo, expected back to do likewise with the kingdom of Castile; and last, but not least, of the O'Donoghue who sleeps beneath the Lakes of Killarney, ready to emerge to right the wrongs of Erin. With my head full of these and the like dreams of folklore, I was taken over the scene of the Battle of the Boyne; and the car-driver, having vainly tried to interest me in it, gave me up in despair as an uncultured savage who felt no interest in the history of Ireland. However he somewhat changed his mind when, on reaching the first ancient burial mound, he saw me disappear underground, fearless of the Fomhoraigh; and he began to wonder whether I should ever return to pay him his fare. This in fact was the sheet anchor of all my hopes; for I thought that in case I remained fast in a narrow passage, or lost my way in the chambers of the prehistoric dead, the jarvey must fetch me out again. So by the time I had visited three of these ancient places, Dowth, Knowth, and New Grange, I had risen considerably in his opinion; and he bethought him of stories older than the Battle of the Boyne. So he told me on the way back several bits of something less drearily historical. Among other things, he pointed in the direction of a place called Ardee in the county of Louth, where, he said, there is Garry Geerlaug's enchanted fort full of warriors in magic sleep, with Garry Geerlaug himself in their midst. Once on a time a herdsman is said to have strayed into their hall, he said, and to have found the sleepers each with his sword and his spear ready to hand. But as the intruder could not keep his hands off the metal wealth of the place, the owners of the spears began to rouse themselves, and the intruder had to flee for his life. But there that armed host is awaiting the eventful call to arms, when they are to sally forth to restore prosperity and glory to Ireland. That was his story, and I became all attention as soon as I heard of Ardee, which is in Irish Áth Fhir-dheadh, or the Ford of Fer-deadh, so called from Fer-deadh, who fought a protracted duel with Cúchulainn in that ford, where at the end, according to a well-known Irish story, he fell by Cúchulainn's hand. I was still more exercised by the name of Garry Geerlaug, as I recognized in Garry an Anglo-Irish pronunciation of the Norse name Godhfreydhr, later Godhroedh, sometimes rendered Godfrey and sometimes Godred, while in Man and in Scotland it has become Gorry, which may be heard also in Ireland. I thought, further, that I recognized the latter part of Garry Geerlaug's designation as the Norse female name Geirlaug. There was no complete lack of Garries in that part of Ireland in the tenth and eleventh centuries; but I have not yet found any historian to identify for me the warrior named or nicknamed Garry Geerlaug, who is to return blinking to this world of ours when his nap is over. Leaving Ireland, I was told the other day of a place called Tom na Hurich, near Inverness, where Finn and his following are resting, each on his left elbow, enjoying a broken sleep while waiting for the note to be sounded, which is to call them forth. What they are then to do I have not been told: it may be that they will proceed at once to solve the Crofter Question, for there will doubtless be one. It appears, to come back to Wales, that King Cadwaladr, who waged an unsuccessful war with the Angles of Northumbria in the seventh century, was long after his death expected to return to restore the Brythons to power. At any rate so one is led in some sort of a hazy fashion to believe in reading several of the poems in the manuscript known as the Book of Taliessin. One finds, however, no trace of Cadwaladr in our cave legends: the heroes of them are Arthur and Owen Lawgoch. Now concerning Arthur one need at this point hardly speak, except to say that the Welsh belief in the eventual return of Arthur was at one time a powerful motive affecting the behaviour of the people of Wales, as was felt, for instance, by English statesmen in the reign of Henry II. But by our time the expected return of Arthur--rexque futurus--has dissipated itself into a commonplace of folklore fitted only to point an allegory, as when Elvet Lewis, one of the sweetest of living Welsh poets, sings in a poem entitled Arthur gyda ni, 'Arthur with us':-- Mae Arthur Fawr yn cysgu, Great Arthur still is sleeping, A'i dewrion syd o'i deutu, His warriors all around him, A'u gafael ar y cled: With grip upon the steel: Pan daw yn dyd yn Nghymru, When dawns the day on Cambry, Daw Arthur Fawr i fynu Great Arthur forth will sally Yn fyw--yn fyw o'i fed! Alive to work her weal! Not so with regard to the hopes associated with the name of Owen Lawgoch; for we have it on Gwynionyd's testimony, p. 464, that our old baledwyr or ballad men used to sing about him at Welsh fairs: it is not in the least improbable that they still do so here and there, unless the horrors of the ghastly murder last reported in the newspapers have been found to pay better. At any rate Mr. Fisher (p. 379) has known old people in his native district in the Llychwr Valley who could repeat stanzas or couplets from the ballads in question. He traces these scraps to a booklet entitled Merlin's Prophecy [67], together with a brief history of his life, taken from the Book of Prognostication. This little book bears no date, but appears to have been published in the early part of the nineteenth century. It is partly in prose, dealing briefly with the history of Merlin the Wild or Silvaticus, and the rest consists of two poems. The first of these poems is entitled Dechreu Darogan Myrdin, 'the Beginning of Merlin's Prognostication,' and is made up of forty-nine verses, several of which speak of Owen as king conquering all his foes and driving out the Saxons: then in the forty-seventh stanza comes the couplet which says, that this Owen is Henry the Ninth, who is tarrying in a foreign land. The other poem is of a more general character, and is entitled the Second Song of Merlin's Prognostication, and consists of twenty-six stanzas of four lines each like the previous one; but the third stanza describes Arthur's bell at Caerlleon, 'Caerleon,' ringing with great vigour to herald the coming of Owen; and the seventh stanza begins with the following couplet:-- Ceir gweled Owen Law-goch yn d'od i Frydain Fawr, Ceir gweled newyn ceiniog yn nhref Gaerlleon-gawr. Owen Lawgoch one shall to Britain coming see, And dearth of pennies find at Chester on the Dee. It closes with the date in verse at the end, to wit, 1668, which takes us back to very troublous times: 1668 was the year of the Triple Alliance of England, Sweden, and Holland against Louis XIV; and it was not long after the Plague had raged, and London had had its Great Fire. So it is a matter of no great surprise if some people in Wales had a notion that the power of England was fast nearing its end, and that the baledwyr thought it opportune to refurbish and adapt some of Merlin's prophecies as likely to be acceptable to the peasantry of South Wales. At all events we have no reason to suppose that the two poems which have here been described from Mr. Fisher's data represented either the gentry of Wales, whose ordinary speech was probably for the most part English, or the bardic fraternity, who would have looked with contempt at the language and style of the Prognostication. For, apart from careless printing, this kind of literature can lay no claim to merit in point of diction or of metre. Such productions represent probably the baledwyr and the simple country people, such as still listen in rapt attention to them doing at Welsh fairs and markets what they are pleased to regard as singing. All this fits in well enough with the folklore of the caves, such as the foregoing stories represent it. Here I may add that I am informed by Mr. Craigfryn Hughes of a tradition that Arthur and his men are biding their time near Caerleon on the Usk, to wit, in a cave resembling generally those described in the foregoing legends. He also mentions a tradition as to Owen Glyndwr--so he calls him, though it is unmistakably the Owen of the baledwyr who have been referred to by Mr. Fisher--that he and his men are similarly slumbering in a cave in Craig Gwrtheyrn, in Carmarthenshire. That is a spot in the neighbourhood of Llandyssil, consisting of an elevated field terminating on one side in a sharp declivity, with the foot of the rock laved by the stream of the Teifi. Craig Gwrtheyrn means Vortigern's Rock, and it is one of the sites with which legend associates the name of that disreputable old king. I am not aware that it shows any traces of ancient works, but it looks at a distance an ideal site for an old fortification. An earlier prophecy about Owen Lawgoch than any of these occurs, as kindly pointed out to me by Mr. Gwenogvryn Evans, in the Peniarth MS. 94 (= Hengwrt MS. 412, p. 23), and points back possibly to the last quarter of the fourteenth century. See also one quoted by him, from the Mostyn MS. 133, in his Report on MSS. in the Welsh Language, i. 106. Probably many more such prophecies might be discovered if anybody undertook to make a systematic search for them. But who was Owen Lawgoch, if there ever was such a man? Such a man there was undoubtedly; for we read in one of the documents printed in the miscellaneous volume commonly known as the Record of Carnarvon, that at a court held at Conway in the forty-fourth year of Edward III a certain Gruffyd Says was adjudged to forfeit all the lands which he held in Anglesey to the Prince of Wales--who was at that time no other than Edward the Black Prince--for the reason that the said Gruffyd had been an adherent of Owen: adherens fuisset Owino Lawegogh (or Lawgogh) inimico et proditori predicti domini Principis et de consilio predicti Owyni ad mouendam guerram in Wallia contra predictum dominum Principem [68]. How long previously it had been attempted to begin a war on behalf of this Owen Lawgoch one cannot say, but it so happens that at this time there was a captain called Yeuwains, Yewains, or Yvain de Gales or Galles, 'Owen of Wales,' fighting on the French side against the English in Edward's Continental wars. Froissart in his Chronicles has a great deal to say of him, for he distinguished himself greatly on various critical occasions. From the historian's narrative one finds that Owen had escaped when a boy to the court of Philip VI of France, who received him with great favour and had him educated with his own nephews. Froissart's account of him is, that the king of England, Edward III, had slain his father and given his lordship and principality to his own son as Prince of Wales; and Froissart gives Owen's father's name as Aymon, which should mean Edmond, unless the name intended may have been rather Einion. However that may have been, Owen was engaged in the Battle of Poitiers in 1356, and when peace was made he went to serve in Lombardy; but when war between England and France broke out again in 1369, he returned to France. He sometimes fought on sea and sometimes on land, but he was always entrusted by the French king, who was now Charles V, with important commands [69]. Thus in 1372 he was placed at the head of a flotilla with 3,000 men, and ordered to operate against the English: he made a descent on the Isle of Guernsey [70], and while there besieging the castle of Cornet, he was charged by the king of France to sail to Spain to invite the king of Castile to send his fleet again to help in the attack on La Rochelle. Whilst staying at Santander the earl of Pembroke was brought thither, having been taken prisoner in the course of the destruction of the English fleet before La Rochelle. Owen, on seeing the earl of Pembroke, asks him with bitterness if he is come there to do him homage for his land, of which he had taken possession in Wales. He threatens to avenge himself on him as soon as he can, and also on the earl of Hereford and Edward Spencer, for it was by the fathers of these three men, he said, his own father had been betrayed to death. Edward III died in 1377, and the Black Prince had died shortly before. Owen survived them both, and was actively engaged in the siege of Mortagne sur Mer in Poitou, when he was assassinated by one Lamb, who had insinuated himself into his service and confidence, partly by pretending to bring him news about his native land and telling him that all Wales was longing to have him back to be the lord of his country--et lui fist acroire que toute li terre de Gales le desiroient mout à ravoir à seigneur. So Owen fell in the year 1378, and was buried at the church of Saint-Léger [71] while Lamb returned to the English to receive his stipulated pay. When this happened Owen's namesake, Owen Glyndwr, was nearly thirty years of age. The latter was eventually to assert with varying fortune on several fields of battle in this country the claims of his elder kinsman, who, by virtue of his memory in France, would seem to have rendered it easy for the later Owen to enter into friendly relations with the French court of his day [72]. Now as to Yvain de Galles, the Rev. Thomas Price (Carnhuanawc) in his Hanes Cymru, 'History of Wales,' devotes a couple of pages, 735-7, to Froissart's account of him, and he points out that Angharad Llwyd, in her edition of Sir John Wynne's History of the Gwydir Family [73], had found Owen Lawgoch to have been Owen ab Thomas ab Rhodri, brother to Llewelyn, the last native prince of Wales. One of the names, however, among other things, forms a difficulty: why did Froissart call Yvain's father Aymon? So it is clear that a more searching study of Welsh pedigrees and other documents, including those at the Record Office [74], has to be made before Owen can be satisfactorily placed in point of succession. For that he was in the right line to succeed the native princes of Wales is suggested both by the eagerness with which all Wales was represented as looking to his return to be the lord of the country, and by the opening words of Froissart in describing what he had been robbed of by Edward III, as being both lordship and principality--la signourie et princeté. Be that as it may, there is, it seems to me, little doubt that Yvain de Galles was no other than the Owen Lawgoch, whose adherent Gruffyd Says was deprived of his land and property in the latter part of Edward's reign. In the next place, there is hardly room for doubt that the Owen Lawgoch here referred to was the same man whom the baledwyr in their jumble of prophecies intended to be Henry the Ninth, that is to say the Welsh successor to the last Tudor king, Henry VIII, and that he was at the same time the hero of the cave legends of divers parts of the Principality, especially South Wales, as already indicated. Now without being able to say why Owen and his analogues should become the heroes of cave legends contemplating a second advent, it is easy to point to circumstances which facilitated their doing so. It is useless to try to discuss the question of Arthur's disappearance; but take Garry Geerlaug, for instance, a roving Norseman, as we may suppose from his name, who may have suddenly disappeared with his followers, never more to be heard of in the east of Ireland. In the absence of certain news of his death, it was all the easier to imagine that he was dozing quietly away in an enchanted fortress. Then as to King Cadwaladr, who was also, perhaps, to have returned to this world, so little is known concerning his end that historians have no certainty to this day when or where he died. So much the readier therefore would the story gain currency that he was somewhere biding his time to come back to retrieve his lost fortunes. Lastly, there is Owen Lawgoch, the magic of whose name has only been dissipated in our own day: he died in France in the course of a protracted war with the kings of England. It is not likely, then, that the peasantry of Wales could have heard anything definite about his fate. So here also the circumstances were favourable to the cave legend and the dream that he was, whether at home or abroad, only biding his time. Moreover, in all these cases the hope-inspiring delusion gained currency among a discontented people, probably, who felt the sore need of a deliverer to save them from oppression or other grievous hardships of their destiny. The question can no longer be prevented from presenting itself as to the origin of this idea of a second advent of a hero of the past; but in that form it is too large for discussion here, and it would involve a review, for instance, of one of the cardinal beliefs of the Latter-day Saints as to the coming of Christ to reign on earth, and other doctrines supposed to be derived from the New Testament. On the other hand, there is no logical necessity why the expected deliverer should have been in the world before: witness the Jews, who are looking forward not to the return but to the birth and first coming of their Messiah. So the question here may be confined more or less strictly to its cave-legend form; and though I cannot answer it, some advance in the direction whence the answer should come may perhaps be made. In the first place, one will have noticed that Arthur and Owen Lawgoch come more or less in one another's way; and the presumption is that Owen Lawgoch has been to a certain extent ousting Arthur, who may be regarded as having the prior claim, not to mention that in the case of the Gwr Blew cave, p. 481, Owen is made by an apparently recent version of the story to evict from his lair a commonplace robber of no special interest. In other words, the Owen Lawgoch legend is, so to say, detected spreading itself [75]. That is very possibly just what had happened at a remoter period in the case of the Arthur legend itself. In other words, Arthur has taken the place of some ancient divinity, such as that dimly brought within our ken by Plutarch in the words placed at the head of this chapter. He reproduces the report of a certain Demetrius, sent by the emperor of Rome to reconnoitre and inspect the coasts of Britain. It was to the effect that around Britain lay many uninhabited islands, some of which are named after deities and some after heroes; and of the islands inhabited, he visited the one nearest to the uninhabited ones. Of this the dwellers were few, but the people of Britain treated them as sacrosanct and inviolable in their persons. Among other things, they related to him how terrible storms, diseases, and portents happened on the occasion of any one of the mighty leaving this life. He adds:--'Moreover there is, they said, an island in which Cronus is imprisoned, with Briareus keeping guard over him as he sleeps; for, as they put it, sleep is the bond forged for Cronus. They add that around him are many divinities, his henchmen and attendants [76].' What divinity, Celtic or pre-Celtic, this may have been who recalled Cronus or Saturn to the mind of the Roman officer, it is impossible to say. It is to be noticed that he sleeps and that his henchmen are with him, but no allusion is made to treasure. No more is there, however, in Mr. Fisher's version of the story of Ogo'r Dinas, which, according to him, says that Arthur and his warriors there lie sleeping with their right hands clasping the hilts of their drawn swords, ready to encounter any one who may venture to disturb their repose. On the other hand, legends about cave treasure are probably very ancient, and in some at least of our stories the safe keeping of such treasure must be regarded as the original object of the presence of the armed host. The permission supposed to be allowed an intruder to take away a reasonable quantity of the cave gold, I should look at in the light of a sort of protest on the part of the story-teller against the niggardliness of the cave powers. I cannot help suspecting in the same way that the presence of a host of armed warriors to guard some piles of gold and silver for unnumbered ages must have struck the fancy of the story-tellers as disproportionate, and that this began long ago to cause a modification in the form of the legends. That is to say, the treasure sank into a mere accessory of the presence of the armed men, who are not guarding any such thing so much as waiting for the destined hour when they are to sally forth to make lost causes win. Originally the armed warriors were in some instances presumably the henchmen of a sleeping divinity, as in the story told to Demetrius; but perhaps oftener they were the guardians of treasure, just as much as the invisible agencies are, which bring on thunder and lightning and portents when any one begins to dig at Dinas Emrys or other spots where ancient treasure lies hidden. There is, it must be admitted, no objection to regarding the attendants of a divinity as at the same time the guardians of his treasure. In none, however, of these cave stories probably may we suppose the principal figure to have originally been that of the hero expected to return among men: he, when found in them, is presumably to be regarded as a comparatively late interloper. But it is, as already hinted, not to be understood that the notion of a returning hero is itself a late one. Quite the contrary; and the question then to be answered is, Where was that kind of hero supposed to pass his time till his return? There is only one answer to which Welsh folklore points, and that is, In fairyland. This is also the teaching of the ancient legend about Arthur, who goes away to the Isle of Avallon to be healed of his wounds by the fairy maiden Morgen; and, according to an anonymous poet [77], it is in her charms that one should look for the reason why Arthur tarries so long:-- Immodice læsus Arthurus tendit ad aulam Regis Avallonis, ubi virgo regia, vulnus Illius tractans, sanati membra reservat Ipsa sibi: vivuntque simul, si credere fas est. Avallon's court see suffering Arthur reach: His wounds are healed, a royal maid the leech; His pains assuaged, he now with her must dwell, If we hold true what ancient legends tell. Here may be cited by way of comparison Walter Mapes' statement as to the Trinio, concerning whom he was quoted in the first chapter, p. 72 above. He says, that as Trinio was never seen after the losing battle, in which he and his friends had engaged with a neighbouring chieftain, it was believed in the district around Llyn Syfadon, that Trinio's fairy mother had rescued him from the enemy and taken him away with her to her home in the lake. In the case of Arthur it is, as we have seen, a fairy also or a lake lady that intervenes; and there cannot be much room for doubt, that the story representing him going to fairyland to be healed is far older than any which pictures him sleeping in a cave with his warriors and his gold all around him. As for the gold, however, it is abundantly represented as nowhere more common than in the home of the fairies: so this metal treated as a test cannot greatly help us in essaying the distinction here suggested. With regard to Owen Lawgoch, however, one is not forced to suppose that he was ever believed to have sojourned in Faery: the legendary precedent of Arthur as a cave sleeper would probably suffice to open the door for him to enter the recesses of Craig y Dinas, as soon as the country folk began to grow weary of waiting for his return. In other words, most of our cave legends have combined together two sets of popular belief originally distinct, the one referring to a hero gone to the world of the fairies and expected some day to return, and the other to a hero or god enjoying an enchanted sleep with his retinue all around him. In some of our legends, however, such as that of Llanciau Eryri, the process of combining the two sets of story has been left to this day incomplete. CHAPTER IX PLACE-NAME STORIES The Dindsenchas is a collection of stories (senchasa), in Middle-Irish prose and verse, about the names of noteworthy places (dind) in Ireland--plains, mountains, ridges, cairns, lakes, rivers, fords, estuaries, islands, and so forth.... But its value to students of Irish folklore, romance (sometimes called history), and topography has long been recognized by competent authorities, such as Petrie, O'Donovan, and Mr. Alfred Nutt. Whitley Stokes. In the previous chapters some folklore has been produced in which we have swine figuring: see more especially that concerned with the Hwch Du Gwta, pp. 224-6 above. Now I wish to bring before the reader certain other groups of swine legends not vouched for by oral tradition so much as found in manuscripts more or less ancient. The first three to be mentioned occur in one of the Triads [78]. I give the substance of it in the three best known versions, premising that the Triad is entitled that of the Three Stout Swineherds of the Isle of Prydain:-- i. 30a:--Drystan [79] son of Tallwch who guarded the swine of March son of Meirchion while the swineherd went to bid Essyllt come to meet him: at the same time Arthur sought to have one sow by fraud or force, and failed. ii. 56b:--Drystan son of Tallwch with the swine of March ab Meirchion while the swineherd went on a message to Essyllt. Arthur and March and Cai and Bedwyr came all four to him, but obtained from Drystan not even as much as a single porker, whether by force, by fraud, or by theft. iii. 101c:--The third was Trystan son of Tallwch, who guarded the swine of March son of Meirchion while the swineherd had gone on a message to Essyllt to bid her appoint a meeting with Trystan. Now Arthur and Marchell and Cai and Bedwyr undertook to go and make an attempt on him, but they proved unable to get possession of as much as one porker either as a gift or as a purchase, whether by fraud, by force, or by theft. In this story the well-known love of Drystan and Essyllt is taken for granted; but the whole setting is so peculiar and so unlike that of the story of Tristan and Iselt or Iseut in the romances, that there is no reason to suppose it in any way derived from the latter. The next portion of the Triad runs thus:-- 1 30b:--And Pryderi son of Pwyll of Annwvyn who guarded the swine of Pendaran of Dyfed in the Glen of the Cuch in Emlyn. ii. 56a:--Pryderi son of Pwyll Head of Annwn with the swine of Pendaran of Dyfed his foster father. The swine were the seven brought away by Pwyll Head of Annwn and given by him to Pendaran of Dyfed his foster father; and the Glen of the Cuch was the place where they were kept. The reason why Pryderi is called a mighty swineherd is that no one could prevail over him either by fraud or by force [80]. iii. 101a:--The first was Pryderi son of Pwyll of Pendaran in Dyfed [81], who guarded his father's swine while he was in Annwn, and it was in the Glen of the Cuch that he guarded them. The history of the pigs is given, so to say, in the Mabinogion. Pwyll had been able to strike up a friendship and even an alliance with Arawn king of Annwvyn [82] or Annwn, which now means Hades or the other world; and they kept up their friendship partly by exchanging presents of horses, greyhounds, falcons, and any other things calculated to give gratification to the receiver of them. Among other gifts which Pryderi appears to have received from the king of Annwn were hobeu or moch, 'pigs, swine,' which had never before been heard of in the island of Prydain. The news about this new race of animals, and that they formed sweeter food than oxen, was not long before it reached Gwyned; and we shall presently see that there was another story which flatly contradicts this part of the Triad, namely to the effect that Gwydion, nephew of Math king of Gwyned and a great magician, came to Pryderi's court at Rhudlan, near Dolau Bach or Highmead on the Teifi in what is now the county of Cardigan, and obtained some of the swine by deceiving the king. But, to pass by that for the present, I may say that Dyfed seems to have been famous for rearing swine; and at the present day one affects to believe in the neighbouring districts that the chief industry in Dyfed, more especially in South Cardiganshire, consists in the rearing of parsons, carpenters, and pigs. Perhaps it is also worth mentioning that the people of the southern portion of Dyfed are nicknamed by the men of Glamorgan to this day Moch Sir Benfro, 'the Pigs of Pembrokeshire.' But why so much importance attached to pigs? I cannot well give a better answer than the reader can himself supply if he will only consider what rôle the pig plays in the domestic economy of modern Ireland. But, to judge from old Irish literature, it was even more so in ancient times, as pigs' meat was so highly appreciated, that under some one or other of its various names it usually takes its place at the head of all flesh meats in Irish stories. This seems the case, for instance, in the medieval story called the Vision of MacConglinne [83]; and, to go further back, to the Feast of Bricriu for instance, one finds it decidedly the case with the Champion's Portion [84] at that stormy banquet. Then one may mention the story of the fatal feast on Mac-Dáthó's great swine [85], where that beast would have apparently sufficed for the braves both of Connaught and Ulster had Conall Cernach carved fair, and not given more than their share to his own Ultonian friends in order to insult the Connaught men by leaving them nothing but the fore-legs. It is right, however, to point out that most of the stories go to show, that the gourmands of ancient Erin laid great stress on the pig being properly fed, chiefly on milk and the best kind of meal. It cannot have been very different in ancient Wales; for we read in the story of Peredur that, when he sets out from his mother's home full of his mother's counsel, he comes by-and-by to a pavilion, in front of which he sees food, some of which he proceeds to take according to his mother's advice, though the gorgeously dressed lady sitting near it has not the politeness to anticipate his wish. It consisted, we are told, of two bottles of wine, two loaves of white bread, and collops of a milk-fed pig's flesh [86]. The home of the fairies was imagined to be a land of luxury and happiness with which nothing could compare in this world. In this certain Welsh and Irish stories agree; and in one of the latter, where the king of the fairies is trying to persuade the queen of Ireland to elope with him, we find that among the many inducements offered her are fresh pig, sweet milk, and ale [87]. Conversely, as the fairies were considered to be always living and to be a very old-fashioned and ancient people, it was but natural to suppose that they had the animals which man found useful, such as horses, cattle, and sheep, except that they were held to be of superior breeds, as they are represented, for instance, in our lake legends. Similarly, it is natural enough that other stories should ascribe to them also the possession of herds of swine; and all this prior to man's having any. The next step in the reasoning would be that man had obtained his from the fairies. It is some tradition of this kind that possibly suggested the line taken by the Pwyll story in the matter of the derivation of the pig from Annwn: see the last chapter. The next story in the Triad is, if possible, wilder still: it runs as follows:-- i. 30c:--Coll son of Collfrewi [88] who guarded Henwen [89], Dallweir Dallben's sow, which went burrowing as far as the Headland of Awstin in Kernyw and then took to the sea. It was at Aber Torogi in Gwent Is-coed that she came to land, with Coll keeping his grip on her bristles whatever way she went by sea or by land. Now in Maes Gwenith, 'Wheat Field,' in Gwent she dropped a grain of wheat and a bee, and thenceforth that has been the best place for wheat. Then she went as far as Llonwen in Penfro and there dropped a grain of barley and a bee, and thenceforth Llonwen has been the best place for barley. Then she proceeded to Rhiw Gyferthwch in Eryri and dropped a wolf-cub and an eagle-chick. These Coll gave away, the eagle to the Goidel Brynach from the North, and the wolf to Menwaed of Arllechwed, and they came to be known as Menwaed's Wolf and Brynach's Eagle. Then the sow went as far as the Maen Du at Llanfair in Arfon, and there she dropped a kitten, and that kitten Coll cast into the Menai: that came later to be known as Cath Paluc, 'Palug's Cat.' ii. 56c:--The third was Coll son of Kallureuy with the swine of Dallwyr Dallben in Dallwyr's Glen in Kernyw. Now one of the swine was with young and Henwen was her name; and it was foretold that the Isle of Prydain would be the worse for her litter; and Arthur collected the host of Prydain and went about to destroy it. Then one sow went burrowing, and at the Headland of Hawstin in Kernyw she took to the sea with the swineherd following her. And in Maes Gwenith in Gwent she dropped a grain of wheat and a bee, and ever since Maes Gwenith is the best place for wheat and bees. And at Llonyon in Penfro she dropped a grain of barley and another of wheat: therefore the barley of Llonyon has passed into a proverb. And on Rhiw Gyferthwch in Arfon she dropped a wolf-cub and an eagle-chick. The wolf was given to Mergaed and the eagle to Breat a prince from the North, and they were the worse for having them. And at Llanfair in Arfon, to wit below the Maen Du, she dropped a kitten, and from the Maen Du the swineherd cast it into the sea, but the sons of Paluc reared it to their detriment. It grew to be Cath Paluc, 'Palug's Cat,' and proved one of the three chief molestations of Mona reared in the island: the second was Daronwy and the third was Edwin king of England. iii. 101b:--The second was Coll son of Collfrewi who guarded Dallwaran Dallben's sow, that came burrowing as far as the Headland of Penwedic in Kernyw and then took to the sea; and she came to land at Aber Tarogi in Gwent Is-coed with Coll keeping his hold of her bristles whithersoever she went on sea or land. At Maes Gwenith in Gwent she dropped three grains of wheat and three bees, and ever since Gwent has the best wheat and bees. From Gwent she proceeded to Dyfed and dropped a grain of barley and a porker, and ever since Dyfed has the best barley and pigs: it was in Llonnio Llonnwen these were dropped. Afterwards she proceeded to Arfon (sic) and in Lleyn she dropped the grain of rye, and ever since Lleyn and Eifionyd have the best rye. And on the side of Rhiw Gyferthwch she dropped a wolf-cub and an eagle-chick. Coll gave the eagle to Brynach the Goidel of Dinas Affaraon, and the wolf to Menwaed lord of Arllechwed, and one often hears of Brynach's Wolf and Menwaed's Eagle [the writer was careless: he has made the owners exchange pests]. Then she went as far as the Maen Du in Arfon, where she dropped a kitten and Coll cast it into the Menai. That was the Cath Balwg (sic), 'Palug's Cat': it proved a molestation to the Isle of Mona subsequently. Such are the versions we have of this story, and a few notes on the names seem necessary before proceeding further. Coll is called Coll son of Collurewy in i. 30, and Coll son of Kallureuy in ii. 56: all that is known of him comes from other Triads, i. 32-3, ii. 20, and iii. 90. The first two tell us that he was one of the Three chief Enchanters of the Isle of Prydain, and that he was taught his magic by Rhudlwm the Giant; while ii. 20 calls the latter a dwarf and adds that Coll was nephew to him. The matter is differently put in iii. 90, to the effect that Rhudlwm the Giant learnt his magic from Eid[il]ig the Dwarf and from Coll son of Collfrewi. Nothing is known of Dallwyr's Glen in Kernyw, or of the person after whom it was named. Kernyw is the Welsh for Cornwall, but if Penryn Awstin or Hawstin is to be identified with Aust Cliff on the Severn Sea in Gloucestershire, the story would seem to indicate a time when Cornwall extended north-eastwards as far as that point. The later Triad, iii. 101, avoids Penryn Awstin and substitutes Penwedic, which recalls some such a name as Pengwaed [90] or Penwith in Cornwall: elsewhere Penwedic [91] is only given as the name of the most northern hundred of Keredigion. Gwent Is-coed means Gwent below the Wood or Forest, and Aber Torogi or Tarogi--omitted, probably by accident, in ii. 56--is now Caldicot Pill, where the small river Tarogi, now called Troggy, discharges itself not very far from Portskewet. Maes Gwenith in the same neighbourhood is still known by that name. The correct spelling of the name of the place in Penfro was probably Llonyon, but it is variously given as Llonwen, Llonyon, and Llonion, not to mention the Llonnio Llonnwen of the later form of the Triad: should this last prove to be based on any authority one might suggest Llonyon Henwen, so called after the sow, as the original. The modern Welsh spelling of Llonyon would be Llonion, and it is identified by Mr. Egerton Phillimore with Lanion near Pembroke [92]. Rhiw Gyferthwch is guessed to have been one of the slopes of Snowdon on the Bedgelert side; but I have failed to discover anybody who has ever heard the name used in that neighbourhood. Arllechwed was, roughly speaking, that part of Carnarvonshire which drains into the sea between Conway and Bangor. Brynach and Menwaed or Mengwaed [93] seem to be the names underlying the misreadings in ii. 56; but it is quite possible that Brynach, probably for an Irish Bronach, has here superseded an earlier Urnach or Eurnach also a Goidel, to whom I shall have to return in another chapter. Dinas Affaraon [94] is the place called Dinas Ffaraon Dande in the story of Llud and Llevelys, where we are told that after Llud had had the two dragons buried there, which had been dug up at the centre of his realm, to wit at Oxford, Ffaraon, after whom the place was called, died of grief. Later it came to be called Dinas Emrys from Myrdin Emrys, 'Merlinus Ambrosius,' who induced Vortigern to go away from there in quest of another place to build his castle [95]. So the reader will see that the mention of this Dinas brings us back to a weird spot with which he has been familiarized in the previous chapter: see pp. 469, 495 above. Llanfair in Arfon is Llanfair Is-gaer near Port Dinorwic on the Menai Straits, and the Maen Du should be a black rock or black stone on the southern side of those straits. Daronwy and Cath Paluc are both personages on whom light is still wanted. Lastly, by Edwin king of England is to be understood Edwin king of the Angles of Deira and Bernicia, whom Welsh tradition represents as having found refuge for a time in Anglesey. Now this story as a whole looks like a sort of device for stringing together explanations of the origin of certain place-names and of certain local characteristics. Leaving entirely out of the reckoning the whole of Mid-Wales, that is to say, the more Brythonic portion of the country, it is remarkable as giving to South Wales credit for certain resources, but to North Wales for pests alone and scourges, except that the writer of the late version bethought himself of Lleyn and Eifionyd as having good land for growing rye; but he was very hazy as to the geography of North Wales--both he and the redactors of the other Triads equally belonged doubtless to South Wales. Among the place-names, Maes Gwenith, 'the Wheat Field,' is clear; but hardly less so is the case of Aber Torogi, 'Mouth of the Troggy,' where torogi is 'the pregnancy of animals,' from torrog, 'being with young.' So with Rhiw Gyferthwch, 'the Hillside or Ascent of Cyferthwch,' where cyferthwch means 'pantings, pangs, labour.' The name Maen Du, 'Black Rock,' is left to explain itself; and I am not sure that the original story was not so put as also to explain Llonion, to wit, as a sort of plural of llawn, 'full,' in reference, let us say, to the full ears of the barley grown there. But the reference to the place-names seems to have partly escaped the later tellers of the story or to have failed to impress them as worth emphasizing. They appear to have thought more of explaining the origin of Menwaed's Wolf and Brynach's Eagle. Whether this means in the former case that the district of Arllechwed was more infested by wolves than any other part of Wales, or that Menwaed, lord of Arllechwed, had a wolf as his symbol, it is impossible to say. In another Triad, however, i. 23 = ii. 57, he is reckoned one of the Three Battle-knights who were favourites at Arthur's court, the others being Caradog Freichfras and Llyr Llüydog or Llud Llurugog, while in iii. 29 Menwaed's place is taken by a son of his called Mael Hir. Similarly with regard to Brynach's Eagle one has nothing to say, except that common parlance some time or other would seem to have associated the eagle in some way with Brynach the Goidel. The former prevalence of the eagle in the Snowdon district seems to be the explanation of its Welsh name of Eryri--as already suggested, p. 479 above--and the association of the bird with the Goidelic chieftain who had his stronghold under the shadow of Snowdon seems to follow naturally enough. But the details are conspicuous by their scarcity in Welsh literature, though Brynach's Eagle is probably to be identified with the Aquila Fabulosa of Eryri, of which Giraldus makes a curious mention [96]. Perhaps the final disuse of Goidelic speech in the district is to be, to some extent, regarded as accounting for our dearth of data. A change of language involved in all probability the shipwreck of many a familiar mode of thought; and many a homely expression must have been lost in the transition before an equivalent acceptable to the Goidel was discovered by him in his adopted idiom. This question of linguistic change will be found further illustrated by the story to which I wish now to pass, namely that of the hunting of Twrch Trwyth. It is one of those incorporated in the larger tale known as that of Kulhwch and Olwen, the hero and heroine concerned: see the Oxford Mabinogion, pp. 135-41, and Guest's translation, iii. 306-16. Twrch Trwyth is pictured as a formidable boar at the head of his offspring, consisting of seven swine, and the Twrch himself is represented as carrying between his ears a comb, a razor, and a pair of shears. The plot of the Kulhwch renders it necessary that these precious articles should be procured; so Kulhwch prevails on his cousin Arthur to undertake the hunt. Arthur began by sending one of his men, to wit, Menw [97] son of Teirgwaed, to see whether the three precious things mentioned were really where they were said to be, namely, between Twrch Trwyth's ears. Menw was a great magician who usually formed one of any party of Arthur's men about to visit a pagan country; for it was his business to subject the inhabitants to magic and enchantment, so that they should not see Arthur's men, while the latter saw them. Menw found Twrch Trwyth and his offspring at a place in Ireland called Esgeir Oervel [98], and in order to approach them he alighted in the form of a bird near where they were. He tried to snatch one of the three precious articles from Twrch Trwyth, but he only succeeded in securing one of his bristles, whereupon the Twrch stood up and shook himself so vigorously that a drop of venom from his bristles fell on Menw, who never enjoyed a day's health afterwards as long as he lived. Menw now returned and assured Arthur that the treasures were really about the Twrch's head as it was reported. Arthur then crossed to Ireland with a host and did not stop until he found Twrch Trwyth and his swine at Esgeir Oervel. The hunt began and was continued for several days, but it did not prevent the Twrch from laying waste a fifth part of Ireland, that is in Medieval Irish cóiced, a province of the island. Arthur's men, however, succeeded in killing one of the Twrch's offspring, and they asked Arthur the history [99] of that swine. Arthur replied that it had been a king before being transformed by God into a swine on account of his sins. Here I should remark by the way, that the narrator of the story forgets the death of this young boar, and continues to reckon the Twrch's herd as seven. Arthur's next move was to send one of his men, Gwrhyr, interpreter of tongues [100], to parley with the boars. Gwrhyr, in the form of a bird, alighted above where Twrch Trwyth and his swine lay, and addressed them as follows: 'For the sake of Him who fashioned you in this shape, if you can speak, I ask one of you to come to converse with Arthur.' Answer was made by one of the boars, called Grugyn Gwrych Ereint, that is, Grugyn Silver-bristle; for like feathers of silver, we are told, were his bristles wherever he went, and whether in woods or on plains, one saw the gleam of his bristles. The following, then, was Grugyn's answer: 'By Him who fashioned us in this shape, we shall not do so, and we shall not converse with Arthur. Enough evil has God done to us when He fashioned us in this shape, without your coming to fight with us.' Gwrhyr replied: 'I tell you that Arthur will fight for the comb, the razor, and the shears that are between the ears of Twrch Trwyth.' 'Until his life has first been taken,' said Grugyn, 'those trinkets shall not be taken, and to-morrow morning we set out hence for Arthur's own country, and all the harm we can, shall we do there.' The boars accordingly set out for Wales, while Arthur with his host, his horses, and his hounds, on board his ship Prydwen, kept within sight of them. Twrch Trwyth came to land at Porth Clais, a small creek south of St. David's, but Arthur went that night to Mynyw, which seems to have been Menevia or St. David's. The next day Arthur was told that the boars had gone past, and he overtook them killing the herds of Kynnwas Cwrvagyl, after they had destroyed all they could find in Deugledyf, whether man or beast. Then the Twrch went as far as Presseleu, a name which survives in that of Preselly or Precelly, as in Preselly Top and Preselly Mountains in North Pembrokeshire. Arthur and his men began the hunt again, while his warriors were ranged on both sides of the Nyfer or the river Nevern. The Twrch then left the Glen of the Nevern and made his way to Cwm Kerwyn, the name of which survives in that of Moel Cwm Kerwyn, one of the Preselly heights. In the course of the hunt in that district the Twrch killed Arthur's four champions and many of the people of the country. He was next overtaken in a district called Peuliniauc [101] or Peuliniog, which appears to have occupied a central area between the mountains, Llandewi Velfrey, Henllan Amgoed, and Laugharne: it probably covered portions of the parish of Whitland and of that of Llandysilio, the church of which is a little to the north of the railway station of Clyn Derwen on the Great Western line. Leaving Peuliniog for the Laugharne Burrows, he crossed, as it seems, from Ginst Point to Aber Towy or Towy Mouth [102], which at low water are separated mostly by tracts of sand interrupted only by one or two channels of no very considerable width; for Aber Towy would seem to have been a little south-east of St. Ishmael's, on the eastern bank of the Towy. Thence the Twrch makes his way to Glynn Ystu, more correctly perhaps Clyn Ystun, now written Clyn Ystyn [103], the name of a farm between Carmarthen and the junction of the Amman with the Llychwr, more exactly about six miles from that junction and about eight and a half from Carmarthen as the crow flies. The hunt is resumed in the Valley of the Llychwr or Loughor [104], where Grugyn and another young boar, called Llwydawc Gouynnyat [105], committed terrible ravages among the huntsmen. This brought Arthur and his host to the rescue, and Twrch Trwyth, on his part, came to help his boars; but as a tremendous attack was now made on him he moved away, leaving the Llychwr, and making eastwards for Mynyd Amanw, or 'the Mountain of Amman,' for Amanw is plentifully preserved in that neighbourhood in the shortened form of Aman or Amman [106]. On Mynyd Amanw one of his boars was killed, but he is not distinguished by any proper name: he is simply called a banw, 'a young boar.' The Twrch was again hard pressed, and lost another called Twrch Llawin. Then a third of the swine is killed, called Gwys, whereupon Twrch Trwyth went to Dyffryn Amanw, or the Vale of Amman, where he lost a banw and a benwic, a 'boar' and a 'sow.' All this evidently takes place in the same district, and Mynyd Amanw was, if not Bryn Amman, probably one of the mountains to the south or south-east of the river Amman, so that Dyffryn Amanw may have been what is still called Dyffryn Amman, or the Valley of the Amman from Bryn Amman to where the river Amman falls into the Llychwr. From the Amman the Twrch and the two remaining boars of his herd made their way to Llwch Ewin, 'the lake or pool of Ewin,' which is now represented by a bog mere above a farm house called Llwch in the parish of Bettws, which covers the southern slope of the Amman Valley. I have found this bog called in a map Llwch is Awel, 'Pool below Breeze,' whatever that may mean. We find them next at Llwch Tawi, the position of which is indicated by that of Ynys Pen Llwch, 'Pool's End Isle,' some distance lower down the Tawe than Pont ar Dawe. At this point the boars separate, and Grugyn goes away to Din Tywi, 'Towy Fort,' an unidentified position somewhere on the Towy, possibly Grongar Hill near Llandeilo, and thence to a place in Keredigion where he was killed, namely, Garth Grugyn. I have not yet been able to identify the spot, though it must have once had a castle, as we read of a castle called Garthgrugyn being strengthened by Maelgwn Vychan in the year 1242: the Bruts locate it in Keredigion [107], but this part of the story is obscured by careless copying on the part of the scribe [108] of the Red Book. After Grugyn's death we read of Llwydawc having made his way to Ystrad Yw, and, after inflicting slaughter on several of his assailants, he is himself killed there. Now Ystrad Yw, which our mapsters would have us call Ystrad Wy, as if it had been on the Wye [109], is supposed to have covered till Henry VIII's time the same area approximately as the hundred of Crickhowel has since, namely, the parishes of (1) Crickhowel, (2) Llanbedr Ystrad Yw with Patrishow, (3) Llanfihangel Cwm Du with Tretower and Penmyarth, (4) Llangattock with Llangenny, (5) Llanelly with Brynmawr, and (6) Llangynidr. Of these Llanbedr perpetuates the name of Ystrad Yw, although it is situated near the junction of the Greater and Lesser Grwynë and not in the Strath of the Yw, which Ystrad Yw means. So one can only treat Lanbedr Ystrad Yw as meaning that particular Llanbedr or St. Peter's Church which belongs to the district comprehensively called Ystrad Yw. Now if one glances at the Red Book list of cantreds and cymwds, dating in the latter part of the fourteenth century, one will find Ystrad Yw and Cruc Howel existing as separate cymwds. So we have to look for the former in the direction of the parish of Cwm Du; and on going back to the Taxatio of Pope Nicholas IV dating about 1291, we find that practically we have to identify with Cwm Du a name Stratden', p. 273a, which one is probably to treat as Strat d'Eue [110] or some similar Norman spelling; for most of the other parishes of the district are mentioned by the names which they still bear. That is not all; for from Cwm Du a tributary of the Usk called the Rhiangoll comes down and receives at Tretower the waters of a smaller stream called the Yw. The land on both sides of that Yw burn forms the ystrad or strath of which we are in quest. The chief source of this water is called Llygad Yw, and gives its name to a house of some pretensions bearing an inscription showing that it was built in its present form about the middle of the seventeenth century by a member of the Gunter family well known in the history of the county. Near the house stands a yew tree on the boundary line of the garden, and close to its trunk, but at a lower level, is a spring of bubbling water: this is Llygad Yw, 'the Eye of the Yw.' For Llygad Yw is a succinct expression for the source of the Yw burn [111], and the stream retains the name Yw to its fall into the Rhiangoll; but besides the spring of Llygad Yw it has several other similar sources in the fields near the house. There is nothing, however, in this brook to account for the name of Ystrad Yw having been extended to an important district; but if one traces its short course one will at once guess the explanation. For a few fields below Llygad Yw is the hamlet of the Gaer or fortress, consisting of four farm houses called the Upper, Middle, and Lower Gaer, and Pen y Gaer: through this hamlet of the Gaer flows the Yw. These, and more especially Pen y Gaer, are supposed to have been the site of a Roman camp of considerable importance, and close by it the Yw is supposed to have been crossed by the Roman road proceeding towards Brecon [112]. The camp in the Strath of the Yw was the head quarters of the ruling power in the district, and hence the application of the name of Ystrad Yw to a wider area. But for our story one has to regard the name as confined to the land about the Yw burn, or at most to a somewhat larger portion of the parish of Cwm Du, to which the Yw and Tretower belong. The position of the Gaer in Ystrad Yw at the foot of the Bwlch or the gap in the difficult mountain spur stretching down towards the Usk is more likely to have been selected by the Romans than by any of the Celtic inhabitants, whose works are to be found on several of the neighbouring hills, such as Myarth [113] between the Yw and the Usk. We next find Twrch Trwyth, now the sole survivor, making his way towards the Severn: so Arthur summons Cornwall and Devon to meet him at Aber Hafren or Severn mouth. Then a furious conflict with the Twrch takes place in the very waters of that river, between Llyn Lliwan (p. 407) and Aber Gwy or the mouth of the Wye. After much trouble, Arthur's men succeed in getting possession of two out of the three treasures of the boar, but he escapes with the third, namely, the comb, across the Severn [114]. Then as soon as he gets ashore he makes his way to Cornwall, where the comb is at length snatched from him. Chased thence, he goes straight into the sea, with the hounds Anet and Aethlem after him, and nothing has ever been heard of any of the three from that day to this. That is the story of Twrch Trwyth, and Dr. Stokes calls my attention to a somewhat similar hunt briefly described in the Rennes Dindsenchas in the Revue Celtique, xv. 474-5. Then as to the precious articles carried by the Twrch about his head and ears, the comb, the razor, and the shears, two out of the three--the comb and the razor--belong to the regular stock of a certain group of tales which recount how the hero elopes with the daughter of a giant who loses his life in the pursuit [115]. In order to make sure of escaping from the infuriated giant, the daughter abstracts from her father's keeping a comb, a razor, and another article. When she and her lover fleeing on their horse are hard pressed, the latter throws behind him the comb, which at once becomes a rough impenetrable forest to detain the giant for a while. When he is again on the point of overtaking them, the lover throws behind him the razor, which becomes a steep and sharp mountain ridge through which the pursuing giant has to waste time tunnelling his way. The third article is usually such as, when thrown in the giant's way, becomes a lake in which he is drowned while attempting to swim across. In the Kulhwch story, however, as we have it, the allusion to these objects is torn away from what might be expected as its context. The giant is Yspadaden Penkawr, whose death is effected in another way; but before the giant is finally disposed of he requires to be shaved and to have his hair dressed. His hair, moreover, is so rough that the dressing cannot be done without the comb and shears in the possession of Twrch Trwyth, whence the hunt; and for the shaving one would have expected the Twrch's razor to have been requisite; but not so, as the shaving had to be done by means of another article, namely, the tusk of Yskithyrwynn Pennbeid, 'White-tusk chief of Boars,' for the obtaining of which one is treated briefly to another boar hunt. The Kulhwch story is in this respect very mixed and disjointed, owing, it would seem, to the determination of the narrator to multiply the number of things difficult to procure, each involving a separate feat to be described. Let us now consider the hunt somewhat more in detail, with special reference to the names mentioned; and let us begin with that of Twrch Trwyth: the word twrch means the male of a beast of the swine kind, and twrch coed, 'a wood pig,' is a wild boar, while twrch daear, 'an earth pig,' is the word in North Wales for a mole. In the next place we can practically equate Twrch Trwyth with a name at the head of one of the articles in Cormac's Irish Glossary. There the exact form is Orc tréith, and the following is the first part of the article itself as given in O'Donovan's translation edited by Stokes:--'Orc Tréith, i. e. nomen for a king's son, triath enim rex vocatur, unde dixit poeta Oínach n-uirc tréith "fair of a king's son," i. e. food and precious raiment, down and quilts, ale and flesh-meat, chessmen and chessboards, horses and chariots, greyhounds and playthings besides.' In this extract the word orc occurs in the genitive as uirc, and it means a 'pig' or 'boar'; in fact it is, with the usual Celtic loss of the consonant p, the exact Goidelic equivalent of the Latin porcus, genitive porci. From another article in Cormac's Glossary, we learn that Tréith is the genitive of Triath, which has been explained to mean a king. Thus, Orc Tréith means Triath's Orc, Triath's Boar, or the King's Boar; so we take Twrch Trwyth in the same way to mean 'Trwyth's Boar.' But we have here a discrepancy, which the reader will have noticed, for twrch is not the same word as Irish orc, the nearest form to be expected in Welsh being Wrch, not Twrch; but such a word as Wrch does not, so far as I know, exist. Now did the Welsh render orc by a different word unrelated to the Goidelic one which they heard? I think not; for it is remarkable that Irish has besides orc a word torc, meaning a 'boar,' and torc is exactly the Welsh twrch. So there seems to be no objection to our supposing that what Cormac calls Orc Tréith was known in the Goidelic of Wales as Torc Tréith, which had the alliteration to recommend it to popular favour. In that case one could say that the Goidelic name Torc Tréith appears in Welsh with a minimum of change as Twrch Trwyth, and also with the stamp of popular favour more especially in the retention of the Goidelic th, just as in the name of an ancient camp or fortification on the Withy Bush Estate in Pembrokeshire: it is called the Rath, or the Rath Ring. Here rath is identical with the Irish word ráth, 'a fortification or earthworks,' and we seem to have it also in Cil Râth Fawr, the name of a farm in the neighbourhood of Narberth. Now the Goidelic word tréith appears to have come into Welsh as treth-i, the long vowel of which must in Welsh have become oi or ui by about the end of the sixth century; and if the th had been treated on etymological principles its proper equivalent in the Welsh of that time would have been d or t. The retention of the th is a proof, therefore, of oral transmission; that is to say, the Goidelic word passed bodily into Brythonic, to submit afterwards to the phonological rules of that language. A little scrutiny of the tale will, I think, convince the reader that one of the objects of the original story-teller was to account for certain place-names. Thus Grugyn was meant to account for the name of Garth Grugyn, where Grugyn was killed; Gwys, to account similarly for that of Gwys, a tributary of the Twrch, which gives its name to a station on the line of railway between Ystalyfera and Bryn Amman; and Twrch Llawin to account for the name of the river Twrch, which receives the Gwys, and falls into the Tawe some distance below Ystrad Gynlais, between the counties of Brecknock and Glamorgan. Besides Grugyn and Twrch Llawin, there was a third brother to whom the story gives a special name, to wit, Llwydawc Gouynnyat, and this was, I take it, meant also to account for a place-name, which, however, is not given: it should have been somewhere in Ystrad Yw, in the county of Brecknock. Still greater interest attaches to the swine that have not been favoured with names of their own, those referred to simply as banw, 'a young boar,' and benwic, 'a young sow.' Now banw has its equivalent in Irish in the word banbh, which O'Reilly explains as meaning a 'sucking pig,' and that is the meaning also of the Manx bannoo; but formerly the word may have had a somewhat wider meaning. The Welsh appellative is introduced twice into the story of Twrch Trwyth; once to account, as I take it, for the name Mynyd Amanw, 'Amman Mountain,' and once for Dyffryn Amanw, 'Amman Valley.' In both instances Amanw was meant, as I think, to be accounted for by the banw killed at each of the places in question. But how, you will ask, does the word banw account for Amanw, or throw any light on it at all? Very simply, if you will just suppose the name to have been Goidelic; for then you have only to provide it with the definite article and it makes in banbh, 'the pig or the boar,' and that could not in Welsh yield anything but ymmanw or ammanw [116], which with the accent shifted backwards, became Ammanw and Amman or Aman. Having premised these explanations let us, before we proceed further, see to what our evidence exactly amounts. Here, then, we have a mention of seven swine, but as two of them, a banw and a benwic, are killed at one and the same place, our figure is practically reduced to six [117]. The question then is, in how many of these six cases the story of the hunt accounts for the names of the places of the deaths respectively, that is to say, accounts for them in the ordinary way with which one is familiar in other Welsh stories. They may be enumerated as follows:-- 1. A banw is killed at Mynyd Amanw. 2. A twrch is killed in the same neighbourhood, where there is a river Twrch. 3. A swine called Gwys is killed in the same neighbourhood still, where there is a river called Gwys, falling into the Twrch. 4. A banw and a benwic are killed in Dyffryn Amanw. 5. Grugyn is killed at a place called Garth Grugyn. 6. A swine called Llwydawc is killed at a spot, not named, in Ystrad Yw or not far off [118]. Thus in five cases out of the six, the story accounts for the place-name, and the question now is, can that be a mere accident? Just think what the probabilities of the case would be if you put them into numbers: South Wales, from St. David's to the Vale of the Usk, would supply hundreds of place-names as deserving of mention, to say the least, as those in this story; is it likely then that out of a given six among them no less than five should be accounted for or alluded to by any mere accident in the course of a story of the brevity of that of Twrch Trwyth. To my thinking such an accident is inconceivable, and I am forced, therefore, to suppose that the narrative was originally so designed as to account for them. I said 'originally so designed,' for the scribe of the Red Book, or let us say the last redactor of the story as it stands in the Red Book, shows no signs of having noticed any such design. Had he detected the play on the names of the places introduced, he would probably have been more inclined to develop that feature of the story than to efface it. What I mean may best be illustrated by another swine story, namely, that which has already been referred to as occurring in the Mabinogi of Math. There we find Pryderi, king of Dyfed, holding his court at Rhudlan on the Teifi, but though he had become the proud possessor of a new race of animals, given him as a present by his friend Arawn, king of Annwn, he had made a solemn promise to his people, that he should give none of them away until they had doubled their number in Dyfed: these animals were the hobeu or pigs to which reference was made at p. 69 above. Now Gwydion, having heard of them, visited Pryderi's court, and by magic and enchantment deceived the king. Successful in his quest, he sets out for Gwyned with his hobeu, and this is how his journey is described in the Mabinogi: 'And that evening they journeyed as far as the upper end of Keredigion, to a place which is still called, for that reason, Mochdref, "Swine-town or Pigs' stead." On the morrow they went their way, and came across the Elenyd mountains, and that night they spent between Kerry and Arwystli, in the stead which is also called for that reason Mochdref. Thence they proceeded, and came the same evening as far as a commot in Powys, which is for that reason called Mochnant [119], "Swine-burn." Thence they journeyed to the cantred of Rhôs, and spent that night within the town which is still called Mochdref [120].' 'Ah, my men,' said Gwydion, 'let us make for the fastness of Gwyned with these beasts: the country is being raised in pursuit of us.' So this is what they did: they made for the highest town of Arllechwed, and there built a creu or sty for the pigs, and for that reason the town was called Creu-Wyrion, that is, perhaps, 'Wyrion's Sty.' In this, it is needless to state, we have the Corwrion of chap. i: see pp. 47, 50-70 above--the name is variously pronounced also Cyrwrion and C'rwrion. That is how a portion of the Math story is made to account for a series of place-names, and had the editor of the Kulhwch understood the play on the names of places in question in the story of Twrch Trwyth, it might be expected that he would have given it prominence, as already suggested. Then comes the question, how it came to pass that he did not understand it? The first thing to suggest itself as an answer is, that he may have been a stranger to the geography of the country concerned. That, however, is a very inadequate explanation; for his being a stranger, though it might account for his making blunders as to the localities, would not be likely to deter him from venturing into geography which he had not mastered. What was it, then, that hid from him a portion of the original in this instance? In part, at least, it must have been a difficulty of language. Let us take an illustration: Gwys has already been mentioned more than once as a name applied to one of Twrch Trwyth's offspring, and the words used are very brief, to the following effect:--'And then another of his swine was killed: Gwys was its name.' As a matter of fact, the scribe was labouring under a mistake, for he ought to have said rather, 'And then another of his swine was killed: it was a sow'; since gwys was a word meaning a sow, and not the name of any individual hog. The word has, doubtless, long been obsolete in Welsh; but it was known to the poet of the 'Little Pig's Lullaby' in the Black Book of Carmarthen, where one of the stanzas begins, fo. 29a, with the line: Oian aparchellan. aparchell. guin guis. The late Dr. Pughe translated it thus: Listen, little porkling! thou forward little white pig. I fear I should be obliged to render it less elegantly: Lullaby, little porker, white sow porker. For the last four words Stokes suggests 'O pigling of a white sow'; but perhaps the most natural rendering of the words would be 'O white porker of a sow!'--which does not recommend itself greatly on the score of sense, I must admit. The word occurs, also, in Breton as gwiz or gwéz, 'truie, femelle du porc,' and as gwys or guis in Old Cornish, while in Irish it was feis. Nevertheless, the editor of the Twrch Trwyth story did not know it; but it would be in no way surprising that a Welshman, who knew his language fairly well, should be baffled by such a word in case it was not in use in his own district in his own time. This, however, barely touches the fringe of the question. The range of the hunt, as already given, was mostly within the boundaries, so to say, of the portion of South Wales where we find Goidelic inscriptions in the Ogam character of the fifth or sixth century; and I am persuaded that the Goidelic language must have lived down to the sixth or seventh century in the south and in the north of Wales [121], a tract of Mid-Wales being then, probably, the only district which can be assumed to have been completely Brythonic in point of speech. In this very story, probably, such a name as Garth Grugyn is but slightly modified from a Goidelic Gort Grucaind, 'the enclosure of Grucand [122] or Grugan': compare Cúchulaind or Cúchulainn made in Welsh into Cocholyn. But the capital instance in the story of Twrch Trwyth as has already been indicated is that of Amanw, which I detect also as Ammann (probably to be read Ammanu), in the Book of Llan Dâv (or Liber Landavensis), p. 199: it is there borne by a lay witness to a grant of land called Tir Dimuner, which would appear to have been in what is now Monmouthshire. Interpreted as standing for in Banbh, 'the Boar,' it would make a man's name of the same class as Ibleid, found elsewhere in the same manuscript (pp. 178, 184), meaning evidently i Bleid, now y Blaid, 'the Wolf.' But observe that the latter was Welsh and the former Goidelic, which makes all the difference for our story. The Goidel relating the story would say that a boar, banbh, was killed on the mountain or hill of in Banbh or of 'the Boar'; and his Goidelic hearer could not fail to associate the place-name with the appellative. But a Brython could hardly understand what the words in Banbh meant, and certainly not after he had transformed them into Ammanw, with the nb assimilated into mm, and the accent shifted to the first syllable. It is needless to say that my remarks have no meaning unless Goidelic was the original language of the tale. In the summary I have given of the hunt, I omitted a number of proper names of the men who fell at the different spots where the Twrch is represented brought to bay. I wish now to return to them with the question, why were their names inserted in the story at all? It may be suspected that they also, or at any rate some of them, were intended to explain place-names; but I must confess to having had little success in identifying traces of them in the ordnance maps. Others, however, may fare better, who have a better acquaintance with the districts in point, and in that hope I append them in their order in the story:-- 1. Arthur sends to the hunt on the banks of the Nevern, in Pembrokeshire, his men, Eli and Trachmyr, Gwarthegyd son of Caw, and Bedwyr; also Tri meib Cledyv Divwlch, 'three Sons of the Gapless Sword.' The dogs are also mentioned: Drudwyn, Greid son of Eri's whelp, led by Arthur himself; Glythmyr Ledewig's two dogs, led by Gwarthegyd son of Caw; and Arthur's dog Cavall, led by Bedwyr. 2. Twrch Trwyth makes for Cwm Kerwyn in the Preselly Mountains, and turns to bay, killing the following men, who are called Arthur's four rhyswyr [123] or champions--Gwarthegyd son of Caw, Tarawg of Allt Clwyd, Rheidwn son of Eli Atver, and Iscovan Hael. 3. He turns to bay a second time in Cwm Kerwyn, and kills Gwydre son of Arthur, Garselid Wydel, Glew son of Yscawt, and Iscawyn son of Bannon or Panon. 4. Next day he is overtaken in the same neighbourhood, and he kills Glewlwyd Gavaelvawr's three men, Huandaw, Gogigwr, and Penn Pingon, many of the men of the country also, and Gwlydyn Saer, one of Arthur's chief architects. 5. Arthur overtakes the Twrch next in Peuliniauc (p. 512 above); and the Twrch there kills Madawc son of Teithion, Gwyn son of Tringad son of Neued, and Eiriawn Penlloran. 6. Twrch Trwyth next turns to bay at Aber Towy, 'Towy Mouth,' and kills Cynlas son of Cynan, and Gwilenhin, king of France. 7. The next occasion of his killing any men whose names are given, is when he reaches Llwch Ewin (p. 515), near which he killed Echel Vordwyd-twll, Arwyli eil Gwydawg Gwyr, and many men and dogs besides. 8. Grugyn, one of the Twrch's offspring, goes to Garth Grugyn in Keredigion with Eli and Trachmyr pursuing him; but what happened to them we are not told in consequence of the omission mentioned above (p. 515) as occurring in the manuscript. 9. Llwydawc at bay in an uncertain locality kills Rudvyw Rys [124] and many others. 10. Llwydawc goes to Ystrad Yw, where he is met by the Men of Llydaw, and he kills Hirpeissawc, king of Llydaw, also Llygatrud Emys and Gwrbothu Hên, maternal uncles to Arthur. By way of notes on these items, I would begin with the last by asking, what is one to make of these Men of Llydaw? First of all, one notices that their names are singular: thus Hirpeissawc, 'Long-coated or Long-robed,' is a curious name for their king, as it sounds more like an epithet than a name itself. Then Llygatrud (also Llysgatrud, which I cannot understand, except as a scribal error) Emys is also unusual: one would have rather expected Emys Lygatrud, 'Emys the Red-eyed.' As it stands it looks as if it meant the 'Red-eyed One of Emys.' Moreover Emys reminds one of the name of Emyr Llydaw, the ancestor in Welsh hagiology of a number of Welsh saints. It looks as if the redactor of the Red Book had mistaken an r for an s in copying from a pre-Norman original. That he had to work on such a manuscript is proved by the remaining instance, Gwrbothu Hên, 'G. the Ancient,' in which we have undoubtedly a pre-Norman spelling of Gwrfodw: the same redactor having failed to recognize the name, left it without being converted into the spelling of his own school. In the Book of Llan Dâv it will be found variously written Gurbodu, Guoruodu, and Guruodu. Then the epithet hên, 'old or ancient,' reminds one of such instances as Math Hên and Gofynion Hên, to be noticed a little later in this chapter. Let us now direct the reader's attention for a moment to the word Llydaw, in order to see whether that may not suggest something. The etymology of it is contested, so one has to infer its meaning, as well as one can, from the way in which it is found used. Now it is the ordinary Welsh word for Brittany or Little Britain, and in Irish it becomes Letha, which is found applied not only to Armorica but also to Latium. Conversely one could not be surprised if a Goidel, writing Latin, rendered his own Letha or the Welsh Llydaw by Latium, even when no part of Italy was meant. Now it so happens that Llydaw occurs in Wales itself, to wit in the name of Llyn Llydaw, a Snowdonian lake already mentioned, p. 475. It is thus described by Pennant, ii. 339:--'We found, on arriving at the top, an hollow a mile in length, filled with Llyn Llydaw, a fine lake, winding beneath the rocks, and vastly indented by rocky projections, here and there jutting into it. In it was one little island, the haunt of black-backed gulls, which breed here, and, alarmed by such unexpected visitants, broke the silence of this sequestered place by their deep screams.' But since Pennant's time mining operations [125] have been carried on close to the margin of this lake; and in the course of them the level of the water is said to have been lowered to the extent of sixteen feet, when, in the year 1856, an ancient canoe was discovered there. According to the late Mr. E. L. Barnwell, who has described it in the Archæologia Cambrensis for 1874, pp. 150-1, it was in the possession of Dr. Griffith Griffith of Tal y Treudyn, near Harlech, who exhibited it at the Cambrian Archæological Association's meeting at Machynlleth in 1866 [126]. 'It measures,' Mr. Barnwell says, 'nine feet nine inches--a not uncommon length in the Scotch early canoes,--and has been hollowed out of one piece of wood, as is universally the case with these early boats.' He goes on to surmise that 'this canoe may have been used to reach the island, for the sake of birds or eggs; or what is not impossible, the island may have been the residence of some one who had reasons for preferring so isolated an abode. It may, in fact, have been a kind of small natural crannog, and, in one sense, a veritable lake-dwelling, access to and from which was easy by means of such a canoe.' Stokes conjectures Llydaw to have meant coast-land, and Thurneysen connects it with the Sanskrit prthivi and Old Saxon folda [127], 'earth': and, so far as I can see, one is at liberty to assume a meaning that would satisfy Llydaw, 'Armorica,' and the Llydaw of Llyn Llydaw, 'the Lake of Llydaw,' namely that it signified land which one had to reach by boat, so that it was in fact applicable to a lake settlement of any kind, in other words, that Llydaw on Snowdon was the name of the lake-dwelling. So I cannot help suggesting, with great deference, that the place whence came the Men of Llydaw in the story of the hunting of Twrch Trwyth was the settlement in Syfadon lake (p. 73), and that the name of that stronghold, whether it was a crannog or a stockaded islet, was also Llydaw. For the power of that settlement over the surrounding country to have extended a few miles around would be but natural to suppose--the distance between the Yw and Llyn Syfadon is, I am told, under three miles. Should this guess prove well founded, we should have to scan with renewed care the allusions in our stories to Llydaw, and not assume that they always refer us to Brittany. That the name Llydaw did on occasion refer to the region of Llyn Syfadon admits of indirect proof as follows:--The church of Llangorse on its banks is dedicated to a Saint Paulinus, after whom also is called Capel Peulin, in the upper course of the Towy, adjacent to the Cardiganshire parish of Llandewi Brefi. Moreover, tradition makes Paulinus attend a synod in 519 at Llandewi Brefi, where St. David distinguished himself by his preaching against Pelagianism. Paulinus was then an old man, and St. David had been one of his pupils at the Ty Gwyn, 'Whitland,' on the Taf, where Paulinus had established a religious house [128]; and some five miles up a tributary brook of the Taf is the church of Llandysilio, where an ancient inscription mentions a Paulinus. These two places, Whitland and Llandysilio, were probably in the cymwd of Peuliniog, which is called after a Paulinus, and through which we have just followed the hunt of Twrch Trwyth (p. 512). Now the inscription to which I have referred reads [129], with ligatures:-- CLVTORIGI FILI PAVLINI MARINILATIO This probably means '(the Monument) of Clutorix, son of Paulinus from Latium in the Marsh'; unless one ought rather to treat Marini as an epithet to Paulini. In either case Latio has probably to be construed 'of or from Latium': compare a Roman inscription found at Bath (Hübner's No. 48), which begins with C. Murrius. | C. F. Arniensis | Foro. Iuli. Modestus [130], and makes in English, according to Mr. Haverfield, 'Gaius Murrius Modestus, son of Gaius, of the tribe Arniensis, of the town Forum Iulii.' The easiest way to explain the last line as a whole is probably to treat it as a compound with the qualifying word deriving its meaning, not from mare, 'the sea,' but from the Late Latin mara, 'a marsh or bog.' Thus Marini-Latium would mean 'Marshy Latium,' to distinguish it from Latium in Italy, and from Letha or Llydaw in the sense of Brittany, which was analogously termed in Medieval Irish Armuirc Letha [131], that is the Armorica of Letha. This is borne out by the name of the church of Paulinus, which is in Welsh Llan y Gors, anglicized Llangorse, 'the Church of the Marsh or Bog,' and that is exactly the meaning of the name given it in the Taxatio of Pope Nicholas, which is that of Ecclesia de Mara. In other terms, we have in the qualified Latium of the inscription the Latium or Letha which came to be called in Welsh Llydaw. It is, in my opinion, from that settlement as their head quarters, that the Men of Llydaw sallied forth to take part in the hunt in Ystrad Yw, where the boar Llwydog was killed. The idea that the story of Twrch Trwyth was more or less topographical is not a new one. Lady Charlotte Guest, in her Mabinogion, ii. 363-5, traces the hunt through several places called after Arthur, such as Buarth Arthur, 'Arthur's Cattle-pen,' and Bwrd Arthur, 'Arthur's Table,' besides others more miscellaneously named, such as Twyn y Moch, 'the Swine's Hill,' near the source of the Amman, and Llwyn y Moch, 'the Swine's Grove,' near the foot of the same eminence. But one of the most remarkable statements in her note is the following:--'Another singular coincidence may be traced between the name of a brook in this neighbourhood, called Echel, and the Echel Fordwyttwll who is recorded in the tale as having been slain at this period of the chase.' I have been unable to discover any clue to a brook called Echel, but one called Egel occurs in the right place; so I take it that Lady Charlotte Guest's informants tacitly identified the name with that of Echel. Substantially they were probably correct, as the Egel, called Ecel in the dialect of the district, flows into the upper Clydach, which in its turn falls into the Tawe near Pont ar Dawe. As the next pool mentioned is Llwch Tawe, I presume it was some water or other which drained into the Tawe in this same neighbourhood. The relative positions of Llwch Ewin, the Egel, and Llwch Tawe as indicated above offer no apparent difficulty. The Goidelic name underlying that of Echel was probably some such a one as Eccel or Ecell; and Ecell occurs, for instance, in the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 80b, as the name of a noble or prince. In rendering this name into Welsh as Echel, due regard was had for the etymological equivalence of Goidelic cc or c to Welsh ch, but the unbroken oral tradition of a people changing its language by degrees from Goidelic to Welsh was subject to no such influence, especially in the matter of local names; so the one here in question passed into Welsh as Eccel, liable only to be modified into Egel. In any case, one may assume that the death of the hero Echel was introduced to account for the name of the brook Egel. Indications of something similar in the linguistic sense occur in the part of the narrative relating the death of Grugyn, at Garth Grugyn. This boar is pursued by two huntsmen called Eli and Trachmyr, the name of the former of whom reminds one of Garth Eli, in the parish of Llandewi Brefi. Possibly the original story located at Garth Eli the death of Eli, or some other incident in which Grugyn was concerned; but the difficulty here is that the exact position of Garth Grugyn is still uncertain. Lastly, our information as to the hunting of Twrch Trwyth is not exclusively derived from the Kulhwch, for besides an extremely obscure poem about the Twrch in the Book of Aneurin, a manuscript of the thirteenth century, we have one item given in the Mirabilia associated with the Historia Brittonum of Nennius, § 73, and this carries us back to the eighth century. It reads as follows:-- Est aliud mirabile in regione quæ dicitur Buelt. Est ibi cumulus lapidum, et unus lapis superpositus super congestum, cum vestigio canis in eo. Quando venatus est porcum Troit, impressit Cabal, qui erat canis Arthuri militis, vestigium in lapide, et Arthur postea congregavit congestum lapidum sub lapide in quo erat vestigium canis sui, et vocatur Carn Cabal. Et veniunt homines et tollunt lapidem in manibus suis per spacium diei et noctis, et in crastino die invenitur super congestum suum. 'Another wonder there is in the district called Buallt: there is there a heap of stones, and one stone is placed on the top of the pile with the footmark of a dog in it. Cafall, the dog of the warrior Arthur, when chasing the pig Trwyd printed the mark of his foot on it, and Arthur afterwards collected a heap of stones underneath the stone in which was the footmark of his dog, and it is called Cafall's Cairn. And men come and take the stone away in their hands for the space of a day and a night, and on the following day the stone is found on the top of its heap [132].' Lady Charlotte Guest, in a note to the Kulhwch story in her Mabinogion, ii. 360, appears to have been astonished to find that Carn Cavall, as she writes it, was no fabulous mound but an actual 'mountain in the district of Builth, to the south of Rhayader Gwy, and within sight of that town.' She went so far as to persuade one of her friends to visit the summit, and he begins his account of it to her with the words: 'Carn Cavall, or as it is generally pronounced Corn Cavall, is a lofty and rugged mountain.' On one of the cairns on the mountain he discovered what may have been the very stone to which the Mirabilia story refers; but the sketch with which he accompanied his communication cannot be said to be convincing, and he must have been drawing on his imagination when he spoke of this somewhat high hill as a lofty mountain. Moreover his account of its name only goes just far enough to be misleading: the name as pronounced in the neighbourhood of Rhayader is Corn Gafallt by Welsh-speaking people, and Corn Gavalt by monoglot Englishmen. So it is probable that at one time the pronunciation was Carn Gavall [133]. But to return to the incident recorded by Nennius, one has to remark that it does not occur in the Kulhwch; nor, seeing the position of the hill, can it have been visited by Arthur or his dog in the course of the Twrch Trwyth hunt as described by the redactor of the story in its present form. This suggests the reflection not only that the Twrch story is very old, but that it was put together by selecting certain incidents out of an indefinite number, which, taken all together, would probably have formed a network covering the whole of South Wales as far north as the boundary of the portion of Mid-Wales occupied by the Brythons before the Roman occupation. In other words, the Goidels of this country had stories current among them to explain the names of the places with which they were familiar; and it is known that was the case with the Goidels of Ireland. Witness the place-name legends known in Medieval Irish as Dindsenchas, with which the old literature of Ireland abounds. On what principle the narrator of the Kulhwch made his selection from the repertoire I cannot say; but one cannot help seeing that he takes little interest in the details, and that he shows still less insight into the etymological motif of the incidents which he mentions. However, this should be laid mainly to the charge, perhaps, of the early medieval redactor. Among the reasons which have been suggested for the latter overlooking and effacing the play on the place-names, I have hinted that he did not always understand them, as they sometimes involved a language which may not have been his. This raises the question of translation: if the story was originally in Goidelic, what was the process by which it passed into Brythonic? Two answers suggest themselves, and the first comes to this: if the story was in writing, we may suppose a literary man to have sat down to translate it word for word from Goidelic to Brythonic, or else to adapt it in a looser fashion. In either case, one should suppose him a master of both languages, and capable of doing justice to the play on the place-names. But it is readily conceivable that the fact of his understanding both languages might lead him to miscalculate what was exactly necessary to enable a monoglot Brython to grasp his meaning clearly. Moreover, if the translator had ideas of his own as to style, he might object on principle to anything like an explanation of words being interpolated in the narrative. In short, one could see several loopholes through which a little confusion might force itself in, and prevent the monoglot reader or hearer of the translation from correctly grasping the story at all points as it was in the original. The other view, and the more natural one, as I think, is that we should postulate the interference of no special translator, but suppose the story, or rather a congeries of stories, to have been current among the natives of a certain part of South Wales, say the Loughor Valley, at a time when their language was still Goidelic, and that, as they gradually gave up Goidelic and adopted Brythonic, they retained their stories and translated the narrative, while they did not always translate the place-names occurring in that narrative. Thus, for instance, would arise the discrepancy between banw and Amanw, the latter of which to be Welsh should have been rendered y Banw, 'the Boar.' If this is approximately what took place, it is easy to conceive the possibility of many points of nicety being completely effaced in the course of such a rough process of transformation. In one or two small matters it happens that we can contrast the community as translator with the literary individual at work: I allude to the word Trwyth. That vocable was not translated, not metaphoned, if I may so term it, at all at the time: it passed, when it was still Treth-i, from Goidelic into Brythonic, and continued in use without a break; for the changes whereby Treth-i has become Trwyth have been such as other words have undergone in the course of ages, as already stated. On the other hand, the literary man who knew something of the two languages seems to have reasoned, that where a Goidelic th occurred between vowels, the correct etymological equivalent in Brythonic was t, subject to be mutated to d. So when he took the name over he metaphoned Treth-i into Tret-i, whence we have the Porcus Troit of Nennius, and Twrch Trwyd [134] in Welsh poetry: these Troit and Trwyd were the literary forms as contrasted with the popular Trwyth. Now, if my surmises as to Echel and Egel are near the truth, their history must be similar; that is to say, Echel would be the literary form and Ecel, Egel the popular one respectively of the Goidelic Ecell. A third parallel offers itself in the case of the personal name Arwyli, borne by one of Echel's companions: the Arwyl of that name has its etymological equivalent in the Arwystl- of Arwystli, the name of a district comprising the eastern slopes of Plinlimmon, and represented now by the Deanery of Arwystli. So Arwystli challenges comparison with the Irish Airgialla or Airgéill, anglicized Oriel, which denotes, roughly speaking, the modern counties of Armagh, Louth, and Monaghan. For here we have the same prefix ar placed in front of one and the same vocable, which in Welsh is gwystl, 'a hostage,' and in Irish giall, of the same meaning and origin. The reader will at once think of the same word in German as geisel, 'a hostage,' Old High German gisal. But the divergence of sound between Arwystl-i and Arwyl-i arises out of the difference of treatment of sl in Welsh and Irish. In the Brythonic district of Mid-Wales we have Arwystli with sl treated in the Brythonic way, while in Arwyli we have the combination treated in the Goidelic way, the result being left standing when the speakers of Goidelic in South Wales learnt Brythonic [135]. Careful observation may be expected to add to the number of these instructive instances. It is, however, not to be supposed that all double forms of the names in these stories are to be explained in exactly the same way. Thus, for instance, corresponding to Lug, genitive Loga, we have the two forms Lleu and Llew, of which the former alone matches the Irish. But it is to be observed that Lleu remains in some verses [136] in the story of Math, whereas in the prose he appears to be called Llew. It is not improbable that the editing which introduced Llew dates comparatively late, and that it was done by a man who was not familiar with the Venedotian place-names of which Lleu formed part, namely, Dinlleu and Nantlleu, now Dinlle and Nantlle. Similarly the two brothers, Gofannon and Amaethon, as they are called in the Mabinogi of Math and in the Kulhwch story, are found also called Gofynyon and Amathaon. The former agrees with the Irish form Goibniu, genitive Goibnenn, whereas Gofannon does not. As to Amaethon or Amathaon the Irish counterpart has, unfortunately, not been identified. Gofannon and Amaethon have the appearance of being etymologically transparent in Welsh, and they have probably been remodelled by the hand of a literary redactor. There were also two forms of the name of Manawydan in Welsh; for by the side of that there was another, namely, Manawydan, liable to be shortened to Manawyd: both occur in old Welsh poetry [137]. But manawyd or mynawyd is the Welsh word for an awl, which is significant here, as the Mabinogi called after Manawydan makes him become a shoemaker on two occasions, whence the Triads style him one of the Three golden Shoemakers of the Isle of Prydain: see the Oxford Mabinogion, p. 308. What has happened in the way of linguistic change in one of our stories, the Kulhwch, may have happened in others, say in the four branches of the Mabinogi, namely, Pwyll, prince of Dyved; Branwen, daughter of Llyr; Math, son of Mathonwy; and Manawydan, son of Llyr. Some time ago I endeavoured to show that the principal characters in the Mabinogi of Math, namely, the sons and daughters of Dôn, are to be identified as a group with the Tuatha Dé Danann, 'Tribes of the Goddess Danu or Donu,' of Irish legend. I called attention to the identity of our Welsh Dôn with the Irish Donu, genitive Donann, Gofynion or Gofannon with Goibniu, genitive Goibnenn, and of Lleu or Llew with Lug. Since then Professor Zimmer has gone further, and suggested that the Mabinogion are of Irish origin; but that I cannot quite admit. They are of Goidelic origin, but they do not come from the Irish or the Goidels of Ireland: they come rather, as I think, from this country's Goidels, who never migrated to the sister island, but remained here eventually to adopt Brythonic speech. There is no objection, however, so far as this argument is concerned, to their being regarded as this country's Goidels descended either from native Goidels or from early Goidelic invaders from Ireland, or else partly from the one origin and partly from the other. This last is perhaps the safest view to accept as a working hypothesis. Now Professor Zimmer fixes on that of Mathonwy, among other names, as probably the Welsh adaptation of some such an Irish name as the genitive Mathgamnai [138], now anglicized Mahony. This I am also prepared to accept in the sense that the Welsh form is a loan from a Goidelic one current some time or other in this country, and represented in Irish by Mathgamnai. The preservation of Goidelic th in Mathonwy stamps it as ranking with Trwyth, Egel, and Arwyli, as contrasted with a form etymologically more correct, of which we seem to have an echo in the Breton names Madganoe and Madgone [139]. Another name which I am inclined to regard as brought in from Goidelic is that of Gilvaethwy, son of Dôn: it would seem to involve some such a word as the Irish gilla, 'a youth, an attendant or servant,' and some form of the Goidelic name Maughteus or Mochta, so that the name Gilla-mochtai meant the attendant of Mochta. This last vocable appears in Irish as the name of several saints, but previously it was probably that of some pagan god of the Goidels, and its meaning was most likely the same as that of the Irish participial mochta, which Stokes explains as 'magnified, glorified': see his Calendar of Oengus, p. ccxiv, and compare the name Mael-mochta. Adamnan, in his Vita S. Columbæ, writes the name Maucteus in the following passage, pref. ii. p. 6:-- Nam quidam proselytus Brito, homo sanctus, sancti Patricii episcopi discipulus, Maucteus nomine, ita de nostro prophetizavit Patrono, sicuti nobis ab antiquis traditum expertis compertum habetur. This saint, who is said to have prophesied of St. Columba and died in the year 534, is described in his Life (Aug. 19) as ortus ex Britannia [140], which, coupled with Adamnan's Brito, probably refers him to Wales; but it is remarkable that nevertheless he bore the very un-Brythonic name of Mochta or Mauchta [141]. To return to the Mabinogion: I have long been inclined to identify Llwyd, son of Kilcoed, with the Irish Liath, son of Celtchar, of Cualu in the present county of Wicklow. Liath, whose name means 'grey,' is described as the comeliest youth of noble rank among the fairies of Erin; and the only time the Welsh Llwyd, whose name also means 'grey,' appears in the Mabinogion he is ascribed, not the comeliest figure, it is true, or the greatest personal beauty, but the most imposing disguise of a bishop attended by his suite: he was a great magician. The name of his father, Kil-coet, seems to me merely an inexact popular rendering of Celtchar, the name of Liath's father: at any rate one fails here to detect the touch of the skilled translator or literary redactor. [142] But the Mabinogi of Manawydan, in which Llwyd figures, is also the one in which Pryderi king of Dyfed's wife is called Kicua or Cigfa, a name which has no claim to be regarded as Brythonic. It occurs early, however, in the legendary history of Ireland: the Four Masters, under the year A.M. 2520, mention a Ciocbha as wife of a son of Parthalon; and the name seems to be related to that of a man called Cioccal, A.M. 2530. Lastly, Manawydan, from whom the Mabinogi takes its name, is called mab Llyr, 'son of Llyr,' in Welsh, and Manannán mac Lir in Irish. Similarly with his brother Brân, and his sister Branwen, except that she has not been identified in Irish story. But in Irish literature the genitive Lir, as in mac Lir, 'son of Ler,' is so common, and the nominative so rare, that Lir came to be treated in late Irish as the nominative too; but a genitive of the form Lir suggests a nominative-accusative Ler, and as a matter of fact it occurs, for instance, in the couplet:-- Fer co n-ilur gnim dar ler Labraid Luath Lam ar Claideb [143]. A man of many feats beyond sea, Labraid swift of Hand on Sword is he. So it seems probable that the Welsh Llyr [144] is no other word than the Goidelic genitive Lir, retained in use with its pronunciation modified according to the habits of the Welsh language; and in that case [145] it forms comprehensive evidence, that the stories about the Llyr family in Welsh legend were Goidelic before they put on a Brythonic garb. As to the Mabinogion generally, one may say that they are devoted to the fortunes chiefly of three powerful houses or groups, the children of Dôn, the children of Llyr, and Pwyll's family. This last is brought into contact with the Llyr group, which takes practically the position of superiority. Pwyll's family belonged chiefly to Dyfed; but the power and influence of the sons of Llyr had a far wider range: we find them in Anglesey, at Harlech, in Gwales or the Isle of Grasholm off Pembrokeshire, at Aber Henvelen somewhere south of the Severn Sea, and in Ireland. But the expedition to Ireland under Brân, usually called Bendigeituran, 'Brân [146] the Blessed,' proved so disastrous that the Llyr group, as a whole, disappears, making way for the children of Dôn. These last came into collision with Pwyll's son, Pryderi, in whose country Manawydan, son of Llyr, had ended his days. Pryderi, in consequence of Gwydion's deceit (pp. 69, 501, 525), makes war on Math and the children of Dôn: he falls in it, and his army gives hostages to Math. Thus after the disappearance of the sons of Llyr, the children of Dôn are found in power in their stead in North Wales [147], and that state of things corresponds closely enough to the relation between the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Lir family in Irish legend. There Lir and his family are reckoned in the number of the Tuatha Dé Danann, but within that community Lir was so powerful that it was considered but natural that he should resent a rival candidate being elected king in preference to him. So the Tuatha Dé took pains to conciliate Lir, as did also their king, who gave his daughter to Lir to wife, and when she died he gave him another of his daughters [148]; and with the treatment of her stepchildren by that deceased wife's sister begins one of the three Sorrowful Tales of Erin, known to English readers as the Fate of the Children of Lir. But the reader should observe the relative position: the Tuatha Dé remain in power, while the children of Lir belong to the past, which is also the sequence in the Mabinogion. Possibly this is not to be considered as having any significance, but it is to be borne in mind that the Lir-Llyr group is strikingly elemental in its patronymic Lir, Llyr. The nominative, as already stated, was ler, 'sea,' and so Cormac renders mac Lir by filius maris. How far we may venture to consider the sea to have been personified in this context, and how early, it is impossible to say. In any case it is deserving of notice that one group of Goidels to this day do not say mac Lir, 'son of Lir,' filium maris, but always 'son of the lir': I allude to the Gaels of the Isle of Man, in whose language Manannán mac Lir is always Mannanan mac y Lir, or as they spell it, Lear; that is to say 'Mannanan, son of the ler.' Manxmen have been used to consider Manannan their eponymous hero, and first king of their island: they call him more familiarly Mannanan beg mac y Lear, 'Little Mannanan, son of the ler'. This we may, though no Manxman of the present day attaches any meaning to the word lir or lear, interpreted as 'Little Mannanan, son of the Sea.' The wanderings at large of the children of Lir before being eclipsed by the Danann-Dôn group, remind one of the story of the labours of Hercules, where it relates that hero's adventures on his return from robbing Geryon of his cattle. Pomponius Mela, ii. 5 (p. 50), makes Hercules on that journey fight in the neighbourhood of Aries with two sons of Poseidon or Neptune, whom he calls (in the accusative) Albiona and Bergyon. To us, with our more adequate knowledge of geography, the locality and the men cannot appear the most congruous, but there can hardly be any mistake as to the two personal names being echoes of those of Albion and Iverion, Britain and Ireland. The whole cycle of the Mabinogion must have appeared strange to the story-teller and the poet of medieval Wales, and far removed from the world in which they lived. We have possibly a trace of this feeling in the epithet hên, 'old, ancient,' given to Math in a poem in the Red Book of Hergest, where we meet with the line [149]:-- Gan uath hen gan gouannon. With Math the ancient, with Gofannon. Similarly in the confused list of heroes which the story-teller of the Kulhwch (Mabinogion, p. 108) was able to put together, we seem to have Gofannon, Math's relative, referred to under the designation of Gouynyon Hen, 'Gofynion the Ancient.' To these might be added others, such as Gwrbothu Hên, mentioned above, p. 531, and from another source Lleu Hen [150], 'Llew the Ancient.' So strange, probably, and so obscure did some of the contents of the stories themselves seem to the story-tellers, that they may be now and then suspected of having effaced some of the features which it would have interested us to find preserved. This state of things brings back to my mind words of Matthew Arnold's, to which I had the pleasure of listening more years ago than I care to remember. He was lecturing at Oxford on Celtic literature, and observing 'how evidently the mediæval story-teller is pillaging an antiquity of which he does not fully possess the secret; he is like a peasant,' Matthew Arnold went on to say, 'building his hut on the site of Halicarnassus or Ephesus; he builds, but what he builds is full of materials of which he knows not the history, or knows by a glimmering tradition merely--stones "not of this building," but of an older architecture, greater, cunninger, more majestical. In the mediæval stories of no Latin or Teutonic people does this strike one as in those of the Welsh.' This becomes intelligible only on the theory of the stories having been in Goidelic before they put on a Welsh dress. When saying that the Mabinogion and some of the stories contained in the Kulhwch, such as the Hunting of Twrch Trwyth, were Goidelic before they became Brythonic, I wish to be understood to use the word Goidelic in a qualified sense. For till the Brythons came, the Goidels were, I take it, the ruling race in most of the southern half of Britain, with the natives as their subjects, except in so far as that statement has to be limited by the fact, that we do not know how far they and the natives had been amalgamating together. In any case, the hostile advent of another race, the Brythons, would probably tend to hasten the process of amalgamation. That being so, the stories which I have loosely called Goidelic may have been largely aboriginal in point of origin, and by that I mean native, pre-Celtic and non-Aryan. It comes to this, then: we cannot say for certain whose creation Brân, for instance, should be considered to have been--that of Goidels or of non-Aryan natives. He sat, as the Mabinogi of Branwen describes him, on the rock of Harlech, a figure too colossal for any house to contain or any ship to carry. This would seem to challenge comparison with Cernunnos, the squatting god of ancient Gaul, around whom the other gods appear as mere striplings, as proved by the monumental representations in point. In these [151] he sometimes appears antlered like a stag; sometimes he is provided either with three normal heads or with one head furnished with three faces; and sometimes he is reduced to a head provided with no body, which reminds one of Brân, who, when he had been rid of his body in consequence of a poisoned wound inflicted on him in his foot in the slaughter of the Meal-bag Pavilion, was reduced to the Urdawl Ben, 'Venerable or Dignified Head,' mentioned in the Mabinogi of Branwen [152]. The Mabinogi goes on to relate how Brân's companions began to enjoy, subject to certain conditions, his 'Venerable Head's' society, which involved banquets of a fabulous duration and of a nature not readily to be surpassed by those around the Holy Grail. In fact here we have beyond all doubt one of the heathen originals of which the Grail is a Christian version. But the multiplicity of faces or heads of the Gaulish divinity find their analogues in a direction hitherto unnoticed as far as I know, namely, among the Letto-Slavic peoples of the Baltic sea-board. Thus the image of Svatovit in the island of Rügen is said to have had four faces [153]; and the life of Otto of Bamberg relates [154] how that high-handed evangelist proceeded to convert the ancient Prussians to Christianity. Among other things we are told how he found at Stettin an idol called Triglaus, a word referring to the three heads for which the god was remarkable. The saint took possession of the image and hewed away the body, reserving for himself the three heads, which are represented adhering together, forming one piece. This he sent as a trophy to Rome, and in Rome it may be still. Were it perchance to be found, it might be expected to show a close resemblance to the tricephal of the Gaulish altar found at Beaune in Burgundy. Before closing this chapter a word may be permitted as to the Goidelic element in the history of Wales: it will come again before the reader in a later chapter, but what has already been advanced or implied concerning it may here be recapitulated as follows:-- It has been suggested that the hereditary dislike of the Brython for the Goidel argues their having formerly lived in close proximity to one another: see p. 473 above. The tradition that the cave treasures of the Snowdon district belong by right to the Goidels, means that they were formerly supposed to have hidden them away when hard pressed by the Brythons: see pp. 471-2 above. The sundry instances of a pair of names for a single person or place, one Goidelic (Brythonicized) still in use, and the other Brythonic (suggested by the Goidelic one), literary mostly and obsolete, go to prove that the Goidels were not expelled, but allowed to remain to adopt Brythonic speech. Evidence of the indebtedness of story-tellers in Wales to their brethren of the same profession in Ireland is comparatively scarce; and almost in every instance of recent research establishing a connexion between topics or incidents in the Arthurian romances and the native literature of Ireland, the direct contact may be assumed to have been with the folklore and legend of the Goidelic inhabitants of Wales, whether before or after their change of language. Probably the folklore and mythology of the Goidels of Wales and of Ireland were in the mass much the same, though in some instances they reach us in different stages of development: thus in such a case as that of Dôn and Danu (genitive Danann) the Welsh allusions in point refer to Dôn at a conspicuously earlier stage of her rôle than that represented by the Irish literature touching the Tuatha Dé Danann [155]. The common point of view from which our ancestors liked to look at the scenery around them is well illustrated by the fondness of the Goidel, in Wales and Ireland alike, for incidents to explain his place-names. He required the topography--indeed he requires it still, and hence the activity of the local etymologist--to connote story or history: he must have something that will impart the cold light of physical nature, river and lake, moor and mountain, a warmer tint, a dash of the pathetic element, a touch of the human, borrowed from the light and shade of the world of imagination and fancy in which he lives and dreams. CHAPTER X DIFFICULTIES OF THE FOLKLORIST For priests, with prayers and other godly gear, Have made the merry goblins disappear; And, where they played their merry pranks before, Have sprinkled holy water on the floor.--Dryden. The attitude of the Kymry towards folklore and popular superstitions varies according to their training and religious views; and I distinguish two classes of them in this respect. First of all, there are those who appear to regret the ebb of the tide of ancient beliefs. They maintain that people must have been far more interesting when they believed in the fairies; and they rave against Sunday schools and all other schools for having undermined the ancient superstitions of the peasantry: it all comes, they say, of over-educating the working classes. Of course one may occasionally wish servant maids still believed that they might get presents from the fairies for being neat and tidy; and that, in the contrary case of their being sluts, they would be pinched black and blue during their sleep by the little people: there may have been some utility in beliefs of that kind. But, if one takes an impartial view of the surroundings in which this kind of mental condition was possible, no sane man could say that the superstitious beliefs of our ancestors conduced on the whole to their happiness. Fancy a state of mind in which this sort of thing is possible:--A member of the family is absent, let us say, from home in the evening an hour later than usual, and the whole household is thrown into a panic because they imagine that he has strayed on fairy ground, and has been spirited away to the land of fairy twilight, whence he may never return; or at any rate only to visit his home years, or maybe ages, afterwards, and then only to fall into a heap of dust just as he has found out that nobody expects or even knows him. Or take another instance:--A man sets out in the morning on an important journey, but he happens to sneeze, or he sees an ill-omened bird, or some other dreaded creature, crossing his path: he expects nothing that day but misfortune, and the feeling of alarm possibly makes him turn back home, allowing the object of his journey to be sacrificed. That was not a satisfactory state of things or a happy one, and the unhappiness might be wholly produced by causes over which the patient had absolutely no control, so long at any rate as the birds of the air have wings, and so long as sneezing does not belong to the category of voluntary actions. Then I might point to the terrors of magic; but I take it to be unnecessary to dwell on such things, as most people have heard about them or read of them in books. On the whole it is but charitable to suppose that those who regret the passing away of the ages of belief and credulity have not seriously attempted to analyse the notions which they are pleased to cherish. Now, as to the other class of people, namely, those who object to folklore in every shape and form, they may be roughly distinguished into different groups, such as those to whom folklore is an abomination, because they hold that it is opposed to the Bible, and those who regard it as too trivial to demand the attention of any serious person. I have no occasion for many words with the former, since nearly everything that is harmful in popular superstition has ceased in Wales to be a living force influencing one's conduct; or if this be not already the case, it is fast becoming so. Those therefore who condemn superstitions have really no reason to set their faces against the student of folklore: it would be just as if historians were to be boycotted because they have, in writing history--frequently, the more the pity--to deal with dark intrigues, cruel murders, and sanguinary wars. Besides, those who study folklore do not thereby help to strengthen the hold of superstition on the people. I have noticed that any local peculiarity of fashion, the moment it becomes known to attract the attention of strangers, is, one may say, doomed: a Celt, like anybody else, does not like to be photographed in a light which may perchance show him at a disadvantage. It is much the same, I think, with him as the subject of the studies of the folklorist: hence the latter has to proceed with his work very quietly and very warily. If, then, I pretended to be a folklorist, which I can hardly claim to be, I should say that I had absolutely no quarrel with him who condemns superstition on principle. On the other hand, I should not consider it fair of him to regard me as opposed to the progress of the race in happiness and civilization, just because I am curious to understand its history. With regard to him, however, who looks at the collecting and the studying of folklore as trivial work and a waste of time, I should gather that he regards it so on account, first perhaps, of his forgetting the reality their superstitions were to those who believed in them; and secondly, on account of his ignorance of their meaning. As a reality to those who believed in them, the superstitions of our ancestors form an integral part of their history. However, I need not follow that topic further by trying to show how 'the proper study of mankind is man,' and how it is a mark of an uncultured people not to know or care to know about the history of the race. So the ancient Roman historian, Tacitus, evidently thought; for, when complaining how little was known as to the original peopling of Britain, he adds the suggestive words ut inter barbaros, 'as usual among barbarians.' Conversely, I take it for granted that no liberally educated man or woman of the present day requires to be instructed as to the value of the study of history in all its aspects, or to be told that folklore cannot be justly called trivial, seeing that it has to do with the history of the race--in a wider sense, I may say with the history of the human mind and the record of its development. As history has been mentioned, it may be here pointed out that one of the greatest of the folklorist's difficulties is that of drawing the line between story and history. Nor is that the worst of it; for the question as between fact and fiction, hard as it is in itself, is apt to be further complicated by questions of ethnology. This may be illustrated by reference to a group of legends which project a vanishing distinction between the two kindred races of Brythons and Goidels in Wales; and into the story of some of them Arthur is introduced playing a principal rôle. They seem to point to a time when the Goidels had as yet wholly lost neither their own language nor their own institutions in North Wales: for the legends belong chiefly to Gwyned, and cluster especially around Snowdon, where the characteristics of the Goidel as the earlier Celt may well have lingered latest, thanks to the comparatively inaccessible nature of the country. One of these legends has already been summarized as representing Arthur marching up the side of Snowdon towards Bwlch y Saethau, where he falls and is buried under a cairn named from him Carned Arthur: see p. 473. We are not told who his enemies were; but with this question has usually been associated the late Triad, iii. 20, which alludes to Arthur meeting in Nanhwynain with Medrawd or Medrod (Modred) and Idawc Corn Prydain, and to his being betrayed, for the benefit and security of the Saxons in the island. An earlier reference to the same story occurs in the Dream of Rhonabwy in the Red Book of Hergest [156], in which Idawc describes himself as Idawc son of Mynio, and as nicknamed Idawc Cord Prydain--which means 'Idawc the Churn-staff of Prydain'--in reference presumably to his activity in creating dissension. He confesses to having falsified the friendly messages of Arthur to Medrod, and to succeeding thereby in bringing on the fatal battle of Camlan, from which Idawc himself escaped to do penance for seven years on the Llech Las, 'Grey Stone [157],' in Prydain or Pictland. Another story brings Arthur and the giant Rhita into collision, the latter of whom has already been mentioned as having, according to local tradition, his grave on the top of Snowdon: see pp. 474-9. The story is a very wild one. Two kings who were brothers, Nyniaw or Nynio and Peibiaw or Peibio, quarrelled thus: one moonlight night, as they were together in the open air, Nynio said to Peibio, 'See, what a fine extensive field I possess.' 'Where is it?' asked Peibio. 'There it is,' said Nynio, 'the whole firmament.' 'See,' said Peibio, 'what innumerable herds of cattle and sheep I have grazing in thy field.' 'Where are they?' asked Nynio. 'There they are,' said Peibio, 'the whole host of stars that thou seest, each of golden brightness, with the moon shepherding them.' 'They shall not graze in my field,' said Nynio. 'But they shall,' said Peibio; and the two kings got so enraged with one another, that they began a war in which their warriors and subjects were nearly exterminated. Then comes Rhita Gawr, king of Wales, and attacks them on the dangerous ground of their being mad. He conquered them and shaved off their beards [158]; but when the other kings of Prydain, twenty-eight in number, heard of it, they collected all their armies together to avenge themselves on Rhita for the disgrace to which he had subjected the other two. But after a great struggle Rhita conquers again, and has the beards of the other kings shaved. Then the kings of neighbouring kingdoms in all directions combined to make war on Rhita to avenge the disgrace to their order; but they were also vanquished forthwith, and treated in the same ignominious fashion as the thirty kings of Prydain. With the beards he had a mantle made to cover him from head to foot, and that was a good deal, we are told, since he was as big as two ordinary men. Then Rhita turned his attention to the establishment of just and equitable laws as between king and king and one realm with another [159]. But the sequel to the shaving is related by Geoffrey of Monmouth, x. 3, where Arthur is made to tell how the giant, after destroying the other kings and using their beards in the way mentioned, asked him for his beard to fix above the other beards, as he stood above them in rank, or else to come and fight a duel with him. Arthur, as might be expected, chose the latter course, with the result that he slew Rhita, there called Ritho, at a place said to be in Aravio Monte, by which the Welsh translator understood the chief mountain of Eryri [160] or Snowdon. So it is but natural that his grave should also be there, as already mentioned. I may here add that it is the name Snowdon itself, probably, that underlies the Senaudon or Sinadoun of such Arthurian romances as the English version of Libeaus Desconus, though the place meant has been variously supposed to be situated elsewhere than in the Snowdon district: witness Sinodun Hill in Berkshire [161]. The story of Rhita is told also by Malory, who calls that giant Ryons and Ryence; and there the incident seems to end with Ryons being led to Arthur's court by knights who had overcome him. Ryons' challenge, as given by Malory [162], runs thus:-- 'This meane whyle came a messager from kynge Ryons of Northwalys. And kynge he was of all Ireland and of many Iles. And this was his message gretynge wel kynge Arthur in this manere wyse sayenge . that kynge Ryons had discomfyte and ouercome xj kynges . and eueryche of hem did hym homage . and that was this . they gaf hym their berdys clene flayne of . as moche as ther was . wherfor the messager came for kyng Arthurs berd. For kyng Ryons had purfyled a mantel with kynges berdes . and there lacked one place of the mantel . wherfor he sente for his berd or els he wold entre in to his landes . and brenne and slee . & neuer leue tyl he haue the hede and the berd.' Rhita is not said, it is true, to have been a Gwydel, 'Goidel'; but he is represented ruling over Ireland, and his name, which is not Welsh, recalls at first sight those of such men as Boya the Pict or Scot figuring in the life of St. David, and such as Llia Gvitel, 'Llia the Goidel,' mentioned in the Stanzas of the Graves in the Black Book of Carmarthen as buried in the seclusion of Ardudwy [163]. Malory's Ryons is derived from the French Romances, where, as for example in the Merlin, according to the Huth MS., it occurs as Rion-s in the nominative, and Rion in régime. The latter, owing to the old French habit of eliding d or th, derives regularly enough from such a form as the accusative Rithon-em [164], which is the one occurring in Geoffrey's text; and we should probably be right in concluding therefrom that the correct old Welsh form of the name was Rithon. But the Goidelic form was at the same time probably Ritta, with a genitive Rittann, for an earlier Ritton. Lastly, that the local legend should perpetuate the Goidelic Ritta slightly modified, has its parallel in the case of Trwyd and Trwyth, and of Echel and Egel or Ecel, pp. 541-2 and 536-7. The next story [165] points to a spot between y Dinas or Dinas Emrys and Llyn y Dinas as containing the grave of Owen y Mhacsen, that is to say, 'Owen son of Maxen.' Owen had been fighting with a giant--whose name local tradition takes for granted--with balls of steel; and there are depressions (panylau [166]) still to be seen in the ground where each of the combatants took his stand. Some, however, will have it that it was with bows and arrows they fought, and that the hollows are the places they dug to defend themselves. The result was that both died at the close of the conflict; and Owen, being asked where he wished to be buried, ordered an arrow to be shot into the air and his grave to be made where it fell. The story is similarly given in the Iolo MSS., pp. 81-2, where the combatants are called Owen Findu ab Macsen Wledig, 'Owen of the Dark Face, son of Prince Maxen,' and Eurnach Hen, 'E. the Ancient,' one of the Gwydyl or 'Goidels' of North Wales, and otherwise called Urnach Wydel. He is there represented as father (1) of the Serrigi defeated by Catwallawn or Cadwallon Law-hir, 'C. the Long-handed,' at Cerrig y Gwydyl, 'the Stones of the Goidels,' near Malldraeth [167], in Anglesey, where the great and final rout of the Goidels is represented as having taken place [168]; (2) of Daronwy, an infant spared and brought up in Anglesey to its detriment, as related in the other story, p. 504; and (3) of Solor, who commands one of the three cruising fleets of the Isle of Prydain [169]. The stronghold of Eurnach or Urnach is said to have been Dinas Ffaraon, which was afterwards called Din Emreis and Dinas Emrys. The whole story about the Goidels in North Wales, however, as given in the Iolo MSS., pp. 78-80, is a hopeless jumble, though it is probably based on old traditions. In fact, one detects Eurnach or Urnach as Wrnach or Gwrnach in the story of Kulhwch and Olwen [170] in the Red Book, where we are told that Kei or Cai, and others of Arthur's men, got into the giant's castle and cut off his head in order to secure his sword, which was one of the things required for the hunting of Twrch Trwyth. In an obscure passage, also in a poem in the Black Book, we read of Cai fighting in the hall of this giant, who is then called Awarnach [171]. Some such a feat appears to have been commemorated in the place-name Gwryd Cai, 'Cai's Feat of Arms,' which occurs in Llewelyn's grant of certain lands on the Bedgelert and Pen Gwryd side of Snowdon in 1198 to the monks of Aberconwy, or rather in an inspeximus of the same: see Dugdale's Monasticon, v. 673a, where it stands printed gwryt, kei. Nor is it unreasonable to guess that Pen Gwryd is only a shortening of Pen Gwryd Cai, 'Cai's Feat Knoll or Terminus'; but compare p. 217 above. Before leaving Cai I may point out that tradition seems to ascribe to him as his residence the place called Caer Gai, 'Cai's Fort,' between Bala and Llanuwchllyn. If one may treat Cai as a historical man, one may perhaps suppose him, or some member of his family, commemorated by the vocable Burgocavi on an old stone found at Caer Gai, and said to read: Ic iacit Salvianus Burgocavi filius Cupitiani [172]--'Here lies Salvianus Burgocavis, son of Cupitianus.' The reader may also be referred back to such non-Brythonic and little known figures as Daronwy, Cathbalug, and Brynach, together perhaps with Mengwaed, the wolf-lord of Arllechwed, pp. 504-5. It is worth while calling attention likewise to Goidelic indications afforded by the topography of Eryri, to wit such cases as Bwlch Mwrchan or Mwlchan, 'Mwrchan's Pass,' sometimes made into Bwlch Mwyalchen or even Bwlch y Fwyalchen, 'the Ousel's Gap,' near Llyn Gwynain; the remarkable remains called Muriau'r Dre, 'the Town Walls'--otherwise known as Tre'r Gwydelod [173], 'the Goidels' town'--on the land of Gwastad Annas at the top of Nanhwynain; and Bwlch y Gwydel, still higher towards Pen Gwryd, may have meant the 'Goidel's Pass.' Probably a study of the topography on the spot would result in the identification of more names similarly significant; but I will call attention to only one of them, namely Bedgelert or, as it is locally pronounced, Bethgelart, though the older spellings of the name appear to be Beth Kellarth and Beth Kelert. Those who are acquainted with the story, as told there, of the man who rashly killed his hound might think that Bedgelert, 'Gelert or Kelert's Grave,' refers to the hound; but there is a complete lack of evidence to show this widely known story to have been associated with the neighbourhood by antiquity [174]; and the compiler of the notes and pedigrees known as Boned y Saint was probably right in treating Kelert as the name of an ancient saint: see the Myvyr. Arch., ii. 36. In any case, Kelert or Gelert with its rt cannot be a genuine Welsh name: the older spellings seem to indicate two pronunciations--a Goidelic one, Kelert, and a Welsh one, Kelarth or Kellarth, which has not survived. The documents, however, in which the name occurs require to be carefully examined for the readings which they supply. Lastly, from the Goidels of Arfon must not be too violently severed those of Mona, among whom we have found, pp. 504-5, the mysterious Cathbalug, whose name, still half unexplained, reminds one of such Irish ones as Cathbuadach, 'battle-victorious or conquering in war'; and to the same stratum belongs Daronwy, p. 504, which survives as the name of a farm in the parish of Llanfachreth. The Record of Carnarvon, p. 59, speaks both of a Molendinum de Darronwy et Cornewe, 'Mill of Daronwy [175] and Cornwy,' and of Villæ de Dorronwy et Kuwghdornok, 'Vills of Daronwy and of the Cnwch Dernog,' which has been mentioned as now pronounced Clwch Dernog, p. 457: it is situated in the adjoining parish of Llandeusant. The name is given in the same Record as Dernok, and is doubtless to be identified with the Ternóc not very uncommon in Irish hagiology. With these names the Record further associates a holding called Wele Conus, and Conus survives in Weun Gonnws, the name of a field on the farm of Bron Heulog, adjoining Clwch Dernog. That is not all, for Connws turns out to be the Welsh pronunciation of the Goidelic name Cunagussus, of which we have the Latinized genitive on the Bodfedan menhir, some distance north-east of the railway station of Ty Croes. It reads: CVNOGVSI HIC IACIT, 'Here lies (the body) of Cunagussus,' and involves a name which has regularly become in Irish Conghus, while the native Welsh equivalent would be Cynwst [176]. These names, and one [177] or two more which might be added to them, suggest a very Goidelic population as occupying, in the fifth or sixth century, the part of the island west of a line from Amlwch to Malldraeth. Lastly, the chronological indications of the crushing of the power of the Goidels, and the incipient merging of that people with the Brythons into a single nation of Kymry or 'Compatriots,' are worthy of a passing remark. We seem to find the process echoed in the Triads when they mention as a favourite at Arthur's Court the lord of Arllechwed, named Menwaed, who has been guessed, p. 507 above, to have been a Goidel. Then Serrigi and Daronwy are signalized as contemporaries of Cadwallon Law-hir, who inflicted on the former, according to the later legend, the great defeat of Cerrig y Gwydyl [178]. The name, however, of the leader of the Goidels arrayed against Cadwallon may be regarded as unknown, and Serrigi as a later name, probably of Norse origin, introduced from an account of a tenth century struggle with invaders from the Scandinavian kingdom of Dublin [179]. In this conqueror we have probably all that can be historical of the Caswallon of the Mabinogion of Branwen and Manawydan, that is, the Caswallon who ousts the Goidelic family of Llyr from power in this country, and makes Pryderi of Dyfed pay homage to him as supreme king of the island. His name has there undergone assimilation to that of Cassivellaunos, and he is furthermore represented as son of Beli, king of Prydain in the days of its independence, before the advent of the legions of Rome. But as a historical man we are to regard Caswallon probably as Cadwallon Law-hir, grandson of Cuneda and father of Maelgwn of Gwyned. Now Cuneda and his sons, according to Nennius (§ 62), expelled the Goidels with terrible slaughter; and one may say, with the Triads, which practically contradict Nennius' statement as to the Goidels being expelled, that Cuneda's grandson continued the struggle with them. In any case there were Goidels still there, for the Book of Taliessin seems to give evidence [180] of a persistent hostility, on the part of the Goidelic bards of Gwyned, to Maelgwn and the more Brythonic institutions which he may be regarded as representing. This brings the Goidelic element down to the sixth century [181]. Maelgwn's death took place, according to the oldest manuscript of the Annales Cambriæ, in the year 547, or ten years after the Battle of Camlan--in which, as it says, Arthur and Medrod fell. Now some of this is history and some is not: where is the line to be drawn? In any case, the attempt to answer that question could not be justly met with contempt or treated as trivial. The other cause, to which I suggested that contempt for folklore was probably to be traced, together with the difficulties springing therefrom to beset the folklorist's paths, is one's ignorance of the meaning of many of the superstitions of our ancestors. I do not wish this to be regarded as a charge of wilful ignorance; for one has frankly to confess that many old superstitions and superstitious practices are exceedingly hard to understand. So much so, that those who have most carefully studied them cannot always agree with one another in their interpretation. At first sight, some of the superstitions seem so silly and absurd, that one cannot wonder that those who have not gone deeply into the study of the human mind should think them trivial, foolish, or absurd. It is, however, not improbable that they are the results of early attempts to think out the mysteries of nature; and our difficulty is that the thinking was so infantile, comparatively speaking, that one finds it hard to put one's self back into the mental condition of early man. But it should be clearly understood that our difficulty in ascertaining the meaning of such superstitions is no proof whatsoever that they had no meaning. The chief initial difficulty, however, meeting any one who would collect folklore in Wales arises from the fact that various influences have conspired to laugh it out of court, so to say, so that those who are acquainted with superstitions and ancient fads become ashamed to own it: they have the fear of ridicule weighing on their minds, and that is a weight not easily removed. I can recall several instances: among others I may mention a lady who up to middle age believed implicitly in the existence of fairies, and was most anxious that her children should not wander away from home at any time when there happened to be a mist, lest the fairies should carry them away to their home beneath a neighbouring lake. In her later years, however, it was quite useless for a stranger to question her on these things: fairy lore had been so laughed out of countenance in the meantime, that at last she would not own, even to the members of her own family, that she remembered anything about the fairies. Another instance in point is supplied by the story of Castellmarch, and by my failure for a whole fortnight to elicit from the old blacksmith of Aber Soch the legend of March ab Meirchion with horse's ears. Of course I can readily understand the old man's shyness in repeating the story of March. Science, however, knows no such shyness, as it is her business to pry into everything and to discover, if possible, the why and wherefore of all things. In this context let me for a moment revert to the story of March, silly as it looks:--March was lord of Castellmarch in Lleyn, and he had horse's ears; so lest the secret should be known, every one who shaved him was killed forthwith; and in the spot where the bodies were buried there grew reeds, which a bard cut in order to provide himself with a pipe. The pipe when made would give no music but words meaning March has horse's ears! There are other forms of the story, but all substantially the same as that preserved for us by Llwyd (pp. 233-4), except that one of them resembles more closely the Irish version about to be summarized. It occurs in a manuscript in the Peniarth collection, and runs thus:--March had horse's ears, a fact known to nobody but his barber, who durst not make it known for fear of losing his head. But the barber fell ill, so that he had to call in a physician, who said that the patient was being killed by a secret; and he ordered him to tell it to the ground. The barber having done so became well again, and fine reeds grew on the spot. One day, as the time of a great feast was drawing nigh, certain of the pipers of Maelgwn Gwyned coming that way saw the reeds, some of which they cut and used for their pipes. By-and-by they had to perform before King March, when they could elicit from their pipes no strain but 'Horse's ears for March ab Meirchion' (klvstiav march i varch ab Meirchion). Hence arose the saying--'That is gone on horns and pipes' (vaeth hynny ar gyrn a ffibav), which was as much as to say that the secret is become more than public [182]. The story, it is almost needless to say, can be traced also in Cornwall and in Brittany [183]; and not only among the Brythonic peoples of those countries, but among the Goidels of Ireland likewise. The Irish story runs thus [184]:--Once on a time there was a king over Ireland whose name was Labraid Lorc, and this is the manner of man he was--he had two horse's ears on him. And every one who shaved the king used to be slain forthwith. Now the time of shaving him drew nigh one day, when the son of a widow in the neighbourhood was enjoined to do it. The widow went and besought the king that her son should not be slain, and he promised her that he would be spared if he would only keep his secret. So it came to pass; but the secret so disagreed with the widow's son that he fell ill, and nobody could divine the cause until a druid came by. He at once discovered that the youth was ill of an uncommunicated secret, and ordered him to go to the meeting of four roads. 'Let him,' said he, 'turn sunwise, and the first tree he meets on the right side let him tell the secret to it, and he will be well.' This you might think was quite safe, as it was a tree and not his mother, his sister, or his sweetheart; but you would be quite mistaken in thinking so. The tree to which the secret was told was a willow; and a famous Irish harper of that day, finding he wanted a new harp, came and cut the makings of a harp from that very tree; but when the harp was got ready and the harper proceeded to play on it, not a note could he elicit but 'Labraid Lorc has horse's ears!' As to the barber's complaint, that was by no means unnatural: it has often been noticed how a secret disagrees with some natures, and how uneasy and restless it makes them until they can out with it. The same thing also, in an aggravated form, occurs now and then to a public man who has prepared a speech in the dark recesses of his heart, but has to leave the meeting where he intended to have it out, without finding his opportunity. Our neighbours on the other side of the Channel have a technical term for that sort of sufferer: they say of him that he is malade d'un discours rentré, or ill of a speech which has gone into the patient's constitution, like the measles or the small-pox when it fails to come out. But to come back to the domain of folklore, I need only mention the love-lorn knights in Malory's Morte Darthur, who details their griefs in doleful strains to solitary fountains in the forests: it seems to have relieved them greatly, and it sometimes reached other ears than those of the wells. Now with regard to him of the equine ears, some one might thoughtlessly suggest, that, if it ever became a question of improving this kind of story, one should make the ears into those of an ass. As a matter of fact there was a Greek story of this kind, and in that story the man with the abnormal head was called Midas, and his ears were said to be those of an ass. The reader will find him figuring in most collections of Greek stories; so I need not pursue the matter further, except to remark that the exact kind of brute ears was possibly a question which different nations decided differently. At any rate Stokes mentions a Serbian version in which the ears were those of a goat. What will, however, occur to everybody to ask, is--What was the origin of such a story? what did it mean, if it had a meaning? Various attempts have been made to interpret this kind of story, but nobody, so far as I know, has found a sure key to its meaning. The best guess I can make has been suggested in a previous chapter, from which it will be seen that the horse fits the Welsh context, so to say, best, the goat less well, and the ass probably least of all: see pp. 433-9 above. Supposing, then, the interpretation of the story established for certain, the question of its origin would still remain. Did it originate among the Celts and the Greeks and other nations who relate it? or has it simply originated among one of those peoples and spread itself to the others? or else have they all inherited it from a common source? If we take the supposition that it originated independently among a variety of people in the distant past, then comes an interesting question as to the conditions under which it arose, and the psychological state of the human race in the distant past. On the other supposition one is forced to ask: Did the Celts get the story from the Greeks, or the Greeks from the Celts, or neither from either, but from a common source? Also when and how did the variations arise? In any case, one cannot help seeing that a story like the one I have instanced raises a variety of profoundly difficult and interesting questions. Hard as the folklorist may find it to extract tales and legends from the people of Wales at the present day, there is one thing which he finds far more irritating than the taciturnity of the peasant, and that is the hopeless fashion in which some of those who have written about Welsh folklore have deigned to record the stories which were known to them. Take as an instance the following, which occurs in Howells' Cambrian Superstitions, pp. 103-4:-- 'In Cardiganshire there is a lake, beneath which it is reported that a town lies buried; and in an arid summer, when the water is low, a wall, on which people may walk, extending across the lake is seen, and supposed to appertain to the inundated city or town; on one side is a gigantic rock, which appears to have been split, as there is a very extensive opening in it, which nearly divides it in twain, and which tradition relates was thus occasioned:--Once upon a time there was a person of the name of Pannog, who had two oxen, so large that their like was never known in any part of the world, and of whom it might be said, They ne'er will look upon their like again. It chanced one day that one of them (and it appears that they were not endued with a quantum of sense proportionate to their bulk) was grazing near a precipice opposite the rock, and whether it was his desire to commit suicide, or to cool his body by laving in the lake below, one knows not, but certain it is that down he plunged, and was never seen more: his partner searching for him a short time after, and not perceiving any signs of his approach, bellowed almost as loud as the Father of the Gods, who when he spake "Earth to his centre shook"; however, the sound of his bleating [sic] split the opposite rock, which from the circumstance is called Uchain Pannog (Pannog's Oxen). These oxen were said to be two persons, called in Wales, Nyniaf and Phebiaf, whom God turned into beasts for their sins. Here it is clear that Mr. Howells found a portion, if not the whole, of his story in Welsh, taken partly from the Kulhwch story, and apparently in the old spelling; for his own acquaintance with the language did not enable him to translate Nynnya6 a pheiba6 into 'Nynio and Peibio.' The slenderness of his knowledge of Welsh is otherwise proved throughout his book, especially by the way in which he spells Welsh words: in fact one need not go beyond this very story with its Uchain Pannog. But when he had ascertained that the lake was in Cardiganshire he might have gone a little further and have told his readers which lake it was. It is not one of the lakes which I happen to know in the north of the county--Llyn Llygad y Rheidol on Plinlimmon, or the lake on Moel y Llyn to the north of Cwm Ceulan, or either of the Iwan Lakes which drain into the Merin (or Meri), a tributary of the Mynach, which flows under Pont ar Fynach, called in English the Devil's Bridge. From inquiry I cannot find either that it is any one of the pools in the east of the county, such as those of the Teifi, or Llyn Ferwyn, not far from the gorge known as Cwm Berwyn, mentioned in Edward Richards' well known lines, p. 43:-- Mae'n bwrw' 'Nghwm Berwyn a'r cysgod yn estyn, Gwna heno fy mwthyn yn derfyn dy daith. It rains in Cwm Berwyn, the shadows are growing, To-night make my cabin the end of thy journey. There is, it is true, a pool at a place called Maes y Llyn in the neighbourhood of Tregaron, as to which there is a tradition that a village once occupied the place of its waters: otherwise it shows no similarity to the lake of Howells' story. Then there is a group of lakes in which the river Aeron takes its rise: they are called Llyn Eidwen, Llyn Fanod, and Llyn Farch. As to Llyn Eidwen, I had it years ago that at one time there was a story current concerning 'wild cattle,' which used to come out of its waters and rush back into them when disturbed. In the middle of this piece of water, which has a rock on one side of it, is a small island with a modern building on it; and one would like to know whether it shows any traces of early occupation. Then as to Llyn Farch, there is a story going that there came out of it once on a time a wonderful animal, which was shot by a neighbouring farmer. Lastly, at Llyn Fanod there are boundary walls which go right out into the lake; and my informant thinks the same is the case with Llyn Eidwen [185]. One of these walls is probably what in Howells' youthful hands developed itself into a causeway. The other part of his story, referring to the lowing of the Bannog Oxen, comes from a well known doggerel which runs thus:-- Llan Dewi Frefi fraith [186], Lle brefod yr ych naw gwaith, Nes hollti craig y Foelallt. Llandewi of Brefi the spotted, Where bellowed the ox nine times, Till the Foelallt rock split in two. Brefi is the name of the river from which this Llandewi takes its distinctive name; and it is pronounced there much the same as brefu, 'the act of lowing, bellowing, or bleating.' Now the Brefi runs down through the Foelallt Farm, which lies between two very big rocks popularly fancied to have been once united, and treated by Howells, somewhat inconsistently, as the permanent forms taken by the two oxen. The story which Howells seems to have jumbled up with that of one or more lake legends, is to be found given in Samuel Rush Meyrick's County of Cardigan: see pp. 265-6, where one reads of a wild tradition that when the church was building there were two oxen to draw the stone required; and one of the two died in the effort to drag the load, while the other bellowed nine times and thereby split the hill, which before presented itself as an obstacle. The single ox was then able to bring the load unassisted to the site of the church. It is to this story that the doggerel already given refers; and, curiously enough, most of the district between Llandewi and Ystrad Fflur, or Strata Florida, is more or less associated with the Ychen Bannog. Thus a ridge running east and west at a distance of some three miles from Tregaron, and separating Upper and Lower Caron from one another, bears the name of Cwys yr Ychen Bannog, or the Furrow of the Ychen Bannog. It somewhat resembles in appearance an ancient dyke, but it is said to be nothing but 'a long bank of glacial till [187].' Moreover there used to be preserved within the church of Llandewi a remarkable fragment of a horn commonly called Madcorn yr Ych Bannog, 'the mabcorn or core of the Bannog Ox's Horn.' It is now in the possession of Mr. Parry of Llidiardau, near Aberystwyth; and it has been pronounced by Prof. Boyd Dawkins to have belonged to 'the great urus (Bos Primigenius), that Charlemagne hunted in the forests of Aachen, and the monks of St. Galle ate on their feast days.' He adds that the condition of the horn proves it to have been derived from a peat bog or alluvium [188]. On the whole, it seems to me probable that the wild legends about the Ychen Bannog [189] in Cardiganshire have underlying them a substratum of tradition going back to a time when the urus was not as yet extinct in Wales. How far the urus was once treated in this country as an emblem of divinity, it is impossible to say; but from ancient Gaul we have such a name as Urogeno-nertus [190], meaning a man of the strength of an Urogen, that is, of the offspring of a urus; not to mention the Gaulish Tarvos Trigaranus, or the bull with three cranes on his back. With this divine animal M. d'Arbois de Jubainville would identify the Donnos underlying such Gallo-Roman names as Donnotaurus, and that of the wonderful bull called Donn in the principal epic story of Ireland [191], where we seem to trace the same element in the river-name given by Ptolemy as Mo-donnos, one of the streams of Wicklow, or else the Slaney. This would be the earliest instance known of the prefixing of the pronoun mo, 'my,' in its reverential application, which was confined in later ages to the names of Goidelic saints. To return, however, to the folklorist's difficulties, the first thing to be done is to get as ample a supply of folklore materials as possible; and here I come to a point at which some of the readers of these pages could probably help; for we want all our folklore and superstitions duly recorded and rescued from the yawning gulf of oblivion, into which they are rapidly and irretrievably dropping year by year, as the oldest inhabitant passes away. Some years ago I attempted to collect the stories still remembered in Wales about fairies and lake dwellers; and I seem to have thrown some amount of enthusiasm into that pursuit. At any rate, one editor of a Welsh newspaper congratulated me on being a thorough believer in the fairies. Unfortunately, I was not nearly so successful in recommending myself as a believer to the old people who could have related to me the kind of stories I wanted. Nevertheless, the best plan I found was to begin by relating a story about the fairies myself: if that method did not result in eliciting anything from the listener, then it was time to move on to try the experiment on another subject. Among the things which I then found was the fact, that most of the well known lakes and tarns of Wales were once believed to have had inhabitants of a fairy kind, who owned cattle that sometimes came ashore and mixed with the ordinary breeds, while an occasional lake lady became the wife of a shepherd or farmer in the neighbourhood. There must, however, be many more of these legends lurking in out of the way parts of Wales in connexion with the more remote mountain tarns; and it would be well if they were collected systematically. One of the most complete and best known of these lake stories is that of Llyn y Fan Fach in the Beacons of Carmarthenshire, called in Welsh Bannau Sir Gaer. The story is so much more circumstantial than all the others, that it has been placed at the beginning of this volume. Next to it may be ranked that of the Ystrad Dyfodwg pool, now known as Llyn y Forwyn, the details of which have only recently been unearthed for me by a friend: see pp. 27-30 above. Well, in the Fan Fach legend the lake lady marries a young farmer from Mydfai, on the Carmarthenshire side of the range; and she is to remain his wife so long as he lives without striking her three times without cause. When that happens, she leaves him and calls away with her all her live stock, down to the little black calf in the process of being flayed; for he suddenly dons his hide and hurries away after the rest of the stock into the lake. The three blows without cause seem to belong to a category of very ancient determinants which have been recently discussed, with his usual acumen and command of instances from other lands, by Mr. Hartland, in the chapters on the Swan Maidens in his Science of Fairy Tales. But our South Welsh story allows the three blows only a minimum of force; and in North Wales the determinant is of a different kind, though probably equally ancient: for there the husband must not strike or touch the fairy wife with anything made of iron, a condition which probably points back to the Stone Age. For archæologists are agreed, that before metal, whether iron or bronze, was used in the manufacturing of tools, stone was the universal material for all cutting tools and weapons. But as savages are profoundly conservative in their habits, it is argued that on ceremonial and religious occasions knives of stone continued to be the only ones admissible long after bronze ones had been in common use for ordinary purposes. Take for example the text of Exodus iv. 25, where Zipporah is mentioned circumcising her son with a flint. From instances of the kind one may comprehend the sort of way in which iron came to be regarded as an abomination and a horror to the fairies. The question will be found discussed by Mr. Hartland at length in his book mentioned above: see more especially pp. 305-9. Such, to my mind, are some of the questions to which the fairies give rise: I now wish to add another turning on the reluctance of the fairies to disclose their names. There is one story in particular which would serve to illustrate this admirably; but it is one which, I am sorry to say, I have never been able to discover complete or coherent in Wales. The substance of it should be, roughly speaking, as follows:--A woman finds herself in great distress and is delivered out of it by a fairy, who claims as reward the woman's baby. On a certain day the baby will inevitably be taken by the fairy unless the fairy's true name is discovered by the mother. The fairy is foiled by being in the meantime accidentally overheard exulting, that the mother does not know that his or her name is Rumpelstiltzchen, or whatever it may be in the version which happens to be in question. The best known version is the German one, where the fairy is called Rumpelstiltzchen; and it will be found in the ordinary editions of Grimm's Märchen. The most complete English version is the East Anglian one published by Mr. Edward Clodd, in his recent volume entitled Tom Tit Tot, pp. 8-16; and previously in an article full of research headed 'The Philosophy of Rumpelstiltskin,' in Folk-Lore for 1889, pp. 138-43. It is first to be noted that in this version the fairy's name is Tom Tit Tot, and that the German and the East Anglian stories run parallel. They agree in making the fairy a male, in which they differ from our Welsh Silly Frit and Silly go Dwt: in what other respect the story of our Silly differed from that of Rumpelstiltzchen and Tom Tit Tot it is, in the present incomplete state of the Welsh one, impossible to say. Here it may be found useful to recall the fragments of the Welsh story: (1) A fairy woman used to come out of Corwrion Pool to spin on fine summer days, and whilst spinning she sang or hummed to herself sìli ffrit, sìli ffrit--it does not rise even to a doggerel couplet: see p. 64 above. (2) A farmer's wife in Lleyn used to have visits from a fairy woman who came to borrow things from her; and one day when the goodwife had lent her a troell bach, or wheel for spinning flax, she asked the fairy to give her name, which she declined to do. She was, however, overheard to sing to the whir of the wheel as follows (p. 229):-- Bychan a wyda' hi Little did she know Mai Sìli go Dwt That Silly go Dwt Yw f'enw i. Is my name. This throws some light on Silly Frit, and we know where we are; but the story is inconsequent, and far from representing the original. We cannot, however, reconstruct it quite on the lines of Grimm's or Clodd's version. But I happened to mention my difficulty one day to Dr. J. A. H. Murray, when he assured me of the existence of a Scottish version in which the fairy is a female. He learnt it when he was a child, he said, at Denholm, in Roxburghshire; and he was afterwards charmed to read it in Robert Chambers' Popular Rhymes of Scotland (Edinburgh, 1858), pp. 221-5, whence Mr. Clodd has given an abstract of it in his 'Philosophy of Rumpelstiltskin.' Among those popular rhymes the reader will find it as related at length by Nurse Jenny in her inimitable fashion; but the Scotch is so broad, that I think it advisable, at the risk of some havoc to the local colouring, to southronize it somewhat as follows:-- 'I see that you are fond of talks about fairies, children; and a story about a fairy and the goodwife of Kittlerumpit has just come into my mind; but I can't very well tell you now whereabouts Kittlerumpit lies. I think it is somewhere in the Debatable Ground; anyway I shall not pretend to know more than I do, like everybody nowadays. I wish they would remember the ballad we used to sing long ago:-- Mony ane sings the gerss, the gerss, And mony ane sings the corn; And mony ane clatters o' bold Robin Hood, Ne'er kent where he was born. But howsoever about Kittlerumpit: the goodman was a rambling sort of body; and he went to a fair one day, and not only never came home again, but nevermore was heard of. Some said he 'listed, and others that the tiresome pressgang snatched him up, though he was furnished with a wife and a child to boot. Alas! that wretched pressgang! They went about the country like roaring lions, seeking whom they might devour. Well do I remember how my eldest brother Sandy was all but smothered in the meal-chest, hiding from those rascals. After they were gone, we pulled him out from among the meal, puffing and crying, and as white as any corpse. My mother had to pick the meal out of his mouth with the shank of a horn spoon. 'Ah well, when the goodman of Kittlerumpit was gone, the goodwife was left with small means. Little resources had she, and a baby boy at her breast. All said they were sorry for her; but nobody helped her--which is a common case, sirs. Howsoever the goodwife had a sow, and that was her only consolation; for the sow was soon to farrow, and she hoped for a good litter. 'But we all know hope is fallacious. One day the woman goes to the sty to fill the sow's trough; and what does she find but the sow lying on her back, grunting and groaning, and ready to give up the ghost. 'I trow this was a new pang to the goodwife's heart; so she sat down on the knocking-stone [192], with her bairn on her knee, and cried sorer than ever she did for the loss of her own goodman. 'Now I premise that the cottage of Kittlerumpit was built on a brae, with a large fir-wood behind it, of which you may hear more ere we go far on. So the goodwife, when she was wiping her eyes, chances to look down the brae; and what does she see but an old woman, almost like a lady, coming slowly up the road. She was dressed in green, all but a short white apron and a black velvet hood, and a steeple-crowned beaver hat on her head. She had a long walking-staff, as long as herself, in her hand--the sort of staff that old men and old women helped themselves with long ago; I see no such staffs now, sirs. 'Ah well, when the goodwife saw the green gentlewoman near her, she rose and made a curtsy; and "Madam," quoth she, weeping, "I am one of the most misfortunate women alive." '"I don't wish to hear pipers' news and fiddlers' tales, goodwife," quoth the green woman. "I know you have lost your goodman--we had worse losses at the Sheriff Muir [193]; and I know that your sow is unco sick. Now what will you give me if I cure her?" '"Anything your ladyship's madam likes," quoth the witless goodwife, never guessing whom she had to deal with. '"Let us wet thumbs on that bargain," quoth the green woman; so thumbs were wetted, I warrant you; and into the sty madam marches. 'She looks at the sow with a long stare, and then began to mutter to herself what the goodwife couldn't well understand; but she said it sounded like-- Pitter patter, Holy Water. 'Then she took out of her pocket a wee bottle, with something like oil in it; and she rubs the sow with it above the snout, behind the ears, and on the tip of the tail. "Get up, beast," quoth the green woman. No sooner said than done--up jumps the sow with a grunt, and away to her trough for her breakfast. 'The goodwife of Kittlerumpit was a joyful goodwife now, and would have kissed the very hem of the green woman's gowntail; but she wouldn't let her. "I am not so fond of ceremonies," quoth she; "but now that I have righted your sick beast, let us end our settled bargain. You will not find me an unreasonable, greedy body--I like ever to do a good turn for a small reward: all I ask, and will have, is that baby boy in your bosom." 'The goodwife of Kittlerumpit, who now knew her customer, gave a shrill cry like a stuck swine. The green woman was a fairy, no doubt; so she prays, and cries, and begs, and scolds; but all wouldn't do. "You may spare your din," quoth the fairy, "screaming as if I was as deaf as a door-nail; but this I'll let you know--I cannot, by the law we live under, take your bairn till the third day; and not then, if you can tell me my right name." So madam goes away round the pig-sty end; and the goodwife falls down in a swoon behind the knocking-stone. 'Ah well, the goodwife of Kittlerumpit could not sleep any that night for crying, and all the next day the same, cuddling her bairn till she nearly squeezed its breath out; but the second day she thinks of taking a walk in the wood I told you of; and so with the bairn in her arms, she sets out, and goes far in among the trees, where was an old quarry-hole, grown over with grass, and a bonny spring well in the middle of it. Before she came very near, she hears the whirring of a flax wheel, and a voice singing a song; so the woman creeps quietly among the bushes, and peeps over the brow of the quarry; and what does she see but the green fairy tearing away at her wheel, and singing like any precentor:-- Little kens our guid dame at hame, That Whuppity Stoorie is my name. '"Ha, ha!" thinks the woman, "I've got the mason's word at last; the devil give them joy that told it!" So she went home far lighter than she came out, as you may well guess--laughing like a madcap with the thought of cheating the old green fairy. 'Ah well, you must know that this goodwife was a jocose woman, and ever merry when her heart was not very sorely overladen. So she thinks to have some sport with the fairy; and at the appointed time she puts the bairn behind the knocking-stone, and sits on the stone herself. Then she pulls her cap over her left ear and twists her mouth on the other side, as if she were weeping; and an ugly face she made, you may be sure. She hadn't long to wait, for up the brae climbs the green fairy, neither lame nor lazy; and long ere she got near the knocking-stone she screams out--"Goodwife of Kittlerumpit, you know well what I come for--stand and deliver!" 'The woman pretends to cry harder than before, and wrings her hands, and falls on her knees, with "Och, sweet madam mistress, spare my only bairn, and take the wretched sow!" '"The devil take the sow, for my part," quoth the fairy; "I come not here for swine's flesh. Don't be contramawcious, huzzy, but give me the child instantly!" '"Ochone, dear lady mine," quoth the crying goodwife; "forgo my poor bairn, and take me myself!" '"The devil is in the daft jade," quoth the fairy, looking like the far end of a fiddle; "I'll bet she is clean demented. Who in all the earthly world, with half an eye in his head, would ever meddle with the likes of thee?" 'I trow this set up the woman of Kittlerumpit's bristle: for though she had two blear eyes and a long red nose besides, she thought herself as bonny as the best of them. So she springs off her knees, sets the top of her cap straight, and with her two hands folded before her, she makes a curtsy down to the ground, and, "In troth, fair madam," quoth she, "I might have had the wit to know that the likes of me is not fit to tie the worst shoe-strings of the high and mighty princess, Whuppity Stoorie." 'If a flash of gunpowder had come out of the ground it couldn't have made the fairy leap higher than she did; then down she came again plump on her shoe-heels; and whirling round, she ran down the brae, screeching for rage, like an owl chased by the witches. 'The goodwife of Kittlerumpit laughed till she was like to split; then she takes up her bairn, and goes into her house, singing to it all the way:-- A goo and a gitty, my bonny wee tyke, Ye'se noo ha'e your four-oories; Sin' we've gien Nick a bane to pyke, Wi' his wheels and his Whuppity Stoories.' That is practically Chambers' version of this Scottish story; and as to the name of the fairy Whuppity Stoorie, the first syllable should be the equivalent of English whip, while stoor is a Scotch word for dust in motion: so the editor asks in a note whether the name may not have originated in the notion 'that fairies were always present in the whirls of dust occasioned by the wind on roads and in streets [194].' But he adds that another version of the story calls the green woman Fittletetot, which ends with the same element as the name Tom Tit Tot and Silly go Dwt. Perhaps, however, the Welsh versions of the story approached nearest to one from Mochdrum in Wigtownshire, published in the British Association's Papers of the Liverpool Meeting, 1896, p. 613. This story was contributed by the Rev. Walter Gregor, and the name of the fairy in it is Marget Totts: in this we have a wife, who is in great distress, because her husband used to give her so much flax to spin by such and such a day, that the work was beyond human power. A fairy comes to the rescue and takes the flax away, promising to bring it back spun by the day fixed, provided the woman can tell the fairy's name. The woman's distress thereupon becomes as great as before, but the fairy was overheard saying as she span, 'Little does the guidwife ken it, my name is Marget Totts.' So the woman got her flax returned spun by the day; and the fairy, Marget Totts, went up the chimney in a blaze of fire as the result of rage and disappointment. Here one cannot help seeing that the original, of which this is a clumsy version, must have been somewhat as follows Little does the guidwife wot That my name is Marget Tot. To come back to Wales, we have there the names Silly Frit and Silly go Dwt, which are those of females. The former name is purely English--Silly Frit, which has been already guessed (p. 66) to mean a silly sprite, or silly apparition, with the idea of its being a fright of a creature to behold: compare the application elsewhere to a fairy changeling of the terms crimbil (p. 263) and cyrfaglach or cryfaglach (p. 450), which is explained as implying a haggard urchin that has been half starved and stunted in its growth. Leaving out of the reckoning this connotation, one might compare the term with the Scottish habit of calling the fairies silly wights, 'the Happy Wights.' See J. Jamieson's Scottish Dictionary, where s. v. seily, seely, 'happy,' he purports to quote the following lines from 'the Legend of the Bishop of St. Androis' in a collection of Scottish Poems of the Sixteenth Century (Edinburgh, 1801), pp. 320-1:-- For oght the kirk culd him forbid, He sped him sone, and gat the thrid; Ane Carling of the Quene of Phareis, That ewill win gair to elphyne careis, Through all Braid Albane scho hes bene, On horsbak on Hallow ewin; And ay in seiking certayne nyghtis, As scho sayis, with sur [read our] sillie wychtis. Similarly, he gives the fairies the name of Seely Court, and cites as illustrating it the following lines from R. Jamieson's Popular Ballads, (i. 236, and) ii. 189:-- But as it fell out on last Hallowe'en, When the Seely Court was ridin' by, The queen lighted down on a gowan bank, Nae far frae the tree where I wont to lye. Into Welsh, however, the designation Silly Frit must have come, not from Scotland, but from the Marches; and the history of Sìli go Dwt must be much the same. For, though construed as Welsh, the name would mean the Silly who is go Dwt [195], 'somewhat tidy or natty'; but the dwt (mutated from twt) was suggested doubtless by the tot of such fairy names as Tom Tit Tot. That brings me to another group, where the syllable is trot or trut, and this we have in the Welsh doggerel, mentioned at p. 229, as follows:-- Bychan a wyda' hi Little did she know Mai Trwtyn-Tratyn That Trwtyn Tratyn Yw f'enw i. Is my name. But this name Trwtyn-Tratyn sounds masculine, and not that of a she-fairy such as Silly Frit. The feminine would have been Trwtan-Tratan in the Carnarvonshire pronunciation, and in fact trwtan is to be heard there; but more frequently a kind of derivative trwdlan, meaning an ungainly sort of woman, a drudge, a short-legged or deformed maid of all work. Some Teutonic varieties of this group of stories will be found mentioned briefly in Mr. Clodd's article on the 'Philosophy of Rumpelstiltskin [196].' Thus from the Debatable Ground on the borders of England and Scotland there comes a story in which the fairy woman's name was Habetrot; and he alludes to an Icelandic version in which the name is Gillitrut; but for us still more interest attaches to the name in the following rhyme [197]:-- Little does my lady wot That my name is Trit-a-Trot. This has been supposed to belong to a story coming from Ireland; but whether that may prove true or not, it is hardly to be doubted that our Trwtyn Tratyn is practically to be identified with Trit-a-Trot, who is also a he-fairy. That is not all; for since the foregoing notes were penned, a tale has reached me from Mr. Craigfryn Hughes about a fairy who began by conducting himself like the brownies mentioned at pp. 287, 324-5 above. The passages here in point come from the story of which a part was given at pp. 462-4; and they are to the following effect:--Long ago there was in service at a Monmouthshire farm a young woman who was merry and strong. Who she was or whence she came nobody knew; but many believed that she belonged to the old breed of Bendith y Mamau. Some time after she had come to the farm, the rumour spread that the house was sorely troubled by a spirit. But the girl and the elf understood one another well, and they became the best of friends. So the elf proved very useful to the maid, for he did everything for her--washing, ironing, spinning and twisting wool; in fact they say that he was remarkably handy at the spinning-wheel. Moreover, he expected only a bowlful of sweet milk and wheat bread, or some flummery, for his work. So she took care to place the bowl with his food at the bottom of the stairs every night as she went to bed. It ought to have been mentioned that she was never allowed to catch a sight of him; for he always did his work in the dark. Nor did anybody know when he ate his food: she used to leave the bowl there at night, and it would be empty by the time when she got up in the morning, the bwca having cleared it. But one night, by way of cursedness, what did she do but fill the bowl with some of the stale urine which they used in dyeing wool and other things about the house. But heavens! it would have been better for her not to have done it; for when she got up next morning what should he do but suddenly spring from some corner and seize her by the neck! He began to beat her and kick her from one end of the house to the other, while he shouted at the top of his voice at every kick:-- Y faidan din dwmp-- Yn rhoi bara haid a thrwnc I'r bwca! The idea that the thick-buttocked lass Should give barley bread and p-- To the bogie! Meanwhile she screamed for help, but none came for some time; when, however, he heard the servant men getting up, he took to his heels as hard as he could; and nothing was heard of him for some time. But at the end of two years he was found to be at another farm in the neighbourhood, called Hafod yr Ynys, where he at once became great friends with the servant girl: for she fed him like a young chicken, by giving him a little bread and milk all the time. So he worked willingly and well for her in return for his favourite food. More especially, he used to spin and wind the yarn for her; but she wished him in time to show his face, or to tell her his name: he would by no means do either. One evening, however, when all the men were out, and when he was spinning hard at the wheel, she deceived him by telling him that she was also going out. He believed her; and when he heard the door shutting, he began to sing as he plied the wheel:-- Hi warda'n iawn pe gwypa hi, Taw Gwarwyn-a-throt yw'm enw i. How she would laugh, did she know That Gwarwyn-a-throt is my name! 'Ha! ha!' said the maid at the bottom of the stairs; 'I know thy name now.' 'What is it, then?' he asked. She replied, 'Gwarwyn-a-throt'; and as soon as she uttered the words he left the wheel where it was, and off he went. He was next heard of at a farmhouse not far off, where there happened to be a servant man named Moses, with whom he became great friends at once. He did all his work for Moses with great ease. He once, however, gave him a good beating for doubting his word; but the two remained together afterwards for some years on the best possible terms: the end of it was that Moses became a soldier. He went away to fight against Richard Crookback, and fell on the field of Bosworth. The bogie, after losing his friend, began to be troublesome and difficult to live with. He would harass the oxen when they ploughed, and draw them after him everywhere, plough and all; nor could any one prevent them. Then, when the sun set in the evening he would play his pranks again, and do all sorts of mischief about the house, upstairs, and in the cowhouses. So the farmer was advised to visit a wise man (dyn cynnil), and to see if he could devise some means of getting rid of the bogie. He called on the wise man, who happened to be living near Caerleon on the Usk; and the wise man, having waited till the moon should be full, came to the farmer's house. In due time the wise man, by force of manoeuvring, secured the bogie by the very long nose which formed the principal ornament of his face, and earned for him the name of Bwca'r Trwyn, 'the Bogie of the Nose.' Whilst secured by the nose, the bogie had something read to him out of the wise man's big book; and he was condemned by the wise man to be transported to the banks of the Red Sea for fourteen generations, and to be conveyed thither by 'the upper wind' (yr uwchwynt). No sooner had this been pronounced by the cunning man than there came a whirlwind which made the whole house shake. Then came a still mightier wind, and as it began to blow the owner of the big book drew the awl out of the bogie's nose; and it is supposed that the bogie was carried away by that wind, for he never troubled the place any more. Another version of the story seems to have been current, which represented the bogie as in no wise to blame [198]: but I attach some importance to the foregoing tale as forming a link of connexion between the Rumpelstiltzchen group of fairies, always trying to get hold of children; the brownie kind, ever willing to serve in return for their simple keep; and the troublesome bogie, that used to haunt Welsh farm houses and delight in breaking crockery and frightening the inmates out of their wits. In fact, the brownie and the bogie reduce themselves here into different humours of the same uncanny being. Their appearance may be said to have differed also: the bogie had a very long nose, while the brownie of Blednoch had only 'a hole where a nose should have been.' But one of the most remarkable points about the brownie species is that the Lincolnshire specimen was a small creature, 'a weeny bit of a fellow'--which suggests a possible community of origin with the banshee of the Irish, and also of the Welsh: witness the wee little woman in the story of the Curse of Pantannas (pp. 188-9), who seems to come up out of the river. All alike may perhaps be said to suggest various aspects of the dead ancestor or ancestress; but Bwca'r Trwyn is not to be severed from the fairy woman in the Pennant Valley, who undertakes some of the duties, not of a dairymaid, as in other cases mentioned, but those of a nurse. Her conduct on being offered a gown is exactly that of the brownie similarly placed: see p. 109 above. But she and Bwca'r Trwyn are unmistakably fairies who take to domestic service, and work for a time willingly and well in return for their food, which, as in the case of other fairies, appears to have been mostly milk. After this digression I wish only to point out that the Welsh bogie's name, Gwarwyn-a-throt, treated as Welsh, could only mean white-necked and (or with) a trot; for a throt could only mean 'and (or with) a trot.' So it is clear that a throt is simply the equivalent of a-Trot, borrowed from such an English combination as Trit-a-Trot, and that it is idle to translate Gwarwyn-a-throt. Now trot and twt are not native Welsh words; and the same remark applies to Trwtyn Tratyn, and of course to Sìli ffrit and Sìli go Dwt. Hence it is natural to infer that either these names have in the Welsh stories merely superseded older ones of Welsh origin, or else that there was no question of name in the Welsh stories till they had come under English influence. The former conjecture seems the more probable of the two, unless one should rather suppose the whole story borrowed from English sources. But it is of no consequence here as regards the reluctance of fairies to disclose their names; for we have other instances to which the reader may turn, on pp. 45, 87-8, 97 above. One of them, in particular, is in point here: see pp. 54, 61. It attaches itself to the Pool of Corwrion in the neighbourhood of Bangor; and it relates how a man married a fairy on the express condition that he was neither to know her name nor to touch her with iron, on pain of her instantly leaving him. Of course in the lapse of years the conditions are accidentally violated by the luckless husband, and the wife flies instantly away into the waters of the pool: her name turned out to be Belene. Thus far of the unwillingness of the fairies to tell their names: I must now come to the question, why that was so. Here the anthropologist or the student of comparative folklore comes to our aid; for it is an important part of his business to compare the superstitions of one people with those of another; and in the case of superstitions which have lost their meaning among us, for instance, he searches for a parallel among other nations, where that parallel forms part of living institutions. In this way he hopes to discover the key to his difficulties. In the present case he finds savages who habitually look at the name as part and parcel of the person [199]. These savages further believe that any part of the person, such as a hair off one's head or the parings of one's nails, if they chanced to be found by an enemy, would give that enemy magical power over their lives, and enable him to injure them. Hence the savage tendency to conceal one's name. I have here, as the reader will perceive, crowded together several important steps in the savage logic; so I must try to illustrate them, somewhat more in detail, by reference to some of the survivals of them after the savage has long been civilized. To return to Wales, and to illustrate the belief that possession of a part of one's person, or of anything closely identified with one's person, gives the possessor of it power over that person, I need only recall the Welsh notion, that if one wished to sell one's self to the devil one had merely to give him a hair of one's head or the tiniest drop of one's blood, then one would be for ever his for a temporary consideration. Again, if you only had your hair cut, it must be carefully gathered and hidden away: by no means must it be burnt, as that might prove prejudicial to your health. Similarly, you should never throw feathers into the fire; for that was once held, as I infer, to bring about death among one's poultry: and an old relative of mine, Modryb Mari, 'Aunt Mary,' set her face against my taste for toasted cheese. She used to tell me that if I toasted my cheese, my sheep would waste away and die: strictly speaking, I fancy this originally meant only the sheep from whose milk the cheese had been made. But I was not well versed enough in the doctrines of sympathetic magic to reply, that it did not apply to our cheese, which was not made from sheep's milk. So her warning used to frighten me and check my fondness for toasted cheese, a fondness which I had doubtless quite innocently inherited, as anybody will see who will glance at one of the Hundred Mery Talys, printed by John Rastell in the sixteenth century, as follows:--'I fynde wrytten amonge olde gestes, howe God mayde Saynt Peter porter of heuen, and that God of hys goodnes, sone after his passyon, suffered many men to come to the kyngdome of Heuen with small deseruynge; at whyche tyme there was in heuen a great companye of Welchemen, whyche with their crakynge and babelynge troubled all the other. Wherfore God sayde to Saynte Peter that he was wery of them, and that he wolde fayne haue them out of heuen. To whome Saynte Peter sayd: Good Lorde, I warrente you, that shall be done. Wherfore Saynt Peter wente out of heuen gates and cryed wyth a loud voyce Cause bobe [200], that is as moche to saye as rosted chese, whiche thynge the Welchemen herynge, ranne out of Heuen a great pace. And when Saynt Peter sawe them all out, he sodenly wente into Heuen, and locked the dore, and so sparred all the Welchemen out. By this ye may se, that it is no wysdome for a man to loue or to set his mynde to moche upon any delycate or worldely pleasure, wherby he shall lose the celestyall and eternall ioye.' To leave the Mery Talys and come back to the instances mentioned, all of them may be said to illustrate the way in which a part, or an adjunct, answered for the whole of a person or thing. In fact, having due regard to magic as an exact science, an exceedingly exact science, one may say that according to the wisdom of our ancestors the leading axiom of that science practically amounted to this: the part is quite equal to the whole. Now the name, as a part of the man, was once probably identified with the breath of life or with the soul, as we shall see later; and the latter must have been regarded as a kind of matter; for I well remember that when a person was dying in a house, it was the custom about Ponterwyd, in North Cardiganshire, to open the windows. And a farmer near Ystrad Meurig, more towards the south of the county, told me some years ago that he remembered his mother dying when he was a boy: a neighbour's wife who had been acting as nurse tried to open the window of the room, and as it would not open she deliberately smashed a pane of it. This was doubtless originally meant to facilitate the escape of the soul; and the same idea has been attested for Gloucestershire, Devon, and other parts of the country [201]. This way of looking at the soul reminds one of Professor Tylor's words when he wrote in his work on Primitive Culture, i. 440: 'and he who says that his spirit goes forth to meet a friend, can still realize in the phrase a meaning deeper than metaphor.' Then if the soul was material, you may ask what its shape was; and even this I have a story which will answer: it comes from the same Modryb Mari who set her face against caws pobi, and cherished a good many superstitions. Therein she differed greatly from her sister, my mother, who had a far more logical mind and a clearer conception of things. Well, my aunt's story was to the following effect:--A party of reapers on a farm not far from Ponterwyd--I have forgotten the name--sat down in the field to their midday meal. Afterwards they rested awhile, when one of their number fell fast asleep. The others got up and began reaping again, glancing every now and then at the sleeping man, who had his mouth wide open and breathed very loudly. Presently they saw a little black man, or something like a monkey, coming out of his mouth and starting on a walk round the field: they watched this little fellow walking on and on till he came to a spot near a stream. There he stopped and turned back: then he disappeared into the open mouth of the sleeper, who at once woke up. He told his comrades that he had just been dreaming of his walking round the field as far as the very spot where they had seen the little black fellow stop. I am sorry to say that Modryb Mari had wholly forgotten this story when, years afterwards, I asked her to repeat it to me; but the other day I found a Welshman who still remembers it. I happened to complain, at a meeting of kindred spirits, how I had neglected making careful notes of bits of folklore which I had heard years ago from informants whom I had since been unable to cross-examine: I instanced the story of the sleeping reaper, when my friend Professor Sayce at once said that he had heard it. He spent part of his childhood near Llanover in Monmouthshire; and in those days he spoke Welsh, which he learned from his nurse. He added that he well remembered the late Lady Llanover rebuking his father for having his child, a Welsh boy, dressed like a little Highlander; and he remembered also hearing the story here in question told him by his nurse. So far as he could recall it, the version was the same as my aunt's, except that he does not recollect hearing anything about the stream of water. Several points in the story call for notice: among others, one naturally asks at the outset why the other reapers did not wake the sleeping man. The answer is that the Welsh seem to have agreed with other peoples, such as the Irish [202], in thinking it dangerous to wake a man when dreaming, that is, when his soul might be wandering outside his body; for it might result in the soul failing to find the way back into the body which it had temporarily left. To illustrate this from Wales I produce the following story, which has been written out for me by Mr. J. G. Evans. The scene of it was a field on the farm of Cadabowen, near Llan y Bydair, in the Vale of the Teifi:--'The chief point of the madfall incident, which happened in the early sixties, was this. During one mid-morning hoe hogi, that is to say, the usual rest for sharpening the reaping-hooks, I was playing among the thirty or forty reapers sitting together: my movements were probably a disturbing element to the reapers, as well as a source of danger to my own limbs. In order, therefore, to quiet me, as seems probable, one of the men directed my attention to our old farm labourer, who was asleep on his back close to the uncut corn, a little apart from the others. I was told that his soul (ened) had gone out of his mouth in the form of a black lizard (madfall du), and was at that moment wandering among the standing corn. If I woke the sleeper, the soul would be unable to return; and old Thomas would die, or go crazy; or something serious would happen. I will not trust my memory to fill in details, especially as this incident once formed the basis of what proved an exciting story told to my children in their childhood. A generation hence they may be able to give an astonishing instance of "genuine" Welsh folklore. In the meanwhile, I can bear testimony to that "black lizard" being about the most living impression in my "memory." I see it, even now, wriggling at the edge of the uncut corn. But as to its return, and the waking of the sleeper, my memory is a blank. Such are the tricks of "memory"; and we should be charitable when, with bated breath, the educated no less than the uneducated tell us about the uncanny things they have "seen with their own eyes." They believe what they say, because they trust their memory: I do not. I feel practically certain I never saw a lizard in my life, in that particular field in which the reapers were.' Mr. Evans' story differs, as it has been seen, from my aunt's version in giving the soul the shape of a lizard; but the little black fellow in the one and the black lizard in the other agree not only in representing the soul as material, but also as forming a complete organism within a larger one. In a word, both pictures must be regarded as the outcome of attempts to depict the sleeper's inner man. If names and souls could be regarded as material substances, so could diseases; and I wish to say a word or two now on that subject, which a short story of my wife's will serve to introduce. She is a native of the Llanberis side of Snowdon; and she remembers going one morning, when a small child, across to the neighbourhood of Rhyd-du with a servant girl called Cadi, whose parents lived there. Now Cadi was a very good servant, but she had little regard for the more civilized manners of the Llanberis folk; and when she returned with the child in the evening from her mother's cottage, she admitted that the little girl was amazed at the language of Cadi's brothers and sisters; for she confessed that, as she said, they swore like colliers, whereas the little girl had never before heard any swearing worth speaking of. Well, among other things which the little girl saw there was one of Cadi's sisters having a bad leg dressed: when the rag which had been on the wound was removed, the mother made one of her other children take it out and fix it on the thorn growing near the door. The little girl being inquisitive asked why that was done, and she was told that it was in order that the wound might heal all the faster. She was not very satisfied with the answer, but she afterwards noticed the same sort of thing done in her own neighbourhood. Now the original idea was doubtless that the disease, or at any rate a part of it--and in such matters it will be remembered that a part is quite equal to the whole--was attached to the rag; so that putting the rag out, with a part of the disease attached to it, to rot on the bush, would bring with it the disappearance of the whole disease. Another and a wider aspect of this practice was the subject of notice in the chapter on the Folklore of the Wells, pp. 359-60, where Mr. Hartland's hypothesis was mentioned. This was to the effect that if any clothing, or anything else which had been identified with your person, were to be placed in contact with a sacred tree, sacred well, or sacred edifice, it would be involved in the effluence of the divinity that imparts its sacred character to the tree, well, or temple; and that your person, identified with the clothing or other article, would also be involved or soaked in the same divine effluence, and made to benefit thereby. We have since had this kind of reasoning illustrated, pp. 405-7 above, by the modern legend of Crymlyn, and the old one of Llyn Lliwan; but the difficulty which it involves is a very considerable one: it is the difficulty of taking seriously the infantile order of reasoning which underlies so much of the philosophy of folklore. I cannot readily forget one of the first occasions of my coming, so to say, into living contact with it. It was at Tuam in Connaught, whither I had gone to learn modern Irish from the late Canon Ulick J. Bourke. There one day in 1871 he presented me with a copy of The Bull 'Ineffabilis' in Four Languages (Dublin, 1868), containing the Irish version which he had himself contributed. On the blue cover was a gilt picture of the Virgin, inscribed Sine Labe Concepta. No sooner had I brought it to my lodgings than the woman who looked after the house caught sight of it. She was at once struck with awe and admiration; so I tried to explain to her the nature of the contents of the volume. 'So the Father has given you that holy book!' she exclaimed; 'and you are now a holy man!' I was astonished at the simple and easy way in which she believed holiness could be transferred from one person or thing to another; and it has always helped me to realize the fact that folklorists have no occasion to invent their people, or to exaggerate the childish features of their minds. They are still with us as real men and real women, and at one time the whole world belonged to them; not to mention that those who may, by a straining of courtesy, be called their leaders of thought, hope speedily to reannex the daring few who are trying to tear asunder the bonds forged for mankind in the obscurity of a distant past. I shall never forget the impression made on my mind by a sermon I heard preached some years later in the cathedral of St. Stephen in Vienna. That magnificent edifice in a great centre of German culture was crowded with listeners, who seemed thoroughly to enjoy what they heard, though the chief idea which they were asked to entertain could not possibly be said to rise above the level of the philosophy of the Stone Age. CHAPTER XI FOLKLORE PHILOSOPHY To look for consistency in barbaric philosophy is to disqualify ourselves for understanding it, and the theories of it which aim at symmetry are their own condemnation. Yet that philosophy, within its own irregular confines, works not illogically.--Edward Clodd. It will be remembered that in the last chapter a story was given, p. 602, which represented the soul as a little fellow somewhat resembling a monkey; and it will probably have struck the reader how near this approaches the idea prevalent in medieval theology and Christian art, which pictured the soul as a pigmy or diminutive human being. I revert to this in order to point out that the Christian fancy may possibly have given rise to the form of the soul as represented in the Welsh story which I heard in Cardiganshire and Professor Sayce in Monmouthshire; but this could hardly be regarded as touching the other Cardiganshire story, in which the soul is likened to a madfall or lizard. Moreover I would point out that a belief incompatible with both kinds of story is suggested by one of the uses of the Welsh word for soul, namely, enaid. I heard my father, a native of the neighbourhood of Eglwys Fach, near the estuary of the Dyfi, use the word of some portion of the inside of a goose, but I have forgotten what part it was exactly. Professor Anwyl of Aberystwyth, however, has sent me the following communication on the subject:--'I am quite familiar with the expression yr enaid, "the soul," as applied to the soft flesh sticking to the ribs inside a goose. The flesh in question has somewhat the same appearance and structure as the liver. I have no recollection of ever hearing the term yr enaid used in the case of any bird other than a goose; but this may be a mere accident, inasmuch as no one ever uses the term now except to mention it as an interesting curiosity.' This application of the word enaid recalls the use of the English word 'soul' in the same way, and points to a very crude idea of the soul as material and only forming an internal portion of the body: it is on the low level of the notion of an English pagan of the seventeenth century who thought his soul was 'a great bone in his body [203].' It is, however, not quite so foolish, perhaps, as it looks at first sight; and it reminds one of the Mohammedan belief that the os coccygis is the first formed in the human body, and that it will remain uncorrupted till the last day as a seed from which the whole is to be renewed in the resurrection [204]. On either savage theory, that the soul is a material organism inside a bulkier organism, or the still lower one that it is an internal portion of the larger organism itself, the idea of death would be naturally much the same, namely, that it was what occurred when the body and the soul became permanently severed. I call attention to this because we have traces in Welsh literature of a very different notion of death, which must now be briefly explained. The Mabinogi of Math ab Mathonwy relates how Math and Gwydion made out of various flowers a most beautiful woman whom they named Blodeuwed [205], that is to say anthôdês, or flowerlike, and gave to wife to Llew Llawgyffes; how she, as it were to prove what consummate artists they had been, behaved forthwith like a woman of the ordinary origin, in that she fell in love with another man named Gronw Pebyr of Penllyn; and how she plotted with Gronw as to the easiest way to put her husband to death. Pretending to be greatly concerned about the welfare of Llew and very anxious to take measures against his death (angheu), she succeeded in finding from him in what manner one could kill (llad) him. His reply was, 'Unless God kill me ... it is not easy to kill me'; and he went on to describe the strange attitude in which he might be killed, namely, in a certain position when dressing after a bath: then, he said, if one cast a spear at him it would effect his death (angheu), but that spear must have been a whole year in the making, during the hour only when the sacrifice was proceeding on Sunday. Blodeuwed thanked heaven, she said, to find that all this was easy to avoid. But still her curiosity was not satisfied; so one day she induced Llew to go into the bath and show exactly what he meant. Of course she had Gronw with his enchanted spear in readiness, and at the proper moment, when Llew was dressing after the bath, the paramour cast his spear at him. He hit him in the side, so that the head of the spear remained in Llew, whilst the shaft fell off: Llew flew away in the form of an eagle, uttering an unearthly cry. He was no more seen until Gwydion, searching for him far and wide in Powys and Gwyned, came to Arfon, where one day he followed the lead of a mysterious sow, until the beast stopped under an oak at Nantlle. There Gwydion found the sow devouring rotten flesh and maggots, which fell from an eagle whenever the bird shook himself at the top of the tree. He suspected this was Llew, and on singing three englyns to him the eagle came lower and lower, till at last he descended on Gwydion's lap. Then Gwydion struck him with his wand, so that he assumed his own shape of Llew Llawgyffes, and nobody ever saw a more wretched looking man, we are told: he was nothing but skin and bones. But the best medical aid that could be found in Gwyned was procured, and before the end of the year he was quite well again. Here it will be noticed, that though the fatal wounding of Llew, at any rate visibly, means his being changed into the form of an eagle, it is treated as his death. When the Mabinogion were edited in their present form in a later atmosphere, this sort of phraseology was not natural to the editor, and he shows it when he comes to relate how Gwydion punished Blodeuwed, as follows:--Gwydion, having overtaken her in her flight, is made to say, 'I shall not kill thee (Ny ladaf i di): I shall do what is worse for thee, and that is to let thee go in the form of a bird.' He let her go in fact in the form of an owl. According to the analogy of the other part of the story this meant his having killed her: it was her death, and the words 'I shall not kill thee' are presumably not to be regarded as belonging to the original story. To come back to the eagle, later Welsh literature, re-echoing probably an ancient notion, speaks of a nephew of Arthur, called Eliwlod, appearing to Arthur as an eagle seated likewise among the branches of an oak. He claims acquaintance and kinship with Arthur, but he has to explain to him that he has died: they have a dialogue [206] in the course of which the eagle gives Arthur some serious Christian advice. But we have in this sort of idea doubtless the kind of origin to which one might expect to trace the prophesying eagle, such as Geoffrey mentions more than once: see his Historia, ii. 9 and xii. 18 [207]. Add to these instances of transformation the belief prevalent in Cornwall almost to our own day, that Arthur himself, instead of dying, was merely changed by magic into a raven, a form in which he still goes about; so that a Cornishman will not wittingly fire at a raven [208]. This sort of transformation is not to be severed from instances supplied by Irish literature, such as the story of Tuan mac Cairill, related in the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 15a-16b. Tuan relates to St. Finnen of Magbile, in the sixth century, the early history of Ireland from the time of Partholan down, which he was enabled to do because he had lived through it all, passing from one form to another without losing his memory. First of all he was a man, and when old age had come upon him he was transformed into a stag of the forest. For a while he was youthful and vigorous; but again old age overtook him, and he next became a wild boar. When old age and decrepitude overcame him next he was renewed in the form of a powerful bird, called in the original seig. The next renewal was in the form of a salmon: here the manuscript fails us. The form of a salmon was also the one taken by the woman Liban when she was overwhelmed by the flood, which became the body of water known as Lough Neagh: her handmaid at the same time became an otter (fo. 40b). There was an ancient belief that the soul leaves the body like a bird flying out of the mouth of the man or woman dying, and this maybe said to approach the favourite Celtic notion illustrated by the transformations here instanced, to which may be added the case of the Children of Lir, pp. 93, 549, changed by the stroke of their wicked stepmother's wand into swans, on Lough Erne. The story has, in the course of ages, modified itself into a belief that the swans haunting that beautiful water at all seasons of the year, are the souls of holy women who fell victims to the repeated visitations of the pagan Norsemen, when Ireland was at their cruel mercy [209]. The Christian form which the Irish peasant has given the legend does not touch its relevancy here. Perhaps one might venture to generalize, that in these islands great men and women were believed to continue their existence in the form of eagles, hawks or ravens, swans or owls. But what became of the souls of the obscurer majority of the people? For an answer to this perhaps we can only fall back on the Psyche butterfly, which may here be illustrated by the fact that Cornish tradition applies the term 'pisky' both to the fairies and to moths, believed in Cornwall by many to be departed souls [210]. So in Ireland: a certain reverend gentleman named Joseph Ferguson, writing in 1810 a statistical account of the parish of Ballymoyer, in the county of Armagh, states that one day a girl chasing a butterfly was chid by her companions, who said to her: 'That may be the soul of your grandmother [211].' This idea, to survive, has modified itself into a belief less objectionably pagan, that a butterfly hovering near a corpse is a sign of its everlasting happiness. The shape-shifting is sometimes complicated by taking place on the lines of rebirth: as cases in point may be mentioned Lug, reborn as Cúchulainn [212], and the repeated births of Étáin. This was rendered possible in the case of Cúchulainn, for instance, by Lug taking the form of an insect which was unwittingly swallowed by Dechtere, who thereby became Cúchulainn's mother; and so in the case of Étáin [213] and her last recorded mother, the queen of Etar king of Eochraidhe. On Welsh ground we have a combination of transformations and rebirth in the history of Gwion Bach in the story of Taliessin. Gwion was in the service of the witch Ceridwen; but having learned too much of her arts, he became the object of her lasting hatred; and the incident is translated as follows in Lady Charlotte Guest's Mabinogion, iii. 358-9:--'And she went forth after him, running. And he saw her, and changed himself into a hare and fled. But she changed herself into a greyhound and turned him. And he ran towards a river, and became a fish. And she in the form of an otter-bitch chased him under the water, until he was fain to turn himself into a bird of the air. Then she, as a hawk, followed him and gave him no rest in the sky. And just as she was about to swoop upon him, and he was in fear of death, he espied a heap of winnowed wheat on the floor of a barn, and he dropped amongst the wheat, and turned himself into one of the grains. Then she transformed herself into a high-crested black hen, and went to the wheat and scratched it with her feet, and found him out and swallowed him. And, as the story says, she bore him nine months, and when she was delivered of him, she could not find it in her heart to kill him, by reason of his beauty. So she wrapped him in a leathern bag, and cast him into the sea to the mercy of God on the twenty-ninth day of April. And at that time the weir of Gwydno was on the strand between Dyvi and Aberystwyth, near to his own castle, and the value of an hundred pounds was taken in that weir every May eve.' The story goes on to relate how Gwydno's son, Elphin, found in the weir the leathern bag containing the baby, who grew up to be the bard Taliessin. But the fourteenth century manuscript called after the name of Taliessin teems with such transformations as the above, except that they are by no means confined to the range of the animal and vegetable kingdoms. I heard an amusing suggestion of metempsychosis the other day: it is related of a learned German, who was sitting at table, let us say, in an Oxford hotel, with most of his dinner in front of him. Being, however, a man of immediate foresight, and anxious to accustom himself to fine English, he was not to be restrained by scruples as to any possible discrepancy between words like bekommen and become. So to the astonishment of everybody he gravely called out to the waiter, 'Hereafter I vish to become a Velsh rabbit.' This would have done admirably for the author of certain poems in the Book of Taliessin, where the bard's changes are dwelt upon. From them it appears that the transformation might be into anything that the mind of man could in any way individualize. Thus Taliessin claims to have been, some time or other, not only a stag or a salmon, but also an axe, a sword, and even a book in a priest's hand, or a word in writing. On the whole, however, his history as a grain of corn has most interest here, as it differs from that which has just been given: the passage [214] is sadly obscure, but I understand it to say that the grain was duly sown on a hill, that it was reaped and finally brought on the hearth, where the ears of corn were emptied of their grains by the ancient method of dexterously applying a flame to them [215]. But while the light was being applied the grain which was Taliessin, falling from the operator's hand, was quickly received and swallowed by a hostile hen, in whose interior it remained nine nights; but though this seemingly makes Taliessin's mother a bird, he speaks of himself, without mentioning any intervening transformation, as a gwas or young man. Such an origin was perhaps never meant to be other than incomprehensible. Lastly as to rebirth, I may say that it has often struck me that the Welsh habit, especially common in Carnarvonshire and Anglesey, of one child in a family being named, partially or wholly, after a grandparent, is to be regarded as a trace of the survival from early times of a belief in such atavism as has been suggested above [216]. The belief in transformations or transmigrations, such as have been mentioned, must have lent itself to various developments, and two at least of them are deserving of some notice here. First may be mentioned one which connects itself intimately with the druid or magician: he is master of his own transformations, as in the case of Ceridwen and Gwion, for he had acquired his magic by tasting of the contents of Ceridwen's Cauldron of Sciences, and he retained his memory continuously through his shape-shiftings, as is best illustrated, perhaps, by the case of Tuan mac Cairill. The next step was for him to realize his changes, not as matters of the past but as present and possible; in fact, to lay claim to being anybody or anything he likes at any moment. Of this we have a remarkable instance in the case of Amairgen, seer and judge of the Milesians or Sons of Míl, in the story of their conquest of Ireland, as told in the Book of Leinster, fo. 12b. As he first sets his right foot on the land of Erin he sings a lay in which he says, that he is a boar, a bull, and a salmon, together with other things also, such as the sea-breeze, the rolling wave, the roar of the billows, and a lake on the plain. Nor does he forget to pretend to wisdom and science beyond other men, and to hint that he is the divinity that gives them knowledge and sense. The similarity between this passage and others in the Book of Taliessin has attracted the attention of scholars: see M. d'Arbois de Jubainville's Cycle mythologique irlandais, pp. 242 et seq. On the whole, Taliessin revels most in the side of the picture devoted to his knowledge and science: he has passed through so many scenes and changes that he has been an eye-witness to all kinds of events in Celtic story. Thus he was with Brân on his expedition to Ireland, and saw when Mordwyt Tyllion was slain in the great slaughter of the Meal-bag Pavilion. This, however, was not all; he represents himself as also a sywedyd [217], 'vates or prophet, astrologer and astronomer,' a sage who boasts his knowledge of the physical world and propounds questions which he challenges his rivals to answer concerning earth and sea, day and night, sun and moon. He is not only Taliessin, but also Gwion, and hence one infers his magical powers to have been derived. If he regards anybody as his equal or superior, that seems to have been Talhaiarn, to whom he ascribes the greatest science. Talhaiarn is usually thought of only as a great bard by Welsh writers, but it is his science and wisdom that Taliessin admires [218], whereby one is to understand, doubtless, that Talhaiarn, like Taliessin, was a great magician. To this day Welsh bards and bardism have not been quite dissociated from magic, in so far as the witch Ceridwen is regarded as their patroness. The boasts of Amairgen are characterized by M. d'Arbois de Jubainville as a sort of pantheism, and he detects traces of the same doctrine, among other places, in the teaching of the Irishman, known as Scotus Erigena, at the court of Charles the Bald in the ninth century: see the Cycle mythologique, p. 248. In any case, one is prepared by such utterances as those of Amairgen to understand the charge recorded in the Senchus Mór, i. 23, as made against the Irish druids or magicians of his time by a certain Connla Cainbhrethach, one of the remarkable judges of Erin, conjectured by O'Curry--on what grounds I do not know--to have lived in the first century of our era. The statement there made is to the following effect:--'After her came Connla Cainbhrethach, chief doctor of Connaught; he excelled the men of Erin in wisdom, for he was filled with the grace of the Holy Ghost; he used to contend with the druids, who said that it was they that made heaven and earth, and the sea, &c., and the sun and moon, &c.' This view of the pretensions of the druids is corroborated by the fact that magic, especially the power of shape-shifting at will, was regarded as power par excellence [219], and by the old formula of wishing one well, which ran thus: Bendacht dee ocus andee fort, 'the blessing of gods and not-gods upon thee!' The term 'gods' in this context is explained to have meant persons of power [220], and the term 'not-gods' farmers or those connected with the land, probably all those whose lives were directly dependent on farming and the cultivation of the soil, as distinguished from professional men such as druids and smiths. This may be further illustrated by a passage from the account of the second battle of Moytura, published by Stokes with a translation, in the Revue Celtique, xii. 52-130. See more especially pp. 74-6, where we find Lug offering his services to the king, Nuada of the Silver Hand. Among other qualifications which Lug possessed, he named that of being a sorcerer, to which the porter at once replied: 'We need thee not; we have sorcerers already. Many are our wizards and our folk of might'--that is, those of our people who possess power--ar lucht cumachtai. Wizards (druith) and lucht cumachtai came, it is observed, alike under the more general designation of sorcerers (corrguinigh). One seems to come upon traces of the same classification of a community into professionals and non-professionals, for that is what it comes to, in an obscure Welsh term, Teulu Oeth ac Anoeth, which may be conjectured to have meant 'the Household of Oeth and Anoeth' in the sense of Power and Not-power [221]. However that may be, the professional class of men who were treated as persons of power and gods seem to have attained to their position by virtue of the magic of which they claimed to be masters, and especially of their supposed faculty of shape-shifting at will. In other words, the druidic pantheism [222] which Erigena was able to dress in the garb of a fairly respectable philosophy proves to have been, in point of genesis, but a few removes from a primitive kind of savage folklore. None of these stories of shape-shifting, and of being born again, make any allusion to a soul. To revert, for instance, to Llew Llawgyffes, it is evident that the eagle cannot be regarded as his soul. The decayed state of the eagle's body seems to imply that it was somehow the same body as that of Llew at the time when he was wounded by Gronw's poisoned spear: the festering of the eagle's flesh looks as if considered a continuation of the wound. It is above all things, however, to be noted that none of the stories in point, whether Irish or Welsh, contain any suggestion of the hero's life coming to an end, or in any way perishing; Llew lives on to be transformed, under the stroke of Gwydion's wand, from being an eagle to be a man again; and Tuan mac Cairill persists in various forms till he meets St. Finnen in the sixth century. Then in the case of Étáin, we are told in the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 129a, that her first-mentioned birth and the next one were separated by more than a thousand years. So practically we may say that these stories implied that men and women were imperishable, that they had no end necessarily to their existence. This sort of notion may be detected in Llew's words when he says, 'Unless God kill me ... it is not easy to kill me.' The reference to the Almighty may probably be regarded as a comparatively late interpolation due to Christian teaching. A similar instance seems to occur in a poem in the Black Book of Carmarthen, fos. 47b-8b, where Arthur loudly sings the praises of his friend Cai. The couplet in point runs thus:-- Ny bei duv ae digonhei. Oet diheit aghev kei. Unless it were God that wrought it, Hard to effect were the death of Cai. I am not sure, however, of the meaning; for, among other things, diheit, which I am inclined to interpret as 'hard to reach' or 'not easy to effect,' has been rendered otherwise by others [223]. In any case, the other instance seems to imply that at one time the heroes of Llew's world were not necessarily expected to die at all; and when they happened to do so, it was probably regarded, as among savages at the present day, as a result brought about by magic. Any reader who may feel astonished at such a crudeness of belief, will find something to contrast and compare in the familiar doctrine, that but for the fall of Adam and Eve we should have never heard of death, whether of man or of beast. But if he proceeds to ask questions about the economy of our world in case nobody died, he must be satisfied to be told that to ask any such question is here not only useless but also irrelevant. Now, suppose that in a society permeated by the crude kind of notions of which one finds traces in the Mabinogion and other old Welsh literature, a man arose who had a turn for philosophizing and trying to think things out: how would he reason? It seems probable that he would argue, that underneath all the change there must be some substratum which is permanent. If Tuan, he would say, changed from one form to another and remembered all that he had gone through, there must have been something which lasted, otherwise Tuan would have come to an end early in the story, and the later individual would not be Tuan at all. Probably one thing which, according to our folklore philosopher's way of thinking, lasted through the transformations, was the material of Tuan's body, just as one is induced to suppose that Llew's body, and that of the eagle into which he was transformed, were considered to be one and the same body labouring under the mortifying influence of the wound inflicted on Llew by Gronw's enchanted spear. Further, we have already found reasons to regard the existence of the soul as forming a part of the creed of some at any rate of the early inhabitants of this country, though we have no means of gathering what precise attributes our philosopher might ascribe to it besides the single one, perhaps, of continuing to exist. In that case he might otherwise describe Tuan's shape-shifting as the entrance of Tuan's soul into a series of different bodies. Now the philosopher here sketched agrees pretty closely with the little that is known of the Gaulish druid, such as he is described by ancient authors [224]. The latter seem to have been agreed in regarding him as believing in the immortality of the soul, and several of them appear to have thought his views similar to those of Pythagoras and his school. So we may perhaps venture to suppose that the druids, like Pythagoras, believed in the transmigration of souls, including that from the human to an animal form and the reverse. If, in the absence of an explicit statement, one may ascribe this latter form of that belief to the druids, the identity of their creed becomes almost complete with that of our conjectured folklore philosopher. At one time I was inclined to fancy that the druids of Gaul had received no unimportant part of their teaching from Greek philosophy by way of Massilia, but I am now more disposed to believe their doctrines to have been gradually developed, in the way above suggested, from the unfailing resources of that folklore which revelled in scenes of shape-shifting and rebirth. Possibly the doctrines of Pythagoras may have themselves had a like origin and a somewhat parallel development, or let us say rather that the Orphic notions had, which preceded Pythagoreanism. But as to Gaul generally, it is not to be assumed that the Gaulish druids and all the other Gauls held the same opinion on these questions: we have some evidence that they did not. Thus the Gauls in the neighbourhood of Massilia [225], who would accept a creditor's promise to pay up in the next world, can hardly have contemplated the possibility of any such creditor being then a bird or a moth. Should it be objected that the transformations, instanced above as Brythonic and Goidelic, were assumed only in the case of magicians and other professional or privileged persons, and that we are not told what was held to happen in the case of the rank and file of humanity, it is enough to answer that neither do we know what the druids of Gaul held to be the fate of the common people of their communities. No lever can be applied in that direction to disturb the lines of the parallel. In previous chapters, pp. 45, 54, 61, 88, 97, 229, instances from Welsh sources have been given of the fairies concealing their names. But Wales is not the only Celtic land where we find traces of this treatment of one's name: it is to be detected also on Irish ground. Thus, when a herald from an enemy's camp comes to parley with Cúchulainn and his charioteer, the latter, being first approached, describes himself as the 'man of the man down there,' meaning Cúchulainn, to whom he pointed; and when the herald comes to Cúchulainn himself, he asks him whose man he is: Cúchulainn describes himself as the 'man of Conchobar mac Nessa.' The herald then inquires if he has no more definite designation, and Cúchulainn replies that what he has given will suffice [226]: neither of the men gives his name. Thus Celts of both groups, Brythons and Goidels, are at one in yielding evidence to the same sort of cryptic treatment of personal names, at some stage or other in their past history. The student of man tells us, as already pointed out, that the reason for the reluctance to disclose one's name was of the same nature as that which makes savages, and some men belonging to nations above the savage state feel anxious that an enemy should not get possession of anything identified with their persons, such as a lock of one's hair, a drop of one's blood, or anything closely connected with one's person, lest it should give the enemy power over one's person as a whole, especially if such enemy is suspected of possessing any skill in handling the terrors of magic. In other words, the anthropologist would say that the name was regarded as identified with the person; and, having said this, he has mostly felt satisfied that he has definitively disposed of the matter. Therein, however, he is possibly wrong; for when he says that the name was probably treated as a part of the man, that only leads one to ask the question, What part of the man? At any rate, I can see nothing very unreasonable in such a question, though I am quite willing to word it differently, and to ask: Is there any evidence to show with what part of a man his name was associated? As regards the Aryan nations, we seem to have a clue to an answer in the interesting group of Aryan words in point, from which I select the following:--Irish ainm, 'a name,' plural anmann; Old Welsh anu, now enw, also 'a name'; Old Bulgarian imen (for *ienmen, *anman); Old Prussian emnes, emmens, accusative emnan; and Armenian anwan (for a stem *anman)--all meaning a name. To these some scholars [227] would add, and it may be rightly, the English word name itself, the Latin nomen, the Sanskrit naman, and the Greek ynoma; but, as some others find a difficulty in thus grouping these words, I abstain from laying any stress on them. In fact, I have every reason to be satisfied with the wide extent of the Aryan world covered by the other instances enumerated as Celtic, Prussian, Bulgarian, and Armenian. Now, such is the similarity between Welsh enw, 'name,' and enaid, 'soul,' that I cannot help referring the two words to one and the same origin, especially when I see the same or rather greater similarity illustrated by the Irish words, ainm, 'name,' and anim, 'soul.' This similarity between the Irish words so pervades the declension of them, that a beginner frequently falls into the error of confounding them in medieval texts. Take, for instance, the genitive singular, anma, which may mean either animæ or nominis; the nominative plural, anmand, which may be either animæ or nomina; and the gen. anmand, either animarum or nominum, as the dative anmannaib may likewise be either animabus or nominibus. In fact, one is at first sight almost tempted to suppose that the partial differentiation of the Irish forms was only brought about under the influence of Latin, with its distinct forms of anima and nomen. That would be pressing the point too far; but the direct teaching of the Celtic vocables is that they are all to be referred to the same origin in the Aryan word for 'breath or breathing,' which is represented by such words as Latin anima, Welsh anadl, 'breath,' and a Gothic anan, 'blow or breathe,' whence the compound preterite uz-on, twice used by Ulfilas in the fifteenth chapter of St. Mark's Gospel to render exepneuse, 'gave up the ghost.' Now the lessons which the words here grouped together contain for the student of man is, that the Celts, and certain other widely separated Aryans, unless we should rather say the whole of the Aryan family, were once in the habit of closely associating both the soul and one's name with the breath of life. The evidence is satisfactory so far as it goes; but let us go a little more into detail, and see as exactly as we can to what it commits us. Commencing at the beginning, we may set out with the axiom that breathing is a physical action, and that in the temperate zone one's breath is not unfrequently visible. Then one may say that the men who made the words--Welsh, enaid (for an earlier anatio-s), 'soul'; Irish, anim (from an earlier stem, animon); Latin, anima, also animus, 'feeling, mind, soul'; and Greek, anemos, 'air, wind'--must have in some way likened the soul to one's breath, which perhaps first suggested the idea. At all events they showed not only that they did not contemplate the soul as a bone, or any solid portion of a man's frame, or even as a manikin residing inside it: in fact they had made a great advance in the direction of the abstract notion of a spirit, in which some of them may have been helped by another association of ideas, namely, that indicated by speaking of the dead as shades or shadows, umbræ, skiai. Similarly, the words in point for 'name' seem to prove that some of the ancient Aryans must have, in some way, associated one's name with the breath of life. On the other hand, we find nothing to show that the name and the soul were directly compared or associated with one another, while the association of the name with the breath represents, probably, a process as much earlier as it is cruder, than likening the soul to the breath and naming it accordingly. This is countenanced to some extent by the general physiognomy, so to say, of words like enaid, anima, as contrasted with enw, ainm, nomen, name. Speaking relatively, the former might be of almost any date in point of comparative lateness, while the latter could not, belonging as they do to a small declension which was not wont to receive accessions to its numbers. In what way, then, or in what respect did early folklore identify the name with the breath? Before one could expect to answer this question in anything like a convincing fashion, one would have to examine the collector of the folklore of savages, or rather to induce him to cross-examine them on the point. For instance, among the Singhalese [228], when in the ceremony of name-giving the father utters the baby's name in a low whisper in the baby's ear, is that called breathing the name? and is the name so whispered called a breath or a breathing? In the case of the savages who name their children at their birth, is the reason ever advanced that a name must be given to the child in order to make it breathe, or, at least, in order to facilitate its breathing? Some such a notion of reinforcing the child's vitality and safety would harmonize well enough with the fact that, as Mr. Clodd [229] puts it, 'Barbaric, Pagan, and Christian folklore is full of examples of the importance of naming and other birth-ceremonies, in the belief that the child's life is at the mercy of evil spirits watching the chance of casting spells upon it, of demons covetous to possess it, and of fairies eager to steal it and leave a "changeling" in its place.' Provisionally, one must perhaps rest content to suppose the association of the name to have taken place with the breath regarded as an accompaniment of life. Looked at in that sense, the name becomes associated with one's life, and, speaking roughly, with one's person; and it is interesting to notice that one seems to detect traces in Welsh literature of some confusion of the kind. Thus, when the hero of the story of Kulhwch and Olwen was christened he was named Kulhwch, which is expressed in Welsh as 'forcing or driving Kulhwch on him' (gyrru kulh6ch arna6 [230]); Kulh6ch, be it noticed, not the name Kulhwch. Similarly when Brân, on the eve of his expedition to Ireland, left seven princes, or knights as they are also called, to take charge of his dominions, we have an instance of the kind. The stead or town was named after the seven knights, and it is a place which is now known as Bryn y Saith Marchog, 'the Hill of the Seven Knights,' near Gwydelwern, in Merionethshire. But the wording of the Mabinogi of Branwen is o acha6s hynny y dodet seith marcha6c ar y dref [231], meaning 'for that reason the stead was called Seven Knights,' literally 'for that reason one put Seven Knights on the stead.' In Guest's Mabinogion, iii. 116, this will be found rendered wrongly, though not wholly without excuse--'for this reason were the seven knights placed in the town.' It is probable that the redactor of the stories from which the two foregoing instances come--and more might be cited--was not so much courting ambiguities as adhering to an old form of expression which neglected from the first to distinguish, in any formal way, between names and the persons or things which they would, in modern phraseology, be said to represent [232]. An instance has been already mentioned of a man's name being put or set on him, or rather forced on him: at any rate, his name is on him both in Welsh and Irish, and the latter language also speaks of it as cleaving or adhering to him. Neither language contemplates the name, however closely identified with him, as having become an inseparable part of him, or else as something he has secured for himself. In the neo-Celtic tongues, both Welsh and Irish, all things which a man owns, and all things for which he takes credit, are with him or by him; but all things which he cannot help having, whether creditable or discreditable, if they are regarded as coming from without are on him, not with him. Thus, if he is wealthy there is money with him; but if he is in debt and owes money, the money is on him. Similarly, if he rejoices there is joy with him; whereas if he is ashamed or afraid, shame or fear is on him. This is a far-reaching distinction, of capital importance in Celtic phraseology, and judged by this criterion the name is something from without the man, something which he cannot take credit to himself for having acquired by his own direct willing or doing. This is to be borne in mind when one speaks of the name as identified or closely bound up with one's life and personality. But this qualified identification of the name with the man is also what one may infer from savage folklore; for many, perhaps most, of the nations who name their children at their birth, have those names changed when the children grow up. That is done when a boy has to be initiated into the mysteries of his tribe or of a guild, or it may be when he has achieved some distinction in war. In most instances, it involves a serious ceremony and the intervention of the wise man, whether the medicine-man of a savage system, or the priest of a higher religion [233]. In the ancient Wales of the Mabinogion, and in pagan Ireland, the name-giving was done, subject to certain conditions, at the will and on the initiative of the druid, who was at the same time tutor and teacher of the youth to be renamed [234]. Here I may be allowed to direct attention to the two following facts: the druid, recalling as he does the magician of the Egypt of the Pentateuch and the shaman of the Mongolian world of our own time, represented a profession probably not of Celtic origin. In the next place, his method of selecting names from incidents was palpably incompatible with what is known to have been the Aryan system of nomenclature, by means of compounds, as evinced by the annals of most nations of the Aryan family of speech: such compounds, I mean, as Welsh Pen-wyn, 'white-headed,' Gaulish Penno-ouindos, or Greek Hipparchos, Archippos, and the like. Briefly, one may say that the association of the name with the breath of life was probably Aryan, but without, perhaps, being unfamiliar to the aborigines of the British Isles before their conquest by the Celts. On the other hand, in the druid and his method of naming we seem to touch the non-Aryan substratum, and to detect something which was not Celtic, not Aryan [235]. Perhaps the reader will not regard it as wholly irrelevant if here I change the subject for a while from one's name to other words and locutions in so far as they may be regarded as illustrative of the mental surroundings in which the last paragraph leaves the name. I allude especially to the exaggerated influence associated with a form of words, more particularly among the Irish Celts. O'Curry gives a tragic instance: the poet Néde mac Adnai, in order to obtain possession of the throne of Connaught, asked an impossible request of the king, who was his own father's brother and named Caier. When the king declared his inability to accede to his demand the poet made the refusal his excuse for composing on the king what was called in Irish an áir or áer, written later aor, 'satire,' which ran approximately thus:-- Evil, death, short life to Caier! May spears of battle wound Caier! Caier quenched, Caier forced, Caier underground! Under ramparts, under stones with Caier! O'Curry goes on to relate how Caier, washing his face at the fountain next morning, discovered that it had three blisters on it, which the satire had raised, to wit, disgrace, blemish, and defect, in colours of crimson, green, and white. So Caier fleeing, that his plight might not be seen of his friends, came to Dun Cearmna (now the Old Head of Kinsale, in county Cork), the residence of Caichear, chief of that district. There Caier was well received as a stranger of unknown quality, while Néde assumed the sovereignty of Connaught. In time, Néde came to know of Caier being there, and rode there in Caier's chariot. But as Néde approached Caier escaped through his host's house and hid himself in the cleft of a rock, whither Néde followed Caier's greyhound; and when Caier saw Néde, the former dropped dead of shame [236]. This abstract of the story as told by O'Curry, will serve to show how the words of the satirist were dreaded by high and low among the ancient Irish, and how their demands had to be at once obeyed. It is a commonplace of Irish literature that the satirist's words unfailingly raised blisters on the face of him at whom they were aimed. A portion at least of the potency of the poet's words seems to have been regarded as due to their being given a certain metrical form. That, however, does not show how the poet had acquired his influence, and one cannot shut one's eyes to the fact that the means he might adopt to make his influence felt and his wishes instantly attended to, implied that the race with which he had to deal was a highly sensitive one: I may perhaps apply to it the adjective thin-skinned, in the literal sense of that word. For the blisters on the face are only an exaggeration of a natural phenomenon. On this point my attention has been called by a friend to the following passages in a review of a work on the pathology of the emotions [237]:-- 'To both the hurtful and curative effects of the emotions M. Féré devotes much attention, and on these points makes some interesting remarks. That the emotions act on the body, more by their effects on the circulation than by anything else, is no new thesis, but M. Féré is developing some new branches of it. That the heart may be stopped for a few seconds, and that there may be localised flush and pallor of the skin, owing to almost any strong emotion, whether it be joy, anger, fear, or pain, is a matter of common observation; and that there may be many changes of nutrition due to vaso-motor disturbance is a point easy to establish. The skin is particularly easily affected; passion and pain may produce a sweat that is truly hemorrhagic (Parrot); and the scientific world is obliged to admit that in the stigmata of Louise Lateau the blood vessels were really broken, and not broken by anything else than an emotional state as cause. In a shipwreck Follain tells us that the pilot was covered in an hour with pustules from his fear; and the doctor sees many dermato-neuroses, such as nettle-rash, herpes, pemphigus, vitiligo, &c, from the choc moral.' I can illustrate this from my own observation: when I was an undergraduate there was with me at college a Welsh undergraduate, who, when teased or annoyed by his friends, was well known to be subject to a sort of rash or minute pustules on his face: it would come on in the course of an hour or so. There is a well-known Welsh line on this subject of the face which is to the point:-- Ni chel grud gystud càlon. The cheek hides not the heart's affliction. So a man who was insulted, or whose honour was assailed, might be said to be thereby put to the blush or to be otherwise injured in his face; and the Irish word enech, 'face,' is found commonly used as a synonym for one's honour or good name. The same appears to have been the case with the Welsh equivalent, wyneb, 'face,' and dyn di-wyneb, literally 'a faceless man,' appears to be now used in Carnarvonshire and Glamorgan in the sense of one who is without a sense of honour, an unprincipled fellow. So when Welsh law dealt with insults and attacks on one's honour the payment to be made to the injured person was called gwynebwerth, 'the price of one's face,' or gwynebwarth, 'the payment for disgracing one's face.' Irish law arranged for similar damages, and called them by analogous names, such as enech-gris, 'a fine for injuring or raising a blush on the face,' and enech-lóg or enech-lann, 'honour price'; compare also enech-ruice, 'a face-reddening or blushing caused by some act or scandal which brought shame on a family.' Possibly one has to do with traces of somewhat the same type of 'face,' though it has faded away to the verge of vanishing, when one speaks in English of keeping another in countenance. It has been suggested that if a magician got a man's name he could injure him by means of his arts: now the converse seems to have been the case with the Irish áer or satire, for to be effective it had, as in the instance of Caier, to mention the victim's name; and a curious instance occurs in the Book of Leinster, fo. 117, where the poet Atherne failed to curse a person whose name he could not manipulate according to the rules of his satire. This man Atherne is described as inhospitable, stingy, and greedy to the last degree. So it is related how he sallied forth one day, taking with him a cooked pig and a pot of mead, to a place where he intended to gorge himself without being observed. But no sooner had he settled down to his meal than he saw a man approaching, who remarked to him on his operating on the food all alone, and unceremoniously picked up the porker and the pot of mead. As he was coolly walking away with them, Atherne cried out after him, 'What is thy name?' The stranger replied that it was nothing very grand, and gave it as follows:-- Sethor . ethor . othor . sele . dele . dreng gerce Mec gerlusce . ger ger . dír dír issed moainmse. Sethor-Ethor-Othor-Sele-Dele-Dreng gerce Son of Gerlusce ger-ger-dír-dír, that is my name. The story goes on to say that Atherne neither saw his meal any more nor succeeded in making a satire on the name of the stranger, who accordingly got away unscathed. It was surmised, we are told, that he was an angel come from God to teach the poet better manners. This comic story brings us back to the importance of the name, as it implies that the cursing poet, had he been able to seize it and duly work it into his satire, could not have failed to bring about the intruder's discomfiture. The magician and folklore philosopher, far from asking with Juliet, 'What's in a name?' would have rather put it the other way, 'What's not in a name?' At any rate the ancients believed that there was a great deal in a name, and traces of the importance which they gave it are to be found in modern speech: witness the article on name or its equivalent in a big dictionary of any language possessed of a great literature. It has been seen that it is from the point of view of magic that the full importance of one's name was most keenly realized by our ancient Celts; that is, of magic more especially in that stage of its history when it claimed as its own a certain degree of skill in the art of verse-making. Perhaps, indeed, it would be more accurate to suppose that verse-making appertained from the outset to magic, and that it was magicians, medicine-men, or seers, who, for their own use, first invented the aids of rhythm and metre. The subject, however, of magic and its accessories is far too vast to be treated here: it has been touched upon here and there in some of the previous chapters, and I may add that wizardry and magic form the machinery, so to say, of the stories called in Welsh the 'Four Branches of the Mabinogi' namely those of Pwyll, Branwen, Manawydan, and Math. Now these four, together with the adventure of Llûd and Llevelys, and, in a somewhat qualified sense, the story of Kulhwch and Olwen, represent in a Brythonicized form the otherwise lost legends of the Welsh Goidels; and, like those of the Irish Goidels, they are remarkable for their wizardry. Nor is that all, for in the former the kings are mostly the greatest magicians of their time: or shall I rather put it the other way, and say that in them the greatest magicians function as kings? Witness Math son of Mathonwy king of Gwyned, and his sister's son, Gwydion ab Dôn, to whom as his successor he duly taught his magic; then come the arch-enchanter Arawn, king of Annwn, and Caswallon ab Beli, represented as winning his kingdom by the sheer force of magic. To these might be added other members of the kingly families whose story shows them playing the rôle of magicians, such as Rhiannon, who by her magic arts foiled her powerful suitor, Gwawl ab Clûd, and secured as her consort the man of her choice, Pwyll prince of Dyfed. Here also, perhaps, one might mention Manawydan ab Llyr, who, as Manannán mac Lir, figures in the stories of the Goidels of Erin and Man as a consummate wizard and first king of the Manx people: see p. 314 above. In the Mabinogi, however, no act of magic is ascribed to Manawydan, though he is represented successfully checkmating the most formidable wizard arrayed against him and his friends, to wit, Llwyd ab Kilcoed. Not only does one get the impression that the ruling class in these stories of the Welsh Goidels had their magic handed down from generation to generation according to a fixed rule of maternal succession (pp. 326, 503, 505), but it supplies the complete answer to and full explanation of questions as to the meaning of the terms already mentioned, Tuatha Dé ocus Andé, and Lucht Cumachtai, together with its antithesis. Within the magic-wielding class exercising dominion over the shepherds and tillers of the soil of the country, it is but natural to suppose that the first king was the first magician or greatest medicine-man, as in the case of Manannán in the Isle of Man. This must of course be understood to apply to the early history of the Goidelic race, or, perhaps more correctly speaking, to one of the races which had contributed to its composition: to the aborigines, let us say, by whatsoever name or names you may choose to call them, whether Picts or Ivernians. It is significant, among other things, that our traditions should connect the potency of ancient wizardry with descent in the female line of succession, and, in any case, one cannot be wrong in assuming magic to have begun very low down in the scale of social progress, probably lower than religion, with which it is essentially in antagonism. As the crude and infantile pack of notions, collectively termed sympathetic magic--beginning with the belief that any effect may be produced by imitating the action of the cause of it, or even doing anything that would recall it [238]--grew into the panoply of the magician, he came to regard himself, and to be regarded by others, as able for his own benefit and that of his friends to coerce all possible opponents, whether men or demons, heroes or gods. This left no room for the attitude of prayer and worship: religion in that sense could only come later. CHAPTER XII RACE IN FOLKLORE AND MYTH The method of philological mythology is thus discredited by the disputes of its adherents. The system may be called orthodox, but it is an orthodoxy which alters with every new scholar who enters the sacred enclosure.--Andrew Lang. It has been well said, that while it is not science to know the contents of myths, it is science to know why the human race has produced them. It is not my intention to trace minutely the history of that science, but I may hazard the remark, that she could not be said to have reached years of discretion till she began to compare one thing with another; and even when mythology had become comparative mythology, her horizon remained till within recent years comparatively narrow. In other words, the comparisons were wont to be very circumscribed: you might, one was told, compare the myths of Greeks and Teutons and Hindus, because those nations were considered to be of the same stock; but even within that range comparisons were scarcely contemplated, except in the case of myths enshrined in the most classical literatures of those nations. This kind of mythology was eclectic rather than comparative, and it was apt to regard myths as a mere disease of language. By-and-by, however, the student showed a preference for a larger field and a wider range; and in so doing he was, whether consciously or unconsciously, beginning to keep step with a larger movement extending to the march of all the kindred sciences, and especially that of language. At one time the student of language was satisfied with mummified speech, wrapped up, as it were, in the musty coils of the records of the past: in fact, he often became a mere researcher of the dead letter of language, instead of a careful observer of the breath of life animating her frame. So long as that remained the case, glottology deserved the whole irony of Voltaire's well-known account of etymology as being in fact, 'une science où les voyelles ne font rien, et les consonnes fort peu de chose.' In the course, however, of recent years a great change has come over the scene: not only have the laws of the Aryan consonants gained greatly in precision, but those of the Aryan vowels have at last been discovered to a considerable extent. The result for me and others who learnt that the Aryan peasant of idyllic habits harped eternally on the three notes of a, i, u, is that we have to unlearn this and a great deal more: in fact, the vowels prove to be far more troublesome than the consonants. But difficult as these lessons are, the glottologist must learn them, unless he is content to remain with the stragglers who happen to be unable to move on. Now the change to which I allude, in connexion with the study of language, has been inseparably accompanied with the paying of increased attention to actual speech, with a more careful scrutiny of dialects, even obscure dialects such as the literary man is wont to regard with scorn. Similarly the student of mythology now seeks the wherewithal of his comparisons from the mouth of the traveller and the missionary, wherever they may roam; not from the Rig-Veda or the Iliad alone, but from the rude stories of the peasant, and the wild fancies of the savage from Tierra del Fuego to Greenland's icy mountains. The parallel may be drawn still closer. Just as the glottologist, fearing lest the written letter may have slurred over or hidden away important peculiarities of ancient speech, resorts for a corrective to the actuality of modern Aryan, so the mythologist, apt to suspect the testimony of the highly respectable bards of the Rig-Veda, may on occasion give ear to the fresh evidence of a savage, however inconsequent it may sound. The movements to which I allude in glottology and mythology began so recently that their history has not yet been written. Suffice it to say that in glottology, or the science of language, the names most intimately connected with the new departure are those of Ascoli, J. Schmidt, and Fick, those of Leskien, Brugmann, Osthoff, and De Saussure; while of the names of the teachers of the anthropological method of studying myths, several are by this time household words in this country. But, so far as I know, the first to give a systematic exposition of the subject was Professor Tylor, in his work on Primitive Culture, published first in 1871. Such has been the intimate connexion between mythology and glottology that I may be pardoned for going back again to the latter. It is applicable in its method to all languages, but, as a matter of fact, it came into being in the domain of Aryan philology, so that it has been all along principally the science of comparing the Aryan languages with one another. It began with Sir William Jones' discovery of the kinship of Sanskrit with Greek and Latin, and for a long time it took the lead of the more closely related sciences: this proved partly beneficial and partly the reverse. In the case of ethnology, for instance, the influence of glottology has probably done more harm than good, since it has opened up a wide field for confounding race with language. In the case of mythology the same influence has been partly helpful, and it has partly fallen short of being such. Where names could be analysed with certainty, and where they could be equated, leaving little room for doubt, as in the case of that of the Greek Zeus, the Norse Týr, and the Sanskrit Dyaus, the science of language rendered a veritable help to mythology; but where the students of language, all pointing in different directions, claimed each to hold in his hand the one safety-lamp, beyond the range of which the mythologist durst not take a single step except at the imminent risk of breaking his neck, the help may be pronounced, to say the least of it, as somewhat doubtful. The anthropological method of studying myths put an end to the unequal relation between the students of the two sciences, and it is now pretty well agreed that the proper relationship between them is that of mutual aid. This will doubtless prove the solution of the whole matter, but it would be premature to say that the period of strained relations is quite over, since the mythologist has so recently made good his escape from the embarrassing attentions of the students of language, that he has not yet quite got out of his ears the bewildering notes of the chorus of discordant cries of 'Dawn,' 'Sun,' and 'Storm-cloud.' Now that I have touched on the friendly relations which ought to exist between the science of language and the science of myth, I may perhaps be allowed to notice a point or two where it is possible or desirable for the one to render service to the other. The student of language naturally wants the help of the student of myth, ritual, and religion on matters which most immediately concern his own department of study; and I may perhaps be excused for taking my stand on Celtic ground, and calling attention to some of my own difficulties. Here is one of them: when one would say in English 'It rains' or 'It freezes,' I should have to say in my own language, Y mae hi'n bwrw glaw and Y mae hi'n rhewi, which literally means 'She is casting rain' and 'She is freezing.' Nor is this sort of locution confined to weather topics, for when you would say 'He is badly off' or 'He is hard up,' a Welshman might say, Y mae hi'n drwg arno or Y mae hi'n galed arno, that is literally, 'She is evil on him' or 'She is hard on him.' And the same feminine pronoun fixes itself in other locutions in the language. Now I wish to invoke the student of myth, ritual, and religion to help in the identification of this ubiquitous 'she' of the Welsh. Whenever it is mentioned to Englishmen, it merely calls to their minds the Highland 'she' of English and Scotch caricature, as for instance when Sir Walter Scott makes Donald appeal in the following strain to Lord Menteith's man, Anderson, who had learnt manners in France: 'What the deil, man, can she no drink after her ain master without washing the cup and spilling the ale, and be tamned to her!' The Highlander denies the charge which our caricature tries to fasten on him; but even granting that it was once to some extent justified, it is easy to explain it by a reference to Gaelic, where the pronouns se and sibh, for 'he' and 'you' respectively, approach in pronunciation the sound of the English pronoun 'she.' This may have led to confusion in the mouths of Highlanders who had but very imperfectly mastered English. In any case, it is far too superficial to be quoted as a parallel to the hi, 'she,' in question in Welsh. A cautious Celtist, if such there be, might warn us, before proceeding further with the search, to make sure that the whole phenomenon is not a mere accident of Welsh phonetics, and that it is not a case of two pronouns, one meaning 'she' and the other 'it,' being confounded as the result merely of phonetic decay. The answer to that is, that the language knows nothing of any neuter pronoun which could assume the form of the hi which occupies us; and further, that in locutions where the legitimate representative of the neuter might be expected, the pronoun used is a different one, ef, e, meaning both 'he' and 'it,' as in ï-e for ï-ef, 'it is he, she, it or they,' nag-e, 'not he, she, it or they,' ef a allai or fe allai, 'perhaps, peradventure, peut-être, il est possible.' The French sentence suggests the analogous question, what was the original force of denotation of the 'il' in such sentences as 'il fait beau,' 'il pleut,' and 'il neige'? In such cases it now denotes nobody in particular, but has it always been one of his names? French historical grammar may be able, unaided, to dispose of the attenuated fortunes of M. Il, but we have to look for help to the student of myth and allied subjects to enable us to identify the great 'she' persistently eluding our search in the syntax of the Welsh language. Only two feminine names suggest themselves to me as in any way appropriate: one is tynghed, 'fate or fortune,' and the other is Dôn, mother of some of the most nebulous personages in Celtic literature. There is, however, no evidence to show that either of them is really the 'she' of whom we are in quest; but I have something to say about both as illustrating the other side of the theme, how the study of language may help mythology. This I have so far only illustrated by a reference to the equation of Zeus with Dyaus and their congeners. Within the range of Celtic legend the case is similar with Dôn, who figures on Welsh ground, as I have hinted, as mother of certain heroes of the oldest chapters of the Mabinogion. For it is from her that Gwydion, the bard and arch-magician, and Gofannon the smith his brother, are called sons of Dôn; and so in the case of Arianrhod, daughter of Dôn, mother of Llew, and owner of the sea-laved castle of Caer Arianrhod, not far distant from the prehistoric mound of Dinas Dinlle, near the western mouth of the Menai Straits, as already mentioned in another chapter, p. 208 above. In Irish legend, we detect Dôn under the Irish form of her name, Danu or Donu, genitive Danann or Donann, and she is almost singular there in always being styled a divinity. From her the great mythical personages of Irish legend are called Tuatha Dé Danann, or 'the Goddess Danu's Tribes,' and sometimes Fir Déa, or 'the Men of the Divinity.' The last stage in the Welsh history of Dôn consists of her translation to the skies, where the constellation of Cassiopeia is supposed to constitute Llys Dôn or Dôn's Court, as the Corona Borealis is identified with Caer Arianrhod or 'the Castle of Dôn's Daughter'; but, as was perhaps fitting, the dimensions of both are reduced to comparative littleness by Caer Gwydion, 'the Magician Gwydion's Battlements,' spread over the radiant expanse of the whole Milky Way [239]. Now the identification of this ancient goddess Danu or Dôn as that in whom the oldest legends of the Irish Goidels and the Welsh Goidels converge, has been the work not so much of mythology as of the science of language; for it was the latter that showed how to call back a little colouring into the vanishing lineaments of this faded ancestral divinity [240]. For my next illustration, namely tynghed, 'fate,' I would cite a passage from the opening of one of the most Celtic of Welsh stories, that of Kulhwch and Olwen. Kulhwch's father, after being for some time a widower, marries again, and conceals from his second wife the fact that he has a son. She finds it out and lets her husband know it; so he sends for his son Kulhwch, and the following is the account of the son's interview with his stepmother, as given in Lady Charlotte Guest's translation, ii. 252:--'His stepmother said unto him, "It were well for thee to have a wife, and I have a daughter who is sought of every man of renown in the world." "I am not of an age to wed," answered the youth. Then said she unto him, "I declare to thee, that it is thy destiny not to be suited with a wife until thou obtain Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr." And the youth blushed, and the love of the maiden diffused itself through all his frame, although he had never seen her. And his father inquired of him, "What has come over thee, my son, and what aileth thee?" "My stepmother has declared to me, that I shall never have a wife until I obtain Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr." "That will be easy for thee," answered his father. "Arthur is thy cousin. Go, therefore, unto Arthur to cut thy hair, and ask this of him as a boon."' The physical theory of love for an unknown lady at the first mention of her name, and the allusion to the Celtic tonsure, will have doubtless caught the reader's attention, but I only wish to speak of the words which the translator has rendered, 'I declare to thee, that it is thy destiny not to be suited with a wife until thou obtain Olwen.' More closely rendered, the original might be translated thus: 'I swear thee a destiny that thy side touch not a wife till thou obtain Olwen.' The word in the Welsh for destiny is tynghet (for an earlier tuncet), and the corresponding Irish word is attested as tocad. Both these words have a tendency, like 'fate,' to be used mostly in peiorem partem. Formerly, however, they might be freely used in an auspicious sense likewise, as for instance in the woman's name Tunccetace, on an early inscribed stone in Pembrokeshire. If her name had been rendered into Latin she would have probably been called Fortunata, as a namesake of good fortune. I render the Welsh mi a tynghaf dynghet itt [241] into English, 'I swear thee a destiny'; but, more literally still, one might possibly render it 'I swear thee a swearing,' that is, 'I swear thee an oath,' meaning 'I swear for thee an oath which will bind thee.' The stepmother, it is true, is not represented going through the form of words, for what she said appears to have been a regular formula, just like that of putting a person in Medieval Irish story under gessa or bonds of magic; but an oath or form of imprecation was once doubtless a dark reality behind this formula. In the southern part of my native county of Cardigan, the phrase in question has been in use within the last thirty years, and the practice which it denotes is still so well known as to be the subject of local stories. A friend of mine, who is not yet fifty, vividly remembers listening to an uncle of his relating how narrowly he once escaped having the oath forced on him. He was in the hilly portion of the parish of Llanwenog, coming home across country in the dead of a midsummer's night, when leaping over a fence he unexpectedly came down close to a man actively engaged in sheep-stealing. The uncle instantly took to his heels, while the thief pursued him with a knife. If the thief had caught him, it is understood that he would have held his knife at his throat and forced on him an oath of secrecy. I have not been able to ascertain the wording of the oath, but all I can learn goes to show that it was dreaded only less than death itself. In fact, there are stories current of men who failed to recover from the effects of the oath, but lingered and died in a comparatively short time. Since I got the foregoing story I have made inquiries of others in South Cardiganshire, and especially of a medical friend of mine, who speaks chiefly as to his native parish of Llangynllo. I found that the idea is perfectly familiar to him and my other informants; but, strange to say, from nobody could I gather that the illness is considered to result necessarily from the violent administration of the tynghed to the victim, or from the latter's disregarding the secrecy of it by disclosing to his friends the name of the criminal. In fact, I cannot discover that any such secrecy is emphasized so long as the criminal is not publicly brought before a court of justice. Rather is it that the tynghed effects blindly the ruin of the sworn man's health, regardless of his conduct. At any rate, that is the interpretation which I am forced to put on what I have been told. The phrase tyngu tynghed [242], intelligible still in Wales, recalls another instance of the importance of the spoken word, to wit, the Latin fatum. Nay, it seems to suggest that the latter might have perhaps originally been part of some such a formula as alicui fatum fari, 'to say one a saying,' in the pregnant sense of applying to him words of power. This is all the more to the point, as it is well known how closely Latin and Celtic are related to one another, and how every advance in the study of those languages goes to add emphasis to their kinship. From the kinship of the languages one may expect, to a certain extent, a similarity of rites and customs, and one has not to go further for this than the very story which I have cited. When Kulhwch's father first married, he is said to have sought a gwreic kynmwyt ac ef [243], which means 'a wife of the same food with him.' Thus the wedded wife was she, probably, who ate with her husband, and we are reminded of the food ceremony which constituted the aristocratic marriage in ancient Rome: it was called confarreatio, and in the course of it an offering of cake, called farreum libum, used to be made to Jupiter. A great French student of antiquity, M. Fustel de Coulanges, describes the ceremony thus [244]:--'Les deux époux, comme en Grèce, font un sacrifice, versent la libation, prononcent quelques prières, et mangent ensemble un gâteau de fleur de farine (panis farreus).' Lastly, my attention has been directed to the place given to bread in the stories of Llyn y Fan Fach and Llyn Elfarch. For on turning back to pp. 3-6, 17-8, 28, the reader will find too much made of the bread to allow us to suppose that it had no meaning in the courtship. The young farmer having fallen in love at first sight with the lake maiden, it looks as if he wished, by inducing her to share the bread he was eating, to go forthwith through a form of marriage by a kind of confarreation that committed her to a contract to be his wife without any tedious delay. To return to the Latin fatum, I would point out that the Romans had a plurality of fata; but how far they were suggested by the Greek moirai is not quite clear: nor is it known that the ancient Welsh had more than one tynghed. In the case, however, of old Norse literature, we come across the Fate there as one bearing a name which is perhaps cognate with the Welsh tynghed. I allude to a female figure, called Þokk, who appears in the touching myth of Balder's death. When Balder had fallen at the hands of Loki and Hödr, his mother Frigg asked who would like to earn her good will by going as her messenger to treat with Hell for the release of Balder. Hermódr the Swift, another of the sons of Woden, undertook to set out on that journey on his father's charger Sleipnir. For nine dreary nights he pursued his perilous course without interruption, through glens dark and deep, till he came to the river called Yell, when he was questioned as to his errand by the maid in charge of the Yell bridge. On and on he rode afterwards till he came to the fence of Hell's abode, which his horse cleared at full speed. Hermódr entered the hall, and there found his brother Balder seated in the place of honour. He abode with him that night, and in the morning he asked Hell to let Balder ride home with him to the Anses. He urged Hell to consider the grief which everybody and everything felt for Balder. She replied that she would put that to the test by letting Balder go if everything animate and inanimate would weep for him; but he would be detained if anybody or anything declined to do so. Hermódr made his way back alone to the Anses, and announced to Frigg the answer which Hell had given to her request. Messengers were sent forth without delay to bid all the world beweep Woden's son out of the power of Hell. This was done accordingly by all, by men and animals, by earth and stones, by trees and all metals, 'as you have doubtless seen these things weep,' says the writer of the Prose Edda, 'when they pass from frost to warmth.' When the messengers, however, were on their way home, after discharging their duty, they chanced on a cave where dwelt a giantess called Þokk, whom they ordered to join in the weeping for Balder; but she only answered:-- Þokk will weep dry tears At Balder's bale-fire. What is the son of man, quick or dead, to me! Let Hell keep what she holds [245]. In this ogress Þokk, deaf to the appeals of the tenderer feelings, we seem to have the counterpart of our Celtic tocad and tynghed; and the latter's name as a part of the formula in the Welsh story, while giving us the key of the myth, shows how the early Aryan knew of nothing more binding than the magic force of an oath. On the one hand, this conception of destiny carries with it the marks of its humble origin, and one readily agrees with Cicero's words, De Divinatione, ii. 7, when he says, anile sane et plenum superstitionis fati nomen ipsum. On the other hand, it rises to the grim dignity of a name for the dark, inexorable power which the whole universe is conceived to obey, a power before which the great and resplendent Zeus of the Aryan race is a mere puppet. Perhaps I have dwelt only too long on the policy of 'give and take' which ought to obtain between mythology and glottology. Unfortunately, one can add without fear of contradiction, that, even when that policy is carried out to the utmost, both sciences will still have difficulties more than enough. In the case of mythology these difficulties spring chiefly from two distinct sources, from the blending of history with myth, and from the mixing of one race with another. Let us now consider the latter: the difficulties from this source are many and great, but every fresh acquisition of knowledge tending to make our ideas of ethnology more accurate, gives us a better leverage for placing the myths of mixed peoples in their proper places as regards the races composing those peoples. Still, we have far fewer propositions to lay down than questions to ask: thus to go no further afield than the well-known stories attaching to the name of Heracles, how many of them are Aryan, how many Semitic, and how many Aryan and Semitic at one and the same time? That is the sort of question which besets the student of Celtic mythology at every step; for the Celtic nations of the present day are the mixed descendants of Aryan invaders and the native populations which those Aryan invaders found in possession. So the question thrusts itself on the student, to which of these races a particular myth, rite, or custom is to be regarded as originally belonging. Take, for instance, Brân's colossal figure, to which attention has already been called, pp. 552-3 above. Brân was too large to enter a house or go on board a ship: is he to be regarded as the outcome of Celtic imagination, or of that of a people that preceded the Celts in Celtic lands? The comparison with the Gaulish Tricephal would seem to point in the direction of the southern seaboard of the Baltic (p. 553): what then? The same kind of question arises in reference to the Irish hero Cúchulainn: take, for instance, the stock description of Cúchulainn in a rage. Thus when angered he underwent strange distortions: the calves of his legs came round to where his shins should have been; his mouth enlarged itself so that it showed his liver and lungs swinging in his throat; one of his eyes became as small as a needle's, or else it sank back into his head further than a crane could have reached, while the other protruded itself to a corresponding length; every hair on his body became as sharp as a thorn, and held on its point a drop of blood or a spark of fire. It would be dangerous then to stop him from fighting, and even when he had fought enough, he required for his cooling to be plunged into three baths of cold water; the first into which he went would instantly boil over, the second would be too hot for anybody else to bear, and the third only would be of congenial warmth. I do not ask whether that strange picture betrays a touch of the solar brush, but I should be very glad to know whether it can be regarded as an Aryan creation or not. It is much the same with matters other than mythological: take, for instance, the bedlamite custom of the couvade [246], which is presented to us in Irish literature in the singular form of a cess, 'suffering or indisposition,' simultaneously attacking the braves of ancient Ulster. We are briefly informed in the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 60a, that the women and boys of Ulster were free from it. So was any Ultonian, we are told, who happened to be outside the boundaries of his country, and so were Cúchulainn and his father, even when in Ulster. Any one who was rash enough to attack an Ultonian warrior during this his period of helplessness could not, it is further stated, expect to live afterwards either prosperously or long. The question for us, however, is this: was the couvade introduced by the Aryan invaders of Ireland, or are we rather to trace it to an earlier race? I should be, I must confess, inclined to the latter view, especially as the couvade was known among the Iberians of old, and among the ancient Corsicans [247]. It may, of course, have been both Aryan and Iberian, but it will all the same serve as a specimen of the sort of question which one has to try to answer. Another instance, the race origin of which one would like to ascertain, offers itself in the curious belief, that, when a child is born, it is one of the ancestors of the family come back to live again. Traces of this occur in Irish literature, namely, in one of the stories about Cúchulainn. There we read to the following effect:--The Ultonians took counsel on account of Cúchulainn, because their wives and girls loved him greatly; for Cúchulainn had no consort at that time. This was their counsel, namely, that they should seek for Cúchulainn a consort pleasing to him to woo. For it was evident to them that a man who has the consort of his companionship with him would be so much the less likely to attempt the ruin of their girls and to receive the affection of their wives. Then, moreover, they were anxious and afraid lest the death of Cúchulainn should take place early, so they were desirous for that reason to give him a wife in order that he might leave an heir; for they knew that it was from himself that his rebirth (athgein) would be. That is what one reads in the eleventh-century copy of the ancient manuscript of the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 121b; and this atavistic belief, which was touched upon in connexion with the transformations discussed in the last chapter, I need scarcely say, is well known elsewhere to the anthropologist, as one will find on consulting the opening pages of Dr. Tylor's second volume on Primitive Culture. He there mentions the idea as familiar to American Indians, to various African peoples, to the Maoris and the aborigines of Australia, to Cheremiss Tartars and Lapps. Among such nations the words of Don Diègue to his victorious son, the Cid, could hardly fail to be construed in a sort of literal sense when he exclaims:-- ............ ton illustre audace Fait bien revivre en toi les héros de ma race. Let us return to Cúchulainn, and note the statement, that he and his father, Sualdaim, were exempt from the couvade, which marks them out as not of the same race as the Ultonians, that is to say, as the Fír Ulaid, or 'True Ultonians'--presumably ancient inhabitants of Ulster. Furthermore, we have an indication whence his family had come, for Cúchulainn's first name was Setanta Beg, 'the Little Setantian,' which points to the coast of what is now Lancashire, as already indicated at p. 385 above. Another thing which marks Cúchulainn as of a different racial origin from the other Ultonians is the belief of the latter, that his rebirth must be from himself. The meaning of this remarkable statement is that there were two social systems face to face in Ulster at the time represented by the Cúchulainn story, and that one of them recognized fatherhood, while the other did not. Thus for Cúchulainn's rebirth to be from himself, he must be the father of a child from whom should descend a man who would be a rebirth or avatar of Cúchulainn. The other system implied was one which reckoned descent by birth alone [248]; and the Cúchulainn story gives one the impression that it contemplated this system as the predominant one, while the Cúchulainn family, with its reckoning of fatherhood, comes in as an exception. At all events, that is how I now understand a passage, the full significance of which had till recently escaped me. Allusion has already been made to the story of Cúchulainn being himself a rebirth, namely, of Lug, and the story deserves still further consideration in its bearing on the question of race, to which the reader's attention has been called. It is needless, however, to say that there are extant fragments of more stories than one as to Cúchulainn's origin. Sometimes, as in the Book of Leinster, fo. 119a, he is called gein Loga, or Lug's offspring, and in the epic tale of the Táin Bó Cuailnge, Lug as his father comes from the Síd or Faery to take Cúchulainn's place in the field, when the latter was worn out with sleeplessness and toil. Lug sings over him éli Loga, or 'Lug's enchantment,' and Cúchulainn gets the requisite rest and sleep [249]: this we read in the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 78a. In another version of the story, Cúchulainn is an incarnation of Lug: the narrative relates how a foster-son was accepted by Dechtere, sister to Conchobar MacNessa, king of Ulster. But her foster-son died young, to the great grief of Dechtere; and her lamentations for him on the day of his funeral having made her thirsty, she inadvertently swallowed with her drink a diminutive creature which sprang into her mouth. That night she had a dream, in which a man informed her that she was pregnant, that it was he who was in her womb, that he had been her foster-son, and that he was Lug; also that when his birth should take place, the name was to be Setanta. After an incident which I can only regard as a clumsy attempt to combine the more primitive legend with the story which makes him son of Sualdaim, she gives birth to the boy, and he is duly called Setanta [250]: that was Cúchulainn's first name. Now compare this with what Dr. Tylor mentions in the case of the Lapps, namely, that 'the future mother was told in a dream what name to give her child, this message being usually given her by the very spirit of the deceased ancestor, who was about to be incarnate in her [251].' If the mother got no such intimation in a dream, the relatives of the child had to have recourse to magic and the aid of the wise man, to discover the name to be given to the child. Here let it suffice to say, that the similarity is so close between the Irish and the Lapp idea, and so unlike anything known to have been Aryan, that it is well worth bearing in mind. The belief in rebirth generally seems to fit as a part of the larger belief in the transmigration of souls which is associated with the teachings of the ancient druids, a class of shamans or medicine-men who were probably, as already hinted, not of Celtic or Aryan origin; and probably the beliefs here in question were those of some non-Aryan people of these islands, rather than of any Aryans who settled in them. This view need hardly be regarded as incompatible with the fact, that Lug's name, genitive Loga, would seem to have meant light, and that Lug was a sun-god, very possibly a Celtic sun-god: or more correctly speaking, that there was a series of Lugs, so to say, or sun-gods, called in ancient Spain, Switzerland, and on the banks of the Rhine, Lugoves [252]. For one is sorely tempted to treat this much as a rescue from the wreckage of the solar myth theory, as against those who, having regard mainly to Lug's professional skill and craft as described in Irish story, make of him a kind of Hermes or Mercury. In other words, we have either to regard a Celtic Lug as having become the centre of certain non-Celtic legends, or else to suppose neither Lug nor his name to be of Aryan origin at all. It is hard to say which is the sounder view to take. The next question which I wish to suggest is as to the ethnology of the fairies; but before coming to that, one has to ask how the fairies have been evolved. The idea of fairies, such as Welshmen have been familiar with from their childhood, clearly involves elements of two distinct origins. Some of those elements come undoubtedly from the workshop of the imagination, as, for example, the stock notion that their food and drink are brought to the fairies by the mere force of wishing, and without the ministration of servants; or the notion, especially prevalent in Arfon, that the fairies dwell in a country beneath the lakes of Snowdon; not to mention the more general connexion of a certain class of fairies with the world of waters, as indicated in chapter vii. Add to this that the dead ancestor has also probably contributed to our bundle of notions about them; but that contains also an element of fact or something which may at any rate be conceived as historical. Under this head I should place the following articles of faith concerning them: the sallowness of their skins and the smallness of their stature, their dwelling underground, their dislike of iron, and the comparative poverty of their homes in the matter of useful articles of furniture, their deep-rooted objection to the green sward being broken up by the plough, the success of the fairy wife in attending to the domestic animals and to the dairy, the limited range generally of the fairies' ability to count; and lastly, one may perhaps mention their using a language of their own (p. 279), which would imply a time when the little people understood no other, and explain why they should be represented doing their marketing without uttering a syllable to anybody (p. 161). The attribution of these and similar characteristics to the fairies can scarcely be all mere feats of fancy and imagination: rather do they seem to be the result of our ancestors projecting on an imaginary world a primitive civilization through which tradition represented their own race as having passed, or, more probably, a civilization in which they saw, or thought they saw, another race actually living. Let us recur for examples also to the two lake legends which have just been mentioned (p. 650): in both of them a distinction is drawn between the lake fairy's notion of bread and that of the men and women of the country. To the fairy the latter's bread appeared crimped or overbaked: possibly the backward civilization, to which she was supposed to belong, was content to support itself on some kind of unleavened bread, if not rather on a fare which included nothing deserving to be called bread at all. Witness Giraldus Cambrensis' story of Eliodorus, in which bread is conspicuous by its absence, the nearest approach to it being something of the consistency of porridge: see p. 270 above. Then take another order of ideas: the young man in both lake legends lives with his mother (pp. 3, 27): there is no father to advise or protect him: he is in this respect on a level with Undine, who is the protegee of her tiresome uncle, Kühleborn. Seemingly, he belongs to a primitive society where matriarchal ideas rule, and where paternity is not reckoned [253]. This we are at liberty at all events to suppose to have been the original, before the narrator had painted the mother a widow, and given the picture other touches of his later brush. To speak, however, of paternity as merely not reckoned is by no means to go far enough; so here we have to return to take another look at the imaginary aspect of the fairies, to which a cursory allusion has just been made. The reader will possibly recall the sturdy smith of Ystrad Meurig, who would not reduce the notions which he had formed of the fairies when he was a child to conformity with those of a later generation around him. In any case, he will remember the smith's statement that the fairies were all women: see p. 245. The idea was already familiar to me as a Welshman, though I cannot recollect how I got it. But the smith's words brought to my mind at once the story of Condla Rúad or the Red, one of the fairy tales first recorded in Irish literature (p. 291). There the damsel who takes Condla away in her boat of glass to the realm of the Everliving sings the praises of that delectable country, and uses, among others, the following words, which occur in the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 120:-- Ni fil cenel and nammá acht mná ocus ingena [254]. There is no race there but women and maidens alone. Now what people could have come by the idea of a race of women only? Surely no people who considered that they themselves had fathers: it must have been some community so low in the scale of civilization as never to have had any notion whatsoever of paternity: it is their ignorance that would alone render possible the notion of a race all women. That this was a matter of belief in the past of many nations, is proved by the occurrence of widely known legends about virgin mothers [255]; not to mention that it has been lately established, that there are savages who to this day occupy the low place here indicated in the scale of civilization. Witness the evidence of Spencer and Gillen in their recently published work on The Native Tribes of Central Australia, and also what Frazer, author of The Golden Bough, says of a passage in point, in the former, as follows:-- 'Thus, in the opinion of these savages, every conception is what we are wont to call an immaculate conception, being brought about by the entrance into the mother of a spirit apart from any contact with the other sex. Students of folklore have long been familiar with notions of this sort occurring in the stories of the birth of miraculous personages, but this is the first case on record of a tribe who believe in immaculate conception as the sole cause of the birth of every human being who comes into the world. A people so ignorant of the most elementary of natural processes may well rank at the very bottom of the savage scale [256].' Nevertheless, it is to some population in that low position, in the remote prehistory of this country, that one is to trace the belief that the fairies were all women. It is to be regarded as a position distinctly lower than that of the Ultonians in the time of Cúchulainn; for the couvade seems to me to argue a notion of paternity--perhaps, in their case, as clear a notion of paternity as was possible for a community which was not quite out of the promiscuous stage of society. The neo-Celtic nations of these islands consist, speaking roughly, of a mixture of the invading Celts with the earlier inhabitants whom the Celts found in possession. These two or more groups of peoples may have been in very different stages of civilization when they first came in contact with one another. They agreed doubtless in many things, and perhaps, among others, in cherishing an inherited reluctance to disclose their names, but the Celts as Aryans were never without the decimal system of counting. Like the French, the Celtic nations of the present day show a tendency, more or less marked, to go further and count by scores instead of by tens. But the Welsh are alone among them in having, in certain instances, gone back from counting by tens to counting by fives, which they do when they count between 10 and 20: for 16, 17, 18, and 19 are in Welsh 1 on 15, 2 on 15, 3 on 15, and 4 on 15 respectively; and similarly with 13 and 14 [257]. We have seen how the lake fairy reckoned by fives (pp. 8, 418) all the live stock she was to have as her dowry; and one otherwise notices that the fairies deal invariably in the simplest of numbers. Thus if you wish, for example, to find a person who has been led away by them, ten to one you have to go 'this day next year' to the spot where he disappeared. Except in the case of the alluring light of the full moon, it is out of the question to reckon months or weeks, though it is needless to say that to reckon the year correctly would have been in point of fact far more difficult; but nothing sounds simpler than 'this day next year.' In that simple arithmetic of the fairies, then, we seem to have a trace of a non-Aryan race, that is to say, probably of some early inhabitants of these islands. Unfortunately, the language of those inhabitants has died out, so that we cannot appeal to its numerals directly; and the next best course to adopt is to take as a sort of substitute for their language that of possible kinsmen of a pre-Celtic race in this country. Now the students of ethnology, especially those devoted to the investigation of skulls and skins, tell us that we have among us, notably in Wales and Ireland, living representatives of a dark-haired, long-skulled race of the same description as one of the types which occur, as they allege, among the Basque populations of the Pyrenees. We turn accordingly to Basque, and what do we find? Why, that the first five numerals in that language are bat, bi, iru, lau, bost, all of which appear to be native; but when we come to the sixth numeral we have sei, which looks like an Aryan word borrowed from Latin, Gaulish, or some related tongue. The case is much the same with 'seven,' for that is in Basque zazpi, which is also probably an Aryan loan-word. Basque has native words, zortzi and bederatzi, for eight and nine, but they are longer than the first five, and appear to be of a later formation affecting, in common with sei and zazpi, the termination i. I submit, therefore, that here we have evidence of the former existence of a people in the West of Europe who at one time only counted as far as five. Some of the early peoples of the British Isles may have been on the same level, so that our notions about the fairies have probably been derived, to a greater or less extent, from ideas formed by the Celts concerning those non-Celtic, non-Aryan natives of whose country they took possession. As regards my appeal to the authority of craniology, I have to confess that it is made with a certain amount of reservation, since the case is far less simple than it looks at first sight. Thus, in August, 1891, the Cambrian Archæological Association, including among them Professor Sayce, visited the south-west of Ireland. During our pleasant excursions in Kerry, the question of race was one of our constant topics; and Professor Sayce was reminded by what he saw in Ireland of his visit to North Africa, especially the hilly regions of the country inhabited by the Berbers. Among other things, he used to say that if a number of Berbers from the mountains were to be brought to an Irish village and clad as Irishmen, he felt positive that he should not be able to tell them from the Irishmen themselves, such as we saw on our rambles in Kerry. This struck me as all the more remarkable, since his reference was to fairly tall, blue-eyed men whose hair could not be called black. On the other hand, owing perhaps to ignorance and careless ways of looking at things around me, I am a little sceptical as to the swarthy long-skulls: they did not seem to meet us at every turn in Ireland; and as for Wales, which I know as well as most people do, I cannot in my ignorance of craniology say with any confidence that I have ever noticed vast numbers of that type. I should like, however, to see the heads of some of the singers whom I have noticed at our Eistedfodau at Cardiff, Aberdare, and Swansea, placed under the hands of an experienced skull-man. For I have long suspected that we cannot regard as of Aryan origin the vocal talent so general in Wales, and so conspicuous in our choirs of working people as to astonish all the great musicians who have visited our national festival. Beyond all doubt, race has not a little to do with the artistic feelings: a short-skull may be as unmusical, for example, as I am; but has anybody in this country ever known a narrow long-skull to be the reverse of unmusical? or has any one ever considered how few clergymen of the tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed type have been converted to the ritualistic and æsthetic movement in the Church of England? As it seems to me that the bulk of the Welsh people would have to be described as short-skulls, it would be very gratifying to see those who are wont to refer freely to the dark-complexioned long-skulls of Wales catch a respectable number of specimens. I trust there are plenty to be found; and of course I do not care how they are taken, whether it be by an instantaneous process of photography or in the meshes of some anthropometric sportsman, like Dr. Beddoe. Let them be secured anyhow, so that one may rest assured that the type is still numerically safe, and be able to judge with one's own eyes how heads long and swarthy look on the shoulders of living Welshmen. We might then be in a position also to compare with them the prevalent description of fairy changelings; for when the fairies steal nice, blond babies, they usually place in their stead their own aged-looking brats with short legs, sallow skins, and squeaky voices. Unfortunately for me, all the adult changelings of whom I happen to have heard any account had died some years before I began to turn my attention to the population of Faery, with the exception, perhaps, of one whose name I obtained under the seal of secrecy. It was that of the wife of a farmer living near Nefyn, in West Carnarvonshire. It was whispered that she was a changeling, so I am inclined to regard her as no other than one of the representatives of the same aboriginal stock to which one might conjecture some of her neighbours also to belong; she ought to be an extreme specimen of the type. It is to be hoped that the photographer and his anthropometric brother have found her out in time and in good humour; but it is now many years since I heard of her. To return again to the fairies, some of them are described as more comely and good-looking than the rest (pp. 83, 250), but the fairy women are always pictured as fascinating, though their offspring as changelings are as uniformly presented in the light of repulsive urchins; but whole groups of the fairy population are sometimes described as being as ugly of face as they were thievish in disposition--those, for instance, of Llanfabon, in Glamorganshire (p. 262). There is one district, however, which is an exception to the tenor of fairy physiognomy: it is that of the Pennant neighbourhood, in Carnarvonshire, together with the hills and valleys, roughly speaking, from Cwm Strallyn to Llwytmor and from Drws y Coed to Dolbenmaen. The fairies of that tract are said to have been taller than the others, and characterized by light or even flaxen hair, together with eyes of clear blue: see pp. 89, 93-7, 105-8. Nor is that all, for we are told that they would not let a person of dark complexion come near them (p. 96). The other fairies, when kidnapping, it is true, preferred the blond infants of other people to their own swarthy brats, which, perhaps, means that it was a policy of their people to recruit itself with men of the superior physique of the more powerful population around them. The supposed fairy ancestress of the people of the Pennant Valley bears, in the stories in point, such names as Penelope, Bella, Pelisha, and Sibi, while her descendants are still taunted with their descent--a quarrel which, within living memory, used to be fought out with fists at the fairs at Penmorfa and elsewhere. This seems to indicate a comparatively late settlement [258] in the district of a family or group of families from without, and an origin, therefore, somewhat similar to that of the Simychiaid and Cowperiaid (p. 67) of a more eastern portion of the same county, rather than anything deserving to be considered with the rest of the annals of Faery. Passing by this oasis, then, such snap-shot photographs as I have been able to take, so to speak, of fairyland cleared of the glamour resting on its landscape, seem to disclose to the eye a swarthy population of short stumpy men occupying the most inaccessible districts of our country. They appear to have cared more for soap than clothing [259], and they lived on milk taken once a day, when they could get it. They probably fished and hunted, and kept domestic animals, including, perhaps, the pig; but they depended largely on what they could steal at night or in misty weather. Their thieving, however, was not resented, as their visits were believed to bring luck and prosperity (p. 251). Their communities formed as it were islands, owing to the country round about them having been wrested from them by later comers of a more warlike disposition and provided with better weapons. But the existence of the scattered groups of the fairies was in no danger of coming to a violent end: they were safe in consequence of the superstitious beliefs of their stronger neighbours, who probably regarded them as formidable magicians, powerful, among other things, to cause or to cure disease as they pleased. Such, without venturing to refresh my memory by perusing what has been written about dwarf races in other parts of the world, are the impressions made on my mind in the course of analysing and sifting the folklore materials crowded into this volume. That applies, of course, in so far only as regards the fairies in their character of a real people as distinguished from them as creatures of the imagination. But, as I have no wish to earn the displeasure of my literary friends, let me hasten to say that I acknowledge the latter, the creatures of the imagination, to be the true fairies, the admiration of one's childhood and the despair of one's later years: the other folk--the aborigines whom I have been trying to depict--form only a sort of substratum, a kind of background to the fairy picture, which I should be the last man to wish to mar. It is needless to say that we have no trace of any fairies approaching the minute dimensions of Shakespeare's Queen Mab; for, after all, our fairies are mostly represented as not extravagantly unlike other people in personal appearance--not so unlike, in fact, that other folk might not be mistaken for them now and then as late as the latter part of the fifteenth century. Witness the following passage from Sir John Wynne's History of the Gwydir Family, p. 74:-- 'Haveing purchased this lease, he removed his dwelling to the castle of Dolwydelan, which at that time was in part thereof habitable, where one Howell ap Jevan ap Rys Gethin, in the beginning of Edward the Fourth his raigne, captaine of the countrey and an outlaw, had dwelt. Against this man David ap Jenkin rose, and contended with him for the sovreignety of the countrey; and being superiour to him, in the end he drew a draught for him, and took him in his bed at Penanmen with his concubine, performing by craft, what he could not by force, and brought him to Conway Castle. Thus, after many bickerings betweene Howell and David ap Jenkin, he being too weake, was faigne to flie the countrey, and to goe to Ireland, where he was a yeare or thereabouts. In the end he returned in the summer time, haveing himselfe, and all his followers clad in greene, who, being come into the countrey, he dispersed here and there among his friends, lurking by day, and walkeing in the night for feare of his adversaries; and such of the countrey as happened to have a sight of him and his followers, said they were the fairies, and soe ran away.' But what has doubtless helped, above all other things, to perpetuate the belief in the existence of fairies may be said to be the popular association with them of the circles in the grass, commonly known in English as fairy rings. This phenomenon must have answered for ages the purpose for our ancestors, practically speaking, of ocular demonstration, as it still does no doubt in many a rustic neighbourhood. The most common name for the fairies in Welsh is y Tylwyth Teg, 'the Fair or Beautiful Family'; but in South Cardiganshire we have found them called Plant Rhys Dwfn, 'the Children of Rhys the Deep' (pp. 151, 158), while in Gwent and Morgannwg they are more usually known as Bendith y Mamau, 'the Blessing of the Mothers' (p. 174). Our fourteenth century poet, D. ab Gwilym, uses the first-mentioned term, Tylwyth Teg, in poem xxxix, and our prose literature has a word corr, cor in the sense of a dwarf, and corres for a she dwarf. The old Cornish had also cor, which in Breton is written korr [260], with a feminine korrez, and among the other derivatives one finds korrik, 'a dwarf, a fairy, a wee little sorcerer,' and korrigez or korrigan, 'a she dwarf, a fairy woman, a diminutive sorceress.' The use of these words in Breton recalls the case of the cor, called Rhudlwm or else Eidilig, teaching his magic to Coll, son of Collfrewi: see pp. 326, 503, 505. Then we have uncanny dwarfs in the romances, such, for example, as the rude cor in the service of Edern ab Nud, as described in French in Chrétien's romance of Erec et Enide and in Welsh in that of Gereint vab Erbin, also the cor and corres who figure in the story of Peredur. The latter had belonged to that hero's father and mother till the break-up of the family, when the dwarfs went to Arthur's Court, where they lived a whole year without speaking to anybody. When, however, Peredur made his rustic appearance there, they hailed him loudly as the chief of warriors and the flower of knighthood, which brought on them the wrath of Cai, on whom they were eventually avenged by Peredur. In the case [261] of both Edern and Peredur we find the dwarfs loyally interested in the fortunes of their masters and their masters' friends. With them also the shape-shifting Menw, though not found placed in the same unfavourable light, is probably to be ranged, as one may gather from his name and his rôle of wizard scout for Arthur's men (p. 510). In the like attachment on the part of the fairies, which was at times liable to develop into devotedness of an embarrassing nature (p. 250), we seem to have one of the germs of the idea of a household fairy or banshee, as illustrated by the case of the ugly wee woman in the Pantannas legend (p. 188); and it seems natural to regard the interested voices in the Kenfig legend, and other stories of the same kind (p. 452), as instances of amalgamating the idea of a fairy with that of an ancestral person. At all events, we have obtained something to put by the side of the instances already noticed of the fairy girl who gives, against her will at first, her services in the dairy of her captor (pp. 45, 87); of the other fairy who acts as a nurse for a family in the Pennant Valley, till she is asked to dress better (p. 109); and of Bwca'r Trwyn who works willingly and well, both at the house and in the field, till he has tricks played on him (pp. 593-6). To make this brief survey complete, one has to mention the fairies who used to help Eilian with her spinning (pp. 211-3), and not to omit those who were found to come to the rescue of a woman in despair and to assist her on the condition of getting her baby. The motive here is probably not to be confounded with that of the fairies who stealthily exchanged babies: the explanation seems in this case to be that the fairies, or some of the fairies, were once regarded as cannibals, which is countenanced by such a story as that of Canrig Bwt, 'Canrig the Stumpy.' At Llanberis the latter is said to have lived beneath the huge stone called y Gromlech, 'the Dolmen,' opposite Cwmglas and near the high-road to the Pass. When the man destined to dispatch her came, she was just finishing her dinner off a baby's flesh. There are traces of a similar story in another district, for a writer who published in the year 1802 uses the following words:--'There was lately near Cerrig y Drudion, in Merionethshire, a subterraneous room composed of large stones, which was called Carchar Cynric Rwth, i. e. "The Prison of Cynric Rwth," which has been taken notice of by travellers.' Cynric Rwth may be rendered 'Cynric the Greedy or Broad-mouthed.' A somewhat similar ogress is located by another story on the high ground at Bwlch y Rhiw Felen, on the way from Llangollen to Llandegla, and she is represented by the local tradition as contemporary with Arthur [262]. I am inclined to think the Cwmglas cromlech natural rather than artificial; but I am, however, struck by the fact that the fairies are not unfrequently located on or near ancient sites, such as seem to be Corwrion (pp. 57, 526), the margin of Llyn Irdyn (pp. 148, 563), Bryn y Pibion (pp. 212-4), Dinllaen (p. 227), Carn Bodüan (p. 227), on which there are, I am told, walls and hut foundations similar to those which I have recently seen on Carn Fadrun in the same district, Moedin camp (p. 245), and, perhaps, Ynys Geinon Rock and the immediate vicinity of Craig y Nos, neither of which, however, have I ever visited (p. 254). Local acquaintance with each fairy centre would very possibly enable one to produce a list that would be suggestive. In passing one may point out that the uncanny dwarf of Celtic story would seem to have served, in one way or another, as a model for other dwarfs in the French romances and the literatures of other nations that came under the influence of those romances, such as that of the English. But the subject is too large to be dealt with here; so I return to the word cor, in order to recall to the reader's mind the allusion made, at p. 196, to a certain people called Coranneit or Coranyeit, pronounced in later Welsh Corániaid, 'Corannians.' They come in the Adventure of Llûd and Llevelys, and there they have ascribed to them one of the characteristics of consummate magicians, namely, the power of hearing any word that comes in contact with the wind; so it was, we are told, impossible to harm them. Llûd, however, was advised to circumvent them in the following manner:--he was to bruise certain insects in water and sprinkle the water on the Corannians and his own people indiscriminately, after calling them together under the pretence of making peace between them; for the sprinkling would do no harm to his own subjects, while it would kill the others. This unholy water proved effective, and the Corannians all perished. Now the magic power ascribed to them, and the method of disposing of them, combine to lend them a fabulous aspect, while their name, inseparable as it seems from cor, 'a dwarf,' warrants us in treating them as fairies, and in regarding their strange characteristics as induced on a real people. If we take this view, that Coraniaid was the name of a real people, we are at liberty to regard it as possible, that their name suggested to the Celts the word cor for a dwarf, rather than that cor has suggested the name of the Corannians. In either case, I may mention that Welsh writers have sometimes thought--and they are probably right--that we have a closely related word in the name of Ptolemy's Coritani or Coritavi. He represents the people so called as dwelling, roughly speaking, between the Trent and Norfolk, and possessed of the two towns of Lindum, 'Lincoln,' and Ratæ (p. 547), supposed to have been Leicester. There we should have accordingly to suppose the old race to have survived so long and in such numbers, that the Celtic lords of southern Britain called the people of that area by a name meaning dwarfs. There also they may be conjectured to have had quiet from invaders from the Continent, because of the inaccessible nature of the fens, and the lack of inviting harbours on the coast from the country of the Iceni up to the neighbourhood of the Humber. How far their territory extended inland from the fens and the sea one cannot say, but it possibly took in one-half of what is now Northamptonshire, with the place called Pytchley, from an older Pihtes Léa, meaning the Meadow of the Pict, or else of a man named Pict. In any case it included Croyland in the fens between Peterborough and the Wash. It was there, towards the end of the seventh century, that St. Guthlac built his cell on the side of an ancient mound or tumulus, and it was there he was assailed by demons who spoke Bryttisc or Brythonic, a language which the saint knew, as he had been an exile among Brythons. For this he had probably not to travel far; and it is remarkable that his father's cognomen or surname was Penwall, which we may regard as approximately the Brythonic for 'Wall's End.' That is to say, he was 'So-and-so of the Wall's End,' and had got to be known by the latter designation instead of his own nomen, which is not recorded, for the reason, possibly, that it was so Brythonic as not to admit of being readily reduced into an Anglian or Latin form. It is not quite certain that he belonged to the royal race of Mercia, whose genealogy, however, boasts such un-English names as Pybba, Penda, and Peada; but the life [263] states, with no little emphasis, that he was a man whose pedigree included the most noble names of illustrious kings from the ancient stock of Icel: that is, he was one of the Iclingas or Icklings [264]. Here one is tempted to perpetrate a little glottologic alchemy by changing l into n, and to suppose Iclingas the form taken in English by the name of the ancient people of the Iceni. In any case, nothing could be more reasonable to suppose than that some representatives of the royal race of Prasutagus and Boudicca, escaping the sword of the Roman, found refuge among the Coritanians at the time of the final defeat of their own people: it is even possible that they were already the ruling family there. At all events several indications converge to show that communities speaking Brythonic were not far off, to wit, the p names in the Mercian genealogy, Guthlac's father's surname, Guthlac's exile among Brythons, and the attack on him at Croyland by Brythonic speaking foes. Portions of the Coritanian territory were eminently fitted by nature to serve as a refuge for a broken people with a belated language: witness as late as the eleventh century the stand made in the Isle of Ely by Hereward against the Norman conqueror and his mail-clad knights [265]. Among the speakers of Goidelic in Ireland and the Highlands of Scotland the fairies take their designation chiefly from a word síd or síth (genitive síde or sída), which one may possibly consider as of a common origin with the Latin word sedes, and as originally meaning a seat or settlement, but it sooner or later came to signify simply an abode of the fairies, whence they were called in Medieval Irish aes síde, 'fairy folk,' fer síde, 'a fairy man,' and ben síde, 'a fairy woman or banshee.' By the side of síd, an adjective síde, 'of or belonging to the síd,' appears to have been formed, so that they are found also called simply síde, as in Fiacc's Hymn, where we are told that before the advent of St. Patrick the pagan tribes of Erin used to worship síde or fairies [266]. Borrowed from this, or suggested by it [267], we have in Welsh Caer Sidi, 'the Fortress of the Fairies,' which is mentioned twice in the Book of Taliessin [268]. It first occurs at the end of poem xiv, where we have the following lines, which recall Irish descriptions of Tír na nÓg or the Land of the Young:-- Ys kyweir vyg kadeir ygkaer sidi. Nys pla6d heint a heneint a uo yndi. Ys gwyr mana6yt a phryderi. Teir oryan y am tan agan recdi. Ac am y banneu ffrydyeu g6eilgi. Ar ffynnha6n ffr6ythla6n yssyd oduchti. Ys whegach nor g6in g6yn yllyn yndi. Perfect is my seat in the fort of Sidi, Nor pest nor age plagues him who dwells therein: Manawydan and Pryderi know it. Three organs play before it about a fire. Around its corners Ocean's currents flow, And above it is the fertile fountain, And sweeter than white wine is the drink therein. The wine is elsewhere mentioned, but the arrangement of the organs around a fire requires explanation, which I cannot give. The fortress is on an island, and in poem xxx of the Book of Taliessin we read of Arthur and his men sailing thither in his ship Prydwen: the poem is usually called the 'Spoils of Annwn,' and the lines in point run thus:-- Bu kyweir karchar g6eir ygkaer sidi. Tr6y ebostol p6yll aphryderi. Neb kyn noc ef nyt aeth idi. Yr gad6yn tromlas kywirwas ae ketwi. Arac preideu ann6fyn tost yt geni. Ac yt ura6t paraha6t ynbard wedi. Tri lloneit prytwen yd aetham ni idi. Nam seith ny dyrreith o gaer sidi. Perfect was the prison of Gwair in Caer Sidi, Thanks to Pwyll and Pryderi's emissary. Before him no one entered into it, To the heavy, dark chain held by a faithful youth; And before the spoils of Annwn sorely he sang, And thenceforth remains he till doom a bard. Three freights of Prydwen went we thither, But only seven returned from Caer Sidi. The incidents in these lines are mostly unintelligible to me, but the incarceration of Gweir or Gwair, together with other imprisonments, including that of Arthur in Caer Oeth and Anoeth (p. 619), are mentioned also in the Triads: see i. 50, ii. 7, 49, iii. 61. It is not improbable that the legend about Gwair located his prison on Lundy, as the Welsh name of that island appears to have been Ynys Wair, 'Gwair's Isle.' Pwyll and Pryderi did not belong to Annwn, nor did Pryderi's friend Manawydan; but the Mabinogi of Pwyll relates how for a whole year Pwyll exchanged crown and kingdom with Arawn king of Annwn, from whom he obtained the first breed of domestic pigs for his own people (pp. 69, 525). In the lowlands of Scotland, together with the Orkneys and Shetlands, the Picts have to a certain extent taken the place of our fairies, and they are colloquially called Pechts. Now judging from the remains there ascribed to the Pechts, their habitations were either wholly underground or else so covered over with stones and earth and grass as to look like natural hillocks and to avoid attracting the attention of strangers. This was helped by making the entrance very low and as inconspicuous as possible. But one of the most remarkable things about these síds is that the cells within them are frequently so small as to prove beyond doubt, that those who inhabited them were of a remarkably short stature, though it is demonstrated by the weight of the stones used, that the builders were not at all lacking in bodily strength [269]. Here we have, accordingly, a small people like our own fairies. In Ireland one of the most famous kings of the fairies was called Mider of Brí Léith, where he resided in a síd or mound in the neighbourhood of Ardagh, in the county of Longford; and thither Irish legend represents him carrying away Étain, queen of Eochaid Airem, king of Ireland during a part of Conchobar MacNessa's time. Now Eochaid was for a whole year unable to find where she was, but his druid, Dalán, wrote Ogams and at last found it out. Eochaid then marched to Brí Léith, and began to demolish Mider's síd, whereupon Mider was eventually so frightened that he sent forth the queen to her husband, who then went his way, leaving the mound folk to digest their wrath. For it is characteristic of them that they did not fight, but chose to bide their time for revenge. In this instance it did not arrive till long after Eochaid's day [270]. I may add that Étain was herself one of the síde or fairies; and one of Mider's reasons for taking her away was, that she had been his wife in a previous stage of existence. Now it is true that the fairy Mider is described as resembling the other heroes of Irish story, in having golden yellow hair and bright blue eyes [271], but he differs completely from them in being no warrior but a great wizard; and though he is not said to have been of small stature, the dwarfs were not far off. For in describing the poet Atherne, who was notorious for his stinginess (p. 635), the story-teller emphasizes his words by representing him taking from Mider three of his dwarfs and stationing them around his own house, in order that their truculent looks and rude words might drive away anybody who came to seek hospitality or to present an unwelcome request [272], a rôle which recalls that of Edern ab Nud's dwarf already mentioned (p. 672). Here the Irish word used is corr, which is probably to be identified with the Brythonic cor, 'a dwarf,' though the better known meaning of corr in Irish is 'crane or heron.' From the former also is hardly to be severed the Irish corrguinigh, 'sorcerers,' and corrguinacht [273], or the process of cursing to which the corrguinigh resorted, as, for instance, when Néde called forth the fatal blisters on Caier's face (p. 632). The rôle would seem exactly to suit the little people, who were consummate magicians. Let me for a moment leave the little people, in order to call attention to another side of this question of race. It has recently been shown [274] by Professor J. Morris Jones, of the University College of North Wales, that the non-Aryan traits of the syntax of our insular Celtic point unmistakably to that of old Egyptian and Berber, together with kindred idioms belonging to the southern shore of the Mediterranean Sea. He has thereby reduced to articulate speech, so to say, the physiognomical convictions of Professor Sayce (p. 665), to which the reader's attention has been called. To the linguistic argument he appends a statement cited from a French authority and bearing on the question of descent by birth, to the effect, that when among the Berbers the king dies or is deposed, as happens often enough, it is not his son that is called to succeed, but the son of his sister, as in the case of the historical Picts of Scotland down to the twelfth century or thereabouts. Here I would add, that my attention has been called by Professor Sayce to old Egyptian monuments representing the Libyan chiefs with their bodies tattooed, a habit which seems not to be yet extinct among the Touaregs and Kabyles [275]. Lastly, Mr. Nicholson has recently directed attention to the fact that some princes of ancient Gaul are represented with their faces tattooed on certain coins found in the west of France so far south as the region once occupied by the ancient Pictones. We have a compendious commentary on this in the occurrence of a word Chortonicum in a High German manuscript written before the year 814: I allude to the Wessobrunn Codex at Munich, in which, among a number of geographical names connected with Gaul and other countries, that vocable is so placed as to allow of our referring it to Poitou or to all Gaul as the country once of the ancient Pictones. The great German philologist Pott, who called attention to it, brought it at once into relation with Cruithne, plural Cruithni, 'the Picts of Britain and Ireland,' a word which has been explained at p. 281 above [276]. Now at last I come to the question, what pre-Celtic race or races make themselves evident in the mass of things touched on in this and the foregoing chapters? The answer must, I think, recognize at least two. First comes the race of the mound folk, consisting of the short swarthy people variously caricatured in our fairy tales. They formed isolated fractions of a widely spread race possessed of no political significance whatsoever; but, with the inconsistency ever clinging to everything connected with the fairies, the weird and uncanny folk emerging from its underground lairs seems to have exercised on other races a sort of permanent spell of mysteriousness amounting to adoration. In fact, Irish literature tells us that the síde were worshipped (p. 678). Owing to his faculty of exaggeration, combined with his inability to comprehend the little people, the Celt was enabled to bequeath to the great literatures of Western Europe a motley train of dwarfs and brownies, a whole world of wizardry and magic. The real race of the little people forms the lowest stratum which we can reach, to wit, at a level no higher, seemingly, than that of the present-day natives of Central Australia. Thus some of the birth stories of Cúchulainn and Étáin seem to have passed through their hands, and they bear a striking resemblance to certain notions of the Lapps (pp. 657-8). In fact, the nature of the habitations of our little people, together with other points which might be mentioned, would seem at first sight to betoken affinity with the Lapps; but I am warned by experts [277] that there are serious craniological difficulties in the way of any racial comparison with the Lapps, and that one must look rather to the dwarf populations once widely spread over our hemisphere, and still to be found here and there in Europe, as, for example, in Sicily. To come nearer our British Isles, the presence of such dwarfs has been established with regard to Switzerland in neolithic times [278]. The other race may be called Picts, which is probably the earliest of the names given it by the Celts; and their affinities appear to be Libyan, possibly Iberian. It was a warlike stock, and stood higher altogether than the mound inhabitants; for it had a notion of paternity, though, on account of its promiscuity, it had to reckon descent by birth (pp. 654-6). To it probably belonged all the great family groups figuring in the Mabinogion and the corresponding class of literature in Irish: this would include the Danann-Dôn group and the Lir-Llyr group, together with the families represented by Pwyll and Rhiannon, who were inseparable from the Llyr group in Welsh, just as the Lir group was inseparable from the Tuatha Dé Danann in Irish legend (pp. 548-9). The Picts made slaves and drudges of the mound-haunting race, but how far any amalgamation may have taken place between them it is impossible to say. Even without any amalgamation, however, the little people, if employed as nurses to their Pictish lords' children, could not help leaving their impress in time on the language of the ruling nationality. But it may be that the treatment of the Picts, by Scottish legend, as a kind of fairies really points to amalgamation, though it is not impossible that archæology may be able to classify the remains of the dwellings ascribed to the Pechts, that is, to assign a certain class to the warlike Picts of history and another to the dwarf race of the síds. A certain measure of amalgamation may also be the meaning of the Irish tradition, that when the Milesian Irish came and conquered, the defeated Tuatha Dé Danann gave up their life above ground and retired inside the hills like the fairies. This account of them may be as worthless as the story of the extermination of the Picts of Scotland: both peoples doubtless lived on to amalgamate in time with the conquering race; but it may mean that some of them retreated before the Celts, and concealed themselves after the manner of the little people--in underground dwellings in the less accessible parts of the country. In any case, it may well be that they got their magic and druidism from the dwellers of the síds. In the next place, it has been pointed out (pp. 550-1) how the adjective hên, 'old, ancient,' is applied in Welsh to several of the chief men of the Dôn group, and by this one may probably understand that they were old not merely to those who told the stories about them in Welsh, but to those who put those stories together in Goidelic ages earlier. The geography of the Mabinogion gives the prehistoric remains of Penmaen Mawr and Tre'r Ceiri to the Dôn group; but by its name, Tre'r Ceiri should be the 'Town of the Keiri,' a word probably referring to the Picts (pp. 279-83): this, so far as it goes, makes the sons of Dôn belong by race to the Picts. Lastly, it is the widely spread race of the Picts, conquered by the Celts of the Celtican or Goidelic branch and amalgamating with their conquerors in the course of time, that has left its non-Aryan impress on the syntax of the Celtic languages of the British Isles. These, it is needless to say, are conjectures which I cannot establish; but possibly somebody else may. For the present, however, they cannot fail to suggest a moral, habitually ignored with a light heart by most people--including the writer of these words--that men in his plight, men engaged in studies which, owing to a rapid accumulation of fresh facts or the blossoming of new theories, are in a shifting condition, should abstain from producing books or anything longer than a magazine article now and then. Even such minor productions should be understood to be liable to be cast into a great bonfire lit once a year, say on Halloween. This should help to clear the air of mistaken hypotheses, whether of folklore and myth or of history and language, and also serve to mark Nos Calangaeaf as the commencement of the ancient Celtic year. The business of selecting the papers to be saved from the burning might be delegated to an academy constituted, roughly speaking, on the lines of Plato's aristocracy of intellect. Such academy, once in the enjoyment of its existence, would also find plenty of work in addition to the inquisitional business which I have suggested: it should, for example, be invested with summary jurisdiction over fond parents who venture to show any unreasonable anxiety to save their mental progeny from the annual bonfire. The best of that class of writers should be ordered by the academy to sing songs or indite original verse. As for the rest, some of them might be told off to gesticulate to the gallery, and some to administer the consolations of platitude to stragglers tired of the march of science. There is a mass of other useful work which would naturally devolve on an academy of the kind here suggested. I should be happy, if space permitted, to go through the particulars one by one, but let a single instance suffice: the academy might relieve us of the painful necessity of having seriously to consider any further the proposal that professors found professing after sixty should be shot. This will serve to indicate the kind of work which might advantageously be entrusted to the august body which is here but roughly projected. There are some branches of learning in the happy position of having no occasion for such a body academical. Thus, if a man will have it that the earth is flat, as flat in fact as some people do their utmost to make it, 'he will most likely,' as the late Mr. Freeman in the Saturday Review once put it, 'make few converts, and will be forgotten after at most a passing laugh from scientific men.' If a man insists that the sum of two and two is five, he will probably find his way to a lunatic asylum, as the economy of society is, in a manner, self-acting. So with regard to him who carries his craze into the more material departments of such a science as chemistry: he may be expected to blow out his own eyes, for the almighty molecule executes its own vengeance. 'But,' to quote again from Mr. Freeman, if that man's 'craze had been historical or philological'--and above all if it had to do with the science of man or of myth--'he might have put forth notions quite as absurd as the notion that the earth is flat, and many people would not have been in the least able to see that they were absurd. If any scholar had tried to confute him we should have heard of "controversies" and "differences of opinion."' In fact, the worst that happens to the false prophet who shines in any such a science is, that he has usually only too many enthusiastic followers. The machinery is, so to say, not automatic, and hence it is that we want the help of an academy. But even supposing such an academy established, no one need feel alarmed lest opportunities enough could no longer be found for cultivating the example of those of the early Christians who had the rare grace to suffer fools gladly. Personally, however, I should be against doing anything in a hurry; and, considering how little his fellows dare expect from the man who is just waiting to be final and perfect before he commit himself to type, the establishment of an academy invested with the summary powers which have been briefly sketched might, perhaps, after all, conveniently wait a while: my own feeling is that almost any time, say in the latter half of the twentieth century, would do better than this year or the next. In the meantime one must be content to entrust the fortunes of our studies to the combined forces of science and common sense. Judging by what they have achieved in recent years, there is no reason to be uneasy with regard to the time to come, for it is as true to-day as when it was first written, that the best of the prophets of the Future is the Past. ADDITIONS AND CORRECTIONS P. 81. I learn that the plural of bodach glas was in Welsh bodachod gleision, a term which Elis o'r Nant remembers his mother applying to a kind of fairies dressed in blue and fond of leading people astray. She used to relate how a haymaking party once passed a summer's night at the cowhouse (beudy) of Bryn Bygelyd (also Bryn Mygelyd), and how they saw in the dead of night a host of these dwarfs (corynnod) in blue dancing and capering about the place. The beudy in question is not very far from Dolwydelan, on the way to Capel Curig. A different picture of the bodach is given in Jenkins' Bed Gelert, p. 82; and lastly one may contrast the Highland Bodach Glas mentioned at p. 520 above, not to mention still another kind, namely the one in Scott's Waverley. P. 130. To Sarn yr Afanc add Llyn yr Afanc, near Llandinam (Beauties of Wales, N. Wales, p. 841), and Bed yr Afanc, 'the Afanc's Grave,' the name of some sort of a tumulus, I am told, on a knoll near the Pembrokeshire stream of the Nevern. Mr. J. Thomas, of Bancau Bryn Berian close by, has communicated to me certain echoes of a story how an afanc was caught in a pool near the bridge of Bryn Berian, and how it was taken up to be interred in what is now regarded as its grave. A complete list of the afanc place-names in the Principality might possibly prove instructive. As to the word afanc, what seems to have happened is this: (1) from meaning simply a dwarf it came to be associated with such water dwarfs as those mentioned at p. 432; (2) the meaning being forgotten, the word was applied to any water monster; and (3) where afanc occurs in place-names the Hu story has been introduced to explain it, whether it fitted or not. This I should fancy to be the case with the Bryn Berian barrow, and it would be satisfactory to know whether it contains the remains of an ordinary dwarf. Peredur's lake afanc may have been a dwarf; but whether that was so or not, it is remarkable that the weapon which the afanc handled was a llechwaew or flake-spear, that is, a missile tipped with stone. P. 131. With the rôle of the girl in the afanc story compare that of Tegau, wife of Caradog Freichfras, on whom a serpent fastens and can only be allured away to seize on one of Tegau's breasts, of which she loses the nipple when the beast is cut off. The defect being replaced with gold, she is ever after known as Tegau Eur-fron, or 'Tegau of the golden Breast.' That is a version inferred of a story which is discussed by M. Gaston Paris in an article, on Caradoc et le Serpent, elicited by a paper published (in the November number of Modern Language Notes for 1898) by Miss C. A. Harper, of Bryn Mawr College, U.S.: see the Romania, xxviii. 214-31. One of Miss Harper's parallels, mentioned by M. Paris at p. 220, comes from Campbell: it is concerning a prince who receives from his stepmother a magic shirt which converts itself into a serpent coiled round his neck, and of which he is rid by the help of a woman acting in much the same way as Tegau. We have an echo of this in the pedigrees in the Jesus College MS. 20: see the Cymmrodor, viii. 88, where one reads of G6ga6n keneu menrud a vu neidyr vl6ydyn am y von6gyl, 'Gwgon the whelp of Menrud (?) who was a year with a snake round his neck'--his pedigree is also given. In M. Paris' suggested reconstruction of the story (p. 228) from the different versions, he represents the maiden who is to induce the serpent to leave the man on whom it has fastened, as standing in a vessel filled with milk, while the man stands in a vessel filled with vinegar. The heroine exposes herself to the reptile, which relinquishes his present victim to seize on one of the woman's breasts. Now the appropriateness of the milk is explained by the belief that snakes are inordinately fond of milk, and that belief has, I presume, a foundation in fact: at any rate I am reminded of its introduction into the plot of more than one English story, such as Stanley Weyman's book From the Memoirs of a Minister of France (London, 1895), p. 445, and A. Conan Doyle's Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (London, 1893), pp. 199-209. In Wales, however, it is to a woman's milk that one's interest attaches: I submit two references which will explain what I mean. The first of them is to Owen's Welsh Folk-Lore, p. 349, where he says that 'traditions of flying snakes were once common in all parts of Wales,' and adds as follows:--'The traditional origin of these imaginary creatures was that they were snakes, which by having drunk the milk of a woman, and by having eaten of bread consecrated for the Holy Communion, became transformed into winged serpents or dragons.' The other is to the Brython for 1861, p. 190, where one reads in Welsh to the following effect:--'If a snake chances to have an opportunity to drink of a woman's milk it is certain to become a gwiber. When a woman happens to be far from her child, and her breasts are full and beginning to give her pain, she sometimes milks them on the ground in order to ease them. To this the peasantry in parts of Cardiganshire have a strong objection, lest a snake should come there and drink the milk, and so become a gwiber.' The word gwiber is used in the Welsh Bible for a viper, but the editor of the Brython explains, that in our folklore it means a huge kind of snake or dragon that has grown wings and has its body cased in hard scales: for a noted instance in point he refers the reader to the first number of the Brython, p. 3. It is believed still all over Wales that snakes may, under favourable circumstances, develop wings: in fact, an Anglesey man strongly wished, to my knowledge, to offer to the recent Welsh Land Commission, as evidence of the wild and neglected state of a certain farm, that the gorse had grown so high and the snakes so thriven in it that he had actually seen one of the latter flying right across a wide road which separated two such gorse forests as he described: surprised and hurt to find that this was not accepted, he inferred that the Commissioners knew next to nothing about their business. Pp. 148, 170. With 'the spell of security' by catching hold of grass may perhaps be compared a habit which boys in Cardiganshire have of suddenly picking up a blade of grass when they want a truce or stoppage in a sort of game of tig or touchwood. The grass gives the one who avails himself of it immunity for a time from attack or pursuit, so as to allow him to begin the game again just where it was left off. P. 228. Bodermud would probably be more correctly written Bodermyd, and analysed possibly into Bod-Dermyd, involving the name which appears in Irish as Diarmait and Dermot. P. 230. Since this was printed I have been assured by Mr. Thomas Prichard of Llwydiarth Esgob, in Anglesey, that the dolur byr is more commonly called clwy' byr, and that it is the disease known in English as 'black quarter.' Pp. 259, 268. I am assured on the part of several literary natives of Glamorgan that they do not know dâr for daear, 'ground, earth.' Such negative evidence, though proving the literary form daear to prevail now, is not to be opposed to the positive statement, sent by Mr. Hughes (p. 173) to me, as to the persistence in his neighbourhood of dâr and clâr (for claear, 'lukewarm'), to which one may add, as unlikely to be challenged by anybody, the case of harn for haearn, 'iron.' The intermediate forms have to be represented as daer, claer, and haern, which explain exactly the gaem of the Book of St. Chad, for which modern literary Welsh has gaeaf, 'winter': see the preface to the Book of Llan Dâv, p. xlv. P. 290. It ought to have been pointed out that the fairies, whose food and drink it is death to share, represent the dead. P. 291. For Conla read Connla or Condla: the later form is Colla. The Condla in question is called Condla Rúad in the story, but the heading to it has Ectra Condla Chaim, 'the Adventure of C. the Dear One.' P. 294. I am now inclined to think that butch was produced out of the northern pronunciation of witch by regarding its w as a mutation consonant and replacing it, as in some other instances, by b as the radical. P. 308. With the Manx use of rowan on May-day compare a passage to the following effect concerning Wales--I translate it from the faulty Welsh in which it is quoted by one of the competitors for the folklore prize at the Liverpool Eistedfod, 1900: he gave no indication of its provenance:--Another bad papistic habit which prevails among some Welsh people is that of placing some of the wood of the rowan tree (coed cerdin or criafol) in their corn lands (llafyrieu) and their fields on May-eve (Nos Glamau) with the idea that such a custom brings a blessing on their fields, a proceeding which would better become atheists and pagans than Christians. P. 325. In the comparison with the brownie the fairy nurse in the Pennant Valley has been overlooked: see p. 109. P. 331, line 1. For I. 42-3 read ii. 42-3. Pp. 377, 395. With the story of Ffynnon Gywer and the other fairy wells, also with the wells which have been more especially called sacred in this volume, compare the following paragraph from Martin's Description of the Western Islands of Scotland (London, 1703), pp. 229-30: it is concerning Gigay, now more commonly written Gigha, the name of an island near the west coast of Kintyre:--'There is a well in the north end of this isle called Toubir-more, i. e. a great well, because of its effects, for which it is famous among the islanders; who together with the inhabitants use it as a Catholicon for diseases. It's covered with stone and clay, because the natives fancy that the stream that flows from it might overflow the isle; and it is always opened by a Diroch, i. e. an inmate, else they think it would not exert its vertues. They ascribe one very extraordinary effect to it, and 'tis this; that when any foreign boats are wind-bound here (which often happens) the master of the boat ordinarily gives the native that lets the water run a piece of money, and they say that immediately afterwards the wind changes in favour of those that are thus detain'd by contrary winds. Every stranger that goes to drink of the water of this well, is accustomed to leave on its stone cover a piece of money, a needle, pin, or one of the prettiest variegated stones they can find.' Last September I visited Gigha and saw a well there which is supposed to be the one to which Martin refers. It is very insignificant and known now by a name pronounced Tobar a veac, possibly for an older Mo-Bheac: in Scotch Gaelic Bëac, written Beathag, is equated with the name Sophia. The only tradition now current about the well is that emptying it used to prove the means of raising a wind or even of producing great storms, and this appears to have been told Pennant: see his Tour in Scotland and Voyage to the Hebrides, MDCCLXXII (Chester, 1774), p. 226:--'Visit the few wonders of the isle: the first is a little well of a most miraculous quality, for in old times, if ever the chieftain lay here wind-bound, he had nothing more to do than cause the well to be cleared, and instantly a favorable gale arose. But miracles are now ceased.' P. 378. A similar rhyme is current in the neighbourhood of Dolgelley, as Miss Lucy Griffith informs me, as follows:-- Dolgelle dol a gollir, Daear a'i llwnc, dw'r 'n 'i lle. Dolgelley, a dale to be lost; Earth will swallow it, and water take its place. P. 394. With regard to wells killing women visiting them, I may mention a story, told me the other day by Professor Mahaffy after a friend whose name he gave, concerning the inhabitants of one of the small islands on the coast of Mayo--I understood him to say off the Mullet. It was this: all the men and boys, having gone fishing, were prevented by rough weather from returning as soon as they intended, and the women left alone suffered greatly from want of water, as not one of them would venture to go to the well. By-and-by, however, one of them gave birth to a boy, whereupon another of them carried the baby to the well, and ventured to draw water. P. 418. As to Clychau Aberdyfi I am now convinced that the chwech and saith are entirely due to the published versions, the editors of which seem to have agreed that they will have as much as possible for their money, so to say. I find that Mrs. Rhys learnt in her childhood to end the words with pump, and that she cannot now be brought to sing the melody in any other way: I have similar testimony from a musical lady from the neighbourhood of Wrexham; and, doubtless, more evidence of the same sort could be got. P. 443. For Llywelyn ab Gruffyd read Llywelyn ab Iorwerth. Pp. 450-1. Some additional light on the doggerel dialogue will be found thrown by the following story, which I find cited in Welsh by one of the Liverpool Eistedfod competitors:--There is in the parish of Yspytty Ifan, in Carnarvonshire, a farm called Trwyn Swch, where eighty years ago lived a man and his wife, who were both young, and had twins born to them. Now the mother went one day to milk, leaving the twins alone in the cradle--the husband was not at home--and who should enter the house but one of the Tylwyth Teg! He took the twins away and left two of his own breed in the cradle in their stead. Thereupon the mother returned home and saw what had come to pass; she then in her excitement snatched the Tylwyth Teg twins and took them to the bridge that crosses the huge gorge of the river Conwy not very far from the house, and she cast them into the whirlpool below. By this time the Tylwyth Teg had come on the spot, some trying to save the children, and some making for the woman. 'Seize the old hag!' (Crap ar yr hen wrach!) said one of the chiefs of the Tylwyth Teg. 'Too late!' cried the woman on the edge of the bank; and many of them ran after her to the house. As they ran three or four of them lost their pipes in the field. They are pipes ingeniously made of the blue stone (carreg las) of the gully. They measure three or four inches long, and from time to time several of them have been found near the cave of Trwyn Swch.--This is the first indication which I have discovered, that the fairies are addicted to smoking. P. 506. A Rhiw Gyferthwch (printed Rywgyverthwch) occurs in the Record of Carnarvon, p. 200; but it seems to have been in Merionethshire, and far enough from Arfon. P. 521. In the article already cited from the Romania, M. Paris finds Twrch Trwyth in the boar Tortain of a French romance: see xxviii. 217, where he mentions a legend concerning the strange pedigree of that beast. The subject requires to be further studied. P. 535. A less probable explanation of Latio would be to suppose orti understood. This has been suggested to me by Mr. Nicholson's treatment of the Llanaelhaiarn inscription as Ali ortus Elmetiaco hic iacet, where I should regard Ali as standing for an earlier nominative Alec-s, and intended as the Celtic equivalent for Cephas or Peter: Ali would be the word which is in Med. Irish ail, genitive ailech, 'a rock or stone.' P. 545. We have the Maethwy of Gilvaethwy possibly still further reduced to Aethwy in Porth Aethwy, 'the Village of Menai Bridge,' in spite of its occurring in the Record of Carnarvon, p. 77, as Porthaytho. P. 548. To the reference to the Cymmrodor, ix. 170, as to Beli being called son of Anna, add the Welsh Elucidarium, p. 127, with its belim vab anna, and The Cambro-British Saints, p. 82, where we have Anna ... genuit Beli. P. 560. Two answers to the query as to the Llech Las are now to be found in the Scottish Antiquary, xv. 41-3. P. 566. Caer Gai is called also Caer Gynyr, after Cai's father Cynyr, to wit in a poem by William Lleyn, who died in 1587. This I owe to Professor J. Morris Jones, who has copied it from a collection of that poet's works in the possession of Myrdin Fard, fo. 119. P. 569. Here it would, perhaps, not be irrelevant to mention Caer Dwrgynt, given s. v. Dwr in Morris' Celtic Remains, as a name of Caergybi, or Holyhead. His authority is given in parenthesis thus: (Th. Williams, Catal.). I should be disposed to think the name based on some such an earlier form as Kair D6bgint, 'the Fortress of the Danes,' who were called in old Welsh Dub-gint (Annales Cambriæ, A. D. 866, in the Cymmrodor, ix. 165), that is to say 'Gentes Nigræ or Black Pagans,' and more simply Gint or Gynt, 'Gentes or Heathens.' Pp. 579-80. The word banna6c, whence the later bannog, seems to be the origin of the name bonoec given to the famous horn in the Lai du Corn, from which M. Paris in his Romania article, xxviii. 229, cites Cest cor qui bonoec a non, 'this horn which is called bonoec.' The Welsh name would have to be Corn (yr) ych banna6c, 'the horn of (the) bannog ox,' with or without the article. P. 580, note 1. One of the Liverpool Eistedfod competitors cites W. O. Pughe to the following effect in Welsh:--Llyn dau Ychain, 'the Lake of Two Oxen,' is on Hiraethog Mountain; and near it is the footmark of one of them in a stone or rock (carreg), where he rested when seeking his partner, as the local legend has it. Another cites a still wilder story, to the effect that there was once a wonderful cow called Y Fuwch Fraith, 'the Parti-coloured Cow.' 'To that cow there came a witch to get milk, just after the cow had supplied the whole neighbourhood. So the witch could not get any milk, and to avenge her disappointment she made the cow mad. The result was that the cow ran wild over the mountains, inflicting immense harm on the country; but at last she was killed by Hu near Hiraethog, in the county of Denbigh.' P. 592. With trwtan, Trwtyn-Tratyn, and Trit-a-trot should doubtless be compared the English use of trot as applied contemptuously to a woman, as when Grumio, in Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew, Act i, sc. 2, speaks of 'an old trot with ne'er a tooth in her head': the word was similarly used by Thomas Heywood and others. P. 649. With regard to note 1, I find that Professor Zimmer is of opinion--in fact he is quite positive--that tyngu and tynghed are in no way related: see the Göttingische gelehrte Anzeigen for 1900 (No. 5), pp. 371-2. P. 673. I am tempted to rank with the man-eating fairies the Atecotti, who are known to have been cannibals, and whose name seems to mean the ancient race. Should this prove tenable, one would have to admit that the little people, or at any rate peoples with an admixture of the blood of that race, could be trained to fight. Further, one would probably have to class with them also such non-cannibal tribes as those of the Fir Bolg and the Galiúin of Irish story. Information about both will be found in my Hibbert Lectures, in reading which, however, the mythological speculations should be brushed aside. Lastly, I anticipate that most of the peoples figuring in the oldest class of Irish story will prove to have belonged either (1) to the dwarf race, or (2) to the Picts; and that careful reading will multiply the means of distinguishing between them. Looking comprehensively at the question of the early races of the British Isles, the reader should weigh again the concluding words of Professor Haddon's theory, quoted on p. 684 above. NOTES [1] For most of my information on this subject I have to thank Mr. David Davies, editor of the South Wales Daily Post, published at Swansea. [2] I am indebted for this information to Mr. J. Herbert James of Vaynor, who visited Kenfig lately and has called my attention to an article headed 'The Borough of Kenfig,' in the Archæologia Cambrensis for 1898: see more especially the maps at pp. 138-42. [3] Here the Welsh has a word edafwr, the exact meaning of which escapes me, and I gather from the remarks of local etymologers that no such word is now in use in Glamorgan. [4] See the Book of Aberpergwm, printed as Brut y Tywysogion, in the Myvyrian Archaiology, ii. 524; also Morgan's Antiquarian Survey of East Gower, p. 66, where the incident is given from 'Brut y Tywysogion, A. D. 1088.' It is, however, not in what usually passes by the name of Brut y Tywysogion, but comes, as the author kindly informs me, from a volume entitled 'Brut y Tywysogion, the Gwentian Chronicle of Caradoc of Llancarvan, with a translation by the late Aneurin Owen, and printed for the Cambrian Archæological Association, 1863': see pp. 70-1. [5] For this also I have to thank Mr. Herbert James, who recently inspected the spot with Mr. Glascodine of Swansea. [6] I do not know whether anybody has identified the spot which the writer had in view, or whether the coast of the Severn still offers any feature which corresponds in any way to the description. [7] Supposed to be so called after a certain Tegid Foel, or 'Tegid the Bald,' of Penllyn: the name Tegid is the phonetic spelling of what might be expected in writing as Tegyd--it is the Latin Tacitus borrowed, and comes with other Latin names in Pedigree I. of the Cuneda dynasty; see the Cymmrodor, xi. 170. In point of spelling one may compare Idris for what might be expected written Idrys, of the same pronunciation, for an earlier Iudrys or Iudris. [8] The translation was made by Thomas Twyne, and published in 1573 under the title of The Breuiary of Britayne, where the passage here given occurs, on fol. 69b. The original was entitled Commentarioli Britannicæ Descriptionis Fragmentum, published at Cologne in 1572. The original of our passage, fol. 57a, has Guynedhia and Llunclis. The stem llwnc of llyncaf, 'I swallow,' answers, according to Welsh idiom, to the use of what would be in English or Latin a participle. Similarly, when a compound is not used, the verbal noun (in the genitive) is used: thus 'a feigned illness,' in Welsh 'a made illness,' is saldra gwneyd, literally 'an indisposition or illness of making.' So 'the deuouryng of the Palace' is incorrect, and based on Llwyd's vorago Palatij instead of Palatium voratum. [9] For other occurrences of the name, see the Black Book, fol. 35a, 52a, and Morris' Celtic Remains, where, s. v. Benlli, the Welsh name of Bardsey, to wit, Ynys Enlli, is treated by somebody, doubtless rightly, as a shortening of Ynys Fenlli. [10] The meaning of this name is not certain, but it seems to equate with the Irish Fochard, anglicized Faughard, in County Louth: see O'Donovan's Four Masters, A. D. 1595; also the Book of the Dun Cow, where it is Focherd, genitive Focherda, dative Focheird, fo. 70b, 73b, 75a, 75b, 76a, 77a. [11] This is sometimes given as Glannach, which looks like the Goidelic form of the name: witness Giraldus' Enislannach in his Itin. Kambriæ, ii. 7 (p. 131). [12] See Choice Notes, p. 92, and Gerald Griffin's Poetical and Dramatic Works, p. 106. [13] Failing to see this, various writers have tried to claim the honour of owning the bells for Aberteifi, 'Cardigan,' or for Abertawe, 'Swansea'; but no arguments worthy of consideration have been urged on behalf of either place: see Cyfaill yr Aelwyd for 1892, p. 184. [14] For some of the data as to the reckoning of the pedigrees and branching of a family, see the first volume of Aneurin Owen's Ancient Laws--Gwyned, III. i. 12-5 (pp. 222-7); Dyfed, II. i. 17-29 (pp. 408-11); Gwent, II. viii. 1-7 (pp. 700-3); also The Welsh People, pp. 230-1. [15] See the Book of the Dun Cow, fol. 99a & seq. [16] For instances, the reader may turn back to pp. 154 or 191, but there are plenty more in the foregoing chapters; and he may also consult Howells' Cambrian Superstitions, pp. 123-8, 141-2, 146. In one case, p. 123, he gives an instance of the contrary kind of imagination: the shepherd who joined a fairy party on Frenni Fach was convinced, when his senses and his memory returned, that, 'although he thought he had been absent so many years, he had been only so many minutes.' The story has the ordinary setting; but can it be of popular origin? The Frenni Fach is a part of the mountain known as the Frenni Fawr, in the north-east of Pembrokeshire; the names mean respectively the Little Breni, and the Great Breni. The obsolete word breni meant, in Old Welsh, the prow of a ship; local habit tends, however, to the solecism of Brenin Fawr, with brenin, 'king,' qualified by an adjective mutated feminine; but people at a distance who call it Frenni Fawr, pronounce the former vocable with nn. Lastly, Y Vrevi Va6r occurs in Maxen's Dream in the Red Book (Oxford Mab. p. 89); but in the White Book (in the Peniarth collection), col. 187, the proper name is written Freni: for this information I have to thank Mr. Gwenogvryn Evans. [17] It is right to say that another account is given in the Rennes Dindsenchas, published by Stokes in the Revue Celtique, xvi. 164, namely, that Laiglinne with fifty warriors 'came to the well of Dera son of Scera. A wave burst over them and drowned Laiglinne with his fifty warriors, and thereof a lake was made. Hence we say Loch Laiglinni, Laiglinne's Lake.' [18] The Oxford Mabinogion, p. 224, and Guest's, i. 343. [19] See Afanc in the Geiriadur of Silvan Evans, who cites instances in point. [20] See the Revue Celtique, i. 257, and my Hibbert Lectures, pp. 92-3. [21] The Four Masters, A.M. 3520. [22] In another version Campbell had found it to be sand and nothing else. [23] As to this incident of a girl and a supernatural, Campbell says that he had heard it in the Isle of Man also, and elsewhere. [24] See the Revue Celtique, ii. 197. He was also called Labraid Longsech, and Labraid Longsech Lorc. The explanation of Labraid Lorc is possibly that it was originally Labraid Morc, and that the fondness for alliteration brought it into line as Labraid Lorc: compare Llûd Llaweraint in Welsh for Nûd Llaweraint. This is not disproved by the fact that Labraid Lorc's grandfather is said to have been called Loegaire Lorc: Loegaire Lorc and Labraid Lorc are rather to be regarded perhaps as duplicates of the same original. [25] See my Arthurian Legend, p. 70; also Hibbert Lectures, p. 590. [26] The original has in these passages respectively siblais a fual corbo thipra, 'minxit urinam suam so that it was a spring'; ar na siblad a fúal ar na bad fochond báis doib, 'ne mingat urinam suam lest it should be the cause of death to them'; and silis, 'minxit,' fo. 39b. For a translation of the whole story see Dr. O'Grady's Silva Gadelica, pp. 265-9; also Joyce's Old Celtic Romances, pp. 97-105. [27] See the story in Dr. O'Grady's Silva Gadelica, pp. 292-311. [28] See Stengel's edition of li Romans de Durmart le Galois (Tübingen, 1873), lines 4185-340, and my Arthurian Legend, pp. 68-9. [29] See Williams' Scint Greal, pp. 60-1, 474-5; Nutt's Holy Grail, p. 44; and my Arthurian Legend, pp. 69-70. [30] Bardoniaeth D. ab Gwilym, poem 183. A similar descent of Blodeuwed's appears implied in the following englyn--one of two--by Anthony Powel, who died in 1618: it is given by Taliesin ab Iolo in his essay on the Neath Valley, entitled Traethawd ar Gywreined, Hynafiaeth, a hen Bendefigion Glynn Ned (Aberdare, 1886), p. 15:-- Crug ael, carn gadarn a godwyd yn fryn, Yn hen fraenwaith bochlwyd; Main a'i llud man y lladwyd, Merch hoewen loer Meirchion lwyd. It refers, with six other englynion by other authors, to a remarkable rock called Craig y Dinas, with which Taliesin associated a cave where Arthur or Owen Lawgoch and his men are supposed, according to him, to enjoy a secular sleep, and it implies that Blodeuwed, whose end in the Mabinogi of Mâth was to be converted into an owl, was, according to another account, overwhelmed by Craig y Dinas. It may be Englished somewhat as follows: Heaped on a brow, a mighty cairn built like a hill, Like ancient work rough with age, grey-cheeked; Stones that confine her where she was slain, Grey Meirchion's daughter quick and bright as the moon. [31] This comes from the late series of Triads, iii. 10, where Merlin's nine companions are called naw beird cylfeird: cylfeird should be the plural of cylfard, which must be the same word as the Irish culbard, name of one of the bardic grades in Ireland. [32] For some more remarks on this subject generally, see my Arthurian Legend, chapter xv, on the 'Isles of the Dead.' [33] See his Itinerarium Kambriæ, ii. 11 (p. 139); also my Celtic Britain, p. 68, and Arthurian Legend, p. 364. [34] From the Myvyrian Archaiology of Wales, i. 302. [35] I regard nid kywiw as a corruption of ni chywiw from cyf-yw, an instance of the verb corresponding to cymod (= cym-bod), 'peace, conciliation.' The preterite has, in the Oxford Bruts, A.D. 1217 (p. 358), been printed kynni for what one may read kymu: the words would then be y kymu reinald y bre6ys ar brenhin, 'that Reginald de Breos was reconciled with the king, or settled matters with him.' [36] See the Book of Taliessin, poem xxx, in Skene's Four Ancient Books, ii. 181; also Guest's Mabinogion, ii. 354, and the Brython for 1860, p. 372b, where more than one article of similar capacity of distinguishing brave men from cowards is mentioned. [37] See Dugdale's Monasticon, v. 672, where they are printed Dwynech and Dwynaur respectively. [38] See my Hibbert Lectures, pp. 649-50. [39] A full account of them will be found in a volume devoted to them, and entitled Roman Antiquities at Lydney Park, Gloucestershire, being a posthumous work of the Rev. W. Hiley Bathurst, with Notes by C. W. King, London, 1879. See also an article entitled 'Das Heiligtum des Nodon,' by Dr. Hübner in the Jahrbücher des Vereins von Alterthumsfreunden im Rheinlande, lxvii. pp. 29-46, where several things in Mr. King's book are criticized. [40] See my Hibbert Lectures, pp. 122, 125. [41] On this subject, see The Welsh People, especially pp. 54-61. [42] Why our dictionary makers have taken into their heads to treat it as Tamesis I know not. The Welsh is Tafwys with a diphthong regularly representing an earlier long e or ei in the second syllable. There is, as far as I know, no reason to suppose Tafwys an invention, rather than a genuine vocable of the same origin as the name of the Glamorganshire river Taff, in Welsh Taf, which is also the name of the river emptying itself at Laugharne, in Carmarthenshire. Tafwys, however, does not appear to occur in any old Welsh document; but no such weakness attaches to the testimony of the French Tamise, which could hardly come from Tamesis: compare also the place-name Tamise near the Scheldt in East Flanders; this, however, may be of a wholly different origin. [43] A more difficult version has been sent me by Dewi Glan Ffrydlas, of Bethesda: Caffed y wrach, 'Let him seize the hag'; Methu'r cryfaglach, 'You have failed, urchin.' But he has not been able to get any explanation of the words at the Penrhyn Quarries. Cryfaglach is also the form in Mur y Cryfaglach, 'the Urchin's Wall,' in Jenkins' Bed Gelert, p. 249. He informs me that this is the name of an old ruin on an elevated spot some twenty or thirty yards from a swift brook, and not far in a south-south-easterly direction from Sir Edward Watkin's chalet. [44] For this I am indebted to Mr. Wm. Davies (p. 147 above), who tells me that he copied the original from Chwedlau a Thradodiadau Gwyned, 'Gwyned Tales and Traditions,' published in a periodical, which I have not been able to consult, called Y Gordofigion, for the year 1873. [45] The meaning of the word mwthlach is doubtful, as it is now current in Gwyned only in the sense of a soft, doughy, or puffy person who is all of a heap, so to say. Pughe gives mwythlan and mwythlen with similar significations. But mwthlach would seem to have had some such a meaning in the doggerel as that of rough ground or a place covered with a scrubby, tangled growth. It is possibly the same word as the Irish mothlach, 'rough, bushy, ragged, shaggy'; see the Vision of Laisrén, edited by Professor K. Meyer, in the Otia Merseiana, pp. 114, 117. [46] The account here given of the Cyhiraeth is taken partly from Choice Notes, pp. 31-2, and partly from Howells, pp. 31-4, 56-7, who appears to have got uncertain in his narrative as to the sex of the Cyhiraeth; but there is no reason whatsoever for regarding it as either male or female--the latter alone is warranted, as he might have gathered from her being called y Gyhiraeth, 'the Cyhiraeth,' never y Cyhiraeth as far as I know. In North Cardiganshire the spectre intended is known only by another name, that of Gwrach y Rhibyn, but y Gyhiraeth or yr hen Gyhiraeth is a common term of abuse applied to a lanky, cadaverous person, both there and in Gwyned; in books, however, it is found sometimes meaning a phantom funeral. The word cyhiraeth would seem to have originally meant a skeleton with cyhyrau, 'sinews,' but no flesh. However, cyhyrau, singular cyhyr, would be more correctly written with an i; for the words are pronounced--even in Gwyned--cyhir, cyhirau. The spelling cyhyraeth corresponds to no pronunciation I have ever heard of the word; but there is a third spelling, cyheuraeth, which corresponds to an actual cyhoereth or cyhoyreth, the colloquial pronunciation to be heard in parts of South Wales: I cannot account for this variant. Gwrach y Rhibyn means the Hag of the Rhibyn, and rhibyn usually means a row, streak, a line--ma' nhw'n mynd yn un rhibyn, 'they are going in a line.' But what exactly Gwrach y Rhibyn should connote I am unable to say. I may mention, however, on the authority of Mr. Gwenogvryn Evans, that in Mid-Cardiganshire the term Gwrach y Rhibyn means a long roll or bustle of fern tied with ropes of straw and placed along the middle of the top of a hayrick. This is to form a ridge over which and on which the thatch is worked and supported: gwrach unqualified is, I am told, used in this sense in Glamorganshire. Something about the Gwrach sprite will be found in the Brython for 1860, p. 23a, while a different account is given in Jenkins' Bed Gelert, pp. 80-1. [47] This statement I give from Choice Notes, p. 32; but I must confess that I am sceptical as to the 'wings of a leathery and bat-like substance,' or of any other substance whatsoever. [48] For more about her and similar ancestral personages, see The Welsh People, pp. 54-61. [49] This seems to be the Goidelic word borrowed, which in Mod. Irish is written cnocc or cnoc, 'a hill': the native Welsh form is cnwch, as in Cnwch Coch in Cardiganshire, Cnwch Dernog (corrupted into Clwch Dernog) in Anglesey, printed Kuwgh Dernok in the Record of Carnarvon, p. 59, where it is associated with other interesting names to be noticed later. [50] All said by natives of Anglesey about rivers and mountains in their island must be taken relatively, for though the country has a very uneven surface it has no real mountain: they are apt to call a brook a river and a hillock a mountain, though the majestic heights of Arfon are within sight. [51] See pp. 13-16 of his essay on the Neath Valley, referred to in a note at p. 439 above, where Craig y Dinas is also mentioned. [52] This is an interesting word of obscure origin, to which I should like our ingenious etymologists to direct their attention. [53] See the Poetical Works of John Leyden (Edinburgh, 1875), p. 36 (Scenes of Infancy, part ii); also my Arthurian Legend, p. 18. [54] I am indebted for the English story to an article entitled 'The Two Pedlar Legends of Lambeth and Swaffham,' contributed by Mr. Gomme to the pages of the Antiquary, x. 202-5, in which he gives local details and makes valuable comparisons. I have to thank Mr. Gomme also for a cutting from the weekly issue of the Leeds Mercury for Jan. 3, 1885, devoted to 'Local Notes and Queries' (No. cccxii), where practically the same story is given at greater length as located at Upsall Castle in Yorkshire. [55] I have never been to the spot, and I owe these particulars partly to Mr. J. P. Owen, of 72 Comeragh Road, Kensington, and partly to the Rev. John Fisher, already quoted at p. 379. This is the parish where some would locate the story of the sin-eater, which others stoutly deny, as certain periodical outbursts of polemics in the pages of the Academy and elsewhere have shown. Mr. Owen, writing to me in 1893, states, that, when he last visited the dinas some thirty years previously, he found the mouth of the cave stopped up in order to prevent cattle and sheep straying into it. [56] Mr. Fisher refers me to an account of the discovery published in the Cambrian newspaper for Aug. 14, 1813, a complete file of which exists, as he informs me, in the library of the Royal Institution of South Wales at Swansea. Further, at the Cambrians' meeting in 1892 that account was discussed and corrected by Mr. Stepney-Gulston: see the Archæologia Cambrensis for 1893, pp. 163-7. He also 'pointed out that on the opposite side of the gap in the ridge the noted cave of Owain Law Goch was to be found. Near the Pant-y-llyn bone caves is a place called Craig Derwydon, and close by is the scene of the exploits of Owain Law Goch, a character who appears to have absorbed some of the features of Arthurian romance. A cave in the locality bears Owain's name.' [57] As in Llewelyn's charter to the Monks of Aberconwy, where we have, according to Dugdale's Monasticon, v. 673a, a Scubordynemreis, that is Scubor Dyn Emreis, 'Din-Emreis Barn,' supposed to be Hafod y Borth, near Bedgelert: see Jenkins' Bed Gelert, p. 198. In the Myvyrian, i. 195a, it has been printed Din Emrais. [58] See Somer's Malory's Morte Darthur, xxi. v (= vol. i. p. 849), and as to the Marchlyn story see p. 236 above. Lastly some details concerning Llyn Llydaw will be found in the next chapter. [59] The oldest spellings known of this name occur in manuscript A of the Annales Cambriæ and in the Book of Llan Dâv as Elized and Elised, doubtless pronounced Elissed until it became, by dropping the final dental, Elisse. This in time lost its identity by assimilation with the English name Ellis. Thus, for example, in Wynne's edition of Powell's Caradog of Llancarfan's History of Wales (London, 1774), pp. 22, 24, Elised is reduced to Elis. In the matter of dropping the d compare our Dewi, 'St. David,' for Dewid, for an instance of which see Duffus Hardy's Descriptive Catalogue, i. 119. The form Eliseg with a final g has no foundation in fact. Can the English name Ellis be itself derived from Elised? [60] Boncyn is derived from bonc of nearly the same meaning, and bonc is merely the English word bank borrowed: in South Wales it is pronounced banc and used in North Cardiganshire in the sense of hill or mountain. [61] The name occurs twice in the story of Kulhwch and Olwen: see the Mabinogion, p. 107, where the editors have read Ricca both times in 'Gormant, son of Ricca.' This is, however, more than balanced by Rita in the Book of Llan Dâv, namely in Tref Rita, 'Rita's town or stead,' which occurs five times as the name of a place in the diocese of Llandaff; see pp. 32, 43, 90, 272. The uncertainty is confined to the spelling, and it has arisen from the difficulty of deciding in medieval manuscripts between t and c: there is no reason to suppose the name was ever pronounced Ricca. [62] This can hardly be the real name of the place, as it is pronounced Gwybrnant (and even Gwybrant), which reminds me of the Gwybr fynyd on which Gwyn ab Nûd wanders about with his hounds: see Evans' facsimile of the Black Book of Carmarthen, p. 50a, where the words are, dy gruidir ar wibir winit. [63] Dugdale has printed this (v. 673a) Carrecerereryr with one er too much, and the other name forms part of the phrase ad capud Weddua-Vaur, 'to the top of the Great Gwydfa'; but I learn from Mr. Edward Owen, of Gray's Inn, that the reading of the manuscript is Wedua vawr and Carrecereryr. [64] The MSS. except B have y 6ylva, which is clearly not the right word, as it could only mean 'his place of watching.' [65] See Derfel Hughes' Llandegai and Llanllechid, p. 53. As to Drystan it is the Pictish name Drostan, but a kindred form occurs in Cornwall on a stone near Fowey, where years ago I guessed the ancient genitive Drustagni; and after examining it recently I am able to confirm my original guess. The name of Drystan recalls that of Essyllt, which offers some difficulty. It first occurs in Welsh in the Nennian Genealogies in the Harleian MS. 3859: see Pedigree I in the Cymmrodor, ix. 169, where we read that Mermin (Merfyn) was son of Etthil daughter of Cinnan (Cynan), who succeeded his father Rhodri Molwynog in the sovereignty of Gwyned in 754. The spelling Etthil is to be regarded like that of the Welsh names in Nennius, for some instances of which see § 73 (quoted in the next chapter) and the Old Welsh words calaur, nouel, patel, so spelt in the Juvencus Codex: see Skene, ii. 2: in all these l does duty for ll. So Etthil is to be treated as pronounced Ethill or Ethyll; but Jesus College MS. 20 gives a more ancient pronunciation (at least as regards the consonants) when it calls Cynan's daughter Ethellt: see the Cymmrodor, viii. 87. Powell, in his History of Wales by Caradog of Llancarfan, as edited by Wynne, writes the name Esylht; and the Medieval Welsh spelling has usually been Essyllt or Esyllt, which agrees in its sibilant with the French Iselt or Iseut; but who made the Breton-looking change from Eth to Es or Is in this name remains a somewhat doubtful point. Professor Zimmer, in the Zeitschrift für französische Sprache und Litteratur, xiii. 73-5, points out that the name is an Anglo-Saxon Ethylda borrowed, which he treats as a 'Kurzform für Ethelhild': see also the Revue Celtique, xii. 397, xiii. 495. The adoption of this name in Wales may be regarded as proof of intermarriage or alliance between an English family and the royal house of Gwyned as early as the eighth century. [66] See the Brython for 1861, pp. 331-2, also Cymru Fu, p. 468, where Glasynys was also inclined to regard the Hairy Fellow as being Owen. [67] I have never seen a copy, but Mr. Fisher gives me the title as follows: Prophwydoliaeth Myrdin Wyllt yn nghyda ber Hanes o'i Fywyd, wedi eu tynu allan o Lyfr y Daroganau ... Caerfyrdin ... Pris dwy Geiniog. It has no date, but Mr. Fisher once had a copy with the date 1847. Recently he has come across another versified prophecy written in the same style as the printed ones, and referring to an Owain who may have been Owen Lawgoch. The personage meant is compared to the most brilliant of pearls, Owain glain golyaf. The prophecy is to be found at the Swansea Public Library, and occurs in a seventeenth century manuscript manual of Roman Catholic Devotion, Latin and Welsh. It gives 1440 as the year of the deliverance of the Brytaniaid. It forms the first of two poems (fo. 37), the second of which is ascribed to Taliessin. Such is Mr. Fisher's account of it, and the lines which he has copied for me cling to the same theme of the ultimate triumph of the Kymry. Quite recently I have received further information as to these prophecies from Mr. J. H. Davies, of Lincoln's Inn (p. 354), who will, it is to be hoped, soon publish the results of his intimate study of their history in South Wales. [68] Record of Carnarvon, p. 133, to which attention was called by me in the Report of the Welsh Land Commission, p. 648: see now The Welsh People, pp. 343-4, 593-4. [69] Nor was Owen the only Welshman in the king of France's service: there was Owen's chaplain, who on one occasion distinguished himself greatly in battle. He is called in Froissart's text David House, but the editor has found from other documents that the name was Honvel Flinc, which is doubtless Howel, whatever the second vocable may have been: see Froissart, viii, pp. xxxviii, 69. [70] As to the original destination of the flotilla, see Kervyn de Lettenhove's edition of Froissart (Brussels, 1870-7), viii. 435-7, where the editor has brought together several notes, from which it appears that Owen tried unsuccessfully to recruit an army in Spain, but that he readily got together in France a considerable force. For Charles V, on May 8, 1372, ordered the formation of an army, to be placed under Owen's command for the reconquest of his ancestors' lands in Wales, and two days later Owen issued a declaration as to his Welsh claims and his obligations to the French king; but the flotilla stopped short with Guernsey. It is not improbable, however, that the fear in England of a descent on Wales by Owen began at least as early as 1369. In his declaration Owen calls himself Evain de Gales, which approaches the Welsh spelling Ewein, more frequently Ywein, modern Ywain, except that all these forms tended to be supplanted by Owain or Owen. This last is, strictly speaking, the colloquial form, just as Howel is the colloquial form of Hywel, and bowyd of bywyd, 'life.' [71] For the account of Owen's life see the Chroniques de J. Froissart publiées pour la Société de l'Histoire de France, edited with abstracts and notes by Siméon Luce, more especially vols. viii. pp. 44-9, 64, 66-71, 84, 122, 190, and ix. pp. 74-9, where a summary is given of his life and a complete account of his death. In Lord Berners' translation, published in Henry VIII's time, Owen is called Yuan of Wales, as if anybody could even glance at the romances without finding that Owen ab Urien, for instance, became in French Ywains or Ivains le fils Urien in the nominative, and Ywain or Ivain in régime. Thomas Johnes of Hafod, whose translation was published in 1803-6, betrays still greater ignorance by giving him the modern name Evan; but he had the excuse of being himself a Welshman. [72] For copies of some of the documents in point see Rymer's Foedera, viii. 356, 365, 382. [73] I have not been able to find a copy of this work, and for drawing my attention to the passage in Hanes Cymru I have again to thank Mr. Fisher. The pedigree in question will be found printed in Table I in Askew Roberts' edition of Sir John Wynne's History of the Gwydir Family (Oswestry, 1878); and a note, apparently copied from Miss Llwyd, states that it was in a Hengwrt MS. she found the identification of Owen Lawgoch. The editor surmises that to refer to p. 865 of Hengwrt MS. 351, which he represents as being a copy of Hengwrt MS. 96 in the handwriting of Robert Vaughan the Antiquary. [74] This has already been undertaken: on Feb. 7, 1900, a summary of this chapter was read to a meeting of the Hon. Society of Cymmrodorion, and six weeks later Mr. Edward Owen, of Gray's Inn, read an elaborate paper in which he essayed to fix more exactly Yvain de Galles' place in the history of Wales. It would be impossible here to do justice to his reasoning, based as it was on a careful study of the records in point. Let it suffice for the present, however, that the paper will in due course appear in the Society's Transactions. Mr. J. H. Davies also informs me that he is bringing together items of evidence, which tend, as he thinks, to show that Miss Llwyd's information was practically correct. Before, however, the question can be considered satisfactorily answered, some explanation will have to be offered of Froissart's statement, that Yvain's father's name was Aymon. [75] We seem also to have an instance in point in Carmarthenshire, where legend represents Owen and his men sleeping in Ogof Myrdin, the name of which means Merlin's Cave, and seems to concede priority of tenancy to the great magician: see the extinct periodical Golud yr Oes (for 1863), i. 253, which I find to have been probably drawing on Eliezer Williams' English Works (London, 1840), p. 156. [76] For the Greek text of the entire passage see the Didot edition of Plutarch, vol. iii. p. 511 (De Defectu Oraculorum, xviii); also my Arthurian Legend, pp. 367-8. It is curious to note that storms have, in a way, been associated in England with the death of her great men as recently as that of the celebrated Duke of Wellington: see Choice Notes, p. 270. [77] See my Arthurian Legend, p. 335. I am indebted to Professor Morfill for rendering the hexameters into English verse. [78] They are produced here in their order as printed at the beginning of the second volume of the Myvyrian Archaiology of Wales, and the series or versions are indicated as i, ii, iii. Version ii will be found printed in the third volume of the Cymmrodor, pp. 52-61, also in the Oxford Mabinogion, pp. 297-308, from the Red Book of Hergest of the fourteenth century. The letter (a, b, c) added is intended to indicate the order of the three parts of the Triad, for it is not the same in all the series. Let me here remark in a general way that the former fondness of the Welsh for Triads was not peculiar to them. The Irish also must have been at one time addicted to this grouping. Witness the Triad of Cleverest Countings, in the Book of the Dun Cow, fol. 58a, and the Triad of the Blemishes of the Women of Ulster, ib. 43b. [79] As to the names Drystan (also Trystan) and Essyllt, see the footnote on p. 480 above. [80] This was meant to explain the unusual term g6rdueichyat, also written g6rdueichat, g6rueichyat, and gwrddfeichiad. This last comes in the modern spelling of iii. 101, where this clause is not put in the middle of the Triad but at the end. [81] The editor of this version seems to have supposed Pendaran to have been a place in Dyfed! But his ignorance leaves us no evidence that he had a different story before him. [82] This word is found written in Mod. Welsh Annwfn, but it has been mostly superseded by the curtailed form Annwn, which appears twice in the Mabinogi of Math. These words have been studied by M. Gaidoz in Meyer and Stern's Zeitschrift für Celtische Philologie, i. 29-34, where he equates Annwfn with the Breton anauon, which is a plural used collectively for the souls of the departed, the other world. His view, however, of these interesting words has since been mentioned in the same Zeitschrift, iii. 184-5, and opposed in the Annales de Bretagne, xi. 488. [83] Edited by Professor Kuno Meyer (London, 1892): see for instance pp. 76-8. [84] See Windisch's Irische Texte, p. 256, and now the Irish Text Society's Fled Bricrend, edited with a translation by George Henderson, pp. 8, 9. [85] Windisch, ibid. pp. 99-105. [86] See the Oxford Mabinogion, p. 196, and Guest's trans., i. 302, where the Welsh words a gol6ython o gic meluoch are rendered 'and collops of the flesh of the wild boar,' which can hardly be correct; for the mel in mel-uoch, or mel-foch in the modern spelling, is the equivalent of the Irish melg, 'milk.' So the word must refer either to a pig that had been fed on cows' milk or else a sucking pig. The former is the more probable meaning, but one is not helped to decide by the fact, that the word is still sometimes used in books by writers who imagine that they have here the word mel, 'honey,' and that the compound means pigs whose flesh is as sweet as honey: see Dr. Pughe's Dictionary, where melfoch is rendered 'honey swine,' whatever that may mean. [87] Windisch's Irische Texte, p. 133, where laith lemnacht = Welsh llaeth llefrith, 'sweet milk.' [88] Collfrewi was probably, like Gwenfrewi, a woman's name: this is a point of some importance when taken in connexion with what was said at p. 326 above as to Gwydion and Coll's magic. [89] This reminds one of Geoffrey of Monmouth's Henvinus, whom he makes into dux Cornubiæ and father of Cunedagius or Cuneda: see ii. 12, 15. Probably Geoffrey's connecting such names as those of Cuneda and Dyfnwal Moelmud (ii. 17) with Cornwall is due to the fact, that the name of the Dumnonia of the North had been forgotten long before that of the Dumnonia to be identified with Devon and Cornwall. [90] See the Oxford Mabinogion, p. 104, and the Oxford Bruts, p. 292. [91] See the Oxford Bruts, pp. 299, 317, 345-6, 348, 384. I learn from Prof. Anwyl that Castell Penwedig is still remembered at Llanfihangel Genau'r Glyn as the old name of Castell Gwallter in that parish. [92] See his note in Owen's Pembrokeshire, p. 237, where he also notices Aber Tarogi, and the editor's notes to p. 55. [93] Mergaed for Mengwaed hardly requires any explanation; and as to Breat or rather Vreat, as it occurs in mutation, we have only to suppose the original carelessly written Vreac for Vreach, and we have the usual error of neglecting the stroke indicating the n, and the very common one of confounding c with t. This first-mentioned name should possibly be analysed into Mengw-aed or Menw-aed for an Irish Menb-aed, with the menb, 'little,' noticed at p. 510 below; in that case one might compare such compounds of Aed as Beo-aed and Lug-aed in the Martyrology of Gorman. Should this prove well founded the Mod. Welsh transcription of Menwaed should be Menwaed. I have had the use of other versions of the Triads from MSS. in the Peniarth collection; but they contribute nothing of any great importance as regards the proper names in the passages here in question. [94] See the Oxford Mabinogion, pp. 41, 98, and Guest's trans., iii. 313. [95] See Geoffrey's Historia Regum Britanniæ, vi. 19, viii. 1, 2; also Giraldus, Itinerarium Kambriæ, ii. 8 (p. 133). [96] Itinerarium Kambriæ, ii. 9 (p. 136). [97] Menw's name is to be equated with the Irish word menb, 'little, small,' and connected with the Welsh derivative di-fenw-i, 'belittling or reviling': it will be seen that he takes the form of a bird, and his designation Menw fab Teirgwaed might perhaps be rendered 'Little, son of Three-Cries.' [98] Identified by Professor Kuno Meyer in the Transactions of the Cymmrodorion Society, 1895-6, p. 73, with a place in Leinster called Sescenn Uairbeóil, 'the Marsh of Uairbhél,' where Uairbhél may possibly be a man's name, but more likely that of a pass or gap described as Cold-mouth: compare the Slack or Sloc in the Isle of Man, called in Manx 'the big Mouth of the Wind.' The Irish name comes near in part to the Welsh Esgeir Oervel or Oerfel, which means 'the mountain Spur of cold Weather.' [99] The word used in the text is ystyr, which now means 'meaning or signification'; but it is there used in the sense of 'history,' or of the Latin 'historia,' from which it is probably borrowed. [100] In the original his designation is Gwrhyr Gwalstawt Ieithoed, and the man so called is in the Kulhwch credited with the mastery of all languages, including those of certain birds and quadrupeds. Gwalstawt, found written also gwalstot, is the Anglo-Saxon word wealhstód, 'an interpreter,' borrowed. The name Gwrhyr is possibly identical with that of Ferghoir, borne by the Stentor of Fionn mac Cumhaill's following. Ferghoir's every shout is said to have been audible over three cantreds. Naturally one who was to parley with a savage host had good reason to cultivate a far-reaching voice, if he wished to be certain of returning to his friends. For more about it see the footnote at p. 489 of my Hibbert Lectures. [101] The original has Pelumyawc, p. 138, and the name occurs in the (Red Book) Bruts, p. 355, as Pelunyawc, and p. 411, as Pelunea(wc) between the commots of Amgoed and Velfrey. The identification here suggested comes from Mr. Phillimore, who has seen that Peuliniawc must be a derivative from the name Paulinus, that is of the Paulinus, probably, who is mentioned in an ancient inscription at Llandysilio. There are other churches called after Tysilio, so this one used to be distinguished as Llandysilio yn Nyfed, that is, Llandysilio-in-Dyfed; but the pronunciation was much the same as if it had been written Llandysilio yn Yfed, meaning 'Llandysilio a-drinking,' 'whereof arose a merrye jest,' as George Owen tells us in his Pembrokeshire, p. 9. It is now sometimes called Llandysilio'r Gynffon, or 'Llandysilio of the Tail,' from the situation of a part of the parish on a strip, as it were a tail, of Carmarthenshire land running into Pembrokeshire. [102] This Aber Towy appears to have been a town with a harbour in 1042, for we read in Brut y Tywysogion of a cruel engagement fought there between Gruffyd ab Llewelyn and Howel ab Edwin, who, with Irish auxiliaries, tried to effect a landing. Not long ago a storm, carrying away the accumulation of sand, laid bare a good deal of the site. It is to be hoped that excavations will be made soon on the spot. [103] See the Transactions of the Cymmrodorion, 1894-5, pp. 146-7. There are a good many clyns about South Wales, but our etymologists are careful to have them in most cases written glyn, 'a glen.' Our story, however, shows that the word came under the influence of glyn long ago, for it should be, when accented, clûn, corresponding to Irish cluain, 'a meadow.' We have it as clun in Clun Kein in the Black Book, p. 34b, where I guess it to mean the place now called Cilcain, 'Kilken' in Flintshire, which is accented on the first syllabic; and we have had it in y Clun Hir, 'the Long Meadow,' mentioned above at p. 22. [104] Cas Llychwr, 'Loughor Castle,' is supposed to involve in its Llychwr, Llwchwr, or Loughor, the name of the place in the Antoninus Itinerary, 484, 1, to wit Leucarum; but the guttural spirant ch between vowels in Llychwr argues a phonetic process which was Goidelic rather than Brythonic. [105] Llwydawc Gouynnyat would seem to mean Llwydawc the Asker or Demander, and the epithet occurs also in the Kulhwch in the name Gallcoyt Gouynynat (Mabinogion, 106), to be read doubtless G. Gouynnyat, 'G. who asks or demands': possibly one should rather compare with Go-uynnyat the word tra-mynyat, 'a wild boar': see Williams' Seint Greal, pp. 374, 381. However, the epithets in the Twrch Trwyth story do not count so far as concerns the place-names derived. [106] Other instances of the like shortening occur in words like cefnder, 'a cousin,' for cefnderw, and ardel, 'to own,' for ardelw. As to Amman, it enters, also, into a group of Glamorganshire place-names: witness Aber Amman and Cwm Amman, near Aberdare. [107] It should perhaps be looked for near Brechfa, where there is a Hafod Grugyn, and, as I am told, a Garth also which is, however, not further defined. For it appears that both Brechfa and Cayo, though now in Carmarthenshire, once belonged to Keredigion: see Owen's Pembrokeshire, p. 216. But perhaps another spot should be considered: J. D. Rhys, the grammarian (p. 22 above), gives in the Peniarth MS. 118 a list of caers or castles called after giants, and among them is that of Grugyn in the parish, he says, of 'Llan Hilar.' I have, however, not been able to hear of any trace of the name there, though I should guess the spot to have been Pen y Castell, called in English Castle Hill, the residence of Mr. Loxdale in the parish of Llanilar, near Aberystwyth. [108] I have re-examined the passage, and I have no doubt that the editors were wrong in printing Gregyn: the manuscript has Grugyn, which comes in the last line of column 841. Now besides that the line is in part somewhat faint, the scribe has evidently omitted something from the original story, and I guess that the lacuna occurs in the first line of the next column after the words y llas, 'was killed,' which seem to end the story of Grugyn. [109] Those who have discovered an independent Welsh appellative wy meaning water are not to be reasoned with. The Welsh wy only means an egg, while the meaning of Gwy as the name of the Wye has still to be discovered. [110] This name also occurs in a passage quoted in Jones' Brecknock, ii. 501, from a Carte MS. which he treats as relating to the year 1234: the MS. is said to be at the Bodleian, though I have not succeeded in tracing it. But Jones gives Villa de Ystraddewi, and speaks of a chapel of St. John's of Stradtewi, which must have been St. John's Church, at Tretower, one of the ecclesiastical districts of Cwm Du: see also p. 497. The name is probably to be treated as Strad or Strat d'Ewe. [111] A river may in Welsh be briefly called after anybody or anything. Thus in North Cardiganshire there is a stream called Einon, that is to say 'Einion's river,' and the flat land on both sides of it is called Ystrad Einon, which looks as if one might translate it Einion's Strath, but it means the Strath of Einion's river, or of the stream called Einon, as one will at once see from the upper course of the water being called Blaen Einon, which can only mean the upper course of the Einon river. So here yw is in English 'yew,' but Ystrad Yw and Llygad Yw have to be rendered the Strath of the Yew burn and the Eye of the Yew burn respectively. It is moreover felt by the Welsh-speaking people of the district that yw is the plural of ywen, 'a single yew,' and as there is only one yew at the source somebody had the brilliant idea of making the name right by calling it Ywen, and this has got into the maps as Ewyn, as though it were the Welsh word for foam. Who began it I cannot say, but Theophilus Jones has it in his History of the County of Brecknock, published in 1809. Nevertheless the name is still Yw, not Ywen or Ewyn, in the Welsh of the district, though Lewis gives it as Ywen in his article on Llanvihangel-Cwm-Du. [112] For exact information as to the Gaer, the Yw, and Llygad Yw, I am indebted chiefly to the courtesy of Lord Glanusk, the owner of that historic strath, and to the Rector of Llansantffread, who made a special visit to Llygad Yw for me; also to Mr. Francis Evans, of the Farmers' Arms at the Bwlch, who would be glad to change the name Llygad Yw into Llygad dan yr Ywen, 'the Source beneath the Yew-tree,' partly on account of the position 'of the spring emanating under the but of the yew tree,' and partly because there is only a single yew there. Theophilus Jones complained a century ago that the Gaer in Ystrad Yw had not attracted the attention it deserved; and I have been greatly disappointed to find that the Cambrian Archæological Association has had nothing to say of it. At any rate, I have tried the Index of its proceedings and found only a single mention of it. The whole district is said to teem with antiquities, Celtic, Roman, and Norman. [113] Theophilus Jones, in his Brecknockshire, ii. 502, describes Miarth or Myarth as a 'very extensive' camp, and proceeds as follows:--'Another British camp of less extent is seen on a knoll on Pentir hill, westward of the Rhiangoll and the parish church of Cwmdu, above a wood called Coed y Gaer, and nearly opposite to the peak or summit called Cloch y Pibwr, or the piper's call.' This would probably be more accurately rendered the Piper's Rock or Stone, with cloch treated as the Goidelic word for a stone rather than the Brythonic word for a bell: how many more clochs in our place-names are Goidelic? [114] The Twrch would seem to have crossed somewhere opposite the mouth of the Wye, let us say not very far from Aust; but he escapes to Cornwall without anything happening to him, so we are left without any indication whether the story originally regarded Kernyw as including the Penrhyn Awstin of the Coll story given at p. 503. [115] For this suggestion I am indebted to the Rev. Dr. Gaster in the Cymmrodorion's Transactions for 1894-5, p. 34, and also for references in point to M. Cosquin's Contes Populaires de la Lorraine, i. 134, 141, 152. Compare also such Gaelic stories as that of the Bodach Glas, translated by Mrs. Mackellar, in the Celtic Magazine, xii. 12-6, 57-64. [116] In some native Welsh words we have an option between a prefix ym and am, an option arising out of the fact that originally it was neither ym nor am, but m, for an earlier mbi, of the same origin as Latin ambi and Greek amphi, 'around, about.' The article, its meaning in the combination in banbh being forgotten, would fall under the influence of the analogy of the prefix, now am or ym, so far as the pronunciation was concerned. [117] Possibly the benwic was thrown in to correct the reckoning when the redactor discovered, as he thought, that he had one too many to account for: it has been pointed out that he had forgotten that one had been killed in Ireland. [118] It is just possible, however, that in an older version it was named, and that the place was no other than the rock just above Ystrad Yw, called Craig Lwyd or, as it is said to be pronounced, Craig Llwyd. If so, Llwyd would seem to have been substituted for the dissyllable Llwydog: compare the same person called Llwyt and Llwydeu in the Mabinogion, pp. 57, 110, 136. [119] The name is well known in that of Llanrhaiadr yn Mochnant, 'Llanrhaiadr in Mochnant,' in the north of Montgomeryshire. [120] Between Colwyn Bay and Llandudno Junction, on the Chester and Holyhead line of railway. [121] I have discussed some of the traces of the Goidels in Wales in the Arch. Camb. for 1895, pp. 18-39, 264-302; 1899, pp. 160-7. [122] In fact the genitive Grúcind occurs in the Book of Leinster, fo. 359a. [123] The sort of question one would like to ask in that district is, whether there is a spot there called Bed y Rhyswyr, Carn y Rhyswyr, or the like. The word rhyswr is found applied to Arthur himself in the Life of Gruffyd ab Cynan, as the equivalent probably of the Latin Arthur Miles (p. 538 below): see the Myvyrian Archaiology, ii. 590. Similarly the soldiers or champions of Christ are called rys6yr crist in the Welsh Life of St. David: see the Elucidarium and other Tracts (in the Anecdota Oxoniensia), p. 118. [124] Rudvyw Rys would be in Modern Welsh Rhudfyw Rys, and probably means Rhudfyw the Champion or Fighter, as Rhys is likely to have been synonymous with rhyswr. The corresponding Irish name was Russ or Ross, genitive Rossa, and it appears to come from the same origin as Irish ross, 'a headland, a forest,' Welsh rhos, 'moorland, uncultivated ground.' The original meaning was presumably 'exposed or open and untilled land'; and Stokes supposes the word to stand for an early (p)ro-sto- with sto of the same origin as Latin sto, 'I stand,' and as the English word stand itself. In that case Ros, genitive Rossa, Welsh Rhys, would mean one who stands out to fight, a prostatês, so to say. But not only are these words of a different declension implying a nominative Ro-stus, but the Welsh one must have been once accented Ro-stús on the ending which is now lost, otherwise there is no accounting for the change of the remaining vowel into y. Other instances postulating an early Welsh accentuation of the same kind are very probably llyg, 'a fieldmouse,' Irish luch, 'a mouse'; pryd, 'form,' Irish cruth; pryf, 'a worm,' Irish cruim; so also with ych, 'an ox,' and nyth, 'a nest,' Irish nett, genitive nitt, derived by Stokes from nizdo-, which, however, must have been oxytone, like the corresponding Sanskrit nidhá. There is one very interesting compound of rhys, namely the saint's name Rhwydrys, as it were Redo-rostus to be compared with Gaulish Eporedo-rix, which is found in Irish analysed into rí Eochraidhi, designating the fairy king who was father to Étáin: see Windisch's Irische Texte, p. 119. Bledrws, Bledrus, as contrasted with Bledrys, Bledris, postulate Goidelic accentuation, while one has to treat Bledruis as a compromise between Bledrws and Bledris, unless it be due to misreading a Bledruif (Book of Llan Dâv, pp. 185, 221-2, and Arch. Camb. for 1875, p. 370). The Goidelic accent at an early date moved to first syllables, hence cruth (with its vowel influenced by the u of a stem qurt) under the stress accent, became, when unstressed, cridh (from a simplified stem crt) as in Noicride (also Nóicrothach, Windisch, ibid., pp. 259, 261, 266) and Luicridh (Four Masters, A.D. 748), Luccraid, genitive Luccraide (Book of Leinster, 359f), Luguqurit- in Ogam. [125] These operations cannot have been the first of the kind in the district, as a writer in the Archæologia Cambrensis for 1862, pp. 159-60, in extracting a note from the Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries (series II, vol. i. p. 10) relative to the discovery of the canoe, adds a statement based on the same volume, p. 161, to the effect that 'within half a mile of Llyn Llydaw there are the remains of a British town, not marked in the ordnance map, comprising the foundations of numerous circular dwellings. In some of them quantities of the refuse of copper smeltings were found. This town should be visited and examined with care by some of the members of our Association.' This was written not far short of forty years ago; but I am not aware that the Association has done anything positive as yet in this matter. [126] According to Jenkins' Bed Gelert, p. 300, the canoe was subsequently sold for a substantial price, and nobody seems to know what has eventually become of it. It is to be hoped this is not correct. [127] See Holder's Alt-celtischer Sprachschatz, s. v. Litavia. [128] For these notes I am indebted to Williams' Dictionary of Eminent Welshmen, and to Rees' Welsh Saints, pp. 187, 191; for our Paulinus is not yet recognized in the Dictionary of Christian Biography. His day was Nov. 22. [129] There are two other inscriptions in South Wales which contain the name Paulinus, one on a stone found in the neighbourhood of Port Talbot in Glamorgan, reading Hic iacit Cantusus Pater Paulinus, which seems to imply that Paulinus set up the stone to the memory of a son of his named Cantusus. The other, found on the site of the extinct church of Llanwrthwl, near Dolau Cothi in Carmarthenshire, is a remarkable one in a kind of hexameter to the following effect:-- Servatur fidæi patrieque semper amator Hic Paulinus iacit cultor pientisimus æqui. Whether we have one or two or three Paulini in these inscriptions I cannot say. Welsh writers, however, have made the name sometimes into Pawl Hên, 'Paul the Aged,' but, so far as I can see, without rhyme or reason. [130] Since I chanced on this inscription my friend Professor Lindsay of St. Andrews has called my attention to Plautus' Asinaria, 499 (II. iv. 92), where one reads, Periphanes Rhodo mercator dives, 'Periphanes a wealthy merchant of Rhodes'; he finds also Æsculapius Epidauro (Arnobius, 278. 18), and elsewhere Nepos Philippis and Priscus Vienna. [131] See Stokes' Patrick, pp. 16, 412. [132] This will give the reader some idea of the pre-Norman orthography of Welsh, with l for the sound of ll and b for that of v. [133] The softening of Cafall to Gafall could not take place after the masculine corn, 'a horn'; but it was just right after the feminine carn, 'a cairn.' So here corn is doubtless a colloquial corruption; and so is probably the t at the end, for as llt has frequently been reduced to ll, as in cyfaill, 'a friend,' from the older cyfaillt, in Medieval Irish comalta, 'a foster brother or sister,' the language has sometimes reversed the process, as when one hears hollt for holl, 'all,' or reads fferyllt, 'alchemist, chemist,' for fferyll from Vergilius. The Nennian orthography does not much trouble itself to distinguish between l and ll, and even when Carn Cabal was written the pronunciation was probably Carn Gavall, the mutation being ignored in the spelling, which frequently happens in the case even of Welsh people who never fail to mutate their consonants in speaking. Lastly, though it was a dog that was called Cafall, it is remarkable that the word has exactly the form taken by caballus in Welsh: for cafall, as meaning some sort of a horse, see Silvan Evans' Geiriadur. [134] An instance or two of Trwyd will be found in a note by Silvan Evans in Skene's Four Ancient Books of Wales, ii. 393. [135] For more about these names and kindred ones, see a note of mine in the Arch. Cambrensis, 1898, pp. 61-3. [136] See my Hibbert Lectures, pp. 398-401. [137] See the Black Book of Carmarthen in Evans' facsimile, p. 47b; Thomas Stephens' Gododin, p. 146; Dent's Malory, preface, p. xxvi; and Skene's Four Ancient Books of Wales, ii. 51, 63, 155. [138] See the Göttingische gelehrte Anzeigen for 1890, p. 512. [139] See De Courson's Cartulaire de l'abbaye de Redon, pp. 163, 186. [140] See Reeves' note to the passage just cited in his edition of Adamnan's Vita, pp. 6, 7. [141] Here possibly one might mention likewise Gilmin Troetu or Troeddu, 'Gilmin of the Black Foot,' the legendary ancestor (p. 444) of the Wynns of Glyn Llifon, in Carnarvonshire. So the name might be a shortening of some such a combination as Gilla-min, 'the attendant of Min or Men,' a name we have also in Mocu-Min, 'Min's Kin,' a family or sept so called more than once by Adamnan. Perhaps one would also be right in regarding as of similar origin the name of Gilberd or Gilbert, son of Cadgyffro, who is mentioned in the Kulhwch, and in the Black Book, fo. 14b: at any rate I am not convinced that the name is to be identified with the Gillebert of the Normans, unless that was itself derived from Celtic. But there is a discrepancy between Gilmin, Gilbert, with unmutated m and b, and Gilvaethwy with its mutation consonant v. In all three, however, Gil, had it been Welsh, would probably have appeared as Gill, as indicated by the name Gilla in the Kulhwch (Oxford Mabinogion, p. 110), in which we seem to have the later form of the old name Gildas. Compare such Irish instances as Fiachna and Cera, which seem to imply stems originally ending in -asa-s (masculine) and -asa (feminine); and see the Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 1899, P. 402. [142] An article in the Rennes Dindsenchas is devoted to Liath: see the Rev. Celtique, xvi. 78-9. As to Celtchar, genitive Celtchair, the name would seem to have meant 'him who is fond of concealment.' The Mabinogi form of the Welsh name is Llwyt uab kil coet, which literally meant 'Ll. son of (him of) the Retreat of the Wood.' But in the Twrch Trwyth story, under a slightly different form of designation, we appear to have the same person as Llwydeu mab kelcoet and Llwydeu mab kel coet, which would seem to mean 'Ll. son of (him of) the Hidden Wood.' It looks as if the bilingual story-teller of the language transition had not been able to give up the cel of Celtchar at the same time that he rendered celt by coet, 'wood or trees,' as if identifying it with cailt: witness the Medieval Irish caill, 'a wood or forest,' dative plural cailtib, derivative adjective caillteamhuil, 'silvester'; and see Windisch's Irische Texte, p. 410, s. v. caill. [143] Windisch's Irische Texte, p. 217, and the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 47b. [144] There has been a good deal of confusion as to the name Llyr: thus for instance, the Welsh translations of Geoffrey of Monmouth make the Leir of his Latin into Llyr, and the personage intended is represented as the father of three daughters named Gonerilla, Regan, and Cordeilla or Cordelia. But Cordelia is probably the Creurdilad of the Black Book, p. 49b, and the Creidylat of the Kulhwch story (the Oxford Mabinogion, pp. 113, 134), and her father was Llûd Llawereint (= Irish Nuada Airgetlám) and not Llyr. Then as to the Leir of Geoffrey's Latin, that name looks as if given its form on the strength of the legr- of Legraceaster, the Anglo-Saxon name of the town now called Leicester, of which William of Malmesbury (Gesta Pontificum, § 176) says, Legrecestra est civitas antiqua in Mediterraneis Anglis, a Legra fluvio præterfluente sic vocata. Mr. Stevenson regards Legra as an old name of the Soar, and as surviving in that of the village of Leire, spelled Legre in Domesday. It seems to point back to a Legere or Ligere, which recalls Liger, 'the Loire.' [145] I say in that case, as this is not quite conclusive; for Welsh has an appellative llyr, 'mare, æquor,' which may be a generalizing of Llyr; or else it may represent an early lerio-s from lero-s (see p. 549 below), and our Llyr may possibly be this and not the Irish genitive Lir retained as Llyr. That, however, seems to me improbable on the whole. [146] Here it is relevant to direct the reader's attention to Nutt's Legend of the Holy Grail, p. 28, where, in giving an abstract of the Petit saint Graal, he speaks of the Brân of that romance, in French Bron, nominative Brons, as having the keeping of the Grail and dwelling 'in these isles of Ireland.' [147] The Dôn and Llyr groups are not brought into conflict or even placed in contact with one another; and the reason seems to be that the story-teller wanted to introduce the sons of Beli as supreme in Britain after the death of Brân. Beli and his sons are also represented in Maxen's Dream as ruling over Britain when the Roman conqueror arrives. What is to be made of Beli may be learnt from The Welsh People, pp. 41-3. [148] These things one learns about Lir from the story mentioned in the text as the 'Fate of the Children of Lir,' as to which it is right, however, to say that no ancient manuscript version is known: see M. d'Arbois dc Jubainville's Essai d'un Catalogue de la Litérature épique de l'Irlande, p. 8. [149] See Skene's Four Ancient Books of Wales, ii. 303, also 108-9, where the fragment of the poem as given in the Book of Taliessin is printed. The line here quoted has been rendered in vol. i. 286, 'With Matheu and Govannon,' which places the old pagan Gofannon in rather unexpected company. A few lines later in the poem mention is made of a Kaer Gofannon: where was that? Skene, in a note on it (ii. 452), says that 'In an old list of the churches of Linlithgow, printed by Theiner, appears Vicaria de Gumanyn. The place meant is probably Dalmeny, on the Firth of Forth, formerly called Dumanyn.' This is interesting only as showing that Gumanyn is probably to be construed Dumanyn, and that Dalmeny represents an ancient Dún Manann in a neighbourhood where one already has Clach Manann, 'the stone of Manau,' and Sliabh Manann, 'Mountain of Manau' now respectively Clackmannan and Slamannan, in what Nennius calls Manau Guotodin. [150] This occurred unrecognized and, therefore, unaltered by the scribe of the Nennian Pedigree no. xvi in the Cymmrodor, ix. 176, as he found it written in an old spelling, Louhen. map. Guid gen. map. Caratauc. map. Cinbelin, where Caradog is made father of Gwydion; for in Guid-gen we seem to have the compound name which suggested Gwydion. This agrees with the fact that the Mabinogi of Math treats Gwydion as the father of Llew Llawgyffes; but the pedigree itself seems to have been strangely put together. [151] See Bertrand's Religion des Gaulois, pp. 314-9, 343-5, and especially the plates. [152] The Oxford Mabinogion, pp. 40-3; Guest's Mabinogion, iii. 124-8. [153] See Louis Leger's Cyrille et Méthode (Paris, 1868), p. 22. [154] See Pertz, Monumenta Germaniæ Historia Scriptorum, xii. 794. The whole passage is worth quoting; it runs thus: Erat autem simulacrum triceps, quod in uno corpore tria capita habens Triglaus vocabatur; quod solum accipiens, ipsa capitella sibi cohærentia, corpore comminuto, secum inde quasi pro tropheo asportavit, et postea Romam pro argumento conversionis illorum transmisit. [155] See The Welsh People, pp. 56-7. [156] The Oxford Mabinogion, p. 147; Guest's Mabinogion, ii. 398. [157] This may have meant the 'Blue Slate or Flagstone'; but there is no telling so long as the place is not identified. It may have been in the Pictish district of Galloway, or else somewhere beyond the Forth. Query whether it was the same place as Llech Gelydon in Prydyn, mentioned in Boned y Saint: see the Myvyrian Archaiology, ii. 49. [158] The story of Kulhwch and Olwen has a different legend which represents Nynio and Peibio changed by the Almighty into two oxen called Ychen Banna6c: see the Oxford Mabinogion, p. 121, also my Arthurian Legend, p. 304, and the remarks which are to follow in this chapter with respect to those oxen. [159] For the story in Welsh see the Iolo MSS., pp. 193-4, where a footnote tells the reader that it was copied from the book of 'Iaco ab Dewi.' From his father's manuscript, Taliesin Williams printed an abstract in English in his notes to his poem entitled the Doom of Colyn Dolphyn (London, 1837), pp. 119-20, from which it will be found translated into German in the notes to San-Marte's Geoffrey of Monmouth's Historia Regum Britanniæ, pp. 402-3. [160] Oxford Bruts, p. 213: compare p. 146, together with Geoffrey's Latin, vii. 3, x. 3. [161] See Kölbing's Altenglische Bibliothek, the fifth volume of which consists of Libeaus Desconus, edited by Max Kaluza (Leipsic, 1890), lines 163, 591, and Introduction, p. cxxxxiv. For calling my attention to this, I have to thank my friend, Mr. Henry Bradley. [162] Malory's Morte Darthur, i. 27: see also i. 17-8, 28; ii. 6, 8-9. [163] See Evans' Autotype Facsimile, fo. 33a: could the spot so called (in the Welsh text argel Ardudwy) be somewhere in the neighbourhood of Llyn Irdyn (p. 148), a district said to be rich in the remains of a prehistoric antiquity? J. Evans, author of the North Wales volume of the Beauties of England and Wales, says, after hurriedly enumerating such antiquities, p. 909: 'Perhaps in no part of Britain is there still remaining such an assemblage of relicks belonging to druidical rites and customs as are found in this place, and the adjacent parts.' [164] As to Rion, see Gaston Paris and Ulrich's Merlin (Paris, 1886), i. 202, 239-46. Other instances will readily occur to the reader, such as the Domesday Roelend or Roelent for Rothelan, in Modern Welsh Rhudlan; but for more instances of this elision by French and Anglo-Norman scribes of vowel-flanked d and th, see Notes and Queries for Oct. 28, 1899, pp. 351-2, and Nov. 18, p. 415; also Vising's Étude sur le Dialecte anglo-normand du xije Siècle (Upsala, 1882), p. 88; and F. Hildebrand's article on Domesday, in the Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie, 1884, p. 360. According to Suchier in Gröber's Grundriss der rom. Philologie, i. 581, this process of elision became complete in the twelfth century: see also Schwan's Grammatik des Altfranzösischen (Leipsic, 1888), p. 65. For most of these references, I have to thank my friend and neighbour, Mr. Stevenson of Exeter College. [165] It comes from the same Llwyd MS. which has already been cited at pp. 233-4: see the Cambrian Journal for 1859, pp. 209-10. [166] I notice in the maps a spot called Panylau, which is nearer to Llyn Gwynain than to Llyn y Dinas. [167] See Morris' Celtic Remains, s. v. Serigi, and the Iolo MSS., p. 81. [168] The Iolo MSS., p. 81, have Syrigi Wydel son of Mwrchan son of Eurnach Hen. [169] See Triads, ii. 12, and the Mabinogion, p. 301: in Triads, i. 72, iii. 86, instead of Solor we have Doler and Dolor. [170] See the Oxford Mabinogion, pp. 125-8. [171] Evans' Autotype Facsimile, fo. 48a; see also my preface to Dent's Malory, p. xxvii; likewise p. 457 above. [172] See my Lectures on Welsh Philology, pp. 377-9; and, as to the Caer Gai tradition, the Arch. Camb. for 1850, p. 204, and Morris' Celtic Remains, p. 63. I may add as to Llanuwchllyn, that the oldest inhabitants pronounce that name Llanuwllyn. [173] I cannot discover that it has ever been investigated by the Cambrian Archæological Association or any other antiquaries. Compare the case of the neighbouring site with the traces of the copper smeltings mentioned in the note on p. 532 above. To my knowledge the Cambrians have twice failed to make their way nearer to the ruins than Llanberis, or at most Llanberis Pass, significantly called in Welsh Pen Gorffwysfa for the older name Gorffwysfa Beris, 'Peris' Resting-place': thus we loyally follow the example of resting set by the saint, and leave alone the archæology of the district. [174] The subject has been discussed at length by Mr. Jacobs, in a note to the legend, in his Celtic Fairy Tales, pp. 259-64; and quite recently by Mr. D. E. Jenkins in his Bed Gelert (Portmadoc, 1899), pp. 56-74. [175] Professor J. Morris Jones, to whom I am indebted for the particulars connected with these names, informs me that the local pronunciation is Drónwy; but Mrs. Rhys remembers that, years ago, at Amlwch, it was always sounded Darónwy. The Professor also tells me that Dernog is never made into Dyrnog: the Kuwgh of the Record is doubtless to be corrected into Knwgh, and probably also Dornok into Dernok, which is the reading in the margin. Cornewe is doubtless the district name which we have still in Llanfair y'Nghornwy, 'St. Mary's in Cornwy': the mill is supposed to be that of Bodronyn. [176] The Book of Llan Dáv has an old form Cinust for an earlier Cingust or Congust. The early Brythonic nominative must have been Cunogústu-s and the early Goidelic Cúnagusu-s, and from the difference of accentuation come the o of Conghus, Connws, and the y of the Welsh Cynwst: compare Irish Fergus and Welsh Gurgúst, later Gurúst (one syllable), whence Grwst, finally the accented rwst of Llanrwst, the name of a small town on the river Conwy. Moreover the accentuation Cúnogusi is the reason why it was not written Cunogussi: compare Bárrivendi and Véndubari in one and the same inscription from Carmarthenshire. [177] Such as that of a holding called Wele Dauid ap Gwelsantfrait, the latter part of which is perversely written or wrongly read so for Gwas Sant Freit, a rendering into Welsh of the very Goidelic name, Mael-Brigte, 'Servant of St. Bridget.' This Wele, with Wele Conus and Wele More, is contained in the Extent marginally headed Darronwy cum Hameletta de Kuwghdernok. [178] This comes in Triad i. 49 = ii. 40; as to which it is to be noted that the name is Catwallawn in i and ii, but Caswallawn in iii. 27, as in the Oxford Mabinogion. [179] Serrigi, Serigi, or Syrigi looks like a Latin genitive torn out of its context, but derived in the last resort from the Norse name Sigtrygg-r, which the Four Masters give as Sitriucc or Sitriug: see their entries from 891 to 1091. The Scandinavians of Dublin and its neighbourhood were addicted to descents on the shores of North Wales; and we have possibly a trace of occupation by them in Gauell Seirith, 'Seirith's holding,' in the Record of Carnarvon, p. 63, where the place in question is represented as being in the manor of Cemmaes, in Anglesey. The name Seirith was probably that written by the Four Masters as Sichfraith Sichraidh (also Serridh, A. D. 971), that is to say the Norse Sigræd-r before it lost the f retained in its German equivalent Siegfried. We seem to detect Seirith later as Seri in place-names in Anglesey--as for example in the name of the farms called Seri Fawr and Seri Bach between Llandrygarn and Llannerch y Med, also in a Pen Seri, 'Seri's Knoll or Hill,' at Bryn Du, near Ty Croes station, and in another Pen Seri on Holyhead Island, between Holyhead and Llain Goch, on the way to the South Stack. Lastly Dugdale, v. 672b mentions a Claud Seri, 'Seri's Dyke or Ditch,' as being somewhere in the neighbourhood of Llanwnda, in Carnarvonshire--not very far perhaps from the Gwyrfai and the spot where the Iolo MSS. (pp. 81-2) represent Serrigi repulsed by Caswallon and driven back to Anglesey, previous to his being crushed at Cerrig y Gwydyl. The reader must, however, be warned that the modern Seri is sometimes pronounced Sieri or Sheri, which suggests the possibility of some of the instances involving rather a form of the English word sheriff. [180] See my Hibbert Lectures, pp. 546-8. [181] The case with regard to the extreme south of the Principality is somewhat similar; for inscriptions in Glamorgan seem to bring the last echoes there of Goidelic speech down to the seventh century: see the Archæologia Cambrensis for 1899, pp. 160-6. [182] See Evans' Report on MSS. in the Welsh Language, p. 837, where the Welsh is quoted from p. 131 of the Peniarth MS. 134. [183] See my Arthurian Legend, p. 70. [184] See the Revue Celtique, ii. 197-9, where Dr. Stokes has published the original with a translation and notes; also p. 435 above. [185] The gentlemen to whom I am chiefly indebted for the information embodied in the foregoing notes are the following four: the Rev. John Jones of Ystad Meurig, Professor Robert Williams of St. David's College, the Vicar of Llandewi Brefi, Mr. J. H. Davies of Cwrt Mawr and Lincoln's Inn (p. 354); and as to the 'wild cattle' story of Llyn Eidwen, Mr. J. E. Rogers of Aber Meurig is my authority. [186] So I had it many years ago from an old woman from Llangeitho, and so Mr. J. G. Evans remembers his mother repeating it; but now it is made into Llan Dewi Brefi braith, with the mutations disregarded. [187] See the Archæologia Cambrensis for 1868, p. 88. [188] See ib. p. 87. I have ascertained on the best authority the identity of the present owner of the horn, though I have not succeeded in eliciting from him any reply to my inquiries. I conclude that there is something wrong with the postal service in my native county. [189] Several passages bearing on the word bannog have been brought together in Silvan Evans' Geiriadur. He gives the meaning as 'high, lofty, prominent, conspicuous.' The word is derived from ban, 'a summit or peak,' plural bannau, so common in the names of hills and mountains in South Wales--as in y Fan in Carmarthenshire, Bannwchdeni (p. 22) in Breconshire, Pen y Bannau near Pont Rhyd Fendigaid in Cardiganshire, Bannau Brycheiniog and Bannau Sir Gaer, the mountains called in English the Beacons of Breconshire and Carmarthenshire respectively. In North Wales we have it possibly in the compound Tryfan, which the mapsters will have us call Tryfaen; and the corresponding word in Scotch Gaelic appears in such names as Ben Nevis and the like, while in Irish the word benn meant a horn or peak. I am, nevertheless, not at all sure that Ychen Bannog meant horned oxen or even tall and conspicuous oxen; for there is a Welsh word man, meaning a spot or mark (Latin menda), and the adjective was mannawc, mannog, 'spotted, marked, particoloured.' Now in the soft mutation all four words--ban, bannog, and man, mannog--would begin with f = v, which might help to confusion between them. This may be illustrated in a way from Williams' Seint Greal (pp. 88-92), where Gwalchmai has a dream in which he sees 150 bulls with spots or patches of colour on them, except three only which were 'without any spot in the world' (neb ryw vann or byt), or as it is also put 'without spot' (heb vann). This word vann, applied to the colour of the bulls, comes from the radical form mann; and the adjective was mannawc or mannog, which would mean spotted, particoloured, or having patches of colour. Now the oxen of Welsh legends are also sometimes called Ychen Mannog (pp. 131-2), and it is possible, that, whichever way the term is written, it should be interpreted to mean spotted, marked, or particoloured oxen. I take it also that Llan Dewi Frefi fraith was meant as synonymous with Llan Dewi Frefi fannog, which did not fit the rhyme. Lastly, the Dyfed use of the saying Fel dau ych bannog, 'Like two Bannog oxen,' in the sense of 'equal and inseparable companions' (as instanced in the Geiriadur), sounds like the antithesis of the passage in the Kulhwch (Mabinogion, p. 121). For there we have words to the following effect: 'Though thou shouldst get that, there is something which thou wilt not get, namely the two oxen of Bannog, the one on the other side of the Bannog mountain and the other on this side, and to bring them together to draw the same plough. They are, to wit, Nynio and Peibio, whom God fashioned into oxen for their sins.' Here the difficulty contemplated was not to separate the two, but to bring them together to work under the same yoke. This is more in harmony with the story of the mad quarrel between the two brother kings bearing those names as mentioned above. [190] See the Revue Celtique, iii. 310, after Gruter, 570, 6. [191] An important paper on the Tarvos Trigaranus, from the pen of M. Salomon Reinach, will be found in the Revue Celtique, xviii. 253-66; and M. d'A. de Jubainville's remarkable equations are to be read in the same periodical, xix. 245-50: see also xx. 374-5. [192] This, we are told, was a stone with a hollow in it for pounding corn, so as to separate the husks from the grain; and such a stone stood formerly somewhere near the door of every farm house in Scotland. [193] The editor here explains in a note that 'this was a common saying formerly, when people were heard to regret trifles.' [194] I have heard of this belief in Wales late in the sixties; but the presence was assumed to be that of a witch, not of a fairy. [195] The word twt, 'tidy,' is another vocable which has found its way into Wales from the western counties of England; and though its meaning is more universally that of 'tidy or natty,' the term gwas twt, which in North Cardiganshire means a youth who is ready to run on all kinds of errands, would seem to bring us to its earlier meaning of the French tout--as if gwas twt might be rendered a 'garçon à tout'--which survives as tote in the counties of Gloucester and Hereford, as I am informed by Professor Wright. Possibly, however, one may prefer to connect twt with the nautical English word taut; but we want more light. In any case one may venture to say that colloquial Welsh swarms with words whose origin is to be sought outside the Principality. [196] See Folk-Lore for 1889, pp. 144-52. [197] Ibid. for 1891, p. 246, where one will find this rhyme the subject of a note--rendered useless by a false reference--by Köhler; see also the same volume, p. 132, where Mr. Kirby gives more lines of the rhyme. [198] See Choice Notes from 'Notes and Queries,' p. 35. [199] A number of instructive instances will be found mentioned, and discussed in his wonted and lucid fashion, by Mr. Clodd in his Tom Tit Tot, pp. 80-105. [200] The Welsh spelling is caws pob, 'baked (or roasted) cheese,' so called in parts of South Wales, such as Carmarthenshire, whereas in North Wales it is caws pobi. It is best known to Englishmen as 'Welsh rabbit,' which superior persons 'ruling the roast' in our kitchens choose to make into rarebit: how they would deal with 'Scotch woodcock' and 'Oxford hare,' I do not know. I should have mentioned that copies of the Hundred Mery Talys are exceedingly scarce, and that the above, which is the seventy-sixth in the collection, has here been copied from the Cymmrodor, iii. 115-6, where we have the following sapient note:--'Cause bobe, it will be observed, is St. Peter's rendering of the phrase Caws wedi ei bobi. The chief of the Apostles apparently had only a rather imperfect knowledge of Welsh, which is not to be wondered at, as we know that even his Hebrew was far from giving satisfaction to the priests of the capital.' From these words one can only say that St. Peter would seem to have known Welsh far better than the author of that note, and that he had acquired it from natives of South Wales, perhaps from the neighbourhood of Kidwelly. I have to thank my friend Mr. James Cotton for a version of the cheese story in the Bodleian Library, namely in Malone MS. 19 (p. 144), where a certain master at Winchester School has put it into elegiacs which make St. Peter cry out with the desired effect: Tostus io Walli, tostus modo caseus. [201] See Choice Notes from 'Notes and Queries,' pp. 117-8. [202] For instance, when Cúchulainn had fallen asleep under the effect of fairy music, Fergus warned his friends that he was not to be disturbed, as he seemed to be dreaming and seeing a vision: see Windisch's Irische Texte, p. 208; also the Revue Celtique, v. 231. For parallels to the two stories in this paragraph, see Tylor's first chapter on Animism in his Primitive Culture, and especially the legend of King Gunthram, i. 442. [203] See Mr. Gomme's presidential address to the Folk-Lore Society, printed in Folk-Lore for 1892, pp. 6-7. [204] See Sale's preliminary discourse to his translation of the Koran, § iv. [205] Perhaps we may regard this as the more Goidelic account of Blodeuwed's origin: at any rate, traces of a different one have been noticed in a note at p. 439 above. [206] One version of it is given in the Myvyrian Archaiology, i. 176-8; and two other versions are to be found in the Cymmrodor, viii. 177-89, where it is suggested that the author was Iolo Goch, who flourished in the fourteenth century. See also my Arthurian Legend, pp. 57-8. [207] See also the notes on these passages, given in San-Marte's edition of Geoffrey, pp. 219, 463-5, and his Beiträge zur bretonischen und celtisch germanischen Heldensage (Quedlinburg and Leipsic, 1847), p. 81. [208] See Choice Notes, pp. 69-70. [209] See Wood-Martin's Pagan Ireland (London, 1895), p. 140. [210] See Choice Notes, p. 61, where it is also stated that the country people in Yorkshire used to give the name of souls to certain night-flying white moths. See also the Athenæum, No. 1041, Oct. 9, 1847. [211] For this also I am indebted to Wood-Martin's book, p. 140. [212] See the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 198, and Windisch's Irische Texte, pp. 136-45. An abstract of the story will be found in the Hibbert Lectures on Celtic Heathendom, p. 502. [213] See the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 129a-133a; Windisch's Irische Texte, pp. 117-33, more especially pp. 127-31; also my Arthurian Legend, pp. 29-33. [214] See the Book of Taliessin, poem vii, in Skene's Four Ancient Books of Wales, ii. 136-7; also poem viii, p. 137 et seq. [215] Some account of this process will be found in Elton's Origins of English History (London, 1882), p. 33, where he has drawn on Martin's Description of the Western Islands of Scotland, published in 1703: see pp. 204-5. [216] For one or two instances of the nomenclature in question, see pp. 76-7 above. [217] Sywedyd is probably a word of Goidelic origin: compare Irish súi, 'a sage,' genitive súad, and derivative súithe, 'wisdom.' Stokes suggests the derivation su-vet, in which case súi = su-vi, for su-viss = su-vet-s, and sú-ithe = suvetia, while the Welsh sywedyd is formally su-vetios or su-vetiios. Welsh has also syw, from súi, like dryw, 'a druid,' from Goidelic drúi. Syw, it is true, now only means elegant, tidy; but Dr. Davies of Mallwyd believed its original signification to have been 'sapiens, doctus, peritus.' The root vet is most probably to be identified with the wet of Med. Welsh gwet-id, 'a saying,' dy-wawt, 'dixit,' whence it appears that the bases were vet and vat, with the latter of which Irish fáith, 'a poet or prophet,' Latin vates, agrees, as also the Welsh gwawd, 'poetry, sarcasm,' and in Mod. Welsh, 'any kind of derision.' In the Book of Taliessin syw has, besides the plurals sywyon and sywydon (Skene, ii. 142, 152), possibly an older plural, sywet (p. 155) = su-vet-es, while for súithe = su-vetia we seem to have sywyd or sewyd (pp. 142, 152, 193); but all the passages in point are more or less obscure, I must confess. [218] See the Book of Taliessin, in Skene's Four Ancient Books of Wales, ii. 130-1, 134, 142, 151-2, 155. [219] As, for instance, in the account given of Uath mac Imomain in Fled Bricrenn: see the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 110b, and Windisch's Irische Texte, p. 293. [220] The Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 77a, and the Book of Leinster, fo. 75b: compare also the story of Tuan mac Cairill in the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 16b, where the Tuatha Dé Danann are represented as Tuatha Dee ocus Ande, 'the tribes of gods and not-gods,' to whom one of the manuscripts adds a people of legendary Ireland called the Galiúin. See the story as recently edited by Professor Kuno Meyer in Nutt's Voyage of Bran, ii. 291-300, where, however, the sense of § 12 with its allusion to the fall of Lucifer is missed in the translation. It should read, I think, somewhat as follows:--'Of these are the Tuatha Dee and Ande, whose origin is unknown to the learned, except that they think it probable, judging from the intelligence of the Tuatha and their superiority in knowledge, that they belong to the exiles who came from heaven.' [221] See Evans' Black Book of Carmarthen, fo. 33b; also the Mabinogion, pp. 104, 306. The Irish lucht cumachtai would be in Welsh literally rendered llwyth cyfoeth, 'the cyfoeth tribe or host,' as it were. For cyfoeth, in Med. Welsh, meant power or dominion, whence cyfoethog, 'powerful,' and holl-gyfoethog, 'almighty'; but in Mod. Welsh cyfoeth and cyfoethog have been degraded to mean 'riches' and 'rich' respectively. Now if we dropped the prefix cum from the Irish cumachtai, and its equivalent cyf from the Welsh cyfoeth, we should have lucht cumachtai reduced to an approximate analogy to llwyth Oeth, 'the Oeth tribe,' for which we have the attested equivalent Teulu Oeth, 'the Oeth household or family.' Oeth, however, seems to have meant powerful rather than power, and this seems to have been its force in Gwalchmai's poetry of the twelfth century, where I find it twice: see the Myvyrian Arch., i. 196b, 203a. In the former passage we have oeth dybydaf o dybwyf ryd, 'I shall be powerful if I be free,' and in the latter oeth ym uthrwyd, 'mightily was I astonished or dismayed.' An-oeth was the negative of oeth, and meant weak, feeble, frivolous: so we find its plural, anoetheu, applied in the story of Kulhwch to the strange quests on which Kulhwch had to engage himself and his friends, before he could hope to obtain Olwen to be his wife. This has its parallel in the use of the adjective gwan, 'weak,' in the following instance among them:--Arthur and his men were ready to set out in search of Mabon son of Modron, who was said to have been kidnapped, when only three nights old, from between his mother Modron and the wall; and though this had happened a fabulously long time before Arthur was born, nothing had ever been since heard of Mabon's fate. Now Arthur's men said that they would set out in search of him, but they considered that Arthur should not accompany them on feeble quests of the kind: their words were (p. 128), ny elli di uynet ath lu y geissa6 peth mor uan ar rei hynn, 'thou canst not go with thy army to seek a thing so weak as these are.' Here we have uan as the synonym of an-oeth; but Oeth ac Anoeth probably became a phrase which was seldom analysed or understood; so we have besides Teulu Oeth ac Anoeth, a Caer Oeth ac Anoeth, or fortress of O. and A., and a Carchar Caer Oeth ac Anoeth, or the Prison of Caer O. and A., which is more shortly designated also Carchar Oeth ac Anoeth, or the Prison of O. and A. A late account of the building of that strange prison and fortress by Manawydan is given in the Iolo MSS., pp. 185-6, 263, and it is needless to point out that Manawydan, son of Llyr, was no other than the Manannán mac Lir of Irish literature, the greatest wizard among the Tuatha Dé or Tuatha Dé Danann; for the practical equivalence of those names is proved by the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 16b. For further details about Oeth and Anoeth, Silvan Evans' Geiriadur may be consulted, s. v. Anoeth, where instances are cited of the application of those terms to tilled land and wild or uncultivated land. Here the words seem to have the secondary meanings of profitable and unprofitable lands, respectively: compare a somewhat analogous use of grym, 'strength, force,' in a passage relating to the mutilated horses of Matholwch--hyt nad oed rym a ellit ar meirch, 'so that no use was possible in the case of the horses,' meaning that they were of no use whatever, or that they had been done for: see the Oxford Mabinogion, p. 29, and Lady Charlotte Guest's, iii. 107, where the translation 'and rendered them useless' is barely strong enough. [222] It is right, however, to state that M. d'A. de Jubainville's account of the views of Erigena is challenged by Mr. Nutt, ii. 105. [223] For instance, by Silvan Evans in his Geiriadur, where, s. v. dihaed, he suggests 'unmerited' or 'undeserved' as conveying the sense meant. [224] The reader will find them quoted under the word Druida in Holder's Alt-celtischer Sprachschatz: see also M. Alexandre Bertrand's Religion des Gaulois, especially the chapter entitled Les Druides, pp. 252-76, and Nutt's Voyage of Bran, ii. 107-12. [225] See Valerius Maximus, ii. 6. 10. [226] See the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 68a. [227] Notably Johannes Schmidt in Kuhn's Zeitschrift, xxiii. 267, where he gives the following gradations of the stem in question:--1. anman; 2. anaman; 3. naman; 4. naman. [228] See Clodd's Tom Tit Tot, p. 97. [229] Tom Tit Tot, p. 89. [230] The Oxford Mabinogion, p. 100. [231] The Oxford Mabinogion, p. 35. [232] As to Irish, I would not lay much stress on the question 'What is your name?' being put, in a fourteenth or fifteenth century version of the French story of Fierabras, as ca hainm tú?--literally, 'what name art thou?' see the Revue Celtique, xix. 28. It may be mentioned here that the Irish writers of glossaries had a remarkable way of appearing to identify words and things. Thus, for instance, Cormac has Cruimther .i. Gædelg indi as presbyter, which O'Donovan (edited by Stokes) has translated, p. 30, as 'Cruimther, i. e. the Gaelic of presbyter': literally it would be rather 'of the thing which is presbyter.' Similarly, Cormac's explanation of the Irish aiminn, now aoibhinn, 'delightful,' runs thus in Latin, Aimind ab eo quod est amoenum, 'from the word amoenus,' literally, 'from that which is amoenus.' But this construction is a favourite one of Latin grammarians, and instances will be found in Professor Lindsay's Latin Language (Oxford, 1894), pp. 26, 28, 42, 53. On calling his attention to it, he kindly informed me that it can be traced as far back as Varro, from whose Lingua Latina, vi. 4, he cites Meridies ab eo quod medius dies. So in this matter, Irish writers have merely imitated their Latin models; and one detects a trace of the same imitation in some of the Old Welsh glosses, for instance in the Juvencus Codex, where we have XPS explained as irhinn issid crist, 'that which is Christ,' evidently meaning, 'the word Christos or Christus.' So with regia, rendered by gulat, 'a state or country,' in celsi thronus est cui regia caeli; which is glossed issit padiu itau gulat, 'that is the word gulat for him' = 'he means his country': see Kuhn's Beiträge, iv. 396, 411. [233] Some instances in point, accompanied with comments on certain eminently instructive practices and theories of the Church, will be found in Clodd's Tom Tit Tot, pp. 100-5. [234] For some instances of name-giving by the druid, the reader may consult The Welsh People, pp. 66-70; and druidic baptism will be found alluded to in Stokes' edition of Coir Anmann, and in Stokes and Windisch's Irische Texte, iii. 392, 423. See also the Revue Celtique, xix. 90. [235] See The Welsh People, more especially pp. 71-4, where it has been attempted to discuss this question more at length. [236] See Stokes' Cormac's Glossary, translated by O'Donovan, p. 87, and O'Curry's Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish, ii. 218-9. [237] See Mind for 1893, p. 390: the review is by Mr. A. T. Myers, and the title of the book noticed is La Pathologie des Émotions, Études physiologiques et cliniques, par Charles Féré, médecin de Bicêtre (Paris, 1892). [238] See Frazer's Golden Bough, i. 9, where a few most instructive instances are given. [239] See Guest's Mabinogion, iii. 255, where, however, Dôn is wrongly treated as a male. [240] One has, however, to admit that the same agency may also mar the picture. Since the above was written I have read in Stokes' Festschrift, pp. 7-19, a very interesting article by L. Chr. Stern, in which he discusses some of the difficulties attaching to the term Tuatha Dé Danann. Among other things he suggests that there was a certain amount of confusion between Danann and dána, genitive of dán, 'art or profession'--the word meant also 'lot or destiny,' being probably of the same origin as the Latin donum, in Welsh dawn, which means a gift, and especially 'the gift of the gab.' But it would invert the natural sequence to suppose any such a formula as Tuatha Dé Dána to have preceded Tuatha Dé Danann; for why should anybody substitute an obscure vocable Danann for dána of well-known meaning? Dr. Stern has some doubts as to the Welsh Dôn being a female; but it would have been more satisfactory if he had proved his surmise, or at any rate shown that Dôn has nothing to do with Danann or Donann. I am satisfied with such a passage in the Mabinogi of Math as that where Gwydion, addressing Math, describes Arianrhod, daughter of Dôn, in the words, dy nith uerch dy ch6aer, 'thy niece daughter of thy sister': see the Mabinogion, p. 68, and, for similar references to other children of Dôn, consult pp. 59 and 65. Arianrhod is in the older Triads, i. 40, ii. 15, called daughter of Beli, whom one can only have regarded as her father. So for the present I continue to accept Stokes' rendering of Tuatha Dé Danann as 'the Folks of the Goddess Danu.' [241] See the Oxford Mabinogion, p. 102; Guest's trans., ii. 252. The combination occurs also in the Book of Aneurin: see Stephens' Gododin (London, 1888), p. 322. [242] It will be noticed that there is a discrepancy between the gutturals of these two words: tyngu, 'to swear' (O. Ir. tongu, 'I swear'), has ng--the Kulhwch spelling, tynghaf, should probably be tyngaf--while tynghed and its Irish equivalent imply an nc. I do not know how to explain this, though I cannot doubt the fact of the words being treated as cognate. A somewhat similar difference, however, occurs in Welsh dwyn, 'to bear, carry, steal,' and dwg, 'carries, bears': see the Revue Celtique, vi. 18-9. [243] See the Oxford Mabinogion, p. 100, and Guest's trans., ii. 249, where it is rendered 'a wife as a helpmate,' which is more commonplace than suggestive. [244] La Cité antique (Paris, 1864), p. 50; see also Joachim Marquardt's Privatleben der Römer (Leipsic, 1886), pp. 49-51, and among the references there given may be mentioned Dionysius of Halicarnassus, ii. 25. [245] See Vigfusson and Powell's Corpus Poeticum Boreale, i. 126, 181-3, 197; the Prose Edda in Edda Snorronis Sturlæi (Copenhagen, 1848), i. 90-2, 102, 104, 172-86; and Simrock's Edda (Stuttgart, 1855), pp. 292-3, 295-6, 299, 316-20. [246] Two versions of a story to account for the Ultonian couvade have been published with a translation into German, by Prof. Windisch, in the Berichte der k. sächs. Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften (phil.-hist. Classe) for 1884, pp. 338 et seq. Sundry references to the couvade will also be found in my Hibbert Lectures, where certain mythological suggestions made with reference to it require to be reconsidered. But when touching on this point it occurred to me that the wholesale couvade of the Ultonian braves, at one and the same time of the year, implied that the birth of Ultonian children, or at any rate those of them that were to be reared, took place (in some period or other of the history of their race) at a particular season of the year, namely, about the beginning of the winter, that is when food would be most abundant. I have since been confirmed in this view by perusing Westermarck's work on the History of Human Marriage, and by reading especially his second chapter entitled 'A Human Pairing Season in Primitive Times.' For there I find a considerable body of instances in point, together with a summary treatment of the whole question. But in the case of promiscuity, such as originally prevailed doubtless at the Ultonian Court, the question what men were to go into couvade could only be settled by the confinement of them all, wherein we have an alternative if not an additional reason for a simultaneous couvade. [247] See Strabo, iii. 165, and Diodorus, v. 14. [248] For some more detailed remarks on the reckoning of descent by birth, see The Welsh People, pp. 36 et seq. [249] In Welsh eli means 'ointment,' probably so called from spells pronounced over it when used as a remedy. In the Twrch Trwyth story (Oxford Mabinogion, p. 138) one of Arthur's men bears the curious designation of Reid6n uab Eli Atuer, which might be Englished 'R. son of the Restoring Ointment,' unless one should rather say 'of the Restoring Enchantment.' [250] See the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 128b, and Windisch's Irische Texte, pp. 138-9. The rebirth of Lug as Cúchulainn has been touched upon in my Hibbert Lectures, p. 431; but since then the whole question of rebirth has been discussed at length in Nutt and Meyer's volumes entitled The Voyage of Bran (London, 1895). [251] Tylor's Primitive Culture, ii. 4, where he gives a reference to Gustav Klemm's Culturgeschichte, iii. 77, and Klemm's authority proves to be Jessen, whose notes are given in a 'tractatus' bound with Knud Leem De Lapponibus Finmarchiæ (Copenhagen, 1767): Jessen's words in point read as follows, p. 33:--Et baptismum quidem, quem ipsi Laugo, i. e. lavacrum appellabant, quod attinet, observandum occurrit, foeminam Lapponicam, jam partui vicinam, atque in eo statu Sarakkæ impensius commendatam, de nomine, nascituro infanti imponendo, per insomnia plerumque a Jabmekio quodam admonitam fuisse et simul de Jabmekio illo, qui, ut ipsi quidem loqui amarunt, in hoc puero resuscitandus foret, edoctam. Hujusmodi per insomnia factas admonitiones niëgost nuncuparunt Lappones. Si gravida mulier a Jabmekio hac ratione edocta non fuerit, recens nati infantis vel parenti vel cognatis incubuit, per to Myran, in tympano, securi vel balteo susceptum, vel etiam Noaaidum consulendo, explorare, quo potissimum nomine infans appellandus esset. In the body of Leem's work, p. 497, one reads, that if the child sickens or cries after baptism, this is taken to prove that the right ancestor has not been found; but as he must be discovered and his name imposed on the child, resort is had to a fresh baptism to correct the effects of the previous one. [252] See Holder's Alt-celtischer Sprachschatz, s. v. Lugus; also the index to my Hibbert Lectures, s. v. Lleu, Lug, Lugoves. [253] For more on this subject see the chapter on the Pictish question in The Welsh People, pp. 36-74. [254] It is right to say that the story represents the fairies as living under the rule of a rí, a title usually rendered by 'king'; but rí (genitive rig) was probably at one time applicable to either sex, just as we find Gaulish names like Biturix and Visurix borne by women. The wonder, however, is that such a line as that just quoted has not been edited out of the verses long ago, just as one misses any equivalent for it in Joyce's English expansion of the story in his Old Celtic Romances, pp. 106-11. Compare, however, the Land of the Women in the Voyage of Maildun (Joyce, pp. 152-6), and in Meyer and Nutt's Voyage of Bran, i. 30-3. [255] This conclusion has been given in a note at the foot of p. 37 of The Welsh People; but for a variety of instances to illustrate it see Hartland's chapters on Supernatural Birth in his Legend of Perseus. [256] See Frazer's article on 'The Origin of Totemism' in the Fortnightly Review for April, 1899, p. 649. The passage to which it refers will be found at p. 265 of Spencer and Gillen's volume, where one reads as follows:--'Added to this we have amongst the Arunta, Luritcha, and Ilpirra tribes, and probably also amongst others such as the Warramunga, the idea firmly held that the child is not the direct result of intercourse, that it may come without this, which merely, as it were, prepares the mother for the reception and birth also of an already-formed spirit child who inhabits one of the local totem centres. Time after time we have questioned them on this point, and always received the reply that the child was not the direct result of intercourse.' It is curious to note how readily the Australian notion here presented would develop into that of the Lapps, as given at p. 658 from Jessen's notes. [257] This feature of Welsh has escaped M. de Charencey, in his instructive letter on 'Numération basque et celtique,' in No. 48 of the Bulletin de la Soc. de Linguistique de Paris, pp. cxv-cxix. In passing, I may be allowed to mention a numerical curiosity which occurs in Old Irish: it has probably an important historical significance. I refer to the word for 'seven men' occurring sometimes as morfeser, which means, as it were, a magnus seviratus or 'big sixer.' [258] The non-Welsh names of the fairy ancestress ought possibly to lead one to discover the origin of that settlement; and a careful study perhaps of the language of the Belsiaid or Bellisians, if their Welsh has any dialectic peculiarities, might throw further light on their past. [259] Our stories frequently delight in giving the fairy women fine dresses and long trains; but I would rely more on the Ystrad Meurig smith's account (p. 245), and the case of the Pennant fairy who tears to shreds the gown offered her (p. 109). [260] The difference between Mod. Welsh cor and Breton korr is one of spelling, for the reformed orthography of Welsh words only doubles the r where it is dwelt on in the accented syllable of a longer word: in other terms, when that syllable closes with the consonant and the next syllable begins with it. Thus cor has, as its derivatives, cór-rach, 'a dwarf,' plural co-ráchod, cór-ryn, 'a male dwarf,' plural co-rýnnod. Some of these enter into place-names, such as Cwm Corryn near Llanaelhaearn (p. 217) and Cwm Corryn draining into the Vale of Neath; so possibly with Corwen for Cor-waen, in the sense of 'the Fairies' Meadow.' Cor and corryn are also used for the spider, as in gwe'r cor or gwe'r corryn, 'a spider's web,' the spider being so called on account of its spinning, an occupation in which the fairies are represented likewise frequently engaged; not to mention that gossamer (gwawn) is also sometimes regarded as a product of the fairy loom (p. 103). The derivation of cor is not satisfactorily cleared up: it has been conjectured to be related to a Med. Irish word cert, 'small, little,' and Latin curtus, 'shortened or mutilated.' To me this means that the origin of the word still remains to be discovered. [261] For Edern's dwarf see Foerster's Erec, lines 146-274 and passim, the Oxford Mabinogion, pp. 248-61, and Guest's trans., ii. 73-92; and for Peredur's the latter books, pp. 197-9 and i. 304-7 respectively. [262] The story of Canrig (or Cantrig) Bwt is current at Llanberis, but I do not recollect seeing it in print: I had it years ago from my father-in-law. The statement as to Carchar Cynric Rwth comes from William Williams' Observations on the Snowdon Mountains (London, 1802). The Bwlch y Rhiw Felen legend was read by me to the British Archæological Association at its meeting at Llangollen, and it was printed in its Journal for December, 1878. It is right to say that the Llangollen story calls the woman a giantess, but I attach no importance to that, as the picture is blurred and treated in part allegorically. Lastly, the use of the word carchar, 'prison,' in the term Carchar Cynric Rwth recalls Carchar Oeth ac Anoeth, or 'the Prison of Oeth and Anoeth,' p. 619 above: the word would appear to have been selected because in both cases the structure was underground. [263] See the Acta Sanctorum, April 11, where one finds published the Latin life written by Felix not long after Guthlac's death. See also an Anglo-Saxon version, which has been edited with a translation by Ch. W. Goodwin (London, 1848). [264] In connexion with them Mr. Bullock Hall reminds me of Icklingham, in West Suffolk; and there seem to be several Ickletons, and an Ickleford, most or all of them, I am told, on the Icknield Way. The name Icel, whose genitive Icles is the form in the original life, has probably been inferred from the longer word Iclingas, and inserted in due course in the Mercian pedigree, where it occupies the sixth place in descent from Woden. [265] Since the above was written, Dr. Ripley's important work on the Races of Europe (London, 1900) has reached me, but too late to study. I notice, however, that he speaks of an island of ancient population to the north of London and extending over most of the counties of Hertford, Buckingham, Bedford, Rutland, and Northampton, as far as those of Cambridge and Lincoln. A considerable portion of this area must have been within the boundaries of Coritanian territory, and it is now characterized, according to him, by nigrescence, short stature, and rarity of suicide, such as remind him of Wales and Cornwall: see his maps and pp. 322, 328, 521. [266] See Fiacc's Hymn in Stokes' Goidelica, p. 127, l. 41. [267] The Welsh passages unfortunately fail to show whether it was pronounced sidi or sidi: should it prove the latter, I should regard it as the Irish word borrowed. [268] Skene's Four Ancient Books of Wales, ii. 153-5, 181-2. [269] For more about Picts and Pechts see some most instructive papers recently published by Mr. David MacRitchie, such as 'Memories of the Picts' in the Scottish Antiquary, last January, 'Underground Dwellings' in Scottish Notes and Queries, last March, and 'Fairy Mounds' in the Antiquary, last February and March. [270] See p. 424 above, where, however, the object of the Ogams written on four twigs of yew has been misconceived. I think now that they formed simply so many letters of inquiry addressed by Dalán to other druids in different parts of Ireland. We seem to have here a ray of light on the early history of Ogam writing. [271] See the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 130b. [272] See the Book of Leinster, fo. 117a. [273] Corrguinigh occurs in the story of 'The Second Battle of Moytura,' where Stokes has rendered it 'sorcerers' in the Revue Celtique, xii. 77; and corrguinacht heads an article in O'Davoren's Glossary, published in Stokes' Three Irish Glossaries, p. 63, where it is defined as beth for leth cois 7 for leth laimh 7 for leth suil ag denam na glaime dicinn, 'to be on one foot and with one hand and one eye doing the glám dicenn.' The glám dicenn was seemingly the special elaboration of the art of making pied de nez, which we have tragically illustrated in the case of Caier. [274] In Appendix B to The Welsh People, pp. 617-41. [275] See Rosellini's Monumenti dell' Egitto (Pisa, 1832), vol. i. plates clvi, clx, and Maspero's Histoire Ancienne (Paris, 1897), ii. 430. [276] One may now consult Nicholson's paper on 'The Language of the Continental Picts': see Meyer and Stern's Zeitschrift, iii. 326-8, 331-2, and note especially his reference to Herodian, iii. 14, § 8. For Chortonicum see Die althochdeutschen Glossen (edited by Steinmeyer and Sievers), iii. 610; also my paper on 'The Celts and the other Aryans of the P and Q Groups' read before the Philological Society, February 20, 1891, p. 11. [277] I am chiefly indebted to my friend Professor A. C. Haddon for references to information as to the dwarf races of prehistoric times. I find also that he, among others, has anticipated me in my theory as to the origins of the fairies: witness the following extract from the syllabus of a lecture delivered by him at Cardiff in 1894 on Fairy Tales:--'What are the fairies?--Legendary origin of the fairies. It is evident from fairy literature that there is a mixture of the possible and the impossible, of fact and fancy. Part of fairydom refers to (1) spirits that never were embodied: other fairies are (2) spirits of environment, nature or local spirits, and household or domestic spirits; (3) spirits of the organic world, spirits of plants, and spirits of animals; (4) spirits of men or ghosts; and (5) witches and wizards, or men possessed with other spirits. All these and possibly other elements enter into the fanciful aspect of fairyland, but there is a large residuum of real occurrences; these point to a clash of races, and we may regard many of these fairy sagas as stories told by men of the Iron Age of events which happened to men of the Bronze Age in their conflicts with men of the Neolithic Age, and possibly these, too, handed on traditions of the Palæolithic Age.' [278] See the Berlin Zeitschrift für Ethnologie for 1894, vol. xxvi. pp. 189-254, which are devoted to an elaborate paper by Dr. Jul. Kollmann, entitled 'Das Schweitzersbild bei Schaffhausen und Pygmäen in Europa.' It closes with a long list of books and articles to be consulted on the subject. 
57520	----	FOLK LORE NOTES. Vol. II--KONKAN. COMPILED FROM MATERIALS COLLECTED BY The late A. M. T. JACKSON, Indian Civil Service. R. E. ENTHOVEN, C.I.E., I.C.S. BRITISH INDIA PRESS, MAZGAON BOMBAY. 1915 REPRINTED FROM THE "INDIAN ANTIQUARY" BY B. MILLER, SUPERINTENDENT, BRITISH INDIA PRESS, BOMBAY TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Nature Powers. PAGE. Worship of minor local deities. Sun-worship. The Swastika. Circumambulation round images and other sacred objects. Moon-worship. Days of special importance. Eclipses. Worship of planets and stars. The milky way. The rainbow. Worship of the earth. Thunder and lightning. Earthquakes. Worship of sacred rivers, springs and pools. Water spirits and goblins. Ceremonies at digging of wells. Well water as a cure for disease. Sacred Lakes. Palaces under the water. Sacred mountains. Deities who control the weather. Methods of causing or averting rain and of checking storms. Vratas or religious vows practised only by women. Rites in which women are excluded. Rites in which the worshipper must be nude. Superstitions in connection with aerolites and meteors 1 CHAPTER II. The Heroic Godlings. Village deities. Local deities. Installation of deities in new settlements. Ghostly godlings. Deities responsible for crops and cattle 21 CHAPTER III. Disease Deities. Causes of epidemic diseases and the remedies adopted to stop them. Cattle diseases. Remedies practised by the village people in connection with them. The methods for the exorcism of disease. Methods of expelling evil spirits from the body. The village sorcerer. Offerings of rags, coins, etc., at sacred trees and wells. The transferring of disease from one person to another. Scapegoats 29 CHAPTER IV. The worship of Ancestors and Saints. Shráddhas and other ceremonies performed for the propitiation and emancipation of the deceased. Worship of the founders of religious sects, of saints, etc. Ghosts. Rebirth of ancestors in the same family. Miracle-working tombs. Muhammadan saints whose worship has been adopted by Hindus. Rural methods for the cure of barrenness 40 CHAPTER V. The Worship of the malevolent dead. Popular notions about dreams. Auspicious and inauspicious dreams. Temporary abandonment of the body by the soul. Character and functions of the bhut or disembodied soul. The state of the soul after death. The rebirth of the soul. The souls of persons dying a sudden or violent death. The ways by which ghosts enter and leave the body. Methods of driving away evil spirits from the body. Reliefs regarding sneezing and yawning. Rákshasa or the malevolent demon. Other malignant spirits. Evil spirits which go about headless. The haunts of evil spirits. Ghosts of women dying an unnatural death. Spirits of persons killed by tigers and other wild beasts. Ghosts of women dying in childbed or menses. Precautions taken by parents at the birth of children. Beliefs in connection with bats and owls. Spirits which haunt ruins, guard buried treasure and occupy valleys 49 CHAPTER VI. The evil eye and the scaring of ghosts. Effects of the evil eye. Objects liable to be influenced by the evil eye. Precautions taken to evade the influence of the evil eye Opprobrious names. Change of sex. Protection against evil spirits. Amulets. Charmed circles. Omens. Numbers. Lucky and unlucky days. Rites performed to help the soul to the other world. Cremation and burial. The customs of shaving the hair. Offerings of food to the dead. Manifestation of evil spirits in form. The practice of breaking earthen vessels at death. Kites connected with mourning. Benevolent spirits. Spirits which haunt trees. The guardian spirits of crops and cattle. Spirits invoked to frighten children 60 CHAPTER VII. Tree and Serpent worship. Trees connected with deities and saints. Legends and superstitions connected with them. Marriage of brides and bridegrooms to trees. Snake worship. Shrines of snake deities. Deified snakes. Snakes guarding treasure. The village treatment of snake-bite. The jewel in the head of the snake. Guardian snakes 71 CHAPTER VIII. Totemism and Fetishism. Devaks. Names derived from animals and plants. Sacred animals. Deities associated with animal worship. Worship of stocks and stones. Survivals of human sacrifice. Disease-curing stones. Respect shown to corn sieves, corn pounders, the broom and the plough. Fire worship 78 CHAPTER IX. Animal worship. Sacred animals and the legends and superstitions connected with them 83 CHAPTER X. Witchcraft. Chetaks and Chetakins. 85 CHAPTER XI. General. Rural ceremonies connected with agricultural operations. Rites performed for the protection of cattle. Rites performed for scaring noxious animals and insects. Rites performed for ensuring sunshine and favourable weather. Rites performed for the protection of crops. Rites in which secrecy and silence are observed. The observances at the Holi festival. Rites performed when boys and girls attain puberty. Vows. The black art 87 APPENDIX Glossary of vernacular terms, occurring in Volumes I and II i to xxxvii FOLKLORE OF THE KONKAN. CHAPTER I. NATURE POWERS. The worship of minor local deities is connected with such low castes as Guravas, Bhopis, Marátha Kunbis, Dhangars, Wághes, Murlis, Mahárs and Mángs in the District of Kolhápur. It is believed by the Bráhmans that once an image is consecrated and worshipped, it should be worshipped uninterruptedly every day, and he who neglects to worship such an image daily incurs the sin of Brahma-hatya or Bráhman-murder. For this reason Bráhmans generally do not worship minor local deities. In former times Bráhmans who worshipped these deities were excommunicated by their caste-men. Such Pujáris were compelled to wear a folded dhotur or waist cloth, and were forbidden to put on the gandh or sandal paste mark in straight or cross lines. They were allowed to put on the tila or circular mark of sandal paste. Another reason why Bráhmans are not the Pujáris or worshippers of such deities is that Bráhmans cannot accept or partake of the Naivedya offering of cooked food, fowls, etc., made to them. Lower class people can partake of such offerings, and are therefore generally the worshippers or ministrants of minor local deities. At Palshet in the Ratnágiri District, there are two grámdevis, viz., Jholái and Mhárjái, and the pujáris of these deities are respectively a Gurav and a Mahár. [1] The pujáris of goddesses are generally men of the lower castes. The guardian goddesses of the villages of Pule, Varavade, Nandivade, and Rila have Kunbis as their pujáris; while the pujáris of the goddesses Mahálakshmi, Bhagvati, Mahákáli, and Jogái are generally chosen from the Gurav caste. [2] In the Konkan the Ráuls (Shudras) are the pujáris of the deities Vithoba, Ravalnáth and Bhaváni; the Ghádis are the pujáris of the deities Sáteri and Khavaneshwar; while the deities Mahádev and Máruti are worshipped by pujáris belonging to the Gurav caste. [3] The goddesses Makhajan and Jakhmáta at Sangameshwar in the Ratnágiri District are worshipped by pujáris who belong to the Gurav and Bhoi castes respectively. The god Ganpati at Makhnele has for his pujári a Wáni. The pujáris of the temple of Shiva at Lánje in the Ratnágiri District are Wánis. [4] It is said that the pujári of Pundárik at Pandharpur is a Kiráta (fisherman) by caste. [5] The pujári of the goddess Narmáta at Sidgad in the Thána District is a Koli; whilst the pujáris of Kánoba, Khandoba, and Vetál are of the lower castes. [6] The goddesses Mahálakshmi of Kolvan and Vajreshvari have their pujáris chosen from the lower castes. [7] The pujáris of Jari-Mari, Mhasoba, Bahiroba, Cheda and other deities which are said to prevent contagious diseases, are always men of the lower castes. [8] The pujáris of the guardian goddesses of the villages Petsai, Dasgaum and Nizámpur are a Mahár, a Kumbhár or potter, and a Marátha, respectively. [9] The pujári of the guardian goddesses of Chaul in the Kolába District belongs to the lower castes. [10] The goddess Mángái has always a Mahár as her pujári. [11] Everyday the god Shiva is required to be worshipped first by a pujári of the Gurav caste. The pujári of Bahiri, a corruption of the word Bhairav, one of the manifestations of Shiva, is a man belonging to the lower castes. Similarly the pujáris of Bhagavati, Bhaváni, Ambika, Kálika, Jákhái, Jholái, Janni, Kolhái, Vadyájái, Shitaládevi, Chandika, etc., are persons belonging to lower castes. [12] It is considered by the Hindus very meritorious and holy to worship the Sun; and by Bráhmans the Sun is considered to be their chief deity. The Gáyatri Mantra of the Bráhmans is a prayer to the Sun-god or the Savita Dev, and the Bráhmans offer arghya or oblations of water to the Sun thrice a day. Those who want health, wealth and prosperity propitiate the Sun-god by prayers and ceremonies. The Ratha Saptami is considered to be the principal day for special worship and festivities in honour of the Sun-god. On this day, on a low wooden stool, is drawn, in red sandal paste, a figure of the Sun in human shape seated in a chariot drawn by seven horses, or by a horse with seven faces. This figure is then placed in the sun-shine, and it is then worshipped by offering it arghya or spoonfuls of water, red powder, red flowers mixed with red sandal paste, camphor, incense and fruits. Some people kneel down while offering the arghyas to the Sun. These arghyas are either three or twelve in number. Some persons make a vow not to eat anything unless they have worshipped the Sun and performed the twelve Namaskaras by falling prostrate and bowing with folded hands twelve times, and at each time repeating one of the twelve names of the Sun. [13] In the Ratnágiri District some people worship the Sun on the Sundays of the month of Shrávan. A ceremony held on the Rathasaptami day, i.e., the 7th day of the bright half of Mágh, is deemed a special festival in honour of the Sun-god. On that day people draw, on a small wooden stool, an image of the Sun, seated in a chariot drawn by seven horses, and worship it with great reverence. Milk is then boiled on a fire made of cow-dung cakes in front of the household Tulsi plant. If the milk overflows to the east, it is believed that there will be abundance of crops, but if it flows to the west it is taken as a sign of the near approach of famine. [14] The Sun-god is also worshipped on the following occasions, e.g., Trikal, Gajaccháya, Ardhodaya, Mahodaya, Vyatipát, Makar-Sankránt, Kark-Sankránt and the Solar eclipse. [15] Though there are few temples dedicated to the Sun, the village of Parule has the honour of having one called "the temple of Adi-Náráyan." Non-Bráhmanical classes are not seen worshipping the Sun in this district, despite the fact that the Sun is said to be the embodiment of the three principal deities of the Hindus. [16] The people of the Thána District believe that the Swastika is the central point of the helmet of the Sun, and a vow called the Swastika Vrata is held in its honor. A woman who observes this vow, draws a figure of the Swastika and worships it daily during the Cháturmás (four months of the rainy season), at the expiration of which she gives a Bráhman a golden or silver plate with the sign of the Swastika upon it. [17] Another vow named Dhanurmás, common to all districts in the Konkan, requires a person to complete his daily rites before sun-rise, and to offer a preparation of food called Khichadi to the Sun-god. The observer of this vow then partakes of the food, regarding it as a gift from that god. This is either done for one day or repeated for a month till the Dhanu-Sankránt. [18] On the Somavati-Amávásya day (the 15th day of the dark half of a month falling on Monday), and the Kapiláshasthi day, the Sun is held in especial reverence. [19] A curious story is narrated regarding the offering of Arghya to the Sun. It is said that the Sun rejoices at the birth of a Bráhman, and gives 1,000,000 cows in charity, believing that the Arghya which the Bráhman will offer later on will devour his foes, one drop of the Arghya killing 1,000 of them [20]. The repetition of the Gáyatri-mantra 108 times a day is supposed to release a Bráhman from the debt of 1,000,000 cows owed in this way to the Sun. [21] The Yoga-Sutras of Pátanjali however prohibit a man from looking at the setting Sun, though the sin thus incurred is made amends for by the offering of Arghya to that god. [22] It is interesting to note that women do not grind corn on the Ratha-Saptami day. [23] Women bow down to the Sun on the 11th, 12th, 30th or 40th day after their delivery; but Kunbi women generally worship that god on the 7th day. [24] On this occasion some women show a churning handle [25] to the Sun-god and offer him some grains of rice. [26] The Swastika is considered so holy in the Konkan that it is always drawn on the Antarpat; and at the time of the Punyáha Wachan ceremony which precedes a Hindu wedding, a Swastika drawn in rice is worshipped. [27] The principal deities of the Hindus, whenever they are invoked on special occasions, are seated on the Swastika. [28] The people of the Ratnágiri District worship the Swastika, regarding it as the symbol as well as the seat of the Sun-god. [29] By some the Swastika is regarded as the foundation-stone of the universe [30] and is held to be the symbol of the god Shiva, and not of the Sun. [31] The conception of Kunbi is said to have taken place by the influence of the rays of the Sun. [32] The Swastika is considered as an emblem of peace and prosperity, and for this reason Bráhman women draw a figure of the Swastika in front of their houses. [33] The custom of moving round such sacred objects as the Banyan, the Pipal, the Tulsi or sweet basil plant, the Umbar, the Avala (Phylanthus emblica), etc., is prevalent in the district of Kolhápur. There are no cases recorded in which women after child-birth are exposed to the Sun. But on the 12th day after her delivery, the mother puts on new bangles and new clothes; cocoanuts, betelnuts and leaves, grains of rice, plantains and grains of wheat are placed in her lap. She then comes out and bows to the Sun. Wealthy persons on this occasion perform a homa sacrifice in their houses by kindling the holy fire and feeding Bráhmans. No one in this district believes that conception is caused, or is likely to be caused, by exposure to the rays of the Sun. The Hindu women of the Konkan walk round Pipal, Tulsi, and Umbar trees every Saturday and on the Somavati-amávásya day, i.e., the 15th day of the dark half of a month when it falls on Monday. [34] Sometimes, however, women make a vow to walk round a temple or a sacred tree one-hundred thousand times; and for the fulfilment of this vow they walk round the temple or tree for about seven or eight hours every day. If they find it difficult to make up the number of rounds themselves, they ask their near relations to assist them in their undertaking. [35] The Moon is worshipped by the Hindus on the 2nd of the bright half of every month. On this day it is considered very lucky to see the moon, and many people, particularly the lower classes, pull out threads from the clothes they wear, and offer them to the moon, saying "O! God, accept these old clothes of ours and be pleased to give us new ones in their stead." Some people worship the moon on the Sankasti Chaturthi, 4th day of the dark half of every month; and such people will not eat anything until they have seen and worshipped the moon on that day. The moon is not worshipped on the Ganesh Chaturthi day that is, the 4th of the bright half of the month of Bhádrapad, as it is considered very unlucky to see the moon on that night. It is firmly believed that any one who sees the moon on the Ganesh Chaturthi day even by accident will be falsely accused of theft or some other crime. In order to avoid this, people who have accidently seen the moon, throw stones at the houses of their neighbours, and if the neighbours abuse them in return, the mischief makers consider themselves freed by the abuse from the sin of having looked at the moon on a forbidden night. The spots on the surface of the moon are believed by some to be the rath or chariot of the god. Others think that they are lunar mountains; but many believe that the spots are the visible signs of the stain on the character of the moon-god due to his having outraged the modesty of the wife of his guru, the god Brahaspati or Jupiter. In the Puráns it is stated that on one occasion, a dispute arose between the moon and Brahaspati or Jupiter about the wife of Brahaspati, each of them claiming to be the cause of her conception. Subsequently a son was born who was named Budha (Mercury). Brahaspati's wife, on being asked who was the father of the child, named the moon. Thereupon Brahaspati cursed the moon for his adultery. The spots on the surface of the moon are said to be the effect of this curse. The moon-god is believed to distribute nectar through his rays, and therefore this deity is said to have the power of removing diseases and restoring human beings to health. The moon is the king of herbs, and all trees, plants, etc., thrive owing to the influence of the moon. Sometimes people place at night, figs, plantains, sugarcane and other eatables in the moon-light and eat them early in the morning; and it is said that those who do so improve in health. The practice of drinking the moon's rays does not prevail in the Kolhápur district. But people occasionally dine in the moon light. [36] On a full moon day people perform the special worship of their chosen deity. On the full moon of the month of Kártika temples are illuminated, and on the full moon day of Mágha, raw corn such as wheat, bájri, etc., is cooked and offered to the household and other deities. [37] On this day are also performed the special rites and ceremonies that are required in connection with the Kula-devatás or family gods or goddesses. On the full moon day of Fálguna the Holi fire is kindled and worshipped. In certain families the full moon of Chaitra is considered auspicious for making offerings to family deities. On the full moon day of Shrávan is observed the feast of Cocoanut day, and on this day Bráhmans put on new sacred threads. The full moon is considered by the Sanyásis or ascetics an auspicious day for shaving their heads. On the new moon day the Pitras or Manes are worshipped. Lighted lamps are worshipped on the new moon day, of Ashádha. In the Kolhápur State this is called Tadali new moon day, and in the Konkan it is called Divali new moon day. On the new moon day of Ashvin, Lakshmi the goddess of wealth is worshipped. All special ceremonies for the propitiation of the Bhutas or evil spirits are usually performed on the new moon day. The Dwitiya or 2nd day of every month is considered sacred to the moon, and on this day the moon is worshipped; while the Chaturthi is considered sacred to the god Ganapati, and on the Chaturthi of Bhádrapada a special festival is held in honour of the god Ganpati. [38] On the 15th day of the bright half of the month of Ashvin people put milk in the rays of the moon for some time, and then, after offering it to the moon, they drink it. Drinking milk in this way is called drinking the rays of the moon. [39] On the Sankránt Chaturthi day and on that Chaturthi which immediately follows the Dasara holiday, people draw an image of the moon and worship it. [40] In the Ratnágiri District several conflicting theories are held regarding the spots on the surface of the moon. Some believe that the spot observed on the moon is a tamarind tree in which that god has stationed himself; others hold that the spot is the reflection of a deer which is yoked to the chariot of the moon [41]; while many more believe that it has been occasioned by the hoof of the horse of King Nala. Some say that the spot on the surface of the moon represents a Pipal tree and a cow fastened to the roots of the tree; others on the authority of Hindu mythology suppose that God created Madan (cupid) from the essence taken from the body of the moon and hence the moon-god has spots on his body. [42] In the Mahábhárat it is stated that on the surface of the moon is reflected the island of Sudarshan on this earth, together with some trees and a great hare, the bright part being nothing but water. [43] The spot on the surface of the moon is considered by some a deer which the god has taken on his lap. [44] Some believe that Yashoda, the mother of Krishna, after waving an earthen dish round the face of Krishna, threw it at the sky. It struck the moon and thereby the spots on the surface of the moon were caused. Nectar is supposed to have been derived from the rays of the moon; and in some sacred books it is stated that the Chakora bird (Bartavelle Partridge) drinks the rays of the moon. [45] The people of the Thána District hold similar notions regarding the spots on the surface of the moon. It has been said by some that the portion in question represents mud, while others say that the moon has been disfigured owing to a curse from a sage. [46] Some people say that the spots are due to the moon being cursed by his preceptor Brahaspati with whose wife the moon-god had connection. Being unable to bear the pain of the spots, the moon, it is said, propitiated his preceptor, who directed him to bathe in the Bhima river to alleviate the agony. Accordingly the pain was assuaged, and the part of the river where the Moon-god bathed thus came to be called Chandra bhága. [47] Some persons suggest that the spots are a Pipal tree with two deer feeding upon it from two sides. [48] Others hold that the spots on the surface of the moon are due to its having been kicked by a deer which, when pursued by a hunter, was refused shelter. [49] The people of the Thána District believe that the rays of the moon influence conception. [50] In the Kolába District, to sit in an open place on a moon-light night, is regarded as drinking the rays of the moon. [51] The elongated part of the orb of the moon pointing towards the north or the south is supposed to forebode scarcity or abundance, respectively. [52] It is a common belief that the moon should not be seen on the Ganesh Chaturthi day, i.e., the 4th day of the bright half of Bhádrapad. Looking at the moon continuously for a short time on every moon-light night is said to keep one's sight in good order. [53] If the Amávásya falls on Monday, Bráhman women of the Thána District walk round a Tulsi plant or a Pipal tree and make a vow to a Bráhman. [54] In the Kolába District a special ceremony is held in honour of minor goddesses on the 8th day of a month. The following things are avoided one on each of the fifteen tithis respectively:-- Kohala (pumpkin), dorli (Solanum indicum), salt, sesamum, sour things, oil, ávale (Emblic myrobalan), cocoanuts, bhopala (gourd), padval (snake-gourd), pávte (Dolichos Lablah), masur (Lens esculenta), brinjal, honey, gambling. [55] The people observe a fast on the 13th (Pradosha) and the 14th day (Shivarátra) of the dark half of every month. [56] On the 15th day of the bright half of Chaitra, a fair is held in honour of the guardian deity of a village, and hens, goats, etc., are offered as a sacrifice. [57] The following are days of special importance. Gudhi-pádva, i.e., the first day of the bright half of Chaitra:--This being the first day of the year, gudhis and toranas are hoisted in front of every house and are worshipped. [58] Bháu-bij:--On the 2nd day of the bright half of Kártik every sister waves round the face of her brother a lamp, and makes him a present. [59] The ceremony on the Bháu-bij day has come into vogue on account of Subhadra having given a very pleasant bath to her brother Krishna on that day. The Court of Yama is also said to be closed on that day, since he goes to his sister; and consequently persons who die on that day, however sinful they may be, are not supposed to go to Yamaloka, i.e., hell. [60] Akshya Tritiya:--On the third day of the bright half of Vaishákh cold water and winnowing fans are distributed as tokens for appeasing the Manes of ancestors. On this day is also celebrated the birth of the god Parashurám. [61] Ganesh Chaturthi:--On the 4th day of the bright half of Bhádrapad, an earthen image of Ganpati is worshipped and a great ceremony is held in his honour. [62] The fourth day of the bright half of every month is called Vináyaka-Chaturthi; while that of the dark half is called Sankasti-Chaturthi. On the Vináyaka-Chaturthi day, people fast the whole day and dine the next day; while on the Sankasti Chaturthi day, they fast during the day time and dine after moon-rise. [63] That Sankasti Chaturthi which falls on Tuesday is considered the best. [64] Nágpanchami:--On the 5th day of the bright half of Shrávan, pictures of serpents and snake holes are worshipped. [65] Champá-Shashti:--On the 6th day of the bright half of Márgashirsha, some ceremony relating to the family-deity is performed. [66] Ratha-Saptami:--On the 7th day of the bright half of Mágh, the sun is worshipped and milk is boiled until it overflows. [67] Gokul-Ashtami:--On the 8th day of the dark half of Shrávan the birth of the god Krishna is celebrated. [68] Ráma-Navami:--On the 9th day of the bright half of Chaitra the birth of the god Ráma is celebrated. [69] Vijayádashami:--On the 10th day of the bright half of Ashvin people cross the boundary of their village and distribute sone (leaves of the Shami and Apta trees). It is a popular belief that a work commenced on this day is sure to end well. Weapons are also worshipped on this day. [70] Ekádashi:--On the 11th day of Ashádh and Kártik a special fast is observed. People also fast on the 11th day of each month. A man who dies on this auspicious day is supposed to go to heaven. [71] Sometimes the Ekádashi falls on two consecutive days; in which case the Smártas observe the first, while the Bhágvats observe the second. [72] Wáman-dwádashi:--On the 12th day of the bright half of Bhádrapad Wáman is worshipped and one or twelve boys are adored, being held to represent Wáman. The marriage of the Tulsi plant is sometimes celebrated on this day. [73] Dhana-Trayodashi:--On the 13th day of the dark half of Ashvin, Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth is worshipped. [74] Narak-Chaturdashi:--On the 14th day of the dark half of Ashvin, the demon Narakásur was killed. In consequence, on this day people take their bath before sun-rise, break Karinta (a fruit), regarding it as a demon, and apply its seeds to their heads. [75] Nárali Paurnima:--On the 15th day of the bright half of Shrávan, people worship the sea and throw into it a cocoanut. [76] Wata-Paurnima:--On the 15th day of the bright half of Jyeshtha, women whose husbands are alive fast the whole day, and worship the Wata-tree. [77] On the 15th day of the bright half of Ashvin, people keep themselves awake the whole night and amuse themselves in a variety of ways. On the 15th day of the bright half of Kártika houses are illuminated. This day is called Tripuri-Paurnima. On this night people illuminate with earthen lamps all temples in the village, but particularly the temple of Shiva. This is done in commemoration of the triumph of the god Shiva over the demon Tripurásura. The full-moon day of the month of Mágha is called Chudi Paurnima. On this night people light chudies torches and with them slightly burn certain flowers, trees and plants. The full-moon day of the month of Fálguna is called the Holi or Holi-Paurnima and is the biggest holiday of the lower class Hindus. On this night the Hindus kindle the Holi-fire and worship it. [78] On the 15th day of the bright half of Ashvin people eat grain of the new harvest. On the full-moon day of Shrávan they perform the Shrávani ceremony and give a lamp in charity. On the full-moon day of the month of Chaitra, Vaishakha and Márgashirsha, the births of Máruti, Narasimha and Dattátraya respectively are celebrated. [79] The Kunbis of the Ratnágiri District believe that on the 15th or full-moon day of Pausha, the Hindu gods go out hunting and that they return from their hunting expedition on the full-moon day of the month of Mágha. During this period the Kunbis abstain from worshipping their gods. [80] Amávásya:--On the 15th day of the dark half of every month, oblations are given to the Manes of the dead. [81] The commencement of a good deed, journey to a distant place, and the ploughing of land are postponed on the no-moon day of a month. [82] Sanyásis are enjoined to get their beard shaved on the Paurnima and Amávásya days only. [83] People do not set out on a journey on the following tithis, regarding them as rikta (unfruitful or inauspicious):-- Chaturthi, Navami and Chaturdashi. [84] The Chándráyana Vrata:--Widows fast on the no-moon day of a month. They are required to regulate their diet in such an increasing proportion that on the next full moon day they should have a full meal. The reverse process follows for a fortnight after, so that they observe an absolute fast on the following no-moon day. [85] People have various ideas about the cause of the eclipses of the sun and the moon. Some say that the sun and the moon are superior deities, and that the demons Ráhu and Ketu who belong to the caste of Mángs attempt to touch them and to devour them. Others believe that the planets Ráhu and Ketu stand in the path of the Sun and the Moon and thereby darkness is caused on the earth. It is believed that about 5 hours before the commencement of the obscuration, in the case of the Sun and about 4 hours in the case of the Moon, the Vedha or malign influence of the monsters begins and during the period till the whole eclipse is over a strict fast is observed. At the commencement of the eclipse, as well as at its close, people bathe. Some sit on a low wooden stool with a rosary in their hands repeating the names of the gods, or the gáyatri or some of the mantras. But those who want to acquire the art of magic or witch-craft or the power of removing the evil effects of snake-poison, or scorpion sting, go to a lonely place on the riverside, and there standing in water repeat the mantras taught to them by their guru or teacher. People give alms to Mahárs and Mángs on this occasion, and therefore persons of this class go about the streets saying loudly "Give us alms and the eclipse will be over." De dán suté girán. A strict fast is observed on an eclipse day, but children and pregnant women who cannot bear the privation are given something to eat under a sike. The eclipse time is so inauspicious that children and animals born at that time are considered unlucky. [86] Sometimes an eclipse cannot be observed owing to the intervention of clouds. On that occasion the people of the Konkan resort to the following expedient in order to ascertain whether the luminary is eclipsed or not. They take a potful of water and hold in it a musal. If it stands in the pot unsupported it is regarded as indicative of the existence of an eclipse. Mángs, Mahárs, etc., are supposed to be the descendants of Ráhu and Ketu; and for this reason gifts are made to them in charity on an eclipse day. [87] The people of the Thána District believe that corn grows abundantly in a year that witnesses many eclipses. [88] The popular cause of an eclipse in the Kolába District, is the Girha, a minor deity which is said to wander through the sky and swallow the Sun and the Moon when they cross his path. [89] Besides the mythological story regarding the cause of an eclipse, the people of the Ratnágiri District also believe that the Girha throws his shadow on the sun and the moon, when he comes to demand his dues from them. [90] The Konkan villagers, on an eclipse day, strike barren trees with a pestle, [91] in order that they may bear fruits and flowers. A barren woman is also beaten with the same motive. Similarly many other superstitious beliefs are connected with an eclipse. Pregnant women are not allowed to see the eclipse of the sun or the moon, nor are they to engage in cutting, sewing, etc. as this is believed to be injurious to the child in the womb. [92] The eclipse time is supposed to be the most suitable to learn mantras or incantations. [93] The mantris also mutter incantations during an eclipse in a naked condition. [94] The people who believe that the eclipses are caused by the influence of the planets Ráhu and Ketu offer prayers to Ráhu on the lunar eclipse day and to Ketu on the solar eclipse day. [95] The planets and stars are worshipped by the Hindus. It is believed that a person who is to die within six months cannot see the polar star. From the movements of the planets past and future events of one's career are foretold by Bráhman and other astrologers. And as it is believed that man's good and bad luck are dependant upon the influence of the planets, offerings of various kinds are made and sacrifices performed for securing the favour of the Navagrahas or the nine planets. In order to avert the effect of the evil influence of certain planets people sometimes wear rings of those precious stones which are supposed to be the favourites of the planets. The rain-bow is called Indra dhanushya or the Indra's bow, and it is believed that if the rain-bow appears in the east, it indicates the coming of more rain, and if it appears in the west it is a sure sign of the close of the monsoon. The milky way is believed to be the heavenly Ganges. Well known tradition relates how Wáman (the 5th incarnation of Vishnu) went to Bali the king of the lower regions and asked him to give him land measuring three feet only. The king consented, whereupon the god Wáman enlarged his body to such an extent that by his one footstep he occupied the whole earth and by the second he occupied heaven. Upon this the god Brahma worshipped the foot of the god Vishnu which was in heaven, and from that foot sprang the heavenly Ganges which flows in heaven and is called Dudha Ganga or the milky Ganges. The worship of stars and planets is in vogue among Konkan Hindu families of the higher castes. The polar star in particular is seen and worshipped by the bride and the bridegroom after the ceremony at the marriage altar is over. [96] A very interesting story is connected with the polar star. By the great power of his penance the sage Vishvámitra despatched king Trishanku to Heaven, but the gods hurled him down. Thereupon Vishvámitra became enraged and began to create a new heaven. Hindu mythological books say that he thus created the sages Vashista, Angiras, Pulah, Pulastya, Rutu, Atri, and Marichi, and stationed Trishanku in the sky. The Nava-grahas or the nine planets are worshipped before the commencement of all important ceremonies. [97] A cluster of seven stars called the Sapta-rishis are worshipped by men at the time of the Shrávani ceremony, while women worship them on the 5th day of the bright half of Bhádrapada. [98] These Sapta-rishis are said to have been created by the God Brahma from his own body; and teaching them the four Vedas, he handed them over to them and asked them to regulate the affairs of the world. [99] Some people of the Ratnágiri District believe that the rain-bow is the bow used by Ráma, the hero of the Rámáyana. Its appearance on the east is regarded by them as symptomatic of the approach of rain, while its appearance on the west is equivalent to the departure of rain. [100] The short duration of the rain-bow is held to indicate an excessive fall of rain while its long duration forbodes a scarcity of rain. [101] The appearance of the rain-bow on a river is supposed to indicate the approach of rain, while its appearance on a mountain means the departure of rain. [102] Of the two bows of which the rain-bow seems to be composed, the larger is believed to belong to Ráma, and the smaller to Lakshman. [103] Since the God Indra is supposed to send rain, the Indradhanushya (the rain-bow) is regarded as a sign of the advent of rain. [104] By some Hindus it is believed that the milky way is a heavenly river which is a favourite bathing place of the gods. [105] Others suppose it to be a branch of the celestial Ganges which is said to have been brought down upon this earth by king Bhagiratha. [106] Some persons, however, believe that since the great sage Agastya is said to reside at Rámeshwar in the southern direction, the Ganges (the milky way) runs through the sky to the south in order to bathe him. Sometimes the milky way is believed to be a white cloud. [107] On the authority of the Mahákála Nirván Tantra, some people of the Thána District believe that a person who cannot get a view of the polar star will die within six months; while others substitute the Arundhati star for the polar star and determine the duration of life of a diseased person by the same process. [108] The people of the Thána District believe that the rain-bow is caused by the accumulation of moisture in the air. [109] The rain-bow is said to consecrate the region over which it appears. [110] The appearance of the rain-bow in the morning is supposed to forbode the approach of rain. [111] Some people of the Kolába District believe that the holy persons such as Káshyapa, Arundhati and other sages, who lived on this earth in ancient times are seen shining in the sky by the sacred lustre of their powers. [112] Hindu women worship the planets Budha and Guru (Mercury and Jupiter) in the month of Shravan. [113] The Sapta-rishis are somewhere called Khatale and Bájale (cot). [114] The rain-bow is held by some to be the symbol of Ráma and Lakshman, who visit the world in that form with the view of watching its proceedings. Others, however, believe that it represents God Indra who assumes that form to see how his orders are executed by his subordinates. [115] The rain-bow is said to foretell good if it appears either at the beginning or end of the rainy season, while its appearance at any other time is supposed to forbode evil. [116] Hindus regard the earth as one of their important deities and worship it on various occasions. It is enjoined upon Bráhmans to worship it daily at the time of their Sandhya rite, as well as while performing the Shrávani ceremony. [117] The people of the Ratnágiri District pray to the earth as soon as they leave their bed in the morning. [118] The earth is required to be worshipped at the time of laying the foundation-stone of a house, as well as at the time of bringing into use a newly built house. [119] Since it is held unholy to sleep on the bare ground, those whose parents die, sleep on a woollen cloth on the ground till their parents' anniversary is over. [120] Wanprastas, Sanyásis, and Bráhmans are required to sleep on the ground. [121] Some pious men sleep on the bare ground during the Cháturmás (the four months of the rainy season), at the expiry of which they present a bed to a Bráhman. [122] It is enjoined upon a prince to sleep on the bare ground on the eve of the coronation day. [123] Widows and women are required to sleep on the ground during their monthly courses. Women whose husbands are away are also to do the same. [124] In the Ratnágiri District Katkaris, on the day on which they wish to be possessed by a particular deity or spirit, are required to sleep on the earth. [125] When people are on the point of death, they are made to lie on blades of darbha grass placed on the earth. [126] The performer of a sacrifice as well as one who has observed a vow are to sleep on the ground. [127] The following articles should not be allowed to touch the earth, viz. pearls, the Sháligram stone, an image of the god Vishnu, the linga of Shiva, a conch shell, the sacred thread of a Bráhman, flowers intended for worship, basil leaves, and Govardhan. [128] The following lines are repeated in the morning before setting foot to the ground [129]:-- O Goddess! who is clothed (surrounded) by the sea, whose breasts are mountains, and who is the wife of Vishnu, I bow down to thee; please forgive the touch of my feet. O Goddess Earth! who art born by the power of Vishnu, whose surface is of the colour of a conch shell and who art the store house of innumerable jewels, I bow down to thee. Some women of the Thána District worship the earth daily during the Cháturmás (four months of the rainy season), at the end of which they give a Bráhman a piece of land or the money equivalent of it. [130] Persons who perform a particular rite, e.g., the Solásomavár-vrata (a vow observed on sixteen successive Mondays) are required to sleep on the bare ground. [131] At the sowing and harvest time, farmers appease the earth by offering it cocoanuts, fowls, rice mixed with curd, etc. [132] The blood of a king and the balls of rice given to the manes of the dead are not allowed to touch the ground. People convey to a distant place the water of the Ganges, without placing it on the ground. [133] The earth is required to be worshipped before taking a portion of it for sacrificial purposes. [134] A vessel containing water over which incantations have been repeated is not allowed to touch the ground. [135] On the 15th day of the bright half of Ashvin every farmer prepares some sweetmeats in his house, and takes them to his farm. There he gathers five stones, worships them, and offers the sweetmeats to the earth. Afterwards he takes a portion of the food and scatters it over the farm. His family then gather there and take a hearty meal. In the evening the person who carried the food to the farm, picks up some grains of barley and puts them into a basket. On return home the grains are thrown over the house. [136] Various conflicting notions are entertained regarding thunder and lightning. The people of the Ratnágiri District believe that the clouds are animals that roar. When these animals emit water it bursts forth on account of the circular motion of the winds called Chanda and Munda. This bursting is supposed to produce thunder and lightning. [137] Somewhere thunder and lightning are said to be the signals given by the god Indra, to birds, beasts, etc., of the setting in of the rainy season. [138] Some people believe that the god Indra sends rain through his elephants who, being excited, make a noise like thunder. [139] Others regard the thunder as the roaring of the elephant of the gods, while sucking sea-water. The thunder is also believed to be the roaring of the god Varuna, the king of the clouds. [140] The boys of the Ratnágiri District believe that thunder is a sign of the wedding ceremonies performed in the heavenly houses of the gods. [141] Some Mahomedans believe that an angel called Mekail has control over the rain. To cause a fall of rain Mekail strikes the clouds with a whip of lightning. The clouds then utter a cry, and this is the cause of thunder. [142] Some people of the Thána District believe that there are big stones in the sky which strike against each other owing to the force of the wind, and produce thunder. The dashing of these stones against each other also generates lightning. [143] In the Kolába District it is believed that thunder is the military band of the king of clouds and lightning is his banner. [144] Lightning is said to be produced by the fighting of celestial elephants; while thunder is heard when they pour out water. [145] Some people think that thunder is the noise of the feet of the elephants (clouds) that give rain; lightning is also said to be generated from their foot fall. [146] The clouds are supposed to be the messengers of gods, lightning being the manifestation of Divine power. The gods are said to confine these messengers from the nakshatra of Ardra to the nakshatra of Hasti, in which latter nakshatra they again begin to roar. [147] Thunder is supposed to take place when the god Indra draws his bow; while lightning is said to be produced when the same god strikes his adamant against a mountain. [148] In the Ratnágiri District it is believed that earthquake occurs whenever the thousand headed Shesha shakes its head. [149] It is said that at one time a demon named Gayásur became very troublesome, and all the gods held him down by standing on his body. Thereupon the demon requested all the gods to remain on his body for ever. Occasionally this Gayásur shakes his body and this causes the earthquake. [150] Some people believe that the earth trembles of its own accord when sins accumulate upon it. [151] Others hold that the earthquake takes place in the hollow parts of the earth. [152] Some people, however, believe that since the earth floats upon water, it naturally quakes at times. [153] The Hindus being element worshippers naturally hold in reverence certain rivers, ponds, etc. In the Ratnágiri District the spring at Rájápur, called the Rájápurchi Ganga is considered very sacred. It flows from the roots of a Banyan tree. There are fifteen Kundas or ponds, and the principal Kunda always remains filled with water. On occasions a big játra fair is held and people from distant places come to bathe and worship at the spring. [154] Some people believe that many of the lakes, springs, etc., situated in the Kolhápur State are sacred. [155] A spring or rivulet that flows to the east is considered specially sacred. It is called a Surya-Vansi spring, and it is considered meritorious to bathe in it. [156] In the village of Kunkauli in the Ratnágiri District if a person is bitten by a snake or other poisonous reptile, no medicine is administered to him, but holy water brought from the temple of the village goddess is given to him to drink, and it is said that the patient is thus cured. [157] The water fall at Maral near Devarkuha, where the river Bán takes its rise, is held sacred. [158] At Shivam in the Ratnágiri District the people use the tirtha of a deity as medicine for diseases due to poison. They say that it is the sole remedy they apply in such cases. [159] There are ponds at Manora in the Goa State, and Vetore in the Sávantwádi State, the water of which is used as medicine for the cure of persons suffering from the poison of snakes, mice, spiders, and scorpions. [160] When a well is dug, the people call a Bráhman priest to consecrate it. The Bráhman takes cow's urine, milk, curds, ghi, sandal paste, flowers, basil leaves, and rice, and mixes them with water, and after repeating sacred mantras over the water, throws the mixture into the well. After this ceremony, the people are at liberty to drink water from the well. [161] Before a well is dug, an expert is consulted to ascertain the place where a spring flows. A well is then dug, after offering a sacrifice to the spirits and deities that happen to dwell at that spot. A dinner is given to Bráhmans after the well is built. [162] A golden cow is often thrown into a newly built well as an offering to the water deities. [163] There is a well at Mandangad, the water of which serves as medicine to cure the poison of snakes and other reptiles. [164] It is believed that there is a class of wicked water nymphs called Asará who generally dwell in wells, ponds, or rivers, far from the habitation of men. Whenever these nymphs come across a lonely man or woman entering a well, pond, etc., they carry that person under water. The village of Mithbáv in the Ratnágiri District is a well-known resort of these Asarás, and many instances are given by the villagers of persons being drowned and carried off in the river by these wicked nymphs. A tank in the village of Hindalem in the same district has a similar reputation. [165] The people of the Konkan believe that water nymphs are sometimes seen in the form of women near wells, rivers, and ponds. [166] Some say that the water nymphs and water spirits confer objects desired by worshippers if they are propitiated by prayers. [167] There are seven kundas, ponds, at Nirmal in the Thána District, forming a large lake. This lake is said to have been formed from the blood of the demon Vimalásur. At Sháhápur there is a holy spring of hot water under a Pipal tree. It is called Ganga. [168] There are kundas, pools, of hot water in the Vaitarna river in the Thána District, in which people bathe on the 13th day of the dark half of Chaitra. [169] There are also springs of hot water on the bank of the Surya river at Vajreshvari and at Koknere, in the Thána District. [170] A handful of corn, if thrown into the hot water kundas at Tungar, is said to be boiled at once. [171] It is held holy to bathe in the kundas of hot water that are situated in the rivers Tánsa and Bánganga in the Thána District. [172] The water of a well which is drawn without touching the earth or without being placed upon the ground is given as medicine for indigestion. Similarly the water of seven tanks, or at least of one pond, in which lotuses grow is said to check the virulence of measles, small-pox, etc. [173] A bath in a certain tank in the Mahim taluka is said to cure persons suffering from the itch, and water purified by repeating incantations over it is also said to be a good remedy for the same disease. [174] The water of a tank or a well is supposed to be wholesome to a person of indifferent health, if given to him to drink without placing it upon the ground. [175] Some people believe that the water of the Ganges is so holy and powerful that if bows are thrown into it they are instantly reduced to powder. [176] The repair of lakes, caravanserais, temples, etc., is held more meritorious than their actual erection. [177] It is enjoined upon a man to perform a certain rite if he wishes to relinquish his right of ownership over a well or tank, and after this rite is performed, it can be utilized for public purposes. But no ceremony is required to be performed if a well is dug for the benefit of the public. [178] The people of the Thána District believe that water nymphs reside in every reservoir of water. [179] Some people, however, believe that the water nymphs dwell in those lakes in which lotuses grow. These nymphs are said to do harm to children and young women, especially when they set out for a walk accompanied by their brother Gavala. They are unusually dangerous. [180] The people worship the images of the following seven water nymphs or apsaras, viz., Machhi, Kurmi, Karkati, Darduri, Jatupi, Somapa and Makari. [181] The following places are said to be inhabited by water spirits:--the channel of Kalamba, the tanks of Sopara and Utaratal and the lake called Tambra-tirtha at Bassein [182]. Water nymphs are supposed to drown a person who tries to save another fallen into water. [183] A species of small men named Uda, otherwise called water-spirits, are said to dwell in water and subsist on fishes. [184] The spirits called Khais and Mhashya are supposed to reside in water. [185] The river Sávitri in the Kolába District takes its rise near Mahábaleshwar and is considered very sacred. The following traditionary account is given of its origin. The god Brahma had two wives, Sávitri and Gáyatri. A dispute having arisen between them, they both jumped over a precipice. Sávitri assumed the form of a river and fell into the sea near Bánkot. Gáyatri, on the other hand, concealed herself in the river Sávitri and manifested herself as a spring near Harihareshwar in the Janjira State. [186] A man is said to be released from re-birth if he takes a bath in the kund (pond) named Katkale-tirtha near Násik. [187] Bows are said to be reduced to powder if thrown into a certain kund at Uddhar-Rámeshwar in the Sudhagad taluka. [188] Kupotsarga is defined to be the digging of a well for the benefit of the public and abandoning one's right of ownership over it. [189] A pond near Khopoli in the Kolába District is held very sacred. The following story is related in connection with it. The villagers say that the water nymphs in the pond used to provide pots for marriage festivities if a written application were made to them a day previous to the wedding. The pots were, however, required to be returned within a limited time. But one man having failed to comply with this condition, they have ceased to lend pots. Another interesting story is associated with the same pond. It is as follows. A man had fallen into the pond and was taken to the abode of the nymphs. He was, however, returned by them after a few days on the understanding that he would be recalled if he spoke of what he had seen there. One day he communicated to the people the good things that he enjoyed there, and to the surprise of all he was found dead immediately after. [190] Water nymphs are said to reside in a pond at Varsai in the Kolába District. Consequently persons that are held unclean, e.g., women in their monthly course, etc., are not allowed to touch it. The nymphs of the same lake were once said to lend pots on festive occasions. [191] It is said that the water nymphs used to provide ornaments for marriage and other ceremonies, if returned within a prescribed period. But some people having failed to return them, they ceased to lend them. [192] A spirit called Girha is supposed to reside in water. It is said to make mischief with man in a variety of ways by enticing him into deep water. [193] The Jakrin is said to be a deity residing in water. [194] Persons drowned in water are believed to become water-spirits, and to trouble innocent passers-by. [195] A mountain near the village Pule, in the district of Ratnágiri is held sacred on account of the residence of the god Ganpati at that place. For this reason people walk round the mountain and worship it. Tradition says that Ganpati was at first at Gule in the Ratnágiri District, but on account of the sanctity of the place being violated by some wicked persons the god transferred his residence to Pule. At Gule there is still a very beautiful temple of Ganpati, though it is now in a dilapidated condition. [196] The cave of the sage Much-kund near Machal on the Sahyádri mountain is considered sacred. In the Konkan it is not held sinful to ascend a mountain or a hill, though to sit upon its summit is considered sinful. [197] The hill of Mirya near Ratnágiri is considered sacred. This hill is believed to be a particle (miri) of the mythological mountain Dronagiri. [198] A hill near Dhárávi in the Thána District is consecrated by the temple of a goddess upon the top. This goddess is said to preserve ships at sea, and people are occasionally possessed by her. It is said that a Roman Catholic priest met instantaneous death on having insulted her. [199] The hill of Mahálakshmi in the Dahánu táluka is held sacred. The villagers consider it dangerous to ascend this hill. [200] On the hill of the same name is a temple of the goddess Jivadhani, who is said to preserve children from small-pox. The following story is told in connection with the goddess. A person in need of money used to place before her image as large a heap of flowers as he wanted gold, stating that he would return the gold when he had done with it. He used then to go home and return on an appointed day for the gold, which was sure to be found where he had placed the heap of flowers. Once a man failed to return the gold, and thenceforth the goddess withheld her bounty. There is no door to the temple of this goddess. It is only through a hole in a big stone that one can have a view of her image. Sweet scent is said to be continually emitted from this hole. The goddess is said to have fastened the door of her temple for the following reason. One day the goddess was walking at the foot of the hill at night. A cowherd who happened to be there was bewitched by her matchless beauty and fell a prey to evil desire. He pursued her to the top of the hill, when the goddess, divining his motive, fastened the door of her temple with a prodigious stone. On the same hill is a cattle shed in which fresh cow-dung is said to be always found. This place being inaccessible to cows and other quadrupeds, the people believe that the goddess keeps a cow of her own. [201] The hill of Tungar is consecrated by the temple of a certain goddess upon it. There is also a very famous hill near Arnála, called the hill of Buddha. This hill was once the seat of a king belonging to the weaver caste. Recently a pond was discovered upon it, in which was found a stone-box containing a begging-pot and a diamond. A great fair is held annually on the hill of Motmávali near Bandra in the Thána district. The devotees of the deity are Hindus, Parsis, and Christians. It is said this goddess was once worshipped by Hindus only. A Bráhman is the pujári of the Pir on the hill of Bába Malang near Kalyán. It is said that the Pir has declared that no Moslem pujári should worship him. The Hindus and Moslems worship him alike. [202] Bráhmans do not cross the top of a mountain without stopping for a short time before ascending the summit. [203] At a short distance from Chaul in the Kolába District is a hill dedicated to the god Dattatraya, in whose honour a great fair is held annually. The following story is told in connection with this hill. In ancient times a Bráhman used to practise austerities on this hill near a Tulsi plant (the place on which the present temple stands). He used to spend the whole day there, but returned home at nightfall. On his way home fearful scenes were often presented to him, and in his dreams he was asked not to go there any more. But the Bráhman was obdurate. He persisted in his resolution to practise austerities for a number of years, and at last succeeded in obtaining a personal interview with the god Dattatraya, who commanded him to bow down to his feet (páduka). From that time pious men live on this hill and offer their prayers to the god Dattatraya. Nearly four hundred steps have been constructed for the ascent of this hill, and additional steps are being built every year. Here also are some springs of pure water. It is worth while to note that the pujári of this god is a Shudra by caste. [204] On the north-east side of the hill dedicated to the god Dattatraya stands the temple of the goddess Hingláj. To the north of this temple are four caves, while to the west is a deep den resembling a well, through which a lane appears to have been dug. This is said to be the road excavated by the Pándavas to enable them to go to Kási. [205] At a distance of two miles from Akóla in the Kolába District is a hill called Mallikárjun. This is said to be a small stone fallen from the mythological mountain Dronagiri. This hill is said to contain many medical herbs. [206] The hill at Kankeshwar near Alibág is held sacred, and tradition says that in ancient times it had golden dust upon it. [207] A cave at Ambivali near Karjat in the Kolába District consists of seven rooms, one of which is spacious enough to accommodate five hundred persons. In the same taluka there is another cave at Kondhavane. [208] The gods Indra and Varuna are supposed to send rain; but it is believed that the god Shiva in chief has the power of causing the fall of rain, and for this reason whenever there is a scarcity of rain people pour water over the linga of Shiva until the whole linga is submerged. [209] In order that there should be a fall of rain, some people besmear the linga of the god Shiva with cooked rice and curds. [210] In the Ratnágiri District, whenever there is a scarcity of rain, people go to the place known as Parashurám Kshetra, and there pray to the god Parashurám to send rain. [211] Sacrifices are also offered to Indra, the god of rain, in order that there should be plenty of rain. Some believe that there are certain mantris or enchanters who by the power of their mantras are able to prevent the fall of rain. [212] In the Ratnágiri District the following ceremony is performed by the lower castes such as Kunbis, etc., to avert drought. All the male villagers assemble together at an appointed place, and there they select one of them as their Gowala-deva. All of them then go about in the village from house to house. The owner of every house sprinkles water over the assembly, and curds and butter-milk over the body of the Gowala-deva. They are also given some shidha consisting of rice, pulse, vegetables, etc. After visiting most of the houses in the village, the assembly headed by the Gowala-deva go to the bank of a river. Here they cook the food, offer it first to the Gowala-deva and then partake of the remainder as a prasád from the Gowala-deva. [213] Some people make an image of the sage Shringarishi for the purpose of causing the fall of rain. [214] Others make an image of Dhondal-deva in order that there should be plenty of rain. [215] Sometimes people repeat mantras addressed to Parjanya (rain) so that rain should fall. [216] The goddess Navachandika is worshipped in order that there should be rain. The Kunbis perform a peculiar rite for checking the fall of rain. They ask a person born in the months of Jyeshtha, Ashádh, Shrávan or Bhádrapad to fetch some rain-water in an alu leaf, and this is fastened to the eaves of thatched houses by means of a string. Note that, if this rite is to be performed in the month of Jyeshtha, a person born in that month only is required and no other; and so forth. [217] In order to check an excessive fall of rain the villagers sometimes ask a boy to take off his clothes and then to catch rainwater in the leaves of the alu plant. The leaves containing the water are then tied to the eaves of the house. [218] The people say that during the rule of the Peshwás there was a class of mantris who had the power of causing a failure of rain. [219] To check the fall of rain, some people ask naked boys to throw burning coals into the rain water. [220] Irale (a protection against rain, made of the leaves of trees) is kept in the rain upside down, the goddess Holika is worshipped, the boughs of the Avali tree are conveyed to a place where four roads meet and stones are heaped over it, and eaves of thatched houses are beaten by boys who do not wear clothes, all these being done by the villagers with a view to preventing an excessive fall of rain. [221] The people of the Thána District believe that distinct deities preside over distinct seasons, e.g., Mars presides over the spring (Vasant), Venus over summer (Grishma), the moon over autumn (Varsha), Mercury over sharat, Saturn over winter (Hemant and Shishir). [222] When the people are in need of rain they say to the god of rain "Let us have plenty of rain to-morrow and we will give thee, Oh! God of rain! rice mixed with curd." The same offer is made to the god of rain even when they do not want it. In order that there should be no scarcity of rain, some people perform the rites of Laghu-rudra and Mahá-rudra. [223] The following measure if adopted is said to cause rain. The villagers go from house to house with boughs of the Limb tree on their heads, and water is then poured upon them by the inmates. [224] The fall of rain is supposed to cease if a person born in the month of Fálgun extinguishes burning coals in rainwater when his garments have been removed. [225] Some stones are supposed to have influence over rain fall. There is a big stone at Varasai in the Kolába District on which are drawn certain images. The people believe that it rains hard if this stone is held straight, and then swung to and fro. [226] Some people perform the following rite known as the Dhondilgajya. They ask a person of the Kaikádi or Vadar caste to remain naked and break the string round his waist. A small image of black earth is made and placed upon his head. The boy then conveys the image from house to house in the village. A woman in each house sprinkles water over the image while the boy dances saying "Dhondil gajya, Páus gajya." It is believed that it rains in the direction in which the water sprinkled falls. A person who accompanies the boy gathers corn at every house. A dinner is then prepared, and the people of the caste to which the boy belongs, partake of it heartily. It is also said that making water in a standing posture causes the fall of rain. [227] The god Rámeshwar at Chaul in the Kolába District is said to have control over rain. In the temple of this god there is a parjanya-kund (pond) which is opened after performing a sacred rite, if there be a scarcity of rain. There are also other kundas in the temple, viz., Váyu-kund and Agni-kund, but no occasion has yet arisen to open them. [228] Some people believe that the god Agni regulates the seasons [229]. Eaves of thatched houses are cleansed with a brush made from the leaves of cocoanut trees in order that a fall of rain should be prevented. [230] The ceremonies of Haritálika, Rishi-Panchami, Vata-Sávitri, Vaná-Shasthi, Mangalá-Gouri, Shital-Saptami are to be performed by women alone. [231] Similarly, the ceremonies of Mahálakshmi, Vasubáras, Shiva-mutha, and a rite on the Makar Sankrant day are performed by women exclusively. [232] The rite of Rishi-Panchami is performed on the 5th day of the bright-half of Bhádrapad to make amends for sins committed without knowledge. On this day women go to a river, a well, or some other sacred place, cleanse their teeth with the leaves of the Agháda plant, and take baths with something on the head. They then take some stones from that place and worship them as Rishis. On the conclusion of the worship, they partake of fruits. On the Vrata-Sávitri day women worship a banyan tree or its boughs. The ceremony falls on the 15th day of the bright half of Jyeshtha. [233] On the Haritálika day, i.e., the 3rd day of the bright half of Bhádrapad, women make images of earth of Párvati and her two friends and worship them and fast the whole day. The observance of this rite contributes to their good fortune. Even girls of tender years observe this fast. The worship of Mangalá-Gauri is a ceremony performed by married girls for five successive years on every Tuesday of the month of Shrávan. Similarly, the goddess Mahálakshmi is worshipped on the 8th day of the bright half of Ashvin. On the Makar Sankránt day women worship a sugad [234] and present it to a Bráhman. [235] The Shiva-mutha consists of a handful of corn offered to the god Shiva by married girls on every Monday in the month of Shrávan. [236] The worship of Shadananda and the Holika Devi and the ceremonies of Shrávani, Shráddha and Antyesti are performed by men alone. [237] In some families of non-Bráhmans on a particular day, especially on the full-moon day of Ashvin, the host and the hostess put off their clothes and perform certain family rites. [238] The women of the Thána District fast the whole day on the 12th day of the dark half of Ashvin. At night they worship a cow, give in charity a calf, and then take their meal. It is to be noted that this ceremony called the Vasu-dwádasi is performed by women who have children. On the Haritálika day some women live on the leaves of a Rui tree. [239] On the Somavati-Amávásya day women worship a Pipal tree and offer it a hundred and eight things of one kind. [240] Women desirous of having a son perform a certain rite at midnight, without clothing. [241] If one wishes to have a son, one has to go through a ceremony called the Hanumán in a naked state. [242] The god Kálbhairav is worshipped by a naked person on the Narka-Chathurdasi day (14th day of the dark half of Ashvin). Those learning the dark lore, e.g., muth márane, are also required to remain naked while studying it. They learn this lore on an eclipse day on the bank of a river. [243] The rite called Somaya is performed by the host when his clothes are off his body. On a certain Monday in the month of Shrávan a lamp of wheat flour is prepared and burned by adding ghi. This lamp is regarded as a deity, and is worshipped solemnly. During the performance of this ceremony as well as the preparation of the requisite food, the host and the hostess are required to remain naked. [244] The Swayambhu (unartificial) linga of the god Shiva is supposed to have influence over the fall of rain. [245] The people of the Thána District believe that the following ceremony causes a fall of rain. Stones are taken out of a pool and worshipped. They are then carried to every house in the village, and water is poured upon them by the inmates. [246] There is a temple of the god of clouds at Viranáth in the Thána District. [247] The appearance of a comet is regarded by the Hindus as symptomatic of a coming evil, e.g., a big war, a great famine, or a terrible contagious disease spreading itself throughout the length and breadth of a country. [248] Some persons think that comets and shooting stars bode evil to the king. [249] Whenever a great person or a very holy man is about to be born, it is believed that he alights on the earth in the shape of a shooting star. Sometimes a big star falls on the earth, and thereby a noise like that of thunder is produced. When this happens, people believe that a great Rája or a holy saint whose merit has been exhausted is going to be born on earth. [250] The following verse from the Mrichhakatika Nátak supports the view in accordance with which orthodox people in the Konkan avoid looking at shooting stars:-- INDRADHANUSHYA ANI GOPRASUTI | NAKSHATRANCI ADHOGATI SATPURUSHANCI PRANAVIPATTI || PAHUM NAYE SACARA || i.e., The following four things, viz., the rainbow, the fall of shooting stars, the delivery of a cow, and the death-struggle of saints or holy men should not be looked at. [251] It is generally believed by Hindus that a child will immediately be born in the house towards which shooting stars are directed. [252] CHAPTER II. THE HEROIC GODLINGS. In the Konkan the deities of the Hindus are divided into the following five classes, viz.:-- (1) The Grámadevatás or Village deities, (2) The Sthánadevatás or Local deities, (3) The Kuladevatás or Family deities, (4) The Ishtadevatás or Chosen deities, and (5) The Wástudevatás or Grihadevatás, that is, the class of deity which presides over the house and is established at the time of the housewarming or Wástu ceremony. The principal Gráma-devatás are Hanumán or Máruti, Kálika, Amba, Wághoba, Chedoba, Mhasoba, Bahiroba or Bhairav, Ganesh, Vira, Mhálsa or Maha Lakshmi, Chámunda, Vetál, Khandoba Malhári Jogái, Bhawáni, and Wágeshwari and Shiva. In most villages the chief village god is Máruti or Hanumán, whose temple is situated at the entrance of the village. Máruti is considered to be an avatár or incarnation of Shiva, and is held in great reverence by all classes. A festival or jatra is held in honour of Hanumán on the bright half of the month of Chaitra. On this occasion the temple is decorated with ever-greens, and flowers, the stone image of the god is newly painted or covered with red lead and oil, and garlands of the Rui (Gigantic snake wort) flowers are placed round the neck of the image, cocoanuts, plantains, betelnuts and leaves are offered to the god, camphor is lighted and waved round the image, incense is burnt, cooked food and sweets are offered, and money presents are made. Every worshipper brings with him some oil, red-lead or Cendur, a cocoanut, a vidá-supári, i.e., two betel leaves, one betelnut and a copper coin, and a garland of Rui flowers. These are given to the temple ministrant, who offers a part of the oil and red lead to the deity, places the garland round the deity's neck, and, breaking the cocoanut into pieces, gives a piece or two to the devotee as the prasád or favoured gift of the deity. Saturday is the sacred day of the monkey god Máruti. Every Saturday fresh oil and red lead are offered to the god by the devotees. The Pujáris in most of the temples of Máruti are Guravs, Ghádis, Maráthás or Gosávis. Every Saturday in the month of Shrávan (August), called the Sampat Shaniwár or the wealth-giving Saturday a special puja or worship is performed in the temples of Máruti in Bombay as well as in the Konkan. On this day people fast the whole day and dine in the evening, after offering the god Hanumán or Máruti a preparation of rice and pulse called khichadi and cakes made of udid flour called vade. [253] There is no village in the Konkan which has not the honour of having a temple of the god Máruti. Máruti is supposed to guard the village against evils of all kinds. Care is therefore taken to build the temple of Máruti at the outskirts of the village. [254] There is a tradition that at the time of leaving the Dandaka forest (the present Maháráshtra), Ráma asked Máruti to reside therein. It is for this reason, the people say, that every village in the Konkan and on the Gháts has a temple of Máruti. [255] The god Máruti is worshipped in the village of Wásind on Tuesdays and Saturdays. [256] In former days it was customary to establish an image of the god Máruti in a newly built castle or fort. [257] Hanumán, the son of Anjani and the wind or Márut, is known for his loyalty to his master and for his bravery. In days gone by he utilized his strength for the protection of Saints, Rishis, Bráhmans and cows, and for this merit he was elevated to the rank of a Hindu god. Every Hindu village or locality is supposed to possess at least one temple of the god Máruti, and in Maháráshtra Máruti is the guardian of every village. He is a Brahmachári, or bachelor and is one of the seven heroes who are believed to be chiranjívis or immortals. [258] Máruti is supposed to be the originator of the Mantra-Shástra, by the study and repetition of which one obtains strength and superhuman power. Women desirous of getting children go to the temple of Máruti, and there burn before his image lamps made of wheat flour and filled with ghi. The image of Hanumán is represented in temples in two ways, that is (1) Víra Hanumán or Warrior Hanumán, (2) Dása-Hanumán or servant Hanumán. The former is found in a temple consecrated to the worship of the god Hanumán alone, whereas the latter is found in a temple dedicated to the worship of the god Ráma. [259] Since Máruti is the god of strength, gymnasts tie an image of Máruti to their wrists, and they also consecrate an image of Máruti in their gymnasiums. The number eleven is said to be dear and sacred to him because he is believed to be an incarnation of the eleven Rudras. The birth day of the god Máruti which falls on the 15th of the bright half of Chaitra, called the Hanumán Jayanti day, is celebrated in the Kolhápur District with great reverence. Those who wish to have a son draw the figure of Máruti on a wall in red-lead, and worship it daily with sandal paste, flowers and garlands of Rui. Others burn lamps made of wheat flour before the image of the god. Persons who are under the evil influence of the planets, and especially of the planet Saturn, worship the god Hanumán on Saturdays in order to propitiate the planets. On this day they make wreaths of the leaves and flowers of the Rui plant and adorn his neck with them. They also offer him udid (Phaseolus radiatus) and salt. The story told of Máruti is that Anjani his mother pleased the god Shiva with her penance, and when the god asked her to claim a boon, she requested that Shiva himself should be born as her son. Shiva therefore took birth in her womb and manifested himself as Hanumán or Máruti [260]. The Local deities are generally found in special localities or sacred places called Kshetras or Punya sthánas. Thus the god Ráma at Násik, Vithoba at Pandharpur, Krishna at Dwárka, Mahálakshmi at Kolwan, Wájreshwari at Nirmal (Thána), Mharloba in the Ratnágiri, Shitala devi at Kelwa Máhim, and Khandoba or Khanderái at Jejuri. Khanderái is said to be an incarnation of the god Shiva. Khanderái killed the demon Mani-Malla who was devastating the earth, and he is therefore called Mallári or Malhári. Kunbis and lower class Hindus in the Konkan as well as in the Deccan occasionally make a vow to the god Khandoba that if their desire is fulfilled they will offer their first born male or female child to the service of the god. The male child thus dedicated to Khandoba is called Wághya and the female is called Murali. The Wághya and Murali do not engage in any business, but maintain themselves by begging in the streets in the name of the god Khanderái. Though they are not actually married, the Wághyas and Muralis live as husband and wife, and their progeny are also called Wághyas and Muralis. They repeat the sacred cry jai khanderáyácha Elkot, and give to people bel-bhandár of Khanderái consisting of the sacred Bel leaves and turmeric powder. The god Khanderái is the family deity of some Deshasth Bráhmans, who perform a family rite called Tali bharane on every purnima or full moon day. The rite is as follows:-- A tali or plate is filled with cocoanuts, fruits, betel nuts, saffron, turmeric or bel-bhandár, etc. Then a pot is filled with water, and on its mouth a cocoanut is placed. This cocoanut, with the pot, is then worshipped with flowers, sandal paste, etc., a lighted lamp filled with ghi is put in the same place, and the tali is waved thrice round the pot, which is supposed to contain the god Khandoba. Five persons then lift up the cocoanut with the tali and place it three times on the pot, repeating each time the words Elkot or Khande ráyácha Elkot. The cocoanut is then broken into pieces, mixed with sugar or jágri, and is distributed among friends and relations as prasád. On this occasion, as well as on the occasions of all Kuladharmas, that is, the days fixed for performing the special worship of the family goddess or family god of each family, the ceremony called the Gondhal dance is performed. On the same occasion another ceremony called Bodan is performed by the Deshasths and by the Chitpávans. It is as follows:-- An image of the family deity is placed in a pot or plate called támhan, and it is then bathed in the panchámrit, that is, the five holy things, viz., milk, curds, ghi, honey and sugar. Sandalpaste is offered to it as well as flowers, lighted lamps and some sweets and incense. Five women whose husbands are alive then prepare five lamps of wheat flour called Kuranandi and wave them thrice round the face of the goddess or god, as the case may be. All the limps are then placed in the plate or támhan in which the deity is kept, and the panchámrita and other materials of worship and food and sweet cakes are mixed together. Occasionally one of the five women becomes possessed with the spirit of the kula-devi or family deity, and confers blessings on the members of the family for their devotion. It is believed that those families which fail to perform periodically the Bodan, Tali and Gondhal ceremonies in honour of their tutelary deity are sure to suffer, from some misfortune or calamity during the year. [261] The local deities chiefly worshipped at Chaul, Kolába District, are Hingláj, Jakhmáta, Bhagawati, Champáwati, Mahikáwati, and Golamba-devi. At the sowing and reaping times, people of the lower castes offer fowls and goats to these deities, and Bráhmans offer cocoanuts. [262] The local deity of the village Wávashi near Pen in the Kolába District is said to possess the power of averting evil, and is accordingly held in great respect by the people of many villages in the District. Every third year a great fair is held, and a buffalo is sacrificed to the goddess on the full moon day of the month of Chaitra. The Pujári of this goddess is a Gurav. [263] Another celebrated Sthána-deva in the Kolába District is Bahiri-Somajai of Khopoli. It is believed that a person suffering from snake-bite is cured without any medicine if he simply resides for one night in the temple of this goddess. Sacrifices of goats, fowls and cocoanuts are made to this goddess at the time of sowing and reaping. The Pujáris of this deity are known as Shingade Guravs. [264] The worship of the local deity Bápdev is much in favour among the villages of Apta and the surrounding places. At the times of sowing and reaping, offerings of fowls, goats and cocoanuts are made to Bápdev through the Pujári. [265] The worship of the local deities Kolambái, Bhawáni, and Giroba is prevalent in the Chauk villages. [266] To the Gráma-devi of the village of Tale every third year a buffalo is sacrificed, and at an interval of two years goats are offered. [267] The deities Shiva and Kálkái are worshipped with great reverence at Bakavali in the Ratnágiri District. [268] In many villages of the Ratnágiri District the goddess Pandhar is considered to be the Gaon-devi or the chief goddess of the village. The Pujári is generally a Gurav or Marátha Kunbi. On every full moon day cocoanuts are offered, and on the occasions of sowing and reaping, goats and fowls are sacrificed to this deity. [269] At Devgad there is a temple of the goddess Gajábái on the sea shore. The Pujári of this goddess is a man of the Ghádi caste. On the first day of the bright half of the month of Márgashirsh (December) special offerings of goats, fowls and cocoanuts are made by the villagers. [270] The deities Ravalnáth, Máuli, Vetál, Rámeshwar and Hanumán are usually worshipped in most villages in Ratnágiri. The villagers in the Ratnágiri District have great faith in their local deities, and before undertaking any important business they obtain the consent or take the omen of the deity. This ceremony is known as kaul ghálne and it is performed as follows:--Two betel nuts or flowers are taken and one of them is placed on the right side of the deity and the other on the left side. The worshipper then bows before the deity and requests her to let the nut on the right side fall first if the deity is pleased to consent, if not, to let the nut on the left side fall first. Naturally one of the two nuts falls first, and they interpret this as either consent or dissent as the case may be. The villagers have so much faith in this kaul that they make use of this method of divination to ascertain whether sick or diseased persons will recover or die. Special sacrifices are offered to these local deities whenever an epidemic like cholera occurs. [271] In the Ratnágiri District, at many places, there are Swayambhu or natural lingas of the god Shiva, and over these places temples are built. The Pujáris of these temples are generally Jangams or Lingayat Guravs. No animal sacrifices are made at these shrines. [272] At a short distance from the village of Makhamle there is a temple of the god Shiva called Amnáyeshwar. The following legend is narrated in connection with this temple:--The place where the present temple stands once abounded with Amani trees and formed a pasture for cattle. The cow of a certain man of the village daily used to go to graze at this place. The cow used to give milk twice, but one day she gave milk only once, and thereafter she continued to give milk only once a day. The owner therefore asked the Gavali or cowherd to ascertain the cause of this sudden change. One day the cowherd noticed that the cow allowed her milk to drop upon a stone. At this the cowherd was so enraged that he struck the stone with his scythe so hard that it was cloven in two and blood gushed forth. He hurriedly repaired to the village and related this wonderful phenomenon to the people. The villagers came to the spot, and decided to build a temple to the god Shiva over the stone. One part of the stone is in this temple and the other part was taken to the village of Kalamburi, where another temple was built over it. [273] In the Sangameshwar village the Bráhmans also worship the images of the local goddesses Chandukái, Jholái and Sunkái. In the Konkan the deities Náráyan, Rawalnáth, Manli, Datta, Vetál and Shiva are worshipped everywhere. [274] The following legend is told about the deity Vetál, the leader of the ghosts:--In the Sávantwádi State there is a temple of Vetál in the village of Ajgaon. [275] As part of his worship it is considered necessary to offer to this deity a pair of shoes every month. The people believe that after a few days the shoes become worn out. The inference drawn from this by the people is that at night the god Vetál goes out walking in the new shoes. [276] In the village of Khed in the Ratnágiri District, a buffalo is offered to the goddess Redjái on the full moon day of Chaitra every third year. [277] At Náringre offerings of cocoanuts, etc. are made to the deities Bhávakái, Chala, etc. on the 1st of the month of Márgashirsha. [278] The Schoolmaster of Ibrámpur states that one of the following deities is the grámadevata of every village in the Ratnágiri District viz.: Chandkái, Varadhan, Khem, Bahiri, Kedár, Vággaya, Antaral, Manaya, Salbaya and Vághámbari. A procession in their honour takes place in the months of Chaitra and Fálgun. The Pujáris are generally either Guravs or Marátha Kunbis. A ceremony called Palejatra is performed in the sowing season, while the Dhal-jatra is performed at the harvest time. At these fairs fowls, cocoanuts, goats, fruits, etc. are offered to these deities. [279] At Málwan on the no-moon day of Shrávan (August) local deities and ghosts are propitiated by offering to them goats, fowls, etc. [280] At Pálset in the Ratnágiri District, the god Parashurám is the most important deity especially for Chitpávans. He exterminated the Kshatriyas twenty-one times, and having no space for himself and his Bráhmans, he asked the sea to provide him with new land. On meeting with a refusal, Parashurám became enraged and was about to push the sea back with his arrow, when, at the instigation of the sea, a black-bee (bhunga) cut the string of his bow, and the arrow only went a short distance. The people say that the space thus recovered from the sea came to be called Konkan. [281] At Anjarle there are two local goddesses Sawanekarin and Bahiri. Offerings of goats and fowls are made to them in the months of Márgashirsha (December) and Fálgun (March). Sometimes liquor and eggs are also offered. Offerings can be made on any day except Monday and Ekádashi, Tuesdays and Sundays being considered most suitable. [282] At Ubhádánda in the Ratnágiri District, Ravalnáth and Bhutanáth are held in great reverence. They are believed to be incarnations of the god Shiva. The Pujáris are generally Guravs, Ghádis, Ráuls and Sutárs. [283] The following goddesses which are popular in the Ratnágiri District are believed to be incarnations of the goddess Durga, viz. Navala-devi, Vághur-devi, Jakha-devi and Kálkái. [284] At Maral in the Ratnágiri District there is a swayambhu or natural linga of the god Shiva. It is called Maheshwar, and in its honour a fair is held on the Sankránt day. [285] The chief local deity of the Dahánu taluka, Thána District, is Mahálakshmi. She has seven sisters and one brother, two of the sisters being the Pangala-devi at Tárápur and the Delavadi-devi at Ghivali. Goats and fowls are offered to the Pangala-devi on the Dasara day. Her Pujári is a Gurav. It is said that the goddess Delwadi used to receive her garments from the sea, but now this is no longer the case though it is still believed that the incense which is burnt before her comes floating from Dwárka. [286] In the village of Edwan there is a goddess called Ashápuri, who used to supply her devotees with whatever they wanted. The devotee was required to besmear with cow-dung a plot of ground in the temple, and to pray for the things wanted by him. The next day, when he came to the temple, he found the desired things on the spot besmeared with cow-dung. [287] At Mángaon the Pujári of the local goddess is either the Pátil or the Madhavi of the village. [288] In the village of Dahigaon cocoanuts are offered annually to the village Máruti, and fowls and goats to the other local deities, in order that the village may be protected against danger and disease. [289] It is believed that any Bráhman who acts as the Pujári of the god Shiva will find his family exterminated, and for this reason Bráhmans do not act as Pujáris in the temples of Shiva. In a few temples of goddesses like Jakhái etc. the Pujári is of the Mahár caste. [290] A great fair is held in honour of the goddess Vajrá-bái or Vajreshwari near Nirmal in the month of Kártika (November). The Pujári of the goddess is a Gosávi of the Giri sect. The worship of Bhimasena is not prevalent in the Konkan, but the hero Bhima, like Máruti, is held in reverence by the gymnasts. Bhima is not worshipped, but a work called the Bhima-stavaráj is read at the bed of a dying man in order that he may obtain salvation. At Ashirgad there is a gumpha or cave of Ashwattháma, a hero of the Mahábhárata, and it is said that a noise is heard coming from the cave on the full moon day. [291] Wherever a village is founded, it is customary to establish a village deity as the guardian of the village. The deities chosen are Máruti, Káli, Chandkái, Varadani, etc. In the Konkan, goddesses are preferred, and on the Ghats generally Máruti is preferred. Certain ceremonies are performed for consecrating the place to the deity, and sometimes the deity is called after the village as Marleshwar [292] etc. By many lower class people the goddess Pondhar is often selected as the guardian of a new village. At Shahpur, if the newly founded village is to be inhabited by high class Hindus, the deities Máruti and Durga are selected as gráma-devatas, but if it is to be inhabited by lower class people, then such deities as Mhasoba, Chedoba, Jákhái, etc. are chosen. [293] In the Bassein and Sálsette tálukas the following deities viz. Máruti, Chedá, Chandkái, and Shiva, are chosen as village deities. Cheda is represented by a long piece of wood or stone besmeared with red-powder, and is placed on the outskirts of the village. No Bráhman is necessary for establishing a Cheda. The Pujári is generally a Kunbi or Máli, and he establishes the deity by offering it a goat or fowls and cocoanuts. [294] Sometimes the guardian deity of a new settlement is decided upon by a Kaul. Two or three names of deities are selected, betelnuts or flowers are placed on the sides of the guardian deity of the neighbouring village and that deity in whose name the betelnut falls first is chosen as the deity of the new village. [295] At Chaul, the deity called Bápdev is very popular among the lower classes. It is represented by a big stone fixed on mortar and besmeared with red-powder. When it is established for the first time in a village, a Bráhman is required to make the first púja or worship, but after this it is worshipped by a Pujári of a lower caste. [296] The Mahars in the Kolába District select the ghost-deity called Jhaloba as the guardian deity of a new settlement. [297] In many cases the deity of their former village or of the neighbouring village [298] is named by a Bhagat or exorcist, who becomes possessed. [299] In the Konkan every village farm is supposed to be under the guardianship of the minor godlings, the majority of which are called Bhuta-Devatás or ghostly godlings. In some cases the field guardians are also the Bráhmanic godlings like Máruti and Shiva. [300] To the Bráhmanic guardians of the field, cocoanuts and flowers are offered at the sowing and reaping seasons, and to the rest, fowls, cocoanuts, and sometimes goats, are offered. The higher classes feed one or two Bráhmans in order to propitiate the deities of the fields; and for the propitiation of the minor deities of the field the lower classes perform a rite called Dalap. This rite is performed by a man of the Gurav, Ghádi, or Rául, caste by sacrificing to the field deity a goat or fowls and cocoanuts. The pujári repeats prayers for a good harvest, and then distributes portions of the offerings among the people assembled there for witnessing the rite. [301] In the Ratnágiri District on the no-moon day of Jeshta people assemble in the temple of the village deity and perform a rite called Gárháne in order that they should have a good crop, that their village may be free from diseases, and that their cattle may be protected. A similar rite is performed on the first day of the bright half of the month of Márgashirsha (December), and on this occasion sometimes a goat or sheep is sacrificed at the boundary of the village. [302] In order that there should be a good harvest, the villagers of Kankaoli worship on certain days from the month of Kártika (November) to the month of Shimga (March) the minor deities of the field by offering them fowls, cocoanuts, etc. [303] At Achare (Ratnágiri) some people worship the god of the clouds on the day on which the Mrigashirsha constellation begins, and they believe that thereby plenty of rain is ensured for the season. [304] For good harvests and for the protection of their cattle, the villagers of Achare pray to the Gráma-devata in the month of Jeshta (June), and then go in procession from the temple of the village deity to the boundary of the village, where they sacrifice a cock and offer some cooked rice with a burning wick upon it, to the deity that presides over the fields and harvests. [305] In the village of Palset of the Ratnágiri District the goddess Khema is worshipped by the villagers to obtain good crops, and for the protection of their cattle. The Púja or special worship takes place on the full-moon day of Márgashirsha and on this occasion the sacred Gondhal dance is also performed. [306] In certain villages of the Ratnágiri District, for obtaining good harvest, people worship the godling Mahápurush at the beginning of the sowing and reaping operations, and offer the deity fowls, cocoanuts and cooked rice. [307] In the village of Málwan, at the sowing and reaping seasons, the villagers usually make offerings of fowls and cocoanuts and goats to the guardians of the fields, but Bráhmans and such Kunbi farmers as do not eat flesh make offerings of cooked rice mixed with curds. [308] At Ubhádánda village, in order to secure a good harvest and for the protection of the cattle, the villagers worship the spirit godlings called Sambandhas and perform the rite called Devachár. [309] At Kochare, annual prayers are offered to the godling called Gavatdev for the protection of the village cattle. [310] In the Devgad taluka people believe that some deity resides in every farm or in every collection of fields, and that good or bad harvests are caused as the deity is pleased or displeased. [311] In order that there should be plenty of rain and that the cattle should be protected, the villagers of Málgund assemble in the temple of the village deity and offer prayers on the full moon day of Fálgun (March) and on the 1st day of the bright half of Márgashirsh. [312] In the Kolába District, for the protection of cattle and for good crops, prayers are offered to the god Bahiri and the ghosts Khavis and Sambandh. [313] At Chauk in the Kolába District the villagers perform a special púja or worship of the god Krishna in order that the village cattle may be protected. [314] At Sasawane a fair called pále jatra is held in the month of Bhádrapad (September) in order that the villagers may have a good harvest, and that their cattle may be protected against tigers and disease. [315] At Akol, on the day which follows the Ganesh-Chaturthi, people throw parched rice over their fields and houses so that the rats may not run over them. [316] At Málád in the Thána District, for the protection of cattle, the god Wághoba is worshipped at night on the 12th of Ashvin which is called the Wágh-báras. [317] In some villages of the Thána District the deity Wághoba or Wághya is worshipped on the 12th day of the dark half of Kártik. On that day the cowherds collect a quantity of milk and prepare a kind of food known as Khir by mixing jágri and cooked rice. They then proceed to the stone image of the deity in the jungle, and besmear it with new red-lead or shendur. They pour a portion of the sweet milk over the stone, and offer prayers for the protection of their cattle. They then partake of the remaining milk. [318] At Agáshi and other neighbouring villages, before the fields are ploughed, the villagers assemble and collect a certain sum of money, with which they buy goats, fowls, red-powder, cocoanuts and parched grain. A goat and some cocks are then sacrificed to the spirits residing in the cemeteries and at the boundary of the village. Cocoanuts besmeared with gulál red powder are also offered to these ghost godlings. A goat decorated with garlands and red powder is then made to walk round the village three times at night, accompanied by the villagers, who throw láhya parched rice while passing. This rite is called Siwa Bándhane or binding the boundary, and is supposed to protect the village crops and cattle. No farmer dares to sow his seed unless this rite has been performed. After this rite has been performed, every farmer appeases his family deity, i.e. Khandoba, Bahiroba, Kankoba, etc., by performing a ceremony at home called Deopan or Devaski, which relates to the worship of ancestors. Most of the farmers regard one of their dead ancestors as their chief deity, and represent him in their house by a cocoanut. They do not enter on any new business without first offering prayers to this cocoanut, and they also believe that they can bring evil upon their enemies by simply cursing them before the deified cocoanut. The only materials generally required for the worship of this cocoanut are red powder, incense and flowers. On rare occasions, goats and fowls are sacrificed. It is believed that the ancestor in the cocoanut likes to be worshipped by the wife or husband (as the case may be) of the person represented by the cocoanut. Some farmers, in addition to the cocoanut, worship a stick or cap of their ancestor along with the cocoanut, and offer prayers for the protection of their cattle, for good rain and harvest, and also for the destruction of their enemies. [319] CHAPTER III. DISEASE DEITIES. At Vengurla, in the Ratnágiri District, when epidemic diseases prevail, the people of the village assemble and prepare a basket in which are placed cooked rice, cocoanuts, lemons, wine, red flowers and Udid (Phaseolus radiatus) grain. The basket is then carried out of the village along with a cock or a goat, and deposited outside the village boundary. To carry this basket, a person belonging to the Mahár caste is generally selected. The people of the next village similarly carry the basket beyond their village limits; and it is finally thrown into the sea. It is believed that if the basket of offerings to the disease-deities is carried from one village to another, it is sure to bring the disease with it. Great care is therefore taken to throw the offerings into the sea. In cases of small pox a feast is given to women whose husbands are alive. In some cases boiled rice is mixed with the blood of a cock, and on the rice is placed a burning black cotton wick in a cocoanut shell with a little oil in it. The whole is then carried beyond the village boundary and thrown away. [320] In the village of Mithbáv in the Ratnágiri District, epidemic diseases like cholera, small pox, plague, etc., are supposed to come from disease deities, and in order to avoid the danger of such diseases the people of the village go to the temple of the village deity and pray for protection. The special form of worship on such occasions is the Kaul, i.e., asking a favour from the deity. When an epidemic of plague broke out for the first time at Sangameshwar, the people of the village at once proceeded to worship the village deity; but a few cases of plague occurred, even after worshipping the village goddess Jákhmáta. When the people went to the temple and asked the reason why the plague continued, it was announced by the deity through the temple ministrant that she was helpless in the case of plague, and desired the people to worship the god Shiva, thereby signifying that the village deity has limited powers, and that the power of averting great evils lies with Shiva the god of destruction. [321] In the Devgad Taluka of the Ratnágiri District in epidemic diseases like cholera, etc., the usual ceremony, i.e., the Paradi (disease-scaring basket) is performed. A basket containing boiled rice, red powder, red flowers, lemons, betel nuts, betel leaves, etc., is prepared, and on that rice is kept a burning cotton wick dipped in oil. The basket is then carried beyond the village boundary along with a goat having a red flower garland round its neck. The goat is set free at the outskirts of the village. In cases of small pox, married women whose husbands are alive are worshipped with turmeric powder, cocoanuts, flowers, etc., and incense is kept burning in the house. The deity of small pox is also specially worshipped for a number of days. It is represented by a brass or copper lota with a cocoanut placed over it. This process is called mánd bharane i.e. arranging the materials of worship. The girls in the house sing songs in praise of the small pox deity. It is believed that in this way the severity of the disease is reduced. [322] In the Sangameshwar taluka of the Ratnágiri District, when epidemic diseases prevail, the people of the village assemble in the temple of the village deity, offer a cocoanut to the goddess, and ask for a Kaul (omen). After receiving the Kaul they pray for mercy. It is believed that if the Kaul is in favour of the people the diseases will disappear. [323] At Achare in the Málwan taluka of the Ratnágiri District it is believed that epidemic diseases such as cholera, small pox, etc., are caused by the anger of the deities Jari and Mari; and in order to satisfy those deities animal sacrifices are offered at the time of their worship. There are no other deities who cause such diseases. [324] At Vijayadurg in the Ratnágiri District, in cases of small pox, the child suffering from the disease is made to sleep on a silk garment Sovalen. Flowers are thrown upon the patient's body, and are given to him to smell. Incense is burnt in the house. On the seventh day from the beginning of the disease, the child is first bathed in milk and then in water. Black scented powder called Abir is thrown on the body. After two or three days an image representing the deity is made of flour, which is worshipped, and a feast is given to Bráhmans and unwidowed women. [325] At Basani in the Ratnágiri District the disease of small pox is averted by a Bráhman worshipping the goddess Shitala. Bráhmans are also worshipped, and a feast is given to them. In cases of cholera and the other epidemic diseases the village deity is worshipped and sacrifices are made to her. [326] At Kochare in the Vengurla taluka of the Ratnágiri District, a woman whose husband is alive is made to represent the goddess Jari Mari, and is worshipped with flowers, red powder Kunku and black ointment Kájal. She is given a feast of sweet things; and rice and cocoanuts are put into her lap by another woman whose husband is alive. She is then carried in procession through the village with beating of drums and the singing of songs. This is similar to the Paradi procession, which is also common in that District. [327] At Navare in the Ratnágiri District, in cases of small pox, the diseased child and the person into whose body the small pox deities called Báyás enter, are worshipped with Abir black scented powder, flower garlands, &c. [328] At Pendur in the Málwan taluka of the Ratnágiri District the wrath of the female deities or Mátrikás is supposed to be the cause of epidemic diseases, and these Mátrikás are accordingly worshipped for their pacification. [329] At Chaul in the Kolába District the god Shankar is worshipped by Bráhmans when epidemic diseases prevail in a village. The worship consists in repeating Vedic hymns. The nine planets are also propitiated by sacrifices of boiled rice, etc. There is a famous temple of the goddess Shitala at Chaul where the deity is worshipped by Bráhmans, who recite Vedic hymns, whenever small pox prevails in the village. The mantras of the goddess and the Shitala Ashtaka are also repeated in the Pauránic style. The women walk round the temple every day as long as the signs of the disease are visible on their children. The goddess is worshipped with turmeric and red powders, and clothes and fruits are given to her. The Kaul ceremony is also practised in this District. It is worth noticing that even Musalmáns ask for a Kaul from this goddess. The days fixed for Kaul are:--Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. The morning hours are considered specially auspicious for the Kaul. There is another temple at Chaul, of the goddess Shri Golába Devi. This goddess is also worshipped when other epidemic diseases prevail in the village. Saptáha i.e. continuous worship for seven days is also performed in honour of the deity. The gardeners (Mális) of the village worship this deity every Tuesday morning with cocoanuts gathered from every house in the village. This temple is being repaired at present. [330] When epidemic diseases prevail in the village of Poladpur of the Kolába District the god Shiva is worshipped by continuously pouring water over the deity's head or linga. Sacrifices of fruits and animals are also offered to the village deity. Where there is a temple of the deity Mári or Mahámári, the deity is worshipped through a Bráhman, and sacrifices of cocks and goats are offered to her. The deity named Shitala is worshipped in cases of small pox. [331] At Vávashi in the Pen taluka of the Kolába District, in cases of epidemic diseases, the people of the village invoke the god Shiva, and holy fires called homa are kindled in honour of that god. Sacrifices of boiled rice are also offered to the deity. For averting small pox the deity Shitala is invoked by the mantras called Shitala Ashtaka. For averting fevers the gods Shankar and Vishnu are also worshipped. [332] At Medhe in the Rohe taluka of the Kolába District the god Shiva is worshipped in order to avert an epidemic, and Hanumán is worshipped to avert fevers. [333] At Málád in the Salsette taluka of the Thána District, when an epidemic prevails in a village, the goddess Navachandi is worshipped and the Homa is kindled in her honour. On the last day of worship a goat is set free as a sacrifice to the deity. The Bali, i.e., the offering of boiled rice, and the goat are taken beyond the boundary of the village, and handed over to the people of the neighbouring village, who follow the same procedure, and at last both the sacrifices are thrown into the sea. The goat generally dies, as it does not get water and food till it reaches the sea. [334] In the village of Anjur in the Thána District, in cases of long standing fevers the Bráhmans observe the ceremony called Udak Shanti or propitiation by water. It is as follows:--An earthen pot filled with water is placed on the ground. On the top of the pot is placed a round plate in which the image of the god Brahmadev the son of Vishnu is consecrated. Four Bráhmans sit on the four sides of the pot and repeat their Vedic hymns. These four Bráhmans are supposed to be the four mouths of the god Brahmadev. It is believed by the people that by performing this ceremony the fever is made to disappear. [335] At Rái in the Thána District some people believe that malarial fevers are averted by placing secretly a small stone on the head of the god Hanumán. [336] In the Kolhápur District the nine planets are worshipped in the house to ward off diseases such as cholera, small pox, fevers, etc. The goddess Laxmi is worshipped in order to avert small pox, the worship being generally performed in a garden or a grove of mango trees, when parched rice, cocoanuts and lemons are offered to her. The people assembled at the spot partake of the food. To avert fever, the people perform a certain ceremony ordained in the Shástras. If the sick person is supposed to be under the evil influence of the planet Saturn, the planet is invoked by repeating the mantras, and worshipped with the usual offerings. Garments such as a Sári and a Choli are offered to the goddesses Mári and Kálubái. When an epidemic disease such as cholera prevails in a village, the people of the village install the deity Margai at a place where four roads meet, and worship her for seven or eight days with much ceremony. Every one brings offerings of cocoanuts, lemons, ambil or conjee, cooked rice and curds, etc. with the beating of drums to offer to the deity. After worshipping the goddess in this manner for eight successive days they sacrifice a Bali of a he-buffalo before her. The deity is then put upon a bullock cart and carried through the village with the beating of drums and much ceremony, to be thrown away beyond the village boundary along with the offerings. [337] Epidemic diseases are not attributed to witchcraft at Devgad in the Ratnágiri District. It is believed that they are caused by the accumulated sins of the people. [338] In the Dápoli taluka of the Ratnágiri District epidemic diseases are attributed to witchcraft by low caste people. The power of averting such diseases lies in the hands of the village deities. They are therefore propitiated by the sacrifices of cocks, goats, and cocoanuts. [339] At Poládpur in the Kolába District, epidemic diseases are sometimes attributed to witchcraft by low caste people. Persons well versed in the mantras of evil spirits are called Bhagats or exorcists. Some of them keep evil spirits at their command. The poor people believe that what these exorcists foretell is sure to occur. It is believed that the spirit dwells on the tongue of these exorcists. When these spirits are hungry, they are let loose in the village by the sorcerers for the destruction of the people, thus causing an epidemic. When a spirit is to be destroyed, the people of the village assemble in a mob and attack the sorcerer, a small quantity of blood is taken from his tongue and water from the earthen pot of a Chámbhár is poured upon it. It is believed that by so doing the spirit is permanently destroyed and the sorcerer either forgets all his mantras or they become ineffective. The spirit is called tond bhut, and it sometimes troubles even animals. [340] At Chauk in the Karjat taluka of the Kolába District, the people believe that the devotees of the Mári deity bring on epidemic diseases by the use of their mantras, and in order to satisfy them, offerings are made to the deity Mári which are taken by the devotees or Bhagats. [341] At Váde in the Thána District epidemic diseases are attributed to witchcraft. There are some women who are supposed to bring on, or at least foster, the growth of such diseases by their evil mantras. Such women are threatened or punished by the people, and sometimes they are even driven out of the village. [342] In the village of Anjur of the Thána District, if a man vomits blood accidently and falls ill, or dies, it is believed to be due to the act of Muth Márane, that is, the throwing of a handful of rice over which incantations have been repeated. If there be any sorcerer in the village who has learnt the same incantations, he alone is able to return the Muth to the sorcerer who first used it. [343] At Shirgaum in the Umbergaon taluka of the Thána District, when epidemic diseases prevail in the village, the people of the village take a turn round the village in a body and kill a buffalo. A Bali or offering of boiled rice, cocoanuts, cocks and goats is also offered to the deities that cause epidemic diseases. [344] When cattle disease breaks out in a village the people of the Devagad taluka in the Ratnágiri District generally prevent the healthy cattle from mixing with the diseased, and the people of the neighbouring villages take precautions against using the milk, etc. of the diseased cattle. At such times the cattle of the village in which the disease breaks out are prohibited from entering the neighbouring villages. [345] At Ubhádánda in the Ratnágiri District, the deity named Maha Gira is worshipped in connection with cattle diseases. At some places a feast is given to Bráhmans, and in certain villages of this District a man is painted like a tiger, carried out of the village and bathed in a river. It is believed that this is one of the remedies for averting cattle diseases. [346] At Fonda in the Ratnágiri District, when cattle disease breaks out, a goat or a cock is sacrificed at the temple of the village deity. [347] In some villages of the Málwan taluka the deity Bráhman is worshipped. [348] At Basani in the Ratnágiri District the gods of the Mahárs as also the village deity are worshipped in connection with the cattle diseases. [349] At Vávashi in the Kolába District when cattle disease prevails in a village, a pig is killed and buried on the border of the village. A sweet oil lamp in the shell of a crab or a lobster is kept burning in the cowshed. River or sweet water fishes are boiled in water, and the water is given to the animals to drink. The owner also cleans the cowshed and burns sulphur, camphor, dammer and other disinfectants. [350] At Varsai in the Pen taluka of the Kolába District a Kaul is taken from the village deity to prevent cattle diseases, that is, the village deity is consulted through the temple ministrant, who acts as the spokesman of the oracle. [351] At Medhe in the Rohe taluka of the Kolába District the village deity Bahiroba is worshipped in connection with cattle diseases. The diseased animals are minutely examined, and the affected part of their body is branded with a red hot iron. [352] In the village of Umela of the Thána District the village deity is worshipped and sacrifices are offered to her. Milk from the affected villages is prohibited, and vegetables are not fried in oil during the prevalence of the disease in the village. [353] At Kolhápur, the people make vows to the god, and ashes from the temples are brought and applied to the forehead of the cattle. Cotton strings are tied to the feet or the neck of the cattle in the name of the god. They also make vows to the deities Tamjái and Wághjái, and offer to them eyes made of silver, a new cloth, a fowl or a goat, when their animals are cured of the disease. [354] In the Devgad taluka of the Ratnágiri District, in cases of malarial fevers pieces of certain kinds of herbs are fastened together with black cotton strings, and tied round the arm or neck of the person suffering from the disease. Sacred ashes are put in a copper amulet and the amulet is tied in the manner above described. [355] At Fonda in the Ratnágiri District, in addition to herbs and copper amulets, peacock feathers in black cotton strings are tied to the arms of the persons suffering from malarial fevers, etc. [356] At Vengurla in the Ratnágiri District, in fevers like malaria, black strings of cotton are tied round the arm or neck, and certain secret mantras are repeated at the time. It is believed that the power of the mantras is lost if they are disclosed to the public. [357] At Murud in the Dápoli taluka of the Ratnágiri District the mantras of the god Narsinh, the fourth incarnation of Vishnu, are repeated for the exorcism of diseases. [358] In the Dápoli taluka people who want to get rid of their diseases tie a copper amulet to their arms. The mantras that are repeated on such occasions are kept secret. There are at present some persons in the Anjarle village who give such amulets and charms. [359] In the Chiplun taluka of the Ratnágiri District the following articles are used for averting diseases:--Copper amulets, black cotton strings, and holy water over which certain mantras have been repeated by the exorcist. [360] At Poladpur in the Kolába District, black cotton strings are tied round the arm in cases of malarial fevers. Some mantras are repeated in cases of pain in the right or left side of the body. Besides the mantras some signs and figures are drawn on birch leaves, and tied round the arm or the neck of the patient. Women who wish to have children wear such black cotton strings and copper amulets. [361] At Vávashi in the Kolába District mantras are in vogue for the exorcism of diseases such as liver and spleen affections. For exorcising eye diseases black cotton thread is tied to the ear. [362] At Chauk in the Karjat taluka of the Kolába District, ashes are applied to the body of the sick person after repeating certain mantras over them. [363] At Málád in the Thána District, for exorcising diseases caused by evil spirits, certain letters of the Nrisinha mantra are written on a birch leaf, and the leaf is tied round the arm of the sick man with a copper amulet. In order to drive out the evil spirit permanently, the god Nrisinha is worshipped, and sacred fire is kindled to propitiate the deity. For the worship of Nrisinha the ministrant required must be a regular devotee of Nrisinha, and he must also be a Panchákshari, i.e., one who knows the mantras of evil spirits. [364] In the village of Shirgaon in the Máhim taluka of the Thána District, in addition to copper amulets and black threads of cotton, mantras of Musalmán saints or pirs are in vogue for exorcising disease. [365] At Kolhápur, the higher classes perform the religious ceremony called Anushthán to propitiate Shiva, the god of destruction, in order to avert disease, and also make vows to the same deity. The lower classes offer cocoanuts, fowls or a goat. They sometimes go to the exorcist for ashes in the name of the god, and apply them to the forehead of the diseased person. Copper amulets and cotton strings given by the exorcist are also tied round the neck of the sick person. [366] At Adivare in the Ratnágiri District the following practices are adopted for driving out evil spirits that cause disease. Incense is burnt before the exorcist, drums are beaten, and then the exorcist takes a burning wick in his hand and frightens the diseased person by striking the ground with a cane or a broom of peacock feathers. He also cries out loudly. He then draws out the evil spirit from the body of the diseased person, and puts it in a bottle, which is either carried out of the village and buried under ground near a big tree or is thrown into the sea. [367] In the Sangameshwar taluka of the Ratnágiri District, the process of exorcising is sometimes accompanied by dancing and loud cries. The person who suffers from evil spirits is taken to Narsoba's Wádi in the Kolhápur State where patients are believed to find a cure. [368] In the Devgad taluka of the Ratnágiri District the exorcist, when possessed, does not dance as at other places, but freely uses abusive epithets to drive out the evil spirits; and on such occasions the threats are repeated loudly by the exorcist. [369] In the Dápoli taluka of the Ratnágiri District, dancing is used in exorcism. While dancing, the exorcist makes a show of different kinds of fits. They are similar to those made by a person suffering from hysteria. He also stands and sways his body to and fro for some time, then assumes a serene and quiet attitude, and begins to cry out loudly. [370] There are some sorcerers at Dásgaon in the Kolába District, who dance and cry out loudly in order to drive out the evil spirits from the body of the diseased. [371] At Málád in the Thána District dancing is used in exorcism. The following is a description of one of these dances. Songs of the deity which is to be summoned on the occasion are sung along with the music of the Tál (a kind of cymbal) and the beating of drums called Ghumat. The Ghumat is an earthen jar, the lower and upper ends of which are covered over with leather. The man in whose body the deity is to make its appearance takes his bath and sits by the side of a small prayer carpet called Asan. A small quantity of rice (about a ser) is put in front of the carpet, and a copper pot filled with water is placed on the rice. The musicians begin to strike their instrument with a loud clash, and the exorcist's body begins to shake. The shaking of the body is a sure indication of his being spirit-possessed. He then sits upon the carpet and begins to throw grains of rice into the copper pot containing water, gives out the name of the particular spirit with which he is possessed, and the cause for which it has attacked the patient. He then explains the measures and rites by which the spirit can be driven out. The people abide by his directions, and the patient is thus cured. [372] At Padghe in the Thána District, when an evil spirit is to be driven out from the body of the patient, the latter is asked to hold in his mouth a betelnut or a lemon. After some time, the betelnut or the lemon is put into a bottle, the bottle is then tightly corked and buried underground. A copper pot is filled with water, and the diseased person is asked to hold the pot upside down. If the water runs out it is believed that the spirit has disappeared. [373] In the village of Edwan of the Thána District, dancing is practised in cases of spirit possession, but it is resorted to among the lower castes only. While dancing, the sorcerer cries out loudly, and throws grains of Udid (Phaseolus radiatus) on the body of the diseased person [374] after repeating certain mantras. This rite is styled Bhárani or the process of charming. At Kolhápur, dancing is not used in exorcism, but the people suffering from evil spirits sometimes dance and cry out loudly. Some of them loose their hair while dancing, and even strike their heads. Some quarrel like combatants, and some of them try to make speeches like orators. There is a temple of the god Shri Dutta at Narsinhwádi in the Kolhápur State, to which people suffering from evil spirits are brought for a cure. These people cry out loudly when the palanquin of the Swámi Maháráj is carried through the village, and spirits usually quit the bodies of their victims at this time, for it is said that they cannot bear the proximity of the Swámi Maháráj. Patients are also cured by residing in the village for a certain period. On this account the village of Narsobáchiwádi is considered very holy. A big festival is celebrated in this village annually on the twelfth day of the dark half of Ashvin (October). Feasts are given to the Bráhmans, the expenses being borne by the Kolhápur State. [375] In the Sangameshwar taluka of the Ratnágiri District, the Bhagat or exorcist is respected by the lower caste people. His duties are to ask a kaul from the deity on behalf of the people and to alleviate their sufferings. His appointment is hereditary, the clever member of the family generally following the profession of his father. [376] In the Devgad taluka of the Ratnágiri District, low class people are afraid of sorcerers because they might injure them if they are offended. They therefore are careful not to cause them displeasure. There, the profession of a sorcerer or exorcist is not hereditary. Any one who learns the wicked mantras after attending regularly the burial and burning grounds for some days becomes an expert, and may follow the profession. [377] In the Málwan taluka of the Ratnágiri District the chief function of the village sorcerer is to worship the village deity. All kinds of gifts and presents intended for the deity are made through him. His profession is hereditary and he is much respected by the ignorant people [378]. At Fonda in the Ratnágiri District the exorcist is not appointed, but one who can satisfactorily interpret or explain to the village deity the sufferings of the people is generally selected. [379] In the Vengurla taluka of the Ratnágiri District, the chief function of the village sorcerer is to find remedies for the cure of persons suffering from evil spirits. His position among the people of the low classes is considered high. He follows the hereditary profession of a sorcerer, and generally the eldest son succeeds his father. [380] At Chidhran in the Panwel taluka of the Kolába District, Bhutes, a caste of beggars, are the devotees of a goddess. Some of them are called Bhagats. Devrishis are very rare. The difference between a Devrishi and a Bhagat is as follows:--A Devrishi removes the evil spirits by simply repeating the mantras while the Bhagat removes them by bringing the evil spirit into his own body and by dancing, etc. [381] At Chaul in the Kolába District, Bhutes go begging in the morning every day for the first nine days of the month of Ashvin (October). On the tenth day the Bhutya is given a pice from every house. These Bhutes are devotees of the goddess Shakti. At Sasawane in the Kolába District the village sorcerer comes to beg every day and is given rice, etc., but during the first nine days of the bright half of Ashvin (October) he is given copper coins. [382] At Anjur in the Thána District the devotee of a particular god is called Bhagat, and one who knows how to summon or eject evil spirits is called Bhutya. A Devrishi is a person who knows the mantras for warding off the great evil spirits such as Brahma Rákshasa, Brahma Samband, etc. These three classes are respected only for performing their respective duties, and not otherwise. [383] At Kolhápur, the sorcerer is never appointed. His functions are to ask a kaul from the deity, to pray for the welfare of the people, and explain to them what he sees in his dreams. He holds no position in higher society, but the poor people who believe in him are afraid of him. Sorcerers are generally very cunning; they frighten poor people, and obtain from them presents and gifts for their maintenance. [384] In the Vengurla taluka of the Ratnágiri District red flags are hoisted on Banyan, Pipal, and Umbar trees, and on certain occasions offerings of coins and cocoanuts are made. It is believed that when the three kinds of trees happen to grow together, i.e., close to each other, near a well or on the bank of a river, the god Datta resides there, but such cases are very rare. These trees are supposed to be the haunts of the Munja spirit, and therefore copper coins waved round the persons suffering from evil spirits are thrown underneath them. There are no sacred wells in this taluka. [385] In the Dápoli taluka of the Ratnágiri District, the Banyan and Pipal trees are worshipped. The former is worshipped by women on the full moon day of the month of Jestha (June) and on the no moon day when it falls on Monday. On these occasions a cotton thread is tied round the tree, and offerings of glass beads, cocoanuts, fruits, etc., are made. These trees are also worshipped with offerings of copper coins, etc. [386] In the Dápoli taluka, there is a certain place between the two villages of Anjarla and Harnai where persons passing by that side throw one or two stones, causing thereby a heap of stones there. It is believed that by doing this the person who throws such stones gets rid of his itch. This place is called Girjoba. Hands and feet made of wood are also offered by persons who make vows to do so when their hands or legs are affected by any disease. [387] At Ibrámpur in the Ratnágiri District offerings of cotton thread, copper coins, and fruit are made to Banyan and Pipal trees on the full moon day of the month of Jestha (June) and on every Saturday in the month of Shráwan (August). [388] At Vavanje in the Panwel taluka of the Kolába District, offerings of coins, etc., to sacred trees are made at the time of Parwani (a festival). For instance, when the no moon day falls on Monday, the women worship the Pipal tree, and on the full moon day of Jestha (June) they worship the Banyan tree. The custom prevails of the worship of a well by women after their delivery. A woman, after completing the period of her confinement or ceremonial impurity, is taken to a well, from which she has to bring home water, and is required to worship the well with the following materials, viz.:--cotton thread, copper coins, cocoanuts and such other fruit as can be had on the occasion. [389] At Varsai in the Pen taluka of the Kolába District, offerings of cotton cloth, copper coins, cocoanuts, betelnuts and plantains are made to the Banyan, Pipal, and Umbar trees, and also to holy wells. The Pipal, Tulsi, and Umbar trees are worshipped daily by women in this district, while the Banyan is worshipped on the full moon day of Jestha (June). The materials of worship are:--rice, fruits, water, sandalpaste, flowers, mangoes and jack fruits. [390] At Málád in the Thána District, the Banyan tree is worshipped by women of the Dwijas, i.e., of the twice born castes, on the full moon day of the month of Jestha. Copper or silver coins and fruit are offered to the tree. These offerings are taken by the Bráhman priest, who explains to them the modes of worship. The Bráhman priest is also given some money as a gift. This Vrata, i.e., vow, is observed by women by fasting for three successive days, from the 13th to the 15th day of the bright half of Jestha (June). The Pipal tree is worshipped daily by some men and women of the Bráhman caste. Women walk round this tree for a hundred and eight times or more daily. Some persons hold a thread ceremony for the Pipal tree in order to obtain a son, and worship the tree for a certain period. It is worshipped with fruit and copper coins. Wooden cradles are also offered to the tree. Wells are worshipped on auspicious days such as Parwani by women of the upper castes. [391] At Padghe in the Thána District the Banyan tree is worshipped on the full moon day of Jestha, and the Pipal is worshipped every Saturday in the month of Shráwan (August). The Pipal tree is not worshipped before the performance of its thread ceremony, and its thread ceremony is not performed till the tree bears at least one thousand leaves. [392] At Kolhápur, the Banyan and Pipal trees are considered very holy, and offerings of rags, coins, etc., are made to them. It is a custom among the Hindu women to worship the Banyan tree on the full moon day of Jestha. Offerings of cloth and fruit are made to this tree, and copper or silver coins are given as dakshana. Some women make a small model in gold, silver, or copper of the Banyan tree or of its leaf, and present it to the Bráhman priest along with a present of money. All these rites are required to be strictly performed as enjoined in the Shástras. [393] At Nágothane in the Kolába District, it is believed that men who are well versed in the mantras of witchcraft and sorcery sometimes transfer diseases from one person to another. [394] Vaccination is believed to be a method of transferring disease to other persons. [395] At Málád in the Thána District a method of transferring disease from one person to another is in practice among the Shudras. It is as follows:--A woman without a child cuts secretly a little piece from the garment of a woman who has children. She then burns the piece, puts the ashes into water, and the mixture is then drunk by the barren woman. It is believed that, by so doing, the evil spirit of the disease that is troubling the barren woman is transferred to the other who has children. The barrenness of the first woman then disappears, and she begets children. It is said that if the second woman comes to know of the mischief before using that garment, she discontinues the use of the same, and no harm is done to her. [396] In the Umbergaon taluka of the Thána District the methods of transferring disease are called Muth Márane, i.e., a bewitched lime is sent to the person to whom the disease is to be transferred. Various mantras are also secretly repeated with the object of transferring the disease to an enemy. [397] At Kolhápur, there are no methods of transferring disease to other persons, but it is said that the following ceremony is practised in the case of persons suffering from swollen glands. Rice, Udid grain etc. are tied in a yellow cloth, and three knots are made in it. This is then kept for one night under the pillow of the diseased person. It is taken out the next morning and thrown away at a place where three roads meet. It is then supposed that the person who steps on the bundle first is attacked with the disease, and the one for whom the rite is performed is cured. [398] At Devgad taluka in the Ratnágiri District it is believed that evil spirits are fond of things like a cock, cocoanuts, boiled rice, etc., and when a person considers himself attacked by evil spirits, these things are waved round his body and thrown away at some distance from his residence. This is generally done in the evening, but if necessary it can be done at any time. The person who goes to throw these things away is prohibited from looking behind. The things required for a bali, i.e., oblation, on such occasions are boiled rice, red powder, and an oil lamp made of black cotton wick. [399] In the Vengurla taluka of the Ratnágiri District, when a person is suffering from any disease for a long time, and when ordinary medicines prove to be ineffective, a goat or a cock is waved round the body of the patient, and are then put beyond the village boundary or taken away by the sorcerer. While performing this rite, the man must repeat certain mantras. [400] At Fonda in the Ratnágiri District, the use of scapegoats is resorted to in cases of persons supposed to have been attacked by evil spirits. Curds and boiled rice are waved round the body of the diseased person and thrown away at a distance from the house. In some cases it is said that the cock which is waved round the body of the sick person dies instantaneously. [401] In the Málwan taluka of the Ratnágiri District the scapegoat (often a cock) is waved three times round the sick person and thrown into the street. The man who goes to throw it away is prohibited from looking behind. Burnt cowdung ashes are thrown out of the door after the man has left the house, and the door is closed at once. [402] In the Dápoli taluka, cocoanuts, curds, boiled rice, turmeric powder, red powder, cocks etc. are waved round the body of the sick person and taken beyond the village boundary or to a big tree supposed to be haunted by evil spirits, and in some cases these things are thrown away where four roads meet. [403] In the Rájápur taluka of the Ratnágiri District scapegoats are used by the low caste people, while Bráhmans use cocoanuts, boiled rice and copper coins. [404] At Kálshe in the Ratnágiri District eggs, cocks, goats, etc. are used as scapegoats. These things are waved round the body of the patient, and taken beyond the village limits or far from the residence of the sick person. For this rite a man from the Ghádi, Gurav, Rával, or Mahár caste is invited at night, and he is paid in cash for his services. [405] At Ibrámpur in the Ratnágiri District, the cocks and goats used for driving out evil spirits from the body of the patient are not thrown away, but are eaten by the exorcist. [406] At Navre in the Ratnágiri District, hens are used to extract the poison of snake bites from the body of the sufferer. In cases of evil spirits alone, cocoanuts, cocks and goats are used as scapegoats. [407] At Dásgaon in the Kolába District, a Paradi (basket) containing black glass beads, bangles, turmeric and red powders, sweetmeat of five sorts, flowers, cocoanut, a burning scented stick, and rice, is waved three times round the body of the patient, and thrown away outside the village. [408] At Kolhápur, the use of fowls, goats, limes, cocoanuts, copper coins, dry chillies and salt is in vogue, not only in cases of sick persons, but also when a person performs a feat such as bending an iron bar, or doubling with his hands a silver coin, or winning a victory in wrestling. The articles are then waved round him and thrown away in order that he may not suffer from an evil eye. Among the rich the same rite is performed on ordinary occasions such as leaving a house, starting on a journey etc. In cases of illness it is specially performed in the evening, and the articles are thrown away at the outskirts of the village, or by the side of a well. [409] CHAPTER IV. WORSHIP OF ANCESTORS AND SAINTS. In the Konkan, especially among the lower classes, a strong belief prevails regarding the mortality of the spirits of the dead and of their re-appearance or re-birth in their children. And for this reason, as well as for protection against evil, the dead ancestors are worshipped. The custom regarding the worship of ancestors prevailing at Kálshe in the Ratnágiri District is as follows:--The worship of ancestors is called Shráddha (anniversary). It is performed on the no moon day of every month, on the date of the death of the person every year, and also on the same date of the dark half of the month of Bhádrapada (September). Among the Bráhmans, Bráhman priests are invited, worshipped, and are given a feast, after worshipping balls of boiled rice as representing the dead ancestors. The special materials used for worship are sesamum and barley grain. The same custom prevails among non-Bráhmans with the exception that the balls are made of rice flour and not of boiled rice. To partake of the food on such occasions, the lower classes invite married persons of their own caste. The anniversary day of Sádhus and Mahants, i.e., saints, is called Punya tithi, i.e., the day of merit. It is commonly believed that spirits are mortal. The life of the deceased remains in the spirit condition until the sins which he may have committed are washed away by the good deeds of his descendants. There is no belief that one spirit dies and another takes its place, but it is believed that the ancestors are sometimes reborn in the same family. [410] At Ubhádánda in the Vengurla taluka of the Ratnágiri District ancestors are worshipped every year on the same date of the month (according to the Hindu calendar year) on which the person died, by performing a Shráddha rite. They are also worshipped on the same date in the second half of Bhádrapada (September) every year. This is by a rite called Mahálaya Shráddha. On both these occasions Bráhmans are invited, and the worshipping ceremony is performed by repeating the mantras. After the ceremony, all the invited guests men and women partake of food. Sádhus are worshipped after washing their feet with sandal paste, flowers, cocoanuts and gifts of money. It is believed that evil spirits undergo a transformation after a lapse of twelve years. The practice of giving the names of ancestors to children is common, and it is due to the belief that the spirits of the dead are reborn in children in the same family. [411] At Pendur in the Ratnágiri District the ancestors are worshipped on the last day of every Hindu calendar month. This monthly worship is called Darsha Shráddha. The annual anniversary of the manes is celebrated by the ceremony called the Sámvatsarik Shráddha. If any ancestor has died after becoming a recluse or Sanyási, his body is buried, and a tomb called a samádhi is erected over it; and his descendants, instead of performing the annual Shráddha, worship the tomb of the recluse every day. It is believed that the spirits take a different form after the lapse of seven generations. The belief that the spirits of the dead are reborn in the same family prevails among the people of this district. The following measures are adopted for the purpose of identification. When a person dies in a family, a basil or bel leaf is placed on a certain part of the body, or some familiar sign is made in sandal paste; and when a child is born in the family, its body is carefully examined to ascertain whether there are any signs on the body of the child such as were made on the dead body of the ancestor. If the same sign appears to the satisfaction of the members of the family, it is believed that the dead person has been reborn in the same family. [412] At Navare in the Ratnágiri District Bráhmans are invited, worshipped and given a feast in honour of ancestors. Sádhus and Mahants, or saints, are worshipped by giving them the same honour accorded to the family deities. [413] At Basani in the Ratnágiri District the anniversary day of saints is observed by the performance of a Bhajan, which consists in singing the good deeds of saints and in offering prayers. It is believed that spirits are mortal, but they do not die like ordinary human beings. They cease to exist as spirits as soon as the period of their release is over. The spirits obtain absolution by visiting certain holy places. [414] At Dabhol in the Ratnágiri District the people believe that the souls of ancestors are reborn in children in the same family if some of their desires remain unfulfilled at the time of their demise. [415] At Shiravde in the Ratnágiri District ancestors are worshipped every year by performing the rites called tarpan, which consist in offering oblations of holy water, sesamum, barley grains and repeating prayers. The tarpan is observed on the very date of the month in which the person died. The procedure of worshipping the Hindu saints is similar to that of the other deities. Owing to the belief that the spirits of the dead are reborn in children in the same family the name of the grandfather is given to the grandson. [416] At Náringre in the Ratnágiri taluka ancestors are worshipped by inviting Bráhman priests, and worshipping them with sandal paste and flowers. These Bráhmans are supposed to represent the father, grandfather and great grandfather of the worshipper. [417] At Bándivade in the Ratnágiri District the leaves of the herb called pudina, (a good medicine for worms) sesamum, and darbha grass are required for the worship of ancestors. The man who worships the ancestors has to turn his sacred thread from the right hand to the left. [418] At Anjarle in the Ratnágiri District Mahants and Sádhus are worshipped in their life-time like family deities, and their tombs are worshipped after their death. [419] At Fonda in the Ratnágiri District ancestors are worshipped by making balls of boiled rice on their anniversary day. The balls are supposed to take the place of the dead parents, and they are worshipped with sandal paste and flowers, and by burning incense and lighting a lamp of clarified butter. Betelnuts and leaves, cocoanuts and Dakshina (presents of money) are given to them. People also bow before them. Mahants and Sádhus are worshipped by washing their feet, sandal paste is applied to their body, and they are garlanded with flowers. Cocoanuts, a piece of cloth and a gift in coins are given to them according to the means of the giver. It is said that spirits can remain as spirits for about a thousand years. [420] At Vijayadurg in the Ratnágiri District the method of worshipping ancestors is as follows:--In some cases elderly parents as well as a grandfather and great grandfather are also worshipped, their feet are washed with water, and the water is accepted as tirth or holy water. While worshipping the Mahants and Sádhus, or saints, water is poured on their right hand, and they are worshipped with sandal paste and flowers, and given a dakshana or gifts of money according to one's means and will. The pádukas, or foot prints, of saints are worshipped after their death. [421] At Mithbáv in the Ratnágiri District holy persons such as Sanyásis are worshipped after their death by performing their anniversary ceremony every year. It is believed that spirits are mortal. Evil spirits such as munjas, etc., undergo a kind of transformation, and it is believed that this occurs at places like Narsoba's Wádi. [422] At Devgad in the Ratnágiri District ancestors are worshipped on their anniversary days, the manes being represented by pieces of Darbha grass and balls of boiled rice. [423] At Poladpur in the Kolába District a person whose father is alive but who has lost his mother's father, has to perform the Shráddha of that grandfather on the 1st day of the bright half of Ashvin (October). This Shráddha is called Duhitra. A person who has lost his wife has to perform the Shráddha for that wife on the 9th day of the dark half of the month of Bhádrapada. This day is called Ahev Navami. These different sorts of Shráddhas are observed only by the high class Hindus. The lower classes worship their ancestors on the last day of the month of Bhádrapada by preparing a ball of boiled rice or flour, and putting it out for the crows to eat. It is believed that spirits are mortal. The ceremony called Narayan Nagabali is performed when it is believed that the spirit of an ancestor is giving trouble to the family. When this rite is performed, the spirit is saved and the ailment ceases. It is believed that the spirits of the dead are sometimes reborn in children in the same family, and in such cases the names of the ancestors are given to their children by the people. [424] At Khopoli in the Karjat taluka of the Kolába District the form of worship of ancestors is similar to that of the ordinary Hindu deities. In the case of the worship of the deities the person performing the worship has to sit with his face towards the east, while at the worship of the ancestors he has to sit with his face towards the south. [425] At Chaul in the Kolába District, the tombs of Sanyásis, i.e., ascetics and Sádhus are worshipped on their anniversary days, and a great fair is held in their honour. The other ancestors are worshipped by the shráddha rites. The anniversary of the founders of the different sects is observed by their followers by a bhajan, i.e., singing songs in their own style and exhibiting the different insignia and flag of the sect as advised by their founders. [426] The people of Chidhran in the Kolába District believe that the period for which the soul has to remain in the spirit state depends upon the sins of the person, or the wishes which remained unfulfilled during his life time. It is not that all the spirits of the dead are reborn in children. The rebirth depends upon the good or bad deeds of the deceased. However, if the nature of any child suggests the nature of any dead person in the family, it is assumed that the spirit of the deceased has returned to the family. [427] At Nágothane in the Pen taluka of the Kolába District some of the communities worship small images called tánks on the anniversary of their ancestors' death; among the Shudras food is given to the crows on the last day of Bhádrapad. The custom of giving a grandfather's name to the grandson prevails largely, and is due to the belief that the spirits of the dead are sometimes reborn in the same family. [428] It is also said that in some of the Hindu communities, if a child cries continuously, ashes are applied to its forehead in the name of one of the ancestors in the family; and if the child sleeps quietly or stops crying, the name of that ancestor is given to it. [429] At Shirgaon in the Thána District, the worship of ancestors is performed on the day of the father's death, every year. On any auspicious occasion the rite called Nandi shráddha is performed at the beginning of the ceremony. It is believed that evil spirits or ghosts have to remain in the ghostly state for about one thousand years, or at least until one of the descendants in the family goes to a holy place like Káshi (Benares) and there performs the shráddha rites of his ancestors. [430] At Málád in the Thána District, the worship of ancestors is performed on the day of the father's death every month till the completion of one year by inviting Bráhmans and giving them a feast. This is done among Bráhmans only. The other communities worship their ancestors by performing the rite called Chata Shráddha and by giving Shidha, i.e., rice, pulse, vegetables and ghi to Bráhman priests. A feast is then given to their castemen. [431] At Kolhápur, ancestors, Mahants and Sádhus are worshipped by the rites known as the Puranic ritual, that is, no Vedic mantras are repeated while performing these rites. It is a common belief in this province that the soul of the person who has committed a murder, or has incurred debt and enmity, is obliged to repay the debt by being born again as a servant or in some other subordinate capacity of the debtor. [432] The tombs of the Hindu and Mahomedan saints are considered holy, but they are not supposed to possess miracular powers. [433] The following is a list of saints who have been deified and worshipped by the people of the Ratnágiri District. (1) Mukundráj, (2) Dnyándev, (3) Tukárám, (4) Eknáth, (5) Námdev, (6) Rámdás, (7) Akkalkotche Swámi, (8) Ranganáth, (9) Dev Mámlatdár, (10) Kabir, (11) Kamál, (12) Nipat Niranjan, (13) Tulshidás, (14) Pundalik, (15) Vashistha, (16) Dattátraya, (17) Sohiroba, (18) Gorakshanath, (19) Purnanáth. At Shiroda in the Ratnágiri District a practice prevails of making vows to the tombs of women who burnt themselves as Satvis. Vows are also made to the Musalman Pirs, and offerings are often made in fulfilment of such vows. [434] At the fort of Vishálgad there is a tomb of a Pir (saint). It is usual to make a vow to worship this Pir with fetters on one's legs, and it is believed that, at the time of worship, the chains break off. [435] There is at Dahibáv in the Ratnágiri District a tomb of a Hindu saint named Shri Anand Murti, to which the people of that locality make vows when severe calamities befall them, and it is believed that the saint listens to their prayers. [436] When a Bráhman assumes the garb of a recluse or Sanyási, he is considered by the people as sacred as a Hindu god, and is worshipped with great reverence, provided he abides by the rules contained in the shástras. [437] There is a tomb of a Pir at Báwa Málangad in the Panwel taluka of the Kolába District, where the people make vows to the Pir, and it is believed that the Pir fulfils their wishes. Hindu saints such as Rámdás, Dnyáneshwar, Námdev are held in great honour in this District. [438] There is a temple of Nágoba at Avas in the Kolába District where persons suffering from snake-bite, if carried to the temple while still alive, are said to be cured. [439] At Kawad in the Bhiwandi taluka of the Thána District there is a tomb of a Brahmachári named Sakhárám Báva who has been deified by the people of that District. A great fair is held at the tomb every year. [440] The following instance is given of a miracle at the tomb of Sakhárám Báva of Kawad. A man suffering from fits showed an inclination to go to Kawad to read Guru Charitra for seven successive days. He was taken to that place accordingly. After his arrival, he continued to suffer from these fits in the morning and evening at the time of the worship at the tomb. Once during the fits he said that he would be free from the disease if Rs. 200 were spent in giving a feast to the Bráhmans at Páli. The relatives of the sufferer agreed to arrange accordingly, and instantly the man put his head on the Samádhi (tomb) and threw himself on his back. He came to his senses after ten minutes, and from that time he was completely cured. A feast was then given to the Bráhmans at Páli, and Rs. 200 were spent over it as promised. Another instance of miracular power is cited, and that is of the priest of the goddess Mahaluxmi of Kolwan. This priest goes up and hoists the flag of the goddess on a steep hill which no other person can climb, and it is believed that he can do this only when the spirit of the goddess enters his body. [441] At Umbergaon in the Thána District there is a miracle-working tomb of a saint called the Dátár "Pir." Sakhárámbáva of Angaon Kawad, a Hindu saint, is held in high honour in this village. [442] At this place it is also believed that some of the Pirs walk round the village at night, and their tombs are said to be seen in motion. The Dátár Pir is worshipped even by the Hindus of that locality. [443] At Shirosi in the Murbád Taluka of the Thána District, Sakhárámbáva of Kawad, Dev Mámlatdár, Chandirámbuva of Khed, Narayanbuva of Nanuri, the Swámi of Akkalkot, the Swámi of Kumbhar Peth at Kolhápur, and the Dandekerbuva of Rájápur are the principal saints held in honour by the people. [444] At Mánikpur in the Thána District it is said that a bright light or flames emanate from certain tombs of Musalman saints. [445] At Umela in the Thána District it is said that flames and smoke are given out from the tombs of certain Mahomedan saints situated in the locality. These flames appear and disappear very suddenly. [446] In the Kolhápur District people believe that the Samádhi of Swámi Anandmúrti, who was a disciple of Raghunath Swámi of Bhramanál, shakes on the Shiwarátri day, that is the 13th of the dark half of Mágha, and on the Rámanawami day i.e. the 9th of the bright half of Chaitra, at the time of the worship called Bhajan. Among the tombs held most sacred by the Hindus of the Konkan may be mentioned the following viz.: Bhujang Swámi of Lokapur, Rámdás Swámi, the Samádhi of Shri Shankaráchárya at Shirgaon, Chintaman Swámi of Murgud, and the Samádhi of Mangalmúrti Morya at Chinchwad near Poona. All these Swámis were Brahmacháris or bachelors, and they spent their lives in the service of God and preached virtue and morality to the masses. These Samádhis are of two kinds: (1) of saints after death, and (2) of saints on the point of death. The third kind is called Jal Samádhi, i.e., immersion in water, but no tomb of the latter kind is to be found in this Province. It is said that, if a lime is placed above the Samádhi of Bhujanga Swámi, it begins to shake at the time of the Arti ceremony. The present disciple of Bhujanga Swámi sits in (Samádhi) meditation continuously for four to eight days. There prevails a belief at Kolhápur that the swámi whose body is buried in the tomb at Chinchwad is still alive. Some years ago when the present disciple of the Chinchwad Swámi was anxious to take Samádh, he had a dream in which the swámi in the tomb told him that he was still living in that Samádhi, and that therefore there was no need for his disciple to take Samádh. He was thus obliged to forego the project. The Peshwas of Poona, who were staunch devotees of the Chinchwad swámi, and by whose favour they were raised to a position of social equality among the Deccan Bráhmans, granted an Inam of some villages for the maintenance of this Samádhi, and the British Government have allowed the descendants of the swámi to retain the Inam. The following are the principal Musalman saints who have been deified in the Kolhapur District:-- (1) Bába Jamál, (2) Ghod Pir, (3) Bara Imám, (4) Avachit Pir, (5) Buran Sáheb and (5) Mira Sáheb of Miraj. All these Pirs have been supplied with annual grants of money by the Kolhápur State. [447] At Ubhádánda in the Vengurla taluka of the Ratnágiri District some Hindus have adopted the worship of Mahomedan saints. Mahomedan Pirs are worshipped in the month of Moharram. On these occasions Hindus beg in the town in the disguise of Fakirs, and the alms thus obtained are offered to the Pir. They make offerings of water to the Pirs, while the tábuts are being carried to the sea for immersion. But this practice is being slowly discontinued. [448] At Bándivade in the Ratnágiri District Hindus offer cocoanuts and khichadi to the Pirs at the time of the Moharram, and at some places a lamp is kept burning every Monday in honour of a Pir. [449] At Kálbádevi in the Ratnágiri taluka there is a tomb of a Musalmán saint who is worshipped by the Hindus. Similarly there is a Pir at Gaonkhádi in the Rájápur taluka who is held in reverence even by high caste Hindus. [450] At Ade in the Dápoli taluka of the Ratnágiri District there is a tomb of a Musalman saint which is worshipped by the Hindus including the Bráhmans. The building and also the mosque in that village have been repaired from contributions obtained from high class Hindus. [451] Many Hindus of Devagad in the Ratnágiri District worship Musalman saints. Occasionally they offer cocoanuts to tábuts, and throw red powder over them. They also make vows to the Pirs. [452] There are two Pirs at Vijayadurg who are worshipped by the Hindus. The same practice prevails at Rájápur and Khárepátan. [453] At Chauk in the Karjat taluka of the Kolába District some Hindus worship Pirs. The members of the Ketkar family of Chauk are the Pujáris or ministrants of the Musalmán saint known as Báva Málangad. This shows that even Bráhmans worship Musalmán saints. [454] The tomb of Báva Málangad situated in the Kolába District is worshipped first by a Bráhman and then by Musalmáns. The Bráhman worshipper performs this task more for the pecuniary benefit which he derives from the worship than from faith in the divinity of the Pir. [455] At Poladpur in the Mahád taluka of the Kolába District there are no instances of Musalmán saints being worshipped by Hindus, but persons wishing to have children make vows to Pirs, and children born by the favour of such Pirs are required to assume the robe of a Fakir during the Moharram festivities. [456] The practice of worshipping such saints exists at Khopoli in the Kolába District. Persons in trouble, or desirous of getting children, make vows to the saint Imám Hussein, and when their desires are fulfilled they dress themselves as Fakirs and beg at certain places during the Moharram festivities. [457] A certain Lakshman Gangádhar Joshi of Rewdanda in the Kolába District is the Mujáwar (priest or ministrant) of a Musalman saint Chánsewalli and he holds an Inám in connection with his office of Mujáwar of the saint's Darga. [458] At Akshi in the Kolába District there is a tomb of a Pir which is worshipped by lower class Hindus such as Kolis, Mális and Bhandáris. [459] The Hindus of Bhuwan in the Murbád taluka of the Kolába District worship the Pir of the locality. It is said that the cultivators of the village once lost their cattle, and that a Fakir attributed the loss to the rage of the Pir. Since that time they are careful to worship the saint, and the result is that there has been no disease among their cattle. They offer Malinda, i.e., bread and jágri, to the Pir every Thursday. [460] The Hindu inhabitants of Málád in the Thána District sprinkle water over the roads by which the tábuts are to pass, and allow their children to pass beneath the tábuts. Some throw sweetmeat on the tábuts, and distribute the same to the poor. [461] At Shirgaon in the Máhim taluka of the Thána District some Hindus make vows to the local Pir and take part in the tábut procession. They pour water over the feet of the tábut bearers, and throw abir (black scented powder) and flowers on the tábuts. They also distribute to the fakirs Malinda, or Khichadi. [462] The Mujáwar (priest) of the saint Walli Amir Shaha of Shahápur in the Thána District is a Marátha by caste. [463] In the Kolhápur District Pirs are held in great reverence by Hindus. They make vows to the Pirs in order to get a son, and when their object is fulfilled they offer a preparation of Til (sesamum) and sugar called Rewadi, and other sweets called Chonge, Malinda and Pedhe at the time of Moharram. They also give Fakiri to their sons in the tábut season. Some of them even bring a tábut and Nál sáheb to their houses, and spend much money on them for illuminations, etc. They dance from one Nálpir to the other saying that the Nálpir has entered their bodies. While going through the streets they cry out very loudly the words 'Yalli Dhulla'. The holiday of the Moharram is observed for ten days. On the tenth day the tábuts and the Nálpirs are taken to the river for the purpose of immersion. While returning home from the river with the bundle of the Patka of Nálpir on their heads they cry out loudly the following words: "Alabidáyo ála bidásha ya Husan bani alidosháke sultán albida". On the third day after the immersion of tábuts into the river, the Pirs devotees kill a goat in the name of their patron Pir and make a preparation of the goat's flesh called Konduri. [464] The following rites are in vogue for the cure of barrenness in the village of Dábhol in the Ratnágiri District.--(1) Walking round the Pipal tree daily; (2) Observing a fast for sixteen successive Mondays; (3) Performing the worship of Shiva after observing the aforesaid fast. [465] At Kálshe in the Málwan taluka of the Ratnágiri District a barren woman is required to walk round a Pipal tree every day in the morning, and if the barrenness be attributed to the disfavour of any deity or the attack of an evil spirit, the same deity or the evil spirit is invoked and worshipped by the woman herself, or through a medium who knows the appropriate mode of worship. [466] To steal an earthen image of the God Ganpati, to make a cross or a Swástika on the bodies of children with marking nut, and the worship of the god Máruti or some other powerful deity at midnight in the no moon by a barren woman, after divesting herself of her clothes, are rural methods for the cure of barrenness observed at Anjarle and other places in the Dápoli taluka of the Ratnágiri District. [467] At Bándivade in the Ratnágiri District copper amulets and black cotton strings are used to cure barrenness. Some people make vows to a particular deity, and some perform the rite of Nágabali. [468] To walk round Pipal and Umbar trees, to circumambulate the temple of a particular deity, and to make vows to that deity, to recite or have recited the holy scripture Harivansha, are methods in practice for cure of barrenness at Achre in the Málwan taluka of the Ratnágiri District. [469] At Vijayadurg in the Ratnágiri District, it is believed that beating a woman at the time of an eclipse is one of the surest methods of curing barrenness. Some people give charity, observe fasts, worship certain deities and make vows to them to obtain children. [470] At Ubhádánda in the Ratnágiri District, stealing the idol of Krishna when it is being worshipped on the 8th day of the dark half of Shráwan (August), the birth day of the god Krishna, and putting a cocoanut or a betelnut in its place is believed to be the best method of curing barrenness. [471] At Chauk in the Kolába District, the same plan of stealing the idol of the god Krishna is observed as a cure for barrenness. But here the idol is returned with great pomp, and replaced in its original place after the birth of a child. The godlings Hanumán and Bawan Vir are also worshipped for the cure of barrenness. [472] At Poladpur in the Kolába District the favourite method of curing barrenness is to obtain copper amulets and black or red cotton strings from a Fakir. [473] The following are the methods in vogue for the cure of barrenness at Khopoli in the Kolába District. (1) To inquire from a sorcerer the cause of barrenness, and then to perform the rites mentioned by him. (2) To use copper amulets and cotton strings taken from a Mántrik, i.e., one well versed in the mantras. (3) To walk round the Tulsi (basil) plant or the Pipal or Banyan tree daily in the morning after worshipping it. (4) To feed another woman's child, or to give milk to a child. [474] At Náta in the Kolába District, a woman wishing to have a child is required to strike with a knife the Jack, the Tamarind, and the Chámpa trees during an eclipse. It is believed that by so doing the woman will bear a child, and the trees will also bear flowers and fruits. [475] At Medhe in the Roha taluka of the Kolába District, the following methods are in vogue for the cure of barrenness:-- (1) To worship the god Shiva and to observe fasts on Mondays. (2) To worship the god Ganpati and to observe fasts on Sankasthi chaturthi, i.e., the fourth day of the dark half of every month. (3) To walk round the temple of Máruti and Pipal and Umbar trees every day, in the morning. [476] At Padaghe in the Bhiwandi taluka of the Thána District, images of Ráma and Krishna are put into the lap of a barren woman on their respective birthdays i.e., the 9th day of the bright half of Chaitra, and the 8th day of the dark half of Shráwan. Cocoanuts are also placed in her lap with these images. [477] At Mánikpur in the Thána District the goddess Shitala is worshipped by women to cure barrenness. They observe fasts, and go to the temple of the goddess bare-footed with their hair loose and throwing milk on their path. They offer to the goddess wooden cradles and children's toys in fulfilment of their vows. [478] At Shirgaon in the Máhim taluka of the Thána District, it is said that the repetition of the mantra "Santán Gopál jáy" is resorted to as a cure for barrenness. [479] At Wáde in the Thána District, women make vows even to minor deities such as Chedoba to get rid of barrenness. They also use copper amulets and cotton strings procured from a sorcerer well versed in the use of mantras. [480] At Dahigaon in the Thána District the worship of the god Shri Satya Náráyan is held to cure barrenness. Some women also distribute to the poor jágri equal to the weight of a child. [481] At Dehari in the Murbád taluka of the Thána District, the village deity Dehari Máta is invoked and worshipped by women for the cure of barrenness. [482] In the Kolhápur District, the help of the family deities and of the household deities is invoked. Women take turns round the Banyan, Pipal and Umbar, trees. Some make vows to the gods, and perform certain propitiatory rites as well as the Náráyan Nágabali. It is believed that the children do not live long if a member of the family has killed a snake, or if the funeral rites of a person in the family have remained unperformed. The following ceremony is known as Náráyan Nágabali. A snake is made from the flour of Rála (panie seed), and another made of gold is put into it. It is then burnt like a dead body. All the ordinary funeral rites are performed. After performing the eleventh day rites, homa, i.e., sacred fire, is kindled at night time, and after keeping vigil for the whole night, milk and a dakshana are given to Bráhmans. A feast is given to eleven Bráhmans on that day. On the twelfth day sixteen Bráhmans are fed, and on the thirteenth, five Bráhmans are given a feast, after performing the Shráddha rites. On the fourteenth day, again, a feast is given to about 100 to 500 Bráhmans according to the means of the host. It is believed that, after the performance of these rites, the soul of the deceased reaches heaven, and there is an end to the troubles and misfortunes of the family. [483] CHAPTER V. THE WORSHIP OF THE MALEVOLENT DEAD. At Ubhádánda in the Ratnágiri District the following dreams are believed to be lucky and propitious. To swim through the river or sea, to rise to the sky, to see the Sun, the Moon and the other planets, to eat meat, to bathe in blood, and to eat rice and curds. It is also believed that the sight of white objects in dreams foretells success in any work or undertaking that may be in view. A deity, a Bráhman, a king, a married woman decked with ornaments, a bullock, a mountain, trees full of fruits, climbing the Umber tree, a looking glass, meat and flowers, if seen in dreams, are good omens. Climbing the Palas tree, Warul, i.e., an ant heap, the bitter lime tree, to marry, to use red clothes or red flower garlands, to eat cooked meat, to see the sun and the moon without lustre, and to see shooting stars during dreams, are said to be bad omens. [484] At Mithbáv in the Devgad taluka of the Ratnágiri District dreams are believed to be caused by indigestion and restlessness. To embrace a dead body in a dream, to see troubled waters, to dine heartily, are said to be bad omens. Feasting friends and receiving gifts from them are said to be good omens. [485] At Fonda in the Ratnágiri District dreams are said to indicate things that have happened, or are about to happen in the near future. All white substances other than cotton, salt, and bones, are considered auspicious, and all black substances excepting a lotus, a horse, an elephant, and a deity are considered inauspicious. [486] At Ibrámpur in the Chiplun taluka, horrible dreams are good omens, while pleasing dreams indicate approaching calamities. [487] At Pendur in the Ratnágiri District it is believed that dreams foretell future events. It is believed that the dream will prove correct and effective if the person dreaming has asked three questions and received three answers in his dream. Those dreams which are caused through cold are called Jalap. They are generally false dreams, and no good omens are derived therefrom. [488] At Basani in the Ratnágiri District it is believed that the ancestors who take interest in the welfare of their descendants appear in dreams and foretell future events, so that the dreaming person may take the needful precautions for the prevention of future calamities. [489] At Kálshe in the Málwan taluka of the Ratnágiri District it is believed that dreams in the last part of the night, i.e., just before daybreak, and in which great men are seen, generally prove effective. If anybody sees himself married in a dream it is supposed that he will hear of the death of some relative. [490] At Chauk in the Kolába District it is believed that, when calamities are threatened, the guardian deity of the family as well as the dead ancestors appear in dreams and give warnings of the coming calamities. [491] The people of Poladpur in the Kolába District believe in dreams; and when some of their deities appear in dreams and give them advice or directions, they are careful to follow them. Sometimes even evil spirits appear in dreams, and advise the people to do certain things to avert calamities. People who have faith in such spirits act according to their wishes, and if they fail to do so, trouble is sure to follow. [492] The people of Khopoli in the Kolába District believe that if a person sees in a dream, the dead body of a near relative, it indicates that the person whose corpse was seen in the dream will live long. [493] At Birwadi in the Kolába District it is believed that if a person sees a snake in a dream, a son will be born to him; if he sees a hell, he is sure to get wealth. If he sees gold, it is a sure sign of losing wealth. Again, if a person sees himself taking his meals in a dream, it indicates that his death is nigh at hand. [494] At Málád in the Thána District, omens are derived from dreams. In case of bad dreams the god Vishnu is remembered, and the gods Shankar and Máruti are also worshipped. [495] At Belápur, wood, cowdung cakes and turbid water, if seen in dreams, foretell calamities. White clothes, beautiful flowers, and food containing sweetmeat are considered auspicious. [496] At Murbád in the Thána District it is believed that all black things, and white things such as ashes, are inauspicious when seen in dreams, but a black cow, white flowers, and pearls are auspicious. Considering the four parts of the night, the dreams that occur in the first part prove effective within one year, that of the second part within six months, that of the third within three months, and of the fourth within one month, and those caused at daybreak are realized immediately. [497] At Kolhápur, dreams are believed to be caused through some mental derangement or bodily disorder. It is customary to derive omens from dreams, but their nature greatly depends upon the different times at which these dreams occur. The dreams caused in the latter part of the night, i.e. just before daybreak, are believed to come true. [498] At Ubhádánda in the Vengurla taluka it is believed that the soul of a person leaves the body temporarily during his sleep; hence it is said that no changes or marks of colour, etc. should be made on the body of a person during sleep, because it is believed that, while returning, the soul identifies the body, and if it is satisfied with the marks of the body it enters it; otherwise it might not return. [499] At Adivare it is believed that only Hindu saints and ascetics, after deep and devout meditation, are capable of removing the soul from the body. It is believed that their souls go to heaven during that period and return at pleasure. At present there are no such sádhus in the district. [500] Many Hindus in the Ratnágiri District believe that the soul goes to drink water at night, and therefore keep a pot filled with water at their sleeping place. [501] The people of Chaul in the Kolába District do not consider it possible ordinarily for the soul to leave the body, but they state that the Swámi of Alandi, who died in or about the year 1886, used to remove his soul from the body by means of Yoga. [502] At Kolhápur, it is believed that the soul leaves the body temporarily at night when a person is asleep. [503] At Bankavali in the Dápoli taluka, it is believed that ghosts or evil spirits have the form of a human being, but their feet are turned backwards. They can assume any form they choose. Their character is ordinarily to trouble the people, but when satisfied they are said to prove friendly. The following story is narrated of a person who went to reside in one of the villages of the Konkan. His wife was first attacked by a ghost called Girha. The Girha troubled him much by playing mischief in his house, viz.: by taking away eatables or by mixing dirt in his food. At night he used to divest the couple of their clothes, and on one occasion an ornament was removed by the spirit from the person of the wife. Tired of these annoyances, the man left the village and went to reside at a distance, when, to the astonishment of the public, it happened that the ornament which was lost at the old village was restored to the man's wife while she was asleep in the new village, and nobody knew who brought it there. All this was believed to be the work of the Girha. [504] At Ubhádánda in the Vengurla taluka people believe that a Bhut is fierce in aspect and very troublesome, but when its wishes are complied with, it becomes harmless. The Bhuts reside in jungles, burial or cremation grounds, old trees, sacred groves and deserted houses. They assume all sorts of shapes and forms. Sometimes they appear very tall, and they can instantly assume the shape of a dog, a cat, a tiger, or any other animal. Some ghosts are even seen fishing on the banks of rivers. [505] At Mithbáv in the Devgad taluka it is believed that the souls of those who die with their wishes unfulfilled take the form of a Bhut. They enter the bodies of people. Any woman who is attacked by the Bhut of a Pir becomes able to speak in the Hindi language although it may not be her mother tongue. When a child or a person is suffering from the attacks of a spirit, incense is burnt, and it at once begins to tell the whereabouts of the spirit and the reason why the person has been attacked. He is then asked to state what he wants, and when the things which the spirit wants are offered, it goes away. [506] Spirits are generally invisible. The spirits that belong to the class of malignant Bhuts are of a ferocious appearance; but those that belong to the class of friendly Bhuts possess bodies like human beings. [507] At Náringre in the Devgad taluka, it is believed that spirits are cruel by nature and have no shadow, that they are capable of taking any form they like, and can perform miracles. [508] At Pendur it is believed that Bhuts eat chillies, and that they do not speak with human beings. Spirits are said to remove and conceal their victims for a certain period of time. [509] At Vijayadurg, a Bhut is considered to be of mean character. People perform certain rites to bring it under subjection. Their actions are always contrary to nature. When a person begins to cry, dance, to eat forbidden things etc. he is said to be attacked by a Bhut. When there is enmity between two persons, the one who dies first becomes a sambandh and troubles his living enemy. [510] At Basani, there is a belief that there are two kinds of spirits. Some aim at the welfare of the people, and others are always troublesome. As they have no regular form they cannot easily be recognised. They can change their forms at any time. [511] The character of a Bhut is to trouble people and to take revenge on an old enemy. A person attacked by a spirit speaks incoherently and acts like a mad man. In such cases the leaves of the herb satáp are used. The leaves are pounded and put under the patient's nose. In a few minutes, the person who is possessed by the spirit begins to speak. [512] The people of Chauk in the Kolába District believe that the main function of a Bhut is to frighten people, to beat them, and to make them perform unpleasant tasks and thereby to obtain food from them. [513] At Poládpur it is believed that if a person is able to bring a Bhut under his control he can make it do every kind of work for himself. [514] The people of Akshi believe that kindling fire without any reason and throwing stones at certain houses are the main functions of Bhuts. [515] At Vávashi in the Pen taluka, it is believed that Bhuts, while walking, never touch the earth but always move through the air, and that they have no shadow. [516] The old men of Shirgaum in the Máhim taluka advise young children not to respond to the call of anybody at night unless the person calling is an acquaintance. For such calls are sometimes those of an evil spirit. [517] In the Kolhápur District, it is believed that the character of a Bhut is like that of a human being. When a person is attacked by a spirit, a great change is observed in his language and actions. He begins to speak in the language of the Bhut by which he is attacked. If the ghost is of the female sex, the person speaks the language of females. It is believed that the souls of those who have been murdered or tortured assume the form of a spirit known as Sambandh, and trouble the murderer or the torturer, by entering his body. It is said that in some cases the spirit does not leave the body of such a person till he dies, thus exacting revenge for his past misdeeds. [518] In Khopoli in Ratnágiri it is said that the cow which is given to a Bráhman while performing the funeral rites of a dead person helps him to reach heaven. He gets there by catching hold of her tail. There are three paths to the other world. They are Bhaktimárga, Karmamárga, and Yogamárga. The Karmamárga is believed to be superior to all. [519] At Málád, a belief prevails that the path to the other world is through the Himálayas. While going through the mountains of the Himálayas, souls find happiness or sorrow according to their actions in life-time. The people also believe that the soul returns every month on the date of the man's death to accept Kágvás, i.e., cooked food given to the manes, and reaches heaven at the end of one year. [520] At Dahigaon in the Murbád taluka, it is customary among the Hindus to smear with cow dung the place from which a dead body has been removed to the burning ground. The place is then covered with rice flour, and is hidden under a basket, an oil-lamp being kept, burning near by. The persons who accompany the corpse return home to look at the lamp, and it is believed that the soul of the deceased will pass to any creature or species of which footprints are seen on the rice flour. [521] At Kolhápur it is believed that the soul of a person after death attains that state to which he aspires at the last moment before his death. Virtuous persons who die without any desire reach heaven and remain there in the form of the stars, where they are believed to enjoy the happiness of heaven. Some of them are sent to this world when they wish to return. Sinners are said to reach hell in consequence of their misdeeds, but some remain in this world in the form of Bhuts. [522] The people of Achare in the Málwan taluka believe that the souls of persons who die by accident return to the same caste, and have to remain there till the expiry of an appointed period. [523] The people of Chauk believe that persons dying a sudden or violent death leave wishes unfulfilled, and are therefore compelled to remain in this world in the form of Bhuts. [524] At Rái in the Sálsette taluka it is believed that the souls of those dying a sudden or violent death attain salvation according to their deeds in lifetime, but it is a current belief that those committing suicide take the form of a ghost, and those who die on battlefields attain eternal salvation. [525] At Kolhápur, it is believed that the souls of those who die violent deaths do not attain salvation, but are turned into ghosts. [526] The people of Ubhádánda in the Vengurla taluka believe that Bhuts do not possess visible human forms. They can assume any shapes they like, but there is a common belief that the hands and feet of Bhuts are always turned backwards. [527] The most favourable times for spirits to enter human bodies are midday, midnight and twilight. [528] Women in delivery as well as those in their menses are most liable to be attacked by spirits. [529] It is generally believed that persons adorned with ornaments are attacked by spirits, especially in cases of women and children. Again, a common belief prevails in the Konkan that persons, and particularly ladies, decked with flowers and ornaments are more liable to be attacked by spirits than others. [530] The people of Fonda are of opinion that spirits generally enter and leave human bodies through the organ of hearing, while the people of Náringre hold that the hair is the best way for spirits to enter. [531] The residents of Ibrámpur state that the mouth and the nose are the favourite channels for spirits entering human bodies. [532] At Mithbáv it is believed that spirits attack people in the throat, and generally only those persons who are uncleanly in their habits are liable to be attacked. There are no special ways for entering human bodies. [533] At Chaul a belief prevails that spirits enter the body when a person is suffering from any disease or when he is frightened. [534] In the Konkan, people attempt to find good or bad omens in sneezing. It depends upon the time and the position or standing of the person who sneezes. If a sick person sneezes it is presumed that he will recover from his illness within a very short period, but if the sneezing is caused by the use of tobacco or snuff, no good or bad omens are drawn. [535] Sneezing at the time of conversation or when contemplating any particular task or business is held to be inauspicious. Hence if anybody sneezes at the beginning of a task, or at the time of starting out on any such task, the time is unfavourable. Yawning is said to be caused by a relative or friend remembering the person who yawns. [536] In ancient times happiness and calamities were foretold by a voice from the sky, and in modern days they are expressed by sneezing. People have much faith in sneezing, and often inquire whether it is a good or bad omen to sneeze at the beginning of any work or undertaking. [537] If a man sneezes with his face towards the west, it is considered auspicious. If a man sneezes while contemplating any task or business, the sneezing is considered inauspicious. Sneezing at the time of taking food i.e. while at meals, while sleeping, and while sitting on a praying carpet is considered auspicious. Sneezing with one's face turned towards the north, the south, and the east is also unlucky. [538] In the case of Bhagats and exorcists yawning is considered to indicate that the disease will disappear. [539] In the Konkan it is believed that sneezing and yawning indicate the call of death, and therefore it is customary among the Hindus to snap the thumb and the middle finger at the time of yawning, and to repeat the words Shatanjiva i.e. Live for hundred years, at the time of sneezing. [540] Sneezing on a threshold is believed to forebode evil. [541] At Kolhápur, people believe that sneezing and yawning forebode evil, and the practice is to repeat the following words at the time of sneezing and yawning, viz, Shatanjiva i.e. Live a hundred years, and also to repeat the name of Rám, while snapping the thumb and finger (chutaki). In the case of a person suffering from a serious illness, sneezing is supposed to indicate a cure. If a woman sneezes while a man speaks, it is lucky, and if a man sneezes it is unlucky. The reverse is the case in respect of females. [542] In the Konkan, Rákshasas, or malevolent spirits, are believed to be very cruel. These evil spirits are held in great fear, and people try to avoid giving them offence. It is supposed that to cause displeasure to these demons may bring about death. With a view to propitiate them, offerings of cocks and goats are made to them every year regularly on fixed days. [543] If a woman gives birth to a child which is extraordinary or horrible in size and appearance, it is believed to be a demon reborn. Such a child is supposed to bring bad luck to the family. [544] The Konkan people believe that in former days Rákshasas, or malevolent demons, used to be tall, ugly, black, with long and loose hair, big teeth, and with their foreheads painted with red lead, or shendur. They could assume any form they liked, were powerful, and could fly in the air. They were fond of human flesh. [545] The people of Khopoli believe that Khavis is the ghost of an African Sidhi. This spirit is very malevolent, and exorcists find it very difficult to bring it under control. A strong belief prevails in the Konkan districts that those attacked by the spirits of non-Hindus are beyond cure. [546] According to the belief of the people in the Kolhápur District, Brahma Rákshasa is one of the most powerful spirits. It takes up its abode in the sacred Pipal tree, and when it attacks a person, little hope is entertained of his delivery from its grasp. [547] The following are the principal malignant spirits of the Konkan. (1) Vetál, (2) Brahmagraha, (3) Sambandhas, (4) Devachár, (5) Munja, (6) Khavis, (7) Girha, (8) Chetak, (9) Zoting, (10) Vir, (11) Cheda, (12) Mhasoba, (13) Jákhin or Alwant, (14) Lávsant, and (15) Hadal. (1) Vetál is believed to be the King of Spirits. [548] Vetál is considered to be a deity and not an evil spirit. It enters into the body of an exorcist and helps him to drive away other evil spirits. [549] (2) Brahmagraha is the ghost of a Bráhman well versed in the Vedas, but who is over proud of his education. [550] (3) Sambandha is the spirit of a person who dies without an heir, and whose funeral rites have not been performed by any member of his family. It troubles the members of the family, but when invoked through a Bhagat it becomes harmless, and even favourable to the family. [551] It is the spirit of a covetous person or a sanyási who dies with his desires unfulfilled. [552] It does not allow anybody to enjoy his wealth, and takes revenge on an enemy till death ensues. It haunts trees, wells and unoccupied houses. [553] (4) Devachár is the spirit of a Shudra who dies after his marriage. [554] These (Devachár) spirits are said to reside on the four sides of a village. The spirits which reside in burial or cremation grounds, on river banks, and in old trees are said to be subordinate to these. Cocoanuts, plantains, sugar, cocks and goats must be given annually to gain their favour. [555] (5) Munja is the spirit of a Bráhman boy who dies immediately after his thread ceremony, but before the final ceremony called Sod-munj is complete. It does not greatly affect its victim but simply frightens. When it attacks, it is difficult to drive out. It is cast out only when the patient makes a pilgrimage to a holy shrine. [556] It resides in a Pipal tree or in a well. (6) Khavis is the spirit of a Musalmán or a non-Hindu. [557] It is also the spirit of a Mahár or a Máng. [558] (7) Girha is the ghost of a person who dies by drowning, or of a murdered person. [559] Girha is not very powerful, and obeys the orders of the exorcists. It only frightens and troubles people. [560] It lives by the water side, and deceives persons at night by calling them by their names and leading them into false paths. It often troubles people while crossing rivers or creeks at night, and leads them to places where the water is very deep. It is said that the spirit Girha becomes the regular slave of a person who takes possession of the hair of its head, and gives him anything that he requires. It requests the person to return its hair, but this should not be given under any circumstances. For, if the Girha gets back its hair all sorts of misfortunes will befall the man. [561] (8) Chetak is the ghost of a person of the Kunbi or Shudra caste. [562] This spirit is also known as Dáv. (9) Zoting is the ghost of a man belonging to the Khárvi or Koli caste. [563] It is also said to be the ghost of a Musalmán. [564] (10) Vir is the ghost of an unmarried person belonging to the Kshatriya community. [565] It is also said to be the ghost of a Rajput or a Purbhaya (Pardeshi.) (11) Cheda is the ghost of an unmarried Mahár. It resides on mountains, in jungles, and the outskirts of the village. [566] Cheda attacks domestic animals. It haunts fields and farms, and resides at public places where the Holi fires are annually kindled. To avoid being troubled by it, people offer annual sacrifices of fowls and goats. [567] (12) Mhasoba is the lord of the ghosts, and is equal in might to Vetál. [568] (13) Jákhin or Alwant. Jákhin is the ghost of a woman who has a husband alive. Alwant is believed to be the spirit of a woman dying at childbirth or during her menses. It resides at burial or cremation grounds. Persons attacked by this spirit are taken to Narsoba's Wádi or Gángápur, which are celebrated as shrines for the removal of malignant spirits. [569] (14) Lávsat is the ghost of a widow. It generally resides in burial and burning grounds, and attacks domestic animals and their calves. It is also said to tear clothes and eat corpses. [570] (15) Hadal or Hedali is the ghost of a woman who dies within ten days of childbirth or during her menses. It is supposed to be an evil spirit, but it can be kept in check by the use of a cane. It attacks all sorts of persons, but leaves them as soon as it is beaten. [571] This spirit is also known as Dákan in the Kolhápur district. [572] Satavi is the ghost of a woman. It troubles women in childbirth, and kills their children on the 5th or 6th day after their birth. [573] Shákini is the ghost of an unmarried girl. Talkhámba is the ghost of an unmarried Shudra or a person from the low castes. [574] The people of Vijayadurg believe that one who hates and troubles the Bráhmans and speaks ill of their religious duties becomes a Brahma Sambandha after death. [575] At Poládpur in the Kolába District the ghost Bápa is represented by a stone painted with red lead and oil and placed at the boundary of a field. It is the guardian of the field, and protects the owners' interests. Offerings are made to it annually. If the annual offerings are neglected, it troubles the owner of the field. It also troubles others when disturbed. [576] The spirits known as Kálkáiche Bhut and Bahirobáche Bhut are not troublesome. When they favour any person, he enjoys health and happiness for a period of twelve years. But after that period he is ruined. [577] In addition to the varieties of malignant spirits already described, the following spirits are known at Shirgaon in the Máhim taluka of the Thána District. They are--Hirwa, Wághoba, Asarás, Gángud, Saitán and Chaitannadya. The spirit known as Hirwa requires the offerings of a bow and an arrow, bháng, bájri bread, and a chatni of garlic. The Wághoba haunts jungles and troubles domestic animals. Cocoanuts and lamps of ghi are offered to it. Asarás are the deities that dwell in water. They infest the wells and ponds, and attack women and children at noon time and in the evening. Red lead, cocoanuts, flowers, parched rice (láhya) and nádápudi are given to them. [578] At Ibrámpur in the Ratnágiri District it is said that the evil spirit Zoting goes about headless. [579] The people of Medhe in the Rohe taluka believe that the spirit known as Girha, which resides in water, goes about headless. [580] At Shirgaon in the Máhim taluka it is believed that the spirit Hirwa goes about headless. It troubles human beings and animals. The sea and the jungle are its places of abode. To avoid being troubled by it, bháng, cocoanuts, fowls are given to it. [581] The people of Dahigaon in the Murbád taluka believe that the Bhut known as Peesa goes about headless. [582] Some evil spirits haunt trees such as the Pipal, Bábhul and Adulsa. Some have their haunts on a public road where three streets meet, or in a dirty place, some haunt old houses, and the rest prefer to reside in burial and burning grounds. [583] Many spirits dwell in burial or cremation grounds. Among them are Vetál, Jákhin, Khavis, Kháprya, Zoting, Dáv, Girha, Alavat and Lávsat. [584] The spirits Munja and Sambandh are said to reside near houses and old trees that produce sweet smelling flowers. The spirits Devchár and Chálegat are said to reside at the four corners or the boundary of a village. [585] It is believed that all kinds of spirits assemble at night at the funeral ground when a body is burnt or buried. [586] The evil spirits known as Khavis, Zoting and Kafri are said to dwell on mountains and in jungles; while the others named Sambandha, Jákhin, Hadal and Lávsat are said to reside on trees. [587] Munja resides in the Pipal tree. Sambandha dwells in the Banyan, Pipal and Umbar trees. It is supposed to be a guardian of buried treasure. [588] At Murbád in the Thána District, it is believed that an evil spirit known as Hadal infests the tamarind trees. [589] In the Kolhápur District it is believed that the ghosts of persons dying on battlefields infest mountains and jungles, and the evil spirit known as Sambandh infests trees. [590] Generally in the Konkan, and specially in the Ratnágiri District, young mothers and their children are supposed to be liable to the attacks of the spirits Satávi, Avagat, Alavant, Jákhin, Devchár and Chálegat. [591] At Khopoli in the Kolába District it is believed that a young mother and her child are generally attacked by the spirit of the dead wife of her husband, or by a Hadal or Lávsat. The spirit that attacks a woman during her childbirth is difficult to drive out. The spirits are always afraid of cleanliness, and therefore, where there is cleanliness, there is very little fear of their attacks. [592] The people of Shirgaon believe that the fiend known as Hedli attacks a young mother and her child. The Bhutya, or the sorcerer, makes use of his cane and of the dirty incense known as Nurkya Uda, and compels her to speak and to ask for what she wants. Sometimes she speaks and asks for the things required. Boiled rice and curds, and oil with red lead are given to her. When she leaves the body, the person becomes insensible for a short time. [593] The fiend known as Hadal, and other evil spirits of the female sex, generally attack a young mother and her child. They are generally attacked by these fiends on a public cross road where three roads meet, or under a Bábhul tree, and also at wells. [594] At Ubhádánda in the Vengurla taluka it is believed that those who are killed by tigers or other wild beasts are born as kings in the next generation. [595] On the other hand the people of Bankavli are of opinion that those who suffer death at the hands of tigers and other wild beasts are turned into spirits. The spirit of a person killed by a tiger is called Vághvir. [596] At Achare it is believed that persons killed by lions and tigers attain salvation, while those killed by inferior beasts go to hell. [597] The people of Ibrámpur believe that unmarried persons killed by tigers or other wild beasts take the form of a ghost. Males become Girhas and females become Jákhins and Lávsats. [598] At Pendur it is believed that persons killed by tigers and other wild beasts become Brahma Rákshasa. The same form is assumed by those who die by accident. A murdered man becomes a Devachár. [599] In the District of Kolhápur a belief prevails that the spirits of those killed by tigers or other wild beasts assume the form of ghosts. It is also believed that persons who die before they are married do not attain salvation, and therefore it is considered inauspicious among the Hindus to remain unmarried. This is the real reason why the majority of the Hindus marry their children at an early age. [600] The ghost of a woman dying in childbirth or during her menses assumes the form of Alwant. For the purpose of preventing the dead woman turning into a ghost the following device is adopted. The corpse, instead of being burnt as usual, is buried underground, and four iron nails are fixed at the four corners of the spot on which the body is buried, and plants bearing red flowers are planted thereon. [601] At Bankavli it is believed that the ghost of a woman dying in childbirth or during her menses assumes the form of Jákhin, while the people of the Kolhápur District believe that it assumes the form of Hadal. [602] The special precautions that a father has to take at the birth of a child are:-- To arrange for a suitable place or a room provided with the materials required for the occasion, and to ensure the correct moment for the birth of the child. No person other than a midwife is allowed to enter the room for the first ten days. A pot is kept filled with water and a twig of the nim tree in the entrance of the house, and all persons entering the house have to wash their feet with this water. A knife or some other sharp weapon is kept under the bed of the woman in order that the mother and her child may not be attacked by a spirit. [603] The chief reason for ensuring the correct moment for the birth is that, if the birth takes place at an unlucky hour, special rites are necessary for averting the evil effects. These rites consist in the recitation of certain holy mantras and in giving presents of money, sessamum, jágri, clarified butter, etc., to the Bráhmans and alms to the poor. [604] At Medhe in the Rohe taluka, it is customary for the father to throw a stone in a well, a pond, or a river at the birth of his son, and then to look at the face of the child. [605] An owl is considered to be a bird of such evil repute that, in all parts of the Konkan, it is considered necessary to perform expiatory rites when an owl perches on the roof. If these rites are not performed, it is firmly believed that some evil will befall the members of the family. Various omens are drawn from the cries of the bird Pingla, and these cries are known as Kilbil, Chilbil and Khit Khit. [606] If an owl sits on the roof of a house, it is a sure sign of coming death to a member of the family. [607] At Devgad in the Ratnágiri District the sound of a bat or an owl is considered inauspicious, and indicates the death of a sick person in the house. [608] At Chauk an owl is said to have some connection with spirits. Its sound at night indicates the approaching death of a sick person in the house. One variety of the owl called the pingla is supposed to foretell future events by its movements and cries, while the bat is considered an inauspicious bird, and its appearance forebodes coming evil. [609] At Umbergaon people do not throw stones at an owl. For it is considered that the owl might sit and rub the stone, and that the person throwing it will become weak and wasted as the stone wears away. [610] The people of Kolhápur do not believe that there is any connection between the bat or owl and the spirits of the dead, but they believe that, if an owl cries out in the evening or at night, it indicates the death of a sick person in the family. This applies also to the sound of a single pingla, but the sound of a pair of pinglas is considered auspicious. [611] It is generally believed that old unoccupied houses are haunted by evil spirits. Persons who wish to inhabit such houses first perform the Vástu shánti ceremony, and give a feast to Bráhmans. In former times, in the districts that were ruled by the Portuguese, religious persecution prevailed. To escape from these persecutions, people were compelled to leave their houses unprotected. Before leaving their houses, they used to bury their treasure in the ground, and on that spot a human being or an animal was sacrificed in order that the spirit of the dead should hover about the place, and prevent strangers from coming. [612] The evil spirits which haunt ruins and guard buried treasures and old forts are known as Mahápurush, Khavis, Brahma Rákshasa and Sambandh. [613] If there be any buried treasure in an old unoccupied house, the owner of the treasure remains there in the form of a ghost. If the treasure be near the temple of a deity, it is supposed to be under the guardianship of that deity. [614] At Vijayadurg it is believed that a person who builds a house in the days of his prosperity and does not survive to enjoy it, becomes a Sambandh. He remains in that house in the form of a ghost, and troubles every one who comes to stay there, excepting the members of his family. A man who buries his treasure underground becomes a ghost after death, comes back to watch his treasure, and troubles those who try to remove it. [615] Unoccupied houses are generally haunted by evil spirits. At certain forts in the Konkan where battles were fought, the souls of those slain in the battles are said to have assumed the forms of spirits, and to keep a watch over the forts. [616] In the Kolhápur District there is a village Nigve beyond the river Panch Ganga at a distance of three miles from Kolhápur, where the soul of a person named Appáji Kulkarni has assumed the form of a Sambandh and guards the buried treasures in his house. When anybody tries to dig up the buried money, the ghost enters the body of his daughter-in-law and begins to dance and cry out loudly, and does not allow any one to touch his treasure. It is also said that he strikes the ground with his stick at night. Another similar instance is cited in the case of the village of Latvade in the Shirol Peta, where Bápujipant Kulkarni continues to guard his house after death. He does not allow anybody to live in the house, and if any one is bold enough to sleep there at night, the spirit of Bápuji appears and throws him out of the house. The house is therefore uninhabited at present. His wife has adopted a son, but he has to live in another village, Vadange. [617] CHAPTER VI. THE EVIL EYE AND THE SCARING OF GHOSTS. Hindus generally believe in the effects of the evil eye. If an accident befall any thing of value, or it undergoes any sudden change, it is said to be due to the effects of an evil eye. In order to escape from the influence of an evil eye, people begin the use of incantations and charms on a Sunday, Wednesday, or Thursday and finish them on the third or the fifth day. Small children, domestic animals, and beautiful objects are generally liable to be affected by an evil eye. The following are some of the methods of evading the effects of an evil eye. 1st.--Dry chillies are waved round the body of the affected person and thrown into the fire, and if they do not thereupon make a loud noise, it is said that the effects of an evil eye are averted. 2nd.--Mustard seed and salt are waved round the face of a child and then thrown into the fire. 3rd.--Alum is waved round the child and then thrown into fire. The piece of alum thus thrown is sometimes believed to be changed into the form of a man or a woman. From this, conjectures are made as to the sex of the person by whose evil eye the patient is affected. The form or the figure is then broken by a toe of the left foot of the patient, and dry chillies, garlic, hair, rubbish from the house and salt are mixed in the alum powder. The mixture is waved round the patient three times and then thrown into fire. Meanwhile the sorcerer repeats the names of all persons, things and evil spirits suspected by him. After this performance has been repeated three times, the fire is deposited in a public place where three roads meet. 4th.--If the evil eye is believed to be that of a ghost, the sorcerer mutters some words to himself, waves ashes round the affected child, and blows them in the air. 5th.--The evil eye of a tiger is removed from an affected animal in the following manner. An oil lamp is burnt in the eye of a dead tiger and the lamp is waved round the animal by a Mahár. The Mahár is given a loaf prepared from eight kinds of grain. 6th.--Copper amulets and black cotton strings charmed by a sorcerer are also tied round the neck or arms of the patient. [618] When a child is to be removed from one village to another, rice is scattered at the boundary of the village, at the bridges, rivers, creeks, etc, that are crossed during the journey. Cocoanuts are waved round the child and thrown away at the boundary of the village and at places supposed to be haunted by ghosts. Before entering a house in a new village, a small quantity of boiled rice, bread, or grains of rice are waved round the child and thrown away. It is believed that, when black ointment is applied to the eyes, cheeks, or forehead of a child, there is no fear of its being affected by an evil eye. This also depends on the position of the stars at the birth of a child. If anybody sees a beautiful thing and praises it, there is a chance of its being affected by an evil eye. It is believed that children, animals, trees, and even wood and stones, are apt to be affected by an evil eye. In order to avoid injury from an evil eye, cocoanut shells or a shoe are tied on a conspicuous part of a tree or a creeping plant, black beads known as Vajrabuttu are tied round the necks of children, and cowries and black beads are tied round the necks of animals. Even grown up persons are affected by an evil eye. When a man is very ill or frequently becomes unconscious, cocoanuts, fowls and boiled rice are waved round him and thrown away. [619] When the effects of an evil eye cannot be removed by ordinary methods, the evil influence is said to have entered through the bones, 'Hádi drusta padali.' In order to remove it people bring the bone of an animal in the evening, and after besmearing it with oil and turmeric powder, wash it in hot water. It is dressed in a yellow cloth, and black and red ointments are applied to it. It is then waved round the affected person, and thrown away in some public place where three roads meet. [620] For evading the effects of an evil eye, salt, mustard seed, hair, garlic, dry leaves of onions, dry chillies, and seven small stones from the road are put on the fire. The fire is then waved round the body of the affected person and thrown away. Charmed black cotton strings are turned over the burning incense and tied round the arm or the neck. Charmed ashes from the temples of certain deities are also applied to the forehead of the affected person. [621] At Ibrámpur in the Ratnágiri District, it is believed that a person whose eyes have come under the influence of evil stars possesses the power of the evil eye. Ashes are taken on a mango leaf, and charmed with the mantras or incantations for an evil eye, and then they are applied to the forehead of the affected person. [622] The people of Poladpur in the Kolába District believe the effects of an evil eye to be as follows. A healthy child becomes sickly and cries, a man may suffer from indigestion or loss of appetite, a cow or a she-buffalo yielding plenty of milk suddenly ceases to give milk or gives blood in place of it, a good image is disfigured or broken, and even stones are shattered to pieces by the effects of an evil eye. The following devices are used to ward off such evil effects. A black mark is made on the forehead of children. Black beads called Drustamani, and Vajrabuttu are tied round their necks. Marking nuts and cowries tied with a black thread are fastened round the necks of animals. A little black spot is marked on an image. A worn out shoe or a sandal is tied to the fruit-yielding trees. Salt and mustard seed are waved thrice round the face of a child repeating "Ishta mishta konyá pápinichi drushta" and thrown into the fire. Some people roll a cotton thread round a curry stone, wave it three times round the patient, and then put it into the fire; if the thread burns, the evil eye is held to have been removed. If the evil eye be on the food, three morsels of food are first raised to the mouth, and then thrown into the fire. Sacred ashes are applied to trees and creeping plants to remove the effects of an evil eye. [623] The people of Khopoli in the Kolába District believe that the evil eye can be diverted from living creatures only, and not from inanimate things such as a stone or an earthen image. Sacred ashes are applied to the forehead of the suffering child by repeating the Rám raksha stotra, i.e., the protecting praises of Ráma, the seventh incarnation of Vishnu. Among Bráhmans, rice grains are waved thrice round the face of a child and put into water. The water is then thrown away. Even flowers are waved round the faces of small children in the evening and thrown away. [624] At Chauk in the Karjat taluka of the Kolába District, some people wave the left shoe thrice round the body of the affected person for the purpose of evading the effects of an evil eye. A red hot iron bar is also cooled in water mixed with turmeric powder. [625] At Shirgáon in the Máhim taluka of the Thána District water is drawn in a brass or a copper pot in the evening, and turmeric powder, rice, and any other edible articles on which the evil eye has fallen are put into it. Twentyone date leaves, each of them with a knot, are then waved round the body of the affected person and thrown into the water pot, burning coals being dropped into the mixture. The pot is then waved thrice round the body of the affected person, and kept in a corner of the bedroom for one night, with a basket, a broom, and a sandal or an old shoe placed on the top. It is then thrown away in the morning in some public place where three roads meet. If the water becomes red, it is supposed that the evil eye has been removed. [626] The effects of an evil eye are sometimes visible on the face of a child in the form of small red pustules. The appearance of such pustules is called Chák padane. [627] If a person is affected by an evil eye at the time of taking his meals, he loses his appetite. He also becomes weaker day by day. One of the modes of removing these evils is to wave fresh date leaves three times round the face of the affected person, and to throw them into water. Some people take water in a copper plate and extinguish in it burning sticks of the tamarind tree, after waving them round the body of the affected person. [628] At Khárbáv in the Bassein taluka of the Thána District, five pieces of broken tiles are made red hot and put into water in which a little quantity of all the cooked food in the house has been mixed. Turmeric powder is also put into it. A pen knife or some other iron instrument is then turned five times in the water. A winnowing basket and a broom are waved thrice round the face of the affected person, and placed over the water pot. [629] At Dahánu in the Thána District, two big stones, of which one has been waved round the face of a person affected by an evil eye, are struck one against the other. If the stone breaks, it is believed that the evil effect has been removed. Cowdung is mixed with water in a brass or a copper plate, and dust from a public road, hair, and burning black cotton cloth are put into another small vessel. This vessel is then waved round the person, and placed upside down over the mixture of cowdung. If it sticks to the brass plate, this is supposed to be due to the evil eye. [630] The people of Kolhápur believe in the effects of an evil eye. A child suffering from an evil eye turns pale and thin, and suffers from headache. To avoid these effects, elderly women make a mark with lamp black on the face or brow of the child. Boiled rice and curds, and bread and oil are also passed round the face of a child, and thrown into a public road. [631] Generally, in the Konkan districts, opprobrious names are given to children when they are sickly, always crying, and weak, or when they are short lived. These names are Marya, Rodya, Kerya, etc. It is believed that children improve in health when called by such opprobrious names. [632] Opprobrious names such as Dhondu, Kondu, Keru, are given to children in families in which the first children are shortlived. But their real names are different. The names of the wellknown arithmetician Keru Nána Chhatre and his son Kondopant Chhatre are examples of opprobrious names. [633] Among high class Hindus, the first son is not generally called by his real name, but by one of the opprobrious names given above. [634] Children are sometimes weighed with shoes or sandals, and also with cowdung. In some cases, their nostrils are bored, especially the right one. [635] Hindus generally call their children by the names of their deities and ancestors, and they attribute the premature death of their children to their own misbehaviour towards such ancestors, or to their having abused them; they fear that such abuse or misbehaviour has offended the ancestors. To avoid their displeasure and the consequent death of their children, the people give opprobrious names to their next born such as Dagadya, Dhondya, Gundya, Dandya, Kerya, Ukirdya, Kondya, Lobhya, etc. The custom of tattooing one side of the body of females also prevails in the Kolhápur District, especially in cases where the children in a family are shortlived. [636] In the Puránas there are instances of males being transformed into females, and females into males. For example, the female Amba was transformed into a male called Shikhandi and the male Nárad was transformed into a female. Arjuna, the third brother of the Pándavas is said to have changed his sex, and turned into Bruhannada. [637] In the Shivlilamruta, a book pertaining to the god Shiva, in the chapter of Simantini, it has been described how a man was turned into a woman. [638] At Kolhápur, there are no instances known of a change of sex. The goddess Yallamma has a high reputation in this district for making a change in the habits and deportments of men and women, especially among low caste people. It is believed that the curse of this goddess has the power of destroying the virility of males, whereupon they behave like females. Many instances of this type can be seen at the fair of the goddess Yallamma, which is held in Márgashirsha (December); men dressed in women's clothes and vice versa are often seen at this fair. [639] In Western India, iron nails are generally used when any spirit is to be buried in the ground. Other metals, such as gold, silver, and copper, are sometimes offered to the ghosts. The blood of fowls and goats is also offered to them. When incense is burnt before a sorcerer, the spirit enters into his body. Water is charmed and sprinkled over the body of a person attacked by an evil spirit. Rice and udid grains are required for exorcising spirits. Red powder Pinjar, turmeric powder, black ointment kájal, lemons, Narakya Wuda a kind of incense, betel-leaves, betelnuts, cocoanuts, mango leaves, Nirgudi leaves, and pieces of cloth are also used for the same purpose. [640] Cane sticks are used by people as a protection against evil spirits. A stick cut from the tree known as Pándhri is also used as protection. Charmed black cotton strings are tied to the wrist, arm or neck. If a man is very much afraid of a ghost, he repeats the name of the monkey god Máruti or any other deity that may be favourable to his family. [641] The blood of fowls and goats is used as a protection against ghosts and Devachárs, and also against witchcraft. Charmed water is waved round the person affected by an evil spirit, and thrown away. Rings, amulets, and anklets made of metals of five kinds are put on the hands and legs of children to ward off the effects of evil spirits. [642] It is customary among certain people to apply spittle to the sandalpaste mark on the forehead of a man, and to the red Kunku mark on the forehead of an unwidowed woman. It is considered to be a protection against evil spirits. [643] The beak of an eagle, a stick cut from a tree known as Pándhri, a cane having three joints, and the root of a shrub called Shrávad, which has white leaves, are used as protection against evil spirits. [644] At Pendur in the Málwan taluka of the Ratnágiri District it is believed that an iron stick held in the hand is a protection against evil spirits. [645] At Chauk in the Karjat taluka of the Kolába District, pictures of certain deities are tattooed on the body for the purpose of protection against evil spirits. It is also believed that evil spirits run away when salt and garlic are thrown into fire as they cannot bear the smoke of burning garlic. [646] At Medhe in the Rohe taluka, when the dead body of a woman dying within ten days of her delivery is taken out of the house for burial, an iron horseshoe is driven into the threshold of the house, and grains of Náchani are scattered in the street while the corpse is being carried to the burial ground. [647] At Bhuwan in the Murbád taluka some people tie a square piece of leather to the necks of their children as protection against evil spirits. [648] At Rái, a custom prevails of putting coral necklaces on children as a protective against evil spirits. [649] Iron nails and horseshoes are driven into the threshold or on to the door of a house on the full moon day or the last day of the Hindu calendar month at evening time, to prevent the entrance of evil spirits. Dirty localities being considered to be haunts of evil spirits, people living in such localities burn incense in their houses every day. While exorcising evil spirits the sorcerers throw charmed Udid grains and Rále panic seeds on the body of the diseased, or place these things below his bed. Rings made of metals of five kinds,--iron, copper, brass, silver and gold--are charmed on an eclipse day, and worn by people. Red lead and cowries are tied to the necks or feet of animals as protection against evil spirits. The spirits that haunt buried treasures are pacified by the blood of fowls and goats when digging up such treasures. [650] Certain mantras are written on a paper, and the paper is tied to a black cotton string, or the paper is put into a copper amulet, and then tied to a black cotton string. The black cotton string with the amulet is then tied round the arm or the neck of a person attacked by evil spirits, or suffering from malarial fevers. These mantras are never disclosed to anybody. [651] Nádádora is a black cotton thread having seven or nine knots with a charmed paper in one of these knots. The thread is first held over burning incense, and then tied round the neck or the arm of the diseased. Sunday is generally chosen for attaching these threads. [652] At Poladpur in the Kolába District, there lived a sorcerer who used to give such amulets and charmed threads. He placed about ten or twelve copper rings or amulets in a copper plate kept in the sun. While thus exposed to the sun, these amulets were continuously watched by the sorcerer for some two hours, repeating certain mantras. [653] At Málád in the Thána District, copper amulets and charmed black cotton threads in the name of Kál Bhairav, an incarnation of the god Shiva, are used as protective against evil spirits. They are tied to the arms or the neck of the diseased on an eclipse day, on the last day of the Hindu calendar month, or on a Tuesday, Wednesday and Saturday. [654] At Kolhápur, the use of amulets is generally resorted to by people suffering from the attacks of evil spirits or from malarial fevers. The sorcerer who exorcises the evil spirits writes certain mantras on a paper, or draws certain symbols and repeats the mantras over them. The paper is then wrapped in an amulet made of copper or silver, and fastened to a cotton thread. This amulet is tied round the arm or the neck of the diseased. Before tying it to the arm or the neck, it is once held over burning incense. [655] A sacred circle is frequently used as a protection from spirits. The sorcerer draws a circle on the ground, with his stick, and the following articles are put inside it. Cocoanuts, lemons, red lead, and a Kohala gourd. Fowls are also sacrificed to this circle. The filling in of this circle is called mánda bharane by the exorcists. [656] Rice or Udid grain, and ashes charmed by mantras, are scattered round a certain area of land, or are given to a person supposed to be affected by evil spirits. The spirits cannot enter a place charmed in this manner. They are also scattered round the place supposed to be haunted by evil spirits in the belief that neither evil spirits nor snakes can transgress the boundary thus marked by a sorcerer. [657] Formerly sages and saints used to make such sacred circles round their residence, repeating certain mantras, for their protection from evil spirits. It is believed that the spirits cannot enter or leave these enchanted circles. They used to bury bottles containing such spirits at the boundaries of these circles. There are many such places in the Kolhápur District, such as Buránsáheb of Brahmapuri, the Sádhubuwa of Panhála, and Bábu Jámál at Kolhápur. [658] It is a general belief among all classes of Hindus in the Bombay Presidency that Saturday is an unlucky day, and in some places Friday and Tuesday are also considered inauspicious. Sunday is considered as an ordinary day. Monday, Wednesday and Thursday are believed to be auspicious or lucky days. It is said that a thing suggested or thought of on Friday cannot be carried out successfully. [659] Sowing seed and watering trees is strictly forbidden on Sunday. It is believed that trees do not bear well if watered on Sundays. [660] Tuesday and Friday are considered unlucky days for beginning a new task. Wednesday and Saturday are said to be inauspicious for visiting another village. [661] The numbers 2, 6, 11 and zero are believed to be lucky, 4, 5, 10 and 8 are unlucky, and 1, 3, 7 and 9 are considered as middling or moderate. The figure zero is by some considered inauspicious. [662] The numbers 5, 7, 9 are said by some to be auspicious, and 1, 3, 11 and 13 inauspicious. [663] Odd numbers are auspicious, and even numbers are said to be inauspicious. [664] The following are generally held to be auspicious omens:-- While going on any business, to come across an unwidowed woman, a cow, Bráhmans, a five-petaled flower, or a pot filled with water; [665] the throbbing of the right eyelid and of the right arm of a man, and of the left eyelid of a woman; a Bráhman coming in front with a cup and a spoon in his hand after taking his bath; [666] the appearance of a peacock, the Bháradwáj or the blue jay, and the mongoose, especially when they pass on the left side of the person going on business. [667] The following are considered to be auspicious when seen within a hundred paces of a person starting on business:-- Bráhmans, unwidowed women, boiled food, meat, fishes, milk, any kind of corn, the bird Chásha or the blue jay, passing by the left side, the appearance of the moon in front, a person coming across one's path with vessels filled with water, and a married couple, a cow with its calf, images of god, cocoanuts and other fruits, the mother, white clothes, the sound of a musical instrument, a horse, an elephant, curds, flowers, a lighted lamp, a jackal, a spiritual preceptor, a public woman, a Mahár, a washerman coming with a bundle of washed clothes, and a marriage procession. [668] The following objects and persons are generally believed to be inauspicious:-- Oil, buttermilk, a couple of snakes, a monkey, pig, and an ass, firewood, ashes and cotton, a person with a disfigured nose, a man dressing his hair in the shape of a crown, red garlands, wet clothes, a woman wearing red cloth, an empty earthen vessel, a Bráhman widow, a Brahmachári and an unmarried Bráhman, [669] a widow, a bare-headed Bráhman, a cat going across the path, a dog flapping his ears, meeting a barber with his bag, a beggar, sneezing, or the asking of a question at the time of departure, waiting, meeting a person with an empty vessel, [670] howling of dogs and jackals, a pair of crows playing on the ground, and a lighted lamp extinguished by its fall on the ground. [671] While plans or proposals are being made, it is considered inauspicious if any one sneezes or the sound of a lizard is heard. [672] Meeting a person of the depressed classes whose touch is pollution, or a Bráhman who accepts funeral gifts, is considered inauspicious. [673] Meeting a woman who is in her menses, a mourner, a buffalo, a snake and a diwad are considered inauspicious. [674] An iron vessel or an iron bar, cow dung cakes, salt, grass, a broom, a vulture, and a washerman bringing with him dirty clothes are also considered to be inauspicious omens. [675] Among the Hindus in Western India, for the purpose of helping the spirit to go to heaven safely, and for securing its goodwill towards the survivors, after death ceremonies called the Shráddhas are generally performed. Some perform these ceremonies once a year in the month of Bhádrapada, and others perform them twice or thrice, i.e., on the anniversary day of the deceased as well as in the dark half of Bhádrapada, which is generally known as the manes' fortnight (pitru paksha). [676] The funeral solemnities performed from the 1st to the 14th day from the death of the deceased are as described below:-- On the first day, at the time of burning the dead body, a plot of ground is purified by repeating certain mantras, and the corpse is then placed on it. Before setting the funeral pile on fire, balls of boiled rice or wheat flour are put on the face, the forehead, arms and the chest of the corpse. Such balls are placed on the body of the deceased only when death has taken place on an unlucky day, or when there is an unlucky conjunction of stars. The son, or some other near relative, of the deceased generally performs these rites with the help of a Bráhman priest. On the third day he goes to the burning place, collects the ashes of the deceased, and throws them into the sea. On this occasion he is accompanied by the relatives of the deceased. Rich persons who are able to go to Benares keep the bones of their deceased parents and throw them into the Ganges at Prayága near Benares after performing certain Shráddhas there. The giving of oblations continues daily till the tenth day. The oblations of the tenth day are called Das Pinda. The rites of the eleventh day are called Ekotistha. On the eleventh day the person performing the rites has to change his sacred thread, after sipping a little cow's urine. Cooked food is prepared at the place where the rites of the eleventh day are performed, and Bráhmans are fed there, or at least thirty-two mouthfuls of cooked food are offered to the sacred fire. A big ball of boiled rice is put before the sacred fire or near the Bráhmans taking their meals. This ball is then thrown into the sea. A male calf is branded, worshipped and let loose. This calf is called Vasu, and is considered sacred by the villagers. On the 11th day, special ceremonies for propitiating the eight Vasus and the eleven Rudras are performed, and gifts of a plot of ground, a cow, cooking vessels, various kinds of corn, golden images, silver and copper coins, clothes, shoes, umbrellas, bedding, etc. are given to the Bráhmans collected there. On the 13th day after death a feast is given to 13 or more Bráhmans and the other relatives. Navakádán, i.e., the gift of a ship and Gopradán, i.e., of a cow and a calf, are also given to the Bráhmans on the understanding that they will help the soul of the dead while crossing the river Vaitarna. [677] Water mixed with til or sesamum seed, sandalpaste, and oblations of boiled rice are given daily to the manes to secure their goodwill towards the survivors. [678] At Bankavli in the Dápoli taluka of the Ratnágiri District, in order to prevent the soul from assuming the form of a ghost, there is a custom of tying a piece of Gulvel, a species of moonseed, or the seed of a vegetable known as Máthbháji, round the neck of the corpse before burning it. It is also believed that, by doing this, the soul is prevented from troubling the survivors. [679] At Poladpur in the Kolába District, some villagers drive an iron nail into the head of the corpse before it is taken to the funeral ground. They believe that, in consequence, the soul of the deceased will not turn into an evil spirit. Some people scatter grain on the road while the corpse is being carried to the cremation ground. [680] Among the Hindus in the Konkan, as well as in the Deccan, dead bodies are generally burnt, but under the following circumstances they are buried. Persons dying of small pox, women dying in childbirth or during their menses, children dying within six months from their birth, and Sanyásis are buried. The bodies of persons suffering from leprosy are necessarily buried. [681] Among Lingáyats the bodies are always buried. Certain mantras are repeated while burying or burning the dead body. While burying, cocoanuts and certain kinds of grain are thrown into the grave, and after covering the dead body with salt, the grave is filled up with earth and stones. [682] While burning, the dead body is placed on the funeral pile with its head to the north and feet towards the south. Tulsi wood, sandal-wood, and Bel wood are kept on the pile before placing the dead body over it. Cocoanuts and camphor cakes are placed on the body, and it is set on fire. Among the Lingáyats and Gosávis the dead are buried. Before burying, the Lingáyats have to take a written order from their priest, the Ayya or Jangam. The paper is then tied to the neck of the deceased, and the body is placed in a bag made of new cloth, the head being allowed to remain out of the bag. Bhasma or ashes, salt and camphor are also put into the bag along with the corpse, which is then buried. The Jangam repeats mantras when the body is in the grave. No such written order is necessary for the burial of Gosávis. A cocoanut is broken on the head of the corpse at the time of burying it. Among high class Hindus the corpse is carried to the funeral ground in a bier made of bamboos. Among the Lingáyats a gaily dressed frame called Makhar is prepared on the bier, and the body is dressed with clothes and head dress and seated in the Makhar. Some of them carry the dead body in a bag made of blanket. There is a custom of keeping foot-prints on the spot where a Sanyási is buried, and they are daily worshipped by the people. [683] Among the Káthawatis of Thána and Kolába Districts the dead body is first buried, and after a few days the skeleton is taken out of the grave and then burnt as usual. [684] Among the high class Hindus the moustaches are shaved at the death of parents, paternal uncle and elder brother. Among the Shudras it is not necessary to shave. [685] Persons who have lost their parents have to perform certain funeral rites or Shráddhas when they visit holy places such as Benáres, Prayág, Ayodhya and Násik, and they have to shave their moustaches at all these places before performing the funeral rites. [686] Moustaches are also shaved as a penance for certain sins. The Agnihotri, i.e., one who preserves perpetual fire in his house for worship, has to get himself shaved every fortnight. [687] Among high class Hindus boiled rice is daily offered to the dead after a portion has been thrown into the fire, the remainder being given to the crows. The portion thrown in the fire is called Vaishvadev, and that which is given to the crows is called Kágwás. Among other Hindus it is given on the last day of Bhádrapada and on the date of the father's death, annually. [688] Oblations of boiled rice are given to the dead every day, on the last day of the Hindu calendar month, on the date of a person's death every month, on the same date of the dark half of Bhádrapada every year. These oblations are put out of the house before taking the meals. It is believed that the ancestors come down in the form of crows to partake of these offerings. [689] Oblations of cooked food are also offered to a cow, and considered thus to be received by the dead. They are especially given to the crows annually in the dark half of Bhádrapada on the date of the deceased's death. [690] After the corpse has been carried to the funeral ground, an oil lamp containing one cotton wick is kept on the spot where the deceased expired. The flame of the lamp is directed towards the south as it is believed that the soul goes to heaven by the south. A ball of boiled rice and a little quantity of water or milk is kept daily for the first ten days near the lamp while repeating the name of the deceased and of the gotra to which it belonged. The lamp is taken out of the house on the 11th day. [691] Hindus believe that impurity attaches to all the things in the house in consequence of the death of a person in that house. All those things which can be purified by washing are washed and taken back, while things like earthen pots, cooked food, etc. are thrown away, special care being taken to break these pots, so that they may not be used again. Even the walls of the house are white washed. [692] The earthen pots that are required for the funeral rites of the dead are all broken. One which is required for boiling water to bathe the corpse is broken when the body is carried to the funeral ground. Of the rest, one is broken at the funeral pile after the son has passed thrice round the pile with an earthen vessel filled with water. It is believed that birds and animals drinking water out of these vessels would be infected by disease, and this is the reason why these pots are broken. The mourners who use earthen vessels during the mourning break them at the end of the mourning period. [693] Among the Agris of Chaul in the Kolába District, all earthen vessels in the house are broken on the eleventh day after a death in the family, the chief reason assigned for this act being that the wishes and desires of the deceased might lurk in the earthen vessels and cause trouble to the inmates of the house. [694] All the members of the family of the dead have to observe mourning for ten days. They are purified on the eleventh day after taking a bath and sipping Panchgavya, or the five products of the cow. The son of the dead person, or one who performs the funeral rites of the dead is purified on the twelfth day after completing the rites of Sapindi. A man in mourning does not touch those who are not in mourning. If anybody touches him, both of them have to take a bath. The son of the deceased or, in the absence of a son, any male member belonging to the family is entitled to perform the funeral rites of the dead. These rites are performed during the first twelve days, beginning from the first day or from the 3rd, 5th, 7th or the 9th. One who performs these rites has to sleep on the ground during these twelve days. A person hearing of the death of a member of his family within the first ten days from the date of the death, becomes free from that mourning on the eleventh day. If he happens to hear it within one month of the death, he has to observe it for three days and after one month he has to observe it for one day only. [695] The son, or one who performs the funeral rites of the deceased has to sleep on the ground, and has to take his meals only once a day till the end of the 13th day. He takes his bath in cold water. Sweet things are not prepared in the house during the days of mourning. During the period of mourning, every morning, a Bráhman comes to the mourner's house and recites some passages from the Garud Purána, which relates to the state of the soul after death. On the eleventh day the house is besmeared with cowdung, and cow's urine is sprinkled in the house. All the clothes are washed. Mourning is not observed in the case of a death of a Sanyási, and the Lingáyats do not observe any kind of mourning. [696] The brother of the deceased, his son, grandson and all the members belonging to the family, have to observe the mourning for ten days. The married daughter of the deceased has to observe it for three days. From the fifth or sixth generation in the same family, it is observed for three or one day only. [697] In case of the death of a wife's parents, the husband has to observe mourning for three days. During the mourning days people do not worship the gods or go to the temples. Milk is also prohibited during the mourning period. The mourners are not to touch anybody except the members of their family. [698] On the thirteenth day the sons and other members of the family are taken out to visit the temple of any deity by the people assembled for the purpose. It is believed that after going to the temple on the 13th day, the sons and the other members of the family are at liberty to go out of the house. [699] At Kolhápur it is believed that the deities Etalái and Kálkái of the Konkan districts keep with them evil spirits as their servants. These servant spirits obey the orders of these deities. Some people in this district go to the temples of these deities and request them to lend them the services of these spirit servants. It is considered very lucky to secure the help of these spirits. The temple ministrant then requests the deity to give a Kaul or omen. For this purpose, the temple ministrant calls on the deity to enter his body, and when he is possessed by the spirit of the deity, he allows the applicant to take with him one of the deity's servants for a fixed period. The Gurav, or the ministrant, then explains to the person the period for which the spirit servant is given, and the amount of the annual tribute required to be given to the deity for the use of her servant. He also gives him a cocoanut and sacred ashes. The applicant then returns home, believing that the spirit servant will follow him, and from that time he prospers. This spirit servant is called Chetuk, and it can be seen only by the person in whose charge it is given by the Gurav. [700] At Achare in the Ratnágiri District, the spirit of a Bráhman well versed in the Vedas is called Mahápurusha and it is said to be benevolent. It haunts Pipal and Umbar trees. [701] At Murbád in the Thána District, the spirit known as Vetál, the king of evil spirits, is considered to be benevolent. [702] The spirit known as Mahápurush haunts the Pipal and Umbar trees. Avagat the ghost of a widow haunts the Avali (Phyllanthus emblica) tree. Alavant, the ghost of a woman dying at childbirth or during her menses, lives in the Nágchámpa, Surang and the Kájra trees. Devachár, Sambandh, Munja, Zoting, Khavis and Khápra reside in trees and plants. [703] The people of Kolhápur believe that the spirits known as Brahmasambandh, Brahma Rákshasa, and Khavis reside in trees. [704] The spirits known as Devchár and Chálegat are considered to be the special protectors of crops and cattle. [705] The people of Ubhádánda in the Ratnágiri District believe that the village deities and the Devachárs are the special protectors of crops and cattle. Offerings of fowls and cocoanuts are made to them annually. [706] At Kochare in the Ratnágiri District, the spirit known as Viswáti is believed to be the special protector of crops and cattle. [707] The people of the Kolába District consider that the spirits known as Mhashya, Khavis, and Bándav are the protectors of crops and cattle. [708] At Dahánu in the Thána District, the spirit Cheda is believed to be the guardian of crops and cattle. [709] The people of Kolhápur believe that the deities of the fields protect the crops and cattle. Those who are in possession of the Chetuk, or the servant spirit, are sure to find their crops and cattle protected by this servant spirit. [710] Evil spirits are not usually invoked to frighten children, but occasionally the names of goblins such as Bágulbáwa, Bowáji, Gosávi etc. are mentioned to scare them. [711] CHAPTER VII. TREE AND SERPENT WORSHIP. Groves of mango trees are considered to be sacred as they have a pleasing appearance, and afford grateful shelter against the heat of the day. It is a general belief among Hindus that trees from which such pleasure and protection are derived must naturally be the abode of the gods. There are many such groves in Satára. During the spring season people go to these groves and worship the trees. The Hindus have a general prejudice against cutting living trees which yield fruits, and it is considered specially inauspicious to cut the following trees:-- Umbar, Vad or Banian tree, Pipal, Saundad or Shami, Palus, Bel, Rui, Avali and the Tulsi plant, for it is believed that these trees are the abode of deities, e.g. the god Dattátraya resides under the Umbar tree, the goddess Párvati on the Banian tree, and the god Vishnu resides near the Tulsi plant. The god Brahma, the creator of the world, is found in the Pipal tree. The plantain tree is also considered to be sacred. While gathering a bunch of plantains, the tree is first cut before the bunch. It is considered inauspicious to gather the bunch without so doing. [712] There are certain groves at Ubhádánda in the Vengurla taluka of the Ratnágiri District which are supposed to be haunted by Devachárs, and are therefore not cut by the people. [713] The people of Ibrámpur in the Chiplun taluka consider it inauspicious to cut the Vad and Pipal trees of which the thread ceremonies have been performed. After the thread ceremony of these trees is over, a stone platform is raised around them. [714] At Fonda in the Devgad taluka, it is considered inauspicious to cut the trees and the groves that surround the temple of a village deity, for they are believed to belong to that deity. [715] At Padghe in the Thána District, the trees which are supposed to have been haunted by evil spirits such as Sambandh, Munja, Devachár, etc. are not generally cut by the people through fear of these spirits. When any tree is cut down, the custom is to keep a stone at the root of the tree in order that the place may no longer be affected or haunted by the spirit in the tree. [716] There are certain families who do not burn Pipal, Khair, or Shiwani wood. They believe that the burning of these trees causes harm to their families. It is said that the burning of the Apta tree causes the breeding of the insect known as Gochadi, i.e., the cattle or dog louse. [717] There is an Awdumbar tree of the god Dattátraya at Bhillawadi, and a big Banian tree near the math of the Lingáyat swámi named Kadappa near Kolhápur, which are worshipped by the people of the neighbouring villages. The Saundad tree, better known as Shami, is worshipped once a year on the Dasara, the 10th day of the bright half of Ashvin (October). It is said that Ráma, the seventh incarnation of Vishnu, kept his arms on the Shami tree during his fourteen years' exile, and took them back again when he marched upon Lanka or Ceylon to kill Ráwan, the demon king of Ceylon. While going to Lanka he bowed to the Shami tree, and as he was successful in his undertaking, the Maráthás used to start for a campaign on the Dasara day after worshipping the Shami tree, and distributing its leaves among their friends calling it Suwarn or gold. This is said to be the origin of the festival of Dasara. A species of the tamarind tree called Gorakh Chinch is said to be connected with the Hindu saint Gorakhnáth. For this reason this tree is worshipped by the people. A great fair is held every year at Battis Shirále in the Satára District, which is situated at a distance of about ten miles from Kolhápur. [718] The Pipal, the Umbar, the Vad or Banian tree, and the Tulsi plant are worshipped by Hindus in general. The Apta tree is worshipped by Hindus on the Dasara day, and its leaves are distributed under the name of sone, or gold, among their friends and relatives. [719] At Medhe in the Roha taluka of the Kolába District, there is a tree Vehala (Beleric myrobalan) which is believed to be connected with the local deity Mhasoba. It is considered to be a sacred tree, and nobody dares to cut it or to touch it with the feet. [720] At Shirgáon in the Máhim taluka of the Thána District there is a Ránjani tree on the bank of a tank called Khambále, which is said to be connected with the deity Brahma; and therefore no branch of that tree is cut by the people. It is considered harmful to cut the tree. [721] At Gángápur in the Kolhápur District, there is a Vad tree connected with the saint Kabir. It is called Kabirvad. There is also an Awdumbar tree connected with the god Dattátraya, and known as Dattátraya Awdumbar. [722] The Umbar, Pipal, Vad, and the Tulsi plant are considered to be sacred, and are respected by Hindus. The following are some of the legends about their sacredness. Umbar--When the god Vishnu in his fourth incarnation, called Narsinh, i.e., half man and half lion, tore into pieces the body of the demon named Hiranyakashipu with his claws, he felt a burning sensation of the poison from the body of that demon, which was assuaged by thrusting his hands into the trunk of the Umbar or Awdumbar tree. [723] In order that they may get the auspicious sight of a deity early in the morning, Hindus generally plant the Umbar and Tulsi trees in front of their houses, and worship them daily. The juice of the root of the Umbar has a cooling effect, and hence it is freely used in cases of measles or itch. Its sap is also used as medicine for swellings. It is very pleasant to sit under the shade of this tree, and as it is believed that the god Dattátraya resides beneath this tree, it is held very sacred by the Hindus. [724] Pipal--The Pipal tree is considered very sacred because it is believed that the god Brahma resides in the roots, the god Vishnu in the trunk, and the god Shiva on the top of this tree. Persons who make a particular vow or have any objects to be fulfilled worship the Pipal tree, and walk round it several times every day. [725] The evil spirits Sambandh, Devachár, Munja, and Vetál haunt the Pipal tree. These spirits are considered to be the servants of the god Shiva. It is also believed that persons who worship and walk round this tree daily are not affected by those spirits. The Pipal tree is specially worshipped at dawn on Saturday as it is considered that the gods Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahesh or Shiva happen to be there at that time. [726] Vad or the Banian tree--A prince named Satyawán died of snakebite under the Vad tree. His wife named Sávitri, who was very chaste and dutiful, requested Yama, the god of death, and succeeded in securing from him the life of her husband Satyawán. As the prince Satyawán returned from the jaws of death under the Vad tree, this tree was specially worshipped by her, and it is therefore believed that Sávitri has ever since then been responsible for the practice of worshipping the Vad tree by women for the purpose of securing a long life to their husbands. [727] It is also believed that the god Vishnu takes shelter under the Vad at the time of the general destruction of the world. The worship of this tree is similar to that of the other deities, and women take turns around it at the close of the worship or puja. [728] The Tulsi plant is worshipped daily by the Hindus in general, and women in particular, by keeping the plant near their houses. The god Vishnu is worshipped particularly by the leaf of this plant.[#2] The Tulsi plant is considered by the people to represent the goddess Luxmi, the wife of Vishnu. Hindu women will not take their meals before worshipping the Tulsi plant daily in the morning. It is also said that the god Vishnu, in his eighth incarnation called Krishna, had loved Vrunda, the wife of a demon. After her death she was burnt, but on her burning ground there grew the Tulsi plant. As Krishna loved Vrunda very dearly, he began to love this plant also, and hence the image of Bál Krishna, or the god Vishnu, is married to this plant every year on the 12th day of the bright half of Kártik (November). [729] As it is also believed that the god Vishnu resides in the Tulsi plant, the worship of this plant is equivalent to the worship of the god Vishnu. [730] Besides the above mentioned trees, the Palus (Butea frondosa), the Bel, a tree sacred to god Shiva, and the Shami (Prosopis spicigera), a tree sacred to god Ganpati the son of Shiva, are considered to be holy by the Hindus. [731] A common custom among Hindus is for a person who has lost his two wives and wishes to marry a third, to be first married to a Rui plant, and then to the actual bride. His marriage with the Rui plant is considered as a third marriage. After the marriage, the Rui plant is cut down and buried, and thus the marriage with the third bride is considered to be a fourth marriage. The marriage with the Rui plant has been adopted in the belief that the third wife is sure to die unless the spirit of the deceased is made to enter the Rui plant. [732] When a girl is born under the influence of inauspicious planets which may be harmful to her husband, she is first married to a tree or an earthen pot, and then to the bridegroom. The marriage with the earthen pot is called Kumbhaviváha, or the pot-wedding. It is believed that, by observing this practice, the danger to her husband is avoided. The danger passes to the tree to which she is first married. [733] Among the lower classes in the Thána District [734] a poor man unable to marry owing to his poverty is first married to a Rui plant and then to a widow. This marriage with a widow is called pát lávane. This remarriage of a widow among the lower classes is generally performed at night, and under an old mango tree. It is never performed in the house. A widow who has remarried cannot take part in any auspicious ceremony such as a marriage, etc.[#8] At Vankavli in the Ratnágiri District there is a custom among the low class Hindus of a woman who has lost her second husband and wishes to marry for the third time, first marrying a cock, i.e., she takes the cock in her arms at the time of her marriage with the third husband. [735] Persons who have no children make a vow to Khandoba at Jejuri that the firstborn, male or female, shall be offered to him. The females, offered in fulfilment of such vows are called Muralis. They are married to the god Khandoba, and have to earn their livelihood by begging in villages. A male child thus offered to the god is called a Vághya. [736] There is a custom of offering children to the deities Yallamma and Khandoba in fulfilment of vows made in order to get a child. The child is taken to the temple of these deities, accompanied with music. The temple ministrant asks the child to stand on a wooden board on a heap of rice in front of the deity, and puts into its hands a paradi--a flat basket of bamboo, tying to its neck the darshana of the deity. A female child is married to the dagger--Katyár--of the deity. When once this ceremony has been performed, parents abandon their rights to such children. When these children come of age, the males can marry but the females cannot. The latter earns her livelihood begging jogava in the name of the goddess Amba with a paradi in her hand. A male child offered to the goddess Yallamma is called jogata, and a female, jogatin. Children dedicated to the goddess Máyáka are called Jogi and Jogin. Children offered to Firangái and Ambábái are called Bhutya (male) and Bhutin (female). [737] In the Konkan districts there is a class of women known as Bhávinis who are said to be married to Khanjir, i.e., a dagger belonging to the god. They are also called deva yoshita, i.e., prostitutes offered to the god. They have no caste of their own. They retain the name of the caste to which they originally belonged, such as Maráthe Bhávini, Bhandári Bhávini, Sutár Bhávini, etc. The following account is given of the origin of the sect of Bhávinis. A woman wishing to abandon her husband goes to the temple of a village deity at night, and in presence of the people assembled in that temple she takes oil from the lamp burning in the temple, and pours it upon her head. This process is called Deval righane, i.e., to enter into the service of the temple. After she has poured sweet oil from the lamp upon her head, she has no further connection with her husband. She becomes the maid servant of the temple, and is free to behave as she likes. Daughters of such Bhávinis who do not wish to marry, undergo the process of shesa bharane, and follow the occupation of their mothers. The sons of the Bhávinis have an equal right to the property of their mother, but any daughter who marries a lawful husband loses her share in the property of her mother. A Devali follows the occupation of blowing the horn or cornet, and is entitled to hold the torches in the marriage ceremonies of the people in the village. Many of them learn the art of playing upon the tabour--mrudunga--and are useful to Kathekaris, i.e., those who recite legends of the gods with music and singing. Some of them become farmers while others are unoccupied. Bhávinis follow the occupation of a maid-servant in the temple, but their real occupation is that of public women. They are not scorned by the public. On the contrary, they are required to be present at the time of a marriage to tie the marriage-string--Mangalsutra--of a bride, for they are supposed to enjoy perpetual unwidowhood--'Janma suwásini.' Some of the houses of Bhávinis become the favourite resorts of gamblers and vagabonds. In the absence of a daughter, a Bhávini purchases a girl from a harlot, and adopts her as her daughter to carry on her profession. [738] Snakes are believed to be the step-brothers of the gods. They reside under the earth and are very powerful. The snake is considered to be very beautiful among creeping animals, and is one of the ornaments of the god Shiva. An image of a snake made of brass is kept in the temple of the god Shiva, and worshipped daily along with the god. There is a custom among the Hindus of worshipping Nága, i.e., the cobra, once a year on the Nága panchami day, i.e., the fifth day of the bright half of Shráwan (August). Images of snakes are drawn with sandalpaste on a wooden board or on the walls of houses, and worshipped by Hindu women on this day. Durva grass, sacred to Ganpati, parched rice láhya, legumes kadadan, and milk are offered to this image. Some people go to the snake's abode Várul--an ant-hill--on this day to worship the snake itself, if they happen to catch sight of it. [739] It is said that at Battisa Shirále in the Belgáum District the real Nága comes out of its abode below the earth on this day, and is worshipped by the people. Milk and láhya, parched rice, are put outside the house at night on this day with the intention that they may be consumed by a snake. Hindus do not dig or plough the earth on Nága panchami day. Even vegetables are not cut and fried on this day by some people. [740] Earthen images of snakes are worshipped by some people in the Konkan districts on the Nága panchami day. The Nága is considered to be a Bráhman by caste, and it is believed that the family of the person who kills a snake becomes extinct. The cobra being considered a Bráhman, its dead body is adorned with the jánawe, and then burnt as that of a human being. A copper coin is also thrown into its funeral pile. [741] At certain villages in the Deccan a big earthen image of a snake is consecrated in a public place on the Nága panchami day, and worshipped by Hindus in general. Women sing their songs in circles before this image while men perform tamáshás by its side. In fact, the day is enjoyed by the people as a holiday. The snake is removed next day, and an idol in the form of a man made of mud is seated in its place. This idol is called Shirálshet, who is said once to have been a king and to have ruled over this earth for one and one-fourths of a ghataka, i.e., for half an hour only. This day, is observed as a day of rejoicing by the people. [742] The names of the snake deities are Takshaka, Vásuki and Shesha. Their shrines are at Kolhápur, Nágothane, Prayaga, Nágadeváchi Wádi and Subramhanya. A great fair is held every year at Battisa Shirále on the Nága panchami day.[#4] There is a shrine of a snake deity at Sávantwádi. The management of the shrine is in the hands of the State officials. It is believed that a real snake resides therein. [743] There is a shrine of a snake deity at Awás in the Alibág taluka of the Kolába District, where a great fair is held every year on the 14th day of the bright half of Kártik (November). It is said that persons suffering from snakebites recover when taken in time to this temple. [744] It is said that a covetous person who acquires great wealth during his life-time and dies without enjoying it, or without issue, becomes a snake after death, and guards his buried treasures. At Kolhápur there was a Sáwkár--money-lender--named Kodulkar who is said to have become a snake, and to guard his treasures. In the village of Kailava in the Panhála petha of the Kolhápur District there is a snake in the house of a Kulkarni, who scares away those who try to enter the storehouse of the Kulkarni. [745] It is a general belief among the Hindus that snakes guard treasures. It is said that there are certain places guarded by snakes in Goa territory. Persons who were compelled to abandon Portuguese territory owing to religious persecutions at the hands of the Portuguese buried their treasures beneath the ground. Those who died during exile are said to have become bhuts or ghosts, and it is believed that they guard their buried treasures in the form of snakes. [746] The Hindus generally believe that the snakes who guard buried treasures do not allow any one to go near them. The snake frightens those who try to approach, but when he wishes to hand over the treasure to anybody he goes to that person at night, and tells him in a dream that the treasure buried at such and such a place belongs to him, and requests him to take it over. After the person has taken possession of the treasure as requested, the snake disappears from the spot. [747] It is said that a snake which guards treasure is generally very old, white in complexion, and has long hair on its body. [748] Hindus worship the image of a snake made of Darbha grass or of silk thread on the Anant Chaturdashi day, i.e., the 14th day of the bright half of Ashvin (October), and observe that day as a holiday. Legends of the exploits of the god are related with music and singing on this day. [749] A snake festival is observed in the Nágeshwar temple at Awás in the Kolába District on the night of the 14th day of the bright half of Kártika (November). Nearly four hundred devotees of the god Shankar assemble in the temple, holding in their hands vetra-sarpa long cane sticks with snake images at their ends. They advance dancing and repeating certain words, and take turns round the temple till midnight. After getting the permission of the chief devotee, they scatter throughout the neighbouring villages with small axes in their hands, and cut down, and bring from the gardens, cocoanuts, plantains, and other edible things that are seen on their way. They return to the temple after two hours, the last man being the chief devotee called Kuwarkándya. The fruits are then distributed among the people assembled at the temple. Nobody interferes with them on this day in taking away cocoanuts and other fruits from the village gardens. On the next day they go dancing in the same manner to the Kanakeshwar hill with the snake sticks in their hands. [750] In the Deccan no special snake festivals like those described above are celebrated. But in the temples devoted to snake deities, on the full moon day of Kártik, which is sacred to the snake deity, the deity is worshipped with special pomp, and the crests of the temples are illuminated on that night. [751] The village cures for snakebite are:-- 1. The use of charmed water and the repetition of mantras by a sorcerer. 2. The use of certain roots and herbs as medicines. 3. The removal of the sufferer to the neighbouring temple. 4. Branding the wound with fire. 5. The drinking of soapnut juice, or of water in which copper coins have been boiled by the patient, who is thus made to vomit the snake poison. [752] In the Deccan a person suffering from snakebite is taken to a village temple, and the ministrant is requested to give him holy water. The deity is also invoked. Thus keeping the person for one night in the temple, he is carried to his house the following day if cured. The vows made to the deity for the recovery of the person are then fulfilled. There is one turabat, a tomb of Avalia a Mahomedan saint, at Panhála where persons suffering from snakebite are made to sit near the tomb, and it is said that they are cured. In some villages there are enchanted trees of Kadulimb where persons placed under the shade of such trees are cured of snakebites. Some people tie a stone round the neck of the sufferer as soon as he is better, repeating the words Adi Gudi Imám the name of a Mahomedan saint. After recovery from snakebite the person is taken to the mosque of the Adi Gudi Imám Sáheb, where the stone is untied before the tomb, and jágri equal to the weight of the stone is offered. A feast is also given to the Mujáwar or ministrant of the mosque. There is at present a famous enchanter--Mántrika--at Satára who cures persons suffering from snakebite. It is said that he throws charmed water on the body of the sufferer, and in a few minutes the snake begins to speak through the victim. The sorcerer enquires what the snake wants. The snake gives reasons for biting the person. When any thing thus asked for by the snake is offered, the victim comes to his senses, and is cured. There are many witnesses to the above fact. [753] At Mithbáv in the Ratnágiri District chickens numbering from twenty to twenty-five are applied to the wound caused by the snakebite. A chicken has the power of drawing out the poison from the body through the wound, but this causes the death of the chicken. The remedy above described is sure to be successful if it is tried within three hours of the person being bitten. There are several other medicines which act on the snakebite, but they must be given very promptly. There are some men in this village who give charmed water for snake or any other bites. Many persons suffering from snakebite have been cured by the use of mantras and charmed water. [754] Water from the tanks of Vetávare in the Sávantwádi State and Mánjare in Goa territory is generally used as medicine for snakebite. It is believed that by the power of mantras a snake can be prevented from entering or leaving a particular area. This process is called 'sarpa bándhane'. There are some sorcerers who can draw snakes out of their holes by the use of their mantras, and carry them away without touching them with their hands. [755] At Adivare, in the Rájápur taluka, roots of certain herbs are mixed in water and applied to the wound caused by the snakebite, and given to the sufferer to drink. [756] At Náringre in the Ratnágiri District, persons suffering from snakebite are given the juice of Kadulimb leaves, and are kept in the temple of Hanumán. The feet of the deity are washed with holy water, and the water is given to the victim to drink. [757] A snake is believed to have a white jewel or mani in its head, and it loses its life when this jewel is removed. This jewel has the power of drawing out the poison of snakebite. When it is applied to the wound, it becomes green, but when kept in milk for sometime, it loses its greenness and reverts to its usual white colour. It gives out to the milk all the poison that has been absorbed from the wound, and the milk becomes green. This jewel can be used several times as an absorbent of the poison of snakebite. The green milk must be buried under ground, so that it may not be used again by any one else. [758] It is believed that an old snake having long hair on its body has a jewel in its head. This jewel is compared with the colours of a rainbow. The snake can take this jewel from its head at night, and search for food in its lustre. Such snakes never come near the habitation of human beings, but always reside in the depth of the jungle. This species of snake is called Deva Sarpa, i.e., a snake belonging to a deity. It is related that a snake was born of a woman in the Kinkar's house at Tardál in the Sángli State, and another one in the Gabale's house at Kolhápur. [759] CHAPTER VIII. TOTEMISM AND FETISHISM. The worship of totems, or Devaks, prevails among Hindus in Western India. The term Devak is applied to the deity or deities worshipped at the beginning of a thread or a marriage ceremony. The ceremony is as follows: A small quantity of rice is put into a winnowing fan, and with it six small sticks of the Umbar tree, each covered with mango leaves and cotton thread. These are worshipped as deities. Near the winnowing fan is kept an earthen or copper vessel filled with rice, turmeric, red powder, betelnuts, sweet balls made of wheat flour, ghi and sugar; and on the top of the vessel is a small sprig of mango and a cocoanut covered with cotton thread. This vessel is also worshipped as a deity, and offerings of sweet eatables are made to it. After the worship of this vessel, the regular ceremony of Punyáhavachana is performed. Twenty-seven Mátrikás, or village and local deities, represented by betelnuts are consecrated in a new winnowing fan or a bamboo basket. Seven Mátrikás are made of mango leaves, six of which contain durva grass, and the seventh darbha grass. Each of them is bound with a raw cotton thread separately. They are worshipped along with a Kalasha or a copper lota as mentioned above. This copper lota is filled with rice, betelnuts, turmeric, etc., a sprig of mango leaves is placed on the lota, and a cocoanut is put over it. The lota is also bound with a cotton thread. Sandalpaste, rice, flowers, and durva grass are required for its worship. An oil lamp called Arati is waved round the devak, the parents, and the boy or the girl whose thread or marriage ceremony is to be performed. A Suwásini is called and requested to wave this Arati, and the silver coin which is put into the Arati by the parents is taken by her. The father takes the winnowing fan and the mother takes the Kalasha, and they are carried from the mandap to the devak consecrated in the house. A lighted lamp is kept continually burning near this devak till the completion of the ceremony. After completion of the thread or marriage ceremony the devak is again worshipped, and the ceremony comes to an end. The deity in the devak is requested to depart on the second or the fourth day from the date of its consecration. No mourning is observed during the period the devak remains installed in the house. Among Maráthás and many of the lower classes in the Ratnágiri District the branch of a Vad, Kadamba, mango, or an Apta tree is worshipped as their devak or kul. [760] Some Maráthás have a sword or a dagger as their devak, which is worshipped by them before commencing the ritual of the marriage ceremony. [761] The family known as Ráne at Náringre in the Davagad taluka of the Ratnágiri District, and the families known as Gadakari and Jádhava at Málwan, consider the Vad or Banian tree as their devak, and do not make use of its leaves. In the same manner, some people consider the Kadamba tree sacred to their family. [762] There are some people among the Hindus in Western India whose surnames are derived from the names of animals and plants, such as Boke, Lándage, Wágh, Dukre, Káwale, Garud, More, Mhase, Rede, Keer, Popat, Ghode, Shelár, Gáyatonde, Wághmáre, Shálunke, Bhende, Padwal, Wálke, Apte, Ambekar, Pimpalkhare, Kelkar and Kálke. The Hindus believe that a cow, a horse, and an elephant are sacred animals. The cow is treated with special respect by the Hindus in general, and the bull by the Lingáyats and oilmen. The milk, the urine, and the dung of a cow are used as medicines, and they are also given as offerings to the god in sacrifices. The Shelár family considers the sheep as their devak, and they do not eat the flesh of a sheep. The Shálunke family respects the Shálunki or sparrow. People belonging to the More family do not eat the flesh of a peacock as they consider it to be their devak. [763] The Bhandáris whose surname is Padwal do not eat the vegetable of a snake-gourd or Padwal. [764] Hindus do not eat the flesh of the animal respected by them, and those who offer any fruit to their guru as a token of respect do not eat that fruit in future. Some Hindus do not eat onions, garlic and the fruit of a palm tree. The fruit of a tree believed to be the devak of a family is not eaten by the members of that family. The families of Ráva and Ráne do not take their food on the leaf of a Vad or Banian tree as they consider it to be their devak. [765] There are some Hindu families in the Kolába District who believe that their kul or totem consists of the tortoise and the goat, and they do not eat the flesh of such animals. A certain community of the Vaishyas or traders known as Swár believe that a jack tree or Phanas is their kul, and they do not use the leaves of that tree. [766] It is believed among the Hindus that the deity Satwái protects children for the first three months from their birth. The deity is worshipped on the fifth day from the birth of a child, and if there occurs any omission or error in the worship of that deity, the child begins to cry, or does not keep good health. On such occasions the parents of the child make certain vows to the deity, and if the child recovers, the parents go to a jungle, and collect seven small stones. They then besmear the stones with red lead and oil, and worship them along with a she-goat in the manner in which the vow was promised to be fulfilled. [767] The horse is connected with the worship of the god Khandoba because this animal is sacred to that deity, being his favourite vehicle. For this reason all the devotees or Bhaktas of Khandoba take care to worship the horse in order that its master, the god Khandoba, may be pleased with them. It is well known that the cow is considered as most sacred of all the animals by the Hindus, and the reason assigned for this special veneration is that all the deities dwell in the cow. The Nandi, or a bullock made of stone, consecrated in front of the temple of Shiva, the Vágh or a tiger at the temple of a goddess and cows and dogs in the temple of Dattátraya are worshipped by the Hindus. The mouse, being the vehicle of Ganpati the god of wisdom, is worshipped by the people along with that god. In the Konkan cattle are worshipped by the Hindus on the first day of Kártika, and they are made to pass over fire. The mountains having caves and temples of deities are generally worshipped by the Hindus. The Abucha Pahád, the Girnár, the Panchmadhi, the Brahmagiri, the Sahyádri, the Tungár, the Jivadancha dongar, the Munja dongar at Junnar, the Tugábáicha dongar, the Ganesh Lene, and the Shivabai are the principal holy mountains in the Bombay Presidency. Mount Abu, known as the Abucha Pahád, is believed to be very sacred, and many Hindus go on a pilgrimage to that mountain. Hills are worshipped at Ganpati Pule and Chaul. At Pule there is a temple of the god Ganpati, the son of Shiva, and at Chaul in the Kolába District there is a temple of the god Dattátraya. The place which produces sound when water is poured over it is considered to be holy, and is worshipped by the people. In the Deccan, hills are worshipped by the people on the Narak chaturdashi day in Dipawáli, 14th day of the dark half of Ashvin (October). The legend of this worship is that the god Shri Krishna lifted the Govardhan mountain on this day, and protected the people of this world. A hill made of cowdung is worshipped at every house on the Narak chaturdashi day. [768] Stones of certain kinds are first considered as one of the deities, or as one of the chief heroes in the family, and then worshipped by the people. Many such stones are found worshipped in the vicinity of any temple. A stone coming out of the earth with a phallus or lingam of Shiva is worshipped by the Hindus. If such a lingam lies in a deep jungle, it is worshipped by them at least once a year, and daily, if practicable, in the month of Adhikamás, an intercalary month which comes every third year. [769] The red stones found in the Narmada river represent the god Ganpati, and are worshipped by the people. A big stone at Phutaka Tembha near Murud in the Ratnágiri District is worshipped by the people, who believe it to be the monkey god Hanumán or Máruti. All the stone images of gods that are called Swayambhu or self-existent are nothing but rough stones of peculiar shapes. There are such swayambhu--natural-images--at Kelshi and Kolthare in the Ratnágiri District. [770] There is a big stone at Palshet in the Ratnágiri District which is worshipped as Kálikádevi. [771] Stones are sometimes worshipped by the people in the belief that they are haunted by evil spirits. We have for example a stone called Mora Dhonda lying by the seashore at Málwan in the Ratnágiri District. It is supposed to be haunted by Devachár. [772] The stones which are once consecrated and worshipped as deities have to be continually worshipped, even when perforated. The small, round, white stone slab known as Vishnu pada, which is naturally perforated, is considered to be holy, and is worshipped daily by the Hindus along with the other images of gods. The holes in this slab do not extend right through. [773] It is considered inauspicious to worship the fractured images of gods, but the perforated black stone called Sháligrám, taken from the Gandaki river, is considered very holy, and worshipped by the people. For it is believed to be perforated from its very beginning. Every Sháligrám has a hole in it, even when it is in the river. [774] Broken stones are not worshipped by the people. But the household gods of the Bráhmans and other higher classes which are called the Pancháyatan--a collection of five gods--generally consist of five stones with holes in them. [775] No instances of human sacrifices occur in India in these days, but there are many practices and customs which appear to be the survivals of human sacrifices. These survivals are visible in the offerings of fowls, goats, buffaloes, and fruits like cocoanuts, brinjals, the Kohále or pumpkin gourd and others. Human sacrifices are not practised in these days, but among the Karháda Bráhmans there is a practice of giving poison to animals in order to satisfy their family deity. It is said that they used to kill a Bráhman by giving him poisoned food. It is believed that the people belonging to the caste of Karháda Bráhmans used to offer human sacrifices to their deity, and therefore nobody relies on a Karháda Bráhman in these days. There is a proverb in Maráthi which means that a man can trust even a Kasái or a butcher but not a Karháda. As they cannot offer human sacrifices in these days, it is said that during the Navarátra holidays, i.e., the first nine days of the bright half of Ashvin (October), they offer poisoned food to crows, dogs and other animals. [776] At Kálshe in the Málwan taluka of the Ratnágiri District, the servants of gods, i.e., the ministrants or the Bhopis of the temple prick their breast with a knife on the Dasara day, and cry out loudly the words 'Koya' 'Koya'. No blood comes from the breast as the wound is slight. This appears to be a survival of human sacrifice. [777] In the Bombay Presidency, and more especially in the Konkan districts, fetish stones are generally worshipped for the purpose of averting evil and curing diseases. In every village stones are found sacred to spirit deities like Bahiroba, Chedoba, Khandoba, Mhasoba, Zoting, Vetál, Jakhái, Kokái, Kalkái and others. The low class people such as Mahárs, Mángs, etc., apply red lead and oil to stones, and call them by one of the above names, and ignorant people are very much afraid of such deities. They believe that such deities have control over all the evil spirits or ghosts. It is said that the spirit Vetál starts to take a round in a village on the night of the no-moon day of every month, accompanied by all the ghosts. When any epidemic prevails in a village, people offer to these fetish stones offerings of eatables, cocoanuts, fowls and goats. There is a stone deity named Bhávai at Kokisare in the Bávada State, to whom vows are made by the people to cure diseases. As the deity is in the burning ground, it is naturally believed that this is the abode of spirits. [778] At Achare, in the Málwan taluka of the Ratnágiri District, the round stones known as Kshetrapál are supposed to possess the power of curing diseases, and are also believed to be the abode of spirits. [779] At Adivare, in the Ratnágiri District, there is a stone named Mahár Purukha which is worshipped by the people when cattle disease prevails, especially the disease of a large tick or the cattle or dog louse. [780] At Ubhádánda, in the Ratnágiri District, there are some stones which are believed to be haunted by Vetál, Bhutnáth, Rawalnáth and such other servants of the god Shiva, and it is supposed that they have the power of curing epidemic diseases. People make vows to these stones when any disease prevails in the locality. [781] The Hindus generally consider as sacred all objects that are the means of their livelihood, and, for this reason, the oilmen worship their oil-mill, the Bráhmans hold in veneration the sacred thread--Yadnopavit,--and religious books, the goldsmiths consider their firepots as sacred, and do not touch them with their feet. In case any one accidently happens to touch them with his foot, he apologises and bows to them. It is believed by the Hindus that the broom, the winnowing fan, the páyali--a measure of four shers--the Samai or sweet-oil lamp, a metal vessel, fire and Sahán or the levigating slab should not be touched with foot. The metals gold, silver, and copper, the King's coins, jewels and pearls, corns, the Sháligrám stone, the Ganpati stone from the Narmada river, conch-shell, sacred ashes, elephant tusks, the horns of a wild ox (Gava), tiger skin, deer skin, milk, curds, ghi, cow's urine, Bel, basil leaves or Tulsi, cocoanuts, betelnuts, and flowers are considered as sacred by the Hindus, and no one will dare to touch them with his foot. Hindus worship annually on the Dasara day the arms and all the instruments or implements by which they earn their livelihood. The corn sieve, the winnowing basket, the broom, the rice-pounder, the plough, the Awuta or wood bill, and other such implements are worshipped on this day. The agriculturists respect their winnowing fans and corn sieves, and do not touch them with their feet. In the Kolhápur District all the instruments and implements are worshipped by the people one day previous to the Dasara holiday. This worship is called Khándepujan. They also worship all agricultural instruments, and tie to them leaves of Pipal and mango trees. [782] A new winnowing fan is considered to be holy by the Hindus. It is filled with rice, fruits, cocoanuts and betelnuts, and a Khana--a piece of bodicecloth--is spread over it. It is then worshipped and given to a Bráhman lady in fulfilment of certain vows, or on the occasion of the worship of a Bráhman Dampatya or married pair. The broom is considered to be holy by the Hindus. Red powder--Kunku--is applied to a new broom before it is taken into use. It should not be touched with the feet. At Rewadanda, in the Kolába District, some people worship a wood-bill or Koyata on the 6th day from the birth of a child. The rice-pounder, or Musal, is worshipped by them as a devak at the time of thread and marriage ceremonies. [783] Fire is considered to be holy among the high class Hindus. It is considered as an angel that conveys the sacrificial offerings from this earth to the gods in heaven. It is considered as one of the Hindu deities, and worshipped daily by high class Hindus. A Bráhman has to worship the fire every day in connection with the ceremony Vaishwadeva--oblations of boiled rice and ghi given to the fire. It is also worshipped by the Hindus on special religious occasions. Fire is worshipped at the time of Yadnas or Sacrifices. Sacrifices are of five kinds. They are:-- Devayadna, Bhutayadna or Brahmayadna, Rishiyadna or Atithiyadna, Pitruyadna and Manushyayadna. The offerings of rice, ghi, firewood, Til or sesamum, Java or barley, etc. are made in these yadnas. It is also worshipped at the time of Shrávani or Upákarma--the ceremony of renewing the sacred thread annually in the month of Shrávan. [784] Among the lower classes fire is worshipped on the Mahálaya or Shráddha day. They throw oblations of food into the fire on that day. The fire produced by rubbing sticks of the Pipal or Shevari tree is considered sacred, and it is essentially necessary that the sacred fire required for the Agnihotra rites should be produced in the manner described above. Agnihotra is a perpetual sacred fire preserved in Agnikunda,--a hole in the ground for receiving and preserving consecrated fire. A Bráhman, who has to accept the Agnihotra, has to preserve in his house the sacred fire day and night after his thread ceremony, and to worship it three times a day after taking his bath. When an Agnihotri dies, his body is burnt by the people who prepare fire by rubbing sticks of Pipal wood together. [785] There are some Bráhmans who keep the fire continuously burning in their houses only for Cháturmás or four months of the year. The fire which is preserved and worshipped for four months is called "Smárta Agni." [786] CHAPTER IX. ANIMAL WORSHIP. The following animals, birds and insects are respected by the Hindus:--The cow, bullock, she-buffalo, horse, elephant, tiger, deer, mouse, goat, ants and alligators; and among the birds the following are held sacred:--Peacock, swan, eagle and kokil or cuckoo. Of all the animals the cow is considered to be the most sacred by Hindus. It is generally worshipped daily in the morning for the whole year, or at least for the Cháturmás or four months beginning from the 11th day of the bright half of Ashádha to the 11th day of the bright half of the month of Kártika; and a special worship is offered to it in the evening on the 12th day of the dark half of Ashvin (October). The cow is believed to be the abode of all the deities and rishis. It is compared with the earth in its sacredness, and it is considered that when it is pleased it is capable of giving everything required for the maintenance of mankind, and for this reason it is styled the Káma Dhenu or the giver of desired objects. It is said that a person who walks round the cow at the time of its delivery obtains the punya or merit of going round the whole earth. The cow is even worshipped by the god Vishnu. The cow is considered next to a mother, as little children and the people in general are fed by the milk of a cow. Some women among high class Hindus take a vow not to take their meals before worshipping the cow, and when the cow is not available for worship, they draw in turmeric, white or red powder the cow's foot-prints and worship the same. At the completion of the vow it is worshipped, and then given as a gift to a Bráhman. It is considered very meritorious to give a Gopradán--a gift of a cow along with its calf--to a Bráhman. The sight of a cow in the morning is believed by all Hindus to be auspicious. The bullock is respected by the people as it is the favourite vehicle of the god Shiva, and is very useful for agricultural purposes. The Nandi or bull is worshipped by Hindus. The bullock is specially worshipped on the 12th day of the bright half of Kártika. When performing the funeral rites of the dead, a bull is worshipped and set free. The bull thus set free is considered sacred by the people, and is never used again for agricultural or any other domestic purposes. In order to avoid calamities arising from the influence of inauspicious planets, Hindus worship the she-buffalo, and offer it as a gift to a Bráhman. The she-buffalo is compared with the Kál Purusha or the god of Death, the reason being that Yama is believed to ride a buffalo. The Bráhman who accepts this gift has to shave his moustaches and to undergo a certain penance. The cowherds sometimes worship the she-buffalo. As it is the vehicle of Yama, the buffalo is specially worshipped by people when an epidemic occurs in a village. In certain villages in the Konkan districts the buffalo is worshipped and sacrificed on the same day. The horse is the vehicle of the deity Khandoba of Jejuri. It is worshipped on the Vijaya Dashami or the Dasara holiday as in former days, on the occasion of the horse sacrifice or Ashwamedha. The elephant is the vehicle of the god Indra and is specially worshipped on the Dasara day. It is also believed that there are eight sacred elephants posted at the eight directions. These are called Ashtadik-Pálas, i.e., the protectors of the eight different directions, and they are worshipped along with other deities on auspicious ceremonial occasions, like weddings, thread-girding, etc. The deer and the tiger are considered to be holy by Hindus, and their skins are used by Bráhmans and ascetics while performing their austerities. The deer skin is used on the occasion of thread girding. A small piece of the deer skin is tied to the neck of the boy along with the new sacred thread. The mouse, being the vehicle of the god Ganpati, is worshipped along with that deity on the Ganesh Chaturthi day, the fourth day of the bright half of Bhádrapada. The goat is believed to be holy for sacrificial purposes. It is worshipped at the time of its sacrifice, which is performed to gain the favour of certain deities. The ass is generally considered as unholy by the Hindus, and its mere touch is held to cause pollution. But certain lower class Hindus like the Lonáris consider it sacred, and worship it on the Gokul Ashtami day (8th day of the dark half of Shráwan). The dog is believed to be an incarnation of the deity Khandoba, and it is respected as the favourite animal of the god Dattátraya. But it is not touched by high class Hindus. It is considered a great sin to kill a cat. All domestic animals are worshipped by the Hindus on the morning of the first day of Márgashirsha (December). On this day the horns of these animals are washed with warm water, painted with red colours, and a lighted lamp is passed round their faces. They are feasted on this day as it is considered to be the gala day (Diváli holiday) of the animals. Hindus consider it meritorious to feed ants and fish, and to throw grain to the birds. Ants are fed by the people scattering sugar and flour on the ant-hills. It is believed that, by feeding the ants with sugar or flour, a person obtains the Punya or merit of sahasrabhojan, i.e., of giving a feast to a thousand Bráhmans. Alligators are worshipped as water deities by the Hindus. The peacock is the favourite vehicle of Saraswati, the Goddess of Learning, and it is therefore respected by the people. The swan is the vehicle of Brahma, the god of creation. The eagle is the vehicle of the god Vishnu, and is a favourite devotee of that deity. It is therefore held sacred by Hindus. The cuckoo or Kokil is believed to be an incarnation of the goddess Párwati. This bird is specially worshipped by high caste Hindu women for the period of one month on the occasion of a special festival called the festival of the cuckoos, or Kokila vrata, which is held in the month of Ashádha at intervals of twenty years. The crow is generally held inauspicious by Hindus, but as the manes or pitras are said to assume the form of crows, these birds are respected in order that they may be able to partake of the food offered to the dead ancestors in the dark half of Bhádrapada called Pitrupaksha. It is necessary that the oblations given in performance of the funeral rites on the tenth day after the death of a person should be eaten by the crow. But if the crow refuses to touch these oblations, it is believed that the soul of the dead has not obtained salvation; and hence it is conjectured that certain wishes of the dead have remained unfulfilled. The son or the relatives of the dead then take water in the cavity of their right hand, and solemnly promise to fulfil the wishes of the dead. When this is done, the crow begins to eat the food. The harsh sound of a crow is taken as a sure sign of an impending mishap. The dog, cat, pig, ass, buffalo, rat, bhálu, an old female jackal, lizard, and the birds cock, crow, kite, vulture, owl, bat, and pingla are considered as unholy and inauspicious by Hindus. CHAPTER X. WITCHCRAFT. Chetak is an art secretly learnt by women. It is a form of the black art. A woman well versed in the mantras of chetak can do any mischief she chooses. She can kill a child or turn any person into a dog or other animal by the power of her incantations. The Chetakin can remove all the hair from the head of a woman, or scatter filth, etc. in a person's house, make marks of crosses with marking nuts on all the clothes, or play many other such tricks without betraying a trace of the author of the mischief. The chetakins are able to mesmerize a man and order him to do anything they want. A Chetakin or witch cannot herself appear in the form of an animal. They follow revolting forms of ceremonies. All witches who have learnt the black art meet at night once a month on the Amávásya day or no moon day of every month, at a burning ground outside the village. On such occasions they go quite naked, and apply turmeric and red powders to the body and forehead. While coming to the cremation ground they bring on their heads burning coals in an earthen pot called Kondi. At this meeting they repeat their mantras, and take care that none are forgotten. After completing the repetition of the mantras, they go round the village and return to their respective houses. They have no special haunts or seasons. In the Kolhápur District the woman who is in possession of a chetak is called chetakin. The chetak is said to abide by her orders. It is believed to bring corn and other things from houses or harvesting grounds. It is seen only by its mistress the chetakin. The belief that the chetakins can turn a person into the form of an animal does not prevail in this district. They do not wander from one place to another. The chetakin has to go once a year to the temple of the deity from whom the chetak has been brought, and to pay the annual tribute for the use of that chetak or servant spirit. [787] There are no witches in the Ratnágiri District. It is said that there are some at Kolwan in the Thána District. They are generally found among Thákars. Some of them come to the Ratnágiri District, but though no one can tell anything about their powers, ignorant people are very much afraid of them. [788] It is believed that they can turn persons into animals by means of their incantations. The person once charmed by their mantras is said to blindly abide by their orders. It is also believed that they can ruin anybody by their magic. There are no witches at Rái in the Thána District. The woman who can influence evil spirits to do harm to others is called a Bhutáli. It is said that the Bhutális assemble at the funeral ground in a naked state on the full-moon day and on the Amávásya, or the last day of every month, to refresh their knowledge of the black art. [789] A witch has dirty habits and observances. The chief sign for detecting a witch or chetakin is a foam or froth that appears on the lips of her mouth when she is asleep. The only means to guard against her witchcraft is to remain on friendly terms with her, and not to hurt her feelings on any occasion. People generally keep a watch over the actions of a woman who is suspected to be a witch, and if she is found practising her black art, and is caught red-handed, people then pour into her mouth water brought from the shoe-maker's earthen pot or kundi. It is believed that, when she is compelled to drink such water, her black art becomes ineffective. [790] In the Thána District it is believed that the skin round the eyes of a witch is always black, her eyes have an intoxicated appearance, her nails are generally parched and have a darkish colour, and the lower portions of her feet seem to be scraped. When any sorcerer gives out the name of such a Bhutáli, she is threatened by the people that, should she continue to give trouble in the village, her own black art or another spirit would be set against her; and she then ceases to give trouble. [791] There are some sorcerers in the Thána District who can move a small brass cup or váti by the power of their magic. They can detect a witch by the movement of this vessel. When the brass vessel or váti reaches the house of a witch, it at once settles upon the witch's head. She is then threatened by the people that she will be driven out of the village if found practising her black art. [792] In the Kolhápur District, when the people come to know of the existence of a witch in their village, they take special precautions at the time of harvest. They arrange to harvest a different kind of grain to the one selected for harvesting by the witch. After some time they go to the field of the witch, and discover whether there is a mixture of grain in her field. If they are convinced of the fact, they take further precautions. In order to avoid being troubled by the chetak, they keep an old, worn out shoe or sandal and a charmed copper amulet under the eaves at the main door of their houses, or make crosses with marking nut on both sides of a door. At some places chunam spots or circles are marked on the front of a house, the object being to guard against the evil effects of the chetak's tricks. [793] CHAPTER XI. GENERAL. Offerings of cocoanuts, fowls or goats are annually made to the spirits that guard the fields. They are generally made at the time of beginning a plantation or the harvesting of a crop. When making these offerings, the farmers pray to the god to give prosperous crops every year. They prepare their cooked food in the field on the first harvesting day and offer it as naivedya (god's meal) along with the above mentioned offerings. [794] At Bándivade in the Ratnágiri District, while commencing the sowing of crops the farmers worship a certain number of bullocks made of rice flour and then throw them into the pond or river adjoining the fields. On other occasions, offerings of cocoanuts and fowls are sacrificed to the deities that protect the fields. Some people give a feast to the Bráhmans at the end of the harvesting season. [795] Ceremonies in connection with ploughing, etc., are not observed for all the lands. But fields which are supposed to be haunted by evil spirits are worshipped at the time of ploughing, and the evil spirits are propitiated, cocoanuts, sugar, fowls or goats are offered to the local deities or devachárs. There is a custom of worshipping in the fields the heaps of new corn at the time of harvest, and this custom generally prevails in almost all the Konkan districts. [796] At Fonda in the Ratnágiri District the Shiwar generally composed of boiled rice mixed with curds is kept at the corner of a field at the time of reaping the crops. The Shiwar is sometimes composed of the offerings of fowls and goats. [797] This ritual is also known by the name Chorawa. [798] At Dásgáv in the Kolába District, there is a custom of carrying one onion in the corn taken to the fields for sowing and placing five handfuls of corn on a piece of cloth before beginning to sow the corn. At the time of Láwani or plantation of crops a fair called Palejatra is held by the people, and every farmer breaks a cocoanut in the field at the time of plantation or lávani of crops. At the time of harvesting it is customary with many of the cultivators in the Konkan to place a cocoanut in the field and to thrash it by the first bundle of crop several times before the regular operation of thrashing is begun. At the close of the harvest the peasants offer cocoanuts, fowls or a goat to the guardian deity of the field. [799] At Váda in the Thána District the ploughs are worshipped by the farmers on Saturday and then carried to the fields for ploughing. At the time of harvesting, the wooden post to which the bullocks are tied is worshipped by them and at the close of the harvest the heap of new corn is worshipped and cocoanuts are broken over it. [800] In the Kolhápur District the farmers worship the plough before beginning to plough the land. At the time of sowing the corn they worship the Kuri an implement for sowing corn. At the time of Ropani or transplanting the crops they split a cocoanut, and worship the stone consecrated by the side of the field after besmearing it with red powders, and make a vow of sacrificing a goat for the prosperity of their crops. At the time of harvesting they also worship the heap of new corn and after giving to the deity offerings of cocoanuts, fowls or goats they carry the corn to their houses. [801] In the Konkan districts the village deity is invoked to protect the cattle. People offer fowls and cocoanuts in the annual fair of a village deity, and request her to protect their cattle and crops. They have to offer a goat or buffalo to the deity every third year, and to hold annual fairs in her honour. The procession of bali is one of the measures adopted for averting cattle diseases. [802] When there was scarcity of rain the Hindus formerly invoked Indra, the god of rain, by means of Yadnyas or sacrifices, but such sacrifices are now rarely performed as they are very costly. The general method of ensuring rainfall in these days is to drown the Lingam of the god Shiva in water and to offer prayers to that deity. [803] The following rural rites are intended to ensure sunshine and to check excessive rain. A man born in the month of Fálgun (March) is requested to collect rain water in the leaf of the Alu plant, and the leaf is then tied to a stick and kept on the roof of a house. Burning coals are also thrown into rainwater after passing them between the legs of a person born in the month of Fálgun. [804] In order to protect the crops from wild pig the people of Umbergáon in the Thána District post in their fields twigs of Ayan tree on the Ganesh Chaturthi (fourth day of the bright half of Bhádrapada or September) day every year. [805] In the Kolhápur District the deities Tamjái, Tungái, and Wághái are invoked by the villagers for the protection of cattle. When the cattle disease has disappeared the people offer cocoanuts and other offerings to these deities. The potters and the Chudbude Joshis observe the following ceremony for causing rainfall. A lingam or phallus of Shiva made of mud is consecrated on a wooden board or pát, and a naked boy is asked to hold it over his head. The boy carries it from house to house and the inmates of the houses pour water over the phallus. The Bráhmans and the high class Hindus pour water on the lingam at the temple of the god Shiva continuously for several days. This is called Rudrábhisheka. It is a religious rite in which eleven Bráhmans are seated in a temple to repeat the prayers of the god Shiva. In order to scare noxious animals or insects from the fields, the owners of the fields throw charmed rice round the boundaries of their fields. The figure of a tiger made of dry leaves of sugarcane is posted at a conspicuous place in the fields for protecting the crops of sugarcane. [806] Great secrecy is required to be observed on the occasion of the special puja of Shiva which is performed on the first day of the bright half of the month of Bhádrapada (September). This rite is called Maunya vrata or silent worship, and should be performed only by the male members of the family. On this day all the members of the family have to remain silent while taking their meals. Women do not speak while cooking, as the food which is to be offered to the god must be cooked in silence. [807] Newly married girls have to perform the worship of Mangala Gauri successively for the first five years on every Tuesday in the month of Shráwan (August), and it is enjoined that they should not speak while taking their meals on that day. Some people do not speak while taking their meals on every Monday of Shráwan, and others make a vow of observing silence and secrecy at their meals every day. All Bráhmans have to remain silent when going to the closet and making water. [808] Certain persons observe silence at their meals during the period of four months (Cháturmás) commencing from the 11th day of the bright half of Ashádha (July) to the 11th day of the bright half of Kártik (November). Certain classes of Hindus observe the penance of secrecy in the additional month that occurs at the lapse of every third year. [809] Silence is essential at the time of performing certain austerities such as Sandhya, worshipping the gods, and the repetition of the Brahma Gáyatri mantra and other such mantras. Secrecy is specially observed when a disciple is initiated by his Guru or spiritual guide with the sacred mantras or incantations. [810] Secrecy and silence are essential when learning the mantras on snakebite, on evil eye and the evil spirit of Vetál. All followers of the Shákta sect must worship the goddess (Durga) very secretly. Silence is also observed by people in welcoming to their homes and worshipping the goddess Párvati or Gauri in the bright half of Bhádrapada every year. [811] At Váde in the Thána District, one day previous to the planting of rice crops the farmer has to go to his field even before day break with five balls of boiled rice, cocoanuts and other things. There he worships the guardian deity of the field and buries the balls of rice underground. He has to do it secretly and has to remain silent during the whole period. He is also forbidden to look behind while going to the field for the purpose. [812] Secrecy and silence are observed when performing the rites of Chetuks and evil spirits or ghosts. Widow remarriages among the lower classes are performed secretly. The pair wishing to be remarried is accompanied by a Bráhman priest and the marriage is performed apart from the house. The priest applies red lead (Kunku) to the forehead of the bride and throws grains of rice over their heads and a stone mortar or páta is touched to the backbone of the bride. The priest then turns his face and walks away silently. [813] The Holi is a religious festival. It is annually celebrated in memory of the death of Kámdev the God of Love who was destroyed by the god Shankar on the full moon day of Fálgun (March). The object of this festival appears to have been a desire to abstain from lust by burning in the Holi fire all vicious thoughts and desires. As a rule, females do not take any part in this festival. In the Konkan districts the annual festival of Holi begins from the fifth day of the bright half of Fálgun (March). Boys from all the localities of a village assemble at a place appointed for the Holi. The place appointed for kindling the Holi is not generally changed. The boys then go from house to house asking for firewood, and bring it to the Holi spot. They arrange the firewood and other combustible articles around the branch of a mango, betelnut or a Sáwar tree in the pit dug out for the purpose and then set it on fire. After kindling the sacred fire they take five turns round the Holi accompanied with the beating of drums and raise loud cries of obscene words. After this they play the Indian games of Atyápátya and Khokho and occasionally rob the neighbouring people of their firewood and other combustible articles. At the close of these games they daub their foreheads with sacred ashes gathered from the Holi fire. They consider these ashes especially auspicious and carry them home for the use of the other members of their families. This process is continued every night till the close of the fullmoon day. Elderly persons take part in this festival only during the last few days. On the fullmoon day all the males of the village, including old men, start after sunset for the Holi spot, collecting on their way pieces of firewood from all the houses in the locality and arrange them in the manner described above. After having arranged the Holi, the officiating priest recites sacred verses and the puja is performed by the mánkari of the village. This mánkari or pátil is either the headman or some other leading person of the village and to him belongs the right of kindling the Holi fire first. Some persons kindle a small Holi in front of their houses and worship it individually, but they can take part in the public Holi. In the towns the Holis of different localities are kindled separately while in small villages there is only one for every village. At Vijaydurg in the Ratnágiri District a hen is tied to the top of a tree or a bamboo placed in the pit dug out for kindling the Holi fire. The fowl tied to the top of the bamboo is called Shit. A small quantity of dry grass is first burnt at the bottom of this tree when the Mahárs beat their drums. The Shit (fowl) is then removed from the tree after it is half burnt and taken by the Mahárs. The Holi fire is then worshipped and kindled by the Gurav. Worshipping and kindling the Holi and taking the Shit (fowl) are considered as high honours. Occasionally quarrels and differences arise over this privilege and they are decided by the village Panch. [814] After the kindling of the Holi the people assembled there offer to the Holi a Naivedya (god's meal) of poli--a sweet cake made of Jagri, wheat flour and gram pulse. Cocoanuts from all the houses in the village are thrown into this sacred fire. Some of these cocoanuts are afterwards taken out of the sacred fire, cut into pieces, mixed with sugar and are distributed among the people assembled as prasád or favoured gift. Lower classes of Hindus offer a live goat to the Holi, take it out when it is half burnt and feast thereon. On the night of the fullmoon day and the first day of the dark half of Fálgun, the people assembled at the Holi fire wander about the village, enter gardens and steal plantains, cocoanuts and other garden produce. Robbery of such things committed during these days is considered to be pardonable. Some people take advantage of this opportunity for taking revenge on their enemies in this respect. The fire kindled at the Holi on the fullmoon day is kept constantly burning till the Rangpanchami day i.e., fifth day of the dark half of Fálgun. Next morning i.e., on the first day of the dark half of Fálgun, the people boil water over that fire and use it for the purpose of bathing. It is believed that water boiled on the sacred fire has the power of dispelling all the diseases from the body. People go on dancing in the village and sing songs for the next five days. They generally sing Lávanis, a kind of ballad, during this festival. Among these dancers a boy is dressed like a girl and is called Rádha. This Rádha has to dance at every house while the others repeat Lávanis. The second day of the dark half of Fálgun is called Dhulvad or dust day when people start in procession through the village, and compel the males of every house to join the party. They thus go to the Holi fire and raise loud cries of obscene words throwing mud and ashes upon each other. They afterwards go to the river or a pond to take their bath at noon time and then return to their houses. The third day of the dark half is also spent like the previous one with a slight difference which is that cow dung is used instead of mud. This day is called Shenwad day. On the fourth day the Dhunda Rákshahasin (a demon goddess) is worshipped by the people, and the day is spent in making merry and singing obscene songs called Lávanis. The fifth day of the dark half is known as Rangpanchami day and is observed by the people in throwing coloured water upon each other. Water in which Kusumba and other colours are mixed is carried in large quantity on bullock carts through the streets of a city and sprinkled on the people passing through these streets. On this day the sacred fire of the Holi is extinguished by throwing coloured water over it. This water is also thrown upon the persons assembled at the Holi. The money collected as post during this period is utilised in feasting and drinking. At Ibrámpur in the Ratnágiri District the image of cupid is seated in a palanquin and carried with music from the temple to the Holi ground. The palanquin is then placed on a certain spot. The place for thus depositing the image of the god is called Sáhán. [815] At Náringre there is a big stone called Holdev which is worshipped by the people before kindling the Holi fire. [816] After the kindling of the sacred fire the palanquin is lifted from the Sáhán, and turned round the Holi fire with great rejoicings. The palanquin is then carried through the village and is first taken to the house of a Mánkari, and then from house to house during the next five days. The inmates of the houses worship the deity in the palanquin and offer cocoanuts and other fruits and make certain vows. The palanquin is taken back to the temple on the fifth day of the dark half of Fálgun when on its way gulál or red powder is thrown over the image and on the people who accompany it. [817] Among high class Hindus the thread girding ceremony of a boy is performed when he attains puberty. The girls are generally married at an early age, and when a girl attains puberty, sugar is distributed among the friends and relatives of her husband. She is then seated in a Makhar--a gaily dressed frame. Dishes of sweets which are brought by the girl's parents and the relatives of her husband are given to her for the first three days. She takes her bath on the fourth day accompanied by the playing of music and the beating of drums. Sweetmeats in dishes are brought by the relatives till the day of Rutushanti (the first bridal night). The Garbhádán or Rutushánti ceremony is one of the sixteen ceremonies that are required to be performed during the life of every Hindu. This ceremony is performed within the first sixteen days from the girl's attaining her puberty, the 4th, 7th, 9th, 11th and the 13th being considered inauspicious for this purpose. While performing this ceremony the following three rites are required to be observed. They are Ganpatipujan or the worship of the god Ganpati, Punhyáhavachan or the special ceremony for invoking divine blessings and Navagrahashánti the ceremony for propitiating the nine planets. The ritual of this ceremony is as follows:-- The husband and the wife are seated side by side on wooden boards to perform the above three rites. The Kadali pujan or plantain tree worship is performed by the pair. The sacred fire or Homa is required to be kindled. The juice of the Durwa grass is then poured into the right nostril of the bride by her husband. This is intended to expel all diseases from the body of the girl and to secure safe conception. They are then seated in a Makhar, and presents of clothes, ornaments etc., are made by the parents of the girl and other relatives. After this the husband fills the lap of the girl with rice, a cocoanut, five betelnuts, five dry dates, five almonds, five plantains and five pieces of turmeric. The girl is then carried to a temple accompanied by the playing of music. A grand feast is given to the friends and relatives at the close of this ceremony. The Hindus generally make various kinds of vows in order to procure offspring or with some other such object, and fulfil them when they succeed in getting their desire. The following are the different kinds of vows made. They offer cocoanuts, sugar, plantains and other fruits, costly new dresses and ornaments to the deities, and give feasts to Bráhmans. Special ceremonies called Laghurudra and Mahárudra in honour of Shiva the god of destruction are also performed. Sweetmeats such as pedhas etc. are offered to the gods in fulfilment of vows. Some people make vows to observe fasts, to feed Bráhmans, and to distribute coins and clothes to the poor; while others hang torana-wreaths of flowers and mango leaves--on the entrance of the temple, and hoist flags over it. Rich people erect new temples to different Hindu deities. Some observe fasts to propitiate the goddess Chandika and worship her during Navarátra the first nine days of the bright half of Ashvin (October) and others offer fowls and goats to their favourite deities. Women make it a vow to walk round the Audumbar or Pipal tree, and to distribute cocoanuts, sugar, jagri, copper or silver equal to the weight of their children. Vows are made by people with the object of securing health, wealth and children and other desired objects such as education etc. They are as follows:-- Performing the worship of Shri Satya Náráyan, offering clothes and ornaments to the temple deities, hanging bells, constructing a foot path or steps leading to the temple of the special deity. [818] Vows are also made to obtain freedom from disease or such other calamities. When any person in the family becomes ill or when a sudden calamity befalls a family an elderly member of the family goes to the temple of a deity and makes certain vows according to his means, fulfilling them as soon as the calamity or disease has disappeared. [819] Vows are usually to perform acts of benevolence. These consist in distributing cocoanut mixed in sugar, giving feasts to Bráhman priests, observing fasts on Saturday, Tuesday and Sunday, offering clothes and ornaments to deities, building new temples and guest houses (dharmshálás), digging out new wells and in distributing clothes and food to the poor. [820] At Khopoli in the Kolába District, people who have no children or whose children die shortly after birth make a vow to the Satwái deity whose temple is at a short distance from Khopoli. The vow is generally to bring the child to the darshana (sight) of the deity and to feed five or more (married) Bráhman pairs. Such vows are fulfilled after the birth of a child. Some worship the god Satya Náráyan on a grand scale and others propitiate the god Shiva by the ceremony of Abhisheka (water sprinkling). [821] Some offer nails made of gold or silver to the goddess Shitala after the recovery of a child suffering from small pox. Eyes and other parts of the body made of gold and silver are also occasionally offered in fulfilment of vows. People abstain from eating certain things till the vows are fulfilled. [822] Vows are made in times of difficulties and sorrow. The person afflicted with sorrow or misfortune prays to his favourite deity and promises to offer particular things or to perform special ceremonies, and fulfils his vows when his desired objects are attained. The ceremonies commonly observed for these purposes are the special pujás of Satya Náráyan and Satya Vináyak. Native Christians make their vows to their saints and Mot-Mávali (Mother Mary) in the taluka of Salsette. [823] There is a shrine of the god Shankar at Kanakeshwar a village on the sea side two miles from Mithbáv in the Ratnágiri District. Many years ago it so happened that a rich Mahomedan merchant was carrying his merchandise in a ship. The ship foundered in a storm at a distance of about two or three miles from Kanakeshwar. When the vessel, seemed to be on the point of sinking the merchant despairing of his life and goods, made a vow to erect a nice temple for the Hindu shrine of Kanakeshwar if he, his vessel and its cargo were saved. By the grace of God the vessel weathered the storm and he arrived safely in his country with the merchandise. In fulfilment of this vow he erected a good temple over the shrine of Shri Shankar at Kanakeshwar, which cost him about rupees six thousand. This temple is in good condition to the present day. Many such vows are made to special deities. When the people get their desired objects they attribute the success to the favour of the deity invoked, but when their expectations are not fulfilled they blame their fate and not the deity. [824] In the Konkan districts there are some persons who practise black art of several kinds such as Chetak, Járan, Máran and Uchátan. Chetak is a kind of evil spirit brought from the temple of the goddess Italái of the Konkan districts. It is brought for a fixed or limited period, and an annual tribute is required to be paid to the goddess for the services. Another kind of black art widely practised in the Konkan districts is known by the name of Muth márane. In this art the sorcerer prepares an image of wheat flour, and worships it with flowers, incense, etc. A lemon pierced with a number of pins is then placed before the image. The sorcerer begins to pour spoonfuls of water mixed with Jagri on the face of the image, and repeats certain mantras. Meanwhile, the lemon gradually disappears and goes to the person whose death it is intended to secure. The person aimed at receives a heavy blow in the chest and at once falls to the ground vomitting blood. Sometimes he is known to expire instantaneously. The charmed lemon, after completing its task returns to the sorcerer, who anxiously awaits its return, for it is believed that if the lemon fails to return some calamity or misfortune is sure to occur to him. For this reason the beginner desiring to be initiated into the mystery of this black art has to make the first trial of his mantras on a tree or a fowl. Females are also initiated into the mysteries of Jádu or black art. Such women are required to go to the burning ground at midnight in a naked state, holding in their hands hearths containing burning coals. While on their way they untie their hair, and then begin the recital of their mantras. There they dig out the bones of buried corpses, bring them home, and preserve them for practising black art. There is a sect of Hindus known as Sháktas who practise the black art. The Sháktas worship their goddess at night, make offerings of wine and flesh, and then feast thereon. APPENDIX. GLOSSARY OF VERNACULAR TERMS OCCURRING IN VOLUMES I AND II. [825] A. ABIL: A kind of incense. ABIR: White scented powder. ADÁCHH: Red cotton yarn. ADÁD: Lentils. ADAGHO BADAGHO: A ceremony performed to drive away insects. ADHÁSUR: Name of a demon. ADHIKAMÁS: Intercalary month. ADI-NÁRÁYAN: A name of Vishnu. ADO: Useless. ADULSA: Name of a medicinal plant. AGÁR: Excreta. AGASTYA: Name of a sage; name of a constellation. AGATHI: A tree, Sesbania Grandiflora. AGATHIO: See Agathi. AGHÁDA: Name of a plant. AGHORI: A sect of Hindus. AGIÁRI: Fire temple of the Pársis. AGNI: Fire; the deity presiding over fire. AGNICHAR: An order of evil spirits living in fire. AGNIHOTRA: A perpetual sacred fire preserved in a hole in the ground for receiving and preserving consecrated fire. AGNIHOTRI: One who keeps an Agnihotra. AGNIKUNDA: A hole in the ground, or an enclosed space, on the surface, or a metal square-mouthed vessel, for receiving and preserving consecrated fire. AGNI-SANSKÁR: The rite of setting fire to a corpse. AGRI: Name of a caste or an individual of it. AHALYA: The wife of the sage Gautam. AHEVA NAVAMI: The ninth day of the dark half of Bhádrapad. AHI: Name of a demon. AHIR: A caste of shepherds. AHUTI: A handful of rice, ghi, sesamum, etc., cast into fire, water, upon the ground etc., as an offering to the deities. AIRÁVAT: Name of the elephant of Indra; the elephant presiding over the east. AJA: A goat. AJAMO: Lingusticum ajwaen. AKÁSH: The sky. AKÁSH-GANGA: The milky way. AKHAND SAUBHÁGYA: Perpetual unwidowhood. AKIK: A kind of stone. AKHÁ TRIJ: The third day of the bright half of Vaishákh. AKSHAYA TRITIYA: See Akhá Trij. ALAWÁNA: A sort of shawl. ALWANT: A spirit of a woman dying in childbirth or during menses. ALU: An esculent vegetable. ALUNDA: Name of a vow. AMANI: A kind of tree. AMAR: Immortal. AMATHO: Useless. AMATHO MÁMO: An order of ghosts. AMÁVÁSYA: The last day of a month. AMBA: Name of a goddess. AMBIL: Conjee. AMBO: Mango. AMNÁYESHWAR: A name of the god Mahádev. ANAGH: Name of a vow. ANAGODHA: See Anagh. ANANT CHATURDASHI: The fourteenth day of the dark half of Bhádrapad sacred to Vishnu. ANDHÁRIO: An order of ghosts. ANGIRAS: Name of a sage. ANJALI: Palmful. ANJAN: Soot used as collyrium. ANJANI: Mother of Máruti. ÁNJANI: A sore or mole on the eye-lid. ANKADA: Name of a poisonous plant. ANNADEVA: The god presiding over food. ANNAKUTA: The eighth or tenth day of the bright half of Ashvin or the second day of the bright half of Kártik when sweets are offered to gods. ANNAPURNA: The goddess presiding over food. ANTARAL: Name of a deity. ANTARAPAT: The piece of cloth which is held between the bride and bridegroom at the time of a Hindu wedding. ANTYESHTI: Funeral rites. ANURÁDHA: Name of a constellation. ANUSHTHÁN: Performance of certain ceremonies and works in propitiation of a god. APASMÁR: Epilepsy. APSARA: Certain female divinities who reside in the sky and are the wives of the Gandharvas. They are sometimes represented as the common women of the gods. APTA: Name of a tree. ARANI: Elaeodendron glaucum. ARATI: The ceremony of waving (around an idol, a guru, etc.,) a platter containing a burning lamp. ARDHODAYA: Half-risen state of a heavenly body. ARDRA: Name of a constellation. ARGHYA: A respectful offering to a god or a venerable person consisting of various ingredients or of water only. ARJUNA: The third of the five Pándava brothers. ARUNDHATI: Wife of Vasishtha; name of a star. ASARA: A water nymph. ASAN: A prayer carpet. ASHÁDH: The fourth month of the Deccani Hindu and the ninth month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. ASHÁPURI: Name of a goddess. ASHLESHA: Name of a constellation. ASHO: A corrupted form of Ashvin. ASHAPATI: Name of a mythological king. ASHTABHÁRO: An order of ghosts. ASHTADALA: Eight-cornered. ASHTA-DIK-PÁLA: Protectors of the eight different directions. ASHTAKA: A hymn consisting of eight verses. ASHTAMAHÁDÁN: A gift consisting of eight kinds of articles. ASHTÁVASU: A class of divine beings eight in number. ASHVIN: The seventh month of the Deccani Hindu and the twelfth month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. ASHVINI: Name of a constellation. ASHVINI KUMÁR: The twin sons of the sun by his wife Sanjnya in the form of a mare. They are famous as heavenly physicians. ASHWAMEDHA: Horse sacrifice. ASHWATTHÁMA: The only son of Drona, the military preceptor of the Kauravas and Pándavas. ASMÁNI: An order of ghosts. ASO: A corrupted form of Ashvin. ASOPALAVA: Name of a tree. ASUR GATI: The path of the demons. ATIT: A class of religious beggars. ATLAS: A kind of cloth. ATRI: Name of a sage. ATYÁPÁTYA: Name of an out-door game played in the Deccan. AVAD-MÁTA: Name of a goddess. AVAGAT: An order of ghosts. AVAGATI: Fallen condition. AVALIA: A Muhammadan saint. AVALA: Name of a tree. AVATÁR: An incarnation of Vishnu. AVI: An order of ghosts. AVLI: Name of a tree. AWDUMBAR: A tree, Ficus glomerata. AWUTA: Wood bill. AYAN: Name of a tree. B. BÁBARO: An order of ghosts. BÁBHUL: Acacia arabica. BÁBRIO: See Bábaro. BÁBRO: See Bábaro. BABRUVÁHAN: Name of a demon; a son of Arjuna. BÁBUL: Acacia arabica. BÁDHA: Impending evil. BÁGHADA: Name of an evil spirit. BÁGULBÁWA: Name of a goblin. BAHIRI: Name of a goddess. BAHIRI-SOMJAI: Name of a goddess. BAHIROBA: Name of a minor deity. BAHIROBÁCHE BHUT: An order of ghosts. BÁJA: Dish. BÁJALE: A wooden cot. BÁJAT: A wooden stool. BAJÁNIA: A cast of tumblers or an individual of it. BAKA: Name of a demon; name of a sage. BÁKLA: A small round flat cake of dry boiled beans. BÁKLÁN: See Bákla. BAKOR: Noise. BÁLÁ TERASH: The 13th day of the dark half of Bhádrapad. BALAD: An ox. BALADI: An order of ghosts. BALDEV: Name of the brother of Krishna, the eighth incarnation of Vishnu. BALEV: The full moon day of Shrávana. BALEVA: See Balev. BALEVIÁN: A kind of worship. BALI: Name of a mighty demon, the lord of the nether world or pátál; an oblation; a victim offered to any deity; name of a procession. BALIDÁN: Offering of a victim. BALLA: An order of ghosts. BÁNÁSUR: Name of a demon. BANDHÁI-JAVAN: Name of a cattle disease. BANIA: A trader. BÁPA: Name of a guardian spirit of fields. BÁPDEV: See Bápa. BARANESHWAR MAHÁDEV: A name of Mahádev. BÁRAS: The twelfth day of the bright or dark half of a month. BÁRVATIA: An outlaw. BATÁSA: A kind of sweetmeat. BATRISA: A man possessed of thirty-two accomplishments. BATUK: Name of a minor deity. BÁU: A word used to frighten children; a goblin. BÁVA: A term of respectful compellation or mention for an ascetic or religious teacher. BÁVAL: See Bábul. BÁVO: See Báva. BAYA: Name of a deity presiding over small-pox. BÁWAN VIR: Name of a minor deity. BECHRA MÁTA: Name of a goddess. BEDA: Name of a tree. BEL: Aegle Marmelos. BEL-BHANDÁR: Leaves of the Aegle Marmelos and the turmeric powder that are kept on an idol. BER: Jujube tree. BERO: Deaf. BETHI: An order of ghosts. BHÁBHO: Worthless. BHÁDARWA: See Bhádrapad. BHÁDRAPAD: The sixth month of the Deccani Hindu and the eleventh month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. BHAGAT: An exorcist. BHAGIRATH: Name of an ancient king of the solar dynasty who is said to have brought down the Ganges from heaven to the earth. BHÁGVAT: Name of one of the eighteen puránas. BHAGVATI: Name of a goddess. BHAGWÁN: An epithet of Vishnu; of Shiva. BHAGWATI: See Bhagvati. BHAIRAV: A name of an inferior manifestation of Shiva. BHAJAN: Repeating the name of a god as an act of worship; hymns or pieces or verses sung to a god. BHAKTIMÁRGA: Path of devotion. BHÁLU: An old female jackal. BHANDÁRI: A caste of Hindus. BHÁNG: Hemp water. BHANGI: A scavenger; name of the caste of scavengers. BHANGRA: A kind of tree. BHARANAI: Name of a goddess. BHARANI: Name of a constellation. BHÁRANI: The process of charming. BHARATA: Name of a brother of Ráma the seventh incarnation of Vishnu. BHARVÁD: A caste of shepherds. BHÁSIKA: An order of ghosts. BHASMA: Holy ashes. BHASMÁSUR: Name of a demon. BHÁUBIJ: The second day of the bright half of Kártik. BHAVÁI: Name of a stone deity. BHÁVAKÁI: Name of a goddess. BHAVÁNI: A name of the goddess Párvati. BHÁVIN: A caste of female temple servants who are prostitutes by profession. BHAWÁNI: See Bhaváni. BHENSA: A he-buffalo. BHENSÁSUR: A demon in the form of a he-buffalo. BHIKHÁRI: A beggar. BHIKHO: A beggar. BHIL: A partly Hindu, partly animistic tribe. BHIMA: The second of the five Pándava brothers. BHIMA-AGIÁRAS: The eleventh day of the bright half of Jyeshtha. BHIMASENA: See Bhima. BHIMNÁTH MAHÁDEV: A name of Shiva. BHIMNÁTH SHANKAR: A name of Shiva. BHISHMA: Son of Shántanu and the river Ganges and grand-uncle of the Pándavas and Kauravas. BHOGAVA: Village boundary. BHOI: A caste of fishermen and palanquin-bearers. BHOJAPATRA: A palm-leaf. BHOLÁNÁTH: A name of Shiva. BHONG RINGDI: Name of a poisonous plant. BHOPALA: Gourd. BHOPI: The person that officiates in the temples of village deities. BHUCHAR: An order of ghosts hovering over the earth. BHUNGA: A black bee. BHUSHUNDAKÁK: Name of a sage. BHUT: An evil spirit. BHUTA: See Bhut. BHUTA-DEVATA: A ghostly godling. BHUTÁLI: A woman who can influence evil spirits to do harm to others. BHUTE: Plural of Bhutya: See Bhutya. BHUTIN: A female member of an order of devotees of the goddess Bhaváni. BHUTNÁTH: Name of an evil spirit. BHUTYA: A male member of an order of devotees of the goddess Bhaváni. BHUVA: A male exorcist. BHUVI: A female exorcist. BIBHISHANA: Brother of Rávana, the demon king of Lanka or Ceylon. BIJ: The second day of the bright or dark half of a month. BIJAVRIKSHANYÁYA: The maxim of seed and shoot. The maxim takes its origin from the mutual relation of causation that exists between seed and shoot, and is applied to cases in which two objects stand to each other in the relation of both cause and effect. BILÁDO: A cat. BILI: See Bel. BINDU: A drop. BOCHO: A coward. BODAN: A ceremony in which curds, milk, boiled rice, fried cakes, etc., are mixed up together and presented in oblation to the goddess Mahálakshmi by a company of at least five married women and one virgin. BODO: Bald-headed. BOL CHOTH: The fourth day of the dark half of Shrávan. BORÁDI: The Jujube tree. BOTERUN: A complete cessation of rain for seventy-two days. BOWÁJI: See Báva. BOW: See Báu. BRAHMA GRAHA: Ghost of a Bráhman. BRAHMA: The first god of the Hindu Trinity. BRAHMABHOJ: A feast to Bráhmans. BRAHMACHARYA: Celibacy. BRAHMACHÁRI: One who has taken a vow to lead a celibate life. BRAHMAHATYA: The murder of a Bráhman. BRÁHMAN: The sacerdotal caste of Hindus or an individual of it. BRÁHMANA-VARUNA: The appointment of duly authorised Bráhmans to perform religious ceremonies. BRAHMARANDHRA: The aperture supposed to be at the crown of the head, through which the soul takes its flight on death. BRAHMA RÁKSHASA: See Brahma Sambandh. BRAHMA SAMBANDH: The ghost of a Bráhman that in his life time possessed high attainments, and a haughty spirit. BRIHASPATI: Name of the preceptor of the gods. BRUHANNADA: The name assumed by Arjuna when residing at the palace of Viráta. BUDHA: Mercury. BUDDHI: Name of a wife of Ganpati. C. CENDUR: Red lead. CHÁDA: Rent. CHAITANNADYA: An order of ghosts. CHAITRA: The first month of the Deccani Hindu and the sixth month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. CHAKLI: A sparrow. CHÁK PADANE: Appearance of red pustules on the face supposed to be caused by the influence of an evil eye. CHAKORA: A bird, Bartavelle Partridge. CHÁLA: Name of a deity. CHÁLEGHAT: An order of ghosts. CHAMÁR: A caste of tanners. CHAMPA: Michelia champaca. CHAMPÁ-SHASHTI: The sixth day of the bright half of Márgashirsha. CHAMPÁVATI: Name of a goddess. CHANA: Gram. CHANDA: Name of a kind of wind. CHAND CHANI: An order of ghosts. CHANDAN: Sandal wood. CHANDIKA: Name of a goddess. CHANDI KAVACH: A hymn in honour of the goddess Chandi or Durga. CHANDIPÁTH: Recitation of a hymn in honour of the goddess Chandi or Durga. CHANDKÁI: Name of a Goddess. CHANDRA: The moon. CHANDRAMANDAL: The disk of the moon; the lunar sphere. CHÁNDRÁYAN VRAT: Name of a vow. CHARAK: Excreta. CHÁRAN: A caste of genealogists and bards. CHARANÁMRIT: Water in which the feet of a spiritual guide have been washed. CHARMARIA: Name of a snake deity. CHARONTHI: A kind of flour. CHASHA: The Blue jay. CHAT: An image of darbha grass at Shráddha when the required Bráhman is not present. CHATA SHRÁDDHA: A shráddha in which a chat represents a Bráhman. CHÁTURMÁS: The period of four months commencing from the tenth day of the bright half of Ashádh and ending with the tenth day of the bright half of Kártik. CHATURTHI: The fourth day of the bright or dark half of a month. CHAURÁR: An order of ghosts. CHEDA: Ghost of a person of the Kunbi or Shudra caste or an unmarried Mahár. CHEDOBA: Name of a spirit deity. CHELA: A disciple. CHELAN: An oblation to a Máta or goddess. CHETAK: A kind of black art. CHETAKIN: A witch. CHETUK: A spirit servant. CHHAMACHHARI: Death anniversary. CHHIPA: A caste of calico-printers. CHHOGALA: Celebrated. Great. CHHOGALO: With a tail. CHILBIL: Notes of the Pingala bird. CHILUM: A clay pipe. CHINDHARO: Ragged. CHIRANJIVA: Immortal. CHITHI: A piece of paper on which mystic signs are drawn; an amulet. CHITHARIA: Ragged. CHITI: See Chithi. CHITPÁVAN: A caste of Bráhmans also known as Konkanasth. CHITRA: Name of a constellation. CHOK: A square. CHOLA: Dolichos Sinensio. CHOLI: A bodice. CHONGE: A kind of sweet. CHORÁSI KÁNTINI: An order of ghosts. CHORÁSI VIRU: An order of ghosts. CHORAWA: A ceremony performed at the time of reaping. CHOTH: The fourth day of the bright or dark half of a month. CHUDBUDE JOSHI: A caste of fortune-tellers. CHUDEL: An order of female ghosts. CHUDELA: See Chudel. CHUDI: A torch. CHUDI PAURNIMA: The full-moon day of the month of Mágh. CHUNADI: A kind of cloth worn by females. CHUNTHO: Ragged. CHUNVÁLIA KOLI: A tribe of Kolis. CHURAMA: Sweet balls of wheat flour fried and soaked in ghi. CHUTAKI: Snapping the thumb and finger. COHAMPALO: Meddlesome. D. DÁDAMO: An order of ghosts. DÁDAMOKHODIÁR: Name of a field deity. DÁDH: A molar tooth. DÁDH BÁNDHAVI: To deprive of the power of eating by a charm or spell. DÁDO: An order of ghosts. DÁKAN: A witch; an order of ghosts. DÁKINI: See Dákan. DÁKLA: A spirit instrument in the form of a small kettle-drum. DAKSHA: A celebrated Prajápati born from the thumb of Brahma. DAKSHA PRAJÁPATI: See Daksha. DAKSHANA: A gift of money made to Bráhmans. DÁL: Name of a sect of Hindus. DALAP: A ceremony performed for the propitiation of the minor deities of the fields. DÁLIA: Baked split gram. DÁMANA: An amulet tied to the horns of a pet animal. DAMPATYA: A married pair. DÁNA: Corn seed. DÁNDA: The bat at the game of trap-stick. DÁNKLA: See Dákla. DÁNKLA BESWÁN: The installation of a dánkla. DÁNKLÁN: See Dákla. DARBHA: A sacred grass; Cynodon Dactylon. DARDURI: Name of a water nymph. DARGA: A Muhammadan place of worship. DARJI: A caste of tailors. DASHA: Influence. DARSHA SHRÁDDHA: A shráddha to the manes on every new moon day. DASARA: The tenth day of the bright half of Kártik. DASHARATHA: Son of Aja and father of Ráma. DAS PINDA: The oblations collectively to the manes of a deceased ancestor which are offered daily from the first day of his decease until the tenth, or which are offered together on the tenth: also the rite. DÁTAN: Wooden sticks for brushing the teeth. DATTA: Name of a god. DATTÁTRAYA: See Datta. DÁV: An order of ghosts. DEDAKO: A frog. DEHARI MÁTA: Name of a goddess. DELAVADI DEVI: Name of a goddess. DENDO: The croaking of a frog. DEOPAN: Ceremonies and observances in propitiation of a god. DESHASTHA: A caste of Bráhmans found in the Deccan. DEVA: A god. DEVACHÁR: Spirit of a Shudra who dies after his marriage. DEVAHUTI: Name of the mother of the sage Kapil. DEVAK: A term for the deity or deities worshipped at marriages, thread investitures etc.; a totem. DEVAKI: Mother of Krishna. DEVAL: A temple. DEVAL RIGHANE: Entering into the service of the temple. DEVALI: The male offspring of a Bhávin. DEVALO: Not loved. DEVARSHI: A dealer with gods and devils: one that summons, exorcises them, etc. DEVA SARPA: A snake belonging to a deity. DEVASKI: The annual ceremonies in honour of the tutelar divinity of a village. DEVA YOSHITA: A woman offered to a god. DEV DIVÁLI: The eleventh day of the bright half of Kártik. DEVI: A goddess. DEVIPANTH: A sect of the worshippers of the goddess Durga. DHÁGA: An amulet made of a piece of cloth. DHAL-JATRA: A ceremony performed at the time of harvest. DHAMA: A name of Hanumán. DHANA: Coriander. DHANANJAYA: Name of a snake. DHANA-TRAYODASHI: The thirteenth day of the dark half of Ashvin. DHANGAR: A caste of shepherds. DHANISHTHA: Name of a constellation. DHANU: Sagittarius. DHANURMÁS: The period during which the sun is in Sagittarius. DHANU-SANKRÁNT: Transit or passage of the sun through Sagittarius. DHÁRÁVÁDI: A stream of milk. DHARMARÁJA: The god of death. DHARMASHÁLA: A rest house. DHARMASHÁSTRA: The code of body of Hindu law. DHARMASINDHU: Name of a work treating of Hindu law. DHED: An impure caste of Hindus. DHEDVÁDA: The ward or place occupied by the Dhed caste. DHINGO: Fat. DHOBI: A caste of washermen. DHOL: A drum. DHOLIO: An order of ghosts. DHONDILGAJYA: Name of a rite performed for securing rainfall. DHORI: White. DHOTAR: Waist cloth. DHUL PÁDAVO: The first day of the dark half of Fálgun. DHRUVA: The son of Uttánapáda. He was a great devotee of the god Vishnu. The solar star. DHULETI: See Dhul Pádavo. DHULWAD: See Dhul Pádavo. The day of throwing dust after the burning of the Holi. DHUNDA: Name of a demon goddess. DHUNDA RÁKSHASIN: See Dhunda. DHUNDHUMARI: Name of a mythological personage. DHUNI: The smoke-fire of an ascetic over which he sits inhaling the smoke. DHUPA: Frankincense. DIGAMBARA: Name of a goddess. DIPO: Panther. DISHA-SHUL: Pain caused by directions. DIVÁLI: A festival with nocturnal illuminations, feastings, gambling, etc. held during the concluding day of Ashvin and the first and second day of Kártik. DIVÁSA: The fifteenth day of the dark half of Ashádh. DIWAD: A serpent of a large but harmless species. DODKA: One hundredth part of a rupee. DOKADO: A ball of molasses and sesamum seed cooked together. DORA: Piece of a string; a magic thread. DORLI: Solanum indicum. DOSO: Old. DRO: A kind of sacred grass. DRONA: Son of Bháradvája, by birth a Bráhman but acquainted with military science which he received as a gift from Parashurám. He instructed the Kauravas and Pándavas in the use of arms. DRUSTAMANI: A kind of black beads. DUDHA: Milk. DUDHPÁK: Rice cooked in milk and sweetened with sugar. DUG-DUDIOON: See Dákla. DUHITRA: Shráddha performed by a grandson to propitiate his maternal grandfather. DUKÁL: Famine. DUNDUBHI: A kettle-drum. DUNGAR: A hill. DURBÁR: The court of an Indian Chief. DURGA: Name of a goddess. DURGATI: Fallen condition. DURVA: A kind of sacred grass. DURYODHANA: The eldest of the Kaurava brothers. DWIJA: A twice-born. A Bráhman, a Kshatriya or a Vaishya, whose investiture with the sacred thread constitutes, religiously and metaphorically a second birth. DWITIYA: The second day of the bright or dark half of a month. E. EKÁDASHI: The eleventh day of the bright and dark halves of a month. EKAL PER: Zizyphus jujuba. EKÁNTARIO: Intermittent fever. EKOTISHTA: The rites performed on the eleventh day after death. ETALÁI: Name of a goddess. F. FÁG: A vulgar song. FÁGAN: A corrupted form of Fálgun. See Fálgun. FAKIR: A Muhammadan mendicant. FAKIRI: Alms given to Fakirs in the Muharram. FAKIRO: A beggar. FÁLGUN: The twelfth month of the Deccani Hindu and the fifth month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. FÁVADI: Name of a bird. FIRANGÁI: Name of a goddess. FUL: A flower. FUL DOL: A festival in which coloured water is thrown. G. GADHEDA: A donkey. GADHEDO: See Gadheda. GADHERIMÁTA: Name of a goddess installed to protect a fortress or a street. GAFAL: Stupid. GAGANACHAR: An order of ghosts moving in the etherial regions. GAGARBEDIUN: A piece of leather thong or a piece of black wood on which mystic spells have been cast. GAJÁBÁI: Name of a goddess. GAJACHHAYA: A festival--the day of the new moon of Bhádrapad the moon being in the Hasta constellation. GALÁL: Red powder. GANA: A troop of demigods considered as Shiva's attendants. GANAGOR: Name of a vow. GANDHARVA: A celestial musician; a class of demigods who are considered to be the singers of gods. GÁNDIVA: Name of the bow of Arjuna. GÁNDU: Name of a tree. GANDH: Sandal paste. GANESH CHATURTHI: The fourth day of the bright half of Bhádrapad celebrated as the birthday of Ganesh. GANESHIO: A hook-shaped instrument used by thieves in boring holes through walls. GANGA: The river Ganges. GANGÁJAL: Water of the Ganges. GANGIGOR: Name of a vow. GÁNGLO: Stony. GÁNGUD: An order of ghosts. GÁNJA: Hemp flower. GANPATI: The son of Shiva and Párvati. He is the deity of wisdom and the remover of difficulties and obstacles. GANPATIPUJAN: The worship of Ganpati. GÁNTHIA: A preparation of gram flour. GAON-DEVI: Village goddess. GARABI: A song in propitiation of a goddess. GARBHÁDÁN: The marriage consummation ceremony. GÁRHÁNE: Supplication to an idol. GARUD: The eagle. GARUD PURÁN: Name of a purán. GÁTRÁD: Name of a goddess. GAU: A measure of distance equal to 1 1/3 miles. GAUTAM: Name of a sage. GAVA: A wild ox. GAVALI: A caste of herdsmen. GAVATDEV: Name of a godling. GAVATI: An order of ghosts. GAYÁSUR: Name of a demon. GÁYATRI: Name of a daughter of Brahma. GÁYATRI MANTRA: A sacred verse from the Vedas held specially sacred and repeated by every Bráhman at his morning and evening devotion. The verse is in honour of the sun. GÁYATRI PURASCHARAN: A form of devotion requiring the recitation of the Gáyatri mantra a hundred thousand times with certain symbolic ceremonies. GÁYATRIPURASCHAVACHAN: See Gáyatripurascharan. GEDI: A bat. GEDI-DÁNDA: An outdoor game played by boys. GERIA: A boy who takes an active part in the Holi festival. GHÁDI: An exorcist. A caste of temple ministrants or an individual of it. GHADI: A measure of time equal to twenty-four minutes. GHADULO: A process for removing the effects of the evil eye. GHÁNCHINI: An order of ghosts. GHÁNDHARAVI: An order of ghosts. GHÁNI: That quantity of oil seeds which is put in at one time to be crushed in an oil mill. GHÁT: Steps on the side of a river or tank leading to the water. GHATOTKACHA: Name of a demon. GHELI: Mad. GHELO: Mad. GHELUN: Mad. GHERÁYALA: Eclipsed. GHETA: A sheep. GHODO: A horse. GHUGARI: Grain boiled whole, i.e., unsplit and unhusked. GHUMAT: A sort of musical instrument--an earthen vessel, pitcher-form, covered over at the larger mouth with leather. GHUNA: A mysterious watery pit. GIDOTÁN: Name of a creeper. GILLI-DÁNDA: A play amongst boys, trapstick. GIRÁSIA: A Rajput landholder. GIRHA: A water demon. Applied to Ráhu or to an eclipse in general, solar or lunar. GIRI: An order or individual of it among Gosávis. GOCHADI: Cattle or dog louse. GODHO: A bull. GOKARN: Name of a mythological king. GOKHALO: A niche in the wall. GOKUL: The name of the village at which Krishna was brought up. GOKHARU: A species of thorns. GOKUL-ASHTAMI: The eighth day of the dark half of Bhádrapad celebrated as the birthday of Krishna. GOL: Molasses. GOLÁBA: Name of a goddess. GOLAMBÁDEVI: Name of a goddess. GOMUKH: Mouth of a cow. GONDARO: Place where the village cattle rest. GONDHAL: A kind of religious dance. GOOLVEL: A kind of creeper. GOPÁLSANTÁN: Name of an incantation. GOPRADÁN: Gift of a cow with its calf to a Bráhman. GOR: A priest. GORA: A black earthen vessel filled with curds. GORADIA: A name of Hanumán. GORÁIN: A married unwidowed woman. GORAKHA: Name of a saint. GORAKH CHINCH: A kind of tree. GORJI: A preceptor. GORAKHRÁJ: Name of a saint. GOSÁVI: An ascetic. GOTRA: A section of a caste having a common ancestor. GOURI-PUJAN: The worship of the goddess Gouri, a festival observed only by women. GOUTRAD: A vow in honour of the cow lasting from the eleventh day to the fifteenth day of the bright half of Bhádrapad. GOUTRÁL: Name of a vow. GOVARDHAN: A celebrated hill near Mathura. A large heap of cow dung or of rice, vegetables, etc. made on the first day of the bright half of Kártik in imitation of the mountain. GOWALÁ-DEVA: Name of a deity connected with rain-fall. GRAHA: A planet. GRAHANA: An eclipse. GRAHAN-PUJAN: The worship of the plough on the full-moon day of Shrávan. GRAHA-SHÁNTI: A ceremony in propitiation of the planets. GRÁMADEVATA: A village goddess. GRÁMA-DEVI: A village goddess. GRIHADEVATA: The deity which presides over the house. GRISHMA-RITU: The summer. GRIVA: Name of a deity. GUDHI: A pole, wrapped around with a cloth, a mango sprig, etc., erected on the first day of the year before the house-door. GUDHI-PÁDVA: The first day of the bright half of Chaitra, the new year's day of the Deccani Hindus. GUHYAK: An order of semi-divine beings. GULÁB: A rose. GUGAL: Balsamodendron. GUJAKALPA: Name of a medicinal preparation. GULÁL: Red powder. GUMPHA: A cave. GUNDAR: Gum arabic. GURAV: A caste of temple ministrants or an individual of it. GURU: A religious preceptor; Jupiter. GURU CHARITRA: Name of a sacred book. H. HADAL: Ghost of a woman who dies within ten days of childbirth or during menses. HADALI: See Hadal. HÁJ: A pilgrim. HAJÁM: A caste of barbers or an individual of it. HALÁHAL: A sort of deadly poison produced at the churning of the ocean. HANSA: A goose. HANUMÁN: Name of a deity in the form of a monkey. He was a great devotee of Ráma. HANUMÁN-JAYANTI: The full-moon-day of chaitra celebrated as the birthday of Hanumán. HAR: A name of Shiva. HARDA: A garland of balls made of sugar. HARDÁS: One who performs Kathás that is relates stories of Hindu deities to the accompaniment of music. HARDE: Myrobalan. HARI: A name of Vishnu. HARISCHANDRA: Name of a mythological king. HARITÁLIKA: The third day of the bright half of Bhádrapad on which images of Párvati made of earth are worshipped by women. HARIVANSHA: Name of a purán. HASTA: Name of a constellation. HATHADI: An order of ghosts. HÁTHI: An elephant. HAVAN: A sacrificial offering. HEDAMATIO: A name of Hanumán. HEDAMBA: Name of a giantess. HEDLI: An order of ghosts. HEMANT-RITU: Winter. HIDIMBA: Name of a giantess. HIJADA: A eunuch. HINGLÁJ: Name of a goddess. HIRANYAKASHIPU: Name of a demon. HIRANYAKASHYAPU: Name of a demon. HIRANYÁKSHA: Name of a demon. HIRWA: An order of ghosts. HOL: Name of a goddess. HOLI: A festival held at the approach of the vernal equinox. The pile arranged to be kindled at the festival. HOLIA: A boy who takes an active part in the Holi celebrations. HOLIKA: Name of a goddess. HOLO: A species of birds. HOMA: A sacrifice. HOMAHAVAN: A formation expressing comprehensively or collectively, the several acts and points appertaining to oblation by fire: also any one indefinely of these acts and points. HOW: Name of a demon. HUMBAD: A caste of Vániás or an individual of it. HUTÁSHANI: The pile arranged to be kindled at the festival of Holi. I. INA: An egg. INÁM: A gift. INDA: An egg-shaped vessel. INDRA-DHANUSHYA: A rain-bow. INDRAJIT: Name of a demon. INDRAMAHOTSAVA: A festival celebrated in honour of the god Indra. IRALE: A protection against rain made of the leaves of trees. ISHTADEVATA: A chosen deity. ITIDIO: A species of insects. J. JÁDI: Fat. JADO: Fastened. JÁDU: The black art. JÁGRAN: The fifteenth day of the bright half of Ashádh. JÁGRITI: Wakefulness. JAIKHA: An order of ghosts. JÁKHÁI: Name of a minor goddess. JAKHANI: An order of semi-divine beings. JAKHÁI-DEVI: Name of a minor goddess. JAKHARA: Name of a minor goddess. JAKHARO: An order of ghosts. JÁKHIN: Spirit of a woman whose husband is alive. JAKHMÁTA: Name of a minor goddess. JAKRIN: Name of a deity residing in water. JÁL: An order of ghosts; name of a tree. JALACHAR: An order of evil spirits living in water. JALADEVI: Water-goddess. JALAJ: An order of ghosts. JALA-JATRA: The ceremony of submerging the image of Shiva. JALANDHAR: Name of a demon. JALAP: A dream caused by cold. JALDEVKI: Water-goddess. JALOTSAVA: A water festival. JAMBUVANT: One of the generals of Rama's army at the siege of Lanka or Ceylon. JAMBUVANTI: The daughter of Jambuvant. JAMI: An order of ghosts. JÁN: An order of ghosts. JANAK: A king of Mahila, the foster-father of Sita. JÁNAWE: A sacred thread. JANGAM: A Lingáyat priest. JANHU: Name of a mythological king. JANJIRO: A black cotton thread with seven knots. JANMÁSHTAMI: The eighth day of the dark half of Shrávan celebrated as the birth-day of Krishna. JANMA-SUWÁSINI: A woman who is perpetually unwidowed. JANNI: Name of a minor goddess. JANTRA: A mystical arrangement of words. JAP: Repeating prayers in a muttering manner. JAP-MÁL: A rosary. JÁRAN: A kind of black art. JARÁSANDH: Name of a demon. JARI: Name of a goddess. JARI-MARI: A goddess presiding over an epidemic or pestilential disease. JATA: Matted hair. JATRA: A fair. JATUPI: Name of a sage. JAVA: Barley. JAVÁLA: Tender wheat plants. JETHA: The eighth month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. JHAPAT: A sudden encounter. JHOLÁI: Name of a goddess. JIMP: An order of ghosts. JINNI: An order of ghosts. JINO: Small. JINTHRO: Rugged. JIREN: Cumin-seed. JIVADHANI: Name of a goddess. JIVI: Live. JIVO: Live. JOGÁI: Name of a goddess. JOGANI: A female harpie. JOGATA: A male child offered to the goddess Yallamma. JOGATIN: A female child offered to the goddess Yallamma. JOGAVA: Begging in the name of the goddess Amba. JOGI: A male child offered to the goddess Máyáka. JOGIN: A female child offered to the goddess Máyáka. JUÁRI: A kind of corn. JULEBI: A kind of sweet. JUTHI: False. JUVÁRI: A kind of corn. JYESHTHA: The third month of the Deccani Hindu and the eighth month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. Name of a constellation. JYOTISH-SHÁSTRA: The science of astronomy. K. KABAR: A tomb raised over the grave of a Muhammadan saint. KABIR: Name of a celebrated saint. KACHA: The son of Brihaspati, the preceptor of gods. KACHAKADA: A kind of bead. KACHARO: Refuse. KACHBI: Rainbow. KÁCHHIA: A caste of vegetable sellers. KADADAN: Legumes. KADALIPUJAN: Plantain tree worship. KADAMB: Anthocephalus cadamba. KADVI: Bitter. KADAVO: Bitter. KADULIMB: Melia Azadirachta. KÁFRI: An order of ghosts. KÁGDO: A crow. KÁGRÁSHIA: An expounder of the utterances of crows. KÁGVA: Cooked food offered to the manes. KAITABHA: Name of a demon. KÁJAL: Collyrium. KÁJRA: A kind of tree. KAKADI: A cucumber. KÁKBHUSHUNDI: Name of a sage. KALASH: A jar. KALASHI: A weight of corn. KÁLANEMI: Name of a demon. KALASIO: A bowl. KÁLI: Name of a goddess. KÁLIKA: Name of a goddess. KÁLKÁICHE BHUT: An order of ghosts. KÁLI CHAUDAS: The fourteenth day of the dark half of Ashvin. KALINGI: Daughter of the king of the Kalingas. KÁLI PARAJ: A name applied collectively to the aboriginal tribes of Gujarát. KÁLIYA NÁG: Name of a mythological snake. KÁLI YUGA: The fourth age of the world according to the Hindu scriptures. KÁLO: Black. KÁLO VA: Name of a cattle disease. KALPAVRIKSHA: A fabulous tree granting all desires. KÁL BHAIRAV: A name of Mahádev. KÁL PURUSHA: The god of death. KÁLUBÁI: Name of a minor goddess. KALYÁN: Welfare. KÁMA DHENU: A heavenly cow granting all desires. KAMALA HOLI: The fourteenth day of the bright half of Fálgun. KÁMAN: A kind of black art of bewitching a person. KAMANDALU: A gourd. KÁMDEV MAHÁDEV: A name of Mahádev. KAMOD: A kind of rice. KANAKNÁTH: A name of Mahádev. KANKOTRI: Red powder. KÁNOBA: Name of a minor deity. KANSA: King of Mathura, maternal uncle of Krishna. KANSÁR: Coarse wheat flour cooked in water or ghi and sweetened with molasses or sugar. KANYA: A girl; Virgo. KAPHAN: The cloth in which a corpse is wrapped. KAPIL: Name of a sage. KAPILÁSHASTHI: A day on which synchronize six particulars--the day, Tuesday; the month, Bhádrapad; the date, the sixth of the dark fortnight; the Nakshatra, Rohini; the Yog, Vyatipát; the Mahánakshatra, Hasti. KAPILASHETE: See Kapiláshasthi. KARAN: A kind of tree. KARHÁDA: A caste of Bráhmans found in the Deccan. KARKA: Cancer. KARKATA: Name of a water nymph. KARKATI: See Karkata. KARKOTAK: Name of a snake. KARMAMÁRGA: The path of action. KÁRTIK: The eighth month of the Deccani Hindu and the first month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. KÁRTIKEY: Son of Shiva, the commander of the army of the gods. KÁSADA: A kind of sacred grass. KASÁI: A butcher. KASATIA: Name of a god. KASATIA-GÁNTH: Tying the knot of Kasatia, a vow observed in the name of the god Kasatia. KÁSHI: Benares. KÁTHAWATI: Name of a tribe. KATHEKARI: A narrator of the legends of the gods. KÁTHI: Name of a tribe. KÁTKARI: Name of a tribe. KÁTLÁN: A kind of medicinal preparation. KATYÁR: A dagger. KAUL: The rice, betelnuts, etc., stuck upon an idol when it is consulted. KAUL GHÁLNE: To consult a deity by kaul. KAURAVA: The patronymic of the descendants of Kuru, but usually applied to the sons of Dhritaráshtra. KAUSTUBHA: Name of a celebrated gem obtained at the churning of the ocean and worn by Vishnu. KAVANESHWAR: A name of Mahádev. KÁYA: Body. KEDÁR: Name of a deity. KERÁDO: A kind of tree. KESHAR: Saffron. KESHAVA: A name of Krishna. KETU: In astronomy, the ninth of the planets; in mythology, a demon. KHABITH: An order of ghosts. KHAD-KHADYA-BESÁDVI: A ceremony performed by exorcists to propitiate their favourite goddesses. KHADI: Red or green earth. KHAGACHAR: An order of ghosts roaming in the sky. KHAIR: Acacia catechu. KHAIS: A species of water spirits. KHAJÁDA PANTH: A sect of Hindus. KHÁKHARA: A kind of tree. KHÁKHI: A sect of Hindus. KHAL: The passage in the Shivalinga (phallus of Shiva). KHANA: A bodice cloth. KHÁNDE PUJAN: Worship of arms. KHANDERÁI: A name of the deity Khandoba. KHANDOBA: Name of a deity. KHANJIR: A dagger. KHÁPARI: A kind of cattle disease. KHÁPRYA: An order of ghosts. KHÁRAVA: A disease of cattle in which the hoofs are affected. KHÁRVA: A caste of fishermen and sailors or an individual of it. KHÁRVI: See Khárva. KHÁTALE: A cot. KHATRI: A caste of weavers. KHAVÁS: A caste of Hindus. KHAVIS: An order of ghosts. KHETALO: Name of a snake deity. KHETRVA: A field. KHEM: An order of ghosts. KHICHADI: A preparation of rice and pulse cooked together. KHIJADIO: The Shami tree, Prosopis spicigera. KHIJADO: See Khijadio. KHIJADO MÁMO: An order of ghosts. KHILI: A peg. KHIR: Rice cooked in milk and sweetened with sugar. KHIT KHIT: Notes of the Pingla bird. KHODIÁR MÁTA: Name of a goddess. KHODO: Lame. KHODO MÁMO: Name of a minor deity. KHOJA: A class of Musalmáns. KHOKHO: An outdoor game played in the Deccan. KHUNTINI: An order of ghosts. KIDI: An ant. KILBIL: Notes of the Pingla bird. KINKHÁB: Silk worked with gold and silver flowers, brocade. KINNARI: An order of semi-divine beings. KIRÁTA: A fisherman. KISHORDÁS: A name of Hanumán. KODRA: Punctured millet. KOHALA: Pumpkin. KOKÁI: Name of a goddess. KOKIL: A cuckoo. KOKILA VRATA: The festival of cuckoos which is held in the month of Ashádh after a lapse of twenty years. KOLAMBÁI: Name of a goddess. KOLHÁI: Name of a goddess. KOLI: A primitive tribe of Hindus common in the Bombay Presidency. KOLO: A jackal. KOLKÁI: Name of a goddess. KOLU: Cucurbita maxima. KONDI: A kind of earthen pot. KONDURI: A preparation of mutton. KORI: A new garment; an unused earthen jar; a small silver coin. KOTHALI: Reticule. KOTWÁL: Name of an untouchable caste of Hindus. KOYATA: A wood bill. KRISHNA: The eighth incarnation of Vishnu. KRITIKA: Name of a constellation. KRIYA BHAUDÁI: Name of a deity. KSHATRIYA: The warrior class, the second of the fourfold divisions of Manu. KSHETRA: A holy place. KSHETRAPÁL: The guardian spirit of fields; a kind of stone. KUBER: The lord of wealth, the regent of the north and the king of the Yakshas and Kinnaras. KUKAD VEL: A kind of creeper. KUL: A totem; a clan. KULA-DEVATA: Family deity. KULA-DEVI: Family goddess. KULADHARMA: A special worship of the family god or goddess of each family. KULATHI: A kind of corn. KULERA: A mixture of wheat, oat or rice flour, clarified butter and sugar or molasses. KULKARNI: A village accountant. KUMBHA: Aquarius. KUMBHAKARN: Name of a demon. KUMBHÁR: A caste of potters. KUMBHÁRAN: A woman of the Kumbhár caste. KUMBHAVA: Name of a cattle disease. KUMBHAVIVÁHA: Marriage with an earthen jar. KUNBI: A cultivator. KUND: A pond; a pit; a sacred pool. KUNDALAN: A kind of magic circle. KUNDALI: An astrological diagram of the position of planets at any particular time. KUNDALIA: A name of Hanumán. KUNDI: A shoe-maker's earthen pot. KUNKU: Red powder. KUNTI: The first wife of Pandu. KUPOTSARGA: Digging a well for the benefit of the public--and abandoning one's right of ownership over it. KURANANDI: Wheat flour lumps used in the ceremony of the Bodan. KURI: An implement for sowing corn. KURMI: Name of a water nymph. KURUKSHETRA: The extensive plain near Delhi, the scene of the great battle between the Kauravas and Pándavas. KUSHMÁND: An order of demi-gods. KUSUMBA: The dye prepared from the dried flowers of the Kusumba (Carthamus tinctorius). KUTRO: A dog. L. LÁDU: A sweet ball. LAGHURUDRA: A rite in honour of the god Shiva. LÁHYA: Parched rice. LAKSHACHANDI: A recitation in honour of the goddess Párvati. LAKSHAMANA: Brother of Ráma. LAKSHMI: The goddess of wealth. LÁLA HARDEV: Name of a minor local deity. LÁLO: Name of a field deity. LÁLO BHAGAT: Name of a saint. LÁMANDIVO: An iron lamp. LAMLAN: A branch of black magic. LANKA: Ceylon. LÁPSI: Coarse wheat flour fried in ghi and sweetened with molasses or sugar. LAVENG: Clove. LÁVANI: A kind of ballad: plantation. LÁWANI: Plantation. LÁVO: A Parasite. LÁVSANT: A ghost of a widow. LIMDO: A tree, Alantas excelsa. LIMBO: Poisonous. LINGA: Phallus. LINGAM: See Linga. LINGÁYAT: An individual of the Lingáyat religion whose chief object of worship is Shiva. LOBÁN: Olibanum. LOBHÁN: Incense powder. LOTA: A water pot. LUVÁNA: A caste of traders. LUXMI: See Lakshmi. M. MACHCHENDRA NÁTH: Name of a saint. MACHHI: Name of a water nymph. MÁCHHO: Name of a goddess. MACHHU: See Máchho. MADALIUN: A hollow bracelet. MADAN: Cupid. MADHAVI: A village headman. MADHU: Name of a demon. MADHU PAVANTI: An order of ghosts. MADHWÁCHÁRYA: Name of a great saint who founded a sect of Vaishnavism. MAFAT: Useless. MAFATIO: Useless. MAG: A grain, Phaseolus mungo. MÁGH: The eleventh month of the Deccani Hindu and the fourth month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. MAGHA: Name of a constellation. MAGHALO: A lamp of mud covered with leaves to represent the god of rain. MAHÁBHÁRAT: Name of an epic of the Hindus. MAHÁDEVA: A name of Shiva. MAHA GIRA: Name of a minor deity. MAHÁKÁLI: Name of a goddess. MAHÁKÁLI NIRVÁN TANTRA: Name of a work on Tantric philosophy. MAHÁLAKSHMI: Name of a goddess; Name of a ceremony in which the goddess is worshipped on the eighth day of the bright half of Ashvin. MAHÁLAYA SHRÁDDHA: A shráddha performed in the dark half of Bhádrapad in propitiation of ancestors. MAHÁMÁRI: Cholera goddess. MAHANT: A saint. MAHÁPURUSH: An order of civil spirits. MAHÁR: An unclean caste of Hindus. MAHÁR PURUSHA: A kind of stone. MAHÁRÁJA: A term of respectful compellation applied to kings, religious heads, saints, etc. MAHÁRÁKSHASA: A class of demons. MAHÁRUDRA: A sacrifice in honour of Shiva. MAHÁRAURAVA: A kind of hell. MAHÁSHIVARÁTRI: The fourteenth day of the dark half of Mágh, a fast day in honour of Shiva. MAHÁTMA: A saint. MAHÁTMYA: Greatness. MAHESHA: A name of Shiva. MAHESHVAR: A name of Shiva. MAHI: Name of a demon. MAHIKÁWATI: Name of a goddess. MAHODAYA: Name of a festival. MAIDAN: A plain. MAKARA: Capricornus. MAKARI: Name of a water nymph. MAKHAR: A gaily dressed up wooden frame. MAKI: Maize. MÁLÁR: A musical mode. MALHÁRI: A name of Kandoba. MALI: Red lead. MÁLI: A caste of gardeners or an individual of it. MALINDA: A sweet preparation of wheat flour fried in ghi. MALIN: Unclean. MALLÁRI: A name of Khandoba. MÁLO: A bower. MAMIKULA: An order of ghosts. MÁMO: An order of ghosts; a maternal uncle. MANAYA: Name of a deity. MANDAL: A group. MANDALU: A circle. MANDAN MISHRA: Name of an ancient scholar. MANDAP: A bower. MÁNDA BHARANE: Filling in a magic circle as a protection from spirits. MÁNEK-STAMBHA: The auspicious post of the marriage bower. MÁNG: An unclean caste of the Hindus. MÁNGÁI: Name of a goddess. MANGAL: Mars. MANGALÁ-GOURI: A ceremony performed by married girls for five successive years on every Tuesday of the month of Shrávan. MANGALÁRATI: Moving a lighted lamp round an idol. MANGALSUTRA: The lucky thread worn by married women. MANI: A jewel; name of a deity. MANIDHAR: A snake. MANI MALLA: Name of a demon. MÁNKARI: The person entitled to certain honours and presents at village assemblies. MANKODA: A black ant. MÁNSA KHAVANTI: An order of ghosts. MANTRA: An incantation; a magic spell. MANTRA-SHÁSTRA: The science of incantations. MANTRI: An exorcist. MÁNTRIK: An exorcist. MANUSHYACHAR: An order of ghosts moving among men. MÁRAN: A branch of black magic. MÁRGA: A path; course. MARGÁI: Name of a goddess. MÁRGASHIRSHA: The ninth month of the Deccani Hindu and the second month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. MARGI: A sect of Hindus. MARGI PANTHI: A follower of the Margi sect. MARI: Name of a goddess. MARICHI: Name of a sage. MARIYUN: A ceremony for driving away insects. MARVO: Marjoram. MASUR: Lentil. MASIDA: An order of ghosts. MÁTA: A goddess. MÁTÁJI: See Máta. MÁTA ASHTAMI: The eighth day of the navarátra. MÁTARI: Name of a goddess. MATH: A monastery. MÁTHBHÁJI: A kind of green vegetable. MÁTI: Earth. MÁTRIKA: A mother; an order of semi-divine beings. MÁULI: Name of a goddess. MAUNYA VRATA: A vow of silence. MÁVADI: Ghost of a woman dying with certain desires unfulfilled. MÁYA: Illusion. MÁYÁKA: Name of a goddess. MEDA: Marrow. MEDINI: The earth. MEGH: A cloud. MEGHARÁJA: The god of rains. MEGHLADDU: A sweet ball of wheat flour fried in ghi. MEHULO: See Maghalo. MEKAIL: Name of an angel. MELADI: An order of ghosts. MELDI: See Meladi. MELI VIDYA: Sacrilegious art. MENA: A kind of bird. MERU: Name of a mythological mountain. MESHA: Aries. MHÁLSA: Name of a goddess. MHÁRJÁI: Name of a goddess. MHARLOBA: Name of a deity. MHASHYA: A species of water spirits. MHASOBA: Name of a village deity; lord of ghosts. MIANA: A class of Musalmáns. MINA: Pisces. MINDHAL: A kind of fruit. MIRI: Particle. MITHUN: Gemini. MIYALI: An order of ghosts. MOBHARA: A hollow stone used for threshing corn. MOCHI: A caste of shoe-makers. MOCHINI: An order of ghosts. MOGRI: Rat-tailed raddish. MOHAN: A branch of black magic. MOHINI: A fascinating woman. MOHARO: The stone found in the head of the snake. MOHOR: See Moharo. MOKSHA: Salvation. MOLANI: An order of ghosts. MOTÁKAT: Name of a vow. MOR: A peacock. MORIA: An earthen bowl. MOT MÁVALI: Mother Mary. MOTUDUKH: A kind of cattle disease. MOVA KHARAVA: Name of a cattle disease. MRIG: A deer; name of a constellation. MRIGÁNKA: The moon. MRIGA TONCHANA: The moon. MRITYUNJAYA: Name of an incantation. MUCHKUND: Name of a sage. MUJÁVAR: A sweeper of a mosque devoutly or piously fixed to it. MUKTI: Salvation. MUL: Name of a star. MULO: Raddish. MUNDA: A kind of wind. MUNGESHWAR MAHÁDEV: A name of Shiva. MUNGI MÁTA: Name of a goddess; dumb mother. MUNJA: Spirit of Bráhman boy who dies immediately after his thread ceremony. MURALI: A flute. MURDUNGA: Tabour. MURLI: See Murali. MUSAL: A rice pounder. MUTH: The fist. MUTH MÁRANE: Throwing of a handful of rice over which incantations have been repeated; sending a bewitched lemon to a person to whom a disease is to be transferred or who is to be killed. MUVA-KESHIBI: A kind of cattle disease. N. NÁCHANI: A kind of grain. NÁDÁPUDI: A coloured cord with a small parcel containing incense, red powder, etc. NÁDÁSÁDI: A cord and a robe. NÁG: A snake; a species of semi-divine beings half men half serpents in form. NÁGA: See Nág. NÁGABALI: A propitiatory offering to snakes. NÁGAR: A caste of Bráhmans found in Gujarát. NÁGCHÁMFA: A flower tree, Alpinia mutans. NÁGDEV: The snake god. NÁGKANYA: A snake girl. NÁG KESAR: Messua Ferrea. NÁGMAGA: A class of beggars who worship the snake. NÁGNÁTH: Name of a snake deity. NÁG PANCHAMI: The fifth day of the bright half Shrávan, a holiday in honour of the snake deity. NÁGO: Shameless. NÁGOBA: The snake deity. NÁGVEL: A kind of creeper. NAIVEDYA: An offering of some eatable to an idol. NAKSHATRA: A star; a constellation. NALA: Name of a mythological king. NÁLPIR: Name of a pir or Mahomedan saint. NÁL SÁHEB: A familiar name for the bearer, in the Muharam, of the Tabut-pole which terminates at the top in a nál or horse-shoe member. NAMAN: Oil poured over the image of Hanumán. NAMASKÁR: Reverential or respectful address or salutation. NANDA: the adoptive father of Krishna. NANDARÁJ: Name of a mythological king. NANDI: A bull. NÁNDI SHRÁDDHA: A Shráddha to the manes, preliminary to any joyous occasion. NÁNO: Small. NAO NARASING: An order of ghosts. NARA: Name of a sage. NÁRAD MUNI: Name of a divine sage. NARAK: Hell. NARAK-CHATURDASHI: The fourteenth day of the dark half of Ashvin. NÁRALI PAURNIMA: The cocoanut holiday, the fifteenth day of the bright half of Shrávan. NARASIMHA: An incarnation of Vishnu in the form of half lion half man. NÁRÁYAN: Name of a sage. NÁRÁYANA BALI: A sacrifice in propitiation of evil spirits. NÁRÁYAN KAVACH: A hymn in honour of Vishnu. NÁRÁYAN NÁGABALI: A kind of offering. NÁREL-PURNIMA: See Nárali Paurnima. NARGUDIKALPA: A kind of medicinal preparation. NARKYA UDA: A kind of incense. NARSINHA: See Narasimha. NARSINHA MEHTA: a celebrated saint of Gujarát. NÁTAK: A drama. NATHU: Tied. NAVACHANDI: Name of a sacrifice. NAVAGRAHA: The nine planets. NAVAGRAHASHÁNTI: A ceremony in propitiation of the nine planets. NAVAKÁDÁN: Gift of a ship. NAVALÁ-DEVI: Name of a goddess. NAVAMUTHIUM: A preparation of nine handfuls of wheat. NAVARÁTRA: The first nine days of the month of Ashvin held sacred to Durga. NAVATERI: A game of nine and thirteen. NEHADO: A hamlet of Bharváds or shepherds. NIAR: A kind of rice grown without ploughing. NILOTSARGA: A kind of Shráddha. NILOTSAVA: See Nilparván. NILPARVÁN: A ceremony in propitiation of the spirits of deceased ancestors. NIRGUDI: A kind of plant. NIRMALA: Name of a goddess. NOL VEL: A kind of creeper. NRISINHA MANTRA: An incantation in honour of Nrisinha. NYÁSA: Gesture. O. OGHAD: A fool. OKARINU: Vomitting; a kind of sheep disease. OLO: A species of birds. OMKÁR MANDHÁTA: Name of a god. P. PÁDO: A he-buffalo. PÁDUKA: Impressions of feet on stones. PADVAL: Snake-gourd. PADWAL: See Padval. PAJUSAN: A holiday of Jains. PALAS: A tree, Butea frondosa. PALEJATRA: A ceremony performed at the sowing season. PALE MARAD: An order of ghosts. PÁLIO: A pillar. A tomb erected on the grave of a person who dies on a field of battle. PALUS: See palas. PÁN: A betel leaf. PANCHAK: Grouping of constellations lasting for five days. PANCHÁKSHARI: An exorcist. PANCHÁMRITA: A mixture of milk, curds, sugar, ghi and honey. PANCHARATNA: Five kinds of precious things, viz., gold, silver, copper, coral and pearls. PANCHÁYATAN: The five deities, Shiva, Vishnu, Surya, Ganpati and Devi. PANCH-DEVA: See Pancháyatan. PANCHGAVYA: A mixture of the five products of the cow. PANCHOPACHÁR: The presenting in oblation to an idol of five articles. PÁNDAVA: A term applied to the five sons of Pandu. PANDHAR: Name of a goddess. PANDIT: A scholar. PÁNDHRI: A kind of tree. PÁNGALÁ-DEVI: Name of a goddess. PANOTI: Certain peculiar conjunctions of planets; name of a goddess. PÁPAD: Wafer biscuits. PARADI: A disease-scaring basket; a basket. PARAKÁYÁPRAVESH: Entering the body of another. PARASHU: An axe. PARDESHI: A term applied to men from Upper India, usually low caste. PARJANYA: Rain. PARJANYA-SHÁNTI: A ceremony performed to secure rainfall. PARMÁR: A clan of Rajputs. PÁRO: A kind of stone. PÁRSHAD VAIKUNTHA: Name of a heavenly region. PÁRTHISHWAR: Lord of the earth; a god. PÁRVATI: The consort of Shiva. PARWANI: A festival. PASHUCHAR: An order of ghosts moving among beasts. PASHUPATÁKA: A weapon of Shiva. PASTANA: The being disposed for use--vessels, etc. for idol worship. PÁT: A low wooden stool; marriage with a widow. PÁTÁL: The nether world. PÁTHA: Recitation. PÁTIL: A village headman. PATIT-PÁVAN: Purifier of the fallen. PATKA: A head scarf. PÁTLA: A low wooden stool. PÁT LÁVANE: To marry a widow. PAURÁNIC: As prescribed in the puránas. PAUSH: The tenth month of the Deccani Hindu and the third month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. PÁVAIYA: A sect of goddess worshippers. PÁVTE: A kind of grain. PEDHE: A kind of sweets. PEDI: A small heap or lápsi. PEESA: An order of ghosts. PENDA: A kind of sweets. PETTOD: A kind of cattle disease. PHÁLGUN: The twelfth month of the Deccani Hindu and the fifth month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. PHANAS: The jack fruit. PIDHÁN ÁRATI: The ceremony of substituting night ornaments on an idol for the costly ornaments of the day. PILUDI: A kind of tree. PIND: A rice ball. PINDA: See Pind. PINGLA: A species of birds. PINJAR: Red powder. PIPAL: A tree, Ficus religiosa. PIPALESHWAR MAHÁDEV: A name of Shiva. PIR: A Muhammadan name for a saint. PIRAS PIPALO: Thespesia populwa. PISHÁCHA: An evil spirit. PITAR: A spirit of a deceased ancestor. PITHI: Turmeric powder. PITPÁPDO: Glossocardi Boswellia. PITRA: Manes. PITRI: An ancestral spirit. PITRI SHRÁDDHA: A Shráddha in propitiation of the ancestral spirits. PITRRIYA: A deceased ancestor. PITRU PAKSHA: Manes' fortnight, the dark half of the month of Bhádrapad. POHOR: A measure of time equal to three hours. POLIO: Hollow. POLO: Hollow. PONDHAR: Name of a goddess. POPAT: A parrot. POSHI: A class of chudels, an order of ghosts. POTHIA: An exorcist; the bull of Shiva. POTHIO: A bull. PRÁCHETAS: A patronymic of Manu. PRADAKSHINA: Circumambulation. PRADOSHA: The thirteenth day of the dark half of a month. PRALHÁD: The son of the demon Hiranyakashipu. He was a great devotee of Vishnu. PRALAMBÁSUR: Name of a demon. PRÁNA: Life. PRÁNA-POKA: Death wail. PRASÁD: Consecrated food. PRASTHÁNA: See Pastana. PRATÁB: An order of ghosts. PRÁYASCHITTA: Penance. PRAYOGA: Performance; experiment. PRETA: A goblin; spirit of a person dying a sudden or accidental death. PUDINA: Mentha Sativa. PUJA: Worship. PUJÁRI: A worshipper. PUJYA: Deserving to be worshipped. PULAP: Name of a sage. PULASTYA: Name of a sage. PUNARVASU: Name of a constellation. PUNDARIK: Name of a mythological snake. PUNEMA: The full moon day of a month. PUNJI: Refuse. PUNJO: Refuse. PUNYÁHA WACHAN: A particular ceremony performed on festive occasions. PUNYA STHÁNA: A holy place. PUNYA TITHI: The death anniversary of a Sanyási or saint. PURÁN: The name of a certain class of sacred books ascribed to Vyása and containing the whole body of Hindu mythology. PURBHAYA: A term applied to persons from Upper India. PURNÁHUTI: An offering into the fire of a handful of rice, ghi, cocoanuts and some other articles. PURNIMA: See Paurnima. PURNA TITHI: A complete day. PURUSHOTTAM: Intercalary month. PURVÁBHÁDRAPADA: Name of a constellation. PURVÁ-FÁLGUNI: Name of a constellation. PURVAJA: An ancestor. PURVÁSHÁDHA: Name of a constellation. PUSHKAR: Name of a snake. PUSHYA: Name of a constellation. R. RABÁRI: A caste of shepherds. RÁDHA: A man dressed in woman's clothes as a dancer; name of a sweetheart of Krishna. RADIO: Crying. RÁFDA: A kind of jujube tree. RAGATIO: An order of ghosts. RÁHU: A demon with the tail of a dragon whose head was severed from his body by Vishnu. The head and tail, retaining their separate existence, were transferred to the planetary heavens, and became, the first, the eighth planet, and the second (Ketu) the ninth. RAINÁDEVI: Name of a goddess. RÁJÁH: A king. RÁJAYAJNA: A kind of sacrifice. RÁJBÁI MÁTA: Name of a goddess. RÁJBHOG ARATI: The ceremony of offering dainties and cooked food to the gods. RAJPUTÁNI: Wife of a Rajput; a Rajput woman. RÁKHADI: A piece of silk thread. RAKHEVÁLIO: An order of ghosts. RÁKSHASA: A demon. RÁLA: Panic seed. RÁLE: Panic seed. RAMALASHÁSTRA: The science of divining by means of figures or lines and dice. RÁMANAVAMI: The ninth day of the bright half of Chaitra celebrated as the birth day of Ráma. RÁMÁNUJA: Name of a great saint and philosopher who founded a sect of Vaishnavism. RÁMÁYANA: An epic poem by Válmiki describing the exploits and adventures of Ráma. RÁMCHANDRA: A name of Ráma. RÁMESHWAR: A name of Shiva. RÁMNÁTH: Name of a deity. RÁNDAL: Name of a goddess who presides over child-birth. RÁNDHAN CHHETHA: The cooking sixth, the sixth day of the dark half of Shráwan. RANGPANCHAMI: The fifth day of the dark half of Phálgun on which coloured water is thrown. RÁNJANI: A kind of tree. RANNA DEVI: Name of a goddess who presides over child-birth. RÁNO: A Lord. RÁSHI: Signs of the Zodiac. RATANVO PÁRO: A kind of stone. RATANWA: A kind of skin disease. RATH: A charriot. RATHA SAPTAMI: The seventh day of the bright half of Mágh. RATNA: A jewel. RATNESHWAR MAHÁDEVA: A name of Shiva. RÁUL: A caste of Hindus or an individual of it. RÁVAL: See Rául. RAVALNÁTH: Name of a spirit; name of a village deity. RÁVAN: Name of the demon king of Lanka or Ceylon. RAVI: The sun. RAWALNÁTH: See Ravalnáth. RÁYAN: A tree, Mimusops hexandra. REKHA: A line. RELA: A stream. REVATI: Name of a constellation. REWADI: A preparation of sesamum and sugar. RIKTA: Unfruitful, inauspicious. RISHI PUNCHAMI: The fifth day of the bright half of Bhádrapad. RITU: A season. ROHINI: Name of a constellation. ROPANI: Transplanting. ROT: A loaf prepared from eight kinds of grain. ROTAL: Womanish. RUDRA: An order of semi-divine beings. RUDRÁBHISHEKA: The ceremony of pouring water in a constant stream over the image of Shiva for eleven consecutive days and nights. RUDRÁKSHA: A tree sacred to Shiva. Eleocarpus ganitrus. RUDRÁKSHA MÁLA: A rosary of 108 beads of the rudráksha wood. RUDRAYÁG: A sacrifice in honour of the god Shiva. RUI: A tree, calotropis gigantea. RUPO: Handsome. RUTU: Name of a sage. RUTUSHÁNTI: The marriage consummation ceremony. S. SABHA: A meeting. SÁDÁSÁTI PANOTI: A panoti extending over seven years and a half. SÁDHAN: Accomplishment. SÁDHU: A saint. SAGAR: A king of the Solar race, an ancestor of Ráma. SAHÁN: A levigating slab. SAHASRABHOJAN: Feeding a thousand Bráhmans. SAITÁN: An order of ghosts. SAIYED: A name for Musalmáns directly descended from the Prophet. SAKHARADO: A kind of disease. SAKHOTIA: Name of a tree. SAKINI: An order of ghosts. SÁKSHI: Witness. SALÁM: The word used in salutation by and to Muhammadans and other people not Hindu. SALBAYA: Name of a deity. SAMÁCHARI: The death anniversary. SAMÁDH: The edifice which is erected over the burial-place of a Sanyási or saint; deep and devout meditation. SAMÁDHI: See Samádh. SAMAI: A brass lamp. SÁMÁNYA PUJA: Ordinary worship. SAMBANDHA: Spirit of a Bráhman who dies without an heir and whose funeral rites have not been performed. SÁMELU: A log of wood. SÁMISHYA: Entering the divine order. SAMPAT SHANIWÁR: Wealth-giving Shaniwár, a Saturday in the month of Shrávan. SAMUDRA: The sea. SAMVAT: A year. SAMVATSAR: A year; A period of three cycles of twenty years each, that is sixty years. SAMVATSARI: Death anniversary. SÁMVATSARIK SHRÁDDHA: The yearly Shráddha. SANATKUMAR: One of the four sons of Brahma. SANCHAL: A kind of salt. SANDHYA: The morning, noon or evening prayers of a Bráhman. SANDHYA ÁRATI: Offerings of Milk, sugar and cakes to the gods in the evening. SANIPÁT: Delirium. SÁNKAL: A chain. SANKAR: A stone. SANKASTI CHATURTHI: The fourth lunar day of every dark fortnight. SANKRÁNT: Transit or passage of the sun or a planet from one sign of the zodiac into another. SANKRÁNTI: See Sankránt. SANYÁSI: The Bráhman of the fourth order, the religious mendicant. SAPINDI: The offering of a ball of rice, etc., to the spirit of a deceased relative, commonly on the twelfth day after his decease. SAPTÁHA: A perusal or reading through of a purán or other sacred book in seven consecutive days. SAPTÁHA-PÁRÁYAN: See Saptáha. SAPTA-RISHI: Ursa Major (the seven stars of which are supposed to be the seven great saints Marichi, Atri, Angiras, Pulastya. Pulaha, Kratu and Vasishtha.) SAPTA SANI: Name of an incarnation. SÁRANGDHA: A kind of fruit. SARASVATI: The goddess of learning. SÁRI: A robe. SARPA BÁNDHANE: A process by which a snake can be prevented from entering or leaving a particular area. SARVASÁKSHI: The observer of all things. SATÁP: A kind of tree. SATARSINGO: Name of a goblin. SÁTEM: The seventh day of the bright or dark half of a month. SÁTERI: Name of a goddess. SÁTHARA: The place in the house where a corpse is placed. SATHIA: An auspicious figure drawn on the floor. SATSANG: Contract with the righteous. SATVÁI: Name of a goddess; the ghost of a woman. SATYA NÁRÁYAN: Name of a deity; a vow of that name. SATYAWÁN: Name of a mythological king. SAUDÁMINI: The lightning. SAUNDAD: The Shami tree, Prosopis spicigera. SÁVAJ: A wild animal. SAVAPÁTI: Weighing about six pounds and a quarter. SAVITA: The sun. SÁVITRI: A mythological woman celebrated for her devotion to her husband. SAWANEKARIN: Name of a goddess. SÁWAR: A kind of tree. SÁWKÁR: A money-lender. SÁVO: Sewed. SÁYUJJA: Merging into the divine form. SER: A measure of weight. SERAJA: A kind of gift. SEVA: Vermicelli. SEVAK: A disciple, a follower. SEVAKA: See Sevak. SHADÁNADA: Name of a goddess. SHAKARIO: Name of a cattle disease. SHÁKINI: An order of ghosts. SHÁKTA MÁTA: Name of a goddess. SHAKTI: The energy or active power of a deity personified as his wife; as Párvati of Shiva. SHAKTIMÁTA: Name of a goddess. SHAKTI-PANTHI: A follower of the Shakti or Shákta sect that is those who worship a divine energy under its feminine personification. SHAKTIYÁG: A sacrifice in honour of Shakti. SHÁLIGRÁM: A sacred stone supposed to represent Vishnu. SHÁLUNKI: A species of singing birds. SHANI: Saturn. SHANGÁR ARATI: The ceremony of taking off the idols night garments and putting on others for the day. SHANKARÁCHÁRYA: The designation of the celebrated teacher of the Vedánt philosophy. SHANKÁSUR: Name of a demon. SHANKHÁSUR: Name of a demon. SHANKHINI: An order of ghosts. SHÁNTANU: A king of the lunar race who married Ganga and Satyavati. SHARÁDIAN: The dark half of the month of Bhádrapad. SHÁRANG: The bow of Vishnu. SHARAD PUNEMA: The full-moon day of Ashvin. SHARAD-RITU: The Autumn. SHÁSTRA: Scripture. SHATACHANDI: An incantation in honour of the goddess. SHATANJIVA: Live for a hundred years. SHATATÁRAKA: Name of a constellation. SHATCHANDI: An incantation in honour of the goddess Chandi. SHES BHARANE: Name of a ceremony. SHENDUR: Red lead. SHESH NÁG: The snake of one thousand hoods who supports the earth. SHEVARI: A kind of tree. SHIKHANDI: Amba born as the daughter of Drupada. She was given out to be, and brought up as, a male child. SHIKHAR: Top. SHIKOTAR: Name of a goddess. SHILI: Stale. SHILI SÁTEM: The stale seventh, the seventh day of the dark half of Shrávan. SHIRÁLSHET: Name of an ancient Váni or trader who became a king, and reigned three and a half ghatika (a measure of time). SHISHIR-RITU: The cold season. SHIT: The fowl tied to the top of the bamboo planted in the pit of the Holi fire. SHITALA ASHTAKA: A hymn in praise of the goddess Shitala. SHITALÁI-PUJAN: A holiday observed by women. SHITALÁDEVI: The small-pox goddess. SHITALA MÁTA: See Shitaládevi. SHITAL-SAPTAMI: See Shili Sátem. SHIVA: The third god of the Hindu Trinity. SHIVALANGI: Name of a plant. SHIVÁ-MUTHA: A vow in which handfuls of corn are offered by married girls to the god Vishnu on every Monday in the month of Shrávan. SHIVARÁTRA: The fourteenth day of the dark half of every month sacred for the worship of Shiva. SHIVARÁTRI: See Shivarátra. SHIWANI: A kind of tree. SHIWAR: An offering of boiled rice mixed with curds; an offering of a goat or fowl. SHLOKA: A stanza, a verse. SHODASHOPACHÁR: The sixteen ways of doing homage. SHOKA-PAGLÁN: Morning foot prints. SHRÁVAD: A kind of shrub. SHRÁVAK: A term applied to the members of the Jain religion. SHRÁVAN: The fifth month of the Deccani and the tenth month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. SHRÁVANI: The ceremony of renewing the sacred thread. SHRAWANA: Name of a constellation. SHRI DUTTA: Name of a deity. SHRINGÁR ÁRATI: See Shangár árati. SHRINGHI: Name of a sage. SHRI SATYA NÁRÁYAN: Name of a deity. SHUDDHA: Pure; the bright half of a month. SHUDRA: The last of the four-fold divisions of Manu. SHUKAMUNI: Name of a sage. SHUKRA: Venus. SIDDHA: An order of semi-divine beings. SIDDHA PURUSHA: A magician. SIDDHI: Accomplishment; the acquisition of supernatural powers; name of a wife of Ganpati. SIDDHI KARAN: Name of a book in which Dharmarája keeps an account of the good and bad actions of men. SIDHA: Uncooked articles of food. SIDIO: Nigro-like. SIKAN: A sling. SIKE: A sling. SIKOTARU: See Sikoturu. SIKOTURU: Ghost of a woman dying with certain desires unfulfilled. SIMÁNT: The first pregnancy ceremony. SINDHÁVÁR: Name of a goddess. SINDUR: Red lead. SINHA: A lion; Leo. SINHIKA: The mother of Ráhu. SITA: The consort of Ráma. SIWA BÁNDHANE: Binding the boundary-name of a ceremony. SIWO: Sewn. SMÁRTA AGNI: The fire which is kept constantly burning and worshipped during the Cháturmás. SOD-MUNJ: The ceremony of loosening the munja (string) from the loins of a Bráhman. SOLANKI: Name of a clan of Rajputs. SOLA SOMVÁR-VRATA: A vow observed on sixteen successive Mondays. SOMAPA: Name of a water nymph. SOMAVATI-AMÁVÁSYA: The fifteenth day of the dark half of a month falling on Monday. SOMAGA: Name of a religious ceremony. SONI: A caste of goldsmiths or an individual of it. SORRO: Sulphuret of antimony. SOSHI: Name of a class of chudels. SOVALEN: A silk garment. SPHATIKA MANI: A crystal stone. STAMBHAN: A branch of black magic. STHÁNA: Locality. STHÁNA-DEVA: A local deity. STHÁNADEVATA: See Sthána-deva. STHÁPAN: Installation. SUD: The bright half of a month. SUDARSHAN: See Sudarshan chakra. SUDARSHAN CHAKRA: The discus of Vishnu. SUDHA: Nectar. SUDHÁKAR: The moon. SUDYAMAN: Name of a mythological king. SUGAD: A little earthen vessel. SUKÁL: A plentiful harvest. SULIO: An order of ghosts. SULEIMÁNI PÁRO: A kind of stone. SUMARIA GANESH: A name of Ganpati. SUNA: Unoccupied. SUNAKU: A kind of cattle disease. SUNKÁI: Name of a goddess. SUNTH: Dry ginger. SUPADUN: A winnowing fan. SURA: Liquor. SURAKANO: Twisted iron wire. SURAN: A morphophallus campalatus (elephant foot). SURANG: A kind of tree. SURDHAN: Ghost of a male member dying with certain of his desires unfulfilled. SURMO: See Sorro. SUROPURO: A spirit of one who meets death on a field of battle. SURYA: The sun. SURYA KAVACH: A hymn in honour of the Sun. SURYA-VRAT: A vow in honour of the Sun. SUTAKI: One ceremonially impure on account of the death of a relative. SUTÁR: A caste of carpenters or an individual of it. SUTI: An order of ghosts. SUTTEE: A woman who burns herself on the funeral pyre of her husband. SUVA: An ingredient used in preparing spices. SUWARN: Gold. SUWÁSINI: An unwidowed woman. SWÁMI: A lord, a term applied to saints. SWÁMI MAHÁRÁJ: An epithet of Dattátraya or Shri Dutta. SWÁMINÁRÁYAN: A sect of Hindus. SWAPNA: A dream. SWARGA: Heaven. SWASTIKA: A kind of mystical figure. SWÁTI: Name of constellation. SWAYAMBHU: Self-existent. SWAYAMVAR: A maiden's choice marriage. T. TÁDIA: A fruit of the fan-palm. TADULI: The full moon day of Ashádh. TAKSHAK: Name of a snake. TÁL: A kind of cymbal. TALABDIA KOLI: A sub-division of the Koli tribe. TALKHÁMBA: A ghost of an unmarried Shudra. TÁLI: A plate. TALI BHARANE: A rite performed in honour of the god Khandoba. TALO BHAGAT: Name of a great saint. TAMÁSHA: A diverting exhibition; a show, play, farce, mock-fight, etc. TÁMHAN: A flat saucer-like metal plate. TAMJÁI: Name of a goddess. TANYATUN: Lightning. TAPAKESHWAR: A name of Mahádev. TÁRÁ-BÁRAS: The star twelfth, the twelfth day after the death of a person. TARIA TÁV: Periodical fever. TARPAN: An offering of water. TÁV: A sheet of paper. TAVA: A cake fried in oil in a pan. TAVO: Flat unleavened loaves. TAXAMI: The ghost of a woman dying in child-bed or menses. THÁKORJI: A name for the Deity. THÁL: A dish. THÁNA: A station. THÁNAK: Locality. THOR: A tree. Euphoria nerifolia. TID: A locust. TIL: Sesamum. TILA: The sectarial mark made with coloured earths or unguents upon the forehead. TILAD: A singing sparrow. TINDOTÁN: A kind of creeper. TIRTHA: Water used in bathing an idol; a holy place. TOLA: A weight amounting to 210 grains. TOND BHUT: An order of evil spirits. TOSHI: A class of chudels. TRAVENI: A confluence of three rivers. TRETÁYUGA: The second yuga or age according to the Hindu scriptures. TRIJ: The third day of the bright or dark half of a month. TRIPINDI: A kind of Shráddha. TRIPURÁSUR: Name of a demon. TRIPURI-PAURNIMA: The full moon-day of Kártik. TRISHANKU: Name of a king of the Solar race. TRISHUL: A trident. TUCHAKA: A mystical method. TULA: Libra. TULSI-VRAT: A vow in honour of the Tulsi or sweet basil plant. TULSI: The sweet basil. TUNGJÁI: Name of a goddess. TURABAT: A tomb. U. UBHI: Standing; an order of ghosts. UCHÁTAN: A branch of black magic. UCHCHÁTAN: See Uchátan. UDA: A species of water spirits. UDAK SHÁNTI: Propitiation by water. UJANI: A ceremony in propitiation of the village gods. UJJANI; A festival in honour of the god Indra. UKARDI: Earth with which the marriage altar is built. UKO: A dung-hill. UMA MAHESH: The god Mahádev and his wife Párvati; name of a vow in honour of them. UMBAR: The Indian fig tree. UMPI: Name of a Nág girl. UNÁI MÁTA: Name of a goddess. UNDAR: A mouse. UNT: A camel. UPADEVA: A demi-god. UPÁKARMA: The ceremony of renewing the sacred thread. URAS: A fair held in honour of a Mahomedan saint. UTÁR: A sacrificial offering. UTTÁNAPÁD: Name of a mythological king. UTTARÁ-BHÁDRAPADA: Name of a constellation. UTTARÁ-FÁLGUNI: Name of a constellation. UTTARÁSHÁDHA: Name of a constellation. V. VÁCCHADO: The spirit supposed to cure hydrophobia. VÁCCHARO: See Vácchado. VACHO: Even. VAD: The banyan tree; the dark half of a month. VADÁN: Fried cakes. VADHÁVO: Odd. VADYÁJÁI: Name of a goddess. VAGÁDNAR: One who beats musical instruments like drums. VAGGAYA: Name of a deity. VÁGH: A tiger. VÁGHÁMBARI: Name of a goddess. VÁGHARAN: A woman of the Vághri caste. VÁGHESHWARI MÁTA: Name of a goddess. VÁGHRI: A caste of Hindus. VÁGHUR DEVI: Name of a goddess. VÁGHVIR: The spirit of a person killed by a tiger. VÁGHYA: A male child offered to the god Khandoba. VAIRÁGI: A recluse. VAISHÁKHA: The second month of the Deccani Hindu and the seventh month of the Gujarát Hindu calendar year. VAISHNAVA: The sect of Hindus devoted to Vishnu. VAISHVADEV: An oblation of boiled rice into the fire. VAISHYA: A trader, the third of the four-fold divisions of Manu. VAITÁL: An order of demi-gods. VAITÁLIKA: An attendant of the god Shiva. VAIVASWAT MANU: Name of the seventh Manu now reigning. VAJRA: Adamant. VAJRÁBÁI: Name of a goddess. VAJRABATTU: A kind of bead. VAJRAMAYA: Adamantine. VAJRESHWARI: Name of a goddess. VAJRESWARI: See Vajreshvari. VALAM: A mock bridegroom in the Holi festival. VALAMA VALAMI: A procession of a mock marriage in the Holi festival. VALAMI: A mock bride in the Holi festival. VÁLAND: A caste of barbers or an individual of it. VALGO SAMACHARI: Death anniversary. VALLABHÁCHÁRYA: A great saint and scholar who founded a sect of Vaishnavism. VALO: A kind of cattle disease. VALU: Eccentric. VÁMA-MÁRGI: A follower of the Váma-márga that is a mode of worship in which the idol is worshipped by the left hand, liquor drunk, etc., etc. VÁMAN: A dwarf; name of the fifth incarnation of Vishnu. VANA-SHASTHI: Name of a Holiday. VANTRI: An order of ghosts. VÁNZIÁPANA: Barrenness. VARADANI: Name of a goddess. VARADHAN: Name of a deity. VARÁH: A boar. VARÁHA-SANHITA: Name of a book. VARSHÁ-RITU: The rainy season. VÁRUL: The white ant-hill. VÁSANA: Desire. VASANTAPANCHAMI: The fifth day of the bright half of Mágh. VASANT-RITU: The spring. VÁSH: An oblation of rice and sweets offered to crows. VASHIKARAN: A branch of black magic. VASHISHTHA: Name of a sage. VÁSTU: A religious rite performed on entering a new house. VÁSTDEVATA: The guardian spirit of dwelling places. VÁSTUN: See Vástu. VÁSTUPUJAN: See Vástu. VASU: A bull-calf or bull branded and set at liberty. VASUBÁRAS: The twelfth day of the bright half of Ashvin. VASUDEVA: Name of the father of Krishna. VASU-DWÁDASI: See Vasubáras. VÁSUKI: Name of a snake. VÁSTU SHÁNTI: See Vástu. VATA-SÁVITRI VRAT: Name of a vow observed by women on the full moon day of Jyeshtha. VÁTI: A small metal cup. VÁTKI: See Váti. VÁV: A reservoir of water; a tank. VÁYALI: Eccentric. VÁYU: Wind; the deity presiding over the wind. VÁYUSUTA: A name of Máruti. VEDA: Name of the scriptures of the Hindus. VEDATRAYI: The three vedas, Rik, Yajus and Sáma. VEDHA: Malign influence. VEDIC: Relating to the Vedas; as enjoined in the Vedas. VEHALA: A tree, Beleric Myrobalan. VELAN: A stick. VELO: A creeper. VETÁL: The lord of ghosts; name of a village deity. VETRASARPA: A cane stick with an image of a snake at its end. VIDÁ-SUPÁRI: Betel nut and leaves. VIDYUT: Lightning. VAJAYÁDASHAMI: The tenth day of the bright half of Ashvin. VIJLI: Lightning. VIKRAM: Name of a king. VIMÁN: A celestial car. VINÁYAK-CHATURTHI: The fourth day of the bright half of every month. VINCHI: A female scorpion. VIR: A male fiend; ghost of an unmarried Kshatriya. VIRA: An order of ghosts; name of a village deity. VISHA: Poison. VISHÁKHA: Name of a constellation VISHESHA PUJA: Special worship. VISHI: A cycle of twenty years. VISHNU: The second god of the Hindu Trinity. VISHNUSAHASRANÁMA: A book containing the thousand names of Vishnu. VISHNUYÁGA: A sacrifice in honour of Vishnu. VISHOTAK: Name of a disease. VISHVÁMITRA: Name of a sage. VISHWARUPA: That exists in all forms, an epithet of Vishnu. VISHWESHWAR: A name of Shiva. VISWÁTI: An order of ghosts. VITHOBA: Name of a god. VISUCHIKA: Name of a cholera goddess. VIVÁNCHARA: An order of ghosts. VRAT: A vow. VRIKODARA: Wolf-bellied, an epithet of Bhima. VRINDA: Name of the wife of Jalendhar, a demon. VRISCHIKA: Scorpion. VRISHABHA: Taurus. VRITRASÁR: Name of a demon. VRUNDA: See Vrinda. VYATIPÁT: The seventeenth of the Astrological Yoga (the twenty-seventh part of a circle measured on the plane of the Ecliptic). W. WAD: The banyan tree. WÁDI: An enclosed piece of meadow-field or garden ground. WÁGH-BÁRAS: The twelfth day of Ashvin. WÁGHE: Male children offered to the god Khandoba. WÁGHESHWARI: Name of a village goddess. WÁGHJÁI: Name of a deity. WÁGHOBA: An order of ghosts. WÁJRESHWARI: Name of a village goddess. WÁGHYA: Name of a deity; a male child offered to the god Khandoba. WÁMAN-DWÁDASHI: The twelfth day of the bright half of Bhádrapad. WÁNI: A trader; a, general name for all castes of traders i.e., banyas. WÁNPRASTA: A Bráhman in the third order of his life; a hermit in general. WÁRUL: An ant-hill. WATA: The Banyan tree. WATA-PAURNIMA: The fall moon day of Jyeshtha. WUDA: Incense. Y. YADNA: See Yajna. YADNOPAVIT: The sacred thread worn by Bráhmans. YADNYA: See Yajna. YAJAMÁN: A host; a person performing a sacrifice. YAJNA: A sacrifice. YAKSHA: A class of demi-gods, attendant on Kubera and employed in guarding his treasures. YAKSHINI: A female Yaksha; a fairy. YALLAMMA: Name of a goddess. YAMA: The God of death. YAMADUTA: A messenger of the god of death. YAMAGHANTA: A Yog or conjunction of times, viz., a Sunday falling upon the second day of the bright or dark half of a month; a Friday falling upon the third lunar day, etc., etc. YAMALOKA: The region of Yama. YAMAPURI: The city of the god of death. YANTRA: A mystical formula or diagram. YOGA: Religious and abstract meditation. YOGA MÁRGA: The path of meditation. YOGA-SUTRA: Name of a work by Pátanjali containing aphorisms of the science of Yoga. YOGAVÁSHISTHA: Name of a work on philosophy. YOJAN: A measure of distance equal to eight miles. YUDHISHTHIR: An epithet of Dharma, the eldest of the Pándava brothers. Z. ZÁMHÁDI: A female spirit guarding the village gates. ZAMPAHADI: An order of ghosts. ZANZARKA: Name of a goddess. ZANZIRA: A kind of magic incantation. ZÁR: Fever. ZARMÁN ZARVÁN: A ceremony in which a woman fetches water for the first time after delivery. ZILAKESHWAR: A name of Mahádeva. ZINI: Small. ZOD: An order of ghosts. NOTES [1] School Master, Palshet, Ratnágiri. [2] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [3] School Master, Parule, Ratnágiri. [4] School Master, Makhnele, Ratnágiri. [5] School Master, Rájápur, Ratnágiri. [6] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [7] School Master, Málád, Thána. [8] School Master, Shahápur, Thána. [9] School Master, Dasgaum, Kolába. [10] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [11] School Master, Akola, Kolába. [12] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [13] These twelve names are:--1 Mitra, 2 Ravi, 3 Surya, 4 Bhanu, 5 Khaga, 6 Pushne, 7 Hiranyagarbha, 8 Marichi, 9 Aditya, 10 Savita, 11 Arka, 12 Bhasker. [14] School Master, Phonde. [15] School Master, Devarukh. [16] School Master, Parule. [17] School Master, Anjur. [18] School Master, Vasind. [19] School Master, Málád. [20] 33,000,0000 demons are said to be born every day to impede the journey of the Sun. [21] School Master, Málád. [22] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála. [23] School Master, Padaghe. [24] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [25] The churning handle or rod is called in Maráthi Ravi, which is one of the names of the Sun. [26] School Master, Nevare, Ratnágiri. [27] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [28] School Master, Makhanele, Ratnágiri. [29] School Master, Pendhur, Málvan, Ratnágiri. [30] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála. [31] School Masters, Chauk, Karjat, Kolába. [32] School Masters, Chauk, Karjat, Kolába. [33] Ráo Sáheb Shelke. [34] School Master, Malgund, Ratnágiri. [35] School Master, Phonde, Ratnágiri. [36] Ráo Sáhib Shelke. [37] In the Konkan the Navánna Purnima or full moon day of new food is observed in the month of Ashvina. This is, no doubt, due to the difference in the season of the harvest. [38] Ráo Sáheb Shelke. [39] School Master, Ibrámpur. [40] School Master, Gaumkhadi, Rájápur. [41] School Master, Adivare, Rájápur. [42] School Master, Dábhol, Ratnágiri. [43] School Master, Ratnágiri. [44] School Master, Ubhádánda, Vengurla. [45] School Master, Ratnágiri. [46] School Master, Murbád. [47] School Master, Vásind, Sáhápur. [48] School Master, Wáda. [49] School Master, Edwan, Máhim. [50] School Master, Kalyán, No. 1 and School Master, Padaghe, Bhiwandi. [51] School Master, Chidhran, Kolába. [52] School Master, Poládpur. [53] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [54] School Master, Anjur, Thána. [55] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [56] School Master, Poládpur. [57] School Master, Poládpur, Kolába. [58] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [59] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [60] School Master, Pendur, Málvan, Ratnágiri. [61] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [62] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [63] School Master, Malgund, Ratnágiri. [64] School Master, Ubhádánda, Vengurla. [65] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [66] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [67] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [68] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [69] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [70] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [71] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [72] School Master, Málgund, Ratnágiri. [73] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [74] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [75] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [76] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [77] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [78] School Master, Bándivade, Budruk, Ratnágiri. [79] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [80] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [81] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [82] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [83] School Master, Rájápur, Ratnágiri. [84] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [85] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [86] School Master, Khetwadi, A.V. School, Bombay. [87] School Master, Khetwadi, A.V. School, Bombay. [88] School Master, Padaghe, Thána. [89] School Master, Poládpur, Kolába. [90] School Master, Masure, Ratnágiri. [91] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [92] School Master, Vijayadurg, Ratnágiri. [93] School Master, Makhanele, Ratnágiri. [94] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [95] School Master, Makhanele, Ratnágiri. [96] School Master, Makhanele, Ratnágiri. [97] School Master, Devarukh, Ratnágiri. [98] School Master, Makhanele, Ratnágiri. [99] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [100] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [101] School Master, Makhanele, Ratnágiri. [102] School Master, Navare, Ratnágiri. [103] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [104] School Master, Malgund, Ratnágiri. [105] School Master, Kankavli, Ratnágiri. [106] School Master, Makhanele, Ratnágiri. [107] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [108] School Master, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [109] School Master, Rai, Thána. [110] School Master, Badlapur, Thána. [111] School Master, Mokhada, Thána. [112] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [113] School Master, Kasu, Kolába. [114] School Master, Vavasi, Kolába. [115] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [116] School Master, Vavanje, Kolába. [117] School Master, Nevare, Ratnágiri. [118] School Master, Kasba, Sangameshwar, Ratnágiri. [119] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [120] School Master, Pendhur, Ratnágiri. [121] School Master, Devarukh, Ratnágiri. [122] School Master, Málgund, Ratnágiri. [123] School Master, Ratnágiri. [124] School Master, Vijayadurg, Ratnágiri. [125] School Master, Chiplun, Ratnágiri. [126] School Master, Kankava, Ratnágiri. [127] School Master, Masure, Ratnágiri. [128] School Master, Chiplun, Ratnágiri. [129] School Master, Khetwadi, A.V.S., Bombay. [130] School Master, Anjur, Thána. [131] School Master, Rai, Thána. [132] School Master, Shahápur, Thána. [133] School Master, Bhuvan, Thána. [134] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [135] School Master, Vavanje, Kolába. [136] School Master, Akol, Kolába. [137] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [138] School Master, Kasba, Sangameshwar, Ratnágiri. [139] School Master, Makhanele, Ratnágiri. [140] School Master, Masure, Ratnágiri. [141] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [142] School Master, Chiplun, Ratnágiri. [143] School Master, Anjur, Thána. [144] School Master, Varsai, Kolába. [145] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [146] School Master, Varsai, Kolába. [147] School Master, Poládpur, Kolába. [148] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [149] School Master, Chiplun, Ratnágiri. [150] School Master, Palspot, Ratnágiri. [151] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [152] School Master, Murbád, Thána. [153] School Master, Bhuvan, Thána. [154] School Master, Ratnágiri. [155] School Master, Phonde, Ratnágiri. [156] School Master, Wanhavli, Ratnágiri. [157] School Master, Bándivade, Budruk, Ratnágiri. [158] School Master, Makhanele, Ratnágiri. [159] School Master, Masure, Ratnágiri. [160] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [161] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [162] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [163] School Master, Masure, Ratnágiri. [164] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [165] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [166] School Master, Malgund, Ratnágiri. [167] School Master, Devarukh, Ratnágiri. [168] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [169] School Master, Murbád, Thána. [170] School Master, Málád, Thána. [171] School Master, Anjur, Thána. [172] School Master, Wáda, Thána. [173] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [174] School Master, Anjur, Thána. [175] School Master, Saloli, Thána. [176] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [177] School Master, Kinhavali, Thána. [178] School Master, Rái, Thána. [179] School Master, Khativali, Thána. [180] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [181] School Master, Murbád, Thána. [182] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [183] School Master, Bhuvan, Thána. [184] School Masters, Wáda, Thána. [185] School Master, Sháhápur, Thána. [186] School Master, Poládpur, Kolába. [187] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [188] School Master, Wavasi, Kolába. [189] School Master, Varsai, Kolába. [190] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [191] School Master, Wavasi, Kolába. [192] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [193] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [194] School Master, Akol, Kolába. [195] School Master, Vavasi, Kolába. [196] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [197] School Master, Bándivade, Budruk, Ratnágiri. [198] School Master, Málgund, Ratnágiri. [199] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [200] School Master, Dahánu, Thána. [201] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [202] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [203] School Master, Umbargaum, Thána. [204] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [205] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [206] School Master, Akol, Kolába. [207] School Master, Sasawane, Kolába. [208] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [209] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [210] School Master, Málvan, Ratnágiri. [211] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [212] School Master, Kankavli, Ratnágiri. [213] School Master, Phonde, Ratnágiri. [214] School Master, Chiplun, Ratnágiri. [215] School Master, Nevare, Ratnágiri. [216] School Master, Ratnágiri. [217] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [218] School Master, Bándivade, Budruk, Ratnágiri. [219] School Master, Málvan, Ratnágiri. [220] School Master, Dábhol, Ratnágiri. [221] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [222] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [223] School Master, Murbád, Thána. [224] School Master, Dahánu, Thána. [225] School Master, Padaghe, Thána. [226] School Master, Nágothane, Kolába. [227] School Master, Akol, Kolába. [228] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [229] School Master, Apte, Kolába. [230] School Master, Khetwadi, A.V.S., Bombay. [231] School Master, Málvan, Ratnágiri. [232] School Master, Málgund, Ratnágiri. [233] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [234] Two earthen pots tied face to face, one of which containing some corn and red and yellow powders. [235] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [236] School Master, Malgund, Ratnágiri. [237] School Master, Málvan, Ratnágiri. [238] School Master, Makhanele, Ratnágiri. [239] School Master, Anjur, Thána. [240] School Master, Badlapur, Kalyán. [241] School Master, Bhuvan, Thána. [242] School Master, Bhuvan, Thána. [243] School Master, Tale, School No. I, Kolába. [244] School Master, Poládpur, Kolába. [245] School Master, Devarukh, Ratnágiri. [246] School Master, Badlapur, Thána. [247] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [248] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [249] School Master, Nevare, Ratnágiri. [250] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [251] School Master, Thána. [252] School Master, Kolába. [253] School Master, Khetwadi, Bombay. [254] School Master, Devgad, Ratnágiri. [255] School Master, Kamathipura, Bombay. [256] School Master, Wásind, Thána. [257] School Master, Umela, Thána. [258] The Hindus believe that there are seven heroes who can never die, i.e., 1 Ashwattháma, 2 Bali, 3 Vyása, 4 Hanumán, 5 Bibhíshana, 6 Kripáchárya and 7 Parashurám. The Sanskrit text is:-- ASHVATTHAMA BALIRVYASO HANUMANTO BIBHISHANAH | KRIPACARYAH PARASHURAMASSAPTAITE CIRAJIVINAH || [259] School Masters, Agáshi and Arnála, Thána. [260] School Master, Samangad, Kolhápur. [261] School Master, Poládpur, Kolába. [262] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [263] School Master, Wávashi, Kolába. [264] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [265] School Master, Apta, Kolába. [266] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [267] School Master, Tale, Kolába. [268] School Master, Bakavali, Ratnágiri. [269] School Master, Ratnágiri. [270] School Master, Devgad, Ratnágiri. [271] School Master, Parule, Ratnágiri. [272] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [273] School Master, Malgund, Ratnágiri. [274] School Master, Makhamle, Ratnágiri. [275] School Master, Sangameshwar, Ratnágiri. [276] School Master, Kámáthipura, Bombay. [277] School Master, Dábhol, Ratnágiri. [278] School Master, Náringre, Ratnágiri. [279] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [280] School Master, Málwan, Ratnágiri. [281] School Master, Palset, Ratnágiri. [282] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [283] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [284] School Master, Masure, Ratnágiri. [285] School Master, Sákharpe, Ratnágiri. [286] School Master, Dahánu, Thána. [287] School Master, Edwan, Thána. [288] School Master, Mángaon, Thána. [289] School Master, Dahigaon. [290] School Master, Bhiwandi, Thána. [291] School Master, Agáshi, Arnála, Thána. [292] School Master, Agáshi, Thána. [293] School Master, Malgund, Ratnágiri. [294] School Master, Shahápur, Thána. [295] School Master, Agáshi, Thána. [296] School Master, Medhe, Kolába. [297] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [298] School Master, Akol, Kolába. [299] School Master, Masure, Ratnágiri. [300] School Master, Shirosi, Thána District. [301] School Master, Parule, Ratnágiri. [302] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [303] School Master, Kankaoli, Ratnágiri. [304] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [305] School Master, Masure, Ratnágiri. [306] School Master, Palset, Ratnágiri. [307] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [308] School Master, Málwan, Ratnágiri. [309] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [310] School Master, Kochare, Ratnágiri. [311] School Master, Devgad, Ratnágiri. [312] School Master, Malgund, Ratnágiri. [313] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [314] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [315] School Master, Sasawane, Kolába. [316] School Master, Akol, Kolába. [317] School Master, Málád, Thána. [318] School Master, Bhuwan, Thána. [319] School Master, Agáshi, Thána District. [320] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [321] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [322] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [323] School Master, Sangameshwar, Ratnágiri. [324] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [325] School Master, Vijaydurg, Ratnágiri. [326] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [327] School Master, Kochare, Ratnágiri. [328] School Master, Navare, Ratnágiri. [329] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [330] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [331] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [332] School Master, Vávashi, Kolába. [333] School Master, Medhe, Kolába. [334] School Master, Málád, Thána. [335] School Master, Anjur, Thána. [336] School Master, Rái, Thána. [337] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [338] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [339] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [340] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [341] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [342] School Master, Váde, Thána. [343] School Master, Anjur, Thána. [344] School Master, Umbergaon, Thána. [345] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [346] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [347] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [348] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [349] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [350] School Master, Vávashi, Kolába. [351] School Master, Varsai, Kolába. [352] School Master, Medhe, Kolába. [353] School Master, Umela, Thána. [354] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [355] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [356] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [357] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [358] School Master, Murud, Ratnágiri. [359] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [360] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [361] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [362] School Master, Vávashi, Kolába. [363] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [364] School Master, Málád, Thána. [365] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [366] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [367] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [368] School Master, Sangameshwar, Ratnágiri. [369] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [370] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [371] Schoolmaster, Dásgaon, Kolába. [372] School Master, Málád, Thána. [373] School Master, Padghe, Thána. [374] School Master, Edwan, Thána. [375] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [376] School Master, Sangameshwar, Ratnágiri. [377] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [378] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [379] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [380] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [381] School Master, Chidhran, Kolába. [382] School Master, Sasawane, Kolába. [383] School Master, Anjur, Thána. [384] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [385] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [386] School Master, Bankavli, Ratnágiri. [387] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [388] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [389] School Master, Vavanje, Kolába. [390] School Master, Varsai, Kolába. [391] School Master, Málád, Thána. [392] School Master, Padghe, Thána. [393] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [394] School Master, Nágothane, Kolába. [395] School Master, Navare, Ratnágiri. [396] School Master, Málád, Thána. [397] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [398] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [399] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [400] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [401] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [402] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [403] School Master, Anjarla, Ratnágiri. [404] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [405] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [406] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [407] School Master, Navre, Ratnágiri. [408] School Master, Dásgaon, Kolába. [409] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [410] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [411] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [412] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [413] School Master, Navare, Ratnágiri. [414] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [415] School Master, Dabhol, Ratnágiri. [416] School Master, Shiravde, Ratnágiri. [417] School Master, Náringre, Ratnágiri. [418] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [419] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [420] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [421] School Master, Vijayadurg, Ratnágiri. [422] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [423] School Master, Devgad, Ratnágiri. [424] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [425] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [426] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [427] School Master, Chidhran, Kolába. [428] School Master, Nágothane, Kolába. [429] School Master, Vavanje, Kolába. [430] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [431] School Master, Málád, Thána. [432] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [433] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [434] School Master, Shiroda, Ratnágiri. [435] School Master, Sakharane, Ratnágiri. [436] School Master, Náringre, Ratnágiri. [437] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [438] School Master, Chauk, Ratnágiri. [439] School Master, Akshi, Kolába. [440] School Master, Váda, Thána. [441] School Master, Padghe, Thána. [442] School Master, Dahánu, Thána. [443] School Master, Umbergaon, Thána. [444] School Master, Shirosi, Thána. [445] School Master, Mánikpur, Thána. [446] School Master, Umela, Thána. [447] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [448] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [449] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [450] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [451] School Master, Murud, Ratnágiri. [452] School Master, Devagad, Ratnágiri. [453] School Master, Vijaydurg, Ratnágir. [454] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [455] School Master, Chidhran, Kolába. [456] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [457] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [458] School Master, Chowl, Kolába. [459] School Master, Akshi, Kolába. [460] School Master, Bhuwan, Thána. [461] School Master, Málád, Thána. [462] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [463] School Master, Shirosi, Thána. [464] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [465] School Master, Dábhol, Ratnágiri. [466] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [467] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [468] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [469] School Master, Achre, Ratnágiri. [470] School Master, Vijayadurg, Ratnágiri. [471] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri: [472] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [473] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [474] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [475] School Master, Náta, Kolába. [476] School Master, Medhe, Kolába. [477] School Master, Padaghe, Thána. [478] School Master, Mánikpur, Thána. [479] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [480] School Master, Wáde, Thána. [481] School Master, Dahigaon, Thána. [482] School Master, Dehari, Thána. [483] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [484] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [485] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [486] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [487] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [488] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [489] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [490] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [491] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [492] School Master, Poládpur, Kolába. [493] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [494] School Master, Birwadi, Kolába. [495] School Master, Málád, Thána. [496] School Master, Belápur, Thána. [497] School Master, Bhuwan, Murbád, Thána. [498] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [499] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [500] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [501] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [502] School Master, Chaul, Kolába. [503] Ráo Sáheb Shelke. [504] School Master, Bankavali, Ratnágiri. [505] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [506] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [507] School Master Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [508] School Master, Náringre, Ratnágiri. [509] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [510] School Master, Vijayadurg, Ratnágiri. [511] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [512] School Master, Chawl, Kolába, [513] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [514] School Master, Poládpur, Kolába. [515] School Master, Akshi, Kolába. [516] School Master, Vávashi, Kolába. [517] School Master, Shirgaum, Thána. [518] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [519] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [520] School Master, Málád, Thána. [521] School Master, Dahigaon, Thána. [522] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [523] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [524] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [525] School Master, Rái, Thána. [526] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [527] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [528] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [529] School Master, Rái, Thána. [530] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [531] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [532] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [533] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [534] School Master, Chawl, Kolába. [535] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [536] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [537] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [538] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [539] School Master, Chawl, Kolába. [540] School Master, Vavanje, Kolába. [541] School Master, Umbergaon, Thána. [542] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [543] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [544] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [545] School Master, Adivan, Ratnágiri. [546] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [547] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [548] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [549] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [550] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [551] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [552] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [553] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [554] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [555] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [556] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [557] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [558] School Master, Chowl, Kolába. [559] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [560] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [561] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [562] School Master, Bankavli, Ratnágiri. [563] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [564] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [565] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [566] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [567] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [568] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [569] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [570] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [571] School Master, Khopol, Kolába. [572] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [573] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [574] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [575] School Master, Vijayadurg, Ratnágiri. [576] School Master, Poládpur, Kolába. [577] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [578] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [579] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [580] School Master, Medhe, Kolába. [581] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [582] School Master, Dahigaon, Thána. [583] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [584] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [585] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [586] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [587] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [588] School Mister, Chauk, Kolába. [589] School Master, Murbád, Thána. [590] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [591] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [592] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [593] School Mister, Shirgaon, Thána. [594] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [595] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [596] School Master, Bankavli, Ratnágiri. [597] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [598] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [599] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [600] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [601] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [602] School Master, Bankavli, Ratnágiri. [603] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [604] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [605] School Master, Medhe, Kolába. [606] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [607] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [608] School Master, Devgad, Ratnágiri. [609] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [610] School Master, Umbergaon, Thána. [611] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [612] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [613] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [614] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [615] School Master, Vijayadurg, Ratnágiri. [616] School Master, Poládpur, Kolába. [617] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [618] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [619] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [620] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [621] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [622] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [623] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [624] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [625] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [626] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [627] School Master, Padghe, Thána. [628] School Master, Malád, Thána. [629] School Master, Khárbáv, Thána. [630] School Master, Dahánu, Thána. [631] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [632] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [633] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [634] School Master, Bhayándár, Thána. [635] School Master, Dahánu, Thána. [636] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [637] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [638] School Master, Murbád, Thána. [639] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [640] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [641] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [642] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [643] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [644] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [645] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [646] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [647] School Master, Medhe, Kolába. [648] School Master, Bhuwan, Thána. [649] School Master, Rái, Thána. [650] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [651] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [652] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [653] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [654] School Master, Málád, Thána. [655] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [656] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [657] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [658] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [659] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [660] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [661] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [662] School Master, Rái, Thána. [663] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [664] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [665] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [666] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [667] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [668] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [669] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [670] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [671] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [672] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [673] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [674] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [675] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [676] School Master, Devgad, Ratnágiri. [677] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [678] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [679] School Master, Bankavli, Ratnágiri. [680] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [681] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [682] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [683] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [684] School Master, Mokhade, Thána. [685] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [686] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [687] School Master, Khed, Ratnágiri. [688] School Master, Kelwá-Máhim, Thána. [689] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [690] School Master, Devgad, Ratnágiri. [691] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [692] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [693] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [694] School Master, Chowl, Kolába. [695] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [696] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [697] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [698] School Master, Vavanje, Kolába. [699] School Master, Málád, Thána. [700] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [701] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [702] School Master, Murbád, Thána. [703] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [704] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [705] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [706] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [707] School Master, Kochare, Ratnágiri. [708] School Master, Varsai, Kolába. [709] School Master, Dahánu, Thána. [710] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [711] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [712] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [713] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [714] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [715] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [716] School Master, Padghe, Thána. [717] School Master, Dahigaon, Thána. [718] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [719] School Master, Shiravde, Ratnágiri. [720] School Master, Medhe, Kolába. [721] School Master, Shirgaon, Thána. [722] School Master, Umela, Thána. [723] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [724] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [725] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [726] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [727] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [728] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [729] School Master, Dahánu, Thána. [730] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [731] School Master, Devgad, Ratnágiri. [732] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [733] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [734] School Master, Edwan, Thána. [735] School Master, Vankavli, Ratnágiri. [736] School Master, Palshet, Ratnágiri. [737] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [738] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [739] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [740] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [741] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [742] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [743] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [744] School Master, Apte, Panwel, Kolába. [745] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [746] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [747] School Master, Chawk, Kolába. [748] School Master, Basani, Ratnágiri. [749] School Master, Pendur, Ratnágiri. [750] School Master, Chawl, Kolába. [751] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [752] School Master, Jambivali, Kolába. [753] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [754] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [755] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [756] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [757] School Master, Náringre, Ratnágiri. [758] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [759] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [760] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [761] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [762] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [763] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [764] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [765] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [766] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [767] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [768] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [769] School Master, Medhe, Kolába. [770] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [771] School Master, Palshet, Ratnágiri. [772] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [773] School Master, Mokháde, Thána. [774] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [775] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [776] School Master, Chawk, Kolába. [777] School Master, Kálshe, Ratnágiri. [778] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [779] School Master, Achare, Ratnágiri. [780] School Master, Náringre, Ratnágiri. [781] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [782] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [783] School Master, Rewadanda, Kolába. [784] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [785] School Master, Adivare, Ratnágiri. [786] School Master, Anjur, Thána. [787] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [788] School Master, Anjarle, Ratnágiri. [789] School Master, Rái, Thána. [790] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [791] School Master, Rái, Thána. [792] School Master, Padghe, Thána. [793] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [794] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [795] School Master, Bándivade, Ratnágiri. [796] School Master, Devgad, Ratnágiri. [797] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [798] School Master, Ubhádánda, Ratnágiri. [799] School Master, Dásgáv, Kolába. [800] School Master, Váda, Thána. [801] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [802] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [803] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [804] School Master, Náringre, Ratnágiri. [805] School Master, Umbergáon, Thána. [806] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [807] School Master, Chinchani, Thána. [808] School Master, Dahánu, Thána. [809] School Master, Dábhol, Ratnágiri. [810] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [811] School Master, Chauk, Kolába. [812] School Master, Váde, Thána. [813] Ráo Sáheb Shelke, Kolhápur. [814] School Master, Poladpur and Vijaydurg. [815] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [816] School Master, Náringre, Ratnágiri. [817] School Master, Ibrámpur, Ratnágiri. [818] School Master, Fonda, Ratnágiri. [819] School Master, Bankavli, Ratnágiri. [820] School Master, Vijaydurg, Ratnágiri. [821] School Master, Khopoli, Kolába. [822] School Master, Poladpur, Kolába. [823] School Master, Bassein, Thána. [824] School Master, Mithbáv, Ratnágiri. [825] The terms given below are as they are used by the common people in popular parlance in which form they are given in the text. They will therefore not be found to be grammatically correct in all cases. Again, only such meanings of the terms are given as apply in the context. 
36241	----	(This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.) CANADIAN FAIRY TALES BY THE SAME AUTHOR CANADIAN WONDER TALES With Illustrations in Colour by GEORGE SHERINGHAM and a Foreword by Sir WILLIAM PETERSON. Crown 4to. McGILL AND ITS STORY, 1821-1921 Illustrated. Demy 8vo. THE BODLEY HEAD * * * * * [Illustration: AND MANY OTHERS CAME, BUT THEY MET THE SAME FATE] CANADIAN FAIRY TALES BY CYRUS MACMILLAN With Illustrations by MARCIA LANE FOSTER And an Introduction by JOHN GRIER HIBBEN [Illustration] TORONTO: S. B. GUNDY LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LTD FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1922 _Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_ * * * * * TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER DESCENDANT OF CANADIAN PIONEERS WHO UPHELD THE OLD TRADITIONS AND USED THE ANCIENT SPEECH. INTRODUCTION Professor Macmillan has placed all lovers of fairy tales under a deep debt of obligation to him. The fairy tale makes a universal appeal both to old and young; to the young because it is the natural world in which their fancy delights to range, and to the old because they are conscious again of the spirit of youth as they read such tales to their children and grandchildren over and over again, and rejoice in the illusion that after all there is not a great difference of age which separates the generations. The fairy tale makes this universal appeal because it deals with the elemental in our natures that is the same in every age and in every race. In the Canadian Tales which Professor Macmillan has so admirably gathered from Indian sources, we find the same types of character and scenes of adventure that we do in the tales of the German forests, of Scandinavia, England or France. There is in us all an instinctive admiration for the adventurous spirit of the fairy tale which challenges the might that is cruel and devastating, and for the good offices of the fairies which help to vindicate the cause of the noble in its conflict with the ignoble, right with wrong. The origin of the fairy tale is to be traced always to the early stages of civilization, and it is very gratifying to be assured from time to time that man possesses certain natural impulses which spring from an inherent sense of honour, and the desire to redress the wrongs of the world. Professor Macmillan has been successful in presenting the Indian folk-lore in a most engaging manner. The stories have all the delightful charm and mystery of the Canadian forests; they have penetrated into the heart of nature, but also into the heart of man. JOHN GRIER HIBBEN. PREFACE The tales in this collection, like those in "Canadian Wonder Tales," were gathered in various parts of Canada--by river and lake and ocean where sailors and fishermen still watch the stars; in forest clearings where lumbermen yet retain some remnant of the old vanished voyageur life and where Indians still barter for their furs; in remote country places where women spin while they speak with reverence of their fathers' days. The skeleton of each story has been left for the most part unchanged, although the language naturally differs somewhat from that of the story-tellers from whose lips the writer heard them. It is too often forgotten that long before the time of Arthur and his Round Table these tales were known and treasured by the early inhabitants of our land. However much they may have changed in the oral passing from generation to generation the germ of the story goes back to very early days beyond the dawn of Canadian history. Canada is rich in this ancient lore. The effort to save it from oblivion needs no apology. Fairy literature has an important place in the development of the child mind, and there is no better fairy lore than that of our own country. Through the eyes of the Indian story-teller and the Indian dreamer, inheriting his tales from a romantic past, we can still look through "magic casements opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn"; we can still feel something of the atmosphere of that mysterious past in which our ancestors dwelt and laboured. The author's sincerest hope in publishing this volume is that to the children of to-day the traditions of our romantic Canadian past will not be lost in our practical Canadian present. MCGILL UNIVERSITY, _May, 1921_. CONTENTS PAGE HOW GLOOSKAP MADE THE BIRDS 1 RABBIT AND THE GRAIN BUYERS 10 SAINT NICHOLAS AND THE CHILDREN 19 THE FALL OF THE SPIDER MAN 31 THE BOY WHO WAS CALLED THICK-HEAD 40 RABBIT AND THE INDIAN CHIEF 47 GREAT HEART AND THE THREE TESTS 58 THE BOY OF THE RED TWILIGHT SKY 67 HOW RAVEN BROUGHT FIRE TO THE INDIANS 73 THE GIRL WHO ALWAYS CRIED 82 ERMINE AND THE HUNTER 89 HOW RABBIT DECEIVED FOX 96 THE BOY AND THE DRAGON 104 OWL WITH THE GREAT HEAD AND EYES 112 THE TOBACCO FAIRY FROM THE BLUE HILLS 122 RAINBOW AND THE AUTUMN LEAVES 127 RABBIT AND THE MOON-MAN 134 THE CHILDREN WITH ONE EYE 140 THE GIANT WITH THE GREY FEATHERS 146 THE CRUEL STEPMOTHER 153 THE BOY WHO WAS SAVED BY THOUGHTS 160 THE SONG-BIRD AND THE HEALING WATERS 167 THE BOY WHO OVERCAME THE GIANTS 172 THE YOUTH AND THE DOG-DANCE 180 SPARROW'S SEARCH FOR THE RAIN 187 THE BOY IN THE LAND OF SHADOWS 195 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR And many others came, but they met the same fate _Frontispiece_ TO FACE PAGE And the children all came to him each asking for a boon 6 So Duck crawled under the over-turned basket and sat very still 14 They stood for a time in the shadow of the great trees before the door and made ready to blow together 24 He came one day upon a man clad in scarlet sitting on the side of a rocky hill tying stones to his feet 60 The coat of Ermine was replaced by a sleek and shining white coat as spotless as the new snow in winter 94 Then Fox untied the bag and let Rabbit out and got into the bag himself 100 The giant frowning angrily, the woman carrying the stick, and the boy leading the dog 148 For some days the boy lay in terror in the nest ... and far out on the ocean he could see great ships going by 162 "Strike hard," said the boy, "or it will do you no good" 178 And they sat down together on the edge of the lake 182 Then the old man gave the boy a large pipe and some tobacco 198 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IN BLACK AND WHITE TO FACE PAGE He said farewell to the sky-country and let himself down to earth by one of his own strands of yarn 32 That night an old Wolf came through the forest in search of food 44 He went to Beaver's house by the stream, hobbling along with a stick 56 And she makes to him an offering of tiny white feathers plucked from the breasts of birds 70 Then Raven asked Mole to try, but Mole said: "Oh no, I am better fitted for other work. My fur would all be singed" 78 And with his magic power he changed her into a Fish-Hawk, and sent her out to the ocean 86 The man gave him another pair of mocassins in exchange for those he was wearing 108 Wolf trotting along like a little horse, and Rabbit laughing to himself, sitting in the saddle 116 Suddenly a large flock of birds, looking like great black clouds, came flying from the blue hills 124 Throughout the long winter months Deer looked longingly for Rainbow 128 He sat very quiet, waiting for the man of the long foot to appear 136 The boy went into the forest with his bow and arrows.... He had not gone far when he saw a fat young deer, which he killed 142 The bull rushed at the mountain with all his force 158 Then the young man lay down to sleep, and the Fox stood guard beside him 170 CANADIAN FAIRY TALES HOW GLOOSKAP MADE THE BIRDS Once upon a time long before the white men came to Canada there lived a wicked giant who caused great trouble and sorrow wherever he went. Men called him Wolf-Wind. Where he was born no man knows, but his home was in the Cave of the Winds, far in the north country in the Night-Night Land, and there men knew he was hiding on calm days when the sun was hot and the sea was still, and on quiet nights when not a leaf or a flower or a blade of grass was stirring. But whenever he appeared, the great trees cracked in fear and the little trees trembled and the flowers bent their heads close to the earth, trying to hide from his presence. Often he came upon them without warning and with little sign of his coming. And then the corn fell flat never to rise again, and tall trees crashed in the forest, and the flowers dropped dead because of their terror; and often the great waters grew white and moaned or screamed loudly or dashed themselves against the rocks trying to escape from Wolf-Wind. And in the darkness of the night when Wolf-Wind howled, there was great fear upon all the earth. It happened once in those old times that Wolf-Wind was in a great rage, and he went forth to kill and devour all who dared to come in his path. It chanced in that time that many Indian families were living near the sea. The men and women were fishing far off the coast. They were catching fish to make food for the winter. They went very far away in small canoes, for the sea had long been still and they thought there was no danger. The little children were alone on shore. Suddenly as the sun went down, without a sign of his coming, out of the north came Wolf-Wind in his great rage looking for prey, and roaring loudly as he came. "I am Wolf-Wind, the giant," he howled, "cross not my path, for I will kill all the people I meet, and eat them all up." His anger only grew as he stalked along, and he splashed and tossed the waters aside in his fury as he came down upon the fishermen and fisher-women far out to sea. The fishers had no time to get out of his reach or to paddle to the shore, so quick was Wolf-Wind's coming, and the giant caught them in his path and broke up their boats and killed them all. All night long he raged over the ocean looking for more fishers. In the morning Wolf-Wind's anger was not yet spent. Far away in front of him he saw the little children of the fishers playing on the shore. He knew they were alone, for he had killed their fathers and mothers. He resolved to catch them and kill them too, and after them he went, still in a great rage. He went quickly towards the land, roaring as he went and dashing the waters against the rocks in his madness. As he came near the beach he howled in his anger, "I will catch you and kill you all and eat you and bleach your bones upon the sand." But the children heard him and they ran away as fast as they could, and they hid in a cave among the great rocks and placed a big stone at the mouth of the cave and Wolf-Wind could not get in. He howled loudly at the door all day and all night long, but the stone was strong and he could not break it down. Then he went on his way still very angry and still roaring, and he howled, "I will come back and catch you yet. You cannot escape from me." The children were very frightened and they stayed long in the cave after Wolf-Wind had gone, for far away they could still hear him howling and crashing in the forest. Then they came out. They knew that Wolf-Wind had killed their fathers and mothers on the sea. They ran away into the forest, for they thought that there they would be safe. They went to the Willow-Willow Land where they found a pleasant place with grass and flowers and streams. And between them and the north country where Wolf-Wind lived were many great trees with thick leaves which they knew would protect them from the giant. But one day Wolf-Wind, true to his promise, came again in a rage to find them. He came into the land killing all he met in his path. But he could not catch the children, for the trees with their thick leaves kept him away. They heard him howling in the forest far distant. For many days in the late summer he tried to find them but their home was close to the trees, and the great branches spread over them and the thick leaves saved them, and only the sun from the south, coming from the Summer-Flower country, could look in upon them. Try as he could with all his might old Wolf-Wind could not harm them although he knew that they were there; and they were always safe while they lived in the Willow-Willow Land. Wolf-Wind was more angry than ever because of his failure, for he liked to feed on his little children, and rage knew no bounds. He swore that he would have vengeance on the trees. So he came back again and he brought with him to aid him another giant from the north country who had with him a strange and powerful charm, the Charm of the Frost. And the two giants tried to kill the trees that had saved the little children. But over many of the trees they had no power, for when they came, the trees only laughed and merely swayed and creaked and said, "You cannot harm us; we are strong, for we came at first from the Night-Night Land in the far north country, and over us the Charm of the Frost has no power." These were the Spruce and the Fir, the Hemlock and the Pine and the Cedar. But on the other trees Wolf-Wind had vengeance as he had vowed. One night when the harvest moon was shining in the sky he came without warning, and with the help of the giant bearing the Charm of the Frost he killed all the leaves that had kept him from the children, and threw them to the ground. One after one the leaves came off from the Beech and the Birch, the Oak and the Maple, the Alder and the Willow. Some fell quickly, some fluttered slowly down, and some took a long time in dying. But at last the trees stood bare and cold against the sky and there was stillness and sadness in the forest. And Wolf-Wind laughed and played in silence through the leafless branches with the giant from Night-Night Land. And he said, "Now I have overcome the leaves that kept me away, and now when I please I can kill the children." But the children only moved closer to the strong and sturdy trees that had come at first from the far north country and over which the Charm of the Frost had no power, and Wolf-Wind could not reach them and they were still for ever safe from the giants. The children were very sad when they saw what Wolf-Wind had done to their friends and protectors, the trees. Summer had gone back to the Southland following as she always did the Rainbow Road to her home in the Wilderness of Flowers. It was lonely now in the forest and silent; there was not a whisper in the trees; there were no leaves, for it was autumn and Wolf-Wind had killed them all. At last it came to that time of year when Glooskap, who ruled upon the earth and was very great in those days, gave his yearly gifts to little children. And he came into the land on a sled drawn by his faithful dogs to find out for himself what the children wished for. And the children all came to him each asking for a boon. Now Glooskap had great power upon the earth in that old time. He could always do what he willed. And the little children whom Wolf-Wind had tried to harm in his rage came to Glooskap, the Magic Master of gifts, and they were all very sad because the leaves had gone. "What do you wish?" said Glooskap. "We wish nothing for ourselves," said the children, "but we ask that the leaves that were killed by Wolf-Wind because they saved us from his rage be brought back to life and put back again in their old home in the trees." Glooskap was silent for a long time and he sat and thought as was his custom, and he smoked hard at his mighty pipe, for he was a great smoker. Now in that time there were no little forest birds upon the earth, for Glooskap had not yet brought them into being. There were only the birds that dwelt near the sea and over whom Wolf-Wind had no power--Sea-gull and Crane, Wild-duck and Loon, Kingfisher and Brant and Curlew. These only laughed at the giant in his rage and screamed in mockery as they flew from him and hid when he came, among the shallows or the rocks or the thick grass in the marshes. And there were also the sturdy birds that dwelt with men and worked for them, giving them eggs and food. These were Hen and Goose and Duck and Wild Turkey. They gave men food, but they were not fair to look upon; they waddled along and could not fly well and they made no sweet music upon the earth, for their song was a quack and a cackle. [Illustration: AND THE CHILDREN ALL CAME TO HIM EACH ASKING FOR A BOON] Glooskap decided to bring other birds into the world, not to give food but to bring happiness to the children on the days when summer dwells in the land, with their pretty feathers and their pleasant songs. So after he had smoked long in silence he hit upon a plan. And he said to the children asking for their yearly gifts, "I cannot bring back to the trees the leaves that Wolf-Wind has killed and stripped off, for it is now too late. But I will take the fallen leaves and change them into little birds. And the birds shall never forget how they were born. When autumn comes they shall go with summer far away to the Summer-Flower Land, but in the spring-time they shall always come back and they shall live as close as they can to the leaves from which they have sprung. And they shall nest, most of them, in the trees under the leaves, and even those that nest in the grass shall love the trees and linger in them. And they shall all be beautiful in colour like the leaves that gave them birth; and they shall have power to rest at times upon the air like a leaf fluttering; and the voice of the air and the laughing waters shall be in their throats and they shall sing sweet songs for little children. And I give the children charge over them to keep them from harm just as the leaves which gave them birth have saved the little children from the giants. And I will give the trees that Wolf-Wind has stripped power to bring forth new leaves every spring-time so that when Summer comes back from the Wilderness of Flowers the trees shall not be bare. And although Wolf-Wind may strip them off when the Giant of the Frost comes with him from the Night-Night Land they shall always be replaced in the spring-time. And I will take away much of Wolf-Wind's power so that he can no longer harm little children as wickedly as he has done before." Glooskap waved his magic wand as was his custom, and at once great flocks of little birds sprang from the ground where the fallen leaves had lain. And they twittered and sang in a great chorus and flew back to the trees. They were of beautiful colours like the leaves that had given them birth. There were Robin Red-breasts and Thrushes all brown and red, from the red and brown leaves of the Oak. And there were Finches and Humming-birds all yellow and green and brown from the leaves of the Alder and the Willow, and they glowed like willows in the sunlight and fluttered like a leaf upon the air. There were Yellowbirds and Canadian Warblers from the golden Beech and Birch leaves. And there were Scarlet Tanagers and Orioles and Grosbeaks all of changing colours, red and purple and brown, from the leaves of the Canadian Maple. And they all sang to the children and the children were all very happy again. Then Glooskap sent the little birds all away to a warm country until the rule of the Giant of the Frost from the Night-Night Land was over, for it was winter in all the land and it was very cold. But in the spring-time the little birds always come back from the Summer-Flower Land. And they build their nests among the trees as close as they can to their kindred, the leaves from which they came. And all day long they sing among the leaves for little children. At day-break they wake the children with their choir of dawn, and at twilight they lisp and twitter to lull the children to sleep. And at night they hide among the leaves from Wolf-Wind and are very still with never a twitter or a song. For they do not forget that they are the children's gift from Glooskap and that they came from the leaves stripped from the trees by Wolf-Wind because the leaves saved the little children from the giant long ago. RABBIT AND THE GRAIN BUYERS Once long ago when the Indians lived in Canada before the white men came, Rabbit was very lazy. He had worked long for Glooskap, the great ruler of the people, as a forest guide, but his toil was not appreciated or rewarded. He saw all the other animals idling their time away, taking their ease all day long, and doing nothing but filling their bellies with food, and sleeping all the afternoon in the hot sunshine. And he said, "Why should I work for other people when nobody works for me? I will take mine ease like all the other animals." So he sulked in his little house for a long time and could not be coaxed or driven to do any work. But as he was a lonely fellow who always lived by himself with very few friends in the world except little children, he soon got tired of this lazy life. For by nature he was industrious and energetic and he always liked to be doing something or prowling alone in the forest. So he said, "I must find some work to do or I shall surely lose my wits. But it must be labour that brings profit to myself and not to other people." For a long time Rabbit puzzled his brains thinking on a business or a profession to follow. But nothing seemed to be to his liking. At last one day he saw some Indians trading skins and knives. One was selling and others were buying and they seemed to be making a great deal of money without doing very much work. Rabbit thought that here indeed was an easy way to make a living. Then he saw Duck coming along carrying a basket of eggs. He said to Duck, "How do you get along in the world? You seem to do nothing but eat and cackle and swim in the pond. You never seem to work." And Duck said, "I lay eggs and sell them in exchange for corn. Why don't you lay eggs? It is all very easy." But Rabbit knew that Duck was only laughing at him, and that he was not meant to make a living in that way. Then he met Bee on the forest path and he said, "How do you make a living, you wandering bee? You do nothing but gad about all day long, going from flower to flower dressed in your good clothes of yellow and black and always singing your tuneless song?" And Bee said, "I make honey and wax and sell them. I have a great store for sale now. Why don't you do as I do? I am always happy. I always sing at my work, and what's more, my song is not tuneless. And just for your impudence, take that." And so saying he stung Rabbit on the nose and went on his way, singing his droning song. Rabbit rubbed his nose in the earth to ease his pain and he swore vengeance on Bee, for he knew that Bee too was only laughing at him. But he could think of no way to make an easy living, for he had nothing to sell but his coat, and he could not very well barter that, for winter would soon be coming on. He was very angry and troubled and he envied Duck and Bee their good fortune because of their eggs and honey and wax. At last he thought of the Indians he had watched buying and selling skins. "I have it," he cried, "I have it. I will become a great merchant. I will be a great trader. I will live on a farm where they grow corn and vegetables, and I will steal them and sell them to the other animals and thereby make a great store of money. I shall be very rich in a short time." So, very happy, he went to a field near which was a vegetable garden. And in it were growing Indian corn and all kinds of grain which he knew the other birds and animals would gladly buy. So he made a sign and put it up in front of his house, and it said, "Buy Rabbit's corn, the best in all the land; it will grow without rain; there is only a small quantity left. Orders taken here." Then he sat in his house and waited. Soon many buyers began to arrive. They were curious, and they wanted to see what kind of a merchant Rabbit would make. Rabbit explained to them that he was only an agent, that they must pay him their money, and he would take it to the farmer, and deliver their grain at his house one week from that day. The buyers paid him the money and went away, for they were afraid the farmer would kill them if they went themselves for the corn. They left a great store of money with Rabbit. That night when the moon rose over the hills Rabbit went to the field of corn near-by. But the farmer had spied him thieving that afternoon, and he had placed around his corn a fence of strong netting which poor Rabbit could not get through. And he had also placed around the field many watch-dogs which growled and snarled and frightened thieves away. Night after night Rabbit tried to slip into the field, but without success, and the week passed and still he had no corn for the customers who, he knew, would soon be arriving for their goods. And meanwhile he had spent all their money and he knew they would all fall upon him and kill him if he failed to keep his word and deliver their purchases. At last when the day agreed on arrived, he saw his customers coming for their grain. And he hoped that his tricks would save him as they had saved him many times before. He sat in his yard playing his flute, when Earth-Worm, the first customer arrived. "Good day," said Rabbit. "Good day," said Earth-Worm, "I have come for my corn, for a week has gone by." "Very good," said Rabbit, "but first we shall have dinner. It will be ready in a few minutes. You must be hungry after your long journey." As they sat waiting for their dinner they saw Duck, another customer, waddling up the path with her basket on her neck. And Rabbit said, "Will not old Duck who comes here want to eat you up?" And Earth-Worm said, "Yes, yes, where shall I hide?" and he was much excited. "Hide under this clam-shell," said Rabbit. So Earth-Worm crawled under the clam-shell and sat very still, trembling for his life. When Duck arrived, Rabbit said, "Good morning." "Good morning, Mr. Merchant," said Duck, wishing to be polite. "I have come for my corn, for it is the appointed day of delivery." "True, true," said Rabbit, "but first we shall have dinner. It will be ready in a few minutes. It will be an honour for me to have you dine with me." As they sat waiting for their dinner, Rabbit said, "Would you care to eat an Earth-Worm before your dinner? It would be a good appetizer for you." And Duck said, "Thank you very much. I am very fond of Earth-Worms." Rabbit lifted the clam-shell and poor Earth-Worm was quickly gobbled up by Duck. And Rabbit, laughing to himself, thought, "Now I am getting rid of my customers." As Rabbit and Duck sat talking, they saw Fox trotting up the path. He was another customer coming for his corn. And Rabbit said courteously, "Madam, I see your old enemy Fox approaching. He will probably wish to eat you up; you had better hide." And Duck with her feathers all ruffled with excitement said, "Yes, yes, where shall I hide?" And Rabbit said, "Hide under this basket." So Duck crawled under the over-turned basket and sat very still. [Illustration: SO DUCK CRAWLED UNDER THE OVER-TURNED BASKET AND SAT VERY STILL] Fox soon came in and said, "Good day, Rabbit. I have come for my corn, for I am in sore need of it to catch chickens, and the seven days have passed." "You are very punctual," said Rabbit, "but first let us have dinner. It will be ready in a few minutes. It will make you stronger to carry your heavy load." As they sat waiting for their dinner, Rabbit said, "Listen, Fox. Would you care to eat a fat Duck now? It would be a tasty bit for you before you dine." And Fox said, "You are very kind. I always like to eat a Duck before my dinner." Rabbit knocked over the basket and Fox quickly devoured poor Duck until not a feather remained. And Rabbit laughed to himself and said, "Surely I am getting rid of my customers very easily." As Rabbit and Fox sat talking over old times in the forest, they saw Bear coming lumbering up the path, tossing his head from side to side, and sniffing the air. And Rabbit said, "Bear is in a bad temper to-day. I wonder what can be the cause." And Fox said, "This morning I stole all his honey and he saw me running away." "He scents you here," said Rabbit, "will he not kill you if he finds you? Perhaps you ought to hide." "Yes, yes," said Fox, "but where shall I hide?" "Hide in this box," said Rabbit, and Fox sprang into the box, and Rabbit closed down the lid. When Bear arrived he said gruffly, for he was in a bad temper, "Good day, Rabbit. I have come for my corn and I must have it quickly, for I must be on my way. It is the appointed time." "It is indeed the appointed time," said Rabbit, "but first we shall have dinner. It will be ready in a few minutes and I never let a wayfarer leave my house without first taking nourishment. I have to-day a dish of fresh fish which you like very well, and we have never yet dined together." And Bear agreed to wait and his gruffness left him at the thought of his good meal, for he was a great fish-eater, and he talked pleasantly. Then Rabbit said, "I have a secret to tell you. Let me whisper it." He put his mouth close to Bear's ear and said, "Old Fox, the sly thief who stole all your honey this morning is hiding in the box by your side. He came here to boast about his theft and he laughed loudly to me as he told me how easily you were cheated. He called you Lack-Brains." Bear was very angry and at once he knocked the lid from the box and killed Fox with one blow of his powerful paw. And Rabbit said to himself, "What luck I am having; there is another of my customers gone." But he wondered how he was to get rid of Bear, and he scratched his head in thought. While Bear and Rabbit sat talking, they saw Rabbit's last customer, the Hunter, coming along. Bear would have run away, but it was too late. "Will the Hunter not want to kill you?" said Rabbit, glad to think that here was the end of poor Bear. "Indeed he will," said Bear. "Oh dear, oh dear, where shall I hide?" "Hide under my bed in my house," said Rabbit. Poor Bear quickly dashed into the house and crawled under Rabbit's bed with great difficulty for he was very fat and the bed was very low and he had to lay himself out flat on the floor, but he was comfortable in the thought that he would soon escape. When Hunter arrived he said, "Good day, Rabbit, I have come for my corn, for my children need bread." "You shall have it," said Rabbit. "But first we must have a bite to eat. I have not very much to offer you, but I can give you in a few minutes some hot pancakes and fresh maple syrup." The Hunter was well pleased with the thought of such a good meal and he said he would be glad to wait. Then Rabbit said, "Would you like some bear meat for your children, and a good warm bear skin for your hearth?" And the Hunter said, "Indeed I would. But in these days such luxuries are hard to find." And Rabbit said, "Oh no, they are not; under my bed in my house, a good fat bear is hiding. He is lying flat on his back, and you can easily kill him." The Hunter hurried to the house, and sure enough there he found Bear hiding under the bed, flat upon his back. He killed him with a blow and skinned him and cut him up into small pieces and put the meat and the skin into a bag to take home to his children. But while he was about it, Rabbit slipped away into the forest, saying to himself, "Now I have got rid of all my customers and I am safe. But the life of a merchant is not to my liking. I will not be a trader any more. I will gather corn for myself, but not to sell to others." And he ran quickly away and hid himself in a dense thicket. When the Hunter went to look for Rabbit, he could not find him, nor was he able to find his grain. And although he thought he had fared pretty well by getting so much bear meat, he swore vengeance on Rabbit for his deceit, and to this day he searches for him, and if he meets him, he will not let him escape. And Rabbit lives by himself and keeps away from the Hunter as far as he can, for he fears him because of the trick he played upon him in the olden days. SAINT NICHOLAS AND THE CHILDREN Two little children lived with their old grandmother in a remote place in the Canadian forest. They were twin children--a boy and a girl, Pierre and Estelle by name--and except for their dress it was not easy to tell them apart. Their father and mother had died in the spring-time, and in the summer they had left their old home because of its many sad memories and had gone to live with their old grandmother in a new home elsewhere. In this new home in the forest where they now lived they were very poor, but they were not unhappy. Times were hard, and there was very little food to be had no matter how well their old grandmother worked; but they caught fish in the streams and gathered berries and fruit and birds' eggs on the wooded hills, and somehow throughout the summer they kept themselves from want. But when late autumn came and the streams were frozen over and the berries were all gone and there were no eggs, for the birds had all flown south, they were often hungry because they had so little to eat. Their grandmother worked so hard to provide for herself and the children that at last she fell very sick. For several days she could not leave her bed. And she said, "I want meat broth to make me well and I must have good meat to make it. If I do not get meat I can have no broth, and if I do not get broth I shall not get well, and if I do not get well I shall die, and if I die you two children will surely starve and die too. So meat and meat alone can save us all from starvation and death." So the two children, to keep themselves and their grandmother alive, set out one morning in search of meat to make the broth. They lived far from other people and they did not know where to go, but they followed the forest path. The snow lay deep on the ground and sparkled brightly in the sunlight. The children had never before been away from home alone and every sight was of great interest to them. Here and there a rabbit hopped over the snow, or a snowbird hovered and twittered overhead, all looking for food like the children. And there were holly-berries growing in many places, and there was mistletoe hanging from the trees. And Pierre when he saw the holly-berries and the mistletoe said, "Saint Nicholas will be soon here, for the trees are dressed and ready for his coming." And Estelle said, "Yes, Saint Nicholas will be soon here." And they were both very glad thinking of his coming. As they went along in the afternoon, they came upon an old man sitting at the door of a small house of spruce-boughs under the trees close to the forest path. He was busy making whistles, whittling willow wands with a knife and tapping gently on the bark until the bark loosened from the wood and slipped easily off. The children stood and watched him at his strange work, for he had merry twinkling eyes, and a kindly weather-beaten face, and thick white hair, and they were not afraid. "Hello," said the old man. "Hello," said Pierre, "why are you making willow whistles?" "I am making them for Saint Nicholas," said the old man; "he is coming soon for his yearly visit; indeed he is already in the land; when he makes his rounds he always gives whistles, among other things, to good children, and I must have a great store of them ready for him when he comes, for there are many children to supply." Then he went on whittling busily with his knife. The children watched him for a long time in silence, and they thought what a fine thing it must be to work like the old man for Saint Nicholas, in his little house of boughs under the forest trees. Then the old man said, "You are very small children; what are you seeking so far away from people?" And Estelle answered, "Our old grandmother is very sick, and we are looking for meat to make broth to make her well." The old man was sorry he had no meat, for he lived on other food. He told them that some distance farther along there was a butcher who always kept meat; but the butcher, he said, was a very wicked fellow and sometimes little children who entered his shop never came out again. The children were very frightened when they heard what the old man said and they wondered if they had better go back home. But the old man thought for a long time in silence as he whittled his willow wands, and then he said, "I will give you each a whistle, and when you blow it, Saint Nicholas will always hear it; you must never blow it except when you are in great trouble or distress, and when Saint Nicholas hears it he will know that you are coming to grief or that harm is already upon you and he will come himself or send some one to your assistance. But you must blow only one blast. The whistle should be given only by Saint Nicholas himself when he comes at holly-time into the land. But you are good children and your old grandmother is sick, and you are trying to make her well, and I know that Saint Nicholas will not say that I have done wrong." So he gave the children each a whistle, and then fear left them, for they knew they could now come to no harm if they had the aid of Saint Nicholas. It was growing late in the afternoon and the children set out on their way to find the wicked butcher. But they had many misgivings, and as they went on they grew faint of heart, for they wondered if the old man had told them the truth about the whistles or if he was in reality a secret agent of the wicked butcher trying to lure them to their death. They resolved to search for meat elsewhere and to keep away from the butcher's shop. For a long time they searched, but without success. There was no meat to be had in all the land at any of the places they stopped to ask. Soon they came in sight of the butcher's shop. They were very frightened. But the sun had already gone down behind the trees, and night was coming on, and they had still no meat. And they knew that if their old grandmother was to get well she must have meat to make broth. The shop, too, looked very pleasant and attractive in the cold winter evening. Warm light was shining from a fire through the door, and in the windows were sausages, and fat birds, and big yellow pumpkins and cakes with red berries on the top. The children were hungry and wished for something to eat by the warm shop fire. They decided to enter the shop notwithstanding their fear, to buy some food, and to get meat for their grandmother's broth as quickly as they could. But before they entered the shop they thought it would be well, in order to be safe, to blow a blast on their whistle as the old man had told them so that Saint Nicholas would know that they were in dread of harm. They stood for a time in the shadow of the great trees before the door and made ready to blow together. Pierre gave the signal and blew a long soft blast. But Estelle could not get her whistle from her pocket and Pierre had finished his blast, all out of breath, before she was ready to blow. "Don't blow now," he said, "you are just like a girl, always too late." But blow she would, as the old man had told her, and before Pierre could stop her she blew a long soft blast on her whistle. Pierre was very cross, for he thought that now no good could come of it, as two blasts had sounded, but with his sister he entered the butcher's shop. The wicked butcher was in his shop, but not another person was about the place. It was all very quiet. The man was very glad to see the children and he seated them by the warm fire, and gave them food, and although he shut the door tight behind them, their fear soon vanished. After they had eaten well and were warm again, they asked for meat to make broth for their old grandmother, and the butcher said he would give them plenty of good meat although it was very scarce in all the land. There was a barrel standing in one corner; in another corner was a large hogshead reaching almost to the ceiling, and the butcher said that both of these were full of meat. Now the butcher was really the friend and partner of a wicked giant who lived in the forest. The giant's greatest delight was to eat little children. He liked no meal so well as a meal of little children, two at a time, pickled first in brine. He ate them always when he could get them, but he was not always successful in his search, for children were scarce in the land. He was a great hunter and he was able to kill many animals in the forest and to secure much meat, so great was his strength, and once a week regularly he brought a great load of meat to the butcher and traded it for any little children the butcher managed to entice into his shop. So the butcher got much meat at little cost. And the old man of the house of boughs was right when he said that many little children who entered the shop never came out again. [Illustration: THEY STOOD FOR A TIME IN THE SHADOW OF THE GREAT TREES BEFORE THE DOOR AND MADE READY TO BLOW TOGETHER] The butcher was very glad when he saw the two pretty little children. He was expecting the giant that evening on his weekly visit, and he thought gleefully of the great load of meat he would get from the giant in exchange for the children, for he would ask a big price, and he knew the giant would give all the meat he had for so good a meal. And he thought too of all the money he would get for the giant's load of meat. So he resolved to kill the children and pickle them in brine to await the giant's coming. When the children had finished their meal and had warmed themselves by the fire they made ready to go home and they asked for their meat. The butcher said he would get it for them. They looked up at the shelves, laden with more food than they had ever seen before--hams and cabbages and strings of onions. And the little children said, "There are good onions up there; we will buy some and take them home to our grandmother to put in her broth." The butcher said, "There are many kinds of onions in the box on the high shelf. You must pick out the kind you want. I will lift you up to the shelf so that you can see for yourselves." So he caught them each by the coat between the shoulders, and because of his great strength he lifted them high until they could look into the box and pick out the onions they wanted. As he took them down he thrust them straight out from his body at arm's length and held them there and they laughed because of his great strength. Then he brought them together with terrible force so that their heads struck one against the other and they were stunned by the cruel blow. Then he threw them head first into the barrel in the corner which was filled with brine, not with meat as he had said, and he left them there to pickle well. He was greatly pleased with the fine load of meat he would get in exchange from the giant, who, he knew, would appear before many minutes had passed. Soon the giant arrived. He carried on his back a great load of meat and he also drew a sled heavily laden with many dressed carcasses of animals he had killed. "What cheer for me to-night and what fortune?" he said to the butcher as he entered the warm shop with his load. And the butcher said, "Good cheer and fine fortune. I have a good fat pair for you to-night already pickling in the brine." Then he uncovered the barrel in the corner and showed the giant the two little children sticking head first in the pickle. The giant smacked his fat lips and chuckled and rubbed his great hands, so pleased was he with the sight of so good a meal. And he said, "We will let them steep well in the brine until to-morrow. I always like them very salt." They covered up the barrel, and then they bargained about the purchase of the meat. The giant agreed to give the butcher all his meat in exchange for the children. Then they sat by the fire drinking and eating until far on into the night. And the giant said that before they went to bed he would take another look at the children to see how they were pickling. So they went and uncovered the barrel. Now it chanced that Saint Nicholas was in the land at that time, as the old man of the House-of-boughs had said. He had come into the land to bring his yearly gifts to little children. In the evening he was many miles away from the butcher's shop. But he heard the long soft blast of a whistle, borne on the still evening wind. He knew it to be one of his own whistles, and it told him that little children were in danger. But it was followed by another soft blast--the late blast of Estelle's whistle--and the two blasts meant that the danger was not yet very near to the children, that indeed it was far off, so he thought that there was no need to hurry to the children's aid. Moreover, Saint Nicholas was just then leaving tiny dolls for little babies in many little houses in the forest and he decided to take his time and finish the giving of all these gifts before he set out to the place from which the whistle-blast had come. At last he was able to go on his way. The snow lay deep in the forest, and travelling was hard, but the white winter moon was shining, and the path was bright and Saint Nicholas moved along quickly on his snow-shoes. Far on in the night he reached the butcher's shop from which he knew the children's note of fear had come. As he entered the shop, the giant and the butcher were just taking their last look before going to bed at the children sticking in the barrel of brine. They did not know Saint Nicholas, but when they saw him they quickly placed the cover on the barrel and were very much confused. Saint Nicholas was suspicious that they were about some wickedness, and he knew well that in some way or other the barrel was connected with the dreaded harm of which the children's whistle had told him, and he thought that perhaps the children were hidden in it. So he said, "I have come for meat. I want meat that has been pickled in brine. I should like a piece from that barrel." But the butcher said, "It is not good meat. I have better meat in the inner room, and I will get it for you." So the butcher and Saint Nicholas entered the inner room and closed the door behind them while the giant sat on the barrel in the corner, trying to hide it with his great fat legs. In the inner room was a barrel filled with brine, but with only a small piece of meat at the bottom. Saint Nicholas said he would take that piece. The butcher bent far into the barrel to reach down in search of the meat. But as he did so, Saint Nicholas picked him up by the legs and pushed him head first into the barrel of brine. He spluttered and kicked, but he stuck fast in the barrel, and could not get out. Saint Nicholas placed the cover on the barrel, with a great weight on top of it, and that was the end of the wicked butcher. [Illustration: "STRIKE HARD," SAID THE BOY, "OR IT WILL DO YOU NO GOOD"] Then Saint Nicholas returned to the shop where the giant was waiting, still sitting on the barrel. He told the giant that he wanted a piece of meat that lay in the bottom of the large hogshead of pickle in the other corner. He asked the giant to get it for him, as the hogshead was so high that neither he nor the butcher could reach down into it. The giant bent far into the hogshead and began groping for the meat at the bottom. Saint Nicholas took a large bone that lay on the floor, and standing on a box beside the hogshead he struck the giant a powerful blow on the head. The giant was only slightly stunned, but in his surprise he lost his balance, and fell head first into the brine. He yelled and kicked for a time, but his huge shoulders stuck fast. Saint Nicholas covered the hogshead, leaving the giant sticking fast in the pickle, and that was the end of the giant. Then Saint Nicholas uncovered the barrel in the corner into which he had seen the butcher and the giant looking when he had first entered the shop. There were the two children standing on their heads in the pickle with their feet sticking out at the top. He caught them by the legs and pulled them out and by his magic power he soon brought them back to life. He gave them food and warmed them by the fire and soon they were none the worse for their hour in the barrel of brine. Then he gave them meat and brought them back to their grandmother. And they made broth for her and soon made her well, and they were all happy again. And the land was troubled no more by giants, for Saint Nicholas never again allowed great harm to come to little children if they always kept his whistle near them and blew softly upon it when they were in trouble or distress. THE FALL OF THE SPIDER MAN In olden times the Spider Man lived in the sky-country. He dwelt in a bright little house all by himself, where he weaved webs and long flimsy ladders by which people went back and forth from the sky to the earth. The Star-people often went at night to earth where they roamed about as fairies of light, doing good deeds for women and little children, and they always went back and forth on the ladder of the Spider Man. The Spider Man had to work very hard, weaving his webs, and spinning the yarn from which his ladders were made. One day when he had a short breathing-time from his toil he looked down at the earth-country and there he saw many of the earth-people playing at games, or taking sweet sap from the maple trees, or gathering berries on the rolling hills; but most of the men were lazily idling and doing nothing. The women were all working, after the fashion of Indians in those days; the men were working but little. And Spider Man said to himself, "I should like to go to the earth-country where men idle their time away. I would marry four wives who would work for me while I would take life easy, for I need a rest." He was very tired of his work for he was kept at it day and night always spinning and weaving his webs. But when he asked for a rest he was not allowed to stop; he was only kicked for his pains and called Sleepy Head, and Lazy-bones and other harsh names, and told to work harder. Then he grew angry and he resolved to punish the Star-people because they kept him so hard at work. He thought that if he punished them and made himself a nuisance, they would be glad to be rid of him. So he hit upon a crafty plan. Each night when a Star-fairy was climbing back to the sky-country, just as he came near the top of the ladder, the Spider Man would cut the strands and the fairy would fall to earth with a great crash. Night after night he did this, and he chuckled to himself as he saw the sky-fairies sprawling through the air and kicking their heels, while the earth-people looked up wonderingly at them and called them Shooting Stars. Many Star-people fell to earth in this way because of the Spider Man's tricks, and they could never get back to the sky-country because of their broken limbs or their disfigured faces, for in the sky-country the people all must have beautiful faces and forms. But Spider Man's tricks brought him no good; the people would not drive him away because they needed his webs and he was kept always at his tasks. At last he decided to run away of his own accord, and, one night when the Moon and the Stars had gone to work and the Sun was asleep, he said farewell to the sky-country and let himself down to earth by one of his own strands of yarn, spinning it as he dropped down. [Illustration: HE SAID FAREWELL TO THE SKY COUNTRY AND LET HIMSELF DOWN TO EARTH--BY ONE OF HIS OWN STRANDS OF YARN] In the earth-country he married four wives as he had planned, for he wanted them to work for him while he took his ease. He thought he had worked long enough. All went well for a time and the Spider Man was quite happy living his lazy and contented life. Not a strand did he spin, nor a web did he weave. No men on earth were working; only the women toiled. At last, Glooskap, who ruled upon the earth in that time, became very angry because the men in these parts were so lazy, and he sent Famine into their country to punish them for their sins. Famine came very stealthily into the land and gathered up all the corn and carried it off; then he called to him all the animals, and the birds, and the fish of the sea and river, and he took them away with him. In all the land there was nothing left to eat. Only water remained. The people were very hungry and they lived on water for many days. Sometimes they drank the water cold, sometimes hot, sometimes luke-warm, but at best it was but poor fare. The Spider Man soon grew tired of this strange diet, for it did not satisfy his hunger to live always on water. It filled his belly and swelled him to a great size, but it brought him little nourishment or strength. So he said, "There must be good food somewhere in the world; I will go in search of it." That night when all the world was asleep he took a large bag, and crept softly away from his four wives and set out on his quest for food. He did not want any one to know where he was going. For several days he travelled, living only on water; but he found no food, and the bag was still empty on his back. At last one day he saw birds in the trees and he knew that he was near the border of the Hunger-Land. That night in the forest when he stopped at a stream to drink, he saw a tiny gleam of light far ahead of him through the trees. He hurried towards the light and soon he came upon a man with a great hump on his shoulders and scars on his face, and a light hanging at his back, with a shade on it which he could close and open at his will. The Spider Man said, "I am looking for food; tell me where I can find it." And the humped man with the light said, "Do you want it for your people?" But the Spider Man said, "No, I want it for myself." Then the humped man laughed and said, "You are near to the border of the Land of Plenty; follow me and I will give you food." Then he flashed the light at his back, opening and closing the shade so that the light flickered, and he set off quickly through the trees. The Spider Man followed the light flashing in the darkness, but he had to go so fast that he was almost out of breath when he reached the house where the humped man had stopped. But the humped man only laughed when he saw the Spider Man coming puffing wearily along with his fat and swollen belly. He gave him a good fat meal and the Spider Man soon felt better after his long fast. Then the humped man said, "You are the Spider Man who once weaved webs in the sky. I, too, once dwelt in the star-country, and one dark night as I was climbing back from the earth-country on your ladder, carrying my lamp on my back to light the way, when I was near the sky you cut the strands of the web and I fell to the earth with a great crash. That is why I have a great hump on my back and scars on my face, and because of this I have never been allowed to go back to the sky-country of the stars. I roam the earth at nights as a forest fairy just as I did in the olden days, for I have my former power still with me, and I still carry my lamp at my back; it is the starlight from the sky-country. I shall never get back to the star-country while I have life. But some day when my work on earth is done I shall go back. But although you were cruel to me I will give you food." The Spider Man remembered the nights he had cut the ladder strands, and he laughed to himself at the memory of the star-fairies falling to earth with a great crash. But the man with the light knew that now he had his chance to take vengeance on the Spider Man. The latter did not suspect evil. He was glad to get food at last. Then the humped man said, "I will give you four pots. You must not open them until you get home. They will then be filled with food, and thereafter always when you open them they will be packed with good food. And the food will never grow less." The Spider Man put the four pots in his bag and slinging it over his shoulder he set out for his home, well pleased with his success. After he had gone away, the humped man used his power to make him hungry. Yet for several days he travelled without opening the pots, for although he was almost starving he wished to do as the humped man had told him. At last he could wait no longer. He stopped near his home, took the pots out of the bag and opened them. They were filled with good food as he had been promised. In one was a fine meat stew; in another were many cooked vegetables; in another was bread made from Indian corn; and in another was luscious ripe fruit. He ate until he was full. He covered the pots, put them back in the bag, and hid the bag among the trees. Then he went home. He had meanwhile taken pity on his people and he decided to invite the Chief and all the tribe to a feast the next evening, for the pots would be full, and the food would never decrease, and there would be enough for all. He thought the people would regard him as a very wonderful man if he could supply them all with good food in their hunger. When he reached his home his wives were very glad to see him back, and they at once brought him water, the only food they had. But he laughed them to scorn, and threw the water in their faces and said, "Oh, foolish women, I do not want water; it is not food for a great man like me. I have had a good meal of meat stew and corn bread and cooked vegetables and luscious ripe fruit. I know where much food is to be found, but I alone know. I can find food when all others fail, for I am a great man. Go forth and invite the Chief and all the people to a feast which I shall provide for them to-morrow night--a feast for all the land, for my food never grows less." They were all amazed when they heard his story, and the thought of his good meal greatly added to their hunger. But they went out and summoned all the tribe to a feast as he had told them. The next night all the people gathered for the feast, for the news of it had spread through all the land. They had taken no water that day, for they wished to eat well, and they were very hungry. They were as hungry as wild beasts in search of food. The Spider Man was very glad because the people praised him, and he proudly brought in his bag of pots. The people all waited hungrily and eagerly. But when he uncovered the first pot there was no food there; he uncovered the second pot, but there was no food there; he uncovered all the pots, but not a bit of food was in any of them. They were all empty, and in the bottom of each was a great gaping hole. Now it had happened in this way. When the humped man, the Star-fairy, had given the pots to the Spider Man, he knew well that the Spider Man would disobey his orders and that he would open the pots before he reached his home. He chuckled to himself, for he knew that now he could take vengeance on the web-weaver who had injured him. So when the Spider Man had left the pots among the trees, the humped man used his magic power and made holes in the pots, and the charm of the food was broken and all the food disappeared. When the people saw the empty pots they thought they had been purposely deceived. The remains of the food and the smell of stew and of fruit still clung to the pots. They thought the Spider Man had eaten all the food himself. So in their great hunger and their rage and their disappointment they fell upon him and beat him and bore him to the ground, while the humped man with the lamp at his back hiding behind the trees looked on and laughed in his glee. Then the people split the Spider Man's arms to the shoulders, and his legs to the thighs, so that he had eight limbs instead of four. And the humped man--the star-fairy named Fire-fly--came forth from behind the trees and standing over the fallen Spider Man he said, "Henceforth because of your cruelty to the star-people you will always crawl on eight legs, and you will have a fat round belly because of the water you have drunk; and sometimes you will live on top of the water. But you shall always eat only flies and insects. And you will always spin downwards but never upwards, and you will often try to get back to the star-country, but you shall always slip down again on the strand of yarn you have spun." Then Fire-fly flashed his light and went quickly away, opening and closing the shade of his lamp as he flitted among the trees. And to this day the Spider Man lives as the humped man of the lamp had spoken, because of the cruelty he practised on the star-fairies in the olden days. THE BOY WHO WAS CALLED THICK-HEAD Three brothers lived with their old Indian mother in the forest near the sea. Their father had long been dead. At his death he had little of the world's goods to his credit and his widow and her sons were very poor. In the place where they dwelt, game was not plentiful, and to get food enough to keep them from want they had often to go far into the forest. The youngest boy was smaller and weaker than the others, and when the two older sons went far away to hunt, they always left him behind, for although he always wished to accompany them they would never allow him to go. He had to do all the work about the house, and all day long he gathered wood in the forest and carried water from the stream. And even when his brothers went out in the spring-time to draw sap from the maple trees he was never permitted to go with them. He was always making mistakes and doing foolish things. His brothers called him Thick-head, and all the people round about said he was a simpleton because of his slow and queer ways. His mother alone was kind to him and she always said, "They may laugh at you and call you fool, but you will prove to be wiser than all of them yet, for so it was told me by a forest fairy at your birth." The Chief of the people had a beautiful daughter who had many suitors. But her father spurned them all from his door and said, "My daughter is not yet of age to marry; and when her time of marriage comes, she will only marry the man who can make great profit from hunting." The two older sons of the old woman decided that one of them must win the girl. So they prepared to set out on a great hunting expedition far away in the northern forest, for it was now autumn, and the hunter's moon had come. The youngest boy wanted to go with them, for he had never been away from home and he wished to see the world. And his mother said he might go. His brothers were very angry when they heard his request, and they said, "Much good Thick-head can do us in the chase. He will only bring us bad luck. He is not a hunter but a scullion and a drudge fit only for the fireside." But his mother commanded them to grant the boy's wish and they had to obey. So the three brothers set out for the north country, the two older brothers grumbling loudly because they were accompanied by the boy they thought a fool. The two older brothers had good success in the chase and they killed many animals--deer and rabbits and otters and beavers. And they came home bearing a great quantity of dried meat and skins. They each thought, "Now we have begun to prove our prowess to the Chief, and if we succeed as well next year when the hunter's moon comes again, one of us will surely win his daughter when she is old enough to marry." But all the youngest boy brought home as a result of his journey into the game country was a large Earth-Worm as thick as his finger and as long as his arm. It was the biggest Earth-Worm he had ever seen. He thought it a great curiosity as well as a great discovery, and he was so busy watching it each day that he had no time to hunt. When he brought it home in a box, his brothers said to their mother, "What did we tell you about Thick-head? He has now surely proved himself a fool. He has caught only a fat Earth-Worm in all these weeks." And they noised it abroad in the village and all the people laughed loudly at the simpleton, until "Thick-head's hunt" became a by-word in all the land. But the boy's mother only smiled and said, "He will surprise them all yet." The boy kept the Earth-Worm in a tiny pen just outside the door of his home. One day a large Duck came waddling along, and sticking her bill over the little fence of the pen she quickly gobbled up the Worm. The boy was very angry and he went to the man who owned the Duck, and said, "Your Duck ate up my pet Worm. I want my Worm." The man offered to pay him whatever price he asked, but the boy said, "I do not want your price. I want my Worm." But the man said, "How can I give you your Worm when my Duck has eaten it up? It is gone for ever." And the boy said, "It is not gone. It is in the Duck's belly. So I must have the Duck." Then to avoid further trouble the man gave Thick-head the Duck, for he thought to himself, "What is the use of arguing with a fool." The boy took the Duck home and kept it in a little pen near his home with a low fence around it. And he tied a great weight to its foot so that it could not fly away. He was quite happy again, for he thought, "Now I have both my Worm and the Duck." But one day a Fox came prowling along looking for food. He saw the fat Duck tied by the foot in the little pen. And he said, "What good fortune! There is a choice meal for me," and in a twinkling he was over the fence. The Duck quacked and made a great noise, but she was soon silenced. The Fox had just finished eating up the Duck when the boy, who had heard the quacking, came running out of the house. The Fox was smacking his lips after his good meal, and he was too slow in getting away. The boy fell to beating him with a stout club and soon killed him and threw his body into the yard behind the house. And he thought, "That is not so bad. Now I have my Worm and the Duck and the Fox." That night an old Wolf came through the forest in search of food. He was very hungry, and in the bright moonlight he saw the dead Fox lying in the yard. He pounced upon it greedily and devoured it until not a trace of it was left. But the boy saw him before he could get away, and he came stealthily upon him and killed him with a blow of his axe. "I am surely in good luck," he thought, "for now I have the Worm and the Duck and the Fox and the Wolf." But the next day when he told his brothers of his good fortune and his great skill, they laughed at him loudly and said, "Much good a dead Wolf will do you. Before two days have passed it will be but an evil-smelling thing and we shall have to bury it deep. You are indeed a great fool." The boy pondered for a long time over what they had said, and he thought, "Perhaps they are right. The dead Wolf cannot last long. I will save the skin." So he skinned the Wolf and dried the skin and made a drum from it. For the drum was one of the few musical instruments of the Indians in those old times, and they beat it loudly at all their dances and festivals. The boy beat the drum each evening, and made a great noise, and he was very proud because he had the only drum in the whole village. One day the Chief sent for him and said to him, "I want to borrow your drum for this evening. I am having a great gathering to announce to all the land that my daughter is now of age to marry and that suitors may now seek her hand in marriage. But we have no musical instruments and I want your drum, and I myself will beat it at the dance." So Thick-head brought his drum to the Chief's house, but he was not very well pleased, because he was not invited to the feast, while his brothers were among the favoured guests. And he said to the Chief, "Be very careful. Do not tear the skin of my drum, for I can never get another like it. My Worm and my Duck and my Fox and my Wolf have all helped to make it." [Illustration: THAT NIGHT AN OLD WOLF CAME THROUGH THE FOREST IN SEARCH OF FOOD] The next day he went for his drum. But the Chief had struck it too hard and had split it open so that it would now make no sound and it was ruined beyond repair. He offered to pay the boy a great price for it, but the boy said, "I do not want your price. I want my drum. Give me back my drum, for my Worm and the Duck and the Fox and the Wolf are all in it." The Chief said, "How can I give you back your drum when it is broken? It is gone for ever. I will give you anything you desire in exchange for it. Since you do not like the price I offer, you may name your own price and you shall have it." And the boy thought to himself, "Here is a chance for good fortune. Now I shall surprise my brothers." And he said, "Since you cannot give me my drum, I will take your daughter in marriage in exchange." The Chief was much perplexed, but he had to be true to his word. So he gave his daughter to Thick-head, and they were married, and the girl brought him much treasure and they lived very happily. And his brothers were much amazed and angered because they had failed. But his mother said, "I told you he was wiser than you and that he would outwit you yet although you called him Thick-head and fool. For the forest fairy said it to me at his birth." RABBIT AND THE INDIAN CHIEF Long ago an Indian Chief was living with his people far in the Canadian forest. Life was good and food was plentiful and the people were all very happy. But one day a wicked giant and his old witch wife came crashing into the land from a far country beyond the prairies. They devoured all the food they could lay their hands on and soon there was little left to eat in all the country; and often they carried off little children to their hiding-place and ate them up until not a trace of them remained. Somewhere far in the forest they dwelt in a hidden cave; they slept all day long, but at night they always stalked forth in search of plunder. The Chief was much troubled, and with his warriors he tried in every way to discover their hiding-place, but no one ever succeeded in finding it. For by the use of their magic power the giant and his old witch wife could make themselves invisible when they walked abroad among men and they could not be caught. The Chief called all his warriors to a council, and he said, "Who can rid me of this pest? Who can kill the giant?" But not a man replied. And when he saw his people's store of food rapidly growing smaller and the little children of his tribe slowly disappearing, he was greatly puzzled as to what he should do. One night of bright moonlight Rabbit was prowling through the woods, as was his custom, in search of some one on whom he could play a prank, for he was a great joker. Suddenly he came upon the giant and his old witch wife standing by an opening in the side of a low mountain. He watched them for a long time from the shadow of a great tree, and at last he saw them enter a large hole in the side of the hill. He knew now that he had hit by accident upon the giant's cave and he was well pleased by his discovery. But he kept his secret to himself, for he thought, "Here is a good chance for me to win fame. I will kill the giants by a crafty trick and I will then be looked upon as a great warrior, the foremost in all the land, for all the Chief's men have failed to find the giants." So he went to the Chief and said, "Oh, Chief, I know where the giants live and I swear to you that I am going to kill them. It is I alone who can rid you of these pests." "You!" said the Chief in great surprise; "little harm the like of you can do to giants; they will eat you up in one mouthful," and he laughed loudly at Rabbit's boldness. And he called to his warriors saying, "See what a stout fighter we have here! Little Rabbit says he can do what we have failed to do; he swears that he will kill the giants; he is better fitted to kill a mouse!" And they all laughed loud haw-haws at Rabbit's vanity. Poor Rabbit's pride was deeply hurt by the Chief's scorn and the warriors' cruel laughter, but it all made him more determined than ever to slay the thieving giants. So he went to an old woman who lived near-by and said, "Give me an old faded dress and a ragged old shawl and your coloured spectacles and a hat with a feather in it." The old woman wondered what tricks he was up to now, but she gave him what he asked for. He put on the tattered old dress and the battered old hat with a red feather sticking from the top, and he wrapped the old shawl about his face, and he wore the woman's coloured spectacles and he carried a crooked stick. And dressed in this fashion he set out towards evening for the giants' home. When he reached the mouth of the cave, he stood still and waited, leaning on his crooked stick, for night was coming on and he knew that the giants would soon be going out on their plundering rounds. After a time when it was quite dark except for the moonlight, the giant's old witch wife came out of the cave. When she saw Rabbit in the dim light she said gruffly, "Who are you, standing there in the shadows?" "Oh, my dear niece," said Rabbit, "I have found you at last. I am your poor old aunt. I thought I had lost my way. I have come to see you from your home in the far country. It was a long journey and my poor old legs and back are stiff and sore, and I am very hungry and tired;" and he moved slowly towards the woman, hobbling along with his crooked stick. The giant woman was deceived, and she threw her arms around Rabbit and kissed him, and she did not feel his whiskers or his split lip because of the old shawl that was wrapped around his face. "I have a pain in my jaw from sleeping out of doors," said Rabbit, "and I must keep my face wrapped up." "Come in and rest, and you will soon feel better," said the giant woman. "You will have to lead me in," said Rabbit, not wishing to take off the shawl, "for my eyesight is very bad." So she led Rabbit into the warm cave, which was so dark that they could scarcely see each other, and she called her husband and said, "Here is my dear old aunt who has come all the way from the far country beyond the prairies." And the giant, believing Rabbit to be his wife's kindred, for he could not see him very clearly, treated him very kindly. And they showed him the bed where he was to sleep. The woman then gave Rabbit a large piece of dried meat to eat. But Rabbit said, "I cannot eat it, for I am old and I have lost all my teeth. Give me an axe to cut it up small." So the woman brought him a sharp axe and he chopped the meat into small pieces and ate it all up. And he said, "I will keep the axe by me, for I shall need it at all my meals," and he placed it beside his bed. The giant said, "We are going away to see some friends, but we shall be back before midnight." But before they went away Rabbit said to the woman, "I hope your husband sleeps soundly; I have a bad cough and I sometimes moan because of the pain in my face and head and I do not wish to disturb him." And the old giant woman answered, "He slumbers too well. When we sleep we both snore loudly, and when you hear us snoring you may cough as much as you please, for then you will know that we are sound asleep." Then the man and his witch wife went away. When the giants came home, Rabbit pretended to be fast asleep. They brought back with them much food which they hid in a secret place at the side of the cave. Rabbit watched them through the holes in the old shawl around his head. Soon they went to bed, drowsy after their fat meal. When Rabbit heard them snoring loudly like a great waterfall, "chr-r-r, chr-r-r," he arose very quietly and crept softly to their bedside. With two blows of his axe he killed the giant and his wife, one after the other. Then he ran away as fast as he could, carrying with him his old dress and hat and shawl, for he thought he might need them again. In the morning he went to the Chief's house and told the Chief what he had done. The Chief laughed scornfully and he would not believe it until Rabbit brought him to the cave and showed him the slain giants cold and stiff in their bed. The Chief's men then took back to the village the great store of food the giants had hidden in the secret place. But the Chief and his warriors, although they were glad to be rid of the thieves, were angry at heart because Rabbit whom they had laughed at had done what they had failed to do, for they were very jealous of Rabbit's power. One day soon afterwards the Chief called all the birds and the animals to a council, and he said, "Now that the giants who robbed us of our food are dead and gone, and that we shall never again want for nourishment in my country, I am going to let each animal and bird choose the kind of food he would most like to live on if he could get it. And they shall never want for that kind of food if it can be provided." And he called on each to make the choice. And the birds said "Grain and seeds and worms," and the Squirrel said "Nuts," and the Fox said "Chickens," and the cat said "Milk," and the dog said "Meat and bones," and the weasel said "Eggs," and the wolf said "Lambs," and the bear said "Fish from the frozen sea," and so on until each animal was called upon and declared his liking. And the Chief said, "It shall be as you have chosen." But the Chief had purposely neglected to summon poor Rabbit to the council, and Rabbit was absent on a long journey. When he came home, he was very angry when he heard what had happened, for only the left-over in the world's food remained for him to choose. So he went to the Chief and said in great wrath, "This is a fine return for ridding your land of giants. But that is a way you have; you always reward good deeds with evil." The Chief was very angry because of Rabbit's insolence, and he said, "You are telling lies again." But Rabbit called as witnesses to the truth of what he said Sheep and Goat and Duck who chanced to be passing by and who stood listening to the quarrel. And old Sheep said, "Rabbit has spoken truly. When I was young I gave the Chief much wool to make clothes for his back and he used me well. But now that I am old he is going to kill me and eat me up. That is my reward." And old Goat said, "Rabbit has spoken wisely and justly. I served the Chief well in my time and gave him milk, but now that I am old and have no more milk he is fattening me and getting me ready for slaughter. That is my reward." And old Duck said, "That is a true saying of Rabbit. Once upon a time I gave the Chief many eggs and young ducklings, but now that I have stopped laying he is soon going to roast me in a pot. That is my reward." The Chief could make no answer to these charges, for he knew them to be true, and he offered to do what was in his power for Rabbit. But Rabbit refused to make choice of food, for he said the best was already gone. He sulked for many months and lived alone by his own efforts as best he could. At last he decided to take vengeance on the Chief. And he hit, as was his custom, on a crafty trick. The Chief had an old Bear which he prized very highly, for the Bear did for him many wondrous tricks and brought laughter to him and his warriors when he danced at their feasts. In those olden times Bear had a long bushy tail of which he was very proud. One day as Rabbit sat on the ice fishing--for it was now winter--Bear came along. There was to be a feast that night and he was going to dance for the Chief, and he was in very good spirits. "Where did you get all the fine fish?" he asked, for he was a great fish eater. "I caught them through the hole in the ice," said Rabbit. "It is very easy. Just drop your tail down through the hole and it will soon be covered with fine big fish." Bear did as he was told, and he sat on the ice for a long time waiting for his prey. He sat so long that the hole froze up, for it was very cold, and in it was frozen poor Bear's long bushy tail. "Now," said Rabbit, "jump quick, for many fish are hanging to you." Bear jumped with all his might, but his tail was held fast in the ice and it broke off close to the root. Rabbit laughed in great glee and ran away. And poor Bear howled with pain and shame. He could not dance at the feast because his stub of a tail was sore, and the Chief and the warriors were very angry at Rabbit because he had harmed their dancing pet. And since that time Bear has had a short stubby tail which to this day he tries to wag feebly. Rabbit then hid for some days far from the Chief and his warriors. Then he decided to try another trick. The Chief's wood-cutter was old Beaver, who lived in a little house of reeds on the bank of a stream. He was very busy now cutting down trees for the Chief, for it was near to spring-time and the people were in need of logs for building roads over the rivers. One day Rabbit went to Beaver and said, "The Chief sent me to you to bring you to a great tree he wishes you to cut down at once." So Beaver went along with him. But when Beaver was busy at his task cutting down the tree, Rabbit hit him a savage blow on the head with a big stick hoping to kill him and thus again to anger the Chief. Poor Beaver fell to the ground and Rabbit ran away. But Beaver was only stunned. He got up after a time and went home muttering to himself and rubbing his sore head. Soon Rabbit came back to the tree and found Beaver gone. He knew that his blow had failed. Then he put on again his tattered old dress and his ragged shawl and his coloured spectacles and the hat with the red feather sticking to the top, and he went to Beaver's house by the stream, hobbling along with a stick. "The Chief sent me to you to bring you to a great tree he wishes you to cut down at once," he called. And Beaver said, "I have already tried to cut a great tree for him to-day and I should have finished it had I not been beaten with a stick until I was stunned by the blow." "Who struck you?" asked Rabbit, laughing to himself. "Rabbit struck me," answered Beaver. "He is a great brigand and a liar and a thief," said Rabbit. "He is all that," said Beaver, rubbing the lump on his head. So Beaver went along with Rabbit. And Rabbit asked as they went along, "How is it that you are alive after that cruel blow?" And Beaver said, "Rabbit hit me on the head. If he had hit me on the back of my neck he would have killed me, for there I keep the secret of my life." When Beaver was busy again at his task cutting down the tree, Rabbit hit him a powerful blow on the back of the neck and poor Beaver fell down dead. Then he cut off his tail that was made like a file, and went away happy, for he knew that the Chief would be very angry when he found what had happened to his wood-cutter. [Illustration: HE WENT TO BEAVER'S HOUSE BY THE STREAM, HOBBLING ALONG WITH A STICK] When the Chief learned that Beaver had been killed, his wrath knew no bounds, for he could ill afford at this time to lose his best wood-chopper. He blamed Rabbit for the deed, but he could not be sure that his suspicions were well-founded. Rabbit kept out of the Chief's sight for some weeks. But one day in early summer he was very hungry. He saw all the other animals filling their bellies with their favourite food, and he decided to forget his sulks and to ask the Chief for help. So he went to the Chief and said haughtily, "I want you to give me food for my own special use as you have done with the other animals. You must do it at once or I will do you much harm." Then the Chief remembered what Rabbit had done to his dancing Bear, and he thought of the death of Beaver, for which he blamed Rabbit without proof, and he grew red with anger. He seized Rabbit by the heels and said, "Henceforth the dogs will always chase you, and you will never have peace when they are near. And you will live for the most part on whatever food I throw you into now." Then he whirled Rabbit around his head by the heels, and he threw him from him with great force, hoping to drop him in a great black swamp near-by. Poor Rabbit went flying through the air for a great distance, farther than the Chief had hoped, and he dropped with a thud into a field of clover on the edge of which cabbages and lettuce were growing. And since that time the dogs have always chased Rabbit and he has lived for the most part on cabbages and lettuce and clover which he steals on moonlight nights from farmers' fields. GREAT HEART AND THE THREE TESTS Somewhere near the sea in olden times a boy was living with his father and mother. He had no brothers or sisters. His father was a great hunter and the boy inherited something of his power, for he was always very successful in the killing of game. And his mother said, "Some day he will be a great man, for before his birth a vision came to me in the night and told me that my son would win wide fame. And fairy gifts were laid by the fairies in his cradle." And his father, listening to her boasting, said, "Time will tell; time will tell; but if he is to be a great man it is his own deeds and not your boasting that must prove it." As the boy grew up he became strangely beautiful and he had great strength. And his father said, "It is time he set out to seek his fortune. I was in the forest doing for myself when I was no older than he." And his mother said, "Wait a little and be not so impatient. He is yet young and there is yet much time." So the boy remained at home a while longer. Now it happened that far away in a distant village there lived a young girl of very great beauty and grace. Her father had been a great Chief, but he was now dead. Her mother too was dead, and she was all alone in the world. But her parents had left her vast lands and a great store of goods and many servants, and because of her treasures and her great beauty she had many suitors. But she was not easily pleased by men and on all who came to seek her hand she imposed severe feats of skill to test their sincerity and their worth. She was carefully guarded by an old woman and many servants who kept troublesome and meddlesome people away. Soon the fame of the girl's wealth and beauty spread through all the land. It reached the sea coast village where the young man dwelt. His father thought to himself, "Here is a good chance for my son to prove his worth." So he called his boy to him and said, "It is time you were setting out to seek your fortune in the world and to find a wife, for your spring-time is passing and your summer of life will soon be here, and before you know it your autumn will be upon you and your winter will be near. There is no time to lose. Seek out the beautiful girl of the rich treasures in the distant inland village and try to win her as your wife." And his mother gave him the fairy gifts which had been laid in his cradle at his birth, and he said good-bye to his parents and set out on his long journey. He had no misgivings, for he was very vain of his beauty and he was sure, too, of his strength. As he travelled inland he came one day upon a man clad in scarlet sitting on the side of a rocky hill tying stones to his feet. "Hello," he said to the man, "why are you tying these heavy rocks to your ankles?" "I am a hunter," replied the man, "but when I follow the deer I run so fast that I am soon far in front of them instead of behind them, and I am putting heavy weights on my feet so that I will not run so rapidly." "You are indeed a wonderful man," said the boy; "but I am alone and I need a companion. Let us go along together." "Who are you?" said the man. "I am Lad of the Great Heart," said the boy, "and I can do great deeds and I can win for you great treasure." So the Scarlet Runner went along with him. Towards evening when they were now far inland, they came to a large lake. Among the trees on the fringe of the lake a large fat man was lying flat on his stomach with his mouth in the water drinking as hard as he could. For some time they watched him, but still he drank and the lake grew smaller and smaller and still his thirst was not quenched. They laughed at such a strange sight, and as they approached him the boy said, "Hello! Why do you lie there drinking so much water?" "Oh," answered the fat man, "there are times when I cannot get enough water to drink. When I have drunk this lake dry I shall still be thirsty." "Who are you?" asked the boy. "I am Man of the Great Thirst," said the fat man. "That is well," said Great Heart, "we two need a third companion. We can do great deeds and we can win for you great treasure." So the three went along together. [Illustration: HE CAME ONE DAY UPON A MAN CLAD IN SCARLET SITTING ON THE SIDE OF A ROCKY HILL TYING STONES TO HIS FEET] They had not gone far when they came to a wide open plain where they saw a man walking along with his face raised upwards, peering at the sky. He moved along rapidly and seemed to find his way without his eyes, for he gazed steadily at the heavens. "Hello," said Great Heart as the sky-gazer rushed past him and almost knocked him over, "what are you looking at so intently?" "Oh," said the man, "I have shot an arrow into the sky and I am waiting for it to fall. It has gone so far that it will be some time before it drops." "Who are you?" asked the boy. "I am the Far-Darter," said the sky-gazer. "We three need a fourth companion," said the boy. "We can do great deeds and win for you much treasure. Come along with us." So the four went along together. They had gone but a short distance across the plain to the edge of a forest when they came upon a man lying down at full length with his head upon his hand. The edge of his hand was on the ground and it was half closed around his ear, which rested upon it. As he saw the four men approaching him he placed a finger of his other hand upon his lips and signalled to them to keep quiet. "Hello," said Great Heart in a whisper, "what are you doing there with your ear to the ground?" "I am listening to the plants growing far away in the forest," he answered. "There is a beautiful flower I wish to find, and I am trying to hear it breathing so that I may go and get it. Aha! I hear it now." So saying he rose from the ground. The boy said, "Who are you?" "I am Keen Ears," said the listener. "We four need another companion," said Great Heart. "We can do great deeds and win for you much treasure. Come along with us." So the four men and the boy went along together, Keen Ears, and Scarlet Runner, and Far Darter, and Man of the Great Thirst, and Lad of the Great Heart. Then Great Heart unfolded to the others his plan to win the beautiful girl who lived with her treasures in the distant village. And they gladly agreed to help him in his dangerous undertaking. When they reached the village, the people were all very curious when they saw the five strangers. They marvelled at Great Heart's beauty. But when they heard that he wished to marry the daughter of the former Chief they shook their heads gravely and said, "It will never be. She places hard conditions on all who seek her hand. He who fails in the tests is doomed to death. Many suitors have tried and failed and died." But Great Heart was not alarmed, and with his four companions he went to the girl's home. The old woman who guarded her met him at the door and he made known his wishes. She laughed scornfully when she saw his great beauty, and she said, "You look more like a girl than like a warrior. You cannot endure the tests." But the young man insisted on making the trials. The old woman said, "If you fail in the tests you will die," and Great Heart said, "It is so agreed." Then the woman said, "If you wish to win the maiden you must first push away this great rock from before her window. It keeps the sunlight from her in the mornings." Then Great Heart, calling to his aid the fairy gifts of his cradle, placed his shoulder against the huge stone which rose higher than the house, and he pushed with all his strength. With a mighty crash it rolled down the hill and broke into millions of pieces. The bits of rock flew all over the earth so great was the fall, and the little pebbles and stones that came from it are seen throughout the world to this day. The sunlight streamed in at the window, and the maiden knew that the first test had been successfully passed by a suitor. Then came the second test. The old woman and her servants brought great quantities of food and drink and bade the strangers consume it all at one meal. They were very hungry, for they had eaten nothing all day and they easily ate up the food. But when Great Heart saw the great barrels of water, his spirits sank, and he said, "I fear I am beaten." But Man of the Great Thirst said, "Not so fast, my friend. The spell of great stomach-burning is again upon me. I am very dry as if there was a fire in my belly. Give me a chance to drink." He went from barrel to barrel and in a twinkling he had drained them all of every drop. And the people wondered greatly. But there was still another test. "You must have one of your party run a race," said the old woman to Great Heart. And she brought out a man who had never been beaten in running. "Who is your choice of runners?" she asked; "he must race with this man, and if he wins you may have the maiden for your wife and all the treasure with her, for this is the final test. But if he loses the race you shall die." Great Heart called Scarlet Runner to the mark and told the old woman that this was the man selected. Then he untied the rocks from the runner's feet, and when all was ready the race began. The course lay far across the plains for many miles until the runners should pass from sight, and back again to the starting point. The two runners kept together for some distance, talking together in a friendly way as they ran. When they had passed from sight of the village the maiden's runner said, "Now we are out of sight of the village. Let us rest here a while on this grassy bank, for the day is hot." The Scarlet Runner agreed to this and they both stretched out on the grass. Now this was an old trick of the maiden's runner, who always won by craft rather than by speed. They had not lain down long on the grass when Scarlet Runner fell asleep under the hot sun, just as his rival had hoped. When the latter was sure that his rival was sound asleep, he set out for the village, running as fast as he could. The people soon saw their runner approaching far off on the plains, but there was no sign of the stranger, and they thought that the new suitor for the girl's hand had at last failed like all the others before him. Great Heart was much puzzled when Scarlet Runner did not appear, and as he saw the maiden's runner coming nearer, he said, "What can have happened? I fear I am beaten." But Keen Ears threw himself flat on the ground and listened. "Scarlet Runner is asleep," he called; "I hear him snoring on the plains far away." And with his keen sense of sound he located the exact spot where the runner was lying. "I will soon wake him," said Far-Darter, as he fitted an arrow to his bow-string. The people all thought him mad, for they had never seen an arrow shot so great a distance beyond their sight. But Far-Darter was not dismayed. He quickly shot an arrow from his bow to the spot which Keen Ears had indicated. His aim was so true that the arrow hit Scarlet Runner on the nose and aroused him from his sleep. But when he rose to his feet he found that his rival was gone and he knew that he had been deceived. So in a great rage because of the trick and the pain in his nose, he set out for the village running like the wind. His rival had almost reached the end of the race, but by putting all his strength into his effort, Scarlet Runner quickly over-took him and passed him near the winning-post and won the race. And the people wondered greatly at these great deeds of the strangers. Then the old woman said to Great Heart, "You have won the maiden as your wife, for you alone have succeeded in these tests." So the two were married with great ceremony. Great Heart gave much treasure to his companions, and they promised to help him always in his need. Then with his wife and her servants and her great store of goods he went back to his native village by the sea. His father and mother were glad to see him again and to hear of his success, and his mother said, "I told you he would win great fame because of the fairy gifts that were laid in his cradle at his birth." And they all lived together and were henceforth very happy. THE BOY OF THE RED TWILIGHT SKY Long ago there dwelt on the shores of the Great Water in the west a young man and his younger wife. They had no children and they lived all by themselves far from other people on an island not far from the coast. The man spent his time in catching the deep-sea fish far out on the ocean, or in spearing salmon in the distant rivers. Often he was gone for many days and his wife was very lonely in his absence. She was not afraid, for she had a stout spirit, but it was very dismal in the evenings to look only at the grey leaden sky and to hear only the sound of the surf as it beat upon the beach. So day after day she said to herself, "I wish we had children. They would be good company for me when I am alone and my husband is far away." One evening at twilight when she was solitary because of her husband's absence on the ocean catching the deep-sea fish, she sat on the sand beach looking out across the water. The sky in the west was pale grey; it was always dull and grey in that country, and when the sun had gone down there was no soft light. In her loneliness the woman said to herself, "I wish we had children to keep me company." A Kingfisher, with his children, was diving for minnows not far away. And the woman said, "Oh, sea bird with the white collar, I wish we had children like you." And the Kingfisher said, "Look in the sea-shells; look in the sea-shells," and flew away. The next evening the woman sat again upon the beach looking westward at the dull grey sky. Not far away a white Sea-gull was riding on the waves in the midst of her brood of little ones. And the woman said, "Oh, white sea bird, I wish we had children like you to keep us company." And the Sea-gull said, "Look in the sea-shells; look in the sea-shells," and flew away. The woman wondered greatly at the words of the Kingfisher and the Sea-Gull. As she sat there in thought she heard a strange cry coming from the sand dunes behind her. She went closer to the sound and found that the cry came from a large sea-shell lying on the sand. She picked up the shell, and inside of it was a tiny boy, crying as hard as he could. She was well pleased with her discovery, and she carried the baby to her home and cared for him. When her husband came home from the sea, he, too, was very happy to find the baby there, for he knew that they would be lonely no more. The baby grew very rapidly, and soon he was able to walk and move about where he pleased. One day the woman was wearing a copper bracelet on her arm and the child said to her, "I must have a bow made from the copper on your arm." So to please him she made him a tiny bow from the bracelet, and two tiny arrows. At once he set out to hunt game, and day after day he came home bearing the products of his chase. He brought home geese and ducks and brant and small sea birds, and gave them to his mother for food. As he grew older the man and his wife noticed that his face took on a golden hue brighter than the colour of his copper bow. Wherever he went there was a strange light. When he sat on the beach looking to the west the weather was always calm and there were strange bright gleams upon the water. And his foster-parents wondered greatly at this unusual power. But the boy would not talk about it; when they spoke of it he was always silent. It happened once that the winds blew hard over the Great Water and the man could not go out to catch fish because of the turbulent sea. For many days he stayed on shore, for the ocean, which was usually at peace, was lashed into a great fury and the waves were dashing high on the beach. Soon the people were in need of fish for food. And the boy said, "I will go out with you, for I can overcome the Storm Spirit." The man did not want to go, but at last he listened to the boy's entreaties and together they set out for the fishing grounds far across the tossing sea. They had not gone far when they met the Spirit of the Storm coming madly from the south-west where the great winds dwelt. He tried hard to upset their boat, but over them he had no power, for the boy guided the frail craft across the water and all around them the sea was calm and still. Then the Storm Spirit called his nephew Black Cloud to help him, and away in the south-east they saw him hurrying to his uncle's aid. But the boy said to the man, "Be not afraid, for I am more than a match for him." So the two met, but when Black Cloud saw the boy he quickly disappeared. Then the Spirit of the Storm called Mist of the Sea to come and cover the water, for he thought the boat would be lost if he hid the land from the man and the boy. When the man saw Mist of the Sea coming like a grey vapour across the water he was very frightened, for of all his enemies on the ocean he feared this one most. But the boy said, "He cannot harm you when I am with you." And sure enough, when Mist of the Sea saw the boy sitting smiling in the boat he disappeared as quickly as he had come. And the Storm Spirit in great anger hurried away to other parts, and that day there was no more danger on the sea near the fishing grounds. The boy and the man soon reached the fishing grounds in safety. And the boy taught his foster-father a magic song with which he was able to lure fish to his nets. Before evening came the boat was filled with good fat fish and they set out for their home. The man said, "Tell me the secret of your power." But the boy said, "It is not yet time." [Illustration: AND SHE MAKES TO HIM AN OFFERING OF TINY WHITE FEATHERS PLUCKED FROM THE BREASTS OF BIRDS] The next day the boy killed many birds. He skinned them all and dried their skins. Then he dressed himself in the skin of a plover and rose into the air and flew above the sea. And the sea under him was grey like his wings. Then he came down and dressed himself in the skin of a blue-jay and soared away again. And the sea over which he was flying was at once changed to blue like the blue of his wings. When he came back to the beach, he put on the skin of a robin with the breast of a golden hue like his face. Then he flew high and at once the waves under him reflected a colour as of fire and bright gleams of light appeared upon the ocean, and the sky in the west was golden red. The boy flew back to the beach and he said to his foster-parents, "Now it is time for me to leave you. I am the offspring of the sun. Yesterday my power was tested and it was not found wanting, so now I must go away and I shall see you no more. But at evening I shall appear to you often in the twilight sky in the west. And when the sky and the sea look at evening like the colour of my face, you will know that there will be no wind nor storm and that on the morrow the weather will be fair. But although I go away, I shall leave you a strange power. And always when you need me, let me know your desires by making white offerings to me, so that I may see them from my home far in the west." Then he gave to his foster-mother a wonderful robe. He bade his parents good-bye, and soared away to the west, leaving them in sadness. But the woman still keeps a part of the power he gave her, and when she sits on the island in a crevice in the dunes and loosens her wonderful robe, the wind hurries down from the land, and the sea is ruffled with storm; and the more she loosens the garment the greater is the tempest. But in the late autumn when the cold mists come in from the sea, and the evenings are chill, and the sky is dull and grey, she remembers the promise of the boy. And she makes to him an offering of tiny white feathers plucked from the breasts of birds. She throws them into the air, and they appear as flakes of snow and rise thickly into the winds. And they hurry westward to tell the boy that the world is grey and dreary as it yearns for the sight of his golden face. Then he appears to the people of earth. He comes at evening and lingers after the sun has gone, until the twilight sky is red, and the ocean in the west has gleams of golden light. And the people then know that there will be no wind and that on the morrow the weather will be fair, as he promised them long ago. HOW RAVEN BROUGHT FIRE TO THE INDIANS Many ages ago when the world was still young, Raven and White Sea-gull lived near together in Canada, far in the north country on the shores of the Great Water in the west. They were very good friends and they always worked in harmony and they had much food and many servants in common. White Sea-gull knew no guile; he was always very open and frank and honest in his dealings with others. But Raven was a sly fellow, and at times he was not lacking in treachery and deceit. But Sea-gull did not suspect him, and the two lived always on very friendly terms. In these far-back times in the north country all the world was dark and there was no light but that of the stars. Sea-gull owned all the daylight, but he was very stingy and he kept it always locked up in a box. He would give none of it to anyone else, and he never let it out of the box except when he needed a little of it to help himself when he went far away on his journeys. After a time Raven grew envious of Sea-gull's possession. And he said, "It is not fair that Sea-gull should keep the daylight all to himself locked up in a box. It was meant for all the world and not for him alone, and it would be of great value to all of us if he would sometimes let a little of it out." So he went to Sea-gull and said, "Give me some of your daylight. You do not need it all and I can use some of it with advantage." But Sea-gull said, "No. I want it all for myself. What could you do with daylight, you with your coat as black as night?" and he would not give him any of it. So Raven made up his mind that he would have to get some daylight from Sea-gull by stealth. Soon afterwards Raven gathered some prickly thorns and burdocks and scattered them on the ground between Sea-gull's house and the beach where the canoes were lying. Then he went to Sea-gull's window and cried loudly, "Our canoes are going adrift in the surf. Come quickly and help me to save them." Sea-gull sprang out of bed and ran half-asleep on his bare feet. But as he ran to the beach the thorns stuck in his bare flesh, and he howled with pain. He crawled back to his house, saying, "My canoe may go adrift if it pleases; I cannot walk because of the splinters in my feet." Raven chuckled to himself, and he moved away, pretending to go to the beach to draw up the canoes. Then he went into Sea-gull's house. Sea-gull was still howling with pain; he was sitting crying on the side of his bed and he was trying to pull the thorns from his feet as best he could. "I will help you," said Raven, "for I have often done this before. I am a very good doctor." So he took an awl made from whale-bone and he caught hold of Sea-gull's foot, with the pretence of removing the thorns. But instead of taking them out he only pushed them in farther until poor Sea-gull howled louder than ever. And Raven said, "It is so dark I cannot see to pull these thorns from your feet. Give me some daylight and I will soon cure you. A doctor must always have a little light." So Sea-gull unlocked the box and lifted the cover just a little bit so that a faint gleam of light came out. "That is better," said Raven. But instead of picking out the thorns he pushed them in as he had done before, until Sea-gull howled and kicked in pain. "Why are you so stingy with your light?" snapped Raven. "Do you think I am an owl and that I can see well enough in the darkness to heal your feet? Open the box wide and I will soon make you well." So saying he purposely fell heavily against Sea-gull and knocked the box on the floor. The cover flew open and daylight escaped and spread quickly over all the world. Poor Sea-gull tried his best to lure it back again into the box, but his efforts proved fruitless, for it had gone for ever. Raven said he was very sorry for the accident, but after he had taken all the thorns from Sea-gull's feet he went home laughing to himself and well pleased because of the success of his trick. Soon there was light in all the world. But Raven could not see very well, for the light was too bright and his eyes were not accustomed to it. He sat for a time looking towards the east, but he saw there nothing of interest. The next day he saw a bit farther, for he was now getting used to the new conditions. The third day he could see distinctly a line of hills far in the east, rising against the sky, and covered with a blue mist. He looked long at the strange sight. Then he saw far away towards the hill a thin column of smoke lifting heavenwards. He had never seen smoke before, but he had often heard of it from travellers in strange places. "That must be the country of which I have been told," he said. "In that land dwell the people who alone possess Fire. We have searched for it for many ages and now I think we have found it." Then he thought, "We now have the daylight, and what a fine thing it would be if we could also have Fire," and he determined to set out to find it. On the following day he called his servants together and told them of his plans. He said, "We shall set out at once, for the distance is far." And he asked three of his best servants, Robin, Mole and Flea, to go with him. Flea brought out his little wagon and they all tried to get into it, but it was much too small to hold them. Then they tried Mole's carriage, but it was much too frail, and it had scarcely started to move when it broke down and they all fell out in a heap. Then they tried Robin's carriage, but it was much too high and it toppled over under its heavy load and threw them all to the ground. Then Raven stole Sea-gull's large strong carriage, for Sea-gull was asleep, and it did very well, and they started on their journey, taking turns pushing the carriage along with a pole over the flat plain. After a strange journey in queer places they reached the land of the people who owned Fire, guided along by the thin column of smoke. The people were not people of earth. Some say they were the Fish people, but that, no man knows. They sat around in a large circle with Fire in their midst, for it was autumn and the days and nights were chill. And Fire was in many places. Raven looked on for a while from afar thinking of the best plan to obtain Fire. Then he said to Robin, "You can move faster than any of us. You must steal Fire. You can fly in quickly, pick it up in your bill and take it back to us and the people will not see nor hear you." So Robin picked out a spot where there were few people, and he darted in quickly and picked up fire in a twinkling and flew back unharmed towards his companions. But he had only taken a very little bit of it. When he got half-way back to his friends, Fire was so hot in his bill that it gave him a strange pain and he had to drop it on the ground. It fell to the earth with a crash and it was so small that it flickered faintly. Robin called to his companions to bring the carriage. Then he stood over Fire and fanned it with his wings to keep it alive. It was very hot, but he stood bravely to his task until his breast was badly scorched and he had to move away. His efforts to save Fire were of no avail, and before his companions reached him Fire had died, and only a black coal remained. And poor Robin's breast was singed, and to this day the breasts of his descendants are a reddish-brown colour because he was scorched while trying to steal Fire ages ago. Then Raven asked Flea to make the attempt to steal Fire. But Flea said, "I am too little. The heat would roast me to death; and, further, I might miscalculate the distance and hop into the flame." Then Raven asked Mole to try, but Mole said, "Oh no, I am better fitted for other work. My fur would all be singed like Robin's breast." Raven took good care that he would not go himself, for he was a great coward. So he said, "There is a better and easier way. We will steal the baby of the Chief and hold him for ransom. Perhaps they will give us Fire in exchange for him," and they all thought this was a very good idea. Raven asked, "Who will volunteer to steal the baby?" for he always made the others do all the work. Flea said, "I will go. In one jump I will be into the house, and in another jump I will be out again, for I can hop a great distance." But the others laughed and said, "You could not carry the baby; you are too small." The Mole said, "I will go. I can tunnel a passage very quietly under the house and right up to the baby's cradle. I can then steal the baby and no one will hear me or see me." So it was agreed that Mole should go. In a few minutes Mole made his tunnel, and he was soon back with the baby. Then they got into their carriage and hurried home with their prize. [Illustration: THEN RAVEN ASKED THE MOLE TO TRY, BUT MOLE SAID, "OH, NO, I AM BETTER FITTED FOR OTHER WORK,--MY FUR WOULD ALL BE SINGED"] When the Chief of the Fire people discovered the loss of his child he was very angry. And in all the land there was great sorrow because the Chief's heir, the hope of the tribe, had gone. And the child's mother and her women wept so bitterly that their tears fell like rain on all the land. The Chief said he would give anything he possessed to find his child. But although his people searched far and near, they could not find the baby. After many days a wayfarer who had come far from the Great Water in the west brought them news that a strange child was living far to the westward in the village by the sea. He said, "He is not of their tribe. He looks like the children of your village," and he advised them to go to see him for themselves. So the Chief sent his men to search for them guided by the wayfarer. When they reached Raven's village they were told that a strange baby was indeed there; the child was described to them, but he was kept out of sight, and Raven would not tell how he had happened to come there. And Raven said, "How do I know he is your Chief's child? People tell strange lies these days. If you want him you can pay for him, for he has caused us much trouble and expense." So the messengers went back and reported to the Chief what they had heard. From the description, the Chief knew that the child was his, so he gave the messengers very valuable presents of pearls and rich robes and sent them back again to ransom his boy. But Raven, when he saw the presents, said, "No, I do not want these gifts; they do not pay me for my trouble," and he would not part with the baby. The messengers again reported to the Chief what had happened. Then the Chief gave them still richer gifts, the best he had in all his land, and sent them back. But again Raven said, "No, your gifts are valueless, compared with my trouble and expense. Say this to your Chief." When the Chief heard this from his messengers he was sore perplexed, for he had offered the best he had, and he thought that he had reached the end of his resources. So he said, "Go back and ask the people to demand what they wish in exchange for my boy and they will receive it if it can be provided." So the messengers went back to Raven and spoke as they had been commanded. And Raven said, "Only one thing can pay for the child, and that is Fire. Give me Fire and you can take the baby." The messenger laughed and said, "Why did you not say so at first and save us all this trouble and anxiety? Fire is the most plentiful thing in our kingdom, and we hold it in no value." So they returned happy to the Chief. And he sent back much Fire and received his child unharmed from Raven in exchange. And he sent Raven two small stones which the messengers taught Raven how to use. And they said, "If you ever lose Fire or if it dies for lack of food you can always call it back to life with these two little stones." Then they showed him how to make Fire with the two little stones and withered grass, and birch-bark and dry pine, and Raven thought it was very easy. And he felt very proud because he had brought Fire and Light to the earth. He kept Fire for himself for a long time, and although the people clamoured loudly for it, he would not give any of it away. Soon, however, he decided to sell a quantity of it, for he now had the power of making it. So he said to himself, "This is a good way to get many wives," and he announced that he would only sell some of his fire in return for a wife. And many families bought his fire and in exchange he received many wives. And to this day he still has many wives and he still moves about from place to place with a flock of them always around him. But the Indians when they arrived took Fire away from him. Thus Fire came to the Indians in the olden days. And when it has died, as it often does, they still sometimes use Raven's flint stones to bring it back to life. THE GIRL WHO ALWAYS CRIED On the bank of a stream far in the West, Owl-man lived long ago in a little house under the ground. He had very strange habits. He always kept away from the Great Water and he dwelt for the most part in the forest. He had very few friends, and he usually went hunting by himself. He lived on toads and frogs and flies. He would say but little, and when other people sat around him talking pleasantly, he was always silent, gazing into space with wide-open eyes, and trying to look wiser than he really was. Because of this, people thought he was very queer, and strange stories about him soon spread far and wide. It was said that he was very cruel, and that he was silent because he was always brooding over his past wickedness or thinking about some evil deed he was soon going to do. And when children were troublesome or disobedient, their mothers always frightened them into goodness by saying, "The Owl-man from the stream will come and take you if you do not mend your ways." And although the Owl-man was a solitary fellow he thus had great influence in all the land. Not far away lived a man and a woman who had one adopted daughter. Because she was the only child in the house she was much petted, and she was never satisfied, and she cried and fretted all the time, and kept always asking for things she could not get. She disturbed all the neighbours round about so that they could not sleep because of her constant wailing and complaining. At last her foster-parents grew tired of her weeping and they said, "The Owl-man will carry you off if you do not stop crying." But still she pouted and fretted. And the old man of the house said, "I wish the Owl-man would come and take her away." Now the old man was a great magician, and as he wished, so it came to pass. That evening it happened that the people were gathered at a feast of shell-fish on the beach by the bright moonlight, as was their weekly custom. But the sorrowful girl would not go with the others. She stayed at home and sulked. As she sat alone in the house, old Owl-man came along carrying his basket full of toads and frogs. The girl was still crying when he came in. "I have come for you," he said, "as the old man wished." And he put her in his basket with the toads and frogs and carried her off. She yelled and kicked and scratched, but the lid of the basket was tightly closed and Owl-man laughed to himself and said, "Now I have a wife at last. I shall be alone no more, and the people will not now think I am so queer." So he took her to his underground house by the stream. That night the people noticed that the girl's cries were no longer heard and they said, "What can have cured Sour-face; what can have pleased Cry-Baby into silence?" And the girl's foster-mother wondered where she had gone. But only the old man knew that it had happened as he had wished, because of his magic power, and that Owl-man had taken her away. The girl was not happy in her new home, for she would not be happy in any place. She still kept up her caterwauling and there was no peace in the house. Owl-man was a great hunter. Every day he went out hunting with his big basket on his arm, but he always locked his wife in the house before he went away. He was always very successful in the chase, and each night he came back with his basket full of toads and frogs and field-mice and flies. But his wife would eat none of them and she threw them in his face when he offered them to her, and said in a bad temper, "I will not eat your filthy food. It is not fit food for gentle-folk." And Owl-man said, "Gentle-folk indeed! You should find a more suitable name; you are not gentle; you are a wild evil thing, but I am going to tame you." And the girl wept again and sulked and stamped her feet in her temper. At last the girl became very hungry, for there was little to eat except the food that Owl-man brought home for himself. He gathered a few berries for her, but even these did not satisfy her hunger. So she thought out a plan of escape. One day when Owl-man was away, she took some oil she found in the house and rubbed it all over her face and hair. When Owl-man came home in the evening, he said, "You are very pretty to-night. What have you done to make yourself look so sleek and shiny?" And she answered, "I have put on my face and hair gum which I picked from the trees last night when I went walking with you." And he said, "I should like to put some on too, for perhaps it would make me beautiful." The girl told him that if he would go out and gather some gum she would put it on his face and hair for him. So he went out and gathered a great store of gum from the trees and brought it back to her. She melted it on a hot stove until it was balsam again and would pour easily out. Then she said, "Shut your eyes so that it will not harm your sight, and I will make your face and hair beautiful and shining like mine." Owl-man shut his eyes, and the girl soon covered his face and head with the soft gum. She put it on very thick, and she said, "Keep your eyes shut until it dries or it may blind you." Owl-man did as he was told, but when the gum dried he could not open his eyes, and while he was trying to rub it off, the girl slipped out the door and ran back to her parents, far away by the Great Water. Owl-man scraped the gum from his face and head as best he could, and when he could open his eyes again and could see pretty well, he went out into the night in search of his wife. And as he went along he cried, "Oh, oh, oh, where is my wife? Where is my girl? I have lost my wife. I have lost my girl. Oh, oh, oh." And when the people heard him calling they thought they would play a trick on him. So they said, "She is here, she is here." But when he entered their houses, the woman they showed him was not his wife, and he went away sorrowful. And the people all laughed at his confusion, and said, "Owl-man is getting queerer each day. He is far gone in his head." Owl-man went from house to house, but he could not find his wife. Then he went to the trees and searched among the branches. He pulled the trees up by the roots, thinking she might be hiding underneath. And he looked into the salmon-traps in the rivers, and kicked them to pieces in his frenzy. But nowhere was his wife to be found. Then he went to the girl's house, where she was hiding, and he yelled, "Oh, oh, oh, give me my wife. Give me my girl. I know she is here. Oh, oh, oh." But the girl's foster-mother would not give her up. Then he began to tear down the house over their heads, for the old man of the house was away and there was no one else strong enough to stop Owl-man in his rage. When the woman saw her house in danger of falling about her ears, she cried, "Stop; your wife is here." And she brought forth the girl from her hiding-place. When Owl-man saw her, his rage left him and he was happy again. [Illustration: AND WITH HIS MAGIC POWER HE CHANGED HER INTO A FISH-HAWK AND SENT HER OUT TO THE OCEAN] But just then the old man of magic power came home. He had heard the hub-bub from a distance. When he came in and saw the great holes in the roof and the side of his house where Owl-man had torn away the logs, he was very angry and he said to himself, "I will punish both Owl-man and the girl for this night's work." And he hit upon a plan. He said to Owl-man, "We must give you a hot bath to melt the gum and take it from your hair, for it will do you no good, and it will take all the hair off your head." And Owl-man gladly agreed. So they filled a great bark tub with water and heated it by placing at the bottom of it many red-hot stones, after the fashion of Indians in those old days. But the old man put so many hot stones in the water that it was soon almost boiling with the heat, and when they put Owl-man into the tub he was almost scalded to death and he yelled loudly in pain. Then the old man said, "Now I will take vengeance. You will trouble me no more. You have broken my house. Henceforth you will be not a man but an Owl, and you will dwell alone in the forest with few friends, and you will live always on frogs and toads and field-mice, and people will hear you at night crying for your wife all over the land, but you shall never find her." Then with his magic power he changed him to an Owl and sent him on his way. He said to the girl, "You have done me much harm too, and you have brought all this trouble upon me. Henceforth you will be not a girl but a Fish-Hawk, and you will always cry and fret and scream as you have done before, and you will never be satisfied." And with his magic power he changed her into a Fish-Hawk, and sent her out to the ocean. And there she screams always, and she is a great glutton, for she can never get enough to eat. And since that time, Owl and Fish-Hawk have not dwelt together and have not been on friendly terms. They live far apart, and Owl keeps to the forest and the mountains, while the other keeps to the sea. Thus was the old man avenged, and thus was the weeping maiden punished for her tears. And the cries of Owl and Fish-Hawk are still heard in many places, one calling for his wife, the other screaming unsatisfied for something she cannot get. ERMINE AND THE HUNTER Far away in the Canadian North Country an old man lived with his wife and children. They lived far from other people, but they were never lonely, for they had much work to do. The old man was a great hunter, and in summer he and his wife and children lived on the fish and game he captured in the winter. In the spring-time he gathered sap from the maple trees, from which he made maple syrup and maple sugar with which to sweeten their food. One day in summer he found three small bears eating his stock of sugar. When he came upon them, his sugar was all gone, and he was very cross. With a stout club he killed the little bears and skinned them and dried their meat. But his wife said, "No good can come of it. You should not have killed the three little bears, for they were too young for slaughter." The next day the old Bear came along, looking for his lost children. When he saw their skins hanging up to dry he knew that they had been killed by the hunter. He was very sad and angry, and he called to the hunter, "You have killed my little motherless cubs, and in return for that wickedness, some night when you are off your guard I will kill your children, and then I will kill you and your wife, and I will devour all your food." The old man shot at him with his arrows, but the arrows did not harm him, for he was Brown Bear of the Stony Heart, and he could not be killed by man. For many nights and days the old man tried to trap him, but he met with no success. And each day he saw his store of food growing smaller, for Bear of the Stony Heart stole it always in the night. And he thought, "We shall all surely starve before the winter comes, and game is plentiful again." One day in despair he resolved to look about him for some one who would tell him how to kill the Bear. He went to the bank of the river and sat there in thought and smoked long at his pipe. And he called to the God of the River and said, "Oh, River-God, help me to drown Bear when he comes to fish." The river came from the Lime Stone country far back among the rocks, and it was flowing rapidly to the sea. And the River-God said, "My water cannot tarry. There are millions of oysters down on the ocean shore waiting for shells, and I am hurrying down there with the lime to make them," and he rushed quickly past. Then the old man called to the Spirit of the Wind, and he said, "Oh, Spirit of the Wind, stay here with me to-night and help me to kill Bear of the Stony Heart. You can knock down great trees upon his back and crush him to the earth." But the Wind Spirit said, "I cannot linger. Many ships with rich cargoes lie silent on the ocean waiting to sail, and I must hurry along with the force to drive them." And like the River-God he hastened on his way. Then the old man called to Storm Cloud, which was just then passing over his head, and he said, "Oh, Spirit of the Storm Cloud, stay here with me to-night and help me to kill Bear of the Stony Heart, for he seeks to destroy my children. You can send lightning and thunder to strike him dead." But the Storm Cloud said, "I cannot loiter on the way. Far from here there are millions of blades of corn and grass dying from thirst in the summer heat, for I see the heat waves rising on the earth, and I am hurrying there with rain to save them." And like the River-God and the Wind Spirit he hurried along on his business. The poor old man was in great sorrow, for it seemed that no one would help him to rid the land of Bear of the Stony Heart. As he sat wondering what he should do, an old woman came along. She said, "I am very hungry and tired, for I have come far. Will you give me food and let me rest here a while?" And he said, "We have very little food, for Bear of the Stony Heart steals it from us nightly, but you may share with us what little we have." So he went away and brought back to her a good fat meal. While she was eating her dinner he told her of his troubles with Bear, and he said that no one would help him to get rid of the pest, and that Bear could not be killed by man. And the old woman said, "There is a little animal who can kill Bear of the Stony Heart. He alone can save you. You have done well to me. Here is a wand which I will give you. Go to sleep here, soon, on the bank of the river. Wave this wand before you sleep and say what I shall teach you, and when you awake call to you the first animal you see when you open your eyes. He will be the animal of which I speak, and he will rid you of the Bear." She taught him a little rhyme and gave him a wand which she took from the basket on her arm; then she hobbled away, and the old man knew that she was the weird woman of the Fairy Blue Mountain, of whom he had often heard. He marvelled greatly, but he resolved to do as she had told him. After the old woman had gone, the man waved the little wand three times, and cried: "Animal, animal, come from your lair, Help me to slaughter the old Brown Bear! Make with my magic a little white dart, To pierce in the centre old Bear's Stony Heart!" He repeated the rhyme three times. Then he felt himself getting drowsy and sleep soon came upon him. He slept but a short time when the heat woke him up, for the hot sun beat down upon him. He rubbed his eyes and looked about him. Watching him from behind a tree was a little animal with a shaggy brown coat. The old man thought to himself, "Surely the weird fairy woman of the Blue Mountain has played a trick on me. That scraggy little animal with the dirty coat cannot kill the Bear." But he resolved to test her word. He repeated his rhyme again, and the little animal came quickly towards him. "Who are you?" said the man. "I am Ermine," said the little animal. "Are you the animal of which the fairy woman of the Blue Hills has told me?" asked the man. "I am indeed the same," said Ermine. "I have been sent to you to kill the Bear, and here I have the little darts made powerful because of your magic wand." He pointed to his mouth and showed the old man his sharp white teeth. "So now to your task," said the old man in high spirits. "Oh, not so fast," said Ermine, "you must first pay me for my work." "What can I do for you?" asked the man. "I am ashamed of my dirty brown coat, which I have worn for a long time," said the animal; "you have great magic from the wand you received from the fairy woman of the Blue Hills. I want a sleek and shining white coat that I can wear always, for I want to be clean." The man waved his wand again and wished for what the animal had asked him, and at once the shaggy brown coat of Ermine was replaced by a sleek and shining white coat as spotless as the new snow in winter. Then the animal said, "I have one more condition to impose on you. You must promise never to kill a bear's young cubs when they are still following their mother in the summer time. You must give them a chance to grow strong, so that they may be able to fight for their own lives." And the man promised, placing his hand upon the wand to bind his oath. Then, when he looked again, the wand had vanished from his hand. It had gone back through the air to the fairy woman of the Blue Hills. [Illustration: THE COAT OF ERMINE WAS REPLACED BY A SLEEK AND SHINING WHITE COAT, AS SPOTLESS AS THE NEW SNOW IN WINTER] Then Ermine set out on his search for Bear. The afternoon was very hot, and the forest was still, and not a leaf or a blade of grass was stirring, and there was not a ripple on the stream. The whole world was drowsy in the dry summer heat. But Ermine did not feel the heat, he was in such high spirits because of his new white coat. Soon he came upon Bear, stretched out at full length on the bank of the river, taking his afternoon nap, as was his custom after his fat midday meal. He was lying on his back, and his mouth was open wide, and he was snoring loudly like a waterfall. "This is your last sleep," said Ermine, creeping softly to his side, "for you are a dangerous thief; you shall snore no more." And with a bound he jumped down Bear's throat, and in an instant had pierced with his teeth his strong stony heart, which the arrows of the Indians could never reach. Then as quickly as he had entered the Bear's mouth Ermine jumped out again and ran from the place. Bear snored no more; he was quite dead, and the land was rid of his thefts and terrors. Then Ermine went back to the old man and told him that the deed was done; and that night was a great feast night in the old man's home. And since that time Ermine in the North Country has worn a sleek white coat as spotless as the new snow in winter. And to this day the hunters in the far north will not kill, if they can avoid it, the young Bear cubs while they are still following their mothers through the forest. They give them a chance to grow up and grow strong, so that they may be able to fight for their own lives, as the fairy woman of the Blue Hills had asked. HOW RABBIT DECEIVED FOX Long ago in Indian days in Canada, when Rabbit worked for Glooskap as his forest guide, he was a great thief. He liked most of all to steal by moonlight, and he crept quietly into gardens and fields where Indian vegetables were growing, for he was very fond of cabbage and lettuce and beans. Not far from his home there lived alone an old widow woman who had no children. She could not hunt game because she was a woman, and she had never been trained to the chase, so she kept a little garden from which she made a good living. All day long from dawn until sunset she toiled hard, tilling her little garden, watering her vegetables and keeping them free from weeds. And she grew green cabbages and red carrots and yellow beans and big fat pumpkins and Indian corn, which she traded with Indian hunters in return for fish and meat. In this way she always had plenty of food, and she lived very well on good fare. But Rabbit, going his rounds one day, discovered her garden, although it was deep in the forest, and every night by moonlight or starlight he robbed it, and grew sleek and fat from the results of his thefts. And morning after morning the old widow woman found that many cabbages and carrots were missing and that much harm had been done to her plants. She had an idea that Rabbit was the pilferer, for she had heard that he was a great thief, but she was not very sure. She watched many nights, but she was never able to catch the robber, so stealthily did he come, and it was not easy to see him in the shadows. So she said to herself, "I will set up a scarecrow, a figure in the shape of a little man, and I will place it at my garden gate, and it will frighten away the robber, whoever he may be, for I must save my vegetables or I shall starve when the cold winter comes." She picked from the spruce and the fir trees close by a great store of gum and balsam. This she formed into a figure in the shape of a little man. She made two eyes from glass beads that would shine like fire in the starlight, and a nose from a pine cone, and hair from the corn tassels and yellow moss. Then she placed the figure at the entrance to the garden where she knew the robber would come. "Now," she thought, "I will scare away the thief." When night fell and the moon rose above the trees, Rabbit came along, as was his custom, to steal his nightly meal. As he came near the garden very softly, he saw in the moonlight what he thought was a man standing in the path by the garden gate. The moon hung low over the forest, and there was a thin grey mist on the earth, for it was near to autumn and the nights were already cool; and the figure of the little man looked larger than human in the misty light, and it cast a long black shadow like that of a giant on the grass. Rabbit was much afraid and he trembled like an aspen leaf, but he stood quiet behind a tree and watched the strange figure. For a long time he stood still and watched and listened. But the strange figure did not move, and not a sound did Rabbit hear but the chirp of a cricket. Then with great caution he came closer. But still the figure did not move. Then his fear left him and he grew bolder, for he was very hungry, and he could smell the vegetables and the wild honeysuckle in the still night air. So he walked bravely up to the little dummy man and said, "Get out of my way and let me pass." But the man did not move. Then Rabbit struck the man a sharp blow with his fist. But still the figure did not move. Rabbit's fist stuck fast in the gum and he could not pull it away. Then he struck out with his other fist, and it too, like the other, was held firm. "I shall kick you," said Rabbit in a rage. "Take that," and he struck out wildly with his foot. But his foot, like his fists, stuck fast. Then he kicked with the other foot, but that too was held in the gum. Rabbit was now very cross, and in his anger he said, "Now I shall bite you," but when he bit the little man, his teeth, like his feet and hands, stuck fast. Then he pushed with his body with all his might, hoping to knock the little man down, but his whole body stuck to the dummy figure. He cried out loudly, for he was now beside himself with fear, and the old woman, when she heard his yells, came running out of her house. "Aha!" she said, "so you are the robber who has been stealing from my garden. I will rid the world of a pilfering pest, for I will kill you this very night." Then she pulled him away from the gum figure and put him in a strong bag and tied the mouth of the bag with a stout string. She left the bag on the path by the garden gate and went to look for her axe to kill Rabbit. While Rabbit lay there wondering how he was going to escape, Fox came prowling along. He stumbled over the bag, for he did not see it in the shadows, and he plunged forward headlong to the ground with a great thud. He got up and rained kicks upon the bag. He was mad because he had been tripped. He kicked poor Rabbit's back until Rabbit cried in pain. "Who are you in the bag?" asked Fox when he heard the cries. "I am your friend Rabbit," was the answer. "What are you doing, hiding in the bag?" asked Fox. Then Rabbit suddenly thought of a way of escape. He knew that Fox had long been looking for a wife, but that no one would have him as no one trusted him because his fame for treachery and slyness was so great. "I am not hiding," he said. "The old woman who owns this garden wants me to marry her grand-daughter, and when I refused to do it she caught me and shut me up in this bag; she has just gone to bring the girl from her house, for she is determined to make me marry her here in the moonlight this very night. I don't want to marry her, for she is very big and fat, and I am very small and lean." Then he cried "Boo-hoo-hoo" again, and Fox said, "I have been looking for a wife for a long time, and I like fat people. Let me get into the bag in your place, and I will marry the grand-daughter instead, for the old woman will not know me in the shadows." And Rabbit gladly agreed. Then Fox untied the bag and let Rabbit out and got into the bag himself, and Rabbit tied up the mouth of the bag and hurried away as quickly as he could. Soon the old woman came back, carrying her axe. She sharpened it on a stone and said, "Now I will kill you, and you will thieve no more in my garden. A poor woman must live untroubled by such pilfering rogues." When Fox heard these words and the sound of the stone upon the axe, he knew that he had been deceived by Rabbit, and when the old woman opened the bag he sprang nimbly out with a sudden bound and was away before she could catch him. He swore by the Starlight that he would have vengeance on Rabbit. All night long he searched for him and all the next day, but he could not find him. At last in the gathering twilight he came upon him in an open space in the forest, on the other side of a stream, eating his fill of wild vegetables. Fox tried to coax him across the stream to his side, for he himself was afraid of the water, but Rabbit would not go. "Why don't you eat some cheese?" said Rabbit; "there is a big round cheese in the stream." Fox looked into the stream where Rabbit pointed, and there he saw the reflection of the big round yellow moon. He thought it was a round cheese, and he plunged in after it, for he was very fond of cheese. Rabbit hoped he would be drowned, but the stream was shallow and Fox climbed out with no cheese and with only a bad fright and a wet coat for his pains. He was very cross, for he knew that Rabbit wished to do him harm, but he kept his anger to himself. Rabbit was still eating contentedly. [Illustration: THEN FOX UNTIED THE BAG AND LET RABBIT OUT AND GOT INTO THE BAG HIMSELF] "What are you eating?" said Fox, trying to hold him in talk until he could think of a plan to catch him. "I am eating good ripe fruit," said Rabbit. "I am eating Indian melons." "Throw me one," said Fox, for he was hungry. Rabbit threw him a large round wild cucumber all covered with green prickles. "Swallow it whole at a mouthful," said Rabbit; "it is very good that way." It was night and the moon shone dimly through the trees, and Fox could not see what he was eating. He swallowed the cucumber at one gulp, as Rabbit had told him, but the prickles stuck in his throat and he almost choked to death. And while he was choking and spluttering and trying to cough up the cucumber, Rabbit ran away as fast as he could, laughing heartily to himself. Fox knew that he had been tricked again, and this time he swore he would kill Rabbit as soon as he could find him; he resolved that when next he saw him he would not give him a moment to live. Rabbit hid among the dry underbrush all the next day. But when the day went down and the sky was red in the west and the wind was very still, he sat on a log, as was his custom, and played softly on his flute, for he was a great player on the Indian pipe. While he was playing, Fox suddenly came upon him unawares. Rabbit saw him watching him through the trees close at hand, but although taken by surprise, he was not to be outdone. Fox was just about to spring upon him when Rabbit said, "The Chief's daughter has just been married to a great warrior, and the wedding party will soon be along this way. They asked me to sit here and make music for them with my flute as they pass by. They have promised to pay me well, and they have invited me to the wedding feast. Come and join me and play too, and you will be well paid, and we will go to the wedding feast together and get good things to eat." Fox thought he would let Rabbit get the pay he had been promised, for he was a very greedy fellow; then he would rob him and kill him, and he would take his flute and go to the wedding feast alone, and his vengeance would then be complete. So he decided to let his anger cool for a little time. And he said, "I have no flute, and I cannot therefore make music; but I will sit with you to see the wedding guests go by." But Rabbit said, "Take my flute. I have another at home. I will go and get it, for there is yet time." So Fox took the flute and began to play loudly, and Rabbit slipped hurriedly out of sight, pretending to go for his Indian pipe. But he resolved to make an end of Fox, for he feared for his own life, and instead of going home, he set the underbrush on fire. He kindled the fire at many places all around the log on which Fox sat. Fox could not hear the fire crackling because of the loud music of his flute, and he thought the light was but the bright light of the moon. And the fire was almost upon him before he knew that he was in danger. Then he tried to get away, but on all sides his escape was stopped by the flames and he could not find an opening. At last, in despair, to save his life, he jumped through the ring of fire. He escaped with his life, but his eyelids were singed, and his sleek black coat with its silver spots was scorched to a red-brown colour. He was in great pain. He concluded that Rabbit was too clever for him to cope with, and he resolved to leave him alone and to forego his revenge, for he was glad to get away with his life. But he decided never again to live on friendly terms with Rabbit. And since that night Rabbit and Fox have never hunted together. And to the present day the descendants of this Fox have red eyes and a red-brown coat, because Rabbit scorched their ancestor in the olden times. THE BOY AND THE DRAGON Once, long ago, before the white man came to Canada, a boy was living with his parents in a village near the ocean. As he had no brothers or sisters, he was often lonely, and he longed for adventure and companionship. At last he decided to set out to seek his fortune elsewhere. He was just on the point of leaving his home when it was noised abroad one day that there had come into the land a great dragon, who was doing great havoc and damage wherever he went. The country was in great terror, for the dragon carried off women and children and devoured them one by one. And what was still more mystifying, he had power to take on human form, and often he changed himself into a man of pleasing shape and manner and came among the people to carry out his cruel designs before they knew that he was near. The Chief of the tribe called for volunteers to meet the dragon-man, but none of his warriors responded. They were strong and mighty in combat with men, but it was a different matter to encounter a dragon. When the youth heard this dreadful story and saw the terror of his people, he said, "Here is my chance to do a great deed," for somehow he felt that he had more than human power. So he said good-bye to his parents and set out on his adventure. He travelled all day inland through the forest, until at evening he came to a high hill in the centre of an open space. He said, "I will climb this hill, and perhaps I can see all the country round about me." So he went slowly to the top. As he stood there, looking over the country which he could see for many miles around, a man suddenly appeared beside him. He was a very pleasant fellow, and they talked together for some time. The boy was on his guard, but he thought, "Surely this man with the good looks cannot be the dragon," and he laughed at his suspicions and put them from his mind. The stranger said, "Where are you going?" And the boy answered, "I am going far away. I am seeking adventure in the forest for it is very lonely down by the sea." But he did not tell him of his real errand. "You may stay with me to-night," said the new-comer. "I have a very comfortable lodge not far from here, and I will give you food." The boy was very hungry and tired, and he went along with the man to his lodge. When they reached the house the boy was surprised to see a great heap of bleached bones lying before the door. But he showed no fear nor did he comment on the horrible sight. Inside the lodge sat a very old and bent woman, tending a pot. She was stirring it with a big stick, and the boy saw that it contained meat stew. When she placed the stew before them, the boy said he would rather have corn, for he feared to taste the meat. The old woman fried some corn for him, and he had a good meal. After they had eaten, the man went out to gather wood for the fire, and the boy sat talking to the old woman. And she said to him, "You are very young and beautiful and innocent--the most handsome I have yet seen in this place. And because of that, I will take pity on you and warn you of your danger. The man whom you met in the forest and whom you supped with to-night is none other than the dragon-man of whom you have often heard. He cannot be killed in ordinary combat, and it would be folly for you to try. To-morrow he will kill you if you are still here. Take these moccasins that I will give you, and in the morning when you get up put them on your feet. With one step you will reach by their power the hill you see in the distance. Give this piece of birch bark with the picture on it to a man you will meet there, and he will tell you what next to do. But remember that no matter how far you go, the dragon-man will overtake you in the evening." The youth took the moccasins and the birch bark bearing the mystic sign and hid them under his coat, and said, "I will do as you advise." But the woman said, "There is one more condition. You must kill me in the morning before you go, and put this robe over my body. Then the dragon-man's spell over me will be broken, and when he leaves me, I will rouse myself with my power back to life." The youth went to sleep, and the dragon-man slept all night beside him so as not to let him escape. The next morning, when the dragon-man was out to get water from the stream some distance away, the boy at once carried out the old woman's orders of the night before. First of all he killed the old woman with a blow and covered her body with a bright cloak, for he knew that when the dragon-man would leave the place she would soon rise again. Then he put the magic moccasins on his feet and with one great step he reached the distant hill. Here, sure enough, he met an old man. He gave him the piece of birch bark bearing the mystic sign. The man looked at it closely and smiled and said, "So it is you I was told to wait for. That is well, for you are indeed a comely youth." The man gave him another pair of moccasins in exchange for those he was wearing, and another piece of birch bark bearing another inscription. He pointed to a hill that rose blue in the distance and said, "With one step you will reach that hill. Give this bark to a man you will meet there, and all will be well." The boy put the moccasins on his feet, and with one step he reached the distant hill. There he met another old man, to whom he gave the birch bark. This man gave him another pair of moccasins and a large maple leaf bearing a strange symbol, and told him to go to another spot, where he would receive final instructions. He did as he was told, and here he met a very old man, who said, "Down yonder there is a stream. Go towards it and walk straight into it, as if you were on dry ground. But do not look at the water. Take this piece of birch bark bearing these magic figures, and it will change you into whatever you wish, and it will keep you from harm." The boy took the bark and did as he was told, and soon found himself on the opposite bank of the stream. He followed the stream for some distance, and at evening he came to a lake. As he was looking about for a warm place to pass the night, he suddenly came upon the dragon-man, now in the form of a monster dragon, hiding behind the trees. The old woman's words had come true, for his enemy had overtaken him before nightfall, as she had said. There was no time to lose, so the boy waved his magic bark, and at once he became a little fish with red fins, moving slowly in the lake. When the dragon-man saw the little fish, he cried, "Little fish of the red fins, have you seen the youth I am looking for?" "No, sir," said the little fish, "I have seen no one; I have been asleep. But if he passes this way I will tell you," and he moved rapidly out into the lake. [Illustration: THE MAN GAVE HIM ANOTHER PAIR OF MOCCASINS IN EXCHANGE FOR THOSE HE WAS WEARING] The dragon-man moved down along the bank of the lake, while the youth watched him from the water. He met a Toad in the path, and said, "Little Toad, have you seen the youth I am looking for? If he passed this way you would surely have seen him." "I am minding my own business," answered the Toad, and he hopped away into the moss. Then the dragon-man saw a very large fish with his head above water, looking for flies, and he said, "Have you seen the boy I am looking for?" "Yes," said the fish, "you have just been talking to him," and he laughed to himself and disappeared. The dragon-man went back and searched everywhere for Toad, but he could not find him. As he looked he came upon a musk-rat running along by the stream, and he said angrily, "Have you seen the person I am looking for?" "No," said the rat. "I think you are he," said the dragon-man. Then the musk-rat began to cry bitterly and said, "No, no; the boy you are looking for passed by just now, and he stepped on the roof of my house and broke it in." The dragon-man was deceived again. He went on and soon came upon old Turtle splashing around in the mud. "You are very old and wise," he said, hoping to flatter him, "you have surely seen the person I am looking for." "Yes," said Turtle, "he is farther down the stream. Go across the river and you will find him. But beware, for if you do not know him when you see him, he will surely kill you." Turtle knew well that the dragon-man would now meet his fate. The dragon-man followed the lake till he came to the river. For greater caution, so that he might be less easily seen, he changed himself to a Snake. Then he attempted to cross the stream. But the youth, still in the form of a fish and still using the power of his magic bark with the mystic sign, was swimming round and round in a circle in the middle of the river. A rapid whirlpool arose where he swam, but it was not visible on the surface. As the Snake approached it, he saw nothing but clear water. He failed to recognize his enemy, and as Turtle had told him, he swam into the whirlpool before he was aware of it, and was quickly drawn to the bottom, where he was drowned. The youth fished him up and cut off his head. Then he changed back to his own form. He went to the dragon-man's lodge to see how the old woman had fared, but she had gone with her bright robe, and the lodge was empty. Then the youth went back to his home and reported what he had done. And he received many rich gifts from the Chief for his brave deed, and the land was never troubled again by dragons. But from that time the snake family was hated because its shape had concealed the dragon-man, and to this day an Indian will not let a snake escape with his life if he meets one of them in his path. For they still are mindful of the adventure of their ancestor in the old days, and they are suspicious of the evil power the snake family secretly possess. OWL WITH THE GREAT HEAD AND EYES Long ago, when Glooskap was the ruler of the Indians in Eastern Canada, and when the animals all worked for him and talked like men, Wolf was one of Rabbit's enemies. On the surface they seemed to be friends, but each was afraid of the other and each suspected the other of treachery. Rabbit was very faithful to his work as the forest guide who showed people the way to far places. But he was also a great trickster, and he delighted to play pranks on every one he met. He liked more than all to pester Wolf, for he had a hatred for his cruel ways, and he was always able to outwit him. It happened that Rabbit and Wolf lived close together, deep in the Canadian forest. Some distance from them, in a little house, lived a poor widow woman who had only one daughter. She was a very beautiful girl, with hair as black as the raven's wing, and with eyes like the dark of the underwater. Rabbit and Wolf each fell in love with her, and each in his own way sought her as his wife. Rabbit tried hard to win her love. When he went to her house he always dressed himself in a soft brown coat, and he put a bangle around his neck and bells upon his feet. And often he played sweetly on his flute, hoping to charm her with his music, for he was a great player upon the Indian pipe. And he tried to grow a moustache to hide his split lip; but he had little success, for his whiskers would not grow thick, and he has the thin scraggy moustache of a few hairs to this day. But no matter what Rabbit did to adorn himself, the girl gave him cold looks, and old Wolf seemed to be deeper in her favour, for she liked his willowy form and his sleek and bashful ways. And poor Rabbit was sore distressed. One fine day in the spring-time, Rabbit came upon the girl and her mother gathering May-flowers among the moss. He crept close to listen to their talk. He heard the mother say, "I have no stomach for little Rabbit, but Wolf pleases me well. You must marry Wolf. They tell me he is a great hunter, and if you marry him we shall never want for food." When Rabbit heard this he was very sad; he determined that on no account should Wolf marry the widow's daughter, and that he must use all his power to prevent it. That night he went alone to the girl's house. He spoke sneeringly of Wolf, saying with a bitter frown, "Wolf is no hunter; he never catches any game because he is lazy and has no brains; I always have to feed him to keep him from starving; he is but a beast of burden; I always ride upon his back when I go to a far country, for he is good for nothing else." The girl's mother wondered greatly, and she was very startled by this news, for she did not want her daughter to marry a good-for-nothing; but she was not sure that Rabbit spoke the truth, for she had heard that sometimes he told great lies. So she said, "If you will ride Wolf over here I will believe you, and he shall not marry my daughter, and you shall marry her yourself." And Rabbit went home well pleased and sure of a happy ending to his trick. The next day Rabbit purposely met Wolf in the forest, and he said, "Let us go together to see the widow's daughter." And Wolf was glad to go. They had not gone far when Rabbit began to cry. Then he lay down on the ground, and rolled and moaned and rubbed his belly as if in great distress. "I have a sharp pain in my belly," he sobbed, "I cannot walk any farther. If I walk I shall surely die, and I cannot go on unless you carry me on your back." Wolf willingly agreed, for he wanted to see the beautiful girl, and he was very sorry for poor Rabbit in his pain; and Rabbit, laughing to himself, climbed on Wolf's back. Wolf ran along, not feeling the load, for Rabbit was very light. They had not gone far when Rabbit cried again and said, "I cannot ride without a saddle, for your bare back hurts me and gives me blisters." So they borrowed a little saddle from a field by the way and put it on Wolf's back. Soon Rabbit said, "This is fine fun; let us play that you are a horse and that I am a great rider. I should like to put a little bridle on you, and to wear spurs on my feet and to carry a whip." And Wolf, wishing to please Rabbit to make him forget his pain, gladly agreed. So they borrowed a little bridle and spurs and a whip from another field near by, and did as Rabbit asked, and together they went to the girl's home, Wolf trotting along like a little horse, and Rabbit laughing to himself, sitting in the saddle, with his spurs and his whip, holding the bridle reins. When they drew near the house, Rabbit made a great noise so that the mother and her daughter might look out to see where the shouting came from. He called loudly, "Whoa, Whoa." And the girl and her mother opened the door and looked out at them in wonder. Then as they were looking on, Rabbit, chuckling to himself, struck Wolf a stinging blow with his whip, and stuck his spurs deep into Wolf's sides and called him loudly a lazy beast. Wolf jumped and plunged and kicked because of the prick of the spurs and the sting of the whip; he was very cross, but he said nothing. Some distance away, Rabbit tied Wolf to a tree, saying, "Stay here and I will send the girl to you." Then he went to the house, and he said to the woman, "Now you will believe that Wolf is a beast of burden, for I have ridden here on his back." And the woman believed him. She told him to give Wolf some corn or grass. But Rabbit said, "He doesn't eat corn or grass; he eats only fresh meat," for he knew well that Wolf would be quite contented if he got a good meal of meat. Then she gave him some fresh meat, which he brought to Wolf. And Wolf was happy, and his anger disappeared, and he forgot the pain of the spurs and the whip, and he thought it was fine fun to get a good meal so easily. The woman promised that Rabbit should marry her daughter, and when night fell Rabbit went home well pleased, leaving Wolf still tied to the tree. It was so dark that Wolf did not see him leaving the house, and for a long time he thought he was still inside, and he waited long in the starlight. At last he grew tired waiting, for he was hungry and he was cold standing still in the chill night air of early spring. He cut with his teeth the bridle rein that tied him to the tree, and then he went to the woman's house. But the woman would not let him in. She told him to go away, that she never wished to see him again, and she called him a lazy beast of burden. He went home in great anger, for he knew now that he had been tricked, and he swore that he would have vengeance on Rabbit. [Illustration: WOLF TROTTED ALONG LIKE A LITTLE HORSE, AND RABBIT LAUGHING TO HIMSELF SITTING IN THE SADDLE] The next day Rabbit learned from the woman that she had spurned Wolf from her door, and he knew that Wolf realized he had been deceived. He was somewhat frightened, for he dreaded Wolf's vengeance, and for several days he hid among the trees. Then hunger drove him out and he went forth to look for food. One evening he entered a garden in search of cabbage, and he was busy robbing it, when the people who owned the garden spied him. And they said, "Here is the thief who has been stealing our vegetables. We will catch him and teach him a lesson." Before Rabbit knew it, they were upon him, for he was eating heartily, he was so hungry, and they caught him and bound him fast to a tree and went to get scalding water to pour upon his back to teach him not to rob their garden again. But while they were away Wolf came along. He, too, was very hungry, for he had eaten no meal for many days, but he was glad when he saw Rabbit, for now he thought he would have his revenge. Rabbit saw him at a distance, and he resolved to try another trick on him, and to hail him as if he thought he was still his friend. And he cried out to him, "Help me, Wolf! Help me! The people here asked me to eat up a nice little lamb, and when I refused to do it, they tied me up to this tree, and they have gone to bring the lamb to me." Wolf was too hungry to be cautious, and he forgot all about Rabbit's tricks, for spring lamb was his favourite food. And he said, "I will eat up the little lamb," and he smacked his lips as he spoke, and thought of the nice tender meal he would have. Then Rabbit said, "Untie me and take my place, for the people will soon be here with the lamb." So Wolf untied him, and Rabbit in turn bound Wolf fast to the tree, and laughing to himself because he had again outwitted stupid Wolf, he ran rapidly away. Far off he hid behind the trees to see what would happen. Soon the people came back, carrying the pots of scalding water. Wolf saw them coming, and he was in high spirits, for he thought the lamb he was to eat was in one of the pots. It was moonlight, and in the shadow of the great tree the people could not see very clearly, and they thought Wolf was Rabbit, still bound fast where they had left him. So they poured the scalding water on his back and kicked him and knocked him on the head with a big stick, and they said, "Now, thief, we have taught you how dangerous it is to rob gardens in the spring moonlight." Wolf howled with pain, for his back was blistered and his head was sore, and Rabbit heard him, and he sat on a log and shook with laughter because of the success of his prank. Then the people untied Wolf and let him go. He went away wearily among the trees. And he again swore vengeance on Rabbit, and he resolved to kill him as soon as he set eyes upon him, for he knew he had been tricked a second time. For several days he searched for his enemy. At last, one night of bright moonlight, he came upon Rabbit sitting in a patch of Indian tobacco plants, eating his fill and contentedly chewing the tobacco leaves. Rabbit's mouth was full of tobacco, but he laughed loudly when he saw Wolf's back bound in bandages because of the blisters, and his sore head tied up in a cloth. But when he saw Wolf's angry eyes he was frightened, and he ran away into the woods. The moon was shining in the forest, and Wolf could catch a glimpse now and then of his brown coat among the trees, and he chased him for a long time. Rabbit tried all his tricks to shake him from his tracks, but without avail. At last, when Rabbit was almost worn out, he took refuge in a hollow tree, into which he slipped through a small hole, where Wolf could not follow him. And Wolf said, "Now I have him in my power. I will kill him; but first I must go home to get my axe to cut down the tree and to chop off his head." Then he looked around for some one to keep watch over the tree while he was gone, so that Rabbit could not escape. At last he saw Owl sitting quietly on a branch near. He called to him and said, "Watch by this hole until I get back, and do not let Rabbit get away." So Owl came down and sat by the hole and promised to keep guard over the prisoner, and Wolf went away to look for his axe. But Rabbit was not caught yet; he had another trick left. After Wolf had gone away, he called to Owl sitting by the hole, and said, "Owl, come and see what a nice little room I have here in the tree." But Owl replied, "It is too dark, I cannot see." Then Rabbit said, "Open your eyes wide and put your face close to the hole, for I have a light here and you can see easily." Owl did as he was told, for he was a curious fellow. Rabbit had a great mouthful of tobacco juice from the Indian tobacco leaves he had been chewing, and when Owl put his face close to the hole he squirted the juice into Owl's eyes. Owl screamed loudly, for his eyes were smarting and he was blinded by the juice; he ran around the tree and stamped and shrieked and rubbed his eyes, trying to relieve them of their pain. And while he was about it, Rabbit slipped out of the hole and ran away, and Owl did not know he was gone. Soon Wolf came back, carrying his big sharp axe. And he said, "Now I shall kill him at last." And Owl was afraid to tell him about his sore eyes; they were still open wide, and he could not close them. At once Wolf chopped down the hollow tree. Then he split it open from end to end. But there was no sign of Rabbit. Wolf then thought Owl had tricked him, and that he had helped Rabbit to escape. But Owl said he had not. He sat with his eyes wide open, staring stupidly and moaning and making strange noises because of his pain. Wolf thought he was laughing at him and taunting him, for he did not know the meaning of Owl's strange cries, and in his rage he fell to beating him over the head with his axe-handle until poor Owl's head was swollen to a great size. And Owl cried, "Hoot, Hoot, Hoot," and his eyes stared from his swollen head even larger than before. Then Wolf went on his way, resolved to keep away from Rabbit. And since that time Owl has cried "Hoot, Hoot, Hoot" at night, for he still remembers his pain; and his head is still swollen and bigger than that of other birds because of the beating Wolf gave him with his axe-handle; and his eyes are still large and they stare stupidly, and he cannot look at light, and he is blind in the daylight because of the tobacco juice Rabbit squirted into his eyes. And since that night Rabbit and Wolf have avoided each other, and they have not lived in the same place, and they have never since been friends. THE TOBACCO FAIRY FROM THE BLUE HILLS A man and his wife and two little children were living long ago on the shores of a lake surrounded by large trees, deep in the Canadian forest. They lived very happily together, and as game was plentiful, they wanted for nothing. As the children grew up they became each day more beautiful and gentle, until the old women of the tribe said, "They are too good and lovely for this world; their home is surely elsewhere in the West." Before they grew to maturity a cruel plague spread over the land and carried them off with its ravages. Their mother was the next to go, slowly growing weaker, and wasting away before the eyes of her husband, who was powerless to save her. The man was now left all alone upon the earth. The joy of his life had gone with his wife and children, and he went about in great loneliness and sorrow. Life was long to him and dreary, and often he wished that he too was dead. But at last he roused himself and said, "I will go about doing good. I will spend my life helping others, and perhaps in that way I can find peace." So he worked hard and did all the good he could for the weaker and the poorer people of his tribe. He was held in high esteem by all the people of the village, and in their affection for him they all called him "Grandfather." He grew to be very old, and because of his good deeds he found great happiness. But he was still very solitary, and the days and evenings were long and lonely, and as he grew older and his work grew less, he found it hard to pass away the time, for he could only sit alone and dream of his vanished youth and of his absent friends. One day he sat thinking by the lake. Many people of the village were around him, but as usual he sat alone. Suddenly a large flock of birds, looking like great black clouds, came flying from the blue hills in the distance toward the shore of the lake. They wheeled and circled about, and hovered long over the trees, uttering strange cries. The people had never before seen such large birds, and they were much afraid and said, "They are not ordinary creatures. They foreshadow some strange happening." Suddenly one of the birds fluttered for an instant and fell slowly to the earth with an arrow in its breast. No one in the village had shot at the flock, and where the arrow had come from no man knew. The mystery frightened the people still more, and they looked to the old man for counsel, for they knew that he was very wise. The fallen bird lay fluttering on the ground, seemingly in pain. The other birds circled about it for a short time, uttering loud cries. Then they screamed and called to each other and flew back to the distant blue hills, leaving the fallen bird behind them with the arrow sticking in its breast. The old man was not frightened by the sight. He said, "I will go to the stricken bird; perhaps I can heal its wound." But the people, in great fear, said, "Do not go, Grandfather, the bird will do you harm." But the old man answered, "It can do no harm to me. My work is ended and my life is almost done. My sky is dark, for I am full of sorrow, and with me it is already the twilight of time. I am alone in the world, for my kindred have gone. I am not afraid of death, for to me it would be very welcome. What matters it if I should die?" And he went to the stricken bird to see if he could help it. As he went along, his path suddenly grew dark, but as he drew nearer, a bright flame suddenly swept down from the sky to the place where the bird was lying. There was a flash of fire, and when the old man looked he saw that the bird had been completely burned up. When he came to where it had lain, nothing but black ashes remained. He stirred up the ashes with his stick, and lying in the centre he found a large living coal of fire. As he looked at it, in a twinkling it disappeared, and in its place was a strange little figure like a little man, no bigger than his thumb. "Hello, Grandfather," it called, "do not strike me, for I have been sent to help you." [Illustration: SUDDENLY A LARGE FLOCK OF BIRDS, LOOKING LIKE GREAT BLACK CLOUDS, CAME FLYING FROM THE BLUE HILLS] "Who are you?" asked the old man. "I am one of the Little People from the distant blue hills," said the tiny boy. Then the old man knew that the little fellow was one of the strange fairy people of the mountains, of whom he had often heard. "What do you want?" he asked. "I have been sent to you with a precious gift," answered the little man. The old man wondered greatly, but he said nothing. Then the fairy from the blue hills said, "You are old and lonely. You have done many noble deeds, and you have always gone about bringing good to others. In that way you have found peace. And because of your good life, I have been sent to bring you more contentment. Your work is done, but your life is not yet ended, and you have still a long time to dwell upon the earth. You must live out your mortal course. You are longing always for your dead wife and children, and you are often thinking of your youth, and with you the days are long and time hangs heavy. But I have been sent to you with a gift that will help you to pass the time more pleasantly." Then the little man gave him a number of small seeds and said, "Plant these at once, here, in the ashes from which I have just risen." The old man did as he was told. At once the seeds sprouted and great leaves grew from them, and soon the place where the bird had been burned up became a large field of Tobacco. The fairy then gave him a large pipe and said, "Dry these leaves and place them in this pipe and smoke them. You will have great contentment, and when you have nothing to do it will help you to pass the time away, and when no one is with you it will be a companion. And it will bring you many dreams of the future and of the past. And when the smoke curls upwards it will have for you many visions of those you loved, and you will see their faces in the smoke as you sit alone in the twilight." The old man was very thankful for the fairy's gift. But the little man said, "Teach other old men how to use it, so that they, too, may possess it and enjoy it." Then the fairy quickly disappeared, going towards the distant blue hills, and he was never seen in the village again. And with his pipe and his tobacco the old man went back to his dreaming, with more contentment than before. In this way Tobacco was brought to the Indians in the old days. RAINBOW AND THE AUTUMN LEAVES In olden days, long before the Indians came to Canada, all the animals talked and worked like men. Every year after midsummer they held a great council at which they were all present. But it happened once in the summer before the council met, that they all wanted to go to the sky to see what the country up there was like. None of them could find a way to go. The oldest and wisest creature on all the earth was Turtle. One day he prayed to the Thunder God to take him to the sky, and his prayer was soon answered. There was a great noise, as if the earth had been split asunder, and when the people next looked for Turtle he was nowhere to be found. They searched everywhere without success. But that evening, when they looked upwards, they saw him in the sky, moving about like a black cloud. Turtle liked the sky so well that he decided to live there always and to send his descendants, later, to the earth. And the sky-people agreed to keep him. They asked him, "Where do you want to dwell?" And he answered, "I should like to dwell in the Black Cloud, in which are the ponds and streams and lakes and springs of water, for I always dwelt near these places when I was young." So he was allowed to have his wish. But when the Great Council of the animals met on earth in the time of the harvest-moon, he was always present. He came in the Black Cloud, but he always went back to the sky after the Council was ended. And the other animals envied him his good fortune, and they wished that they could go with him. After a time the animals were greatly distressed and angered by the rumour that a new race of creatures was coming from far over the ocean to inhabit their land. They talked it over very carefully, and they all thought how fortunate it would be if they could all go to the sky with old Turtle, and live like him, free from fear and trouble and care. But they were puzzled to know how to get there, for Turtle had never told any of them the way. One day Deer, wandering about alone in the forest, as was his custom, came across Rainbow, who often built a path of many colours to the sky. And he said to Rainbow, "Carry me up to the sky, for I want to see Turtle." But Rainbow was afraid to do it, for he wished first to ask the Thunder God for permission, and he put Deer off, and to gain time he said, "Come to me in winter, when I stay for a time on the mountain near the lake. Then I will gladly carry you to the place where Turtle dwells." [Illustration: THROUGHOUT THE LONG WINTER MONTHS DEER LOOKED LONGINGLY FOR RAINBOW] Throughout the long winter months Deer looked longingly for Rainbow, but Rainbow did not come. Life was growing harder on the earth, and the animals were in terror of the new race that was soon to come to their land, and Deer was very timid and impatient. At last, one day in the early summer, Rainbow came again, and Deer hastened to meet him. "Why were you false to me?" he asked; "I waited for you all winter long on the mountain by the lake, but you did not come as you promised. I want to go to the sky now, for I must see Turtle." Rainbow answered, "I cannot take you now. But some day, when there is a Fog over the lake, I shall come back to drive it away. Come to me then, and I shall take you to the sky and to the place where Turtle dwells. This time I will not deceive you." Rainbow consulted the Thunder God, and received permission to do as Deer wished. Soon afterwards the Fog one day rolled in a thick bank across the lake, and Deer hurried out to wait for Rainbow. Sure enough, Rainbow came down, as he had promised, to drive the Fog away. He threw his arch of many colours from the lake to the blue hills far away, and the Fog at once disappeared from the place. And he said to Deer, who stood watching him, "Now I will keep my promise. Follow my many-coloured path over the hills and the forests and the streams, and be not afraid, and you will soon reach Turtle's home in the sky." Deer did as he was told, and soon he reached the sky. Turtle was glad to see him, and Deer liked the country so well that he decided to stay for ever. And he roamed over the sky everywhere, moving like the wind from place to place. When midsummer had passed and the harvest-moon had come and the Great Council again met together, Deer was absent for the first time in his life. The animals waited long for him to appear, for they needed his advice, but he did not come. They sent the Birds out to find him. Black Hawk and Woodpecker and Bluejay all sought him in the forest, but they could not find a trace of him. Then Wolf and Fox scoured the woods far and near, but they came back and reported that he could not be found anywhere. At last Turtle arrived at the meeting of the Great Council, as was his custom, coming in his Black Cloud, in which were the ponds and lakes and streams and springs of water. And Bear said, "Deer is absent from the Council meeting. Where is Deer? We cannot meet without him, for we need his advice." And Turtle replied, "Deer is in the sky. Have you not heard? Rainbow made a wonderful pathway for him of many varied colours, and by that he came to the sky. There he is now," and he pointed to a golden cloud scurrying across the sky overhead. Turtle advised that the animals should all go to the sky to live until they could be sure that the new race of creatures would bring them no harm. And he showed them the pathway that Rainbow had made, stretching from the earth in wonderful colours. The animals all agreed at the Great Council to take Turtle's advice. But they were all very angry at Deer for leaving them without warning, for they thought that all the animals should either stay together faithfully on the earth or go all together to the sky. Bear showed the greatest anger and annoyance. Because of his great strength, he had no fear of the new race that was said soon to be coming, and he had always been inclined to look with scorn on Deer's timid and impatient ways. "Deer has forsaken us," he said; "he deserted us in the hour of our danger, and that is contrary to forest laws and to our code of defence." And he thought to himself, "I shall punish him for this when the time comes." In the late autumn, the time agreed upon came for the animals to leave the earth, and Rainbow again made his bright path for them to the sky. Bear was the first to go up because he was the leader, and because with his great weight he wanted to test the strength of the bridge of burning colours over which they had to pass. When he had almost reached the sky, he met Deer on the path waiting to welcome the animals to their new home. And he said to him in anger, "Why did you leave us behind, without warning, for the land of the Turtle? Why did you desert the Great Council? Why did you not wait until all could come together? You are a traitor to your comrades, and you have been false to our faith." And Deer answered, also in anger, "Who are you to doubt me or my faith? None but the Wolf may ask me why I came or question my fidelity. I will kill you for your insolence." Deer had grown very proud since he had gone to live in the sky, and he was no longer timid as he had been on earth. His eyes flashed in his fury, and he arched his neck and lowered his antlered head, and rushed madly at Bear to push him from the path. But Bear was not afraid, for he had often tested his strength with Deer upon the earth. His low, hoarse growls sounded all over the sky, and he prepared to fight. They came together with a shock. For a long time they battled, until the bridge of burning colours trembled and the heavens shook from the force of the conflict. The animals waiting by the lake at the end of the path looked up and saw the battle above them. They feared the results, for they wanted neither Bear nor Deer to die. So they sent Wolf up to the sky to put a stop to the contest. When Wolf reached the combatants, Bear was bleeding freely, for Deer with his antlers had pierced his neck and side. Deer, too, was bleeding where Bear's strong claws had torn a great wound in his head. Wolf soon stopped the battle, and Bear and Deer went away to dress their wounds. Then the other animals went up to the sky over Rainbow's flaming path. And they decided to live in the sky and to send their descendants back to earth when the new race of creatures should come. And they can still sometimes be seen, like clouds hurrying across the sky, in the shape they had on earth. But the blood of Bear and of Deer dropped from them as they moved to the sky from the scene of their battle along the Rainbow road. It fell freely upon the leaves of the trees beneath them, and changed them into varied colours. And every year when autumn comes in the north country, the leaves take on again the bright and wondrous colours given to them by the blood of Bear and Deer when they fought on the Rainbow path ages and ages ago. And Bear and Deer have never since been friends, and their descendants no longer dwell together in peace, as they did in the olden days. RABBIT AND THE MOON-MAN Once, long ago, Rabbit lived with his old grandmother deep in the Canadian forest, far from all other people. He was a great hunter, and all around, far and near, he laid snares and set traps to catch game for food. It was winter, and he caught many little animals and birds. He brought them home daily to feed himself and his old grandmother, and he was well pleased with his success. But after some weeks had passed he was unable to catch any game. He always found his traps and snares empty, although many tracks were always around them, and there were many signs that animals were prowling about. He knew then that he was being robbed nightly, and that a thief was pilfering his traps. It was very cold and the snow lay deep in the forest, and Rabbit and his old grandmother were in dire need of food. Every morning Rabbit rose very early and hurried off to his traps, but always he found them empty, for the thief had been ahead of him. He was greatly puzzled, for he could not think who the thief was. At last one morning, after a new fall of snow, he found the mark of a long foot near his traps, and he knew it was the foot of the game-robber. It was the longest foot-print he had ever seen, long and narrow and very light, like a moonbeam. And Rabbit said, "Now I shall rise earlier in the morning, and I shall go to my traps ahead of the thief and take my game, so that they will all be empty when he comes." Each morning he rose earlier to catch the thief, but the man of the long foot was always there before him, and his game was always gone. No matter how early Rabbit got up, the thief was always ahead of him and his traps were always empty. So Rabbit said to his old grandmother, "The man of the long foot, who robs my traps, is always up ahead of me, no matter how early I rise. I will make a snare from a bow-string, and I will watch all this night, and I will surely catch him." He made a trap from a stout bow-string and set it beside his snares, and took the end of the bow-string some distance away to a clump of trees, behind which he hid. He hoped that the thief would step into the trap; then he would pull the bow-string and tie him fast to a tree. He sat very quiet, waiting for the man of the long foot to appear. It was moonlight when he set out, but soon it grew very dark in the forest. The Moon suddenly disappeared. But the stars were all shining on the white snow and there were no clouds in the sky, and Rabbit wondered what had happened to the Moon. He waited very still and a little frightened in the starlight. Soon he heard some one coming, sneaking stealthily through the trees. Then he saw a white light which dazzled his eyes. The light went towards the snares, until it stopped just at the trap Rabbit had set. Then Rabbit pulled the bow-string, closed the trap as he had hoped, and tied the string fast to a tree. He heard sounds of a struggle, and he saw the white light move from side to side, but he knew that he had his prisoner fast and that the man of the long foot was caught at last. He was much afraid of the white light, and he ran home as fast as he could and told his old grandmother that he had caught the game-robber in the trap, and that he did not know who he was, for he was too frightened to look. And his grandmother said, "You must go back and see who it is, and tell him he must stop robbing your snares." But Rabbit said, "I do not want to go until daylight, for the Moon has gone down and the forest is very dark." But his grandmother said, "You must go." So poor Rabbit, although he was very frightened by what he had seen, set out again for his traps. [Illustration: HE SAT VERY QUIET, WAITING FOR THE MAN OF THE LONG FOOT TO APPEAR] When he drew near to his snares he saw that the white light was still shining. It was so bright that his eyes were dazzled and he had to stop far from it. Then he approached nearer, but his eyes soon became very sore. There was a stream flowing beside him, and he bathed his eyes in the cold water, but it brought him no relief, and his eyes felt hot and red, and tears fell from them because of the dazzling light. Then he took great handfuls of snow and threw snowballs at the light, hoping thereby to put it out. But when the snowballs came near to the light they melted and fell down like rain. Then, with his eyes still smarting, Rabbit in his rage scooped up great handfuls of soft black mud from the bottom of the stream, and forming it into balls, he threw them with all his force at the white light. He heard them strike something with a dull thud, and he heard loud yells from the prisoner--the man of the long foot--behind the shining light. Then a voice came from the light, saying, "Why did you snare me? Come and untie me at once. I am the Man in the Moon. It is near to the morning, and before dawn I must be on my way home. You have already spotted my face with mud, and if you do not loose me at once I shall kill all your tribe." Poor Rabbit was more frightened than before, and he ran home and told his old grandmother what had happened. And his grandmother was also very frightened, for she thought that no good could come of it. And she told Rabbit to go back at once and untie the Man in the Moon, for the night was almost spent, and the dawn would soon be breaking. So poor Rabbit, trembling in his fear, went back to his traps. From a great distance he cried, "I will untie you if you will never again rob my snares, and if you will never come back to earth." And the prisoner in the trap promised, and said, "I swear it by my white light." Then Rabbit approached very carefully. He had to shut his eyes and grope his way because of the bright light, and his lip quivered because of the great heat. At last he rushed in and cut the bow-string snare with his teeth, and the Man in the Moon hurried on his way, for he could already see the dawn in the East. But Rabbit was almost blinded while he was about it, and his shoulders were badly scorched. And ever since that time Rabbit blinks and his eyelids are pink, and water runs from his eyes when he looks at a bright light; and his lip always quivers; and his shoulders are yellow, even when he wears his white winter coat, because of the great light and heat on the winter night long ago when he loosed the Man in the Moon from the snare. And since that night the Man in the Moon has never come back to earth. He stays at his task in the sky, lighting the forest by night; but he still bears on his face the marks of the black mud which Rabbit threw at him. And sometimes for several nights he goes away to a quiet place, where he tries to wash off the mud; and then the land is dark. But he never succeeds in cleaning himself, and when he comes back to his work the marks of Rabbit's mud-balls are still upon his shining face. THE CHILDREN WITH ONE EYE Two little children, a boy and a girl, lived long ago with their widowed mother in the Canadian forest. The woman was very poor, for her husband had long been dead and she had to work very hard to provide food for herself and her children. Often she had to go far from home in search of fish and game, and at times she was absent for many days. When she went on these long journeys she left her children behind her, and thus they were allowed to grow up with very little oversight or discipline or care. They soon became very unruly because they were so often left to have their own way, and when their mother returned from her hunting trips she frequently found that they would not obey her, and that they did pretty much as they pleased. As they grew older they became more headstrong and disobedient, and their mother could do very little to control them. And she said, "Some day they will suffer for their waywardness." One day the woman went to visit a neighbour not far away. She left a large pot of bear-fat boiling on the fire. And she said to the children, "Do not meddle with the pot while I am gone, for the fat may harm you if it catches fire." But she was not gone long when the boy said to the girl as they played around the pot, "Let us see if the fat will burn." So they took a burning stick of wood and dropped it into the fat, and stood looking into the large pot to see what would happen. The fat sputtered for an instant; then there was a sudden flash, and a tongue of flame shot upwards from the pot into the faces of the children. Their hair was burned to a crisp and their faces were scorched, and they ran from the house crying with pain. But when they reached the outer air, they found that they could not see, for the fire had blinded their eyes. So they stumbled around in darkness, crying loudly for help. But no help came. When their mother came home she tried every remedy she thought might restore their sight. But all her medicine was unavailing, and she said, "You will always be blind. That is the punishment for your disobedience." So the children lived in darkness for a long time. But they were no longer headstrong and unruly, and although they could no longer see, they were less trouble to their mother than they were when they had their sight, for they did not now refuse to do her bidding. One day, when their mother was far away hunting in the forest, an old woman came along and asked the children for food. And they brought good food to her as she sat before the door. After she had eaten, she said, "You are blind, but I can help you, for I am from the Land of the Little People. I cannot give you four eyes, but I will give you one eye between you. You can each use it at different times, and it will be better than no sight at all. But handle it with great care and do not leave it lying on the ground." Then she gave them an eye which she took from her pocket, and disappeared. So they used the one eye between them, and when the boy had the eye and the girl wished to see anything, she would say, "Give me the eye," and her brother would carefully pass it to her. When their mother came home she was very glad when she found that they had now some means of sight. [Illustration: THE BOY WENT INTO THE FOREST WITH HIS BOW AND ARROWS. HE HAD NOT GONE FAR WHEN HE SAW A FAT YOUNG DEER, WHICH HE KILLED] One day when their mother was away again, the boy went into the forest with his bow and arrows. He carried the eye with him. He had not gone far when he saw a fat young deer, which he killed. The deer was too heavy for him to carry home alone. So he said, "I will go and get my sister, and we shall cut it up and put it in a basket and carry it home together." He went home and told his sister of his good fortune, and he led her to where the deer lay, and they began to cut up the body. But they had forgotten to bring a basket or a bag. He called to his sister saying, "You must weave a basket into which we can put the meat to carry it home." And his sister said, "How can I make a basket when I cannot see? If I am to weave a basket, I must have the eye." The boy brought the eye to her and she made a large basket from green twigs. When she had finished making the basket the boy said, "I must finish cutting up the meat. Give me the eye." So she brought him the eye, and he proceeded to chop up the meat and to put it in the basket. Then he said, "Why can we not have a meal here? I am very hungry." His sister agreed that this was a good idea, and he said, "You cook the meal while I pack the meat." The girl made a fire, but she was afraid she would burn the meat, so she said, "I cannot see to cook. I must have the eye." By this time her brother had finished packing the meat into the basket, and he brought her the eye and she went on with her cooking. The fire was low and she said, "I must have some dry wood. Bring me some dry pine." The boy wandered off into the forest in search of wood, but he had not gone far when he stumbled over a log and fell to the ground. He called to his sister in anger, saying, "You always want the eye for yourself. How can I gather dry pine when I cannot see? Give me the eye at once." His sister ran to him and helped him up and gave him the eye. She found her way back to the fire, but as she reached it she smelled the meat burning on the spit. She shouted, "The meat is burning and our dinner will be spoiled. Give me the eye at once, so that I may see if the meat is cooked." The boy was some distance away, and in his anger he threw the eye to her, saying, "Find it. I am not going to walk to you with it if you are too lazy to come and get it." The eye fell to the ground between them, and neither of them knew where it lay. They groped for it among the dead leaves, but as they searched for it, a wood-pecker, watching from a branch of a tree near by, swooped suddenly down and gobbled it up and flew away. As they were still searching for it, the old woman who had given it to them came along. She had been hiding among the trees, and she had seen the wood-pecker flying away with her gift. She said, "Where is the eye I gave you?" "It dropped from my head," answered the boy, "and I cannot find it in the grass." "Yes," said the girl, "it dropped from his head, and we cannot find it." "You have lied to me," said the old woman, "and you have disobeyed, and for that I shall punish you." And with her magic power she changed the boy into a mole and the girl into a bat, and said, "Now live blind upon the earth, with only your sense of sound to guide you." At once the boy and the girl were changed. And so the Mole and the Bat appeared upon the earth. THE GIANT WITH THE GREY FEATHERS Once long ago, when the Blackfeet Indians dwelt on the Canadian plains, there was a great famine in all the land. For many months no buffaloes were killed, and there was no meat to be had at any price. One by one the old people dropped off because of a lack of food, and the young children died early because there was no nourishment, and there was great sorrow everywhere. Only the strong women and the stronger warriors remained alive, but even they gradually grew weaker because of the pinch of the hunger sent into the land by famine. At last the Chief of the tribe prayed that the Great Chieftain of the Indians might come into his territory to tell the people what to do to save themselves. [Illustration: FOR SOME DAYS THE BOY LAY IN TERROR IN THE NEST ... AND FAR OUT ON THE OCEAN HE COULD SEE GREAT SHIPS GOING BY] The Great Chief was at that time far away in the south country where the warm winds were blowing and the flowers were blooming. But one night he heard the Chief's prayer borne to him on the winds, and he hastened northward, for he knew that his people on the plains were somehow in dire distress. Soon he arrived at the village of the hungry tribe. "Who has called me here?" he asked. "It was I," answered the Chief. "My people are all starving because there are no buffaloes in the country, and if you had not come we should soon have all perished." Then the Great Chief looked upon his people and he noticed that the old folks and the little children had disappeared; only a few children were left and they had pinched cheeks and sunken eyes. And he took pity on them and said, "There is a great thief not far distant. He is probably a wicked giant, and he has driven all the buffaloes away. But I will find him and soon you shall have food." And the people were all comforted, for they knew that the Great Chief would keep his word. Then the Chief took with him the young Chief's son and set out on his quest. The people wanted to go with him, but he said, "No! We shall go alone. It is a dangerous duty, and it is better that, if need be, two should die in the attempt, than that all should perish." They journeyed westwards across the prairies towards the Great Water in the West, and as they went, the youth prayed to the Sun and the Moon and the Morning Star to send them success. Soon they came to the rolling foot-hills covered with sweet-grass and scrubby pine. But still they saw no signs of buffalo. At last they reached a narrow stream, on the bank of which they saw a house with smoke coming from the chimney. "There is the cause of all our troubles," said the Chief. "In that house dwells the giant Buffalo-thief and his wife. They have driven all the animals from the prairies until not one is left. My magic power tells me it is so!" Then by his magic power he changed his companion into a sharp-pointed straight stick, while he himself took the shape of a dog, and they lay on the ground and waited. Soon the giant and his wife and their little son came along. The boy patted the dog on the head, and said, "See what a nice dog I have found. He must be lost. May I take him home?" His father said, "No, I do not like his looks. Do not touch him." The boy cried bitterly, for he had long hoped for a dog of his own, and his mother pleaded for him so hard that at last the giant father said, "Oh, very well. Have your own way, but no good can come of it." The woman picked up the stick and said, "I will take this nice straight stick along with me. I can dig roots with it to make medicine." So they all went to the giant's house, the giant frowning angrily, the woman carrying the stick, and the boy leading the dog. [Illustration: THE GIANT FROWNING ANGRILY, THE WOMAN CARRYING THE STICK AND THE BOY LEADING THE DOG] The next morning the giant went out and soon came back with a fat young buffalo, all skinned and ready for cooking. They roasted it on a spit over the fire and had a good meal. The boy fed some meat to the dog, but his father, when he saw what the boy was doing, beat him soundly, and said, "Have I not told you the dog is an evil thing? You must not disobey me." But again the woman pleaded for her boy, and the dog was fed. That night when all the world was asleep, the dog and the stick changed back to their human form and had a good supper of what was left of the buffalo-meat. And the Chief said to the youth, "The giant is the Buffalo-thief who keeps the herds from coming to the prairies. It is useless to kill him until we have found where he has hidden them." So they changed back to the shapes of dog and stick and went to sleep. The next morning the woman and her boy set off to the forest near the mountain, to gather berries and to dig up medicine roots. They took the dog and the stick with them. At noon, after they had worked for some time, they sat down to have their luncheon. The woman threw the stick down on the ground, and the boy let the dog run away among the shrubs. The dog wandered to the side of the mountain. There he found an opening like the mouth of a cave. Peering into the place he saw many buffaloes within, and he knew that at last he had found the hiding place of the giant's plunder. He went back to the woman and the boy and began to bark. This was the signal agreed on with his companion. The woman and her son thought he was barking at a bird, and they laughed at his capers as he jumped about. But he was in reality calling to his comrade. The stick understood the call and wiggled like a snake through the underbrush to the dog's side, unseen by the boy and his mother. They then entered the large cave in the side of the mountain, and there they found a great herd of buffaloes--all the buffaloes that had been driven from the prairies. The dog barked at them and snapped at their heels, and the stick beat them, and they began to drive them quickly out of the cavern and eastward toward the plains. But they still kept the shape of dog and stick. When evening came, and it was time for the boy and his mother to go home, the boy searched for the dog and the woman looked for her stick, but they could not find them, and they had to go home without them. Just as the woman and her son reached their house on the bank of the river, the giant-thief was coming home too. He chanced to look to the east, and there he saw, far away, many buffaloes running towards the foot-hills where the sweet-grass grew. He was very angry, and he cried loudly to his son, "Where is the dog? Where is the dog?" "I lost him in the underbrush," said the boy; "he chased a bird and did not come back." "It was not a bird he chased," said the giant; "it was one of my buffaloes. I told you he was an evil thing and not to touch him, but you and your mother would have your way. Now my buffaloes are all gone." He gnashed his teeth in a great rage, and rushed off to the hidden cave to see if any buffaloes were left, crying as he went, "I will kill the dog if I find him." When he reached the cave the Chief and the youth, still in the form of a dog and a stick, were just rounding up the last of the buffaloes. The giant rushed at them to kill the dog and to break the stick, but they sprang upon an old buffalo and hid in his long hair and, clinging on tightly, the dog bit the buffalo until the old animal plunged and roared and rushed from the cave, bearing the Chief and the youth concealed on his back. He galloped eastward until he reached the herd far away on the prairie, leaving the giant far behind to make the best of his anger. Then the Chief and the brave youth took their old form of men, and in high spirits they drove the herd of buffaloes back to their hungry people waiting patiently on the plains. The people were very pleased to see the Great Chief and the youth returning to the village with the great herd of fat buffaloes, for they knew now that the famine was ended. But as they drove the animals into a great fenced enclosure, a large grey bird flew over their heads and swooped down upon them and pecked at them with its bill, and tried to frighten them and drive them away. The Great Chief knew by his magic power that the grey bird was none other than the giant-thief who had stolen the buffaloes, and who had changed himself into a bird to fly across the prairies in pursuit of them. Then the Chief changed himself into an otter and lay down on the bank of the stream, pretending to be dead. The grey bird flew down upon him, for he thought he would have a good meal of fat otter. But the Chief seized him by the leg, and changing back to his own form, he bore him in triumph to his camp. He tied him up fast to the smoke-hole of his tent and made a great fire inside. The giant cried, "Spare me, spare me, and I shall never do you more harm." But the Chief left him on the tent pole all night long while the black smoke from the fire poured out around him. In the morning his feathers were all black. Then the Chief let him down. And he said, "You may go now, but you will never be able to resume your former shape. You will henceforth be a raven, a bird of ill-omen upon the earth, an outlaw and a brigand among the birds, despised among men because of your thefts. And you will always have to steal and to hunt hard for your food." And to this day the feathers of the raven are black, and he is a bird of ill-omen upon the earth because of his encounter with the Great Chieftain long ago. THE CRUEL STEPMOTHER Once long ago, when the Blackfeet Indians dwelt on the Canadian prairies, a poor Indian and his two children, a boy and a girl, were living near the bank of a great river. The children's mother had long been dead and they had long been left to the care of their father. Their father did not think it was right that they should grow up without a woman's kindness, and he decided at last to take another wife. So he went far away to a distant village and there he married a queer woman of another tribe. Soon times grew hard in the North Country, and it was very difficult to get food. The family lived for many days on roots and berries, and often they were very hungry because there was no meat. Now it happened that the woman the man had married was a very wicked witch-woman, who was capable of doing many evil deeds. She had no love for her stepchildren, and she treated them very cruelly. She blamed them for the lack of food in the house, and beating them soundly, she said, "You gluttonous brats; you always eat too much. It is little wonder that we cannot keep the house supplied with food." The man saw his wife's cruelty to the children, but although it made him sad, and at times angry, he did not interfere, for he thought the woman should rule her home. One night in the early spring, as the man slept, his first wife appeared to him in a dream, and said, "Hang a large spider web across the trail in the forest where the animals pass and you will get plenty of food. But be good to my children. Their cruel stepmother is planning to kill them." And she told him where to look for the magical spider web. The next day the man found the large spider web, and he went far away into the forest and hung it from the trees over the trail where the animals passed. That evening when he went back to the web he found many animals entangled in its meshes, for it had magical power. He killed the animals and brought them home, and that night they had a good fat supper of roast deer meat. Day after day the magical spider web gave him great numbers of rabbits and deer, as the vision of his dead wife had told him in the night, and from that time on the family did not want for food. But the man's success in hunting only angered his witch-wife. She had now no cause for complaint against the little children, and she could no longer scold them and say that because of them there was no food in the house. Her hatred for them grew stronger each day, and at last she decided to kill them and to kill their father as soon as she could. Their father was going away on the morrow in search of wood to make arrows for his bows, and she thought she would have a good chance to kill them while he was gone. Then she would kill their father when he returned. So she laid her plans. But that night the vision of his first wife came again to the man as he slept, and it said, "Your present wife is a witch-woman. She plans to kill the children to-morrow when you are away, and when you come home she will kill you, too. You must kill her while there is yet time. Remember my little children." When the man awoke in the morning he was much alarmed because of the story told him by the vision of the night. He no longer trusted his witch-wife and he decided to get rid of her. But he feared she would attack the children before he could prevent it. So when the witch-wife went out to get water from the stream to make breakfast, he gave each of the children a stick, a white stone, and a bunch of soft moss, and he said, "You must run away from here and stay away until I can find you, for you are in great danger. You will find these three things I give you of great use. Throw them behind you if any evil thing pursues you, and they will keep you from harm." The children in great fear at once ran away into the forest. Then the man hung his magical spider web over the door of the house, and sat quietly inside waiting for his wife to come back. In a little while she came home, carrying a pail of water, but she did not see the web with its fine strands hanging across the door, and when she walked into it she was at once entangled in its meshes. She struggled hard to get free, but her head was inside the door while her body was outside, and the web held her fast around the neck. Then the man said, "I know now that you are a cruel witch-woman. You will beat my children no more." With his stone-axe he struck her a mighty blow which completely severed her head from her body. Then he ran from the house as fast as he could and went towards his children, who were watching him not far away. But the man was not yet done with the cruel witch-woman. As he ran from the house her headless body, freed from the spider web, ran after him, while her severed head, with eyes staring and hair flying, followed the children, sometimes bumping along the ground and sometimes rising through the air. The father thought it would be well to go in a different direction from the children, and he went west, while they went east. The children were very frightened when they saw the horrible head behind them, slowly gaining upon them. Then they remembered their father's magic gifts. When the head was close upon them, they threw their sticks on the ground at their backs and at once a dense forest sprang up between them and their pursuer. The children said, "Now we will rest here for a while, for we are nearly out of breath. The wicked head cannot get through that dense forest." And they sat on the grass and rested. Soon, however, the pursuing head emerged from the thick trees. The children got up and ran as hard as they could, but close behind them came the severed head, rolling its eyes and gnashing its teeth in a great frenzy, and uttering terrible yells. It was very near to them, when the children again remembered their father's gifts. They threw the white stones behind them, and at once a high mountain of white rock rose between them and their enemy. They sat on the ground and rested, and said, "Oh dear, oh dear, what shall we do? We have only one means of safety left, these little bits of moss." The wicked head hurled itself against the mountain, but it could not get through. A big buffalo bull was feeding on the grass near it, and the head called to him to break a road through the mountain. The bull rushed at the mountain with all his force, but the mountain was so hard that it broke his head and he fell down dead. Some moles were playing in the soft earth near by, and the head called to them to make a passage through the hill. So the moles searched and found a soft earthy place in the midst of the rock and soon they tunnelled a hole to the other side of the mountain, through which the head was able to pass. When the children saw their pursuer coming out of the moles' tunnel they cried loudly and ran away as fast as they could. At last, after a very long chase, the head was almost upon them, and they decided to use their last means of protection. They threw the wet moss behind them, and at once a long black swamp appeared where the moss had fallen, between them and their wicked follower. The head was going at such a great speed, bumping over the ground, that it could not stop. It rolled into the swamp and disappeared into the soft mud and was never seen again. [Illustration: THE BULL RUSHED AT THE MOUNTAIN WITH ALL HIS FORCE] The children then went home to wait for their father. It was a long journey, for they had run far. But their father never came. Months and months they waited, but he did not come, and they grew up to be great magicians and very powerful among their tribe. At last, by their magic power, they learned what had happened to their father. Their stepmother's body continued to follow him as he ran towards the west. It followed him for many days. Then by his magic power, which the vision of his dead wife had brought to him, he changed himself into the Sun, and went to live with his wife in the sky-country. But the old witch-woman also had magic power, and she changed herself into the Moon and followed him to the land of the stars. And there she still pursues him. And while he keeps ahead of her and she cannot catch him, night follows day in all the world. But if she overtakes him she will kill him, and day will disappear and night shall reign for evermore upon the earth. And the Blackfeet of the plains pray that he will always keep in front in the race with his former witch-wife, so that there may be always Night and Day in succession in all the land. THE BOY WHO WAS SAVED BY THOUGHTS A poor widow woman once lived near the sea in Eastern Canada. Her husband had been drowned catching fish one stormy day far off the coast, and her little boy was now her only means of support. He had no brothers or sisters, and he and his mother, because they lived alone, were always good comrades. Although he was very young and small, he was very strong, and he could catch fish and game like a man. Every day he brought home food to his mother, and they were never in want. Now it happened that the Great Eagle who made the Winds in these parts became very angry because he was not given enough to eat. He went screaming through the land in search of food, but no food could he find. And he said, "If the people will not give me food, I will take care that they get no food for themselves, and when I grow very hungry I shall eat up all the little children in the land. For my young ones must have nourishment too." So he tossed the waters about with the wind of his great wings, and he bent the trees and flattened the corn, and for days he made such a hurly-burly on the earth that the people stayed indoors, and they were afraid to come out in search of food. At last the boy and his mother became very hungry. And the boy said, "I must go and find food, for there is not a crumb left in the house. We cannot wait longer." And he said to his mother, "I know where a fat young beaver lives in his house of reeds on the bank of the stream near the sea. I shall go and kill him, and his flesh will feed us for many days." His mother did not want him to make this hazardous journey, for the Great Eagle was still in the land. But he said to her, "You must think of me always when I am gone, and I will think of you, and while we keep each other in our memories I shall come to no harm." So, taking his long hunting knife, he set out for the beaver's home in his house of reeds on the bank of the stream near the sea. He reached the place without mishap and there he found Beaver fast asleep. He soon killed him and slung him over his shoulder and started back to his mother's house. "A good fat load I have here," he said to himself, "and we shall now have many a good dinner of roast beaver-meat." But as he went along with his load on his back the Great Eagle spied him from a distance and swooped down upon him without warning. Before he could strike with his knife, the Eagle caught him by the shoulders and soared away, holding him in a mighty grip with the beaver still on his back. The boy tried to plunge his knife into the Eagle's breast, but the feathers were too thick and tough, and he was not strong enough to drive the knife through them. He could do nothing but make the best of his sorry plight. "Surely I can think of a way of escape," he said to himself, "and my mother's thoughts will be with me to help me." Soon the Eagle arrived at his home. It was built on a high cliff overlooking the sea, hundreds of feet above the beach, where even the sound of the surf rolling in from afar could not reach it. There were many young birds in the nest, all clamouring for food. Great Eagle threw the boy to the side of the nest and told him to stay there. And he said, "I shall first eat the beaver, and after he is all eaten up we shall have a good fat meal from you." Then he picked the beaver to pieces and fed part of it to his young ones. For some days the boy lay in terror in the nest, trying to think of a way of escape. Birds flew high over his head, and far out on the ocean he could see great ships going by. But no help came to him, and he thought that death would soon be upon him. And his mother sat at home waiting for him to return, but day after day passed and still he did not come. She thought he must surely be in great danger, or that perhaps he was already dead. One day, as she was weeping, thinking of her lost boy, an old woman came along. "Why do you cry?" she asked. And the weeping woman said, "My boy has been away for many days. I know that harm has come upon him. The men of my tribe have gone in search of him, and they will kill whatever holds him a prisoner, but I fear he will never come back alive." And the old woman said, "Little good the men of your tribe can do you! You must aid him with your thoughts, for material things are vain. I will help you, for I have been given great power by the Little People of the Hills." So the woman used her thoughts and her wishes to bring back her boy. That night the boy noticed that the beaver had all been eaten up and that not a morsel remained. He knew that unless he could save himself at once he would surely die on the morrow. The Great Eagle, he knew, would swoop down upon him and kill him with a blow of his powerful beak and claws. But when the boy slept, he saw his mother in his slumber. And she said to him, "To-morrow when Great Eagle goes from the nest, brace your knife, point upwards, against the rock. When he swoops down to kill you his breast will strike the knife, and he will be pierced to death. You are not strong enough to cut through his feathers with your knife, but he is powerful enough to destroy himself." The next morning when Great Eagle went out, the boy did as the vision of the night had told him. He braced his sharp hunting-knife, point upwards, against the rock and sat still and waited. Then he heard the young eagles making a great noise and crying loudly for their breakfast. He knew that his hour had come. Soon the Great Eagle, hearing the screams of his young ones, came flying back to the nest to kill the boy. He circled around above him with loud cries and then with great force swooped down upon him, hoping to kill him with his beak and claws. But instead, he struck the blade braced upwards against the rock. The knife pierced far into his breast, and with a loud scream he rolled over dead into the nest. The boy then killed the young eagles, and he knew that now for a time he was safe. But he did not know how to get down from the Eagle's nest, for it jutted out like a shelf far over the beach, and behind it was a wall of rock around which he could not climb. He had no means of making a ladder, and his cries would not be heard upon the beach because of the constant roaring of the surf. He thought he would surely starve to death, and that night he cried himself to sleep. But in the night he again saw his mother in his slumbers. And she said, "You are a foolish boy. Why do you not use the thoughts I send you? To-morrow skin the eagle and crawl inside the skin. If the wide wings can hold the Eagle in the air they can likewise hold you. Drop off from the cliff and you will land safely on the beach." The next day the boy did as the vision of the night had told him. He carefully skinned the Great Eagle. Then he crawled inside the skin and thrust his arms through the skin just above the wings, so that his extended arms would hold the wings straight out beneath them. Then he prepared to drop down. But when he looked over the cliff, he was very frightened, for the sight made him dizzy. On the beach, men looked like flies, they were so far away. But he remembered the promise made to him in his slumbers. So he pushed himself from the cliff and dropped down. The wings of Great Eagle let him fall gently through the air and he landed safely and unhurt upon the beach. He crawled out of the skin and set out for his home. It was a long journey, for Great Eagle had carried him far away, but towards evening he reached his home safely, and his mother received him with great gladness. The boy began to boast of his adventure, and he told how he had killed Great Eagle and how he had dropped down unscathed from the cliff. He spoke of himself with great pride and of his strength and his shrewdness. But the old woman from the Land of the Little People, the fairies of the hills, who was still present with his mother, said, "Oh, vain boy, do not think so highly of yourself. Your strength is nothing; your shrewdness is nothing. It was not these things that saved you, but it was the strength of our thoughts. These alone endure and succeed when all else fails. I have taught you the uselessness of all material things, which in the end are but as ashes or as dust. Our thoughts alone can help us in the end, for they alone are eternal." And the boy listened and wondered at what the old woman from the Land of Little People had said, but he boasted of his strength no more. THE SONG-BIRD AND THE HEALING WATERS Once when the snow lay very deep on the ground and the days were grey with frost, there was great sorrow in an Indian village. A dreadful plague had come upon the place and had carried away many of the people. Neither old nor young were proof against its ravages, and the weak and the strong fell helpless before its power. The people tried every means to get rid of the plague, but they had no success. And they prayed to all their good spirits to help them, but no help came. In the tribe was a young warrior who had lost his parents and all his brothers and sisters because of the dreaded disease. Now his young wife fell sick, and he was in great sorrow, for he thought that she would soon follow his parents into the Land of the Shadows. And so he went about in great fear, not knowing when the end would come. One day he met an old woman in the forest. "Why do you look so sorrowful?" she asked him. "I am sad because my young wife is going to die," he answered; "the plague will carry her off like the others." But the old woman said, "There is something that will save your wife from death. Far away in the East is a bird of sweet song which dwells close to the Healing Waters. Go until you find it. It will point you to the spring, the waters of which alone can heal." And the young man said, "I must find the Healing Waters. Wherever they may be upon the earth, I must find them." So he went home and said good-bye to his friends, and set out eastward on his quest. All the next day he searched eagerly for the Waters, listening always for the bird of the sweet song. But he found nothing. The snow lay deep in the forest and he moved along with difficulty. He met a rabbit in his path and he said, "Tell me where I shall find the Healing Spring?" But the rabbit scurried away over the snow and made no answer. Then he asked a bear, but he met with the same rebuff. Thus for many days and nights he wandered on, crossing rivers and climbing steep hills, but always without success. Then one day he emerged from the snow country and came to a land where the airs were warmer and where little streams were flowing. Suddenly he came upon the body of a dead man lying across his path. He stopped and buried the body, for he thought that it was not right to leave it lying bare upon the ground for the birds to peck at. That night as he went along in the moonlight he met a Fox in his path. "Hello," said the Fox. "What are you looking for so late at night in the forest?" And he answered, "I am looking for the bird of the sweet song, who will show me the way to the Healing Waters." And the Fox said, "I am the spirit of the man you buried yesterday by the forest path, and in return for your kindness to me I shall do a kindness to you. You have always been good to the animals and the birds, and you have never killed them needlessly, nor when you did not require them for clothing or for food. And you have always been careful of the flowers and the trees, and you have often protected them from harm. So now they want to be good to you, and I am going to guide you. But first you must rest, for you are tired from your long journey." Then the young man lay down to sleep and the Fox stood guard beside him. As he slept he dreamed. And in his dream he saw his wife pale and thin and worn, and as he looked he heard her singing a song of wonderful melody. Then he heard a waterfall rippling near him and it said, "Seek me, O warrior, and when you find me your wife shall live, for I am the Healing Waters." In the morning the Fox led him but a short distance through the forest and on the branch of a tree he heard a bird singing a song of wonderful melody, just as he had heard in his dream of the night before. He knew now that this was the bird of the sweet song of which the old woman in the forest had spoken. Then, as he listened, he heard the sound of a waterfall rippling not far away. He searched for it, but he could not find it. And Fox said, "You must seek it; you must not despair; it will not come to you unless you search." So he searched again, and soon he thought he heard a voice speaking beneath his feet. "Release us," it called, "set us free and your wife and your people shall be saved." He seized a sharp stick and dug rapidly into the earth where he had heard the voice. He worked eagerly and quickly, and he had not dug far when the spring gushed forth and boiled upwards carrying to the world its healing power. And the young man knew that at last he had found the cure for his ills. He plunged into the spring and bathed himself in the water, and all his weariness left him and he was strong again. Then the young man moulded from the soft earth a large pot. He baked it in the fire until it was quite hard. "Now," said the Fox spirit, "I will leave you. Your kindness has been rewarded. You will need me no more, for you have found the Healing Waters." And he disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. The young man filled his clay pot with the sparkling water and hastened back to his home, running through the forest with the speed of the wind, because of his renewed strength. [Illustration: THEN THE YOUNG MAN LAY DOWN TO SLEEP AND FOX STOOD GUARD BESIDE HIM] When he reached his native village, the people met him with sad faces, for the plague was still raging and they told him that his young wife was about to pass to the Land of the Shadows. But he hurried to his home, and he forced some of the Healing Waters between his wife's parched lips, and bathed her hands and her brow until she fell into a deep slumber. He watched by her side until she awoke, and when sleep left her she was well again. Then with his Healing Waters he cured all the people in the village, and the cruel plague left them and there was no more sickness in the land. And since that time no plague has spread among his tribe. In this way the Mineral Springs, the places of Healing Waters, came upon the earth, bearing health and happiness wherever they rise, and accompanied always by the songs of birds. THE BOY WHO OVERCAME THE GIANTS Once long ago, before the white man came to Canada, an orphan boy was living alone with his uncle. He was not very happy, for he had to work very hard, and tasks more fitted for a man's shoulders than for a boy's were often placed upon him. When his parents died and left him without brother or sister, his uncle took him to his own home because there was no one else to take care of him. But he treated him very cruelly and often he wished to get rid of him. It mattered not how well the boy did his work or how many fish and animals he caught, his uncle was never satisfied, and often he beat the boy harshly and with little cause. The boy would have run away but he did not know where to go, and he feared to wander alone in the dark forest. So he decided to endure his hardships as best he could. Now it happened that in a distant village near the sea there lived a Chief who was noted far and wide for his cruelty. He had a wicked temper, and he was known to have put many people to death for no reason whatsoever. More than all else, he hated boastfulness and he had scanty patience with anyone who was vain of his own strength. He pledged himself always to humble the proud and to debase the haughty. The boy's uncle had heard of this wicked ruler, and he said, "Here is a chance for me to get rid of the boy. I will tell lies about him to the Chief." It chanced just at this time that three giants came into the Chief's territory. Where they came from, no man knew, but they dwelt in a large cave near the sea, and they caused great havoc and destruction in all the land. They ate up great stores of food, and all the little children they could lay their hands on. The Chief used every means to get rid of the giants, but without success. Night after night his best warriors went to the cave by the ocean to seek out the giants, but not a man returned. A piece of birch bark bearing a picture of a warrior with an arrow in his heart, found the next day at the Chief's door, always told him of the warrior's fate. And the giants continued their cruel work, for no one could stop them. Soon all the country was in great terror. The Chief wondered greatly what was to be done. At last he thought, "I will give my daughter to the man who can rid me of these pests." His daughter was his only child and she was very beautiful, and he knew that many suitors would now appear to seek her hand, for although the task was dangerous, the prize was worth while. When the wicked uncle in the distant village heard of it, he thought, "Now I can get rid of the boy, for I will tell the Chief that the boy says he can kill the giants." So taking his nephew with him he went to the Chief's house and begged to see him. "Oh, Chief," he said, "I have a boy who boasts that before many days have passed he can free your land from the giants." And the Chief said, "Bring him to me." The man said, "Here he is." The Chief was surprised when he saw the small boy, and he said, "You have promised that you can rid my land of giants. Now we shall see if you can do it. If you succeed you may have my daughter. If you fail, you will die. If you escape from the giants, I will kill you myself. I hate vain boasters, and they shall not live in my land." The boy went and sat by the ocean, and cried as hard as he could. He thought that he would surely die, for he was very small and he had no means of killing the giants. But as he sat there an old woman came along. She came quietly and quickly out of the grey mist of the sea. And she said, "Why are you crying?" And the boy said, "I am crying because I am forced to attack the giants in the cave, and if I cannot kill them I shall surely die," and he cried louder than before. But the old woman, who was the good fairy of the sea, said, "Take this bag and this knife and these three little stones that I will give you, and when you go to-night to the giants' cave, use them as I tell you and all will be well." She gave him three small white stones and a small knife, and a bag like the bladder of a bear, and she taught him their use. Then she disappeared into the grey mist that hung low on the ocean and the boy never saw her again. The boy lay down on the sand and went to sleep. When he awoke, the moon was shining, and far along the coast in the bright light he could see an opening in the rocks which he knew was the entrance to the giants' cave. Taking his bag and his knife and the three little stones, he approached it cautiously with a trembling heart. When he reached the mouth of the cave he could hear the giants snoring inside, all making different noises, louder than the roar of the sea. Then he remembered the old woman's instructions. He tied the bag inside his coat so that the mouth of it was close to his chin. Then he took one of the stones from his pocket. At once it grew to immense size, so heavy that the boy could scarcely hold it. He threw it at the biggest giant with great force, and it hit him squarely on the head. The giant sat up staring wildly and rubbing his brow. He kicked his younger brother, who was lying beside him, and said in great anger, "Why did you strike me?" "I did not strike you," said his brother. "You struck me on the head while I slept," said the giant, "and if you do it again I will kill you." Then they went to sleep again. When the boy heard them snoring loudly again, he took a second stone from his pocket. At once it grew great in size and the boy hurled it with great force at the biggest giant. Again the giant sat up staring wildly and rubbing his head. But this time he did not speak. He grasped his axe, which was lying beside him, and killed his brother with a blow. Then he went to sleep again. When the boy heard him snoring, he took the third stone from his pocket. At once it grew to great size and weight, and he hurled it with all his force at the giant. Again the giant sat up with great staring eyes, rubbing the lump on his head. He was now in a great rage. "My brothers have plotted to kill me," he yelled, and seizing his axe he killed his remaining brother with a blow. Then he went to sleep, and the boy slipped from the cave, first gathering up the three stones, which were now of their usual small size. The next morning when the giant went to get water from the stream, the boy hid in the trees and began to cry loudly. The giant soon discovered him and asked, "Why are you crying?" "I have lost my way," said the boy, "my parents have gone and left me. Please take me into your service, for I would like to work for such a kind handsome man, and I can do many things." The giant was flattered by what the boy said, and although he liked to eat little children, he thought, "Now that I am alone, I ought to have a companion, so I will spare the boy's life and make him my servant." And he took the boy back to his cave, and said, "Cook my dinner before I come home. Make some good stew, for I shall be very hungry." When the giant went into the forest the boy prepared the evening meal. He cut up a great store of deer meat and put it in a large pot bigger than a hogshead, and made a good meat stew. When the giant came home in the evening he was very hungry, and he was well pleased to see the big pot filled with his favourite food. He seated himself on one side of the pot, and the boy seated himself on the other side, and they dipped their spoons into the big dish. And the boy said, "We must eat it all up so that I can clean the pot well and ready for the corn mush we will have for breakfast." The stew was very hot, and to cool it before he ate it the giant blew his breath on what he dipped out. But the boy poured his own share into the bag under his coat, and said, "Why can't you eat hot food--a big man like you? In my country men never stop to cool their stew with their breath." Now the giant could not see very well, for his eyesight was not very good, and the cave was dark, and he did not notice the boy putting the stew in the bag so quickly. He thought the boy was eating it. And he was shamed by the boy's taunts because he was so much larger than the boy, so he ate up the hot stew at once in great gulps and burned his throat badly. But he was too proud to stop or to complain. When they had eaten half the potful, the giant said, "I am full. I think I have had enough." "No, indeed," said the boy, "you must show that you like my cooking. In my country men eat much more than that," and he kept on eating. The giant was not to be outdone by a boy, so he fell to eating again, and they did not stop until they had consumed the whole potful of stew. But the boy had poured his share into the bag and when they had finished he was swelled out to an immense size. The giant could scarcely move, he had eaten so much, and he said, "I have eaten too much; I feel very full, and I have a great pain in my belly." And the boy said, "I do not feel very comfortable myself, but I have a way to cure pains." So saying he took his little knife and thrust it gently into the side of the bag and the stew oozed out and he was soon back to his normal size. The giant wondered greatly at the sight, but the boy said, "It is a way they have in my country after they have had a great feast." "Does the knife not hurt?" asked the giant. "No, indeed," said the boy, "it brings great relief." "My throat is very sore," said the giant, for the hot stew had burned him. "You will soon feel better," said the boy, "if you will do as I have done." The giant hesitated to do this, but soon he felt so uncomfortable that he could bear it no longer. He saw that the boy was feeling quite well. So he took his long knife and plunged it into his stomach. "Strike hard," said the boy, "or it will do you no good." The giant plunged the knife into the hilt, and in an instant he fell dead. Then the boy took the stones and the bag and the knife which the Woman of the Mist had given him and went and told the Chief what he had done. The Chief sent his messengers to the cave to make sure that the boy spoke the truth. Sure enough, they found the three giants lying dead. When they told the Chief what they had seen, he said to the boy, "You may have my daughter as your wife." But the boy said, "I do not want your daughter. She is too old and fat. I want only traps to catch fish and game." So the Chief gave the boy many good traps, and he went into a far country to hunt game, and there he lived happily by himself. And his wicked uncle never saw him again. But the land was troubled no more by giants, because of the boy's great deeds. THE YOUTH AND THE DOG-DANCE Once long ago, when the Indians dwelt in the country in the north-west, a youth went far away from his native village to catch birds. His people lived near a lake where only small birds nested, and as he wanted large and bright-coloured feathers for his arrows and his bonnet he had to go far into the forest, where larger birds of brilliant plumage lived. When he reached the Land of Many Feathers far in the north country, he dug a pit on the top of a high hill. Then he covered the pit with poles and over the poles he spread grass and leaves so that the place looked like the earth around it. He put meat and corn on the grass, and tied the food to the poles so that the birds could not carry it away. Then he climbed down into the pit and waited for the birds to come, when he could reach up and catch them by the feet and kill them. All day long and far into the night the youth waited for birds, but no birds came. Towards morning he heard a distant sound like that of a partridge drumming. But the sound did not come nearer. The next night, as the youth watched and waited in the pit, he heard the same sound, and he said, "I will see where the noise comes from and I will discover the cause, for it is not a partridge, and it is very strange." So he climbed out of the pit and went in the direction of the sound. He walked along rapidly through the forest until he came at dawn to the shore of a large lake. The drumming came from somewhere in the lake, but as he stood listening to it, the sound suddenly stopped. The next night the youth heard the drumming louder than before. Again he went to the lake. The sound was again distinct as it rose from the water, and when he looked he saw great numbers of birds and animals swimming in the lake in the moonlight. But there was no explanation of the strange sound. As he sat watching the animals and birds, he prayed to his guardian spirit to tell him the cause of the drumming. Soon an old man came along. He was old and bent and wrinkled, but his eyes were kind. The youth gave him some tobacco and they sat down together on the edge of the lake and watched the swimmers in the dim light, and smoked their pipes. "What are you doing here?" asked the old man. "I am trying to learn the cause of the strange drumming," said the youth. "You do well indeed to seek it," said the old man, "and to seek to know the cause of all things. Only in that way will you be great and wise. But remember there are some things the cause of which you can never find." "Where have you come from?" said the boy. "Oh," said the man, "I lived once upon a time like you in the Country of Fancy where great Dreams dwell, and indeed I live there still, but your dreams are all of the future while mine are of the past. But some day you too will change and your thoughts will be like mine." "Tell me the cause of the drumming," said the boy. And the old man said, "Take this wand that I will give you and wave it before you go to sleep, and maybe you will see strange things." Then he gave the boy a wand and disappeared into the forest and the boy never saw him again. The boy waved the wand and fell asleep on the sand as the old man had told him. When he awoke he found himself in a large room in the midst of many people. Some of them were dancing gracefully, and some sat around and talked. They wore wonderful robes of skins and feathers, of many different colours. The boy wished he could get such feathers for his own clothes and his bonnet. But as he looked at the people he was suddenly aware that they were none other than the animals and birds he had seen for two nights swimming in the lake in the moonlight. They were now changed into human form, through some strange and miraculous power. They were very kind to the youth and treated him with great courtesy. At last the dancing ceased and the talking stopped, and one who seemed to be the Chief stood up at the end of the room and said, "Oh, young stranger, the Great Spirit has heard your prayers, and because of your magic wand we have been sent to you in these shapes. The creatures you see here are the animals and birds of the world. I am the Dog, whom the Great Spirit loves well. I have much power, and my power I shall give to you, and I shall always protect you and guard you. And even if you should treat me with cruelty I shall never be unfaithful to you, nor shall I ever be unkind. But you must take this Dance home with you and teach it to your people and they must celebrate the Dance once a year." Then he taught the youth the secrets of their Dance. When the youth had learned the Dance, the Chief turned to his companions and said, "My comrades and brothers, I have taught the young stranger the secrets of the Dance. I have given him my own power. Will you not have pity on a creature from earth and give him some of the power of which you too are possessed?" For a long time no one spoke, but at last Owl arose and said, "I too will help him. I have power to see far in the darkness, and to hunt by night. When he goes out at night I will be near him and he shall see a great distance. I give him these feathers to fasten in his hair." And the Owl gave him a bunch of feathers, which the youth tied to his head. Then Buffalo came forward and said, "I too will help him. I will give him my endurance and my strength, and my power to trample my enemies underfoot. And I give him this belt of tanned buffalo-hide to wear when he goes to war." And he gave the youth a very wondrous belt to fasten around his waist. The animals and birds, one after the other, gave him gladly of their power. Porcupine gave him quills with which to decorate his leather belt and his bonnet, and he said, "I too will aid you, and when you make war I will be near you. I can make my enemies as weak as children, and they always flee when I approach, for they fear the shooting of my quills. When you meet your foes you will always overcome them, for I give you power as it was given to me." And Bear said, "I will give you my toughness and my strength, and a strip of fur for your leather belt and your coat. And when you are in danger, I will not be far away." Then Deer said, "I give you my swiftness so that you may be fleet of foot. And when you pursue your enemies you will always overtake them, and should you flee from them, you will always out-run them in the race." Then the birds spoke again, and Crane said, "I give you a bone from my wing to make a war-whistle to frighten your enemies away or to summon your people to your assistance when you need them. And I give you my wings for your head-dress." The giant Eagle then spoke and said, "Oh, youth, I will be with you wherever you go, and I will give you my strength and my power in war. And even as I do, you will always see your enemies from afar, and you can always escape them if you so desire." And he gave him a large bunch of wonderful eagle feathers to tie in his hair as a token of his fidelity. And finally, Wild-Cat said, "I give you my power to crawl stealthily through the grass and the underbrush and to spring unexpectedly on your foes and take them unawares. And I give you too my power of hiding from my enemies." And he gave him strips of his fur to decorate his clothing in token of his friendship. From all the animals and the birds the youth received power and gifts. Then he waved his magic wand and lay down to sleep. When he awoke, he found himself on the shore of the lake, and far in the east the dawn was breaking. But he could see farther than he had ever seen before, and away in the distance he could make out blue hills and smoke rising from far-off villages. And he knew that strange power was upon him. But not a sound came from the lake, and the drumming had for ever ended. The youth took his magic wand and his gifts and set out for his home. And he told his people what had happened and he taught them the secrets of the Dance which was to make them strong and victorious in war. And among his people it became a great ceremony and was practised for long ages, and was known as the Dog-Dance. And since that time, the animals and birds have been friends to the Indians, and the Indians have acquired much of their cunning and skill and power. And ever after the night of moonlight by the lake when the youth with the magic wand received the strange gifts, the Indians have decorated their war clothes with fur and quills and feathers from the animals and the birds. And in the far north country, the Dog-Dance is still held at intervals out of gratitude for the gifts, for the Indians do not forget the promise of long ago. [Illustration: AND THEY SAT DOWN TOGETHER ON THE EDGE OF THE LAKE] SPARROW'S SEARCH FOR THE RAIN Long ago, in a village near the sea, many Indian people were living. Among them was a very nice old warrior who had been given great power at his birth, and who, therefore, could do many wonderful deeds. There was nothing that was beyond his understanding, for he knew all things. His wife had long been dead, but he had one daughter. She was very beautiful and gentle, and she was as nearly perfect as any woman could be. She took no interest in frivolous things and she lived a very quiet life, but all the people liked her well, and she was always welcome wherever she went. Her old father was very proud of her, and he said boastfully, "She has inherited much of my wisdom, and some day she will marry a great man." But the girl on her part had little thought of marriage or of men, for she said they had small minds, and she would rather live alone than listen always to their boastfulness and their foolish chatter. Soon the daughter's fame spread far and wide through the sea-coast villages, and many suitors came seeking for her hand. But her father said, "I have nothing to say. She will make her own choice. She must please herself. For to-day children please themselves and not their parents." And she said, "I will marry only some one who can amuse me and interest me and keep me company. I have scant liking for dull people." One day Loon came to see her. He was very good looking although he was somewhat tall and skinny, and his neck was a bit longer and more scrawny than ordinary, but he wore good clothes and he had great skill as a fisherman. He came because he thought he was very handsome, and he believed that his good looks would win the maiden. But she had no love for Loon, for he had not a word to say. When she talked to him he only stared, and at last he burst out into loud and foolish laughter. Then the maiden said, "You have a small mind like the others," and in disgust she withdrew from his presence. Then Fox came in an effort to win the maiden as his wife. And for a whole day he cut capers, and chased his tail round and round in a circle, trying to amuse the serious girl. But he did not succeed very well, and like Loon he departed in despair. And many others came, but they met the same fate, and at last the girl decided to see no more of them, but to live alone with her father. The young men of the village were all very angry because the girl had spoken of them all so scornfully, and often they talked among themselves of her proud and haughty air. "She calls us Scattered-Brains," said one. "She says we have small minds," said another. "She must pay for these insults," said a third. So they vowed that they would somehow break her proud spirit and bring her sorrow because of her ideas and her decision to stay single all her life. One of the great men of the village was Whirlwind. He could make himself invisible, and he was often guilty of many wicked pranks. So the young men went to him and asked his aid in humbling the pride of the haughty maiden. As they were talking to him, they saw the girl approaching not far off. And quite unawares, Whirlwind rushed towards her and knocked her down in the mud and tore her hat from her head and swept it into the sea. The young men looked on at her plight and they all laughed loudly, and the girl was very much ashamed. She went back home and told her father what had happened, and showed him her soiled clothes and her blown hair falling about her face. Her father was very angry, and he said, "Whirlwind must pay for this. He shall be banished at once." Then her father went to the Chief and made complaint against Whirlwind, and the Chief decreed that Whirlwind must leave the village forthwith. He did not consider very carefully what the result of this decree might be, and he acted hastily and without thought, for he feared to differ from the wise man. So Whirlwind prepared to leave the place. Now his best friend was Rain. Rain had been born without eyes. He was black blind, and Whirlwind always had to lead him along wherever he wished to go. So Rain said, "If you are leaving the village, I want to leave it too, for I cannot live here without you. I will be helpless if I have no one to lead me." So the two set out together, Whirlwind leading old Rain along by his side. Where they went no man knew, for they had told nobody of their destination. They were gone for many months before the people missed them very much. Then their absence began to be felt in all the land, for there was no wind and there was no rain. At last the Chief summoned a council, and the decree of banishment against Whirlwind was revoked. The people decided to send messengers to the two wandering ones to tell them what had happened and to bring them back. So they first sent Fox out on the quest. Fox went through the land for many weeks, running as fast as he could over many roads, in and out among marshy lake shores and over high wooded mountains. He searched every cave and crevice, but he had no success. Not a leaf or a blade of grass was stirring, and the country was all parched and the grass was withered brown and the streams were all getting dry. At last, after a fruitless search, he came home and shamefully confessed that his quest had failed. Then the people called on Bear to continue the search. And Bear went lumbering over the earth, sniffing the air, and turning over logs and great rocks with his powerful shoulders, and venturing into deep caverns. And he made many inquiries, and he asked the Mountain Ash, "Where is Whirlwind?" But Mountain Ash said, "I do not know. I have not seen him for many months." And he asked the Red Fir, and the Pine, and the Aspen, which always sees Whirlwind first, but they were all ignorant of his whereabouts. So Bear came home and said, "Not a trace of either of them have I found." The Chief was very angry because of the failure of Fox and Bear, but the wise man said, "The animals are useless in a quest like this. Let us try the birds. They often succeed where the animals fail." And the Chief agreed, for the land was in great distress. Many fishing-boats lay silent on the sea near the coast unable to move because Whirlwind was away, and the wells and streams were all dry because Rain was absent, and the grass and the flowers were withering to decay. So they called the birds to their aid. The great Crane searched in the shallows and among the reeds, thrusting his long neck into deep places, and Crow looked among the hills, and Kingfisher flew far out to sea, but they all came back and said, "We, too, have failed. The wandering ones are nowhere on the land or upon the sea." Then little Sparrow took up the search. Before he set out, he plucked from his breast a small down-feather and fastened it to a stick no bigger than a wisp of hay. He held the stick in his bill and flew off. For many days he went towards the south-land, all the time watching the feather hanging to the stick in his bill. But it hung there motionless. One day, after he had travelled a great distance, he saw the down-feather moving very gently, and he knew that Whirlwind must be not far away. He went in the direction from which the feather was blowing. Soon he saw beneath him soft green grass and wonderful flowers of varied colours, and trees with green leaves and many rippling streams of running water. And he said to himself, "At last I have found the wanderers." He followed a little stream for some distance until it ended in a cave in the hills. In front of the cave many flowers were blooming and the grass was soft and green, and the tall grasses were nodding their heads very gently. He knew that those he was seeking were inside, and he entered the cave very quietly. Just beyond the door a fire was smouldering and near it lay Rain and Whirlwind both fast asleep. Sparrow tried to wake them with his bill and his cries, but they were sleeping too soundly. Then he took a coal from the fire and put it on Rain's back, but it spluttered and fizzled and soon went out. He tried another, but the same thing happened. Then he took a third coal, and this time Rain woke up. He was much surprised to hear a stranger in the cave, but he could not see him because he was blind. So he woke up Whirlwind to protect him. Then Sparrow told them of the great trouble in the north country and of the great hardship and sorrow their absence had brought to the people, and of how sadly they had been missed and of the decision of the council to call them back. And Whirlwind said, "We shall return to-morrow if we are so badly needed. You may go back and tell your people that we are coming. We shall be there the day after you arrive." So Sparrow, feeling very proud of his success, flew back home. But when he arrived after many days, he went first to his own people to tell them the good news. And the Sparrow-people all gathered together and held a feast of celebration, and they twittered and danced and made a great hub-bub in their excitement because Rain was coming back on the morrow. Then Sparrow went to the Chief and said, "Oh, Chief, I have found Rain and Whirlwind and to-morrow they will be here," and he told the story of his flight to the south and of his discovery. And the Chief said, "Because of your success, you will never be hunted for game or killed for food." The next morning the two travellers who had been so long away came back to the land. Whirlwind came first and great clouds of dust foretold his coming, and the sea dashed high against the rocks, and the trees shrieked and tossed their heads, all dancing gaily because of his return. When Whirlwind had passed by, Rain came along following close, because of his blindness. For several days Rain stayed with the people and the flowers bloomed and the grass was green again and the wells and streams were no longer dry. And since that time Wind and Rain have never long been absent from the Atlantic Coast. And to this day the Sparrow-people know when Rain is coming, and to signal his approach they gather together and twitter and hop along and make a great hub-bub, just as they did when their ancestor found him by means of his down-feather in the olden days. But the Indians have been true to the Chief's promise, and they will not hunt Sparrows for game nor kill them for food or for their feathers. For they remember that of all the birds it was old Sparrow who long ago searched successfully for the Rain. THE BOY IN THE LAND OF SHADOWS Two orphan children, a boy and a girl, lived alone near the mountains. Their parents had long been dead and the children were left to look after themselves without any kindred upon the earth. The boy hunted all day long and provided much food, and the girl kept the house in order and did the cooking. They had a very deep love for each other and as they grew up they said, "We shall never leave each other. We shall always stay here together." But one year it happened that in the early spring-time it was very cold. The snow lingered on the plains and the ice moved slowly from the rivers and chill winds were always blowing and grey vapours hovered over all the land. And there was very little food to be had, for the animals hid in their warm winter dens and the wild-geese and ducks were still far south. And in this cruel period of bad weather the little girl sickened and died. Her brother worked hard to provide her with nourishing food and he gathered all the medicine roots he thought could bring her relief, but it was all to no purpose. And despite all his efforts, one evening in the twilight his sister went away to the West, leaving him alone behind upon the earth. The boy was heart-broken because of his sister's death. And when the late spring came and the days grew warm and food was plentiful again, he said, "She must be somewhere in the West, for they say that our people do not really die. I will go and search for her, and perhaps I can find her and bring her back." So one morning he set out on his strange quest. He journeyed many days westward towards the Great Water, killing game for food as he went, and sleeping at night under the stars. He met many strange people, but he did not tell them the purpose of his travels. At last he came to the shore of the Great Water, and he sat looking towards the sunset wondering what next to do. In the evening an old man came along. "What are you doing here?" asked the man. "I am looking for my sister," said the boy; "some time ago she sickened and died and I am lonely without her, and I want to find her and bring her back." And the man said, "Some time ago she whom you seek passed this way. If you wish to find her you must undertake a dangerous journey." The boy answered that he would gladly risk any dangers to find his sister, and the old man said, "I will help you. Your sister has gone to the Land of Shadows far away in the Country of Silence which lies out yonder in the Island of the Blest. To reach the Island you must sail far into the West, but I warn you that it is a perilous journey, for the crossing is always rough and your boat will be tossed by tempests. But you will be well repaid for your trouble, for in that land nobody is ever hungry or tired; there is no death and no sorrow; there are no tears, and no one ever grows old." Then the old man gave the boy a large pipe and some tobacco and said, "This will help you in your need." And he brought him to where a small canoe lay dry upon the beach. It was a wonderful canoe, the most beautiful the boy had ever seen. It was cut from a single white stone and it sparkled in the red twilight like a polished jewel. And the old man said, "This canoe will weather all storms. But see that you handle it carefully, and when you come back see that you leave it in the cove where you found it." Soon afterwards, the boy set out on his journey. The moon was full and the night was cold with stars. He sailed into the West over a rough and angry sea, but he was in no danger, for his canoe rode easily on the waters. All around him he saw in the moonlight many other canoes going in the same direction and all white and shining like his own. But no one seemed to be guiding them, and although he looked long at them not a person could he make out. He wondered if the canoes were drifting unoccupied, for when he called to them there was no answer. Sometimes a canoe upset in the tossing sea and the waves rose over it and it was seen no more, and the boy often thought he heard an anguished cry. For several days he sailed on to the West, and all the time other canoes were not far away, and all the time some of them were dropping from sight beneath the surging waters, but he saw no people in them. At last, after a long journey, the sea grew calm and the air was sweet and warm. There was no trace of the storm, for the waves were quiet and the sky was as clear as crystal. He saw that he was near the Island of the Blest of which the old man had spoken, for it was now plain to his view, as it rose above the ocean, topped with green grass and trees, and a snow-white beach. Soon he reached the shore and drew up his canoe. As he turned away he came upon a skeleton lying flat upon the sand. He stopped to look at it, and as he did so, the skeleton sat up and said in great surprise, "You should not be here. Why have you come?" And the boy said, "I seek my sister. In the early spring-time she sickened and died, and I am going to the Land of Shadows in the Country of Silence in search of her." "You must go far inland," said the skeleton, "and the way is hard to find for such as you." The boy asked for guidance and the skeleton said, "Let me smoke and I will help you." The boy gave him the pipe and the tobacco he had received from the old man, and he laughed when he saw his strange companion with the pipe between his teeth. The skeleton smoked for some time and at last, as the smoke rose from his pipe, it changed to a flock of little white birds, which flew about like doves. The boy looked on in wonder, and the skeleton said, "These birds will guide you. Follow them." Then he gave back the pipe and stretched out again flat upon the sand, and the boy could not rouse him from his sleep. [Illustration: THEN THE OLD MAN GAVE THE BOY A LARGE PIPE AND SOME TOBACCO] The boy followed the little white birds as he had been told. He went along through a land of great beauty where flowers were blooming and countless birds were singing. Not a person did he meet on the way. The place was deserted except for the song-birds and the flowers. He passed through the Country of Silence, and came to a mysterious land where no one dwelt. But although he saw no one he heard many voices and he could not tell whence they came. They seemed to be all around him. At last the birds stopped at the entrance to a great garden, and flew around his head in a circle. They would go no further and they alighted on a tree close by, all except one, which perched on the boy's shoulder. The lad knew that here at last was the Land of Shadows. When he entered the garden he heard again many low voices. But he saw no one. He saw only many shadows of people on the grass, but he could not see from what the shadows came. He wondered greatly at the strange and unusual sight, for back in his homeland in that time the sunlight made no shadows. He listened again to the voices and he knew now that the shadows were speaking. He wandered about for some time marvelling greatly at the strange place with its weird unearthly beauty. At last he heard a voice which he knew to be his sister's. It was soft and sweet, just as he had known it when they were together on the earth, and it had not changed since she left him. He went to the shadow from which the voice came, and throwing himself on the grass beside it, he said, "I have long sought you, my sister. I have come to take you home. Let me see you as you were when we dwelt together." But his sister said, "You have done wisely to keep me in your memory, and to seek to find me. But here we cannot appear to the people of earth except as shadows. I cannot go back with you, for it is now too late. I have eaten of the food of this land; if you had come before I had eaten, perhaps you could have taken me away. Who knows? But my heart and my voice are unchanged, and I still remember my dear ones, and with unaltered love I still watch my old home. And although I cannot go to you, you can some day come to me. First you must finish your work on earth. Go back to your home in the Earth Country. You will become a great Chief among your people. Rule wisely and justly and well, and give freely of your food to the poor among the Indians who have not as much as you have. And when your work on earth is done you shall come to me in this Land of Shadows beyond the Country of Silence, and we shall be together again and our youth and strength and beauty will never leave us." And the boy, wondering greatly and in deep sorrow, said, "Let me stay with you now." But his sister said, "That cannot be." Then she said, "I will give you a Shadow, which you must keep with you as your guardian spirit. And while you have it with you, no harm can come to you, for it will be present only in the Light, and where there is Light there can be no wickedness. But when it disappears you must be on your guard against doing evil, for then there will be darkness, and darkness may lead you to wrong." So the boy took the Shadow, and said good-bye for a season and set out on his homeward journey. The little white birds, which had waited for him in the trees, guided him back to the beach. His canoe was still there, but the skeleton-man had gone and there was not a trace of him to be found upon the sand. And the Island of the Blest was silent except for the songs of the birds and the ripple of the little streams. The boy embarked in his canoe and sailed towards the east, and as he pushed off from the beach the little white birds left him and disappeared in the air. The sea was now calm and there was no storm, as there had been on his outward journey. Soon he reached the shore on the other side. He left his canoe in the cove as the old man had told him, and in a few days he arrived at his home, still bearing the Shadow from the Country of Silence. He worked hard for many years but he did no evil, and in the end he became a great Chief and did much good for his people. He ruled wisely and justly and well, as his sister had commanded him. Then one day, when he was old and his work was done, he disappeared, and his people knew that he had gone to join his sister in the Land of Shadows in the Country of Silence far away somewhere in the West. But he left behind him the Shadow his sister had given him; and while there is Light the Indians still have their Shadow and no harm can come to them, for where there is Light there can be no evil. But always in the late autumn the Shadows of the Indian brother and sister in the Country of Silence are lonely for their former life. And they think of their living friends and of the places of their youth, and they wish once more to follow the hunt, for they know that the hunter's moon is shining. And when their memory dwells with longing on their earlier days, their spirits are allowed to come back to earth for a brief season from the Land of Shadows. Then the winds are silent and the days are very still, and the smoke of their camp fires appears like haze upon the air. And men call this season Indian Summer, but it is really but a Shadow of the golden summer that has gone. And it always is a reminder to the Indians that in the Land of Shadows, far away in the Country of Silence in the West, there are no dead. THE END 
6614	----	MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND By Charles M. Skinner Vol. 9. AS TO BURIED TREASURE AND STORIED WATERS, CLIFFS, AND MOUNTAINS CONTENTS: AS TO BURIED TREASURE Kidd's Treasure Other Buried Wealth STORIED WATERS, CLIFFS, AND MOUNTAINS Monsters and Sea-Serpents Stone-Throwing Devils Storied Springs Lovers' Leaps God on the Mountains AS TO BURIED RICHES KIDD'S TREASURE Captain Kidd is the most ubiquitous gentleman in history. If his earnings in the gentle craft of piracy were frugally husbanded, he has possibly left some pots of money in holes in the ground between Key West and Halifax. The belief that large deposits of gold were made at Gardiner's Island, Dunderberg, Cro' Nest, New York City, Coney Island, Ipswich, the marshes back of Boston, Cape Cod, Nantucket, Isles of Shoals, Money Island, Ocean Beach, the Bahamas, the Florida Keys, and elsewhere has caused reckless expenditure of actual wealth in recovering doubloons and guineas that disappointed backers of these enterprises are beginning to look upon--no, not to look upon, but to think about--as visionary. A hope of getting something for nothing has been the impetus to these industries, and interest in the subject is now and then revived by reports of the discovery--usually by a farmer ploughing near the shore--of an iron kettle with a handful of gold and silver coins in it, the same having doubtless been buried for purposes of concealment during the wars of 1776 and 1812. Gardiner's Island, a famous rendezvous for pirates, is the only place known to have been used as a bank of deposit, for in 1699 the Earl of Bellomont recovered from it seven hundred and eighty-three ounces of gold, six hundred and thirty-three ounces of silver, cloth of gold, silks, satins, and jewels. In the old Gardiner mansion, on this island, was formerly preserved a costly shawl given to Mrs. Gardiner by Captain Kidd himself. This illustrious Kidd--or Kydd--was born in New York, began his naval career as a chaser of pirates, became a robber himself, was captured in Boston, where he was ruffling boldly about the streets, and was hanged in London in 1701. In sea superstitions the apparition of his ship is sometimes confused with that of the Flying Dutchman. At Lion's Rock, near Lyme, Connecticut, a part of his treasure is under guard of a demon that springs upon intruders unless they recite Scripture while digging for the money. Charles Island, near Milford, Connecticut, was dug into, one night, by a company from that town that had learned of Kidd's visit to it--and what could Kidd be doing ashore unless he was burying money? The lid of an iron chest had been uncovered when the figure of a headless man came bounding out of the air, and the work was discontinued right then. The figure leaped into the pit that had been dug, and blue flames poured out of it. When the diggers returned, their spades and picks were gone and the ground was smooth. Monhegan Island, off the Maine coast, contains a cave, opening to the sea, where it was whispered that treasure had been stored in care of spirits. Searchers found within it a heavy chest, which they were about to lift when one of the party--contrary to orders--spoke. The spell was broken, for the watchful spirits heard and snatched away the treasure. Some years ago the cave was enlarged by blasting, in a hope of finding that chest, for an old saying has been handed down among the people of the island--from whom it came they have forgotten--that was to this effect: "Dig six feet and you will find iron; dig six more and you will find money." On Damariscotta Island, near Kennebec, Maine, is a lake of salt water, which, like dozens of shallow ones in this country, is locally reputed to be bottomless. Yet Kidd was believed to have sunk some of his valuables there, and to have guarded against the entrance of boats by means of a chain hung from rock to rock at the narrow entrance, bolts on either side showing the points of attachment, while ring bolts were thought to have been driven for the purpose of tying buoys, thus marking the spots where the chests went down. This island, too, has been held in fear as haunted ground. Appledore, in the Isles of Shoals, was another such a hiding-place, and Kidd put one of his crew to death that he might haunt the place and frighten searchers from their quest. For years no fisherman could be induced to land there after nightfall, for did not an islander once encounter "Old Bab" on his rounds, with a red ring around his neck, a frock hanging about him, phosphorescence gleaming from his body, who peered at the intruder with a white and dreadful face, and nearly scared him to death? A spot near the Piscataqua River was another hiding-place, and early in this century the ground was dug over, two of the seekers plying pick and spade, while another stood within the circle they had drawn about the spot and loudly read the Bible. Presently their implements clicked on an iron chest, but it slid sideway into the ground as they tried to uncover it, and at last an interruption occurred that caused them to stop work so long that when they went to look for it again it had entirely disappeared. This diversion was the appearance of a monster horse that flew toward them from a distance without a sound, but stopped short at the circle where the process of banning fiends was still going on, and, after grazing and walking around them for a time, it dissolved into air. Kidd's plug is a part of the craggy steep known as Cro' Nest, on the Hudson. It is a projecting knob, like a bung closing an orifice, which is believed to conceal a cavern where the redoubtable captain placed a few barrels of his wealth. Though it is two hundred feet up the cliff, inaccessible either from above or below, and weighs many tons, still, as pirates and devils have always been friendly, it may be that the corking of the cave was accomplished with supernatural help, and that if blasts or prayers ever shake the stone from its place a shower of doubloons and diamonds may come rattling after it. The shore for several hundred feet around Dighton Rock, Massachusetts, has been examined, for it was once believed that the inscriptions on it were cut by Kidd to mark the place of burial for part of his hoard. The Rock Hill estate, Medford, Massachusetts, was plagued by a spectre that some thought to be that of a New Hampshire farmer who was robbed and murdered there, but others say it is the shade of Kidd, for iron treasure chests were found in the cellar that behaved like that on the Piscataqua River, sinking out of sight whenever they were touched by shovels. Misery Islands, near Salem, Massachusetts, were dug over, and under spiritual guidance, too, for other instalments of Mr. Kidd's acquisitions, but without avail. It takes no less than half a dozen ghosts to guard what is hidden in Money Hill, on Shark River, New Jersey, so there must be a good deal of it. Some of these guardians are in sailor togs, some in their mouldy bones, some peaceable, some noisy with threats and screams and groans--a "rum lot," as an ancient mariner remarked, who lives near their graves and daytime hiding-places. Many heirlooms are owned by Jerseymen hereabout that were received from Kidd's sailors in exchange for apple-jack and provisions, and two sailor-looking men are alleged to have taken a strong-box out of Money Hill some years ago, from which they abstracted two bags of gold. After that event the hill was dug over with great earnestness, but without other result to the prospectors than the cultivation of their patience. Sandy Hook, New Jersey, near "Kidd's tree," and the clay banks of the Atlantic highlands back of that point, are suspected hiding-places; but the cairn or knoll called Old Woman's Hill, at the highlands, is not haunted by Kidd's men, as used to be said, but by the spirit of a discontented squaw. This spirit the Indians themselves drove away with stones. At Oyster Point, Maryland, lived Paddy Dabney, who recognized Kidd from an old portrait on meeting him one evening in 1836. He was going home late from the tavern when a light in a pine thicket caused him to turn from the road. In a clearing among the trees, pervaded by a pale shine which seemed to emanate from its occupants, a strange company was playing at bowls. A fierce-looking reprobate who was superintending the game glanced up, and, seeing Paddy's pale face, gave such a leap in his direction that the Irishman fled with a howl of terror and never stopped till he reached his door, when, on turning about, he found that the phantom of the pirate chief had vanished. The others, he conceived, were devils, for many a sea rover had sold himself to Satan. Captain Teach, or Blackbeard, proved as much to his crew by shutting himself in the hold of his ship, where he was burning sulphur to destroy rats, and withstanding suffocation for several hours; while one day a dark man appeared on board who was not one of the crew at the sailing, and who had gone as mysteriously as he came on the day before the ship was wrecked. It was known that Kidd had buried his Bible in order to ingratiate the evil one. A flat rock on the north shore of Liberty Island, in New York harbor, was also thought to mark the place of this pervasive wealth of the pirates. As late as 1830, Sergeant Gibbs, one of the garrison at the island, tried to unearth it, with the aid of a fortune-teller and a recruit, but they had no sooner reached a box about four feet in length than a being with wings, horns, tail, and a breath, the latter palpable in blue flames, burst from the coffer. Gibbs fell unconscious into the water and narrowly escaped drowning, while his companions ran away, and the treasure may still be there for aught we know. Back in the days before the Revolution, a negro called Mud Sam, who lived in a cabin at the Battery, New York City, was benighted at about the place where One Hundredth Street now touches East River while waiting there for the tide to take him up the Sound. He beguiled the time by a nap, and, on waking, he started to leave his sleeping place under the trees to regain his boat, when the gleam of a lantern and the sound of voices coming up the bank caused him to shrink back into the shadow. At first he thought that he might be dreaming, for Hell Gate was a place of such repute that one might readily have bad dreams there, and the legends of the spot passed quickly through his mind: the skeletons that lived in the wreck on Hen and Chickens and looked out at passing ships with blue lights in the eye-sockets of their skulls; the brown fellow, known as "the pirate's spuke," that used to cruise up and down the wrathful torrent, and was snuffed out of sight for some hours by old Peter Stuyvesant with a silver bullet; a black-looking scoundrel with a split lip, who used to brattle about the tavern at Corlaer's Hook, and who tumbled into East River while trying to lug an iron chest aboard of a suspicious craft that had stolen in to shore in a fog. This latter bogy was often seen riding up Hell Gate a-straddle of that very chest, snapping his fingers at the stars and roaring Bacchanalian odes, just as skipper Onderdonk's boatswain, who had been buried at sea without prayers, chased the ship for days, sitting on the waves, with his shroud for a sail, and shoving hills of water after the vessel with the plash of his hands. These grewsome memories sent a quake through Mud Sam's heart, but when the bushes cracked under the strangers' tread, he knew that they were of flesh and bone, and, following them for a quarter-mile into the wood, he saw them dig a hole, plant a strong-box there, and cover it. A threatening remark from one of the company forced an exclamation from the negro that drew a pistol-shot upon him, and he took to his heels. Such a fright did he receive that he could not for several years be persuaded to return, but when that persuasion came in the form of a promise of wealth from Wolfert Webber, a cabbage-grower of the town, and promises of protection from Dr. Knipperhausen, who was skilled in incantations, he was not proof against it, and guided the seekers to the spot. After the doctor had performed the proper ceremonies they fell to work, but no sooner had their spades touched the lid of an iron-bound chest than a sturdy rogue with a red flannel cap leaped out of the bushes. They said afterward that he had the face of the brawler who was drowned at Corlaer's Hook, but, in truth, they hardly looked at him in their flight; nor, when the place was revisited, could any mark of digging be found, nor any trace of treasure, so that part of Kidd's wealth may be at this moment snugly stowed in the cellar of a tenement. Webber had engaged in so many crazy enterprises of this nature that he had neglected cabbage culture, and had grown so poor that the last disappointment nearly broke his heart. He retired to his chamber and made his will, but on learning that a new street had been run across his farm and that it would presently be worth ten times as much for building-lots as it ever had been for cabbages, he leaped out of bed, dressed himself, and prospered for many a day after. OTHER BURIED WEALTH The wealth of the Astors hardly exceeds the treasure that is supposed to be secreted here and there about the country, and thousands of dollars have been expended in dredging rivers and shallow seas, and in blasting caves and cellars. Certain promoters of these schemes have enjoyed salaries as officers in the stock companies organized for their furtherance, and they have seen the only tangible results from such enterprises. One summer evening, in the middle of the seventeenth century, a bark dropped anchor at the mouth of Saugus River, Massachusetts, and four of the crew rowed to the woods that skirt its banks and made a landing. The vessel had disappeared on the following morning, but in the forge at the settlement was found a paper stating that if a certain number of shackles and handcuffs were made and secretly deposited at a specified place in the forest, a sum of money equal to their value would be found in their stead on the next day. The order was filled and the silver was found, as promised, but, though a watch was set, nothing further was seen of men or ship for several months. The four men did return, however, and lived by themselves amid the woods of Saugus, the gossips reporting that a beautiful woman had been seen in their company--the mistress of the pirate chief, for, of course, the mysterious quartette had followed the trade of robbery on the high seas. Three of these men were captured, taken to England, and hanged, but the fourth-Thomas Veale--escaped to a cavern in the wood, where, it was reputed, great treasures were concealed, and there he lived until the earthquake of 1658, when a rock fell from the roof of the cave, closing the entrance and burying the guilty man in a tomb where, it is presumed, he perished of thirst and hunger. Dungeon Rock, of Lynn, is the name that the place has borne ever since. In 1852 Hiram Marble announced that he had been visited by spirits, who not only told him that the pirates' spoils were still in their olden hiding-place, but pointed out the spot where the work of excavation should begin. Aided by his son he tunnelled the solid granite for a distance of one hundred and thirty-five feet, the passage being seven feet high and seven wide. Whenever he was wearied the "mediums" that he consulted would tell him to make cuttings to the right or left, and for every fresh discouragement they found fresh work. For thirty years this task was carried on, both father and son dying without gaining any practical result, other than the discovery of an ancient scabbard in a rift. The heiress of the house of Marble alone reaped benefit from their labors, for-resuming on a petty scale the levies of the first dwellers in the rock--she boldly placarded the entrance to the workings "Ye who enter here leave twenty-five cents behind." In several cases the chasms that have been caused by wear of water or convulsions of nature (their opposite sides being matched) were believed to have been hiding-places, but, in the old days in New England, it was believed that all such fractures were caused by the earthquake at the time of the crucifixion--a testimony of the power of God to shake sinners. The Heart of Greylock is the name given to the crater-like recess, a thousand feet deep, in the tallest of the Berkshire peaks, but it was formerly best known as Money Hole, and the stream that courses through it as Money Brook, for a gang of counterfeiters worked in that recess, and there some spurious coinage may still be concealed. The stream is also known as Spectre Brook, for late wandering hunters and scouting soldiers, seeing the forgers moving to and fro about their furnaces, took them for ghosts. Province Island, in Lake Memphremagog, Vermont, is believed to contain some of the profits of an extensive smuggling enterprise that was carried on near the lake for several years. A little company of Spanish adventurers passed along the base of the Green Mountains early in the last century, expecting to return after having some dealings with the trading stations on the St. Lawrence; so they deposited a part of their gold on Ludlow Mountain, Vermont, and another pot of it on Camel's Hump. They agreed that none should return without his companions, but they were detained in the north and separated, some of them going home to Spain. Late in life the sole survivor of the company went to Camel's Hump and tried to recall where the treasure had been hidden, but in vain. While flying from the people whose declaration of independence had already been written in the blood of the king's troops at Concord, the royal governor--Wentworth--was embarrassed by a wife and a treasure-chest. He had left his mansion, at Smith's Pond, New Hampshire, and was making toward Portsmouth, where he was to enjoy the protection of the British fleet, but the country was up in arms, time was important, and as his wearied horses could not go on without a lightening of the burden, he was forced to leave behind either Lady Wentworth or his other riches. As the lady properly objected to any risk of her own safety, the chest was buried at an unknown spot in the forest, and for a century and more the whereabouts of the Wentworth plate and money-bags have been a matter of search and conjecture. When the Hessian troops marched from Saratoga to Boston, to take ship after Burgoyne's surrender, they were in wretched condition-war-worn, ragged, and ill fed,--and having much with them in the form of plate and jewels that had been spared by their conquerors, together with some of the money sent from England for their hire, they were in constant fear of attack from the farmers, who, though they had been beaten, continued to regard them with an unfavorable eye. On reaching Dalton, Massachusetts, the Hessians agreed among themselves to put their valuables into a howitzer, which they buried in the woods, intending that some of their number should come back at the close of the war and recover it. An Indian had silently followed them for a long distance, to gather up any unconsidered trifles that might be left in their bivouacs, and he marked the route by blazes on the trees; but if he saw the burial of this novel treasury it meant nothing to him, and the knowledge of the hiding-place was lost. For years the populace kept watch of all strangers that came to town, and shadowed them if they went to the woods, but without result. In about the year 1800 the supposed hiding-place was examined closely and excavations were made, but, as before, nothing rewarded the search. A tree of unknown age--the Old Elm--stood on Boston Common until within a few years. This veteran, torn and broken by many a gale and lightning-stroke, was a gallows in the last century, and Goody Glover had swung from it in witch-times. On tempestuous nights, when the boughs creaked together, it was said that dark shapes might be seen writhing on the branches and capering about the sward below in hellish glee. On a gusty autumn evening in 1776 a muffled form presented itself, unannounced, at the chamber of Mike Wild, and, after that notorious miser had enough recovered from the fear created by the presence to understand what it said to him, he realized that it was telling him of something that in life it had buried at the foot of the Old Elm. After much hesitancy Mike set forth with his ghostly guide, for he would have risked his soul for money, but on arriving at his destination he was startled to find himself alone. Nothing daunted, he set down his lantern and began to dig. Though he turned up many a rood of soil and sounded with his spade for bags and chests of gold, he found nothing. Strange noises overhead--for the wind was high and the twigs seemed to snicker eerily as they crossed each other-sent thrills along his back from time to time, and he was about to return, half in anger, half in fear, when his spirit visitor emerged from behind the tree and stood before him. The mien was threatening, the nose had reddened and extended, the hair was rumpled, and the brow was scowling. The frown of the gold monster grew more awful, the stare of his eye in the starlight more unbearable, and he was crouching and creeping as if for a spring. Mike could endure no more. He fainted, and awakened in the morning in his own chamber, where, to a neighbor who made an early call, he told--with embellishments--the story of the encounter; but before he had come to the end of the narrative the visitor burst into a roar of laughter and confessed that he had personated the supernatural visitant, having wagered a dozen bottles of wine with the landlord of the Boar's Head that he could get the better of Mike Wild. For all this the old tree bore, for many years, an evil reputation. A Spanish galleon, the Saints Joseph and Helena, making from Havana to Cadiz in 1753 was carried from her course by adverse winds and tossed against a reef, near New London, Connecticut, receiving injuries that compelled her to run into that port for repairs. To reach her broken ribs more easily her freight was put on shore in charge of the collector of the port, but when it was desired to ship the cargo again, behold! the quarter part of it had disappeared, none could say how. New London got a bad name from this robbery, and the governor, though besought by the assembly to make good the shortage, failed to do so, and lost his place at the next election. It was reputed that some of the treasure was buried on the shore by the robbers. In 1827 a woman who was understood to have the power of seership published a vision to a couple of young blades, who had paid for it, to the effect that hidden under one of the grass-grown wharves was a box of dollars. By the aid of a crystal pebble she received this really valuable information, but the pebble was not clear enough to reveal the exact place of the box. She could see, however, that the dollars were packed edgewise. When New London was sound asleep the young men stole out and by lantern-light began their work. They had dug to water-level when they reached an iron chest, and they stooped to lift it-but, to their amazement, the iron was too hot to handle! Now they heard deep growls, and a giant dog peered at them from the pit-mouth; red eyes flashed at them from the darkness; a wild-goose, with eyes of blazing green, hovered and screamed above them. Though the witch had promised them safety, nothing appeared to ward off the fantastic shapes that began to crowd about them. Too terrified to work longer they sprang out and made away, and when-taking courage from the sunshine--they renewed the search, next day, the iron chest had vanished. On Crown Point, Lake Champlain, is the ruin of a fort erected by Lord Amherst above the site of a French work that had been thrown up in 1731 to guard a now vanished capital of fifteen hundred people. It was declared that when the French evacuated the region they buried money and bullion in a well, in the northwest corner of the bastion, ninety feet deep, in the full expectancy of regaining it, and half a century ago this belief had grown to such proportions that fifty men undertook to clear the well, pushing their investigations into various parts of the enclosure and over surrounding fields. They found quantities of lead and iron and no gold. Follingsby's Pond, in the Adirondacks, was named for a recluse, who, in the early part of this century, occupied a lonely but strongly guarded cabin there. It was believed afterward that he was an English army officer, of noble birth, who had left his own country in disgust at having discovered an attachment between his wife and one of his fellow-officers. He died in a fever, and while raving in a delirium spoke of a concealed chest. A trapper, who was his only attendant in his last moments, dug over the ground floor of the hut and found a box containing a jewelled sword, costly trinkets, and letters that bore out the presumption of Follingsby's aristocratic origin. What became of these valuables after their exhumation is not known, and the existence of more has been suspected. Coney Island is declared to have been used by a band of pirates as the first national sand bank, and, as these rascals were caught and swung off with short shrift, they do say that the plunder is still to be had--by the man who finds it. But the hotel-keepers and three-card-monte men are not waiting for that discovery to grow rich. In Shandaken Valley, in the Catskills, it was affirmed that a party of British officers buried money somewhere, when they were beset by the farmers and hunters of that region, and never got it out of the earth again. On Tea Island, Lake George, the buried treasures of Lord Abercrombie have remained successfully hidden until this day. The oldest house at Fort Neck, Long Island, was known for years as the haunted house, and the grave of its owner--Captain Jones--was called the pirate's grave, for, in the last century, Jones was accused of piracy and smuggling, and there have been those who suspected worse. A hope of finding gold and silver about the premises has been yearly growing fainter. Just before the death of Jones, which occurred here in an orderly manner, a crow, so big that everybody believed it to be a demon, flew in at the window and hovered over the bed of the dying man until he had drawn his last breath, when, with a triumphant cry, it flew through the west end of the house. The hole that it broke through the masonry could never be stopped, for, no matter how often it was repaired, the stone and cement fell out again, and the wind came through with such a chill and such shriekings that the house had to be abandoned. The owner of an estate on Lloyd's Neck, Long Island, had more wealth than he thought it was safe or easy to transport when he found the colonies rising against Britain in 1775, and flight was imperative, for he was known by his neighbors to be a Tory. Massing his plate, coin, and other movables into three barrels, he caused his three slaves to bury them in pits that they had dug beneath his house. Then, as they were shovelling back the earth, he shot them dead, all three, and buried them, one on each barrel. His motive for the crime may have been a fear that the slaves would aid the Americans in the approaching struggle, or that they might return and dig up the wealth or reveal the hiding-place to the enemies of the king. Then he made his escape to Nova Scotia, though he might as well have stayed at home, for the British possessed themselves of Long Island, and his house became a place of resort for red-coats and loyalists. It was after the turn of the century when a boat put in, one evening, at Cold Spring Bay, and next morning the inhabitants found footprints leading to and from a spot where some children had discovered a knotted rope projecting from the soil. Something had been removed, for the mould of a large box was visible at the bottom of a pit. Acres of the neighborhood were then dug over by treasure hunters, who found a box of cob dollars and a number of casks. The contents of the latter, though rich and old, were not solid, and when diffused through the systems of several Long Islanders imparted to them a spirituous and patriotic glow--for in thus destroying the secreted stores of a royalist were they not asserting the triumph of democratic principles? The clay bluffs at Pottery Beach, Brooklyn, were pierced with artificial caves where lawless men found shelter in the unsettled first years of the republic. A wreck lay rotting here for many years, and it was said to be the skeleton of a ship that these fellows had beached by false beacons. She had costly freight aboard, and on the morning after she went ashore crew and freight had vanished. It was believed that much of the plunder was buried in the clay near the water's edge. In the early colonial days, Grand Island, in Niagara River, was the home of a Frenchman, Clairieux, an exile or refugee who was attended by a negro servant. During one summer a sloop visited the island frequently, laden on each trip with chests that never were taken away in the sight of men, and that are now supposed to be buried near the site of the Frenchman's cabin. Report had it that these boxes were filled with money, but if well or ill procured none could say, unless it were the Frenchman, and he had no remarks to offer on the subject. In the fall, after these visits of the sloop, Clairieux disappeared, and when some hunters landed on the island they found that his cabin had been burned and that a large skeleton, evidently that of the negro, was chained to the earth in the centre of the place where the house had stood. The slave had been killed, it was surmised, that his spirit might watch the hoard and drive away intruders; but the Frenchman met his fate elsewhere, and his secret, like that of many another miser, perished with him. In 1888, when a northeast gale had blown back the water of the river, a farmer living on the island discovered, just under the surface, a stone foundation built in circular form, as if it had once supported a tower. In the mud within this circle he found a number of French gold and silver coins, one of them minted in 1537. Close by, other coins of later date were found, and a systematic examination of the whole channel has been proposed, as it was also said that two French frigates, scuttled to keep them out of the hands of the English, lie bedded in sand below the island, one of them with a naval paymaster's chest on board. On the shore of Oneida Lake is an Indian's grave, where a ball of light is wont to swing and dance. A farmer named Belknap dreamed several times of a buried treasure at this point, and he was told, in his vision, that if he would dig there at midnight he could make it his own. He made the attempt, and his pick struck a crock that gave a chink, as of gold. He should, at that moment, have turned around three times, as his dream directed, but he was so excited that he forgot to. A flash of lightning rent the air and stretched him senseless on the grass. When he recovered the crock was gone, the hole filled in, and ever since then the light has hovered about the place. Some say that this is but the will-o'-the-wisp: the soul of a bad fellow who is doomed to wander in desolate regions because, after dying, Peter would not allow him to enter heaven, and the devil would not let him go into the other place, lest he should make the little devils unmanageable; but he is allowed to carry a light in his wanderings. In Indian Gap, near Wernersville, Pennsylvania, the Doane band of Tories and terrorists hid a chest of gold, the proceeds of many robberies. It is guarded by witches, and, although it has been seen, no one has been able to lay hands on it. The seekers are always blinded by blue flame, and frightened away by roaring noises. The Dutch farmers of the vicinity are going to dig for it, all the same, for it is said that the watch of evil spirits will be given over at midnight, but they do not know of what date. They will be on hand at the spot revealed to them through the vision of a "hex layer" (a vision that cost them fifty cents), until the night arrives when there are no blue flames. In the southern part of Chester County, Pennsylvania, is money, too, but just where nobody knows. A lonely, crabbed man, who died there in a poor hut after the Revolution, owned that he had served the British as a spy, but said that he had spent none of the gold that he had taken from them. He was either too sorry for his deeds, or too mean to do so. He had put it in a crock and buried it, and, on his death-bed, where he made his statement, he asked that it might be exhumed and spent for some good purpose. He was about to tell where it was when the death-rattle choked his words. The Isle of the Yellow Sands, in Lake Superior, was supposed by Indians to be made of the dust of gold, but it was protected by vultures that beat back those who approached, or tore them to pieces if they insisted on landing. An Indian girl who stole away from her camp to procure a quantity of this treasure was pursued by her lover, who, frightened at the risk she was about to run from the vultures, stopped her flight by staving in the side of her canoe, so that she was compelled to take refuge in his, and he rowed home with her before the birds had come to the attack. Old Francois Fontenoy, an Indian trader, buried a brass kettle full of gold at Presque Isle, near Detroit, that is still in the earth. On the banks of the Cumberland, in Tennessee, is a height where a searcher for gold was seized by invisible defenders and hurled to the bottom of the cliff, receiving a mortal hurt. The Spaniards were said to have entombed three hundred thousand dollars in gold near Natchez. A man to whom the secret had descended offered to reveal it, but, as he was a prisoner, his offer was laughed at. Afterward an empty vault was found where he said it would be. Somebody had accidentally opened it and had removed the treasure. Caverns have frequently been used as hiding-places for things of more or less value--generally less. Saltpetre Cave, in Georgia, for instance, was a factory and magazine for saltpetre, gunpowder, and other military stores during the Civil War. The Northern soldiers wrecked the potash works and broke away tons of rock, so as to make it dangerous to return. Human bones have been found here, too, but they are thought to be those of soldiers that entered the cave in pursuit of an Indian chief who had defied the State in the '40's. He escaped through a hole in the roof, doubled on his pursuers, fired a pile of dead leaves and wood at the mouth, and suffocated the white men with the smoke. Spaniards worked the mines in the Ozark Hills of Missouri two hundred years ago. One of the mines containing lead and silver, eighteen miles southwest of Galena, was worked by seven men, who could not agree as to a division of the yield. One by one they were killed in quarrels until but a single man was left, and he, in turn, was set upon by the resurrected victims and choked to death by their cold fingers. In 1873 a Vermonter named Johnson went there and said he would find what it was the Spaniards had been hiding, in spite of the devil and his imps. He did work there for one day, and was then found dead at the mouth of the old shaft with marks of bony fingers on his throat. The seven cities of Cibola, that Coronado and other Spanish adventurers sought in the vast deserts of the Southwest, were pueblos. A treacherous guide who had hoped to take Coronado into the waterless plain and lose him, but who first lost his own head, had told him a tale of the Quivira, a tribe that had much gold. So far from having gold these Indians did not know the stuff, but the myth that they had hoarded quantities of it has survived to this day and has caused waste of lives and money. Towns in New Mexico that have lain in ruins since 1670, when the Apaches butchered their people--towns that were well built and were lorded by solid old churches and monasteries erected by the Spanish missionaries--these towns have often been dug over, and the ruinous state of Abo, Curari, and Tabira is due, in part, to their foolish tunnelling and blasting. A Spanish bark, one day in 1841, put in for water off the spot where Columbia City, Oregon, now stands. She had a rough crew on board, and it had been necessary for her officers to watch the men closely from the time the latter discovered that she was carrying a costly cargo. Hardly had the anchorchains run out before the sailors fell upon the captain, killed him, seized all of value that they could gather, and took it to the shore. What happened after is not clear, but it is probable that in a quarrel, arising over the demands of each man to have most of the plunder, several of the claimants were slain. Indians were troublesome, likewise, so that it was thought best to put most of the goods into the ground, and this was done on the tract known as Hez Copier's farm. Hardly was the task completed before the Indians appeared in large numbers and set up their tepees, showing that they meant to remain. The mutineers rowed back to the ship, and, after vainly waiting for several days for a chance to go on shore again, they sailed away. Two years of wandering, fighting, and carousal ensued before the remnant of the crew returned to Oregon. The Indians were gone, and an earnest search was made for the money--but in vain. It was as if the ground had never been disturbed. The man who had supervised its burial was present until the mutineers went back to their boats, when it was discovered that he was mysteriously missing. More than forty years after these events a meeting of Spiritualists was held in Columbia City, and a "medium" announced that she had received a revelation of the exact spot where the goods had been concealed. A company went to the place, and, after a search of several days, found, under a foot of soil, a quantity of broken stone. While throwing out these fragments one of the party fell dead. The spirit of the defrauded and murdered captain had claimed him, the medium explained. So great was the fright caused by this accident that the search was again abandoned until March, 1890, when another party resumed the digging, and after taking out the remainder of the stone they came on a number of human skeletons. During the examination of these relics--possibly the bones of mutineers who had been killed in the fight on shore--a man fell into a fit of raving madness, and again the search was abandoned, for it is now said that an immutable curse rests on the treasure. STORIED WATERS, CLIFFS AND MOUNTAINS MONSTERS AND SEA-SERPENTS It is hardly to be wondered at that two prominent scientists should have declared on behalf of the sea-serpent, for that remarkable creature has been reported at so many points, and by so many witnesses not addicted to fish tales nor liquor, that there ought to be some reason for him. He has been especially numerous off the New England coast. He was sighted off Cape Ann in 1817, and several times off Nahant. Though alarming in appearance--for he has a hundred feet of body, a shaggy head, and goggle eyes--he is of lamb-like disposition, and has never justified the attempts that have been made to kill or capture him. Rewards were at one time offered to the seafaring men who might catch him, and revenue cutters cruising about Massachusetts Bay were ordered to keep a lookout for him and have a gun double shotted for action. One fisherman emptied the contents of a ducking gun into the serpent's head, as he supposed, but the creature playfully wriggled a few fathoms of its tail and made off. John Josselyn, gentleman, reports that when he stirred about this neighborhood in 1638 an enormous reptile was seen "quoiled up on a rock at Cape Ann." He would have fired at him but for the earnest dissuasion of his Indian guide, who declared that ill luck would come of the attempt. The sea-serpent sometimes shows amphibious tendencies and occasionally leaves the sea for fresh water. Two of him were seen in Devil's Lake, Wisconsin, in 1892, by four men. They confess, however, that they were fishing at the time. The snakes had fins and were a matter of fifty feet long. When one of these reptiles found the other in his vicinage he raised his head six feet above water and fell upon him tooth and nail--if he had nails. In their struggles these unpleasant neighbors made such waves that the fishermen's boat was nearly upset. Even the humble Wabash has its terror, for at Huntington, Indiana, three truthful damsels of the town saw its waters churned by a tail that splashed from side to side, while far ahead was the prow of the animal--a leonine skull, with whiskers, and as large as the head of a boy of a dozen years. As if realizing what kind of a report was going to be made about him, the monster was overcome with bashfulness at the sight of the maidens and sank from view. In April, 1890, a water-snake was reported in one of the Twin Lakes, in the Berkshire Hills, but the eye-witnesses of his sports let him off with a length of twenty-five feet. Sysladobosis Lake, in Maine, has a snake with a head like a dog's, but it is hardly worth mentioning because it is only eight feet long-hardly longer than the name of the lake. More enterprise is shown across the border, for Skiff Lake, New Brunswick, has a similar snake thirty feet long. In Cotton Mather's time a double-headed snake was found at Newbury, Massachusetts,--it had a head at each end,--and before it was killed it showed its evil disposition by chasing and striking at the lad who first met it. A snake haunts Wolf Pond, Pennsylvania, that is an alleged relic of the Silurian age. It was last seen in September, 1887, when it unrolled thirty feet of itself before the eyes of an alarmed spectator--again a fisherman. The beholder struck him with a pole, and in revenge the serpent capsized his boat; but he forbore to eat his enemy, and, diving to the bottom, disappeared. The creature had a black body, about six inches thick, ringed with dingy-yellow bands, and a mottled-green head, long and pointed, like a pike's. Silver Lake, near Gainesville, New York, was in 1855 reported to be the lair of a great serpent, and old settlers declare that he still comes to the surface now and then. A tradition among the poor whites of the South Jruns to the effect that the sea-monster that swallowed Jonah--not a whale, because the throat of that animal is hardly large enough to admit a herring--crossed the Atlantic and brought up at the Carolinas. His passenger was supplied with tobacco and beguiled the tedium of the voyage by smoking a pipe. The monster, being unused to that sort of thing, suffered as all beginners in nicotine poisoning do, and expelled the unhappy man with emphasis. On being safely landed, Jonah attached himself to one of the tribes that peopled the barrens, and left a white progeny which antedated Columbus's arrival by several centuries. God pitied the helplessness of these ignorant and uncourageous whites and led them to Looking-Glass Mountain, North Carolina, where He caused corn and game to be created, and while this race endured it lived in plenty. Santa Barbara Island, off the California coast, was, for a long time, the supposed head-quarters of swimming and flying monsters and sirens, and no Mexican would pass in hearing of the yells and screams and strange songs without crossing himself and begging the captain to give the rock a wide berth. But the noise is all the noise of cats. A shipwrecked tabby peopled the place many years ago, and her numerous progeny live there on dead fish and on the eggs and chicks of sea-fowl. Spirit Canon, a rocky gorge that extends for three miles along Big Sioux River, Iowa, was hewn through the stone by a spirit that took the form of a dragon. Such were its size and ferocity that the Indians avoided the place, lest they should fall victims to its ire. The Hurons believed in a monster serpent--Okniont--who wore a horn on his head that could pierce trees, rocks, and hills. A piece of this horn was an amulet of great value, for it insured good luck. The Zunis tell of a plumed serpent that lives in the water of sacred springs, and they dare not destroy the venomous creatures that infest the plains of Arizona because, to them, the killing of a snake means a reduction in their slender water-supply. The gods were not so kind to the snakes as men were, for the agatized trees of Chalcedony Park, in Arizona, are held to be arrows shot by the angry deities at the monsters who vexed this region. Indians living on the shore of Canandaigua Lake, New York, tamed a pretty spotted snake, and fed and petted it until it took a deer at a meal. It grew so large that it eventually encircled the camp and began to prey on its keepers. Vainly they tried to kill the creature, until a small boy took an arrow of red willow, anointed it with the blood of a young woman, and shot it from a basswood bow at the creature's heart. It did not enter at once; it merely stuck to the scales. But presently it began to bore and twist its way into the serpent's body. The serpent rolled into the lake and made it foam in its agony. It swallowed water and vomited it up again, with men dead and alive, before it died. The monster Amhuluk, whose home is a lake near Forked Mountain, Oregon, had but one passion-to catch and drown all things; and when you look into the lake you see that he has even drowned the sky in it, and has made the trees stand upside down in the water. Wherever he set his feet the ground would soften. As three children were digging roots at the edge of the water he fell on them and impaled two of them on his horns, the eldest only contriving to escape. When this boy reached home his body was full of blotches, and the father suspected how it was, yet he went to the lake at once. The bodies of the children came out of the mud at his feet to meet him, but went down again and emerged later across the water. They led him on in this way until he came to the place where they were drowned. A fog now began to steam up from the water, but through it he could see the little ones lifted on the monster's horns, and hear them cry, "We have changed our bodies." Five times they came up and spoke to him, and five times he raised a dismal cry and begged them to return, but they could not. Next morning he saw them rise through the fog again, and, building a camp, he stayed there and mourned for several days. For five days they showed themselves, but after that they went down and he saw and heard no more of them. Ambuluk had taken the children and they would live with him for ever after. Crater Lake, Oregon, was a haunt of water-devils who dragged into it and drowned all who ventured near. Only within a few years could Indians be persuaded to go to it as guides. Its discoverers saw in it the work of the Great Spirit, but could not guess its meaning. All but one of these Klamaths stole away after they had looked into its circular basin and sheer walls. He fancied that if it was a home of gods they might have some message for men, so camping on the brink of the lofty cliffs he waited. In his sleep a vision came to him, and he heard voices, but could neither make out appearances nor distinguish a word. Every night this dream was repeated. He finally went down to the lake and bathed, and instantly found his strength increased and saw that the people of his dreams were the genii of the waters--whether good or bad he could not guess. One day he caught a fish for food. A thousand water-devils came to the surface, on the instant, and seized him. They carried him to a rock on the north side of the lake, that stands two thousand feet above the water, and from that they dashed him down, gathering the remains of his shattered body below and devouring them. Since that taste they have been eager for men's blood. The rock on the south side of the lake, called the Phantom Ship, is believed by the Indians to be a destructive monster, innocent as it looks in the daytime. So with Rock Lake, in Washington. A hideous reptile sports about its waters and gulps down everything that it finds in or on them. Only in 1853 a band of Indians, who had fled hither for security against the soldiers, were overtaken by this creature, lashed to death, and eaten. The Indians of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Texas believed that the King Snake, or God Snake, lived in the Gulf of Mexico. It slept in a cavern of pure crystal at the bottom, and its head, being shaped from a solid emerald, lighted the ocean for leagues when it arose near the surface. Similar to this is the belief of the Cherokees in the kings of rattlesnakes, "bright old inhabitants" of the mountains that grew to a mighty size, and drew to themselves every creature that they looked upon. Each wore a crown of carbuncle of dazzling brightness. The Indians avoided Klamath Lake because it was haunted by a monster that was half dragon, half hippopotamus. Hutton Lake, Wyoming, is the home of a serpent queen, whose breathing may be seen in the bubbles that well up in the centre. She is constantly watching for her lover, but takes all men who come in her way to her grotto beneath the water, when she finds that they are not the one she has expected, and there they become her slaves. To lure victims into the lake she sets there a decoy of a beautiful red swan, and should the hunter kill this bird he will become possessed of divine power. Should he see "the woman," as the serpent queen is called, he will never live to tell of it, unless he has seen her from a hiding-place near the shore--for so surely as he is noticed by this Diana of the depths, so surely will her spies, the land snakes, sting him to death. In appearance she is a lovely girl in all but her face, and that is shaped like the head of a monster snake. Her name is never spoken by the Indians, for fear that it will cost them their lives. Michael Pauw, brave fisherman of Paterson, New Jersey, hero of the fight with the biggest snapping-turtle in Dover Slank, wearer of a scar on his seat of honor as memento of the conflict, member of the Kersey Reds--he whose presence of mind was shown in holding out a chip of St. Nicholas's staff when he met the nine witches of the rocks capering in the mists of Passaic Falls--gave battle from a boat to a monster that had ascended to the cataract. One of the Kersey Reds, leaning out too far, fell astride of the horny beast, and was carried at express speed, roaring with fright, until unhorsed by a projecting rock, up which he scrambled to safety. Falling to work with bayonets and staves, the company despatched the creature and dragged it to shore. One Dutchman--who was quite a traveller, having been as far from home as Albany--said that the thing was what the Van Rensselaers cut up for beef, and that he believed they called it a sturgeon. STONE-THROWING DEVILS There is an odd recurrence among American legends of tales relating to assaults of people or their houses by imps of darkness. The shadowy leaguers of Gloucester, Massachusetts, kept the garrison of that place in a state of fright until they were expelled from the neighborhood by a silver bullet and a chaplain's prayers. Witchcraft was sometimes manifested in Salem by the hurling of missiles from unseen hands. The "stone-throwing devil" of Portsmouth is the subject of a tradition more than two centuries of age, but, as the stone-thrower appears rather as an avenger than as a gratuitously malignant spirit, he is ill treated in having the name of devil applied to him. In this New Hampshire port lived a widow who had a cabin and a bit of land of her own. George Walton, a neighbor, wanted her land, for its situation pleased him, and as the old woman had neither money nor influential friends he charged her with witchcraft, and, whether by legal chicanery or mere force is not recorded, he got his hands upon her property. The charge of witchcraft was not pressed, because the man had obtained what he wanted, but the poor, houseless creature laid a ban on the place and told the thief that he would never have pleasure nor profit out of it. Walton laughed at her, bade her go her way, and moved his family into the widow's house. It was Sunday night, and the family had gone to bed, when at ten o'clock there came a fierce shock of stones against the roof and doors. All were awake in a moment. A first thought was that Indians were making an assault, but when the occupants peered cautiously into the moonlight the fields were seen to be deserted. Yet, even as they looked, a gate was lifted from its hinges and thrown through the air. Walton ventured out, but a volley of stones, seemingly from a hundred hands, was delivered at his head, and he ran back to shelter. Doors and windows were barred and shuttered, but it made no difference. Stones, too hot to hold a hand upon, were hurled through glass and down the chimney, objects in the rooms themselves were picked up and flung at Walton, candles were blown out, a hand without a body tapped at the window, locks and bars and keys were bent as if by hammer-blows, a cheese-press was smashed against the wall and the cheese spoiled, hay-stacks in the field were broken up and the hay tossed into branches of trees. For a long time Walton could not go out at night without being assailed with stones. Bell, book, candle, and witch-broth availed nothing, and it was many a day before peace came to the Walton household. In 1802 an epidemic of assault went through the Berkshire Hills. The performance began in a tailor's shop in Salisbury, Connecticut, at eleven of the clock on the night of November 2, when a stick and lumps of stone, charcoal, and mortar were flung through a window. The moon was up, but nothing could be seen, and the bombardment was continued until after daylight. After doing some damage here the assailants went to the house of Ezekiel Landon and rapped away there for a week. Persons were struck by the missiles, and quantities of glass were destroyed. Nothing could be seen coming toward the windows until the glass broke, and it was seldom that anything passed far into a room. No matter how hard it was thrown, it dropped softly and surely on the sill, inside, as if a hand had put it there. Windows were broken on both sides of buildings at the same time, and many sticks and stones came through the same holes in the panes, as if aimed carefully by a gunner. A hamlet that stood in Sage's ravine, on the east side of the Dome of the Taconics, was assailed in the same way after nightfall. One house was considerably injured. No causes for the performance were ever discovered, and nobody in the place was known to have an enemy--at least, a malicious one. At Whitmire Hill, Georgia, the spot where two murders were committed before the war, is a headless phantom that comes thundering down on the wayfarer on the back of a giant horse and vanishes at the moment when the heart of his prospective victim is bumping against his palate. At times, however, this spook prefers to remain invisible, and then it is a little worse, for it showers stones and sods on the pedestrian until his legs have carried him well beyond the phantom's jurisdiction. The legends of buried treasure, instanced in another place, frequently include assaults by the ghosts of pirates and misers on the daring ones who try to resurrect their wealth. Forty-seven years ago, in the township of St. Mary's, Illinois, two lads named Groves and a companion named Kirk were pelted with snowballs while on their way home from a barn where they had been to care for the stock for the night. The evening had shut in dark, and the accuracy of the thrower's aim was the more remarkable because it was hardly possible to see more than a rod away. The snowballs were packed so tightly that they did not break on striking, though they were thrown with force, and Kirk was considerably bruised by them. Mr. Groves went out with a lantern, but its rays lit up a field of untrodden snow, and there was no sound except that made by the wind as it whistled past the barn and fences. Toward dawn another inspection was made, and in the dim light the snowballs were seen rising from the middle of a field that had not a footprint on it, and flying toward the spectators like bullets. They ran into the field and laid about them with pitchforks, but nothing came of that, and not until the sun arose was the pelting stopped. Young Kirk, who was badly hurt, died within a year. The men of Sharon, Connecticut, having wheedled their town-site from the Indians in 1754, were plagued thereafter by whoops and whistlings and the throwing of stones. Men were seen in the starlight and were fired upon, but without effect, and the disturbances were not ended until the Indians had received a sum of money. Without presuming to doubt the veracity of tradition in these matters, an incident from the writer's boyhood in New England may be instanced. The house of an unpopular gentleman was assailed--not in the ostentatious manner just described, yet in a way that gave him a good deal of trouble. Dead cats appeared mysteriously in his neighborhood; weird noises arose under his windows; he tried to pick up letters from his doorstep that became mere chalk-marks at his touch, so that he took up only splinters under his nails. One night, as a seance was about beginning in his yard, he emerged from a clump of bushes, flew in the direction of the disturbance, laid violent hands on the writer's collar, and bumped his nose on a paving-stone. Then the manifestations were discontinued, for several nights, for repairs. STORIED SPRINGS Like the Greeks, the red men endowed the woods and waters with tutelary sprites, and many of the springs that are now resorted to as fountains of healing were known long before the settlement of Europeans here, the gains from drinking of them being ascribed to the beneficence of spirit guardians. The earliest comers to these shores--or, rather, the earliest of those who entertained such beliefs--fancied that the fabled fountain of eternal youth would be found among the other blessings of the land. To the Spaniards Florida was a land of promise and mystery. Somewhere in its interior was fabled to stand a golden city ruled by a king whose robes sparkled with precious dust, and this city was named for the adventurer--El Dorado, or the Place of the Gilded One. Here, they said, would be found the elixir of life. The beautiful Silver Spring, near the head of the Ocklawaha, with its sandy bottom plainly visible at the depth of eighty feet, was thought to be the source of the life-giving waters, but, though Ponce de Leon heard of this, he never succeeded in fighting his way to it through the jungle. In Georgia, in the reputed land of Chicora, were a sacred stream that made all young again who bathed there, and a spring so delectable that a band of red men, chancing on it in a journey, could not leave it, and are there forever. In the island of "Bimini," one of the Lucayos (Bahamas), was another such a fountain. Between the Flint and Ocmulgee Rivers the Creeks declared was a spring of life, on an island in a marsh, defended from approach by almost impenetrable labyrinths,--a heaven where the women were fairer than any other on earth. The romantic and superstitious Spaniards believed these legends, and spent years and treasure in searching for these springs. And, surely, if the new and striking scenes of this Western world caused Columbus to "boast that he had found the seat of paradise, it will not appear strange that Ponce de Leon should dream of discovering the fountain of youth." The Yuma Apaches had been warned by one of their oracles never to enter a certain canon in Castle Dome range, Arizona, but a company of them forgot this caution while in chase of deer, and found themselves between walls of pink and white fluorite with a spring bubbling at the head of the ravine. Tired and heated, they fell on their faces to drink, when they found that the crumbling quartz that formed the basin of the spring was filled with golden nuggets. Eagerly gathering up this precious substance, for they knew what treasure of beads, knives, arrows, and blankets the Mexicans would exchange for it, they attempted to make their way out of the canon; but a cloudburst came, and on the swiftly rising tide all were swept away but one, who survived to tell the story. White men have frequently but vainly tried to find that spring. In Southwestern Kansas, on a hill a quarter-mile from Solomon River, is the Sacred Water, pooled in a basin thirty feet across. When many stand about the brink it slowly rises. Here two Panis stopped on their return from a buffalo hunt, and one of them unwittingly stepped on a turtle a yard long. Instantly he felt his feet glued to the monster's back, for, try as he might, he could not disengage himself, and the creature lumbered away to the pool, where it sank with him. There the turtle god remains, and beads, arrows, ear-rings, and pipes that are dropped in, it swallows greedily. The Indians use the water to mix their paint with, but never for drinking. The mail rider, crossing the hot desert of Arizona, through the cacti and over holes where scorpions hide, makes for Devil's Well, under El Diablo--a dark pool surrounded with gaunt rocks. Here, coming when the night is on, he lies down, and the wind swishing in the sage--brush puts him to sleep. At dawn he wakens with the frightened whinny of his horse in his ears and, all awake, looks about him. A stranger, wrapped in a tattered blanket, is huddled in a recess of the stones, arrived there, like himself, at night, perhaps. Poising his rifle on his knee, the rider challenges him, but never a sign the other makes. Then, striding over to him, he pulls away the blanket and sees a shrivelled corpse with a face that he knows--his brother. Hardly is this meeting made when a hail of arrows falls around. His horse is gone. The Apaches, who know no gentleness and have no mercy, have manned every gap and sheltering rock. With his rifle he picks them off, as they rise in sight with arrows at the string, and sends them tumbling into the dust; but, when his last bullet has sped into a red man's heart, they rise in a body and with knives and hatchets hew him to death. And that is why the Devil's Well still tastes of blood. Among the Balsam Mountains of Western North Carolina is a large spring that promises refreshment, but, directly that the wayfarer bends over the water, a grinning face appears at the bottom and as he stoops it rises to meet his. So hideous is this demon that few of the mountaineers have courage to drink here, and they refuse to believe that the apparition is caused by the shape of the basin, or aberrated reflection of their own faces. They say it is the visage of a "haunt," for a Cherokee girl, who had uncommon beauty, once lived hard by, and took delight in luring lovers from less favored maidens. The braves were jealous of each other, and the women were jealous of her, while she--the flirt!--rejoiced in the trouble that she made. A day fell for a wedding--that of a hunter with a damsel of his tribe, but at the hour appointed the man was missing. Mortified and hurt, the bride stole away from the village and began a search of the wood, and she carried bow and arrows in her hand. Presently she came on the hunter, lying at the feet of the coquette, who was listening to his words with encouraging smiles. Without warning the deserted girl drew an arrow to the head and shot her lover through the heart--then, beside his lifeless body, she begged Manitou to make her rival's face so hideous that all would be frightened who looked at it. At the words the beautiful creature felt her face convulse and shrivel, and, rushing to the mirror of the spring, she looked in, only to start back in loathing. When she realized that the frightful visage that glared up at her was her own, she uttered a cry of despair and flung herself into the water, where she drowned. It is her face--so altered as to disclose the evil once hid behind it--that peers up at the hardy one who passes there and knows it as the Haunted Spring. The medicinal properties of the mineral springs at Ballston and Saratoga were familiar to the Indians, and High Rock Spring, to which Sir William Johnson was carried by the Mohawks in 1767 to be cured of a wound, was called "the medicine spring of the Great Spirit," for it was believed that the leaping and bubbling of the water came from its agitation by hands not human, and red men regarded it with reverence. The springs at Manitou, Colorado (see "Division of Two Tribes"), were always approached with gifts for the manitou that lived in them. The lithia springs of Londonderry, New Hampshire, used to be visited by Indians from the Merrimack region, who performed incantations and dances to ingratiate themselves with the healing spirit that lived in the water. Their stone implements and arrow-heads are often found in adjacent fields. The curative properties of Milford Springs, New Hampshire, were revealed in the dream of a dying boy. A miracle spring flowed in the old days near the statue of the Virgin at White Marsh, Maryland. Biddeford Pool, Maine, was a miracle pond once a year, for whoso bathed there on the 26th of June would be restored to health if he were ill, because that day was the joint festival of Saints Anthelm and Maxentius. There was a wise and peaceable chief of the Ute tribe who always counselled his people to refrain from war, but when he grew old the fiery spirits deposed him and went down to the plains to give battle to the Arapahoe. News came that they had been defeated in consequence of their rashness. Then the old man's sorrow was so keen that his heart broke. But even in death he was beneficent, for his spirit entered the earth and forthwith came a gush of water that has never ceased to flow--the Hot Sulphur Springs of Colorado. The Utes often used to go to those springs to bathe--and be cured of rheumatism--before they were driven away. Spring River, Arkansas, is nearly as large at its source as at its mouth, for Mammoth Spring, in the Ozark Mountains, where it has its rise, has a yield of ninety thousand gallons a minute, so that it is, perhaps, the largest in the world. Here, three hundred years ago, the Indians had gathered for a month's feast, for chief Wampahseesah's daughter--Nitilita--was to wed a brave of many ponies, a hundred of which he had given in earnest of his love. For weeks no rain had fallen, and, while the revel was at its height, news came that all the rivers had gone dry. Several young men set off with jars, to fill them at the Mississippi, and, confident that relief would come, the song and dance went on until the men and women faltered from exhaustion. At last, Nitilita died, and, in the wildness of his grief, the husband smote his head upon a rock and perished too. Next day the hunters came with water, but, incensed by their delay, the chief ordered them to be slain in sacrifice to the manes of the dead. A large grave was dug and the last solemnities were begun when there was a roaring and a shaking in the earth--it parted, and the corpses disappeared in the abyss. Then from the pit arose a flood of water that went foaming down the valley. Crazed with grief, remorse, and fear, Wampahseesah flung himself into the torrent and was borne to his death. The red men built a dam there later, and often used to sit before it in the twilight, watching, as they declared, the faces of the dead peering at them through the foam. During the rush for the California gold-fields in the '50's a party took the route by Gila River, and set across the desert. The noon temperature was 120, the way was strewn with skeletons of wagons, horses, and men, and on the second night after crossing the Colorado the water had given out. The party had gathered on the sands below Yuma, the men discussing the advisability of returning, the women full of apprehension, the young ones crying, the horses panting; but presently the talk fell low, for in one of the wagons a child's voice was heard in prayer: "Oh, good heavenly Father, I know I have been a naughty girl, but I am so thirsty, and mamma and papa and baby all want a drink so much! Do, good God, give us water, and I never will be naughty again." One of the men said, earnestly, "May God grant it!" In a few moments the child cried, "Mother, get me water. Get some for baby and me. I can hear it running." The horses and mules nearly broke from the traces, for almost at their feet a spring had burst from the sand-warm, but pure. Their sufferings were over. The water continued to flow, running north for twenty miles, and at one point spreading into a lake two miles wide and twenty feet deep. When emigration was diverted, two years later, to the northern route and to the isthmus, New River Spring dried up. Its mission was over. LOVERS' LEAPS So few States in this country--and so few countries, if it comes to that--are without a lover's leap that the very name has come to be a by-word. In most of these places the disappointed ones seem to have gone to elaborate and unusual pains to commit suicide, neglecting many easy and equally appropriate methods. But while in some cases the legend has been made to fit the place, there is no doubt that in many instances the story antedated the arrival of the white men. The best known lovers' leaps are those on the upper Mississippi, on the French Broad, Jump Mountain, in Virginia, Jenny Jump Mountain, New Jersey, Mackinac, Michigan, Monument Mountain, Massachusetts, on the Wissahickon, near Philadelphia, Muscatine, Iowa, and Lefferts Height. There are many other declivities,--also, that are scenes of leaps and adventures, such as the Fawn's Leap, in Kaaterskill Clove; Rogers's Rock, on Lake George; the rocks in Long Narrows, on the Juniata, where the ghost of Captain Jack, "the wild hunter" of colonial days, still ranges; Campbell's Ledge, Pittston, Pennsylvania, where its name-giver jumped off to escape Indians; and Peabody's leap, of thirty feet, on Lake Champlain, where Tim Peabody, a scout, escaped after killing a number of savages. At Jump Mountain, near Lexington, Virginia, an Indian couple sprang off because there were insuperable bars to their marriage. At the rock on the Wissahickon a girl sought death because her lover was untrue to her. At Muscatine the cause of a maid's demise and that of her lover was the severity of her father, who forbade the match because there was no war in which the young man could prove his courage. At Lefferts Height a girl stopped her recreant lover as he was on his way to see her rival, and urging his horse to the edge of the bluff she leaped with him into the air. Monument Mountain, a picturesque height in the Berkshires, is faced on its western side by a tall precipice, from which a girl flung herself because the laws of her tribe forbade her marriage with a cousin to whom she had plighted troth. She was buried where her body was found, and each Indian as he passed the spot laid a stone on her grave--thus, in time, forming a monument. "Purgatory," the chasm at Newport, Rhode Island, through which the sea booms loudly after a storm, was a scene of self-sacrifice to a hopeless love on the part of an Indian pair in a later century, though there is an older tradition of the seizure of a guilty squaw, by no less a person than the devil himself, who flung her from the cliff and dragged her soul away as it left her body. His hoof-marks were formerly visible on the rocks. At Hot Springs, North Carolina, two conspicuous cliffs are pointed out on the right bank of the French Broad River: Paint Rock--where the aborigines used to get ochre to smear their faces, and which they decorated with hieroglyphics--and Lover's Leap. It is claimed that the latter is the first in this country known to bear this sentimental and tragically suggestive title. There are two traditions concerning it, one being that an Indian girl was discovered at its top by hostiles who drove her into the gulf below, the other relating to the wish of an Indian to marry a girl of a tribe with which his own had been immemorially at war. The match was opposed on both sides, so, instead of doing as most Indians and some white men would do nowadays--marry the girl and let reconciliation come in time,--he scaled the rock in her company and leaped with her into the stream. They awoke as man and wife in the happy hunting-ground. In 1700 there lived in the village of Keoxa, below Frontenac, Minnesota, on the Mississippi River, a Dakota girl named Winona (the First Born), who was loved by a hunter in her tribe, and loved him in return. Her friends commended to her affections a young chief who had valiantly defended the village against an attack of hostiles, but Juliet would none of this dusky Count de Paris, adhering faithfully to her Romeo. Unable to move her by argument, her family at length drove her lover away, and used other harsh measures to force her into a repugnant union, but she replied, "You are driving me to despair. I do not love this chief, and cannot live with him. You are my father, my brothers, my relatives, yet you drive from me the only man with whom I wish to be united. Alone he ranges through the forest, with no one to build his lodge, none to spread his blanket, none to wait on him. Soon you will have neither daughter, sister, nor relative to torment with false professions." Blazing with anger at this unsubmissive speech, her father declared that she should marry the chief on that very day, but while the festival was in preparation she stole to the top of the crag that has since been known as Maiden's Rock, and there, four hundred feet above the heads of the people, upbraided those who had formerly professed regard for her. Then she began her death-song. Some of the men tried to scale the cliff and avert the tragedy that it was evident would shortly be enacted, and her father, his displeasure forgotten in an agony of apprehension, called to her that he would no longer oppose her choice. She gave no heed to their appeals, but, when the song was finished, walked to the edge of the rock, leaped out, and rolled lifeless at the feet of her people. When we say that the real name of Lover's Leap in Mackinac is Mechenemockenungoqua, we trust that it will not be repeated. It has its legend, however, as well as its name, for an Ojibway girl stood on this spire of rock, watching for her lover after a battle had been fought and her people were returning. Eagerly she scanned the faces of the braves as their war-canoes swept by, but the face she looked for was not among them. Her lover was at that moment tied to a tree, with an arrow in his heart. As she looked at the boats a vision of his fate revealed itself, and the dead man, floating toward her, beckoned. Her death-song sounded in the ears of the men, but before they could reach her she had gone swiftly to the verge, her hands extended, her eyes on vacancy, and her spirit had met her lover's. From this very rock, in olden time, leaped the red Eve when the red Adam had been driven away by a devil who had fallen in love with her. Adam, who was paddling by the shore, saw she was about to fall, rushed forward, caught her, and saved her life. The law of gravitation in those days did not act with such distressing promptitude as now. Manitou, hearing of these doings, restored them to the island and banished the devil, who fell to a world of evil spirits underground, where he became the father of the white race, and has ever since persecuted the Indians by proxy. On the same island of Mackinac the English had a fort, the garrison of which was massacred in 1763. A sole survivor--a young officer named Robinson--owed his life to a pretty half-breed who gave him hiding in a secluded wigwam. As the spot assured him of safety, and the girl was his only companion, they lived together as man and wife, rather happily, for several years. When the fort had been built again, Robinson re-entered the service, and appeared at head-quarters with a wife of his own color. His Indian consort showed no jealousy. On the contrary, she consented to live apart in a little house belonging to the station, on the cliff, called Robinson's Folly. She did ask her lover to go there and sit with her for an hour before they separated forever, and he granted this request. While they stood at the edge of the rock she embraced him; then, stepping back, with her arms still around his neck, she fell from the cliff, dragging him with her, and both were killed. The edge of the rock fell shortly after, carrying the house with it. Matiwana, daughter of the chief of the Omahas, whose village was near the mouth of Omaha Creek, married a faithless trader from St. Louis, who had one wife already, and who returned to her, after an absence among his own people, with a third, a woman of his own color. He coldly repelled the Indian woman, though he promised to send her boy--and his--to the settlements to be educated. She turned away with only a look, and a few days later was found dead at the foot of a bluff near her home. White Rocks, one hundred and fifty feet above Cheat River, in Fayette County, Pennsylvania, were the favorite tryst of a handsome girl, the daughter of a well-to-do farmer of that region, and a dashing fellow who had gone into that country to hunt. They had many happy days there on the hill together, but after making arrangements for the wedding they quarrelled, nobody knew for what. One evening they met by accident on the rocks, and appeared to be in formal talk when night came on and they could no longer be seen. The girl did not return, and her father set off with a search party to look for her. They found her, dead and mangled, at the foot of the rocks. Her lover, in a fit of impatience, had pushed her and she had staggered and fallen over. He fled at once, and, under a changed name and changed appearance, eluded pursuit. When the War of the Rebellion broke out, he entered the army and fought recklessly, for by that time he had tired of life and hoped to die. But it was of no use. He was only made captain for a bravery that he was not conscious of showing, and the old remorse still preyed on him. It was after the war that something took him back to Fayette County, and on a pleasant day he climbed the rocks to take a last look at the scenes that had been brightened by love and saddened by regret. He had not been long on its summit when an irresistible impulse came upon him to leap down where the girl had fallen, and atone with his own blood for the shedding of hers. He gave way to this prompting, and the fall was fatal. Some years before the outbreak of the Civil War a man with his wife and daughter took up their residence in a log cabin at the foot of Sunrise Rock, near Chattanooga, Tennessee. It seemed probable that they had known better days, for the head of the household was notoriously useless in the eyes of his neighbors, and was believed to get his living through "writin' or book-larnin'," but he was so quiet and gentle that they never upbraided him, and would sometimes, after making a call, wander into his garden and casually weed it for him for an hour or so. The girl, Stella, was a well-schooled, quick-witted, rosy-cheeked lass, whom all the shaggy, big-jointed farmer lads of the neighborhood regarded with hopeless admiration. A year or two after the settlement of the family it began to be noticed that she was losing color and had an anxious look, and when a friendly old farmer saw her talking in the lane with a lawyer from Chattanooga, who wore broadcloth and had a gold watch, he was puzzled that the "city chap" did not go home with her, but kissed his hand to her as he turned away. Afterward the farmer met the pair again, and while the girl smiled and said, "Howdy, Uncle Joe?" the lawyer turned away and looked down the river. It was the last time that a smile was seen on Stella's face. A few evenings later she was seen standing on Sunrise Rock, with her look bent on Chattanooga. The shadow of night crept up the cliff until only her figure stood in sunlight, with her hair like a golden halo about her face. At that moment came on the wind the sound of bells-wedding-bells. Pressing her hands to her ears, the girl walked to the edge of the rock, and a few seconds later her lifeless form rolled through the bushes at its foot into the road. At her funeral the people came from far and near to offer sympathy to the mother, garbed in black, and the father, with his hair turned white, but the lawyer from Chattanooga was not there. The name of Indian Maiden's Cliff--applied to a precipice that hangs above the wild ravine of Stony Clove, in the Catskills--commemorates the sequel to an elopement from her tribe of an Indian girl and her lover. The parents and relatives had opposed the match with that fatal fatuity that appears to be characteristic of story-book Indians, and as soon as word of her flight came to the village they set off in chase. While hurrying through the tangled wood the young couple were separated and the girl found herself on the edge of the cliff. Farther advance was impossible. Her pursuers were close behind. She must yield or die. She chose not to yield, and, with a despairing cry, flung herself into the shadows. Similar to this is the tale of Lover's Leap in the dells of the Sioux, among the Black Hills of South Dakota. At New Milford, Connecticut, they show you Falls Mountain, with the cairn erected by his tribe in 1735 to chief Waramaug, who wished to be buried there, so that, when he was cold and lonely in the other life, he could return to his body and muse on the lovely landscape that he so enjoyed. The will-o'-the-wisp flickered on the mountain's edge at night, and flecks of dew-vapor that floated from the wood by day were sometimes thought to be the spirit of the chief. He had a daughter, Lillinonah, whose story is related to Lover's Leap, on the riverward side of the mountain. She had led to the camp a white man, who had been wandering beside the Housatonic, ill and weak, vainly seeking a way out of the wilderness, and, in spite of the dark looks that were cast at him and her, she succeeded in making him, for that summer, a member of the tribe. As the man grew strong with her care he grew happy and he fell in love. In the autumn he said to her, "I wish to see my people, and when I have done so I will come back to you and we shall be man and wife." They parted regretfully and the winter passed for the girl on leaden feet. With spring came hope. The trails were open, and daily she watched for her white lover. The summer came and went, and the autumn was there again. She had grown pale and sad, and old Waramaug said to young Eagle Feather, who had looked softly on her for many years, "The girl sickens in loneliness. You shall wed her." This is repeated to her, and that evening she slips away to the river, enters a canoe, casts away the paddle, and drifts down the stream. Slowly, at first, but faster and faster, as the rapids begin to draw it, skims the boat, but above the hoarse brawling of the waters she hears a song in a voice that she knows--the merry troll of a light heart. The branches part at Lover's Leap and her lover looks down upon her. The joyous glance of recognition changes to a look of horror, for the boat is caught. The girl rises and holds her arms toward him in agonized appeal. Life, at any cost! He, with a cry, leaps into the flood as the canoe is passing. It lurches against a rock and Lillinonah is thrown out. He reaches her. The falls bellow in their ears. They take a last embrace, and two lives go out in the growing darkness. GOD ON THE MOUNTAINS From the oldest time men have associated the mountains with visitations of God. Their height, their vastness, their majesty made them seem worthy to be stairs by which the Deity might descend to earth, and they stand in religious and poetic literature to this day as symbols of the largest mental conceptions. Scriptural history is intimately associated with them, and the giving of the law on Sinai, amid thunder and darkness, is one of the most tremendous pictures that imagination can paint. Ararat, Hermon, Horeb, Pisgah, Calvary, Adam's Peak, Parnassus, Olympus! How full of suggestion are these names! And poetic figures in sacred writings are full of allusion to the beauty, nobility, and endurance of the hills. It is little known that many of our own mountains are associated with aboriginal legends of the Great Spirit. According to the Indians of California, Mount Shasta was the first part of the earth to be made. The Great Spirit broke a hole through the floor of heaven with a rock, and on the spot where this rock had stopped he flung down more rocks, with earth and snow and ice, until the mass had gained such a height that he could step from the sky to its summit. Running his hands over its sides he caused forests to spring up. The leaves that he plucked he breathed upon, tossed into the air, and, lo! they were birds. Out of his own staff he made beasts and fishes, to live on the hills and in the streams, that began to appear as the work of worldbuilding went on. The earth became so joyous and so fair that he resolved at last to live on it, and he hollowed Shasta into a wigwam, where he dwelt for centuries, the smoke of his lodge-fire (Shasta is a volcano) being often seen pouring from the cone before the white man came. According to the Oregon Indians the first man was created at the base of the Cascade Range, near Wood River, by Kmukamtchiksh, "the old man of the ancients," who had already made the world. The Klamaths believe Kmukamtchiksh a treacherous spirit, "a typical beast god," yet that he punishes the wicked by turning them into rocks on the mountain-sides or by putting them into volcanic fires. Sinsinawa Mound, Wisconsin, was the home of strange beings who occupied caverns that few dared to enter. Enchanted rivers flowed through these caves to heaven. The Catskills and Adirondacks were abodes of powerful beings, and the Highlands of the Hudson were a wall within which Manitou confined a host of rebellious spirits. When the river burst through this bulwark and poured into the sea, fifty miles below, these spirits took flight, and many succeeded in escaping. But others still haunt the ravines and bristling woods, and when Manitou careers through the Hudson canon on his car of cloud, crying with thunder voice, and hurling his lightnings to right and left as he passes, the demons scream and howl in rage and fear lest they be recaptured and shut up forever beneath the earth. The White Mountains were held in awe by Indians, to whom they were homes of great and blessed spirits. Mount Washington was their Olympus and Ararat in one, for there dwelt God, and there, when the earth was covered with a flood, lived the chief and his wife, whom God had saved, sending forth a hare, after the waters had subsided, to learn if it were safe to descend. From them the whole country was peopled with red men. Yet woe betide the intruder on this high and holy ground, for an angered deity condemned him to wander for ages over the desolate peaks and through the shadowy chasms rifted down their sides. The despairing cries of these condemned ones, in winter storms, even frightened the early white settlers in this region, and in 1784 the women of Conway petitioned three clergymen "to lay the spirits." Other ark and deluge legends relate to the Superstition Mountains, in Arizona, Caddoes village, on Red River, Cerro Naztarny, on the Rio Grande, the peak of Old Zuni, in Mexico, Colhuacan, on the Pacific coast, Mount Apaola, in upper Mixteca, and Mount Neba, in Guaymi. The Northwestern Indians tell of a flood in which all perished save one man, who fled to Mount Tacoma. To prevent him from being swept away a spirit turned him into stone. When the flood had fallen the deity took one of his ribs and made a woman of it. Then he touched the stone man back to life. There were descendants of Manitou on the mountains, too, of North Carolina, but the Cherokees believe that those heights are bare because the devil strode over them on his way to the Devil's Court House (Transylvania County, North Carolina), where he sat in judgment and claimed his own. Monsters were found in the White Mountains. Devil's Den, on the face of Mount Willard, was the lair of one of them--a strange, winged creature that strewed the floor of its cave with brute and human skeletons, after preying on their flesh. The ideas of supernatural occurrences in these New Hampshire hills obtained until a recent date, and Sunday Mountain is a monument to the dire effects of Sabbath-breaking that was pointed out to several generations of New Hampshire youth for their moral betterment. The story goes that a man of the adjacent town of Oxford took a walk one Sunday, when he should have taken himself to church; and, straying into the woods here, he was delivered into the claws and maws of an assemblage of bears that made an immediate and exemplary conclusion of him. The grand portrait in rock in Profile Notch was regarded with reverence by the few red men who ventured into that lonely defile. When white men saw it they said it resembled Washington, and a Yankee orator is quoted as saying, "Men put out signs representing their different trades. Jewellers hang out a monster watch, shoemakers a huge boot, and, up in Franconia, God Almighty has hung out a sign that in New England He makes men." To Echo Lake, close by, the deity was wont to repair that he might contemplate the beauties of nature, and the clear, repeated echoes were his voice, speaking in gentleness or anger. Moosilauke--meaning a bald place, and wrongly called Moose Hillock--was declared by Waternomee, chief of the Pemigewassets, to be the home of the Great Spirit, and the first time that red men tried to gain the summit they returned in fear, crying that Gitche Manitou was riding home in anger on a storm--which presently, indeed, burst over the whole country. Few Indians dared to climb the mountain after that, and the first fruits of the harvest and first victims of the chase were offered in propitiation to the deity. At Seven Cascades, on its eastern slope, one of Rogers's Rangers, retreating after the Canadian foray, fell to the ground, too tired for further motion, when a distant music of harps mingled with the cascade's plash, and directly the waters were peopled with forms glowing with silver-white, like the moonstone, that rose and circled, hand in hand, singing gayly as they did so. The air then seemed to be flooded with rosy light and thousands of sylvan genii ascended altars of rock, by steps of rainbow, to offer incense and greet the sun with song. A dark cloud passed, daylight faded, and a vision arose of the massacre at St. Francis, a retreat through untried wilderness, a feast on human heads, torture, and death; then his senses left the worn and starving man. But a trapper who had seen his trail soon reached him and led him to a friendly settlement, where he was told that only to those who were about to take their leave of earth was it given to know those spirits of fountain and forest that offered their voices, on behalf of nature, in praise of the Great Spirit. To those of grosser sense, on whom the weight of worldliness still rested, this halcyon was never revealed. It was to Mount Washington that the Great Spirit summoned Passaconaway, when his work was done, and there was his apotheosis. The Indians account in this manner for the birth of the White Mountains: A red hunter who had wandered for days through the forest without finding game dropped exhausted on the snow, one night, and awaited death. But he fell asleep and dreamed. In his vision he saw a beautiful mountain country where birds and beasts and fruits were plenty, and, awaking from his sleep, he found that day had come. Looking about the frozen wilderness in despair, he cried, "Great Master of Life, where is this country that I have seen?" And even as he spoke the Master appeared and gave to him a spear and a coal. The hunter dropped the coal on the ground, when a fire spread from it, the rocks burning with dense smoke, out of which came the Master's voice, in thunder tones, bidding the mountains rise. The earth heaved and through the reek the terrified man saw hills and crags lifting--lifting--until their tops reached above the clouds, and from the far summits sounded the promise, "Here shall the Great Spirit live and watch over his children." Water now burst from the rocks and came laughing down the hollows in a thousand brooks and rills, the valleys unfolded in leaf and bloom, birds sang in the branches, butterflies-like winged flowers flitted to and fro, the faint and cheerful noise of insect life came from the herbage, the smoke rolled away, a genial sun blazed out, and, as the hunter looked in rapture on the mighty peaks of the Agiochooks, God stood upon their crest. 
53915	----	Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously made available by Cornell University Digital Collections) FOLK-LORE OF WEST AND MID-WALES BY JONATHAN CEREDIG DAVIES Member of the Folk-Lore Society, Author of "Adventures in the Land of Giants," "Western Australia," &c. With a Preface BY ALICE, COUNTESS AMHERST. "Cared doeth yr encilion." ABERYSTWYTH: PRINTED AT THE "WELSH GAZETTE" OFFICES, BRIDGE STREET. 1911. This book is respectfully dedicated by the Author to COUNTESS OF LISBURNE, CROSSWOOD. ALICE, COUNTESS AMHERST. LADY ENID VAUGHAN. LADY WEBLEY-PARRY-PRYSE, GOGERDDAN. LADY HILLS-JOHNES OF DOLAUCOTHY. MRS. HERBERT DAVIES-EVANS, HIGHMEAD. MRS. WILLIAM BEAUCLERK POWELL, NANTEOS. PREFACE BY ALICE, COUNTESS AMHERST. The writer of this book lived for many years in the Welsh Colony, Patagonia, where he was the pioneer of the Anglican Church. He published a book dealing with that part of the world, which also contained a great deal of interesting matter regarding the little known Patagonian Indians, Ideas on Religion and Customs, etc. He returned to Wales in 1891; and after spending a few years in his native land, went out to a wild part of Western Australia, and was the pioneer Christian worker in a district called Colliefields, where he also built a church. (No one had ever conducted Divine Service in that place before.) Here again, he found time to write his experiences, and his book contained a great deal of value to the Folklorist, regarding the aborigines of that country, quite apart from the ordinary account of Missionary enterprise, history and prospects of Western Australia, etc. In 1901, Mr. Ceredig Davies came back to live in his native country, Wales. In Cardiganshire, and the centre of Wales, generally, there still remains a great mass of unrecorded Celtic Folk Lore, Tradition, and Custom. Thus it was suggested that if Mr. Ceredig Davies wished again to write a book--the material for a valuable one lay at his door if he cared to undertake it. His accurate knowledge of Welsh gave him great facility for the work. He took up the idea, and this book is the result of his labours. The main object has been to collect "verbatim," and render the Welsh idiom into English as nearly as possible these old stories still told of times gone by. The book is in no way written to prove, or disprove, any of the numerous theories and speculations regarding the origin of the Celtic Race, its Religion or its Traditions. The fundamental object has been to commit to writing what still remains of the unwritten Welsh Folk Lore, before it is forgotten, and this is rapidly becoming the case. The subjects are divided on the same lines as most of the books on Highland and Irish Folk Lore, so that the student will find little trouble in tracing the resemblance, or otherwise, of the Folk Lore in Wales with that of the two sister countries. ALICE AMHERST. Plas Amherst, Harlech, North Wales, 1911. INTRODUCTION. Welsh folk-lore is almost inexhaustible, and of great importance to the historian and others. Indeed, without a knowledge of the past traditions, customs and superstitions of the people, the history of a country is not complete. In this book I deal chiefly with the three counties of Cardiganshire, Carmarthenshire, and Pembrokeshire, technically known in the present day as "West Wales"; but as I have introduced so many things from the counties bordering on Cardigan and Carmarthen, such as Montgomery, Radnor, Brecon, etc., I thought proper that the work should be entitled, "The Folk-Lore of West and Mid-Wales." Although I have been for some years abroad, in Patagonia, and Australia, yet I know almost every county in my native land; and there is hardly a spot in the three counties of Carmarthen, Cardigan, and Pembroke that I have not visited during the last nine years, gathering materials for this book from old people and others who were interested in such subject, spending three or four months in some districts. All this took considerable time and trouble, not to mention of the expenses in going about; but I generally walked much, especially in the remote country districts, but I feel I have rescued from oblivion things which are dying out, and many things which have died out already. I have written very fully concerning the old Welsh Wedding and Funeral Customs, and obtained most interesting account of them from aged persons. The "Bidder's Song," by Daniel Ddu, which first appeared in the "Cambrian Briton" 1822, is of special interest. Mrs. Loxdale, of Castle Hill, showed me a fine silver cup which had been presented to this celebrated poet. I have also a chapter on Fairies; but as I found that Fairy Lore has almost died out in those districts which I visited, and the traditions concerning them already recorded, I was obliged to extract much of my information on this subject from books, though I found a few new fairy stories in Cardiganshire. But as to my chapters about Witches, Wizards, Death Omens, I am indebted for almost all my information to old men and old women whom I visited in remote country districts, and I may emphatically state that I have not embellished the stories, or added to anything I have heard; and care has been taken that no statement be made conveying an idea different from what has been heard. Indeed, I have in nearly all instances given the names, and even the addresses of those from whom I obtained my information. If there are a few Welsh idioms in the work here and there, the English readers must remember that the information was given me in the Welsh language by the aged peasants, and that I have faithfully endeavoured to give a literal rendering of the narrative. About 350 ladies and gentlemen have been pleased to give their names as subscribers to the book, and I have received kind and encouraging letters from distinguished and eminent persons from all parts of the kingdom, and I thank them all for their kind support. I have always taken a keen interest in the History and traditions of my native land, which I love so well; and it is very gratifying that His Royal Highness, the young Prince of Wales, has so graciously accepted a genealogical table, in which I traced his descent from Cadwaladr the Blessed, the last Welsh prince who claimed the title of King of Britain. I undertook to write this book at the suggestion and desire of Alice, Countess Amherst, to whom I am related, and who loves all Celtic things, especially Welsh traditions and legends; and about nine or ten years ago, in order to suggest the "lines of search," her Ladyship cleverly put together for me the following interesting sketch or headings, which proved a good guide when I was beginning to gather Folk-Lore:-- (1) Traditions of Fairies. (2) Tales illustrative of Fairy Lore. (3) Tutelary Beings. (4) Mermaids and Mermen. (5) Traditions of Water Horses out of lakes, if any? (6) Superstitions about animals:--Sea Serpents, Magpie, Fish, Dog, Raven, Cuckoo, Cats, etc. (7) Miscellaneous:--Rising, Clothing, Baking, Hen's first egg; Funerals; Corpse Candles; On first coming to a house on New Year's Day; on going into a new house; Protection against Evil Spirits; ghosts haunting places, houses, hills and roads; Lucky times, unlucky actions. (8) Augury:--Starting on a journey; on seeing the New Moon. (9) Divination; Premonitions; Shoulder Blade Reading; Palmistry; Cup Reading. (10) Dreams and Prophecies; Prophecies of Merlin and local ones. (11) Spells and Black Art:--Spells, Black Art, Wizards, Witches. (12) Traditions of Strata Florida, King Edward burning the Abbey, etc. (13) Marriage Customs.--What the Bride brings to the house; The Bridegroom. (14) Birth Customs. (15) Death Customs. (16) Customs of the Inheritance of farms; and Sheep Shearing Customs. Another noble lady who was greatly interested in Welsh Antiquities, was the late Dowager Lady Kensington; and her Ladyship, had she lived, intended to write down for me a few Pembrokeshire local traditions that she knew in order to record them in this book. In an interesting long letter written to me from Bothwell Castle, Lanarkshire, dated September 9th, 1909, her Ladyship, referring to Welsh Traditions and Folk-Lore, says:--"I always think that such things should be preserved and collected now, before the next generation lets them go! ... I am leaving home in October for India, for three months." She did leave home for India in October, but sad to say, died there in January; but her remains were brought home and buried at St. Bride's, Pembrokeshire. On the date of her death I had a remarkable dream, which I have recorded in this book, see page 277. I tender my very best thanks to Evelyn, Countess of Lisburne, for so much kindness and respect, and of whom I think very highly as a noble lady who deserves to be specially mentioned; and also the young Earl of Lisburne, and Lady Enid Vaughan, who have been friends to me even from the time when they were children. I am equally indebted to Colonel Davies-Evans, the esteemed Lord Lieutenant of Cardiganshire, and Mrs. Davies-Evans, in particular, whose kindness I shall never forget. I have on several occasions had the great pleasure and honour of being their guest at Highmead. I am also very grateful to my warm friends the Powells of Nanteos, and also to Mrs. A. Crawley-Boevey, Birchgrove, Crosswood, sister of Countess Lisburne. Other friends who deserve to be mentioned are, Sir Edward and Lady Webley-Parry-Pryse, of Gogerddan; Sir John and Lady Williams, Plas, Llanstephan (now of Aberystwyth); General Sir James and Lady Hills-Johnes, and Mrs. Johnes of Dolaucothy (who have been my friends for nearly twenty years); the late Sir Lewis Morris, Penbryn; Lady Evans, Lovesgrove; Colonel Lambton, Brownslade, Pem.; Colonel and Mrs. Gwynne-Hughes, of Glancothy; Mrs. Wilmot Inglis-Jones; Capt. and Mrs. Bertie Davies-Evans; Mr. and Mrs. Loxdale, Castle Hill, Llanilar; Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd, Waunifor; Mrs. Webley-Tyler, of Glanhelig; Archdeacon Williams, of Aberystwyth; Professor Tyrrell Green, Lampeter; Dr. Hughes, and Dr. Rees, of Llanilar; Rev. J. F. Lloyd, vicar of Llanilar, the energetic secretary of the Cardiganshire Antiquarian Society; Rev. Joseph Evans, Rector of Jordanston, Fishguard; Rev. W. J. Williams, Vicar of Llanafan; Rev. H. M. Williams, Vicar of Lledrod; Rev. J. N. Evans, Vicar of Llangybi; Rev. T. Davies, Vicar of Llanddewi Brefi; Rev. Rhys Morgan, C. M. Minister, Llanddewi Brefi; Rev. J. Phillips, Vicar of Llancynfelyn; Rev. J. Morris, Vicar, Llanybyther; Rev. W. M. Morgan-Jones (late of Washington, U.S.A.); Rev. G. Eyre Evans, Aberystwyth; Rev. Z. M. Davies, Vicar of Llanfihangel Geneu'r Glyn; Rev. J. Jones, Curate of Nantgaredig; Rev. Prys Williams (Brythonydd) Baptist Minister in Carmarthenshire; Rev. D. G. Williams, Congregational Minister, St. Clears (winner of the prize at the National Eisteddfod, for the best essay on the Folk-Lore of Carmarthen); Mr. William Davies, Talybont (winner of the prize at the National Eisteddfod for the best essay on the Folk-Lore of Merioneth); Mr. Roderick Evans, J. P., Lampeter; Rev. G. Davies, Vicar of Blaenpenal; Mr. Stedman-Thomas (deceased), Carmarthen, and others in all parts of the country too numerous to be mentioned here. Many other names appear in the body of my book, more especially aged persons from whom I obtained information. JONATHAN CEREDIG DAVIES. Llanilar, Cardiganshire. March 18th, 1911. CONTENTS. PAGE. Dedication III. Preface V. Introduction VII. I. Love Customs, etc. 1 II. Wedding Customs 16 III. Funeral Customs 39 IV. Other Customs 59 V. Fairies and Mermaids 88 VI. Ghost Stories 148 VII. Death Portents 192 VIII. Miscellaneous Beliefs, Birds, etc. 215 IX. Witches and Wizards, etc. 230 X. Folk-Healing 281 XI. Fountains, Lakes, and Caves ... 298 XII. Local Traditions 315 CHAPTER I. LOVE CUSTOMS AND OMEN SEEKING. "Pwy sy'n caru, a phwy sy'n peidio, A phwy sy'n troi hen gariad heibio." Who loves, and who loves not, And who puts off his old love? Undoubtedly, young men and young women all over the world from the time of Adam to the present day, always had, and still have, their modes or ways of associating or keeping company with one another whilst they are in love, and waiting for, and looking forward to, the bright wedding day. In Wales, different modes of courting prevail; but I am happy to state the old disgraceful custom of bundling, which was once so common in some rural districts, has entirely died out, or at least we do not hear anything about it nowadays. I believe Wirt Sikes is right in his remarks when he says that such a custom has had its origin in primitive times, when, out of the necessities of existence, a whole household lay down together for greater warmth, with their usual clothing on. Giraldus Cambrensis, 700 years ago, writes of this custom in these words:-- "Propinquo concubantium calore multum adjuti." Of course, ministers of religion, both the Clergy of the Church of England and Nonconformist ministers condemned such practice very sternly, but about two generations ago, there were many respectable farmers who more or less defended the custom, and it continued to a certain extent until very recently, even without hardly any immoral consequences, owing to the high moral standard and the religious tendencies of the Welsh people. One reason for the prevalence of such custom was that in times past in Wales, both farm servants and farmers' sons and daughters were so busy, from early dawn till a late hour in the evening that they had hardly time or an opportunity to attend to their love affairs, except in the night time. Within the memory of hundreds who are still alive, it was the common practice of many of the young men in Cardiganshire and other parts of West Wales, to go on a journey for miles in the depth of night to see the fair maidens, and on their way home, perhaps, about 3 o'clock in the morning they would see a ghost or an apparition! but that did not keep them from going out at night to see the girls they loved, or to try to make love. Sometimes, several young men would proceed together on a courting expedition, as it were, if we may use such a term, and after a good deal of idle talk about the young ladies, some of them would direct their steps towards a certain farmhouse in one direction, and others in another direction in order to see their respective sweethearts, and this late at night as I have already mentioned. It was very often the case that a farmer's son and the servant would go together to a neighbouring farm house, a few miles off, the farmer's son to see the daughter of the house, and the servant to see the servant maid, and when this happened it was most convenient and suited them both. After approaching the house very quietly, they would knock at the window of the young woman's room, very cautiously, however, so as not to arouse the farmer and his wife. I heard the following story when a boy:--A young farmer, who lived somewhere between Tregaron and Lampeter, in Cardiganshire, rode one night to a certain farm-house, some miles off, to have a talk with the young woman of his affection, and after arriving at his destination, he left his horse in a stable and then entered the house to see his sweetheart. Meanwhile, a farm servant played him a trick by taking the horse out of the stable, and putting a bull there instead. About 3 o'clock in the morning the young lover decided to go home, and went to the stable for his horse. It was very dark, and as he entered the stable he left the door wide open, through which an animal rushed wildly out, which he took for his horse. He ran after the animal for hours, but at daybreak, to his great disappointment, found that he had been running after a bull! Another common practice is to meet at the fairs, or on the way home from the fairs. In most of the country towns and villages there are special fairs for farm servants, both male and female, to resort to; and many farmers' sons and daughters attend them as well. These fairs give abundant opportunity for association and intimacy between young men and women. Indeed, it is at these fairs that hundreds of boys and girls meet for the first time. A young man comes in contact with a young girl, he gives her some "fairings" or offers her a glass of something to drink, and accompanies her home in the evening. Sometimes when it happens that there should be a prettier and more attractive maiden than the rest present at the fair, occasionally a scuffle or perhaps a fight takes place, between several young men in trying to secure her society, and on such occasions, of course, the best young man in her sight is to have the privilege of her company. As to whether the Welsh maidens are prettier or not so pretty as English girls, I am not able to express an opinion; but that many of them were both handsome and attractive in the old times, at least, is an historical fact; for we know that it was a very common thing among the old Norman Nobles, after the Conquest, to marry Welsh ladies, whilst they reduced the Anglo-Saxons almost to slavery. Who has not heard the beautiful old Welsh Air, "Morwynion Glan Meirionydd" ("The Pretty Maidens of Merioneth")? Good many men tell me that the young women of the County of Merioneth are much more handsome than those of Cardiganshire; but that Cardiganshire women make the best wives. Myddfai Parish in Carmarthenshire was in former times celebrated for its fair maidens, according to an old rhyme which records their beauty thus:-- "Mae eira gwyn ar ben y bryn, A'r glasgoed yn y Ferdre, Mae bedw mân ynghanol Cwm-bran, A merched glân yn Myddfe." Principal Sir John Rhys translates this as follows:-- "There is white snow on the mountain's brow, And greenwood at the Verdre, Young birch so good in Cwm-bran wood, And lovely girls in Myddfe." In the time of King Arthur of old, the fairest maiden in Wales was the beautiful Olwen, whom the young Prince Kilhwch married after many adventures. In the Mabinogion we are informed that "more yellow was her hair than the flowers of the broom, and her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and her fingers than the blossoms of the wood-anemone, amidst the spray of the meadow fountain. The eye of the trained hawk, the glance of the three-mewed falcon, was not brighter than hers. Her bosom was more snowy than the breast of the white swan; her cheek was redder than the reddest roses. Those who beheld her were filled with her love. Four white trefoils sprang up wherever she trod. She was clothed in a robe of flame-coloured silk, and about her neck was a collar of ruddy gold, on which were precious emeralds and rubies." A good deal of courting is done at the present day while going home from church or chapel as the case may be. The Welsh people are very religious, and almost everybody attends a place of worship, and going home from church gives young people of both sexes abundant opportunities of becoming intimate with one another. Indeed, it is almost a general custom now for a young man to accompany a young lady home from church. The Welsh people are of an affectionate disposition, and thoroughly enjoy the pleasures of love, but they keep their love more secret, perhaps, than the English; and Welsh bards at all times have been celebrated for singing in praise of female beauty. Davydd Ap Gwilym, the chief poet of Wales, sang at least one hundred love songs to his beloved Morfudd. This celebrated bard flourished in the fourteenth century, and he belonged to a good family, for his father, Gwilym Gam, was a direct descendant from Llywarch Ap Bran, chief of one of the fifteen royal tribes of North Wales; and his mother was a descendant of the Princes of South Wales. According to the traditions of Cardiganshire people, Davydd was born at Bro-Gynin, near Gogerddan, in the Parish of Llanbadarn-Fawr, and only a few miles from the spot where the town of Aberystwyth is situated at present. An ancient bard informs us that Taliesin of old had foretold the honour to be conferred on Bro-Gynin, in being the birthplace of a poet whose muse should be as the sweetness of wine:-- "Am Dafydd, gelfydd goelin--praff awdwr, Prophwydodd Taliesin, Y genid ym mro Gynin, Brydydd a'i gywydd fel gwin." The poet, Davydd Ap Gwilym, is represented as a fair young man who loved many, or that many were the young maidens who fell in love with him, and there is one most amusing tradition of his love adventures. It is said that on one occasion he went to visit about twenty young ladies about the same time, and that he appointed a meeting with each of them under an oak-tree--all of them at the same hour. Meanwhile, the young bard had secretly climbed up the tree and concealed himself among the branches, so that he might see the event of this meeting. Every one of the young girls was there punctually at the appointed time, and equally astonished to perceive any female there besides herself. They looked at one another in surprise, and at last one of them asked another, "What brought you here?" "to keep an appointment with Dafydd ap Gwilym" was the reply. "That's how I came also" said the other "and I" added a third girl, and all of them had the same tale. They then discovered the trick which Dafydd had played with them, and all of them agreed together to punish him, and even to kill him, if they could get hold of him. Dafydd, who was peeping from his hiding-place amongst the branches of the tree, replied as follows in rhyme:-- "Y butein wen fain fwynnf--o honoch I hono maddeuaf, Tan frig pren a heulwen haf, Teg anterth, t'rawed gyntaf!" The words have been translated by someone something as follows:-- "If you can be so cruel, Let the kind wanton jade, Who oftenest met me in this shade, On summer's morn, by love inclined, Let her strike first, and I'm resigned." Dafydd's words had the desired effect. The young women began to question each other's purity, which led to a regular quarrel between them, and, during the scuffle, the poet escaped safe and sound. After this the Poet fell in love with the daughter of one Madog Lawgam, whose name was Morfudd, and in her honour he wrote many songs, and it seems that he ever remained true to this lady. They were secretly married in the woodland; but Morfudd's parents disliked the Poet so much for some reason or other, that the beautiful young lady was taken away from him and compelled to marry an old man known as Bwa Bach, or Little Hunchback. Dafydd was tempted to elope with Morfudd, but he was found, fined and put in prison; but through the kindness of the men of Glamorgan, who highly esteemed the Poet, he was released. After this, it seems that Dafydd was love-sick as long as he lived, and at last died of love, and he left the following directions for his funeral:-- "My spotless shroud shall be of summer flowers, My coffin from out the woodland bowers: The flowers of wood and wild shall be my pall, My bier, light forest branches green and tall; And thou shalt see the white gulls of the main In thousands gather then to bear my train!" One of Dafydd's chief patrons was his kinsman, the famous and noble Ivor Hael, Lord of Macsaleg, from whose stock the present Viscount Tredegar is a direct descendant, and, in judging the character of the Poet we must take into consideration what was the moral condition of the country in the fourteenth century. But to come to more modern times, tradition has it that a young man named Morgan Jones of Dolau Gwyrddon, in the Vale of Teivi, fell in love with the Squire of Dyffryn Llynod's daughter. The young man and the young woman were passionately in love with each other; but the Squire, who was a staunch Royalist, refused to give his consent to his daughter's marriage with Morgan Jones, as the young man's grandfather had fought for Cromwell. The courtship between the lovers was kept on for years in secret, and the Squire banished his daughter to France more than once. At last the young lady fell a victim to the small pox, and died. Just before her death, her lover came to see her, and caught the fever from her, and he also died. His last wish was that he should be buried in the same grave as the one he had loved so dearly, but this was denied him. In Merionethshire there is a tradition that many generations ago a Squire of Gorsygedol, near Harlech, had a beautiful daughter who fell in love with a shepherd boy. To prevent her seeing the young man, her father locked his daughter in a garret, but a secret correspondence was carried on between the lovers by means of a dove she had taught to carry the letters. The young lady at last died broken-hearted, and soon after her burial the dove was found dead upon her grave! And the young man with a sad heart left his native land for ever. More happy, though not less romantic, was the lot of a young man who was shipwrecked on the coast of Pembrokeshire, and washed up more dead than alive on the seashore, where he was found by the daughter and heiress of Sir John de St. Bride's, who caused him to be carried to her father's house where he was hospitably entertained. The young man, of course, was soon head and ears in love with his fair deliverer, and the lady being in nowise backward in response to his suit, they married and founded a family of Laugharnes, and their descendants for generations resided at Orlandon, near St. Bride's. The Rev. D. G. Williams in his interesting Welsh collection of the Folk-lore of Carmarthenshire says that in that part of the county which borders on Pembrokeshire, there is a strange custom of presenting a rejected lover with a yellow flower, or should it happen at the time of year when there are no flowers, to give a yellow ribbon. This reminds us of a curious old custom which was formerly very common everywhere in Wales; that of presenting a rejected lover, whether male or female, with a stick or sprig of hazel-tree. According to the "Cambro Briton," for November, 1821, this was often done at a "Cyfarfod Cymhorth," or a meeting held for the benefit of a poor person, at whose house or at that of a neighbour, a number of young women, mostly servants, used to meet by permission of their respective employers, in order to give a day's work, either in spinning or knitting, according as there was need of their assistance, and, towards the close of the day, when their task was ended, dancing and singing were usually introduced, and the evening spent with glee and conviviality. At the early part of the day, it was customary for the young women to receive some presents from their several suitors, as a token of their truth or inconstancy. On this occasion the lover could not present anything more odious to the fair one than the sprig of a "collen," or hazel-tree, which was always a well-known sign of a change of mind on the part of the young man, and, consequently, that the maiden could no longer expect to be the real object of his choice. The presents, in general, consisted of cakes, silver spoons, etc., and agreeably to the respectability of the sweetheart, and were highly decorated with all manner of flowers; and if it was the lover's intention to break off his engagement with the young lady, he had only to add a sprig of hazel. These pledges were handed to the respective lasses by the different "Caisars," or Merry Andrews,--persons dressed in disguise for the occasion, who, in their turn, used to take each his young woman by the hand to an adjoining room where they would deliver the "pwysi," or nose-gay, as it was called, and afterwards immediately retire upon having mentioned the giver's name. When a young woman also had made up her mind to have nothing further to do with a young man who had been her lover, or proposed to become one, she used to give him a "ffon wen," (white wand) from an hazel tree, decorated with white ribbons. This was a sign to the young man that she did not love him. The Welsh name for hazel-tree is "collen." Now the word "coll" has a double meaning; it means to lose anything, as well as a name for the hazel, and it is the opinion of some that this double meaning of the word gave the origin to the custom of making use of the hazel-tree as a sign of the loss of a lover. It is also worthy of notice, that, whilst the hazel indicated the rejection of a lover, the birch tree, on the other hand, was used as an emblem of love, or in other words that a lover was accepted. Among the Welsh young persons of both sexes were able to make known their love to one another without speaking, only by presenting a Birchen-Wreath. This curious old custom of presenting a rejected lover with a white wand was known at Pontrhydfendigaid, in Cardiganshire until only a few years ago. My informant was Dr. Morgan, Pontrhydygroes. Mrs. Hughes, Cwrtycadno, Llanilar, also informed me that she had heard something about such custom at Tregaron, when she was young. It was also the custom to adorn a mixture of birch and quicken-tree with flowers and a ribbon, and leave it where it was most likely to be found by the person intended on May-morning. Dafydd ap Gwilym, the poet, I have just referred to, mentions of this in singing to Morfudd. Young people of both sexes, are very anxious to know whether they are to marry the lady or the gentleman they now love, or who is to be their future partner in life, or are they to die single. Young people have good many most curious and different ways to decide all such interesting and important questions, by resorting to uncanny and romantic charms and incantations. To seek hidden information by incantation was very often resorted to in times past, especially about a hundred years ago, and even at the present day, but not as much as in former times. It was believed, and is perhaps, still believed by some, that the spirit of a person could be invoked, and that it would appear, and that young women by performing certain ceremonies could obtain a sight of the young men they were to marry. Such charms were performed sometimes on certain Saints' Days, or on one of the "Three Spirits' Nights," or on a certain day of the moon; but more frequently on "Nos Calan Gauaf" or All Hallows Eve--the 31st. of October. All Hallows was one of the "Three Spirits' Nights," and an important night in the calendar of young maidens anxious to see the spirits of their future husbands. In Cardiganshire, divination by means of a ball of yarn, known as "coel yr edau Wlan" is practised, and indeed in many other parts of Wales. A young unmarried woman in going to her bedroom would take with her a ball of yarn, and double the threads, and then she would tie small pieces of wool along these threads, so as to form a small thread ladder, and, opening her bedroom window threw this miniature ladder out to the ground, and then winding back the yarn, and at the same time saying the following words:-- "Y fi sy'n dirwyn Pwy sy'n dal" which means: "I am winding, Who is holding?" Then the spirit of the future husband of the girl who was performing the ceremony was supposed to mount this little ladder and appear to her. But if the spirit did not appear, the charm was repeated over again, and even a third time. If no spirit was to be seen after performing such ceremony three times, the young lady had no hope of a husband. In some places, young girls do not take the trouble to make this ladder, but, simply throw out through the open window, a ball of yarn, and saying the words: "I am winding, who is holding." Another custom among the young ladies of Cardiganshire in order to see their future husbands is to walk nine times round the house with a glove in the hand, saying the while--"Dyma'r faneg, lle mae'r llaw."--"Here's the glove, where is the hand?" Others again would walk round the dungheap, holding a shoe in the left hand, and saying "Here's the shoe, where is the foot?" Happy is the young woman who sees the young man she loves, for he is to be her future husband. In Carmarthenshire young girls desirous of seeing their future partners in life, walk round a leek bed, carrying seed in their hand, and saying as follows:-- "Hadau, hadau, hau, Sawl sy'n cam, doed i grynhoi." "Seed, seed, sowing. He that loves, let him come to gather." It was also the custom in the same county for young men and young women to go round a grove and take a handful of moss, in which was found the colour of the future wife or husband's hair. In Pembrokeshire, it is the custom for young girls to put under their pillow at night, a shoulder of mutton, with nine holes bored in the blade bone, and at the same time they put their shoes at the foot of the bed in the shape of the letter T, and an incantation is said over them. By doing this, they are supposed to see their future husbands in their dreams, and that in their everyday clothes. This curious custom of placing shoes at the foot of the bed was very common till very recently, and, probably, it is still so, not only in Pembrokeshire, but with Welsh girls all over South Wales. A woman who is well and alive told me once, that many years ago she had tried the experiment herself, and she positively asserted that she actually saw the spirit of the man who became her husband, coming near her bed, and that happened when she was only a young girl, and some time before she ever met the man. When she was telling me this, she had been married for many years and had grown-up children, and I may add that her husband was a particular friend of mine. Another well-known form of divination, often practised by the young girls in Carmarthenshire, Cardiganshire and Pembrokeshire, is for a young woman to wash her shirt or whatever article of clothing she happens to wear next to the skin, and having turned it inside out, place it before the fire to dry, and then watch to see who should come at midnight to turn it. If the young woman is to marry, the spirit of her future husband is supposed to appear and perform the work for the young woman, but if she is to die single, a coffin is seen moving along the room, and many a young girl has been frightened almost to death in performing these uncanny ceremonies. The Rev. D. G. Williams in his excellent Welsh essay on the Folk-lore of Carmarthenshire, mentions a farmer's daughter who practised this form of divination whilst she was away from home at school. A young farmer had fallen in love with her, but she hated him with all her heart. Whilst she was performing this ceremony at midnight, another girl, from mere mischief dressed herself in man's clothing, exactly the same kind as the clothes generally worn by the young farmer I have mentioned, and, trying to appear as like him as possible, entered the room at the very moment when the charm of invoking the spirit of a future husband was being performed by the farmer's daughter, who went half mad when she saw, as she thought, the very one whom she hated so much, making his appearance. The other girls had to arouse their schoolmistress from her bed immediately so that she might try and convince the young girl that she had seen nothing, but another girl in man's clothes. But nothing availed. The doctor was sent for, but he also failed to do anything to bring her to herself, and very soon the poor young woman died through fright and disappointment. Another common practice in West Wales is for a young woman to peel an apple at twelve o'clock, before a looking glass in order to see the spirit of her future husband. This also is done on All Hallow's Eve. Sowing Hemp Seed is also a well-known ceremony among the young ladies of Wales, as well as England. THE CANDLE AND PIN DIVINATION. It was also the custom, at least many years ago, if not now, for a young woman, or two of them together to stick pins at midnight in a candle, all in a row, right from its top to the bottom, and then to watch the candle burning and the pins dropping one by one, till the last pin had dropped, and then the future husband of the girl to whom the pin belonged, was supposed to appear; but if she was destined to die single, she would see a coffin. Another form of Divination, was to put the plates on the dining-room table upside down, and at midnight the spirit of the future husband was supposed to come and arrange them in their proper order. Another custom resorted to in Cardiganshire and other parts in order to see a future husband, or rather to dream of him, was to eat a hen's first egg; but no one was to know the secret, and absolute silence was to be observed, and the egg was to be eaten in bed. GOING ROUND THE CHURCH. This kind of divination was perhaps of a more uncanny character than anything I have hitherto mentioned, and a custom which both young men and young women very commonly practised, even within the last 50 years as I have been told by old people. This weird practice was to go round the parish church seven times, some say nine times, whilst others again say nine times-and-half, and holding a knife in the hand saying the while:-- "Dyma'r twca, lle mae'r wain?" "Here's the knife, where is the sheath?" It was also the practice to look in through the key-hole of the church door each time whilst going round, and many people assert to this very day that whoever performed this mode of divination in proper order, that the spirit of his or her future wife or husband would appear with a sheath to fit the knife; but, if the young man or woman was to die single, a coffin would meet him or her. Mr. John Jones, of Pontrhydfendigaid, an intelligent old man of 95, with a wonderful memory, told me that, when a boy, he had heard his mother giving a most sad account of what happened to a young woman who did this at Ystrad Meurig in Cardiganshire about the year 1800. She was the daughter of a public house in the village, and the name of her mother was Catherine Dafydd Evan. Mr. Jones's mother knew the family well; some of them emigrated to America. This young woman was in love with one of the students of St. John's College, in the neighbourhood, and being anxious to know whether he was to be her husband or not, she resorted to this uncanny practice of walking nine times round Ystrad Meurig Church. Around and round she went, holding the knife in her hand and repeating the words of incantation, "Here's the knife, where is the sheath?" And whilst she was performing her weird adventure, to her great alarm, she perceived a clergyman coming out to meet her through the church door with his white surplice on, as if coming to meet a funeral procession. The frightened young woman fell down in a swoon, almost half dead, as she imagined that the one she met with a surplice on was an apparition or the spirit of a clergyman officiating at the phantom funeral of herself, which prognosticated that instead of going to be married, she was doomed to die. It turned out that the apparition she had seen was only one of the students, who, in order to frighten her, had secretly entered the Church for the purpose. But the poor girl recovered not, and she died very soon afterwards. I heard the following story from my mother when I was a boy. A girl had determined to obtain a sight of her future husband by going round the parish church nine times at All Hallows' Eve in the same manner as the young woman I mentioned in the above story, but with more fortunate results. This also happened somewhere in Cardiganshire or Carmarthenshire. Just as the young woman was walking round the ninth time, she saw, to her great surprise, her own master (for she was a servant maid) coming to meet her. She immediately ran home and asked her mistress why she had sent her master after her to frighten her. But the master had not gone out from the house. On hearing the girl's account, the mistress was greatly alarmed and was taken ill, and she apprehended that she herself was doomed to die, and that her husband was going to marry this servant girl, ultimately. Then the poor woman on her death bed begged the young woman to be kind to her children, "For you are to become the mistress here," said she, "when I am gone." It was also a custom in Wales once for nine young girls to meet together to make a pancake, with nine different things, and share it between them, that is, each of the girls taking a piece before going to bed in order to dream of their future husbands. Another practice among young girls was to sleep on a bit of wedding cake. WATER IN DISH DIVINATION. I remember the following test or divination resorted to in Cardiganshire only about twelve years ago. It was tried by young maidens who wished to know whether their husbands were to be bachelors, and by young men who wished to know whether their wives were to be spinsters. Those who performed this ceremony were blindfolded. Then three basins or dishes were placed on the table, one filled with clean water, the other with dirty water, and the third empty. Then the young man or young woman as the case might be advanced to the table blindfolded and put their hand in the dish; and the one who placed his hands in the clean water was to marry a maiden; if into the foul water, a widow; but if into the empty basin, he was doomed to remain single all his life. Another way for a young maiden to dream of her future husband was to put salt in a thimble, and place the same in her stockings, laying them under her pillow, and repeat an incantation when going to bed. Meyrick in his History of Cardiganshire states that "Ivy leaves are gathered, those pointed are called males, and those rounded are females, and should they jump towards each other, then the parties who had placed them in the fire will be believed by and married by their sweethearts; but should they jump away from one another, then, hatred will be the portion of the anxious person." Testing a lover's love by cracking of nuts is also well known in West and Mid-Wales. It was also a custom in the old times for a young girl on St. John's Eve to go out at midnight to search for St. John's Wort in the light of a glow worm which they carried in the palm of their hand. After finding some, a bunch of it was taken home and hung in her bedroom. Next morning, if the leaves still appeared fresh, it was a good omen; the girl was to marry within that same year; but, on the other hand, if the leaves were dead, it was a sign that the girl should die, or at least she was not to marry that year. THE BIBLE AND KEY DIVINATION. The Bible and Key Divination, or how to find out the two first letters of a future Wife's or Husband's name is very commonly practised, even now, by both young men and young women. A small Bible is taken, and having opened it, the key of the front door is placed on the 16th verse of the 1st Chapter of Ruth:--"And Ruth said, intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God." Some take Solomon's Songs, Chapter viii., verses 6 and 7 instead of the above verse from the Book of Ruth. Then the Bible is closed, and tied round with the garter taken off the left leg of him or her who wishes to know his or her future wife or husband's initials. A person cannot perform this ceremony himself; he must get a friend with him to assist him. The young man must put the middle finger of his right hand on the key underneath the loop, and take care to keep the Bible steady. Then the man, who does not consult the future, repeats the above verse or verses, and when he comes to the appointed letter, that is the first letter of the future wife's name, the Bible will turn round under the finger. I was told at Ystrad Meurig, that a few years ago, a young woman, a farmer's daughter, tried this Bible and key divination; and whilst the ceremony was going on, and her sister assisting her to hold the key under the Bible and repeating the words, instead of the book turning round as she expected, she saw a coffin moving along the room, which was a sign that she was doomed to die single; and so it came to pass! The farmhouse where this young woman lived is situated in the neighbourhood of Strata Florida, Cardiganshire; but I do not wish to name the house. I have myself once or twice witnessed this divination practised, but I never heard of a coffin appearing, except in the case of the young woman just mentioned. DIVINATION BY THE TEA-CUP. Tea-cup divination is also very much practised by young girls in Wales in order to find out some future events concerning love affairs, future husbands, etc. There was a woman, who only died a few years ago, in the parish of Llandyssul, near a small village called Pontshan in Cardiganshire, who was considered an expert in the art of fortune telling by a tea cup, at least young women and young men thought so, and many of them resorted to her, especially those who were in love or intending to marry. There was another one near Llandovery in Carmarthenshire, and there are a few even at present to whom the maidens go for consultation. But Welsh women, who are so fond of tea, can find out many things themselves by means of the tea cup without resorting to those who are considered experts in the art. When several of them meet together to tea they help one another in divining their cups, and tea drinking or sipping is the order of the day among the females of Wales. After having emptied the cup, it is turned round three times in the left hand, so that the tea-leaves may cover the surface of the whole cup. Then the cup is placed in the saucer, bottom upwards, to drain, for a few minutes before inspection. If the leaves are scattered evenly round the sides of the cup, leaving the bottom perfectly clear, it is considered a very good sign; but on the other hand when the bottom of the cup appears very black with leaves, it is a very bad sign: some trouble or some misfortune is near. When the leaves form a ring on the side of the cup, it means that the girl who consults is to marry very soon; but if the ring is at the bottom of the cup, disappointment in love awaits her, or she is doomed to die single. When the tea leaves form a cross or a coffin, that also is considered a bad sign; but as a rule, a horse, a dog, or a bird portends good. Two leaves seen in close proximity on the side of the cup foretell a letter bringing good news. When there is a speck floating on the surface of a cup of tea before drinking, some people say it means a letter, a parcel, or a visitor, but a young girl takes it to represent her lover, and she proves his faithfulness by placing the speck on the back of her left hand, and striking it with the back of her right hand. Should the speck or the small tea leaves stick to the back of the left hand and cling or stick fast to the right hand when striking it, it means that the young man is faithful; but on the other hand, should it happen that the tea still remain on the left hand where it was first placed, especially after striking it three times, the young man is not to be depended upon. Some women can even tell by means of the tea-cup what trade their admirer follows, the colour of their future husband's hair, and many other such things. A lily is considered a most lucky emblem, if it be at the top, or in the middle of the cup, for this is considered a sign that the young man, or the young woman who consults, will have a good and kind wife, or husband, who will make him or her happy in the marriage estate, but on the other hand, a lily at the bottom of the cup, portends trouble, especially if clouded, or in the thick. A heart, especially in the clear, is also a very good sign, for it signifies joy and future happiness. Two hearts seen together in the cup, the young man, or the young woman's wedding is about to take place. Tea-cup divination is well-known all over the Kingdom; and in the Colonies, especially Australia, it is by far more popular than in England. DIVINATION BY CARDS. Divination by cards is not so much known in Wales as in England, and this is more popular in towns than country places. CHAPTER II. WEDDING CUSTOMS. In times past, Wales had peculiar and most interesting, if not excellent, Wedding Customs, and in no part of the country were these old quaint customs more popular, and survived to a more recent date than in Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire. Therefore this book would be incomplete without giving a full description of them. When a young man and a young woman had agreed together to marry "for better for worse," they were first of all to inform their parents of the important fact. Then in due time, the young man's father, taking a friend with him, proceeded to interview the young woman's father, so as to have a proper understanding on the subject and to arrange different matters, especially concerning dowry, etc. I am writing more especially of a rural wedding among the farmers. The young woman's father would agree to give with his daughter, as her portion, household goods of so much value, a certain sum of money, and so many cows, pigs, etc.; and the young man's father, on his part, would agree to grant his son so much money, horses, sheep, hay, wheat and other things, so that the young couple might have a good start in the married life, "i ddechreu eu byd,"--to begin their world, as we say in Welsh. Sometimes the young man's father on such occasions met with opposition on the part of the young woman's father or mother or other relations, at least we read that it happened so in the case of the heir of Ffynonbedr, near Lampeter, long ago; for it seems that when he tried to secure the daughter of Dyffryn Llynod, in the parish of Llandyssul, as his bride, the reply was in Welsh rhyme as follow:-- "Deunaw gwr a deunaw cledde, Deunaw gwas yn gwisgo lifre, Deunaw march o liw'r scythanod, Cyn codi'r ferch o Ddyffryn Llynod." Anglicised, this meant that she could not be secured without coming for her with eighteen gentlemen bearing eighteen swords; eighteen servants wearing livery; and eighteen horses of the colour of the woodpigeon. But such opposition was not often to be met with. After the parents had arranged these matters satisfactorily, the next preliminary and important step was to send forth a gwahoddwr, or Bidder, from house to house, to bid or invite the guests to the Bidding and the Wedding. In connection with these old interesting customs, there were the Bidding or invitation to the wedding; the Bidder, whose duty it was formally to invite the guests; the Ystafell, or the bride's goods and presents; the purse and girdle; the Pwython; and the Neithior. The Bidding was a general invitation to all the friends of the bride and bridegroom-elect to meet them at the houses of their respective parents or any other house appointed for the occasion. All were welcomed to attend, even a stranger who should happen to be staying in the neighbourhood at the time, but it was an understood thing that every person who did attend, whether male or female, contributed something, however small, in order to make a purse for the young couple, who, on the other hand, naturally expected donations from those whose weddings they had attended themselves. So it was to the advantage of the bride and bridegroom-elect to make their wedding as public as possible, as the greater the number of guests, the greater the donation, so it was the custom to send the "Gwahoddwr," or Bidder all round the surrounding districts to invite the neighbours and friends about three weeks, more or less, before the wedding took place. The banns were, of course, published as in England. The Gwahoddwr or Bidder's circuit was one of the most pleasant and merry features of the rural weddings in South Wales in times past, and he was greeted everywhere, especially when it happened that he was, as such often was the case, a merry wag with fluent speech and a poet; but it was necessary that he should be a real friend to the young couple on whose behalf he invited the guests. This important wedding official as he went from house to house, carried a staff of office in his hand, a long pole, or a white wand, as a rule a willow-wand, from which the bark had been peeled off. This white stick was decorated with coloured ribbons plying at the end of it; his hat also, and often his breast was gaily decorated in a similar manner. The Gwahoddwr, thus attired, knocked at the door of each guest and entered the house amidst the smiles of the old people and the giggling of the young. Then he would take his stand in the centre of the house, and strike the floor with his staff to enforce silence, and announce the wedding, and the names of bride and bridegroom-elect, their place of abode, and enumerate the great preparations made to entertain the guests, etc. As a rule, the Gwahoddwr made this announcement in a set speech of prose, and often repeated a rhyme also on the occasion. The following was the speech of a Gwahoddwr in Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire in 1762, quoted in Meyrick's "History of Cardiganshire," from the miscellaneous papers of Mr. Lewis Morris:-- "Speech of the Bidder in Llanbadarn Fawr, 1762." "The intention of the bidder is this; with kindness and amity, with decency and liberality for Einion Owain and Llio Ellis, he invites you to come with your good will on the plate; bring current money; a shilling, or two, or three, or four, or five; with cheese and butter. We invite the husband and wife, and children, and man-servants, and maid-servants, from the greatest to the least. Come there early, you shall have victuals freely, and drink cheap, stools to sit on, and fish if we can catch them; but if not, hold us excusable; and they will attend on you when you call upon them in return. They set out from such a place to such a place." The following which appeared in a Welsh Quarterly "Y Beirniad," for July, 1878, gives a characteristic account of a typical Bidder of a much later date in Carmarthenshire:-- "Am Tomos fel gwahoddwr, yr wyf yn ei weled yn awr o flaen llygaid fy meddwl. "Dyn byr, llydan, baglog, yn gwisgo coat o frethyn lliw yr awyr, breeches penglin corduog, gwasgod wlanen fraith, a rhuban glas yn hongian ar ei fynwes, yn dangos natur ei swydd a'i genadwri dros y wlad a dramwyid ganddo; hosanau gwlan du'r ddafad am ei goesau, a dwy esgid o ledr cryf am ei draed; het o frethyn garw am ei ben haner moel; dwy ffrwd felingoch o hylif y dybaco yn ymlithro dros ei en; pastwn cryf a garw yn ei ddeheulaw. Cerddai yn mlaen i'r ty lle y delai heb gyfarch neb, tarawai ei ffon deirgwaith yn erbyn y llawr, tynai ei het a gosodai hi dan y gesail chwith, sych besychai er clirio ei geg, a llefarai yn debyg i hyn:--'At wr a gwraig y ty, y plant a'r gwasanaethyddion, a phawb o honoch sydd yma yn cysgu ac yn codi. 'Rwy'n genad ac yn wahoddwr dros John Jones o'r Bryntirion, a Mary Davies o Bantyblodau; 'rwy'n eich gwahodd yn hen ac yn ifanc i daith a phriodas y par ifanc yna a enwais, y rhai sydd yn priodi dydd Mercher, tair wythnos i'r nesaf, yn Eglwys Llansadwrn. Bydd y gwr ifanc a'i gwmp'ni yn codi ma's y bore hwnw o dy ei dad a'i fam yn Bryntirion, plwyf Llansadwrn; a'r ferch ifanc yn codi ma's y bore hwnw o dy ei thad a'i mam, sef Pantyblodau, yn mhlwyf Llanwrda. Bydd gwyr y "shigouts" yn myned y bore hwnw dros y mab ifanc i 'mofyn y ferch ifanc; a bydd y mab ifanc a'i gwmp'ni yn cwrdd a'r ferch ifanc a'i chwmp-ni wrth ben Heolgelli, a byddant yno ar draed ac ar geffylau yn myned gyda'r par ifanc i gael eu priodi yn Eglwys Llansadwrn. Wedi hyny bydd y gwr a'r wraig ifanc, a chwmp'ni y bobol ifanc, yn myned gyda'u gilydd i dy y gwr a'r wraig ifanc, sef Llety'r Gofid, plwyf Talyllechau, lle y bydd y gwr ifanc, tad a mam y gwr ifanc, a Daniel Jones, brawd y gwr ifanc, a Jane Jones, chwaer y gwr ifanc, yn dymuno am i bob rhoddion a phwython dyledus iddynt hwy gael eu talu y prydnawn hwnw i law y gwr ifanc; a bydd y gwr ifanc a'i dad a'i fam, a'i frawd a'i chwaer, Dafydd Shon William Evan, ewyrth y gwr ifanc, yn ddiolchgar am bob rhoddion ychwanegol a welwch yn dda eu rhoddi yn ffafr y gwr ifanc ar y diwrnod hwnw. "'Hefyd, bydd y wraig ifanc, yn nghyd a'i thad a'i mam, Dafydd a Gwenllian Davies, yn nghyd a'i brodyr a'i chwiorydd, y wraig ifanc a Dafydd William Shinkin Dafydd o'r Cwm, tadcu y wraig ifanc, yn galw mewn bob rhoddion a phwython, dyledus iddynt hwy, i gael eu talu y prydnawn hwnw i law y gwr a'r wraig ifanc yn Llety'r Gofid. Y mae'r gwr a'r wraig ifanc a'r hwyaf fo byw, yn addo talu 'nol i chwithau bob rhoddion a weloch yn dda eu rhoddi i'r tylwyth ifanc, pryd bynag y bo galw, tae hyny bore dranoeth, neu ryw amser arall.'" Rendered into English the above reads as follows:-- "I can see Thomas, in the capacity of a Gwahoddwr,--Bidder,--before me now in my mind's eye. A short man, broad, clumsy, wearing a coat of sky-blue cloth, corduroy breeches to the knee, a motley woollen waistcoat, and a blue ribbon hanging on his breast, indicating the nature of his office and message through the country which he tramped; black-woollen stockings on his legs, and two strong leathern boots on his feet; a hat made of rough cloth on his half-bare head; two yellow-red streams of tobacco moisture running down his chin; a rough, strong staff in his right hand. He walked into the house he came to without saluting any one, and struck the floor three times with his staff, took off his hat, and put it under his left arm, and having coughed in order to clear his throat, he delivered himself somewhat as follows:-- "To the husband and wife of the house, the children and the servants, and all of you who are here sleeping and getting up. I am a messenger and a bidder for John Jones of Bryntirion and Mary Davies of Pantyblodau; I beg to invite you, both old and young, to the bidding and wedding of the young couple I have just mentioned, who intend to marry on Wednesday, three weeks to the next, at Llansadwrn Church. The young man and his company on that morning will be leaving his father and mother's house at Bryntirion, in the parish of Llansadwrn; and the young woman will be leaving that same morning from the house of her father and mother, that is Pantyblodau, in the parish of Llanwrda. On that morning the shigouts (seekouts) men will go on behalf of the young man to seek for the young woman; and the young man and his company will meet the young woman and her company at the top of Heolgelli, and there they will be, on foot and on horses, going with the young couple who are to be married at Llansadwrn Church. After that, the young husband and wife, and the young people's company, will be going together to the house of the young husband and wife, to wit, Llety'r Gofid, in the parish of Tally, where the young man, the young man's father and mother, and Daniel Jones, brother of the young man, and Jane Jones, the young man's sister, desire that all donations and pwython due to them be paid that afternoon to the hands of the young man; and the young man, his father and mother, his brother and sister, and Dafydd Shon William Evan, uncle of the young man, will be very thankful for every additional gifts you will be pleased to give in favour of the young man that day. "Also, the young wife, together with her father and mother, Dafydd and Gwenllian Davies, together with her brothers and sisters, the young wife and Dafydd William Shinkin Dafydd of Cwm, the young wife's grandfather, desire that all donations and pwython, due to them, be paid that afternoon to the hand of the young husband and wife at Llety'r Gofid. "The young husband and wife and those who'll live the longest, do promise to repay you every gift you will be pleased to give to the young couple, whenever called upon to do so, should that happen next morning or at any other time?" The Bidder then repeated in Welsh a most comic and humorous song for the occasion. Another well-known "Gwahoddwr," or Bidder in Cardiganshire was an old man named Stephen, who flourished at the end of the eighteenth, and the beginning of the nineteenth century. He was commonly known as Stephen Wahoddwr, or Stephen the Bidder, and concerning whom the celebrated poet "Daniel Ddu o Geredigion," wrote to the "Cambrian Briton," in March, 1822, as follows:-- "There is an old man in this neighbourhood of the name of Stephen, employed in the vocation of 'Gwahoddwr,' who displayed, in my hearing, so much comic talent and humour in the recitation of his Bidding-song (which he complained, was, by repetition, become uninteresting to his auditors) as to induce me to furnish him with some kind of fresh matter. My humble composition, adapted, in language and conceptions, as far as I could make it, to common taste and capacities, this man now delivers in his rounds; and I send it you as a specimen of a Bidder's Song, hoping that your readers will be in some measure amused by its perusal:-- "Dydd da i chwi, bobl, o'r hynaf i'r baban, Mae Stephan Wahoddwr a chwi am ymddiddan, Gyfeillion da mwynaidd, os felly'ch dymuniad, Cewch genyf fy neges yn gynhes ar gariad. Y mae rhyw greadur trwy'r byd yn grwydredig, Nis gwn i yn hollol ai glanwedd ai hyllig, Ag sydd i laweroedd yn gwneuthur doluriad, Ar bawb yn goncwerwr, a'i enw yw Cariad. Yr ifanc yn awchus wna daro fynycha', A'i saeth trwy ei asen mewn modd truenusa'; Ond weithiau a'i fwa fe ddwg yn o fuan O dan ei lywodraeth y rhai canol oedran. Weithiau mae'n taro yn lled annaturiol, Nes byddant yn babwyr yn wir yr hen bobl, Mi glywais am rywun a gas yn aflawen Y bendro'n ei wegil yn ol pedwar ugain. A thyma'r creadur trwy'r byd wrth garwyro A d'rawodd y ddeu-ddyn wyf trostynt yn teithio, I hel eich cynorthwy a'ch nodded i'w nerthu, Yn ol a gewch chwithau pan ddel hwn i'ch brathu. Ymdrechwch i ddala i fyny yn ddilys, Bawb oll yr hen gystwm, nid yw yn rhy gostus-- Sef rhoddi rhyw sylltach, rai 'nol eu cysylltu, Fe fydd y gwyr ifainc yn foddgar o'u meddu. Can' brynu rhyw bethau yn nghyd gan obeithio Byw yn o dawel a'u plant yn blodeuo; Dwyn bywyd mor ddewis wrth drin yr hen ddaear, A Brenhin y Saeson, neu gynt yr hen Sesar. Can's nid wyf i'n meddwl mae golud a moddion Sy'n gwneuthur dedwyddwch, dyweden hwy wedo'n; Mae gofid i'r dynion, sy'n byw mewn sidanau, Gwir mae'r byd hawsaf yw byw heb ddim eisiau. 'Roedd Brenhin mawr Lloegr a'i wraig yn alluog, A chig yn eu crochan, ond eto'n byw'n 'ysgrechog; Pe cawsai y dwliaid y gaib yn eu dwylo, Yr wyf yn ystyried y buasai llai stwrio. Cynal rhyw gweryl yr aent am y goron, Ac ymladd a'u gilydd a hyny o'r galon; 'Rwy'n barod i dyngu er cymaint eu hanghen Nad o'ent hwy mor ddedwydd a Stephen a Madlen. Yr wyf yn attolwg i bob un o'r teulu, I gofio fy neges wyf wedi fynegu; Rhag i'r gwr ifanc a'i wraig y pryd hyny, Os na chan' ddim digon ddweyd mai fi fu'n diogi. Chwi gewch yno roeso, 'rwy'n gwybod o'r hawsaf, A bara chaws ddigon, onide mi a ddigiaf, Caiff pawb eu hewyllys, dybacco, a phibelli, A diod hoff ryfedd, 'rwyf wedi ei phrofi. Gwel'd digrif gwmpeini wy'n garu'n rhagorol, Nid gwiw ini gofio bob amser ei gofol; Mae amser i gwyno mae amser i ganu, Gwir yw mae hen hanes a ddywed in' hyny. Cwpanau da fawrion a dynion difyrus, I mi sy'n rhyw olwg o'r hen amser hwylus; Ac nid wyf fi'n digio os gwaeddi wna rhywun, Yn nghornel y 'stafell, "A yfwch chwi, Styfyn?" Dydd da i chwi weithian, mae'n rhaid i mi deithio Dros fryniau, a broydd, a gwaunydd, dan gwyno; Gan stormydd tra awchus, a chan y glaw uchel, Caf lawer cernod, a chwithau'n y gornel." The above has been translated into English by one Mair Arfon as follows, and appeared in "Cymru Fu," Cardiff, August 9th, 1888:-- "Here's Stephen the Bidder! Good day to you all, To baby and daddy, old, young, great and small; Good friends if you like, in a warm poet's lay My message to you I'll deliver to-day. Some creature there is who roams the world through Working mischief to many and joy to a few, But conquering all, whether hell or above Be his home, I am not certain; his name though is love. The young he most frequently marks as his game, Strikes them straight through the heart with an unerring aim; Though the middle age, too, if he gets in his way, With his bow he will cover and bend to his sway. And sometimes the rogue with an aim somewhat absurd, Makes fools of old people. Indeed, I have heard Of one hapless wight, who, though over four score, He hit in the head, making one victim more. And this is the creature, who, when on his way Through the world, struck the couple in whose cause to-day, I ask for your help and your patronage, too; And they'll give you back when he comes to bite you. And now let each one of us struggle to keep The old custom up, so time-honoured and cheap; Of jointly, or singly, some small trifle giving, To start the young pair on their way to a living. They'll buy a few things, with a confidence clear, Of living in peace as their children they rear; Stealing and content, out of Mother Earth's hand, Blest as Cæsar of old, or the King of our land. I do not consider that riches or gold Ensure contentment; a wise man of old Tells us men in soft raiment of grief have their share, And a life without wants is the lightest to bear. Once a great English King [1] and his talented wife, Though they had meat in their pan, led a bickering life; Were the dullards compelled to work, him and her, With a hoe in their hands it would lessen their stir. The quarrel arose from some fight for the Crown And at it they went like some cats of renown; And although we are poor, I am ready to swear That Stephen and Madlen are freer from care. Now let me impress on this whole family, To think on the message delivered by me; Lest the youth and his wife, through not getting enough, Should say that my idleness caused lack of stuff. A welcome you'll get there I guarantee you, With bread and cheese plenty, and prime beer, too; I know, for I have tried it, and everybody there Can have 'bacco and pipes enough and to spare. It delights me a jovial assembly to see, For it is wiser sometimes to forget misery; There are times for complaining and song, too we're told, In the proverb of old, which is true as it's old. A bumping big cup and a lot of bright men, Bring before me the jolly old times o'er again, And I wouldn't be angry if some one now even Would shout from some corner "Will you have a glass Stephen?" Good day to you now, for away I must hie, Over mountains and hillocks with often a sigh, Exposed as I am to keen storms, rain, and sleet, While you cosily sit in your warm corner seat." Another well-known Gwahoddwr about 50 years ago was Thomas Parry, who lived at the small village of Pontshan in the parish of Llandyssul. A short time ago, when I was staying in that neighbourhood in quest for materials for my present work, I came across a few old people who well-remembered him, especially Mr. Thomas Evans, Gwaralltyryn, and the Rev. T. Thomas, J.P., Greenpark, both of whom, as well as one or two others, told me a good deal about him. Like a good many of the Gwahoddwyr or Bidders, he seemed to have been a most eccentric character, of a ready wit and full of humour, especially when more or less under the influence of a glass of ale. Mr. Rees Jones, Pwllffein, a poet of considerable repute in the Vale of Cletwr, composed for T. Parry, a "Can y Gwahoddwr," or the Bidder's Song, which song in a very short time, became most popular in that part of Cardiganshire, and the adjoining districts of Carmarthenshire. This Parry the Bidder, whenever he was sent by those intending to marry, went from house to house, through the surrounding districts, proclaiming the particulars, and inviting all to the Bidding and the Weddings, and he was greeted with smiles wherever he went, especially by the young men and young women, who always looked forward to a wedding with great delight, as it was an occasion for so much merriment and enjoyment, and where lovers and sweethearts met. Food was set before the Gwahoddwr almost in every house, bread and cheese and beer, so that it is not to be wondered at that he felt a bit merry before night. He tramped through his circuit through storms and rain, but like most Bidders, he was but poorly paid, so he was often engaged as a mole trapper as well. On one occasion, he had set down a trap in a neighbouring field in the evening expecting to find a mole entrapped in it next morning. Next morning came, and off went the old man to see the trap, but when he arrived on the spot, to his great surprise, instead of a mole in the trap, there was a fish in it! The famous entrapper of moles could not imagine how a fish could get into a trap on dry land, but he found out afterwards that some mischievous boys had been there early in the morning before him, who, to have a bit of fun at the expense of the old man, had taken out the mole from the trap and put a fish in it instead. Thus we see that the modern Gwahoddwr was generally a poor man; but in the old times, on the other hand, he was a person of importance, skilled in pedigrees and family traditions, and himself of good family; for, undoubtedly, these old wedding customs which have survived in some localities in Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire and other parts of Wales even down almost to the present time, are of a very ancient origin, coming down even from the time of the Druids, and this proves the wisdom and knowledge of the original legislators of the Celtic tribes; for they were instituted in order to encourage wedlock so as to increase the population of the country, and to repair the losses occasioned by plagues and wars. A chieftain would frequently assume the character of a Bidder on behalf of his vassal, and hostile clans respected his person as he went about from castle to castle, or from mansion to mansion. Old people who well remember the time when the quaint old wedding customs were very general throughout West Wales, informed me that it was in some localities the custom sometimes to have two or more Gwahoddwyr to invite to the wedding; this was especially the case when the bride and bridegroom-elect did not reside in the same part of the country; for it happened sometimes that the young man engaged to be married lived in a certain part of Carmarthenshire, whilst his bride perhaps lived some way off in Cardiganshire or Pembrokeshire. In such cases it was necessary to appoint two Bidders, one for the young man, and another for the young woman, to go round the respective districts in which each of them lived. An old man in Carmarthenshire informed me that many years ago a friend of his, a farmer in the parish of Llanycrwys married a young lady from Pencarreg, two Bidders were sent forth to tramp the country; one going round the parish of Llanycrwys where the bridegroom lived, and the other's circuit was the parish of Pencarreg, the native parish of the bride. Another custom in some places, especially round Llandyssul and Llangeler, which took place before appointing the Gwahoddwr, was for the neighbours and friends to come together of an evening to the house of the bride or bridegroom's parents, or any other place fixed upon for that purpose. On such occasion a good deal of drinking home-brewed beer was indulged in, "Er lles y par ifanc," that is, for the benefit of the young couple. All the profit made out of this beer drinking at a private house went to the young man and the young woman as a help to begin their married life. At such a meeting also very often the day of the wedding was fixed, and the Bidder appointed, and should he happen to be an inexperienced one he was urged to repeat his Bidding speech before the company present, in order to test him whether he had enough wit and humour to perform his office satisfactorily in going round to invite to the wedding. When the young people engaged to be married were sons and daughters of well-to-do farmers, it was the custom to send by this Bidder in his rounds, a circular letter, or a written note in English; and this note or circular in course of time became so fashionable that the occupation of a Bidder gradually fell to decay; that is, it became a custom to send a circular letter instead of a Bidder. The following Bidding Letter, which is not a fictitious one, but a real document, appeared in an interesting book, entitled "The Vale of Towy," published in 1844:-- "Being betrothed to each other, we design to ratify the plighted vow by entering under the sanction of wedlock; and as a prevalent custom exists from time immemorial amongst "Plant y Cymry" of making a bidding on the occurrence of a hymeneal occasion, we have a tendency to the manner of the oulden tyme, and incited by friends as well as relations to do the same, avail ourselves of this suitableness of circumstances of humbly inviting your agreeable and pleasing presence on Thursday, the 29th day of December next, at Mr. Shenkin's, in the parish of Llangathen, and whatever your propensities then feel to grant will meet with an acceptance of the most grateful with an acknowledgement of the most warmly, carefully registered, and retaliated with promptitude and alacrity, whenever an occurrence of a similar nature present itself, by "Your most obedient servants, William Howells, Sarah Lewis. "The young man, with his father and mother (David and Ann Howells), his brother (John Howells), and his cousin (Edward Howells), desire that all claims of the above nature due to them be returned to the young man on the above day, and will feel grateful for the bestowments of all kindness conferred upon him. "The young woman, with her father and mother (Thomas and Letice Lewis), her sisters (Elizabeth and Margaret Lewis), and her cousins (William and Mary Morgan), desire that all claims of the above nature due to them be returned to the young woman on the above day, and will feel grateful for the bestowments of all kindness conferred upon her." The following Bidding Letter I copied from an old manuscript in possession of that eminent Antiquarian, the Rev. D. H. Davies, once Vicar of Cenarth, but who lives at present at Newcastle Emlyn:-- "To Mr. Griffith Jenkins. "Sir,--As my daughter's Bidding is fixed to be the Eighth day of February next, I humbly beg the favour of your good company according to custom, on the occasion, which shall be most gratefully acknowledged and retaliated by "Yours most obedient and humble Servant, Joshua Jones. "Penrallt, Jan. 23rd, 1770." The following also is another specimen of such circular, a copy of which came into my possession through the kindness of the esteemed lady, Mrs. Webley-Tyler, Glanhelig, near Cardigan:-- "February 1, 1841. "As we intend to enter the Matrimonial State, on Thursday, the 11th day of February instant, we purpose to make a Bidding on the occasion, the same day, at the young woman's Father and Mother's House, called Llechryd Mill; When and where the favour of your good company is most humbly solicited, and whatever donation you will be pleased to confer on us that day, will be thankfully received and cheerfully repaid whenever called for on a similar occasion, "By your obedient humble Servants, John Stephens, Ann Davies. "The young man's Father and Mother (John and Elizabeth Stephens, Pen'rallt-y-felin), together with his brother (David Stephens), desire that all gifts of the above nature due to them be returned to the Young Man, on the said day, and will be thankful for all favours granted.--Also the Young Woman's Father and Mother (David and Hannah Davies, Llechryd Mill), desire that all gifts of the above nature due to them, be returned to the young woman on the said day, and will be thankful for all favours granted." The day before the Wedding was once allotted to bringing home the "Ystafell," or household goods and furniture, of the young couple; but these customs varied considerably in different parts of the country. The furniture of the bride, as a rule, consisted of a feather bed and bed clothes, one or two large oaken chests to keep clothes in, and a few other things; and it was customary for the bridegroom to find or provide tables, chairs, bedstead, and a dresser. The dresser was perhaps the most interesting relic of family property, and is still to be seen in Welsh farm-houses, and is greatly valued as a thing which has been an heirloom in the family for generations. It consists of two or more stages, and the upper compartments, which are open, are always decked with specimens of useful and ornamental old Welsh ware, which are getting very rare now, and people offer a high price for them as curiosities. It was also customary on the same day for the young man and the young woman to receive gifts of various kinds, such as money, flour, cheese, butter, bacon, hens, and sometimes even a cow or a pig, also a good many useful things for house-keeping. This was called "Pwrs a Gwregys"--a purse and a girdle. But these gifts were to be re-paid when demanded on similar occasions; and, upon a refusal, were even recoverable by law; and sometimes this was done. About a hundred years ago, and previous to that date, the day before the wedding, as a rule, was allotted to the "Ystafell," or bringing home of the furniture, etc.; but more recently it became the custom to appoint a day for that purpose at other times in some districts, that is, it took place whenever the young married couple went to live at a house of their own; this would be perhaps three or six months after the wedding. In Wales it is very common to see a young married couple among the farmers remaining with the parents of the young man, or with the young wife's parents until it is a convenient time for them to take up a farm of their own. I have already noticed that these customs varied in different parts of the country. In some districts, the day preceding the Wedding was a great time for feasting, whilst in other localities people came together to drink for the benefit of the young couple, and when cakes were prepared for the Neithior which was to follow the wedding on the next day. THE WEDDING DAY. At the present time, Welsh people marry on any day of the week, but about fifty years ago Wednesday was a favourite day in some places, and Friday in other places. I am writing more especially, of course, of West Wales. Indeed, in some parishes old men informed me that when they were young they did not remember any one marrying, except on a Friday. This fact, undoubtedly, is likely to surprise many English readers, who regard Friday as an unlucky day for anything. Meyrick, writing about one hundred years ago in his History of Cardiganshire, says Saturday was the Wedding Day, and other writers mention the same thing, and it is evident that Saturday was the day on which most people did marry, except in a few districts, about three generations ago, as well as in older times. Whether this day, that is, Saturday, was commonly fixed upon from a belief that it was a lucky day for marriage, or from the convenience of Sunday intervening between it and a working day, is rather difficult to know, but it seems that the following old English Marrying Rhyme was either unknown to the Welsh, or that they did not give heed to it:-- To marry on "Monday wealth, Tuesday for health, Wednesday the best day of all; Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, Saturday no luck at all!" THE HORSE WEDDING. The rural weddings in South Wales until very recently were Horse Weddings; that is, it was the custom of the whole party, both men and women to ride, and generally at full speed. Poor people generally managed to obtain the loan of horses for the happy occasion from their richer neighbours. On the wedding morning the invited guests, both men and women, married and unmarried, came on their horses and ponies, some of them from a long distance. The men proceeded to the bridegroom's house, about a hundred or a hundred and fifty in number and honourably paid their pwython; whilst the women at the same time went to the house of the bride, and paid to her their pwython. "Pwython" was the term used in connection with these weddings to denote the gifts presented to the young bride and bridegroom respectively, in return for what the invited guests themselves had received on the occasion of their own weddings from the young man and the young woman, or their relations or friends. Of course, a large number of those who gave gifts were young and unmarried, so that they were not all under an obligation to give; but still they gave, and they were expected to give to help the young couple, and by so giving, they were placing the latter under an obligation to them in the future, that is, in such cases, the giver gave under the expectation of receiving back gifts of equal value, whenever his or her own, or one of his or her relations' wedding took place, even should that happen on the very next day. After depositing their offerings and taking something to eat, it was then the custom for ten, twelve, or sometimes even twenty young men, headed by a bard, a harper, or some fluent speaker, to mount their horses, and drive away full speed in the direction of the bride's house to demand her in marriage for the bridegroom. But on the morning of the wedding, the young woman, that is, the bride-elect, was not to be got possession of without much trouble and argument, and searching. When the bridegroom's procession halted at the house of the bride's parents, the leader of the party, finding the door barred against their entrance, would formally demand the bride, generally in rhyme appropriate to the occasion, delivered something as follows:-- "Open windows, open doors, And with flowers strew the floors; Heap the hearth with blazing wood, Load the spit with festal food; The "crochon [2]" on its hook be placed, And tap a barrel of the best! For this is Catty's wedding day! Now bring the fair one out, I pray." Then one of the bride's party from within made a reply as follows, with the door still closed:-- "Who are ye all? ye noisy train! Be ye thieves or honest men? Tell us now what brings you here, Or this intrusion will cost you dear?" Then the one from without rejoins:-- "Honest men are we, who seek A dainty maid both fair and meek, Very good and very pretty, And known to all by name of Catty; We come to claim her for a bride; Come, father, let the fair be tied To him who loves her ever well." The one within again answers:-- "So ye say, but time will tell; My daughter's very well at home So ye may pack and homeward roam." Again the one without exclaims in resolute tones:-- "Your home no more she's doomed to share Like every marriageable fair, Her father's roof she quits for one Where she is mistress; wooed and won. It now remains to see her wedded, And homeward brought and safely bedded. Unless you give her up, we swear The roof from off your house to tear, Burst in the doors and batter walls, To rescue her whom wedlock calls." Another of the bridegroom's party then calls aloud, in a voice of authority:-- "Ho! peace in the King's name, here, peace! Let vaunts and taunting language cease; While we the bridesmen, come to sue The favour to all bridesmen due, The daughter from the father's hand, And entertainment kindly bland." The above rhyme appeared in "Adventures of Twm Shon Catty." There are a good many such verses composed for, or at such occasion, still extant in the Welsh language. The party without and the party within feigned to abuse one another in such rhymes for an hour, more sometimes, till their wit was exhausted, but the whole performance was nothing but innocent fun, and the doors are opened in the end, and the bridegroom's party are admitted into the house; but even then the trouble is not always over, for it was the custom for the bride to hide herself, when search would be made for her everywhere under the tables, beds, behind the doors and every corner in the house, and at last found, perhaps, under the disguise of a young man smoking his pipe, or of a "granny" knitting in the corner. Whoever discovered the bride received a pint of beer and a cake as a prize in some places. All these things were done for fun or amusement, but I heard of one young woman at least, who was hiding in real earnest, and could not be found. An old farmer near Carmarthen, Griffiths, of Rhenallt, who is 96 years of age, informed me about five years ago, that he once heard his father mention of a man called "Dafydd y Llether," a butcher near Alltwalis, who was disappointed in this manner. This happened about 100 years ago. This butcher was engaged to be married to a farmer's daughter who lived in the parish of Llanllwni, about eight miles off, and had made all preparations for the wedding. When the wedding morning dawned, Dafydd and his neighbours and friends, about one hundred in number, mounted their horses at Alltwalis, and galloped away full speed to Llanllwni, and having arrived at the house of the young bride's parents, search was made for her everywhere, but she was nowhere to be found. At last the young man and his friends had to return home without finding her in great disappointment! The young woman's parents had prevailed upon her not to marry the young man, "because" added the old man to me "he was too much of a jolly boy." So they had contrived between them to hide her where she could not be found on the wedding morning. But, to proceed with our account of the old wedding customs, it was the practice after finding the hidden bride, and partaking of a little refreshments, for the wedding party to mount their horses, and they were joined by the bridegroom and his friends, and made their way towards the church. The young woman was mounted on a fine and swift horse; but often she had to be content to be mounted behind her father, or a brother or a friend; and when the latter was the case, she had to sit on crupper without any pillion, and holding fast to the man. Then the whole cavalcade would gallop off to church. But during the procession the bride was seized suddenly by one of her relatives or friends, stolen away and borne off to a distance. However, this feigned attempt to run away with her was done only in sport. Then a chase ensued, when the bridegroom and his friends drove after her like madmen till they caught her and took her to church. The driving was so furious on such occasions that legs and arms were sometimes broken. Mr. D. Jones in his interesting Welsh book on the History of the Parish of Llangeler, says that in the year 1844, at the wedding of Dinah, daughter of the Rev. Thomas Jones, Saron, one James Evans, the groom of the late Colonel Lewes, drove so furiously that his horse struck against a wall with the result that both the animal and its rider were killed on the spot, near Llangeler Church! In consequence of such a melancholy event the Horse Wedding was discontinued in that part of the country, through the influence of the Vicar, the Rev. John Griffiths, who preached against the practice from II. Kings, chap. IX. verse 20 ... "And the driving is like the driving of Jehu the son of Nimshi; for he driveth furiously." The following account of a Horse Wedding appeared in "The Folk Lore of North Wales" by the late Rev. Elias Owen, F.S.A., whose informant was the Rev. Canon Griffith Jones, who witnessed the wedding, which took place at Tregaron, Cardiganshire. We are told that "The friends of both the young people were on horseback, and according to custom they presented themselves at the house of the young woman, the one to escort her to the church, and the other to hinder her from going there. The friends of the young man were called "Gwyr shegouts." When the young lady was mounted, she was surrounded by the "gwyr shegouts," and the cavalcade started. All went on peaceably until a lane was reached, down which the lady bolted, and here the struggle commenced, for her friends dashed between her and her husband's friends and endeavoured to force them back, and thus assist her to escape. The parties, Mr. Jones said, rode furiously and madly, and the struggle presented a cavalry charge, and it was not without much apparent danger that the opposition was overcome, and the lady ultimately forced to proceed to the church, where her future husband was anxiously awaiting her arrival." The Lord Bishop of Huron, a native of Cardiganshire, writing to me from Canada, November 17th., 1909, says:--"I remember a wedding once when all the guests were on horse-back and there was a hunt for the bride. There could be no wedding till the bride was caught, and, Oh the wild gallop over hill and dale till she was taken captive and led to the altar! The last wedding of that kind to which I refer took place about 45 years ago. The daughter of Mr. Morgan (I think) of Maestir, near Lampeter, or his intended wife being the bride. A very severe accident happened to the bride and that ended the custom in that neighbourhood." Although such things as I have already said were done for sport, yet I have heard of a few cases in which the bride was borne away in earnest, and disappeared willingly in company of an old lover of hers, to the intense astonishment and disappointment of the bridegroom, who happened to be her parents' choice, and not her own. In this case, the custom of a feigned attempt to run away with the bride had in some respects served its original purpose; for, undoubtedly, the origin of the custom of hiding, running away with, and capturing the bride could be traced back to those barbarous times when marriage by capture was a common practice. Thus in the Mabinogion, we find that when a King named Kilydd, after being for some time a widower, wanted to marry again, one of his counsellors said to him, "I know a wife that will suit thee well, and she is the wife of King Dogel." And they resolved to go and seek her; and they slew the King and brought away his wife. When his son also named Kilhwch wanted a wife, he went to demand her from her father Yspaddaden Pencawr, the Giant, and obtained her at last after many adventures, and the help of Arthur and his men. It is probable that when the Celtic Tribes had settled in Britain that they often obtained a wife by capturing her from the Aborigines. This calls to mind the strategy of Romulus to secure wives for his soldiers by directing them at a given signal to seize Sabine maidens and run off with them whilst the men were busy in looking at the games. Another singular instance of wife snatching in ancient times is to be found in the Book of Judges, for when the men of the tribe of Benjamin were in difficulty in obtaining wives for themselves, their elders commanded them to "go and lie in wait in the vineyards; and see, and behold, if the daughters of Shiloh come out to dance in dances, then come ye out of the vineyards, and catch you every man his wife of the daughters of Shiloh, and go to the land of Benjamin,.... And the children of Benjamin did so, and took them wives, according to their number, of them that danced, whom they caught." Judges XXI., verses 20, 21, and 23. It seems that some kind of Horse Weddings is in vogue among the Calmucians, even at the present day, the young woman is first mounted on her horse and drives off full speed, then the young man, who is her intended, mounts and chases her, and when he catches her he can claim her as his wife on the spot; but should she escape him, he cannot claim her. I well remember when I lived in the Welsh Colony of Patagonia, about 20 years ago, that it was a very common custom for a young man and a young woman when in love, to mount their steeds and take a long ride of 20 miles or more in each other's company, and whilst driving along together in such manner words of love were often whispered. Also when a wedding took place, the guests went to it on their horses, but the old custom of driving after, and capturing the bride was not observed. Horse Weddings were very general in West Wales about sixty years ago, and even twenty years ago in some districts, but I doubt whether the custom has been continued at the present day in any part of the country. In the chase after the bride it was supposed that whoever caught her would be married without doubt within a year from that date, so it is not to be wondered at that young men drove so furiously on such occasions. As soon as the marriage ceremony was over in church, it was once the custom for a harper in the churchyard to play "Merch Megan," "Mentra Gwen," "Morwynion Glan Meirionydd," or some other beautiful old Welsh Air appropriate to the occasion. It was also customary in some places, especially in the Northern part of Cardiganshire, for a certain number of young men to mount their steeds immediately after the ceremony, and drive off full speed, for the first who reached the house of the newly-married couple was to receive a quart of beer and a silk pocket handkerchief, especially if the young husband and wife were well-to-do. The ceremony at the Church being over, all the company joined and returned to the young couple's house, where dinner was provided. On their return journey again, as in going to Church, they drove fast. Indeed, it was often the custom to have a regular horse race on the way home from Church on the wedding day. The Rev. D. G. Williams gives the following amusing story of such a race, in connection with a rural wedding which took place not far from Newcastle Emlyn. There lived a genial old country gentleman in the north-eastern part of Pembrokeshire, known as Mr. Howells, Glaspant, who had sent three of his horses to the wedding referred to, one of them was a pony, considered among the swiftest in the district; but there was one drawback in connection with the animal. He would go whichever way he pleased, especially when he was excited. The wedding procession went along from a house called Gilfach Gweision to Capel Evan, where the "knot was tied," and as soon as the ceremony was over the homeward race began in real earnest. The Squire felt confident that his "Comet," as the pony was named, would be sure to prove victorious in the race, if the animal could be kept to follow the road which led on to Cwm Cuch, instead of turning to another road which led to Mr. Howells' own house, Glaspant. To make sure of this, the enthusiastic old gentleman in due time, sent all his servants, both men and women, with walking-sticks and brooms in their hands to stand where the two roads met, so as to prevent the pony turning to the one that led to the house. Onward came the wedding cavalcade at last, the pony taking the lead as Mr. Howells expected, and when "Comet" saw a rowdy crowd shouting with all their might, and with brooms and sticks, the animal was glad to pass forward in the right direction and soon proved himself the hero of the day, and the old man felt as proud of his pony as the young husband was of his wife. Another common practice in connection with the weddings in Wales, and still prevails in some places, was known as Chaining or Halting the Wedding. As the young husband and wife were driving home from Church at the end of the wedding ceremony they would find the way obstructed by ropes stretching the road, covered with flowers, and ribbons, and evergreens, or sometimes blocked up entirely by thorns. It is said that this was intended as the first obstacle in married life. Ropes in some cases were made of straw, and the young couple were not allowed to pass without paying a footing to the obstructors, and then the barrier was removed amidst a general hurrah. This chaining or halting the wedding was known in many parts of West Wales as "codi cwinten," or to set up a quintain. In ancient times Guintain seems to have been some kind of a game of skill in vogue among several nations; it consisted of an upright post, on the top of which a cross bar turned on a pivot; "at one end of the cross hung a heavy sand bag, and at the other was placed a broad plank; the accomplished cavalier in his passage couched his lance, and with the point made a thrust at the broad plank, and continued his route with his usual rapidity, and only felt the "gwyntyn," or the "air" of the sand bag, fanning his hair as he passed.... The awkward horseman in attempting to pass this terrific barrier was either unhorsed by the weight of the sand bag, or by the impulse of the animal against the bar found his steed sprawling under him on the ground." In some parts of the country, when the bride or the young wife reaches home after the wedding ceremony, she buys some small trifle, a pin or anything from her bridesmaid; and by taking the opportunity of buying something before her husband has a chance, she'll be master over him for life! Sometimes the young newly-married couple resorted to a Wishing Well, and the first to drink the water became the master in their wedded life! In Wales, it is considered unlucky to marry on a wet day. It was considered unlucky for the wedding party to go and return from the church exactly on the same path, so sometimes it was customary to go out of the way a bit so as to avoid ill-luck. It is still customary to decorate the roads where the wedding party is to pass with arches and bannerettes, bearing mottoes appropriate to the occasion. This was done in February, 1906, at the wedding of Mr. David T. Davies, of Penlan, Llanwrda; and at the marriage of Mr. D. Barlett of Carmarthen in the same month, Llanboidy Parish Church was tastefully decorated with palms and evergreens, and the village was gay with bunting and festoons. Such decorations are very common, especially in connection with a country gentleman's marriage, when tenants adorn their houses with garlands, and children strew flowers in the bride's path. It was formerly the custom to pelt the bride and bridegroom with flowers, and it is still very general to throw rice at them. I remember this rice-throwing three years ago at Llanilar, Cardiganshire, at the wedding of a sister of Dr. Rees. Sometimes old boots were thrown, and I have heard that grains of wheat served the purpose once. Such things were done to ensure "Good Luck." In former times the bridal flowers were roses, gentle lady, lady's fingers, lady-smock, pansy, prickles and furze, and, in order to encourage the young wife in industry, red clover bloom was strewn in her pathway. NEITHIOR. When the ceremony at the church and the horse racing which followed were over, the guests proceeded to the young married couple's house to partake of some food, and in the afternoon and the evening they paid their "pwython" to the newly married couple, that is those of the guests who had not paid already. Others again gave fresh presents. There was much consumption of beer and cakes on such occasions always, and the sale of which was a further source of income to the young couple, so that between everything they were provided with the means for a good start in their married life. Very often such a large crowd attended the Neithior, that the house was often too small to accommodate them all; so a party of the men resorted to the barn or any other convenient place to drink beer. It was also customary for the young men to treat the young maidens with cakes; so there was a good deal of love-making, and often of rivalry, especially should there be a very pretty girl among the merry company. Those young maids who were fortunate enough as to be in favour with the young men had their aprons full of cakes and biscuits, etc., to take home with them in the evening. Such festivities as a rule were very merry and kept up till a late hour, and there was a good deal of singing, harp-playing and dancing, for the Welsh were expert dancers in former times; but at the present day dancing is almost unknown, at least in country places. On such occasions, it was customary, as a rule, to secure the presence of a harper, for the harp was from time immemorial a favourite musical instrument among the Welsh people; for Giraldus Cambrensis writing 700 years ago, says:--"Those who arrive in the morning are entertained till evening with the conversation of young women and the music of the harp; for each house has its young women and harps allotted to this purpose ... and in each family the art of playing on the harp is held preferable to any other learning." During the last three generations, however, the dear old instrument with its sweet and melodious sounds gradually declined in popular favour in Wales, and at the present, there are but very few who can play on the harp at all, indeed, in many districts the instrument has entirely disappeared, giving place to the modern piano. This is to be greatly regretted, and every patriotic Welshman should do his best to encourage playing on the harp. It happened once that a "Neithior" or wedding festivities took place, strange to say, without a wedding! This was about two generations ago in the Parish of Llandyssul. A man of the name of B. T. Rees, in that part of the country was engaged to be married to a young woman who was known as Sally. Two Bidders had been sent round the country to invite people to the wedding, and all other preparations had been made ready for the joyful occasion, and everything appeared most promising. But when B. T. Rees, a few days before the appointed time for the wedding ceremony, went to visit his bride-elect, she would neither receive him nor speak to him, but ordered him to depart immediately from her presence, to the great astonishment and disappointment of Rees, the bridegroom, and his friends. He endeavoured to reason with her, but to no purpose. Afterwards some of his friends were sent to speak to her, but nothing availed; it seemed as if she had suddenly made up her mind to banish him entirely from her heart. The wedding was to take place at Henllan on a certain morning, and the "Neithior" in the afternoon at Llandyssul. When that morning arrived, the bridegroom and his friends, decided to seek the bride once more, but she had hidden herself and could not be found anywhere. Rees and his party were in a strange predicament, and did not know what to do; but they returned to Llandyssul, and in the afternoon the wedding festivities were kept up just as if the wedding had actually taken place; and when night came, Rees had come into possession of large sums of money from the sale of beer, and donations, or wedding gifts and the sincere sympathy of the guests, but he had failed to secure a wife after all! Rees and Sally were married ultimately, however. In the last century, the Neithior took place on the wedding day; in former times, however, the festivities were continued on the Sunday, which followed. Sir S. R. Meyrick, writing about one hundred years ago says:--"Sunday being come, the bride and bridegroom's business is to stay at home all day and receive good-will and pwython. This is called "Neithior." They receive more money this day than Saturday, and all are written down as before, whether fresh presents, or those repaid." It seems from what I have been informed by old persons, that such doings on Sundays had almost disappeared, if not completely so, in Meyrick's time, at least in most places, but it is evident that Sunday observances of the kind were common about the middle of the eighteenth century; and in the old Church Register of the parish of Llanfihangel Geneu'r Glyn, in Cardiganshire, the following record is found:-- "11 June, 1745. Whereas the parish has been notorious hitherto in upholding and continuing a wicked custom of keeping Biddings or meetings upon the Sabbath day to the dishonour of God, and contempt of religion, to prevent such irregularities for the future, it is this day ordered by the consent of a vestry legally called and kept that the said custom shall stop and be discontinued entirely hereafter, and whosoever within our said parish encourages or practices and obstinately refuses to obey this our order, we do unanimously consent and join to punish him to the utmost rigour of the law.--W. Williams, Clerk, etc." Such Sunday customs were by degrees discontinued entirely in every part of Wales, and the Welsh have been for some generations now, and to their credit still are, the most strict Sabbatarians in the world with the exception perhaps of the Scotch. The Methodists Revivalists in the eighteenth century, who greatly inveighed against Sabbath breaking, contributed towards bringing about this satisfactory state of things. The curious old Welsh Weddings, which I have endeavoured to describe in this book do not prevail now; the only surviving feature of them is perhaps what is known in some parts as "Ystafell," and in other parts as "Cwyro Ty." "Ystafell" is rather popular now in some districts, especially between Tregaron and Lampeter, but instead of a Gwahoddwr or Bidder an aunt or some other near relative of the bride goes round the houses inviting the neighbours to bring wedding gifts so as to give the young couple a good start in life. I have been informed that similar old wedding customs to those of the Welsh were once in vogue in Cumberland, a county where the Celtic element is very strong, and also in Brittany, another Celtic province, and the present custom of wedding gifts which is so common in connection with fashionable weddings at the present day, is only a survival of the old Welsh customs. It seems that in China also it is customary for the friends and relations of the bride and bridegroom to present them with wedding gifts, and in Ancient Peru a dwelling was got ready for the newly-married pair at the charge of the district, and the prescribed portion of land assigned for their maintenance, and the ceremony of marriage was followed by general festivities among the friends of the parties, which lasted several days. CHAPTER III. FUNERAL CUSTOMS. As the Wedding Customs differed, the Funeral Customs also differed, and still differ in many respects in Wales from those of England. In Wales funerals are public, and the day and the hour on which they are to take place are always announced both in church and chapel, and in some places the day was made known by sending a man or a woman round the houses. One or two from almost every house in the neighbourhood in which the deceased lived attend his funeral, so that funeral processions are very large, even in districts where the population is small and scattered. Both men and women come, many of them from a long distance, the majority of them on foot, others in their traps, and some on horses, and even wet and stormy weather does not prevent them, for they have a profound reverence for the dead and death from time immemorial; and the night before the funeral a prayer meeting is held in the room where the corpse is lying, and pious appeals to Heaven are made in which strong emotions are expressed, the deceased is referred to in stirring sentences, and his death made a theme for warning on the brevity of earthly life, and the importance of the future life of the soul. This prayer meeting is called Gwylnos (wake-night), and it is the only surviving feature of the various customs which were once in vogue in connection with watching the corpse in the house, or keeping vigil over the dead. In Wales in former times when any one died, candles were always lighted every night in the room where the corpse was, and it was customary for friends or relatives to sit up all night to watch it, and even at the present day the custom is observed by some. Some are of the opinion that this custom had its origin in pre-reformation times. But it seems more probable to have been a Pagan custom, and much older than Christianity. The original design of the lighted candles, undoubtedly, was to give light to the spirit of the dead on its way to the other world. This is done for that purpose at the present day in China. It was once the custom in some parts to open the windows when a person was dying. Principal Sir John Rhys, Oxford, says that he well remembers this done in the neighbourhood of Ponterwyd, in North Cardiganshire, and that a farmer near Ystrad Meurig, in the same county, informed him that when his mother (the farmer's) was dying, a neighbour's wife who had been acting as nurse tried to open the window of the room, and as it would not open, she deliberately smashed a pane of it; and the learned Professor remarks that "this was doubtless originally meant to facilitate the escape of the soul."--Celtic Folk-Lore. It was once customary in the neighbourhood of Llangennech, Carmarthenshire, to cover with muslin the looking glass in the room in which the corpse lay. But to return to the Wake Night, or keeping vigil over the dead, I have already mentioned that the only feature of the old customs in connection with it still observed is the Prayer Meeting on the night before the funeral, and even this has been almost discontinued in Pembrokeshire, though still popular in Cardiganshire and parts of Carmarthenshire, but the custom is very injurious to the health of those who attend these meetings, as people crowd together in large numbers into the room--often a small one--where the coffin is. It was once the custom for every person on entering the house to fall devoutly on his knees before the corpse, and repeat the Lord's Prayer, or some other prayer, and then a pipe and tobacco were offered to him, but is not done now; but it was done in former times in many districts before the commencement of the prayer meeting. The manner of conducting this prayer meeting also differs at the present day to what it used to be once. In former times, before the Nonconformists became strong in Wales, it was the custom for the clergyman to read the common service appointed for the burial of the dead, and at the conclusion of which Psalms were sung; but at the present day the custom is, as a rule, for three or four persons to offer extemporary prayers, and an address delivered on the melancholy subject by the Clergyman of the Church of England or a Nonconformist minister, and hymns are sung. And afterwards the crowd depart for their homes. Formerly when it was customary to keep vigil over the dead, young men and women were glad to volunteer their services to watch the corpse during the night in order to enjoy the society of each other, and on some occasions, it seems, from what I have been told by old persons, some of the young men were rather merry before morning, and often went as far as to drink beer, and in order to pass the time good many stories were related about Corpse Candles, phantom funerals, etc., but the old Welsh Wake nights were never so rowdy as the Irish ones. In Pembrokeshire, about hundred and fifty years ago there was a most curious, strange, and mysterious custom performed during the Wake Night, known as "Hir-wen-gwd" (long white bag, or shroud). The corpse was drawn up through the chimney, and the process was as follows:--A certain number of young men took out the corpse from the coffin and moved it, clad in a long white shroud, to a convenient place near the fire. Then a rope was tied round to the upper part of the body, and when this was done securely, the other end of the rope was passed up the chimney by means of a long stick for that purpose; and the next step was for a party of the men to go up to the top of the chimney from the outside of the house by means of a ladder, and take hold of the rope which had been sent up inside, and when they were ready for the ceremony, they gave a sign to those who were inside the house with the corpse, by crying in Welsh, "Hirwen-gwd," and those who were inside the house would answer by saying, "Chware'n barod," or we are ready. Then the party who were on top of the house pulled up the corpse slowly through the chimney by means of the rope, and brought it to the very top and lowered it again, and eventually re-placed it in the coffin. An aged person, named Mrs. Mary Thomas, Bengal, near Fishguard, told me that she had heard a good deal from her mother about this strange old custom, "Hirwen-gwd," and that the last of such ceremonies took place at a house called Pantycnwch, in the parish of Bridell, about a hundred and forty years ago. According to Mrs. Thomas, it was customary to put a living man in the coffin whilst the ceremony of drawing up the corpse through the chimney was going on, and this was done in the case referred to at Bridell; but when the party at the end of the game approached the coffin in order to take out the living man so as to replace the corpse in it, they found him dead. This sad incident caused people after this to put an end of the old custom. When in Pembrokeshire, I enquired everywhere from very old persons as to the origin and object of such strange and mysterious ceremony, and in reply some of them informed me that it was only a game indulged in by those who were keeping vigil over the dead, to pass the time, whilst others said that there was once a superstition that another death would soon follow the funeral in the family or in the district unless the ceremony was duly performed. Hirwen-gwd, whatever might have been the origin of it, seems to have been confined to Pembrokeshire, at least I have not found any tradition of the custom among the old people of Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire, except in one district in the latter county, situated on the very border of Pembrokeshire. It is, however, possible that such custom was once known in other parts of South Wales, but discontinued at an earlier date. In a series of spurious letters, known as "Llythyrau Anna Beynon," bearing the date 1720, and pretending to give an account of the old rural customs of two hundred years ago in the Parish of Llandyssul and the surrounding districts, I found the following strange story in connection with "Hirwen-gwd," but I cannot vouch for the truth of the account, as it is evident that the "letters" referred to are not authentic:-- "GWYLNOS. "Fe fu farw Shann, Ty Clai yn ddiweddar, yn 90 oed. Nid oedd ganddi yr un plentyn yn y byd i alaru ar ei hol, ond yr oedd Abel ei hwyr, bachgen 18 oed, yn llefain yn dost ar ol yr unig ffrynd oedd ganddo yn y byd. Fe fu yno ryw wylnos ryfedd ar ei hol. Cafwyd cwrw yno o dafarn Nani Dan-yr-Allt, a buwyd yn adrodd hanes Twm Shon Cati, ac yn yfed hyd haner nos. Yna gollyngodd rhyw rai raff yn ddistaw i lawr trwy y simnau, tra yr oedd eu cyfeillion tu mewn yn canu can 'Ysgyfarnog pen Crug y Balog.' Yr oedd Abel druan, yn eistedd yn bendrwm yng nghornel yr aelwyd, a'i law dan ei ben, ac yn llefain wrtho ei hunan, ac Evan Blaen Cwm ar ei bwys, ac yn ei gysuro, a'i law dros ei gefn, gan dd'weyd, 'Paid llefan Abel bach; yf lymaid eto; rhaid i ti ymroi i fod yn dawel, a ni a wnawn ninau ein goreu drosof ti. Gwnawn nas cyffrwy i, Abel!' Ar yr un pryd yr oedd yr hen andras yn cylymu y rhaff am ganol yr hogyn tlawd. Yn y man dyna y cymdeithion o'r tu maes yn gwaeddi, 'Hirwen gwd,' ac Evan o'r tu mewn yn gwaeddi, 'chwareu yn barod.' "Gyda hyny, dyna Abel yn araf esgyn i fyny i'r simnai, ac Evan yn gofyn, 'Pa le yr wyt ti yn myned, Abel bach?' ac yntau yn ateb, 'Wn i ddim b'le mae'r d----l yn myned a fi.' Tyn-wyd ef i maes trwy y simnai. Hen lwfer gul ydoedd, yn llawn o huddugl, ac yr oedd golwg ofnadwy arno wedyn.... "Mae nhad a'r dynion goreu yn teimlo i'r byw fod y fath beth wedi cymeryd lle yn yr ardal, ac na fu y fath beth o'r blaen er ys pymtheg mlynedd." Translated into English the above reads as follows:-- "WAKE-NIGHT. "Shann, Ty Clai died lately, at the age of 90 without leaving a child to bewail her loss, except Abel, her grandson, a lad of 18 years of age, who was crying sorrowfully after the only friend he had in the whole world. There was there a very strange Wake-night kept at the house. They got some beer there from Nanny Dan-yr-Allt's Inn, and the time was spent until midnight in telling stories about Twm Shon Catty, and in drinking. Then a rope was let down secretly through the chimney by some fellows, while their companions inside were singing 'Ysgyfarnog pen Crug y Balog.' Poor Abel was sitting in the corner of the hearth in sorrow, with his hand under his head, and crying by himself, and Evan, Blaen Cwm, close by him comforting him and saying, 'Don't cry, dear Abel; drink a drop more; you must try and be calm, and we will do our best for thee. Yes, by jove, we shall!' At the same time the old rascal was tying a rope around the poor lad's waist. Then, suddenly, the party outside cried 'Hirwen-gwd,' and Evan from within, cried, 'Chwareu yn barod.' "Almost instantly, Abel found himself being dragged up the chimney, whereupon Evan asked 'Where are you going, dear Abel?' The latter answered, 'I don't know where the d----l takes me to.' He was pulled out through the chimney--a narrow old luffer as it was, full of soot, and there was an awful sight on him afterwards.... "My father and the best men feel to the very life that such a thing has taken place in the district, and they say that no such thing has taken place before for 15 years." It seems that many strange and mysterious events took place sometimes at the Wake-nights in Pembrokeshire, if all the stories we hear are true. Miss Martha Davies, Fishguard, informed me that her late uncle, Mr. Howells, Cilgwyn, vouched for the truth of the following account of an event which happened about a hundred years ago or more. Saith she:--An old gentleman farmer, who was a notorious ungodly man, lived at a farmhouse called Dolgaranog, in North Pembrokeshire. He at last died, and was placed in his coffin, and the candles were lighted, and people came together to the house and the 'gwylnos,' or wake-night went on in the usual manner, according to the customs of those days. Some of the young men and young maidens were talking together, whispering words of love to each other, and were rather merry, it seems. As these things went on, they were suddenly surprised by hearing the sound of horses' feet, as if a large concourse of people were approaching the house on horses and driving full speed. The next moment the sound of men's footsteps was heard entering in through the door and into the very room where the wakenight went on; but nothing could be seen. The invisible intruders, as they passed into the room where the dead man lay, put out all the candles. At last the same sound of footsteps could be heard departing from the house, and as this mysterious sound passed out through the room, people heard the bustle, and even felt the crush, and on leaving, the strange visitors re-lighted the candles, but nothing was to be seen, but the sound of horses' feet was heard as if a large concourse of cavaliers were driving away from the house, in the same manner as they had approached it, and gradually the sound died away. Then the relatives and friends and others who were present at the 'gwylnos,' keeping vigil over the dead, were anxious to know what this sound of invisible footsteps meant, and what had happened, so they entered the room where the coffin was, and when they opened it, to their great alarm, they found that nothing but an empty coffin, for the corpse was gone, and was never found again. The people of the neighbourhood really believed that the body was taken by the Devil, or evil spirits, as the man had lived such a bad life. The coffin was afterwards filled with stones and buried. Another strange old death custom, if it ever existed, was the "Sin Eater." It seems that the first to refer to the subject was Mr. John Aubrey, in 1686, who asserted that there was such a custom in Herefordshire and also in North Wales, and at the annual meeting of the Cambrian Archæological Association, which was held at Ludlow in August, 1852, Mr. Matthew Moggridge, of Swansea, made the following observation:--"When a person died, his friends sent for the Sin-eater of the district, who, on his arrival, placed a plate of salt on the breast of the defunct, and upon the salt a piece of bread. He then muttered an incantation over the bread, which he finally ate, thereby eating up all the sins of the deceased. This done, he received his fee of 2s. 6d. and vanished as quickly as possible from the general gaze; for, as it was believed that he really appropriated to his own use and behoof the sins of all those over whom he performed the above ceremony. He was utterly detested in the neighbourhood--regarded as a mere Pariah--as one irredeemably lost." The speaker then mentioned the Parish of Llandebie, in Carmarthenshire, where the above practice was said to have prevailed to a recent period. Mr. Allen, of Pembrokeshire, said that the plate and salt were known in that county, where also a lighted candle was stuck in the salt, and that the popular notion was that it kept away the evil spirit. A few years ago, one Rhys read at Tregaron an interesting paper on that town and district, and after referring to the custom of keeping vigil over the dead, he makes the following statement: "There was also an old custom in the town (Tregaron) connected with the 'Sin-eater.' Where there was a corpse in the house the 'Sin-eater' was invited. The relatives of the dead prepared him a meal on the coffin, he was supposed to eat the sins of the dead man so as to make the deceased's journey upward lighter." The late Chancellor D. Silvan Evans, and other well-informed Welshmen, have denied that any such custom as that of the Sin-eater ever existed in Wales, and Wirt Sikes, after diligent searching, failed to find any direct corroboration of it, and I may add that, though I venture no opinion of my own upon the subject, I have never come across in any part of Wales any old persons, either men or women, who had heard any tradition about it. On the other hand, the celebrated Welsh Novelist, Allen Raine, informed me a short time ago, that she knew a man at Carmarthen who had seen a "Sin-eater"; and the Rev. G. Eyre Evans showed me a portrait of a man that had seen one long ago in the Parish of Llanwenog. Perhaps the following, which appeared in Volume 15 of "Folk Lore," may prove of interest in connection with the subject. The writer, Mr. Rendel Harries, who had visited Archag, an Armenian village, where he attended service, says as follows in his "Notes from Armenia:--"At the evening service, to my great surprise, I found that when the congregation dispersed, a corpse laid out for burial was lying in the midst of the building. It had, in fact, been brought in before we came, and was to lie in the Church in preparation for burial next day. I noticed that two large flat loaves of bread had been placed upon the body. Inquiry as to the meaning of this elicited no other explanation than that the bread was for the Church mice and to keep them from eating the corpse. I did not feel satisfied with the explanation. Some months later, on mentioning the incident to some intelligent Armenians in Constantinople, they frankly admitted that in former days the custom was to eat the bread, dividing it up amongst the friends of the deceased. Whether this is a case of Sin-eating, I leave Mr. Frazer and Mr. Hartland to decide." The question of the alleged Sin-eater in Wales and the Borders has several times been discussed in "Bye-Gones," Oswestry, and whether there was at any time such strange custom in vogue in the country, there are at least ample proofs that it was customary in Pembrokeshire, if not in other parts of the country, to place a plate of salt on the breast of the corpse, and it was believed by some that this kept the body from swelling, and by others that it kept away the evil spirits. Pennant, a very keen observer, noticed a similar custom in the Highlands of Scotland 140 years ago, where "the friends lay on the breast of the deceased a wooden platter containing a small quantity of salt and earth separately and unmixed; the earth an emblem of the corruptible body; the salt an emblem of the immortal spirit." There are several superstitions in West Wales concerning salt, but shall refer to the subject in another chapter. It was once the custom in Wales to make the sign of the cross on the dead body or a cross was placed at or near his head; and though the ceremony was discontinued long ago, we even now occasionally hear the old saying, "Mae e dan ei grwys" (he is under his cross), when a dead body is in the house. As a rule in West Wales, coffins are made of oak, but poor people are satisfied with elm, and the corpse is placed in it, covered in a white shroud, but good many are buried in their best clothes, both at present and in the past, and a writer in "Bye-Gones," 1888, says that in an old book in Tregaron Vestry, dated 1636, he found that it was the rule of the Parish at that time to bury paupers without a coffin, and they were to wear their best apparel, and best hat; the charge for burial was two-pence; if any were buried in a coffin they also were to don their Sunday best, and the charge for their burial was 2s. 6d. To bury the dead in their best clothes instead of a shroud is a custom that has been continued in Wales till the present day by some, but not without a coffin; but it seems to have been a common practice to bury paupers, and those who were in very poor circumstances, without a coffin till about 200 years ago and even at a later date, as the registers of some of the old Parish Churches prove. It was also customary in former times to "bury in woollen"--that is, in a shroud made of woollen material, and the eminent Antiquarian, Mr. John Davies, of the National Library, has found out "that this was the practice in the Parish of Llandyssul in the year 1722. Undoubtedly, burying in woollen was in vogue for some generations and a statute of the time of Queen Elizabeth provided that it should be done in order to encourage the flannel industry; and an Act of Parliament was passed in the reign of Charles the Second to promote the sale and use of English wool, and there was once a penalty of £5 for burying in a shroud not made of wool. On the appointed day for the funeral, a large concourse of friends and neighbours come together at the house of the deceased, and all are welcomed to partake of food, as the Welsh people have always been remarkable for their hospitality on melancholy as well as joyful occasions. In former times great preparations were made, for the day of the funeral was in reality a regular feasting day for those who attended. Meyrick, in his "History of Cardiganshire," writing about a hundred years ago, observes:--"A profuse dinner, consisting principally of cold meat, fowls, tongues, etc., is spread on several tables, and a carver placed at the head of each, whose sole business is to carve for different parties as they alternately sit down. As the company are too numerous to be all accommodated within, the poorer people are seated on stools round the outside of the house, and are presented with cakes and warmed ale, with spice and sugar in it." It was once customary to prepare a special kind of drink known as a "diod ebilon," which contained the juice of elder tree and Rosemary, in addition to the ordinary substances of ale. The custom of giving beer and cake at funerals continued in some districts till very recently, and the Rev. D. G. Williams, St. Clear's, says that this was done at the funeral of an old gentleman farmer in the Parish of Trelech, in Carmarthenshire, about 30 years ago. Though it is not customary to give beer at the present day, but food, especially in a way of tea and cake, is given to everybody in rural districts, not only to those who have come from a distance, but even to near neighbours. The nearest relations make it a point of sitting in the death chamber, and before the coffin is nailed up, almost everybody present in the house enters the room to see the body and look on it with a sigh. Then Divine Service is conducted, at the close of which, the body is borne out of the house, by the nearest male relatives of the deceased, a custom introduced, undoubtedly, into Wales by the "Romans during their residence in this country, for the coffins of Roman citizens held in high esteem were borne by senators, but those of enemies were borne on the other hand by slaves." According to Pennant's Tours in North Wales, there was formerly an old custom to distribute bread and cheese over the coffin to poor people who had been gathering flowers to decorate it. Sometimes a loaf of bread was given or a cheese with a piece of money placed inside it, and a cup of drink also was presented. Cakes were given in South Cardiganshire to those who attended the funerals of the wealthy. I found that in Pembrokeshire in the present day, it is customary to place the coffin on chairs before the door outside before placing it on a bier. In most districts of West Wales, hearses have been until a few years ago, almost unknown, and such is the case even at the present day with few exceptions, except in those places adjoining the towns, but no doubt they are continually becoming more general every day. It is still the custom, especially in out of the way places where the funeral procession wends its way graveward on foot, to bear the corpse alternately, four men at the time, and sometimes even women carry as well as men. In the old times when the roads were bad, especially in the mountainous parts of the country, it was customary to make use of a what was known as "elorfarch" (horse-bier). The elorfarch was carried by horses, and it consisted of two long arms or shafts into which the horses were placed, with transverse pieces of wood in the centre, on which the coffin was placed. Before the funeral procession leaves the house, a hymn is sung, and in former times it was customary to sing on the way, especially when passing a house, and sometimes the singing continued all the way from the house to the churchyard without ceasing; and this singing along the lanes was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful of all the old Welsh funeral customs, and it is a pity that it has been discontinued. During my recent visit to St. David's, an old gentleman named Evans informed me that he well remembered the funeral processions singing on the way to the churchyard of St. David's Cathedral; and that it was also the custom to march round the old stone cross, which I noticed in the centre of the town, before entering the churchyard. When a funeral takes place at Aberystwyth, in Cardiganshire, it is customary for the Town Crier to go through the streets tolling a small hand-bell, a short time before the funeral procession. This is a survival of a very ancient custom which was once very general throughout Wales, and in pre-Reformation times this corpse-bell which was known as "bangu," was kept in all the Welsh Churches, and when a funeral was to take place, the bellman took it to the house of the deceased. When the procession began, a psalm was sung, and then the sexton sounded his bell in a solemn manner for some time, and again at intervals, till the funeral arrived at the Church. Giraldus Cambrensis, writing 700 years ago, mentions of such bell at "Elevein, in the Church of Glascwm, in Radnorshire; a portable bell endowed with great virtue, called Bangu, and said to have belonged to St. David. A certain woman secretly conveyed this bell to her husband who was confined in his Castle of Raidergwy (Rhaiadyrgwy) near Warthreinion (which Rhys, son of Gruffyth, had lately built), for the purpose of his deliverance. "The keepers of the Castle not only refused to liberate him for this consideration, but seized and detained the bell; and in the same night, by divine vengeance, the whole town, except the wall on which the bell hung, was consumed by fire." Formerly, in all parts of Wales, the Passing Bell was tolled for the dying, just as the spirit left the body. In ancient times there was a superstition among the Welsh people that the evil spirits were hovering about the sick man's chamber, waiting to pounce upon the soul as it left the body, but that the sound of a bell frightened away the fiends. According to "Cymru Fu," an interesting Welsh book published by Hughes and Son, Wrexham, another old custom in connection with Welsh funerals in former times, was to set down the bier and kneel and repeat the Lord's Prayer, whenever the procession came to a cross road. The origin of this custom, as given by the Welsh, is to be found in the former practice of burying criminals at cross-roads. It was believed that the spirits of these criminals did not go far away from the place where their bodies lay, and in repeating the Lord's Prayer was supposed to destroy and do away with any evil influence these spirits might have on the soul of the dear departed. The Venerable Archdeacon Williams, Aberystwyth, informed me that he was told by the late Principal Edwards, University College of Wales, that there was once an old custom in the Parish of Llanddewi Brefi for funeral processions to pass through a bog instead of proceeding along the road which went round it. Those who bore the bier through the bog, proceeded with much difficulty and often sank in the mud. The ceremony of taking the corpse through the bog was, at least, in Pre-Reformation times, supposed to have the effect of lessening the time or suffering of the deceased's soul in Purgatory, but the custom was continued in the said Parish for many generations after the Reformation, if not until recent times. It was once customary at Rhayader, in Radnorshire, for funeral processions to carry small stones which were thrown to a large heap at a particular spot before arriving at the church. When the funeral procession was nearing the churchyard a hymn was again sung. The custom was, and still is, for the clergyman, arrayed in his surplice, to meet the corpse at the entrance of the churchyard, as directed in the Prayer Book, and placing himself at the head of the procession, they proceed into the body of the church, and the bier is placed before the Altar. It was once customary for all the relations of the deceased to kneel around it until taken from the church to the place of interment. After the body has been lowered into the grave, and at the close of the funeral service one or more hymns are sung, generally those that were favourites of the deceased. When the deceased who is buried in the churchyard of the Parish Church, happened to have been a Nonconformist, it is sometimes customary to have services both in chapel and in church; in the former first, and in the latter before the interment. This was done in connection with the funeral of the late Mr. John Evans, Pontfaen, Lampeter, a few years ago, when I was present myself. It was once customary to give the shoes of the dead man to the grave-digger, a vestry at Tregaron in Cardiganshire, about 200 years ago passed that this should be done in that place. There is no such practice at present in any part of Wales. There was once a curious old custom known as "Arian y Rhaw" (spade money) which survived in some districts of West Wales until a comparatively recent date, especially in the Northern parts of Cardiganshire, and that part of Carmarthenshire which borders Breconshire. Mr. John Jones, Pontrhydfendigaid, an old man of 95, informed me that the custom was observed at Lledrod, a parish situated about nine miles from Aberystwyth, about eighty years ago. It was something as follows:--At the grave, the grave-digger extended his spade for donations, and received a piece of silver from each one of the people in turn. The following account of the custom by an eye-witness appeared in the Folk-Lore Column of the "Carmarthen Journal," July 7th, 1905:--"It was in the summer of 1887, if I remember well, that I had occasion to attend the funeral of a young child at Llangurig Church, situated on the main road leading from Aberystwyth to Llanidloes, and about five miles from the latter. After the service at the graveyard, the sexton held up an ordinary shovel into which all present cast something. The cortege was not large, as the child buried was only eight months old. When all had contributed their mites, and the sum had been counted, the sexton in an audible voice, declared the amount received, saying twenty-eight shillings and sixpence, many thanks to you all." Another curious old custom at Welsh funerals was the "Offrwm," or Parson's Penny, which was as follows: After having read the burial service in the Church, the Clergyman stood near the Altar until the nearest relation went up first to him and deposited an offertory on the table, then the other mourners, one and all followed, and presented a piece of money, and the money received by the Parson in this manner amounted sometimes to a very large sum, especially when the mourners were wealthy. The Author of Cradock's account of the most romantic parts of North Wales, published in 1773, makes the following observation concerning the custom: "Many popish customs are still retained in Wales; particularly offering made to the dead. These offerings must, of course, vary according to the rank of the persons deceased, as well as the affection that is borne to their memories. I was at a pauper's funeral when the donations amounted to half-a-crown, and I met with a Clergyman afterwards who had once received 90 guineas." This has not been practised in Cardigan and Carmarthenshire within the memory of the oldest inhabitant, but the custom was observed in former times, we have not the least doubt, and it has survived even until the present day in some form or other, in some parts of the Principality, especially in parts of North Wales, as the following correspondence which appeared in the "Oswestry Advertiser" in July, 1906, proves: "OFFERTORIES AT FUNERALS IN WALES." "Sir,--A correspondent in your columns, about a fortnight ago, called attention to this subject, and expressed disapproval of the manner in which the offertories are taken in some Churches at funeral services--by laying the plate on the bier near the pulpit, and the congregation in a disorderly manner laying their offertory on the plate. I regret to observe that this practice is still pursued in two parishes in this neighbourhood, and I should like to call the attention of the proper authorities to the desirableness of changing the custom, and adopting the system suggested by your correspondent, that the offertory should be taken at the gate, or that two or more plates should be taken around the congregation. The parish clerk, too, might be instructed not to announce the amount of the offertory." Undoubtedly, this custom has survived from Pre-Reformation times, and was originally intended to compensate the Priest for praying for the Soul of the departed in Purgatory, but at present it only means a token of esteem towards the officiating Clergyman, or perhaps a tribute of respect to the departed. It was formerly customary in Wales to throw a sprig of rosemary into the grave on the coffin. The custom has been discontinued now, but it was done in the Vale of Towy, in Carmarthenshire as late as sixty years ago. An excellent old Welsh Magazine, the "Gwyliedydd" for May, 1830, makes the following observation concerning the custom: "In ancient times, it was customary for all who attended a funeral to carry each a sprig of rosemary in his hand, and throw it into the grave as the minister was reading the last words of the funeral service"; and a writer in the Cambrian Quarterly Magazine, in the following year adds that a custom analogous to this prevailed amongst the ancient heathens; who used to throw cypress wood into the grave in the same manner. The reason why they made choice of the cypress was, because its branches do not bud when thrown into the earth, but perish altogether; it was thus an expressive symbol of their opinion, that the bodies of the dead would never rise again. On the other hand, the Christians threw the rosemary into the graves of their brethren to express that hope of a joyful resurrection with which their faith had inspired them. It was once customary to read the will of deceased over the grave. Sir S. R. Meyrick mentions this in his History of Cardiganshire, a hundred years ago, and the custom has been continued to a more recent date. The Rev. T. D. Thomas, Vicar of Llangorwen, near Aberystwyth, informed me that this was done by him at Llangadock, Carmarthenshire, about the year 1897, when officiating in the absence of the Vicar of that Parish. There was also an old custom of burying one who had been murdered, in a coffin covered with red cloth. The Rev. D. G. Williams, in his collection of Carmarthenshire Folk-Lore, says that one William Powell, of Glan Areth, Vale of Towy, was so buried in the year 1770. In Wales in pre-Reformation times, it was sometimes the practice to bury a rich man in the garments of a monk, as a protection against evil spirits; but this could not be done without paying large sums of money to the priests. The custom of covering the coffin with wreaths is very generally observed at the present day throughout West and Mid-Wales. The coffin of the late Sir Pryse Pryse, Bart., Gogerddan, who was buried at Penrhyncoch, Cardiganshire, April 23rd, 1906, was covered with wreaths of most beautiful flowers, sent by Dowager Lady Pryse, Sir Edward and Lady Webley-Parry-Pryse, Countess Lisburne, Viscountess Parker, Lady Evans, Lovesgrove; Mr. and Mrs. Loxdale, and many other relations and friends, as well as the tenants and servants. In times past the Welsh always carried the association of graves and flowers to the most lavish extreme, and Shakespeare, alluding to this in "Cymbeline," the scene of which tragedy is more especially in Pembrokeshire, says: "Arv. With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose; or The azur'd harebell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Outsweeten'd not thy breath." It is more generally the case at the present day to cover the coffin with wreaths than with loose flowers, and occasionally the graves are lined with moss and flowers. To decorate the graves of the departed with flowers is a very old custom amongst the Welsh, especially on Palm Sunday, which is known in Wales as "Sul y Blodau"--Flowering Sunday. The custom is very generally observed even at the present day in Glamorganshire, where the churchyards and other burial places present a very beautiful appearance; but it is to be regretted that in West Wales, during the last sixty years, the practice to a very great extent has been discontinued, at least in rural districts. But it is reviving at the present day, and likely to grow as years go on. A correspondent from Aberaeron, in one of the papers noticed that on Palm Sunday, of the year 1906, many of the graves of Henfynyw, in that district had been cleaned and flowers placed upon them, whilst on others flowers grew. Whilst staying for a short time in the Parish of Cilcennin, about five years ago, I took particular notice, that the planting of flowers and plants on the graves is renewed every year about Easter or Spring time, and that they are kept blooming through the loving care of the descendants of the departed. An old man named Jenkin Williams, a native of Llangwyryfon, a parish in the same County, who is 89 years of age, informed me that he well remembered the custom observed in his native parish, about seven miles from Aberystwyth, many years ago; but it is rarely observed at the present day. There are many parts of the country nowadays, where the practice is unknown, but there are evident signs that the beautiful old custom is reviving in parts of Carmarthenshire, Cardiganshire, and Pembrokeshire. In Glamorganshire, as I have already observed, the custom is very general. The custom of placing tombstones on the graves is very generally observed, but very few of the stones are in the form of a cross. Indeed, crosses are remarkable for their absence in Welsh Churchyards. The Welsh people in rejecting what they consider as a too Popish a practice, have gone into the opposite extremes of adopting as monuments for their dear departed, the polytheistic obelisk of the ancient Egyptians; the Greek and Roman urns, and the chest-stone of the Druids. It has been the custom in some places to whitewash the small inscribed stones at the head and feet of poor people's graves. Several English authors who have written about Wales remark that in nearly every churchyard in the country, the mountain ash is to be seen. It seems to me that this is a mistake; for, as far as my experience is concerned, it is rarely seen in Welsh churchyards, at least in the present day, and I have seen a good many of the churchyards; but it must be admitted that the Welsh have regarded the tree as sacred, and there are a good many superstitions in connection with it, so that it is possible that the custom of growing it in churchyards was more common in former times. The most common tree in the churchyards of Wales is the Yew, and the Welsh people from time immemorial, have always regarded the tree with solemn veneration, probably owing to its association with the dead. The Yew is famed in Welsh song, for the poets of Cambria in their elegies for their dead friends, often mention "Ywen Werdd y Llan" (the Green Yew of the Churchyard), and the poet Ioan Emlyn in his "Bedd y Dyn Tlawd"--"The Pauper's Grave" says: "Is yr Ywen ddu gangenog, Twmpath gwyrddlas gwyd ei ben." In former times the yew was consecrated and held sacred, and in funeral processions its branches were carried over the dead by mourners, and thrown under the coffin in the grave. With rosemary, ivy, bay, etc., branches of the trees were also used for church decorations. The following extract from the Laws of Howel Dda, King of Wales in the tenth century, shows that the yew tree was the most valuable of all trees, and also how the consecrated yew of the priests had risen in value over the reputed sacred mistletoe of the Druids:-- "A consecrated yew, its value is a pound. A mistletoe branch, three score pence. An oak, six score pence. Principal branch of an oak, thirty pence. A yew-tree (not consecrated), fifteen pence. A sweet apple, three score pence. A sour apple, thirty pence. A thorn-tree, sevenpence half-penny. Every tree after that, four pence." The planting of yew trees in Churchyards in Wales is as old as the Churchyards themselves; and it is probable that they were originally intended to act as a screen to the Churches by their thick foliage, from the violence of the winds, as well as a shelter to the congregation assembling before the church door was opened. The first Churches in Wales were only wooden structures, and needed such screens much more than the comfortable stone Churches of the present day. Another important object in planting the yew was to furnish materials for bows, as these were the national weapons of defence. The Churchyards were the places where they were most likely to be preserved, and some authorities derive the English word "yeoman" from yewmen, that is, the men who used the yew bow. The yew bow was very common throughout Wales in the old times, and skill in archery was universal in the country; and as late as Tudor times, the Welsh poet, Tudur Aled, asks, in lamenting the death of a squire:-- "Who can repeat his exploits to-day? Who knows so well the strength of yew." In the memorable Battle of Cressy, three thousand five hundred Welsh archers followed the Black Prince in the attack on France in the year 1346, and as many more came from the Welsh lordships, and bore such distinguished parts, for the success of this war was due to the skill of the Welsh Archers, and at the end of the battle the Prince adopted the motto, "Ich Dien," which has been the motto of the Princes of Wales ever since. Evelyn's opinion is "that we find it (the yew) so numerously planted in Churchyards from its being thought a symbol of immortality, the tree being so lasting and always green." There are at the present day in the Churchyards of Carmarthenshire and Cardiganshire, some fine specimens of the yew tree, and some of them hundreds of years, if not nearly a thousand years old. In former times when Churchyards were resorted to for recreation, seats were fixed round the trunk of the tree. Many of the Churchyards in Wales in ancient times, before the introduction of Christianity, had been Druidical circles. This is evident from the oval form of the ground of many of them, which often resemble small embankments, or mounds. Such is the case as regards Tregaron Church, in Cardiganshire, Llanddewi Brefi also is on elevated ground, as well as several other Churchyards. How early the practice of enclosures near the Churches or Monasteries for burial of the dead began in Wales is quite uncertain. It seems that the practice was introduced into England by Archbishop Cuthbert about 750; but the origin of Churchyards in Wales was of a much earlier date, in all probability about two or three hundred years earlier than in England. Some of the best authorities assert that a few (but few only) of the Welsh Parish Churches and consecrated Churchyards can be traced to the days of St. Garmon, or Germanus, Bishop of Auxerre, who paid two visits to this country about A.D. 429, and 447 respectively. It is possible that there were few Christians in Britain even in the first century; but Parochial Churches did not belong to the earlier ages of Christianity, and the clergy lived in towns, and undertook missionary journeys about the country, under the direction of their bishops. Prior to the introduction of enclosures round Churches for the purpose of burial, it was customary (as it is in China to-day), to bury on high places, such as hills and mountains. Cremation had also been practised as it is evident from the urns for the preservation of the ashes of the dead, which are being discovered in various parts of Wales, from time to time. Perhaps the most recent and interesting discoveries of such urns were those found near Capel Cynon, in Cardiganshire, containing ashes and portions of small calcined bones. A labourer named John Davies, came across them accidentally in an old mound on a hill, whilst working for Evan Thomas, a contractor under the County Council of Cardiganshire, in digging out stones for road-mending. (See Archæologia Cambrensis for January, 1905.) The introduction of Christianity put an end to the practice of cremation. Carneddau, or cairns, and tumuli, or mounds of earth, have been preserved till the present day in different parts of Wales, but it is to be regretted that many of these interesting monuments of antiquity, which the Welsh in ancient times erected in honour of their great men have been destroyed. That Wales has been celebrated for its Carneddau, is evident from the words of Taliesin, the chief poet of King Arthur's time, who calls the country "Cymru Garneddog" (Cairn Wales), and one the most interesting "Carnedd" is what is known as "bedd Taliesin"--Taliesin's grave, about eight miles north of Aberystwyth, where, according to tradition, Taliesin himself was buried. Such monumental heaps over the mortal remains of the dead were of two kinds, according to the nature of the country. In stony districts, a cairn of stones was heaped, but where stones were scarce, a mound of turf of a circular construction, called tomen (tumulus), was deemed sufficient. In ancient times this mode of burial was considered a most honourable one, and in passing the tomb of a warrior or some great man, it was customary for every passer by to throw a stone to the cairn, out of reverence to his memory. There was a similar custom among the Indians of Patagonia, which was still observed a few years ago. A Patagonian Chief in passing the grave of an eminent chief or a great warrior, would dismount from his horse, and search for a stone to throw on the cairn. Monumental Cairns were also common in Scotland, for in Ossian's Poems, Shibric, in Carricthura says: "If fall I must in the field, raise high my grave, Vinvela. Grey stones, and heaped earth, shall mark me to future times." To erect mounds seems to have been a very ancient custom, for Herodotus, in giving a full and most interesting account of the strange practices of the Ancient Scythians, in connection with the burial of their Kings, observes amongst other things, "Having done this, they all heap up a large mound, striving and vieing with each other to make it as large as possible." When the custom of burying in churchyards became general in Wales, in course of time, to bury in cairns and mounds, which formerly had been an honourable practice, was discontinued, and even condemned, as fit only for the great criminals; and, as Dr. Owen Pugh, observes: "when this heap became to be disgraced, by being the mark where the guilty was laid, the custom for every one that passed, to fling his stone, still continued, but now as a token of detestation"; hence originated the old Welsh sayings "Carn lleidr (a thief's Cairn), "Carn ar dy wyneb." (Cairn on thy face). Even at the present day throughout Wales, when any one is guilty of robbery or swindle, it is customary to call such a man a "Carn leidr" (A cairn thief). In the parish of Llanwenog, six miles from Lampeter, there is a spot called "Carn Philip Wyddyl." an old farmer, named "Tomos, Ty-cam," informed me that according to the traditions of the district, this Philip was a "Carn leidr," or the ringleader of a gang of thieves, who, in an attempt to escape, jumped down from Llanwenog Steeple, and broke his leg. His pursuers stoned him to death, and buried him beneath a carn. CHAPTER IV. VARIOUS OTHER CUSTOMS. CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR'S DAY CUSTOMS. Christmas at the present day in Wales is not so important as it used to be in former times, though it is still the beginning of a holiday season, and also a regular feasting-day. Morning service is conducted in the Parish Church, but is not so well-attended as in former times. It is often the custom to have an Eisteddfod or a concert in the evening in Nonconformist Chapels. In towns, the children hang up their stockings the night before Christmas, expecting to find some gifts in them next morning. Christmas is also an important day for the young maidens to kiss and be kissed. A girl places a mistletoe to hang over the chair in which a young man, whom she wishes to catch, is likely to sit. Then when he comes under the mistletoe, she kisses him suddenly, and whenever she succeeds in doing so, she claims from him a new pair of gloves. The favourite observance for a young man to kiss a girl under the branches is also well known, and it was once supposed that the maiden who missed being kissed under the mistletoe on Christmas would forfeit her chance of matrimony, at least during the ensuing twelve months. These superstitions and favourite observances have come down from the time of the Druids. The most interesting feature of Christmas in Wales in times gone by was undoubtedly the "Plygain" which means morning twilight. The "Plygain" was a religious service held in the Parish Church, at three o'clock on Christmas morning to watch the dawn commemorative of the coming of Christ, and the daybreak of Christianity. The service consisted of song, prayer, praise, and thanksgiving, and there was at that early hour a large congregation even in remote districts, as many came from long distances, often three or four miles on a frosty night, or through snow. It was customary for each family to take their own candles with them to this early service. These candles were of various colours, and should any remain after the service was over, they became the property of the clerk. Carols were sung, and it was customary for anyone who claimed to be a bard to compose a carol; indeed, a poet was not considered a poet unless he could sing a carol. Some old people informed me that in connection with these early services there was a great deal of disorder on account of men under the influence of drink attending the Church after a night of revelry, and that this put an end to the "Plygain" in some places. In course of time the hour was changed from three to four or five, and such service is still continued in Llanddewi Brefi and other places in Cardiganshire. After beginning Christmas morning so devoutly with Divine Service at early dawn, it was the custom in old times to spend most of the day in enjoyment, especially hunting the hare, the woodcock, but the chief sport was in connection with the squirrel. There was a custom once at Tenby, in Pembrokeshire, for the young men of the town to escort the Rector, with lighted torches from his residence to the Church to the early service on Christmas morning. They extinguished their torches as soon as they reached the porch, and went in to the early service in the Church, and at the conclusion of it, the torches were re-lighted, and the procession returned to the Rectory, the chimes ringing till the time of the usual morning service. Lighted torches were also carried through the streets by a procession on Christmas Eve, and cow-horns were blown, and windows of houses were decorated by evergreens. In North Pembrokeshire the holidays commenced, especially amongst the farmers, on Christmas Day, and were continued for three weeks, viz., till Epiphany Sunday. The Rev. O. Jenkin Evans, writing in "Pembrokeshire Antiquities," page 47, says:--"On the 25th day of December, the farmers with their servants and labourers suspended all farming operations, and in every farm the plough was at once carried into the private house, and deposited under the table in the 'Room Vord' (i.e., the room in which they took their meals), where it remained until the expiration of "Gwyliau Calan." During these three weeks, parties of men went about from house to house, and were invited into the "Room Vord," where they sat around the table, regaling themselves with beer, which was always kept warm in small neat brass pans in every farm-house ready for callers. But the peculiar custom which existed amongst these holiday-makers was that they always wetted the plough which lay dormant under the table with their beer before partaking of it themselves, thus indicating that though they had dispensed with its service for the time, they had not forgotten it, and it would again, in due course, be brought out on the green sward and turn it topsy-turvy. These bands of men would sometimes carry with them the "Wren," singing simple popular ditties. On Christmas Day, a sumptuous dinner was prepared at the principal farms in every neighbourhood to which all the others, including the cottagers, were invited. The repast consisted of geese, beef, pudding, etc." One of the most curious customs which was once in vogue about Christmas time was the procession known as "Mari Lwyd Lawen" ("the Merry Grey Mary"), which was a man wearing the skeleton of a horse's head decked with ribbons and rosettes. The man was enveloped in a large white sheet, and proceeded round the houses, followed by a merry procession, singing songs and playing merry pranks, collecting Christmas boxes: "Mari Lwyd lawen, Sy'n dod o Bendarren," etc. (Merry grey Mary, Who comes from Pendarren.) When a real skeleton could not be got, it was customary to make one of straw and rags. It seems that "Mari Lwyd" belonged more especially to Glamorganshire, yet it was well-known in Carmarthenshire also, not only in those places bordering on Glamorgan, but also in the Vales of Towy and Cothy. Mr. T. Davies (Eryr Glyn Cothi), and others, informed me that the "Mari" procession visited Llanegwad, and other places between Llandilo and Carmarthen only a few years ago. The curious custom was not known in Pembrokeshire, nor indeed in Cardiganshire, though I was informed that "Mari Lwyd" on one occasion at least did visit the latter county from Glamorganshire, and tramped across from Llandyssul, in the Vale of Teify, to New Quay, on the sea coast, calling at Lampeter and other places on the way. According to the excellent Magazine, named "The Cambrian Journal" published 50 years ago, there was an old custom once at Tenby in Pembrokeshire, sometimes before, and sometimes after Christmas Day, for the fishermen to dress up one of their number, whom they called the "Lord Mayor of Penniless Cove," with a covering of evergreens, and a mask over his face; they would then carry him about, seated on a chair, with flags flying, and a couple of violins playing before him. Before every house, the "Lord Mayor" would address the occupants, wishing them "a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." If his good wishes were responded to with money, his followers gave three cheers, the masquer would himself return thanks, and the crowd again give "three times three," hip, hip, hurrah! There was also in vogue once the barbarous practice of "holly beating." This was on the day after Christmas, St. Stephen's Day, which consisted in a furious onslaught being made by men and boys, armed with large bushes of the prickly holly, on the naked and unprotected arms of female domestics, and others of a like class. NEW YEAR'S DAY. In Pembrokeshire, to rise early on New Year's morning will, it is considered, bring good luck. On that morning also it is deemed wise to bring a fresh loaf into the house as it is considered the succeeding loaves throughout the year will be influenced by that performance. In most places throughout West Wales, even at the present day, people are very particular as to whether they see a man or a woman the first thing on New Year's morning. Mr. Williams in his "Llen-gwerin Sir Gaerfyrddin," says that in parts of Carmarthenshire in order to secure future luck or success during the coming year, a man must see a woman, and a woman a man. And the Rev. N. Thomas, Vicar of Llanbadarn Fawr, informed me that he has met people in his Parish who consider it lucky to see a woman first. As a rule, however, the majority of people both men and women deem it lucky to see a man, but unlucky to see a woman. Even now in various parts of the country, good many object to the entrance of a woman before the in-coming of one of the other sex, this is particularly the case in the central parts of Cardiganshire, especially in the Parish of Llanddewi Brefi and surrounding districts between Lampeter and Tregaron. This is also true of some parts of Pembrokeshire. According to the late Rector of Newport, Pembrokeshire, the man must needs bear one of the four lucky names--Dafydd, Ifan, Sion and Siencyn. "Supposing the man was not called by one of these names, the person first seen might as well be a woman, if she only bore one of the lucky names--Sian a Sioned, Mair a Marged. Then all would go well for that year at least. A hare or a magpie must not cross one before twelve, and the cock must not crow before supper on New Year's Day, or some dire calamity might befall one after all." There was everywhere a general desire to see "the Old Year out and the New Year in." In South Pembrokeshire some danced the old year out; some drank it out, and many walked it out. I was informed at Talybont, that once those who desired to see "the New Year in "crowded to each other's houses in North Cardiganshire to pass the time in story-telling and feasting. The children especially, looked forward to New Year's morning, with the greatest interest, as it was, and still is in some places, customary for them to go about from house to house, asking for "calenig," or New Year's gift. The children on such occasions often repeated something as follows:-- "Rhowch galenig yn galonog, I ddyn gwan sydd heb un geiniog, Gymaint roddwch, rhowch yn ddiddig, Peidiwch grwgnach am ryw ychydig. "Mi godais heddyw maes o'm ty, A'm cwd a'm pastwn gyda mi, A dyma'm neges ar eich traws, Set llanw'm cwd a bara a chaws. "Calenig i fi, calenig i'r ffon, Calenig i fytta'r noson hon; Calenig i mam am gwyro sane, Calenig i nhad am dapo sgidie. "Chwi sy'n meddi aur ac arian, Dedwydd ydych ar Ddydd Calan, Braint y rhai sy'n perchen moddion, Yw cyfranu i'r tylodion, 'Rhwn sy a chyfoeth ac ai ceidw, Nid oes llwyddiant i'r dyn hwnw." "Os gwelwch yn dda ga'i g'lenig?-- Shar i 'nhad a shar i mam, A shar i'r gwr bonheddig." The following is from an old song for New Year's Day, heard at Tregaron in Cardiganshire:-- "Rhowch i mi docyn diogel, Fel gallo mam ei arddel, Neu chwech gael cwart, 'Dwy'n hidio fawr, Waeth fi yw gwas mawr Trecefel." In the English districts of West Wales, such as South Pembrokeshire, such verses as the following were repeated:-- Get up on New Year's morning, The cocks are all a-crowing; And if you think you're awake too soon, Why get up and look at the stars and moon. "The roads are very dirty, My shoes are very thin, I wish you a happy New Year, And please to let me in." The following is another specimen from North Cardigan:-- "Mae rhew a'r eira yn bur oeredd, Awel fain yn dod o'r gogledd, Ambell gybydd oddi cartre, Yn lle rhanu rhai ceinioge, A rhai eraill yn eu caban, Yn gwneyd eu cilwg ar Ddydd Calan." When boys and girls knocked at the doors of misers who refused to give anything, they went away disappointed, repeating "Blwyddyn newydd ddrwg, A llond y ty o fwg." "A bad New Year to you, And a house full of smoke." But as a rule the farmers were very kind to all comers, both in Cardiganshire, Carmarthenshire, and Pembrokeshire, unless they had been disappointed by seeing a girl first that morning, which was, as I have already observed, considered an unlucky omen. Even at the present day this superstition is very strong in Llanddewi Brefi, Cardiganshire, and, indeed, many other parts of Wales, for I have taken particular notice that the first boy who comes to the door on New Year's morning, if he happens to come before a girl is seen, he is warmly welcomed into the house and even taken upstairs and into the bedrooms so that those who are in their beds might have the satisfaction of seeing a male the first thing on New Year's Day, to secure good-luck. Before the boy departs some money is given him, about sixpence as a rule at the present day, but in former times he got a loaf of bread instead. At the present day boys and girls, and occasionally a few poor old women continue to go round from house to house from early dawn till mid-day collecting alms, when each of the children receive a copper, in former times, however, it was more customary to give them some bread and cheese, which they took home to their parents in a bag which they carried on their backs, or a basket under their arms. When the children had more than they could carry, they would leave some of it at a certain house and return for it the following day. In some places it was customary to keep on to collect alms in this manner for two days, but only those who were in very poor circumstances were allowed to go about on the second day. It was once customary to carry an orange, with oats stuck in it, placed on a stick, round the houses. The visitors sang at the door and expected something to eat and drink. Another interesting custom observed, especially in Pembrokeshire, on New Year's Day was for children to visit the houses in the morning about 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning with a vessel filled with spring water, fresh from the well and with the aid of a sprig of evergreen, sprinkled the faces of those they met, and at the same time singing as follows:-- "Here we bring new water from the well so clear, For to worship God with, this Happy New Year; Sing levy dew, sing levy dew, the water and the wine, With seven bright gold wires, and bugles that do shine; Sing reign of fair maid, with gold upon her toe, Open you the west door and turn the old year go; Sing reign of fair maid, with gold upon her chin, Open you the east door and let the New Year in." When the children entered into a house, it was customary for them to sprinkle every one of the family even in their beds with this fresh spring water, and they received a small fee for the performance. There was a ceremony among the Druids and others in ancient times, of throwing spring water over the shoulder in order to command the attention of elemental spirits. It is customary in some places, especially in parts of Carmarthenshire, for young men to sprinkle the young girls with water in their beds, and the young maidens in their turn sprinkle the young men, and this is sometimes done when the one upon whom water is thrown is fast asleep. It is still customary for young men with musical instruments to visit the palaces of the gentry at early dawn, and play some of the beautiful old Welsh Airs, when they receive warm welcome and generous gifts. Among Twelfth Night Custom, none was more celebrated in Pembrokeshire in the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth than the "cutty wren," though there are hardly any traces of the custom in Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire. The custom was something as follows: Having procured a wren, the bird was placed in a little house of paper with glass windows, sometimes a cage or a lantern, or a box was used for that purpose, and often decorated with coloured ribbons, and "every young lady, and even old ladies, used to compete in presenting the grandest ribbon to the "wren." The cage or the lantern thus decorated with the little bird in it, was hoisted on four poles, one at each corner, and four men carried it about for the purpose of levying contributions, singing a long ballad or ditty such as follows on the following tune:-- "Where are you going? says Milder to Melder, O where are you going? says the younger to the elder; O I cannot tell says Festel to Fose; We're going to the woods said John the Red Nose. We're going to the woods said John the Red Nose. "O what will you do there? says Milder to Melder, O what will you do there? says the younger to the elder; O I do not know, says Festel to Fose; To shoot the cutty wren, said John the Red Nose, To shoot the cutty wren, said John the Red Nose. "O what will you shoot her with? says Milder to Melder, O what will you shoot her with? says the younger to the elder O I cannot tell, says Festel to Fose; With bows and arrows, said John the Red Nose, With bows and arrows, said John the Red Nose. "O that will not do! says Milder to Melder, O that will not do says the younger to the elder; O what will you do then? says Festel to Fose; With great guns and cannons says John the Red Nose, With great guns and cannons says John the Red Nose. "O what will you bring her home in? says Milder to Melder, O what will you bring her home in? says the younger to elder; O I cannot tell, says Festel to Fose; On four strong men's shoulders, said John the Red Nose. On four strong men's shoulders, said John the Red Nose. "O that will not do, says Milder to Melder, O that will not do, says the younger to the elder; O what will you do then? says Fester to Fose; On big carts and waggons, said John the Red Nose, On big carts and waggons, said John the Red Nose. "What will you cut her up with? says Milder to Melder, What will you cut her up with? says the younger to the elder; O I do not know, saith Festel to Fose; With knives and with forks, said John the Red Nose, With knives and with forks, said John the Red Nose. "O that will not do, says Melder to Milder, O that will not do, says the younger to the elder; O what will do then? says Festel to Fose; With hatchets and cleavers, said John the Red Nose, With hatchets and cleavers, said John the Red Nose, "What will you boil her in? says Milder to Melder, What will you boil her in? says the younger to the elder; O I cannot tell thee, says Festel to Fose; In pots and in kettles, said John the Red Nose, In pots and in kettles, said John the Red Nose." For more on this interesting subject see "Manners and Customs of the People of Tenby" in "The Cambrian Journal," Vol. IV., page 177. I may add that I heard the above ditty sung in Welsh in several parts of South Wales, especially when I was a boy. Another such custom was called "tooling," and its purpose was beer. It consisted in calling at the farm-houses and pretending to look for one's tools behind the beer cask. "I've left my saw behind your beer cask," a carpenter would say; "my whip," a carter; and received the tool by proxy, in the shape of a cup of ale. It was also customary for the women to practice what was called sowling, viz., asking for "sowl," that is cheese, fish or meat. It was also customary in parts of the counties of Pembroke and Carmarthen for poor people to proceed round the neighbourhood from house to house with their "Wassail bowls," and singing outside each door something as follows-- "Taste our jolly wassail bowl, Made of cake, apple, ale, and spice; Good master give command, You shall taste once or twice Of our jolly wassail bowl." People who partook of the contents of the bowl were of course expected to pay, so that the invitation to "taste our jolly wassail bowl," was not always accepted. In such cases the bearer of the bowl sung the following rhyme in disappointment:-- "Are there any maidens here, As I suppose there's none Or they wouldn't leave us here, With our jolly wassail bowl." "The huge bowl was on the table, brimful of ale. William held a saucepan, into which Pally and Rachel poured the ale, and which he subsequently placed upon the fire. Leaving it to boil, the party seated round the fire began to roast some of the apples that Pally had just put upon the table. This they effected by tying long pieces of twine to their stems, and suspending them from the different "pot-hooks and hangers" with which the chimney corner abounded, twisting the cord from time to time to prevent their burning.... By the time they had all completed their trials the ale was boiling and the apples were roasted. The tempting beverage went smoking hot into the bowl, and was joined by the contents of a small, suspicious-looking, tightly-corked bottle, which I strongly suspect, contained what the French call the "water of life," and a very strong water it undoubtedly is. Next there was a hissing and splutting greeting between the ale and the roasted apples, which was succeeded by the introduction of some of the "nices," with which Pally's table was covered. Different masculines of the party added to the treat by producing packets of buns, raisins, or biscuits, which they dropped singly into the bowl until it was full to overflowing. With a sufficient proportion of spices and sugar, the wassail bowl was finally prepared, and, as if by instinct, just as it was completed, in popped three or four of Pally's ancient cronies, all dying to partake of it. The cups and glasses were speedily filled, when William proposed Pally's health, which was cordially drunk by the whole party." (The Vale of Towey, pages 83-87). It was customary also, especially in parts of Carmarthenshire, on "Calan Hen" (Old New Year's Day) to make a feast for those who had helped them with the harvest. It was also once customary on Epiphany Night in West Wales to visit the houses of those who had been married since the Epiphany before. Those who went round the houses in this manner requested admittance in rhyme and expected food and beer to be given to them by the inmates. Epiphany, known in Wales as "Gwyl Ystwyll," was formerly closely associated with Christmas. Many of the old customs and festivities in connection with the New Year are of great antiquity; it was then that the Druids went to seek the mistletoe on the oak. To the Druids the oak and the mistletoe were objects of veneration; and one of the most imposing ceremonies was the cutting of the latter, some days before the New Year, with a Golden Knife, in a forest dedicated to the gods; and the distributing its branches with much ceremony as New Year's Gifts among the people. On the day for cutting the mistletoe, a procession of Bards, Druids, and Druidesses was formed to the forest, and singing all the while. The Arch-Druid climbed the tree and cut down the mistletoe, the other Druids spreading a sheet to receive it. This scene was enacted with great success at the Builth Wells Pageant, August, 1909--(see illustration)--which I witnessed myself with interest. The Romans had also their festival in honour of Janus and Strenia about the same time of the year. It is interesting to add that in England in the days of King Alfred a law respecting Feast Days was passed, in which the twelve days after the birth of Christ were made a season of holidays. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. The custom of sending a pretty Valentine, or an ugly one, of love, or from mere mischief, as the case might be, was very common once in Wales. We do not hear much of Valentines at the present, however, since the Picture Post Cards have become so common. ST. DAVID'S DAY. St. David is the Patron Saint of Wales, and strange to say the only Welsh Saint in the Calendar of the Western Church (Canonized by Calixtus II.) more than five hundred years after his death. His day is celebrated on the 1st of March throughout the world where Welshmen are. In Wales there are in some places grand dinners, and speeches are made and songs sung, and at present it is customary to conduct Divine Service on the day even in St. Paul's Cathedral, London. But perhaps the most characteristic feature of the day is the wearing of the Leek, though it must be admitted that wearing the Leek on St. David's Day is not very general in the country districts of Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire at the present day, but the interesting old custom is reviving, especially in the towns, and every true-born Welshman ought to wear on the 1st of March the Welsh National Emblem which is dedicated to St. David. The origin of the custom is not known, there are many who positively assert that it originated in the days of St. David himself; that is, according to some traditions, during a memorable battle against the Saxons the Welsh obtained a complete victory over their enemies. During the engagement the Welsh had leeks in their hats on the occasion for their military colour and distinction of themselves, by persuasion of the said prelate St. David. According to other traditions, the battle of Poictiers has been named; also that of Cressy, when the Welsh archers did good service with the English against the French, under Edward the Black Prince of Wales, and Shakespeare alludes to this in Henry V.:-- Fluellen says to Henry: "If your Majesty is remembered of it, the Welshmen did good service in a garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps; which your Majesty knows, to this hour is an honourable badge of the service; and, I do believe, your Majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek on St. Tavy's Day." King Henry: "I wear it for a memorable honour; for I am Welsh, you know, good countryman." It seems that there was a custom in London 250 years ago of hanging effigies of Welshmen on St. David's Day; for Pepys says:-- (March 1, 1667). In Mark Lane I do observe (it being St. David's Day), the picture of a man dressed like a Welshman, hanging by the neck upon one of the poles that stand out at the top of one of the merchants' houses, in full proportion and very handsomely done, which is one of the oddest sights I have seen a good while. SHROVE TUESDAY. Shrove Tuesday, which is called in Welsh Dydd Mawrth Ynyd, was formerly kept as a holiday; but not much notice is taken of the day now, except that the old custom of pancakes eating still survives in most places. "Deuwch heno, fy nghyfeillion, Merched glan a'r bechgyn mwynion, A chydunwn heb un gofyd, Wneyd Crammwythau ar Nos Ynyd." Come to-night my friends, Fair young maidens and gentle young men; And let us join without sorrow To make pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. The day was once also noted for foot-ball kicking in some districts, and also for throwing at cocks, that is hens which had laid no eggs before that day were threshed with a flail as being good for nothing. Mr. Williams in his excellent Welsh essay on the Folk Lore of Carmarthenshire, says that he had been informed by a middle aged person of a curious old custom of playing with eggs. Mr. Williams's informant when a child and other children with him, had been taught by an old woman how to play some peculiar game with eggs on this day, which was something as follows:--Eggs were boiled for two or three hours till they were as hard as stones. The children used to colour their eggs for the prettiest by boiling them in coffee with certain herbs, etc., then for half of the day, they kept throwing the eggs at each other. This curious kind of play reminds me of a similar practice which I noticed in South America many years ago, more especially in the Argentine Republic, where it was customary for the first half of the day for people to throw eggs, water, etc., at each other, and this was done even in the sheets of Buenos Ayres. The custom was known as "El Carnival," that is giving way to the flesh before the beginning of Lent or Fasting Time. In the North of England boys play with eggs on Easter Eve, and centuries ago eggs were blest by the Priest and preserved as Amulates. It was once customary for the tenants of Nanteos, in North Cardiganshire, to give to their landlord Shrove Hens and Eggs (ieir ac wyau Ynyd). This was undoubtedly a survival of the old custom of paying rent, or a portion of it, "in kind." To render in kind ducks and geese, loads of coal, etc., was continued yearly, both in Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire within living memory. LENT. There was an old custom once in Wales of taking an egg-shell, filled with water, little meat, flour, etc., to a house of a neighbour, and leave it on the outside of the window while all the family were having their supper, and then run away, for if they were caught in doing it, they were obliged to clean old shoes as a punishment. The egg-shell used on the occasion was called "Crochan Grawys" (Lent Cauldron). Some old people remember this in Carmarthenshire. PALM SUNDAY. I have already, in my Chapter on Funeral Customs, referred to the beautiful old Welsh Custom of decorating the graves on Palm Sunday. GOOD FRIDAY. Good Friday in Welsh is called "Dydd Gwener Groglith (The Lesson of the Cross Friday). Not much notice is taken at present day of the day, and the services conducted in the Parish Churches in country places are as a rule poorly attended. In former times there were many interesting customs and strange superstitions in connection with the day, especially in the South of Pembrokeshire, where there was once a custom called "Making Christ's Bed," which was done by gathering a quantity of long reeds from the river and woven into the shape of a man. Then this was stretched on a wooden cross, and laid in a field. It is said that it was customary in that particular part of West Wales, especially at Tenby, to walk barefooted to Church, and that such Pre-Reformation custom continued till the close of the eighteenth century, which was done so as not to disturb the earth! In returning from Church the people regaled themselves with hot cross buns, and after reaching the house they were eaten. But a certain number of them were tied up in a bag, and hung in the kitchen, where they remained till the next Good Friday, for medical purposes, for it was believed that the eating of one of them cured diseases. They were also used as a panacea for the diseases of animals, as well as serviceable to frighten away evil spirits and goblins. These hot cross buns which figured in such a peculiar manner in South Pembrokeshire, nothing is known of them in the adjoining counties of Carmarthen and Cardigan, among the country people; it is possible, however, that they were known there prior to the Reformation or even after. But perhaps the bun custom was unknown in those two counties, and it had been introduced into South Pembrokeshire (where the people are not of Welsh origin), from England or some other country. Some writers trace the origin of hot cross buns to the cakes which the pagan Saxons used to eat in honour of their goddess Eostre, and that the custom dates back to pre-historic times, and that their connection with the Cross of our Saviour is only by adoption. How far this is true it is impossible to know with certainty; but it is evident that the early Christians adopted many pagan rites and customs. According to Hone's Year Book, the hot cross buns are the ecclesiastic Eulogiae or Consecrated Loaves bestowed in the Church as alms, and to those who could not receive the Host. It was once the custom in Wales to express abhorrence of Judas Iscariot, and the curious custom of flogging him is still in vogue in South America. In former times Good Friday was the day on which rings were blessed by Kings and given away as remedies for the cramp. EASTER. It is deemed essential by many people to wear some new article of dress, if only a pair of gloves or a new ribbon; for not to do so is considered unlucky, and the birds will be angry with you. It is probable that the origin of this custom is associated with Easter baptism, when a new life was assumed by the baptised, clothed in righteousness as a garment. In former times people had such respect for this day that many kept their children unbaptised till Easter Sunday, and many old men and old women went to Church to receive the Communion who were hardly to be seen in the Lord's House on any other Sunday during the year. There was once an old fancy in Wales that the sun used to dance for joy when it rose on Easter morning, and great care was taken in some places to get up the children and young people to see such sight of the sun dancing in honour of the rising of our Lord. The sun was sometimes aided in this performance by a bowl of clear water, into which the youth must look and see the orb dance, as it would be dangerous to look directly on the sun while thus engaged. The religious dance of the ancient Druids is believed to exist in modern times in a round dance wherein the figures imitate the motions of the sun and moon. See "British Goblins," by Sykes, page 274. FIRST DAY OF APRIL. April fool, known in Wales as "Ffwl Ebrill," was observed as in England, and still observed to a certain extent. MAY. The old customs and superstitions in connection with May Day are unknown in Wales in the present day, once, however, May-day dances and revelling were most popular, especially in Pembrokeshire, as the following interesting account which appeared in the "Cambrian Journal" proves:-- "On May-eve, the inhabitants would turn out in troops, bearing in their hands boughs of thorn in full blossom, which were bedecked with other flowers, and then stuck outside the windows of the houses. Maypoles were reared up in different parts of the town (of Tenby), decorated with flowers, coloured papers, and bunches of variegated ribbon. On May-day the young men and maidens would, joining hand in hand, dance round the May-poles, and "thread the needle," as it was termed. A group of fifty to a hundred persons would wend their ways from one pole to another, till they had thus traversed the town. Meeting on their way other groups, who were coming from an opposite direction, both parties would form a "lady's chain," and to pass on their respective ways." The May-pole was once most popular in Wales, but the old custom has entirely died out, though we still hear occasionally of a May Queen being selected in some places. A PRESENT-DAY WELSH QUEEN OF MAY. The May-pole in Wales was called Bedwen, because it was always made of birch which is called in Welsh Bedwen, a tree associated with the gentler emotions; and as I have already observed in another chapter, to give a lover a birchen branch, is for a maiden to accept his addresses. Games of various sorts were played around the bedwen. The fame of a village depended on its not being stolen away, and parties were constantly on the alert to steal the bedwen, a feat which, when accomplished, was celebrated with peculiar festivities. This rivalry for the possession of the May-pole was probably typical of the ancient idea that the first of May was the boundary day dividing the confines of winter and summer, when a fight took place between the powers of the air, on the one hand striving to continue the reign of winter on the other to establish that of summer. Here may be cited the Mabinogi of Kilhwch and Olwen, where it speaks of the daughter of Lludd Llaw Eraint. She was the most splendid maiden in the three Islands of the mighty, and in three islands adjacent, and for her does Gwyn Ap Nudd, the fairy King, fight every first of May till the day of doom. She was to have been the bride of Gwythyr, the son of Greidawl, when Gwyn Ap Nudd carried her off by force. The bereaved bridegroom followed, and there was a bloody struggle, in which Gwyn was victorious, and he acted most cruelly, for he slew an old warrior, took out his heart from his breast, and constrained the warrior's son to eat the heart of his father. When Arthur heard of this he summoned Gwyn Ap Nudd before him, and deprived him of the fruits of his victory. But he condemned the two combatants to fight for the maiden Olwen henceforth for ever on every first of May till doomsday; the victor on that day to possess the maiden. In former times a fire of logs was kindled on the first day of May, around which it was customary for men and women, youths and maidens, to dance hand in hand, singing to the harp, and some of the men would leap over the fire, even at the peril of being burnt. The origin of such strange custom is undoubtedly to be traced to the "belltaine" fires of the Druids. It seems these bon-fires were lighted in some parts of Wales on Midsummer Eve, and the "Glain Nadrodd" (snake-stones) were also, according to Welsh traditions, associated with the same time of the year. It is called Glain Nadrodd from the old Welsh tradition that it is made by snakes at some special gathering among them, when one of their number is made a kind of sacrifice out of the body of which they manufacture the stone. It is of a greenish colour and of the size of an ordinary marble. To find a "Glain Nadrodd" is considered a very lucky omen and they were anciently used as charms. It was also believed in former times that the bon-fires lighted in May or Midsummer protected the lands from sorcery, so that good crops would follow. The ashes were also considered valuable as charms. ALLHALLOW'S EVE (NOS CALAN GAEA.) The Eve of All Saints is known in Wales as "Nos Calan Gaeaf," and in former times there were many old customs in connection with it, most of which have now disappeared. I have already given an account of the Love Charms and spells which were performed on this eve, and amongst other strange doings, the uncanny custom of going round the Church in order to see the spirit of a future husband or wife. But there was in some places another weird ceremony of going round the church at midnight, and look in through the keyhole in order to see the spectral forms, or to hear a spirit calling the names of all those who were to die in the neighbourhood during the year; that is during the coming twelve months from that date, which seems to suggest that the new year began at this time once in old times. Many were afraid, especially children, of going out on Allhallow's Eve as the night among the Welsh was one of the "tair nos ysprydion" (three spirits' nights) as it was supposed that the spirits were free to roam about, and a demon at large in the form of a "Hwch ddu gwta" (black sow without a tail) "Nos Calan Gaea', Bwbach ar bob camfa." (On Allhallow's Eve, A bogie on every stile.) On this eve it was formerly the custom to kindle a bonfire, a practice which continued to a more recent date in the Northern part of the Principality than in the South. Besides fuel, each person present used to throw into the fire a small stone, with a mark whereby he should know it again. If he succeeded in finding the stone on the morrow, the year would be a lucky one for him, but the contrary if he failed to recover it. Those who assisted at the making of the bonfire watched until the flames were out, and then somebody would raise the usual cry, when each ran away for his life, lest he should be found last, and be overtaken by the 'bogie.'--(See "Celtic Folk-Lore," by Sir J. Rhys, page 225.) When a boy, I well remember young men and boys who were full of mischief, making a hollow inside a turnip, and having put a candle in it, carried it about as a bogie to frighten timid people. Allhallow's Eve is known in many parts of West Wales as "Nos twco fale," (apple snatching night), and the game of snatching apples, has been continued in some districts until only a few years ago. Apples and candles, fastened to strings, were suspended from the ceiling and the merry-makers in trying to catch the apple frequently got the candle instead, to the great amusement of those present. Another amusing custom was to try to bring up an apple with the teeth from a tub of water. In some parts of the country, especially Carmarthenshire, it was customary to peel the apple carefully, and throw it, that is the peel, back over the head. Then when this peel had fallen on the floor behind one's back, particular notice was taken in what form it appeared, and whenever it resembled a letter of the Alphabet, the same was supposed to be the first letter of the Christian name of the thrower's future wife or husband. HARVEST CUSTOMS, Etc. "Y Gaseg Fedi, or Harvest Mare." In West and Mid-Wales there have been various harvest customs, the most interesting of which was probably the Harvest Mare, known in Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire as "Y Gaseg Fedi, or Gaseg Ben-Fedi," but in Pembrokeshire it was called "Y Wrach." This took place at the end of the harvest. There was a large crowd of both men and women reaping on the last day; and by working at the harvest in this manner small cottagers and other poor people paid the farmer for the privilege of planting a few rows of potatoes in the land, and for the loan of a horse and cart, or for carting home coal, etc.. By working at the harvest poor people paid their debt to the farmer, and still do so to a certain extent. To each of the women who worked at the harvest was given a candle to take home with her every evening, and to the men a little tobacco was given to those who indulged in the bad habit of smoking. An old woman 98 years of age, who lived near Crosswood, Cardiganshire, informed me about three years ago that she well recollected when a child that a farmer who lived at Penllwyn, in the Vale of Rheidol, used to give to each of the men and women a sheaf to take home with them in the evening, and that this farmer was the only one in the country who did this within her memory, and that he did it as he had seen his father doing so. The old lady also added that the custom had been general once. It was the custom once to "dwrn fedi" (fist reaping) a very laborious work, for our forefathers had no scythes nor machines in former times, so that the sickle was everything. It was customary once for a number of farmers in the same district to arrange together not to cut their fields on the same day so that they might be able to assist each other. A few men would come together on an appointed day from each farm in the district that they might be able to cut and bind all the corn of one farm in a single day; and it is still the custom in many places to do this in connection with hay as well as shearing sheep on the mountains. The Gaseg Fedi (harvest mare) at the end of the harvest was a small quantity of the last corn which was left standing in the field, and tied up carefully; and great excitement existed, and much amusement was created when the last standing was reached. There was a good deal of fun in connection with cutting the mare. Each reaper in his turn was allowed to throw his sickle at the corn until it was cut, from a distance of about 15 or 20 yards. The most unskilful were allowed to try first, at last some one would succeed in cutting it down amidst cheers. After cutting it down, it was customary in some places, especially in the North of Cardiganshire for one of the men to take the mare to a neighbouring farm, where the harvest had not been completed, and where the reapers would be still busy at work. The man who took the mare in this manner was very careful to go, or crept without being observed, and stealthily stationed himself over against the foreman of his neighbour's reapers, he watched an opportunity, when within easy distance of throwing it suddenly over the hedge into his neighbour's field, and if possible upon the foreman's sickle and at the same time repeating some insulting words and took to his heels with all speed to escape the flying sickle of the reapers whom he had insulted which were hurled after him, and sometimes he was in peril of his life. In some districts in Carmarthenshire, it was sometimes the practice to be as bold as to take the Gaseg even to the very house of the neighbour, but this was considered more insulting if anything than throwing it into his field. According to old people who remembered the custom in their younger days, they informed me that it was not considered right to throw the mare into the field of a farmer who lived in another parish, or over a river or even a brook. I was also informed by some that it was not allowable to bear it up hill to a field which stood on a more elevated ground. It was often the custom especially in Carmarthenshire and Pembrokeshire, instead of throwing it into a neighbour's field, to convey it home to the house, that is to the house of the farmer himself who had finished his harvest that day. The honour of bearing it home in this manner belonged to the one who had succeeded in cutting it, but the difficult part of it was how to take it into the house dry, for it was absolutely necessary that it should be taken into the house without being wetted. And this was not always an easy task as the servant maids at the house carefully stored water in buckets and pans ready to throw over the man and his Caseg Fedi at his entrance; and sometimes he would have a pretty rough time of it. In order to prevent this the man tried to appear as indifferent as possible so as not to be suspected by the girls. Consequently, he carefully hid the mare under his clothes, but in spite of everything he was sometimes stripped of some part of his garment or deluged with water. But when he could succeed in bringing it into the house dry and hung it up without being observed, the master had to pay the bearer a shilling or two, or to give him plenty of beer. But the master was spared to pay the shilling if the girls could succeed in wetting the mare. These curious old customs have been discontinued, but it is still the practice with some to bring a handful of corn into the house tied up under the name of the mare. At supper that evening there was a good deal of fun. John Wright, Bailiff of Stackpole in Pembrokeshire, refers to the custom as follows when writing to his master, Mr. Pryce Campbell, August, 1736:--"Whilst I was abroad (he had been in Cardiganshire) the harvest people cut the neck, and, notwithstanding all the stones about the court (this house was being rebuilt), would have a dance. The dance was the Three Shopkins. There was a noble feast, the bill of fare was as follows:--Four quarters of mutton, a side of bacon, a piece of beef weighing half a hundred-weight, twelve gallons of Buding besides, cabotch and other greens. They seemed very well pleased with their entertainment." It was customary in some places to have a harvest queen attired in white gown decorated with ears of wheat and roses. In other places a sheaf of wheat was decorated with ribbons and taken home to the farm on the top of the last load, when the horses were also very gaily decked. At the close of the harvest it was an universal custom to have a harvest supper, and after the feast there was a merry time. The Rev. D. G. Williams mentions "Chware Dai Shon Goch" and "Rhibo" as favourite games on such occasions. "Chware Dai Shon Goch" was something as follows:-- Two young men, or two young women would put on some old ragged clothes kept at the farm for that purpose, and thus attired would proceed to the barn where a walking-stick was given to each of the two. Then followed a most curious dance to the great amusement of the company of beholders. At present, however, the Welshpeople in country places know nothing of dancing; but it is evident that they were much given to dancing in former times as well as singing to the harp. Owen Tudor, the Welsh gentleman who became the grandfather of Henry VII., King of England, was invited to dance some of the dances of Wales before Katherine, the beautiful widow of Henry V. While the handsome young Welshman was dancing one of his wild reels, it chanced that he fell against the Queen, and the latter with a bewitching smile, said, "that so far from offending her, it would only increase the pleasure of herself and company, if he would repeat the same false step or mistake!" Later on, Katherine and Owen Tudor were married. Another game on such occasions was "Rhibo" which was something as follows:-- Six young men were selected for the performance, three standing face to face to the other three, and each one taking hold of the hands of the one who faced him. Then upon the arms of these six young men, a young man and a young woman were placed in a leaning posture who were thrown up and allowed to fall again into the arms of the young men, and this ceremony continued for some time, and which appeared to be rather a rough game, but it is not practised at the present day. In former times it was customary at some farms to blow the horn at harvest time to call the reapers both to their work and their meals. Such horn was made use of for that purpose until very recently at a farm called Eurglodd, eight miles north of Aberystwyth in Cardiganshire. CYNNOS. "Cynnos" was a practice among the farmers of West Wales, and particularly Cardiganshire, of taking the corn to the kiln to be dried on the night before the grinding; it was customary to sit watching it all night and carefully attend to the drying operations, that is the turning of the corn on the kiln, and the sweeping of it off, when it had been sufficiently dried. The meaning of the word "Cynnos" is unknown, according to some writers it is a form of "cynwys" (contents)--that is the contents of a stack of corn; but according to others it meant "cyn-nos" (the night before) that is the night before the grinding. It is true that the farmers sent small quantities of corn to the mill at any time of the year; but the big annual "cynnos" was prepared, as a rule, about January or February. This "Cynnos" was a night of great fun, especially for young people, as many of the friends and neighbours of those who were engaged in drying the corn came together in the evening. An old gentleman named Thomas Evans, Gwarallyryn in the parish of Llandyssul, Cardiganshire, who well remembered the old custom, gave me an interesting account of it. This meeting of young men and young women and others at the kiln during the Cynnos to enjoy themselves with games and story telling was known, said he, as "Shimli," which often continued all night. Sometimes beer known as "Fetchin," was sent for, and drank around the kiln fire. When the flour was taken home, it was put in chests. Previous to the beginning of the 19th century before kilns attached to the mills became general, many of the farm houses had a kiln for drying the corn at home, but of a very primitive sort. Mr. Price in his interesting little book on Llansawel, in Carmarthenshire, says that the last kiln of the sort for drying the corn at home in that parish was in use at a farm called Cilwenau isaf, worked as late as 1845. He also adds that the shape and the build of this primitive contrivance was something as follows:-- On a gentle-sloping ground a hollow, three yards long, two yards wide, and two deep, was cut, and two planks placed at right angles to each other, their ends resting on the surface outside the hollow. These served to support the sticks which were placed regularly over the kiln until covered. Over the whole clean straw was laid, upon which the corn was placed to be dried. Underneath all this and at the lower end of the kiln, the fire was placed, so that the heat and smoke went under the straw contrivance above. About the month of May, it was once customary in Pembrokeshire for farmers to bring their "Benwent," that is, two or three loads of grain to the mill to be ground and milled, and young men and young women came together on such occasions, and indulged in a sport known as "Byng," or dressing up a horse's head and carrying it about, not unlike "Mari Lwyd." The Rev. Jenkin Evans, Pontfaen, in the "Pembrokeshire Antiquities," also adds that it was customary on May Day for women and children to go round the farmhouses with their basins to receive butter, which enabled poor people to enjoy butter on their bread for some weeks. GLEANING. Within living memory, farmers in Cardiganshire allowed poor people to glean in the fields at the seasons of harvest and ingathering, and indeed this seems to have been a general custom once in all parts of the Kingdom, and directed by the law of Moses. CWRW BACH. There was once an old custom in Carmarthenshire and Cardiganshire, of making what was known as "Cwrw Bach"; that is, people met at a house on a certain evening to drink home-brewed beer, and indulge in games, in order to give the profits from the sale of it to assist helpless old people and others who were in real poverty. This is not done now, but we still hear of some farmers in Pembrokeshire, making their own beer for those who work at the harvest. PERAMBULATION. Beating the Bounds of a Parish was a very old custom in Wales; and according to the Rev. George Eyre Evans, this was done at Bettws Ivan, South Cardiganshire, as late as May 22nd, 1819, when Banners were carried round the Parish on the Boundaries. SHEEP SHEARING CUSTOMS. The following extract which I translate from an introduction to a volume of Welsh Poems known as "Cerddi Cerngoch," gives an interesting account of Sheep Shearing customs in West Wales fifty years ago:-- "A great day at Blaenplwyf was the sheep shearing day, The sheep were kept for the summer at Bronbyrfe, Llanddewi Brefi, with John Jenkins. During Ffair Beder (Peter's Fair) July 10th every year there was a "cnaif" (shearing). Good many were anxious to get the "fei." The service of about half-a-dozen neighbours was secured to look after the shearing. David Davies, Rhiwonen; John Davies, Pantfedwen; Thomas Davies, Pencoed; Daniel Davies, Gelligwenin, had been doing it; and my father, and my uncles of Trecefel, Pant, Penbryn and Clwtpatrwn, were faithful year after year. To swell the company, others from time to time took a day's holiday and enjoyment, and amongst many others, Mr. J. E. Rogers, Abermeurig; Rev. Evan Evans, Hafod; Rev. John Davies, Llandeloy; Thos. Thomas (Norton Brewery), Carmarthen; Ben. Jenkins, solicitor; Aeronian, etc. Llwyd, Llundain, told me: "When my father failed going to the shearing, my brother Shanco, or myself, was allowed to go, and we longed to go, for it was the very thing for us. Little work and plenty of enjoyment, and you know that not one of Shencyn Grufydd's family had any objection to a thing of that kind. A start was made from Blaenplwyf at five o'clock in the morning. At first it was customary to proceed on horses through Llanfair and over the bog and meadow to Bronbyrfe. One or two young women went to look after the wool. It was brought home on horses. After that 'gist cart' and the 'long body' came in use, and lastly the 'gambo.' When going over the mountain one time (1855), and 'Cerngoch,' to be sure, among the foremost of the mounted band, Shencyn gave out the order to form into a rank as soldiers, and after getting things into order, he said:--"Here we are now like cavalry attacking the Russians." "Not quite so," said Cerngoch, "if we were in the Crimea, you my little brother, would not be so far in advance of us." Timothy and Benjamin were in School of Parkyvelvet, under the celebrated old tutor, Rev. Titus Evans, in 1855, and both of them and their second cousin, Mr. Thomas, Myrtle Villa, Wellfield Road, Carmarthen (now) had come on their holidays, and forming a part of the company. As Mr. Thomas was a townsman, he was not acquainted with the horse and the land, so the horse went out of the path, and into the bog, and Cerngoch sang at once:-- "'Roedd mab o dre Caerfyrddin, Yn steilus iawn a'i ferlin; Wrth dd'od ar 'mynydd yn y mawn, Bu'n isel iawn ei asyn." .... After reaching Bronbyrfe, those who were responsible went in for the shearing; but the others scattered along the small brooks which were close by in order to fish; each one with his favourite tackle, hands, fly, hook and bait, etc. Hywel was by far the master. When all the others had failed with the fly and bait, Hywel would have a basketful. He was so clever with the fly--the bait according to the colour of the water.... After eating the black nourishing fish, and ending the shearing, it was customary to go home through Llanddewi. The young men of Llanddewi knew when the Blaenplwyf shearing took place, and were watching them on their homeward journey with great excitement. Then (at Llanddewi) a game of ball was played on the corner of the old chapel, near the Foelallt Arms since then. Not an air ball as at present, but a ball of yarn carefully wound up, and covered with leather as tight as possible. Four were the required number intended to take part in the game, two on each side. "After drinking the health of those who won, off goes the party, each one for the first making for Bettws, about five miles nearer home. Then a game of quoits took place on the commons, as the horses were having their breath, a good excuse for the men to get a drop of "home-brewed" at the Derry Arms. Two miles more, and they reach home at Blaenplwyf at 9 p.m., after a busy and enjoyable day. A feast waited them, my grandmother having been busy all day preparing--cawl--new potatoes--white cabbages--and gooseberry tart. She could make delicious food and taught her daughters also to do so." TAI UNNOS (ONE NIGHT HOUSES). In former times in Wales when the population was small, much of the land in mountainous regions was a common, and the farmers and others were at liberty to send their cattle and sheep there to graze, and people obtained peat from such places to burn on the fire. But if a poor family could succeed to erect a small rude house, or hut in one night on the outskirts of a common, or a desolate spot on the mountain side, or a dreary dingle, they claimed from ancient usage their right to the spot. Such a house was called "Ty Unnos" (one night house). If a man building a Ty Unnos of such kind was discovered in building it during the night by one of his neighbours, people would come and throw it down and scatter everything, to prevent him taking possession of a place which they regarded as belonging to all. So that any one building a Ty Unnos had to do it in one single night, and that secretly, without being detected. I recollect such a house being built on the mountain of Llanddewi Brefi many years ago when I was a boy. After securing a house in this manner the next step was to add land to it, taken and enclosed patch by patch from the surrounding common, so that quite a farm of freehold property was created in course of time, if the intrusion remained unnoticed. But it was necessary for a man to show a great deal of shrewdness to secure a farm in this manner. In the parish of Llanarth, Cardiganshire, there is a spot known as "Mynydd Shion Cwilt." According to tradition this Shion Cwilt was a shrewd and eccentric character who built a Ty-Unnos, and secured much land from Common. THE CEFFYL PREN. In former times, public sarcasm and derision did much to dispel vice and reform offenders. In West Wales "Ceffyl Pren" was resorted to when a man was supposed to have been unfaithful to his wife whom he had promised to cherish, or a woman who had broken her marriage covenant. It was customary to make a straw man riding a straw horse, as an effigy to represent the guilty. Such effigies were carried round the most public places in order to make those who were guilty of breaking the Seventh Commandment ashamed of themselves. The procession was a very noisy one, and accompanied by men with horns and brass, etc., and sometimes a song was composed for the occasion. Such procession went round the neighbourhood for about three weeks, and sometimes a gun was carried to shoot the straw rider. At last the effigies were burnt before the house or houses of the guilty, and then the crowd dispersed. It is supposed that such custom has come down from the time of the Druids when it was customary to burn evil-doers in effigies of straw as sacrifices to the gods. In some cases people were not satisfied in carrying an effigy, but seized the guilty man and woman, and carried them publicly on a ladder for miles round the country. THE EMPLOYMENT OF DOGS TO TURN ROASTING-SPITS. It was customary in former times to place a dog inside a wheel which he turned with his fore-feet, the wheel being connected by a chain with the wheel end of the spit. There was a dog employed in turning the roasting-spit in this manner at Newcastle Emlyn about one hundred years ago. KNAPPAN. This ancient game takes its name from the ball used, which was some hard wood, and well greased for each occasion and just small enough to be grasped in one hand. Running with the ball was the chief method, and the distance between the goals was several miles. George Owen, of Henllys, in Pembrokeshire, gives a full account of Knappan, and how it was played in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and it seems that the ancient game survived the longest in the northern part of that county, and the South of Cardiganshire, and on Corpus Christi Day there was a regular contest between the two districts, when 2,000 came together, and some horsemen as well. The game was regarded as the best training for war. It is thought that the great football contests between Llandyssul and Llanwenog which were popular on Good Fridays about seventy years ago, were the outcome of the ancient game of Knappan. THROWING THE BAR. "Cryfder dan bwysau," or displaying strength in hurling a stone, or throwing a bar, which was one of the ancient Welsh games. Meyrick, in his "History of Cardiganshire," writing one hundred years ago, says that casting of the bar was still continued in his time, particularly in Cardiganshire, "where the people have a meeting once a year at certain Chapels, Yspytty Ystwith, Yspytty Cenvyn, etc., for this purpose. They remain in the Chapel all night to try their activity in wrestling, all the benches being removed, and the spectators, different from ancient regulations, are generally young women, and old champions, who are to see fair play." SCHOOL CUSTOMS. In South Wales, especially Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire, about seventy or eighty years ago, most curious customs were in vogue, which were intended to assist the Welsh children to learn English. In many Schools in those days, English was taught in rhymes, such as follows:-- "Hearth is aelwyd, fire is tân, Cloth is brethyn, wool is gwlan, Ash is onen, oak is derwen, Holly tree is pren cerdynen, House is ty, and mill is melin, Fiddle is crwyth, and harp is telyn, River is afon, brook is nant, Twenty is ugnin, hundred is cant." THE WELSH "NOTE," OR "NOT". In order to enforce the use of the English language in Schools the Schoolmasters of those days made use of what was called the Welsh "Note," which was a piece of stick about three or four inches long, with the letters "W.N." marked on it, and in some places it had the following words in full: "Welsh Note, a slap for every time you speak Welsh." This "Welsh Note" was in reality nothing but a devise to find out the children who spoke Welsh, as it was then thought that unless the mother tongue was banished from Schools, monoglot Welsh children could not learn English. During the night-time, of course, the "Welsh Note" was in possession of the Schoolmaster, who, when School began in the morning, gave it secretly to one of the boys with directions to keep it until he caught some one speaking Welsh, to whom he was to hand it over, and this boy in his turn was to hand it over to another delinquent, and so forth. The "Welsh Note" might during the day perhaps pass through about twenty different hands; and at the close of the School in the evening the Schoolmaster would call for it and the boy in whose possession it was found got the first taste of the cane on his naked hand; then he returned it to the boy from whom he got it, and he in like manner was caned in his turn, and so on over the twenty, more or less, each in his turn getting a taste of the cane, until the first boy is reached, whose name is on the register. Then the "Welsh Note" returns to the Schoolmaster, ready for use for the next occasion. There is no "Welsh Note" at the present day, and the Welsh language is taught in many if not in most of the Schools. CHAPTER V. THE FAIRIES (TYLWYTH TEG). "In olde dayes of King Artour, Of which the Bretons speken gret honour, All was this lond fulfilled of Faerie; The elf-quene with hire joly compagnie Danced ful oft in many a grene mede. This was the old opinion as I rede, I speke of many hundred yeres ago; But now can no man see non elves mo." --Chaucer. A book dealing with Superstitions and popular beliefs would be incomplete without assigning a prominent place to the Fairies, or "Tylwyth Teg," as they are called in Welsh. It is true that in Wales, as in other places, the Fairies have become things of the past; but even in the present day many old people, and perhaps others, still believe that such beings did once exist, and that the reason why they are not now to be seen is that they have been exorcised. Many of the Welsh Fairy Tales date from remote antiquity and are, in common with like legends of other countries, relics of the ancient mythology, in which the natural and the supernatural are blended together. ORIGIN OF FAIRIES. Concerning the imaginary origin of the Fairies, it was once a belief in Wales that they were the souls of the virtuous Druids, who not having been Christians, could not enter into heaven, but were too good to be cast into hell! Another curious belief was that in our Saviour's time there lived a woman whose fortune it was to be possessed of near a score of children, and as she saw our Blessed Lord approach her dwelling, being ashamed of being so prolific, and that He might not see them all, she concealed about half of them closely, and, after His departure, when she went in search of them, to her surprise she found they were gone. They never afterwards could be discovered, for it was supposed that as a punishment from heaven, for hiding what God had given her, she was deprived of them; and, it is said, these, her offspring, have generated the race of beings called the Fairies. As to the realistic origin of the Fairies, according to the theories of the learned, they were either the ancient Aborigines, living in seclusion so as to hide themselves from their more powerful conquerors, or the persecuted Druids living in subterraneous places, venturing forth only at night. Whether ancient Aborigines hiding from their conquerors or the Druids who were persecuted by both Romans and Christians the Rev. P. Roberts, author of "Collectana Cambrica," observes that they used these means to preserve themselves and their families, and whilst the country was thinly peopled, and thickly wooded did so successfully, and perhaps to a much later period than is imagined. There are dwelling at the present day on the river-banks of the Congo, in Africa, tribes of dwarfs, whose existence, until Sir Harry Johnston's recent discovery had been regarded as a myth; though they must have lived there from time immemorial. They exist in caves, and in their ways recall the fairies. "Undoubtedly," says Sir Harry, "to my thinking, most fairy myths arose from the contemplation of the mysterious habits of dwarf troglodite races lingering on still in the crannies, caverns, forests and mountains of Europe, after the invasion of neolithic man." FAIRY NAMES. The Fairies are spoken of as people, or folk, not as myths or goblins, and yet as spirits they are immortal, and able to make themselves invisible. The most general name given them in Wales is "Y Tylwyth Teg," (the Fair Family, or Folk); but they are known sometimes as "Bendith y Mamau" (the Mothers' Blessing); and the term "gwragedd Annwn," (dames of the lower regions), is often applied to the Fairy Ladies who dwelt in lakes or under lakes. Sometimes such terms as "Plant Annwn," (children of the lower regions); Ellyll an elf; Bwbach etc., were applied to them, but such appellations have never been in common use. They were also known as "Plant Rhys Ddwfn" in some parts of the Vale of Teivy, more especially in the neighbourhood of Cardigan. But the general term Tylwyth Teg, is known everywhere. FAIRY DRESS, DWELLING, ETC. The Fairies were small handsome creatures in human form; very kind to, and often showered benefits on those who treated them kindly, but most revengeful towards those who dared to treat them badly. They were dressed in green, and very often in white, and some of their maidens were so beautiful, that young men sometimes would fall over head and ears in love with them, especially whilst watching them dancing on a moonlight night; for the old belief was concerning the Fairies, that on moonlight nights they were wont to join hands, and form into circles, and dance and sing with might and main until the cock crew, then they would vanish. The circles in the grass of green fields are still called "Cylchau y Tylwyth Teg" (Fairy Rings). These circles were numerous in Wales when I was a boy; and it was believed by many about forty years ago, if not later that some misfortune would befall any person entering these circles, for I well remember being warned to keep away from them. At the present time, however, I do not know of any person who is afraid of entering them; so it seems that the superstition respecting the Fairy Rings has entirely died out during the last generation. As to their dwellings, the Fairies were "things under the earth," for they were generally supposed to dwell in the lower regions, especially beneath lakes, where their country towns and castles were situated; and the people on the coasts of Pembrokeshire imagined that they inhabited certain enchanted green isles of the sea. The green meadows of the sea, called in the old Welsh Triads Gwerddonau Llion, are the: "Green fairy islands, reposing, In sunlight and beauty on ocean's calm breast." A British King in ancient times, whose name was Garvan is said to have sailed away in search of these islands, and never returned. Garvan's voyage is commemorated in the Triads as one of the "Three Losses by Disappearance." Southey after citing Dr. W. O. Pughe's article in the "Cambrian Biography," goes on as follows:-- "Of these Islands, or Green Spots of the Floods, there are some singular superstitions. They are the abode of the Tylwyth Teg, or the fair family, the souls of the virtuous Druids, who not having been Christians, cannot enter the Christian Heaven, but enjoy this heaven of their own. They, however, discover a love of mischief, neither becoming happy spirits, nor consistent with their original character; for they love to visit the earth, and seizing a man, inquire whether he will travel above wind, mid-wind, or below wind; above wind is a giddy and terrible passage, below wind is through bush and brake, the middle is a safe course. But the spell of security is, to catch hold of the grass. In their better moods they come over and carry the Welsh in their boats. He who visits these islands imagines on his return that he has been absent only a few hours, when, in truth, whole centuries have past away. If you take a turf from St. David's Churchyard, and stand upon it on the sea shore, you behold these Islands. A man once who thus obtained sight of them, immediately put to sea to find them; but his search was in vain. He returned, looked at them again from the enchanted turf, again set sail, and failed again. The third time he took the turf into his vessel, and stood upon it till he reached them." Wirt Sikes, in his "British Goblins," page 8, says that there are sailors on the romantic coasts of Pembrokeshire, and southern Carmarthenshire who still talk of the green meadows of enchantment, which are visible sometimes to the eyes of mortals, but only for a brief space, and they suddenly vanish. He also adds that there are traditions of sailors who, in the early part of the 19th century, actually went ashore on the fairy islands--not knowing that they were such, until they returned to their boats, when they were filled with awe at seeing the islands disappear from their sight, neither sinking in the sea, nor floating away upon the waters, but simply vanishing suddenly. In the account I have just given, a turf from St. David's Churchyard to stand upon enabled one to behold the enchanted lands of the Fairies; but according to traditions in other parts of the country, it seems that a certain spot in Cemmes was the requisite platform, to see these mythical beings who were known in some parts as Plant Rhys Ddwfn (Children of Rhys the Deep). In the Brython, Vol. I., page 130, Gwynionydd says as follows:-- "There is a tale current in Dyfed, that there is, or rather that there has been a country between Cemmes, the Northern Hundred of Pembrokeshire, and Aberdaron in Lleyn. The chief patriarch of the inhabitants was Rhys Ddwfn, and his descendants used to be called after him the Children of Rhys Ddwfn. "They were, it is said, a handsome race enough, but remarkably small in size. It is stated that certain herbs of a strange nature grew in their land, so that they were able to keep their country from being seen by even the most sharp-sighted invaders. "There is no account that these remarkable herbs grew in any other part of the world, excepting on a small spot, a square yard in area in a certain part of Cemmes. If it chanced that a man stood alone on it, he beheld the whole of the territory of Plant Rhys Ddwfn; but the moment he moved he would lose sight of it altogether, and it would have been nearly vain to look for his footprints." FAIRIES MARRYING MORTALS. In some of the stories about Fairies, we find Fairy Ladies marrying mortals, but always conditionally, and in the end the husband does some prohibited thing which breaks the marriage contract, and his Fairy wife vanishes away. The most beautiful Fairy Legend of this kind is undoubtedly the LADY OF LLYN Y VAN VACH IN CARMARTHENSHIRE. Several versions have appeared from time to time of this story, but the most complete one is the one which appeared in Mr. Rees, of Tonn, in his interesting introduction to "The Physicians of Myddvai," published by the Welsh Manuscript Society, at Llandovery, in 1861; and this is also the version which was reproduced by Principal Sir J. Rhys, of Oxford, in his great work on Celtic Folk-lore. About five years ago, I came across several old persons in the parish of Myddvai, who could repeat portions of the story, but nothing new, so I give the version of Mr. Rees of Tonn, which is as follows:-- "When the eventful struggle made by the Princes of South Wales to preserve the independency of their country was drawing to its close in the twelfth century, there lived at Blaensawdde, near Llandeusant, Carmarthenshire, a widowed woman, the relict of a farmer who had fallen in those disastrous troubles. The widow had an only son to bring up, but Providence smiled upon her, and despite her forlorn condition, her live stock had so increased in course of time, that she could not well depasture them upon her farm, so she sent a portion of her cattle to graze on the adjoining Black Mountain, and their most favourite place was near the small lake called Llyn y Fan Fach, on the north-western side of the Carmarthenshire Fans. The son grew up to manhood, and was generally sent by his mother to look after the cattle on the mountain. One day, in his peregrinations along the margin of the lake, to his great astonishment, he beheld sitting on the unruffled surface of the water, a lady, one of the most beautiful creatures that mortal eyes ever beheld, her hair flowed gracefully in ringlets over her shoulders, the tresses of which she arranged with a comb, whilst the glassy surface of her watery couch served for the purpose of a mirror, reflecting back her own image. Suddenly she beheld the young man standing on the brink of the lake, with his eyes riveted on her, and unconsciously offering to herself the provision of barley bread and cheese with which he had been provided when he left his home. "Bewildered by a feeling of love and admiration for the object before him, he continued to hold out his hand towards the lady, who imperceptibly glided near to him, but gently refused the offer of his provisions. He attempted to touch her, but she eluded his grasp, saying:-- "Cras dy fara; Nid hawdd fy nala. Hard baked is thy bread! 'Tis not easy to catch me." and immediately dived under the water and disappeared, leaving the love-stricken youth to return home, a prey to disappointment and regret that he had been unable to make further acquaintance with one, in comparison with whom the whole of the fair maidens of Llanddeusant and Myddfai whom he had ever seen were as nothing. "On his return home, the young man communicated to his mother the extraordinary vision he had beheld. She advised him to take some unbaked dough or "toes" the next time in his pocket, as there must have been some spell connected with the hard-baked bread, or "Bara cras," which prevented his catching the lady. "Next morning, before the sun had gilded with its rays the peaks of the Fans, the young man was at the lake, not for the purpose of looking after his mother's cattle, but seeking for the same enchanting vision he had witnessed the day before; but all in vain did he anxiously strain his eyeballs and glance over the surface of the lake, as only the ripples occasioned by a stiff breeze met his view, and a cloud hung heavily on the summits of the Fan, which imparted an additional gloom to his already distracted mind. Hours passed on, the wind was hushed, and the clouds which had enveloped the mountain had vanished into thin air before the powerful beams of the sun, when the youth was startled by seeing some of his mother's cattle on the precipitous side of the acclivity, nearly on the opposite side of the lake. His duty impelled him to attempt to rescue them from their perilous position, for which purpose he was hastening away, when to his inexpressible delight, the object of his search again appeared to him as before, and seemed much more beautiful than when he first beheld her. His hand was again held out to her, full of unbaked bread, which he offered with an urgent proffer of his heart also, and vows of eternal attachment. All of which were refused by her saying:-- "Llaith dy fara, Ti ni fynna'." (Unbaked is thy bread! I will not have thee.) But the smiles that played upon her features as the lady vanished beneath the waters raised within the young man a hope that forbade him to despair by her refusal of him, and the recollection of which cheered him on his way home. His aged parent was made acquainted with his ill-success, and she suggested that his bread should next time be but slightly baked, as most likely to please the mysterious being of whom he had become enamoured. "Impelled by an irresistible feeling, the youth left his mother's house early next morning, and with rapid steps he passed over the mountain. He was soon near the margin of the lake, and with all the impatience of an ardent lover did he wait with a feverish anxiety for the reappearance of the mysterious lady. "The sheep and goats browsed on the precipitous sides of the Fan; the cattle strayed amongst the rocks and large stones, some of which were occasionally loosened from their beds and suddenly rolled down into the lake; rain and sunshine alike came and passed away; but all were unheeded by the youth, so wrapped up was he in looking for the appearance of the lady. "The freshness of the early morning had disappeared before the sultry rays of the noon-day sun, which in its turn was fast verging towards the west as the evening was dying away and making room for the shades of night, and hope had well nigh abated of beholding once more the Lady of the Lake. The young man cast a sad and last farewell look over the water, and to his astonishment, beheld several cows walking along its surface. The sight of these animals caused hope to revive that they would be followed by another object far more pleasing; nor was he disappointed, for the maiden reappeared, and to his enraptured sight, even lovelier than ever. She approached the land, and he rushed to meet her in the water. A smile encouraged him to seize her hand; neither did she refuse the moderately baked bread he offered her; and after some persuasion she consented to become his bride, on condition that they should only live together until she received from him three blows without a cause, "Tri ergyd diachos." (Three causeless blows.) and if he ever should happen to strike her three such blows she would leave him for ever. To such conditions he readily consented and would have consented to any other stipulation, had it been proposed, as he was only intent on then securing such a lovely creature for his wife. "Thus the Lady of the Lake engaged to become the young man's wife, and having loosened her hand for a moment she darted away and dived into the lake. His chagrin and grief were such that he determined to cast himself headlong into the deepest water, so as to end his life in the element that had contained in its unfathomed depths the only one for whom he cared to live on earth. As he was on the point of committing this rash act, there emerged out of the lake two most beautiful ladies, accompanied by a hoary-headed man of noble mien and extraordinary stature, but having otherwise all the force and strength of youth. This man addressed the almost bewildered youth in accents calculated to soothe his troubled mind, saying that as he proposed to marry one of his daughters, he consented to the union, provided the young man could distinguish which of the two ladies before him was the object of his affections. This was no easy task, as the maidens were such perfect counterparts of each other that it seemed quite impossible for him to choose his bride, and if perchance he fixed upon the wrong one all would be for ever lost. "Whilst the young man narrowly scanned the two ladies, he could not perceive the least difference betwixt the two, and was almost giving up the task in despair, when one of them thrust her foot a slight degree forward. The motion, simple as it was, did not escape the observation of the youth, and he discovered a trifling variation in the mode with which their sandals were tied. This at once put an end to the dilemma, for he, who had on previous occasions been so taken up with the general appearance of the Lady of the Lake, had also noticed the beauty of her feet and ankles, and on now recognising the peculiarity of her shoe-tie he boldly took hold of her hand. "'Thou hast chosen rightly,' said her father, 'be to her a kind and faithful husband, and I will give her, as a dowry, as many sheep, cattle, goats, and horses as she can count of each without heaving or drawing in her breath. But remember, that if you prove unkind to her at any time, and strike her three times without a cause, she shall return to me, and shall bring all her stock back with her.'" Such was the verbal marriage settlement, to which the young man gladly assented, and his bride was desired to count the number of sheep she was to have. She immediately adopted the mode of counting by fives, thus:--one, two, three, four, five--one, two, three, four, five; and as many times as possible in rapid succession, till her breath was exhausted. The same procession of reckoning had to determine the number of goat, cattle, and horses respectively; and in an instant the full number of each came out of the lake when called upon by the father. "The young couple were then married, by what ceremony was not stated, and afterwards went to reside at a farm called Esgair Llaethy, somewhat more than a mile from the Village of Myddfai, where they lived in prosperity and happiness for several years, and became the parents of three sons, who were beautiful children. "Once upon a time there was a christening to take place in the neighbourhood, to which the parents were specially invited. When the day arrived the wife appeared very reluctant to attend the christening, alleging that the distance was too great for her to walk. Her husband told her to fetch one of the horses which were grazing in an adjoining field. 'I will,' said she, 'if you will bring me my gloves which I left in our house.' He went to the house and returned with the gloves, and finding that she had not gone for the horse jocularly slapped her shoulder with one of them, saying, 'go! go!' (dos, dos), when she reminded him of the understanding upon which she consented to marry him:--That he was not to strike her without a cause; and warned him to be more cautious for the future. "On another occasion, when they were together at a wedding in the midst of the mirth and hilarity of the assembled guests, who had gathered together from all the surrounding country, she burst into tears and sobbed most piteously. Her husband touched her on her shoulder and inquired the cause of her weeping: she said, 'Now people are entering into trouble, and your troubles are likely to commence, as you have the second time stricken me without a cause.' "Years passed on, and their children had grown up, and were particularly clever young men. In the midst of so many worldly blessings at home, the husband almost forgot that there remained only one causeless blow to be given to destroy the whole of his prosperity. Still he was watchful lest any trivial occurrence should take place which his wife must regard as a breach of their marriage contract. She told him, as her affection for him was unabated, to be careful that he would not, through some inadvertence, give the last and only blow, which, by an unalterable destiny over which she had no control, would separate them for ever. "It, however, so happened that one day they were together at a funeral, where, in the midst of the mourning and grief at the house of the deceased, she appeared in the highest and gayest spirits, and indulged in immoderate fits of laughter, which so shocked her husband that he touched her, saying: 'Hush! hush! don't laugh.' She said that she laughed 'because people when they die go out of trouble,' and rising up she went out of the house, saying, 'The last blow has been struck, our marriage contract is broken, and at an end! Farewell!' Then she started off towards Esgair Llaethdy, where she called her cattle and other stock together, each by name. The cattle she called thus:-- Mu wlfrech, Mu olfrech, gwynfrech, Pedair cae tonn-frech, Yr hen wynebwen. A'r las Geigen, Gyda'r Tarw gwyn O lys y Brenin; A'r llo du bach, Sydd ar y bach, Dere dithe, yn iach adre! Brindled cow, white speckled, Spotted cow, bold freckled, The four field sward mottled, The old white-faced, And the grey Geigen, With the white Bull, From the court of the King; And the little black calf Tho' suspended on the hook, Come thou also, quite well home." They all immediately obeyed the summons of their mistress. The 'little black calf,' although it had been slaughtered, became alive again, and walked off with the rest of the stock at the command of the lady. This happened in the spring of the year, and there were from four oxen ploughing in one of the fields; to these she cried:-- "Pedwar eidion glas sydd ar y maes, Deuwch chwithau yn iach adre! The four grey oxen, that are on the field, Come you also quite well home!" Away the whole of the live stock went with the Lady across Myddfai Mountain, towards the lake from whence they came, a distance of above six miles, where they disappeared beneath its waters, leaving no trace behind except a well-marked furrow, which was made by the plough the oxen drew after them into the lake, and which remains to this day as a testimony to the truth of this story. "What became of the affrighted ploughman--whether he was left on the field when the oxen set off, or whether he followed them to the lake, has not been handed down to tradition; neither has the fate of the disconsolate and half-ruined husband been kept in remembrance. But of the sons it is stated that they often wandered about the lake and its vicinity, hoping that their mother might be permitted to visit the face of the earth once more, as they had been apprised of her mysterious origin, her first appearance to their father, and the untoward circumstances which so unhappily deprived them of her maternal care. "In one of their rambles, at a place near Dol Howel, at the Mountain Gate, still called 'Llidiad y Meddygon,' (The Physician's Gate), the mother appeared suddenly, and accosted her eldest son, whose name was Rhiwallon, and told him that his mission on earth was to be a benefactor to mankind by relieving them from pain and misery, through healing all manner of their diseases; for which purpose she furnished him with a bag full of medical prescriptions and instructions for the preservation of health. That by strict attention thereto he and his family would become for many generations the most skilful physicians in the country. Then, promising to meet him when her counsel was most needed, she vanished. But on several occasions she met her sons near the banks of the lake, and once she even accompanied them on their return home as far as a place still called 'Pant-y-Meddygon,' (The dingle of the Physicians) where she pointed out to them the various plants and herbs which grew in the dingle, and revealed to them their medicinal qualities or virtues; and the knowledge she imparted to them, together with their unrivalled skill, soon caused them to attain such celebrity that none ever possessed before them. And in order that their knowledge should not be lost, they wisely committed the same to writing for the benefit of mankind throughout all ages. And so ends the story of the Physicians of Myddfai, which had been handed down from one generation to another, thus:-- "Yr hen wr llwyd o'r cornel, Gan ei dad a glywodd chwedel, A chan ei dad fy glywodd yntau, Ac ar ei ol mi gofiais innau." "The grey old man in the corner Of his father heard a story, Which from his father he had heard, And after them I have remembered." The Physicians of Myddfai were Rhiwallon and his sons, Cadwgan, Gruffydd and Einion, who became Physicians to Rhys Gryg, Lord of Llandovery and Dynefor Castles, who lived in the early part of the thirteenth century. Rhys "gave them rank, lands, and privileges at Myddfai for their maintenance in the practice of their art and science, and the healing and benefit of those who should seek their help." The fame of the celebrated Physicians was soon established over the whole country, and continued for centuries among their descendants; and the celebrated Welsh Poet Dafydd ap Gwilym, who flourished in the fourteenth century, says in one of his poems when alluding to these physicians:-- "Meddyg, nis gwnai modd y gwnaeth Myddfai, o chai ddyn meddfaeth." (A Physician he would not make As Myddfai made, if he had a mead fostered man.) Mr. Rees says that "of the above lands bestowed upon the Meddygon, there are two farms in the Myddfai parish still called "Llwyn Ifan Feddyg," the Grove of Evan, the Physician, and "Llwyn Meredydd Feddyg" (the Grove of Meredydd the Physician). Esgair Llaethdy, mentioned in the foregoing legend, was formerly in the possession of the above descendants, and so was Ty-newydd, near Myddfai, which was purchased by Mr. Holford, of Cilgwyn, from the Rev. Charles Lloyd, vicar of Llandefalle, Breconshire, who married a daughter of one of the Meddygon, and had the living of Llandefalle from a Mr. Vaughan, who presented him to the same out of gratitude, because Mr. Lloyd, wife's father had cured him of a disease in the eye. As Mr. Lloyd succeeded to the above living in 1748, and died in 1800, it is probable that that skilful oculist was John Jones, who is mentioned in the following inscription on a tombstone at present fixed against the west end of Myddfai HERE Lieth the body of Mr. David Jones, of Mothvey, Surgeon, who was an honest, charitable and skilful man, He died September 14th, Anno Dom. 1719, aged 61. JOHN JONES, SURGEON, Eldest son of the said David Jones, departed this life the 25th of November, 1739, in the 4th year of his Age, and also lyes interred hereunder. These appear to have been the last of the Physicians who practised at Myddfai. The above John Jones resided for some time at Llandovery, and was a very eminent surgeon. One of his descendants, named John Lewis, lived at Cwmbran, Myddfai, at which place his great-grandson, Mr. John Jones, now resides. "Dr. Morgan Owen, Bishop of Llandaff, who died at Glasallt, parish of Myddfai, in 1645, was a descendant of the Meddygon, and an inheritor of much of their landed property in that parish, the bulk of which he bequeathed to his nephew, Morgan Owen, who died in 1667, and was succeeded by his son Henry Owen; and at the decease of the last of whose descendants, Roberts Lewis, Esqr., the estates became, through the will of one of the family, the property of the late D. A. S. Davies, Esqr., M.P., for Carmarthenshire. "Bishop Owen bequeathed to another nephew, Morgan ap Rees, son of Rees ap John, a descendant of the Meddygon, the farm of Rhyblid, and some other property. "Amongst other families who claim descent from the Physicians were the Bowens of Cwmydw, Myddfai, and Jones of Dollgarreg and Penrhock, in the same parish; the latter of whom are represented by Charles Bishop, of Dollgarreg, Esqr., Clerk of the Peace for Carmarthenshire, and Thomas Bishop, of Brecon, Esqr. "Rees Williams, of Myddfai, is recorded as one of the Meddygon. His great grandson was the late Rice Williams, M.D., of Aberystwyth, who died May l6th, 1842, aged 85, and appears to have been the last, although not the least eminent of the Physicians descended from the mysterious Lady of Llyn y Fan." Sir John Rhys mentions of another Dr. Williams also a descendant of the Lady of Llyn y Fan, who was living at Aberystwyth in 1881. It seems that there are several families in different parts of Wales who are said to have fairy blood coursing through their veins; and the noble Lady Bulkeley, who lived in North Wales, three or four generations was supposed to be descended from a Fairy lady who married a mortal. There is also a tradition that after the disappearance of the lady the disconsolate husband and his friends set to work to drain the lake in order to get at her, if possible; but as they were making a cutting into the bank a huge monster emerged from the water and threatened to drown the town of Brecon for disturbing him, saying:-- "Os na cha'i lonydd yn fy lle Mi fodda, dre Byrhonddu!" (If I get no quiet in my place I shall drown the town of Brecon). so they had to give up draining the lake. There are extant several versions of the Myddfai Legend. In the "Cambro Briton" Vol. II., pages 313-315, we have a version in which it is stated that the farmer used to go near the lake and see some lambs he had bought at a fair, and that wherever he so went three most beautiful maidens appeared to him from the lake. But whenever he tried to catch them they ran away into the lake, saying:-- "Cras dy fara, Anhawdd ein dala." (For thee who eatest baked bread It is difficult to catch us.) But one day a piece of moist bread came floating ashore, which he ate, and the next day he had a chat with the maidens. After a little conversation he proposed marriage to one of them, to which she consented, provided he could distinguish her from her sisters the day after. Then the story goes on very similar to Mr. Rees' version which I have already given in full. In another beautiful version of the story which is given by Sikes in his "British Goblins," it is said that an enamoured farmer had heard of the lake maiden, who rowed up and down the lake in a golden boat, with a golden oar. Her hair was long and yellow, and her face was pale and melancholy. In his desire to see this wondrous beauty, the farmer went on New Year's Eve to the edge of the lake and in silence, awaited the coming of the first hour of the new year. It came, and there in truth was the maiden in her golden boat, rowing softly to and fro. Fascinated, he stood for hours beholding her, until the stars faded out of the sky, the moon sank behind the rocks, and the cold gray dawn drew nigh; and then the maiden began to vanish from his sight. Wild with passion, he cried aloud to the retreating vision, "Stay! Stay! Be my wife." But the maiden only uttered a faint cry, and was gone. Night after night the young farmer haunted the shores of the lake, but the maiden returned no more. He became negligent of his person; his once robust form grew thin and wan; his face was a map of melancholy and despair. He went one day to consult a soothsayer who dwelt on the mountain, and this grave personage advised him to besiege the damsel's heart with gifts of bread and cheese. This counsel commending itself strongly to his Welsh way of thinking, the former set out upon an assiduous course of casting his bread upon the waters--accompanied by cheese. He began on Mid-summer Eve by going to the lake and dropping therein a large cheese and a loaf of bread. Night after night he continued to throw in loaves and cheeses, but nothing appeared in answer to his sacrifices. His hopes were set, however, on the approaching New Year's Eve. The momentous night arrived at last. Clad in his best array, and armed with seven white loaves and his biggest and handsomest cheese, he set out once more for the lake. Then he waited till mid-night, and then slowly and solemnly dropped the seven loaves into the water, and with a sigh sent the cheese to keep them company. His persistence was at length rewarded. The Lake Lady came in her skiff to where he was, and gracefully stepped ashore. The story then proceeds as in the other versions. It was once a custom for people to go up to the lake on the first Sunday in August, when its water was supposed to be boiling; and Bishop Edwards, of St. Asaph, informed Professor Sir J. Rhys, that "an old woman from Myddfai, who is now, that is to say in January, 1881, about eighty years of age, tells me that she remembers thousands and thousands of people visiting the Lake of Little Fan on the first Sunday or Monday in August, and when she was young she often heard old men declare that at that time a commotion took place in the lake, and that its waters boiled, which was taken to herald the approach of the Lake Lady and her oxen."--Celtic Folk Lore--page 15. A STUDENT WHO HAD FAILED TO PASS HIS EXAMINATIONS TAUGHT BY THE FAIRIES. Mr. John Jones, of Pontrhydfendigaid, an old man of over 95 years of age, related to me the following story about seven years ago:-- In the 18th century there was a certain clergyman in North Cardiganshire, who was supposed to have been educated by the Fairies. When he was a boy, his parents were very ambitious to see their son a clergyman, but, unfortunately, the lad either neglected his studies, or was a regular "blockhead," and always failed to pass his college examinations, to the great regret and disappointment of his father and mother. One day, however, when the boy was roaming about the country (near the banks of the river Rheidol, as far as Mr. Jones could remember the story), he suddenly met three boys, or rather three little men who were not bigger than boys, who took him into some cave and led him along a subterranean passage into the land of the Fairies. The Fairies proved very kind to him, and when they heard his story, they undertook to help him to learn his lessons, so that in course of time he acquired a considerable knowledge of the classics. After spending a certain number of years very happily in Fairy Land, the young man returned to the world of mortals, and to the great joy of his parents passed his examinations now without the least difficulty, and in due time was ordained by the bishop, and became a vicar of a parish north of Aberystwyth, either Llanfihangel, Llancynfelin, or Eglwysfach. This tale seems to be a version of the Story of Elidorus, which Giraldus Cambrensis heard in the neighbourhood of Swansea during his "Itinerary through Wales," with Archbishop Baldwin in the year 1188, which is as follows:-- "A short time before our days, a circumstance worthy of note occurred in these parts, which Elidorus, a priest, most strenuously affirmed had befallen himself. When a youth of twelve years, and learning his letters, since, as Solomon says, "The root of learning is bitter, although the fruit is sweet," in order to avoid the discipline and frequent stripes inflicted on him by his perceptor, he ran away, and concealed himself under the hollow bank of a river. After fasting in that situation for two days, two little men of pigmy stature appeared to him, saying, 'If you come with us, we will lead you into a country full of delights and sports.' "Assenting, and rising up, he followed his guides through a path, at first subterraneous and dark, into a most beautiful country, adorned with rivers and meadows, woods and plains, but obscure, and not illuminated with the full light of the sun." All the days were cloudy, and the nights extremely dark, on account of the absence of the moon and stars. The boy was brought before the King, and introduced to him in the presence of the court; who, having examined him for a long time, delivered him to his son, who was then a, boy. "These men were of the smallest stature, but very well proportioned in their make; they were all of a fair complexion, with luxuriant hair falling over their shoulders like that of women. "They had horses and greyhounds adapted to their size. "They neither ate flesh nor fish, but lived on milk diet, made up into messes with saffron. "They never took an oath, for they detested nothing so much as lies. "As often as they returned from our upper hemisphere, they reprobated our ambition, infidelities, and inconstances; they had no form of public worship, being strict lovers and reverers, as it seemed, of truth. "The boy frequently returned to our hemisphere, sometimes by the way he had first gone, sometimes by another; at first in company with other persons, and afterwards alone, and made himself known only to his mother, declaring to her the manners, nature and state of that people. "Being desired by her to bring a present of gold, with which that region abounded, he stole, while at play with the King's son, the golden ball with which he used to divert himself, and brought it to his mother in great haste; and when he reached the door of his father's house, but not unpursued, and was entering it in a great hurry, his foot stumbled on the threshold, and falling down into the room where his mother was sitting, the two pigmies seized the ball which had dropped from his hand, and departed, showing the boy every mark of contempt and derision. "On recovering from his fall, confounded with shame, and execrating the evil counsel of his mother, he returned by the usual track to the subterraneous road, but found no appearance of any passage, though he searched for it on the banks of the river for nearly the space of a year. "But since those calamities are often alleviated by time, which reason cannot mitigate, and length of time alone blunts the edge of our afflictions, and puts an end to many evils, the youth having been brought back by his friends and mother, and restored to his right way of thinking, and to his learning, in process of time attained the rank of priesthood. "Whenever David II., bishop of St. David's, talked to him in his advanced state of life concerning this event, he could never relate the particulars without shedding tears. "He had made himself acquainted with the language of that nation, the words of which, in his younger days he used to recite, which, as the bishop often had informed me, were very conformable to the Greek idiom. "When they asked for water, they said 'ydor ydorum,' which meant bring water, for 'ydor' in their language, as well as in Greek, signifies water, from whence vessels for water are caller 'udriai'; and 'Dur' (dwr) also, in the British language (Welsh) signifies water. "When they wanted salt they said, 'Halgein ydorum,' bring salt: salt is called 'al' in Greek, and 'halen' in British, for that language, from the length of time which the Britons (then called Trojans, and afterwards Britons, from Brito, their leader), remained in Greece after the destruction of Troy, became in many instances, similar to the Greek.... "If a scrupulous inquirer asks my opinion of the relation here inserted, I answer with Augustine, 'that the Divine miracles are to be admired, not discussed.' "Nor do I, by denial, place bounds to the Divine Power, nor, by assent, insolently extend what cannot be extended. "But I always call to mind the saying of St. Jerome: 'You will find,' says he, 'Many things incredible and improbable, which nevertheless are true; for nature cannot in any respect prevail against the Lord of nature.' "These things, therefore, and similar contingencies, I should place, according to the opinion of Augustine, among those particulars which are neither to be affirmed, nor too positively denied." The above account is of the greatest interest, as it was written 700 years ago, and it also gives the opinion of one who lived in those days, of "these things, and similar contingencies." It is possible that many of the Fairy Tales throughout the Kingdom, if not throughout the whole of Europe, have been founded on the story of Elidorus, the priest. THE SHEPHERD BOY AND THE FAIRIES OF FRENIFAWR. The following story appeared in the "Cambrian Superstitions," by W. Howells, a little book published at Tipton in 1831:-- A stripling, of twelve or more years of age, was tending his father's sheep on a small mountain called Frenifach, it was a fine morning in June, and he had just driven the sheep to their pasture for the day, when he looked at the top of Frenifawr to observe which way the morning fog declined, that he might judge the weather. If the fog on Frenifawr (a high mountain in Pembrokeshire, 10 miles from Cardigan) declines to the Pembrokeshire side, the peasants prognosticated fair, if on the Cardiganshire side foul weather. To his surprise the boy saw what seemed a party of soldiers sedulously engaged in some urgent affair; knowing there could not possibly be soldiers there so early, he with some alarm, looked more minutely, and perceived they were too diminutive for men; yet, thinking his eyesight had deceived him, he went to a more elevated situation, and discovered that they were the "Tylwyth Teg" (Fairies) dancing. He had often heard of them and had seen their rings in the neighbourhood, but not till then had the pleasure of seeing them; he once thought of running home to acquaint his parents, but judging they would be gone before he returned, and he be charged with a falsehood, he resolved to go up to them, for he had been informed that the fairies were very harmless, and would only injure those who attempted to discover their habitation, so by degrees he arrived within a short distance of the ring, where he remained some time observing their motions. They were of both sexes, and he described them as being the most handsome people he had ever seen, they also appeared enchantingly cheerful, as if inviting him to enter and join the dance. They did not all dance, but those who did, never deviated from the circle; some ran after one another with surprising swiftness, and others (females), rode on small white horses of the most beautiful form. Their dresses, although indescribably elegant, and surpassing the sun in radiance, varied in colour, some being white, others scarlet, and the males wore a red triplet cap, but the females some light head-dress, which waved fantastically with the slightest breeze. He had not remained long ere they made signs for him to enter, and he gradually drew nearer till at length he ventured to place one foot in the circle, which he had no sooner done than his ears were charmed with the most melodious music, which moved him in the transport of the moment, to enter altogether; he was no sooner in than he found himself in a most elegant palace, glittering with gold and pearls; here he enjoyed every variety of pleasure, and had the liberty to range whatever he pleased, accompanied by kind attendants beautiful as the howries; and instead of "Tatws a llaeth," buttermilk, or fresh boiled flummery, here were the choicest viands and the purest wine in abundance, brought in golden goblets inlaid with gems, sometimes by invisible agency, and at other times by the most beautiful virgins. He had only one restriction, and that was not to drink, upon any consideration (or it was told him it would be fatal to his happiness), from a certain well in the middle of the garden, which contained golden fishes and others of various colours. New objects daily attracts his attention, and new faces presented themselves to his view, surpassing, if possible those he had seen before; new pastimes were continually invented to charm him, but one day his hopes were blasted, and all his happiness fled in an instant. Possessing that innate curiosity nearly common to all, he, like our first parents transgressed, and plunged his hand into the well, when the fishes instantly disappeared, and, putting the water to his mouth, he heard a confused shriek run through the garden: in an instant after, the palace and all vanished away, and to his horror, he found himself in the very place where he first entered the ring, and the scenes around, with the same sheep grazing, were just as he had left them. He could scarcely believe himself, and hoped again, that he was in the magnificent fairy castle; he looked around, but the scene was too well known; his senses soon returned to their proper action, and his memory proved that, although he thought he had been absent so many years, he had been so only so many minutes. This tale bears a strange contrast as regards the time the boy thought he was away, to most of our fairy tales which represent those who had the pleasure of being with fairies as imagining they had been dancing only a few minutes, when they had been away for years. FAIRY MUSIC AND DANCING. The Rev. Z. M. Davies, Vicar of Llanfihangel Genau'r Glyn, told me that he once heard an old man in the Vale of Aeron saying that when he was out late one night, he heard the Fairies singing, and that their music was so delightful that he listened to them for hours; and we find from many of the Fairy Tales that one of their chief occupation in their nightly revels was singing and dancing, and that they often succeeded in inducing men through the allurements of music to join their ranks. The beautiful old Welsh Air, "Toriad y Dydd" (Dawn of Day) is supposed to have been composed by the Fairies, and which they chanted just as the pale light in the east announced the approach of returning day. The following "Can y Tylwyth Teg," or the Fairies' song, was well-known once in Wales, and these mythical beings were believed to chant it whilst dancing merrily on summer nights. "O'r glaswellt glan a'r rhedyn mân, Gyfeillion dyddan, dewch. 'E ddarfu'r nawn--mae'r lloer yn llawn, Y nos yn gyflawn gewch; O'r chwarau sydd ar dwyn y dydd, I'r Dolydd awn ar daith, Nyni sydd lon, ni chaiff gerbron, Farwolion ran o'n gwaith. "Canu, canu, drwy y nos, Dawnsio, dawnsio, ar waen y rhos, Yn ngoleuni'r lleuad dlos: Hapus ydym ni! Pawb o honom sydd yn llon, Heb un gofid dan ei fron: Canu, dawnsio, ar y ton-- Dedwydd ydym ni!" "From grasses bright, and bracken light, Come, sweet companions, come, The full moon shines, the sun declines. We'll spend the night in fun; With playful mirth, we'll trip the earth, To meadows green let's go We're full of joy, without alloy, Which mortals may not know. "Singing, singing, through the night, Dancing, dancing, with our might, Where the moon the moor doth light; Happy ever we! One and all of merry mein, Without sorrow are we seen, Singing, dancing, on the green: Gladsome ever we!" MR. EDWARD JONES, PENCWM, LLANRHYSTID, AND THE FAIRIES. Mr. Edward Jones, Pencwm, who only died about 8 years ago, was coming home from Lampeter one moonlight night, and when he came to the top of Trichrug hill, he saw the Fairies dancing in a field close to the road. When he was within a certain distance of them he felt as if his feet were almost lifted up from the ground, and his body so light that he could almost stand in the air. My informant, Mr. D. Morgan, Carpenter, Llanrhystid, added that Mr. Jones was an intelligent and educated man, who had travelled, and was far from being superstitious. A FARM SERVANT NEAR TREGARON, WHO SPENT A YEAR AND A DAY WITH THE FAIRIES. The following story appeared in "Cymru" for May, 1893, a Welsh Magazine, edited by Owen M. Edwards, M.A. It was written in Welsh by the late eminent Folk-Lorist, Mr. D. Lledrod Davies, and I translate it:-- The farm-house called "Allt Ddu," is situated about half-way between Pont Rhyd Fendigaid and Tregaron. It is said that two servant men went out of the house one evening in search for the cattle, which had gone astray. One of the men proceeded in one direction and the other in another way, so as to be more sure of finding the animals. But after wandering about for hours, one of the two servants came home, but whether he found the cattle or not it is not stated. However, he reached home safely; but the other man, his fellow-servant, came not, and after anxiously expecting him till a late hour of night, he began to feel very uneasy concerning his safety, fearing that the lad had accidentally fallen into some of the pits of the Gors Goch. Next morning came, but the servant came not home; and in vain did they long to hear the sound of his footsteps approaching the house as before. Then inquiries were made about him, and people went to try and find him, but all in vain. Days past and even weeks without hearing anything about him, till at last his relations began to suspect that his fellow servant had murdered him during the night they were out looking for the cattle. So the servant was summoned before a Court of Justice, and accused of having murdered his fellow-servant on a certain night; but the young man, pleaded not guilty in a most decided manner, and as no witness could be found against him, the case was dismissed; but many people were still very suspicious of him, and the loss of his fellow servant continued to be a black spot on his character. However, it was decided at last to go to the "dyn hysbys," (a wise man, or a conjurer)--a man of great repute in former days,--to consult with him, and to set the case before him exactly as it had happened. After going and explaining everything to the conjurer concerning the lost servant, he informed them that the young man was still alive. He then told them to go to a certain place at the same time of night, one year and a day from the time the man was lost, and that they should then and there see him. One year and a day at last passed away, and at that hour the family, and especially the servant, traced their steps to the particular spot pointed out by the conjuror, and there, to their great surprise, whom should they see within the Fairy Circle, dancing as merrily as any, but the lost servant. And now, according to the directions which had been given by the conjurer, the other servant took hold of the collar of the coat of the one who was dancing, and dragged him out of the circle, saying to him--"Where hast thou been lad?" But the lad's first words were, "Did you find the cattle?" for he thought that he had been with the Fairies only for a few minutes. Then he explained how he entered the Fairy Circle, and how he was seized by them, but found their company so delightful that he thought he had been with them only for a few minutes. THE SERVANT GIRL WHO WAS LOST IN THE FAIRY CIRCLE. The following is another of the tales recorded in "Ystraeon y Gwyll," by the late D. Lledrod Davies:-- "There lived in an old farm house on the banks of the Teivy, a respectable family, and in order to carry on the work of the farm successfully, they kept men servants and maid servants. One afternoon, a servant-man and a servant girl went out to look for the cows, but as they were both crossing a marshy flat, the man suddenly missed the girl, and after much shouting and searching, no sound of her voice could be heard replying. He then took home the cows, and informed the family of the mysterious disappearance of the servant maid which took place so suddenly. As the Fairies were suspected, it was resolved to go to the dyn hysbys (wise man). To him they went, and he informed them that the girl was with the Fairies, and that they could get her back from them, by being careful to go to a certain spot at the proper time at the end of a year and a day. They did as they were directed by the "wise man," and to their great surprise, found the maid among the fairies dancing and singing with them, and seemed as happy as a fish in the water. Then they successfully drew her out of the ring, and they took her home safely. The master had been told by the "Wise Man" that the girl was not to be touched by iron, or she would disappear at once after getting her out of the ring. One day, however, when her master was about to start from home, and whilst he was getting the horse and cart ready, he asked the girl to assist him, which she did willingly; but as he was bridling the horse, the bit touched the girl and she disappeared instantly, and was never seen from that day forth. THE LITTLE SERVANT BOY AND THE BARM. The following story was related to me by Mrs. Davies, Bryneithyn, in the neighbourhood of Ystrad Meurig, where the tale is well-known:-- An old woman known as Nancy of Pen Gwndwn, kept a little boy servant, whom she sent one evening to the neighbouring village with a bottle to get some barm for her, and as he had to pass through a field which was frequented by the Fairies, he was told by the old woman to keep away from their circles or rings. The boy reached the village, got the barm, and in due time proceeded on his homeward journey, but did not reach home. Search was made for him in all directions, and people were able to trace his steps as far as the Fairies' field, but no further, so it was evident that the Fairies had seized him. At the end of a year and a day, however, to the great surprise of everybody, the boy came home, entered the house, with the bottle of barm in hand, and handed it to the old woman as if nothing unusual had happened. The boy was greatly surprised when he was told that he had been away for twelve months and a day. Then he related how he fell in with the Fairies, whom he found such nice little men, and whose society was so agreeable that he lingered among them, as he thought, for a few minutes. A CARMARTHENSHIRE MAIDEN WHO GOT INTO A FAIRY RING. In the parish of Cynwil Elvet, there is a farmhouse called Fos Anna, a place which was known to the writer of this book once when a boy:-- A servant girl at this farm once went rather late in the evening to look for the cows, and, unfortunately, got into the Fairy ring, and although she had been a long period without food she did not feel hungry. IAGO AP DEWI AMONG THE FAIRIES SEVEN YEARS. A Carmarthenshire tradition names among those who lived for a period among the Fairies no less a person than the translator into Welsh of Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." "He was called Iago ap Dewi, and lived in the parish of Llanllawddog, in a cottage situated in the wood of Llangwyly. He was absent from the neighbourhood for a long period, and the universal belief among the peasantry was that Iago got out of bed one night to gaze on the starry sky, as he was accustomed (astrology being one of his favourite studies), and whilst thus occupied the Fairies, passing by, carried him away, and he dwelt with them seven years. Upon his return, he was questioned by many as to where he had been, but always avoiding giving them a reply." A district famous for Fairies long ago was the parish of Llanedi in Carmarthenshire, and Mr. Williams, says in his "Llen Gwerin Sir Gaerfyrddin," that an intelligent old man in that parish, named John Rees, gave him the following story of A MAN WHO WAS FOUND AMONG THE FAIRIES AT CAE CEFN PANTYDWR. This story which is similar to some of the tales I have already given as located in other parts is as follows:-- A certain man of Llanedi, on one occasion long ago, went away to another neighbourhood, leading by the "penwast" (collar) a very wild and unmanageable horse; and in order to be sure not to lose his hold of the animal, the man tied the end of the collar round the middle. So both man and horse went together and got lost. After much searching the horse was found without the collar, but nothing was heard of the man. After giving up searching for him as hopeless, they at last consulted a "Dyn Hysbys," (a conjuror or a wise man). The wise man directed them to go on a certain night into a field known as Cae Cefn Pantydwr, about forty yards from the road where the Fairies could be seen dancing, and the lost man among them, with the "penwast" still around his waist, which would enable them to know him; and the way to get him out of the Fairy Ring was to watch him coming round in the dance, and take hold of the collar when an opportunity offered itself, and drag the man out boldly. They did so, and the man was rescued. Ever since then people dreaded going to that field after dark, especially children. In some parts of Carmarthenshire, Fairy Rings are known as "Rings y Gwr Drwg" (the rings of the Old Gentleman), suggesting that the Fairies had some connection with the evil one. SON OF LLECH Y DERWYDD AND THE FAIRIES. The writer of the following tale was the late Rev. Benjamin Williams (Gwynionydd), an eminent antiquarian, Folk-Lorist, and a bard, and it is to be found in Welsh in Y Brython, vol. III., page 460. It is evident that the scene of the story was West or Mid-Wales. Mr. Williams heard the tale from old people who believed in the truth of it:-- "Yr oedd mab Llech y Derwydd yn unig blentyn ei rieni, ac hefyd yn etifedd y tyddyn. Yr oedd felly yn anwyl, ie, yn ddau lygad ei dad a'i fam. "Yr oedd y pen gwas a mab y ty yn gyfeillion mynwesol iawn, fel dau frawd, ie, fel gyfeilliaid. Gan fod y mab a'r gwas y fath gyfeillion, byddai gwraig y ty bob amser yn darpar dillad i'r gwas yr un peth yn hollol ag i'r mab. Cwympodd y ddau gyfaill mewn serch a dwy ddynes ieuainc, brydferth, ac uchel eu parch yn yr ardal, a mawr oedd y boddineb yn Llech y Derwydd; ac yn fuan ymunodd y ddau bar mewn glan briodas, a mawr fu y rhialtwch ar yr amser. Cafodd y gwas le cyfleus i fyw ar dir Llech y Derwydd. Yn mhen tua haner blwyddyn ar ol priodi o'r mab, aeth ei gyfaill ac yntau allan i hela; enciliodd y deiliad i ryw gilfach lawn o anialwch, i edrych am helwriaeth; a dychwelodd yn y man at ei gyfaill, ond erbyn dyfod yno, nid oedd modd gweled y mab yn un man. Parhaodd i edrych o gwmpas am dro gan waeddi a chwibanu, ond dim un arwydd am ei gyfaill. Yn mhen tro aeth adref i Llech y Derwydd, gan ddysgwyl ei weled yno; ond ni wyddai neb ddim am dano. Mawr oedd y gofid yn y teulu drwy y nos; ac erbyn dranoeth yr oedd eu pryder yn llawer mwy. Aethpwyd i weled y fan lle y gwelodd ei gyfaill ef olaf. Wylai ei fam a'i wraig am y gwaethaf. Yr oedd y tad dipyn yn well na'i wraig a'i fam, ond edrychai yntau fel yn haner gwallgof. Edrychwyd ar y fan olaf y gwelodd y deiliad ef, ac er eu mawr syndod a'u gofid, canfyddasent gylch y Tylwyth Teg gerllaw y fan, a chofiodd y deiliad yn y man iddo glywed swn peroriaeth hudoliaethus iawn rywle ar y pryd. Penderfynwyd ar unwaith iddo fod mor anffodus a myned i gylch y Tylwyth, a chael ei gludo ymaith na wyddid i ba le. "Aeth wythnosau a misoedd gofidus heibio, a ganwyd mab i fab Llech y Derwydd; ond nid oedd y tad ieuanc yno i gael gweled ei blentyn, ac yr oedd hyny yn ofidus iawn gan yr hen bobl. Beth bynag, daeth y dyn bach i fyny yr un ddelw a'i dad, fel pe buasai wedi ei arlunio; a mawr ydoedd yng ngolwg ei daid a'i nain. Efe oedd pobpeth yno. Tyfodd i oedran gwr, a phriododd a merch landeg yn y gymydogaeth; ond nid oedd gair da i'r tylwyth eu bod yn bobl hawddgar. "Bu farw yr hen bobl, a bu farw y ferch-yng-nghyfraith hefyd. Ar ryw brydnawn gwyntog, ym mis Hydref, gwelai teulu Llech y Derwydd henafgwr tal, teneu, a'i farf a'i wallt fel yr eira, yr hwn a dybient ydoedd Iddew, yn dynesu yn araf araf at y ty. Hylldremiai y morwynion drwy y ffenestr, a chwarddai y feistress am ben yr 'hen Iddew,' gan godi y plant un ar ol y llall i'w weled yn dyfod. Daeth at y drws, a daeth i mewn hefyd yn lled eofn, gan ofyn am ei rieni. Atebai y wraig ef yn daeog, a choeglyd anghyffredin, gan ddywedyd, 'Beth oedd yr hen Iddew meddw yn dyfod yno,' oblegid tybient ei fod wedi yfed, onid e ni fuasai yn siarad felly. Edrychai yr hen wr yn syn a phryderus iawn ar bob peth yn y ty, gan synu llawer; ond ar y plant bychain ar hyd y llawr y sylwai fwyaf. Edrychai yn llawn siomedigaeth a gofid. Dywedodd yr hanes i gyd, iddo fod allan yn hela ddoe, a'i fod yn awr yn dychwelyd. Dywedodd y wraig iddi glywed chwedl am dad ei gwr flynyddau cyn ei geni, ei fod wedi myned ar goll wrth hela; ond fod ei thad yn dywedyd wrthi nad gwir hyny, mai ei ladd a gafodd. Aeth y wraig yn anystywallt, ac yn llwyr o'i chof eisiau fod yr hen 'Iddew' yn myned allan. Cyffrodd yr hen wr, a dywedai mai efe ydoedd perchen y ty, ac y byddai raid iddo gael ei hawl. Aeth allan i weled ei feddianau, ac yn fuan i dy y deiliad. Er ei syndod, yr oedd pethau wedi newid yn fawr yno. Ar ol ymddiddan am dro a hen wr oedranus wrth y tan, edrychai y naill fwy fwy ar y llall. Dywedai yr hen wr beth fu tynged ei ben gyfaill, mab Llech y Derwydd. Siaradent yn bwyllog am bethau mebyd, ond yr oedd y cyfan fel breuddwyd. Beth bynag, penderfynodd yr hen wr yn y cornel mai ei hen gyfaill, mab Llech y Derwydd, oedd yr ymwelydd, wedi dychwelyd o wlad y Tylwyth Teg, ar ol bod yno haner can' mlynedd. Credodd yr hen wr a'r farf wen ei dynged, a mawr y siarad a'r holi fu gan y naill y llall am oriau lawer. "Dywedai fod gwr Llech y Derwydd y diwrnod hwnw oddi cartref. Cafwyd gan yr hen ymwelydd fwyta bwyd; ond er mawr fraw, syrthiodd y bwytawr yn farw yn y fan. Nid oes hanes fod trengholiad wedi bod ar y corff; ond dywedai y chwedl mae yr achos oedd, iddo fwyta bwyd ar ol bod yn myd y Tylwyth Teg cyhyd. Mynodd ei hen gyfaill weled ei gladdu yn ochr ei deidiau. Bu melldith fyth, hyd y silcyn ach, yn Llech y Derwydd, o blegid sarugrwydd y wraig i'w thad-yng-nghyfraith, nes gwerthu y lle naw gwaith." The above tale translated into English reads as follows:-- "The son of Llech y Derwydd was the only child of his parents, and also the heir to the farm. He was, therefore, very dear to his father and mother, yea, he was as the very light of their eyes. The son and the head servant man were more than bosom friends, they were like two brothers, or rather twins. As the son and the servant were such close friends, the farmer's wife was in the habit of clothing them exactly alike. The two friends fell in love with two young handsome women who were highly respected in the neighbourhood. This event gave the old people great satisfaction, and ere long the two couples were joined in holy wedlock, and great was the merry-making on the occasion. The servant man obtained a convenient place to live in on the grounds of Llech y Derwydd. "About six months after the marriage of the son, he and the servant man went out to hunt. The servant penetrated to a ravine filled with brushwood to look for game, and presently returned to his friend, but by the time he came back the son was nowhere to be seen. He continued awhile looking about for his absent friend, shouting and whistling to attract his attention, but there was no answer to his calls. By and by he went home to Llech y Derwydd, expecting to find him there, but no one knew anything about him. Great was the grief of the family throughout the night, but it was even greater next day. They went to inspect the place where the son had last been seen. His mother and his wife wept bitterly, but the father had greater control over himself, still he appeared as half mad. They inspected the place where the servant man had last seen his friend, and, to their great surprise and sorrow, observed a Fairy ring close by the spot, and the servant recollected that he had heard seductive music somewhere about the time that he parted with his friend. "They came to the conclusion at once that the man had been so unfortunate as to enter the Fairy ring, and they conjectured that he had been transported no one knew where. Weary weeks and months passed away, and a son was born to the absent man. "The little one grew up the very image of his father, and very precious was he to his grandfather and grandmother. In fact, he was everything to them. He grew up to man's estate and married a pretty girl in the neighbourhood, but her people had not the reputation of being kind-hearted. The old folks died, and also their daughter-in-law. "One windy afternoon in the month of October, the family of Llech y Derwydd saw a tall thin old man with beard and hair as white as snow, who they thought was a Jew approaching slowly, very slowly, towards the house. The servant girls stared mockingly through the window at him, and their mistress laughed unfeelingly at the 'old Jew,' and lifted the children up, one after the other, to get a sight of him as he neared the house. "He came to the door, and entered the house boldly enough, and inquired after his parents. The mistress answered him in a surly and unusually contemptuous manner and wished to know 'What the drunken old Jew wanted there,' for they thought he must have been drinking or he would never have spoken in the way he did. The old man looked at everything in the house with surprise and bewilderment, but the little children about the floor took his attention more than anything else. His looks betrayed sorrow and deep disappointment. He related his whole history, that yesterday he had gone out to hunt, and that now he had returned. The mistress told him that she had heard a story about her husband's father, which occurred before she was born, that he had been lost whilst hunting, but that her father had told her that the story was not true, but that he had been killed. The woman became uneasy and angry that the old 'Jew' did not depart. The old man was roused, and said that the house was his, and that he would have his rights. He went to inspect his possessions, and shortly afterwards directed his steps to the servant's house. To his surprise he saw that things were greatly changed. After conversing awhile with an aged man who sat by the fire, they carefully looked each other in the face, and the old man by the fire related the sad history of his lost friend, the son of Llech y Derwydd. "They conversed together deliberately on the events of their youth, but all seemed like a dream. However, the old man in the corner came to the conclusion that his visitor was his old friend, the son of Llech y Derwydd, returned from the land of the Fairies, after spending there fifty years. "The old man with the white beard believed the story related by his friend, and long was the talk and many were the questions which the one gave to the other. The visitor was informed that the master of Llech y Derwydd was from home that day, and he was persuaded to eat some food; but to the horror of all, when he had done so, he instantly fell down dead. We are not informed that an inquest was held over the body; but the tale relates that the cause of the man's sudden death was that he ate food after having been so long in the land of the Fairies. His old friend insisted on the dead man being buried with his ancestors. The rudeness of the mistress of Llech y Derwydd to her father-in-law brought a curse upon the place and family, 'hyd y silcyn ach,' and her offence was not expiated until the farm had been sold nine times." TAFFY AP SION OF PENCADER AMONG THE FAIRIES. The following Fairy Legend appeared in "British Goblins," page 75:-- Taffy ap Sion, the shoemaker's son, living near Pencader, Carmarthenshire, was a lad who many years ago entered the Fairy circle on the mountain hard by there, and having danced a few minutes as he supposed, chanced to step out. He was then astonished to find that the scene which had been so familiar was now quite strange to him. Here were roads and houses he had never seen, and in place of his father's humble cottage there now stood a fine stone farmhouse. About him were lovely cultivated fields instead of the barren mountain he was accustomed to. 'Ah,' thought he, 'this is some Fairy trick to deceive my eyes. It is not ten minutes since I stepped into that circle, and now when I step out they have built my father a new house! Well, I only hope it is real; anyhow, I'll go and see.' So he started off by a path he knew instinctively, and suddenly struck against a very solid hedge. He rubbed his eyes, felt the hedge with his fingers, scratched his head, felt the hedge again, ran a thorn into his fingers and cried out, 'Wbwb' this is no Fairy hedge anyhow, nor, from the age of the thorns, was it grown in a few minutes' time! So he climbed over it and walked on. 'Here was I born,' said he, as he entered the farmyard, staring wildly about him, 'and not a thing here do I know!' His mystification was complete, when there came bounding towards him a huge dog, barking furiously. 'What dog is this? Get out you ugly brute! Don't you know I'm master here?--at least, when mother's from home, for father don't count.' But the dog only barked the harder. 'Surely,' muttered Taffy to himself, 'I have lost my road and am wandering through some unknown neighbourhood; but no, yonder is the Careg Hir!' and he stood staring at the well-known erect stone thus called, which still stands on the mountain south of Pencader, and is supposed to have been placed there in ancient times to commemorate a victory. As Taffy stood thus, looking at the long stone, he heard footsteps behind him, and turning, beheld the occupant of the farmhouse, who had come out to see why his dog was barking. Poor Taffy was so ragged and wan that the farmer's Welsh heart was at once stirred to sympathy. 'Who are you, poor man?' he asked, to which Taffy answered, 'I know who I was, but I do not know who I am now. I was the son of a shoemaker who lived in this place, this morning; for that rock, though it is changed a little, I know too well.' 'Poor fellow,' said the farmer, 'You have lost your senses. This house was built by my great-grandfather, repaired by my grandfather; and that part there, which seems newly built, was done about three years ago at my expense. You must be deranged, or you have missed the road; but come in and refresh yourself with some victuals, and rest.' Taffy was half persuaded that he had overslept himself and lost his road, but looking back he saw the rock before mentioned, and exclaimed, 'It is but an hour since I was on yonder rock robbing a hawk's nest.' 'Where have you been since?' Taffy related his adventure. 'Ah,' quoth the farmer, 'I see how it is--you have been with the Fairies. Pray who was your father?' 'Sion Evan y Crydd o Glanrhyd,' was the answer. 'I never heard of such a man,' said the farmer, shaking his head, 'nor of such a place as Glanrhyd, either; but no matter, after you have taken a little food we will step down to Catti Shon, at Pencader, who will probably be able to tell something.' With this he beckoned Taffy to follow him, and walked on; but hearing behind him the sound of footsteps growing weaker and weaker, he turned round, when to his horror he beheld the poor fellow crumble in an instant to about a thimbleful of black ashes. The farmer, though much terrified at this sight, preserved his calmness sufficiently to go at once and see old Catti, the aged crone he had referred to, who lived at Pencader, near by. He found her crouching over a fire of faggots, trying to warm her old bones. 'And how do you do the day, Catti Shon?' asked the farmer. 'Ah,' said old Catti, 'I'm wonderful well, farmer, considering how old I am.' 'Yes, yes, you are very old. Now, since you are so old, let me ask you--do you remember anything about Sion y Crydd o Glanrhyd? Was there ever such a man, do you know?' 'Sion Glanrhyd? O! I have a faint recollection of hearing my grandfather, old Evan Shenkin, Penferdir, relate that Sion's son was lost one morning, and they never heard of him afterwards, so that it was said he was taken by the Fairies. His father's cottage stood somewhere near your house.' 'Were there many Fairies about at that time?' asked the farmer. 'O, yes; they were often seen on yonder hill, and I was told they were lately seen in Pant Shon Shenkin, eating flummery out of egg-shells, which they had stolen from a farm hard by.' 'Dir anwyl fi!' cried the farmer; 'dear me! I recollect now--I saw them myself.' SHON AP SHENKIN SEDUCED BY FAIRY MUSIC. Another story very similar to the one I have just given is the legend of Shon ap Shenkin, which was related to Mr. Sikes by a farmer's wife near the reputed scene of the tale, that is the locality of Pant Shon Shenkin, the famous centre of Carmarthenshire Fairies:-- "Shon ap Shenkin was a young man who lived hard by Pant Shon Shenkin. As he was going afield early one fine summer's morning he heard a little bird singing, in a most enchanting strain, on a tree close by his path. Allured by the melody, he sat down under the tree until the music ceased, when he arose and looked about him. What was his surprise at observing that the tree, which was green and full of life when he sat down, was now withered and barkless! Filled with astonishment he returned to the farmhouse which he had left, as he supposed, a few minutes before; but it also was changed, grown older, and covered with ivy. In the doorway stood an old man whom he had never before seen; he at once asked the old man what he wanted there. 'What do I want here?' ejaculated the old man, reddening angrily; 'that's a pretty question! Who are you that dare to insult me in my own house?' 'In your own house? How is this? where's my father and mother, whom I left here a few minutes since, whilst I have been listening to the charming music under yon tree, which, when I rose, was withered and leafless' 'Under the tree!--music!' 'What's your name?' 'Shon ap Shenkin.' 'Alas, poor Shon, and this is indeed you!' cried the old man. 'I often heard my grandfather, your father, speak of you, and long did he bewail your absence. Fruitless inquiries were made for you; but old Catti Maddock of Brechfa said you were under the power of the Fairies, and would not be released until the last sap of that sycamore tree would be dried. Embrace me, my dear uncle, for you are my uncle ... embrace your nephew.' With this the old man extended his arms, but before the two men could embrace, poor Shon ap Shenkin crumbled into dust on the door-step." It is very interesting to compare this story of Shon ap Shenkin, under the power of the Fairies, listening to the birds of enchantment, with the warriors at Harlech listening to the Birds of Rhiannon, in the Mabinogi of Branwen, daughter of Llyr. Bran Fendigaid, a Welsh King in ancient times, had a palace at Harlech, and had a sister named Bronwen, or White Breast, whom Matholwch the King of Ireland married on account of her wonderful beauty. After a while, however, the foster brothers of Matholwch began to treat Bronwen very cruelly till at last she found means to send a message to her brother Bran, in Wales; and this she did by writing a letter of her woes, which she bound to a bird's wing which she had reared. The bird reached Bronwen's brother, Bran, who, when he read the letter sailed for Ireland immediately, and during a fearful warfare in that country he was poisoned with a dart in his foot. His men had been bidden by their dying chief to cut off his head and bear it to London and bury it with the face towards France. They did as they were bidden by Bran previous to his death, and various were the adventures they encountered while obeying this injunction. At Harlech they stopped to rest, and sat down to eat and drink. While there, they heard three birds singing a sweet song, "at a great distance over the sea," though it seemed to them as though they were quite near. These were the birds of Rhiannon. Their notes were so sweet that warriors were known to have remained spell-bound for 80 years listening to them. The birds sang so sweetly that the men rested for seven years, which appeared but a day. Then they pursued their way to Gwales in Pembrokeshire, and there remained for four score years, during which the head of Bran was uncorrupted. At last they went to London and buried it there. The old Welsh poets often allude to the birds of Rhiannon, and they are also mentioned in the Triads; and the same enchanting fancy reappears in the local story of Shon ap Shenkin, which I just gave. Mr. Ernest Rhys in the present day sings:-- "O, the birds of Rhiannon they sing time away,-- Seven years in their singing are gone like a day." In the region of myth and romance Rhiannon, the songs of whose birds were so enchanting, was the daughter of Heveydd Hen, who by her magic arts foiled her powerful suitor, Gwawl ap Clud, and secured as her consort the man of her choice, Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed. In Welsh Mythology several members of the kingly families are represented as playing the role of magicians. It may be added that it is interesting to compare both the story of Shion ap Shenkin, and that of the birds of Rhiannon, with Longfellow's "Golden Legend," originally written in the thirteenth century by Jacobus de Voragine, in which Monk Felix is represented as listening to the singing of a snow-white bird for a hundred years, which period passed as a single hour. "One morning all alone, Out of his covenant of gray stone, Into the forest older, darker, grayer His lips moving as if in prayer, His head sunken upon his breast As in a dream of rest, Walked the Monk Felix. All about The broad, sweet sunshine lay without, Filling the summer air; And within the woodlands as he trod, The twilight was like the Truce of God With worldly woe and care. Under him lay the golden moss; And above him the boughs of hemlock-trees Waved, and made the sign of the cross, And whispered their benedicites, And from the ground Rose an odour sweet and fragrant Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant Vines that wandered, Seeking the sunshine, round and round. "Those he heeded not, but pondered On the volume in his hand, A volume of Saint Augustine, Wherein he read of the unseen Splendours of God's great town In the unknown land, And, with his eyes cast down In humility he said: 'I believe, O God, What herein I have read, But alas! I do not understand'? "And lo! he heard The sudden singing of a bird, A snow-white bird, that from a cloud Dropped down, And among the branches brown Sat singing So sweet, and clear, and loud, It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing; And the Monk Felix closed his book, And long, long, With rapturous look, He listened to the song. And hardly breathed or stirred, Until he saw, as in a vision, The land Elysian, And in the heavenly city heard Angelic feet Fall on the golden flagging of the street, And he would fain Have caught the wondrous bird, But strove in vain; For it flew away, away, Far over hill and dell, And instead of its sweet singing, He heard the convent bell Suddenly in the silence ringing, For the service of noonday. And he retraced His pathway homeward sadly and in haste. "In the convent there was a change! He looked for each well-known face, But the faces were new and strange; New figures sat in the oaken stalls. New voices chanted in the choir; Yet the place was the same place, The same dusky walls Of cold, gray stone, The same cloisters and belfry and spire. "A stranger and alone Among that brotherhood The monk Felix stood. 'Forty years,' said a Friar, 'Have I been Prior Of this convent in the wood, But for that space Never have I beheld thy face!' The heart of Monk Felix fell: And he answered with submissive tone, 'This morning, after the horn of Prime, I left my cell And wandered forth alone. Listening all the time To the melodious singing Of a beautiful white bird, Until I heard The bells of the convent ring Noon from their noisy towers. It was as if I dreamed; For what to me had seemed Moments only, had been hours!' "'Years!' said a voice close by, It was an aged monk who spoke, From a bench of oak Fastened against the wall;-- He was the oldest monk of all. For a whole century He had been there, Serving God in prayer, The meekest and humblest of his creatures, He remembered well the features Of Felix, and he said, 'One hundred years ago, When I was a novice in this place There was here a monk, full of God's grace, Who bore the name Of Felix, and this man must be the same.' "And straightway They brought forth to the light of day A volume old and brown, A huge tome bound In brass and wild-boar's hide. Wherein were written down The names of all who had died In the convent, since it was edified. And there they found, Just as the old Monk said, That on a certain day and date, One hundred years before, Had gone forth from the convent gate The monk Felix, and never more Had he entered that sacred door He had been counted among the dead! And they knew, at last, That such had been the power Of that celestial and immortal song, A hundred years had passed, And had not seemed so long As a single hour!" In the stories I have already given those who fell into the hands of the Fairies were rescued or returned from them after a certain period of time; but I have heard some stories in which the victim never returned. A woman at Pontshan, Llandyssul, in Cardiganshire, related to me a story of a servant girl in that neighbourhood who was captured by the Fairies and never returned home again. A few months ago another tale of this kind was related to me at Llanrhystyd: A LLANRHYSTYD MAID LOST AMONG THE FAIRIES. Mr David Morgan, Carpenter, Llanrhystyd, informed me that some years ago the maid servant of Pencareg Farm in the neighbourhood, went out one evening to bring home the cattle which were grazing some distance away from the house. A boy employed to look after the cattle in the day-time known as "bugail bach," saw the Fairies dragging the maid into their circle or ring, where she joined them in their dances. Search was made for her everywhere, but she was never seen again. SHUI RHYS AND THE FAIRIES. "Shui was a beautiful girl of seventeen, tall and fair, with a skin like ivory, hair black and curling, and eyes of dark velvet. She was but a poor farmer's daughter, notwithstanding her beauty, and among her duties was that of driving up the cows for the milking. Over this work she used to loiter sadly, to pick flowers by the way, or chase the butterflies, or amuse herself in any agreeable manner that fortune offered. For her loitering she was often chided, indeed, people said Shui's mother was far too sharp with the girl, and that it was for no good the mother had so bitter a tongue. After all the girl meant no harm, they said. But when one night Shui never came home till bed-time, leaving the cows to care for themselves, dame Rhys took the girl to task as she never had done before. 'Ysgwaetheroedd, Mami,' said Shui, 'I could not help it; it was the Tylwyth Teg,' (the Fairies). The dame was aghast at this, but she could not answer it--for well she knew the Tylwyth Teg were often seen in the woods of Cardigan. Shui was at first shy about talking of the Fairies, but finally confessed they were little men in green coats, who danced around her and made music on their little harps; and they talked to her in language too beautiful to be repeated; indeed she couldn't understand the words, though she knew well enough what the Fairies meant. Many a time after that Shui was late; but now nobody chided her, for fear of offending the Fairies. At last one night Shui did not come home at all. In alarm the woods were searched; there was no sign of her; and never was she seen in Cardigan again. Her mother watched in the fields on the Tair-nos ysprydion or three nights of the year when goblins are sure to be abroad; but Shui never returned. Once indeed there came to the neighbourhood a wild rumour that Shui Rhys had been seen in a great city in a foreign land--Paris, perhaps, or London, who knows? but this tale was in no way injurious to the sad belief that the Fairies had carried her off; they might take her to those well-known centres of idle and sinful pleasure, as well as to any other place." [3] FAIRIES COMING INTO THE BEDROOM OF A HOUSE NEAR ABERYSTWYTH. One Robert Burton, in his "History of the Principality of Wales," published 215 years ago, says:--"John Lewes, Esq., a Justice of Peace at Glankerrig, near Aberystwyth, in this county, in the year 1656, by several letters to Mr. B. A., late worthy divine deceased, gives an account of several strange apparitions in Carmarthenshire, Pembrokeshire, and this county (Cardiganshire), about that time, confirmed by divers persons of good quality and reputation the substance of whereof are as followeth. A man and his family being all in bed, he being awake about midnight, perceived by a light entering the little room where he lay, and about a dozen in the shapes of men, and two or three women with small children in their arms following, they seemed to dance, and the chamber appeared much wider and lighter than formerly. They seemed to eat bread and cheese all about a kind of a tick upon the ground, they offered him some, and would smile upon him, he heard no voice, but calling once upon God to bless him, he heard a whispering voice in Welsh bidding him hold his peace. They continued there about four hours, all which time he endeavoured to wake his wife but could not. Afterwards they went into another room, and having danced awhile departed. He then arose, and though the room was very small, yet he could neither find the door, nor the way to bed again until crying out his wife and family awoke. "He living within two miles of Justice Lewes, he sent for him, being a poor honest husbandman and of good report, and made him believe he would put him to his oath about the truth of this Relation, who was very ready to take it." A SERVANT OF PERTHRHYS, LLANDDEINIOL, AND THE WHITE FAIRIES. A very old man named John Jones, who lives at Llanddeiniol, about six miles from Aberystwyth, informed me that many years ago, when he was a young man, or a lad of 18, he was engaged as a servant at a farm called Perthrhys, in that neighbourhood. One evening after supper he went to the tailor who was making him a suit of clothes; but as the clothes were not quite ready he had to wait till a late hour before returning home, but it was a delightful moonlight night. As he proceeded along a lonely path across a certain moor known as Rhosrhydd, and happened to look back he was suddenly surprised by seeing two young men or boys as he thought, coming after him. At first he thought they were some boys trying to frighten him; but after they had followed him for a short distance till they came within about 30 or 40 yards of him, they turned out from the path, and began to jump and to dance, going round and round as if they followed a ring or a circle just as we hear of the fairies. They were perfectly white, and very nimble, and the old man informed me that there was something supernatural both in their appearance and movements; and that he is convinced to this day that they could not have been human beings. When he arrived home at the farm, and related his adventure, every one in the house was of the opinion that the strange beings he had seen were the Fairies. NANCY TYNLLAIN AND HER SON SEEING FAIRIES ON HORSES. A man named Timothy in the parish of Llanarth, Cardiganshire, told me that an old woman known as Nancy Tynllain and her son, Shenkin Phillips, had seen the Tylwyth Teg (fairies) on one occasion. Nancy died over sixty years ago. She and her son one day left home rather early in the morning, as they were going to Cynon's Fair, and had some distance to go. As they proceeded on their horses in the direction of Wilgarn, they saw the Fairies, mounted on small horses, galloping round and round as in a circle round about a certain hillock, and Nancy took particular notice that one of the Fairy women had a red cloak on. As the old woman and her son were looking on, watching the movements of the Fairies, Nancy remarked, "That Fairy woman over there rides very much like myself." This was at early dawn. ELIAS, FORCH Y CWM AND THE FAIRIES. Elias, Forch y Cwm, who was a servant man in the same neighbourhood, was one day ploughing on the field, but when he happened to look about he perceived the Fairies on Bank-Cwmpridd, and coming towards him. The man ran home in terror from the field, and this was in broad daylight. The late Mr. T. Compton Davies, Aberayron, an eminent Folk-Lorist, related to me the following two stories, and informed me that he had already written them in Welsh for "Cymru," in which excellent periodical they appeared, September, 1892, page 117. THE CARDIGANSHIRE PAINTER AND MUSICIAN, WHO PLAYED HIS FLUTE TO THE FAIRY LADIES AND NEARLY SECURED ONE OF THEM AS A WIFE. About the year 1860, a builder from Aberayron, in Cardiganshire, was erecting a Vicarage at Nantcwnlle, about nine miles from Aberayron, not far from Llangeitho. There was a certain man there employed as a painter, whose name was John Davies, a harmless and superstitious character, who once had been an exciseman, afterwards a carpenter, and at last became a painter, though he did not shine in either of the two trades. He was however, a brilliant musician, and belonged to a musical family. He was acquainted with the works of Handel, Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven, whilst one of his favourites was the song of the Witches in "Macbeth," He also always carried his flute in his pocket. Whilst this Nantcwnlle Vicarage was in course of construction, John was sent one day on a message to Aberayron. He went there in due time, and in the afternoon left the town and started on his return journey, having the choice of two roads--either returning through the Vale of Aeron, or across the hill--country of Cilcennin, The latter was a very lonely route, but he chose it as it was about two miles shorter. So John hurried on his journey so as to reach his destination before night. When he came to the little village of Cilcennin, he had a good mind to enter the public house known as the "Commercial," to see his old friend Llywelyn, when he remembered that it was getting late and that he had to pass by the ghosts of the moors and the Fairy circles on the top of the mountain. After walking on again about a mile, he arrived at another public house, known as "Rhiwlas Arms." He was now within three miles to the end of his journey, and it occurred to him that it would be a splendid thing to have one pint of beer to give him strength and courage to meet the ghosts. So in he went into the Public House, where he met with many old friends, and drank more than one pint. After taking out his flute from his pocket, John obliged the merry company with many of the old Welsh airs, such as "Ar Hyd y Nos," "Glan Meddwdod Mwyn," "Llwyn on," etc. It was 8 o'clock p.m., and in the middle of October. John started from the house, boasting to those who were present that he was not afraid, but poor fellow, as soon as he went out into the darkness and the stillness of the night, his heart began to beat very fast. Nevertheless, he walked forward from the cross-road towards Hendraws, and turned to a road which led direct to Nantcwnlle. For a considerable distance, there was no hedge except on one side of the road, and nothing but a vast open moor on the other side. John knew that he was to pass a small cottage called Ty-clottas, and expected every moment to see the light of the old woman who lived there, who was known as Peggi Ty-clottas. Unfortunately, John had somehow or other wandered away from the road into the bog; but seeing light before him, he went on confidently. He followed the light for some distance, but did not come to any house, and he noticed that the light was travelling and giving a little jump now and again. At the early dawn next morning, old Peggi Ty-clottas, when she was half awake, heard some strange music, more strange than she had ever heard before. At first she thought it was the "toili" (phantom funeral), which had come to warn her of her approaching death; for to believe in the "toili" was part of Peggi's confession of faith. But when she listened attentively, Peggi found out that the music was not a dead march, but rather something light and merry. So it could not have been the "toili." Afterwards she thought it was the warbling of some bird. Peggi had heard the lark many a time at the break of day singing songs of praises to the Creator. She had also heard the lapwing and other birds, breaking on the loneliness of her solitary home; but never had she heard a bird like this one singing, singing continually without a pause. At last she got up from her bed and went out into the moor in order to see what was there. To her great surprise, she saw a man sitting on a heap, and blowing into some instrument, who took no notice of Peggi. Peggi went quite close to the man and asked him in a loud voice, "What do you want here?" Then the man stirred up and ceased to blow, and with an angry look, said,--"Ah you,--you have spoiled everything; it nearly came to a bargain." It proved that the man whom Peggi came upon was John Davies, the painter, who had been playing his flute to the Fairies, and had almost made a bargain with them to marry a Fairy lady, when old Peggi came to spoil everything. When Mr. T. Compton Davies, heard about John among the Fairies he went to him and begged him to tell him all about it; and he did so. According to John's own account of his night adventure it was something as follows:--When he got lost in the bog, he followed the light, till presently, he came to a Fairy ring, where a large number of little Fairy ladies danced in it, and to his great surprise, one of them took his arm, so that John also began to dance. And after a while, the Queen of the Fairies herself came on to him, and asked him, "Where do you come from?" John replied, "From the world of mortals," and added that he was a painter. Then she said to him, that they had no need of a painter in the world of Fairies, as there was nothing getting old there. John found the Fairies all ladies, or at least he did not mention any men. They were very beautiful, but small, and wearing short white dresses coming down to the knees only. When he took out from his pocket his flute and entertained them by playing some Irish, Scotch, and English airs, the Queen informed him that they (the Fairies) were of Welsh descent. Then John played some Welsh airs from Owen Alaw to the great delight of the Fairy ladies, and they had a merry time of it. John soon became a great favourite, and asked for something to drink, but found they were "teetotals." Then he fell in love with one of the Fairy ladies, and asked the Queen for the hand of the maiden, and informed her that he had a horse named Bob, as well as a cart of his own making. The Queen in reply said that they were not accustomed to mix with mortals, but as he had proved himself such a musician, she gave her consent under the conditions that he and the little lady should come once a month on the full moon night to the top of Mount Trichrug to visit the Fairies. Then the Queen took hold of a pot full of gold which she intended giving John as a dowry, but, unfortunately, at the very last moment, when he was just going to take hold of it, old Peggi TyClottas came to shout and to spoil the whole thing; for as soon as the Fairy ladies saw old Peggi, they all vanished through some steps into the underground regions and John never saw them again. But he continued to believe as long as he lived that he had been with the Fairies. TWO MEN WHO SAW THE FAIRIES IN CARMARTHENSHIRE DANCING IN BROAD DAYLIGHT. Mr. Compton Davies, also informed me that there were two men in his neighbourhood who had seen the Fairies about 45 years ago, and he directed me to go and see them so as to hear everything from their own lips. One of them, David Evans, Red Lion, lives at Aberayron, and the other Evan Lewis is a farmer near Mydroilyn, in the parish of Llanarth. I went to see both of them, and they gave me a full account of what they had seen which was something as follows:-- In August, 1862, David Evans and Evan Lewis, went from the Coast of Cardiganshire with their waggons all the way to Brecon for some timber for ship-building, which was going on at New Quay. On their return journey, through Carmarthenshire, they stopped for a short time at a place called Cwmdwr on the road leading from Llanwrda to Lampeter. It was about 2 o'clock in the afternoon, and the two men and their horses and waggons were standing opposite a farm known as Maestwynog, where the reapers were busy at work in a wheat-field close by. As they were looking in the direction of a hillside not far off, David Evans saw about fifty small wheat stacks (sopynau bychain), as he at first thought. On second sight, however, he noticed that they were moving about, he took them for reapers. They were all dressed exactly alike, and walked fast one after another up the hillside footpath. David Evans now called the attention of his companion Evan Lewis, whom he asked who the men could have been; but before he had time to make any further remarks, the first of those who were climbing up along the winding footpath had reached a small level spot on the top of the hill. The others quickly followed him, and each one in coming to the top, gave a jump to dance, and they formed a circle. After dancing for a short time, one of the dancers turned in into the middle of the circle, followed by the others, one by one till they appeared like a gimblet screw. Then they disappeared into the ground. After awhile one of them reappeared again, and looked about him in every direction as a rat, and the others followed him one by one and did the same. Then they danced for some time as before, and vanished into the ground as they had done the first time. The two men, David Evans and Evan Lewis were watching them from a distance of about 400 yards and were more than astonished to see men, as they thought, acting in such a strange and curious manner on the hill. They continued looking for some time but the dancers did not appear again. At last the two men proceeded on their journey till they came to an old man working on the road whom they asked whether he knew anything about the men they had seen dancing in a circle on the hill behind Maestwynog. The old man replied that he had not the least idea, but had heard his grandfather say that the Tylwyth Teg (Fairies) used to dance in his time, at which explanation our two friends smiled. In the above account we see that the hill near Maestwynog was a special haunt of the Fairies, even in modern days. There are certain spots here and there all over Wales, pointed out by old people to this day, as having been frequented in former times by the Fairies to dance and to sing. An old man named James Jones, Golden Lion, Llanarth, informed me that when a boy he heard from the lips of old men, many a tale of Fairies seen on Bank-rhydeiniol; and that they were mounted on horses, riding and playing; and the late Rev. J. Davies, Moria, mentions that there were traditions of them appearing on Bannau Duon in the same parish. In the northern part of Cardiganshire, the people of Talybont showed me a spot a few miles to the east of that village, where these supernatural beings appeared long ago, more especially to dance. The neighbourhood of Aberporth, in the southern part of the same county, was also a favourite spot according to an old woman in the village. Pant Shon Shenkin in the neighbourhood of Pencader was a famous place for Carmarthenshire Fairies, of which district we have already given the reader more than one story. Gwynionydd in the Brython for 1860, remarks that in former times the Fairies were fond of the mountains of Dyfed, and that travellers in Cardiganshire, between Lampeter and the town of Cardigan often saw them on Llanwenog hill; but after arriving on that spot they would be seen far away on the mountains of Llandyssul, and expecting to find them there, they would be seen somewhere else, both deluding and eluding the traveller. THE FAIRIES OF CWM MABWS, SEEN DRIVING IN THEIR CARRIAGES. In the interesting small valley of Cwm Mabws, near Llanrhystyd, nine miles from Aberystwyth, there is a rocky spot known as Craig Rhydderch. Even within the memory of some who are still alive, the caves of Craig Rhydderch were the favourite haunts of the Fairies, where these mysterious beings were thought to dwell, or at least pass through to the underground regions. The Fairies of this part were, it was supposed, some kind of spirits or supernatural beings, and were often seen in the Valley of Mabws going about in their phantom carriages and horses. About fifty years ago when Fairies were still to be seen in this neighbourhood, the eldest son of Penlan farm, and some of the men servants one evening just before dark, took their horses down to the little river which runs through the bottom of the valley in order to give the animals water, as there was no water near the farm-house which stood on high ground. As they were on their way to the river they heard some noise on the road quite near them, and the farmer's son said to the servants, "It is the noise of the Fairies on their journey, and they are coming from the direction of Craig Rhydderch; let us stand one side of the road to make room for them to pass." And sure enough, just as he spoke, a number of Fairies appeared on the scene and passed by as if they were on a journey. They were little men with little horses and carriages, but my informant could not tell me the colour of their dresses nor the colour of their horses After taking their horses to the water and turning them into a field, the men went home to Penlan; and as soon as they entered the house and related what they had seen, another son of the farm had just arrived home from Aberystwyth with a horse and cart, and he also had seen the Fairies, just as he was turning to the road which led up the hill. The above story was related to me by Mr. David Morgan, Carpenter, Llanrhystyd, who vouches for the truth of the account as he was well acquainted with the persons who saw the Fairies, and one of them was a friend of his. FAIRIES AND FOOTBALLERS. There is a curious tradition that early one Easter Monday, when the parishioners of Pencarreg and Caio were met to play at football, they saw a numerous company of Fairies dancing. Being so many in number, the young men were not intimidated at all, but proceeded in a body towards the puny tribe, who perceiving them, removed to another place. The young men followed, whereupon the little folk suddenly disappeared dancing at the first place. Seeing this, the men divided and surrounded them, when they immediately became invisible, and were never more seen there. This was in Carmarthenshire. Other places frequented by Fairies were Moyddin, between Lampeter and Llanarth, in Troed yr Aur, in Cardiganshire. FAIRIES MARKETING. It was formerly believed in some parts of West Wales, especially by the people dwelling near the sea coast, that the Fairies visited markets and fairs, and that their presence made business very brisk. I have already referred to the "Gwerddonau Llion," or the enchanted "Isles of the Sea," inhabited by Fairy Tribes. These Fairies, it was believed, went to and fro between the islands and shore, through a subterranean gallery under the bottom of the sea, and regularly attended the markets at Milford Haven, in Pembrokeshire and Laugharne in Carmarthenshire. ("British Goblins," page 10.) They made their purchases without speaking, laid down their money and departed, always leaving the exact sum required, which they seemed to know, without asking the price of anything. Sometimes they were invisible, but they were often seen by sharp-eyed persons. There was one special butcher at Milford Haven upon whom the Fairies bestowed their patronage, instead of distributing their favours indiscriminately. According to Gwynionydd in the "Brython," for 1858, page 110, these Fairies also came to market to Cardigan, and it was thought they raised the prices of things terribly whenever they came there. In that part of the country they were known as "Plant Rhys Ddwfn." No one saw them coming there or going away, only seen there in the market. When prices in the market happened to be high, and the corn all sold, however, much there might have been there in the morning, the poor used to say to one another on the way home, "Oh! They were there to-day," meaning "Plant Rhys Ddwfn," or the Fairies. These Fairies were liked by the farmers who had corn to sell, but disliked by the poor labourers who had to buy corn and give higher price for it. Gwynionydd also says that: "A certain Gruffydd Ap Einon was wont to sell them more corn than anybody else, and that he was a great friend of theirs. He was honoured by them beyond all his contemporaries by being led on a visit to their home. As they were great traders, like the Phoenicians of old, they had treasures from all countries under the sun. Gruffydd, after feasting his eyes to satiety on their wonders was led back by them loaded with presents. But before taking leave of them, he asked them how they succeeded in keeping themselves safe from invaders, as one of their number might become unfaithful, and go beyond the virtue of the herbs that formed their safety. "Oh!" replied the little old man of shrewd looks, "Just as Ireland has been blessed with a soil on which venomous reptiles cannot live, so with our land; no traitor can live here. Look at the sand on the seashore; perfect unity prevails there, and so among us." Rhys, the father of our race, bade us even to the most distant descendant to honour our parents and ancestors; love our own wives without looking at those of our neighbours, and do our best for our children and grandchildren. And he said that if we did so, no one of us would prove unfaithful to another, or become what you call a traitor. The latter is a wholly imaginary character among us; strange pictures are drawn of him with his feet like those of an ass, with a nest of snakes in his bosom, with a head like the Devil's, with hands somewhat like a man's while one of them holds a large knife and the family dead around him Good-bye!" When Gruffydd looked about him he lost sight of the country of Plant Rhys, and found himself near his home. He became very wealthy after this, and continued to be a great friend of Plant Rhys as long as he lived. After Gruffydd's death they came to the market again, but such was the greed of the farmers, like Gruffydd before them, for riches, and so unreasonable were the prices they asked for their corn, that the Rhysians took offence and came no more to Cardigan to market. The old people used to think that they now went to Fishguard market, as very strange people were wont to be seen there." FAIRY CHANGELINGS. Mr. B. Davies in the II. Vol. of the "Brython," page 182, gives the following tale of a Fairy Changeling in the neighbourhood of Newcastle Emlyn, in the Vale of Teifi, and on the borders of Carmarthenshire and Cardiganshire:-- "One calm hot day, when the sun of heaven was brilliantly shining, and the hay in the dales was being busily made by lads and lasses, and by grown-up people of both sexes, a woman in the neighbourhood of Emlyn placed her one-year-old infant in the "gader" or chair, as the cradle is called in these parts, and out she went to the field for a while, intending to return when her neighbour, an old woman overtaken by the decrepitude of eighty summers, should call to her that her Darling was crying. It was not long before she heard the old woman calling to her; she ran hurriedly, and as soon as she set foot on the kitchen floor, she took her little one in her arms as usual, saying to him, "O my little one! thy mother's delight art thou! I would not take the world for thee, etc." But to her surprise, he had a very old look about him, and the more the tender-hearted mother gazed at his face, the stranger it seemed to her, so that at last she placed him in the cradle and told her sorrow to her relatives and acquaintances. And after this one and the other had given his opinion, it was agreed at last that it was one of Rhys Ddwfn's children that was in the cradle, and not her dearly loved baby. In this distress there was nothing to do but to fetch a wizard, or wise man, as fast as the fastest horse could gallop. He said, when he saw the child that he had seen his like before, and that it would be a hard job to get rid of him, though not such a very hard job this time. The shovel was made red hot in the fire by one of the Cefnarth (Cenarth) boys, and held before the child's face; and in an instant the short little old man took to his heels, and neither he nor his like was seen afterwards from Abercuch to Aberbargod at any rate. The mother found her darling unscathed the next moment. I remember also hearing that the strange child was as old as the grandfather of the one that had been lost."--"Celtic Folk-Lore" by Sir J. Rhys. There are many such stories in different parts of Wales and Scotland, and in both countries Fairies were believed to have a fatal admiration for lovely children, and credited with stealing them, especially unbaptized infants. A Welsh poet thus sings:-- "Llawer plentyn teg aeth ganddynt, Pan y cym'rynt helynt hir; Oddiar anwyl dda rieni, I drigfanau difri dir. The Rev. Elias Owen's translation of the above is as follows:-- "Many a lovely child they've taken, When long and bitter was the pain; From their parents, loving, dear, To the Fairies' dread domain." Another popular mode of treatment resorted to in order to reclaim children from the Fairies, and to get rid of ugly changelings was as follows:--The mother was to carry the changeling to a river, and when at the brink, the wizard who accompanied her was to cry out:-- "Crap ar y wrach"-- (A grip on the hag.) and the mother was to respond:-- "Rhy hwyr gyfraglach"-- (Too late decrepit one); Then the mother was to throw the changeling into the river, and then returning home, where she would find her own child safe and sound. It was believed that the Fairies were particularly busy in exchanging children on St. John's Eve. HOW TO DETECT CHANGELINGS. One way of finding out whether children were Changelings or not was to listen to them speaking. If suspected children were heard speaking things above the understanding of children, it was considered a proof that they were changelings. This was a wide-spread belief in Wales. Fairies did not always come to steal children, however, for they were believed in some places to enter the houses at night to dance and sing until the morning, and leave on the hearth-stone a piece of money as a reward behind them, should they find the house clean; but should it be dirty, they came to punish the servant girl. The good Fairies known as "Bendith y Mamau," were supposed to rock the infant's cradle and sweep and clean the house whilst the tired mother slept. And one way of securing their good luck was to leave a little milk for them upon the kitchen table at night. FAIRY MONEY. An old man named Evan Morris, Goginan, informed me that a farmer in the Vale of Rheidol one day found a sixpence on the top of a gate-post. On the next day he found a shilling there, and on the day after two shillings, the sum was doubled every day till the man was beginning to get rich. At last, however, the farmer told his family or his friends about his good luck, and after this he got no more money, as the Fairies were offended that he did not keep the thing secret. FAIRY MOTHERS AND HUMAN MIDWIVES. The following story is to be found in Welsh in an interesting little book entitled "Ystraeon y Gwyll," by the late Mr. D. Lledrod Davies; and in English by Sir John Rhys in his great work "Celtic Folk-Lore":--The locality of the tale is Swyddffynon, near Ystrad Meurig, in Cardiganshire. "It used to be related by an old woman who died some thirty years ago at the advanced age of about 100. She was Pali, mother of old Rachel Evans, who died seven or eight years ago, when she was about eighty. The latter was a curious character, who sometimes sang "Maswedd," or rhymes of doubtful propriety, and used to take the children of the village to see fairy rings. She also used to see the "Tylwyth" (Fairies), and had many tales to tell of them. But her mother, Pali, had actually been called to attend at the confinement of one of them. The beginning of the tale is not very explicit; but, anyhow, Pali one evening found herself face to face with the Fairy lady she was to attend upon. She appeared to be the wife of one of the princes of the country. She was held in great esteem, and lived in a very grand palace. Everything there had been arranged in the most beautiful and charming fashion. The wife was in her bed with nothing about her but white, and she fared sumptuously. In due time, when the baby had been born, the midwife had all the care connected with dressing it and serving its mother. Pali could see or hear nobody in the whole place, but the mother and the baby. She had no idea who attended on them, or who prepared all the things they required, for it was all done noiselessly and secretly. The mother was a charming person, of an excellent temper and easy to manage. Morning and evening, as she finished washing the baby, Pali had a certain ointment given her to rub the baby with. She was charged not to touch it, but with her hand, and especially not to put any near her eyes. This was carried out for some time, but one day, as she was dressing the baby, her eyes happened to itch, and she rubbed them with her hand. Then at once she saw a great many wonders she had not before perceived; and the whole place assumed a new aspect to her. She said nothing, and in the course of the day she saw a great deal more. Among other things, she observed small men and small women going in and out following a variety of occupations. But their movements were as light as the morning breezes. To move about was no trouble to them, and they brought things into the room with the greatest quickness. They prepared dainty food for the confined lady with the utmost order and skill, and the air of kindness and affection with which they served her was truly remarkable. In the evening, as she was dressing the baby, the midwife said to the lady, "You have had a great many visitors to-day." To this she replied, "How do you know that? Have you been putting this ointment to your eyes?" Thereupon she jumped out of bed, and blew into her eyes, saying, "Now you will see no more." She never afterwards could see the fairies, however much she tried, nor was the ointment entrusted to her after that day." There is a version of this story located in the neighbourhood of Llanuwchllyn, Merionethshire, and indeed in several other parts of Wales. FAIRIES PLAYING TRICKS WITH THE OVEN. Miss Evelyn Lewes, Tyglyn Aeron, in the "Carmarthenshire Antiquities" says, "Should the dough not rise properly, but present a stringy appearance, the Cardiganshire housewife announces that "Mae bara yn robin," and forthwith orders the sacrifice of an old slipper, presumably to propitiate the fairy folk who are inclined to play tricks with the oven.... A native of Montgomeryshire tells me that in her youth no loaf at her home was ever placed in the oven unless a cross had been previously signed upon it." FAIRY GLOVES. Mrs. A. Crawley-Boevey, of Birchgrove, Crosswood, a lady who is greatly interested in Folk-Lore, informed me that it is believed in Gloucestershire that the Fairies live in Fox Gloves. I have not so far discovered this belief in Wales, but Fox Glove is called in some part of the Principality Menyg y Tylwyth Teg (Fairy Gloves). Also Menyg Ellyllon (Elves Gloves). FAIRY KNOCKERS. Knockers were supposed to be a species of Fairies which haunted the mines, and underground regions, and whose province it was to indicate by knocks and other sounds, the presence of rich veins of ore. That miners in former times did really believe in the existence of such beings is quite evident from the following two letters written by Lewis Morris (great grandfather of Sir Lewis Morris the poet) in October 14th, 1754, and December 4th, 1754. They appeared in Bingley's North Wales, Vol. II., pages 269-272: "People who know very little of arts or sciences, or the powers of nature (which, in other words are the powers of the author of nature), will laugh at us Cardiganshire miners, who maintain the existence of "Knockers" in mines, a kind of good-natured impalpable people not to be seen, but heard, and who seem to us to work in the mines; that is to say, they are the types or forerunners of working in mines, as dreams are of some accidents, which happen to us. The barometer falls before rain, or storms. If we do not know the construction of it, we should call it a kind of dream that foretells rain; but we know it is natural, and produced by natural means, comprehended by us. Now, how are we sure, or anybody sure, but that our dreams are produced by the same natural means? There is some faint resemblance of this in the sense of hearing; the bird is killed before we hear the report of the gun. However, this is, I must speak well of the "Knockers," for they have actually stood my good-friends, whether they are aerial beings called spirits, or whether they are a people made of matter, not to be felt by our gross bodies, as air and fire and the like. "Before the discovery of the "Esgair y Mwyn" mine, these little people, as we call them here, worked hard there day and night; and there are honest, sober people, who have heard them, and some persons who have no notion of them or of mines either; but after the discovery of the great ore they were heard no more. When I began to work at Llwyn Llwyd, they worked so fresh there for a considerable time that they frightened some young workmen out of the work. This was when we were driving levels, and before we had got any ore; but when we came to the ore, they then gave over, and I heard no more talk of them. Our old miners are no more concerned at hearing them "blasting," boring holes, landing "deads," etc., than if they were some of their own people; and a single miner will stay in the work, in the dead of night, without any man near him, and never think of any fear of any harm they will do him. The miners have a notion that the "knockers" are of their own tribe and profession, and are a harmless people who mean well. Three or four miners together shall hear them sometimes, but if the miners stop to take notice of them, the "knockers" will also stop; but, let the miners go on at their work, suppose it is "boring," the "knockers" will at the same time go on as brisk as can be in landing, "blasting." or beating down the "loose," and they are always heard a little distance from them before they come to the ore. "These are odd assertions, but they are certainly facts, though we cannot, and do not pretend to account for them. We have now very good ore at "Llwyn Llwyd," where the "knockers" were heard to work, but we have now yielded the place, and are no more heard. Let who will laugh, we have the greatest reason to rejoice, and thank the "knockers," or rather God, who sends us these notices." The second letter is as follows:-- "I have no time to answer your objection against 'knockers'; I have a large treatise collected on that head, and what Mr. Derham says is nothing to the purpose. If sounds of voices, whispers, blasts, working, or pumping, can be carried on a mile underground, they should always be heard in the same place, and under the same advantages, and not once in a month, a year, or two years. Just before the discovery of ore last week, three men together in our work at "Llwyn Llwyd" were ear-witnesses of "knockers," pumping, driving a wheelbarrow, etc.; but there is no pump in the work, nor any mine within less than a mile of it, in which there are pumps constantly going. If they were these pumps that they heard, why were they never heard but that once in the space of a year? And why are they not now heard? But the pumps make so little noise that they cannot be heard in the other end of "Esgair y Mwyn" mine when they are at work. We have a dumb and deaf tailor in the neighbourhood who has a particular language of his own by signs, and by practice I can understand him and make him understand me pretty well, and I am sure I could make him learn to write, and be understood by letters very soon, for he can distinguish men already by the letters of their names. Now letters are marks to convey ideas, just after the same manner as the motion of fingers, hands, eyes, etc. If this man had really seen ore in the bottom of a sink of water in a mine and wanted to tell me how to come at it, he would take two sticks like a pump, and would make the motions of a pumper at the very sink where he knew the ore was, and would make the motions of driving a wheelbarrow. And what I should infer from thence would be that I ought to take out the water and sink or drive in the place, and wheel the stuff out. By parity of reasoning, the language of "knockers," by imitating the sound of pumping, wheeling, etc., signifies that we should take out the water and drive there. This is the opinion of all old miners, who pretend to understand the language of the "knockers." Our agent and manager, upon the strength of this notice, goes on and expect great things. You, and everybody that is not convinced of the being of "knockers," will laugh at these things, for they sound like dreams; so does every dark science. Can you make any illiterate man believe that it is possible to know the distance of two places by looking at them? Human knowledge is but of small extent, its bounds are within our view, we see nothing beyond these; the great universal creation contains powers, etc., that we cannot so much as guess at. May there not exist beings, and vast powers infinitely smaller than the particles of air, to whom air is as hard a body as the diamond is to us? Why not? There is neither great nor small, but by comparison. Our "knockers" are some of these powers, the guardians of mines. "You remember the story in Selden's Table-Talk of Sir Robert Cotton and others disputing about Moses's shoe. Lady Cotton came in and asked, 'Gentlemen, are you sure it is a shoe?' So the first thing is to convince mankind that there is a set of creatures, a degree or so finer than we are, to whom we have given the name of "knockers" from the sounds we hear in our mines. This is to be done by a collection of their actions well attested, and that is what I have begun to do, and then let everyone judge for himself." We do not hear of "Knockers" in Cardiganshire now; in Cornwall, however, it is said that they still haunt the mines, and sometimes, with a sound of knocking and singing, they guide a lucky miner to find good ore. The "Knockers" were, it was once thought, "the Souls of the Jews who crucified our Saviour." At least it seems that that was the belief in Cornwall. Perhaps it would be of interest to add that there were Cornishmen among the miners of Cardiganshire when Mr. Lewis Morris wrote the two letters I have just given. A STORY OF PONT EINION (EINION BRIDGE) TREGARON. Mr. John Jones, Pontrhydfendigaid, who is now about 95 years of age, related to me the following tale seven years ago:-- Long ago, when much of the land where now stand the farms of Ystrad-Caron, Penylan, and Penybont, was a Common, a gentleman named Einion, and his wife, came from Abergwaun (Fishguard) and settled in the neighbourhood of Tregaron. Einion inclosed much of the land on the banks of the river Teivy in that part, and built a fine mansion which he called Ystrad-Caron, and soon became a most influential man in the neighbourhood, especially as he was well-to-do, and had generously constructed at his own expense, a bridge over the river for the convenience of the poor people of Tregaron and the surrounding districts. He also loved above everything his wife, and his harp, and was considered one of the best players on that instrument in Wales; but, unfortunately, as time went on, he failed to derive any pleasure from his surroundings and soon became subject to "melancholia," imagining that the place was haunted by some evil genius. At last, he was persuaded by his medical adviser to seek a change of scenery by going to stay for a while in Pembrokeshire, his native place. Soon after his arrival at Fishguard, he took a short sea voyage from that port, but after some adventures, he and others of his fellow passengers were taken prisoners by a French Man of War. After spending many years of his lifetime inside the strong walls of a French prison, he at last succeeded to escape, and soon found his way once more to the neighbourhood of Tregaron in Cardiganshire; but to his great astonishment, as he neared his own house, Ystrad-Caron, after so many years' absence, he heard some music and dancing. Clothed in rags he knocked at the back door, and pretended to be a tramp. One of the maid servants took compassion on the "poor old tramp," and allowed him to come in and warm himself near the kitchen fire. "We are very busy here to-day," said she to him, "our mistress who has been a widow for many years is about to get married again, and the bride and bridegroom and a party of invited guests are now in the parlour, but, unfortunately, not one of those present is able to tune the harp, a fine old instrument which belonged to the lady's first husband who went away from home and got drowned at sea many years ago." "Please ask them to allow me to tune the harp," said Einion to the maid. The girl then went to inform her mistress that there was an old man in the kitchen who could tune the harp for them. Einion now entered the parlour, and to the astonishment of the bride and bridegroom and the guests, soon tuned the harp; and as soon as he began to play an old favourite tune of his: "Myfi bia'm ty, a'm telyn, a'm tân," (My house, and my harp, and my fire are mine). The lady of the house recognised him at once as her husband. Then turning to the young bridegroom to whom she was engaged to be married, addressed him thus:--"You may go now, as my husband has come home to me once more." A short time after my visit to Mr. J. Jones, Pontrhydfendigaid, I went to Tregaron, where I found out from Mr. Jenkin Lloyd (formerly of Pant), and others, that the story of Pont Einion (Einion Bridge) was well-known in the neighbourhood, but that Einion during the many years he was away from home, was not in prison but among the Fairies. It seems probable that the above story is a modern local version of a tale which is to be found in the Iolo MSS. entitled:--"Einion Ap Gwalchmai and the Lady of the Greenwood," which I introduce here for comparison:-- Einion, the son of Gwalchmai, the son of Meilir, of Treveilir in Anglesey, married Angharad, the daughter of Ednyved Vychan. As he was one fine summer morning walking in the woods of Treveilir, he beheld a graceful slender lady of elegant growth, and delicate features; and her complexion surpassing every white and red in the morning dawn, and the mountain snow, and every beautiful colour in the blossoms of wood, field and hill. He felt in his heart an inconceivable commotion of affection, and he approached her in a courteous manner, and she also approached him in the same manner; and he saluted her, and she returned his salutation; and by these mutual salutations he perceived that his society was not disagreeable to her. He then chanced to cast his eye upon her foot, and he saw that she had hoofs instead of feet, and he became exceedingly dissatisfied. But she told him that his dissatisfaction was all in vain. "Thou must" said she, "follow me wheresoever I go, as long as I continue in my beauty, for this is the consequence of our mutual affection." Then he requested of her permission to go to his house to take leave of, and to say farewell to his wife, Angharad, and his son Einion. "I" said she, "shall be with thee, invisible to all but to thyself; go visit thy wife and thy son." So he went, and the Goblin; and when he saw Angharad his wife, he saw her a hag-like one grown old, but he retained the recollection of days past, and still felt extreme affection for her, but he was not able to loose himself from the bond in which he was. "It is necessary for me" said he, "to part for a time, I know not how long from thee Angharad, and from thee my son Einion," and they wept together, and broke a gold ring between them; he kept one half, and Angharad the other; and they took their leave of each other, and he went with the Lady of the Wood, and he knew not where; for a powerful illusion was upon him, and saw not any place, a person, or object under its true and proper appearance, excepting the half of the ring alone. And after being a long time, he knew not how long, with the Goblin, the Lady of the Wood, he looked one morning as the sun was rising upon the half of the ring, and he bethought him to place it in the most precious place he could and resolved to put it under his eyelid; and as he was endeavouring to do so, he could see a man in white apparel, and mounted on a snow-white horse, coming towards him, and that person asked him what he did there; and he told him that he was cherishing an afflicting remembrance of his wife Angharad. "Dos't thou desire to see her," said the man in white, "get up on this horse behind me"; and that Einion did, and looking around he could not see any appearance of the Lady of the Wood, the Goblin; excepting the track of hoofs of marvellous and monstrous size, as if journeying towards the north. "What delusion art thou under?" said the man in white. Then Einion answered him and told everything, how it occurred betwixt him and the Goblin. "Take this white staff in thy hand," said the man in white; and Einion took it. And the man in white told him to desire whatever he wished for. The first thing he desired was to see the Lady of the Wood, for he was not yet completely delivered from the illusion. And she appeared to him in size a hideous and monstrous witch, a thousand times more repulsive of aspect than the most frightful things seen upon earth. And Einion uttered a cry from terror; and the man in white cast his cloak over Einion, and in less than a twinkling Einion alighted as he wished on the hill of Treveilir, by his own house, where he knew scarcely anyone, nor did anyone know him. After the Goblin had left Einion, the son of Gwalchmai, she went to Treveilir in the form of an honourable and powerful nobleman elegantly and sumptuously appareled, and possessed of an incalculable amount of gold and silver, and also in the prime of life, that is thirty years of age. And he placed a letter in Angharad's hand in which it was stated that Einion had died in Norway more than nine years before, and he then exhibited his gold and wealth to Angharad; and she, having in the course of time lost much of her regret, listened to his affectionate address. And the illusion fell upon her, and seeing that she should become a noble lady higher than any in Wales, she named a day for her marriage with him. And there was a great preparation of every elegant and sumptuous kind of apparel, and of meats and drinks, and of every honourable guest, and every excellence of song and string, and every preparation of banquet and festive entertainment. And when the honourable saw a particularly beautiful harp in Angharad's room, he wished to have it played on; and the harpers present, the best in Wales, tried to put it in tune, but were not able. And when everything was made ready for to proceed to Church to be married, Einion came into the house and Angharad saw him as an old decrepit, withered, gray-haired man, stooping with age, and dressed in rags, and she asked him if he would turn the spit whilst the meat was roasting. "I will," said he and went about the work with the white staff in his hand after the manner of a man carrying a pilgrim's staff. And after dinner had been prepared, all the minstrels failing to put the harp in tune for Angharad, Einion got up and took it in his hand, and tuned it, and played on it the air which Angharad loved. And she marvelled exceedingly, and asked him who he was. And he answered in song and stanza thus: "Einion the golden-hearted, am I called by all around; The son of Gwalchmai, Ap Meilir My fond illusion continued long, Evil thought of for my lengthened stay." "Where has thou been?" "In Kent, in Gwent, in the wood in Monmouth, in Maelor Gorwenydd; And in the Valley of Gwyn, the son of Nudd, See the bright gold is the token." And he gave her the ring. "Look not on the whitened hue of the hair. Where once my aspect was spirited and bold; Now gray, without disguise, where once it was yellow; The blossoms of the grave--the end of all men. The fate that so long affected me, it was time that should alter me; Never was Angharad out of my remembrance, Einion was by thee forgotten." And she could not bring him to her recollection. Then said he to the guests:-- "If I have lost her whom I loved, the fair one of the polished mind, The daughter of Ednyved Vychan; I have not lost (so get you out)-- Either my bed, or my house, or my fire." And upon that he placed the white staff in Angharad's hand, and instantly the Goblin which she had hitherto seen as a handsome and honourable nobleman, appeared to her as a monster, inconceivably hideous; and fainted from fear, and Einion supported her until she revived. And when she opened her eyes, she saw there neither the Goblin, nor any of the guests, or of the minstrels, nor anything whatever except Einion, and her son and the harp, and the house in its domestic arrangement, and the dinner on the table, casting its savoury odour around. And they sat down to eat; Einion and Angharad and Einion their son; and exceeding great was the enjoyment. And they saw the illusion which the demoniacal Goblin had cast over them. And by this perchance may be seen that love of female beauty and gentleness is the greatest fascination of man; the love of honours with their vanities and riches, is the greatest fascination of woman. No man will forget his wife, unless he sets his heart on the beauty of another; nor woman her husband, unless she sets her heart on the riches and honour of lordly vaingloriousness and the pomp of pride. And thus it ends." Ednyved Vychan, whose name is mentioned in the beginning of the above story as Einion's father-in-law, was Lord of Brynffenigl in Denbighshire, and flourished seven hundred years ago. He was a most powerful chieftain, and from him descended in the male line Henry VII. King of England, an ancestor to nearly all if not all the present monarchs of Europe. MERMAIDS. It seems probable that the tradition of Mermaids is of the same origin as that of fairies. In Campbell's Superstitions of the Scottish Highlands, it is stated that a man in North Harris, caught a mermaid on a rock, and to procure her release, she granted him his three wishes. He became a skilful herb-doctor, who could cure the King's evil and other diseases ordinarily incurable. This reminds us of the Fairy Lady of Llyn y Fanfach in Carmarthenshire, revealing to her sons the medical qualities of certain herbs and plants, thus enabling them to become eminent doctors. In the Welsh tales the mermaid is described as half woman and half fish: above the waist a lovely woman, but below the waist like a fish. There are several mermaid stories on the west coast of Wales, or perhaps, different versions of the same tale. It was believed that vengeance overtook those who showed cruelty to these beings, and there is a tradition still extant in Carmarthenshire, that a man who killed one of them in the neighbourhood of Pembrey, or Kidwelly, brought a curse upon himself, his family and his descendants until the ninth generation. In times gone by, it seems that Cardiganshire with a sea-coast of about fifty miles, was noted for its mermaids; and according to Dryton, at the Battle of Agincourt, the county had "a mermaid sitting on a rock," as armorial bearings. THE MERMAID AND THE FISHERMEN. Mr. Lewis, Henbant, an old man who lives in the neighbourhood of Llanarth, Cardiganshire, told me the following tale five years ago, though I am indebted for some particulars to the Rev. D. Lewis, Vicar of Llansantffread:--In times gone by a mermaid was often seen on a rock known as Careg Ina, near New Quay. One day this sea creature became entangled in the nets of some fishermen who were out fishing some considerable distance from the land. She entreated the men to disentangle her, and allow her to return to the water. Her request was granted, and in gratitude the mermaid warned them of a coming storm, and advised them to make for the shore without delay. This they did hurriedly, and as they were nearing the land a terrific storm came on suddenly, and it was with difficulty that they managed to land safely. Other fishermen in another boat on the very same day, not having the advantage of being warned by the mermaid, were caught by the storm and met with a watery grave. I have also discovered a version of this story at Aberporth, a seaside village some distance to the South of New Quay. It was formerly believed that there were mermen as well as mermaids, though I have no Welsh tale of a merman. THE FISHERMEN OF LLANDUDOCH AND THE MERMAID. The following tale appeared in Welsh fifty years ago in "Y Brython," Vol. I. page 73; and the writer was the late eminent Welshman Gwynionydd, father of the present Vicar of Lledrod:-- "On a fine afternoon in September in the beginning of the last century, a fisherman named Pergrin proceeded to a recess in the rock near Pen Cemmes, (Pembrokeshire), and found there a mermaid doing her hair, and he took the water lady prisoner to his boat. We cannot imagine why the lady had not been more on her guard to avoid such a calamity; but if sea maidens are anything like land maidens, they often forget their duties when engaged in dealing with the oil of Maccassar, and making themselves ready to meet the young men. We know not what language is used by sea maidens ... but this one this time at any rate, talked, it is said, very good Welsh; for when she was in despair in Pergrin's custody weeping copiously, and with her tresses all dishevelled, she called out "Pergrin, if thou wilt let me go, I will give three shouts in the time of thy greatest need." So, in wonder and fear he let her go to walk the streets of the deep and visit her sweethearts there. Days and weeks passed without Pergrin seeing her after this; but one hot afternoon, when the sea was pretty calm, and the fishermen had no thought of danger, behold his old acquaintance showing her head and locks, and shouting out in a loud voice: "Pergrin! Pergrin! Pergrin! take up thy nets! take up thy nets! take up thy nets!" Pergrin and his companion instantly obeyed the message, and drew their nets in with great haste. In they went, passed the bar, and by the time they had reached the Pwll Cam, the most terrible storm had overspread the sea, while he and his companion were safe on land. Twice nine others had gone out with them, but they were all drowned, without having the chance of obeying the warning of the water lady. A version of the above story is to be found also in Carnarvonshire, North Wales. A MERMAID SEEN NEAR ABERYSTWYTH. The following tale appeared in the interesting Welsh Magazine "Seren Gomer," for June, 1823:-- "Yn mis Gorphenaf, 1826, ffarmwr o blwyf Llanuwchaiarn, yn nghylch tair milltir o Aberystwyth, ty anedd yr hwn sydd o fewn i 300 llath o lan y mor, a aeth i wared i'r creigiau, pan yr oedd yr haul yn cyfodi ac yn pelydru yn hyfryd ar y mor, a gwelai fenyw (fel y tybiai) yn ymolchi yn y mor, o fewn i dafliad carreg ato; ar y cyntaf efe o wylder a aeth yn ei ol, ond ar adfyfyriad meddyliodd na fuasai un fenyw yn myned allan mor bell i'r mor, gan ei fod yr amser hwnw yn llifo; ac hefyd yr oedd yn sicr fod y dwfr yn chwe' troedfedd o ddyfnder yn y fan y gwelodd hi yn sefyll. Wedi meddwl felly, efe a syrthiodd ar ei wyneb, ac a ymlusgodd yn mlaen i fin y dibyn o ba le y cafodd olwg gyflawn arni dros fwy na haner awr. Wedi edrych digon arni ei hun, efe a ymlusgodd yn ei ol, ac a redodd i alw ei deulu i weled yr olygfa ryfeddol hon; wedi dywedid wrthynt yr hyn a welsai, efe a'u cyfarwyddodd o'r drws pa fan i fyned, ac ymlusgo i ymyl y graig fel y gwnaethai efe. Aeth rhai o honynt heb ond haner gwisgo, canys yr oedd yn foreu, a hwythau ond newydd gyfodi; ac wedi dyfod i'r fan, gwelsant hi dros o gylch deng mynyd, tra bu y ffarmwr yn galw ei wraig a'i blentyn ieuangaf. Pan ddaeth y wraig yn mlaen, ni syrthiodd hi i lawr, fel y gwnaethau y rhai eraill, ond cerddodd yn mlaen yn ngolwg y creadur; eithr cyn gynted ag y gwelodd y For-Forwyn hi, soddodd i'r dwfr, a nofiodd ymaith, nes oedd o gylch yr un pollder oddiwrth y tir ag y gwelsid hi ar y cyntaf; a'r holl deulu, y gwr, y wraig, a'r plant, y gweision, a'r morwynion, y rhai oeddynt oll yn ddeuddeg o rifedi, a redasant ar hyd y lan dros fwy na haner milltir, ac yn agos yr holl amser hwnw gwelent hi yn y mor, a rhai gweithiau yr oedd ei phen a'i hysgwyddau oll y tu uchaf i'r dwfr. Yr oedd carreg fawr, dros lathen o uchder yn y mor, ar ba un y safai pan welwyd hi gyntaf. Yr oedd yn sefyll allan o'r dwfr o'i chanol i fynu, a'r holl deulu a dystient ei bod yn gymwys yr un fath o ran dull a maintioli a dynes ieuanc o gylch deunaw oed. Yr oedd ei gwallt yn o fyr, ac o liw tywyll; ei gwyneb yn dra thlws; ci gwddf a'i breichiau fel arferol; ei bronau yn rhesymol, a'i chroen yn wynach nag eiddo un person a welsant erioed o'r blaen. Plygai yn fynych, fel pe buasai yn cymeryd dwfr i fynu ac yna yn dala ei llaw o flaen ei hwyneb dros oddeutu haner mynyd. Pan blygai ei hun felly, gwelid rhyw beth du, fel pe buasai cynffon fer, yn troi i fyny y tu ol iddi. Gwnaethai ryw swn yn fynych tebyg i disian, yr hwn a barai i'r graig i adseinio. Y ffarmwr, yr hwn a gafodd gyfleusdra i edrych arni dros gymaint o amser, a ddywedai na welodd ef ond ychydig iawn o wragedd mor hardd-deg yr olwg a'r For-Forwyn hon. Y mae yr holl deulu, yr ieuengaf o ba rai sydd yn un ar ddeg oed, yn awr yn fyw, a chawsom yr hanes hwn, air yn ngair, fel ei rhoddir yma, oddiwrthynt hwy eu hunain o fewn y mis diweddaf." I have translated the above tale as literally as possible, almost word for word, and in English it reads as follows:-- In the month of July, 1826, a farmer from the parish of Llanuwchaiarn, about three miles from Aberystwyth, whose house is within 300 feet of the seashore, descended the rock, when the sun was shining beautifully upon the sea, and he saw a woman (as he thought) washing herself in the sea within a stone's throw of him. At first, he modestly turned back; but after a moment's reflection thought that a woman would not go so far out into the sea, as it was flooded at the time, and he was certain that the water was six feet deep in the spot where he saw her standing. After considering the matter, he threw himself down on his face and crept on to the edge of the precipice from which place he had a good view of her for more than half-an-hour. After scrutinizing her himself, he crept back to call his family to see this wonderful sight. After telling them what he had seen, he directed them from the door where to go and to creep near the rock as he had done. Some of them went when they were only half dressed, for it was early in the morning, and they had only just got up from bed. Arriving at the spot, they looked at her for about ten minutes, as the farmer was calling his wife and the younger child. When the wife came on, she did not throw herself down as the others had done, but walked on within sight of the creature; but as soon as the mermaid saw her, she dived into the water, and swam away till she was about the same distance from them as she was when she was first seen. The whole family, husband, wife, children, menservants and maid-servants, altogether twelve in number, ran along the shore for more than half-a-mile, and during most of that time, they saw her in the sea, and sometimes her head and shoulders were upwards out of the water. There was a large stone, more than a yard in height, in the sea, on which she stood when she was first seen. She was standing out of the water from her waist up, and the whole family declared that she was exactly the same as a young woman of about 18 years of age, both in shape and stature. Her hair was short, and of a dark colour; her face rather handsome, her neck and arms were like those of any ordinary woman, her breast blameless and her skin whiter than that of any person they had ever seen before. Her face was towards the shore. She bent herself down frequently, as if taking up water, and then holding her hand before her face for about half-a-minute. When she was thus bending herself, there was to be seen some black thing as if there was a tail turning up behind her. She often made some noise like sneezing, which caused the rock to echo. The farmer who had first seen her, and had had the opportunity of looking at her for some time, said that he had never seen but very few women so handsome in appearance as this mermaid. All the family, the youngest of whom is now eleven years old, are now alive, and we obtained this account, word for word, as it is given here, from them themselves within the last month. CHAPTER VI. GHOST STORIES. The belief in the existence of Fairies in Wales has almost died out, but we still find many people who are more or less superstitious with regard to ghosts, spirits, etc., and the belief in death omens is rather popular, even among educated people. The majority of the Welsh ghosts were supposed to be the spirits or shades of departed mortals, re-appearing on account of some neglected duty, and in many cases to point out some hidden treasure; for it was thought that if a person dies, while his money (or any metal) is still hidden secretly, the spirit of that person cannot rest until it is revealed. It was also supposed that the spirits of the murdered haunted the place where their unburied bodies lay, or until vengeance overtook the murderer, "and the wicked were doomed to walk the earth until they were laid in lake or river, or in the Red Sea." It was also thought in former days, if not at present, that the evil one himself appears sometimes in some form or other; but good spirits are seen as well as bad ones. I have heard it said by some that only those who have been born in the night time have the power to see spirits; others say that spirits take more fancy to some persons than others. It was also thought that if two persons were together, one only could see the spirit, to the other he was invisible, and to one person only would the Spirit speak, and this he would do when addressed; for according to the laws of the Spirit world, a Spirit or a ghost has no power of speech until first spoken to. "Its persistency in haunting is due to its eager desire to speak, and tell its urgent errand, but the person haunted must take his courage in both hands and put the question to the issue. Having done so, he is booked for the end of the business, be it what it may. The mode of speech adopted must not vary, in addressing a Spirit; in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, it must be addressed, and not otherwise. Its business must be demanded; three times the question must be repeated, unless the ghost answer earlier. When it answers, it speaks in a low hollow voice, stating its desire; and it must not be interrupted while speaking for to interrupt it is dangerous in the extreme. At the close of its remarks, questions are in order. They must be promptly delivered, however, or the ghost will vanish. They must bear on the business in hand; it is offended if asked as to its state, or other idle questions born of curiosity. Neglect to obey the ghost's injunctions will lead to much annoyance, and eventually to dire results. At first the Spirit will appear with a discontented visage, next with an angry one, and finally with a countenance distorted with the most ferocious rage." "British Goblins," page 148. Men sometimes were transported by the spirits through the air, and the Fairies did this also as well as ghosts. About two years ago, an old man at Llansadwrn, Carmarthenshire, gave me a remarkable account of the transportation of a well-known character who lived in that parish some years ago known as "Evan y Gweydd" (Evan the Weaver). A version of the story had appeared in Welsh twenty-five years ago, in an interesting little book entitled "Lloffion Adgof," by T. Edwards. THE WEAVER OF LLANSADWRN TRANSPORTED THROUGH THE AIR BY A SPIRIT. One night Evan y Gweydd found himself speaking with a Spirit who appeared to him in the form of a gentleman outside the house. The gentleman asked him whether he would do one thing at his request. "Yes, if I can," said Evan, in reply. "That is a promise which must be kept," said the spirit, "and thou shalt have no peace until thou hast performed it; name the time and sooner the better." Evan said, "three weeks to to-night." "Very well," said the Spirit, and off it went. Poor Evan by this began to feel very sorry for making such a promise, and when the time came round when he was to fulfil his promise, he barred the door of the house and went to bed; but he was not there long before he was thrown down on the floor, and found himself pushed out through the wide open door, unceremoniously, hardly having time to put on his clothes. After going out he saw the same gentleman as before, or rather the spirit which assumed the form of a gentleman who ordered Evan to follow him without delay to a place called Glan-ty-Bedw, where there was a very large stone, with an iron chest concealed beneath it. Then the spirit ordered him to take hold of the box and carry it and throw it into the Fanfach Lake many miles away. On Sunday morning as they passed through the village of Myddfe on their way to this lake, Evan noticed the people going to Church, some of whom he knew, but it seems that they did not see him, and his companion, or at least they did not seem to notice them. After reaching the lake and throwing in the chest, there came thunder and lightning, and Evan was carried through the air in a kind of half trance. When he came to himself he found himself on the banks of the river Towy, between that river and Llansadwrn, and not far from his home. When he reached the house he went to bed, and was very ill for some time. According to some versions of the story, the spirit compelled him to throw an iron into the Cothy river near Edwinsford, as well as a chest into the Fan Lake. In aerial journey of this kind, the spirit generally gives the mortal the choice of being transported "above wind, amid wind, or below wind." The man who chooses to go above wind is borne to an altitude somewhat equal to that of a balloon, so high that he is in danger of being frightened to death. But choosing the below wind is quite as bad and even worse, for the hapless mortal is then dragged through bush and briar. The safest way is always to remember to select the middle course (amid wind), for this ensures a pleasant transportation at a moderate elevation equally removed from the branches and the clouds. There was a certain man in the neighbourhood of Pontyberem, in Carmarthenshire, to whom a spirit appeared almost every night, and offered him an aerial journey of this description, giving him the choice of above wind, amid wind, or below wind, and on one occasion he was dragged by the ghost through bush and briar that his clothes were all in rags. SPIRITS THROWING STONES. An old man named John Jones, who lives at Pontrhydfendigaid, informed me that a ghost which haunted a farm between Pontrhydfendigaid and Tregaron, was engaged in the dangerous game of stone-throwing to the great discomfort of the family. There are several such stories in different parts of the country. I found the following strange tale in an old Welsh book entitled, "Golwg ar y Byd," written by the Rev. D. Lewis, Vicar of Llangattwg, Glamorganshire, and printed at Carmarthen in 1725: CHWEDL AM YSPRYD. "Yn mhlwyf Llangeler, yn Sir Gaerfyrddin, Mai 21ain, 1719, y dechreuodd yspryd yr hwn a barhaodd dros hir amser, i daflu ceryg at rhai oedd yn y maes yno. Dydd Iau y Sulgwyn y dechreuwyd dyrnu, oddeutu wyth y boreu, ac y dechreuodd yntau daflu ceryg. Un o'r dyrnwyr yn gyntaf a welodd y gareg yn disgyn ar y llawr dyrnu. Yr ail gareg a ddisgynodd ar glin morwyn y ty, nes ydoedd clais arni; ac yn mhen ychydig llanwasant y llawr dyrnu a'r twyn oddiamgylch, yr hyn a wnaethant wedi hyny. Y dyrnwyr a roisant heibio eu gwaith, ac a aethant i edrych pwy oedd yn eu taflu hwynt, ond ni allasent weled neb. "Dydd Gwener,--Y forwyn, pan yn yr ardd, a darawyd dair gwaith. Tarawyd amryw o'r plant, nes iddynt fyned allan o'r ty. Daeth llawer yn nghyd i weled y rhyfeddodau hyn, ac yr oedd pawb ag oedd yn dyfod yn cael gweled y ceryg yn disgyn. "Dydd Sadwrn,--Tarawyd y forwyn ac un o'r dyrnwyr. Yr oedd rhai ceryg yn chwyrnu, ac megys cleisiau ar amryw o honynt. Y ceryg ni welid nes byddent yn disgyn, a phan godid hwynt byddai eu hol ar y llawr, megys pe byddent yno flwyddyn o'r blaen. Daeth pawl mawr yn groes i'r ffenestr, heb neb gweledig yn dyfod ag ef. Rhai ni chredent nes danfon cenadon i weled, ac i gyrchu rhai ceryg adref i'w tai. Cyfodwyd cyff mawr o bren o'r croch i ben y ty, ac a ddisgynodd mewn man arall. "Dydd Sul,--Daeth llawer iawn yn nghyd i weled, ac amryw o honynt yn tyngu ac yn rhegu, ac yn siarad yn gableddus ac yn ysgafn. Disgynodd ceryg mawrion ar y lloft yn y ty, ond ni welwyd hwynt nes disgynent. Tarawyd bar haiarn allan o'r ffenestr, a phlygwyd un arall fel bach ysdarn; a'r ffenestr a dorwyd yn friwion man. Wedi'r nos daeth ceryg i'r gwelyau, a chloriau'r ffenestri a aethant i'r llofft; a gorfu ar dylwyth y ty gyfodi o'u gwelyau a myned i dy cymydog. Nid oedd ond y ceryg yn llawn yn y ty ac oddiamgylch iddo. "Nos Fercher,--Llosgwyd yr ysgubor a'r llafur, a llawer o bethau eraill; yr oedd ef bob dydd yn taflu ceryg, ond nid bob awr. Yr oedd weithiau yn taflu mor gynted ag y gellid eu rhifo, a'r rhan fwyaf o honynt yn geryg afon, a rhai o honynt yn chwech pwys neu ragor o bwysau. "Daeth cymydogion yn nghyd un noswaith i weddio ar Dduw yn y ty, ac ni fu yno fawr o stwr y noson hono. Llawer o bethau yn rhagor a wnaeth efe, ond o'r diwedd efe a ddarfu ac a beidiodd." For the benefit of those who are unable to read Welsh, I give the following translation of the above account:-- A STORY OF A GHOST THROWING STONES AT LLANGELER. In the parish of Llangeler, Carmarthenshire, May 21st., 1719, a spirit, which continued for some time, began to throw stones at those who were in the field. On Thursday in Whitsun week, at eight in the morning, the thrashing began (at a farm) and at the same time he (the spirit) began to throw stones. At first it was one of the men who were thrashing that noticed a stone descending on the thrashing floor. The second stone fell on the leg of the housemaid, wounding her; and after this, very shortly, they filled the thrashing floor and the place around. The men who were thrashing gave up their work, and went to see who were throwing them, but could see no one. Friday.--The servant maid in the garden was struck three times. Several of the children were struck till they went out of the house. A large number of people came together to see these wonders, and all who came were allowed to see the stones descending. Saturday.--The servant maid and one of the thrashers were struck. Some of the stones were rattling, and something like marks on several of them. The stones were not seen till they fell, and when they were taken up marks of them were on the floor as if they had been there from the year before. A large pole came right across the window without any one visibly bringing it. Some people believed not, till they sent messengers to see, and to bring home some of the stones to their houses. A big stump of wood was taken up from the boiler to the house top, and fell in another place. Sunday.--A large number of people came together to see, and several of them cursing and swearing, and speaking lightly and blasphemously. Big stones fell on the loft of the house, but were not seen till they had descended. An iron bar was struck out of the window, and another one bent as a packsaddle's hook; and the window was broken all to pieces. After dark the stones came into the beds, and window frames went to the loft, so that the family of the house were obliged to get up from their beds and go to a neighbour's house. Nothing but stones could be seen filling the house and surrounding it. Wednesday Night.--The barn and the corn as well as many other things were burnt; he (the spirit) was throwing stones every day, though not every hour. Sometimes the stones were thrown as fast as one could reckon them, most of which were river stones, and some of them weighing about seven pounds or more. Neighbours came together to pray to God in the house, and there was not much noise in the house that night. Many other things were done by the spirit, but he at last ceased. There was a troublesome ghost of this kind now recently in the Vale of Towy, Carmarthenshire. SPIRITS AND HIDDEN TREASURE. In some of the places supposed to be haunted there are often traditions of buried treasures in connection with such spots. In some of the stories the ghost haunts some particular person only, and never gives him rest till its purpose is accomplished. Mr. Hall, in his most valuable and interesting "Book of South Wales" gives a tale of: A CARPENTER WHO WAS HAUNTED BY A "WHITE LADY." This man had no peace night or day, for the "White Lady" appeared to him with an agonizing expression of countenance, at unexpected times, and unexpected places. Once in a field to which there were several entrances, she appeared and opposed his exit. Trembling, he sought another, but there, too, was she. He fainted, and did not leave the field, till he was found there by persons who happened to pass. At last some considerable amount of jewels and other valuables were found by the man, in the secret drawer of an old escritoir, which he was repairing for a family that resided near. The valuables were immediately handed over to the owner of the escritoir and the "White Lady" did not appear afterwards. Another remarkable story of this class is told in the northern part of Cardiganshire; and I found the following version of it in a "Scrap Book" of Mr. William Davies, Talybont, an eminent Folk-Lorist:-- THE "WHITE LADY" OF BROGININ, OR A GHOST REVEALING HIDDEN MONEY TO A YOUNG LOVER. Broginin is a farm house where the famous Welsh Bard, Dafydd Ap Gwilym was born, and situated six miles from Aberystwyth in Cardiganshire. Some years ago the respectable and industrious family who lived there at the time, were often disturbed by some unearthly being who generally made his appearance in the depth of night, as it is the case with spirits. This unwelcome visitor aroused the whole family by walking up and down the stairs, or from one room into another. Sometimes he closed the doors behind him, making such noise as to strike terror to the hearts of all in the house. At times, he lighted up the whole house at once with gleaming light, and the next moment vanished as suddenly as he came, leaving behind him utter darkness. Occasionally, the same ghost was seen by some of the servantmen, who had been out courting, walking across the farmyard in the form of a "white lady," appearing as a tall handsome lady attired in lustring white dress, and her face covered by silken veil. This "White Lady" walked towards the young men, and suddenly disappeared in a tremendous ball of fire. People were so terrified by such sights, that several families, one after another moved away from the house. One Sunday evening, however, about the beginning of winter, when all the family as usual had gone to chapel, except the servant maid, who did not feel well, her lover came to keep her company. Naturally, the young man and the young woman began to talk about the ghost, and Evan (for that was the young man's name) laughed, and boasted what he was going to do should the disturber appear. But the next moment, without the least notice, a lady in her white dress stood right in the middle of the room, with her face uncovered, and her brown curly hair down over her shoulders. She held in one hand a comb and in the other a roll of paper, but she did not whisper a word. The servant maid, and her young man who had just been boasting shuddered in terror, and dared not move or utter a word. The "lady" walked round the apartment several times; then suddenly stood; and having opened the door through which she had entered without opening, beckoned the young man to follow her. As he dared not disobey, he followed her up stairs, into a dark back room, but which was now lighted up in some mysterious way. With her finger she pointed out a particular corner under the low roof, at which place the young man with his trembling hand found some hard parcel carefully tied in an old woollen stocking. When he opened it he found it full of money, and at the same moment the "White Lady" vanished and never disturbed the house again. A GHOST REVEALING HIDDEN TREASURE TO A FARMER IN THE PARISH OF LLANAFAN. Crosswood Park, the fine residence of my esteemed young friend the Earl of Lisburne, is situated about nine miles from Aberystwyth. About two miles from the Park is a bridge over the river Ystwyth, known as Pont Llanafan (Llanafan Bridge). This bridge is supposed to be haunted, and I have been told that a ghost has been seen there lately by a gentleman who lives in the district. Mr. John Jones, an old man of 95, who lives at Pontrhydfendigaid, informed me that the origin of this ghost is to be traced to some former days when retired pirates lived in a house near the Bridge, and who were supposed to have hidden some treasure in the spot. Mr. Jones also gave me the following story of a farmer named Edwards, who lived in a small farm house near the bridge two or three generations ago:--The poor farmer worked very hard, but for some time he was continually molested by a mischievous ghost day and night. In the evening when Edwards sat down in the corner eating his supper, which consisted of bread and milk, stones came down through the chimney, or ashes were thrown into his milk by some invisible hand. At another time the ghost was heard thrashing in the barn, or meddling with something continually. One day when the man was engaged in making a new fence round his field, the troublesome visitor from the other world kept with him all day, and threw down both the fence and the gate. Edwards at last decided to address the spirit in these word:--"Yn enw Duw, paham yr wyt yn fy aflonyddi o hyd?" which means in English, "In the name of God, why doest thou trouble me continually?" We are not told what was the reply of the spirit, but it was generally believed by the neighbours that he revealed to the farmer some hidden treasure in an old wall not far from the house. Edwards took down this wall and built a new house with the stones and greatly prospered. It was also said that he had been comparatively poor once, but ever since his conversation with the spirit, his cattle and his horses soon increased and fortune and good luck smiled on him all round. About two years ago when I related this story to a friend of mine who lives at Pontrhydfendigaid, to my great surprise, his wife informed me that the account is quite true. "Yes," said she, "and I got £500 of the Ghost's money." The lady, strange to say, happened to be a descendant, or at least a near relation of the Llanafan farmer to whom the ghost revealed the hidden treasure. Not far from the same Llanafan bridge there is a rock known as "Craig yr Ogof" (Rock of the Cave). Countess Amherst, (now Dowager) informed me that there is a tradition in the neighbourhood that the Romans buried treasures there. THE GLANFREAD FAWR GHOST REVEALING HIDDEN MONEY TO THE HOUSEMAID. Glanfread is a respectable farm house, but in former days it was a mansion of some note, situated in the North of Cardiganshire. In connection with Glanfread there is a ghost tale, and I found the best version of it in a Welsh manuscript kindly lent me by Dr. James, Lodge Park, Talybont:-- Once upon a time there lived at this house an old gentleman whose two nieces on one occasion came to spend with him their Christmas holidays at Glanfread. One evening, the two young ladies, who were sisters, and the housemaid sat down late playing cards. As they kept on playing till a very late hour, the fire was going out, and they began to feel cold; so the maiden went out of the house for some firewood in order to warm themselves before retiring to bed. For some reason or other, however, she was very long in returning with the wood to put on the fire, and when she did return, she fell on the floor in a swoon, that they were obliged to carry her to bed. Next morning when they asked what had caused her to faint, she declined giving any reply; and even when her master, gun in hand, threatened to take her life unless she confessed what had happened, she still persisted in keeping all the mystery to herself. The fact of it was, the girl kept company to one of the farm servants, if not engaged, and very soon they were married, and took a very large farm--a farm which is well-known in North Cardiganshire. All their acquaintances were very greatly surprised how could a poor servant man and servant woman afford to begin farming on such a large scale, when it was known that they had but very little money to start on such an undertaking. And the general opinion was that a spirit had revealed to the servant woman some hidden treasure on the night she fainted. A GHOST APPEARING TO POINT OUT HIDDEN TREASURE IN RADNORSHIRE. There is a story in Radnorshire, that a palace not far from the neighbourhood of Abbey Cwm Hir, was once haunted by a Spirit, which appeared in various forms and made such terrible noise that no one cared to live in the house for a long time. At last, however, a young gentleman who had newly married had the courage to face the ghost, and discovered most valuable treasures which had been hidden in the ground near the house. The spot where the gold had been buried was pointed out to the young man by the Spirit, and the house was never haunted after this. It is a well-known fact that a Spirit revealed hidden treasure to a Baptist Minister, who lived in a respectable old mansion somewhere not far from Nevern in Pembrokeshire. I met with several persons at Eglwyswrw and other places, who vouched for the truth of the fact. The treasure had been hidden, so it is said, in the time of Cromwell. Some of the ghosts who reveal hidden money are not always generous. According to the Rev. Edmund Jones, the ghost of one Anne Dewy, a woman who had hanged herself, compelled a young man in the Vale of Towy, Carmarthenshire, to cast into the river a bag of money which had been hid in the wall of a house. Instead of keeping the money himself, the young man obeyed the ghost against his better judgment, and the sum concerned was "£200 or more." THE POWIS CASTLE GHOST STORY. The following ghost story is recorded in the autobiography of the grandfather of the late Mr. Thomas Wright, the eminent Shropshire antiquary:-- It had been for some time reported in the neighbourhood that a poor unmarried woman, who was a member of the Methodist Society, and had become serious under their ministry, had seen and conversed with the apparition of a gentleman, who had made a strange discovery to her. Mr. Hampson (a preacher among the Methodists about the end of the 18th century) being desirous to ascertain if there was any truth in the story, sent for the woman, and desired her to give him an exact relation of the whole affair from her own mouth, and as near the truth as she possibly could. She said she was a poor woman, who got her living by spinning hemp or line; that it was customary for the farmers and gentlemen of that neighbourhood to grow a little hemp or line in a corner of their fields for their own consumption, and as she was a good hand at spinning the materials, she used to go from house to house to inquire for work; that her method was, where they employed her, during her stay, to have meat, and drink, and lodging (if she had occasion to sleep with them), for her work, and what they pleased to give her besides. That, among other places, she happened to call one day at the Welsh Earl of Powis's country seat, called Redcastle, to inquire for work, as she usually had done before. The quality were at this time in London, and had left the steward and his wife, with other servants, as usual, to take care of their country residence in their absence. The steward's wife set her to work, and in the evening told her that she must stay all night with them, as they had more work for her to do next day. When bedtime arrived, two or three servants in company, with each a lighted candle in her hand, conducted her to her lodging. They led her to a ground room, with a boarded floor, and two sash windows. The room was grandly furnished, and had a genteel bed in one corner of it. They had made her a good fire, and had placed her a chair and a table before it, and a large lighted candle upon the table. They told her that was her bedroom, and that she might go to sleep when she pleased. They then wished her a good night and withdrew altogether, pulling the door quickly after them, so as to hasp the spring-snech in the brass lock that was upon it. When they were gone, she gazed awhile at the fine furniture, under no small astonishment that they should put such a poor person as her in so grand a room, and bed, with all the apparatus of fire, chair, table, and a candle. She was also surprised at the circumstance of the servants coming so many together, with each of them a candle. However, after gazing about her some little time, she sat down and took a small Welsh Bible out of her pocket, which she always carried about with her, and in which she usually read a chapter--chiefly in the New Testament--before she said her prayers and went to bed. While she was reading she heard the door open, and turning her head, saw a gentleman enter in a gold-laced hat and waistcoat, and the rest of his dress corresponding therewith. I think she was very particular in describing the rest of his dress to Mr. Hampson, and he to me at the time, but I have now forgot the other particulars. He walked down by the sash-window to the corner of the room and then returned. When he came to the first window in his return (the bottom of which was nearly breast high), he rested his elbow on the bottom of the window, and the side of his face upon the palm of the hand, and stood in that leaning posture for some time, with his side partly towards her. She looked at him earnestly to see if she knew him, but, though from her frequent intercourse with them, she had a personal knowledge of all the present family, he appeared a stranger to her. She supposed afterwards that he stood in this manner to encourage her to speak; but as she did not, after some little time he walked off, pulling the door after him as the servants had done before. She began now to be much alarmed, concluding it to be an apparition, and that they had put her there on purpose. This was really the case. The room, it seems, had been disturbed for a long time, so that nobody could sleep peaceably in it, and as she passed for a very serious woman, the servants took it into their heads to put the Methodist and Spirit together, to see what they would make of it. Startled at this thought, she rose from her chair, and knelt down by the bedside to say her prayers. While she was praying he came in again, walked round the room, and came close behind her. She had it on her mind to speak, but when she attempted it she was so very much agitated that she could not utter a word. He walked out of the room again, pulling the door after him as before. She begged that God would strengthen her and not suffer her to be tried beyond what she could bear. She recovered her spirits, and thought she felt more confidence and resolution, and determined if he came in again she would speak to him. He presently came in again, walked round and came behind her as before; she turned her head and said, "Pray, sir, who are you, and what do you want?" He put up his finger, and said, "Take up the candle and follow me, and I will tell you." She got up, took up the candle, and followed him out of the room. He led her through a long boarded passage till they came to the door of another room, which he opened and went in. It was a small room, or what might be called a large closet. "As the room was small, and I believed him to be a Spirit," she said, "I stopped at the door; he turned and said, 'Walk in, I will not hurt you.' So I walked in. He said, 'Observe what I do.' I said, 'I will.' He stooped, and tore up one of the boards of the floor, and there appeared under it a box with an iron handle in the lid. He said, 'Do you see that box?' I said, 'Yes, I do.' He then stepped to one side of the room, and showed me a crevice in the wall, where he said a key was hid that would open it. He said 'This box and key must be taken out, and sent to the Earl in London' (naming the Earl, and his place of residence in the city). He said, 'Will you see it done?' I said, 'I will do my best to get it done.' He said, 'Do, and I will trouble the house no more.' He then walked out of the room and left me. (He seems to have been a very civil Spirit, and to have been very careful to affright her as little as possible). I stepped to the room door and set up a shout. The steward and his wife, and the other servants came to me immediately, all clung together, with a number of lights in their hands. It seems they all had been waiting to see the issue of the interview betwixt me and the apparition. They asked me what was the matter? I told them the foregoing circumstances, and showed them the box. The steward durst not meddle with it, but his wife had more courage, and with the help of the other servants, lugged it out, and found the key." She said by their lifting it appeared to be pretty heavy, but that she did not see it opened, and, therefore, did not know what it contained; perhaps money, or writings of consequence to the family, or both. They took it away with them, and she then went to bed and slept peaceably till the morning. It appeared afterwards that they sent the box to the Earl in London, with an account of the manner of its discovery and by whom; and the Earl sent down orders immediately to his steward to inform the poor woman who had been the occasion of this discovery, that if she would come and reside in his family, she should be comfortably provided for, for the remainder of her days; or, if she did not choose to reside constantly with them, if she would let them know when she wanted assistance, she should be liberally supplied, at his Lordship's expense as long as he lived. And Mr. Hampson said it was a known fact in the neighbourhood that she had been so supplied from his Lordship's family from the time the affair was said to have happened, and continued to be so at the time she gave Mr. Hampson this account. To touch or dig for buried treasures guarded by a ghost without the ghost's consent always brings thunder and lightning. Such is the tradition in connection with "Carreg y Bwci" on the top of Craig Twrch, on the borders of Carmarthenshire and Cardiganshire. Many of the tales displaying the motive, on the ghost's part of a duty to perform--sometimes clearly defining, sometimes vaguely suggesting it, as in the story of Noe. The evening was far gone when a traveller of the name of Noe arrived at an Inn in Pembrokeshire, and called for refreshments. After remaining sometime he remarked that he must proceed on his journey. 'Surely,' said the astonished landlord, 'You will not travel at night for it is said that a ghost haunts that road,' crying out, 'The days are long and the nights are cold to wait for Noe. O, I am the man sought for,' said he, and immediately departed; but, strange to say, neither Noe nor the ghost was ever heard of afterwards. An old woman in Pembrokeshire informed me that the scene of the above tale was a house in the neighbourhood of Letterston. Another story of this class appeared in an interesting little Welsh book entitled "Ysten Sioned," published by Hughes and Son, Wrexham. There was a farmhouse in a certain part of West Wales, in which a large and respectable family lived. But there was one room in the house haunted by a troublesome spirit which often cried out in a mournful voice, "Hir yw'r dydd, a hir yw'r nos, a hir yw aros Arawn" (long is the day, and long is the night, and long is waiting for Arawn). Things went on in this manner for a long time, and not one hardly ventured to open the door of that room. But one cold winter evening when every member of the family sat around the fire, before supper, somebody called at the door of the house, and a stranger was welcomed in to warm himself by the fire. The stranger asked for some food and a bed for the night. He was told he was welcomed of food, but that they were sorry they could not offer him a bed, as all the beds were hardly enough for themselves, and that the only spare bed-room in the house was haunted. Then the stranger begged to be allowed to sleep in that room, as he felt sure that there was nothing to do him harm there. The man appeared very tired, and spoke but little except in reply to questions, and when it was found out that his name was "Arawn," all the family looked into each's face in great surprise. The stranger presently went to bed in the haunted room, and strange to say everything was quiet in that room that night, that is, no spirit was heard as usual crying and moving things about. When the family got up next morning, the first thing was to find out what kind of night the stranger passed in the haunted room, but to the surprise of all the man was gone, and the ghost was also gone, for the room was never haunted afterwards. THE SPIRIT OF A LIVING MAN. Good many people in Wales who laugh at the idea of a ghost, readily admit the possibility of the appearance of a living man's spirit (Yspryd Dyn Byw). THE SPIRIT OF A LIVING MAN APPEARING TO A LITTLE GIRL AT PONTSHAN. An old lady named Miss Pergrin, who lives at Pontshan, Llandyssul, informed me about five years ago, that when she was a little girl of about eleven years of age, a certain man who lived in that neighbourhood had gone from home, for some months, and just about the time when he was expected to return the little girl was one day walking along the road near the village, about two o'clock in the afternoon. She suddenly met the man coming home. He was coming along the road towards her, and looked at her, and then suddenly disappeared through a gate into an adjoining field. She was very much surprised, as the man was not expected home till next day. The next moment two sisters of the man appeared on the scene, and the girl informed them that she had just seen their brother, and inquired whether they had met him as they passed along the same road about the same time. But they in reply positively affirmed that they had seen no sight of him on the road or anywhere else since he left home, and that the girl must have been dreaming or inventing some idle tale, for their brother was not returning home till to-morrow. About 2 p.m., the next day, the man did come home, and, strange to say, it was found out that the day Miss Pergrin had seen him, he was far away from the district, so it was concluded that she had seen his spirit, and that in broad daylight. Miss Pergrin did not like to give the man's name. SPIRIT OF A LIVING WOMAN SEEN ON A MOONLIGHT NIGHT, NEAR LLANYBRI IN CARMARTHENSHIRE. A woman named Mrs. M. Davies, who lives in the small village of Llanybri, in Carmarthenshire, informed me that her mother when a young woman, was going home one evening to Llanybri, on a moonlight night. As she walked along, to her great surprise, she saw an old woman known in the neighbourhood as Rachel Y Gweydd, or the weaver, sitting by the roadside and busily engaged in knitting a stocking. The young woman ran home as fast as she could and told her mother what she had seen. "Och y fi" said her mother, "something strange is sure to take place after this." Within a few days a man named Thomas Davies, of Cwmllan-wybryn, died, and was buried at the Capel Newydd. As the funeral procession passed along, there was Rachel Y Gweydd sitting by the roadside, and knitting her stocking at the very same spot where her spirit had been seen by the young woman on the moon-light night. The old woman had gone to sit by the roadside in order to watch the funeral procession passing. A sister of the above Mrs. Davies, Mrs. Weekes, of Llangynog, also gave me the following account of her mother's experience of seeing "Yspryd dyn byw." SPIRIT OF A REJECTED LOVER APPEARING TO A YOUNG WOMAN. Mrs. Weekes's mother, when a young girl, living with her parents near Llanybri, Carmarthen, went out one evening to fetch some water from a well close by, and she saw, as she thought, Thomas of Felin Gwm standing near the hedge. "Thomas?" says she, "what do you want here?" The man vanished into nothing all at once, and so she perceived that it was his spirit she had seen. Thomas was in love with her, but she had refused to have anything to do with him. TALE OF A DOCTOR. The following tale appeared in "Welsh Folk-Lore," page 296 by the late Rev. Elias Owen, F.S.A., who had obtained the story from the Rev. Philip Edwards:-- "At Swyddffynnon, in Cardiganshire, there lived a Mrs. Evans, who had a strange vision. Mr. Edwards's father called one evening upon Mrs. Evans, and found her sitting by the fire in company with a few female friends, greatly depressed. On enquiring as to the cause of her distress, she stated that she had had a strange sight that very evening. "She saw, she said, in the unoccupied chamber at the further end of the house, a light, and, whilst she was wondering what light it was, she observed a tall, dark, stranger gentleman, who had a long, full beard, enter the house and go straight to the room where the light was, but before going in he took off his hat and placed it on the table; then he took off his gloves and threw them into the hat, and without uttering a single word he entered the lit-up room. "Shortly afterwards, she saw the stranger emerge from the room and leave the house, and on looking again towards the room she saw that the light had disappeared. It was, she said, this apparition that had disconcerted her. "Some time after this vision, Mrs. Evans was in a critical state, and as she lived far away from a doctor, my informant's father was requested to ride to Aberystwyth for one. He found, however, that the two doctors who then resided in that town were from home. But he was informed at the inn that there was a London doctor staying at Hafod. He determined, whether he could or could not, induce this gentleman to accompany him to Swyddffynnon, to go there. This gentleman, on hearing the urgency of the case, consented to visit the sick woman. "Mr. Edwards and the doctor rode rapidly to their destination, and Mr. Edwards was surprised to find that the doctor did everything exactly as it had been stated by Mrs. Evans. There was also a light in the chamber, for there the neighbour had placed the still-born child, and it was the providential help of the London doctor that saved Mrs. Evans's life. "I may add that the personal appearance of this gentleman corresponded with the description given of him by Mrs. Evans." SPIRIT OF A LIVING MAN IN A FIELD. I heard the following story in the neighbourhood of Llanddewi, about my own grandfather, the late Mr. John Evans, of Gogoyan, who died about fifty-five years ago. (The "Hiriaid Gogoyan" were descended from Gruffydd Hir o Llanfair, great-great-grandson of Gwaethfoed); so saith Gwynionydd, in his book on "Enwogion Ceredigion." But now for the story:-- Mr. Evans one day had gone to Aberystwyth, either riding or driving as this was in the days before the introduction of railways into that part, the distance was over twenty miles. Early in the afternoon on the same day one of his servants who was ploughing in the field, saw Mr. Evans walking about quite close to him in the field. The servant was quite surprised at this, as he knew that his master had gone to Aberystwyth early in the morning. When the master came home that night from Aberystwyth, the servant told him that he had seen him in the afternoon in the field. "Well," said Evans in reply, "if you saw me you only saw my spirit, for I have been away all day; now to see the spirit of a living man is not a bad sign." It is rather curious that a story very similar to the above is given by Mr. T. Lloyd, Dinas Powis, in "Cymru Fu" ("Weekly Mail" reprints) for November 16th, 1889, which is as follows:-- "YSFRYD DYN BYW. "Many years ago at a farm called Ystradteilo, near the pretty village of Llanrhystyd in Cardiganshire, the servant girl was sent to the field to fetch home the cows for milking, and while in the field she saw her master doing something there. The master's name was Williams, and he was a near relation to the eminent scholar Rev. E. Williams, M.A., of Lampeter. When, however, the servant girl returned home, she was astonished to find her master in the house. 'How in the world did you come home so quick?' she asked. 'Just now I saw you in the field.' He replied that he had not been from the house during the afternoon, and added, 'look here, girl, that was not a bad sign at all but if you will see me like that after my departure you may depend that I shall be in a place of torture.' It was a general belief that of the dead the ghosts of the wicked only were to be seen." SPIRIT OF A LIVING MAN THROWING STONES. Mr. Thomas Stephens, an intelligent old man in the neighbourhood of Mydroilyn, in the Parish of Llanarth, Cardiganshire, informed me that between 60 and 70 years ago his father, John Stephens, when a young man, was coming home late one evening after spending a few hours of pleasant time with the young woman of his affection at a neighbouring farm. As he was walking along a lonely lane, to his great surprise, he heard the sound of some one throwing stones about in a field which he was passing by. When he looked around, he beheld the spirit of a man of his acquaintance who was well and alive, throwing stones with all his might in a field where stones were not to be found. Spirit of a living man was sometimes heard without being seen, of this I was informed by an old man at Llanddewi Brefi. In some ghost stories we find the spirits of the departed appearing to comfort the living. THE SPIRIT OF A DEAD MOTHER APPEARING TO HER BOY-SON AT LLANGYNOG, CARMARTHENSHIRE. A very old man named Thomas Ticker, who lives at the small village of Llanybri, gave me the following remarkable account:-- Many years ago when one William Thomas, Pengelly Isaf, Llangynog, was a little boy of ten or twelve years of age, his mother died. One day the boy in great sorrow went out into a field which was quite close to the house, and wept bitterly, almost breaking his heart. Suddenly, the spirit of his dead mother appeared to him in a white dress, telling him not to cry, "because" saith she, "your crying gives me pain, and you need not be in trouble about the future, as there is plenty of food for thee." The child was on the ground when she spoke, and when he looked up he beheld his mother vanishing suddenly. This W. Thomas who saw his mother's spirit, died when a comparatively young man, but his son, from whom my informant obtained the account of the vision, lived till eighty years of age, and died about sixty years ago. THE SPIRIT OF A DEAD DAUGHTER APPEARING TO THE MOTHER. About ninety years ago one Mrs. D. Thomas, Llanfair, Llandyssul, had a daughter who was very promising, and her mother was so fond of her. She was sent to the well-known school of the celebrated Mr. Davis of Castell Howell. Unfortunately, however, the girl died, to the great sorrow of her poor mother who bewailed her loss day and night. But one day when the old lady was out in the potato field, the spirit of her dead daughter appeared suddenly to her, and spoke to her mother with severe looks: "Don't cry after me, for I am in a much better place." The above account I heard from the lips of Mr. Rees, Maesymeillion, parish of Llandyssul, about three years ago, to whom and his brother I am indebted for several other stories. THE SPIRIT OF A DEAD MOTHER APPEARING TO HER CHILDREN. The following story was related to me by Mr. Brutus Davies, who died at Aberystwyth about two years ago, and who vouched for the truth of the account:-- About seventy years ago a certain man who was working on the Estate of Col. ---- in the parish of Llangeler, Carmarthenshire, had buried his first wife and had married again. He had several children from his first wife, but not one from the second. One particular day, the children went out to play as they often did. When they came to a certain spot which served them as a playground, they found some small cakes on the ground, which were very tempting to children; but just as they were going to eat them, the spirit of their dead mother appeared on the scene and addressed them as follows:--"My dear children, don't eat those cakes, for there is poison in them!" When this strange occurrence became known in the neighbourhood, people suspected the step-mother of having intentionally and secretly placed the cakes on the children's playground. Sometimes we hear of the appearance of the ghost of a child, especially if a baby has been ill-treated or murdered, and the following story is well-known in the Northern part of Cardiganshire. ALLT Y CRIB GHOST, NEAR TALYBONT. About sixty years ago, the dead body of a little baby was found in a hole or an old mine shaft, known till the present day as "Shaft y plentyn" (the child's shaft), and as the people of the neighbourhood of Talybont guessed who its mother was, there was a rumour that both she and her family were haunted by the child's ghost. This ghost also, it is said, wandered about at night, and its bitter crying disturbed the whole neighbourhood, till many timid people were afraid to go out after dark. My informant was the late J. Jones, Bristol House. There is a similar story of a child's ghost in the parish of Troedyraur, South Cardiganshire. This spirit always appeared as a child dressed in yellow clothes, and on that account the unearthly visitor was known as "Bwci Melyn Bach y Cwm." THE GHOST OF PONT-Y-GWENDRAETH, NEAR KIDWELY IN CARMARTHENSHIRE. It was an old belief among the Welsh people in former times that the spirit of a suicide was doomed to walk the earth as a punishment. Several versions of the well-known Kidwely Legend have already appeared, but a book of West Wales Folk-Lore would be incomplete without it. Sir Elidir Ddu was a Lord of Kidwely. He had two sons, Griffith and Rhys, and one beautiful daughter named Nest. The Crusades had been proclaimed, and this Elidir Ddu was preparing to depart, and accompanied by his youngest son Rhys; but the eldest son Griffith and Nest, the only daughter, remained at home in Kidwely Castle, as well as another fair young lady whose name was Gwladys, a niece of Sir Elidir, and cousin to Nest. Nest was in love with a handsome young Norman named Sir Walter Mansel, her cousin Gwladys also was in love with him, but the young man was true to Nest. Griffith loved Gwladys, but she did not like him as she wanted Sir Walter Mansel. This complicated matters very much. Nest's father before he had left to the Holy Land, had forbidden the young Norman the house, and now the young lady's brother, Griffith, guarded the place against him; but the sanguine lover (Sir W. M.) found means of meeting the fair Nest in the country round, and many stolen interviews were held. But the jealous Gwladys watched Nest, and found out her place of meeting with her lover, which was Pont-y-Gwendraeth, and she informed Griffith of it. Griffith was in love with Gwladys, but she had snubbed him hopelessly. Now, however, in order to use him as an accomplice in her revenge, she flattered his hopes with feigned kindness, and wrought him up to such a pitch of fury against the Norman, that he agreed to join her to destroy the young lover by fixing upon a bad fellow called Merig Maneg to carry out the evil deed. The next trysting place of the lovers was, by some means ascertained to be a bridge over the tidal portion of the Gwendraeth, and as Sir W. came forward to greet his lady-love an arrow whistled from a reed bed and pierced his side. The villain Merig, then rushed from his hiding place, and before the very eyes of Nest, hurled Walter's body into the rushing tide. The young lady overcome with horror, gave a wild shriek of despair and plunged in after the hapless knight. After this, the villain Merig was haunted by Nest's spirit, and on one occasion, she told him that her spirit was doomed to walk the earth as a punishment for her suicide unless a marriage should take place between one of her father's descendants and a member of the Mansel family, and that until that did occur she would appear on Pont-y-Gwendraeth to give warning of the approaching death of every member of the family. From that day the Bridge became known as Pont-yr-yspryd-gwyn, and for generations a white lady occasionally appeared, giving utterance to a wild unearthly shriek and vanish. Mr. Charles Wilkins in his "Tales and Sketches of Wales," gives the following sequel to the story:-- In 1775, Mr. Rhys, a lineal descendant of Rhys Ddu, of Kidwely Castle, a magistrate, was returning one evening from Quarter Sessions when he was startled by seeing a white figure flit rapidly across the Bridge, and disappear over it into the water. His horse trembled and refused to go on. Mr. Rhys thought of the Ghost Story and prediction, and riding towards Kidwely, noticed a large crowd and heard that a shocking murder had been committed upon a poor old woman. He entered the cottage and discovered a small portion of a man's coat sleeve lying upon the bed. By inquiry, found it belonged to "Will Maneg." Will was arrested, confessed, and was hanged on Pembrey mountain, while as still further to strengthen the prediction, Mr. Rhys was informed that day of the death of his brother Arthur of the R.N., who was drowned at sea; and also of his wife's mother's death, Lady Mansel, of Iscoed, who was burnt to death at Kidwely. HAUNTED MANSIONS OF LLANELLY, CARMARTHENSHIRE. Mr. Innes, in "Old Llanelly," page 145, says:-- "The ghost of Lady Mansel 'walked' and haunted Old Stradey House," and "Llanelly House probably had had ghosts for it is certain that spirits may be found there even now; and an old man has recently made a statement that when a boy he slept in the Stepney Mansion; but as he ascended to his room he heard the rustling brocade of a lady's dress in an apparently empty corridor. "This lady during the night played upon an organ built up in one of the thick walls." A GHOST HAUNTING A YOUNG LOVER WHO WAS OUT LATE AT NIGHT, NEAR ALLTWALIS IN CARMARTHENSHIRE. An old man named Griffiths, who is 96 years of age, and lives at 'Renallt Farm, near Carmarthen, gave me the following ghost story concerning his own father. William Griffiths (my informant's father), when a young man, nearly a hundred years ago, was engaged as a servant at a farm called Pontiauar, in the Parish of Llanpumpsaint. William had been out late one night to see the young woman of his affection, and having enjoyed the pleasure of love for some hours, he returned home about three o'clock in the morning. He had some miles to go through a lonely district, and worse than that he had to pass the Haunted Red Gate of Glynadda, a place famous for its ghosts in former times. On he walked as fast as he could, but to his great terror, when he came to the Red Gate the ghost appeared in the shape of a big man. William passed on and ran, but the Ghost followed him all the way to the village of Llanpumpsaint, till the young man was terrified almost to death. When he arrived at the house of Dafydd Llwyd, the Blacksmith (who worked even at that early hour), he entered the house or the Blacksmith's shop, and fell down near the fire half-fainting, and they had to take him home to the farmhouse in a cart. A PEMBROKESHIRE GHOST HAUNTING A SHIP. Sometimes we hear of ghosts at sea, and the following account of a Ghost on board H.M.S. "Asp," which was written by Capt. Alldridge, R.N., Commander of that vessel, appeared in the "Pembroke County Guardian," February 16th, 1901. March 15th, 1867. My dear Sir,--I herewith readily comply with your request as far as I am able, respecting the unaccountable "apparition" on board my ship. Call it ghost or what you will, still I assure you that which I am going to relate is what really did take place, and much as I was, and am, a sceptic in ghost stories, I must confess myself completely at a loss to account by natural causes for that which did actually occur. Many years having elapsed since I retired from active service I am unable to recollect all the dates with exactness, but I will give them as far as I can remember them. In the year 1850, the "Asp" was given me by the Admiralty as a surveying vessel. On taking possession of her, the Superintendent of the Dockyard, where she lay, remarked to me, "Do you know, Sir, your ship is said to be haunted, and I don't know if you will get any of the Dockyard men to work on her." I, of course, smiled, and I said "I don't care for ghosts, and dare say I shall get her all to lights fast enough." I engaged the shipwrights to do the necessary repairs to the vessel, but before they had been working in her a week they came to me in a body and begged me to give the vessel up as she was haunted and could never bring anything but ill-luck. However, the vessel was at length repaired, and arrived in safety in the river Dee, where she was to commence her labours. After my tea in the evening, I generally sat in my cabin and either read to myself or had an officer of mine (who is now master of the 'Magician') to read aloud to me: on such occasions we used frequently to be interrupted by strange noises, often such as would be caused by a drunken man or a person staggering about, which appeared to issue from the after (or ladies') cabin. The two cabins were only separated from each other by the companion ladder, the doors faced each other, so that from my cabin I could see into the after one. There was no communication between either of them and the other parts of the ship, excepting by the companion ladder, which no one could ascend or descend without being seen from my cabin. The evening shortly after our arrival in the Dee, the officer I mentioned was reading to me in my cabin when all at once his voice was drowned by a violent and prolonged noise in the aft cabin. Thinking it must be the steward he called out "Don't make such a noise, steward," and the noise ceased. When he began to read again the noise also recommenced. "What are you doing, steward--making such a--noise for?" he cried out, and taking the candle rushes into the next cabin. But he came back quicker than he went, saying there was nobody there. He recommenced reading, and once more began the mysterious noise. I felt sure there was some drunken person there whom my officer had overlooked, and accordingly rose and looked myself, and to my very disagreeable surprise found the cabin empty! After this evening, the noises became very frequent, varying in kind and in degree. Sometimes it was as though the seats and lockers were being banged about, sometimes it sounded as though decanters and tumblers were being clashed together. During these disturbances the vessel was lying more than a mile off shore. One evening I and the above-named officer went to drink tea at a friend's house at Queen's Ferry, near Chester, the vessel at the time being lashed to the lower stage opposite Church's Quay. We returned on board together about 10 p.m. While descending the companion ladder, I distinctly heard someone rush from the after cabin into the fore cabin. I stopped the officer who was behind me at the top of the ladder and whispered to him, "Stand still, I think I have caught the ghost." I then descended into my cabin, took my sword, which always hung over my bed, and placed it drawn in his hand saying "Now ----, allow no one to pass you; if anyone attempts to escape cut him down, I will stand the consequences. T then returned to the cabin, struck a light and searched everywhere, but nothing could I find to account for the noises I had heard, though I declare solemnly that never did I feel more certain of anything in my life than that I should find a man there. So there was nothing to be done but to repeat for the hundredth time, "Well, it is the ghost again!" Often when lying in my bed at night have I heard noises close to me as though my drawers were being opened and shut, the top of my washing stand raised and banged down again, and a bed which stood on the opposite side of my cabin, pulled about; while of an evening I often heard while sitting in my cabin a noise as though a percussion cap were snapped close to my head; also very often (and I say it with godly and reverential fear) I have been sensible of the presence of something invisible about me, and could have put my hand, so to say, on it, or the spot where I felt it was; and all this occurred, strange to say, without my feeling in the least alarmed or caring about it, except so far that I could not understand or account for what I felt and heard. One night, when the vessel was at anchor in Martyn Roads I was awoke by the quartermaster calling me and begging me to come on deck as the look-out man had rushed to the lower deck, saying that a figure of a lady was standing on the paddle box pointing with her finger to Heaven. Feeling angry, I told him to send the look-out man on deck again and keep him there till daybreak, but in attempting to carry my orders into execution the man went into violent convulsions, and the result was I had to go myself upon deck and remain there till morning. This apparition was often seen after this, and always as described with her finger pointing towards Heaven. One Sunday afternoon while lying in the Haverfordwest river opposite to Lawrenny, the crew being all on shore, and I being at church, my steward (the only man on board) whilst descending the companion ladder was spoken to by an unseen voice. He immediately fell down with fright, and I found his appearance so altered that I really scarcely knew him! He begged to be allowed his discharge and to be landed as soon as possible, to which I felt obliged to consent as he could not be persuaded to remain on board for the night. The story of the ship being haunted becoming known on shore, the clergyman of Lawrenny called on me one day and begged me to allow him to question the crew, which he accordingly did. He seemed very much impressed by what he heard; he seemed to view the matter in a serious light and said that his opinion was that "some troubled spirit must be lingering about the vessel." During the years that I commanded the "Asp" I lost many of my men who ran away on being refused their discharge, and a great many others I felt forced to let go, so great was their fear, one and all telling me the same tale, namely, that at night they saw the transparent figure of a lady pointing with her finger up to Heaven. For many years I endeavoured to ridicule the affair as I was often put to considerable inconvenience by the loss of hands, but to no purpose. I believe that when the officers went out of the vessel after dark none of the crew would have ventured into the cabin on any account. One night I was awoke from my sleep by a hand, to all sensations, being placed on my leg outside the bedclothes. I lay still for a moment to satisfy myself of the truth of what I felt, and then grabbed at it, but caught nothing. I rang my bell for the quartermaster to come with his lantern, but found nothing. This occurred to me several times, but on one occasion as I lay wide awake a hand was placed on my forehead. If ever a man's hair stood on end mine did then. I sprang clean out of bed: there was not a sound. Until then I had never felt the least fear of the ghost or whatever you like to call it. In fact I had taken a kind of pleasure in listening to the various noises as I lay in bed, and sometimes when the noises were very loud I would suddenly pull my bell for the look-out man and then listen attentively if I could hear the sound of a footstep or attempt to escape, but there never was any, and I would hear the look-out man walk from his post to my cabin when I would merely ask him some questions as to the wind and weather. At length in 1857, the vessel requiring repairs, was ordered alongside the dockyard wall at Pembroke. The first night the sentry stationed near the ship saw (as he afterwards declared) a lady mount the paddle box holding up her hand towards Heaven. She then stepped on shore and came along the path towards him when he brought his musket to the charge "who goes there?" But the figure walked through the musket, upon which he dropped it and ran for the guard house. The next sentry saw all this take place and fired off his gun to alarm the guard. The figure then glided past a third sentry who was placed near the ruins of Pater old Church, and who watched her, or it, mount the top of a grave in the old churchyard, point with her finger to Heaven, and then stand till she vanished from his sight. The sergeant of the guard came with rank and file to learn the tale, and the fright of the sentries all along the Dockyard wall was so great that none would remain at their post unless they were doubled, which they were, as may be seen by the "Report of guard" for that night. Singularly enough, since that, the ghost has never been heard of again on board the Asp, and I never heard the noises which before had so incessantly annoyed me. The only clue I could ever find to account for my vessel being haunted is as follows:--Some years previously to my having her, the "Asp" had been engaged as a mail packet between Port Patrick and Donaghadee. After one of her trips, the passengers having all disembarked, the stewardess on going into the ladies' cabin found a beautiful girl with her throat cut lying in one of the sleeping berths quite dead! How she came by her death no one could tell and, though, of course, strict investigations were commenced, neither who she was or where she came from or anything about her was ever discovered. The circumstances gave rise to much talk, and the vessel was remanded by the authorities, and she was not again used until handed over to me for surveying service. Here end my tale, which I have given in all truth. Much as I know one gets laughed at for believing in ghost stories you are welcome to make what use you please with this true account of the apparition on board the "Asp." A SPIRIT ON HORSEBACK. Rhosmeherin, in the neighbourhood of Ystrad Meurig, in Cardiganshire, was formerly well known for its ghost. An old man named John Jones, who lives at Pontrhydfendigaid, informed me that when a boy he heard of many belated persons who were terrified in passing the haunted spot by seeing a ghost which appeared sometimes in the shape of a cat, at other times as a man on horseback. Mr. Jones also added that a poor old woman had been murdered there in the old times, which was supposed to account for the spot being haunted. I have heard several ghost stories in connection with this spot, but the best is the one which appeared in an interesting Welsh book entitled, "Ystraeon y Gwyll," written by the late Mr. D. Lledrod Davies, a promising young man, and a candidate for Holy Orders, who died 20 years ago. Mr. Davies obtained the story from a person who had seen the ghost; so I give a translation of the Belated's own words:-- "I was going home one evening from my work from Ros y Wlad, and had to go through Rhosmeherin. "That place, you know is a terrible spot for its ghosts. People say that they are seen there in broad daylight. As to myself I did not see them in the daytime, but many a time was I kept there all night by Jack-a-Lantern. I saw a ghost in the form of a cat there also, and when I began to strike him he disappeared in a blazing fire. But now for the gentleman. I was near the spot where I had seen the cat, when I heard the sound of a horse coming after me. I jumped one side to make room for him to pass; but when he came opposite me he did not go forward a single pace faster than myself. When I went on slowly, he went slowly; when I went fast, he went fast. "Good night," said I at last, but no answer. Then I said it was a very fine night, but the gentleman on horseback did not seem to take any notice of what I said. Then thinking that he might be an Englishman (the man was speaking in Welsh), I said in English "Good night," but he took no notice of me still. By this I was beginning to perspire and almost ready to fall down with fright, hoping to get rid of him, as I now perceived that he was the Devil himself appearing in the form of a gentleman. I could think from the sound of the saddle and the shining stirrups that the saddle was a new one. On we went along the dark narrow lane till we came to the turnpike road, when it became a little lighter, which gave me courage to turn my eyes to see what kind of a man he was. The horse looked like a soldier's horse, a splendid one, and his feet like the feet of a calf, without any shoes under them, and the feet of the gentleman in the stirrups were also like the feet of a calf. My courage failed me to look what his head and body were like. On we went till we came to the cross-road. I had heard many a time that a ghost leaves everybody there. Well, to the cross road we came. But ah! I heard the sound of the ground as if it were going to rend, and the heavens going to fall upon my head; and in this sound I lost sight of him (the Spirit). How he went away I know not, nor the direction he went." A SPIRIT IN A CAVE. Sometimes we hear of haunted caves, where spirits are said to be seen or heard. One of such places is the Green Bridge Cave, near Pendine, Carmarthenshire. There is a story in the neighbourhood that long ago an old fiddler entered once into this cave with his fiddle and a lighted candle to see his way, and that his candle went out when he was in, so that he failed to find his way out of the cave again. He is heard there sometimes, so it is said, playing his fiddle. A SPIRIT IN A RIVER. Near Llandyssul, in Cardiganshire, and the borders of Carmarthenshire, there is a pool in the River Teivi, known as the "Pool of the Harper." When I visited the village a few years ago I was told that it is said that an old harper was drowned there long ago; and that it is still believed by some that on a fine summer afternoon, one hears his spirit playing his harp in the pool. APPARITIONS OF GOOD SPIRITS. It is not, often we hear in Wales of Good Spirits appearing; but the Rev. Edmund Jones in his "Relation of Apparitions," a curious old book published some generations ago, gives the following narrative of Apparitions of Good Spirits:-- ----"There lived at a place called Pante, which is between Carmarthen and Laugharne towns, one Mr. David Thomas, a holy man, who worship the Lord with great devotion and humility; he was also a gifted brother, and sometimes preached. On a certain night, for the sake of privacy, he went into a room which was out of the house, but nearly adjoining to it, in order to read and pray; and as he was at prayer, and very highly taken up into a heavenly frame, the room was suddenly enlightened, and to that degree that the light of the candle was swallowed up by a greater light, and became invisible; and with, or in that light a company of Spirits, like children, in bright clothing, appeared very beautiful, and sung; but he recollected only a few words of it, 'Pa hyd? Pa hyd? Dychwelwch feibion Adda' (How long? How long? Return ye sons of Adam.) Something like Ps. xc. 3. After a time he lost sight of them: the light of the candle again came to appear, when the great light of the glorious company was gone. He was immersed in the heavenly disposition, and he fell down to thank and praise the Lord; and while he was at this heavenly exercise the room enlightened again; the light of the candle became invisible, and the glorious company sung; but he was so amazed at what he saw and heard that he could remember only the following words, 'Pa hyd? Pa hyd yr erlidiwch?' (How long? How long, will ye persecute the godly Christians?) "After a while, they departed, and the candle light appeared. Any Christian who enjoyed much of God's presence will easily believe that D. T. was now lifted up very high in the spiritual life by this extraordinary visitation from heaven." SPIRITS REMOVING CHURCHES. There are several legends in West and Mid-Wales, especially in Carmarthenshire and Cardiganshire, in which spirits or some other mysterious powers, play a prominent part in the removal of Churches from one site to another. LLANDDEUSANT (CARMARTHENSHIRE). I am indebted for the following to the Rev. H. M. Williams, Vicar of Lledrod:-- There is a tradition in the parish of Llanddeusant, that the parish church was to have been built at first at Twynllanan, in the centre of the parish; but the stones that were put up during the day were removed in the night, to the spot where the church now stands. LLANBISTER CHURCH (RADNORSHIRE). The Rev. Professor Tyrrell Green, St. David's College, Lampeter, writes to me thus:-- "Jonathan Williams in his History of Radnorshire, p. 194, ed., 1859, says that near Llanbister Church is a piece of land on which it was originally intended to have erected the Church, but tradition reports that the accomplishment of this design was prevented by the intervention of supernatural agency. "The tradition that a supernatural being carried away in the night whatever was built of the church during the day, is still kept alive, because the warden claims an annual rent of 2s. 6d. for the vacant and unconsecrated site of the originally intended church." In the same book mention is made of an old custom prevailing in this parish, viz., the payment of a certain tax or tribute called "Clwt-y-Gyllell," or Knife Money, imposed on a certain corner of a field on some estates, consisting of a certain number of groats. PENBRYN CHURCH. For the following legend, I am indebted to Mr. Prys Williams, Y. Wenallt, an eminent antiquarian in the southern part of Cardiganshire:-- The intended original site of the Church of Penbryn, according to tradition, was Penlon Moch, near Sarnau, where now stands St. John's Mission Church; but all the materials they brought there, and built in the course of the day, were removed during the night by invisible hands to where it now stands. There is a similar tradition concerning Bettws Ifan. LLANWINIO (CARMARTHENSHIRE). When the attempt was first made to build this church, everything put up in the day fell down in the night, till at last the builder threw his hammer into the air. The church was then built on the spot where the hammer fell and the work progressed without further hindrance. In this story we do not hear of a spirit removing the material, but it is evident that it was believed that the falling down in the night of what was put up in the day, was caused by some supernatural agency. LLANGAN (CARMARTHENSHIRE). In the middle of the parish there is a field called Park y Fonwent, where, according to local tradition, the church was to have been originally built, but the stones brought to the spot during the day, were removed by invisible hands during the night to the spot where the present church now stands, accompanied by a voice saying, "Llangan, dyma'r fan," (Llangan, here is the spot).--See Arch. Cam., 1872. MAROS. Not far from Pendine, Carmarthenshire, is a field called Church Park, a short distance to the west from the church. In this field it was intended at first to build the church, but invisible spirits during the night removed both stones and mortar to the spot where the church now stands. There is also a tradition that two giants were buried in the field. LLANGELER CHURCH. Llangeler parish is in Carmarthenshire, and on the borders of Cardiganshire. There is a tradition in the district that it was at first intended to build Llangeler Church on a spot known as "Parc-y-Bwci," but what had been built during the day, was transported in the night to the site of the present church. There is no mention here that the agency was a spirit; but the name of the spot is very suggestive, for Parc-y-Bwci means the Goblin's Park. LLANFIHANGEL GENEU'R GLYN. The parish church of Llanfihangel Geneu'r Glyn, is situated about five miles north of Aberystwyth, and it is seen from the train. About a mile from the church and the village, there is a respectable farm house, named Glanfread, or Glanfread-fawr which belongs to the Gogerddan Estate. It is evident that Glanfread was a place of importance once, and long ago gentry lived there, and it was the birthplace of Edward Llwyd, the author of Archæoligia Britanica. It is also believed that the house received its name from St. Fraed, a devout woman who, according to local tradition, came over from Ireland to build a church on the spot. There is a legend still extant in the neighbourhood that when the work of erecting the church on the spot was actually commenced, the portion built during the day was pulled down during each night. At last a voice from the spirit world was heard to speak as follows:-- "Glanfread-fawr sy fod fan hyn, Llanfihangel yn ngenau'r Glyn. "Glanfread-fawr is to be herein, Llanfihangel at Genau'r Glyn." What the spirit meant by these words was that the church was to be built at Genau'r Glyn, and that Glanfread-fawr farm or mansion was to occupy the spot they were then trying to build the church; and in accordance with the Spirit's direction the church was after this built where it now stands instead of at Glanfread. The above tradition was related to me by Lady Hills-Johnes, of Dolaucothy, an intelligent lady who has been a friend to me for nearly twenty years. The late Bishop Thirwall wanted Lady Hills-Johnes to write a book on the Legends of Wales. Llanfihangel, of course, is the Welsh for St. Michael, or rather Michael's Church; but as the early Welsh Christians generally dedicated their churches to Welsh Saints, it seems probable that the ancient name of this church was Llanfread; and the name of the farm Glanfread, where it was first intended to build the church seems to suggest this. Perhaps the church was re-dedicated to St. Michael by the Normans, for we know that William the Conqueror seized some lands in the neighbourhood, and that particular part of the parish is known to this day as "Cyfoeth y Brenin," (the King's wealth). St. Michael was a favourite patron of churches with the Normans, as it was believed that an apparition of the Archangel had been seen by Aubert, Bishop of Avranches, directing him to build a church on Mount St. Michael in Normandy. LLANWENOG. From a paper read before the Cardiganshire Antiquarian Society, by the Rev. J. Morris, Vicar of Llanybyther, I find that there is a tradition still extant that Llanwenog Church was also removed by supernatural agency from one site to another. These popular legends are, undoubtedly, very old, and are current not only in Wales, but in parts of Scotland also as the following from Sir Walter Scott's Notes to the Lay of the Last Minstrel prove: ----"When the workmen were engaged in erecting the ancient church of Old Deer, in Aberdeenshire, upon a small hill called Bissau they were surprised to find that the work was impeded by supernatural obstacles. At length the Spirit of the River was heard to say: "It is not here, it is not here, That ye shall build the church of Deer; But on Taptillery, Where many a corpse shall lie." "The site of the edifice was accordingly transferred to Taptillery, an eminence at some distance from where the building had been commenced." As to the origin of these legends or traditions of the mysterious removal of churches, it is not easy to arrive at a correct explanation. Some writers are of the opinion that they contain a record, imaginative and exaggerated, of real incidents connected with the history of the churches to which each of them belongs, and that they are in most cases reminiscences of an older church which once actually stood on another site. Others see in these stories traces of the antagonism, in remote times, between peoples holding different religious beliefs, and the steps taken by one party to seize and appropriate the sacred spots of the other. That some of these tales have had their origin in primitive times, even anterior to Christianity, is probable. APPARITIONS OF THE DEVIL. In many of the Welsh Ghost Stories, the spirit or ghost was supposed to have been none other than the evil one himself. The visible appearance of his satanic majesty was quite as common in Wales as in other countries, though, strange to say, he is often depicted as an inferior in cunning and intellect to a shrewd old woman, or a bright-witted Welshman, as the following two curious stories show:-- THE LEGEND OF THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE IN CARDIGANSHIRE. The Devil's Bridge in the northern part of Cardiganshire is so called from the tradition that it was erected by him upon the condition that the first thing that passed over it should be his. The story which is well-known is something as follows: An old woman called Megan Llandunach had lost her cow, and espied the animal across the gorge. When bewailing her fate, the Devil appeared and promised to build her a bridge over the gorge under the condition that the first living thing which crossed should be surrendered into his hand, "and be beyond redemption lost." Megan agreed, the bridge was completed; she took from her pocket a crust of bread and threw it over the bridge, and her hungry dog sprang after it. So the Devil was balked in his design after all his trouble in erecting the bridge. PENTRE-CWRT FOLK AND THE DEVIL. Once upon a time the devil was offended with the people of Pentre-Cwrt, in Carmarthenshire, and decided to drown them. One day in order to do this mischief the Evil One was seen going along with a big shovelful of mound; and when he came to the parish of Llandyssul in Cardiganshire, which was only about two miles from Pentre-Cwrt, he met with a cobbler who carried a very large bundle of old shoes. After saluting the devil the cobbler asked him to where did he intend taking the shovelful of mound? "To the mouth of Alltcafan," was the reply. "For what purpose?" asked the cobbler again. "To dam the River Teivy so as to drown the people of Pentre-Cwrt," said the devil. Now the cobbler was a very shrewd man, and in order to frustrate the evil design of the Old Gentleman, he told him that the place where he intended to dam the river was very far away. "How far is it?" asked the devil. "I cannot tell you the exact distance," replied the cobbler, "but in walking from there I have worn out all these shoes." "If that is so," said the devil, "it is too far, for I am already tired," and down did he throw the shovelful of mould, and the shovelful which the devil threw down is to be seen to this day, and known as Cnwc Coedfoel.--See Hanes Plwyf Llangeler, gan D. Jones. Sometimes the devil manifests himself in a ball of fire, at other times in the form of a pig, mouse, calf, dog, or headless horse, and even as a gentleman on horseback, as we have already seen in the Rhosmeherin ghost story. When I was in North Pembrokeshire a few years ago, I was told by several old people in the village of Eglwyswrw that the Evil One sometimes was to be seen at Yet Wen in that neighbourhood; occasionally as a "white lady," but more often as a white cat. The people of the same village informed me that Yet Wen, Pen'rallt, was also a favourite resort of the devil, and that a woman once in passing the spot at night, shouted "Come out you d----l," and the next moment a white cat appeared. Nags Head, in the same county was once haunted by the devil, as it seems from the following story of long ago:-- THE EVIL ONE APPEARING AT NAG'S HEAD IN THE FORM OF A DOG. "As Mr. David Walter, of Pembrokeshire, a religious man, and far from fear and superstition, was travelling by himself through a field called the Cot Moor, where there are two stones set up called the Devil's Nags, which are said to be haunted, he was suddenly seized and thrown over a hedge. He went there another day, taking with him for protection a strong fighting mastiff dog. When he had come near the Devil's Nags there appeared in his path the apparition of a dog more terrible than any he had ever seen. In vain he tried to set his mastiff on; the huge beast crouched, frightened by his master's feet and refused to attack the spectre. Whereupon his master boldly stooped to pick up a stone thinking that would frighten the evil dog; but suddenly a circle of fire surrounded it, which lighting up the gloom, showed the white snip down to the dog's nose, and his grinning teeth, and white tail. He then knew it was one of the infernal dogs of hell." "THE OLD GENTLEMAN" APPEARING IN PEMBROKESHIRE, AS A BLACK CALF. A black calf was supposed to haunt a stream that flowed across the road that leads from Narberth in Pembrokeshire to the adjacent village Cold Blow. People returning late that way were sure to get frightened as they passed and, as a consequence, they would go a long distance out of their way to avoid the haunted stream. One night, or rather early morning, two villagers were going home from a fair caught the terrible calf and took it home, locking it up safely with some cattle, but it had vanished when morning came. A GHOST SEEN IN THE FORM OF A CALF IN CARDIGANSHIRE. Rhosygarth, between Llanilar and Lledrod, was a well-known haunted spot in former times. This demon often appeared on the road to travellers late at night in the form of a calf, but with a head much like that of a dog. Many years ago, Mr. Hughes, of Pantyddafad, was going home one night on horseback; but just as he was passing Rhosygarth, the ghost appeared, and passed across the road right in front of the horse. My informant, Thomas Jones, Pontrhydfendigaid, was a servant at Pantyddafad, heard the old gentleman often speaking about the ghost he had seen at Rhosygarth, and that Mr. Hughes was great-grand-father to Dr. Hughes, of Cwitycadno, Llanilar. Mr. Jones also added that he knew a young man who always laughed when people talked about seeing ghosts; but one night, a man (as he at first thought), followed him for about a mile, and after coming close to him, vanished into nothing. The young man nearly fainted, and after this never doubted the reality of the world of spirits. A DEMON ASSUMING THE FORM OF A HORSE. Sir John Williams, Bart, now of Aberystwyth, informed me that when a boy in the neighbourhood of Gwynfi, Carmarthenshire, he often heard some of the old people speak of a ghost which haunted the road in that part of the country in former times. This ghost was known as "Bwci," and always assumed the form of a horse. It is an old belief of the Celts that demons assumed the form of horses, and one of these mythic beings was the Water Horse, so well-known in North Scotland. It was also known in Wales once. THE GWYLLGI, OR DOG OF DARKNESS. The Gwyllgi was a frightful apparition of a mastiff with baleful breath and blazing red eyes. In former times, an apparition in this shape haunted Pant y Madog, in the neighbourhood of Laugharne, Carmarthenshire. A woman named Rebecca Adams, passing this spot late one night, fell down in a swoon, when she saw the spectral dog coming towards her. When within a few yards of her it stopped, squatted on its hounchers, "and set up such a scream, so loud, so horrible, and so strong, that she thought the earth moved under her." I was informed at Llangynog five years ago, that Spectral Dogs still haunt that part of Carmarthenshire; and more than one of my informants had seen such apparitions themselves. A spirit in animal form was not always a demon; sometimes the Spirit of a mortal was doomed to wear this shape for some offence. It was once believed that the Evil One, either from lust, or from nefarious designs, assumed the form of a young man or a young woman. The following two stories, the first from South Pembrokeshire, and the other from Gower, have reference to this belief. "A DEMON STEWARD." Giraldus Cambrensis in his Itinerary through Wales (Bohn's edition, page 110) says:-- "In the province of Pembrock (Pembroke), another instance occurred, about the same time, of a spirit's appearing in the house of Elidore de Stakepole, not only sensibly, but visibly, under the form of a red-haired young man, who called himself Simon. First seizing the keys from the person to whom they were entrusted, he impudently assumed the steward's office, which he managed so prudently and providently, that all things seemed to abound under his care, and there was no deficiency in the house. Whatever the master or mistress secretly thought of having for their daily use or provision, he procured with wonderful agility, and without any previous directions, saying, "You wished that to be done, and it shall be done for you." He was also well acquainted with their treasures and secret hoards, and sometimes upbraided them on that account; for as often as they seemed to act sparingly and avariciously, he used to say, "Why are you afraid to spend that heap of gold or silver, since your lives are of so short duration, and the money you so cautiously hoard up will never do you any service?" He gave the choicest meat and drink to the rustics and hired servants, saying that "Those persons should be abundantly supplied, by whose labours they were acquired." Whatever he determined should be done, whether pleasing or displeasing to his master or mistress (for, as we have said before, he knew all their secrets), he completed in his usual expeditious manner, without their consent. He never went to church or uttered one catholic word. He did not sleep in the house, but was ready at his office in the morning. He was at length observed by some of the family to hold his nightly converse near a mill and a pool of water; upon which discovery, he was summoned the next morning before the master of the house and his lady, and, receiving his discharge, delivered up the keys, which he had held for upwards of forty days. Being earnestly interrogated, at his departure who he was? he answered, "That he was begotten upon the wife of a rustic in that parish, by a demon, in the shape of her husband, naming the man, and his father-in-law, then dead, and his mother, still alive; the truth of which the woman upon examination, openly avowed." A DEMON TEMPTING A YOUNG MAIDEN IN GOWER. For the following tale I am indebted to Mr. T. C. Evans (Cadrawd) the eminent antiquarian and folk-lorist of Llangynwyd: "Once upon a time there lived a fair and gentle maiden in the neighbourhood of the Demon's Rock, who often wandered out in the sunset and balmy summer evenings to meet her lover, and would return with her countenance radiant with joy, and the bright light of inexpressible rapture beaming in her love-lighted eye. Evening after evening would she stray out alone to the trysting place to meet her lover, and seemed as happy as a bird that warbles its morning song when the early sun gladdens the earth. However, it chanced that one of her companions followed her one moonlight night--saw the maiden go to a widespreading oak, and heard the whispering soft and low. She was surprised that she could not observe anyone, neither could she hear any reply to the maiden's sweet and loving voice. Affrighted, she hastened back and said that a mysterious dread had crept over her while listening and watching her companion; they kept it secret, but questioned the maiden on her return. She said that her lover was a gentleman, and that she had promised to meet him the next evening in the same spot. The next evening they followed her again and saw her addressing the empty air--they felt assured now that it must be the Spirit of Darkness that was tempting the girl. Her companions warned her and told her how she had been watched, and that they could not see who or whom she spoke to. "She became alarmed, but yet could not refrain from meeting her lover, (as she supposed), once again, as she had made a vow and bound herself by a solemn promise to meet him in this valley in the dead hour of the night. She was also bound to go alone. It was a fearful trial. The night came, the moon hid itself, and dark clouds swept hurriedly across the sky. With blanched cheeks and trembling steps the maiden approached the appointed place. She held (firmly grasped) in her hand a Bible, and as the traitor approached, a straggling gleam of moonshine revealed his form; and oh! horrible to relate, she saw the cloven hoof! With one long piercing cry for protection from heaven she fled; at the same instant the valley was filled with wild unearthly shrieks. The roar of the deafening thunder shook the hills to their foundations; wild and blinding lightnings, together with yells and howls from the legions of baffled fiends rushed by on the startled air. "The bewildered whirlwinds dashed through the woodlands, snapping the oaks of a century like fragile reeds, or hurling them like feathers down into the brook--now a boiling torrent that swept all before it. In the morning a strange scene of devastation presented itself, and the woods seemed crumbled up; the valley was a chaotic mass of confusion, while in the centre of the hamlet was this huge stone which they say the vengeful demon tore from its firm bed on the hillside, and flung at the flying maiden as she evaded his grasp. It remains in the spot where it was cast, and is known as the Demon's Rock." There is also a story all over Wales of the Evil One appearing to a young man as a lovely young lady. SATAN AND SABBATH BREAKERS; OR THE "OLD GENTLEMAN" APPEARING IN MANY FORMS TO A MAN WHO TRAVELLED ON SUNDAY. The late Rev. Elias Owen, "Welsh Folk-Lore," page 152, Vicar of Llanyblodwel, received the following tale from his deceased friend, the Rev. J. L. Davies, late Rector of Llangynog, who had obtained it from William Davies, the man who figures in the story:-- "William Davies, Penrhiw, near Aberystwyth, went to England for the harvest, and after having worked there about three weeks, he returned home alone, with all possible haste, as he knew that his father-in-law's fields were by this time ripe for the sickle. He, however, failed to accomplish the journey before Sunday; but he determined to travel on Sunday, and thus reached home on Sunday night to be ready to commence reaping on Monday morning. His conscience, though, would not allow him to be at rest, but he endeavoured to silence its twittings by saying to himself that he had with him no clothes to go to a place of worship. He stealthily, therefore, walked on, feeling very guilty every step he took, and dreading to meet anyone going to Chapel or Church. By Sunday evening he had reached the hill overlooking Llanfihangel-y-Creuddyn, where he was known, so he determined not to enter the village until after the people had gone to their respective places of worship; he therefore sat down on the hill side and contemplated the scene below. "He saw the people leave their houses for the House of God, he heard their songs of praise, and now he thinks he could venture to descend and pass through the village unobserved. Luckily, no one saw him going through the village, and now he has entered a barley field, and although still uneasy in mind, he feels somewhat reassured, and steps on quickly. He had not proceeded far in the barley field before he found himself surrounded by a large number of small pigs. He was not much struck by this, though he thought it strange that so many pigs should be allowed to wander about on the Sabbath Day. The pigs, however, came up to him, grunted and scampered away. Before he had traversed the barley field he saw approaching him an innumerable number of mice, and these, too, surrounded him, only, however, to stare at him, and then disappear. By this Davies began to be frightened, and he was almost sorry that he had broken the Sabbath Day by travelling with his pack on his back instead of keeping the day holy. He was not now very far from home, and this thought gave him courage and on he went. He had not proceeded any great distance from the spot where the mice had appeared when he saw a large grey-hound walking before him on the pathway. He anxiously watched the dog, but suddenly it vanished out of sight. "By this, the poor man was thoroughly frightened, and many and truly sincere were his regrets that he had broken the Sabbath; but on he went. He passed through the village of Llanilar without any further fright. He had now gone about three miles from Llanfihangel along the road that goes to Aberystwyth, and he had begun to dispel the fear that had seized him, but to his horror he saw something approach him that made his hair stand on end. He could not at first make it out, but he soon clearly saw that it was a horse that was madly dashing towards him. He had only just time to step on to the ditch, when, horrible to relate, a headless white horse rushed passed him. "His limbs shook and the perspiration stood out like beads on bis forehead. This terrible spectre he saw when close to Tan'rallt, but he dared not turn into the house, as he was travelling on Sunday, so on he went again, and heartily did he wish himself at home. In fear and dread he proceeded on his journey towards Penrhiw. The most direct way from Tan'rallt to Penrhiw was a pathway through the fields, and Davies took this pathway, and now he was in sight of his home, and he hastened towards the boundary fence between Tan'rallt and Penrhiw. He knew that there was a gap in the hedge that he could get through, and for this gap he aimed; he reached it, but further progress was impossible, for in the gap was a lady lying at full length, and immovable, and stopping up the gap entirely. Poor Davies was now more terrified than ever. He sprang aside, he screamed and then fainted right away. As soon as he recovered consciousness, he, on his knees, and in a loud supplicating voice, prayed for pardon. His mother and father-in-law heard him, and the mother knew the voice and said, "It is my Will! some mishap has overtaken him." They went to him and found he was so weak that he could not move, and they were obliged to carry him home, where he recounted to them his marvellous experience. The late Rector of Llangynog, who was intimately acquainted with William Davies, had many conversations with him about his Sunday journey, and he argued the matter with him, and tried to persuade him that he had seen nothing, but that it was his imagination working on a nervous temperament that had created all his fantasies. He, however, failed to convince him, for Davies affirmed that it was no hallucination, but that what he had seen that Sunday was a punishment for his having broken the Fourth Commandment. "Davies ever afterwards was a strict observer of the Sabbath." THE DEVIL AND LLANARTH CHURCH. A writer in the Arch. Cam., 1850, page 73, says:-- In the Churchyard of Llanarth, near Aberaeron, on the South side of the Church, there is an inscribed stone (not hitherto published) of the twelfth century. It bears a cross covering the stone with four circular holes at the junction of the arms. The inscription is on the lower limb of the cross; but as it is made of a micaceous sandstone, part has been split off, and the inscription is much mutilated.... The current tradition of the place concerning it is, that one stormy night, some centuries ago, there was such a tremendous shindy going on up in the belfry that the whole village was put in commotion. It was conjectured that nobody but a certain ancient personage could be the cause of this, and, therefore, they fetched up his reverence from the vicarage to go and request the intruder to be off. Up went the vicar with bell, book and candle, along the narrow winding staircase, and, sure enough, right up aloft among the bells there was his majesty in person! No sooner, however, had the worthy priest began the usual 'conjurate in nomine, etc.' than away went the enemy up the remaining part of the staircase on to the leads of the tower. The Vicar, nothing daunted, followed, and pressed the intruder so briskly that the latter had nothing else to do than to leap over the battlements. He came down plump among the gravestones below; and, falling upon one, made with his hands and knees the four holes now visible on the stone in question. Another writer in "Y Brython" for 1859, says, that the Devil's purpose in troubling Llanarth Church was to rob it of one of its bells and carry it to Llanbadarn Fawr Church, near Aberystwyth, twenty miles distant, as the latter, though once a cathedral, had only two bells, whilst the former, only a parish church, had four. And an old story still lingers in the neighbourhood of Llanarth that the Devil whilst thus engaged in carrying the bell, put it down and rested and re-arranged his heavy load at the very commencement of his journey, and a particular spot between the church and the river on a road known as "Rhiw Cyrff," is pointed out as the place where the D----l put down the bell. Moreover, it is added that from that day forth, the sound of Llanarth bells cannot be heard from that spot, though it is only a few yards from the church tower. The Llanarth legend is the only story in Wales that I know of in which the Spirit of darkness carries a church bell, as it was believed in old times that the Evil One was afraid of bells, and fled away at the sound of them. There are, however, traditions of churches troubled by the Devil in other parts of Wales besides Llanarth, and in the old superstitious times the north door of a church was called "Devil's Door." It was thought that as the priest entered the church through the south door, the Evil Spirit was obliged to make his exit through the north door. It might also be added that in former times no one was buried on the north side of a churchyard, as it was known as the "Domain of Demons." HOW TO GET RID OF GHOSTS, SPIRITS, GOBLINS, AND DEVILS, ETC. In some parts, especially on the borders of Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire, it is believed that any one carrying a knife in his hands, will never see or be troubled by a spirit, even when passing a haunted spot in the depth of night. When staying for a short time in the parish of Llandyssul about five years ago, I was told that there lived a few years ago a certain man in the village of Pontshan in that parish, who, when coming home late one night, saw a ghost on the roadside whilst passing a well-known haunted spot in the neighbourhood. The man took out his knife from his pocket, and the ghost vanished. After this, whenever he passed a haunted place the man held a knife in his hand, and never saw a ghost again. In South Pembrokeshire, a V-shaped twig of the mountain ash was considered a protective against spirits. It was also believed once in all parts of Wales that to wear body-linen inside out, and to nail a horseshoe against the door kept away both evil spirits and witches. Even in the present day people all over the world think that there is some "good luck" in finding a horseshoe, and to a young girl it means a new lover. When a spirit troubled a house in Wales, it was sometimes customary to call together the most godly persons in the parish to hold a prayer-meeting; at other times a conjurer, or a priest was sent for, for it was formerly thought that a clergyman had the power to "lay" or exorcise spirits. There were particular forms of exorcising. When the Devil was in the belfry of Llanarth Church, Cardiganshire, the Vicar went to drive away the Evil One, with "Bell, Book, and Candle." Until the time of Henry VIII., it seems that it was customary to curse mortals, as well as to exorcise fiends "with bell, book and candle"; for in an old book called "Dugdale's Baronage," published in 1675, it is said that in the 37th. year of Henry III., "a Curse was denounced in Westminster Hall against the violation of Magna Charta, with bell, book and candle." And in Fox's account of the ceremony of excommunication, we are told that three candles were carried before the clergy, and that as each candle was extinguished prayer was made that the souls of malefactors and schismatics might be "given over utterly to the power of the fiend as this candle is now quenched and put out." YSPRYD PENPOMPREN PLAS OR A SPIRIT "LAID" IN A BOTTLE. Penpompren Plas is a small mansion near Talybont in North Cardiganshire. The late Mr. John Jones, Bristol House, informed me that there was a spirit there once troubling the family, and the servants, and especially the head servant who had no peace as the ghost followed the poor man everywhere whenever he went out at night, and often threw water into his face. At last the servant went to a wise man or a conjurer. The Conjurer came with him to Penpompren Plas to "lay" the Spirit, and transformed it into an insect, in a bottle, which was securely corked. Then the bottle was thrown under the river bridge close by. There are many such stories in different parts of the country; and it is said that under the Monument Arch of Old Haverfordwest Bridge in Pembrokeshire, a spirit has been laid for a thousand years, and that at the expiration of that time it will again be free to roam the earth to trouble people. About 60 years ago, a spirit which appeared in all forms, pig, mouse, hare, etc., at Alltisaf, Llanfynydd, in Carmarthenshire, was "laid" by the celebrated wizard, Harries, of Cwrtycadno. I was told of this by two old men in the village of Llanfynydd about five years ago. THE "LAYING" OF THE HAVOD UCHTRYD GOBLIN. Havod Uchtryd is a large mansion a few miles from Devil's Bridge, in Cardiganshire, and there is a tradition in the neighbourhood that in the time of the celebrated Colonel Johnes about the beginning of the last century the place was haunted by a mischievous goblin. Fortunately, however, there happened to be a wizard nor far off, and the squire, so it is said, sent for him to Havod to lay the ghost. The conjurer came and when he arrived at the spot where the haunting usually took place he surrounded himself with an enchanted circle which the spirit could not break through. Then he opened a book and went through various incantations to invoke the spirit, which presented himself in various forms; first it appeared as a bull, secondly as a bulldog; and at last as a fly which rested on the wizard's open book. In an instant the enchanter closed the book, and thus caught the evil one in a trap, and was only allowed to go out under the conditions that he should betake himself to the Devil's Bridge, and there with an ounce hammer and tintack cut off a fathom of the rock. But notwithstanding this "laying" of the spirit one hundred years ago, there is a rumour still throughout the whole North of Cardiganshire, that Hafod is still haunted. THE MONACHDY GHOST DOOMED TO CUT THE ROCK NEAR LLANRHYSTYD. About 70 or 80 years ago, Monachty, a fine mansion in the neighbourhood of Aberaeron, was rumoured to be haunted. My informant is an old man named James Jones, Golden Lion, Llanarth. Jones said that when he was a boy at Pantycefn, he often felt almost too terrified to go to bed, as it was reported that the Monachty ghost was so small that it could go through even the eye of a needle; and his father's humble cottage was not without holes especially the window of his bedroom. At last, however, Students from Ystrad Meurig College were sent for to Monachdy to lay the ghost, which they did, so Jones said, and they doomed the unearthly being to cut a rock near Llanrhystyd, which proves that students, as well as Clergymen and ministers, had the reputation of being able to lay spirits. THE "LAYING" OF THE STACKPOLE GHOST. Stackpole Court, the beautiful residence of the distinguished Earl of Cawdor, is famous for its legendary lore. "Seven hundred years ago, Giraldus Cambrensis tells the story of Sir Elidur de Stackpole's demon steward, whose name was Simon; and in the more modern times the neighbourhood was haunted by the spirit of an old lady. This ghost appeared in the form of a party consisting of two headless horses, a headless coachman and a headless lady in her carriage. At last the ghost was "laid" by the Parson of St. Patrox, who doomed it to empty a pond with a cockle shell for a ladle, so that the phantom is not seen now. There are several versions of this ghost story, and Col. Lambton, of Brownslade, who is much interested in Folk-Lore and Antiquities, informed me that the headless lady was known as "Lady Mathias." The idea of giving employment to a spirit is most ancient, and in Grecian and Roman Mythology we find that the Danaides, or the fifty daughters of Danaus, who all, except one, slew their husbands on their wedding night, were doomed in Tartarus to draw water in sieves from a well until they had filled a vessel full of holes. It seems from the following story, which I obtained from the Rev. J. Jones, Brynmeherin, near Ystrad Meurig, that a ghost will not follow one through water:-- SHAN AND THE GHOST. About 35 years ago, there lived at Ynysfach, near Ystrad Meurig, an old man and an old woman known as "Shon and Shan." Shon was working in North Wales, for he was a quarryman at the time, but he came home occasionally to spend his holidays with his wife, especially about Christmas time. On one occasion, however, when Shan expected her husband home the day before Christmas as usual, Shon came not. Nine o'clock in the evening she went out to meet him or to search for him and to prevent him spending his money on beer at a public house which his friend, a saddler kept at Tyngraig. But her husband was not at the public house, nor was he seen anywhere, so the old woman had to return home in disappointment. It was a cloudless moonlight night, almost as light as day, but the road was lonely and the hour late, and when she had walked some distance, to her great terror, she noticed a ghost in the field making his way nearer and nearer to her till at last the strange object came to the hedge on the roadside quite close to her. Frightened as she was, she struck the ghost with the strong walking-stick which she held in her hand, saying "D----l! thou shalt follow me no longer." When Shan struck the ghost her walking-stick went right through the head of the strange object, but she did not "feel" that it touched anything--It was like striking a fog; but the spirit vanished into nothing, and Shan walked on. The ghost was now invisible, but the old woman "felt" that it still followed her, though she could not see it; but when she was crossing a brook she became aware that her pursuer left her. TWO YOUNG WOMEN AND THE GOBLIN. Two young women, daughters of a farmer in the parish of Llandyssul, were walking home one night from Lampeter Fair. After reaching the very field in one corner of which the house in which they lived stood, they wandered about this field for hours before they could find the building, though it was a fine moonlight night. It seemed as if the farm house had vanished; and they informed me that they were convinced that this was the doings of the Goblin, who played them a trick. The Welsh word for Goblin is Ellyll. CHAPTER VII. DEATH PORTENTS. Among the most important of the superstitions of Wales are the death portents and omens; and this is perhaps more or less true of every country. About a generation or two ago, there were to be found almost in every parish some old people who could tell before hand when a death was going to lake place; and even in the present day we hear of an old man or an old woman, here and there, possessing, or supposed to possess, an insight of this kind into the future. Mrs. Lloyd, Ffynnonddagrau, Llangynog, Carmarthenshire, told me five years ago that there lived at Ffynnonddagrau, an old man named Thomas Harries, who always foretold every death in the parish as he possessed second sight. John Thomas, Pentre, who worked about the farms, called with my informant one day on his way home; he was in good health then, but on the very next day he was very ill and soon died. Harries had foretold the death of the poor man some days before he was taken ill. He had also foretold the death of one Howells, who was buried at Ebenezer Chapel, and of an old woman known as Rassie of Moelfre Fach, as well as the death of one Thomas Thomas about 35 years ago. People were almost frightened to see Harries as he so often foretold the death of someone or other, and his predictions were always correct. My informant also added that Harries only died about 20 years ago. THE "TOILI" OR PHANTOM FUNERAL. With the exception of Corpse Candle, the most prominent death portent in West and Mid-Wales is the "Toili" or spirit funeral; a kind of shadowy funeral which foretold the real one. In the very north of Cardiganshire, such apparition is known as "teulu" (family); but throughout all other parts of the county it is called "toili." Toili, or Toeli is also rather general in Carmarthenshire; in North Pembrokeshire, however, it is called "Crefishgyn." There are tales of phantom funerals all over the Diocese of St. David's, and the following account of a Twentieth Century Phantom Funeral in Pembrokeshire is interesting, as my informant himself was the man who witnessed the strange apparition, or a foreshadowing of a funeral which actually took place soon afterwards. A PRESENT DAY PHANTOM FUNERAL. A young man who lives in the Gwaun Valley, between Pontfaen and Fishguard informed me in the beginning of November, 1905, that he had just seen a phantom or a spirit funeral only a few weeks previously. A friend of his, a young porter at a Railway Station in the neighbourhood of Cardiff, had come home ill to his native place in Pembrokeshire, and his friend, my informant, one night sat up by his bedside all night. About three o'clock in the morning the patient was so seriously ill that my informant in alarm hurried to call the father of the poor sufferer to come to see him, as the old man lived in a small cottage close by. As soon as he went out through the door into the open air, to his great astonishment he found himself in a large crowd of people, and there was a coffin resting on some chairs, ready to be placed on the bier; and the whole scene, as it were, presented a funeral procession, ready to convey the dead to the grave. When the young man attempted to proceed on his way, the procession also proceeded, or moved on in the same direction, so that he found himself still in the crowd. After going on in this manner for about a hundred yards, he managed to draw one side from the crowd and soon reached the house of his sick friend's father, and nearly fainted. Three days after this vision the seer's friend died; and on the day of the funeral the young man noticed that the crowd stood in front of the house and the coffin resting on chairs exactly as he had seen in the apparition. I may add that my informant who had seen the phantom funeral was so terrified even at the time when I saw him, that he was too much afraid to go out at night. It so happened that I was staying in that part of Pembrokeshire at the time, so I went to see the man myself, and a clergyman accompanied me. I obtained the following account of a phantom funeral from the Rev. John Phillips, Vicar of Llancynfelyn, North Cardiganshire. The scene of the story was Cilcwm, Carmarthenshire:-- A PHANTOM FUNERAL. Though more than thirty years have run their course since the incident which is to be described here occurred, still the impression which it left on the writer's mind was so vivid and lasting that he finds not the slightest difficulty in recalling its minutest details at the present moment. Some experiences are so impressive that time itself seems powerless to efface them from the memory, and of such the following appears to be an instance:-- It happened in the early Spring, just when the days were perceptibly lengthening, and a balmy feeling was creeping into the air, and a glad sense of hope was throbbing throughout the whole of nature. A boy of ten, or may be a couple of years younger, tired out after a hard day of play and pleasure, sat resting on a log near a lonely house, in a sparsely populated district. As he sat, he gazed down a long stretch of white and dusty road leading away past the house. As a rule, few and far between would be the travellers who used that unfrequented road. The sole exception would be on a Sunday, when perhaps a dozen or more of the neighbours might be seen wending their way, to or from the nearest place of worship. Intense, therefore, was the boy's surprise, when on this week-day, his eyes discerned a goodly company turning the corner in the distance, and proceeding in an orderly procession along the stretch of straight road which his vantage ground commanded. He watched it keenly, and wondered greatly. Never had he before seen such a crowd on that particular road. As the people drew nearer and nearer, something of solemnity in their orderly and silent manner struck on the watcher's imagination, but no sense of anything akin to the supernatural obsessed his mind for a second, still he failed not to mark, that for so large an assemblage, it was remarkably noiseless. Twenty yards, more or less, from where the youthful watcher sat, a footpath leading over a piece of wet and barren land joined the road. This path, which could be traversed only in dry weather, terminated half a mile away, at the door of a solitary cottage inhabited by a farm hand named Williams, who dwelt there with his wife and several young children. When the crowd arrived at the spot where the path ran on to the road, there seemed to be a momentary hesitation, and then the procession left the road and took to the footpath. The watcher strained every nerve, in an effort to recognise some one or other in the crowd, but though there was something strangely familiar about it all, there was also something so dim and shadowy, as to preclude the possibility of knowing anyone with certainty; but as the tail end of the procession curved round to gain the path, something he did observe, which caused a thrill, for the last four men carried high on their shoulders a bier,--but it was an empty bier. Soon as the multitude was out of sight, the boy rushed to the house, and related his curious experience. No thought of anything weird and uncanny had so far crossed his mind, and his one desire at the time was to gain some information as to where the people were bound for. Neither could he just then understand the manifest consternation, and the hushed awe, which fell upon his hearers as he unfolded his tale. Amongst these there happened to be a visitor, an old dame of a class well known in many parts of rural Wales in those days. It was her habit to stroll from farm to farm along the country side, regaling the housewives with the latest gossip. In return she would be sure of a meal, and also something to carry home in her wallet. Naturally, such a character would be shrewd and keen, knowing well not only what tales would suit her company, but also the truth, or otherwise, of any tales which she herself might be a listener to. In addition, the old dame in question was generally supposed to be immune from all fear, and cared not how far from home she might be when the shades of night overtook her. On the present occasion, although a few minutes before, she had been on the point of starting, and was indeed only waiting to be handed her usual dole of charity, no sooner had she heard the lad's strange tale, than she flatly declared that no power on earth could move her to travel an inch further that evening, and so at the expense of much inconvenience to the household a bed had to be prepared for her. However, she started early on the following morning, and long before noon, owing mainly to her assiduous diligence, the news had travelled far and near, that a phantom funeral had been seen on the previous evening. Her tale made a deep impression throughout the country-side. Those prone to superstition,--and it must be confessed, they were many,--lent a ready ear. A few,--and these prided themselves on their commonsense,--doubted. The latter class were not slow to point out, what they considered to be, a fatal flaw in the evidence. The supposed funeral was travelling in a direction, which led away from the churchyard. Had it been going down the road instead of up, they argued, that there might be something in it. Then again, it took the footpath, and it was pointed out, not only that funerals kept to the high roads, but that this particular path, could not by any stretch of imagination be said to lead to any burial ground. This seemed a reasonable view to take, and as one day succeeded another, without anything unusual happening, the excitement cooled down. However, within a few weeks Williams, who lived in the cottage across the marsh was taken ill. At first, it was thought that he had contracted a chill, and it was hoped that he would soon be well again. The nearest medical man lived six miles away, and that caused further delay. On the fifth day the doctor came, but he came to find that it was too late for his skill to be of any avail. A glance at the patient had satisfied him that it was a case of double pneumonia, and that the end was rapidly approaching. A few hours later and Williams had drawn his last breath. Three days more and the funeral took place. As is the custom in country places, the neighbours from far and near attended, and on their way a group of men called at the burial place for the bier. This group was joined by others so that long before the house of mourning was reached the procession was a large one. It travelled up the long stretch of road where the lad had watched that mysterious crowd, in the twilight six weeks before. The same lad watched again, and when the procession reached the point, where the footpath branched away across the fields, the man who acted as leader stopped, and raised his hand, while the procession hesitated for a moment, then looking at his watch, the leader spoke in low clear tones, "men," said he, "it is already getting late if we go round by the road, it will get very late; we will take the path." He led the way and as his followers swept round the curve, the lad saw that the last four men carried on their shoulders an empty bier. It was being taken to fetch the body. THE NEUADDLWYD "TOILI." John Jones, Coed-y-Brenin, near Neuaddlwyd, was going home one evening from Derwen-gam; and as he walked along he found himself suddenly in a phantom funeral, and was so pressed by the crowd of spirits that he nearly fainted. At last he managed to escape by turning into a field. He then noticed that the phantom funeral proceeded towards Neuaddlwyd, and soon there was a light to be seen in that chapel through the windows. A few weeks after this a real funeral took place. The above J. Jones, who had seen the apparition only died about twelve years ago. My informant was Mr. Thomas Stephen, near Mydroilyn, in the parish of Llanarth. A HORSE SEEING A "TOILI" OR PHANTOM FUNERAL. The following tale was related to me by Mr. Jones, Bristol House, Talybont:-- A farmer's wife, who lived in the northern part of Cardiganshire, had gone to Machynlleth Market one day riding a pony. On her journey home that evening she met a "toili" on the road. The pony was the first to notice the spirit-funeral, and the animal refused to go forward, but turned back and stood trembling under the shelter of a big tree till the "toili" had passed. The woman was quite terrified, and as soon as she reached home she rushed into the house and asked her husband to go out and put the pony in the stable, and stated that she felt unwell that night. Soon after this, one of the family died. Some persons have such clear vision of a phantom funeral, that they are able even to recognise and give the names of the persons that appear in the spectral procession. Owen Shon Morris, of Pant'stoifan, Llanarth, who died 85 years ago, saw a "toili" passing his own house in the direction of Llanarth, at 1 o'clock in the morning. He even discovered that among the crowd was his own friend, Evan Pugh, the tailor, and a woman wearing a red petticoat. When the "toili" had gone as far as a certain green spot on the road, after passing the house, the tailor and the woman with the red petticoat left the procession, and returned to their homes. Twelve months after this a funeral took place, and in the procession were the tailor and the woman with a red petticoat, both of whom returned home after accompanying the crowd as far as the green spot. My informant was an old farmer, named Thomas Stephens, near Mydroilyn. SPIRIT FUNERALS CARRYING PEOPLE TO CHURCHYARDS. I obtained the following account from an old man in North Pembrokeshire:-- About seven o'clock one winter evening, David Thomas, Henllan, Eglwyswrw, went to the village shop to get some medicine for a sick animal. When he was returning home, it was a fine moonlight night. All of a sudden, however, he found himself in utter darkness, being carried back to Eglwyswrw almost unknown to himself by a "Crefishgyn" as such an apparition is called in North Pembrokeshire; and when he got his feet on the ground once more, he discovered himself taking hold of the iron bars of the Churchyard Gate. In his adventure with the apparition he had passed a blacksmith's shop, where several men were working, without seeing or noticing anything. A farm servant, named David Evans in the parish of Llandyssul, Cardiganshire, had visited his brother who was ill one night, but whilst going home at two o'clock in the morning, a "toili" carried him all the way to Llandyssul Churchyard. My informant was Rees, Maesymeillion. I have also heard of an old woman at Cilcennin, near Aberaeron, who was also carried by force to the churchyard by a "toili," and there are such tales all over the country. AN OLD WOMAN WHO SAW THE APPARITION OF HER OWN FUNERAL. Miss Martha Davies, a housemaid, at Fishguard, Pembrokeshire, informed me that her family possessed the peculiar gift of second sight, and that her mother had seen the phantom of her own funeral before she died. When she was out walking one night, the old woman was terrified by seeing a funeral procession meeting her on the road and which passed on towards Caersalem, a Nonconformist Chapel close by. The Rev. Jenkin Evans, Vicar of Pontfaen, was walking behind the procession, and she even took notice of his dress and what kind of hat he had on his head. She was taken ill the very next day, and in a very short time died, and every one in the neighbourhood believed that she had seen an apparition of her own funeral. The deceased was buried at Caersalem; and as her daughter, Martha, was at the time a maid-servant at Pontfaen Vicarage, the Vicar accompanied the girl to her mother's funeral in his carriage. When he arrived in the neighbourhood where the funeral was to take place, he left his horse and trap at a public house, and proceeded to the house of mourning on foot, as the distance the funeral procession had to go from Melin Cilgwm to Caersalem burial place was very short. Strange to say, when the funeral did proceed, it so happened that the Vicar of Pontfaen walked behind the procession, and his clothes, and even his very hat were in exact accordance with the description which had been given by the dead woman of the vision. A PHANTOM TRAIN. A few years ago an old man named James, 75 years of age, living at Nantgaredig, in Carmarthenshire, told me that he had seen a phantom train on one occasion. Some years ago when he happened to be out about midnight once, he saw a train passing, which came from the direction of Carmarthen, and went towards Llandilo, and as no train was to pass through the station of Nantgaredig at that hour he enquired of the Stationmaster next morning what was the special train that passed at mid-night. In reply, he was told he had been either dreaming or had seen the spirit of a train, as no train had passed at that time of the night. A few days after this a special train passed through the station conveying a large funeral from Carmarthen to Llandilo; and James and his friend were convinced that the train he had seen in the night was nothing but an apparition of the real train with the funeral! A "TOILI" SEEN IN THE DAY-TIME. Like every other apparition a "toili" is supposed to be seen in the night time only; but according to the late Mr. Lledrod Davies, people working at the harvest near Llangeitho many years ago, saw a "toili" at mid-day in the churchyard of Llanbadarn Odwyn; and a funeral took place soon afterwards. The following story of a phantom funeral in the day-time was related to me by an old woman in Pembrokeshire, a farmer's wife in the Parish of Llanycefn:-- An old man named John Salmon saw an apparition of a funeral in the day-time, and he even recognised most of those who were in the procession, but was surprised to find that the minister was not amongst them. A few days after this the funeral took place, and the minister was prevented from being present as he had been called away from home at the time. Sometimes a "Toili" is heard without being seen. An old woman who lived in a little cottage at Dihewid, in Cardiganshire, forty-five years ago, heard every phantom funeral that passed her house; she could tell even the number of horses in the apparition. An old woman who only a few years ago lived close to Llanafan Churchyard, in the same County, heard from her bed one night the Vicar's voice, the Rev. W. J. Williams, reading the burial service quite distinctly, and soon after a funeral took place. The Vicar was informed of this by the old woman herself. SINGING HEARD TWELVE MONTHS BEFORE DEATH. About sixty years ago, the mother of one David Hughes, Cwmllechwedd, was one day standing outside the house, when all of a sudden, she heard the sound of singing. She recognised the voice of the singer as the voice of the Curate of Lledrod, but when she looked round she could see no one anywhere. The maid servants also heard the same sound of singing. Twelve months after this her son, David Hughes, a young man of 22 years of age died, and on the day of the funeral, the Curate of Lledrod, standing near the door, gave out a hymn, and conducted the singing himself, just as the funeral was leaving the house. My informant was Thomas Jones, Pontrhydfendigaid. A woman at Aberporth, informed me that she had heard a "Toili" singing: "Gwyn fyd v rhai trwy ffydd, Sy'n myn'd o blith y byw." Three weeks before the death of her aunt. Mr. John Llewelyn, Rhos-y-Gwydr, somewhere on the borders of Carmarthenshire and Pembrokeshire, when he went to the door of Rhydwilym Chapel one evening, he was surprised when he listened, to hear his own voice preaching a funeral sermon. A DAY-DREAM. Another remarkable instance of second-sight seeing appeared in "Notes and Queries" for July, 1858. The contributor, Mr. John Pavin Phillips, gives the following account of what occurred to him himself in the year 1818, upon his return home to Pembrokeshire, after many years' absence:-- "A few days after my arrival, I took a walk one morning in the yard of one of our parish churches, through which there is a right of way for pedestrians. My object was a twofold one: Firstly, to enjoy the magnificent prospect visible from that portion; and secondly, to see whether any of my friends or acquaintances who had died during my absence were buried in the locality. After gazing around me for a short time, I sauntered on, looking at one tombstone and then at another, when my attention was arrested by an altar-tomb enclosed within an iron railing. I walked up to it and read an inscription which informed me that it was in memory of Colonel ----. This gentleman had been the assistant Poor Law Commissioner for South Wales, and while on one of his periodical tours of inspection, he was seized with apoplexy in the Workhouse of my native town, and died in a few hours. This was suggested to my mind as I read the inscription on the tomb, as the melancholy event occurred during the period of my absence, and I was only made cognisant of the fact through the medium of the local press. Not being acquainted with the late Colonel ----, and never having seen him, the circumstances of his sudden demise had long passed from my memory, and were only revived by my thus viewing his tomb. I then passed on, and shortly afterwards returned home. On my arrival my father asked me in what direction I had been walking, and I replied, in ---- Churchyard, looking at the tombs, and among others I have seen the tomb of Col. ----, who died in the Workhouse. 'That' replied my father 'is impossible, as there is no tomb erected over Colonel ----'s grave.' At this remark I laughed. 'My dear father,' said I, 'You want to persuade me that I cannot read. I was not aware that Colonel ---- was buried in the Churchyard, and was only informed of the fact by reading the inscription on the tomb.' 'Whatever you may say to the contrary' said my father, 'What I tell you is true; there is no tomb over Colonel ----'s grave.' Astounded by the reiteration of this statement, as soon as I had dined I returned to the Churchyard and again inspected all the tombs having railings around them, and found that my father was right. There was not only no tomb bearing the name of Colonel ----, but there was no tomb at all corresponding in appearance with the one I had seen. Unwilling to credit the evidence of my own senses, I went to the cottage of an old acquaintance of my boyhood, who lived outside of the Churchyard gate, and asked her to show the place where Colonel ---- lay buried. She took me to the spot, which was a green mound, undistinguished in appearance from the surrounding graves. Nearly two years subsequent to this occurrence, surviving relatives erected an Altar-tomb, with a railing round it, over the last resting place of Colonel ----, and it was, as nearly as I could remember, an exact reproducing of the memorial of my day-dream. Verily, 'there are more things in Heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' THE CORPSE CANDLE. The "Canwyll Corph" or Corpse Candle, was another death portent often seen in West and Mid-Wales, about a generation or two ago. Indeed there are several persons still alive who have told me that they had seen this mysterious light themselves. It was a pale light moving slowly and hovering a short distance from the ground. Some could tell whether a man, woman, or child was to die. The death of a man was indicated by a red light, that of a woman by a white light, and a faint light before the death of a child. If two lights were seen together, two deaths were to take place in the same house at the same time. If the light was seen early in the evening a death was to take place soon, but if late it was not to take place for some time. Like the "toili" or phantom funeral, the Corpse Candle also was seen going along from the house--where death was to take place--to the churchyard along the same route which a funeral was to take, whether road or path. Sometimes the light was seen carried by a spectral representation of the dying person, and it was even thought possible to recognise that person by standing near the water watching the apparition crossing over it. Another way of recognising the dying person was to stand at the church porch watching the candle entering the building. There are some instances of people seeing their own corpse candle. There was an old woman living at Llanddarog, in Carmarthenshire, named Margaret Thomas, who always saw every light or Corpse Candle going to the churchyard before every funeral. She only died about 27 years ago. Another old woman who also saw the same death portents was Mary Thomas, Dafy, who lived close to Llandyssul churchyard in Cardiganshire. She was buried sixty years ago. There is a tradition that St. David, by prayer, obtained the Corpse Candle as a sign to the living of the reality of another world, and according to some people it was confined to the Diocese of St. David's, but the fact of it is there are tales of corpse candles all over Wales. A CORPSE CANDLE SEEN AT SILIAN. Owen Evans, Maesydderwen, near Llansawel, Carmarthenshire, who is over 90 years of age, gave me the following account of a Corpse Candle which had been seen at Silian, near Lampeter. When Evans was a boy, his father lived in an old house close to the churchyard walls, and kept the key of the church door. At that time singing practice was often conducted in the church, especially during the long winter evenings. One evening a certain young man entered the churchyard with the intention of going to the church to attend this singing-class, though it was a little too early; but he could see light in the church through one of the windows. So on he went to the church door thinking that the singing had commenced, or at least that some one was in the church. But to his great surprise he found the door closed and locked, and when he looked in through the key-hole there was not a soul to be seen inside the church. The young man then went to the house of Owen Evans's father and informed the old man that there was light in the church, but that he did not see anyone inside. "You must be making a mistake," said my informant's father to the young man, "there cannot possibly be any light in the church; no one could have entered the building to light it, for the door is locked, and I have the key here in the house." "But I am positively certain," said the young man again, "that there is light in the church, for I took particular notice of it." Both of the two men now went to the church together, and as they approached, they noticed a light coming out from the church. This light moved slowly towards a certain part of the churchyard, and the two men followed it and watched it until it suddenly disappeared into the ground. That it was a corpse candle they had no doubt in their minds. The young man had a walking stick in his hand with which he made a mark or a hole in the ground on the spot where the light had sunk. Soon after this a death took place in the neighbourhood, and the dead was buried in the very spot where the corpse candle had sunk into the ground. My informant told me also that he had seen a corpse candle himself before the death of an adopted son of one Mr. John Evans, who lived at Glandenis, in the same neighbourhood. A CORPSE CANDLE SEEN TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO. There is a tradition at Llanilar that a young woman got drowned long ago in attempting to cross the river Ystwyth during a flood; and that a short time before the melancholy event took place, people in the neighbourhood had seen a corpse candle hovering up and down the river. According to the Rev. Edmund Jones, the young woman had come from Montgomeryshire to see her friends at Llanilar. There is also a tradition in Carmarthenshire of a three-flamed corpse candle which had been seen on the surface of the water near Golden Grove a short time before three persons were drowned near the spot. A CORPSE CANDLE SEEN NEAR CONWIL. An old man named James, living at Nantgaredig in Carmarthenshire, gave me an account of how he himself and his father and others had seen a Corpse Candle in the parish of Conwil Elvet. When James was a boy, he was sent one day by a farmer's wife on a message to Llanpumpsaint, about three miles off, to fetch a pair of clogs from the blacksmith, and a few small things from a shop in the village. When he arrived there he went first to the blacksmith, but he had to wait there as the clogs were not ready. Then he went to the village shop, but, unfortunately, the woman who kept the shop was not at home, and he had to wait several hours; so that when he returned to the farm with his message it was quite dark. But the farmer's wife gave him plenty to eat and a present of a waistcoat. Then he went home to Nantglas, where his father and mother lived. It was now getting late in the evening, and he was only a boy going along a lonely road. When he was between Yetyffin, and Cwmgweren, he noticed some light coming after him nearer and nearer, and it even passed him at last. It hovered within about two feet from the ground as it went slowly along. The boy, who was a little bit frightened, now knocked at the door of a house he was passing and called the attention of the inmates to the strange light on the road. On he went again, and he even passed the light on the road; but when he reached home and told his parents about it, his father would not believe that he had seen a light. But the boy opened the door just as the light was passing and he called his father to come out and see it. The whole family now came out, and both his father and the other children saw the light, but his mother and one of the children did not see it--not possessing second sight. Soon after this, a child died at a house called Yet-y-ffin; and my informant's father and his neighbours were convinced that the light which they had seen was his corpse candle. Sometimes a corpse candle was seen coming into the chamber of the person about to die. A woman, who was a native of Gwynfi in Carmarthenshire, told me about five years ago that when her child was dying, she took particular notice of a pale bluish light coming in through the window and standing right over the bed. I have also heard several other persons saying things of this kind. A PEMBROKESHIRE TALE OF A CORPSE CANDLE. The following story was contributed to the "Pembrokeshire County Guardian," May 11th., 1901, by Mr. Joseph Davies, Glynderwen: "It happened not many miles from Tenby where a certain young school mistress lodged at a farm house where she was very happy in every respect. One night after retiring to rest, the light having been put out, and she was lying awake, she suddenly noticed a peculiar greyish light like a little star moving towards the foot of her bed from the doorway. The light came to a stand-still by her bed and gently lowered to her feet. Almost paralysed with fear, she called with all her strength for help, and in a few minutes the whole of the household were together in the room listening in amazement to the frightened girl's story, and all sorts of means were used to pacify her and to induce her to go to sleep, but without avail. She would not stay in that room for the world, and her bed had to be removed and fixed on a temporary bedstead in the room where the mistress slept. Time passed, and the story spread abroad; some made light of it, and some looked serious, and all tried to get the young lady to shake off all thoughts of it. But to no purpose--let them laugh or chaff, she bore the same sad expression, and said something would certainly follow to clear up the mystery. About six weeks or so had passed, and one night the mistress, who was a strong healthy woman, suddenly took ill, and quite unexpectedly died. The young schoolmistress happened at the time to be away on her holidays, and on hearing of the sad news she hurried back to attend the funeral. When she arrived at the house she was taken upstairs to see the body, she again became almost paralysed on finding that the corpse had been laid out on the spare bedstead on the very spot where she had six weeks previously pointed out where the light had lowered and disappeared. No one had thought of the incident until reminded of it. The body had been laid out there for convenience at the time; no one ever thought of the young lady's fright until she now pointed it out herself. "So after that it can be easily imagined the whole neighbourhood became convinced that there was something in it after all, and the old superstition got strengthened in the minds of the young people that it remains to a great extent to the present time." A LLANGATHEN TALE. The following appeared in "Apparitions in Wales" by Rev. Edmund Jones, and it is a story of long ago: "Some years ago one Jane Wyat, my wife's sister, being nurse to Baronet Rudd's three children, and his Lady being dead, his house-keeper going late into a chamber where the maid servants lay, saw five of these lights together: while after that chamber being newly plastered, a great grate of coal fire was kindled therein to hasten the drying of it. At night five of the maid servants went there to bed as these were wont, and in the morning were all found dead, and suffocated with the steam of the new tempered lime and coal." This was at Llangathen, in Carmarthenshire. THE CORPSE BIRD. The most common death prognosticator throughout Wales in the present day is a peculiar bird known as "Deryn Corph" (Corpse Bird)--a bird flapping its wings against the window of the room in which there is a sick person. This was considered an omen of death. Even in the present day most people dread to see or hear a bird flapping its wings against the window when there is a sick person in the house; but every bird is not a corpse bird. An old woman in Pembrokeshire, Miss Griffiths, Henllan, near Eglwyswrw, told me this bird is a little grey one and that it came flapping against her own window before the death of her father, and also before the death of each of her three uncles. I have met with people in almost every district throughout the country who have heard the flappings of this mysterious bird before a death. A BIRD COMING INTO A HOUSE BEFORE A DEATH. Mr. Rees, Maesymeillion, Llandyssul, informed me that many years ago there lived in that part of the country an old woman known as Nell Gwarnant. The old woman at one time had an only son, a young lad who was very dear to her. One day a certain bird came into the house quite suddenly, and descended on the rim of the Spinning Wheel, flapping its wings. The old woman feared that the bird was a precursor of death, and to her great sorrow her only son soon died. A bird coming into the house is also a sign of a storm. Birds as precursors of death seem to follow Welsh people to all parts of the world. A few years ago a Corpse Bird appeared in Perth, Western Australia, before the death of a Welsh lady in that city; and this reminds me of a strange incident which happened in Patagonia, 30 years ago, when I was there. Two Welsh gentlemen, Mr. Powell, who was known as "Helaeg," and Mr. Lewis Jones, a friend of the late Sir Love Jones Parry, M.P., were returning to the Welsh Colony, from Buenos Ayres, in a sailing vessel. When the ship came within a few miles of the mouth of the river Chubut, the captain found it necessary to remain in the open sea that day, as the tide was too low to enter the river over the bar just then. Mr. Jones and Mr. Powell, however, left in a small boat manned by Italian sailors; but when they were within a certain distance of the land the sea was very rough, and a certain bird appeared suddenly on the scene. Mr. Powell pointed out the bird to his friend and said, "Do you see that bird, that's the Bird of Biam! We shall be drowned this very moment." Just as he spoke, the boat suddenly turned over, and the unfortunate speaker got drowned on the spot. The other men were saved. Mr. Powell, who, unfortunately, got drowned, was a gifted Welsh Roman Catholic gentleman, who knew about twelve languages, and was a friend of the President of the Argentine Republic. It was reported in the "Aberystwyth Observer" twenty-two years ago, that before the death of Mrs. Fryer, Lady Pryse (now Dowager), noticed a bird hovering around Gogerddan, and at times flapping his wings at the windows. BIRD SINGING HEARD BEFORE DEATH. In the excellent Welsh Magazine "Y Brython" for January, 1860, page 40, the following remarkable incident is given in connection with the death of the famous poet and clergyman, Tegid, which, being translated is as follows:-- "In his absence from Church, when lying on his death-bed, in the morning of the Lord's Day, whilst a neighbouring clergyman was taking the service for him in Llanhyfer Church, the voice of the reader was suddenly drowned by the beautiful song of a thrust, that filled the whole church.... It was ascertained on leaving the church that at that very moment the soul of Tegid left his body for the world of spirits." MUSIC OF ANGELS HEARD BEFORE DEATH. It is stated in the "Cambro-British Saints," page 444, that previous to the death of St. David "the whole city was filled with the music of angels." The Rev. Edmund Jones in his "Apparitions in Wales," says that at the death of one Rees David in Carmarthenshire, "a man of more than common piety," several persons who were in the room heard "the singing of angels drawing nearer and nearer; and after his death they heard the pleasant incomparable singing gradually depart until it was out of hearing." CYHYRAETH: OR DEATH SOUND. The Cyhyraeth was another death portent. It has been described as a wailing or moaning sound heard before a death, and it was thought to be a sound made by a groaning spirit. This spirit was never seen, only its sound was heard. According to "British Goblins" by Sikes, one David Prosser, of Llanybyther, heard the Cyhyraeth pronouncing the words "Woolach! Woolach!" before a funeral. According to the same book "this crying spirit, especially affected the twelve parishes in the hundred of Inis Cenin, which lie on the south-east side of the river Towy, 'where some time past it groaned before the death of every person who lived that side of the country! It also sounded before the death of persons 'who were born in these parishes, but died elsewhere.' "Sometimes, the voice was heard long before death, but not longer than a quarter of a year. So common was it in the district named, that among the people there is a familiar form of reproach to any one making a disagreeable noise, or children crying or groaning unreasonably was to ejaculate 'Oh'r Cyhyraeth!' A reason why Cyhyraeth was more often heard in the hundred of Inis Cenin, was thought to be that Non, the mother of St. David lived in those parts where a village is called after her name Llanon." THE TOLAETH. The Tolaeth is also a sound heard before death or a funeral. It is represented as superstitious rappings, or knockings, strange noises, or sounds of footsteps or of carriages, etc. This superstition is common in all parts of the country at the present day; and I have met and heard of many carpenters who always know when they are to have an order for a coffin, as they hear strange knockings in their workshops resembling the noise or knockings made by a carpenter when engaged in coffin-making. An old lady who lives at Pontshan, Llandyssul, told me three years ago, that when she was a young woman, she and two other young women were on one occasion sitting near the fire all night watching and nursing a sick old woman of 80 years of age. About four o'clock in the morning, to their great surprise, they heard the door open, and the sound of someone or something entering the house and going about the room, but nothing was visible, nor did the door open as a matter of fact. The aged patient also heard the sound and enquired who had come in. At four o'clock next morning the old woman died. The same woman also told me that before the death of a prominent Esquire in Carmarthenshire, she remembered hearing the sound of a carriage before the front entrance of the mansion, when no carriage was near. Sound of carriages before the death of one of the gentry is a thing that we often hear of even at the present day everywhere in West and Mid-Wales. Sir Edward W. P. Pryse, Gogerddan, informed me that he was told that people had heard the sound of carriages before the death of his grandfather, who died in 1855, and was a member of Parliament for Cardigan. Nanteos, another ancient family in the same county, has, or had, not only a phantom coach, but even a tutelary guardian; but whether this Welsh "Banshi" was a woman under enchantment, or a fairy, is not known. It was formerly believed that the church bell was tolled by a spirit or some other supernatural agency, before a death in certain families. I wonder if the word "Tolaeth" is derived from toll? THE TOLLING OF BLAENPORTH CHURCH BELL BEFORE A DEATH. Several old persons living in the parish of Blaenporth, South Cardiganshire, informed me that it is a fact that in former times a death in certain families in that parish was always foretold by the church-bell in the steeple tolling three times at the hour of midnight unrung by human hands. One old woman gave me the following tradition concerning the origin of this tolling:-- Once upon a time a spirit came at midnight and knocked at the door of a farmhouse known as Tan-yr-Eglwys, which is close to Blaenporth Church. "Who is there?" enquired the farmer from his bed. "Mair Wen (white Mary) of Blaenporth," was the reply; "the silver communion cup has been stolen from the church." Then the spirit begged the farmer to get up from bed and proceed at once on a journey to the town of Cardigan, as the man who had committed such sacrilegious act was resting that night on a sofa in a certain public house in that town with the silver cup under his waistcoat. The farmer went to Cardigan, and when he arrived at the public house named by the spirit, and entered a certain room, a strange man who was lying on the sofa got up, and the stolen cup from under his waistcoat fell to the floor. The farmer took it up in an instant, and returned with all speed to Blaenporth, and placed the sacred vessel in the church once more. For his kindness and trouble in thus restoring the sacred cup, the good spirit or guardian angel of Blaenporth Church told the farmer that the bell would toll three times before his death, and before the death of his descendants till the ninth generation. A REMARKABLE ACCOUNT OF KNOCKING AND WAILING BEFORE DEATH. A few miles from Newcastle Emlyn there is a farmhouse called Pen'rallt-hebog, which is situated in the parish of Bettws-Evan, in Cardiganshire. Besides Pen'rallt-hebog there is also--or there was--another house on the same farm known as Pen'rallt-Fach. And there lived at this Penrallt-fach about 25 years ago a tailor named Samuel Thomas, and his wife. About that time a very strange incident occurred, and the following account of it was given me by Mr. S. Thomas himself an intelligent middle-aged man who is still alive I believe. One morning, very early, Thomas beard a knocking at the door of his bedroom, and he enquired from his bed "who is there?" but there was no reply, and everything was quiet again. The next morning again he heard knocking at the door, though not the bedroom door this time, but the front door of the house. My informant exclaimed from his bed, "Alright, I am getting up now." But when he did get up, and opened the door, not a single soul could be seen anywhere. Thomas was quite surprised, and perplexed as to who could have come to disturb him at five o'clock in the morning, two mornings one after the other, and disappear so mysteriously. No voice had been heard, nor the sound of footsteps, only a knocking at the door. After this there was no further knocking for some time. Twelve months to the very day after this a brother of Thomas who lived in some other part of the country came on a visit, and to spend a day with him, and this was in the first week of January, 1883. Some day during this week the two brothers went out with their guns to shoot some game, but soon returned to the house again, and in the evening Thomas went to his workshop to do some "job"; but as he was busily engaged in making a suit of clothes, he heard a knocking at the window quite suddenly--two knocks. He thought that some friend outside wanted to call his attention to something; but when he looked at the window there was no one to be seen After a while the knocking went on again, and continued for about ten minutes. The second night the knocking at the window continued as the previous evening between ten and eight o'clock, but nothing was to be seen. On the third night there was a knocking at the window several times, and it was much louder or more violent than it had been on the two previous evenings. The tailor and the young man who was his assistant decided now to keep their eyes on the window, and as soon as they did so there was no more knocking; but the moment they ceased looking and resumed their work, the knocking was heard again. There were several young men present in the room this evening, and they heard the knocking, and even the wife heard it from another apartment of the house. These "spirit knockings" had been now noised abroad everywhere, and amongst others who went there in order to hear them was the farmer on whose land the tailor lived. The farmer did not believe in superstition, but when he heard the knocking he was convinced that there was something supernatural about it. On the fifth night a very loud knock at the door was heard as if some one attempted to break through; and on the sixth evening when my informant went out for a short walk he heard such noise as if two hundred horses were rushing by him. On the seventh and eighth evenings the knocking still continued; and on the ninth evening, Thomas went out with a gun in his hand, and found that there was no one to be seen anywhere, but he heard some groaning voice in the air, and doleful wailing. The man returned to the house quite frightened. There was no more knocking after this evening. In the beginning of January, 1883, at the very time when these strange knockings, sound, and wailing were heard at Pen'rallt Fach cottage, a woman whose old home had been this very house before she had left her native land was dying in America; and her crying on her death-bed in that far-off land was heart-rending, when she found that she was too ill to return to Wales, to die at her old home in Cardiganshire, and to be buried with her husband, who had died before she had left for America. One Mr. Lloyd, from Newcastle Emlyn, happened to be at her death-bed in America, when she was longing in vain to die in her old home in Wales. This solves the mystery of the "spirit knockings," and it also confirms the truth of the old belief that Death makes his presence known by knocking at the door of the relatives of friends of those he is about to strike. LLEDRITH--WRAITH. Lledrith is an apparition or the spectre of a person seen soon before his death or about the time he is dying. A most remarkable tale of an apparition of this kind is given in "Ysten Sioned," an interesting Welsh book written by the late Rev. Chancellor D. Silvan Evans, and Mr. John Jones (Ivon). About seventy years ago a young French sailor at Aberystwyth in Cardiganshire, had fallen in love with a servant maid in that town, and she with him. One evening, when this young woman was preparing to go to bed she heard her lover calling to her by her name. It was a bright moonlight night, and when she went to the door there she saw the young man approaching and offering his hand to her; but to her great surprise he disappeared again without speaking a single word. Soon after this, news came to the town that a ship from Aberystwyth got lost on the coast of Spain, and that amongst others of the crew, who were drowned, was the young Frenchman. The young woman discovered that her lover was drowned on the Spanish Coast in the very same hour that she saw his apparition at Aberystwyth! The young Earl of Lisburne ten years ago saw a wraith at Havod, on the night his father was dying at Crosswood Park. Of this I was informed by Mr. Inglis-Jones, Derry Ormond, and by his Lordship himself. It is well-known that the great Lord Brougham saw an apparition of this kind when a friend of his was dying in India, about one hundred years ago. TANWEDD. Another death portent was the "tanwedd," so called because it appeared as a fiery light. The Rev. Edmund Jones says in his "Apparitions".--"When it falls to the ground it sparkleth and lightens. The freeholders and landlords upon whose ground it falls, will certainly die in a short time after." GWRACH Y RHIBYN. Gwrach y Rhibyn was an ugly old hag with long flowing hair, glaring eyes and face as gloomy as death itself. The shriek of the old hag was supposed to foretell a death or some misfortune. She appeared, as a rule, only before the death of a person who had lived a wicked life; at least this is the saying in West Wales, especially in Carmarthenshire and Cardiganshire. CWN ANNWN--HELL HOUNDS. Cwn Annwn were supposed to have been supernatural hounds whose yelling or howling on dark nights foreboded a death. If the howling was faint, it meant that the pack was close at hand, if loud, the hounds were only hunting at a distance. These hounds were supposed to watch for the souls of notoriously wicked men about to die. An old farmer, named Mr. Thomas Stephens, Llwyncelyn, Llanarth, Cardiganshire, informed me that his brother once heard the bark of these hounds on the road near Bronwen. OTHER DEATH OMENS. The Cock.--It was once thought in all parts of Wales that the crowing of a cock before or about midnight was a sign of death; but whether one of the family or one of a neighbour's family was going to die, it depended on the direction of the cock's head whilst crowing. The Hen.--A hen crowing like a cock is also supposed to indicate a death in the family or some very near relation; or if not death, some very bad luck. A hen laying two eggs in the same day was also a sign of death. A hen laying a small egg was also a bad sign. An Owl persistently screeching near a house or a raven croaking hoarsely also indicated a death. The Dog.--A dog howling, which is called in Welsh Ci-yn-udo, is a sign of a death. The Death Watch.--A sound made by a small insect like the ticking of a watch was once considered a sign of death. A few years ago a sound of this kind was for a long time heard at a house in the parish of Llanddewi Brefi; but as no one died in the house, the family was cured of the superstition. The sound in the ear as of a bell, is a token of death in the family. Clothes Burning.--A farmer's wife near Aberystwyth, informed me that a few years ago she placed a servant boy's wet trousers on a chair to dry before the fire. Then she went out to milk the cows, but when she returned to the house she found that the trousers was burnt. A few days after this her mother died. The untimely blossoming of a tree is another sign of a death. Yarrow and Heather.--Bringing either yarrow or heather into a house is a presage of death; white heather, however, is a sign of good luck. Death-pinch.--This is a mark that cannot be accounted for, appearing suddenly on any part of the body, and is a sign of the death of one of the family or a relative. A Funeral Procession moving too fast is a sign that another funeral will soon follow. MISSING A BUTT. A writer in "Bye Gones" for 1892 says:-- "The other day in going through Mid-Cardiganshire on election business, I observed one row of turnips growing in the middle of a field of potatoes on a farm occupied by a Nonconformist minister. When asked how it happened that that solitary row of turnips came to be there, the minister explained that by accident the planters missed putting down potatoes, and the idea prevailed in the district if the vacant row was not filled in by sowing something in it, some one would die in consequence in the neighbourhood." This superstition is also found in Carmarthenshire as well as in Cardiganshire. I have met with many ministers of the Gospel, Professors of Universities, and other enlightened and educated men who are convinced that there are death portents. CHAPTER VIII. MISCELLANEOUS BELIEFS, WEATHER SIGNS, BIRDS, LORE, Etc. To find a horse shoe on the road or in a field is considered extremely lucky. To see a lamb for the first time during the season with its head facing you is also lucky. When you see a newly-wedded couple throw an old pair of shoes at them, for it means "good luck to them." This was done now at Llanilar, October, 1910, at the wedding of Miss Jones, Bryntirion, by Mrs. Richards, Derwen-Deg. To drop your stick or umbrella on your journey is unlucky. When you have started on a journey, to turn back to the house for something you have forgotten, means bad luck. To bring heather into the house is a sign of death: white heather, however, is considered extremely lucky. It is unlucky to meet a white horse when on a journey, to change it into luck spit over your little finger. If a young lady looks through a silk-handkerchief at the first new moon after New Year's Day, she will be able to see her future husband. It is unlucky to find a coin on the road, but if the head and not the tail happens to be up it is a lucky omen. To carry in one's purse a crooked sixpence, or a coin with a hole in it is lucky. Spit on the first coin you get in the day, and you'll have luck for 24 hours. Never begin any new work on a Friday or Saturday. It is considered unlucky for a servant to go to service on a Thursday or a Saturday. In Cardiganshire servants go to service either on a Monday or Wednesday, which are considered lucky days. A woman near Narberth in Pembrokeshire told me that Tuesdays and Thursdays are lucky days in that part. In some parts of Carmarthenshire, the most lucky days are Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. But the fact of it is, I have discovered that the days which are considered lucky in one part of the country are considered unlucky in another part. Odd numbers, especially three, and seven, are said to be lucky numbers. Thirteen, however, is considered very unlucky, and it is thought that if thirteen persons sit down to table, the last person who sits down and the first to rise up, are those to whom the ill-luck will fall. It is considered unlucky by many to shake hands across a table; and when two people are shaking hands, if two others of the company attempt to shake hands across their hands it is a very unlucky sign. It is considered unlucky by some to baptise more than one child in the same water. There is also the same superstition respecting one man washing after another in the same water. In Cardiganshire, it is believed that he who dies on Sunday is a godly man. Mr. Eyre Evans, Aberystwyth, informed me that he has just come across some people in Montgomeryshire who consider it unlucky to pick up or carry white stones in their pockets; and it seems from Sir John Rhys, that Manx Fishermen do not like to have a white stone in a boat. Curious Belief about Salt.--When people remove into a new house it is customary to take a bar of salt into the building before taking in any of the furniture. This is supposed to secure good luck. When this salt ceremony is forgotten or neglected, some people, especially women, are very much perturbed. I have discovered that this curious old belief about salt is very common at present in the towns of Aberystwyth, Carmarthen, and Tenby, and other parts of West Wales. To spill salt denotes quarrels. To serve another person with salt, is to serve him with sorrow. When a white spot appeals on the nail of one of our fingers it means a present. Never stir the fire in anybody's house unless you are a friend of seven years' standing. To break a looking-glass signifies ill-luck for seven years. To put the bellows on a table is considered unlucky. There is also the same superstition about boots all over Wales. Never mend your clothes while you are wearing them. If you see a pin pick it up to insure good luck. There is a saying in Welsh "Gwell plygu at bin, na phlygu at ddim," (It is better to bend down for a pin, than to bend down for nothing.) It seems that a needle, however, is not considered so lucky; for I once overheard a woman who had quarrelled with her neighbour telling her husband that her neighbour and herself were friends before she had given her a needle. If a bramble clings to the skirts of a young lady some one has fallen in love with her; and the same is said of a young man when his hat goes against the branches of a tree. Welshpeople believe that those who have cold hands are very warm-hearted; hence the saying "Llaw oer a chalon gynes," (A cold hand and a warm heart). Two spoons in a saucer denote a wedding, or according to some that you are to be married twice dining your lifetime. In West Wales it is considered unlucky to eat herring or any kind of fish, from the head downwards; and in order to ensure good luck the proper way is to eat the fish from the tail towards the head. This superstition is also known in Cornwall. If in making tea you forget to replace the lid on the teapot, it is the sure sign of the arrival of a stranger. David Evans, a millwright, of Llandilo, informed me a short time ago, that one evening when he was staying in Lampeter, the woman of the house who was preparing tea for supper at a late hour, forgot to replace the lid on the pot. When she found it out, she exclaimed: "A stranger is sure to come here to-night." The husband and wife, and the millwright sat down by the fire till a late hour, but there was no sign of a stranger; just as they were going to bed, however, there was a knock at the door, and a stranger came in! Superstitions about Knives.--To cross your knife and fork is considered unlucky; and crossed knives foretell some approaching disaster. To find a knife on the road or in a field is also supposed to be a very bad omen. This superstition is very general in all parts of Wales, and even in far off parts of the world as well. Many years ago in Patagonia, South America, two friends of mine and myself met in a field one morning by appointment, in connection with some particular business. Each of us three had come from different directions, and each of us had arrived at the spot the same time, and when we came together, strange to say, we discovered that each of us had found a knife on the way! The names of my two friends were Edwin Roberts, and William James, one was a native of Flintshire, and the other a native of Cardiganshire, both of them were no means superstitious; but I well remember that they were very much perturbed on account of the knives, and feared that some serious misfortune was going to happen. As soon as we went home we heard the sad news that a young man named Isaac Howells, was accidentally drowned in the river! It is also very generally believed at present, that it is unlucky to receive a knife as a present. In such cases it is customary to pay a penny for the knife. Wish whenever you get the first taste of the season of any kind of food. It is also considered very lucky to taste as many Christmas puddings as you can. It is considered unlucky to pass under a ladder. When walking a long journey if your feet are sore rub the feet of your stockings with soap. A ringing in the right ear is a sign of good news; but a ringing in the left one, unpleasant news. When the palm of your left hand itches, you are about to give away some money, or some one is blaming you; but when the palm of you right hand itches, it is a sign that you are about to receive money, or that someone is praising you or writing a kind letter to you. When going on a journey, if the sole of your right foot itches, the journey will be a pleasant one; but the contrary if the left foot itches. A child born with a caul is supposed to be very lucky, and he will always be safe from drowning. A caul is much appreciated among sailors in West Wales, as it is believed that to keep one on board the ship secures a safe voyage. In all parts of Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire, it is generally believed among women that it is unlucky to cut the nails of an infant under six months old. The mother bites them off as they grow. Superstition about Whistling.--It is considered unlucky for a young woman to whistle. Whistling is also, or at least was regarded, as "Talking with the Devil." Mr. Ferrar Fenton in "Pembrokeshire Antiquities," page 59, says, that many years ago he happened to whistle one day whilst walking on the pier at Fishguard with a young sea captain. The Captain seemed very much perturbed at the whistling, and at last said to Mr. Fenton:--"I wish you would not whistle here!" "Why? What harm does it do?" "Well, you know," he said slowly, as if shy at his words, "We Welshmen and sailors are superstitious over some things, and whistling as you now do, is one of them." "Superstitious! Not you! But tell me about it: I love all those old tales." "You see," he replied, "my mother and all the old people told me when a boy that such kind of whistling was the way Croignorian (Magicians) talk with the Devil, and sailors believe something like it, and it always makes my heart start to hear it, especially on the seashore." Then he added, "Look! how muggy it is behind Pencaer. You'll bring a gale, and I always feel pity for the sailors afloat when a sou'-wester rages in the channel behind it." When the great Divine and Martyr, Bishop Ferrar, of St. David's, was burnt alive at Carmarthen in 1555, amongst other pretences for his destruction he was accused of being a Magician, and "teaching his infant son to talk with the Devil by means of whistling." In the old days of sailing ships, wind was an agent of great value; and sometimes sailors whistled for a wind, and this whistling was considered a direct invocation to "the prince of the power of the air" to exert himself on their behalf. I have heard of an old man who is still alive who believes that the devil has some control over wind and rain. THE MOON. There are still lingering in Wales many beliefs and practices with respect to the moon. It is considered unlucky to see the new moon the first time through the window, and many persons go out of doors to see her and show her a piece of money to insure good luck while that moon lasts. I was told by an old gentleman in Cardiganshire that he had seen many taking off their hats and bowing to the new moon; some ladies also make a curtsey to her, and it is considered very lucky to see her over the right shoulder. If a person wishes anything when he sees the new moon after New Year's Day, his wish will be granted to him. Putting a Hen to Sit.--A hen is put to sit so as to get the chick out of the egg at the waxing, and not at the waning of the moon, as it is believed that the young birds are strong or weak according to the age of the moon when they are hatched. Sowing.--There are still many people who are very particular to sow their seeds in their gardens and their fields during the first quarter of the moon, owing to the idea that the seed will then germinate quicker, and grow stronger than when the moon is on the wane. I knew a farmer--a native of Llanfynydd, in Carmarthenshire--who was always very careful to sow his wheat during the first quarter or the waxing of the moon, and it is a well-known fact that he had always a good crop at harvest time. There are also people who are very particular about having their hair cut just before or about full moon so that it might grow better afterwards. When a child, I was told that the dark object which is to be seen in the moon is a man who was taken up there as a punishment for gathering firewood on the Sabbath Day. WEATHER SIGNS, SEASONS. The cat sitting with her back to the fire is considered to be a sign of snow. The cock crowing on rainy weather is a sign of fair weather for the rest of the day. Sea-gulls flying seaward betoken fair weather; when they fly landward, a storm is coming. When the crane flies against the stream, that is, up the river towards its source, it is considered a sign of rain; but the same bird going down the river, is a sign of fair weather. The same is said of the heron. To see ducks and geese flap their wings and dive wildly about is a sign of rain. Crows flying low portend rain; but if they fly high in the air it is a sign of fair weather. The same is said of swallows. Other rain signs are the woodpecker's screech; and the cows running wildly about. If the mountain ponies leave the low and sheltered valleys and return to the mountains during hard weather, it is a sign of a change in the weather. The sheep flocking together is a sign of rough weather. According to the old Welsh saying the rainbow appearing in the sky in the morning portends rain; and in the afternoon fair weather:-- "Bwa'r arch y bore, Aml a hir gawode; Bwa'r arch prydnawn, Tywydd teg a gawn." Rainbow in the morning, Frequent and long showers; Rainbow in the afternoon, Fair weather we shall have. Ceredigion, in "Bye-Gones," August 2nd, 1905, says: "All along the Merioneth and Cardiganshire Coasts farmers watch the sea carefully in harvest time. If there be not a cloud in the sky; if the wind be in a dry quarter; and if the sea be of cerulean blue, if the margin be discoloured and muddy, the farmers know that rain is approaching and will probably be on them before nightfall." If distant mountains are clearly seen, rain may be expected; but if the mountains appear as if they were far off, it is a sign of fine weather. When the smoke from the chimney falls down toward the ground, instead of rising upward, it is a sign that rainy weather will soon follow; but if the smoke goes upward straight, it is a sign of fair weather. In the evening, when the horizon in the west is tinged with a ruddy glow it is a sign that fair and dry weather will come. In the summer, when the atmosphere is dense and heavy it is a sign of a thunder-storm. Rough weather may be expected when the wind blows the dust about, and throws down people's hats. When the stone floors are damp and are long in drying after having been washed is a sign of fair weather. It is also considered a good sign to see large numbers of white butterflies. Another good sign of fine weather is the sun setting red and clear. Bread and butter falling on the floor upside down signifies "rain is near," according to some folks. When the moon's horns are turned up, it is a sign of fine weather; if they are turned down rain is coming. When the face of the moon is partially obscured by a light thin vapour rain is coming. Welsh people in country places generally expect a change of weather when the moon changes; and I have just been informed at Llanilar, that a new moon on a wet Saturday, brings wet weather, but that, on the other hand, a new moon on a fine Saturday, brings fine weather. By Christmas, the days are said to have lengthened "a cock's stride." The following Welsh weather sayings I often heard when a boy:-- "Chwefrol chwyth, Chwytha'r deryn oddiar ei nyth." (February's blast Blows the bird from its nest.) "Mawrth a ladd, Ebrill a fling." (March kills, April flays.) If the hazel (collen) blooms well it is a sign of a fruitful year. "A NUTTY YEAR." In Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire, it is believed that if nuts will be numerous, many children will be born that year. A MILD WINTER. I have met many people all over Wales who think that a very mild winter is not good, and they repeat the old saying:-- "Gaeaf glas, mynwent fras." which means that "When the winter is green, many funerals will be seen." BIRDS AND BEASTS LORE. THE CUCKOO. It is believed in Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire by many, especially old people, that the cuckoo does not go away from this country in winter, but sleeps in some sheltered place. When a boy, I often heard the following ditty:-- "Amser y gwcw yw Ebrill a Mai, A hanner Mehefin, chwi wyddoch bob rhai." (The Cuckoo's time is April and May, And half of June, as all know, I daresay). The cuckoo making its appearance before the leaves are on the hawthorn bush is a sign of a bad year; and for the bird not to appear at its usual time is also a bad sign; hence: "Gwcw Glamme, Cosyn dime." When you hear the cuckoo for the first time in the season it is very important to have money in your pocket in order to secure good luck for the coming year. People turn the money in their pockets with their hands, and sometimes toss a piece into the air. It is also considered very lucky to hear this bird for the first time when you are standing on green grass; but if you are on the road or on bare ground, it is otherwise. I have met people who do not like to hear the cuckoo for the first time before they get up from bed in the morning. To see the bird coming to the door is also regarded as an evil omen by some. A woman in North Cardiganshire informed me that a cuckoo came to the door before her father died. The cuckoo is supposed to be accompanied by the wryneck known in Welsh as Gwas-y-Gwcw. If we are to believe an old legend, the cuckoo in former times used to begin to sing at Nevern, in Pembrokeshire, on the 7th of April, patron day of that parish; and George Owen of Henllys, who lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth, says, "I might well here omit an old report as yet fresh, of this odious bird, that in the old world the parish priest of the Church would not begin mass until this bird, called the citizen's ambassador, had first appeared and began her note, on a stone called St. Byrnach's Stone, being curiously wrought with sundry sorts of knots, standing upright in the Church-yard of the parish, and one year staying very long, and the priest and the people expecting her accustomed coming (for I account this bird of the feminine gender) came at last, lighting on the said stone, her accustomed preaching place, and being scarce able once to sound the note, presently fell dead." According to another old legend, this stone upon which the cuckoo began her note, was at first intended by St. David for Llanddewi Brefi, but St. Brynach prevailed upon him to leave it at Nevern. The Rev. J. T. Evans, Rector of Stow, gives this legend in "The Church Plate of Pembrokeshire." THE SWALLOW--Y WENNOL. Many superstitions which cluster round the Swallow, have descended to us from remote antiquity; and among the Romans this bird was sacred to the household gods and the family. In Wales, it was formerly believed that the swallow, like the cuckoo, slept through the winter. This bird is also supposed to bring good fortune to the house upon which it builds its nest. If, however, the bird forsakes its old nest on a house, it is considered a sign of ill-luck. It is also most unlucky to break a swallow's nest. "Y neb a doro nyth y wenol Ni wel fwyniant yn dragwyddol." (Whoever breaks a swallow's nest, Never, never shall be blest.) ROBIN REDBREAST. "Cursed is the man who kills a Robin," and ill-luck follows those who take the eggs of this little bird. The following Carmarthenshire story about the robin appeared in Bye Gones, vol. 1. p. 173:-- "Far, far away, is a land of woe, darkness, spirits of evil, and fire. Day by day does the little bird bear in its bill a drop of water to quench the flame. So near to the burning stream does he fly that his dear little feathers are scorched; and hence is he named Bronchuddyn (Qu. Bronrhuddyn), i.e., breastburned, or breastscorched. To serve little children, the robin dares approach the infernal pit. No good child will hurt the devoted benefactor of man. The robin returns from the land of fire, and, therefore, he feels the cold of winter far more than the other birds. He shivers in brumal blasts, and hungry he chirps before your door. Oh, my child, then, in pity throw a few crumbs to the poor redbreast." This old Welsh legend has been rendered into verse by the poet Whittier. THE WREN--Y DRYW. It seems from the following Welsh rhyme that the wren was also a sacred bird:-- "Pwy bynag doro nyth y dryw, Ni wel byth mo wyneb Duw." (Whoever breaks a wren's nest Shall never know the Heavenly rest.) It was once customary in Pembrokeshire to carry a wren round the houses during the Christmas holidays. I have given a full account of this custom in another chapter. How the wren became king of the birds, is related in the next paragraph. THE OWL. The Owl is rather unpopular in Wales, and its hooting is considered a sign of ill-luck, if not of death. This bird is also supposed to be "hateful unto all birds." To account for the unpopularity of the owl there are many legends. The following is given by Mr. H. W. Evans, Solva, in the "Pembrokeshire Antiquities," p. 49: "At one time all the birds unanimously decided to elect unto themselves a king; and (probably with an eye on the eagle) they resolved to crown monarch the bird that would soar the highest. On a signal being given they all started on their upward flight. After a very exciting contest the eagle was seen considerably higher than all other birds. Having reached the highest altitude possible he, in a loud voice, proclaimed himself king. 'No, no, not yet,' said a wren which had perched on the eagle's back and had now flown a few yards higher. 'Come up here,' said the wren; but the eagle, having exhausted his strength, was unable to raise himself, and so the wren became king. When the birds beheld their king, they became very sad and sorrowful, and they cried bitterly. Afterwards they met in solemn conclave, and decided to drown their king in tears. So they procured a pan to hold their tears, and the birds gathered and craned their necks over the pan and wept. But the owl clumsily mounted the edge of the pan, thereby upsetting it, and spilled the tears. The birds became enraged at this, and swore vengeance against the owl, and ever since he has not dared to show himself during the day, and is obliged to seek his food at night, when all other birds are asleep." According to another version of this tale which is extant in Carmarthenshire, the wren in the contest for the kingship fell to the ground and hurt himself. The birds in compassion, prepared healing broth to cure the little bird--each bird putting something in the pot towards making this broth--the owl through his clumsiness was guilty of upsetting this pot containing the healing broth. According to the Mabinogion, (see Math the son of Mathonwy) a woman named Blodeuwedd, for her wickedness towards her husband was turned into an owl; "and because of the shame thou hast done unto Llew Llaw Gyffes, thou shalt never show thy face in the light of day henceforth; and that through fear of all the other birds.... Now Blodeuwedd is an owl in the language of this present time, and for this reason is the owl hateful unto all birds." THE RAVEN. To see one raven crossing the road when a person starts on a journey, is a bad omen; two ravens, however, are considered lucky. THE MAGPIE. I know many people in country places who are pleased to see two or three magpies going together from left to right when a person starts on a journey, as they regard it an omen of good luck. But to see a magpie crossing from the right to the left means ill-luck. Fortunately, however, a person can make void this bad luck by making a cross on the road and spit in the middle of it. A raven crossing after the magpie also makes void the bad luck, according to some; but the superstitions about the magpie and the raven are very similar. Should a magpie descend on the back of a cow on the evening the animal is taken into the cow-house for the winter, it is a bad sign; but should this occur when the cow is taken out from the cowhouse for the summer, it is a good omen. An old woman at Yspytty Ystwyth, informed me that the magpie was a bird of evil omen; for on the very day before her husband was killed at the mines, she saw three magpies close to the window. THE MAGPIE AND THE WOOD-PIGEON. "The Magpie, observing the slight knowledge of nest building possessed by the wood-pigeon, kindly undertook the work of giving his friend a lesson in the art, and as the lesson proceeded, the Wood-pigeon, bowing, cooed out:-- Mi wn! Mi wn! Mi wn! I know! I know! I know! The instructor was at first pleased with his apt pupil, and proceeded with his lesson, but before another word could be uttered, the bird, swelling with pride at its own importance and knowledge, said again:-- I know! I know! I know! The Magpie was annoyed at this ignorant assurance, and with bitter sarcasm said: 'Since you know, do it then,' and this is why the wood pigeon's nest is so untidy in our days. In its own mind it knew all about nest building and was above receiving instruction, and hence its clumsy way of building its nest. This fable gave rise to a proverb, "As the wood pigeon said to the magpie: 'I know.'" Iolo MSS., page 567. THE PIGEON. It is said that if a sick person asks for a pigeon's pie, or the flesh of a pigeon, it is a sign that his death is near. There is also a superstition that people cannot die in ease if there are pigeon's feathers in their pillows. A writer in "Bye-Gones" refers to the case of a woman who died in 1803 at a farm-house called Southern Pills in the Parish of Lawrenny, Pembrokeshire, and states that on her death-bed the nurse snatched the pillow from under her head. THE BEES. The bees understand Welsh; for a woman on the borders of Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire informed me that they have a Queen, who leads, and that they follow, when she bids them to come in these words:-- "Dewch, Dewch, Dewch." (Come, come, come.) There are many superstitions about bees. There was a custom once of telling the bees of a death in the family, and they were even put in mourning. It was once considered by some very lucky to find that a strange swarm of bees had arrived in the garden or tree; if, however, they alighted on a dead tree it was an ill omen. THE BEES AND ST. DAVID. "Modomnoc, a disciple of St. David, went to Ireland, and a large swarm of bees followed him, and settled on the prow of the ship where he sat. They supplied him with meat during his Irish Mission; but he, not wishing to enjoy their company by fraud, brought them back to Wales, when they fled to their usual place, and David blessed Modomnoc for his humility. Three times the bees went and returned, and the third time holy David dismissed Modomnoc with the bees, and blessed them, saying that henceforth bees should prosper in Ireland, and should no longer increase in Glyn Rosyn. 'This,' adds Rhyddmarch, 'is found to be the fact: swarms forthwith decreased at David's; but Ireland, in which, until that time, bees could never live, is now enriched with plenty of honey. It is manifested that they could not live there before; for if you throw Irish earth or stone into the midst of the bees, they disperse, and, flying, they will shun it.'--"Pilgrimage to St. David's." THE COCK. It is very curious that some people think that it is very lucky to possess a white cock and a black cat, whilst others look upon them with extreme disfavour. "Na chadw byth yng ynghylch dy dy, Na cheiliog gwyn na chath ddu." (Never keep about thy house, A white cock, nor a black cat.) A cock crowing in the day-time before the door announces the visit of a friend; but should he crow at night before or about midnight, it is considered a sign of death. Cock-fighting was once common in Wales, and spots have been pointed out to me here and there, in Carmarthenshire and Cardiganshire where such fights took place. THE CAT. In some parts of the country a black cat is looked upon with extreme disfavour; in other parts again people say that a black cat keeps trouble out of the house. "Cath ddu yn cadw gofid ma's o'r ty." It was thought that cats born in May bring snakes into the house. If the cat washed her face, strangers might be expected. FLYING SERPENTS--GWIBEROD. The Welsh name Gwiber means a flying snake, or a flying serpent, an imaginary creature supposed to be a kind of dragon. There are traditions of these dangerous creatures in several parts of Wales; and it was formerly believed that a snake, by drinking the milk of a woman, became transformed into a flying serpent. This superstition was very common in the southern part of Cardiganshire until very recently. A few years ago when staying for a short time at Talybont in the northern part of the same county, a rocky spot was pointed out to me, about a mile from the village, where, according to tradition, a Gwiber which attacked people, had a lurking place in former times. There is also a tradition in the parish of Trelech, Carmarthenshire, that a Gwiber lurked in that neighbourhood once upon a time. At last the creature was shot. A FLYING SERPENT AT NEWCASTLE EMLYN. The most remarkable story of this kind is the well-known tradition of the appearance of a gwiber or Flying Serpent in the neighbourhood of Newcastle Emlyn, in the Vale of Teivi. This interesting small town boasts of a fine old castle, or at least the ruins of one, and it was upon the top of this castle the flying serpent or dragon alighted and rested. According to some, this took place as late as the eighteenth century, on a fine summer day. The flying creature was seen about mid-day, and as there was a fair at Newcastle Emlyn that day the town was crowded with people. The appearance of the "Gwiber" or dragon terrified the people, both old and young, and they feared that their lives were in jeopardy. The strange creature's skin was covered by a hard and stony substance or shell, except the navel. The people were afraid of attempting to kill this flying monster, and did not know what to do. Fortunately, a valiant soldier who had been fighting for his country on land and sea, volunteered to put an end to the life of this strange and terrific creature, or die in the attempt. So taking off all his clothes, except his trousers, he proceeded with his gun in hand and stood right in the river. He then took a good aim at the creature's navel which was the only part of its body not covered with shell. As soon as the soldier fired, in order to escape an attack from the flying serpent, he left a red flannel on the surface of the water, whilst he himself dived into the river and, at last, by swimming against the current, succeeded to land safely on the bank on the other side. The serpent fell or rushed into the river and began to attack the red flannel, but it was soon discovered that the creature had been mortally wounded, for the water of the river was coloured with its blood. A version of this story appeared in "Y Brython," fifty years ago, and another version of it written by the Rev. W. Eilir Evans, appeared in a Welsh book called "Hirnos Gauaf," published in 1899. CATTLE. Many of the farmers are very much perturbed when a cow brings forth two calves. A few years ago a farmer's wife in the parish of Llangybi, near Lampeter, informed me that one of the cows had twin calves, and that she was very anxious to sell the animal as soon as possible, as such an incident was considered an omen of ill-luck or a very great misfortune to the family or the owner. This superstition is very general in Carmarthenshire and Cardiganshire; but I have heard that in some parts of North Wales a contrary view is taken of such an event. When the first calf of the season happens to be a male one, it is a sign of a successful year to its owner, but the contrary, if the calf is a she one. If the new born calf is seen by the mistress of the house with its head towards her, as she enters the cowhouse to view her new charge and property, it is a good omen. It is also considered a good sign to find the cattle wild and difficult to manage on the way to the fair; for you'll sell them to your advantage. THE MILK-WHITE MILCH COW. The milk-white Milch Cow gave enough of milk to every one who desired it; and however frequently milked, or by whatever number of persons, she was never found deficient. All persons who drank of her milk, were healed of every illness; from being fools they became wise, and from being wicked, became happy. The cow went round the world; and wherever she appeared, she filled with milk all the vessels that could be found; leaving calves behind her for all the wise and happy. It was from her that all the milch cows in the world were obtained. After traversing the Island of Britain, for the benefit and blessing of country and kindred, she reached the Vale of Towy; where, tempted by fine appearance and superior condition, the natives sought to kill and eat her; but just as they were proceeding to effect their purpose, she vanished from between their hands, and was never seen again. A house still remains in the locality, called Y Fuwch Laethwen-Lefrith, (the Milk-white Milch Cow).--Iolo M.S.S., page 475. There is a version of this well-known legend of the mythic cow, located near Aberdovey. According to the Aberdovey tale, the cow was of Fairy origin, and disappeared into Barfog Lake when a farmer attempted to slaughter the animal. THE ASS. I was told when a boy that the stripe over the shoulders of this animal was made by our Lord when He rode to Jerusalem. CHAPTER IX. WITCHES, WIZARDS, PROPHECIES, DIVINATION, DREAMS. WITCHES. The popular belief in witchcraft, is often alluded to by Shakespeare. In times gone by witches held dreaded sway over the affairs of men, perhaps more or less in almost every country; for they were suspected to have entered into a league with Satan, in order to obtain power to do evil, and it was thought that they possessed some uncanny knowledge which was used by them to injure people, especially those whom they hated. It was also believed that they could cause thunder and lightning, could travel on broomsticks through the air, and even transform themselves and others into animals, especially into hares. A good many other imaginary things were also placed to the credit of witches. In the beginning of last century, and even up to the middle of it, witchcraft was very strongly believed in in many parts of Pembrokeshire, Cardiganshire, Carmarthenshire, Radnorshire, and Montgomeryshire. Even at the present time, there are some who believe that there is in it something more than a mere deception. I have met several who still believe in it. Many well-known characters were proud of being looked upon as witches and conjurors; because they were feared as such and could influence people to be charitable to them. Many an old woman supposed to be a witch, took advantage of the credulity of the people, went about the farm houses to request charity in the way of oat-meal, butter, milk, etc., and could get almost anything, especially from the women, from fear of being witched; for it was believed that these witches could bring misfortune on families, cause sickness, and bring a curse on both men and animals; so that many used to imagine that they were bewitched whenever anything went wrong, even a slight mischance. Unfaithful young men would soon fulfil their promise when they found out that the girl they had slighted was consulting a witch, so that there was some good even in such a foolish superstition as witchcraft. WITCHES SELLING THEMSELVES TO THE DEVIL. In order to become witches it was believed in Cardiganshire that some old women sold themselves to the Father of Lies by giving to His Satanic Majesty the bread of the Communion. The following story I heard about three years ago, and my informant was Mr. John Davies, Gogoyan Farm, a, farmer who had heard it from old people:-- Sometime in the beginning of the last century, two old dames attended the morning service at Llanddewi Brefi Church, and partook of the Holy Communion; but instead of eating the sacred bread like other communicants, they kept it in their mouths and went out. Then they walked round the Church outside nine times, and at the ninth time the Evil One came out from the Church wall in the form of a frog, to whom they gave the bread from their mouths, and by doing this wicked thing they were supposed to be selling themselves to Satan and become witches. It was also added that after this they were sometimes seen swimming in the river Teivi in form of hares! According to Cadrawd, there was an old man in North Pembrokeshire, who used to say that he obtained the power of bewitching in the following manner:--The bread of his first Communion he pocketed. He made pretence at eating it first of all, and then put it in his pocket. When he went out from the service there was a dog meeting him by the gate, to which he gave the bread, thus selling his soul to the Devil. Ever after, he possessed the power to bewitch. A SERVANT MAID WITCHED IN A CHAPEL. An old woman of about eighty years of age, named Mrs. Mary Thomas, Bengal, near Fishguard, Pembrokeshire, informed me about four years ago, that when she was a young girl, the Gwaun Valley in that county was full of witches, more especially of the descendants of one particularly malicious old woman who in her time had proved a terror to the neighbourhood. On one occasion, a well-known family who practised the black art and were guilty of witchcraft, wanted to become members of the Baptist Chapel at Caersalem, and at last they were admitted; but after being received as members of the chapel, they were ten times worse than before. One witch during Divine Service, even on the very day she became a communicant, witched a young woman who was a fellow servant of my informant at a farm called Gellifor, near Cilgwyn. The witch was sitting behind, and in the very next pew to the young woman she witched, which caused the unfortunate girl to rush out from the chapel, and was seen running about the road almost wild and mad. After she had been wild and ill for some time, and every remedy having failed to recover her, her father at last went to Cwrt-y-Cadno, over forty miles away in Carmarthenshire, to consult Dr. Harries, a well-known wizard and a medical man. The conjurer informed the man that his daughter had been witched in chapel by an old woman who was a witch, and he showed him the whole scene in a magic mirror! In order to unwitch the girl, and to prevent further witchcraft, the wizard gave the father some paper with mystic words written on it, which the young woman was to wear on her breast. A GIRL WHO WAS BEWITCHED BY THE GYPSIES, NEAR CARMARTHEN. About fifty years ago there was a young woman very ill in the parish of Llanllawddog, Carmarthenshire, but no one could tell what was the matter with her, and the doctor had failed to cure her. At last, her mother went to consult the local wizard, who at that time kept a school in the neighbouring parish of Llanpumpsaint, and lived at a place called Fos-y-Broga. At the woman's request the conjurer accompanied her home to see her daughter. After seeing the girl he entered into a private room alone for a few minutes, and wrote something on a sheet of paper which he folded up and tied it with a thread. This he gave to the woman and directed her to put the thread round her daughter's neck, with the folded paper suspending on her breast. He also told the mother to remember to be at the girl's bedside at twelve o'clock that night. The young woman was put in bed, and the wizard's folded paper on her breast. The mother sat down by the fireside till midnight; and when the clock struck twelve she heard her daughter groaning. She ran at once to the poor girl's bedside, and found her almost dying with pain; but very soon she suddenly recovered and felt as well in health as ever. The conjurer had told the girl's mother that she had been bewitched by the Gypsies, which caused her illness, and warned the young woman to keep away from such vagrants in the future. The Conjurer's paper, which had charmed away her illness was put away safely in a cupboard amongst other papers and books; and many years after this when a cousin of the mother was searching for some will or some other important document, he accidentally opened the wizard's paper and to his surprise found on it written: "Abracadabra, Sickness depart from me." My informant, whose name is Jones, an old farmer in the parish of Llanpumpsaint, vouches for the truth of the above story, and that the young woman was a relation of his. Another old man, named Benjamin Phillips, who lives in the same neighbourhood gave me a similar tale of another girl bewitched by the Gypsies, and recovered by obtaining some wild herbs from a conjurer. Such stories are common all over the country. Certain plants, especially Meipen Fair, were supposed to possess the power of destroying charms. A CARDIGANSHIRE GIRL WHO HAD BEEN WITCHED. I obtained the following story from David Pugh, Erwlwyd, Carmarthenshire, an old farmer who is over 90 years of age:-- A woman from Cardiganshire whose daughter was very ill and thought to have been bewitched, came to the Wizard of Cwrt-y-Cadno, in Carmarthenshire to consult him. The wise man wrote some mystic words on a bit of paper, which he gave to the woman, telling her that if her daughter was not better when she arrived home to come to him again. The woman went home with the paper, and to her great joy found the girl fully recovered from her illness. My informant knew the woman, as she had called at his house. ANOTHER CARDIGANSHIRE WOMAN WITCHED. An old man living in the parish of Llangwyryfon, seven miles from Aberystwyth, named Jenkin Williams, told me the following story six years ago when he was 89 years of age, and vouched for the truth of the account:--A certain woman who lived in that parish was supposed to be a witch, and it was said she had a brother a wizard: Her husband was a shoemaker. Another woman who used to go back and fore to the town of Aberystwyth, with a donkey-cart, refused on one occasion to bring some leather to the supposed witch and her husband. Soon after this, the woman was taken ill, and the shoemaker's wife was suspected of having witched her. The son of the sick woman went to Cwrt-y-Cadno in Carmarthenshire to consult the "Dyn Hysbys." The conjurer told the young man to go home as soon as possible, and that he should see the person who caused his mother's indisposition coming to the house on his return home. When the son reached home who should enter the house but the supposed witch, and as soon as she came in she spoke in Welsh to his mother something as follows:--"Mae'n ddrwg genyf eich bod mor wael, ond chwi wellwch eto, Betti fach." (I am sorry you are so unwell, but you will get well again, Betty dear). The sick woman recovered immediately! A FARMER'S DAUGHTER AT WALTON EAST, IN PEMBROKESHIRE BEWITCHED FOR FIFTEEN YEARS FOR REFUSING ALMS TO AN OLD HAG. Mrs. Mary Williams, Dwrbach, a very old woman, informed me, that about 55 years ago, there was a well-known witch in the neighbourhood of Walton East, and that on one occasion two young women, daughters of a farm in that part of the country, were taken ill quite suddenly, and were supposed to have been witched by this old woman. The mother of the two young women went to the witch and rebuked the old hag, saying: "Old woman, why did you witch my daughters? Come and undo thy wickedness." The old woman replied that she did not do anything to them. But the mother still believing that she was guilty, compelled her to come along with her to the farmhouse and undo her mischief. At last, she came, and when they reached the door of the farmhouse, the witch pronounced these words in Welsh: "Duw ai bendithio hi." (God bless her). Any such expression pronounced by a witch freed the bewitched person or an animal from the spell. One of the two sisters (both of whom were in bed in another room), overheard these words of the old woman, but her sister did not hear or at least did not catch the words. The young woman who heard the supposed witch saying "Duw a'i bendithio hi," got well at once, but her poor sister who missed hearing, instead of recovering went worse, if anything, than before, and continued to keep to her bed for fifteen years. And during all these years she was so strange, that even when her own mother entered her room, she would hide under the bed clothes like a rat, and her food had to be left on her bed for her, for she would not eat in the presence of anybody. At last, the old woman who was thought to have witched the young woman, died, and as the the mortal remains of the witch were decaying in the grave, the girl began to get better, and she soon fully recovered and became quite herself again after fifteen years' illness. My informant added that after recovering, the young woman got married and received £1,500 from her parents on her wedding-day, and that she is still alive (or was very lately) and a wife of a well-to-do farmer. My informant also said that she was well acquainted with the family. MEN WITCHED BY AN OLD LLEDROD HAG. About sixty years ago Thomas Lewis, Garthfawr, between Llanilar and Lledrod, was for some time suffering from almost unbearable bodily pain, and did not know what to do. The general belief was that he had been bewitched by an old woman who was a terror to the neighbourhood; and at last a man went to Llangurig, in Montgomeryshire, to consult a wise man about it. It was found out soon afterwards that as soon as the conjurer was consulted, the sick man fully recovered from his illness, got up from bed, dressed himself, and came down from his bedroom and felt as well as ever, to the very great surprise and joy of all his family and friends. My informant, Thomas Jones, of Pontrhydfendigaid, who knew the man well, vouches for the truth of this story. Mr. Jones also gave me an account of another man who was witched by the same old hag. The wife of Rhys Rhys, Pwllclawdd and her sister were churning all day, but the milk would not turn to butter. Rhys, at last, went to the old witch and asked her to come and undo her mischief, as she had witched the milk. She was very unwilling to come, but Rhys compelled her. When Mrs. Rhys and her sister saw the old witch coming, they ran to hide themselves in a bedroom. The hag took hold of the churn's handle for a few seconds, and the milk turned to excellent butter at once; but poor Rhys who had always been a strong man till then, never enjoyed a day of good health after; for the old hag witched the farmer himself in revenge for compelling her to unwitch the milk. A HORSE WITCHED. Thomas Jones, an old man who is 85 years of age and lives at Pontrhydfendigaid, informed me that about sixty years ago, the old witch was greatly feared by the people of the neighbourhood, as it was generally believed that the hag cursed or witched those whom she disliked. On one occasion, when her neighbour's horse broke through the hedge into her field, she witched the animal for trespassing. The horse was shivering all over and everything was done in vain to cure the poor animal; but the very moment John Morgan, the Llangurig conjurer was consulted, the horse fully recovered, and looked as well as ever. My informant vouches for the truth of this, and says he had seen the horse, and that the man who consulted the conjurer was a friend of his, and, that he even knew the conjurer himself. CATTLE WITCHED. At Mathry in Pembrokeshire, there was a celebrated witch, and people believed that she was often guilty of witching the cattle. On one occasion when a servant maid of a farm-house in the neighbourhood had gone out one morning to milk the cows, she found them in a sitting posture like cats before a fire, and in vain did she try to get them to move. The farmer suspected the witch of having caused this. He went to her at once, and compelled the hag to come and undo her evil trick. She came and told him that there was nothing wrong with the cows, and she simply put her hand on the back of each animal, and they immediately got up, and there was no further trouble. HORSES KILLED BY WITCHCRAFT IN RADNORSHIRE. Mr. Theophilus, a blacksmith, at Cilcwm, in Carmarthenshire, 80 years of age, informed me that he well remembered a Radnorshire farmer who had lost two horses, one after the other, and as he had suspected that the animals were "killed by witchcraft" he decided to go all the way to Cwrt-y-cadno to consult the wise man about it. The man travelled all the way from Radnorshire, and in passing the small village of Cilcwm, where my informant lived, begged the blacksmith to accompany him to the conjurer who lived in another parish some distance off. The wizard told him that it was such a pity he had not come sooner, "for," said he, "if you had come to me yesterday, I could have saved your third horse, but now it is too late, as the animal is dying. But for the future take this paper and keep it safely and you will have your animals protected." I was also informed that farmers came all the way from Herefordshire to consult the wise man of Cwrt-y-Cadno. SHEEP KILLED BY AN OLD WITCH. Mrs. Edwards, an old woman who lives at Yspytty Ystwyth, in Cardiganshire, informed me that she knew an old witch who lived in the neighbourhood of Ystrad Meurig. One day, this hag saw two shepherds passing her cottage on their way to the mountain with some sheep. The old woman espied one particular lamb and begged one of the shepherds to give the animal to her as a present, but the young man refused her request. "Very well," said the witch, "thou wilt soon loose both the lamb and its mother, and thou shalt repent for thus refusing me." Before reaching the end of the journey to the mountain, the sheep and her lamb died, and it was all put down to the hag's account, for it was believed that she had witched them to death in revenge. A SHIP WITCHED. On a particular occasion nearly sixty years ago, a large number of the leading gentry and others from all parts of Pembrokeshire went to witness the launch of H. M. Ship "Cæsar," at Pembroke Dock. Among the crowd there was an old woman named "Betty Foggy" who was believed to possess the power of witching. When Betty noticed a lot of gentry going up the steps to the grand stand, she followed suit with an independent air; but she was stopped by the police. She struggled hard to have her way, but was forced back. She felt very angry that she had to yield, and shouted out loudly: "All right, the ship will not go off," but the old hag's threat was only laughed at. The usual formalities were gone through, and weights dropped, and amidst cheering the ship began to glide away--but not for long, for the "Cæsar" soon became to stand and remained so till the next tide when she got off by the assistance of some ships afloat, and other means. The old witch was delighted, and people believed that she was the cause of the failure to launch the ship. MILK THAT WOULD NOT CHURN AND THE WITCH. Many believe, and some still believe, especially in Cardiganshire, that when milk would not churn that witches had cursed it. An old woman at Ystrad Meurig, who was supposed to be a witch, called one day at a farm house and begged for butter, but being refused she went away in a very bad temper. The next time they churned the milk would not turn to butter, and they had to throw it out as they were afraid of giving it to the pigs. When they were churning the second time again the milk would not turn to butter as usual. But instead of throwing out the milk as before, they went to the old woman and forced her to come to the farmhouse and undo her spell. She came and put her hand on the churn, and the milk successfully turned to butter. My informant was Mrs. Edwards, Ysbytty Ystwyth. ANOTHER CARDIGANSHIRE STORY OF MILK THAT WOULD NOT TURN TO BUTTER. The following account was given me by Mr. Jenkin Williams, Llangwyryfon:-- There was a man and his family living at a cottage called Penlon, a small place just enough to keep one cow. The name of the man was John Jones; and on one occasion when he and his wife were trying to churn they failed to do so, or in other words the milk would not turn into butter. At last J. Jones went to Cwrt-y-Cadno, in Carmarthenshire to consult the "Dyn Hysbys." The wizard as he often did, gave the man a bit of paper with some mystic words on it, and told him not to show it to anybody, as the charm could not work after showing the paper to others. As he was passing on his way home through a place called Cwm Twrch, he met with a woman who accosted him and asked him where he had been to. The man was rather shy, but at last he admitted that he had been to Cwrt-y-Cadno to consult the conjurer, and he told the woman everything. "I well knew," said the woman, "You had been to Cwrt-y-Cadno, for only those who go to the conjurer pass this way; show me the paper which he gave to you, for I am a cousin of the conjurer." And the man showed it to her. "The paper is alright," said she, "Take it home with you as soon as you can." He went home with great joy, but unfortunately the churning still proved a failure. Instead of undertaking another journey himself again, J. Jones went to his neighbour Jenkin Williams, and begged him to go to the conjurer to obtain another paper for him, and at last J. Williams went. The conjurer, however, was not willing to give another paper without £1 cash for it; but he gave it at last for a more moderate price, when my informant pleaded the poverty of his friend. When Williams asked the wise man what was the reason that the milk would not churn, the reply was that an enemy had cursed it by wishing evil to his neighbour. When this second paper was taken home (which was not shown to anybody on the road), the milk was churned most successfully, and splendid butter was obtained. In some places a hot smoothing iron thrown into the churn was effective against the witch's doings. BURYING THE CHARM. In some of the stories I have already given a paper obtained from a conjurer in the way of charm was considered very effective to undo the witch's evil doings; but from the following story, which I obtained from David Pugh, Erwlwyd, it seems that it was necessary in some cases to bury this bit of paper in the ground. It was also thought a few generations ago, that a letter hidden under a stone was a good thing to keep away both witches and evil spirits and to secure good luck to a house. Many years ago in the neighbourhood of Llandilo, Carmarthenshire, a young farmer was engaged to be married to a daughter of another farmer; but a few days before the wedding-day the bride and bridegroom and their families quarrelled, so that the wedding did not take place. After this, ill-luck attended the young farmer day after day; many of his cattle died till he became quite a poor man very depressed in spirit. The young woman who had been engaged to him was a supposed witch so she was suspected of having caused all his misfortunes. His friends advised him to consult a wizard, and he did so, as there was a "dyn hysbys" close by at Llandilo, in those days, so it was said. The wizard informed the farmer that he and his friends were right in their suspicions about the young woman, and that his losses had been brought about by her who had once been engaged to be married to him. Then the wizard wrote something on a sheet of paper and handed it to the young farmer directing him to bury this paper down in the ground underneath the gate-post at the entrance to his farmyard. The young man went home and buried the paper as directed by the wizard, and from that time forth nothing went wrong. PROTECTIVES AGAINST WITCHCRAFT. Mrs. Mary Thomas, Bengal, near Fishguard, informed me that it was customary when she was young to counteract the machinations of witches by killing a mare and take out the heart and open and burn it, having first filled it up with pins and nails. This compelled the witch to undo her work. Mrs. Thomas also added that when the heart was burning on such occasions the smoke would go right in the direction of the witch's house. Another old woman near Fishguard, informed the Rev. J. W. Evans, a son of the Rector of Jordanston, that she remembered an old woman who was thought to be guilty of witching poor farmers' cattle. At last she was forced to leave the district by the people who believed her to be a witch. But soon after she left a cow died, and even her calves were ill. People took out the cow's heart and burnt it, which forced the hag to return to heal the calves. A FISHGUARD WITCH DISCOMFITED. Another way of protecting oneself from witchcraft was to keep a nail on the floor under the foot when a witch came to the door. Mr. David Rees, baker at Fishguard, told me a few years ago that there was once a particular witch in that town who was very troublesome, as she was always begging, and that people always gave to her, as they were afraid of offending her. She often came to beg from his mother, who at last, as advised by her friends, procured a big nail from a blacksmith's shop. She put the nail under her foot on the floor, the next time the old witch came to the door begging. The old hag came again as usual to beg and to threaten; but my informant's mother sent her away empty handed, saying, "Go away from my door old woman, I am not afraid of you now, for I have my foot on a nail." She kept her foot on the nail till the witch went out of sight, and by doing so felt herself safe from the old hag's spells. Nails or a horseshoe or an old iron were considered preservatives against witchcraft. A CILCWM STORY. Mr. Theophilus, the old blacksmith, at Cilcwm, in Carmarthenshire, told me that when he was a boy the cattle had been witched by an enemy. They would not touch the grass in the field of their own farm; but whenever put in any field of another farm they would graze splendidly. My informant's mother could not understand this, and she felt very much distressed about it. At last she took the advice of friends and went to consult the Wizard of Cwrt-y-Cadno, who informed her that an enemy with whom she was well acquainted, had witched her cattle. Then he advised her to go home and buy a new knife, (one that had never been used before), and go directly to a particular spot in the field where a solitary "pren cerdinen" (mountain ash) grew, and cut it with this new knife. This mountain ash, and some of the cows' hair, as well as some "witch's butter" she was to tie together and burn in the fire; and that by performing this ceremony or charm, she should see the person who was guilty of witching her cows, coming to the door or the window of her house. My informant told me that his mother carried out these directions, and that everything happened as the wizard had foretold her. After this, there was nothing wrong with the cows. WITCHES AND THE MOUNTAIN ASH. Of all things to frustrate the evil designs of witches the best was a piece of mountain ash, or as it is called in Welsh "pren cerdinen." The belief in mountain ash is very old in Wales, and the tree was held sacred in ancient times, and some believe that the Cross of our Lord was made of it. Witches had a particular dread of this wood, so that a person who carried with him a branch of "pren cerdinen" was safe from their spells; and it is believed in Wales, as well as in parts of England, that the witch who was touched with a branch of it was the victim carried off by the devil when he came next to claim his tribute--once every seven years. I was told a few years ago at Talybont, that many in that part of Cardiganshire grew mountain ash in their gardens, and that a man carrying home a little pig was seen with a branch of this wood to protect the animal from witchcraft. In South Pembrokeshire many carry in their pockets a twig of the mountain ash when going on a journey late at night; and a woman at Llanddewi Brefi, in Cardiganshire, Miss Anne Edwards, Penbontgoian, informed me about seven years ago that when she was a child the neighbourhood was full of witches, but nothing was so effective against them as the mountain ash; no witch would come near it. A man travelling on horseback, especially at night, was very much exposed to the old hags, and the horse was more so than even the man riding the animal; but a branch or even a twig of the mountain ash carried in hand and held over the horse's head, protected both the animal and the rider against all the spells of witches. The same woman informed me that on one occasion, the servant man and the servant girl of Llanio Isaf, in that parish, were going to the mill one night, but all of a sudden they found both themselves and their horse and cart right on the top of a hedge. This was the work of the witches. After this, they carried a mountain ash, so as to be safe. Another old woman in Pembrokeshire, named Mrs. Mary Williams, Dwrbach, informed me that a notorious old hag who was supposed to be a witch, was coming home on one occasion from Haverfordwest fair, in a cart with a farmer who had kindly taken her up. As they were driving along the road between Haverfordwest and Walton East, they happened to notice three teams harrowing in a field, and the farmer who was driving the cart asked the witch whether she could by her spells stop the teams? "I could stop two of them," said she, "but the third teamster has a piece of mountain ash fast to his whip, so I cannot do anything to him." Mrs. Mary Williams also informed me that when she was a little girl her mother always used to say to her and the other children on the last day of December: "Now children, go out and fetch a good supply of mountain ash to keep the witches away on New Year's Day," and branches of it were stuck into the wall about the door, windows and other places outside. Then witches coming to beg on New Year's Day could do no harm to the inmates of the house. In Carmarthenshire, Cardiganshire, and North Pembrokeshire, the mountain ash is called "pren cerdinen," but it was once known in the South of Pembrokeshire, where the people are not of Welsh origin, as "rontree"; and the name "rowan" is still retained in some parts of England, which is derived according to Dr. Jameson, from the old Norse "runa," a secret, or charm, on account of its being supposed to have the power to avert the evil eye, etc. DRAWING BLOOD FROM A WITCH. Drawing blood from a witch by anyone incapacitated the old hag, from working out her evil designs upon the person who spilt her blood. Many years ago a farmer from the neighbourhood of Swyddffynon, in Cardiganshire, was coming home late one night from Tregaron, on horseback. As he was crossing a bridge called Pont Einon (once noted for its witches), a witch somehow or other managed to get up behind him on the horse's back; but he took out his pocket-knife with which he drew blood from the witch's arm, and he got rid of the old hag. After this, she was unable to witch people. My informant was Mr. John Jones, of Pontrhydfendigaid. THE TRANSFORMATION OF WITCHES. Witches were supposed to transform themselves into animals, especially that of an hare. And this belief is a very old one, for Giraldus Cambrensis seven hundred years ago in his "Topography of Ireland," (Bonn's edition) says: "It has also been a frequent complaint, from old times as well as in the present, that certain hags in Wales, as well as in Ireland and Scotland, changed themselves into the shape of hares, that, sucking teats under this counterfeit form, they might stealthily rob other people's milk." Tales illustrative of this very old belief are still extant in Wales, and John Griffiths, Maenclochog, in Pembrokeshire, related to me the story of: A WITCH WHO APPEARED IN THE FORM OF AN HARE EVERY MORNING TO A SERVANT MAID AT MILKING TIME. Griffiths informed me that when his mother was young, she was engaged as a servant maid at a small gentleman's seat, called Pontfaen, in the Vale of Gwaun. But whenever she went out early in the morning to milk the cows, an old witch who lived in the neighbourhood always made her appearance in the form of an hare, annoying the girl very much. At last she informed her master of it, and at once the gentleman took his gun and shot the hare; but somehow, the animal escaped, though he succeeded in wounding and drawing blood from her. After this, the young woman went to see the old hag who was supposed to be a witch, Maggie by name, and found her in bed with a sore leg. A WITCH IN THE FORM OF AN HARE SHOT BY A FARM SERVANT. The following tale was told me by a Mrs. Edwards, Ysbytty Ystwyth, in Cardiganshire:-- An old witch who lived at Tregaron, went to Trecefel, a large farm in the neighbourhood, to beg for the use of a small corner of a field to grow some potatoes for herself. The farmer himself was away from home at the time, but his wife was willing, as she was afraid of offending the witch. The head servant, however, refused her request, and sent her away, which naturally made her very angry, and in departing she used threatening words. One day, soon after this, the same servant was out in the field, and he noticed a hare in the hedge continually looking at him, and watching all his movements. It occurred to him at last that this creature was the old witch he had offended, appearing in the form of a hare, and somehow or other he had not the least doubt in his mind about it, so he procured a gun and fired, but the shot did not inflict any injury on the hare. In the evening, when he met some of his friends at a house in the village, the man servant told them everything about the hare and of his suspicion that she was the witch. One of his friends told him that ordinary shots or bullets were no good to shoot a witch with, but that it was necessary for him to load his gun with a bent four-penny silver coin. He tried this, and the next time he fired the hare rolled over screaming terribly. Soon after this, people called to see the old woman in her cottage, and found that she had such a wound in her leg that she could hardly move. Dr. Rowland was sent for, and when he came and examined her leg he found a fourpenny silver coin in two pieces in it. "You old witch," said he, "I am not going to take any trouble with you again: death is good enough for your sort," and die she did. The possibility of injuring or marking the witch in her assumed form so deeply that the bruise remained a mark on her in her natural form was a common belief. A WITCH IN THE FORM OF A HARE HUNTED BY A PEMBROKESHIRE SQUIRE'S HOUNDS. The following tale was told me by Mrs. Mary Thomas, Bengal, near Fishguard:-- The Squire of Llanstinan, was a great huntsman, but whenever he went out with his hounds, a certain hare always baffled and escaped from the dogs. He followed her for miles and miles, day after day, but always failed to catch the animal. At last the people began to suspect that this hare must have been a witch in the shape of a hare, and the gentleman was advised to get "a horse and a dog of the same colour," and he did so. So the next time he was hunting he had a horse and a dog of the same colour, and they were soon gaining ground on the hare; but when the dog was on the very point of catching the animal, the hare suddenly disappeared through a hole in the door of a cottage. The Squire hurried to the spot and instantly opened the door, but to his great surprise the hare had assumed the form of an old woman, and he shouted out: "Oh! ti Mari sydd yna." (It is you Mary!) A WITCH IN THE FORM OF A HARE HUNTED IN CARDIGANSHIRE. Mr. Rees, Maesymeillion, Llandyssul, told me the following tale which he had heard from an old woman in the neighbourhood:-- Once there was a Major Brooks living in the parish of Llanarth, who kept hounds and was fond of hunting. One day, he was hunting a hare that a little boy of nine years old had started; but the hare not only managed to elude her pursuers, but even to turn back and attack the hounds. The hunting of this hare was attempted day after day, but with the same results; and the general opinion in the neighbourhood was, that this hare was nothing but an old witch who lived in that part, with whom the huntsman had quarrelled. An old man in Carmarthenshire informed me that an old woman known as Peggy Abercamles, and her brother Will, in the neighbourhood of Cilcwm, in that county were seen running about at night in the form of hares. THE FAMILIAR SPIRIT OF A WITCH SHOT IN THE FORM OF A HARE. From the following story which I heard at Talybont, in North Cardiganshire, it seems that witches did not always transform themselves. In some cases it was thought that the hare was not the witch herself, but the old hag's Familiar Spirit assuming the shape of a hare in her stead; but the life of the witch was so closely connected with the Familiar, that when the Familiar was shot, the witch suffered. The tale is as follows:-- There was an old woman at Llanfihangel Genau'r Glyn, who was supposed to be a witch. One day a man in the neighbourhood shot a hare with a piece of silver coin. At the very time when the hare was shot, the old woman who was a witch was at home washing, but fell into the tub, wounded and bleeding. It was supposed by the people of the neighbourhood that the hare which was shot was the old hag's familiar spirit. MEN CHANGED INTO ANIMALS. It is said that an old witch near Ystrad Meurig, in Cardiganshire, turned a servant man of a farm called Dolfawr, into a hare on one occasion; and into a horse on another occasion and rode him herself. In the Mabinogion we have the Boar Trwyth, who was once a King, but God had transformed into a swine for his sins. Nynniaw and Peibaw also had been turned into oxen. And in the topography of Ireland, by Giraldus Cambrensis, mention is made of a man and a woman, natives of Ossory, who through the curse of one Natalis, had been compelled to assume the form of wolves. And while speaking of witches changing themselves into hares the same writer adds: "We agree, then, with Augustine, that neither demons nor wicked men can either create or really change their nature, but those whom God has created can, to outward appearance, by His permission, become transformed, so that they appear to be what they are not." If learned men, like Augustine and Giraldus Cambrensis and others, believed such stories, it is no wonder that ignorant people did so. I am inclined to believe, like the late Rev. Elias Owen, that the transformation fables that have descended to us would seem to be fossils of a pagan faith once common to the Celtic and other cognate races. The belief in transformation and transmigration has lingered among some people almost to the present day. Mr. Thomas Evans, Gwaralltyryn, in the parish of Llandyssul, informed me that he was well-acquainted with an old Ballad singer, who was known as Daniel Y Baledwr. Daniel lived near Castle Howel, and sang at Llandyssul fairs, songs composed by Rees Jones, of Pwllffein. This ballad-singer told my informant that he was sure to return after death in the form of a pig, or of some other animal; and that an animal had a soul or spirit as well as a man had. WIZARDS. There were many conjurers in Wales in former times, and even at the present day there are a few who have the reputation of practising the Black Art; for we still hear occasionally of persons taking long journeys to consult them, especially in cases of supposed bewitched cattle, horses, pigs, etc. I have already given stories of conjurers counteracting the machinations of witches, and delivering both people and animals from their spell. But they were accredited with the power to do many other things beside. They could, it was thought, compel a thief to restore what he had stolen; could also reveal the future and raise and command spirits. The possibility of raising spirits, or to cause them to appear, was once believed in in Wales, even in recent times; and Shakespeare in his Henry the Fourth, Act III., S. 1., makes the Welshman, Glendower say:-- "I can call Spirits from the vasty deep." Wizards and others who practised magical arts were supposed to be able to summon spirits at will; but it seems that some could not control the demons after summoning them. An old man at Llandovery, named Mr. Price, who was once a butler at Blaennos, informed me that an old witch at Cilcwm, named Peggy, found it most difficult to control the spirits in the house, and sometimes she had to go out into a field, and stand within a circle of protection with a whip in her hand. Conjurers possessed books dealing with the black art, which they had to study most carefully, for it was thought that according to the directions of magical books the spirits were controlled. It was considered dangerous for one ignorant of the occult science to open such books, as demons or familiar spirits came out of them, and it was not always easy to get rid of such unearthly beings. An old woman at Caio, in Carmarthenshire, informed me that the great modern wizard Dr. Harries, of Cwrtycadno, who lived in that parish, had one particular book kept chained and padlocked. The old woman also added that people were much afraid of this book, and that even the wizard himself was afraid of it, for he only ventured to open it once in twelve months, and that in the presence and with the assistance of another conjurer, a schoolmaster from Pencader, who occasionally visited him. On a certain day once every twelve months, Dr. Harries and his friend went out into a certain wooded spot not far from the house, and after drawing a circle round them, they opened the chained book. Whenever this ceremony was performed it caused thunder and lightning throughout the Vale of Cothi. My informant vouched for the truth of this, and stated that her husband had been a servant to Harries. A wizard in Pembrokeshire, named William Gwyn, of Olmws, Castell Newydd Bach, with his magic book invoked a familiar spirit. The spirit came and demanded something to do; William commanded him to bring some water from the River in a riddle! In the 18th century a well-known wizard in the same county was one John Jenkins, a schoolmaster. But the greatest wizard in the beginning of 19th century was Aby Biddle, of Millindingle, who was in league with the evil one or at least many of the people in South Pembrokeshire believed so. Aby Biddle's real name was Harries; but, of course, he was not the same person as Harries of Cwrtycadno, in Carmarthenshire. There are still many most curious stories concerning him in South Pembrokeshire, and as typical of other tales, I give the following story which appeared a few years ago in "The Welsh Tit Bits" column of the "Cardiff Times:"-- THE PRIESTS AND THE HORNETS. In the winter of 1803 there was an evening gathering at the ---- Vicarage, which consisted chiefly of clerics, and Aby Biddle was of the number of the guests, having been invited as a source of pastime to help beguile some of the long hours of that forsaken spot. Seldom did he go beyond the solemn dingle, but he had been prevailed upon on this occasion. Much merriment was expected, nor was the expectation misleading, save that it was entirely at the expense of the clerics. The hours glided along gently on the wings of fairy tales. The party remained until the small hours of the morning, singing, merry-making, and tale-telling in turn. The conversation now furtively drifted in the direction of occult science. Aby Biddle sat near the window. Every now and again as he listened to the words magic and witchcraft and various opinions respecting them, he pulled back a corner of the blind and the pale light of the moon flickered on his countenance, revealing the lines of a retreating smile. A loquacious young cleric interposed a caustic remark at this point and fanned the fire into flame, and the discussion was like to have taken a somewhat lively turn had not a broad-browed divine on whose head rested the snow of full three score winters and ten, sternly rebuked the young priest. This divine denounced sorcery and conjuration in unmeasured language. Another aged divine of Puritanic air nodded his assent. Aby Biddle said nothing, though some of the company invited him to speak, but played carefully with the fringe of the curtain. During a momentary lull in the conversation, he rose suddenly, paced the room for a minute or two, and disappeared into the lawn. He was not gone many seconds before he returned with three small rings in his hands. He held these up and remarked, "Gentlemen, we'll see whether conjuring is possible or not." He placed the rings on the floor, at a distance of about a yard apart, and hurriedly left the room, taking care to turn the key in the lock on the smooth side of the door. The priests turned their gaze intently in the direction of the rings. Suddenly there appeared in one of the rings a fly flitting and buzzing. The fly grew. In half a minute or less it had grown into a monster hornet. No sooner had this metamorphosis taken place than it frisked into one of the other rings, and another fly appeared in its place. This one also developed into a hornet, giving way, when fully formed, to a third fly. Each ring was now occupied, and the clerics wondered what next would happen. Little time had they for musing, for the third fly quickly accomplished its transformation, when the first one left the ring and flew through the room. New hornets appeared in quick and quicker succession. The guests became now thoroughly alarmed. Priestly amusement gave way to pallid amazement. More and more came the dreaded hornets, louder and louder their droning hum. They filled the room, they darkened the whitened ceiling, and insinuated themselves into the hoary locks of the Puritanic divine so that he yelled hoarsely. It was utter confusion, and all were rushing wildly here and there for refuge or escape, when the conjuror reappeared with a merry laugh, and a loud "Ho! is conjuring possible now, gentlemen?" The Cloth was soon pacified, the hornets dismissed to their sylvan home, and the reputation of the Aby Biddle established as a mighty magician in the minds of some noted parsons of Pembrokeshire. SIR DAFYDD LLWYD, YSPYTTY YSTWYTH. About two hundred years ago there lived in the neighbourhood of Ysbytty Ystwyth, in Cardiganshire, a wizard and a medical man, known as Sir Dafydd Llwyd, who had been a clergyman before he was turned out by the Bishop for dealing in the Black Art. According to "A Relation of Apparitions," by the Rev. Edmund Jones, it was thought that he had learnt the magic art privately at Oxford in the profane time of Charles II. Like other wizards Sir Dafydd also had a Magic Book, for the Rev. Edmund Jones tells us that on one occasion when he had "gone on a visit towards the Town of Rhaiadr Gwy, in Radnorshire, and being gone from one house to another, but having forgotten his Magic Book in the first house, sent his boy to fetch it, charging him not to open the book on the way; but the boy being very curious opened the book, and the evil Spirit immediately called for work; the boy, though surprised and in some perplexity, said, "Tafl gerrig o'r afon,--(throw stones out of the river) he did so; and after a while having thrown up many stones out of the river Wye, which ran that way, he again after the manner of confined Spirits, asking for something to do; the boy had his senses about him to bid it to throw the stones back into the river, and he did so. Sir David seeing the boy long in coming, doubted how it was; came back and chided him for opening the book, and commanded the familiar Spirit back into the book." SIR DAFYDD DEFEATING A RIVAL WIZARD. According to the stories still extant in North Cardiganshire, this Sir Dafydd Llwyd had a most wonderful control over the demons. The following tale was told me by Mr. D. Jones, Bryntirion, Llanilar: A rival wizard who lived in the neighbourhood of Lampeter, on one occasion challenged Sir Dafydd to a contest in the black art, in order to prove to the world which of the two wizards was the cleverest in controlling the demons. On the morning of the appointed day for the contest between the two experts in the black art, Sir Dafydd sent his boy to an elevated spot to have a look round if he could see a bull coming from the direction of Lampeter. The boy went, but ran back immediately to inform his master that a most savage bull was approaching. Off went Sir Dafydd to Craig Ysguboriau, and stood on the spot with his open magic book in his hand. The bull, or rather a demon in the form of a bull, fiercely attempted to rush at him, but Sir Dafydd compelled him to return whence he came. The animal returned to Lampeter and rushed at once at the Lampeter wizard, and killed him. So Sir Dafydd defeated and got rid of his rival. Another story I heard at Ysbytty Ystwyth was that one Sunday morning when Sir Dafydd went to Church, he sent his boy to keep away the crows from the wheat field; but when he came home he found that the boy had collected all the crows into the barn. Sir Dafydd at once discovered that the boy had learnt the Black Art. There is a tradition in the neighbourhood that the body of Sir Dafydd lays buried under the wall of Yspytty Ystwyth Churchyard, and not inside in the Churchyard itself, and people still believe that this is a fact. The story goes that the wizard had sold himself to the devil. The agreement was that the arch-fiend was to have possession of Sir Dafydd if his corpse were taken over the side of the bed, or through a door, or if buried in a churchyard. In order to escape from becoming a prey to the Evil One, the wizard on his death-bed had begged his friends to take away his body by the foot, and not by the side of the bed, and through a hole in the wall of the house, and not through the door, and to bury him, not in the churchyard nor outside, but right under the churchyard wall. So that his Satanic majesty, who had been looking forward for the body of Sir Dafydd, was disappointed after all. That it was formerly believed that the devil could be out-witted or deceived is evident from the fact that in the Middle Ages it was often customary to bury an ungodly rich man in the garb of a Monk. This could be done by paying the Monks a certain sum of money. There is a story very much like the one I have just given, to be found in the South-Western part of Montgomeryshire. In the Montgomeryshire version, however, the wizard is not Sir Dafydd Llwyd, but Dafydd Hiraddug, who had charged his friends, that on his death, the liver and lights were to be taken out of his body and thrown on the dunghill. They were then to take notice whether a raven or a dove got possession of them; if a dove got possession of them, he was to be buried like any other man in the churchyard; but if a raven, then he was to be buried under the wall, and under the wall he was buried, as a raven got possession of the liver and lights. The devil in disappointment cried out:-- "Dafydd Hiraddug ei ryw, Ffals yn farw, ffals yn fyw." (Dafydd Hiraddug, ill-bred False when living, false when dead.) The dove and the raven play their part in many of the wizards tales. An old man from Llandilo, named David Evans, informed me that the wizard of Cwrtycadno asked his friends to throw his heart on the dunghill. If a dove came for it first, he had been a good man; but a raven, a sign that he had been a bad man. The appearance of a dove at the time of a death or a funeral was regarded as a sure sign that the deceased had been a good man. The Rev. Edmund Jones in his "Apparitions," referring to the death of a certain godly man, says that "Before the body was brought forth, a white dove came and alighted upon the bier." WIZARDS RIDING DEMONS THROUGH THE AIR. In the present day we hear a great deal about airships; but if we are to believe some of the old folk-stories, magicians travelled through the air in days long before anyone had ever dreamt of a balloon. In former times it was believed by the ignorant that a wizard with his magic book could, and did, summon a demon in the shape of a horse, and travelled on the back of the fiend through the air. It is said that Sir Dafydd Llwyd of Ysbytty Ystwyth, employed a demon for that purpose; and one night when he was riding home from Montgomeryshire on a demon in the shape of a horse, a boy who rode behind him on the same horse lost one of his garters on the journey. After this the boy went to search for his garter, and to his great surprise saw it on the very top of a tree near the church, which convinced him that the wizard and himself had been riding home through the air! There was also at Llanbadarn Fawr, in the same county, about seven hundred years ago, a Knight named Sir Dafydd Sion Evan, who was supposed to be taking journeys through the air on a demon-horse. This Sir Dafydd was at times absent for weeks; and when he returned he was often wet with foam and covered with seaweed, or his head and shoulders sprinkled with snow, during the heat of summer. At other times he was blackened with smoke and smelling strong of sulphureous fire. On one occasion when Sir Dafydd had mounted this "devil-born" horse, and had gone up a considerable height into the air, the horse turned his head and said, "How I have forgotten Sir Davy Sion Evan; I asked not of the course of thy travel; art thou for steering above wind, or below wind"? "On Devil-born!" said Sir Davy, "and stint prate." Such tales of wizards riding through the air on demons are to be found in Scotland as well as Wales, and Sir Walter Scott in his Notes to the Lay of the Last Minstrel, gives the following story concerning Sir Michael Scott, who was chosen, it is said, to go upon an embassy to obtain from the King of France satisfaction for certain piracies committed by his subjects upon those of Scotland. Instead of preparing a new equipage and splendid retinue, the ambassador retreated to his study, opened his book, and evoked a fiend in the shape of a huge black horse, mounted upon his back, and forced him to fly through the air towards France. As they crossed the sea, the devil insidiously asked his rider what it was that the old women in Scotland muttered at bedtime? A less experienced wizard might have answered that it was the Pater Noster, which would have licensed the devil to precipitate him from his back. But Michael sternly replied, "What is that to thee? Mount Diabolus, and fly!" When he arrived at Paris, he tied his horse to the gate of the palace, entered, and boldly delivered his message. An ambassador with so little of the pomp and circumstances of diplomacy was not received with much respect; and the King was about to return a contemptuous refusal to his demand, when Michael besought him to suspend his resolution till he had seen his horse stamp three times. The first stamp shook every steeple in Paris, and caused all the bells to ring; the second threw down three of the towers of the palace; and the infernal steed had lifted his hoof to give the third stamp, when the King rather chose to dismiss Michael with the most ample concessions than to stand to the probable consequences. It seems that in Eastern countries also, there are traditions of magicians riding through the air, for in the "Arabian Nights," we have the story of the Enchanted Horse. An old carpenter, named Benjamin Phillips, Bronwydd Arms, Carmarthen, informed me the Wizard of Fos-y-Broga, often caused a demon to appear at night in the form of a white bull, on the road near Llanpumpsaint. THE HARRIESES OF CWRTYCADNO, THE POPULAR MODERN WIZARDS. The most popular and greatest wizards of modern days were undoubtedly the Harrieses of Cwrtycadno, in Carmarthenshire. John Harries lived at Pantcoy, Cwrtycadno, in the Parish of Caio, and died in the year 1839. His sons were also popular conjurers, one of whom only died about 45 years ago. Harries was a medical man, an astrologer, and a wizard, and people came to enquire of his oracle from all parts of Wales, and from the English borders, especially Herefordshire, and his name was familiar through the length and breadth of the land. It is said that he had a wonderful power over lunatics; could cure diseases; charm away pain; protect people from witches, and foretell future events, etc. Good many stories are told of him by old people, and I have already introduced his name in my account of witches. I was told by an old man, Mr. David Evans, a millwright from Llandilo, that the popularity of Harries as a wizard originated as follows:--A young woman somewhere in that part of the country was lost, and could not be found after searching for her everywhere; at last her relations and friends went to Cwrtycadno to consult Dr. Harries. The wizard informed them that the girl had been murdered by her sweetheart, and that he had hid her body in the earth, under the shades of a tree, in the hollow of which they would find a bee's nest. The tree stood alone near a brook. The searching party at last came across the spot indicated by the conjurer, and here they found the young woman's body buried, as the wise man had told them. The young man who had murdered the girl was found, and confessed the crime. When the authorities of the law became aware of these facts, the wizard was brought before the magistrates, at Llandovery, where he was charged with knowing and abetting of murder, otherwise he could not have known she was murdered, and where she was buried. He was, however, discharged. According to the "History of Caio," by F. S. Price, an interesting book presented to me by Lady Hills-Johnes, the wizard told the magistrates (Lloyd, Glansevin, and Gwyn, Glanbran), that if they would tell him the hour they were born, he would tell them the hour they would die! CWRTYCADNO CONJURER AND SPIRIT RAISING. I did not hear any stories of Dr. Harries riding demons through the air like Sir Dafydd Sion Evan and others; but it was believed, and it is still believed by many, that he could and did summon spirits to appear. A few years ago when I was allowed to search what is left of the Library of Harries, which is still to be seen at Pantcoy, where he lived, I found a large number of medical books, and Greek and Latin works, I also found several books dealing with astrology, magic art, charms, etc.; but the much talked of padlocked volume full of demons was last I was told though amongst other curious things I found the following "Invocation":-- HOW TO OBTAIN THE FAMILIAR OF THE GENIUS OR GOOD SPIRIT AND CAUSE HIM TO APPEAR. "After the manner prescribed by Magicians, the exorcist must inform himself of the name of his Good Genius, which he may find in the Rules of the Travins and Philermus; as also, what Chonactes and Pentacle, or Larim, belongs to every Genius. After this is done, let him compose an earnest prayer unto the said Genius, which he must repeat thrice every morning for seven days before the Invocation.... When the day is come wherein the Magician would invocate his prayer to Genius he must enter into a private closet, having a little table and silk carpet, and two waxen candles lighted; as also a chrystal stone shaped triangularly about the quantity of an apple which stone must be fixed upon a frame in the centre of the table; and then proceeding with great devotion to Invocation, he must thrice repeat the former prayer, concluding the same with Pater Noster, etc., and a missale de Spiritu Sancto. Then he must begin to consecrate the candles, carpet, table and chrystal, sprinkling the same with his own blood, and saying: I do by the power of the holy Names Aglaon, Eloi, Eloi Sabbathon, Anepheraton, Jah, Agian, Jah, Jehovah; Immanuel, Archon, Archonton, Sadai, Sadai, Jeovaschah, etc., sanctifie and consecrate these holy utensils to the performance of this holy work, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen. Which done, the Exorcist must say the following prayer with his face towards the East, and kneeling with his back to the consecrated table:--O thou blessed Phanael my angel guardian, vouchsafe to descend with thy holy influence and presence into this spotless chrystal, that I may behold thy glory, etc. This prayer being first repeated towards the East, must be afterwards said towards all the four winds thrice. And next the 70th Psalm repeated out of a Bible that hath been consecrated in like manner as the rest of the utensils, which ceremonies being seriously performed, the Magician must arise from his knees and sit before the chrystal bareheaded with the consecrated Bible in his hand and the waxen candle newly lighted waiting patiently and internally for the coming and appearance of the Genius.... Now about a quarter of an hour before the spirit come, there will appear great variety of apparitions within the glass; as first a beaten road or tract, and travellers, men, and women marching silently along. Next there will be rivers, wells, mountains, and seas appear, after that, a shepherd upon a pleasant hill feeding a goodly flock of sheep, and the sun shining brightly at his going down; and lastly, innumerable flows of birds and beasts, monsters and strange appearance, and which will all vanish at the appearance of the Genius. "The Genius will be familiar in the stone at the performance of the wizard." The following story of this Welsh wizard's spirit summoning was related to me a short time ago by a clergyman who is a native of Carmarthenshire, the Rev. J. Phillips, vicar of Llancynfelyn: THE FARMER WHO CONSULTED THE CONJUROR; OR THE FAMILIAR SPIRITS AND THE LOST COWS. A farmer who lived in the Southern part of Carmarthenshire, lost three cows. Having searched in vain for them everywhere, he at last went to Cwrt-y-Cadno, though he had a very long journey to go. When he arrived there and consulted Dr. Harries, the worthy wizard told him that he could not give him any information concerning his lost cows till next day, as he wanted time to consult his magic books. The farmer was a little disappointed, as he wanted to go home that evening; but under the circumstances there was nothing to be done but try and get a bed for the night at some farm in the neighbourhood. So he left the wizard for the night with the intention of returning to him again in the morning, when he hoped to hear something of his lost cows. But after going out of the house, he noticed a barn close by, which he entered, and found in a corner a heap of straw where he thought he could lie down and sleep comfortably till next morning. This he did unknown to the wizard, who took for granted that the farmer had gone to stay for the night at some house in the neighbourhood. He slept comfortably in the barn for a while, but about one o'clock in the morning, he was awakened by the sound of the wizard's footsteps entering the place at that untimely hour, with a lantern in his hand. The disturbed farmer could not imagine what he wanted in the barn at this time of the night, and he was afraid of being discovered. Presently, however, he noticed the conjurer drawing a circle around himself in the middle of the room; that is the well-known Wizard's Circle. Then he stood right in the middle of this circle, and having opened a book, he summoned seven demons or familiar spirits to appear, and in an instant they came one after another and stood outside the circle. Then he addressed or called out to the first spirit something as follows:--"Tell me where are the farmer's lost cows"? But the demon answered not. He repeated the question two or three times, but the Familiar was quite dumb. At last, however, it shouted out, 'A pig in the straw' but this was no reply to the wizard's question. Having failed with the first spirit, the wizard addressed the second one, and then the third, and so on till he had given the question to each one of the familiars except one, without any result; the spirits seemed very stupid on this occasion, and would not give the information required. Fortunately, however, when the question was given to the seventh and last of the demons, it shouted out, 'The farmer's cows will be on Carmarthen Bridge at 12 o'clock to-morrow.' Then the wizard left the barn and went to bed well pleased. The farmer who was hiding in the straw heard everything, and made up his mind to travel to Carmarthen at once, so as to be there in time to find his cows on the Bridge. So off he went to Carmarthen, and reached the Bridge just at 12 o'clock, and to his great joy the cows were there. Then he drove them home, but when he had gone about half-a-mile from the Bridge, the cows fell down as if half dead on the roadside, and in vain did he try to get them to move forward any further. So he had to go all the way to Cwrt-y-Cadno again, so as to consult what to do. When he arrived there "Serve thee right," said the wizard to him, "I have cast a spell on thy cattle for running away secretly last night from the barn without paying me for the information obtained from the spirits." Then the farmer gave the wizard a certain sum of money and returned to his three cows which he had left on the road half-a-mile from Carmarthen Bridge; and to his great joy the cows went home without any further trouble. A FAMILIAR SPIRIT IN THE SHAPE OF A DOG AND THE LONELY NIGHT TRAVELLER. On one occasion a certain man from Cilcwm, was on a visit in the neighbourhood of Cwrtycadno. When he started to return home it was getting rather late, and he had a long journey to go through a lonely mountainous country. The wizard, Dr. Harries, asked him if he was afraid of such a journey over the mountain in the depth of night. The man confessed that he did not like such a journey at that late hour without a single soul to accompany him, but that he was obliged to go home that night without fail; and so he proceeded on his way. As he journeyed along, the darkness of night overtook him on his way over the mountain, but to his great surprise, when he looked around him, he noticed a black dog following him, or rather walking by his side. The dog was very friendly, and the lonely traveller felt glad of the animal's company. So on they went together; but when they were nearing his home the dog vanished suddenly into nothing. The man was quite convinced that the dog was nothing but a familiar Spirit, in the shape of a dog, sent by the wizard to bear him company in his lonely night journey. The above story was related to me by the Rev. J. Phillips, vicar of Llancynfelyn. CONJURERS AND LUNATICS. About one hundred years ago there lived in the neighbourhood of Pencader, a wizard, named Phillips, who was very successful in curing lunatics. On one occasion, an old woman from Tregroes, near Llandyssul, took her son to him who had been insane from his birth. The wise man blew into the young man's face, and informed his mother that he would be sane for twenty years, and so it happened; but after twenty years he became insane again as the wizard had predicted. My informant was Mr. Rees, Maesymeillion, in the parish of Llandyssul, whose father's uncle remembered the lunatic. The wizard of Cwrt-y-Cadno was also very successful in curing lunatics. He would take the insane to the brink of the river and fire an old flint revolver which would frighten his patient to such a degree that he fell into the pool. WIZARDS REVEALING THE FUTURE. It was believed that conjurers could tell fortunes, or reveal the hidden future, and a good many, especially young people, consulted them. The following is a copy of a card which Harries of Cwrt-y-cadno distributed:-- "NATIVITY CALCULATED." In which are given the general transactions of the Native through life, viz:--Description (without seeing the person), temper, disposition, fortunate, or unfortunate in their general pursuits; honour, riches, journeys, and voyages (success therein, and what places best to travel to, or reside in); friends, and enemies, trade, or profession best to follow; whether fortunate in speculation, viz: Lottery, dealing in Foreign Markets, etc., etc., etc. Of marriage, if to marry.--The description, temper, and disposition of the person, from whence, rich or poor, happy or unhappy in marriage, etc., etc. Of children, whether fortunate or not, etc., etc., deduced from the influence of the Sun and Moon, with the Planetary Orbs at the time of birth. Also, judgment and general issue in sickness and diseases, etc. By Henry Harries. "All letters addressed to him or his father, Mr. John Harries, Cwrtycadno, must be post paid, or will not be received." A CONJURER SHOWING A YOUNG MAN HIS FUTURE WIFE. Harries, Cwrtycadno, had a magic glass, so it is said, into which a person looked when he wished to know or see the woman he was to marry. A young man named Phillips, once had gone from the parish of Llanllawddog, to Cwrtycadno, to show Dr. Harries some of his father's urine, which he took with him in a small bottle, as the old man was very ill. Harries examined it, and told the young man that his father would never get well again. The young man now decided to return home as soon as he could through Abergorlech, and Brechfa, where he intended staying for the night, as the journey was a long one. Just before he departed, however, Harries asked him, "By the way young man, would you like me to tell your fortune? I'll do it for 2s. 6d."; and so it was agreed. The conjurer had a large looking glass, the Magician's Glass, which was covered with a large board. He took off this covering, and told the young man to look into the glass. so as to see his future wife. He did look stedfastly as he was directed, and saw in the glass the form of a young woman passing by. Meanwhile, the wizard himself had entered alone into a little side room, where he was speaking loudly to a familiar Spirit, or something; but he soon returned to the young man and asked him, "Did you see anything in the glass?" "Yes, I saw a young woman." "Did you know her?" "No. I had never seen her before: she was a perfect stranger to me." "Well," said the conjurer, "whether you have met her or not, that young woman you saw in the glass is to be your future wife." Sometime after this, the young man and his brother, both being carpenters, were one day working on the roof of a house which had been damaged by a storm, and it so happened that some woman and her daughter, who were passing by, came to speak to them. When the women had gone away out of hearing, the young man, who had been to Cwrtycadno, said to his brother in surprise: "That young girl was the very one I saw in the Wizard's Magic Glass." This was their first acquaintance, and by and by they were married. My informant was their own son who is a carpenter, and lives about a mile from Bronwydd Arms Station, in Carmarthenshire. His name is Benjamin Phillips. ANOTHER SIMILAR TALE. About sixty years ago, Isaac Isaac, Tyllain, Llanarth, in Cardiganshire, went to Harries, Cwrtycadno, to consult him about something. The wise man was at the time busy with his harvest, and he asked Isaac to be as kind as to help him a little for telling his fortune, and he did so. As they were working together on the field. Harries asked the young man if he intended going to London? Isaac said, no, but that he had a letter in his pocket he wanted to forward to London. Then Harries took the young man to the house and showed him his future wife in a magic glass. He recognised her at once as the young woman to whom he was already engaged, and whom he finally married, though much against the wishes of the young lady's parents. My informant was Mr. Watkin Evans, Blaenpark, an old man who lives in the parish of Llanarth. THE WIZARD OF CWRTYCADNO FORETELLING THE FUTURE DESTINY OF A NEW BORN CHILD. Owen Evans, Maesydderwen, near Llansawel, Carmarthenshire, an old man of 90 years of age, informed me about four years ago that on one occasion, long ago, when a baby, a girl, was born to him and his wife, he went to Dr. Harries, Cwrtycadno, to consult him about the future destiny of the child. The conjurer spoke to him something as follows:--"I hope you will not be distressed when you hear what is going to happen to your dear child; but the truth of it is, she will have a very narrow escape from drowning at the age of four, and death awaits her at the age of twenty!" My informant then went on to tell me with tears in his eyes, that everything took place exactly as Harries told him. His dear girl at the age of four one day, whilst playing and running along the river side (River Cothy), fell over the banks into the water and nearly got drowned. After this, she never enjoyed good health, and at the age of twenty she died! Owen Evans informed me that when he went to Cwrtycadno, several other men accompanied him there, and one of them was named John Lloyd, who was a perfect stranger to Dr. Harries. But the wise man through his knowledge of the occult science, was able to tell this stranger that he had a mole on his head, and had met with an accident on his leg, which was true. My informant also added that the wizard "set great importance on the Planet under which a man was born." Mr. Thomas Davies, Penybont, Llanddewi Brefi, over 90 years of age, vouched for the truth of the following account:--Many years ago, Wiliam Davies, Pistill Gwyn Bach, Llanddewi Brefi, in Cardiganshire, had lost some money, and could not find it, so he went to Cwrtycadno, to consult Dr. Harries about it. The Conjurer told him where to find the money, and warned him to keep away from fairs, lest some accident should befall him. Wiliam was very careful for a time, but at last a son of his got married, and persuaded him to accompany him to a fair at Lampeter. He went, and was thrown down by a horse, and died in a few days. It is said in the neighbourhood of Caio that Dr. Harries had foretold the death of the Late Lamented Judge Johnes, of Dolaucothy, about thirty years before it took place. Mr. Johnes, who was highly respected, was cowardly murdered by a native of Ireland in 1876. Mr. D. Owen (Brutus), in his book "Brutusiana" which was published in 1840, condemns the wizard for his fortune telling: "The first day of winter. Severe is the weather, Unlike the first Summer, None but God can foresee what is to come." Druidical "Warrior Song." PREDICTION CONCERNING THE DEATH OF HIS LATE MAJESTY KING EDWARD. According to Mr. Arthur Mee, Cardiff, in the "Western Mail," May, 1910, astrologers who make a study of national forecasts, had predicted the death of the late King. SIR RHYS AP THOMAS CONSULTING A WIZARD CONCERNING KING HENRY VII. When the Earl of Richmond (afterwards Henry VII.) was about to land in Wales from France on his way to Bosworth, Sir Rhys Ap Thomas, consulted a well-known wizard and prophet, who dwelt at Dale, as to whether the Earl would be successful to dethrone Richard III. After much hesitation, and at the urgent demand of Sir Rhys, the Conjurer on the next day prophesied in rhyme as follows:-- "Full well I wend, that in the end Richmond, sprung from British race. From out this land the boare shall chase." The "Boare" meant Richard III. See "Life of Sir Rhys Ap Thomas," by M. E. James, page 49. THE CONJURER AND THE LOST OX. Mr. Thomas Jones, Brunant Arms, Caio, gave me the following account of what took place about 55 years ago, when his father lived at Penlifau, in the parish of Cilcwm, on the mountain side, and near the road which leads over the mountain from Cilcwm to Cwmcothi. A young farmer who lived at a place called Foshwyaid, Cwm Du, near Talley, has taken some cattle to Caio fair, in the month of August. Somehow or other, one of his oxen went astray from the Fair, and could not be seen anywhere in the neighbourhood. The young farmer and others went in every direction in search of the animal, but returned disappointed. At last, the man went to Cwrtycadno, to consult the "Dyn Hysbys." The wise man informed him that his ox had wandered away from the Fair, at first in a northernly, and afterwards in an easterly direction, "and" said he, "if you take the road leading from here over the mountain to Cilcwm, you will meet a man (the conjurer gave a description of the man) who is likely to know something, or at least give you some clue to your lost animal." The young farmer then went on his way, and after proceeding for some distance, he did meet a man as the conjurer had told him, and he told him all his troubles. Now this very man happened to be my informant's father who lived close by. Mr. Jones sympathised very much with the young farmer, and though a stranger, invited him home with him to get something to eat, and he accordingly went, and at the house, they talked together for some time. At last, the young farmer had to proceed again on his journey, rather disappointed, as his new friend who had showed every kindness, could give him no information about his lost ox. Jones went with him for a short distance, just to show him a path (a short cut) leading from the house to the road; and after bidding each other farewell, they parted. But before the young farmer had gone far, Jones called him back, and informed him that he had just recollected hearing some men, when coming home from Cilcwm Church last Sunday, talking together about some new ox which they had not noticed before in the field or yard of Tim. Davies, Gweungreuddyn (a path from the Church went close by T. D.'s farm). When he heard this bit of news from Jones, off he went at once as fast as he could go to Mr. Timothy Davies; and to his great joy, when he arrived there, found his stray animal quite safe in the "ffald." The local authorities had discovered the ox wandering about the country; but before the young farmer was allowed to take his animal home with him, the sum of seven shillings was to be paid for faldage. The young man went back to Jones, obtained the loan of seven shillings which he repaid honestly after arriving home with his ox. My informant also added that the conjurer had addressed the same young farmer as follows:--"My poor fellow, you are in great sorrow," "No" said the farmer, "Yes" said the conjurer again, "you have buried your mother a few weeks ago." The man then confessed that this was quite true. The wise man added, "A more melancholy event still awaits you at the end of twelve months." And at the end of twelve months the young farmer himself died! Watkin Evans, Blaenpark, informed me that a farmer in the parish of Dihewyd, Cardiganshire, found a harrow which he had lost by consulting a conjurer. One John Evans, of Llanddarog, in Carmarthenshire, 85 years ago, lost a bull, but he found the animal at Morfa, Kidwelly, by consulting a conjurer. THE CONJURER AND THE LOST HORSE. An old farmer, Mr. David Pugh, Erwlwyd, near Caio, Carmarthenshire, told me the following story a few years ago, and vouched for the truth of it:-- A friend of Mr. Pugh had lost a horse, and after searching in vain for the animal for a whole fortnight, he was at last advised to go to consult the "Dyn Hysbys." He rather hesitated at first, but he, however, went. The man was a farmer in the neighbourhood of Llandovery, but my informant did not wish to mention his name. The Wizard, Harries, of Cwrtycadno, consulted his oracles, but did not know what reply to give to the farmer at first about his animal. "Do tell me" said the farmer most earnestly, "what has become of my horse, or who has taken away the animal? It is such a loss to me to lose such a fine steed." Presently, the wizard informed him that a certain man (whom he described) had found the horse on the road, and caught the animal and tied him to a tree which was close by. After a while, this stranger took him home quietly and closed him in his own stable, fully making up his mind to sell the horse at the first opportunity. "And I am almost certain he'll succeed in doing so," added the conjurer, "I am afraid you'll never see your horse again." "Can you do something to prevent the thief selling my horse"? asked the farmer. "Yes," replied the wizard. The wise man then took some paper or parchment on which he inscribed some magic word, or words, and gave it to the farmer, telling him that so long as the parchment was kept safely in his pocket, the thief could not succeed in selling the horse at the fair. "But what can I do to find my stolen horse"? "Watch on the road next Friday, near Glanbran, and I feel almost certain that you will And your horse before the day is over, grazing on the roadside somewhere in that neighbourhood." The farmer then departed with the magic paper safely in his pocket, and when Friday came, he watched on the road, and to his great joy and surprise, he found the horse near Glanbran. Just as he mounted the animal to go home, a young man who passed by, told him that a few days ago, he had seen this very horse offered on sale at Rhayader fair, but that the man who was trying to sell him failed to do so! A LLANFAIR CLYDOGAU WIZARD. Mr. Walter Evans (Pentre-Richard), in the Parish of Llanddewi Brefi, informed me a few years ago, before he died, that some years ago, when he lost some sheep, a conjurer who lived on Llanfair mountain, directed or pointed out to him where to find them, and that they were found two days afterwards in some water nearly drowning as the wise man had said. This Llanfair Clydogau conjurer only died about nine years ago, and until he died people consulted him from the surrounding districts of Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire. The best service rendered by conjurers to society was to help people to discover thieves, and the superstitious often restored what they had stolen through fear. On one occasion a man who was often losing potatoes from the field went to Harries, Cwrtycadno, who was a terror to thieves. The conjurer showed him the thief in a magic glass, which enabled the man to discover who the culprit was. In another potato tale, the wise man, by means of his magic art forced the thief to appear at his house and confess his guilt. THE WIZARD OF LLANPUMPSAINT AND THE DUCKS OF ALLTYFERIN. Mr. Griffiths, of 'Rhenallt, an old farmer near Carmarthen, informed me about six years ago that long ago when he was a young man, he was once a servant at Alltyferin. Ducks were continually lost at the farm, and his master who suspected a neighbour as the thief, sent Griffiths with a letter to a conjurer who lived at Fosybroga. The wise man sent a note in reply giving a full description of the thief, and he was caught. A woman in Pembrokeshire, who had lost a most valuable picture, consulted a well-known wizard, who showed her a picture of the thief in a magic glass. She recognised the culprit at once as one of her intimate friends. The wizard then wrote the name of the thief on a piece of paper, and pierced it with a needle, and informed his client that if the picture was not restored to her within half an hour the thief would be eaten up of a strange disease. WIZARD MARKING THE CULPRITS. It was believed in Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire, that Harries, Cwrtycadno, could mark out thieves, and also persons who had an "Evil Eye," by causing a horn to grow out of their foreheads. A man in Tregaron had witched a woman, but the conjurer marked the mischievous person by putting a horn on his head. A farmer from the parish of Llangwyryfon, in Cardiganshire, whose cattle had been witched by a neighbour who had an evil eye, went to Llangurig in Montgomeryshire, to consult, a well-known conjurer who only died a few years ago. The Wizard for the payment of 10s. showed a picture of the offender in a magic mirror, and offered to cause him to die of a strange disease. The farmer begged the conjurer not to do that; that he did not desire to kill his enemy, only to punish him, and he was punished. My informant was a farmer who lives near Talybont, Cardiganshire. This Llangurig wizard was continually consulted by clients from Montgomeryshire, Cardiganshire, Radnorshire, and other counties. Not long ago, there was also a conjurer at Llanidloes, in the same county (Montgomeryshire), who was consulted on all cases of cursed fields, bewitched cattle, horses, pigs, churns, backward lovers, bewitched women, etc. A WIZARD AND THE YOUNG MAN WHO HAD BEEN CURSED. An old man named Evan Morris, who lives at Goginan, near Aberystwyth, informed me that about 60 years ago, a young man in that neighbourhood was struck dumb all of a sudden, that he could not utter a word. As he had neither been ill nor met with an accident it was suspected that he had been witched by some neighbour. So his father at last went over the mountain to Llangurig, about twenty miles off, to consult a well-known wizard named "Savage." The wizard opened his magic book, from which out came a big fly, buzzing or making a humming noise, boom, boom, boom, near the conjurer's face, who exclaimed, "What is the matter with this old fly?" The wise man then struck the insect with his hand and commanded it back into the book, and closed the volume; but he opened it again at another page, and out came another fly of a different colour. This fly again was buzzing till the wizard commanded it back into the book, which he now closed altogether; and addressing the man who had come to consult him, said to him: "You have suspected a certain man in your neighbourhood of having witched your son; but you are wrong; another man whom you do not suspect is the guilty. But your son has not been witched at all; he is under a curse." Welsh conjurers made a distinction between witchcraft and a curse. Thomas Jones, of Pontrhydfendigaid, informed me that a conjurer at Llangurig, named Morgans, told him once, that some men who were born under certain planets, possessed an inherent power of cursing, "and their curse," said he, "is worse than witchcraft itself." When the man returned home from the conjurer, to his great joy and surprise, he found his son able to speak. My informant vouches for the truth of the story, and added that this conjurer was so deep in the Black Art that he could do almost anything. MERLIN. I have in the preceding pages given some instances of modern and mediæval magicians or wizards; but divination astrology and magic in this country are of very ancient date. The names of Idris Gawr, Gwyddion, the Diviner by Trees, and Gwyn, the son of Nud, have come down to us from prehistoric times. So great was these three's knowledge of the stars, that they could foretell whatever might be desired to know until the day of doom. In Welsh Mythology, several even of the kingly families are represented as playing the role of magicians, especially Rhiannon, the daughter of Heveydd Hen. Math Ap Mathonwy, King of Gwynedd, could form a maiden out of flowers, and transform men into deers and wolves, etc. But, perhaps, the greatest of all the wizards was Myrddin, or Merlin as he is known among English readers, who lived about the beginning of the sixth century. Myrddin was born in the neighbourhood of Carmarthen, or at least so it is believed; and it is also believed that the meaning of Carmarthen is Myrddin's town, and the people of Carmarthen to this day feel proud of such a famous prophet who was born in their town. Merlin (or Myrddin)'s fame spread throughout all the Western parts of Europe, if not to other parts of the world, and his mighty magic adorned the tales of romance, and in the tenth century one eminent scholar on the Continent, went as far as to write, a commentary on his prophecies or prognostications. But to confine ourselves to Welsh writers, we have some account of Merlin by Nennius in the eighth century, and by Geoffrey of Monmouth in the twelfth. Geoffrey says:--"Vortigern, after the infamous treachery of the long knives, retreated to Mount Erir--which is Eryri, or snowden--and here he ordered the building of a great tower of defence, whose foundations, however, were swallowed up by the earth as fast as they were filled in." The Magicians, on hearing this, said he must procure the blood of "a youth that never had a father," and sprinkle it on the stones and mortar. Vortigern, accordingly, sent messengers to different parts of the country in search of such a youth; and "in their travels they came to a city, called, afterwards, Caermerdin, where they saw some young men playing before the gate, and went up to them; but being weary with their journey, they sat them down there.... Towards evening, there happened on a sudden a quarrel between two of the young men, whose names were Merlin and Dalbutius. In the dispute, Dalbutius said to Merlin, 'As for you, nobody knows what you are, for you never had a father.' At that word the messengers looked earnestly upon Merlin, and asked who he was. They learnt it was not known who was his father, but that his mother was daughter to the King of Dimetia, and that she lived in St. Peter's Church, among the nuns of the city." Merlin and his mother at the request of the messengers accompanied them from Carmarthen to Snowdon to the presence of King Vortigern; and when the boy was asked who was his father, his mother in reply gave a very peculiar account of the birth of her son, whose father she declared was a supernatural being, and so had no human father. Then the King said to Merlin, "I must have thy blood." And when the youth asked the King what good could his blood be more than the blood of any other man, he was informed in reply that the twelve wise men or bards had suggested the blood of a youth in order to make the building stand. Then Merlin asked the bards or magicians what was the real cause that the building of the tower was not a success? But they could give no answer. Young Merlin now upraided them for their ignorance and the cruelty of their suggestion. He then gave orders to dig the ground, and when this was done a lake was discovered. Merlin drained this lake, and at the bottom, as he had predicted, a stone chest was discovered in which there were two sleeping dragons. These, whenever they awoke, fought with each other, and their violence shook the ground, thus causing "the work to fall." When the King commanded the stone chest to be opened the two dragons came out and began a fierce battle. One of these dragons was white and the other red. At first the white dragon drove the red one to the middle of the pool, then the red one, provoked to rage, drove the white one thither in turn. When the King asked what this should signify, Merlin exclaimed as follows:--"Woe to the red dragon for her calamity draws nigh, and the white dragon shall seize on her cells. By the white dragon the Saxons are signified, and the Britons by the red one, which the white shall overcome. Then shall the mountains be made plains, and the glens and rivers flow with blood. The Saxons shall possess almost all the island from sea to sea, and afterwards our nation shall arise, and bravely drive the Saxons beyond the sea." Nennius, chap. 43. The old King Vortigern then left the neighbourhood of Snowdon, and removed to South Wales, and built a fort or a Castle on a spot known to this day as Craig Gwrtheyrn, or Vortigern's Rock, near Llandyssul and Pencader. The white and the red dragons respectively symbolised the Celtic and Saxon races, and Merlin's prophecy concerning the final overthrow of the Saxons by the Britons made a deep and lasting impression on the minds of the Welsh people for ages, and even nearly nine hundred years after Merlin's time. Owen Glyndwr found these prophecies highly instrumental in his favour when fighting against the English. According to a little book which I have in my possession entitled, "Prophwydoliaeth Myrddin Wyllt," (Merlin's prophecy), one Owen Lawgoch, who is tarrying in a foreign land, is to drive out the Saxons, and become King under the title of Henry the ninth. Welshmen of the present day, however, believe that Merlin's prophecy was fulfilled in the year 1485, when Henry VII., a Welshman leading a Welsh army to Bosworth Field, became King of England. There are also many prophecies here and there attributed to Merlin; some of which have been fulfilled, and others to be fulfilled in the future. He had foretold even of the railway train running along the Vale of Towy, which prediction has proved true: "Fe ddaw y gath a'r wenci ar hyd Glan Towi i lawr; Fe ddaw y milgi a'r llwynog i Aberhonddu fawr." "The cat and the weasel shall come down along the banks of Towy; The greyhound and the fox shall come into the town of Aber honddu," (Brecon). It is believed that the train has fulfilled these sayings. In the Vale of Towy, near Abergwili, there is a large stone in a field belonging to Tyllwyd farm. I went to see it myself, and several people in the neighbourhood informed me that a young man was killed when digging under this stone in search of hidden treasure, and that Merlin had prophesied about this. According to another prophecy of Merlin a fearful catastrophe awaits the town of Carmarthen:-- "Llanllwch a fu, Caerfyrddin a sudd, Abergwili a saif." (Llanllwch has been, Carmarthen shall sink, Abergwili shall stand). "Caerfyrddin, cei oer fore, Daear a'th lwnc, dwr i'th le." (Carmarthen, thou shalt have a cold morning, Earth shall swallow thee, water into thy place). The people of the neighbourhood even to this very day, more than half believe that Carmarthen is to sink. At the end of a long street in that town there is an old tree known as Merlin's Tree, in a very withered condition. Every care is taken to protect it from falling, as Merlin had prophesied that when this tree shall tumble down, the town of Carmarthen shall sink. "When Merlin's Tree shall tumble down. Then shall fall Carmarthen town!" (A Prophecy of Merlin). According to another prophecy attributed to the same ancient wizard, Carmarthen is to sink when Llyn Eiddwen, a lake in Cardiganshire, dries up. It is said that Merlin had predicted that a bull would go right to the top of the tower of St. Peter's Church, Carmarthen, and that a calf fulfilled this prophecy. My cousin, the Rev. Joseph Evans, the Rector of Jordanston, in Pembrokeshire, informed me a few years ago that one mile from the town of Fishguard, there is a farm called Tregroes, respecting which Merlin prophesied that it would be in the middle of the town some day. There are now signs that this ancient prophecy is likely to be fulfilled. September 4th, 1909, the Royal Mail Ship, Mauretania, the finest and fastest liner afloat, inaugurated the new Transatlantic Service from New York to Fishguard, so that there is a great future before the place as indicated by Merlin of old. It is also interesting to note that the captain of the Mauretania was a Welshman (Pritchard), and the first passenger to land was also a Welshman, named Mr. Jenkin Evans, brother to the Rector of Jordanston. I have been informed that a relation of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, lives at this very house respecting which Merlin had prophesied. General Gwynne, a fine old gentleman I met a short time ago at the house of my genial friend, Col. Gwynne-Hughes, of Glancothy, wrote to me as follows respecting another remarkable prophecy of Merlin and its fulfilment:-- "Glancothy, Carmarthenshire, Oct. 12, 1909. Dear Mr. Davies,-- I have heard you are writing a book on the Folk-Lore of Wales. Perhaps the following may be of use to you. Some time in the forties, when I was at the College at Llandovery, my sister, Madam ---- speaking of our old property Glanbran, at that time mortgaged, said, there is an old Welsh saying attributed to Merlin to the effect that the Gwynnes should be at Glanbran until a man standing at Dover could speak to another at Calais. Years after, when I was in India, about the year when the telephone or telegraph was perfected between France and England, a document was sent out to me for my signature, which was my final release to the Glanbran Estate as the youngest son of the late Col. Sackville Gwynne of Glanbran Park. Yours sincerely, NADOLIG GWYNNE. According to Giraldus Cambrensis, Merlin had prophesied that a King of England and Conqueror of Ireland, should die in crossing "Llechllafar," a stone of great size which was placed across the stream dividing the cemetery of St. David's from the north side of the Church to form a bridge. When Henry II. passed over it on his return from Ireland a frantic woman called upon Llechllafar to kill him according to Merlin's prophecy. "The King, who had heard the prophecy, approaching tie stone, stopped for a short time at the foot of it, and, looking earnestly at it, boldly passed over; then, turning round, and looking towards the stone, thus indignantly inveighed against the prophet: 'Who will hereafter give credit to the lying Merlin?' A person standing by, and observing what had passed, in order to vindicate the injury done to the prophet, replied, with a loud voice, 'Thou art not that King of whom Ireland is to be conquered, or of whom Merlin prophesied!'" According to an ancient tradition, this stone spoke or groaned once when a corpse was carried over it. I was informed by many persons who live in the neighbourhood of Abergwili, near Carmarthen, that Merlin was such a giant that he could jump over the Vale of Towy. MERLIN'S FATE. The end or final fate of Merlin is surrounded by mysteries. A few years ago when I was staying in the neighbourhood of Carmarthen, Merlin's Hill (Bryn Myrddin) was pointed out to me where the great magician still lives (so they say) in a cave in that hill, and held there in imprisonment by an artful woman who contrived his disappearance from among human beings. Moreover, it is added, that if you listen in the twilight, you will hear his groans, and also the clanking of the iron chains which hold him bound. Others say he is heard working in this underground prison. It seems from Spenser's "Faerie Queen," however, that according to another ancient tradition, Merlin's place of confinement is, or was, a cave near Dynevor, in the neighbourhood of Llandilo: "And if you ever happen that same way to traveill, go to see that dreadful place. It is an hideous hollow cave (they say) under a rock that lyes a little apace emongst the woody hilles of Dynevowre (Dynevor), etc." Some stories describe Merlin as being held spellbound in a bush of white thorns in the woods of Bresilien in Brittany. Others say that he died, and was buried at Bardsey Island. But according to the Triads he went to sea and sailed in a house of glass, and was never heard of any more. In this voyage, Merlin took with him the thirteen curiosities of Britain, which were:-- 1. Llen Arthur (the veil of Arthur), which made the person who put it on invisible. 2. Dyrnwyn. 3. Corn Brangaled (the horn of Brangaled), which furnished any liquor desired. 4. Cadair, neu car Morgan mwynfawr (the chair or car of Morgan Mwynfawr), which would carry a person seated in it wherever he wished to go. 5. Mwys Gwyddno (the hamper of Gwyddno), meat for one being put into it, would become meat for a hundred. 6. Hogalen Tudno (the whetstone of Tudno), which would sharpen none but the weapon of a brave man. 7. Pais Padarn (the cloak of Padarn). 8. Pair Drynog (the caldron of Drynog), none but the meat of a brave man would boil in it. 9. Dysgyl a gren Rhydderch (the dish and platter of Rhydderch), any meat desired would appear on it. 10. Tawlbwrdd (a chess board, or, rather backgammon board), the ground gold, and the men silver, and the men would play themselves. 11. Mantell (a robe). 12. Modrwy Eluned (the ring of Eluned), whoever put it on his finger could make himself invisible. 13. Cyllell Llawfrodedd,--which was a kind of knife with which the Druids killed their victims for sacrifices. "The story of Merlin and Vivian as told in Brittany," translated from the French-Breton magazine "L'Hermine," edited by M. Tiercelin, is given in Part X. of the Transactions of the Carmarthenshire Antiquarian Society, from which I give the following short extract--Viviane, the love-making temptress, had enchanted the enchanter (Merlin). He sleeps, says the legend, in the forest of Broceliande, vaulted by an impenetrable hedge, on the bank of the fountain of love, his head resting on the knees of Viviane; the enchanter enchanted; and nobody has yet awakened the Celtic Orpheus from his eternal slumber. "Ne onques puis Merlin ne issit de ceste tour, où sa mie, Viviane l'avait mis." PEMBROKESHIRE WOMAN'S PROPHECY FULFILLED. The following appeared in the "Pembrokeshire County Guardian":-- "About one hundred and sixty years ago, there lived on a farm near Spittal in Pembrokeshire, a man of the name of David Evans. He had a family of five children: Thomas, the eldest, was born on November 3, 1756, and married Sarah Bevan, of Martel Mill, on Sunday, November 14, 17--, and they lived on a small farm near Trefgarn Rocks, called Penyfeidr. This Sarah Bevan, or Mrs. Evans was, like her husband, noted for her piety, and among her neighbours was possibly more noted for her visions and her ability to foresee and foretell coming events, of which there are many reliable records still existing and talked of in the district to this day. Entering the house one day, she told those present that she had just seen a most remarkable sight below the house in Trefgarn Valley, and described it as a large number of heavily laden carts or waggons going very fast one after the other, and no bullock or horses drawing them, but the first one appeared from the smoke she saw, to be on fire. George Stephenson was the first to introduce steam locomotive power into practical use in the year 1825. So we may state with certainty that the rustics of Pembrokeshire had no idea or knowledge whatever of the railway train at the time that Mrs. Evans saw the vision. About 54 years ago the railway was brought into Pembrokeshire, and the scheme of the great engineer, Brunel, was to extend it to the sea shore near Fishguard. With this in view, much work was accomplished in cuttings and embankments in Trefgarn Valley, which are now to be seen there. The country people were jubilant, expecting soon to realise the prophetic vision. But strong influence was brought to bear on Brunel, and finally he abandoned that route and took the line to New Milford instead. And the vision and prophecy came to nought. Afterwards the old people looked forward to the joining of Fishguard and Goodwick with the main line, and believed the truth of the story. But, alas! when the branch line was made, it was many miles to the North of Trefgarn, and the old lady and her vision were once more ridiculed, and apparently, there were no further grounds for hoping that the prophecy would be fulfilled. "When the project of the G. W. Ry. Co. got matured, it was found that the old loop line via Letterston was not suitable for a fast and direct service from Goodwick to London. So it was decided to make a new line from Goodwick through Trefgarn Valley,--thus re-adopting Brunel's original scheme. And last week I actually saw 'a large number of heavily laden carts or waggons going very fast, one after the other, and no bullocks or horses pulling them, but the first one appeared from the smoke I saw, to be on fire.' Just as described, and in the very spot indicated by Mrs. Evans about 100 years ago. "H.W.E. "Solva, December 26th, 1905." The people of Pembrokeshire have been remarkable for their insight into the future; navvies were heard making railway cuttings many years before the introduction of steam locomotive power into practical use. I have been informed that the sound of a railway engine, whistling, was heard at Llanilar, in Cardiganshire, fifty years before a railway was constructed through the neighbourhood; and it is also said that the sound of blasting was heard at Tyngraig, between Ystrad Meurig and Llanafan, where afterwards a tunnel was made. My informants were Mrs. Lloyd, the Vicarage, Llanilar, and Mr. Jones, Tyncoed. THE CRIMEAN WAR SEEN IN THE SKIES. About six months before the outbreak of the Crimean War, in 1853, John Meyler, Cilciffeth, saw a strange mirage in the sky. He was returning home late from Morville, and when nearing Penterwin he saw the image of armies in the skies. There were several battalions at first, and they increased in number till they spanned the heavens. There were two opposing forces, and he could distinctly see the image of men falling and of horses galloping across the firmament, and the clashing of great masses of men. He was so terrified that he called at Penbank and called the attention of Mr. James Morris, who lived at that place at that time, and he saw the same thing. This strange phenomenon appeared for about two hours. The above account of this strange vision in the skies appeared in the "Cardiff Times," a few years ago, sent to that paper by Cadrawd. Pembrokeshire has always been known as the land of phantasm. A REMARKABLE FULFILMENT OF A CONDEMNED MAN'S PREDICTION. In the Churchyard of Montgomery is a grave where the grass refuses to grow, though it is in the midst of luxurious vegetation. The unfortunate man named John Newton, who was buried there in the year 1821, had predicted this as a proof that he was innocent of the charge brought against him at the Assizes, when he was condemned to die on the evidence of two men named Thomas Pearce, and Robert Parker, who charged him with highway robbery. On being asked at the trial why judgment should not be passed upon him, he said before the judge: "I venture to assert that as I am innocent of the crime for which I suffer, the grass, for one generation at least, will not cover my grave." The poor man's prediction proved true, for the grave to this day remains a bare spot. One of the condemned man's accusers became a drunkard, and the other "wasted away from the earth," and a curse seems to follow every one who attempts to get anything to grow on the spot. At the head of the grave is the stem of a rose tree, and it is said that the man who put it there soon fell sick and died. I had heard of this grave even when I was a boy, and some account of the story respecting it has appeared in the papers from time to time. SHOULDER-BLADE DIVINATION. Giraldus Cambrensis, seven hundred years ago, speaking of the Flemings of South Pembrokeshire, in his "Itinerary through Wales," says:--"It is worthy of remark, that these people, from the inspection of the right shoulder of rams which have been stripped of their flesh, and not roasted, but boiled, can discover future events, or those which have passed and remained long unknown. They know, also, what is transpiring at a distant place, by a wonderful art, and a prophetic kind of spirit. They declare also undoubted symptoms of approaching peace and war, murders and fires, domestic adulteries, the state of the King, his life and death. It happened in our time, that a man of those parts, whose name was William Mangunel, a person of high rank, and excelling all others in the aforesaid art, had a wife big with child by her own husband's grandson. Well aware of the fact, he ordered a ram from his own flock to be sent to his wife as a present from her neighbour; which was carried to the cook and dressed. At dinner the husband purposely gave the shoulder bone of the ram, properly cleaned, to his wife, who was also well skilled in this art, for her examination; when, having for a short time examined the secret marks, she smiled, and threw the oracle down on the table. Her husband dissembling, earnestly demanded the cause of her smiling and the explanation of the matter; overcome by his entreaties, she answered, 'The man to whose flock this ram belongs has an adulterous wife, at this time pregnant by the commission of incest with his own grandson.' The husband, with a sorrowful and dejected countenance, replied, 'You deliver indeed an oracle supported by too much truth, which I have so much more reason to lament, as the ignominy you have published redounds to my own injury.' The woman thus detected, was unable to dissemble her confusion, betrayed the inward feelings of her mind by external signs; shame and sorrow urging her by turns, and manifesting themselves, now by blushes, now by paleness, and lastly (according to the custom of women), by tears. The shoulder of a goat was also once brought to a certain person instead of a ram's, both being alike when cleaned, who, observing for a short time the lines and marks, exclaimed 'Unhappy cattle that never was multiplied! Unhappy likewise the owner of the cattle, who never had more than three or four in one flock!' Many persons, a year and a half before the event, foresaw by the means of the shoulder bones the destruction of their country after the decease of King Henry the First, and selling all their possessions, left their homes, and escaped the impending ruin. In our time, a soothsayer, on the inspection of a bone, discovered not only a theft, and the manner of it, but the thief himself, and all the attendant circumstances; he heard also the striking of a bell, and the sound of a trumpet, as if those things which were past were still performing. It is wonderful, therefore, that these bones, like all unlawful conjurations, should represent by a counterfeit similitude to the eyes and ears, things which are past as well as those which are now going on." It is evident that the Celts, as well as the Flemings, knew something of Shoulder-bone Reading, for J. G. Campbell, in his "Superstitions of the Scottish Highlands," an interesting book presented to me by Countess Amherst, states that this mode of divination was practised, like the augury of the ancients, as a profession or trade; and Pennant, in his "Tours in Scotland," 150 years ago, says that when Lord Loudon was obliged to retreat before the Rebels to the Isle of Skye, a common soldier, on the very moment the battle of Culloden was decided, proclaimed the victory at a distance, pretending to have discovered the event by looking through the bone; and Sir S. R. Meyrick, in his "History of Cardiganshire," writing one hundred years ago, says that the remains of this custom still existed in Cardiganshire in his time; "but the principal use made of the bone is in the case of pregnant women. The shoulder bone of a ram being scraped quite clean, a hole is burnt in it, and it is then placed over the door of the apartment in which the pregnant woman is, and she is told that the sex of her offspring will be precisely the same as that of the first person who shall enter the room." DREAMS. A dream was a common way of making known the will of God to the prophets of old. We know from the Bible that important dreams took place in the early ages of the world, and Welsh people, like other nations, believe in the importance of these mysterious night visions, and of their power of forecasting the future, and there are both men and women all over the country who can give instances of dreams which came true. There are, undoubtedly, some persons whose dreams, as a rule, are reliable; whilst the dreams of others are not to be depended on. It is also said that morning twilight dreams are more reliable than other dreams; and it is believed that a dream which is repeated is more to be relied on than that which occurs only once. I have had most striking dreams myself; indeed almost everything that happens to me has been presaged by a dream. About nine years ago I dreamed that I was delivering a lecture to a large audience, and speaking most fluently. On awaking, I had a distinct recollection of every word I had uttered; and I am now very sorry that I did not write down next morning the lecture which I had delivered in my dream. The most remarkable fact is this: Previous to my dream I had no knowledge whatever of the subject on which I lectured, as I had never studied the subject in my life, and as a psychological curiosity I may mention that by means of my dream I had become possessed of knowledge on a particular subject which would have taken me at least a whole month's hard study to acquire. (I am, of course, used to public speaking). I have taken notes of few of my latest dreams, and perhaps it would not be out of place to record here a remarkable dream which I dreamt just before this book was going to press: One night in January, 1910, I dreamed that I was walking near St. Bride's, the country seat of Lord Kensington, in Pembrokeshire, and I met Lord Kensington himself, who spoke to me thus: "Go into the house, Lady Kensington is home, and I'll be with you in a few minutes." Then I went to the door and rang the bell, and the butler took me into the drawing-room. After waiting in the room alone for some time without seeing anyone, all the household servants came to me in a group, dressed in their holiday attire, and informed me that Lady Kensington was not home after all, but that her Ladyship had gone away and had got lost somewhere in going about, and that Lord Kensington was seeking in vain for her everywhere, but failing to find her anywhere. When I awoke from my dream I felt certain that something had happened to one of the Kensingtons. A day or two after my dream I was surprised to read in the papers that a cable-gram was received in London from Calcutta, announcing the death of Dowager Lady Kensington in India. I discovered that her death took place on the very date of my dream, and that a few days previously Lord Kensington had hurriedly left for India, having received news of the Dowager's serious condition. In order to add to the interest of the dream, I may state that the very day before I dreamt, I expected every moment to hear of the Dowager's return to England, as her Ladyship knew one or two interesting "traditions of Bridget of Ireland, known as St. Bride," which she intended to write down for me in order to record them in this book, to which she was looking forward, as she was greatly interested in Welsh traditions, especially those of Pembrokeshire. One night, about seventeen years ago, when I was spending a few days at Penmachno, in North Wales, where I had delivered a lecture, I dreamt that I was receiving a letter; and when I looked at the envelope, I recognised the handwriting at once as that of Lady Hills-Johnes, of Dolaucothy. I then opened the letter and read it all through, and found it was from her Ladyship; and when I awoke up from my sleep I remembered every word of its contents. In the morning as soon as I went down for breakfast, the landlady of the house delivered me a letter which had come by post. I looked at the envelope as I had done in my dream; it was from Lady Hills-Johnes; and when I read it, I discovered that I knew every word of its contents beforehand from my dream. When I was in Australia ten years ago, I had another remarkable dream about Dolaucothy, just when Sir James Hills-Johnes was leaving home for South Africa, to see his friend Lord Roberts, during the War; but I have been asked by Lady Hill-Johnes not to publish the dream. A remarkable fulfilment of a dream was reported in the "Aberystwyth Observer" in the year 1888, in relation to the sudden death of the late Colonel Pryse, an uncle of Viscountess Parker, and Great-uncle of Sir Edward Webley-Parry-Pryse, Bart., of the ancient Family of Gogerddan:--"It was not considered safe to break to Viscountess Parker the news of her uncle's death for some days, and Mr. Fryer went up to London to convey to her the information. On his arrival at her residence, in Montague Square, a maid announced to her Ladyship his arrival. 'Mr. Fryer!' she said, 'I know what it is. My uncle is dead. He died on a lane leading from Rhiwarthen to Penwern. I have dreamt four times in four years that this would happen, and the last time was the night before baby was born. I have tried many times to keep him from going that way. Ask Mr. Fryer to come up.' She afterwards said that she meant the road leading to Penuwch which is in the same direction, and that she would know the spot." The editor of "Blackwood" gives authenticity to the following dream:--A young man, engaged in a china manufactory at Swansea, about the beginning of the last century, dreamed that he saw a man drowning in one of their pools; he dreamed the same a second time, and a third time, and then could not resist making an effort to rise and satisfy himself that it was not so. He did rise, went to the spot, and found the man drowned. A man in the neighbourhood of Newcastle Emlyn, dreamed a similar dream in the 18th century. The late Rev. J. E. Jenkins, Rector of Vaynor, in Breconshire, in his interesting book on that parish gives the following account of a girl saved by a dream:-- "The Rev. Williams Jones, afterwards Canon Jones, was curate in sole charge here in 1822, and for many years afterwards. The Old Rectory House and the Glebe land was at that time occupied by a man named Enos Davies and his family. The Rev. W. Jones also had rooms at the Rectory. "One morning at the end of May in that year, about two o'clock Enos had a remarkable dream. He dreamt the Church was on fire. He suddenly awoke, and in great excitement jumped out of bed and knocked at the bedroom door of Mr. Jones, and cried:--'Master! Master! come down at once, I have dreamt the Church is on fire.' The worthy divine laughed at him, and told him to go back to bed, and not to give heed to foolish dreams and nightly visions. Enos obeyed, but could not sleep. During the day Mr. Jones walked down to the Church, and found everything in the usual order, safe and uninjured. The following morning, at the same hour, strange to say, Enos had the same dream, and again disturbed the peaceful slumbers of his good master. 'Come down to Church, Master,' said he, 'there must be something wrong, I have again dreamt the Church is on fire.' 'All right Enos,' said Mr. Jones; 'I will come with you, it is a fine morning.' By the time they reached the Church it was half-past three. Coming-down the Lych Gate, which was close by the little brook--the old entrance--they were struck with a great awe and a terrified feeling came over them, for they heard a peculiar sound coming, as it were, from the direction of the Church. They stood, listened, and looked at each other in mute astonishment, and Enos's hair stood on end. The sound became plainer: it was like the sound of a sexton digging or opening a grave inside the Church, as was often the custom in those days. Enos trembled, and became as pale as death; whilst the clergyman, who was a tall strongly built man, entered the churchyard, and stealthily went to listen at the west door. He could distinctly hear a man digging a grave. Mr. Jones soon found that an entrance had been made into the Church through one of the north side windows. Re-tracing his steps to Enos, who was still standing on the road by the brook, his attention was directed to a young girl coming down the steep pathway over Cae Burdudd--'the field of carnage'--the field where the mound is. She came running down merrily, and in a pleasant manner, said--'good morning, Mr. Jones, you are here before me.' 'Yes, my girl,' said the curate, 'where are you going so early?' 'Coming to be married, to be sure;' was her joyous reply. The curate took in the situation in a moment and told her:--'You have made a mistake as to the time. You must wait till eight o'clock; I cannot marry you before eight. Go up to the Rectory to Mrs. Davies and get some breakfast; we shall come after you in a short time. We will wait here until John comes, and will bring him up.' The innocent girl departed as requested, but had not gone far when the south door of the church was opened from within by her treacherous lover. He was at once apprehended by the courageous curate and Enos, and was made to stand over the grave he had prepared for the girl he had shamefully deceived and ruined, and whom he had intended murdering. He pleaded hard for mercy, and, ultimately, in order to avoid public scandal, on his promising to leave the neighbourhood immediately, and never again to return to Vaynor, he was allowed to depart. He was a native of Herefordshire, and was at this time in a service at a well-known farm in the parish. He left at once, and was never heard of afterwards by anyone from this parish. The curate, in a calm, gentle way, partly detailed to the maid the evil intentions of her base lover, and stated how God, in his good providence by the means of a dream, had preserved her from an untimely death. "The young girl was terribly shocked, and fell unconscious into the arms of the curate. She lost her health, and after a time was taken home to the neighbourhood of Knighton, and in a few months later news reached Vaynor that the poor girl had died of a broken heart, and the curate was asked to go up to bury her, but failed to go. The above account was given me by my predecessor, the Rev. Rees Williams, and was confirmed by the testimony of the late Mrs. Thomas, formerly of Cwm and others. Mrs. Evans, late of Pengellifach, however, added that the would-be murderer was handed over by Mr. Jones to the charge of the Parish Constable, and was afterwards released. It should be remembered that there were but few, if any, fixed pews in the Old Church, only movable benches. Neither was the floor paved or boarded." CONVERSING WITH THE DEPARTED IN A DREAM. The following appeared in the "Weekly Mail," Cardiff, for June 18, 1910:--"The Rev. Hugh Roberts, Rhydymain, Dolgelly, discoursed on "The Intermediate State" on a recent Sunday, and in the course of the sermon related the substance of a conversation which he had had with departed friends. "Recently in a dream," he said, "I conversed with an old deacon friend who has been in the intermediate state for some time, and was assured by him that he was not in a state of inertia by any means. It is a 'country' where everybody has something to do--where one and all contribute to make each other happy. However, they pine even in the intermediate state--some are longing for the circles which they left on earth, others pining for their bodies. But all longing will cease when the Spirit has completed the heavenly bodies." Welshpeople believe that if a young girl dreams that she has a long hair, that she will marry a very wise man. To dream of being well-dressed is a sign of wealth and prosperity, especially if you are dressed in silks. If a person dreams that he is going to get married, it foretells sickness. If a man dreams that he is surrounded by pigs, some one will come to him to ask him for some money. To dream of a horseshoe is a sign of good news. Welshpeople generally believe that it is not good for any one to dream that he is losing his teeth, and that it means either a death or the loss of friends. To dream of bacon is also considered bad. If a young man dreams of a full barn, it means that he will marry a wealthy young woman. Those who are interested in the interpretation of dreams must consult dream-books, as I am not expected to enter fully into such subject here. CHAPTER X. THE HEALING ART; OR HOW TO CHARM AWAY DISEASES, Etc. CHARMS FOR WARTS. There were and there are still, many charms in use for the purpose of removing warts; and the writer can prove from experience that there are cases of complete cures through the instrumentality of charms. I remember once when I was a boy I had the misfortune of having two big warts right under my foot, which caused me a great deal of discomfort in walking. As I was complaining about this to my mother, she advised me to go and see a lady friend of hers, who was the wife of a very prominent gentleman in the neighbourhood. I went to the woman and told her everything about the warts. She told me to go home and take a small bit of flesh meat and rub the warts with it. Then I was to go out though the back door, the meat in one hand, and a spade in the other, and after proceeding to the middle of a field, dig a hole in the ground, and bury the meat in it. Perfect silence was to be observed during the ceremony, and everything to be done in secret, for if detected in the act of burying the meat, the charm lost its efficacy. I did everything as I was directed by the woman, and strange to say within two or three days the warts had disappeared. Major Price Lewes, Tyglyn-Aeron, informed me that when he was a boy at Llanllear, an old woman in the neighbourhood charmed away warts from his hands. A woman in the neighbourhood of Ystrad Meurig informed me that she got rid of her warts by washing her hands in the water in which the blacksmith cools iron. Another way of charming away warts is to pick up small white stones from a brook,--one stone for each wait--and rub the warts with them. Then the stones are to be tied up in paper, and the person who has the warts is to go to the nearest cross roads, and throw the stones over his shoulders, and whoever picks up the parcel gets the warts. A young woman in the parish of Llanarth, in Cardiganshire, did this, and got rid of her warts. Soon after this an old woman who lives in the neighbourhood, passed by, and picked up the parcel of stones, thinking it contained some biscuits or sweets which one of the school children had lost on the way home from school. But to her great surprise, when she opened the paper, she only found small white stones! After this the old woman found her hands covered with warts; but she in her turn charmed them away by washing them with spittle from the mouth. My informant was the old woman herself. Another charm for warts is to cut a slip of an elder tree, and make a notch in it for every wart. Rub the elder against each wart, and burn or bury it, and the warts will disappear. In former times Holy Wells were much resorted to by those who desired to get rid of their warts, when a pin was dropped into the well, and a rag with which the warts had been rubbed, hanged on the nearest tree. ROSEMARY CHARM FOR TOOTHACHE. Many people still believe that toothache is caused by a worm in the tooth, and it was once thought that to burn a Rosemary bough until it becomes black and place it in a strong linen cloth, and anoint the teeth with it would kill this worm. According to the old Welsh Magazine, "Y Brython," vol. 3, page 339, there were many charms performed with Rosemary. Rosemary dried in the sun and made into powder, tied in a cloth around the right arm, will make the sick well. The smoke of Rosemary bark, sniffed, will, even if you are in gaol, release you. The leaves made into salve, placed on a wound, where the flesh is dead, will cure the wound. A spoon made out of its wood will make whatever you eat therewith nutritious. Place it under the door post and no snake nor adder can ever enter thy house. The leaves placed in beer or wine will keep these liquids from becoming sour and give such a flavour that you will dispose of them quickly. Place a branch of rosemary on the barrel and it will keep thee from fever, even though thou drink of it for a whole day. "SLIME" OF TROUT AS MEDICINE. In West Wales once a freshly caught trout was placed in a pan of milk in which it would swim, and after it was supposed that the fish had passed the milk through its gills and left some of its slime in the milk, the milk was supposed to have been given the necessary medicinal powers for the cure of whooping cough and other illness. CHARMS FOR FITS AND FOR QUINSY. There is a belief in some parts of West Wales that fits may be cured by wearing round the neck a band made of the hair from the crop of an ass's shoulder. Hair cut at midnight from the shoulder of an ass and applied to the throat was also thought to be efficacious in curing the quinsy. Charm for Rheumatism.--Carry a potato in your pocket. A charm for the Ague.-- Ague was charmed away by tying on the breast a piece of cheese; and after keeping it there for a time, throw it away back over the head. Charms for Whooping Cough.--Drink the milk of a female ass; or buy a penny roll, drape it in calico, bury it in the garden take it up next day, then eat the roll until it is consumed. ABRACADABRA. One of the most famous and popular charms in the central parts of Wales--especially Cardigan and Carmarthenshire--was the magic and mysterious word Abracadabra, which was obtained from wizards by paying a certain sum of money for it. The word was inscribed on a paper or parchment, line under line, repeating the same, but with one letter less in each line till it ended in A, as follows:-- A B R A C A D A B R A A B R A C A D A B R A B R A C A D A B A B R A C A D A A B R A C A D A B R A C A A B R A C A B R A A B R A B A There are many people even at the present day in West and Mid-Wales who keep this mystic cabala in their houses as a most valuable treasure. It is called "papur y Dewin" (the wizard's paper). It was considered a protection against witches and the "evil eye," as well as all other evil influences; and an antidote against fevers. It was effective to protect both persons and animals, houses, etc. Sometimes it was worn round the neck, or on the breast, at other times carried in the pocket, and kept in the house. It was also the custom to rub the charm over cattle or to tie it round their horns, especially when witchcraft was suspected. This mysterious word, Abracadabra, to which the superstitious attributed such magical power was, according to some, invented by one Basilides, and that he intended the name of God by it. Others say that it was the name of an ancient heathen deity worshipped in Syria, or in Assyria. Dr. Ralph Bathurst is of the opinion that the word is a corrupt Hebrew: dabar is verbu, and abraca is benedixit; that is verbum benedixit. As the charm appears very much like a pyramid (though upside down), perhaps that has something to do with the superstition concerning its magical power: anything in the shape of a pyramid is considered very lucky, quite as much as--if not more so--than a horse-shoe. THE PENTACLE. Cadrawd, in the "Welsh Tit-Bits" column of the "Cardiff Times," speaking of South Pembrokeshire, says:-- The pentacle, or pentalpha--a figure consisting of five straight lines so joined and intersected as to form a five-pointed star--is still regarded in Fleming-land as a physical charm and the repository of Talismanic power. This credulity is identical with the traditions of the Greek Christians, who used the figure as a mystic sign in astrology and necromancy. The figure was held in veneration by mediævalists, and was known as the "Pentacle of Solomon." Sir William Jones, the great Oriental scholar, in his work on "Folklore," observes that "it is worthy of remark that at the present time the magical pentalpha in the western window of the southern aisle of Westminster Abbey is one of the emblems which still exist and speaks to the initiate that the black monks who once chanted in the choir were deeply read in occult science." Some years ago, when on a tour in quest of lore, a Pembrokeshire gentleman tells us that he remembers being puzzled by the appearance of a number of pentacles being cut into the bark of several oak trees near the solitary dwelling of a charmer. He addressed the Solon a few questions on the meaning of these strange figures, but was cut short with the reply, "They be signs." On Cresswell Hill, near Lady's Well, there grows a row of tall beeches, on one of which may be seen the figure of a pentacle. It stands about 15 feet from the ground, and the wound was evidently made well nigh a century ago, judging by its appearance. There is a tale that many years ago the "White Ladies" were charmed away or banished from the vicinity of the Lady's Well, of Cottage Dingle, by means of several pentacles being cut into the bark of trees growing near by. CHARMS FOR CATTLE AND PIGS. An old man named Evan Morris, Goginan, near Aberystwyth, informed me that he had several times consulted a conjurer in cases of bewitched cows and pigs. The conjurer, said my informant, took a sheet of paper on which he drew a circular figure very much "like the face of a clock." Sometimes he made more than one figure, which he filled in with writing. In fact, the paper was covered all over with writings and figures and symbols; and it took the wise man about half-an-hour to do this. This paper or charm, the conjurer gave to my informant, and charged him to rub the bewitched animal's back with it, "all over the back right from the ears to the tail," and at the same time repeating the words, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost." Morris added that this charm never failed. His sister-in-law once had a sow which refused to take any food for nine days; a farrier was sent for, but when he came, he could do nothing. At last, my informant went to a conjurer and obtained a charm, with which his sister-in-law, after some hesitation, rubbed the sow, repeating "In the name, etc." and to their great surprise the sow fully recovered and began to eat immediately, and soon ate up all the food intended for two fat pigs. When I asked my informant to show me one of the papers he obtained from the conjurer, he stated that he never kept such paper longer than twelve months. I next asked him if he had read one of the papers, and what were the words written on it? He replied that he could not decipher the conjurer's writing. Mr. Hamer, in "The Montgomeryshire Collections," vol X., page 249, states that a paper or charm in his possession opens thus:-- "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen ... and in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ my redeemer, that I will give relief to ---- creatures his cows, and his calves, and his horses, and his sheep, and his pigs, and all creatures that alive be in his possession, from all witchcraft and from all other assaults of Satan. Amen." Mr. Hamer also states that "at the bottom of the sheet, on the left, is the magical word, "Abracadabra," written in the usual triangular form; in the centre, a number of planetary symbols, and on the right, a circular figure filled in with lines and symbols, and underneath them the words, 'By Jah, Joh, Jah?' It was customary to rub these charms over the cattle, etc., a number of times, while some incantation was being mumbled. The paper was then carefully folded up, and put in some safe place where the animals were housed, as a guard against future visitations." In West Wales, there was once a kind of charm performed upon a cow after calving, when some fern was set on fire to produce smoke, over which a sheaf was held until it was well-smoked. Then it was given to the cow, to be consumed by the animal. THE CURE OF RICKETS. The complaint which is called in West Wales "llechau" means rickets, a complaint to which children are subject. It was thought that it could be cured by cutting a slit in the lobe of one of the child's ears. The practice was once common in Pembrokeshire and Cardiganshire and other parts; and Mr. H. W. Williams, of Solva, mentions in "Cambrian Notes and Queries," for January 11th., 1902, of a man in the Rhondda Valley who had recently cut the rickets. He was a Cardiganshire man. HOW TO CURE A DOG THAT HAS BEEN BITTEN BY A MAD DOG. Write down on a bit of paper the words "Arare, cnarare, phragnare," in three lines as follows: Arare Charare Phragnare. Phragnare Cnarare arare Arare cnarare phragnare. Also write down in addition the name of the dog. Having done this, put the paper in a piece of bread and give to the dog to eat. About the middle of the last century, when mad dogs were common, this "prescription" was considered "a sure and certain cure"; or at least, so says my informant, an old farmer in the neighbourhood of Ystrad Meurig, who also added that the mountain farmers obtained this charm from Dr. Harries, the wizard of Cwrtycadno. HEALING STONES. There is at the present day preserved at Gilfachwen, Llandyssul, by D. J. Lloyd, Esq., a small white stone, not quite the size of an egg. The stone is comparatively soft, and was supposed to possess healing power to cure people bitten by mad dogs. A little substance of the stone was scraped off, and mixed with milk and given as a dose to the patients. In years gone by--though not now--people believed so much in this stone that some travelled long distances to Gilfachwen; but how many of them were cured I have not been able to discover. The stone is called Llaethfaen, and when I visited Gilfachwen about five years ago, Mr. Lloyd showed me the interesting relic, and a few weeks afterwards I received from the same gentleman, the following communication by post, with an enclosed copy of his late brother's MS. concerning the stone:-- Gilfachwen, Llandyssul, Cardiganshire, Feb. 20th, 1905. Sir,-- I send you, as promised, a copy of all my late brother knew about the Llaethfaen. He died in 1889, but the paper was written many years before his death. There is no record of where the stone was found, or how it came to the Rev. D. Bowen's hands. I remain, Yours truly, D. J. LLOYD. The following is a copy of the paper written by the late Mr. John Lloyd:-- LLAETHFAEN. I know very little about this stone or what curative power it has or was supposed to have. I only know that it was very much in request many years ago. It came to my father's possession on the death of his uncle, Rev. David Bowen, of Waunifor about the year 1847. In those days and for many years afterwards, mad dogs were very "fashionable," a summer never passing without one hearing of a great many people having been bitten, and, consequently, a great many people called at Gilfachwen for a dose of the Llaethfaen, and whether it had curative or preventive powers or not, none of the patients were ever known to be attacked with hydrophobia. People who had been bitten would travel immense distances in order to get the stone. I remember a whole family, father, mother, and four or five children, who had been bitten by the same dog, arriving at Gilfachwen early one summer morning, before anyone was up, having travelled all night in order to be treated with the stone cure; they went away very happy and relieved in mind, after each had received a dose. It has not been used now for many years. The last instance I recollect was this: two men employed in a Brewery at Llanon, on the Cardigan coast, had been bitten by the same dog, supposed to be mad, arrived here on a Sunday afternoon; poor fellows, they looked utterly miserable and wretched; they had spent nearly a week enquiring for the stone, and meanwhile, had been advised by some old woman who was supposed to be learned in some ailments, not to eat any food; this advice they very foolishly followed, and when they arrived here, they were truly in a terrible plight. After giving each of them a dose of the Llaethfaen and a good meal they went away happy and never heard of them since. JOHN LLOYD, Gilfachwen. It is rather interesting that Iolo Morganwg saw a stone of this kind in the year 1802, in the neighbourhood of Bridell, North Pembrokeshire. The following extracts from Iolo's Diary appeared in "Young Wales," June, 1901:--"Leave Cardigan, take the road to Llanfernach. Bridell Church.... Meet a man who carries a stone about the country, which he calls Llysfaen. Scrapes it into powder with a knife, and sells it at about five shillings an ounce as an infallible remedy for the canine madness. He says that this stone is only to be found on the mountains after a thunderstorm, that every eye cannot see it. He showed me the stone, and when I assured him and a little crowd that had gathered about him, that the stone was only a piece of the Glamorgan alabaster, the poor fellow was confounded and seemed very angry; but I was surprised to hear many positively assert that they had actually seen the Hydrophobia cured in dogs and man with this powder given in milk, and used as the only liquid to be taken nine days, and the only food also.... The name by which this fellow named his stone is obviously a corruption of Cleisfaen, from its blushy white colour, veined or spotted with a livid or blackish blue colour like that of a bruise (clais)." The excellent old Welsh Magazine "Y Gwyliedydd" for the year 1824, page 343, gives an account of two other such stones, one of them preserved at Maes y Ffynon, Maelienydd, and the other at Llwyn Madog, Breconshire. How these two stones were discovered the following story is given:--A man attacked with hydrophobia wandered away one day and slept on a hill, where he dreamt that a remedy for his disease was to be found in the ground under his head, where he was sleeping. After digging the ground, two white stones were discovered. A healing stone supposed to have descended from the sky was discovered on a farm called Disgwylfa, in Carmarthenshire. THE PHYSICIANS OF MYDDFAI. The following extracts from the book of remedies of The Physicians of Myddfai, will not be irrelevant, as those celebrated Physicians were of Fairy origin, having been furnished with medical prescriptions by their supernatural mother, the Fairy lady of Llyn y Fan, in Carmarthenshire. TO EXTRACT A TOOTH WITHOUT PAIN. "Take some newts, by some called lizards, and those nasty beetles which are found in ferns during summer time, calcine them in an iron pot and make a powder thereof. Wet the forefinger of the right hand, insert it in the powder, and apply it to the tooth frequently, refraining from spitting it off, when the tooth will fall away without pain. It is proven."--Physicians of Myddfai. FOR THE BITE OF A MAD DOG. "Seek some plantain, and a handful of sheep's sorrel, then pound well in a mortar with the white of eggs, honey, and old lard, make it into an ointment and apply to the bitten part, so that it may be cured."--Physicians of Myddfai. FOR PAIN IN THE EYE. "Seek the gall of a hare, of a hen, of a eel, and of a stag, with fresh urine and honeysuckle leaves, then inflict a wound upon an ivy tree, and mix the gum that exudes from the wound therewith, boiling it swiftly, and straining it through a fine linen cloth; when cold, insert a little thereof in the corners of the eyes, and it will be a wonder if he who makes use of it does not see the stars in mid-day, in consequence of the virtues of this remedy."--Physicians of Myddfai. HOLY BREAD AS A REMEDY. "Black or Holy Bread is that which has been made on Good Friday and kept for twelve months. It is stored in the cottage-roof where it keeps dry and becomes black, and is consumed on Good Friday only. This bread is here said to be an excellent remedy for people and cattle suffering from certain complaints."--The Church Plate of Radnorshire by the Rev. J. T. Evans, page 15. HOW TO CURE A "FOUL FOOT." "If a hoofed animal is found to be suffering from "Foul Foot" it must be taken to a field, or sward, and the impression made on the ground by one of its hoofs must be carefully cut out and placed upside down on a hedge or bush; when the turf has withered the animal will be cured."--Church Plate of Radnorshire, page 16. PILLS OF DEAD MEN'S BONES. Pentrevor, in the "Pembroke County Guardian," says:--I have a valuable recipe for quack doctors. Mr. George Williams, knows of a young lady who was one day cleaning a window when a flash of lightning so frightened her that she became subject to fits. As an infallible cure, someone suggested that a dead man's bone be procured. Llanwnda Churchyard was visited for the purpose, while a new grave was being dug, and dead men's bones were thrown up by the spade. A bone was found and cleaned, ground into powder and made into pills, which the patient took, and was completely cured. GWELLA CLEFYD Y GALON, OR HEART DISEASE, A LOVE SICKNESS. A writer in "Cymru Fu" an interesting reprint from "The Weekly Mail," says:-- It is a well-known fact that "clefyd y Galon," or love-sickness is a very prevalent complaint in Wales, especially among young females who have been jilted, or have failed to win the affection of the young man whom they admire best. The lamented Talhaiarn knew all about it when he penned the line in one of his love songs:-- "Minau'n ceisio caru Gwen, a hithau'n caru Roli." A cure of this disease has been for centuries, and still is, a secret of great value in the Principality, and there are many old women, and some young men, now living, who are making splendid profits out of the secret they have in their possession. An old wag called "Ned y Wain," who resided near Aberystwyth; Harries, Cwrtycadno; and a shrewd old woman in the neighbourhood of Ystumtuen, Cardiganshire, practised the "cure" as a part of a professional conjuring, and many excellent but ridiculous stories are current anent the visits of young females, especially the "Ladies of Borth," to the chambers of the enchanters. The "secret" came into my possession thirty-eight years ago in the following manner:-- When a young lad at home, I had the privilege of visiting a farm house, the last on the borders of Cardiganshire, adjoining Montgomeryshire, where resided a wealthy young widower now living. The landlady of the adjoining farm on the other side of the River Llyfnwy, during my stay, used to cross the river frequently to visit the young widower, with whom she spent hours closeted in the parlour. The frequency of her calls, and the great secrecy observed at her coming and going, drew my attention, and provoked my curiosity, and I began to twit the young widower, who was a local preacher, of something he could not very well relish, and in order to clear himself of all suspicion, he told me that the woman visited him only to cure Clefyd-y-galon; and handed over to me the cherished secret, which I now divulge as a relic of the dark days of Wales, and for the amusement of the readers of "Cymru Fu." The MS. was in Welsh, of which the appended is a translation:-- 1st.--Ask the name of the person, and the surname, and the age; and take a double threaded yarn and measure it with your naked arm from the elbow to the tip of the middle finger three times, naming the person, and saying the age, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Then put a mark on the thread, and if it is on the person the thread will shorten, but it not, the thread will lengthen. For example, say thus--I am Joseph, thirty-six years of age in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost; and measuring, and say it each time while measuring; and do not cut the thread until you have measured three times. It is necessary that the thread should be scoured white wool. Take care not to put the age of the person more than it is. Then put it round the neck of the person, and leave it there for three nights; then take it from the neck and bury it under the ashes in the name of the Trinity. Put a knot on one end of it after cutting it. It is necessary to look several times if the person is recovering or not. Should the thread shorten above the middle finger, there is but little hopes of his recovery; nevertheless, many recover when it shortens the finger's length. It is necessary to keep the whole affair as secret as you possibly can. Again, take notice, it is necessary to measure three lengths from the elbow to the tip of the middle finger; then put a mark on the spot, or let anyone take hold of it; then begin to measure the same way again, naming as said before until you have measured three times, and take notice, as said before if the thread shortens. THE MEDICINE. Six penny worth of gin, or quart of beer, four penny-worth of best saffron; give them a boiling on a slow fire, and take them for seven mornings, after putting red hot steel in to warm it. TOUCHING; OR THE CURE OF THE DISEASE KNOWN AS "THE KING'S EVIL." In the new and valuable History of Radnorshire (p. 321), published by Davis and Co., Brecon, appeared the following transcript of a printed paper, now in a decayed state, which was pasted on a board and placed in a conspicuous part of the Church of Diserth, in that County:-- "At the Court of Whitehall, the 9th of January, 1683. "Whereas by the Grace of God, the King and Queen of this Realm, by and for many years past, have had the happiness by their sacred touch, and invocation of the name of God, to cure those who are afflicted with the disease called the King's Evil; and His Majesty in no less measure than any of his royal predecessors, having had success therein, and in his most gracious, and pious disposition, being as ready and willing as any King or Queen of this realm ever was in anything to relieve the distresses and necessities of his good subjects; yet in his princely wisdom, foreseeing that in this (as in all other things) order to be observed, and fit times are necessary to be appointed for the performance of this great work of charity, his Majesty was therefore this day pleased to declare in Council his royal will and pleasure to be that (in regard heretofore the usual times of presenting such persons for this purpose have been prefixed by his royal predecessors) from thenceforth be from the Feast of All Saints, commonly called All Hallowtide to Christmas until the first of March, and then to cease till Passion Week, on account of the temperature of the season, and in respect of contagion, which may happen to his Majesty's Sacred person. And when his Majesty shall at any time think fit to go, any progression, to appoint such other times for healing as shall be convenient. And his Majesty doth order and command that from the time of publishing this his Majesty's order, none present themselves at his Majesty's Court to be healed of the said disease, but only at, or within the times for that purpose appointed as aforesaid. And His Majesty was further pleased to order that all such as shall hereafter repair to the Court for this purpose, shall bring with them certificates under the hands and seals of the ---- or minister, and of both, or of one of the Churchwardens of the respective parishes whereto they belong, and from whence they come, testifying according to the truth, that they have not at any time before been presented to the intent of being healed of that disease. And all ministers and Churchwardens are ordered to be careful to examine into the truth before they give certificates, and also to keep and register the names of such persons, to whom such certificates they shall from time to time give. And to the end that all His Majesty's loving subjects may be informed of His Majesty's command, His Majesty was pleased to direct that this order be published in all parish churches, and then to be affixed to some conspicuous place there; and that to that end a convenient number of copies be sent to the Most Reverend Father in God, the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Lord Archbishop of York, who are to take care that the same be distributed to all the parishes in their respective provinces." The above proclamation was issued in the Reign of Charles II. HOLY RELICS. THE NANTEOS CUP. There is preserved at the mansion of Nanteos, near Aberystwyth, a sacred healing cup known in Welsh as the "Phiol," which interesting relic was shown me a few years ago by Mrs. W. B. Powell, to whom, and to the genial Squire, I am indebted for much kindness and respect. In the same week an intelligent and wealthy Roman Catholic lady--an invalid--came all the way from London, as she had such faith in the efficacy and healing virtues of the Sacred Cup. The Cup is of a very dark wood and supposed to have been formed from the wood of the true Cross, and it seems to have been preserved in the Abbey of Strata Florida. At the time of the Dissolution, the Abbey, lands and goods, were given to the Stedman family, who also carefully preserved the relic, and from that family it passed over to the Powells as well as the demesne. THE HEALING CUP. Until a few years ago it was usual for people who were ill, especially those suffering from hemorrhage to send to Nanteos for the loan of this healing cup, as it was supposed to possess healing power which could only be called miraculous, and there are many instances of cures believed to have been effected by taking food and medicine or wine out of the cup. It is a great pity that this interesting relic is now in an unshapely condition, having been considerably damaged by some of the patients who were not content with drinking from it, but tried to bite away parts of the cup itself. It is quite possible that this holy relic was the chalice therein our Lord consecrated the wine and water at the institution of the Eucharist, and in which was said to be preserved some of the blood which fell from the Saviour's wounds as he hung on the cross. In an interesting little book written five years ago, by Miss Ethelwyn M. Amery, B.A., entitled "Sought and Found," the writer, after giving the story of the the Holy Grail, concludes. "Not far from the sea-side town of Aberystwyth, in Mid-Wales, stands the House of Nanteos, the country seat of the Powells. The family is an ancient one; it was ancient in the days of the Reformation, and is possessed of all the traditions of antiquity, including a phantom coach, which foretells death. To this house came, one summer's day, a party of holiday-makers from Aberystwyth--ordinary twentieth century people, with all the most up-to-date ideas--and to them was shown the house and its treasures. There was old armour in the hall, old china in the gallery, a wonderful carved arch in the drawing-room, and many other things which attract the sightseer, attracted one and another of the party. But there were a few who had no eyes for these things; to them the centre of interest was found in a small glass, carefully covered with silk, which was brought out to the lawn from its home in the library, so that all might more easily see it. Now those who looked at this case wondered what this treasure could be which was thus carefully guarded, and when the cover was withdrawn, the astonishment of many more than equalled their previous curiosity, for in this case was a fragment of wood, at first sight shapeless and worm-eaten (and many saw no more than this), but those who looked more closely saw that this worm-eaten fragment was shaped like a wooden bowl about five inches high, of which one side was broken nearly down to the foot, and the other part was roughly held together by two rivets. Many having seen this were satisfied, and went away, but some listened to what their hostess told them concerning the cup, and this is the story she told: "'Many years ago, when Henry VIII. was destroying the Monasteries, his servants came into Wales, and hearing of an ancient Monastery among the hills, where only seven old monks remained to guard their treasure, he determined to destroy the Abbey and seize their goods. But the monks were warned by friendly neighbours, and fled by night, bearing their treasure with them. Their journey was long and dangerous for such old men, but they reached the House of Nanteos in safety, and deposited the treasure they had suffered so much to save. One by one the old monks died, and at the point of death he entrusted the treasure to the owner of the house that had sheltered them, until the Church should once more claim its own. But the Church has not yet claimed it, and it is that treasure of the monks which you now see.' "And again some were satisfied and went away, only wondering that the old monks risked their lives for so small a thing. But those who remained heard further, that the monks had regarded this cup as sacred. Many reasons were given for this: one was that it had a Communion Chalice, another that it possessed miraculous power of healing, but the true reason is told only to the few who press closely for it, and it is thus:-- "Not for its healing properties alone was this cup treasured, not because from it the Monks had received the Communion wine; the cup was older than the Monastery--indeed, the Monastery had been built to receive it; it had been handed down from Abbott to Abbott through the ages, and in each age its secret was told to one or two, that they might guard it the more carefully, for this cup is none other than the one from which our Lord drank at the Last Supper--the cup so eagerly sought for by King Arthur's knights; found and handled by many, who, because of their blindness were unable to perceive the treasure which was before them; seen and realized by the pure knight Galahad, and then hidden from common touch and sight during the sinful days which followed, but preserved carefully through them all, and powerful even yet to give to those who will wait for it, a faint--alas! very faint--glimpse of Galahad's vision, and to remind them that even yet 'The pure in heart shall see God.'" Just as I am sending this to the press, Mrs. Powell of Nanteos, showed me a letter which she had just received from a noble French lady begging her to send to her in a letter, an handkerchief, or ever a rag, which had been tied round this Healing Cup for 24 hours. THE STAFF OF ST. CURIG. In the Church of St. Harmon, Radnorshire, was once preserved a pastoral staff supposed to have belonged to St. Curig, the founder of Llangurig, in Montgomeryshire. Giraldus Cambrensis says that this staff was "covered on all sides with gold and silver, and resembling in its upper part the form of a cross; its efficacy has been proved in many cases, but particularly in the removal of glandular and strenuous swellings." PENGLOG TEILO (TEILO'S SKULL.) A relic known as "Penglog Teilo" is still preserved at Llandilo Llwydiarth, Pembrokeshire. I give a full account of it in my chapter on Holy Wells. CHAPTER XI. FOLK-LORE OF FOUNTAINS, LAKES, AND CAVES. HOLY WELLS. There is much Folk-Lore in connection with wells, in Wales, and an interesting volume might be written on the subject. Holy Wells were once much frequented by devotees in search of health, omens, or prognostications of coming events; and even at the present day some of them are made use of as wishing wells by young men and young women, who throw a bent or a crooked pin into the well, and wishing at the same time. In the old times when "Gwyliau Mabsant," or Saints' Fetes, were in vogue in Wales, wells were sometimes the scenes of great merriment, both before and even after the Reformation. According to an old writer they were much frequented in the time of Queen Elizabeth. The habit of tying rags to the branches of a tree close to the well was well-known once in several places. This was done by people who were suffering from maladies. The rag was first dipped in the water, and the afflicted part of the body bathed with it. Afterwards before going away from the well the rag was tied to the branch of a tree near it. It is also worth mentioning that this ceremony is in vogue in Eastern Countries as well, such as Arabia and Persia. As far as Wales is concerned, some of the wells frequented in times past, possessed medicinal properties; but it must be admitted that some of the superstitious ceremonies which were performed at them, must have come down from pre-Christian times; and it seems evident that water was once an object of worship, or at least of veneration, and that offerings were made either to the water itself, or more probably to the tutelary god of the fountain. This was the opinion of the late Rev. Elias Owen, F.S.A., who had made a special study of the subject all his life-time. That the inhabitants of Great Britain were, in ancient times, given to the adoration of fountains, is evident from the fact that in 960, King Edgar commanded by Canon law "That every priest industriously advance Christianity and extinguish heathenism and forbid the 'Worship of Fountains, and necromancy and auguries."" But finding the worship of fountains too strong to put down at once, the priest effected a compromise, by transferring veneration from the tutelary god by dedicating the well to a saint, and building a church on the spot, and baptised his flock in the well; nevertheless many pagan customs of well worship lingered on from generation to generation. At the present day in some places, we find a village pump situated at the corner of the Churchyard, which is not at all a good thing from a sanitary point of view. But we must bear in mind that the well was there before the Churchyard, and that in most of such cases the site of the Church had been fixed upon because of the virtue and attractions of the well. ST. TEILO'S WELL. This strong spring rises within a short distance of the ruined church of Llandilo Llwydiarth, near Maenclochog, in Pembrokeshire, and close by, there is a farm-house in which a skull, traditionally called "Penglog Teilo," (Teilo's Skull) is kept, and has been kept from time immemorial. This skull is used for drinking water out of from St. Teilo's Well. In former times St. Teilo's Well had a wide-spread reputation as a healing well, and the sick from all parts of South Wales resorted to it; but it was considered absolutely necessary to drink the water out of the skull, which had to be dipped in the well, and filled with water, and handed to the patient by the hereditary keeper. The present keeper of the relic is Mr. Melchior, an intelligent farmer, who informed me that his ancestors had been keepers of the skull from time immemorial. How the skull first came there, Mr. Gibby, of Llangolman, gave the following tradition:--When St. Teilo was dying he bade a female servant take his skull from Llandilo, in Carmarthenshire, to Llandilo, in Pembrokeshire, and that if this was done, the skull would be a blessing to coming generations of men who would have their health restored by drinking water out of it. According to another tradition which I have heard, the skull came from Llandaff Cathedral, where St. Teilo was Bishop, though born in the neighbourhood of Tenby. If we believe the old legend, the miracles he worked in death were marvellous; for, "on the night of his decease, there arose a great dispute between the clergy of the three Churches each asserting its authority and privileges for obtaining his body; but at length, attending to the advice of discreet men, they had recourse to fasting and prayer, that Christ, the great judge, who is the true authority, and privilege of holy persons, should declare by some sign, to which of them he would be pleased to commit the body of the saint. And in the morning a certain elder, looking towards the place where the body was, spoke with a loud voice, saying, "Our prayer, brethren, has been heard by the Lord, who deprives no one of his reward; arise, and behold what things have been done by Christ the meditator between God and man, that our dispute might be settled; and as in the life so in the death of the holy confessor, Teilo, miracles should be performed." For, lo! they saw there three bodies, to which there was the same dimensions of body, the same beauty of countenance; they had the lineaments of the whole frame, without any difference. So peace being restored, each with their own corpse returned homewards, and they buried the different bodies in those several places with the greatest reverence." St. Teilo died in the year 566, and people of the present day hardly believe that the relic at Llandilo Llwydiarth is the real skull of this saint, though the skull in question is a very old one, and only the brain pan now remains. About five years ago an old man named John Griffiths, living in the village of Maenclochog, informed me that he well remembered the time when people came to St. Teilo's Well, from all parts of the country, for the alleviation of their ailments, "and were cured" said he, "by faith." The same old man also told me that when a boy, he and other two boys who were suffering from the whooping cough, were sent by their mothers early in the morning to drink water from the well out of the skull. They did so and got rid of their coughs entirely. I was told by another person in the neighbourhood, that about seventy years ago, a gentleman from Glamorganshire, drove his consumptive son in a carriage all the way to Pembrokeshire, to try this healing fountain of St. Teilo, but arrived home in Swansea without feeling any better. He had drunk the water from the well, but not out of the skull. His father took the boy all the way to St. Teilo's Well a second time, and now made him drink out of the skull, and was completely cured of his complaint. When I was spending a few weeks at Maenclochog, some years ago, in quest of information, I accompanied Mr. Melchior to the well one day, and drank out of the skull. But, unfortunately, I did not get rid of my cold, from which I was suffering at the time, but, perhaps, my faith was not strong enough. THE PRIEST'S WELL. "There is a well on the Picton Castle Estate, situated near the Red House Cottages, called the Priest's Well, which the children are (this was written thirty-five years ago) in the habit of decorating with mountain ash (or as it is called "Cayer" in the district) and cowslips on May Day. This is supposed to have the effect of keeping the witches away from those families who get water from the well during the year. The children sing over the well while decorating it "Cayer, Cayer, keep the witches in May Fair."--Bye-Gones, December, 1874. ST. LEONARD'S WELL. This well, which is situated in the parish of Rudbaxton, in the neighbourhood of Haverfordwest, was once much made use of for its medical properties, especially by those who were suffering from sore eyes. There was once a St. Leonard's Chapel a short distance from the well, though St. Leonard was not a Welsh Saint. The Chalybeate Wells, Gumfreston, Tenby, had a great reputation once for their healing virtues. WELLS OF THE FIVE SAINTS. These are five wells or pools in the river, near Llanpumpsaint, in Carmarthenshire, and I am indebted for the following tradition concerning them, to old records in the possession of the Rev. Canon Lloyd, B.D., Vicar of that parish. Llanpumpsaint, of course, means the "Church of the Five Saints." According to the tradition the five wells were made use of by the five Saints, and each particular saint had his particular well. In former times on St. Peter's Day, yearly, between two and three hundred people got together, some to wash in, and some to see the wells. In the summer time the people in the neighbourhood bathed themselves in the wells to cure their aches. THE HOLY WELL OF LLANFIHANGEL GENEU'R GLYN. This well is about four miles north from Aberystwyth, in Cardiganshire. It is situated quite close to the eastern wall of the Churchyard of Llanfihangel Parish Church. This well has been, and perhaps still is, held in honour for its curative virtues. It is surrounded by a small building and within a few years of the present time, people in search of health took the trouble of coming from long distances to drink from and to bathe in its waters. When the Rev. Z. M. Davies, vicar of the parish, and myself, visited the spot five years ago, a lady living quite close to the well, informed us, that a short time previously, a crippled girl from Glamorganshire, who had come there on crutches, was able to walk away without them, and left them behind. Ffynnon Francis, is also a well in the Parish of Llanfihangel Geneu'r Glyn, on a farm called Penuchaf, and it seems that it was once popularly esteemed, for there is a tradition at Talybont, that its waters had the power of restoring sight to a blind old man named Francis. THE LLANCYNVELYN WELL. The parish of Llancynvelyn is situated on high ground which juts out into the bog called Gors Fochno not far from Borth, in North Cardiganshire. Cynvelyn, to whom the Church is dedicated, was a Welsh Saint, descended from Cunedda. Within the memory of many people who are now alive, there was a holy well in the Churchyard of Llancynvelyn, and the sexton, an intelligent old man, informed me a few years ago, that its water was thought to possess health-restoring qualities, and he himself noticed people resorting there to bathe their feet in the well; and some came with bottles and carried some of the water home with them as a household remedy. CANNA'S WELL (CARMARTHENSHIRE). The parish of Llangan is not far from Whitland. The holy well there, known as Canna's Well, was much resorted to in former times, as its water was supposed to cure ague and intestinal complaints. After throwing a pin into the well, and drink of the water or bathe in it, it was customary for the patient to sit down in "Canna's Chair" for a certain length of time and try to sleep. "Canna's Chair" is a stone. In former times the superstitious believed it had a peculiar virtue in connection with the well. ST. ANTHONY'S WELL. St. Anthony's Well, at Llanstephan, Carmarthenshire, was formerly famous for its curative virtues; and it is rather popular at the present day as a "Wishing Well." Young men and young women resort to the spot to wish, and are in the habit of throwing a pin into the well as an offering to its deity or to St. Anthony, its patron saint. THE "WISHING WELL" OF CAREG CENEN CASTLE. About four miles to the east of the town of Llandilo, in Carmarthenshire, are the remains of a remarkable old castle called Careg Cenen, which stands on the summit of a solitary rock. This rock is about 300 feet high. The most noted feature in connection with the Castle is its underground gallery. In one part of the building a passage terminates in a flight of steps leading down to a dark subterranean cave of about 200, or perhaps, 250 feet long, and at the end of this passage or cave, there is a well which is still used as a "wishing well," more especially by young people. When I went to see the remains of the Castle a few years ago, I also visited the subterranean cave. After lighting a candle and descending the flight of steps, I proceeded along this dark and marvellous passage slowly and cautiously, as there was water in some places. After going on underground in this manner about forty yards, to my great surprise, I heard the sound of human voices, and saw a light in front of me; and all of a sudden I came upon three young ladies, one from London, and two from Ammanford, who informed me that they had intended going on as far as the well, but turned back before reaching it, as they were afraid of proceeding any further into the interior of such a dreary dungeon. However, when I offered to take the lead, they followed me with joy, and at last we reached the Wishing Well at the far end of the cave. Before we left the spot, each one of the three young ladies threw a bent pin into the well, wishing, I suppose that she might have her heart's desire. We found many pins at the bottom of the well, which had been probably left there by young people given to the practice of amorous spells. There is also a well in the neighbourhood of Llandilo, called Ffynon-fil-feibion (thousand men's well), respecting which tradition states that 1,000 men fell near it. ST. MARY'S WELL, RHAYADER. In the "History of Radnorshire" it is stated: "On the western extremity of the common called Maes-y-dref, is a most excellent spring of pure and limpid water, namely, St. Mary's Well. It was heretofore a custom for the young people of Rhayader, of both sexes, to resort hither on Sunday evenings, during the Spring and Summer seasons, to drink this salutary beverage sweetened with sugar." PILLETH CHURCHYARD WELL (RADNORSHIRE). The water of this well was once considered beneficial in ophthalmia and other diseases of the eyes. There are in Radnorshire numerous springs for the cure of various diseases, and in this county also is the celebrated and well-known health resort of Llandrindod. Builth Wells, Llangamarch, and Llanwrtyd (Breconshire), are also on its borders. LLANNON (CARMARTHENSHIRE.) There is a holy Well in this parish dedicated to Non, mother of St. David. Tradition also says that Non herself got water from this well. LLANELLY. In former times there was a Holy Well in the neighbourhood of Llanelly, known as "Ffynnon Elli," supposed to possess medical qualities. HOLY WELL AT LLANGYBI. Llangybi is about four miles from Lampeter, in Cardiganshire. The Vicar, the Rev. J. N. Evans, informed me that there is a well in this parish known as "Ffynon wen," formerly supposed to possess healing powers; and that there is a tradition in the neighbourhood that St. Gybi himself lived at a house which is still called "Llety Cybi." Mr. Evans also adds in the Transactions of the Cardiganshire Antiquarian Society, Vol I., that within a quarter-of-a-mile of the Holy Well, there used to be a large stone called "Llech Gybi," which the invalids who came to this well for healing were required to touch. There is a Holy Well of St. Gybi in Carnarvonshire also, to which it was once customary for young women to travel long distances, in order to find out their lover's intentions at the forthcoming fair. A pocket handkerchief was thrown on the surface of the water, and "if it floated to the South there would be great joy and delight, but if to the North, the girl would be an old maid." THE HOLY WELL OF ST. GWENOG. St. Gwenog's Well is close to the graveyard walls of the Church of Llanwenog, which is situated about six miles from Lampeter, and two from Llanybyther. The well was once much resorted to, even within memory of people who are still alive, as its water was considered very beneficial, especially to wash children whose backs were weak. THE LLANLLWNI WELL. In the parish of Llanllwni, Carmarthenshire, there is a well called Ffynon Garedig, which seems to have been famous once. There is an old saying that if you hold your two arms in this well for a certain length of time, you will find out whether you are healthy or unhealthy. If one's arms are red when taken out of the water, it is a sign of good health, but if white, a sign of bad health. THE PWLLFFEIN WELL. Mr. Rees, Maesymeillion, Llandyssul, Cardiganshire, informed me, that there was once a famous well for its healing virtues, on the side of the river Clettwr, known as "Ffynon Pwllffein." An old man who is now dead, informed him that this well was much resorted to about the first part of the last century, and pins were once found at its bottom. The well has been destroyed by the river now. Ffynon-Ddewi, or St. David's Well, near Alltyrodyn, in the same parish, was also much resorted to once, even within living memory, as it was popularly esteemed for its cures of whooping-cough. THE LLANDYSSILIO WELL. In the parish of Llandyssiliogogo, Cardiganshire, a well, known as Ffynon Blaenglewinfawr, was once popularly esteemed for its cures of bad legs and other physical troubles. It is said that some who went there on crutches were cured. FFYNON Y GROES (WELL OF THE CROSS). This well is in the parish of Llangranog, Cardiganshire, and was famous once, for tradition, says that in former times, pilgrims rested here to quench their thirst and to make the sign of the Cross. This parish has also its Ffynon Fair, or St. Mary's Well. FFYNON Y PISTYLL. This well, which was once celebrated for its healing virtues is in the neighbourhood of Kidwelly, in Carmarthenshire, and its water cured sore eyes. THE WELL OF FFOSANNA. This well is also in Carmarthenshire, in the parish of Cyuwil Elvet. There was hardly a well in the county more celebrated in former times than "Ffynon Ffosanna," and there are traditions still extant in the neighbourhood, that many of the cripples who resorted here, went home healed. FFYNON BECCA. Another well-known well of great repute in Carmarthenshire, is Becca's Well, between Newcastle Emlyn and Llandyssul. This well is still thought by many to possess health-restoring qualities, and its water cured both gravel and diseased eyes. It was much resorted to within living memory. ST. NON'S WELL, NEAR ST. DAVID'S. This famous holy well, dedicated to Non, the mother of St. David, Patron Saint of Wales, is situated near the remains of St. Non's Chapel, near St. David's, and was formerly much resorted to for many complaints; and Fenton in his History of Pembrokeshire says: "In my infancy, as was the general usage with respect to children at that time, I was often dipped in it, and offerings, however trifling, even of a farthing or a pin, were made after each ablution, and the bottom of the well shone with votive brass.... At the upper end of the field leading to Non's Chapel there appears the ruined site of a house, probably inhabited by the person deputed to take care of the spring, most likely a lucrative employment in more superstitious times." When I visited the neighbourhood a few years ago, an old man at St. David's informed me that he remembered diseased persons coming to the well, and returning home completely restored to good health, and that without doubt there must be healing virtues in the water of this sacred spring. The old man also believed that St. David was baptised in the well. Pembrokeshire people firmly believe that the Patron Saint of Wales was born in the neighbourhood which bears his name. The Welsh name for the cathedral and the town of St. David's is Ty Ddewi, which means the House of David. ST. EDREN'S WELL. St. Edren's is situated about half way between Haverfordwest and Fishguard. According to a local tradition there was once a most famous sacred well in the Churchyard, much resorted to for the cure of many complaints, especially hydrophobia; but one time, a woman washed her clothes in this well on Sunday, which caused the spring to dry up as a curse for breaking the Sabbath. Fortunately, however, for poor patients, the healing propensities or virtues of its water were miraculously transferred into the churchyard grass. So people took some of the grass to their homes to eat it with their food, which cured them of their ailments. There was a hole in the church wall to receive the offerings of those who came to procure some of this grass. One old man informed the Vicar, the Rev. J. Bowen, who is an enthusiastic antiquarian, that the sacred well had been closed in order to drain the graveyard, but that there is still a spring in a field outside the wall. THE LETTERSTON WELL. Another Pembrokeshire well supposed by some to possess curative properties is called "Ffynon Shan Shillin," at Letterston, about five miles from Fishguard. Some say that the water of the well was once so valuable that it was sold for a shilling a bottle. THE LLANLLAWER WELL. A well near the Church of Llanllawer, in the neighbourhood of Fishguard, had once the reputation of possessing medical properties, and was much frequented in the old times. There is a Rocking-Stone also in this neighbourhood, perhaps once used in divination. There was also a well near Moelgrove, between Nevern and Cardigan, which was resorted to once, and pins were discovered at the bottom of it. RHOSCROWTHER. "Down in a hollow beside the stream stands the ancient Parish Church, dedicated to St. Decumanus, patron of Springs and Wells, who in old times was held in high esteem for the cures effected at the bubbling rill hard by."--"Nooks and Corners in Pembrokeshire," page 82. ST. KEYNAN'S WELL (LLANGURIG.) According to the late Rev. Elias Owen, F.S.A., this well granted the wish of the first who drank it; and every married couple endeavoured to first drink the water, for the one did so became the master in their wedded life. LAKES. LLYN MOEL LLYN. This is a lake in the parish of Llanfihangel Genau'r Glyn, North Cardiganshire. There is a saying that every bird that attempts to fly over this lake, falls into it dead. There is also a tradition in the neighbourhood that when an attempt was made to drain the lake, terrific thunder and lightning compelled them to give up the attempt. TREGARON LAKE. There is a small lake near Tregaron, between Lampeter and Aberystwyth; and there is a tradition in the neighbourhood that the village or town of Tregaron was once situated on the spot which is now occupied by the lake, but that it sunk, and some fancy they can see some ruins or remains now at the bottom of the lake. PENCARREG LAKE. Pencarreg Lake is not far from Lampeter, but lies on the Carmarthenshire side of the river Teivy, and near Llanybyther. According to an old tradition in the district, a village once stood on the spot where now the lake is; but the village was swallowed up, and the lake is now known as the "bottomless." TALLEY LAKES. Talley Lakes are close to the remains of the fine old Abbey, and not far from Edwinsford, the country seat of Sir James Drummond, Bart., Lord Lieutenant of Carmarthenshire. Respecting these lakes also there is a tradition that a town lies beneath their waters. Such traditions of towns lying buried beneath lakes are common to many lakes, both in Wales, and other countries. Such traditions have probably come down from pre-historic times, when people dwelt in lake habitations, and in caves, for safety from the beasts of the forest as well as from human foes. Traces of lake dwelling have been discovered in Switzerland and in other countries. LLYN LLECHWEN. Llyn Llechwen, or Llyn Llech Owen, lies on the top of a hill near Gorslas, in Carmarthenshire. According to a local tradition there was only a small well once on the spot now occupied by the lake. The well had a stone cover which had to be removed by those who came to obtain water, and to be carefully replaced after obtaining it. But once upon a time a certain farmer in the neighbourhood sent a boy almost every day to the well to water his horse. Whenever the boy returned the farmer always asked him, "Did you put back the stone over the mouth of the well, my boy?" The boy answered "Yes." One day, however, when in a hurry, the lad quite forgot about replacing the stone, and the consequence was that the water of the well burst forth till it formed a lake. The above story was told me by an old man named John Jones, who lives in the small town of Llangadock, who added that he had heard it from his mother when a boy. According to another tale respecting the spot, it was one famous warrior known as Owen Lawgoch, and his men, who forgot to replace the cover; but when he found the water bursting forth both he and his men entered a cave in alarm, and fell asleep which is to last till it is broken by the sound of a trumpet and the clang of arms on Rhiw Goch, then to sally forth to conquer. LLYN Y FAN FACH. This lake is known to all lovers of Welsh Fairy Lore. It lies on the Black Mountain on the borders of Carmarthenshire and Breconshire. It has been customary from time immemorial for people from all parts to throng the banks of this lake on the first day of August to see the Fairy Lady of the Lake appearing on the surface of the water to comb her hair. For account of this lady see Fairies in this book. LLYN EIDDWEN, LLYN FANOD, AND LLYN FARCH. These are a group of lakes in which the river Aeron, in Cardiganshire, rises. There is an old story that wild cattle used to come out of Eiddwen, and rush back when disturbed. Mr. David Rees, Glynwern, Llanilar, informed me that according to an old prophecy attributed to Merlin, when Llyn Eiddwen dries up the town of Carmarthen will sink! There is also a story about Llyn Farch that, once upon a time, a most wonderful animal came out of its waters, and was shot by a farmer. SAVADDAN LAKE (BRECONSHIRE). This celebrated lake which is known by several names, such as Llangorse Lake, Lake of Brycheiniog, etc., occupies a spot where, according to ancient tradition, once stood a large city, which was swallowed up by an earthquake. Camden once thought that the supposed city was the ancient Loventium of the Romans; but Loventium stood, in all probability, in the parish of Llanddewi Brefi, Cardiganshire. This lake was once celebrated for its miracles, and Giraldus Cambrensis seven hundred years ago, says:--"In the reign of King Henry I., Gruffydh, son of Rhys ap Theodor, held under the King, one comot, namely, the fourth part of the cantred of Caoc, in the Cantref Mawr, which, in title and dignity, was esteemed by the Welsh, equal to the southern part of Wales, called Deheubarth, that is, the right-hand side of Wales. When Gruffydh, on his return from the King's Court, passed near this lake, which at that cold season of the year was covered with waterfowl of various sorts, being accompanied by Milo, Earl of Hereford, and Lord of Brecheinioc, and Payn Fitz-John, Lord of Ewyas, who were at that time secretaries and privy counsellors of the King; Earl Milo, wishing to draw forth from Gruffydh some discourse concerning his innate nobility, rather jocularly than seriously thus addressed him: 'It is an ancient saying in Wales, that if the natural prince of the country, coming to this lake, shall order the birds to sing, they will immediately obey him.' To which Gruffydh, richer in mind than in gold (for though his inheritance was diminished, his ambition and dignity still remained), answered, 'Do you therefore, who now hold the dominion of this land, first give the command'; but he and Payn having in vain commanded, and Gruffydh, perceiving that it was necessary for him to do so in his turn, dismounted from his horse, and falling on his knees towards the East, as if he had been about to engage in battle, prostrate on the ground, with his eyes and hands uplifted to Heaven, poured forth devout prayers to the Lord: at length, rising up, and signing his face and forehead with the figure of the cross, he thus openly spake: 'Almighty God, and Lord Jesus Christ, who knowest all things, declare here this day Thy power. If Thou hast caused me to descend lineally from the natural princes of Wales, I command these birds in Thy name to declare it;' and immediately the birds, beating the water with their wings, began to cry aloud, and proclaim him. The spectators were astonished and confounded; and Earl Milo hastily returning with Payn Fitz-John to Court, related this singular occurrence to the King, who is said to have replied, 'By the death of Christ (an oath he was accustomed to use), it is not a matter of so much wonder; for although by our great authority we commit acts of violence and wrong against these people yet they are known to be the rightful inheritors of this land.'" RIVER LEGENDS. "Hafren ag Wy, hyfryd eu gwedd A Rheidol fawr ei hanrhydedd." (How beautiful are the Severn and Wye And Rheidol is held in honour they say.) The Severn, the Wye, and the Rheidol rise on Plinlimon Mountain. These rivers, which are called three sisters, agreed to make a visit to the sea in the morning. Severn rose up very early, and took compass through Shropshire, Worcestershire, and Gloucestershire. Wye rose later and took her journey through the counties of Radnorshire and Hereford, falling in with her sister near Chepstow, and went hand in hand to the ocean. Rheidol indulged in her dreams and lay so late that she was forced to take the nearest road to Aberystwyth. According to another version of this legend five sister fountains are mentioned, namely, Wye, Severn, Rheidol, Llyfnant and the Dulas. There is another interesting old legend having close connection with the Severn, the following version of which is given by Milton in his History of Britain:--"After this Brutus in a chosen place, built Troja Nova, changed in time to Trimovantum, now London; and began to enact laws (Heli being then High Priest in Judea); and having governed the whole isle twenty-four years died, and was buried in his new Troy. Three sons--Locrine, Albanact, and Camber--divided the land by consent. Locrine had the middle part, Loegria; Camber possessed Cambria or Wales; Albanact, Albania, now Scotland. But he in the end, by Humber, King of the Hums, who, with a fleet, invaded that land, was slain in fight, and his people driven back into Loegria. Locrine and his brother go out against Humber; who now marching onward was by these defeated, and in a river drowned, which to this day retains his name. Among the spoils of his camp and navy were found certain maids, and Estrilidis, above the rest, passing fair, the daughter of a King in Germany, from whence Humber, as he went wasting the sea-coast, had led her captive; whom Locrine, though before, contracted to the daughter of Corineus, resolves to marry. But being forced and threatened by Corineus, whose authority and power he feared, Gwendolen, the daughter, he yields to marry, but in secret loves the other; and ofttimes retiring as to some sacrifice, through vaults and passages made underground, and seven years thus enjoying her, had by her a daughter equally fair, whose name was Sabra. But when once his fear was off by the death of Corineus, not content with secret enjoyment, divorcing Gwendolen, he makes Estrilidis his queen. Gwendolen, all, in rage, departs into Cornwall; where Pladan, the son she had by Locrine, was hitherto brought up by Corineus, his grandfather; and gathering an army of her father's friends, and subjects, gives battle to her husband by the river Sture, wherein Locrine, shot with an arrow, ends his life. But not so ends the fury of Gwendolen, for Estrilidis and her daughter Sabra she throws into a river, and, to have a monument of revenge proclaims that the stream be thenceforth called after the damsel's name, which by length of time is changed now to Sabrina or Severn." The Poet in his "Mask of Comus" makes the nymph Sabrina "that with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream" the goddess of the river, but still retaining her maiden gentleness, and the shepherds, at their festivals, "Carol her goodness loud in their rustic lays, and throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream of pansies, pink, and gaudy daffodils. And, as the old swain said, she can unlock the clasping charm, and thaw the number spell, if she be right invoked in warbling song; for maidenhood she loves, and will be swift to aid a virgin, such as was herself, in hard-besetting need." In the year 1634 when this "Comus" was presented at Ludlow Castle before the Lord President of Wales, the President's own daughter, Lady Alice Egerton, when only a little girl, acted in it; and it is an interesting fact that this same Lady Alice, some years afterwards, became the wife of the Earl of Carbery, Golden Grove, Carmarthenshire, who entertained Jeremy Taylor during the time of the Commonwealth. CAVES. OGOF MORRIS (MORRIS'S CAVE). Near Tre'rddol in North Cardiganshire, there is a cave known as Ogof Morris. According to a tradition I heard in the neighbourhood, this Morris was a notorious robber who lived in this cave, and went about to steal hens and sheep; but at last he was caught and hanged at Cardigan. According to the eminent antiquarian, Mr. Barnwell, there was a robber of the name also in Pembrokeshire, who had a little dog trained to fetch the arrows shot at unfortunate wayfarers. At last he was killed and buried at a spot where there is a stone still called "Bedd Morris" on the highway from St. David's to Newport. BLOODY CAVE. There is a cave at Pendine, in Carmarthenshire, in which according to tradition a gang of most desperate and murderous robbers once made their headquarters. At last, these scoundrels were attacked by the people of the neighbourhood, and put to death for murdering a woman for her money. PLANT MAT'S CAVE. According to tradition "Plant Mat," or "Plant y Fat," were two sons and a daughter of one Matthew Evans, who kept a public house at Tregaron in the seventeenth century. These persons became highway robbers and lived in a cave near Devil's Bridge. The entrance to the cave admitted only one person at a time and this enabled the robbers to keep out hundreds when they were attacked. It seems that they had some notion of honour, for it is said that if either had a friend, he gave him his glove, which served as a passport when stopped by the others. They lived for some years in this cave, but at last they were executed for murder. One of them was captured near Hereford, just as he was giving out the well-known hail of "Deliver or die." These robbers are also credited with the attributes of the fairies. TWM SHION CATTI'S CAVE. "Mae llefain mawr a gwaeddi, Yn Ystradffin eleni; Mae'r ceryg nadd yn toddi'n blwm, Rhag ofn twm Sion Catti." (In Ystradffin a doleful sound Pervades the hollow hills around; The very stones with terror melt, Such tear of Twm Shion Catti's felt.) This cave, which is near Ystradffin, on the borders of Carmarthenshire and Cardiganshire, was once, says tradition, the stronghold of Twm Shion Catti, or to give him his proper name Thomas Jones. This Thomas Jones, or Twm Shion Catti, lived at Tregaron in the time of Queen Elizabeth. It seems that he had been in his younger days a freebooter, but reformed and became a celebrated bard, antiquary and a genealogist. The legends which have gathered round the name of this eminent man, are still retained in the memory of the people in Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire, and the late Mr. T. J. L. Prichard, of Llandovery, made him the hero of a most popular romance, into whose book the stories have been introduced, and embellished. OWEN LAWGOCH'S CAVE. This cave is in the limestone rock of Dinas, Llandebie, in Carmarthenshire, respecting which there is a story that a great warrior named Owen Lawgoch and his men fell asleep in it, but who are some day to awake and sally forth. A version of the legend is given in the Brython for 1858, page 179, by the late Gwynionydd, and an English translation of the same story is given by Sir John Rhys in his "Celtic Folk-Lore." "Not the least of the wonders of imagination wont to exercise the minds of the old people was the story of Owen Lawgoch. One sometimes hears sung in the fairs the words:-- 'Yr Owain hwn yw Harri'r Nawfed Sydd yn trigo 'ngwlad estroniaid, etc.' (This Owen is Henry the Ninth Who tarries in a foreign land, etc.) But this Owen Lawgoch, the national deliverer of our ancient race of Brythons, did not, according to the Troed yr Aur people, tarry in a foreign land, but somewhere in Wales, not far from Offa's Dyke. They used to say that one Dafydd Meirig of Bettws Bledrws, having quarrelled with his father left for England. When he had got a considerable distance from home, he struck a bargain with a cattle dealer to drive a herd of his beasts to London. Somewhere on the corner of a vast moor, Dafydd cut a very remarkable hazel stick; for a good staff is as essential to the vocation of a good drover as teeth are to a dog. So while his comrades had had their sticks broken before reaching London, Dafydd's remained as it was, and whilst they were conversing together on London Bridge a stranger accosted Dafydd, wishing to know where he had obtained that wonderful stick. He replied that in Wales he had had it, and on the stranger's assuring him that there were wonderful things beneath the tree on which it had grown, they both set out for Wales. When they reached the spot and dug a little they found that there was a great hollow place beneath. As night was spreading out her sable mantle, and as they were getting deeper, what should they find but stairs easy to step, and great lamps illuminating the vast chamber! When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves near a large table, at one end of which they beheld sitting a tall man of about seven foot. He occupied an old-fashioned chair and rested his head on his left hand, while the other hand, all red, lay on the table and grasped a great sword. He was withal enjoying a wondrously serene sleep, and at his feet on the floor lay a big dog. After casting a glance at them, the wizard said to Dafydd: 'This is Owen Lawgoch, who is to sleep on till a special time, when he will wake and reign over the Brythons. That weapon in his hand is one of the swords of the ancient Kings of Britain.' Then they moved slowly on, gazing at the wonders of that subterranean chamber; and they beheld everywhere the arms of ages long past, and on the table thousands of gold and silver pieces bearing the images of the different Kings of Britain. They got to understand that it was permitted them to take a handful of each, but not to put any in their purses. They both visited the cave several times, but at last Dafydd put in his purse a little of the gold bearing the image of one of the Owen's ancestors. But after coming out again they were never able any more to find Owen's subterranean palace." This story of Owen Lawgoch and his sleeping warriors is a version of the well-known Welsh tradition of the enchanted sleep of King Arthur and his Knights. According to an old Welsh ballad, Owen Lawgoch does not sleep in a cave in Wales, but "tarries in a foreign land"; and Dr. O. T. Lewis, of the University College, addressing the Cardiganshire Antiquarian Society, November 30th, 1910, stated that the garrison at Aberystwyth "was increased in 1369, when Owen Lawgoch with his French auxiliaries were expected from beyond the seas." CHAPTER XII. LOCAL TRADITIONS, Etc. LLANDDEWI BREFI. This parish is celebrated for its legendary lore; and no wonder for it is a spot of great historic interest. There is a tradition current in the neighbourhood to the effect that it was originally intended to build the Church of Llanddewi Brefi in a field on Godregarth farm, and that the work was actually commenced on that spot, but the attempt to build there was constantly frustrated, for that which was set up during the day was pulled down in the night by a Spirit, and all the material removed or carried to the spot where the Parish Church now stands. The field pointed out by tradition is about a mile away from the village, and yew trees are still to be seen there. According to another most ancient tradition, when the Church was in process of construction, two oxen known as the "Ychain Bannog" were employed to draw the stone required for the building. The load was so heavy that one of the two oxen died in the attempt to drag it forward; but before falling down dead he bellowed nine times, and so powerful was the echo that the hill, which before presented itself as an obstacle, divided or split in two. The other ox alone was then able to bring the load unassisted to the site of the Church. "Llanddewi Brefi fraith, Lle brefodd yr ych naw gwaith, Nos hollti craig y Foelallt." (Llanddewi Brefi the spotted, Where the ox bellowed nine times, Till Foelallt rock split in two.) According to another version of the story, it was the ox which survived was the one that bellowed, and not the one that died. According to another story given in Meyrick's History of Cardiganshire, these two Bannog Oxen were on one occasion used to draw "away a monstrous beaver dead"; but this is only a version of a legend which is to be found in several parts of Wales, and is founded on the older story of Hu Gadarn, or Hu the Mighty, who, with his Bannog Oxen, drew to land the avanc out of Llyn Llion, so that the lake burst out no more to deluge the earth. See "Legend of Llyn y ddau Ychain" in Folk-Lore of North Wales, by the late Rev. E. Owen, page 132. The two Ychain Bannog of Llanddewi were sometimes called "dau ychain Dewi" (St. David's two oxen). In a poem written in the Twelfth Century, the Welsh Bard Gwynfardd Brycheiniog alludes to the old tradition as follows:-- "Dau ychan Dewi, deu odidawe, Dodyssant eu gwar dan garr kynawe, Dau ychen Dewi ardderchawe oeddynt." There used to be preserved at Llanddewi Church a remarkable fragment of a horn called "Madcorn yr Ych Bannog," that is, the core of the Bannog Ox's Morn, which, according to tradition, had been kept there as a valuable relic ever since the time of St. David. This horn is now at Llidiardau, Llanilar, kept privately. It has been pronounced by Professor Boyd Dawkins to have belonged to "the great urns (Bos Primigenius) that Charlemagne hunted in the forest of Aachen, and the Monks of St. Galle ate on their feast days." When St. David was preaching at Llanddewi at the great Synod, in the year 519, it is said that the ground on which he stood rose up and formed a hillock under his feet. Cressy recounts the miracle in the following words:--"When all the fathers assembled enjoined David to preach, he commanded a child which attended him, and had lately been restored to life by him, to spread a napkin under his feet; and, standing upon it, he began to expound the Gospel and the law to the auditory. All the while that this oration continued, a snow-white dove, descending from Heaven, sate upon his shoulders; and, moreover, the earth, on which he stood raised itself under him till it became a hill, from whence his voice, like a trumpet, was clearly heard and understood by all, both near and far off, on the top of which hill a church was afterwards built, and remains to this day." The people of Llanddewi Brefi told me that there is another tradition still extant in the neighbourhood, which says that as St. David was preaching on this great occasion, a nightingale appeared on the spot, and sang. The music of the bird was so sweet, that the people listened to the nightingale's song, instead of continuing to give their attention to the sermon. Seeing this, the Holy Saint David rebuked the congregation, and informed them that the nightingale should never again sing in the neighbourhood; and from that day till now the bird has never been heard there. According to the great historian George Owen, there is a different version of this story in Pembrokeshire. "St. David, being seriouse occupied in the night tyme in his divine orizons, was so troubled with the sweete tuninges of the nightingales, as that he could not fasten his minde upon heavenlie cogitacions, as at other tymes, being letted (hindered) by the melodie of the bird, praied unto the Almightie, that from that tyme forward there might never a nightingale sing within his Dioces, and this saieth our women (old wives' fables), was the cause of confininge of the bird out of this country." At Llanio Isaf, in the parish of Llanddewi Brefi are the remains of Loventium, which was a large Roman city. About half a mile from Gogoyan, in the same parish, was once a holy well called Ffynon Ddewi, or St. David's Well, the water of which, according to tradition, flowed up miraculously when St. David restored to life the son of a widow. The well has now been closed up, and a house stands on the spot. There is another "Ffynon Ddewi," on the road-side between Aberaeron and Cardigan. CAIO (CARMARTHENSHIRE). In the parish of Caio, there is a gold mine which in ancient times was worked by the Romans. It is on the estate of Dolaucothy, and the spot is known as the "Ogofau," or caves, and part of it is a height, hardly a mountain, that has been scooped out like a volcanic crater by the Romans during their occupation. In this hollow or basin it is said that the five saints named Ceitho, Gwyn, Gwynno, Gwynnoro, and Celynin, who flourished in the sixth century, had retired in a thunderstorm for shelter. They had penetrated into the mine and had lost their way, and taking a stone for a bolster had laid their heads on it and fallen asleep. And there they would remain in peaceful slumber till the return of King Arthur, or till a more godly bishop than has hitherto been should occupy the throne of St. David. When that happens, Merlin himself is to be disenchanted and restore to liberty the dormant saints. An inquisitive woman named Gweno, who, led by the devil, sought to spy on the saintly brotherhood in their long sleep, was punished by losing her way in the passage of the mine. She, likewise, remained in an undying condition, but was suffered to emerge in storm and rain, and in the night, when her vaporous form might be seen about the old Ogofau, and her sobs and moans were heard and frightened many. Mr. F. S. Price, in his interesting "History of Caio," says that another legend is that one of these saints appears to have a special commemoration, but under a female appelative in "Ffynon" and "Clochdy Gwenno," the latter an isolated rock standing up in the midst of the great gold excavations, and marking their depth in that particular place. The well had, in good old times, a high reputation for healing virtues, and that "on an unfortunate day, Gweno was induced to explore the recesses of the cavern beyond a frowning rock, which had always been the prescribed limit to the progress of the bathers. She passed beneath it and was no more seen. She had been seized by some superhuman power, as a warning to others not to invade those mysterious 'penetralia,' and still on stormy nights, when the moon is full, the spirit of Gweno is seen to hover over the crag like a wreath of mist." ST. GOVAN'S. About seven miles from Pembroke, and a mile from Bosheston, there is a small chapel of rude masonry half way down the cliff known as St. Govan's Chapel. It is a seaside building, perched across a fissure in the side of the cliff, and a long flight of steps leading down to it from above. There is a popular belief that these steps cannot be numbered by anyone correctly, or "counted by none both ways alike." I visited the spot myself in October, 1909. In the east wall of the Chapel a doorway admits into a cleft of the rock in which is a marvellous cell or crevice, "that enables the largest person to turn round therein, and at the same time quite filled by the smallest." This cavity has been regarded by the superstitious as a miraculous cell, and according to a legend Our Lord on one occasion, when pursued by His enemies, the Jews, sought safety in this neighbourhood. "Passing through a field where men were sowing bailey, He ordered them at once to go for their reaping hooks, and, if any passed that way and inquired after Him, to say that they had seen such an one, but it was in sowing time. The men although they knew not who it was, did as they were bid, fetched their hooks, and lo! on their return, the field was waving with ripe corn. Whilst engaged in the reaping, a band of men accosted them, as was expected, who, having received the appointed answer, gave up the chase in despair. The Lord, meanwhile, had been concealed in this crevice, which had opened to receive Him, and still bears a faint impression of His person." According to another tradition which is still extant in the neighbourhood it was St. Govan (Sir Gawain), one of King Arthur's knights, that took shelter in this cell when he was pursued by his pagan persecutors. The cell has been used from time immemorial as a "wishing place," and it is said that "all who turn round therein, and steadfastly cling to the same wish during the operation will most certainly obtain their wish before the expiration of the year." It is still resorted to I believe by young people. A few yards lower down in the ravine is a holy well, once much resorted to for the cure of diseases. This well was frequently visited seventy years ago, and, it is said that its water was so efficacious that some who came there on crutches were able to walk away without them. There are, or at least were, somewhere in this part, three upright stones, about a mile distant from each other. The tradition is, that on a certain day these stones meet to "dance the Hay," at a place called Saxon's Ford, and when the dance is over, travel back and resume their places. The late Mr. Thomas, Greenpark, informed me that there was a moving stone of this kind in the parish of Llandyssul, Cardiganshire. TREGARON. At a distance of about three miles from Tregaron there is a ridge running east and west separating Upper and Lower Tregaron. It is called "Cwys yr Ychain Bannog," the Furrow of the large-horned Oxen. Tradition has it that the "Furrow" was made by two Bannog Oxen dragging along the ground the carcass of a huge reptile which had been killed by the people of the neighbourhood in ancient time. (For more about Tregaron see Lakes.) CRUG MAWR. The Rev. Peter Roberts, in his "Cambrian Popular Antiquities," says that Crug Mawr, or Pentychryd Mawr, is a lofty hill in Cardiganshire, situated in the Vale of Aeron, mentioned in Giraldus, where he says, "there is an open grave, which fits the length of any man lying in it, short or long." Hence arose the ancient tradition, that a powerful giant, kept his post on this hill, and was endowed with the genius of the Aeron Vale. He had a lofty palace erected on the hill, and used occasionally to invite the neighbouring giants to a trial of strength on the top of it. At one of these meetings coits were proposed and introduced, and, after great efforts, the inhabitant of the spot won the day, by throwing his coit clear into the Irish shore, which ever after gave him the superiority over all other giants in Ceredigion, or the land of Ceredig. Gwynionydd in the First Volume of the "Brython," 1859, mentions two places known as "Crug Mawr," one near Cardigan, and the other in the Vale of Aeron. Near the road leading from Newcastle Emlyn to Lampeter, is "Crug Balog," where a warrior or giant of the name of Balog was buried. CANTREF Y GWAELOD; OR THE LOST LOWLAND. "Ochenaid Gwyddno Garanhir, Pan droes y don dros ei dir." (The sigh of Gwyddno Garanhir, When the waives swept over his land.) There is a well-known tradition in Cardiganshire, and indeed all over Wales, that what is known to-day as Cardigan Bay was once dry land. The country was known as Cantref y Gwaelod, or The Lowland Hundred. It had sixteen cities, and in the beginning of the sixth century the district was governed by a king named Gwyddno Garanhir. As the land was below sea-level, dykes had been built to check the encroachments of the sea. One day, however, Saethennyn Feddw, that is, Saethennyn the Drunkard, son of the King of South Wales, opened the sluices, and the sea flowed in, but the people fled to the uplands. One of the ancient Welsh Triads commemorates the inundation as follows:-- "The three abandoned drunkards of the Isle of Britain were, first, drunken Geraint, King of Siluria, who in the paroxysm of a fit of intoxication set fire to the standing corn; the conflagration in consequence of which rash act spread so violently, that all the corn of the country, to an immense distance, was totally consumed, and a destructive famine ensued." "The second was Vortigern, surnamed the wry-mouthed, who when intoxicated gave Horsa, the Saxon chief, the Isle of Thanet, for permission to have an illicit connection with his daughter Rowena; and further promised, that her son, the fruit of that amour, should succeed to the Crown of England; which proved productive of treachery, and a sanguinary massacre of a prodigious number of the chieftains of the Cambrian race. "The third was drunken Seithinyn, the son of Seithyn Saidi, King of Dimetia; who when in a state of intoxication suffered the sea to overflow Cantref y Gwaelod, where lands and habitations the most beautiful in all Wales, excepting only Caerleon or Usk, to the number of sixteen cities and towns, were in a short period inundated and ruined. The lowland hundred was the property of Gwyddno, surnamed longshanks, King of Ceredigion (Cardiganshire). This event happened in the reign of Emrys Wledig. The inhabitants who escaped from that inundation landed in Ardudwy, and ascended the mountains of Snowdon, which had never been inhabited before that period." There is a poem on this inundation in the ancient Welsh book "Llyvr Du Caerfyrddin" (Black Book of Carmarthen). Near Wallog, a few miles to the North of Aberystwyth, a causeway called Sarn Cynfelyn, extends several miles into the sea. According to local tradition this is supposed to have been a main road leading into the submerged country, and it is said that there was a royal palace in this part. Other places which traditions associate with the Lowland Hundred are Sarn Cadwgan and Sarn Ddewi, further South, near Aberayron, and Sarn Badrig, in North Wales. So much has been written on this subject, both in prose and verse, that it it not necessary to dwell further on it here. But it is of interest to add that there is a tradition, which is still extant that between Borth, in Cardiganshire, and Aberdovey, in Merionethshire, there once stood a town at a spot which is now covered by water. There is also a well-known story of the chimes of bells being heard at the bottom of the sea. Dwellers near Ramsey Sound, in Pembrokeshire, also hear the chimes of bells in the sea, and this reminds us of the Story of Grallon, in Brittany, who reigns beneath the waves. LLANFIHANGEL YSTRAD. There is a tradition in the Vale of Aeron that some generations ago, a man from the neighbourhood of Ystrad, was sentenced at the Cardigan Assizes, to be hanged for sheep-stealing, or some other such offence. The sentence, however, was not carried out, as the criminal was a useful man, particularly so to the Squire who happened to be the High Sheriff that year. But before the Squire's year of office had elapsed, urgent inquiries came down from the Government as to the execution, of which no report had ever reached them. The Squire was so frightened at the Government's inquiries, that he had the unfortunate man, who was out in the fields at the time, seized, bound and hanged on a birch tree. One of the Squire's servants entered a small cottage and begged an old woman for the loan of her apron, but concealing from her what he was going to do with it. When the old woman discovered that her apron was made use of to blindfold the poor man who was so unceremoniously hanged, she pronounced a curse on the Squire and his descendants. After this everything went wrong with that Squire. A STRANGE CARMARTHENSHIRE TREE LEGEND. There is a fine old mansion in Carmarthenshire, with a very strange tradition in connection with it. I am not permitted to mention the name of the place. Once upon a time there was a certain tree, or rather a bush, in a field, or in the Park, which bloomed with flowers every Christmas morning. Christmas after Christmas, when putting forth its blossoms, the bush made a strange noise, which attracted to the spot large crowds of people from all parts of the country. At last the selfish Squire cut down this sacred bush, in order to put a stop to the people damaging his park; but by doing this rash act he brought upon himself and his descendants a curse, and his offence has not been expiated till this day. MAESYFELIN. The most popular tradition associated with Lampeter is that known as the "Curse of Maesyfelin." Maesyfelin was a stately mansion on the banks of the river Dulas, on the east side of the town of Lampeter. It was once a place of consequence, and an ancient family of Lloyds lived there. About the beginning of the 17th Century the famous Vicar Pritchard of Llandovery, author of "Canwyll y Cymry" had a son named Samuel. Tradition has it that this young Samuel was an intimate friend of Sir Francis Lloyd, Knight of Maesyfelin, who was a wicked man. At last, so the story goes, the two quarrelled over some love affair, and young Samuel was stifled to death between two feather beds. The body, tied in a sack and placed on horse-back, was conveyed over the mountain in the depth of night and thrown into the river Towy in Carmarthenshire. When the body of his lamented son was discovered in the river, the broken-hearted father pronounced a curse on Maesyfelin in the following words:-- "Melldith Duw ar Maesyfelin-- Ar bob carreg, ar bob gwreiddyn-- Am daflu blodau tref Llan'ddyfri Ar ei ben i Dywi i foddi." (The curse of God on Maesyfelin! On every stone, and root therein, For throwing the flower of Llandovery town To Towy's water, there to drown.) People believe to this day that the judgment of God fell on the family and mansion of Maesyfelin. The palace delapsed and no longer exists. Materials from its ruins were carried away to repair Ffynonbedr, another mansion in the neighbourhood; but that place is also in ruin now, so that it is believed that the curse of Maesyfelin followed the material to Ffynonbedr. TENBY (PEMBROKESHIRE). In former times Tenby was so celebrated for its fishery and it was known as Dinbych-y-Pysgod, that is Tenby-of-the-Fish. There is a tradition in the neighbourhood of some extraordinary bank or rock, at sea, called "Will's Mark," on which codfish in great abundance were formerly taken. The spot is no longer to be found, and the loss is said to have been occasioned as a curse which the inhabitants of the town brought upon themselves by their barbarous usage of a deaf and dumb man, who had come into the town begging. CWM KERWYN (PEMBROKESHIRE). In this locality is a huge stone or rock, which, according to tradition, was thrown there by King Arthur of old; and somewhere in the same neighbourhood is "Bedd Arthur," Arthur's Grave. LLANSTEPHAN CASTLE (CARMARTHENSHIRE). It is popularly supposed that there is an underground passage from this old Castle to the mansion, known as Plas Llanstephan. Tradition has it that many an attempt was made in former times to go through, but always in vain, as a spirit extinguished the candles of all who entered the passage after proceeding a certain distance. CWMYREGLWYS (PEMBROKESHIRE). According to Pentrevor, in "The Pembroke County Guardian," March, 1903, a "Fairies' Town" has been seen in the sea occasionally in this neighbourhood. He also adds that there are on the extreme point of Dinas Head, some steps in the rock called "The Devil's Footprints." There are also "Devil's Footprints" in a rock, to be seen in Cardiganshire, between Llanwenog and Llanarth. MESUR Y DORTH (MEASURE OF THE LOAF). Between St. David's and Fishguard is an object not unlike a milestone, upon which is rudely traced a cross within a circle: the irregular disc being about a foot in diameter. This is known as "Mesur y Dorth," (Measure of the Loaf); and the tradition is, that St. David caused these figures to be made in order to regulate the size of the loaf of bread in times of scarcity. ABERGWILI. Near the Bishop of St. David's Palace, Abergwili, is a pool in the river Towy, called "Pwll y Coach" (the Coach's Pool). The tradition is that in the old Coaching Days the "Great Coach" fell into this pool, and was never seen again. CAE POETH (HOT FIELD). In the parish of Llanon, Carmarthenshire, is a field called "Cae Poeth." Tradition says that images which were in the Church before the Reformation were burnt at this spot. CRAIG GWRTHEYRN (VORTIGERN'S ROCK). Craig Gwrtheyrn is in the neighbourhood of Pencader, in Carmarthenshire. According to an old legend, the disreputable old British King Vortigern, built a castle here in the fifth century; but he and his castle were destroyed by fire from heaven. There is also a story that Owen Glyndwr sleeps in a cave here. BRYNBERIAN (PEMBROKESHIRE). Near Brynberian, in North Pembrokeshire, there is a grave known as "Bedd yr Afanc," or the Avanc's Grave. According to an old tradition in the neighbourhood, this Avanc was a most dangerous beast or monster, which at last, after much trouble, was caught in a pool in the river, and buried with pomp and religious rites on a spot which still bears the name "Bedd yr Afanc." LLANON (CARDIGANSHIRE). Non was the mother of St. David. The Vicar, Mr. Lewis, informed me that there is a tradition in the neighbourhood that the Patron Saint was born here, and owned much land here, including all the flats known as Morfa Esgob--The Bishop's March. It is said that St. David divided the land into small portions which he gave to the fishermen of the place. There was a stone on the exterior wall of the ruins of St. Non's Chapel, on which was carved the face of a woman with a child in her arms, traditionally reputed to be that of Non and her child David. There is also a tradition that the Saint was educated at Henfynyw. See more about this in Mr. Eyre Evans' interesting book on the Antiquities of Cardiganshire. Some three miles from Llanon, says Mr. Horsfall-Turner in his "Wanderings in Cardiganshire," legends have been busy with a huge stone pillar which marks, perhaps the grave of some long-forgotten hero. "During the building of Devil's Bridge, we are told, his Satanic majesty wished to employ this monolith and carried it away, his finger marks may still be seen--leaving another impression. He sat so long and thought so deeply, that at the crowing of the cock, he was startled and vanished so rapidly that the stone was so completely forgotten." TYNYCASTELL (DEVIL'S BRIDGE). According to the Rev. John Griffith, Llangynwyd, there is a version of the well-known legend of Arthur or Owen Lawgoch and the Sleeping Warriors attached to this place; but as I have already given a version of this story in connection with Owen Lawgoch's Cave, near Llandebie, I shall not repeat it here. King Arthur figures rather prominently in North Cardiganshire. Between Devil's Bridge and Llanafan is a farm belonging to the Earl of Lisburne called "Maen Arthur"--Arthur's Stone; and in the parish of Llanbadarn-fawr there is a "Llys Arthur"--Arthur's Court, a legendary residence of the renowned King. BEDD TALIESIN (TALIESIN'S GRAVE). About eight miles north of Aberystwyth is an ancient grave known as Bedd Taliesin. According to a local tradition, Taliesin, Chief Bard of the Island of Britain was buried on this spot. The grave, which is composed of stones, is in the centre of a large heap of earth or mound surrounded by stone circles, and some generations ago bones, and even a human skull, were found in it, which probably were the remains of the great ancient poet. There is a superstition respecting Bedd Taliesin that should anyone sleep in it for one night, he would the next day become either a poet or an idiot. There is a similar popular belief in connection with Cader Idris, in Merionethshire, where an eminent bard once tried the experiment. Taliesin's Grave is in the Parish of Llanfihangel genau'r Glyn, and in the adjoining parish of Llancynfelin there is a village bearing the name of Taliesin; and, according to the "Mabinogion," the great poet was born somewhere between the Dyvi and Aberystwyth. The people of North Cardiganshire believe to this day that Taliesin was both born and buried in their district. The origin of his birth, which was supposed to be very miraculous, and other legends which cling to the memory of this great man are to be found in the Mabinogion. CRUGIAU'R LADIS (CARMARTHENSHIRE). On the mountain above the village of Caio, there are two peculiar heaps of stone known as Crugiau'r Ladis, concerning which there is the following curious tradition:--Two ladies from London were exiled from their homes, and lived in this district. The change of town life to country was so great, that they set to work and gathered heaps of stone together to build a Babel heavenward, from the top of which they could see London from the land of exile. I heard a story when a boy that Derry Ormond tower, near Lampeter, was also built in order to see London. EURGLAWDD. In a field called Llettyngharad on this farm, which is in the parish of Llanfihangel Genau'r Glyn, there are two stones respecting which an ancient prophecy says that when the third appears, the end of the world will be at hand. At Llwynglas, in the same parish, there was once preserved a long knife, which, according to tradition, was used by the Saxons in the time of Vortigern, at the treachery of the long knives. TRAETH SAITH (CARDIGANSHIRE). Tradition says that Traeth Saith--the Seven's Shore--had its name from the seven daughters of a king who were wrecked there, having been put by order of their father into a vessel without sails or oars. A poem commemorates this tradition. Probably the place is named from a brook. LLANILAR. The present vicar, the Rev. J. F. Lloyd, remembers hearing from an old lady, that when she was a little girl, it was customary for the women of the parish to curtsy to an oil painting of the Blessed Virgin Mary, on entering the church. It seems that there was a holy well once known as Ffynnon Drindod not far from Llanilar. LLANGADOCK. An old man, named John Jones, informed me that Llangadock was a large town in ancient times; but that a part of it sunk. According to tradition, a church stood once where Pwll y Clychau--the Pool of the Bells--is now, and the old man added that people still hear the sound of the bells at the bottom of the pool. There is a stone in the river Sawdde, known as Coitan Arthur, respecting which there is a tradition that it was thrown down from the top of Pen Arthur--about a mile distant--by Arthur the Giant. ABERMARLAIS. At the entrance gate of Abermarlais Park there is an interesting stone, near which, according to a tradition related to me by Mrs. De Rutzen, the Welsh Princes held a council of war. I was also informed by people in the neighbourhood that the spot was once haunted by the ghost of a lady in white. OYSTERMOUTH CASTLE (GOWER). It is said that in an underground dungeon of Oystermouth Castle is, or there was, a large pillar known as "The Wishing Post," around which young men and young women, when wishing for a lover or sweetheart, were in the habit of walking nine times, and at the same time sticking a pin in the pillar and looking on the wall, when they were supposed to see "a lady in white." OXWITCH (GOWER). Near the Bone Caves is a cromlech known as Arthur's Stone. According to tradition, St. David split it with a sword in proof that it was not sacred. CAE HALOG (NORTH CARDIGANSHIRE). "Cae Halog," at Llanbadarn-fawr means "Desecrated Field." The tradition in the neighbourhood is, that in former times people met together at this spot to indulge in games and contests on Sundays, thus breaking the Sabbath. MOUNT AND VERWICK (CARDIGAN). It was customary in former times for the people of this district to meet together on the First Sunday after New Year's Day, called by them "Sul Coch" (Red Sunday), when wrestling, football, etc., took place, to commemorate a victory over the Flemings. In the neighbouring parish of Llangoedmore, is St. Cynllo's Cave, where, according to ancient tradition, the holy Saint prayed, and where marks of his knees are to be seen in the rocks. MAENCLOCHOG (PEMBROKESHIRE). It is said that this parish received its name from a stone which sounded like a bell. An old man named John Griffiths, informed me that he remembered this stone, which was a very large one, and that people broke it up in order to see what caused it to sound. HIGHMEAD (CARDIGANSHIRE). There are old traditions that an ancient Welsh King, named Pryderi Ap Pwyll, had a palace here, somewhere on the river side, on a spot known according to the Mabinogion, as "Rhuddlan Teivi." The present mansion is the country residence of Colonel Davies-Evans, the worthy Lord Lieutenant of Cardiganshire, who informed me that Sir John Rhys, Oxford, has been trying to discover traces of Pryderi's palace. I dealt with this subject in a paper which I read at Highmead, June, 1910, before the Cardiganshire Antiquarian Society, and which is to be published in the Transactions of that Society. I may also add that the Lord Lieutenant and Mrs. Davies-Evans are among my best friends in South Wales, and I have made much use of their valuable library. GOGERDDAN (NEAR ABERYSTWYTH). The late John Jones, Bristol House, Talybont, informed me six years ago, that there is a tradition in the neighbourhood that Henry VII. called at Gogerddan when on his way through Cardiganshire to Bosworth Field. Henry had been entertained at Wern Newydd and Llwyn Dafydd in the south of the county. Gogerddan is the ancient residence of the genial baronet, Sir Edward Webley-Parry-Pryse. LLANGYNLLO (CARDIGANSHIRE). There is a tradition in this parish, that in ancient times, the Romans put to death a young woman in the neighbourhood of Gernos, and that her spirit haunted the spot for generations. At first, she appeared as a cat, and afterwards as a "White lady." There is a tradition that a son of Howell Dda, King of Wales, lived in the neighbouring district of Dyffryn Cerri. LLANGWYRYFON (CHURCH OF THE VIRGINS). Tradition says that this parish received is name from eleven thousand Welsh virgins, who were massacred by barbarians on the coast of Germany. The virgins were on their way to Brittany. PENBRYN (CARDIGANSHIRE). According to my friend, the Rev. Prys Williams (Brythonydd), there is a farm in this parish called "Perth Geraint"; and it is probable that Geraint, one of King Arthur's knights was buried somewhere in this neighbourhood, as tradition locates in the parish of Penbryn, the "Battle of Llongborth," at which Geraint was killed. This is the Geraint who figures in the Mabinogion, and in Tennyson, as the knight who married the young Lady Enid, who is described as "comely and graceful." There is a stone near Troed-y-Rhiw, which, according to tradition, was an ejected pebble from the clog of a giant who lived in the district in ancient times. CILGERRAN (PEMBROKESHIRE). It is said that the spot where the remains of the Castle now stand, was known in ancient times as "Dyngeraint," so named from Geraint, one of King Arthur's Knights. This is the Geraint I have just mentioned above in connection with the traditions of Penbryn, Cardiganshire, a parish which is only about seven miles distance from Cilgerran. Arthur and his Knights figure prominently in the traditions of Pembrokeshire, and there is a legend of a battle fought by Arthur's sons in the neighbourhood of Precelly. GORSYGEDOL (MERIONETHSHIRE). Lady Enid Vaughan, daughter of Countess Lisburne, and sister of the young Earl of Lisburne, informed me that there is a tradition in the neighbourhood of Harlech that Charles I. during the Civil War, was at one time hiding at Gorsygedol, and that the bedstead in which he slept is still to be seen there. Near the same old mansion is a large stone known as "Coeten Arthur"--Arthur's coit. NICK-NAMES, OLD AND POPULAR SAYINGS. "There is one-half of him in Penboyr." "Angylion Ceinewydd, Gwartheg Llanarth, Hwrddod Cilcennin." (New Quay's angels, Llanarth's cows, Cilcennin's rams.) "Gwyr Llanddeusant, capan crwyn, Lladron defaid, mamau'r wyn." (Llanddeusant men, skin caps, Sheep stealers, lambs's mothers.) "Moch Sir Benfro." (Pembrokeshire pigs.) It is probable that Pembrokeshire was the particular part of Britain into which pigs were first introduced. In the Mabinogion, Gwydion tells Math, son of Mathonwy, Lord of North Wales, that Pryderi, Lord of the South, had some beasts called pigs. Pryderi, though he had a palace at Rhuddlan Teivi, in Cardiganshire, was a Pembrokeshire Prince, and it would seem that his chief palace was still at Narberth, and that he introduced some of his pigs from Pembrokeshire into Cardiganshire. "Esmwyth yw Cwsg cawl Erfin." (Easily sleeps turnip broth.) In the "Cambrian Notes and Queries," reprinted from the "Weekly mail," March, 1902, I.H.A. says: "There were two families living in two small cottages somewhere in a secluded spot on one of the slopes of the Black Mountain, Carmarthenshire, both in very straitened circumstances. The paterfamilias' names were John and David. John found a way out of the difficulty of rearing a family upon the salary earned by farm labourers in those days by stealing a sheep now and then from the mountain flocks. His family very often had mutton broth and plenty of meat for supper while David's family had to sup upon a piece of coarse bread and turnip broth. Upon a certain night David had enjoyed his usual repast and gone to bed. Mrs. David had gone to the "next door" to view the feast, when suddenly two constables of the old fashion, made their appearance to demand the body of friend John, his depredations having been found out. Mrs. David was frightened and ran into her own house. She then called her husband. 'David! David! Come down at once; they are going to take John of the next door to prison.' 'No,' says David, 'I will sleep on'-- "Esmwyth y Cwsg cawl erfin." (Easily sleeps turnip broth.) The above saying is well-known all over Wales, but in the northern part of the Principality people say, "Esmwyth y cwsg potes faip." What is known as "Cawl erfin" in South Wales, is known in North Wales as "potes faip." Another similar saying which I have heard many a time is "Esmwyth cwsg cawl dwr"--easily sleeps water broth. Mr. John Davies, of the National Library of Wales, Aberystwyth, in the "Cambrian Notes and Queries," says: "'Esmwyth cwsg cawl dwr' is an old saying in Cardiganshire, especially in the parish of Llandyssul. About the year 1830 my grandfather was constable of the parish, 'Lladron Defaid' (sheep stealers) were very popular at that time; so old Siams Isaac, of Pantrhedynen, was called from his bed one winter night to take a prisoner to Cardigan Gaol, who was caught red-handed in the act of killing the sheep in his house. On the road going from Horeb to Newcastle Emlyn the constable and prisoner went into a public house and called for a pint of beer and bread and cheese each. After resuming their journey for about a hundred yards, the landlady of the public house called after them that the man had stolen a knife from the house. A search was made, and the knife was found in the pocket of the 'Lleidr Defaid.' After the usual compliment of a few rounds of old-fashioned boxing, he was taken safely to a place of correction, and never returned to Tregroes. So the old woman who happened to live next door always said to John, her husband, 'Esmwyth cwsg cawl dwr John bach,' (water broth, easy sleep, John dear). "CYNGHOR GWRAIG HEB EI OFYN." (A Woman's advice without asking for it). When King Henry VII. (then Earl of Richmond) was on his way through Wales to Bosworth Field, he consulted Dafydd Llwyd of Mathavarn, as to the final issue of the coming struggle with Richard III. Dafydd was a country gentleman, a bard, a wizard, and a prophet. On this occasion, however, he did not know how to prophecy, and was greatly perplexed. Fortunately, his wife was a very shrewd woman, who, having discovered her husband's embarrassment or trouble of mind, secretly advised him to tell Henry that he would be successful in dethroning Richard III. and in making himself King. She assured her husband that if the prediction failed of its fulfilment, he would hear no more on the subject, but that it would make his fortune if confirmed by the event. Henry went on his way to Bosworth, rejoicing, and we know that the prophecy became true. Hence originated the proverb, "Cynghor gwraig heb ei ofyn," which implies that it is always a good thing to follow a woman's advice, when she gives you an advice without asking for it. In an old book entitled "The History of the Principality of Wales, etc.," by Robert Burton, published as early as the year 1695, the writer when speaking of Cardiganshire says:--"They have a proverb 'Bu Arthur ond tra fu'; that is, 'Arthur was only whilst he was.' It is honourable for old men if they can say, 'We have been brave fellows.' They have another proverb, 'Ni thorres Arthur nawdd gwraig,' that is, 'King Arthur never violated the refuge of a woman.' For the King was the mirror of knighthood. By the woman's refuge we may understand her tongue, (and no valiant man will revenge her words with his blows)." The above sayings mentioned by Robert Burton 200 years ago have fallen into disuse now, but I have occasionally heard, "Ni thorres Arthur nawdd gwraig." CHALKING THE DOOR-STEP. The following appeared in the "Western Mail," December 3rd, 1910:-- According to a work just published on South Pembrokeshire, the custom prevailing in that part of the country of chalking the door-step dates back to Druidical times. The object of this chalking was to keep evil spirits out of the house. The patterns run round the slated steps, and, elaborate as they often are, the essential thing is that there should be no gap in them, because the evil spirits could enter into the house through the gaps. Does this custom prevail in all parts of Wales? It undoubtedly does in Carmarthenshire, Cardiganshire, Glamorgan, and Pembrokeshire. WAKES IN RADNORSHIRE. The following account by an eye-witness of a Wake at Disserth, on July 9th, 1744, will prove of interest:-- "At the end of a mead, by this river side (the R. Ieithon), were a company dancing in a barn. They were about nine couple, genteely dressed, and all people of fortune and fashion, and I may with security say, the best and most active country dancers I ever saw. We observed that the men were gay and genteel, handsome, and well shaped; the women were genteel without pride, modest without affectation, beautiful without art, and free without fondness. The generous hand of nature appeared in every face, unspotted with the artful follies of this degenerate age. It gave me a strong idea of the happiness and simplicity of the ancient Britons before the Roman and other corruptions overwhelmed the now refined part of the island (as we are pleased to term it). But these zealots for liberty maintained their independency long, and under this happy government they continue (and they never end) their innocent customs, manners and recreations. A favourite dance (Bumpers Squire Jones) I saw them perform with the greatest spirits, order and exactness ... the churchyard, which, though large, was filled with people of almost all ages and qualities. Near this, was a little house, where we put off our riding coats, etc. The church is a strong building, and pretty large, against the tiles of which were a dozen lusty young fellows playing at tennis, and as many against the steeple at fives. They played very well, but spoke (as almost every one else did) in the Welsh tongue. On one side of the church were about six couples dancing to one violin, and just below three or four couples to three violins, whose seat was a tombstone. We saw common games of ball played against the sacred pile, and there also music playing over the bones of the deceased. We were in the middle of a merry, noisy throng, without knowing their language, or indeed almost anything they said."--Church Plate of Radnorshire, by J. T. Evans, quoted from "Pryse's Handbook." NOTES [1] King George and Caroline. [2] A pot for cooking. [3] "British Goblins," page 67. 
55539	----	KOREAN TALES BEING A COLLECTION OF STORIES TRANSLATED FROM THE KOREAN FOLK LORE TOGETHER WITH INTRODUCTORY CHAPTERS DESCRIPTIVE OF KOREA BY H. N. ALLEN, M.D. FOREIGN SECRETARY OF LEGATION FOR KOREA NEW YORK & LONDON G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS The Knickerbocker Press 1889 CONTENTS. PAGE I.--Introductory 5 The Country, People, and Government. II.--Descriptive 15 Sights in and about the Capital. III.--The Rabbit and other Legends 28 Stories of Birds and Animals. IV.--The Enchanted Wine Jug 40 Or, Why the Cat and Dog are Enemies. V.--Ching Yuh and Kyain Oo 56 The Trials of Two Heavenly Lovers. VI.--Hyung Bo and Nahl Bo 89 Or, The Swallow-King's Rewards. VII.--Chun Yang 116 The Faithful Dancing-Girl Wife. VIII.--Sim Chung 152 The Dutiful Daughter. IX.--Hong Kil Tong 170 Or, The Adventures of an Abused Boy. NOTE. The national emblem of Korea, pictured on the cover, represents the male and female elements of nature; the dark blue representing Heaven (the male), the yellow representing Earth (the female). As seen across the Eastern Sea, the heavens seem to lap over and embrace the earth, while the earth, to landwards, rises in the lofty mountains and folds the heavens in its embrace, making a harmonious whole. The characters represent the four points of the compass, and belong to the original eight characters given by the first King, and from which "all language" sprung. The whole set is as follows: === === = = = = = = = = === === === = = = = === === = = === = = === === === === = = = = = = = = PREFACE. Repeatedly, since returning to the United States, people have asked me, "Why don't you write a book on Korea?" I have invariably replied that it was not necessary, and referred the inquirers to the large work of Dr. Griffis, entitled "Corea, the Hermit Kingdom," which covers the subject in a charming manner. My object in writing this book was to correct the erroneous impressions I have found somewhat prevalent--that the Koreans were a semi-savage people. And believing that the object could be accomplished best in displaying the thought, life, and habits of the people as portrayed in their native lore, I have made these translations, which, while they are so chosen as to cover various phases of life, are not to be considered as especially selected. I also wished to have some means of answering the constant inquiries from all parts of the country concerning Korean life and characteristics. People in Washington have asked me if Korea was an island in the Mediterranean; others have asked if Korea could be reached by rail from Europe; others have supposed that Korea was somewhere in the South Seas, with a climate that enabled the natives to dispense with clothing. I have therefore included two chapters, introductory and descriptive in character, concerning the subjects of the majority of such questions. "Globe trotters," in passing from Japan to North China, usually go by way of the Korean ports, now that a line of excellent Japanese steamships covers that route. These travellers see the somewhat barren coasts of Korea--left so, that outsiders might not be tempted to come to the then hermit country; perhaps they land at Chemulpoo (the port of the capital, thirty miles distant), and stroll through the rows of miserable, temporary huts, occupied by the stevedores, the pack-coolies, chair-bearers, and other transient scum, and then write a long article descriptive of Korea. As well might they describe America as seen among the slab shanties of one of the newest western railroad towns, for when the treaties were formed in 1882 not a house stood where Chemulpoo now stands, with its several thousand regular inhabitants and as many more transients. H. N. Allen. Washington, D. C., July 1, 1889. INTRODUCTORY. Korea, Corea, or Chosen (morning calm) occupies the peninsula hanging down from Manchooria and Russian Siberia between China and Japan, and extending from the 33d to the 43d parallels of north latitude. The area, including the outlying islands, is about one hundred thousand square miles. The population, according to the most reliable estimate, is a little more than sixteen millions. Yet, as the people live in cities, towns, and hamlets, the country does not seem to be thickly settled. The climate varies much at the extremities of the peninsula, owing to the fact that the southern portion is somewhat affected by the warm southern currents that give Japan its tropical climate, but which are warded off from Korea proper by the Japanese islands. The climate of the central and northern provinces is much the same as that of the northern central United States, with fewer changes. The large river at the capital is not uncommonly frozen over for weeks at a time during the winter, so that heavy carts pass over on the ice. Ice is always preserved for general use in summer. The country is decidedly mountainous, and well watered. Heavy timber abounds in the northeast. The valleys are very fertile and are well tilled, as the people are mainly devoted to agriculture. The mineral resources have only been developed in a crude way, yet sufficiently to demonstrate the great wealth of the ore deposits. Especially is this true in reference to the gold mines. The most pessimistic visitors to Korea are unstinted in their praise of the beautiful scenery, which is fully appreciated by the natives as well. From ancient times they have had guide-books setting forth the natural charms of particular localities; and excursions to distant places for the sole purpose of enjoying the views are a common occurrence. The King rules as absolute monarch. He is assisted by the Prime-Minister and his two associates--the ministers of the Left and Right. Next to these come the heads of the six departments of Etiquette and Ceremonies, Finance, War, Public Works, Justice, and Registration, with the heads of the two new departments that have been added as the result of the opening up of foreign intercourse--the Foreign (or outside) Office, and the Home (or interior) Office. This body of officials forms the grand council of the King. Each of the eight provinces is ruled by a governor, who has under him prefects, local magistrates, supervisors of hamlets, and petty officials, so that the whole scale makes a very complete system and affords no lack of officials. There are several special officers appointed by the King, one of whom is the government inspector, whose duty it is to go about in disguise, learn the condition of the people, and ascertain if any magistrate abuses his office and oppresses the people unjustly. Any such he may bring to speedy justice. The present Dynasty has existed 498 years. Being founded by a revolting general named Ye, it is known as the Ye Dynasty. The King's name, however, is never used. He is almost sacred to his people. Those officials of sufficiently high rank to go in before him bow to the ground in his presence, and only speak when spoken to; then they use a highly honorific language only understood at court. The revenues are paid in kind, hence the annual income of an official may consist of a certain quantity of rice, and other products, in addition to his money compensation. The King, also, has the whole revenue resulting from the sale of the ginseng, for which the country is noted. This forms his private purse. The currency is the common copper cash, worth some twelve hundred to the Mexican dollar; though now that the new mint is in operation, copper, silver, and gold coins are being made. The old perforated cash will, however, be hard to supplant, owing to its convenience in small transactions. Banks proper do not exist; though the government does a kind of banking business in granting orders on various provincial offices, so that a travelling official need not be burdened with much ready money. A number of large brokers at the capital assist in the government financial transactions. All unoccupied land belongs to the King, but any man may take up a homestead, and, after tilling it and paying taxes on it for a period of three years, it becomes his own, and must be purchased should the government need it. Deeds are given in the form of receipts and quit-claims by the seller. These may be registered with the local magistrate. Wills, as understood in western countries, are not executed; though a father wishing to provide especially for the children of his concubines may make a will, or statement, the proper execution of which devolves upon the eldest son. Records of the births of males are kept, as are also records of deaths, but these are not always reliable. All males of fifteen years of age are registered at the Hang Sung Poo, or Department of Registration, which issues to them tablets bearing their name and address. Children are also generally provided with these tablets, to prevent their getting lost. The people are well built and strong, as a rule. They are a loyal, contented race, not grasping, and rather too easy in disposition. They are intelligent and learn with great ease. Possessed of many characteristics in common with their neighbors, the Chinese and Japanese, they yet seem to have a personality indicative of a different parentage, which continually calls forth inquiry as to their origin. In some slight degree they resemble the aborigines of America, and it is believed that their ancestors came from the north:--the question opens up a fertile field for study. Their written records are said to date back three thousand years. Their traditional first king descended from heaven five thousand years ago. With a civilization of such age they might well be excused for so long barring their doors against the new civilization of the young nations of the West. While, as a matter of fact, the difference existing between the two is more one of degree than essence, perhaps more vices may be found in the civilization of the West than are known to this people. And, with a few exceptions, the virtues taught by the modern civilization have been practised for centuries behind the bars of isolation that shut in this self-satisfied people. The people dress in imported cotton sheetings mostly, padding them well with cotton-wool for winter use, and using the plain bleached white, or dying the cloth a light shade of blue or green. Rice is the staple article of food in the central and southern provinces; wheat enters more largely into the diet of the northern people. Their cattle are as large and fine as may be found anywhere; the people eat much beef, and hides are a prominent article of export. Their houses are well built and comfortable; foreigners adapt them to their own use with little trouble. The houses are heated by means of a system of flues underneath the floor, which is made of large flagstone placed over the flues and well cemented; over all thick, strong, oil paper is placed, making a rich, dark, highly polished floor, through which no smoke can come, though it is always agreeably warm. The houses are all one story, built around a court, and several sets of buildings, each within a separate wall, usually make up a gentleman's compound. The buildings are covered with a thick layer of earth and capped with tile laid on in graceful curves. This roof insures coolness in summer. The rooms are made almost air-tight by the plentiful use of paper on the walls outside and in, as well as for doors and windows. There are three great classes in Korea: the nobility, the middle class, and the commoners. A commoner, not of the proscribed orders, may rise to nobility by successfully passing the competitive examinations. The officials are appointed from the noble classes. The language is peculiar to the country, and while written official documents are done in the common character of China and Japan, the spoken language of neither of these people is understood in Korea. The native language of Korea possesses an alphabet and grammar, and is polysyllabic, thus resembling English more than it does Chinese. In religious matters the Koreans are peculiar in that they may be said to be without a religion, properly speaking. Prior to the advent of the present dynasty, Buddhism reigned, but for 498 years it has been in such disfavor that no priest dare enter a walled city. They still maintain temples in the mountains, but exert but little if any influence. In morals the people are Confucianists, and their reverent devotion to their ancestors may serve in part as a religion. In times of distress they "pray to Heaven," and seem really to be very devoutly inclined. Christianity came into disfavor through the indiscretion of its early teachers. The distrust is slowly passing away now, and missionaries are openly employed in doing the educational work that must precede any successful attempt to secure the adoption of beliefs so radically different from all existing ideas. Some of the results of the outside intercourse that has been indulged in for the past eight years may be mentioned. A maritime customs service, under the charge of American and European officers, is in very successful operation. So is a hospital, supported by the government and operated by American physicians, gratuitously furnished by the American Presbyterian Mission. The government supports a school for which American teachers are employed. American military officers have charge of the reorganization of the army and conduct a school for the purpose of instructing the young officers. A mint, machine-shops, powder-mills, silk filatures, an electric light, and a telegraph and cable line are some of the new institutions recently adopted and, as a rule, now in successful operation. Steamships have also been purchased more for the purpose of transporting tribute rice than as a nucleus for a navy. In regard to the relations existing between Korea and China the reader is respectfully referred to a paper delivered before the American Oriental Society by the Chinese scholar, W. W. Rockhill, U. S. Secretary of Legation at Pekin, and contained in Vol. III. of the Society's publications for 1888. In his preface Mr. Rockhill says: "The nature of Korea's relations with China has for the last thirty years been a puzzle for Western nations. Were they--with the ambiguous utterance of the Chinese Government before them that 'Korea, though a vassal and tributary state of China, was entirely independent so far as her government, religion, and intercourse with foreign States were concerned'--to consider it as an integral part of the Chinese Empire, or should they treat it as a sovereign state, enjoying absolute international rights? "The problem was practically solved by the conclusion of the treaty between Japan, and later on the United States, and Korea, but this has not materially altered the nature of the relations existing for the last four centuries, at least between China and its so-called vassal. That China has, however, derived profit from the opening of Korea to the commerce of nations, there can be no doubt, for she, too, being at liberty to conclude treaties with Korea and open this new market to her merchants, has done so, like other nations, though she has chosen to call her treaty by the euphonious name of 'commercial and trade regulations for the subjects of China and Korea', and her diplomatic representative in Seoul, 'Minister Resident for political and commercial affairs.' What China's relations with Korea were prior to the opening of the latter kingdom by the treaty of 1883, I propose to show in the following pages, taking as my authorities official Chinese publications and writings of men in official position." KOREAN TALES. DESCRIPTIVE. SEOUL--THE CAPITAL. As "Paris is France," so Seoul may be said to be Korea, for it is the centre from which nearly every thing for the country either originates or is disseminated. Officers ruling over country districts usually have their "house in town," and expect to spend a portion, at least, of their time within the walls of the capital. While some of the provincial capitals are said to contain more people and to be more celebrated for certain reasons, Seoul is the home of the King and the Mecca of his faithful subjects. A description of this city may, therefore, answer for all. The capital is a city of some 300,000 inhabitants, half of whom, perhaps, live in the extensive suburbs without the walls. It lies in a basin of granite sand, surrounded by high mountains and their projecting ridges, over which climbs the high, thick, encircling wall of masonry; pierced at convenient points by massive, pagoda-roofed gates, amply strong enough for defense against the weapons of war in use at the time of building this great relic of seclusion. The city is traversed by broad avenues from which runs a perfect labyrinth of narrow streets. Originally none of these streets were less than twenty feet wide, and some of the avenues leading up to the imposing gates of the palaces are even now a good two hundred feet in width. But the streets have all been encroached upon by the little temporary thatched booths of the petty retail dealers, so that, with the exception of the approaches to the palaces, the line is broken, the streets made tortuous, and only here and there a broad open spot indicates the original width of the thoroughfare. Originally every street was furnished with its sewer--open in the smaller streets, while the avenues were drained by great covered sewers of stonework. Occasionally the proprietor of one of the little temporary booths would put a foundation under his structure, bridging over the sewer, until now the streets have in many cases become mere crooked alleys, and but for the bountiful rains, the excellent natural drainage, and the character of the soil, the mortality would be very great instead of being less than in ordinary American cities. No attempt is made towards street decoration, as that would attract the attention of thieves. The magnificent grounds of a nobleman, with their artificial lakes, flower gardens, water-worn pillars of ancient rock and quaintly twisted trees, may be enclosed by a row of tumble-down, smoke-begrimed servant-quarters that would never indicate the beauty to be found hidden within its forbidding exterior. Travellers never seem to realize that a street in the East is apt to be but a "way" between two points, and as the usual Oriental odors greet their nostrils and their eyes rest on the dirty servants and their dirtier hovels, they at once denounce the whole town. There is attraction enough, however, in a Korean street for any one who is in search of strange sights. Looking down one of the broad thoroughfares of Seoul from a point on the city wall, the sun's rays, falling on the light-colored gowns of the pedestrians as they saunter along amid the bulls and ponies, produce a kaleidoscopic effect that is certainly charming. Passing down into the throng it will be seen to be made up mostly of men, with here and there a group of common women, each closely veiled with a bright green gown, made like the long outer garment of the men, and possessing little sleeves of crimson. This strange garment is never worn, but is always used as a covering for the fair (?) face. Tradition teaches that in ancient times, when wars were frequent, veils were discarded and these gowns were worn by the wives and sisters, that, in case of sudden call to arms, they could be given to their husbands and brothers to be worn to battle--hence the red sleeves, upon which the gory sword was to be wiped. The peculiar gauze "stove-pipe" hat of the men, about which so much has been said, also has its origin in tradition, as follows: In ancient days conspiracies were common; to prevent these an edict was issued compelling all men to wear great earthenware hats, the size of an umbrella (type of the mourner's hat in Korea to-day, except that the latter is made of finely woven basket-work). This law became very odious, for in addition to the weight of the hats, not more than a very few men could come close enough together to converse, and even then spies could hear their necessarily loud whispering. Little by little, therefore, the law began to be infringed upon till the people got down to the present airy structure of horsehair, silk, and bamboo. Another story is, that petty wars being too frequent between rival sections, all men were compelled to wear these umbrella hats of clay. In case one became broken the possessor was punished by decapitation--naturally they stopped their fighting and took good care of their hats till the law was repealed. The custom of wearing white so extensively as they do is also accounted for by tradition. Mourning is a serious business in Korea, for on the death of a father the son must lay aside his gay robes and clothe himself in unbleached cotton of a very coarse texture. He wraps his waist with a rope girdle, and puts on the umbrella hat, which conceals the whole upper portion of his person. For further protection against intrusion he carries a white fan, and, should he smoke, his pipe must be wrapped with white. For three years he must wear this guise and must do no work, so that the resources of even a large and prosperous family may be thus exhausted. Should a king die, the whole nation would be compelled to don this mourning garb, or rather they would be compelled to dress in white--the mourning color. Once, during a period of ten years, three kings died, necessitating a constant change of dress on the part of the people and a great outlay of money, for a Korean wardrobe is extensive and costly. Tradition has it, therefore, that, to be ready for the caprice of their kings in the future, the people adopted white as the national color. The nobility and wealthy persons who can afford it, dress in rich gayly colored silks, and even the common people add a little blue or green to their outside robes, so that when they wander about over the beautiful green hills in their favorite pastime of admiring the natural beauties of a remarkably beautiful and well preserved landscape, their bright gowns but add to the general effect. And a long procession of monks emerging from their high mountain temple and descending along the green mountain path might be taken for a company of the spirits with which their literature abounds; especially will this be the case if, as is common, the region of the temple is shrouded with clouds. But little of home life is seen along the streets, and the favored ones who may pass the great gates and traverse the many courts which lead to the fine inclosures of the nobility would see but little of home life, as the women have quarters by themselves, and are only seen by the men of their own family. It is pleasant, however, to see the little groups of the working class sitting around the fire which is cooking their evening meal and at the same time heating the platform of paper and cement-covered stones which form the floor of their bed chamber, and on which they will spread their mats and sleep. They will all be found to be smoking, and if tobacco was ever a blessing to any people it is to the lower classes in Korea, who find in it their greatest comfort. No one could see the solid enjoyment taken by a Korean coolie with his pipe without blessing the weed. As the fires burn low, and one by one the smokers have knocked the ashes from their pipes and sought the warm stone floor, a deep stillness settles over the profoundly dark city. The rich, deep notes of a great centrally located bell ring out as the watchman draws back a huge suspended beam of wood, and releasing it, lets it strike the bronze side of the heavy bell, from which vibration after vibration is sent forth upon the still night-air. Some weird music, which has been likened to that of Scotch bagpipes, is heard from the direction of the city gates, and the traveller, who is still threading the streets to his abode, feels thankful that he has arrived in time, for now the massive gates are closed, and none may enter without royal permission. The street traveller will also hasten to his home or stopping-place, for between the ringing of the evening chimes and the tolling of the bell to announce the approach of dawn, all men must absent themselves from the streets, which then are taken possession of by the women, who even then, as they flit about from house to house with their little paper lanterns, go veiled lest some passing official should see their faces. [1] The midnight stillness is broken by the barking of countless dogs, but as cats are in disfavor their serenades are seldom heard. Another sound is often, in busy times heard throughout the whole night. It is peculiar to Korea, and to one who has lived long in the country it means much. It is the drumming of the Korean laundry. To give the light-colored gowns their highly prized lustre they must be well pounded; for this purpose the cloth is wrapped around a long hard roller which is fixed in a low frame, two women then sit facing each other with, in each hand, a round, hard stick, something like a small base-ball bat, and they commence beating the cloth, alternating so as to make quite a musical tinkle. Heard at some distance this rhythmic rattle is not unpleasant, and one is assured that in the deep night that has settled so like a pall over the city, two persons are wide-awake and industriously engaged, while, when the tapping ceases for a bit, one is comforted with the thought that the poor things are enjoying a rich bit of gossip, or welcoming a friend who is more fortunate in having finished her ironing in time to enjoy the freedom of the night. Inside the Palace the night is turned into day as nearly as can be done by the electric light. The business of the government is mostly transacted at night that the wheels of administration may run smoothly during the day. At sun-down several lights may be seen on the summit of the beautiful ever green south mountain which forms the southern limit of the city; as does a grim stony peak on the north serve a similar purpose on that side. The south mountain faces the Palaces. It also commands a good view of the outlying peaks, upon some of which, situated in suitable localities, are stationed watchmen, so placed as to command a view of others farther and farther removed; thus forming lines from the distant borders of the country to the capital. On these peaks small signal-fires are nightly kindled, and as the lights are seen by the watchman on the south mountain, he builds the proper number of fires upon little altars in full view of the Palace. Then a body of gray old officers go in before His Majesty, and bowing their heads to the floor, make known the verdict of the signal-fires, as to whether peace reigns in the borders or not. Soon after this the officials assemble and the business of the government begins, the King giving his personal attention to all matters of importance. There are three palace inclosures in the city, only one of which is occupied. One is an old ruined place that was built for the use of a ruler who chanced to be regent for his father, and as he could not reside in the Palace proper this smaller place was prepared for him. The buildings now are in ruins, while the large grounds are used by the foreign silk expert as a nursery for mulberry-trees. The present Palace includes some hundreds of acres, and is the home of more than three thousand attendants. The grounds are beautifully diversified by little lakes of several acres in extent, one of which surrounds a magnificent and stately pavilion, supported on great stone pillars,--a fine picture and description of this, and other parts of the Palace, may be found in Mr. Lowell's "Chosen." The other lake possesses a bright little pagoda-like pavilion, around which plays a steam launch, dividing the lotus flowers which grow in the water, and startling the swan, duck, and other aquatic animals that make this their home. These lakes are fed and drained by a mountain stream that enters and leaves the Palace inclosure, through water-gates built under the walls. Some of the bridges spanning this brook are quaint pieces of artistic masonry, having animals carved in blocks of stone, represented in the act of plunging into the liquid depths below. This carved stone work abounds throughout the Palace buildings; the largest of which is the great Audience-Hall, with its mast-like pillars supporting a ceiling at an elevation of near one hundred feet above the tiled floor. The dwelling-houses of the Royal Family are built upon the banks of one of the small lakes, and are surrounded by walls for greater seclusion. The rooms are furnished with costly articles from European markets, together with the finest native furniture. Foreign-trained cooks are employed, and the dinners sometimes given to distinguished foreign guests are in entire accord with modern western methods. Royalty is never present at these banquets, which are presided over by one of the heads of departments; the Royal Family, maybe, witnessing the novel sight from a secluded place where their presence may not be known. The King only leaves the Palace upon certain occasions, as when he goes to bow before the tombs of his ancestors. On these occasions the streets are cleared of the little straw-thatched booths of the petty retail merchants as well as of all other unsightly objects. The street is roped off and sprinkled with fresh earth, and the people don their holiday garb, for it is indeed a great gala day to them. The procession is a gorgeous relic of mediæval times, with bits of the present strangely incorporated. There may be regiments of soldiers in the ancient fiery coats of mail, preceded or followed by soldiers dressed in the queer hybrid uniforms of the modern army, and bearing the bayoneted rifles of the present day, instead of the quaint matchlock-guns and ugly spears of the ancient guard. The wild, weird music of the native bands may be followed by the tooting of the buglers of the modern soldiery. The strange one-wheeled chair of an official, with its numbers of pushers and supporters, will probably be followed by an artillery company dragging Gatling guns. His Majesty himself will be borne in a great throne-like chair of red work, supported on the shoulders of thirty-two oddly attired bearers, while high officials in the government service may be mounted on horse back, or borne in less pretentious chairs. The length of the procession varies, but it is seldom less than an hour in passing a given place. The King is thirty-eight years of age. The Queen is one year his senior. The Crown Prince is fifteen years old, and has no brothers or sisters. Foreigners who have been granted an audience with the King are always pleased with his affability and brightness. He is quick of perception and very progressive. By having foreign newspapers translated to him he keeps fully abreast of the times. He is kind-hearted to a fault, and much concerned for the welfare of his people. His word is law, and an official would never think of failing to carry out his instructions or perish in the attempt. Owing to his great seclusion and the amount of ceremony with which he is hedged in, and the fact that, as a rule, nothing disagreeable must be brought to his notice, he is somewhat at the mercy of his favorites; and a trusted eunuch, having the King's ear continually, may become a great power for good or bad as the case may be. As decapitation is the usual punishment for most crimes, however, and as an official who should deceive the King would probably meet with such an end, the responsibility of the place is apt to sober an otherwise fickle mind and insure honest reports. THE RABBIT, AND OTHER LEGENDS. STORIES OF BIRDS AND ANIMALS. The Koreans are great students of Nature. Nothing seems to escape their attention as they plod through the fields or saunter for pleasure over the green hills. A naturally picturesque landscape is preserved in its freshness by the law that forbids the cutting of timber or fuel in any but prescribed localities. The necessity that compels the peasants to carefully rake together all the dried grass and underbrush for fuel, causes even the rugged mountain sides to present the appearance of a gentleman's well kept park, from which the landscape gardener has been wisely excluded. Nature's beauty in Korea may be said to be enhanced rather than marred by the presence of man; since the bright tints of the ample costume worn by all lends a quaint charm to the view. The soil-begrimed white garments of the peasants at work in the fields are not especially attractive at short range; but the foot-traveller, clad in a gorgeous gown of light-colored muslin, adds a pleasant touch to the general effect, as he winds about the hills following one of the "short-cut" paths; while the flowing robes of brightly colored silk worn by the frequent parties of gentry who may be met, strolling for recreation, are a positive attraction. Nor are these groups uncommon. The climate during most of the year is so delightful; the gentry are so pre-eminently a people of leisure, and are so fond of sight-seeing, games, and music, that they may be continually met taking a stroll through the country. As has been said, nothing out-of-doors seems to have escaped their attention. The flowers that carpet the earth from snow till snow have each been named and their seasons are known. The mah-hah in-doors throws out its pretty sessile blossoms upon the leafless stem sometimes before the snows have left, as though summer were borne upon winter's bare arm with no leafy spring to herald her approach. Then the autumn snows and frosts often arrive before the great chrysanthemums have ceased their blooming, while, between the seasons of the two heralds, bloom myriads of pretty plants that should make up a veritable botanical paradise. Summer finds the whole hill-sides covered with the delicate fluffy bloom of the pink azaleas, summoning forth the bands of beauty seekers who have already admired the peach and the plum orchards. Great beds of nodding lilies of the valley usher in the harvest, and even the forest trees occasionally add their weight of blossoms to the general effect. The coming and going of the birds is looked for, and the peculiarities and music of each are known. As a rule, they are named in accordance with the notes they utter; the pigeon is the pe-dul-key; the crow the kaw-mah-gue; the swallow the chap-pie, and so on. One bird--I think it is the oriole--is associated with a pretty legend to the effect that, once upon a time, one of the numerous ladies at court had a love affair with one of the palace officials--a Mr. Kim. It was discovered, and the poor thing lost her life. Her spirit could not be killed, however, and, unappeased, it entered this bird, in which form she returned to the palace and sang, "Kim-pul-lah-go," "Kim-pul, Kim-pul-lah-go," then, receiving no response, she would mournfully entreat--"Kim-poh-go-sip-so," "Kim-poh-go-sip-so." Now, in the language of Korea, "Kim-pul-lah-go" means "call Kim" or "tell Kim to come," and "Kim poh go sip so" means "I want to see Kim." So, even to this day, the women and children feel sad when they hear these plaintive notes, and unconsciously their hearts go out in pity for the poor lone lover who is ever searching in vain for her Kim. Another bird of sadness is the cuckoo, and the women dislike to hear its homesick notes echoing across the valleys. The pe chu kuh ruk is a bird that sings in the wild mountain places and warns people that robbers are near. When it comes to the hamlets and sings, the people know that the rice crop will be a failure, and that they will have to eat millet. The crow is in great disfavor, as it eats dead dog, and brings the dread fever--Yim pyung. The magpie--that impudent, noisy nuisance,--however, is in great favor, so much so that his great ugly nest is safe from human disturbance, and his presence is quite acceptable, especially in the morning. He seems to be the champion of the swallows that colonize the thick roofs and build their little mud houses underneath the tiles, for when one of the great lazy house-snakes comes out to sun himself after a meal of young swallows, the bereaved parents and friends at once fly off for the saucy magpie, who comes promptly and dashes at the snake's head amid the encouraging jabbering of the swallows. They usually succeed in driving the reptile under the tiles. Should the magpie come to the house with his (excuse for a) song in the morning, good news may be expected during the day; father will return from a long journey; brother will succeed in his (civil-service) examination and obtain rank, or good news will be brought by post. Should the magpie come in the afternoon with his jargon, a guest--not a friend--may be expected with an appetite equal to that of a family of children; while, if the magpie comes after dark, thieves may be dreaded. This office of house-guard is also bestowed upon the domestic goose. Aside from its beauty, this bird is greatly esteemed for its daring in promptly sounding an alarm, should any untimely visitor enter the court, as well as for its bravery in boldly pecking at and, in some cases, driving out the intruder. The wild goose is one of the most highly prized birds in Korea. It always participates in the wedding ceremonies; for no man would think himself properly married had he not been presented by his bride with a wild goose, even though the bird were simply hired for the occasion. The reason for this is that these observing people once noticed that a goose, whose mate was killed, returned to the place year after year to mourn her loss; and such constancy they seek, by this pretty custom, to commend to their wives. They further pledge each other at this time in these words: "Black is the hair that now crowns our heads, yet when it has become as white as the fibres of the onion root, we shall still be found faithful to each other." The white heron seems to be the especial friend of man. Many are the tales told of the assistance it has rendered individuals. In one case the generous-hearted creature is said to have pecked off its bill in its frantic attempts to ring a temple bell for the salvation of a man. One of the early stories relates how a hunter, having shot an arrow through the head of a snake that was about to devour some newly hatched herons, was in turn saved by the mother bird, who pecked to death a snake that had gotten into the man's stomach while he was drinking at a spring. The pecking, further, was so expertly done as not to injure the man. The swallows are everywhere welcome, while the thievish sparrows are killed as often as possible; the former live in the roofs of the houses, and usually awaken the inmates by their delighted chattering at each recurrence of dawn. A charming story is told of a swallow's rewarding a kind man who had rescued it from a snake and bound up its broken leg. The anecdote is too long to be related in this connection further than to say that the bird gave the man a seed which, being planted, brought him a vast fortune, while a seed given to his wicked brother, who was cruel to the swallows, worked his ruin. The bird held in the highest favor, however, is the stork. It is engraved in jade and gold and embroidered in silk, as the insignia of rank for the nobility. It is the bird that soars above the battle, and calls down success upon the Korean arms. In its majestic flight it is supposed to mount to heaven; hence its wisdom, for it is reputed to be a very wise bird. A man was once said to have ridden to heaven on the back of a huge stork, and judging from the great strength of a pair the writer once had as pets, the people are warranted in believing that, in the marvellous days of the ancients, these birds were used for purposes of transportation. The animals, too, have their stories, and in Korea, as in some other parts of the world, the rabbit seems to come off best, as a rule. One very good story is told concerning a scrape the rabbit got himself into because of his curiosity, but out of which he extricated himself at the expense of the whole fraternity of water animals. It seems that on one occasion the king of fishes was a little indiscreet, and while snapping greedily at a worm, got a hook through his nose. He succeeded in breaking the line, and escaped having his royal bones picked by some hungry mortal, but he was still in a great dilemma, for he could in no way remove the cruel hook. His finny majesty grew very ill; all the officials of his kingdom were summoned and met in solemn council. From the turtle to the whale, each one wore an anxious expression, and did his best at thinking. At last the turtle was asked for his opinion, and announced his firm belief that a poultice made from the fresh eye of a rabbit would remove the disorder of their sovereign at once. He was listened to attentively, but his plan was conceded to be impracticable, since they had no fresh rabbit eyes or any means of obtaining them. Then the turtle again came to the rescue, and said that he had a passing acquaintance with the rabbit, whom he had occasionally seen when walking along the beach, and that he would endeavor to bring him to the palace, if the doctors would then take charge of the work, for the sight of blood disagreed with him, and he would ask to absent himself from the further conduct of the case. He was royally thanked for his offer, and sent off in haste, realizing full well that his career was made in case he succeeded, while he would be very much unmade if he failed. 'Twas a very hot day as the fat turtle dragged himself up the hill-side, where he fortunately espied the rabbit. The latter, having jumped away a short distance, cocked his ears, and looked over his back to see who was approaching. Perceiving the turtle, he went over and accosted him with, "What are you doing away up here, sir?" "I simply came up for a view. I have always heard that the view over the water from your hills was excellent, but I can't say it pays one for the trouble of coming up," and the turtle wiped off his long neck and stretched himself out to cool off in the air. "You are not high enough; just come with me if you want to see a view," and the rabbit straightened up as if to start. "No, indeed! I have had enough for once. I prefer the water. Why, you should see the magnificent sights down there. There are beautiful green forests of waving trees, mountains of cool stones, valleys and caves, great open plains made beautiful by companies of brightly robed fishes, royal processions from our palaces, and, best of all, the water bears you up, and you go everywhere without exertion. No, let me return, you have nothing on this dry, hot earth worth seeing." The turtle turned to go, but the rabbit musingly followed. At length he said: "Don't you have any difficulty in the water? Doesn't it get into your eyes and mouth?" For he really longed in his heart to see the strange sights. "Oh, no! it bothers us no more than air, after we have once become accustomed to it," said the turtle. "I should very much like to see the place," said the rabbit, rather to himself, "but 'tis no use, I couldn't live in the water like a fish." "Why, certainly not," and the turtle concealed his excitement under an air of indifference; "you couldn't get along by yourself, but if you really wish to see something that will surprise you, you may get on my back, give me your fore-paws, and I will take you down all right." After some further assurance, the rabbit accepted the apparently generous offer, and on arriving at the beach, he allowed himself to be firmly fixed on the turtle's back, and down they went into the water, to the great discomfort of the rabbit, who, however, eventually became so accustomed to the water that he did not much mind it. He was charmed and bewildered by the magnificence of every thing he saw, and especially by the gorgeous palace, through which he was escorted, by attendant fishes, to the sick chamber of the king, where he found a great council of learned doctors, who welcomed him very warmly. While sitting in an elegant chair and gazing about at the surrounding magnificence, he chanced to hear a discussion concerning the best way of securing his eyes before he should die. He was filled with horror, and, questioning an attendant, the whole plot was explained to him. The poor fellow scratched his head and wondered if he would ever get out of the place alive. At last a happy thought struck him. He explained to them that he always carried about two pairs of eyes, his real ones and a pair made of mountain crystals, to be used in very dusty weather. Fearing that the water would injure his real eyes, he had buried them in the sand before getting upon the turtle's back, and was now using his crystal ones. He further expressed himself as most willing to let them have one of his real eyes, with which to cure his majesty's disorder, and assured them that he believed one eye would answer the purpose. He gave them to understand that he felt highly honored in being allowed to assist in so important a work, and declared that if they would give the necessary order he would hasten on the turtle's back to the spot where he had buried the eyes and return speedily with one. Marvelling much at the rabbit's courtesy, the fishes slunk away into the corners for very shame at their own rude conduct in forcibly kidnapping him, when a simple request would have accomplished their purpose. The turtle was rather roughly commanded to carry the guest to the place designated, which he did. Once released by the turtle to dig for the eyes in the sand, the rabbit shook the water from his coat, and winking at his clumsy betrayer told him to dig for the eyes himself, that he had only one pair, and those he intended to keep. With that he tore away up the mountain side, and has ever after been careful to give the turtle a wide berth. THE ENCHANTED WINE-JUG; OR, WHY THE CAT AND DOG ARE ENEMIES. In ancient times there lived an old gray-haired man by the river's bank where the ferry-boats land. He was poor but honest, and being childless, and compelled to earn his own food, he kept a little wine-shop, which, small though it was, possessed quite a local reputation, for the aged proprietor would permit no quarrelling on his premises, and sold only one brand of wine, and this was of really excellent quality. He did not keep a pot of broth simmering over the coals at his door to tempt the passer-by, and thus increase his thirst on leaving. The old man rather preferred the customers who brought their little long-necked bottles, and carried the drink to their homes. There were some peculiarities--almost mysteries--about this little wine-shop; the old man had apparently always been there, and had never seemed any younger. His wine never gave out, no matter how great might be the local thirst, yet he was never seen to make or take in a new supply; nor had he a great array of vessels in his shop. On the contrary, he always seemed to pour the wine out of the one and same old bottle, the long, slender neck of which was black and shiny from being so often tipped in his old hand while the generous, warming stream gurgled outward to the bowl. This had long ceased to be a matter of inquiry, however, and only upon the advent of a stranger of an inquiring mind would the subject be re-discussed. The neighbors were assured that the old man was thoroughly good, and that his wine was better. Furthermore, he sold it as reasonably as other men sold a much inferior article. And more than this, they did not care to know; or at least if they did once care, they had gotten over it, and were now content to let well enough alone. I said the old man had no children. That is true, yet he had that which in a slight degree took the place of children, in that they were his daily care, his constant companions, and the partners of his bed and board. These deputy children were none other than a good-natured old dog, with laughing face and eyes, long silken ears that were ever on the alert, yet too soft to stand erect, a chunky neck, and a large round body covered with long soft tan hair and ending in a bushy tail. He was the very impersonation of canine wisdom and good-nature, and seldom became ruffled unless he saw his master worried by the ill behavior of one of his patrons, or when a festive flea persisted in attacking him on all sides at once. His fellow, a cat, would sometimes assist in the onslaught, when the dog was about to be defeated and completely ruffled by his tormentor. This "Thomas" was also a character in his own way, and though past the days when his chief ambition had been to catch his tail, he had such a strong vein of humor running through him that age could not subdue his frivolous propensities. He had been known to drop a dead mouse upon the dog's nose from the counter, while the latter was endeavoring to get a quiet nap; and then he would blow his tail up as a balloon, hump his back, and look utterly shocked at such conduct, as the startled dog nearly jumped out of his skin, and growling horribly, tore around as though he were either in chase of a wild beast or being chased by one. This happy couple lived in the greatest contentment with the old man. They slept in the little kang room with him at night, and enjoyed the warm stone floor, with its slick oil-paper covering, as much as did their master. When the old man would go out on a mild moonlit night to enjoy a pipe of tobacco and gaze at the stars, his companions would rush out and announce to the world that they were not asleep, but ready to encounter any and every thing that the darkness might bring forth, so long as it did not enter their master's private court, of which they were in possession. These two were fair-weather companions up to this time. They had not been with the old man when a bowl of rice was a luxury. Their days did not antedate the period of the successful wine-shop history. The old man, however, often recalled those former days with a shudder, and thought with great complacency of the time when he had befriended a divine being, in the form of a weary human traveller, to whom he gave the last drink his jug contained, and how, when the contents of the little jug had gurgled down the stranger's throat in a long unbroken draught, the stranger had given him a trifling little thing that looked like a bit of amber, saying: "Drop this into your jug, old man, and so long as it remains there, you will never want for a drink." He did so; and sure enough the jug was heavy with something, so that he raised it to his lips, and--could he believe it! a most delicious stream of wine poured down his parched throat. He took the jug down and peered into its black depths; he shook its sides, causing the elf within to dance and laugh aloud; and shutting his eyes, again he took another long draught; then meaning well, he remembered the stranger, and was about to offer him a drink, when he discovered that he was all alone, and began to wonder at the strange circumstance, and to think what he was to do. "I can't sit here and drink all the time, or I will be drunk, and some thief will carry away my jug. I can't live on wine alone, yet I dare not leave this strange thing while I seek for work." Like many another to whom fortune has just come, he knew not for a time what to do with his good-luck. Finally he hit upon the scheme of keeping a wine-shop, the success of which we have seen, and have perhaps refused the old man credit for the wisdom he displayed in continuing on in a small scale, rather than in exciting unpleasant curiosity and official oppression, by turning up his jug and attempting to produce wine at wholesale. The dog and cat knew the secret, and had ever a watchful eye upon the jug, which was never for a moment out of sight of one of the three pairs of eyes. As the brightest day must end in gloom, however, so was this pleasant state soon to be marred by a most sad and far-reaching accident. One day the news flashed around the neighborhood that the old man's supply of wine was exhausted; not a drop remained in his jug, and he had no more with which to refill it. Each man on hearing the news ran to see if it were indeed true, and the little straw-thatched hut and its small court encircled by a mud wall were soon filled with anxious seekers after the truth. The old man admitted the statement to be true, but had little to say; while the dog's ears hung neglectedly over his cheeks, his eyes dropped, and he looked as though he might be asleep, but for the persistent manner in which he refused to lie down, but dignifiedly bore his portion of the sorrow sitting upright, but with bowed head. "Thomas" seemed to have been charged with agitation enough for the whole family. He walked nervously about the floor till he felt that justice to his tail demanded a higher plane, where shoes could not offend, and then betook himself to the counter, and later to the beam which supported the roof, and made a sort of cats' and rats' attic under the thatch. All condoled with the old man, and not one but regretted that their supply of cheap, good wine was exhausted. The old man offered no explanation, though he had about concluded in his own mind that, as no one knew the secret, he must have in some way poured the bit of amber into a customer's jug. But who possessed the jug he could not surmise, nor could he think of any way of reclaiming it. He talked the matter over carefully and fully to himself at night, and the dog and cat listened attentively, winking knowingly at each other, and puzzling their brains much as to what was to be done and how they were to assist their kind old friend. At last the old man fell asleep, and then sitting down face to face by his side, the dog and cat began a discussion. "I am sure," says the cat, "that I can detect that thing if I only come within smelling distance of it; but how do we know where to look for it." That was a puzzler, but the dog proposed that they make a search through every house in the neighborhood. "We can go on a mere kuh kyung (look see), you know, and while you call on the cats indoors, and keep your smellers open, I will yay gee (chat) with the dogs outside, and if you smell any thing you can tell me." The plan seemed to be the only good one, and it was adopted that very night. They were not cast down because the first search was unsuccessful, and continued their work night after night. Sometimes their calls were not appreciated, and in a few cases they had to clear the field by battle before they could go on with the search. No house was neglected, however, and in due time they had done the whole neighborhood, but with no success. They then determined that it must have been carried to the other side of the river, to which place they decided to extend their search as soon as the water was frozen over, so that they could cross on the ice, for they knew they would not be allowed in the crowded ferry-boats; and while the dog could swim, he knew that the water was too icy for that. As it soon grew very cold, the river froze so solidly that bull-carts, ponies, and all passed over on the ice, and so it remained for near two months, allowing the searching party to return each morning to their poor old master, who seemed completely broken up by his loss, and did not venture away from his door, except to buy the few provisions which his little fund of savings would allow. Time flew by without bringing success to the faithful comrades, and the old man began to think they too were deserting him, as his old customers had done. It was nearing the time for the spring thaw and freshet, when one night as the cat was chasing around over the roof timbers, in a house away to the outside of the settlement across the river, he detected an odor that caused him to stop so suddenly as to nearly precipitate himself upon a sleeping man on the floor below. He carefully traced up the odor, and found that it came from a soapstone tobacco box that sat upon the top of a high clothes-press near by. The box was dusty with neglect, and "Thomas" concluded that the possessor had accidentally turned the coveted gem (for it was from that the odor came) out into his wine bowl, and, not knowing its nature, had put it into this stone box rather than throw it away. The lid was so securely fastened that the box seemed to be one solid piece, and in despair of opening it, the cat went out to consult the superior wisdom of the dog, and see what could be done. "I can't get up there," said the dog, "nor can you bring me the box, or I might break it." "I cannot move the thing, or I might push it off, and let it fall to the floor and break," said the cat. So after explaining the things they could not do, the dog finally hit upon a plan they might perhaps successfully carry out. "I will tell you," said he. "You go and see the chief of the rat guild in this neighborhood, tell him that if he will help you in this matter, we will both let him alone for ten years, and not hurt even a mouse of them." "But what good is that going to do?" "Why, don't you see, that stone is no harder than some wood, and they can take turns at it till they gnaw a hole through, then we can easily get the gem." The cat bowed before the marvellous judgment of the dog, and went off to accomplish the somewhat difficult task of obtaining an interview with the master rat. Meanwhile the dog wagged his ears and tail, and strode about with a swinging stride, in imitation of the great yang ban, or official, who occasionally walked past his master's door, and who seemed to denote by his haughty gait his superiority to other men. His importance made him impudent, and when the cat returned, to his dismay, he found his friend engaged in a genuine fight with a lot of curs who had dared to intrude upon his period of self-congratulation. "Thomas" mounted the nearest wall, and howled so lustily that the inmates of the house, awakened by the uproar, came out and dispersed the contestants. The cat had found the rat, who, upon being assured of safety, came to the mouth of his hole, and listened attentively to the proposition. It is needless to say he accepted it, and a contract was made forthwith. It was arranged that work was to begin at once, and be continued by relays as long as they could work undisturbed, and when the box was perforated, the cat was to be summoned. The ice had now broken up and the pair could not return home very easily, so they waited about the neighborhood for some months, picking up a scant living, and making many friends and not a few enemies, for they were a proud pair, and ready to fight on provocation. It was warm weather, when, one night, the cat almost forgot his compact as he saw a big fat rat slinking along towards him. He crouched low and dug his long claws into the earth, while every nerve seemed on the jump; but before he was ready to spring upon his prey, he fortunately remembered his contract. It was just in time, too, for as the rat was none other than the other party to the contract, such a mistake at that time would have been fatal to their object. The rat announced that the hole was completed, but was so small at the inside end that they were at a loss to know how to get the gem out, unless the cat could reach it with his paw. Having acquainted the dog with the good news, the cat hurried off to see for himself. He could introduce his paw, but as the object was at the other end of the box he could not quite reach it. They were in a dilemma, and were about to give up, when the cat went again to consult with the dog. The latter promptly told them to put a mouse into the box, and let him bring out the gem. They did so, but the hole was too small for the little fellow and his load to get out at the same time, so that much pushing and pulling had to be done before they were successful. They got it safely at last, however, and gave it at once to the dog for safe-keeping. Then, with much purring and wagging of tails, the contract of friendship was again renewed, and the strange party broke up; the rats to go and jubilate over their safety, the dog and cat to carry the good news to their mourning master. Again canine wisdom was called into play in devising a means for crossing the river. The now happy dog was equal to such a trifling thing as this, however, and instructed the cat that he must take the gem in his mouth, hold it well between his teeth, and then mount his (the dog's) back, where he could hold on firmly to the long hair of his neck while he swam across the river. This was agreed upon, and arriving at the river they put the plan into execution. All went well until, as they neared the opposite bank, a party of school-children chanced to notice them coming, and, after their amazement at the strange sight wore away, they burst into uproarious laughter, which increased the more they looked at the absurd sight. They clapped their hands and danced with glee, while some fell on the ground and rolled about in an exhaustion of merriment at seeing a cat astride a dog's back being ferried across the river. The dog was too weary, and consequently matter-of-fact, to see much fun in it, but the cat shook his sides till his agitation caused the dog to take in great gulps of water in attempting to keep his head up. This but increased the cat's merriment, till he broke out in a laugh as hearty as that of the children, and in doing so dropped the precious gem into the water. The dog, seeing the sad accident, dove at once for the gem; regardless of the cat, who could not let go in time to escape, and was dragged down under the water. Sticking his claws into the dog's skin, in his agony of suffocation, he caused him so much pain that he missed the object of his search, and came to the surface. The cat got ashore in some way, greatly angered at the dog's rude conduct. The latter, however, cared little for that, and as soon as he had shaken the water from his hide, he made a lunge at his unlucky companion, who had lost the results of a half year's faithful work in one moment of foolishness. Dripping like a "drowned cat," "Thomas" was, however, able to climb a tree, and there he stayed till the sun had dried the water from his fur, and he had spat the water from his inwards in the constant spitting he kept up at his now enemy, who kept barking ferociously about the tree below. The cat knew that the dog was dangerous when aroused, and was careful not to descend from his perch till the coast was clear; though at one time he really feared the ugly boys would knock him off with stones as they passed. Once down, he has ever since been careful to avoid the dog, with whom he has never patched up the quarrel. Nor does he wish to do so, for the very sight of a dog causes him to recall that horrible cold ducking and the day spent up a tree, and involuntarily he spits as though still filled with river-water, and his tail blows up as it had never learned to do till the day when for so long its damp and draggled condition would not permit of its assuming the haughty shape. This accounts for the scarcity of cats and the popularity of dogs. [2] The dog did not give up his efforts even now. He dove many times in vain, and spent most of the following days sitting on the river's bank, apparently lost in thought. Thus the winter found him--his two chief aims apparently being to find the gem and to kill the cat. The latter kept well out of his way, and the ice now covered the place where the former lay hidden. One day he espied a man spearing fish through a hole in the ice, as was very common. Having a natural desire to be around where any thing eatable was being displayed, and feeling a sort of proprietorship in the particular part of the river where the man was fishing, and where he himself had had such a sad experience, he went down and looked on. As a fish came up, something natural seemed to greet his nostrils, and then, as the man lay down his catch, the dog grabbed it and rushed off in the greatest haste. He ran with all his might to his master, who, poor man, was now at the end of his string (coin in Korea is perforated and strung on a string), and was almost reduced to begging. He was therefore delighted when his faithful old friend brought him so acceptable a present as a fresh fish. He at once commenced dressing it, but when he slit it open, to his infinite joy, his long-lost gem fell out of the fish's belly. The dog was too happy to contain himself, but jumping upon his master, he licked him with his tongue, and struck him with his paws, barking meanwhile as though he had again treed the cat. As soon as their joy had become somewhat natural, the old man carefully placed the gem in his trunk, from which he took the last money he had, together with some fine clothes--relics of his more fortunate days. He had feared he must soon pawn these clothes, and had even shown them to the brokers. But now he took them out to put them on, as his fortune had returned to him. Leaving the fish baking on the coals, he donned his fine clothes, and taking his last money, he went and purchased wine for his feast, and for a beginning; for he knew that once he placed the gem back in the jug, the supply of wine would not cease. On his return he and the good dog made a happy feast of the generous fish, and the old man completely recovered his spirits when he had quaffed deeply of the familiar liquid to which his mouth was now such a stranger. Going to his trunk directly, he found to his amazement that it contained another suit of clothes exactly like the first ones he had removed, while there lay also a broken string of cash of just the amount which he had previously taken out. Sitting down to think, the whole truth dawned upon him, and he then saw how he had abused his privilege before in being content to use his talisman simply to run a wine-shop, while he might have had money and every thing else in abundance by simply giving the charm a chance to work. Acting upon this principle, the old man eventually became immensely wealthy, for he could always duplicate any thing with his piece of amber. He carefully tended his faithful dog, who never in his remaining days molested a rat, and never lost an opportunity to attack every cat he saw. CHING YUH AND KYAIN OO. THE TRIALS OF TWO HEAVENLY LOVERS. PRELUDE. Ching Yuh and Kyain Oo were stars attendant upon the Sun. They fell madly in love with each other, and, obtaining the royal permission, they were married. It was to them a most happy union, and having reached the consummation of their joys they lived only for one another, and sought only each other's company. They were continually in each other's embrace, and as the honey-moon bade fair to continue during the rest of their lives, rendering them unfit for the discharge of their duties, their master decided to punish them. He therefore banished them, one to the farthest edge of the eastern heavens, the other to the extreme opposite side of the great river that divides the heavenly plains (the Milky Way). They were sent so far away that it required full six months to make the journey, or a whole year to go and come. As they must be at their post at the annual inspection, they therefore could only hope to journey back and forth for the scant comfort of spending one short night in each other's company. Even should they violate their orders and risk punishment by returning sooner, they could only see each other from either bank of the broad river, which they could only hope to cross at the season when the great bridge is completed by the crows, who carry the materials for its construction upon their heads, as any one may know, who cares to notice, how bald and worn are the heads of the crows during the seventh moon. Naturally this fond couple are always heart-broken and discouraged at being so soon compelled to part after such a brief but long-deferred meeting, and 'tis not strange that their grief should manifest itself in weeping tears so copious that the whole earth beneath is deluged with rains. This sad meeting occurs on the night of the seventh day of the seventh moon, unless prevented by some untoward circumstance, in which case the usual rainy season is withheld, and the parched earth then unites in lamentation with the fond lovers, whose increased trials so sadden their hearts that even the fountain of tears refuses to flow for their relief. I. You Tah Jung was a very wise official, and a remarkably good man. He could ill endure the corrupt practices of many of his associate officials, and becoming dissatisfied with life at court, he sought and obtained permission to retire from official life and go to the country. His marriage had fortunately been a happy one, hence he was the more content with the somewhat solitary life he now began to lead. His wife was peculiarly gifted, and they were in perfect sympathy with each other, so that they longed not for the society of others. They had one desire, however, that was ever before them and that could not be laid aside. They had no children; not even a daughter had been granted them. As You Tah Jung superintended the cultivation of his estate, he felt that he would be wholly happy and content were it not for the lack of offspring. He gave himself up to the fascinating pastime of fishing, and took great delight in spending the most of his time in the fields listening to the birds and absorbing wisdom, with peace and contentment, from nature. As spring brought the mating and budding season, however, he again got to brooding over his unfortunate condition. For as he was the last of an illustrious family, the line seemed like to cease with his childless life. He knew of the displeasure his ancestors would experience, and that he would be unable to face them in paradise; while he would leave no one to bow before his grave and make offerings to his spirit. Again he bemoaned their condition with his poor wife, who begged him to avail himself of his prerogative and remove their reproach by marrying another wife. This he stoutly refused to do, as he would not risk ruining his now pleasant home by bringing another wife and the usual discord into it. Instead of estranging them, their misfortune seemed but to bind this pair the closer together. They were very devout people, and they prayed to heaven continually for a son. One night the wife fell asleep while praying, and dreamed a remarkable dream. She fancied that she saw a commotion in the vicinity of the North Star, and presently a most beautiful boy came down to her, riding upon a wonderful fan made of white feathers. The boy came direct to her and made a low obeisance, upon which she asked him who he was and where he came from. He said: "I am the attendant of the great North Star, and because of a mistake I fell into he banished me to earth for a term of years, telling me to come to you and bring this fan, which will eventually be the means of saving your life and my own." In the intensity of her joy she awoke, and found to her infinite sorrow that the beautiful vision was but a dream. She cherished it in her mind, however, and was transported with joy when a beautiful boy came to them with the succeeding spring-tide. The beauty of the child was the comment of the neighborhood, and every one loved him. As he grew older it was noticed that the graces of his mind were even more remarkable than those of his person. The next ten years were simply one unending period of blissful contentment in the happy country home. They called the boy Pang Noo (his family name being You, made him You Pang Noo). His mother taught him his early lessons herself, but by the expiration of his first ten years he had grown far beyond her powers, and his brilliant mind even taxed his intelligent father in his attempts to keep pace with him. About this time they learned of a wonderful teacher, a Mr. Nam Juh Oon, whose ability was of great repute. It was decided that the boy should be sent to this man to school, and great was the agitation and sorrow at home at thought of the separation. He was made ready, however, and with the benediction of father and caresses of mother, he started for his new teacher, bearing with him a wonderful feather fan which his father had given him, and which had descended from his great-grandfather. This he was to guard with especial care, as, since his mother's remarkable dream, preceding his birth, it was believed that this old family relic, which bore such a likeness to the fan of the dream, was to prove a talisman to him, and by it evil was to be warded off, and good brought down upon him. II. Strange as it may seem, events very similar in nature to those just narrated were taking place in a neighboring district, where lived another exemplary man named Cho Sung Noo. He was a man of great rank, but was not in active service at present, simply because of ill-health induced by constant brooding over his ill-fortune; for, like You Tah Jung, he was the last of an illustrious family, and had no offspring. He was so happily married, furthermore, that he had never taken a second wife, and would not do so. About the time of the events just related concerning the You family, the wife of Cho, who had never neglected bowing to heaven and requesting a child, dreamed. She had gone to a hill-side apart from the house, and sitting in the moonlight on a clean plat of ground, free from the litter of the domestic animals, she was gazing into the heavens, hoping to witness the meeting of Ching Yuh and Kyain Oo, and feeling sad at the thought of their fabled tribulations. While thus engaged she fell asleep, and while sleeping dreamed that the four winds were bearing to her a beautiful litter, supported upon five rich, soft clouds. In the chair reclined a beautiful little girl, far lovelier than any being she had ever dreamed of before, and the like of which is never seen in real life. The chair itself was made of gold and jade. As the procession drew nearer the dreamer exclaimed: "Who are you, my beautiful child?" "Oh," replied the child, "I am glad you think me beautiful, for then, may be, you will let me stay with you." "I think I should like to have you very much, but you haven't yet answered my question." "Well," she said, "I was an attendant upon the Queen of Heaven, but I have been very bad, though I meant no wrong, and I am banished to earth for a season; won't you let me live with you, please?" "I shall be delighted, my child, for we have no children. But what did you do that the stars should banish you from their midst?" "Well, I will tell you," she answered. "You see, when the annual union of Ching Yuh and Kyain Oo takes place, I hear them mourning because they can only see each other once a year, while mortal pairs have each other's company constantly. They never consider that while mortals have but eighty years of life at most, their lives are without limit, and they, therefore, have each other to a greater extent than do the mortals, whom they selfishly envy. In a spirit of mischief I determined to teach this unhappy couple a lesson; consequently, on the last seventh moon, seventh day, when the bridge was about completed and ready for the eager pair to cross heaven's river to each others' embrace, I drove the crows away, and ruined their bridge before they could reach each other. I did it for mischief, 'tis true, and did not count on the drought that would occur, but for my misconduct and the consequent suffering entailed on mortals, I am banished, and I trust you will take and care for me, kind lady." When she had finished speaking, the winds began to blow around as though in preparation for departure with the chair, minus its occupant. Then the woman awoke and found it but a dream, though the winds were, indeed, blowing about her so as to cause her to feel quite chilly. The dream left a pleasant impression, and when, to their intense joy, a daughter was really born to them, the fond parents could scarcely be blamed for associating her somewhat with the vision of the ravishing dream. The child was a marvel of beauty, and her development was rapid and perfect. The neighbors were so charmed with her, that some of them seemed to think she was really supernatural, and she was popularly known as the "divine maiden," before her first ten years were finished. It was about the time of her tenth birthday that little Uhn Hah had the interesting encounter upon which her whole future was to hinge. It happened in this way: One day she was riding along on her nurses' back, on her way to visit her grandmother. Coming to a nice shady spot they sat down by the road-side to rest. While they were sitting there, along came Pang Noo on his way to school. As Uhn Hah was still but a girl she was not veiled, and the lad was confronted with her matchless beauty, which seemed to intoxicate him. He could not pass by, neither could he find words to utter, but at last he bethought him of an expedient. Seeing some oranges in her lap, he stepped up and spoke politely to the nurse, saying, "I am You Pang Noo, a lad on my way to school, and I am very thirsty, won't you ask your little girl to let me have one of her oranges?" Uhn Hah was likewise smitten with the charms of the beautiful lad, and in her confusion she gave him two oranges. Pang Noo gallantly said, "I wish to give you something in return for your kindness, and if you will allow me I will write your name on this fan and present it to you." Having obtained the name and permission, he wrote: "No girl was ever possessed of such incomparable graces as the beautiful Uhn Hah. I now betroth myself to her, and vow never to marry other so long as I live." He handed her the fan, and feasting his eyes on her beauty, they separated. The fan being closed, no one read the characters, and Uhn Hah carefully put it away for safe keeping without examining it sufficiently close to discover the written sentiment. III. Pang Noo went to school and worked steadily for three years. He learned amazingly fast, and did far more in three years than the brightest pupils usually do in ten. His noted teacher soon found that the boy could even lead him, and it became evident that further stay at the school was unnecessary. The boy also was very anxious to go and see his parents. At last he bade his teacher good-by, to the sorrow of both, for their companionship had been very pleasant and profitable, and they had more than the usual attachment of teacher and pupil for each other. Pang Noo and his attendant journeyed leisurely to their home, where they were received with the greatest delight. His mother had not seen her son during his schooling, and even her fond pride was hardly prepared for the great improvement the boy had made, both in body and mind, since last she saw him. The father eventually asked to see the ancestral fan he had given him, and the boy had to confess that he had it not, giving as an excuse that he had lost it on the road. His father could not conceal his anger, and for some time their pleasure was marred by this unfortunate circumstance. Such a youth and an only son could not long remain unforgiven, however, and soon all was forgotten, and he enjoyed the fullest love of his parents and admiration of his friends as he quietly pursued his studies and recreation. In this way he came down to his sixteenth year, the pride of the neighborhood. His quiet was remarked, but no one knew the secret cause, and how much of his apparent studious attention was devoted to the charming little maiden image that was framed in his mental vision. About this time a very great official from the neighborhood called upon his father, and after the usual formalities, announced that he had heard of the remarkable son You Tah Jung was the father of, and he had come to consult upon the advisability of uniting their families, as he himself had been blessed with a daughter who was beautiful and accomplished. You Tah Jung was delighted at the prospect of making such a fine alliance for his son, and gave his immediate consent, but to his dismay, his son objected so strenuously and withal so honorably that the proposition had to be declined as graciously as the rather awkward circumstances would allow. Both men being sensible, however, they but admired the boy the more, for the clever rascal had begged his father to postpone all matrimonial matters, as far as he was concerned, till he had been able to make a name for himself, and had secured rank, that he might merit such attention. Pang Noo was soon to have an opportunity to distinguish himself. A great quaga (civil-service examination) was to be held at the capital, and Pang Noo announced his intention of entering the lists and competing for civil rank. His father was glad, and in due time started him off in proper style. The examination was held in a great enclosure at the rear of the palace, where the King and his counsellors sat in a pavilion upon a raised stage of masonry. The hundreds of men and youths from all parts of the country were seated upon the ground under large umbrellas. Pang Noo was given a subject, and soon finished his essay, after which he folded it up carefully and tossed the manuscript over a wall into an enclosure, where it was received and delivered to the board of examiners. These gentlemen, as well as His Majesty, were at once struck with the rare merit of the production, and made instant inquiry concerning the writer. Of course he was successful, and a herald soon announced that Pang, the son of You Tah Jung had taken the highest honors. He was summoned before the King, who was pleased with the young man's brightness and wisdom. In addition to his own rank, his father was made governor of a province, and made haste to come to court and thank his sovereign for the double honor, and to congratulate his son. Pang was given permission to go and bow at the tomb of his ancestors, in grateful acknowledgment for Heaven's blessings. Having done which, he went to pay his respects to his mother, who fairly worshipped her son now, if she had not done so before. During his absence the King had authorized the board of appointments to give him the high rank of Ussa, for, though he was young, His Majesty thought one so wise and quick, well fitted to travel in disguise and spy out the acts of evil officials, learn the condition of the people, and bring the corrupt and usurous to punishment. Pang Noo was amazed at his success, yet the position just suited him, for, aside from a desire to better the condition of his fellow-men, he felt that in this position he would be apt to learn the whereabouts of his lady-love, whose beautiful vision was ever before him. Donning a suitable disguise, therefore, he set out upon the business at hand with a light heart. IV. Uhn Hah during all this time had been progressing in a quiet way as a girl should, but she also was quite the wonder of her neighborhood. All this time she had had many, if not constant, dreams of the handsome youth she had met by the roadside. She had lived over the incident time and again, and many a time did she take down and gaze upon the beautiful fan, which, however, opened and closed in such a manner that, ordinarily, the characters were concealed. At last, however, she discovered them, and great was her surprise and delight at the message. She dwelt on it much, and finally concluded it was a heaven arranged union, and as the lad had pledged his faith to her, she vowed she would be his, or never marry at all. This thought she nourished, longing to see Pang Noo, and wondering how she should ever find him, till she began to regard herself as really the wife of her lover. About this time one of His Majesty's greatest generals, who had a reputation for bravery and cruelty as well, came to stop at his country holding near by, and hearing of the remarkable girl, daughter of the retired, but very honorable, brother official, he made a call at the house of Mr. Cho, and explained that he was willing to betroth his son to Cho's daughter. The matter was considered at length, and Cho gave his willing consent. Upon the departure of the General, the father went to acquaint his daughter with her good fortune. Upon hearing it, she seemed struck dumb, and then began to weep and moan, as though some great calamity had befallen her. She could say nothing, nor bear to hear any more said of the matter. She could neither eat nor sleep, and the roses fled from her tear-bedewed cheeks. Her parents were dismayed, but wisely abstained from troubling her. Her mother, however, betimes lovingly coaxed her daughter to confide in her, but it was long before the girl could bring herself to disclose a secret so peculiar and apparently so unwomanly. The mother prevailed at last, and the whole story of the early infatuation eventually came forth. "He has pledged himself to me," she said, "he recognized me at sight as his heaven-sent bride, and I have pledged myself to him. I cannot marry another, and, should I never find him on earth, this fan shall be my husband till death liberates my spirit to join his in the skies." She enumerated his great charms of manner and person, and begged her mother not to press this other marriage upon her, but rather let her die, insisting, however, that should she die her mother must tell Pang Noo how true she had been to him. The father was in a great dilemma. "Why did you not tell this to your mother before? Here the General has done me the honor to ask that our families be united, and I have consented. Now I must decline, and his anger will be so great that he will ruin me at the Capitol. And then, after all, this is but an absurd piece of childish foolishness. Your fine young man, had he half the graces you give him, would have been betrothed long before this." "No! No!" she exclaimed, "he has pledged himself, and I know he is even now coming to me. He will not marry another, nor can I. Would you ask one woman to marry two men? Yet that is what you ask in this, for I am already the wife of Pang Noo in my heart. Kill me, if you will, but spare me this, I beg and entreat," and she writhed about on her cot, crying till the mat was saturated with her tears. The parents loved her too well to withstand her pleadings, and resigning themselves to the inevitable persecution that must result, they dispatched a letter to the General declining his kind offer, in as unobjectionable a manner as possible. It had the result that was feared. The General, in a towering rage, sent soldiers to arrest Mr. Cho, but before he could go further, a messenger arrived from Seoul with despatches summoning him to the Capitol immediately, as a rebellion had broken out on the borders. Before leaving, however, he instructed the local magistrate to imprison the man and not release him till he consented to the marriage. It chanced that the magistrate was an honest man and knew the General to be a very cruel, relentless warrior. He therefore listened to Cho's story, and believed the strange case. Furthermore, his love for the girl softened his heart, and he bade them to collect what they could and go to another province to live. Cho did so, with deep gratitude to the magistrate, while the latter wrote to the General that the prisoner had avoided arrest and fled to unknown parts, taking his family with him. V. Poor Pang Noo did his inspection work with a heavy heart as time wore on, and the personal object of his search was not attained. In the course of his travels he finally came to his uncle, the magistrate who had dismissed the Cho family. The uncle welcomed his popular nephew right warmly, but questioned him much as to the cause of his poor health and haggard looks, which so ill-became a man of his youth and prospects. At last the kind old man secured the secret with its whole story, and then it was his turn to be sad, for had he not just sent away the very person the Ussa so much desired to see? When Pang learned this his malady increased, and he declared he could do no more active service till this matter was cleared up. Consequently he sent a despatch to court begging to be released, as he was in such poor health he could not properly discharge his arduous duties longer. His request was granted, and he journeyed to Seoul, hoping to find some trace of her who more and more seemed to absorb his every thought and ambition. VI. In the meantime the banished family, heart-sick and travel-worn, had settled temporarily in a distant hamlet, where the worn and discouraged parents were taken sick. Uhn Hah did all she could for them, but in spite of care and attention, in spite of prayers and tears, they passed on to join their ancestors. The poor girl beat her breast and tore her hair in an agony of despair. Alone in a strange country, with no money and no one to shield and support her, it seemed that she too must, perforce, give up. But her old nurse urged her to cheer up, and suggested their donning male attire, in which disguise they could safely journey to another place unmolested. The idea seemed a good one, and it was adopted. They allowed their hair to fall down the back in a long braid, after the fashion of the unmarried men, and, putting on men's clothes, they had no trouble in passing unnoticed along the roads. After having gone but a short distance they found themselves near the capital of the province--the home of the Governor. While sitting under some trees by the roadside the Governor's procession passed by. The couple arose respectfully, but the Governor (it was Pang Noo's father), espying the peculiar feather fan, ordered one of the runners to seize the women and bring them along. It was done; and when they were arrived at the official yamen, he questioned the supposed man as to where he had secured that peculiar fan. "It is a family relic," replied Uhn Hah, to the intense amazement of the Governor, who pronounced the statement false, as the fan was a peculiar feature in his own family, and must be one that had descended from his own ancestors and been found or stolen by the present possessor. However, the Governor offered to pay a good round sum for the fan. But Uhn Hah declared she would die rather than part with it, and the two women in disguise were locked up in prison. A man of clever speech was sent to interview them, and he offered them a considerable sum for the fan, which the servant urged Uhn Hah to take, as they were sadly in want. After the man had departed in disgust, however, the girl upbraided her old nurse roundly for forsaking her in her time of trial. "My parents are dead," she said. "All I have to represent my husband is this fan that I carry in my bosom. Would you rob me of this? Never speak so again if you wish to retain my love"; and, weeping, she fell into the servant's arms, where, exhausted and overwrought nature asserting itself, sleep closed her eyes. While sleeping she dreamed of a wonderful palace on high, where she saw a company of women, who pointed her to the blood-red reeds that lined the river bank below, explaining that their tears had turned to blood during their long search for their lovers, and dropping on the reeds they were dyed blood-red. One of them prophesied, however, that Uhn Hah was to be given superhuman strength and powers, and that she would soon succeed in finding her lover, who was now a high official, and so true to her that he was sick because he could not find her. She awakened far more refreshed by the dream than by the nap, and was soon delighted by being dismissed. The Governor's steward took pity on the handsome "boy," and gave him a parting gift of wine and food to carry with them, as well as some cash to help them on, and, bidding him good-by, the women announced their intention of travelling to a distant province. VII. Meanwhile Pang Noo had reached home, and was weary both in body and mind. The King offered him service at court, but he asked to be excused, and seemed to wish to hide himself and avoid meeting people. His father marvelled much at this, and again urged the young man to marry; but this seemed only to aggravate his complaint. His uncle happened to come to his father's gubernatorial seat on a business errand, and in pity for the young man, explained the cause of the trouble to the father. He saw it all, and recalled the strange beauty of the lad who had risked his life for the possession of the fan, and as the uncle told the story of her excellent parentage, and the trouble and death that resulted from the refusal to marry, he saw through the whole strange train of circumstances, and marvelled that heaven should have selected such an exemplary maiden for his son. And then, as he realized how nearly he had come to punishing her severely, for her persistent refusal to surrender the fan, and that, whereas, he might have retained her and united her to his son, he had sent her away unattended to wander alone; he heaped blame upon the son in no stinted manner for his lack of confidence in not telling his father his troubles. The attendants were carefully questioned concerning the conduct of the strange couple while in custody at the governor's yamen, and as to the probable direction they took in departure. The steward alone could give information. He was well rewarded for having shown them kindness, but his information cast a gloom upon the trio, for he said they had started for the district where civil war was in progress. "You unnatural son," groaned the father. "What have you done? You secretly pledge yourself to this noble girl, and then, by your foolish silence, twice allow her to escape, while you came near being the cause of her death at the very hands of your father; and even now by your foolishness she is journeying to certain death. Oh, my son! we have not seen the last of this rash conduct; this noble woman's blood will be upon our hands, and you will bring your poor father to ruin and shame. Up! Stop your lovesick idling, and do something. Ask His Majesty, with my consent, for military duty; go to the seat of war, and there find your wife or your honor." The father's advice was just what was needed; the son could not, of necessity, disobey, nor did he wish to; but arming himself with the courage of a desperate resolve to save his sweetheart, whom he fancied already in danger from the rebels, he hurried to Seoul, and surprising his sovereign by his strange and ardent desire for military service, easily secured the favor, for the general in command was the same who had wished to marry his son to Uhn Hah; he was also an enemy to Pang Noo's father, and would like to see the only son of his enemy killed. With apparently strange haste the expedition was started off, and no time was lost on the long, hard march. Arriving near the seat of war, the road led by a mountain, where the black weather-worn stone was as bare as a wall, sloping down to the road. Fearing lest he was going to his death, the young commander had some characters cut high on the face of the rock, which read: "Standing at the gate of war, I, You Pang Noo, humbly bow to Heaven's decree. Is it victory, or is it death? Heaven alone knows the issue. My only remaining desire is to behold the face of my lady Cho Gah." He put this inscription in this conspicuous place, with the hope that if she were in the district she would see it, and not only know he was true to her, but also that she might be able to ascertain his whereabouts and come to him. He met the rebels, and fought with a will, bringing victory to the royal arms. But soon their provisions gave out, and, though daily despatches arrived, no rations were sent in answer to their constant demands. The soldiers sickened and died. Many more, driven mad by hardship and starvation, buried their troubles deep in the silent river, which their loyal spears had stained crimson with their enemies blood. You Pang Noo was about to retire against orders, when the rebels, emboldened by the weak condition of their adversaries, came in force, conquered and slew the remnant, and would have slain the commander but for the counsel of two of their number, who urged that he be imprisoned and held for ransom. VIII. Again fate had interfered to further separate the lovers, for, instead of continuing her journey, Uhn Hah had received news that induced her to start for Seoul. While resting, on one occasion, they had some conversation with a passer-by. He was from the capital, and stated that he had gone there from a place near Uhn Hah's childhood home as an attendant of the Ussa You Pang Noo, who had taken sick at his uncle's, the magistrate, and had gone to Seoul, where he was excused from ussa duty and offered service at court. He knew not of the recent changes, but told his eager listener all he knew of Pang Noo's family. The weary, foot-sore girl and her companion turned their faces toward the capital, hoping at last to be rewarded by finding the object of their search. That evening darkness overtook them before they had found shelter, and spying a light through the trees, they sought it out, and found a little hut occupied by an old man. He was reading a book, but laid it aside as they answered his invitation to enter, given in response to their knock. The usual salutations were exchanged, but instead of asking who the visitors were, where they lived, etc., etc., the old man called her by her true name, Cho Nang Jah. "I am not a Nang Jah" (a female appellation), she exclaimed; "I am a man!" "Oh! I know you, laughed the old man; "you are Cho Nang Jah in very truth, and you are seeking your future husband in this disguise. But you are perfectly safe here." "Ask me no questions," said he, as she was about to utter some surprised inquiries. "I have been waiting for you and expecting you. You are soon to do great things, for which I will prepare you. Never mind your hunger, but devour this pill; it will give you superhuman strength and courage." He gave her a pill of great size, which she ate, and then fell asleep on the floor. The old man went away, and soon the tired servant slept also. When they awoke it was bright morning, and the birds were singing in the trees above them, which were their only shelter, for the hut of the previous evening had disappeared entirely, as had also the old man. Concluding that the old man must be some heaven-sent messenger, she devoutly bowed herself in grateful acknowledgment of the gracious manifestation. Journeying on, they soon came to a wayside inn kept by an old farmer, and here they procured food. While they were eating, a blind man was prophesying for the people. When he came to Uhn Hah he said: "This is a woman in disguise; she is seeking for her husband, who is fighting the rebels, and searching for her. He is now nearly dead; but he will not die, for she will rescue him." On hearing this she was delighted and sad at the same time, and explaining some of her history to the master of the house, he took her in with the women and treated her kindly. She was very anxious to be about her work, however, since heaven had apparently so clearly pointed it out to her, and, bidding the simple but kind friends good-by, she started for the seat of war, where she arrived after a long, tedious, but uneventful tramp. Almost the first thing she saw was the inscription on the rocks left by the very one she sought, and she cried bitterly at the thought that maybe she was too late. The servant cheered her up, however, by reciting the blind man's prophecy, and they went on their way till they came to a miserable little inn, where they secured lodging. After being there some time, Uhn Hah noticed that the innkeeper's wife was very sad, and continually in tears. She therefore questioned her as to the cause of her grief. "I am mourning over the fate of the poor starved soldiers, killed by the neglect of some one at Seoul, and for the brave young officer, You Pang Noo, whom the rebels have carried away captive." At this Uhn Hah fainted away, and the nurse made such explanation as she could. Restoratives were applied, and she slowly recovered, when, on further questioning, it was found that the inn-people were slaves of You Pang Noo, and had followed him thus far. It was also learned that the absence of stores was generally believed to be due to the corrupt general-in-chief, who not only hated his gallant young officer, but was unwilling to let him achieve glory, so long as he could prevent it. After consultation, and learning further of the matter, Uhn Hah wrote a letter explaining the condition of affairs, and dispatched it to Pang Noo's father by the innkeeper. The Governor was not at his country place, and the messenger had to go to Seoul, where, to his horror, he found that his old master was in prison, sent there by the influence of the corrupt General, his enemy, because his son had been accused of being a traitor, giving over the royal troops to the rebels, and escaping with them himself. The innkeeper, however, secured access to the prison, and delivered the letter to the unfortunate parent. Of course, nothing could be done, and again he blamed his son for his stupid secrecy in concealing his troubles from his father, and thus bringing ruin upon the family and injury to the young lady. However, he wrote a letter to the good uncle, relating the facts, and requesting him to find the girl, place her in his home, and care for her as tenderly as possible. He could do nothing more. The innkeeper delivered this letter to the uncle, and was then instructed to carry a litter and attendants to his home and bring back the young lady, attired in suitable garments. He did so as speedily as possible, though the journey was a long and tedious one. Once installed in a comfortable home poor Uhn Hah became more and more lonely. She seemed to have nothing now to hope for, and the stagnation of idleness was more than she could endure. She fancied her lover in prison, and suffering, while she was in the midst of comfort and luxury. She could not endure the thought, and prevailed upon her benefactor to convey to His Majesty a petition praying that she be given a body of soldiers and be allowed to go and punish the rebels, reclaim the territory, and liberate her husband. The King marvelled much at such a request, coming from one of her retiring, seclusive sex, and upon the advice of the wicked General, who was still in command, the petition was not granted. Still she persisted, and found other ways of reaching the throne, till the King, out of curiosity to see such a brave and loyal woman, bade her come before him. When she entered the royal presence her beauty and dignity of carriage at once won attention and respectful admiration, so that her request was about to be granted, when the General suggested, as a last resort, that she first give some evidence of her strength and prowess before the national military reputation be entrusted to her keeping. It seemed a wise thought, and the King asked her what she could do to show that she was warranted in heading such a perilous expedition. She breathed a prayer to her departed parents for help, and remembering the strange promise of the old man who gave her the pill, she felt that she could do almost any thing, and seizing a large weather-worn stone that stood in an ornamental rock basin in the court, she threw it over the enclosing wall as easily as two men would have lifted it from the ground. Then, taking the General's sword, she began slowly to manipulate it, increasing gradually, as though in keeping with hidden music, till the movement became so rapid that the sword seemed like one continuous ring of burning steel--now in the air, now about her own person, and, again, menacingly near the wicked General, who cowered in abject terror before the remarkable sight. His Majesty was completely captivated, and himself gave the orders for her expedition, raising her to relative rank, and giving her the choicest battalion of troops. In her own peculiarly dignified way she expressed her gratitude, and, bowing to the ground, went forth to execute her sovereign's commands, and attain her heart's desire. Again donning male attire, she completed her preparations, and departed with eager delight to accomplish her mission. The troops having obtained an inkling of the strange character and almost supernatural power of their handsome, dashing leader, were filled with courage and eager for the fray. But to the dismay of all, they had no sooner arrived at the rebel infested country than severe rains began to fall, making it impossible to accomplish any thing. This was explained, however, by the spirits of the departed soldiers, who appeared to the officers in dreams, and announced that as they had been sacrificed by the cruel General, who had intentionally withheld their rations, they would allow no success to the royal arms till their death was avenged by his death. This was dispatched to court, and believed by His Majesty, who had heard similar reports, oft repeated. He therefore confined the General in prison, and sent his son (the one who wished to marry Uhn Hah) to the front to be executed. He was slain and his blood scattered to the winds. A feast was prepared for the spirits of the departed soldiers, and this sacrifice having been made, the storm ceased, the sun shone, and the royal troops met and completely vanquished the rebels, restoring peace to the troubled districts, but not obtaining the real object of the leaders' search. After much questioning, among the captives, a man was found who knew all about You Pang Noo, and where he was secreted. Upon the promise of pardon, he conducted a party who rescued the captive and brought him before their commander. Of course for a time the lovers could not recognize each other after the years that had elapsed since their first chance meeting. You Pang Noo was given command and Uhn Hah modestly retired, adopted her proper dress, and was borne back to Seoul in a litter. The whole country rang with their praises. You Pang Noo was appointed governor of a province, and the father was reinstated in office, while the General who had caused the trouble was ignominiously put to death, and his whole family and his estates were confiscated. As Cho Uhn Hah had no parents, His Majesty determined that she should have royal patronage, and decreed that their wedding should take place in the great hall where the members of the royal family are united in marriage. This was done with all the pomp and circumstance of a royal wedding, and no official stood so high in the estimation of the King, as the valiant, true-hearted You, while the virtues of his spouse were the subject of songs and ballads, and she was extolled as the model for the women of the country. HYUNG BO AND NAHL BO; OR, THE SWALLOW-KING'S REWARDS. I. In the province of Chullado, in Southern Korea, lived two brothers. One was very rich, the other very poor. For in dividing the inheritance, the elder brother, instead of taking the father's place, and providing for the younger children, kept the whole property to himself, allowing his younger brother nothing at all, and reducing him to a condition of abject misery. Both men were married. Nahl Bo, the elder, had many concubines, in addition to his wife, but had no children; while Hyung Bo had but one wife and several children. The former's wives were continually quarrelling; the latter lived in contentment and peace with his wife, each endeavoring to help the other bear the heavy burdens circumstances had placed upon them. The elder brother lived in a fine, large compound, with warm, comfortable houses; the younger had built himself a hut of broom straw, the thatch of which was so poor that when it rained they were deluged inside, upon the earthern floor. The room was so small, too, that when Hyung Bo stretched out his legs in his sleep his feet were apt to be thrust through the wall. They had no kang, and had to sleep upon the cold dirt floor, where insects were so abundant as to often succeed in driving the sleepers out of doors. They had no money for the comforts of life, and were glad when a stroke of good fortune enabled them to obtain the necessities. Hyung Bo worked whenever he could get work, but rainy days and dull seasons were a heavy strain upon them. The wife did plain sewing, and together they made straw sandals for the peasants and vendors. At fair time the sandal business was good, but then came a time when no more food was left in the house, the string for making the sandals was all used up, and they had no money for a new supply. Then the children cried to their mother for food, till her heart ached for them, and the father wandered off in a last attempt to get something to keep the breath of life in his family. Not a kernel of rice was left. A poor rat which had cast in his lot with this kind family, became desperate when, night after night, he chased around the little house without being able to find the semblance of a meal. Becoming desperate, he vented his despair in such loud squealing that he wakened the neighbors, who declared that the mouse said his legs were worn off running about in a vain search for a grain of rice with which to appease his hunger. The famine became so serious in the little home, that at last the mother commanded her son to go to his uncle and tell him plainly how distressed they were, and ask him to loan them enough rice to subsist on till they could get work, when they would surely return the loan. The boy did not want to go. His uncle would never recognize him on the street, and he was afraid to go inside his house lest he should whip him. But the mother commanded him to go, and he obeyed. Outside his uncle's house were many cows, well fed and valuable. In pens he saw great fat pigs in abundance, and fowls were everywhere in great numbers. Many dogs also were there, and they ran barking at him, tearing his clothes with their teeth and frightening him so much that he was tempted to run; but speaking kindly to them, they quieted down, and one dog came and licked his hand as if ashamed of the conduct of the others. A female servant ordered him away, but he told her he was her master's nephew, and wanted to see him; whereupon she smiled but let him pass into an inner court, where he found his uncle sitting on the little veranda under the broad, overhanging eaves. The man gruffly demanded, "who are you?" "I am your brother's son," he said. "We are starving at our house, and have had no food for three days. My father is away now trying to find work, but we are very hungry, and only ask you to loan us a little rice till we can get some to return you." The uncle's eyes drew down to a point, his brows contracted, and he seemed very angry, so that the nephew began looking for an easy way of escape in case he should come at him. At last he looked up and said: "My rice is locked up, and I have ordered the granaries not to be opened. The flour is sealed and cannot be broken into. If I give you some cold victuals, the dogs will bark at you and try to take it from you. If I give you the leavings of the wine-press, the pigs will be jealous and squeal at you. If I give you bran, the cows and fowls will take after you. Get out, and let me never see you here again." So saying, he caught the poor boy by the collar and threw him into the outer court, hurting him, and causing him to cry bitterly with pain of body and distress of mind. At home the poor mother sat jogging her babe in her weak arms, and appeasing the other children by saying that brother had gone to their uncle for food, and soon the pot would be boiling and they would all be satisfied. When, hearing a foot-fall, all scrambled eagerly to the door, only to see the empty-handed, red-eyed boy coming along, trying manfully to look cheerful. "Did your uncle whip you?" asked the mother, more eager for the safety of her son, than to have her own crying want allayed. "No," stammered the brave boy. "He had gone to the capital on business," said he, hoping to thus prevent further questioning, on so troublesome a subject. "What shall I do"? queried the poor woman, amidst the crying and moaning of her children. There was nothing to do but starve, it seemed. However, she thought of her own straw shoes, which were scarcely used, and these she sent to the market, where they brought three cash (3/15 of a cent). This pittance was invested equally in rice, beans, and vegetables; eating which they were relieved for the present, and with full stomachs the little ones fell to playing happily once more, but the poor mother was full of anxiety for the morrow. Their fortune had turned, however, with their new lease of life, for the father returned with a bale of faggots he had gathered on the mountains, and with the proceeds of these the shoes were redeemed and more food was purchased. Bright and early then next morning both parents went forth in search of work. The wife secured employment winnowing rice. The husband overtook a boy bearing a pack, but his back was so blistered, he could with difficulty carry his burden. Hyung Bo adjusted the saddle of the pack frame to his own back, and carried it for the boy, who, at their arrival at his destination in the evening, gave his helper some cash, in addition to his lodging and meals. During the night, however, a gentleman wished to send a letter by rapid dispatch to a distant place, and Hyung Bo was paid well for carrying it. Returning from this profitable errand, he heard of a very rich man, who had been seized by the corrupt local magistrate, on a false accusation, and was to be beaten publicly, unless he consented to pay a heavy sum as hush money. Hearing of this, Hyung went to see the rich prisoner, and arranged with him that he would act as his substitute for three thousand cash (two dollars). The man was very glad to get off so easily, and Hyung took the beating. He limped to his house, where his poor wife greeted him with tears and lamentations, for he was a sore and sorry sight indeed. He was cheerful, however, for he explained to them that this had been a rich day's work; he had simply submitted to a little whipping, and was to get three thousand cash for it. The money did not come, however, for the fraud was detected, and the original prisoner was also punished. Being of rather a close disposition, the man seemed to think it unnecessary to pay for what did him no good. Then the wife cried indeed over her husband's wrongs and their own more unfortunate condition. But the husband cheered her, saying: "If we do right we will surely succeed." He was right. Spring was coming on, and he soon got work at plowing and sowing seed. They gave their little house the usual spring cleaning, and decorated the door with appropriate legends, calling upon the fates to bless with prosperity the little home. With the spring came the birds from the south country, and they seemed to have a preference for the home of this poor family--as indeed did the rats and insects. The birds built their nests under the eaves. They were swallows, and as they made their little mud air-castles, Hyung Bo said to his wife: "I am afraid to have these birds build their nests there. Our house is so weak it may fall down, and then what will the poor birds do?" But the little visitors seemed not alarmed, and remained with the kind people, apparently feeling safe under the friendly roof. By and by the little nests were full of commotion and bluster; the eggs had opened, and circles of wide opened mouths could be seen in every nest. Hyung and his children were greatly interested in this new addition to their family circle, and often gave them bits of their own scanty allowance of food, so that the birds became quite tame and hopped in and out of the hut at will. One day, when the little birds were taking their first lesson in flying, Hyung was lying on his back on the ground, and saw a huge roof-snake crawl along and devour several little birds before he could arise and help them. One bird struggled from the reptile and fell, but, catching both legs in the fine meshes of a reed-blind, they were broken, and the little fellow hung helplessly within the snake's reach. Hyung hastily snatched it down, and with the help of his wife he bound up the broken limbs, using dried fish-skin for splints. He laid the little patient in a warm place, and the bones speedily united, so that the bird soon began to hop around the room, and pick up bits of food laid out for him. Soon the splints were removed, however, and he flew away, happily, to join his fellows. The autumn came; and one evening--it was the ninth day of the ninth moon--as the little family were sitting about the door, they noticed the bird with the crooked legs sitting on the clothes-line and singing to them. "I believe he is thanking us and saying good-by," said Hyung, "for the birds are all going south now." That seemed to be the truth, for they saw their little friend no longer, and they felt lonely without the occupants of the now deserted nests. The birds, however, were paying homage to the king of birds in the bird-land beyond the frosts. And as the king saw the little crooked-legged bird come along, he demanded an explanation of the strange sight. Thereupon the little fellow related his narrow escape from a snake that had already devoured many of his brothers and cousins, the accident in the blind, and his rescue and subsequent treatment by a very poor but very kind man. His bird majesty was very much entertained and pleased. He thereupon gave the little cripple a seed engraved with fine characters in gold, denoting that the seed belonged to the gourd family. This seed the bird was to give to his benefactor in the spring. The winter wore away, and the spring found the little family almost as destitute as when first we described them. One day they heard a familiar bird song, and, running out, they saw their little crooked-legged friend with something in its mouth, that looked like a seed. Dropping its burden to the ground, the little bird sang to them of the king's gratitude, and of the present he had sent, and then flew away. Hyung picked up the seed with curiosity, and on one side he saw the name of its kind, on the other, in fine gold characters, was a message saying: "Bury me in soft earth, and give me plenty of water." They did so, and in four days the little shoot appeared in the fine earth. They watched its remarkable growth with eager interest as the stem shot up, and climbed all over the house, covering it up as a bower, and threatening to break down the frail structure with the added weight. It blossomed, and soon four small gourds began to form. They grew to an enormous size, and Hyung could scarcely keep from cutting them. His wife prevailed on him to wait till the frost had made them ripe, however, as then they could cut them, eat the inside, and make water-vessels of the shells, which they could then sell, and thus make a double profit. He waited, though with a poor grace, till the ninth moon, when the gourds were left alone, high upon the roof, with only a trace of the shrivelled stems which had planted them there. Hyung got a saw and sawed open the first huge gourd. He worked so long, that when his task was finished he feared he must be in a swoon, for out of the opened gourd stepped two beautiful boys, with fine bottles of wine and a table of jade set with dainty cups. Hyung staggered back and sought assurance of his wife, who was fully as dazed as was her husband. The surprise was somewhat relieved by one of the handsome youths stepping forth, placing the table before them, and announcing that the bird king had sent them with these presents to the benefactor of one of his subjects--the bird with broken legs. Ere they could answer, the other youth placed a silver bottle on the table, saying: "This wine will restore life to the dead." Another, which he placed on the table, would, he said, restore sight to the blind. Then going to the gourd, he brought two gold bottles, one contained a tobacco, which, being smoked, would give speech to the dumb, while the other gold bottle contained wine, which would prevent the approach of age and ward off death. Having made these announcements, the pair disappeared, leaving Hyung and his wife almost dumb with amazement. They looked at the gourd, then at the little table and its contents, and each looked at the other to be sure it was not a dream. At length Hyung broke the silence, remarking that, as he was very hungry, he would venture to open another gourd, in the hope that it would be found full of something good to eat, since it was not so important for him to have something with which to restore life just now as it was to have something to sustain life with. The next gourd was opened as was the first, when by some means out flowed all manner of household furniture, and clothing, with rolls upon rolls of fine silk and satin cloth, linen goods, and the finest cotton. The satin alone was far greater in bulk than the gourd had been, yet, in addition, the premises were literally strewn with costly furniture and the finest fabrics. They barely examined the goods now, their amazement having become so great that they could scarcely wait until all had been opened, and the whole seemed so unreal, that they feared delay might be dangerous. Both sawed away on the next gourd, when out came a body of carpenters, all equipped with tools and lumber, and, to their utter and complete amazement, began putting up a house as quickly and quietly as thought, so that before they could arise from the ground they saw a fine house standing before them, with courts and servants' quarters, stables, and granaries. Simultaneously a great train of bulls and ponies appeared, loaded down with rice and other products as tributes from the district in which the place was located. Others came bringing money tribute, servants, male and female, and clothing. They felt sure they were in dreamland now, and that they might enjoy the exercise of power while it lasted, they began commanding the servants to put the goods away, the money in the sahrang, or reception-room, the clothing in the tarack, or garret over the fireplace, the rice in the granaries, and animals in their stables. Others were sent to prepare a bath, that they might don the fine clothing before it should be too late. The servants obeyed, increasing the astonishment of the pair, and causing them to literally forget the fourth gourd in their amazed contemplation of the wondrous miracles being performed, and the dreamy air of satisfaction and contentment with which it surrounded them. Their attention was called to the gourd by the servants, who were then commanded to carefully saw it open. They did so, and out stepped a maiden, as beautiful as were the gifts that had preceded her. Never before had Hyung looked on any one who could at all compare with the matchless beauty and grace of the lovely creature who now stood so modestly and confidingly before him. He could find no words to express his boundless admiration, and could only stand in mute wonder and feast himself upon her beauty. Not so with his wife, however. She saw only a rival in the beautiful girl, and straightway demanded who she was, whence she came, and what she wanted. The maid replied: "I am sent by the bird king to be this man's concubine." Whereupon the wife grew dark in the face, and ordered her to go whence she came and not see her husband again. She upbraided him for not being content with a house and estate, numbers of retainers and quantities of money, and declared this last trouble was all due to his greed in opening the fourth gourd. Her husband had by this time found his speech, however, and severely reprimanding her for conducting herself in such a manner upon the receipt of such heavenly gifts, while yesterday she had been little more than a beggar; he commanded her to go at once to the women's quarters, where she should reign supreme, and never make such a display of her ill-temper again, under penalty of being consigned to a house by herself. The maiden he gladly welcomed, and conducted her to apartments set aside for her. II. When Nahl Bo heard of the wonderful change taking place at his brother's establishment, he went himself to look into the matter. He found the report not exaggerated, and began to upbraid his brother with dishonest methods, which accusation the brother stoutly denied, and further demanded where, and of whom, he could steal a house, such rich garments, fine furniture, and have it removed in a day to the site of his former hovel. Nahl Bo demanded an explanation, and Hyung Bo frankly told him how he had saved the bird from the snake and had bound up its broken limbs, so that it recovered; how the bird in return brought him a seed engraved with gold characters, instructing him how to plant and rear it; and how, having done so, the four gourds were born on the stalk, and from them, on ripening, had appeared these rich gifts. The ill-favored brother even then persisted in his charges, and in a gruff, ugly manner accused Hyung Bo of being worse than a thief in keeping all these fine goods, instead of dutifully sharing them with his elder brother. This insinuation of undutiful conduct really annoyed Hyung Bo, who, in his kindness of heart, forgave this unbrotherly senior, his former ill conduct, and thinking only of his own present good fortune, he kindly bestowed considerable gifts upon the undeserving brother, and doubtless would have done more but that the covetous man espyed the fair maiden, and at once insisted on having her. This was too much even for the patient Hyung Bo, who refused with a determination remarkable for him. A quarrel ensued, during which the elder brother took his departure in a rage, fully determined to use the secret of his brother's success for all it was worth in securing rich gifts for himself. Going home he struck at all the birds he could see, and ordered his servants to do the same. After killing many, he succeeded in catching one, and, breaking its legs, he took fish-skin and bound them up in splints, laying the little sufferer in a warm place, till it recovered and flew away, bandages and all. The result was as expected. The bird being questioned by the bird king concerning its crooked legs, related its story, dwelling, however, on the man's cruelty in killing so many birds and then breaking its own legs. The king understood thoroughly, and gave the little cripple a seed to present to the wicked man on its return in the spring. Springtime came, and one day, as Nahl Bo was sitting cross-legged in the little room opening on the veranda off his court, he heard a familiar bird-song. Dropping his long pipe, he threw open the paper windows, and there, sure enough, sat a crooked-legged bird on the clothes line, bearing a seed in its mouth. Nahl Bo would let no one touch it, but as the bird dropped the seed and flew away, he jumped out so eagerly that he forgot to slip his shoes on, and got his clean white stockings all befouled. He secured the seed, however, and felt that his fortune was made. He planted it carefully, as directed, and gave it his personal attention. The vines were most luxurious. They grew with great rapidity, till they had well nigh covered the whole of his large house and out-buildings. Instead of one gourd, or even four, as in the brother's case, the new vines bore twelve gourds, which grew and grew till the great beams of his house fairly groaned under their weight, and he had to block them in place to keep them from rolling off the roofs. He had to hire men to guard them carefully, for now that the source of Hyung Bo's riches was understood, every one was anxious for a gourd. They did not know the secret, however, which Nahl Bo concealed through selfishness, and Hyung through fear that every one would take to killing and maiming birds as his wicked brother had done. Maintaining a guard was expensive, and the plant so loosened the roof tiles, by the tendrils searching for earth and moisture in the great layer of clay under the tiles, that the rainy season made great havoc with his house. Large portions of plaster from the inside fell upon the paper ceilings, which in turn gave way, letting the dirty water drip into the rooms, and making the house almost uninhabitable. At last, however, the plants could do no more harm; the frost had come, the vines had shrivelled away, and the enormous ripe gourds were carefully lowered, amid the yelling of a score of coolies, as each seemed to get in the others' way trying to manipulate the ropes and poles with which the gourds were let down to the ground. Once inside the court, and the great doors locked, Nahl Bo felt relieved, and shutting out every one but a carpenter and his assistant, he prepared for the great surprise which he knew must await him, in spite of his most vivid dreams. The carpenter insisted upon the enormous sum of 1,000 cash for opening each gourd, and as he was too impatient to await the arrival of another, and as he expected to be of princely wealth in a few moments, Nahl Bo agreed to the exorbitant price. Whereupon, carefully bracing a gourd, the men began sawing it through. It seemed a long time before the gourd fell in halves. When it did, out came a party of rope-dancers, such as perform at fairs and public places. Nahl Bo was unprepared for any such surprise as this, and fancied it must be some great mistake. They sang and danced about as well as the crowded condition of the court would allow, and the family looked on complacently, supposing that the band had been sent to celebrate their coming good fortune. But Nahl Bo soon had enough of this. He wanted to get at his riches, and seeing that the actors were about to stretch their ropes for a more extensive performance, he ordered them to cease and take their departure. To his amazement, however, they refused to do this, until he had paid them 5,000 cash for their trouble. "You sent for us and we came," said the leader. "Now pay us, or we will live with you till you do." There was no help for it, and with great reluctance and some foreboding, he gave them the money and dismissed them. Then Nahl Bo turned to the carpenter, who chanced to be a man with an ugly visage, made uglier by a great hare-lip. "You," he said, "are the cause of all this. Before you entered this court these gourds were filled with gold, and your ugly face has changed it to beggars." Number two was opened with no better results, for out came a body of Buddhist priests, begging for their temple, and promising many sons in return for offerings of suitable merit. Although disgusted beyond measure, Nahl Bo still had faith in the gourds, and to get rid of the priests, lest they should see his riches, he gave them also 5,000 cash. As soon as the priests were gone, gourd number three was opened, with still poorer results, for out came a procession of paid mourners followed by a corpse borne by bearers. The mourners wept as loudly as possible, and all was in a perfect uproar. When ordered to go, the mourners declared they must have money for mourning, and to pay for burying the body. Seeing no possible help for it, 5,000 cash was finally given them, and they went out with the bier. Then Nahl Bo's wife came into the court, and began to abuse the hare-lipped man for bringing upon them all this trouble. Whereupon the latter became angry and demanded his money that he might leave. They had no intention of giving up the search as yet, however, and, as it was too late to change carpenters, the ugly fellow was paid for the work already done, and given an advance on that yet remaining. He therefore set to work upon the fourth gourd, which Nahl Bo watched with feverish anxiety. From this one there came a band of gee sang, or dancing girls. There was one woman from each province, and each had her song and dance. One sang of the yang wang, or wind god; another of the wang jay, or pan deity; one sang of the sung jee, or money that is placed as a christening on the roof tree of every house. There was the cuckoo song. The song of the ancient tree that has lived so long that its heart is dead and gone, leaving but a hollow space, yet the leaves spring forth every spring-tide. The song of laughter and mourning, with an injunction to see to it that the rice offering be made to the departed spirits. To the king of the sun and stars a song was sung. And last of all, one votary sang of the twelve months that make the year, the twelve hours that make the day, the thirty days that make the month, and of the new year's birth, as the old year dies, taking with it their ills to be buried in the past, and reminding all people to celebrate the New Year holidays by donning clean clothes and feasting on good food, that the following year may be to them one of plenty and prosperity. Having finished their songs and their graceful posturing and waving of their gay silk banners, the gee sang demanded their pay, which had to be given them, reducing the family wealth 5,000 cash more. The wife now tried to persuade Nahl Bo to stop and not open more, but the hare-lip man offered to open the next for 500 cash, as he was secretly enjoying the sport. So the fifth was opened a little, when a yellow-looking substance was seen inside, which was taken to be gold, and they hurriedly opened it completely. But instead of gold, out came an acrobatic pair,--being a strong man with a youth dressed to represent a girl. The man danced about, holding his young companion balanced upon his shoulders, singing meanwhile a song of an ancient king, whose riotous living was so distasteful to his subjects that he built him a cavernous palace, the floor of which was covered with quicksilver, the walls were decorated with jewels, and myriad lamps turned the darkness into day. Here were to be found the choicest viands and wines, with bands of music to entertain the feasters: most beautiful women; and he enjoyed himself most luxuriously until his enemy, learning the secret, threw open the cavern to the light of day, when all of the beautiful women immediately disappeared in the sun's rays. Before he could get these people to discontinue their performance, Nahl Bo had to give them also 5,000 cash. Yet in spite of all his ill luck, he decided to open another. Which being done, a jester came forth, demanding the expense money for his long journey. This was finally given him, for Nahl Bo had hit upon what he deemed a clever expedient. He took the wise fool aside, and asked him to use his wisdom in pointing out to him which of these gourds contained gold. Whereupon the jester looked wise, tapped several gourds, and motioned to each one as being filled with gold. The seventh was therefore opened, and a lot of yamen runners came forth, followed by an official. Nahl Bo tried to run from what he knew must mean an exorbitant "squeeze," but he was caught and beaten for his indiscretion. The official called for his valise, and took from it a paper, which his secretary read, announcing that Nahl Bo was the serf of this lord and must hereafter pay to him a heavy tribute. At this they groaned in their hearts, and the wife declared that even now the money was all gone, even to the last cash, while the rabble which had collected had stolen nearly every thing worth removing. Yet the officer's servants demanded pay for their services, and they had to be given a note secured on the property before they would leave. Matters were now so serious that they could not be made much worse, and it was decided to open each remaining gourd, that if there were any gold they might have it. When the next one was opened a bevy of moo tang women (soothsayers) came forth, offering to drive away the spirit of disease and restore the sick to health. They arranged their banners for their usual dancing ceremony, brought forth their drums, with which to exorcise the demons, and called for rice to offer to the spirits and clothes to burn for the spirits' apparel. "Get out!" roared Nahl Bo. "I am not sick except for the visitation of such as yourselves, who are forever burdening the poor, and demanding pay for your supposed services. Away with you, and befool some other pah sak ye (eight month's man--fool) if you can. I want none of your services." They were no easier to drive away, however, than were the other annoying visitors that had come with his supposed good fortune. He had finally to pay them as he had the others; and dejectedly he sat, scarcely noticing the opening of the ninth gourd. The latter proved to contain a juggler, and the exasperated Nahl Bo, seeing but one small man, determined to make short work of him. Seizing him by his topknot of hair, he was about to drag him to the door, when the dexterous fellow, catching his tormentor by the thighs, threw him headlong over his own back, nearly breaking his neck, and causing him to lie stunned for a time, while the expert bound him hand and foot, and stood him on his head, so that the wife was glad to pay the fellow and dismiss him ere the life should be departed from her lord. On opening the tenth a party of blind men came out, picking their way with their long sticks, while their sightless orbs were raised towards the unseen heavens. They offered to tell the fortunes of the family. But, while their services might have been demanded earlier, the case was now too desperate for any such help. The old men tinkled their little bells, and chanted some poetry addressed to the four good spirits stationed at the four corners of the earth, where they patiently stand bearing the world upon their shoulders; and to the distant heavens that arch over and fold the earth in their embrace, where the two meet at the far horizon (as pictured in the Korean flag). The blind men threw their dice, and, fearing lest they should prophesy death, Nahl Bo quickly paid and dismissed them. The next gourd was opened but a trifle, that they might first determine as to the wisdom of letting out its contents. Before they could determine, however, a voice like thunder was heard from within, and the huge form of a giant arose, splitting open the gourd as he came forth. In his anger he seized poor Nahl Bo and tossed him upon his shoulders as though he would carry him away. Whereupon the wife plead with tears for his release, and gladly gave an order for the amount of the ransom. After which the monster allowed the frightened man to fall to the ground, nearly breaking his aching bones in the fall. The carpenter did not relish the sport any longer; it seemed to be getting entirely too dangerous. He thereupon demanded the balance of his pay, which they finally agreed to give him, providing he would open the last remaining gourd. For the desperate people hoped to find this at least in sufficient condition that they might cook or make soup of it, since they had no food left at all and no money, while the other gourds were so spoiled by the tramping of the feet of their unbidden guests, as to be totally unfit for food. The man did as requested, but had only sawed a very little when the gourd split open as though it were rotten, while a most awful stench arose, driving every one from the premises. This was followed by a gale of wind, so severe as to destroy the buildings, which, in falling, took fire from the kang, and while the once prosperous man looked on in helpless misery, the last of his remaining property was swept forever from him. The seed that had brought prosperity to his honest, deserving brother had turned prosperity into ruin to the cruel, covetous Nahl Bo, who now had to subsist upon the charity of his kind brother, whom he had formerly treated so cruelly. CHUN YANG, THE FAITHFUL DANCING-GIRL WIFE. In the city of Nam Won, in Chull Lah Do (the southern province of Korea), lived the Prefect Ye Tung Uhi. He was the happy father of a son of some sixteen years of age. Being an only child the boy was naturally much petted. He was not an ordinary young man, however, for in addition to a handsome, manly face and stalwart figure, he possessed a bright, quick mind, and was naturally clever. A more dutiful son could not be found. He occupied a house in the rear of his father's quarters, and devoted himself to his books, going regularly each evening to make his obeisance to his father, and express his wish that pleasant, refreshing sleep might come to him; then, in the morning, before breakfasting, he was wont to go and enquire how the new day had found his father. The Prefect was but recently appointed to rule over the Nam Won district when the events about to be recorded occurred. The winter months had been spent mostly indoors, but as the mild spring weather approached and the buds began to open to the singing of the joyful birds, Ye Toh Ryung, or Toh Ryung, the son, felt that he must get out and enjoy nature. Like an animal that has buried itself in a hole in the earth, he came forth rejoicing; the bright yellow birds welcomed him from the willow trees, the soft breezes fanned his cheeks, and the freshness of the air exhilarated him. He called his pang san (valet) and asked him concerning the neighboring views. The servant was a native of the district, and knew the place well; he enumerated the various places especially prized for their scenery, but concluded with: "But of all rare views, 'Kang Hal Loo' is the rarest. Officers from the eight provinces come to enjoy the scenery, and the temple is covered with verses they have left in praise of the place." "Very well, then, we will go there," said Toh Ryung "Go you and clean up the place for my reception." The servant hurried off to order the temple swept and spread with clean mats, while his young master sauntered along almost intoxicated by the freshness and new life of every thing around him. Arrived at the place, after a long, tedious ascent of the mountain side, he flung himself upon a huge bolster-like cushion, and with half-closed eyes, drank in the beauty of the scene along with the balmy, perfume-laden spring zephyrs. He called his servant, and congratulated him upon his taste, declaring that were the gods in search of a fine view, they could not find a place that would surpass this; to which the man answered: "That is true; so true, in fact, that it is well known that the spirits do frequent this place for its beauty." As he said this, Toh Ryung had raised himself, and was leaning on one arm, gazing out toward one side, when, as though it were one of the spirits just mentioned, the vision of a beautiful girl shot up into the air and soon fell back out of sight in the shrubbery of an adjoining court-yard. He could just get a confused picture of an angelic face, surrounded by hair like the black thunder-cloud, a neck of ravishing beauty, and a dazzle of bright silks,--when the whole had vanished. He was dumb with amazement, for he felt sure he must have seen one of the spirits said to frequent the place; but before he could speak, the vision arose again, and he then had time to see that it was but a beautiful girl swinging in her dooryard. He did not move, he scarcely breathed, but sat with bulging eyes absorbing the prettiest view he had ever seen. He noted the handsome, laughing face, the silken black hair, held back in a coil by a huge coral pin; he saw the jewels sparkling on the gay robes, the dainty white hands and full round arms, from which the breezes blew back the sleeves; and as she flew higher in her wild sport, oh, joy! two little shoeless feet encased in white stockings, shot up among the peach blossoms, causing them to fall in showers all about her. In the midst of the sport her hairpin loosened and fell, allowing her raven locks to float about her shoulders; but, alas! the costly ornament fell on a rock and broke, for Toh Ryung could hear the sharp click where he sat. This ended the sport, and the little maid disappeared, all unconscious of the agitation she had caused in a young man's breast by her harmless spring exercise. After some silence, the young man asked his servant if he had seen any thing, for even yet he feared his mind had been wandering close to the dreamland. After some joking, the servant confessed to having seen the girl swinging, whereupon his master demanded her name. "She is Uhl Mahs' daughter, a gee sang (public dancing girl) of this city; her name is Chun Yang Ye"--fragrant spring. "I yah! superb; I can see her then, and have her sing and dance for me," exclaimed Toh Ryung. "Go and call her at once, you slave." The man ran, over good road and bad alike, up hill and down, panting as he went; for while the back of the women's quarters of the adjoining compound was near at hand, the entrance had to be reached by a long circuit. Arriving out of breath, he pounded at the gate, calling the girl by name. "Who is that calls me?" she enquired when the noise had attracted her attention. "Oh, never mind who," answered the exhausted man, "it is great business; open the door." "Who are you, and what do you want?" "I am nobody, and I want nothing; but Ye Toh Ryung is the Governor's son, and he wants to see the Fragrant Spring." "Who told Ye Toh Ryung my name?" "Never mind who told him; if you did not want him to know you, then why did you swing so publicly? The great man's son came here to rest and see the beautiful views; he saw you swinging, and can see nothing since. You must go, but you need not fear. He is a gentleman, and will treat you nicely; if your dancing pleases him as did your swinging, he may present you with rich gifts, for he is his father's only son." Regretting in her proud spirit that fates had placed her in a profession where she was expected to entertain the nobility whether it suited her or not, the girl combed and arranged her hair, tightened her sash, smoothed her disordered clothes, and prepared to look as any vain woman would wish who was about to be presented to the handsomest and most gifted young nobleman of the province. She followed the servant slowly till they reached Toh Ryung's stopping place. She waited while the servant announced her arrival, for a gee sang must not enter a nobleman's presence unbidden. Toh Ryung was too excited to invite her in, however, and his servant had to prompt him, when, laughing at his own agitation, he pleasantly bade her enter and sit down. "What is your name?" asked he. "My name is Chun Yang Ye," she said, with a voice that resembled silver jingling in a pouch. "How old are you?" "My age is just twice eight years." "Ah ha!" laughed the now composed boy, "how fortunate; you are twice eight, and I am four fours. We are of the same age. Your name, Fragrant Spring, is the same as your face--very beautiful. Your cheeks are like the petals of the mah hah that ushers in the soft spring. Your eyes are like those of the eagle sitting on the ancient tree, but soft and gentle as the moonlight," ran on the enraptured youth. "When is your birthday?" "My birthday occurs at midnight on the eighth day of the fourth moon," modestly replied the flattered girl, who was quickly succumbing to the charms of the ardent and handsome young fellow, whose heart she could see was already her own. "Is it possible?" exclaimed he; "that is the date of the lantern festival, and it is also my own birthday, only I was born at eleven instead of twelve. I am sorry I was not born at twelve now. But it doesn't matter. Surely the gods had some motive in sending us into the world at the same time, and thus bringing us together at our sixteenth spring-tide. Heaven must have intended us to be man and wife"; and he bade her sit still as she started as though to take her departure. Then he began to plead with her, pacing the room in his excitement, till his attendant likened the sound to the combat of ancient warriors. "This chance meeting of ours has a meaning," he argued. "Often when the buds were bursting, or when the forest trees were turning to fire and blood, have I played and supped with pretty gee sang, watched them dance, and wrote them verses, but never before have I lost my heart; never before have I seen any one so incomparably beautiful. You are no common mortal. You were destined to be my wife; you must be mine, you must marry me." She wrinkled her fair brow and thought, for she was no silly, foolish thing, and while her heart was almost, if not quite won by this tempestuous lover, yet she saw where his blind love would not let him see. "You know," she said, "the son of a nobleman may not marry a gee sang without the consent of his parents. I know I am a gee sang by name, the fates have so ordained, but, nevertheless, I am an honorable woman, always have been, and expect to remain so." "Certainly," he answered, "we cannot celebrate the 'six customs ceremony' (parental arrangements, exchange of letters, contracts, exchange of presents, preliminary visits, ceremony proper), but we can be privately married just the same." "No, it cannot be. Your father would not consent, and should we be privately married, and your father be ordered to duty at some other place, you would not dare take me with you. Then you would marry the daughter of some nobleman, and I would be forgotten. It must not, cannot be," and she arose to depart. "Stay, stay," he begged. "You do me an injustice. I will never forsake you, or marry another. I swear it. And a yang ban (noble) has but one mouth, he cannot speak two ways. Even should we leave this place I will take you with me, or return soon to you. You must not refuse me." "But suppose you change your mind or forget your promises; words fly out of the mouth and are soon lost, ink and paper are more lasting; give me your promises in writing," she says. Instantly the young man took up paper and brush; having rubbed the ink well, he wrote: "A memorandum. Desiring to enjoy the spring scenery, I came to Kang Hal Loo. There I saw for the first time my heaven-sent bride. Meeting for the first time, I pledge myself for one hundred years; to be her faithful husband. Should I change, show this paper to the magistrate." Folding up the manuscript with care he handed it to her. While putting it into her pocket she said: "Speech has no legs, yet it can travel many thousands of miles. Suppose this matter should reach your father's ears, what would you do?" "Never fear; my father was once young, who knows but I may be following the example of his early days. I have contracted with you, and we now are married, even my father cannot change it. Should he discover our alliance and disown me, I will still be yours, and together we shall live and die." She arose to go, and pointing with her jade-like hand to a clump of bamboos, said: "There is my house; as I cannot come to you, you must come to me and make my mother's house your home, as much as your duty to your parents will allow." As the sun began to burn red above the mountains' peaks, they bade each other a fond adieu, and each departed for home accompanied by their respective attendants. Ye Toh Ryung went to his room, which now seemed a prison-like place instead of the pleasant study he had found it. He took up a book, but reading was no satisfaction, every word seemed to transform itself into Chun or Yang. Every thought was of the little maid of the spring fragrance. He changed his books, but it was no use, he could not even keep them right side up, not to mention using them properly. Instead of singing off his lessons as usual, he kept singing, Chun Yang Ye poh go sip so (I want to see the spring fragrance), till his father, hearing the confused sounds, sent to ascertain what was the matter with his son. The boy was singing, "As the parched earth cries for rain after the seven years' drought, so my heart pants for my Chun Yang Ye, whose face to me is like the rays of the sun upon the earth after a nine years' rain." He paid no heed to the servants, and soon his father sent his private secretary, demanding what it was the boy desired so much that he should keep singing. "I want to see, I want to see." Toh Ryung answered that he was reading an uninteresting book, and looking for another. Though he remained more quiet after this, he still was all impatience to be off to his sweetheart-wife, and calling his attendant, he sent him out to see how near the sun was to setting. Enjoying the sport, the man returned, saying the sun was now high over head. "Begone," said he, "can any one hold back the sun; it had reached the mountain tops before I came home." At last the servant brought his dinner, for which he had no appetite. He could ill abide the long delay between the dinner hour and the regular time for his father's retiring. The time did come, however, and when the lights were extinguished and his father had gone to sleep, he took his trusty servant, and, scaling the back wall, they hurried to the house of Chun Yang Ye. As they approached they heard someone playing the harp, and singing of the "dull pace of the hours when one's lover is away." Being admitted, they met the mother, who, with some distrust, received Toh Ryung's assurances and sent him to her daughter's apartments. The house pleased him; it was neat and well-appointed. The public room, facing the court, was lighted by a blue lantern, which in the mellow light resembled a pleasure barge drifting on the spring flood. Banners of poetry hung upon the walls. Upon the door leading to Chun Yang's little parlor hung a banner inscribed with verses to her ancestors and descendants, praying that "a century be short to span her life and happiness, and that her children's children be blessed with prosperity for a thousand years." Through the open windows could be seen moonlight glimpses of the little garden of the swinging girl. There was a miniature lake almost filled with lotus plants, where two sleepy swans floated with heads beneath their wings, while the occasional gleam of a gold or silver scale showed that the water was inhabited. A summer-house on the water's edge was almost covered with fragrant spring blossoms, the whole being enclosed in a little grove of bamboo and willows, that shut out the view of outsiders. While gazing at this restful sight, Chun Yang Ye herself came out, and all was lost in the lustre of her greater beauty. She asked him into her little parlor, where was a profusion of choice carved cabinets and ornaments of jade and metal, while richly embroidered mats covered the highly-polished floor. She was so delighted that she took both his hands in her pretty, white, soft ones, and gazing longingly into each other's eyes, she led him into another room, where, on a low table, a most elegant lunch was spread. They sat down on the floor and surveyed the loaded table. There were fruits preserved in sugar, candied nuts arranged in many dainty, nested boxes; sweet pickles and confections, pears that had grown in the warmth of a summer now dead, and grapes that had been saved from decay by the same sun that had called them forth. Quaint old bottles with long, twisted necks, contained choice medicated wines, to be drunk from the little crackled cups, such as the ancients used. Pouring out a cup, she sang to him: "This is the elixir of youth; drinking this, may you never grow old; though ten thousand years pass over your head, may you stand like the mountain that never changes." He drank half of the cup's contents, and praised her sweet voice, asking for another song. She sang: "Let us drain the cup while we may. In the grave who will be our cup-bearer. While we are young let us play. When old, mirth gives place to care. The flowers can bloom but a few days at best, and must then die, that the seed may be born. The moon is no sooner full than it begins to wane, that the young moon may rise." The sentiments suited him, the wine exhilarated him, and his spirits rose. He drained his cup, and called for more wine and song; but she restrained him. They ate the dainty food, and more wine and song followed. She talked of the sweet contract they had made, and anon they pledged themselves anew. Not content with promises for this short life, they went into the future, and he yielded readily to her request, that when death should at last o'ertake them, she would enter a flower, while he would become a butterfly, coming and resting on her bosom, and feasting off her fragrant sweetness. The father did not know of his son's recent alliance, though the young man honestly went and removed Chun Yang's name from the list of the district gee sang, kept in his father's office; for, now that she was a married woman, she need no longer go out with the dancing-girls. Every morning, as before, the dutiful son presented himself before his father, with respectful inquiries after his health, and his rest the preceding night. But, nevertheless, each night the young man's apartments were deserted, while he spent the time in the house of his wife. Thus the months rolled on with amazing speed. The lovers were in paradise. The father enjoyed his work, and labored hard for the betterment of the condition of his subjects. Never before had so large a tribute been sent by this district. Yet the people were not burdened as much as when far less of their products reached the government granaries. The honest integrity of the officer reached the King in many reports, and when a vacancy occurred at the head of the Treasury Department, he was raised to be Ho Joh Pansa (Secretary of Finance). Delighted, the father sent for his son and told him the news, but, to his amazement, the young man had naught to say, in fact he seemed as one struck dumb, as well he might. Within himself there was a great tumult; his heart beat so violently as to seem perceptible, and at times it arose and filled his throat, cutting off any speech he might wish to utter. Surprised at the conduct of his son, the father bade him go and inform his mother, that she might order the packing to commence. He went; but soon found a chance to fly to Chun Yang, who, at first, was much concerned for his health, as his looks denoted a serious illness. When he had made her understand, however, despair seized her, and they gazed at each other in mute dismay and utter helplessness. At last she seemed to awaken from her stupor, and, in an agony of despair, she beat her breast, and moaned: "Oh, how can we separate. We must die, we cannot live apart"; and tears coming to her relief, she cried: "If we say good-by, it will be forever; we can never meet again. Oh, I feared it; we have been too happy--too happy. The one who made this order is a murderer; it must be my death. If you go to Seoul and leave me, I must die. I am but a poor weak woman, and I cannot live without you." He took her, and laying her head on his breast, tried to soothe her. "Don't cry so bitterly," he begged; "my heart is almost broken now. I cannot bear it. I wish it could always be spring-time; but this is only like the cruel winter that, lingering in the mountain, sometimes sweeps down the valley, drives out the spring, and kills the blossoms. We will not give up and die, though. We have contracted for one hundred years, and this will be but a bitter separation that will make our speedy reunion more blissful." "Oh," she says, "but how can I live here alone, with you in Seoul? Just think of the long, tedious summer days, the long and lonely winter nights. I must see no one. I cannot know of you, for who will tell me, and how am I to endure it?" "Had not my father been given this great honor, we would perhaps not have been parted; as it is I must go, there is no help for it, but you must believe me when I promise I will come again. Here, take this crystal mirror as a pledge that I will keep my word"; and he gave her his pocket-mirror of rock crystal. "Promise me when you will return," said she; and then, without awaiting an answer, she sang: "When the sear and withered trunk begins to bloom, and the dead bird sings in the branches, then my lover will come to me. When the river flows over the eastern mountains, then may I see him glide along in his ship to me." He chided her for her lack of faith, and assured her again it was as hard for one as the other. After a time she became more reconciled, and taking off her jade ring, gave it to him for a keepsake, saying: "My love, like this ring, knows no end. You must go, alas! but my love will go with you, and may it protect you when crossing wild mountains and distant rivers, and bring you again safely to me. If you go to Seoul, you must not trifle, but take your books, study hard, and enter the examinations, then, perhaps, you may obtain rank and come to me. I will stand with my hand shading my eyes, ever watching for your return." Promising to cherish her speech, with her image in his breast, they made their final adieu, and tore apart. The long journey seemed like a funeral to the lover. Everywhere her image rose before him. He could think of nothing else; but by the time he arrived at the capital he had made up his mind as to his future course, and from that day forth his parents wondered at his stern, determined manner. He shut himself up in his room with his books. He would neither go out, or form acquaintances among the young noblemen of the gay city. Thus he spent months in hard study, taking no note of passing events. In the meantime a new magistrate came to Nam Won. He was a hard-faced, hard-hearted politician. He associated with the dissolute, and devoted himself to riotous living, instead of caring for the welfare of the people. He had not been long in the place till he had heard so much of the matchless beauty of Chun Yang Ye that he determined to see, and if, as reported, marry her. Accordingly he called the clerk of the yamen, and asked concerning "the beautiful gee sang Chun Yang Ye." The clerk answered that such a name had appeared on the records of the dancing girls, but that it had been removed, as she had contracted a marriage with the son of the previous magistrate, and was now a lady of position and respectability. "You lying rascal!" yelled the enraged officer, who could ill brook any interference with plans he had formed. "A nobleman's son cannot really marry a dancing girl; leave my presence at once, and summon this remarkable 'lady' to appear before me." The clerk could only do as he was bidden, and, summoning the yamen runners, he sent to the house of Chun Yang Ye to acquaint her with the official order. The runners, being natives of the locality, were loath to do as commanded, and when the fair young woman gave them "wine money" they willingly agreed to report her "too sick to attend the court." Upon doing so, however, the wrath of their master came down upon them. They were well beaten, and then commanded to go with a chair and bring the woman, sick or well, while if they disobeyed him a second time they would be put to death. Of course they went, but after they had explained to Chun Yang Ye their treatment, her beauty and concern for their safety so affected them, that they offered to go back without her, and face their doom. She would not hear to their being sacrificed for her sake, and prepared to accompany them. She disordered her hair, soiled her fair face, and clad herself in dingy, ill-fitting gowns, which, however, seemed only to cause her natural beauty the more to shine forth. She wept bitterly on entering the yamen, which fired the anger of the official. He ordered her to stop her crying or be beaten, and then as he looked at her disordered and tear-stained face, that resembled choice jade spattered with mud, he found that her beauty was not overstated. "What does your conduct mean?" said he. "Why have you not presented yourself at this office with the other gee sang?" "Because, though born a gee sang, I am by marriage a lady, and not subject to the rules of my former profession," she answered. "Hush!" roared the Prefect. "No more of this nonsense. Present yourself here with the other gee sang, or pay the penalty." "Never" she bravely cried. "A thousand deaths first. You have no right to exact such a thing of me. You are the King's servant, and should see that the laws are executed, rather than violated." The man was fairly beside himself with wrath at this, and ordered her chained and thrown into prison at once. The people all wept with her, which but increased her oppressor's anger, and calling the jailer he ordered him to treat her with especial rigor, and be extra vigilant lest some sympathizers should assist her to escape. The jailer promised, but nevertheless he made things as easy for her as was possible under the circumstances. Her mother came and moaned over her daughter's condition, declaring that she was foolish in clinging to her faithless husband, who had brought all this trouble upon them. The neighbors, however, upbraided the old woman for her words, and assured the daughter that she had done just right, and would yet be rewarded. They brought presents of food, and endeavored to make her condition slightly less miserable by their attentions. She passed the night in bowing before Heaven and calling on the gods and her husband to release her, and in the morning when her mother came, she answered the latter's inquiries as to whether she was alive or not, in a feeble voice which alarmed her parent. "I am still alive, but surely dying. I can never see my Toh Ryung again; but when I am dead you must take my body to Seoul and bury it near the road over which he travels the most, that even in death I may be near him, though separated in life." Again the mother scolded her for her devotion and for making the contract that binds her strongly to such a man. She could stand it no longer, and begged her mother that she would go away and come to see her no more if she had no pleasanter speech than such to make. "I followed the dictates of my heart and my mind. I did what was right. Can I foretell the future? Because the sun shines to-day are we assured that to-morrow it will shine? The deed is done. I do not regret it; leave me to my grief, but do not add to it by your unkindness." Thus the days lengthened into months, but she seemed like one dead, and took no thought of time or its flight. She was really ill, and would have died but for the kindness of the jailer. At last one night she dreamed that she was in her own room, dressing, and using the little mirror Toh Ryung had given her, when, without apparent cause, it suddenly broke in halves. She awoke, startled, and felt sure that death was now to liberate her from her sorrows, for what other meaning could the strange occurrence have than that her body was thus to be broken. Although anxious to die and be free, she could not bear the thought of leaving this world without a last look at her loved husband whose hands alone could close her eyes when her spirit had departed. Pondering much upon the dream, she called the jailer and asked him to summon a blind man, as she wished her fortune told. The jailer did so. It was no trouble, for almost as she spoke they heard one picking his way along the street with his long stick, and uttering his peculiar call. He came in and sat down, when they soon discovered that they were friends, for before the man became blind he had been in comfortable circumstances, and had known her father intimately. She therefore asked him to be to her as a kind father, and faithfully tell her when and how death would come to her. He said: "When the blossoms fade and fall they do not die, their life simply enters the seed to bloom again. Death to you would but liberate your spirit to shine again in a fairer body." She thanked him for his kind generalities, but was impatient, and telling her dream, she begged a careful interpretation of it. He promptly answered, that to be an ill omen a mirror in breaking must make a noise. And on further questioning, he found that in her dream a bird had flown into the room just as the mirror was breaking. "I see," said he. "The bird was bearer of good news, and the breaking of the mirror, which Toh Ryung gave you, indicates that the news concerned him; let us see." Thereupon he arranged a bunch of sticks, shook them well, while uttering his chant, and threw them upon the floor. Then he soon answered that the news was good. "Your husband has done well. He has passed his examinations, been promoted, and will soon come to you." She was too happy to believe it, thinking the old man had made it up to please his old friend's distressed child. Yet she cherished the dream and the interpretation in her breast, finding in it solace to her weary, troubled heart. In the meantime Ye Toh Ryung had continued his studious work day and night, to the anxiety of his parents. Just as he began to feel well prepared for the contest he awaited, a royal proclamation announced, that owing to the fact that peace reigned throughout the whole country, that the closing year had been one of prosperity, and no national calamity had befallen the country, His Gracious Majesty had ordered a grand guaga, or competitive examination, to be held. As soon as it became known, literary pilgrims began to pour in from all parts of the country, bent on improving their condition. The day of the examination found a vast host seated on the grass in front of the pavilion where His Majesty and his officers were. Ye Toh Ryung was given as a subject for his composition, "A lad playing in the shade of a pine tree is questioned by an aged wayfarer." The young man long rubbed his ink-stick on the stone, thinking very intently meanwhile, but when he began to write in the beautiful characters for which he was noted he seemed inspired, and the composition rolled forth as though he had committed it from the ancient classics. He made the boy express such sentiments of reverence to age as would have charmed the ancients, and the wisdom he put into the conversation was worthy of a king. The matter came so freely that his task was soon finished; in fact many were still wrinkling their brows in preliminary thought, while he was carefully folding up his paper, concealing his name so that the author should not be recognized till the paper had been judged on its merits. He tossed his composition into the pen, and it was at once inspected, being the first one, and remarkably quickly done. When His Majesty heard it read, and saw the perfect characters, he was astonished. Such excellence in writing, composition, and sentiment was unparalleled, and before any other papers were received it was known that none could excel this one. The writer's name was ascertained, and the King was delighted to learn that 'twas the son of his favorite officer. The young man was sent for, and received the congratulations of his King. The latter gave him the usual three glasses of wine, which he drank with modesty. He was then given a wreath of flowers from the King's own hands; the court hat was presented to him, with lateral wings, denoting the rapidity--as the flight of a bird--with which he must execute his Sovereign's commands. Richly embroidered breast-plates were given him, to be worn over the front and back of his court robes. He then went forth, riding on a gayly caparisoned horse, preceded by a band of palace musicians and attendants. Everywhere he was greeted with the cheers of the populace, as for three days he devoted his time to this public display. This duty having been fulfilled, he devotedly went to the graves of his ancestors, and prostrated himself with offerings before them, bemoaning the fact that they could not be present to rejoice in his success. He then presented himself before his King, humbly thanking him for his gracious condescension in bestowing such great honors upon one so utterly unworthy. His Sovereign was pleased, and told the young man to strive to imitate the example of his honest father. He then asked him what position he wished. Ye Toh Ryung answered that he wished no other position than one that would enable him to be of service to his King. "The year has been one of great prosperity," said he. "The plentiful harvest will tempt corrupt men to oppress the people to their own advantage. I would like, therefore, should it meet with Your Majesty's approval, to undertake the arduous duties of Ussa"--government inspector. He said this as he knew he would then be free to go in search of his wife, while he could also do much good at the same time. The King was delighted, and had his appointment--a private one naturally--made at once, giving him the peculiar seal of the office. The new Ussa disguised himself as a beggar, putting on straw sandals, a broken hat, underneath which his hair, uncombed and without the encircling band to hold it in place, streamed out in all directions. He wore no white strip in the neck of his shabby gown, and with dirty face he certainly presented a beggarly appearance. Presenting himself at the stables outside of the city, where horses and attendants are provided for the ussas, he soon arranged matters by showing his seal, and with proper attendants started on his journey towards his former home in the southern province. Arriving at his destination, he remained outside in a miserable hamlet while his servants went into the city to investigate the people and learn the news. It was spring-time again. The buds were bursting, the birds were singing, and in the warm valley a band of farmers were plowing with lazy bulls, and singing, meanwhile, a grateful song in praise of their just King, their peaceful, prosperous country, and their full stomachs. As the Ussa came along in his disguise he began to jest with them, but they did not like him, and were rude in their jokes at his expense; when an old man, evidently the father, cautioned them to be careful. "Don't you see," said he, "this man's speech is only half made up of our common talk; he is playing a part. I think he must be a gentleman in disguise." The Ussa drew the old man into conversation, asking about various local events, and finally questioning him concerning the character of the Prefect. "Is he just or oppressive, drunken or sober? Does he devote himself to his duties, or give himself up to riotous living?" "Our Magistrate we know little of. His heart is as hard and unbending as the dead heart of the ancient oak. He cares not for the people; the people care not for him but to avoid him. He extorts rice and money unjustly, and spends his ill-gotten gains in riotous living. He has imprisoned and beaten the fair Chun Yang Ye because she repulsed him, and she now lies near to death in the prison, because she married and is true to the poor dog of a son of our former just magistrate." Ye Toh Ryung was stung by these unjust remarks, filled with the deepest anxiety for his wife, and the bitterest resentment toward the brute of an official, whom, he promised himself, soon to bring to justice. As he moved away, too full of emotion for further conversation, he heard the farmers singing, "Why are some men born to riches, others born to toil, some to marry and live in peace, others too poor to possess a hut." He walked away meditating. He had placed himself down on the people's level, and began to feel with them. Thus meditating he crossed a valley, through which a cheery mountain brook rushed merrily along. Near its banks, in front of a poor hut, sat an aged man twisting twine. Accosting him, the old man paid no attention; he repeated his salutation, when the old man, surveying him from head to foot, said: "In the government service age does not count for much, there rank is every thing; an aged man may have to bow to a younger, who is his superior officer. 'Tis not so in the country, however; here age alone is respected. Then why am I addressed thus by such a miserable looking stripling?" The young man asked his elder's pardon, and then requested him to answer a question. "I hear," says he, "that the new Magistrate is about to marry the gee sang, Chun Yang Ye; is it true?" "Don't mention her name," said the old man, angrily. "You are not worthy to speak of her. She is dying in prison, because of her loyal devotion to the brute beast who married and deserted her." Ye Toh Ryung could hear no more. He hurried from the place, and finding his attendants, announced his intention of going at once into the city, lest the officials should hear of his presence and prepare for him. Entering the city, he went direct to Chun Yang Ye's house. It presented little of the former pleasant appearance. Most of the rich furniture had been sold to buy comforts for the imprisoned girl. The mother, seeing him come, and supposing him to be a beggar, almost shrieked at him to get away. "Are you such a stranger, that you don't know the news? My only child is imprisoned, my husband long since dead, my property almost gone, and you come to me for alms. Begone, and learn the news of the town." "Look! Don't you know me? I am Ye Toh Ryung, your son-in-law," he said. "Ye Toh Ryung, and a beggar! Oh, it cannot be. Our only hope is in you, and now you are worse than helpless. My poor girl will die." "What is the matter with her?" said he, pretending. The woman related the history of the past months in full, not sparing the man in the least, giving him such a rating as only a woman can. He then asked to be taken to the prison, and she accompanied him with a strange feeling of gratification in her heart that after all she was right, and her daughter's confidence was ill-placed. Arriving at the prison, the mother expressed her feelings by calling to her daughter: "Here is your wonderful husband. You have been so anxious to simply see Ye Toh Ryung before you die; here he is; look at the beggar, and see what your devotion amounts to! Curse him and send him away." The Ussa called to her, and she recognized the voice. "I surely must be dreaming again," she said, as she tried to arise; but she had the huge neck-encircling board upon her shoulders that marked the latest of her tormentor's acts of oppression, and could not get up. Stung by the pain and the calmness of her lover's voice, she sarcastically asked: "Why have you not come to me? Have you been so busy in official life? Have the rivers been so deep and rapid that you dared not cross them? Did you go so far away that it has required all this time to retrace your steps?" And then, regretting her harsh words, she said: "I cannot tell my rapture. I had expected to have to go to Heaven to meet you, and now you are here. Get them to unbind my feet, and remove this yoke from my neck, that I may come to you." He came to the little window through which food is passed, and looked upon her. As she saw his face and garb, she moaned: "Oh, what have we done to be so afflicted? You cannot help me now; we must die. Heaven has deserted us." "Yes," he answered; "granting I am poor, yet should we not be happy in our reunion. I have come as I promised, and we will yet be happy. Do yourself no injury, but trust to me." She called her mother, who sneeringly inquired of what service she could be, now that the longed-for husband had returned in answer to her prayers. She paid no attention to these cruel words, but told her mother of certain jewels she had concealed in a case in her room. "Sell these," she said, "and buy some food and raiment for my husband; take him home and care for him well. Have him sleep on my couch, and do not reproach him for what he cannot help." He went with the old woman, but soon left to confer with his attendants, who informed him that the next day was the birthday of the Magistrate, and that great preparations were being made for the celebration that would commence early. A great feast, when wine would flow like water, was to take place in the morning. The gee sang from the whole district were to perform for the assembled guests; bands of music were practising for the occasion, and the whole bade fair to be a great, riotous debauch, which would afford the Ussa just the opportunity the consummation of his plans awaited. Early the next morning the disguised Ussa presented himself at the yamen gate, where the servants jeered at him, telling him: "This is no beggars' feast," and driving him away. He hung around the street, however, listening to the music inside, and finally he made another attempt, which was more successful than the first, for the servants, thinking him crazy, tried to restrain him, when, in the melée, he made a passage and rushed through the inner gate into the court off the reception hall. The annoyed host, red with wine, ordered him at once ejected and the gate men whipped. His order was promptly obeyed, but Ye did not leave the place. He found a break in the outside wall, through which he climbed, and again presented himself before the feasters. While the Prefect was too blind with rage to be able to speak, the stranger said: "I am a beggar, give me food and drink that I, too, may enjoy myself." The guests laughed at the man's presumption, and thinking him crazy, they urged their host to humor him for their entertainment. To which he finally consented, and, sending him some food and wine, bade him stay in a corner and eat. To the surprise of all, the fellow seemed still discontented, for he claimed that, as the other guests each had a fair gee sang to sing a wine song while they drank, he should be treated likewise. This amused the guests immensely, and they got the master to send one. The girl went with a poor grace, however, saying: "One would think from the looks of you that your poor throat would open to the wine without a song to oil it," and sang him a song that wished him speedy death instead of long life. After submitting to their taunts for some time, he said, "I thank you for your food and wine and the graciousness of my reception, in return for which I will amuse you by writing you some verses"; and, taking pencil and paper, he wrote: "The oil that enriches the food of the official is but the life blood of the down-trodden people, whose tears are of no more merit in the eyes of the oppressor than the drippings of a burning candle." When this was read, a troubled look passed over all; the guests shook their heads and assured their host that it meant ill to him. And each began to make excuses, saying that one and another engagement of importance called them hence. The host laughed and bade them be seated, while he ordered attendants to take the intruder and cast him into prison for his impudence. They came to do so, but the Ussa took out his official seal, giving the preconcerted signal meanwhile, which summoned his ready followers. At sight of the King's seal terror blanched the faces of each of the half-drunken men. The wicked host tried to crawl under the house and escape, but he was at once caught and bound with chains. One of the guests in fleeing through an attic-way caught his topknot of hair in a rat-hole, and stood for some time yelling for mercy, supposing that his captors had him. It was as though an earthquake had shaken the house; all was the wildest confusion. The Ussa put on decent clothes and gave his orders in a calm manner. He sent the Magistrate to the capital at once, and began to look further into the affairs of the office. Soon, however, he sent a chair for Chun Yang Ye, delegating his own servants, and commanding them not to explain what had happened. She supposed that the Magistrate, full of wine, had sent for her, intending to kill her, and she begged the amused servants to call her Toh Ryung to come and stay with her. They assured her that he could not come, as already he too was at the yamen, and she feared that harm had befallen him on her account. They removed her shackles and bore her to the yamen, where the Ussa addressed her in a changed voice, commanding her to look up and answer her charges. She refused to look up or speak, feeling that the sooner death came the better. Failing in this way, he then asked her in his own voice to just glance at him. Surprised she looked up, and her dazed eyes saw her lover standing there in his proper guise, and with a delighted cry she tried to run to him, but fainted in the attempt, and was borne in his arms to a room. Just then the old woman, coming along with food, which she had brought as a last service to her daughter, heard the good news from the excited throng outside, and dashing away her dishes and their contents, she tore around for joy, crying: "What a delightful birthday surprise for a cruel magistrate!" All the people rejoiced with the daughter, but no one seemed to think the old mother deserved such good fortune. The Ussa's conduct was approved at court. A new magistrate was appointed. The marriage was publicly solemnized at Seoul, and the Ussa was raised to a high position, in which he was just to the people, who loved him for his virtues, while the country rang with the praises of his faithful wife, who became the mother of many children. SIM CHUNG, THE DUTIFUL DAUGHTER. Sim Hyun, or Mr. Sim, was highly esteemed in the Korean village in which he resided. He belonged to the Yang Ban, or gentleman class, and when he walked forth it was with the stately swinging stride of the gentleman, while if he bestrode his favorite donkey, or was carried in his chair, a runner went ahead calling out to the commoners to clear the road. His rank was not high, and though greatly esteemed as a scholar, his income would scarcely allow of his taking the position he was fitted to occupy. His parents had been very fortunate in betrothing him to a remarkably beautiful and accomplished maiden, daughter of a neighboring gentleman. She was noted for beauty and grace, while her mental qualities were the subject of continual admiration. She could not only read and write her native ernmun, but was skilled in Chinese characters, while her embroidered shoes, pockets, and other feminine articles were the pride of her mother and friends. She had embroidered a set of historic panels, which her father sent to the King. His Majesty mentioned her skill with marked commendation, and had the panels made up into a screen which for some time stood behind his mat, and continually called forth his admiration. Sim had not seemed very demonstrative in regard to his approaching nuptials, but once he laid his eyes upon his betrothed, as she unveiled at the ceremony, he was completely captivated, and brooked with poor grace the formalities that had to be gone through before he could claim her as his constant companion. It was an exceptionally happy union, the pair being intellectually suited to each other, and each apparently possessing the bodily attributes necessary to charm the other. There was never a sign of disgust or disappointment at the choice their parents had made for them. They used to wander out into the little garden off the women's quarters, and sit in the moonlight, planning for the future, and enjoying the products of each other's well stored mind. It was their pet desire to have a son, and all their plans seemed to centre around this one ambition; the years came and went, however, but their coveted blessing was withheld, the wife consulted priestesses, and the husband, from long and great disappointment, grew sad at heart and cared but little for mingling with the world, which he thought regarded him with shame. He took to books and began to confine himself to his own apartments, letting his poor wife stay neglected and alone in the apartments of the women. From much study, lack of exercise, and failing appetite, he grew thin and emaciated, and his eyes began to show the wear of over-work and innutrition. The effect upon his wife was also bad, but, with a woman's fortitude and patience, she bore up and hoped in spite of constant disappointment. She worried over her husband's condition and felt ashamed that she had no name in the world, other than the wife of Sim, while she wished to be known as the mother of the Sim of whom they had both dreamed by day and by night till dreams had almost left them. After fifteen years of childless waiting, the wife of Sim dreamed again; this time her vision was a brilliant one, and in it she saw a star come down to her from the skies above; the dream awakened her, and she sent for her husband to tell him that she knew their blessing was about to come to them; she was right, a child was given to them, but, to their great dismay, it was only a girl. Heaven had kindly prepared the way for the little visitor, however; for after fifteen years weary waiting, they were not going to look with serious disfavor upon a girl, however much their hopes had been placed upon the advent of a son. The child grew, and the parents were united as they only could be by such a precious bond. The ills of childhood seemed not to like the little one, even the virus of small-pox, that was duly placed in her nostril, failed to innoculate her, and her pretty skin remained fresh and soft like velvet, and totally free from the marks of the dread disease. At three years of age she bade fair to far surpass her mother's noted beauty and accomplishments. Her cheeks were full-blown roses, and whenever she opened her dainty curved mouth, ripples of silvery laughter, or words of mature wisdom, were sure to be given forth. The hearts of the parents, that had previously been full of tears, were now light, and full of contentment and joy; while they were constantly filled with pride by the reports of the wonderful wisdom of their child that continually came to them. The father forgot that his offspring was not a boy, and had his child continually by his side to guide his footsteps, as his feeble eyes refused to perform their office. Just as their joy seemed too great to be lasting, it was suddenly checked by the death of the mother, which plunged them into a deep grief from which the father emerged totally blind. It soon became a question as to where the daily food was to come from; little by little household trinkets were given to the brokers to dispose of, and in ten years they had used up the homestead, and all it contained. The father was now compelled to ask alms, and as his daughter was grown to womanhood, she could no longer direct his footsteps as he wandered out in the darkness of the blind. [3] One day in his journeying he fell into a deep ditch, from which he could not extricate himself. After remaining in this deplorable condition for some time he heard a step, and called out for assistance, saying: "I am blind, not drunk," whereupon the passing stranger said: "I know full well you are not drunk. True, you are blind, yet not incurably so." "Why, who are you that you know so much about me?" asked the blind man. "I am the old priest of the temple in the mountain fortress." "Well, what is this that you say about my not being permanently blind?" "I am a prophet, and I have had a vision concerning you. In case you make an offering of three hundred bags of rice to the Buddha of our temple, you will be restored to sight, you will be given rank and dignity, while your daughter will become the first woman in all Korea." "But I am poor, as well as blind," was the reply. "How can I promise such a princely offering?" "You may give me your order for it, and pay it along as you are able," said the priest. "Very well, give me pencil and paper," whereupon they retired to a house, and the blind man gave his order for the costly price of his sight. Returning home weary, bruised, and hungry, he smiled to himself, in spite of his ill condition, at the thought of his giving an order for so much rice when he had not a grain of it to eat. He obtained, finally, a little work in pounding rice in the stone mortars. It was hard labor for one who had lived as he had done; but it kept them from starving, and his daughter prepared his food for him as nicely as she knew how. One night, as the dinner was spread on the little, low table before him, sitting on the floor, the priest came and demanded his pay; the old blind man lost his appetite for his dinner, and refused to eat. He had to explain to his daughter the compact he had made with the priest, and, while she was filled with grief, and dismayed at the enormity of the price, she yet seemed to have some hope that it might be accomplished and his sight restored. That night, after her midnight bath, she lay down on a mat in the open air, and gazed up to heaven, to which she prayed that her poor father might be restored to health and sight. While thus engaged, she fell asleep and dreamed that her mother came down from heaven to comfort her, and told her not to worry, that a means would be found for the payment of the rice, and that soon all would be happy again in the little family. The next day she chanced to hear of the wants of a great merchant who sailed in his large boats to China for trade, but was greatly distressed by an evil spirit that lived in the water through which he must pass. For some time, it was stated, he had not been able to take his boats over this dangerous place, and his loss therefrom was very great. At last it was reported that he was willing and anxious to appease the spirit by making the offering the wise men had deemed necessary. Priests had told him that the sacrifice of a young maiden to the spirit would quiet it and remove the trouble. He was, therefore, anxious to find the proper person, and had offered a great sum to obtain such an one. Sim Chung (our heroine), hearing of this, decided that it must be the fulfilment of her dream, and having determined to go and offer herself, she put on old clothes and fasted while journeying, that she might look wan and haggard, like one in mourning. She had previously prepared food for her father, and explained to him that she wished to go and bow at her mother's grave, in return to her for having appeared to her in a dream. When the merchant saw the applicant, he was at once struck with her beauty and dignity of carriage, in spite of her attempt to disguise herself. He said that it was not in his heart to kill people especially maidens of such worth as she seemed to be. He advised her not to apply; but she told her story and said she would give herself for the three hundred bags of rice. "Ah! now I see the true nobility of your character. I did not know that such filial piety existed outside the works of the ancients. I will send to my master and secure the rice," said the man, who happened to be but an overseer for a greater merchant. She got the rice and took it to the priest in a long procession of one hundred and fifty ponies, each laboring under two heavy bags; the debt cancelled and her doom fixed, she felt the relaxation and grief necessarily consequent upon such a condition. She could not explain to her father, she mourned over the loneliness that would come to him after she was gone, and wondered how he would support himself after she was removed and until his sight should be restored. She lay down and prayed to heaven, saying: "I am only fourteen years old, and have but four more hours to live. What will become of my poor father? Oh! who will care for him? Kind heaven, protect him when I am gone." Wild with grief she went and sat on her father's knee, but could not control her sobs and tears; whereupon he asked her what the trouble could be. Having made up her mind that the time had come, and that the deed was done and could not be remedied, she decided to tell him, and tried to break it gently; but when the whole truth dawned upon the poor old man it nearly killed him. He clasped her close to his bosom, and crying: "My child, my daughter, my only comfort, I will not let you go. What will eyes be to me if I can no longer look upon your lovely face?" They mingled their tears and sobs, and the neighbors, hearing the commotion in the usually quiet hut, came to see what was the trouble. Upon ascertaining the reason of the old man's grief, they united in the general wailing. Sim Chung begged them to come and care for the old man when she could look after him no more, and they agreed to do so. While the wailing and heart breaking was going on, a stranger rode up on a donkey and asked for the Sim family. He came just in time to see what the act was costing the poor people. He comforted the girl by giving her a cheque for fifty bags of rice for the support of the father when his daughter should be no more. She took it gratefully and gave it to the neighbors to keep in trust; she then prepared herself, took a last farewell, and left her fainting father to go to her bed in the sea. In due time the boat that bore Sim Chung, at the head of a procession of boats, arrived at the place where the evil spirit reigned. She was dressed in bridal garments furnished by the merchant. On her arrival at the place, the kind merchant tried once more to appease the spirit by an offering of eatables, but it was useless, whereupon Sim Chung prayed to heaven, bade them all good-by, and leaped into the sea. Above, all was quiet, the waves subsided, the sea became like a lake, and the boats passed on their way unmolested. When Sim Chung regained her consciousness she was seated in a little boat drawn by fishes, and pretty maidens were giving her to drink from a carved jade bottle. She asked them who they were, and where she was going. They answered: "We are servants of the King of the Sea, and we are taking you to his palace." Sim Chung wondered if this was death, and thought it very pleasant if it were. They passed through forests of waving plants, and saw great lazy fish feeding about in the water, till at last they reached the confines of the palace. Her amazement was then unbounded, for the massive walls were composed of precious stones, such as she had only heretofore seen used as ornaments. Pearls were used to cover the heads of nails in the great doors through which they passed, and everywhere there seemed a most costly and lavish display of the precious gems and metals, while the walks were made of polished black marble that shone in the water. The light, as it passed through the water, seemed to form most beautifully colored clouds, and the rainbow colors were everywhere disporting themselves. Soon a mighty noise was heard, and they moved aside, while the King passed by preceded by an army with gayly colored and beautifully embroidered satin banners, each bearer blowing on an enormous shell. The King was borne in a golden chair on the shoulders of one hundred men, followed by one hundred musicians and as many more beautiful "dancing girls," with wonderful head-dresses and rich costumes. Sim Chung objected to going before such an august king, but she was assured of kind treatment, and, after being properly dressed by the sea maids, in garments suitable for the palace of the Sea King, she was borne in a chair on the shoulders of eunuchs to the King's apartments. The King treated her with great respect, and all the maidens and eunuchs bowed before her. She protested that she was not worthy of such attention. "I am," she said, "but the daughter of a beggar, for whom I thought I was giving my life when rescued by these maidens. I am in no way worthy of your respect." The King smiled a little, and said: "Ah! I know more of you than you know of yourself. You must know that I am the Sea King, and that we know full well the doings of the stars which shine in the heaven above, for they continually visit us on light evenings. Well, you were once a star. Many say a beautiful one, for you had many admirers. You favored one star more than the others, and, in your attentions to him, you abused your office as cup-bearer to the King of Heaven, and let your lover have free access to all of the choice wines of the palace. In this way, before you were aware of it, the peculiar and choice brands that the King especially liked were consumed, and, upon examination, your fault became known. As punishment, the King decided to banish you to earth, but fearing to send you both at once, lest you might be drawn together there, he sent your lover first, and after keeping you in prison for a long time, you were sent as daughter to your former lover. He is the man you claim as father. Heaven has seen your filial piety, however, and repents. You will be hereafter most highly favored, as a reward for your dutiful conduct." He then sent her to fine apartments prepared for her, where she was to rest and recuperate before going back to earth. After a due period of waiting and feasting on royal food, Sim Chung's beauty was more than restored. She had developed into a complete woman, and her beauty was dazzling; her cheeks seemed colored by the beautiful tints of the waters through which she moved with ease and comfort, while her mind blossomed forth like a flower in the rare society of the Sea King and his peculiarly gifted people. When the proper time arrived for her departure for the world she had left, a large and beautiful flower was brought into her chamber. It was so arranged that Sim Chung could conceal herself inside of it, while the delicious perfume and the juice of the plant were ample nourishment. When she had bidden good-by to her peculiar friends and taken her place inside the flower, it was conveyed to the surface of the sea, at the place where she had plunged in. She had not waited long in this strange position before a boat bore in sight. It proved to be the vessel of her friend the merchant. As he drew near his old place of danger he marvelled much at sight of such a beautiful plant, growing and blossoming in such a strange place, where once only evil was to be expected. He was also well-nigh intoxicated by the powerful perfume exhaled from the plant. Steering close he managed to secure the flower and place it safely in his boat, congratulating himself on securing so valuable and curious a present for his King. For he decided at once to present it at the palace if he could succeed in getting it safely there. The plan succeeded, the strange plant with its stranger tenant was duly presented to His Majesty, who was delighted with the gift, and spent his time gazing upon it to the exclusion of state business. He had a glass house prepared for it in an inner court, and seemed never to tire of watching his new treasure. At night, when all was quiet, Sim Chung was wont to come forth and rest herself by walking in the moonlight. But, on one occasion, the King, being indisposed and restless, thought he would go to breathe the rich perfume of the strange flower and rest himself. In this way he chanced to see Sim Chung before she could conceal herself, and, of course, his surprise was unbounded. He accosted her, not without fear, demanding who she might be. She, being also afraid, took refuge in her flower, when, to the amazement of both, the flower vanished, leaving her standing alone where it had been but a moment before. The King was about to flee, at this point, but she called to him not to fear, that she was but a human being, and no spirit as he doubtless supposed. The King drew near, and was at once lost in admiration of her matchless beauty, when a great noise was heard outside, and eunuchs came, stating that all the generals with the heads of departments were asking for an audience on very important business. His Majesty very reluctantly went to see what it all meant. An officer versed in astronomy stated that they had, on the previous night, observed a brilliant star descend from heaven and alight upon the palace, and that they believed it boded good to the royal family. Then the King told of the flower, and the wonderful apparition he had seen in the divine maiden. It so happened that the queen was deceased, and it was soon decided that the King should take this remarkable maiden for his wife. The marriage was announced, and preparations all made. As the lady was without parents, supposably, the ceremony took place at the royal wedding hall, and was an occasion of great state. Never was man more charmed by woman than in this case. The King would not leave her by day or night, and the business of state was almost totally neglected. At last Sim Chung chided her husband, telling him it was not manly for the King to spend all his time in the women's quarters; that if he cared so little for the rule as to neglect it altogether, others might find occasion to usurp his place. She enjoined upon him the necessity of giving the days to his business, and being content to spend the nights with her. He saw her wisdom, and remarked upon it, promising to abide by her advice. After some time spent in such luxury, Sim Chung became lonely and mourned for her poor father, but despaired of being able to see him. She knew not if he were alive or dead, and the more she thought of it the more she mourned, till tears were in her heart continually, and not infrequently overflowed from her beautiful eyes. The King chanced to see her weeping, and was solicitous to know the cause of her sorrow, whereupon she answered that she was oppressed by a strange dream concerning a poor blind man, and was desirous of alleviating in some way the sufferings of the many blind men in the country. Again the King marvelled at her great heart, and offered to do any thing towards carrying out her noble purpose. Together they agreed that they would summon all the blind men of the country to a great feast, at which they should be properly clothed, amply fed, and treated each to a present of cash. The edict was issued, and on the day appointed for the feast, the Queen secreted herself in a pavilion, from which she could look down and fully observe the strange assemblage. She watched the first day, but saw no one who resembled her lost parent; again the second day she held her earnest vigil, but in vain. She was about to give up her quest as useless and mourn over the loss of her father, when, as the feast was closing on the third day, a feeble old man in rags came tottering up. The attendants, having served so many, were treating this poor fellow with neglect, and were about to drive him away as too late when the Queen ordered them whipped and the old man properly fed. He seemed well-nigh starved, and grasped at the food set before him with the eagerness of an animal. There seemed to be something about this forlorn creature that arrested and engaged the attention of the Queen, and the attendants, noticing this, were careful to clothe him with extra care. When sufficient time had elapsed for the satisfying of his hunger, he was ordered brought to the Queen's pavilion, where Her Majesty scrutinized him closely for a few moments, and then, to the surprise and dismay of all her attendants, she screamed: "My father! my father!" and fell at his feet senseless. Her maids hurried off to tell the King of the strange conduct of their mistress, and he came to see for himself. By rubbing her limbs and applying strong-smelling medicines to her nostrils, the fainting Queen was restored to consciousness, and allowed to tell her peculiar and interesting story. The King had heard much of it previously. But the poor old blind man could barely collect his senses sufficiently to grasp the situation. As the full truth began to dawn upon him, he cried: "Oh! my child, can the dead come back to us? I hear your voice; I feel your form; but how can I know it is you, for I have no eyes? Away with these sightless orbs!" And he tore at his eyes with his nails, when to his utter amazement and joy, the scales fell away, and he stood rejoicing in his sight once more. His Majesty was overjoyed to have his lovely Queen restored to her wonted happy frame of mind. He made the old man an officer of high rank, appointed him a fine house, and had him married to the accomplished daughter of an officer of suitable rank, thereby fulfilling the last of the prophecy of both the aged priest and the King of the Sea. HONG KIL TONG; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF AN ABUSED BOY. During the reign of the third king in Korea there lived a noble of high rank and noted family, by name Hong. His title was Ye Cho Pansa. He had two sons by his wife and one by one of his concubines. The latter son was very remarkable from his birth to his death, and he it is who forms the subject of this history. When Hong Pansa was the father of but two sons, he dreamed by night on one occasion that he heard the noise of thunder, and looking up he saw a huge dragon entering his apartment, which seemed too small to contain the whole of his enormous body. The dream was so startling as to awaken the sleeper, who at once saw that it was a good omen, and a token to him of a blessing about to be conferred. He hoped the blessing might prove to be another son, and went to impart the good news to his wife. She would not see him, however, as she was offended by his taking a concubine from the class of "dancing girls." The great man was sad, and went away. Within the year, however, a son of marvellous beauty was born to one concubine, much to the annoyance of his wife and to himself, for he would have been glad to have the beautiful boy a full son, and eligible to office. The child was named Kil Tong, or Hong Kil Tong. He grew fast, and became more and more beautiful. He learned rapidly, and surprised every one by his remarkable ability. As he grew up he rebelled at being placed with the slaves, and at not being allowed to call his parent, father. The other children laughed and jeered at him, and made life very miserable. He refused longer to study of the duties of children to their parents. He upset his table in school, and declared he was going to be a soldier. One bright moonlight night Hong Pansa saw his son in the court-yard practising the arts of the soldier, and he asked him what it meant. Kil Tong answered that he was fitting himself to become a man that people should respect and fear. He said he knew that heaven had made all things for the use of men, if they found themselves capable of using them, and that the laws of men were only made to assist a few that could not otherwise do as they would; but that he was not inclined to submit to any such tyranny, but would become a great man in spite of his evil surroundings. "This is a most remarkable boy," mused Hong Pansa. "What a pity that he is not my proper and legitimate son, that he might be an honor to my name. As it is, I fear he will cause me serious trouble." He urged the boy to go to bed and sleep, but Kil Tong said it was useless, that if he went to bed he would think of his troubles till the tears washed sleep away from his eyes, and caused him to get up. The wife of Hong Pansa and his other concubine (the dancing girl), seeing how much their lord and master thought of Kil Tong, grew to hate the latter intensely, and began to lay plans for ridding themselves of him. They called some mootang, or sorceresses, and explained to them that their happiness was disturbed by this son of a rival, and that peace could only be restored to their hearts by the death of this youth. The witches laughed and said: "Never mind. There is an old woman who lives by the east gate, tell her to come and prejudice the father. She can do it, and he will then look after his son." The old hag came as requested. Hong Pansa was then in the women's apartments, telling them of the wonderful boy, much to their annoyance. A visitor was announced, and the old woman made a low bow outside. Hong Pansa asked her what her business was, and she stated that she had heard of his wonderful son, and came to see him, to foretell what his future was to be. Kil Tong came as called, and on seeing him the hag bowed and said: "Send out all of the people." She then stated: "This will be a very great man; if not a king, he will be greater than the king, and will avenge his early wrongs by killing all his family." At this the father called to her to stop, and enjoined strict secrecy upon her. He sent Kil Tong at once to a strong room, and had him locked in for safe keeping. The boy was very sad at this new state of affairs, but as his father let him have books, he got down to hard study, and learned the Chinese works on astronomy. He could not see his mother, and his unnatural father was too afraid to come near him. He made up his mind, however, that as soon as he could get out he would go to some far off country, where he was not known, and make his true power felt. Meanwhile, the unnatural father was kept in a state of continual excitement by his wicked concubine, who was bent on the destruction of the son of her rival, and kept constantly before her master the great dangers that would come to him from being the parent of such a man as Kil Tong was destined to be, if allowed to live. She showed him that such power as the boy was destined to possess, would eventually result in his overthrowal, and with him his father's house would be in disgrace, and, doubtless, would be abolished. While if this did not happen, the son was sure to kill his family, so that, in either case, it was the father's clear duty to prevent any further trouble by putting the boy out of the way. Hong Pansa was finally persuaded that his concubine was right, and sent for the assassins to come and kill his son. But a spirit filled the father with disease, and he told the men to stay their work. Medicines failed to cure the disease, and the mootang women were called in by the concubine. They beat their drums and danced about the room, conjuring the spirit to leave, but it would not obey. At last they said, at the suggestion of the concubine, that Kil Tong was the cause of the disorder, and that with his death the spirit would cease troubling the father. Again the assassins were sent for, and came with their swords, accompanied by the old hag from the east gate. While they were meditating on the death of Kil Tong, he was musing on the unjust laws of men who allowed sons to be born of concubines, but denied them rights that were enjoyed by other men. While thus musing in the darkness of the night, he heard a crow caw three times and fly away. "This means something ill to me," thought he; and just then his window was thrown open, and in stepped the assassins. They made at the boy, but he was not there. In their rage they wounded each other, and killed the old woman who was their guide. To their amazement the room had disappeared, and they were surrounded by high mountains. A mighty storm arose, and rocks flew through the air. They could not escape, and, in their terror, were about to give up, when music was heard, and a boy came riding by on a donkey, playing a flute. He took away their weapons, and showed himself to be Kil Tong. He promised not to kill them, as they begged for their lives, but only on condition that they should never try to kill another man. He told them that he would know if the promise was broken, and, in that event, he would instantly kill them. Kil Tong went by night to see his father, who thought him a spirit, and was very much afraid. He gave his father medicine, which instantly cured him; and sending for his mother, bade her good-by, and started for an unknown country. His father was very glad that the boy had escaped, and lost his affection for his wicked concubine. But the latter, with her mistress, was very angry, and tried in vain to devise some means to accomplish their evil purposes. Kil Tong, free at last, journeyed to the south, and began to ascend the lonely mountains. Tigers were abundant, but he feared them not, and they seemed to avoid molesting him. After many days, he found himself high up on a barren peak enveloped by the clouds, and enjoyed the remoteness of the place, and the absence of men and obnoxious laws. He now felt himself a free man, and the equal of any, while he knew that heaven was smiling upon him and giving him powers not accorded to other men. Through the clouds at some distance he thought he espied a huge stone door in the bare wall of rock. Going up to it, he found it to be indeed a movable door, and, opening it, he stepped inside, when, to his amazement, he found himself in an open plain, surrounded by high and inaccessible mountains. He saw before him over two hundred good houses, and many men, who, when they had somewhat recovered from their own surprise, came rushing upon him, apparently with evil intent. Laying hold upon him they asked him who he was, and why he came trespassing upon their ground. He said: "I am surprised to find myself in the presence of men. I am but the son of a concubine, and men, with their laws, are obnoxious to me. Therefore, I thought to get away from man entirely, and, for that reason, I wandered alone into these wild regions. But who are you, and why do you live in this lone spot? Perhaps we may have a kindred feeling." "We are called thieves," was answered; "but we only despoil the hated official class of some of their ill-gotten gains. We are willing to help the poor unbeknown, but no man can enter our stronghold and depart alive, unless he has become one of us. To do so, however, he must prove himself to be strong in body and mind. If you can pass the examination and wish to join our party, well and good; otherwise you die." This suited Kil Tong immensely, and he consented to the conditions. They gave him various trials of strength, but he chose his own. Going up to a huge rock on which several men were seated, he laid hold of it and hurled it to some distance, to the dismay of the men, who fell from their seat, and to the surprised delight of all. He was at once installed a member, and a feast was ordered. The contract was sealed by mingling blood from the lips of all the members with blood similarly supplied by Kil Tong. He was then given a prominent seat and served to wine and food. Kil Tong soon became desirous of giving to his comrades some manifestation of his courage. An opportunity presently offered. He heard the men bemoaning their inability to despoil a large and strong Buddhist temple not far distant. As was the rule, this temple in the mountains was well patronized by officials, who made it a place of retirement for pleasure and debauch, and in return the lazy, licentious priests were allowed to collect tribute from the poor people about, till they had become rich and powerful. The several attempts made by the robber band had proved unsuccessful, by virtue of the number and vigilance of the priests, together with the strength of their enclosure. Kil Tong agreed to assist them to accomplish their design or perish in the attempt, and such was their faith in him that they readily agreed to his plans. On a given day Kil Tong, dressed in the red gown of a youth, just betrothed, covered himself with the dust of travel, and mounted on a donkey, with one robber disguised as a servant, made his way to the temple. He asked on arrival to be shown to the head priest, to whom he stated that he was the son of Hong Pansa, that his noble father having heard of the greatness of this temple, and the wisdom of its many priests, had decided to send him with a letter, which he produced, to be educated among their numbers. He also stated that a train of one hundred ponies loaded with rice had been sent as a present from his father to the priest, and he expected they would arrive before dark, as they did not wish to stop alone in the mountains, even though every pony was attended by a groom, who was armed for defense. The priests were delighted, and having read the letter, they never for a moment suspected that all was not right. A great feast was ordered in honor of their noble scholar, and all sat down before the tables, which were filled so high that one could hardly see his neighbor on the opposite side. They had scarcely seated themselves and indulged in the generous wine, when it was announced that the train of ponies laden with rice had arrived. Servants were sent to look after the tribute, and the eating and drinking went on. Suddenly Kil Tong clapped his hand, over his cheek with a cry of pain, which drew the attention of all. When, to the great mortification of the priests, he produced from his mouth a pebble, previously introduced on the sly, and exclaimed: "Is it to feed on stones that my father sent me to this place? What do you mean by setting such rice before a gentleman?" The priests were filled with mortification and dismay, and bowed their shaven heads to the floor in humiliation. When at a sign from Kil Tong, a portion of the robbers, who had entered the court as grooms to the ponies, seized the bending priests and bound them as they were. The latter shouted for help, but the other robbers, who had been concealed in the bags, which were supposed to contain rice, seized the servants, while others were loading the ponies with jewels, rice, cash and whatever of value they could lay hands upon. An old priest who was attending to the fires, seeing the uproar, made off quietly to the yamen near by and called for soldiers. The soldiers were sent after some delay, and Kil Tong, disguised as a priest, called to them to follow him down a by-path after the robbers. While he conveyed the soldiers over this rough path, the robbers made good their escape by the main road, and were soon joined in their stronghold by their youthful leader, who had left the soldiers groping helplessly in the dark among the rocks and trees in a direction opposite that taken by the robbers. The priests soon found out that they had lost almost all their riches, and were at no loss in determining how the skilful affair had been planned and carried out. Kil Tong's name was noised abroad, and it was soon known that he was heading a band of robbers, who, through his assistance, were able to do many marvellous things. The robber band were delighted at the success of his first undertaking, and made him their chief, with the consent of all. After sufficient time had elapsed for the full enjoyment of their last and greatest success, Kil Tong planned a new raid. The Governor of a neighboring province was noted for his overbearing ways and the heavy burdens that he laid upon his subjects. He was very rich, but universally hated, and Kil Tong decided to avenge the people and humiliate the Governor, knowing that his work would be appreciated by the people, as were indeed his acts at the temple. He instructed his band to proceed singly to the Governor's city--the local capital--at the time of a fair, when their coming would not cause comment. At a given time a portion of them were to set fire to a lot of straw-thatched huts outside the city gates, while the others repaired in a body to the Governor's yamen. They did so. The Governor was borne in his chair to a place where he could witness the conflagration, which also drew away the most of the inhabitants. The robbers bound the remaining servants, and while some were securing money, jewels, and weapons, Kil Tong wrote on the walls: "The wicked Governor that robs the people is relieved of his ill-gotten gains by Kil Tong--the people's avenger." Again the thieves made good their escape, and Kil Tong's name became known everywhere. The Governor offered a great reward for his capture, but no one seemed desirous of encountering a robber of such boldness. At last the King offered a reward after consulting with his officers. When one of them said he would capture the thief alone, the King was astonished at his boldness and courage, and bade him be off and make the attempt. The officer was called the Pochang; he had charge of the prisons, and was a man of great courage. The Pochang started on his search, disguised as a traveller. He took a donkey and servant, and after travelling many days he put up at a little inn, at the same time that another man on a donkey rode up. The latter was Kil Tong in disguise, and he soon entered into conversation with the man, whose mission was known to him. "I goo," said Kil Tong, as he sat down to eat, "this is a dangerous country. I have just been chased by the robber Kil Tong till the life is about gone out of me." "Kil Tong, did you say?" remarked Pochang. "I wish he would chase me. I am anxious to see the man of whom we hear so much." "Well, if you see him once you will be satisfied," replied Kil Tong. "Why?" asked the Pochang. "Is he such a fearful-looking man as to frighten one by his aspect alone?" "No; on the contrary he looks much as do ordinary mortals. But we know he is different, you see." "Exactly," said the Pochang. "That is just the trouble. You are afraid of him before you see him. Just let me get a glimpse of him, and matters will be different, I think." "Well," said Kil Tong, "you can be easily pleased, if that is all, for I dare say if you go back into the mountains here you will see him, and get acquainted with him too." "That is good. Will you show me the place?" "Not I. I have seen enough of him to please me. I can tell you where to go, however, if you persist in your curiosity," said the robber. "Agreed!" exclaimed the officer. "Let us be off at once lest he escapes. And if you succeed in showing him to me, I will reward you for your work and protect you from the thief." After some objection by Kil Tong, who appeared to be reluctant to go, and insisted on at least finishing his dinner, they started off, with their servants, into the mountains. Night overtook them, much to the apparent dismay of the guide, who pretended to be very anxious to give up the quest. At length, however, they came to the stone door, which was open. Having entered the robber's stronghold, the door closed behind them, and the guide disappeared, leaving the dismayed officer surrounded by the thieves. His courage had now left him, and he regretted his rashness. The robbers bound him securely and led him past their miniature city into an enclosure surrounded by houses which, by their bright colors, seemed to be the abode of royalty. He was conveyed into a large audience-chamber occupying the most extensive building of the collection, and there, on a sort of throne, in royal style, sat his guide. The Pochang saw his mistake, and fell on his face, begging for mercy. Kil Tong upbraided him for his impudence and arrogance and promised to let him off this time. Wine was brought, and all partook of it. That given to the officer was drugged, and he fell into a stupor soon after drinking it. While in this condition he was put into a bag and conveyed in a marvellous manner to a high mountain overlooking the capital. Here he found himself upon recovering from the effects of his potion; and not daring to face his sovereign with such a fabulous tale, he cast himself down from the high mountain, and was picked up dead, by passers-by, in the morning. Almost at the same time that His Majesty received word of the death of his officer, and was marvelling at the audacity of the murderer in bringing the body almost to the palace doors, came simultaneous reports of great depredations in each of the eight provinces. The trouble was in each case attributed to Kil Tong, and the fact that he was reported as being in eight far removed places at the same time caused great consternation. Official orders were issued to each of the eight governors to catch and bring to the city, at once, the robber Kil Tong. These orders were so well obeyed that upon a certain day soon after, a guard came from each province bringing Kil Tong, and there in a line stood eight men alike in every respect. The King on inquiry found that Kil Tong was the son of Hong Pansa, and the father was ordered into the royal presence. He came with his legitimate son, and bowed his head in shame to the ground. When asked what he meant by having a son who would cause such general misery and distress, he swooned away, and would have died had not one of the Kil Tongs produced some medicine which cured him. The son, however, acted as spokesman, and informed the King that Kil Tong was but the son of his father's slave, that he was utterly incorrigible, and had fled from home when a mere boy. When asked to decide as to which was his true son, the father stated that his son had a scar on the left thigh. Instantly each of the eight men pulled up the baggy trousers and displayed a scar. The guard was commanded to remove the men and kill all of them; but when they attempted to do so the life had disappeared, and the men were found to be only figures in straw and wax. Soon after this a letter was seen posted on the Palace gate, announcing that if the government would confer upon Kil Tong the rank of Pansa, as held by his father, and thus remove from him the stigma attaching to him as the son of a slave, he would stop his depredations. This proposition could not be entertained at first, but one of the counsel suggested that it might offer a solution of the vexed question, and they could yet be spared the disgrace of having an officer with such a record. For, as he proposed, men could be so stationed that when the newly-appointed officer came to make his bow before His Majesty, they could fall upon him and kill him before he arose. This plan was greeted with applause, and a decree was issued conferring the desired rank; proclamations to that effect being posted in public places, so that the news would reach Kil Tong. It did reach him, and he soon appeared at the city gate. A great crowd attended him as he rode to the Palace gates; but knowing the plans laid for him, as he passed through the gates and came near enough to be seen of the King, he was caught up in a cloud and borne away amid strange music; wholly discomfiting his enemies. Some time after this occurrence the King was walking with a few eunuchs and attendants in the royal gardens. It was evening time, but the full moon furnished ample light. The atmosphere was tempered just to suit; it was neither cold nor warm, while it lacked nothing of the bracing character of a Korean autumn. The leaves were blood-red on the maples; the heavy cloak of climbing vines that enshrouded the great wall near by was also beautifully colored. These effects could even be seen by the bright moonlight, and seated on a hill-side the royal party were enjoying the tranquillity of the scene, when all were astonished by the sound of a flute played by some one up above them. Looking up among the tree-tops a man was seen descending toward them, seated upon the back of a gracefully moving stork. The King imagined it must be some heavenly being, and ordered the chief eunuch to make some proper salutation. But before this could be done, a voice was heard saying: "Fear not, O King. I am simply Hong Pansa [Kil Tong's new title]. I have come to make my obeisance before your august presence and be confirmed in my rank." This he did, and no one attempted to molest him; seeing which, the King, feeling that it was useless longer to attempt to destroy a man who could read the unspoken thoughts of men, said: "Why do you persist in troubling the country? I have removed from you now the stigma attached to your birth. What more will you have?" "I wish," said Kil Tong, with due humility, "to go to a distant land, and settle down to the pursuit of peace and happiness. If I may be granted three thousand bags of rice I will gladly go and trouble you no longer." "But how will you transport such an enormous quantity of rice?" asked the King. "That can be arranged," said Kil Tong. "If I may be but granted the order, I will remove the rice at daybreak." The order was given. Kil Tong went away as he came, and in the early morning a fleet of junks appeared off the royal granaries, took on the rice, and made away before the people were well aware of their presence. Kil Tong now sailed for an island off the west coast. He found one uninhabited, and with his few followers he stored his riches, and brought many articles of value from his former hiding-places. His people he taught to till the soil, and all went well on the little island till the master made a trip to a neighboring island, which was famous for its deadly mineral poison,--a thing much prized for tipping the arrows with. Kil Tong wanted to get some of this poison, and made a visit to the island. While passing through the settled districts he casually noticed that many copies of a proclamation were posted up, offering a large reward to any one who would succeed in restoring to her father a young lady who had been stolen by a band of savage people who lived in the mountains. Kil Tong journeyed on all day, and at night he found himself high up in the wild mountain regions, where the poison was abundant. Gazing about in making some preparations for passing the night in this place, he saw a light, and following it, he came to a house built below him on a ledge of rocks, and in an almost inaccessible position. He could see the interior of a large hall, where were gathered many hairy, shaggy-looking men, eating, drinking, and smoking. One old fellow, who seemed to be chief, was tormenting a young lady by trying to tear away her veil and expose her to the gaze of the barbarians assembled. Kil Tong could not stand this sight, and, taking a poisoned arrow, he sent it direct for the heart of the villain, but the distance was so great that he missed his mark sufficiently to only wound the arm. All were amazed, and in the confusion the girl escaped, and Kil Tong concealed himself for the night. He was seen next day by some of the savage band, who caught him, and demanded who he was and why he was found in the mountains. He answered that he was a physician, and had come up there to collect a certain rare medicine only known to exist in those mountains. The robbers seemed rejoiced, and explained that their chief had been wounded by an arrow from the clouds, and asked him if he could cure him. Kil Tong was taken in and allowed to examine the chief, when he agreed to cure him within three days. Hastily mixing up some of the fresh poison, he put it into the wound, and the chief died almost at once. Great was the uproar when the death became known. All rushed at the doctor, and would have killed him, but Kil Tong, finding his own powers inadequate, summoned to his aid his old friends the spirits (quay sin), and swords flashed in the air, striking off heads at every blow, and not ceasing till the whole band lay weltering in their own blood. Bursting open a door, Kil Tong saw two women sitting with covered faces, and supposing them to be of the same strange people, he was about to dispatch them on the spot, when one of them threw aside her veil and implored for mercy. Then it was that Kil Tong recognized the maiden whom he had rescued the previous evening. She was marvellously beautiful, and already he was deeply smitten with her maidenly charms. Her voice seemed like that of an angel of peace sent to quiet the hearts of rough men. As she modestly begged for her life, she told the story of her capture by the robbers, and how she had been dragged away to their den, and was only saved from insult by the interposition of some heavenly being, who had in pity smote the arm of her tormentor. Great was Kil Tong's joy at being able to explain his own part in the matter, and the maiden heart, already won by the manly beauty of her rescuer, now overflowed with gratitude and love. Remembering herself, however, she quickly veiled her face, but the mischief had been done; each had seen the other, and they could henceforth know no peace, except in each other's presence. The proclamations had made but little impression upon Kil Tong, and it was not till the lady had told her story that he remembered reading them. He at once took steps to remove the beautiful girl and her companion in distress, and not knowing but that other of the savages might return, he did not dare to make search for a chair and bearers, but mounting donkeys the little party set out for the home of the distressed parents, which they reached safely in due time. The father's delight knew no bounds. He was a subject of Korea's King, yet he possessed this island and ruled its people in his own right. And calling his subjects, he explained to them publicly the wonderful works of the stranger, to whom he betrothed his daughter, and to whom he gave his official position. The people indulged in all manner of gay festivities in honor of the return of the lost daughter of their chief; in respect to the bravery of Kil Tong; and to celebrate his advent as their ruler. In due season the marriage ceremonies were celebrated, and the impatient lovers were given to each other's embrace. Their lives were full of happiness and prosperity. Other outlying islands were united under Kil Tong's rule, and no desire or ambition remained ungratified. Yet there came a time when the husband grew sad, and tears swelled the heart of the young wife as she tried in vain to comfort him. He explained at last that he had a presentiment that his father was either dead or dying, and that it was his duty to go and mourn at the grave. With anguish at the thought of parting, the wife urged him to go. Taking a junk laden with handsome marble slabs for the grave and statuary to surround it, and followed by junks bearing three thousand bags of rice, he set out for the capital. Arriving, he cut off his hair, and repaired to his old home, where a servant admitted him on the supposition that he was a priest. He found his father was no more; but the body yet remained, because a suitable place could not be found for the burial. Thinking him to be a priest, Kil Tong was allowed to select the spot, and the burial took place with due ceremony. Then it was that the son revealed himself, and took his place with the mourners. The stone images and monuments were erected upon the nicely sodded grounds. Kil Tong sent the rice he had brought, to the government granaries in return for the King's loan to him, and regretted that mourning would prevent his paying his respects to his King; he set out for his home with his true mother and his father's legal wife. The latter did not survive long after the death of her husband, but the poor slave-mother of the bright boy was spared many years to enjoy the peace and quiet of her son's bright home, and to be ministered to by her dutiful, loving children and their numerous offspring. THE END. NOTES [1] This law has recently been repealed, owing to the fact that bad men often molested the women, who are usually possessed of costly jewels. The husbands are now allowed on the streets as a protection, since even the police were unable to suppress the outrages alone. [2] Cats are indeed rare in Korea, while dogs are as abundant as in Constantinople. [3] After reaching girlhood persons of respectability are not seen on the streets in Korea. 
41761	----	TRADITIONS AND HEARTHSIDE STORIES OF WEST CORNWALL. by WILLIAM BOTTRELL. "Legends that once were told or sung In many a smoky fireside nook." LONGFELLOW. With Illustrations by Mr. Joseph Blight. SECOND SERIES. Penzance: Printed, for the Author, by Beare and Son. 1873. (Right of Translation reserved.) "Of strange tradition many a mystic trace, Legend and vision, prophecy and sign." SCOTT. CONTENTS. PAGE Duffy and the Devil (an old Christmas Play) 1 Celtic Monuments of Boleigh and Rosemodrass 27 The last Cardews of Boskenna and the story of Nelly Wearne 36 The Witch of Buryan Church-town 59 Madam Noy and the Witch 63 A Queen's visit to Baranhuel 67 The Small People's Cow (a fairy tale) 73 Tom of Chyannor, the tin-streamer (a West Country droll) 77 The Fairy Dwelling on Selena Moor 94 The I'an's House of Treen 103 Castle Treen and its Legends 130 Traditions of Parcurnow 140 Legends of St. Levan 145 A Legend of Pargwarra 149 An' Pee Tregeer's trip to market on Hallan Eve (a fairy tale) 154 An Overseer and a Parish Clerk of St. Just, sixty years ago 169 The Fairy Master, or Bob o' the Carn 173 A Tinner's fireside stories.-- The Knockers of Ballowal 185 Old Songs and Nicknames 193 The Changeling of Brea-Vean (fairy tale) 199 Betty Stoggs's Baby (fairy tale) 205 How a Morvah man bought clothes for his wife 207 How a Zennor man choked himself, but had his will in his pocket 210 The Smugglers of Penrose 212 Tregagle at Gwenvor Cove 224 West Country Superstitions.-- Devil's Money 227 The Slighted Damsel of Gwinear 229 The Wreck of Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovel 231 A Night's Ride to Scilly 233 Ancient Bridal Customs 237 Ancient Rites at Madron Well 239 The Crick-stone, or Men-an-tol 242 Charms 243 The Fairy Tribes 245 The Pirate Wrecker and the Death-Ship 247 The sun never shines on those who have sworn away a life 249 A Legend of Pengersec 251 Notes, Illustrative Anecdotes, &c.-- Miracle Plays 268 The Levelis, or Lovells, of Trewoof 271 Duffy and the Devil 273 Pendrea and Baranhuel 274 Danes Marauding on the Cornish Coast, and King Olaf's Conversion at Scilly 274 St. Levan's Path 277 A Ghostly Ship's-Bell 277 Brea and Pendeen 278 Vellan-Dreath 279 The Men-an-Tol 280 The Garrack-zans 283 Divination by Rushes and Ivy-leaves 283 Recent Ill-wishing 284 Midsummer Bonfires 287 The Mermaid of Zennor 288 Glossary of Living Cornish Words and Local Terms 290 Index 293 Subscribers' Names 296 [Illustration: _Page 144._] STORIES AND TRADITIONS OF PENWITH. DUFFY AND THE DEVIL. AN OLD CHRISTMAS PLAY. _Part First._ Open your doors, and let me in, I hope your favours I shall win; Whether I rise, or whether I fall, I'll do my best to please you all. _Christmas Play of St. George and the Dragon._ Associated with Trove and the ancient family who lived, for many generations, in that pleasant place, there is a tradition that one old Squire Lovell wedded a poor girl solely because he believed her to be the best spinster and knitster in Buryan; but that all the fine stockings and other knitted garments with which she provided her husband were made by a devil. This droll formed the subject of an old Guise-dance (Christmas Play) which is all but forgotten: yet, in our youth, we have heard a few scenes rehearsed, which may be interesting as an example of a primitive drama of West Penwith, that may have succeeded, or been contemporary with, the miracle plays which, about three centuries ago, were acted in the Plan-an-gwarre, St. Just, and at the Church-town cross in most other western parishes. This uncouth piece shows something of the rude and simple humour of old times, when people were quite as innocent, though less fastidious, than in our days. Great part of the dialogue appears to have been improvised, as the actor's fancy dictated. Yet there were some portions in rude verse, which would seem to have been handed down with little variation. Mimical gesticulation expressed much of the story; and when there was unwonted delay in change of scene, or any hitch in acting, in came the hobby-horse and its licenced rider, to keep the mirth from flagging. This saucy jester being privileged to say whatever he pleased, kept the audience in good humour by filling up such intervals with burlesque speeches on any matters which had taken place during the past year, that furnished fit subjects for ridicule. A hall, farmhouse-kitchen, barn, or other out-house, served for a theatre, and a winnowing-sheet, suspended from key-beams or rafters, made a drop-curtain. Father Christmas, as chorus, described the scene, and told the company what characters the actors represented, unless they introduced themselves, as was frequently the case, like St. George, saying, "Here comes I, a champion bold," &c. He also narrated such parts as could not be acted conveniently. Our simple actors got up their dresses in as old-fashioned and smart a style as they were able to contrive them, by begging or borrowing cast-off finery from the gentry round. Male players were often seen rigged in long-waisted, gay-coloured coats, having their skirts spread out with straw, instead of buckram or bombast, and resplendent with brass or tin buttons, large as crown pieces, and long ruffles at their breasts and wrists; their breeches were of blue, red, or buff, slashed, puffed, and tricked out with ribbons, tassels, and knee-buckles. Their hose was of any bright hue, to make a strong contrast to the small clothes. High-heeled shoes were adorned with shining buckles or bows of ribbons. Yet their greatest pride was displayed in steeple-crowned or cocked hats, surmounted with plumes and decked with streamers of gay ribbons. Our rural actresses also wore steeple-crowns fixed high above their heads on pads; stiffen-bodied, long-waisted gowns, with bag skirts or long trains; ruffles hanging from their elbows, wide stiff ruffs round their necks; and any other remnants of old finery that they could contrive to get. It is somewhat curious that in this old guise-dance, or story about Madame Lovell and the devil, several ladies belonging to noted families who lived in Buryan, two or three centuries ago, are represented as bringing their corn to Trove Mill to be ground and as serging (bolting) their flour themselves. The names of Mesdames Cardew, Pender, Noy, Trezilian, &c., are taken by these ladies, whose gossip forms a kind of by-play. We now purpose to reproduce a few well-remembered scenes, as we have heard them related many years ago, by old folks of Buryan, and to simply tell the story as expressed by others. Yet, with a feeling somewhat akin to regret, we have curtailed some portions, in order to exclude whatever might, now, be regarded as indelicate: there is sufficient, however, preserved to carry on the story as far as it is likely to interest or amuse any but antiquarian students who might prefer, with all its blemishes, an unmutilated picture of such "merrie disports" as were usual at Christmas-tide with our simple-honest forefathers. Characters:-- SQUIRE LOVELL, _of Trove_. DUFFY, _a poor girl, who became Madame Lovell_. HUEY LENINE, _Duffy's lover_. JENNY CHYGWIN, _Duffy's stepmother_. A BUCKA-BOO, OR DEVIL. BETTY, _the witch of Trove Mill_. JONE, _Squire Lovell's housekeeper_. _Several ladies and gentlemen, and witches._ SCENE I.--Father Christmas, with long hoary hair and beard enters before the curtain, and says:--"Ladies and gentlemen,--Please to take it that we are in Buryan Church-town, in the cider-making time. Squire Lovell is come up to get help to gather in his apples. When the curtain rises you will see him at Jenny Chygwin's door." Curtain raised. Squire Lovell is seen on his horse (a hobby horse); an old woman and a young woman scolding within. SQUIRE:--"Hullo! in there! Jenny, what's all the caperrouse with you and the maid, I'd like to know?" DUFFY rushes out, and round the stage, followed by old Jenny, her stepmother, who beats the girl with the skirt or kirtle of her gown, saying, "I will break every bone in her body; the lazy hussy is all the time out courseying, and corantan, with the boys. She will neither boil the porridge, knit nor spin." DUFFY runs to the Squire, saying "Don't e believe her, your honour. I do all the work, whilst she is drunk from morning till night, and my spinning and knitting is the best in Church-town. Your stockings are nothing so fine as I can make." SQUIRE:--"Stop beating the maid, Jenny, and choaking one with dust from the skirt of thy old swing-tail gown. And, Duffy, as thou canst spin and knit so well, come down to Trove and help my old Jone, who is blind on one eye and can't see much with the other, as any one may know by looking at the bad darns in my stocking and patches on my breeches. Come away, on to the heaping-stock. Jump up: you can ride down behind me without pillion or pad." Squire rides off: Duffy follows. JENNY:--"Aye, go thee ways with the old bucca, and good riddance of bad rummage." (_Curtain drops._) SCENE II. AT SQUIRE LOVELL'S DOOR.--SQUIRE ON HORSEBACK: DUFFY STANDING BESIDE HIM. SQUIRE calls:--"Jone, come here and take in Duffy Chygwin, who is come down to help thee knit and spin, give her some bread and cheese, and beer: dost thou hear?" Squire rides off. JONE comes out, and says:--"Oh, Duffy, my dear, I am glad to see thee here, for I want help sorely ever since that villain, Tom Chynance, put out the sight of my eye because I seed his thievish tricks in stealing from the standings one night in Penzance." JONE tells us a long story which we omit, as it can be found in the first series of _Traditions and Hearth-side Stories of West Cornwall_.[1] She concludes by saying, "Now you needn't eat any bread and cheese, as dinner will be ready soon. You can go up to the loft whenever you please and card wool to spin in the afternoon." SCENE III.--A room in which are seen fleeces of wool, a turn (spinning-wheel) and other appliances for spinning. Duffy seated, carding and making rolls of wool, which were placed in a cayer (winnowing sieve.) Over a while she rises and exclaims:-- "Cuss the carding and spinning! What the devil shall I do now the wool is carded, for I can neither spin nor knit, and the devil take such work for me." From behind some wool comes a devil, in the shape of a black man, with half-cocked, squinting eyes, and the barbed or forked tip of his tail just seen below his coat skirts. DEVIL:--"My dear, here I am, come at your call, ready to do all you wish for very little pay. Only agree to go with me at the end of three long years, and for all that time I'll do your spinning and knitting and everything else you wish for, and even then, if you can tell me my name at three times asking, you may go or stay, till another time." DUFFY:--"Well, I don't mind much: anything for a change. What ded'e say you were called?" DEVIL, winking:--"You have only to prick your arm and draw blood to sign our agreement you know." DUFFY:--"My word is as good as my mark. Spin and knit for me if you will; and I'll have, that while, a courant in the orchard and a dance at the mill." In leaving, DUFFY says:--"Bolt the door, that no one may see who is doing the work." "Stop and let me take the measure of your foot," says the devil, in stringing the wheel as handy as if he had been used to spinning all his life. FATHER CHRISTMAS comes before the curtain and says:--"Good people, you see that Duffy wans't at all scared at the Bucca-boo's appearance, because in old times people were so much used to dealings with the devil--women especially--that they didn't mind him. Duffy is now gone off by the outer door and stair, to merrily pass the day; and old Jone, hearing a rumble all through the house, thinks her to be busy at work." Duffy passes a great part of her time at Trove Mill, near at hand; where a crowd of women high and low, meet to take their turn at grinding, serging, &c. Whilst some work others tell stories, sing, or dance on the green, near which grew many old oaks, sycamores, and elms, in a place still called the rookery, a little above. There was a great friendship between Duffy and Old Betty, who worked the mill, because this old dame, having long had strange dealings, saw at once, by a stocking Duffy pretended to be knitting, that a stitch was always down and that the work was none of hers. In the evening, Duffy hearing, when she came in, the devil still spinning, thought she would see him at work and try to learn something. Looking through the latch-hole she saw what she took to be a woman, seated, and spinning with a small treddle-turn such as is used for spinning thread, and the wool-turn (with a wheel as large as that of a coach) put aside. When she looked around she knew that it was only the devil dressed in clothes like what she wore. He had on a loose bed-gown, petticoat, and towser (large coarse apron or wrapper,) with a nackan (large 'kerchief) thrown loosely over his head and shoulders. As Duffy entered, he turned around and said, "How are'e, my dear? Here I am, you see, busy at work for'e. See what I've already spun," he continued, pointing to a heap of balls in the corner, and skeins of yarn hanging on the walls. She stood wondering, with eyes and mouth wide open, to see how handy the devil spun, and yet seemed to do nothing with his hands but pull off the yarn whilst his foot worked the treddle, and a ball dancing on the floor wound up itself! "Arreah! faix," said Duffy, "I should have taken 'e for a woman if I hadn't chanced to spy your cloven foot, and your tail hanging down, and I don't much admire 'e in petticoats." "There's good reason for wearing them, however," replied he; "besides, they are handy for such work, and if you will come here on Saturday night you will find, under that black fleece, ever so many pairs of stockings, both for you and the squire. I know his measure, and see if I don't well fit both of ye. So now good night." Before she could wish him the same he disappeared, and all the yarn of his spinning along with him, leaving nothing to show that he had ever been there but a strong smell of brimstone. Duffy didn't wait till dark night on Saturday, but went up to the wool-chamber about sunset. The Bucca-boo had just left work, and, having thrown off his petticoats, stood before her dressed like a sporting gentleman. He bowed as she entered and, handing her half-a-dozen pairs of stockings, all as strong as broadcloth and as fine as silk, said, "Excuse me, my dear, from staying a moment longer, as I must be away before Buryan bells are rung; else, some mishap may befall me." "I wish 'e well till I see 'e again, and thank 'e, Mr. What-shall-I-call-'e," said Duffy, taking the stockings from his hand. "You may call me captain," he replied, and vanished in a flash of lightning with a roar of thunder that shook the house. On Sunday morning, when Squire Lovell was getting ready to don his velvet suit, that he might ride to church in grand state, as was his wont, Duffy brought him a pair of stockings suitable for the occasion. "You see, master," said she, "that I havn't been idle, to spin and knit ye a pair of such long stockings in three days and the work so fine too." He put on the stockings, admired the beautiful knitting and good fit; then to show his delight at having such nice hose, the like of which were never on his legs before, he kissed Duffy again and again. It was late when he reached Church-town. After churching, he stopped, as usual, to exchange greetings with other gentry of Buryan. Everyone admired his fine stockings. The ladies enquired how and where he procured them, saying there was no one in the parish who could do such good work; one and all declared they were fit for a king. The fame of Squire Lovell's stockings drew crowds of people to Buryan church on the following Sunday. Old and young wanted to feel his legs. They couldn't be satisfied with looking, and so they continued to come from farther and farther, Sunday after Sunday. Church-town, for some weeks, was full of people like on a fair or feasten tide. [It will be understood that great part of the foregoing, as well as the narrative parts of what follows, is related by Father Christmas, in his character of Chorus. He enters into details about the devil's wonderful spinning with a turn (spinning-wheel) of his own invention, that took wool from the fleece, without carding, and passed it into the spinster's hands all ready for knitting or weaving. He also related many other surprising exploits of these sable gentry, such as their church-building in out-of-the-way places, like that of St. Levan, of their amiable intercourse with witches, &c. Thus, as fancy dictated, he entertained his audience until the curtain rose.] We next behold Squire Lovell's kitchen, with Jone, rather the worse for liquor, on a chimney-stool or bench in a broad and deep fire-place, such as used to be found in every West-country mansion, when wood and turf were the only fuel. She makes awful groans and screeches, till Duffy enters. Then Jone says "Oh Duffy, you can't think what cramps I have in my stomach and wind in my head, that's making it quite light. Help me over stairs to bed, and you wait up to give master his supper." The old housekeeper is led off by Duffy, who soon returns and seats herself on the chimney-stool. Then Huey Lenine enters and says:--"What cheer, Duffy, my dear? Now thee cus'nt (can'st not) say that the lanes are longer than the love, when I'm come to see thee with this rainy weather." "Joy of my heart," said she, "come by the fire and dry thyself." Huey sits on the outer end of the chimney-stool. After a long silence, the following dialogue takes place:-- DUFFY:--"Why dos'nt thee speak to me than, Huey?" HUEY:--"What shall I say than?" DUFFY:--"Say thee dos't love me, to be sure." HUEY:--"So I do." DUFFY:--"That's a dear.--Brave pretty waistcoat on to you, than, Huey." HUEY:--"Cost pretty money too." DUFFY:--"What ded a cost than?" HUEY:--"Two and twenty pence, buttons and all." DUFFY:--"Take care of an than." HUEY:--"So I will." DUFFY:--"That's a dear." Another prolonged silence. HUEY continues:--"I'm thinkan we will get married next turfey season if thee west (thou wilt.") DUFFY:--"Why doesn't thee sit a little nearer than?" HUEY:--"Near enough I bla (believe.") DUFFY:--"Nearer the fire, I mean. Well, I'll be married to thee any day, though thee art no beauty, to be sure." Huey gets a little nearer. DUFFY, putting her hand on his face, "Thy face is as rough as Morvah Downs, that was ploughed and never harved (harrowed) they say; but I'll have thee for all that and fill up with putty all the pock-mark pits and seams; then paint them over and make thee as pretty as a new wheelbarrow." The squire is heard outside calling his dogs. Duffy starts up in a fright, seizes a furze-prong, and says, "Master will be here in a minute, jump into the huccarner (wood-corner) and I'll cover thee up with the furze." Huey hesitates. DUFFY:--"Then crawl into the oven: a little more baking will make thee no worse." Huey gets into an oven, opening on to the fire-place and behind the chimney-stool, just as the Squire enters and calls out, "Jone, take up the pie, if its ready or raw. I'm as hungry as a hound." DUFFY, rising to uncover a pie that was baking on the hearth, says, "Master, I have staid up to give ye your supper, because An Jone es gone to bed very bad with a cramp in her stomach and wind in her head, so she said." "Why I heard thee talking when I came to the door, who was here then?" demanded the Squire. "Only a great owl, master dear," she replied, "that fell down from the ivy-bush growing over the chimney and perched hisself there on the stool, with his great goggle eyes, and stood staring at me and blinkan like a fool. Then he cried Hoo! hoo! Tu-wit, tu-woo; and, when you opened the door, he flew up the chimney the same way he came down." The Squire, satisfied with Duffy's explanation, advances, and puts his foot on the hearth-stone, looks at his legs, saying, "Duffy, my dear, these are the very best stockings I ever had in my life. I've been hunting all day, over moors and downs, through furze and thorns, among brambles and bogs, in the worst of weather, yet there isn't a scratch on my legs and they are as dry as if bound up in leather." The Devil (supposed to be invisible) rises behind Duffy and grimaces at the Squire. DUFFY:--"I may as well tell 'e master that I shan't knit much more for 'e, because Huey Lenine and I have been courtan for a long time. We are thinkan to get married before winter, and then I shall have a man of my own to work for." SQUIRE:--"What! Huey Lenine! I'll break every bone in his carcase if he shows his face near the place. Why the devil is in it that a young skit like thee should have it in thy head to get married! Now I'll sit down a minute and talk reason with thee." [The Squire sits close beside Duffy. The Devil tickles them with his tail. Huey is seen peeping from the oven.] SQUIRE:--"Give up thy courting with Huey Lenine, And I'll dress thee in silks and satins fine." DUFFY:--"No I'll never have an old man, an old man like you, Though you are Squire Lovell: To my sweetheart I'll be constant and true, Though he work all day with threshal and shovel." The Devil tickles the Squire behind the ears. He sits nearer and places his arm round her waist. SQUIRE:--"Thou shalt have a silk gown all broider'd in gold, Jewels and rings, with such other fine things In the old oak chest, as thee did'st never behold." DUFFY:--"My sweetheart is young, lively, and strong, With cheeks like a red rose; But your time will not be long:-- You have very few teeth, and a blue-topped nose. So keep your silks and keep your gold, I'll never have a man so feeble and old." Here the Devil tickles them both. The Squire hugs and kisses Duffy, who makes less and less resistance. SQUIRE:--"You shan't find me feeble, though I'm near sixty; I'm stronger still than many a man of twenty." DUFFY:--"Your only son is now far away. If he came home and found ye wed, What think ye he would say?" SQUIRE:--"I hope he is already dead, Or'll be kill'd in the wars some day, If alive he shan't enter my door, I'll give thee my land, with all my store, Thou shalt ride to church behind me upon a new pavillion, Smarter than Dame Pendar or Madam Trezillian." DUFFY:--"Dear master, hold your flattering tongue, Nor think to deceive one so simple and young; For I'm a poor maid, lowly born and bred; With one so humble you could never wed. Keep your distance, and none of your hugging; You shall kiss me no more till you take me to church. I'll never cry at Christmas for April fooling Like a poor maid left in the lurch. Look! the sand is all down and the pie burned black, With the crust too hard for your colt's-teeth to crack: So off to the hall and take your supper." Duffy rises, takes up from the hearth a pie, which had been baking there, goes out with it, followed by the Squire and Devil dancing. Huey crawls from the oven, saying "Lack a day who can tell, now, what to make of a she-thing?" By the time he gets on his legs Duffy returns, and, assisted by the devil pushes him to doors, saying, "Now betake thyself outside the door, Nor show thy black face here any more; Don't think I would wed a poor piljack like thee, When I may have a Squire of high degree." Duffy and the Devil dance till the Squire returns and joins in a three-handed reel, without seeing the Old One, who capers back into a dark corner at the pass of the dance, and comes close behind him at the pitch. _Curtain drops.--Thunder and lightning._ The scene changes to Trove Mill, where a long gossip takes place over the new "nine days' wonder" of Squire Lovell having wedded Duffy for the sake of her knitting. Some say she will behave like most beggars put on horseback, and all the women agreed that they would rather be a young man's slave, and work their fingers to stumps, than be doomed to pass a weary time beside such an old withered stock; they should wish him dead and no help for it. In the next, Duffy (now Madame Lovell) is beheld walking up and down her garden, or hall, decked out in a gown with a long train, hanging ruffles at her elbows, ruff of monstrous size round her neck, towering head-dress, high-heeled shoes, with bright buckles, earrings, necklace, fan, and all other accessories of old-fashioned finery. The bucca-boo is seen grinning, half-hidden, in the corner; whilst Madam walks she sings:-- "Now I have servants to come at my call, As I walk in grand state through my hall, Decked in silks and satins so fine: But I grieve through the day, And fret the long night away, Thinking of my true-love, young Huey Lenine. I weep through many a weary long hour, As I sit all alone in my bower, Where I do nothing but pine; Whilst I grieve all the day, And fret the long nights away, In dreaming of my true-love, young Huey Lenine. Would the devil but come at my call, And take the old Squire--silks, satins, and all, With jewels and rings so fine; Then, merry and gay, I'd work through the day, And cheerily pass the nights away, Kissing my true-love, young Huey Lenine." [Illustration] [1] One-eyed Joan's Tale, _p._ 213. DUFFY AND THE DEVIL. _Part Second._ "Refinement, too, that smoothens all O'er which it in the world hath pass'd, Has been extended in its call, And reach'd the devil, too, at last. That Northern Phantom found no more can be, Horns, tail, and claws, we now no longer see. * * * * * But with your like, when we the name can learn, Your nature too we commonly discern." GOETHE'S _Faust_. _Filimore's Translation._ In a mill scene, after the Squire's marriage, there is a long dialogue, in rhyme, on "the cruel miseries to be endured" by both husband and wife, "when a young maid is wedded to an old man." This can not be given because much of it would now be regarded as indelicate. In another scene, the Squire's man Jack, and Huey Lenine, discuss the same subject. This is also inadmissible for the same reason. We are reluctant to dismember this old piece, even by so much as may be deemed necessary by persons of fastidious taste, because students of ancient manners would doubtless prefer an unpruned version. We shall give the remainder of the story as it may be gathered from the play, without dividing it into scenes. And indeed great part of it, for want of convenience in acting, was often recited by Father Christmas, in his character of Chorus. We also omit the mill scenes, as they afforded a kind of by-play, that had little or nothing to do with the main story. Whenever time was required for the principle personages to get ready, a bevy of women were brought on to gossip about old times and the past year's events, or they told stories, danced, or sung until their turn came to "serge their flour," (bolt their meal.) Duffy complaind to the kind old witch that she was very dissatisfied with her aged spouse. The old crone advised her to have patience and well feather her nest, that she might secure a youthful successor to Squire Lovell, who was'nt likely to trouble her long. Notwithstanding Madam's griefs, she kept the Bucca-boo to his work, so that all her chests and presses were filled with stockings, blankets, yarn and home-spun cloth; and her husband was clad, from top to toe, in devil-made garments. Squire Lovell, as was his wont, being away hunting every week-day, from dawn till dark, and the housekeeper and other servants hearing a constant rumbling throughout the house like the noise of a spinning-wheel, only varied by the clicking of cards, thought their mistress busy at work, when she spent great part of her time at the mill. The stocking that Duffy made out to be knitting, but never finished, had always a stitch down. By that old Betty suspected her of having strange dealings as well as herself. Though the time seemed long and wearisome to Madam, the term for which the devil engaged to serve her drew near its end: yet she was ignorant as ever of his true name, and gave herself but little concern on that account, thinking it might be just as well to go with a devil, who was so very obliging, as to remain with old Squire Lovell; for all the time this Bucca-boo became, as it were, her slave, he was well-behaved and never gave her the least reason to complain of his conduct. Yet when she walked through Trove orchards, and saw the apple-trees weighed down with ripe fruit, she had some misgivings, lest her next abode might be less pleasant than Trove, besides, she thought that the devil, like most men, might be very civil in courtship but behave himself quite otherwise when he had her in his power. Madam being much perplexed made her troubles known to Betty, the witch, who, cunning woman as she was, had'nt found out the particulars of the bargain. She was'nt much surprised, however, when Duffy told her, because she knew that women and devils were capable of doing extraordinary things. Betty was somewhat troubled, but not much; for in old times, white-witches could perform almost incredible feats, by having devils and other spirits under their command. So, after twirling her thumbs a minute, and thinking what to do, she said, "Duffy, my dear, cheer up! I would'nt like for 'e to be taken away before me. Now do what I advise 'e, and it is much to me if we don't find 'e a way to fool this young devil yet, he is but a green one. So, to-morrow evening, soon after sunset, bring me down a black jack of your oldest and strongest beer. But before that, be sure you get the Squire to go hare-hunting. Fool him with the old story, or any thing else to make him go. Wait up till he comes back, and note well what he may say. Go 'e home now: ask me no questions; but mind and do what I have told 'e!" Next morning, the Squire noticed that his wife ate no breakfast, and, at dinner, observing that she seemed very sour and sad, and appeared to loath everything on the board, he said, "My dear wife, how is it that you have been so melancholy of late? What is the matter with 'e? Don't I do as much to comfort 'e as any man can? If there's anything to be had, for love or money, you shall have it. You don't appear to have much appetite, honey; what would 'e like to eat?" "I could just pick the head of a hare, if I had it," she replied; "I am longing for hare-pie; but you have been so busy about the harvest that we havn't had one for weeks, and I'm feeling so queer that have one I must or the consequences will be awful to the babe unborn, and to you as well." "You know dear," said the Squire, "that harvest is late. We have still much corn to get into the mowhay. Besides, it's full time that all should be ready for cider-making. I would do my best to catch a hare if that would please ye," he continued, over a bit; "but dont 'e think that the old story about the child, that according to your fancy has been coming to and again for the last three years, is ever going to fool me to the neglect of corn and apples." "Hard-hearted, unbelieving wretch," replied she, "you don't deserve to be the father of my child. Know, to your shame, that innocent virgins, when first wedded are often deceived with false hopes. Now would 'e have our cheeld disfigured for the sake of such little good as you are among the harvest people? An old man's bantling," she continued, "is mostly a wisht and wizened-looking object! Would 'e like to see ours with a face like a hare besides an ugly nose, and a mouth from ear to ear? Go, do, like a dear, and stay my longing; but in the evening, after croust (afternoon refreshment), will be time enow for 'e to start, that we may have one for dinner to-morrow." With coaxing, scolding, and hopes of paternal joys, she, at length prevailed. Soon after the Squire and his dogs were out of sight, Duffy drew about a gallon of beer, that was many years old, into a strong leather jack, made small at the mouth like a jar, for convenience in carrying, and took it down to the mill. Betty, after trying the liquor, said it would do, and told Duffy to go home, make the devil work till dark, wait up for her husband, and keep her ears open to all he might say. When nearly dark and a few stars glimmered, Betty turned the water from the mill-wheel and closed the flushet. Then, having donned her steeple-crowned hat and red cloak, she fastened the jack of beer to one end of a "giss" (hempen girth), and her "crowd" to the other, slung them across her shoulder, under her cloak, took a black-thorn stick, closed her door, and away she went over the hill. She went up the "Bottom" (glen) between Trove and Boleigh, till she passed the Fuggo Hole, and there, amongst the thickets, she disappeared! All this Bottom was well-wooded, and the upper part thickly covered with hazel, thorn, and elder; and a tangled undergrowth of briars, brambles, and furze, surrounded a wood called the Grambler Grove. Few persons liked to pass near this place, because strange noises were heard, and fires often seen within it by night, when no one would venture near the place. Duffy waited up many hours after the servants had gone to bed, in great impatience for her husband's return. Her fears and doubts increasing, she remained seated in the kitchen chimney-corner, attending to a pie on the hearth; that it might be kept hot for the Squire's supper. It came into her head at times, as a kind of forlorn hope, that the crafty old witch might somehow get the Devil to take her husband instead of herself. About midnight, however, her uneasy musings were interrupted by the dogs rushing in, followed by Squire Lovell, who seemed like one distracted, by the way he capered about and talked in broken sentences, of which his wife could make neither head nor tail. Sometimes he would caper round the kitchen, singing snatches of a strange dancing-tune; then stop, try to recollect the rest, and dance till tired out. At last the Squire sat down and told his wife to bring him a flagon of cider. After draining it, he became more tranquil, and, when Duffy asked if he had caught a hare, he answered, "I've seen queer sights to-night, and the damn'd hare--as fine a one as ever was chased--most in the dogs' mouths all the while. We coursed her for miles, yet they couldn't catch her at all." Then he burst out singing, "To-morrow, my fair lady, You shall ride along with me, Over land and over sea, Through the air and far away!" O! the funny devil! How he tossed up his heels and tail when he danced and sang, "'To strange countries you shall go, For never here can you know.' "I've forgotten the rest," said he, after a pause; "but give me supper, and fill the tankard again. Then I will begin at the beginning, and tell 'e all about the strange things I've seen to-night. I wish you had been there; it would have made ye laugh, though I havn't seen 'e so much as smile for a long time. But give me supper, I tell thee again, and don't stay gaping at me like a fool frightened! Then, and not before, I'll tell thee all about our uncommon chase, and we will ride 'Over land, and over sea, with the jolly devil, far away, far away!'" Duffy placed a pie on the board and helped the Squire. After supper he came more to himself, and said, "We hunted all the way down, both sides of the Bottom, from Trove to Lamorna without seeing a hare. It was then dark, but for the starlight: we turned to come home, and, up by Bosava, out popped a hare, from a brake of ferns close beside the water. She (the hare) took up the moors; we followed close after, through bogs, furze, and brambles, helter-skelter, amongst mire and water. For miles we chased her--the finest hare that ever was seen, most in the dogs' mouths all the way, yet they couldn't catch her at all. By the starlight we had her in sight all the way till far up the Bottom, between Trove and Boleigh; there we lost all sight and scent of her at last, but not till, tearing through brakes of brambles and thorns, we found ourselves in the Grambler Grove. And now," continued he, after a pull from the flagon, "I know for certain that what old folks say is true--how witches meet the Devil there of summer's nights. In winter they assemble in the Fuggo Hole, we all know; because one may then often hear the devil piping for their dance under our parlour floor--that's right over the inner end of the Fuggo. And now I believe what we took for a hare was a witch that we chased into this haunted wood. Looking through the thickets I spied, on a bare spot, surrounded by old withered oaks, a glimmering flame rising through clouds of smoke. The dogs skulked back and stood around me like things scared. Getting nearer, and looking through an opening, I saw scores of women--some old and ugly, others young and passable enow as far as looks go. Most of them were busy gathering withered ferns or dry sticks, to the fire. I noted, too, that other witches, if one might judge by their dress, were constantly arriving--flying in over the trees, some mounted on ragworts, brooms, ladles, furze-pikes, or anything they could get astride of. Others came on through the smoke as comfortable as you please, sitting on three-legged stools; and alighted by the fire, with their black cats on their laps. Many came in through the thickets like hares, made a spring through the flame, and came out of it as decent lasses as one might see in Buryan Church of a holiday. A good large bonfire soon blazed up; then, by its light, I saw, a little way back sitting under a tree, who should 'e think? Why no less than old witch Bet, of the Mill. And by her side a strapping dark-faced fellow, that wasn't bad looking and that one wouldn't take to be a devil at all but for the company he was with, and the sight of his forked tail that just peeped out from under his coat-skirts. Every now and then Old Bet held to his mouth a black leather jack, much like ours, and the Devil seemed to like the liquor by the way he smacked his lips. Now said I to myself I don't much dislike nor fear thee, devil or no, as thee art so honest as to drink hearty. So here's to thee, wife!" Duffy was very impatient, but took care not to interrupt the Squire. After draining the flagon, he continued to say, "Faix, I should think the Devil got drunk at last by the way he capered when the witches, locked hand-in-hand, danced round the fire with him in their midst. They went round and round so fast one couldn't follow their movements as Betty beat up on her crowd the old tune of 'Here's to the Devil, with his wooden spade and shovel, Digging tin by the bushel, with his tail cocked up.'" "Over a while Old Bet stopped playing; the Devil went up to her, drained the jack, took from her the crowd, and sang a dancing-tune I never heard before. The words, if I remember right were, 'I have knit and spun for her Three years to the day, To-morrow she shall ride with me, Over land and over sea, Far away! Far away! For she can never know That my name is Tarraway!'" "The witches then sung as a chorus, 'By night and by day We will dance and play, With our noble captain-- Tarraway! Tarraway!'" "I thought the words odd for a dancing-tune, but devils and witches do queer things." "The witches, locked hand-in-hand, danced madder and faster, pulled each other right through the fire, and they wern't so much as singed, the bitches. They spun round and round so fast that at last, especially when the Devil joined in, my head got light. I wanted to dance with them and called out as I advanced, 'Hurra! my merry Devil, and witches all!' In an instant, quick as lightning, the music stopped, out went the fire, a blast of wind swept away umers (embers) and ashes, a cloud of dust and fire came in my eyes and nearly blinded me. When I again looked up they had all vanished. By good luck I found my way out of the wood and home. I'll have another hunt to-morrow and hope for better luck." The Squire drank another flagon of ale; then, weighed down with fatigue and drink, he rolled from his seat on to the floor. Duffy covered him up. He often passed his nights thus, when too drunk to go over stairs. As she threw over him a rug, and kicked a pile of rushes from the floor, in under his head, he murmured, "To-morrow, we will ride over land and over sea, through the air and faraway!" It was hours after sunrise when Squire Lovell awoke and found his wife sitting near him; but she didn't say a word about his going a-hunting; in fact she would rather not be left in the house alone, or with servants only. Late in the afternoon, however, he whistled to his dogs and away he went a hunting again. As he had a mind to see, by daylight, the ground he coursed over, and where the witches danced, he took his way towards the Grambler Wood. Now Duffy hadn't been upstairs for all that day, but, a little after sunset, she went up to the guest-chamber, as a large spare bed-room was called, to fetch something she much wanted. She took the garment from a hanging-press, and hastened to leave the chamber, but, when she passed round the bed she beheld the bucca-boo, standing before her, in the doorway. She never saw him looking so well, nor so sprucely dressed, before. From beneath a broad-brimmed hat and plume his coal-black hair fell in glossy curls on his shoulders. He wore a buff coat of fine leather, with skirts so long and full that they quite concealed his forked tail, or he might have coiled it round his waist for what we know, any how there wasn't so much as the tip of it to be seen. Madam surveyed him, over and over again, from the golden spurs on his bright black riding-boots to the nodding plume on his high pointed hat, and thought she had never seen a more likely-looking fellow. Yet she was speechless from fear or surprise. The devil, advancing with stately step, doffed his hat, and bowing, said in courteous tones, "Know, fair lady, the time is passed and some hours over that I engaged myself to work for ye, and I hope that you have no reluctance to fulfil your part of our agreement." "Indeed no," said she, "I can't say I have much objection as you are a very well-behaved obliging devil, and, during the three years that I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, you have given me no reason to complain of your conduct. Yet," continued she, after a moment's pause, "I'd like to know where you live when at home, and what sort of a country it is? I fear it may be rather hot, as you seem to be burnt very dark!" "As to where my country is," replied he, "You wouldn't be much the wiser if I told 'e all about it, because you have hitherto seen so little of the world, and there would be great difficulty in making 'e understand. As a proof, however, that my country's climate isn't much to be complained of, you see me strong and healthy enow; besides, I'm not so dark-skinned under my clothes; and, if you were burned as black as myself, I would love ye all the same." "I can't quite make up my mind," said she, "though no doubt you would please me as well, and make a better husband than Squire Lovell, who, if he isn't drunk, snores all night with his face to the wall. If I went how would 'e convey me to your far country?" "I have brought to the Grambler Grove a noble steed," he replied, "that will go over land and sea, or fly through the air with lightning speed. Now do make haste, dear, and get ye ready for my horse is very impatient to be left alone; he may whistle for me and shake down the chimney-tops, or paw the ground and make all the country tremble; yet he is as gentle as a lamb when mounted. So come along as you are; there's no time for delay," said he, offering his hand. "If you please," said madam, shrinking back, "I would like to stay in Trove a little longer." "Now, no nonsense," said the devil, in an angry tone; "You know that I have been true to my word, as every gentleman ought, and trust you will abide by our bargain: and as for your knowing my name," added he, with a haughty air, "that's impossible, because it is long since that I, like other persons of quality, have only been known by my title, and even that is not familiar to vulgar ears." Assuming his ordinary courteous manner, he said, "Yet, my love, for mere form's sake I'll ask 'e three times if ye like! Besides, I'm curious to know what sort of a guess you will make at it. So now, for the first time asking, tell me if you can, what is my name?" "My dear Mr. Devil," said she, "don't 'e take offence if I happen to misname ye in my ignorance. Now arn't 'e my lord Beelzebub!" "No! be d----," replied he, choaking with anger, "how could ye even think me such a mean, upstart devil as Beelzebub, whose name isn't known in the place where I belong; and, even here, among those best acquainted with him, nobody ever heard of his grandfather! Now I hear my horse shaking his bridle and, for the second time, I ask ye my name?" "Pray excuse my ignorance and don't 'e be vexed," said she, "for I don't doubt but you are a grand gentleman when at home and no other, I think, than Prince Lucifer!" "What? Lucifer!" he exclaimed, more than ever enraged; "you make me mad but to think that I should ever be taken for one of such a mean tribe as Lucifer, who is no better than the other. As for me, I wouldn't be seen in their company. None of their family were ever known or heard of in this country till lately. Great indeed is your want of sense," continued he, with a scornful air, "to take me for one of these upstarts. Yet, forsooth, many fools--if one may judge by their fears--seem to reverence them; nay almost to worship them. But crafty folks, who profit by fools' fears, havn't a good word to say of these new buccas behind their backs, nor yet of their country; for that, they say, is full of burning brimstone, and one may well believe it, for when any of the tribe come here they stink of sulphur. But one like you--born and bred in Buryan Church-town--can't have any notion of the antiquity and dignity of my family! If you hadn't been the loveliest of Buryan ladies I would never have condescended to spin for 'e. And now, for the third and last time, I ask what is my name?" On the same breath he added, "come! Give me your hand love, and let's away, for you can never guess it." Duffy didn't feel much reluctance to go with him, yet was proud to outwit the devil and answered, "Don't 'e be in such a hurry, old gentleman, Buryan people mayn't be so ignorant as you think them; they live near enow to St. Levan witches to know something of devils and their dealings. YOU ARE TARRAWAY--you won't deny it!" "No, by my tail," said he, almost speechless with surprise; "I am too proud of my ancient name to disown it. I'm fairly beaten; it's provoking though to be outwitted by a young thing like you, and I can't think however you found it out. But true as I'm a gentleman, if you don't go with me now, the time will come when you'll wish you had, and one day you shall spin for me yet." Duffy shrunk back, and, in a moment, thick smoke gathered around Tarraway; the room became dark; and he disappeared amidst a blaze of lightning and a rattling peal of thunder, that shook the house from end to end. Duffy, much frightened, ran down stairs, and, as she entered the hall, in tore old Jone, terrified out of her wits by the kitchen chimney-top rattling down on the hearth where pots, kettles, and pans were all smashed. Their dread was much increased by finding throughout the house a smother of burning wool. Other women servants ran shrieking into the hall. Old Jone said she felt a fit coming on; whilst she looked about for a place to fall down and have her fit comfortable; into their midst rushed the Squire, with nothing on but his hat, shirt, and shoes. At this sight all the women have fits; the Squire stands for some time, looking on, like one distraught, till the women come to; all rise and run out except his wife; she asked him how he came home in such a plight, and where he had left his clothes. The Squire told her that when he came to the Grambler he had a fancy to see by daylight the place where Old Nick and his witches had their dance the preceding night. He entered and searched all round--over bare places, between the trees, and elsewhere, but saw no signs of any fire having been made in the wood; there wasn't even a handful of ashes, or the grass so much as burnt on the spot where he was sure he saw a bonfire blazing the night before. He turned to leave this haunted place, by taking his course down the Bottom, but, when he was just out of the wood, a blinding flash of lightning surrounded him like a sheet of flame, whilst he was stunned by louder thunder than he ever heard before. When he recovered his senses and opened his eyes he found that all his home-spun woollen garments were burned from his breech and his back, leaving him as he then stood. He believed it was all done by witchcraft, because he saw their devilish doings. He told his wife to fetch him a coat, stockings, and breeches. Duffy, disliking to go upstairs alone, called Jone to accompany her, and great was her terror to find that every article of Tarraway's work had disappeared from chests and presses--nothing was left in them but Squire Lovell's old moth-eaten garments covered with dust and ashes. He was very dissatisfied with his old clothes, but there was no help for it. As clever a conjuror, or pellar, as any in the west country was fetched. He declared that it was all exactly as Squire Lovell thought--the devil and witches had served him out because he wanted to pry into their doings, and had chased one of them in the form of a hare. The wise man nailed old horse-shoes over the doors, and promised, for little pay in proportion to his services, that he would take Trove and the Squire's household under his protection, so that they need fear no more mischief from witchcraft, nor bad luck. Madam, by the witch's aid, had a happy riddance of Tarraway, yet greater troubles were in store for her. Squire Lovell, disliking to be seen again wearing his old stockings, would neither go to church nor to market, and instead of hunting, as was his wont, from dawn till dark, he stayed indoors all day, in a very surly mood, to keep his wife at her spinning; and she knew no more how to spin than when she summoned the bucca-boo to work for her. The Squire having forbade Betty the witch to come near his house, Duffy had little chance to see her; but one Thursday evening when he was off guard--up to the blacksmith's shop in Boleigh, to hear the news from returning market-people, as was his custom--Duffy hastened off to Mill and made known her troubles, and the next market-day Betty went to Penzance and bought the best stockings she could get. On Sunday morning Duffy brought them to her husband and passed them off as her own work; but he wasn't at all satisfied, because they wern't so fine and soft as what he had been accustomed to for three years. He wouldn't go to church in them; he went a-hunting, however, and returned very cross, for his new stockings didn't protect his legs from brambles, furze and wet, like Tarraway's. He again staid indoors to keep his wife to spin, and Madam was obliged to twirl her wheel all day though she only spoiled the wool, for unless he heard the sound of turn or cards, he would be up to the wool-chamber door calling out, "art thee asleep Duffy, lazy slut that thee art, I havn't heard cards nor turn for an hour or more, and unless thou very soon makest me better stockings than the rags on my legs, and a good breeches too, I'll know the reason why, that I will, you lazy faggot you, what the devil else did I marry thee for I'd like to know." She would threaten to card his face if he entered, so they led a cat and dog life for months, that seemed years to Duffy, shut up as she was in a dusty wool-loft and not a soul to comfort her or to share her griefs. Her spirits sunk and her beauty faded fast, she thought it had been better by far to have gone with the devil, than lead such an irksome life with old Squire Lovell. Often she prayed Tarraway to come for her, but he turned a deaf ear to her cry, and was never more seen in Trove. By good luck, when winter and muddy roads came, the Squire took it into his head one Sunday morning to don his jack-boots and jog off to church, that he might learn what was going on in the rest of the world. It was the Sunday before Christmas. He wished his wife to mount behind him, but she, pretending illness, begged to be excused and said she would be glad to accompany him next time. Madam watched her good man spurring his Dobbin till he was clear of Trove town-place, then down she ran to Mill and told old Betty that unless she got a speedy release from her irksome task she would drown herself in the mill-pool. Bet sat a moment on the mill-bed, twirling her thumbs so quick that one could hardly see them spinning round each other, and said, "No, my dear cheeld, dont 'e think of such a thing yet, young and handsome as you are it would be a pity, let's try a scheme that I've thought of, a woman never should despair of finding a trick to fool an old man, and if need be the old witch will stir her stumps and trot again to help 'e, if one plan don't serve we'll try another, for as the old saying is 'nobody ever got out of a ditch by grunting,' what's just popped into my head may answer!" "Do tell me what it is," said Madam. "No, there's no time now," Betty replied. "You have wasted so much already in bemoaning your griefs instead of thinking how to get rid of them, like a sensible body ought, that old master will soon be back from church, and he musn't know that you have been here, so only mind now what I am going to tell 'e." "Next Saturday, being Christmas-Day, the Squire will no doubt go to church and desire you to go with him; by all means go, and when, as usual after churching, you stop at the cross to exchange greetings with other gentry, I'll come near enow for 'e to hail me with 'A Merry Christmas to 'e An Betty, and a Happy New Year when a do come.' I shall wish 'e the same, and you invite me, before the Squire, to come up in the evening to taste your Christmas beer. And in the afternoon when, according to custom, there will be a hurling match from Church-town to Boleigh, the Squire and you, with scores of gentlefolks, on horseback and afoot, will be near the goal to see the ball brought fairly in, and to hinder fighting; then look 'e out for me, give your kindest greetings again, and don't 'e be surprised at anything you may hear and see, or if you be don't 'e show it, and invite me again to partake of your Christmas cheer. That's all I have to tell 'e now," said she, opening her door for Duffy to depart, but going a few steps on the Green she continued, "It don't cost 'e any pain, no not a bit, to speak kindly to a poor body now any more than before you became Madam Lovell, and as good a lady as the best in Buryan, for you are no ways vain; but if you had ever shown any scornful pride be assured I would never have gone a trotting for 'e, nor do what I intend, to get 'e relieved of your troubles: besides it isn't your fault that you can neither knit nor spin, you never had a kind mammy to teach 'e. And no one can blame ye for deceiving old Squire Lovell--lying and deceit come to us poor women by nature--so hasten home, leave the rest to me, and hope for better times." Madam got home just in time to see that dinner was ready, when her husband returned in a good temper after his morning's ride. "Duffy, my dear," said he, as she assisted him to pull off his boots, "I wish you had gone to church, everybody was enquiring for 'e, and asking what was become of us this long time that they hadn't seen sight nor sign of us. And some of the women--cuss their itching curiosity they can never be satisfied--wanted to roll down my boot-tops and undo my knee-buckles that they might have a peep at my stockings. But on Christmas-Day come ye along with me, they won't be so foarthing if you be there." Duffy replied, "my darling man, I'll go with all my heart and see if they carry their impudence so far again, and now dear, make a hearty dinner, and tell me all the news you have heard." Christmas-Day in the morning, Duffy, as richly attired as any lady in Buryan, mounted on a pillion behind her husband, and away they went to church. After service, a great number assembled at the Cross and sung old charols. Squire and Madam Lovell exchanged many kindly compliments with the Cardews, Harveys, Noys, Penders, Vivians, Gwennaps, and other ancient gentry of Buryan, who were waiting for their steeds. Whilst wishing her neighbours a Merry Christmas Madam Lovell had kept a sharp look out for old Betty; but had nearly given up all hopes of seeing her, and was about to mount behind the Squire, when glancing around for the last time she spied her steeple-crown and red mantle among the crowd of singers, through whom she had great trouble to lead her fat and lazy Dobbin to the heaving-stock. Madam went to meet her, shook hands heartily and said, "good morrow to 'e Dame Chymellan, how are 'e an; I am glad to see ye looking so well and wish 'e a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and many of them. I hope you liked the sermon and the singing, and so on;"--we can't tell all the fine compliments that passed so long ago. "Thank your honour, and I wish 'e the same," the old dame replied, making a low curtsey to Duffy. Then turning round to other gentlefolks, she continued to wish all their honours--as she styled them--the compliments of the tide, calling each by name as she curtsied to every one. Now there was nothing remarkable in An Betty's civil words; but as she stood close beside the Squire, who was on horseback, and bestowed her old-fashioned greetings at every curtsey, an unseemly noise was heard. Squire Lovell got vex't, the ladies looked confused, glanced at him and rode off. Betty, however, without appearing to hear or to heed anything, mounted the heaving-stock, settled herself comfortably on her high-peaked bow-pad, and jogged away with Dame Pendar; Squire Lovell and others going the same road. At parting Duffy said to her, "now be sure An Betty you come up early to try our Christmas-cake and ale." "Thank your honours I will," replied she, in turning off to the Mill. It was customary for the Squire's tenants, and all who choose, to assemble at his house every night from Christmas-Eve till twelfth-night, to freely partake of his abundant cheer and help in the merry disports of the tide; yet he wasn't at all pleased because his wife invited the old dame. "I should'nt have minded her coming at any other time," said he, "but to-day a good many from the hurling will come home with us and pass the evening; I hope however, she will be on her best behaviour before the quality: to be sure one don't like to offend the spiteful old witch for fear of her tricks." In the afternoon Squire Lovell and his wife, with many others--mostly on horseback--were got together near Daunce-Mayn when old Betty stalked in to their midst, and just such another scene was acted there as took place in Church-town. Many who came from a distance went down to Trove to pass a merry Christmas night. A score or more of ladies and gentlemen, seated in the hall, pledged each other in hot-spiced-ale, brandy, punch, and wine, when Betty, Jone and others entered, holding aloft their horns of foaming liquor. The Squire fearing another display of Betty's unbecoming behaviour, rose in haste to prevent her drinking their healths with all the honours. "Stay a moment An Betty," said he, "come into the kitchen, I must tell 'e that twice already to-day you have made me ashamed of 'e, how could 'e do so and show so little respect for the company both in Church-town and Boleigh?" "O dear master, you musn't mind such a trifle as that," replied she, without budging an inch, "for it will soon be all the same with madam there, your honour's wife, if you keep her to spin so much, she won't be able to help it for her life. You may look scared and misbelieving, but indeed she won't; no! no more than I can whenever I move quick, or curtsey to your honours as I am, in duty, bound to do; and if your honours would like to hear how it happened to me I'll tell 'e." Many of the company having intimated that they would like to hear how she became in such a condition, Squire Lovell placed her in a settle near the hearth, she emptied her horn and gave the following relation:-- "Know then, your honours, that in my first husband's time,--more than thirty years ago,--we lived at Trevider. I did out-door work and helped old mistress besides, when there was extra house work, such as great brewings, cheese-making, the baking and roasting at feasten-tides, spinning for the weavers, besides the regular spinning of winter's nights, and such like. Though I say it, there wasn't a brisker lass in Buryan than I was then; just like mistress there, your honour's wife. There was no woman and but few men that could beat me in shaking liners (threshed wheaten sheaves), leading trusses, branding turves, raking tabs (roots, grass, &c.), reaping, rulling, aye, or binding either on a push; and I could make an arish mow as well as any man. Old master used to say that at the windan-sheet (winnowing-sheet), there wasn't my equal in the parish for handling the sieve and kayer (coarse sieve), and that I made a better sample of corn, and not half so much after-winding and waste, as any other windster he ever met with; but I needn't blow my trumpet any more on that score. My old mistress, Madam Pendar, was a noted spinster, as you may have heard, and of winter's-nights she, with her servant maidens and I, took our places at the turns (spinning wheels); master and the servant men carded and sung three-men's songs or told old drolls the while. My spinning-work was soon equal to Madam Pendar's though she would never allow it; but my yarn was strong, even, and fine, just like your honour's wife's," said Bet, addressing Squire Lovell to fasten his attention. "And often I was kept spinning all day for days running, just like mistress there. But one Christmas night every body belonging to Trevider, young and old, went off in a Guise-dance, except old mistress and I. 'Now they are all gone, Betty,' said she, 'and left us all alone, see if we don't enjoy ourselves.' Mistress drew a good joram (jug) of strong old ale, boiled, sweetened, and spiced it whilst I roasted the apples; we brewed a drink fit for a king; for hours we pledged each other's good health and drank to our heart's content. Over a while mistress began to brag of her spinning, she was proud of her work and so was I of mine, just like your honour's wife. I shall ever remember that Christmas-night and how cherry the old hall looked with the Christmas-log burning bright, and faggots of oak and ash blazing up the chimney, showed every window, dresser and wall decked in holly, box, and ivey; with branches of bays and rosemary around the pewter flaggons, plates, and platters, that shone like silver among the Christmas greenery. Old mistress boasted much of her spinning, and wager'd a bottle of brandy--which she placed on the board--that she would spin a pound of wool in a shorter time, and make a finer yarn than I could. I took her to her word, rolled up the rushes from the floor, to make a clear run all the length of the hall, and placed our turns, while mistress weighed and carded the wool, divided the rulls, and gave me my choice of them. When all was ready, to cheer our hearts and put life in our heels, we each drank a noggin of brandy. Then I tripped backward and forward as light as a feather, and for more than three hours we twirled our wheels by the bright fire-light, keeping good time together. My yarn was suant (even) and fine as a flaxen thread; just like that spun by my lady there, your honour's wife, and I was then about her age. I had nearly spun my pound of wool, and never felt in better heart for dancing to the turn, when, as bad luck would have it, my twadling-string--weakened with so much stepping backwards--burst. I fell to the ground, and ever since I've been in the sad predicament that so surprised your honours. Though it's comforting to have companions in affliction," said she, after a pull at the flaggon, "yet from the regard I have for your honour and mistress there, I have spoke of my ailment to warn 'e that as sure as I sit here with a broken twadling-string it will soon be the same with my lady there, if it's true, what I do hear, that you keep her to spin from morn till night most every day of the year. When that do happen you will be frighten'd into fits; old mistress was so scared that she nearly lost her senses, she thought the house falling about her ears, to save herself she snatched the bottle and tore up stairs; next day she was found asleep under a bed with the empty bottle close by her head." Old Betty's story rather surprised the company, and Squire Lovell, much concerned, said "I'm glad you told me An Betty, now drink another horn full like a dear; I wouldn't for the world that my darling Duffy should be in such a plight, nevermore shall she spin from this very night. I would go bare leg'd all my life, rather than such a mishap should befall my wife." The entertainment concludes with a dance, to music made by Father Christmas on a crowd. [Illustration] CELTIC MONUMENTS OF BOLEIGH AND ROSEMODRASS. Dear land of old romance, Legend and mystic dance; Lost towns and temples, and that buried shore Where thy great hero fought his last sad fight, Cromlechs and quoits and cairns and hills of war, Circles of mystery and mounds of might. W. K. D. About a furlong south-west of Trove, but on a tenement of Boleigh, is the Fuggo. It consists of a cave about six feet high, five feet wide, and near forty long, faced on each side with rough stones, across which long stone posts are laid. On its north-west side a narrow passage leads into another cave of similar construction and unknown extent; as it has long been blocked up by a portion of the roof having fallen in. One may be pretty sure, however, that much of the stories about its great length are fabulous. They say that it extends from its entrance, at the foot of Boleigh hill, to the old mansion at Trove; in proof of this the old one has often been heard piping under a parlour of the house. It is supposed he meets the witches down there, who have entered by the Fuggo to dance to his music. Hares are often seen to enter the Fuggo which are never known to come out the same way; they are said to be witches going to meet their master, who provides them with some other shape to return in. There are also traditions of this cavern having served as a place of refuge to some of the Levelis in troublesome times; and of its having frequently been used by our fair-traders, as it afforded them a secure hold for storing their goods, and to have a carouse therein. Old traditions about the far-reaching and unknown extent of the Fuggo, may not, however, be altogether void of foundation. At the annual excursion of the Royal Institution of Cornwall, in 1871, Mr. H. M. Whitley, of Truro, remarked that the bank, just opposite the branch cavern, sounded hollow, from which he is persuaded that there is a chamber underneath to be yet explored. There are the remains of a triple entrenchment near, and this subterranean passage might have been connected with it. Old folks of the neighbourhood say that there was another Fuggo in Trove Hill, on the opposite side of the Glen, but the entrance has long since been closed, and no one knows exactly where it opened. The track of moor and croft between Trove and Boleigh has indeed never been thoroughly examined by our antiquaries; yet as the vestiges of ancient British habitations are generally found in the vicinity of prehistoric monuments, the Daunce-mayn, Menheres, and holed-stones on the hill, would seem to indicate that this sheltered glen might be a likely place in which to find the remains of old crellas or circular huts, similar to those of Bodennar, Busullow, and Chysauster. And farther up, near the brook, amidst brambles and furze may yet be discovered traces of ancient Celtic dwellings, with ashes still on the hearth and quern and muller beside it. * * * * * A short time ago an old inhabitant of Boleigh informed us that many persons in that neighbourhood are afraid to enter the Fuggo, even by day, as they believe that bad spirits still frequent this place. Women of villages near often threaten their crying babies that they will carry them down to the Fuggo, and leave them there for the Bucca-boo if they don't stop their squalling. There are traditions that almost all these caves were haunted by beings of a fearful nature, whose path it was dangerous to cross. The fuggo at Bodinnar, called the Giant's Holt, was a few years ago much dreaded, as it was thought to be the abode of ugly spriggans that kept watch and guard over treasures which still remain buried in that ancient hiding-place. There is a somewhat graceful creation of fancy associated with the Vow, or fuggo, at Pendeen, which is said to extend from the mansion to Pendeen Cove, and some say it has branches in other directions, which spread far away from the principal cavern. At dawn on Christmas Day the "Spirit of the Vow" has frequently been seen just within the entrance, near the Cove, in the form of a beautiful lady, dressed in white, with a red rose in her mouth. There were persons living, a few years since, who had seen this fair but not the less fearful vision; for disaster was sure to visit those who intruded on the spirit's morning airings. Many of the "sawns" in the western cleaves have also similar legends connected with them, only the dwellers in sea-side caverns, are either of the mermaid race, or what we call Hoopers. The latter are beneficent spirits who warn fishermen from going to sea when there is an approaching tempest. The Hoopers shroud themselves in a thick fog which stretches across coves frequented by them. There are well remembered stories of Sennen Cove Hooper that used to rest in a cloud of mist, on Cowloe, and thence emit its doleful notes as a danger signal. BOLEIGH OR BOLEIT. Although we never heard of any Household Stories connected with this interesting spot, yet we cannot pass it without some notice of its prehistoric remains. Our antiquaries follow the fashion of spelling the name of the hamlet on the hill as above, yet everyone here who ought best to know the name of the place in which they live, call it Bolé. Most likely it has been thus pronounced from long before it was ever written. All sorts of contradictory meanings have been given for the name of this noted place; as the dairy-house, place of slaughter, &c. It was once the residence of an old Norman family, whose name, spelt Bolleit, may be seen on a long coffin-shaped slab, which lay on the floor within the tower of Buryan Church a short time ago. The inscription in old Norman-French which borders the edge of this curious tomb says that [+] CLARICE: LA: FEMME: CHEFFRIE: DE: BOLLEIT: GIT: ICI: DEV: DE: LALME: EIT: MERCE: KE: PVR: LEALME: PVNT (PRIUNT:) DI: IOR: DE: PARDVN: AVERVND. This means, in plain English, to say [+] "Clarice, the wife of Geoffry de Bolleit, lies here: God on her soul have mercy: Who prays for her soul shall have ten days' pardon."[2] Now the "Bo" we know to be another form of Beau, in ancient French names. Leit may be a variation of lieu. The provincial pronunciation of Beaulieu is, in many parts of Northern France, simply Bolè. And this is the nearest approach to the proper sound of the name that a Cornish man would be likely to turn his tongue to form. This old Norman family, as in many other instances, might have done their best to give to their new inheritance a name which was a common one in their former home. This conjecture respecting the derivation is at least as probable as the others. We know of no Cornish name which terminated in leit, yet, if the name be Cornish, it is safer to take the traditional pronunciation of those who live in Buryan than to go by any mode of spelling. MENHERES. The most striking objects seen after passing through the hamlet are two large long stones or pillars of granite, sometimes called the pipers, but formerly known as the hurlers, which stand in the fields on the north side of the road. Antiquaries are far from being unanimous in their conjectures as to the purpose intended to be served in the erection of these remarkable stones. Whether they were astronomical, sacerdotal, or sepulchral monuments--whether erected for all or neither of these objects--the learned think it premature to decide. There is no mark on these mysterious stones to throw any light on the subject. Yet it is pretty certain that all the large menhere stood in pairs; that their bearing is generally east and west; that they are mostly found on an open plain near other Celtic monuments, and the vestiges of ancient British habitations; and we may be sure they were formerly more numerous and regarded as objects of great importance, from the number of dwelling-places, enclosures, and names of old Cornish families terminating in Menhere, as Tremenhere, or Tremener, (Longstone place) Polmener, (Longstone pool) Goonmenhere, (Longstone downs) and many others. Probably many of the companion stones of the erect single pillars may be still found lying along in some hedge, at no great distance, (about the twelfth of the circle north of east or south of west), from those which remain where placed thousands of years ago. If the menhere (as has been conjectured from being found in pairs, bearing nearly east and west) were intended to mark the times of the equinox or solstice, these seasons being sacred festivals of Baal or the Sun, the desire of the early Christians to obliterate all remembrances of Pagan rites may account for the prostration or destruction of such objects as must have been regarded with religious veneration, from their importance to show the times to sow the grain, and do various kinds of work pertaining to pastoral life; and, above all, to denote the sacred festivals of our forefathers, which we still commemorate in our Midsummer bonfires. These long stones at Boleigh are the more interesting because there are not many of the original pairs to be found standing in the west. There is another pair near Newbridge, and one may be seen lying prostrate in Escols lane, Sennen, at a short distance from the stile on the pathway to Escols village. There is a tradition that this menhere was taken down from where it stood, in the middle of the field, by a giant, who lived in Escols, by him rolled into the hedge, and his son, ten years of age, placed the trigg (propping stone) as we may still see it. An old lady of Escols informed me that the other stone of the pair was in a hedge at no great distance, prostrate also. The erection of these huge monoliths proves that the animal powers and mechanical skill of our ancestors were of no mean order. HOLED STONES, &c. Continuing on the road towards Boskenna, a minute's walk from the Menheres brings us to a holed stone standing in the hedge on the right hand side. This stone has been removed a considerable distance from its original site to form the side of a gateway. The upper portion of the stone is very much broken, and is irregular in shape, yet its head appears to have been triangular and worked to an angle similar to the Men-an-tol at Lanyon. In the lane near the holed stone is an ancient cross, seemingly placed in the midst of the Druidic monuments to sanctify what the old Celts would not permit the Christian teachers to remove. There is another holed stone near by, in Rosemodrass lane, placed head downwards, and it serves for the hanging-post of a gate. The form of the head of this stone cannot be easily ascertained, as it is buried so deeply in the ground that only a small portion of the hole is to be seen. The aperture in both these stones (about six inches in diameter) is too small to pop the smallest, or all but the smallest, baby through; yet the people call them crick stones, and maintain that they were so-called before they were born. Crick stones were used for dragging people through, to cure them of various diseases. As these holed stones at Boleigh have been removed from their original site no satisfactory conclusion can be arrived at as to their primitive use. Some have thought that these stones, in common with the men-an-tol at Lanyon, the tolmen in Constantine, and many others, might have served the same important purpose as the menheres--to fix the proper time for the celebration of the autumnal equinox, by the stones being so placed that the sacred index of the seasons on rising above the horizon would be seen through the perforation, at a right angle to the face of the stone, and that the triangular head of the stone formed such an angle that when the sun was on the meridian, (at certain periods of the year, which were required to be known,) its altitude would denote the time, by its place in the heavens being in a line with the slope of the primitive time-piece, which would then cast no shadow on the ground at mid-day. If these monuments were intended for stone calendars, and any can be found in their original position, it might be possible, at least approximately, to fix the time of their erection, by their present variation from true east and west. If the deviation is in the direction demanded by the precession of the equinoxial points, the difference might be calculated at the allowed rate of fifty seconds a year. There is but little doubt but the men-an-tol still remains where it was first erected. As urns, or crocks of ashes and charred bones, have frequently been found near these, and other mystic stones, which were generally regarded as Celtic relics, it has been conjectured that long stones, holed-stones, and quoits (cromlechs) were all raised to mark the last resting-places of some noted personages. Is it not as probable that they were erected for the use of the living, and, by being associated with the religious observances of the time and people, came to be regarded as garrac-zans or holy stones; and that the priest, or chief, would desire to be buried near them, prompted by a feeling identical with that of the present time and common to all ages, which makes many desire that their poor dust and ashes may rest near the shrine at which they worshipped, within the bounds of what they regard as holy ground? Sacerdotal communities have always been ready to grant this distinction to the rich, and encouraged this enshrining of the relics of mortality, because the presence of the King of Terrors in the temple augments that mysterious awe with which all ancient theocratical hierarches endeavoured to invest themselves, and all their ghostly appurtenances; as by this means they acquire more power over those who live in dread of the spirit world, easily conjured up by morbid fancies, when surrounded by whatever engenders melancholy. Besides the tolmen noticed above there are several others in the western part of Cornwall. Some thirty years ago, two holed stones, about the size of those at Boleigh, might be seen in Treen Cliff, at no great distance from the end of Pedny vounder lane, on the sea side of the wheel-road to Castle Treen and the Logan Rock. These stones were amidst other rocks. One was standing upright and the other lying flat on the ground a few feet from it. The old people of Treen did not know what these stones were placed there for. In a field on the southern side of the lane is the circle of upright stones called by the people of Buryan, Daunce-Mayn. The name is most probably a corruption of Zans Mëyn (sacred stones,) and has nothing whatever to do with dancing maids. The legend that the (originally) nineteen posts were damsels, thus fixed for dancing on Sunday, was evidently suggested by the name to some manufacturer of such wares, who as readily converted the two long stones, in the field across the road, which we have already noticed, into the Pipers, who took to their heels and left the damsels to their fate as soon as their metamorphosis began; but their ungallant action did not avail, as the petrifying power of the cursing saint, who stopped their sweet pipings, overtook them when they ran thus far, and laid them up in stone as we now see them. No such legend, however, is native to the place, as the old folk only know it from having it repeated to them by visitors, who have seen it in books. They never regard the name as having any connection with dancing maids any more than dairy maids, and the Menhere, changed into Pipers, were known to them by the name of the Hurlers, from their having been a goal for the hurling-run, when the starting-post (where the ball was thrown up) was the cross in the Church-town. This story affords another example of the way in which the meaning is lost of many an ancient Cornish name, (which tells a history,) from the foolish desire to assimilate the expressive old Cornish name to some unmeaning English nickname. Thus, goon-here-an (the long downs) near Tregonebras, is become goldherring. And the town-arms of Penzance is just as bad a punning kind of Blazon. It is easy to understand how Zans-Mëyn became Daunce-Meyn. A common form of mën is mêdn, as pen changes into pedn, in Tol-Pedn-Penwith. And this is near enough to maiden, for the legend to spring up to account for the name. Another common name for the Celtic circles is the Nine Maidens. Now, as the usual number of stones in the circle is nineteen, that number may have something to do with the first part of this name, and the latter would come from the Cornish, as before, mêdn. The Daunce-Mêyn is the best known of all the Druidic circles in the west, as it is within sight from the road frequently taken by those visitors to the Logan Rock who care for seeing the many interesting objects, and fine sea views, visible from the lower road, as we call this route near the sea shore. Yet the circle at Boscawen-un, in the higher side of the parish, is invested with a peculiar interest, from the fact of the opinion held by Dr. Borlase that these circles were places of council of judgment, has been confirmed by an old Welsh triad, which makes this place still more remarkable by naming it as one of the three Gorsedds, or places of judgment for poetry and bardic minstrelsy. This valuable relict of Welsh poetry, as translated by the eminent Welsh scholar, the late Rev. Thomas Price, is in English:--"The three Gorsedds of Peetry of the Island of Britain; the Gorsedd of Boscawen Damnonium; (Damnonium included Cornwall and great part of Devon;) the Gorsedd of Salisbury, in England; and the Gorsedd of Bryn Gwyddon in Wales." We hope that when the laureate revisits Cornwall he may be induced to go there, and, sitting on a granite throne, by the side of the tall central stone, sing the "Idyls of the King," if only in honour of the Welsh bard who has preserved the remembrance of this remarkable temple where ancient minstrels sung of how Merlin, the enchanter, deceived the beautiful Igerna, so that she received King Uter Pendragon as her husband--how King Uter died, and Arthur, his son, by Igerna, kept his court at "Wild Dundagel, by the Cornish sea"--and how our own Prince Arthur, and his knights of the table rounde, slew all the enemies of Britain. Here they sang of the beauty and guile of the fair and frail Guenever--of the honour and truth of Arthur's knights, and the treachery of Mordred. Here the Bard sounded a lament for the lost lands of Lethowsow, and the submerged City of Langona:-- "Between Land's End and Scilly rocks Sunk lies a town that ocean mocks. * * * * * Where breathes the man that would not weep O'er such fine climes beneath the deep?" We owe a debt of gratitude to Dr. Borlase for preserving to us a graphic description of these, and many other, Druidic circles which have disappeared since his time. Fortunately, the work of destruction has been arrested at Boscawen-un circle, as the lady to whom the property belongs has caused it to be surrounded with a good hedge to prevent further spoilation. Some years ago a wholesome fear prevailed of bad luck following anyone who removed these landmarks of a long past age, but now our country folk think themselves more enlightened, and, unless those who have some respect for the monuments of ancient times, take measures to prevent the recipients of this questionable sort of enlightenment from exercising their vandalism, our Celtic remains will soon disappear. Pages might be filled with an account of the destruction which has taken place within the past half century. That these circles were used for religious, judicical, or political purposes, (and in ancient times all three were combined), there can be no doubt, from the veneration with which they were formerly regarded. This solemn respect was expressed in the belief that the avenging deity, in the shape of Bad Luck (which was felt to be as real a personage as any other undefined invisible demon) would sooner or later overtake the sacrilegious destroyer of the ancient holy stones. In many of the oldest villages there were formerly altar-like stones, known by the name of garrac zans, (the holy stones) which were protected by the fear of the goddess of Bad Luck; and until within these last few years, no rude hand would dare to remove or spoil them. We remember one of these venerated rocks in the village of Rosekestal and another in Sowah town-place. The noted stone in Mayon was also called indifferently the garrac zans or table men. We have heard of many others which were formerly to be seen in the town-places of ancient hamlets, but their places know them no more. Dr. Borlase describes many circles and other Celtic remains as being in his time almost as perfect as when left by our forefathers thousands of years ago. Of these public monuments, there is now scarcely a trace to be found. Recent investigation proves the trustworthiness of the information preserved by the antiquary, born and bred in Pendeen, in the very heart of a district which contains, even now, more Celtic remains of all kinds than any other portion, of equal space, in the British Isles. By similar monuments to those we have noticed at Boleigh, the migrations of the ancient Celtic race may be traced from farthest Ind to the Scilly Isles. [Illustration] [2] It is somewhat curious to notice that no one who has written on the parish of Buryan, in speaking of the Boleit tombstone in the church, has pointed out that the inscription is, in accordance with a very common custom, in verse, namely in a triplet followed by a distich. It reads thus:-- Clarice, la femme Cheffrei de Bolleit, git ici, Dieu de lalme eit mercie. Ke pur lalme punt Di ior de pardun aveunt. The word punt in the fourth line is short for prierunt. Probably there is now, or at all events, has been at some time, in the original, a small letter r above the word between the p and the u. An r has been similarly omitted in aveunt. This somewhat primitive epitaph may be thus literally translated into equally primitive English:-- Clarice, the wife of Jefferei Of Bolleit, here doth lie. God of her soul have mercie. For her soul whoever prays Shall have pardon for ten days. _From_ ONE AND ALL. THE LAST CARDEW, OF BOSKENNA, AND THE STORY OF NELLY WEARNE. No ditch is so deep, no wall is so high, If two love each other, they'll meet by and bye; No storm is so wild, and no night is so black, If two wish to meet they will soon find a track. _From_ KLAUS GROTH'S _Song_ "_Keen Graff is so brut_." _Max Müller's Translation._ There are few places which afford such a variety of picturesque views as may be seen in and from the grounds of Boskenna ("dwelling-on-the-ridge.") The sylvan and rural are beheld, forming endless combinations with the grand, the wild, and the romantic. Glimpses of the boundless ocean are caught through overarching boughs in deep winding glens, where the brilliant plants of semi-tropical climes are seen growing in loving companionship with our more modest and sweet native shrubs, ferns, and flowers. From the height called the Rockery, (surely there must be an old Cornish name,) the view embraces towering carns, distant hills, and headlands, including Castle Teryn and the Lizard Point; scenes of many wild legends and poetic traditions, of Danish invaders, of witches, saints and hermits. "Far as the eye can peer, The waters roll, divinely blue and clear; With white sails flashing in the sunlight's ray, Of countless vessels, near and far away; Here the wild sea-gull plumes her snowy breast, Then skims the wave or perches on the crest Of some majestic cairn, or cromlech where Long ages past the Druids knelt in prayer, Till, with stretched wing, she cleaves the fields of blue, Dips 'neath th' Atlantic, and is lost to view." One of the most delightful spots on the grounds of Boskenna is a little wooded glen, through which flows a clear stream, embowered by luxuriant foliage and fringed with ferns, flags, and sedges, amongst which many rare wild flowers show their elegant bells of pale blue, and star-like blossoms of every tint. The brooklet and shady walk wind down this little vale to St. Loy Cove, where, within a few years, there stood on the verge of the cliff, the walls and altar of a chapel dedicated to St. Eloi; but, a few years ago, this interesting relict of the piety of ages past, with its wrought-stone altar, was thrown over cliff by the, then, occupier of an adjacent cottage, without the knowledge or permission of the owner of the property. The vestiges of this sacred building were thus toppled into the sea, merely that a few feet of land might be gained for growing early potatoes; and now nothing remains but the name of St. Loy to connect this romantic spot with the saint by whom Chaucer's "Wife of Bath" was accustomed to swear. We fear that the mention of this realistic, marriage-loving dame may put to flight all poetic notions; yet hear what our Cornish poetess, Mrs. S. E. Tonkin, (from whom we have quoted above) says of this hallowed shrine. "A pleasant ramble through a bosky vale; A pause to hear a babbling brooklet's tale; A moment's lingering by its mossy well, And I, once more, am in St. Loy's green dell. Ages ago, as old traditions say, The monks devout stole here to fast and pray; Within these wilds they communed by the sea, And reared for worship a fair chapelry, Where pious souls, and needy, found them rest, And by their prayers and sanctity were blest. Naught now remains to whisper of the past; Still, o'er the spot a holy light is cast, In gothic arches yon fair trees entwine, Low-drooping o'er the consecrated shrine, And waves come singing, as they inland flow, Thrilling the heart with strains of long ago." The place thus favoured by nature and Mrs. Tonkin's verse, was an ancient seat of the Cardew family, who, between two and three centuries ago, also owned Boskenhal and several other farms in the neighbourhood. The last of this decayed family, who lived in the old home of his ancestors, mortgaged this place, and other lands, to the predecessors of the present possessor. The Paynters resided here for some generations, and the late Mr. John Paynter will long be remembered in the West Country as a liberal landlord and kind neighbour; and for being more learned in the law than country justices usually are. It was a common saying in the West, that "the Squire of Boskenna knew more law than all the lawyers of Penzance put together!" This place is now the residence of Charles Dacres Bevan, Esq., Judge of the district County Court. Mr. Bevan has much improved and beautified both the mansion and grounds. Many years ago, the late Mr. Cardew, of St. Ives, (who was descended from a collaterial branch of the Boskenna family) informed us that there were several old family portraits of the Cardews in the mansion of Boskenna during his remembrance. He also related the following traditional STORY OF NELLY WEARNE. This damsel was an illegitimate daughter of the last Cardew of Boskenna, and, (according to a very general custom which prevailed in the West) this love-child was bound a parish 'prentice to her father that he might be legally entitled to some degree of guardianship over his irregularly-begotten offspring. Children thus bound to their fathers were mostly regarded as a sort of poor cousins to the legitimate members of the family, and they were often taught a trade or handicraft, or portioned off with some small tenement. Nelly's spendthrift father, however, was a most unsuitable guardian for a young girl. He paid much more regard to his dogs and hunters than to his daughter, who, by all accounts, was very remarkable for her good looks and devil-may-care disposition. The Squire's mother did all an old dame could do to restrain her wild tendencies, and give her a little more gentle breeding than was thought requisite for an ordinary servant. Dancing was one of the accomplishments in which Nelly took most delight, and Madam was rejoiced to find that her damsel was soon the best dancer in Burian. However hard Nell might have worked during the day, she thought nothing of going three or four miles of an evening, in any kind of weather, to enjoy her favourite diversion at some village merry-making. She never missed Burian Fair, which was then regarded by our western lads and maidens as the most joyful holiday of the spring. When Nelly had become a young woman it happened that one Burian Fair-day the weather was even more tempestuous than usual, though the storms of Burian Fair are proverbial. Madam Cardew had made up her mind that Nelly should remain at home that stormy night, but she protested that neither rain nor wind, thunder nor lightning, nor all the old women in Burian, should hinder her going to Church-town and dancing at the Fair, which only came once a year; and she swore that a reel she would have, before that night was passed, even if she danced with Old Nick. "She would never be married," she often said, "unless she could meet with a man who was able to dance her down; and she would find one that night or the Devil might take her." Off she went in a storm of wind, rain, and thunder, blaspheming and reviling the old lady, who tried to keep her home. Arrived in Church-town, Nelly found dancing going on in every room of the public-house; and violin, fife, or tambourine making music for the revellers in many other dwellings. Nell entered the principal room of the inn; and before she cast off her cloak and wrung the rain from her long black hair, many youngsters asked her to drink and dance with them, but she refused them all, saying they couldn't keep the floor half so long as herself--she would either get some better partner or not have a jig for that night. Whilst she was declining the offers of her rustic suitors, two dark-complexioned, strapping sailors entered, and one of them, dressed in dashing style, with gold lace on his coat, broad leather belt round his waist, cutlass by his side, and glossy boots reaching to his knees, advanced to Nelly, doffed his hat, bowed, and said, "Pray dance with me, my fair pretty maid?" "With all my heart, sir," she replied, rising and giving him her hand. Nelly's partner called to his comrade, "Now pipe away, Bosun, and give us the good old tune." The seaman addressed as Bosun took a pipe from his pocket, marched round the couple prepared to dance, saying "A floor, a floor, for the lovely Nell and our gallant Capt. Black." The piper blew at first a rather slow measure, to which the captain's heel and toe, true as an echo, showed a new step at every change of pass and pitch. By slow degrees the tune became quicker till it was such as Nelly never moved her feet to before. The lively music soon drew such a crowd into the room to see the dancers, that the floor beams warped and showed signs of breaking. Then, as the storm lulled and a full moon shone bright, the dancers, followed by all the rest, left the house for an open space below the cross. Now every one wanted to treat the seamen, and they drank as much as they could, to show their good fellowship with every one, and Captain Black, giving a purse of gold to the landlady, desired her to send out her best cordials for the women kind, and to keep her beer-cocks running, that all might drink health to him and the lovely Nell. When one and all had drunk as much as they liked, the Bosun's pipe again rung out so loud and clear that his music was heard for miles away. The Captain, Nelly, and scores of others again danced in joyous style. People from all parts flocked round them; every house in Church-town was soon empty. Old men and women hobbled and danced on their crutches; the piper's lively strains set every one in motion, till the road was covered with dancers, capering like mad folks, all the way from Park-an-cady to the cross and around the churchyard. Soon after midnight, however, whilst their mirth was at its height, there suddenly came on a more violent storm than ever of wind, hail, and thunder. The sky, black as pitch one moment, was all ablaze the next. Streams of lightning fell and ran hissing along the ground. All were terror-struck with the sudden rise of this awful weather. Yet, in the general consternation, some one had the happy thought to ring the bells, that their sound might allay the weather, and drive away the evil spirits who rode on the tempest. With the first stroke of the big bell the thunder-clouds rolled away to the eastward, and at the same instant Captain Black vanished with Nelly and the piper. This terrific storm, joined with the sudden disappearance of Nelly and the dark looking strangers, so frightened many that they fell down in fits, and others, from the same cause, were never right in their heads again. On a tract of uncultivated land north of Boskenna lane, there was then a barn, which usually contained a quantity of dry food for the cattle wintered on the downs. This barn, then full of straw and hay, was burned to the ground that Fair-night, and near its ruins were found a handkerchief, full of fairings, with some other things which belonged to Nell, but all search for the wilful damsel was in vain. Most people believed that Captain Black was the Old One, disguised as a seaman, and the Bosun some inferior devil in attendance--that Nell, by her blasphemous language, had brought them from below, whither they had now taken her to dance as best she might. Squire Cardew, being less superstitious than many of his neighbours, conjectured that the strange dancer and piper were nothing worse than two jovial sailors, who had carried her off to their ship--an occurrence far from unusual in these times; and in hopes of gaining some tidings of his stolen or strayed daughter, he rode into Penzance and over to Market-jew, to make enquiries; but he could learn nothing of her. Some said, however, that a strange craft had anchored in Guavas Lake, the Fair-day, and that part of her crew had landed in Newlyn, but nothing farther was known of them, as the ship made sail the next morning. Nelly's gay songs were missed in Boskenna hall, where she often sung for hours, to cheer the old lady when they were together plying their spinning-wheels, or seated in the window, lighted with the evening sun, at their embroidery. Then, at night, she used to be foremost in the dance with her father and his roystering companions of the chase. Grief for the strange fate of Nelly shortened the days of old Madam Cardew, who was soon at rest in Burian churchyard, and the Squire took to hunting, drinking, and rioting worse than ever. Twenty years and more passed; Nelly and the Cardews were all but forgotten; new people possessed their ancient domain; none of their kin remained in the West, but an old well-to-do yeoman and his family, who resided at Sennen. One dreary afternoon there was a very humble funeral at Burian Church, and the last Cardew of Boskenna was laid beside the dust of his forefathers. Soon after candlelighting on that day, whilst some few who came to see the last of the spendthrift, who had lavished his property upon them, were still drinking in the public house, there entered, dripping wet, and weary, an elderly foreign-looking woman, whose dress of rich stuff and of outlandish make, was travel-stained and much the worse for wear. The large hooped-shaped rings in her ears, joined with her dark complexion and long braids of black hair wound around her head, only covered with the hood of her scarlet mantle, made her appearance still more remarkable. The stranger enquired if Betty Trenoweth, who many years ago lived in Boskenna, was still alive. She was answered that Betty was alive and well, and lived no farther off than a minute's walk would take her, in a comfortable dwelling of her own, over Trevorgans side of Church-town. Without giving any one the chance to question her as to who she was, or whence she came, the outlandish-looking dame proceeded to Betty Trenoweth's cottage. The elderly woman, who opened her door, asked the stranger in and placed her to sit by her fireside, wondering who she could be and what she could want of her, at that time of night. The stranger in a broken voice and speaking in an unfamiliar tongue, made many enquiries about the Cardews, and appeared to think they were all still living in Boskenna. Betty informed her that none of the name were then in the place--that her old mistress had long been dead, and the young master was that day buried, having lost all his lands, she couldn't tell how, and the new people had, for years, only kept him there in a condition little better than that of a servant to hunt the same dogs which were his own a short time ago. "But who can you be," she continued, "not to know anything about them now; yet, from what you say, you must have known them all long ago? Oh! if I could but believe that dear Nelly were still alive, from the sound of your voice, so like the tones of the one laid in his grave to-day, I would say that you were she; and if you are, I have kept everything that belonged to ye, and what was found on the morning after the Downs barn was burnt is now in my chest." "My dear old friend," the stranger replied, "I'm your Nelly. The night I lost that handkerchief I found my husband, but we must have some rest before I can tell ye our history." Dame Trenoweth showed her delight at again beholding Nelly, by preparing her a good supper and a comfortable bed. In the morning Nelly rose refreshed, and knowing the old woman wished to hear how she had fared since they danced together at Burian Fair, commenced by asking, "Did it never come into your head to think who the dark seaman could be? You had often seen the one, whom many took for Old Nick, dance with me in Boskenna hall, when he, and scores of others, came to Feast. He had to leave the country, because a person he beat in fair fight died from the effects of his lusty blows, three years, or so, before that Burian Fair; and the Bosun, too, was a lad you very well knew." "Oh," exclaimed Betty, "now I see it all: the one that took you off was young Billy Brea, and his comrade was his cousin Bosvargus, of Kelynack." "You have rightly guessed," Nelly replied. "Hundreds of times," Betty continued to say, "old mistress and I have wondered what was become of the wild youngster who was so fond of you, even when a young girl working your sampler; and he, foremost in the hunt or fight, always said he'd have no other wife than the lovely little Nell. And old Madam would often say that, though he might be as poor as poor might be, yet was he come of the gentle blood of the Breas of Brea, who at one time were as rich and high as any in the West Country; and their old mansion, with the chapel turned into a barn by those who now occupy their estate, and their chapel on the hill of Brea, still show how grand they once were! I remember, too, the many good offers you had from rich farmers' sons around, and wondered how you refused them all." When the old dame had somewhat recovered from her surprise, Nelly told her, that, young and thoughtless as she was, until Brea, to avoid trouble to his family, escaped with great haste and secrecy, she had no notion how deep was her love for the unfortunate youngster, and that he, unknown to every one but herself, had been for many days and nights in Boskenna or Treviddern cliff, before Bosvargus found a merchant-ship, in which they both left on a long voyage. Nelly knew if all went right, when they might be expected to return; and Brea promised her that, whenever he came on shore, he'd take no rest till he met her again in the old chapel of St. Loy, where many a long and dreary night she had watched and prayed for his safe return, and often of an evening, or a winter's night, when the inmates of Boskenna thought her in bed, or miles away at some merry-making, she was wandering the cliffs, or waiting in the cairns near by, in hope of meeting with her absent lover. Yet she had only the chance to see him at long intervals, and then only for a short time. Four or five years after Brea went to sea, he became captain of a ship. Then he proposed to take Nelly with him as his bride, and she, being nothing loath, they met at St. Loy, one night, a little before the Fair, and agreed that, at the Fair, a dance together they would have, and that should be their bridal night. He was so altered, as well as his comrade, the Bosun, that no person but Nelly knew them, and, if they did, no one would betray him, or turn informer. When Nelly had come thus far in the history of her courtship, Betty said, "Now, my darling, one can understand how, in spite of wind and rain, you were so eager to go to Fair that night; and, faith, I'd go through fire and water for the man I loved when at the mad age you were then. One can see how drink, given without stint, by the open-hearted sailor, together with the music of the Bosun's pipe, set every one dancing in spite of themselves. Then, when the storm so suddenly came, and as suddenly broke, and you vanished in the midst of thunder and lightning, with Brea and his Bosun, everyone believed you were carried off by the Devil, and it's thought so still. But tell me what next became of ye?" Nelly then related, how when the storm was at its height, Brea took her on towards Boskenna. They intended to see old Madam, say farewell, and take a horse from the stable to help them on their road; but, long before they came to Boskenna gate, with hard weather, drinking, and dancing, Nelly was unable to stand. Then Billy Brea took her up in his arms, and bore her along till they came to the Downs barn, where she fell on the straw half dead. Brea remembered every hole and corner about the place, and knew that a tinder-box, with candle and lanthorn, used to be kept in the barn that one might have light in winters' mornings to bundle up straw or hay for the cattle, and, being anxious to reach his ship early in the morning, wanting to know the time, and not being over steady in the head, when he struck a light and saw by his watch that there was still some hours to daybreak, he, neglecting to put out the candle, fell asleep and only woke to find the place on fire. He drew Nelly from the burning barn, and they hurried on to Mousehole, where they found the Bosun and boat's crew waiting for them. "And have ye been lawfully married, my darling?" asked the old dame. "Indeed we have," answered Nelly, "not that I cared much about the ceremony; for to me his love was all in all, and from that moment I felt sure of his truth and affection I regarded him as my husband and freely gave him all that love requires. Yet as we were near a port when I was about to become a mother, my husband proposed we should go through the legal form which would entitle our children to bear their father's family name, if they chose; so one may say they are, at least, all truly born. But that was of little consequence, because he was no more known by the name of Brea." Captain Black, as we shall henceforth call Nelly's husband, offered her a home either on land or on board. She decided to make her abode in his gallant ship; the Captain was pleased with her choice, and she not to be encumbered with an inconvenient dress for such a life, rigged herself in man's attire, and soon learned to do the duty of an able seaman. To act as cook and steward on board ship soon became as natural to her as the care of Boskenna mansion. Besides this, Nelly learned to keep the ship's reckoning and navigation so well, that often, when the Captain was laid low with wounds or fever, she took his place, and by that means saved the ship and ship's company. During many years they traded from London to distant ports in various parts of the globe, without any serious mishap; but, on a return voyage from the Levant, a Barbary corsair gave chase and overtook them. At that time these sea-robbers seldom levied what they were pleased to call dues for coming into, or crossing, their waters, from any English ships, but often from a motive of revenge as much as for gain, confined their attention to Spanish and French vessels. This Levantine gang, however, attempted to board and take the _Buck_, and many of them were cut down by her crew, as they came up the side, before they gave over and made off. In this encounter Captain Black, Nelly, and several of the crew were badly wounded. This maddened the Captain, and he swore to serve out these cursed pirates if his crew would join him. Nell and all the ship's company, being as eager for revenge as their Captain, and hoping by this neck-or-nothing game to acquire riches quickly, as soon as their cargo was disposed of, the Captain having saved a large sum, procured a suitable craft for privateering which he called the _Lovely Nell_, and when she was well armed and victualled, they made sail for the Levantine seas, where, in a short time, they captured several rich prizes, and, among others, the galleon which was the cause of their becoming privateers. On this crew they took ample revenge. Nelly, and all the ship's company, liking the excitement of this wild life, and not being over-scrupulous as to the means of getting rich, no sooner neared the Cornish coast that the Captain, Nelly, Bosvargus, and some few others, put ashore, in a boat, at Goonwalla Cove, and buried a quantity of gold in some secret nooks of the cliff. The _Lovely Nell_ then took her course for the sea-rovers' rendezvous in the West Indies. There, many years were passed in buccaneering expeditions to plunder the French and Spanish Settlements, until they had amassed a great quantity of treasure in money and jewels, taken in pillage and for the ransom of prisoners. Nelly said that, for many years, she much enjoyed this roving life. During that time several children were born. And all who lived were boys, who soon became expert sailors, and, after serving their apprenticeship with their dad, all but the oldest and youngest had then left for other vessels. About a year before the time Nelly returned to Burian, she, with her husband and most of the crew, thinking they were rich enough, wished to give up this roving life, and decided to settle down in their native land. They disintered the riches they had buried in various uninhabited islands and keys, which were only frequented by such as themselves. The chests of dollars, bars of silver, ingots of gold, ornaments, jewels, and rare gems, which belonged to the Captain's share alone, were worth more than would purchase half-a-dozen such estates as Boskenna, and the dearest wish of her heart was that they might return in time to free that place for her father. They were many months collecting all their riches. They then set sail from the western main, and arrived with fair weather in sight of the Cornish coast. The wind being light and sea smooth they kept close in shore for the pleasure of gazing on the well-remembered carns and coves. More than a week before they sighted land, Nelly was seized with a most intense desire to be put ashore at some cove near the Land's End, and, when they beheld the well-known landmark of Burian Tower, saw Castle Trereen, passed Penberth, St. Loy, and Lamorna Coves, her longing to land and see her father was such that she could neither eat nor sleep; and this was about the time he breathed his last. She begged to be landed in Mount's Bay, but her husband, wishing her to remain on board till their vessel should be disposed of and their riches turned into English money, they passed the Lizard, when, to save her from going mad, she was put ashore at Falmouth. Thence she was brought on horseback to Market-jew, and walked from that place to Burian. Her husband agreed, should the weather permit, to return to Mount's Bay, and there cruise about until she might be ready to proceed along with him, when, as was arranged, she would be taken on board from Mousehole or the Mount. This is the substance of what Nelly related to her old friend, of her adventures up to that night; and when Dame Trenoweth told her how all the Cardews were dead and gone from Boskenna, she no longer desired to see the old mansion, but heartily wished herself again on the ocean with the one for whom she had left her native land and weathered the storms of more than twenty years; she endeavoured to cheer herself with the hope that, ere many days, she would again behold the _Lovely Nell_, sailing, in all her pride of flowing sails, and, walking the quarter-deck, her husband, near enough to be hailed from Reginnis Cliff. The second day after Nelly's return to Burian, she became anxious to rejoin her husband, as she knew the wind had been favourable for him to beat back to Mount's Bay. It had been arranged that he should cruise about near the coast for a day or two, or until she might give him a signal, from Paul Cliff, to send a boat ashore for her at Mousehole. The following morning Nelly rose by break of day, dressed herself in a suit of seaman's clothes which she had brought with her, left her discarded woman's dress, and a good sum of money, with Dame Trenoweth, and wished her good-bye, saying that she hoped to see her again ere long, when she and her husband would settle down in the West, to end their days in peace. Before sunrise, Nelly stood on the high headland west of Mousehole, straining her vision in a vain endeavour to pierce the clouds of mist which rolled over the water and hid both sea and shore. She could hear the fishermen's voices and the sound of oars rattling in the row-locks; but, only at the distance of a stone's cast, land, sea, and sky, were all shrouded in fog. A few hours later the mist cleared away. She saw boats returning from the fishing-ground, and a good many vessels passing across the Bay, but no craft that could be taken for her husband's ship. Tired with watching, from the cliff, the ships as they sailed past, she descended to Mousehole to make enquiries there, if any vessel like the _Lovely Nell_ had been seen on the coast. She met with no person until near Squire Keigwin's mansion, and there, near the balcony, were collected a number of people around a pile of such things as are usually found loose on a ship's deck. Nelly joined the crowd, who told her that the water-casks, hatches, buckets, spars, and other articles she saw before her had, that morning, been found floating near Lamorna Cove; and everybody thought that a ship, which was seen cruising near the shore, the night before, must have struck on some dangerous rocks west of Lamorna, sprung a leak, and foundered in deep water, with all hands on board. Nelly, hearing this, rushed through the crowd, examined the wreck, and there saw many well-remembered articles belonging to her husband's ship. Whether Nelly cried, fainted, or gave any other natural expression to her grief, we don't know. Without discovering herself, however, to the people of Mousehole, she remained there all day, hoping to hear something farther from others who had gone out in search of anything which might be floating near the place where it was supposed the vessel must have sunk; but nothing more was learnt of the disaster. Some fishermen, however, said that when the mist cleared away they saw a boat far out to sea, but that they concluded it to be a smuggling craft bound for France. Late at night Nelly returned crushed with grief, to her old friend who did all she could to console her, and time, which alleviates all sorrows, at last brought relief to the bereaved woman. Then she assisted the old dame in her household work and in carding and spinning--more because constant exercise made her think less of her loss than from any necessity for exertion to gain a livelihood. She had brought with her a good sum of money, intended to pay off the incumbrances of her father's estate (in these times a small amount of gold would buy a large extent of land). She had many valuable jewels besides. An Betty was also well off. Having seen the last of Madam Cardew, the old servant had from her son many valuable dresses and old heirlooms of the family, saved, between them, from the clutches of those who got the besotted Squire into their power, and, long before he died, this old servant of the family was the only one in the wide world to care for him, or who showed him any kindness. Nelly, on her mother's side, being a near relation to Dame Trenoweth, she regarded the poor wanderer as her own daughter. When several months had passed a circumstance occurred which gave Nelly just that uncertain glimmer of Hope against Reason, which is more grievous to bear than the certainty of evil. A sealed bottle was found in Mount's Bay, containing a paper on which Captain Black's name, and those of several others, were written. It was directed to "Nelly Wearne, Boskenna;" and the news came to her through the gossip of the village. The paper was lost or destroyed without reaching her, because everyone thought that she was an inhabitant of a warmer region. An Betty one day said to Nelly, "'Tis as good as a play, my dear, to see how all the old women of Church-town try to discover who and what you are, and they can't find out, because, for the fun of the thing, I take good care to fool them." Seeing that Nelly roused herself and took some interest in her talk, she continued, "They are mad to know how you are never to be seen anywhere out-of-doors, except down in the cliffs, early in a morning or late of moonlight nights." "Well, and what did you answer to that?" Nelly asked. "To puzzle them the more," said Betty, "I told the curious, prying fools, that you were a Wise Woman come from the East--that you ramble over cliffs and moors to gather herbs, whilst the morning dew is on them, or when the moon is near the full--that no one can beat you in making from them, ointments, salves, and still-waters--that you understand all sorts of complaints and can cure anything, from the gripes to the palsy. And now all the young wenches in the parish want to know if you can read fortunes; they think you can because you look like a gipsey, so they say. 'Why yes to be sure; nobody better,' I told them. Now listen to me," Betty went on to say, when she had recovered her breath, "I've made them believe that you can read the stars--that you know all that will happen to any body by the lines of their palms--that you can tell, by means of rushes, spring water, and ivy leaves, and scores of ways besides, who are to be married, as well as who are to die unblessed with a husband. And to everything they asked about your knowledge of white witchcraft, I assured them that you knew more about magic, conjuration, and so forth, than the Witch of Endor that we have all heard of." "My dear old friend," says Nelly, "how could 'e go on so. I know no more about fortune-telling than you do--perhaps not so much, as you're a noted hand for charming." "No matter for that," answered An Betty, "You know everything remarkable that ever happened in the families round up to the last twenty years or so, and what you don't know I can tell 'e. When they find that you're acquainted with what's past they are sure to believe that you can read them the future. Besides, this game will serve to divert your thoughts from ever dwelling on Billy Brea, or Captain Black, if you have a mind to call him so." "I don't much mind trying, but how shall I manage to know who they are?" "You keep in the hale," (best room) Betty replied, "and, before they see you, I'll come in and tell 'e who they are; then, when they enter to consult 'e, be sure, first of all, to give a hint at some scandal that made a noise about their families, no matter how long ago; everything bad is remembered for ages after the good is forgotten. Then promise the young lasses any number of sweethearts and a speedy marriage. You know what you used to wish for in your teens." In spite of her grief, Nelly, to please the old dame, soon became widely known as the wise woman, or white witch, of Burian Church-town. She read the fortunes of young and old, much to their satisfaction and her own gain. Those who could'nt pay in cash paid in kind. The greatest trouble she had was with the sedate, plain, and sour elderly females, who were all but past hope. They would come, and come again, mad to know if they were ever to be blessed with a husband. By the old woman's advice, Nelly gave them dubious answers and advice for wheedling old hoary-heads and hobble-de-hoys, as they were easiest snared. 'Tis said some were supplied with love-powders, made from the bulbs of plants commonly called Adam and Eve, and that others were furnished with compounds for more questionable purposes. In a little while Nelly became famous for match-making. Her outlandish dress and the strange speech which she affected, made the simple folks, who had never been out of the smoke of their chimnies, think she must have been born and bred in Egypt, or in some other foreign land of which they had heard. Sometimes, when at a loss to find a suitable response to the wishes or fears of her visitors, she would burst out with long, unintelligible words, as if forgetting herself, and end by saying, "Oh! my dears, know that, far away as I am from my native land, I often think that I am speaking to my cousins, the maidens of Jericho; all the tongues of eastern countries are easier for me than your Cornish speech." At other times she would entertain them with stories of what she had learned from an uncle in Babylon. Besides carrying on these profitable trades of soothsaying, charming, and deviltry, Nelly and Dame Trenoweth made and sold ointments that were in great demand for the cure of various skin diseases, which were more common in those times (when much salt meat was used all the year round) than the same class of distempers are at the present day. The way in which these ointments, salves, or unguents were prepared, was by seething in lard elder-flowers, betony, and other healing or drying herbs, cut fine, until their medical virtues were extracted; then the ointment was carefully strained from the herbs and ready for use. As a remedy for a troublesome distemper, now seldom heard of, they made an ointment from Skaw-dower, the English of the name is water-elder, (the _Scrophularia_:) sulphur was mixed with this unguent for the disease alluded to. Another noted preparation of this time was a golden-coloured salve, made from purified lard and celandine juice; this was much esteemed as a remedy for obscured sight. Our wise-women also distilled elder-flowers, eye-bright, and other cooling herbs for eye-waters. Nelly and her aged friend had acquired much useful knowledge about the virtues of plants from Madam Cardew, who, like many other ladies of the West Country, at that time, prepared from simples, many useful medicines with which they supplied their poorer neighbours, and such was Nelly's fame as a skilful doctoress, that, before a year was gone, gentle and simple came from a great distance to consult her for her medicines. Her preparations might have possessed medical virtues which need not be despised even in these enlightened times. Though the faculty make a jest of old women's nostrums, yet in our great-grandmother's time, the uses and natures of various plants were much better understood by country ladies than they are at the present day; because those who are esteemed accomplished botanists pay more attention to the classification and nomenclature of plants than to their usefulness. In this kind of life, Nelly passed her time--seemingly tranquil. Knowing that any expression of gloomy feeling only makes it take the deeper root, she showed no outward signs of sorrow. Yet she was for ever grieving over the untimely fate of the lost ones; and, when alone with her old friend, she would often say that, in spite of all she could do to forget, her heart was ever with her husband and children at the bottom of the deep. However skilful the poor woman might have been in reading others' fortunes, she little knew what fate had in store for her. One Autumn evening, about three years after Nelly returned, she was alone with her old friend relating some adventures of her seafaring life. As usual, her husband's reckless courage and bravery was the theme of her discourse. A knock was heard at the open door. Dame Trenoweth rose and saw, standing on the door-sill, a stout, dark man, who asked if any one lived there who could read his fortune? Nelly knew the voice, sprung to the door, and was clasped in her husband's arms. "Whatever has happened," said Nelly, "thank the Powers, you are safe. But tell me where are my sons?" "Here's one of them," said a lusty young fellow, stepping into the doorway, from having stood on one side fearing the fortune-teller wouldn't turn out to be his mother, "and my eldest brother is on board our good ship anchored in Guavas Lake, which we left a few hours since." The Captain then related how he had come to Boskenna, expecting still to find some of the Cardews there, and Nelly with them. He found none but strangers, who told him that the Cardews were all dead and their clothes washed--that Nelly Wearne had never been heard of since she was carried away by the Old One, as every body believed. They came on to Church-town and enquired at the inn if a strange woman had come to the parish about three years since, and were told that a gipsey fortune-teller, who lived with Betty Trenoweth, came there about that time. Before going to rest Captain Black related how, on the foggy morning, when he hoped to take Nelly on board, by a mistake in reckoning, he kept too near the shore, and their ship struck on a rock west of Lamorna. As the ship leaked but little at first, they hoped she had only sustained slight damage. They tacked off the coast, still shrouded in dense fog, and intended to bring her into Mousehole or Penzance; but, in an hour or so, the water poured in so fast that they had barely time to launch a boat and place in it a small part of their riches, when the _Lovely Nell_ went to the bottom, with several of the crew in her hold. The Captain told all hands to let the jewels, gold, and silver go to Davy Jones's locker, but some of them, disregarding his orders, went below and were endeavouring to save a part of their riches when the ship sunk, and he being the only one then on deck swam off and reached the boat. They remained an hour or more, beating about where the ship went down, in hopes that some of the submerged crew might escape from the hold and rise to the surface. The fog still hid the shore, so that they knew not on which side of the coast they lay, and, before they had time to think much of their loss, or to form any plans for the future, a ship, with sails and rigging all out of order, loomed in the mist, within speaking distance. There was not a soul to be seen on the dirty-looking craft. Black hailed her with the usual questions. No response. They were about to board her and hailed again, when a man rambled to the gangway and, in a drunken voice, answered "Here I am: this ship is the _Red Rover_." To the questions where bound, &c., he replied "We are from the Seas; we want to get to Madagascar; can't 'e tell us the way, mate, and where we are now? we ought to be near there by this time I should think, and seeming to me I have heard your voice before now, but can't call 'e by name, who are 'e an? and where do 'e hail from when you are home?" On getting nearer, Captain Black perceived that the one who spoke to him was a St. Just man, who had sailed with him many years--a good fellow, and a first-rate seaman when sober, but he was so seldom capable of performing his duty, that the Captain, to be rid of him, and others of the crew equally fond of rum, had, a year or so ago, left them the good ship in which they sailed; but now from neglect, those who built the strong and swift-sailing craft wouldn't know her. "Oh; I know 'e now," said the St. Just man, after he had stared at Captain Black awhile. "You are our old commander, and I am brave (very) and glad to find 'e; and where have 'e left your ship, the _Lovely Nell_?" Black inquired for their captain and quarter-master. "I'm cappen to-day," he of the _Red Rover_ replied, "we are all commanders in turn when we arn't too drunk, like all the rest of us are now. As for quarter-master, we haven't wanted any yet to share the prizes; but we want a captain who can keep the reckoning, and you shall take charge of the ship with all my heart, if you will." With the St. Just man's full consent, Black and the remnant of his ship's company, among whom were his two sons, took possession of the _Red Rover_ which, for strength and swiftness, was almost equal to his former craft. Before the drunken crew came to their senses all the arms and ammunition were secured in the cabin. Then, over a bowl of punch, Black was elected Captain; a quarter-master was chosen, as was usual with these hardy seamen; and they had a carpenter among them who always performed the surgical operation: in case of need he would take the wounded limb under his arm, and, with his big saw, separate it from the body of his patient, with as much ease and as quickly as he could have cut a spar in two, and with his red-hot axe cauterize the wound. Rules were drawn up, agreeably to the sea-rover's code, and sworn to on an axe--the _Rover's_ old crew consenting to all Captain Black required on the condition that there should be no stint of rum. Now a few days after this, whilst the old and new hands were working in company, clearing the deck of all lumber, that they might have a fair stage for fighting and otherwise getting things into ship-shape, it leaked out and was known to the Captain that, only a few months since, the _Rover's_ former crew had chosen a commander and officers who knew something of navigation, but when the crew was augmented by half a score desperadoes from the lawless multitude swarming about the islands, these officers, for trying to check the riotous proceedings of their ship's company, got themselves marooned; that is, they were put ashore on an uninhabited island, that they might take their chance to die or live. As these deserted men were the only ones on board who had any notion of keeping a ship's reckoning, the drunken crew, who took possession, when found in Mount's Bay, had a very vague idea as to what part of the world they were sailing in, and they had, by fits and starts, a week or so past, given chase to the _Lovely Nell_, thinking her to be some richly laden merchant-man. She and her crew had been altered in her rig, and otherwise, so as to pass for a ship pursuing an honest vocation. Some of the marooned men were well known to Captain Black and esteemed by him to be worthy fellows, as pirates go, and as brave men and true--for gentlemen of their profession. Without enlightening his crew as to their destination, he made sail for the desolate island, and by the time they had their guns, pistols, and cutlasses clean and fit for service they arrived at the place of exile only just in time to save the deserted men from starving in the midst of plenty; all for want of a tinder-box, or any other means of kindling a fire. The rescued men told Captain Black and the sober portion of his ship's company, that they would repay them for their deliverance with something more substantial than words. The fact was that in wandering over and round the island in search of water, yams, roots and fruits, or whatever would contribute to sustain life, they had discovered an immense quantity of buried treasures, probably the concealed spoil of former pirates, which were taken on board to be shared among all but those who marooned them. The drunken mutineers, when their former officers were brought on board, were sent on shore with a tipsey fiddler to take their places. Among the rescued Captain Black found one of his own sons. This did not surprise him, as he had left his father's ship many years ago, that he might enjoy more liberty elsewhere; but it accounted for the silence of the crew. It was only in their drunken bouts that an intimation of the occurrence escaped, on which the Captain acted. Some provisions, a tinder-box, and materials for striking fire, were left with the sailors on the island. The rescued officers soon recovered their strength, and, falling in with a strong and swift-sailing Spanish ship, the _Rover_ gave chase, and captured the prize, which, as one captain was enough in a ship, was handed over to those delivered from the island, who retained part of the crew and made the rest walk the plank. Captain Black, with his share of the treasures found on the island, was as well off as ever he was for returning; but, as the greatest part of his ship's company preferred to enjoy their free-and-easy life a few years longer, they bore away to the Spanish Main, where they sometimes acted in concert with other buccaneers. Nothing worthy of note is related of their adventures. One of their practical jokes was whenever the buccaneers took a priest in any of the Spanish settlements, they conveyed the sable gentleman on board, placed him on all-fours, and rode him round the deck, or made him dance by sweating him with pricks of knives or forks, &c., as long as the fiddler or piper could play. In about three years they had treasures to their hearts' content, and those who chose to give up their adventurous career returned with Captain Black. Best part of the night was passed by the returned Captain in relating his adventures to his wife and the old dame. Early next morning three horses were procured, and Nelly, with her husband and son, were on Newlyn beach by break of day. Captain Black hailed the _Red Rover_. A boat, well manned, left the ship and soon grounded on Newlyn beach. Then such a man as the Captain was when he danced at Burian Fair, on his stormy bridal night, sprang from the boat and beat through the sea to meet his mother. With little delay great store of money, jewels, rich stuffs, and other valuables were landed and conveyed to Betty Trenoweth's dwelling. The _Red Rover_ with Nelly's eldest son appointed commander, proceeded on her voyage to London, that her valuable merchandise might there be disposed of. Now the Captain and younger Black, by Nelly's earnest desire, consented at least to try the landsman's peaceful life. They had more riches than would suffice to purchase a good farm and enable them to live at their ease. The son, too, seems to have had no great love for a sea-rover's profession. Black leased, or purchased, a large old house at Trevorgans, with about thirty acres of tillable land, and a great run of downs and moors which, though they could not boast of much in the shape of game, were well stocked with rabbits, and the moors, in winter, were resorted to by wild-fowl--a substitute for beasts of chase not to be despised when but little fresh meat could be had. Then hunting was pursued as much for necessity as for pastime. The younger Black took to farming kindly, for one who had only been used to plough the deep, and soon acquired a sufficient knowledge of the simple husbandry practised at that time. When the only crops grown in fields were corn and pulse, green crops for winter's consumption were unknown, and potatoes, just introduced, were regarded as something more curious than useful, and to be cultivated in the gardens of rich folks only; just as Jerusalem artichokes, asparagus, sea-kale, salsify, beans, and many other useful plants, which ought to be grown in every farmer's field or garden, are still neglected here. The bold Buccaneer, Black, was well received and made much of by the neighbouring gentry, who, for the most part, were very poor; yet they contrived to keep up a show of gentility on very inadequate means. Then in Burian parish alone, one might count seven or eight gentlemen's seats, or, more correctly, what by courtesy were called such, which were inhabited by different branches of the Pendars, Tresillians, Davieses, Jenkins, Harveys, Hutchenses, and others. The Levealises had become extinct, and the Noys, Boscawens, Vivians, &c., had shortly before then removed from their ancient homes to other parts of the country. Portions of their old mansions still remain in the condition of dilapidated farm-houses in Trove, Trevider, Treveddern, Pendrea, Baranhuel, Alsia, Tresidder, Rissic, &c. A country church was then, (perhaps even more than it is now,) the principle stage on which the rural gentry displayed their state and grandeur to admiring rustics. Captain Black, not to be eclipsed, would appear in Burian Church on Sundays and holidays dressed in crimson damask waistcoat and breeches, silk hose, diamond knee and shoe-buckles, a red feather in his cocked hat, a gold chain round his neck with a diamond cross hung to it, jewel-hilted sword, hanging by a silk sash at his side; his naval-blue coat resplendent with gold buttons, lace, and other trappings proper to the Buccaneer's costume. Nelly, decked out in rich velvets, lace, silks, satins, and jewels which once belonged to dark-eyed senoras of Mexico or Peru, eclipsed all the ladies of the West Country. Such a man as Captain Black, notwithstanding his former profession was not a person to be treated with contempt at any time, and much less "In the days when we went a pirating, a long time ago." These gentlemen were looked upon as heroic adventurers, who served the dons, by way of reprisal, no worse than they deserved. Because then, if an English, French, or Dutch ship put into a Spanish-American port she was likely to be confiscated, and her crew kept prisoners, or treated no better than slaves, if they escaped with their lives, till dearly ransomed. We have little to do, however, with the morality of sea-highwaymen. Yet, if old stories may be credited, our brave Buccaneer Black soon became a greater favourite with certain ladies of the parish than he was with their lovers and husbands. One tale is often told of his adventures with a gay lady of the Tresillian family, who then lived at Tresidder, and how a noted smuggler called Ackey Carn, one both landless and lawless, who cared for no man, being a rival for the gay dame's favour, by way of a jest spoke of certain amatory passages which he had witnessed between the Captain and lady, whose powerful and proud relatives constrained Carn, under pain of their displeasure, to do penance in Burian Church for thus thoughtlessly exposing the scandal. But the culprit, who, according to custom, came into church barefooted and clad in a sheet, instead of kneeling before the priest or parson, to beg pardon, and otherwise express contrition, and receive the priestly reprimand with becoming humility, stood up in front of the rud-locks (rood-loft,) turned his back to the priest and, facing the congregation (crowded to behold the show) made the well-remembered speech which begins:-- "Here am I, compelled by the law For to deny what my own eyes saw, &c." Here follows a minute relation, told in language more quaint than choice, which was calculated to spread the scandal far and near. Then, throwing off his sheet, he showed himself well armed and bade defiance to all priests, pirates, and Tresillians, this side of a disagreeably warm place, as he would have said, if paraphrases of gentle words and equivocations had been the fashion then; however, he said he didn't care a rap for any one before him, and he would fight them all one after the other. Black took up the challenge as soon as given, and offered to fight him there and then, any way he chose, either with arms or naked fists. Their partisans decided that they should fight unarmed. Black threw down his sword and would have fought in the church had there been a clear field for their encounter. They passed through the hundreds who were assembled at a clear space or bowling-alley, below the cross. Ackey Carn, finding that Black was too dexterious for him in the use of his fists, and that he was getting the worst of it in boxing, turned the Captain over his hip and brought him down a fair back fall; and, as often as Black rose, the smuggler laid him down at full length, yet always with the greatest care not to harm the man who had often treated him like a prince. Carn only wanted to convince the Captain that he was his match one way or another in the art of self-defence. The two men having fought and wrestled till they were bruised black and blue, acquired the greatest respect and admiration for each other's courage, fair play, and prowess; and they were taken at last into the public-house and, over a bowl of punch, the Buccaneer and smuggler Carn became sworn friends, which they ever remained until their day of doom, when they left this world together. Notwithstanding the favours of country ladies and gentlemen, Black soon became tired of what he was pleased to call a landlubber's lazy life. Caring little for hunting, and less for farming and other sports or occupations which make rural life glide pleasantly away, he passed much of his time in the public-house, surrounded by a gang of loafers who drank at his expense and applauded his stories of savage warfare, told in such infernal language as is seldom heard except from the lips of sea-robbers. His greatest delight was to beat everyone in hard drinking--no easy matter in those times. An old song of that jovial age thus describes what was deemed fair enebriation:-- "Not drunk is he who from the floor, Can rise alone, and still drink more! But drunk is he who prostrate lies, Without the power to drink or rise!" After days and nights of drunken revelry, Black, in gloomy fits, would often wander down to the cleves and pass many days alone, in the carns and sawns of the sea-shore, or was only seen in company with the smuggler Carn, who, from the Sunday when they fought for the honour, or disgrace, of the fair lady, became the Captain's favourite companion. Yet time hung heavy on the Captain's hands, and by way of a change, he had built from his own designs, a strong, swift-sailing, half-decked craft, which might serve for fishing and fetching liquors and other goods from France. There was a high duty on salt then. When she was all rigged and ready for sea Captain Black took Carn for his mate, and they, with a crew of such dare-devils as suited them, set sail one Friday morn in the Fall and shaped their course for Gunwallo, where they landed, dug up and shipped the treasures taken from the Moorish galley some five-and-twenty years before. Thence our free-traders bore away for their usual trading port in Brittany. They soon procured the goods they required, then passed several days drunk and rioting, and often fighting, with anyone they encountered, for mere pastime. As smugglers spent abundance of money in the place, they were allowed to do much as they pleased. At last they made sail for home with a fair breeze, which, however, soon died away; and, for several days, there was scarcely a breath of wind. The sky continued overcast and the air sultry. During this heavy weather Black lay among the goods like one worn out, and scarcely spoke or moved. After a tiresome spell of beating about and making but little progress, the wind freshened, and one evening, about night-fall, they sighted the Lizard. Then, suddenly, black clouds gathered over-head, and a thunder-storm came on. With the first flash of lightning Black sprung up and said, "Hoist all sail, boys, for by all the devils we'll get home this night." The crew wished to shorten sail or lay to till day-dawn, but the Captain's spirits rose with the storm. He took the helm, and shaped his course in almost total darkness, for Penberth Cove. The boat going before the wind, bounded over the waves like a thing of life; the crew expected every moment to become a wreck; they could only see the cliffs by the flashing lightning; when Black, as if sporting with their fears, cried out, "Bravo, devils of the whirlwind, fire away, we will give ye a salute with our thunder;" then, giving the helm to Carn, he loaded and fired their swivel-gun, in answer to a cannonade from the clouds. The crew were confounded by the blasphemous talk of their commander, who, amidst the crash and roar of wind, waves, and thunder, seemed rejoicing in his native element. Their terror was at the utmost when, amidst the awful tumult, he stood up and, tearing out a handful of hair, threw it away in the blast, bellowing out, "There, fellow devils, take that; stand by me now, and I'll be with ye soon." That instant the lightning burst out in such bright flashes over the cliffs, that rocks and carns were seen as plainly as at noon-day, and a sheet of flame hung over across the cove, from Pednsawnack to Cribba Head, till they ran safely in and the storm died away. With the help of farmers' men and others, who had been several days and nights watching for the smugglers' return, the goods were soon landed, taken up to a level spot above the capstan, and covered with a tarpauling. Then two or three kegs were broached, a fire made, and the smugglers, with those who assisted them, sat round to enjoy the good liquor and other things. At the height of their carousal the Captain drew the keg he sat on close beside the pile of blazing wood. He had not long settled himself there to drink and smoke, when his breath appeared to be all ablaze and his body in flames. His mate, Carn, threw himself on him, and swore he would save his Captain or perish with him. And perish with him he did; for, before the rest of the company had power to hinder him, both the commander and his mate were blazing like a bonfire. They neither spoke nor struggled. The others, in great terror at beholding their fearful end, went off, in all haste, to Treen, there remained till morning; then they and many others went down to the Cove, and on the spot where the two men were burned, not a sign of them was to be seen: all their ashes, even, were blown away. Now, when folks came to think of Captain Black's strange career and stranger departure, many believed that he was either an evil spirit in human form or else a man possessed with a devil, and it remained undecided by the people of the West, whether he was man or demon, or a compound of both. Yet, in all probability, this strange being was only mad at times, and his sudden exit, might have been a case of spontaneous combustion, (if indeed, there be such a thing.) Many of those who in former times were believed to be demoniacs, witches, or wizards, would, if they lived and played their pranks at the present day, be simply regarded as lunatics and most interesting cases for the medical student rather than for the rude treatment of inquisitor, exorcist, or other priestly operator. We hear but little more of Nelly. Her son purchased a farm in St. Just, she removed thither with him, and ended her days in peace. Some descendants of the rover, (whose name we have abridged) were living in the western parishes a few years since. About a century ago an aged dame of the family kept school in Burian Church-town and used frequently to relate strange traditions of her buccaneering ancestor. [Illustration] THE WITCH OF BURIAN CHURCH-TOWN. These midnight hags, By force of potent spells, of bloody characters, And conjurations, horrible to hear, Call fiends and spectres from the yawning deep, And set the ministers of hell at work. ROWE.--"_Jane Shore._" Who rides my horse a' nights, Who lamed the miller's boy, Who raised the wind that blew my old barn roof down; But I've a silver bullet ready for her that will lame her, Hobble how she will.--_Old Song._ About the time of Captain Black's exit old Betty Trenoweth from her superstitious usages and pretensions to mysterious science, became notorious as a witch, and her practice of the black art was discovered and put past doubt by some one in Church-town, against whom she had a grudge. A man, finding when all attempts to please old Betty failed, that his cattle still pined off their legs, and everything went wrong, and that there was nothing but bad luck about house and land. Then he or his wife determined to punish the witch and bring her to reason. He made her image in clay or dough, we have forgotten which, and, when the figure was fashioned to their mind, ran up a good long skewer through the lower part of its body. Now, that they might know the effect of their counter-spell, some persons in the plot, entered the witch's dwelling, at the moment the skewer pierced her effigy, and saw her fall suddenly on the ground, where she continued rolling, kicking, and groaning in great agony for some minutes, when she exclaimed, "Good Lord, what's in my body? I can hold out no longer; do run over to Dick Angwin's and tell am I'll make et up weth am ef he will!" Fearing the witch might die in her agony and leave her curse on them or the spell unbroken, they hastened to make friends with Betty and destroyed the image. Yet this punishment didn't make the old dame desist from carrying on her naughty tricks; for, one Thursday about the end of harvest, Betty jogged away to Penzance, intending to buy a pig that she might fatten it for winter's use. She was in price, and had nearly come to terms for one which suited her fancy. There were only a few pence between her and the seller; yet, pretending she didn't care about it, and saying she wouldn't give a farthing more, she turned her back and went to look at some others. That while, one Tom Trenoweth, a cousin of hers, offered a trifle more and purchased the sow. Tom had paid the "earnest money," when the old dame came back and said she would have the sow. "You're too late, cousin," said Tom, "I've bought her." "And what made thee interfeer, I'd like to know, when I was in price for the sow?" said Betty; "ef I don't have her thee shust wish thy cake dough, and find the sow the dearest bargain thee hast ever had." Tom refused to give up his purchase. Betty went off mumbling threats and curses, and shaking her bony finger at Tom. With much ado, the man got home the sow, put her in a crow (sty), filled the pig's-trough with wash, and firmly fastened the door. Tom rose early next morning, and found the crow-door open, the pig's-trough full of wash and his sow rooting in a neighbour's garden; and it took all the men and boys in Church-town many hours to get the troublesome beast of a sow back into her crow again; and in spite of all he could do, scarce a night passed but she would get out, be off to lanes miles away, and do some mischief that Tom would have to pay for. Months passed, during which the sow had given to her corn, meal, milk, and everything else that could be thought of to satisfy her, but all without avail--the more she ate the leaner and more lanky she became. One day Old Betty met the owner of the pig and said, quite friendly-like, "well, cousin Tom, how es thy sow getting on? Will she be fat against Christmas? I hear she is very troublesome; perhaps you had better sell her to me. What do 'e look for her now?" "No," Tom replied, "ef she esn't fat for seven years, in Sundays, you shall never be the better off for begrudging her to me; old black-witch that you are; I'll drive her to Penzance and sell her for less than I gave, rather than you shall have her." More months passed, during which the old woman, in spite of Tom's rebuffs, made him various offers for the sow, but every time less than the preceeding, as she said the pig was getting poorer and would soon be reduced to skin and bone. Tom, finding that his sow had eaten and destroyed more than she was worth, and all the time getting leaner, fastened a rope to her leg and started early one Thursday morning for Penzance, determined to sell her for anything he might be offered rather than bring her back again. The sow went on, quiet as a lamb, till she came to a stream running across the road in Bojew-bottom; there was no bridge over Bojew water in Tom's time. The sow wouldn't take to the water, nor could the man make her; he tried to put her across, wheelbarrow fashion, holding her up by the hind legs; then he endeavoured to drag her through the water, but she turned right around, bolted in between his legs, upset him in the muddy stream, and the rope slipping from his hand, she took her way up the moors, over hedges and ditches. Tom followed her, through bogs, brambles, and furze for many miles, till they came out in Leah lanes on the Land's End road to Penzance and Sancreed; the sow seemingly never the worse. But Tom felt very tired, and his clothes were torn to rags with the thickets. The sow, now on the road to Penzance, and near Tregonebris Downs, went along so quietly that Tom caught hold of the rope again, made a running noose in the end of it, and (that she mightn't jerk it away again,) passed it over his hand and reeved it round his wrist. That being done to his mind, "Now, ah es much to me," says Tom to himself, or to the sow, "late as et es, ef I don't get 'e to market yet." He hadn't spoken the words a minute when a hare leaped out of a bush beside the road, made a squeak that sounded like "chee-ah!" ran down over the moor, the sow followed after, dragging Tom along, and never stopped, going almost as fast as the hare, till she came to Tregonebris bridge, when in under the road she bolted, so far as the rope would let her. The opening under the road being little other than a drain, or "bolt," as we say, Tom couldn't even crawl in on all-fours, his arm was almost dragged out of joint, and the loop, reeved on his wrist, cutting through the skin; Tom by good luck having his knife in his pocket, managed to get at it, cut the rope, and let the sow go; but she only went as far as the middle of the bridge, where it was narrowest, and fell to lie in the water. Tom could neither drive nor coax his pig from under the road. He threw all the stones he could find at her till he had nearly closed up the bridge on one side, but she hardly noticed him with a grunt. About noon Tom got very hungry; yet he was afraid to leave his sow and go to the nearest house, that he might have something to eat, because whilst he was out of sight the devil-directed pig might bolt away, no one could tell whither. Tom sat down beside the bridge, wishing some one might go by or heave in sight within call. He had to wait there till near sunset, when who should come by, from Tregonebris way, but Old Betty, with her basket on her arm and knitting-stocking in her hand. She came on clicking her needles, knitting all the way, and looking as demure as if "butter wouldn't melt in her mouth and cheese choke her." When she saw Tom sitting beside the road she seemed all surprised like, and said "Arrea! cousin, es that you? Have 'e sold the sow and got drunk on the profit, that you have missed your way back, an soas?" "Well, Old Betty, es that thee? I must say that thee hast beaten me hollow," Tom replied. "The sow is under the 'brudge,' and thee dust know it well enow; for who but thee crossed the road and went over the moor in the shape of a hare? Thy friend, the devil, lent thee his hounds, I suppose, to drive her in where she can neither turn, go forth, nor come back, et seems to me." "Well, thank the powers," said she, according to her custom, when anyone came to grief, "I am'at the only one in trouble this day; but as you are a cousin of my own, I'll give 'e the value of the sow still, and that es about half of what she cost 'e, because she's now gone to skin and bone, et will take months to get her up again." "If you will give me something from your basket to eat, and what you last offered, you may take her, get her out ef you can, and be d----d to 'e." But no, the old witch stood out, and wouldn't give a farthing more than half of what Tom paid for the sow; and he was glad at last, to get that and a two-penny loaf which she took from her basket. Then the dame went down to the mouth of the bridge, or bolt, only just said "Chee-ah! Chee-ah!" and the sow came out and followed her home like a dog. Tom took the road to Sancras Church-town, and stayed at "The Bird in hand" as long as his money lasted. "It was no good to lay by; he might as well spend it first as last," he said, "because every shilling of the devil's coin will go and take nine more with it." All who heard Tom's story agreed that what seemed a hare, to cross his path, was no other than Old Betty in that shape, and wished they could send a silver bullet through her. It is said here as elsewhere that lead has no effect on a witch-hare. The old woman kept her pig many years for a store-sow and she became the parent of a numerous progeny. THE STORY OF MADAM NOY. After Betty had gained her ends with Tom Trenoweth, nobody ventured to deny her anything she coveted except Madam Noy, of Pendre. From the little known of this lady, she seems to have been a strong-minded close-fisted termagant. She was fond of going to law, and had always suits on hand concerning the bounds and common rights of her lands. She is said also to have kept the best hunter and hounds in the West Country, and that she coursed with them daily as she rode over her farms, across hedges and ditches, to inspect her work-people and stock. We suppose she was a widow then, or if she had a husband he made too little noise in his time to be remembered. She took great pride in her poultry; above all, in her rare breed of hens with large tufts or cops on their heads. Now Betty knew that Madam had often refused to give or sell any eggs from her coppies to her best friends, yet one morning early she put on her steeple-crown hat and mantle, took her basket and stick, hobbled down to Pendre, and seated herself on a style entering the town-place. In a few minutes she saw Madam Noy come from the barn with a bowl of corn in her hands to feed her poultry of all sorts and sizes. "Good morrow to your honour," said Betty, as she went up curtseying and nodding to Madam, "Dear me, how well you are lookan, you're gettan to look younger and younger I do declare, and what beautiful hens, ducks, and geese, you've got! The finest in the parish I do believe. Do 'e know, Madam dear, that I've got an old cluckan hen that I should like to put to set, ef you would spare me a dozen eggs, the sort of your coppies I'd like best." "Arrea! Betty, I suppose you would," said Madam, "but I've no eggs to spare from my hens with cops nor the ones without, while I've so many of my own clucking hens about. And dust thee think, than, that when I've refused to sell any of my new sort to my own sister Dame Pendar, or to my cousin Madam Trezillian, that I would spare them to the likes of you?" "I don't care a cuss whether you do or no," Betty replied, "but if you won't sell me some eggs you shall wish your cake dough." "Now go thee way'st home thou deceitful old bitch," said the lady in a rage, "and what business hast thee here pryan about the place and covetan all thee cust spy with thy evil eye, I'd like to know. Begone, or I'll set the dogs at thee, and throw fire over thee, dosn't think that I'm afraid of thy witchcraft." "I am on the church-road through the town-place," said Betty, "and here I will stop as long as I like in spite of you and your lawyers too." Madam Noy and Betty continued their threats and abuse until the lady became so enraged, at the old woman's persistence to stay in her town-place, that she snatched up a stone, threw it at Betty, and hit her right on her noddle, with a blow that made her jaws rattle. Betty limped to the stile mumbling to herself, "now may the devil help me and by all that's evil here I will rest till I've curst thee to my heart's content." Standing on the stile she pointed her finger at Madam Noy and made the lady 'shake in her shoes;' whilst she nodded her head, waved her out-stretched hand, and ill-wished her by saying,-- "Mary Noy, thou ugly, old, and spiteful plague, I give thee the collick, the palsy, and ague. All the eggs thy fowls lay, from this shall be addle, All thy hens have the pip and die with the straddle. And before nine moons have come and gone, Of all thy coppies there shan't live one: Thy arm and thy hand, that cast the stone, Shall wither and waste to skin and bone." Madam Noy was never well from that day, her fowls' eggs were always bad, and all Betty's spells took effect. Before six months were past she lost her coppies every one; for, in place of gay tufts of feathers, the chickens' brains came out on all those hatched from her coppies' eggs. A noted old droll-teller and clock-cleaner of Sancreed, called Billy Foss, used to recite this, and many other stories, in a sort of doggrel, in which he mostly half said and half sung his drolls. We remember but little more of Billy's verse, in this story, than the few lines given above; these are enough, however, for a sample of the kind of composition that was much in vogue with our old droll-tellers. 'Tis said that Betty owed her proficiency in the black art to her frequent conferences with Old Nick, (or her familiar, whatever his name might have been,) who almost nightly took the form of An' Mally Perase's black bull, and, under that shape, met the witch on the northern side of Burian churchyard. Much more is related of Betty's transactions, but nothing new in the annals of witchcraft; and enough has been stated to serve as an example of the faith and practices in such matters long ago; indeed, we may say that such beliefs and doings are anything but extinct; something turns up, every now and then, to show that, notwithstanding all the teaching and preaching, faith in witchcraft, and other dreary superstitions, are nearly as rife as ever. We give the following instance as just related. A MODERN SANCREED WITCH. Only t'other day a farmer of Sancreed had three or four dairy-cows to let, and a woman who lived near by offered to take them, but as he didn't altogether like this woman he wouldn't close the bargain with her, and another neighbour soon agreed for the dairy. When the woman heard who had been preferred, she told everybody she met with that Jemmy--the man who took the cows--should rue the day that he ventured to cross her path. "For if I didn't know the right hour and minute," said she, "I would ill wish him every minute of the day till the spell was cast." A week or so after the first cow was in milking, Jemmy and his wife came to the farmer's house one night and said, "we believe that our cow must be ill-wished, for her milk is all bucked and gone to cruds (curds), with only a mere skin of cream on the pans; if you don't believe it come and see for yourself." The farmer and some of his family went home with the dairy-man, and found the milk like it often is in summer when the buck (spittle-fly) is on the grass, that, so it is believed, makes milk curdle then without becoming sour. The farmer and his wife couldn't tell what to think of milk being in that state early in spring; he took home the cow, however, and let the dairy-man have another, and when she was milked by Jemmy her milk 'runned' too, like that of the former one, which was then all right in the master's dairy. And so it continued with all the other cows Jemmy had; it was only for a day now and then, that any cream rose; other things went wrong with him and his family, and the farmer was at last obliged to take back his cows because there was no chance of his dairy-man making the rent. Meanwhile the woman who coveted them bragged how she had served Jemmy out for interfering. "The very night I heard that he had took the cows," said she, "I went on my knees under a white-thorn tree by the crossroads, and there, for best part of that night, I called on the powers till they helped me to cast the spells that gave old Jemmy and his family plenty of junket and sour milk for a time." In fact she was proud to make her neighbours believe her to be a witch. We suppose the reason why this would-be witch chose the cross-road thorn as a suitable place for her hellish work, was because many such trees are said to have sprung from stakes driven into suicides' graves; also on account of those sites being often visited by Old Nick and his headless dogs when they take their nightly rounds to see if any spirits have wandered from their assigned resting-places. We may remark that, although the Black-huntsman's hounds are said to have neither heads nor tails, yet according to our popular mythology, they are believed to have the former appendages, with the same lineaments they bore when they dwelt on earth in human forms, but they make their heads invisible, to ordinary mortals, that they may not be known. The same applies to apparently headless coach-drivers, horses, &c., that were frequently seen in old times. [Illustration] A QUEEN'S VISIT TO BARANHUAL. At all feasts where ale was strongest, Sat this gracious Queen the longest, First to come and last to go. LONGFELLOW, _slightly altered_. There is a tradition,--that has taken the form of a droll, as it is related by old people of Buryan,--which sayeth that when the Pendars lived in grand style, in Baranhual, a Queen and her retinue landed from a Man-of-war, at Moushal, for the sake of seeing the Logan Rock and Land's End. News of the intended trip soon spread, and reached Buryan ere sufficient horses could be procured to furnish out the cavalcade. On the morning of the royal progress, work was at a stand still, and nearly all who could "lift a leg" started off from house and field towards Burian Church-town, as it was rumoured that Her Majesty intended to inspect Buryan Church on her way. So, in the morning early, Buryan bells were set a ringing; and Church-town folks arrayed themselves in their best to receive the Queen with due honours. Every soul left Baranhual except old Dame Pendar, who was rather infirm. "My lady, the Queen," said she, "is but a woman, and make the most of her, even if she do wear a crown on her head every day of her life, with velvet robes all broider'd in gold, silk stockings, and diamond-buckles on her satin shoes, with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, yet she's much like myself under all her fine clothes; and it esn't worth while to leave the house alone, and all that's in it, and go so far to see her at my time of life; besides there's the milk to scald and many jobs to be done at all hours. No, verily," said she to her son and his wife, "you may be off to Church-town with the scabble-angow (rag, tag, and bob-tail), but, indeed, I'll stay home and guard the house, and all that's in it. That shall never be left alone whilst I draw breath." At that time the Pendars kept a capstan in repair, and gave other aids to the fishery at Penberth,--which is partly in Baranhual ground,--and received for it a certain portion of fish from the owners of each boat kept in the cove. An hour or so after all the household, but old mistress, had started off to behold a queen, An' Joan Taskes came up from Penberth with a cowal full of fish, as the Squire's dues from all the boats which landed that morning. Madam told An' Joan to take the fish to the river, and that she would be down in a minute to help clean them. Before Joan had taken all out of her cowal, and laid them on the stepping-stones, that stood in the water where Baranhual bridge now crosses it, old mistress arrived, knife in hand, ready to help clean and split her fish. They had nearly finished their job,--the old lady standing on a stepping-stone, with her skirts tucked up to her knees, taking the fish from An' Joan, who waded in the stream to give them a last rinsing,--when the old fishwife, on hearing a clatter of horses' hoofs coming down hill, looked up, turned round, and bawled out, "Can I believe my eyes; look 'e mistress, dear; ef I live, there's hundreds of kings and queens ridan down the hill. I can see more than a score, and there's more a coman round the turnan; pull down your petticoats, do! Oh, I wish to gracious I had a clean towser on, and my best hat." Before old Joan had ceased exclaiming, and fixing herself as tidy as she could--though Madam Pendar, intent on the fish, didn't notice her commotion--a score or so of ladies and gentlemen on horseback, were within a stone's-cast. They drew reins, and a horseman started forward, rode down into the water, accosted the old lady, enquired if Squire Pendar lived in the house on the hill, and informed the wondering women that Her Majesty, on her route to the Logan Rock, well remembering that the Pendars had always been staunch friends to the royal cause, had preferred coming that way to give him a visit, instead of seeing Buryan Church, which Her Majesty and her attendants might have a glance at on their return from the Land's End. Madam replied that she was very glad to see "my lady, the Queen;" and was sorry that her son and his wife, with all their servants, were gone to pay their respects to Her Majesty in Church-town, as everybody said that was the intended route, and nobody home but herself to receive them. "My royal mistress approaches to speak for herself," said he. Madam was still standing on a stone, knife in hand, her coats tucked up, and kirtle drawn through her apron-string, when the Queen, understanding that her gentleman was speaking to no less a person than Madam Pendar, rode into the water, shook hands with her, and said, "If all are gone to see the Queen and left 'e alone, the Queen is come to see you; and I, and my attendants, would be glad to rest a while to have something to eat, and to mend the rents in our clothes that are torn to 'skethans' with thorns and brambles that overhang the narrow lanes." "The Lord love 'e, my dear lady, the Queen," exclaimed she, making a low curtsey, and quite overcome with honour. "Do 'e put your hand, now--as mine, on that side, is fishy and wet--into my left pocket, take out the key of the fore-door, and my huzzey (housewife) you will find in it needles and thread of all colours, ride up to the house, let yourselves in, and I'll follow with the fish, and do the best we can to entertain 'e." "We should like nothing so much as some of that nice fish, draining on the stones," said the Queen, in trying to get a key, large enow for a church-door, out of Madam's pocket. "Bless your life, and you shall have them," replied the old lady. "I am so flambustered (confounded) with the honour you have done me, that I hardly know which end I stand upon. But you will want my scissors, pieces of stuff, and other things in my pockets, for mending," continued she, in untying the string from around her waist, that kept up her pockets; "take them all as they are; you will find most everything in them." The precious pockets, like knapsacks, were handed to a gentleman who slung them across his saddle-bow, and the Queen rode on well pleased with Dame Pendar. Joan stood gaping and staring, nodding and smiling, without speaking a word, though many spoke to her; but their backs were no sooner turned than she said, "Why, mistress, dear, can you make out their lingo? Can that lady, who spoke to 'e, be a Queen? Why, where's her crown? It wasn't upon her head, I'm sure." "Cease thy clack, be quick and gather up the fish," Madam replied; "she put her crown in her pocket, I suppose, that the thorns might'nt sweep it off her head and under the horses' feet; thee west see her wearing of it when she's seated in the great parlour, by and bye, eating bread and honey: I'm glad, though, thee hast brought up a lot of nice mullett, bass, whiting-pullocks, and other fish for pies and frying, besides good large cod and ling for boiling." When Dame Pendar and Joan got up to the house, they found the Queen and her ladies in the parlour busy sewing up rents in their garments; and the gentlemen--having stabled their horses--had made a blazing fire on the hearth. A large brass brewing-pan was placed on a brandes (trivet); pounds of butter and lard cast into it, and the nicest frying-fish cooked therein. Mullet-and-parsley pies were put to bake on the hearth; large fishes boiled, and conger stewed, with fennel, in as many crocks and kettles as it would contain, with other things. Ladies and gentlemen--Queen and all--helped: some got the best pewter platters, plates, and flagons--only used on grand occasions--out of a chest, those on dressers and shelves, for ordinary use, wern't half enough; others peeled garlic and hollick, chopped fennel, tarragon, and other herbs to flavour sauces. Several tried to grind mustard, but none could give the right motion to their knees to make the bullet spin round in the bowl, and old mistress was obliged to grind it all, or have it spoiled. They dished up fried and boiled fish, swimming in butter; bowls of cream were poured into the pies; lucky, too, Madam had a batch of barley bread just baked, hot and hot. Two gentlemen placed a high-backed carved oak chair, with several pillows thereon, at the head of the hall table, and Her Majesty was seated in as much state as she desired. They ate, one and all, with such an appetite, as if they hadn't tasted "meat" for a week, so old Joan Taskes said. The Queen imbibed old ale from a silver goblet; her ladies from pewter tankards and flagons; her gentlemen drank beer and cider from black-jacks and brown-georges (leather drinking vessels), which were often replenished. Wasn't Dame Pendar delighted to see it all, as she bustled about to help Her Majesty to all sorts of sauces, of her own compounding. Indeed it was, as she said, "the proudest day of her life." She was, above all, elated when her royal guest smacked her lips after a sip of brandy, and swore, "by cock and pie," that "true as she was a sinner, never before, in all her born days, had she so much enjoyed a repast." When the Queen and her ladies returned to the parlour, Dame Pendar placed before them white bread, cream and honey, brandy, sweet-drink (metheglin), and other cordials, of which they all partook with great pleasure. Having mended their garments, the ladies thought it full time to proceed on their journey, if they were to see the Logan Rock and Land's End that day. But Her Majesty, bless her honest heart, was so well pleased with her entertainment that she preferred to stay there with old Dame Pendar till her attendants returned; so they, with her permission, rode away to Castle-Treen. When the Queen's suite had departed, Dame Pendar produced from her own private cupboard, a bottle of rare old mead, and a flask of extra strong brandy, for Her Majesty to taste; and she, liking them well, drank glass upon glass of mead, with several sips of brandy, to keep the fish from "flowing on her stomach," and to show their loving regard for each other, they exchanged all the contents of their pockets for keepsakes; yea, every item, except their crooked sixpences, which they kept for good luck. At length the Queen, feeling drowsy, reclined in a long window-seat, thence rolled on the floor, where she lay puffing and snoring, unable to rise. Dame Pendar, by so often drinking "Here's health and long life to 'e, my dear lady, the Queen," was too fuddled to help her up, so she lay down with her for company; and old Joan, who had been sipping of all sorts, and drinking everybody's health, was stretched under the kitchen table. The Queen's attendants, having passed hours in viewing the Logan Rock and other wonders of Castle-Treen, 'couranted' about amongst the rocks, where they found pleasant places for courting, till nearly sunset. They then, concluding it was too late for going to the Land's End, mounted and returned to Baranhual, that they might wait on their royal mistress, and reach Moushal in time to be on board before dark. They galloped away in hot haste, expecting to find Her Majesty impatiently awaiting their return; but, sad to say, they found her--all her state forgotten--lying helpless on the floor, beside Dame Pendar. The royal lady was hastily lifted on her palfrey; Joan Taskes--now the least drunk of the three--helped to fasten a giss (hempen girth) across her Majesty's lap, to keep her safe in the saddle, and they quickly departed. Now it so happened that Squire Pendar, his wife, and their servants, tired waiting for the Queen, in Church-town, till near night, returned home across the fields, Selena way, arrived at the Green-court gate just in time to catch a glimpse of Her Majesty under the trees that darkened the avenue. He had the merest glance of her going down hill with her head drooping over her horse's mane, and a gentleman holding her steady; and that's the last seen of her in Buryan. Squire Pendar, his wife, and their servants were all rather muddled too, from having passed all day at Church-town with hundreds of gentle and simple, in drinking "Here's to the Queen and ourselves, comrades;" yet he and his wife expressed great surprise and ill-humour at finding their house all in disorder. Joan told them how they all enjoyed their entertainment. "Bad luck to them all!" murmured he; "our cellar-floor is like mud with spilt liquor, and not a gallon of beer or cider left in the casks. What mother said was true enow; the Queen, for all her fine clothes, is much like another woman, especially when drunk." Next morning he could hardly be persuaded that Her Majesty had been there at all, till his mother showed him what fine things she had as keepsakes. "My thimble, as thou knowest, was brass," said she, "and my bodkin silver; but see, here's my gracious lady's silver thimble and golden bodkin:" then, with great pride, drawing from her pocket the Queen's huzzey, she continued "if anything more is wanted to assure thee how I've been honoured by my gracious lady, behold this!" She then displayed what one may conjecture to have been a remarkable contrivance for containing many requisites of a lady's work-box or bag, and several toilet articles besides. It was a yard long when unfolded; every little pocket and flap of a different sort of rich stuff, all worked in elegant designs, with gold and silver thread, coloured silks, intermixed with pearls and precious stones, or what passed for such. It folded into strong leather covers, fastened with silver clasps like a book; and the upper cover was lined with a mirror. Hundreds of people came to see it suspended, at full length, the looking-glass at top, over the parlour fire-place, where it was kept in remembrance of the Queen's visit. The shell-room was built after, and some say it was intended to commemorate that honour. This apartment was incrusted with shells,--mostly from Parcurnow. Among other devices, a cavalier was pourtrayed, as if pursued by robbers; and under this shell-picture, the legend,--"This is the heir, come let us slay him, that the inheritance may be ours." We have frequently remarked to old persons, who related the above story, that nothing is said in any county or other history of a Queen having visited Baranhual. "Perhaps your history-makers never heard of it," they reply: "no one belonging to Buryan saw her plainly, that's true, except the two old women." Squire Pendar and his servants only had a glimpse in the twilight of a company on horseback passing down the road, which was then overhung with large spreading sycamores,--three rows of them on each side,--which soon hid his royal guests. But the Pendars, even in our time, poor as they were,--many of them labourers and fishermen,--had always preserved something among them that the Queen was said to have left with old Madam hundreds of years ago; and all of the name, that we have met with, say that Pendre, Baranhual, Trevider, and other lands in Buryan, once belonged to their forefathers. [Illustration] THE SMALL PEOPLE'S COW. They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye. _Merry Wives of Windsor._ There is a story connected with the Pendars which says that, when this family was on its wane, the owner of Baranhual had a fine red cow, called Rosy, which gave twice as much milk as an ordinary one. She retained her milk-yielding power all the year through, and kept in good condition, even in winter, when other cattle on better food were reduced to skin and bone. Rosy would yield all her morning's milk, but every evening when much--and that the richest--still remained in her udder, she would stop chewing her cud, cock her ears, low gently as if calling a calf, and the "shower" of milk would cease. If the maid attempted to renew her milking Molly would kick the bucket and gallop away to a remote part of the field. Dame Pendar, thinking the milkmaid didn't shake Rosy's bag and coax her enough, tried, one evening, what she could do, but when she thought by "visting" Molly's teats to get more milk, after the cow's usual signal to cease, she up foot and smashed the wooden pail to pieces, tossed Dame Pendar over her back, and, bellowing, raced away--tail on end. Though Rosy kept in milk when all other cows were "gone to sew" (dry), yet, because there was something strange about her and as she was always fit for the butchers, an attempt was made, soon after the dame's tossing, to get her to market; but all the people on Baranhual couldn't drive her off the farm. Over a while Rosy had a heifer calf, and when it had sucked its fill, its dam gave her usual quantity of milk into the bucket, and then enough remained to fill another. Stranger still, in a few weeks the calf could eat herbage, and its dam weaned it gradually, but it could never be separated from her. Everything prospered with Mr. Pendar. His cattle and crops throve wonderfully, till one Midsummer's night. His milkmaid having gone to games held at Penberth, or some place near it, only returned when the stars began to blink. Rosy, impatient to be milked, came to meet her in the field, stood still, placed back her leg, chewed her cud, and showered her milk into the bucket till she had yielded more than usual: then she stretched herself, looked around, and gently lowed whilst the maid, without rising from her milking-stool, pulled up a handful of grass, rolled it into a pad and placed it inside her hat, that she might carry her bucket the steadier. Having put on her hat she was surprised to see hundreds of "Small People" (fairies) around the cow, and on her back, neck, and head. A great number of little beings--as many as could get under Rosy's udder at once--held butter-cups, and other handy flowers or leaves, twisted into drinking vessels, to catch the shower of milk that fell among them, and some sucked it from clover-blossoms. As one set walked off satisfied, others took their places. They moved about so quickly that the milkmaid's head got almost "light" whilst she looked at them. "You should have seen," said the maid afterwards, "how pleased Rosy looked, as she tried to lick those on her neck who scratched her behind her horns, or picked ticks from her ears; whilst others, on her back smoothed down every hair of her coat. They made much of the calf, too; and, when they had their fill of milk, one and all in turn brought their little arms full of herbs to Rosy and her calf,--how they licked all up and looked for more!" Some little folks, who came late, were mounted on hares, which they left to graze a few yards from the cow. For a good while the milkmaid stood, with the bucket on her head, like one spell-bound, looking at the Small People; and she would have continued much longer to admire them, but, just as some came within a yard of her, Dame Pendar suddenly stood up on the field-hedge and called to know how she was so long about Rosy, and had all the rest still to milk, and how she hadn't brought in a bucket-full yet? At the first sound of old Dame Pendar's voice, the Small People pointed their fingers and made wry faces at her; then off galloped Rosy and the troop of small folks with her--all out of sight in a wink. The maid hastened in, and told her mistress, and master too, what she had seen. "Ah! fax, I knowed," said Dame Pendar to her husband, "and didn't I always tell 'e something was the matter that Rosy wouldn't yield half her milk. And surely," she continued to the milkmaid, "thou must have a four-leaved-clover, about thee; give me the wad in thy hat that I may look through it." She examined it, and sure enough, found a stem of white clover, or three-leaved grass, with four leaves on it. The mistress asked how big the Small People were, and how dressed. "But few of them are more than half a yard or so high," the maid replied; "the women not so tall, yet they looked beautiful, all dressed like gentry; the women wore gowns as gay as a flower-garden in summer; their flaxen hair fell, in long curls, on their necks; and the men were very smart, all like sodjers or huntsmen, so it seemed to me. But they made frightful faces at you, and glared as if they would be the death of 'e. I shouldn't like to be in your shoes." "Our best cow is as bad as bewitched," said Dame Pendar to her husband, "and what shall we do to drive the plagues of sprites?" Her husband told her not to be so greedy; for old folks said that the Small People always brought good luck when unmolested and their doings were not pried into by curious fools; for his part, he was content to leave well alone. She made no reply, but--determined to have her way, next morning, betimes, unknown to her good man--she trotted off to Penberth, or Treen, and consulted a red-haired woman that Mr. Pendar couldn't "abide," because she was reputed, and truly, to be a witch. "I'll drive them from our best cow, and from Baranhual, too, if it can be done," said Dame Pendar to the hag. "Nothing easier," replied she, "for they can't endure the sea, nor anything that comes therefrom, and, above all, they abhor salt; so you have only to scatter it over your cow, wash her udder in brine or sea-water, and sprinkle it about your place." Dame Pendar hastened home, and, without delay, powdered Rosy with salt, bathed her udder in brine and sprinkled it about the fields and town-place. In the evening, betimes, she went herself to milk her best cow, and carried two buckets, thinking they would both be filled. Rosy, without budging, let her be seated and milk a little; but feeling her udder thumped, "visted," and roughly shaken, when she withheld her flow, she kicked the pail to shivers, laid Dame Pendar sprawling, then tossed her greedy mistress heels over head, and galloped off, "belving" like a mad thing. All the people in Baranhual couldn't stop her in a corner, and, from that day, not a drop of milk did they get from her. For days and nights she would roam about the farm, followed by her heifer--no hedges stopped them--and both "belving," all the time, like cows that had lost their calves. Before Christmas they became hair-pitched, lean, and lousy; and all the other cattle on Baranhual were as bad. Mr. Pendar, being ignorant of what his wife had done, sought aid from, and brought to his farm, all the most noted conjurers, pellars, and white witches in the West Country to arrest the run of bad luck that pursued everything belonging to him. They bled his diseased cattle on straw, burned the straw and blood, carried flaming torches of a night, around the folds. Fire was also borne--with the sun's course--around sown fields. Bonfires were lit, and his cattle forced through their flame. Other rites were performed according to old usages only known to pellars. Even his finest calf was burnt alive. But all was of no avail. To leave nothing undone, they cut down or rooted up all barberry bushes, that grew about on orchard hedges and elsewhere; but Mr. Pendar's crops were blighted all the same. In the meantime Rosy and her heifer were seldom seen, but often heard bellowing about Pednsawnack, over Porguarnon, or in other dangerous cleves and unfrequented places: they couldn't be brought into the town-place to undergo spells or counter-spells. But when more than a year had passed, and the next Buryan fair came round, Mr. Pendar made up his mind to sell Rosy and her heifer. All Baranhual men and boys, with many neighbours mustered, and after much trouble, drove them on to the church-town road. But they could neither be got to fair nor home again. After following them on horseback till night, Mr. Pendar caught a glimpse of Rosy and her heifer racing over Sennen Green toward Genvor Sands, and they were nevermore seen. Dame Pendar, from the time she got kicked and tossed, was rickety till the day of her death. The milkmaid, too, from a spanking damsel who had her choice of sweethearts, in less than a year became a doudy that no young man cared for or would look at. From that time everything went wrong with the Pendars, and, in a few generations, those of the name who remained in Buryan hadn't an inch of land to call their own. * * * * * There are two or three versions of this story, which differ but little from the above, except in locating the Small People's Cow on other farms that were dwelling-places of the Pendars in olden times. [Illustration] TOM OF CHYANNOR, THE TIN-STREAMER. A WEST-COUNTRY DROLL. Telle us swiche thing, as may our hertes glade. Be blithe, although thou ride upon a jade. What though thyn horse be bothe foule and lene, If he wol serve thee, recke thee not a bene: Loke that thyn herte be mery evermore. Yes, hoste, quode he, so mote I ride or go, But I be mery, ywis I wol be blamed. * * * * * But right anon thise gentiles gan to crie; Nay, let him tell us of no ribandrie, Tel us som moral thing, that we mow lere, Som wit, and thanne wol we gladly here. CHAUCER. A long way back, in old times, when Parcurnow was the chief port west of Hayle, and Treene a market town, (as it had been since the castle's outer walls were built, 'tis said), there lived in a little out-of-the-way place known as Chyannor, a man called Tom, with his wife--we don't know her name, more's the pity--and their daughter Patience. When farm-work fell scant Tom streamed for tin in moors near his dwelling; but, the overburthen there being deep and tin scarce, he got sick of the job, and one day, between tilling season and harvest, knacked his bal, and took the little tin he had raised that summer down to Treen for sale. Many woollen-weavers and ropers lived there, and withe-weavers (basket-makers) who made cowals (creels) that pleased fisherwomen better than any to be got elsewhere. In Treen market-place stood a fine broad garack-zans (holy rock). It was nearly round, about four feet high, eight feet across, and level as a table, except that in its upper surface shallow pits were hollowed, and in these stream-tin, brought for sale or exchange, was piled. Tom, having placed his tin in one of the hollows of this stone, inquired the news, and asked how work was away in the East Country, of merchants from Market-jew, who brought goods in their vessels to Parcurnow, which was then clear of sand, and the tide flowed in a deep channel up to an old caunse (paved road) still to be seen. The merchants told him that streamers' work might be had in a place called Praze-an-Beeble, a short day's journey from Market-jew. Tom, having exchanged his tin for leather and other things, took a drink of cider with the merchants, went home, and told his wife what he had learned. "One must be a fool," said he, "to stay here and starve, when two or three days' journey will take one to a land of plenty. What do'st thee think wife?" "Well, good man," said she, "thee west (wilt) always have thy own way, whatever one may say: if thee hast a mind to go eastward, to look for work, go! I and the maid will stay and get our living here. But don't 'e go for a day or two, that I may put thy clothes in order, and bake a fuggan (heavy cake) for thee to eat on thy way. Long lanes and scant entertainment thee west find, I expect?" "It will take me some days," replied he, "to go round and wish the neighbours well, and to get my tools to-rights before I start." In three days Tom got his piggal (beat-axe) and visgey (pick) cossened (re-steeled), and other tools repaired, that he intended to take with him, and had said, "I wish 'e well, till I see 'e again" to every body for miles round. Tom kissed the young women, and the elderly ones kissed him, and said, "If we never see thee again we wish thee good luck for thy courage; but take care thee doesn't get kidnapped and sperritted away in Market-jew, as many a good man have been before now, and nevermore heard of." When all was ready for Tom's journey, his tools, provisions, and clothes made a heavy load to travel with. In the morning, early, he started. His wife and daughter went many miles on the way, carrying his things, till they arrived at a public house where the roads meet in a place since called Catch-all. Here they had a drop to cheer their hearts. "Be sure, wife," said Tom, "to take care of our only child, Patience. She is but fifteen, mind." After much kissing, crying, wishes for good luck, and a speedy return, they parted. Tom reached Market-jew before dark, and was much bewildered to see so large a place and so many people. Moes-hal was the largest town he had seen, and the farthest east he had ever been till then. As it happened to be Whitsun market, streamers in great numbers had brought their tin for sale or to exchange for clothing and other things. It was sold by measure, from a pottle to a strike (bushel). Large quantities were purchased by smelters and merchants. What with foreign traders, market-people, pilgrims to the Mount, and pleasure-seekers, there was noise and bustle enough. Tom, however, found lodgings in a quiet house, a little out of the town, and was on his road, early next day, towards a place where he was told that he might get work. Though in a strange land he went boldly on over barren hills, across deep bottoms, overgrown with thickets; and, nothing daunted, he waded streams of names unknown; and indeed he felt proud, as a traveller, to think that he was going farther east from home than but few of St. Levan had ever been. Thus trudging along he passed over Roost Common, through Colenso and Chypraze, traversed Godolphin hills, rested some time near Godolphin stepping-stones, and then pursued his way through Chywhella, and over Crenver Downs. About sunset he passed this tract of moorland, rich in tin, and arrived at a dwelling surrounded with a court and outbuildings that showed it was a farmer's house. This he afterwards learnt was Penthoga. He knocked at the door and said to the mistress, who opened it, "I have travelled from far away in the West Country, to seek work, and would be glad to lodge in your barn to-night." "Come in, good man; lay down your burthen and sit at the board," said she. "What cheer, stranger?" exclaimed the farmer; "come here beside me, and when supper is over we will hear the news from your country. And wife, bring a flagon of ale; that's better drink after a journey than milk," continued he, whilst heaping Tom's trencher from a huge steaming pie of hare, beef, and other meat. Having made a hearty meal Tom turned his leg over the form and, looking towards the farmer, said, "This is a house of plenty, master. I wish you wanted a servant." "Well, my son, and what work can you do?" asked the farmer. "All sorts of husbandry or moor-work," he replied. "Give me a board like this, to keep up my strength, and I'll turn my back for no man." After some hours' talk about Tom's country, and other matters, the farmer, finding him to be a simple, honest fellow, agreed to take him, and they bargained for two pounds a year wages. Now, as Tom didn't mind doing a trifle of work, after his day's task was done, the farmer gave him many odd pence. After supper of winters' nights master and men told old drolls and carded wool, whilst mistress and her maids kept their turns (spinning wheels) going till they had each spun their pound of yarn. The women knitted for him warm stockings, and washed and mended his clothes. All were well pleased with Tom, and he liked his place. When the year was ended, the farmer brought two pounds from his chest, laid them on the board, and, showing them to Tom, who sat opposite, said "Here are your wages, my son; but if you will give them back to me I will teach 'e a piece of wisdom more worth than silver and gold." "Give them here to me," said Tom, "and keep your pennyworth of wit." "No," said his master, "give them to me, and I will tell thee." "Well take them to thee," said Tom. Then said his master, "_Take care never to lodge in a house where an old man is married to a young woman._" Then they bargained for another year, and, when that was ended, his master brought two pounds; laying them on the table, as before, he said "See, Tom, here are thy wages; but if thou wilt give them back to me I will teach thee another piece of wisdom." "No, by dad," answered he; "hand them here to me; I don't want your pennyworth of wit." "No," said his master, "give them to me, and I will tell thee a piece of wisdom more worth than strength." "Take them to thee," said Tom. Then said his master, "_Take care never to leave an old road for a new one._" They bargained for another year. Tom now thought much of his wife and daughter, and made up his mind to return home when his time was up. Next year ended, his master brought the two pounds, and said, "See here are thy wages; but if thou wilt give them back again to me I will teach thee the best point of wisdom of all." "No bring them here; I have wit enow to find my road home again." "No," said his master, "thou wilt need it then, more than ever. Give them to me and I will tell 'e." "Take them to thee," said he. "Well now, as thee hast served me truly, like an honest fellow," said his master, "I will tell thee two points of wisdom. First, _never swear to any body or thing seen through glass_; second, _be thrashed twice before content once_. This is the best point of wisdom of all." Now Tom said he would serve no longer but leave at once and go to see his wife and child. "No, don't go to-day," his master answered; "for my wife is going to bake to-morrow morning; she shall make a cake for thee to take home to thy wife, and a hoggan (a cake with meat baked on it) for thee to eat by the way." "Very well." said Tom, "as it's Whitsuntide, I'll wait till Tuesday." "I am very sorry thee art going to leave us, my son," said the farmer's wife; "and I should be glad if thee west thatch the hen's house and the duck's crow for me, whilst I make thee a cake and hoggan; then I will give thee a charmed stone for thy daughter, that shall be of more worth to her than gold or jewels." In a few hours Tom thatched all the outbuildings that required it, came into the house, and his mistress gave him a smooth grey stone, about the size and shape of an acorn, with a hole drilled through it, for hanging it by a cord round the neck. "Though this appeareth only like a bit of smooth elvan (trap rock) it is a jewel of great virtue," said the mistress. "It will preserve any woman that weareth it from much trouble if she but keepeth it in her mouth, with her lips closed, that it may not drop out when her husband or any other contendeth with her. I will tie it round thy neck, that it may'nt be lost," said she; and did so. Tuesday morning Tom took leave, with many kind wishes and promises to see them again. "Take this cake home to your wife, my son," said his master, "and eat it when you are most merry together." "And what you will find in this dinner-bag," said his mistress, "is for 'e to eat on the road. Good luck attend thee; come to see us again; thee west be right welcome always." Tom trudged on for many miles a somewhat different road to that he went, without meeting with anybody, till, having passed St. Hillar downs, he fell in with three merchants of Treen, driving before them their pack-horses laden with wool from Helaston fair, whither they had been with cloth and other goods. "What cheer, Tom," cried they, "where hast thou been, and how hast thou fared this long time? We are glad to have the sight of thee!" "I have been in service and am now going home to my wife; and glad I am to meet men of my parish," said he. "Come along with us; right welcome thou shalt be," said they. They kept together and came to Market-jew, where the merchants proposed to sup and stay over night in a house where they had formerly lodged. "And come along with us, Tom, right welcome thou shalt be," said they. And when they were come to the inn, Tom said, "I don't know about stopping here; before settling that point, I must see the host." "The host of the house!" they exclaimed; "what cans't thou want with the host? Here is the hostess--young and buxom, as you may see. But if you must needs see the host, you will find him in the kitchen." By the kitchen fire, sitting on a three-legged stool, Tom saw a feeble, bald-headed old man, turning the spit. "Oh! by my dearly bought wit, I see this is never the inn for me," said Tom, "I will not lodge here, but in the next house." "Go not yet," said Treen merchants; "stay, take supper with us, thou art heartily welcome." Soon after supper the merchants saw their horses fed, well groomed, and littered; then, being tired, they went early to bed, and Tom, on entering the next house, was told there was no spare bed, only some straw in a garret where lumber was mostly kept; he might rest there and welcome, free of charge. "I can sleep there very well," Tom answered; and the host shewed him the place, where sweet straw was piled near a boarding that divided it from the next house, where the Treen merchants lodged. Now the mistress of the inn was very fond of a young fellow who sauntered about, and did nothing for his living but court the landladies of Market-jew. The young wife had long been tired of her old man and wished him dead, but as he never seemed inclined to die, she persuaded the young fellow to put him going that night, as it seemed to her a good opportunity for them to escape suspicion of the dark deed. A little before daybreak she ran to the mayor's house--her hair in disorder and her clothes rent--crying when she came near it, "Vengeance! Vengeance! Do me justice my neighbours! Help me, your worship! My sweet handsome man, don't delay," cried she, when under his chamber window. "I have been foully dishonoured. My money is stolen, and my dear husband murdered, by three West Country villains, who lodged in our house last night. They are now getting ready to start in haste." The mayor called from his chamber window, "Go, tell the crier to sound his trumpet through the streets, and summon the town folk to meet me in the market place." In a short time the townspeople assembled in the market square, where their mayor and the hostess awaited them. Said the mayor to his constables, "Go to this good woman's house, and bring hither three men you will find there." Turning to the town's people he continued, "My honest neighbours, choose a jury among ye, that we may try these West Country rascals, right away, for robbery and murder, and hang them before breakfast--no doubt they are guilty--and the urgency of our own business will not admit of our wasting much time on such matters. And, thank God, we have no lawyers in Market-jew to confound us with their quibbles, to embarrass justice, and to hinder speedy punishment." Before the mayor had finished speaking the three Treen merchants were brought, handcuffed, into his presence. When they had all entered the townhall (where the mayor, even in those days, sat with his back towards the one window) his worship said, "Good woman, state your case." When she stood up one might see that she was one of those who never looked a person fairly in the face, but take one's measure with stealthy glances. She put on a sanctified look; groaned; sighed; turned up her eyes; and exclaimed, "Oh, blessed Saint Mary, help me to declare the troubles I endured last night! Know, your worship and kind neighbours all," said she, glancing round, "that, towards the morning part of the night, these three villains came into my chamber, where my blessed husband--God rest him!--and myself were in bed. One of them broke open our money-chest, whilst another did a deed my modesty forbids me to name. My dear man, in trying to defend my virtue and his money, struggled hard. The third blackguard, to keep him quiet, grasped his dear throat with both hands and strangled him. Then they gave me more ill usage all three." "That will do," said the mayor, "the case seems clear to me. Gentlemen of the jury, what say ye?" "We are all agreed to hang them," replied the foreman; "but our doctor, who saw the body, has some doubts of what the woman sayeth." "You," said the mayor, in an angry voice, "you, with your crotchets, fears, and doubts, are always causing inconvenient delay. Yet be quick and we will hear what you have to say." "The old man has been strangled many hours," said the doctor, "for the body is stiff and cold, and I want to know how the woman did not make an alarm before." "Woman, what hast thou to say to that?" demanded his worship. Without hesitation she replied, "After these three black West Country rascals, robbers, and ravishers had misused me I fainted, and remained in a fit. I don't know how long before I awoke to my trouble and ran to seek your worship's aid." "Now, doth that clear your doubts?" said the mayor: "and you villains," speaking to the merchants, "what can ye say for yourselves that ye should not be hanged and your heads fixed on spikes over the prison-gate, as a warning to such as you not to murder, rob, and ravish the virtuous people of Market-jew?" "We are innocent," said they, "and we never saw the old man but once, in the kitchen, where he was turning the spit. A tinner, who came with us from St. Hillar downs, knoweth us to be men of good repute, but we know not where to find him, and can only declare our innocence each for the others." "That's a kind of evidence that won't stand here," replied the mayor, "and, not to waste more time, I sentence you to be hanged all three. Officers," he continued, "see it done immediately, and seize their horses and merchandise to pay costs." Whilst the mayor of Market-jew was pronouncing sentence, Tom, in haste, entered the court. "Hold," cried he, "and don't ye murder three innocent men. That woman caused the death of her husband, and a long-legged-red-haired fellow, with a pimply face, who weareth a coat of this colour," said he, holding aloft a piece of grey cloth, "did the foul deed." "What can you know of this matter?" demanded the mayor. "Give time to draw breath, and I will tell 'e," said Tom. "I was fellow traveller with these three merchants of Treen. They asked me to lodge in the same house with them, but having bought a piece of wit that teacheth me to avoid the house where a young woman is wedded to an old man, I went next door. There was no room to spare but in the garret, where I found a pile of straw against a screen of boards between that house and the one in which the merchants lodged. On the straw I made my bed. Though tired, I didn't sleep, because music, singing, and dancing, below, kept me awake. About midnight, when all was quiet, I saw, through a hole in the screen, a light in the next house, and that woman (I know her by her purple nose and splatty face) talking to a tall red-haired man. Both stood near the screen. Then she said to him, 'I am heartily sick and tired of my old fool. All he's good for is to turn the spit, and a small dog would do that better. To-night would be a capital time to stop his wheezing. Here's what you might do it with,' said she, giving him a nackan (handkerchief). 'Draw it tight around his scraggy throat; give it a good twist, just so (said she showing him how), and we shall be no more troubled with his jealousy. Don't fear the consequences; leave them to me; I know how to get these three jeering West Country fellows into the scrape. If they are hanged for it, it will be good fun for us.' The man seemed unwilling till, putting her arms round his waist, she said, 'With all the love I have for thee, cans't thou stick at such a trifle, my dearest Honney (Hannibal), that will make the way clear for thee to be master here, with me and all the old fool's money. And there it is, in the bags by the screen--all the best of it,' said she, pointing to them; 'what's left in the chest is only copper coins and old tokens, and his claws are too stiff and crum (crooked) to untie the bags and see what's in them. And here, faint heart,' said she, taking up a bottle and pouring out a cup of liquor, 'drink this brandy; go down; be quick; and do it quietly, that Treen men, in the next room, may'nt hear thee.' The man went down with the nackan in his hand, and in two minutes or less returned. 'Well! is all right?' she asked. 'That it is,' he replied, 'I quickly wound the nackan round his neck; he moved a little and murmurred in his sleep, 'Don't 'e hug me so close, my dear.' I then drew it tight, and gave it a wrench; he made but one squeak and all was over. And now I'll take the money and go.' 'Don't be in such a hurry,' said she, 'one or two bags are enough for 'e now.' 'No,' said he, getting from her and approaching the screen, 'all isn't enough for the deed I've done to please thee.' Then he handled the bags, took two, and went away. I know it was about midnight" (said Tom in reply to the doctor's query) "because, while the man was below I heard the bell that shaven crowns on the Mount toll at the dead of night." "Well, and what next?" demanded the mayor; "if thou hast anything more to say, be quick, and out with it." "I have only to state," resumed Tom, "that when he stooped to pease (weigh) the bags of money, his skirt came against the hole in the screen. With my left hand I caught hold of the cloth; with my other unsheathed my knife, and cut off this piece. I tried to keep awake, knowing these men were in danger from that false woman, but I fell asleep, I don't know how, and only waked just in time to learn they were brought here to be tried for their lives." "It's provoking," said the mayor, "yet this man's story may be as true as the woman's; or truer, my men," continued he speaking to the officers; "You know the long-legged scamp, that haunts this woman's house and all the others in the town, where liquor and victuals can be got for his bladder-dash. Hunt him up and bring him hither; he is likely to be at the St. Michael's or some other public house. Get the money he took away, and all you can find in this woman's house; bring it all here to pay the cost." In a short time the officers returned, dragging in the man Tom had spoken of. They turned him round, held up his skirt, and there saw a hole that the piece Tom held fitted exactly, and in his pockets were found two bags of gold. "It's a clear case now then," said the mayor, "so string them up at once--the man and woman, I mean, ye fools. You Treen men go about your business, and thank your luck that this tinner is as wise as a St. Levan witch to get 'e out of the hobble." Tom and the merchants took a hasty breakfast, loaded their pack-horses, and started homewards, about sunrise. In passing the jail they saw the woman and her long-legged Honney strung up. They went quickly on to avoid the ugly sight, and the merchants made much of Tom, you may be sure. Two hours or so before noon, they arrived at a public house, tied their horses to a hedge, gave them their nose-bags of corn, and eased their backs by propping up their loads with sticks, such as were then kept at road-side inns for that purpose. "You will dine with us, Tom, and we will treat you to the best the house affords," said the merchants; "we shall at least get good malt liquor and wholesome fare. We may as well rest a few hours, now that we are just as good as home and in a part where honest folks dwell." The merchants being cheered with good ale said to Tom, "Comrade, we will one and all give thee something to show how we value the good turn thou hast done us in Market-jew. But for thee, my son, we should never more have seen our wives and children dear, or the castle and good old town of Treen." "Hold your clack, my masters," Tom replied, "I am vexed with myself to think that I should have slept and left 'e in such danger; it's only by a mere cat's jump that you arn't hanged. But who would ever think the mayor of Market-jew is the man to try a case so quick? Come, let us be going. I am thinking, too, about my wife and cheeld; it was here we parted, and I wonder how they have got on, poor dears, since I've been far away." "Well then, as you are so hastes we will pay the shot," replied they, "and jog along again, and be home before sunset, if all be well." Driving their horses at a quick pace, they went on with great glee and arrived at the foot of Trelew Hill. Here, since Tom went eastward, a new road had been made, that took another direction to reach the hill-top, where it re-entered the old one. The merchants were for going by the new road, because it was easier for their horses. "Friend Tom, you had better come along with us," said they, "than scramble up the steep hill through that rocky lane." "No, my friends, though I am loath to leave your pleasant company," replied he, "I shall take the old road, for I have bought another piece of wit that telleth me never to leave an old road for a new one. Choose for yourselves. A short way hence, where the two roads join, the first that arrives can await the others." The merchants went on, saying, "We shall soon meet again." When Tom came to where the roads joined, he saw the horses jogging homewards, without their owners. He looked along the road both ways, but saw no merchants. Then getting on a high bank, in a minute or two he beheld one of them coming across the downs stripped of his coat, hat, and wallet. He saw soon afterwards the two others, coming from different directions, almost naked. "Halloo, my masters," said Tom, when they came near, "however are ye in this sad plight?" "Ah, comrade," answered they, "we wish we had been so wise as thou. Half-ways up the hill robbers fell on us and stripped us, as you see." "How many were they?" Tom asked. In their confusion each merchant answering, "Three attacked me;" they counted the robbers nine, till considering how they had separated at the onset, each one trying to save himself, they saw that the same men, having fallen on each one of them in turn, they were only three robbers after all. Tom remarked, in angry tones, "One wouldn't take you for West Country men, yet I should think it's hard to find three stouter than you, this side of Hayle. But you forgot _One and All_; so I havn't much pity for 'e; each one trying to save himself took to his heels and left his comrades in the lurch; that's the way you are beaten; and serve 'e right. My old dad always said to me, "Tom, my boy, mind _One and All_. Fall fair, fall foul, stand by thy comrades, and in misfortune, stick all the closer, my son." But we have no time to lose," he continued, "we are four of us together now; they can't be gone far, and, dash my buttons, if we don't beat them yet. You have lost your sticks, I see, but here's what will serve your needs," said he taking up his threshal (flail), undoing it, and putting the keveran (connecting piece of leather) in his pocket. "One take the slash-staff, another the hand-staff, the other of 'e take my threshal-strings, and bind the rascals hand and foot as we knock them down. Now come on, boys! _One and All_ mind; or the devil take the first to run." The merchants, wishing to recover their clothes and money, readily agreed to return with Tom in pursuit. They ran down the rocky lane. At the bottom, near where the roads separated, they saw, on a rock, by the side of the new road, bundles of clothes and the merchants' wallets. Going on softly a few paces farther, they beheld the three robbers stretched on the grass, a little off the road, counting the stolen money and dividing their spoil. They sprang to their legs, but were scarcely up when Tom and the two merchants knocked them down and the other secured them. "Ah!" said Tom, with a satisfied look, when he saw the robbers laid low, "the buff coat and new boots on that big fellow, who looks like their captain, will suit me, and I will take them for my Sunday's wear." No sooner said than done with Tom. Whilst the merchants gathered up their money, he pulled off the captain's boots and stripped him of his buff; saying, "Now, my fine fellow, you won't be able to run very fast over furze and stones, if you should be inclined to give chase when you come round again." The merchants, having well thrashed the robbers, left them stretched on the ground, half-killed, took their own clothes, and proceeded homewards, giving Tom much praise for his wit and valour. They soon overtook their horses, and, without stopping, arrived at Coet-ny-whilly. Here the nearest road to Chyannor strikes off to the right of that leading to Treen. The merchants pressed Tom to go home and sup with them. "No, thank 'e, not now, some other time," he answered. "Come along," they again urged, all three; saying, "thou art right welcome, and we will treat thee well." "No, not now," replied he, "but I don't doubt your welcome, though, as my master used to say, 'It is often good manners to ask, but not always to take.' Besides," continued he, "I am longing to get home quickly and see my wife and cheeld." Each party proceeded their separate ways. When Tom had passed a place called the Crean, and was within half a mile of his dwelling, he sat down on a bank and lingered there till dusk, that he might get home about dark, and have a chance to look round unperceived, and thus find out if his wife had attended to her duty. Tom had learned but little about his family from the merchants. They merely told him that his wife had often been to Treen with yarn to sell, and, as she was a good spinster, they supposed the weavers gave her plenty of work. They knew nothing of either his wife or his daughter. When it was all but dark Tom again went on slowly, and quickened his pace in going up the Bottom, till he approached within a stone's-cast of his dwelling. Here he paused a moment, on hearing a man's voice inside. Then he went softly on to a little glass window--the only one glazed in his house--and peeped in. On the chimney-stool he espied, by the fire-light, a man and a woman, hugging, kissing, and seeming very fond of each other. "Oh! but this is double damnation," groaned Tom to himself, "that I should ever come home, after working for years far away, to be greeted with such a sight. Where can the cheeld be? 'Tis enough to make one mad to see her faggot of a mother there, showing more love for that black-looking fellow than she did for me, except in our courting times and a week or so after marriage. I'll kill the villain, and drive the old huzzey to doors, that I will." Whilst such thoughts of vengeance passed through Tom's mind, he recollected his last two pounds' worth of wit, and hesitated a minute at the door; but he was sure of what he saw; and now, hearing them laughing and couranting (romping) in their loving play, that aggravated him all the more. He grasped his stick and looked again to be certain, when a voice close behind him called out to him in tones like his wife's, "Halloo, eaves-dropper! Who art thou, and what dost thee want there spying and listening? Thee west hear no good of thyself, I'll be bound!" Tom looking round, saw his wife close by, with a 'burn' of ferns on her back. "That can never be thee, wife," said he, "unless thee art a witch; for this instant thou wert sitting on the chimney-stool with a strange man, and behaving in a way that don't become thee." "Art thou come home such a fool as not to know thy own cheeld?" she replied. "Who else should be in but our Patience and her sweetheart Jan the cobbler. I left them there half an hour ago, when I went down in the moors for a 'burn' of fuel. Come in, quick, and let's see how thee art looking, after being so long away. Wherever hast a been to? We didn't know if thee wert alive or dead. If I had been married again nobody could blame me." Patience, hearing her father's voice, ran out, and great was her joy to find him come home. Tom shook hands with her sweetheart, saying, "I could never have believed when I left thee, Jan, a mere hobble-de-hoy, I should come back and find thee such a stout man, and the cheeld too, grown a woman--taller than her mother." Tom having taken his accustomed place on the bench, his wife said, "I see thee hast got a buff coat and a pair of new high boots, fit for any gentleman or a lord of the land to wear on Sundays and high holidays, and I suppose you have brought home something new for me and the maid to wear that you mayn't be ashamed of us, when rigged in your boots and buff. Come now, Tom dear," continued she, over a bit, when they had admired what Tom didn't tell them he took from the robber; "Come, love, let's see what have 'e got for us?" "I have brought 'e home myself," Tom replied, "and a charm-stone for Patience to wear when she is married, that will be better than a fortune of gold and lands for her and her husband. Besides, I have brought 'e a cake," continued he, in placing it on the board. "And is that all?" demanded his wife, looking as black as thunder at him; "and tell us what's become of thy wages then," continued she with increasing anger. "I gave my two pounds a year wages," he replied, "back again to my master for six pounds' worth of wit, and he gave me that cake for thee." "Ay, forsooth," said she in a rage. "Thee art a wise man from the East, that lacked wit to know his own cheeld after being three years from home. Go the way'st away again, and take thy fuggan along with thee." Saying this she snatched up the cake and fired it at her husband, aiming for his head; but Tom ducked quick, the cake went smash against the wall, broke in pieces, and out of it fell a lot of money. Silver and gold ringled on the floor! When all was picked up and counted they found Tom's three years' wages and many shillings over. "Oh, my dear Tom," said his wife, "no tongue can tell how glad I am to see thee home again, safe and sound, after being so long away in strange countries one didn't know where. And thou didst know well enow about the money, and only played the trick to try me." "The devil a bit," said Tom, "but I forgive thee, and let's have supper." The wife gave Patience a large bottle, telling her to run quick over to Trebeor and have it filled with the best she could get, to drink her father's health and welcome home. Turning to Tom she said, "The sand will soon be down in the hour-glass, and then a leek-and-pilchard pie, put down to bake before I went out for fuel, will be ready; meanwhile let's have a piece of thy cake; it seems very good." When Patience and Jan had gone away for liquor, Tom's wife seated herself on the chimney-stool, with a piece of the cake in her hand, and said quite coaxing like, "Take thy piece of cake in thy hand, my son, and come the way'st here alongside of me; I have something to tell thee." When both of them were seated on the chimney-stool, very lovingly, eating their cake together, she continued to say, "I hope thee wesent be vexed, Tom dear, to hear me confess the truth; and if thee art it can't be helped now; so listen, and don't leave thy temper get the upper hand of all thy wisdom, for I have had a young fellow living in the house more than two years and we have slept in the same bed lately every night. Why thee art looking very black good man, but he is very innocent and handsome and so thee west say; he is in my bed asleep now! Come the way'st down in the 'hale' and see him. One may see by thy looks that thee hast a mind to murder the youngster, but have patience and come along." Tom sprang up, like one amazed, and followed his wife when she took the chill (lamp) and entered the other room. "Come softly, Tom," said his wife, as she approached the bed, turned down the bedclothes, and showed her husband, to his great surprise, a fine boy nearly three years old. She then told Tom how, after being many years without children, when he left her for the East she found reason to expect an increase to their limited family. Tom's joy was now past all bounds. He had always wished for a boy, and hadn't satisfied himself with kissing the child, and admiring his big-boned limbs (for one of his age) when Patience and her sweetheart entered. Tom and the rest drank to the boy's health, and all was now joy and content. News of Tom's return having been quickly carried from house to house, supper was scarcely put aside, when in came a number of neighbours. All brought wherewith to drink his welcome home, and the night sped jovially in hearing him recount his adventures in the East Country. Next day, Tom and his wife, being alone together, she said to him, "Now, whilst the maid is out, tell me, my son, what dost thee think of her sweetheart and of their being married soon?" "Well, wife, from what I saw when I looked through the window last night," Tom replied, "I should say that she wouldn't break her heart, any more than her mother before her, if she were to be married to-morrow; but is Jan a fool, like I was, to give up a young man's life of pleasure and wed in haste, like I did, thou knowest, that he may repent at leisure? Yet thee wert very good looking then, just like our Patience is now, and, with thy deceiving ways, I didn't stop to consider that beauty is only skin deep. Jan the cobbler," Tom continued, nodding his head very knowingly, "is hale and strong, and come of an honest 'havage' enow. I am loath to lose the maid so soon; yet my wise master used to say to his wife, 'One that will not when he may, when he will he shall have nay;' and it is better to have a daughter but indifferently married than well kept; though the charm I have for Patience will make her a prize for a lord, yet a cobbler isn't to be despised, and a good trade is often more worth than money that may be spent; so, with all my heart, let them be wedded when they will." A few days after Tom's return, he and Patience went down to Treen. Whilst they were away, his wife, curious (like most women are), took it into her head to examine the coat Tom took from the robber. She wondered how it was so heavy, and noticed that the body-lining of serge was worked over very closely. She undid the cloth, and found that gold coins were quilted in all over it, two-deep in some places, between the woollen stuff and an inner lining. Before Tom returned she took out more money, all in gold, than filled a pewter quart, and then there was a good portion left untouched, for fear Tom might come home and see the nest she had found; all in good time, the money and coat were put in an old oak chest, of which she kept the key. When Tom and Patience came in she could hardly conceal her joy. They wondered at her sprightly humour yet, for a great marvel, she kept her counsel, though Tom said more than once that evening. "I can't think, old woman, what can be the matter, that thee art going about cackling to thyself like an old hen shot in the head, and with as much fuss and consequence, too, as a mabyer (young hen) searching for a nest, days before it is wanted, and finding none to her mind, good enow to drop her first egg in. And look at her, tossing her head," he continued, "don't she look proud, like the lightheaded mabyer, after laying her egg?" As Tom knew nothing of his good fortune he continued to work on diligently, as usual. When Feasten Monday came round Jan the cobbler and Patience were married. Her father gave her the charm-stone privately, with instructions for its use, as his old mistress had directed. Strangers were not let into the secret, because all charms lose their virtue when known to others than the charmers, who, if they give or tell it, lose its use for ever. When the honey-moon waned Jan would sometimes get into an angry mood. Then his wife would, unobserved, slip the charm-stone into her mouth, and (let him talk or fume) keep quietly about her work. In a short time with good humour, like sunshine returned, he would again be heard ringing his lap-stone to the measure of some lively old tune. The quiet ways of Patience and her gentle bearing, kept love and content, with peace and plenty, in their happy dwelling; and her charm had such power that, over a while, she had seldom occasion to use it. Yet, indeed, some women, living near, who liked to let their crabbed tongues run like the clapper of a mill, would say that Patience was a poor quiet fool, and that the more one let blockheads of husbands have their own way the more they will take till they go to the dogs, or the devil, at last. Jan would tell these idle cacklers, who stuck up for woman's misrule, to mind their own affairs and that for such 'tungtavusses' as they were the old saying held good--that "a woman, a dog, and a walnut tree, the more you beat them the better they be." But gentle Patience, heedless of their prate, kept on in the even tenor of her life, and retained her husband's unabated love till the peaceful close of her days. Now it happened about three years after Tom had returned from the East Country, there was a large farm in St. Levan for sale. "Ah, poor me," said Tom one night, after a hard day's work, "I have been toiling and moiling, like a slave, all my life long, but we shall never have an inch of land to call our own till laid in the church-hay. Yet here are our hunting gentry, who have more than they can make good use of, and they can't live on that. If we could but scrape together enough to buy an acre or two of fee, or only the corner of a croft, where one might have a hut and a gar'n for herbs, with the run of a common for a cow or anything else, and none to say us nay, how happy we should be. But now," he continued, "it is only by the lord's leave, and that I don't like to ask of any man; and why should one who hath hands to work when there is so much land in waste untilled?" "Tom, my son, cheer up," his wife replied; "there are many worse off than we are, with our few pounds laid by for a rainy day, and health and strength to get more. Why I am afraid," said she, "that thou would'st go crazy, or die for joy, if any one gave thee enough to buy a few acres." "I wish to gracious somebody would but try me," Tom replied. "Well now, suppose I were to tell thee," said she, "that we have saved enough to buy good part, if not all, of the land for sale, as you shall soon see." She then brought from the chest a quart measure of gold coins, and poured them out on the board. At the sight of the glittering gold Tom sprung up in a fright and exclaimed, "Now I know, for certain, that thee art a witch! I had often thought so. That money is the Old One's coinage; don't think that I'll have any dealings with him; I wouldn't touch with a tongs a piece of the devil's gold." "Hold thy clack, cheeld vean, if I'm a witch thou art no conjuror, that's clear," replied she. "Now listen, and learn that the coat taken by thee from the robber-captain was all lined with gold, quilted in between the serge and the leather, and what thou seest on the board isn't all I found in it." When Tom's surprise had somewhat abated, he counted the money and found more than was required to purchase and stock two such farms as the one then for sale. Over a while Tom bought a great quantity of land--many acres might be had for a few pounds in Tom's time, when a very small part of the land was enclosed, and much less cultivated. In a few years he was regarded as a rich yeoman, and his sons and grandsons became substantial farmers. Tom's posterity may still be flourishing in St. Levan, or some place near, for what any body can tell, as no one knows what name they took when surnames came into use, long after Tom lived in Chyannor. [Illustration] THE FAIRY DWELLING ON SELENA MOOR.[3] "Merry elves, their morrice pacing, To aërial minstrelsy, Emerald rings on brown heath tracing, Trip it deft and merrily." SCOTT. When the ancient family of Noy flourished in Buryan there was a large tract of unenclosed common, belonging to the farms of Pendrea, Selena, and Tresidder, which extended from Cotnewilly to Baranhual, and branched off in other directions. Great part of this ground was swampy and produced a rank growth of rushes, water-flags, and coarse herbage. Many acres were gay in summer with cotton-grass, bog-beans, cucco-flowers, and other plants usually found in such soil. In some places were dry rocky banks overgrown with sloe-trees, moor-withey, furze, and brambles; these patches being surrounded by a broad extent of quaking bog or muddy soil appeared like islands in a marsh. There were also many springs, rivulets, and pools, that seldom froze, much frequented by wild-fowl in winter. Great part of this moorland was then impassable; horse-tracks leading to Baranhual, Selena, and other farms, passed over the dryest places, and were continued by rough causeways through swamps;--they were very bad roads at all seasons. Most of this wilderness has long been enclosed and drained; Pendrea portion of it is now a separate tenement called Westmoor. Near Cotnewilly were the scattered remains of an ancient grove which, in very remote times, extended thence to Alsia-mill. One afternoon in harvest, Mr. Noy, with some of his men, were over to Baranhual helping his kinsfolks, the Pendars. As more hands were required for the next day, which was to be the gulthise (harvest home), soon after 'croust' time he rode up to Church-town to get them, and to invite the parson, clerk, and sexton--the latter was particularly welcome to the harvest folk as he was generally a good fiddler and droll-teller. With these, according to old usage, were asked the crafts-men and others who had lent hand about the harvest work, and aged inmates of the poor house; one and all were welcome to the gulthise supper. Soon after 'day-down' Mr. Noy, followed by his dogs, left the public-house intending to return to Baranhual, but he didn't arrive there that night nor the next. The Pendars and their people thought he might have enjoyed himself at the _Ship_ Inn till late, and then have gone home to Pendrea. Mr. Noy had no wife nor anybody else to be much alarmed about him, as he was a middle-aged or rather elderly bachelor. But next day when people from Church-town, Pendrea, and scores of neighbours from other farms, came with their horses to help and to feast at the gulthise, and nobody among them had seen or heard of Mr. Noy from the time he left the inn, they got somewhat uneasy; yet they still supposed he might have gone to some corn-carrying down the lower side of Buryan, as was likely enow, for all the neighbours round about were just like one family then. As usual there was a great chase bringing home the corn in trusses; leaders and other helpers took their flowery-milk (hasty pudding) for breakfast, apple pies for dinner, just when and how they could, with beer and cider whenever they felt inclined, so they might keep the mowers always building, to have the corn under thatch before supper time. All being secured in the mowhay scores of all ages enjoyed roast and boiled beef, mutton, squab pies, rabbit and hare pies, pudding, and other substantial fare, usually found at a bountiful gulthise supper; then drinking, singing, dancing, and other pastimes, were kept up till late. In the meantime Dame Pendar had sent messengers round to all places where she thought Mr. Noy might have gone, and they returned, just as the feast was breaking up, without any tidings of him. Then everyone became anxious, and as it was near daybreak they volunteered to disperse and search in every place they could think of before going to bed. So away they went, some on horseback, others afoot, to examine mill-pools, stream-works, cliffs, and other dangerous places, near and far away. They returned at night, but nobody had seen or heard of the missing gentleman. Next morning horsemen were despatched to other parishes, and as Mr. Noy was well known and liked there was a general turn out to hunt for him; but this day, too, was passed in a like fruitless search miles away. On the third day, however, in the grey of the morning, a horse was heard to neigh, and dogs were heard barking among thickets on a piece of dry ground almost surrounded with bogs and pools, on Pendrea side of Selena moor. Now it happened that no one had thought of looking for Mr. Noy in this place so near home, but when with much ado, a score or so of men discovered a passable road into this sort of island in the bogs, there they saw Mr. Noy's horse and hounds; the horse had found plenty of pasture there, but the dogs, poor things, were half-starved. Horse and dogs showed their joy, and led the way through thorns, furze, and brambles--that might have grown there hundreds of years--till they came to large 'skaw' trees and the ruins of an old bowjey or some such building that no one knew of. Hunters never attempted in winter to cross the boggy ground that nearly surrounded these two or three acres of dry land, and in summer no one was curious enough to penetrate this wilderness of thickets which, like all such places, was then swarming with adders. The horse stopped at what had been a doorway, pawed on the 'drussal,' looked around and winneyd; the dogs, followed by several people, pushed through the brambles that choked the entrance, and within they found Mr. Noy lying on the ground fast asleep. It was a difficult matter to arouse him; at last he awoke, stretched himself, rubbed his eyes, and said, "Why you are Baranhual and Pendrea folks; however are ye all come here? To-day is to be the gulthise, and I am miles and miles away from home. What parish am I in? How could 'e have found me? Have my dogs been home and brought 'e here?" Mr. Noy seemed like one dazed as we say, and all benumed as stiff as a stake, so without staying to answer his questions, they gave him some brandy, lifted him on horseback, and left his steed to pick its way out, which it did readily enow, and a shorter one than they discovered. Though told he was on his own ground, and less than half a mile from Baranhual, he couldn't make out the country as he said, till he crossed the running water that divides the farms. "But I am glad," said he "however it came to pass, to have got back in time for the gulthise." When they told him how the corn was all carried three days ago, he said they were joking, and wouldn't believe it till he had seen all in the mowhay under thatch and roped down; that the loose straw was raked up, and all harvest implements put away till next season. Then whilst breakfast was getting ready, seated on a chimney-stool by a blazing fire, he told his neighbours that when he came to Cotnewilly, the night being clear, he thought he might as well make a short cut across the moor and save nearly a mile--as he had often done before in summer time--instead of going round by the stony bridle-path; but his horse, that was pretty much used to finding his own way when his master was tipsy, wanted to keep the usual road, and his rider, to baulk him, pulled farther off towards Pendrea side of the common than he would otherwise have done, and went on till he found himself in a part that was unknown to him; though he had been, as he thought, over every inch of it that man or beast could tread on, both in winter and summer. Getting alarmed at the strange appearance of everything around him, he tried in vain to retrace his steps, then gave the horse its head, and let it take its own course. Yet instead of proceeding homeward, as was dobbin's wont, it bore Mr. Noy to a land so crowded with trees that he had to alight and lead his steed. After wandering miles and miles, sometimes riding but oftener afoot, without seeing any habitation in this strange place, which he believed must be out of Buryan but in what parish he couldn't tell, he at last heard strains of lively music, and spied lights glimmering through the trees and people moving about, which made him hope that he had arrived at some farm where they had a gulthise, and the harvest-folks were out, after supper, dancing in the town-place. His dogs slunk back, and the horse wasn't willing to go on, so he tied him to a tree, took his course through an orchard towards the lights, and came to a meadow where he saw hundreds of people, some seated at tables eating and drinking with great enjoyment apparently, and others dancing reels to the music of a crowd or tambourine--they are much the same thing--this was played by a damsel dressed in white, who stood on a heaping-stock just beside the house door, which was only a few paces from him. The revelers, farther off, were all very smartly decked out, but they seemed to him, at least most of them, to be a set of undersized mortals; yet the forms and tables, with the drinking-vessels on them, were all in proportion to the little people. The dancers moved so fast that he couldn't count the number of those that footed jigs and reels together, it almost made his head giddy only to look at their quick and intricate whirling movements. He noticed that the damsel who played the music was more like ordinary folks for stature, and he took her to be the master's daughter, as, when one dance was ended, she gave the crowd to a little old fellow that stood near her, entered the house, fetched therefrom a black-jack, went round the tables and filled the cups and tankards that those seated, and others, handed to be replenished. Then, whilst she beat up a new tune for another set of dancers, Mr. Noy thought she cast a side-glance towards him; the music, he said, was so charming and lively that to save his soul he couldn't refrain from going to join the dancers in a three-handed reel, but the girl with a frown and look of alarm, made a motion with her head for him to withdraw round a corner of the house out of sight. He remained gazing, however, and still advancing till she beckoned to the same little old man, to whom she spoke a few words, gave him the crowd to play, and leaving the company, went towards the orchard signaling to Mr. Noy to follow her, which he did. When out of the candle-glare and in a clear spot where moonlight shone, she waited for him. He approached and was surprised to see that the damsel was no other than a farmer's daughter of Selena, one Grace Hutchens, who had been his sweetheart for a long while, until she died, three or four years agone; at least he had mourned her as dead, and she had been buried in Buryan Churchyard as such. When Mr. Noy came within a yard or so, turning towards him, she said, "thank the stars, my dear William, that I was on the look-out to stop ye, or you would this minute be changed into the small people's state like I am,--woe is me." He was about to kiss her, "Oh, beware!" she exclaimed, "embrace me not, nor touch flower nor fruit; for eating a tempting plum in this enchanted orchard was my undoing. You may think it strange, yet it was all through my love for you that I am come to this. "People believed, and so it seemed, that I was found on the moor dead; it was also supposed that I must have dropped there in a trance, as I was subject to it. What was buried for me, however, was only a changeling, or sham body, never mine I should think, for it seems to me that I feel much the same still as when I lived to be your sweetheart." As she said this several little voices squeaked, "Grace, Grace, bring us more beer and cider, be quick!" "Follow me into the garden, and remain there behind the house; be sure you keep out of sight, and don't for your life, touch fruit or flower," said she, in conducting out Mr. Noy, who desired her to bring him a tankard of cider too. "No, my love, not for the world," she replied, "await me here, I'll soon return. Sad is my lot to be stolen from the living and made housekeeper to these sprites," murmured Grace, in quitting the garden. Over a few minutes she returned to Mr. Noy, led him into a bowery walk, where the music and noise of merriment didn't overpower their voices, and said, "you know, my dear Willy, that I loved you much, but you can never know how dearly." "Rest yourself," she continued pointing to a stone, "on that seat, whilst I tell ye what you never dreamt of." Mr. Noy seated himself as desired, and Grace related how one evening, about dusk, she was out on Selena Moor in quest of strayed sheep, when hearing him, in Pendrea ground, halloo and whistle to his dogs, she crossed over towards the sound in hopes of falling in with him, but missed her way among ferns higher than her head, and wandered on for hours amidst pools and shaking bogs without knowing whither. After rambling many miles, as it seemed to her, she waded a brook and entered an orchard, then she heard music at a distance, and proceeding towards it, passed into a beautiful garden with alleys all bordered by roses and many sweet flowers, that she had never seen the like of. Apples and other tempting fruit dropped in the walks and hung over head, bursting ripe. This garden was so surrounded with trees and water--coming in every here and there among them--that, like one 'piskey-led,' all her endeavours to find a way out of it were in vain. The music, too, seemed very near at times, but she could see nobody. Feeling weary and athirst, she plucked a plum, that looked like gold in the clear starlight; her lips no sooner closed on the fruit than it dissolved to bitter water which made her sick and faint. She then fell on the ground in a fit, and remained insensible, she couldn't say how long, ere she awoke to find herself surrounded by hundreds of small people, who made great rejoicing to get her amongst them, as they very much wanted a tidy girl who knew how to bake and brew, one that would keep their habitation decent, nurse the changed-children, that wern't so strongly made as they used to be, for want of more beef and good malt liquor, so they said. At first she felt like one entranced and hardly knew how to 'find herself' in such strange company; even then, after many years' experience, their mode of life seemed somewhat unnatural to her, for all among them is mere illusion or acting and sham. They have no hearts, she believed, and but little sense or feeling; what serves them, in a way, as such, is merely the remembrance of whatever pleased them when they lived as mortals,--may be thousands of years ago. What appear like ruddy apples and other delicious fruit, are only sloes, hoggans, (haws) and blackberries. The sweet scented and rare flowers are no other than such as grow wild on every moor. In answer to Mr. Noy's enquiries about small people's dietry, Grace told him how she sickened, at first, on their washy food of honey-dew and berries--their ordinary sustenance--and how her stomach felt so waterish that she often longed for a bit of salt fish. The only thing she relished was goat's milk, "for you must have often heard," said she, "that these animals are frequently seen on moors, or among carns and in other out-of-the-way places, miles from their homes. They are enticed away by small people to nourish their babes and changelings. There's a score or more of goats here at times. Those cunning old he-ones that often come among a flock--no one knows whence--and disappear with the best milkers, are the decoys, being small people in such shapes. One may often notice in these venerable long-beards, when seen reposing on a rock, chewing their cuds, a look of more than human craftiness and a sly witch-like glance cast from the corner of their eyes." Looking at Mr. Noy for a moment with a melancholy expression, she sighed and continued, "I am now getting used to this sort of life and find it tolerable, the more so because the whole tribe behave to me with great kindness, the elderly men above all; you observed that little fellow to whom I spoke and who now plays the tambourine, I desired him to tell the rest, in case they inquired for me, that I was gone to look after the children, and he is so much attached to me as to do or say anything I request." Seeing Mr. Noy look somewhat lowering, Grace exclaimed, "Oh! my dear Willy, don't be such a noddy as to be jealous, for he's no other than vapour, and what he is pleased to think love, is no more substantial than fancy." Mr. Noy asked if there were any children among them besides those they stole and replaced with changelings? "Very few indeed," she replied, "though they are fond of babies, and make great rejoicing when one happens to be born amongst them; and then every little man, however old, is proud to be thought the father. For you must remember they are not of our religion," said she, in answer to his surprised look, "but star-worshippers. They don't always live together like Christians and turtle-doves; considering their long existence such constancy would be tiresome for them, anyhow the small tribe seem to think so. And the old withered 'kiskeys' of men that one can almost see through, like puffs of smoke, are vainer than the young ones. May the Powers deliver them from their weakly frames! And indeed they often long for the time when they will be altogether dissolved in air, and so end their wearisome state of existence without an object or hope." She also told him--but he didn't remember exactly the words she spoke--that she was the more content with her condition since she was enabled to take the form of any bird she pleased, and thus gratify her desire to be near him, so that when he thought of her but little suspected her presence; she was mostly hovering round and watching him in the shape of some common small bird. Grace assured Mr. Noy of her everlasting love, yet as long as nature would permit him to retain his mortal form she would rather behold him in flesh and blood, than see him changed to her state. She also told him, that when he died, if he wished to join her, they would then be united and dwell in this fairy-land of the moors. Mr. Noy wanted to know much more about these strange beings, and was about to enquire, when they again called, "Grace, Grace, where art thou so long? Bring us some drink quickly." She hastily entered the house, and that moment it came into his head that he, too, would have some liquor, disperse the small tribe, and save Grace. Knowing that any garment turned inside out and cast among such sprites would make them flee, and happening to put his hand into his coat pocket, he felt there the gloves that he had worn for binding in the afternoon; quick as thought, he turned one inside out, put into it a small stone, and threw it among them; in an instant they all vanished with the house, Grace, and all the furniture. He just had time to glance round, and saw nothing but thickets and the roofless house of an old bowjey, when he received a blow on his forehead that knocked him down, yet he soon fell asleep and dozed away an hour or two he thought. Those to whom Mr. Noy related his story, said that he had learnt nothing new from Grace, for old folks always believed of the fair people such things as she told him, and they disliked to be seen, above all by daylight, because they then looked aged and grim. It was said, too, that those who take animal forms get smaller and smaller with every change, till they are finally lost in the earth as muryans (ants), and that they passed winter, for the most part, in underground habitations, entered from cleves or carns. And it is held that many persons who appear to have died entranced, are not really dead, but changed into the fairy state. The recovered gentleman farther informed them that he had remarked amongst the small folks, many who bore a sort of family-likeness to people he knew, and he had no doubt but some of them were changelings of recent date, and others their forefathers who died in days of yore, when they were not good enow to be admitted into heaven, nor so wicked as to be doomed to the worst of all places. Over a while, it is supposed they cease to exist as living beings, for which reason fewer of them are now beheld than were seen in old times. From the night that Mr. Noy strayed into the small people's habitation, he seemed to be a changed man; he talked of little else but what he saw and heard there, and fancied that every redbreast, yellow-hammer, tinner (wag-tail), or other familiar small bird that came near him, might be the fairy-form of his departed love. Often at dusk of eve and moonlight nights, he wandered round the moors in hopes to meet Grace, and when he found his search was all in vain he became melancholy, neglected his farm, tired of hunting, and departed this life before the next harvest. Whether he truly died or passed into fairy-land, no one knows. * * * * * A story, much like the foregoing, is related of a young farmer called Richard Vingoe, who was 'piskey-led' in Treville Cliffs. After wandering for hours over places which appeared strange to him, he followed a path through a rocky 'bottom' or glen into an underground passage or cavern, from which, on emerging, he found himself in a pleasant looking country. Walking on he heard sounds of merry-making, and came to a place where people appeared to be keeping feast. He noticed a great number of persons hurling, and being fond of that game, he was about to run and seize the silver ball, as it fell near him, when a female darted from behind a rock--which screened her from view--and made eager signs for him to desist and follow her, as she withdrew into an orchard near at hand. He approached and saw that she was a damsel who had been dead a few years. She told him how she was changed into the fairy-state by having trespassed on the small people's domain, and that he had narrowly escaped the same fate. She also informed him of their mode of life, and that she was disposed to save him for the sake of their former attachment, as in the above story. When the hurlers and spectators of the game had all gone out of sight, she conducted her former lover to the upper world by a shorter road than that by which he entered; on the way she told him that as he had engaged to be married within a few weeks, she had no desire to detain him. She advised him, however, to defer his wedding three years, that he might be sure he knew his own mind. When Vingoe promised to follow her advice, they passed through an opening in a carn, and he saw Nanjizel; his conductress then said good-bye, and vanished. Being fatigued with his journey he lay on the grass, near the spot where he again saw the light of day, and there he was found asleep nearly a week after. Vingoe was never like the same man again, for he took to hard drinking and died unmarried. The details of both stories are so similar that they appear to be mere versions of the same fairy-tale. [Illustration] [3] This story should have preceded the "QUEEN'S VISIT," but it was not obtained in time. THE I'AN'S HOUSE OF TREEN. All within is dark as night; In the windows is no light; And no murmur at the door, So frequent on its hinge before. Come away: no more of mirth Is here, or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground. TENNYSON. Some few years ago, there might have been seen on rising ground, west of the road which passes through Treen, the remains of a very old dwelling, formerly known in that neighbourhood as the I'an's (pro Jan's) house. Though neglected and ruinous it still retained some signs of its former consequence when it was regarded as a mansion. Visitors to the Logan Rock often stopped to look at this forlorn-looking old house, with great part of its mullioned windows and a doorway, that had once been its grand entrance, walled up. Its peculiar old style of masonry, the massiveness and irregularity of the rough granite blocks with which it was constructed, and its high-pitched thatched roof, made this old building an object of interest, though it was neither beautiful nor picturesque. And a few casements, still retaining their old lead-lights of small panes in various patterns, to which age had imparted purple or rather prismatic hues, glimmered and glanced with changing lights that gave to the habitation a very ghostly look. What remained had long been divided into three or four dwellings; but one wing was mostly unoccupied, because few persons could be found so courageous or necessitous as to live in it and have their rest disturbed every night, and often by day, with the rumbling of a turn (spinning-wheel) varied by wild shrieks, unearthly laughter, and other frightful noises. There was also beyond the kitchen-court (and entered from it) a garden, surrounded by high walls, which rendered it as secluded as any room of the mansion. This ground was long called Beaton's garden, even after, denuded of herbs and flowers, it was turned into a pig's-court. This place was haunted too. In this state the old house and appurtenances remained until destroyed by fire, about ten years since, and it always retained the name of a family that built it and resided there for generations, in the style of gentry, though never very rich nor persons of much note beyond that locality. Three or four centuries ago, from their extravagance and a run of bad luck, the I'ans were reduced to comparative poverty. It was said that ill fortune ever followed them from the time they broke up and removed to Garrack-zans (holy rock) that stood in front of their mansion, and around which a market was held in old times when Treen was an important trading-place. However, that may have been, shortly after all the family remaining in Treen were John I'an (or Ivan) and his sister Beatrice, usually called Beaton, who had lost their parents when children. Young I'an from having much family pride and but little property to support its dignity, led a very unsettled life--mostly at sea, with a company of reckless young men, who carried on a hazardous trade in importing liquors, silks, salt, and other contraband goods from Roscroff; making Penberth, or some other cove, near it, their usual landing-place. Both brother and sister are said to have been remarkable for their tall stature and good looks, though of very dark complexion. They might, now and then, be seen at church--the former dressed in a long bottle-green coat of cut velvet, and dusky crimson waistcoat (both overlaid with tarnished gold lace,) a plush breeches, and diamond-buckled shoes. These everlasting garments, that might have been worn by his grandfather, were only changed in winter for home spun; and his sturdy legs were then encased in long funnel-topped boots of French make; and his jet black hair, that hung in curls on his shoulders, was surmounted by a laced hat and plume. Though young I'an's state dress appeared much the worse for wear he looked every inch a gentleman, when, with old-fashioned courtesy, he led into church his sister, arrayed in silks or samite, a century old or more, yet still looking rich with their brilliant sheen, and thick enough to stand on end; point-lace ruffles, yellow with age, hanging from her elbows, were met by embroidered silk gloves; her hair, of darkest chestnut hue, turned back over cushions, hung in ringlets down her neck; and a little hat was fastened by jewel-headed pins to her high head-dress. These remnants of old finery, contrasted with homely articles of dress that had to sustain more wear and tear, made the I'an's poverty only too apparent; the more so because, at that time, several well-to-do families resided in St. Levan, and at church their old bravery and newest fashions were all displayed and duly criticised. Beaton showed, however, what her brother thought becoming pride, in treating with coolness or contempt all attentions offered by such rural beaux as he thought beneath her, though she had but slight chance, poor girl, of becoming acquainted with any of higher rank. I'an being seldom at home during the summer, his sister and two or three old servants managed the farm--then but a few acres of arable land, and a great run of common--and were sole occupants of their gloomy mansion. The poor young lady's dreary existence was partially relieved by her brother's presence during winter. Then, too, he often brought home with him many of his sea-mates or hunting companions, and the old house resounded with their reckless drunken revelry for days and nights together. Among I'an's comrades his favourite was an able seaman called Willy Taskes or Trevaskes, who was a few years older than I'an--a courageous smuggler, and mate of his fair-trader the _Mur_. Taskes was remarkably strong built, the best wrestler and boxer in the western parishes. With much practice he taught I'an these arts of self-defence, and trained him to be just as good a seaman as himself. I'an, when overloaded with drink, was often quarrelsome or rather fond of fighting, without reason, both at home and abroad. Taskes as often belaboured him soundly to divert his combative inclinations from dangerous antagonists; often also, he got himself thrashed black and blue in taking I'an's part, which he was ever ready to do against any odds. From Willy being frequently in Beaton's company, and from the favour shown him by her brother, she was less reserved with him than others of his crew whom she kept at due distance. Of an evening when he often came alone, Beaton would ask him to card the wool that she passed great part of her time in spinning, and no one more ready than Willy Taskes to please her. I'an frequently left them together, little deeming that his sister--of gentle blood, poor as she might be--could have a thought of the handsome young sailor as a lover. Ere long, however, I'an was informed by his ugly old female domestic--one who ever longed for but never had a lover--that her young mistress often met Willy Taskes by night in the walled garden, Caercreis barn, or among the Castle carns. I'an, enraged, entered his sister's apartments--she had three rooms at her sole disposal in that portion of the mansion known as Beaton's wing--and, after much upbraiding, threatened to shoot Taskes if he came near the house any more, and both of them if he caught them together. Beaton defied her brother, and answered that if she could not see Willy Taskes there she would meet him elsewhere, and that it only depended on Willy as to whether she should be his wife or not. Warned of what had taken place, the lover kept aloof, and I'an, discarding his jovial companions, remained much within doors, moody and discontented, wishing for the company of his former comrade, but pride forbade his making friendly overtures; and his ill-humour was aggravated all the more because his sister had the policy to persuade him that, after all, she didn't care anything for Willy Taskes, nor any of his crew, and that his chagrin was all for nought. The dreary winter past, and corn tilled, I'an and his crew prepared for an early trip to Roscroff. Their former mate, from his quarrel with the captain, or rather from the coolness between them, having gone to work on land, they selected a new one and made sail. I'an left on good terms with his sister, thinking that, though she might have had an unbecoming affection for Taskes, yet her self-respect and regard for the dignity of their family--which he had awakened--had enabled her to subdue her misplaced love. In a few weeks the _Mur_, as I'an's craft was called, returned with the usual goods, which were soon landed and disposed of, as the most valuable liquors, silks, lace, &c., were bespoke by the neighbouring gentry. Farmers, and others who assisted to land and secure the cargo soon took off what remained. There was then little or no interference from any government officials; indeed in more recent times those paid to check "fair-trade" were often the smugglers' friends, because they durst not interrupt their proceedings with anything but well-understood shams of activity, and they were always rewarded with a share of the goods if they conducted themselves with discretion. Old smugglers say they often wished to fall in with the revenue-cutter that their trip might be the more exciting--they answered her shots by a loud hurrah, and a blaze from their own swivel-gun. As for the riding-officer they didn't mind him a straw, and of other coast-guards there were none. All hands being ready for another trip, the evening before they intended to start I'an told his sister he was going to meet his crew at the _Skaw Tree_--the inn at St. Levan Church-town,--have a carouse, and sail in the morning early. Wishing to become friends with his old mate, I'an had requested one of his crew to tell Taskes that he would be glad of his company at the public-house and to let all past unpleasantness be forgotten. In I'an's happier moods a lingering regard for his former comrade and staunch friend would get the upper hand of his prejudice and family pride, and then he would even think of Taskes as his brother-in-law with complacency. From jealousy on the part of his new mate and others, his friendly message was not delivered. I'an not guessing the reason why Taskes didn't join them, and only thinking his offers of renewed friendship were slighted, was in ill-humour, and what was intended to have been a jovial night, passed unpleasantly. At length some of the fuddled crew, vexed because of their captain's preference for his former mate, hinted that he might be in Caercreis barn, in company he better liked, and that, by all accounts, his sister and Willy had always been on very good terms. I'an, tipsy as he was, understood their meaning, made imprudent threats of the way he would be revenged on Taskes; and left the company much earlier than was his wont on such occasions. Very mixed feelings, and all of an irritating nature, spurred him on his way towards an old solitary 'bowjey,' or field barn, where a cottage now stands--five minutes' walk from Castle Treen; and he had only gone a few yards beyond Pedny-vounder lane, when, by the dim moonlight, he spied two persons sauntering along a sheep-track that wound among rocks and carns below him. Approaching and seeing they were his sister and her lover he assailed them with angry words, which soon came to blows between the men. Taskes, finding that I'an was the worse for drink, merely defended himself and received his blows that he might expend his fury on him, as he had often done when they were the best of friends. But, as bad luck would have it, Taskes, in going back, to avoid what might have been ugly strokes, fell over a shelving rock on to a ledge (or shelf, as we say), many feet below. When I'an saw the young man he had once loved as a brother lying prostrate and apparently dead, his pride and anger gave place to bitter sorrow. He raised the wounded man, who moaned, and gasped for breath for some minutes; then hearing I'an crying like a child, begging him to forget and forgive the past and be friends, "I have nothing to forgive thee, my son," Taskes replied; "it was my bad luck, and, whether I die or live a cripple, I would rather for it to be my case than thine." Over a while I'an and his sister helped him to stand, and one on either side of Taskes, with his arm round the neck of each, they slowly reached their house and placed him on I'an's bed. The servant-man was summoned, and told to ride with all speed for a doctor. Taskes tried to speak, and signed that he might be lifted up in bed. Supported on I'an's breast, and holding the brother's and sister's hands, he said "I know, dear John, a doctor can do me no good." And, looking towards Beaton, he told her to bring the man close to the bedside, for he had something to say before it might be too late. The old servant approached. Taskes called him by name, and continued, "I am dying. None but ourselves know how I came by my end. You must bear witness for John, your master, that I declare it was all by my own mischance that I fell over a rock, and received my deadly hurt." He hadn't strength to say more. I'an wiped the bloody froth from the sinking man's lips, and tried to cheer him by saying, "Thou shalt live yet, my dear Willy, and be my brother." Beaton, like one in a terrible dream, was unconscious of most that passed, till Taskes, awakening from a long swoon, grasped her hand and moaned in sad accents, "Beaton, dear Beaton; if I could but live till we might be married, I should die more content. And my dear John," he continued, directing his gaze towards I'an, "promise me, for all the years we have been like brothers, to be ever kind to Beaton and to my--to our"--he gasped for breath--with a gurgling in his throat, blood oozed from his lips. Looking wistfully at Beaton, he grasped brother's and sister's joined hands with a death-grip; his head sunk on I'an's breast; and thus Willy Taskes passed away in his prime. Beaton, distracted by sorrow, had to be forcibly taken from her lover's bedside, and for weeks she seemed to be on the verge of madness. Her brother scarcely less grieved, tried to find some solace for his anguish in ordering that, in all respects, the funeral should be conducted as for one of his kindred. It was a custom with the I'ans, and a few other West Country families, to have their burials at night. So, a week after the fatal encounter, and in the summer evening's twilight, Willy Taskes was borne out of the old mansion, carried by his former comrades, followed by I'an and by many neighbours to his last resting-place in St. Levan Churchyard. THE I'ANS QUIT TREEN. She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new, A strange sensation which she must partake Perforce, since whatsoever met her view, Struck not her memory, though a heavy ache Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true, Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, For, for a while, the furies made a pause. BYRON. I'an being reluctant to leave his sister all alone with her sorrow, procured a good seaman to command the _Mur_ for her next run. Fears were entertained that Beaton's mind might become permanently deranged from excessive grief. She could seldom be induced to leave the room in which her lover died, and I'an, feeling a repugnance to sleep there, she took it for a bed-room, saying she intended to keep it because that apartment, with two or three others adjoining it, were bequeathed to her (as indeed they were, with their furniture), for her lifetime. For many days together she was never seen except by the aged servant, who, at the usual meal-times, took to the gloomy chamber food that was often removed untasted. Her spinning-wheel was thrown aside; yet she seemed occupied in some quiet mysterious way; and I'an, getting alarmed for the probable result of her sad seclusion, consulted a doctor, who, being an old friend of the family, came to visit Beaton without delay, and requested to be taken to her room without being announced. I'an entered, followed by the doctor, and saw Beaton in a window-recess, busily sewing; at the same time, so absorbed was she in singing a baby's lullaby and rocking a cradle--in which there was no child, but a christening-dress with other articles of her infantile wardrobe--that she did not perceive her visitors. They noted, too, that the bed was covered with old dresses, in various beautiful fabrics, and that Beaton had been cutting them up, seemingly to waste. I'an annoyed to see this destruction of gay and costly gowns, said, "Sister dear, art thou going crazy to be cutting up thy best clothes?" "No, John," she replied, without looking up from her work; "yet methinks you are very rude thus to enter a lady's bedchamber with so little ceremony. But men understand so little of women's hearts," she continued, as if speaking to herself and taking no further notice of her brother; "little do they know that, when damsels don their gayest robes, they long for the time when they may cut them up for their babies' clothes. But is it to-morrow that is to be my wedding-day?" demanded she. "Oh, dear Willy, where art thou? Do tell me. It was to have been some time before brother John came back. The banns called thrice, we are to be wedded before he returns; then he will love my Willy like he used to, and all will be right well." Unconscious, seeming, of any presence save what her crazed fancy imaged, she looked towards her brother and the doctor, who now advanced and noticed there was no intelligence in her fixed gaze. She appeared to be looking within rather than at anything external, when she went on to say, "Our child, if a boy, shall be named William, after you, my love; but if a girl, it shall never be called Beatrice for me. I have often been told that the name, though a favourite one, has always been ill-starred in our family. Shall we call her Mary for your mother, or Agnes for mine? Any names of those we love sound sweet, like a dear mother's. That I remember, and how she rocked me singing, 'Lullaby, lullaby, littly maid Beatrice; angels protect thee, my darling.'" I'an, cut to the heart to see her thus, took her hand and said, "Sister, you are ill, dear, and our good friend, the doctor, is come to visit you." "Oh, how foolish people are," she replied, "I was never better in my life, yet our old Betty will have it that I don't eat enough, what next I wonder? I am glad, however, he is come to visit us; our house seems lonely now, and he is a dear man--so kind, true, and hearty, I always liked him from a child, and how he enjoys his pipe and glass, dear man! I'll leave my work now, and see that he be entertained with the best our house will afford." Beaton folded her work, rose, passed near their friend without recognition, and descended to the kitchen, where she gave orders for a sumptuous repast, though there was nothing in her house to furnish it. She then returned to her work, saying that it would be time enough to dress for dinner in an hour or more, meanwhile her brother would entertain their guest, and the doctor would excuse her; for indeed she was very busy. Then she wailed, rather than sung, 'Twas down in the garden green, sweetheart, Where you and I did walk; But the fairest flower that in my garden grew Is withered to a stalk. The doctor, perceiving her pitiably distracted state, advised I'an to remove her to a change of scene--far away if he could--and trust to an occurrence that might soon take place to do more to restore her reason than anything in his power. "Nature," he observed, "beats all doctors, and maternal instinct supplies the place of reason, now happily dormant for the assuagement of her bleeding heart, poor dove." The old servant, being called and questioned, she confirmed what the doctor surmised, and further informed him that she was aware of the intention of William and Beaton to be married during her master's absence, trusting to have his forgiveness, when all was done; then possible to make amends for the thoughtlessness of youth and love. The doctor's advice tallied with I'an's inclination. He had often thought, and at length determined, to leave the wreck of his property for his creditors, as it was deeply mortgaged, and the accumulated interest of many years unpaid. He would seek a home for himself and his sister in Brittany, where he had formed acquaintances, and where no fancied requirements of sham gentility and beggarly state would impede his endeavours to push his fortune by land or sea. Being assured that a trip across the Channel was likely to prove beneficial to Beaton, who had often been to sea and enjoyed life on the waves like the sea-bird after which the smuggler's craft was named; wearing apparel, bedding, and a few heirlooms, of no great value, were soon packed so that they might be ready to leave when the _Mur_ next made sail for France. Their moveable furniture was placed in Beaton's portion of the house, where two old servants were installed to keep possession for her of that, and also of some garden ground and pasture land in which she had a life interest. It was feared there might be some difficulty in persuading the poor demented woman to embark; yet, when the vessel was ready, by a harmless deception she was led to connect the proposed voyage, somehow, with going to meet her lover and hastening her bridal. So, one day, about a month after Willy was laid beneath the turf, I'an had a stone placed to mark the spot, and--following a very ancient custom in St. Levan--planted rosemary, box, lillies, and other garden flowers on the grave, over which he and his crew shed many tears. The following night I'an, with his sister, bade farewell to the ancient home of their forefathers, now rendered doubly sad to him by the remembrance of Taskes's ill-fated death, and his sister's melancholy plight. Little more was then heard of either brother or sister. Penberth men, belonging to I'an's crew, purchased his share of their vessel, and before they left port, Beaton was lodged at a farm house, where she was kindly nursed; and it was hoped that, ere long, maternal cares might tend to restore her reason and somewhat relieve her anguish for her lover's untimely death. I'an was well known at the port, where they had long traded, as an expert seaman and good navigator, and he soon obtained the command of a ship. For a long while the old servants lived in Beaton's part of the house, hoping for her return, and cultivated the small quantity of ground that belonged to her. But no tidings ever reached them of either sister or brother; and when the two old servants died--it being supposed that their mistress was also dead, and her portion fallen in hand--I'an's creditors took possession of it. UNEXPECTED VISITORS. With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave. _Cymbeline._ A little above Penberth Cove, and near the Green, there is an ancient cottage in an orchard. In this dwelling lived an old dame called Joan Taskes, who kept a kind of public-house, as liquors and other goods were entrusted to her, by smugglers, for sale. One afternoon, about nineteen or twenty years after Willy's death--when he and the I'ans were almost forgotten--An' Joan, whilst busy spinning flax with a treadle-turn heard a knock at her open door, and, thinking it was somebody come to buy liquor, or "honey-pins"--a sweet apple for which her orchard was noted--without rising she called out, "Come 'e in cheeld, and don't 'e stay knacking at the door." But An' Joan was rather startled when, on looking round, she saw two ladies standing near her. They were both tall. One appeared about fifty and the other near twenty years of age. Their dresses made her think they must be foreigners. The elder was clad in some kind of white woollen stuff, by whatever name one might call her garb: it had loose, hanging sleeves, and its ample folds were confined by a girdle to her waist. Over her head she wore a square of black serge; its ends hanging on her shoulders, and shading her face, gave it a pallid appearance, which was rendered somewhat ghastly by a white linen band across her forehead. The younger wore a silver-grey dress of more ordinary mode, and for head-dress a lace veil that covered, without concealing, her braided dark brown hair. An' Joan, rising, drew out her form and said, "Pray be seated, ladies, and excuse me, as I thought you might have been some neighbours' children knocking at the door." "We called," the elder lady replied, "to enquire if there be any small dwelling unoccupied in Penberth, or Treen, or in any place near." "Be pleased to sit, ladies, and leave me think a moment," said the dame; "but I havn't heard of any place that would be good enough for you, and the only one I know of, close at hand, is Chynance. Why it seems to me," she continued, "as if I had heard the sound of your voice, years agone, somewhere, but can't call 'e to mind." "Look at me well, Aunt Joan," the lady rejoined, "and tell me if you can think of anyone you ever saw like me." The dame having adjusted her barnacles, peered at the lady's face and at length said in tremulous tones, "You can't be a spirit to come here high by day! Yet now I look at 'e again there's the dark brown eyes, straight nose, small mouth, and pitted chin of our poor lost Beatie! You can't be she? But with that white band across your forehead one can't see a lock of your hair; her's was of the darkest chesnut colour; besides the black kerchief or scarf, over your head, shades your face." "If you saw my hair, now nearly as white as your own, you wouldn't know me by that," the lady answered. "But don't be frightened, dear An' Joan," continued she, in folding back her veil, "look again and you will see Beatrice I'an, and this dear girl is my daughter Mary." An' Joan sprung from her seat, kissed Mary, clasped Beaton to her breast, and wept aloud for joy. She then took from her cupboard a bottle of brandy and another of sweet-drink (mead), filled two rummers with a mixture of the strong and sweet, saying, "Here, dears, drink this, and help yourselves to more while I get something for 'e to eat before I hear another word." The old dame skipped about as if the sight of Beaton and her daughter had made her twenty years younger. In a few minutes An' Joan fried fish, boiled eggs, and placed on the board milk, cream, and butter, with bread and honey, apple pasties, a jug of beer, and more bottles of her choice cordials. When all three had done ample justice to the repast, Beaton, looking round the dwelling, said, "Now Aunt Joan, I am again at home and as happy as I can ever hope to be, but I always felt like one banished for all the years I dwelt in the land where Mary was born and bred. Everything here looks the same as long ago, when my delight was to run down for some of your choice fruit and sweet flowers, and to play with your turns till you learnt me to spin just as well as yourself." Seeing Mary's gaze fixed on the dresser, she continued, "You may well admire that, dear, and all its shelves contain; a dresser is the crowning glory of every Cornish cottage. You have never seen such quaint looking old jugs, ornamented with queer figures and wry faces, grinning amidst flowers and fruit, as those on the upper shelf; see on the next there are bright coloured glasses with long threaded or twisted stems, and scores of rare pretty things besides, brought from over sea or saved from wrecks; the dresser-bed is covered with a cloth as white as snow, and many ladies would covet the bowls and other vessels of old china that rest on it; and one might take the bright pewter flagons and platters for silver. A brass warming-pan, such as you see on the other side, is an article for ornament rather than use, but every couple here, however poor, think they must get one before they be married. And that shelf of wooden trenches, butter-prints, mustard-bowls, and other 'temberan things,' scoured with 'gard,' have a look of cleanliness not to be surpassed by more costly furniture." On the chimney-piece they might have noticed an hour-glass between tall brass candlesticks, branches of coral, sea-birds' eggs, sea-urchins, and foreign shells. Turning to An' Joan, Beaton remarked as if delighted, "there, too, beside the door is the same sweet-brier; rosemary, thyme, and other sweet flowers, blooming all over the garden; and the house swarming with bees, as of old, coming and going through the open window, and alighting on your cap as if to tell 'e they were going on well, and to see how you were looking." "I hope, dears, you are now come home to live for the rest of your days," said Joan. "Your grand old house is cut to pieces, and three families dwelling in it; but most of your furniture is still there, packed away in the best chamber, all in that room as you left it, and the door hasn't been unlocked for many years,--scarcely opened, indeed, since you last slept there." Beaton replied to the effect that during all the time she lived abroad, her greatest desire was to return and end her days where she was born, and to be buried beside the one she loved above all the world; and that she intended, after a short rest, to go along the cliff to church-town to see his grave, and that she wished to go alone. "Poor dear Willy, the Lord rest with him," said An' Joan, "you will see by his grave that he hasn't been forgotten. On his breast there's a rosemary, the pride of my heart, grown to a bush that overtops his tombstone; a box-tree grows at the foot, and betwixt them sweet-brier, tansy, herb-of-grace, and such other long-lived and evergreen plants as are good for remembrance, besides a border of pinks and lillies. You'll see that none in the church-hay have been more lovingly tended, for I and others have planted on his grave fresh flowers when old ones died." When Cribba Head threw its shadow over the water, Beaton started on her sad pilgrimage, saying to her daughter, who wished to accompany her, "Remain, dear, with our old friend; tell her all about your uncle John, and how we lived in Brittany; she is longing to know but don't like to ask." The kind dame took Mary round her garden, well stocked with sweet old-fashioned flowers and many hives of bees; then passing through her orchard from one tree of choice fruit to another, equally good, they came to a clear brook, overhung by branches weighed down by their load of apples, pears, and plums that often fell in the stream and floated out to sea, unless found on their passage by children who often watched the water, gurgling among reeds and rocks below the orchard, for An' Joan's apples and plums. Milking time being come, Joan took her bucket, and they went up to Penberth Green, where the old dame's cow--little and good--was waiting to be milked. At that time, and long after, almost every cotter kept a cow, which found sufficient pasture in green lanes, and commons. An' Joan, having finished her out-door evening work, made a mullet-and-parsley pie, as that was a favourite supper dish. When placed on the hearth to bake, she said, "I have, for many years, been longing to know how it fared with your mother and uncle, and had given up all hopes of ever again seeing them, not knowing if they were alive or dead; and you, poor lonely flower, have no other relations on your mother's side that I know of." "I have a good many cousins in Brittany," replied Mary, "as my uncle has a large family." She then related what she had heard from her mother, and what she remembered, to the effect that when I'an settled in Brittany he hired a small farm, and soon after married a person of good property. For a short time, he cultivated the land acquired by his marriage, but he soon tired of a farmer's life, and went to sea as captain of a large ship; he was often away for years together. Mary seldom saw him, as there appeared to be little desire, on the part of brother or sister, for much intimacy. Yet, on his return from a voyage, he always sent them money and goods, which they didn't require, because Beaton, by her spinning, and Mary, by her lace-work and embroidery, gained more than sufficed for their needs. Her uncle often took her lace-work abroad, where he traded, and brought her more for it than its weight in gold. Although they wanted for nothing, and everybody was kind to them, Beaton was always pining to return; and in spite of I'an's wishes for them to remain, she made a vow that before Mary became of age, she would go home and pass the rest of her life in the practice of some devotion for the repose of Mary's father. About a week ago, Beaton having heard there was a smuggling craft from Cornwall in a cove near their dwelling, she packed up all her household goods that she cared about, and they left, bag and baggage, in the boat which landed them in Mousal that morning. When Mary had just ended her recital, her mother silently glided in, kissed her, and placed in her bosom a few flowers, saying, "Cherish these from a garden I prize above all others, and we will soon plant it with choicest flowers." "And now," she continued, "we must bid dear Aunt Joan good-bye, and proceed to Buryan Church-town, where we can remain for the night." "No, my dears," An' Joan interposed, "there's a pie baking for your supper, and a spare bed on the talfat as good as any in Church-town, though I say it; remain with me till you have found a better place, or hired Chynance for a time, as there may be more delay than you calculate before your house in Treen will be ready for 'e." Both ladies gladly accepted the kind dame's hearty welcome, and enjoyed her savoury pie and good ale, of her own brewing; no woman then expected to get a husband, unless she knew how to make a good barley-brew, and they say that people of that day, who drank good beer as their ordinary beverage, were stronger by far than their descendants, raised on tea-wash. Beaton hired Chynance, procured a few articles of furniture--in addition to what she brought from over sea--also a cow and poultry; had the garden planted, the house thatched, and comfortably arranged for winter. Owing to delay in getting possession of Beaton's property in Treen they lived here a year or more, and, when all was ready for their removal, Mary would have much preferred to remain in that sunny sheltered cot, nestled at the foot of Buryan Hill; but her mother got into a restless fidgetty state that caused An' Joan to look more grave than was her wont. She had heard that as far back as there was any record, many of the I'an family--particularly the women--when between forty-five and fifty years of age, either went mad or died; and she feared that the gloomy grandeur of Beaton's old home, with the sad remembrances, likely to be renewed thereby, would tend to bring on this family infirmity. It was all in vain, however, for Mary to say, "Dear mother let us remain here in this sunny nook, where flowers grow all the year; spotted trout sport in the stream; and our goats, lambs, and poultry can range at their own sweet will." When all was arranged in Beaton's part of the mansion, so as to give it an air of its former state, thither they removed, but still retained Chynance for the sake of having pasture for their cow, and to please Mary, who took a great fancy to it. Beaton was not in her old habitation many days when she had her 'turn' and other spinning utensils taken into the chamber where Taskes breathed his last. There she passed most of her time, and often kept all night at her work; the rumble of her spinning-wheel and doleful noises that she frequently made, soon caused those living in parts of the house, not in her possession, to quit rather than have their rest nightly disturbed; and she rejoiced that the house was cleared of all strangers and interlopers, as she styled its other occupants. Often she would be away to St. Levan churchyard at dead of night--unknown to Mary and their servant--pass hours, in prayer it was supposed, beside Willy's grave; and bring thence flowers, wet with morning dew, to be kept in her chamber, and when withered all were laid by in her chest. This penance, as much inspired by love as enjoined by her faith, was duly observed, in spite of her failing health. On dark, stormy nights, she would often be met wandering along the cliffs between Church-town and Treen; or seen kneeling on the rock where her lover received his fatal hurt. Many persons were startled by encountering, at unexpected times, her phantom-like figure, gliding along the cleves or amongst the carns of Castle-Treen, in her strange dress of white robe, black veil, and ghastly linen band across her forehead, that made her look like one escaped from a grave in a winding-sheet and shroud. It was evident that Beaton was at times insane; yet, sad as such a state seems, it may not have been the most melancholy portion of this poor soul's destiny; for when her mind was burthened with more grief than it could bear, her reason became unsettled, and her memory infolded with clouds that were often of roseate hue. Old crones whispered that they had heard of more than one Beatrice I'an, and men of that family as well, who went crazy; and that their madness began in melancholy seclusion, and the practice of old-fashioned devotions that few cared about since they were declared Popish and unlawful. Yet, the same old dames took good care to preserve many charms for the cure of diseases, and to use them as in Catholic times, and the same are retained and practised by their descendants to this day, with others that are probably transmitted from an age when sun-worship was in vogue. As Penberth and Mousal fair-traders maintained a constant intercourse with Roscroff, I'an's family often sent Beaton presents of flax, clothing, and other goods; they did not require them, however, for Mary, like her mother, was an excellent spinster and skilful in embroidery and lace-work. Treen being a noted place for good weavers, they provided them with plenty of spinning-work; and when Mary showed her rare lace to An' Joan, she assured her that ladies, within a short distance, paid large sums to smugglers for what was no better. The old dame took it round to gentlemen's seats, and soon returned with much more money than Mary expected for her wares; and with orders for more lace-work than she could execute in a long time. Beaton's lucid intervals became less and less frequent. When crazy fits prevailed, she seemed happy, nay joyful; but when reason,--such as it was,--or more sober moods intervened, she would talk regretfully, often moaning to herself, "The Lord help me, alas it was all my fault, I brought blood on my brother's head, he can never have rest, nor I, no, nevermore, not even in the grave." One of her strange freaks was to sleep by day and to visit the churchyard or spin by night. Sometimes she knitted stockings and other things for her Willy; these were to be put in her coffin. She would often say, "Willy, dear, I am working for thee, love, and will soon fetch thee back; we will live here, nobody shall ever put us out of this chamber. Oh! what delight I took in spinning years ago, when thou didst card the wool of winter's nights. I can never pass the time in singing, for ever singing. I should be weary in a day, and would rather spin the time away with thee to card the wool; and as of old thou shalt give me a kiss, such a long sweet kiss, with every rull I take from the cards." Her last whim was to spin and knit herself a shroud, which she called her wedding-dress. This was made of the whitest and finest lamb's-wool she could procure. Mary, to please her, had to give much of her best lace for trimming this 'wisht' garment; and at length after much alteration, she had it to her mind, and repeated to her daughter and An' Joan all her whimsical fancies about her bridal arrangements, as she called her funeral ceremonies. The following night she walked alone to the churchyard, and returned late. About midnight Mary, as was her custom, looked into her mother's room, and saw by the glimmering light of a chill (iron lamp), hanging on the wall, her mother sitting in a high-backed chair, apparently in a sweet sleep, with a placid smile on her countenance; as she sometimes dosed in her chair, Mary, loath to disturb her, stepped quietly back to her own room; but feeling uneasy from her mother's unusual silence she lay awake till daybreak and then returned to her mother. On approaching her, Mary noticed that over a fine white dress she wore her shroud, with its face-cloth turned back on her head. Mary took her hand, and feeling it cold and stiff, the truth struck her that her mother was dead. Yet she hoped that it might only be a trance, as she looked so life-like and pleasant, as when asleep, in her happiest moods. But a neighbour, who was called in, assured Mary that her mother had been dead some hours. "Yet to behold her thus," said the dame, "sitting in her chair, with fresh flowers in her bosom, the hour-glass beside her, and beads in her hand, one would think she had only fallen asleep whilst saying her prayers; the Lord rest her poor soul." On looking round, when the rising sun-beams streamed in through an open window, they saw that her best quilt was spread on the bed, and on that the clothes Taskes wore on that unlucky night when he received his death-wound, and other things that belonged to him. Where, or how, Beaton could have kept them so long no one knew. An' Joan had these, and withered flowers, with other things that Beaton prized, put into her coffin, in hopes to give her spirit rest; and Beatrice I'an, according to her oft-repeated request, was laid in St. Levan churchyard, beside the dust of Willy Taskes. "And we Treen people," said the old man who related her story, "would have been glad if she had stayed there, but she hadn't been under the turf three days when she was back again and spinning, as she always said she would, in the chamber that was locked up with everything in it as it stood when she was carried out; and it was supposed that other spirits came back with her, by the capperouse they often made." We will leave them, however, and their ghostly doings, for a while, to follow Mary's destiny. THE PROUD PENDARS. O it is sad! O it is sad To think of the joys that once I had: To wander lone over land and sea, And know that she waits no more for me. This tress of her fair, soft, chestnut hair, Is all the cruel grave would spare. MORTIMER COLLINS. At Beaton's death what had been her portion of the property fell in hand, and Mary removed to Chynance, taking with her a few such articles of the old furniture as were not too cumbersome for her small dwelling; but everything in "Beaton's chamber" was left there for the time, as it stood when she was carried out. Mary's life had been anything but a cheerful one for the past year or two, but after her mother's decease she felt very desolate. Her uncle's family urged her to return and live with them, which she was inclined to do, as she often said that Brittany seemed less gloomy to her than this country; because in the Cornuaille over the water young and old met, every Sunday at least, at their parish church, and joined in a dance after service; besides there were yearly feasts, in neighbouring parishes on their patron saints' days, to which people flocked from miles away; they were hospitably entertained, without regard to rank, at the feasten board; and all regarded it as a sort of religious duty to take part in dancing, hurling, wrestling, and other games that were continued several days of the feasten week. "It seems to me like forsaking my poor mother to leave this place," Mary would say to An' Joan, "but over sea my cousins are always happy together, and they knew no difference between me and their sisters; but here I feel as desolate as a forsaken bird, though Chynance is a pleasant sunny spot, and nobody can be kinder to me than you and others who knew my dear mother." In such like sad complaints she bemoaned her lonely state, till love came to brighten the scene, for a brief space. Mary frequently took her work to Penberth and passed the afternoons or evenings with An' Joan. As the dame sold liquor from a noggin to an "anker" (keg), her dwelling was often pretty well filled with company, of an evening. And Mary often said that such gatherings of neighbours, to hear news, sing songs, or relate old stories, reminded her of home, as she called Brittany. Now, it so happened, a few months after Mary again settled in Chynance, she was one afternoon on a visit to An' Joan, when a young officer, home on a furlough from a man-of-war, entered the dwelling, saluted An' Joan--who had known him from a child--and called for brandy and cordials to treat the dame and himself; by the time they were seated for cosy chat, Mary entered with baskets of fruit from the orchard. The young sailor rose, saluted her, and seemed surprised to see one--apparently an inmate of Joan's--with the dress and demeanour of a lady; her broken English, with Breton accent, betokened her to be a foreigner. "Don't 'e disturb yourself, Mr. Pendar," said An' Joan, "this young lady, poor dear, all the same to me as a daughter, is the damsel Mary I'an." Mr. Pendar--who is said to have been one of those who then lived in Pendrea--had heard some gossip, on his first arrival at home, about the good looks, rare accomplishments, and strange history of this waif of the I'an's; and how she had refused many offers of marriage from farmers' sons that were thought good chances for her. Young Pendar took a liking at first sight to the poor orphan, and his love was not more sudden than honest and constant; and her feelings towards the young sailor must have been equally favourable, one may suppose, as they often met at Penberth and elsewhere, and purposed to be wedded on his next return from a short voyage. But the artless sailor and simple maiden made their calculations without his parents' consent. Little thought Mary, and less cared her lover, about what the old Pendars styled the stain on her paternity, or their talk about disowning or disinheriting. The brave heart of oak but little regarded his mother railing in bitter terms, of Mary's poverty and base birth, and of Beaton's youthful failing; or his father saying, "that as he made his bed he might lie on it; that if he wedded one of nought, he should be cut off with a shilling." But more devilry was set to work than the youngster knew of. At parting, to join his ship, he told his father to keep his shilling, as he cared not for anything he had to withhold or bestow, that he saw no reason why the daughter should suffer for her parents' failings; he thought they had undergone more than enough themselves, and that he was determined to win fortune and choose a wife for himself. On taking leave of Mary he assured her that when he returned from a short voyage he would make her his bride. Pendar left home to join his ship, which he thought would make but a short voyage. Many months elapsed, but Mary had no tidings of her affianced lover; and, about the time she expected his return a report was circulated that he was killed in a naval engagement. As months rolled on and brought no other intelligence, Mary too readily believed the common talk; and, poor grieved soul, for many an hour she would sit, all alone, on a rock beside the shore, look wistfully out to sea, and chant some old Breton melody about meeting her true-love in the fairy orchards of Avalon. And her wild song, by the moaning waves, was sad to hear as a funeral dirge. Like a blasted flower she pined and died, and was laid beside her parents, when the young seaman, her lover, was hastening homeward in hopes to make her his bride. Pendar arrived at Penberth with a good store of prize-money, heard, with anguish, how Mary had died of a broken heart, all through a vile scheme of his parents, who spread the sad rumour, and had no reason to think him dead; because they, unknown to him, contrived to have him drafted to a cruiser that was sent to protect merchantmen in distant seas. He was kept in ignorance of his destination, and had no means to inform Mary that years might elapse before his return. He left home without seeing his father or mother, and never more returned to Buryan; yet 'tis said that he became renowned as a brave naval commander, and died unmarried. Within a few days of Mary's death, her uncle made a trip to Fowey, with a cargo of contraband goods, and on his return voyage, shaped his course for the Land's End, intending to land in Mount's Bay, to visit his niece, and persuade her to return with him. His ship approached land off Penberth; the sea being smooth, he ran her close in, near the cove, that he might be taken ashore in his ship's boat. It so happened that his old craft was running for the cove in this Autumn evening's twilight with a thick fog. The _Mur's_ crew mistook I'an's vessel, beating the same course, for a revenue cutter, and one of the hands fired a random shot between "wind and water" that killed their former commander, as he was about to step into his boat; some say it was on the very evening of his niece's funeral. The Breton crew fired on the _Mur_, and sunk her. Almost all Penberth men were on board, and the greatest part of them were drowned within hail of the cove and their dwellings. I'an was taken home to be buried, in Brittany, and his family dropped all intercourse with their father's native place. It was not known here till years after the fatal mishap that I'an was killed by a shot from the _Mur_, or that it was his ship's company who sent many of his old crew to a watery grave. THE I'AN'S GHOSTS. We have no title-deeds to house or lands, Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates. LONGFELLOW. Now that ghostly visits are rare, many persons may be sceptical of what is said of this haunted house, and we shall only relate a few of the most remarkable stories. Shortly after Beatrice died, noises like the rumble of a spinning-wheel and clicking of cards, with unnatural shrieks, were often heard in "Beaton's chamber," which remained locked up, with its furniture just as it was when she died; persons passing by the house at night, who had courage to cast a glance at its windows, saw in that room and others a glimmer of light, and shadowy forms flitting to and fro. But almost everybody hurried by without casting an eye towards the house, or took a roundabout way rather than run the risk of having a fright or their rest disturbed by a remembrance of those strange apparitions. Over a while it seemed as if more spirits joined those that first arrived, till at length they made such a 'rattle-cum-stave' throughout the whole house that it was left for years unoccupied,--by mortal tenants at least. The turn continued its rumble upstairs, and what had formerly been kitchen, hall, and parlour, seemed filled with a revelrout all night long, and folks were often dismayed by unnatural appearances outside the house. Towards night clouds of fog would roll in from over sea, settle around the I'an's premises, and become denser and darker till the place seemed shrouded in thunder-clouds; then lights would flash around the house, and such sounds be heard as if made by discharges of small fire-arms, with a roar of cannon now and then; one would, also, hear the surging and splashing of waves, flapping of sails, creaking of blocks and tackle, with other sounds usually heard on shipboard, till this apparition rose high above the houses, drifted away seaward, and disappeared. Sometimes all lights in the house would go out, at the same instant, without any visible cause; this was such a common occurrence that the inmates would merely say, "that's Beaton come again; but, never mind, we shall soon hear her spinning, then we may light the candles again, and hope to be left quiet for a time." When people would persist and occupy the house, it was often troubled by day, and all its mortal inmates, both man and beast, would be seized with fear, and run to doors, at times when nothing unusual was seen or heard. Often in the height of a clear summer's day, a blast of chilly air, with a grave-like scent, would pervade the old dwelling; then children would screech, dogs howl, cats, with their hair bristled up, rush out of doors, or smash through windows, if doors were closed. The cats never returned, and died of fright when they couldn't escape the house. There's no end of stories about the ghostly pranks that were acted here for more than a century, and we shall only relate another. A carpenter, who was working about the place, said he didn't believe that all the I'an's spirits would make him quit the house or Beaton's chamber even; and he waged a pint of brandy that he would see, that very night, what made the racket there, and hail the spirits if he saw any. That he might have a sight of them, without more ado, he bored an auger-hole in Beaton's chamber door. Having primed himself with drink, when night came, and the usual noises began, he fixed himself close to the door and peeped in. At first he only beheld a faint light glimmering over the bed, and what looked like a dead man stretched thereon, with shadowy figures moving about the room; then he saw more distinctly, and made out a woman, dressed in grave clothes, sitting on a chair beside the bed. Then the chamber became so dark that he could see nothing of the figures on the bed and in the chair but their eyes, that shone with purple light. The woman's eyes--he could see nothing else but her eyes glistening like coals of fire--arose from the bedside and approached the door, and still the carpenter could only see a pair of flaming orbs when they were within a few inches of his face; and he--terror-struck or spell-bound--had neither power to move away, nor to withdraw his gaze. There he stood like one rivetted to the spot for minutes, that seemed hours, till a blast of cold air smote his face, and something pierced his eye like a red-hot nail. He fell on the floor, was found insensible when raised, and he ever remained blind of one eye. There was but little rest for anyone dwelling in the I'an's house until some years after Parson Corker came to Buryan; and, at first, he made many fruitless attempts to confine those unresting spirits to their graves. He ordered that the locked-up chamber should be opened, and all its furniture burned--as no one would venture to make use of anything therein--and he would try again what could be done. So one night the reverend gentleman came over from Tresidder--where he lived with his cousins the Tresillians;--a good number assembled; they broke open Beaton's chamber-door, and began to throw out the furniture, but they found it a more difficult job than was expected. Turns, chests, chairs, tables, were soon cleared out, and a great hanging-press was smashed to pieces, tossed through a window, and added to the blazing pile on an open space fronting the house. They found it, however, no such easy work to break up the grand carved-oak bedstead, which must have been made and put together in the room, because neither its tester nor its head would pass through the doorway. In this bed-head were two deep recesses, ornamented at their backs and all around with carved foliage, framing the names and ages of some old I'an or Ivan and his wife, who probably had this bedstead made when their house was built. High up on either side of these recesses, between them and the tester--among flowers and creeping plants--were boldly carved faces, supposed to be those of the family; they were all very much alike, with peaked beards, wonderful high foreheads, and long noses,--straight as a line. Bedding, rich hangings, and old raiment, very grand in their day, were rotten and gone to dust. When all was at length cleared out and blazing in the town-place, the parson entered to conclude his work by sprinkling salted water all about; at the same time he repeated long words, spells, or incantations in Latin, because that tongue was said to be more respected by devils and restless spirits than any vulgar dialect. He also performed other ceremonies, whose use and practice were only known to learned divines. But it is doubtful whether the reverend exorcist did any good on that occasion. For whilst Treen folks made a bonfire of what had been the I'an's furniture, he or the spirits raised an awful tempest; houses were unroofed, walls blown down, and other damage done throughout the neighbourhood and far away. Meanwhile, ghostly forms were seen and unearthly voices heard, high up over flames and smoke, making derisive shouts like demons' laughter. They seemed to enjoy the fun, whilst many people cursed the parson for rising such a storm. One can't say how his best endeavours failed to lay these unruly ghosts. But "Perchance some form was unobserved, Perchance in prayer or faith he swerved;" for on the following night troops of spirits arrived at their accustomed hour and made as much disturbance as ever. Then Mr. Corker--determined to rout them--sought advice and assistance from the most remarkable "spirit-queller" of that time, one parson Polkinghorne, who belonged to some parish east of Penzance. It was believed, of this Parson Polkinghorne, that no spirits walking the earth could resist his spells, and that, when other exorcists failed to obtain a mastery over an obdurate one, this gentleman no sooner joined them than the poor ghosts would exclaim--like that of old Squire Harris, of Kenegie--"Now, Polkinghorne, thee art come and I must be gone!" And he at once sent the shadow off to its grave and there confined it for evermore. One night, a week or so after the unsuccessful attempt, the two parsons--arrayed in their priestly vestments, bearing large books and a coil of new hempen cord--arrived at the haunted house's door, and requested all the inmates to quit it before they entered, and not to attempt to hear or see anything that might take place, nor to re-enter their dwellings for that night. When all the living inhabitants had left the house, the reverend exorcists entered it; but how they worked to get control over these troublesome spirits nobody knew but themselves, as they were no more seen till an hour or so after midnight, when they issued forth and took their way to Church-town, with the bound spirits in their company (it is supposed), and, having finished their work in the graveyard, they, about daybreak, aroused the inmates of the "Scaw-tree" inn, made a hearty breakfast, and returned to Tresidder. Now, 'tis said that this Parson Polkinghorne had power, also, over the spirits of air, or whatever they be, that usually raise the wind, when ghosts are laid; for on this night all was so quietly done that the weather was not, for a wonder, uncommonly stormy. The I'an's ghosts, however, were settled, that's certain; they met with their match at last, and quitted their old habitation for good. From that night their old house was quiet and remained so for a few years, then part of it was again haunted by the ghost of a crazy spinster called 'Bitha (Tabitha) who also became insane from grief at her sweetheart's untimely end. But this spirit gave little trouble, compared with the former ones, and took its departure in a few years, of its own accord; at least we never heard of anything having being done to "lay" it. * * * * * About sixty years ago these almost forgotten traditions were revived. One Sunday afternoon, in summer time, a carriage arrived in Treen, stopped near the I'an's house, and a middle-aged gentleman stepped from the conveyance just as an old man drew near, who saluted the visitor, and asked if he would be pleased to accept of his services to show him the Castle? The stranger replied, in but indifferent English, that he would like to know if there were any remains in Treen of an ancient mansion, or castle, that once belonged to a family called I'an or Ivan, as he spelt it for Uncle George, who was a most intelligent old guide and the best chronicler of Treen. "Why, there's the dwelling," said he, "that old people always called the I'an's house, though young ones, thinking to improve the name, have lately called it the John's house; but no family called Johns were ever proprietors of it that I ever heard of." The gentleman looked at the old house, and said that he expected to find a much grander one. "Yet, in its day, that was considered far above the common," Uncle George remarked; "and it must have cost much to build when no wheel-carriages were in use, and timber had to be dogged (dragged) many miles through narrow lanes, and stones and other materials were carried on drays, or on horses' backs. Besides, where you see nothing now but pigs'-crows and turf-ricks," continued he, in conducting the visitor towards the house, "there was once a large green-court; and at the back where you will find little else but dung-pits and heaps of rubbish, there were more buildings belonging to the house, with a large walled garden and a rabbit warren beyond." The gentleman then informed his guide that he was a descendant of an old Catholic family who, between two or three centuries ago, owned a Castle in Treen and much land in that neighbourhood, if such traditions and documents as were preserved in his family might be credited--that he resided in Brittany, to which place his ancestors had hence removed at a time when Catholics were much persecuted here--that, being in England on business and curious to see his family's ancient home, he had come to Treen for that purpose--and that he would also like to know if there were any tombstone inscriptions, or other records of them, in St. Levan Church. Besides, he said, that others of his family had long been desirous to know something of a place respecting which they had many curious traditions. Moreover, he informed the old man that the name usually spelt I'an was an abbreviation of Ivan and equivalent to Juan or plain John; the confusion in, or the various modes of, spelling took place, probably, before J and U replaced I and V, but still the old pronunciation was retained. [The same applies to many old French names here, that seem to be spelt one way, and pronounced differently. Take Lanyon as a familiar example, pronounced Lanine.] This Breton gentleman, whom we may call M. Ivan, as he spelt his name in full, when shown through the old house was much disappointed to find its interior a mere wreck, with little to show that it had ever been a gentleman's residence, except a few fragments of carved wainscot and ornamental plaster-work in an apartment that had been a portion of hall or parlour in olden time. It seems the "gentil Breton" had heard much of Castle Treyn, and 'Uncle' was much diverted and surprised to find that he thought it was a grand building situated in the village, and hinted that it might have been his ancestor's residence. "Faix! they must have been the giants then," said the old man to himself, "for I never heard of anybody else who ever lived there." And, in answer to M. Ivan's enquiries where the Castle was and if any of it was still standing, "still standing, sir," he exclaimed. "I believe 'e, faith, and stand it will till Doomsday, unless one can get out of a rock the Castle-key; but when that is done, as Merlin prophecied, all will sink into the sea, whence it was raised by enchantment, they say, with the giants who dwelt there of yore. But the Castle isn't here in town; it's down to cliff," continued he, showing the way; "and we can travel there across the fields, if you please, while your carriage can go out the lane and await 'e in Pedny-vounder cliff, if so be that you would like to ride to Church-town." As there were many interesting objects to be seen by the way, the gentleman decided to walk to St. Levan Church also, and his conveyance remained in Treen. In passing the fields Uncle George said, "Old folk, who are dead and gone, always held (and I believe it for truth) that people seldom lived in Castle Treen, or in any of our cliff or hill-castles, for more than a few days at a time; and that was when they had to seek refuge there for their old people, women, and children, with their flocks and other property, from the Danes and other northern robbers who used to land at Parcurno, Penberth, and elsewhere, to ravage the country, carry off women, and do worse mischief than that, if the hair that crops up every now and then in some families may be taken as evidence. But the red-haired pirates were soon put to rout, and then nobody remained in our stronghold of Treen Dynas except a man to keep watch from Castle Peak." He might have remarked, too, that the old proprietors of Treen held to a tradition that Kaerkeis bowjey and barn were as old as the Castle, and were built in that out-of-the-way place for the purpose of storing fodder for cattle near the stronghold against an invasion. They also believed that valuables were, at such times, hastily buried in the Castles; those who secreted the property being slain, nobody knew where to find it. As a proof of the probability of such a belief, within the old guide's remembrance, about the quantity of two quarts of ancient Roman and other coins were found within or near Castle Maen. The coins were simply placed in a pile, on a flat stone, and enclosed by three others set on edge and capped. The whole was buried in a bank of earth and small stones that formed part of an old hedge or gurgo. Probably some of these coins may still be found among old folks of Sennen. The writer had many of them, when too young to know the value of such interesting objects. Having passed the fields and ascended the rising ground beyond, M. Ivan asked where the Castle was--he could behold nothing like a building between them and the sea, towards which they had shaped their course. "We are already within it," replied the venerable guide, "and have passed the outer wall through a breach where it is levelled and the ditch filled in to make a road. I ought to have pointed it out to 'e. The outer mound is little short of half a mile long. Hundreds of cartloads of stones have been carried away from the walls for building houses and hedges. Yet on Kaerkeis side, where it isn't easily reached, some of it is still pretty perfect; except, indeed, where our youngsters have bowled the stones over cliff for their Sunday afternoon's sport; and it would be just as well, or better, 'seeman' to me, that they were allowed to have their wrestling and hurling-matches at such times, to keep them from doing mischief, like they had in their great-grandfars' days, when folks were quite as good, and to my 'seeman,' better than they are now, for all that constables do and duffans say." We can't follow the old guide through the long story he used to relate of what passed between him and the Armorican gentleman. Having shown the Castle and related the legends of giants, small people, &c., connected with this enchanted spot, they passed along the cliff to St. Levan Church. Service was over and the congregation dispersed, but the church-door key being kept at the inn, they inspected the church to see if any memorial of the I'ans was to be found, but nothing connected with them was observed in carved shields or bench-ends, nor elsewhere. Parish registers--if any remained two centuries old--he had no opportunity to see. They also visited St. Levan's Well and Chapel. The old man pointed out a long flight of steps that may still be traced best part of the way from the spring to the ancient chapel's site. The gentleman took particular interest in the ancient cliff oratories, with their holy wells, and in every spot along their way hallowed by saintly legend. In returning from Chapel-Curno, as the little oratory over Parcurno used to be called, they were met at the foot of Carnole hill by a gentleman of Penzance, who used occasionally to preach at the Methodist Chapel in Sowah. This gentleman often returned thence to Treen (where he usually remained over night) by way of St. Levan Church and along the cliffs. He knew Uncle George very well; for they often disputed about what the old man styled a new-fashioned religion. Yet they were always great friends. The gentlemen were introduced and walked together to Treen. By the way M. Ivan related how curiosity had led him to visit Treen, and that he was, on the whole, gratified with his visit, though quite taken down in his exaggerated ideas (as transmitted by family traditions) of their former importance here; and thought the foregoing tragic story, which the old man related in part, just as probable a reason for his ancestor's departure as that of religious persecution; yet he believed they were always attached to, and held, the old faith. When they arrived at Treen he handsomely rewarded the intelligent old guide, and was about to leave when the preaching gentleman proposed for M. Ivan to take tea with him at the house where he put up. The invitation was accepted, and he was regaled with bread, cream, and honey--the produce of what was once his family's acres. * * * * * Mr. Richard Edmonds remarks that "Treryn Castle, Maen Castle, Chûn Castle, Castle-an-Dinas, and several other cliff-castles, and hill-castles, in the Land's End district, have been in existence probably between two and three thousand years. And Treryn Castle, with its high massive vallum, deep ditch, and the foundations of its stone wall, twelve feet thick, presents so little temptation either to the agriculturist or to the builder, that its existing remains, vast as they are, need no Society's protection for their continued duration for generations yet to come. All castles, of course, do, or did once contain dwellings of some kind for their occupants. But the low huts which once stood within the castles near Penzance (although considerable remains of such dwellings in Chûn Castle were extant in Borlase's time) have now almost everywhere disappeared. It was not, however, from these rude huts, but from the fortifications enclosing them, that our very ancient castles derived their name; and not one of them, at the present day, appears more worthy of being thus called than at Treryn Castle." [Illustration] CASTLE TREEN AND ITS LEGENDS. "I cannot tell how the truth may be, I say the tale as 'twas said to me." SCOTT. Old traditions say that the headlands of Castle Treen, or rather Trereen, on which the Logan Rock carn and adjacent crags stand, was raised out of the sea by enchantment. This portion of the stronghold, enclosed by the inner line of defence, running directly across the isthmus, is generally spoken of as _The Castle_, and that between it and the outer or landward embankments is usually called Treen Dynas. THE KEY OF THE CASTLE. It is not known what powerful magician raised this giant's hold, though it was believed that its security depended on a magic stone called "the key of the Castle," respecting which Merlin had something to say, as well as about many other remarkable stones in the neighbourhood. Castle Treen, however, must have stood where it is long before Arthur and his magician visited West Cornwall. The key was an egg-shaped stone, between two and three feet long, which was contained in the cavity of a rock with a hole facing the sea, through which it might be turned round; and the opening appeared large enough for it to be passed through. Many attempted to get it out, but they always found it to hitch somewhere; and lucky (according to old folks' faith) that it did, because the sage Merlin prophecied that when the key of the Castle was taken out of the hole, Men Amber (the holy rock) would be overthrown, the Castle sink beneath the ocean, and other calamities occur. The key was situated near the bottom of a deep chasm called The Gap, which is passed on approaching the Logan Rock by the usual path. It required a sure-footed climber, of strong nerve, to reach it, and this could only be done from land, at low water, or nearly so. Surging waves occasionally changed the position of this magic stone, and from the direction of its smaller end, as it lay in a trough of water, prognostics were drawn with regard to the seasons, &c. Few persons had sufficient hardihood to descend the precipitous cliff and risk being caught in The Gap by a flowing tide; and the key of the Castle remained a mysterious and venerated object till Goldsmith's mischievous tars, or the dockyard men who were employed in erecting machinery to replace Men Amber (as the stone they overthrew was formerly called) heard of it and the traditions connected therewith. Then, one day, some of these wretches, on farther mischief bent, entered The Gap in a boat, and, being provided with crow bars, they broke away the edges of the rock that enclosed the key, ripped it out, and tumbled it down among the sea-washed pebbles! Some calamity has surely befallen these wretches ere this, or Bad Luck is a mere name, and powerless as an avenging deity. Part of Merlin's prophecy was fulfilled, however, yet not in the order predicted. The venerated nodule was what is called, among miners, a "bull's eye," or "pig's egg," of large size. It appeared to be a closer-grained and harder stone than what surrounded it. GIANTS OF CASTLE TREEN. The earliest inhabitants of this stronghold were giants who protected the neighbouring people in return for cattle and other necessaries with which the last-named provided their powerful friends, as was usual here in olden times. An aged giant, his childless wife, and their adopted son, are the only ones of whom connected traditions are handed down by old folks of Treen. Not only this giant (how we wish the chroniclers had preserved his name) and his wife but all people who depended on his protection, particularly those of Treen and bordering places, were much grieved and disappointed when they found their giant and giantess were middle-aged and had no children who would aid them in old age and perpetuate the race. The giantess, having no household to think about, grew, as most unemployed women do, peevish and troublesome. The giant, having little or no work to occupy himself with, grew fat and lazy. Quiet and good-tempered as he was, he was dreadfully tormented by his wife. She called him a lazy, useless old loon; and said he was too fat, and didn't take exercise enow. When he had nothing else to employ himself about, in peaceful times, she told him that he should log the rock, for a few hours every day, to stretch his sinews and make his blood circulate brisker, instead of dozing away all day and night in his chair, which may still be seen. "Go thee way'st," said she; "swim over to the Dollar Rocks, it's only two miles or so; dive round them and catch me a few good big congers; I want their fat to make a cake. And the pollock and cod that feed among the ore-weed thereabouts are excellent eating." The dissatisfied woman's advice was sometimes taken. He would swim away, and, in an hour or two, bring her home a string of fish of a furlong's length. Then he would log Men Amber for a bit. This he could easily do with the tip of his finger, when standing on the grass below it; for the rock is only 30 feet or so from the grass, and Treen giant stood at least 40 feet high, without his boots. He was stout in proportion, and his strength of arm was prodigious. Sometimes, with his staff, he kept the sacred stone in motion when seated in his chair, just opposite it. But often it happened, when getting through his exercise by the latter mode, that he fell asleep, long ere the sand was down in his wife's hour-glass. And then she, the faggot, would pelt her quiet husband with rocks, heaps of which may still be seen, lying loose, just as they flew from her hand and dropped at no great distance from the poor giant's chair. He would wake up, with a sore head, to hear her say, in a voice like a bellowing bull, "Stop thy snoring, thou confounded old fool, and work away, west ah? or I'll pommel thy noddle to browse." "What the deuce shall I do to stop her tongue and cure her temper? Can 'e tell me, my good people?" He would often say to Treen folks and others, who visited him of a summer's evening; "she's the most troublesome woman I ever heard of!" All kinds of employment were suggested. In those days everybody thought he could manage a discontented wife, were he her husband; but actually to do it was difficult. "Why should she fret and fume for lack of children," he used to say to his Treen neighbours, "and what need have you either, in those peaceful times, to care whether we have descendants or no?" Potent reasons were given both by giantess and people why they desired that their chief's race should be continued. Charms and other means were used in order to obtain the desired result. Yet much time passed, and their rock-hewn cradle was still empty, when a happy thought struck a wise man of Treen. He advised that a baby should be _stolen_ from the giant of Maen, who had a large family, and was, moreover, a very troublesome and aggressive neighbour--if one may credit stories of his hurling the rocks against Treen giant, which are still to be seen at Skewjack Moor, on the bounds of their two domains. One may judge of Maen giant's stature by the size of his bed, bowls, spoon, and other utensils, that remained in a lane on Treve, at a short distance from Sennen Church, a few years ago, and some of them may be there still. Our giant and his wife were delighted with the sage man's advice. To steal a baby from the big man who was proud of his stronghold between Pen-von-las (Land's End) and Pedn-men-du (Black Stone Headland) would be capital revenge on him and his. "Then how nice it will be for me," said the giant's wife, "to sit on the Logan stone with the cheeld in my arms, of summer afternoons, when the waves sing lullaby, and my old man can rock us both till the dear baby falls asleep. Or he may dandle it in his arms atop of Castle Peak, or jump with it thence, from carn to carn, to Gamp-an-sees rocks and back again, whilst I skin an ox for our supper, and you, my good people, can bring us down plenty of milk to nurse him on, that he may grow apace." A wise woman, or witch of Treen, who could take any shape, was selected as the most likely person to execute their project without causing any stir with Maen giant, who was very fierce, and proud of his descent from old blustering Bellerus, who was said to have lived thereabouts in days of yore. One afternoon away went the witch, and, without being noticed on the road, reached Cairn-men-ellas, where she hid herself between rocks to watch. A little before sunset she saw a giant's child, of four years or so, coming that way with some common people's children, who wanted to show him how to play _bob_. Now the infant giant, though as big as an ordinary man, was still a baby in every feature, and he hadn't been long weaned; he still wore a bib, though he had out-grown his clothes, and his frock and saveall (pinafore) scarcely reached to his knees. The common boys and girls, from ten to a dozen years of age--like children in size to him--led about the great _slab_, as they termed him, and did with him just as they pleased. The woman, seeing them place buttons (and they hadn't many) on the bob, took from her basket a string of large bright ones, shook them before the giant baby, and said, "Now kiss me, dear, and I will give 'e all these." He kissed her again and again, delighted to have the buttons. Over awhile she said, "The tides are low and I am on my way to get lempots (limpets) and gweans (winkles) from Cowloe; will 'e go, dears?" The elder ones said it was then too late--they must be all home to Treve before sundown, or their mammies would strap them soundly and send them to bed without supper. But the babe-giant said, "I'll go, for I want some gweans to play _five-stones_, and lempots too, that my da may shoe the cats with croggans (limpet-shells) and codgey-wax (cobblers'-wax). He do dearly like that fun, and my ma do never beat me." "Come along then, my turtle," said the witch, as she took his hand and led him off. On the way she took from her basket many toys and showed him how to play with them. This pleased him, so that he thought no more of Cowloe, and she led him away over the Green to Brew Moors, where, to divert him she changed herself into the shape of a horse, and he trotted on her a mile or more, when she resumed her woman's form, and led him into Castle Treen, where he was received with open arms by the mistress. It would take long to tell how he was caressed by the childless pair and fed by their people. He often reposed, during his infancy, in a small chair that may still be seen near the large one in which the giant usually rested--the one just opposite the Logan Rock; and, until he grew too big, he frequently slept in the giant's arms. At sunrise in summer the old giant delighted to carry him up to Castle Peak, where he placed the infant to stand on the topmost stone, which was much higher then than now, and named to him all the noted places within ken. After turning him round that he might behold the magnificent prospect on either hand of wild, sea-lashed headlands in the distance, and noble carns towering near, he would exclaim, "My dear boy, who wouldn't be proud of such a home as this? Believe me, dear son, in all this western land--from the Lizard Point, that you see yonder, to Pedn-Penwith, which lies under the setting sun--there is not another giant who owns a place equal to Castle Treen; and all shall be thine, my darling, when I am dead and gone." When the sun shone warm he took baby down to the Castle Leas, near the Gap. This was his favourite fishing place, where a deep pit may still be seen in which he pounded _browse_, that was cast on the water to entice in fish. From these rocks, at the water's edge, the giant, like a monstrous dolphin, stretched on the sea with the boy standing on his broad back, and holding on by the hair of his head like bridle-reins with both hands, would swim out and round to the Sees--the rock that stands like an island in Gampar, (Close or Little Cove), just under Hal-dynas, and at the eastern end of the outer mound of his fortress. Having rested there awhile and given the cheeld a few shags' eggs, limpets, mussels, and such like dainties, back they would steer, but farther out; and, coasting all the seaboard of his Castle, land in Par Pry. When a few years older the giant taught his big boy to fish from the rocks with rod and line, showed him how to make fish-hooks out of bones and _croggan_-rims--as boys out there do now, or did not long ago. In giants' times they hadn't a bit of iron, not even so much as a nail. The giantess with her distaff and spindle, spun them yarn that served for lines. It wasn't much, however, that the giant knew to teach the youngster. Like all of great bulk he had more strength than knowledge, for as we say, "The best goods are bound up in the smallest bundles." Meanwhile the giantess took care that the boy had an unlimited quantity of food, that he might eat and drink whenever he choose. Over a few years he was nearly equal in bulk to his new Dadda, as he called the old giant. We like to linger over these pleasant times, for the old Titan when he took much delight in his charge. But alas! the sequel must be told in sorrow and tears for female frailty. We don't like to--and indeed we wont--repeat all the stories handed down, which for the most part are highly unfavourable to the moral character of Treen Giantess, for fear of slandering her unwittingly. Yet it is no worse than she deserves to say that all traditions agree in representing her as a most abandoned female in her latter years. All her care and attention were bestowed on the boy and she neglected her old husband, so that he had to dive for fish, and skin oxen, (or eat them skin, horns, and all). Sheep he could seldom get; they were dainties reserved for the young fellow. The poor old giant was often driven to such extremities that, to appease hunger, which makes brutes of the best of men, he was fain to stay his stomach on ore-weed. To add insult to injury she often taunted her aged spouse with his weakness, which was the consequence of her neglect, and cut him to the heart by making unfavourable comparisons between him and the pampered youth who could now log the rock from sitting on the grass; and that was more, as the giantess told her husband, than he could do in the best of his time. Worst of all, her maternal love then changed into a passion that, all things considered, one might even now, in these times of lax morality and free-love, regard as reprehensible. The poor old giant was slow to become jealous, till he found himself utterly forsaken by his spouse and adopted son, who always stole away to sunny glades between the carns to play by themselves. That would have passed, however, without notice,--he rather liked to be left alone, to dose in his chair of afternoons--had not some Treen women, who were sharp in such things, spied what was going on, and, out of envy, told the old giant. He then became very surly and gave the doting pair much annoyance by coming on them unawares when they withdrew to enjoy their amorous diversion. They had seldom much comfort then, except when the old fellow left his castle to get provision. One winter's day, when he was about to start for this purpose, he told his wife and the youngster that one of them should meet him on his way back to assist in taking home whatever he might procure. They promised to do so, but time passed so pleasantly with the couple that they thought but little of their good old provider till they heard his footsteps and angry voice, about a quarter of a mile off, as he came stamping along Pedn-y-vounder cliff vowing vengeance on his ungrateful wife and foster-son. They became somewhat frightened, and the "strollop" of a giantess, knowing that "the first blow was half the battle," prepared for the encounter by placing herself on the rocks west of the Gap, a dozen feet or so above the narrow path which the giant would have to pass. He came stamping along, an ox on his shoulders (its legs were tied together and passed over his head,) and on each arm he carried a sheep basket-fashion, their trotters bound with their spans. He roared louder than the stormy breakers when he entered his castle's inner enclosure and found that no one, even then, came to meet him. In his fury he bounced along without noticing his wicked rib, with her bared arm and clenched fist, awaiting his approach, and as he came along the narrow ledge she dealt him a blow in his eyes, as he glanced towards her, that sent him, cattle and all, heels over head down the precipice. When she beheld him falling a remembrance of their early loves, or something else, caused a sudden revulsion of feeling, which made her regret her rashness, and, unwilling to witness her husband's dying agony, she stepped back westward, about twenty paces, on to a level stone between high rocks, where she stood still and cast her apron over her head that she might hear less of the giant's awful moans. Though the giant's skull was very thick it was badly smashed on the boulders; yet he didn't die until he called on the Powers whom he served to avenge him, which they did instantly by changing his vile partner into stone, where she stood and where she may still be seen. The old giant, in his dying moments, thought of the young one more in sorrow than in anger--he couldn't in his heart feel very bitter against the simple-innocent hobble-de-hoy, and regarded his wife as the seducer. Nothing more is known of the young giant, and but little of any others of the Titan race that in mythic ages dwelt in Castle Treen. Of late the Giant's Lady, as she was formerly called, has been named the Logan Rock's Lady by those who are ignorant of our old traditions. When tempests rage, or anything else excites her, she rocks to and fro; but her movements are languid with age or sorrow. Pitiless storms have so beaten on her head for ages that one can't make out a feature, and her fair proportions are so mutilated that one can scarce discern a semblance of her gigantic form in the time-worn granite mass. She appears, indeed, of pigmy stature compared with her husband. If, however, she had never been larger than her stone image now appears the story is none the less credible on that score. For do we not, every day, see mere midges of women united with giants of men, according to our reduced scale? DAN DYNAS. Old folks held--and long tradition made it pass for true--that the outer wall of Castle Treen was built by a deaf-and-dumb giant, called Dan Dynas, or, as some say, Den-an-Dynas, assisted by his wife An' (aunt) Venna, who broke up the ditch, filled her leathern towser (large apron) with the soil, and put it for _filling_ behind the rocks, as her husband rolled them into their places. When they had thus constructed a stronghold, in which people with their tin and cattle were safe from marauding pirates, the giantess and other women collected hundreds of cartloads of stones into heaps, near the mound, ready and handy for slinging at, or to hurl down on, the heads of besiegers. When an incursion happened to be made An' Venna, with the women and old men, defended the fortress, whilst Dan and his fighting men slew the enemy or drove them to sea. The ruins of this good couple's handiwork may still be traced from Par Pry, on the southern side, to the inlet of Gampar, or Hal-dynas Cove, towards the east. A descendant of old proprietors of Treen informed me that a great quantity of stones remained, in piles, within and near the embankment, until after wheel carriages came into use. Although this part of the cliff was then common few persons cared to remove them, and none durst take a stone from the castle walls for fear Bad Luck would pursue any one who disturbed the giant's work. But of late years, great portions of this ancient rampart have been demolished and its facing-stones carried away for building. It is also related--though the story seems somewhat fabulous--that this deaf-and-dumb giant would stand on Carnole and thence sink invading ships, entering Parcurno, by hurling rocks on them, or he wrecked them, when at a distance, with huge stones discharged from slings made of bulls' hides. When the people couldn't charge his instruments of war as quickly as he wanted them, he would roar like thunder, make signs to stand clear, kick the rocks up out of the ground, smash them to handy pieces, and fire away again. Like all other West Country giants he was very fond of old-fashioned games, and was delighted when youngsters came down to Kaer Keis of an afternoon to play cook (quoits) or keals (nine-pins) with him; but he could never understand the weakness of ordinary mortals' frames; for, in caressing his playmates, he now and then broke their ribs or cracked their sculls--to his great grief and greater surprise. We may remark that, although some Cornish giants have been misrepresented as little better than savage cannibals--Cormovan of the Mount to wit--all traditional giant stories, in this district, describe them as amiable protectors of the common folks who lived near their castles. They were, however, almost invariably, stupid and often did mischief unwittingly by having more strength than sense; therefore, it is shameful to defame those ancient heroes and ascribe to them such vile traits as are not warranted by our popular stories. THE SMALL PEOPLE (FAIRIES). When our giants and other antique people left their human bodies they continued to dwell in their old homes down almost to our times. As they had no idea of any life but a carnal existence on earth, they were permitted to live there as spriggans (elves) and they seemed to have enjoyed themselves, in their small way, by imitating mortals' pleasures. Old folks, only just departed, often witnessed their gambols amongst the carns of Castle Treen. Fishermen, when becalmed near Pedn-y-vounder cliff, of summer's nights, frequently saw thousands of gaily-dressed little people, with lights, moving about in what looked like beautiful gardens that extended, in some places, down almost to high-water mark. At the same time low but lively music, and the scents of sweet flowers, would be wafted over the water. The fishers, however, hastily made off whenever such fairy melodies and odours reached their boats. These haunts are screened from view, landward, by towering crags. Steep precipices render them inaccessible on the sea-side; though they may be seen from the water, during summer months, gay with cliff-pinks and other flowers in places that not even a goat could reach. Treasure-seekers, when digging in nooks and corners among the Castle carns, have been scared away even by day with ill-favoured looking fays of nearly human size; and the same uncouthly-formed elves have often been seen wrestling, hurling, and playing other games on a level place near Hal-dynas; but there is no special story relating to them that we ever heard. ST. LEVAN WITCHES. In days of yore ugly old hags that sold themselves to Satan merely to have their "spite out" on their neighbours, or to ride on a broomstick and play pranks but little known except among themselves, made the Castle crags their resort. When all the neighbouring witches were assembled they scampered up to the platform on the top of Castle Peak, mounted their ragworts or brooms, and took flight over to Wales to milk Taffy's cows and steal his leeks. Those who lived in Roskestal, and other places over that way, took their departure from Pedn-pen-with. On their return each one alighted, with all her plunder, in some convenient place near her dwelling. 'Tis said that, in old times, the people of this neighbourhood were much addicted to sorcery, and, from their skill in the black art, they acquired and still retain the name of St. Levan Witches. [Illustration] TRADITIONS OF PARCURNO. A ghostly ship, with a ghostly crew, In tempests she appears; And before the gale, or against the gale, She sails without a rag of sail; Without a helmsman steers. LONGFELLOW. Not long since a general belief prevailed in the western parishes that in ancient times Parcurno was the principal port of Cornwall, and that, until the Cove became "sanded up" there was sufficient depth of water to float the largest ships then made, in to the foot of an old caunce (paved road) which may still be seen. One old story ascribes the choking of Parcurno and Parchapel to the mischievous spirit Tregeagle, who was sent to Gwenvor Cove and there required to remain until he made a truss of sand--to be bound with ropes spun of the same--and carried it to a rock above high-water mark. For many years he toiled in vain at his task, and his howling would be heard for many miles away when winds or waves scattered the sand he had piled up during low water. One very frosty night, however, by pouring water from Velan-Dreath brook over his truss he succeeded in making it hold together and bore it to a rock above the flow of spring tides. Then, as some say, that very night, as he took his way over or along the coast towards Helston, to revisit and torment those who raised him from the grave, by way of showing his exultation at having completed his task, or for mere deviltry perhaps, he swept all the sand out of Nanjisel and around Pedn-pen-with into Parcurno and adjacent coves, without letting any enter Pargwartha. Another tradition says that sweeping the sand from Nanjisel to the east of Tol-pedn was assigned to Tregeagle as a separate task. After this exploit the troublesome spirit was again sent to Gwenvor to make a truss of sand. There he remains toiling to this day--unable to perform what is required in order to regain his liberty, because he was bound not to use Velan-Dreath water or any other. There is also a very old belief that spectre ships frequently visited Parcurno, both before and since its navigable channel became filled with sand, and that they were often seen sailing up and down the valley, over dry land the same as on the sea. These naval apparitions were, in olden times, regarded as "tokens" that enemies were about to make a descent; the number of phantom vessels foreboded the sea-robbers' approaching force. This presage of yore was held for truth by many old folks but lately deceased; yet latterly it has somehow changed its character and become connected with the history of a person who, little more than a hundred years ago, lived in a lone house called Chygwidden, about a mile inland from Parcurno. This comparatively modern story also accounts for the sand shifting, and has appropriated old traditions that had no connection therewith. It relates that, long ago, Chygwidden was the chief dwelling-place of a family who flourished in St. Levan for a few generations and then all its branches became so reduced, through riotous living, as to be obliged to mortgage and sell much of their freehold lands. The eldest and only son, by a former wife, of old Martin T----, who lived there, took to a seafaring life when about twenty, on account of cruel treatment received from his drunken father and a step-dame several years younger than himself. On leaving he vowed that he would never return whilst one lived who then darkened his father's doors. Many years passed, and as no tidings had been received of young Martin, as he was still called, most persons believed him dead. In the meantime, his father, the step-dame, and her children, having all died within a few years of each other, a distant relative, as heir-at-law, had taken possession of what little property remained, and lived in Chygwidden. Some ten years after the decease of all who had lived under old Martin's roof when his eldest son was driven thence, a large ship hove-to within a mile of Parcurno on a fine afternoon in harvest time. People working in fields near the cliff noticed the unusual circumstance and saw a boat leave the ship with two men, who landed in Parcurno with several chests and other goods, and the ship proceeded on her course. It was evident that one of those who came on shore was well acquainted with the place, as he struck at once into a pathway over the cliff which led, by a short cut, to Rospeltha, where he made himself known as young Martin T---- and procured horses and other help to take several heavy chests and bales to Chygwidden. There was great rejoicing when it was known that the wanderer had at length returned to claim his own. His kinsfolks--a young man and his sister Eleanor, a damsel in her teens--were ready to resign possession, but Martin then cared little for house or land, and told them to keep the place and welcome, for all he desired was to have a home there for himself and his comrade whilst they remained, which he thought would only be for a short spell. His tastes had changed with change of scene. The place that he had once deemed the fairest on earth--but then he had seen no more of it than was visible from the nearest high hill--now appeared dreary; and the people whom--those of his own family excepted--he once thought the best in the world now seemed a forlorn set of consequential, grimly-religious nobodies to him, and above all to his mate, who, by-the-bye, requires more particular notice than we have yet bestowed on him. Martin found the people, also, much altered from what they were in his youthful days, for about the time of his return a new sect had sprung up whose members, professing uncommon godliness, decried our ancient games and merry-makings, which were wont on holidays to unite all ages and classes. Their condemnation caused them to fall into disuse; and, on account of the censorious and intolerant spirit which then prevailed, there was much less heartiness and cordial intercourse amongst neighbours than formerly. In a short time, however, Martin, now called by most persons "The Captain," became reconciled--one can't say attached--to his native place and the "humdrum West Country folks," as he styled them, who marvelled at his riches and the change which had taken place in his outward mien and manner. Yet the homely people's surprise at the alteration in Martin was nothing to their wonder, allied to fear, excited by his dusky companion or slave, for no one knew in what relation they stood to each other. This stranger was seen to be a robust man, about thirty years of age apparently, with a swarthy complexion, many shades darker than the Captain's Spanish-mahogany tinted skin. Martin called this man José or mate, and he rarely spoke a word of English (though he could when he pleased) or addressed anyone but Martin, with whom he always conversed in some outlandish lingo which seemed more natural to the Captain than his mother tongue. A tantalizing mystery shrouded the dark "outlander;" for his master or friend would never answer any queries respecting him. He was almost equally silent with regard to buccaneering or other adventures, and rarely spoke of anything that occurred either at home or abroad during his absence. The two strange beings often came to high words and even to blows, but they would never allow anyone to meddle in their quarrels. When Martin was drunk and off his guard he would now and then ease his mind by swearing at his mate in plain English, or grumble at him in the same, to the effect that he had risked his life and spent a fortune to save him from being hanged at the yard-arm. "Discontented devil of a blackamoor," he would say, "why canst thou not be satisfied to live here? Thou art bound to me body and soul; and do I not indulge thee with everything gold can purchase?" José would sometimes murmur "Avast there; all our gold and diamonds can't procure us here the bright sunshine and joyous people, nor the rich fruits and wine, of my native clime." He seldom, however, made other reply than by gloomy looks or fiery glances which soon recalled Martin to his senses. It was remarked that after these outbursts of passion he was for a long while like the humble slave of his mate. The boat in which they landed was kept at Parcurno, except for short spells during stormy times of the year, when she was put into Penberth or Pargwartha for greater safety; and, weeks together, they would remain out at sea night and day till their provisions were used; then they would come in, their craft laden with fish, and this cargo was free to all-comers. Stormy weather seldom drove them to land; they seemed to delight in a tempest. Before winter came they procured a good number of hounds, and great part of the hunting season was passed by them in coursing over all parts of the West Country. Often of winter's nights, people far away would be frightened by hearing or seeing these two wild-looking hunters and their dogs chasing over some lone moor, and they gave rise to many a story of Old Nick and his headless hounds. When tired of the chase, weeks were often passed at a public-house in Buryan Church-town. Martin treated one and all and scattered gold around him like chaff. The tawny mate, however, at times restrained Martin's lavish expenditure, took charge of his money-chests, and refused him the keys. José would occasionally condescend to express his wishes to Eleanor, who was mistress of the rare establishment. She understood and humoured the pair, who took pleasure in decking her in the richest stuffs and jewels that their chests contained or that money could procure, and she frequently stayed up alone best part of the night to await their return. After being at home a year or so the Captain had a large half-decked boat built, and several rocks removed in Parcurno to make a safer place in which to moor her. They then took longer trips, and were not seen in Chygwidden for months running. The two eccentric beings passed many years in this way, and held but little intercourse with their neighbours. At length Martin perceived tokens of death, or what he took for such, and made his man swear that when he saw signs of near dissolution he would take him off to sea, let him die there, and send him to rest at the ocean's bottom. He also bound his kinsman by oath not to oppose his wishes, and invoked a curse on any one who would lay his dust beside the remains of those who had driven him to range the wide world like a vagabond. They might have complied with his strange desires, but ere they could be carried out he died in a hammock, suspended in his bed-room. Now there comes a mystery, that is not likely to be cleared up. It was known that a coffin,--followed by the cousins, José, and the dogs, was taken to St. Levan Churchyard and buried near the ground in which Martin's family lie. But it was rumoured that the coffin merely contained earth to make weight. The following night, however, the dark "outlander" had two chests conveyed to Parcurno, the largest of which was said to contain the remains of his friend, and the other money and valuables which belonged to himself. The chests placed on board the half-decked vessel, José and his favourite dog embarked, waited for the tide to rise, and put to sea; but no one remained at the cove to behold their departure, and no more was seen in the West of man, dog, or boat. Eleanor disappeared on the funeral night and it was believed that she left with the stranger, who was scarcely a league to sea ere a tempest arose and continued with great fury for nearly a week; and, although it was in winter, the sky of nights was all ablaze with lightning and the days as dark as nights. During this storm Parcurno was choked with sand, and no boat could be kept there since. The tempest had scarcely lulled when an apparition of Martin's craft would drive into Parcurno against wind and tide; oft-times she came in the dusk of evening, and, without stopping at the Cove, took her course up over the old caunce towards Chapel-Curno; thence she sailed away, her keel just skimming the ground, or many yards above it, as she passed over hill and dale till she arrived at Chygwidden. The barque was generally shrouded in mist, and one could rarely get a glimpse of her deck on which the shadowy figures of two men, a woman, and a dog, were beheld now and then. This ship of the dead, with her ghostly crew, hovered over the town-place a moment, then bore away to a croft on the farm, and vanished near a rock where a large sum of foreign coins was disinterred many years ago, so it is said. Of late the ghostly ship has not been known to have entered Parcurno, and on account of innovations recently effected there she may nevermore be seen in that ancient port. * * * * * It may be observed that traditions of phantom-ships sailing overland were common to many places near the Land's End with which no stories are connected; these appearances were merely supposed to forebode tempests and wrecks. The few incidents which form the groundwork of the above legend occurred but little more than a century before it was related to me by an aged farm labourer of St. Levan; yet in that short space it has assumed such a mystic garb that the simple and true story can scarcely be perceived under its embellishments. LEGENDS OF ST. LEVAN. They had their lodges in the wilderness, Or built them cells beside the shadowy sea, And there they dwelt with angels, like a dream! REV. R. S. HAWKER. ST. LEVAN AND HIS SISTER. An old habitation, in which, according to tradition, St. Levan dwelt, is still standing. This humble dwelling, situated in Bodellan, is on the eastern side of Parcurno Bottom, near its upper part within a hundred yards of the road, towards which stands the end that contains its sole fire-place. The hearth-stone may still be there, much as it was when St. Levan's sister, the good midwife, St. Breage, cooked on it the fatal chads which choked her children. The story says that good old St. Levan was one evening down fishing from his accustomed place in Rospeltha cliff--still called Old St. Levan's Rocks. He cast in his hook-and-line, intending to take one fish only for his supper, from the multitude that always came around the rock on which he stood as soon as he cast in "browse" (garbage to attract fish). Contrary to St. Levan's wish, two chads, or young breams, fastened on his hook at the same time, and not to show favour to either he threw both of them into the sea again. And no sooner was his hook-and-line in the waves a second time than the same chads, or two others, hooked themselves together again, and were again restored to the sea. For the third time he cast in his line; and, seeing two fishes on his hook again, he regarded this occurrence as a providential intimation that he was to take them both home, and acted accordingly. When he came to Bodellan he found that his sister, St. Breage, had just arrived with two children. The chads were boiled for supper, and St. Breage's hungry children, being careless of bones, got choked, and remembrance of this event is handed down in St. Levan's parish by chads being there called "chuck-cheeld" to this day. Some thirty-five years ago the writer often noticed, on a bench-end in St. Levan church, near the belfry door, a panel, or shield, on which two fishes, with their heads touching each other, were carved in bold relief. The fishes were much like chads, or young breams, in outline, and the foregoing legend might have suggested this design, or the device have originated the story. It is to be feared that this bench-end, and much more tastefully-designed and boldly-wrought carving, disappeared before the Rev. C. C. Anstey came to preserve and restore the interesting remains of this once beautiful church. Loads of as fine carved work, and no more decayed than what remains, were, from thirty or forty years since, carried off by the carpenters, who were, every now and then, employed to demolish the curious old oak benches, and to replace them with painted deal boxes, in many variations of ugliness. It is said that the path which St. Levan took across Rospeltha fields to his accustomed fishing-place, may still be traced by the ground his holy footsteps trod bearing finer grain when in corn, and by the grass being greener when in pasture than in other parts of the fields. JOHANNA'S GARDEN. St. Levan road passed by a small enclosure in Rospeltha, called Johanna's Garden, (at least it retained that name a few years ago when the writer knew it well). One Sunday morning the holy hermit, going down to cliff to get a fish for his dinner, in passing by this garden saw a woman called Johanna gathering pot-herbs. St. Levan rested the end of his rocking-rod on the ground, stopped, and gave her a kindly greeting. But she, looking over the hedge, exclaimed, "Oh sinful man that you are, for going a fishing of a Sunday! Whatever can 'e think will become of 'e?" "Self-righteous hypocrite that thou art," answered the saint, "in looking for other people's faults thou canst not behold thine own. Think not that thou--with thy fingers spread out and thy eyes turned up--art better than others, for a more strict or a more lazy observance of Sunday. And tell me," he continued, "sharp as thou art to mark others' faults, and blind as thou art to thine own, wherefore should it be a sin for me to take my daily fish from the sea any more than for thee to gather herbs from thy garden?" St. Levan said much more, but all in vain were his endeavours to bring the woman to reason, for, in spite of all he could say, she would still have the last word and contend that there was more sin in catching fish than in picking greens of a Sunday. At last the good man being provoked by her obstinacy, pretended piety, and conceited clack, raised his hand and cursed her, saying, "From this time, for ever, thou shalt be known, if known at all, as the Foolish Johanna! And thy garden shall ever continue, as now, to bear more hemlock and nettles than leeks and lentils. Moreover," he continued, "mark this--To make thy remembrance the more accursed for all time to come, if any child by thy name be baptised in the waters of Parchapel Well it shall become a fool like thyself and bad luck follow it." Down to very recent times, so great was the fear of old St. Levan's curse that anyone in this parish desirous of having a child named Johanna took it to Sennen to be christened. It may be remarked that, until the roof fell into St. Levan's Well, and it became choked up, the sexton always kept it clean and fetched water thence for the baptismal office. We don't know what state "Johanna's Garden" is now in, but some thirty years ago it always bore more weeds than pot-herbs. These simple traditions--thus handed down and kept alive by St. Levan people, who believed them to be literally true--mark a lingering veneration for the holy fisherman who, in this secluded place, led his tranquil life. THE ST. LEVAN STONE. In St. Levan Churchyard is a cloven rock called St. Levan's stone. For some reason, now unknown, this must have been a venerated object when the church was built, or it would have been used in the building. The common notion, however, is that long before St. Levan's time this rock was regarded as sacred, because Merlin prophecied-- "When, with panniers astride, A pack-horse one can ride Through St. Levan stone, The world will be done." It is stated that Merlin came here with King Arthur, when he slaughtered the Danes at the battle of Velan-druchar. The separation of this prophetic stone is so slow that there appears to be no danger of the world's ending just yet. PARCHAPEL WELL. To find the Saint's Well one should take a pathway bearing westward, from a little below the church, and which leads over Roskestal cliff to Pargwarra (we spell all names as the inhabitants pronounce them). After crossing the brook and mounting a hedge keep straight towards the sea, and on a pretty level spot the ruined walls of St. Levan's baptistry will be found, as also some traces of rude steps on a pathway that connected this holy fount with an ancient chapel and burying-ground which stood on ground so near the precipice that little, if any, of its site now remains. We have heard old folks of St. Levan (who were born there more than a century ago) say that in their younger days Parchapel Well, as they always called it, was, twice a year, regularly cleaned out and repaired, and the ground, for a good space around, as well as the steps, cleared of weeds, swept, and sanded. The first week of May being a time of general well-dressing, Parchapel Well was never neglected then, and it was also cleaned up against the feasten tide, when many christenings usually took place. Old folks also spoke of another time-honoured observance in which the Saint's Well was shown due respect. Until within half a century or so, it was a custom on Christmas-eve for carol singers belonging to the higher side hamlets to assemble in Sowah town-place round a large flat table-like rock called the Garrack Zans (holy rock). Here they would commence singing, and proceed to Roskestal, where at another Garrack Zans in that town-place they would be joined by others, and all would thence go singing down to Parchapel Well, where they would meet with many singers from Treen and other lower-side places. At the Well many an old carol would be chanted. One was never forgotten, in which, according to our West Country version, Holy Mary says to her dear child:-- "Go thee wayst out, child Jesus; Go thee wayst out to play Down by God's holy well. I see three pretty chelderen As ever tongue can tell." This, for its sweet simplicity, is still a favourite in the west. The rude steps, which may yet be traced (though almost overgrown by rushes and other water-plants) will be regarded with interest, as we learn from St. Levan traditions that great sinners did penance by crawling over these rough stones on their bare knees, and that the devout who desired or aspired to acquire extraordinary grace, or indulgence, scrambled up all the way on bare knees from chapel-door to holy fount. A LEGEND OF PARGWARRA. My William's love was heaven on earth, Without it earth is hell. SCOTT. Proceeding westward from St. Levan's Well we pass the next inlet, called Parleddan (Wide Cove), and arrive at Pargwarra or Pargwartha (Higher Cove), which is one of the most secluded and picturesque nooks that may anywhere be found. Old folks also called this place the Sweethearts' Cove, from a tradition of its having been the scene of a tragical love-story, which is best known to me from fragments of a quaint old 'copy of verses,' entitled-- THE TRAGEDY OF SWEET WILLIAM AND FAIR NANCY. This composition of a forgotten western bard related that, far back in old times, the son of a fisherman, who dwelt at Pargwarra, lived many years--off and on from a boy--in service with a rich farmer in Roskestal, and courted his master's only daughter, who, almost from her childhood, loved the young serving-man with a strength of affection beyond her control. The youngster, being of a roving turn, often went to sea for many months in summer, and although he was then most wanted on the farm, his master always took him back again when sailors were paid off and merchant ships laid up during the stormy winter season. It was his old master's and Nancy's great delight of winter's nights, to be seated with neighbours around the fire and hear Willy tell of strange things he had beheld on the ocean and in foreign lands; they wondered at what he related of waterspouts, icebergs, and northern lights, of whales, seals, and Laplanders. And they listened with awe and surprise to what he told them of burning-mountains, where he said he had seen, from a distance, the very mouths of hell vomiting clouds of sulphurous smoke, flames, and rivers of fire. And when sailing as near these dreadful regions as anyone dared venture for the heat, and for fear of having their vessel drawn ashore, where all the nails would be pulled from her planks by the load-stone rocks that bordered these lands; of nights, he had heard high over-head, devils shouting, "the time is come but such and such a one isn't come;" soon after, one would hear doleful cries and behold black clouds of doomed spirits driven to the burning-mountains by troops of demons. He had seen the wreck of Pharaoh's chariots on the beach of the Red Sea, which, he assured them, had retained the hue from which it took its name ever since the Egyptian hosts were slain and overwhelmed, where their bones are still bleaching on the sands. But all that was easily believed by his simple hearers, and mere nothing to the marvels he related from shipmates' stories when he told them of those bold mariners who had been farther east and seen the Dead Sea across which no bird could fly--how they had plucked from trees that bordered its black waters apples full of ashes that were tempting to the eye; they had touched Lot's wife turned to salt, and brought home some of her fingers; that was often done, he said, for with the next tide's flow they sprouted out again. The neighbours liked above all to hear him tell about the dusky men and strange women of Levantine lands, and how the latter would shoot loving glances at British tars through peepholes cut in their thick black cloth veils. Now William himself was a wonder of perfection, past compare in Nancy's eyes. She admired him for his stalwart form, for his strange adventures on sea and land, and for the rare presents he brought her home. The farmer, too, liked him just as if he had been his own son, yet it never entered his head that his daughter and only child would ever think of the dashing and careless young seaman as her lover. Yet her mother, more sharp sighted, soon discovered that her fair Nancy was much in love with their serving-man. When William was gone to sea the dame upbraided her with want of proper pride and self-respect till she had fretted her almost to death's door. "What a fool thou must be," said she, "to throw thyself away, or to hanker after one so much beneath thy degree, when thy good looks and dower make thee a match for the richest farmer's son in the West Country; think if you wed a poor sailor how you will be scorned by all your kith and kin." Nancy replied, "but little care I for relations' reproach or good will, and sink or swim if ever I marry it shall be the man I love who is able to work and win." The dame prevailed on her husband, much against his will, however, not to take the sailor to live there when he returned home again; and she--watching her opportunity--slammed the door in his face and told him he should nevermore harbour beneath her roof. But the father fearing his only child would pine to death, told her and her lover that if he would try his fortune by a voyage to the Indies or elsewhere for three years, when he returned, poor or rich, if he and Nancy were in the same mind, they might be wedded for all he cared. That being agreed on, William got a berth in a merchant-man bound for a long voyage, took friendly leave of his old master, and the night before his ship was ready to sail he and Nancy met, and he assured the sorrowing damsel that in three years or less she might expect him to land in Pargwarra with plenty of riches, and he would marry at home or fetch her away and make her his bride. According to the old verses he said-- "Down in a valley, love, where three streams unite, I'll build thee a castle of ivory and diamonds so bright, That shall be a guide for poor sailors of a dark stormy night." They vowed again and again to be constant and true; with their hands joined in a living spring or stream they broke a gold ring in two between them, each one keeping a part. And to make their vows more binding they kindled, at dead of night, a fire on the Garrack Zans (holy rock), which then stood in Roskestal town-place, and joining their hands over the flame, called on all the powers of heaven and earth to witness their solemn oaths to have each other living or dead. Having plighted their troth with these and other ancient rites--that romantic lovers of old regarded as more sacred than a marriage ceremony--they said farewell, and William went on his way and joined his ship. Three years passed during which the old dame had done her utmost to persuade her daughter to become the wife of some rich farmer--for true it was, as she said, Nancy might have had her choice of the best--yet coaxing and reproaches were powerless to shake the maid's constancy. When three years and many months were gone without any tidings of William, she became very melancholy--perhaps crazy--from hope deferred, and took to wandering about the cleves in all weathers, by day and by night. On the headland, called Hella Point, which stretches far out west of the cove, there is a high over-hanging rock almost on the verge of the cliff, which shelters, on its southern side, a patch of green sward, mostly composed of cliff-pinks; this spot used to be known as Fair Nancy's bed. There she would pass hours by day and often whole nights watching vessels that came within her ken, hoping to see her lover land from every one that hove in sight, and to be the first to hail him with joyful greetings in the cove. Her father and the old fisherman--anxious for William's return--treated her as tenderly as a shorn lamb, and often passed long nights with her there; at length the poor maiden had to be watched and followed for fear that in her night wanderings she might fall over the cliff or drown herself in a fit of despair. One moonlight winter's night, when in her chamber indulging her grief, she heard William's voice just under her window, saying, "Sleepest thou, sweetheart, awaken and come hither, love; my boat awaits us at the cove, thou must come this night or never be my bride." "My sweet William come at last, I'll be with thee in an instant," she replied. Nancy's aunt Prudence, who lodged in the same room, heard Willy's request and his sweetheart's answer; looking out of the window she saw the sailor, just under, dripping wet and deathly pale. An instant after--glancing round into the chamber, and seeing Nancy leave it--she dressed, in all haste, and followed her. Aunt Prudence, running down the cliff lane at her utmost speed, kept the lovers in sight some time, but couldn't overtake them, for they seemed to glide down the rocky pathway leading to Pargwarra as if borne on the wind, till they disappeared in the glen. At the fisherman's door, however, she again caught a glimpse of them passing over the rocks towards a boat which floated off in the cove. She then ran out upon the How--as the high ground projecting into the cove is called--just in time to see them on a large flat rock beside the boat, when a fog rolling in over sea, shrouded them from her view. She hailed them but heard no reply. In a few minutes the mist cleared away, bright moonlight again shone on the water, but the boat and lovers had disappeared. Then she heard mermaids singing a low sweet melody, and saw many of them sporting on the water under Hella; that was nothing new, however, for the rocks and sawns (caverns) bordering this headland were always noted as favourite resorts of these death-boding syrens, whose wild unearthly strains were wont, before tempests, to be heard resounding along Pedn-Penwith shores. By daybreak the old fisherman came to Roskestal and told the farmer that he hoped to find his son there, for, about midnight, he saw him at his bedside, looking ghastly pale; he stayed but a moment, and merely said, "Farewell father and mother, I am come for my bride and must hasten away," when he vanished like a spirit. It all seemed to the old man uncertain as a dream; he didn't know if it were his own son in the body or a token of his death. In the afternoon, ere they had ceased wondering and making search for Nancy, a young mariner came to the fisherman's dwelling, and told him that he was chief officer of his son's ship, then at the Mount with a rich cargo from the Indies, bound for another port; but put in there because his son--her captain--when off Pargwarra, where he intended to land last night, eager to see his native place, went aloft, and the ship rolling he missed his holdfast of the shrouds, fell overboard and sunk before she could be brought-to or any assistance rendered. All knew then that William's ghost had taken Nancy to a phantom boat, and a watery grave was the lovers' bridal-bed. Thus their rash vows of constancy, even in death, were fulfilled, and their sad story, for a time, caused Pargwartha to be known as the Sweethearts' Cove, and some will have it that the old Cornish name has that meaning. There are other versions of this story, that only vary from the above in details of little interest. I have recently tried in vain to find anyone who knows the old 'copy of verses,' the argument of which I have for the most part followed. The fragments I recited, however, recalled to a few old folks a newer piece called the "Strains of Lovely Nancy," that used to be printed in a broad sheet and sung and sold by wandering ballad singers of the west, forty or fifty years ago; and from what I heard of the latter one might conclude it to have been a modernised and an imperfect version of the ancient tragedy. * * * * * Traditions connected with places in the southern parishes of West Penwith having brought us within a short distance of the Land's End, we now return to St. Just and purpose to relate such as are found in that parish and Sennen. And singular enough, almost all old stories handed down in St. Just are fairy-tales. [Illustration] AN' PEE TREGEER'S TRIP TO MARKET ON HALLAN EVE. Faery elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees. MILTON. One St. Just Feasten Monday, about thirty years since, we heard the following story told by the kitchen fireside in the "North Inn." An aged mine-captain related the principal part, others of the company helping him out when his memory or invention failed. "I have heard the old folks tell," said Captain Peter, "how long ago--it may be hundreds of years past, for what we know--the Squire, who then lived in Pendeen, had for his housekeeper an elderly dame called Pee Tregeer, who came to a sad mishap one Hallan Eve. Some spices and other small things were wanted from Penzance for the Feasten tide, and the careful old creature wouldn't trust anyone to go for them but herself. Now, An' Pee dearly loved company on the road, and, not knowing of anybody more likely to take the jaunt with her than Jenny Trayer, who lived at Pendeen Cove, she took her basket and stick and went down to see if Jenny would go. "This woman was the wife of one Tom Trayer. The hut in which they lived was the only dwelling then in the cove. The pair were but little seen out of the place. Tom passed great part of his time a fishing, when he wasn't smuggling; and his wife seldom left home except when she took round liquor and fish together, in her cowal, for sale. Jenny, however, was frequently visited, for she professed to be, and passed for, a White Witch, charmer, or wise-woman. On this account many resorted to her that they might be benefitted by her charms and spells. Yet, there were others that regarded her as a witch of deeper dye, and who believed that, by her strange dealings with the Old One, her husband had always a favourable wind, so as to make a quicker passage to France and back than anyone else in "the fair trade." Besides, fish, they said, always came to his hook and net when other fishermen had none. If anyone happened to offend either of the pair some strange run of bad luck was sure to follow; and nothing proved their compact with Old Nick so much as the rich wrecks which were constantly floating into Pendeen Cove when the pair lived there. Yet, as they lived on the Squire's estate, few cared to openly accuse them of practising the black art; and An' Pee didn't trouble herself about their sorcery or witchcraft, so that they furnished her with a good supply of choice liquors. "When she arrived at Tom's door, contrary to custom she found it shut, and, hearing voices within, her curiosity made her peep through the finger-hole (latch-hole). Then she saw Tom sitting on the chimney-stool, and his wife taking on the tip of her finger from a croggan (limpet-shell) what appeared to be salve, which she rubbed over her husband's eyes. "The anointing finished, Jenny placed the croggan in the mouth of the oven and covered it up with rags. An' Pee, seeing Tom put on his hat, and come towards the door, lifted the latch and entered. Tom didn't seem pleased at the old dame's abrupt entrance, as he went out with a very black look, but his wife made much of her, that she might speak a good word for them to the Squire whenever they wanted any favour, which she was ready enow to do for the sake of good liquor. "'I am very glad to see 'e, An' Pee,' said Jenny, 'I have this moment been thinking about 'e and wishing you would come down to taste the choice cordials Tom and the boys brought home by their last trip.' "Whilst Jenny was in the spence after the liquor, An' Pee took from the croggan the least bit of a greenish salve and touched one eye with it. Before she had time to anoint the other, out came Jenny with her hands full of jars and bottles. 'Now, what will 'e take, An' Pee?' said she, in placing the liquor and drinking-horns on the board, 'Will 'e first of all help yourself to some brandy from this jar, or some rum out of that, before you try the Hollands in the case-bottle, and take some of the sweet cordials afterwards? We have wine, too, in the spence if you would like that better to begin with.' "An' Pee took a drink of all the various kinds of liquors, just to sample them. Jenny excused herself from going to town, because, being Feasten eve, she had many churs (odd jobs) to do that the place might be tidy against the morrow. Besides, she expected many customers that evening, for a supply of drink to pass the tide. She didn't choose to leave the selling of the liquor to Tom, she said; he was too easily taken in. "It was about three o'clock when, An' Pee having filled with brandy a bottle, which she always carried in her pocket, left the cove and started for Penzance. Coming out of the dark dwelling she was surprised to find how well she could see, and the good liquor put such life into her heels that she tripped along the lanes without feeling the ground under her feet. Yet, it was almost candlelighting when she got to town. After purchasing what she wanted for the house she went down among the standings on a three-cornered plot, where the market-house is now, to buy a pair of shoes for herself. Whilst she was trying their size with a piece of stick the length of her foot, to her great surprise she saw Tom Trayer going from standing to standing as brisk as a bee, picking off everything that suited his fancy. Yet, nobody but herself appeared to see him taking rolls of leather, knives, forks, pewter-plates, wooden spoons, thread and yarn, and many other things, which he stuffed into his pockets and the knapsack he carried on his back. An' Pee, vexed to see his tricks on the tradespeople, went up to him and said, 'Tom! arn't thee ashamed to be here in the dark carrying on such a game?' 'Ah, es that you Aunt Pee,' Tom replied, 'now tell me which eye can 'e see me upon?' 'Why with both, I should think,' said she. But when she winked the eye that had been anointed, and found she only saw him on that, she said, 'I can see thee, and thy thievery, plain enow on my right eye, but the other es rather cloudy by night.' When she said this, Tom held up his finger and, pointing towards her anointed eye, said,-- "'Cursed old spy, Thou shalt no more peep nor pry, With thy anointed eye.' "Then he blew on it and, laughing in her face, said, 'Take that for poking your nose where you arn't wanted, and meddling with other people's business. You shall neither see me, nor anyone else, any more with that game eye.' The old woman felt as if a needle had pierced it. She fell to the ground, and rolled about under the standings. Such was her agony she couldn't keep on her legs. "She called on the market people to seize Tom Trayer, telling them he had put out her eye by witchcraft, and that he was going about in the dark, stealing goods from their standings and stalls. But no one, except herself, had seen him. Some said that An' Pee was drunk or dreaming, and they led her to Alverton-lane, tied her basket on her arm, wished her good night, and a pleasant journey home to Pendeen, and a merry feasten tide. "Now An' Pee didn't return by the way of Polteggan Bottom and Boswednan, though it's the nearest, because there are so many stiles on that road and bogs near it. She took her course through Castle Horneck fields. When she came out into the high road, she drank a little from her bottle (which she had refilled in town) and went on for three or four miles, as she thought, being so distracted she couldn't tell whether she was going up hill or down dale half the time, and fancied herself much more advanced on her journey than she really was, when she beheld, a little before her, a man on horseback. By the proud way he was stuck up on his high horse, she took him for a gentleman who lived in the south of the parish. "An' Pee was very glad to see him, and he was going so slowly that she soon overtook him, and when the old woman came up he stood stock still. 'My dear, maister,' said she, 'how glad I am to see 'e; don't 'e know me? I'm Pee Tregeer, and you can't think how I've been served out to-day.' Then she told him how she went down to the cove and anointed her eye with witch's salve--how that made her to see Tom Trayer stealing from the standings--how he put out her eye, because she let him know, and other people too, that she was up to his tricks, and had found out which way he managed to live so easy without working like an honest man. The gentleman made no reply, and An' Pee continued to say 'In spite of being blind, foot sore, and leg weary, I'm got as far as here you see, and we can't be far from Ballaswidden I should think, and oh! my eye is still burning like fire; so, for goodness, do take pity on a poor unfortunate oman and take her up behind 'e. I can ride well enow on the flat 'cheens' of your horse without pillion or pad; it won't be much out of your way to give one a lift down to Pendeen gate, or if you will only take me over Dry Carn I won't forget your kindness all my born days. I well remember the time when you went much farther out of your way to meet me. Then, to be sure, I was young and much better looking than I am now; though you are years older than I am, yet you are still a fine-looking man, strong and lusty; all your family are good-looking boys; and how upright you sit on your horse! You have still a colt's tooth in your head, if all they say be true, but why don't 'e speak to me, are 'e gone to sleep? One would think you were takean a nap, and your horse too, it's standing so quiet.' "Not having a word in reply to the fine speech she made to please the old gentleman, who didn't so much as turn his head, An' Pee called out as loud as she could, 'Ef you are the lord of Bosavern you needn't be stuck up there so proud that you won't speak to a poor body afoot, as ef I didn't know 'e and all belonging to 'e!' Still he never spoke. Yet she thought he winked on her, just as he used to do in his younger days. This vexed her the more, and she screamed out, 'The time was when the Tregeers were among the first in the parish, and were buried in the church as well as the old Bosvarguses, Usticks, Borlases, Milletts, and others of the quality! Ef you won't believe me, ask maister; he can tell everything from his books.' Still no speech with the horseman. 'Art ah dead drunk then? Wake up and speak to me, west ah?' screamed the old woman with increasing anger, as she took up a stone and threw it at the sleeping steed. The stone rolled back to her feet, and the horse didn't as much as whisk his tail. "Pee now got nearer, and saw that the rider had neither hat nor wig on; nor was there a hair to be seen on his bare head, and, putting out her hand to touch the horse, she felt nothing but a bush of furze. She rubbed her eyes, and saw at once, to her great surprise, that what a moment before appeared (and she would have sworn it was) a gentleman on horseback, was nothing else but a tall cross that stands on a high bank, by the road-side, about half a mile from Santust lane's end. The old woman thought she was miles farther on, and must be so bewitched that she couldn't believe her senses. "Fearing that Tom Trayer was still dogging her steps, she went on for dear life, and, not staying to look for the stepping stones in the stream below Cardew Mill, she splashed through with the water above her knees. "On she went and, seeing a light on her right hand side, she thought it shone through the window of a dwelling, where she might rest awhile and dry herself, so she made for it, straight across the moors, but went on for miles, it seemed to her, without coming to it. Then the light went out and left her floundering in the bogs; yet, getting out and steering for the place from which it vanished, she at last found herself amidst the furze-ricks and pigs'-crows in Boslow. Not seeing any light in the only dwelling of this lonely place, An' Pee opened the door of an out-house and entered it, hoping she might take a few hours' rest. "In the crow that the old dame entered she was glad to find a good quantity of straw, on which she lay down and fell asleep, but her slumbers were soon disturbed by a bosom of vears (litter of sucking pigs) which had just been severed from their dam and placed there to be weaned. The young sucklings, taking An' Pee for their dam, continued rooting round her with their snouts. All her endeavours to get a comfortable rest being in vain, she came out and, hearing the sound of a threshal (flail) going, and seeing a glimmer of light in the barn on the other side of the town-place, she thought that the old man of Boslow was up late threshing that he might have straw to serve his cattle over Sunday. 'Now,' said the old woman to herself, as she crossed the town-place, 'I shall get a spell of rest in the barn, for I feel so sleepy that no noise of threshing will hinder me from having a nap.' She made for a window, which stood open and through which the light glimmered, that she might have a peep at what was going on before she went in. "Looking in she could only see, at first, an old iron chill (lamp) with two porvans (rush wicks) burning in it. The chill hung from a stake, driven into the wall opposite, at the head of the barn-boards. Then, in the faint light, she noticed a slash-staff (beating part of the flail) going up and down, but couldn't see anybody working it. That she might be able to reach her head farther in, to see better, she rolled close under the window a big stone, and, standing on that, on her tip-toes, she saw that the threshal was worked by a little old man, no more than three feet high, covered only with a few rags, and his long hair that hung over his shoulders like a bunch of rushes, (a bunch beaten for making sheep's spans). His face was broader than it was long; she couldn't make out the colour of his great round owl's-eyes, they were so shaded by his shaggy eyebrows, from between which his long nose, like a snout, poked out. His mouth reached from ear to ear, and they were set far back to make room for it. Pee noticed, too, that his teeth were very long and jagged, for he was so eager about his work that, with each stroke of the threshal, he kept moving his thin lips round and up and down, and his tongue in and out. He had nothing of a chin or neck to speak of, but shoulders broad enow for a man twice his height. His naked arms and legs were out of all proportion, and too long for his squat body; and his splayed feet were more like a quilkan's (frog's) than a man's. "'Well,' thought An' Pee, 'this es luck, to see Piskey threshan; for, ever since I can remember, I have heard it said that Piskey threshed the corn in Boslow of winter's nights, and did other odd jobs all the year round for the old couple who lived here, but I wouldn't believe it. Yet here he es!' As she reached farther in and looked round she beheld scores of small people, no more than two feet high, attending on the thresher; some of them lugged down sheaves and placed them handy for him; others shook the straw and bore it off to the end of the barn. An' Pee couldn't help admiring how, when one side of a sheaf was threshed clean, Piskey, by a few quick, smart blows, would rise the sheaf on its butt-end, then knock it over quite cute like with the unthreshed side uppermost. When the corn was all out of that side, with a few sharp blows on the tongue of the bind, it was laid open and the straw sent to the lower end of the boards with the tip of his slash-staff. An' Pee declared that she never saw a smarter thresher in all her born days. "When a heap of corn had gathered on the boards, he raked it off with the barn-rake and kicked the bruss-straw (short straw) out of it, leaving the corn just as clean as if it had been winded. In doing this job, he raised such a dust that it set him and the small folks sneezing, and the old woman, according to custom, said 'God bless 'e little men!' She had no sooner spoken the words than the light went out and all vanished; but she felt a handful of dust thrown into her eyes that nearly blinded the only peeper that she could see anything on, and she heard Piskey squeak out, 'I spy thy snout, old Peepan Pee; And I'll serve thee out, or es much to me.' "An' Pee felt rather uneasy when she remembered that the 'small people' have great spite against anyone who watches them or tries to pry into their doings. "The night being clear she found her way out of the scrambly lane, leading up from Boslow to the highroad, scampered on as fast as she could, and never stopped till she reached the top of Dry Carn. There she sat down a minute, that she might recover her breath, to pass quickly over the road near Carn Kenidzek and down the Gump, as everybody then (as now) dreaded that haunted track; indeed, few go near that wisht place, about the turn of night, without hearing, if not seeing, the Old One and his hounds, hunting among the rocks for any restless spirits that might have strayed so far away from the churchyard--their only place of safety--or some other frightful apparitions, fighting and howling round the carn, or fleeing over the downs. "She 'jailed' away--down the hill, as fast as she could lay foot to ground, thinking to be home by the kitchen fire in a quarter of an hour, and went far enough, as she thought, to have reached Pendeen gate twice over. Then she feared that she might have got into a wrong bridle-path over the downs, or that Piskey was playing her a trick, because, turn whichever way she would, the road appeared to be before her. After going on for a long while, she saw light and heard music, at no great distance. Thinking then that she must have kept too much on her left and be near some house on the road to Church-town, where they were getting in tune for the dancing on Feasten Monday night, she went over the downs, straight towards the light, feeling ready for a jig, and stopped more than once to 'try her steps,' as the lively old dancing tunes kept sounding in her ears. But, instead of arriving at a house, as she expected to, in passing round some high rocks, which hid the light a moment, she came, all at once, on a level green, surrounded by furze and rocks, and there, a few yards before her, saw troops of 'small people' holding a fair, or belike it might be their feasten market. "Scores of little standings all in a row, were covered with trinkets, such as knee and shoe buckles of silver and gold, glistening with Cornish diamonds; pins, with jewelled heads; brooches, rings, bracelets, and strings of crystal beads, figured with green and red, or blue and gold; and scores of other pretty things quite new to An' Pee; who, not to disturb the small folks till she had seen all that was doing, crept along softly in the rear of the standings, till she stood opposite a company of dancers; hundreds of them linked hand in hand, after the old bonfire-dance fashion, were whirling round so fast that it made her head light to look at them. "Small as they were--none more than two feet high, and rather slender in make--they were all decked out like old-fashioned gentry--the little men in three-cocked hats and feathers; full, square-skirted, blue coats, stiff with buckram and gay with lace and buttons; vest, breeches, and stockings of a lighter hue; and their dainty little shoes fastened with diamond clasps. Some few, who were rigged more like soldiers or huntsmen, wore either jet-black or russet-coloured riding boots. "An' Pee said that she couldn't name the colours of the little ladies' dresses, which were of all the hues of summer's blossoms. The vain little things, to make themselves look the taller, had their powdered hair turned up on pads and dressed with flowers, lace, and ribbons to an extraordinary height for such dolls of things. Their gay gowns were very long-waisted, and their skirts so distended by hoops that they looked just as broad as they were long. Their shoes of velvet or satin, were high-heeled and pointed at the toes. The men were much darker complexioned than the women, yet they were all very good looking, with sparkling dark eyes, well-shaped noses, sweet little mouths, and dimpled cheeks and chins. Not one among them, that she saw, had a spotty face or purple-top nose, because they drink nothing stronger than honey-dew. Some, to be sure, appeared to be rather aged, yet, all were sprightly, merry, and gay. "In the dancers' ring stood a May-pole about three yards high, all wreathed with flowers. Where they got them, that time of the year, to make their garlands, was a wonder. The pipers, standing in their midst, played lively old dance tunes that are now but seldom heard, and An' Pee never felt more inclined for a dance in her life than when she heard their cheery music; but how could she reel round among such little beings and have a jig without kicking them down? "'The women,' she always said, 'were the sauciest little creatures that one ever seed; she was most ashamed to look at them--tossing up their heels, forwards and backwards, higher than their heads, and kicking off the men's hats, as they capered round and round.' Every now and then, one would unlock her hands and, breaking out of the ring, take a leap right over the men's heads, perch on the May-pole, and there spin round, on her toe, like a whirligig. "There were lights about in all directions--lanthorns no bigger than gun-pop (fox-glove) flowers, hanging in rows along the standings, and rushlights, in paper cups like tulips, shone among the gingerbread-nuts, comfits, candied angelica, peppermint-drops, and more enticing things that are seen in any other fair. She thought, too, that all the glow-worms in creation had gathered together near the fair-ground, to help to light it up. Yet, with all these lights, there was such a shimmer over everything that the old dame got bewildered at times and could never see anything so plainly as she wished. "At no great distance from the dancers there was a wrestling ring, where many little ladies were looking on, betting on their favourites and helping them with their good wishes and applause. Farther on, some were shooting with bows and arrows at a target. Others were playing at keals (bowls). Every here and there the lilly-bangers (raffle-keepers) with their tables and dice kept a great noise calling out, 'Come hither, sweet ladies and gentlemen, and try your luck! One in, two in, three in; who will make four in for this nice cake?' Farther off, nearly out of sight, a great number were 'hurling to the gold' (goal). She knew what was going on from hearing the old cry of 'Well done, Santusters, one and all, comrades; fair play is good play' and, every now and then she saw the little hurling-ball, as it was cast from side to side, shine like a shooting star. By that means they contrived to hurl by night. "All games, which used to be played at fairs and merry-makings, were there carried on. Still, great part of the small folks diverted themselves in parading up and down, on the green, between the standings and dancing-ground, examining the pretty things displayed. They didn't seem to have any money amongst them to buy anything, yet they often bartered their trinkets and changed them from stall to stall. "The old woman determined to have some of the pretty things glistening before her, but, among so much that was beautiful, she couldn't make up her mind what to take. Whilst An' Pee was considering, she saw approach the standing a little lady, tired with dancing, leaning her head on her partner, who with his arm round her waist supported her steps. The gentleman taking from the hands of a little dame who kept the stall a golden goblet of the size and shape of a poppy head (capsule) held it to the faint lady's lips. Sipping the contents she recovered in an instant, and, choosing a fan, made of a few goldfinch feathers stuck into a pearl handle, her partner took a pair of diamond buckles from his knees and placed them on the standing by way of pledge. The little couple having tripped off again to the dance, An' Pee thought how well the bright little buckles would look, fixed as brooches, on her Sunday's cap-ribbon or in her neckatee, and determined to secure them at once, fearing they might be gone with the next small body that saw them. "As there was nothing that she could so readily turn inside-out, and drop on them, as one of her gloves, which reached to her elbows, she drew off one, inside-out, and dropped it, as it seemed to her, right on the buckles. Her hand nearly touched them; but, in trying to grasp them under her glove, a palm of pins or needles, so small that she didn't notice them, stuck into her fingers, and she cried out, 'Oh! Cuss 'e! You little buccas.' That instant all the lights went out, and all the fair, and most of the small people, vanished like shadows among the rocks or sunk into the earth, like muryans (ants) into their holes. "Yet many of the frolicsome sprights were still about her, as she soon found to her cost. "Whilst she was still stooping, and groping for her glove and the buckles, she felt a great number of the small tribe--a score or more--leap on her back, neck, and head. At the same time others, tripping up her heels, laid her flat on the ground and rolled her over and over. More than once, when her face was uppermost, she caught a glimpse of Piskey, all in rags as usual, mounted on a year-old colt, his toes stuck in the mane, holding a rush in his hand to guide it. There he sat, putting on the smaller sprights to torment her, making a tee-hee-hee and haw-haw-haw, with his mouth open from ear to ear. "When she spread out her arms and squeezed herself down, that they shouldn't turn her over, they would squeak and grunt in trying to lift her; but all her endeavours to hinder their game were of no use. Somehow or other over she went, and every time they turned her face downwards some of the small fry would jump on her back and there jig away with 'heel-and-toe' from her head to her feet. In the pitch and pass of their three-handed reels, it was who and who should get on her stays; the steel and whalebone in that, she supposed, served them as a springing-board. In the finishing off of their double shuffles they would leap more than three times their height, turn a summersault over each others' heads, and so make the pass. An' Pee twisted her head on one side, saw what they were at, and tried to beat them off with her stick, but they got it from her hand, laid it across her waist, and mounting on it astride, as many as could, bobbed up and down, singing, 'See-saw-see, Lie still, old Peepan Pee. See-saw-see, Upon old Peepan Pee, Who should better ride than we? See-saw-see.' "The old woman, not to be beaten with such imps, tossed back her feet to kick them off; then they held her legs doubled back and pulled off her shoes; some jumped up and balanced themselves on her upturned toes, whilst others pricked at, and tickled, the soles of her feet till she fell into fits of crying and laughing by turns. "Pee was almost mad with their torment, when, by good luck, she remembered to have heard that the adder-charm was powerful to drive away all mischievous sprights. She had no sooner pronounced the words than they all fled screeching down the hill, Piskey galloping after; they left her lying on a bed of furze, near a large rock. "She got on her feet, and, looking round, saw, by the starlight of a clear frosty morning, that the place to which she had been piskey-led was near the bottom of the Gump; that the level spot of green on which the small people held their fair, and carried on their games, was almost surrounded by high rocks, and was no larger over than the Green-court or walled garden in front of Pendeen house; yet, when the fair was on it, through the sprights' illusions, this green spot seemed like a three-acre field. "An' Pee only found her stick. The basket, tied to her arm, was empty and broken to pieces. She paced the ground over and round, in hope of finding her hat and shoes, and above all her glove, and the precious buckles under it. Giving over at length her fruitless search, with the help of her stick she hobbled, barefooted and bare-headed, down the hill and reached Pendeen gate. "'Now thank the powers,' said she, as she passed through it and slammed it behind her, 'I shall be a-bed and sleepan in a few minutes.' "Though An' Pee knew that Piskey had played her many tricks that night, and she thought he might be still dogging her footsteps, yet she was so bewildered that, until too late, it never came into her head to turn some of her clothing inside out, and now, so near home, she defied him to lead her astray. "Inside Pendeen gate there is one road leading to the mansion and another which goes down to the mill. Between them there were two or three acres of ground, which had probably never been cleared or cultivated, as there were several large rocks remaining on it and brakes of furze, seldom cut, because the old Squire, or his family, had stocked this piece of rough ground with fancy breeds of tame rabbits, and the wild ones which came among them from not being chased or shot at, became so tame that they continued their frisky gambols, without showing any signs of fear when persons passed near them; and, for the pleasure of seeing the bunnies sport, furze was allowed to grow here and there over great part of this ground. "In passing to the house An' Pee avoided the stony road and walked on the green, because her poor bare feet were cut and sore. "Now hundreds of times--drunk and sober--on the darkest nights she had gone along the grass beside the bridle-paths, without once missing her way to the Green-court gate. Yet, that Hallan Eve she, somehow, went too far from the road, got in on the grassy patches between the furze, and, before she knew that she had missed her way, found herself down by the mill-road. She followed up that track, and in making a new attempt to reach the house, she again got among the furze and wandered about on the patches of green between them for hours without coming to either road. Yet, as usual, with piskey-led persons the path appeared either before or close beside her, until, tired out, she lay down to wait for day and fell asleep. "The Squire and all his household were very much concerned because of the old woman's absence, well knowing that no ordinary matter would keep her from home on the feasten tide. During the night the servants had been sent to the villages round, to inquire if anyone had seen her in Penzance or on the road, but no tidings were obtained of her. The Squire rose by break of day and called up his servants to hunt for her. In passing along the road towards the gate, only a few yards from the house, he heard somebody snoring in a brake of furze bordering on the path, and there he found his housekeeper very ragged and torn. Some say he discovered her by finding on the road her knitting-work, with the yarn hanging to it, and, by taking up the yarn, he went by it till he found the dame with some of the ball in her pocket. However that may be, he roused her with great difficulty, and, without opening her eyes, she said, "'I wan't turn out to please anybody till I've had my morning nap; so go away, go, and shut my chamber door!' "At length her master, having brought her to her senses, helped her up and asked what made her take up her lodgings on the cold ground? "In passing slowly along, and stopping awhile at the Green-court gate, she told him of her mishaps. "The Squire didn't think one half of what she said could be true; indeed he questioned whether she had been to Penzance at all, and thought it quite as likely that she had stayed tippling at the cove till near dark, starting for town, had missed her way, and, wandering over the Gump, had there, or where he found her, fallen asleep and dreamt great part of what she told him. "'Belike Pee,' said the Squire, as she was about to go down the Green-court steps, 'what you took at the cove had something to do with rising the spirits you saw.' "'Oh! you misbelieving man,' cried she, turning round, and holding towards him her uplifted hands, 'if I like a drop of good liquor to cheer my heart, now and then, I never took so much as to do me harm in all my born days; and, leave me tell 'e, that with all your learning, and doubting, you know but little about the 'small people.' There es more taking place in the region of spirits, as I've heard the parson say, than you can learn from your books, and for want of faith, I fear me you will never be enlightened. Yet as sure as my name is Penelope Tregeer, I seed, heard, and what is more I felt, all that I now tell 'e.' "'Go in and sleep the spirits out of thy noddle, that thou mayest be in time to see about the feasten dinner,' said the Squire, as he turned away, and took his favourite morning's walk to the cove. "When he came in, after a turn round the cliff and up by the mill, he found the old woman, never the worse for her journey, busy preparing the feasten fare, and the ladies and gentlemen of his family, and numerous visitors, at an early breakfast that they might have time to proceed to church in grand state on the feasten day." PENDEEN OF OLD. Capt. Peter, having taken a pull from the pewter pot, continued with--"Believe me, comrades, Pendeen didn't then look wisht at feasten tides nor at any other time, when one saw, (and smelt, too), the sweet scent of turf-smoke that curled up from chimney stacks, which now look down sorrowfully on cold hearths; and one saw fair faces peering through the casements, numbers of ladies and gentlemen walking about the garden alleys and courts of the old mansion, or when the cry of hounds and the winding of the horn echoeing through the house, called one and all to the hunt at early morn. And, I can but think," he continued, "how strangers visiting Pendeen for the first time, after riding over miles of open downs with scarce a dwelling in sight, must have been surprised when they caught the first glimpse of the noble old seat, which is only seen when close at hand, and the track of rich cultivated land between it and the sea; it must have appeared to them like a place raised by enchantment, as we hear of in old stories. And the old masons, who took pride in their art and did their work truly, were right to bestow such labour on the beautiful chimney stacks of the old mansion, because they are there first seen, and from parts where little else of the house is visible; and the first sight, like first love, is never forgotten, mates." Capt. Peter paused, drained the pewter pot, which had stood foaming before him, handed it to the cheerful old landlady to be replenished, and took a smoke. A tinner, who sat by the fire knocking the ashes out of his pipe, said, whilst he cut up his roll-tobacco, rubbed it in the palm of his hand, and refilled:-- "I don't understand very well Capen what is meant by enchantment, only that it's something strange and wonderful. Now, to my mind, the greatest wonder about the place is the Vow. One end of it we know is within a few yards of the mansion, but no one knows where the other is to be found. Ef there be any truth in old traditions about that cavern, adit, fougou, or whatever it may be called, it runs for a great distance (some say miles), yet most people believe that the eastern end was once open at the cove. Others will have it that old tinners, who lived before part of the roof had fallen in, travelled in it for ten times the distance from the house to the cove, and burned more than a pound of candles without finding the end. They always returned frightened, and what they saw to scare them they could never be got to tell. "Perhaps the Spirit of the Vow, that many have seen at the entrance, in the appearance of a tall lady, dressed in white, with a red rose in her mouth, at all seasons of the year, may take a more fearful form within the cavern. "Who can tell," he continued, "but that money and treasures may have been secreted there in troublesome times of old, and I wonder why the Squire don't have the mystery about the Vow cleared up; there can't be much of the roof fallen in, and, for my part, I'd willingly give all my time, out of core for a month to help clear away the rubbish and take the venture upon shares." "I am very much of thy mind, my dear," Capt. Peter replied, "Ef the Squire would give us leave we'd pitch cost as soon as the feast is over, and I don't think we should find there many spirits to frighten us away. I believe that many of the fearful stories about the Vow were invented by smugglers. When the fair trade was in its glory the Vow was a convenient place for storage, and I think that the smugglers, who didn't want any faint hearts, with weak heads and long tongues, to come near them, invented many fearful stories to scare such away. One never finds any so fond of prying into other people's business as the foolish ones, or 'Grammer's weak children,' as we say." HOW PISKEY LEFT BOSLOW. Tells how the drudging goblin sweat To earn his cream bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn. MILTON. "No doubt," said the tinner after a pause, "Piskey threshed the corn and did other odd jobs for the old man of Boslow, as long as he lived, and they said that after his death he worked some time for the old widow, till he took his departure from the place about three score years ago. Some say"-- "Stop a minute, my son, I can tell 'e a story about that," said Capt. Peter, taking the pipe from his mouth, and holding up his finger:--"One night, when the hills were covered with snow and winter had come severely, the old widow of Boslow left in the barn for Piskey a larger bowl than usual of gerty milk (boiled milk, thickened with pillas, or oatmeal). Being clear moonlight she took a turn round the town-place, stopped at the barn-door, and looked in to see if Piskey were come to eat his supper while it was hot. The moonlight shone through a little window right on the barn-boards, and there, sitting on a sheaf of oats, she saw Piskey eating his gerty milk very hearty. He soon emptied his wooden bowl, and scraped it with the wooden spoon as clean as if it had been washed out. Having placed the 'temberan dish and spoon' in a corner, he stood up and patted and stroked his stomach, and smacked his lips in a way that was as much as to say, 'that's good of 'e old dear; see ef I don't thresh well for 'e to-night.' But when Piskey turned round, the old woman was sorry to see that he had nothing on but rags and a very little of them. "'How poor Piskey must suffer with the cold,' she thought and said to herself, 'to pass great part of his time out among the rushes in the boggy moors or on the downs with this weather--his legs all naked, and a very holey breeches. I'll pitch about it at once, and make the poor fellow a good warm suit of home-spun. We all know ragged as Piskey es, he's so proud that he won't wear cast-off clothes, or else he should have some of my dear old man's--the Lord rest him.' "No sooner thought than she begun; and, in a day or two, made a coat and breeches, knitted a pair of long sheep's-black stockings, with garters, and a nightcap, knitted too. "When night came the old woman placed Piskey's new clothes, and a bowl of gerty milk on the barn-boards, where the moonlight would shine on them to show them best. A few minutes after leaving the barn she came back to the door, opened its upper part a little, and, looking in, saw Piskey standing up, eating his milk, and squinting at the clothes at the same time. Laying down his empty bowl he took the new breeches on the tip of his hand-staff, carried it to the window, and seeing what it was, put it on over his rags, dragged on the stockings, and gartered them, donned coat and cap, then jumped over the barn-boards, and capered round the barn, like a fellow light in the head, singing, "'Piskey fine and Piskey gay, Piskey now will run away.' "And, sure enow, run away he did; for when he came round to the door opening into the mowhay he bolted out and took himself off without as much as saying, 'I wish 'e well 'till I see again' to the old woman, who stood outside the other door looking at am. Piskey never came back and the old woman of Boslow died that winter." AN OVERSEER AND A PARISH CLERK OF ST. JUST ABOUT SIXTY YEARS AGO. "It was no wonder if persons coming from Penzance to Pendeen of a dark night should miss their way and think themselves piskey-led," said the tinner. "There was neither bridge nor house in the place called New Bridge before wheel carriages were in use, and the only St. Just road from Penzance this side of Cardew Water was a mere bridle-path or rather a great number of horse tracks, often crossing each other and twisting about far and wide round rocks and intervening patches of furze, over miles of open downs and boggy moors, with no hedges near the road to keep it within bounds. When one track was worn too deep it was never repaired, as there was plenty of room to make a new one. Bridges then were few, and for the most part made by placing flat slabs to rest on the stepping-stones in some of the deepest streams, for the convenience of foot passengers. These old foot-bridges were ugly things to cross by night and the stepping-stones were worse." "We have all heard about the old stepping-stones in Nancherrow Water," said the tinner, who finished the foregoing story, "how, after day-down, no one could pass over them in going to Church-town without some mishap, and no person would venture to return that way until daybreak. Shortly before the first bridge was built there, one of the overseers was a farmer who lived in the North of St. Just. Few persons then could either write or read, except one here and there, who passed for a great scholar if he could sign his name and read a chapter in the Psalter without much spelling. The overseer not knowing how to write or cipher, kept the accounts of his monthly disbursements on the dairy-door, in round o's for shillings and long chalks for pence. The last Saturday of each month he took the dairy-door on his back and carried it to Church-town, that the clerk might enter his accounts in the parish book. "One Saturday, in the season when days are short and streams high, the overseer couldn't make out his accounts and reach Nancherrow Water before dark; and, in passing, with the door on his back, over the wet and slippery stones, he lost his balance, and fell into the stream. By good luck the door was under, and floated him down to a place where the water spread out shallow and there he landed, but all the accounts were washed out. 'Tis said that the overseer's mishap was the reason why the first bridge was built over Nancherrow Water." "I can tell 'e another sad case," said the Capt. "We elderly folks have all heard of Uncle Will Ben, who was the parish clerk and the best fiddler in the parish, a little before I was born, and everybody says he was what we call a 'peathy old fellow, with plenty of gumption.' "One Feasten Monday Uncle Will was rather late in going to Church-town with his fiddle, in a case, under his arm, to play during the night in a public house. Being Feasten Monday, like enough he had stopped to take a drop at neighbours' houses on the road; however, in crossing Nancherrow Water, his foot slipped from the stepping-stones and his fiddle fell from under his arm into the water, floated down the stream and in under a high bank where it was caught in some brambles. A gentleman riding through the water, saw Uncle Will a little below trying to get at something with his stick, and asked what was the matter. Uncle Will told him of his mishap. 'I pity your case,' the horseman replied, and rode on. "'I don't care a cuss for the case if I'd only got my fiddle,' replied Uncle Will. "This gave rise to the saying which is still often heard, 'I don't care a cuss for the case, if I'd only got the fiddle,' as Uncle Will Ben said. "This old jewel of a parish clerk and fiddler said many other things which are still remembered and used as every-day sayings. "It was the custom then for the great farmers to invite the parson and clerk to supper on goolthise (harvest-home) day, and the sexton usually came to work and see his reverend master safe home. Often all three came in time to lend a hand about the corn carrying. If two farmers had their goolthise on the same day the parson and sexton favoured one and the clerk the other. It happened, one day, when Uncle Will came alone early in the morning to help, and to enjoy the feast, that the weather was very lowering, and such was the fear of rain coming before the corn was in ricks, and thatched, that the carrying was continued all day for dear life, without stopping to take any other breakfast or dinner than such snacks as the corn carriers could catch, when there were more trusses round the ricks than the builders could put away for some time. The corn was then, except on a few large farms where ox-wains were just coming into use, all carried on the horses' backs, and the chasers, as they called the leaders who kept the trusses steady on the horses, were fond of coming in together that they might have a race back to the field, made the mowers work very irregular; it was gallop and stop half the time. That day, however, all worked with such a will that the corn was in and thatched in good time before the rain came. "The supper being served, the clerk, in the absence of the parson, was asked to say grace. Uncle Will hesitated a moment; then, rising, he said, 'Thank God we have carried all the corn and had very fine weather; so here's grace for breakfast, dinner, and supper together.' "Yet what is usually known as Uncle Will Ben's grace, is, 'God bless the meat and now let's eat!' "Another saying accredited to Uncle Will--that 'Job had patience, but Job never had such a splat of black petates in his life'--is owing to An' Mary, his wife, having been a parson's daughter from upwards, and 'brought up like a lady' as he was fond of saying sometimes. When Will was a young and smart militia man, and An' Mary a girl in her teens, he fell in love with her and she fell in love with him, and came with him to St. Just. In their time potatoes were just coming into use; gentlemen and some farmers planted a few in their gardens as a curious vegetable to be used on extraordinary occasions. Will Ben, not to be behind the fashion, had a small spot planted in his garden. When his potatoes were high enough for hoeing Will told his wife Mary, who kept the garden in order, to hoe the 'splat of petates,' and be sure to hoe them clean. When William came in from his work in the fields, he said, 'Well Mary, hast a hoed the petates?' 'Yes, William dear, and hoed them nice and clean; just go out and look at them whilst I take up the supper.' 'William dear' went into the garden, but he saw no potatoe-plants, for Mary had cut them all out of the ground, not knowing them from weeds. 'Dear William' came in swearing on his wife for hoeing up all the precious petates, telling her that it had been ten times better for him if he had wedded the sexton's dafter, as she would have made a better farmer's wife. An' Mary (who, as I have heard say, was always a dear gentle soul) only replied, 'Sweet William, have patience and they will grow again. Remember Job, William dear, and think, cheeld vean, how he had patience.' "'Oh! d----n Job,' replied sweet William, 'don't tell me about Job. Job never had such a splat of black petates in his life!' "And now, my dears," said Capt. Peter, holding up a pot of foaming ale, "here's health and luck to 'e all, my hearties, and a merry Feasten-tide to 'one and all.' There's no sense in being miserable, and, for my part, old as I am, I'd go ten miles this night to dance to the music of as good a fiddler and as honest a man as Uncle Will Ben." [Illustration] THE FAIRY MASTER, OR BOB O' THE CARN. Out steps some Faery, with quick motion, And tells him wonders of some flowrie vale. MARSTON. Just fifty years ago, one Tom Treva lived on a small lone tenement near the foot of Carn Kenidjack hill. He had a large family and disliked for any of them to go in service. The boys, as they grew up, worked in the mines, and helped about the tillage of their few acres of crofts 'out of core.' The eldest daughter, Grace, remained at home to assist her mother, who took pride in making her handy in doing all such simple work as was required in their humble household. But as it was hard for them to make both ends meet, the poor girl had no best clothes except such as were made out of old gowns which had belonged to her grandmother. These were very gay, to be sure, yet so old-fashioned that other maidens, who worked at the mines and procured more modish dresses, wouldn't be seen anywhere from home with Grace and her grammer's old gowns. She didn't much mind their company, however. Her mother and 'the boys' (her brothers) promised her, year after year, that against the next Feasten-tide, if they could only lay by a few shillings, they would buy her as smart a rig-out as any of the proud hussies could show. But, with so many mouths to be fed, it was hard for them to save a farthing. So tides came and went, and Grace "had nothing for bettermost wear that was fit to be seen in Church-town or anywhere else from home," so the bal-maidens said, and they "wouldn't be seen going to preaching or to games with her;" yet she didn't mind it much, and seemed contented enough to stay at home, in the evenings listening to old stories related by her father and others who gathered round his hearth, because they, too, were not rich or smart enow to follow the fashions then upsetting all old customs among such Santusters as 'got a sturt to bal.' Grace would go about her work, indoors and out, singing like a lark. She was nearly sixteen, when a cousin of about her own age, who had been away only a year in farmer's service, a few miles off, came to see them the next Feast, dressed out quite like a lady, to Grace's seeming; for she wore a blue shining dress and earrings, and necklaces of red, green, and yellow beads that she changed more than once a day, or wore them altogether, while the flowers in her bonnet were the admiration of all beholders. "I should be glad, cousin Grace," said she, "to put thee up to Church-town to the fiddler a Monday night, and wish I had only brought home one of my frocks for thee to wear; but really, cheeld, grammer's old gowns would make thee a laughing-stock to the youngsters, and not one of them would dance with us. Go thee way'st in service, cheeld, that thee may'st get a stock of clothes fit to be seen in, and a sweetheart that thee west soon want to have as well as other maidens! But the Lord help thee and the young fellow who would come a courting and take thee to Morvah Fair even in that old rorey-torey gown, with red and blue flowers so large that the birds are nesting in them." Grace became very dissatisfied after this vision of grandeur, and never gave her mother any peace till she consented for her to go in service next summer. She was the more ready to let Grace try her fortune away, as other daughters were growing up to help her. So, during winter, she and her mother spun and knitted for dear life that they might earn a few extra shillings to provide changes of under clothing against she set out to look for service. For weeks Grace had been going round saying good-bye to the neighbours, and she rose one fine morning and gave the last kiss, and said, "I wish 'e well, for the last time," to all the family round. Her father, on parting, charged her not to go more than a day's journey from home, and be sure to keep far away from Penzance or any town, for fear she should be kidnapped, and they should nevermore see her. He told her how strange sailors, that frequented such places, often prowled about for miles, and no maiden was safe within their reach. Grace promised to be on her guard, took her fardel, and started on her journey towards the southern parishes where gentlemen farmers lived. On her way she thought upon what her smart cousin had told her to go over to the other side of the country, get into good farmer's service, where she might soon qualify herself to live in a gentleman's house and get higher wages. She had advised her not to pay much heed to what old folks said in their fears, about conjurors, witches, small people, and such like, that are seldom met with now-a-days. "Up here amongst the hills you know but little of the world," said the cousin, "and your old drolls arn't altogether to be believed." Grace couldn't help going out of her way a little to take a last look of Carn Kenidjack, where she had passed many happy hours, for youngsters were accustomed to meet there of Sunday afternoons to play about amongst the rocks or listen to old folks' stories. Then she went on with a pretty good heart till she reached high ground, from which she could only just see the smoke curling over the house-tops below. She turned round, took a farewell look, her eyes blinded with tears; then she went a little farther and sat down on a rock by the road-side, to have a good cry and ease her heart. She wept aloud to think she was going to an unknown country to live amongst strangers--that she might nevermore behold her parents and old playmates. But still, determined to go on, even if she went as far as daylight would take her, she dried her eyes with her apron; and, looking up, she saw standing close beside her a very nice-looking gentleman. He wished her good morrow and asked why she wept. "Oh, sir, I have left home," she replied, "and am on the road to a strange country to look for service." "Well now, good luck has directed me," said he, "for, hearing there were tidy girls up this way, I started early this morning and am come so far to seek one that might take care of my house and little son, and a nicer maid than you one needn't wish to find. Indeed you look as fresh as a rose in morning dew." He then sat on the rock beside Grace and told her that he was left a widower with one little boy, who had nobody but an old great-aunt to look after him; there was little else to do but the dairy-work after one cow, and a few poultry to take care of. "Come along home with me, Grace," said he, rising and taking up her bundle, "you can but try, and shall stay with me, if you don't like it, till you hear of some other place that may suit 'e better." Grace wondered how he came there, for she hadn't seen him coming over the downs; and was surprised that he knew her name. Yet she said nothing, because her mother had often told her not to ask questions but to use her ears and eyes to learn. The gentleman looked so handsome and spoke so kind, that, without hesitation, she went on with him and related how her parents had a large family, that her mother had taught her dairy-work, to cook in a plain way, and to spin and knit. "You will do, I'm sure," said he, "and if you had time to spare I suppose you wouldn't mind helping me weed the garden or pick fruit in the orchard." "There's nothing I should like better," she replied, "for the work about one cow and a child can't be much." He told her that his name was Robin, though most of his acquaintance called him Bob o' the Carn, or Bobby Carn. In such like talk they went on, down hill, towards the Low Countries; and Grace, with her eyes fixed on her companion, didn't notice their road, and that for some time they had been walking through green lanes, hedged with trees; honey-suckles, and such sweet flowers as she had never seen hung over head. The gentleman remarking her surprise, said, "These trees and flowers are nothing to what you will see, ere long, where I dwell; but up in your high country no trees and but few flowers grow; that's how you think these so wonderful." Over a while they came in sight of a large house; "Oh, sir, es that a king's palace?" demanded she, "and see, the trees around it are higher than church towers!" "No, my child, there's many such dwellings down this way, and even larger ones, but no kings reside here," answered he. Grace hadn't ceased wondering at the grand building when they came to where four roads met, and kept straight on, still going down hill, all amidst spreading trees which shaded the road by the side of which were rills of clear water, that every here and there sunk into the grass and re-appeared. Where streams crossed their road Grace's companion lifted her over them that she mightn't even wet her foot. She had no notion of the distance they had gone, for he gave her cake and cordials ever so often, and talked so pleasantly that the time seemed as nothing, and she would have gone on with him to the world's end. At length they came out of the wood near a river and she saw it was nearly sunset. "We are now all but come to my dwelling," said her master. (We may as well call him so since she had made up her mind to live with him). He bore her over the stepping-stones that crossed the river near the foot of a towering carn of grey rocks that rose amidst a wood close by the water side. They passed up by the river a little way and entered an orchard. Grace wondered at the trees, bending down with loads of red and yellow apples and many kinds of fruit that she had never before seen. By a winding alley they came to a green, all surrounded with blossoming trees and dotted over with curious beds of sweet flowers, most of them unknown to Grace, who, without perceiving that they left the garden, entered what looked like an arbour and found herself in her master's dwelling before she noticed it, hidden as it was by roses and flowering plants which spread over its walls and roof. Yet the kitchen was light enough for her to see rows of pewter that shone like silver. A wood fire blazed on the hearth, though it was high summer time; and beside it, on a chimney-stool, sat a prim sour-looking old woman, knitting. She looked at Grace as if her eyes would bore holes through her, when the master said, "I'm come, Aunt Prudence, with a tidy maid that I had the good luck to meet on her way to look out for a place." "I see thee art come, Robin," she replied, still keeping her eyes on Grace; "and it seems to me thee hast brought hither a young giglet that will use her tongue more than her hands! We shall see." "So we shall," remarked he, rather affronted with Prue's remarks, "and when you have shown her what is to be done, you needn't take the trouble to come here often. And where's the boy?" he asked. "Here I am, dadda!" exclaimed a little fellow, bounding in to kiss his father, who took him on his knee; and An' Prue, as was her wont, mumbled to herself "we shall see." The boy from his size appeared no more than six or seven years old, but his face looked like a cunning old man's, and his eyes were uncommon sharp. Grace looked from one to the other rather confused, when her master said, "My little Bob, here's a nurse for 'e, who will give ye your milk, wash your face, and anoint your eyes, just like your mother used to; I hope you will like her." "That I can't tell yet," said the urchin, eyeing Grace for all the world just like An' Prue, and he looked then almost as old. The master, however, without more palaver, placed on the board, bread, cheese, apples, honey, and other things, sat down, told Grace to do the same, and eat what she liked; and, that after milking-time she could cook a good savoury supper. She had never before tasted such nice white bread and other things; after making a hearty meal, she said, "I may as well pitch to." "Rest thee till milking-time," said An' Prue, "a new broom sweeps clean, faix," mumbled she, in taking another survey through her spectacles. Over an hour or so Robin told Grace that she had only to take the pail, pass through the orchard into a meadow by the waterside, call "Pruit, Pruit," and the cow would come to her; she did as directed, and from amidst the trees came a beautiful white cow, which stood with her udder right over the bucket and showered down her milk, so that in a minute it was full and running over. Grace rose to fetch another vessel that the milk mightn't go to waste; but when she lifted the bucket, the cow lowed, and, before the maiden left the meadow, disappeared in the wood. Grace told her master how the cow was gone off with the best milk. "That pailful will do for the night," said he; "the cow is far away by this, but if at any time you wish to have more you may take two or three pails, and 'Daisy'--that's her name--will fill them all, but she won't wait for 'e to fetch more things." "She must be a jewel of a cow, for sure, and I'll have all the pans full to-morrow," thought Grace, as she strained the milk, and washed the strainer and bucket, and did other jobs so handy, that even the old dame looked less sour on her. The master went out to feed his horse--he had a beauty in the stable close at hand--and that while Prudence said, "Now mind, Grace, you must always put the child to bed by daylight, and as you sleep in the same room go 'e to bed then too; if your master be home, he can do without you; and should he be away, you need not wait up for his return; you are not to go into the spare rooms, nor to meddle with what don't concern 'e; nor ask any questions, except about your work, and then I'll tell 'e as much as you are required to know. And let me warn 'e, that if you enter your master's private room, you will rue the day as long as you live. In the mornings rise with the sun; take the child to a spring, that he can show 'e, wash him well and then anoint his eyes with this ointment," continued she, in showing Grace a small ivory box of a greenish unguent, that she took from the cupboard; "a bit, the size of a pin's head or less, is enow to be put in the corner of each eye. Then milk 'Daisy,' and give the child this bowlfull and no more," said she, showing Grace a china-basin that would contain a pint or so; "make flowery-milk for breakfast, and when the breakfast things are washed away, scald the evening's milk, and clean up the house." Just as the precise dame had finished her instructions, the master came in and said, "I think it's high time for 'e to go home, An' Prue, whilst there's daylight for 'e to find your way across the water." "My room is more welcome than my company," mumbled she, in hobbling out; "but we shall see how they will get on without me to keep them to stays." Grace told her master that she wasn't used to go to bed so early; he answered, "please yourself on that score, and stay up as long as you mind to." He then brought her a basket of fruit, and told her to eat what she pleased of them; afterwards, he gave her a cup of cordial that she found delicious; and by the time she had drunk it to the last drop, she forgot her home and playmates among the hills; her brothers and sisters, her father and mother even; she no more remembered her former state, and only thought of her kind master and the delightful place in which he lived; and she dreamt that night of nothing else. In the morning Grace was up betimes; finished her work in a hour or so, and 'looked over her shoulder for more,' when An' Prue came in, examined the house, and seeing nothing to find fault with, she merely said, "A new broom sweeps clean, but an old one es good for the corners," and told Grace she might work in the garden for an hour or so, till time to get dinner, if she had a mind to, that her master was there and he would show her what to do. Prudence returned to her dwelling, where she kept a school; and Grace, glad to escape the old dame's piercing eyes, went into the garden to look upon the more pleasing countenance of her master, who said, "You have made a good beginning, cheeld, only hold to it, and we shall get on very well; come now and help me weed a flower-bed, that I may show 'e what to pull up and what to let grow." She weeded so handy and minded her master's instructions so well, that he, to show his satisfaction, when a bed was finished, clasped her in his arms and kissed her, saying, "I can't tell 'e any other way how well pleased I am at your handy work." She redoubled her efforts to please him that he might again show his satisfaction. Time passed so pleasantly in the beautiful garden--which Grace thought must be like Paradise--that they forgot the dinner hour, till the boy came home from school and ran out into the garden, shouting, "Dadda! Dadda! I want my dinner; An' Prue always had it ready in time." "Run in my good girl," said his father; "give him bread and honey with milk to drink, or anything to stop his squalling, we can have apple-pie; pick a few of the ripest from yonder tree." Having given Bob his dinner, Grace gathered such golden apples as she never beheld till then, indeed, she thought them too rich to cook, and that their perfume was enough to satisfy one, for roses and gilly-flowers were less sweet to her seeming. Dinner over and Bob sent to school, master and maid passed a pleasant afternoon in the garden gathering fruit. Prudence, having sent her scholars home, took a nap, for she had talked herself sleepy over the horn-book. She soon waked up, however, and hurried over to find that Grace had gone a milking, and Robin was in a quillet (paddock), near by, grooming his horse. Seeing all about the house in apple-pie order, she looked rather sour, for the crabbed dame dearly liked to spy faults; that's how she was so much disliked by Grace; so without a word to anyone in the garden-dwelling, she tucked up her skirts and picked her way back to her own house, mumbling, "It seems my room es more welcome than my company, but we shall see how long they will get on without my advice." Grace found her new life so pleasant that she took no count of time; months passed like a summer's day; she never thought of her old home or people, for all her care was to please her agreeable master. Of a morning he frequently rode away through the wood dressed like a gentleman going a hunting; and Grace took delight to keep his boots polished, and to buckle on his silver spurs that she might see him mount and ride away in gallant style. Grace always wondered where her master got out of the wood; she had gone a long way on the road he took, but saw no end of the winding, shady, alleys. He always told her to be sure not to leave his grounds; on no account to venture outside the orchard gate during his absence; and, for her life, not to go near the high rock, for at its foot--hidden by thickets--there was a low hole, from which Bucca-dhus often issued, and carried away people who were nevermore seen here. One afternoon, however, when Robin was away and the boy at school, Grace felt weary of being so long alone or with only the poultry--that followed her everywhere about the place,--and went to the outer gate. On seeing a pleasant walk winding along by the waterside, where all was shady and quiet, she passed out and down the road till near the high rocks; she wondered whither the bowery path led; thought she heard the sea murmuring, and had a mind to go farther on, when all her thoughts were put to flight by hearing a voice say, "Stop there, my sweet pretty maid; I'll soon be down by the river-side and give thee a diamond ring." Looking up towards the place whence the voice came, she saw, on the topmost stone, a dark man dressed like a sailor, who then made signs for her to pass farther down the road. Grace hastened in, followed by the screaming hens, which roused the dogs, and their barking alarmed An' Prudence, who hurried over, gave her a good scolding, threatened to tell Robin how, by her gadding about, she had narrowly escaped being carried away. As Grace was still uneasy from fear, she waited up for her master and made a pie; he seemed well pleased to have a hot one for his supper, and the girl to pull off his boots; seeing her disturbed, he asked what was the matter; she confessed her fault with tears, and promised never to disobey him again. "I'll let it pass," said he, "as it's the first time you have disobeyed;" and, to assure her of his forgiveness, he treated her to a cordial that produced sweet sleep and pleasant dreams. Grace finding her master well pleased that she had waited up for him, continued to do so in spite of all An' Prudence told her. "Now since thou hast again scorned my counsel, I'll leave thee to thy devices," said she, one day; "as if Robin wanted thee, forsooth, to unbuckle his spurs or pull off his riding boots, and to cook him a supper that he is better without." Contrary to the austere dame's advice, Grace continued to take her own way, and her master seemed pleased; she wanted for nothing, yet she was always saying to herself, "Whatever can be in that locked-up parlour and the chambers that I am forbidden to enter?" At last, from always thinking about what didn't at all concern her, the fool--she couldn't rest by night or by day. One afternoon whilst An' Prue was cleaning up the parlour,--not thinking Grace was near,--she suddenly went out and left the door ajar; that instant the curious maiden peeped in, and spying lots of rare pretty things, she stepped over the drussel, and saw what she took to be conjuring implements, and trembled to behold--on shelves, in cupboards, and elsewhere about the room--men's heads, and heads and shoulders without arms; over the fire-place there were even whole bodies of small ones, all turned to stone; they were whiter than corpses and quite naked, like what she had heard of in old folks' stories as being done by enchantment; she didn't stay to notice much more and was leaving the room backwards when the old dame, coming behind, thumped her head and exclaimed, "Now thou perverse strollop since thou hast entered the forbidden room to thy cost, thou shalt work in it for a punishment; so take the waxed cloth and rub up that piece of furniture," continued she, in pointing to a long dark chest, that looked to Grace like a coffin resting on a table-frame, "Rub, rub away, rub harder and quicker till thou canst see thy poking nose in it, and stop thy whimperan or I'll crack thy numbscull." Grace burst out crying but still rubbed away so hard that she lifted the article off its legs or its frame, and, falling back with a jerk, something within it gave out a doleful sound so like a dying groan that she,--thinking it must be the voice of a spirit or of an enchanted body confined therein--was overcome with fright and fell down in a fit. Prudence fearing for the consequences, pulled her out by the heels in great haste but not before Robin was informed, by a wailing from the chest or coffin, that something had gone wrong in his private apartment. When Grace came to her senses he said to her, "Ignorant chit thou art become so froward as not to regard Aunt Prudence in anything; this is thy second act of disobedience, for the third there's no forgiveness, and if thou any more seekest to gratify thy troublesome curiosity against my desire thou wilt have to get a new place, so beware." After this it was many days ere Grace's master sang to her or played with her again, as was his wont, and she redoubled her efforts to please him and show her regret till he again kissed her to prove that the past was forgiven. A sight of the forbidden appartment, however, only served to make Grace more dissatisfied because she couldn't understand all the mysteries of the place and its inmates. She noticed that the boy looked very knowing for one of his age, and thinking that by means of the ointment he saw things invisible to her, she resolved to try its effects; and, one morning, when her master had gone away, she took double the quantity used daily for Bob's eyes and rubbed them on her own; it made them smart so much that she thought them to be turning inside out or bursting from her head. To ease their burning pain she ran down and washed them in the pool. Looking into the water--a minute after--when her eyes ceased smarting a little, she saw there, deep down, what looked like another world with trees, birds, and people in great numbers; the people were so small that many of them perched themselves on branches amongst the birds. Yet what surprised her most was to see her master below moving from place to place among them; he was here, there, and everywhere. Being somewhat frightened she left the pool and soon after, on looking around the orchard, there, too, she saw small people and amongst them her master dressed in his hunting-suit. "Now I know for sure that this is an enchanted place," said she to herself, "my handsome master must be a conjuror, and in spite of their fern-seed I shall soon discover more." Grace passed that day very uneasy and in the evening Robin came home with several strange people bearing baskets of cakes and other dainties such as she had never before seen; these being placed away Robin told her to put the boy to bed and that she wasn't wanted below stairs any more for that night. The dissatisfied maid went to bed but not to sleep, for in a few hours she heard the ringing of cups and glasses with other sounds which made it known to her that a banquet was being held in the stone-people's apartment. Over a while she heard singing and music there; the entry and staircase being dark she crept down, and peeping through the partly open door, saw two smart gentlemen, besides her master, and three ladies dressed in white trimmed with green. In their ears, round their necks, and on their arms, the ladies wore diamonds that shone like stars; but most of her attention was drawn to a fair haired one who sat beside the long box or coffin, and, by thumping on it with both hands for dear life she made the body or spirit within it give out finer music than a dozen fiddlers all in a row could make with their fiddles playing altogether, so she said. From her dark corner she listened and watched till the music ceased and the company rose to depart; then, from her chamber window, she spied Robin in the garden kiss the ladies all round, on taking leave. Grace cried herself asleep, but for why she couldn't tell. In the morning she found the parlour door locked, and seeing glasses, china, and other things, on the kitchen table, she washed and placed them on their shelves, and did her morning work; when her master came in and, seeing all in order, said she was a good girl, put his arm around her and was going to show his satisfaction in his usual way. But she repulsed him saying, "Go and kiss your little white and green ladies; you shall touch me no more; for you arn't of common human kind, but a changeling small-body that for nine years at a time can appear as such; yet with all your fern-seed none of 'e can deceive me any longer by your enchantment and what not." "Hold thy foolish clack thou silly girl," said he, "thy head is turned with old folks' drolls; there's nothing uncommon here, 'tis only thy ignorance that makes thee think so. But I see," he continued with a stern air, "that thou hast rubbed thy eyes with the green ointment, and now as I find that nothing can lay thy impertinent curiosity, or check thy prying into what don't concern thee, we must part. Thy last year will be ended to-morrow, so prepare at once to leave early in the morning, and I will take thee behind me on horseback over the hills to the place in which I found thee, for thou wilt never be able to find the way back alone." Seeing that all her promises of amendment were of no avail, and that Robin and Prudence--who was now reinstated--determined on her departure, Grace with much grief packed up her fardel, and from what her master and old sour Prudence had given her, from time to time, she had a good stock of clothing. She didn't know what wages was due to her, poor fool, nor how long she had lived there, for years had passed like a summer's day, until she longed to know too much. She was almost heart broken to leave the flowers that she loved like living things, the poultry she had reared, the pigeons that nested over the wood-corner ate from her hand and followed her over the place; the rabbits and hares that played about the garden and in the house; above all she grieved to part with a tame robin that kept in the dwelling and sang whenever she entered it. Besides it fretted her to find that old sour Prudence was brought back to be mistress of Robin's garden-dwelling. The discreet dame, however, not knowing what might turn up, took care to keep Chypons--as the place in which she resided was called. She was very proud of her snug habitation, because, a little below the carn, a foot-bridge crossed the stream close by her house and nobody lived so near it as to interfere with her wise management. At daybreak she crossed the river and went on as her master had directed her; he soon overtook her, and placing her on a pillion behind him, they cantered away through dark lanes for miles, going up hill all the time, and Robin spoke not a word. Grace, blinded with tears, saw nothing of the road till they came up into broad daylight and an open country. Still the horse went like the wind, and in a few minutes she saw Carn Kenidjack. Robin stopped his horse, sprung from his saddle, lifted Grace down and placed her on the rock from which he had fetched her. In answer to her entreaties to be taken home with him again, he only said, "Prudence and I shall try to get on without other help, yet if we can't I may come for 'e again." Grace mounted the rock and looked after him as he rode away, but in a few minutes he was out of sight. She lay on the heath and wept till near night ere she arose, slowly descended the downs, and reached her parents' dwelling. The old folks were much surprised to behold her as they had given her up for lost or dead long ago. Her mother, however, in welcoming her home, lost no time before she opened her bundle, and found enough good clothes to last a lifetime, and amongst them a bag containing more money than they had ever seen before. Grace's story seemed strange to all the neighbours, but most of the elderly ones concluded from all she told them that one of the changeling small people had taken her away to his underground dwelling or into his habitation in a wood--as such places used to be their common haunts--and there she had lived with him nine years that seemed less than one to her. She could no more endure her old home--and, showing but little regard for its inmates, loathed their homely fare and old fashioned ways. Neither could she make up her mind to work steadily as of old, but like one distraught wandered away almost every day to the rock where she had first and last seen Robin of the Carn. She took but little pride in her fine clothes and money, and people thought she would go mad or fret herself to death. Yet, in a little less than two years, which seemed eternal to Grace, a neighbour's wife died leaving several small children; the widower came a courting to the distracted maiden, and, pushed his suit so vigorously, that at length she married him, and, as it happened, her husband had no cause to regret his venture, for the care of his children and plenty of work so far cured her vagaries, that in a few years she almost forgot and little regretted her life with Robin of the Carn. Grace may be still living; it is only a few years since we were told her story, and then she was a hale old woman with a numerous brood of grandchildren. * * * * * There is a similar story told in Zennor of one Cherry who left home to seek service in the low country parishes, and was met on Lady Downs by a fairy gentleman, a widower, who took her to live with him; all went well, till, from curiosity, she disobeyed his orders and was discharged, but not until she had become so much attached to her fairy master that she died with grief on being taken back to her old home. Though 'modern instances' make up these stories, we have many old fragmentary fairy tales that contain the same fancies; the loss of happiness through inordinate curiosity. A TINNER'S FIRESIDE STORIES. THE KNOCKERS OF BALLOWAL. Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire, To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire. GOLDSMITH. A few years ago, in talking with a Lelant miner about the sprites that haunt many old mines, he told us the following story, which we give in his own words, as an example of West Country dialect. We wish to correct an error that many persons, not Cornish, entertain with regard to the language of Cornish working people. Their mistake originates, in many instances, from seeing in stories--misnamed Cornish, and for the most part written by strangers to the country--such an uncouth jargon, put into the mouths of West Country folks, which is no more the common dialect of Cornwall than it is of Jericho. Our English will bear comparison with that of any rural district, and, in most cases, be found more correct, though somewhat antiquated. Many of our peculiar words, such as agricultural or mining terms, a few names of plants, &c., are genuine old Cornish. "I know that strangers," said Uncle Bill, "and grand learned folks like our passen, don't believe in the sperats we cale knackers workan in the bals, and say that the noise, made by these old ghosts of tinners, is caused by water oazan out of a lode and drippen into a pit; as ef the water fallan from ever so high, could sound like hammer and boryer, or pick and showl (shovel) workan away. But, bless us, comrade, what can these strangers that come here--to instruct us, forsooth!--know about such things? Yet how they will talk about what they never heard of before they came among us, and say it es all su-per-sti-tion! Now that's a fine word, my dear, and I mean to use et on all occasions; like An' Betty Brea, up your way, who es twenty times a day askan 'Do 'e knaw the sig-ni-fi-ca-tion' of some fiddle-stick's end, or other, that she may use her one grand word, lately picked up from a local preacher. "I've been minded lately of a story that was told me by an old comrade--Uncle Tom Trevorrow, who's many years older than I am. When I was a boy, workan at Trink Stamps, he was married; and he was then as fine a man as one would meet of a long summer's day. If you'll have patience enow I'll tell 'e the story of TOM AND THE KNACKERS. "Do let's have the droll, Uncle Bill," said I, and he related as follows,-- "From the time Tom was old enow to handle a pick and showl he had lived in Trecroben, and worked in Wheal Reath, till twenty years or so ago, when work fell slack here, and some bals were knacked (stopped). Then he went to Santust (St. Just) to look for a job and found work in Ballowal. Most people have heard of that queer old bal, that was worked before The Flood, they say. There the old men's works, weth their deep open coffans (pits) may still be seen, jest as they left them, only wash'd and run'd in a good deal one may suppose. That old bal, everybody in Santust will tell 'e, have always been haunted with knackers. And the burrows, in crofts and cleves around, are swarman with them, and weth spriggans, wherever anything belongan to the old bal was burred. There these sprites keep everlastan watch, though all the old men's tools or treasures may be gone to rust, earth, and dust. One don't often see them, 'tis true, but only break ground near them and they'll show their ugly faces, as many have known to their cost. Tom and his eldest boy went over and worked a few weeks, to see how they liked the place and people before removing his wife and family. They liked the Santusters fust rate. They're a capital set of red-tailed drones--only give them their own way; but you will soon find out that one must either fight or be thorough friends with them 'one and all.' Tom took a house in Letcha--handy by the bal. When his family were moved, he and the boy worked together on tribute, and worked hard makan double cores. When it came near pay-day, the boy, for want of rest, gave out, and his father worked on alone. Tom had heard the knackers workan, away at a distance, all the time he had been there, and took no notice of their noise, but now that the boy stopped home, they came nearer and nearer every day, till he cud hardly hear the sound of his own tools with the din and clatter of theirs. As far as he could judge by the sound they were only two or three yards off, in the level close behind him, carryen on all sorts of underground work. Some appear'd to be wheelan, some showlan, others boran; he could even hear them swab out their holes, put in the tampan, and shut (blast) like a pare (company) of regular tinners. Shuttan wasn't in vogue in their time, but they've learnt et. One night--I think et was only two or three before servey-day--Tom got quite savage to hear their confoundan clatter, with their squeakan and tee-hee-an in a mockan way, if he made false strokes, or a clumsy blow; and, being a devil-may-care sort of fellow, he, without thinkan of anything, throwed back a handful of small stones, towards the spot where they seemed to be workan, and called out at the same time without stopan or lookan up, 'Go to blazes, you cussed old Jews' sperrats; or I'll scat (knock) your brains out, I will, ef you arn't gone from here.' The words were no sooner out of his mouth than a shower of stones fell upon and around him, and frightened him most out of his senses. Still, Tom resolved to work on till mornan, and, in about an hour, when his candle was burnt down and he stopped to light another, he sat down to eat the rest of his fuggan and touch pipe a few minutes. Tom had all but finished his supper, and bean hungry, could have eat more, when he heard ever so many squeakan voices sing out, from away some fathoms back in the level,-- "Tom Trevorrow! Tom Trevorrow! Leave some of thy fuggan for Bucca, Or bad luck to thee, to-morrow!" Fust of all he cudn't well make out any words, but his own name. He thought of the old sayan, 'What the fool thinketh, that the bell clinketh.' He knew that sounds heard underground often seemed to be words, like Buryan bells of a weddan day ringan, 'Poor man, undone!' or 'Go thee ways't home with ragget-tail Jone!' Then he tried again if they wern't as much like some old rhymes that children sing, such as,-- "Billy Pengelley, Got pain in his belly, Eatan green slones for supper!" But no, the devil a bit; for the more and closer he listened the plainer he heard the knackers, or some other sprites among them singing the same. Only when he had eaten all there was a slight change and they sung,-- "Tommy Trevorrow, Tommy Trevorrow! We'll send thee bad luck to-morrow, Thou old curmudgeon, to eat all thy fuggan, And not leave a didjan for Bucca!" And so they kept on singan, squeakan, and tee-hee-an, in going back in the end till they were out of hearan. Tom was somewhat scared; yet he felt so tired and drowsey that he could sleep in a pullan (shallow pool). The poor fellow had worked hard and been at it nearly all day and all night for the last week. When he had smoked out his pipe he leant back, thinking to take a doze for only a few minutes. But when he waked up all was quiet. He rubbed his eyes, and, lookan away in an end, where it was nearly dark, he seed scores of knackers restan on their tools. They were miserable, little, old, withered, dried-up creatures--the tallest of them no more than three foot six, or there away, with shanks like drum-sticks, and their arms as long or longer than their legs. They had big ugly heads, with grey or red locks, squintan eyes, hook noses, and mouths from ear to ear. The faces of many were very much like the grim visages on old cloman jugs, so Tom said, and more like those of brutes than Christians. One older and uglier than the rest--if possible--seemed to take the lead in makan wry faces, and all sorts of mockan tricks. When he put his thumb to his nose and squinted at Tom, all those behind him did the same. Then all turned their backs, stooped down, lolled out their tongues, and grinned at him from between their spindle shanks. Tom was now much scared. He noticed that his candle was burnt down to the clay, and knew that he must have slept nearly two hours. "Good Lord, deliver me," said he, risan to light another candle; and all the knackers vanished by the time he was well on his legs. They seemed to melt away, one into another, changan shapes like curlan smoke. Tom, feelan hisself very stiff, tired, and cold, from havan slept so long, dressed and mounted the ladders. He was hardly able to crawl to grass. In the blacksmith's shop, where he had stopped a few minutes to change and warm hisself, he told other men who were there, putten on their underground clothes, what he had seen and heard. The old tinners told am that they warn't at all surprised, because the levels he worked in were more infested with knackers than any other part of the bal. 'Many a night,' said they, 'these troublesome sperats have ben sen whiskan round the blacksmith's shop and gwean (going) down the Buckshaft, near by, and that do enter the level thee'st work in. This shaft es so called, because a black buck-goat, or a bucca in shape of an, was seen to go down there, but never found below.' The tinners, one and all, blamed Tom for havan anything to do or say with the knackers in an unfriendly way, and told him that as et was an old custom he might as well have left a bit of bread on the ground for good luck. When Tom got home he went to bed at once, that he might have a good rest. His wife fed and nussed him well, with the best she cud get for am to eat or drink, in high hopes that, before many days were passed, they would take up more an twenty pound for tin. Tom dedn't say a word about the knackers to his wife nor boy, for fear to scare them, nor dedn't think much more of the buccas. Next mornan Tom got up like a new one, fresh as a rose. After a hearty breakfast, he and his son started for bal. Now it happened to be Corpus Chris, and the boy was loath to go--he wanted to be off to Penzance, with other youngsters, to see the fun of the fair. "Come thee way'st along, my son," said Tom, "I know thee art still tired, but cheer up a bit; Midsummer's day will soon be here; then thee shust (shalt) have a shellan and, ef we get a good sturt (start), two or three, to go to the games, and, dash my buttons; ef I too don't go down to Priest Cove, and try a hitch at the wrestlan! I could used to show as good play, and throw as fair a fall, as any man of my size." And so Tom ded--he would often show me and others how to give the hugg, play with the back crook, and so furth. I don't see for my part why wrestlan, hurlan, and other old manlike games should be allowed to die out for a set of sports more suitable for women than men, and I hold that wrestlan es as good as boxen, and every man should know how to defend hisself. One don't know what may turn up. 'Tes all stuff and nonsense what old women say about the wickedness of such sports. I'd rather see a boy of mine with black eyes and bloody nose every day, than for am to run from one of his size. Arrivan at the bal, first thing on entering the level, Tom noticed that some of the temberan was bulged a great deal and ready to give way. They put in new planks, and, as Tom thought, made that all secure for the time. Whilst they were at it he again heard the knackers workan away in the end, but dedn't mind them. Then to get up some tin-stuff from below, they went to work in the adit level, on the Buck lode, to secure around and repair a winze (a small shaft with windlass) that was nearly all run'd in. Whilst he put in new tembar, the boy was kept at the winze-brace (windlass and tackle). When drivan the lafts or boards, Tom plainly heard the knackers workan against him; he had to put in new tembar in the manner of spillan. The ground seemed somewhat dangerous. The longer he was workan the nearer the knackers were coman towards him, until he saw the ground move before the lafts where the sperats worked; he then called to the boy, 'Pull me up, quick, wind away for dear life, my son!' By the time he was got up to the winze-braces, the ground began to tumble in. He had the rope tied around his body. Runnan back in the adit-level, he unwound it from the winze tree, and untied it from his waist. Yet he came very near bean killed, for he hadn't got clear of the rope five seconds before winze, rope, and all, went down with the run. Tom, poor fellow, looked around dismayed, to find that all his tin-stuff, which was put on the winze plat, with tools and all, had gone down with the rest; so he lost his tin there and below. All his labour and time was gone for nothan. He had to live many weeks on subsist (money advanced) and went to another lode to work in an end to tut-work (piece-work), and there, too, he was most put mad with the knackers--they wed come into the level close behind, and go on with all kinds of work, and nobody could have wes (worst) luck than followed am. He went to look so wisht and felt so bad that he had to leave Ballowal; for, go wherever he might about that old bal, the knackers were for ever tormenting am, till they fairly drove 'n away, and he came back to Lelant no better off than when he left. And here he had still bad luck doggan am for years. He had to work to the farmers for a long spell, and, as we all know, every tinner would just as soon go to the workhouse, or union; and for my part I'd rather be tied to a bull's tail, and suffer the rest, than do either one." Having refilled his pipe, my old neighbour continued:-- "As many bals were then stopped, and a number of hands discharged from others, all the time going from bad to worse, Tom had to live, as he cud, by farm-work for three or four years. He got all out of heart, to be all the time dung-dabban, and to see his children as ragged as colts; besides he had bad speed many ways; some said he was bewitched, and advised him to see the pellar, who came round once a fortnight. Tom thought that no use, because the conjuror won't 'good 'e,' as he do call it, unless he's well paid. Tom's wife made a good bit of money by spinnan and knittan. Unknown to her husband, she took her knittan-work, and went over to the high road, one day, when the pellar, in going his rounds, visited St. Ives. She hadn't ben long in the lane before he came by. "I'm waitan to speak wh'y," said she; "but I'm afeard et wan't be any use, because we'r very poor." "I know," replied he, "that you have had a long run of bad luck, and it will be all the harder now to turn it, but don't be out of hopes; I'll see Tom and do what I can for 'e. I see you're a good knitster; so you can make me a few pairs of warm stockans for winter's wear." The conjuror remained alone with Tom a good while, each time he came round. What he did to 'good 'e' esn't known, because whatever's done to hinder a run of bad luck, or to break a spell of ill wishan, must be kept secret or no cure can be effected. In two or three months, however, Tom's fortune had a turn. Several youngsters left for America and made room for other hands. Then Tom, to his great content, went to minan-work again. In a short time, instead of looking as wisht, ragged, and dirty as 'Billy-be-damned,' or 'Old Jy,' who lived in a hole in a hedge, he and his family once more got decent meat and clothan. The pellar had the credit of doing them good, whether he deserved it or no; at any rate his promises put them in better heart, and that was some help. Tom's wife was overjoyed when he went to minan again; because she always took delight when her good man came home from bal to hear him tell her and the boys what he had done that core, and about his prospect of havan lots of tin agen next pay-day. The lads were most interested when Tom worked to tut-work, drivan an end, as you'll see. An old boryer, hammer, gads, and other tools were kept under the chimney-stool, that Tom might show them the plainer what he'd ben doan. Now you must understand that Tom believed hisself to be as good a miner as was to be found in Cornwall. He would often brag that he cud break more ground at the same cost than any other man in the bal. His mind was always so occupied about his underground work that the form of his end was always before him. And most every night, after supper and whilst smokan his pipe, he wed work his core over again with Betty, and she, to humour him, would begin with, "Well, Tom, my son; and what hast a ben doan to-day?" "What use for me to tell 'e; I can never make thee understand anything," he'd say; "but look here boys!" At the same time he wud take the fire-hook, stick, or anything, and, quite pleased, draw out the form of his end in the back of their old-fashioned, open chimney, and all would be told to look on, say nothan, and learn. When he had marked out, to his mind, how his end stood, he would say to his wife, "Now thee cust see the end es about square as a was this mornan, take the boryer and show me where thee west go for a hole." "Well, I shud put down a hole there," she wed say, pointan with the boryer in the most seemly place to her. "Now gos't away, thou great Paddy! I tell thee, Betty, thee dosen't knaw any more about such work than a Buryan man! Thee west never larn anything! Give me the tools," he'd say, and show them all, with pride sure nuf, how he'd stand and strike the boryer in the different positions ground es subject to, and so he wed keep on for hours. One day above all, whan they lived in Santust, Tom came home highly pleased, and told his people he had done a wonderful core. After supper he lighted his pipe, as usual, took up the fire-hook, and drawed the form of his end as he found it in the mornan. "Now, I bored a hole there," said he, pointan with his hook, "and gauv en plenty of powder, and a ripped am forth and back like a boat-cove, and tore great rocks out of am as big as housen." "Lor, Tom, hold thy tongue cheeld; I can hardly believe thee," said Betty. "Well, a es truth what I do tell thee. Then--now look at this, Betty--I went there, for another hole," said he pointan, "and it tord'n like mad, and left am as square as a chest, all but a piece in the bottom. Then I went down there for a side-hole, and that end now es as square as a door, I tell thee. And now, Betty, the end es squared, where west thee go for the next hole? Here, take the tools to thee; es thy turn to show one a bit now; a es hard ground, mind, none of your farmers' men can break that." "Well, I shud put down a hole there," said she, placan the hook in the most likly place. Then Tom, with a look and voice of great contempt wed say, "I told thee there was no wale (seam) there; thee may'st shut (blast) away a ton of powder in that hole and then a wedn't heav'n, a wed make a rouse (report) hard enow to frighten away all the chalks (choughs) in Carn Glase, and then a wedn't heav'n. I tell thee again, all of the powder that went down in the Royal George wed be no good in that hole. Thee must lev'n look down more--just so, or else a wed only be a stand to waste powder in." And so the simple contented household wed pass night after night till bed-time. But one evenan they nearly came to grief by Tom shuttan his holes over again. He came home late in a terrible splutter, sayan he had done a very bad core--he had shut a hole three times, and a blowed away in a vug (crevice) each time. "Et was a hole near the bottom, Jan," said he, takan the hook as usual and havan drawn the position to his own satisfaction. "But I shud think," said the boy, "that a was a hawful bad place to come to strike et, faather." "Thou great noddy! Doesna know that a good man can bore a hole anywhere? Hold the hook there," said he, puttan it into his hands, "and I'll show thee how to strike 'n." Tom turned round, snatched up the hammer in a great hurry, threw it back in order to make a stroke, knocked down Betty, missed the hook, and nearly broke Jan's arm. Betty, though on the floor, screamed to see the boy's white face, and when she saw the blood running from his arm and felt it on her own face she fainted. And Tom, seeing them both on the floor, paced up and down calling out, when he tried to rise them, "Oh my dear Betty and Jan; I'd rather shut the hole twenty times over again than kill thee and the boy; rise up do 'e, my dears." They soon got round. The fright was worse than their hurt. The way in which Tom and his wife amused themselves is not singular among tinners, who, as a rule, take great pride in their work, and pass hours showing their family or comrades how they worked the last cores, and what they purpose to do next." "Well, did Tom's good luck continue?" I asked. "Pretty steadfast; he and his sons had neighbours' fare," the old tinner replied. "When his elder boys became men they had pretty good sturts (start from a paying tribute), saved money, and went to America, and they did so well over at Mineral Point, Galena, or somewhere that way, that they sent home enough to keep the old couple in comfort, and to bring the younger boys out to them, where they, with hundreds more from here about, are making another Cornwall for "one and all."" OLD SONGS AND NICKNAMES. "One would like to know," said I to the old tinner, "whether Tom heard the knackers sing what he believed he did; or if there were any old rhymes, somewhat similar, that he might, long before, have learnt and forgotten till something brought them to mind." "Never heard of any such," Bill replied. But An' Mary--who knew a rare lot of queer sayings, odds and ends of old songs and the like,--said, "In a story relating to small people (fairies), that I often heard when a child, there are some lines about leaving the buryans (crumbs) for Bucca." And one would think the tribe of small folks always made their speeches in rhymes. When I was young, it was a custom in the harvest-field, at croust (afternoon's refreshment), observed by most old folks, to pour a few drops of their liquor on the ground for good luck; and to cast a fragment of bread over their right shoulder for the same reason. Fishermen, too, were in the habit of leaving on the sand, at night, a fish for Bucca; and they were also very careful to feed and make much of their cats, to insure them good luck in their fishing. If tinners in going to bal met with a 'bulhorn' (shell-snail) in their path, they always took care to drop before it a crum from their dinner, or a bit of grease from their candle for good luck. Our talk about old rhymes reminds me that I have known many people who become little better than fools, because of childish verses and tunes constantly running in their numskulls; one would think that their seven senses were all stuck in their ears. "Before I was tormented with Bill there," said she nodding to her husband, "when I was sweet and twenty," as the old song goes, I lived with farmers down westward; in one place, my fellow-servant was known by the nickname of Jenny Tweedles, because she would be all day croanan over the song,-- "There was an old couple and they were poor, Tweedle, Tweedle, go twee." It was enough to make one crazy to hear her croanan, over and over, a line here and there, with the burden brought in after every one. I can see her old grim visage now as she maundered about the kitchen, singing in doleful tones,-- "Oh! I have been sick since you have been gone; If you'd been in the garden, you'd heard me groan. Tweedle, tweedle, go twee." You may fancy I would rather hear thunder by night than be kept awake with her droaning in my ear,-- "Now I have a request to make unto thee, Do pluck me an apple from the russet tree. Tweedle, tweedle, go twee." Worst of all she could never be trusted to do any work that required attention,--if scalding milk, for instance, whilst she was tweedlean, it would boil over, and the cream be in the ashes; if cooking, for the same reason, all the fat would be in the fire." An' Mary paused, drew from her pocket a few lengths of yarn, when her husband said, "Come, Mary, keep the kibbal gwean, there's plenty of the same sort of stuff in thy bal." She continued her knitting and said, "There was a good mate for old Jenny Tweedles that used to live in the same parish, who was known by the name of Ky-me or Rigdom, because, when a boy, he was just another such fool, and would neglect, or badly do, any work he was set about whilst whistling the tune, or singing the words, of another old song,-- "There did a frog live in a well, Close by a merry mouse in a mill, To my rigdom, bomminare, ky-me, Kyme-nare, gil-de-ka-re, Kyme-nare, Ky-me." &c., &c." "I can match these nicknames," said I, "with another instance of a grand one acquired from a song. But we must go back more than a hundred years to the time when potatoes were only grown as curious garden vegetables; peas supplied their place, and turnips, or other green crops, were unknown as winter's provision for cattle. Farmers then held, for the most part, freehold or leasehold tenements of from twenty to fifty acres of arable and pasture ground, with, in many places, twice that extent of uncultivated land or "outs" as we call it, which furnished fuel and winter's run for cattle. Between tilling-season and harvest there was little farm work but to cut and carry furze and turf, and to save a little hay; and from the time that all was secure in the mowhay till seed-time there were long intervals of leisure. The corn was threshed as straw was wanted to be taken out to the downs or croft to keep the half-starved cattle alive. Horses, even, were seldom housed, and as there were no stall-fed beasts, little manure but ashes was made which was carefully housed to keep it dry till wanted for dressing; then it was carried in dung-pots to the ground, ploughed in, and the crop quickly sown. After rough weather everybody was on the alert watching for oarweed, which with sand constituted almost the only other substances used for manure. Everything had to be conveyed on horseback,--furze, hay, and corn in trusses, sand in sacks, oarweed in panniers or on crooks, slung over pack-saddles. The only wheel-carriages in use were wherries, and these were drawn by horses in traces. A wherry was a square box, containing about four wheelbarrows, mounted on three solid wheels, such as we call druckshars. To empty this machine it was overturned, druckshars and all. Though there was little out-door work to be done for long spells, our old folks were seldom idle. Hares, rabbits, and wild-fowl were plentiful on moors and the great extent of uncultivated land, and hunting was pursued--less as a pastime than a matter of necessity--to procure a little change of diet, now and then, from the almost constant peas-porridge, fish, and other salt provisions. Women, old and young, passed much time in spinning, and in almost every farm-house one found weaving-machines, as we call hand-looms, so that when there was little else to do, farmers, or some of their men, worked the treadles, and wove the yarn into blanketing, or other household cloth. The surplus of this serviceable material met with a ready sale in markets far eastward. The home-made clothing was almost everlasting. I knew a notable old farmer's wife who used, when bragging of her husband's stock of clothes, to say, "Our Honey (Hanibal) have got twelve coats, and only two of them "biden clath" (bought cloth). Sennen people were famous for being good weavers, and those of Escols, in that parish, regarded themselves as the best in the West Country. In this village there might have been threescore inhabitants, including all ages, who were so connected by inter-marriages, that few of them knew where or how their relationship began or ended. The descendants of one family who formerly lived there still retain the nickname of "Triddles," from their forefathers having worked the treadles as their chief employment. Weavers were much given to singing at their work, to relieve its tediousness; and an old weaving farmer, belonging to the primitive community of Escols, acquired the nickname of uncle Plato, because, whenever he was overtaken by a lazy stitch in working his treadles, he would sing a rather solemn piece,--one couldn't call it a song,--which thus began,-- "Said Plato, why should man be vain, Since bounteous heaven has made him great?" The rest I don't remember; it's something about sceptred king's and beggar's dust coming to the same pass. But he seldom finished his favourite ditty; for if his wife happened to be within hearing, she would exclaim, "Peter! Peter! may the devil take thee and Plato too. I can hear thee droanan that dreary thing again, and the treadles gwean (going) lazier than with Billy, the weaver, croanan over Aaron's beard and the ointment. Come Peter vean, strike up-- "Thinking to lead a sober life, One Monday morning I took a wife," or some other lively catch. I'll join in, and thee west make three throws of the shuttle for one." Uncle Plato's family continued to be weavers of more than ordinary ability. Some of them left Sennen, and established the first looms worked by machinery in the old factory at Alverton, and acquired considerable property in Penzance. Many of this family were also much given to study; one of them, a lady who lived in St. Levan--I don't know her exact relationship to Plato--was remarkable for her acquaintance with Greek and Latin authors, which she read in their originals, and for her proficiency in astronomy and other sciences. During this lady's lifetime, however, her acquirements were not regarded as anything so very extraordinary as they have been recently; for in those old times, and in that remote part, there were many who would even now be considered good scholars. The old folks of our great-grandfathers' days were neither so ignorant nor so immoral as it is now the fashion to represent them; true, there were few sleek smoothies among them, and they would be too rude and outspoken for our taste perhaps. Books, from their dearness, were comparatively scarce; but the few they had were read over and discussed around the winter's hearth, where neighbours assembled in a social way that is now not found in country villages. The "Story of Troy-town,"--as they called some old translation of the "Iliad,"--almost everybody knew by heart. Hector was such a favourite, that the best horse was called after him; and Penelope had, in most families, a namesake (Pee) to commemorate her constancy. They had also the "Seven Wise Masters of Greece," "Moore's Almanack," "Robinson Crusoe,"--which everyone knew by heart, and believed a true history,--and two or three herbals, besides religious books, of which they made little account on the whole. Culpepper was an especial favourite with elderly dames; stills being common, they experimented with his recipes, and often compounded precious balsams that would operate famously as evacuants. Many West Country gentlemen were practised astrologers; and in order to understand works that treated of their favourite science, they must have acquired a knowledge of Latin and mathematics. We revert to our old country folks to remark that, for an acquaintance with classic fables, and much other secular knowledge, they were beholden to the plain Welsh, or native, parsons--then appointed to the western parishes who lived amongst, and associated with, their flocks in an easy, comfortable way. Yet the reverend gentlemen's familiarity and sympathy with their parishioners' joys and griefs caused no diminution of respect for their sacred office. For example the Rev. James Bevan, from Glamorganshire, who was more than forty years curate of Sennen and St. Levan, was always spoken of, by the few old people who remembered him, with affection and respect. This gentleman resided in Trengothal; and so far was he from discountenancing wrestling, throwing quoits, and other manly recreations of the time, that he and his family, with many principal persons of the neighbourhood, always attended at holiday games, on Penberth Green, where they danced with rich and poor, and their presence enforced decorum, and made our rural sports respectable. Another usage--probably handed down from Catholic times--was then common. Prizes won at wrestling, or any other manly games, were either worn to church or suspended within it to a pillar near the door, on the following Sunday. This custom was particularly observed when the victory was obtained in another parish. I have often heard one who when young was a noted wrestler, and for many years champion of his parish, speak of the satisfaction with which he used to hang up a pair of spurs, gloves, yards of ribbon, lace, or whatever it might be, as a trophy in honour of old St. Levan. A short time ago, it was usual for the winners of gold-laced hats to display them at Church, though the wearers--often gentlemen farmers' sons--looked for all the world like livery servants. "Many customs of no more than fifty years ago," said the old tinner, "would be regarded as strange now. One thing that I have just thought of, that stories which have been related by romancers, and are still repeated by others in books, about the savagery of old Cornish wreckers and smugglers, is vile slander. Who, I wonder, would have more right to dead wreck than the salvers; and success say I to the fair trade." The old tinner was now mounted on his favourite hobby, and as his stories about smuggling were interminable, I wished him good-night. [Illustration] AN EXCURSION TO CHAPEL UNY WELL, WITH A LEGEND OF THE CHANGELING OF BREA VEAN. These, when a child haps to be got, That after proves an idiot, When folks perceive it thriveth not, The fault therein to smother, Some silly, doating, brainless calf, That understands things by the half, Says that the fairy left this aulfe, And took away the other. DRAYTON. Though the numerous visitors who resort to Penzance in autumn are rarely satiated with our fine cliff scenery, they might, with pleasure, vary their excursions by a ramble inland, where various objects of interest are found on moorlands and hills, but seldom visited. A pleasant day, for example, might be passed by first going to Sancreed; where, in the quiet, neat, little, embowerd Church some curiously carved portions of an ancient rood-screen are worthy of notice. In the churchyard there is one of the finest crosses in the county; it is about eight feet high and ornamented with various emblematic devices, among others, the lilly of the Blessed Virgin. The old Inn, with its quaint sign "The Bird in Hand," suggestive of ready payment, was worthy of a glance, a few years ago, when some nondescript fowl of the air, trying to escape from a hand that grasped its legs, was pourtrayed on the sign-board in flaming colours by a local artist, and, underneath the captive bird, were the lines,-- "A bird in hand is better fare Than two that in the bushes are." From the south-eastern side of "Sancras Bickan" (Beacon) a delightful view of Mount's Bay is obtained, and on Caer Brane--commonly called Brane Rings--the next hill towards the west, may be seen the remains of an old and extensive hill-castle. Hence, one might descend to the famous Chapel Uny Well, situated between Chapel Carn Brea and Bartine hills; the one crowned with its ruined chapel and the other with a castle. At Chapel Uny will be found a copious spring of as clear water as was ever seen. The only remains that can be identified, as having belonged to its ancient chapel, are a few dressed stones near the well. These, from their shape, would seem to have formed part of an arched door or window. Near by there is also a large circular Fogou, or artificial cavern, walled on both sides and partly covered with long slabs of moor-stone. The Holy Well is, however, the most celebrated object in this vicinity; a few years ago, it was resorted to on the first three Wednesdays in May by scores of persons who had great faith in the virtue of its waters, which were considered very efficacious for curing most diseases incidental to childhood, and many ricketty babes are still bathed there at the stated times when the spring is believed to possess the most healing powers. Belonging to this well and its neighbourhood there is a somewhat curious story, which we will relate just as it has often been told us by old people of the West Country. THE CHANGELING OF BREA VEAN. A hundred years or more ago--one afternoon in harvest time--a woman called Jenny Trayer, who lived in Brea Vean (a little out-of-the-way place at the foot of Chapel Carn Brea) gave her baby suck, rocked it to sleep, then covered up the fire, turned down the brandis, placed fire-hook and furze-prong across the hearth for good luck, and, leaving the child alone, away she hastened over to Brea to "help cut the neck." It was nearly dark when the last handful of wheat, called "the neck," was tied up and cut by the reapers throwing their reap-hooks at it. Then it took a good bit longer to cry the neck according to the old custom of the harvest-hands dividing themselves into three bands--one party calling, three times, as loud as they could cry, "We have it, we have it, we have it!" The second demanding, "What have ye? What have ye? What have ye?" And the third replying, "A neck! a neck! a neck!" Then all join, hats in hand, in a "Hip! hip! hip! Hurrah!" The neck was then decorated with flowers and hung over the board. Jenny, thinking about her babe all alone, didn't stop for the neck-cutting carouse, but got a good drink of beer, and her neck-cake, to take home; and hastened away. When she opened her door, she saw, by the moonlight, that the cradle was overturned. Straw and rags were on the floor, but no child was in sight. Jenny groped round the room a long time; then, not finding any live embers among the ashes, she took the tinder-box and struck a light. "The more haste the worst speed." It was a long time before she got the porvan (rush-wick) lit in the chill (iron lamp). In searching all the holes and corners, she came to the wood-corner and there among turves, ferns, and furze, she found the "cheeld," fast asleep. Being very tired, she took up the child and went to bed. Next morning, when she looked at the babe by daylight, it seemed to her that there was something strange about it--she didn't know what--it was hearty enow, for it seemed never satisfied unless it was all the time sucking or eating; it would roar like a bull if it hadn't its will; and always wanted to be in her arms or eating pap. The poor woman couldn't do her "chars," and had no rest of her life with the squalling, hungry brat. Yet, with all its sucking and eating, it seemed wasting to skin and bone. So it kept on all the winter--the more it ate the leaner it became. Many of the neighbours shook their heads when they saw it, and said they feared the "small people" had played her a trick that afternoon when she went to "neck-cutting." "Whether or no," said they, "you can do nothing better, Jenny, than to bathe it in the Chapel Well as soon as May comes round." Accordingly, the first Wednesday in May she took it on her back and trudged away to Chapel Uny Well. Three times she put it through the water from west to east, then dragged it three times round the well against the sun. Whether the bath made it any better or not she couldn't tell in one week. The following Wednesday, however, the troublesome creature seemed to expect the jaunt, and to enjoy it as it rode away on her shoulder over hill and moor to the spring, where it had the same ducking again. The third Wednesday was a wet day; yet, not to spoil the spell, Jenny took the brat, placed it astride on her shoulder, held one foot in her hand, whilst he grasped her hair to keep himself steady, as they beat over the moors against wind and rain. The thing seemed to enjoy the storm, and crowed, like a cock, when the wind roared the loudest. They had nearly passed round Chapel Carn Brea and were coming by some large rocks, near the open moor, when she heard a shrill voice, seemingly above her head, call out,-- "Tredrill! Tredrill! Thy wife and children greet thee well." Jenny was surprised to hear the shrill voice and nobody in sight. When she stopped an instant to look round, the thing on her shoulder cried out in a voice as shrill and loud,-- "What care I for wife or child, When I ride on Dowdy's back to the Chapel Well, And have got pap my fill?" Frightened out of her senses, to hear the miserable little object talk like a man about his wife and his child, the poor woman cast it on the ground and there it lay sprawling, until she took courage, threw it across her shoulder, and ran back as fast as she could lay feet to ground till she came to Brea town. She stopped before some houses a little below Brea mansion, threw down the thing, that clung to her neck for dear life, on to a dung-heap beside the road. The women of Brea all ran out to see what could be the matter. As soon as she recovered her breath she told them what she had heard. "Ah," exclaimed one, "didn't I tell thee, months ago, that thee wert nussan a small body's brat, ever since the neck-cuttan night, when thy child was spirited away, and that thing left in his place." "Shure enow," said another, "anybody of common sense might see that. Only look at the thing there, sprawling upon his back in the mud. Did one ever see a Christian cheeld like that, with his goggle eyes, squinting one way; his ugly mouth drawn another, and his pinched-up nose all a-wry too?" "And now, Jenny," broke in the oldest crone, "'Tis lucky for 'e that I can tell 'e what you must do to get rid of this unlucky bucca, and get back thy own dear cheeld. Now there's an old way, and I don't know but it es the best; and that es to put the smale body upon the ashes' pile and beat it well with a broom; then lay it naked under a church-way stile; there leave et, and keep out of sight and hearan till the turn of night; and, nine times out of ten, the thing will be took off and the stolen cheeld put in his place. There's another plan but I never seed et tried--to make by night a smoky fire, with green ferns and dry. When the chimney and house are full of smoke as one can bear, throw the changeling on the hearth-stone; go out of the house; turn three times round; when one enters the right cheeld will be restored." The women of Brea--resolved to try what a beating on the ashes' pile would do towards getting rid of the goblin--threw it on a heap near at hand and commenced belabouring it with their brooms. But they had scarcely touched it than it set up such a roar that it was heard in Brea mansion; and Dame Ellis came running down the town-place to see what could be the matter. She asked what they were beating in that cruel way. Being nearly dark and the wet ashes sticking to the creature she couldn't tell what gave out such a doleful noise. "Why mistress," says Jenny, "that thing there on the ashes' pile es what was left in our house, when my dear cheeld was spirited away, by smale people, while I was reapan in your field the very day we cut the neck. All the neighbours know the trouble I've had ever since--how this thing that looked like my cheeld have ben all the time screechan, suckan, or eatan, and have never grown a bit, nor will make any use of his legs." "But thats nothan," said she, recovering her breath, "to what happened a few hours ago, and most frightened me out of my senses. You mayn't believe at--that when, on my way to Chapel Uny Well, with that thing astride on my shoulder, somebody that couldn't be seen by mortal eyes cried out, 'Tredril, Tredril, thy wife and children greet thee well!' Then, in an instant, good lack, that thing from my back replied, 'That little cared he for wife or child when he rode on Dowdy's back (meaning me) to the Chapel Well, and had good pap his fill.' Nobody can tell the fright I was in, to hear that thing talk like a man about his wife and child." Dame Ellis, lifting the creature from the ashes' heap, said to Jenny, "I believe that thou wert either drunk or in a waking dream when passing round the hill, and that this child, used so ill, is as truly thine as any thou hast born. Now take it home, wash it well, feed it regular, and don't thee leave it all day lying in its cradle; and, if thee canst not make it thrive, send for Dr. Madron." Jenny and the other women at first refused to comply with Dame Ellis's advice; told her that she knew next to nothing about such matters, and related many things to prove that the creature was no mortal's child, till the lady tired with their stories, turned to go in, saying to Jenny, "My husband shall come out and talk to thee; peradventure he may convince thee of thy error." Squire Ellis and his wife being quakers--a sect then but little known in the West--they were thought by Brea women, and many others, to be no better than unbelieving Pagans, "who haven't the grace," said they, "to know anything about such creatures as spriggans, piskies, knackers (knockers of the mines) and other small folks, good or bad, that haunt our carns, moors, and mines; who can vanish or make themselves visible when and how they please, as all more enlightened folks know." They well knew, however, what concerned them more--that Squire Ellis was their landlord, and that, quiet and quaker-like as he and his wife were in their talk, and demure in their looks, they were not to be trifled with; and that their will was law for all living on their estate unless they could contrive to deceive them. Squire Ellis came down and, finding that Jenny (with her bantling and all the others) were gone into a house, where he heard them loudly talking, he had nothing to say to them; perhaps, he kept an eye on their proceedings. Brea women, in spite of "unbelieving quakers," as they called Squire Ellis and his wife, among themselves--determined to have their own way--waited till all was dark in the great house; then Jenny, with the bantling or spriggan, and another woman, who was very knowing about changelings, passed quietly up Brea town-place, and under a stile on the Church-way path crossing a field from Brea lane, they left the creature (then asleep) that had been such a plague to them. Jenny returned to Brea Vean, and there stayed till morning. Being fatigued and worried she overslept herself, for it was nearly daybreak when she awoke and hurried away, between hopes and fears, to the stile; and there, sure enough, she found her own "dear cheeld," sleeping on some dry straw. The infant was as clean, from head to foot, as water could make it, and wrapped up in a piece of old gay-flowered chintz; which small folks often covet and steal from furze-bushes, when it is placed there in the sun to dry. Jenny nursed her recovered child with great care, but there was always something queer about it, as there always is about one that has been in the fairies' power--if only for a few days. It was constantly ailing and complaining, and, as soon as it was able to toddle, it would wander far away to all sorts of out-of-the-way places. The good lady of Brea often came to see it and brought it many nice things that its mother couldn't afford to buy, and when he was about nine years of age Squire Ellis took the changeling (as he was always called) into his service, but he was found to be such a poor simple innocent that he could never be trusted to work in the fields alone, much less with cattle; as a whim would take him, every now and then, to leave his work and wander away over hills and moors for days together. Yet he was found useful for attending to rearing cattle and sheep--then kept in great numbers on the unenclosed grounds of Brea. He was so careful of his master's flock in lambing time that there was seldom any lost. Forsaken or weakly lambs were often given to him by the neighbours, and he contrived to rear them so well that, in a few years, he had a good flock of his own that Squire Ellis and everyone else allowed him to pasture wherever he and his sheep choose to wander--everybody knew the poor changeling and made him welcome. When he grew to man's estate, however, he became subject to fits, and had to remain at home with his mother great part of his time. Yet, when the fits were over, nothing could restrain his propensity for wandering, and his sheep, goats, and even calves, always followed, and seemed equally to enjoy their rambles. He often talked to himself, and many believed that he was then holding converse with some of the fairy tribe, only visible to him, who enticed him to ramble among the carns, hills, and moors--their usual haunts. When about thirty years of age he was missed for several days; and his flock had been noticed, staying longer than usual near the same place, on a moor between the Chapel Hill and Bartinné, and there--surrounded by his sheep--he was found, lying on a quantity of rushes which he had pulled and collected for making sheep-spans. He lay, with his arm under his head, apparently in sweet sleep, but the poor changeling of Brea was dead. BETTY STOGS'S BABY.[4] Little more than twenty years ago, there lived in a lonely cot on a moor in Towednack a man and his wife with one child. The woman--from her slatternly habits--was known by the name of Betty Stogs; she had been married about a year and had a baby six months old or so; when, almost every day, whilst her husband was away 'to bal,' she would pass best part of the time 'courseying' from house to house in the nearest village. The child would mostly be left in the house alone or with nothing but the cat for company. One seldom saw the colour of the bantling's skin for dirt. When anyone asked Betty why she didn't wash it oftener, "The moor es a cold place," she'd reply, "and a good layer of dirt will help keep 'n hot." One afternoon about Midsummer she went to get milk for the child and stayed away gossiping till dusk; it was so dark when she entered her dwelling that she could scarcely see anything within it. She went to the cradle and found it empty; the child was nowhere to be seen; nor yet the cat that always slept with it, shared its pap, and cleaned the skillet in which the 'child's-meat,' was cooked. Whilst Betty was searching about the house her husband came home from work--last core by day,--he was in a great rage with his wife and greater grief for the loss of his 'crume of a cheeld,' as he called it. After hours spent in fruitless search Betty sat down and cried bitterly, whilst the father went away and told the neighbours what had happened. Everybody turned out to look for the child; they examined moors and crofts for a good distance round till after daybreak without seeing sight or sign of it; but, when it was near sunrise, Betty spied the cat coming towards her, then it went back mewling into a brake of furze. She followed it and came to a plot of mossy grass, surrounded by thickets and ferns, where she saw, amongst heath and wortleberry plants, a bundle of old-fashioned chintz; she opened it and there was her child, sleeping like a nut. It was wrapped in several gay old gowns, with mint, balm, and all sorts of sweet herbs and flowers that are found on moors or in gardens; but otherwise it was as naked as when born, yet clean and sweet as a rose. All the old folks said it was carried there by small-people, who intended to bear it away to the hills or carns; but it took them so long to clean it first that daylight surprised them ere they had done it to their mind; so they left it there meaning to fetch it the next night. The fright, however, that Betty had undergone, did her good and the child too, for she passed less time in courseying, and took more care of her babe for fear it might be stolen again. She made lots of frocks for it out of the old chintz; and it throve so well after the small folks' cleansing that he made as stout a man as his dad, who was usually called Jan the Maunster (monster) from his bulky form. [Illustration] HOW A MORVAH MAN BOUGHT CLOTHES FOR HIS WIFE.[4] "Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness are there." GOLDSMITH. Most of the dwellers in the cottages scattered over the hills to the north of Penzance (like the tinners of old) work in the mines and cultivate a few acres 'out of core.' They are also remarkable for preserving many old customs which are become extinct in less remote and more populous districts, as well as for the quaint simplicity of their manners and language. A few weeks ago a tall, middle-aged man entered a draper's shop in Penzance. His blue smock-frock, corduroy trousers, ruddy with tin stuff, and the high-poled Sunday's hat, marked him for a high-country tinner. He paused in the middle of the shop and looked around as if to select some particular one of the assistants to serve him; then going over to the counter, where the forewoman was standing, he placed three little packets of money, done up in paper, before her. "Look-e here, my dear," says he, "here's three packats of money for three things I want of 'e. Fust of all les have somethan to make a sheft for my old oman--dowlas or calico, you know the sort of stuff, and how much will do; for my old oman es of a tidy built and shaped much like you. (The blushes and titterings among the shop girls may be imagined). She told me how much, but I have forgot, only that a must cost ten-pence a yard; so cut off as much as will make a sheft for yourself, my dear, and see if you don't find the exact money for 'n in that paper, tied up with tape." The paper opened, the money was found right to a farthing. "Now, my dear, that's all right. Get some sort of stuff, made of sheep's clothing, I don't know what you call 'n, for to make an undercoat for the old oman. You know how much will do by your own measure; a must be two shellans a yard, and there's the money for 'n in that paper tied up with white yarn." To make sure of the quantity wanted, the shop woman counted the cash sent, before she cut the required length of sanford. When that was adjusted, "Now, my dear," says he, "we are getting on cappetal, sure nuf. Next let's have a pound of blue or black wostard--must be four shellans a pound and plum (soft) like yarn; there can be no mistake about that, and there es the money in the paper tied with black yarn. Now, over all these, I spose you will give me a nackan (handkerchief) for myself, waan't 'e, my darlan?" The master of the establishment, who had been rather amused at the scene, though it was nothing new to him, left the desk and desired the shop woman to open some of good quality and neat patterns, for him to choose from. "Why, Mr. ----, my dear, havn't 'e any smarter ones than these in your shop than?" Some old-fashioned ones, of a gay pattern, were soon found, which pleased the customer exactly. Mr. ---- gave the tinner a glass of wine besides, and asked him how he liked it? "Well, I can't say but a wed be pure keenly stuff with a glass of gin or brandy to warm un a little." The master replied that he had no spirit in the shop, but gave his customer six-pence to buy a dram to warm the wine, on the way home. "God bless 'e," says our Morvah man, slapping Mr. ---- on the shoulder, "but you are one of the right sort, and when my old oman do want a smock again I'll come and buy 'n for her, I don't wender now that all the women like to go to your shop, and that young woman there is pure block tin. But I spose, my dear," says he, turning towards the one he compared to pure tin, "you think me an old Molly-caudle, don't 'e, for coman here to buy the dudds for the old oman home? But 'force put es no choice,' my dear. I'll tell 'e a minute how she esn't here herself. This mornan, when I was takan breakfast to go to bal, Jenny took off a crock of petates from the brandes, that she had, to save time, boiled for the pig alongside of the tea-kettle for my breakfast. She must always be doan two or three jobs together like the milkmaid before now. She took the crock of petates out in the court to empty away the waater, and a minute before she had put a tub of calves'-meat to cool on the caunce, and the cheeld, accordan to custom, was trying to get at 'n to splash and play in the milk. The cheeld todlan round the tub, tumbled in souce, head down, Jenny left the cover slip from the crock in her fright, and out came the boilan waater and petates all over her foot. "Then she cried, 'Come thee way'st out here Billy and take the cheeld out of the calves'-tub; see what I've done, and a es all thy fault; why disna (dids't thou not) keep the cheeld out of the way?' Ah was no good to say anything to her, my dear, because all the women, except you, will lay the blame on somebody else, for the foolish things they do. I dragged the cheeld out of the milk, left the dog to lick 'n clean, and dipped Jenny's foot in a bucket of waater. The pigs got at the crock and made some screechan when the hot petates burnt their throats. Next I put my old oman on the bed and pulled off her stockan with as much care as ef I'd ben peelan a petate. Then, by her direction, put a linan rag, spread with raw cream, all over the scald, and, without clunkan a bit more breakfast, got ready in a jiffy to run in to the doctor for a plaster, and salve, and things, and to know what was best to do. "'Billy,' says she, 'as sure es I'm alive, I shall be laid up for weeks, and thee west have to do the work indoors and out, but I can never put away the time doan nothan. Put on thy best hat and blue coat, thy old clothes make thee look foolish in town, and go in to Mr. ----'s shop; mind what I do tell thee. I've been savan money these weeks past to buy some underclothing for winter, the next time I did go to town, and there a all es in the skibbat of the chest, in three pieces of papar, the money that each thing will come to.' "Then she told me all about the price and number of yards, that I kept repeatan to myself all the way in till I come to the doctor's shop and there I forgot all about et. But she told me I should find a nice motherly oman in this shop just her size, and that's you my dear, who would tell me what to do ef I forgot. Jenny wanted to have something to do while her foot was healan. I told her I didn't much like to go to shop to buy her smock and undercoat; she could ask the nearest neighbour's wife to do et for her. 'No, the devil a bit,' says she, 'that I waan't! Ask Honney's boy Tom's wife, to buy the things for me! I'll go without a sheft fust, for she will go to meetan somewhere or other every night for a week that she may tell the rest of them what my things cost (and oh! the lies they will tell about et among them); besides, we shall have the house full all the time with them, makan out they are come to see how I am. Take the cheeld along weth thee down to An' Nancy Trembaa's; leave 'n there; and ask her to step up to milkey and do the rest of the mornan work for me.' When I left the cheeld down to An' Nancy's, and told her what had happened, away she went, wethout stopan so much as to put her hat on, up to keep things to rights while I'm wantan. "Well, soas, I've done the best I could. I've got the plaster and salve in the head of my hat, with a fuggan Jenny made me take to eat on the road. A high bell-topper es as handy as a basket to stow away the lumber in; dash me ef a esn't. None of your low billycocks for me. "Now I wish 'e all well, my dears, and ef you will come up to see us one Sunday afternoon you shall be as welcome 'One and All,' as ef you had been my own sisters. God bless 'e all; I shall be tother side of Ding Dong in less than an hour." Neither the master nor the shop assistants saw anything to laugh at when the tinner had told his simple story. On the contrary they felt much interested, as his 'old oman' was a well-known customer. HOW A ZENNOR MAN CHOKED HIMSELF, BUT HAD HIS WILL IN HIS POCKET.[4] Not long ago a high-country farmer, after having finished his marketing, in Penzance, treated himself to a supper at a cook-shop in Caunsehead. Being in great hunger, or haste, he thought it waste of time to cut his meat into smaller pieces than he could possibly swallow; besides, solid junks would stand by his ribs and do the more good. He made but two morsels of a quarter of a pound of beef; and in bolting the last it stuck in his throat. In an instant he went blue in the face and fell on the floor. The landlord ran for a surgeon, and by good luck found one at home, the other side of the street. "Stand clear a bit, and open the man's trap," said the doctor. With much trouble the Zennor man's jaws were forced open, and the doctor feeling a portion of the meat pulled out a piece about six inches long. The patient was soon restored and ready for another such meal. Then a lawyer's clerk, who had just entered, remarked;--"Why, old boy, you ought to make your will and keep it by ye before sit down to eat beef again." "Why bless 'e so I have. I always keep my will in my pocket, and you shall see am ef you mind to. I made 'n myself--no lawyers for me. Here a es." Saying this he drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, and gave it to the doctor, telling him he might keep it, if he had a mind to see how to make a will. He intended to make another the next Sunday, because he had more things to bequeath now than when he made the testament, of which the following is a faithful copy:-- "I'll make my will while I am well. I will bestow my riches. I'll give to Ellek,[5] my eldest son, my best Coat, Jacket, and my Breeches. As for my watch et es in pawn; else Elexander should have that. Neckey shall have the courage Horse, and Jan the little Sprat. Mary shall have the milking Cow, and Lystria shall have the Heifer. Fillis shall have the flock of Sheep, and wat can I do better? Old Polly shall have the Puss[6] of goold, and that will most maintain her. Sally shall have the old brass Pan, the Bucket, and the Strainer. "Signed, sealed, and delivered, in the presence of "COUSIN MATTHEW HOLLOW, "UNCLE PHILIP EDDY, and "JOHN QUICK, the Schoolmaster." [4] According to our intended arrangement the three foregoing stories should have preceded those of St. Just. [5] Alexander. [6] Purse. THE SMUGGLERS OF PENROSE. _Part the First._ In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire With good old folkes; and let them tell thee tales Of woful ages, long ago betid. KING RICHARD II. What remains of the old mansion of Penrose, in Sennen, stands on a low and lonely site at the head of a narrow valley; through which a mill-brook winds, with many abrupt turns, for about three miles, thence to Penberth Cove. So late as forty years ago, it was one of those antique, mysterious looking buildings, which most persons regard with a degree of interest that no modern structure inspires; the upper story only--with its mullioned windows, pointed gables, and massive chimney-stacks--was just seen over the ivey-covered walls of courts and gardens that surrounded it. There was, however, a certain gloomy air about the ruinous walls and neglected gardens embowered in aged trees, which might have conduced to such unaccountable stories of apparitions and other unnatural occurrences, as were said to have taken place there. Some three or four centuries ago, it was the property and residence of an ancient family of the same name; little more is known of these old Penroses than what can be gathered from wild traditions related by the winter's hearth. The following among many others were often recounted by old folks of the West. About three hundred years ago, the owner of Penrose was a younger son who had been brought up to a seafaring life, which he continued to follow till his elder brothers died unmarried and left him heir to the family estate; then, preferring a life on the wave, he kept a well-armed, fast-sailing, craft for fair-trading, or what is now called smuggling; she was manned with as brave a crew as could be picked out of the West Country; most of them are said to have been the Squire's poor relations. A favourite cousin, called William Penrose--who had been his shipmate for years--was captain of the merry men all. The Squire often took trips to France and other places, whence his goods were brought, and it is said that in his days Penrose crew were never concerned in any piratical jobs; though we know that about that time smuggler, privateer, and pirate, meant very much the same thing, whilst the two latter were then convertible terms with most of our rovers on the deep. Penrose and his seamen passed but little time on shore except in the depth of winter; yet the board in his hall was always furnished with good substantial fare and the best of liquors, free for all comers. Over a few years, when the good man was left a widower, with an only child--a boy about seven or eight--he seemed to dislike the very sight of land, for then, even in winter, with his little son, his cousin William, and two or three old sailors, he would stay out at sea for weeks together; leaving, as usual, the care of his farms and household to the care of a younger brother and an old reve or bailif. In returning from one of these trips, in a dark winter's night, their boat struck on Cowloe and became a wreck. The Squire swam into Sennen Cove with his boy, and in endeavouring to save his crew got drowned himself. The only remaining brother, known as Jan of Penrose, constituted himself sole guardian of the heir, and master of the place and property. Now this Jan hated all whom his late brother favoured; and in consequence of his ill-will William Penrose left the West Country--for the sea it was supposed--but whither he wandered was unknown, as no tidings of him were received in the West. The new master, however, soon got a large smuggling craft and manned her with a crew who cared but little what they did for gold or an exciting life; being well-armed they feared nothing that sailed the ocean. Jan of Penrose never went to sea; but gave the command to a wretch--known to have been a pirate--who was cast on Gwenvor sands from his ship wrecked in Whitsand Bay, on the night that the good Squire Penrose was drowned. This pirate-smuggler and his desperate crew boarded many a rich merchant-man going up Channel, from which they appropriated whatsoever they pleased, and sent all who opposed them to the other world by water. There was no Preventive Service then, to be any check on our free trade. If Revenue Cutters came near our western land, their crews dreaded to fall in with Cornish fair-traders more than our smugglers feared the King's men. As for riding officers they would ride anywhere else rather than on the cliff, when beacon fires blazed from the carns of dark nights to guide fair-traders' boats into the coves. When the rich goods and plunder were landed, and any over-curious person remarked that they were not such as seemed likely to have been purchased from our neighbours across the Channel, the jolly crew would give themselves credit for being valiant privateers, and as such be much renowned by simple country folks, and their plunder passed as lawful prize. People came from all over the country to purchase the goods, safely stowed in vaults and other hiding places about Penrose; and in winter the crew spent much of their time there in drunken rioting with all the reckless youngsters of the neighbourhood. After the good Squire was drowned his brother appeared to show every kindness to the orphan heir; yet it was remarked that the child seemed instinctively to avoid his uncle and the captain, who consorted much together when the smugglers were ashore. Whenever the boy could elude the old steward's vigilance he would go away alone to the rocks in Sennen Cove where his father was drowned, or shut himself up for hours in his father's bed-room, or wander about other parts of the gloomy north wing, which was almost in ruins and seldom entered by other inmates. One winter's day, the ground being covered with snow, Penrose's people and many others of the neighbourhood joined for a wolf-hunt. Traditions say that in those times terrible havoc was often made on flocks by these fierce beasts, and that children were sometimes carried off by them when hard pressed with hunger. Neither John Penrose nor the captain went to the chase; when at night the game-laden hunters returned and blew their bugle-horns, they remarked with surprise that the young heir--who was a general favourite--did not, as was his wont, come into the court to meet them. The boy was sought for in every place whither it was thought he might have strayed. His uncle seemed to be much distressed, and continued the fruitless search until it was surmised that the child must have missed his way in returning from Sennen Cove, wandered out under Escols Cliff, there got drowned by the flowing tide, and carried out to sea on the ebb. After this, Jan of Penrose, having all his own, became more riotously debauched than ever; and his gang having taken a somewhat strange aversion to their captain, he left and was no more seen in the West. The tapestry chamber and all the northern wing was shut up, or unoccupied, as it had the reputation of being haunted. None of the servants nor even the devil-may-care smugglers would venture into it after night-fall, when unearthly shrieks would be heard there, and strange lights seen flashing through the casements till near morning. Lights were also often seen in an orchard just below the town-place when no one was there. These unnatural occurrences, however, put no check to the excesses of Penrose's band and the lawless castaways who joined them. By way of variety to their fun, they frequently disguised themselves and made nocturnal excursions to some village within a few miles, where they would alarm the quiet folks in the dead of night, by discharging their fire-arms in a volley; and make a bonfire of a furze-rick, out-house, or thatched dwelling. The poor villagers in their fright, would mistake these wretches for outlandish people, come again to burn and pillage as in days of yore. They were all the more ready to think so because about this time the Spaniards had great fondness for roving round the western coasts, and often did much damage in defenceless places; it was in Jan Penrose's time, too, that a few Dons, high by day, put off from a galley in Whitsand Bay, landed on Gwenvor Sands, and destroyed Velan-dreath Mill. To return to Penrose crew, at the height of the fright and confusion they would carry off such young women as they had before agreed on; the gallants would take their fair-ones before them on horseback to Escols Cliff or the hills, where they would be left alone by daybreak, to find their way back afoot. Having carried on this sport a long time with impunity, they became so bold at last as to make an attack on Buryan Church-town; fortunately, however, Buryan men were apprised of their intentions in time to be armed and ready to give them a warm reception; in short they lay in wait for the smugglers, drove them all into a vacant place near the cross in Church-town, and there surrounded them; when thus hemmed in the band fought desperately, and till nearly every man of them was killed or disabled they continued shouting to each other, "cheer up comrades, die one, die all, and die we merrilly;" and so many of them met their end in this encounter that Penrose band was soon after broken up. One night of the following Christmas, whilst a large company was assembled at Penrose, keeping high festival after a day's hunt, loud knocking was heard at the green-court door, and soon after a servant conducted into the hall an elderly wayfaring man who requested a night's shelter from the snow-storm. John Penrose received the wanderer with hospitable courtesy; and charged his steward, the old reve, to provide him with good cheer; the guests continued their glee and paid but little attention to him, for begging homeless pilgrims were all too plenty here at that time. The company was also entertained by professional droll-tellers and ballad-singers; persons of that class were then--and long after continued to be--received, as substitutes for minstrels, in gentlemen's houses of the humbler sort. The stranger, however, regarded the company with attention, and noticed that the master of Penrose looked wretched and haggard amidst all the merriment. His scrutiny was interrupted by the steward who conducted him to another room where a well furnished board, beside a blazing fire, awaited him. The stranger having refreshed himself, told the old steward how he had just returned from a long pilgrimage in foreign lands, and had seen many places spoken of in miracle-plays, which were acted in the Plan-an-Gware at St. Just, and how he had that morning arrived at Market-jew on board an eastern ship that traded there for tin. He also said that he once had friends in the West Country; whether they were alive or dead he knew not, but hoped to obtain some tidings of them on the morrow. The wanderer's voice seemed familiar to the old steward, and recalled former times; but, ere they had time for more discourse, they were invited to return to the hall and see a guise-dance, which was about to commence. The stranger seemed interested in the quaint performance of "St. George and the Turkish Knight." A droll-teller in his character of bard, took the part of chorus; explained the intent of coming scenes; instructed and prompted the actors as well. The play being concluded and the guisards well rewarded by the wayfarer, he withdrew and told the steward that he felt weary after his long walk though the snow and would be glad to lie down; if all the beds were occupied, he could repose, he said, in a settle by the fireside, for a few hours only, as he intended to leave early in the morning. The old man replied that he feared any other accommodation in his power to offer was not such as he might desire,--although the house was large, with ample bed-rooms for more guests than it now contained--because a great part of the northern end was shut up for a reason that the inmates did not like to talk about. Yet as he believed the pilgrim to be a prudent man, who was, no doubt, learned in ghostly matters, he was glad to unburden his own mind and have his visitor's counsel, with his prayers for the repose of the unquiet spirits that disturbed the place. Then he told how many of the upper rooms, though well furnished, were unused and falling to ruin on account of the unnatural sounds and sights before mentioned. To which the stranger answered that as he had a mind at ease he had no reason to dread any ghostly visitants; if the steward would conduct him to a room in the haunted wing he did not fear for his rest. The old steward, taking a lamp, led the way to the tapestry chamber--being the best room in that part of the mansion. A faggot of dry ash-wood--already laid in the large open fire-place--was soon in a blaze, and the room well aired and somewhat comfortable. The old man brought in bread, meat, and wine, that the guest might take more refreshment during the night, and supply his wallet in the morning if he started before breakfast. After returning with more wood and bog-turf to keep in the fire, he bade the guest good-night, sweet rest, and pleasant dreams. _Part the Second._ Blood, though it sleeps a time, yet never dies; The gods on murd'rers fix revengeful eyes. CHAPMAN. After the old steward had retired from the dreaded room, its occupant was in no haste to rest himself on the large stately looking bed; but seemed never weary of examining the old portraits and quaint figures in the arras (which might have been intended for portraits too), the massive oak furniture with bold, grotesque, carvings, ancient armour, coats of mail, and other interesting objects, which were suspended from the walls, or in hanging presses, with all of which he appeared familiar; so that it was near midnight when he sat down in the long window-seat. The storm had ceased and a full moon, shining on newly fallen snow, made it almost as light as day. He opened the casement and looked into the court, where he saw a company of young men and women passing out singly and in silence. The visitor, being well acquainted with West Country customs, knew--as this was twelfth night--that the object of this silent procession was to work some of the many spells, usually practised at this time, for the purpose of gaining a knowledge of their future destiny with respect to what they regarded as the most important of all events--marriage and death. So great was the desire of many young people to obtain an insight of what the future had in store for them, that they often practised singular rites,--still well-known in the West,--which are probably vestiges of ancient magian ceremonials connected with divination. This night, however, the young peoples' intention was simply to gather ivy leaves and pull rushes; by the aid of which, with fire and water, they hoped to discover who would be wedded, and with whom, or buried before the new year was ended. There are many instances of predictions, with regard to the latter event, conducing to accomplish their own fulfilment, from their effects on people of melancholy temperament. The pilgrim had not sat long, looking out of the open casement, when he saw the company of young men and maidens come running back, apparently in great fright. The doors were all immediately slammed to, the noisy mirth and music suddenly ceased in the hall. The house, in a few moments, was shrouded in thick fog; all was still as death about the place for some minutes, then a noise was heard like the distant roaring and moaning of the sea in a storm. These ocean sounds seemed to approach nearer and nearer every instant, until the waves were heard as if breaking and surging around the house. In the wailing wind was heard a noise of oars rattling in their row-locks for another instant; then as of the casting of oars hastily into a boat. This was followed by the hollow voices of the smugglers, drowned with the old Squire, hailing their own names, as drowned men's ghosts are said to do when they want the assistance of the living to procure them rest. All this time the green-court appeared as if filled with the sea, and one could hear the breakers roaring as when standing on a cliff in a storm. All the buildings and trees surrounding the mansion disappeared as if sunk into the ground. At length the surging of waves and other sounds gradually died away until they were only heard like the 'calling of cleeves' before a tempest. The steward had told the stranger of these noises and appearances, which had become frequent of late, to the great terror of the household; but he gave little heed to the old man's tales, thinking that such visions were merely the creations of weak brains diseased by strong potions. 'Tis said that when the young folks reached the outer gate of the avenue, near which they would find the plants required for their spells, all keeping silence and taking care not to look behind them--as this or speaking would spoil the charm--a female, who was a short distance ahead of the others, saw what appeared to be the sea coming over the moors before a driving fog. She ran shrieking to join her companions, who also beheld the waves fast approaching--rolling, curling, and breaking on the heath. They all ran up to the house with their utmost speed; and some who had the courage to look behind them, when near the court door, saw the curling breakers within a few yards of them; and a boat, manned with a ghostly crew, came out of the driving mist as they rushed into the house; and, not daring to look out, they saw nothing more. The weary wayfaring man, having a clear conscience, feared nothing evil in what appeared to him an unaccountable mystery, even in that time of marvels; and, having told his beads, he committed himself to good spirits' care. The brave man was rather soothed than alarmed by a plaintive melody, until there was a change in the harmonious strains, which grew more distinct; and mingled with them were the tones of loved and once familiar voices, calling, "William Penrose, arise and avenge the murder of thy cousin's son!" Casting a glance towards the window--whence the sound proceeded--he saw just within it the apparition of a beautiful boy in white raiment. A light which surrounded it showed the countenance of the lost heir of Penrose. At the same time the room was filled with an odour like that of sweet spring flowers. The pilgrim, William Penrose, spoke to the spirit and conjured it, according to the form prescribed by Holy Church, to speak and say what he should do to give it rest. The apparition, coming nearer, told how he had been murdered by the pirate-captain of the smugglers, on the grand hunting day; and how his uncle had given the pirate a great quantity of gold to do the bloody deed--that he had been buried in the orchard under an apple-tree, that would be known, even in winter, by its blasted appearance,--that the murderer was then in Plymouth, keeping a public-house, the situation of which was so plainly described by the spirit that William Penrose would have no difficulty in finding it, and bringing the murderer to justice by means of such proofs of his crime as would be found beneath the blasted tree. Moreover he told William that the spirits knew he was gone on a pilgrimage for their repose; and that they all, through him, sought his aid to enable them to rest in peace. William Penrose having promised to perform all according to the wishes of the departed, music was again heard and the spirit gradually disappeared in a cloud of light. Then the weary man sunk into sound repose from which he only awoke at break of day. His cousin, the good Squire, had also appeared to him in a dream, and told him that concealed in the wainscot, beneath a certain piece of tapestry, he would find a secret cabinet, in which was preserved good store of gold and jewels for the infant heir; and that the key of this hidden treasury was behind a leaf of carved foliage which ornamented the bed head. He was told to take what money he required for his journey and to keep the key. He found everything as indicated in his dream. Jan of Penrose had often sought for this private recess--where heirlooms and other valuables were concealed, and only made known to the heir when of age, or to a trusty guardian, if a minor--but he was deterred from further search by such an apparition as made him avoid the chamber, and of which he would never speak after his fearful fright was past. The pilgrim arose and requested the old steward to accompany him a short distance on his journey. Before they parted the stranger discovered himself, to the old man's great delight, to be the long-lamented William Penrose; told him that he was about to undertake a long journey for the repose of the dead; that he would return when he had accomplished his mission; and bade the steward adieu, without speaking of the apparition or the cause of disturbances in the mansion. William Penrose, having arrived in the ancient town of Plymouth, and entered the mean public-house to which he had been directed by the apparition, saw the person he sought lying stretched by the fireside in a squalid apartment that served for kitchen, guest-chamber, and sleeping room. The former pirate-captain looked like a deserter from the churchyard (as we say); the face of this child-murderer was the colour of one long in the tomb; with but little signs of life except in the lurid glare of his sunken eyes. William Penrose with much difficulty induced the 'wisht-looking' object to converse; and, after a while, led him to talk of the West Country, then of Sennen. From that the pilgrim spoke of Penrose, and asked him if he knew, in Penrose orchard, a certain apple-tree, which he pointly described. He had no sooner mentioned it than the inn-keeper exclaimed, "I am a dead man." The miserable wretch begged the pilgrim to have mercy on him and listen to his confession, in which he declared he was driven to commit the murder by his evil spirit that made him dislike the child, because he had long hated his parents, more than from any love of gold given him by Jan of Penrose, to remove the only obstacle to his possession of the estate. William Penrose--who was still unknown to the inn-keeper--wondered what cause of ill-will he could ever have had against the good old Squire or his wife, until the former pirate told how he was the prodigal son--long supposed dead--of an ancient, respectable, but poor family, whose ancestral seat was within a few miles of Penrose--how, almost from his childhood, he had long and truly loved, and as he trusted, had his love returned by the lady who became the wife of Squire Penrose,--how that he had left his home in St. Just on a desperate privateering expedition, in hopes of soon gaining sufficient riches to make the lady's parents regard him with favour,--how, whilst he was returning with gold enough to buy the parish, Penrose had wooed and won the lady--his first and only love, for whom he had toiled and suffered every hardship during many years. He also related how when he came home so altered, by the burning suns of the Spanish Main, that his nearest relatives knew him not, and found out the ill return his lady-love had made him, that his only solace was the hope of revenge. Some of the gold that he had sweat blood to gain, for the sake of the faithless fair, was laid out in a fast sailing craft, which might pass for a merchant-man, privateer, or pirate, as she was all in turn during a few years that he roamed the British seas. The vessel was manned with a desperate crew, most of them his old comrades, who would do anything to please him. The design he had formed, more through hate than love, was to carry the lady off to some foreign land. A year or so after his return he landed one night in Whitsand Bay, accompanied by a great part of his well-armed crew, who took their way towards Penrose, where he learned ere their arrival, that his design of carrying off the lady was frustrated by her having been laid in the grave a few days before. After this he wandered over sea and land by turns, caring nothing what became of him, until cast on Gwenvor Sands--poor and naked, as his ship foundered in deep water, when all but himself were drowned; and, as bad luck would have it, he reached the shore on some loose part of the wreck. The worst portion of his story from this time is already told; but no one can tell, as he related, how the desire of gold--to enable him to recommence his roving life, far away from the hated sight of the land and everything else that recalled a remembrance of his blighted youthful hopes--maddening drink, and a wicked heart, farther irritated by Jan Penrose, made him murder the child that he would have given a hundred lives to restore before he received the uncle's bloody gold. Since then he had never a moment been free from remorse. He wished for death, but feared to die. If he drank himself mad, that only increased the horror of his thoughts. He had scarcely finished his sad tale when William Penrose discovered himself to be the well-remembered playmate of the wretched man's innocent youth; and he had only time to beg Penrose to bestow in alms his ill-got store, for the scarcely hoped for mitigation of future punishment, when he breathed his last. When William Penrose returned to Penrose and made himself known, to the great joy of old servants and others, he found that what was thought to be merely the gloomy and morose temper of its master frequently made him shun all society, and wander about the hills or cliffs and other solitary places, for days and nights together. No one either loved, feared, or cared enough about the surly man to pay him any regard. He was absent then in one of his melancholy moods, and William with the steward, aided by other old trusty servants, removed the child's remains from beneath the blasted tree to Sennen churchyard; and out of respect to the honourable old family, little was said or known about the sad occurrence. Jan of Penrose was no more seen alive in the old mansion, for the same night that his nephew's remains were buried in consecrated ground, he hanged himself in the malt-house; and he haunted it long after. Following the spirit's injunction William Penrose had still to find and remove the bodies of the old Squire and his crew. Now it was supposed that they were 'sanded'--that is sunk in the moist sand and covered by it during a flowing tide--near Gwenvor Cove, because corpse-lights had frequently been seen, and the drowned sailors had been heard there "hailing there own names," as they are still accustomed to do when requiring aid of the living. Next day Penrose and others found the bodies of the old sailor-squire and his crew near the place where fishermen had heard the "calling of the dead," and their remains were laid to repose, with all holy rites, in an ancient burying-ground near Chapel Idné, where the wind and waves sing their everlasting requiem in music they loved well when alive:-- "Pie Jesu, Domine, Dona eis requiem. Amen." William Penrose, now heir-at-law of the bartons of Penrose, Brew, and other farms in the West Country,--disliking to live in the place connected with such melancholy events--gave up his rights of heirship to another branch of the family; resumed his pilgrim's staff; and was supposed to have died in the Holy Land. * * * * * The Penroses still in the West are said to be descended from a younger branch of the ancient family of Sennen; with whom the Pendreas or Pendars were intermarried. The family of Jones purchased the Penroses' West Country property, and it remained in their possession until the beginning of the last century. We hear again of smugglers being kept in pay by the last Jones, of Penrose, and by others who succeeded him. From the facilities afforded by this secluded place for concealing contraband goods, it was always noted as a favourite resort for western fair-traders. Many people about the Land's End believe the old mansion was always haunted; and it is said this was the principal reason for taking down and rebuilding a portion of it a few years since. [Illustration] TREGAGLE. In Cornwaile's fair land, bye the poole on the moore, Tregeagle the wicked did dwell. He once was a shepherde, contented and poore, But growing ambytious, and wishing for more, Sad fortune the shepherde befelle. JOHN PENWARNE. One may almost every day hear West Country folks make allusion to Tregagle; for instance, a squalling child is called a Tregagle; and to a blusterer they often say, "Hold thy bleatan, thee art worse than Tregagle roaran before a storm." But little is known here of the living man's history--which belonged for the most part to the neighbourhood of Bodmin--all our common sayings, connected with him, refer to his troublesome ghost at Gwenvor. Our vague traditions, however, represent him as having been a most unscrupulous lawyer; and say that he rose from low estate, by taking bribes to lose his poorer client's cases, by bearing or procuring false witnesses; forging documents relating to the bequest of property; and other nefarious transactions which resulted in his acquisition of much riches and consequent power. He is also said to have been so cruel in his domestic relations,--by having despatched several wives, who were rich heiresses--that he is regarded as a sort of Cornish Bluebeard, who sold his soul to the devil that he might have his wishes for a certain number of years. All our western legends agree, however, in stating that the particular business which was the cause of his being "called from the grave" was this:-- A man who resided in the eastern part of the county, lent a sum of money to another without receiving bond or note or anything for security, as the transaction was witnessed by Tregagle; for whom the money was borrowed; and who died before the money was repaid. Soon after Tregagle's death, the lender demanded his money, and his debtor denied ever having received it. The case was brought before the court at Bodmin assizes; and when the plaintiff said that Tregagle was the only witness, the defendant denied it with an oath, and exclaimed, "If Tregagle ever saw it I wish to God that Tregagle may come and declare it." The words were no sooner uttered than Tregagle stood before the court, and, pointing to the man, said, "I can no more be a false witness, thou hast had the money, and found it easy to bring me from the grave, but thou wilt not find it so easy to put me away." Wherever the terrified man moved about the court Tregagle followed him; he begged the judge and long-robed gentlemen to relieve him from the spirit. "That's thy business," said they, one and all, "thou hast brought him, thou may'st get him laid." The man returned home, but whithersoever he went Tregagle followed, and would seldom quit his side or let him rest by night or by day. He repaid the borrowed money, gave much in alms, and sought to get rid of the spirit by the aid of parsons, conjurors, and other wise men, before they succeeded in binding it, for a while, to empty Dosmery Pool with a crogan (limpet shell) that had a hole in its bottom. Having soon finished that task, he returned to the man that brought him from his grave, and followed and tormented him worse than before, until he procured the help of other powerful exorcists who were more astute. The first thing they did was to draw a circle, out in the town-place, and put the man to stand within it. The spirit then took the form of a black bull and tried to get at him with horns and hoofs, but the man was safe within the line traced. A parson continued reading all the time, while others kept an eye on the spirit that took many shapes. At first the holy words of power made him furious; by turns, he bellowed like a mad bull, hissed like an adder, or roared like a wild beast, that he might be heard for miles away. Yet, by degrees, Tregagle became as gentle as a lamb, and allowed the spirit-quellers to bind him with a new hempen cord; and to lead him far away to Gwenvor Cove. There they doomed him to make a truss of sand, to be bound with ropes made of the same material, and carry it up to Carn Olva. Tregagle was a long while at his tiresome task without being able to accomplish it, until it came to a very cold winter, when, one hard frosty night, by taking water from Velan Dreath brook, and pouring it over his truss, he caused it to freeze together and bore it in triumph to Carn Olva. He then flew back to the man who raised him, and he would have torn him in pieces, but, by good luck, he happened to have in his arms an innocent young child, so the spirit couldn't harm him. Without delay the terrified man sent for the nearest parson, who, however, was not able, alone, to cope with Tregagle; the most he could do was to prevent him from harming the man until other spirit-quellers were brought to his assistance; with whose aid the furious spirit was again bound, led away to Gwenvor, and required to undertake the same task, without going near fresh water. So Tregagle was matched at last, for he is still there on the shore of Whitsand Bay vainly trying to make his truss of sand; and he is frequently heard roaring for days before a northerly storm comes to scatter it. * * * * * I well remember that when a boy, and living in Rafra, St. Levan, how elderly men would go out into the town-place, last thing before they went to bed, to "look at the weather,"--in harvest particularly,--and come in saying, "Tregagle is roaring, so we shall surely have northerly wind and a dry day to-morrow," or, "the northern cleeves are calling," by which they meant the same, and unconsciously used somewhat poetical figures of speech. A legend which connects Tregagle's escape from Gwenvor with the sanding up of Parcurnow has been noticed (on page 140); other stories, however, say, that job was imposed on him as a separate task, which he quickly accomplished just before he was finally settled at Gwenvor. WEST COUNTRY SUPERSTITIONS. DEVIL'S MONEY. There needs no other charm nor conjurer, To raise infernal spirits up, but fear. BUTLER. Not long ago it was believed that Old Nick frequently appeared in the form of a bull, and that he often placed money to tempt the unwary. The following story--told us of the late Sir Rose Price's huntsman--will help to explain notions which are not yet wholly exploded. When the huntsman was a boy his parents lived in Nancledra, and sent him daily to a school two or three miles off, till he was about thirteen years old. He had his dinner sent with him, and he often minched. One morning he wandered away over the moors in search of birds' nests and rabbits' burrows. He had a good pasty in his dinner-bag and the day passed pleasantly in birds-nesting, searching for young rabbits, and playing about a tin-stream, three miles or so up the Bottom, where he stayed till the streamers left work. Then he took his course for home, over hedges and ditches, wandering wherever his fancy led him, till almost dark, when he found himself in a large hilly field not far from Nancledra. In making a short cut for home he crossed this field, and, when near the middle of it, he heard a bull bellowing, and shortly saw a large black one making towards him with tail up and head down; sometimes it would stop to tear up the ground, and fling its horns as if to get in practice to toss the boy; who being far from any hedges, there seemed no way of escape from the field before the bull could overtake him. But, luckily, within a few yards, there was a large rock, to which he ran and climbed it, a moment only before the bull came to it. The brute kept on, for a long time, going round and round the rock, bellowing and tearing up the turf as if in a rage, till at last, tired with his vain endeavours--as it seemed--to get at the boy, it hoisted its tail like a flag-staff, galloped off, and vanished in a minute. The boy didn't venture from his fort for sometime after the bull left. At length he 'cramed' down over a shelving side of the rock on all fours, head foremost--it was too dark to see where to put his feet. When he touched ground with his hand he felt and took up what he thought, by the feel of it, to be a penny-piece or a large button. He ran home and saw, by light shining through a window, that he had found a penny. When the way was clear, he made a place to hide it, in a hole over the chimney-stool--the fire-place was a large open one for burning furze and turf. Next night, about the same hour as on the preceding, he went on the rock, 'cramed' down again, and found two penny-pieces, which he hoarded in the hole; and, night after night, he visited the rock, found the money doubled each succeeding night, and picked up silver money in other places where one would the least expect to find it, till his hiding-place was nearly full in a few weeks. How much longer this luck would have continued there is no knowing; for, one night, when he thought there was nobody about, his mother came in and found him standing on the chimney-stool so earnest about something that he didn't see her watching him, and he kept handling his money till she said, "Whatever hast thee got there between the stones, that thee art always stealing into the chimney, whenever thee dost think nobody is noticing of thee." "Only my buttons and marbles, mother," said he. "I don't believe thee," replied his mother; "stand away, and I'll see for myself." Saying this she took up the fire-hook, ran the point of it into the hole, and dragged out a lot of money. "Now tell me, or I'll kill thee, thou lying thief," said she, "where didst thee get this money; if thee hast stole it I'll murder thee, I will." The boy didn't much mind his mother's threats--terrific as they seem--he was used to it. Yet she made him tell how he came by the money. "Oh! good gracious mercy on us," cried she, before he had finished telling her; "oh! thou wicked boy; thee hast frightened me out of my life. Now tell me true," moaned she, wringing her hands, "hast thee used any of the devil's money, put there to entice thee to sell thyself to him, body and soul?" "No, mother, please sure I han't," said he, "I was savan all to buy a gun." "Well, thank goodness," groaned his mother, "that I have found all out in time to prevent thee shuttan thyself or somebody else with the devil's gun. I should never more rejoice if I thought thee hast used a farthing of en. Know, thou plague of my heart, that what seemed to thee a bull was the Old One hisself. He placed the money there for thee, and, when the bull seemed to vanish, he only changed to an adder, a toad, or something else that suited his purpose, and he was watchan thee all the time." Whilst talking to the boy she raked all the money on to a fire-shovel, and threw it under a brandes, around which there was a good turf-fire. In a few minutes all the money melted away, and was gone like hailstones in sunshine. Next morning she carried out all the ashes, strewed them about the town-place, and swept the hearth nine times before she lighted a new fire. The poor woman never rested till she told old Parson Stephens. He didn't altogether believe the boy's story, but said that if it was the devil's money she did right, or she might have--brought it to him. The boy was so terrified by what his mother said, that, for years after, he never ventured to wander by night, even when he hunted for Sir Rose, and was as stout a man as one might see of a market day; and the sight of a black bull or anything he took for such would always make him tremble. There are many stories of this class about people having been enticed with devil's money, but few of them have so fortunate an ending as the old huntsman's relation. THE SLIGHTED DAMSEL OF GWINEAR. Trust me no tortures that the poets feign Can match the fierce, th' unutterable pain He feels who, day and night, devoid of rest, Carries his own accuser in his breast. JUVENAL. There is a general belief, in the western part of Cornwall, that if a greatly injured person, the last thing before death, reads or recites the 109th Psalm, usually called the "Cursing Psalm," applying its comminations to the injurer, the dying maledictions are sure to take effect. Nearly a hundred years ago there lived in Gwinear Church-town a young man called Thomas Thomas, who for many years courted his cousin, Elizabeth Thomas, of the same place. She was much attached to the young man, who often promised to make her his wife; but, when she had shown her utmost trust in him, on some little disagreement, he slighted her and proposed to wed another damsel of the same village. One Sunday afternoon he took his new love for a walk, passing by his old sweetheart's door, purposely to spite her. Soon after they had passed the cot of Elizabeth's parents, the betrayed and wronged girl, who was of a very hasty temper, took a rope and a prayer book, went into a road-way field, and hanged herself near the path by which her faithless lover and his new fiance had passed, and would, probably, return. They came home, however, by another road. On their arriving in Church-town, somebody asked them if they had seen Elizabeth, and remarked that no one knew where she had gone, as she had been sought in vain all over Church-town. "Good God," exclaimed Thomas, "has she made away with herself? For more than once she vowed that she would if I slighted her." Then, as if tokened by her spirit, he went, followed by others, direct to the tree on which they found her hanging and dead. On the ground, at her feet, was her open prayer book. He took it up and found a leaf turned down at the "Cursing Psalm;" on a leaf too he read her name followed by "When this you see remember me." Thomas then knew how she had doomed him; and he exclaimed "I'm ruined, I'm ruined, for ever and ever." For a long while he wandered about like one distracted, working in various parts of the country, sometimes at mining, other times at husbandry, and never returned to Gwinear Church-town. Little was seen of him, by anyone who knew him, until after some years, when he went to live in Market-jew. He would never venture to church or chapel for fear of hearing read the 109th Psalm; he dreaded even to pass near a school for the same reason. He was several times hurt in the mines, in which he worked; and he attributed all his misfortunes and bad luck to the curse of Elizabeth, whose avenging ghost often appeared to him--as well by day as by night--with an open prayer book in her hand. He could never sleep without a comrade in his room; and seldom even then, for, after a short slumber, when worn-out with fatigue, he would start up in bed, crying in agony, "Oh, dear Betsy, shut the book. Do shut the book." Notwithstanding the distraction of his mind, he was still a fine, strong, lusty, man, and many of his comrades advised him to get married, saying there was nothing like a living wife to drive away the spirit of a dead sweetheart. Taking their advice, he paid his addresses to several young women of the neighbourhood and others farther away; but they, one and all, flouted him with scorn, for the history of his unfortunate first love was blown far and near. If he persisted in his suit the indignant damsels would ask him with a sneer if he wished to bring all the ill-wishes of the "Cursing Psalm" on their heads, too. At length, however, a widow in Market-jew took pity on Thomas and consented to venture her lot with him; and Betsy's ghost ceased persecuting him--for a bit. But on the road to St. Hilary Church--whither Thomas and the widow proceeded to get married--the weather suddenly changed; from a calm and sunshine it became a tempest, with thunder and lightning; it was harvest time, and a cloud, black as night, hung over them, and rain poured along churchway-path, whilst they saw people binding barley in the fields on either hand. Thomas, trembling with fear, saw his sweetheart's ghost, with her open book, standing menacingly in the path before him; and he would have turned back, had not the widow urged him on, saying that she saw no ghost, and didn't mind her nor yet her book; and got him married. He lived for a few years pretty tranquilly; and his wife bore him two children. Then he was again disturbed with visits from the avenging ghost; and some misfortune or sickness always closely followed its appearance; until Thomas--worn-out in body and mind--when less than forty years of age died, and was buried in St. Hilary. THE WRECK OF ADMIRAL SIR CLOUDESLEY SHOVEL. We are reminded by the above of the wreck of Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovel's ship, the "Association," at Scilly; and of a tradition, common to the Islands, which attributes that disaster to the reading or reciting of the 109th Psalm, shortly before death, by one of Sir Cloudesley's crew, whom he unjustly condemned to be hanged. The Admiral was returning with his fleet from Toulon, when, on the evening of the 22nd October, 1707, his ship struck on the Gilstone, about three miles and a half from St. Agnes; and in a few minutes afterwards she went down, and everybody on board perished, except one man, who saved himself by floating on a piece of timber to a rock called Hellweathers,--about two miles and a half from the Gilstone,--where he remained some days before the weather permitted any boat to approach and take him off to St. Agnes. He is said to have stated that the day before the Admiral's ship was wrecked, one of the crew, who was a native of Scilly, and well acquainted with the channel, represented to Sir Cloudesley that the course the ship was taking would bring her on Scilly rocks. The Admiral and his officers were incensed at the man's interference; and because he persisted in affirming that the ship's way was wrong and would bring them to destruction, Sir Cloudesley Shovel--rather summarily, one might now think--condemned the man to be hanged for insubordination and endeavouring to excite a mutiny. When the poor fellow was tied to the mast, preparatory to his being suspended by his neck, from the yard-arm, he begged, as a last favour, that a Psalm might be read before his execution. His request being granted, he selected the 109th, and repeated certain imprecatory portions of it after the reader; and the last words he uttered were to the effect that Sir Cloudesley Shovel and those who saw him hanged should never reach the land alive. His body, shrouded in a hammock, with a shot to sink it, was cast into the deep, and but little heed paid to the dying sailor's sentence. Shortly after, however, the sky, which had been gloomy all day, became much darker; black, lowering, clouds, hung over the fleet like a funeral pall, and the gale rose to a violent tempest. Then the hanged man's curse was dreaded; and lo, to the crew's consternation, they beheld his corpse--divested of its rude winding-sheet--floating near the doomed ship, which it closely followed, with its face turned towards her,--in all her varying course, through eddying currents,--until she struck on the Gilstone; when the hanged man went down with the ship and his messmates. At this unfortunate time there perished, besides the Admiral, several officers, and about two thousand men, belonging to the "Association" and other vessels of the fleet. Sir Cloudesley Shovel's body was washed ashore at Porth-Hellick Bay, in St. Mary's, about eight miles from the Gilstone. It was quite naked, and on the hatch of a ship, on which he had endeavoured to save himself,--and a little dog lay by him,--when he was found by a soldier and his wife, who only knew him to be the Admiral by a diamond ring on his finger. They buried him in the sand, where a pit on Porth-Hellick Bank still marks Sir Cloudesley Shovel's grave. The pit never fills up in the greatest storms; and no grass ever grows on this blasted grave, although the ground around it is often green. "So the hanged seaman had as sweet a bit of revenge as one could wish for," said our narrator, with a motion of his head which showed his satisfaction at the Fates' award. Connected with this unfortunate occurrence, there is a gratifying bit of true history--we cannot say so much for all the above--which says that Lady Shovel, on having her husband's ring,--by which his body was identified,--sent her by the soldier, she gave him a pension for life; and the Admiral was deposited in Westminster Abbey, where his monument recalls the direful tale. A NIGHT'S RIDE TO SCILLY. No repares en eso, Sancho, que como estas cosas y estas volaterías van fuera de los cursos ordinarios, de mil leguas verás y oiras lo que quisieres, y no me aprietes tanto, que me derribas; y en verdad que no sé de qué te turbas ni te espantas, que osaré jurar que en todos los dias de mi vida he subido en cabalgadura de paso mas llano: no parece sino que no nos movemos de un lugar. Destierra, amigo, el miedo, que en efecto la cosa va como ha de ir, y el viento llevamos en popa. * * * * * Bien es verdad que sentí que pasaba por la region del aire, y aun que tocaba á la del fuego; pero que pasásemos de allí no lo puedo creer. D. QUIJOTE. Many persons, not at all given to lying, assert that they have been carried up and away by Old Nick, in the form of a horse. For the most part, they affirm that they were taken "towers high;" and, when their infernal steed descended it threw them off violently, and vanished in fire and smoke. We know a man called Jackey--never mind his surname--who had long been a sober character, and was so particularly veracious that he prefaced all his stories by saying, "I won't tell 'e a word of a lie, and know it!" Indeed this common affirmation of his has become an every-day saying, when anything doubtful is related. Well, Jackey has often told us, and many others, that, when a young man, and not so good as he might have been, he dwelt in the north of St. Just, and courted a girl who lived in Tardinney with her parents, who either rented a few acres or some dairy cows. One Sunday afternoon he went early to see his sweetheart. Whilst she was out milking, and he with her, the old woman, her mother, made a nice heavy currant-cake for tea. All was ready on the board when they returned from milking. Jackey made a hearty tea, or supper, as we should say; but, when that was over, the old woman said, "I've made a junket for thee, Jackey, as it's the first Sunday in May; it's in the dairy, 'runn'd' by this time; I'll bring it to thee in a minute." "Don't think I can find room for it," said he; "I'm as full as a tick." "Hold thy tongue," said she; "go thee wayst out and take a few jumps down from the heaping-stock, and pack the tea and trade away! Junket is no fillan, any more than drink; it will only quaff (puff) one for a bit." Jackey went out and exercised himself a few minutes, by leaping over a stile; came in and found on the table a basin of junket well spread with thick cream and honey. It was no shabby allowance either, for the bowl held a quart or more. Whilst Jackey dispatched his junket his sweetheart rigged herself in her best, and then away they went down to Sennen Church-town to Methodist meeting. There they met several of his comrades with their sweethearts. Preaching over, they all went into the "First and Last" for a drop of something to drink. Santusters are always free enough in treating the women--and everybody else for that matter--so each of the fair ones had a glass of gin-and-peppermint or of brandy and cloves, or both if they liked, and most of them did like to taste both cordials and a glass of shrub besides. The men had a few mugs of shenackrum (gin and beer) with a dram of rum all around to finish off. They were a score or more going to St. Just; and all kept together till they came to the Burying-place Downs, where they parted company, and all the Santusters went Brea way, singing snatches of some well-known revival hymns to lively song tunes, except Jackey, who had to put his sweetheart home by the other road. It was between ten and eleven o'clock when they got to Tardinney, and found the old folks gone to bed. A glowing turf-fire burned on the hearth, and they stayed courting till about one in the morning. But before Jackey left, his kind-hearted dear had tempted him to a slight supper of half a dozen eggs that she had saved up during the week unknown to the "old 'oman," and which were boiled over the turfy-fire. Jackey ate them with some bread and butter, then he had a good piece of cold cake, left from tea, with a bowl of milk; kissed; said good-night; and started for home. Jackey had been tramping about nearly all day. He had a tiresome walk before him of nearly four miles; and to foot it, all alone, seemed doubly wearisome. He walked on pretty fast till he came half-way over Kelynack Downs. There he sat down to rest a minute and felt tired enough to sleep in a pool of water. He couldn't help wishing, when he rose to proceed, that an old horse might come in his way,--there were generally plenty of them on the common. He hadn't gone more than a hundred yards, when he saw what appeared to be an old black horse standing stock-still, as if asleep, close by the road. Jackey untied and took the halter it was spanned (hobbled) with from its legs, placed it over its head, mounted, and did his utmost to keep it on the road. But, in spite of all he could do, it took off westward over the Downs, going slowly at first, but soon quickened its pace till it went like the wind, and he was nearly blown off sometimes, with the rush of air occasioned by their speed, for there was no wind to speak of. The night was so clear that he saw the Longships light nearly all the time, till they came to the cliff near the Land's End, to the best of his judgment. He felt no fear to speak of. The thing he bestrode took him over cliff--not right down, but sloping away gently. It went off through the air--just skimming the sea--straight to Scilly, and arrived there very quickly:--he thought it might be in a quarter of an hour or thereaway, from the time he left the Longships behind his back till they came to St. Agnes flashing light. There was no stay when it came to the islands; for away it went all around and across them so high up that he saw all Scilly isles spread out like a map, and so plainly that he always remembered their position. Then without any control from the rider, Jackey's steed turned tail on Scilly and brought him back--about daybreak--to Kelynack Downs again, within a stone's throw of the rock where he mounted, shook him off pretty gently, and vanished in flame and smoke--as usual. The Devil carried Jackey easy enough; but, for nearly a week after his ride, he felt very stiff and sore all over. If any doubting body questioned the truth of this story or hinted that perhaps he fell asleep on Kelynack Downs and had "the stag," or got "hilla-rodden," (night-mare) he would reply, "Don't 'e believe it, my dear; not sure nuf; and, as a proof that what I tell 'e is true, if you will give me a piece of chalk I'll mark out all the islands as I seed them, and as correct as anyone who had lived there all his time. Yet I had never been to Scilly before, nor have I since that night. Bless the Lord, I had a narrow escape; but didn't stay so late a-courting any more, and a few months after that night's ride, Mally and me--we got married." * * * * * One can't see what motive Old Nick had in this case, to take such trouble, unless it were for a mere freak, because he never seemed to claim any recompense from his rider. To be "hilla-ridden," and to have the "stag," are the only names known to old country folks for the "night-mare," which is a word one never hears among them. There is, however, some difference in the signification of our two local terms. The former means to pass the time in an agony of tormenting dreams; the latter is used for obstructed respiration, or a feeling of weight on the chest, that prevents a person from moving. [Illustration] ANCIENT BRIDAL CUSTOMS. With the past and with the present, Quaint old manners still are link'd; Olden customs, grave and pleasant, Ling'ring still, though nigh extinct. C. T. C. Some West Country folks still observe a few old-fashioned marriage usages; one of which the following sketch will explain. It was given us, as inserted, by a young man who was one of the wedding guests. "In the winter of 1860 we were invited to a wedding at a place called the Grambler in Sancreed; with strict orders to be in time to accompany the "weddenars" to church at ten o'clock the following Saturday morning. Not caring to take part in the ceremony, we only left Penzance at one o'clock in the afternoon. On our arriving at New Bridge we found a messenger awaiting our arrival to guide us to the bride's parents' house where the wedding was being held. He also brought a bottle of brandy which An' Nancy, the bride's mother, sent for the "strangers from Penzance to drink on the way, to keep out the cold." On nearing the house, we heard music and dancing, when our guide hastened on before to let the party know we were come. "My dear boys," said An' Nancy, meeting us at the door, "come 'e in quick out of the cold, we've ben afeerd you woddan coman." All the company received us with hearty kindness; being placed at the board, our host said, "We've had dennar, my dears, but there's plenty left for 'e," at the same time pitching on each of our plates a piece of roast beef of not less than four pounds, "Aet that fust," he continued, "then you shall have some more." My companion looking rather surprised at the liberal supply, An' Nancy exclaimed, "What's the matter weth thee my boy, dossena like et? Well than thee shust have somethan else;" and without waiting a reply, took away the plate of beef and replaced it with one of roast goose and a dish of boiled pudding, saying, "Now there, my dear boy, aet that, I s'ppose the beef was too tough for 'e." Meanwhile the wedding-party--most of whom were young people--awaited us in another room; we soon joined them and found good drink and cakes in abundance. Uncle Will, the bride's father, being called upon for a toast, he gave:-- "Here's to the bridegroom and the bride, May they stick to each other's side; I hope their life will be of joy, And that the fust will be a boy." which was received with roars of laughter and stamping of feet. Aunt Nancy took from a buffet several bottles of cordials for the women and others who liked them; amongst others were poppy and blackberry syrups, sweet-drink (mead),--that had been kept some years for this happy occasion--and peppermint water, of her own distilling. Presently the fiddle struck up with a jig. "Les have the double shuffle, Uncle Will," said the young people. Up he jumped as lively as a kid, though he was near eighty, and footed it out to the delight of all. Young Jan of Santust (St. Just) followed, making the fire fly from the heels of his boots, like flashes of lightning; and all the company were quickly whirling, in reels, without much order. Now, whilst the gaiety was at its height, the newly-wedded couple had contrived to slip out quietly, and hasten to their new home. "They're off, they're off," cried several voices; "come on soas, or else we shall be too late; they will be in bed and lock the door." Away they all flew, like mad devils, scampering over hedges and ditches for nearly a mile. We followed--fortunately for us it was a clear moonlight night. When we got to the house the foremost of the party were up stairs. "Come 'e up, boys," shouted they; up we went and found the bride and bridegroom in bed, with their clothes on, having had no time to lock the door even, as the wedding guests were close on their heels. We shall long remember the scene we then witnessed; the guests were beating them in bed, with stockings, straps, braces, or anything they could lay hands on. "Give them pepper," shouted young Jan, the groom's best man; "give et them, boys," and pepper them they did right merrily. Not wishing to be behind the rest, we took off our braces and followed suit. They continued this strange sport for a good while, until the leader said, "Les go back, soas, or else we shall be all ill-wisht, for et's nearly twelve a'clock." Away they again rushed back to the old folks' house; and each one on arriving, before speaking, touched the cravel, (lintel or head-stone of the hearth) with his or her head, for good luck. The old couple seemed well satisfied when we returned, as it was not quite midnight. Many elderly folks had arrived late in the evening to drink health and long life to the newly-married; they assured us that it was an old custom to tan young married people to bed, or else they would meet with bad luck all their days. The good old souls had arranged for us to stay over night; but as we deemed it best to return home, they made us take more to eat and drink, to keep out the cold and help us on the road, they said. Then amidst hearty leave-takings and promises to visit them again soon, they allowed us to depart. Well, somehow, we arrived home about daybreak, but often wished that we had stopped at the Grambler till sunrise." At more modish weddings the guests merely enter the bridal-chamber and throw stockings--in which stones or something to make weight are placed--at the bride and bridegroom in bed. The first one hit, of the happy couple, betokens the sex of their first-born. * * * * * It was an old custom, religiously observed, until lately, in Zennor and adjacent parishes on the north coast, to waylay a married couple on their wedding-night and flog them to bed with cords, sheep-spans, or anything handy for the purpose; believing that this rough treatment would ensure them happiness and the "heritage and gift that cometh from the Lord," of a numerous family. MADRON WELL. On passing over a stile and entering the moor in which the well is situated, cross the moor at a right-angle to the hedge, and a minute's walk will bring one to the noted spring, which is not seen until very near, as it has no wall above the surface, nor any mark by which it can be distinguished at a distance. Much has been written of the remarkable cures effected by its holy waters, and the intercession of St. Madron, or Motran; when it was so famous that the maimed, halt, and lame, made pilgrimages from distant parts to the heathy moor. It is still resorted to on the first three Wednesdays in May, by some few women of the neighbourhood, who bring children to be cured of skin diseases by being bathed in it. Its old repute as a divining fount has not yet quite died out, though young folks visit it now to drop pebbles or pins into the well, more for fun and the pleasure of each other's company, than through any belief that the falling together, or the separation of pins or pebbles, will tell how the course of love will run between the parties indicated by the objects dropped into the spring; or that the number of bubbles which rise in the water, on stamping near the well, mark the years, in answer to any question of time; but there was not such want of faith, however, half a century ago. A short time since I visited an elderly dame of Madron, who was a highly reputed charmer for the cure of various skin ailments; I had known her from my childhood; and my object was to glean what I could about the rites practised, within her remembrance, at Madron Well, the Crick-stone, and elsewhere. She gave the following account of the usages at Madron Well about fifty years ago. At that time, when she lived in Lanyon, scores of women from Morvah, Zennor, Towednack, and other places, brought their children to be cured of the shingles, wildfires, tetters, and other diseases, as well as to fortify them against witchcraft or being blighted with an evil eye. An old dame called An' Katty, who mostly lived in the Bossullows, or some place near, and who did little but knitting-work, picked up a good living in May by attending at the well, to direct the high country folks how they were to proceed in using the waters. First she had the child stripped as naked as it was born; then it was plunged three times against the sun; next the creature was passed quickly nine times around the spring, going from east to west, or with the sun; the child was then dressed, rolled up in something warm, and laid to sleep near the water; if it slept, and plenty of bubbles rose in the well, it was a good sign. I asked if a prayer, charm, or anything was spoken during the operations? "Why, no, to be sure," my old friend replied, "don't 'e know any better, there musn't be a word spoken all the time they are near the water, it would spoil the spell; and a piece rented, not cut, from the child's clothes, or from that of anybody using the well must be left near it for good luck; ever so small a bit will do. This was mostly placed out of sight between the stones bordering the brooklet, or hung on a thorn that grew on the chapel wall. Whilst one party went through their rites at the spring, all the others remained over the stile in the higher enclosure, or by the hedge, because, if a word were spoken by anybody near the well during the dipping, they had to come again." The old woman, An' Katty, was never paid in money, but balls of yarn, and other things she might want, were dropped on the road, outside the well-moors, for her; she also got good pickings by instructing young girls how to "try for sweethearts" at the well. "Scores of maidens"--the dame's words--"used, in the summer evenings, to come down to the well from ever so far, to drop into it pins, gravels, or any small thing that would sink." The names of persons were not always spoken when the objects which represented them were dropped into the water; it sufficed to think of them; and as pins or pebbles remained together or separated, such would be the couple's fate. It was only when the spring was working (rising strongly) that it was of any use to try the spells; and it was unlucky to speak when near the well at such times. The old woman that I visited said she had never heard that any saint had anything to do with the water, except from a person who told her there was something about it in a book; nor had she or anybody else heard the water called St. Madron's Well, except by the new gentry, who go about new naming places, and think they know more about them than the people who have lived there ever since the world was created. She never heard of any ceremony being performed at the old Chapel, except that some persons hung a bit of their clothing on a thorn tree that grew near it. High Country folks, who mostly resort to the spring, pay no regard to any saint or to anyone else, except some old women who may come down with them to show how everything used to be done. There is a spring, not far from Bosporthenes, in Zennor, which was said to be as good as Madron Well; and children were often taken thither and treated in the same way. Such is the substance of what the dame related; and she regarded the due observance of ancient customs as a very solemn matter. In answer to the questions of "What was the reason for going round the well nine times? Leaving bits of clothing? Following the sun, &c.?" It was always the same reply, "Such were the old customs," and everybody knew it was unlucky to do any such work, and many things besides, against the sun's course; no woman, who knew anything, would place pans of milk in a dairy, so as to have to unream (skim) them, in turn, against the sun, nor stir cream in that direction to make butter. By following down the well-stream or hedge, mentioned above, we come to the Chapel. In its southern wall may be noticed an opening for letting water from the brook, which runs near it, flow into a baptistry in the south-western corner of the Chapel. Entering the doorway, on the northern side, one may remark that this primitive fount appears to have been arched over, after the manner of our old bee-hive huts, by the upper rows of stones slightly over-hanging. The altar table-slab, or mensa--still remaining at the east end--has a square pit worked in its centre, probably to mark the spot--over reliques--on which the monstrance was placed. A step makes the division between the little nave and sacrarium; there are also the remains of stone seats which were carried all around against the walls. Let no rude hand remove, Or spoil thee; for the spot is consecrate To thee, and thou to it. THE CRICK-STONE, OR MEN-AN-TOL. In a croft belonging to Lanyon farm, and about half a mile north of the town-place, there is a remarkable group of three stones, the centre one of which is called by antiquaries the Men-an-tol (holed stone), and by country folk the Crick-stone, from an old custom--not yet extinct--of "crameing" (crawling on all fours) nine times through the hole in the centre stone, going against the sun's course, for the cure of lumbago, sciatica, and other "cricks" and pains in the back. Young children were also put through it to ensure them healthy growth. Antiquaries are undecided with respect to the purpose for which these mysterious stones were erected. Some hold that it is a sepulchral monument, as well as the Men Scryfa (inscribed stone) half a mile further on, because there is a tradition that a little below, in Gendhal moor, there was once so great a battle that the streams ran with blood. Others think the object of its erection was for the computation of time; among the latter is Professor Max Müller, who, in the _Quarterly Review_, for August, 1867, after stating that the three stones are in a line bearing nearly east and west, says:-- "This Men-an-tol may be an old dial, erected originally to fix the proper time for the celebration of the autumnal equinox; and, though it may have been applied to other purposes likewise, such as the curing of children by dragging them several times through the hole, still its original intention may have been astronomical." He also thinks that the Menheeres (long stones) served the same purpose, as they are mostly found in pairs bearing nearly east and west. The Tolmen, in Constantine parish, and holed stones in other parts of the county, were used the same way as Lanyon Crick-stone for curing various ailments. To cure boils and rheumatism, persons "crame" nine times against the sun, under a bramble growing at both ends. The notion is that going against the sun will backen a disease but in all other cases the sun's course must be followed. CHARMS. There are persons in every parish west of Hayle, and in many east of it, who charm for the cure of various ailments. The members of a family, formerly of Sennen, are believed to possess peculiar virtues as charmers, which is said to have been obtained, hundreds of years ago, from a forefather of theirs, dwelling in Escols, who found, washed in on Gwenvor sand, a very old man, almost dead, whom he took to his house, had him well cared for, so that he soon recovered and prepared to depart. Before leaving, however, he told his host that he had neither gold nor silver to pay him for his hospitality; yet he would bestow on him and his what would be of more value; and imparted to the old man of Escols most of the following charms, which a descendant of the family gave me by word of mouth; if written they are useless, and the giver of a written one thenceforth loses the power to cure by charming. * * * * * _Charm for a scald, wild-fire, burn, or any other inflammatory diseases._ The person to be charmed gathers nine bramble leaves, which are put into a vessel of spring water; then each leaf is passed over and from the diseased part, whilst repeating three times to each leaf as follows:-- "Three ladies come from the east, One with fire and two with frost; Out with thee fire, and in with thee frost, In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." A stick of fire is then taken from the hearth and passed over and around the diseased part whilst the above is repeated nine times. * * * * * _Charm for a prick of a thorn, boils, kennels, &c._ "Christ was crowned with thorns, The thorns did bleed but did not rot, No more shall thy finger (_or whatever part it may be_), In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." * * * * * _Charm for staunching blood._ "Christ was born in Bethlehem, Baptised in the river Jordan; There he digg'd a well. And turn'd the water against the hill, So shall thy blood stand still. In the name, &c." * * * * * _Charm for a tetter._ "Tetter, tetter, thou hast nine sisters. God bless the flesh and preserve the bone, Perish thou tetter and be thou gone, In the name, &c." "Tetter, tetter, thou hast eight sisters. God bless the flesh and preserve the bone, Perish thou tetter and be thou gone, In the name, &c." The charm is thus continued until it comes to the last, which is:-- "Tetter, tetter, thou hast no sister, God bless the flesh and preserve the bone, Perish thou tetter and be thou gone. In the name, &c." * * * * * _Charm for toothache._ "Christ pass'd by his brother's door, Saw his brother lying on the floor. 'What aileth thee, brother? Pain in thy teeth? Thy teeth shall pain thee no more.' In the name, &c." The charmer places his or her thumb on the diseased part in all but the first charm. * * * * * Divination with a Bible and key; seeking a response to doubts from the first words the eye may glance on in letting a Bible fall open; and various other superstitious practices, common to all England, are well known here and need not be described. THE FAIRY TRIBES. Belief in fairies is far from being extinct in Cornwall, though our country folks never call them by that name. A few days since, a woman of Mousehal told me that not long ago troops of small people, no more than a foot and a half high, used--on moonlight nights--to come out of a hole in the cliff, opening onto the beach, Newlyn side of the village, and but a short distance from it. The little people were always dressed very smart; and if anyone came near them they would scamper away into the hole. Mothers often told their children that if they went under cliff by night the small people would carry them away into "Dicky Danjy's holt." Another kind called spriggans, which simply means sprites, are believed to guard treasures buried in cliff and hill castles. Not long since a tinner of Lelant dreamt, three nights following, that a crock of gold was buried in a particular spot, between large rocks within the castle, on Trecroben hill. The next clear moonlight night he dug up the ground of which he had dreamt. After working two or three hours he came to a flat stone which sounded hollow; whilst digging round its edges, the weather became suddenly dark, the wind roared around the carns, and looking up, when he had made a place for his hands to lift it, he saw hundreds of ugly spriggans coming out from amidst the rocks gathering around and approaching him. The man dropped his pick, ran down the hill and home as fast as he could lay foot to ground; he took to his bed and was unable to leave it for weeks. When he next visited the castle he found the pit all filled in, with the turf replaced; and he nevermore dug for the treasure. Piskey still leads benighted people astray; this sprite wanders alone and is always spoken of in the singular. It is somewhat remarkable that a green bug, frequently found on bramble bushes in autumn, is called by this name. After Michaelmas, it is said, that blackberries are unwholesome because Piskey spoils them then. Places frequented by goats are believed to be the favourite haunts of fairies. It is uncertain whether Bucka can be regarded as one of the fairy tribe; old people, within my remembrance, spoke of a Bucka Gwidden and a Bucka Dhu--by the former they meant a good spirit, and by the latter an evil one, now known as Bucka boo. I have been told, by persons of credit, that within the last forty years it was a usual practice with Newlyn and Mousehal fishermen to leave on the sand at night a portion of their catch for Bucka. Probably from this observance the common nickname of Newlyn Buckas was derived. An old rhyme says:-- "Penzance boys up in a tree, Looking as wisht as wisht can be; Newlyn buckas as strong as oak, Knocking them down at every poke." From this it appears that Newlyn boys once considered it a matter of pride to be called by the name of their ancient divinity. The knockers of the mines--that some class among fairy tribes--are simply believed, by our tinners, to be the spirits of those who worked the 'old bals' in ancient times. [Illustration] MERMAIDS AND THE HOOPER. Within easy memory many parts of the western coast were said to be frequented by mermaids, particularly Sennen Cove. This place was also resorted to by a remarkable spirit called the Hooper--from the hooting or hooping sounds which it was accustomed to make. In old time, according to tradition, a compact cloud of mist often came in from over sea--when the weather was by no means foggy--and rested on the rocks called Cowloe, thence it spread itself, like a curtain of cloud, quite across Sennen Cove. By night a dull light was mostly seen amidst the vapour, with sparks ascending as if a fire burned within it; at the same time hooping sounds were heard proceeding therefrom. People believed the misty cloud shrouded a spirit, which came to forewarn them of approaching storms, and that those who attempted to put to sea found an invisible force--seemingly in the mist--to resist them. A reckless fisherman and his son, however,--disregarding the token--launched their boat and beat through the fog with a threshal (flail); they passed the cloud of mist which followed them, and neither the men, nor the Hooper, were evermore seen in Sennen Cove. This is the only place in the west where any tradition of such a guardian spirit is preserved. THE WRECKER AND THE DEATH SHIP. Full well 'tis known adown the dale; Tho' passing strange indeed the tale, And doubtful may appear. SHENSTONE. Persons of a notoriously wicked character were said to have been frequently taken off bodily by Old Nick when they died. The following is one of many stories to that effect. More than a hundred years ago a dark strange man appeared in St. Just; no one knew whence he came, but it was supposed, however, that he was put ashore from a pirate ship, by way of marooning him; as the crews of such are wont to do by any wretch that is too bad even to consort with high sea robbers. He didn't appear to want for money as he soon rented a small, lone, tenement, near the shore, and married a widow of the neighbourhood. People wondered, for a long while, how so many vessels got wrecked under the cliff that bordered the stranger's farm. At length it was discovered that on dark winter nights--when honest folks were a-bed--he made it his practice to fasten a lantern to the neck of a horse, which he had hobbled, by tying down its head to a fore-leg; then he drove the horse along near the cliff, and the lantern, from its motion, would be taken for a vessel's stern-light. Consequently those on board ships sailing by, expecting to find plenty of sea room, would come right in and be wrecked on the rocks. Any of their crews that escaped a watery grave the wretch would knock on the head with his axe, or cut off their hand when they tried to grasp the rocks. He lived long and became rich by his sin. At length, however, the time came for the fiend to claim his own. When he was dying his awful shrieks were heard far away, as he cried, "Do save me from the devil, and the sailors, there, looking to tear me to pieces." Several parsons and other pious folks were sent for,--all those of the neighbourhood readily came, for the dying sinner was rich. Though it was in harvest time and high day, the old wrecker's chamber became, at times, as dark as night. The parsons saw the devil in the room, when others could not; by their reading they drove him to take many shapes, but for all that he would not be put out; at last, when he took the form of a fly, and buzzed about the dying wretch, they saw it was in vain for them to try any longer. During the time the exorcists were engaged, the chamber seemed--by the sound--to be filled with the sea splashing around the bed; waves were heard as if surging and breaking against the house, though it was a good bit inland. Whilst this was taking place at the dying wrecker's bedside, two men, who were about harvest work in one of his fields near the cliff, heard a hollow voice, as if coming from the sea, which said, "The hour is come but the man is not come." Looking in the direction whence the words came, they saw no person; but far out to sea, they beheld a black, heavy, square-rigged ship, with all sail set, coming fast in, against wind and tide, and not a hand to be seen aboard her. She came so close under cliff that only her topmast could be seen; when black clouds--that seemed to rise out of the deep--gathered around her and extended thence straight to the dying man's dwelling. The harvest-men, terrified at the sight of this ship-of-doom so near them, ran up to the town-place, just as the old sinner died, when his dwelling shook as if about to fall. Everybody, in great fright, rushed out and saw the black clouds roll off towards the death-ship, which, at once, sailed away--amidst a blaze of lightning--far over sea, and disappeared. The weather immediately cleared, and nothing unusual occurred until a few men assembled to put the wrecker's ghastly remains quickly off the face of the earth; then, as the coffin was borne towards the churchyard, a large black pig came--no one knew from whence--and followed the bearers, who all declared the coffin was too light to contain any body. The sky, too, became suddenly overcast, and a tempest raged to that degree, they could scarcely keep on their legs to reach the churchyard stile, where such sheets of blinding lightning flashed around them, that they dropped the coffin and rushed into the church. The storm having abated, they ventured out, and found nothing of the coffin but its handles and a few nails, for it had been set on fire, and all else consumed, by the lightning. * * * * * It does not appear what business the black pig had in the funeral procession; such is the way, however, in which the story is always told. THE SUN NEVER SHINES ON THOSE WHO HAVE "SWORN AWAY A LIFE." One frequently hears, in remote country places, the reproachful sayings of, "The sun wont shine on thee," or, "the sun don't shine on thee." This is regarded as a very bitter taunt, even by those who do not understand its allusion or the old belief from which it proceeds. The following story, told me by an aged mine captain, of Lelant, will serve to explain it. A few years ago a smuggler of Breage gave false evidence, which caused one of another crew to be hanged, on the charge of having fired a fatal shot at an officer belonging to a revenue cutter. This perjurer, who swore away an innocent man's life, received--for informing--such a sum of blood money as made him comparatively rich, yet he remained at sea for several years, until he came to live at Hayle. Few persons there knew him; but everybody remarked that he looked deathly pale and shivered with cold, however warm the weather might be. He lived alone and rarely left his house to go beyond his garden, and his neighbours said that when he stood out in "sunshiney" weather he cast no shadow. They surmised that he had been forsworn; for he could never see the sun, and the sky always appeared dark to him; yet he saw everything else the same as other people. After his decease it became known how he had caused an innocent man's death. * * * * * Notices of other popular superstitions may be found by a reference to the Index. [Illustration] A LEGEND OF PENGERSEC. So I your presence may enjoye, No toil I will refuse; But wanting you, my life is death; Nay, death Ild rather chuse. FAIR ROSAMOND. Many years ago an elderly gentleman of Gwinear told me the following story, which he had often heard related by old folks of that parish and Breage, about certain ancient occupants of Pengersec; who dwelt there long before the present castle was built by Milliton, who, according to their legend, constructed his stronghold in the time of Henry VIII, out of the ruins of a former castle which stood near the same site; and of which, they say, some out-works may still be traced towards the sea. My friend made a point of telling the story just as it was related by old folks, and I wrote the greater part of it from his recital. It contains, however, too many details of dreadful crimes to please general readers; and as I think it right to give our old stories unmutilated--so far as a due regard to decorum permits--I hesitated about publishing it until advised to do so by friends who thought it would interest antiquarian students. * * * * * The lords of old Pengersec Castle were all soldiers who rarely lived at home. When the last lord's father was about twenty, as there was no fighting going on hereabouts, he betook himself to outlandish countries, far away in the east, to a place inhabited by people who were little better than savages; for, instead of tilling the ground or digging for tin, they passed their time roving from place to place as they wanted fresh pastures for their cattle. They lived in tents covered with the skins of their flocks, and their raiment was made of the same material; yet these heathen worshippers of Termagaunt got plenty of gold and precious things, by sending their young men to fight, for or against, or to rob their more industrious neighbours who dwelt in houses, tilled the ground, and followed trades. Well, Pengersec went to war with these pagans, for or against, we don't know nor care which, no more did he, so that he was fighting. Whilst there, however, he fell in love with a beautiful Princess of the people who dwelt in towns. He wished to carry her off, but he couldn't, because she was betrothed to a Prince of that country and jealously watched; yet Pengersec often found means to visit the lady in the dead of night; and about the time he left to return home she bore him a child, which was "put going" (made away with). In spite of all, the Princess would then have followed him, had he not vowed to return for her soon, or if, in the meanwhile, the old king, her father, died--and not having male offspring--he would marry her there and reign in his stead. Then she took off her finger-ring, broke it, and gave him half, saying, "when this you see, remember your love in a far country;" and he swore by all she held sacred to remain unwed for seven years unless he married her. Shortly after his return home, however, he espoused a fair lady of Helaston. There being no signs of his wife's likelihood to present him with an heir--after having been married a year or two--he became very dissatisfied; and hearing of new wars in the east he returned--before seven years had elapsed--to the country where the former Princess--now a Queen--reigned in her own right. He renewed their former connection--taking good care not to tell her he had a wife at home--and led her troops to war against the Prince who would have had his Queen and her dominions but for him. She lent Pengersec her father's enchanted sword--a magic weapon that brought success to the rightful possessor--and fought by his side; yet they were conquered; and the Cornish rover missed his lady-love in their confused retreat; when, to save himself, as best he could, he took ship for home and left her to her fate. Now the Queen escaped to a port where she had many vessels, and knowing that Pengersec's castle was near a place to which they often went for tin, she embarked with an aged captain and set sail for the Mount, hoping that if the man she trusted and loved above all in heaven or earth had escaped with life, she would find him in his native land. Meanwhile the treacherous lover had returned and found his wife with an infant at the breast; he blamed her because she had not informed him of her state before he left home. In reply, she told him how she feared to raise his hopes, not being sure they would be realized. He had scarcely settled himself comfortably in his castle with his wife and his son--of whom he was very fond--when, one night, the Queen knocked at his gate. In her arms she held a babe that had been born at sea; weeping, she showed it to its father who refused to admit her within his doors. "What can have possessed thee to follow me here thou crazy saracen," said he, "know that I've many years been wed." "Cruel man, dos thou spurn thy little son and me from thy doors," she replied, "now that I am in this strange land poor and needy." Not wishing the inmates of his dwelling to hear or see any more of the strange lady, he led her away down by the sea-side. There, standing on a cliff, she reproached him with being a faithless, perjured lover; with having stolen the magic sword, on which the safety of her land depended; and with being the cause of all her misfortunes. He threatened to drown her unless she promised to return at once to her own country. "Alas! I have no longer a country," said she, "for thee I am become a disgrace to my people, who scorn me," and raising her hand--as if to curse him--she continued, "but thou shalt no longer flourish; may evil meet thee and bad luck follow thee to the sorrowful end of thy days." Provoked at her upbraiding, he, in his fury, cast her over cliff, into the deep, with the infant that she clasped to her breast. Shortly after she was found floating lifeless on the waves, with the babe asleep in her arms, by the captain and crew of her ship, who, fearing she might be unkindly received, wished to accompany her, but preferring to meet her roving lover alone, she bade them remain in the boat, near where she landed, at a short distance from his castle. The Queen's remains were taken to her native land, and the good captain reared her child, which passed for his own son. This old tiger of a Pengersec spent much of his time in hunting wolves, which were numerous then; the following day he was in full chase on Tregonning hill until night, when a violent storm arose. By the lightning's glare he saw, cowering around him, a drove of wild animals, that dreaded the awful thunder-storm more than they did the hunter and his dogs. Presently appeared among them a white hare, with eyes like coals of fire, then the dogs and savage beasts ran away howling louder than the tempest; the horse threw its rider and left him alone on the hill with the white hare that Pengersec knew to be the vengeful spirit of the murdered lady. Search being made next day he was found on the hill more dead than alive from the effects of his fall and fright. Worst of all he had lost the enchanted sword, with which he could save his life in any encounter. This mishap troubled him much, for, when in possession of this charmed weapon, he thought it mere fun to lop off the heads of those who offended him; but now he became a coward and dreaded to go beyond his castle gate without a priest beside him. Indeed, he could never leave his dwelling but the white hare would cross his path. When the priests vainly tried to dispose of her--like other spirits--in the Red Sea, she assumed her natural shape and told them not to think they had power to bind or loose her like the spirits of those who had been in their hands from their cradle to the grave; moreover, that she wouldn't be controlled by them or their gods, but, to please herself, would quit the place until her son came to man's estate. Pengersec's cruel treatment of his wife shortened her days; she soon died, leaving her unweaned child, called Marec, to be nursed by the miller's wife, who shared her breast between the young heir and her son Uter. Many years passed during which Pengersec seldom went beyond his castle that he had almost entirely to himself; a few old servants only remained in the gloomy habitation, out of regard to the young master, that he might be properly instructed and cared for. Marec, when about twenty years of age, excelled in all manly exercises; being a good seaman, as well as his constant attendant and foster-brother Uter, they would steer their boat through the roughest breakers, to aid a ship in distress, when other men feared to leave the shore. His favourite pastime was taming wild horses of the hills, in which he was said to have remarkable skill. About this time Pengersec recovered his wonted courage, so far as to venture out to see the young men's sports, and to visit Godolphin castle--a few miles off--where lived a rich lady whom he wished his son to wed. She had often seen Marec bear away the hurling-ball, win prizes at wrestling and other games, and had a great desire for him and more for the domain to which he was heir. Although she was passable as to looks, and only a year or two older than the young lord, he had no liking for her, because she had the repute of being a sorceress. In all the country side it was whispered that the damsel was too intimate with an old witch of Fraddam, whose niece, called Venna, was the lady's favourite waiting-woman. They spent much time together distilling or otherwise concocting what they named medicaments, though some called them poisons; and many persons, believing the lady had evil eyes, pointed at her with forked fingers to avert their baneful influence. Yet, from her affected horror of little failings, pretended pity for those whom she slandered by insinuations, and her constant attendance at church, simple people, that she favoured, thought her a good woman; and crafty ones, from sympathy, were ever ready to further her designs. As the young man cared more about his sports than for the lady, Pengersec did the courting--for his son at first--but at length he married the damsel of Godolphin himself. They had not been long wedded, however, ere she became disgusted with her old lord's gloomy fits, and, from seeing much of Marec, her passion for him became too much for concealment. Fearing lest she might betray her desires to her husband, she shut herself up in her own apartments and, pretending to be ill, sent for the witch of Fraddam, who soon discovered her ailment. The lady complained of her dreary life shut up in the lonesome castle with her morose old husband, though he doted on her, after his fashion. Having made him promise, before marriage, that she and her children should inherit his lands and all he could keep from his eldest son, it fretted her to find that, as yet, she was not likely to become a mother. "Behave kinder to Marec," said the wise-woman, "that he and his comrades may cheer your solitude." "Never name the uncouth savage to me!" exclaimed the lady, "he would far rather chase wolves and ride wild horses around the hills than pass any time, by day or by night, in a lady's bower." The witch being skilled in making love-potions and powders, after more converse, promised to send her a philter, by the aid of which Marec would soon become her humble slave, and pine for her love. The love-drink was fetched without delay by Venna, who waited on her young master at supper and spiced his ale; but this was a mistake, for it should have been prepared and served by the person in whose favour it was intended to work. The waiting-maid being a comely lass, and he a handsome man, she forgot her duty to her mistress, when Marec--as the custom was with gallant youths--pressed her to drink from his tankard to sweeten it. The cordial and charms, that were intended to move his affections in the lady's favour, ended in his strolling on the sea-shore with her handmaid. The step-dame, unable to rest, wandered down on the beach, where she espied the loving pair in amorous dalliance. Her love turned to hate; without being seen by them, she returned and passed the night in planning revenge. In the morning early the enraged lady sought an interview with her doting old husband, and told him that she wished to return to her father's house, because she was pining for fresh air, but dared not leave her room when his son was in the castle for fear of being insulted by his unbecoming behaviour; in fact, she gave the old lord to understand--by hints, which might mean little or much--that Marec then discovered such a passion for her as she failed to inspire before her marriage. Pengersec raved, and swore he would be the death of him before many hours were passed; at length, however, his fit of anger having moderated, he assured his wife that he would get him taken so far away that it would be long ere he returned to trouble her, if ever he did. This being agreed on, the lady somewhat pacified returned to her own apartment, and summoned her woman to attend her. Venna had no sooner entered the chamber than her mistress pinned her in a corner, held a knife to her breast, and vowed to have her heart's blood that instant--for her treachery in enticing her young master to the sea-shore--unless she drank the contents of a phial which she held to her lips. "Have patience, my dear mistress," said she, "and I will either explain to your satisfaction what seemeth false dealing and disloyalty, or I'll drain this bottle of poison to the last drop." Venna then told her mistress that she was only following her aunt's instructions to get Marec into her toils, and--if other means failed--induce him, in the dead of night, to visit her chamber by the outer stair from the garden. The woman also proposed to make other arrangements, of which her mistress approved. Then the pair devised how to get rid of the old lord speedily, for--having excited his jealousy--they feared he might kill his son, or send him from the country without delay. They little thought, however, when they had decided to poison him in the evening at his supper, that all their infernal plans were overheard by the priest and steward, who had long suspected the step-dame and her woman of hatching some plot against the young master. In Pengersec castle, as in many dwellings of that time, there were private passages, contrived in the thickness of its walls. Such places, being known only to the master and his confidential servants, were frequently forgotten; yet the priests, who were skilled builders and great devisers of mysterious hiding-holes, mostly knew where to find them. From behind a perforated carving, in stone or wainscot, the lady's wicked designs were found out. At supper, the old steward, as was his custom, stood behind his master to hand him the tankard of ale, that he drank with his venison pasty, and a goblet of strong waters, that stood in a buffet--prepared and spiced by the lady for her husband--beside one for herself, to take with the sweet waffels with which they finished their repast. The hall being but dimly lighted by the fading twilight and a fire on the hearth, the steward managed to distract the lady's attention, when removing the tankard, by letting it fall and spilling what remained in it on her robe, so that, without being noticed, he exchanged the two drinking-vessels' contents, and the lady took the poisoned draught which she had prepared for her spouse. But it had little or no effect on her for the time, because, to guard against a mischance of this kind, she had long accustomed herself to imbibe poisons, in increasing doses, until she could stand a quantity that would be fatal to one not thus fortified. After supper the priest informed Marec of the snares laid to entrap him, and of the step-dame's murderous attempt on his father. The lady despaired of accomplishing her designs, as Marec showed by his behaviour, that he regarded her with loathing. One day, when she was more gracious to him than usual, and made advances not to be misunderstood, looking on her with contempt, he said, "Know, sorceress, that I detest thee and abhor thy shameful intentions, but thou canst neither hurt me by thy witchcraft, nor with the blight of thy evil eyes." She made no reply, but left the hall and soon after told her spouse that his son had most grossly insulted her. "Indeed," said she, "I had to defend myself with all my might to preserve my honour, and threatened to plunge a dagger into his heart unless he desisted and left my apartment." Her fabricated story so provoked the old lord that he determined to dispose of his son without delay. That evening, the weather being stormy, Marec and Uter noticed, from Pengersec How, a vessel taking a course which would bring her into dangerous ground; the young men launched their boat, rowed towards the ship, and signalled that there were sunken rocks ahead. Night was now fast closing in, and the land could scarcely be discerned through the mist, when the young men beheld something floating at a little distance. On approaching it, they saw it to be a drowning seaman quite exhausted, and unable to keep any longer on the surface; they pulled with might and main and were just in time to save him. Having reached Pengersec Cove, they bore him to Marec's chamber, stripped off his wet clothing, rubbed him dry, placed him in bed on sheep-skins, and lay on either side that the warmth of their bodies might help to restore him. At length his breathing became regular, and, without speaking, he went off in sound sleep. The rescued sailor awoke much restored and just as well as need be, though surprised to find himself in a new berth with strange shipmates--as he thought his two bed-fellows. He tried to get out of bed and have a look round, when Marec well pleased to see him so far recovered--related how they had taken him into their boat the previous evening, when he was seemingly at the last gasp. The seaman--who was called Arluth--then said, that he recollected having fallen from the "tops" into the water, and endeavouring to keep himself afloat, in hopes of being seen from his ship and rescued; but of what followed he had no remembrance. He also informed them that he was the son of a captain of an eastern ship, which frequently traded at Cornish ports; fearing his father might be in great distress, from thinking him drowned, he wished to get on board his ship as soon as possible. Uter fetched, from the butlery, beef, bread, and beer; when the sailor and his master sat beside each other he remarked that they looked like twin brothers, from their close resemblance. Having breakfasted, they took horses and--followed by the dogs--started for Market-jew. When they came out on uncultivated ground, Marec proposed to hunt as they went along, that the seaman might have some game to take aboard. They had gone but a little way when a white doe started from a thicket and ran towards the hills--followed by the hounds in full cry. The sailor's horse being an old hunter, took after them, and the rider, being an indifferent horseman, lost all control over his steed, which bore him after the hounds near to the top of Tregonning hill, where the doe disappeared and the dogs were at fault. The sailor alighted near the same carn where Pengersec had been thrown from his horse many years agone. He had no sooner put foot to ground than lightning struck the rocks close by and they toppled over. Then he heard a voice--as if from the ground--that said, "Fear not, Arluth, beloved son of mine, to seize thy forefather's sword and with it win thy kingdom." There was no one nigh him; but, on glancing towards the carn, he saw near it a beautiful white hare, which gazed lovingly on him for a moment and then disappeared amongst the rocks. On going to the spot, where the rocks had been severed, he found a naked sword with sparkling jewels in its hilt, and the blade shone like flame. Arluth, having recovered from his surprise, took up the sword, and, looking round, he saw Marec and Uter near him. Surprised that it should be discovered in such a place, and at what the seaman told him, Marec said, that as he had found the magic weapon, he was destined to achieve great things. Arluth again thought of his father and shipmates, who, not knowing if he were dead or alive would be in great trouble; he begged his companions to let him hasten to Market-jew, and their horses soon took them thither. On parting the sailor said he hoped to see his friends again; they proposed to visit him in the evening; saw him embark in a boat and pull off to his ship. The good captain was overjoyed to see him after having mourned for him as dead. Arluth related how he had been rescued; drew the sword from his belt and told the captain where he had found it, with what he had seen and heard on the hill. The captain having examined it, said, "The time is come for me to declare that the only relationship I bear thee is through my regard and loyalty to the murdered Queen, thy mother." He then related to Arluth how the Queen had lost her kingdom and magic sword, through her ill-requited love for Pengersec; and how he had saved him when an infant. In conclusion the captain said, "Thou wilt now understand, my son--let me still call thee so--how that the young lord of Pengersec, who rescued thee last night, is thy brother. Thy name, too--which was given thee by thy mother, as soon as thou wast born--belongs to this country's tongue. The Queen, having heard Lord Pengersec thus called by his Cornish followers who attended him to her land, took that title to be one of his names, and liked it best for thee." The captain also told the wondering sailor that he would be the acknowledged heir to their country, which had for many years been rent with civil war between divers pretendants thereto, among whom there was no one sufficiently powerful to secure the throne, since the magic sword--on which their country's safety in some way depended--had been lost, and reserved by a protecting power for him. "Now nothing more is wanting," said he, "to enable thee to reclaim thy mother's dominions, and its people will gladly receive thee to give peace to the distracted country." The young sailor was much surprised by what the captain related, and still more so when he said that about the time Arluth was following the white doe Pengersec came on board his ship and proposed to hire him and his crew to kidnap and carry away his son and his servant, merely to gratify a step-dame's spite. The captain said his only reply to the befooled and unnatural father's proposal was to tell him he should never leave his vessel alive if he spoke to one of his crew, and to order him over the ship's side immediately. Being stupified with grief, he didn't think, however, of another vessel--then anchored at no great distance--that came from a city where the people mostly lived by piracy; the crew of this ship--which sailed under any colour that suited their ends--made it their business, among other things, to land in lonely places, maraud the country, carry off young people, and sell them in Barbary for slaves. "Had I but thought of it in time," said the captain, "we would have taken off Pengersec and given him a taste of the sea, for I knew much more of him than he suspected." Having seen Pengersec go on board and leave the pirate ship, the captain and Arluth, knowing the gang would even murder their own brothers for a trifle of gold, determined to watch their proceedings, and rescue the young men if need be. It was bargained between Pengersec and the pirates that, for a small sum, they would kidnap his son and Uter, either when they went out a-fishing--as was their practice almost nightly--or land and steal them from the castle. Meanwhile, Arluth had arms placed in a boat; and when twilight darkened into night he saw a boat leave the pirate ship. "Now, may the gods help me!" he exclaimed, springing up and brandishing his sword, "my first use of this shall be to save my brother." Arluth with several of his crew gave chase. Marec and Uter, being on their way to the good captain's ship, were encountered by the pirates, overpowered, and put in irons, when their companion of the morning sprang into the pirate's boat and cut in pieces every one of the gang. Having released and embraced the captives, Arluth bore away to the pirate ship, boarded her, hanged the rest of her crew, and took the craft as a lawful prize; and a rich prize they found her. Arluth, having returned to the good captain's ship and informed Marec and Uter how the old lord intended to serve them, said, "Come with me and never more put foot in the place whilst thy crafty stepmother's head is above ground." Marec replied to the effect that he didn't like to go away until he had furnished himself and Uter with money and needful changes of clothing. "Don't touch a thing in the accursed place," returned Arluth, "for you have a brother belonging to the land whither we are bound, who will share his last stiver with thee, and shed his heart's blood in thy defence. Nay, brother, be not surprised," continued he, in drawing Marec to him, "this brother of thine will ere long be king of the country." "Would to heaven thou wert my brother, thou heart-of-oak, and I would joyfully go with thee to any land," replied Marec. The captain gave the young men of Pengersec a cordial welcome, set before them the richest wines in his ship, and--smiling with satisfaction to see the brothers' attachment, and Marec's puzzled look--he related to him the history of his father's exploits, which had been told to Arluth, for the first time, only a few hours before. Marec had been altogether ignorant of much that the old commander related of his father's youthful adventures; he rejoiced, however, to find a brother in Arluth, and to go with him, he cared not whither. Uter had such a strong regard for his master that he would gladly accompany him to the world's-end. Arluth, having taken command of the captured pirate ship, with his brother for mate--Uter, and a few hands spared from the other vessel, as his crew--they at once made sail. Whilst the two ships go sailing on, with clear skies and favouring gales, we will return, for a brief space, to Pengersec. About the time they got under way, the priest was told that the old lord had during the day been on board two eastern vessels; the good man, fearing this visit portended mischief, watched all night for Marec. When morning dawned, there being no appearance of the young men nor their boat--and the ships having left the bay--he sought Pengersec; found him and his wife, early as it was, in the hall. The priest and steward accused the lady of having conspired with her woman and others to destroy her step-son and husband. Venna, being summoned, turned against her mistress; the old lord, seeing how he had been fooled, ordered both women to be cast into the dungeon, mounted his horse and rode in all haste to Market-jew to see if any craft might be procured to sail after the departed ships and recover his son. Finding nothing there to the purpose, he returned at night-fall--distracted with remorse and rage--fully determined to hang his wife and her woman from the highest tower of his castle. On nearing the thicket, from which the doe started on the preceding day, out sprang the white hare with flaming eyes, right in face of his horse; the terrified steed turned, galloped down to the shore, and, to escape the pursuing hare, took to sea. Neither the horse nor its rider were evermore seen. The lady was released by her father's people; she became covered with scales, like a serpent--from the effects of the poison she had taken it was supposed--and she was shut up, as a loathsome object, in a dark room of Godolphin. Venna escaped to her aunt the witch of Fraddam. The old lord having confessed, in his anguish, how he had disposed of his son and Uter, the people of Pengersec supposed they were taken to Barbary and sold as slaves; hoping, however, to discover them, the old servants took good care of everything, in order to save money and effect his ransom. The two ships kept as near as might be on their voyage; and it was noticed that a beautiful white bird followed them from Mount's Bay; it often came within bow-shot but no one dared to aim a shaft at it, for the eastern mariners believed it to be the spirit of a departed friend who guarded them from harm. Marec frequently passed to the old captain's vessel, when they were becalmed, for he liked much to hear him tell of eastern magicians and the wonderful things they did. Having arrived at their destined port, they found their country in great disorder from the war waged by many pretenders to the throne, as before stated by the old commander. He had no sooner, however, presented to the people the young man, whom they had long known as his son, and related to them the history of his birth, and of the recovered magic sword, than they all flocked to Arluth's standard and proclaimed him their king. Arluth but little valued his new dominions at first, and would have preferred the command of a good ship. Yet, to please his people, he consented to rule them, and soon became fully occupied with the cares of his government, which he regulated like the prudent captain of a well-ordered ship; he would have no idle hands nor waste of stores in his dominions. King Arluth wished his brother to live with him as chief mate and adviser, and offered to dwell in any place he might choose, so it was near their principal port, that he might superintend the traffic. Marec was loath to part with his brother, but his fancy was so fired with what the captain told him about a people, living near them, who were skilled in magic, that he ardently desired to visit their country, and, if possible, acquire some of their extraordinary wisdom. Arluth, on becoming acquainted with his wishes, furnished a vessel with such merchandise as would meet with a ready sale in the wise-men's country; equipped his brother in every way becoming his rank, and dispatched him and Uter under the care of trustworthy persons. Marec remained a long while studying among the magicians, and learned many curious arts, unknown in western lands. He also married a beautiful and rich lady, who was gifted with many rare accomplishments, and Uter wedded her favourite damsel. In about three years, the old captain--who, in the meantime, had made a voyage to Market-jew for tin--came to the sage's country on purpose to inform Marec that his father had long been dead, and how the people on his estate had sent him money and wished for his speedy return. Pengersec's heart then yearned for his home and his people; he told his wife how in the pleasant land, towards the setting sun, gentle showers descended, all summer long, like dews distilled from Heaven, and kept the fields ever verdant; how crops succeeded crops throughout the year, which was like a perpetual spring compared with the arid land in which they then dwelt. He said how hills and dales were covered with fat herds in that happy land, whose inhabitants had not to hunt half-starved wild animals for their subsistence, but only followed the chase for pastime; how by a process, unknown in other lands, a liquor was there brewed from grain, which made those who drank it as strong as giants and brave as lions; how the Cornish people merely washed the soil of their valleys and found metals--more precious than silver or gold. "That is the tin, to obtain which your eastern mariners make their longest and most dangerous voyages," said Pengersec--as we shall now call Marec--"besides," continued he, "I have a strong and fair castle in a green valley by the sea; I will build thee a bower by the murmuring shore, where we will have delightful gardens and everything for pleasure." "Say no more, my beloved, about the delights of thy land," she replied, "for I shall little regard that when thou art by; thy home shall be mine wherever thou choosest to dwell; and whenever it pleaseth thee let us depart." After procuring many magical books and other things, necessary for the practice of occult sciences, Pengersec and his lady, with Uter and his spouse, took leave of the sages and made sail for home. On the way, Pengersec stayed some time with King Arluth, who presented him with a foal of the choicest stock of his country; he also sent on board, unknown to his brother, bales of brocade, and various rich stuffs of gold and silver tissue, besides pearls, precious stones, and other valuable things; and, promising to revisit each other, they took loving leave. The lady passed much time on deck playing on her harp, its sweet music kept the weather fair, drew dolphins and other fishes from the depths of the sea to sport around and follow the ship to Mount's Bay; thence it came to pass that on our coast were found many rare fishes--never before seen here. When the young lord and his beautiful bride landed at Market-jew, the people--one and all--came from near and far away to welcome them. Bonfires blazed on every hill; weeks were passed in feasting at Pengersec, where archery, hurling, slinging, wrestling, and other games were carried on that the fair stranger might see our Cornish sports; at night, minstrels and droll-tellers did their utmost to divert the company. The lady of the castle took much delight in her new home; she often passed the mornings with her husband in hunting; she rode over moors and hills with a hawk on her wrist or a bow in her hand. At eve her harp would be heard in Pengersec towers sending joyous strains over sea and land; then fishermen would rest on their oars, and sea-birds--forgetting their nightly places of rest in the western cleeves--remained entranced around the castle. The people were much pleased with the outlandish lady, who admired their unbounded hospitality to strangers, their primitive manners, simplicity of heart, and sincerity of intention; for they appeared to her as absolutely ignorant of fraud or flattery, as if they had never heard of such a thing; she found them to be of a free, facetious temper, though of a somewhat curious and inquisitive disposition--the women especially. The lady thought our ancient language sounded much like her eastern tongue, and that made her feel all the more at home. Pengersec was no sooner fairly settled than he built two broad and lofty towers--united by a gallery--on the seaward side of his castle. The easternmost tower was constructed with everything requisite for his magic art; in the other were placed his lady's private apartments, overlooking pleasant gardens, the green glen, and boundless ocean. When Pengersec returned, his stepmother was still immured in her dark chamber. In a little while, however, she fretted herself to death, and the breath no sooner left her body than she returned to haunt the rooms formerly occupied by her in the castle. Pengersec had that portion of the building at once rased to the ground, but her hideous ghost still continued to wander about the place. Now it was that the young lord essayed the power of his art to some purpose, for, by his enchantment, he confined her to a hole in a headland, west of Pengersec Cove, called the How, and compelled her to assume the form of an uncommonly large adder, in which shape she is still occasionally seen there, if what people of that neighbourhood say, be true. Over a few years, Pengersec became so much attached to occult sciences that he devoted nearly all his time to their practice; he was seldom seen beyond his castle, and, even there, he almost continually shut himself up in his tower, where he was never approached except by his lady and Uter, both of whom assisted him in such operations as required help. Fires would be seen--through loop-holes in his tower--blazing all night long; and the flames ascended high above the battlements when he changed base metals into silver and gold. If his fire happened to go out he rekindled it by sparks drawn from the sun, by means of a magic crystal. With the same glass, or another, he also saw what was being done in distant lands. A person, who came from far to see the magician's wonders, on looking into or through this glass, beheld in the castle-court what appeared to be an uncommonly large bird carrying in its mouth a baulk of timber; on taking away the glass he could only see a duck with a straw in her bill. Pengersec paid no attention to his farms, which were left to Uter's management; the lord, indeed, had no reason to care about them whilst he could make gold in abundance. But this untold riches was about the least important fruit of his science, for--ere he became middle-aged--he concocted a magical elixir, or water-of-life, which preserved him, his lady, and others in their youthful vigour. The lord of Pengersec was soon renowned in all the west as a most powerful enchanter, whom everybody feared to molest--and well they might. Some one from the Mount, having a mind to his fat sheep, carried one of them down to the cliff, tied its legs together, and passed them over his head. At this instant, however, the enchanter, happening to glance at his magic glass, saw what was taking place, and put a spell on the thief that made him remain in the same spot all the night with the tide rising around him and the sheep hanging from his neck. The enchanter released the thief in the morning and gave him the sheep with a caution not to meddle with his flocks again or he would be served out worse. 'Tis said, too, that Venna, who was now a noted wise-woman or witch--living at St. Hillar Downs--often had contests with the enchanter to test the relative powers of their familiars; they contended with spells and counter-spells from mere pride of art. We omit the details because they would merely be a repetition of much that has been related in the foregoing stories of witchcraft and pellar-craft. At times the lord would be seen careering over moors and hills, mounted on his handsome mare, brought from the east; she excelled every other steed for swiftness; a whisper from him would make her as docile as a lamb, though she was quite unmanageable with everybody else. The castle servants were frequently alarmed by hearing the enchanter conjuring, in an unknown tongue, the unruly spirits that he required to serve him; or by loud explosions. Pungent and fiery vapours, that threatened to consume the building, often sent their strong odours for miles around. At such times the frightened inmates sought their lady's aid; who, on taking her harp to the enchanter's tower, soon drove away or subdued the evil spirits by the power of its melody. One time the magician left his furnaces and their fires to the care of his attendant whilst he went to pass a while in his lady's bower; he had not been long there when something told him that mischief was taking place in his tower. On hastening thither he found the attendant, Uter, had neglected his duty; and, by reading in one of the magical books, had called up evil spirits in such numbers that in another instant they would have destroyed him; and it required all the enchanter's power to subdue them. Many years elapsed. The lord had a numerous family--of whom he took little heed. Some of them were settled on farms, others had been adopted by their uncle, King Arluth, who frequently sent his brother rare drugs, spices, and other things, required by him for making his precious liquor of life. The lady, having outlived all her children and grandchildren, became weary of existence in a world, or amidst a people, that seemed strange to her--all those of her own age being long dead--and wishing to rest with her children, though loath to leave her husband, she often begged him to discontinue prolonging his life; and he--as on former occasions, for the last hundred years or so--always promised her to leave the world when he had perfected some new essay of his art, which was all in all to him. His wife, however, neglected to take the life-cordial, and, at length, rested beneath the sod. Their numerous descendants were known--as the custom was then--by the names of places on which they dwelt; only one of them is particularly mentioned by name in the legend; this was a lady, who lived in Pengersec Castle at the time that a Welsh Prince, from having heard of the Cornish magician's renown, came over to him for instruction, and before his departure married the beautiful Lamorna, who was the sage's great-granddaughter. The Welsh Prince, having sent a quantity of black stones to Pengersec, he extracted from them a sort of liquid-fire, which, by some mismanagement, burst its containing vessels, and an instant afterwards all was in flames. The magician was consumed with all his books and treasures; the castle and all it held destroyed, leaving nothing but the bare walls. It is said that Venna, the witch, prolonged her life also--without the aid of Pengersec's elixir--by merely enticing to her habitation, and keeping there, goats and young people. From them, by some means of her craft, she drew their youthful vigour to herself and caused them to pine and die. This wicked practice of hers having being discovered, young folks were carefully kept out of her reach; and to prevent her from doing any more mischief, one night when she was brewing her hell-broth, and the flames were seen rising high, the people--to prevent her escape--nailed up her door; put a turf over her chimney-top, and smothered her in the infernal vapours that arose from her hearth. All the chief people of the story are ended; but had it not been for Pengersec's untoward accident he might have lived to this day. We have preserved in the foregoing what may seem to many persons mere childish fancies; if, however, the same incidents should be found in the folk-lore of other lands, they will have an interest for those whose leisure and learning enabled them to trace our popular tales to their fountain-head. * * * * * An old tinner of Lelant, who told me the story of "Tom and the giant Denbras," brought into it the incident of Pengersec enchanting a "giant of the Mount" that came to steal his cattle. Much the same story is still told in Sennen of an astrologer, and a reputed conjuror, called Dyonysious Williams, who lived in Mayon about a century ago. This gentleman found that his furse-rick was diminishing much faster than could be accounted for, from the ordinary consumption of fuel in his own house. He consulted his books, and discovered by his art that some women, of Sennen Cove, made it a practice of carrying away his furse every night. The very next night, after all honest folks should be in their beds, an old woman of the Cove came, as usual, to his rick for a "burn" of furse. She made one of no more than the usual size, which she tried to lift on to her back, but found that she could not move it. She then took out half the furse, but was still unable to lift the small quantity that remained in her rope. Becoming frightened, she tried to get out the rope and run, but found that she had neither the power to draw it out nor to move from the spot herself. Of course the conjuror had put a spell on her, and there she had to remain throughout the cold winter's night until Mr. Williams came out in the morning and released her from the spell. As she was a very poor old soul, he let her have a burn of furse; but she took good care never to come any more, nor did the other women who soon found out how she had been served. [Illustration] NOTES, ILLUSTRATIVE ANECDOTES, &c. MIRACLE PLAYS, CHRISTMAS PLAYS, &c. Page 1. The accounts published last spring of Miracle Plays being acted in Yorkshire, by a company of Congregationalists under the direction of a Roman Catholic priest, would seem to indicate a primitive state of society in the north--good feeling and sympathy between members of old mother church and the followers of new lights; and that Yorkshire folks are as much attached to ancient customs as are the Cornish, or even more. Mummery, and the acting of such old Christmas plays as St. George and the Dragon, with the King of Egypt and Fair Sabra his daughter, were favourite pastimes in the northern counties long after they fell into disuse in other parts except Cornwall. These old plays, like our guise-dances, are of very remote origin, and founded probably on the old mysteries now reproduced in Yorkshire; the subject of St. George being introduced at the time of the Crusades. And, if tradition may be credited, our old guise-dances were also often founded on more homely and familiar legends, and these formed the connecting link between old mysteries and the modern drama. The subject of miracle plays is interesting to us because almost the only remains of ancient Cornish literature are mystery plays. One of them, "The Creation of the World," by William Gordon, of Helstone, in 1611, has been published by the late Mr. Davies Gilbert. Others, of earlier date, have been translated and published by Mr. Norris, to which we may add St. Meriseck, lately translated by Mr. Whitley Stokes. Many of our ancient amphitheatres, where the "Guary miracle" used to be acted--still exist, as the "Round," or plain, in St. Just Church-town; the Plan-an-guary, Redruth; and others farther eastward. In this age of restoration (would it were also one of restitution) these old Plan-an-guaries should be rebuilt and restored as public places of recreation, common to all. We know that miracle plays continued to be performed in the western parishes during Queen Elizabeth's reign, and probably much later. A short time ago, William Sandys, Esq., F.S.A., published in his learned paper, entitled the "Cornish Drama," in the "Journal of the Royal Institution of Cornwall," an extract from a MS. volume, entitled, "A Book declaring the Royalties of which Sir John Arundell, of Lanhern, and his ancestors, have had within the Hundred of Penwith," &c. which sayeth that-- "Ao. 10, E. John Veal of Boraine, gentleman, of the age of 78. Sworn at a Court holden at Penzance the 20th day of June, Ano decimo E., by William Gilbert, under Steward of the Hundred Court of Penwyth, being upon his oath examined touching the liberties of Connerton, and the Hundred of Penwyth appendant unto the same manor, saith that when he was a Boy of good remembrance his grandfath. and his Father both dwelling then at Sancras, within the hundred of Penwyth, did see one Sr. John Trwrye (or Trevrye) knight, a sanctuary man at St. Borains, which had committed some great offence then against the King, and thereupon committed to the Tower, and by means of a servant which he had, broke prison and came into Cornwall to St. Borian, and claimed the priviledge of the Sanctuary. It fortuned within a while after there was a mirable (sic) Play at Sanckras Parish, divers men came to the play amongst whom came a servant of this Mr. Trevrye, named Quenall and (in the place before the play began) the said Quenall fell at variance with one Richard James Veane, and so both went out of the Play and fought together, the said Quenall had a sword and a buckler, and the other had a single sword, the said Quenall was a very tall man in his Fight, the other gave back and fell over a mole Hill, and ere he could recover himself the said Quenall thrust his sword through him and so he immediately dyed, and Quenall taken and bound to the end of the Play and before the Play was done his Mastr. hearing thereof came to the Place with other Sanctuary men and by force would have taken him away from his said Grandfather, Mr. Veal, and others, but he was not able so to do, but with a sufficient Guard he was carried to Conertone Gaol, where he was after hanged on the Gallows in Conerton Down, and so was more in his time, for there was no prisoner then carried to Launston Gaol." It will be observed that the name of the parish where the miracle play "fortuned" to be held is, in this interesting document, spelt as the country folk still pronounce it--Sanckras. The name has been much speculated on, and antiquaries are undecided whether the proper designation is Sancreed, Sancrist; Sancrus, or Sancras, (both holy cross.) Now it happens, however, that the learned antiquary, to whom we are indebted for the above, has also preserved in his interesting work, "Christmas-tide," another legend which we think will throw some light on the matter and show that the popular name is probably correct; or that, like many other places, it has long rejoiced in two names. "There is a curious story on the subject, (the true cross) related in Harl. MS., 2252 (temp. Hen. 8) entitled, 'A grete myracle of a knyghte, callyde Syr Roger Wallysborrow.' Being in the Holy Land, he wished to bring off privily a piece of the cross, and, praying to that effect, his thigh opened miraculously, and received it. He then returned to Cornwall, his native country, having, in the course of his voyage, by virtue of the fragment of the cross, appeased the elements, and prevented shipwreck. On his arrival his thigh opened to liberate the precious relic, of which he gave part to the parish where this happened, hence called Cross parish, and the remainder to St. Buryan, where his lands were." Those who came to Sancras play got more entertainment than was promised in the bill. And Carew, in his "Survey of the County," gives an anecdote of the stupidity, feigned or real, of a performer in the Plan-an-guary, St. Just, that afforded much amusement. It having come his turn, the ordinary, or manager, said, "Goe forthe men, and shew thyselfe." The actor stepped forward and gravely repeated, "Goe forthe man, and shew thyselfe." The ordinary, in dismay, whispered to him, "Oh, you marre all the play!" The actor, in very emphatic gesture, repeated aloud, "Oh, you marre all the play!" The prompter, then losing his patience, reviled the actor with all the bitter terms he could think of, which the actor repeated with a serious countenance as part of the play. The ordinary was at last obliged to give over, the assembly having received a great deal more sport than twenty such guaries could have afforded. We are become too fastidious and pious to be amused with such rude entertainment as the old guary miracles afforded to our simple forefathers. One might even think parts of these ancient dramas irreverent, if not profane; for example, a scene in Noah's flood, where the venerable patriarch and his wife have a scuffle because she wouldn't enter the ark before she had a gossip, with another dame, about a piece of anti-diluvian scandal. She swears by St. John that she will not enter the ark without her gossips, every one; and, when she is at last forced in, she salutes Noah with a hearty box on the ear. In the Cornish Mystery of the Creation of the World, by Jordan, the lady is much more civil, and, like a thrifty Cornish housewife, is very careful to collect all her property, because, as she says, "they cost store of money." No doubt she took good care to carry into the ark all her milking-pans and bussa-pots, as well as temberan things and gaard for scouring them, not forgetting her brandes and baking-iron, and the clome in the dresser. In one of the Townly Mysteries, Mak, the buffoon of the piece, steals a sheep from the shepherds, while they are asleep, and takes it home to his wife, who puts it into the cradle, endeavouring to make it pass for a child, and praying that if ever she beguiled the shepherds, who have come in search of it, she may eat the child lying there. The trick, however, is discovered. One of the shepherds going to kiss the child, finds the long snout. There are many other comic passages in these mysteries, which would now be considered rather gross than witty. Yet, with all that and their ludicrous anachronisms, those who take an interest in ancient manners and customs will be gratified by their perusal. Mr. Sandys, in the work from which we have largely quoted, also gives us the following interesting bit of information:-- "In 1428, a sum of four pounds was given to Jakke Trevaill and his companions, for making various plays and interludes before the king at Christmas." Surely Jakke and his comrades went up from St. Just or Sancras, to show king Henry VI what a Cornish guise-dance was like. The re-introduction of mediæval mysteries and other middle-age mummeries, as well as the federation of extreme religionists, is a curious and significant sign of these times, in which all unite to pleasantly "trickle the trout," or to extend the good work, as parties of different views may choose to regard this rare union of extreme links. THE LEVELIS, OF TREWOOF. Trewoof (or as it is now called Trove) was formerly the seat of a family of gentlemen bearing that name, who gave for their arms "Arg a chev, sa between 3 black birds (hoops) ppr." This family flourished here from a very remote period, and we find that as early as 1292 (12 Edwd. I.) one Hawise Trewoof, the relict of William de Trewoof, intermarried with Henry de Boscawen, of Boscawen Rose (ancestor of the noble family of Boscawen Earls of Falmouth.) Trewoof and Boscawen Rose are both in the parish of St. Buryan, and less than two miles apart. The estate continued in the possession of the Trewoofs until the reign of Henry VII, when Johanna, daughter and sole heiress of John Trewoof, "carried" it, together with herself, in marriage to Thomas Levelis, of Castle Horneck and Landewednack. The Levelis family was of very old Norman descent, and had flourished in the district from the Conquest (1066) as appears from the monument of Arthur Levelis, Esquire, to be seen in Buryan Church. The arms of this family are given as "Arg 3 calves' heads couped at the neck, gules." The crest given in the Visitation is "A garretted turrett, or, surmounted with 3 turretts or small towers." In Landewednack Church window, easternmost but one, says Dr. Borlase, "I find that Thomas Levelis, who glazed ye window, bore arg 3 calves' heads in pile gules. His wife's arms were arg a chev betwixt 3 hoops sable." The learned doctor further adds, "I find also that Levelis arms, spelt there Levelys, are married to the arms of the Trewoofs and have no third bearing: whence it is to be conjectured that the Levelys of Landewidnock marryed Trewoof at the time when that window was glassed, that this Trewoof glassed it, that the Levelys passed from this parish of Landewidnock to Trewoof in Buryan on this marriage of the heiress, that Levelys married an heiress also from Landewidnock (viz., heiress of Archer,) for Arthur, buried in Buryan, quartered in the 3rd place sable a chevron engrailed betwixt 3 pheons arg, which same arms are still to be seen joyned to arg on a fess sable 3 buckles, or, in the same window of Landewidnock Church which has the Levelys and Trewoofs in it." Thomas Levelis settled at Trewoof, and, by the said Jane or Johanna, daughter of John Trewoof, has issue a son and heir--John Levelys, whose posterity in the male line were settled at Trewoof until the death of Arthur Levelis (fifth in descent from the said Thomas Levelis,) which took place in 1671. Arthur Levelis, like his wife's father, John Cooke, or Coke, of Tregessa, was a zealous Royalist; and an instance of his loyalty is recorded at page 134 of Mr. Blight's _Churches of West Cornwall_; he having concealed a band of Royalists in the fogue on the estate on their being closely pursued by Fairfax. Mr. Levelis, through his mother--Ebit Coffin, daughter of Richard Coffin, of Portledge, Devon, Esquire (and wife of Hugh Levelis)--was enabled to deduce a descent from Edward I., King of England, through the noble families of De Bohun, Courtenay, Carey, and Coffin. Of this descent his posterity were proud, and it has been urged as one reason for their devoted loyalty. Arthur Levelis had only one child--a daughter, the issue of his marriage with the daughter of John Coke of Tregessa; and this daughter became the sole heiress of the Levelis family and estates. She married Richard Vosper, gentleman, then residing in St. Buryan, who had accumulated a considerable fortune and was mortgagee of divers estates in the west of Cornwall. There were issue of this marriage several children. Mr. Vosper had formerly resided at Liskeard, where his family had been seated for very many years, and in which town they held a good position, as will be seen by a reference to the Borough muniments. The Vospers claim to be of Jewish origin, and settled in Cornwall at an early date. For some time they were engaged in mining operations. The meaning of the name "Vosper," or "Vespuer," is "pure," "immaculate." And in an old seal, in the possession of the family, there is a coat on which is a cross charged with the Virgin. But on the title deeds in possession of the family, to which Arthur Vosper (son and heir of the said Richard Vosper, of Trewoof, was a party,) there is a quarterly seal of the Vospers and Levelis as follows:--1 and 4 or, a cross moline sable, _Vosper_; 2 and 3, ar, 3 calves' heads, couped gules, Levelis. This coat, appertaining to the said Richard Vosper, his descendants still continue to bear, and the same now appertains to the Vospers, formerly of Launcells, Milton Abbott, and Lewannick. Trewoof estate passed, unentailed, to Arthur Vosper, the eldest son and heir-at-law, who married Elisabeth Eyans, of Eyanstone, Oxon, and this gentleman having been unfortunately drowned in 1679 in the Isis, the property passed to his two daughters and co-heirs--Elisabeth and Prudence. The former of these subsequently married Joseph Marke, of Woodhill, near Liskeard, gentleman, and jointly with her sister in 1699, disposed of the property, contrary to the wish of their cousin, Mr. Vosper, of Liskeard and Launcells. Prudence was afterwards married to Mr. Dennis, of Liskeard. The late John Vosper, of Milton Abbott and Callington, gentleman, who died in 1796, was one of the representatives of Mr. Vosper, of Liskeard and Launcells. So also was the late Thomas Vosper, of Alternon. Mr. Vosper, of Milton Abbott, had issue several sons; one of whom, Robert, was grandfather of the present Samuel Vosper-Thomas, of Wimborne. Another Edward Vosper, of Stonehouse, Devon, gentleman, was grandfather of Thomas Phillips, of Plymouth, gentleman, the present magistrates' clerk for Plymouth. DUFFY AND THE DEVIL. Page 3. An old droll teller of Sancreed, called Billy Foss, used to relate a story very similar to that of the guise-dance; he made no mention, however, in his droll, of any family names, nor of any particular place in which the "Lord" dwelt, who married a poor girl; but her name was Duffy; and the demon who worked for her, and who was also fooled by a witch through strong drink, was called Tarraway. Billy used to say, "Some who know no better, call Duffy's devil Terrytop; but his ancient and proper name is Tarraway." PENDRE AND BARANHUAL. Pages 63, 73, and 94. This place gave name to the family of Pendrea, or Pender. Hals says, "John Pendrea, the last of his tribe, temps. Henry VI, having only two daughters, that became his heirs, who were married to Bonython, of Carclew, and Noy. To Noy's share fell this tenement of Pendrea, which was the dwelling of him and his posterity for several descents; and here was born, as I was informed, William Noy, the Attorney General to Charles I, who designed to have built a noteable house here, but was prevented by death, having before brought great quantities of materials to this place in order thereto. His grandson, William Noy, Esq., sold this place, and several others, to my very kind friend Christopher Davies, gent., now in possession thereof." Baranhual, at one time the residence of the Penders, came from them to the Noyes, and was sold by the Noyes to the Davises. Here was to be seen, until recently, a small room encrusted with shells, which was said to be the work of some ladies of the Davies family. The design of the work was Charles II shown flying from his enemies, and one of them, in full pursuit, had the legend, "This is the heir, come let us kill him, that the inheritance may be our own," whilst an angel calls from a cloud, "Is it not written thou shalt do no murder?" The materials of this work are principally shells from Parcurnow. In 1750 Davies sold Baranhual, and some other farms, to Admiral Boscawen, in whose family it still remains. Pendrea, and much other property in Buryan, belong to the Rev. John Tonkin, of Trevervyn. THE DANES LANDING ON THE CORNISH COAST FOR PLUNDER. Pages 127-141. Then his cruisings o'er the seas, Westward to the Hebrides, And to Scilly's rocky shore; And the hermit's cavern dismal, Christ's great name and rites baptismal, In the ocean's rush and roar. LONGFELLOW. We find an interesting notice of Danish marauding expeditions in Cornwall, and of King Olaf's conversion at Scilly, in Snorri Sturleson's "Heimskringla"--the "World's Circle"--which relates events from the early ages, when mythology and history were undistinguishably blended, down nearly to the period of Sturleson's birth in 1178. The following is from Laing's translation of the "Saga," or story of King Olaf Tryggvesson, who reigned from about the year 995 to the year 1000. "Thereafter Olaf Tryggvesson sailed to England, and ravaged wide around the land. He sailed all the way north to Northumberland, where he plundered; and thence to Scotland, where he marauded far and wide. Then he went to the Hebrides, where he fought some battles; and then southward to Man, where he also fought. He ravaged far around in Ireland, and thence steered to Bretland, which he laid waste with fire and sword, and also the district called Cumberland. He sailed westward from thence to Valland and marauded there. When he left the west, intending to sail to England, he came to the islands called the Scilly Isles, lying westward from England in the ocean. Thus tells Halfred Vandrædaskalt of these events:-- "The brave young king who ne'er retreats, The Englishmen in England beats. Death through Northumberland is spread From battle-axe and broad spear-head. Through Scotland with his spear he rides; To Man his glancing ships he guides; Feeding the wolves where'er he came, The young king drove a bloody game. The gallant bowman in the isles Slew foemen, who lay heaped in piles. The Irish fled at Olaf's name-- Fled from a young king seeking fame. In Bretland, and in Kauraland, People against him could not stand: Thick on the field their corpses lay, To ravens and howling wolves a prey." Olaf Tryggvesson had been four years on this cruise, from the time he left Vendland till he came to the Scilly Isles. While Olaf Tryggvesson lay in the Scilly Isles he heard of a seer, or fortune-teller, on the islands, who could tell beforehand things not yet done, and what he foretold many believed was really fulfilled. Olaf became curious to try this man's gift of prophecy. He therefore sent one of his men, who was the handsomest and the strongest, clothed him magnificently, and bade him say he was the king; for Olaf was known in all countries as handsomer, stronger, and braver than all others, although, after he had left Russia, he retained no more of his name than that he was called Olaf, and was Russian. Now when the messenger came to the fortune-teller, and gave himself out for the king, he got the answer. "Thou art not the king, but I advise thee to be faithful to thy king." And more he would not say to that man. The man returned, and told Olaf, and his desire to meet the fortune-teller was increased; and now he had no doubt of his being really a fortune-teller. Olaf repaired himself to him, and, entering into conversation, asked him if he could foresee how it would go with him with regard to his kingdom, or of any other fortune he was to have. The hermit replies in a holy spirit of prophecy, "Thou wilt become a renowned king, and do celebrated deeds. Many men wilt thou bring to faith and baptism, and both to thy own and others' good; and that thou mayest have no doubt of the truth of this answer listen to these tokens: When thou comest to thy ships many of thy people will conspire against thee, and then a battle will follow in which many of thy men will fall and thou wilt be wounded almost to death, and carried upon a shield to thy ship; yet, after seven days, thou shalt be well of thy wounds, and immediately thou shalt let thyself be baptised." Soon after Olaf went down to his ships, where he met some mutineers and people who would destroy him and his men. A fight took place, and the result was what the hermit had predicted, that Olaf was wounded, and carried upon a shield to his ship, and that his wound was healed in seven days. Then Olaf perceived the man had spoken truth,--that he was a true fortune-teller, and had the gift of prophecy. Olaf went once more to the hermit, and asked particularly how he came to have such wisdom in foreseeing things to be. The hermit replied that the Christian's God himself let him know all that he desired; and he brought before Olaf many great proofs of the power of the Almighty. In consequence of this encouragement Olaf agreed to let himself be baptised, and he and all his followers were baptised forthwith. He remained here a long time, took the true faith, and got with him priests and other learned men." It is worthy of remark that various accounts in this work, of the marauding expeditions of northern vikings on the shores of Bretland and Kauraland (Wales and Cornwall) confirm many traditions still lingering in the West Country, about the Danes, (all Northmen were called Danes) landing on Gwenvor Sands, burning Escols, their defeat in a battle on Velan-druchar Moor, and how their ships remained in Whitsand Bay till "birds built in their rigging," &c. Red-haired families are still often taunted with bearing on their heads a sign that some ancestress must have welcomed a northern pirate to Kauraland with more warmth than discretion. The "seer," or "fortune-teller," on the islands, was probably one of a similar class to the Cornish "pellar," or "white-wizzard," of the present day. King Olaf's priest, taken from Scilly, is one of the most remarkable characters of the wonderful book. ST. LEVAN'S PATH. Page 146. "Aux lieux où la charrette et le saint ont passés, Le froment pousse encor plus vert et plus pressé." BRIZEUX. We find a similar belief to that connected with the path St. Levan trod, in the Breton legend of St. Cornély, from which the above lines are quoted. "La Charrette" was the cart--drawn by oxen--in which the saint rode when he and his people were pursued by an invading host of pagans. St. Cornély, being hard pressed, to prevent the Bretons being driven into the sea, turned about, cursed the pursuers, and changed them all--in rank and file as they stood--into the Menheers of Carnac. The remarkable correspondence of beliefs, customs, names of places, &c., in the Armorican Cornouaile, with those of West Cornwall, would seem to show that the former was either colonised from hence or that many found an asylum there in some invasion of this district. The story of Tom of Chyannor is well known there; a translation of the Armorican version was given in one of the early numbers of _Chambers's Journal_ as a Breton legend. A GHOSTLY SHIP'S-BELL. In the southern side of St. Levan Churchyard there is a low altar-tomb on the grave of Captain Wetherel, whose ship sprung a-leak and sunk, and who was drowned near the Rundle Stone many years ago. This grave is regarded with fear and wonder by many persons of that neighbourhood; for ever since the Captain was laid there, it has been believed that a ghostly bell strikes the hours, and half-hours, in his grave, the same as on board ship. 'Tis said this sound beneath the sod may be heard the clearest by persons passing the Churchyard at midnight. It was a few minutes before that hour, when the Captain, finding his vessel sinking, made his crew take to the boat; but he himself refused to quit his ship; and, as she went down, they heard him give eight loud and distinct strokes on the bell. Many years since several young people were assembled in the Churchyard one Sunday forenoon, after service had commenced and the elders had gone into Church; time passed pleasantly with the young folks in chatting about such occurrences of the St. Levan world as interested them. In rambling among the graves, to look at the many garden flowers that bloomed on them, they approached Captain Wetherel's tomb, and a girl who stood by it reading the inscription, started back on hearing a hollow sound beneath her feet; she, and others near her, who saw her emotion, listened, and lo! a ringing came up as of a bell at sea; all rushed into Church in great fright. There was much talk of the strange occurrence for a few weeks, and less loitering of the youngsters to gossip in the Churchyard during service. Shortly after a young sailor, belonging to St. Levan, who had been absent many years, came home for a few weeks; being in the "Elder Tree" public-house, one forenoon, with some of his former companions, their discourse led to the mention of the ship's-bell sounding in Captain Wetherel's grave. The young seaman said he believed the story was all nonsense, though as strange or stranger things sometimes happened in old vessels; but, as it was then near upon twelve o'clock, for curiosity sake, he went out and stood near the Captain's tomb; whilst his comrades remained by the Church porch, for a few minutes, watching the sun-dial. As it marked noon the sailor rushed back to his companions, and, looking as pale as a corpse, said, with bated breath, "True as I'm alive, I heard 'eight bells' struck in the grave, and wouldn't go near the spot again for the world." The young seaman, on his next voyage, found his grave in the deep. I never heard of any other person who went purposely to hear the Captain's bell, for it is a general belief here that bad luck is sure to overtake those who endeavour to pry into ghostly doings that don't concern them. Although the belief still holds, yet most West Country folks are become shy of mentioning Captain Wetherel's bell, or of talking on kindred subjects, except amongst ourselves, from the ridicule with which it is now fashionable to treat such matters, even in St. Levan. BREA AND PENDEEN, IN ST. JUST. Pages 42, 166, and 200. "Brea, at present, retains no traces of its former consequence, which may be assumed from its chapel, noticed in a former page. The family of Bray, or Brea, came with the Conqueror. In the 3rd Henry IV., A.D. 1402, Michael de Bray held two parts of one Knight's fee, in Bray, in Penwith, and in the 12th Edw. I., Brea, or Bray, is charged by the Justices' Itinerant for eight acres. Edward Bray was summoned to Parliament, 3rd November, 1529, by the style and title of Baron Bray, which honour expired on the death of John, the second Lord, 18th November, 1557. This property now belongs to the Ellis family. It appears from an inscribed stone, over one of the chimneys, that the present house was built by Charles Ellis, 1634. A former member of that family, who lived there, was a Quaker, and is said to have been an eccentric character. He enclosed a burying ground not far from his house, and was there interred, and has a granite tomb erected over his remains. Pendeen is the house of most importance in this parish, it has long been the property, and sometimes the residence, of different branches of the old and highly respectable family of Borlase. The Rev. Dr. William Borlase, the celebrated antiquary and historian of his own county, who, by his elaborate work, has raised to his own memory an enduring monument, was born here. * * * * * The mansion itself, though now only used as a farm house, and occupied by labourers, retains much of its ancient respectability of appearance. The masonry is of good wrought granite, and the chimneys are tastefully built; it bears the date of 1670, and is a structure superior to the other houses of the same age in the neighbourhood." REV. JOHN BULLER, L.L.B. The learned antiquary, who was born and who resided at Pendeen for a considerable time, is well represented by William Copeland Borlase, Esq., the author of "Nænia Cornubiæ," recently published. THE BURNING OF VELLAN-DREATH. Page 215. It is said that in Queen Elizabeth's reign the Spaniards did much mischief by pillaging defenceless places on the western shores. About the time they burnt Moushal, an old miller and his son, a stout man, were the only dwellers in Vellan-Dreath. Early one morning, the miller, on returning from the mill-pool, which was far up on the hill, whither he had been to lift the flushet, noticed a boat with several men put off from a ship, and he watched them till they landed just beneath his mill. Suspecting they were bent on mischief he went in and barricaded his door; unfortunately the miller had no lead, but he put the muzzle of his musket through the latch-hole, which was probably larger than required to admit a finger to lift the latch. Meanwhile his son watched the invaders approach from a gable-end loop-hole which served as a window to the mill-bed. The water had not yet been turned on to the wheel; some of the "Spaniars," on coming round near the door, seeing the miller's gun pointed at them as they came within range, turned, tried to climb the mill-wheel and effect an entrance through the low thatched roof. The old miller, who spied them through crevices between the board of his door, guessing their intentions, called to his son to turn the water on; the launder flushet was raised in an instant, and the wheel revolved; one Spaniard was drowned in the pul-rose (wheel-pit) and another killed in the opening where the axle-tree worked. The millers, seeing more invaders coming up the cliff, set fire to a furse-rick near their door, and, each one taking on his back a sack of flour, made good their retreat through the smoke, without being perceived by the Spaniards till they were far up the hill. The sacks of flour protected them pretty well from stray shots, but the old miller, being hit in his knee with a bullet had to drop his sack. They reached Escolls, however, without farther harm, and the young man, on throwing down his sack of flour, declared that it was pounds heavier, from the lead lodged in it, than when he took it up. The Spaniards found little in the mill of any value to them; but they set fire to it, and it was never rebuilt. The site of Vellan-Dreath can scarcely be traced on account of the blown sand having covered it over, and filled in the hollow in the cliff where it stood. Many years ago one of the mill-stones was found and taken to a smith's shop, in Mayon, or Treeve, where it served to bind cart wheels on; it remained near the smithy door but a few years since, and it may be there still, or not far from the spot. It is worth preserving, many would come from far to see a mill-stone of Queen Elizabeth's time. THE MEN-AN-TOL, CONSTANTINE TOLMEN, &c. Page 242. "D'un passé sans mémoire incertaines reliques, Mystères d'un vieux monde en mystères écrits." LAMARTINE. Mr. J. T. Blight, F.S.A., gives the following graphic description of various perforated stones in Cornwall, and elsewhere. "In the western part of Cornwall there are several ancient monuments known by the name of 'Holed Stones.' They consist of thin slabs of Granite, each being pierced by a round hole, generally near its centre. They vary in size and in form. That near the Men-Scryfa in Madron, better known than others, is placed between, or rather arranged triangularly with, two other upright stones. Other holed stones which have hitherto been noticed are not so accompanied. The late Mr. Buller, in his 'Account of the Parish of St. Just,' describes some such stones which he found near Carn Kenidjac. One may still be seen in the Vicarage grounds of St. Just; and two others near Bolleit, in St. Buryan. The monument to which I would now more particularly call attention is at Tolven Cross (Tolven is Cornish for Holed Stone), in the parish of St. Constantine, a few yards west of the road from Gweek to the Helston and Falmouth turnpike. Dr. Borlase refers to a holed stone about a mile west of St. Constantine Church. The subject of the present notice is twice that distance from the Church; it is therefore uncertain whether or not the Doctor alludes to the same monument. It is the largest 'holed stone' in Cornwall, being 8 feet 6 inches high by 8 feet 11 inches wide at the base, diminishing to a point at the summit; thus it is of a triangular form. Its average thickness is about one foot; but it is a little thicker at the bottom than at the top. The hole, almost perfectly circular, is 17 inches in diameter. Though within the slate district, the stone is of granite. Formerly it was a conspicuous object by the way-side; but within the last 12 or 14 years a house has been built betwixt it and the road. It now forms part of a garden hedge. In a field adjoining the opposite side of the road, perhaps 18 yards from the stone, is a low irregular barrow, about 20 yards in diameter, and studded with small mounds. Dr. Borlase has alluded to the superstitious practice of drawing children through the Holed Stone at Madron, to cure them of weakness or pains in the back--a practice still observed at the Holed Stone at St. Constantine. I was told that some remarkable cures had been effected there only a few weeks since. The ceremony consists of passing the child nine times through the hole, alternately from one side to the other; and it is essential to success that the operation should finish on that side where there is a little grassy mound, recently made, on which the patient must sleep, with a six-pence under his head. A trough-like stone, called the 'cradle,' on the eastern side of the barrow, was formerly used for this purpose. This stone, unfortunately, has long been destroyed. That holed stones were not originally constructed for the observance of this peculiar custom is evident, for in some instances the holes are not more than five or six inches in diameter. A few years ago, a person digging close to the Tolven, discovered a pit in which were fragments of pottery, arranged in circular order, the whole being covered by a flat slab of stone. Imagining that he had disturbed some mysterious place, with commendable reverence he immediately filled up the pit again. Taking the proximity of the barrow in connection with the pit, it seems most probable that the Tolven is a sepulchral monument, stones of this kind being erected perhaps to a peculiar class of personages. It is well known that the Circle is an ancient symbol of eternity, and it was sometimes adopted as typical of Deity itself. The triangular form of the stone may not be accidental. The holed stones at Madron also form part of a triangular arrangement. Whether a significant connection was intended in this union of the circle and the triangle is perhaps worthy of consideration. Though holed stones are sometimes found near what are termed Druidic Circles, I perceive no traces of monuments of that description near the Tolven. The holed stones at Kenidjac, St. Just, are near ancient circles; and the two holed stones at Bolleit are not more than 100 yards from the well-known stone circle, called 'Dawns Myin.'" [Illustration] THE GARRACK ZANS (HOLY ROCK.) Within the memory of many persons now living, there was to be seen, in the town-places of many western villages, an unhewn table-like stone called the Garrack Zans. This stone was the usual meeting place of the villagers, and regarded by them as public property. Old residents in Escols have often told me of one which stood near the middle of that hamlet on an open space where a maypole was also erected. This Garrack Zans they described as nearly round, about three feet high, and nine in diameter, with a level top. A bonfire was made on it and danced around at Midsummer. When petty offences were committed by unknown persons, those who wished to prove their innocence, and to discover the guilty, were accustomed to light a furse-fire on the Garrack Zans; each person who assisted took a stick of fire from the pile, and those who could extinguish the fire in their sticks, by spitting on them, were deemed innocent; if the injured handed a fire-stick to any persons, who failed to do so, they were declared guilty. Most evenings young persons, linked hand in hand, danced around the Garrack Zans, and many old folks passed round it nine times daily from some notion that it was lucky and good against witchcraft. The stone now known as Table-mên was called the Garrack Zans by old people of Sennen. If our traditions may be relied on, there was also in Treen a large one, around which a market was held in days of yore, as mentioned at page 77. There was a Garrack Zans in Sowah only a few years since, and one may still be seen in Roskestal, St. Levan. Nothing seems to be known respecting their original use; yet the significant name, and a belief--held by old folks at least--that it is unlucky to remove them, denote that they were regarded as sacred objects. Venerated stones, known by the same name, were long preserved in other villages until removed by strange owners and occupiers, who are, for the most part, regardless of our ancient monuments. DIVINATION BY RUSHES AND IVY-LEAVES. Page 217. Many persons, who were anxious to know their future fate with regard to love and marriage, or for mere fun, were in the habit of assembling, on twelfth night, in a farm house kitchen, which had a large open fire-place--used for burning furse and turf. A fire was laid that would make plenty of "umers" (embers) and hot ashes, such being required for working the spells; then each person touched the "cravel" (mantle stone) with his or her forehead, and departed in single file and silence, which was required to be observed, until, having gathered the rushes and ivy-leaves, they returned and again touched the "cravel" with their heads. The procession was often waylaid or followed by some who tried to make the spell-workers break silence; if any of them spoke they had to return and again touch the "cravel." Those who wished to know their own luck in love and marriage, or that of different couples who were said to be sweethearts, placed in the hot ashes and "umers" two pieces of rush--named or intended for the respective parties;--if both rushes burnt kindly together, those they represented would be married. As the pairs were consumed, united or parted, such would be the course of their love. The one which burnt longest would outlive the other. When it was decided who were to be married together an ivy-leaf was cast into the fire, and the number of cracks it made in burning told the years to pass before the couple would be wed. Then two leaves for the wedded pair were buried in the hot ashes, and the cracks they made showed how many children the happy couple would be blessed with. Other presages, which afforded much amusement, were drawn from the appearance and behaviour of rushes and ivy-leaves--or lovers and married folks--in their fiery bed. Meanwhile old people--who in general were the most anxious to know if they or others were destined to live or die during the ensuing year--drew an ivy-leaf for each person, either named or thought of, through a gold ring, and cast the leaves into a vessel of spring water, which was placed on the hearth-stone and left there over night. Next morning, the leaves that were found to have turned black, or to be specked with red spots like blood, showed that those for whom they were intended would be dead ere next twelfth night. The blood spots betokened a violent end. RECENT ILL-WISHING. Page 65. The following case of an ill-wished woman, living in ----, was told me a few days since by one of her neighbours. In the Autumn of 1870 a pilot, or one of a pilot's crew, that my informant called a "hobbler," gained upwards of twenty pounds for his share of the "hobble," or pilotage of a ship, which was only one night's work. Next morning, whilst the "hobbler" was in bed, his wife, elated with her husband's good luck, stood outside her door when the neighbouring women were passing by to the spring for water, and she was saying to a number of them, who gathered around her, how lucky it was that her husband had met with such a good hobble, just in time for her to pay off old scores at the shops, and to enable her to get a little comfortable winter's clothing for her husband and children before cold weather came. In her joy at the godsend, she continued a long time detailing her plans for disposing of it to the best advantage, and was about to go in as the women took up their pitchers, when another hobbler's wife, who had been listening for some time, turned round, in taking up her vessel of water, and said, "Thee art ready to burst with pride because good luck es come to thy door, but I wish to God that thee may'st never be the better for it." Saying this she departed. The pilot's wife--a moment before full of gladness--was now "struck all of a heap." Cold shivers passed through her; as she fell on the form she said that no good would now come to her from the begrudged money, and that the ill-wish had taken effect. From that day to this she has never been like the same woman; she has lost all heart to struggle for her family; when her husband is at sea she fears he will no more return, and believes something evil is constantly hanging over her head. Yet she can't be said to have any known bodily ailment; the doctor told her he didn't know what to give her, nor what could be amiss with her, unless she was bewitched, so my informant said. She had also sought aid of the pellar, or white wizzard, who visits the district at stated times, and even he had to give her up. In answer to my inquiry if the woman that ill-wished the hobbler's wife was a witch, she replied, "No, not that the neighbours knew of, and they supposed she didn't altogether mean to do the harm she did, but it so happened that the bad words passed her lips at the fatal minute when ill-wishes won't fall to the ground; some call her a witch now, but they don't think her one--she's too big a fool." After a pause, as if to settle the matter, she added, "No, on the whole, I don't think she's anything better or worse than the general run of women; I have known her all my life time; she was a 'professor' for years; we used to meet in the same class till she got married, when she left off, because she couldn't afford then, with a family coming quick, to pay class-money every week, ticket-money and preacher's-money every quarter, and give to all the collections, as et es expected of members, however poor they may be, it was busy all to make both ends meet. No more could she then spare time to go to preaching, or other means of grace, every night in the week, like she did in her courting days; besides she was a very wicked talking woman, and said worse than she meant. She would rap out an oath like nothing--it eased her mind she said--if anybody 'thurted' (crossed) her. Like other backsliders she was worse than anyone that had always been 'carnal-minded.' Class-leaders, and others of 'the people,' tried all they could do, by talking to her, to get her in the right way again; when her husband was in good getting they even prayed for her in the meetings, and it made her worse than ever to be told that. She said, in her sinful way, they had better leave her alone, for she knew they were no better than a set of 'duffans,' and backbiting and undermining hypocrites; that all they wanted of her was money, money all the time, and if one hadn't plenty of that for them, they wouldn't so much as dip the tip of their finger in water to save a poor soul from perishing. Pinching hard times made her spiteful, for there's nothing so bad as poverty to make one feel ugly. As for the poor ill-wished woman, she never had half enough of the Old One in her to help her stand up in her own defence." We give another out of many recent instances of ill-wishing. The other day a small farmer, living in the higher side of Madron parish, came in to a surgeon, in this town, and told him that his wife was very bad in bed, and that neither he nor any of the neighbours could make out what was amiss with her unless she was ill-wished by a woman, who lived on the downs near his dwelling, or else 'overlooked' by her evil eyes. His wife objected to borrow or lend with her--above all to lend. "And good reason why," said the man, "for she never paid what she borrowed. A month or so ago she wanted six-pence of my woman to clear scores with a 'Johnny-fortnight,' (packman), my wife refused her; on leaving our door she scraped her feet on the 'drussel,' then turned round, shaked her finger at my wife, and said, 'See if I don't make thee wish, the longest day thee hast got to live, that thee had'st never denied me anything.'" "My poor dear had to take to her bed next day, and she han't been much out of it since. Do come and see her as quick as you can." In answer to the surgeon's questions, the farmer told him she wasn't what one could call heart sick; but there was no "sprowl" (energy) in her; and her bowels were never in a right state. The surgeon gave him medicine for his wife, and promised to see her shortly. A few days after, having to visit a patient who lived near the ailing farmer's wife, he called to see her also. The husband, who was in "great stroath, and all of a stroll," molly-caudling about the household work, told the doctor that his wife was still in bed, no better for the medicine that he could see, and showed him up stairs to her room, where he found a big fat woman, sleeping soundly; when awoke, she described her ailment just as her husband had stated, dwelling much on her bad appetite, the weakness she felt all over, and her having no heart to do anything. The doctor noticed, all about the chamber, a number of bottles and tea-cups, with the remains of all sorts of cordials and caudles in them, which showed that she had been nursed to the surfeiting point. Having felt her pulse, examined her tongue, and gone through all the ceremonies usual on such occasions, he shook his head and left the room, followed by the husband, who, with a long face, begged that he might be told the worst. "Now don't 'e be afraid to tell me," said he, "for if there is no hopes I can bear to hear it; thank goodness I have done all in my power for her, poor dear, and have nothing on my mind to answer for." "Her best chance of being cured depends upon you, I think," said the doctor, with a serious face, "if you can make up your mind to undertake a difficult job." "Oh, do tell me what I shall do," replied the man, "and I will go through fire and water for her, the dear." "That's all very easy to say," rejoined the doctor, "but it will require all your strength and courage. If you have a wheelbarrow about the place, bring it in, put your wife into it, and trundle her out into the middle of the largest field or croft hereabouts, there leave her, and if she won't come in let her stay there until she's tired; there's no more amiss with your wife than there is with me, except laziness and a diseased fancy, that you have made worse by indulging her whims; you should have been out in the fields about your work, and have left her to do without her caudles till she rose and cooked them." We don't know how the farmer proceeded to execute the doctor's advice, but next market day he called in, thanked him for his hint, said his wife was then doing her work, and as well as ever she was in her life. "But you had better not venture to see her again soon," said he, "for I believe she would as lieve meet the Old One as you for a bit." Almost every day one may hear of similar cases which show the power of superstitious fears over weak minds. MIDSUMMER BONFIRES. Our bonfires, torches, and tar-barrels, with the peculiar hand-in-hand dance around the blazing piles, remind us of ancient times when similar customs were regarded as sacred rites by our forefathers; and it would seem as if some vestiges of these time-honoured religious notions were still connected with Midsummer bonfires in the minds of old-fashioned people, living in remote and primitive districts, where they still believe that dancing in a ring over the embers, around a bonfire, or leaping (singly) through its flames, is calculated to insure good luck to the performers and to serve as a protection from witchcraft and other malign influences during the ensuing year. Many years ago, on Midsummer's eve, when it became dusk, very old people in the West Country would hobble away to some high ground, whence they obtained a view of the most prominent hills, such as Bartinney, Chapel Carn-brea, Sancras Bickan, Castle-an-Dinas, Carn Galver, St. Agnes Bickan, and many other beacon hills far away to north and east, which vied with each other in their Midsummer's blaze. They counted the fires and drew a presage from the number of them. There are now but few bonfires to be seen on the western heights; yet we have observed that Tregonan, Godolphin, and Carn Marth hills, with others away towards Redruth, still retain their Baal fires. We would gladly go many miles to see the weird-looking, yet picturesque, dancers around the flames on a carn, or high hill top, as we have seen them some forty years ago. We are sorry to find that another pleasing Midsummer's observance, which also appears to be ancient, has almost died out. Yet within the memory of many, who would not like to be called old or even aged, on a Midsummer's eve, long before sunset, groups of girls--both gentle and simple--of from ten to twenty years of age, neatly dressed and decked with garlands, wreaths, or chaplets of flowers, would be seen dancing in the streets. One favourite mode of adornment was to sew, or pin, on the skirt of a white dress, rows of laurel-leaves, often spangled with gold leaf. Before Midsummer small wooden hoops were in great demand to be wreathed with green boughs and flowers for garlands, to be worn over one shoulder and under the opposite arm. Towards sunset groups of graceful damsels, joined by their brothers, friends, or lovers, would be seen "threading-the-needle," playing at "kiss-in-the-ring," or simply dancing along every here and there from Chyandour to Alverton, from the Quay to Caunsehead, as the upper part of the town used then to be called, perhaps with more propriety than Causewayhead. THE MERMAID OF ZENNOR. Zennor folks tell the following story, which, according to them, accounts for a singular carving on a bench-end in their Church. Hundreds of years ago a very beautiful and richly attired lady attended service in Zennor Church occasionally--now and then she went to Morvah also;--her visits were by no means regular,--often long intervals would elapse between them. Yet whenever she came the people were enchanted with her good looks and sweet singing. Although Zennor folks were remarkable for their fine psalmody, she excelled them all; and they wondered how, after the scores of years that they had seen her, she continued to look so young and fair. No one knew whence she came nor whither she went; yet many watched her as far as they could see from Tregarthen Hill. She took some notice of a fine young man, called Mathey Trewella, who was the best singer in the parish. He once followed her, but he never returned; after that she was never more seen in Zennor Church, and it might not have been known to this day who or what she was but for the merest accident. One Sunday morning a vessel cast anchor about a mile from Pendower Cove; soon after a mermaid came close alongside and hailed the ship. Rising out of the water as far as her waist, with her yellow hair floating around her, she told the captain that she was returning from church, and requested him to trip his anchor just for a minute, as the fluke of it rested on the door of her dwelling, and she was anxious to get in to her children. Others say that while she was out on the ocean a-fishing of a Sunday morning, the anchor was dropped on the trap-door which gave access to her submarine abode. Finding, on her return, how she was hindered from opening her door, she begged the captain to have the anchor raised that she might enter her dwelling to dress her children and be ready in time for church. However it may be, her polite request had a magical effect upon the sailors, for they immediately "worked with a will," hove anchor and set sail, not wishing to remain a moment longer than they could help near her habitation. Sea-faring men, who understood most about mermaids, regarded their appearance as a token that bad luck was near at hand. It was believed they could take such shapes as suited their purpose, and that they had often allured men to live with them. When Zennor folks learnt that a mermaid dwelt near Pendower, and what she had told the captain, they concluded it was this sea-lady who had visited their church, and enticed Trewella to her abode. To commemorate these somewhat unusual events they had the figure she bore--when in her ocean-home--carved in holy-oak, which may still be seen. [Illustration] GLOSSARY OF LOCAL WORDS. A or AH, he or it; _e.g._ a es, it is. AFTER-WINDING, waste corn. AN', aunt, an expression of regard applied to aged women. ARREAH! (Maria?) an exclamation of angry surprise. ARISH, stubble. BAL, a mine. BANNAL, broom plant. BOWJEY, sheepfold, &c., on cliff or downs. BRAVE, much, very well, &c. BRUYANS, crumbs. BUCCA, a spirit. BUCCA-BOO (-DHU), a black spirit. BULHORN, a large shell-snail. BUSSA, an earthen crock. BUSY (to be), to require; _e.g._ it is BUSY all, it requires all. CAUNSE, pavement. CAYER, a coarse sieve for winnowing. CHEE-AH! word used for calling swine. CHEELD-VEAN (little child), a term of endearment. CHILL, an iron lamp. CLIFF, all the ground between the shore and cultivated land. The cliff proper, or precipice, is called the edge of the cliff; the cleeves, or the carns. CLUNK, to swallow. COSTAN, a basket made of straw and brambles. COURANT, romping play. COURSEY, to linger gossiping. COWAL, a large fish-basket. CRAVEL, mantel-stone. CRELLAS, the ruins of ancient bee-hive huts; an excavation in a bank, roofed over to serve for an out-house, &c. CROGGAN, a limpet shell. CRONACK, a toad. CROUD, the rind of a sieve covered with sheepskin, used for taking up corn, &c.; also an old fiddle. CRUM, crooked. CROUST, afternoons' refreshment of bread and beer in harvest time. CROW, a small out-house. DIDJAN, a little bit. DIJEY, a very small homestead. DOWER, water. DRUCKSHAR, a small solid wheel. DUFFAN, a nickname for one much given to self laudation; usually bestowed on a bouncing religionist who is powerful in speech, and strong in faith, but no better than ordinary mortals in works. DUFFY, a forthright, blunt happy-go-lucky person. DUMBLEDORE, large black-beetle. 'E, ye or you. FAIX! faith. FLUSHET, a flood-gate. FUGGAN, a small unleavened cake. FUGGO, an artificial cave. GADGE-VRAWS, the ox-eye daisy. GARD, soil used for scouring. GARRACK, a rock. GLOWS, dried cow-dung used for fuel. GRAMBLER, a stony place. GRIGLANS, heath. GRUIT, fine soil. GUARE, play, called out by boys when they throw quoits cast a ball, &c. GUISE-DANCE, Christmas mummery. GULTHISE (in Scilly niclethies), harvest-home feast. GURGOES, the ruins of ancient fences found on waste land. GWEEAN, a periwinkle. HILLA, the night-mare. HOGGAN, a "fuggan" with meat baked on it; the fruit of hawthorns. KEGGAS, rank wild plants, such as water-hemlock, elecampane, &c. KIBBAL, a bucket used at a draw-well or mine shaft. KISKEYS, the dried-up stalks of "keggas." KNACKERS (knockers), spirits in the mines. KEUNEY, moss, lichen, &c. LAISTER, the yellow water-iris. LEW, sheltered from wind. LEWTH, shelter. MABYER, a young hen. MIRYON, an ant. MOAR, the root; to produce roots. MOOR-WORK, tin-streaming. MORABS, land near the sea. NACKAN, a kerchief. OAR-WEED, sea-weed. ORGAN, pennyroyal. PADZEPAW, a newt. PAR, cove; the word porth is never used by the natives of West Cornwall, nor does it ever occur in family names. PEETH, a draw-well. PIGGAL, a kind of large hoe used for cutting turf, &c. PILF, woolly dust. PILJACK, a poor scurvy fellow. PISKEY, a mischievous fairy that delights to lead people astray; also a greenish bug, found on blackberries. PITCH-TO, to set to work with good heart. PLUM, soft, light. PORVAN, a rush lamp wick. PRUIT! a word used for calling cows. PUL, mire, mud. PULAN, a small pool, such as is left by ebb tide. PUL-CRONACK, a small toad-like fish, found in "pulans." QUALK, a heavy fall. QUILKAN, a frog. QUILLET, a small field. REEN, a steep hill side. ROSE, low lying level ground, moorland, &c. RULLS, rolls of carded wool. SEW (gone to), dried up. SKAW, the elder tree. SKAW-DOWER, fig wort. SKEDGEWITH, privet. SMALL-PEOPLE, fairies. SOAS, sose, forsooth. SPANISH DUMBLEDORE, the cock-chaffer. SPRIGGAN, sprite, fairy. SPROWL, life, energy. STROATH, more haste than good speed. STROLL, an untidy mess. TALFAT, a boarded floor, for a bed-place, over one end of a cottage. THRESHAL, a flail. TOWSAR, a large apron or wrapper. TUBBAN, a clod of earth. TUBBLE, a mattock. TUMMALS, quantity. TUNGTAVUS, a tattling fool. TUNTRY, the pole by which oxen draw a wain, cart, &c. TURN, a spinning wheel. UNCLE, a term of regard given to an old man. VEAN, little. VINED, mouldy. VISGEY, a pick-axe. VISNAN, the sand launce. VOW, a cavern or "fuggo." VUG, a cavity in a lode or rock. WIDDEN, small. WIDDENS, small fields. WISHT, sad, like a person or thing ill-wisht. ZAWN (pro SOWN), a cavern in a cliff. A short time ago, two gentlemen of Penzance walked over to Chysauster, the higher side of Gulval, on a Sunday morning, to inspect the hut-circles, caves, and other remains of what are supposed to have been ancient British habitations. After a fruitless search, the gentlemen returned towards Chysauster to see if they could meet with anyone to inform them where the objects they were in quest of might be found. In the lane they overtook a woman and asked her if she knew of any caves thereabout? "Caaves! no, I don't--not fit for butchers," she replied, "but if you want any for rearan I think I can tell 'e where there es some to be found; now I look at 'e agen you don't seem much like butchers nether, nor you arn't none of our farmers about here ether! Where are 'e coman from at all? Looking for caaves of a Sunday mornan! You are very much in want of them I s'pose." The gentlemen explained that they neither wanted calves for rearing nor killing, but to find the ancient ruins. "Oh Lord," said she, "you're lookan for the old crellas, and things up in the hill! Why dedn't 'e say so than, that one might know what you meant, instead of givan such outlandish names to things. But come 'e along with me, and I'll show 'e," continued she in turning back and leading the way. INDEX. PAGE Ancient Bridal Customs 237 ------ Coins found at Castle Maen 127 ------ Mariners' Stories 149 A night's ride to Scilly 233 Ballowal, the knockers of (fairy tale) 185 Baranhuel, a Queen's visit to 67 -------- fairies' cow 73 -------- shell room 72, 274 Beatrice I'an, or Ivan 104 -------- her death 118 Betty Stoggs's baby (fairy tale) 205 Bevan, the Rev. James 197 Bewitching a dairy 65 Bob 'o the Carn (fairy tale) 173 Boleit, ancient monuments of 29 Books popular in the West Country a century ago 197 Boscawen-un circle 34 Boskenna 36 Boslow, the Piskey of 158 Brea, or Bray 42, 200, 278 Brea-Vean, the Changeling of (fairy tale) 200 Breage, St., visits her brother, St. Levan 145 Bridal customs, ancient, still in vogue 237 Buccaneering 45 Bucka, offerings to 187, 246 Buryan fair 39 ------ Sanctuary, men of 269 ------ wise-woman or fortune-teller of 47 Calling of the cleeves 216 Cardews of Boskenna, the last of 38 Castle Treen, traditions of 130, 138 ------ Maen, or Men 127 Changeling of Brea-Vean 200 ------ how to get rid of one 202 Chapel Uny Well 199 Charms 243 Chyannor, Tom of, the tin-streamer 72 Chynance 116 Clarice de Boleit, inscription on her tomb 29 Conjurors, pellars, or wise-men 20, 76 276 Crick-stone, the, or Men-an-tol 242 Cursing Psalm, the 229, 231 Danes, traditions of their incursions 127, 141, 274 Daunce-Mayn 33 Death-ship, the 248 Demon, a, spinning 5 Den-an-Dynas, the giant and his wife 137 Devil's money 227 Divination 131, 217, 245, 283 Doctresses of the West Country 49 Duffy and a Devil, an old guise-dance 1 Enchanter, the, of Pengersec 263 -------- of Maen and a thief 265, 267 Escols, a strong man of 31 ------ weavers of 196 Faction fight in Buryan Church-town 215 Fairy dwelling on Selena Moor 94 ---- fair 161 ---- master, the 173 ---- tales 73, 94, 102, 154, 168, 173, 185, 200 Fairies, how they may be driven away 75 ------ old folks' notions respecting 101, 245 Flowers, planting on graves, an old West Country custom 114 Fortune-tellers 49, 276 Garrack-zans 77, 150 Ghost stories 122, 152, 217, 230 ------ laying 124 Ghostly ship's-bell, a 277 Giants of Castle Treen 131, 137 Goblins of the Mines 187 Guise-dances, how performed 2 Gulthise (harvest feast) 95 Gwinear, the slighted damsel of 229 Haunted houses 122, 212 Hella-point, mermaids of 151 Hell-hounds 66 Heimskringla, the, of Snorri Surlusson, account in of Northmen marauding Cornwall, &c. 274 Hilla-ridden 236 Holed stones 31, 242, 280 Hooper of Cowloe, the 247 Hostess, the, of Market-jew 82 Hurling 24 Husbandry, old 195 I'ans, their house in Treen 103 ---- ghosts of 122 ---- a Breton descendant of 125 Ill-wishing 63, 65, 285, 286 Ivy-leaves and rushes, divination by 217, 283 Johanna, the foolish, her garden 146 ---- rebukes St. Levan for fishing on a Sunday 148 Just, St., feast of 154, 170 Kaerkeis bowjey 127 Key, the, of Castle Treen 130 Knackers of Ballowal (fairy tale) 185 Levan, St., legends of 145 -------- stone 147 -------- his path 146, 272 -------- witches 139 Long stones, or Menheeres of Boleit 30 -------- places named from numerous 31 Lovell, Madam, her troubles 21 ------ or Levelis, family of 271 Loyal hearts of Buryan 69 Madron well and chapel 239 Marriage usages, ancient 237, 239 Mayor of Market-jew, a 83 Merchants of Treen, the 81 Merlin's prophesies 130, 147 Mermaid of Zennor, the 288 Midsummer bonfires 287 Miners' stories 187, 191 Miracle-plays, performed at Sancreed 269 Morvah man, a, shopping 207 Nelly Wearne, the story of 38 Nicknames 198 Night's ride, a, to Scilly 233 Noy, Mr. William, in a fairy dwelling 97 Noy, Madam, and the witch 63 ---- family of 274 Olaf, the first Christian king of Norway, his conversion at Scilly 275 Parchapel well 148 Parcurnow, traditions of 140 Pargwartha, legend of 149 Parish clerks sixty years ago 169 Pellars, or wise-men 76, 191 Penance, doing in Buryan Church 55 Penberth, a cottage dwelling at 111 Pendar, Madam, receiving a Queen 68 ------ family of 72, 95, 119, 223 Pendeen of old 166, 279 Pengersec, legends of 251 -------- the magician 264 Penrose, the smugglers of 212 ------ family 223 Phantom lover, a, takes off his affianced 152 Piskey, how he left Boslow 168 ------ led 160 ------ threshing 159 Plan-an-guarre, St. Just 268 Polkinghorne, Parson, an exorcist 125 Queen's, a, visit to Baranhuel 67 Robbers, the, and merchants of Treen 87 Roskestal, Garrack-zans in 148, 151 Rosmoddrass, monuments of 27 Sanctuary men of Buryan 260 "Sancras," miracle-play at 269 Scilly, a night's ride to 233 ---- visited by King Olaf 275 Selena Moor, a fairy dwelling on 94 Shovel, Admiral Sir Cloudesly, his wreck at Scilly 231 -------- his grave 233 Slighted damsel, the, of Gwinear 229 Small-people, see fairies. Smugglers 57, 106 -------- the, of Penrose 212 Spinning 5, 25, 105 Sweethearts' Cove, the 149 Sun, the, never shines on a person that has sworn way a life 249 Tarraway, the spinning demon 16 Tinners' stories 185 Tolmen of Constantine, the 280 Tom Trenoweth's bewitched sow 61 ---- of Chyannor, the tin-streamer 77 -------- gets three pieces of wisdom in lieu of wages 80 -------- his welcome home 89 Tredrill, the changeling 201 Treen, a market town, in old times 78 ------ the I'an's house of 103 ------ Dynas 127 Tregagle bound to Gwenvor 224 -------- the roaring of 226 Uncle Will Ben's fiddle and sayings 170 Vellan Dreath, the burning of 279 Vow, the, of Pendeen 28, 167 ---- spirit of the 167 Weddings, old fashioned customs at 237, 239 Wells, holy 128, 148, 239, 201 Wetherel, Capt., his grave and ghostly ship's-bell 277 White hare, an injured woman's spirit takes the form of a 253 Wise-woman, the, of Buryan Church-town 47 Witches 12, 59, 63, 65, 75, 139, 255, 265 Zennor man's will, a 210 ------ mermaid of 288 [Illustration: FINIS] SUBSCRIBERS' NAMES. Akerman, H. J., _Hanover Square, London_. Astley, Rev. R., _Perran_. Bannister, Rev. John., LL.D., _St. Day_, 2 copies. Barham, C., M.D., _Truro_. Barnicoat, Christopher, _St. Levan_. Bate, C. Spence, F.R.S., _Plymouth_. Batten, J. Hallet, F.R.G.S., _Havitree, Exeter_. Batten, John, _Penzance_. Blackwell, H., _ditto_. Bence, Rev. J. B., _Cribbs Lodge, near Bristol_. Berry, Rev. Aubrey, _West Cowes, Isle of Wight_. Blewett, J. P., _Penzance_, 2 copies. Blight, John, F.S.A., _ditto_. Blight Joseph, _London_. Blight, Miss, _ditto_. Boase, Francis, M.R.C.S.E., _Penzance_. Boase, J. J. A., _Alverton_. Boase, Rev. Charles William, _Exeter College, Oxford_. Boase, George Clement, _London_. Bolitho, William, _Polwithan_, 3 copies. Bolitho, William, _Ponsandane_. Bodilly, James Broad, M.R.C.S.E., _Harrold, Beds._ Bodilly, Ralph H., _Penzance_. Borlase, John, _Castle Horneck_. Borlase, W. Copeland, F.S.A., _ditto_. Boyns, Edwin, _Penzance_. Boyns, Nicholas, _Bosanketh, Buryan_. Boyns, Nicholas, _Hendra, St. Just_. Brokenshire, Mrs., _Withington, near Manchester_. Brune, Charles G. Prideaux, _Prideaux Place, Padstow_, 2 copies. Bull, E., _Telegraph Station, Porthcurnow_. Buonaparte, His Imperial Highness Prince Louis Lucien. Carpenter, Mrs., _Falmouth_. Cardew, Cornelius, _Exeter_. Champion, James, C. and M. E., _Nevada-county, California_. Child, Josiah, _London_. Chirgwin, R. W. and Co., _St. Just_. Code, Theophilus, _Marazion_. Cock, William, _Penzance_. Colenso, Richard, _ditto_. "Cornish Telegraph" proprietors, 4 copies. Cornish, Thomas, _Penzance_, 2 copies. Cornish, H. R., _Trewey, Zennor_. Cornish, William, _Penzance_. Cornish, Cyrus Henry, _London_. Cornish, Thomas R., _Buenos Ayres_. Cornish, John Hewett, _Penzance_. Cornish, James Mitchell, _ditto_. Cornish, Miss, _ditto_. Coulson, William, late, _Madron_. Coulson, James Bevan, _Penzance_. Coulson, W. H., H.M.C., _Liverpool_. Courtney, Leonard H., _London_, 2 copies. Courtenay, James, _Trevening House, Bristol_. Crocker, Rev. James, _Felsted, Essex_. Crocker, F. H., _Penzance_. Curgeven, J. Brendon, M.R.C.S.E., _London_. Curnow, John, M.D., M.R.C.P., _London_. Curnow, Stephen, _St. Hillary_. Davies-Brown, Mrs., _St. John's-wood, London_. Davies, Rev. J. D., _Llanmadoc Rectory, near Swansea_. Davy, Edmund, _Madron_. Delapierre, Octave, Belgian Consul-General, _London_. Douglass, James N., C.E., _Trinity House, London_. Douglass, William, C.E., _Ceylon_. Dusting, Mrs. W., _Penzance_, 2 copies. Drake, Rev. W. H., _Halestown_, 2 copies. Dunkin, Edwin, F.R.A.S., _Blackheath_. Ellis, C. A., _Penzance_. Fisher, Charles, _ditto_. Fisher, Edward, _Ashby-de-la-Zouch_. Farquharson, Mrs., _Penzance_. Ford, J. W., _Petrolia_, 2 copies. Foss, Thomas, C.E., _Mexico_. Francis, James A., _Penzance_. Francis, H., _Charlestown, St. Austell_. Freel, C., _Penzance_. Geffroi, H. M., _School of Science and Art, ditto_. Genn, J. H., _Liverpool_. Gilbert, Hon. Mrs., _Trelissick_. Grenfell, William, _Birmingham_. Grylls, Thomas, _Penzance_. Harvey, William G., M.R.C.S.E., _ditto_, 3 copies. Harvey, Miss, _ditto_. Harvey, Joseph H., _ditto_. Harvey, James, _ditto_. Harvey, Miss Ellen Davies, _ditto_. Harvey, R. Trewavas, H.M.C., _Liverpool_. Hattam, Thomas, _St. Anthony Lighthouse_. Hedgeland, Rev. Preb., _Penzance_. Henwood, W. J., _ditto_, 2 copies. Higgs, Samuel, Jun., F.G.S., _Wallaroo mines, Australia_. Hirst, John, Jun., _Dobcross, Manchester_. Holmes, Robert, _Penzance_. Hutchens, Thomas, _Salisbury_. Hunt, Robert, F.G.S., _Chelsea_, 2 copies. Jackson, Capt. P., _Little Eppington, Barnstaple_. James, J., _Penzance_. James, J. H., _ditto_. James, Hamilton, _Truro_. James, S. H., _Alma Villa, St. Just_. Jenkins, Isaac, _London_. John, Miss, _Penzance_. Kennedy, Patrick, _Anglesea Street, Dublin_. Kevern, J. T., _Penzance_, 2 copies. King, Henry, H.M.C., _ditto_. Kistler, Matthias, _ditto_. Kneebone, W. E., _Pensylva, Liskeard_. Lanyon, J. J., _Penzance_. Liebrecht, Dr. Felix, _Liege_. Lovell, James, jun., _Chyandour_. Luxmore, Capt., _Witherden, Devon_. Maclean, Sir John, F.S.A., _Pallingswick Lodge, Hammersmith_. Marrack, R. M., _London_. Martin, Thomas, _Exeter_. Mathews, Martin, _Penzance_. Mathews, T., _ditto_. Mathews, W., C.E., _London_. Mauleverer, Miss, _The Mall, Armagh_. Milton, J. P., _Penzance_. Michell, Stephen, _ditto_. Mitchell, William, _ditto_. Millett, J. N., _ditto_. Montgomery, J. B., M.D., M.R.C.P., _ditto_. Morewood, R. D., _Trinity House, London_. Morgan, G. V., _London_. Morris, George T., _Bengal Staff Corps_. Müller, Professor Max., _Oxford_, 2 copies. Nance, Capt. Francis, _St. Martins, Scilly_. Napier, James, F.C.S., _Camlachie, Glasgow_. Nelson, Major-Gen., R.E., _Devonport_. Nicholas, John, _Gamberton, South Australia_. Noy, William D., _London_. Nunn, John, Euston Square, _ditto_. Pascoe, J. R. Cardwell, late, H.M.C., _Hayle_. Paul, Nicholas, _Penzance_. Paull, Alexander, M.R.C.S.E., _Truro_. Pearse, W. H., _St. Paul's-road, London_. Pease, William, jun., _Loswithiel_. Pengelly, Mrs., _Penzance_. Pentreath, Richard, H.M.C., _London_, 2 copies. Pentreath, Capt. Wm., _Mousehole_. Pentreath, Capt. Edwin, _Torpoint_. Pentreath, Rev. Edwyn Sandys, _New York_. Penzance Public Library. Phillips, Henry L., _London_. Pollard, James Glasson, _Charlotte Town, Michigan_. Pooley, Miss Annie, _Penzance_. Quick, Richard, _St. Ives_. Quick, Vivian, _ditto_. Quick, William Bottrell, _ditto_. Ralfs, John, M.R.C.S.E., _Penzance_, 2 copies. Ransom, E., Kempstone, _Bedford_. Rawlings, W. J., _Downes, Hayle_. Read, John Herbert, _California_. Richards, John, _St. Buryan_. Rigby, Samuel, _Warrington_, 5 copies. Rodd, E. H., _Penzance_. Roscorla, John, _ditto_. Rothschild, Baroness, M. de, 2 copies. Sandys, William, F.S.A., _London_. Sherriff, J. D., C.E., _Truro_. Smith, Augustus, late, _Tresco Abbey, Scilly_. Spratt, G. E., _Porthcurnow_. Tetley, Edward, _Sydenham_. Thomas, Henry, _Penzance_. Thomas, Henry, late, F.G.S., _London_. Thomas, Stephen, _School of Art, Northampton_. Tipping, George B., _London_. Tonkin, Charles, _ditto_. Tonkin, Rev. John, _Trevervyn, Buryan_. Tredrea, E., _Cape Town, South Africa_. Trevithick, Francis, C.E., _The Cliff, Penzance_. Trounson, John, _London_. Truran, J. Jameson, _Gresham House, London_. Trythall, W., _Melbourne, Australia_. Trythall, William, _Penzance_. Uren, J. G., Post-master, _Penzance_. Van de Weyer, His Excellency, M.S., _London_. Victor, Henry R., _Penzance_. Vingoe, John, _Exeter_. Vingoe, W. H., _Penzance_. Vosper-Thomas, Samuel, _Wimborne, Dorset_. Vosper-Thomas, M. G., _ditto_. Wallis, William, _Penzance_. Wathen, Hulbert, _Himalaya_. Wellington, Richard, _ditto_. White, W. N., _London_. Whitley, H. Michell, C.E., _ditto_. Willan, L. R., M.D., M.R.C.P., _Penzance_. Wildman, Albert C., _ditto_, 2 copies. Wildman, Henry, _ditto_. Williams, Henry, _ditto_. Williams, Capt., _Ding Dong_, 2 copies. Williams, T., _Trinity House, London_. [Illustration] PENZANCE: BEARE AND SON, STEAM PRINTERS, BOOKBINDERS, ETC. ERRATA. Page 11, line 21, for _flow_ read _flour_. -- 33, -- 29, -- _king_ read _kind_. -- 38, -- 25, -- _sevant_ read _servant_. -- 41, -- 7, -- _candlelight_ read _candlelighting_. -- 45, -- 23, -- _cairns_ read _carns_. -- 54, -- 16, -- _the farming_ read _farming_. -- 57, -- 1, read _and they, with a crew of such dare-devils as suited them, set sail, &c._ -- 63, -- 13, for _crops_ read _cops_. -- 75, -- 35, -- _shakened_ read _shaken_. -- 76, -- 20, -- _a much_ read _much_. -- 92, -- 21, -- _in_ read _into_. -- 106, -- 1, -- _comrades_ read _comrade_. -- 114, -- 3, omit _with_. -- 115, -- 12, for _such_ read _much_. -- 127, -- 36, omit _heap of_. -- 196, -- 15, for _there_ read _their_. -- 213, -- 45, -- _cairns_ read _carns_. -- 235, -- 42, -- _stag_ read _the stag_. -- 235, -- 24, -- _strait_ read _straight_. -- 265, -- 26, -- _wisewom_ read _wise-woman_. -- 272, -- 20, -- _with the_ read _which_. -- 273, -- 1, -- _was_ read _were_. -- 273, -- 11, -- _boat_ read _coat_. -- 273, -- 16, -- _or_ read _ar_. -- 274, -- 32, -- _Trevedern_ read _Trevervyn_. -- 274, -- 37, -- _Herbrides_ read _Hebrides_. -- 275, -- 2, -- _Snorro_ read _Snorri_. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Corrections from the list of ERRATA on page 299 have been incorporated in the text. Obvious typographical errors were corrected, as listed below. Other apparent inconsistencies or errors, including different or missing entries in the Table of Contents, have been retained. Missing punctuation has been restored and hyphenation has been made consistent. Period spellings and grammatical uses have been kept. Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Page 4, "dinnner" changed to "dinner". (Now you needn't eat any bread and cheese, as dinner will be ready soon.) Page 4, 24 and 25, "seive" changed to "sieve" for consistency. (Duffy seated, carding and making rolls of wool, which were placed in a cayer (winnowing sieve.)) Page 8, "Joan" changed to "Jone" for consistency. ("Jone, take up the pie, if its ready or raw. I'm as hungry as a hound.") Page 21, "ftom" changed to "from". (Madam watched her good man spurring his Dobbin till he was clear of Trove town-place, then down she ran to Mill and told old Betty that unless she got a speedy release from her irksome task she would drown herself in the mill-pool.) Page 26, "its" changed to "it's" twice. ("Though it's comforting to have companions in affliction," said she, after a pull at the flaggon, "yet from the regard I have for your honour and mistress there, I have spoke of my ailment to warn 'e that as sure as I sit here with a broken twadling-string it will soon be the same with my lady there, if it's true, what I do hear, that you keep her to spin from morn till night most every day of the year.) Page 29, [+] represents a typographical dagger, or obelisk symbol. Page 33, "ninteen" changed to "nineteen". (The legend that the (originally) nineteen posts were damsels ...) Page 35, "of of" changed to "of". (... would sooner or later overtake the sacrilegious destroyer of the ancient holy stones.) Page 35, "alter-like" changed to "altar-like". (In many of the oldest villages there were formerly altar-like stones, known by the name of garrac zans, (the holy stones) which were protected by the fear of the goddess of Bad Luck;) Page 43, "the the" changed to "the". ("And have ye been lawfully married, my darling?" asked the old dame.) Page 60, "her's" changed to "hers". (That while, one Tom Trenoweth, a cousin of hers, offered a trifle more and purchased the sow.) Page 60, "to" changed to "too". ("You're too late, cousin," said Tom, "I've bought her.") Page 70, "and and" changed to "and". (She was, above all, elated when her royal guest smacked her lips after a sip of brandy, and swore, "by cock and pie," that "true as she was a sinner, never before, in all her born days, had she so much enjoyed a repast.") Page 72, "is" changed to "it". (The shell-room was built after, and some say it was intended to commemorate that honour.) Page 78, "an an" changed to "an". (Tom, having placed his tin in one of the hollows of this stone, inquired the news, and asked how work was away in the East Country, of merchants from Market-jew, who brought goods in their vessels to Parcurnow, which was then clear of sand, and the tide flowed in a deep channel up to an old caunse (paved road) still to be seen.) Page 91, "to to" changed to "to". (Next day, Tom and his wife, being alone together, she said to him, "Now, whilst the maid is out, tell me, my son, what dost thee think of her sweetheart and of their being married soon?") Page 112, "the the" changed to "the". (... besides the black kerchief or scarf, over your head, shades your face.) Page 113, "Hear" changed to "Here". ("Here, dears, drink this, and help yourselves to more while I get something for 'e to eat before I hear another word.") Page 113, "choral" has been changed to "coral". (On the chimney-piece they might have noticed an hour-glass between tall brass candlesticks, branches of coral, sea-birds' eggs, sea-urchins, and foreign shells.) Page 128, "Armonican" changed to "Armorican" for consistency. (We can't follow the old guide through the long story he used to relate of what passed between him and the Armorican gentleman.) Page 128, "butno thing" changed to "but nothing". (Service was over and the congregation dispersed, but the church-door key being kept at the inn, they inspected the church to see if any memorial of the I'ans was to be found, but nothing connected with them was observed in carved shields or bench-ends, nor elsewhere.) Page 157, "left" changed to "let". (... how he put out her eye, because she let him know, and other people too, that she was up to his tricks, and had found out which way he managed to live so easy without working like an honest man.) Page 184, "showind" changed to "showing". (She could no more endure her old home--and, showing but little regard for its inmates, loathed their homely fare and old fashioned ways.) Page 196, "its" changed to "it's". (The rest I don't remember; it's something about sceptred king's and beggar's dust coming to the same pass.) Page 199, "aulf" changed to "aulfe". (Says that the fairy left this aulfe, ...) Page 233, "parence" changed to "parece". (no parece sino que no nos movemos de un lugar.) Page 233, "Bein" changed to "Bien". (Bien es verdad que sentí que pasaba por la region del aire, y aun que tocaba á la del fuego;) Page 242, "scatica" changed to "sciatica". (In a croft belonging to Lanyon farm, and about half a mile north of the town-place, there is a remarkable group of three stones, the centre one of which is called by antiquaries the Men-an-tol (holed stone), and by country folk the Crick-stone, from an old custom--not yet extinct--of "crameing" (crawling on all fours) nine times through the hole in the centre stone, going against the sun's course, for the cure of lumbago, sciatica, and other "cricks" and pains in the back.) Page 273, missing "in" added. (The former of these subsequently married Joseph Marke, of Woodhill, near Liskeard, gentleman, and jointly with her sister in 1699, disposed of the property, contrary to the wish of their cousin, Mr. Vosper, of Liskeard and Launcells.) Page 276, "Ola" changed to "Olaf". (... he retained no more of his name than that he was called Olaf, and was Russian.) Page 279, "hisown" changed to "his own". (The Rev. Dr. William Borlase, the celebrated antiquary and historian of his own county, who, by his elaborate work, has raised to his own memory an enduring monument, was born here.) Page 282, "cicles" changed to "circles". (The holed stones at Kenidjac, St. Just, are near ancient circles;) Page 288, "wierd" changed to "weird". (We would gladly go many miles to see the weird-looking, yet picturesque, dancers around the flames on a carn, or high hill top, as we have seen them some forty years ago.) Page 288, "apears" changed to "appears". (We are sorry to find that another pleasing Midsummer's observance, which also appears to be ancient, has almost died out.) Page 293, "drive" changed to "driven". (Fairies, how they may be driven away.) Footnote 3 was originally unnumbered. Footnote numbers were added next to the three stories which the footnote referred to. 
48771	----	ROMAN LEGENDS A COLLECTION OF THE FABLES AND FOLK-LORE OF ROME BY R. H. BUSK AUTHOR OF 'SAGAS FROM THE FAR EAST' &c. 'HOUSEHOLD STORIES FROM THE LAND OF HOFER' &c. BOSTON Copyright and Published by ESTES AND LAURIAT 1877 PREFACE. I had heard it so often positively asserted that modern Italy had no popular mythology, and no contribution of special versions to offer to the world's store of Traditionary Tales, that, while possessing every opportunity, I was many years without venturing to set myself against the prevailing opinion so far as to attempt putting it to the proof. A certain humble friend, however, used time after time so to impress me with the fancy that she had all the qualifications for being a valuable repository of such lore if it only existed, that I was finally led to examine her on the subject. She gave me a capital opportunity one day when, during a visit to a bedridden cripple whom she nursed, she was flapping the dust off the pictures and ornaments with a feather-brush according to the Roman idea of dusting. 'I never do any dusting,' she said the while, 'but I always think of Monsignor Delegato dusting the altar of the holy house of Loreto. And now I think of it, he was not called Monsignor Delegato, but Monsignor Commissario. But every evening of my life while I was young and living at Loreto, I have seen him dust the altar of the Santa Casa at 23 o'clock, [1] before they shut up the church, saying a Salve Regina for the benefactors of the spot.' If she was so familiar with Loreto, I concluded, and had so noticed and remembered its customs, probably she was not ignorant of its Legends either, and I commenced my inquisition at once. I have not given her Legends of Loreto in the text because, being tolerably familiar, they were among those which could best be sacrificed to the exigencies of space. I gathered on that day, however, one version of S. Giovanni Bocca d'oro, with two stories of Padre Filippo: and her subsequent testimony concerning the crucifix of Scirollo came in usefully (pp. 193, 195) in illustration of the Legend of Pietro Bailliardo; but, what was precious to me above all, I gained the proof and earnest that there was certainly a vein of legendary lore underlying the classic soil of Rome, and that it only remained to find the means of working it. I first lazily set myself to hunt through the bookshops, new and old, to find any sort of collection of traditionary tales ready made; but only with the effect of establishing the fact that no Italian Grimm had yet arisen to collect and organise them, and put them into available shape. [2] It is true the erudite and indefatigable Cesare Cantù has found time in the midst of his more important labours to illustrate some few remnants of mediæval customs and sayings yet lingering in the north of Italy, in his 'Novelle Lombarde;' and he tells me that the Balio Benvenuti, also of Milan, is bringing out another little volume about Lombard customs; but even these have not approached the fairy tales, and leave Central and Southern Italy altogether untouched. [3] The nearest approach to the material of which I was in search was afforded in the roughly printed rimed legends which itinerant venders sell at the church doors on festa days. Among the collection I have made of these, are many whose quaintness gives them special interest, notwithstanding their baldness of style and diction; but the matter which came to me first hand seemed to have the first claim to publication; and I have, therefore, put these among my reserve for a second series. [4] No repository of Roman Folklore was to be found ready-formed. 'Who among us,' writes Cesare Cantù in his preface to his 'Novelle Lombarde,' 'knows anything about these matters? If they were the things of Scotland or Touraine we should all have read them long ago in the pages of Scott or Balzac. But here among us there are neither writers who care to describe nor readers who take any interest in learning the ways of our own country. People like to seem above giving their attention to such homely matters, and only care for what they must look at through a telescope.' I was thus thrown back on my own powers of collecting, and found the process, however fascinating where successful, much more uphill work than it had promised to be at the outset. Legends, it is true, there was less difficulty in obtaining. There might be some sense and some moral in them, and I found people were not ashamed of knowing them; but it long remained impossible to convince persons who had even betrayed to me indications that they possessed what I wanted, to own fully to a knowledge of bonâ fide Fairy Tales, or to believe that I could be serious in wishing to listen to such childish nonsense. 'But suppose you had a child to amuse,' I would say at last, 'I am sure you would sometimes tell it a marvellous story.' 'Ah, a creatura, [5] yes! But I haven't the face to tell such nonsense to your signoria.' 'Never mind that, if I want to hear it. Imagine I am the creatura, and tell me one of your tales. I want something about transformations, fairy gifts, and marvels of all sorts.' In some such way, after due precaution taken to convince me that such things were only allowed a place in the memory for the sake of amusing children, and not because anyone believed in them, one tale after another would be suffered reluctantly to ooze out. But you cannot make application for such wares to the first person you meet. The class in which such lore is stored away is not indeed so exclusive that introductions to it are a very difficult matter, but introduction of some sort you must have; some claim for taking up a person's time, where time is money; and some means of compensation you must devise, the more difficult to invent where direct payment would be an offence. Your modern Romans are very independent; I cannot say whether the quality is more an inheritance from their ancient forefathers, or adopted from the continental spread of French revolutionary ideas of '93. True, they are singularly urbane and deferential, but only so long as you are urbane and deferential towards them. If you omit any of their peculiar forms of politeness, they are suspicious of you, and scarcely know how to make allowance for the well-meaning inexperience of a foreigner. If you want to learn anything from them you must submit to become one of them. You must converse first on the subject uppermost in their minds, from the price of bread and meat to the latest change in the political atmosphere; only when all is exhausted may you venture to come round to the matter of which you are in search. Many, too, in whose memories such stories have lain dormant since childhood, for more than half a century, have not the power of recalling them in due form or order for narration on abrupt application, but will yet bring them out unconsciously if patiently led up to an appropriate starting point. Nor is it every application, made with all precautions, that will be successful. Often you must submit to be put off with the tantalising experience that a person knew plenty of stories, but was quite incapable of putting them into shape. This happened once with an intelligent old lady from Siena, whom, after allowing her to indulge her irony at my expense concerning my childishness in seeking such things, I brought to confess that she had heard in her youth a strange story of a cat which wore stivali di cacciatore (hunter's boots), but she could not succeed in recalling a single incident of it; and I was obliged to content myself with the information (no small encouragement in the early days of my work, however!) that 'Puss in Boots' had actually travelled to Tuscany. At another time one would have to spend hours in listening to detached incidents altogether lacking a thread to connect them, or stories of which the point had been so completely lost that they could only have been made available by means of a reconstruction too integral to be honestly attempted. As, e.g., 'Oh yes! I know a story of an enchantress who had a gown which made her invisible, and a pair of boots which would carry her a thousand miles without walking, but I quite forget what she did with them.' Or else it might be, 'I knew a story of a king whose wife had been fatata (subjected to magic influence), and maligned by her mother-in-law while the king was gone to the wars; but that's all I remember, except that in the end the queen was rehabilitated, and the mother-in-law punished'--incidents of stories recurring in every collection, but tantalisingly lacking all means of further particular identification with any. Sometimes, too, it would be only a title that could be recalled, and nothing more, as in the case of a certain 'Uccello Biverde,' [6] which I have been several times assured is 'a most beautiful story,' but I have never yet succeeded in meeting with any one who could supply the narrative. I have further felt called sometimes to exercise a difficult forbearance in withholding some specimens which at first promised to afford singular instances of interchanged episodes, but which there afterwards appeared reason to conclude were merely jumbled in the bad memory of the narrator, and had, therefore, no individual interest, but were rather calculated to mislead. [7] One of my worst disappointments was the case of a very old woman, who, I am assured, knows more of such things than anyone in the world, but whom nothing can induce to repeat them now. She has grown so toothless and tremulous and inconsecutive, that it is not easy to understand her; but I think her arguments are not difficult to appreciate in the following way,--that having had a long run of weary bad fortune, she had rather not dwell on stories where things turned out as one could wish to have them. She wants to go to heaven, she says, and so she believes in God, and whatever else she must believe; but for anything more, for special interpositions of Providence, and anything one is not obliged to believe, she had rather say nothing about all that. 'But don't tell them then as if you believed them; tell them only as a pastime; just to oblige me.' I thought I had moved her, but the utmost she would yield was to promise to think about it before I came again: and when I came again she was as rigid as ever. It is vexatious to think that a vast store is going to the grave with her under one's very eyes and that one cannot touch it. It is further to be remarked, that while there are thus a vast number of persons holding the store of traditional myths, it by no means includes the generality of the population; there is a still larger class among whom every trace of such lore is lost. So destitute are they of all knowledge of the kind, that it would be interesting to trace back the antecedents of each, and so discover, if it might be, the origin of this discrepancy; for not only have I found it impossible myself to stir up any memory of such stories in half the people I have applied to, (though, to all appearance, similarly circumstanced with those who have proved the most communicative), but old 'gossips,' sitting by while the stories in the text were being poured out, have, time after time, displayed a wonderment which proved that their very style was something quite new to them. Nevertheless, in spite of all difficulties, a few years' patience has put me in possession of a goodly bulk of popular stories not yielding in interest, I think, to those of any other country. The tales included in the present collection are but a portion of those which I have gathered within the limits of the Roman State. I hope to be able to complete at some future day the remainder that I have gathered both there and from other divisions of the former Heptarchy of Italy. The localities from which these have been chiefly drawn are Palombara, Capranica, Loreto, Sinigaglia, Viterbo, Cori, Palestrina, and, above all, Rome itself. One of my chief contributors had passed her whole existence--infancy, married life, and widow-hood--within the limits of one parish in the heart of Rome. The collection has arranged itself, according to the spontaneous titling of the narrators, into four categories, and it may not be unimportant to note that Romans, always precise in their choice of language, keep rigidly to these designations. I have, for instance, been on the very verge of passing over a whole mine of 'Esempj,' or 'Ciarpe' by only asking for 'Favole' (and vice versâ). Remembering afterwards to say, 'I daresay you can, at all events, recall some "Esempj," or "Ciarpe,"' I have received for answer, 'To be sure; why didn't you say sooner that such would suit you?' The said four categories are,-- 1. Esempj, or those stories under which some religious or moral lessons might be conveyed, answering to what we call Legends. Though the word Leggenda exists in the dictionary, and is not altogether unused, I have never once met it among the people. 2. Ghost stories and local and family traditions. The latter are much more carefully preserved than among our own people, [8] and the Roman poor will tell the tale (more or less accurately) of the virtues and vices of their great families, with a gusto which shows that they look upon them as something specially belonging to themselves; but the former do not appear to have any recognised title, and the contempt in which they are held makes it very difficult to get hold of them, so that it is not very easy to avoid giving offence in approaching the subject. Only by a prolonged and round-about conversation one may sometimes elicit excellent specimens brought in as matters of curious personal experience by the very persons who, on direct questioning, had repudiated all knowledge of anything of the sort. 3. Favole. The word universally appropriated in Roman dialect for 'Fairy Tales,' a not unclassical application of the term, I think, and continued in the 'Fabliaux' of the mediæval period. But when asking for them I have never had any given me belonging to the class which we call 'fables' in English. 4. Ciarpe, expounded by Bazzarelli as parole vane, ciance; ciance being said, on the authority of Petrarch, to stand for parole vane, lontane dal vero, chiacchiera; chiacchiera being the equivalent for gossip. Versions of some stories in this category, notably No. 6, 'L'Uccelletto' (The Little Bird), and 21, 'The Value of Salt,' we all heard in our English nurseries, while those under the heading of 'La Sposa Cece' (The Simple Wife) belong to the same class as ours of the man who being told to give his wife her medicine in a convenient vehicle, wheeled her about in a hand-barrow, while she swallowed it; or that of the idiotic couple who wasted their three precious chances in wishing three yards of black pudding on each other's noses, and then wishing it off again; but I do not know that we have any special technical designation for such. All the headings of which I have given the Italian are those used by the narrators themselves. It is impossible, in making acquaintance with these stories in their own language, not to regret having to put them into another tongue. Much of what is peculiar in them, and distinguishes them from their counterparts in other lands, is, of course, wrapped up in the form of expression in which they are clothed. Divested of this, they run the risk of losing the national character they have acquired during their residence on Italian soil. I had purposed, therefore, originally, to print an Italian version, side by side with the English rendering, but was obliged to renounce the arrangement, as it would have proved too voluminous. I have only been able to preserve some few of the vernacular idiosyncrasies in the notes, for the benefit of those who take an interest in the people's characteristic utterances. I think I may safely say that the whole of the stories are traditional. There were only two of my contributors who could have read them had they even existed in print. The best-instructed of them was the one who gave me 'Prete Olivo' and 'Perchè litigano i cani ed i gatti;' both of which I am clear, from 'asides' which accompanied them concerning her father's manner of telling, she had heard from his lips, even as she said. With the exception of some of the Legends, Local Traditions, and Ciarpe, there are few, either printed in this collection or among those I still hold in MS., the leading episodes of which (if not the entire story) are not to be found in the collections of other countries; but certain categories common in other countries are wanting in the Roman. One could not in making the collection but be struck with the almost complete absence of stories of heroism and chivalry. There are some, indeed, in which courageous deeds occur; but there is none of the high-souled mettle which comes out so strong in Hungarian, Gaelic, and Spanish tradition, in many of the Teutonic and Breton, and some Norse and Russian tales. Several, we shall find, are identical stories, with the grand and fierce element left out. I have never come across a single story of knightly prowess in any shape. I have in MS. one or two dragon stories, but no knights figure even in these. At the same time, tales of horror seem equally to have failed to fascinate the popular imagination, and we can trace again the toning down process in many instances. I have in MS. several versions of the rather ghastly story of the boy who went out to discover Fear, but the Roman mind does not often indulge in such scenes as it presents. Similarly, horrid monsters are rare. 'Orco' himself is not painted so terrible as in other countries. Giants and dwarfs, again, being somewhat monstrous creations, are not frequent. The stories about the Satiri were only told me spontaneously by one narrator; one other owned to having heard of such beings on being questioned, but there is no general popular conception corresponding to the German ideas of wild men. I have never met anyone who believed in the present existence of any supernatural being of this class, [9] and rarely with any who imagined such had ever existed. 'The stories always say, "there was a fairy who did so and so:" but were there ever fairies? Perhaps there were, perhaps there weren't,' soliloquised an old woman one day at the end of a tale; that was the strongest expression of opinion in their favour that came in my way. Another said once, 'If there ever were such beings there would be now; but there certainly are not any now, so I don't believe there ever were any.' [10] Again, religious legends, with admixture of pagan superstitions, seem rare. English readers may say that there is superstition in some of the legends in the text; but they only exaggerate the literalness with which they deal with Gospel promises; there is little at variance with it. The false tale of the pilgrim husband, pp. 355-6, is the most devious from Christian doctrine that I have come across in Rome. I cannot fancy a Roman, however illiterate, gravely telling such stories as some of those which Mr. Ralstone gives us from Russia. The story of 'Pret' Olivo' is doubtless derivatively the same as Dr. Dasent's 'Master Smith'; but the Roman version presents vastly less of the pagan element. In winding up his general remarks on the migrations of myths, Prof. de Gubernatis gives as his opinion that 'the elementary myth was the spontaneous production of imagination and not of reflection;' ... that 'morals have often been made an appendix to fables, but never entered into the primitive fable;' that 'art and religion have made use of the already existing myths (themselves devoid of moral conscience) as allegories for their own æsthetic and moral ends.' And it appears to me that the Romans, in adapting such elementary myths to legendary use, have christianised them more than some other peoples. Pacts with the Devil, in which the Germans revel, are rare; the story of 'Pietro Bailliardo' is one of the very few. It would seem that witchcraft never at any time obtained any great hold upon the people of Rome, nor were witches ever treated with the same severity which befell them in other parts of Europe. It is true that some stories about witch-stepmothers wind up with 'e la brucciorno in mezzo alla Piazza,' [11] but I am inclined to think it is rather a 'tag' received from other countries, than an actual local tradition; and certainly by cross-questioning I failed to awaken in the memory of the 'oldest inhabitants' with whom I have had the opportunity of conversing any tradition of anything of the sort having actually taken place. 'What do you know about burning witches in mezzo alla Piazza? I thought such things were never done in Rome?' I observed one day to one who ended a story thus. 'Who said the story took place in Rome?' was the ready reply. I received the same reply to the same observation from another, with the addition of 'There was something about a king and a queen in the story and in other stories I have told you, and we never had a king or a queen of Rome--the one may belong to the same country as the other. Who knows what sort of a country such stories come from!' A third answered, 'No; I don't believe witches were ever burnt by law in Rome; I have always heard say that our laws were less fierce than those of some other countries; but I can quite fancy that if the people found a witch doing such things as I have told you, they would burn her all by themselves, law or no law.' Of course I have no pretension that my researches have been exhaustive, nor have I been, properly speaking, searching for superstitions, but in a good deal of intercourse with the uneducated, I have certainly come across less of superstitious beliefs in Rome than collectors of Folklore seem to have met in other countries. The saying exists, Giorno di Venere, Giorno di Marte, Non si sposa, E non si parte. [12] But I have seldom heard the lines quoted without the addition of, 'But I don't believe in such things;' and a reference to the column of marriage announcements in the 'Times' will show that the prejudice against marrying in the month of May is, to say the least, quite as strong among our own most highly-educated classes. It is not altogether uncommon at the Parochial Mass, to hear along with banns of marriage and other announcements, a warning pronounced against such and such a person whom private counsel has failed to deter from 'dabbling in black arts;' but from the observations which I have had the opportunity of making such persons find their dupes chiefly among the dissolute and non-believing. I know a very consistently religious woman, and also singularly intelligent, who appeared to have a salutary contempt for certain practices in which her husband, a worthless fellow, who had long ago abandoned her and his religion together, indulged. 'He actually believes,' she told me one day, 'that if you go out and stand on a cross road--not merely where two roads happen to cross each other, but where they actually make a perfect cross--and if at the stroke of mezzogiorno in punto, you call the Devil he is bound to come to you.' 'He always kept a bag of particular herbs,' I heard from her another time, 'hung up over the door, all shred into the finest bits. As he was very angry if I touched them, I one day said, "Why do you want that bundle of herbs kept just there?" and then he told me that it was because no witch could pass under them without first having to count all the minute bits, and that though it was true she might do so by her arts without taking them down and handling them, it was yet so difficult when they were shred into such an infinite number that it was the best preservative possible against evil influences.' Another class of infrequent occurrence in the Roman stories is that in which animals are prominent actors, other than those in which they are transformed men. The tátos, the enchanted horse which excites so great enthusiasm in the Hungarian, and whose counterpart does great wonders also in the Gaelic tales, seems to be absolutely unknown, [13] as I think is also the class not uncommon in the Gaelic (e.g. 'Tales of the West Highlands,' i. 275 et seq.), also in the Russian Folklore, p. 338, of birds made to pronounce articulate words analogous in sound to their own cries. [14] Such traditions would naturally find a hold rather among countrypeople than townspeople. Fairies and witches are frequent enough, but the limits between the respective domains assigned to them are not so marked as with us. Roman fairies, it will be seen, are by no means necessarily 'fairy-like.' At the same time fairies, such as those described by Mr. Campbell, 'West Highland Tales,' p. ci., are altogether unknown. CONTENTS. FAVOLE. PAGE Filagranata 3 The Three Love-Oranges (I Tre Merangoli di Amore) 15 Palombelletta 22 La Cenorientola 26 Vaccarella 31 Giuseppe L'Ebreo 39 The King who goes out to Dinner 40 The Pot of Marjoram (Il Vaso di Persa) 46 The Pot of Rue (Il Vaso di Ruta) 57 King Otho 63 Maria Wood (Maria di Legno) 66 Second Version 84 Third Version 90 La Candeliera 91 The Two Hunchbacked Brothers 96 The Dark King (Il Rè Moro) 99 Monsu Mostro 109 The Enchanted Rose Tree 115 Scioccolone 119 Twelve Feet of Nose (Dodici Palmi di Naso) 129 A Yard of Nose (Mezza Canna di Naso) 136 The Chicory-seller and the Enchanted Princess 141 The Transformation-Donkey 146 Signor Lattanzio 155 How Cajusse was Married 158 LEGENDARY TALES AND ESEMPJ. When Jesus Christ Wandered on Earth (Eight Tales) 173 Pietro Baillardo (Three Tales) 189 S. Giovanni Bocca D'oro (Three Tales) 196 Don Giovanni 202 The Penance of San Giuliano 203 The Pilgrims 208 Santa Verdana 213 San Sidoro 214 The Fishpond of St. Francis (La Pescheria di San Francesco) 214 St. Anthony (Five Tales) 215 St. Margaret of Cortona 222 St. Theodora 225 Nun Beatrice 228 Padre Filippo (Eleven Tales) 231 The Pardon of Asisi 244 Padre Vincenzo (Three Tales) 246 Padre Fontanarosa (Three Tales) 248 S. Giuseppe Labre (Three Tales) 251 The Twelve Words of Truth 254 GHOST AND TREASURE STORIES AND FAMILY AND LOCAL TRADITIONS. The Dead Man in the Oak-Tree 259 The Dead Man's Letter 261 The White Soul 264 The White Serpent 267 The Procession of Velletri 271 Smaller Ghost and Treasure Stories and Family and Local Traditions (Thirteen Tales) 273 Sciarra Colonna 284 Donna Olimpia 287 The Munificence of Prince Borghese 291 'Pope Joan' (La Papessa) 293 Giacinta Marescotti 294 Pasquino (Two Tales) 296 Cècingùlo 300 The Wooing of Cassandro 301 I Cocorni 305 The Beautiful Englishwoman 305 The Englishman 308 The Marriage of Signor Cajusse 309 The Daughter of Count Lattanzio 311 Bellacuccia 313 The Satyr 315 The Satyrs 317 Amadea 320 The King of Portugal 322 CIARPE. The Two Friars 327 The Preface of a Franciscan 333 The Lenten Preacher 334 Ass or Pig 336 The Seven Clodhoppers 339 The Little Bird 341 The Devil who took to Himself a Wife 343 The Root 346 The Queen and the Tripe-seller 348 The Bad-tempered Queen (La Regina Cattiva) 354 The Simple Wife (La Sposa Cece) (Two Versions) 357 The Foolish Woman (La Donna Mattarella) (Two Versions) 367 The Booby (Il Tonto) 371 The Gluttonous Girl (La Ragazza Golosa) 375 The Greedy Daughter (La Figlia Ghiotta) 380 The Old Miser 382 The Miserly Old Woman 385 The Beggar and the Chick-Pea (Il Poverello Del Cece) 388 Doctor Grillo 392 Nina 396 The Good Grace of the Hunchback (La Buona Grazia Del Gobbo) 399 The Value of Salt 403 The Princess and the Gentleman 406 The Happy Couple (I Sposi Felici) 411 Una Camera di Locanda 416 The Countess's Cat 419 Why Cats and Dogs always Quarrel 421 The Cats who Made their Master Rich 422 APPENDICES. Appendix A. p. xx. 425 Appendix B. 452 Appendix C. p. 195 431 Appendix D. p. 196 431 Appendix E. p. 208 432 Appendix F. p. 392 433 FAVOLE. FILAGRANATA. Once upon a time [15] there was a poor woman who had a great fancy for eating parsley. To her it was the greatest luxury, and as she had no garden of her own, and no money to spend on anything not an absolute necessity of life, she had to go about poaching in other people's gardens to satisfy her fancy. Near her cottage was the garden of a great palace, and in this garden grew plenty of fine parsley; but the garden was surrounded by a wall, and to get at it she had to carry a ladder with her to get up by, and, as soon as she had reached the top of the wall, to let it down on the other side to get down to the parsley-bed. There was such a quantity of parsley growing here that she thought it would never be missed, and this made her bold, so that she went over every day and took as much as ever she liked. But the garden belonged to a witch, [16] who lived in the palace, and, though she did not often walk in this part of the garden, she knew by her supernatural powers that some one was eating her parsley; so she came near the place one day, and lay in wait till the poor woman came. As soon, therefore, as she came, and began eating the parsley, the witch at once pounced down, and asked her, in her gruff voice, what she was doing there. Though dreadfully frightened, the poor woman thought it best to own the whole truth; so she confessed that she came down by the ladder, adding that she had not taken anything except the parsley, and begged forgiveness. 'I know nothing about forgiveness,' replied the witch. 'You have eaten my parsley, and must take the consequences; and the consequences are these: I must be godmother to your first child, be it boy or girl; and as soon as it is grown to be of an age to dress itself without help, it must belong to me.' When, accordingly, the poor woman's first child was born, the witch came, as she had declared she would, to be its godmother. It was a fine little girl, and she gave it the name of Filagranata; after that she went away again, and the poor woman saw her no more till her little girl was grown up old enough to dress herself, and then she came and fetched her away inexorably; nor could the poor mother, with all her tears and entreaties, prevail on her to make any exchange for her child. So Filagranata was taken to the witch's palace to live, and was put in a room in a little tower by herself, where she had to feed the pigeons. Filagranata grew fond of her pigeons, and did not at all complain of her work, yet, without knowing why, she began to grow quite sad and melancholy as time went by; it was because she had no one to play with, no one to talk to, except the witch, who was no very delightful companion. The witch came every day, once in the day, to see that she was attending properly to her work, and as there was no door or staircase to the tower--this was on purpose that she might not escape--the witch used to say when she came under the tower-- Filagranata, so fair, so fair, Unloose thy tresses of golden hair: I, thy old grandmother, am here; [17] and as she said these words, Filagranata had to let down her beautiful long hair through the window, and by it the witch climbed up into her chamber to her. This she did every day. Now, it happened that about this time a king's son was travelling that way searching for a beautiful wife; for you know it is the custom for princes to go searching all over the world to find a maiden fit to be a prince's wife; at least they say so. Well, this prince, travelling along, came by the witch's palace where Filagranata was lodged. And it happened that he came that way just as the witch was singing her ditty. If he was horrified at the sight of the witch, he was in proportion enchanted when Filagranata came to the window. So struck was he with the sight of her beauty, and modesty, and gentleness, that he stopped his horse that he might watch her as long as she stayed at the window, and thus became a spectator of the witch's wonderful way of getting into the tower. The prince's mind was soon made up to gain a nearer view of Filagranata, and with this purpose he rode round and round the tower seeking some mode of ingress in vain, till at last, driven to desperation, he made up his mind that he must enter by the same strange means as the witch herself. Thinking that the old creature had her abode there, and that she would probably go out for some business in the morning, and return at about the same hour as on the present occasion, he rode away, commanding his impatience as well as he could, and came back the next day a little earlier. Though he could hardly hope quite to imitate the hag's rough and tremulous voice so as to deceive Filagranata into thinking it was really the witch, he yet made the attempt and repeated the words he had heard-- Filagranata, thou maiden fair, Loose thy tresses of golden hair: I, thy old grandmother, am here. Filagranata, surprised at the soft modulation of voice, such as she had never heard before, ran quickly to the window with a look of pleasure and astonishment which gave her face a more winning expression than ever. The prince looked up, all admiration and expectation; and the thought quickly ran through Filagranata's head--'I have been taught to loose my hair whenever those words are said; why should not I loose it to draw up such a pleasant-looking cavalier, as well as for the ugly old hag?' and, without waiting for a second thought, she untied the ribbon that bound her tresses and let them fall upon the prince. The prince was equally quick in taking advantage of the occasion, and, pressing his knees firmly into his horse's flanks, so that it might not remain below to betray him, drew himself up, together with his steed, just as he had seen the witch do. Filagranata, half frightened at what she had done the moment the deed was accomplished, had not a word to say, but blushed and hung her head. The prince, on the other hand, had so many words to pour out, expressive of his admiration for her, his indignation at her captivity, and his desire to be allowed to be her deliverer, that the moments flew quickly by, and it was only when Filagranata found herself drawn to the window by the power of the witch's magic words that they remembered the dangerous situation in which they stood. Another might have increased the peril by cries of despair, or lost precious time in useless lamentations; but Filagranata showed a presence of mind worthy of a prince's wife by catching up a wand of the witch, with which she had seen her do wonderful things. With this she gave the prince a little tap, which immediately changed him into a pomegranate, and then another to the horse, which transformed him into an orange. [18] These she set by on the shelf, and then proceeded to draw up the witch after the usual manner. The old hag was not slow in perceiving there was something unusual in Filagranata's room. 'What a stink [19] of Christians! What a stink of Christians!' she kept exclaiming, as she poked her nose into every hole and corner. Yet she failed to find anything to reprehend; for as for the beautiful ripe pomegranate and the golden orange on the shelf, the Devil himself could not have thought there was anything wrong with them. Thus baffled, she was obliged to finish her inspection of the state of the pigeons, and end her visit in the usual way. As soon as she was gone Filagranata knew she was free till the next day, and so once more, with a tap of the wand, restored the horse and his rider to their natural shapes. 'And this is how your life passes every day! Is it possible?' exclaimed the prince; 'no, I cannot leave you here. You may be sure my good horse will be proud to bear your little weight; you have only to mount behind me, and I will take you home to my kingdom, and you shall live in the palace with my mother, and be my queen.' It is not to be supposed but that Filagranata very much preferred the idea of going with the handsome young prince who had shown so devoted an appreciation of her, and being his queen, to remaining shut up in the doorless tower and being the witch's menial; so she offered no opposition, and the prince put her on to his good horse behind him, and away they rode. On, on, on, [20] they rode for a long, long way, until they came at last to a wood; but for all the good horse's speed, the witch, who was not long in perceiving their escape and setting out in pursuit, was well nigh overtaking them. Just then they saw a little old woman [21] standing by the way, making signs and calling to them to arrest their course. How great soever was their anxiety to get on, so urgent was her appeal to them to stop and listen to her that they yielded to her entreaties. Nor were they losers by their kindness, for the little old woman was a fairy, [22] and she had stopped them, not on her own account, but to give them the means of escaping from the witch. To the prince she said: 'Take these three gifts, and when the witch comes very near throw down first the mason's trowel; and when she nearly overtakes you again throw down the comb; and when she nearly comes upon you again after that, throw down this jar [23] of oil. After that she won't trouble you any more.' And to Filagranata she whispered some words, and then let them go. But the witch was now close behind, and the prince made haste to throw down the mason's trowel. Instantly there rose up a high stone wall between them, which it took the witch some time to climb over. Nevertheless, by her supernatural powers she was not long in making up for the lost time, and had soon overtaken the best speed of the good horse. Then the prince threw down the comb, and immediately there rose up between them a strong hedge of thorns, which it took the witch some time to make her way through, and that only with her body bleeding all over from the thorns. Nevertheless, by her supernatural powers she was not long in making up for the lost time, and had soon overtaken the best speed of the good horse. Then the prince threw down the jar of oil, and the oil spread and spread till it had overflowed [24] the whole country side; and as wherever you step in a pool of oil the foot only slides back, the witch could never get out of that, so the prince and Filagranata rode on in all safety towards the prince's palace. 'And now tell me what it was the old woman in the wood whispered to you,' said the prince, as soon as they saw their safety sufficiently secured to breathe freely. 'It was this,' answered Filagranata; 'that I was to tell you that when you arrive at your own home you must kiss no one--no one at all, not your father, or mother, or sisters, or anyone--till after our marriage. Because if you do you will forget all about your love for me, and all you have told me you think of me, and all the faithfulness you have promised me, and we shall become as strangers again to each other.' 'How dreadful!' said the prince. 'Oh, you may be sure I will kiss no one if that is to be the consequence; so be quite easy. It will be rather odd, to be sure, to return from such a long journey and kiss none of them at home, not even my own mother; but I suppose if I tell them how it is they won't mind. So be quite easy about that.' Thus they rode on in love and confidence, and the good horse soon brought them home. On the steps of the palace the chancellor of the kingdom came out to meet them, and saluted Filagranata as the chosen bride the prince was to bring home; he informed him that the king his father had died during his absence, and that he was now sovereign of the realm. Then he led him in to the queen-mother, to whom he told all his adventures, and explained why he must not kiss her till after his marriage. The queen-mother was so pleased with the beauty, and modesty, and gentleness of Filagranata, that she gave up her son's kiss without repining, and before they retired to rest that night it was announced to the people that the prince had returned home to be their king, and the day was proclaimed when the feast for his marriage was to take place. Then all in the palace went to their sleeping-chambers. But the prince, as it had been his wont from his childhood upwards, went into his mother's room to kiss her after she was asleep, and when he saw her placid brow on the pillow, with the soft white hair parted on either side of it, and the eyes which were wont to gaze on him with so much love, resting in sleep, he could not forbear from pressing his lips on her forehead and giving the wonted kiss. Instantly there passed from his mind all that had taken place since he last stood there to take leave of the queen-mother before he started on his journey. His visit to the witch's palace, his flight from it, the life-perils by the way, and, what is more, the image of Filagranata herself,--all passed from his mind like a vision of the night, and when he woke up and they told him he was king, it was as if he heard it for the first time, and when they brought Filagranata to him it was as though he knew her not nor saw her. 'But,' he said, 'if I am king there must be a queen to share my throne;' and as a reigning sovereign could not go over the world to seek a wife, he sent and fetched him a princess meet to be the king's wife, and appointed the betrothal. The queen-mother, who loved Filagranata, was sad, and yet nothing that she could say could bring back to his mind the least remembrance of all he had promised her and felt towards her. But Filagranata knew that the prince had kissed his mother, and this was why the spell was on him; so she said to her mother-in-law: 'You get me much fine-sifted flour [25] and a large bag of sweetmeats, and I will try if I cannot yet set this matter straight.' So the queen-mother ordered that there should be placed in her room much sifted flour and a large bag of sweetmeats. And Filagranata, when she had shut close the door, set to work and made paste of the flour, and of the paste she moulded two pigeons, and filled them inside with the comfits. Then at the banquet of the betrothal she asked the queen-mother to have her two pigeons placed on the table; and she did so, one at each end. But as soon as all the company were seated, before any one was helped, the two pigeons which Filagranata had made began to talk to each other across the whole length of the table: and everybody stood still with wonder to listen to what the pigeons of paste said to each other. 'Do you remember,' said the first pigeon, 'or is it possible that you have really forgotten, when I was in that doorless tower of the witch's palace, and you came under the window and imitated her voice, saying,-- Filagranata, thou maiden fair, Loose thy tresses of golden hair: I, thy old grandmother, am here, till I drew you up?' And the other pigeon answered,-- 'Si, signora, I remember it now.' And as the young king heard the second pigeon say 'Si, signora, I remember it now,' he, too, remembered having been in a doorless tower, and having sung such a verse. 'Do you remember,' continued the first pigeon, 'how happy we were together after I drew you up into that little room where I was confined, and you swore if I would come with you we should always be together and never be separated from each other any more at all?' And the second pigeon replied,-- 'Ah yes! I remember it now.' And as the second pigeon said 'Ah yes! I remember it now,' there rose up in the young king's mind the memory of a fair sweet face on which he had once gazed with loving eyes, and of a maiden to whom he had sworn lifelong devotion. But the first pigeon continued:-- 'Do you remember, or have you quite forgotten, how we fled away together, and how frightened we were when the witch pursued us, and how we clung to each other, and vowed, if she overtook us to kill us, we would die in each other's arms, till a fairy met us and gave us the means to escape, and forbad you to kiss anyone, even your own mother, till after our marriage?' And the second pigeon answered,-- 'Yes, ah yes! I remember it now.' And when the second pigeon said, 'Yes, ah yes! I remember it now,' the whole of the past came back to his mind, and with it all his love for Filagranata. So he rose up [26] and would have stroked the pigeons which had brought it all to his mind, but when he touched them they melted away, and the sweetmeats were scattered all over the table, and the guests picked them up. But the prince ran in haste to fetch Filagranata, and he brought her and placed her by his side in the banquet-hall. But the second bride was sent back, with presents, to her own people. 'And so it all came right at last,' pursued the narrator. 'Lackaday! that there are no fairies now to make things all happen right. There are plenty of people who seem to have the devil in them for doing you a mischief, but there are no fairies to set things straight again, alas!' [I have placed this story first in order, as its incidents ramify into half the traditionary tales with which we are acquainted. (1.) 'Rapunzel,' No. 12 in 'Grimm,' is the most like it among the German in the beginning, and has the most dissimilar ending. The counterpart form, in which it is some misdeed or ill-luck of the father instead of the mother, which involves the surrender of the first-born, is the more frequent opening, as in 'The Water King,' Ralston's 'Russian Folk Tales,' p. 120. 'The Lassie and her Godmother,' in Dr. Dasent's 'Norse Tales,' has an opening like 'Filagranata,' which, as it proceeds, connects it with 'Marienkind,' No. 4 in 'Grimm;' and the prohibition to open the room, in that one, carries on the connexion to another group, the Bluebeard group, represented in this series by 'Monsoo Mostro,' 'Rè Moro,' &c.; while, further on, 'Lassie and her Godmother' evolves the incident of the reflection in the well, which connects it with the following story in this collection, and in this roundabout way, though not in direct form, with the termination of 'Filagranata.' (2.) The introduction of an orange as a help to defy the 'orca,' connects the story again with the two next (though the fruit is used differently), and with a vast number of myths, as pointed out in Campbell's 'Tales of the West Highlands,' Introduction, pp. lxxx-lxxxv. I was rather put off the scent by the narrator using the word portogallo: melagranata, though properly a pomegranate, is, I think, used in old Italian for an orange, being simply a red, or golden, apple. (3.) The three gifts of the trowel, the comb, and the oil-filler, again bring this story in connexion with another vast group. Compare 'Campbell,' iv. 290; also his remarks, i. 58-62, on the 'Battle of the Birds,' which story this resembles in the main, but, as will be found throughout this collection, the Roman form is milder. The prince wins his bride without performing tasks, and the couple, in escaping, have only to kill a strange 'orca,' and not the girl's own father. In the third version of the tale in Mr. Campbell's series, the girl becomes a poultry-maid, and has three fine dresses, constituting a link with another group--that of Cinderella (I have given the Tirolean one as 'Klein-Else' in 'Household Stories from the Land of Hofer'); and the three dresses there (though not in the Gaelic story) representing the sun, moon, and stars, give it another connexion with 'Marienkind.' 'The Master Maid,' in Dr. Dasent's collection, again, has the golden apple (though it assists in a different way) and the ending of the Roman version (a golden cock there taking the part of the two paste pigeons), but begins with the tasks in the 'Giant's House' of the Gaelic version, which the Roman ignores. In the Russian story of 'Baba Yaga' (Ralston's 'Russian Folk Tales,' pp. 139) we have the three magic gifts. Though Mr. Campbell has a very ingenious solution for the idea of the supernatural attaching to swords (i. lxxii), the same does not seem at all to explain the introduction of supernatural combs; when I once found a comb transformed into a mountain in a Tirolean story, I thought, as Mr. Ralston has also suggested (p. 144), that it fitted very well with the German expression for a mountain-ridge; but he does not tell us whether the metaphor holds good in Russ, where he finds it used; and in the present instance it is a hedge of thorns into which the comb resolves itself. I have another Roman story, in which the comb 'swelled and swelled till every one of its teeth became a pier, and the spaces between them were arches, and it was a bridge by which one could pass over.' (4.) The kiss which brings forgetfulness, again, is found in the myths of every country. It occurs in the Tirolean story I have given as the 'Dove-Maiden' in 'Household Stories from the Land of Hofer,' though I had to omit it there for want of space; but the remaining episodes of that story are nearly identical with those of the Russian story of 'The Water-King;' and in the Tirolean story the maiden is fetched from a heathen magician's house by the aid of saints, while in the others it is from giants' or witches' abodes, by aid of other giants and witches. Mr. Ralston supplies, at pp. 132-7, a long list of variants of this story, and in a Russian one, at p. 133, comes a ride on a Bear, which is one of the incidents in the 'Dove-Maiden,' though, if I remember right, it does not occur in any of the others. In Mr. Campbell's notes to 'The Battle of the Birds' are also collected notices of variants of this episode. The affinity of this story with others again will be found in Mr. Cox's 'Mythology of the Aryan Nations,' ii. p. 301.] THE THREE LOVE-ORANGES. [27] They say there was a king's son who went out to hunt. [28] It was a winter's day, and the ground was covered with snow, so that when he brought down the birds with his arquebuse the red blood made beautiful bright marks on the dazzling white snow. 'How beautiful!' exclaimed the prince. 'Never will I marry till I find one with a complexion fair as this snow, and tinted like this rosy blood.' When his day's sport was at an end, he went home and told his parents that he was going to wander over the world till he found one fair as snow, tinted like rosy blood. The parents approved his design and sent him forth. On, on, on he went, till one day he met a little old woman, who stopped him, saying: 'Whither so fast, fair prince?' He replied, 'I walk the earth till I find one who is fair as snow, tinted like rosy blood, to make her my wife.' 'That can I help you to, and I alone,' said the little old woman, who was a fairy; and then she gave him the three love-oranges, telling him that when he opened one such a maiden as he was in search of would appear, but he must immediately look for water and sprinkle her, or she would disappear again. The prince took the oranges, and wandered on. On, on, on he went, till at last the fancy took him to break open one of the oranges. Immediately a beautiful maiden appeared, whose complexion was indeed fair as snow, and tinted like rosy blood, but it was only when she had already disappeared that he recollected about the water. It was too late, so on he wandered again till the fancy took him to open another orange. Instantly another maiden appeared, fairer than the other, and he lost no time in looking for water to sprinkle her, but there was none, and before he came back from the search she was gone. On he wandered again till he was nearly home, when one day he noticed a handsome fountain standing by the road, and over against it a fine palace. The sight of the fountain made him think of his third orange, and he took it out and broke it open. Instantly a third maiden appeared, far fairer than either of the others; with the water of the fountain he sprinkled her the moment she appeared, and she vanished not, but staid with him and loved him. Then he said, 'You must stay here in this bower while I go on home and fetch a retinue worthy to escort you.' In a palace opposite the fountain lived a black Saracen woman, [29] and just then she went down to the fountain to draw water, and as she looked into the water she said, 'My mistress says that I am so ugly, but I am so fair, therefore I break the pitcher and the little pitcher.' [30] Then she looked up in the bower, and seeing the beautiful maiden, she called her down, and caressed her, and stroked her hair, and praised her beauty; but as she stroked her hair she took out a magic pin, and stuck it into her head, and instantly the maiden became a dove and perched on the side of the fountain. Then she broke the pitcher and the little pitcher, and the prince came back. When the prince saw the ugly black woman standing in the bower where he had left his beautiful maiden, he was quite bewildered, and looked all about for her. 'I am she whom you seek, prince,' said the woman. 'It is the sun has changed me thus while standing here waiting for you; but all will come right when I get away from the sun.' The prince did not know what to make of it, but there was no help for it but to take her and trust to her coming right when she got away from the sun. He took her home, therefore, and right grand preparations were made for the royal marriage. Tapestries were hung on the walls, and flowers strewed the floor, while in the kitchen was the cook as busy as a bee, preparing I know not how many dishes for the royal banquet. Then, lo, there came and perched on the kitchen window a little dove, and sang, 'Cook, cook, for whom are you cooking; for the son of the king, or the Saracen Moor? May the cook fall asleep, and may all the viands be burnt!' [31] After this nothing would go right in the kitchen; every day all the dishes got burnt, and it was impossible to give the wedding banquet, because there was nothing fit to send up to the table. Then the king's son came into the kitchen to learn what had happened, and they showed him the dove which had done all. 'Sweet little dove!' said the prince, and, catching it in his hand, began to caress it; thus he felt the pin in its head, and pulled it out. Instantly his own fair maiden stood before him, white as snow, rosy as blood. Then the mystery was cleared up, and there was great rejoicing, and the old witch was burnt. [This story, besides its similarities with those mentioned in note of the foregoing, is substantially the same as 'Die weisse u. die schwarze Braut' in Grimm (with his 'Schneeweisschen u. Rosenroth' it seems to have nothing in common, though the words 'Snow-white and rose-red' suggest it); but its commencement is different. The German Tale of Sneewittchen (Grimm, p. 206 has also much similarity with it: a queen sat working in a window framed with ebony; she pricks her finger, and three drops of blood that fall on the snow suggest the wish that her child may be fair as snow, red as blood, and her hair as dark as ebony. Her wishes are fulfilled, and she dies. She is succeeded by a witch-stepmother, from whom the child of wishes suffers many things, but the witch is ultimately danced to death in red-hot iron shoes. A link between them is supplied by the next following, in which the opening agrees with the German story. In Schneller's 'Legends of the Italian Tirol' are two, with a title similar to the Roman one. In the first ('I tre aranci') the girl becomes the property of a fairy, as in Filagranata. She is sent to fetch three oranges, which she does by the help of five gifts given her by an old man; but the whole ends in the good child wishing as her only reward to be restored to her mother. The other is called 'L'amor dei tre aranci.' In this the prince breaks a witch's milkjug while playing at ball, and in revenge she tells him he shall not marry till he finds 'the Love of the three oranges,' which he similarly obtains by the help of five gifts received of an old woman; when he opens them, the story goes on just like the Roman one, the verse of the dove being a little different:-- Cogo, bel cogo, Endormeazate al fogo, Che l'arrosto se possa brusar, E la fiola (figlia) della stria non ne possa magnar. and there is nothing about 'fair as snow, rosy as blood,' in it. He has another, 'Quel dalla coda di oro,' in which three golden apples or balls play a prominent part, but it belongs to another group. A second version of this, entitled 'I pomi d' oro,' however, is a strange mixture of the various Tirolean and Roman versions. The Hungarian story of 'Vas Laczi' (Iron Ladislas) begins, like 'L'amor dei tre aranci,' by a young prince getting into a scrape with a witch, this time by breaking her basket of eggs. His punishment is the fulfilment of his first wish, and his first wish happens to be a pettish one, that the earth might swallow up his three sisters; as one of them is said to be always dressed like the sun, the second like the moon, and the third like the stars, we have a link with the German Marienkind and the Tirolean Klein-Else. Afterwards Iron Ladislas goes in search of his sisters, and encounters many heroic adventures and many transformations, in one of which a tree in a dragon's garden with golden apples is a prominent detail. A tree with golden fruit is also an important incident in the principal and most popular of Hungarian myths, that of 'Tündér Ilona' (Fairy Helen). As it is seen depicted on the thirteen compartments of the grand staircase walls of the National Club at Pest, Tündér Ilona appears in the first as the Goddess or Queen of Summer held in thrall by the stern witch the Goddess or Queen of Winter. She is seen planting in the territory of the Earth-King a tree which represents her earnest longings after freedom, and committing it to the benign influence of the Sun-King. The second shows this mystical tree bearing its golden fruit, which the beautiful Fairy, as if ashamed of her boldness, is hasting to pluck off, borne on a chariot formed of obedient swans. The Wind-genius wafts poppy seeds over the eyes of the armed guard the Winter-Queen had set round the tree, and lulls them to sleep. In the third Argilus, the Earth-Prince, is seen surprising in his (up till then vain) nightly attempt to gather the golden fruit, Tündér Ilona's departing convoy. He aims an arrow at the coy plunderer; then suddenly a glance from her pierces his heart instead, and he lets the arrow harmlessly strike the ground. The fourth portrays the happy union of Ilona and Argilus, Summer and Earth; but the Winter-Queen comes by enraged at their successful defiance of her, and cuts off Ilona's beautiful golden locks. (The people have it that these locks borne along by the winds planted the Puszta with the beautiful long feathery grass which they call 'Orphan-girl's hair'). In the distance are seen the parents of the Earth-Prince hurrying forward in search of their son. The fifth shows Tündér Ilona waking from her delicious slumber, and on discovering the loss of the mantle of her hair, hasting back in agony to her swan-chariot. Argilus in vain stretches out his arms after her, and prays her to remain always with him. In the sixth the scene is changed to the dwelling of the Earth-King. Prince Argilus is taking leave of his parents as he starts on his perilous journey, determined to deliver the captive Fairy. In the seventh the Earth-Prince has advanced on his journey as far as the dwelling of a giant, of whom he asks counsel, and who appoints him three witches to show the way to regain the Tündér. In the eighth he is seen victorious in a late conflict with three giants, from each of whom he has succeeded in gaining an instrument necessary for his purpose; from one a switch, from another a pipe, from the third a conjuring mantle. The giants throw down masses of rock upon him, but he spreads out the conjuring mantle, and committing himself to it, floats securely through the air. In the ninth Argilus has reached the Winter-Witch's border, and prepares to engage in combat with the dragon who guards it. The tenth is highly sensational. The Winter-Witch has thrown a deep sleep over him, and the poor Summer-Fairy strives to awaken him in vain. In the eleventh the ardent desires of Tündér Ilona have prevailed over all the enchantments of the Winter-Witch, and at her prayer there rises up from the innermost region of the earth the fairy Iron-Queen, who brings the Tátos, the winged magic horse who is to bear the Prince through all dangers to certain victory. The twelfth shows Argilus and Ilona once more united, enthroned side by side, and subjects bearing them offerings. The thirteenth is a large composition symbolising the mystic union of Earth and Summer, whence sprang, says the myth, Autumn with her abundant fruits, and the great god Pan, the author of all productiveness, who called the land of his birth after his own name and blessed it with fecundity above all nations of the earth. The tree of golden fruit, the first occasion of the auspicious meeting which led to this union, is again introduced, and Tündér Ilona is again clothed in her luxuriant mantle of golden hair.] PALOMBELLETTA. [32] They say there was a peasant whose wife had died and left him one little girl, who was the most beautiful creature that ever was seen; no one on earth could compare with her for beauty. After a while the peasant married again: this time he married a peasant-woman who had a daughter who was the most deformed object that ever was seen; no cripple on earth could compare with her for deformity; and, moreover, her skin was quite black and shrivelled, and altogether no one could bear to look at her, she was so hideous. One day when everyone was out, and only the fair daughter at home, the king came by from hunting thirsty, and he stopped at the cottage and asked the fair maid for a glass of water. When he saw how fair she was and with what grace she waited on him, he said, 'Fair maiden, if you will, I will come back in eight days and make you my wife.' The maiden answered, 'Indeed I will it, your Majesty!' and the king rode away. When the stepmother came home the simple maiden told her all that had happened, and she answered her deceitfully, congratulating her on her good fortune. Before the day came round, however, she shut the fair maiden in the cellar. When the king came she went out to meet him with a smiling face, saying, 'Good day, Sire! What is your royal pleasure?' And the king answered, 'To marry your daughter am I come.' Then the stepmother brought out her own daughter to him, all wrapped up in a wide mantle, and her face covered with a thick veil, and a hood over that. 'Rest assured, good woman, that your daughter will be my tenderest care,' said the king; 'but you must take those wrappers off.' 'By no means, Sire!' exclaimed the stepmother. 'And beware you do it not. You have seen how fair she is above all the children of earth. But this exceeding beauty she has on one condition. If one breath of air strike her she loses it all. Therefore, Oh, king! let not the veil be removed.' When the king heard that he called for another veil, and another hood, and wrapping her still more carefully round, handed her into the carriage he had brought for her, shut the door close, and rode away on horseback by her side. When they arrived at the palace the hideous daughter of the stepmother was married to the king all wrapt up in her veils. The stepmother, however, went into her room, full of triumph at what she had done. 'But what am I to do with the other girl!' she said to herself; 'somehow or other some day she will get out of the cellar, and the king will see her, and it will be worse for my daughter than before.' And as she knew not what to do she went to a witch to help her. 'This is what you must do,' said the witch; 'take this pin' (and she gave her a long pin with a gold head), 'and put it into the head of the maiden, and she will become a dove. Then have ready a cage, and keep her in it, and no one will ever see her for a maiden more.' The stepmother went therefore, and bought a cage, and taking the large pin [33] down into the cellar, she drove the pin into the fair maiden's head, holding open the cage as she did so. As soon as the pin entered the maiden's head she became a dove, but instead of flying into the cage she flew over the stepmother's head far away out of sight. On she flew till she came to the king's palace, right against the window of the kitchen where the cook was ready preparing a great dinner for the king. The cook looked round as he heard the poor little dove beating its frightened breast against the window, and, fearful lest it should hurt itself, he opened the window. In flew the dove as soon as he opened the window, and flew three times round his head, singing each time as she did so:--'O cook! O cook! of the royal kitchen, what shall we do with the Queen? All of you put yourselves to sleep, and may the dinner be burnt up!' [34] As soon as she had sung this the third time the cook sank into a deep sleep; the dinner from want of attention was all burnt up; and when the king sat down to table, there was nothing to set before him. 'Where is the dinner?' exclaimed the king, as he looked over the empty table to which he had brought his bride, still wrapt up in her thick veils. 'Please your Majesty, the dinner is all burnt up as black as charcoal,' said the chamberlain; 'and the cook sits in the kitchen so fast asleep that no one can wake him.' 'Go and fetch me a dinner from the inn,' said the king; 'and the cook, when he comes to himself, let him be brought before me.' After a time the cook came to himself, and the chamberlain brought him before the king. 'Tell me how this happened,' said the king to the cook. 'All these years you have served me well and faithfully; how is it that to-day, when the dinner should have been of the best in honour of my bride, everything is burnt up, and the king's table is left empty?' 'Indeed, the dinner had been of the best, Sire,' answered the cook. 'So had I prepared it. Only, when all was nearly ready, there came a dove flying in at the window, and flew three times round my head, singing each time, Cook of the royal kitchen, What shall we do with the Queen? Sleep ye all soundly, and burnt be the meal Which on the King's board should have been. After that a deep sleep fell on me and I know nothing more of what happened.' 'That must have been a singular dove,' said the king; 'bring her to me and you shall be forgiven.' The cook went down to look for the dove, and found her midway, flying to meet him. 'There is the dove, Sire,' said the cook, handing the dove to the king. 'So you spoilt my dinner, did you palombelletta,' said the king. 'But never mind; you are a dear little dove, and I forgive you,' and he put her in his breast and stroked her. Thus, as he went on stroking and fondling her, calling her 'palombelletta bella!' he felt the gold head of the stepmother's big pin through the feathers. 'What have you got in your head, palombelletta dear?' he said, and pulled the pin out. Instantly the fair maiden stood before him in all her surpassing beauty as he had seen her at the first. 'Are you not my fair maiden who promised to marry me?' exclaimed the king. 'The very same, and no other,' replied the maiden. 'Then who is this one?' said the king, and he turned to the stepmother's daughter beside him, and tore off her veil. Then he understood the deceit that had been played on him, and he sent for the stepmother, and ordered that she and her daughter should be punished with death. [The next group most prolific in variety of incidents is that in which the stepmother represents the evil genius of the story; sometimes there is a daughter only, sometimes a daughter and a son, and sometimes, but less frequent, a son only. Allied to it is that in which the character devolves on two elder sisters, not specified to be stepsisters, and the incidents in these two branches are closely interwoven. I give the first place to Cinderella, because it has acquired a homely importance.] LA CENORIENTOLA. [35] They say there was a merchant who had three daughters. When he went out into foreign countries to buy wares he told them he would bring them rare presents whatever they might ask for. The eldest asked for precious jewels, the second for rich shawls, but the youngest who was always kept out of sight in the kitchen by the others, and made to do the dirty work of the house, asked only for a little bird. 'So you want a little bird, do you! What is the use of a little bird to you!' said the sisters mocking her, and 'Papa will have something else to think of than minding little birds on a long journey.' 'But you will bring me a little bird, won't you, papa?' pleaded the little girl; 'and I can tell you that if you don't the boat you are on will stand still, and will neither move backwards nor forwards.' The merchant went away into a far country and bought precious wares, but he forgot all about the little bird. It was only when he had got on board a boat to go down a mighty river on his homeward way, and the captain found the boat would not move by any means, that he remembered what his daughter had said to him. Then while the captain was wondering how it was the boat would not move, he went to him and told him what he had done. But the captain said, 'That is easily set right. Here close by is a garden full of thousands of birds; you can easily creep in and carry off one. One will never be missed among so many thousands.' The merchant followed his directions and went into the garden where there were so many thousand birds that he easily caught one. The captain gave him a cage, and he brought it safely home and gave it to his daughter. That night the elder sisters said as usual, 'We are going to the ball; you will stay at home and sweep up the place and mind the fire.' Now all the birds in the garden which the captain had pointed out to the merchant were fairies; so when the others were gone to the ball and the youngest daughter went into her room to her bird, she said to it: Give me splendid raiment, And I will give you my rags. [36] Immediately, the bird gave her the most beautiful suit of clothes, with jewels and golden slippers, and a splendid carriage and prancing horses. With these the maiden went to the ball which was at the king's palace. The moment the king saw her he fell in love with her, and would dance with no one else. The sisters were furious with the stranger because the king danced all night with her and not with them, but they had no idea it was their sister. The second night she did the same, only the bird gave her a yet more beautiful dress, and the king did all he could to find out who she was, but she would not tell him. Then he asked her name and she said,-- 'They call me Cenorientola.' 'Cenorientola,' said the king; 'what a pretty name! I never heard it before.' He had also told the servants that they must run after her carriage and see where it went; but though they ran as fast as the wind they could not come near the pace of her horses. The third night the sisters went to the ball and left her at home, and she staid at home with her little bird and said to it,-- Give me splendid raiment, And I will give you my rags. [37] Then the bird gave her a more splendid suit still, and the king paid her as much attention as ever. But to the servants he had said, 'If you don't follow fast enough tonight to see where she lives I will have all your heads cut off.' So they used such extra diligence that she in her hurry to get away dropped one of her golden slippers; this the servants picked up and brought to the king. The next day the king sent a servant into every house in the city till he should find her whom the golden slipper fitted, but there was not one; last of all he came to the merchant's house, and he tried it on the two elder daughters and it would fit neither. Then he said,-- 'There must be some other maiden in this house;' but they only shrugged their shoulders. 'It is impossible; another maiden there must be, for every maiden in the city we have seen and the slipper fits none, therefore one there must be here.' Then they said,-- 'In truth we have a little sister who sits in the kitchen and does the work. She is called Cenorientola, because she is always smutty. We are sure she never went to a ball, and it would only soil the beautiful gold slipper to let her put her smutty feet into it.' 'It may be so,' replied the king's servant, 'but we must try, nevertheless.' So they fetched her, and the king's servant found that the shoe fitted her; and they went and told the king all. The moment the king heard them say Cenorientola he said,--'That is she! It is the name she gave me.' So he sent a carriage to fetch her in all haste. The bird meantime had given her a more beautiful dress than any she had had before, and priceless jewels, so that when they came to fetch her she looked quite fit to be a queen. Then the king married her; and though her sisters had behaved so ill to her she gave them two fine estates, so that all were content. [The counterparts to the story are endless. In Grimm's 'Aschenputtel' (p. 93), the nominal German counterpart, there is a stepmother as well as two sisters, and the story turns upon the gifts each daughter craves of the father, an episode which occurs in Roman versions with different titles. His 'Die drei Männlein im Walde' ('Three Little Men in the Wood') is like it, and the other versions too, and the episode in it of the good daughter receiving the faculty of dropping a gold coin from her mouth at every word she utters, is like a Hungarian story, in which no stepmother figures, but the evil genius of the story (the Lady-in-Waiting) is plainly called a witch. In this story it is a princess, from whose footsteps rise gold pieces, her tears are pearls, and her smiles rosebuds. In one of the Siddhi Kür Stories which I have translated as 'Sagas from the far East' (p. 49) is a similar incident, and a Spanish equivalent in Note 3. A friend of mine met with a very similar legend in a convent at Quito, concerning a nun called 'the Rose of Quito,' out of whose grave a rose-tree is said to have sprung and blossomed on the morrow of her burial. It seems, however, to have an independent origin, as 'the Rose of Quito' died within the last 150 years. In the Tirolean 'Klein-Else,' or 'Aschenpfödl,' to which allusion has already been made, and which answers to it in name, we have a connexion with the last group (as in some of the succeeding Roman versions) in the sun, moon, and star dresses. Among the Tales of Italian Tirol we find it as Zendrarola, and with a good deal of variation from any other form I have met. The story opens with a dying father as in the North Tirolean 'Klein-Else,' but it is only a rich man, not a warrior-baron, and he has three daughters instead of one. He bids them choose what gifts he shall bestow on them before he dies, and the eldest asks for a pair of earrings; the second for a dress; and the youngest for his magic sword, which gives whatever the possessor wishes for. The story is singular in this, that the elder sisters seem to have no spite. The father does not die; but, notwithstanding his recovery, he has nothing more to do with the story further than to give an unwilling consent that the youngest daughter, though his favourite, shall go forth with her sword and roam the world till she finds a husband. She only takes service in a large house in a big town, however; but there falls in love with a melancholy youth, son of a count, who lives opposite. For the sake of being nearer him, she obtains the place of kitchen-maid in his palace, and thus acquires her title of Zendrarola in a very different way from her counterparts in other lands. One day she hears he is going to a ball, and she makes her wishing-sword give her a dress like the sky; and the young Count, who has never admired anyone before, of course falls in love with her. When he comes back, he confides to his lady mother what has occurred, and Zendrarola, now again dressed as a dirty drudge, interposes that the fair one he was extolling was not prettier than herself. He silences her indignantly by giving her a poke with the shovel, and when she meets him next night in some beautiful attire, and he asks her where she comes from, she answers 'dalla palettada' (from shovel-blow). The next day the same thing happens, and he gives her a blow with the tongs, and when he asks her in the evening what her country is, she answers 'majettada' (tongs-blow); answering to Frustinaia and Stivalaia in the second Roman version of 'Maria di Legno.' He gives her a ring, which she sends up in his broth, as Klein-Else does in the pancake, and so he recognises and marries her. In one or two of the Roman versions also, the means of recognition is a ring in place of a slipper. I do not remember any Cinderella among the Russian Tales, though there are stepmother stories, which pair off with others of the Roman. For Scotch versions I must refer the reader to Campbell's 'Highland Tales,' i. 226, and ii. 292.] VACCARELLA. [38] They say there was once a husband and a wife; but I don't mean that they were husband and wife of each other. The husband had lost his wife, and the wife had lost her husband, and each had one little daughter. The husband sent his daughter to the wife to be brought up along with her own daughter, and as the girl came every morning to be trained and instructed, the wife used to send a message back by her every evening, saying, 'Why doesn't your father marry me? then we should all live together, and you would no longer have this weary walk to take.' The father, however, did not see it in the same light; but the teacher [39] continued sending the same message. In short, [40] at last she carried her point, having previously given a solemn promise to him that Maria, his little girl, should be always as tenderly treated as her own. Not many months elapsed, however, before she began to show herself a true stepmother. After treating Maria with every kind of harshness, she at last sent her out into the Campagna to tend the cow, so as to keep her out of sight of her father, and estrange him from her. Maria had to keep the cow's stall clean with fresh litter every day; sometimes she had to take the cow out to grass, and watch that it only grazed over the right piece of land; at other times she had to go out and cut grass for the cow to eat. All this was work enough for one so young; but Maria was a kind-hearted girl, and grew fond of her cow, so that it became a pleasure to her to attend to it. When the cruel stepmother saw this she was annoyed to find her so light-hearted over her work, and to vex her more gave her a great heap of hemp to spin. It was in vain that Maria reminded her she had never been taught to spin; the only answer she got was, 'If you don't bring it home with you to-night all properly spun you will be finely punished;' and Maria knew to her cost what that meant. When Maria went out into the Campagna that day she was no longer light-hearted; and as she littered down the stall she stroked the cow fondly, and said to her, as she had no one else to complain to, 'Vaccarella! Vaccarella! what shall I do? I have got all this hemp to spin, and I never learnt spinning. Yet if I don't get through it somehow I shall get sadly beaten to-night. Dear little cow, tell me what to do!' But the cow was an enchanted cow, [41] and when she heard Maria cry she turned round and said quickly and positively:-- Throw it on to the horns of me, And go along, cut grass for me! [42] Maria did as she was told, went out and cut a good basketful of grass, and imagine her delight on coming back with it to find all the whole lot of hemp beautifully spun. The surprise of the stepmother was still greater than hers, at finding that she had got through her task so easily, for she had given her enough to have occupied an ordinary person a week. Next day, therefore, she determined to vex her with a more difficult task, and gave her a quantity of spun hemp [43] to weave into a piece of fine cloth. Maria's pleadings were as fruitless as before, and once more she went to tell her tale of woe to her 'dear little cow.' Vaccarella readily gave the same answer as before:-- Throw it on to the horns of me, And go along, cut grass for me! Once more, when Maria came back with her basket of grass, she found all her work done, to her great surprise and delight. But her stepmother's surprise was quite of another order. That Maria should have woven the cloth, not only without instruction, but even without a loom, proved clearly enough she must have had some one to help her--a matter which roused the stepmother's jealousy in the highest degree, and wherein this help consisted she determined to find out. Accordingly, next day she gave her a shirt to make up, and then posted herself out of sight in a corner of the cow-house to see what happened. Thus she overheard Maria's complaint to her dear little cow, and Vaccarella's reply:-- Throw it on to the horns of me, And go along, cut grass for me! She thus also saw, what Maria did not see, that as soon as she had gone out the cow assumed the form of a woman, and sat down and stitched and stitched away till the shirt was made, and that in a surprisingly short space of time. As soon as it was finished, and before Maria came in, the woman became a cow again. The cruel stepmother determined that Maria should be deprived of a friend who enabled her to set all her hard treatment at defiance, and next morning told her that she was going to kill the cow. Maria was broken-hearted at the announcement, but she knew it was useless to remonstrate; so she only used her greatest speed to reach her 'dear little cow,' and warn her of what was going to happen in time to make her escape. 'There is no need for me to escape,' replied Vaccarella; 'killing will not hurt me. So dry your tears, and don't be distressed. Only, after they have killed me, put your hand under my heart, and there you will find a golden ball. This ball is yours, so take it out, and whenever you are tired of your present kind of life, you have only to say to it on some fitting occasion--"Golden ball, golden ball, dress me in gold and give me a lover," [44] and you shall see what shall happen.' Vaccarella had no time to say more, for the stepmother arrived just then with a man who slaughtered the cow at her order. Under Vaccarella's heart Maria found the promised golden ball, which she hid away carefully against some fitting occasion for using it arose. Not long after there was a novena [45] of a great festival, during which Maria's stepmother, with all her disposition to overwork her, durst not keep her from church, lest the neighbours should cry 'Shame!' on her. Maria accordingly went to church with all the rest of the people, and when she had made her way through the crowd to a little distance from her stepmother, she took her golden ball out of her pocket and whispered to it--'Golden ball, golden ball, dress me in gold and give me a lover.' Instantly the golden ball burst gently open and enveloped her, and she came out of it all radiant with beautiful clothing, like a princess. Everybody made way for her in her astonishing brightness. The eyes of the king's son were turned upon her, no less than the eyes of all the people; and the prayers were no sooner over than he sent some of his attendants to call her and bring her to him. Before they could reach her, however, Maria had restored her beautiful raiment to the golden ball, and, in the sordid attire in which her stepmother dressed her, she could easily pass through the crowd unperceived. At home, her stepmother could not forbear talking, like everyone else in the town, about the maiden in glittering raiment who had appeared in the midst of the church; but, of course, without the remotest suspicion that it was Maria herself. But Maria sat still and said nothing. So it happened each day of the Novena; for, though Maria was not at all displeased with the appearance and fame of the husband whom her 'dear little cow' seemed to have appointed for her, she did not wish to be too easy a prize, and thought it but right to make him take a little trouble to win her. Thus she every day restored all her bright clothing to the golden ball before the prince's men could overtake her. Only on the last day of the Novena, when the prince, fearful lest it might also be the last on which he would have an opportunity of seeing her, had told them to use extra diligence, they were so near overtaking her that, in the hurry of the moment, she dropped a slipper. [46] This the prince's men eagerly seized, feeling no compunction in wresting it from the mean-looking wench (so Maria now looked) who disputed possession of it with them, not in the least imagining that she could be the radiant being of whom they were in search. The Novena over, Maria once more returned to her ceaseless toil; but the stepmother's hatred had grown so great that she determined to rid herself of her altogether and in the most cruel way. Down in the cellar there stood a large barrel, [47] which had grown dirty and mouldy from neglect, and wanted scalding out. 'Get into the barrel, Maria girl,' she bid her next morning for her task, 'and scrape it and rub it well before we scald it.' Maria did as she was bid, and the stepmother went away to boil the water. Meantime, the prince's men had taken Maria's slipper to him, and he, delighted to have any token of his fair one, appointed an officer to go into every house, and proclaim that the maiden whom the slipper might fit should be his bride. The officer went round from house to house, trying the slipper on everybody's foot. But it fitted no one, for it was under a spell. But the stepmother's own daughter [48] had gone down to the cellar to help Maria, unbeknown to her mother; and it so happened that, just as she was inside the barrel and Maria outside, the king's officer happened to come by that way. He opened the door, [49] and, seeing a damsel standing within, tried on the sandal without waiting to ask leave. As the sandal fitted Maria to perfection, the officer was all impatience to carry her off to the prince, and placed her in the carriage which was waiting outside, and drove off with her before anyone had even observed his entrance. Scarcely had all this passed than the stepmother came back, with her servants, each carrying a can of boiling water. They placed themselves in a ring round the barrel, and each emptied her charge into it. As it was the stepmother's daughter who was inside at the time, instead of Maria, it was she who got scalded to death in her place. By-and-by, when the house was quiet, the bad stepmother went to the barrel, intending to take out the body of Maria and hide it. What was her dismay when she found, instead of Maria's body, that of her own daughter! As soon as her distress and grief subsided sufficiently to enable her to consider what she had to do, the idea suggested itself to conceal the murder by putting the blame of it on some one else. For this purpose she took the body of her daughter, and, dressing it in dry clothes, seated it on the top of the stairs against her husband's return. [50] Presently, home he came with his ass-load of wood, and called to her daughter to come and help him unload it, as usual. But the daughter continued sitting on the top of the stairs, and moved not. Again and again he called, louder and louder, but still she moved not; till at last, irritated beyond all endurance, he hurled one of his logs of wood at her, which brought the badly-balanced corpse rolling and tumbling all the way down the stairs, just as the stepmother had designed. The husband, however, was far from being deceived by the device. He could see the body presented no appearance of dying from a recent fall. 'Where's Maria?' he asked, as soon as he got up into the room. 'Nobody knows; she has disappeared!' replied the stepmother; nor was he slow to convince himself she was nowhere in the house. 'This is no place for me to stay in,' said the husband to himself. 'One child driven away, and one murdered; who can say what may happen next?' Next morning, therefore, he called to him the little daughter born to him since his marriage with Maria's stepmother, and went away with her for good and all. So that bad woman was deprived, as she deserved, of her husband and all her children in one day. Just as the father and his daughter were starting to go away, Maria drove by in a gilded coach with the prince her husband; so he had the satisfaction, and her stepmother the vexation, of seeing her triumph. [The introduction of the wonder-working cow in this second version of the story of Cinderella cannot fail to suggest the idea that it may find its prototype in Sabala, the heavenly cow of the Ramayana. [51] I have another Stepmother story, the place of which is here, but it is too long to give in its entirety. It begins like the last, and the next, and many others, with a widower, the teacher of whose children, a boy and girl, insists on marrying him. Soon after, of course, she turns the children out of doors; the boy is made the slave of a witch, and comes well at last out of many adventures; it is one of the nearest approaches to a heroic story that I have met with in Rome. There are details in it, however, like Filagranata and others, not actually of the Stepmother group. The girl gets taken into a Brigand's cave, and goes through adventures which befall the youngest of three sisters (without a stepmother) in the Italian-Tirolese tale of 'Le tre Sorelle,' and that, again, is precisely like another Roman story I have, in many respects different from the present one, called 'The Three Windows.' One of the adventures in the present story is, that the witch, instead of killing the girl, gives her the appearance of death, and she is shut up in a box instead of being regularly buried, and a prince, as he goes by hunting, finds her, and the means of restoring her, and marries her. This is a very common incident in another group, and occurs in the 'Siddhi Kür' story which I have given as 'The Prayer making suddenly Rich,' in 'Sagas from the Far East;' and in the third version of 'Maria de Legno,' infra, where also the girl is not even seemingly dead. I cannot forbear subjoining a quaint version of the story of Joseph, which was told me, embodying the same incident, though the story of Joseph has usually been identified with the group in which a younger brother is the hero; by Dr. Dasent, among others, who gives several examples, under the name of 'Boots.' In the Roman series this group is represented by 'Scioccolone.'] GIUSEPPE L'EBREO. 'Do you know the story of Giuseppe l'Ebreo?' 'Not by that name. Tell it me, and I'll tell you if I've heard it before.' 'There was once a moglie e marito who had seven sons.' 'Oh, do you mean the Machabees?' 'No. I don't think they were called Machabees--I don't know. But the youngest of the seven was called Joseph, and he was his father's Benjamin, and that made the others jealous of him. They used to go out in the Campagna together to feed the flocks, for in those days all were shepherds; and when the others had Joseph out there all alone they said, "Let us kill him;" and they were going to kill him; but one said, "No, we must not kill him: we will put him down a well;" and so they did. 'The next day it happened that a great king went by hunting, and as his dogs passed the well where Joseph was they scented human blood and made a great barking, and the king said, "See what the dogs have found." So they took the stone from the mouth of the well and let a cord down, and behold a beautiful boy came up--for Joseph was a beautiful boy--and he pleased the king, and he took him home and kept him as a precious jewel, he was so fair. So handsome was he, that the Queen fell in love with him; and when he wouldn't listen to her she accused him of having insulted her, and had him put into prison. 'After that the King had a strange dream: he saw three lean cows and three fat cows; and he saw the three lean cows eat up the three fat cows; and he sent for all the theologians in the country, and none of them could tell what the dream meant; but Joseph said, "I can tell what the dream means."... The rest as in the Bible.' [Dr. Dasent gives one Norse story of a stepmother, with a stepson and daughter, which begins like the one of which I have given an abstract, but runs off into quite different incidents.] THE KING WHO GOES OUT TO DINNER. [52] They say there was a well-to-do peasant whose wife died leaving him two children--a boy and a girl. Both were beautiful children, but the girl was of the most inconceivable beauty. As both were still young, and the father did not know how to supply a mother's place to them, he sent them to a woman, who was to teach them and train them, and do all that a mother would have done for them. So to her they went every day. The woman, however, was bent on marrying their father, and used to send a message every day to ask why he did not marry her. The father sent in answer that he did not want to marry; but the woman continued to repeat the same message so frequently that, wearied by her importunity, he sent an answer to the effect that when a pair of strong woollen stockings, which he also gave the children to take to her, were rotted away he would marry her, and not before. The woman took the pair of stockings and hung them up in a loft and damped them with water twice a day till they were soon quite rotted; then she showed them to the children, and told them to tell their father what they had seen. When the children went home they said, 'Papa! we saw your pair of stockings to-day; they are all rotted away.' But the father said, 'Nonsense! Those thick stockings could not have rotted in this time; there must be some unfair play.' The next morning he gave them a large pitcher of water, and told them to take it to their teacher, saying that when all the water had dried up he would marry her, and not before. The teacher took the children up every day to see how rapidly the water diminished in the jug; but the fact was she used to go first and pour out a little every day. [53] At last she showed them the pitcher empty, and bid them tell their father that they had seen it so. 'Impossible!' said their father; but when they assured him they had seen the water in it gradually diminish day by day, he saw there was no way of disputing the fact, and that he was bound by the condition he himself had fixed. Accordingly he married the teacher. No sooner, however, was she in possession of the house than she told the father she would not have the children about the place; they were not her children, and she could not bear the sight of them. The father expostulated, saying he had no place to send them to, but the stepmother continued so persistently in her representations that, for the sake of peace, he ceased to oppose her, and she took upon herself the task of disposing of them. One day, therefore, she made them a large cake, [54] and putting it in a basket with a bottle of wine, she took them for a walk outside the gates. When they had gone a long, long way, she proposed that they should sit down and lunch off their cake and wine. The children were nothing loth; but, while they were eating, the stepmother slipped away unperceived, and left them alone, thinking that they would be lost. But the fact was the boy had overheard their father and mother talking about getting rid of them, and he had provided himself with a paper parcel [55] of ashes, and had strewn them all along the road they had come, unperceived by his stepmother, and so now by this track they found their way home again. The stepmother was furious at seeing them come back, but she said nothing in order not to rouse their suspicions. A few days after, however, she made another cake and proposed to take them another walk. The children accompanied her willingly; but the little boy provided himself with a parcel of millet, and strewed the grain on the ground as they walked along. They were in no haste, therefore, to finish their refection. But, alas! when they came to trace the track by which they were to return, there was no means of finding it, for the birds had come meanwhile and eaten up all the grain. The little girl was appalled when she saw they were lost, and sat down to cry; but the little boy said, 'Never mind; our stepmother was very cross and unkind to us; perhaps we shall meet with some one who will behave better to us. Come, let us look for shelter before night comes on.' The little girl took courage at her brother's words, and, joining hands, they walked on together. Before night they came to a little cottage, the only one in sight; so they knocked at the door. 'Who's there?' said a voice within, and when they answered 'Friends,' an old man opened the door. 'Will you please take us in and give us shelter for the night, for our stepmother has turned us out of our home?' said the little boy. 'Come in, and welcome,' answered the old man, 'and you shall be my children.' So they went in and lived with him as his children. When they had been living there some time, it happened that one day when the old man and her brother were both out, the king came by hunting, and he came to the hut and asked for some water to drink. The extraordinary beauty of the maiden astonished the king, and he asked her whence she was, and so learnt all her story. When he went home he told his mother, saying, 'When I was out to-day I saw the most beautiful maiden that ever was created. You must come and see her.' The queen-mother did not like going to the poor hut, but the prince urged her so much that at last she consented to accompany him. The king drove out beforehand to the cottage and gave notice that he would like to dine there, and, giving the maiden plenty of money, told her to prepare the best dinner that ever she could for him and the queen-mother. The maiden tidied up the cottage so neatly, and prepared the dinner so well, and did the honours of it so gracefully, that the queen-mother was won to admire her as much as her son had been, and when the king told her of his intention to make the girl his wife she was well pleased. So Albina (such was her name) was married to the king, and her brother was made viceroy. In the meantime, the stepmother had begun to wonder what had become of the children. But she was a witch, and had a divining rod; [56] this rod she struck, and asked it where the children were. The answer came, 'The girl is married to the king, and the lad is made viceroy.' When she heard this she went to her husband and said, 'Do you know a sort of remorse has taken me that we let those poor children go we know not whither. I am resolved to put on a pilgrim's dress and go and seek them that I may bring them home to us again.' The father was very glad to hear her speak thus, and gave his consent to her taking the journey. The next day, therefore, she put on a pilgrim's dress and went forth. On, on, on she went till she came to the city where Albina was married to the king. Here she took up her stand opposite the palace windows, and with her divining rod she called up a golden hen with golden chickens, [57] and made them strut about under the palace window. When Queen Albina looked out and saw the wonderful brood, she sent down at once to call the pilgrim-woman to her and offered to buy them of her. 'My hen and chickens I neither sell nor pledge,' answered the pretended pilgrim; 'I only part with them at one price.' 'And what is the price, good pilgrim, say?' answered the queen. 'My price is that the queen herself take me down to the palace garden and show me the whale which I know there is in the fish-pond.' [58] 'That is a condition easily accepted,' answered Albina. 'I will take you there at once, good woman.' The queen and the pretended pilgrim then went down together to the pond. The pretended pilgrim no sooner came in sight of the whale than she touched the water with her rod and bade the whale swallow the queen. The whale obeyed the stroke of the wand imparted through the water, and the stepmother went up and threw herself on the queen's bed. When she had well wrapped herself in the coverlets so as to be hidden, she called the maids to her and bid them tell the king that the queen was sick. The king immediately came in all haste to assure himself of the state of the queen. 'I am ill indeed, very ill!' cried the pretended queen, groaning between whiles; 'and there is no hope for me, for there is only one remedy for my malady, and that I cannot take.' 'Tell me the one remedy at least,' said the king. 'The one only remedy for me is the blood of the viceroy, and that I could not take.' 'It is a dreadful remedy indeed,' said the king; 'but if it is the only thing to save your life, I must make you take it.' 'Oh, no! I could not take it!' exclaimed the pretended queen, for the sake of appearing genuine. But the king, bent on saving her life at any price, sent and had the viceroy taken possession of and secured, ready to be slain, [59] in one of the lower chambers of the palace. The windows of this chamber looked out upon the fish-pond. The viceroy looked out of the window on to the fishpond, and immediately there came a voice up to him, speaking out of the whale, and saying, 'Save me, my brother, for here am I imprisoned in the whale, and behold two children are born to me.' But her brother could only answer, 'I can give help to none, for I also am in peril of death, being bound and shut up ready to be slain!' Then a voice of lamentation came up from within the whale saying, 'Woe is me that my brother is to be slain, and I and my children are shut up in this horrible place! Woe is me!' Presently, the gardener hearing these lamentations, went to the king, saying, 'O, king! come down thyself and hear the voice of one that waileth, and the voice cometh as from within the whale.' The king went down, and at once recognised the voice of the queen; then he commanded that the whale should be ripped open; no sooner was this done than the queen and her two children were brought to light. The king embraced them all, and said, 'Who then is she that is in the queen's bed?' and he commanded that she should be brought before him. When the queen had seen her she said, 'This is my stepmother;' and when the pilgrim's weeds, which she had taken off, were also found, and it was shown that it was she who had worked all this mischief, the king pronounced that she was a witch, and she was put to death, and the viceroy was set at liberty. [I now come to three stories more strictly of the Cinderella type than the two last, but no stepmother appears in them.] THE POT OF MARJORAM. [60] They say there was once a father who was a rich, very rich, merchant, and the daughters had been used all their lives to have every thing that money could buy them, so that one day when the father was going to a distant mart where he expected to find the choicest wares, and asked them what he should bring home, they scarcely knew what to ask. But when he told them he expected to find shawls of such brilliant hues as they had never seen, with gold threads interwoven, the eldest instantly begged him to bring her one of these; and when he said he expected to find coverlets of bird plumage vieing with the rainbow in brilliancy, the second entreated him to bring her one of these. The third daughter, however, who was distinguished by stay-at-home habits, and by her distaste for vanity of every kind, would not have any of these gay ornaments, though he not only offered her shawls and coverlets such as her sisters revelled in the idea of possessing, but precious jewelry, sparkling rubies, and rarest pearls. She would have none of these, but asked him only to bring her a pot of marjoram, which she wanted for household uses as none was to be got in the country where they were living. The father soon after set out on his travels, and having reached his destination did not fail, while laying in his rare and precious stock, to select the choicest specimens to bestow on his two eldest daughters. But the homely pot of marjoram quite went out of his head, and he returned homewards without having so much as thought of it. He was nearly home when he was accosted on the way by a strange-looking man one evening, who asked him if he would not buy of him a pot of marjoram. 'A pot of marjoram!' The words brought back his youngest daughter's request whom he would not have disappointed for all the world. 'A pot of marjoram, say you? Yes, it's just what I want. Give it here, and there's something extra because it is just what I want;' and throwing him money to three or four times the ordinary value of the article, he called to an attendant to stow the pot on to the pack-saddle of one of the mules. But the stranger held back the pot and laughed in his face. 'I had thought you were a trader,' he said, 'and knew enough of the rules of trade to let a man fix his own price on his own wares.' The merchant laughed in his turn at what seemed to him an insolent comparison. 'When a trader goes thousands of miles, through a thousand perils to bring home precious wares from afar which those at home scarcely know the use of, true, then, he alone can fix the price. But a pot of marjoram, every one knows the price of that.' 'Perhaps not,' replied the stranger, binding his cloak about him with the pot tightly held under his arm. 'At all events it is clear you don't;' and he took a step forward as if he considered the negotiation at an end. The merchant was vexed; he would not on any account miss taking back a pot of marjoram, and he knew he was now so near home that no other chance would there be of procuring one. Swallowing down his annoyance as well as he could, therefore, he led his horse nearer to the strange man and said,-- 'You make me quite curious to hear your price named, friend, as till this moment I had not thought there could be two ideas on the subject.' 'My price is three hundred thousand scudi,' replied the strange man, who was really a magician; 'and if you knew its powers you would know, too, it is cheap at that.' And again he made as if he would have gone on his way, indifferent whether the bargain were concluded or not. The merchant was quite puzzled how to act. The pot of marjoram he must have, and his knowledge of the art of bargaining convinced him that the man's manner meant he would not rebate an iota of his price. Whatever awkwardness he felt in suddenly giving three hundred thousand scudi for an article he had just appraised at a paul it was even more apparent to him that any attempt at haggling would only have added to the absurdity of the situation by its futility. Therefore, assuming a magnificent air, as if the vast price were after all no matter to him, he called to his steward to count out the sum demanded and rode on. Arrived at home, his showy presents were received with raptures by his two eldest daughters, while the youngest received her modest-seeming share of his generosity with an expression of surprise and admiration, which gave the good merchant a secret satisfaction in imagining that she was not altogether ignorant of its immense value. As days went by, however, everything fell back into the usual routine. The elder sisters continued the same round of gaiety in which they had ever been immersed, the younger remained as of old, quietly absorbed in her household duties; but if she had any pastime it was that of diligently cultivating her pot of marjoram. By degrees, however, through the steward's gossip with the servants, it came round to the knowledge of the sisters that, though their younger sister had seemed to frame so humble a request, its satisfaction had cost their father's treasury a fabulous sum. The discovery excited their utmost indignation, and their jealousy being roused, they determined to inflict a condign and appropriate punishment for what they deemed her presumption, by destroying the illstarred pot of marjoram. To get at it, however, was no easy matter, as its guardian seldom left the house, and was always watching over it with jealous care. At last they resolved, by way of pretext for securing her absence, to represent to their father that it was not good for a young girl to remain so shut up; that whether she had a taste for it or not, she ought to see the world; and urged their arguments so efficaciously that he quite admitted their cogency, and one evening, calling his youngest daughter to him, imperatively required that she should accompany him to an evening engagement. The poor child dared not disobey her father, but parted from her pot of marjoram with a heavy heart, as if some foreboding of evil possessed her. No sooner had she left the house than the sisters went up into her room, and taking the pot of marjoram, flung it out of the window, so that it all lay broken and shattered on the highroad, where it was soon trampled under foot and every vestige of it dispersed. When she came in and saw what was done her grief was unbounded, and no sooner was the house sunk in slumber than, determining to live no longer under the same roof with those who had treated her so unfeelingly, she set out to wander forth absorbed in sorrow, and not caring whither she went. On, on, on she went, taking no heed of the way, all through the night, and when the morning dawned she found herself in the midst of a vast plain, at a place where many roads met. As she hesitated for a moment which she should take, there suddenly appeared before her a fairy, [61] though the last time she looked up she had not seen a speck anywhere between herself and the horizon. 'Where are you going so early, my pretty maiden, and why weep you?' said the fairy, in a soothing voice that seemed made to charm an answer out of the most reluctant. Nevertheless, it was no easy question to answer, for the maiden had no sort of idea whither she was going; therefore she took the second question first and poured out the whole tale of her sisters' harshness and her late terrible disappointment. 'That is not so very bad after all,' replied the fairy, when she had finished her tale. 'I see you have been trying to be a sensible girl, but you must be brave as well as sensible. Men say of us women, "Women always look at the dark side of things;" [62] there is always a bright side which you must try to look out for, even when, as in this instance, you couldn't possibly see it; for all the evil that befalls us does not work evil in the end. [63] Now it happens that there is a particularly bright side to this case of yours, and the evil that was done you will bring you no ultimate harm. But you must exercise fortitude and stedfastness in what you will have to do. For this I will give you a man's clothing, as it would not be seemly for a young girl like you to be going about the world alone, and it will save you from many dangers.' So saying, though she had no bundle of any sort about her, she produced a complete suit of male attire, travelling cloak and all, and in the girdle were bound weapons, and many articles of which the maiden did not even know the use or the name, but the fairy assured her she would want them all by and by. Then, having pointed out which was the road she should take, she again bid her be of good heart, and disappeared almost before the maiden had time to utter her heartfelt thanks. The fairy had no sooner vanished than the whole face of the country wore a different aspect; instead of being surrounded by a vast plain, mighty mountains rose on the right hand and on the left, while before her, straight along her path, was a dense forest. The maiden's heart misgave her at the sight, but she remembered the fairy's advice and walked steadily along. Notwithstanding her conversation had not seemed to last many minutes too, the sun was already high in the heavens, and its rays beat so fiercely upon her that she was glad even of the gloomy forest's shade. Arrived at the first trees she was pleased to hear the trickling of a little brook over the stones, and to find that the good fairy had not failed to give her a supply of provisions of which she now gladly availed herself. As the afternoon grew cooler she rose and walked on till nightfall without further adventure, and then disposed herself to rest for the night, climbing first into the spreading boughs of a large tree, that she might be out of the way of any wild beasts which the forest might harbour. In the middle of the night her sleep was disturbed by a horrible growling; and what was her surprise when she fully woke to find that though it proceeded from a common he-, and she-bear [64] stretched out under the very tree she had chosen for her resting-place, she could understand all the meaning it contained just as if they had spoken in words; and she recognised the new power as another gift of the good fairy. 'Where have you been all this long time?' growled the she-bear; 'it is quite abominable what a long time you stay away now continually; I have been hunting through the whole forest for you.' 'That was quite waste of trouble,' replied the he-bear testily, 'for I have been a long way from the forest.' 'Where were you, then?' growled the she-bear again, with a tone that showed she was determined to know all about it. 'If you must know, I went twenty miles along the side of the river, then over the back of the rocky mountains, and then skirting round the forest till I came to the kingdom of Persia. And out of the kingdom of Persia there went up a great wail, for last night, from his high tower, the king of Persia fell out of window and broke all his bones, moreover his flesh is all cut with the glass, which has entered into his wounds. Therefore the land of Persia bewails her king.' 'Then let them get another king,' growled the she-bear. 'That is not so easy,' rejoined the he-bear. 'For over all the face of the earth was no king so comely in person as the king of Persia. But that is not the worst, for the matter concerns us more nearly than you have any idea of.' 'How can it concern us?' retorted the she-bear. 'It concerns us so much that if anyone only knew of us we should both be killed. For the only remedy for his wounds is that we should both be killed, the fat of our bodies be melted together, an ointment made of it with honey and wax, and be smeared over the king's body, and then bathe him in warm baths, doing this alternately for the space of three days he will be made well again. And now he has sent a proclamation into all lands inviting any physician to come to heal him by his art, and if any of them by their books and their divination should discover this we both shall certainly be put to death.' 'Nonsense! do come and go to sleep,' replied the she-bear testily; 'how should anyone find us out in the midst of this forest?' 'It's not very likely certainly,' growled the he-bear. And in consequence of this happy feeling of security both brutes were soon fast asleep. How gladly the maiden listened to their snoring, when she found she could understand it just as well as their growling. 'I'm sound asleep,' snored the she-bear. 'I'm so tired I don't want ever to wake again,' snored her mate. 'Neither shall you,' said the maiden as she noiselessly let herself down from the tree. 'Only think of that old king of Persia wanting our fat; long may he wish for it!' snored the she-bear. 'Now it would be a fine thing to give back all his strength and his beauty to the king of Persia, but the price of one's life is too much for the honour,' snored the he-bear. 'Nevertheless, you shall have that honour,' whispered the maiden, as she drew two sharp two-edged knives with which her girdle was furnished, and, taking her stand firmly, plunged one with each hand deep into the throat of each beast. A mingled stream of blood gushed forth, and the two huge carcases rolled over without so much as a grunt, so neatly had the execution been performed. By the first morning's light she once more called all her courage to her assistance, and cut up the carcasses, extracting the fat. Then she lit a fire and melted it down together, nor was she without the requisite wax and honey, for the good fairy had provided her with enough of each. The ointment made, she set out to follow the line of travel the bear had indicated, and not without much toil and weariness at last found herself in the kingdom of Persia. Strong in belief in the efficacy of her remedy, she presented herself at once at the palace gate and demanded admission on the score of her ability to effect the desired cure of the ailing king. 'Though I may not have the high-sounding fame of which I daresay many can boast who have come at the summons of your king, yet so certain am I of the powers of my treatment that I put my life in your hands, and give you leave to torture me to death if I succeed not.' 'Fear not, fair sir,' replied the chamberlain; 'no difficulty will be made in admitting you, for you alone have applied to heal the king. Every other mediciner throughout the whole world, on reading the description of the king's ailments given in the proclamation, has pronounced his health past recovery, and not one will even make the attempt.' Pale, emaciated, and agonised as he was, the maiden at once recognised on her admission to the presence of the king the justice of the bear's account of his personal attractions, and now more earnestly than ever desired her success. The king very willingly submitted to her medicaments, and at the end of three days was, as the bear had predicted, quite sound in limb and restored to all his beauty of person. If his personal attractions had been an object of admiration to the maiden, those of his supposed physician had not been lost on the king, and when she came on the fourth day to take her leave of him, he told her at once he could not think of parting with her; she must remain attached to his court, and be always his physician in attendance. The flush of joy which she could not conceal at the proposal sufficed to convince the king of the justice of certain suspicions he had already entertained, that his supposed physician was no physician, but a maiden worthy to be his queen. For the moment he said nothing further, but only assigned to the stranger apartments in the palace, and a suite of his own, and a yearly stipend on the most liberal scale. As days went by, being continually in each other's presence, with that familiarity which their new relations allowed, each had the opportunity of growing more and more fond of the other. At last the king called his chamberlain to him one day and told him it was his desire that the state physician should appear before him dressed in queenly robes, and attended by a train of ladies of the court, and damsels and pages of honour. The chamberlain fancied that the life-peril through which the prince had so lately passed had injured his brain, and only undertook the commission with a visible reluctance. Nevertheless, as he durst not disobey any command of his sovereign, how strange soever, all was done as he had directed; though what puzzled the chamberlain the more was that the physician seemed as nearly demented as the king, for, instead of testifying any reluctance in submitting to such a travesty, his countenance had betrayed the most unmistakable joy at hearing the king's pleasure. The king had further given orders for the attendance of all the great officers of state and all the nobles of the land, as well as his guards of various degrees, all in brilliant gala dress. Before going into the state hall to receive their homage, however, he entered alone into his private cabinet, whither he commanded the attendance of his physician. Both meeting thus, each habited to the greatest advantage in their own appropriate dress, each was more than ever smitten with the attractions of the other. The king was not very long in winning from the maiden the confession that the robes she now wore were those of her sex, or that she shared his own desire that they should be united by that tie which would bind them together inseparably for ever. No sooner had he thus obtained her consent than he led her into the midst of the assembled court and required the homage of all his people to her as their queen. As for the wicked sisters, his first act was to send for them and have them burnt to death. ['How well I remember,' added the narrator, 'the way my mother used always to end that story when she told it to me.' 'And how was that?' asked I eagerly, not at all sorry to come across some local addition at last. 'But it has nothing to do with the tale, really,' she replied, as deeming it too unimportant to trouble me with. 'Never mind, I should like to hear it,' said I. 'Well then, it used to run thus: "Never was such a banquet made in all the world as for the nuptials of this king of Persia. The confetti were as big as eggs; and, do you know, I had five of them given to me."' 'O mamma,' I used to say then, 'why didn't you keep them for me? what splendid confetti they must have been!' 'Stop, and you shall hear what I did with them,' she would reply. Uno lo dava al gallo One I gave to the cock Che mi portava a cavallo, Who carried me on his back, [65] Una a la gallina And one to the hen Che m' insegnò la via. Who showed me the way, Uno al porco And one to the pig Che m' insegnò la porta. Who pointed out the door; Uno ne mangiai, One I ate myself, E uno ne misse là, And one I put by there, Che ancora ci sarà. Where no doubt it still remains. And she used to point as she spoke at an old glass cabinet, where I would go and rummage, always expecting to find the sweetmeat, till one day, getting convinced it had no existence, I got very angry, and threw a big key at one of the panes and broke it, and she never would tell me that story any more.] THE POT OF RUE. [66] They say there was once a rich merchant who had three daughters. Two of them were very gay and fond of dancing and theatres, but the youngest was very stay-at-home and scarcely ever went beyond the garden. One day when the father was going abroad to buy merchandise, he asked his three daughters what he should bring them home. The two eldest asked for all manner of dresses and ornaments, but the youngest asked only for a pot of rue. 'That's a funny fancy,' said the father, 'but an easy one to satisfy at all events; so be sure you shall have it.' 'Not so easy, perhaps, as you think,' replied the maiden; 'only now you have promised it, mind you bring it, as you will find you will not be able to get home unless you bring it with you.' The father did not pay much heed to her words, but went to a far country, bought his merchandise, taking care to include the fine clothes and jewels for his two eldest daughters, and, forgetting about the pot of rue, set out to come home. They were scarcely a day's journey out at sea when the ship stood quite still, nor was the captain able by any means to govern it, for neither sail nor oar would move it an inch. 'Some one on board has an unfulfilled promise on him,' declared the captain; and he called upon whoever it was to come forward and own it, that he might be thrown overboard, and that the lives of all the passengers and crew should not be put in jeopardy by his fault. Then the merchant came forward and said it was true he had forgotten to bring with him something he had promised to his little daughter, but that it was so slight a matter he did not think it could be that which was stopping the ship. As no one else had anything of the sort to accuse themselves of, the captain judged that it was indeed the merchant's fault that had stopped the ship; only, as he was such a great merchant and a frequent trader by his vessel, he agreed to put back with him instead of throwing him overboard. He first, however, asked,-- 'And what may the thing be that you have to take to your daughter?' 'Nothing but a pot of rue,' replied the merchant. 'A pot of rue!' answered the captain; 'that is no easy matter. In the whole country there is no one has a plant of it but the king, and he is so choice over it that he has decreed that if anyone venture to ask him only for a single leaf he shall instantly be put to death.' 'That is bad hearing,' said the merchant. 'Nevertheless, as I have promised to get it I must make the trial, and if I perish in the attempt I might have had a worse death.' So they landed the merchant, and he went straight up to the king's palace. 'Majesty!' he said, throwing himself on his knees before the throne. 'It is in no spirit of wantonness I break the decree which forbids the asking a single leaf of the precious plant of rue. A promise was on me before I knew the king's decree, and I am bound thereby to ask not merely a single leaf but the whole plant, of the king, even though it be at peril of my life.' Then said the king,-- 'To whom hadst thou made this promise?' And the merchant made answer,-- 'Though it was only to my youngest daughter I made the promise, yet having made it, I will not leave off from asking for it.' Then the king answered,-- 'Because thou hast been faithful to thy promise, and courageous in risking thy life rather than to break thy word, behold I give the whole plant at thy desire; and this without breaking my royal decree. For my decree said that whoso desired a single leaf should be put to death, but in that thou hast asked the whole plant thou hast shown a courage worthy of reward.' So he took the plant of rue and gave it to the merchant to give to his daughter; moreover, he bade him tell her that she should every night burn a leaf of the plant. With that he dismissed him. The merchant returned home and distributed the presents he had brought to his daughters, and not more pleased were the elder ones with their fine gifts than was the younger with her simple pot of rue. In the evening they went with their father to the ball as usual, but the youngest staid at home as she was wont to do, and this night she burnt a leaf of the rue as the king had bidden her. But the king had three beautiful sons, and no sooner had she burnt the rue leaf than the eldest son of the king appeared before her, and sitting beside her, said so many kind things that no evening had ever passed so pleasantly. This she did every evening as the king had bidden. But the other merchants said to the merchant her father,-- 'How is it that only two daughters come to the balls?' And the merchant, not knowing how to account for the youngest daughter's preference for staying at home, answered,-- 'I have only two daughters old enough to come to the balls?' But the other merchants said,-- 'Nay, but bring now thy youngest daughter.' So the next evening the merchant made the youngest daughter go with him to the ball, and the two elder daughters were left at home. As the youngest was wont never to leave her room, the others, how jealous soever they were of her, were never able to do her any harm. But now that they felt secure she was absent for a considerable space, they went into her apartment and set fire to it, and the whole place was burnt, and also the garden, and the plant of rue. If the king's son had come in haste for the burning of a single leaf, I leave it to be imagined with what speed he came for the burning of the whole plant. With such impetus, indeed, he came, that he was bruised and burnt all over with the flaming beams of which the apartment was built, and cut all over with the broken glass; so that when he reached home again he was in a sorry plight indeed. But the youngest daughter, coming home with her father from the ball, and finding all her apartment burnt to the ground, as well as all the plants in the garden, and with them the pot of rue, she said, 'I will stay no more in this place.' So she dressed herself in man's clothes and wandered forth. On, on, on, she went, till night came, and she could go no further, but she laid herself to sleep under a tree. In the middle of the night came an ogre and an ogress, [67] and laid themselves down also under the tree. Then she heard the ogre speaking to the ogress, and saying, 'Our king's eldest son, the flower of the land, is sore ill and like to die, having fallen through the window of the highest story of the palace, and is cut with the glass, and bruised all over. What shall be done to heal the king's eldest son, the flower of the land?' And the ogress made answer: 'This is what should be done--but it is well no one knows it. They should kill us, and take the fat that is round our hearts and make an ointment, and anoint therewith the wounds of the king's son.' When the merchant's daughter heard this, she waited till the ogre and ogress were gone to sleep; then she took out a brace of pistols--for with the man's dress she had also a brace of pistols--and with one in each hand she killed the ogre and ogress together, and with her knife she ripped them open, and took out the fat that was round their hearts. Then she journeyed on till she came to the king's palace. At the door of the palace stood a guard, who told her there was no entrance for such as her; but she said, 'To heal the wounds of the king's eldest son am I come.' Then the sentinel laughed, and said, 'So many great and learned surgeons have come, and have benefited him nothing, there is no entrance for a mountebank like thee. Begone! begone!' But she, knowing certainly that she had the only means of healing, would not be sent away; and when the sentinel would have driven her off she struggled so bravely that he had to call out all the guard to resist her; and when they all used their strength against her, she protested so loudly that the noise of the struggle made the king himself begin to inquire what was the matter. Then they told him, 'Behold, there stands without a low and base fellow, who would fain pretend to heal the wounds of the king's son.' But the king answered: 'As all the great and learned surgeons have failed, let even the travelling doctor try his skill; maybe he knows some means of healing.' Then she was brought into the apartment of the king's son, and she asked for all she needed to make the ointment, and linen for bandages, and to be left alone with him for the space of a week. At the end of a week the king's son was perfectly cured and well. Then she dressed herself with care, but still in the garb of a travelling doctor--for she had no other--and stood before him, and said, 'Know you me not?' And when he looked at her he said, 'Ah! yes; the maiden of the rue plant!' For till then she had been so soiled with the dust of travel that he could not recognise her. Then when he had recognised her he protested he would marry her, and, sending to the king his father, he told him the same. When the king heard of his resolve, he said, 'It is well that the prince is healed of his wounds; but with the return of bodily health it is evident he has lost his reason, in that he is determined to marry his surgeon. Nevertheless, as nothing is gained in this kind of malady by contradiction, it is best to humour him. We must get this surgeon to submit to be dressed up like a princess, and we must amuse him by letting him go through the form of marrying her.' It was done, therefore, as the king had said. But when the ladies of the court came to attend the supposed surgeon, and saw her dressed in her bridal robes, they saw by the way they became her that she was indeed a woman and no surgeon, and that the prince was by no means distempered in his mind. But the prince silenced their exclamations, saying: 'Nay, but say nothing; for perchance if my father knew that this should be a real marriage, and no mere make-believe to humour a disordered whim, he might withhold his consent, seeing the maiden is no princess. But I know she is the wife destined for me, because my mother, before she died, told me I should know her by the pot of rue; and because, by devoting herself to healing me, she has deserved well of me. So let the marriage go through, even as the king my father had devised.' So the marriage was celebrated, and when the king learnt afterwards that the pretended surgeon was a real maiden, he knew the thing could not be altered, and said nothing. So the merchant's daughter became the prince's wife. [The following is a third variant of this story, but so like the last, that I only give an abbreviated version of it.] KING OTHO. [68] In this case the merchant, when he goes out to buy his wares, asks his three daughters what he shall bring them. The eldest asks for fine dresses, the second for beautiful shawls, the third for nothing but some sand out of the garden of King Otho. The king had registered sentence of death against anyone who should ask for the sand. But in consideration of a bribe of three hundred scudi the gardener gives him a little. When she gets it, the daughter burns a little in the evening, when the sisters are gone to a ball. Instantly King Otho comes, and falls in love with her. She gives him a most exquisite pair of knee-bands she has embroidered, before he goes away. The second night she gives him a handkerchief of her work, and the third a beautiful necktie. After this, her father insists one evening that she should go to the ball. Her sisters say that if she goes they shall stay away. When she is gone they burn down her room, and in it all the sand of King Otho's garden. If the king came quickly for the burning of a little pinch, he naturally comes in exceeding greater haste at the burning of the whole quantity: in such haste that he is wounded all over with the blazing beams and broken glass. There is a great explosion. [69] As he knew nothing about the spite of the sisters, he could only think that the mischief arose from the misconduct of her to whom the sand had been given, and determines accordingly to have nothing more to do with her. When she comes home, and finds what has happened, she is in despair. She dresses like a man and goes away. In the night, in a cave where she takes shelter, she hears an ogre and ogress talking over what has happened, and they say that the only cure is an ointment made of their blood. [70] She shoots them both, and takes their blood and heals the king with it. The king offers any kind of reward the supposed doctor will name; but she will have nothing but some of the sand of the garden. She contrives, however, to discover the knee-bands, the handkerchief, and the necktie she had given him, and asks him what they are. 'Oh, only the presents of a faithless lover,' he replies. She then insists he should give them up to her, which he does, and she goes away. When she gets home she burns a pinch of the sand, and the king is forced by its virtue to appear; but he comes in great indignation, and accuses her of wounding him. She replies it was not she who wounded him, but who healed him. He is incredulous; and she shows him the knee-bands, handkerchief, and necktie, which convince him he owes his healing to her. They make peace, and are married. [Mr. Ralston gives a very pretty counterpart of so much of this story as relates to the transformation of a human being into a flower, at p. 15 of the story commencing at page 10, and 'Aschenputtel,' Grimm, p. 93, has something like it; but I do not recall any European story in which a person is actually wounded and half-killed by damage done to a tree mysteriously connected with him. There is something like it in the 'trees of life' which people plant, and their withering is to be a token that harm has befallen them. Overhearing the advice of supernatural beasts under a tree occurs in the Norse 'True and Untrue,' and is very common in all sorts of ways, everywhere. It enters, too, into the analogous Italian Tirolean tale of 'I due cavallari,' where witches figure instead of the orco and orchessa. Next, are four stories in which many incidents of the Cinderella type are set in a different framework; they are represented in the Gaelic by 'The King who wanted to marry his Daughter;' at the end of which reference will be found to other versions, where are details occurring in one or other of the following: that from Straparola is naturally the most like the Roman, but it is not like any one of them all throughout, and forms a remarkable link between the first Roman and the two Gaelic versions. The girl's answer, that she 'came from the country of candlesticks,' in the second version, is noteworthy, because it connects it with the Roman story of the 'Candeliera,' at the same time that it conveys no sense in its own. The box in the Gaelic versions recalls, just as Mr. Campbell says, the fine old chests which served for conveying home the corredo (including much more than trousseau in its modern use) of the bride, which are not only preserved as heirlooms and curiosities in many an Italian palace, but in many a museum also; there are some very handsome ones at Perugia. And yet it is just in the Italian versions that the box loses this character. In Straparola's, it is a wardrobe; in the two versions of 'Maria di Legno,' a wooden statue; in 'La Candeliera,' it has the shape of a candlestick. In the third version of 'Maria di Legno,' the box used is only an old press that happens to be in the deserted tower. Mr. Ralston, pp. 77-8, supplies a Russian counterpart, in which it is a prince, and not a maiden, who is conveyed in a provisioned box, and this is linked hereby with the Hungarian story of Iron Ladislas, who descends by such means to the underground world in search of his sisters; and this again connects this story both with those in which I have already had occasion to mention him and with one to follow called 'Il Rè Moro,' one I have in MS. called 'Il Cavolo d'oro,' &c. The first and more elaborate of the four Roman stories, 'Maria di Legno,' does the same.] MARIA WOOD. [71] Once again my story is of a widower father; this time, however, a king, and having one only daughter, Maria, the apple of his eye and the pride of his heart. The one concern of his life was to marry her well and happily before he died. The queen, whom he believed to be wise above mortal women, had left him when she died a ring, with the advice to listen to the addresses of no one on Maria's behalf but his whose finger a gold ring which she gave him should fit, for that he whom it alone should fit would be a noble and a worthy husband indeed. Maria's teacher was very different from those we have had to do with hitherto; she was a beneficent fairy, whose services her good and clever mother had obtained for her under this disguise, and all her lessons and actions were directed entirely for her benefit, and she was able to advise and look out for her better than her father himself. Time went by, and no one who came to court Maria had a finger which the ring would fit. It was not that Maria was not quite young enough to wait, but her father was growing old and feeble, and full of ailments, and he hasted to see her settled in life before death called him away. At last there came to sue for Maria's hand a most accomplished cavalier, who declared himself to be a prince of a distant region, and he certainly brought costly presents, and was attended by a brilliant retinue well calculated to sustain the alleged character. The father, who had had so much trouble about fitting the ring, was much disposed not to attend any more to this circumstance when the prince objected to be subjected to so trivial a trial. After some days, however, as he hesitated finally to make up his mind to bestow her on him without his having fulfilled this condition, he suddenly consented to submit to it, when, lo and behold, the ring could not be found! 'If you have not got the ring,' said the prince, 'it really is not my fault if it is not tried on. You see I am perfectly willing to accept the test, but if you cannot apply it you must not visit it on me.' 'What you say is most reasonable,' said the father. 'But what can I do? I promised her mother I would not let the girl marry anyone but him the ring fitted.' 'Do you mean then that the girl is never to marry at all, since you have lost the ring! That would be monstrous indeed. You may be sure, however, in my case, the ring would have fitted if you had had it here, because I am so exactly the kind of husband your wife promised the ring should fit. So what more reasonable than to give her to me? However, to meet your wishes and prejudices to the utmost, I am willing to submit to any other test, however difficult, the young lady herself likes to name. Nay, I will say--three tests. Will that satisfy you?' All this was so perfectly reasonable that the father felt he could not but agree to it, and Maria was told to be ready the next day to name the first of the tests which she would substitute for that of the ring. Though the prince was so handsome, so accomplished, so rich, and so persevering with his suit, Maria felt an instinctive dislike to him, which embarrassed her the more that she had no fault of any sort to find with him which she could make patent to her father. To the compassionate and appreciative bosom of her teacher she poured out all her grief, and found there a ready response. The teacher, who by her fairy powers knew what mortals could not know, knew that the prince was no other than the devil, [72] and that the marriage must be prevented at any price, but that it would be vain for her to give this information to the father, as he would have laughed in her face, and told her to go and rule copy-books and knit stockings. She must, therefore, set to work in a different way to protect her charge from the impending evil. In the first instance, however, and without mentioning the alarming disclosure of who her suitor really was, she merely bid Maria to be of good courage and all would come right; and for the test she had to propose, she bid her ask him to produce a dress woven of the stars of heaven. The next morning, accordingly, when the prince came to inquire what her good pleasure was, she asked him to bring her a dress woven of the stars of heaven. The prince bit his lip, and a look of fierceness it had never worn before stole over his face at hearing this request. And though he instantly put on a smile, there was much suppressed anger perceptible in the tone with which he answered, 'This is not your own idea. Some one who has no good will towards me has told you this.' 'It was no part of the condition, I think, that I should act without advice, and certainly no part of it that I should say whether I took advice or not,' replied Maria discreetly; and then her desire to break from the engagement making her bold, she added, 'But, you know, if you do not like the test, or consider it in any way unfair, I do not press you to accept it. You will meet with no reproach from me if you renounce it.' 'Oh dear no! I have no such wish,' the prince hastened to reply. 'The dress woven of the stars of heaven will be here by to-morrow morning, and you have only to be ready by the same time to name what is the second test you propose.' Maria hastened back to her teacher to recount the story of the morning's work; to tell of the moment of hope she had had that the prince would renounce the attempt, and then his final acceptance of the undertaking. 'Dear teacher mine! Cannot you think of something else so very, very difficult I can give him to do to-morrow that he may be obliged to refuse it?' 'To-morrow I would have you ask him for a dress woven of moonbeams,' replied the teacher; 'which will be very difficult to supply; but I fear he will yet find the means of accomplishing it.' The next morning the dress woven of the stars of heaven was brought in by six pages, and it was all they could do to carry it, for the dazzling of the rays of the stars in their eyes. When the dress of moonbeams was asked for, the prince showed little less impatience than at the first request, but yet undertook to supply it, and reminded Maria that the next day she must be ready with her third test. Once more Maria had recourse to her sage teacher's counsels, and this time was advised to ask for a dress woven of sunbeams. The next day the dress woven of moonbeams was produced, but it required twelve pages to bring it in, for it was so dazzling they could only hold it for ten minutes at a stretch, and they had to carry it in relays, six at a time. When Maria now asked for the dress woven of sunbeams, the prince grew so angry that she was quite frightened, and at the same time entertained for a moment a confident hope that now, at last, he would own himself baffled. Nevertheless, at the end of a few moments' hesitation, he pronounced his intention of complying, but added in almost a threatening tone, 'And remember that when it comes to-morrow morning you will not then have any more ridiculous tests to prefer, but will belong to me for ever, and must be prepared to go away with me in the carriage that will be at the door.' He turned on his heel as he spoke and stalked away, without saying good-bye, or so much as turning to look at her, or he would have seen she had sunk down on the ground in an agony of despair. Her father came in and found her thus, and asked her what could possibly put her into such a state on the eve of such a brilliant marriage. Maria threw herself in his arms and told him all her distress, but when it was told it sounded childish and unreasonable. 'Can anything be more absurd?' replied the old man. 'To-morrow I may be dead, and what will become of you? What can you desire more than a husband suited to you in age and person, with every advantage the world can offer? And you would throw all this away for the sake of a foolish fancy you cannot even explain! Dry your tears and do not listen to such fancies any more, and keep your pretty little face in good order for looking as smiling and as pleasing as such a devoted husband deserves you should look on your wedding morning. It is I who have to lament; I who shall be left alone in my old age; but I do not repine, I shall be quite happy for my few remaining days in knowing that you have all the happiness life can afford you;' and as he spoke he clasped her fondly in his arms. Maria, reassured by his words, began to think he was in the right, and she was thus as cheerful as he could wish that last night they were to spend together. But when night came and she found the teacher who understood her so well, waiting to put her to bed for the last time, all her own true feelings came back, and, bursting into tears, she entreated her to find some way of delivering her. 'The time has come,' replied the teacher, 'that I should tell you all. The innocence and truthfulness of your heart guided you right in believing that the prince was no husband for you. You did not, and could not, know who he was; but now I must tell you he is the devil himself. Nay; do not shudder and tremble so; it remains entirely with yourself to decide whether you shall be his or not; he can have no sort of power over any against their will.' 'But, of course, I will have nothing to do with him,' replied the child, simply. 'Why don't you tell papa, and make him send him away?' 'Because, for one thing, he would not believe me. As I have said, the prince being what he is can have no power over you against your own will. Your breaking from him must be your own act. Further, you must understand the terms of the struggle. Power is given him to deceive, and thus he has deceived your father. I have been set by your mother to watch over you, and I can tell you what he is, but I have no power to undeceive your father. If I were to attempt it it would do no good, he would not believe me, and it would break his heart to see you renounce so promising an union. On the other hand, you must understand that when the devil wooes a maiden in this form he does not suddenly after appear with horns and hoofs and carry her off to brimstone and fire. For the term of your life he will behave with average kindness and affection, and he will abundantly supply you with the good things of this world. After that I need not say what the effect of his power over you will be. On the other hand, if you give him up you must be prepared to undergo many trials and privations. It is not merely going on with your present life such as it has been up till now. Those peaceful days are allowed for youthful strength to mature, but now the time has come that you have to make a life-choice. What do you say? Have you courage to renounce the ease and enjoyment the prince has to offer you and face poverty, with the want and the insults which come in its train?' Poor little Maria looked very serious. She had never felt any great attraction for the prince, it is true, but now the question was placed upon a new issue. She had learnt enough about duty and sacrifice, and she had always intended to do right at all costs, but now that the day of trial had come it seemed so different from what she had expected, she knew not what to say. 'You are tired to-night, my child; and it is late,' said the teacher. 'We will say no more till the morning. I will wake you betimes and you shall tell me your mind then.' In the morning Maria's mind was made up. She had chosen the good part; but how was she to be delivered from the prince? 'This is what you will have to do,' replied the teacher, after commending her good resolution. 'I have had made ready for you a wooden figure of an old woman, inside which I will stow away all that you have valuable, for it may be of use some day, but especially I will bestow there the dresses woven of the stars of heaven, of moonbeams, and that of sunbeams, which, I doubt not, the prince will bring you, according to promise, in the morning. When you have driven with him in his carriage all day, towards evening you will find yourself in a thick wood. Say to him you are tired with sitting in the carriage all day, and ask to be allowed to walk a little way in the wood before sundown. I, meantime, will place ready my wooden figure of an old woman, which you will find there, and, watching for a moment when he has his head turned, place yourself inside the figure and walk away. There is another thing which you must do, which is very important. When the ring was lost, you must know it was he who took it, and, though he kept it studiously concealed all the while he was in your father's palace, he will now carry it boldly slung on the feather in his cap; this you must find means of possessing yourself of during the journey, because it is essential to you that you should have it in your own hands. And fear nothing either, in making your escape, for the ring is your own property, which he has falsely taken; and, in leaving him, remember he can have no power over you against your will. I may not inform you what may befall you in your new character as poor Maria Wood, but be good and courageous; always, as now, choose the right bravely in all questions and doubts, and you shall not go unrewarded.' There was little time for leave-taking between the good teacher and her affectionate pupil, for the prince almost immediately after came to claim his bride, and all the neighbours and friends came, too, to the festivities. The dress woven of sunbeams was brought by four-and-twenty pages, for it was so dazzling they could not hold it for more than five minutes at a time, and they had to carry it by relays. At last leave-takings and festivities were over, and, amid the good-wishes and blessings of all, Maria drove away in the prince's carriage. On they drove all day, and towards the end of it, as it was getting dark, Maria contrived to twitch the ring from the prince's cap without his being aware of it; presently after she exclaimed, 'Oh dear! how cramped I feel from sitting all day in this carriage; cannot I walk a little way in this wood before it gets dark?' 'Most certainly you can, if you wish,' replied the prince, who, having everything his own way, was in a very accommodating humour. When they had walked a little way down the forest-path, Maria espied the wooden form she was to assume, placed ready under a tree. 'That old woman will have a longish way to go to get a night's shelter, I fancy,' exclaimed the prince, with a laugh which made Maria shudder, both from its heartlessness and also because it reminded her that she would soon find herself alone, far from shelter, in that dark wood. But was it not better to be alone in the dark than in such company as that she was about to leave, she said to herself. Then she turned once more to look at it. The figure looked so natural she could not forbear saying mechanically, 'Poor old woman! give me a little coin to bestow on her that she may wish us Godspeed on our night-journey.' 'Nonsense!' replied the prince. 'Never let me hear you talk such idle stuff. And, come, it is time to go back into the carriage; it is getting quite dark.' 'Oh! what a beautiful firefly!' exclaimed Maria, reminded by the speech to hasten her separation from her uncongenial companion, 'Oh, do catch it for me!' The prince lifted his cap, and ran a few steps after the insect. 'Oh, I see another, and I shall catch it before you catch yours--you'll see!' So saying, she darted towards the tree where the wooden figure stood ready, and placing herself inside, walked slowly and freely along, counterfeiting the gait of an aged and weary woman. The prince had soon caught the firefly and was bringing it back in triumph, when, to his dismay, Maria was nowhere to be seen. He ran this way and that, called and shouted in vain. The servants with the carriage were too far off to have seen anything; there was no witness to appeal to but the old woman. 'Which way did the young lady run who was walking with me just now?' he eagerly inquired. 'Down that path there to the right, as fast as the firefly itself could fly, and if she comes back as quickly as she went she will be back presently,' replied Maria Wood, feigning the voice of an old woman. The prince ran in the direction indicated, and was soon himself lost in the mazes of the forest, where he wandered hopelessly all night; and only when the morning light came was he able to make his way back to his carriage, and drive home ashamed and crestfallen, giving up his conquest in despair, and vowing useless vengeance against the fairy godmother, whose intervention he now recognised it was had baffled him. Maria meantime walked steadily and fearlessly along, guided by the stars which peeped here and there through the tall trees. Nor was shelter so far off as the prince had said. Before very long a party of charcoal-burners hailed her, and offered a share of such poor hospitality as they could command. It was very different from the comforts of her father's house; but Maria took it as the first instalment of the hardships she had accepted. Maria's wooden form was very skilfully made; the limbs had supple joints, which could be moved by the person inside just like those of a living being; and the clothes the teacher had provided being just like those of the country people about, no one entertained the least suspicion that Maria Wood, as she had now become, was anything different from themselves. The charcoal-burners were kind, simple people, and, finding Maria willing to assist them in their labours to the extent of her powers, proposed to her to stay and cast in her lot with them as long as the season for their work lasted; and she did their hard work and shared their poor fare with never a word of complaint. At last, one day, when she was on I know not what errand, at some distance from the encampment, the young king of the country, who had lately been called to the throne, came through the forest hunting, with a large retinue of followers. Crash, crash, like thunder, went the brushwood as the wild boar trampled it down, and the eager dogs bounded after him with lightning speed. They passed close to Maria, who was as much alarmed as if she had really been the old woman she seemed to be: but when she saw the riders bearing down upon her, their horses' hoofs tearing up the soil, and the branches everywhere giving way before their impetuosity, her heart failed her entirely, and she swooned away upon the grass. The king, however, was the only one whose course passed over the spot where she was, and he only perceived her in time to rein up his mount just before it might have trampled on her. 'See here to this old body, whom we have nearly frightened to death,' he cried; and the huntsmen came and lifted her up. 'Some of you carry her home to the palace, that she may be attended to,' said the king further; and they carried her home to the palace, and laid her on a bed, and restored her senses. When the king came home from the hunt, he would go himself to see how it had fared with her; and when he found her almost restored he asked her whither she would wish to be sent. 'Little it matters to me where I go,' replied Maria Wood, in the saddened voice of grief-stricken age; 'for home and kindred have I none. Little it matters where I lay my weary bones to rest.' When the king heard her speak thus he compassionated her, and inquired if there was any service in the household that could be offered her. 'Please your Majesty, there is not much strength in her for work,' replied the steward; 'but, if such is your royal will, she can be set to help the scullions in the kitchen.' 'Will that suit you, old dame?' inquired the king. 'They shall not ask too much of you, and a good table and warm shelter shall never be wanting.' 'All thanks to your Majesty's bounty. My heart could desire nothing more than to live thus under the shadow of your Majesty,' replied Maria, making a humble obeisance. And thus Maria, from a princess, became a servant of servants. 'What's the use of giving us such a cranky old piece as that for a help?' said the scullion to the turnspit, as Maria was introduced to her new quarters. 'Why, as to that, as she has taken the service she must do it, cranky or not cranky,' answered the turnspit. 'Aye, I dare say we shall be able to get it out of her one way or another,' replied the scullion. And they did get it out of her; and Maria had more put upon her, and less of kind words and scarcely better food than with the charcoal-burners. But she took it all in silence and patience, and no complaint passed her lips. She had no fixed duties, but one called her here and another there; she was at everyone's bidding, but she did her best to content them all. Then came the Carneval; and on the last three days every servant had license to don a domino and dance at the king's ball. What an opportunity for Maria Wood! After serving in her unbecoming disguise with so much endurance and perseverance for now a full year, here was one day on which she might wear a becoming dress, and enjoy herself according to the measure of her age and sex, and due position in the world. All the household, all royal as it was, was in a hubbub of confusion. No one was at work--no one at his post; and there was no one to notice that Maria Wood was absent, like the rest. Locking herself into the loft which served her for a sleeping-place, Maria not only came out of her wooden disguise, but took out of it the garment woven of the stars of heaven--a most convenient dress for the occasion. At a masqued ball no one can recognise anybody else, except by a guess suggested by familiar characteristics which the domino fails to disguise. But no one at the king's court was familiar with the characteristics of Maria Wood; and wherever she passed the whole company was in an excitement to know whose was the elegant figure shrouded in such a marvellous costume. But there was so much majesty in her air, that no one durst ask her to dance or so much as approach her. Only the king himself felt conscious of the right to offer to lead her to the dance; and she, who had not forgotten how handsome he was, and how kind he had been on the night that his huntsmen had nearly frightened her to death in the forest, right willingly accepted the favour. But even he was so awed by her grace and dignity, that, charmed as he was with her conversation, and burning to know her style and title, he yet could not frame the question that would ascertain whence she had come. Very early in the evening, while the other masquers reckoned the amusement was only beginning, Maria, with characteristic moderation, chose an opportunity for withdrawing unperceived from the ballroom. It will readily be imagined that the next night every one was full of curiosity, and the king most of all, to know whether the lady in the starry dress would appear again; and the more that, though everybody had been talking of her to the exclusion of everyone else the whole intervening day through, no one could offer a satisfactory conjecture as to who she could possibly be. While all eyes were full of expectation, accordingly, the second evening, suddenly and unannounced there appeared in their midst a form, graceful and mobile like hers they had so much admired, but draped in a still more dazzling dress (for Maria this night wore her garment woven of moonbeams); and it was only the king who had the certainty that it was really the same person. 'Why did you take away all the light of our ball so early last night?' inquired the king, as they were dancing together. 'I have to be up early, and so I must go to bed early,' replied Maria. 'And what can a sylph-like creature like you have to get up early in the morning for? You are only fit to lie on a bed of roses, with nightingales to sing to you,' pursued the king. 'My occupations are very different, I can assure your Majesty,' said Maria, with a hearty laugh. 'What can those occupations possibly be?' inquired the king eagerly; 'I am dying to know.' 'Oh, fie! You must not ask a domino such a direct question as that; it is as bad as asking her name, and that is against all rules. But see, the dancers await your Majesty; we are putting them all out.' Thus she put him off, and she fenced so well that he succeeded no better in searching out the mystery in all his subsequent attempts. Though he had determined, too, never to leave her side all the evening, that he might certainly observe which way she went, she was so alert that she defeated his plans. Kings have a certain etiquette to observe, even at a Carneval ball; and while social exigencies demanded that he should bestow a salute on one and another of the distinguished personages present, Maria contrived to gather her shining raiment round her so as to invert its dazzling folds, and glide away unperceived. The king was beside himself with vexation when he found she was gone; nor could he sleep all the succeeding night, or rather those hours which must be stolen out of the day to make a night of when the real night has been spent in revels. One thought occupied him, which was that the succeeding night was the last in which he could expect to have the chance of obtaining an explanation from his fair partner of the dance. The next day began the gloom of Lent, and she would disappear from his sight forever. He arranged in his head a dozen forms of conversation by which to entrap her into some admission by which he could find out who she could possibly be; he determined to be more vigilant than ever in observing her movements; and, to provide against every possible chance of failure, he stationed guards at every exit of the ballroom, with strict orders to follow her when she passed. In the midst of the ball on the third night Maria entered more radiant than ever, having on her dress woven of sunbeams. The masquers put their hands up to shade their eyes as she passed, and the chandeliers and torches were paled by its brilliance. The king was at her side immediately, but though he put in requisition all the devices he had prepared, Maria succeeded in evading them all, and the evening passed away without his being a bit wiser about how to see more of her than he had been at the beginning. The only thing that gave him a little hope that she did not mean absolutely to abandon him, was that in the course of the evening she took out a ring, which she told him had never fitted anyone yet, and begged him, as a matter of curiosity, to try it on his hand; and then when it strangely happened that it fitted him perfectly, she could not altogether conceal the pleasure it seemed to give her. Nevertheless, she put up the ring again, and would give no further explanation about it any more than about herself. By-and-by, choosing her moment as dexterously as before, she made her escape without exciting the king's attention. The guards, however, were all expectation, and notwithstanding that she had taken the precaution of turning the sunbeams inwards, they recognised her, and followed softly after her as they had been bidden. Maria, however, did not fail to perceive they were following her, and, to divert their attention, took off a string of precious pearls she wore round her throat, and, unthreading them on the ground, escaped swiftly to her loft while the guards were occupied in gathering up the treasure. The king was disconsolate beyond measure when he found that all his schemes were foiled, and that his radiant maiden had passed away like the rays in which she was clothed, leaving only darkness and weariness for him. So disconsolate he grew that nothing could distract him. He would no more occupy himself with the affairs of the state, still less with any minor occupations. He could not bear the light of the sun because its beams reminded him of his loss, and he dreaded similarly the sight of the moon or the stars, but, shut up in a dark room almost hopeless, he wept the weary days away. So remarkable a change in the habits of the young king became the subject of general comment, and could not fail to reach the ears of even so insignificant a menial as Maria. She, indeed, had every reason to hear of it, for scarcely could the afflicted king be induced to take the simplest food, and the attendants of the kitchen were reduced to complete inactivity. Maria was no longer called hither and thither at everyone's pleasure, and as long as this inactivity lasted she knew the king was still of the same mind about herself. But at last the talk of the kitchen took a more alarming character; it was reported that physicians had been called in, and had pronounced that unless means were found to distract him his state of despondency would prove fatal, but that nothing which had been tried had the least effect in rousing him from his melancholy. Meantime Lent was passing away and Easter was close at hand. Maria thought she might now be satisfied with his constancy, and determined to take the step which she had good reason to believe would restore all his vigour. Accordingly, while the cooks and scullions were all dispersed about one thing and another, she went into the kitchen and made a cake, into which she put the ring, and took it up herself to the queen-mother. It was not very easy for such a haggard old woman to obtain admission to the private apartments, but when she declared she had come about a remedy for the king, she was made welcome. Having thus obtained the ear of the queen-mother, she assured her, with many protestations, that if the king could he made to eat the whole of the cake, without giving the least piece of it to anyone, he would be immediately cured. But that if he gave away the least piece the virtue might be lost. This was lest he should thus give away the ring to anyone. The ladies waiting on the queen laughed at the old woman's pretensions, and would have driven her away with contumely, but the queen said: 'Nay, who knows but there may be healing in it. Experience often teaches the old remedies which science has failed to discover.' Then she dismissed Maria with a present, and took the cake in to the king, trying to amuse him with the old woman's story; but the king refused to be amused, and let the cake be. Only as he took no notice of what food he ate, and they gave him this cake for all his meals, he took it as he would have taken anything else that had been set before him. When he cut it, his knife struck against something hard, and when he had pulled this out, he found it was the very ring his sylphlike partner had given him the night she wore the dress woven of sunbeams. At the sight he started like one waking from a trance. 'How came this ring here?' he exclaimed; and the queen-mother, who had stood by to see the effect of the remedy, replied, 'A certain old woman, whom you befriended in the forest and told the servants to shelter in the palace, brought me the cake, saying it would prove a remedy for your melancholy, which she had prepared out of gratitude.' 'Let her be called instantly hither,' then said the king; and they went to fetch Maria Wood; but Maria could nowhere be found. The king was at this announcement very nearly relapsing into his former condition; but the idea came to his mind to find something out by means of the ring itself. Therefore he summoned together all the goldsmiths, and refiners, and alchemists of his kingdom, and bid them tell him the history of the ring. At the end of seven days' trial the oldest of the alchemists brought it back to the king and said: 'We find, O King, that this ring is made of gold which comes from afar. Moreover, that the workmanship is such as is only produced in the kingdoms of the West, and the characters on it pronounce that its owner is a princess of high degree, whose dominions exceed greatly those of the King's Majesty in magnitude.' The king now ordered a more urgent search to be made for Maria Wood, as the only clue by which to reach the fair owner of the ring; and Maria, having heard by report of the alchemists' announcement, thought it was time to let herself be known. Habiting herself, therefore, in becoming attire, with jewels befitting her rank, with all of which the fairy had amply provided her, she entered for the last time her wooden covering, and went up to the king in answer to his summons. 'Come hither, good woman,' said the king encouragingly; 'you have indeed done me good service in sending me this ring, and have repaid a hundredfold the little favour I bestowed on you in taking you into the palace. If, now, you will further bring me hither her to whom this ring belongs, or take me where I may find her, you shall not only live in the palace, but shall live there in royal state and luxury, and whatsoever more you may desire.' At these words Maria stepped out of her wooden case, and stood before the king in all her youthful beauty, telling him all her story. The proofs that supported it were sufficient to silence every doubt; and when the people were called together to celebrate her marriage with the king, the whole nation hailed her accession as their queen with the greatest delight. Soon after, the royal pair went to visit Maria's father, who had the joy of knowing that his child was really well established in life. They stayed with him till he died; and then his dominions were added to those of the king, Maria's husband. Maria did not forget to inquire for her good mistress, but she had long ago gone back to Fairyland. SECOND VERSION. Another version of this, differing in many details, was given me in the following form. The former was from Loreto; this, from Rome itself. They say, there was a king, whose wife, when she came to die, said to him, 'When I am dead, you will want to marry again; but take my advice: marry no woman but her whose foot my shoe fits.' But this she said because the shoe was under a spell, and would fit no one whom he could marry. The king, however, caused the shoe to be tried on all manner of women; and when the answer always was that it would fit none of them, he grew quite bewildered and strange in his mind. After some years had passed, his young daughter, having grown up to girl's estate, came to him one day, saying, 'Oh, papa; only think! Mamma's shoe just fits me!' 'Does it!' replied the simple king; 'then I must marry you.' 'Oh, that cannot be, papa,' said the girl, and ran away. But the simple king was so possessed with the idea that he must marry the woman whom his wife's shoe fitted, that he sent for her every day and said the same thing. But the queen had not said that he should marry the woman whom her shoe fitted, but that he should not marry any whom it did not fit. When the princess found that he persevered in his silly caprice, she said at last, 'Papa, if I am to do what you say, you must do something for me first.' 'Agreed, my child,' replied the king; 'you have only to speak.' 'Then, before I marry,' said the girl, 'I want a lot of things, but I will begin with one at a time. First, I want a dress of the colour of a beautiful noontide sky, but all covered with stars, like the sky at midnight, and furnished with a parure to suit it.' [73] Such a dress the king had made and brought to her. 'Next,' said the princess, 'I want a dress of the colour of the sea, all covered with golden fishes, with a fitting parure.' Such a dress the king had made, and brought to her. 'Next,' said the princess, 'I want a dress of a dark blue, all covered with gold embroidery and spangled with silver bells, and with a parure to match.' Such a dress the king had made and brought to her. 'These are all very good,' said the princess; 'but now you must send for the most cunning artificer in your whole kingdom, and let him make me a figure of an old woman [74] just like life, fitted with all sorts of springs to make it move and walk when one gets inside it, just like a real woman.' Such a figure the king had made, and brought it to the princess. 'That is just the sort of figure I wanted,' said she; 'and now I don't want anything more.' And the simple king went away quite happy. As soon as she was alone, however, the princess packed all the three dresses and many of her other dresses, and all her jewellery and a large sum of money, inside the figure of the old woman, and then she got into it and walked away. No one seeing an old woman walking out of the palace thought she had anything to do with the princess, and thus she got far away without anyone thinking of stopping her. On, on, on, she wandered till she came to the palace of a great king, and just at the time that the king's son was coming in from hunting. 'Have you a place in all this fine palace to take in a poor old body?' whined the princess inside the figure of the old woman. 'No, no! get out of the way! How dare you come in the way of the prince!' said the servants, and drove her away. But the prince took compassion on her, and called her to him. 'What's your name, good woman?' said the prince. 'Maria Wood is my name, your Highness,' replied the princess. 'And what can you do, since you ask for a place?' 'Oh, I can do many things. First, I understand all about poultry, and then----' 'That'll do,' replied the prince; 'take her, and let her be the henwife, [75] and let her have food and lodging, and all she wants.' So they gave her a little hut on the borders of the forest, and set her to tend the poultry. But the prince as he went out hunting often passed by her hut, and when she saw him pass she never failed to come out and salute him, and now and then he would stop his horse and spend a few moments in gossip with her. Before long it was Carneval time; and as the prince came by Maria Wood came out and wished him a 'good Carneval.' [76] The prince stopped his horse and said, his young head full of the pleasure he expected, 'To-morrow, you know, we have the first day of the feast.' 'To be sure I know it; and how I should like to be there: won't you take me?' answered Maria Wood. 'You shameless old woman,' replied the prince, 'to think of your wanting to go to a festino [77] at your time of life!' and he gave her a cut with his whip. The next day Maria put on her dress of the colour of the noontide sky, covered with stars like the sky at midnight, with the parure made to wear with it, and came to the feast. Every lady made place before her dazzling appearance, and the prince alone dared to ask her to dance. With her he danced all the evening, and fairly fell in love with her, [78] nor could he leave her side; and as they sat together, he took the ring off his own finger and put it on to her hand. She appeared equally satisfied with his attentions, and seemed to desire no other partner. Only when he tried to gather from her whence she was, she would only say she came from the country of Whipblow, [79] which set the prince wondering very much, as he had never heard of such a country. At the end of the ball, the prince sent his attendants to watch her that he might learn where she lived, but she disappeared so swiftly it was impossible for them to tell what had become of her. When the prince came by Maria Wood's hut next day, she did not fail to wish him again a 'good Carneval.' 'To-morrow we have the second festino, you know,' said the prince. 'Well I know it,' replied Maria Wood; 'shouldn't I like to go! Won't you take me?' 'You contemptible old woman to talk in that way!' exclaimed the prince. 'You ought to know better!' and he struck her with his boot. Next night Maria put on her dress of the colour of the sea, covered all over with gold fishes, and the parure made to wear with it, and went to the feast. The prince recognised her at once, and claimed her for his partner all the evening, nor did she seem to wish for any other, only when he tried to learn from her whence she was, she would only say she came from the country of Bootkick. [80] The prince could not remember ever to have heard of the Bootkick country, and thought she meant to laugh at him; however, he ordered his attendants to make more haste this night in following her; but what diligence soever they used she was too swift for them. The next time the prince came by Maria Wood's hut, she did not fail to wish him again a 'good Carneval.' 'To-morrow we have the last festino!' exclaimed he, with a touch of sadness, for he remembered it was the last of the happy evenings that he could feel sure of seeing his fair unknown. 'Ah! you must take me. But, what'll you say if I come to it in spite of you?' answered Maria Wood. 'You incorrigible old woman!' exclaimed the prince; 'you provoke me so with your nonsense, I really cannot keep my hand off you;' and he gave her a slap. The next night Maria Wood put on her dress of a dark blue, all covered with gold embroidery and spangled with silver bells, and the parure made to wear with it. The prince constituted her his partner for the evening as before, nor did she seem to wish for any other, only when he wanted to learn from her whence she was, all she would say was that she came from Slapland. [81] This night the prince told his servants to make more haste in following her, or he would discharge them all. But they answered, 'It is useless to attempt the thing, as no mortal can equal her in swiftness.' After this, the prince fell ill of his disappointment, because he saw no hope of hearing any more of the fair domino with whom he had spent three happy evenings, nor could any doctor find any remedy for his sickness. Then Maria Wood sent him word, saying, 'Though the prince's physicians cannot help him, yet let him but take a cup of broth of my making, and he will immediately be healed.' 'Nonsense! how can a cup of broth, or how can any medicament, help me!' exclaimed the prince. 'There is no cure for my ailment.' Again Maria Wood sent the same message; but the prince said angrily, 'Tell the silly old thing to hold her tongue; she doesn't know what she's talking about.' But again, the third time, Maria Wood sent to him, saying, 'Let the prince but take a cup of broth of my making, and he will immediately be healed.' By this time the prince was so weary that he did not take the trouble to refuse. The servants finding him so depressed began to fear that he was sinking, and they called to Maria Wood to make her broth, because, though they had little faith in her promise, they knew not what else to try. So Maria Wood made ready the cup of broth she had promised, and they put it down beside the prince. Presently the whole palace was roused; the prince had started up in bed, and was shouting, 'Bring hither Maria Wood! Quick! Bring hither Maria Wood!' So they ran and fetched Maria Wood, wondering what could have happened to bring about so great a change in the prince. But the truth was, that Maria had put into the cup of broth the ring the prince had put on her finger the first night of the feast, and when he began to take the broth he found the ring with the spoon. When he saw the ring, he knew at once that Maria Wood could tell where to find his fair partner. 'Wait a bit! there's plenty of time!' said Maria, when the servant came to fetch her in all haste; and she waited to put on her dress of the colour of the noontide sky. The prince was beside himself for joy when he saw her, and would have the betrothal celebrated that very day. THIRD VERSION. In another version, on the princess refusing to do what the king wishes, he sends his servants to take her to a high tower he has out in the Campagna, and bids them carry her to the top and drop her down. They take her there; but have not the heart to throw her down. In a corner of the upper story of the tower they see a large case or press. 'Suppose we shut her up in this great press, and leave her in the middle of the open Campagna, a long way off, to the providence of God? It will be better than killing her,' says one of them. 'We have nothing against the plan,' answered the others; 'provided we take her so far that she cannot possibly come back to our king's country.' So they locked her up in the great box, and carried the box a long, long way out in the open Campagna, and left it there to the providence of God. The poor princess was very glad to have escaped death; but she felt very desolate in the box. As she was wondering what would happen to her, she was suddenly frightened by a great barking of dogs round the box. A king's son had come by hunting, and his dogs had smelt human blood in the box. 'Call the dogs off, and let's see what's in the box,' said the prince. So they opened the box; and when they saw the princess inside, they saw she was no common maiden, for she had a stomacher and earrings of brilliants. So they brought her to the prince, and she pleased him, and he married her. [This way of introducing the box incident is more like Straparola's, and again connects this group with the former one in which I have had occasion to mention it.] LA CANDELIERA. [82] They say there was once a king who wanted to make his beautiful young daughter marry an old, ugly king. Every time the king talked to his daughter about this marriage, she cried and begged him to spare her; but he only went on urging her the more, till at last she feared he would command her to consent, so that she might not disobey; therefore at last she said: 'Before I marry this ugly old king to please you, you must do something to please me.' 'Oh, anything you like I will do,' replied he. 'Then you must order for me,' she replied, 'a splendid candelabrum, ten feet high, having a thick stem bigger than a man, and covered all over with all kinds of ornaments and devices in gold.' 'That shall be done,' said the king; and he sent for the chief goldsmith of the court, and told him to make such a candelabrum; and, as he was very desirous that the marriage should be celebrated without delay, he urged him to make the candelabrum with all despatch. In a very short space of time the goldsmith brought home the candelabrum, made according to the princess's description, and the king ordered it to be taken into his daughter's apartment. The princess expressed herself quite pleased with it, and the king was satisfied that the marriage would now shortly take place. Late in the evening, however, the princess called her chamberlain to her, and said to him: 'This great awkward candlestick is not the sort of thing I wanted; it does not please me at all. To-morrow morning you may take it and sell it, for I cannot bear the sight of it. You may keep the price it sells for, whatever it is; but you had better take it away early, before my father gets up.' The chamberlain was very pleased to get so great a perquisite, and got up very early to carry it away. The princess, however, had got up earlier, and had placed herself inside the candlestick; so that she was carried out of the palace by the chamberlain, and thus she escaped the marriage she dreaded so much with the ugly old king. The chamberlain, judging that the king would be very angry if he heard of his selling the splendid candelabrum he had just had made, did not venture to expose it for sale within the borders of his dominions, but carried it to the capital of the neighbouring sovereign. Here he set it up in the market-place, and cried, 'Who'll buy my candelabrum? Who'll buy my fine candelabrum?' When all the people saw what a costly candelabrum it was, no one would offer for it. At last it got bruited about till it reached the ears of the son of the king of that country, that there was a man standing in the market-place, offering to sell the most splendid candelabrum that ever was seen; so he went out to look at it himself. No sooner had the prince seen it than he determined that he must have it; so he bought it for the price of three hundred scudi, and sent his servants to take it up into his apartment. After that, he went about his affairs as usual. In the evening, however, he said to his body-servant, 'As I am going to the play to-night, and shall be home late, take my supper up into my own room.' And the servant did as he told him. When the prince came home from the play, he was very much surprised to find his supper eaten and all the dishes and glasses disarranged. 'What is the meaning of this?' he exclaimed, calling his servant to him in a great fury. 'Is this the way you prepare supper for me?' 'I don't know what to say, your Royal Highness,' stammered the man; 'I saw the supper properly laid myself. How it got into this condition is more than I can say. With the leave of your Highness, I will order the table to be relaid.' But the prince was too angry to allow anything of the sort, and he went supperless to bed. The next night the same thing happened, and the prince in his displeasure threatened to discharge his servant. The night after, however, his curiosity being greatly excited as he thought over the circumstance, he called his servant, and said: 'Lay the supper before I go out, and I will lock the room and take the key in my pocket, and we will see if anyone gets in then.' But, though this is what he said outloud, he determined to stay hidden within the room; and this is what he did. He had not remained there hidden very long when, lo and behold, the candelabrum, on which he had never bestowed a thought since the moment he bought it, opened, and there walked out the most beautiful princess he had ever seen, who sat down at the table, and began to sup with hearty appetite. 'Welcome, welcome, fair princess!' exclaimed the astonished prince. 'You have heard me from within your hiding-place speaking with indignation because my meal had been disturbed. How little did I imagine such an honour had been done me as that it should have served you!' And he sat down beside her, and they finished the meal together. When it was over, the princess went away into her candelabrum again; and the next night the prince said to his servant: 'In case anyone eats my supper while I am out, you had better bring up a double portion.' The next day he had not his supper only, but all his meals, brought into his apartment; nor did he ever leave it at all now, so happy was he in the society of the princess. Then the king and queen began to question about him, saying: 'What has bereft our son of his senses, seeing that now he no more follows the due occupations of his years, but sits all day apart in his room?' Then they called him to them and said: 'It is not well that you should sit thus all day long in your private apartments alone. It is time that you should bethink yourself of taking a wife.' But the prince answered, 'No other wife will I have but the candelabrum.' When his parents heard him say this they said: 'Now there is no doubt that he is mad;' and they spoke no more about his marrying. But one day, the queen-mother coming into his apartment suddenly, found the door of the candelabrum open, and the princess sitting talking with the prince. Then she, too, was struck with her beauty, and said: 'If this is what you were thinking of when you said you would marry the candelabrum, it was well judged.' And she took the princess by the hand and led her to the presence of the king. The king, too, praised her beauty, and she was given to the prince to be his wife. And the king her father, when he heard of the alliance, he too was right glad, and said he esteemed it far above that of the ugly old king he wanted her to have married at the first. [The mode of telling adopted by Roman narrators makes a way out of the difficulty which this group of stories presents at first sight in the king seeming to be fated by supernatural appointment to marry his daughter. One says, 'the queen did not say he was to marry her the ring fitted, but he was not to marry any it did not fit.' The other says, the slipper was a supernatural slipper, and would not fit anyone whom he could marry. Whether this was a part of the traditional story or the gloss of the repeater, I do not pretend to decide. In the 'Candeliera,' though similar in the main, this difficulty does not arise. My Roman narrators seem to have been fonder of stories of maidens than of youths. I have only one of the latter, and by no means an uncommon one, to set off against all the Stepmother stories of the former. It, however, is the male counterpart of a prolific family in which the girls figure under similar circumstances. Grimm gives several, particularly 'Frau Holle,' p. 104. Dr. Dasent gives 'The two Stepsisters.' In the Tales of Italian Tirol are two, 'Cölla döllö doi sores' and 'Le due sorelle.' And among the Russian Tales, 'Frost,' p. 214. It has also been connected with the large group in which a rich brother (sometimes the elder, sometimes the younger) leaves his poor brother to starve, and ultimately gets terribly punished for enviously grasping at the poor one's subsequent good fortune: but the structure of these is very different.] THE TWO HUNCHBACKED BROTHERS. [83] There was once a man who had one son, who married a widow who also had one son, and both were hunchbacks. The wife took very good care of her own son, but the son of her husband she used to put to hard work and gave him scarcely anything to eat. Her son, too, used to imitate his mother, and sadly ill-treat his stepbrother. After treating him ill for a long time, she at last sent him away from the house altogether. The poor little hunchback wandered away without knowing where to go. On, on, on he went, till at last he came to a lonely hut on a wide moor. At his approach a whole host of little hunchbacks came out and danced round him, chanting plaintively-- Sabbato! Domenica! a great number of times. At last our little hunchback felt his courage stirred, and, taking up the note of their chant, chimed in with-- Lunedì! Instantly the dancing ceased, all the little hunchback dwarfs became full-grown, well-formed men, and, what was better still, his own hump was gone too, and he felt that he, too, was a well-grown lad. 'Good people,' said our hunchback--now hunchbacked no more--'I thank you much for ridding me of my hump and making me a well-grown lad. Give me now some work to do among you, and let me live with you.' But the chief of the strange people answered him and said: 'This favour we owe to you, not you to us; for it was your chiming in with the right word on the right note which destroyed the spell that held us all. And in testimony of our gratitude we give you further this little wand, and you will not need to work with us. Go back and live at home, and if ever anyone beats you as heretofore, you have only to say to it, "At 'em, good stick!" [84] and you will see what it will do for you.' Then all disappeared, and the boy went home. 'So you've come back, have you?' said the stepmother. 'What, and without your hump, too! Where have you left that?' Then the good boy told her all that had happened, without hiding anything. 'Do you hear that?' said the stepmother to her own son. 'Now go you and get rid of your hump in the same way.' So the second hunchback went forth, and journeyed on till he came to the lonely hut on the moor. A tribe of hunchbacks came out and danced round him, and sung-- Sabbato! Domenica! Lunedì! to which the bad son of the stepmother added in his rough voice, all out of tune-- Martedì! Immediately all the hunchbacks came round him and gave him a drubbing, and the chief of them stuck on him a hump in front as well as behind. Thus they sent him home to his mother. When his mother saw him come home in this plight, she turned upon the stepson and abused him for having misled her son to injure him; and both mother and son set upon him and belaboured him after their wont. But he had only told the truth, without intention to deceive; and the stepmother's son had incurred the anger of the dwarfs by his discordant addition to their chant. So the first hero took out his wand and said, 'At 'em, good stick!' and the wand flew out of his hand and administered on mother and son a sounder drubbing than that they had themselves been administering. Ever after that he was able to live at home in peace, for everyone was afraid to injure him because of the power of his stick. [Next we have a group where a younger sister of three comes to supernatural good fortune, without any previous envy or ill-treatment on the part of her elders.] THE DARK KING. [85] They say there was once a poor chicory-gatherer who went out every day with his wife and his three daughters to gather chicory to sell for salad. Once, at Carneval time, he said, 'We must gather a fine good lot to-day,' and they all dispersed themselves about trying to do their best. The youngest daughter thus came to a place apart where the chicory was of a much finer growth than any she had ever seen before. 'This will be grand!' she said to herself, as she prepared to pull up the finest plant of it. But what was her surprise when with the plant, up came all the earth round it and a great hole only remained! When she peeped down into it timidly she was further surprised to find it was no dark cave below as she had apprehended, but a bright apartment handsomely furnished, and a most appetising meal spread out on the table, there was, moreover, a commodious staircase reaching to the soil on which she stood, to descend by. All fear was quickly overcome by the pleasant sight, and the girl at once prepared to descend, and, as no one appeared, to raise any objection, she sat down quite boldly and partook of the good food. As soon as she had finished eating, the tables were cleared away by invisible hands, and, as she had nothing else to do she wandered about the place looking at everything. After she had passed through several brilliant rooms she came to a passage, out of which led several store-chambers, where was laid up a good supply of everything that could serve in a house. In some there were provisions of all sorts, in some stuffs both for clothes and furniture. 'There seems to be no one to own all these fine things,' said the girl. 'What a boon they would be at home!' and she put together all that would be most useful to her mother. But what was her dismay when she went back to the dining-hall to find that the staircase by which she had descended was no longer there! At this sight she sat down and had a good cry, but by-and-by, supper-time came, and with it an excellent supper, served in as mysterious a way as the dinner; and as a good supper was a rare enjoyment for her, she almost forgot her grief while discussing it. After that, invisible hands led her into a bedroom, where she was gently undressed and put to bed without seeing anyone. In the morning she was put in a bath and dressed by invisible hands, but dressed like a princess all in beautiful clothes. So it all went on for at least three months; every luxury she could wish was provided without stint, but as she never saw anyone she began to get weary, and at last so weary that she could do nothing but cry. At the sound of her crying there came into the room a great black King. [86] Though he was so dark and so big that she was frightened at the sight of him, he spoke very kindly, and asked her why she cried so bitterly, and whether she was not provided with everything she could desire. As she hardly knew herself why she cried, she did not know what to answer him, but only went on whimpering. Then he said, 'You have not seen half the extent of this palace yet or you would not be so weary; here are the keys of all the locked rooms which you have not been into yet. Amuse yourself as much as you like in going through them; they are all just like your own. Only into the room of which the key is not among these do not try to enter. In all the rest do what you like.' The next morning she took the keys and went into one of the locked rooms, and there she found so many things to surprise and amuse her that she spent the whole day there, and the next day she examined another, and so on for quite three months together, and the locked room of which she had not the key she never thought of trying to enter. But all amusements tire at last, and at the end of this time she was so melancholy that she could do nothing but cry. Then the Dark King came again and asked her tenderly what she wanted. 'I want nothing you can give me,' she replied this time. 'I am tired of being so long away from home. I want to go back home.' 'But remember how badly you were clothed, and how poorly you fared,' replied the Dark King. 'Ah, I know it is much pleasanter here,' said the girl, 'for all those matters, but one cannot do without seeing one's relations, now and then at least.' 'If you make such a point of it,' answered the Dark King, 'you shall go home and see papa and mamma, but you will come back here. I only let you go on that condition.' The arrangement was accepted, and next day she was driven home in a fine coach with prancing horses and bright harness. Her appearance at home caused so much astonishment that there was hardly room for pleasure, and even her own mother would hardly acknowledge her; as for her sisters, they were so changed by her altered circumstances and so filled with jealousy they would scarcely speak to her. But when she gave her mother a large pot of gold which the Dark King had given her for the purpose, their hearts were somewhat won back to her, and they began to ask all manner of questions concerning what had befallen her during her absence. So much time had been lost at first, however, that none was left for answering them, and, promising to try and come back to them soon, she drove away in her splendid coach. Another three months passed away after this, and at the end of it she was once more so weary, her tears and cries again called the Dark King to her side. Again she confided to him that her great grief was the wish to see her friends at home. She could not bear being so long without them. To content her once more he promised to let her drive home the next day; and the next day accordingly she went home. This time she met with a better reception, and having brought out her pot of gold at her first arrival, everyone was full of anxiety to know how it came she had such riches at her disposal. 'What that pot of money!' replied the girl, in a tone of disparagement. 'That's nothing. You should see the beautiful things that are scattered about in my new home, just like nothing at all;' and then she went on to describe the magnificence of the place, till nothing would satisfy them but that they should go there too. 'That's impossible,' she replied. 'I promised him not even to mention it.' 'But if he were got rid of, then we might come,' replied the elder sisters. 'What do you mean by "got rid of"?' asked the youngest. 'Why, it is evident he is some bad sort of enchanter, whom it would be well to rid the earth of. If you were to take this stiletto and put it into his breast when he is asleep, we might all come down there and be happy together.' 'Oh, I could never do that!' 'Ah, you are so selfish you want to keep all for yourself. If you had any spirit in you, you would burst open that locked door where, you may depend the best of the treasure is concealed, and then put this stiletto into the old enchanter, and call us all down to live with you.' It was in vain she protested she could not be so ungrateful and cruel; they over-persuaded her with their arguments, and frightened her so with their reproaches that she went back resolved to do their bidding. The next morning she called up all her courage and pushed open the closed door. Inside were a number of beautiful maidens weaving glittering raiment. 'What are you doing?' asked the chicory-gatherer. 'Making raiment for the bride of the Dark King against her espousals,' replied the maidens. A little further on was a goldsmith and all his men working at all sorts of splendid ornaments filled with pearls and diamonds and rubies. 'What are you doing?' asked the girl. 'Making ornaments for the bride of the Dark King against her espousals,' replied the goldsmiths. A little further on was a little old hunchback sitting crosslegged, and patching an old torn coat with a heap of other worn-out clothes lying about him. 'What are you doing?' asked the maiden. 'Mending the rags for the girl to go away in who was to have been the bride of the Dark King,' replied the little old hunchback. Beyond the room where this was going on was a passage, and at the end of this a door, which she also pushed open. It gave entrance to a room where, on a bed, the Dark King lay asleep. 'This is the time to apply the stiletto my sisters gave me,' thought the maiden. 'I shall never have so good a chance again. They said he was a horrid old enchanter; let me see if he looks like one.' So saying she took one of the tapers from a golden bracket and held it near his face. It was true enough; his skin was black, his hair was grizly and rough, his features crabbed and forbidding. 'They're right, there's no doubt. It were better the earth were rid of him, as they say,' she said within herself; and, steeling herself with this reflection, she plunged the knife into his breast. But as she wielded the weapon with the right hand, the left, in which she held the lighted taper, wavered, and some of the scalding wax fell on the forehead of the Dark King. The dropping of the wax [87] woke him; and when he saw the blood flowing from his breast, and perceived what she had done, he said sadly, 'Why have you done this? I meant well by you and really loved you, and thought if I fulfilled all you desire, you would in time have loved me. But it is over now. You must leave this place, and go back to be again what you were before.' Then he called servants, and bade them dress her again in her poor chicory-gatherer's dress, and send her up to earth again; and it was done. But as they were about to lead her away, he said again, 'Yet one thing I will do. Take these three hairs; and if ever you are in dire distress and peril of life with none to help, burn them, and I will come to deliver you.' Then they took her back to the dining-hall, where the staircase was seen as at the first, and when they touched the ceiling, it opened, and they pushed her through the opening, and she found herself in the place where she had been picking chicory on the day that she first found the Dark King's palace. Only as they were leading her along, she had considered that it might be dangerous for her, a young girl, to be wandering about the face of the country alone, and she had, therefore, begged the servants to give her a man's clothes instead of her own; and they gave her the worn-out clothes that she had seen the little old hunchback sitting crosslegged to mend. When she found herself on the chicory-bed it was in the cold of the early morning, and she set off walking towards her parents' cottage. It was about midday when she arrived, and all the family were taking their meal. Poor as it was, it looked very tempting to her who had tasted nothing all the morning. 'Who are you?' cried the mother, as she came up to the door. 'I'm your own child, your youngest daughter. Don't you know me?' cried the forlorn girl in alarm. 'A likely joke!' laughed out the mother; 'my daughter comes to see me in a gilded coach with prancing horses!' 'Had you asked for a bit of bread in the honest character of a beggar,' pursued the father, 'poor as I am, I would never have refused your weary, woebegone looks; but to attempt to deceive with such a falsehood is not to be tolerated;' and he rose up, and drove the poor child away. Protests were vain, for no one recognised her under her disguise. Mournful and hopeless, she wandered away. On, on, on, she went, till at last she came to a palace in a great city, and in the stables were a number of grooms and their helpers rubbing down horses. 'Wouldn't there be a place for me among all these boys?' asked the little chicory-gatherer, plaintively. 'I, too, could learn to rub down a horse if you taught me.' 'Well, you don't look hardly strong enough to rub down a horse, my lad,' answered the head-groom; 'but you seem a civil-spoken sort of chap, so you may come in; I dare say we can find some sort of work for you.' So she went into the stable-yard, and helped the grooms of the palace. But every day the queen stood at a window of the palace where she could watch the fair stable-boy, and at last she sent and called the head-groom, and said to him, 'What are you doing with that new boy in the stable-yard?' The head-groom said, 'Please your Majesty he came and begged for work, and we took him to help.' Then the queen said, 'He is not fit for that sort of work, send him to me.' So the chicory-gatherer was sent up to the queen, and the queen gave her the post of master of the palace, and appointed a fine suite of apartments and a dress becoming the rank, and was never happy unless she had this new master of the palace with her. Now the king was gone to the wars, and had been a long time absent. One day the queen said to the master of the palace that very likely the king would not come back, so that it would be better they should marry. Then the poor chicory-gatherer was sadly afraid that if the queen discovered that she was a woman she would lose her fine place at the palace, and become a poor beggar again without a home; so she said nothing of this, but only reasoned with the queen that it was better to wait and see if the king did not come home. But as she continued saying this, and at the same time never showed any wish that the king might not come back, or that the marriage might take place, the queen grew sorely offended, and swore she would be avenged. Not long after, the king really did come back, covered with glory, from the wars. Now was the time for the queen to take her revenge. Choosing her opportunity, therefore, at the moment when the king was rejoicing that he had been permitted to come back to her again, with hypocritical tears she said, 'It is no small mercy, indeed, that your Majesty has found me again here as I am, for it had well-nigh been a very different case.' The king was instantly filled with burning indignation, and asked her further what her words meant. 'They mean,' replied the queen, 'that the master of the palace, on whom I had bestowed the office only because he seemed so simple, as you too must say he looks, presumed on my favour, and would have me marry him, urging that peradventure the king, who had been so long absent at the wars, might never return.' The king started to his feet at the words, placing his hand upon his sword in token of his wrath; but the queen went on: 'And when he found that I would not listen to his suit, he dared to assume a tone of command, and would have compelled me to consent; so that I had to call forth all my courage, and determination, and dignity, to keep him back; and had the King's Majesty not been directed back to the palace as soon as he was, who knows where it might have ended!' It needed no more. The king ordered the master of the palace to be instantly thrown into prison, and appointed the next day for him to be beheaded. The chicory-gatherer was ready enough now to protest that she was a woman. But it helped nothing; they only laughed. And who could stand against the word of the queen? Next day, accordingly, the scaffold was raised, and the master of the palace was brought forth to be beheaded, the king and the queen, and all the court, being present. When the chicory-gatherer, therefore, found herself in dire need and peril of life, she took out one of the hairs the Dark King had given her, and burnt it in the flame of a torch. Instantly there was a distant roaring sound as of a tramp of troops and the roll of drums. Everyone started at the sound, and the executioner stayed his hand. Then the maiden burnt the second hair, and instantly a vast army surrounded the whole place; round the palace they marched and up to the scaffold, and so to the very throne of the king. The king had now something to think of besides giving the signal for the execution, and the headsman stayed his hand. Then the maiden burnt the third hair, and instantly the Dark King himself appeared upon the scene, clothed in shining armour, and fearful in majesty and might. And he said to the king, 'Who are you that you have given over my wife to the executioner?' And the king said, 'Who is thy wife that I should give her to the executioner?' The Dark King, taking the master of the palace by the hand, said, 'This is my wife. Touch her who dares!' Then the king knew that it had been true when the master of the palace had alleged that she was not guilty of the charge the queen had brought against her, being a woman; and seeing clearly what had been the malice of the queen, he ordered the executioner to behead her instead, but the chicory-gatherer he gave up to the Dark King. Then the Dark King said to the chicory-gatherer, 'I came at your bidding to defend you, and I said you were my wife to save your life; but whether you will be my wife or not depends on you. It is for you to say whether you will or not.' Then the maiden answered, 'You have been all goodness to me; ungrateful indeed should I be did I not, as I now do, say "yes."' As soon as she said 'yes,' the earth shook, and she was no longer standing on a scaffold, but before an altar in a splendid cathedral, surrounded by a populous and flourishing city. By her side stood the Black King, but black no longer. He was now a most beautiful prince; for with all his kingdom he had been under enchantment, and the condition of his release had been that a fair maiden should give her free consent to marry him. [88] MONSU MOSTRO. [89] There was a father who had three daughters, and when all trades failed, he said he would go and gather chicory, and called his daughters to go with him. But it was a wet day, and they begged to be left at home; so he went alone. He went out into the fields till he came to a place where was the biggest plant of chicory that ever was seen. 'That will do for me,' he said, and began to pull it up. Up it came by the root and left a hole in the ground, and a voice came up through the hole, and said, 'Who's there?' 'Friends!' [90] answered the chicory-gatherer; and then One sprang up through the hole on to the ground. This was Monsu Mostro. The poor man was rather frightened at his aspect, but he dared say nothing. 'Come along with me,' said Monsu Mostro and the poor man followed till they came to a palace in the Campagna, where he gave him a horse to ride home upon and a heap of money. 'I give you all this,' said Monsu Mostro; 'but you must give me one of your daughters in return.' The poor man was too frightened to refuse, so he said he would. When he came home all his three daughters came jumping round him with delight at seeing him come home riding on horseback. 'Papa! papa! [91] where have you been?' And when they saw what a lot of money he had brought home, their questions increased tenfold. But, in spite of his riches, the chicory-gatherer did not seem in good spirits. He did not know how to announce that he had to take one of his daughters to Monsu Mostro, and so he was very slow at answering their inquiries. It was not till next morning that he made up his mind to break this dreadful matter; and then, when the time had come for him to go forth, and there was no putting it off any longer, he made a great effort and said at last, 'I have found a husband for one of you; which shall it be?' 'Not I!' said the eldest; 'I'm not going to marry a husband whom I haven't seen. Oibo!' 'Not I!' said the second. 'I'm not going to marry a husband whom I haven't seen. Oibo!' 'Take me, papa! take me! I'll go!' said the youngest. So the father remounted the horse, and put her behind him. Thus they arrived at the palace of Monsu Mostro, and knocked. 'Who's there?' said a voice within. 'Friends!' answered the father; and they were shown in. 'Here's my daughter, as I promised,' said the father. 'All right!' said Monsu Mostro; and, giving him another large sum of money, sent him away. When the father was gone, he said to the girl, 'I'm not going to marry you as your father thought. I want you to do the service of the house. But mind when there is anyone here you always call me "papa."' The girl promised to do as she was bid, and soon after there was a knock at the door, and some hunters who had got belated in the Campagna came to seek hospitality. 'Let them in, set supper before them; and give them a change of clothes,' said Monsu Mostro; and the girl did as she was bid. While they were at supper one of the huntsmen kept looking at her, for she was a beautiful girl, and afterwards he asked her if she would marry him, for he was the king's son. 'Oh, shouldn't I like it!' said the girl, 'but you must ask papa.' The prince asked Monsu Mostro, and as he made no objection, he went and fetched a great cortège, and took her to the palace to marry her. As she was going away Monsu Mostro gave her a comb, wrapped up in paper, and said, 'Take care of this, and don't forget you have got it.' The girl was too full of her happiness to pay much heed, but she put it in her bosom and went away. As she drove along, a pair of horns like a cow's began to grow on her head, and they had already attained a considerable size before she arrived at the royal palace. The queen was horrified at her appearance, and refused to let her come in. 'How can it possibly be that such a beautiful girl should have all of a sudden got a pair of horns?' said the prince. But it was no use saying anything, for there were the horns, and the queen was determined that she should not be admitted into the royal palace. The prince was very much distressed, and would on no account let her be turned adrift as the queen wished, but sent her to a house in the Campagna, where he sent a servant every day to ask how she was, and to take her some present, but also to observe if the horns had not perchance gone away as suddenly as they had come. But, instead of going away, they went on growing every day bigger. In the meantime the queen sent a servant out with three little puppy-dogs in a basket, saying that whoever trained them best should marry the prince. One of these the servant brought to her, and the two others to two other girls, who were princesses, either of whom the queen would have preferred her son should marry. 'Train puppy-dogs!' said each of the other two girls. 'I know nothing about training puppy-dogs! What can I do with them!' and they let them get into all manner of bad habits. But she put hers in a basket and went back to the palace of Monsu Mostro, and knocked. 'Who's there?' said Monsu Mostro. 'It's I!' [92] answered she; and then she told him all that had befallen her, and showed him the puppy-dog in the basket. He looked at it for a moment, but would not let her in, and only cried out, 'Go along! you ugly horned thing!' [93] She went away crying; but having lifted up the cloth and peeped at the puppy-dog, she felt reassured, and sent it back by a servant to the queen. When the queen uncovered the basket a beautiful little dog sprang out all of solid gold, yet it leaped about and performed all manner of tricks just as if it had been a real dog. The prince was triumphant when he saw that her dog was so much better than the other two; but the queen was indignant, and said, 'It is no dog at all, that gold thing!' and she would not allow that the girl had won the trial. After that the queen sent a servant out with three pounds of flax, and said that whoever could spin it best should marry the prince. 'What do I know about spinning!' said each of the other two; and they let the flax lie without touching it. But she took hers in a basket and went to the palace of Monsu Mostro, and knocked. 'Who's there?' asked he. 'It's I!' she replied in her doleful voice, and told him her new difficulty. Monsu Mostro looked at the flax, but refused to admit her, and saying, 'Away with you, you horned wretch!' shut the door against her. This basket, too, she sent by a servant to the queen, and when the queen opened it she found it full of gold thread. 'You must allow she has done better than the others this time!' said the prince. 'No! it is as bad as before,' answered the queen; 'it is not natural! It won't do for me!' 'After that the queen sent out a notice that whichever of them had her hair growing down to her heels should marry the prince. 'My hair does not reach down to my waist,' said each of the other two. 'How can I make it grow down to my heels?' But she went to the palace of Monsu Mostro, and knocked. 'Who's there?' asked he. 'It is I!' she replied, as dolefully as before, and told him what was required of her now. 'You see now what it is to have paid no attention to what I told you,' answered Monsu Mostro. 'I told you not to forget the comb I gave you. If you had not forgotten that none of this would have happened. That comb is your remedy now;' and with that he shut the door. But she went home and combed her hair with the comb he had given her; and not only the horns went away, but her hair grew down quite to her heels and swept the ground. But the other two were jealous when they saw that she had beaten them in all three trials, and they came to her to ask how she made her hair grow, and she sent them to the palace of Monsu Mostro to ask. But as they only came out of jealousy, he told them to make themselves two pitch nightcaps and sleep in them; and when they got up in the morning, instead of having longer hair, all the hair they had came off. But she was at length given to the prince, and they were married amid great rejoicing. [The two preceding stories represent the Roman contribution to the stories of visits to the underground world and the Bluebeard group. I have others (particularly one called 'Il Cavolo d' Oro', the 'Golden Cabbage') more like the general run of them. The two I have selected have this difference, that in neither instance does the subterranean ruler represent the Devil. 'Monsu Mostro,' is most disinterested in his generosity. As usual with the Roman versions, all that is terrible is eliminated. For other versions, see Ralston, pp. 98-100; and for a somewhat similar story, the 'Water Snake,' p. 116. Much in the Norse, 'East of the Sun and West of the Moon,' is like the 'Rè Moro;' so is 'The Old Dame and her Hen,' though the later details of that story are more like the Tirolean version, which I have given in 'Laxehale's Wives,' in 'Household Stories from the Land of Hofer.' The German version given as 'Fitchers Vogel,' Grimm, p. 177, has more of the horrid element than any of the others. In the version of 'Tündér Ilona' given in Graf Mailath's 'Magyarische Sagen' (a rather different version from that told me at Pesth, which I have given at p. 20-1), Prince Argilus loses his bride and her kingdom, and has to begin all his labours over again, through looking into a closed chamber which Tündér Ilona had bid him not to open in her absence. But heroic action abounds in the Hungarian tales, just as it is wanting in the Roman ones, and in this, and in many details, particularly in the enthusiasm for magic horses, they are singularly like the Gaelic. The 'Rè Moro' is perhaps nearer 'Beauty and the Beast' than 'Bluebeard.' I had a version of this given me in the following form, under the title of 'The Enchanted Rose-Tree.' THE ENCHANTED ROSE-TREE. [94] They say there was once a merchant who, when he was going out to buy rare merchandise, asked his daughter what rich present he should bring home to her. She, however, would hear of nothing but only a simple rose-tree. 'That,' said her father, 'is too easy. However, as you are bent on having a rose-tree, you shall have the most beautiful rose-tree I can find in all my travels.' In all his travels, however, he met with no rose-tree that he deemed choice enough. But one day, when he was walking outside the walls of his own city, he came to a garden which he had never observed before, filled with all manner of beautiful flowers. 'This is a wonderful garden indeed,' said the merchant to himself; 'I never saw it before, and yet these luxuriant plants seem to have many years' growth in them. There must be something wonderful about them, so this is just the place to look for my daughter's rose-tree.' In he went therefore to look for the rose-tree. In the midst of the garden was a casino, the door of which stood open; when he went in he found a banquet spread with the choicest dishes; and though he saw no one, a kind voice invited him to sit down and enjoy himself. So he sat down to the banquet, and very much he did enjoy himself, for there was everything he could desire. [95] When he had well eaten and drunk, he bethought him to go out again into the garden and seek a choice rose-tree. 'As the banquet was free,' he thought to himself, 'I suppose the flowers are free too.' So he selected what seemed to him the choicest rose of all; while it had petals of the richest red in the world, within it was all shining gold, and the leaves too were overlaid with shining gold. This rose-tree, therefore, he proceeded to root up. A peal of thunder attended the attempt, and with a noise of rushing winds and waters a hideous monster [96] suddenly appeared before him. 'How dare you root up my rose-trees?' said the monster; 'was it not enough that I gave you my best hospitality freely? Must you also rob me of my flowers, which are as my life to me? Now you must die!' The merchant excused himself as best he could, saying it was the very freedom of the hospitality which had emboldened him to take the rose, and that he had only ventured to take it because he had promised the prettiest rose-tree he could find to his daughter. 'Your daughter, say you?' replied the monster. 'If there is a daughter in the case perhaps I may forgive you; but only on condition that you bring her hither to me within three days' time.' The father went home sad at heart, but within three days he kept his promise of taking his daughter to the garden. The monster received them very kindly, and gave them the casino to live in, where they were well fed and lodged. At the end of eight days, however, a voice came to the father and told him he must depart; and when he hesitated to leave his daughter alone he was taken by invisible agency and turned out of the garden. The monster now often came and talked to the daughter, and he was so gentle and so kind that she began quite to like him. One day she asked him to let her go home and see her friends, and he, who refused her nothing, let her go; but begged her to promise solemnly she would come back at the end of eight days, 'for if you are away longer than that,' he added, 'I know I shall die of despair.' Then he gave her a mirror into which she could look and see how he was. Thus she went home, and the time passed quickly away, and eight days were gone and she had not thought of returning. Then by accident the mirror came under her hand, and, looking into it, she saw the monster stretched on the ground as if at the point of death. The sight filled her with compunction, and she hurried back with her best speed. Arrived at the garden, she found the monster just as she had seen him in the mirror. At sight of her he revived, and soon became so much better that she was much touched when she saw how deeply he cared for her. 'And were you really so bad only because I went away?' she asked. 'No, not only because you went away, for it was right you should go and see your parents; but because I began to fear you would never come back, and if you had never come back I should quite have died.' 'And now you are all right again?' 'Yes, now you are here I am quite happy; that is, I should be quite happy if you would promise always to remain and never go away any more.' Then when she saw how earnest and sincere he was in wishing her to stay, she gave her consent never to leave him more. No sooner had she spoken the promise than in the twinkling of an eye all was changed. The monster became a handsome prince, the casino a palace, the garden a flourishing country, and each several rose-tree a city. For the prince had been enchanted by an enemy, and had to remain transformed as a monster till he should be redeemed by the love of a maiden. [The three brothers who occupy so large a space in the household tales of other countries, do not seem to be popular favourites in Rome. I have come across them but seldom. There are plenty of them in the 'Norse Tales,' under the name of 'Boots' for the unexpectedly doughty brother. The Spanish romance I have given as 'Simple Johnny and the Spell-bound Princesses,' in 'Patrañas,' makes him a knight. In the Siddhi Kür story of 'How the Schimnu Khan was Slain,' it is three hired companions (as in some other versions), who betray the hero; and in all but this (which is its link with the usual Three-brother stories), it is a remarkably close repetition of the details of another Spanish romance, which I have given as 'The Ill-tempered Princess,' and this, in its turn, is like the Tirolean 'Laxhale's Wives' and the Roman 'Diavolo che prese moglie.' Compare, further, a number of instances collected by Mr. Ralston, pp. 72-80, and 260-7. In many parts of Tirol you meet a Three-brother story different from any of these. Three brothers go out to hunt chamois on a Sunday morning, and get so excited with the sport that they make themselves too late to hear Mass, and get turned into stone, or some other dreadful punishment. The younger brother, who has all along urged them to go down, but has been overruled by the others, is involved in the same punishment. There are three peaks on the Knie Pass, leading from Tirol to Salzburg, called 'The Three Brothers,' from such a legend.] SCIOCCOLONE. [97] Once upon a time there were three brothers, who were woodmen; their employment was not one which required great skill, and they were none of them very clever, but the youngest was the least brilliant of all. So simple was he that all the neighbours, and his very brothers--albeit they were not so very superior in intelligence themselves--gave him the nickname of 'Scioccolone,' the great simpleton, and accordingly Scioccolone he was called wherever he went. Every day these three brothers went out into the woods to their work, and every evening they all came home, each staggering under his load of wood, which he carried to the dealer who paid them for their toil: thus one day of labour passed away just like another in all respects. So it went on for years. Nevertheless, one day came at last which was not at all like the others, and if all days were like it the world would be quite upside down, or be at least a very different world from what it is. Oimè! that such days never occur now at all! Basta, this is what happened. It was in the noontide heat of a very hot day, the three simple brothers committed the imprudence of going out of the shelter of the woods into the wold beyond, and there, lying on the grass in the severest blaze of the burning sun, they saw three beautiful peasant girls lying fast asleep. 'Only look at those silly girls sleeping in the full blaze of the sun!' cried the eldest brother. 'They'll get bad in their heads in this heat,' said the second. But Scioccolone said: 'Shall we not get some sticks and boughs, and make a little shed to shelter them?' 'Just like one of Scioccolone's fine ideas!' laughed the eldest brother scornfully. 'Well done, Scioccolone! That's the best thing you've thought of this long while. And who will build a shed over us while we're building a shed for the girls, I should like to know?' said the second. But Scioccolone said: 'We can't leave them there like that; they will be burnt to death. If you won't help me I must build the shed alone.' 'A wise resolve, and worthy of Scioccolone!' scoffed the eldest brother. 'Good-bye, Scioccolone!' cried the second, as the two elder brothers walked away together. 'Good-bye for ever! I don't expect ever to see you alive again, of course.' And they never did see him again, but what it was that happened to him you shall hear. Without waiting to find a retort to his brothers' gibes, Scioccolone set to work to fell four stout young saplings, and to set them up as supports of his shed in four holes he had previously scooped with the aid of his bill-hook; then he rammed them in with wedges, which he also had to cut and shape. After this he cut four large bushy branches, which he tied to the uprights with the cord he used for tying up his faggots of logs; and as the shade of these was scarcely close enough to keep out all the fierce rays of the sun, he went back to the wood and collected all the large broad leaves he could find, and came back and spread them out over his leafy roof. All this was very hard labour indeed when performed under the dreaded sun, and just in the hours when men do no work; yet so beautiful were the three maidens that, when at last he had completed his task, he could not tear himself away from them to go and seek repose in the shade of the wood, but he must needs continue standing in the full sun gazing at them open-mouthed. At last the three beautiful maidens awoke, and when they saw what a fragrant shade had refreshed their slumbers they began pouring out their gratitude to their devoted benefactor. Do not run at hasty conclusions, however, and imagine that of course the three beautiful maidens fell in love on the spot with Scioccolone, and he had only to pick and choose which of them he would have to make him happy as his wife. A very proper ending, you say, for a fairy tale. It was not so, however. Scioccolone looked anything but attractive just then. His meaningless features and uncouth, clownish gait were never at any time likely to inspire the fair maidens with sudden affection; but just then, after his running hither and thither, his felling, digging, and hammering in the heat of the day, his face had acquired a tint which made it look rougher and redder and more repulsive than anyone ever wore before. Besides this, the three maidens were fairies, who had taken the form [98] of beautiful peasant girls for some reason of their own. But neither did they leave his good deed unrewarded. By no means. Each of the three declared she would give him such a precious gift that he should own to his last hour that they were not ungrateful. So they sat and thought what great gift they could think of which should be calculated to make him very happy indeed. At last the first of the three got up and exclaimed that she had thought of her gift, and she did not think anyone could give him a greater one; for she would promise him he should one day be a king. Wasn't that a fine gift! Scioccolone, however, did not think so. The idea of his being a king! Simple as he was, he could see the incongruity of the idea, and the embarrassment of the situation. How should he the poor clown, everybody's laughingstock, become a king? and if he did, kingship had no attractions for him. He was too kind-hearted, however, to say anything in disparagement of the well-meant promise, and too straightforward to assume a show of gratitude he did not feel; so after the first little burst of hilarity which he was not sufficiently master of himself to suppress, he remained standing open-mouthed after his awkward manner. Then the second fairy addressed him and said:-- 'I see you don't quite like my sister's gift; but you may be sure she would not have promised it if it had not been a good gift, after you have been so kind to us; and when it comes true, it will somehow all turn out very nice and right. But now, meantime, that I may not similarly disappoint you with my gift by choosing it for you, I shall let you choose it for yourself; so say, what shall it be?' Scioccolone was almost as much embarrassed with the second fairy's permission of choosing for himself as he had been with the first fairy's choice for him. First he grinned, and then he twisted his great awkward mouth about, and then he grinned again, till, at last, ashamed of keeping the fairies waiting so long for his answer, he said, with another grin:-- 'Well, to tell you what I should really like, it would be that when I have finished making up my faggot of logs this evening, instead of having to stagger home carrying it, it should roll along by itself, and then I get astride of it, and that it should carry me.' 'That would be fine!' he added, and he grinned again as he thought of the fun it would be to be carried home by the load of logs instead of carrying the load as he had been wont. 'Certainly! That wish is granted,' replied the second fairy readily. 'You will find it all happen just as you have described.' Then the third fairy came forward and said:-- 'And now choose; what shall my gift be? You have only to ask for whatever you like and you shall have it.' Such a heap of wishes rose up in Scioccolone's imagination at this announcement, that he could not make up his mind which to select; as fast as he fixed on one thing, he remembered it would be incomplete without some other gift, and as he went on trying to find some one wish that should be as comprehensive as possible, he suddenly blurted out-- 'Promise me that whatever I wish may come true; that'll be the best gift; and so if I forget a thing one moment I can wish for it the next. That'll be the best gift to be sure!' 'Granted!' said the third fairy. 'You have only to wish for anything and you will find you get it immediately, whatever it is.' The fairies then took leave and went their way, and Scioccolone was reminded by the lengthening shades that it was time he betook himself to complete his day's work. Scarcely succeeding in collecting his thoughts, so dazzled and bewildered was he by the late supernatural conversation, he yet found his way back to the spot where he had been felling wood. 'Oh, dear! how tired I am!' he said within himself as he walked along. 'How I wish the wood was all felled and the faggots tied up!' and though he said this mechanically as he might have said it any other day of his life, without thinking of the fairy's promise, which was, indeed, too vast for him to put it consciously to such a practical test then, full of astonishment as he was, yet when he got back to his working-place the wood was felled and laid in order, and tied into a faggot in the best manner. 'Well to be sure!' soliloquised Scioccolone. 'The girls have kept their promise indeed! This is just exactly what I wished. And now, let's see what else did I wish? Oh, yes; that if I got astride on the faggot it should roll along by itself and carry me with it; let's see if that'll come true too!' With that he got astride on the faggot, and sure enough the faggot moved on all by itself, and carried Scioccolone along with it pleasantly enough. Only there was one thing Scioccolone had forgotten to ask for, and that was power to guide the faggot; and now, though it took a direction quite contrary to that of his homeward way, he had no means of inducing it to change its tack. After some time spent in fruitless efforts in schooling his unruly mount, Scioccolone began to reason with himself. 'After all, it does not much matter about going home. I only get laughed at and called "Scioccolone." Maybe in some other place they may be better, and as the faggot is acting under the orders of my benefactress, it will doubtless all be for the best.' So he committed himself to the faggot to take him wherever it would. On went the faggot surely and steadily, as if quite conscious where it had to go; and thus, before nightfall, it came to a great city where were many people, who all came out to see the wonder of the faggot of logs moving along by itself, and a man riding on it. In this city was a king, who lived in a palace with an only daughter. Now this daughter had never been known to laugh. What pains soever the king her father took to divert her were all unavailing; nothing brought a smile to her lips. Now, however, when all the people ran to the windows to see a man riding on a faggot, the king's daughter ran to look out too; and when she saw the faggot moving by itself, and the uncouth figure of Scioccolone sitting on it, and heard all the people laughing at the sight, then the king's daughter laughed too; laughed for the first time in her life. But Scioccolone passing under the palace, heard her clear and merry laugh resounding above the laughter of all the people, he looked up and saw her, and when he saw her looking so bright and fair he said within himself:-- 'Now, if ever the fairy's power of wishing is to be of use to me, I wish that I might have a little son, and that the beautiful princess should be the mother.' But he did not think of wishing to stop there that he might look at her, so the faggot carried him past the palace and past all the houses into the outskirts of the city, till he got tired and weary, and just then passing a wood merchant's yard, the thought rose to his lips,-- 'I wish that wood merchant would buy this faggot of me!' Immediately the wood merchant came out and offered to buy the faggot, and as it was such a wonderful faggot, that he thought Scioccolone would never consent to sell it, he offered him such a high price that Scioccolone had enough to live on like a prince for a year. After a time there was again a great stir in the city, everyone was abroad in the streets whispering and consulting. To the king's daughter was born a little son, and no one knew who the father was, not even the princess herself. Then the king sent for all the men in the city, and brought them to the infant, and said, 'Is this your father?' but the babe said 'No!' to them all. Last of all, Scioccolone was brought, and when the king took him up to the babe and said, 'Is this your father?' the babe rose joyfully from its cradle and said, 'Yes; that is my father!' When the king heard this and saw what a rough ugly clown Scioccolone was, he was very angry with his daughter, and said she must marry him and go away for ever from the palace. It was all in vain that the princess protested she had never seen him but for one moment from the top of the palace. The babe protested quite positively that he was his father; so the king had them married, and sent them away from the palace for ever; and the babe was right, for though Scioccolone and the princess had never met, Scioccolone had wished that he might have a son, of whom she should be the mother, and by the power of the spell [99] the child was born. Scioccolone was only too delighted with the king's angry decree. He felt quite out of place in the palace, and was glad enough to be sent away from it. All he wanted was to have such a beautiful wife, and he willingly obeyed the king's command to take her away, a long, long way off. The princess, however, was quite of a different mind. She could not cease from crying, because she was given to such an uncouth, clownish husband that no tidy peasant wench would have married. When, therefore, Scioccolone saw his beautiful bride so unhappy and distressed, he grew distressed himself; and in his distress he remembered once more the promise of the fairy, that whatever he wished he might have, and he began wishing away at once. First he wished for a pleasant villa, [100] prettily laid-out, and planted, and walled; then, a casino [101] in the midst of it, prettily furnished, and having plenty of pastimes and diversions; then, for a farm, well-stocked with beasts for all kinds of uses; for carriages and servants, for fruits and flowers, and all that can make life pleasant. And when he found that with all these things the princess did not seem much happier than before, he bethought himself of wishing that he might be furnished with a handsome person, polished manners, and an educated mind, altogether such as the princess wished. All his wishes were fulfilled, and the princess now loved him very much, and they lived very happily together. After they had been living thus some time, it happened one day that the king, going out hunting, observed this pleasant villa on the wold, where heretofore all had been bare, unplanted, and unbuilt. 'How is this!' cried the king; and he drew rein, and went into the villa intending to inquire how the change had come about. Scioccolone came out to meet him, not only so transformed that the king never recognised him, but so distinguished by courtesy and urbanity, that the king himself felt ashamed to question him as to how the villa had grown up so suddenly. He accepted his invitation to come and rest in the casino, however; and there they fell to conversing on a variety of subjects, till the king was so struck with the sagacity and prudence of Scioccolone's talk, that when he rose to take leave, he said: 'Such a man as you I have long sought to succeed me in the government of the kingdom. I am growing old and have no children, and you are worthy in all ways to wear the crown. Come up, therefore, if you will, to the palace and live with me, and when I die you shall be king.' Scioccolone, now no longer feeling himself so ill-adapted to live in a palace, willingly consented, and a few days after, with his wife and his little son, he went up to the palace to live with the king. But the king's delight can scarcely be imagined when he found that the wife of the polished stranger was indeed his very own daughter. After a few years the old king died, and Scioccolone reigned in his stead. And thus the promises of all the three fairies were fulfilled. [Among the Italian-Tirolese tales is one called 'I tre pezzi rari' (The Three Rare Things), which begins just like 'Scioccolone,' and then the fairies give the three gifts of a dinner-providing table-cloth, an exhaustless purse, and a resistless cudgel, which we so often meet with, as in Grimm's 'Tischchen deck dich,' p. 142; Campbell's 'Three Soldiers,' i. p. 176-93, who refers to numerous other versions, in which other incidents of the two next succeeding tales occur. The Spanish version I have given by the name of 'Matanzas' in 'Patrañas.' In the Roman version of the 'Dodici palmi di naso,' it is singular that it is the second and not the youngest son who is the hero. There is another Italian-Tirolese story, entitled 'Il Zufolotta,' in which only one boy and two fairies are concerned, and they only give him the one gift of the Zufoletto, which, instead of supplying every wish as in 'Dodici palmi di naso,' has the power of the Zauberflöte, the pipe of the 'Pied Piper,' and kindred instruments in all times and countries, so that, when it has got its possessor into such trouble that he is condemned to be executed, it answers the same end as the cudgel, liberating its master by setting the judge and executioner dancing, instead of by thumping them.] TWELVE FEET OF NOSE. [102] There was a poor old father, who was very poor indeed, and very old. When he came to die, he called his three sons round his bed, and said they must summon a notary to make his will. The sons looked at each other, and thought he was doating. He repeated his desire, and then one of them ventured to say: 'But father, dear, why should we go to the expense of calling in a notary; there is not a single thing on earth you have to leave us!' But the old man told them again to call a notary, and still they hesitated, because they thought the notary would say they were making game of him. At last the old man began to get angry when he found they would not do as he said, and, just not to vex him in his last moments, they called the notary, and the notary brought his witnesses. Then the father was content, and called them all to his bedside. 'Now, pull out the old case under the bed, and take out what you find there.' They found an old broken hat, without a brim, a ragged purse that was so worn you could not have trusted any money in its keeping, and a horn. [103] These three things he bequeathed in due form of law, one to each of his sons; and it was only because they saw that the man was in his death agony that those who were called to act as witnesses could keep from laughing. To the notary, of course, it was all one whether it was an old hat or a new one, his part was the same, and when he had done what was needful, he went his way, and the witnesses went with him; but as they went out, they said one to another: 'Poor old man! perhaps it is a comfort to him in his last moments to fancy he has got something to leave.' When they were all gone, as the three sons were standing by, very sad, and looking at each other, not knowing what to make of the strange scene, he called the eldest, to whose portion the hat had fallen, and said: 'See what I've given you.' 'Why, father!' answered he, 'it isn't even good enough to bind round one's knee when one goes out hoeing!' But the father answered: 'I wouldn't let you know its value till those people were gone, lest any should take it from you; this is its value, that if you put it on, you can go in to dine at whatever inn you please, or sit down to drink at what wineshop you please, and take what you like and drink what you like, for no one will see you while you have it on.' Then he called his second son, to whose lot the purse had fallen, and he said: 'See what I have given you.' 'Why, father!' answered the son, 'it isn't even good enough to keep a little tobacco in, if I could afford to buy any!' But the father answered: 'I wouldn't tell you its value till those people were gone, lest any should take it from you; but this is its value; if you put your fingers in, you'll find a scudo there, and after that another, and another, as many as ever you will; there will always be one.' Then he called his youngest son, and said: 'See what I have given you.' And he answered: 'Yes, father, it's a very nice horn; and when I am starving hungry I can cheat myself into being content by playing on it.' 'Silly boy!' answered the father; 'that is not its use. I wouldn't tell you its value while those people were here, lest they should take it from you. Its value is this, that whenever you want anything you have only to sound it, and one will come who will bring whatever you want, be it a dinner, a suit of clothes, a palace, or an army.' After this the father died, and each found himself well provided with the legacy he had given him. It happened that one day as the second son [104] was passing under the window of the palace a waiting-maid looked out and said: 'Can you play at cards?' 'As well as most,' answered the youth. 'Very well, then; come up,' answered the waiting-maid; 'for the queen wants some one to play with her.' Very readily he went up, therefore, and played at cards with the queen, and when he had played all the evening he had lost fifty scudi. 'Never mind about paying the fifty scudi,' said the queen, as he rose to leave. 'We only played to pass away the time, and you don't look by your dress as if you could afford fifty scudi.' 'Not at all!' replied the youth. 'I will certainly bring the fifty scudi in the morning.' And in the morning, by putting his fingers fifty times into the ragged purse, he had the required sum, and went back with it to the palace and paid the queen. The queen was very much astonished that such a shabby-looking fellow should have such command of money, and determined to find out how it was; so she made him stay and dine. After dinner she took him into her private room and said to him: 'Tell me, how comes it that you, who are but a shabby-looking fellow, have such command of money?' 'Oh!' answered he quite unsuspectingly, 'because my father left me a wonderful purse, in which is always a scudo.' 'Nonsense!' answered the queen. 'That is a very pretty fable, but such purses don't exist.' 'Oh, but it is so indeed,' answered the youth. 'Quite impossible,' persisted the queen. 'But here it is; you can see for yourself!' pursued the incautious youth, taking it out. The queen took it from him as if to try its powers, but no sooner was she in possession of it than she called in the guard to turn out a fellow who was trying to rob her, and give him a good beating. Indignant at such treatment, the youth went to his eldest brother and begged his hat of him that he might, by its means, go and punish the queen. Putting on the hat he went back to the palace at the hour of dinner and sat down to table. As soon as the queen was served he took her plate and ate up all that was in it one course after another, so that the queen got nothing, and finding it useless to call for more dishes, she gave it up as a bad job, and went into her room. The youth followed her in and demanded the return of his wonderful purse. 'How can I know it is you if I don't see you?' said the queen. 'Never mind about seeing me. Put the purse out on the table for me and I will take it.' 'No, I can't if I don't see you,' replied the queen. 'I can't believe it is you unless I see you.' The youth fell into the snare and took off his hat. 'How did you manage to make yourself invisible?' asked the queen. 'Just by putting on this old hat.' 'I don't believe that could make you invisible,' exclaimed the queen. 'Let me try.' And she snatched the hat out of his hand and put it on. Of course she was now in turn invisible, and he sought her in vain; but worse than that, she rang the bell for the guard and bid them turn the shabby youth out and give him a bastonata. Full of fresh indignation he ran to his youngest brother and told him all his story, begging the loan of his horn, that he might punish the queen by its means; and the brother lent it him. He sounds the horn and One comes. [105] 'I want an army with cannons to throw down the palace,' said the youth; and instantly there was a tramp of armed men, and a rumble of artillery waggons. The queen was sitting at dinner, but when she heard all the noise she came to the window; meantime the soldiers had surrounded the palace and pointed their guns. 'What's all this about! What's the matter!' cried the queen out of the window. 'The matter is, that I want my purse and my hat back,' answered the youth. 'To be sure! you are right; here they are. I don't want my palace battered down, so I will give them to you.' The youth went up to receive them; but when he got upstairs he found the queen sunk half fainting in a chair. 'Oh! I'm so frightened; I can't think where I put the things. Only send away that army and I'll look for them immediately.' The youth sent away the army, and the queen got up and began looking about for the things. 'Tell me,' she said, as she wandered from one cupboard to another, 'how did you, who are such a shabby-looking fellow, manage to call together such an army?' 'Because I've got this horn,' answered the youth. 'And with it I can call up whatever I want, and if you don't make haste and find the purse and the hat, I'll call up the army again and batter down the palace in right earnest.' 'You won't make me believe that!' replied the queen. 'That sorry horn can't work such wonders as that: let me try.' And she took the horn out of his hands and sounded it and One appeared. 'Two stout men!' she commanded quickly; and when they came she bid them drive the shabby-looking youth out of the palace and give him a bastonata. He was now quite undone, and was ashamed to go back to his brothers. So he wandered away outside the town. After much walking he came to a vineyard, where he strolled in; and what struck him was, that though it was January, there was a fine fig-tree covered with ripe luscious figs. 'This is a godsend indeed,' he said, 'to a hungry man,' and he began plucking and eating the figs. Before he had eaten many, however, he found his nose had begun to grow to a terrible size; a foot for every fig. 'That'll never do!' he cried, and left off eating the figs and wandered on. Presently he came to another vineyard, where he also strolled in: there, though it was January, he saw a tree all covered with ripe red cherries. 'I wonder what calamity will pursue me for eating them,' he said, as he gathered them. But when he had eaten a good many he perceived that at last his luck had turned, for in proportion as he ate his nose grew less and less, till at last it was just the right size again. 'Now I know how to punish the queen,' he said, and he filled a bottle with the juice of the cherries, and went back and gathered a basketful of figs. These figs he cried under the palace window, and as he had got more dusty and threadbare with his late wanderings no one recognised him. 'Figs in January! that is a treat!' and they bought up the whole basketful. Then as they ate, their noses all began to grow, but the queen, as she was very greedy, ate twelve for her share, so that she had twelve feet of nose added to the length of hers. It was so long that it trailed behind her on the ground as she walked along. Then there was a hue and cry! All the surgeons and physicians in the kingdom were sent for, but could do no good. They were all in despair, when our youth came up disguised as a foreign doctor. 'Noses! I can heal noses! whoever has got too much nose let him come to me!' All the inhabitants gathered round him, and the queen called to him loudest of all. 'The medicine I have to give is necessarily a very strong one to effect so extraordinary a cure; therefore I won't give it to the queen's majesty till she has seen it used on all her servants, beginning with the lowest.' Taking them all in order, beginning with the lowest, he gave a few drops of cherry-juice to each, and all their noses came right. Last of all the queen remained. 'The queen can't be treated like common people,' he said; 'she must be treated by herself. I must go into her room with her, and I can cure her with one drop of my cordial.' 'You think yourself very clever that you talk of curing with one drop of your cordial, but you're not the only person who can work wonders. I've got greater wonders than yours. I've got a hat which makes you invisible, a purse that never is empty, and a horn that gives you everything you call for.' 'Very pretty things to talk about,' answered the pretended doctor, 'but such things don't exist.' 'Don't they!' said the queen. 'There they are!' And she laid them all out on the table. This was enough for him. Taking advantage of the lesson she had given him by her example, he quickly put on the hat, making himself invisible; after that it was easy to snatch up the other things and escape; nor could anyone follow him. He lived very comfortably for the rest of his life, taking a scudo out of his purse for whatever he had to pay, and his brothers likewise got on very well with their legacies, for he restored them as soon as he had rescued them from the queen. But the queen remained for the rest of her life with TWELVE FEET OF NOSE. A YARD OF NOSE. [106] There was once a poor orphan youth left all alone, with no home, and no means of gaining a living, and no place of shelter. Not knowing what to do he wandered away over the Campagna, straight on; when he had wandered all day and was ready to die of hunger and weariness, he at last saw a fig-tree covered with ripe figs. 'There's a godsend!' said the poor orphan; and he set to upon the figs without ceremony. But, lo! he had scarcely eaten half-a-dozen when his nose began to feel very odd; he put his hand up to it and it felt much bigger than usual; however, he was too hungry to trouble himself about it, and he ate on. As he ate on his nose felt queerer and queerer; he put his hand up and found it was quite a foot [107] long! But he was so hungry he went on eating still, and before he had done he had fully a yard of nose. 'A pretty thing I have done for myself now! As well might I have died of starvation as make myself such an object as this! Never can I appear among civilised beings again.' And he laid himself down to sleep, hiding himself in the foliage of the fig-tree lest anybody passing by should see his nose. In the morning the first thing he thought of when he awoke was his nose; he had no need to put up his hand to feel it for it reached down to his hand, a full yard of it waggling about. 'There's no help for it,' he said. 'I must keep away from all habitable places, and live as best I may.' So he wandered on and on over the Campagna away from all habitations, straight on; and when he had wandered all day and was ready to die of hunger and weariness he saw another fig-tree covered with ripe figs. Right glad he was to see anything in the shape of food. 'If it had only been anything else in the world but figs!' he said. 'If I go on at this rate I shan't be able to carry my nose along at all! Yet starving is hard, too, and I'm such a figure now, nothing can make me much worse, so here goes!' and he began eating at the figs without more ado. As he ate this time, however, his nose, instead of feeling queerer and queerer as it had before, began to feel lighter and lighter. Less, less, and still less it grew, [108] till at last he had to put his hand up to feel where it was, and by the time he had done eating, it was just its natural size again. 'Now I know how to make my fortune!' [109] he cried, and he danced for delight. With a basketful of the figs of the first tree he trudged to the nearest town, still clad in his peasant's dress, and cried, 'Fine figs! fine figs! who'll buy my beautiful ripe figs!' All the people ran out to see the new fruit-seller, and his figs looked so tempting that plenty of people bought of him. Among the foremost was the host of the inn, with his wife and his buxom daughter, and every one of them, as they ate the figs their noses began to grow and grow till everyone of them had a nose fully a yard long. Then there was a hue and cry through the whole town, everyone with his yard of nose dangling and waggling, came running out, calling, 'Ho! Here! Wretch of a fruit-seller!' [110] But our fruit-seller had had the good sense to foresee the coming storm, and had taken care to get far out of the way of pursuit. But the next day he dressed himself like a doctor, all in black, with a long false beard, and came to the same town, where he entered the druggist's [111] shop, and gave himself out for a great doctor. 'You come in good season!' said the druggist. 'A doctor is wanted here just now, if ever one was, for to everyone almost in the town is grown a nose [112] so big! so big! in fact, a full yard of nose! Anyone who could reduce these noses might make a fortune indeed!' 'Why, that's just what I excel at of all things. Let me see some of these people,' answered our pretended doctor. The druggist looked incredulous at a real remedy turning up so very opportunely; but at the same moment a pretty peasant girl came into the shop to buy some medicine for her mother; that is, she would have been pretty if it had not been for the terrible nose, which made a fright of her. The false doctor was seized with compunction when he saw what a fright his figs had made of this pretty girl, and he took out some figs of the other tree and gave her to eat, and immediately her tremendous nose grew less, and less, and less, and she was a pretty girl again. Of course it need not be said that he did not give her the figs in their natural state and form; he had peeled and pounded, and made them up with other things to disguise them. The druggist no sooner saw this wonderful cure than he was prompt to publish it, and there was quite a strife who should have the new doctor the first. It was the innkeeper who succeeded in being the first to possess himself of him. 'What will you give me for the cure?' said the strange doctor. 'Whatever you have the conscience to ask,' replied the host, panting to be rid of the monstrosity. 'Four thousand scudi apiece,' replied the false doctor; and the host, his wife, and his buxom daughter stood in a row waiting to be cured. With the same remedy that had cured the peasant girl he cured the host first, and next his daughter. After he had cured her he said, 'Instead of the second premium of four thousand scudi, I will take the hand of your daughter, if you like?' 'Yes, if you wish; it's a very good idea,' replied the host. 'Never, while I live!' said the wife. 'Why not? He's a very good husband!' said the host. 'An ugly old travelling doctor, who comes no one knows whence, to marry my daughter indeed!' said the wife. 'I'm sure we're under great obligations to his cleverness,' said the husband. 'Then let him be paid his price, and go about his business, and not talk impudence!' said the wife. 'But I choose that he shall marry her!' said the husband. 'And I choose that he shan't,' said the wife; 'and you'll find that much stronger.' Just then a customer came in, and the host had to go and attend upon him, and while he was gone the wife called the servants, and bade them turn the doctor out, and give him a good drubbing into the bargain, saying, 'I'll have some other doctor to cure me!' So he left them, and went on curing people's noses all day, till he had made a lot of money. Then he went away, but limping all the time from the beating he had received. The next day he came back dressed like a Turk, so that no one would have known him for the same man, and he came back to the same inn, saying he, too, could cure noses. The mistress of the inn gave him a hearty welcome, as she was very anxious to find another doctor who could cure her nose. 'My treatment is effectual, but it is rude,' said the pretended Turk. 'I don't know if you'll like to submit to it.' 'Oh yes! Anything, whatever it may be, only to be rid of this monstrous nose,' said the hostess. 'Then you must come into a room by yourself with me,' said the pretended Turk; 'and I have a stick here made out of the root of a particular tree. I must thump you on the back with it, and in proportion as I thump you the nose will draw in. Of course it will hurt very much, and make you cry out, so you must tell your servants and people outside that however much you may call they are not to come in. For if they should come in and interrupt the cure, it would all have to be begun over again, and all you had suffered would go for nothing.' So the hostess gave strict orders, saying, 'I am going into this room with the Turk to be cured by him, and however much I may call out, or whatever I may say, mind none of you, on pain of losing your places, open the door, or come near the room.' Then she took the Turk into a room apart, and shut the door. The Turk no sooner got her alone than he made her lie with her face downwards on a sofa, and then--whack, whack, whack! [113] he gave her such a beating that she felt the effects of it to the end of her days. Of course it was in vain she screamed and roared for help; the servants had had their orders, and none of them durst approach the room. It was only when she had fainted that the Turk left her alone and went his way. But she never got her nose cured, and he married the pretty peasant girl who was the subject of his first cure. [The two following stories contain a jumbling mixture of the incidents of the three preceding, set in a different framework; more or less mixed up with those in the stories of other countries mentioned at p. 128. Some of those in 'The Transformation Donkey' occur in the Siddhi Kür story of 'The Gold-spitting Prince,' in 'Sagas from the Far East,' but they are constructed into a quite different tale.] THE CHICORY-SELLER AND THE ENCHANTED PRINCESS. [114] There was a chicory-seller, with a wife and a son, all of them dying of hunger, and sleeping on the floor because they couldn't afford a bed. Once when they went out in the morning to gather chicory, the son found such a large plant of it, never was such a plant seen, it took them an hour, working at it together, to pull it up, and it filled two great bags. What is more, when they had got it all up, there was a great hole in the ground. 'What can there be down in that hole?' said the son. 'I must go and see!' In he jumped, [115] and down he went. Suddenly he found himself in the midst of a splendid palace, and a number of obsequious servants gathered round him. They all bowed to the ground, and said, 'Your lordship! your lordship!' and asked him what he 'pleased to want.' So there he was, dressed like a clodhopper, and all these servants dressed like princes, bowing and scraping to him. 'What do I want?' said the lad; 'most of all, I want a dinner.' Immediately they brought him a banquet of a dinner, and waited on him all the time. Dinner over, they dressed him like a prince. By-and-by there came in an ugly old hag, as ugly as a witch, who said, 'Good morning, Prince; are you come to marry me?' 'I'm no prince; and I'm not come to marry you most certainly!' replied the youth. But all the servants standing round made all sorts of gesticulations that he should say 'yes.' 'It's no use mouthing at me,' said the lad; 'I shall never say "yes" to that!' But they went on making signs all round that he should say 'yes,' till at last they bewildered him so, that, almost without knowing what he did, he said 'yes.' Directly he had said 'yes,' there were thunder and lightning, and thunderbolts, and meteors, and howling of wind, and storm of hail. The youth felt in great fear; but the servants said: 'It is all right. She you thought an old hag is indeed a beautiful princess of eighteen, but she was under a spell; by consenting to marry her you have ended that spell, if you can only stand through the fear of this storm for three days and three nights, no harm can come to you, and we also shall all be set free.' The whole apartment now seemed on fire, and when that ceased for a time, it seemed to rain fire all around. For two days he managed to endure, but on the third day he got so frightened that he ran away. He had not much bettered his condition, however; for, if he had got away from the magic storms of the under world, he had come into real storms in the actual world, and there he was alone in the Campagna, starving and destitute again. At last an old man appeared, who said to him: 'Why were you so foolish as to run away? You were told no harm could happen to you. Now you have nearly lost all. There is, however, one remedy left. Go on to the top of that high mountain, and gather the grass that grows there, and bring back a large bundle of it, and give it to these people to eat, and that will finish what you have begun. You will marry the princess, and share her kingdom; and all her people will be set free. For all those who waited on you as servants are noblemen of her court, who are under a spell.' 'How am I to get up to the top of that high mountain?' said the youth; 'it would take me a life of weariness to arrive there!' 'Take this divining-rod,' said the old man, 'and whatever difficulty comes in your way, touch it with this wand, and it will disappear.' The youth took the wand, and bent his steps towards the mountain. There were rivers to be crossed, and steep places to be climbed, and many perils to be encountered, but the wand overcame them all. Arrived at the top, he saw a plat of fine, long grass growing, which he made no doubt was the grass he had to take. But he thought within himself, 'If this wand can do so much, it can surely give me also a house and a dinner; and, then, why should I toil down this mountain again at all!' 'Rod! rod! give me a nice little house!' he commanded; [116] and there was a nice little house on the top of the mountain. 'Rod! rod! give me a good dinner!' and a good dinner was spread on the table. And thus it was with everything he wanted; so he went on living on the top of the mountain, without thinking of those he had to deliver in the hole under the earth. Suddenly, there stood the old man. [117] 'You were not sent here to amuse yourself,' said he, severely. 'You were sent to fetch the means of delivering others;' and he took the wand away from him, and touched the casino, and it disappeared, and he was once more left destitute. 'If you would repair the past,' said the old man, as he went away, 'gather even now a bundle of grass and take it, and perhaps you will be in time yet; but you will have to toil alone, for you have forfeited the rod. And now, remember this counsel: whoever meets you by the way and asks to buy that grass, sell it to no man, or you are undone.' As there was nothing else to be done, the youth set to work and cut some grass, and then terrible was the way he had to walk to get down again. Storms of fire broke continually over him, and every moment it seemed as though he would be precipitated to the bottom. As he reached the plain a traveller met him. 'Oh, you have some of that grass,' said he. 'I was just going up the mountain to get some. If you will give it me, and save my journey, I will give you a prancing horse, all covered with gold trappings studded with precious stones.' But this time the youth began to pay more attention to the injunctions laid upon him, and he shook his head, and walked on. 'Give it me,' continued the stranger, 'and I will give you in return for it a casino of your own in the Campagna, where you may live all your life.' But the youth shook his head, and continued his way, without so much as answering him. 'Give it me,' said the stranger the third time, 'and I will give you gold enough to make you rich all your days.' But the youth stood out the third temptation as well as the other two, and then the stranger disappeared. Without further hindrance he arrived at the chicory-hole, let himself down, and gave the grass to all the people to eat, who were half dead with waiting so long for him; and as they ate, the spell ceased. Only as he had cut the grass in an indolent sort of way, he had not brought so large a quantity as he ought, and there was one poor maiden left for whose deliverance the provision sufficed not. Meantime the whole face of the country was changed. The plain was covered with flourishing cities; over the chicory-hole was a splendid palace, where the maiden, who had under the spell looked like an old hag, took up her abode, and where the old man had promised that he should live with her for his reward. This reward he now came to claim. 'But you have not completed your task,' said the princess. 'I think I have done a pretty good deal,' answered the youth. 'But there is that one who is yet undelivered.' 'Oh, I can't help about one. She must manage the best way she can.' 'That won't do,' said the princess. 'If you want to have me, you must complete your work.' So he had to toil all the way up to the top of the mountain, and all the way down again, and at last the work was complete. Then the princess married him, and all went wondrously well. [118] THE TRANSFORMATION-DONKEY. [119] There was once a poor chicory-seller: all chicory-sellers are poor, but this was a very poor one, and he had a large family of daughters and two sons. The daughters he left at home with their mother, but the two sons he took with him to gather chicory. While they were out gathering chicory one day, a great bird flew down before them and dropped an egg and then flew away again. The boys picked up the egg and brought it to their father, because there were some figures like strange writing on it which they could not read; but neither could the father read the strange writing, so he took the egg to a farmer. [120] The farmer read the writing, and it said:-- 'Whoso eats my head, he shall be an emperor.' 'Whoso eats my heart, he shall never want for money.' 'Ho, ho!' said the farmer to himself, 'it won't do to tell the fellow this; I must manage to eat both the head and the heart myself.' So he said, 'The meaning of it is that whoever eats the bird will make a very good dinner; so to-morrow when the bird comes back, as she doubtless will to lay another egg, have a good stick ready and knock her down; then you can make a fire, and bake it between the stones, and I will come and eat it with you if you like.' The poor chicory-seller thought his fortune was made when a farmer offered to dine with him, and the hours seemed long enough till next morning came. With next morning, however, came the bird again. The chicory-seller was ready with his stick and knocked her down, and the boys made a fire and cooked the bird. But as they were not very apt at the trussing and cooking, the head dropped into the fire, and the youngest boy said: 'This will never do to serve up, all burnt as it is;' so he ate it. The heart also fell into the fire and got burnt, and the eldest boy said: 'This will never do to serve up, all burnt as it is;' so he ate that. By-and-by the farmer came, and they all sat down on a bank--the farmer quite jovial at the idea of the immense advantage he was going to gain, and the chicory-seller quite elated at the idea of entertaining a farmer. 'Bring forward the roast, boys,' said the father; and the boys brought the bird. 'What have you done with the head?' exclaimed the farmer, the moment he saw the bird. 'Oh, it got burnt, and I ate it,' said the younger boy. The merchant ground his teeth and stamped his foot, but he dared not say why he was so angry; so he sat silent while the chicory-seller took out his knife [121] and cut the bird up in portions. 'Give me the piece with the heart, if I may choose,' said the merchant; 'I'm very fond of birds' hearts.' 'Certainly, any part you like,' replied the chicory-seller, nervously turning all the pieces over and over again; 'but I can't find any heart. Boys, had the bird no heart?' 'Yes, papa,' answered the elder brother, 'it had a heart, sure enough; but it tumbled into the fire and got burnt, and so I ate it.' There was no object in disguising his fury any longer, so the farmer exclaimed testily, 'Thank you, I'll not have any then; the head and the heart are just the only parts of a bird I care to eat.' And so saying he turned on his heel and went away. 'Look, boys, what you've done! You've thrown away the best chance we ever had in our lives!' cried the father in despair. [122] 'After the farmer had taken dinner with us he must have asked us to dine with him, and, as one civility always brings another, there is no saying what it might not have led to. However, as you have chosen to throw the chance away, you may go and look out for yourselves. I've done with you.' And with a sound cudgelling [123] he drove them away. The two boys, left to themselves, wandered on till they came to a stable, when they entered the yard and asked to be allowed to do some work or other as a means of subsistence. 'I've nothing for you to do,' said the landlord; 'but, as it's late, you may sleep on the straw there, on the condition that you go about your business to-morrow first thing.' The boys, glad to get a night's lodging on any condition, went to sleep in the straw. When the elder brother woke in the morning he found a box of sequins [124] under his head. 'How could this have come here,' soliloquised the boy, 'unless the host had put it there to see if we were honest? Well, thank God, if we're poor there's no danger of either of us taking what doesn't belong to us.' So he took the box to the host, and said: 'There's your box of sequins quite safe. You needn't have taken the trouble to test our honesty in that way.' The host was very much surprised, but he thought the best way was to take the money and say nothing but 'I'm glad to see you're such good boys.' So he gave them breakfast and some provisions for the way. Next night they found themselves still in the open country and no inn near, and they were obliged to be content to sleep on the bare ground. Next morning when they woke the younger boy again found a box of sequins under his head. 'Only think of that host not being satisfied with trying us once, but to come all this way after us to test our honesty again. However, I suppose we must take it back to him.' So they walked all the way back to the host and said: 'Here's your box of sequins back; as we didn't steal it the first time it was not likely we should take it the second time.' The host was more and more astonished; but he took the money without saying anything, only he praised the boys for being so good and gave them a hearty meal. And they went their way, taking a new direction. The next night the younger brother said: 'Do you know I've my doubts about the host having put that box of sequins under your head. How could he have done it out in the open country without our seeing him? To-night I will watch, and if he doesn't come, and in the morning there is another box of sequins, it will be a sign that it is your own.' He did so, and next morning there was another box of sequins. So they decided it was honestly their own, and they carried it by turns and journeyed on. About noon they came to a great city where the emperor was lately dead, and all the people were in great excitement about choosing another emperor. The population was all divided in factions, each of which had a candidate, and none would let the candidate of the others reign. There was so much fighting and quarrelling in the streets that the brothers got separated, and saw each other no more. At this time it happened that it was the turn of the younger brother to be carrying the box of sequins. When the sentinels at the gate saw a stranger coming in carrying a box they said, 'We must see what this is,' and they took him to the minister. When the minister saw his box was full of sequins he said, 'This must be our emperor.' And all the people said, 'Yes, this is our emperor. Long live our emperor!' And thus the boy became an emperor. But the elder brother had entered unperceived into the town, and went to ask hospitality in a house where was a woman with a beautiful daughter; so they let him stay. That night also there came a box of sequins under his head; so he went out and bought meat and fuel and all manner of provisions, and gave them to the mother, and said, 'Because you took me in when I was poor last night, I have brought you all these provisions out of gratitude,' and for the beautiful daughter he bought silks and damasks, and ornaments of gold. But the daughter said, 'How comes it, tell me, that you, who were a poor footsore wayfarer last night, have now such boundless riches at command?' And because she was beautiful and spoke kindly to him, he suspected no evil, but told her, saying, 'Every morning when I wake now, I find a box of sequins under my head.' 'And how comes it,' said she, 'that you find a box of sequins under your head now, and not formerly?' 'I do not know,' he answered, 'unless it be because one day when I was out with father gathering chicory, a great bird came and dropt an egg with some strange writing on it, which we could not read. But a farmer read it for us; only he would not tell us what it said, but that we should cook the bird and eat it. While we were cooking it the heart fell into the fire and got burnt, and I ate it: and when the farmer heard this he grew very angry. I think, therefore, the writing on the egg said that he who ate the heart of the bird should have many sequins.' After this they spent the day pleasantly together; but the daughter put an emetic in his wine at supper, and so made him bring up the bird's heart, which she kept for herself, and the next morning when he woke there was no box of sequins under his head. When he rose in the morning also the beautiful girl and her mother turned him out of the house, and he wandered forth again. At last, being weary and full of sorrow, he sat down on the ground by the side of a stream crying. Immediately three fairies appeared to him and asked him why he wept. And when he told them, they said to him: 'Weep no more, for instead of the bird's heart we give you this sheepskin jacket, the pockets of which will always be full of sequins. How many soever you may take out they will always remain full.' Then they disappeared; but he immediately went back to the house of the beautiful girl, taking her rich and fine presents; but she said to him, 'How comes it that you, who had no money left when you went away, have now the means to buy all these fine presents?' Then he told her of the gift of the three fairies, and they let him sleep in the house again, but the daughter called her maid to her and said: 'Make a sheepskin jacket exactly like that in the stranger's room.' So she made one, and they put it in his room, and took away the one the fairies had given him, and in the morning they drove him from the house again. Then he went and sat down by the stream and wept again; but the fairies came and asked him why he wept; and he told them, saying, 'Because they have driven me away from the house where I stayed, and I have no home to go to, and this jacket has no more sequins in the pockets.' Then the fairies looked at the jacket, and they said, 'This is not the jacket we gave you; it has been changed by fraud:' so they gave him in place of it a wand, and they said, 'With this wand strike the table, and whatever you may desire, be it meat or drink or clothes, or whatsoever you may want, it shall come upon the table.' The next day he went back to the house of the woman and her daughter, and sat down without saying anything, but he struck the table with his wand, wishing for a great banquet, and immediately it was covered with the choicest dishes. There was no need to ask him questions this time, for they saw in what his gift consisted, and in the night, when he was asleep, they took his wand away. In the morning they drove him forth out of the house, and he went back to the stream and sat down to cry. Again the fairies appeared to him and comforted him; but they said, 'This is the last time we may appear to you. Here is a ring; keep it on your hand; for if you lose this gift there is nothing more we may do for you;' and they went away. But he immediately returned to the house of the woman and her beautiful daughter. They let him in, 'Because,' they said, 'doubtless the fairies have given him some other gift of which we may take profit.' And as he sat there he said, 'All the other gifts of the fairies have I lost, but this one they have given me now I cannot lose, because it is a ring which fits my finger, and no one can take it from my hand.' 'And of what use is your ring?' asked the beautiful daughter. 'Its use is that whatever I wish for while I have it on I obtain directly, whatever it may be.' 'Then wish,' said she, 'that we may be both together on the top of that high mountain, and a sumptuous merenda [125] spread out for us.' 'To be sure!' he replied, and he repeated her wish. Instantly they found themselves on the top of the high mountain with a plentiful merenda before them; but she had a vial of opium with her, and while his head was turned away she poured the opium into his wine. Presently after this he fell into a sound sleep, so sound that there was no fear of waking him. Immediately she took the ring from his finger and put it on her own; then she wished that she might be replaced at home and that he might be left on the top of the mountain. And so it was done. In the morning when he woke and found himself all alone on the top of the high mountain and his ring gone, he wept bitter tears, and felt too weary to attempt the descent of the steep mountain side. For three days he remained here weary and weeping, and then, becoming faint from hunger, he took some of the herbs that grew on the mountain top for food. As soon as he had eaten these he was turned into a donkey, [126] but as he retained his human intelligence, he said to himself, this herb has its uses, and he filled one of the panniers on his back with it. Then he came down from the mountain, and when he was at the foot of it, being hungry with the long journey, he ate of the grass that grew there, and, behold! he was transformed back into his natural shape; so he filled the other basket with this kind of grass and went his way. Having dressed himself like a street seller, he took the basket of the herb which had the property of changing the eater into a donkey, and stood under the window of the house where he had been so evil entreated, and cried, 'Fine salad! fine salad! who will buy my fine salad?' [127] 'What is there so specially good about your salad?' asked the maid, looking out. 'My young mistress is particularly fond of salad, so if yours is so very superfine, you had better come up.' He did not wait to be twice told. As soon as he saw the beautiful daughter, he said, 'This is fine salad, indeed, the finest of the fine, all fresh gathered, and the first of its kind that ever was sold.' 'Very likely it's the first of its kind that ever was sold,' said she; 'but I don't like to buy things I haven't tried; it may turn out not to be nice.' 'Oh, try it, try it freely; don't buy without trying;' and he picked one of the freshest and crispest bunches. She took one in her hand and bit a few blades, and no sooner had she done so than she too became a donkey. Then he put the panniers on her back and drove her all over the town, constantly cudgelling her till she sank under the blows. Then one who saw him belabour her thus, said, 'This must not be; you must come and answer before the emperor for thus belabouring the poor brute;' but he refused to go unless he took the donkey with him; so they went to the emperor and said, 'Here is one who is belabouring his donkey till she has sunk under his blows, and he refuses to come before the emperor to answer his cruelty unless he bring his donkey with him.' And the emperor made answer, 'Let him bring the beast with him.' So they brought him and his donkey before the emperor. When he found himself before the emperor he said, 'All these must go away; to the emperor alone can I tell why I belabour my donkey.' So the emperor commanded all the people to go to a distance while he took him and his donkey apart. As soon as he found himself alone with the emperor he said, 'See, it is I, thy brother!' and he embraced him. Then he told him all that had befallen him since they parted. Then said the emperor to the donkey, 'Go now with him home, and show him where thou hast laid all the things--the bird's heart, the sheepskin jacket, the wand, and the ring, that he may bring them hither; and if thou deliver them up faithfully I will command that he give thee of that grass to eat which shall give thee back thy natural form.' So they went back to the house and fetched all the things, and the emperor said, 'Come thou now and live with me, and give me of thy sequins, and I will share the empire with thee.' Thus they reigned together. But to the donkey they gave of the grass to eat, which restored her natural form, only that her beauty was marred by the cudgelling she had received. And she said, 'Had I not been so wilful and malicious I had now been empress.' [In these stories we have had the actions of three Fate, somewhat resembling English fairies; in the following, we meet with three who, as often happens in Roman stories, are nothing better than witches.] SIGNOR LATTANZIO. They say there was a duke who wandered over the world seeking a beautiful maiden to make his wife. After many years he came to an inn where was a lady, who asked him what he sought. 'I have journeyed half the earth over,' answered the duke, 'to find a wife to my fancy, and have not found one; and now I go back to my native city as I came.' 'How sad!' answered the lady. 'I have a daughter who is the most beautiful maiden that ever was made; but three fairies have taken possession of her, and locked her up in a casino in the Campagna, and no one can get to see her.' 'Only tell me where she is,' replied the duke, 'and I promise you I'll get to see her, in spite of all the fairies in the world.' 'It is useless!' replied the lady. 'So many have tried and failed. So will you.' 'Not I!' answered the duke. 'Tell me how they failed, and I will do otherwise.' 'I have told so many, and all say the same as you, and all go to seek her, but none ever come back.' 'Never mind! Tell it once again, and I promise you it shall be the last time, for I will surely come back.' 'If you are bent on sacrificing yourself uselessly,' proceeded the lady, 'this is the story. You must go to the mountain of Russia, and at the foot of it there will meet you three most beautiful maidens, who will come round you, and praise you, and flatter you, and pour out all manner of blandishments, and will ask you to go into their palace with them, and will entreat you so much that you will not be able to resist; then you will go into their palace with them, and they will turn you into a cat, for they are three fairies. But, on the other hand, if you can resist only for the space of one hour to all they will say to you, then you will have conquered, and they will be turned into cats, and you will have free access to my daughter to release her.' 'I will go,' said the duke firmly; and he rose up and went his way to the mountain of Russia. 'Now, if all these other men have failed in this same attempt,' he mused within himself as he went along, 'it behoves me to be prudent. I know what I will do; I will put a bandage over my eyes, and then I shan't see the fairies, and their blandishments will have no power over me.' And so he did. Then the fairies came out to him and said, 'Signor Lattanzio! welcome, welcome! how fair you are; do take the bandage off and let us see you; how noble you look. Do let us see your face? We are dying to have you with us!' But the duke remained firm, and seemed to take no heed, though their voices were so soft and persuasive that he longed to look at them, or even to lift up one corner of the bandage and take a peep. But he remained firm. 'Signor Lattanzio! Signor Lattanzio! Don't be so ungallant,' pursued the fairies. 'Here are we at your feet, as it were, begging you to give us your company, and you will not so much as speak to us, or even look at us!' But the duke remained firm, and seemed to take no heed, though his head was turned by their accents, and he felt that if he could only go with them as they wished he should want no more. But he remained firm. 'Signor Lattanzio! Signor Lattanzio! Signor Lattanzio!' cried the three fairies disdainfully, for now they began to suspect in right good earnest that at last one had come who was too strong for them. 'The fact is you are afraid of us. If you are a man, show you have no fear, and come and talk with us.' But the duke remained firm, though a vanity, which had nearly lost him, whispered that it would be a grander triumph to look them in the face and yet resist them, than to conquer without having ventured to look at them, yet prudence prevailed, and he remained firm. So they went on, and the duke felt that the hour was drawing to a close. He took out his repeater and struck it, and the hour of trial was over. 'Traitor!' cried the three fairies, and in the same instant they were turned into cats. Then the duke went into their palace, and took their wand, and with it he could open the gates of the casino where the lady's daughter was imprisoned. When he saw her, he found her indeed fairer than the fairest; fairer even than his conception. When, therefore, with the wand he had restored all the cats that were upon the mountain to their natural shapes as those that had failed in their enterprise, he took her home with him to be his wife. [As this was told me, the sign by which the duke was to recognise the three fairies was, that they were to be sweeping the ground with their breasts. The incident seemed so extravagant, that I omitted it in writing out the story; I mention it, however, now because I find the same in Note 1, on an Albanian story, to p. 177, in Ralston's 'Russian Folk Tales'; I met the incident subsequently in another Roman story. The idea which has prompted this tale is apparently the same as that which has given rise to the story of 'Odysseus and the Seirens.' See Cox's 'Aryan Mythology,' II. 242.] HOW CAJUSSE WAS MARRIED. [128] There was a poor tailor starving for poverty because he could get no work. One day there knocked at his door a good-natured-looking old man; the tailor's son opened the door, and he won the boy's confidence immediately, saying he was his uncle. He also gave him a piastre [129] to buy a good dinner. When the father came home and found him installed, and heard that he called himself his son's uncle, and would, therefore, be his own brother, he was much surprised; but as he found he was so rich and so generous, he thought it better not to dispute his word. The visitor stayed a whole month, providing all expenses so freely all the time that everyone was delighted with him, and when at last he came to take leave, and proposed that the tailor's boy should go with him and learn some business at his expense, the son himself was all eagerness to go, and the father, too, willingly gave his consent. As soon as they had gone a good way outside the gates the stranger said to the boy, 'It is all a dodge about my calling myself your uncle. I am not your uncle a bit; only I want a strong daring sort of boy to do something for me which I am too old to do myself. I am a wizard, [130] and if you do what I tell you I will reward you well; but if you attempt to resist or escape you may be sure you will suffer for it.' 'Tell me what I have to do, before we talk about resisting and escaping,' replied the boy; 'maybe I shan't mind doing it.' They were walking on as they talked, and the boy observed that they got over much more ground than by ordinary walking, and they were now in a wild desolate country. The wizard said nothing till they reached a spot where there was a flat stone in the ground. Here he stopped, and as he lifted up the stone, he said, 'This is what you have to do. I will let you down with this rope, and you must go all along through the dark till you come to a place where is a beautiful garden. At the gate of the garden sits a fierce dog, which will fly out at you, and bark fearfully. I will give you some bread and cheese to throw to him, and, while he is devouring the bread and cheese, you must pass on. Then all manner of terrible noises will cry after you, calling you back; but take no heed of them, and, above all, do not look back; if you look back you are lost. As soon as you are out of sound of the voices you will see on a stone an old lantern, take that and bring it back to me.' The boy showed no unwillingness to try his fortune, and the magician gave him the bread and cheese he had promised, and let him down by a rope. He gave him also a ring, saying, 'If anything else should happen, after you have got the lantern, to prevent your bringing it away, rub this ring and wish at the same time for deliverance, and you will be delivered.' The boy did all the wizard had told him, and something more besides; for when he got into the garden he found the trees all covered with beautiful fruits, which were all so many precious stones; with these he filled his pockets till he could hardly move for the weight of them; then he came back to the opening of the cave, and called to the wizard to pull him up. 'Send up the lantern first,' said the magician, 'and I'll see about pulling you up afterwards.' But the boy was afraid lest he should be left behind; so he refused to send up the lantern unless the wizard hauled him up with it. This the wizard would by no means do. 'Ah! the youngster will be frightened if I shut him up in the dark cave a bit,' said he, and closed the stone, meaning to call to him by-and-by to see if he had come round to a more submissive mind. The boy, however, finding himself shut up alone in the cave, bethought him of the ring, and rubbed it, wishing the while to be at home. Instantly he found himself there, lantern in hand. His parents were very much astonished at all he told them of his adventures, and, poor as they were, were very glad to have him safe back. 'I wonder what the magician wanted this ugly old lantern for,' said the boy to himself one day. 'It must be good for something or he would not have been so anxious to have it; let me try rubbing it, and see if that answers as well as rubbing the ring.' He no sooner did so than One [131] appeared, and asked his pleasure. 'A table well laid for dinner!' said the boy; and immediately a table appeared covered with all sorts of good things, with real silver spoons and forks. [132] Then he called on his mother and father, and they made a good meal; after that they lived for a month on the price of the silver which the mother took out and pawned. [133] One day she found the town all illuminated. What is going on?' she asked of the neighbours. 'The daughter of the Sultan is going to marry the son of the Grand Vizier, and there is a distribution of alms to the people on the occasion; that is why they rejoice.' Such was the answer. When she came home she told her son what she had heard. He said, 'That will not be, because the daughter of the Sultan will have to marry me!' but she only laughed at him. The next day he brought her three neat little baskets filled with the precious stones which he had gathered in the under-ground garden, and he said, 'These you must take to the Sultan, and say I want to marry his daughter.' But she was afraid and would not go; and when at last he made her go, she stood in a corner apart behind all the people, for there was a public audience, and came back and said she could not get at the Sultan; but he made her go again the next two days following, and she always did the same. The last day, however, the Sultan sent for her, saying, 'Who is that old woman standing in the corner quite apart? bring her to me.' So they brought her to him all trembling. 'Don't be afraid, old woman,' said the Sultan. 'What have you to say?' 'My son, who must have lost his senses, sent me to say he wanted to marry the daughter of the Sultan,' said the old woman, crying for very fear; 'and he sends these baskets as a present.' When the Sultan took the baskets and saw of what great value were the contents, he said, 'Don't be afraid, old woman; go back and tell your son I will give him an answer in a month.' She went back and told her son; but at the end of a week the princess was married, nevertheless, to the son of the Grand Vizier. 'There!' said the mother, when she heard it; 'I thought the Grand Sultan was only making game of you. Was it likely that the daughter of the Sultan should marry a beggar, [134] like you?' 'Don't be in too great a hurry, mother,' replied the lad; 'leave it to me, leave it to me.' [135] With that he went and took out the old lantern, and rubbed it till One appeared asking his pleasure. 'Go to-night, at three hours of night,' [136] was his reply, 'and take the daughter of the Sultan and lay her in a poor wallet in the out-house here.' At three hours of night he went into the out-house and found the princess on the poor wallet as he had commanded. Then he laid his sabre on the bed between them, and sat down and talked to her; but she was too frightened to answer him. This he did three nights running. The princess, however, went crying to her mother, and told her all that had happened. The Sultana could not imagine how it was. 'But,' she said, 'something wrong there must be;' and she went and told the Sultan, and he, too, said it was all wrong, and that the marriage must be annulled. Also the son of the Grand Vizier went to his father and complained, saying, 'Every night my wife disappears just at bed-time, and, though the door is locked, I see nothing of her till the next morning.' His father too said, 'There must be something wrong,' and when the Sultan said the marriage must be annulled, the Grand Vizier was quite willing. So the marriage was annulled. At the end of the month, the lad made his mother go back to the Sultan for his answer, and he gave her three other baskets of precious stones to take with her. The Sultan, when he saw the man had so many precious stones to give away, thought he must be in truth a prince in disguise, and he answered, 'He may come and see us.' He also said, 'What is his name that I may know him?' And his mother said, 'His name is Cajusse.' So she went home and told her son what the sultan had said. Then he rubbed the lantern and asked for a suit to wear, all dazzling with gold and silver, and a richly caparisoned horse, and six pages in velvet dresses, four to ride behind, and one to go before with a purse scattering alms to the people, and one to cry, 'Make place for the Signor Cajusse!' Thus he came to the sultan, and the sultan received him well, and gave him his daughter to be his wife; but Cajusse had brought the lantern with him, and he rubbed it, and ordered that there should stand by the side of the sultan's palace a palace a great deal handsomer, furnished with every luxury, and that all the windows should be encrusted round with precious stones, all but one. This was all done as he had said, and he took the princess home with him to live there. Then he showed her all over the beautiful palace, and showed her the windows all encrusted with gems, 'and in this vacant one,' said he, 'we will put those in the six baskets I sent you before the sultan consented to our marriage; 'and they did so; but they did not suffice. But the magician meantime had learnt by his incantations what had happened, and in order to get possession of the lantern he watched till Cajusse was gone out hunting; then he came by dressed as a pedlar of metal work, [137] and offered to exchange old lanterns for new ones. The princess thought to make a capital bargain by exchanging Cajusse's shabby old lantern for a brand new one, and thus fell into his snare. The magician no sooner had possession of it than he rubbed it, and ordered that the palace and all that was in it should be transported on to the high seas. The sultan happened to look out of window just as the palace of Cajusse had disappeared. 'What is this?' he cried. And when he found the palace was really gone, he uttered so many furious threats that the people, who loved Cajusse well, ran out to meet him as he came home from hunting, and told him of all that had happened, and warned him of the sultan's wrath. Instead of going back to be put in prison by the sultan therefore, he rubbed his ring and desired to be taken to the place wherever the princess was. Instantly he found himself on a floating rock in mid ocean, at the foot of the palace. Then he went to the gate and sounded the horn. [138] The princess knew her husband's note of sounding and ran to the window. Great was her delight when she saw that it was really he, and she told him that there was a horrid old man who had possession of the palace, and persecuted her every day to marry him, saying her husband was dead. And she, to keep him at a distance, yet without offending him lest he should kill her, had said: 'No, I have always resolved never to marry an old man, because then if he dies I should be left alone, and that would be too sad.' 'But when I say that,' she continued, 'he always says, "You need not be afraid of that, for I shall never die!" so I don't know what to say next.' Then the prince said, 'Make a great feast to-night, and say you will marry him if he tells you one thing: say it is impossible that he should never die, for all people die some day or other; it is impossible but that there should be some one thing or other that is fatal to him; ask him what that one fatal thing is, and he, thinking you want to know it that you may guard him against it, will tell; then come and tell me what he says.' The princess did all her husband had told her, and then came back and repeated what the magician had said: 'One must go into the wood,' she repeated, 'where is the beast called hydra, and cut off all his seven heads. In the head which is in the middle of the other six, if it is split open, will be found a leveret; if this leveret is caught and his head split open there is a bird; if this bird is caught and his head split open, there is in it a precious stone. If that stone is put under my pillow I must die.' The prince did not wait for anything more: he rubbed the ring, and desired to be carried to the wood where the hydra lived. Instantly he found himself face to face with the hydra, who came forward spueing fire. But Cajusse had also asked for a coat of mail and a mighty sword, and with one blow he cut off the seven heads. Then he called to his servant to take notice which was the head which was in the middle of the other six, and the servant pointed it out. Then he said, 'Watch when I split it open, for a leveret will jump out. Beware lest it escapes.' The servant stood to catch it, but it was so swift it ran past the servant. The prince, however, was swifter than it, and overtook it and killed it. Then he said, 'Beware when I split open the head of the leveret. A little bird will fly out; mind that it escapes not, for we are undone if it escapes.' So the servant stood ready to catch the bird, but the bird was so swift it flew past the servant. The prince, however, was swifter than the bird, and he overtook it and killed it, and split open its head and took out the precious stone. Then he rubbed the ring and bid it take him back to the princess. The princess was waiting for him at the window. 'Here is the stone,' said the prince; and he gave it to her, and with it a bottle of opium. 'To-night,' he said, 'you must say you are ready to marry the wizard; make a great feast again, and have ready some of this opium in his wine. He will sleep heavily, and not see what you are doing; then you can put the stone under his pillow and when he is dead call me.' All this the princess did. She told the wizard that she was now ready to do as he wished. The magician was so delighted that he ordered a great banquet. 'Here,' said the princess at the banquet, 'is a little of my father's choicest wine, which I had with me in the palace when it was brought hither,' and she poured out to him to drink of the wine mixed with opium. After this, when the wizard went to bed, he was heavy and took no notice what she did, and thus she put the stone under his pillow. No sooner did he, therefore, lay his head on the pillow than he gave three terrible yells, turned himself round and round three times, and was dead. There was no need to call the prince, for he had heard the death yells, and immediately came up. They found the lantern, after they had hunted everywhere in vain, tied on to the magician's body under all his clothes, for he had hid it there that he might never part with it. By its power Cajusse ordered the palace to be removed back to its place, and there they lived happily for ever afterwards. [The introduction into this story of the dog to be appeased with a sop, and the hydra to be slain, no trace of either occurring in 'Aladdin's Lamp,' is noticeable; the incident of the unjewelled window loses its point, probably through want of memory. The transporting the palace into the middle of the sea is a novel introduction; but the most remarkable change is in the mode of compassing the death of the magician. This episode as here described enters into a vast number of tales. It occurs in a Hungarian one I have in MS.:--A king directs in dying that his three sons shall go out to learn experience by adventure before they succeed to the throne. The first two nights of the journey the two elder brothers keep watch in turn, while the others sleep, and each kills a dragon. The third night, István (Stephen), the youngest, keeps watch, and is enticed away by the cries for help of a frog, which he delivers, but when he comes back the watch-fire is out. He has now to wander in search of fresh fire; he sees a spark in the distance and makes for it; by the way he meets 'Dame Midnight,' who tells him the fire is a week's journey off, so he binds her to a tree, and the same with 'The Lady Dawn,' so that it might not be day before his return. In a week he reaches the fire, but three giants guard it, who are laying siege to a vár (fortress) to obtain possession of three beautiful maidens, whom they destined to be the brides of the King of the Dwarfs and of the very two dragons his brothers had killed. But before they give him of their fire they say he must help them in the siege. He, however, kills them by stratagem, and makes his way into the princesses' sleeping apartment, takes three pledges of his having been there, and returns to his brothers. They continue their wanderings till they come to an inn where the three princesses and the king their father have established themselves in disguise, and make all who pass that way tell the tale of their adventures as a means of discovering who it was delivered them from the giants. The princes make themselves known, and the king bestows his daughters on them. As they drive home with their brides, they pass the Dwarf-King in a ditch by the roadside, who implores them to deliver him. The two elder brothers take no notice. István stops and helps him out. The dwarf with his supernatural strength thrusts István back into the ditch, and drives off with his bride. István sets out to search after and recover her; he meets the frog he delivered, who gives him supernatural aid, and leads him through heroic adventures in which he does service to other persons and animals, who in turn assist him by directing him to the palace of the Dwarf-King. Here exactly the same scene occurs between István and his bride as between Cajusse and the sultan's daughter, and they lay the same plan. But the Dwarf-King is more astute than the magician, and he at first tells her that his life's safety lies in his sceptre, on which she makes him give her the sceptre, 'that she may take care of it,' in reality intending to give it up to István. When he sees her so anxious for his safety, he tells her it is not in the sceptre, but he does not yet tell the truth; he next says it is in the royal mantle, and then in the crown (incidents proper to the version of Hungary, which sets so great store by the royal crown and mantle). Ultimately he confides that it resides in a golden cockchafer, inside a golden cock, inside a golden sheep, inside a golden stag, in the ninety-ninth sziget (island). She communicates all this to István. He overcomes the above-named series of golden animals by the aid of the animals he lately assisted, and thus recovers his bride. All these incidents (somewhat differently worked in), occur in the Norse tale of 'The Giant who had no Heart in His Body,' and in the Russian 'Koschei the Deathless,' and in many others. I have other of the 'Arabian Night' stories, told with the local colouring of characters and incidents proper to the neighbourhood of Rome; particularly various versions of 'The Forty Thieves,' leading to a number of Brigand stories, for which I have not space left in this volume.] LEGENDARY TALES AND ESEMPJ. WHEN JESUS CHRIST WANDERED ON EARTH. 1 One day the Madonna was carrying the Bambino through a lupin-field, and the stalks of the lupins rustled so, that she thought it was a robber coming to kill the Santo Bambino. [139] She turned, and sent a malediction over the lupin-field, and immediately the lupins all withered away and fell flat and dry on the ground, so that she could see there was no one hidden there. When she saw there was no one hidden there, she sent a benediction over the lupin-field, and the lupins all stood up straight again, fair and flourishing, and with tenfold greater produce than they had at the first. 2 One day when Jesus Christ was grown up, and went about preaching, He came to a certain village and knocked at the first door, and said, 'Give me a lodging.' [140] But the master of the house shut the door in his face, saying, 'Here is nothing for you.' He came to the next house, and received the same answer; and the next, and the next, no one in all the village would take Him in. Weary and footsore, He came to the cottage of a poor little old woman, who lived all alone on the outskirts, and knocked there. 'Who is there?' [141] asked the old woman. 'The Master with the Apostles,' answered Jesus Christ. The old woman opened the door, and let them all in. 'Have you no fire?' asked Jesus Christ. 'No fire have I,' answered the old woman. Then Jesus Christ blessed the hearth, and there came a pile of wood on it, and a fire was soon made. 'Have you nothing to give us to eat?' asked Jesus Christ. 'Nothing worth offering you,' answered the old woman; 'here is a little fish' (it was a little fish, that, not so long as my hand) 'and some crusts of bread, which they gave me at the eating-shop in charity just now, and that's all I have;' and she set both on the table. 'Have you no wine?' again asked Jesus Christ. 'Only this flask of wine and water they gave me there, too;' and she set it before Him. Then Jesus Christ blessed all the things, and handed them round the table, and they all dined off them, and at the end there remained just the same as at the beginning. When they had finished, He said to the old woman, 'This fire, with the bread, and the fish, and the wine, will always remain to you, and never diminish as long as you live. And now follow Me a little way.' The Master went on before with His Apostles, and the old woman followed after, a little way behind. And behold, as they walked along, all the houses of that inhospitable village fell down one after the other, and all the inhabitants were buried under them. Only the cottage of the old woman was left standing. When the judgment was complete, Jesus Christ said to her, 'Now, return home.' [142] As she turned to go, St. Peter said to her, 'Ask for the salvation of your soul.' And she went and asked it of Jesus Christ, and He replied, 'Let it be granted you!' 3 One day as He was going into the Temple, He saw two men quarrelling before the door: a young man and an old man. The young man wanted to go in first, and the old man was vindicating the honour of his grey hairs. 'What is the matter?' asked Jesus Christ; and they showed Him wherefore they strove. Jesus Christ said to the young man, 'If you are desirous to go in first, you must accept the state to which honour belongs,' and He touched him, and he became an old man, bowed in gait, feeble, and grey-haired, while to the old man He gave the compensation for the insult he had received, by investing him with the youth of the other. 4 In the days when Jesus Christ roamed the earth, He found Himself one day with His disciples in the Campagna, far from anything like home. The only shelter in sight was a cottage of wretched aspect. Jesus Christ knocked at the door. 'Who is there?' said a tremulous voice from within. 'The Master with the disciples,' answered Jesus Christ. The man didn't know what He meant; nevertheless, the tone was too gentle to inspire fear, so he opened, and let them all in. 'Have you no fire to give us?' asked Jesus Christ. 'I'm only a poor beggar. I never have any fire,' said the man. 'But these poor things,' said Jesus Christ, 'are stiff with cold and weariness; they must have a fire.' Then Jesus Christ stood on the hearth, and blessed it, and there came a great blazing fire of heaped-up wood. When the beggar saw it, he fell on his knees in astonishment. 'Have you no food to set before us?' asked Jesus Christ. 'I have one loaf of Indian corn, [143] which is at your service,' answered the beggar. 'One loaf is not enough,' answered Jesus Christ; 'have you nothing else at all?' 'Nothing at all about the place that can be eaten,' answered the beggar. 'Leastwise, I have one ewe, which is at your service.' 'That will do,' answered Jesus Christ; and he sent St. Peter to help the man to prepare it for dressing. 'Here is the mutton,' said the beggar; 'but I cannot cook it, because I have no lard.' [144] 'Look!' said Jesus Christ. The beggar looked on the hearth, and saw everything that was necessary ready for use. 'Now, then, bring the wine and the bread,' said Jesus Christ, when the meat was nearly ready. 'There is the only loaf I have,' said the beggar, setting the polenta loaf on the table; 'but, as for wine, I never see such a thing.' 'Is there none in the cellar?' asked Jesus Christ. 'In the cellar are only a dozen empty old broken wine-jars that have been there these hundred years; they are well covered with mould.' Jesus Christ told St. Peter to go down and see, and when he went down with the beggar, there was a whole ovenful of fresh-baked bread boiling hot, [145] and beyond, in the cellar, the jars, instead of being broken and musty, were all standing whole and upright, and filled with excellent wine. 'See how you told us falsely,' said St. Peter, to tease him. 'Upon my word, it was even as I said, before you came.' 'Then it is the Master who has done these wonderful things,' answered St. Peter. 'Praise Him!' Now the meat was cooked and ready, and they all sat down to table; but Jesus Christ took a bowl and placed it in the midst of the table and said, 'Let all the bones be put into this bowl;' and when they had finished he took the bones and threw them out of the window, and said, 'Behold, I give you an hundred for one.' After that they all laid them down and slept. In the morning when they opened the door to go, behold there were an hundred sheep grazing before the door. 'These sheep are yours,' said Jesus Christ; 'moreover, as long as you live, neither the bread in the oven nor the wine in the cellar shall fail;' and He passed out and the disciples after Him. But St. Peter remained behind, and said to the man who had entertained them, 'The Master has rewarded you generously, but He has one greater gift yet which He will give you if you ask Him.' 'What is it? tell me what is it?' said the beggar. 'The salvation of your soul,' answered St. Peter. 'Signore! Signore! add to all Thou hast given this further, the salvation of my soul,' cried the man. 'Let it be granted thee,' [146] answered the Lord, and passed on His way. 5 Another day Jesus Christ and His disciples dined at a tavern. [147] 'What's to pay?' said Jesus Christ, when they had finished their meal. 'Nothing at all,' answered the host. But the host had a little hunchback son, who said to him, 'I know some have found it answer to give these people food instead of making them pay for it; but suppose they forget to give us anything, we shall be worse off than if we had been paid in the regular way. I will tell you what I'll do now, so as to have a hold over them. I'll take one of our silver spoons and put it in the bag that one of them carries, and accuse them of stealing it.' Now St. Peter was a great eater, and when anything was left over from a good meal he was wont to put it by in a bag against a day when they had nothing. Into this bag therefore the hunchback put the silver spoon. When they had gone on a little way the young hunchback ran after them and said to Jesus Christ,-- 'Signore! one of these with you has stolen a spoon from us.' 'You are mistaken, friend; there is not one of them who would do such a thing.' 'Yes,' persevered the hunchback; 'it is that one who took it,' and he pointed to St. Peter. 'I!!' said St. Peter, getting very angry. 'How dare you to say such a thing of me!' But Jesus Christ made him a sign that he should keep silence. 'We will go back to your house and help you to look for what you have lost, for that none of us have taken the spoon is most certain,' He said; and He went back with the hunchback. 'There is nowhere to search,' answered the hunchback, 'but in that man's bag; I know it is there, because I saw him take it.' 'Then there's my bag inside out,' said St. Peter, as he cast the contents upon the floor. Of course the silver spoon fell clattering upon the bricks. 'There!' said the hunchback, insolently. 'Didn't I tell you it was there? You said it wasn't!' St. Peter was so angry he could not trust himself to speak; but Jesus Christ answered for him: 'Nay, I said not it was not there, but that none of these had taken it. And now we will see who it was put it there.' With that He motioned to them all to stand back, while He, standing in the midst and raising his eyes to Heaven, said solemnly, 'Let whoso put it in the bag be turned to stone!' Even as He spoke the hunchback was turned into stone. 6 There was another tavern, however, where the host was a different sort of man, and not only said he would take nothing when Jesus Christ and His disciples dined there, but really would never take anything; nor was it that by any miracle he had received advantages of another sort, but out of the respect and affection he bore the Master he deemed himself sufficiently paid by the honour of being allowed to minister to Him. One day when Jesus Christ and His disciples were going away on a journey, St. Peter went to this host and said, 'You have been very liberal to us all this time: if you were to ask for some gift, now, you would be sure to get it.' 'I don't know that there is anything that I want,' said the host. 'I have a thriving trade, which you see not only supplies all my wants, but leaves me the means of being liberal also; I have no wife to provide for, and no children to leave an inheritance to: so what should I ask for? There is one thing, to be sure, I should like. My only amusement is playing at cards: if He would give me the faculty of always winning, I should like that; it isn't that I care for what one wins, it is that it is nice to win. Do you think I might ask that?' 'I don't know,' said St. Peter, gravely. 'Still you might ask; He is very kind.' The host did ask, and Jesus Christ granted his desire. When St. Peter saw how easily He granted it, he said, 'If I were you, I should ask something more.' 'I really don't know what else I have to ask,' replied the host, 'unless it be that I have a fig-tree which bears excellent figs, but I never can get one of them for myself; they are always stolen before I get them. I wish He would order that whoever goes up to steal them might get stuck to the tree till I tell him he may come down.' 'Well,' said St. Peter, 'it is an odd sort of thing to ask, but you might try; He is very kind.' The host did ask, and Jesus Christ granted his request. When St. Peter saw that He granted it so easily, he said, 'If I were you I should ask something more.' 'Do you really think I might?' answered the host. 'There is one thing I have wanted to ask all along, only I didn't dare. But you encourage me, and He seems to take a pleasure in giving. I have always had a great wish to live four hundred years.' 'That is certainly a great deal to ask,' said St. Peter, 'but you might try; He is very kind.' The host did ask, and Jesus Christ granted his petition, and then went His way with His disciples. St. Peter remained last, and said to the host, 'Now run after him, and ask for the salvation of your soul.' ('St. Peter always told them all to ask that,' added the narrator in a confidential tone.) 'Oh, I can't ask anything more, I have asked so much,' said the host. 'But that is just the best thing of all, and what He grants the most willingly,' insisted St. Peter. 'Really?' said the host; and he ran after Jesus Christ, and said, 'Lord! who hast so largely shown me Thy bounty, grant me further the salvation of my soul.' 'Let it be granted!' said Jesus Christ; and continued His journey. All the things the host had asked he received, and life passed away very pleasantly, but still even four hundred years come to an end at last, and with the end of it came Death. 'What! is that you, Mrs. Death, [148] come already?' said the host. 'Why, it's time I should come, I think; it's not often I leave people in peace for four hundred years.' 'All right, but don't be in a hurry. I have such a fancy for the figs of that fig-tree of mine there. I wish you would just have the kindness to go up and pluck a good provision of them to take with me, and by that time I'll be ready to go with you.' 'I've no objection to oblige you so far,' said Mrs. Death; 'only you must mind and be quite ready by the time I do come back.' 'Never fear,' said the host; and Mrs. Death climbed up the fig-tree. 'Now stick there!' said the host, and for all her struggling Mrs. Death could by no means extricate herself any more. 'I can't stay here, so take off your spell; I have my business to attend to,' said she. 'So have I,' answered the host; 'and if you want to go about your business, you must promise me, on your honour, you will leave me to attend to mine.' 'I can't do it, my man! What are you asking? It's more than my place is worth. Every man alive has to pass through my hands. I can't let any of them off.' 'Well, at all events, leave me alone another four hundred years, and then I'll come with you. If you'll promise that, I'll let you out of the fig-tree.' 'I don't mind another four hundred years, if you so particularly wish for them; but mind you give me your word of honour you come then, without giving me all this trouble again.' 'Yes! and here's my hand upon it,' said the host, as he handed Mrs. Death down from the fig-tree. And so he went on to live another four hundred years. ('For you know in those times men lived to a very great age,' was the running gloss of the narrator.) The end of the second four hundred years came too, and then Mrs. Death appeared again. 'Remember your promise,' she said, 'and don't try any trick on me this time.' 'Oh, yes! I always keep my word,' said the host, and without more ado he went along with her. As she was carrying him up to Paradise, they passed the way which led down to Hell, and at the opening sat the Devil, receiving souls which his ministers brought to him from all parts. He was marshalling them into ranks, and ticketing them ready to send off in batches to the distinct place for each. 'You seem to have got plenty of souls there, Mr. Devil,' said the host. 'Suppose we sit down and play for them?' 'I've no objection,' said the Devil. 'Your soul against one of these. If I win, you go with them; if you win, one of them goes with you.' 'That's it,' said the host, and picking out a nice-looking soul, he set him for the Devil's stake. Of course the host won, and the nice-looking soul was passed round to his side of the table. 'Shall we have another game?' said the host, quite cock-a-hoop. The Devil hesitated for a moment, but finally he yielded. The host picked out a soul that took his fancy, for the Devil's stake, and they sat down to play again, with the same result. So they went on and on till the host had won fifteen thousand souls of the Devil. 'Come,' said Death when they had got as far as this, 'I really can't wait any longer. I never had to do with anyone who took up so much time as you. Come along!' So the host bowed excuses to the Devil for having had all the luck, and went cheerfully the way Mrs. Death led, with all his fifteen thousand souls behind him. Thus they arrived at the gate of Paradise. There wasn't so much business going on there as at the other place, and they had to ring before anyone appeared to open the door. 'Who's there?' said St. Peter. 'He of the four hundred years!' 'And what is all that rabble behind?' asked St. Peter. 'Souls that I have won of the Devil for Paradise,' answered the host. 'Oh, that won't do at all, here!' said St. Peter. 'Be kind enough to carry the message up to your Master,' responded the host. St. Peter went up to Jesus Christ. 'Here is he to whom you gave four hundred years of life,' he said; 'and he has brought fifteen thousand other souls, who have no title at all to Paradise, with him.' 'Tell him he may come in himself,' said Jesus Christ, 'but he has nothing to do to meddle with the others.' 'Tell Him to be pleased to remember that when He came to my eating-shop I never made any difficulty how many soever He brought with Him, and if He had brought an army I should have said nothing,' answered the host; and St. Peter took up that message too. 'That is true! that is right!' answered Jesus Christ. 'Let them all in! let them all in!' 7 PRET' OLIVO. [149] When Jesus Christ was on earth, He lodged one night at a priest's house, and when He went away in the morning He offered to give His host, in reward for his hospitality, whatever he asked. What Pret' Olivo (for that was his host's name) asked for was that he should live a hundred years, and that when Death came to fetch him he should be able to give her what orders he pleased, and that she must obey him. 'Let it be granted!' said Jesus Christ. A hundred years passed away, and then, one morning early, Death came. 'Pret' Olivo! Pret' Olivo!' cried Death, 'are you ready? I'm come for you at last.' 'Let me say my mass first,' said Pret' Olivo; 'that's all.' 'Well, I don't mind that,' answered Death; 'only mind it isn't a long one, because I've got so many people to fetch to-day.' 'A mass is a mass,' answered Pret' Olivo; 'it will be neither longer nor shorter.' As he went out, however, he told his servant to heap up a lot of wood on the hearth and set fire to it. Death went to sit down on a bench in the far corner of the chimney, and by-and-by the wood blazed up and she couldn't get away any more. In vain she called to the servant to come and moderate the fire. 'Master told me to heap it up, not to moderate it,' answered the servant; and so there was no help. Death continued calling in desperation, and nobody came. It was impossible with her dry bones to pass the blaze, so there she had to stay. 'Oh, dear! oh, dear! what can I do?' she kept saying; 'all this time everybody is stopped dying! Pret' Olivo! Pret' Olivo! come here.' At last Pret' Olivo came in. 'What do you mean by keeping me here like this?' said Death; 'I told you I had so much to do.' 'Oh, you want to go, do you?' said Pret' Olivo, quietly. 'Of course I do. Tell some one to clear away those burning logs, and let me out.' 'Will you promise me to leave me alone for another hundred years if I do?' 'Yes, yes; anything you like. I shall be very glad to keep away from this place for a hundred years.' Then he let her go, and she set off running with those long thin legs of hers. The second hundred years came to an end. 'Are you ready, Pret' Olivo?' said Death one morning, putting her head in at the door. 'Pretty nearly,' answered Pret' Olivo. 'Meantime, just take that basket, and gather me a couple of figs to eat before I go.' As she went away he said, 'Stick to the tree' (but not so that she could hear it); for you remember he had power given him to make her do what he liked. She had therefore to stick to the tree. 'Well, Lady Death, are you never going to bring those figs?' cried Pret' Olivo after a time. 'How can I bring them, when you know I can't get down from this tree? Instead of making game of me, come and take me down.' 'Will you leave me alone another hundred years if I do?' 'Yes, yes; anything you like. Only make haste and let me go.' The third hundred years came to an end, and Death appeared again. 'Are you ready this time, Pret' Olivo?' she cried out as she approached. 'Yes, this time I'll come with you,' answered Pret' Olivo. Then he vested himself in the Church vestments, and put a cope on, and took a pack of cards in his hand, and said to Death, 'Now take me to the gate of Hell, for I want to play a game of cards with the Devil.' 'Nonsense!' answered Death. 'I'm not going to waste my time like that. I've got orders to take you to Paradise, and to Paradise you must go.' 'You know you've got orders to obey whatever I tell you,' answered Pret' Olivo; and Death knew that was true, so she lost no more time in disputing, but took him all the way round by the gate of Hell. At the gate of Hell they knocked. 'Who's there?' said the Devil. 'Pret' Olivo,' replied Death. 'Out with you, ugly priest!' said the Devil. 'I'm surprised at you, Death, making game of me like that; you know that's not the sort of ware for my market.' [150] 'Silence, and open the door, ugly Pluto! [151] I'm not come to stay. I only want to have a game of cards with you. Here's my soul for stake on my side, against the last comer on your side,' interposed Pret' Olivo. Pret' Olivo won the game, and hung the soul on to his cope. 'We must have another game,' said the Devil. 'With all my heart!' replied Pret' Olivo; and he won another soul. Another and another he won, and his cope was covered all over with the souls clinging to it. Meantime, Death thought it was going on rather too long, so she looked through the keyhole, and, finding they were just beginning another game, she cried out loudly; 'It's no use playing any more, for I'm not going to be bothered to carry all those souls all the way up to Heaven--a likely matter, indeed!' But Pret' Olivo went on playing without taking any notice of her; and he hung them on to his beretta, till at last you could hardly see him at all for the number of souls he had clinging to him. There was no place for any more, so at last he stopped playing. 'I'm not going to take all those other souls,' said Death when he came out; 'I've only got orders to take you.' 'Then take me,' answered Pret' Olivo. Death saw that the souls were all hung on so that she could not take him without taking all the rest; so away she went with the lot of them, without disputing any more. At last they arrived at the Gate of Paradise. St. Peter opened the door when they knocked; but when he saw who was there he shut the door again. 'Make haste!' said Death; 'I've no time to waste.' 'Why did you waste your time in bringing up souls that were not properly consigned to you?' answered St. Peter. 'It wasn't I brought them, it was Pret' Olivo. And your Master charged me I was to do whatever he told me.' 'My Master! Oh, then, I'm out of it,' said St. Peter. 'Only wait a minute, while I just go and ask Him whether it is so.' St. Peter ran to ask; and receiving an affirmative answer, came back and opened the gate, and they all got in. 8 DOMINE QUO VADIS. 'You know, of course, about St. Peter, when they put him in the prisons here; he found a way of escaping through the "catacomboli," and just as he had got out into the open road again he met Jesus Christ coming towards him carrying His cross. And St. Peter asked Him what he was doing going into the "catacomboli." But Jesus Christ answered, "I am not going into the 'catacomboli' to stay; I am going back by the way you came to be crucified over again, since you refuse to die for the flock." Then St. Peter turned and went all the way back, and was crucified with his head downwards, for he said he was not worthy to die in the same way as his Master.' [Counterparts of these stories abound in the collections of all countries; in the Norse, and Gaelic, and Russian, more of the pagan element seems to stick to them. In Grimm's are some with both much and little of it. From Tirol I have given two, which are literally free from it, in 'Household Stories from the Land of Hofer;' and I have one or two picked up for me by a friend in Brittany, of which the same may be said. On the other hand, we meet them again in another form in that large group of strange compounds, of which 'Il Rè Moro,' p. 97, &c., are the Roman representatives, and 'Marienkind,' pp. 7-12, 'Grimm Kinder und Hausmährchen,' ed. 1870, the link between them. In the minds of the Roman narrators, however, I am quite clear no such connexion exists. See also p. 207 infra. One of the quaintest legends of this class is given in Scheible's 'Schaltjahr.' It is meant for a charm to drive away wolves.] 'Lord Jesus Christ and St. Peter went in the morning out. As our Lady went on before she said (turning about), "Ah, dear Lord! whither must we go in and out? We must over hill and dale (roundabout). May God guard the while my flock (devout). Let not St. Peter go his keys without; But take them and lock up the wild dogs' [152] snout, That they no bone of them all may flout."' PIETRO BAILLIARDO. [153] 1 What! Never heard of Pietro Bailliardo! Surely you must, if you ever heard anything at all. Why, everybody knows about Pietro Bailliardo! Why, he was here and there and everywhere in Rome; and turned everybody's head, and they have his books now, that they took away from him, locked up in the Holy Office. [154] Pietro Bailliardo was a scholar boy, and went to school like other boys. One day he found at a bookstall a book of divination; [155] with this he was able to do whatever he would, and wherever he was, there the Devil was in command. He fell in love with a girl, and she would have nothing to do with him; and one day afterwards they found her on Mont Cavallo with a great fire burning round her, and everyone who passed had to stir the fire whether he would or not. Whatever he wanted he ordered to come and it came to him, and nobody could resist him. As to putting him in prison it was no manner of use. One day when they had put him in prison he took a piece of charcoal and drew a boat on the white prison wall, then he jumped into it, and said to all the other prisoners, 'Get in too,' and they got in, and he rowed away, and next morning they were all loose about Rome. But there was an old man asleep in a corner of the prison, and the guards came to him and said, 'Where are all the prisoners gone?' And he told them about Pietro Bailliardo drawing the boat on the prison wall with the charcoal and their all getting away in it. 'And why didn't you go too?' asked the guards. 'Because I was asleep so comfortably I did not want to move,' said he. ('But then, how did he see it all unless Pietro Bailliardo had him put under a spell on purpose that he might tell the authorities how he had defied them?' added the narrator.) Another time again they shut him up in prison, and the next morning when they came to look for him they found nothing but an ass's head in his place, which he had left there just to show his contempt for them. One day a zealous friar met him and warned him to repent. 'What have I to repent of?' said he. 'I can hear mass better than you, for I can hear mass in three places at once.' Then he went away and made the Devil take him to Constantinople and Paris to hear mass at each while all at one and the same time he was hearing one at Rome too! Then he came and told the friar what a grand thing he had done. But the friar told him it was worse than not hearing mass at all to attempt to use diabolical arts in that way. After that one day he was going up past the church of SS. John and Paul [156] when the Devil met him. 'Now,' said the Devil, 'you have had your swing long enough; I have come to fetch you!' When Pietro Bailliardo, who had set all the world at defiance all his life, saw the Devil and heard him say he had come to fetch him, he was seized with such terror that he began to repent, and ran inside the church. The Devil durst not follow him thither, but waited outside thinking he would soon be turned out. But Pietro Bailliardo took up a great stone and went and kneeled down before the crucifix and smote his bare breast with the big stone, saying the while, 'Behold! merciful Lord, I beat my breast with this stone till Thou bow Thy head in token that Thou forgive me.' And he went on beating his breast till the blood ran down, and at last our Lord had compassion on him and bowed His head from the cross to him, and he died there. So the Devil did not get him. 2 'You have told me so many stories, why have you never told me anything about Pietro Bailliardo--don't you know about him?' 'Of course I know about him. Who in Rome doesn't know about him? but I can't remember it all. I know he had the book of divination, and could make the Devil do whatever he chose by its means. And then one day, I don't remember by what circumstance, he was led to do penance; but he would do it in his own way, not in the right way, and he made a vow to the Madonna that he would pay a visit to some shrine in Rome and to S. Giacomo di Galizia, [157] and to the Santa Casa di Loreto all in the same night. As devils can fly through the air at a wonderful pace he called upon a devil by his divining book and told him what he wanted; then he got on the back of the devil and rode away through the air and actually visited all three in one night. 'But that sort of penance was no penance at all. After that he did penance in right earnest at some church, I forget which.' 'Was it SS. John and Paul?' I asked. 'Yes, to be sure; SS. John and Paul. And you knew it all the time, and yet have been asking me!' 3 'Do you want to know about Pietro Bailliardo too?' said the old man who had given me No. 2 of San Giovanni Bocca d'oro. 'Oh, yes; I did know a deal about him. This is what I can remember. 'Pietro Bailliardo had a bond [158] with the Devil, by which he was as rich as he could be, and had whatever he wanted; but the day came when the compact came to an end, and Pietro Bailliardo quailed as that day approached, for he knew that after that time the Devil could take him and he could not resist. 'Before noon on that day, therefore, he set out to go to St. Paul's.' 'To SS. John and Paul?' asked I, full of the former versions. 'No, no! to the great St. Paul's outside the walls, where the monks of St. Benedict are; and he waited there all day, for before the time was out the Devil couldn't take him. At last evening came on, and the chierico [159] wanted to shut the church up; so he told Pietro Bailliardo he must go, and showed him to the door. But when he came to the door, he found the Devil there waiting for him dressed like a paino. [160] When he saw that, no power of the chierico could make him go; so the chierico was obliged to call the Father Abbot. 'To the Father Abbot Pietro Bailliardo told his whole story, and the Father Abbot said, "If that is so, come with me to the Inquisition, and tell your story there and receive absolution." Then he sent for a carriage, and said to the driver, "Be of good heart, for I have many relics of saints with me, and whatever strange thing you may see or hear by the way, have no fear, it shall not harm you." 'The Devil saw all this, and was in a great fury, for he has no power to alter future events, and so he couldn't help Pietro Bailliardo going into the church for sanctuary before the time was up. He got a number of devils together, therefore, and made unearthly and terrible noises all the way. But the driver had confidence in the word of the Abbot, and drove on without heeding. Only when they got to the bridge of St. Angelo the noise was so tremendous he got quite bewildered; moreover the bridge heaved and rocked as though it were going to break in twain. '"Fear nothing, fear nothing! Nothing will harm you," said the Father Abbot; and the driver, having confidence in his words, drove on without heeding, and they arrived safely at the Palace of the Inquisition. 'The Father Abbot now delivered Pietro Bailliardo over to the Penitentiary, to whom, moreover, he made confession of his terrible crimes, and begged to remain to perform his penance and obtain reconciliation with God. 'But as Pietro Bailliardo had been used to follow his own strange ways all his life, he must needs now perform his penance too in his own strange way. Therefore he made a vow that he would perform such a penance as man never performed before; and this penance was to visit, all in one night, the SS. Crocifisso in the Chapel of the Holy Office, S. Giacomo di Galizia, and the sanctuary of Cirollo. All in one night!' 'Stop! S. Giacomo di Galizia I know; we call it S. James of Compostella; but the sanctuary of Cirollo! I never heard of that; where is it?' 'Oh, Cirollo is all the same as if you said Loreto; the Madonna di Loreto; it is all one.' I appealed to one sitting there who, I knew, had been brought up at Loreto. 'Yes, yes,' she said. 'That is all right; Cirollo is just a walk from Loreto. Noi altri when living at Loreto often go there, but those who come from far, most often don't; so we have a saying, "Who goes to Loreto and not to Cirollo, he sees the mother, but not the son." [161] 'It is a saying, and nothing more.' 'Basta!' interposed the old man, who, like other old people, was apt to forget the thread of his story if interrupted. 'Basta! it doesn't matter: they were anyhow three places very far apart. [162] So Pietro Bailliardo, who couldn't get out of his habit of commanding the devils, called up a number of them, and said, "Which of all you fiends can go the fastest?" and the devils, accustomed to obey him, answered the one before the other, some one way some another, each anxious to content him: "I, like lightning," said one; "I, like the wind," said another; but "I--I can go as fast as thought," [163] said another. "Ho! Here! You fiend. You, who can travel as fast as thought. You come here, and take me to-night to St. James of Compostella, and to the sanctuary of Cirollo, and bring me back here to the Chapel of the Holy Office before morning breaks." 'He spoke imperiously, and sprang on to the devil's back, and all was done so quickly the devil had no time for thought or hesitation. 'Away flew the devil, and Pietro Bailliardo on his back, all the way to St. James of Compostella, and, whr-r-r-r all the way to the sanctuary of Cirollo, fast, fast as thought. Then suddenly the devil stopped midway. An idea had struck him. "What had a devil to do with going about visiting shrines in this way; no harm had been done to the sacred place; not a stone had been injured; [164] why then had they gone to S. Giacomo; why were they going to Cirollo?" '"Tell me, Ser Bailliardo," said he, "on whose account am I sweating like this? is it for your private account, or for my master's; because I only obey you so long as you command in his name, and how can it serve him to be doing pilgrim's work?" '"Go on, ugly monster! don't prate," [165] answered Pietro Bailliardo, and gave him at the same time a kick in each flank; and such was his empire over him that the devil durst say no more, and completed the strange pilgrimage even as he had commanded. [166] 'Thus even in his penitence Pietro Bailliardo had the devils subject to him. But after that he did penance in right good earnest, only he chose a strange way of his own again. 'He knelt before the Crucifix in the Chapel of the Inquisition, and he took a great stone and beat his breast with it and said, "Lord, behold my repentance; I smite my breast thus till Thou forgive me." And when the blood flowed down the Lord had compassion on him and bowed His head upon the cross and said, "I have forgiven thee!" 'After that he died in peace.' S. GIOVANNI BOCCA D'ORO. 1 St. John of the Golden Mouth was another famous penitent we had here in Rome. He had treated a number of young girls shamefully, and then killed them. But one day the grace of God touched him, and he went out into the Campagna, to a solitary place, and there, with a wattle of rushes, he made himself a hut, and lived there doing penance far, far away from any human habitation. One day a king, and his wife, and his sons, and his daughter all went out to hunt. They got overtaken by a storm, and separated; some hasted home in one direction, and some in another, but the daughter they could not find anywhere, and when they had searched everywhere for many days and could not find her, they gave her up for lost. But she, as she was running, had seen the hut of St. John of the Golden Mouth, and knocked at the door. 'Begone!' shouted the penitent, thinking it was the Devil come to tempt him. But she continued knocking. 'Begone! Out into the wild! nor disturb my peace, Evil One!' shouted he again. 'I am not the Evil One,' answered the princess; 'I am only a woman; I have lost my way, and crave shelter from the storm.' When he heard that, he got up and let her in; but when he saw her, he could not resist treating her as he had treated the other maidens. Then he killed her, and threw her body into a well. But the next day, when he came to think of what he had done, he said to himself, 'How is it possible that I, who have come here to do penance for my crimes, should out here, even in my penitential hut, commit the same crime again? I must go further from temptation, and do deeper penance yet.' So he left the shelter of his hut, and all his clothes, and went into the wild country and lived with the wild beasts, and became like one of them. After many years he grew quite accustomed to go on all fours, and his body was all covered with hair like a lion's, and he lost the use of speech. Then, one day the same king went out hunting. Suddenly there was a great cry of the dogs. They had found an animal of which the huntsmen had never seen the like before. So strange was it, that they said, we must not kill it, but must bring it to the king. With much difficulty they whipped the dogs off, and they brought it to the king, so like a four-footed creature had San Giovanni Bocca d'oro grown. Neither could the king make out what kind of creature it was; so he told the huntsmen to put a chain on it, and bring it to the palace. When they got home to the palace, everyone was astonished at the appearance of the creature the huntsmen had with them, and they called out with such loud exclamations that the queen, who was ill in bed, heard them, and she asked what it was about. When they told her, she was seized with a violent desire to see the creature. But they said she must by no means see it, being ill; but the more they opposed her wish, the more vehement she was to see it, till, at last, the nurses said it would do more harm to continue refusing her than to let her see it. So they led the creature by the chain into her room, and placed him by her bedside. When the queen saw him, she said, 'This is no four-footed beast, but a man, like one of you.' And she spoke to him, and asked him to say who he was; but he had lost the use of speech, and could not answer her. Then the baby that was lying on the pillow by her side, just born, raised its head, and said out loud, so that all could hear, in a voice plain and clear-- 'Giovanni Bocca d'oro, God hath forgiven thee thy sins and iniquities.' The queen was yet more astonished when she heard her new-born babe speak thus, and she asked St. John what it could mean. When she saw he could not answer her, she ordered that they should give him pen and paper. Then, though they gave him a common pen, all he wrote appeared in letters of shining gold, and he wrote down all that I have told you. Moreover, he bid them send to the well where he had thrown the body of the princess, and fetch her back. When they had done so, they found her whole and sound, and only a little cicatriced wound in her throat. Then they asked her in astonishment how she had lived in that dark, damp well all these years. But she answered, 'Every day there came to me a beautiful Roman matron in shining apparel, and she brought me food and consoled me, and after she had been there the well was bright, and sweet, and perfumed.' And they knew that it must have been the Madonna. As soon as she was thus restored to her parents, and had declared these things, San Giovanni Bocca d'oro died in peace, for God had forgiven him. 2 'Ah! I knew so many of those things once, but now they are all gone, all gone.' This was said by a fine old man, who boasted of having the same number of years and the same name as the Pope. 'I dare say you can tell me something about San Giovanni Bocca d'oro, however,' I said. 'San Giovanni Bocca d'oro! Of course. Everybody in Rome knows about San Giovanni Bocca d'oro. Do you want to know about him? That's not a story; that's a fact.' 'Yes, all you know about him I want to hear.' 'It's a long story--too long to remember.' 'Never mind, tell me all you can recall.' 'San Giovanni Bocca d'oro lived in a village--' 'Not in Rome, then!' interposed I. 'Yes, yes, one of the villages about Rome; I don't remember now which, if I ever knew, but about Rome of course. One day he saw a beautiful peasant girl, and fell in love with her. But he behaved very ill to her and never married her, and afterwards killed her and threw her body into a well. 'Afterwards a great sorrow came upon him for what he had done, and he was so ashamed of his sin that he said he would remain no more to pollute other Christians with his presence, but went out into the Campagna and lived like a four-footed beast; and made a vow that he would remain with his face towards the earth [167] until such time as God should be pleased to let him know, by the mouth of a little child, that His wrath was appeased. 'Many years passed, and San Giovanni continued his penance without wearying, always on all fours. 'One day, the nurse of some emperor or king was out with the little child she had charge of when a storm came on, and they ran and lost their way. Thus running, they came upon San Giovanni in his penance. He looked so wild and strange the nurse would have run away from him, but the child held out its arms towards him without being at all frightened, and, although so young that it had never spoken, cried aloud, "Giovanni, get up, God hath forgiven thee!" 'At this voice all the people gathered round, and they took him back to the village; and he went straight to the well and blessed it, and there rose out of it, all whole and fresh, the maiden whom he had killed. 'Then he sent for pen and tablet, for he had lost the use of speech, and wrote down all that had befallen him; and as he wrote all the letters became gold. That is why he is called San Giovanni Bocca d'oro. 'And when he had written all these things he died in peace.' 3 In another version he was living an ordinary life in his 'villa,' not in a penitential cell, when the king's daughter lost her way at the hunt. After the crime he was seized with compunction, and went out into the Campagna, living only on the herbs he could gather with his mouth, like an animal, and vowing that he would never again raise his head to Heaven till God gave him some token that He had forgiven him. After eight years the king found him when out hunting, and, taking him for some kind of beast, put him in the stables. The little prince who was just born was taken by to the church to be baptised about this time; and, as they carried him back past the stables, he said aloud, 'Rise, Giovanni, for God hath forgiven thy sins.' Every one was very much astonished to hear him speak, and they sent for Giovanni and asked him to explain what it meant. The rest as in the other versions. [I have repeatedly come across this story, but without any material variation from one or other of the versions already given. It would be curious to trace how St. John Chrysostom's name ever became connected with it. Though famous for his penitential life as much as for his eloquence, and though the four years he passed in the cells of the Antiochian cenobites were austere enough, yet his memory is stained by no sort of crime. So far from it, he was most carefully brought up by a widowed mother, whose exemplary virtues are said to have occasioned the exclamation from the Saint's master, 'What wonderful women have these Christians!'--Butler's 'Lives.' There is something like its termination in that of 'The Fiddler in Hell.'--Ralston's 'Russian Folk Tales,' pp. 299, 300. The years of voluntary silence, and the finding of the silent person by a king out hunting, enter into many tales otherwise of another class, as in 'Die Zwölf Brüder' (the Twelve Brothers), Grimm, p. 37, and 'Die Sechs Schwäne' (the Six Swans), p. 191.] DON GIOVANNI. We had another Giovanni who had done worse things even than these, and who never became a penitent at all. Don Giovanni he was called. Everybody in Rome knew him by the name of Don Giovanni. Among the other bad things he did, he killed a great man who was called the Commendatore; and though he had the crime of murder on his conscience he took no account of it, but swaggered about with an air of bravado as if he cared for no one. One day when he was walking out in the Campagna he saw a great white skeleton coming to meet him. It was the skeleton of the commendatore whom he had killed. 'How dy'e do?' said Don Giovanni, with effrontery. 'There's an Accademia [168] to-night at my house, I shall be very happy to see you at it;' and he took off his hat with mock gravity. 'I will certainly come,' replied the commendatore in a sepulchral voice; but Don Giovanni burst out laughing. In the midst of the Accademia some one knocked. 'All the guests are arrived,' said the servant, 'yet some one knocks.' 'Never mind, open!' replied Don Giovanni, carelessly. 'Let him in whoever it is.' The servant went to open, and came running back to say he could not let the new guest in because he was only the miller, who had come in his white coat all over flour. All soon saw, however, that the guest was not the miller, though he looked so white. For it was the white skeleton of the commendatore; and it followed the servant into the room. Then fear seized on all and they ran away to hide themselves; some behind the door, some behind the curtains, and some under the table. Don Giovanni stood alone in the middle of the room with his usual effrontery, and held out his hand to the skeleton. 'Repent thee!' [169] said the White Skeleton, solemnly. 'A cavalier like me doesn't repent like common beggars!' replied Don Giovanni, scornfully. 'Repent!' again repeated the White Skeleton, with more awful emphasis. 'I have something much more amusing to do!' replied Don Giovanni, with a laugh. 'Don Giovanni!' cried the White Skeleton, the third time yet more solemnly. 'Though you took away my life yet am I come to save your soul, if I may, and therefore I say again, Repent! or beware of what is to follow.' 'Well done, old fellow! very generous of you!' said Don Giovanni, with a mocking laugh, and again holding out his hand. They were his last words. The next minute he gave an awful yell which might have been heard all over Rome. The White Skeleton had disappeared, and the Devil had come in his place, and had taken Don Giovanni by his extended hand and dragged him off. [Tullio Dandolo, 'Monachismo e Leggende' p. 314-5, quotes a similar legend from Passavanti, 'Specchio della vera Penitenza.' The story of Don Giovanni's misdeeds brought up in the narrator's mind those of Pepe (Giuseppe) Mastrilo, famous in the annals of both Spanish and Italian bandits. It was, however, only a story of violence and crime without point.] THE PENANCE OF SAN GIULIANO. 'Can you tell me the story of San Giovanni Bocca d'oro?' 'Of course I know about San Giovanni Bocca d'oro, that is, I know he was a great penitent, but I couldn't remember anything, not to tell you about him. But I know about another great penitent. Do you know about the Penitence of San Giuliano? That is a story you'll like if you don't know it already; but it's not a favola, mind.' 'I know there are seven or eight saints at least of the name of Julian, but I don't know the acts of them all; so pray tell me your story.' 'Here it is then. 'San Giuliano was the only son of his parents, who lived at Albano. In his youth he was rather wild, [170] and gave his parents some anxiety; but what gave them more anxiety still on his account was that an astrologer had predicted that when he grew up he should kill both his parents. '"It is not only for our lives," said the parents, "that we should be concerned--that is no such great matter; but we must put him out of the way of committing so great a crime." 'Therefore they gave him a horse, and his portion of money, and told him to ride forth and make himself a home in another place. So San Giuliano went forth; and thirty years passed, and his parents heard no more of him. Thirty years is a long time; many things pass out of mind in thirty years. Thus the astrologer's prediction passed out of their minds; but what never passes out of the mind of a mother is the love of her child, and the mother of San Giuliano yearned to see him after thirty years as though he had gone away but yesterday. 'One day when they were walking in the woods about Albano they saw a little boy come and climb into a tree and take a bird's nest; and presently, after the little boy was gone away with the nest, the parent birds came back and fluttered all about, and uttered piercing cries for the loss of their young. '"See!" said San Giuliano's mother, taking occasion by this example, "how these unreasoning creatures care for the loss of their young, and we live away from our only son and are content." '"By no means are we content," replied the father; "let us therefore rise now and go seek him." 'So they put on pilgrims' weeds, and wandered forth to seek their son. On and on they went till they came to a place, a city called Galizia; [171] and there, as they walk along weary, they meet a gentle lady, who looks upon them mildly and compassionately, and says, "Whence do you come, poor pilgrims? what a long way you must have travelled!" [172] 'And they, cheered by her mode of address and sympathy, make answer, "We have wandered over mountains and plains. We come from the mountain town of Albano. We go about seeking our son Giuliano." [173] '"Giuliano!" exclaimed the lady, "is the name of my husband. Just now he is out hunting, but come in with me and receive my hospitality for love of his name." She took them home and washed their feet, and refreshed them, and set food before them, and ultimately gave them her own bed to sleep in. 'But the Devil came to Giuliano out hunting, and tempted him with jealous thoughts about his wife, and tormented him with all manner of calumnious insinuations, so that his mind was filled with fury. Coming home hunting-knife in hand, he rushed into the bedroom, and seeing two forms in bed, without waiting to know who they were, he plunged his knife into them, and killed them. 'Thus, without knowing it, he had killed both his father and his mother. 'Coming out of the room he met his wife, who came to seek him to welcome him. '"What, you here!" he cried. "Who then are those in the bed, whom I have killed?" '"Killed!" replied the wife, "they were a pilgrim couple to whom I gave hospitality for love of you, because they wandered seeking a son named Giuliano." Then Giuliano knew what he had done, and was seized with penitence for his hasty yielding to suspicion and anger. So stricken with sorrow was he, he was as one dead, nor could anyone move him to speak. Then his wife came to him and said, "We will do penance together; we will lay aside ease and riches, and will devote ourselves to the poor and needy." 'And he embraced her and said, "It is well spoken." 'Near where they lived was a rapid river, and no bridge, and many were drowned in attempting to cross it, and many had a weary way to walk to find a bridge. Said Giuliano, "We will build a bridge over the river." And many pilgrims came to Galizia who had not where to rest. Said Giuliano, "We will build a hospice for poor pilgrims, where they may be received and be tended according to their needs, till God forgives me." 'So they set forth, Giuliano and his wife, to go to Rome to find workmen. [174] But as they went, a troop met them, and came round them, and said to them, "Where are you going?" '"We go to Rome," answered Giuliano, "to find workmen to build a bridge." '"We are your men, we are your men; for we have built many bridges ere now." [175] 'Then Giuliano took them back with him, and all in two days they built the bridge. '"How can this be?" said Giuliano's wife; "here is something that is not right," for she was so holy that she discerned the Evil One was in it. '"Be sure, Giuliano," she said, "there is some snare here. Take, therefore, a cheese, hard and round, and roll it along the bridge, [176] and send our dog after it; if they get across, well and good." 'Giuliano, always prone to accept his wife's prudent counsel, did as she bid him, and rolled the cheese along the bridge, and sent the dog after it; and, see! no sooner were they in the middle of the bridge than the bridge sank in; and they knew that the Devil had built it, and that it was no bridge for Christians to go over. 'Then said Giuliano, "God has not forgiven me yet. Now, let us build the hospice." 'They set out, therefore, to go to Rome to find workmen to build the hospice; and when the troop of demons came round them, saying, "We are your workmen, we are your workmen!" they paid them no heed, but went on to Rome, and fetched workmen thence, and the hospice was built; and all the pilgrims who came they received, and gave them hospitality, and the whole house was full of pilgrims. 'Then, when the house was full, quite full of pilgrims, there came an old man, and begged admission. "Good man," said Giuliano's wife, "it grieves my heart to say so, but there is not a bed, nor so much as an empty corner left;" and the old man said: '"If ye cannot receive me, it is because ye have done so much charity to me already; therefore take this staff:" so he gave them his pilgrim's staff, and went his way. 'But it was Jesus Christ who came in the semblance of that old man; and when Giuliano took the staff, behold three flowers blossomed on it, and he said: '"See! God has forgiven me!"' [Now I see this story in type I am inclined to think it is not strictly traditional, like the rest; but that the narrator had acquired it from one of the rimed legends mentioned at p. vii.] THE PILGRIMS. There was a husband and wife, who had been married two or three years, and had no children. At last, they made a vow to S. Giacomo di Galizia that if they only had two children, one boy and one girl, even if no more than that, they would be so grateful that they would go a pilgrimage to his shrine, all the way to Galizia. In due time two children were born to them, a boy and a girl, who were twins; and they were full of gladness and rejoicing, and devoted themselves to the care of their children, but they forgot all about their vow. When many years were passed, and the children were, it maybe, fifteen or sixteen years old, they dreamed a dream, both husband and wife in one night, that St. James appeared, and said: 'You made a vow to visit my shrine if you had two children. Two children have been born to you, and you have not kept your vow; most certainly evil will overtake you for your broken word. Behold, time is given you; but if now you fulfil not your vow, both your children will die.' In the morning the wife told the dream to the husband, and the husband told the dream to the wife, and they said to each other, 'This is no common dream; we must look to it.' So they bought pilgrims' dresses, and went to 'Galizia,' the husband, and wife, and the son; but concerning the daughter they said, 'The maiden is of too tender years for this journey, let her stay with her nurse;' and they left her in the charge of the nurse and the parish priest. But that priest was a bad man--for it will happen that a priest may be bad sometimes; and, instead of leading her right, he wanted her to do many bad things, and when she would not listen to him, he wrote false letters to her parents about her, and gave a report of her conduct to shock her parents. When the brother saw these letters of the priest concerning his sister, he was indignant with her, and, without waiting for his parents' advice, went back home quickly, and killed her with his dagger, and threw her body into a ditch. But he went back to the shrine of St. James to live in penance. Not long had her body lain in the ditch when a king's son came by hunting, and the dogs scented the blood of a Christian lying in the ditch, and bayed over it till the huntsmen came and took out the body; when they saw it was the body of a fair maiden, yet warm, they showed it to the prince, and the prince when he saw the maiden, loved her, and took her to a convent to be healed of her wound, and afterwards married her; and when his father died, he was king and she became a queen. But her father and mother, hearing only that her brother had killed her and thrown her body in the ditch, and supposing she was dead, said one to the other, 'Why should we go back home, seeing that our daughter is dead? What have we to go home for? There is nothing but sorrow for us there.' So they remained at the shrine of St. James, and built a hospice for poor pilgrims, and tended them. Meantime the daughter, who had become a queen, she also had two children, a boy and a girl, and her husband rejoiced in them and in her. But troubled times came, and her husband had to go forth to battle, and while she was left without him in the palace, the viceroy came to her and wanted her to do wrong, and when she would not listen to him, he took her two children and killed them before her eyes. 'What do I here,' said she, 'seeing my two children are dead?' And she took the bodies of her children and went forth. When she had wandered long by solitary places, she came one day to a mountain, and at the foot of the mountain sat a dwarf, [177] and the dwarf had compassion when he saw how she was worn with crying, and he said to her, 'Go up the mountain and be consoled.' Thus she went up the mountain till she saw a majestic woman, with an infant in her arms; and this was the Madonna, you must know. [178] When she saw a woman like herself, with a child too, for all that she looked so bright and majestic, she was consoled; and she poured all her story into her ear. 'And I would go to S. Giacomo di Galizia to ask that my husband's love may be restored to me, for I know the viceroy will calumniate me to him; but how can I leave these children?' Then the lady said, 'Leave your children with me, and they shall be with my child, and go you to Galizia as you have said, and be consoled.' So she put on pilgrim's weeds, and went to Galizia. Meantime the king came back from battle, and the viceroy told him evil about the queen; and his mother, who also believed the viceroy, said, 'Did I not tell you a woman picked up is never good for anything?' [179] But the king was grieved, for he had loved the queen dearly, and he took a pilgrim's dress and went to Galizia, to the shrine of S. Giacomo, to pray that she might be forgiven. Then the viceroy, he too was seized with compunction, and, unknown to the king, he too became a pilgrim, and went to do penance at the same shrine. Thus it happened that they all met together, without knowing each other, in the hospice that that husband and wife had built at Galizia; and when they had paid their devotions at the shrine, and all sat together in the hospice in the evening, all told some tale of what he had seen and what he had heard. But there sat one who told nothing. Then said the king to this one, 'And you, good man, why do you tell no story?' for he knew not that it was the queen, nor that it was even a woman. Thus appealed to, however, she rose and told a tale of how there had been a husband and wife who had made a vow that if they had children, they would go a pilgrimage to S. Giacomo di Galizia; 'and,' said she, 'they were just two people such as you might be,' and she pointed to the two who were founders of the hospice. And that when they were absent, and left their daughter behind, the parish priest calumniated her, so that her brother came back and stabbed her, and threw her body in a ditch. 'And he was just such a young man, strong and ardent, as you may have been,' and she pointed to the son of the founders. 'But that maiden was not dead,' she went on, 'and a king found her, and married her, and she had two children, and lived happily with him till he went to the wars, then the viceroy calumniated her till she ran away out of the palace; and the viceroy was just such a one, strong and dark, as you may be,' and she pointed to the viceroy, who sat trembling in a corner; 'and when the king came back, he told him evil of her; but that king was noble and pious as you may be,' and she pointed to the king, 'and in his heart he believed no evil of his wife, but went to S. Giacomo di Galizia to pray that the truth might be made plain.' As she spoke, one after another they all arose, and said, 'How comes this peasant to know all the story of my life; and who has sent him to declare it here!' and they were all strangely moved, and called upon the peasant to tell them who had shown him these things. But the supposed peasant answered, 'My old grandfather, as we sat on the hearth together.' [180] 'That cannot be,' said they, 'for to every one of us you have told his own life; and now you must tell us more, for we will not rest till we have righted her who has thus suffered.' When she found them so earnest and so determined to do right, she said further, 'That queen am I!' and she took off her hood, and they knew her, and all fell round and embraced her. Then said the king, 'And on this viceroy, on whose account you have suffered so sadly, what vengeance will you have on him?' But she said, 'I will have no vengeance; but now that he has come to the shrine of Galizia, God will forgive him; and may he find peace!' Thus all were restored and united; and when she had embraced her parents and her brother, and spent some days with them, she went home with her husband and reigned in his kingdom. [The story seemed to be ended, and I hoped it was, for the way in which the children were left seemed a poetic way of describing their death; but to make sure, I said, 'And the children, they remained with the Madonna?' 'No, no! I forgot. It's well you reminded me. No; by their way home they went back to the mountain, and they found their children well cared for by that "Majestic Lady," and playing with her Bambino; she gave the children back, and blessed them, and then went up to heaven; and they built a chapel in the place where she had been.'] SANTA VERDANA. There was a man with a general shop who had an excellent girl for a servant, and she was so honest as well as diligent that he left her to attend to the shop besides doing the work. All he gave her to do she did well, and his business flourished without his having any trouble about it. But some envious people came to him and said that the girl had given away all his substance, and there was nothing left; so he watched, and he saw it was indeed so. To every poor person who came she gave whatever they asked for the love of God, and all the stores and presses were empty. Yet, as there seemed no lack of anything either, and when customers came she always continued to supply them, he hesitated to interfere. So it might have gone on, only people went on whispering doubts. And one said one day, 'Suppose she should die, where would you be then?' That is true, he thought to himself, and upon that he went and asked her where all the things were gone. She never made any reply, but knelt down and prayed, and as she prayed all the presses and stores became full again with all kinds of merchandise as at the first. But she went away from him after that, and built herself a cell, walled up all round, next to the church of St. Anthony, where she lived in continual prayer, and she took a brick out of the wall to make a hole through which she heard mass. At last one day came when they saw her no more at the hole hearing mass, and they opened her cell and found her lying on the floor with her hands crossed on her breast, and the cell was filled with a beautiful perfume, for she had been sanctified there, and her soul had gone thence to God. SAN SIDORO. [This seems very like another version of the foregoing.] St. Isidor was the steward of a rich man, and as he was filled with holy piety and compassion, he could never turn away from any that begged of him, but gave to all liberally; to one Indian corn meal, to another beans, to another lentils. At last men with envious tongues came to his master and said: 'This steward of yours of whom you think so much is wasting all your substance, and he has given away so much to the poor that there can be nothing left in any of your barns and storehouses; you had better look to it.' The master, after hearing this, came down to St. Isidor very angry, and bade him bring the keys and open all the barns and storehouses. St. Isidor did as he was bid without an angry word, and behold they were all so full of grain and beans, and every species of good gift of God, that you could not go into them, they were full to the very doors. After that the master let him give away as much as he would. [I have heard the same at Siena told of San Gherardo, or Gheraldo as the people call him, under the character of a Franciscan laybrother. He seemed to give away all the provisions people gave him in alms for the convent, but when the Superior, warned by envious tongues, chid him, he showed that there remained over more than sufficient for the needs of the community.] THE FISHPOND OF ST. FRANCIS. [181] St. Francis had a little fishpond, where he kept some gold and silver fish as a pastime. Some bad people wanted to vex him, and they went and caught these poor little fish and fried them, and sent them up to him for dinner. But St. Francis when he saw them knew that they were his gold fish, and made the sign of the cross over them, and blessed them, and soon they became alive again, and he took them and put them back into the fishpond, and no one durst touch them again after that. ST. ANTHONY. St. Anthony's father was accused of murder, and as facts seemed against him, he was condemned to be executed. St. Anthony was preaching in the pulpit as his father was taken to the scaffold. 'Allow me to stop for a minute to take breath,' he said, and he made a minute's pause in the midst of his discourse, and then went on again. But in that minute's pause, though no one in church had lost sight of him, he had gone on to the scaffold. 'What are you doing to that man?' he asked. 'He has committed a murder, and is going to be executed.' 'He has murdered no one. Bring hither the dead man.' No one knew who it was that spoke, but they felt impelled to obey him nevertheless. When the dead man's body was brought, St. Anthony said to him:-- 'Is this the man who killed you? say!' The dead man opened his eyes and looked at the accused. 'Oh, no; that's not the man at all!' he said. 'And you, where are you?' continued St. Anthony. 'I should be in Paradise, but that there is a ground of excommunication on me, therefore am I in Purgatory,' answered the dead man. Then St. Anthony put his ear down, and bid him tell him the matter of the excommunication; and, when he had confessed it, he released him from the bond, and he went straight to Paradise. The father of St. Anthony, too, was pronounced innocent, and set free. And all the while no one had missed St. Anthony from the pulpit! 2 SANT' ANTONIO E SORA [182] CASTITRE. I too know a story about St. Anthony. St. Anthony was a fair youth, as you will always see in his portraits. As he went about preaching there was a young woman who began to admire him very much, and her name was Sora Castitre. Whenever she could find out in which direction he was going she would put herself in his way and try to speak to him. St. Anthony at first kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and took no notice of her; then he tried to make her desist by rebuking her, but she ceased not to follow him. Then he thought to himself, with all a saint's compunction, 'It is not she who is to blame, and who is worthy of rebuke, but I, who have been the occasion of sin to her. God grant that sin be not imputed to her through loving me.' The next time she met him, it was in a deserted part of the Campagna. 'Brother Antonio, come along with me down this path. No one will see us there,' said Sora Castitre. Much to her surprise, instead of pursuing the severe tone he had always adopted towards her, St. Anthony greeted her and smiled with a smile which filled her with a joy different from anything she had known before. What was more, he seemed to follow her, and she led on. But as she went the way seemed quite changed. She knew well the retired path by which she had meant to lead him, but now everything around looked different; not one landmark was the same. Yet 'how could it be different?' she said within herself; and she led on. What was her astonishment, when, instead of finding it terminate in a rocky gorge as she had found before, there rose before her presently an austere building surrounded with walls and gates! St. Anthony stepped forward as they reached the gate. A nun opened to them, and St. Anthony asked for the mother abbess. 'I have brought you a maiden,' he said, 'whom I recommend to your affectionate and tender care.' The mother abbess promised to make her her special charge, and St. Anthony went his way, first calling the maiden aside and charging her with this one petition he would have her make: 'I have sinned; have mercy on me.' Then St. Anthony went back to his convent and called all the brethren together, and asked them all to pray very earnestly all through the night, and in the morning tell him what manifestation they had had. The brethren promised to comply; and in the morning they all told him they had seen a little spark of light shining in the darkness. 'It suffices not, my brethren!' said St. Anthony; 'continue your charity and pray on instantly this night also.' The brethren promised compliance; and in the morning they all told him they had seen a pale streak of light stealing away towards heaven. 'It suffices not, my brethren!' said St. Anthony; 'of your charity pray on yet again this night also.' The brethren promised compliance; and in the morning they told him they had all seen a blaze of light, and in the midst of it a bed on which lay a most beautiful maiden, white [183] as a lily, carried up to heaven, borne by four shining angels. 'It is well, my brethren!' replied St. Anthony; 'your prayers have rendered a soul to the celestial quires.' Afterwards he went to the convent where he had left Sora Castitre, and learnt from the mother abbess that, spending three penitential days saying only, 'I have sinned; have mercy on me,' she had rendered up her soul to God in simplicity and fervour. 3 The legend of St. Anthony preaching to the fishes is well known from paintings, and I do not reproduce it because it was told me with no variation from the usual form. But another legend, which early pictures have rendered equally familiar, I received with an anachronistic addition which is worth putting down. 4 ST. ANTHONY AND THE HOLY CHILD. [184] St. Anthony had been sent a long way off to preach; [185] by the way fatigue overtook him, and he found hospitality for a few days in a monastery by the way. Later in the evening came a Protestant [186] and asked hospitality, and he also was received, because you know there are many Protestants who are very good; and, besides that, if the man needed hospitality the monks would give it, whoever he might be. The monks were all in their cells by an early hour in the evening, but the Protestant walked up and down the corridors smoking. Suddenly through the cracks and the keyhole and all round the lintel of the door he saw a bright light issue where anon all was dark; it seemed as if the cell was on fire. 'One of the good monks has set fire to his bedclothes!' he said, and looked through the keyhole. What did he see? on the open book from which a father who was kneeling before it had been taking his meditations stood a beautiful Child whom it filled you with love to look at, and from Whom shone a light too bright to bear. Anxious to obtain a better view of the glorious sight the Protestant knocked at the door; St. Anthony, for it was he, called to him to come in; but instantly the vision vanished. 'Who was that Child who was talking to you?' asked the Protestant. 'The Divine Infant!' answered St. Anthony with the greatest simplicity. The next night the Protestant, curious to know if the Child would appear again, again walked up and down the corridor smoking, keeping his eye on the door of St. Anthony's cell; nor was it long before the same sight met his eye, but this time he was led to prolong his converse with the saint. The next night there was the same prodigy, and that night they sat up all night talking. When morning came he told the father abbot he wished to make his adjuration and join the order, and he finally took the habit in that monastery. 5 They say there was once a poor man who had paid what he owed for his ground. You know the way is, that when a man has gathered in his harvest and turned a little money then he pays off what he owes. This man paid for his ground as soon as he had made something by his harvest, but the seller did not give him any receipt. Soon after the owner died, and his son came to ask for the money over again. 'But I paid your father,' said the poor man. 'Then show your receipt,' said the son. 'But he didn't give me one,' answered the poor man. 'Then you must pay me,' insisted the new proprietor. 'What shall I do! what shall I do!' exclaimed the poor man in despair. 'St. Anthony, help me!' He had hardly said the words when he saw a friar [187] coming towards him. 'What's the matter, good man?' said the friar, 'that you are so distressed: tell me.' And the poor man told him all the story of his distress. 'Shall I tell you how to get the receipt?' asked the friar. 'Indeed, indeed!' [188] exclaimed the poor man, 'that would be the making of me; but it's more than you can do--the man is dead!' 'Never mind that. You do what I tell you,' said the monk. 'Go straight along that path;' and the man saw that where he pointed was a path that had never been there before. 'Follow that path,' said the monk, 'and you will come to a casino with great iron gates which shut and open of themselves continually. You must watch the moment when they are open and go boldly in. Inside you will see a big room and a man sitting at a table writing ceaselessly and casting accounts. That is your landlord; ask him for the receipt and he won't dare withhold it now. But mind one thing. Don't touch a single article in the room, whatever you do.' The poor man went along the path, and found all as the monk had told him. 'How did you get here?' exclaimed the landlord, as soon as he recognised him; and the poor man told him how he had been sent and why he was come. The landlord sat at his desk writing with the greatest expedition, as if some one was whipping him on, and knitting his brows over his sums as if they were more than his brain could calculate; nevertheless, he took a piece of paper and wrote the receipt, and moreover he wrote two or three lines more on another piece of paper, which he bade him give to his son. The poor man promised to deliver it, and turned to go; but as he went could not forbear putting his hand over the polished surface of a table he had to pass, unmindful of the charge the monk had given him not to touch anything. His hand was no sooner in contact with the table than the whole skin was burnt off, and he understood that he was in Hell. With all expedition he watched the turn of the door opening, and hastened out. 'What have you got about your hand?' asked St. Anthony when the man came back, for the friar was none other than St. Anthony. 'I touched one of the tables in that house,' he answered, 'forgetting what you told me, and burnt my hand so badly I had to dip this cloth in a river as I came by and tie it up. But I have the receipt, thanks to you.' So St. Anthony touched his hand and healed it, and he saw him no more. Then the man took the letter to the old lord's son. 'Why, this is my father's writing!' he exclaimed; 'and my father is dead. How did you come by it?' And he told him. And the letter said: 'Behold, I am in Hell! But you, mend your ways; give money to the poor; compensate this man for the trouble he has had; and be just to all, lest you also come hither.' Then the old landlord's son gave the man a large sum of money to compensate him for his anxieties, and sent him away consoled. ST. MARGARET OF CORTONA. St. Margaret wasn't always a saint, you must know: in her youth she was very much the reverse. She had a very cruel stepmother, who worried her to death, [189] and gave her work she was unequal to do. One day her stepmother had sent her out to tie up bundles of hay. As she was so engaged a Count came by, and he stopped to look at her, for she was rarely beautiful. [190] 'What hard work for such pretty little hands,' he began by saying; and after many tender words had been exchanged he proposed that she should go home with him, where her life would be the reverse of the suffering existence she had now to endure. Margaret consented at once, for her stepmother, besides working her hard, had neglected to form her to proper sentiments of virtue. The count took her to his villa at a place called Monte Porciana, a good way from Cortona. Here her life was indeed a contrast to what it had been at home at Cortona. Instead of having to work, she had plenty of servants to wait upon her; her dress and her food were all in the greatest luxury, and she was supplied with everything she wished for. Sometimes as she went to the theatre, decked out in her gay attire, and knowing that she was a scandal to all, she would say in mirth and wantonness, 'Who knows whether one day I may not be stuck up there on high in the churches, like some of those saints? As strange things have happened ere now!' But she only said it in wantonness. So she went on enjoying life, and when their son was born there was nothing more she desired. In the midst of this gay existence, word was brought her one evening that the Count, who had gone out that morning full of health and spirits to the hunt, had been overtaken and assassinated, and as all had been afraid to pursue the murderers, they knew not where his body was. Margaret was thrown into a frenzy [191] at the news; her fine clothing and her rich fare gave her little pleasure now. All amusement and frivolity were put out of sight; and she sat on her sofa and stared before her, for she had no heart to turn to anything that could distract her thoughts from her great loss. Then one day--it might have been three days after--a favourite dog belonging to the count came limping and whining up to her. Margaret rose immediately; she knew that the dog would take her to the count's body, and she rose up and motioned to him to go: and the dog, all glad to return to his master, ran on before. All the household were too much afraid of the assassins to venture in their way, so Margaret went forth alone. It was a long rough way; but the dog ran on, and Margaret kept on as well as her broken strength would admit. At last they came to a brake where the dog stopped, and now whined no longer but howled piteously. Margaret knew that they had reached the object of their search, and it was indeed here the assassins had hidden the body. Moving away with her own hands the leaves and branches with which they had covered it over, the fearful sight of her lover's mangled body lay before her. The condition into which the wounds and the lapse of time had brought it was more than she could bear to look at, and she swooned away on the spot. When she came to herself all the course of her thoughts was changed. She saw what her life had been; the sense of the scandal she had given was more to her even than her own distracting grief. As the most terrible penance she could think of, she resolved to go back to her stepmother and endure her hard treatment, sharpened by the invectives with which she knew it would now be seasoned. Taking with her her son, she went to her, therefore, and with the greatest submission of manner entreated to be readmitted. But not even this would the stepmother grant her, but drove her away from the door. She then turned to her father, but he was bound to say the same as his wife. She now saw there was one misery worse than harsh treatment, and that was penury--starvation, not only for herself, but her child. Little she cared what became of her, but for the child something must be done. What did she do? She went and put on a sackcloth dress, [192] tied about the waist with a rope, and she went to the church at the high mass time; and when mass was over she stood on the altar step, and told all the people she was Margaret of Cortona, who had given so much scandal, and now was come to show her contrition for it. Her sufferings had gone up before God. As she spoke her confession so humbly before all the people, the count's mother rose from her seat, and, coming up to her, threw her handkerchief over her head [193]--for she was bareheaded--and led her away to her home. She would only accept her hospitality on condition of being allowed to live in a little room apart, with no more furniture than a nun's cell. Here she lived twelve years of penance, till her boy was old enough to choose his state in life. He elected to be a Dominican, and afterwards became a Preacher of the Apostolic Palace; and she entered a Franciscan convent, where she spent ten more years of penance, till God took her to Himself. She cut off all her long hair when she went to live in her cell at the house of the count's mother, that she might not again be an occasion of sin to anyone. And after that, when she found she was still a subject of human admiration, she cut off her lips, that no one might admire her again. [194] ST. THEODORA. When Santa Teodora was young she was married, and lived very happily with her husband, for they were both very fond of each other. But there was a count who saw her and fell in love with her, and tried his utmost to get an opportunity of telling her his affection, but she was so prudent that he could not approach her. So what did he do? he went to a bad old woman [195] and told her that he would give her ever so much money if she would get him the opportunity of meeting her. The old wretch accepted the commission willingly, and put all her bad arts in requisition to make Theodora forget her duty. For a long time Theodora refused to listen to her and sent her away, but she went on finding excuses to come to her, and again and again urged her persuasions and excited her curiosity so that finally she consented that he might just come and see her, and the witch woman assured her that was all he asked. But what he wanted was the opportunity of speaking his own story into her ear, and when that was given him he pushed his suit so successfully that it wasn't only once he came, but many times. Yet it was not a very long time before a day came when Theodora saw how wrong she had been, and then, seized with compunction, she determined to go away and hide herself where she would never be heard of more. Before her husband came home she cut off all her hair, and putting on a coarse dress she went to a Capuchin monastery and asked admission. 'What is your name?' asked the Superior. 'Theodore,' she replied. 'You seem too young for our severe rule,' he continued; 'you seem a mere boy;' but she expressed such sincere sentiments of contrition as showed him she was worthy to embrace their life of penance. The Devil was very much vexed to see what a perfect penitent she made, and he stirred up the other monks to suspect her of all manner of things; but they could find no fault against her, nor did they ever suspect that she was a woman. One day when she was sent with another brother to beg for the convent a storm overtook them in a wood, and they were obliged to seek the shelter of a cottage there was on the borders of the wood where they were belated. 'There is room in the stable for one of you,' said the peasant who lived there; 'but that other one who looks so young and so delicate' (he meant Theodora) 'must sleep indoors, and the only place is the loft where my daughter sleeps; but it can't be helped.' Theodora, therefore, slept in the loft and the monk in the stable, and in the morning when the weather was fair they went back to their convent. Months passed away, and the incident was almost forgotten, when one day the peasant came to the monastery and rang the bell in a great fury, and he laid down at the entrance a bundle in which was a baby. 'That young monk of yours is the father of this child,' he said, 'and you ought to turn him out of the convent.' Then the Superior sent for 'Theodore,' and repeated what the peasant had said. 'Surely God has sent me this new penance because the life I lead here is not severe enough,' she said. 'He has sent me this further punishment that all the community should think me guilty.' Therefore she would not justify herself, but accepted the accusation and took the baby and went away. Her only way of living now was to get a night's lodging how she could, and come every day to the convent gate with the child and live on the dole that was distributed there to the poor. What a life for her who had been brought up delicately in her own palace! She was not allowed to rest, however, even so, for people took offence because she was permitted to remain so near the monastery, and the monks had to send her away. So she went to seek the shelter of a wood, and to labour to find the means of living for herself and the child in the roots and herbs she could pick up. But one of the monks one day found her there, and saw her so emaciated that he told the Superior, and he let her come back to receive the dole. At last she died, and when they came to bury her they found she had in one hand a written paper so tightly clasped that no one had the strength to unclose it; and there she lay on her bier in the church looking so sad and worn, yet as sweetly fair as she had looked in life, and with the written paper tightly grasped in her closed hand. Now when her husband found that she had left his palace the night she went away he left no means untried to discover where she was; and when he had made inquiries and sent everywhere, and could learn no tidings whatever, he put on pilgrim's weeds and went out to seek for her everywhere himself. It so happened that he came into the city where she died just as she was thus laid on her bier in the church. In spite of her male attire he knew her; in the midst of his grief he noticed the written paper she held. To his touch her hand opened instantly, and in the scroll was found recorded all she had done and all she had suffered. NUN BEATRICE. [196] Nun Beatrice had not altogether the true spirit of a religious: she was somewhat given to vanity; [197] though but for this she was a good nun, and full of excellent dispositions. She held the office of portress; [198] and, as she determined to go away out of her convent and return into the world, this seemed to afford her a favourable opportunity for carrying out her design. Accordingly, one day when the house was very quiet, and there seemed no danger of being observed, having previously contrived to secrete some secular clothes such as passed through her hands to keep in store for giving to the poor, she let herself out and went away. In the parlour was a kneeling-desk with a picture of Our Lady hanging over it, where she had been wont to kneel and hold converse with Our Lady in prayer whenever she had a moment to spare. On this desk she laid the keys before she went, thinking it was a safe place for the Superior to find them; and she commended them to the care of Our Lady, whose picture hung above, and said, 'Keep thou the keys, and let no harm come to this good house and my dear sisters.' As she said the words Our Lady looked at her with a glance of reproach, enough to have melted her heart and made her return to a better mood had she seen it; but she was too full of her own thoughts and the excitement of her undertaking to notice anything. No sooner was she gone out, however, than Our Lady, walking out of the canvas, assumed the dress that she had laid aside, and, tying the keys to her girdle, assumed the office of portress. With the habit of the portress Our Lady also assumed her semblance; so that no one noticed the exchange, except that all remarked how humble, how modest, how edifying Beatrice had become. After a time the nuns began to say it was a pity so perfect a nun should be left in so subordinate a position, and they made her therefore Mistress of the Novices. This office she exercised with as great perfection, according to its requirements, as she had the other; and so sweetly did she train the young nuns entrusted to her direction that all the novices became saints. Beatrice meantime had gone to live in the world as a secular; and though she often repented of what she had done, she had not the courage to go back and tell all. She prayed for courage, but she went on delaying. While she was in this mind it so happened one day that the factor [199] of the convent came to the house where she was living. What strange and moving memories of her peaceful home filled her mind as she saw his well-known form, though he did not recognise her in her secular dress! What an opportunity too, she thought, to learn what was the feeling of the community towards her, and what had been said of her escape! 'I hope all your nuns are well,' she said. 'I used to live in their neighbourhood once, and there was one of them I used to know, Suora [200] Beatrice. How is she now?' 'Sister Beatrice!' said the factor. 'She is the model of perfection, the example of the whole house. Everybody is ready to worship her. With all respect to the Church, which never canonizes the living, no one doubts she is a saint indeed.' 'It cannot be the same,' answered Beatrice. 'The one I knew was anything but a saint, though I loved her well, and should like to have news of her.' And she hardly knew how to conceal the astonishment with which she was seized at hearing him speak thus; for the event on which she expected him to enlarge at once was the extraordinary fact of her escape. But he pursued in the same quiet way as before. 'Oh yes, it must be the same. There has never been but one of the name since I have known the convent. She was portress some time ago; but latterly she has been made Mistress of the Novices.' There was nothing more to be learnt from him; so she pursued her inquiries no further. But he had no sooner had start enough to put him at a safe distance, than she set out to go to the convent and see this Sister Beatrice who so strangely represented her. Arrived at the convent door, she asked to see Sister Beatrice, and in a very few minutes the Mistress of the Novices entered the parlour. The presence of the new Mistress of the Novices filled Beatrice with an awe she could not account for; and, without waiting to ask herself why, she fell on her knees before her. 'It is well you have come back, my child,' said Our Lady; 'resume your dress, which I have worn for you; go in to the convent again, and do penance, and keep up the good name I have earned for you.' With that Our Lady returned to the canvas; Beatrice resumed her habit, and strove so earnestly to form herself by the model of perfection Our Lady had set while wearing it, that in a few months she became a saint. [Mr. Ralston gives a Russian story (pp. 249-50), in which St. Nicholas comes in person and serves a man who has been devout to his picture.] PADRE FILIPPO. [St. Philip Neri is a giant indeed in the household memories of the Roman poor. His acts have become travestied and magnified among them in the most portentous way, and they always talk of him with the most patriotic enthusiasm. 'He was a Roman!--a Roman indeed!' they will say. And yet he was not a born Roman, but was made 'Protector of Rome' by the Church. 'Padre Filippo' is their favourite way of naming him, and sometimes 'il buon Filippo' and 'Pippo buono.'] 1 There was in Padre Filippo's time a cardinal who was Prefect of the provisions, [201] who let everything go wrong and attended to nothing, and the poor were all suffering because provisions got so dear. Padre Filippo went to the Pope--Papa Medici [202] it was--and told him how badly off the poor were; so the Pope called the Cardinal to account, and went on making him attend to it till Padre Filippo told him that things were on a better footing. But the Cardinal came to Padre Filippo and said: 'Why do you vex me by going and making mischief to the Pope?' But Padre Filippo, instead of being frightened at his anger, rose up and said: 'Come here and I will show you what is the fate of those who oppress and neglect the poor. Come here Eminentissimo, and look,' and he took him to the window and asked him what he saw. The Cardinal looked, and he saw a great fire of Hell, and the souls writhing in it. The Cardinal said no more and went away, but not long after he gave up being a cardinal and became a simple brother under Padre Filippo. [Who this cardinal may have been I do not know, but the story was told me another time in this form:--] 1A There was a cardinal--Gastaldi was his name--who went a good deal into society to the neglect of more important duties. One evening, when he was at a conversazione, Padre Filippo came to the house where he was and had him called out to him in an empty room. 'Your Eminence! come to this window, I have something to show you.' The Cardinal came to the window and looked out, and instead of the houses he saw Hell opened and all the souls [203] in the flames; a great serpent was wriggling in and out among them and biting them, and in the midst was a gilt cardinalitial chair. 'Who is that seat for?' inquired the Cardinal. 'It is placed there for your Eminence,' replied St. Philip. 'What must I do to escape it?' exclaimed the Cardinal, horrified and self-convicted. Padre Filippo read him a lecture on penitence and amendment of life, and for the practical part of his advice warned him to devote to good works moneys he had been too fond of heaping up. The Cardinal after this became very devout, and the poor were great gainers by St. Philip's instructions to him, and the two churches you see at the end of the Corso and Babbuino in Piazza del Popolo were also built by him with the money Padre Filippo had warned him to spend aright, and you may see his arms up there any day for yourself. [204] 2 Some of their stories of him are jocose. There was a young married lady who was a friend of the Order, and had done it much good. She was very much afraid of the idea of her confinement as the time approached and said she could never endure it. Padre Filippo knew how good she was and felt great compassion for her. 'Never mind, my child,' said the 'good Philip'; 'I will take all your pain on myself.' Time passed away, and one night the community was very much surprised to hear 'good Philip' raving and shouting with pain; he who voluntarily submitted to every penance without a word, and whom they had often seen so patient in illness. That same night the lady's child was born and she felt no pain at all. Early next morning she sent to tell him that her child was born, and to ask how he was. 'Tell her I am getting a little better now,' said 'good Philip,' 'but I never suffered anything like it before. Next time, mind, she must manage her affairs for herself. For never will I interfere [205] with anything of that sort again.' 3 Another who had no child was very anxious to have one, and came to Padre Filippo to ask him to pray for her that she might have one. Padre Filippo promised to pray for her; but instead of a child there was only a shapeless thing. She sent for Padre Filippo once more, therefore, and said: 'There! that's all your prayers have brought!' 'Oh never mind!' said Padre Filippo; and he took it and shaped it (the narrator twisted up a large towel and showed how he formed first one leg then the other, then the arms, then the head, as if she had seen him do it). Then he knelt down by the side and prayed while he told them to keep silence, and it opened its eyes and cried, and the mother was content. [His winning and practical ways of dealing with his penitents afford an endless theme of anecdote, but some have grown to most extravagant proportions. The following shows how, as in all legends, mysteries are made to wear a material form. The fact that on some occasions he satisfied some, whom no one else could satisfy, of the boundless mercy of God, is brought to proof in such a tangible way as to provoke the denial it was invented to silence.] 4 There was a man who was dying, and would not have a priest near him. He said he had so many sins on him it was impossible God could forgive him, so it was no use bothering himself about confessing. His wife and his children begged and entreated him to let them send for a priest, but he would not listen to them. So they sent for Padre Filippo, and as he was a friend he said: 'If he comes as a visitor he may come in, but not as a priest.' Good Philip sat down by his side and said: 'A visitor may ask a question. Why won't you let me come as a priest?' The sick man gave the same answer as before. 'Now you're quite mistaken,' said St. Philip, 'and I'll show you something.' Then he called for paper and pen and wrote a note. 'Padre Eterne!' he wrote. 'Can a man's sins be forgiven?' and he folded it, and away it went of itself right up to heaven. An hour later, as they were all sitting there, another note came back all by itself, written in shining letters of gold, and it said:-- 'Padre Eterne forgives and receives everyone who is penitent.' The sick man resisted no longer after that; he made his confession and received the sacrament, and died consoled in 'good Philip's' arms. 5 Padre Filippo was walking one day through the streets of Rome when he saw a great crowd very much excited. 'What's the matter?' asked 'good Philip.' 'There's a man in that house up there beating his wife fit to kill her, and for nothing at all, for she's an angel of goodness. Nothing at all, but because she's so ugly.' Padre Filippo waited till the husband was tired of beating her and had gone out, and all the crowd had dispersed. Then he went up to the room where the poor woman lived, and knocked at the door. 'Who's there?' said the woman. 'Padre Filippo!' answered 'good Philip,' and the woman opened quickly enough when she heard it was Padre Filippo who knocked. But good Philip himself started back with horror when he saw her, she was so ugly. However, he said nothing, but made the sign of the cross over her, and prayed, and immediately she became as beautiful as she had been ugly; but she knew nothing, of course, of the change. 'Your husband won't beat you any more,' said good Philip, as he turned to go; 'only if he asks you who has been here send him to me.' When the husband came home and found his wife had become so beautiful, he kissed her, and was beside himself for joy; and she could not imagine what had made him so different towards her. 'Who has been here?' he asked. 'Only Padre Filippo,' answered the wife; 'and he said that if you asked I was to tell you to go to him;' the husband ran off to him to thank him, and to say how sorry he was for having beaten her. But there lived opposite a woman who was also in everything the opposite of this one. She was very handsome, but as bad in conduct as the other was good. However, when she saw the ugly wife become so handsome, she said to herself, 'If good Philip would only make me a little handsomer than I am, it would be a good thing for me;' and she went to Padre Filippo and asked him to make her handsomer. Padre Filippo looked at her, and he knew what sort of woman she was, and he raised his hand and made the sign of the cross over her, and prayed, and she became ugly; uglier even than the other woman had been! 'Why have you treated me differently from the other woman?' exclaimed the woman, for she had brought a glass with her to be able to contemplate the improvement she expected him to make in her appearance. 'Because beauty was of use to her in her state of life,' answered Padre Filippo. 'But you have only used the beauty God gave you as an occasion of sin; therefore a stumbling-block have I now removed out of your way.' And he said well, didn't he? One Easter there came to him a young man of good family to confession, and Padre Filippo knew that every one had tried in vain to make him give up his mistress, and that to argue with him about it was quite useless. So he tried another tack. 'I know it is such a habit with you to go to see her you can't give it up, so I'm not going to ask you to. You shall go and see her as often as you like, only will you do something to please me?' The young man was very fond of good Philip, and there was nothing he would have not done for him except to give up his mistress; so as he knew that was not in question, he answered 'yes' very readily. 'You promise me to do what I say, punctually?' asked the saint. 'Oh, yes, father, punctually.' 'Very well, then; all I ask is that though you go to her as often as you like, you just pass by this way and come up and pull my bell every time you go; nothing more than that.' The young man did not think it was a very hard injunction, but when it came to performing it he felt its effect. At first he used to go three times a day, but he was so ashamed of ringing the saint's bell so often, that very soon he went no more than once a day. That dropped to two or three times a week, then once a week, and long before next Easter he had given her up and had become all his parents could wish him to be. 7 'There was another such case; just such another, only this man had a wife too, but he was so infatuated with the other, he would have it she loved him the better of the two.' 'Yes; and the other was a miniature-painter,' broke in corroboratively a kind of charwoman who had come in to tidy the place while we were talking. 'Yes, she was a miniature-painter,' continued the narrator; 'but it's I who am telling the story.' 'Padre Filippo said, "How much do you allow her?"' 'Twenty pauls a day,' broke in the charwoman. 'Forty scudi a month,' said the narrator positively. 'There's not much difference,' interposed I, fearing I should lose the story between them. 'Twenty pauls a day is sixty scudi a month. It doesn't matter.' 'Well, then, Padre Filippo said,' continued the narrator, '"Now just to try whether she cares so much about you, you give her thirty scudi a month."' 'Fifteen pauls a day,' interposed the charwoman. 'Thirty scudi a month!' reiterated the narrator. 'Never mind,' said I. 'Whatever it was, it was to be reduced.' 'Yes; that's it,' pursued the narrator; 'and he made him go on and on diminishing it. She took it very well at first, suspecting he was trying her, and thinking he would make it up to her afterwards.' 'But when she found he didn't,' said the charwoman, 'She turned him out,' said the narrator, putting her down with a frown. 'He was so infatuated, however, that even now he was not satisfied, and said that in stopping the money he had been unfair, and she was in the right. So good Philip, who was patience itself, said, "Go and pay her up, and we'll try her another way. You go and kill a dog, and put it in a bag, and go to her with your hands covered with blood, and let her think you have got into trouble for hurting some one, and ask her to hide you." So the man went and killed a dog.' 'It was a cat he killed, because he couldn't find a dog handy,' said the irrepressible charwoman. 'Nonsense; of course it was a dog,' asseverated the narrator. 'But when he went to her house and pretended to be in a bad way, and asked her to have pity on him, she only answered: "Not I, indeed! I'm not going to get myself into a scrape [206] with the law, for him!" and drove him away. And he came and told Padre Filippo. '"Now," said good Philip, "go to your wife whom you have abandoned so long. Go to her with the same story, and see what she does for you." 'The man took the dead dog in the bag, and ran to the lodging where his wife was, and knocked stealthily at her door. "It is I," he whispered. '"Come in, husband," exclaimed the wife, throwing open the door. '"Stop! hush! take care! don't touch me!" said the husband. "There's blood upon me. Save me! hide me! put me somewhere!" '"It's so long since you've been here, no one will think of coming after you here, so you will be quite safe. Sit down and be composed," said the wife soothingly; and she poured him out wine to drink. 'But the police were nearer than he fancied. He had thought to finish up the affair in five minutes by explaining all to her. But "the other," not satisfied with refusing him shelter, had gone and set the police on his track; and here they were after him. 'The wife's quick ears heard them on the stairs. "Get into this cupboard quick, and leave me to manage them," she said. 'The husband safely stowed away, she opened the door without hesitation, as if she had nothing to hide. "How can you think he is here?" she said when they asked for him. "Ask any of the neighbours how long it is since he has been here." '"Oh, three years," "four years," "five," said various voices of people who had come round at hearing the police arrive. '"You see you must have come to the wrong place," she said. And the husband smiled as he heard her standing out for him so bravely. 'Her determined manner had satisfied the police; and they were just turning to go when one of them saw tell-tale spots of blood on the floor that had dropped from the dead dog. The track was followed to the cupboard, and the man dragged to prison. It was in vain that he assured them he had killed nothing but a dog. '"Ha! that will be the faithful dog of the murdered man," said the police. "We shan't be long before we find the body of the man himself!" 'The wife was distracted at finding her husband, who had but so lately come back to her, was to be taken away again; and he could discern how real was her distress. '"Go to Padre Filippo, and he will set all right," said the husband as they carried him away. The woman went to Padre Filippo, and he explained all, amid the laughter of the Court. But the husband went back to his wife, and never left her any more after that.' [The story was told me another time with this variation, that the penitent was a peasant [207] who came up to Rome with his ass, and tied it to a pillar set up for the purpose outside the church, while he went in to confess. The first time he went, St. Philip told him he must have nothing more to do with the occasion of sin, who in this case was a spinner instead of a miniature-painter. The peasant was so angry with the advice that he stayed away from confession a whole year. At the end of the year he came back. St. Philip received him with open arms, saying he had been praying ever since for his return to a better mind. The sum that formed the sliding-scale that was to open his eyes to the mercenary nature of the affection he had so much prized, was calculated at a lower rate than the other; but the rest of the story was the same.] 8 'Ah, there's plenty to be said about Padre Filippo,' said the charwoman; and I should have liked to put her under examination, but that it would have been a breach of hospitality, as the other evidently did not like the interruption; so I was obliged to be satisfied with the testimony she had already afforded of the popularity of the saint. 'Ha, good Padre Filippo, he was content to eat "black bread" like us'; and she took a hunch out of her pocket to show me; (it was only like our 'brown bread.') 'There was no lack where he was. Once I know, with half a rubbio [208] of corn, he made enough to last all the community ten years,' she, however, ran on to say before she could be dismissed. 9 One day Padre Filippo was going over Ponte S. Angelo, when he met two little boys who seemed to attract his notice. 'Forty-two years hence you will be made a cardinal,' he said to one, as he gave him a friendly tap with his walking-stick. 'And that other one,' he added, turning to his companion, 'will be dead in two years.' And so it came true exactly. 10 There was another peasant who, when he came into Rome on a Sunday morning, always went to the church where St. Philip was. [209] 'You quite weary [210] one with your continual preaching about the Blessed Sacrament. I'm so tired of hearing about it, that I declare to you I don't care so much about it as my mule does about a sack of corn.' Padre Filippo preferred convincing people in some practical way to going into angry discussions with them; so he did not say very much in answer to the countryman's remarks, but asked him the name of his village. Not long after he went down to this village to preach; and had a pretty little altar erected on a hill-side, and set up the Blessed Sacrament in Exposition. Then he went and found out the same countryman, and said, 'Now bring a sack of corn near where the altar is, and let's see what the mule does.' The countryman placed a sack of corn near the altar, and drove the mule by to see what it would do. The mule kicked aside the sack of corn, and fell down on its knees before the altar; and the man, seeing the token, went to confession to St. Philip, and never said anything profane any more. 11 There were two other fellows [211] who were more profane still, and who said one to the other, 'They make such a fuss about Padre Filippo and his miracles, I warrant it's all nonsense. Let's watch till he passes, and one of us pretend to be dead and see if he finds it out.' So said so done. 'What is your companion lying on the ground for?' said St. Philip as he passed. 'He's dead! Father,' replied the other. 'Dead, is he?' said Padre Filippo; 'then you must go for a bier for him.' He had no sooner passed on than the man burst out laughing, expecting his companion to join his mirth. But his companion didn't move. 'Why don't you get up?' he said, and gave him a kick; but he made no sign. When he bent down to look at him he found he was really dead; and he had to go for the bier. [Cancellieri has collected some curious incidents ('Morcato,' p. 210-12, Appendix N. xxii.) concerning an attempt which was made by Princess Anne Colonna to obtain from Urban VIII. the authority to remove a part of the Saint's body to her chapel at Naples. The Fathers of the Oratory and the people were greatly averse to dividing it, as it was very well preserved in its entirety. By a fatality, which the people readily believed to be providential, Monsig. Moraldo, who was charged to bring the matter under the Pope's notice, forgot it every time he was in attendance on the Pope, though it was the most important thing he had to say. At last he put the Bull concerning it out on his desk that he might be sure to remember it, though otherwise he would have kept it concealed, for it bore the endorsement, 'Per levare (to remove) parte del corpo di S. Filippo Neri.' While he was talking about it to one of the papal secretaries standing near the window, a priest, who had come about other matters, was shown in, and thus happened to pass by the side of the table when the endorsement of the Bull caught his eye. With all a Roman's desire to preserve the body to Rome intact, he immediately gave notice at the Oratory, and two courageous young fathers took upon themselves to hide the body. When the prelates, therefore, came shortly after to claim the fulfilment of the Bull, the Rector opened the shrine in good faith, but the body was not there, and the report ran among the vulgar that it had been miraculously removed. Subsequently the Rector gave them the heart, and drew a tooth of the Saint, which was a verbal compliance with the terms of the Bull, being certainly 'a part of the body.' Some years after, the body was restored to its shrine, and in 1743 Prince Chigi provided it with velvets and brocades to the value of 1,000 scudi.] THE PARDON OF ASISI. [212] St. Felix, [213] St. Vincent, [214] and St. Philip went together once upon a time to the Pardon of Asisi. As they were three great saints, the Pope sent for them as soon as they came back, saying he had a question to ask them. It was Innocent IX. or X., I am not sure which; but I know it was an Innocent. [215] He took them one by one, separately, and began with St. Felix. 'Were there a great many people at the Pardon?' said the Pope. 'Oh yes, an immense number,' answered simple St. Felix; 'I had not thought the whole world contained such a number.' 'Then a vast number of sins must have been remitted that day?' said the Pope. St. Felix only sighed in reply. 'Why do you sigh?' asked the Pope. St. Felix hesitated to reply, but the Pope bade him tell him what was in his mind. 'There were but few who gained the indulgence in all that multitude,' replied the Saint; 'for among them all were few who came with the contrition required.' 'How many were there who did receive it?' again asked the Pope. Once more St. Felix hesitated till the Pope ordered him to speak. 'There were only four,' he then said. 'Only four!' exclaimed the Pope. 'And who were they?' St. Felix showed even more reluctance to answer this question than the others; but the Pope made it a matter of obedience, and then he said, 'The four were Father Philip, Father Vincent, one old man, and one other.' [216] The Pope next called for Father Vincent, and went through nearly the same dialogue with him, and his list was 'Father Philip, Father Felix, one old man, and one other.' Then the Pope sent for St. Philip, and held the same discourse with him, and his list was 'Father Vincent, Father Felix, one old man, and one other.' And the Pope saw that their testimony agreed together, and that each out of humility had abstained from naming that he was one of the four. But when the people heard the story, they all began demanding that the three fathers should be canonized. [Concerning St. Philip's devotion to the Portiuncula, Cancellieri, 'Mercato,' § xxi. note 7, records that he never missed attending it every August at the little Church of S. Salvatore, in Onda, near Ponte Sisto, now a hospice for infirm priests (he gives a curious inscription in note * * *), then in the hands of the Franciscans for many years, while he lived in the neighbouring Palazzo Caccia.] PADRE VINCENZO. 1 There was Padre Vincenzo too, who wasn't much less than Good Philip himself. He was a miracle of obedience. One day when he was ill the Father-General sent him a codfish. Padre Vincenzo sent back word to thank him, but said he couldn't eat it. 'Nonsense!' answered the Father-General, who thought he spoke out of regard to his love of abstinence. 'Nonsense! tell him he is to eat it all.' The message was given to Padre Vincenzo, who was really too ill to eat anything; but in his simplicity thinking he ought to obey, he ate the whole fish, head, tail, bones, and all. By-and-by the Father-General came to see him. He seemed almost at the last gasp, suffocated by the effort he had made, and his throat all lacerated with swallowing the fish-bones. The Father-General praised the simplicity of his obedience, but told the brother who took the message that he ought to have explained it better. But Padre Vincenzo did not lose anything by his obedience, for that same evening he was cured of his illness altogether, and was quite well again. 2 Padre Vincenzo worked so many miracles that all Rome was talking about him, and the Father-General thought he would get vain, so he told him not to work any more miracles. Padre Vincenzo therefore worked no more miracles; but one day as he was walking along the street, he passed under a high scaffolding of a house that was being built. Just as he came by, a labourer missed his footing and fell over from the top. 'Padre Vincenzo, save me!' cried the man, for everybody knew Padre Vincenzo, and he had just seen him turn into the street. 'Stop there!' said Padre Vincenzo; 'I mustn't save you, as the Padre-Generale says I'm not to work miracles; but wait there, and I'll go and ask if I may.' Then he left him suspended in the air while he ran breathless to ask permission of the Father-General to work the miracle of saving him. 3 One morning Padre Vincenzo had to pass through the Rotonda [217] on business of his community. A temptation of the throat [218] took him as he saw a pair of fine plump pigeons such as you, perhaps, cannot see anywhere out of the Rotonda hanging up for sale. Padre Vincenzo bought the pigeons, and took them home secretly under his cloak. In his cell he plucked the pigeons, and cooked them over a little fire. The unwonted smell of roast pigeon soon perfumed the corridor, and two or three brothers, having peeped through the keyhole and seen what was going on in Padre Vincenzo's cell, ran off to say to the Father-General, 'What do you think Padre Vincenzo, whom we all reckon such a saint, is doing now! He is cooking pigeons privately in his cell.' 'It's a calumny! I can't believe it of him,' answered the Father-General indignantly. The spying brothers bid him come and see. 'I am certain if I do, it will be to cover you with confusion in some way or other for telling tales!' replied the Father-General as he went with them. As they passed along the corridor there was the smell of roast pigeon most undeniably; but when the Father-General opened the cell door what did they see? Padre Vincenzo was on his knees, praying for forgiveness in a tone of earnest contrition; round his throat were tied the two pigeons, burning hot, as he had taken them from the fire. A spirit of compunction had seized him as he was about to accomplish the unmortified act of eating in his cell in contravention of his rule, and he had adopted this penance for yielding in intention to the temptation. PADRE FONTANAROSA. 1 There was Padre Fontanarosa too. Did you never hear of him? He was a good friend to the poor; and all Rome loved him. He was a Jesuit; but somehow there were some Jesuits who didn't like him. Papa Braschi [219] was very fond of him, and used to make him come every day and tell him all that went on in Rome, for he was very good to the people, and that way the Pope heard what the people wanted; and many things that were wrong got set right when Padre Fontanarosa explained to the Pope the real state of the case. One day Padre Fontanarosa said to the Pope, 'People say I have been talking too freely, and call it telling tales; but I have only obeyed the wishes of Your Holiness. If I have done wrong send me away.' But Papa Braschi answered, 'You have done me good service. Fear nothing.' The next day after that Padre Fontanarosa did not come to the Vatican, or the next, or the next. Then Papa Braschi called for his carriage, and said, 'Drive to the Gesù!' Arrived at the Gesù, he said, 'I want Padre Fontanarosa; where is he?' They answered, 'In his cell.' But he had been confined in his cell on bread and water for chattering. 'Then let him be brought out of his cell; for I want him!' answered Papa Braschi. That time he took Padre Fontanarosa away in his carriage, and no one durst say anything to him any more. 2 Father Fontanarosa was very simple in his habits himself; and he thought the best way to keep the Order simple was to keep it poor. Whenever anyone wanted to leave money to it, instead of encouraging them, he used to tell them of some other good work to which they might leave it. One day there was a penitent of his who was very devoted to the Jesuits, a very rich nobleman, who came to die, and, as he was making his will, he would have Padre Fontanarosa and the notary present together. 'I leave all of which I die possessed to the Church of the Gesù,' dictated the rich nobleman. 'What! do you leave all to the Son and nothing to the Mother!' said Padre Fontanarosa, who knew he was too weak to argue with him as to whether the Order was better without the money or not, and therefore adopted this mode of avoiding the snare, without damaging the good purpose of the testator. 'Ah! you are right,' answered the dying man. 'Thank you for reminding me. Make a codicil,' he said to the notary, 'and say I meant it for Gesù and Maria.' The notary wrote just what he was bid, and the dying man and the witnesses signed all duly. But the money had to go, not to 'the Gesù' at all, but to the church of 'Gesù e Maria'--you know where, at the end of the Corso, which doesn't belong to the Jesuits at all, but to the Augustinians. 3 Others give him not quite such a good character, and tell the following story of him:-- The reason why the Jesuits did not look favourably on Father Fontanarosa was that they thought he went too often to the house of a certain lady. He perceived that they had found out that he visited her, but he went on all the same, only he said to her, 'If anything happens that the fathers send after me, and anyone comes into the room suddenly; fall down on your knees before the crucifix, and I will speak so that I may seem to be here to give you a penitential warning.' There happened to be a handsome crucifix, kept more for ornament than devotion, on a slab in her boudoir, and she promised to heed his caution. One day, when they were together, they heard a ring at the outer door; then a whispering in the passage; then footsteps in the adjoining room. Padre Fontanarosa looked at the lady, and the lady looked at Padre Fontanarosa. Each understood that they were under surveillance. She fell down on her knees before the crucifix, and he exhorted her to take a pattern from the Magdalen; and, as she knelt clasping the foot of the cross, with her beautiful hair all loose over her shoulders, she really looked like a living picture of the Magdalen. Still no one came into the room. But they felt they were being watched; so it was necessary to keep up the deception. Padre Fontanarosa had to speak loudly and fervently in order to make his words resound well in the adjoining room; the lady had to sob to show she was attending to them. Still no one came in; and Padre Fontanarosa had to continue his discourse till, partly through fear lest his courage should fail, and partly lest he should be discovered, he forced himself to forget present circumstances, and to throw himself into his exhortation to such an extent that he preached with a force and eloquence he had never exercised in his life before. At last those who had been listening felt satisfied of his sincerity, and went back to the General and told him there was no fault to be found in him. But so effectually had he preached, and so salutary had been his warnings, that the next day the lady entered a convent, to be a penitent all her days. S. GIUSEPPE LABRE. [220] 1 'There was Giuseppe Labre too, and many wonderful things he did; he was a great saint, as all the people in the Monti [221] knew. I don't know if they've put all about him in books yet; if so, you may have read it; but I can't read.' 'I know a Life of him has been published; but tell me what you have heard about him all the same.' Giuseppe Labre, you know, passed much of his time in meditation in the Coliseum; the arch behind the picture of the Second Station, [222] that's where he used to be all day, and where he slept most nights, too. There was a butcher in the Via de' Serpenti who knew him, and kept a little room for him, where he made him come and sleep when the nights were bad and cold, or stormy. These people were very good to him, and, though not well off themselves, were ready to give him a great deal more than he in his love for poverty would consent to accept. One great affliction this butcher had; his wife was bedridden with an incurable disorder. One night there was a terrible storm, it was a burning hot night in summer, and Giuseppe Labre came to sleep at the butcher's. He was lying on his bed in the little room, which was up a step or two higher than the butcher's own room, where his wife lay, just as it might be where that cupboard is there. Presently the butcher's wife heard him call her, saying, 'Sora Angela, bring me a cup of water for the love of God!' 'My friend, you know how gladly I would do anything to help you, but my husband is not come up, and I have no one to send, and you know I cannot move.' Nevertheless Giuseppe called again, 'Sora Angela, bring me a cup of water for the love of God!' 'Don't call so, good friend,' replied she; 'it distresses me; you know how gladly I would come if I could only move.' Yet still the third time Giuseppe Labre said, 'Sora Angela, hear me! Bring me a cup of water for the love of God!' And he spoke the words so authoritatively that the good woman felt as if she was bound to obey him, she made the effort to rise, and, can you believe it! she got up as if there was nothing the matter with her; and from that time forward she was cured. 2 There was a poor cobbler who always had a kind word for Giuseppe too. One day Giuseppe Labre came to him, and said he wanted him to lend him a pair of shoes as he was going a pilgrimage to Loreto. The cobbler knew what a way it was from Rome to Loreto, and that there would not be much left of a pair of shoes after they had done the way there and back. Had Labre asked him to give them, his regard for him would have prompted him to assent however ill he could afford it; but to talk of lending shoes to walk to Loreto and back seemed like making game of him, and he didn't like it. Nevertheless he couldn't find it in his heart to refuse, and he gave him a pretty tidy pair which he had patched up strong to sell, but without expecting ever to see them again. Giuseppe Labre took the shoes and went to Loreto, and when he came back his first call was at the cobbler's shed; and sure enough he brought the shoes none the worse for all the wear they had had. So perfectly uninjured were they that the cobbler would have thought they were another pair had it not been that he recognised the patches of his own clumsy work. 3 Another more matter-of-fact account of this story was that he did not wear the shoes on the journey, as he did that barefoot, i.e. with wooden sandals, and only borrowed the shoes to be decent and reverent in visiting the Sanctuary. In this case the story was told me to illustrate his conscientiousness both in punctually returning the shoes and in taking so much care of his trust. THE TWELVE WORDS OF TRUTH. [223] This is a 'ritornella,' the whole being repeated over as each new sentence is added. I remember, years ago, meeting the same in Wiltshire, and then there was this additional refrain to be repeated: 'When want is all the go; And it evermore shall be so.' Then it went on: 'I'll sing you three O; Three O are rivo.' If I remember right, there were no numbers before three-o. Four, were the four Evangelists, and nine, the nine orders of angels, as in the text; but the seventh line was 'seven are the seven bright stars in the sky,' and this, taken in connexion with the text, establishes a curious link in popular mythology between the mysterious Seven-branch Candlestick and the Pleïades. Subjoined is a translation of the text. 'One, and first, is the Lord God, ever ready to help us.' ('Domeniddio' is a popular way of naming God, like the French 'le bon Dieu,' identical with the German 'unser Herrgott.') [224] 'Two stands for the keys of heaven. There is gold.' (This would be the literal rendering of this line, but it has manifestly been lamed by bad memory.) [225] 'Three stands for three patriarchs, &c.' [226] 'Four stands for the four columns which support the world, &c.' [227] 'Five stands for the five wounds of Jesus Christ.' [228] 'Six stands for the six cocks which crowed in Galilee.' [229] 'Seven are the seven tapers that burnt in Jerusalem.' ('Cantorno' for cantarono, a vulgar transposition, like 'hunderd,' and 'childern,' in English; 'ardorno' similarly, instead of 'arderono,' though 'arsero' would be the correct form.) [230] 'Eight' stands for the octave of Christ. (Probably in allusion to the 'octave,' or eight days' festival, of Christmas.) [231] 'Nine' stands for the nine quires of angels. [232] 'Ten' stands for the ten years of Christ. (What 'ten years' it is not easy to see.) [233] 'Eleven' stands for the crowning with thorns. (St. Bridget or Soeur Emmerich, in their minute meditations or 'Revelations' on the Passion, have fixed a number for the thorns in our Lord's crown, but I do not remember what they make it; there may be a tradition that it was eleven.) [234] 'Twelve' stands for the Twelve Apostles. [235] GHOST AND TREASURE STORIES AND FAMILY AND LOCAL TRADITIONS. THE DEAD MAN IN THE OAK-TREE. [236] There was a parcel of young fellows once who were a nuisance to everybody in Rome, for they were always at some mischievous tricks when it was nothing worse. But there was one of them who was not altogether so bad as the rest. For one thing, there was one practice of devotion he had never forgotten from the days when his mother taught him, and that was, to say a De Profundis whenever he saw a dead body carried past to burial. But what concerned his companions, was the fear lest he should some day perhaps take it into his head to reform, and in that case it was not impossible he might be led to give information against them. At last they agreed that the best thing they could do was to put him out of the way. Quietly as their conspiracy was conducted, he saw there was something plotting, and determined to be out of reach of their murderous intentions; so he got up early one morning, and rode out of Rome. On, on, on, [237] he went till he had left Rome many miles behind, and then he saw hanging in an oak-tree the body of a man all in pieces, among the branches. For a moment he was overcome with horror at the sight; but, nevertheless, he did not forget his good practice of saying a De Profundis. No sooner had he completed the psalm, than one by one the pieces came down from the tree and put themselves together, till a dead man stood before him, all complete. Gladly would he have spurred his horse on and got away from the horrible sight, but he was riveted to the spot, and durst not move, or scarcely take breath. But worse was in store, for now the dreadful apparition took hold of his bridle. 'Fear nothing, young man!' said the corpse, in a tone, which though meant to be kind, was so sepulchral that it thrilled the ear. 'Only change places with me for a little space; you get up in the oak-tree, and lend your horse to me.' The youth mechanically got off his horse, and climbed up into the tree, while the mangled corpse got on to the horse, and rode away back towards Rome. He had not been gone five minutes when he heard four shots [238] fired. Looking from his elevation in the direction of the sound, he saw his four evil companions, who had just fired their pieces into the corpse which rode his horse, without making it sit a bit less erect than before. Then he saw them go stealthily up to the figure and look at it, and then run away, wild with terror. As soon as they had turned their backs, the corpse turned the horse's head round, and trotted back to the oak-tree. 'Now, my son,' said the corpse, alighting from the horse, 'I have done you this good turn because you said a De Profundis for me; but such interpositions don't befall a man every day. Turn over a new leaf, before a worse thing happens.' Having said this, the dead body, piece by piece, replaced itself amid the branches of the oak-tree, where it had hung before. The young man got on his horse again, penitent and thoughtful, and rode to a friary, [239] where, after spending an edifying life, he died a holy death. THE DEAD MAN'S LETTER. [240] There was a rich man, I cannot tell you how rich he was, who died and left all his great fortune to his son, palaces and houses, and farms and vineyards. The son entered into possession of all, and became a great man; but he never thought of having a mass said for the soul of his father, from whom he had received all. There was also, about the same time, a poor man, who had hardly enough to keep body and soul together, and he went into a church to pray that he might have wherewithal to feed his children. So poor was he, that he said within himself, 'None poorer than I can there be.' As he said that, his eye lighted on the box where alms were gathered, that masses might be offered for the souls in Purgatory. 'Yes,' he said, then, 'these are poorer than I,' and he felt in his pocket for his single baiocco, and he put it in the alms box for the holy souls. [241] As he came out, he saw a painone [242] standing before the door, as if in waiting for him; but as he was well-dressed, and looked rich, the poor man knew he could have no acquaintance with him, and would have passed on. 'You have done me so much good, and now you don't speak to me,' said the stranger. 'When did I thee much good?' said the poor man bewildered. 'Even now,' said the stranger; for in reality he was no painone, but one of the holy souls who had taken that form, and he alluded to the poor man's last coin, of which he had deprived himself in charity. 'I cannot think to what your Excellency [243] alludes,' replied the poor man. 'Nevertheless it is true,' returned the painone; 'and now I will ask you to do me another favour. Will you take this letter to such and such a palace?' and he gave him the exact address. 'When you get there, you must insist on giving it into the hands of the master of the house himself. Never mind how many times you are refused, do not go away till you have given it to the master himself.' 'Never fear, your Excellency,' answered the poor man, 'I'll deliver it right.' When he reached the palace, it was just as the painone had seemed to expect it would be. First the porter came forward with his cocked hat and his gilt knobbed stick, with the coloured cord twisted over it all the way down, and asked him whither he was going. 'To Count so-and-so,' answered the poor man. 'All right! give it here,' said the splendid porter. 'By no means, my orders were to consign it to the count himself.' 'Go in and try,' answered the porter. 'But you may as well save yourself the stairs; they won't let such as you in to the count.' 'I must follow orders,' said the poor man, and passed on. At the door of the apartment a liveried servant came to open. 'What do you want up here? if you have brought anything, why didn't you leave it with the porter?' 'Because my orders are to give this letter into the count's own hands,' answered the poor man. 'A likely matter I shall call the "Signor Conte" out, and to such as you! Give here, and don't talk nonsense.' 'No! into the count's own hands must I give it.' 'Don't be afraid; I've lived here these thirty years, and no message for the "Signor Conte" ever went wrong that passed through my hands. Yours isn't more precious than the rest, I suppose.' 'I know nothing about that, but I must follow orders.' 'And so must I, and I know my place too well to call out the "Signor Conte" to the like of you.' The altercation brought out the valet. 'This fellow expects the "Signor Conte" to come to the door to take in his letters himself,' said the lackey, laughing disdainfully. 'What's to be done with the poor animal?' 'Give here, good man,' said the valet, patronisingly not paying much heed to the remarks of the servant; 'I am the "Signor Conte's" own body servant, and giving it to me is the same as giving it to himself.' 'Maybe,' answered the poor man, 'but I'm too simple to understand how one man can be the same as another. My orders are to give it to the count alone, and to the count alone I must give it.' 'Take it from him, and turn him out,' said the valet, with supreme disdain, and the lackey was not slow to take advantage of the permission. The poor man, however, would not yield his trust, and the scuffle that ensued brought the count himself out to learn the reason of so much noise. The letter was now soon delivered. The count started when he saw the handwriting, and was impelled to tear the letter open at once, so much did its appearance seem to surprise him. 'Who gave you the letter?' he exclaimed, in an excited manner, as soon as he had rapidly devoured its contents. 'I cannot tell, I never saw the person before,' replied the poor man. 'Would you know him again?' inquired the count. 'Oh, most undoubtedly!' answered the poor man; 'he said such strange things to me that I looked hard at him.' 'Then come this way,' said the count; and he led him into a large hall, round which were hung many portraits in frames. 'Do you see one among these portraits that at all resembles him?' he said, when he had given him time to look round the walls. 'Yes, that is he!' said the poor man, unhesitatingly, pointing to the portrait of the count's father, from whom he had inherited such great wealth, and for whom he had never given the alms of a single mass. 'Then there is no doubt it was himself,' said the count. 'In this letter he tells me that you of your poverty have done for him what I with all my wealth have never done,' he added in a tone of compunction. 'For you have given alms for the repose of his soul, which I never have; therefore he bids me now take you and all your family into the palace to live with me, and to share all I have with you.' After that he made the man and all his family come to live in the palace, as his father directed, and he was abundantly provided for the rest of his life. ['I know one of that kind,' interposed one sitting by. 'Will you hear it? But mine is true, mine is a real fact, and happened no longer ago than last October;' and he told me the very names and address of the people concerned with the greatest particularity; this was in January 1873.] THE WHITE SOUL. [244] The people he had named were a husband and wife, shopkeepers, with a good business. They had taken in a woman, a widow, as they thought, to board with them for life. [245] The first night after she came the wife suddenly woke up the husband, saying:-- 'What is it that kneels at the foot of the bed? surely it is a white soul.' 'I see nothing,' said the husband; 'go to sleep!' The wife said no more, but the next night it was the same thing, and the next, and the next; and she described so sincerely what she saw, and with so much earnestness, that the husband could have no doubt that what she said was true. And as he saw it disturbed her rest, and made her ill, he said:-- 'If it comes again, to-night, we will conjure it.' It had been going on almost a month (I told you it happened in October), and it was just the night of All Souls' day [246] that he happened to say this. That night, again, the wife woke him with a start-- 'There it is,' she said, 'the white soul; it kneels at the foot of the bed.' The husband said nothing, but following the direction of his wife's hand, he solemnly bid the apparition depart, in the name of the Most Holy Trinity and the Madonna. Though he had seen nothing, he, too, now heard a voice, and the voice said that it was her father whom the wife had seen; that it was not well that they should have in the house the woman whom they had taken in to board, for that it was on her account he was now suffering penance. 'Think of this,' he said, finally, 'for I cannot stay to tell you more; for it is the hour of prayer.' [247] The lighting up of a masked ball could not be compared to the brightness [248] which filled the room as the spirit disappeared. And this the husband saw well, though he had not seen the soul. The husband and wife thought a good deal of what they had heard; they had never known before of the father's intimacy with this woman, but they inquired, and found it was even so. Then the man took into his head to go to one of these new people, what do they call it? spiritismo, magnetismo, [249] or whatever it is. He made them call up the spirit of his wife's father, and he asked if it was he who had appeared at night in the bedroom all the month through, and he said, 'yes, that it was.' And he asked him about all the particulars, and he confirmed them all. 'Then,' he said, 'if indeed it was you, give me some sign to-night;' and he said he would. There was a ruler in the chest of drawers in the bedroom, and all through the night there were knocks; now on the ceiling, now on the floor, now on the walls, as if given with that ruler, and we know those 'spiritismo' people say the spirits make themselves understood by knocking. After that, they sent away their boarder, though at considerable pecuniary loss. ['I know a story like that,' said the first man, 'and a true one too; it happened in 1848 or 1849.'] THE WHITE SERPENT. [250] My story is also of a husband and wife, but they were peasants, and lived outside the gates. 'It is so cold to-night,' said the husband to the wife, as they went to bed, 'we shall freeze if we have another night like it. We must contrive to wake before it is light, and go and get some wood somewhere before we go to work, to make a fire to-morrow night.' So they woke very early, before it was light, and went out to get wood. [251] The husband stood up in the tree, and the wife down below in a ditch, or hole. As she stood there she saw a great white serpent glide past her. 'Look, look!' she cried to her husband; 'see that great white serpent; surely there is something unnatural about it!' 'A white serpent!' answered her husband; 'what nonsense! Who ever heard of such a thing as a white serpent!' 'There it goes, then,' said the wife; 'you can see it for yourself.' 'I see nothing of the kind,' said the husband. 'There are no serpents about Rome this many a long year; and as for a white one, such a thing doesn't exist.' While he spoke the serpent went through a hole in the ground. As the husband was so positive, the wife said no more, but they gathered up the wood and went home. In the night, however, the wife had a dream. She saw an Augustinian friar, long since dead, standing before her, who said 'Angela! (that was indeed her name) if you would do me a favour listen to me. Did you see a white serpent this morning?' 'Yes,' she answered; 'that I did, though my husband said there was no such thing as a white serpent in existence.' 'Well, if you would do me a pleasure, go back to the place where you saw the white serpent go in--not where he came out, but where you saw him go into the earth. Dig about that place, and, when you have dug a pretty good hole, a dead man will start up; [252] but don't be afraid, he can't hurt you, and won't want to hurt you. Take no notice of him, and go on digging, and no harm will come to you; you have nothing to be afraid of. If you dig on you will come to a heap of money. Take some of the biggest pieces of gold and carry them to St. Peter's, and take some of the smaller pieces and carry them to S. Agostino, [253] and let masses be said for that dead man. But you must tell no one alive anything about it.' The woman was much too frightened to do what the friar had said, but she managed to keep the story to herself, though it made her look so anxious her husband could not help noticing something. The next night the friar came again, and said the same words, only he added: 'If you are so frightened, Angela, you may take with you for company a little boy, but he must not be over seven, nor under six; and what you do you must tell no one. But you have nothing to fear, for if you do as I have said no one can harm you.' For all his assurances, however, she could not make up her mind to go, nor this day could she even keep the story from her husband, for it weighed upon her mind. When he heard the story he said, 'I'll go with you.' 'Ah! if you'll go, then I don't mind,' she said. 'But how will it be? The friar was so particular that I should tell no one, evil may happen if I take another with me.' 'If there is nothing in the story, there's nothing to fear,' said the husband; 'and, if the story is true, there is a heap of money to reward one for a little fear; so let's go. Besides, if you think any harm will happen to you for taking me, I can stand on the top of the bank while you go down to the hole, and it can't be said properly that I'm there, while I shall yet be by to give you courage and help you if anything happens.' 'That way, I don't mind it,' answered the wife; and they went out together to the place, the husband, as he had said, standing by on a bank, and the wife creeping down into a hole. They took also two donkeys with them to bring away the treasure. At the first stroke of the woman's spade there came such lugubrious cries that she was frightened into running away. 'Don't be afraid,' said the husband; 'cries don't hurt!' So the woman began digging again, and then there came out cries again worse than before, and the noise of rattling of chains, dreadful to hear. So terrified was the woman that she swooned away. The husband then went down into the hole with what water he could find to bring her to herself, but the moment he got into the hole the spirits set upon him and beat him so that he had great livid marks all over. After that neither of them had the heart to go back to try it again. But the woman was in the habit of going to confession to one of the Augustinian fathers, and she told him all. The fathers sent and had the place dug up all about, and thought they had proved there was nothing there; but for all that, it generally happens that when a thing like that has to be done, it must be done by the person who is sent, and anybody else but that person trying it proves nothing at all. One thing is certain, that when those horrid assassins [254] hide a heap of money they put a dead man's body at the entrance of the hole where they hide it, and say to it, 'Thou be on guard till one of such a name, be it Teresa, be it Angela, be it Pietro, comes;' and no one else going can be of any use, for it may be a hundred years before the coincidence can happen of a person just of the right name lighting on the spot--perhaps never. 'Yes, yes! that's a fact; that is not old wives' nonsense,' [255] was the chorus which greeted this enunciation. [256] ['I, too, know a fact of that kind which most certainly happened, for I know Maria Grazia to whom it happened well, before she went to live at Velletri,' said one of them.] THE PROCESSION OF VELLETRI. Maria Grazia lived in a convent of nuns at Velletri, and did their errands for them. One night one of the nuns who was ill got much worse towards night, and the factor [257] not being there, the Superior called up Maria Grazia and said to her,--'Maria Grazia, Sister Maria such a one [258] is so very bad that I must get you to go and call the provost to her. I'm sorry to send you out so late, but I fear she won't last till morning.' Maria Grazia couldn't say nay to such an errand, and off she set by a clear moonlight to go to the house of the provost, which was a good step off and out of the town. All went well till Maria Grazia had left the houses behind her, but she was no sooner in the open country than she saw a great procession of white-robed priests and acolytes bearing torches coming towards her, chanting solemnly. 'What a fine procession!' thought Maria Grazia; 'I must hasten on to see it. But what can it be for at this time of night?' Still she never doubted it was a real procession till she got quite close, and then, to her surprise, the procession parted in two to let her go through the midst, which a real procession would never have done. You may believe that she was frightened as she passed right through the midst of those beings who must have belonged to the other world, dazed as she was with the unearthly light of the flaring torches; it seemed as if it would last for ever. But it did come to an end at last, and then she was so frightened she didn't know what to do. Her legs trembled too much to carry her on further from home, and if she turned back there would be that dreadful procession again. Curiosity prompted her to turn her head, in spite of her fears; and what gave her almost more alarm than seeing the procession was the fact that it was no longer to be seen. What could have become of it in the midst of the open field? Then the fear of the good nun dying without the sacraments through her faint-heartedness stirred her, but in vain she tried to pluck up courage. 'Oh!' she thought, 'if there were only some one going the same road, then I shouldn't mind!' She had hardly formed the wish when she saw a peasant coming along over the very spot where the procession had passed out of sight. 'Now it's all right,' she said; for by the light of the moon he seemed a very respectable steady-looking peasant. 'What did you think of that procession, good man,' said Maria Grazia; 'for it must have passed close by you, too?' The peasant continued coming towards her, but said nothing. 'Didn't it frighten you? It did me; and I don't think I could have moved from the spot if you hadn't come up. I've got to go to the provost's house, to fetch him to a dying nun; it's only a step off this road, will you mind walking with me till I get there?' The peasant continued walking towards her, but answered nothing. 'Maybe you're afraid of me, as I was of the procession, that you don't speak,' continued Maria Grazia; 'but I am not a spirit. I am Maria Grazia, servant in such and such a convent at Velletri.' But still the peasant said nothing. 'What a very odd man!' thought Maria Grazia. 'But as he seems to be going my way he'll answer the purpose of company whether he speaks or not.' And she walked on without fear till she came to the provost's house, the peasant always keeping beside her but never speaking. Arrived at the provost's gate she turned round to salute and thank him, and he was nowhere to be seen. He too had disappeared! He too was a spirit! When the archpriest came he had his nephew and his servant to go with him, and they carried torches of straw, [259] for it seems in that part of the country they use straw torches; so she went back in good company. And Maria Grazia told me that herself. SMALLER GHOST AND TREASURE STORIES AND FAMILY AND LOCAL TRADITIONS. 1 But the belief in ghosts, though it exists, as we have seen by the above specimens, is by no means generally diffused. 'No! [260] I don't believe such things,' is the general reply I have received when inquiring for them. I could not, indeed, help being annoyed with the strongmindedness of an old woman one day, who asserted her contempt for the idea so persistently that she quite 'shut up' two others who were inclined to be communicative of their experiences. 'I've often slept in a room where it was said the ghost of a woman who was killed there, walked about with her head under her arm; but I never saw her,' said I, to set the thing going. 'Oh! I wouldn't have done that for the world!' exclaimed Nos. 2 and 3 together. 'And why not?' said No. 1. 'There was nothing to be seen, of course. There are no such things as ghosts!' [261] 'Ah! Some see them and some don't see them, and you're one of those who don't see them. That's where it is,' said No. 2. 'Yes,' added No. 3; 'I know lots of people who have seen them,' and she was going on to give examples, but No. 1 put her down. 'Did you ever see one yourself?' interposed I, to keep the ball rolling. 'Well, yes ... so far that ...' she began, hesitatingly; but No. 1 broke in again with her vehement iteration that there are no ghosts. 'I know there are, though,' persisted No. 2; 'for my mother has told me there is a house....' 'Here in Rome?' asked I. 'Yes, here in Rome, where she used to work, where there was a ghost [262] that used to pull the bedclothes off anyone who slept in that particular room, and leave him uncovered. As fast as you pulled them over you, the spirit pulled them off again;' and she imitated the movement with her hands. 2 'Oibo!' interposed No. 1. 'I'll tell you what ghosts are. Ghosts are most often robbers, who get people to think they are ghosts, in order to be able to rob in peace. There was a famous one, I remember well, about the year 1830, who used to be called the Ghost of St. John's, [263] because he used to make himself heard in the houses about St. John Lateran. There were several robberies in the same neighbourhood just at the same time, but no one thought of connecting the two things, till at last one bethought him of it, and he laid in wait, pistol in hand, till the ghost came by. 'By it came; and "pop!" went the pistol. And there, on the spot, lay the body of one whom the police didn't see for the first time. 'That's what ghosts are!' 'That may have been,' replied Nos. 2 and 3; 'but that doesn't prove that there are no ghosts for all that.' 3 'Ghosts! ghosts! are all in silly people's own heads!' exclaimed No. 1. 'I can tell you of one there was in an old palace at Foligno. No one would sleep there because of the ghosts, and the palace became quite deserted. At last a sportsman, [264] who was a relation of mine, said he wasn't afraid; he would go up there one night, and give an account of it. He went there, pistol in hand. At the time for the ghosts to appear, in through a hole over the window did come a great thing with wings. The sportsman, nothing daunted, fired at it; and, lo and behold, a large hawk [265] fell dead on the floor; then another, and another, up to five of them. 'That's what ghosts are, I tell you!' [The following is from another narrator.] 4 Some friars were going round begging for their convent, when night overtook them in a wood. 'What shall we do if any wolves come? I don't believe there is any habitation in these parts, and there will be no place to run to and no one to help us. We must commend ourselves to the Madonna, and wait the event.' They had scarcely done so when one of them saw a light sparkling through the trees. They thought it came from some woodman's cottage, and followed its leading; but instead of a cottage they came to a handsome inn. As the door stood invitingly open they went in: a fire blazed on the hearth; a repast was spread on the table; a number of maidens, attired in pure and shining white, flitted about and brought all they wanted. When they had well supped, these led them to a room where was a bed apiece, and in the morning again they gave them breakfast. Before they started again, the friars asked the maidens to take them to offer their thanks to the mistress of the house, and they led them into a room where was a most beautiful lady, who inquired kindly if they had been well served and wished them a good journey. Moreover, as they went she gave them a folded paper. The friars, unused to be so entertained, were much bewildered, and wondered what lady it could be who lived all alone with her maidens in that wild wood; and they turned back to look at the inn that they might know it again, but it had entirely disappeared, nor was there a vestige of it to be found. Then they opened the folded paper the lady had given them, and by the shining letters within they knew it was the Madonna herself had entertained them. 5 Another, who didn't believe there were ghosts to be seen--'she had heard plenty of such stories, but she didn't give her mind to such things,'--yet told me, she believed there were treasures hid in countless places, [266] but people could seldom get at them; there was always a hailstorm, or an earthquake, or something, which happened to stop them; the Devil wouldn't let people get at them. 6 Another, whose belief in ghosts was doubtful, reckoned she knew various cases to be facts, in which men hid treasures under a spell, that could be removed if a person could devise the counterspell, by hitting, even accidentally, on what the original spell had been. [267] 7 'If you want ghost-stories, I can tell them as well as another; but mind I don't believe such things,' said another. 'Tell me what you've heard, then.' 'Well, I have heard say that there was a woman in the Monti, [268] and not so long ago either, who was always finding money about the house, and that too, in places where she knew no one could have put it. The first thing in the morning when she got up she would find it on the floor all about the room. Or if she got up from her work in the middle of the day, though she knew no one had come in, there it would be. 'One day she saw three silver papetti [269] on the floor. It wasn't that there was no silver money ever to be seen, and nothing but dirty paper notes, and half of them false, as it is now o' days. It was in the time of the Pope, and there was plenty of silver for those who had money at all, but still, to see three silver papetti lying on the floor all of a sudden was a sight for anyone. 'It looked so strange that she hesitated before she picked it up. But at last she made up her mind and took it. No sooner had she done so than a spirit appeared before her, and said, "Come down with me into the cellar and I'll show you something." '"No, thank you, sir," said the woman, not knowing what to do for fear. '"Nonsense! come down, you shan't be hurt," said the spirit. '"I'd rather not, sir, thank you," was all the woman could stammer out. '"You must come! I'll give you something to make you rich for good and all," persisted the spirit; and, somehow, she didn't know how, she felt herself obliged to follow him. 'Down in the cellar was another spirit awaiting her, and the moment she got down they took her, the one by the head and the other by the feet, and laid her into a coffin [270] which stood there all ready on a bier. [271] One at each end, they took it up, with the woman in it, and walked round and round the cellar with it, chaunting the "Miserere," and she was too frightened to call out, much more to attempt to move. 'By-and-by they set the bier down, and as she heard nothing more she concluded the spirits were gone; still she durst not move till some few rays of daylight began to peep through; then she summoned up courage to get out of the coffin. 'When she did so she saw it was all of solid gold, as well as the bier. There was gold enough to have made her rich to the end of her days, but she was so frightened that she wasn't able to enjoy it, but died at the end of a month; for riches that are got in ways that are not straightforward never profit anyone. 'That's the story as it's told; but I don't believe those things, mind you.' 8 'Ah! I remember, too, when I was quite a girl and lived with my father and mother in a house near Piazza Barberini, I remember one day my little sister Ghisa coming running up out of the cellar crying out there was a spirit which had stood waving its hand, and beckoning to her. 'And when the others went down to see what it was all about, they did find some human bones in a corner of the cellar, and no one knew how they got there. But that didn't prove that the child had actually seen a ghost.' 9 [The above story of the golden coffin, it will be observed, was told as of a particular district in Rome. Another time, it was told me of a village in the Campagna; the narrator said she knew the name well, but could not recollect it at the moment. In other respects, there were few differences of detail; but the countrywoman was more robust and courageous than the town woman, and this is how she got on.] 'She was always finding half-pence about the ground where she worked. One day she found a silver piece; as she went to pick it up she saw "One" standing by. "Come with me!" he said; and the countrywoman, not at all afraid, went with him. He led her by solitary ways till he came to a lone empty cottage, when he left her. Quite undaunted, she walked in. There was a large empty room in the midst, all lighted up with ever so many lights. '"Don't touch, don't touch!" screamed an anxious voice. "Touch! touch!" shouted a more gloomy voice. At last she did touch.' ['Touched what?' asked I; 'the lights, or the floor, or what?' The narrator was posed by the question. 'Oh, I don't know what she touched. It must be supposed she touched something.'] 'Instantly all the lights went out, and she stood in the strange place in the dark. Still she was not frightened. She had the courage to strike a light. By its means she saw there was now a large coffin in the midst of the room. She went straight up to it and opened it. It was full of money! Waiting till daylight, she took home with her as much as ever she could carry. But she kept her own counsel, and never told anyone, and when she wanted money she went back there and took it. 'But if she never told anyone, how did anyone know the story?' 10 'This one now is quite true, for Sora Maria (you know who I mean) told me of it, and she knew the woman as well as her own sister. 'This woman lived near the church of S. Spirito de Napoletani--you know it?' 'Yes, in Via Giulia.' 'Exactly. Well, she used to take in washing to make a little for herself more than what her husband gave her. But he didn't like her doing it, and was very angry whenever he saw her at it. But as he was out all day at his work, she used to manage to get through with it in his absence pretty well. 'One day the water would not boil, all she could do. First she got excited, then she got angry. "It isn't that I care," she said; "but if my husband comes home and sees what I am doing he'll be so angry! What will he say! What shall I do! I would give my soul to the devil only to get it boiling in time!" 'Scarcely had she said the words when blu, blu, blu! the water began to bubble up in the pot, boiling furiously all of a sudden, and though it was now so short a time before her husband came back, all the work was done and out of sight, and he perceived nothing. 'In the night came a paino, [272] and stood in the doorway of the bedroom and beckoned to her; and as she looked she saw that every now and then flames and sparks flew about, out of him. 'At last she could stand it no longer, and she woke her husband and told him all. The husband could see nothing, and tried to quiet her, but she kept crying out, now, "Here he is, here!" and now, "There he is, there!" till at last he was obliged to call the friars of S. Spirito de' Napolitani to her to exorcise the spirit; and it was very difficult, because she had promised to give her soul to the devil; but it had been thoughtlessly done, and in the end the apparition was got rid of.' [It so happens, however, that the church of S. Spirito de' Napolitani is served by secular priests, and not friars.] 11 'Here's another thing I have heard that will do for you. 'There were two who took a peasant and carried him into the Campagna.' 'What! two ghosts?' 'No, no! two fellows who had more money than they knew what to do with. They took him into the Campagna and made an omelette very good, with plenty of sweet-scented herbs in it, and made him eat it. 'Then they took a barrel and measured him against it, and then another, till they found one to fit, and killed him and filled it up with money, and made a hole in the earth and buried it. 'And they said over it, "No one may disturb you till one comes who makes an omelette with just the same sweet-scented herbs as we have used, and makes it just on the top of this hole. Then, come out and say, 'This gold is yours.'" 'And, of course, in the ordinary course of things, no one would have thought of making an omelette with just those same herbs, just on the top of that hole. But there was one who knew the other two, and suspected something of what they were going to do, and he went up and hid himself in a tree, and watched all that was done, and heard the words. 'As soon as they were gone he came down and took some nice fresh eggs, and just the same sweet-scented herbs the others had used, and made an omelette just over the hole where he had seen them bury the barrel with the money and the man in it. 'He had no sooner done so than the man came out all whole and well, and said: "Oh, how many years have I been shut up in that dark place" (though he hadn't been there half-an-hour) "till you came to deliver me! Therefore all the gold is yours." 'Such things can't be true, so I don't believe them; but that's what they tell.' 12 'And don't they tell other stories about there being treasures hid about Rome?' 'Oh, yes; and some of them are true. It is quite certain that ----' (and she named a very rich Roman prince) 'found all the money that makes him so rich bricked up in a wall. They were altering a wall, and they came upon some gold. It was all behind a great wall, as big as the side of a room--all full, full of gold. When they came and told him he pretended not to be at all surprised, and said: "Oh, yes; it's some money I put away there; it's nothing; leave it alone." But in the night he went down secretly and fetched it away, [273] and that's how he became so rich; for his father was a money-changer, who had a table where he changed money in the open street, and my father knew him quite well.' 13 'Then there's the ----' (another rich family). 'They got their money by confiscation of another [274] family, generations ago. That's why they're so charitable. What they give away in charity to the poor is immense; but it is because they know how the money came into the family, and they want to make amends for their ancestors.' [These treasure stories are common everywhere. In Tirol, especially, they abound, and are of two kinds. First, concerning treasure hidden in the earth, arising out of the metal mines that were formerly worked there, and the carbuncles which are still found; and the second, precisely like these, of money walled-up in old houses and castles. A countryman, who saw me sketching the old ruin of Monte Rufiano, on a height not far from the banks of Lake Thrasimene, told me a story about it, just like a Tirolese story, of treasure hidden ever so deep under it, and guarded by twelve spectres, who went about, carrying torches in procession, on a Good Friday. Senhor de Saraiva tells me there is a great variety of such stories in Portugal, where the treasures are generally said to have been hidden by the Moors, and are supposed to be buried under a gigantic depth of rock. A place was once pointed out to him, where there were said to be two enormous jars, one full of gold, and the other of boiling pitch. If, in digging, a man came upon the right one, he would be rich enough to buy up the whole world; but if, by ill luck, his spade first reached the other, the pitch would overflow and destroy everyone on the face of the earth; so that no one dared to make the attempt. The people believe that such localities may be revealed to them in dreams. But they must dream the same dream three nights running, and not tell it to anyone. If they tell it, they will find the money all turned to charcoal. Brick boxes of charcoal have frequently been found buried under Roman boundary stones in Portugal, and in this, he thinks, lies the origin of this latter fancy. It is remarkable how many odds and ends of history remain laid up in the memories of the Roman people, like the majolica vases and point-lace in their houses. A great favourite with them is the story of Beatrice Cenci, which they tell, under the name of 'La bella Cenci,' with more or less exaggeration of detail. 'Do you know the story of "Sciarra Colonna?"' said an old woman, who seemed scarcely a person likely to know much about such matters.] 1 SCIARRA COLONNA. There were two of the Colonna. One was Sciarra; I don't know the name of the other. They were always fighting against the pope of their time. [275] At last they took him and shut him up in a tower in the Campagna, and kept him there till they had starved him to death; and when the people found him afterwards, what do you think?--in his extremity he had gnawed off all the tips of his fingers. When these two Colonna found they had actually killed a Pope, they got so frightened that they ran away to hide themselves. They ran away to France, to Paris, and at last, when all the money they were able to carry with them was spent, they were obliged to take a place as stablemen in the king's palace, and they washed the carriages and cleaned down the horses like common men. But they couldn't hide that they were great lords; the people saw there was something different from themselves about them, and they watched them, and saw that they waited on each other alternately every day at table, and you could see what great ceremony they were used to. Then other things were seen, I forget what now, but little by little, and by one thing and another, people suspected at last who they really were. Then some one went and told the king of France, and he had them called up before him. They came just as they were, in their stable clothes, wooden shoes [276] and all. The king sat to receive them in a raised seat hung all round with cloth of gold, and he said: 'Now, I know one thing. You two are hiding from justice. Who you are I don't know exactly for certain. I believe you are the Colonna. If you confess you are the Colonna, I will make the affair straight for you; but, if you will not say, then I will have you shut up in prison till I find out who you are, and what you have done.' Then they owned that they were the Colonna, [277] and the king sent an ambassador to the Pope that then was, and the thing was arranged, and after a time they came back to Rome. 2 DONNA OLIMPIA. The vices of the rich are never forgotten by the people, and the traditions that still are current in Rome about Donna Olimpia [278] are such that I have had to refuse to listen to them. But I feel bound to mention them here, because it is curious that they should so live on for more than two hundred years (the traditions of Sciarra Colonna, however, are six hundred years old). They have, doubtless, rather gained than lost in transmission. Cardinal Camillo Pamfili, Donna Olimpia's son, presents one of those rare instances of which history has only five or six in all to record, in which, for the sake of keeping up the succession to a noble or royal house, it has been permitted [279] to leave the ecclesiastical state for married life. [280] The singularity of this incident has impressed it in the memory of the people, and her promotion of it has contributed to magnify, not only the fantastic element in their narratives, but also the popular feeling against her; thus she is accused of having had a second object in promoting it, namely, to get the place in the pontifical household thus vacated filled by a very simple [281] nephew, and thus increase her own importance at the papal court. The pasquinades written about her in her own age were such that Cancellieri [282] tells us 'spies were set, dressed in silk attire, to discover the authors of such lampoons (motti vituperosi).' THE MUNIFICENCE OF PRINCE BORGHESE. [If the Romans remember the vices of their princely families, they are proud of storing up the memory of their virtues too; and the following narrative was told me with great enthusiasm.] Liberality is a distinguishing characteristic of the Borghese family. It was always a matter of emulation who should get taken into their service, and no one who was once placed there ever let himself be sent away again, it was too good a thing to lose. There was a man-servant, however, once who gave the Prince, I think it was the father of this one, an insolent answer, and he turned him off. No one would take that man. Wherever he applied, when they asked him, 'Where have you lived?' and he answered, 'in casa Borghese,' everyone answered, 'Oh, if you couldn't live with Borghese, I'm sure I've nothing better to offer you!' and the door was shut in his face. It wasn't in one place or two, but everywhere, Borghese's character is so well known in Rome. As he couldn't get a place, however, he was reduced to near starvation, and he had a wife and six children, all with nothing to eat. Every article of furniture went to the Monte di Pietà, and almost every article of clothing; and yet hunger stared them in the face. Then the man got desperate, and he went out one night and waited for Borghese in a lonely street in the dark, with a knife in his hand, and said, 'Your purse!' Borghese thought he had a gang behind him, round the corner, and handed him his purse. But the man only took out three pauls and gave it back, and he looked so thin and haggard that Borghese could not but notice it, dark as it was, though he had forgotten his face. 'That is not a thief, he is some poor fellow who wants relief,' said Borghese to his servant. 'Go after him and see what he does, but take care not to be seen,' and he walked home alone. In less than half an hour the servant came back. He had seen him spend the three pauls in food; had seen him take it home to his family; had seen them scarcely covered with rags; had seen the room denuded of furniture; had heard the man say, as he put the food on the table, 'Here is wherewith to keep you alive another day, and to-morrow I die in sin, for I had to steal it.' Then Borghese called up the steward (Maestro di Casa), and told him to go to the house and find out who the man was, and leave them what was wanted for the night. The steward did as he was told, and left a scudo that the man might get a supper without eating stolen food, but without saying who sent him, for he had learnt by his inquiries that he was the servant whom Borghese had sent away. The next day Borghese sent and clothed all the family; furnished their place again for them; put the children to schools, and gave the parents ten scudi a month. He wouldn't take the man back, having once had to send him away--for that was his rule--but he gave him a pension for the rest of his life. 'POPE JOAN.' 'You know, of course, that there was once a Papessa? They have put that in the books, I suppose?' 'I know there is such a story, but learned writers have proved it was a mere invention.' 'Well, I daresay it isn't true; but there's no one in Rome who has not heard of it. And what makes them believe it is this. [283] Outside of St. Peter's somewhere there's a statue of her all among the apostles and saints; and they say it's because a Pope must have a statue, and they didn't dare to put hers inside the church, so they put it up outside. And if it isn't a Papessa, what is a woman's statue doing there, for it wasn't the Madonna, that's certain?' 'Oh! that's a statue of Religion, or the Church. [284] There never was a woman-pope.' 'Ah, well! you read books. I dare say you know best; but, anyhow, that's what they say. And, after all, who knows!' GIACINTA MARESCOTTI. There was a prince Marescotti, [285] who had two daughters, Cecilia and Giacinta. From her childhood Cecilia had always been gentle and pious, and everyone said, 'When she grows up she will be a nun.' Giacenta was proud, handsome, and passionate, and everyone said, 'She will be a leader of society, and woe betide whoso offends her.' But their father, good man, [286] knew them better, and one day he announced to them the choice of a state of life which he had made for them; for the pious, gentle Cecilia there was a great lord coming from abroad to make her his wife; but the proud, passionate Giacinta was to enter a convent. The one was as dismayed as the other at the time, though the event showed he had chosen right. Cecilia, who loved quiet and repose, tenderly entreated her father to let her off the anxieties and responsibilities of becoming the head of a great family, while Giacinta made a great noise [287] at the idea of her beauty and talents being laid up hidden in a nun's cell. Nevertheless, in those days long gone by, girls were used to obey. [288] Cecilia married and proved herself an exemplary wife and mother, and carried respect for religion wherever she went. Giacinta, on the other hand, took all her worldly state into her convent with her; her cell was furnished like the drawing-room of a palace, and she insisted on having her maids to wait on her; the other nuns she scarcely spoke to, and treated as the dust under her feet. One day the bishop came to visit the convent. 'What a smell!' [289] he said, as he passed the cell of Giacinta Marescotti. 'A smell, indeed! In my cell which is not only the sweetest in the convent, but which is the only one fit to go into!' exclaimed poor Giacinta in deep indignation. 'What can you possibly mean by "a smell!"' 'A smell of sin!' responded the bishop; and it was observed that for a wonder Giacinta made no retort. 'A smell of sin,' said Giacinta to herself, as she sat alone in her elegant and luxurious cell that night. The words had touched her soul and awakened a train of thoughts latent and undisturbed till then. Always hitherto she had ambitioned the loftiest, most refined objects of research, and thought she knew the secret of attaining them. The bishop's words spoke to her of there being 'a more excellent way' yet. They cast a light upon a higher path than that which she was treading, and revealed to her that those who walked along it, lowly as they might seem, could afford to look down upon hers. She saw that those who despised distinctions were grander than those who courted them, to become, in the end, their slaves; that those who aspired to celestial joys were nobler than those who surrounded themselves with the most exquisite luxuries of earth. [290] From that day, little by little, [291] Giacinta's cell grew nearer and nearer to the pattern of the House of Nazareth. The mirror, the cosmetics, and the easy couch made way for the crucifix, the discipline, and the penitential chain. [292] From having been shunned as a type of worldliness, she became to her whole order a model of humility and mortification. [293] PASQUINO. [294] 1 'No, I can't say I remember any pasquinades, not to repeat; but I know what happened once when they tried to stop them. 'There had been so many one time that the Government put a guard all round about Pasquino to watch and see who did it, but for a long time they saw no one. 'One night, at last, a clownish countryman came by with a bundle of hay on his back, drivelling and half silly. "Let me sit here a bit to rest; I'm so weary with carrying this load I can't go any farther; but I won't do any harm." 'The guards laughed at the poor idiot's simplicity in fancying they could expect such as he to be the author of the witty, pungent sort of wares they were on the search for, and said with contemptuous pity, "Yes, yes; you may sit there!" And the stupid old countryman sat down at the foot of the statue. '"Heaven reward you for your kindness!" he said, when he got up after half-an-hour's rest. '"Don't mention it; go in peace!" returned the guards, and the man passed out of sight. 'Next morning, high over head of Pasquino floated a gay paper balloon. '"The balloon! the balloon!" screamed the street urchins. '"The balloon! the balloon!" shouted a number of men, assembled by preconcerted arrangement, though seemingly passers-by attracted by the noise. 'The clumsy clodhopper of overnight was an adroit fellow disguised, and he had attached the string of the balloon to the statue. 'To seize the string, pull down the balloon, and burst it was quick work; but out of it floated three hundred and sixty-six stinging pasquinades, which were eagerly gathered up.' 2 'Many a time a simple exterior is a useful weapon; but when a man who is really simple pretends to be clever he is soon found out. For another time there had been a pasquinade which so vexed the Government that the Pope declared whoever would acknowledge himself the author of it should have his life spared and five hundred scudi reward. 'One day a simple-looking rustic came to the Vatican, and said he was come to own himself the author of the pasquinade. As such he was shown in to the Pope. '"So you are the author of this pasquinade, are you, good man?" '"Yes, Your Holiness, I wrote it," answered the fellow. '"You are quite sure you wrote it?" '"Oh, yes, Your Holiness, quite sure." '"Take him and give him the five hundred scudi," said the Pope. 'An acute Monsignore, who felt convinced the man could not be the author of the clever satire, could not refrain from interposing officially when he found the Pope really seemed to be taken in. '"They have their orders," said the Pope, who was no less discerning than he. 'A chamberlain took the man into a room where five hundred scudi lay counted on the table, and at the same time put on a pair of handcuffs. '"Halloa now! What is this? It was announced that the man who owned himself the author of the Pasquinade should have his life free and five hundred scudi." '"All right; no one is going to touch your life, and there are the five hundred scudi. But you couldn't imagine that the man who wrote that satire would be allowed to go free about Rome. That was self-evident--there was no need to say it." '"Oh, but I never wrote a word of it, upon my honour," exclaimed the countryman. '"I thought not," said the Pope, who had come in to amuse himself with the fellow's confusion. "Now go, and another time don't pretend to any worse sins than your own."' [The 'Pasquino' statue was not only the receptacle of the invectives of the vulgar, it often served also to mark the triumphs of the great. The first time it was put to this use was in 1571, on occasion of the triumph of M. A. Colonna, when the parts wanting were restored, and it was clad in shining armour. On various occasions, as a new pope went in procession from the Vatican to perform the ceremony called 'taking possession' of St. John Lateran, it was similarly risanato del suo stroppio ordinario (healed of the usual lameness of its members), and made to bear a sword, a balance, a cornucopia, and other emblematical devices, which are given at great length by Cancellieri. The opinions of Winkelman, and others, concerning the great artistic merits both of this statue and that called 'Marforio,' do not belong to our present aspect of it. Sprenger, 'Roma nuova,' says that besides these two there was another statue which used to take part in this satirical converse, namely, that of the Water-seller, with his barrel (commemorative of a well-known, though humble character), opposite the Church of S. Marcello, in the Corso, which the present rulers, ignorant of Roman traditions, removed. The Romans, however, clamoured against its destruction, and it is now replaced round the corner, up the Via Lata.] CÈCINGÙLO. 'There was one who would have done much better for you than Pasquino; that was Cècingùlo, [295] at least that's the nickname people gave him. There was no end to the number of stories he could tell. 'In days gone by, [296] he used to sit in Piazza Navona of an evening when people had left work and had time to listen, and he would pour them out by the hour. Now and then he stopped, and went round with his hat, and there were few who did not spare him a bajocco.' 'Did you ever hear him yourself?' 'No; it was before my time, but my father has heard him many's the time, and many of the stories I have told you are the tales of Cècingùlo. How often I have said to him, "Tell me one of Cècingùlo's tales, papa!"' [297] THE WOOING OF CASSANDRO. [298] 'Did you ever hear of Sor Cassandro?' 'No, never.' 'Do you know where Panìco is?' 'I know the Via di Panìco [299] which leads down to Ponte S. Angelo.' 'Very well; at the end of Panìco [300] there is a frying-shop, [301] which, many years ago, was kept by an old man with a comely daughter. Both were well known all over the Rione. 'One day there came an old gentleman, with a wig and tights, and a comical old-fashioned dress altogether, and said to the shopkeeper-- '"I've observed that daughter of yours many days as I have passed by, and should like to make her my wife." '"It's a great honour for me, Sor Cassandro, that you should talk of such a thing," answered the old man; and he said "Sor Cassandro" like that because everybody knew old Sor Cassandro with his wig, and his gold-knobbed stick, and his tights, and his old-fashioned gait. "But," he added, as a knowing way of getting out of it, "you see it wouldn't do for a friggitora to marry a gentleman; a friggitora must marry a friggitore." '"I don't know that that need be a bar," replied Sor Cassandro. '"You don't understand me, Sor Cassandro," pursued the man. '"Yes, I understand perfectly," answered the other. "You mean that if she must marry a friggitore, I must become a friggitore." '"You a friggitore, Sor Cassandro! That would never do. How could you so demean yourself?" '"Love makes all sweet," responded Sor Cassandro. "You've only to show me what to do and I'll do it as well as anyone." 'The friggitore was something of a wag, and the idea of the prim little Sor Cassandro turned into a journeyman friggitore tickled his fancy, and he let him follow his bent. 'The next morning Sor Cassandro was at Panìco as soon as the shop was open. They gave him a white jacket and a large white apron, and put a white cap on his head, with a carnation stuck in it. And the whole neighbourhood gathered round the shop to see Sor Cassandro turned into a friggitore. The work of the shop was increased tenfold, and it was well there was an extra hand to help at it. 'Sor Cassandro was very patient, and adapted himself to his work surprisingly well, and though the master fryer took a pleasure in ordering him about, he submitted to all with good grace, and not only did he make him do the frying and serving out to perfection, but he even taught him to clip his words and leave off using any expression that seemed inappropriate to his new station. [302] 'There was no denying that Sor Cassandro had become a perfect friggitore, and no exception could be taken to him on that score. As soon as he felt himself perfect he did not fail to renew his suit. 'The father was puzzled what objection to make next. He knew, however, that Sor Cassandro was very miserly, so he said, "You've made yourself a friggitore to please me, now you must do something to please the girl. Suppose you bring her some trinkets, if you can spare the price of them." '"Oh, anything for love!" answered Sor Cassandro; and the next day he brought a pair of earrings. '"How did she like my earrings?" he whispered next night to her father. '"Oh, pretty well!" replied the father. "You might try something more in that style." 'The next day he brought her a necklace, the next day a shawl, and after that he brought fifty scudi to buy clothes such as a girl should have when she's going to be married. 'After all this he asked for the girl herself. '"You must take her," said the father, and Sor Cassandro went to take her. But she was a sprightly, impulsive girl, and the moment he came near her she screamed out-- '"Get away, horrid old man!" [303] and wouldn't let him approach her. '"Leave her alone to-night, and try to-morrow. I'll try to bring her round in the meantime." 'Sor Cassandro came next day; but the girl was more violent than ever, and would say nothing but "Get away, horrid old man!" 'Finding this went on day after day without amendment, Sor Cassandro indignantly asked for his presents back. '"You shall have them!" cried the girl, and the clothes she tore up to rags, and the trinkets she broke to atoms and threw them all at him. 'But for the rest of his life, wherever he went, the boys cried after him, "Sor Cassandro, la friggitora! Sor Cassandro, la friggitora!"' I COCORNI. This story of Sor Cassandro led to others of the same nature, but without sufficient interest in the detail to put in print, though they seemed to illustrate the fact that an imaginative people will rapidly turn the most ordinary circumstances into a myth. For instance, one concerned a family named Cocorni, who seem to have been nothing more than successful grocers, the Twinings of Rome, and here is a specimen of the language used about them:--'When his daughter was old enough to marry, Cocorni would hear of no proposal for her. "No," said he; "no one marries my daughter but he who comes in a carriage and four to fetch her." And it really did happen that one came in a carriage and four and took her away;' as if it were such a great matter that it implied something supernatural. THE BEAUTIFUL ENGLISHWOMAN. There was a beautiful Englishwoman here once, beautiful and rich as the sun. [304] Heads without number were turned by her: but she would have nothing to say to anyone who wanted to marry her. Some defect she found in all. She was very accomplished, as well as rich and beautiful, and she drew a picture, and said 'When one comes who is like this I will marry him; but no one else.' Some time after a friend came to her, and said: 'There is So-and-so, he is exactly like the portrait you have drawn, and is dying to see you.' 'Is he really like it?' she inquired. 'To me he seems exactly like it; and I don't see he has any defect at all, except that he has one tooth a little green.' 'Then I won't have anything to say to him.' 'But, if he is exactly like the portrait you have drawn?' 'He can't be, or he wouldn't have any defect.' 'But he is exactly like it, and so you must see him; if it's only for curiosity.' 'Well, for curiosity, then, I'll see him; but don't let him build any hopes upon it.' The friend arranged that they should meet at a ball, and the one was as well pleased as the other; but not wishing to seem to yield too soon, she said: 'Do you know, I don't like that green tooth you've got.' And he, not to appear too easy either, answered: 'And, do you know, I don't like that patch [305] you have on your face.' The next time they met, neither he had a green tooth, nor had she a patch; for, you know, a patch can be put on and taken off at pleasure, and this happened a long long while ago, in the days when they wore such things. She then said: 'If you've put in a false tooth I'll have nothing to say to you.' 'No,' answered he; 'you have taken off your patch; and I've taken off my green tooth.' 'How could you do that?' she asked. 'Oh! it was only a leaf I put on to see if you were really as particular as you seemed to be.' As they were desperately in love with each other, the next thing was to arrange the marriage secretly. His father had a great title, and would never have consented to his marrying her, because she had none. But she had money enough for both; so they contrived a secret marriage. And then they bought a villa some way off, and lived there. For thirteen years they lived devoted to each other, and full of happiness; and two children were born to them, a boy and a girl. It was only after thirteen years that the father discovered where the son was, and when he did, he sent for an assassin, [306] and giving him plenty of money, told him to go and by some device or other to bring him to him and get through the affair. The assassin took a carriage and dressed like a man of some importance, and said that some chief man or other in the Government had sent for him to speak to him. The husband suspected nothing, and went with him. As it was night he could not see which way they drove, and thus he delivered his son to his father, who kept him shut up in his palace. The assassin went back to the villa, and by giving each of the servants fifty scudi apiece, got access to the wife, and murdered her, and then took the children to the grandfather's palace. 'Papa, that man killed mama,' said the little boy, as soon as he saw his father. The husband seized the man, and made him confess it. 'Then now you must kill him who hired you to do it,' he exclaimed. 'As you have done the one, you must do the other. He who ordered my wife to be killed is no father to me.' So the assassin went in and killed the father, but when he came out the husband was ready for him, and he said: 'Now your turn has come,' and he shot him dead. [I have not had the opportunity of sifting this story, but it manifestly contains the usual popular exaggerations.] THE ENGLISHMAN. [That a rich Englishman should fall in love with a beautiful but poor Roman girl, and marry her, is no impossible incident, and may have happened more than once; but it is very curious to watch how it has passed into the mythology of the people. The idea of a 'Gran Signore' coming on a visit from a land where all are rich is the first fantastic element of the tradition. The idea that all English people are rich is very common among the Roman lower classes, and is not an unnatural fancy for people to take up who have seen no specimens of the creature but such as are rich. There is one old woman whom I have never been able to disabuse of the idea. I shall never forget the blank astonishment with which she repeated my words the first time I broke it to her that there were poor people in England, and she has never thoroughly grasped it. 'Io pensava che in Inghilterra tutti erano ricchi--tutti ricchi--' (I thought everyone--everyone in England was rich) she always says, as if in spite of me she thought so still. That such an one should be won by the charms of a beautiful Roman girl, and should carry her off to that unknown land bright with gold but devoid of sun, and that in the end the fogs and the Protestantism should prove unendurable to the child of the South, are not bad materials for a fairy story. I have met with such stories several times. One old woman assured me, that when she was a child her father had let an apartment to the very man, and that he took the room for a month, and though he spontaneously offered ten times as high a price as the owner could ever have asked, he never slept there. He had secretly married a Roman girl who was imprisoned for breaking the law by marrying a Protestant, and he opened her prison doors with his 'wand,' that is, he bribed the jailer to admit him to pass all his time in prison with her; ultimately he carried her off to England, but she soon died there. Another pointed out to me a shop where in former days had been a butcher, whose daughter had charmed a rich Englishman, who carried her off to his own country, and married her there. But this was a very tetra (sad, gloomy) story, for after many years she came back looking like the ghost of herself. She had gone away a blooming girl, the pride and the admiration of the whole neighbourhood; she came back prematurely grey, hollow-eyed, and thin as a skeleton. She said it was the climate had disagreed with her, and further than that she would say nothing. But who knows what she may not have had to go through! Bresciani has made the same tradition the groundwork of one of his most interesting romances.] THE MARRIAGE OF SIGNOR CAJUSSE. [307] There was a rich farmer [308] who had one only daughter, and she was to be his heiress. She fell in love with a count who had no money--at least only ten scudi a month. When he went to the farmer to ask her in marriage he would not hear of the alliance, and sent him away. But the girl and he were bent on the marriage, and this is how they brought it about. The girl had a thousand scudi of her own; half of this she gave to him, and said: 'Go over a certain tract of the Campagna and visit all the peasants about, and give five piastres to one and ten to another according to their degree, that they may say when they are asked that they all belong to Signor Cajusse. Then take papa round to hear what they say, and he will think you are a great proprietor, and will let us marry.' Signor Cajusse, for such was his name, took the money and did as she told him, and then hired a carriage and came to her father, and said: 'You are quite mistaken in thinking I'm too poor to marry your daughter; come and take a drive with me, and I will show you what a great man I am.' So the farmer got into his carriage, and he drove him round to all the peasants he had bribed. First they stopped at a farm. [309] 'Good morning, Signor Cajusse,' said the tenant, who had been duly primed, bowing down to the ground; and then he began to tell him about his crops, as if he had been really proprietor. After this he proposed to walk a little way, and all the labourers left their work and flocked after him, crying, 'Good day, Signor Cajusse; health to you and long life, and may God prosper you!' and they tried to kiss his hand. Further along they came to a villa where Cajusse had ascertained that the real proprietor would not come that day. Here he went straight up to the casino, where the servant in charge, who had been also duly bribed, received him with all the honours due to a master. 'Welcome, Signor Cajusse,' he said, and opened the doors and shutters and set the chairs. 'Bring a little of that fine eight-year-old wine,' ordered Cajusse; 'we have brought a packet of biscuits, and will have some luncheon.' [310] 'Very good, Signor Cajusse,' replied the servant respectfully, and shortly after brought in a bottle of wine handed to him for the purpose by Cajusse the day before. When they had drunk they took a stroll round the place, and wherever they turned the labourers all had a greeting and a blessing for Signor Cajusse. When the merchant saw all this he hardly knew how to forgive himself for having run the risk of losing such a son-in-law. He was all smiles and civility as they drove home, and the next day was as anxious to hurry on the match as he had been before to put it off. As all were equally in a hurry to have it, of course it was not long before it was celebrated. With the girl's remaining five hundred scudi a handsome apartment was hired to satisfy appearances before the parents, and for a few days they lived on what was left over. They sat counting their last two or three scudi. 'What is to be done now?' said Cajusse; 'that will soon be spent, and then how are we to live?' 'I'll set it right,' answered the bride. 'Now we're married that's all that signifies. Now it's done they can't help it.' So she went to her mother and told her all, and the good woman, knowing the thing could not be altered, talked over the father; and he gave them something to live upon and found a place for Cajusse, and they were very happy. THE DAUGHTER OF COUNT LATTANZIO. [311] Count Lattanzio had a daughter who was in love with a lawyer, but the count was not at all inclined to let her marry beneath her station, and he took all the pains imaginable to prevent them from meeting; so much so that he scarcely left her out of his sight. One day he was obliged to go to his vineyard outside the gates, and before he left he gave strict injunctions to his servant to let no one in till he came back at 21 o'clock. [312] It was an hour before 21 o'clock, and there was a knock at the door. 'Is the Count Lattanzio in?' 'No, he won't be in just yet.' 'Ah, I know, he won't be in till 21 o'clock; he said I was to wait. I'm come to measure him for a pair of new boots. [313] 'If he told you to wait I suppose you must,' said the servant; 'otherwise he had told me not to let anyone in.' And as he showed him in he thought he was a rather gentlemanly bootmaker. Soon after there was another knock. 'Is the Count Lattanzio in?' 'No, he won't be in for some time yet.' 'Ah, never mind; he said I was to wait if he hadn't come in. I'm the tailor, come to measure him for a new suit.' 'If he said you were to wait I suppose you must,' answered the servant; 'but it's very odd he should have told you so, as he particularly told me to let no one in.' However, he showed him in also. Directly after there came another knock. 'Is the Count Lattanzio at home?' 'No, he won't be in for some time yet.' 'Never mind; I'm the lawyer engaged in his cause before the courts. He said I was to wait if he wasn't in.' But the servant began to get alarmed at having to disobey orders so many times, and he thought he would make a stand. 'I'm very sorry,' he said, 'but master said I wasn't to show anyone in.' 'What! when I've come here with my two clerks, on particular business of the greatest importance to your master, do you suppose I'm going away again like that, fellow?' The servant was so amazed by his imperative manner that he let him in, too. Twenty-one o'clock came at last, and with it Count Lattanzio. Having given orders that no one should be let in, of course he expected to find no one. What was his astonishment, therefore, when, as he opened the drawing-room door, a loud cry of 'Long live Count Lattanzio!' [314] uttered by several voices, met his ear. The shoemaker was the bridegroom, the tailor the best man, the lawyer and his two clerks were the notary and his witnesses. The marriage articles had been duly drawn up and signed, and as the parties were of age there was no rescinding the contract. Count Lattanzio sent away the servant for not attending to orders; but that made no difference--the deed was done. BELLACUCCIA. There was once a pleader [315] who sat writing in his room all day whenever he was not in court. One day as he so sat there came in at the window a large monkey, and began whisking about the room. The lawyer, pleased with the antics of the monkey, called it scimmia bellacuccia, [316] and caressed and fed it. By-and-by he had to go out on his business, and though he was in some fear of the pranks the monkey might be up to in his absence, he had taken such a fancy to it that he did not like to send it away, and at last left it alone in his apartment. When he came home, instead of the monkey having been at any mischievous pranks, the whole suite of rooms was put in beautiful order, and out of very scanty materials in the cupboard an excellent dinner was cooked and laid ready. 'Scimmia bellacuccia! is this your doing!' said the lawyer, and the monkey nodded assent. 'Then you are a precious monkey, indeed,' he replied, and he called it to him and fed it, and gave it part of the dinner. The next day the monkey did the work of the house, and the lawyer sent away his servant because he had no further need for one, the monkey did all much better and in a more intelligent way. All went well for a time, when one day the lawyer had occasion to visit a friar he knew at St. Nicolò da Tolentino, for in those days there were friars [317] there instead of nuns as now. He did not fail to tell him of the treasure he had found in his bellacuccia, as he called his monkey. 'Don't let yourself be deceived, friend!' exclaimed the friar. 'This is no monkey; it is not in the nature of a monkey to do thus.' 'Come and see it yourself,' said the lawyer. 'You will find I have over-stated nothing of what it can do and does every day.' Some days after this the friar came, having taken care to provide himself with his stole and a stoup of holy water. Directly he came into the lawyer's apartment he put on his stole and sprinkled the holy water. The monkey no sooner saw the shadow of his habit than it took to flight, and, after scrambling all round the room to get away from the sight of him, finally hid itself under the bed. 'You see!' said the friar to the lawyer. But the lawyer cried, 'Here bellacuccia; come here!' and as the monkey was by habit very docile and obedient, when he had said 'bellacuccia' a great many times, it at last forced itself to come to him, but stealthily and warily, showing great fear of the monk. When it had got quite close to the lawyer, and he was holding it, the friar once more put on his stole, sprinkled it with holy water and exorcised it. Instantly bellacuccia burst away from the lawyer, and, clambering up to the window, broke away through the upper panes and disappeared, leaving a smoke and a smell of brimstone behind. But it was really a man who had been put under a spell by evil arts, [318] and when thus released by the monk's exorcism he went and became a monk, I forget in what order, but I know it was one of those who dress in white. THE SATYR. 1 There was once a great king who had one only little daughter, and this daughter was always entreating him to take her out hunting. 'It is not proper for little girls to go out hunting,' he used to say; but it was no use. She went on begging all the same, and at last her importunity gained the day, and he took her with him. But in the forest she got separated from him and lost herself, and he, full of the ardour of the chase, forgot the care of her, and, when he came to think of her, she could no more be found. She wandered about the forest crying for her father, but her father came not; and instead of her father a selvaggio [319] found her, and fell in love with her, and took her to his den and married her, and she had two children. When ten years had passed, and there were no tidings of her, the queen, her mother, died of a broken heart. [320] But the selvaggio loved her dearly, and did everything in his power to give her pleasure. When he found she could not eat the raw game which he brought her, he would go into the towns and steal cooked food and bring it to her, and when he could not get that he would go ever so far to find fruits and roots. Everything, he did to please her, but it was no use, she could not love him. At last, however, after so many years were passed, he thought she was at least used to the way of life with him, and he no longer watched her so closely. One day when he was gone to a long distance she wandered on to a cliff that overhung the sea, and looked till she saw a ship, then she called to it and made signs to it to come and pick her up. The captain took compassion on her distress, and made for the land, and took her on board and wrapped her in a cloak, [321] and she told him who she was and he promised to take her home. He gave her a white kerchief to put on her head and another to hold in her hand. They had not got far out to sea when the selvaggio found out what had happened, and came running to the same cliff where she had stood, and made signs entreating her to come back; but she shook the handkerchief she held in token of refusal. Then what did he do? He ran back to the den and fetched one of the children and held it up, appealing to her mother's instincts; but she always continued waving the handkerchief in token of refusal. When he saw that this prevailed not, he ran back to the den and fetched the other child, and held them both up to plead with her to come back. But she always, and always, went on waving the handkerchief in token of refusal. Then what did he do? He took out his knife and plunged it into the one child, as signifying that if she did not come back he would kill the other also. But even for that she was not moved, but went on waving the handkerchief in token of refusal. Then with his knife he killed the other child, for he had no hope left; but she could not go back to that life with him, and went on waving the handkerchief in token of refusal. Then with his claw [322] he tore open his breast, and tore out his heart, and died for the love he bore her. But the sailors took her home, and they were richly rewarded, and there was great rejoicing. 2 THE SATYRS. They say there was a queen whose husband was dead, and she had one only son. Imagine how devoted she was to him, her only child, soon to be the king of vast dominions. One day a lady, unknown to her, came and asked if she might put a horse of hers in her stable. 'No,' said the queen; 'I cannot have the horses of anyone else mixed up there.' The lady turned to go; but as she went, she met the prince coming in from hunting, surrounded by all his suite. The lady was a fairy, and in her indignation at the queen's refusal of her demand, she turned the prince and all those following him into salvatichi. [323] Imagine the horror and the cries of the queen when she saw what had happened. What was to be done? Much as she adored her son, it was impossible to keep him in the palace now. 'You must put him in the stables,' said the cruel fairy, who had waited to enjoy her revenge, and now preserved her coolness amid the confusion and excitement of those around. 'You must put him in the stables, and all the others too now. Your stables will be full enough, indeed!' But the queen's grief was too deep to waste itself in a strife of words with her. 'There is only one mode of redemption for him. If he can find a maiden to consent to marry him as he is, without knowing he is a prince, I will come and remove the spell.' The queen had seen the proof of her relentless spirit, and knew it would be vain if she should humble herself to entreat her to alter her sentence. So she said nothing, and the fairy went away. To find a maiden who should consent to marry such a monster as her son now was, and who should yet be meet to be his wife when restored to his due estate, was a hopeless task indeed; but what will not a mother's love attempt? With endless fatigue and continued mortifications she made the fruitless effort in every quarter. When this had utterly failed, she condescended to maidens of lower estate, and tried daughters of merchants and tradesmen, and even peasants, to whom the elevation of rank might in some measure compensate the ill-conditioned union. But it was all in vain, there were only fresh repulses and deeper mortifications. It happened that adjoining the paddock in which the stables lay, were the grounds of a duke. One day the duke's daughter was walking in her garden, and the prince immediately turned his head and saw her, and began beckoning to her, for he had the head and arms and body of a man from the waist upwards still, and the rest of him was like the hindquarters of a goat, only he stood upright, like a man. The duke's daughter was perplexed, however, at the sight of such a monster, and ran away. Nevertheless the next day she came back, and the prince beckoned to her again, and all his suite, who were satyrs like himself, beckoned to her too, till at last she came near. 'Do you wish me well?' [324] he asked. 'No!' exclaimed the duke's daughter with disgust, because she could not say that she loved him: and she ran away. Every day it was the same thing; and when she told her mother what had happened, she bid her keep away, and beware of going near such a monster. For a whole month, therefore, she kept away; but curiosity overcame her at last, and she went down into the garden as before. All the satyrs began beckoning as usual, and she went up to them. 'If you will say you wish me well, you will give me endless happiness,' said the prince; 'and if not, I will dash my head against this wall, and put an end to my life.' He was so much in earnest, and the tears were in his eyes, and his sighs and entreaties were so moving, that she almost forgot his monstrous form. The prince observed that her face betrayed signs of interest, and he redoubled his sighs, and all the other satyrs made signs and gesticulations to her that she should consent. 'Say you wish me well! Let me just have the happiness of once hearing you say so!' continued the prince. 'Poor fellow, he seems so sad, and so anxious I should just say it once. There can't be much harm in saying just once that I wish him well,' said the maiden to herself. 'Say, say just once, that you wish me well!' persisted the prince; and the maiden in her compassion said: 'Yes! I wish you well.' Immediately the fairy appeared and took the spell from off the prince, and from off all his suite. When the duke's daughter found to what a fine handsome prince she was promised, she saw her compassion was well rewarded. AMADEA. Amadea was a beautiful queen who fell in love with a king not of her own country; he loved her too, and married her, and took her home. But the king her father, and the prince her brother, were very wroth that she should go away with the stranger. When Amadea heard that her brother was preparing to prevent her going away with her husband, she turned upon him and killed him, and then cut his body in pieces, and threw the mangled limbs in her father's way, to show him what he might expect if he followed after her too. And when she found that he was not deterred by the sight, she turned and killed him in like manner. Only fancy what a woman she must have been! When her husband, who had liked her before, saw this, he began to be afraid of her; nevertheless, they lived for some time happily together, and had two beautiful children. But after that again, her husband's love cooled towards her when he thought of the horrors she had committed, and he took their two children and went away and left her. After a time Amadea not only found out where he was, but found out that she had a rival. Then she made her way to the place, and demanded to see her rival; but knowing of what she was capable, this her husband would by no means allow. Then she prepared a most beautiful necklace of pearls, and sent it as a present to her rival. But she had poisoned it by her arts, for she was a sort of witch, and when her rival put it on she died. Meantime she had sent a message to her husband, saying, 'If I may not come to your court, at least let me see my children for one hour, and then I will go away, and molest you no more for ever.' 'That I will grant you,' was his answer; and the children were brought to her. When she saw her children, she wept, and embraced them, and wept again, and said: 'Now, my children, I must kill you.' 'And why must you kill us?' asked the little boy. 'Because of the too great love I bear you,' she replied, and drew out her dagger. At that instant her husband came into the room, and she stabbed the children before his eyes. After that she stabbed herself, and he died of grief. [It was about the time that Prince Amadeo gave up his attempt to hold the throne of Spain that I was visiting a poor person who had before given me some of the stories of this collection. The abdication of Prince Amadeo being the subject of the hour, we, of course, talked about that; when she said: 'Ah, you who are so fond of favola, do you know the favola of Queen Amadea, for one name brings up another?' I told her I did not; for I expected she meant some legend of the House of Savoy; she then told me the story of Medeia in the text. It is very rare, however, to meet remnants of classical traditions in such direct form.] THE KING OF PORTUGAL. They say that once there was a king of Portugal who had a beautiful daughter, and there came a prince to marry her. When the prince saw how old and feeble the king was, he seized him, and shut him up in prison, and ordered him to be fed on only bread and water, that he might die without killing him. 'And then,' he said, 'I shall take the government.' Then he would send and ask, 'How does he look today? Does he grow lean and pale? Does he look like to die?' But the answer ever was, 'Nay, prince, he looks hale and stout. Every day his face is fresher and fatter. Every day he seems stronger and firmer.' Then the prince grew in despair of ever accomplishing his design, and he said, 'It cannot be as you say, unless there is treachery,' and he changed the guards, and set a watch upon them; but the same thing happened, and the old king continued to grow stouter and stronger. He made them search the princess, too, when she went to see her father, and they assured themselves that she took nothing to him. Then he bade them watch her, and they saw that she placed her breast against the prison bars, and fed him with her own milk. For it had been thus, that when she learnt what was the design of the prince, she was filled with earnest desire to save her father's life, and prayed so hard that she might have wherewith to support him, that, young girl as she was, the means was afforded her, and thus by her devotion she preserved him in life and health. When the prince heard what she did, he was seized with compunction, and sent and released the king, and restored him to his throne, and went his way in shame. But the king sent for him back, and forgave him: he gave him his daughter also, and when he died he left him the succession to the kingdom. ['I have no "favole" for you to-day,' was one day my greeting from an old lady who had given me many, 'but there has just come to mind a "bell' fatto" (a grand deed), which is better than a "favola" for it is historic truth.' Then she told me the story in the text, and I was surprised to find she was positive it was a king of Portugal and that she never seemed to have heard of the 'Carità Romana.' It is odd that while so many legends get localised any should get dis-localised.] CIARPE. THE TWO FRIARS. [325] Two friars once went out on a journey, that is to say, a friar and a lay brother. [326] One day of their journey, when they were far from their convent, the friar said to the lay brother: 'We fare poorly enough all the days of our life in our convent, let us, for one day of our lives, taste the good things of this world which others enjoy every day.' 'You know better than I, who am only a poor simple lay brother,' answered the other, 'whether such a thing may be done. I don't mean to say I should not like to have a jolly good dinner for once; but there is the uneasiness of conscience to spoil the feast, and the penance afterwards. I think we had better leave it alone.' They journeyed on, therefore, and said no more about it that day, but the next, when they were very hungry after a long walk through the cold mountain air, the scent of the viands preparing in the inn as they drew near brought the subject of yesterday's conversation to their minds again, and the friar said to the lay brother: 'You know even our rule says that when we are journeying we cannot live as we do in our convent; we must eat and drink whatever we find in the places to which we are sent; moreover, some relaxation is allowed for the restoration of the body under the fatigues of the journey. Now, if we come, as it has often happened to us, to a poor little mountain village, where scarcely a wholesome crust of bread is to be found, to be washed down with a glass of sour wine, we have to take it for all our dinner, and eat it with thanksgiving. Therefore why, now, when we come to a place where the fare is less scanty, even as by the odours we perceive is the case here, should we not also take what is found ready, and eat it with thanksgiving?' 'What you say seems right and just enough,' said the lay brother, not at all sorry to have his scruples so speciously explained away. 'But there is one thing you have not thought of. It is all very well to say we will eat and drink this and that, but how are we poor friars, who possess nothing, to command the delicacies which are smoking round the fire, and which have to be paid for by well-stored purses?' 'Oh! that is not the difficulty,' replied the friar; 'leave that to me.' By this time they had reached the threshold of the inn, and, taking his companion's last feeble resistance for consent, the friar strutted into the eating-room with so bold an air that the lay brother hardly knew him for the humble religious he had been accompanying anon. 'Ho! here! John, Peter, Francis, whatever you are called!' 'Francesco, to your service,' replied the host humbly, thinking by his commanding tone he must be some son of a great family. 'Francesco guercino, [327] then,' continued the friar in the same high-sounding voice, 'take away this foul table-cloth, and bring the cleanest and finest in your house; remove these cloudy glasses and bring out the bright ones you have there locked up in the glass case, and replace these bone spoons and forks [328] with the silver ones out of your strong box.' 'Your Excellency is served!' [329] said the host, who, as well as his wife and son, had bustled so fast to do what he was so peremptorily ordered that all was done as soon as spoken. 'Now then Francesco guercino, what have you got to put before a hungry gentleman in this poor little place of yours?' 'Excellenza! when you have tasted the cooking of my poor little house,' said the host, 'you will not, I am sure, be displeased; all unworthy as it is of your Excellency's palate. For what we have ready, we have beef for our boiled meat, good brains for our fried, the plumpest poultry for our grilled, and the freshest eggs for our omelette; or, if your Excellency prefers it, we have hashed turkey, with crisp watercresses; and as for our soup, [330] there is not an inn in the whole province can beat us, I know. And for dessert we have cheese and fruits, and'---- 'Well done, Francesco guercino,' said the friar interrupting him. 'You know how to cry your own wares, at all events. Bring us the best of what you have; it is not for poor friars to complain of what is set before us.' The last sentence gave the host a high idea of the piety of his guest just as the hectoring tone he had assumed had convinced him he must be high-born, and in a trice the best of everything in the house was made ready for the table of the friar. All other guests had to wait, or go away unserved; the host was intent only on serving the friar. Every dish he took to the table himself, and as he did so each time the friar, fixing on him a look of sanctity, exclaimed,-- 'Blessed Francesco! Blessed Francesco!' [331] At the close of the meal, as he was hovering about the table, nervously wiping away a crumb, or polishing a plate, he said, with trembling: 'Excellenza! Permit a poor man to put one question. What is there you see about me that makes you look at me as though you saw happiness in store, and exclaim with so much unction as quite to fill me with joy, "Blessed Francesco!"?' 'True, something I see wherefore I call thee blessed,' replied the friar; 'but I cannot tell it thee now. To-morrow, perhaps, I may find it easier. Impossible now, friend. Now, pray thee, show us our rooms.' It needed not to add any injunctions concerning the rooms; of course, the cleanest and the best were appointed by Francesco spontaneously for such honoured guests. 'How do you think we are getting on?' said the friar to the lay brother when they were alone. 'Excellently well so far,' replied the other; 'things have passed my lips this night which never have they tasted before, nor ever may again. But the reckoning, the reckoning; that is what puzzles me: when it comes to paying the bill, what'll you do then?' 'Leave it all to me,' returned the friar; 'I'm quite satisfied with the man we have to deal with. It will all come right, never fear.' The next morning the two brothers were astir betimes, but Francesco was on the look-out to serve them. 'Excellenza! you will not leave without breakfast, Excellenza!' 'Yes, Francesco; poor friars must not mind going without breakfast.' 'Never, from my house, Excellenza!' responded Francesco. 'I have the table ready with a bottle of wine freshly drawn from the cellar, eggs that were born [332] since daylight, only waiting your appearance to be boiled, rolls this moment drawn from the oven, and my wife is at the stove preparing a fried dish [333] fit for a king.' 'Too much, too much, Francesco! You spoil us; we are not used to such things,' said the lay brother as they sat down; but Francesco had flown into the kitchen, and returned with the dish. 'Blessed Francesco!' said the friar as he set it on the table. 'I will not disturb your Excellency now,' said Francesco; 'but, after you have breakfasted, I crave your remembrance of your promise of last night, that you would reveal to me this morning wherefore you say with such enthusiasm "Blessed Francesco!"' 'It is not time to speak of it now,' said the friar; 'first we have our reckoning to make.' The lay brother hid his face in his table-napkin in terror, and seemed to be seized with a distressing fit of coughing. 'Oh, don't speak of the reckoning, Excellenza; that is as nothing.' 'Nay,' said the friar; 'that must not be;' and he made a gesture as if he would have drawn out a purse, while under the table he had to press his feet against those of the lay brother to silence his rising remonstrance for his persistence. 'I couldn't think of taking anything from your Excellenza,' persisted the host, putting his hands behind him that no money might be forced upon him. The more stedfastly he refused the more perseveringly the friar continued to press the payment, till, with his companion, he had gained the threshold of the door. As they were passing out, however, the host once more exclaimed, 'But the explanation your Excellency was to give me of why you said "Blessed Francesco!"' 'Impossible, friend; I cannot tell it here. Wait till I have gained the height of yonder mound, while you stand at its foot, and I will tell it you from thence.' With this they parted. When the friar and his companion had reached the height he had pointed out, and were at a sufficient distance to be saved the fear of pursuit, he turned to the host, who stood gaping at the bottom, and said: 'Lucky for you, Francesco, that when you come to die you will only have the trouble of shutting one eye, instead of two, like other men.' [334] [Such a story at the expense of a single unworthy monk contains no implied taunt at the religious orders, who are deeply honoured in Rome, and none more than the mendicant Franciscans, most of whom are themselves of the very people. Ever since the invasion of September 20, 1870, every effort has been used to stir up the people against them, but with little effect. At the last Carneval the most elaborate car was got up with the purpose of ridiculing them, but it met with no approval, except from members of the clubs. The narrator of the story was herself not only a devoted member of the Church, but had a relative in the order of St. Francis, nor did she tell it without an edifying exordium on the goodness of the frati in general, though there must be unworthy members of all professions. Facetiæ of this class are much rarer in Rome than in Spain.] THE PREFACE OF A FRANCISCAN. A Franciscan friar was travelling on business of his order when he was overtaken by three brigands, who stole from him his ass, his saddle, and his doubloons. Moreover, they told him that if he informed any man of what they had done they would certainly come after him again and take his life; for they could only sell the ass and the saddle that were known to be his by representing that he had sold them to them, otherwise no one would have bought them. The friar told no man what had happened to him, for fear of losing his life; yet he knew that if he could only let his parishioners know what had occurred, they would soon retake for him all that he had lost. So he hit on the following expedient: next Sunday, as he was saying Mass, when he came to the place in the Preface where special additions commemorative of the particular festivals are inserted, after the enumeration of the praises of God, he added the words, 'Nevertheless, me, Thy poor servant, evil men have robbed of my ass and her saddle, and all my doubloons; but to no man have I declared the thing, save unto Thee only, Omnipotent Father, who knowest all things, and helpest the poor;' and then he went on, 'et ideò cum angelis et archangelis,' &c. [335] The parishioners were no sooner thus informed of what had occurred, than they went after the brigands and made them give up all they had taken. The next time, therefore, the father was out in the Campagna, the brigands came after him and said: 'Now, we take your life; last time we let you off, saying we would spare you if you told no man what we had done; but you cannot keep your own counsel, so you must die like the rest.' But the good monk showed them that he had not spoken to man of the thing, but had only lamented his loss before God, which every man was free to do. And the brigands, when they heard that, could say nothing, and they let him go by uninjured, him and his beast. [Such stories are the result of a household familiarity with sacred matters, and are told with genuine fun without the least infusion of irreverence. Just as out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaks, even so we make jokes on whatever subject we are most occupied with. Religious offices are so much a part of the daily life of the Catholic poor that it would be impossible to banish the language of them from their simple jokes. I have had numbers of such told me without the least expression that could be called scoffing in the teller; but I forbear to give more than the two or three in the text by way of specimens, lest the spirit of them should be misjudged.] THE LENTEN PREACHER. A friar came to preach the Lenten sermons in a country place. The wife of a rich peasant sat under the pulpit, and thought all the time what a nice-looking man he was, instead of listening to his exhortations to penance. When the sermon was over she went home and took out half-a-dozen nice fine pocket-handkerchiefs, and sent them to him by her maid, with a very civil note to beg him to come and see her. As the maid was going out, the husband met her. 'Where are you going?' said he. The maid, who did not at all like her errand, promised if he would not be angry with her, and would not let her mistress know it, she would tell him all. The husband promised to hold her harmless, and she gave him the handkerchiefs and the note. 'Come here,' said the husband; and he took her into his room and wrote a note as if from the friar, saying he was much obliged by her presents, and would like to see the lady very much, but that it was impossible they could meet, so she must not think of it. This note the maid took back to her mistress as if from the friar. A few days after this the husband gave out that he would have to go to a fair, and would be away two or three days. Immediately the wife took a pound of the best snuff and sent it as a present to the friar by the same maid with another note, saying the husband was going away on such an evening, and if he then came to see her at an hour after the Ave he would find the door open. This also the maid took to her master; the husband took the snuff and wrote an answer, as if from the friar, to say he would keep the appointment. In the evening he said good-bye to his wife, and went away. But he went to the butcher and bought a stout beef sinew, and at the hour appointed for the friar, he came back dressed as a friar, and beat her with the beef sinew till she was half dead. Then he went down in the kitchen and sent the servant up to heal her, and went away for three days. When he came back the wife was still doubled up, and suffering from the beating. 'What is the matter?' he said, sympathisingly. 'Oh! I fell down the cellar stairs.' 'What do you mean by leaving your mistress to go down to the cellar?' he cried out to the servant, with great solicitude. 'How can you allow her to do such things? What's the use of you?' 'Don't scold the servant,' answered the wife; 'it wasn't her fault. I shall be all right soon.' And she made as light of her ailment as she could, to keep him from asking her any more questions. But he was discreet enough to say no more. Only when she was well again he sent to the friar and asked him to come home to dine with them. 'My wife is subject to odd fancies sometimes,' he said, as they walked home. 'If she should do anything extravagant, don't you mind; I shall be there to call her to order.' Then he told the servant to bring in the soup and the boiled meat without waiting for orders, but to keep the grill back till he came to the kitchen door to call her. At the time for the grill, therefore, he got up from table to go and call her, and thus left his wife and the friar alone together. They were no sooner alone than she got up, and calling him a horrid friar, gave him a sound drubbing. The husband came back in time to prevent mischief, and to make excuses; and finding she was cured of her affection, said no more of the affair. ASS OR PIG. [336] A countryman was going along driving a pig before him. 'Let's have a bit of fun with that fellow,' said the brother porter of a monastery to the father guardian, [337] as they saw him coming along the road. 'I'll call his pig an ass, and of course he'll say it's a pig; then I shall laugh at him for not knowing better, and he will grow angry. Then I'll say, "Well, will you have the father guardian to settle the dispute? and if he decides I'm right I shall keep the beast for myself." Then you come and say it is an ass, and we'll keep it.' The father guardian agreed, with a hearty laugh; and as soon as the countryman came up the brother porter did all as he had arranged. The countryman was so sure of his case that he willingly submitted to the arbitration of the father guardian; but great was his dismay when the father guardian decided against him, and he had to go home without his pig. But what did the countryman do? He dressed himself up as a poor girl, and about nightfall, and a storm coming on, he rang at the bell of the monastery and entreated the charity of shelter for the night. 'Impossible!' said the brother porter; 'we can't have any womenkind in here.' 'But the dark, and the storm!' clamoured the pretended girl; 'think of that. You can't leave me out here all alone.' 'I'm very sorry,' said the porter, 'but the thing's impossible. I can't do it.' The good father guardian, hearing the dispute at that unusual hour, put his head out of the window and asked what it was all about. 'It is a difficult case, brother porter,' he said when he had heard the girl's request. 'If we take her in we infringe our rule in one way; if we leave her exposed to every kind of peril we sin against its spirit in another direction. I only see one way out of it. I can't send her into any of your cells; but I will let her pass the night in mine, provided she is content not to undress, and will consent to sit up in a chair.' This was exactly what the countryman wanted, therefore he gave a ready assent, and the father guardian took him up into his cell. The pretended girl sat up in a chair quietly enough through the dark of the night, but when morning began to dawn, out came a stick that had been hidden under the petticoats, and whack, whack [338]--a fine drubbing the poor father guardian got, to the tune of--'So you think I don't know a pig from an ass, do you?' When he had well bruised him all over, the countryman made the best of his way downstairs, and off and away he was before anyone could catch him. The next day what did he do? He dressed up like a doctor, and came round asking if anyone had any ailments to cure. 'That's just the thing for us,' said the brother porter to himself as he saw him come by. 'The father guardian was afraid to let the doctor of the neighbourhood attend him, for fear of the scandal of all the story coming out; the strange doctor will just do, as there is no need to tell him anything.' The countryman in his new disguise, therefore, was taken up to the father guardian's cell. 'There's nothing very much the matter,' he said when he had examined the wounds and bruises; 'it might all be set right in a day by a certain herb,' which he named. The herb was a difficult one to find, but as it was so important to get the father guardian cured immediately, before any inquiry should be raised as to the cause of his sufferings, the whole community set out to wander over the Campagna in search of it. As soon as they were a good way off, the pretended doctor took out a thick stick which he held concealed under his long robe, and whack, whack--belaboured the poor father guardian more terribly even than before, to the tune of--'So you think I don't know an ass from a pig, do you?' How far soever the brothers were gone, his cries were so piteous that they recalled them, but not till the countryman had made good his escape. 'We have sinned, my brethren,' said the father guardian when they were all gathered round him; 'and I have suffered justly for it. We had no right to take the man's pig, even for a joke. Let it now, therefore, be restored to him, and in amends let there be given him along with it an ass also.' So the countryman got his pig back, and a donkey into the bargain. THE SEVEN CLODHOPPERS. [339] Seven clodhoppers went to confession. 'Father, I stole something,' said the first. 'What was it you stole?' asked the priest. 'Some mistuanza, [340] because I was starving,' replied the country bumpkin. That the poor fellow, who really looked as if he might have been starving, should have stolen some herbs did not seem such a very grave offence; so with due advice to keep his hands from picking and stealing, and a psalm to say for his penance, the priest sent him to communion. Then came the second, and there was the same dialogue. Then the third and the fourth, till all the seven had been up. At last the priest began to think it was a very odd circumstance that such a number of full-grown men should all of a sudden have taken into their heads to go stealing salad herbs; and when the seventh had had his say he rejoined,-- 'But what do you mean by mistuanza?' 'Oh, any mixture of things,' replied the countryman. 'Nay; that's not the way we use the word,' responded the priest; 'so tell me what "things" you mean.' 'Oh, some cow, some pig, and some fowl.' [341] 'You men of the mistuanza!' shouted the priest in righteous indignation, starting out of the confessional; 'Come back! come back! you can't go to communion like that.' The seven clodhoppers, finding themselves discovered, began to fear the rigour of justice, and decamped as fast as they could. [Next to gossiping jokes on subjects kindred to religion are jokes about domestic disputes, the greater blame being generally ascribed to the wife.] THE LITTLE BIRD. [342] There was an old couple who earned a poor living by working hard all day in the fields. 'See how hard we work all day,' said the wife; 'and it all comes of the foolish curiosity of Adam and Eve. If it had not been for that we should have been living now in a beautiful garden, with nothing to do all day long.' 'Yes,' said the husband; 'if you and I had been there, instead of Adam and Eve, all the human race had been in Paradise still.' The count, their master, overheard them talking in this way, and he came to them and said: 'How would you like it if I took you up into my palazzo there, to live and gave you servants to wait on you, and plenty to eat and drink?' 'Oh, that would be delightful indeed! That would be as good as Paradise itself!' answered husband and wife together. 'Well, you may come up there if you think so. Only remember, in Paradise there was one tree that was not to be touched; so at my table there will be one dish not to be touched. You mustn't mind that,' said the count. 'Oh, of course not,' replied the old peasant; 'that's just what I say: when Eve had all the fruits in the garden, what did she want with just that one that was forbidden? And if we, who are used to the scantiest victuals, are supplied with enough to live well, what does it matter to us whether there is an extra dish or not on the table?' 'Very well reasoned,' said the count. 'We quite understand each other, then?' 'Perfectly,' replied both husband and wife. 'You come to live at my palace, and have everything you can want there, so long as you don't open one dish [343] which there will be in the middle of the table. If you open that you go back to your former way of life.' 'We quite understand,' answered the peasants. The count went in and called his servant, and told him to give the peasants an apartment to themselves, with everything they could want, and a sumptuous dinner, only in the middle of the table was to be an earthen dish, into which he was to put a little bird alive, so that if one lifted the cover the bird would fly out. He was to stay in the room and wait on them, and report to him what happened. The old people sat down to dinner, and praised everything they saw, so delightful it all seemed. 'Look! that's the dish we're not to touch,' said the wife. 'No; better not look at it,' said the husband. 'Pshaw! there's no danger of wanting to open it, when we have such a lot of dishes to eat our fill out of,' returned the wife. So they set to, and made such a repast as they had never dreamed of before. By degrees, however, as the novelty of the thing wore off, they grew more and more desirous for something newer and newer still. Though when they at first sat down it had seemed that two dishes would be ample to satisfy them, they had now had seven or eight and they were wishing there might be others coming. There is an end to all things human, and no other came; there only remained the earthen dish in the middle of the table. 'We might just lift the lid up a little wee bit,' said the wife. 'No; don't talk about it,' said the husband. The wife sat still for five minutes, and then she said: 'If one just lifted up one corner of the lid it could scarcely be called opening it, you know.' 'Better leave it alone altogether, and not think about it at all,' said the husband. The wife sat still another five minutes, and then she said: 'If one peeped in just the least in the world it would not be any harm, surely; and I should so like to know what there can possibly be. Now, what can the count have put in that dish?' 'I'm sure I can't guess in the least,' said the husband; 'and I must say I can't see what it can signify to him if we did look at it.' 'No; that's what I think. And besides, how would he know if we peeped? it wouldn't hurt him,' said the wife. 'No; as you say, one could just take a look,' said the husband. The wife didn't want more encouragement than that. But when she lifted one side of the lid the least mite she could see nothing. She opened it the least mite more, and the bird flew out. The servant ran and told his master, and the count came down and drove them out, bidding them never complain of Adam and Eve any more. THE DEVIL WHO TOOK TO HIMSELF A WIFE. [344] Listen, and I will tell you what the devil did who took to himself a wife. Ages and ages ago, in the days when the devil was loose--for now he is chained and can't go about like that any more--the head devil [345] called the others, and said, 'Whichever of you proves himself the boldest and cleverest, I will give him his release, and set him free from Inferno.' So they all set to work and did all manner of wild and terrible things, and the one who pleased the head devil best was set free. This devil being set free, went upon earth, and thought he would live like the children of men. So he took a wife, and, of course, he chose one who was handsome and fashionable [346], but he didn't think about anything else, and he soon found that she was no housewife, was never satisfied unless she was gadding out somewhere, would not take a word of reproof, and, what was more, she spent all his money. Every day there were furious quarrels; it was bad enough while the money lasted--and he had brought a good provision with him--but when the money came to an end it was much worse; he was ever reproaching her with extravagance, and she him with stinginess and deception. At last he said to her one day, 'It's no use making a piece of work; I'm quite tired of this sort of life; I shall go back to Hell, which is a much quieter place than a house where you are. But I don't mind doing you a good turn first. I'll go and possess myself of a certain queen. You dress up like a doctor, and say you will heal her, and all you will have to do will be to pretend to use some ointments [347] for two or three days, on which I will go out of her. Then they will be so delighted with you for healing her that they will give you a lot of money, on which you can live for the rest of your days, and I will go back to Hell.' But though he said this, it was only to get rid of her. As soon as he had provided her with the price for casting him out once, he meant to go and amuse himself on earth in other ways; he had no real intention of going back to Hell. Then he instructed her in the means by which she was to find out the queen of whom he was to possess himself, and went his way. The wife, by following the direction he gave, soon found him, and, dressed as a doctor, effected the cure; that is, she made herself known to him in applying the ointments, and he went away as he had agreed. When the king and the court saw what a wonderful cure had been effected, they gave the woman a sackfull of scudi, but all the people went on talking of her success. The devil meantime had possessed himself of another sovereign, a king this time, and everybody in the kingdom was very desirous to have him cured, and went inquiring everywhere for a remedy. Thus they heard of the fame of the last cure by the devil's wife. Then they immediately sent for her and insisted that she should cure this king too. But she, not sure whether he would go out a second time at her bidding, refused as long as she could; but they took her, and said, 'Unless you cure him we shall kill you!' 'Then,' she said, 'you must shut me up alone with this king, and I will try what I can do.' So she was shut up alone with him. 'What! you here again!' said the devil as soon as he perceived her. 'No; that won't do this time. I am very comfortable inside this old king, and I mean to stay here.' 'But they threaten to kill me if I don't make you go; so what am I to do?' answered the wife. 'I can't help that,' he replied; 'you must get out of the scrape the best way you can.' At this she got in a passion, and, as she used to do in the days when they were living together, rated him so fiercely that at last he was fain to go to escape her scolding. Once more she received a high price for the cure, and her fame got the more bruited abroad. But the devil went into another queen, and possessed himself of her. The fame of the two cures had spread so far that the wife was soon called in to try her powers again. 'I really can't,' she pleaded; but the people said: 'What you did for the other two you can do for this one; and, if you don't, we will cut off your head.' To save her head, therefore, she said, 'Then you must shut me up in a room alone with the queen.' So she was shut up in the room with her. 'What! you here again!' exclaimed the devil as soon as he perceived her. 'No; I positively won't go this time; I couldn't be better off than inside this old queen, and till you came I was perfectly happy.' 'They threaten to take my head if I don't make you go; so what am I to do?' 'Then let them take your head, and let that be an end of it,' replied the devil testily. 'You are a pretty husband, indeed, to say such a speech to a wife!' answered she in a high-pitched voice, which he knew was the foretaste of one of those terrible storms he could never resist. Basta! she stormed so loud that she sickened him of her for good and all, and this time, to escape her, instead of possessing himself of any more kings and queens, he went straight off to Hell, and never came forth any more for fear of meeting her. [For variants of this Ciarpa, see Ralston's 'Russian Folk Tales,' pp. 37-43; 'The Ill-tempered Princess' in 'Patrañas,' &c.] THE ROOT. There was a rich count who married an extravagant wife. As he had plenty of money he let her spend whatever she liked. But he had no idea what a woman could spend, and very much surprised was he when he found that dressmakers, and milliners, and hairdressers, and shoemakers had made such a hole in his fortune that there was very little left. He saw it was high time to look after it, and he ventured to tender some words of remonstrance; but the moment he began to speak about it she went into hysterics. There was such a dreadful scene that he feared to approach the subject again, but the matter became so serious that at last he was obliged to do so. The least allusion, however, brought on another fit of hysterics. What was he to do? To go on at this extravagant rate was impossible; equally impossible was it to endure the terrible scenes which ensued when he attempted to make her more careful. At last he went to a doctor whom he knew, and asked him if he could give him any remedy for hysterics, telling him the whole story of what he wanted it for. 'Oh, yes!' replied the doctor; 'I have an infallible cure. It is a certain root which must be applied very sharply to the back of the neck. If it doesn't succeed with the first half-dozen applications, you must go on till it does. It never fails in the end.' So saying, he gave him a stout root, as thick as a walking stick, with a knobbed end. Strong with the promised remedy, the husband went home, and sent word to all the dressmakers, milliners, hairdressers, and shoemakers that he would pay for nothing more except what he ordered himself. Indeed he met the shoemaker on the step of the door, who had just come to take the measure for a pair of velvet slippers. 'Don't bring them,' he said; 'she has seven or eight pairs already, and that is quite enough.' Then he went up to his wife, and told her what he had done. Such a scene of hysterics as he had never imagined before awaited him now, but he, full of confidence in his remedy, took no notice further than to go up to her and apply the root very smartly to the back of her neck as he had been directed. 'But to me it seems that was all one with beating her with a stick,' exclaimed another old woman who was sitting in the room knitting. 'Of course! That's just the fun of it!' replied the narrator. 'And the beauty of it was that he was so simple that he thought it was some virtue in the root that was to effect the cure.' The hysterics stopped, and he ran off to the doctor to thank him for the capital remedy. The wife ran off, too, and went to her friends crying with terrible complaints that her husband would not allow her a single thing to put on, and, moreover, had even been beating her. When the count got back from the doctor, he found the father and half the family there ready to abuse him for making his wife go about with nothing on, and beating her into the bargain. 'It is all a mistake,' said the count. 'I will allow her everything that is right, only I will order myself what I pay for; and, as to beating her, I only applied this root which I got from the doctor to cure hysterics; nothing more.' 'Oh! it's a case of hysterics is it!' said the father; 'then it is all quite right,' and he and the rest went away; and the count and his wife got on very well after that, and he never had to make use of the doctor's root again. THE QUEEN AND THE TRIPE-SELLER. [348] They say there was a queen who had such a bad temper that she made everybody about her miserable. Whatever her husband might do to please her, she was always discontented, and as for her maids she was always slapping their faces. There was a fairy who saw all this, and she said to herself, 'This must not be allowed to go on;' so she went and called another fairy, and said, 'What shall we do to teach this naughty queen to behave herself?' and they could not imagine what to do with her; so they agreed to think it over, and meet again another day. When they met again, the first fairy said to the other, 'Well, have you found any plan for correcting this naughty queen?' 'Yes,' replied the second fairy; 'I have found an excellent plan. I have been up and all over the whole town, and in a little dirty back lane [349] I have found a tripe-seller as like to this queen as two peas.' [350] 'Excellent!' exclaimed the first fairy. 'I see what you mean to do. One of us will take some of the queen's clothes and dress up the tripe-seller, and the other will take some of the tripe-seller's clothes and dress up the queen in them, and then we will exchange them till the queen learns better manners.' 'That's the plan,' replied the second fairy. 'You have said it exactly. When shall we begin?' 'This very night,' said the first fairy. 'Agreed!' said the second fairy; and that very night, while everyone else was gone quietly to bed they went, one into the palace and fetched some of the queen's clothes, and, bringing them to the tripe-seller's room, placed them by the side of her bed; and the other went to the tripe-seller's room and fetched her clothes, and took them and put them by the side of the queen's bed. They also woke them very early, and when each got up she put on the things that were by the side of the bed, thinking they were the things she had left there the night before. Thus the queen was dressed like a tripe-seller, and the tripe-seller like a queen. Then one fairy took the queen, dressed like a tripe-seller, and put her down in the tripe-seller's shop, and the other fairy took the tripe-seller, dressed like a queen, and placed her in the palace, and both of them did their work so swiftly that neither the queen nor the tripe-seller perceived the flight at all. The queen was very much astonished at finding herself in a tripe-shop, and began staring about, wondering how she got there. 'Here! Don't stand gaping about like that!' cried the tripe-man, [351] who was a very hot-tempered fellow; 'Why, you haven't boiled the coffee!' 'Boiled the coffee!' repeated the queen, hardly apprehending what he meant. 'Yes; you haven't boiled the coffee!' said the tripe-man. 'Don't repeat my words, but do your work!' and he took her by the shoulders, put the coffee-pot in her hand, and stood over her looking so fierce that she was frightened into doing what she had never done or seen done in all her life before. Presently the coffee began to boil over. 'There! Don't waste all the coffee like that!' cried the tripe-man, and he got up and gave her a slap, which made the tears come in her eyes. 'Don't blubber!' said the tripe-man; 'but bring the coffee here and pour it out.' The queen did as she was told; but when she began to drink it, though she had made it herself, it was so nasty she didn't know how to drink it. It was very different stuff from what she got at the palace; but the tripe-man had his eye on her, and she didn't dare not to drink it. 'A halfp'th of cat's-meat!' [352] sang out a small boy in the shop. 'Why don't you go and serve the customer?' said the tripe-man, knocking the cup out of the queen's hand. Fearing another slap, she rose hastily to give the boy what he wanted, but not knowing one thing in the shop from another, she gave him a large piece of the best tripe fit for a prince. 'Oh, what fine tripe to-day!' cried the small boy, and ran away as fast as he could. It was in vain the tripe-man halloed after him, he was in too great a hurry to secure his prize to think of returning. 'Look what you've done!' cried the tripe-man, giving the queen another slap; 'you've given that boy for a penny a bunch of tripe worth a shilling.' Luckily, other customers came in and diverted the man's attention. Presently all the tripe hanging up had been sold, and more customers kept coming in. 'What has come to you, to-day!' roared the tripe-man, as the queen stood not knowing what to do with herself. 'Do you mean to say you haven't washed that other lot of tripe!' and this time he gave her a kick. To escape his fury, the queen turned to do her best with washing the other tripe, but she did it so awkwardly that she got a volley of abuse and blows too. Then came dinner-time, and nothing prepared, or even bought to prepare, for dinner. Another stormy scene ensued at the discovery, and the tripe-man went to dine at the inn, leaving her to go without any dinner at all, in punishment for having neglected to prepare it. While he was gone she helped all the customers to the wrong things, and, when he came home, got another scolding and more blows for her stupidity. And all through the afternoon it was the same story. But the tripe-seller, when she found herself all in a palace, with half-a-dozen maids waiting to attend her, was equally bewildered. When they kept asking her if there was nothing she pleased to want, she kept answering, 'No thank you,' in such a gentle tone, the maids began to think that a reign of peace had come to them at last. By-and-by, when the ladies came, instead of saying, as the queen had been wont, 'What an ugly dress you have got; go and take it off!' she said, 'How nice you look; how tasteful your dress is!' Afterwards the king came in, bringing her a rare nosegay. Instead of throwing it on one side to vex him, as the queen had been wont, she showed so much delight, and expressed her thanks so many times, that he was quite overcome. The change that had come over the queen soon became the talk of the whole palace, and everyone congratulated himself on an improvement which made them all happy. The king was no less pleased than all the rest, and for the first time for many years he said he would drive out with the queen; for on account of her bad temper he had long given up driving with her. So the carriage came round with four prancing horses, and an escort of cavalry to ride before and behind it. The tripe-seller hardly could believe she was to drive in this splendid carriage, but the king handed her in before she knew where she was. Then, as he was so pleased with her gentle and grateful ways, he further asked her to say which way she would like to drive. The tripe-seller, partly because she was too much frightened to think of any other place, and partly because she thought it would be nice to drive in state through her own neighbourhood, named the broader street out of which turned the lane in which she lived, for the royal carriage could hardly have turned down the lane itself. The king repeated the order, and away drove the royal cortège. The circumstance of the king and queen driving out together was sufficient to excite the attention of the whole population, and wherever they passed the people crowded into the streets; thus a volley of shouts and comments ran before the carriage towards the lane of the tripe-man. The tripe-man was at the moment engaged in administering a severe chastisement to the queen for her latest mistake, and the roar of the people's voices afforded a happy pretext for breaking away from him. She ran with the rest to the opening of the lane just as the royal carriage was passing. 'My husband! my husband!' she screamed as the king drove by, and plaintive as was her voice, and different from her usual imperious tone, he heard it and turned his head towards her. 'My husband! my royal husband!' pleaded the humbled queen. The king, in amazement, stopped the carriage and gazed from the queen in the gutter to the tripe-seller in royal array by his side, unable to solve the problem. 'This is certainly my wife!' he said at last, as he extended his hand to the queen. 'Who then can you be?' he added, addressing the tripe-seller. 'I will tell the truth,' replied the good tripe-seller. 'I am no queen; I am the poor wife of the tripe-seller down the lane there; but how I came into the palace is more than I can say.' 'And how come you here?' said the king, addressing the real queen. 'That, neither can I tell; I thought you had sent me hither to punish me for my bad temper; but if you will only take me back I will never be bad-tempered again; only take me away from this dreadful tripe-man, who has been beating me all day.' Then the king made answer: 'Of course you must come back with me, for you are my wife. But,' he said to the tripe-seller; 'what shall I do with you? After you have been living in luxury in the palace, you will feel it hard to go back to sell tripe.' 'It's true I have not many luxuries at home,' answered the tripe-seller; 'but yet I had rather be with my husband than in any palace in the world;' and she descended from the carriage, while the queen got in. 'Stop!' said the king. 'This day's transformation, howsoever it was brought about, has been a good day, and you have been so well behaved, and so truth-spoken, I don't like your going back to be beaten by the tripe-man.' 'Oh, never mind that,' said the good wife; 'he never beats me unless I do something very stupid. And, after all, he's my husband, and that's enough for me.' 'Well, if you're satisfied, I won't interfere any further,' said the king; 'except to give you some mark of my royal favour.' So he bestowed on the tripe-man and his wife a beautiful villa, with a nice casino outside the gates, on condition that he never beat her any more. The tripe-man was so pleased with the gifts which had come to him through his wife's good conduct, that he kept his word, and was always thereafter very kind to her. And the queen was so frightened at the thought that she might find herself suddenly transformed into a tripe-seller again, that she kept a strict guard over her temper, and became the delight of her husband and the whole court. THE BAD-TEMPERED QUEEN. [353] They say there was a queen who was so bad-tempered that no one who could help it would come near her. All the servants ran away when she came out of her apartment, for fear she should scold and maltreat them; all the people ran away when she drove out, for fear she should vex them with some tyrannical order. As she was rich and beautiful, and ruled over vast dominions, many princes--who in their distant kingdoms had heard nothing of her failing--came to sue for her hand, but she sent them all away and would have nothing to say to any of them. She used to say she did not want to have anyone to be her master; she had rather live and govern by herself, and have everything her own way. As time went on, however, the council of state grew dissatisfied with this resolution. They insisted that she must marry, that there might be a family of princes to carry on the succession to the throne without dispute. When the queen found that she could not help it she agreed she would marry; but she was determined she would not marry any of the princes who had come to court her, because, as they were equal to herself in birth and state, they would want to rule over her and expect obedience from her. She declared she would marry no one but a certain duke, who, as she had observed in the council and in the state banquets and balls, was always very quiet and hardly ever spoke at all. She thought he would make a nice quiet manageable sort of husband, and she would have him if she must have one at all. The duke was as silent as usual when he was spoken to about it; but as he made no objection he was reckoned to have consented, and the marriage was duly solemnised. As soon as the marriage was over the queen went on making her arrangements and ordering matters in the palace just as if nothing had happened, and she were still her own mistress. In particular she issued invitations for the grandest ball she had ever given, asking to it all the ministers and their families, and all the nobility of the kingdom. The husband said nothing to all this, only a few hours before the time appointed for the banquet he called to the queen, saying: 'Put on your travelling dress, and make haste; the carriage will be round directly.' 'I'm not going to put on my travelling dress,' answered the queen scornfully; 'I am just seeing about my evening dress for the banquet this evening.' 'If you are not ready in your travelling dress in five minutes, when the carriage comes round, it will be worse for you. Mind I have warned you.' And he looked so determined that she quailed before him. 'How can we be going into the country, when I have invited half the kingdom to a banquet?' exclaimed the queen. 'I have invited no one,' answered the husband quietly. 'Don't stand hesitating when I tell you to do a thing; go and get ready directly! we are going into the country!' he added in his most positive voice, and, though she shed many secret tears over the loss of the banquet, she ventured to oppose nothing more to his orders, but went up and dressed, and when the carriage came round she was nearly ready. In about five minutes she came down. 'I won't say anything this time about your keeping me waiting,' he said when she appeared; 'but mind it does not happen again, or you will be sorry for it.' The queen had a favourite little dog, which she fondled and talked to all the way, to show she was offended with her husband and independent of his conversation. Watching an opportunity when she was silent, the husband said to the little dog, 'Jump on to my lap.' 'He's not going to obey you,' said the queen contemptuously; 'he's my dog!' 'I keep no one about me who does not obey me,' said her husband quietly; and he took out his pistol and shot the dog through the head. The queen began to understand that the husband she had chosen was not a person to be trifled with, nor did she venture even to utter a complaint. When they arrived at the villa, as the queen was going to her apartment to undress, her husband called her to him into his room and bade her pull off his boots. The queen's first impulse was to utter a haughty refusal; but by this time she had learnt that, as she would certainly have to give in to him in the end, it was better to do his bidding with a good grace at the first. So she said nothing, but knelt down and pulled off his boots. When she had done this he got up and said: 'Now sit down in this armchair and I will take off your shoes; for my way is that one should help the other. If you behave to me as a wife should, you need never fear but that I shall behave to you as a husband should.' By the time their visit to the country was at an end, and when they returned to the capital, everybody found their naughty queen had become the most angelic being imaginable. [After people's bad tempers, their follies form the most prolific subject of the Ciarpe.] THE SIMPLE WIFE. [354] There was a man and his wife who had a young daughter to marry; and there was a man who was seeking a wife. So the man who was seeking a wife came to the man who had a daughter to marry, and said, 'Give me your daughter for a wife.' 'Yes,' said the man who had a daughter to marry; [355] 'you'll do very well; you're just about the sort of son-in-law I want.' And then he added: 'If our daughter is to be betrothed to-day, it is the occasion for a feast.' So to the wife he said, 'Prepare the table;' and to the daughter he said, 'Draw the wine.' The daughter went down into the cellar to draw the wine. But as she drew the wine she began to cry, saying: 'If I am to be married I shall have a child, and the child will be a son, and the son will be a priest, and the priest will be a bishop, and the bishop will be a cardinal, and the cardinal will be a pope.' And she cried and cried, and the wine was running all the time, so that the bottle [356] she was filling ran over, and went on running over. Then said the father and mother: 'What can the girl be doing down in the cellar so long?' But the mother said: 'I must go and see.' So the mother went down to see why she was so long, but the moment she came into the cellar she, too, began to cry; so that the wine still went on running over. Then the father said: 'What can the girl and her mother both be doing so long down in the cellar? I must go and see.' So the father went down into the cellar; but the moment he got into the cellar he, too, began to cry, and could do nothing for crying; so the wine still went on running over. Then he who had come to seek a wife said: 'What can these people all be doing so long down in the cellar?' So he, too, went down to see, and found them all crying in the cellar and the wine running over. Only when the wine was all run out they left off crying and came upstairs again. Then the betrothal and the marriage were happily celebrated. One day after they were married the husband went into the market to buy meat, and he bought a large provision because he had invited a friend to dinner. When the wife saw him buy such a quantity of meat she began to cry, saying: 'What can we do with such a lot of meat?' 'Oh, never mind, don't make a misery of it,' said the husband; 'put it behind you.' [357] The simple wife took the meat and went home, saying to her parents, [358] and crying the while: 'My husband says I am to put all this meat behind me! Do tell me what can I do?' 'You can't put the whole lot of it behind you, that's certain,' replied the equally simple mother; 'but we can manage it between us.' Then she took the meat and put all the hard, bony part on one chair, where she made the father sit down on it; all the fat, skinny part she put on another chair, and made the wife sit down on it; and the fleshy, meaty part she put on another chair, and sat down on that herself. Presently the husband came with his friend, ready for dinner, knocking at the door. None of the three dared to move, however, that they might not cease to be fulfilling his injunctions. Then he looked through the keyhole, and, seeing them all sitting down without moving when he knocked, he thought they must all be dead; so he ran and fetched a locksmith, who opened the door for him. 'What on earth are you all doing there,' exclaimed the hungry husband, 'instead of getting dinner ready?' 'You told me to put the meat behind me, and I have done so,' answered the simple wife. Then he saw they were sitting on the meat. Out of all patience with such idiocy, he exclaimed: 'This is the last you'll ever see of me. At least I promise you not to come back till I have met three other people as idiotic as you, and that's hardly likely to occur.' With that he took his friend to a tavern to dine, and then put on a pilgrim's dress and went wandering over the country. In the first city he came to there was great public rejoicing going on. The princess had just been married, and the court was keeping high festival. As he came up to the palace the bride and bridegroom were just come back from church. The bride wore one of those very high round headdresses that they used to wear in olden time, with a long veil hanging from it. It was so very high that she could not by any means get in at the door, and there she stuck, not knowing what to do. Then she began to cry, saying: 'What shall I do? what shall I do?' 'Shall I tell you what to do?' said the pilgrim-husband, drawing near. 'Oh, pray do, if you can; I will give you a hundred scudi if you will only show me how to get in.' So he went and made her go a few steps backward, and then bow her head very low, and so she could pass under the door. 'Really, I have found one woman as simple as my people at home,' said the pilgrim-husband, as he sat down to the banquet at the special invitation of the princess, in reward for his services. Afterwards she counted out a hundred scudi to him, and he went further. Further along the road he came to a farm, with barns and cattle and plenty of stock about, and a large well at which a woman was drawing water. Instead of dipping in the pail, she had got the well-rope knotted into a huge knot, which she kept dipping into the water and squeezing out into the pail, and she kept crying as she did so: 'Oh, how long shall I be filling the pail! The pail will never be full!' 'Shall I show you how to fill it?' asked the pilgrim-husband, drawing near. 'Oh, yes, do show me if you can. I will give you a hundred scudi if you will only show me.' Then he took all the knots out of the rope and let down the pail by it, and filled it in a minute. 'Here's a second woman as stupid as my people at home,' said the pilgrim-husband, as the farmer's wife asked him in to dinner in reward for his great services; 'if I go on at this rate I shall have to return to her at last, in spite of my protestations.' After that the farmer's wife counted out the hundred scudi of the promised reward, and he went on further, having first packed six eggs into his hollow staff as provision for the journey. Towards nightfall he arrived at a lone cottage. Here he knocked and asked a bed for his night's lodging. 'I can't give you that,' said a voice from the inside; 'for I am a lone widow. I can't take a man in to sleep here.' 'But I am a pilgrim,' replied he; 'let me in at least to cook a bit of supper.' 'That I don't mind doing,' said the good wife, and she opened the door. 'Thanks, good friend!' said the pilgrim-husband as he sat down by the stove; 'now add to your charity a couple of eggs in a pan.' [359] So she gave him a pan and two eggs, and a bit of butter to cook them in; but he took the six eggs out of his staff and broke them into the pan, too. Presently, when the good wife turned her head his way again, and saw eight eggs swimming in the pan instead of two, she said: 'Lack-a-day! you must surely be some strange being from the other world. Do you know so-and-so there' (naming her dead husband)? 'Oh, yes,' said the pilgrim-husband, enjoying the joke; 'I know him very well; he lives just next to me.' 'Only to think of that!' replied the poor woman. 'And do tell me, how do you get on in the other world? What sort of a life is it?' 'Oh, not so very bad; it depends what sort of a place you get. The part where we are is not very bad, except that we get very little to eat. Your husband, for instance, is nearly starved.' 'No, really!' cried the good wife, clasping her hands; 'only fancy! my good husband starving out there; so fond as he was of a good dinner, too!' Then she added, coaxingly: 'As you know him so well, perhaps you wouldn't mind doing him the charity of taking him a little somewhat to give him a treat. There are such lots of things I could easily send him.' 'O, dear no, not at all; I'll do it with great pleasure,' answered he; 'but I'm not going back till to-morrow; and if I don't sleep here I must go on further, and then I shan't come by this way.' 'That's true,' replied the widow. 'Ah, well, I mustn't mind what the folks say, for such an opportunity as this may never occur again. You must sleep in my bed, and I must sleep on the hearth; and in the morning I'll load a donkey with provisions for my poor dear husband.' 'Oh, no,' replied the pilgrim; 'you shan't be disturbed in your bed; only let me sleep on the hearth, that will do for me; and as I'm an early riser I can be gone before anyone's astir, so folks won't have anything to say.' So it was done, and an hour before sunrise the woman was up loading the donkey with the best of her stores. There were ham, and maccaroni, and flour, and cheese, and wine. All this she committed to the pilgrim, saying: 'You'll send the donkey back, won't you?' 'Of course I would send him back; he'd be no use to us out there: but I shan't get out again myself for another hundred years or so, and I fear he won't find his way back alone, for it's no easy way to find.' 'To be sure not; I ought to have thought of that,' replied the widow. 'Ah, well, so as my poor husband gets a good meal never mind the donkey.' So the pretended pilgrim from the other world went his way. He hadn't gone a hundred yards before the widow called him back. 'Ah, she's beginning to think better of it!' said he to himself; and he continued his way, pretending not to hear. 'Good pilgrim!' shouted the widow; 'I forgot one thing. Would any money be of use to my poor dear husband?' 'Oh dear yes, all the use in the world,' replied the pilgrim; 'you can always get anything for money everywhere.' 'Oh, do come back then, and I'll trouble you with a hundred scudi for him.' The pretended pilgrim came back willingly for the hundred scudi, and the widow counted them out to him. 'There is no help for it,' soliloquised he as he went his way; 'I must go back to those at home. I have actually found three women each more stupid than they.' So he went home to live, and complained no more of the simplicity of his wife. [We have the German of this story in 'Die Klugen Leute,' Grimm, p. 407, and again the beginning of it in 'Die Kluge Else' (Clever Lizzie), Grimm, p. 137 (which ends with the desperation of the wife as the second Roman version ends with the death of the husband); in some variants given in the 'Russian Folk Tales,' pp. 53-4; in an Italian-Tirolese tale, 'Le donne matte' (the title resembling that of the next Roman version); and the ending, in the Norse 'Not a pin to choose between them.' Senhor de Saraiva told me the following Portuguese story entitled 'Pedro da Malas Artes' (Tricky Peter), which embodies these incidents, but opens with a different purport. Tricky Peter was a knowing blade; so he went out on his travels to set all the world straight; and he found plenty to do. In the very first town he came to there was a great commotion. A bride had come to church to be married, and there she stuck at the church door, mounted on her mule, while the people deliberated whether they should facilitate her ingress by cutting off some of her head or some of the mule's legs. 'Let her alight and walk in,' said Tricky Peter; 'and the door will be high enough.' And all the people applauded his wisdom. At the next town he found the people all full of discontent, because one of them had to sit up by turns to tell the others when the sun rose. 'I'll give you a bird to perform that office,' said Tricky Peter; and he went home and fetched a cock, and then they could all rest comfortably. After this the story has no more silly people to deal with; but Peter fools a giant, and overcomes his strength with craft. He does not seem, either, to get paid for his services, as do the heroes of 'La Sposa Cese,' and all the others. I have also another Roman story (too long to print here) of a man who sets out with a different purpose again, who meets with three sets of people afflicted with similar follies, and who also makes a good deal of money by his counsel; together with various stories in which men go to fetch their wives back from the devil's kingdom, get three commissions of a similar nature by the way, for executing which they get richly paid on their return. There is a story in the 5th Tantra given as 'Le Brahme aux vains projets' in Abbé Dubois' translation of the 'Pantcha-Tantra,' which has an analogous opening to that of 'La Sposa Cece.' There is another among the 'Contes Indiens' published at the end of it, in which four Brahmans have a great dispute as to which of them can claim to be the greatest idiot--a strife only second in folly to that of the 'Three Indolent Boys' in Grimm, p. 551--and they each narrate such proof of having acted with consummate folly that the decision given is that there is not a pin to choose between them. In a somewhat analogous story, which he calls 'Aventures du Gourou Paramarta,' one of the disciples commits the counting mistake 'of the well-known Irishman,' in omitting to reckon himself in his computation, also found in the Russian 'Folk Tales,' p. 54, and they go to buy a foal's egg, just as do certain peasants of the Trentino in an Italian-Tirolese 'storiella da rider' [360] (laughable story).] LA SPOSA CECE. 2 Another version of this story was told me, or rather an entirely different story embodying the same purport, which, though full of fun, turned on the double meanings of common words of household use too homely for the most part, and some too coarse to please the English reader. The husband, among other things, tells his wife to prepare dinner for a friend and to mind she has 'brocoli strascinati' and 'uovi spersi,' [361] as they are his favourite dishes. 'Strascinare' is to drag anything along, but is technically used to express brocoli chopped up and fried, the commonest Roman dish. 'Spergere' is to scatter, but the word is used among common people to express eggs poached in broth, a favourite delicacy; (eggs poached as in England are called 'uova in bianco'). The wife, taking the words literally, drags the brocoli all over the house and all over the yard, till it is so nasty it cannot be eaten, instead of frying it, and scatters the eggs all about the place instead of poaching them, and so on through a number of other absurdities difficult to explain in detail. In the end the husband falls ill, partly from her bad cooking and partly from annoyance; a doctor is called in, who tells her (among other directions which she similarly misunderstands), that he must have nothing but 'brodo,' [362] but she is to make it 'alto, alto.' 'Alto' is literally 'high,' but he uses it for 'good,' 'strong;' she, however, understands him to mean her to make it in a high place, and goes up on the roof to make it. When the husband asks for it she says she cannot get it for him then as it is up on the roof. Ultimately the husband dies of vexation. There is a very familiar German story which everyone who has any acquaintance with the people must have met, of a lady who complains to her servant that the tea has not 'drawn,' and the simple girl answers, 'It is not my fault, I have drawn it all about the place enough I'm sure' (Ich hab' es genug umhergezogen). THE FOOLISH WOMAN. [363] There was once a couple well-to-do in the world, who had one only daughter. The son of a neighbour came to ask her in marriage, and as the father thought he would do, the father asked him to dinner, and sent the daughter down into the cellar to draw the wine. 'If I am married,' said the girl to herself, and began to cry as she drew the wine, 'I shall have a child, and the child will be a boy, and the boy will be called Petrillo, and by-and-by he will die, and I shall be left to lament him, and to cry all day long "Petrillo! Petrillo! where are you!"' and she went on crying, and the wine went on running over. Then the mother went down to see what kept her so long, and she repeated the story all over to her, and the mother answered, 'Right you are, my girl!' and she, too, began to cry, and the wine was all the time running over. Then the father went down, and they repeated the story to him, and he, too, said, 'Right you are!' and he, too, began to cry, and the wine all the time went on running all over the floor. Then the young man also goes down to see what is the matter, and stops the wine running, and makes them all come up. 'But,' he says, 'I'll not marry the girl till I have wandered over the world and found other three as simple as you.' He dines with them, and sets out on his search. The first night he goes to bed in an inn, and in the morning he hears in the room next him such lamenting and complaining that he goes in to see what is the matter. A man is sitting by the side of the bed lamenting because he cannot get his stockings on. The young man says, 'Take hold of one side this way, and the other side that way, and pull them up.' 'Ah, to be sure!' cries the man, and gives him a hundred scudi for the benefit he has done him. 'There's one of my three simpletons, at all events,' says the young man, and journeys on. The next day, at the inn where he spends the night, he hears a noise bru, bru! goes in to see, and finds a man fruitlessly trying to put walnuts into a sack by sticking a fork into them. 'You'll never do it that way,' says the young man; and he shows him how to scoop them up with both his hands and so pour them in. 'Ah, to be sure!' answers the man, and gives him a hundred scudi for the favour he has done him. 'There is my second simpleton,' says the young man, and goes further. The third day----Ah! I can't remember what he meets the third day; but it is something equally stupid, and he gets another hundred scudi, and goes back and marries the girl as he had promised. When they had been married some time, he goes out for two or three days to shoot. 'I'll come with you,' says the wife. 'Well, it's not quite the thing,' answered he; 'but perhaps it's better than leaving you at home; but mind you pull the door after you.' 'Oh yes, of course,' answers the simple wife, and pulls it so effectually that she lifts it off its hinges and carries it along with her. When they had gone some way he looks back and sees her carrying the door. 'What on earth are you bringing the door along for!' he cries. 'You told me to pull it after me,' answers she. 'Of course, I only meant you to pull it to, to make the house secure,' he says. 'If merely pulling it to, made the house secure, how much securer it must be when I pull it all this way!' answers she. He finds it useless to reason with her, and they go on. At night they climb up into a tree to sleep, the woman still carrying the door with her. A band of robbers come and count their gains under the tree; the woman from sheer weariness, and though she believes it will rouse the robbers to come and kill them, drops the door upon them. They take it for an earthquake and run away. The man and his wife then gather up the money, and are rich for the rest of their lives. 2 [A version from Sinigaglia was very like the last. It only took up the story, however, after the husband and wife are married. The first silly thing the wife does is the feat of the 'brocoli strascinati,' as in 'La Sposa Cece,' No. 2. Some variety is always thrown in in the way of telling. This wife was represented as having a very sweet voice, and saying, 'Si, si, marito mio!' in the gentlest and tenderest way in the world, to everything her husband tells her, though she mismanages everything so. After the brocoli affair he tells her to cook some beans for dinner. 'Si, si, marito mio,' she says in her sweet tone, but takes four beans only and boils them in a pot of water. When he comes in and asks if the beans are done, she says, 'Si, si, marito mio!' She says she has cooked two beans apiece, but one has boiled away, so she will only take one for her share. He finds it impossible to live with her, and goes away, but she in her simplicity says if he goes away she will go with him! When he finds he can't prevent this he tells her to pull the door after her, and the story has the same ending as the last. After tales of simple wives come similar tales of simple boys. Compare 'Russian Folktales,' pp. 10 and 49. An analogous incident to the selling of the linen to a statue in the following is told of a grown-up peasant in Grimm's 'Der gute Handel,' p. 30, which story is not unlike one called 'How the poorest became the richest' I have given from the German-Tirolese province of Vorarlberg at the end of 'Household Stories from the Land of Höfer,' a close counterpart of which I have met in a Roman periodical, told as collected at Modena. The Italian-Tirolese counterpart bears the name of 'Turlulù,' and resembles the Roman very closely. There is a place in German Tirol where they not only tell the story, but point out the Bildstocklein (the wayside image), to which the simple boy sold his linen; I cannot recall the place now, though I remember having occasion to mention it in 'Traditions of Tirol' in the 'Monthly Packet.' In the German there is also 'Der gescheidte Hans,' which is somewhat different in structure; but Scheible, 'Schaltjahr,' i. 493, gives a story which contains both ways of telling.] THE BOOBY. [364] They say there was once a widow woman who had a very simple son. Whatever she set him to do he muddled in some way or other. 'What am I to do?' said the poor mother to a neighbour one day. 'The boy eats and drinks, and has to be clothed; what am I to do if I am to make no profit of him?' 'You have kept him at home long enough;' answered the neighbour. 'Try sending him out, now; maybe that will answer better.' The mother took the advice, and the next time she had got a piece of linen spun she called her boy, and said to him: 'If I send you out to sell this piece of linen, do you think you can manage to do it without committing any folly?' 'Yes, mama,' answered the booby. 'You always say "yes mama," but you do contrive to muddle everything all the same,' replied the mother. 'Now, listen attentively to all I say. Walk straight along the road without turning to right or left; don't take less than such and such a price for it. Don't have anything to say to women who chatter; whether you sell it to anyone you meet by the way, or carry it into the market, offer it only to some quiet sort of body whom you may see standing apart, and not gossiping and prating, for such as they will persuade you to take some sort of a price that won't suit me at all.' The booby promised to follow these directions very exactly, and started on his way. On he walked, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, thus passing the turnings which led to the villages, to one or other of which he ought to have gone. But his mother had only meant that he was not to turn off the pathway and lose himself. Presently he met the wife of the syndic of the next town, who was driving out with her maids, but had got out to walk a little stretch of the way, as the day was fine. The syndic's wife was talking cheerfully with her maids, and when one of them caught sight of the simpleton, she said to her mistress: 'Here is the simple son of the poor widow by the brook.' 'What are you going to do, my good lad?' said the syndic's wife kindly. 'Not going to tell you, because you were chattering and gossiping,' replied the booby boorishly, and tried to pass on. The syndic's wife forgave his boorishness, and added: 'I see your mother has sent you to sell this piece of linen. I will buy it of you, and that will save you walking further; put it in the carriage, and I'll give you so much for it.' Though she had offered him twice as much as his mother had told him to get for it, he would only answer: 'Can't sell it to you, because you were chattering and gossiping.' Nor could they prevail on him to stop a moment longer. Further along he came to a statue by the roadside. 'Here's one who stands apart and doesn't chatter,' said the booby to himself. 'This is the one to sell the linen to.' Then aloud to the statue, 'Will you buy my linen, good friend?' Then to himself. 'She doesn't speak, so it's all right.' Then to the statue, 'The price is so-and-so; have the money ready against I come back, as I have to go on and buy some yarn for mother.' On he went and bought the yarn, and then came back to the statue. Some one passing by meanwhile, and seeing the linen lie there had picked it up and walked off with it. Finding it gone, the booby said to himself, 'It's all right, she's taken it.' Then to the statue, 'Where's the money I told you to have ready against I came back?' As the statue remained silent, the booby began to get uneasy. 'My mother will be finely angry if I go back without the linen or the money,' he said to himself. Then to the statue, 'If you don't give me the money directly I'll hit you on the head.' The booby was as good as his word; lifting his thick rough walking-stick, he gave the statue such a blow that he knocked the head off. But the statue was hollow, and filled with gold coin. 'That's where you keep your money, is it?' said the booby, 'all right, I can pay myself.' So he filled his pockets with money and went back to his mother. 'Look, mama! here's the price of the piece of linen.' 'All right!' said the mother out loud; but to herself she said, 'where can I ever hide all this lot of money? I have got no place to hide it but in this earthen jar, and if he knows how much it is worth, he will be letting out the secret to other people, and I shall be robbed.' So she put the money in the earthen jar, and said to the boy: 'They've cheated you in making you think that was coin; it's nothing but a lot of rusty nails; [365] but never mind, you'll know better next time.' And she went out to her work. While she was gone out to her work there came by an old rag-merchant. 'Ho! here, rag-merchant!' said the booby, who had acquired a taste for trading. 'What will you give me for this lot of rusty nails?' and he showed him the jar full of gold coin. The rag-merchant saw that he had to do with an idiot, so he said: 'Well, old nails are not worth very much; but as I'm a good-natured old chap, I'll give you twelve pauls for them,' because he knew he must offer enough to seem a prize to the idiot. 'You may have them at that,' said the booby. And the rag-merchant poured the coin out into his sack, and gave the fool the twelve pauls. 'Look mama, look! I've sold that lot of old rusty worthless nails for twelve pauls. Isn't that a good bargain?' 'Sold them for twelve pauls!' cried the widow, tearing her hair, 'Why, it was a fortune all in gold coin.' 'Can't help it, mama,' replied the booby; 'you told me they were rusty nails.' Another day she told him to shut the door of the cottage; but as he went to do it he lifted the door off its hinges. His mother called after him in an angry voice, which so frightened him that he ran away, carrying the door on his back. As he went along, some one to tease him, said, 'Where did you steal that door?' which frightened him still more, and he climbed up in a tree with it to hide it. At night there came a band of robbers under the tree, and counted out all their gains in large bags of money. The booby was so frightened at the sight of so many fierce-looking robbers, that he began to tremble and let go of the door. The door fell with a bang in the midst of the robbers, who thinking it must be that the police were upon them, decamped, leaving all their money behind. The booby came down from the tree and carried the money home to his mother, and they became so rich that she was able to appoint a servant to attend to him, and keep him from doing any more mischief. [After the boys, the girls come in for their share of hard jokes; here is one who figures both as a daughter and a wife. Grimm has the same, with a slight variation, as 'Rumpelstilzchen,' p. 219, and the Italian-Tirol Tales give it as 'Tarandandò;' the incident on which these two hinge of a supernatural being giving his help on condition of the person he favours remembering his name, is of frequent occurrence. I have met it in two German-Tirolese stories, 'The Wilder Jäger and the Baroness,' and in 'Klein-Else' in 'Household Stories,' and in a local tradition told me at Salzburg, which I have given in 'Traditions of Tirol,' No. XVI. in 'Monthly Packet,' each time the sprite gets a new name; in this one it was 'Hahnenzuckerl.' The supernatural helper delivering the girl from future as well as present labour occurs in the Spanish equivalent, 'What Ana saw in the Sunbeam,' in 'Patrañas,' but in favour of a good, instead of a lazy or greedy girl; and so with the girl in the Norse tale of 'The Three Aunts.' 'Die faule Spinnerin,' Grimm, p. 495, helps herself to the same end without supernatural aid.] THE GLUTTONOUS GIRL. [366] There was a poor woman who went out to work by the day. She had one idle, good-for-nothing daughter, who would never do any work, and cared for nothing but eating, always taking the best of everything for herself, and not caring how her mother fared. One day the mother, when she went out to her work, left the girl some beans to cook for dinner, and some pieces of bacon-rind [367] to stew along with them. When the pieces of bacon-rind were nicely done, she took them out and ate them herself, and then found a pair of dirty old shoe-soles, which she pared in slices, and put them into the stew for her mother. When the poor mother came home, not only were there no pieces of bacon which she could eat, but the beans themselves were rendered so nasty by the shoe-soles that she could not eat them either. Determined to give her daughter a good lesson, once for all, on this occasion, she took her outside her cottage door, and beat her well with a stick. Just as she was administering this chastisement, a farmer [368] came by. 'What are you beating this pretty lass for?' asked the man. 'Because she will work so hard at her household duties that she works on Sundays and holidays the same as common days,' answered the mother, who, bad as her daughter was, yet had not the heart to give her a bad character. 'That is the first time I ever heard of a mother beating her child for doing too much work; the general complaint is that they do too little. Will you let me have her for a wife? I should like such a wife as that.' 'Impossible!' replied the mother, in order to enhance her daughter's value; 'she does all the work of the house, I can't spare her; what shall I do without her?' 'I must give you something to make up for the loss,' replied the merchant; 'but such a notable wife as this I have long been in search of, and I must not miss the chance.' 'But I cannot spare such a notable daughter, either,' persisted the mother. 'What do you say if I give you five hundred scudi?' 'If I let her go, it is not because of the five hundred scudi,' said the mother; 'it is because you seem a husband, who will really appreciate her; though I don't say five hundred scudi will not be a help to a poor lone widow.' 'Let it be agreed then. I am going now to the fair; when I come back let the girl be ready, and I'll take her back with me.' Accordingly, when the farmer returned from the fair, he fetched the girl away. When he got home his mother came out to ask how his affairs had prospered at the fair. 'Middling well, at the fair,' replied the man; 'but, by the way, I found a treasure, and I have brought her home to make her my wife. She is so hardworking that she can't be kept from working, even on Sundays.' 'She doesn't look as if there was much work in her,' observed the mother dryly; 'but if you're satisfied that's enough.' All went well enough the first week, because she was not expected to do much just at first, but at the end of that time the husband had to go to a distant fair which would keep him absent three weeks. Before he went he took his new wife up into the store-room, and said, 'Here are provisions of all sorts, and you will have all you like to eat and drink; and here is a quantity of hemp, which you can amuse yourself with spinning and weaving if you want more employment than merely keeping the place in order.' Then he gave her a set of rooms to herself, next the store-chamber, that there might be no cause of quarrel with the mother-in-law, who, he knew, was inclined to be jealous of her, and said good-bye. Left to herself, she did no more work than she could help; all the nice things she found she cooked and ate, and that was all the work she did. As to the hemp, she never touched it; nor did she even clean up the place, or attempt to put it tidy. When the husband had been gone a fortnight, the mother-in-law came up to see how she was going on, and when she saw the hemp untouched, and the place in disorder, she said, 'So this is how you go on when your husband is away!' 'You mind your affairs, and I'll mind mine,' [369] answered the wife, and the mother-in-law went away offended. Nevertheless, it was true that in eight days the husband would be back, and might expect to see something done, so she took up a lot of hemp and began trying to spin it; but, as she had no idea of how to do it, she went on in the most absurd way imaginable with it. As she stood on the top of the outside staircase, twisting it this way and that, there passed three deformed fairies. One was lame, and one squinted, [370] and one had her head all on one side, because she had a fish-bone stuck in her throat. The three fairies called out to ask what she was doing, and when she said 'spinning,' the one who squinted laughed so much that her eyes came quite right, and the one who had a bone stuck in her throat laughed so much that the bone came out, and her head became straight again like other people's, and when the lame one saw the others laughing so much, she ran so fast to see what it was that her lameness was cured. Then the three fairies said: 'Since she has cured us of our ailments, we must go in and do her a good turn.' So they went in and took the hemp and span it, and wove it, and did as much in the six remaining days as any human being could have done in twenty years; moreover, they cleaned up everything, and made everything look spick-and-span new. Then they gave her a bag of walnuts, saying, 'in half an hour your husband will be home; go to bed and put this bag of walnuts under your back. When he comes in say you have worked so hard that all your bones are out of joint; then move the bag of walnuts and they will make a noise, c-r-r-r-r, and he will think it is your bones which are loosened, and will say you must never work again.' When the husband came home his mother went out to meet him, saying-- 'I told you I did not think there was much work in your "treasure." When you go up you'll see what a fine mess the place is all in; and as to the hemp, you had better have left it locked up, for a fine mess she has made of that.' But the husband went up and found the place all in shining order, and so much hemp spun and woven as could scarcely be got through in twenty years. But the wife was laid up in bed. When the husband came near the bed she moved the bag of walnuts and they went c-r-r-r-r. 'You have done a lot of work indeed!' said the husband. 'Yes,' replied the wife; 'but I have put all my bones out of joint; only hear how they rumble!' and she moved the walnuts again, and they went c-r-r-r-r. 'It will be sometime before I am about again.' 'Oh, dear! oh, dear!' said the husband; 'only think of such a treasure of a wife being laid up by such marvellous diligence.' And to his mother he said: 'A mother-in-law has never a good word for her daughter-in-law; what you told me was all pure invention.' But to the wife he said: 'Mind I will never have you do any work again as long as you live.' So from that day forth she had no work to do, but ate and drank and amused herself from morning till night. 2 THE GREEDY DAUGHTER. [371] There was a mother who had a daughter so greedy that she did not know what to do with her. Everything in the house she would eat up. When the poor mother came home from work there was nothing left. But the girl had a godfather-wolf. [372] The wolf had a frying-pan, and the girl's mother was too poor to possess such an article; whenever she wanted to fry anything she sent her daughter to the wolf to borrow his frying-pan, and he always sent a nice omelette in it by way of not sending it empty. But the girl was so greedy and so selfish that she not only always ate the omelette by the way, but when she took the frying-pan back she filled it with all manner of nasty things. At last the wolf got hurt at this way of going on, and he came to the house to inquire into the matter. Godfather-wolf met the mother on the step of the door, returning from work. 'How do you like my omelettes?' asked the wolf. 'I am sure they would be good if made by our godfather-wolf,' replied the poor woman; 'but I never had the honour of tasting them.' 'Never tasted them! Why, how many times have you sent to borrow my frying-pan?' 'I am ashamed to say how many times; a great many, certainly.' 'And every time I sent you an omelette in it.' 'Never one reached me.' 'Then that hussey of a girl must have eaten them by the way.' The poor mother, anxious to screen her daughter, burst into all manner of excuses, but the wolf now saw how it all was. To make sure, however, he added: 'The omelettes would have been better had the frying-pan not always been full of such nasty things. I did my best always to clean it, but it was not easy.' 'Oh, godfather-wolf, you are joking! I always cleaned it, inside and out, as bright as silver, every time before I sent it back!' The wolf now knew all, and he said no more to the mother; but the next day, when she was out, he came back. When the girl saw him coming she was so frightened and self-convicted that she ran under the bed to hide herself. But to the wolf it was as easy to go under a bed as anywhere else; so under he went, and he dragged her out and devoured her. And that was the end of the Greedy Daughter. [In the Italian-Tirolese tales is one very similar to this, called 'Catarinetta.' After the faults of the young, the sins of the old have their share of mocking. In the 'Russian Folk Tales,' pp. 46-50, is a miser story, but, for a wonder, not the least trace of similarity. In Scheible's 'Schaltjahr,' vol. i. pp. 169-71, is a very quaint miser story, bringing in also an instance of wolf-transformation, which is said to have happened 'in Italy,' to a certain Herr v. Schotenberg, on August 14, 1798. He had seized a poor peasant's only cow for a debt, and when, in punishment, all his own cows were struck dead, he accused the peasant's wife of bewitching them, and threatened to have her burnt. The peasant's wife answered that it was the judgment of God, not hers; and upon that he turned to the crucifix in the farmyard, saying: 'Oh, you did it, did you? then you may go and eat the carrion you have made, with the dogs.' Then he took out his pistol, shot an arm off the crucifix, and flung it on to the heap of dead cows, saying, 'Now one piece of carrion lies with the rest!' 'Albeit it was only a wooden image,' says the account, 'yet it was of God in Heaven that he spoke, who punished him on the spot by turning him into a dog.' The portrait which accompanies the story is quaint, too, having a human face, with wolfish, erect ears, and the rest of the body like a dog. He wore at the time a fur cloak, of pale yellow with black spots, and that is how the dog's fur appeared; and he had to eat carrion all his life, and follow his good wife about, wherever she went.] THE OLD MISER. [373] They say there was once an old man who had so much money he didn't know what to do with it. He had cellars and cellars, where all the floors were strewn with gold; but the house was all tumbling down, because he would not spend a penny in repairing it; and for all food he took nothing all day but a crust of bread and a glass of water. He was always afraid lest some one should come to rob him of his wealth, so he seldom so much as spoke to anyone. One day, however, a busy, talkative neighbour would have her say out with him, and among other things she said: 'How can you go on living in that ugly old house all alone now? Why don't you take a wife?' 'A wife!' replied the old miser; 'how can I take a wife? How am I to afford to keep a wife, I should like to know?' 'Nonsense!' persisted the loquacious neighbour; 'you've got plenty of money, you know. And how much better you'd be if you had a wife. Do you mean to tell me, now, you wouldn't be much better off with one? Now answer me fairly.' 'Well, if I must speak the truth, as you are so urgent for an answer,' replied the old miser, 'I don't mean to say I haven't often thought I should like a wife; but I am waiting till I find one who can live upon air.' [374] 'Well, maybe there might be such an one even as you say,' returned the busy neighbour; 'though she might not be easy to find.' And she said no more for that day. She went, however, to a young woman who lived opposite, and said: 'If you want a rich husband I will find you one.' 'To be sure I should like a rich husband,' replied the young woman; 'who would not?' 'Very well, then,' continued the neighbour; 'I will tell you what to do. You have only, every day at dinner-time, to stand at the window and suck in the air, and move your lips as if you were eating. But eat nothing; take nothing into your mouth but air. The old miser who lives opposite wants a wife who can live on air; and if he thinks you can do this he will marry you. And when you are once installed it'll be odd if you don't find means, in the midst of so much money, to lay hold of enough to get a dinner every day without working for it.' The young woman thanked her friend for the advice, and next day, when the bells rang at noon, she threw open the window and stood sucking in the air, and then moving her lips as if she was eating. This she did several days. At last the old miser came across under the window, and said to her: 'What are you doing at the window there?' 'Don't you see it's dinner-time, and I'm taking my dinner? Don't interrupt me!' replied the young neighbour. 'But, excuse me, [375] I don't see you are eating anything, though your lips move.' 'O! I live upon air; I take nothing but air,' replied the young woman; and she went on with her mock munching. 'You live upon air, do you? Then you're just the wife I'm looking for. Will you come down and marry me?' As this was just what she wanted she did not keep him waiting, and soon they were married and she was installed in the miser's house. But it was not so easy to get at the money as she had thought. At first the miser would not let her go near his cellars; but as he spent so much time down there she said she could not be deprived of his company for so long, she must come down too. All the time she was down with him the miser held both her hands in his, as if he was full of affection for her; but in reality it was to make sure she did not touch any of his money. She, however, bought some pitch, and put it on the soles of her shoes, and as she walked about in the gold plenty of it stuck to her shoes; and when she came up again she took the gold off her shoes, and sent her maid to the trattoria [376] for the most delicious dinners. Shut up in a room apart they fared sumptuously--she and her maid. But every day at midday she let the miser see her taking her fancied dinner of air. This went on for long, because the miser had so much gold that he never missed the few pieces that stuck to her shoes every day. But at last there came a Carneval Thursday, [377] when the maid had brought home an extra fine dinner; and as they were an extra length of time over this extra number of dishes and glasses, the old miser, always suspicious, began to guess there must be something wrong; and to find it out he instituted a scrutiny into every room in the crazy house. Thus he came at last to the room where his wife and her maid were dining sumptuously. 'This is how you live on air, is it?' he roared, red with fury. 'Oh, but on Carneval Thursday,' replied the wife, 'one may have a little extra indulgence!' 'Will you tell me you have not had a private dinner every day?' shouted the excited miser. 'If I have,' replied the wife, not liking to tell a direct falsehood, 'how do you know it is not with my own money? Tell me, have you missed any of yours?' The miser was only the more angry at her way of putting the question, because he could not say he had actually missed the money; yet he was convinced it was his money she had been spending. 'How do I know it is not your money, do you ask?' he thundered; 'because if you had had any money of your own you would never have come to live here, you would not have married me.' But weak as he was with his bread and water diet, the excitement was too much for him. As he said these words a convulsion seized him, and he fell down dead. Thus all his riches came into possession of the wife. THE MISERLY OLD WOMAN. [378] There was an old woman who had three sons, and from her stinginess she could not bear that anyone should have anything to eat. One day the eldest son came to her and said he must take a wife. 'If you must, you must,' replied the miserly mother. 'But mind she is one who brings a great dowry, eats little, and can work all day long.' The eldest son went his way and told the girl he was going to marry his mother's hard terms. As the girl loved him very much, she made no objection, and he married her, and brought her home. [379] The first morning the mother-in-law came before it was light, and knocked at the door, and bid the bride get up and come down to her work. 'It is very hard for you,' said the young husband. 'Ah, well! I promised to submit to it before we married,' she replied. 'I won't break my promise.' So she got up and went down and helped her mother-in-law to do the work of the house. By twelve o'clock she was very hungry; but the miserly mother-in-law only took out an apple and a halfpenny roll, and gave her half of each for all her food. She took it without a murmur; and so she went on every day, working hard, and eating little, and making no complaint. By-and-by the second son came and told his mother that he was going to take a wife. The mother made the same conditions, and the wife submitted to them with equally good grace. Then the third son came and said he too must take a wife. To him the old woman made the same terms; but he could not find a wife who would submit to them for his sake. The girl he wanted to marry, however, was very lively and spirited, and she said at last-- 'Never mind the conditions; let's marry, and we'll get through the future somehow.' Then they married. When her son brought home this wife, and the old woman found she had no dowry, she was in a great fury; but it was too late to help it. The first morning, when she knocked at their door to wake her, she called out-- 'Who's there?' though she knew well enough. The mother-in-law answered, 'Time to get up!' 'Oibo!' exclaimed the young wife. 'Don't imagine I'm going to get up in the middle of the night like this! I shall get up when I please, and not before.' Then she turned to her husband, and said, 'Just for her bothering me like this I shan't get up till twelve o'clock.' Neither did she. The house was now filled with the old woman's lamentations. 'This woman upsets everything! This woman will be the ruin of us all!' she kept exclaiming. But the third wife paid no heed, and dressed herself up smart, and amused herself, and did no work at all. When supper-time came the old woman took out her apple and her halfpenny loaf, and cut them in four quarters, serving a bit all round. 'What's that?' said the third wife, stooping to look at it, as if she could not make it out, and without taking it in her hand. 'It's your supper,' replied the mother-in-law. 'My supper! do you think I've come to my second childhood, to be helped to driblets like that!' and she filliped it to the other end of the room. Then she went to her husband and said-- 'I'll tell you what we must do; we must have false keys made, and get into the store-closet [380] and take what we want.' Though the mother-in-law was so miserly, there was good provision of everything in the store-closet; and so with the false keys she took flour and lard and ham, and they had plenty of everything. One day she had made a delicious cake of curdled sheep's milk, [381] and she gave a woman a halfpenny to take it to the baker's to bake, saying-- 'Make haste, and bring it back, that we may get through eating it while the old woman is at mass.' She was not quick enough, however, and the mother-in-law came in just about the same time that the cake came back from the baker's. The third son's wife to hide it from her caught it up and put it under her petticoats, but it burned her ankles, so that she was obliged to bring it out. Then the mother-in-law understood what had been going on, and went into such a fury, the house could not hold her. Then the third son's wife sent the same woman to the chemist, saying, 'get me three pauls of quicksilver.' And she took the quicksilver, when the mother-in-law was asleep, and put it into her mouth and ears, so that she could not storm or scold any more. But after a time she died of vexation; and then they opened wide the store-room, and lived very comfortably. [Here may follow a couple of stories of mixed folly and craft.] THE BEGGAR AND THE CHICK-PEA. [382] There was once a poor man who went about from door to door begging his bread. He came to the cottage of a poor peasant and said: 'Give me something, for the love of God.' The peasant's wife said, 'Good man, go away; I have nothing.' But the poor man said, 'Leave me out something against I come again.' The peasant's wife answered, 'The most I can give you is a single chick-pea.' [383] 'Very well; that will do,' replied the poor man; 'only mind the hen doesn't eat it.' The peasant's wife was as good as her word, and put out a chick-pea on the dresser against the beggar came by next time. While her back was turned, however, the hen came in and gobbled it up. Presently after the beggar came by. 'Where's the chick-pea you promised me?' he asked. 'Ah! I put it out for you, but the hen gobbled it up!' At this he assumed an air of terrible authority, and said: 'Did I not tell you to beware lest the hen should eat it? Now, you must give me either the pea or the hen!' As it was impossible for the peasant's wife now to give him the pea, she was obliged to give him the hen. The beggar, therefore, took the hen, and went to another cottage. 'Good woman,' he said to the peasant's wife; 'can you be so good as to take care of this hen for me?' 'Willingly enough!' said the peasant's wife. 'Here it is then,' said the beggar; 'but mind the pig doesn't get it.' 'Never fear!' said the peasant's wife; and the poor man went his way. Next day the beggar came back and claimed his hen. 'Oh, dear me!' said the peasant's wife, 'while my back was turned, the pig gobbled it up!' Assuming an air of terrible authority, the man said: 'Didn't I warn you to beware lest the pig gobbled it up? Now, you must give me either the hen or the pig.' As the peasant's wife couldn't give him the hen, she was obliged to give him the pig. So the poor man took the pig and went his way. He came now to another cottage, and said to the peasant's wife: 'Good woman, can you take care of this pig a little space for me?' 'Willingly!' said the peasant's wife; 'put him in the yard.' 'Mind the calf doesn't get at him,' said the man. 'Never fear,' said the peasant's wife, and the beggar went his way. The next day he came back and claimed his pig. 'Oh, dear!' answered the peasant's wife; 'while I wasn't looking, the calf got at the pig, and seized it by the throat, and killed it, and trampled it all to pieces.' Assuming an air of terrible authority, the beggar said: 'Did I not warn you to beware lest the calf got at it? Now you must give me the pig or the calf.' As the poor woman could not give him the pig, she was forced to give him the calf. The beggar took the calf and went away. He went on to another cottage, and said to the peasant's wife: 'Good woman, can you take care of this calf for me?' 'Willingly!' said the peasant's wife; 'put it in the yard.' The poor man put the calf in the yard; but he said: 'I see you have a sick daughter there in bed; mind she doesn't desire the calf.' 'Never fear!' said the peasant's wife; and the man went his way. He was no sooner gone, however, than the sick daughter arose, and saying, 'Little heart! little heart! [384] I must have you,' she went down into the yard and killed the calf, and took out its heart and ate it. The next day the beggar man came back and claimed the calf. 'Oh, dear!' said the peasant's wife, 'while I wasn't looking, my sick daughter got up and killed the calf, and ate its heart.' Assuming an air of terrible authority, the beggar said: 'Did not I warn you not to let the sick daughter get at the calf? Now, either calf or maiden I must have; make haste with your choice; calf or maiden, one or the other!' [385] But the poor woman could not get back the calf, seeing it was dead, and she was resolved not to give up her daughter. So she said: 'I can't give you the calf, because it is dead. So I must give you my daughter, only if I went to take her now while she's awake, she would make such a fuss you would never get her along; so leave me your sack, that while she's asleep I may put her in it, and then when you come back you can have her.' So the beggar left his sack and went away. As soon as he was gone the peasant's wife took the sack and put some stones at the bottom, to make it heavy, and thrust in a ferocious mad dog; then having made fast the mouth of the sack, she stood it up against the wall. Next day the beggar came back and asked for his sack. 'There it is against the wall,' said the peasant's wife. So the beggar put it on his shoulder and went away. As soon as he got home, he opened the sack to take out the maiden; but the ferocious mad dog rushed out upon him and killed him. DOCTOR GRILLO. Doctor Grillo was a physician who had made himself a great name throughout his whole country, so that he was sent for and consulted from far and wide, and everybody looked up to him as a very wise man, whose word was final on any question of medicine. The discovery that 'no man is a hero to his valet' was made long before the idea so found expression in the seventeenth century; Doctor Grillo had a man-servant who chose to entertain a very different notion of his merits and powers from that of the rest of the world; and in time, from undervaluing his attainments, he came to conceive the belief that he could himself do just as well as his master. One day, when the Doctor was out, this serving-man took into his head to roll up into a great bundle his doctor's gown and cap, [386] a number of prescriptions, and a quantity of bottles, and with these he stole away and betook himself to a far country, where he gave himself out for the famed Doctor Grillo. Just at the time he arrived, the queen of the country was in great suffering, nor could any native professor of medicine succeed in benefiting her. Naturally the services of the great Doctor Grillo were put in request in her behalf, as soon as his cunning servant had given himself out as the owner of his world-wide reputation, and fortune favoured him in his two earliest attempts. Suffice it to say, he succeeded in satisfying her requirements by a kind of luck and from that day forward his fortune was made, justifying the Italian saying, 'An ounce of good fortune furthers one more than a pound of knowledge.' [387] Everywhere he was now called in, and though he prescribed his remedies all higgledypiggledy, without science or experience, not more of his patients died than those of other mediciners. The people were, therefore, quite satisfied that when Doctor Grillo had prescribed the best had been done that human skill could afford. By-and-by it came to the ears of the real Doctor Grillo that a quack and impostor was wearing his laurels; nor did he sooner hear the news than he set out to confront him. 'Beware good people! What are you doing?' was his say. 'This man knows no more of medicine than one of yourselves; you will all die if you trust to him. He is no Doctor Grillo. I am Doctor Grillo.' But all the people laughed in his face, filled as they were with the prepossession of their first impressions, and they began to drive him out of their midst; but he protested so loudly, 'I am Doctor Grillo,' that a wiseacre [388] in the crowd thought to win for himself a reputation for discernment by insisting that he should have a trial. It happened that the daughter of the Chief Judge was at that time stricken with fever, and as he had observed in the language and manners of the new Doctor Grillo more traces of learning and refinement [389] than in the first arrived of the name, he willingly agreed that the case should be submitted to him for treatment. His wife had, however, just before sent for the false Doctor Grillo, so that both arrived in the sick-room at the same moment; and loud and long was the dispute between husband wife, master and servant, as to which doctor should approach the patient. By the time the husband had carried his point, and the real physician entered upon his functions, the fever had got such hold of the sufferer that no medicine more availed, and the girl succumbed to the consequences of the delay in administering the most ordinary remedies. Nevertheless, it was in the hands of the real Doctor Grillo that she had died. The one proof of his identity which had been granted had gone against him, and the popular mind was quite satisfied that it was he was the impostor. As the pompous funeral of the Judge's daughter brought all the circumstances to the minds of the people, the feeling against him gathered and grew; and when at last one more mischievous and malicious than the rest proposed that he should be driven out of the community, the idea met with such a ready response that he would certainly not have escaped with his life from the yells and stone-throwing [390] of the infuriated populace, had not his retreat been protected by the more peaceably disposed citizens. But the false Doctor Grillo remained thenceforward in undisturbed possession of the fame and fortune attaching to the name he had filched. [This is probably a filtering of one of the many stories about Theophrastus Paracelsus. I think there was something very like it in a little book of popular legends about him given me at Salzburg, but I have not got it at hand to refer to. Zingerle, 'Sagen aus Tirol,' p. 417, tells a story of his servant prying into the wise man's penetralia, and getting a worse punishment for his pains than Gehazi.] NINA. There was a miller who got into difficulties, and could not pay his rent. The landlord sent to him a great many times to say that if he could not pay his rent he must go out; but as he paid no attention to the notice, the landlord went himself at last, and told him he must go. The miller pleaded that his difficulties were only temporary, and that if he would give him but a little time he would make it all straight. The landlord, however, was pitiless, and said he had waited long enough, and now he had come to put an end to it; adding, 'Mind, this is my last word: If you do not go out to-night peaceably, I shall send some one to-morrow to turn you out by force.' As he turned to leave, after pronouncing this sentence, he met the miller's daughter coming back from the stream where she had been washing. 'Who is this buxom lass?' inquired the landlord. 'That is my daughter Nina,' answered the miller. 'A fine girl she is too,' replied the landlord. 'And I tell you what, miller, listen to me; give Nina to me, and I will not only forgive you the debt, but will make over the mill and the homestead to you, to be your own property for ever.' 'Give me a proper document to that effect, duly signed by your own hand,' replied the miller, with a twinkle in his eye, 'and I will give you "Nina."' The landlord went back into the house, and taking two sheets of paper drew up first a formal quittance of the back rent, and then a conveyance of the mill and homestead absolutely to the miller and to his heirs for ever. These he handed to the miller; and then he said, 'To-night, an hour before sundown, I will send for "Nina."' 'All right,' said the miller; 'you shall have "Nina,"' and so they parted. 'An hour before sundown a servant came with a carriage to fetch "Nina"' 'Where's "Nina"?' said the servant. 'Master has sent me to fetch "Nina."' 'In the stable--take her!' answered the miller. In the stable was nothing to be seen but a very lean old donkey. 'There's nothing here but an old donkey,' exclaimed the servant. 'All right, that's "Nina," so take her,' replied the miller. 'But this can't be what master meant me to fetch!' expostulated the servant. 'What have you got to say to it?' replied the miller. 'Your master told you to fetch "Nina;" we always call our donkey "Nina;" so take her, and be off.' The servant saw there was nothing to be gained by disputing, so he took the donkey and went home. When he got back, his master had got company with him, so he did not know what to say about the donkey. But his master seeing he was come back, took it for granted the business was done; and calling him to him privately said, 'Take "Nina" upstairs into the best bedroom and light a fire, and give her some supper.' 'Take her [391] upstairs into the best bedroom!' exclaimed the man. 'Yes! do what you're told, and don't repeat my words.' The servant could not venture to say any more; so he took the donkey up into the best bedroom, and lit a fire, and put some supper there. As soon as his company was gone, the master called the servant-- 'Is "Nina" upstairs?' asked he. 'Si, Signore; she's lying before the fire,' answered the servant. 'Did you take some supper up? I'll have my supper up there with "Nina."' 'Si, Signore,' replied the servant, and he turned away to laugh, for he thought his master had gone mad. The landlord went upstairs; but it had now grown dark, so he groped his way to the fireplace, and there sure enough was 'Nina,' the donkey, lying down, and as he stroked her he said, 'What fine soft hair you've got, Nina!' Presently the servant brought the lights; and when he saw the dirty old worn-out donkey, and understood what a trick the miller had played off on him, it may be imagined how furious he was. The next day, as soon as the courts were opened, he went before the judge, and told all the tale. Then the miller came too, and told his; but the judge examined the documents, and pronounced that the miller was in the right; for his part of the contract was that he was to deliver over 'Nina,' and he had delivered over 'Nina.' There was no evidence that any other 'Nina' was intended but 'Nina' the donkey, and so the miller remained in undisputed possession of the mill. And that is the truth, for it actually happened as I have told you. THE GOOD GRACE OF THE HUNCHBACK. [392] A mother and daughter lived alone in a cottage. The mother was old and came to die; the daughter was turned out of house and home. [393] An ugly hunchback, who was a tailor, came by and said-- 'What is your name, my pretty girl?' 'They call me la Buona Grazia,' [394] answered the girl. 'Well, la Buona Grazia, I've got twenty scudi a month, will you come with me and be my wife?' The girl was starving, and didn't know where to set her foot, so she thought she could not afford to refuse; but she went along with a very bad grace, for she did not feel at all happy at the idea of marrying the ugly old hunchback. When the hunchback saw how unhappy she was, he thought, 'This will never do. She's too young and too pretty to care for me. I must keep her locked up, and then when she sees no one else at all, she will at last be glad even of my company.' So he went all the errands himself, and never let her go out except to Mass, and then he took her to the church, and watched her all the time, and brought her back himself. The windows he whitened all over, so that she couldn't see out into the street, and there he kept her with the door locked on her, and she was very miserable. So it went on for three years. But there was a dirty little window of a lumber room which, as it only gave a look out on to the court, [395] he had not whitened. As she happened to look out here one day a stranger stood leaning on the balcony of the court, for part of the house was an inn, and he had just arrived. 'What are you looking for, my pretty girl?' said the stranger. 'O! nothing particular; only I'm locked up here, and I just looked out for a change.' 'Locked up! who has locked you up?' asked the stranger. 'An old hunchback, who's going to marry me,' said the girl, almost crying. 'You don't seem much pleased at the idea of being married,' answered the stranger. 'It is not likely that I should, to such a husband!' returned the girl. 'Would you like to get away from him?' asked the stranger. 'Shouldn't I!' heartily exclaimed the girl; 'but it's impossible to manage that, as I'm locked in,' she added sorrowfully. 'It's not so difficult as you think,' rejoined the stranger. 'Most likely there's some picture or other on your wall.' 'Oh, yes! a great big one with the fair Giuditta just ready with her pouch [396] to put Lofferno's head in,' answered the girl. 'All right. You make a big hole behind the picture on your side, and when I hear by the sound where you are, I'll make one on mine. And when our two holes meet, you can come through.' 'Yes, that's a capital plan; but the hunchback will soon come after me.' 'Never mind, I will see to that; let's make the hole first?' 'Very well, I rely upon you, and will set to work immediately.' 'Tell me first how I am to call you?' 'They always call me Buona Grazia.' 'A very nice name. Good-bye, and we'll set to work.' La Buona Grazia ran and unhooked the picture, and set to work to make a hole with all the available tools she could find; and the stranger, as soon as he had ascertained by the noise where she was at work, set to also. It turned out to be only a partition, [397] and not a regular wall, and the hole was soon cut. 'What fun!' said the girl, as she jumped through. 'Oh, how nice to be free! But,' she added, 'I can't travel with you in these poor clothes.' 'No,' said the stranger. 'I'll have a travelling dress made for you, by the hunchback himself.' 'Oh, take care!' cried the girl, earnestly. 'Don't be afraid,' answered the stranger; 'and above all don't look frightened.' Then he sent his servant to call the hunchback, and when he came he said-- 'I want a travelling dress made directly for my wife here, so please take her measure.' The hunchback started when he saw who it was he had to measure. 'Why, she's exactly like my Buona Grazia!' exclaimed he. 'Very likely. I have always observed there was a sort of likeness between the inhabitants of a town. She too is a Roman, though I am a stranger. But make haste and take the measure, I didn't call you here to make remarks.' The hunchback got frightened at the stranger's authoritative tone, and took the measure without saying any more; and the stranger then gave him something to go and have a breakfast at the caffé to give the girl time to get back and set the picture in its place again. When he came up into the room all looked right, and nothing seemed to have been moved. 'I've got to work hard to-day,' said the hunchback, 'to get a travelling dress ready for the wife of a gentleman staying in the inn, who is exactly like you.' 'Are they going to travel, then?' asked la Buona Grazia. 'Yes, the gentleman said they should start as soon as the dress is done.' 'Oh, do let me see them drive off!' said la Buona Grazia, coaxingly. 'I should so like to see a lady who looked like me wearing a dress you had made.' 'Nonsense, nonsense!' said the hunchback; 'get on with your work.' And she did get on with her work, and stitched away, for she was anxious enough to help him to get the dress done; but she went on teazing him all the while to let her go to the window to see the gentleman and the lady, 'who looked so like her,' drive off, that at last the hunchback consented for that only day to take the whiting off the windows and let her look out. The travelling dress was finished and taken home; and while the hunchback was taking it up by the stairs, la Bella Grazia was getting in by the hole behind the picture; but she had first made a great doll, [398] and dressed it just like herself, and stuck it in the window. The gobbo, who stood down below to see the gentry drive off, looked up and saw her, as he thought, at the window, and made signs for her not to stay there too long. Presently the stranger and his lady came down; the hunchback was standing before the carriage door, as I have said, and two stablemen were standing by also. 'You give me your good grace?' [399] asked the stranger. 'Yes, yes!' readily responded the hunchback, delighted to find a rich gentleman so civil to him. 'You say it sincerely, with all your heart?' again asked the stranger. 'Yes, yes, yes! with all my heart,' answered the hunchback. 'Then give me your hand upon it.' And the hunchback, more and more delighted, put out his hand, the two stablemen standing by looking on attentively all the time. As soon as the carriage had driven away, the hunchback's first care was to look up at the window to see if the girl had gone in; but the doll was still there. 'Go in! go in!' he cried, waving his hand. But the figure remained unmoved. Indignant, he took a stick and ran up to punish the girl for her disobedience, and when the blows fell thick and fast and no cries came, he discovered the trick that had been played. Without loss of time he ran off to the Court and laid a complaint before the judge, demanding that soldiers should be called out and sent after the fugitives; but the stablemen had their orders, and were there before him, and deposed that they were witnesses to his having given 'his Good Grace' up to the gentleman 'with all his heart,' and given him his hand upon the bargain. 'You see you have given her up of your own accord; there is nothing to be done!' said the judge. So he got no redress. THE VALUE OF SALT. They say there was a king who had three daughters. He was very anxious to know which of them loved him most; he tried them in various ways, and it always seemed as if the youngest daughter came out best by the test. Yet he was never satisfied, because he was prepossessed with the idea that the elder ones loved him most. One day he thought he would settle the matter once for all, by asking each separately how much she loved him. So he called the eldest by herself, and asked her how much she loved him. 'As much as the bread we eat,' ran her reply; and he said within himself, 'She must, as I thought, love me the most of all; for bread is the first necessary of our existence, without which we cannot live. She means, therefore, that she loves me so much she could not live without me.' Then he called the second daughter by herself, and said to her, 'How much do you love me?' And she answered, 'As much as wine!' 'That is a good answer too,' said the king to himself. 'It is true she does not seem to love me quite so much as the eldest; but still, scarcely can one live without wine, [400] so that there is not much difference.' Then he called the youngest by herself, and said to her, 'And you, how much do you love me?' And she answered, 'As much as salt!' Then the king said, 'What a contemptible comparison! She only loves me as much as the cheapest and commonest thing that comes to table. This is as much as to say, she doesn't love me at all. I always thought it was so. I will never see her again.' Then he ordered that a wing of the palace should be shut up from the rest, where she should be served with everything belonging to her condition in life, but where she should live by herself apart, and never come near him. Here she lived, then, all alone. But though her father fancied she did not care for him, she pined so much at being kept away from him, that at last she was worn out, [401] and could bear it no longer. The room that had been given her had no windows on to the street, that she might not have the amusement of seeing what was going on in the town, but they looked upon an inner court-yard. Here she sometimes saw the cook come out and wash vegetables at the fountain. 'Cook! cook!' she called one day, as she saw him pass thus under the window. The cook looked up with a good-natured face, which gave her encouragement. 'Don't you think, cook, I must be very lonely and miserable up here all alone?' 'Yes, Signorina!' he replied; 'I often think I should like to help you to get out; but I dare not think of it, the king would be so angry.' 'No, I don't want you to do anything to disobey the king,' answered the princess; 'but would you really do me a favour, which would make me very grateful indeed?' 'O! yes, Signorina, anything which I can do without disobeying the king,' replied the faithful servant. 'Then this is it,' said the princess. 'Will you just oblige me so far as to cook papa's dinner to-day without any salt in anything? Not the least grain in anything at all. Let it be as good a dinner as you like, but no salt in anything. Will you do that?' 'I see!' replied the cook, with a knowing nod. 'Yes, depend on me, I will do it.' That day at dinner the king had no salt in the soup, no salt in the boiled meat, no salt in the roast, no salt in the fried. 'What is the meaning of this?' said the king, as he pushed dish after dish away from him. 'There is not a single thing I can eat to-day. I don't know what they have done to everything, but there is not a single thing that has got the least taste. Let the cook be called.' So the cook came before him. 'What have you done to the victuals to-day?' said the king, sternly. 'You have sent up a lot of dishes, and no one alive can tell one from another. They are all of them exactly alike, and there is not one of them can be eaten. Speak!' The cook answered: 'Hearing your Majesty say that salt was the commonest thing that comes to table, and altogether so worthless and contemptible, I considered in my mind whether it was a thing that at all deserved to be served up to the table of the king; and judging that it was not worthy, I abolished it from the king's kitchen, and dressed all the meats without it. Barring this, the dishes are the same that are sent every day to the table of the king.' Then the king understood the value of salt, and he comprehended how great was the love of his youngest child for him; so he sent and had her apartment opened, and called her to him, never to go away any more. THE PRINCESS AND THE GENTLEMAN. There was a princess whose mother had died of vexation because she was in love with a simple gentleman of the chamber, and would not hear of marrying anyone else, nor would she look at any prince who came to sue for her hand. The king, not only vexed at her perversity, but still more at the loss of his wife, determined to devise a punishment to cure them both. He had two suites of apartments walled up, therefore; in one he had the princess imprisoned, and in the other the gentleman of the chamber with whom she was in love. The latter, he commanded, should see no one, thinking thereby to weary him out; the former he allowed only to see such persons as he should appoint, these persons being the princes one or other of whom he wished her to marry; for he thought that in her weariness at being so shut up, she would welcome the hand of anyone who would be her deliverer. It was not so, however. When the cook came in to the princess with her dinner, she begged him to give her a chicken that had been killed several days, and kept till it had a bad smell. When her father now sent any prince to visit her she said, 'It is no use my father sending you here, the reason why I cannot marry anyone is that I have a great defect; my breath smells so bad that it is not pleasant for anyone to live with me.' As the bad smell from the chicken was readily to be perceived in the room, they all believed her words and went away. There was one, indeed, who was so much pleased with her seeming candour that he thought he would excuse her defect, but on a second visit the smell of the dead chicken drove him away too. The cooks in the kitchen talked together after the manner of cooks, and thus the cook who waited on the princess told what had happened to the cook who waited on the other prisoner, and thus it came round to his ears also, what the princess had done for love of him. Her stratagem then suggested another to him. Accordingly he sent to crave urgently an audience of the king. When the king came in to him he said: 'Sire, closely as I have been confined and guarded, yet something of what goes on in the outer world has reached my ears, and the fact which has the greatest interest for me has naturally been told to me. I now learn that the reason why your daughter has refused the suit of all the princes is not as we thought, her love for me, but a certain personal defect, which in politeness I will not name more particularly. But that being so, my desire to marry her is, of course, cured like that of others; so if your majesty will give me my liberty I will go away to a far country, and your majesty would never hear of me any more.' The king was delighted to get rid of him, for he believed that if he were at a distance the great obstacle to his daughter's happiness would be removed. As he knew nothing about the chicken, he thought that all the suitors had believed the princess's representations upon her simple word; and as he very well knew she had no defect, he thought the time would come when some prince should please her, whom she also should please. Therefore, he very willingly gave the gentleman his liberty, and bid him godspeed on his journey. The gentleman, however, before setting out, went to his friend the cook, and, giving him three hundred scudi, begged him to house him for a few nights, while he dug out an underground passage between the garden and the apartment where the princess was imprisoned. In the garden was a handsome terrace, all set out with life-sized statues; under one of these the gentleman worked his way, till he had reached the princess's chamber. 'You here!' exclaimed the princess in great astonishment, as soon as he had made his way through. 'Yes; I have come to fetch you,' he replied. She did not wait for a second injunction to escape from prison, but gathering all the money and jewels she had at command, she followed him through the underground way he had made. As soon as they had reached the free air, the gentleman replaced the statue, and no one could guess by which way they had passed. Then they went to a church to be married, and, after that, to a city a long way off, as the gentleman had promised the king he would. For a long time they lived very happily on the money and jewels each had brought from home; but, by-and-by, these came to an end, and neither durst write for more, for fear of betraying where they were. So at last, having no means of living, they engaged themselves to a rich lady who had a large mansion; [402] the one as butler, [403] and the other as nurse. [404] Here they were well content to live at peace; and the lady was well content to have two such faithful and intelligent dependents, and they might have lived here till the end of their lives, but for a coincidence [405] which strangely disconcerted them, as you shall hear, as well as what came of it. One day there came to visit the lady, their mistress, a nobleman belonging to the king's court. At dinner time the princess had to come to table along with the little daughter of the house, of whom she had the charge. Great was her terror when she recognised in the guest of the day one so familiar to herself and so near the sovereign. In conformity with the lowliness of the station she had assumed, she could escape actually talking to him, and she did her best to withdraw herself from his notice. She half hoped she had succeeded, when suddenly the butler had to come into the room to communicate an important despatch which had just arrived, to the mistress of the house. The princess could not restrain an anxious glance at the stranger, to see if he betrayed any sign of recognition; but he was used to courts, and therefore to dissemble; nor could she satisfy herself that he had discovered either of them. It was so likely that he should, however, that she was filled with fear, and he was no sooner gone than she held a long consultation with her husband as to what course they should pursue. In the end, the difficulty of finding other employment decided them to remain, for the probability that they would be tracked seemed remote. After all, they reasoned, was it likely that the nobleman should think it worth while to observe two persons occupying such humble posts with sufficient attention to see who they were or who they were not? The king meantime had been searching everywhere for his daughter, not being able by any means to divine how she could have escaped. Then one morning, all this time after, the nobleman comes down upon him with the news: 'I have found the princess. She is living as nurse to the Duchessa such a one, and her husband is the butler.' The king could not rest a moment after he had heard the news; his travelling carriage was ordered round, and away he drove. It was just dinner-time when he arrived at the Duchessa's palace. If the princess had been terrified before, at being called to sit at table with a nobleman of the court, judge how much greater was her alarm when she saw her father himself seated at the board! Great as had been his indignation, however, the joy of again meeting his child after the long separation blotted out all his anger, and after embracing her tenderly, he placed her by his side at the table. It was only when he came to take leave, and realised that she really belonged to another that his ire broke forth again. At this point the Duchessa put in a word. She highly extolled the excellent qualities of her butler, and declared he had been so skilful in the administration of her affairs, that he deserved to have a kingdom committed to him. In short, she softened the king's heart so completely that she brought him to own that, as he had now grown very old and feeble, he could not do better than recognise him for his son-in-law, and associate him with himself in the government. And so he did, [406] and they all lived happily. THE HAPPY COUPLE. [407] I can tell you a story, [408] or two perhaps. What a number I used to know, to be sure! But what can I do? It is thirty years and more since anyone has asked me for them, and it's hard to put one's ideas together after such a time. You mustn't mind if I put the wrong part of the story before, and have to go backwards and forwards a little. I know there was one that ran thus:-- There was a married couple who lived so happy and content and fond of each other, that they never had a word of dispute about anything the live-long day, but only thought of helping and pleasing each other. The Devil saw this, and determined to set them by the ears; but how was he to do it? Such love and peace reigned in their home, that he couldn't find any way into the place. After prowling and prowling about, and finding no means of entrance, what does he do? He went to an old woman,--she must have been one of those who dabble with things they have no business to touch,--and said to her: 'You must do this job for me!' 'That's no great matter,' answered the old hag. [409] 'Give me ten scudi for my niece and a new pair of shoes for me, and I'll settle the matter.' 'Here are the ten scudi,' said the Devil; 'it will be time enough to talk about the shoes when we see how you do the business.' The bad old woman set off accordingly with her niece and the ten scudi, instructing her by the way what she was to do. This husband and wife lived in a place where there was a house on one side and a shop on the other, so that through a window in the house where they lived they could give an eye to anything that went on in the shop. Choosing a moment when the man was alone in the shop, she sent the girl in with the ten scudi; and the girl, who had been told what to do, selected a dress, and a handkerchief, and a number of fine things, and paid her ten scudi. Then she proceeded leisurely to put them on, and to walk up and down the shop in them. Meantime the bad old woman went up to the wife:-- 'Poor woman!' she said. 'Poor woman! Such a good woman as you are, and to have such a hypocrite of a husband!' 'My husband a hypocrite!' answered the wife. 'What can you mean--he is the best man that ever was.' 'Ah! he makes you think so, poor simple soul. But the truth is, he is very different from what you think.' So they went on conversing, and the bad old woman all the time watching what was going on in the shop till the right moment came. Just as the girl was flaunting about and showing herself off, she said: 'Look here, he has given all those things to that girl there.' And though the wife did not believe a word, curiosity prompted her to look, and there she saw the girl bowing herself out with as many thanks and adieus as if the poor man had really given her the things she had bought. 'Perhaps you will believe that!' observed the bad old woman. 'Indeed, I cannot help believing it,' answered the wife, 'but never otherwise should I have thought it; and I owe you a great deal for opening my eyes;' and she gave her a whole cheese. [410] 'I know what I shall do,' she continued, as she sobbed over her lost peace of mind; 'I shall show him I know his bad conduct by having no dinner ready for him when he comes up by-and-by.' 'That's right,' said the bad old woman. 'Do so, and show him you are not going to be trampled on for the sake of a drab of a girl like that;' and she tied her cheese up in a handkerchief, and went her way. Down she went now to the husband, and plied him with suspicions of his wife, similar to those she had suggested to her against him. The husband was even less willing to listen to her than the wife had been, and when at last he drove her away, she said: 'You think she's busy all the morning preparing your dinner; but instead of that, she's talking to those you wouldn't like her to talk with. And you see now if to-day she hasn't been at this game so long that she has forgotten your dinner altogether.' The husband turned a deaf ear, and continued attending to his shop; but when he went into the house and found no dinner ready, it seemed as if all that the bad old woman had said was come true. He was too sad for words, so they didn't have much of a quarrel, but there could not but be a coldness after such an extraordinary event as a day without dinner. The husband went back to his shop and mused. The wife sat alone in her room crying; presently the old hag came back to her. 'Well, did you tell him you had found him out?' she inquired. 'No! I hadn't courage to do that. And he was so patient about there being no dinner, that I felt quite sorry to have suspected him. Oh, you who have been so clever in pointing out my misery to me, can you not tell me some means of reconciliation?' 'Yes, there is one; but I don't know if you can manage it.' 'Oh yes; I would do anything!' 'Then you must watch till he is quite sound asleep, and take a sharp razor and cut off three hairs from the undergrowth of his beard, quite close to the skin. If you do that it will all come right again.' 'It seems a very odd remedy,' said the wife; 'but if you say it will do, I suppose it will, and thank you kindly for the advice;' and she gave her another cheese. Then the witch went back to the husband. 'I suppose I was mistaken, and you found your dinner ready after all?' she said. 'No!' he replied; 'you were right about there being no dinner; but I am certain there was some cause for there being none, other than what you say.' 'What other cause should there be?' exclaimed the old woman. 'That I don't know,' he replied. 'But some other cause I am persuaded there must have been.' 'Well, if you are so infatuated, I will give you another token that I am right,' replied the old woman. 'You don't deserve that I should save your life, but I am so goodnatured, I can't help warning you. To-night, I have reason to know, she intends to murder you. You just give some make-believe snoring, but mind you don't sleep, whatever you do; and you see if she doesn't take up one of your razors to stab you in the throat.' The good husband refused to believe a word, and drove her away. Nevertheless, when night came he felt not a little anxious; and if he had tried to sleep ever so much he could not, for he felt so excited. Then curiosity to see if the woman's words would come true overcame him, and he pretended to snore. He had not been snoring thus long, when the wife took up the razor and came all trembling to the bedside, and lifted up his beard. A cold sweat crept over the poor husband as she approached--not for fear of his life, which he could easily rescue, as he was awake--but because the proof seemed there that the old hag had spoken the truth. However, instead of taking it for granted it was so, and refusing to hear any justification--perhaps killing her on the spot, as she had hoped and expected,--he calmly seized her arm, and said: 'Tell me, what are you going to do with that razor?' The wife sank on her knees by his side, crying: 'I cannot expect you to believe me, but this is really how it was. An old woman came and told me you were making love to a young girl in the shop, and showed me how she was bowing and scraping to you. I was so vexed, that to show you my anger I got no dinner ready; but afterwards, I felt as if I should like to ask you all about it, to make sure there was no mistake: only after what I had done, I didn't know how to begin speaking to you again. Then I asked the old woman if she couldn't tell me some means of bringing things straight again; and she said, if I could cut off three hairs from the undergrowth of your beard, all would come right. But I can't expect you to believe it.' 'Yes, I do,' replied the husband. 'The same old wretch came to me, and wanted me in like manner to believe all manner of evil things of you, but I refused to believe you could do anything wrong. So I had more confidence in you than you had in me. But still we were both very nearly making ourselves very foolish and very unhappy; so we will take a lesson never to doubt each other again.' And after that there never was a word between them any more. When the Devil saw how the old woman had spoilt the affair, he took the pair of shoes he was to have given her, and tied them on to a long cane which he fastened on the top of a mountain, and there they dangled before her eyes, but she could never get at them. [This is just the Siddi Kür story of the mischief-making fox, which I have given as 'The Perfidious Friend' in 'Sagas from the Far East,' and similar to the first Pantcha Tantra story.] WHAT HAPPENED IN THE ROOM OF A HOTEL. [411] They say there was a countess who was very fond of her husband, and her husband was very fond of her; and they vowed nothing should ever make the one think ill of the other. One day the brother of the countess, who had been long away at the wars, and whom the count had never seen, came back to see her just while the count was out. 'Now we'll have some fun,' said the countess. 'We'll watch till my husband is coming home, and then as he comes into the room you just be kissing me; he will be so astonished to see a stranger kissing me, he will not know what to make of it. Then in five minutes we will tell him who you really are, and it will make a good laugh.' The brother thought it would be a good joke, and they did as she had said. It happened, however, that by accident [412] the count did not that day as usual come into his wife's room, but passing along the terrace in front of it, he saw, as she had arranged, one who was a stranger to him kissing her. Then he went into his room, and calling his confidential servant [413] he told him what had happened, and adding, 'You will never see me any more,' went his way. The countess waited on and on for her husband to come in, full of impatience to have her joke out. But when she found he did not come at all, she went into his room to seek him there. There she found the servant, who told her what the Count had said, and the desperate resolution he had taken. 'What have I done!' exclaimed the terrified Countess. 'Is it possible that I am to be punished thus for a harmless joke!' Then, without saying anything to anyone she wrapped her travelling cloak about her, and set out to seek her husband. The Count had walked on till he could walk no farther, and then he had gone into an inn, where he hired a room for a week; but he went wandering about the woods in misery and despair, and only came in at an hour of night. [414] The Countess also walked on till she could walk no farther, and thus she came to the same inn; but as she had only a woman's strength the same journey took her a much longer time, and it was the afternoon of the next day when she arrived. She too asked for a room, but the host assured her with many expressions of regret, that he had not a single room vacant. The Countess pleaded her weariness; the man reiterated his inability to serve her. 'Give me only a room to rest a little while in,' she begged; 'just a couple of hours, and then I will start again and journey farther.' Really compassionating her in her fatigue, the man now said: 'If you will be satisfied with that much, I can give you a room for a couple of hours; but no more.' She was fain to be satisfied with that, as she could get no more, and the host showed her into her husband's room, which he would not want till 'an hour of night.' By accident, however, the Count came in that night an hour earlier, and very much surprised he was to find a lady in his room. The Countess, equally surprised to see a stranger enter, pulled her veil over her face, so that they did not recognise each other. 'I am sorry to disturb you, madam, but this room, I must inform you, I have engaged,' said the count; but sorrow had so altered his voice that the countess did not know it again. 'I hope you will spare me,' replied the Countess. 'They gave me this room to rest in for two hours, and I have come so long a way that I really need the rest.' 'I can hardly believe that a lady of gentle condition can have come a very long way, all alone and on foot, for there is no carriage in the yard; so I can only consider this a frivolous pretext,' replied the Count, for sorrow had embittered him. 'Indeed it is too true though,' continued the Countess. 'I came all the way from such a place (and she named his own town) without stopping for one moment's rest.' 'Indeed!' said the Count, his interest roused at the mention of his own town; 'and pray what need had you to use such haste to get away from that good town?' 'I had no need to haste to leave the place,' replied the Countess, hurt at the implied suspicion that she was running away for shame. 'I hasted to arrive at another place.' 'And that other place was ----?' persisted the Count, who felt that her intrusion on his privacy gave him a right to cross-question her. The Countess was puzzled how to reply. She had no idea what place she was making for. 'That I don't know,' she said at last, with no little embarrassment. 'You will permit me to say that you seem to have no adequate reason to allege for this unwarrantable occupation of my room; and what little you tell me certainly in no way inclines me to take a favourable view of the affair.' The Countess was once more stung by the manner in which he seemed to view her journey, and feeling bound to clear herself, she replied: 'If you only knew what my journey is about, you would not speak so!' and she burst into a flood of tears. Softened by her distress, the Count said in a kinder tone: 'Had you been pleased to confide that to me at first, maybe I had not spoken so; but till you tell me what it is, what opinion can I form?' 'This is it,' answered the Countess, still sobbing. 'Yesterday I was the happiest woman on the face of the earth, living in love and confidence with the best husband with whom woman was ever blessed. So strong was my confidence that I hesitated not to trifle with this great happiness. My brother came home from the wars, a stranger to my husband. "Let him see you kiss me," I said, "it will seem so strange that we will make him laugh heartily afterwards." He saw him kiss me, but waited for no explanation. He went away without a word, as indeed (fool that I was) I well deserved, and I journey on till I overtake him.' The Count had risen to his feet, and had torn the veil from her face. 'It can be no other but my own!' he exclaimed, in a voice from which sorrow being banished his own tones sounded forth, and clasped her in his arms. THE COUNTESS'S CAT. [415] There was a very rich Countess who was a widow and lived all alone, with no companion but only a cat, after her husband died. The greatest care was taken of this cat, and every day a chicken was boiled on purpose for him. One day the Countessa went out to spend the day at a friend's villa in the Campagna, and she said to the waiting woman: 'Mind the cat has his chicken just the same as if I were at home.' 'Yes! Signora Countessa, leave that to me,' answered the woman; but the Countess was no sooner gone out than she said to the man-servant: 'The cat has the chicken every day; suppose we have it to-day?' The man said, 'To be sure!' and they ate the chicken themselves, giving the cat only the inside; but they threw the bones down in the usual corner, to make it appear as if he had eaten the whole chicken. The cat said nothing, but looked on with great eyes, full of meaning. [416] When the Countess came back that evening the cat, instead of going out to meet her as he always did, remained still in his place and said nothing. 'What's the matter with the cat? Hasn't he had his chicken?' asked the Countess, immediately. 'Yes! Signora Countessa,' answered the cameriera. 'See, there are the bones on the floor, where he always leaves them.' The Countessa could not deny the testimony of her eyes, so she said nothing more but went up to bed. The cat followed her as he always did, for he slept on her bed; but he followed at a distance, without purring or rubbing himself against her. The Countess saw something was wrong, but she didn't know what to make of it, and went to bed as usual. That night the cat throttled [417] the Countess, and killed her. The cat is very intelligent in his own interest, but he is a traitor. 'It would have been more intelligent,' I observed, 'if he had throttled the waiting woman in this instance.' Not at all; the cat's reasoning was this:--If thou hadst not gone out and left me to the mercy of menials, this had not happened; therefore it was thou who hadst to die. This is quite true, for cats are always traitors. Dogs are faithful, cats are traitors. [418] [Perhaps this tale would have been hardly worth printing, but that the selfsame story was told me as a positive fact by an Irishman, who could not have come across the Italian story. In the Irish version it was its master the cat killed; in the wording of the narrator he 'cut his throat.'] WHY CATS AND DOGS ALWAYS QUARREL. [419] 'Why do dogs and cats always fight, papa?' we used to say. And he used to answer, 'I'll tell you why;' and we all stood round listening. 'Once on a time dogs and cats were very good friends, and when the dogs went out of town they left their cards on the cats, and when the cats went out of town they left their cards on the dogs.' And we all sat round and listened and laughed. 'Once the dogs all went out of town and left their cards as usual on the cats; but they were a long time gone, for they were gone on a rat-hunt, and killed all the rats. When the cats heard that the dogs had taken to killing rats, they were furious against the dogs, and lay in wait for them and set upon them. '"Set upon the dogs! at them! give it them!"' [420] shouted the cats, as they flew at them; and from that time to this, dogs and cats never meet without fighting. And we all stood round and laughed fit to split our sides. [Scheible, Schaltjahr I., 375, gives a more humorous version of this.] THE CATS WHO MADE THEIR MASTER RICH. 'Ah! as to cats and mice, listen and I'll tell you something worth hearing! 'In America, once upon a time, there were no cats. Mice there were in plenty; mice everywhere; not peeping out of holes now and then, but infesting everything, swarming over every room; and when a family sat down to meals, the mice rushed upon the table and disputed the victuals with them. 'Then one thought of a plan; he freighted three ships; full, full of cats, and off to America with them. There he sold them for their weight in gold and more, and whiff! the mice were swept away, and he made a great fortune. A great fortune, all out of cats!' [In the 'Russian Folktales' is also a version of the Whittington story, p. 43.] APPENDICES. APPENDIX A. p. xx. I have done injustice to the part assigned to the horse in French legendary tales by omitting mention of it in this place. Charles Louandre ('Chefs-d'oeuvre des conteurs Français,' Paris, 1873, note to pp. 43-4) calls special attention to it and gives us the name of many horses famous in the old French minstrelsy. There was 'Valentin,' the horse of Roland; 'Tencedor, of Charlemagne;' 'Barbamouche, swifter than the swallow;' and many others. But there is no name to the charger in the graceful 'Lai de Graélent,' by Marie de France, whose fidelity is the occasion of his Note. I ought not to have forgotten either, the honours paid him in the Spanish Romances, of which the brave 'Black Charger of Hernando' ('Patrañas') may serve as the type. APPENDIX B. My attention has been called, while these sheets have been passing through the press, to a collection which enables me to subjoin some notes of analogies between the Folktales of France and those in the text. It is entitled 'Recueil des Contes des Fées,' Geneva, 1718; published without author's name, and the stories are much less artificially treated than in the better known collections of the Comtesse d'Aulnoy, de Caylus, Perrault, Madame de Villeneuve, &c. Monteil ('Traité de Matériaux-Manuscrits,' Paris, 1835) mentions a MS. in his possession, of the year 1618, entitled 'Contes des Fées,' from which Perrault, the least artificial of the French collectors, seems to have drawn his tales. Mayer ('Discours sur l'Origine des Contes des Fées,' Geneva and Paris, 1786) ascribes to him the revival of the knowledge of the existence of popular fairy tales and mediæval romances, and many of our own Nursery Rimes (notably 'Puss in Boots') are simply translated from his versions. 'Prince Rainbow' ('Le Prince Arc-en-Ciel'), the fifth story in the 'Recueil,' contains similar incidents with those in 'Filagranata,' in combination with the introduction of the opening of a nut in place of one of the oranges in my next story. (I have another Roman story in MS. which hinges on the opening of three nuts in the place of three oranges.) In the French story the ire of the bad fairy is excited against the princess who holds the place of Filagranata, by her receiving the name of 'Fairer-than-Fairies' ('Plus-belle-que-Fée'). The bad fairy Lagrée, who is so old that she has only one tooth and one eye, carries her off to an underground palace, where her task is to tend a fire, instead of feeding pigeons. Here she is courted by a prince transformed into a rainbow, whom she finds of course always seated in the sunshine on a fountain. While talking to him, she lets her fire out. Lagrée sends her to get fresh fire from the giant Locrinos, devourer of maidens; the giant's wife takes compassion on her, and gives her the fire, and with it a stone to use in time of distress. Lagrée, in fury at her success, sends away Prince Rainbow. Fairer-than-Fairies escapes, and goes in search of him, taking with her the stone, a branch of myrtle, and her cat and dog; when she is weary with wandering, the stone provides her a cave to sleep in, the dog keeping guard. Lagrée pursues her; the dog attacks her, and throws her down, so that she breaks her only tooth, and the princess escapes for another stage. Lagrée overtakes her again as she is sleeping in a bower the branch of myrtle has raised for her. The cat makes the defence this time, scratching out her only eye, finally disabling her. After this, Fairer-than-Fairies is entertained in a white and green palace by a white and green lady, who gives her a nut, to be used only in direst need. After another year's wanderings, another white and green lady gives her a pomegranate; at the end of another year, another gives her a crystal vial. Afterwards she comes to a silver palace, suspended by silver chains from four trees. She then breaks the nut; a Swiss appears and admits her, and she finds Prince Rainbow in an enchanted sleep, answering to the kiss of forgetfulness in 'Filagranata.' Fairer-than-Fairies breaks open the pomegranate, all the pips become violins, whose melody makes the prince open his eyes. She breaks open the crystal flask, and a Seiren appears, who sings the tale of all the princess has endured. The prince wakes--the spell is ended. The silver palace turns into a real and inhabited one. They embrace, and are married. 'Incarnat, Blanc et Noir,' in the same 'Recueil,' is very similar to the 'Three Love-Oranges.' A prince walking out in the snow sees a crow. He tries his skill at bringing him down, and the black bird falls bleeding on the white snow. The sight makes him desire a maiden who combines these three tints. Suddenly a voice tells him to go to the 'Kingdom of Marvels,' and that there he will find a tree with splendid apples (they are not expressly said to be golden). He is to take three, and not to open them till he reaches home. Curiosity overcomes him by the way; he opens one, and a beautiful maiden appears; before he can embrace her she disappears. Afterwards, his homeward travels lead him on the sea; the desire to open one of the apples again overcomes him, but though he orders the vessel to be closely covered down all over, the second maiden disappears like the first. He only opens the third on reaching home, and then there comes to him a maiden exactly such as he desired, whom he marries. Afterwards he goes to the wars; and the mother-in-law, who hated her all along, kills her, and throws her body in the castle moat, and substitutes another woman, a creature of her own. The prince expresses his surprise, but she assures him the different appearance is only the effect of a spell. The prince, however, pines after his own maiden. One day he sees swimming in the castle moat a fish with red, white, and black scales, which he spends all his time in gazing at. The false wife pretends she has an irrepressible desire to eat that particular fish; she is in a delicate state of health, and he cannot refuse her. After that a tree springs up suddenly, which once more presents the three colours. The false wife (inspired by the mother-in-law) demands that it shall be cut down and burnt. He cannot refuse her. Finally, a palace, built of rubies, pearls, and jet, suddenly appears by the side of his own. By unheard-of exertion he gets into it, and there finds in a cabinet his own maiden, whom he recalls to his side. Another ('Le Buisson d'Épines fleuries') contains noticeable analogies with both the group of 'The Pot of Marjoram,' and that of 'Maria Wood.' The mother of a fairy princess is led to fill the stepmother's part towards her, by her having so lavishly distributed the ointment of perpetual youth, which had been entrusted to her keeping, that none is left for the queen's own use when she desires to have recourse to it to regain the lost affections of her husband, an earthly king. The governess comes to the aid of the princess, and they fly away together with tents and all requisites of the journey stowed away in pearls for travelling boxes (some analogy, perhaps, with the 'Candeliera'). Their adventures bring them across Prince Zelindor, who marries the princess. The vengeance of the fairy mother pursues them in various shapes, till at last she turns Zelindor into a Sweet Briar. The princess is attracted towards the plant, and tends it with the greatest care, without knowing it is her husband. The enraged fairy queen orders her to pluck a branch, and she is obliged to obey. The plant flows with blood, and Zelindor declares she is the cause of his death; at this juncture the husband of the fairy queen, fetched by the benevolent governess, appears. His return reconciles the queen to her daughter; and with an elixir she heals Zelindor's wounds, and restores him to his bride. Perrault's rimed fable of 'Peau d'Âne' is much nearer 'Maria Wood.' The dying queen binds the king to marry no one who does not surpass her in beauty and understanding. Only their daughter comes up to the mark. Her fairy godmother tells her to ask for the brilliant dresses, and finally for the skin of a gold-coin-producing donkey. The king sacrifices even this. The fairy tells her to put on this skin while she stows her sunbeam dresses, jewels, &c., in a press which she promises shall follow underground wherever she carries her wand. She is made hen-wife in a king's farmyard, and puts on her brilliant dresses on holidays in her private room. The prince sees her through the keyhole, and falls ill because his parents object to the union. 'Peau d'Âne' makes him a cake into which she drops one of her rings. The prince is charmed with the idea of the hand it suggests to him; his malady increases, and this softens his parents. He says he will marry no one but her whom the ring fits, and thus of course 'Peau d'Âne' marries him. The counterpart, in Perrault, to the group to which 'Il Rè Moro' belongs is a very clever, but somewhat artificially told story, called 'Kadour.' Kadour, an exquisitely beautiful princess of Cashmere, is utterly deficient, not in riches, like the chicory-seller's daughter, but in mind. She comes one day to a hole in the ground, and a monstrous figure comes out of it, and offers her the gift of mind, on condition of marrying him in a year. Without knowing what mind is, she has perceived that all her exceeding beauty has been powerless to attract any of the attention she has seen lavished on others, and she gives a sort of stupid consent. The monster tells her that the gift of mind is to be obtained by simply repeating the words, 'O Love, who canst inspire all things; if it needs but to love to lose my insipidity, behold I am ready!' 'O toi qui peux tout animer, Amour, si pour n'être plus bête Il ne faut que savoir aimer, Je suis prête.' In proportion as she repeats these words she is filled with intelligence; but no sooner is she so gifted than everyone appreciates and surrounds her, and she soon falls in love with Arada, the handsomest of her adorers. When the monster returns at the end of the year, and takes her down to his palace through the hole in the earth, she is in great perplexity what decision to make. She perceives that either way she must lose Arada, and says that she cannot give any answer; the monster says he will decide for her, and send her back to her first estate. Her newly-acquired powers, however, give her such loathing of this condition, that she finally prefers retaining her mind even on the terrible condition already propounded. The monster declares himself King of the Gnomes, master of boundless riches, and every kind of luxury and pleasure is lavished on her, as on the chicory-seller, to reconcile her with her situation; but in this case all in vain. She contrives to let Arada know her unhappy position, that she may have the benefit of his sympathy. The gnome-king punishes her by transforming his handsome person into a duplicate of his own, so that Kadour never knows to which of them she is speaking. This story is better known under the title of 'Riquet à la Houpe,' under which name it has been dramatised; in this, however, the senseless but beautiful princess has the compensatory faculty of rendering handsome her mind-giving but hideous lover, and therefore the happy dénouement is easily worked out. It is also the foundation of 'Beauty and the Beast;' and probably springs from the same idea as that embodied in the Ardshi Bordshi story I have given as 'Who invented Woman,' in 'Sagas from the Far East.' A sort of counterpart to the story of 'Il Rè Moro' is given under the title of 'Le Prince Sincer,' in Gueulette's 'Fabliaux, ou Soirées Bretonnes,' but this series seems to be but a réchauffé of Oriental tales, and not a collection of local traditions, as the name leads one to expect, notwithstanding that he introduces Druids into them. The story I have named forms a link also in some of its details with that in the text called 'I Satiri.' Another of the same series, called 'Le Prince Engageant,' has some analogy with the 'Tre Merangoli di Amore' (The Three Love-Oranges), in a prince finding his bride by giving her a pomegranate while she is transformed as a dragon. In a note to his translation of the ballad of 'Pérédur ou le Bassin Magique,' Th. de la Villemarqué [421] gives a Breton version of the 'Three Golden Apples' story. Pérédur is induced to abandon the state of retirement in which his mother has kept him, after the death of his father and his five brothers, by seeing Owen ride by, 'seeking the knight who divided the apples at the Court of Arthur.' Upon this the annotator remarks that the episode here alluded to has not been discovered; but, by way of compensation, he supplies the following, which was told him by a peasant of the diocese of Quimper, who could not read, and had received it by tradition from his forefathers. King Arthur was holding a feast at Lannion, in Brittany; five other kings assisted at it, with their wives and their suite. Just as dinner is over Merlin appears, and hands three golden apples to the king, and says they are to be adjudged to the three most beautiful women. There is a great commotion, and blood is about to flow in the dispute, when an unknown knight advances into the hall, mounted on a black charger with so luxuriant a mane that it envelops both him and his rider. The cause of dispute is referred to him for arbitration. He takes up the three apples, and compares their colour to the hair of the five queens, and their perfume to the ladies' breath; but settles the competition, like 'the Gold-Spitting Prince,' in 'Sagas from the Far East,' by disappearing with the prize. He further quotes, from 'Myvyrian,' i. 151, 152, 155, that Merlin was so fond of apples that he devoted a poem to their celebration, and declared he had an orchard with 147 apple-trees of the greatest beauty; their shade was as valued as their fruit, and was confided to the care, not of a dragon, but of a fair maiden, with floating hair and teeth like drops of dew. APPENDIX C. p. 195. It ought to have been remarked under Note 1, that Abelard's name is spelt Abailard in old French, which brings it nearer the name in the legend. APPENDIX D. p. 196. Cardinal Valerio, Bishop of Verona (in his 'De Rhetorica Christiana' cited in Ludovic Lalanne's 'Curiosités des Traditions,' iv. 403-4), has a very ingenious mode, among others, of accounting for the amplification of Legends; he says it was the custom in many monasteries to give the young monks liberty as a sort of exercise and pastime to write variations of the acts of the saints and martyrs, and they exerted their fancy in producing imaginary conversations and incidents of a nature consonant with the original story; that the most ingenious and well-written of these would sometimes be placed among other MSS. in the Library, and would mislead readers in later times. APPENDIX E. p. 208. Charles Louandre ('Chefs-d'oeuvre des Conteurs Français,' Paris, 1873) gives an episode out of the 'Voyage d'outremer du Comte de Ponthieu' (a Roman of the thirteenth century), which has curious analogies both with this tale of the Pilgrims, with another Roman story I have in MS., and with that of 'The Irish Princess' in 'Patrañas.' Adèle de Ponthieu was married to Thiébault de Domart. They go a pilgrimage to S. James of Compostella to pray that they may have heirs. Robbers overcome them by the way, bind Thiébault to a tree, and ill-treat Adèle. As soon as she escapes from them Thiébault calls to her to cut his bonds with his sword; she, judging it better that he should die than live to blush for her, attempts to take his life with the same blow which severs the cord; he foresees her intention and circumvents it. He does not divine her motive, but yet makes no allusion to the matter till they return from their pilgrimage, then he puts it as an A and B case to her father; the father decides such a woman should die. She is put into a barrel and cast into the sea; the barrel is picked up by merchants who sell her to the Sultan, and she becomes the mother of the mother of Saladin. Meantime her father and husband cannot rest for love of her, they go to search the world over for her. A shipwreck makes them the property of the Sultan who makes a present of them to Adèle. She, recognising them, pretends to be a Saracen soothsayer, and by revealing her acquaintance with their previous history, like the injured Queen in 'The Pilgrims,' brings them to an expression of penitence and of lasting love for her. She then escapes with them and lives happily with her husband, the Pope prescribing to her a certain penitential rule of life to purge her involuntary infidelity. APPENDIX F. p. 392. The centenarian Guillaume Boucher (1506-1606) gives in his 'Sérées' a French story (called 'The Fish-bone') of a quack doctor favoured by luck, to whom he gives the name of Messire Grillo. Charles Louandre ('Chefs-d'oeuvre des conteurs Français,' p. 278) points out that doctors hardly ever figure in popular literature before the sixteenth century, though after the Renaissance they became the constant subject of satire; and that thus Molière did little more than collect the jokes at their expense which had been floating during the previous half-century. NOTES [1] An hour before the evening Ave. [2] Professor de Gubernatis (whose work was not published till my collection had long been in progress) fills a far more important place than that of a mere collector of legends. His vast generalisations, indeed, touch less upon the household tales of Italy than those of any other country, and those which he does introduce are entirely from Tuscany and Piedmont. I had not the advantage of seeing either his book on 'Zoological Mythology,' or Mr. Cox's 'Mythology of the Aryan Nations,' till after my MS. was in the printer's hands, and was not able, therefore, to give references in my notes to the places where their interpretation may be found, though each group to which my stories respectively belong has been treated by them. It is a treatment, however, which requires to be studied as a whole, and could hardly be understood under any piecemeal reference. [3] There are, of course, the older collections of Straparola and Basile, referred to by Mr. Campbell and Professor De Gubernatis, not to speak of those of Boccaccio and Sacchetti; but these were made for quite different purposes than that of supplying Italy's quota to the study of Comparative Mythology. The comparatively recent 'Collection of Sicilian Tales,' by Laura Gonzenbach, mentioned by Professor De Gubernatis, I did not know of, and have not been able to see. Straparola's collection seems, in Rome at least, to have fallen into the oblivion which Mr. Campbell says is its merited lot. At least, not only was it not mentioned to me at any of the depôts where rare books are a spécialité, but my subsequent inquiry for it by name failed to produce a copy. [4] I gave a translation of one of them, containing legendary details of the 'Flight into Egypt,' together with some verses of a Spanish version of the same, in a paper on 'Street Music in Rome,' in the 'Monthly Packet' of December, 1868. [5] Roman vernacular for a child of either sex. [6] Whatever Biverde may mean. Possibly bel-verde, such, at least, is the title of Pellicciaio's Madonna with the 'beautiful green' dress, at the Servite Church, Siena. The title may also be compared with 'The Maid of the Bright-Green Kirtle,' in Campbell's 'West Highland Tales.' [7] This, I am inclined to think, is the case with some published stories, as e.g. the singular medley contained in the third of the 'Tales of the West Highlands,' vol. i. [8] Except perhaps among the Scotch Highlanders. See Campbell's 'Tales,' Preface to vol. i. [9] See remarks in Preface to Campbell's 'Tales of the West Highlands,' vol. i. p. c. Dr. Dasent's 'Popular Tales from the Norse,' pp. xliv, xlv, &c. [10] It has been observed to me that these words furnish a remarkable, because unconscious, parallel to the well-known dictum of Minucius Felix, on the mythical exploits of the old heathen gods and heroes, 'Quæ si facta essent fierent; quia fieri non possunt ideò nec facta sunt.' [11] ('And they burnt her to death in the public square.') [12] 'Don't marry or set out on a journey on a Friday or Tuesday;' and under the two heads brought under the rime, any other undertaking is equally proscribed: some servants, for instance, dislike going to a new situation on those days. [13] In the story of 'Filagranata,' infra, pp. 6 et seq., he is divested in a marked manner of the individuality and importance attaching to his part in the corresponding versions of other countries. [14] The Rev. Alfred White told me, however, an English story of the sort, picked up from a countryman in Berkshire. The Magpie was one day building her nest so neatly, and whispering to herself after her wont as she laid each straw in its place, 'This upon that, this upon that,' when the Woodpigeon came by. Now the Woodpigeon was young and flighty, and had never learnt how to build a nest; but when she saw how beautifully neat that of the Magpie looked, she thought she would like to learn the art. The busy Magpie willingly accepted the office of teaching her, and began a new one on purpose. Long before she was half through, however, the flighty Woodpigeon sang out, 'That'll doooo!' The Magpie was offended at the interruption, and flew away in dudgeon, and that's why the Woodpigeon always builds such ramshackle nests. Told well; the 'This upon that!' and the 'That'll do!' takes just the sound of the cry of each of the birds named. [15] This story comes from Palombara. [16] The expression employed in this place was 'Orca;' as this is a word of most frequent, but somewhat capricious use, I interrupted the narrator to inquire her conception of it. 'Well, it means a species of beast,' she said; 'but you see it must have been a bewitched ('fatata') beast, because the story says it was so rich, and had a palace, and spoke and did all the things you shall hear.' She did not, however, seem to identify it with the evil principle according to its undoubted derivation, nor did she allow either that it had any connexion with 'orso,' a bear, as the narrator of the 'il Vaso di Persa' had expounded it, and indeed as the details of that story required; it will be seen, therefore, that popular fancy invests the monster with various shapes. The story of 'The Pot of Marjoram,' it will be seen, contains one or two incidents in common with this one. The apparently insignificant detail of the little plant--on which, however, both stories rest for a foundation--is noteworthy, the narrator in each instance being most positive that it was the one she had named and no other, and in both cases insisting on showing me the plant, that there might be no mistake about it. (See note to the word 'Persa,' infra, p. 54.) [17] Filagranata bella bella, Tira giù le bionde trecce, Ch' io son nonna vecchiarella. 'Tira giù,' or 'butta giù,' as in the next repetition, mean equally 'throw-down.' 'Biondo' expresses particularly the yellow tint in hair. Bazzarini, 'Ortografia Enciclopedica Universale,' defines it, 'colore tra il giallo e bianco ed è proprio di capelli,' on the authority of Petrarch's use of the word. He has also 'biondeggiante, che biondeggia, che ingiallisce,' turning or tending to yellow; and it is thus the yellow Tiber gets called 'il biondo Tevere.' [18] 'Portogallo' is now the ordinary word for an orange, and points to the introduction of the fruit from the Portuguese colonies in the sixteenth century. The 'arancia,' 'melarancia,' or 'merangola,' the ungrafted orange-tree, was, however, indigenous in Italy; and the fruit, which has even a finer appearance than the edible orange, is still grown for ornament in Roman gardens. [19] 'Puzzo,' stink. There is no neutral word in Italian for a smell; you must define a good or a bad smell either as a perfume or a stink. [20] 'Camminando, camminando, camminando.' This threefold repetition of this verb, according to the tense and person required by the story, I have found used as a sort of sing-song refrain by all the tellers of tales I have had to do with. [21] 'Vecchiarella,' little old woman. [22] 'Fata;' ethnologically Fata is the same as 'Fairy,' 'Fée,' &c., &c., and 'fairy' is the only translation; but it will be observed the Italian 'fata' has always different characteristics from the English 'fairy.' [23] 'Buzzica' is a homely word for a lamp-filler; it probably comes from 'buzzicare,' to move gently or slowly. The narrator used the word because she would, according to local custom, keep her oil in a 'buzzica,' without perceiving that it was most inappropriate for the purpose of the story, which required that the oil should be poured out quickly. [24] 'Allagato,' inundated. I preserve the word on account of its expressiveness--literally making a lake of the country. [25] 'Fior di farina.' [26] As the story was told me the dialogue was broken, and every incident of the journey was made the subject of a separate question and answer; all the furniture in the room also here entered into conversation with the pigeons, brooms being particularly loquacious; but as it became tedious, and by no means added to the poetry of the situation, I condensed it to the dimensions in the text. [27] 'I tre Melangoli di amore;' melangolo or merangolo, or merangola, an ungrafted orange. See note to 'Filagranata.' [28] 'Caccia,' though usually translated by 'hunt,' is used for all kinds of sport. Bazzarini says it even includes 'pallone' and other games; but it is in common use for shooting small birds as for hunting quadrupeds. [29] 'Mora Saracena,' a black Saracen woman; 'mora' is in constant use for a dark-coloured person. Senhor de Saraiva tells me that a so-called 'Mora encantada' figures as one of the favourite personages in Portuguese traditionary tales; but she is less often an actual Moor than a princess held in thrall by Moorish art, to be set free by Christian chivalry. She is often represented as bound at the bottom of a well. [30] Mia padrona dice che son tanta brutta, E son tanta bella, Io rompo la brocca e la brocchetta. This verse would be hardly comprehensible but that the incident is better explained in the more detailed versions of other countries mentioned in note to the last tale. The ugly 'Mora' sees the reflection of the face of the beautiful maiden who sits in the tree overlooking the fountain, and takes it for her own. See Campbell's Tales of the W. Highlands, pp. 56-7, &c. [31] Cuoco, cuoco, per chi cucinate, Pel figlio del rè o per la mora Saracena? Il cuoco si possa dormentar', E le vivande si possano bruciar'. [32] 'Palombelletta,' dear little dove. [33] 'Spillone,' big pin. This magic use of long pins driven into the head is one of the frequent charges against witches. See numerous instances at various epochs given by Del Rio, 'Disquisitionum Magicarum,' lib. iii. p. 1, 2 iv. s. II., where he mentions among others the cases of two midwives who were convicted in Germany of having destroyed, the one forty, the other innumerable, new-born infants in this manner. [34] Cuoco! cuoco! di reale cucina Che faremo della regina? Tutti posse a dormentar', E la pranza posse bruciar'. The words have been clipt in repetition. 'Posse,' in the third line, must be a corruption of 'si pongono,' from the verb 'ponere;' and in the fourth line, of 'si puo,' from the verb 'potere.' [35] 'Cinderella' is a favourite in all countries, with its promise of compensation to the desolate and oppressed. I only came across it once, however, while making this collection, in its own simple form, and with a name as near its own as Cenorientola. Of course the construction of such words is quite arbitrary, and any Italian can make a dozen such out of any name or word: even in the dictionary the following variations are to be found--'Cenericcio,' 'Cenerognolo,' 'Cenerino,' 'Ceneroso,' 'Cenerugiolo.' [36] Da mi tu panni belli, Ed io te do i cencirelli. [37] Da mi tu abiti belli Ed io te do i stracciarelli. The same as above: 'abiti' and 'panni' are convertible, so are 'cenci' and 'straccj.' [38] 'Vaccarella,' 'dear little cow,' 'good little cow.' The endearment is expressed in the form of the diminutive. [39] 'Maestra.' [40] 'Basta,' 'enough,' 'to cut a long story short.' [41] 'Fatata.' [42] Butta sopr' alle corna a me, E vatene far l'erba per me. 'Corno' is one of the words which (as 'muro,' 'novo,' 'braccio,' 'dito,' &c.), masculine in the singular, have a feminine plural. [43] 'Carrèvale,' or 'corrèvale'--I could not very well distinguish which, and do not know the word. The narrator explained it as like 'cànapa'--hemp, only finer. 'Refe' is used in the same sense in Tuscany. [44] Pallo dorato! Pallo dorato! Vestimi d'oro e dammi l'innamorato. 'Dorato' is used for 'golden' as well as for 'gilt.' The change from 'palla,' a ball, to 'pallo' is a very considerable license, for the sake of making it rime with 'innamorato;' though some words admit of being spelt either way, as 'mattino' or 'mattina, 'botto' or 'botta' (a blow), and others can be used with either gender without alteration, as 'polvere.' I have never met with 'pallo' elsewhere, though it is one of the words which take a masculine augmentative ('pallone'). [45] 'Novena,' a short service, with or without a sermon, said for nine days before some great festival, in preparation for it. [46] 'Pianella,' a sandal, or slipper without a heel. 'In those days they used to wear such things instead of shoes,' commented the old lady as she told the tale. [47] 'Botte,' a very large wine-barrel of a certain measure. [48] Here called 'buona figlia,' 'good daughter.' There did not seem any reason for this designation. Possibly the narrator had forgotten some incident of the story, introducing it. [49] That the cellar should be, as thus appears, on the ground-floor, is very characteristic of Rome, though there are, of course, plenty of underground cellars too; but the one is properly 'cantino' and 'canova,' and the other 'grottino.' The distinction is, however, not very rigidly observed in common parlance. To have an underground cellar is so far a specialité, that it has been taken to be a sufficiently distinctive attribute to supply the sign or title to those inns which possess it. Rufini gives examples of above a dozen thus called 'Del Grottino.' [50] The ground-floor being used as a cellar, the family lives upstairs. This is a very common arrangement. [51] The reader who has not access to a better rendering of this beautiful legend will find one I have given from Bopp, in 'Sagas from the Far East,' pp. 402-3; but Mr. Ralston gives us a Russian version, in which a doll or puppet is the agent instead of the cow (pp. 150-9). It is true, on the other hand, that he has (p. 115) another rather different story, in which a cow also gives good gifts; and mentions others at p. 260. In a story of the Italian Tirol, 'Le due Sorelle,' which I shall have occasion to notice later, a cow has also a supernatural part to play, somewhat like that of Vaccarella; only there she acts at the bidding of a fairy, not of her own motion. [52] 'Il Rè che va a Pranzo.' [53] I am inclined to think there was some forgetfulness here on the part of the narrator; such artifices always fulfil the conditions they evade in some underhand way--they never set them utterly at defiance, as in the instance in the text. Such conditions also always go in threes; the third was probably forgotten in this instance. [54] 'Pizza,' a cake made of Indian corn. [55] 'Cartoccio,' a conical paper parcel. [56] 'Bacchettino da comando.' [57] 'Biocca cogli polsini d'oro,' a hen and chickens all of gold; 'biocca' is a word used by peasants for 'gallina,' and 'polsini' for 'pollastri.' [58] 'Pescheria,' ordinarily 'fish-market,' but sometimes, as in this place, a tank or piece of water for preserving fish for table. That so large a fish as a whale should be kept in one, is only one of the exaggerations proper to the realm of fable. [59] The very incident which occurs in the stepmother story of 'How the Serpent-gods were Propitiated,' in 'Sagas from the Far East.' [60] 'Il vaso di persa.' Marjoram goes by the name of 'persa' in the vernacular of Rome. Parsley, which sounds the more literal translation, is 'erbetta.' I think the narrator believed it to be connected with Persia. [61] 'Fata' is a powerful enchantress. I know no English equivalent but 'fairy,' though there is this difference that a 'fata' is by no means invariably an airy and beautiful being; she more often wears a very ordinary appearance, and not unfrequently that of a very old wrinkled woman, but is always goodnatured and benevolent, as distinguished from the malevolent 'strega,' a nearer counterpart of our 'witch.' [62] 'Le femmine sempre pigliano il peggio.' [63] 'Non tutto il male vien' per nuocere.' [64] 'Orgo,' the vernacular form of the classic 'Orco,' is the Italian equivalent for 'Old Bogey;' but it is also used in place of 'orso,' a bear (as in the precise instance of this tale being told to me), when it is desired to give terror to his character in a tale. [65] Has this anything to do with 'riding the cock-horse'? [66] 'Il Vaso di Ruta.' [67] 'Orco ed orchessa.' [68] This was pronounced 'Uttone,' but was doubtless intended for 'King Otho.' Words which in Latin were spelt with a u, as 'Bollo,' 'pollo,' retain the sound of u in the mouth of the people; but I know of no reason for it in the present instance. [69] 'Precipizio,' equivalent to 'an explosion,' 'a terrible kick-up,' &c. [70] The blood instead of the fat is one of the variations of this version. It is not easy to see how blood can enter into the composition of an ointment, yet one of the most frequent charges to be met in processes against witches was taking the blood of infants to make various ointments. [71] Maria di Legno. [72] This is one of the very rare instances in which the Devil appears in Roman stories in this kind of character, so common in Northern popular tales. [73] 'Colle gioie compagne.' [74] 'Vecchiarella.' [75] 'Gallinara.' [76] A 'buon carnevale' chiefly implies the wish that the person to whom it is addressed should have good success with partners at the balls, &c. [77] A 'festino' is the common name for a public masqued ball commencing at midnight. There are three principal ones in the Roman Carneval; in other parts of Italy, where the Carneval is longer, there are probably more. It is also called 'Veglione,' because it keeps people awake at a time when they ought to be in bed. [78] 'How quick princes always were in falling in love in those days!' was the running comment of the narrator. [79] To understand the implied satire of this word it is necessary to observe that 'Frusta' is a whip; the princess therefore says she came from 'Frustinaia,' Whip-blow. [80] 'Stivale,' a boot. As the prince had struck her with his boot, she says she comes from 'Stivalaia,' Boot-kick. [81] 'Schiaffaia' from schiaffa, a slap. The prince had given her a slap, so she says she comes from Slap-land. [82] Among the licenses which Italians take with the terminations of their words, not the least is altering the gender. 'Candeliere' (masc.), otherwise 'candelliere,' is the proper form; and I do not think 'candeliera' will be found in any dictionary; but as the story requires the female gender, the word is readily coined. [83] 'I due Fratelli Gobbi.' [84] 'Bachettone mena!' Perhaps the greatest stumbling-block in the way of acquiring familiarity with the art of conversing in Italian is the capricious use of the augmentative and diminutive terminations of words. Scarcely any substantive or adjective comes out of the mouth of an Italian without qualifications of this sort, making the spoken quite different from the written language. A foreigner can never arrive at the right use of these, because they have to be made up at the moment of use, upon no established laws, but entirely by a sort of instinctive perception of fitness. At Note 1 and 3 to 'Il Poveretto,' and other places, I have given some specimens of some of the most ordinary of these transformations. In the instance before us, 'bacchettone,' from 'bacchetta,' a rod, presents two distinct irregularities. The augmentative of a feminine noun never ought strictly to be 'ona;' but there are numerous instances, scarcely to be remembered under the largest practice, in which a feminine noun takes a masculine augmentative. 'Bacchetta' happens to be one of these. Next, the addition 'one' would ordinarily express that the thing to whose designation it was added was particularly big; yet in this instance it is applied to a little wand; it is clear, therefore, that it no longer means 'big,' but 'singular,' 'remarkable' in some way or other; best rendered in English by 'good stick.' 'Menare,' whence 'mena,' is a word of many meanings, which, though they may be all traced to the same original idea, must not be confounded. In common parlance, as in the present case, it means to beat; and 'menar moglie' is a common expression too; but it does not mean 'to beat your wife,' but 'to lead home a wife,' or, as we say, to 'take a wife.' The primary meaning is 'to lead;' hence, to govern; hence, to govern harshly; hence, to govern with violence; hence, to spite, to beat. One sentence in which it is used recalls a capricious use of our own word 'to beat.' 'Menar' il cane per l'aja' (literally, to lead the dog all about the threshing-floor), answers exactly to our expression, 'to beat about the bush' in talking. 'Menare' and 'dimenare, la coda,' is said also of a dog wagging his tail. On the other hand, 'menare per il naso' (literally, 'to lead one by the nose'), has by no means the signification those words bear in English, but implies a roundabout way of giving an account of anything. [85] 'Il Rè Moro.' [86] 'Moro' does not necessarily mean a Moor, it is continually used for any dark-complexioned person; also commonly for dark or black, as a pet name for a black dog, &c. [87] The 'moccolaio.' [88] The narrator ended this story with the following stanza:-- Si faceva le nozze Con pane e tozze, E polla vermiciosa, E viva la sposa! This is one of those rough verses with which such stories abound, and they have been rendered rougher than they originally were by substituting words which serve to retain the jingle after those conveying the sense are forgotten, like many of our own nursery-rhymes. The literal rendering of this one would be, 'So the marriage was celebrated with bread and hunches of bread, and a chicken stuffed with vermicelli. Long live the bride!' 'Vermiciosa' is not a dictionary word; 'vermicoloso' is the nearest, and probably a corruption of the same. Of course, primarily it means 'full of worms;' but as all the forms of words compounded out of the diminutive of 'verme,' a worm, may be applied to the fine kind of maccaroni which bears the same name, I am more inclined to think a fowl stuffed or served up with maccaroni is meant here--if it have any meaning at all beyond the purpose of a rhyme--rather than 'a wormy fowl,' the literal interpretation. I have met this same 'tag' again and again in the mouths of various narrators at the end of stories which end in a marriage. Another such, familiarly used by every Roman narrator, is:-- 'Stretta la foglia, Larga la via (often, 'Stretta la via'), Dite la vostra, Larga la foglia, Ch' ho detto la mia.' ('Narrow the leaf, broad the way. Tell me your tale, for I've told you mine.') Perhaps originally it was 'Larga la voglia' (my willingness is ample, but my means of amusing you are restricted). [89] At what period the title of honour of 'Monsu' got appended to the monster's name is more than I can fix. [90] 'Chi è?' 'amicè.' See note 3, p. 187. [91] The reader will bear in mind, in this and other places, that 'papa' and 'mama' are vernacular for 'father' and 'mother' among children of the lowest classes in Italy. [92] 'Son' io.' I have generally found these stories told with a great deal of effect, especially to suit the tone to the dialogues. It was particularly the case with this one, e.g. the 'son' io' was said in the lamentable tone of a person wearied with fatigue and disappointment.' [93] 'Vatene, brutta cornuda!' [94] 'La Rosa fatata.' [95] According to the narrator, there was a dish of 'pasta' heaped up like a mountain; and 'souplis di riso con rigaglie' and 'capone con contorni,' and several kinds of wine. I give this description verbally, as it was given to me, as characteristic of the local colouring such legends receive. The dishes named are the favourites of the Roman middle class. 'Pasta' is the Roman equivalent for the 'maccaroni' of the Neapolitan. 'Rigaglie' is the liver, &c., of poultry minced, to put into the fried balls of rice. 'Contorni' means something more than 'garnish,' being something put round the dish, not merely for ornament, but more or less substantial, to be eaten with it, as sausages round a turkey. [96] The word used in this place was 'mostro,' not 'orco,' marking a distinct idea in the tradition, where it is the Principle of Evil himself who is intended, and where, an unfortunate mortal subjected by malice to his influence. [97] 'Sciocco,' a simpleton; 'scioccolone,' a great awkward simpleton. [98] Even in this story, where the fairies really are described as fair to see, it will be observed it is only said they had assumed the forms of beautiful girls for one occasion, not that they were necessarily beautiful, like our fairies. [99] 'Fatatura,' the virtue of enchantment. [100] 'Villa' is more often used to express a little estate--or, as we should say, the 'grounds' on which a country-house stands--than for the house itself, though we have borrowed the word exclusively in the latter sense. [101] 'Casino' a tasteful little house. [102] 'Dodici palmi di naso,' a nose twelve palms long. Twelve palms make a canna and a half, equal to three mètres. [103] 'Ciuffoletto.' 'What is a 'ciuffoletto?' I asked. 'Much the same as a fravodo,' the narrator answered; and I remembered that from another, in another tale, I had made out 'fravodo' to be a horn. [104] That the second of the three sons should be the hero of the story is, I think, an unusual variation. [105] See Note 4, p. 146. [106] 'Mezza canna di Naso,' half a cane of nose. A cane is the former Roman standard measure, and was exactly equal to two mètres. [107] 'Palmo,' was the expression used; the Canna was divided into eight palms. [108] 'Calava, calava, calava.' [109] 'Adesso so' a cavallo.' 'Now I am on the way to fortune.' [110] 'Quell' fruttivendolo'; 'quell' uomo'! 'quella donna!' a vulgar way of calling after people. [111] 'Spezziale,' a druggist ('droghiere' is a grocer). It is the custom in Rome for the doctors of the poor to sit in the druggists' shops, ready to be called for. [112] 'Nasone,' a big nose. [113] 'Pimperte; Pamperte! Pumperte!' [114] 'Il Cicoriaro e la Principessa fatata.' [115] 'Fa una zompa;' 'zompa' for 'zomba,' properly a blow, a thump; here, 'jumped down with a noise like a thump.' [116] Bacchettone di comando, suits this use of it better than does the English equivalent. [117] 'Ecco il vecchio!' such abrupt interruptions, with change of tense, are often introduced with dramatic effect by the narrators. A similar one occurs at p. 133. 'He sounds the horn and One comes.' [118] 'E tutto andava benone;' 'bene,' well; 'benone,' superlatively well. [119] 'La Somara.' [120] The 'mercante di Campagna' occupies the place of farmer in the social system of Rome; that is, he produces and deals in grain and cattle; there is 'buttaro' (cattle breeder) besides; but the characteristics of each are so different that the one does not well translate the other. [121] 'Cortello' for 'coltello' (a knife). The substitution of r for l in a good many words is a common Romanism. [122] 'Dishperato' for 'disperato' ('out of himself with vexation'), is another Romanism; as also [123] 'Bashtonata' for 'bastonata' (a cudgelling); at least many Romans, particularly old-fashioned people, when using some words in which sp and st occur, put in an h on occasions requiring great vehemence of expression. [124] Zecchini. The zecchino was the gold standard coin in Rome before that of the scudo was adopted. Its value was fixed in the reign of Clement XIII., 1758, at two scudi and twenty bajocchi--something between 10s. and 11s.; it was current till a few years back; and 'zecchini' is a common way of saying 'money' when a large sum is spoken of, just as we still talk of guineas. [125] 'Merenda' is a supplementary meal taken at any time of day. It is not exactly lunch, because the habit of taking lunch at one and dining late has not yet obtained to any great extent in Rome; and where it has, lunch is called 'déjeûner'; breakfast (i.e. a cup of coffee and a roll early in the morning) is always called 'colazione.' The established custom of Rome is dinner ('pranzo,' or 'desinare,') at twelve, and supper ('cena') an hour or two after the Ave, varying, therefore, according to the time of year, from six or seven till nine or ten, and even later. 'Merenda' is a light meal between 'pranzo' and 'cena' of not altogether general use, and chiefly on occasions of driving outside the gates to spend the afternoon at a country villa or casino. [126] 'Soma' is a burden; 'somaro' or 'somura' an ass used for carrying burdens. Thus in the next line it is spoken of as having panniers on as a matter of course. [127] 'Che bell' insalatina; chi vuol insalatina; che bell' insalatina!' a common form of crying. 'Che belle mela!' 'What fine apples!' 'Che belle persiche!' or 'What fine peaches!' may be heard all the year round. [128] 'Il Matrimonio di Cajusse,' I should imagine Caius was the right reading. Italians, though they are so fond of clipping off the final vowel of their own words, whenever they get hold of a foreign word ending in a consonant must needs always add a syllable on to it. The narrator in this instance could not spell, and I write the word as she pronounced it. Meeting with so close a counterpart of 'Aladdin's Lamp,' I cross-questioned the narrator very closely as to whether she had not read it, but she assured me most solemnly that her mother had told it her when she was not more than five years old; that it was impossible she could have read it, as she could only read very imperfectly, only a few easy sentences; she had never in her life read anything long. I further elicited that it was possible her mother might have read it; but I am inclined to think she said this rather to improve my idea of her family, than because she thought it was really the case. [129] 'Piastra.' In Melchiorri's 'Guida Metodica di Roma,' ed. 1856, in the list of moneys current the half-scudo is put down as 'commonly called mezza piastra.' I do not remember to have heard it so used myself, though I have heard old people talk of piastres, the value of which would thus be the same as a scudo, or about five francs: an old inhabitant told me it was 7 1/2 bajocchi, more than a scudo. [130] 'Mago.' I asked the narrator what her idea of a 'mago' was, and she said, 'Something like a stregone (masculine of strega, witch), only not quite so bad.' [131] Genii having no place in modern Italian mythology, the 'Genius of the Lamp' loses his identity here. [132] 'Posate,' spoons and forks. I spare the reader the enumeration of the Roman dishes which were detailed to me as figuring on the table, as I have had to quote many of them in other stories. [133] 'I always used to wonder,' observed the narrator very pertinently, 'as my mother told me this, why they didn't rub the lamp again and ask for what they wanted, instead of going about pawning the posate. I suppose they had forgotten about it.' [134] 'Pezzente,' a sorry fellow; literally beggar. [135] 'Che ci penso io' is a saying ever in the mouth of a Roman. Whatever you may be giving directions about, they always stop you with 'Lasci far a me, che ci penso io' ('Leave it to me; I'll manage it.') [136] 'Tre ore di notte' means three hours after the evening Ave. If it was summer-time this would be about 11 P.M. A subject of the 'Gran Sultan' being supposed to measure time by the Ave Maria is not one of the least bizarre of traditionary accretions. [137] 'Chincaglieria,' all kinds of small articles of metal-work. [138] 'Fravodo.' As I had never heard the word before, I was very particular in making the narrator repeat it, to take it down. She described it as a horn or trumpet, but I cannot meet with the word in any dictionary. [139] The Holy Babe. [140] 'Date mi un po' d'allogio;' lit., Give me a small quantity of lodging--a humble mode of expression. [141] 'Chi è?' ('Who's there'); but the humour of the expression here lies in its being the invariable Roman custom to sing out 'Chi è?' and wait till 'Amici!' is answered, before any door is opened. [142] Comp. with Legend of the Marmolata in 'Household Stories from the land of Hofer.' [143] 'Un pagnotto di polenta' was the expression used, meaning a great coarse loaf of Indian corn. The Roman poor have much the same contempt for inferior bread that we meet with in the same class at home, none eat 'seconds' who can possibly avoid it; but the pagnotto di polenta is only eaten by the poorest peasants. [144] 'Strutto,' lard, enters into the composition of almost every Roman popular dish. [145] 'Che bolliva,' constantly applied in Roman parlance to solids as well as liquids. [146] The narrator was an admirable reciter, and as she uttered this 'Vi sia concessa,' in a solemn and majestic manner, she raised her hand and made the sign of the cross with a rapid and facile gesture, just as she might have seen the Pope do as he drove through Rome. [147] 'Trattoria,' can only be translated by 'tavern,' but unfortunately the English word represents quite a different idea from the Roman. 'Tavern' suggests noise and riot, but a 'trattoria' is a place where a poor Roman will take his family to dine quietly with him on a festa as a treat. [148] 'Death,' being feminine in Italian, has to be personified as a woman. The same occurs in a Spanish counterpart of this story which I have given under the title of 'Starving John the Doctor' in 'Patrañas.' The Spanish counterpart of the rest of the story will be found in 'Where one can dine two can dine' ('Un Convidado invida a ciento') in the same series. [149] 'Olive the priest.' 'When we were children,' said the narrator, 'my father used to tell us such a lot of stories of an evening, but of them all the two we used to ask for most, again and again, and the only two I remember, were "Mi butto," and "Pret' Olivo." Do you know "Mi butto"? We used to shudder at it, and yet we used to ask for it.' I incautiously admitted I did know it, instead of acquiring a fresh version. 'Then here is "Pret' Olivo." I don't suppose I was more than seven then, and now I am thirty-five, and I have never heard it since, but I'll make the best I can of it. Of course it is not a true story; we knew that it couldn't be true, as anyone can see; but it used to interest us children.' [150] 'Vaene brutto prete! Questa non è roba per me.' [151] 'Brutto Plutone!' The traditional application of the name will not have escaped the reader. [152] 'Holzhund,' I suppose, is used for wild dog. [153] Unquestionably a very exaggerated tradition of the aberrations and final submission to the Church of Abelard (Pietro Abelardo in Italian), some of whose writings were publicly burnt in Rome by the Inquisition in 1140. [154] The Office of the Inquisition behind the Colonnade of St. Peter's. [155] 'Libro di comando.' A book of divination. [156] St. John and Paul. The Church of the Passionists on the Coelian. [157] I.e. St. Iago di Compostella. [158] 'Scrittura,' a written compact. [159] 'Chierico' of course means a cleric, but in common parlance it is reserved for the boy who, though lay, wears a clerical dress for the time he is serving mass, or attending to the church generally. In the present instance it would probably be a youth in minor orders. [160] 'Paino' and 'paina' mean one, who, according to his or her condition, ought to be dressed in the national style, but who does affect to dress like a gentleman or lady. [161] 'Chi va a Loreto E non va a Cirollo, Vede la Madre E non vede il figliuolo.' [162] I took another opportunity of asking the one who was familiar with Loreto, about Cirollo, and she explained its introduction into the story to mean that he was not to pay a hasty visit, but a thorough one, even though it was done so rapidly. 'Cirollo,' she said, 'is a poor village with few houses, but the church is fine, and the Crucifix is reckoned miracolosissimo.' In Murray's map it is marked as Sirollo, close by the sea, without even a pathway from Loreto, about five miles to the north; and he does not mention the place at all in his text. Subsequently I was talking with another who called herself a Marchegiana, i.e. from the March of Ancona, in which Loreto is situated, and boasted of having been born at Sinigallia, the birthplace of Pio Nono. 'Have you ever been to Loreto?' I asked by way of beginning inquiry about Cirollo. 'Yes; six times I have made the pilgrimage from Sinigallia, and always on foot.' she replied with something of enthusiasm. 'And you who have travelled so far, you have been there too, of course?' 'Not yet,' I replied; 'but I mean to go one day;' and just as I was coming to my question about Cirollo, she added of her own accord: 'Mind you do, and mind when you go you go to Sirollo too (she pronounced it Sirollo like the spelling in the map). 'Everyone who goes to Loreto ought to go to Sirollo. There is a Crucifix there which is miracolosissimo.' [163] 'Quanto la mente dell' uomo.' [164] 'Dispetto,' an affront, rather than an injury. [165] 'Tira via, brutta bestia,' literally 'fire away'--is used in all senses the same as in English. [166] The question of night flights through the air, and more, whether in the body or out of the body, than whether they were ever effected at all, was one of the most hotly contested questions of demonographers. Tartarotti, lib. I. cap. viii. § vi., winds up a long account of the subject with the following:--'... So divided was opinion on the subject, not only of Catholics as against heterodox, but between Catholics and Catholics, that after reading in Delrio 'qui hæc asserunt somnia esse et ludibrio certe peccant contra reverentiam Ecclesiæ matri debitam,' and 'Hæc opinio (somnia hæc esse) tanquam hæretica est reprobanda;' and in Bartolomeo Spina, 'Negare quod diabolus possit portare homines de loco in locum est hæreticum;' you may see in Emmanuel Rodriguez, a great theologian and canonist, 'Peccat mortaliter qui credit veneficos aut veneficas vel striges corporaliter per aëra vehi ad diversa loca, ut illi existimant;' while Navarro mildly says, 'Credere quod aliquando, licet raro, dæmon aliquis de loco in locum, Deo permittente, transportet non est peccatum.' Tartarotti supplies a long list of writers who, in the course of the sixteenth and two following centuries, took the opposite sides on this question, and quotes from Dr. John Weir, (Protestant) physician to the Duke of Cleves (In Apol. sec. iv. p. 582), that the Protestants were most numerous on the side which maintained that it was an actual and corporeal and not a mental or imaginative transaction. Cesare Cantù has likewise given an exposition of the treatment of the question in 'Gli Eretici d'ltalia,' discorso xxxiii., and 'Storia Universale,' epoca xv. cap. 14, p. 488. In note 1 he gives a list of a dozen of the most celebrated Protestant writers who upheld the actuality of the witches' congress. [167] 'Bocca a terra.' [168] 'Accademia' used here for 'Conversazione.' [169] 'Pentiti!' [170] 'Discolo,' 'wild,' 'fast.' [171] The shrine of S. Iago di Compostella being traditionally known to the Roman poor as 'S. Giacomo di Galizia,' Galizia was not very unnaturally supposed by the narrator to be the name of a town. [172] 'Dovene siete, poveri pellegrini, Quanti son' lunghi i vostri cammini?' [173] 'Avemo camminati monti e piani, E siamo di Castello mont' Albano, Andiamo cercando un figlio Giuliano.' A walled village, whether it had an actual castle or not, had the name of 'Castello;' and 'Castello' is the common name to the present day in Rome for the villages in the neighbourhood. [174] 'Mastri.' [175] 'Noi siamo i mastri! noi siamo i mastri! Chè tanti ponti abbiamo fatti.' [176] 'Arruzzicatelo' was the word used. Ruzzica is a game played by rolling circles of wood of a certain thickness along a smooth alley. She tells him to roll the cheese in this way as an inducement to the dog to go over to try the strength of the bridge. [177] 'Uomicino,' a little man. As the narrator had come to the borders of Wonderland, this must, I think, be taken to be one of those dwarfs--little men of the mountains, 'Bergmänlein,' who have so large a place in German, especially in Tirolean mythology, but are so rarely to be met in that of Rome. [178] 'Una donna maestosa con un bambino in braccia; e questa era la Madonna, capisce.' This use of the verb capire to express 'you see,' &c., is a favourite Romanism; in Tuscany they use the verb intendere. [179] 'Donna trovata non fu mai buona.' [180] 'Il nonno accanto al fuoco.' Giving to understand that it was an old traditionary tale. [181] 'La Pescheria di San Francesco.' Pescheria, see p. 45. Many Italian convents are provided with such. [182] 'Sora' in this place does not mean 'sister'; it is an expression in Roman vernacular for which we have no equivalent, and is applied to respectable persons of the lower class who do not aspire to be called 'Signora,' 'Mrs.,' or 'Miss,' as with us. 'Sor' or 'Ser' is the masculine equivalent; we had it in use at p. 194. [183] The word used was 'candida,' and not 'bianca,' as expressive of purest white. [184] 'Sant' Antonio ed il Santo Bambino.' [185] I believe St. Anthony was never in Rome; but his genial winning character made him so popular that the people speak of him as one of themselves. [186] St. Anthony's date is 1195-1231; so the idea of making his observer a Protestant, and a smoker to boot, is very quaint, and is an instance of how chronological order gets confused by tradition. [187] 'Fraticello'; 'good little friar.' An affectionate way of speaking of Franciscans often used. [188] 'Magàri!' a very strong form of 'indeed.' [189] 'La strapazzava,' a word particularly applied to overworking a horse. [190] 'Di una rara bellezza.' [191] 'Era disperata.' [192] 'Un sacco crudo,' a loose garment made of harsh sackcloth that had not been dressed. [193] Handkerchiefs are used so habitually for tying up parcels in Rome, that the narrator thought it worth while to specify that this one was a 'fazzaletto di naso.' [194] The life is thus given in Butler:--'Margaret was a native of Alviano in Tuscany. The harshness of a stepmother and her own indulged propension to vice cast her headlong into the greatest disorders. The sight of the carcase of a man, half-putrefied, who had been her gallant, struck her with so great a fear of the Divine judgments, and with so deep a sense of the treachery of the world, that she in a moment became a perfect penitent. The first thing she did was to throw herself at her father's feet, bathed in tears, to beg his pardon for her contempt of his authority and fatherly admonitions. She spent the days and nights in tears; and to repair the scandal she had given by her crimes, she went to the parish church of Alviano with a rope about her neck, and there asked public pardon for them. After this she repaired to Cortona and made her most penitent confession to a father of the Order of S. Francis, who admired the great sentiments of compunction with which she was filled, and prescribed her austerities and practices suitable to her fervour. Her conversion happened in the year 1274, the twenty-fifth of her age.... This model of true penitents, after twenty-three years spent in severe penance, twenty of them in the religious habit, being worn out by austerities and consumed by the fire of divine love, died on the 22nd of February 1297.' [195] 'Vecchiaccia'; the addition accia implies that she was bad: probably a witch was intended. [196] 'La Monica Beatrice.' 'Monica,' provincialism or vulgarism for 'monaca,' a nun. [197] 'Albagia,' self-esteem, vanity. [198] 'Rotara,' equivalent to portress; it alludes to her having charge of the 'ruota,' or 'turniquet,' through which things are passed in and out and messages conveyed through a convent-wall, without the nun having to present herself at the door. [199] 'Fattore,' an agent employed by most convents to attend to their secular affairs. [200] 'Suora' is the received word for a 'Sister' in a convent. 'Sister,' the natural relationship, is 'Sorella.' [201] 'Grascia e annòna' are two old words meaning all kinds of meat and vegetable (including grain) food. It was the title of one department of the local administration. There was a great dearth in Rome in the year 1590-1, mentioned in the histories of the times. It is probable the people would ascribe to the head of the department the fault of the calamity. [202] These people generally call the popes by their family names. This 'Papa Medici' would be Pius IV., who reigned from 1559 to 1566. [203] 'Brutte anime,' 'ugly souls.' [204] All legends have doubtless some foundation in fact; but unfortunately for the detail of this one, the arms up in the façade of the said Churches, 'Dei Miracoli' and 'di Monte Santo'--are the arms of a Cardinal Gastaldi or Castaldi, who rebuilt them about a hundred years later than St. Philip's time. Alexander VII. having rebuilt the Flaminian Gate, or Porta del Popolo, the insignificance of these two churches became more noticeable than before; but he did not survive to carry out his intention of rebuilding them. This was subsequently performed by Cardinal Gastaldi.--Maroni, xii. 147, xxviii. 185; Panciroli, 169; Melchiorri, 254 and 420. [205] 'Impicciare,' 'entangle myself with,' 'interfere with'--a very favourite Romanism. [206] 'Impicciare,' again here. [207] 'Campagnola,' a peasant of the Campagna near Rome. [208] A rubbio is between four and five acres. [209] St. Philip lived and taught for thirty-three years at the Church of S. Girolamo della Carità, not very far from the vegetable market in Campo de' Fiori, all the streets about containing shops much frequented by the country people when they come up to Rome with their vegetables. [210] 'Scocciare,' to persevere to weariness; to din. [211] 'Vassalli,' in the older dictionaries 'vassallo' is only defined as a vassal; but in modern Roman parlance it means a scamp, a vagabond. [212] 'Il Perdon di Asisi.' The indulgences attached to visiting the Church of S. Maria degli Angeli near Asisi (otherwise called the Porziuncula), received this name on occasion of its consecration on the 1st and 2nd August, 1225. The visit on the anniversary became one of the most popular of Italian pilgrimages. [213] San Felice di Cantaliccio, 1513-87, is a very popular saint among the Romans, for one reason because he was born of poor parentage. Though of low origin, and only a lay brother in his convent, he was frequently consulted by important people on account of his piety and prudence. St. Charles Borromeo took great note of his advice. He was a contemporary of St. Philip. [214] St. Vincent Ferrer, who is so popular a saint among the Romans, so continually coupled with St. Philip and his acts, and always spoken of as if he had all his life been an inhabitant of Rome, lived just two centuries earlier (1351-1419) than the 'Apostle of Rome.' Though he went about preaching and reforming all over Europe, and even in England and Ireland at the invitation of Henry IV., he was yet never in Rome at all, though much at Avignon under the so-called Benedict XIII., his countryman, with whom he used all his influence to make him put an end to the schism. [215] Innocent IX., who reigned 1590-1, took a great deal of notice of St. Philip. It is curious the narrator should have been so far out concerning St. Vincent and so correct about this. [216] 'Un vecchietto e un'altro.' [217] 'Rotonda,' the vulgar name of the Pantheon, gives its appellation to the market which is held in the 'Salita de' Cresconzi' and other adjoining streets. [218] 'Gola,' the throat; used for 'gluttony.' [219] Pius VI., who reigned 1775-1799. [220] S. Joseph Labre was born at Boulogne, of parents of the lower middle class, in 1749, and died 1783. He came to Rome on a pilgrimage when young, and remained here the rest of his days, passing his time in prayer and contemplation in the various shrines of Rome. He every year made the pilgrimage to Loreto on foot. He was supported entirely by the alms of the people. [221] In the Rione Monti are the streets chiefly inhabited by the poor and working classes of Rome. Joseph Labre passed his life in their midst, and they always speak of him with affection, as a hero of their own order. It only needs to go to the Church of the Madonna de' Monti on the day of his 'Patrocinio' to see how popular he is. [222] The stations of the 'Way of the Cross' are arranged round the interior of the Coliseum; and until out-of-door devotions were forbidden by the new Government, the Via Crucis was constantly performed here, led by a Capuchin and by various confraternities, and always well attended. [223] Le dodici Parole della Verità. [224] 'Uno e primo è Domeniddio, che sempre c'aiuta.' [225] 'Due sono le chiavi del cielo, c'è l'oro.' [226] 'Tre sono tre Patriarchi Abramine, Giacobbe, e Isaache.' [227] 'Quattro sono le quattro colonne che il mondo mantiene; Luca, Giovanni, Marco, e Matteo.' [228] 'Cinque sono le piaghe de Gesù Cristo.' [229] 'Sei sono i sei galli che cantorno in Galilea.' [230] 'Sette sono i sette cerini ch' ardorno in Gerusalemme.' [231] 'Otto è l'ottava di Cristo.' [232] 'Nove sono i nove cori degli angeli.' [233] 'Dieci è la diecenna di Cristo.' [234] 'Undici è la coronazione di spine.' [235] 'Dodici sono i dodici Apostoli.' [236] 'Il Morto della Quercia.' [237] 'Camminò, camminò, camminò;' see note 6, p. 13. [238] 'Quattro arquebuzate.' [239] 'Frateria,' a popular word for a monastery. [240] 'La Lettera del Morto.' [241] 'Bussola,' a box for alms, &c. [242] 'Painone,' 'Paino'; a sneering way of naming a well-dressed person. 'Painone,' augmentative of the same. [243] 'Sua Eccellenza.' The cant form of address of the Roman beggar. [244] 'L'Anima Bianca.' [245] 'A vitalizia' is an agreement by which persons pay a sum down and are taken in to board for the rest of their lives. [246] 'La Festa dei Morti,' November 2. [247] 'Chè è ora dell' orazione.' I give this very quaint idea in the words in which it was told to me. [248] 'Era altro che un festino, il chiarore.' The lighting up of a theatre for a public masqued ball would naturally be the highest impression of brightness for a poor man in Rome. 'Altro che' is his favourite word in the sense of 'no comparison.' 'Altro!' alone stands for 'I should think so!' 'Isn't it indeed!' &c. [249] Since the invasion of September 1870, Rome has been placarded with announcements of mediums who may be consulted on every possible occasion. I give the whole story as it was told me, but I have, of course, no means of knowing how the séance was conducted, and there is every likelihood the man would be so full of the strange occurrence that he would begin by letting out all on which he came to it to seek confirmation. The introduction of these mediums has been welcomed as supplying the means of gratifying that craving after the supernatural which was denied them under the former administration. 'Witchcraft was forbidden by the former law, therefore we may suppose it was wrong,' reason the less intelligent and those who wish to be deceived; 'spiritismo is allowed by the law which rules us to-day, therefore we may suppose it is right;' and thus we are beginning to see here what Cantù had written of other parts of Italy and Europe: 'But who will feel the courage to contemn the follies of another age when he sees the absurd credulity of our own, which upon similar manifestations founds other theories.... Recent writers on the subject (see in particular, Allan Kardec, 'Le Spiritisme à sa plus simple expression,' 'Le Livre des esprits,' &c.), themselves acknowledge that the oracles and pythonesses of old, and the genii, sorcerers, and magicians of later ages, were the predecessors of these mediums. We have therefore come back to that which we ridicule in our ancestors.' [250] 'La serpe bianca;' 'serpe' is of both genders, but is most commonly used in the feminine as in the common saying 'allevarsi la serpe in seno,' to nurture a serpent in one's bosom. [251] 'Per far legna.' 'Fare' is brought in on all occasions. Bazzarini gives 59 closely printed columns of instances of its various uses; here it means to cut wood for burning; 'legno' is wood; 'legna,' wood for burning. [252] 'S'alzerà un morto.' [253] S. Agostino is the favourite with the people of all the churches of Rome. [254] 'Brutti assassini.' In a country where the cultus of 'il bello' has been so well understood, 'ugly' has naturally come to be used as a term of deepest reproach. [255] 'Si, si, questo è positivo, non è donnicciolara, è positivo.' [256] This kind of spell seems analogous to one of which a curious account is preserved by Menghi (Compendio dell'Arte Essorcista, lib. ii. cap. xl.), which I quote, because it has a local connexion with Rome, and there are not many such. An inhabitant of Dachono in Bohemia, he says, brought his son, a priest, to Rome in the Pontificate of Pius II. (1458-64) to be exorcised, as all relief failed in his own country; a woman whom he had reproved for her bad life had bewitched him, adding, 'that the spell (maldicio) was imposed on him by her under a certain tree, and if it was not removed in the same way, he could not otherwise be set free; and she would not reveal under what tree it was.' The spell acted upon him only at such times as he was about to exercise his sacred ministry, and then it impeded his actions, forced him to put his tongue out at the cross, &c. &c. 'The more earnest the devotion with which I strive to give myself to prayer,' he said, 'so much the more cruelly the devil rends me' (mi lacera). In St. Peter's, the narrator goes on to say, is a column brought from the Temple of Solomon, by means of which many possessed persons have been liberated, because our Lord had leant against it when teaching there, and it was thought that this might be sufficiently potent to represent the fatal tree. He was brought to it, however, in vain. Being tied to it, and asked to point out the spot where Christ had touched it, the spirit which possessed him replied by making him bite it on a certain spot with his teeth and say, 'Qui stette, qui stette,' (here He stood) in Italian, although he did not know a word of the language, and was obliged to inquire what the words he had uttered meant. But the spell, nevertheless, was not got rid of thus. It was then understood that the spirit must be of that kind of which Christ had said 'he goeth not out except by prayer and fasting;' and a pious and venerable bishop, taking compassion on the man, devoted himself to prayer and fasting for him all through Lent; and thus he was delivered and sent back to his own country rejoicing. [257] 'Fattore,' an agent; a man who attends to the business and pecuniary affairs of a convent. [258] 'Suora Maria tale.' Mary being such a favourite name, it has to be generally qualified by a second name being appended to it by way of distinction. [259] 'Fiaccole di paglia.' [260] 'Ma che!' is a very strong and indignant form of 'No!' about equivalent to 'What are you thinking of?' 'How can you?' In Tuscany they say, 'Che! Che!' [261] 'Fantasimi,' for 'fantasmi,' apparitions. [262] 'Spirito.' [263] 'Il fantasimo di S. Giovanni.' [264] 'Cacciatore' is a huntsman or sportsman of any kind; but in Rome it designates especially a man of a roving and adventurous class whose occupation in life is to shoot game for the market according to the various seasons, as there are large tracts of country where game is not preserved. [265] 'Falcaccio,' a horrid, great hawk. [266] Cancellieri (Mercato, § xvi.) mentions the actual finding of such a treasure; or at least of 'thousands of pieces of gold money, in a hole leading to a drain of the fountain in Piazza Madama, on May 30, 1652, by a boy who had accidentally dropped a toy into this hole.' One such fact would afford substance to a multitude of such fictions: though they doubtless had their origin in the discovery of mineral wealth. [267] See conversation at the end of the 'Serpe bianca.' Further details of a similar nature were given me in connection with a number of brigand stories which I have in MS. [268] 'Monti,' Rione Monti, the most populous district in Rome. [269] 'Papetto,' equal to two pauls; about three halfpence more than a (silver) lira or franc. In use in Rome until the monetary convention with France in 1868. [270] 'Cataletto,' a kind of large roomy coffin, with a hollow wagonheaded lid, in which dead or wounded persons are carried. [271] 'Barretta' or 'bara,' is the bier on which the 'cataletto' is carried; but it is most often made all in one, and either word is used for either, as also 'feretro.' 'Aver la bocca sulla bara,' is 'to have one foot in the grave.' [272] 'Paino,' see n. 3, p. 264. [273] It must be a very quaint condition of mind which can imagine that a fortune of something like three millions sterling can be quietly removed in secret in gold coin from a cellar to a bedroom in the small hours of the night. But then to persons like the narrator a few pieces of gold seem a fortune. [274] I do not give the names because, though the tradition is probably true enough of somebody, the particular names introduced were decidedly incorrect historically. [275] Litta, 'Storia delle Famiglie italiane,' traces that from the beginning the Colonna family was always Ghibeline. The present representatives of the house, however, are reckoned Papalini. [276] 'Zoccolo,' a wooden sandal kept on the foot by a leather strap over the instep. It is worn by certain 'scalsi' or 'barefooted' friars, hence called by the people 'zoccolanti.' The street near Ponte Sisto in Rome, called Via delle Zoccolette, received its name from a convent of nuns there who also wore 'zoccoli.' [277] That Sciarra Colonna headed a band of 'spadassini' against Boniface VIII., and made himself the tool of Philippe le Bel, is of course true to history, as also that he held him imprisoned for a time at Anagni. The Pontiff's biographer, Tosti, mentions however only to refute them, 'le favole Ferretiane,' to which Sismondi, 'Storia delle Republiche italiane,' gives currency, and which embody the floating tradition in the text. 'Ferreto da Vicenza,' writes Tosti, 'narrates that a kind of poison was administered to this great Pontiff, which put him in a state of phrenzy; the servant who waited on him, also, was sent away, and being left alone in the room he is supposed to have gnawed at a stick (in another allusion to the same fable--at page 293--he says, 'his fingers' as in the text), and struck his head against the wall so desperately that his white hairs were all stained with blood; finally, that he suffocated himself under the counterpane invoking Beelzebub. But when we think how Boniface arrived at extreme old age, enfeebled with reverses; how, shut up in a room alone, there was no one to be witness to the alleged gnawing and knocking and Satanic invocations, and how that the manner of his death was quite differently related by eye-witnesses, I do not know for whom Sismondi could have thought he was writing when he marred his history by inserting such a fable. What certainly happened, and it is certified by Cardinal Stefaneschi, who was present, and by the Report afterwards drawn up of the acts of Boniface--was, that 'he was lodged in the Vatican at the time of his death, and breathed his last tranquilly. The bed of the dying Pontiff was surrounded by eight cardinals and by other distinguished persons (Process. Bonif. p. 37, p. 15), to whom, according to the custom of his predecessors, he made confession of faith, affirming, however enfeebled his voice, that he had lived in that faith, and wished to die in it, a Catholic. Consoled with the Viaticum of the Sacraments he gave up his soul to God, weary with the prolonged struggle he had sustained for the rights of the Church, ... thirty-five days after his imprisonment at Anagni' (vol. ii. p. 286-7). Platina goes into less detail, but also records that he died in Rome (Le vite de' Pontefici, Venice, 1674, p. 344). The magnanimous stedfastness evinced by Boniface when attacked by Colonna and Nogaret, all abandoned as he was by human aid (detailed by Tosti, p. 276, et seq.), could not but have been succeeded by a grander closing scene than that imagined by Ferreto. Maroni (vi. 17-18) not only narrates that he survived the Anagni affair to return to Rome, but that with great Christian charity he ordered Nogaret, who had been taken prisoner by the Romans in the meantime, to be released from confinement; and [xiv. 283] that he could have had no poison administered to him at Anagni, for all the time he was imprisoned he would eat nothing but eggs on purpose to be proof against it. The best disproof of the story, however, is that given by Tosti (p. 296-7). In the clearing for the rebuilding of the nave of St. Peter's, 302 years after the death of Boniface, his sepulchre was opened and the grave then revealed the truth. It so happened that his body had scarcely undergone any change, and those who stood by could hence depose that both his head and his hands were quite perfect; there were no marks or blows on the former, and so far from his finger-tips being gnawed, they noticed that the nails even were particularly long. The face also wore a peculiarly placid expression. Several contemporary writers cited by Tosti tell, however, that Benedict XI., Boniface's successor, died of poison believed to have been administered by Sciarra Colonna at the instigation of Philippe le Bel. But unfortunately for the tradition in the text Moroni [xiv. 283], who also mentions this, adds that Sciarra Colonna died in exile as he deserved. The two Cardinals Colonna, however, who had been exiled with the rest of the family, were reinstated by Benedict XI., and Clement V. in 1305 restored the other members of it to their possessions in the Roman States, where they made themselves obnoxious enough during the Papal residence at Avignon, and were as hostile to Rienzi as they had ever been to the Popes. [278] Donna Olimpia Pamfili, nata Maidalchini, wife of the brother of Innocent X. [279] Cancellieri Mercato, § ix. note 7. [280] He had not, however, been originally intended for the Church; had been General of the Pontifical forces before he was Cardinal, and was only in Deacon's orders. [281] His simplicity was the subject of many contemporary mots and anecdotes; e.g. at the time of his elevation to the purple the Pasquin statue had been temporarily lost to view by a hoarding put up for the erection of a neighbouring palace; 'Marforio' was supposed to express his condolence for the eclipse of his rival in the following distich: 'Non piangere Pasquino Chè sarà tuo compagno Maidalchino.' His want of capacity seems however to have been compensated by his goodness of heart. [282] Cancellieri Mercato, § viii. As I have been desirous to put nothing in the text but what has reached myself by verbal tradition, I will add some no less interesting details collected by Cancellieri, in this place. It was at her house in Piazza Navona that Bernini was rehabilitated in his character of first sculptor and architect of his time. 'Papa Pamfili,' though only the son of a tailor, (A certain Niccolo Caferri was much ridiculed for the spirit of adulation with which he pretended to trace up Innocent X.'s genealogy to Pamphilus, king of Doris, 300 years before the birth of Rome. But the Pope himself was so little ashamed of his origin that Cancellieri tells us he took a piece of cloth for one of his armorial bearings in memory of it.) was yet a patron of art. Highly famed under Urban VIII. the preceding Pontiff, Bernini had been misrepresented by his rivals to Innocent. In an unpublished Diary of Giacinto Gigli, Cancellieri finds that he was taken so seriously ill on St. Peter's Day, 1641 (This date, however, must be incorrect, as Innocent X. only began to reign in 1644. This grandiose Campanile is described at length, and a plate of it given in Fontana, 'Descrizione del tempio Vaticano,' p. 262, et seq. It was 360 ft. in height.) that his life was for some time despaired of, in consequence of his Campanile--a specimen one of two he had designed for St. Peter's--being disapproved by the Pope and ordered to be taken down. Another cognate tradition he gives from a MS. Diary of Valerio is, that in digging the foundations for this tower a 'canale d'acqua' was discovered deeper than the bed of the Tiber and wide enough to go on it in a boat; Mgr. Costaguti, maggiordomo of his Holiness, told me about it himself, and he had had himself let down to see it. As it had a sandy bottom, it washed away the foundations of the tower, and rendered it impossible to leave it standing. The water came from Anguillara' (on Lake Bracciano, about 28 miles) 'and the Pope had the old conduit reconstructed and used the water for many fountains in imitation of Sixtus V. (He does not specify what pope, and the wording used seems to imply Innocent X., but this aqueduct is always ascribed to Paul V., twenty years earlier, and is called the Acqua Paola.) He goes on to add an extraordinary account of a Dragon quite of the legendary type, that was found in charge of this water, and was killed, not by a hero or a knight, but, by the labourers working at the conduit. It was Innocent X.'s ambition to remove the great obelisk (since called 'Obelisco Pamfilio') which lay in three pieces in the Circo di Massenzio, near the Appian Way, and to set it up in Piazza Navona. Bernini being, as I have said, in disfavour, other architects were commissioned to offer designs for the work; but the Pope was not satisfied with any of them, and the matter stood over. Meantime Piombino (Niccolò Ludovisi) who had married a niece of the Pope's, and who was a great friend of Bernini, privately instructed him to send him a model of what he would suggest for the purpose, saying he wanted it for his own satisfaction, lest Bernini should refuse the unauthorised competition. Bernini then produced the elaborate conception which has been so warmly extolled by some and so hastily blamed by others, but which cannot be judged without a prolonged study of all the poetical allegories and conceits it was his intention to embody. The Pope went to the house of Donna Olimpia in Piazza Navona to dine after the Procession to the Minerva on the Annunciation, (Described in Cancellieri, 'Descrizione delle Cappelle Ponteficie,' cap. x.) and she placed the model in a room through which the Pope must pass after dinner. It did not fail to arrest his notice, and he was so much struck with it that he spent half an hour examining it in detail and listening to the explanation of its emblematical devices. At last he exclaimed, 'It can be by no other hand than Bernini's! and he must be employed in spite of all that may be said against him!' From that time Bernini was once more all that he had been before in Rome (Mercato, § ix.). When Innocent saw the great work completed, and the water of the four rivers for the first time gushing from it, he declared to Bernini he had given him pleasure great enough to add ten years to his life; and he sent over to Donna Olimpia for a hundred 'Doppie' (In Melchiorri's table of Roman moneys he gives the value (in 1758, a hundred years later) of a doppio as 4 scudi 40 bajocchi; and of a doppia at 6 scudi, 42 bajocchi. It appears to be the latter the Pope sent for.) to distribute among the workmen. Subsequently he had a medal struck with the inscription Agonalium cruore abluto Aqua Vergine, in allusion to the games of which Piazza Navona is supposed (Dyer says it was the Stadium of Domitian, and Becker, that there is no proof it was ever a circus.) to have been the scene, and the 'Vergine' aqueduct from which the fountains were supplied. 'Papa Pamfili' also restored St. John Lateran, and undertook many other works, but was somewhat hampered by the discontent of the people at the expense, expressed in the following pasquinades: 'Noi volemo altro che guglie e fontane: Pane volemo, pane! pane! pane!' and 'Ut lapides isti panes fiant!' To return to Donna Olimpia. One of the pasquinades on her preserved in Cancellieri from Gigli's diary, refers to an accusation against her, that she had been very liberal both to religious communities and to the people until her brother-in-law (Cancellieri calls Innocent her cognato, and cognato in common conversation now is used for a cousin. Bazzarini explains it as 'any relationship by marriage.') was made Pope, and that when that object was attained she ceased her bounty. Pasquin wrote upon this, 'Donna Olimpia fuerat olim pia, nunc impia.' Another declared that the said brother-in-law 'Olympiam potius quam Olympum respicere videbatur,' an accusation he declares to have been invented solely for the sake of punning, and without any truth, on faith of the character given him by his biographers, and of the fact that he was more than seventy-one when raised to the Papacy, and so deformed and ugly that Guido put his portrait under the feet of the archangel in his famous picture of St. Michael. (Mercato, Appendix, n. 4 to N. x.) She was, however, sometimes inexcusable in her haughty caprices, as, for instance, when she invited five and twenty Roman ladies to see a pageant, and then asked only eight of them to sit down to table with her, leaving the remainder 'mortificate alle finestre;' and frequently more free than choice in her mots. Her grandchildren seem to have inherited this freedom of speech; Gigli (quoted by Cancellieri, Mercato § xvi. and xx.) records in his Diary that the eldest of them, Giambattista, being asked one day by the Pope, who took great notice of him, if he had seen St. Agnese in Piazza Navona, which he was then building, replied (though only seven years old), 'I have not seen it yet; but you, if you don't make haste, won't live to see it completed.' It would seem to have been a popular prophecy which the child had caught up, and it so happens that the event bore it out. There is nothing, however, which shows the heartless character of Donna Olimpia more glaringly than her refusal to pay a farthing to bury the Pope, alleging she was 'only a poor widow!' and this, though the Pope had not only 'favoured her so much as to endanger his reputation,' (MS. life of his successor Alex. VII. by Card. Pallavicini, quoted by Novaes: Storia de' Sommi Pontefici, x. 61.) but had handed to her all his disposable property on his deathbed. Donna Olimpia so utterly abandoned his body that it was carried down into a lumber-room where workmen kept their tools, and one poor labourer had the charity to buy a tallow candle to burn beside it, and another paid some one to watch it, to keep the mice off which abounded there. Finally, a Mgr. Scotti, his maggiordomo, paid for a coffin of 'albuccio,' (Nothing better than deal, I believe.) and a former maggiordomo, whom he had dispossessed, gave five scudi (returning good for evil) to pay the expenses of burying him. It was not till twelve years later that he had a fitting funeral in S. Maria dell' Anima. When a few months after Innocent's death Donna Olimpia endeavoured to put herself on her old footing at the Vatican Court, by sending a valuable present of some gold vases to Alexander VII., that Pope testified his appreciation of her by returning her offering; adding the message that she was not to take the trouble to visit his palace, as it was no place for women. (Mercato, § xxi.) There was subsequently some angry correspondence between her and this Pope concerning the delays occasioned by her parsimony in completing the church in Piazza Navona, and the consequent obstruction of the Piazza, a great inconvenience to the public on account of its use as a market-place. Finally he banished her from Rome, fixing her residence at Orvieto, where she fell a victim to the plague two years after. Her palace in Piazza Navona became in 1695 the residence of Lord Castlemaine, ambassador of James II. to the Holy See. He had an ox roasted whole before it, and other bounties distributed to the people on occasion of the birth of 'The Pretender.' [283] An argument worthy to take rank beside the famous one of 'Mrs. Brown' concerning Noah's Ark. [284] I said this, really thinking at the moment there was such a statue surmounting the apex of the pediment of the façade; but it afterwards came to mind and I have since verified it on the spot, that the statues on the pediment represent the twelve Apostles with Christ in the centre, and there is no female figure there. Among the numerous statues of saints surmounting the colonnade, are a small proportion of female saints, but no one at all prominent. [285] The Marescotti were a noble family of Bologna, the second city of the Pontifical Dominions; there were two cardinals of the name. [286] 'Il buon uomo di loro padre.' [287] 'Faceva il diavolo,' lit. 'raised the devil.' [288] 'In quei tempi antichi ubbedirono le figlie, capisce.' 'Capisce,' lit. 'understand,' equivalent to 'you see.' [289] 'Puzza--puzza di peccato!' Lit. 'It stinks--it stinks of sin.' (See n. 5, p. 13.) [290] I give the story, as near as possible, in the words which the pious faith of the narrator prompted her to use. The success of the final results of a measure may prove that what seemed tyranny was really prudent foresight; the contemporary views of parental responsibility must also be taken into account. But it is impossible for the modern English mind to sympathise readily with so violent an interference with natural instincts. [291] 'A mano, a mano.' [292] 'Catenella,' lit. 'little chain,' an instrument of penance worn by some persons on the arm or waist. [293] The following are briefly the authentic particulars of her life from Moroni, xxx. 194. She was daughter of Marc Antonio Mariscotti and Ottavia Orsini, born in 1535, and baptised by the name of Clarice. Although brought up in the fear of God and led to appreciate holiness, her youth was passed in worldliness and vanity. Her younger sister having been asked in marriage before her, she was so much vexed and annoyed that she became insupportable at home, on which account her father proposed to her to become a nun in the convent of S. Bernardino at Viterbo, where she had been educated, and she adapted herself to his counsel, though without any personal inclination for it. At the end of her noviciate she made her father arrange that she should have a room of her own magnificently furnished. Sister Giacinta lived ten years thus a religious in name but not in mind. Nevertheless she was not without virtue, for she was always obedient to her superior as she had been to her parents; and her modesty, purity, and respect for holy things was observed by all. A serious illness was to her the call of grace; having given up to the abbess of the convent all the things that had been brought in for her use by special privilege, she devoted herself to severe penance and continual meditation. On occasion of a contagious disease with which Viterbo was afflicted, she gave abundant proof of her charity towards her neighbour, for she founded two societies, the object of one of which was to collect assistance for the convalescent and those who had fallen into reduced circumstances; the other to support a hospital built to receive the sick. These two societies, which she called 'Oblates of Mary,' still continue (the date of Moroni's work is 1845) in full activity. [294] The statue called by this name was not originally found in its present situation. The shop of the tailor Pasquino was in the Via in Parione, a turning out of the Via del Governo Vecchio, some little distance off, nor was it discovered at all till after Pasquino's death. At his time it was buried unperceived in the pavement of the street, and the inequalities of its outline afforded stepping-stones by means of which passengers picked their way through the puddles! Cancellieri (Mercato, appendix, N. iii.)] quotes a passage from a certain Tibaldeo di Ferrara, quoted in a book, his dissertation concerning the author of which is too long to quote. This Tibaldeo, however, says, 'as the street was being repaired, and I had the shop that was Pasquino's made level, the trunk of a statue, probably of a gladiator, was found, and the people immediately gave it his name.' He, however, quotes from other writers mention of other sites for its discovery mostly somewhat nearer to the present situation. The site of the present Palazzo Braschi was then occupied by the so-called Torre Orsini, a building of a very different ground-plan. Cancellieri quotes from more than one MS. diary that at the time the Marquis de Créquy came to Rome as ambassador of Louis XIII. in 1633, the Palazzo de' Orsini, where he was lodged, was designated as 'sopra Pasquino.' And again from another MS. diary, that in 1728, when the palace was bought by the Duca di Bracciano-Odoscalchi, the same designation remained in use. In the Diary of Cracas, under date March 19, 1791, is an entry detailing the care with which the Pasquino statue was removed to a pedestal prepared for it in front of Palazzo Pamfili during the completion of the contiguous portion of the Palazzo Braschi, and its restoration is duly entered on the 14th March of the same year. (There is clearly a typographical error about one of these dates, which could doubtless be corrected by reference to 'Notizie delle due famose statue di un fiume e di Patroclo dette volgarmente di Marforio e di Pasquino,' by the same author, Rome, 1789, which I have not been able to see. Moroni, vi. 99, gives 1791 as the year in which it was bought by Duke Braschi, the nephew of Pius VI. while the Pope was in exile in France, and the completion by the rebuilding must, therefore, have been some years later. The date of its discovery is told in the following inscription by the cardinal inhabiting Torre Orsini at the time, and who saved it from destruction:-- Oliverii Caraffa Beneficio hic sum Anno Salvati Mundi--MDI.) It was Adrian VI. (not Alexander VI. as Murray has it), who proposed to throw it into the Tiber. Adrian VI. was a victim of pasquinades for two reasons,--the first, because born at Utrecht and tutor of Charles V., and afterwards viceroy in Spain, during all Charles' absence in Germany Rome feared at his election that he would set up the Papal See in Spain; and it is not altogether impossible that the popular satires may have had some influence in deciding him on the contrary to repair immediately to Rome,--the second, because he was an energetic and unsparing reformer; and those who were touched by his measures were just those who could afford to pay the hire of the tongues of popular wags. Nor was it only during his life that he was the subject of such criticisms. When his rigorous reign was suddenly brought to a close after he had worn the tiara but twenty months, on the door of his physician was posted this satire, 'Liberatori Patriæ S.P.Q.R.' (Giovio; Vit. Hadr. VI.); and his tomb in St. Peter's, between that of Pius II. and Pius III., was disgraced with this epitaph: 'Hic jacet impius inter Pios,' till some years later, when his body was removed to a worthier monument in S. Maria del Anima. [295] I have not been able to make out the origin of this name. It is possibly, a mere combination of Cecco, short for Francesco, and a family name, or the name of the village of which he was native which I do not recognise. [296] 'Nei tempi di prima.' [297] It is very likely Cècingùlo was some generations older even than the narrator's 'papa.' I have thought it worth while to put this much about him on record, as he was doubtless one of those who have given the local colouring to these very tales. The old women whose heads are their storehouse, as they repeat them over the spinning-wheel, say them with no further alteration than want of memory or want of apprehension necessarily occasions. It is the professional wag who, sitting in the midst of the vegetable market amid a peasant audience, will ascribe to a cicoriaro the acts of a paladin, and insert 'a casino in the Campagna' in the place of an oriental palace. I have met various people who had heard as much as the above about Cècingùlo, but no more. [298] 'Lo Sposalizio di Sor Cassandro.' For 'Sor' see p. 194. [299] The 'Via di Panìco' is so called, according to Rufini, because on a bit of ancient sculpture built into the wall of one of the houses where it had been dug up as is so commonly done in Rome, the people thought they saw the likeness of some ears of millet, panìco, and birds pecking them. [300] Just as at Oxford, men say 'the High' and 'the Corn,' &c, it is very common in Rome to use the name of a street omitting the word Via. [301] 'Friggitoria,' an open shop where all manner of fried dishes very popular among the lower classes, and varying according to the time of year, are made and sold; three or four or more enormous pans of oil and of lard are kept boiling, and at one season fish, at another rice-balls, at another artichokes, &c. &c, always previously dipped into light batter, are cooked therein to a bright gold colour. On St. Joseph's Day, as it always falls in Lent, a meagre festa-dish is made of balls of batter fried in oil, in as universal request as our pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. A writer in the 'Giovedi' mentions two popular traditions on the connexion between the 'frittelle' or 'frittatelli' and St. Joseph. One is that St. Joseph was wont to make such a dish for his meal by frying them with the shavings from his bench, in the same dangerous way that you may see those of his trade heating their glue in any carpenter's shop in Rome. The other, that on occasion of the Visitation, the B. Virgin and St. Elizabeth remained so long in ecstatic conversation that the dinner was forgotten, and St. Joseph took the liberty allowed to so near a relation of possessing himself of a frying-pan and preparing a dish of 'frittelle.' The writer already quoted narrates in another paper that the 'friggitori' formerly plied their trade in the open air, but one day a cat escaping from the attentions of an admirer she did not choose to encourage, sprang from a low roof adjoining, right into the frying-pan of a 'friggitore' full as it was of boiling oil and spluttering 'frittelle'; the cat overturned the frying-pan, setting herself on fire, and carrying a panic together with a stream of flaming oil into the midst of the crowd in waiting for their 'frittelle.' Since that day the 'friggitore' fries under cover, though still in open shops. [302] Great part of the fun of the story consisted of jokes upon these technicalities which it would be too tedious to reproduce and explain. [303] 'Brutto vecchiaccio!' ugly, horrid old man. [304] 'Bella e ricca quanto il sole.' [305] 'Mosca' and 'neo' both mean either a mole or a patch. [306] 'Sicario,' hired assassin. [307] 'I Matrimonio del Signor Cajusse.' This story, it will be seen, is altogether disconnected with the other of the same name at p. 158-69, and it is curious so similar a title should be appended to so dissimilar a story. It has not half the humour of Mr. Campbell's 'Baillie Lunnain,' No. xvii. b. Vol. i., but is sufficiently like to pair off against it. It is also observable for representing exactly the proceeding of the 'Marquis di Carabas' in 'Puss in Boots.' [308] 'Mercante di Campagna,' see n. 2, p. 154. [309] 'Tenuta,' a farm; a holding. [310] 'Merenda,' see n. 7, p. 155. [311] This story, again, is perhaps more curious for the sake of the repetition of the name of Lattanzio, in so different a story as that at p. 155, than for its contents. There is doubtless a reason why this name should come into this sort of use as with that of 'Cajusse,' but I have not as yet been able to meet with it. [312] '21 o'clock,' three hours before the Ave. [313] 'Gisbuse' are high boots of unblackened leather reaching up to the thighs, worn by sportsmen about Rome. [314] 'Viva!' or 'Evviva!' is a not very uncommon, though rather old-fashioned, mode of hearty greeting. [315] 'Curiale,' a lawyer, a pleader. [316] 'Scimmia,' a monkey. In England we usually speak of a cat as of feminine gender, and in Germany the custom is so strong that the well-known riddle pronounces the 'Kater' (tom cat) 'keine Katze' (no cat), while in France, Spain and Italy the normal cat is masculine. In Italian, on the other hand, the monkey is always spoken of in the feminine gender; it becomes noteworthy in this instance when we consider the termination of the story. 'Bellacuccia,' 'dear little pretty one.' [317] I do not know at what period the transfer took place, but in the edition of 1725, of Panciroli's book on Rome, the church is named as built and served by the 'Eremiti scalsi di S. Agostino,' corroborating this part of the story. [318] 'Fatato.' [319] 'You know what a "selvaggio" is, I suppose?' asked the narrator. 'Yes; a wild man,' I answered, thinking of the German myths. 'No, they weren't altogether men, they were those creatures there used to be in old times, half men with legs like goats, but they walked on two legs, and had heads and arms like men.' After this description, I thought I might take the license of adopting the title for a word incidentally used by the narrator in telling the story. The shepherds and goatherds about Rome with their goatskin leggings covering leg and thigh, readily suggest to the eye how the idea of a satyr may have first arisen. [320] 'Appassionata,' 'of a broken heart.' [321] 'Ferraiuola,' the light cloak with a shoulderpiece which priests wear out of doors in Rome in summer. It was formerly worn by others besides priests. [322] Sgramfia, or granfa or gramfia, is a claw of a beast, or of a bird of prey, most often used for the latter. I hardly know how this came to be ascribed to a satyr, unless she meant simply that his nails were rather strongly developed. [323] Bazzarini gives 'salvatico' as synonymous with 'satiro.' [324] 'Mi volete bene,' literally, only 'do you wish me well?' but the accepted form of saying, 'do you love me?' when therefore the girl says the words at last she is supposed to make a sort of compromise by means of which she saves the prince and her own good taste at the same time. [325] Though I believe there is no rule or ground for the distinction, in conversational language, 'fratello' is used for 'brother,' and 'frate' for 'monk' (as 'sorella' usually means any sister and 'suora' a nun). 'Frate,' again, is usually, though not by any rule, or exclusively, reserved for the mendicant Franciscans. A Capuchin is called 'padre cappucino,' and a Dominican, generally, a 'padre domenicano.' [326] 'Laico.' [327] 'Guercino.' There is no very definitely expressed distinction in Italian in the way of saying weak-sighted, or one-eyed, or squinting; 'guercio' is used to express all. The termination 'ino' here is not an actual diminutive, but means 'he who is one-eyed,' or 'he who is weak-sighted,' or 'he who squints,' with an implied expression of sympathy (see Note 5, p. 379). In this case the conclusion shows that 'one-eyed' was intended. [328] 'Posate,' plural of 'posata,' knife, fork, and spoon. [329] 'Ecco servito, Excellenza.' 'It is all done as you desire.' [330] The poor, badly fed themselves, delight to dilate on a description of good living, just as dreaming of eating is said to arise from a condition of hunger. I have not added a word here in the text to those of the narrator of the story, and her enumeration is a very fair rendering of the usual repertory of a Roman innkeeper. Broth or thin soup ('minestra'); a dish of boiled meat ('lesso'), of 'arrosto,' that is, grilled or baked, and of 'fritto' (fried) is the regular course: 'gallinaccio spezzato' is a turkey cut up in joints and served with various sauces, and is much more esteemed than if cooked whole, a rather unusual dish; 'frittata,' omelette; 'crescione,' watercresses. [331] 'Beato a te, Francesco.' [332] 'Born,' an Italianism for 'laid.' [333] 'Fritto dorato.' Romans, though not eminent in the culinary art, fry admirably. They always succeed in making their fried dishes a rich golden colour, and they ordinarily express a fried dish by the two words together, 'fritto dorato.' [334] 'Beato a te, Francesco, Che quando morirai Un occhio serrerai E l'altro no!' [335] The merit of this story consists much in the mode of telling. The narrator should be able to imitate the peculiar tone to which the 'Preface' is sung, and to supply the corresponding notes for the additional insertion. It was very effectively done by the person who told it to me. [336] 'Asino o porco.' [337] 'Padre Guardiano' is the ordinary title of the Superior in Franciscan convents. [338] 'Zicherte! Zacherte!' [339] 'I sette Villani.' [340] 'Un po' di mistuanza.' 'Mistuanza' is a word in use among the poor for a mixture of herbs of which they make a kind of poor salad. [341] 'Un po' di bove, un po' di porchi, un po' di galline.' 'Un po' (un poco) a little. The effect of the story depended a good deal on the tones of voice in which it was told. The deprecatory tone of the penitent as he says, 'un po' di bove,' &c., and the horror of the priest as he cries out, 'Signori della mistuanza!' This same story in quite another dress was told me one evening in Aldershot Camp; and as it is a very curious instance of the migration of myths, I give the home version. It would seem that in Aldershot lingo, or in the lingo of a certain regiment once stationed there, to 'kill a fox' means to get drunk. Possibly the expression was acquired during the Peninsular war, as 'tomar una zorrilla' has an equivalent meaning in Spanish. The story was this. Once during the brief holiday of the chaplain of the regiment, a French priest who knew a little English took his place. At confession the chief fault of which, according to the story, the men accused themselves was that they had 'killed a fox,' an expression perfectly well understood by their own pastor. The good French priest, however, instead of being shocked at finding how often men got drunk, was highly edified at the angelic simplicity of these Angles, who showed so much contrition for having indulged in the innocent pastime--in France, not even an offence among sportsmen--of having killed a fox. At last there came one of a more humorous turn of mind than the rest, and the surnois air with which he pronounced the expression revealed to the good Frenchman that the words meant something more than they said. 'Vat mean you ven you say, "kill de fox?"' now inquired the Frenchman of his penitent with fear and trembling. And the blunt soldier had no sooner expounded the slang than the bewildered foreigner threw open the front wicket of the confessional and cried aloud: 'Come back! all you dat have killed de foxes! Come back! come back!' [342] 'L'uccelletto,' the little bird. [343] 'Terrino,' a high earthen dish with a cover, probably the origin of our 'tureen,' almost the only kind of Italian dish that ever has a cover. [344] 'Il Diavolo che prese Moglie.' [345] 'Il Capo diavolo.' [346] 'Il più bravo.' [347] Witches were generally accused of communicating with the Devil, going to midnight meetings with him, &c., by means of ointments. See 'Del Rio,' lib. ii. Q. xvi. p. 81, col. 1, C., and lib. iii. P. 1, 2, ii. p. 155, col. 1, B., &c., &c. [348] 'La Regina e la Triparola;' 'Triparola,' female tripe-seller. [349] 'Vicolo,' a narrow dirty street. [350] 'Due gocciette d'acqua,' two little drops of water, the Roman equivalent for 'as like as two peas.' [351] 'Triparolo,' a male tripe-seller. [352] 'Un bajocco di tripa-gatto,' the worst part of the tripe, sold for cats' and dogs' meat. [353] 'La Regina Cattiva.' [354] 'La Sposa Cece,' the simple wife. 'Cece' among the common people seems to mean pretty nearly the same as 'tonto,' 'silly,' 'idiotic;' in this place more exactly 'simple' or 'half-witted.' [355] It is a characteristic of the Roman people that as a rule they never call people by their names; the 'casato' or married name, and the 'cognome' or family name, are used indifferently when such a name is called in request at all, by married people. If they must give a name to a stranger it is always the Christian name that comes first to their lips; among themselves, however, it is seldom the genuine name that is used. They have some 'sopranome' or nick-name for everybody, or at least a shortening of the Christian name, as 'Checca' and 'Checco' for Francesca and Francesco; 'Pippo' for Filippo; 'Pepe' for Giuseppe; 'Cola' for Niccola; 'Maso' for Tomaso; 'Teta' for Teresa; 'Lalla' for Adelaide; 'Lina' for Carolina; 'Tuta' for Geltrude; the abbreviations for Giovanni are innumerable. But what they most love to designate people by is a description of their persons. When you come home from your walk, your servant does not tell you Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so have called, but it will be 'Quel signore vecchio ingobbato' (that old hump-backed kind of gentleman), if he be the least grey and high-shouldered, however young he may be; or 'Quel bel giovane alto' (that tall, handsome, young gentleman), whatever his age, if he be only bien conservé. Then 'Quella signora alta, secca, che veste di lutto' (that tall thin lady dressed in mourning). 'Quella signora bella bionda, giovane' (that lady, pretty, fair, young). Or 'Quello che porta il brillante' (he who wears a brilliant), because the same friend happened to have a diamond stud in his cravat one day; or 'Quella contessa che veste di cilestro,' because the lady happened once to wear a blue dress, and so on, with all manner of signs and tokens which it may take you half-an-hour to recognise a person by, if you ever make it out at all. Or, if there is no distinctive mark of the kind to seize upon, it will be 'Quel signore,' or 'quella signora di Palazzo,' or 'Via,' or 'Piazza' So-and-so. And this not from the difficulty of catching a foreign name, because it is still more in vogue when designating their own people; if you are asking for the address of a servant, a tailor, a dressmaker, &c., it is in vain you try to make them out by the name, you must do your best to describe them, and then they will break out with an exclamation hitting it off for themselves: 'Ah! si, quel scimunito' (that silly-looking fellow); 'quel gobbo' (that high-shouldered fellow--lit. 'hunchbacked'); 'quella strega' (that ugly old woman, cunning woman--lit. 'witch'); 'quella bella giovane alta' (that tall handsome girl); 'quella donna bassetta' (that short little woman), for with their descriptions as with their names they must super-add a diminutive or a qualification, and 'basso' (short) is pretty sure to be rendered by 'bassetto,' 'piccola' (little) by 'piccinina,' 'vecchio' (old) by 'vecchietto.' 'Quella scimia' or 'scimietta' (that old woman, or that little old woman who looks like a monkey). 'Quella donna anziana' (that respectable old woman). 'Quella donniciuola' (that nasty little old woman, contemptible old woman). 'Quel ragazzino, tanto carino, tanto caruccio' (that nice boy, that very nice boy). 'Quel vecchietto' (that nice old man); and in this way the hero of this story is designated as 'The man who has a daughter to marry.' [356] 'Boccione,' a large coarse glass bottle commonly used in Rome for carrying wine. When it is covered with twisted rushes--like the oil-flasks that come to England--it is called a 'damigiana,' a young lady, a little lady. [357] 'Mettetevelo addietro.' Lit. 'Put it behind you,' a way of saying 'Never mind it,' 'don't care about it.' But the woman is supposed to be so foolish that she understands it literally. [358] The Italian custom of the newly married couples continuing to live with the parents of one or other of them is here brought in. [359] 'Tegame,' a flat earthen pan much in vogue in Roman kitchens; 'ova in tegame' is a favourite and not a bad dish. A little fresh butter is oiled, and the eggs are dropped into it as for poaching, and very slowly cooked in it; when scarcely set they are reckoned done. [360] Such notions are not altogether so impossible as they seem. I myself heard a very intelligent little boy one day say to his mother, 'Mama, I should so like to see a horse's egg.' 'A horse's egg, my dear--there are no such things,' was the reply of course. 'Oh yes, there must be,' rejoined the child, 'because I've heard Pa several times talk about finding a mare's nest.' [361] 'Uovo,' by the way, is a word with which great liberties are taken. The correct singular is 'uovo' and the plural 'uova,' but it is very common to make the plural in 'i' and also to say 'uova' for the singular, and 'uove' for plural, while the initial 'u' is most usually dropped out. [362] 'Brodo' is beef-tea or clear broth with nothing in it; broth with vermicelli or anything else in it is 'minestra;' 'zuppa,' which sounds most like 'soup,' is rather 'sop,' and when applied to broth, means strictly only broth with bread in it, from 'inzuppare,' to steep, soak, or sop; but it is also used for broth with anything else in it besides bread, but never without anything in it. [363] 'La Donna Mattarella.' 'Matto' is simply 'mad,' with the diminutive 'ella' it comes to mean 'slightly mad,' 'simple.' [364] 'Il Tonto.' [365] 'Chiodacci;' 'chiodi,' nails; 'chiodacci,' old rusty nails. [366] 'La Ragazza Golosa;' 'goloso' means, in particular, greedy of nice things. [367] 'Codiche di presciúto.' [368] 'Mercante di Campagna.' See Note 2, p. 154. [369] 'Voi pensate a voi ed io penso a me!' 'Pensare' is much used in Rome in the sense of 'to attend to,' 'to provide for.' [370] 'Guèrcia,' see Note 3 to 'The Two Friars;' in this case squinting seems intended. [371] 'La Figlia Ghiotta.' 'Ghiotta' and 'golosa' have much the same meaning. [372] 'Compare-lupo' (lit. had a wolf for godfather); 'compare' for 'compadre,' godfather, gossip. Lycanthropy had an important place in the mediæval as in the earlier mythologies; witches were often accused of turning people into wolves by the use of their ointments. Our 'Little Red Riding Hood' is connected with it, and several in the German and Tirolese Stories, but it is too wide a subject to enter upon here. [373] 'Il Vecchio Avaro.' (The Avaricious Old Man.) [374] 'Che campasse d'aria,' who should subsist on air. [375] 'Abbi pazienza,' have patience; equivalent to 'please,' 'pray excuse me,' &c. [376] 'Trattoria,' an eating-house, but one where, as a rule, dinners are sent out. [377] 'Giovedi grasso,' Thursday in Carneval week, a day of a little extra feasting. [378] 'La Vecchia Avara.' This story was told in emulation of the last, otherwise it is hardly worth reproducing. The only merit of the story consisted in the liveliness of the pantomime with which the words of the third wife were rendered. To the poor, however, such a story is a treasure, as it tells of the condign punishment of an oppressor; and there are few of them who have not some experience of what it is to be trampled on. [379] According to the local custom prevailing among all classes, of married sons and daughters continuing to live in the same house with their parents. [380] 'Dispensa,' store-room. [381] 'Pizza,' a cake; 'ricotta,' curds of sheep's milk. [382] 'Il Poverello del Cece.' The termination of the word 'Poverello' is one of those which determine the sentiment of the speaker in a way it is impossible to put into English. We use 'poor' (e.g. joined to the name of a deceased friend) to express sympathy and endearment; if we put 'poor' in this sense before the expression 'povero,' 'a poor man,' 'poverello,' 'a poor poor man,' we have the nearest rendering. Dante calls St. Francis, apostle of voluntary poverty, 'Quel poverel' di Dio.' It is the common expression in Rome for a beggar. The 'Poverello' in this story, however, was not one that merited much compassion. [383] 'Cece,' vetch, produces a very large pea in the south of Europe, and provides a staple article of food much liked among the lower orders. In Italy it is mostly eaten plain boiled, often cold, or else in soup and stews. All day long men go about the streets in Rome selling them (plain boiled) in wooden pails. Boys buy a handful as they would cherries, and eat them as they go along. In Spain, where it bears the name of 'garbanzo,' the favourite mode of cooking it is stewed in oil, with a large quantity of red pepper. [384] 'Coratella,' nice little heart. [385] 'O la vitella, O la zitella.' 'Vitella,' a calf; 'zitella,' an unmarried person. [386] 'Berretta,' (also written 'biretta') is used for any kind of cap worn by men or boys. It would appear that no kind of head-covering except a hood to the cloak, enabling the wearer to cover the head, or leave it bare at pleasure, was in common use in Italy before the sixteenth century, though the 'berretta' is mentioned in documents as part of ecclesiastical, particularly of the pontifical, dress, as early as the tenth century. The round 'berretta' coming to be commonly used by the people, their superiors adopted the quadrated form, which, with some modifications, is that still adopted by the Catholic clergy. Graduates and doctors were privileged to wear it, hence its use by Doctor Grillo; and though monks generally are not, some of those engaged in preaching and teaching have a special permission to do so. The Superior of the Theatine Convent of Naples alone, among all superiors of nuns, has the privilege of wearing the 'berretta.' Orsola Benincasa, the founder, was called to Rome that the Pope (Gregory XIII., 1576) might examine whether the reputation she had acquired for learning and piety was well founded. Not only was the Pope well satisfied with her, but St. Philip Neri also gave her many tokens of approval, and, among others, in his playful way, put his 'berretta' on her head. This honour has been commemorated by her successors retaining its use. [387] 'Vale più un oncia di fortuna che una libbra di sapere.' [388] 'Un saccentuzze.' [389] 'Garbatezza.' [390] 'Sassata,' in Italian, has a more terrible significance than 'stone-throwing,' in English, conveys. The art of throwing and slinging stones with dexterity and accuracy of aim would seem to have been as favourite a pastime among the peasantry in Italy and Spain as archery among our own. For the purposes of the present volume, it needs only to allude to the Roman development of the practice. P. Bresciani, who has taken more pains than any writer of the present age in illustrating the local customs of Rome, tells us the 'sassate' continued a favourite diversion of the youth of Rome almost down to our own day, and it was only by the most strenuous and vigorous measures that Cardinal Consalvi was enabled to put an end to it; being impelled thereto by the barbarous tone of feeling it engendered, and the frequent casualties resulting from it. The most idle and dissolute raggamuffins of the Monti and Trastevere quarters were among the most dexterous of marksmen. Whenever they aimed a throw, 'fosse di fionda o fosse di soprammano' (whether from a sling or from the hand) they were sure to hit the mark; so that any one of them might have written, like the Greek archer on his arrow, 'for the right eye of Philip,' on his 'ciotto.' ('Ciotto' is a stone such as would be used for throwing from a sling, and thus 'ciottolo' means equally a road made with rough stones and a 'sassata.' What is more to our present purpose is, that 'ciotto' means also 'lame,' suggesting how often persons may have been lamed by 'sassate'). It is said that in the Balearic islands, it was the custom for mothers to tie the meals of their children to a branch of a tree, and none got anything to eat till he had hit the string with a stone, and thus they were trained to 'fiondeggiare' (to throw from a sling) perfectly. The Roman raggamuffins, instead of their food, used to have for their mark the features of donna Lucrezia and Marforio, and they 'ciottolavanle' (pelted them) with stones from far and near. At other times their aim would be directed against a tuft of herbage dangling down from the arches of the aqueducts of Nero or Claudius, nor would they rest from their aiming till they had rooted it out with their stones. Their highest ambition was to direct a stone right through one of the small window-openings in the loftiest range at the Coliseum. After such practice, we may well believe the stones fell true when they had a living adversary before them. 'And as it is the evil custom of the sons of Adam to strive one against the other, and for the excitement of contention every village loves to keep up warfare with its next neighbouring village, so the "Rioni" of Rome delighted in trials of skill one against the other. Thus on every holiday a hundred or two of Montegiani and Trasteverini were to be found arrayed against each other, and all arranged in due order of battle, with its skirmishers and reconnoitring parties, its van-guard and rear-guard. One side would take the Aventine for its base of operations, and another the Palatine....' After describing very graphically the tactics in vogue, our author goes on to say, 'The adults of both factions stood by the while and backed up the boys, and often the strife which had begun as boys' pastime ended in serious maiming of grown up men. Hence, not a holiday passed but some mother had to mourn over a son brought home to her with a broken head or an eye knocked out; or some wife over a husband riddled (sforacchiato) with wounds....' Hence it was that Cardinal Consalvi, as we have seen, put an end to such rough play. [391] 'Quella,' in the original, lends itself better to the purposed misunderstanding of the story, meaning 'that one,' 'such an one as that!' in the feminine gender; and the master would think the servant said it in contempt because he spoke of a miller's daughter. [392] 'La Buona Grazia del Gobbo.' [393] 'In mezzo alla strada.' [394] 'Good Grace,' also the 'good favour,' the 'good graces.' [395] 'Cortile,' inner court of palaces and houses that are built in a quadrangle. [396] 'Saccoccia di polenta.' 'Polenta' is a porridge made of Indian corn meal, which makes a staple article of food of the Italian peasantry. It is, however, used for the meal of which the porridge is going to be made, though that is more usually called 'formentone,' or 'grano turco.' 'Saccroccia di polenta' would be a large pouch in which poor country labourers carry a provision of meal, when going out to work in the Campagna. The girl takes Giuditta's bag in the picture for such a 'saccoccia' as she had been used to see. [397] 'Tramezzo.' [398] 'Pupazza,' a doll, a stuffed figure. [399] 'Mi date la vostra buona grazia,' a common expression of no particular meaning; a compliment, equivalent to, 'We part good friends,' 'Give me your good favour.' [400] In a wine country the idea of wine being almost a necessity of existence occurs more readily than in England, where, however general its use, it is still a luxury. [401] 'Era stufa,' a way of saying, she was 'worn out,' 'wearied out.' [402] 'Palazzo.' [403] 'Credenziere,' confidential servant. [404] 'Aia,' upper nurse, nursery governess. [405] 'Combinazione.' [406] 'E così fece' (and thus he did) is another of the expressions in universal use in Rome in tale-telling, forming a sort of refrain. [407] 'I sposi Felici.' [408] 'Esempio,' see preface. 'Esempiuccio,' a termination of endearment, meaning in this place 'a nice "esempio".' [409] 'Vecchiaccia,' bad old woman. [410] 'Forma di formaggio,' a whole cheese. 'Cacio,' the proper word for cheese, is almost entirely superseded by 'formaggio,' which comes from 'forma,' the press or mould in which it is made. [411] 'Una Camera di Locanda.' [412] 'Combinazione.' [413] 'Credenziere.' [414] 'Un ora di notte'; an hour after the evening 'Ave.' [415] 'Il Gatto della Contessa.' [416] 'Il gatto non dissi niente, ma guardava con certi occhi grossi, grossi, fissi.' [417] 'Strozzato,' throttled; killed by wounding the strozzo, throat. [418] 'E questo è un fatto vero, sa; perchè il gatto è traditore sempre. Il cane e fedele si, ma il gatto è traditore.' [419] 'Perchè litigano sempre i Cani ed i Gatti.' [420] 'Dàlli! Dàlli ai cani!' [421] 'Contes Populaires des anciens Bretons, précédés d'un Essai sur l'origine des Epopées chevaleresques de la Table Ronde.' Par Th. de la Villemarqué. Paris et Leipzig, 1842. 
6613	----	MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND By Charles M. Skinner Vol. 8. ON THE PACIFIC SLOPE CONTENTS: The Voyager of the Whulge Tamanous of Tacoma The Devil and the Dalles Cascades of the Columbia The Death of Umatilla Hunger Valley The Wrath of Manitou The Spook of Misery Hill The Queen of Death Valley Bridal Veil Fall The Governor's Right Eye The Prisoner in American Shaft ON THE PACIFIC COAST THE VOYAGER OF WHULGE Like the ancient Greeks, the Siwash of the Northwest invest the unseen world with spiritual intelligence. Every tree has a soul; the forests were peopled with good and evil genii, the latter receiving oblation at the devil-dances, for it was not worth while to appease those already good; and the mountains are the home of tamanouses, or guardian spirits, that sometimes fight together--as, when the spirits of Mount Tacoma engaged with those of Mount Hood, fire and melted stone burst from their peaks, their bellowing was heard afar, and some of the rocks flung by Tacoma fell short, blocking the Columbia about the Dalles. Across these fantastic reports of older time there come echoes of a later instruction, adapted and blended into native legend so that the point of division cannot be indicated. Such is that of the mysterious voyager of the Whulge--the Siwash name for the sound that takes the name of Puget from one of Vancouver's officers. Across this body of water the stranger came in a copper canoe that borrowed the glories of the morning. When he had landed and sent for all the red men, far and near, he addressed to them a doctrine that provoked expressions of contempt--a doctrine of love. To fight and steal no more, to give of their goods to men in need, to forgive their enemies,--they could not understand such things. He promised--this radiant stranger--to those who lived right, eternal life on seas and hills more fair than these of earth, but they did not heed him. At last, wearying of his talk, they dragged him to a tree and nailed him fast to it, with pegs through his hands and feet, and jeered and danced about him, as they did about their victims in the devil-dance, until his head fell on his breast and his life went out. A great storm, with thunderings and earthquakes! They took the body down and would have buried it, but, to! it arose to its feet, as the sun burst forth, and resumed its preaching. Then they took the voyager's word for truth and never harmed him more, while they grew less warlike as each year went by until, of all Indians, they were most peaceable. TAMANOUS OF TACOMA Mount Tacoma has always been a place of superstitious regard among the Siwash (Sauvage) of the Northwest. In their myths it was the place of refuge for the last man when the Whulge was so swollen after long rain that its waters covered the earth. All other men were drowned. The waves pursued the one man as he climbed, rising higher and higher until they came to his knees, his waist, his breast. Hope was almost gone, and he felt that the next wave would launch him into the black ocean that raged about him, when one of the tamanouses of the peak, taking pity on him, turned his feet to stone. The storm ceased, and the waters fell away. The man still stood there, his feet a part of the peak, and he mourned that he could not descend to where the air was balmy and the flowers were opening. The Spirit of all Things came and bade him sleep, and, after his eyes were closed, tore out one of his ribs and changed it to a woman. When lifted out of the rock the man awoke, and, turning with delight to the woman, he led her to the sea-shore, and there in a forest bower they made their home. There the human race was recreated. On the shore of the Whulge in after years lived an Indian miser--rare personage--who dried salmon and jerked the meat that he did not use, and sold it to his fellow-men for hiaqua--the wampum of the Pacific tribes. The more of this treasure he got, the more he wanted--even as if it were dollars. One day, while hunting on the slopes of Mount Tacoma, he looked along its snow-fields, climbing to the sky, and, instead of doing homage to the tamanous, or divinity of the mountain, he only sighed, "If I could only get more hiaqua!" Sounded a voice in his ear: "Dare you go to my treasure caves?" "I dare!" cried the miser. The rocks and snows and woods roared back the words so quick in echoes that the noise was like that of a mountain laughing. The wind came up again to whisper the secret in the man's ear, and with an elk-horn for pick and spade he began the ascent of the peak. Next morning he had reached the crater's rim, and, hurrying down the declivity, he passed a rock shaped like a salmon, next, one in the form of a kamas-root, and presently a third in likeness of an elk's head. "'Tis a tamanous has spoken!" he exclaimed, as he looked at them. At the foot of the elk's head he began to dig. Under the snow he came to crusts of rock that gave a hollow sound, and presently he lifted a scale of stone that covered a cavity brimful of shells more beautiful, more precious, more abundant than his wildest hopes had pictured. He plunged his arms among them to the shoulder--he laughed and fondled them, winding the strings of them about his arms and waist and neck and filling his hands. Then, heavily burdened, he started homeward. In his eagerness to take away his treasure he made no offerings of hiaqua strings to the stone tamanouses in the crater, and hardly had he begun the descent of the mountain's western face before he began to be buffeted with winds. The angry god wrapped himself in a whirling tower of cloud and fell upon him, drawing darkness after. Hands seemed to clutch at him out of the storm: they tore at his treasure, and, in despair, he cast away a cord of it in sacrifice. The storm paused for a moment, and when it returned upon him with scream and flash and roar he parted with another. So, going down in the lulls, he reached timber just as the last handful of his wealth was wrenched from his grasp and flung upon the winds. Sick in heart and body, he fell upon a moss-heap, senseless. He awoke and arose stiffly, after a time, and resumed his journey. In his sleep a change had come to the man. His hair was matted and reached to his knees; his joints creaked; his food supply was gone; but he picked kamas bulbs and broke his fast, and the world seemed fresh and good to him. He looked back at Tacoma and admired the splendor of its snows and the beauty of its form, and had never a care for the riches in its crater. The wood was strange to him as he descended, but at sunset he reached his wigwam, where an aged woman was cooking salmon. Wife and husband recognized each other, though he had been asleep and she a-sorrowing for years. In his joy to be at home the miser dug up all his treasure that he had secreted and gave of his wealth and wisdom to whoso needed them. Life, love, and nature were enough, he found, and he never braved the tamanous again. THE DEVIL AND THE DALLES In days when volcanoes were playing in the Northwest and the sternly beautiful valley of the Columbia was a hell of ash and lava, the fiend men of the land met at intervals on the heated rocks to guzzle and riot together. It was at one of these meetings in the third summer after Tacoma had stopped spouting that the devil urged a lesson from the growing peace and joy of nature, and prayed the fiend men to desist from killing and eating each other and live in love. With a howl of rage at such a proposal they set upon him, tossing their tails in such a threatening manner that he deemed it best to be off, and as his hoofs clattered over the country his brain was busy in devising an escape. Nearing the mountain bulwarks of an inland sea, whose breakers' rhythmic roar he heard above the yells of his pursuers, a hope came into his head, and new vigor into his tail, though you might have thought the latter accession was not needed, for his tail was of prodigious length and strength. He whirled this limb aloft and beat it on the earth. A chasm opened at the stroke, and the devil skipped across to the safe side of it. Safe? No; for the fiend men in advance took the leap and came beside him. The tormented one could thrash any two of them at once, but he was not equal to a thousand. He brandished his weapon once more and it fell with a crash. Earth shook, dust arose in clouds, and a deeper cleft than before yawned through the valley. Again the fiend men tried to reach him, and, though the gap was bigger and many fell into it, hundreds made the jump and overtook him. He must make one more attempt. The tail revolved for a third time, and with the energy of despair he flailed the ground with it. A third ravine was split through the rock, and this time the earth's crust cracked away to the eastward, giving outlet to the sea, which came pouring through the canon, breaking rocks from mountains and grinding them to powder in its terrific progress. Gasping with fatigue, the unhappy one toiled up a hill and surveyed his work with satisfaction, for the flood engulfed the fiend men and they left no member of their race behind them. When they had all been happily smashed or drowned, the devil skipped lightly over the channels he had cut and sought his family, though with a subdued expression of countenance, for his tail--his strength and pride--was bruised and broken beyond repair, and all the little imps that he fathered to the world afterward had little dangling tails like monkeys' instead of megatheriums', and in time these appendages disappeared. But what was the use of them? The fiend men they had fought against were dead and the rising race they could circumvent by subtler means. The inland sea drained off. Its bed is now the prairie, and the three strokes of the devil's tail are indelibly recorded in the bed of the Columbia at the Dalles. And the devil never tried to be good again. CASCADES OF THE COLUMBIA When the Siwash, as the Northwestern Indians called themselves, were few, Mount Hood was kept by the Spirit of Storms, who when he shook his robe caused rain or snow to fall over the land, while the Fire Spirit flashed his lightnings from Mount Adams. Across the vale between them stretched a mighty bridge of stone, joining peak to peak, and on this the Siwash laid his offering of salmon and dressed skins. Here, too, the tribal festivals were kept. The priestess of the arch-Mentonee, who fed the fire on the tribal altar "unimpassioned by a mortal throb"--had won the love of the wild tamanouses of the mountains, but she was careless alike of coaxing and threats, and her heart was as marble to them. Jealous of each other, these two spirits fell to fighting, and, appalled by the whirl of fire and cloud, of splintering trees and crumbling rocks, the Indians fled in terror toward the lowlands, but she, unhurt and undaunted, kept in her place, and still offered praise to the one god. Yet she was not alone, for watchful in the shadow of a rock stood a warrior who had loved her so long, without the hope of lovers, that he, too, had outgrown fear. Though she had given him but passing words and never a smile, his own heart was the warmer and the heavier with its freight, and it was his way to be ever watching her in some place where she might not be troubled by the sight of him. The war waxed fiercer, and at last the spirits met at the centre of the arch, and in roar and quake and deluge the great bridge swayed and cracked. The young man sprang forward. He seized Mentonee in his arms. There was time for one embrace that cheated death of sorrow. Then, with a thunder like a bursting world, the miles of masonry crashed down and buried the two forever. The Columbia leaps the ruins of the bridge in the rapids that they call the Cascades, and the waters still brawl on, while the sulky tamanouses watch the whitened floods from their mountain-tops, knowing that never again will they see so fair a creature as Mentonee. THE DEATH OF UMATILLA Umatilla, chief of the Indians at the Cascades of the Columbia, was one of the few red men of his time who favored peace with the white settlers and lent no countenance to the fierce revels of the "potlatch." In these "feasts of gifts" the savages, believing themselves to be "possessed by the spirit," lashed themselves into a frenzy that on several occasions was only quieted by the shedding of blood. Black Eagle's Feather--or Benjamin, as he was called by the settlers--was the only one of the children of the old chief who survived a summer of plague, and on this boy Umatilla had put all his hopes and affections. The lad had formed a great trust in his white teacher, a college-bred man from the East, who had built a little school-house beside the Columbia and was teaching the Indian idea how to shoot something beside white people. This boy and his teacher had hunted together; they had journeyed in the same canoe; had tramped over the same trail to the great falls of the Missouri; and at the Giant Spring had seen the Piegans cast in their gifts, in the belief that the manitou of the place would deliver them in the hereafter to the sun-god, whom they worshipped. One day Benjamin fell ill, and the schoolmaster saw that he, too, was to die of the plague. Old Umatilla received the news with Indian stoicism, but he went into the forest to be alone for a time. When he returned day was breaking and a flock of wild-geese trumpeted overhead. The boy heard them, and said, "Boston tilicum" (white man), "does the Great Father tell the geese where to go?" "Yes." "Then he will tell me, too?" "Yes." "We shall never go back to the Missouri together. My father--" "We will watch over him." "That is well." And, in a few hours, he had intrusted the guidance of his soul through the world of shadows to the white man's unseen father. Umatilla sat beside the body through the night, and in the morning he called his people together. He told them that he was prepared to follow his boy out of the world, but that first he wanted to have their promise that they would no longer war on the whites, but look to them for friendship and guidance. There was some murmuring at this, for the ruder fellows were already plotting a descent on the settlers, but Umatilla had given them great store of goods at the last potlatch, and they reluctantly consented. The venerable chief ordered them to make a grave for Benjamin like the white man's, and, when it had been dug, four warriors laid the body of his son within it. Then, standing at the brink, the chief said, "My heart is growing cold, for it is in the grave there with my son. When I take three steps to the side of him, I, too, shall die. Be good to the white men, as you have said, and bury us both together. Great Spirit, I come." And, sinking to the ground, the old man's life ebbed in a breath. They buried him and his son in a single grave, and next day they went to the teacher and asked him to lead and instruct them. And with that year ended all trouble between red and white men along the Columbia. HUNGER VALLEY East of San Francisco is a narrow valley opening to the bay of San Pablo. In spite of its pleasant situation and fruitful possibilities, it had no inhabitants until 1820, when Miguel Zamacona and his wife Emilia strayed into it, while on a journey, and, being delighted with its scenery, determined to make it their home. In playful mockery of its abundance they gave to it the name El Hambre [Hunger] valley. After some weeks of such hardship as comes to a Mexican from work, Miguel had built an adobe cabin and got a garden started, while he caught a fish or shot a deer now and then, and they got on pretty well. At last it became necessary that he should go to Yerba Buena, as San Francisco was then called, for goods. His burros were fat and strong, and there should be no danger. Emilia cried at being left behind, but the garden had to be tended, and he was to be back in exactly three weeks. She waited for twenty-two days; then, her anxiety becoming unendurable, she packed an outfit on a burro and started on the trail. From time to time she called his name, and "Miguel!" echoed sweetly from hills and groves, but there was no other answer, save when an owl would hoot. Rolled in a blanket she slept on lupin boughs, but was off at peep of day again, calling--calling--high and clear among the solitudes. During the second day her burro gave a rasping bray, and a hee-haw answered from the bush. It was Miguel's burro. He had come at last! Leaping to her feet, in her impatience, she ran to meet him, and found him lying on the earth, staring silently at the sky. All that day she sat beside him, caressing his hand, talking, crying, bathing his face with water from the marsh--the poison marsh--and it was not until sunset that she could bring herself to admit that he was dead--had been dead for at least two days. She put the blanket over him, weighted it with stones, and heaped reeds upon it; then she started for home. A wandering trader heard her story, but years elapsed before any other settler entered Hunger valley. They found her skeleton then in the weedy garden. The adobe stands tenantless in the new village of Martinez, and the people have so often heard that the ghosts of the Zamaconas haunt the place that they have begun to disbelieve it. THE WRATH OF MANITOU The county called Kern, in California, lies mostly in a circular valley, and long, long before the evil one had created the pale face it was the home of a nation advanced in arts, who worshipped the Great Spirit in a building with a lofty dome. But the bravery and wisdom of one of their own people made them forget the Manitou and idolize the man who seemed the most like him. They brought him to the temple and prayed and sang to him, and held their sacred dances there, so angering God that he rent the earth and swallowed them. Nothing was seen of this people for years after, but their stone tools were left on neighboring hill-sides. Manitou even poured water into the valley, and great creatures sported in the inland sea. But, ere long, he repented his anger, and, in a fit of impatience at what he had done, he threw up quantities of earth that smoked with heat, and thus created the Sierra Nevada, while he broke away the hills at the foot of the lake, and the waters drained into the sea at the Golden Gate. This again made dry land of the valley, and, opening the earth once more, he released the captive tribe. The imprisoned people had not forgotten their arts nor their boldness; they made the place blossom again; they conquered other tribes, and Manitou declared them his chosen ones, from whom alone he would accept sacrifice. But their chief became so ambitious that he wanted to supplant the Manitou in the worship of the people, and finally, in a lunacy of self-conceit, he challenged the god to single combat. Under pretence of accepting the challenge, the Great Spirit set the offenders to wander through the desert until they reached a valley in the Sierras, opposite Tehachapi, where he caused them to be exterminated by a horde of savages from the Mojave desert. Then, in a fit of disgust at refractory humanity, he evoked a whirlwind and stripped away every living thing from the country of the savages, declaring that it should be empty of human beings from that time forward. And it was so. THE SPOOK OF MISERY HILL Tom Bowers, who mined on Misery Hill, near Pike City, California, never had a partner, and he never took kindly to the rough crowd about the place. One day he was missing. They traced his steps through the snow from his cabin to the brink of a great slope where he had been prospecting, but there they vanished, for a landslide had blotted them out. His body was exhumed far below and decently buried, yet it was said that it was so often seen walking about the mouth of his old shaft that other men avoided the spot. Thriftless Jim Brandon, in a spasm of industry, began work on the abandoned mine, and for a while he made it pay, for he got money and squared accounts with his creditors; but after a time it appeared that somebody else was working on the claim, for every morning he found that the sluice had been tampered with and the water turned on. He searched for the trespasser in vain, and told "the boys" that if they called that joking it had grown tiresome. One night he loaded his rifle, and, from a convenient nook, he watched for the intruder. The tamaracks crooned in the wind, the Yuba mumbled in the canon, the Sierras lay in a line of white against the stars. As he crept along to a point of better vantage he came to a tree with something tacked on it--something that shone in the dark like a match. In its own light he read, "Notice! I, Thomas Bowers, claim this ground for placer mining." Raising his hand to tear off the paper, he was amazed to feel a thrill pass through it, and his arm fell palsied at his side. But the notice was gone. Now came the sound of water flowing, and, as he angrily caught his gun and turned toward the sluice, the letters shone again in phosphorescence on the tree. There was the sound of a pick in the gravel now, and, crawling stealthily towards the sluice, he saw, at work there, Tom Bowers--dead, lank, his head and face covered with white hair, his eyes glowing from black sockets. Half unconsciously Jim brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired. A yell followed the report, then the dead man came running at him like the wind, with pick and shovel in either hand. Away went Brandon, and the spectre followed, up hill, in and out of woods, over ditches, through scrub, on toward Pike City. The miners were celebrating a new find with liberal potations and a dance in the saloon when, high above the crash of boots, the shouted jokes, the laughter, and the clink of glasses, came a sound of falling, a scream-then silence. They hurried into the road. There lay Brandon's rifle, and a pick and shovel with "T. B." cut in the handles. Jim returned no more, and the sluice is running every night on Misery Hill. THE QUEEN OF DEATH VALLEY In the southern part of California, near the Arizona line, is the famous Death Valley--a tract of arid, alkaline plain hemmed in by steep mountains and lying below the level of the sea. For years it was believed that no human being could cross that desert and live, for horses sink to their knees in drifts of soda dust; there is no water, though the traveller requires much drink; and the heat is terrific. Animals that die in the neighborhood mummify, but do not decay, and it is surmised that the remains of many a thoughtless or ignorant prospector lie bleached in the plain. On the east side of Dead Mountain are points of whitened rock that at a distance look like sheeted figures, and these, the Indians say, are the ghosts of their brethren. In the heart of this desert is said to be the ruin of a pueblo, or village, though the shape and size of it suggest that it was made for a few persons rather than for a tribe or family. Long ago, the tale runs, this place of horrors was a fair and fertile kingdom, ruled by a beautiful but capricious queen. She ordered her subjects to build her a mansion that should surpass those of her neighbors, the Aztecs, and they worked for years to make one worthy of her, dragging the stones and timbers for miles. Fearing lest age, accident, or illness should forbid her to see the ending of her dream, she ordered so many of her subjects to assist that her tribe was reduced to practical slavery. In her haste and heartlessness she commanded her own daughter to join the bearers of burdens, and when the toilers flagged in step in the noonday heat she strode among them and lashed their naked backs. As royalty was sacred, they did not complain, but when she struck her daughter the girl turned, threw down her load of stone, and solemnly cursed her mother and her kingdom; then, overcome by heat and weariness, she sank to the earth and died. Vain the regrets and lamentations of the queen. The sun came out with blinding heat and light, vegetation withered, animals disappeared, streams and wells dried up, and at last the wretched woman gave up her life on a bed of fever, with no hand to soothe her dying moments, for her people, too, were dead. The palace, half-completed, stands in the midst of this desolation, and sometimes it seems to lift into view of those at a distance in the shifting mirage that plays along the horizon. BRIDAL VEIL FALL The vast ravine of Yo Semite (Grizzly Bear), formed by tearing apart the solid Sierras, is graced by many water-falls raining down the mile-high cliffs. The one called Bridal Veil has this tale attached to it. Centuries ago, in the shelter of this valley, lived Tutokanula and his tribe--a good hunter, he, a thoughtful saver of crops and game for winter, a wise chief, trusted and loved by his people. While hunting, one day, the tutelary spirit of the valley--the lovely Tisayac--revealed herself to him, and from that moment he knew no peace, nor did he care for the well-being of his people; for she was not as they were: her skin was white, her hair was golden, and her eyes like heaven; her speech was as a thrush-song and led him to her, but when he opened his arms she rose lighter than any bird and vanished in the sky. Lacking his direction Yo Semite became a desert, and when Tisayac returned she wept to see the corn lands grown with bushes and bears rooting where the huts had been. On a mighty dome of rock she knelt and begged the Great Spirit to restore its virtue to the land. He did so, for, stooping from the sky, he spread new life of green on all the valley floor, and smiting the mountains he broke a channel for the pent-up meltings of the snows, and the water ran and leaped far down, pooling in a lake below and flowing off to gladden other land. The birds returned, the flowers sprang up, corn swayed in the breeze, and the people, coming back, gave the name of Tisayac to South Dome, where she had knelt. Then came the chief home again, and, hearing that the spirit had appeared, was smitten with love more strong than ever. Climbing to the crest of a rock that spires three thousand feet above the valley, he carved his likeness there with his hunting-knife, so that his memory might live among his tribe. As he sat, tired with his work, at the foot of the Bridal Veil, he saw, with a rainbow arching around her, the form of Tisayac shining from the water. She smiled on him and beckoned. His quest was at an end. With a cry of joy he sprang into the fall and disappeared with Tisayac. Two rainbows quivered on the falling water, and the sun went down. THE GOVERNOR'S RIGHT EYE Old Governor Hermenegildo Salvatierra, of Presidio, California, sported only one eye--the left--because the other had been shot out by an Indian arrow. With his sound one he was gazing into the fire, on a windy afternoon in the rainy season, when a chunky man in a sou'wester was-ushered into his presence, and after announcing that he was no other than Captain Peleg Scudder, of the schooner General Court, from Salem, he was made welcome in a manner quite out of proportion in its warmth to the importance that such a disclosure would have for the every-day citizen. He was hailed with wassail and even with wine. The joy of the commandant was so great that at the third bowl he sang a love ballad, in a voice somewhat cracked, and got on the table to teach the Yankee how to dance the cachuca. The law forbade any extended stay of Americans in Spanish waters, and the General Court took herself off that very night--for this, mind you, was in 1797, when the Spaniard ruled the farther coast. Next day Salvatierra appeared before his astonished people with a right eye. The priests attached to the fort gave a special service of praise, and told the miracle to the red men of their neighborhood as an illustration of the effect of goodness, prayer, and faith. People came from far and near that they might go to church and see this marvel for themselves. But, alas, for the governor's repute for piety! It soon began to be whispered around that the new eye was an evil one; that it read the deepest thoughts of men with its inflexible, cold stare; that under its influence some of the fathers had been betrayed into confessing things that the commandant had never supposed a clergyman to be guilty of. The people feared that eye, and ascribed such rogueries to the old man as had been entirely foreign to his nature hitherto. This common fear and suspicion reacted, inevitably, and Salvatierra began, unconsciously, to exhibit some of the traits that his subjects said he possessed. He changed slowly from the indulgent parent to the stern and exacting law-giver. He did not know, however, what the people had been saying about him, and never suspected that his eye was likely to get him into trouble. It was a warm night and he had gone to bed with his windows open--windows that opened from his garden, and were level, at the bottom, with the floor. A shadowy form stole along the gravel path and entered one of these windows. It was that of a mission Indian. He had gathered from the talk of the faithful that it would be a service to the deity as well as to men to destroy the power of that evil eye. He came beside the bed and looked attentively at the governor, sleeping there in the light of a candle. Then he howled with fright--howled so loudly that the old man sprang to his feet--for while the left eye had been fast asleep the evil one was broad awake and looking at him with a ghostly glare. In another second the commandant was at the window whirling his trusty Toledo about his head, lopping ears and noses from the red renegades who had followed in the track of the first. In the scrimmage he received another jab in the right eye with a fist. When day dawned it was discovered, with joy, that the evil eye was darkened--and forever. The people trusted him once more. Finding that he was no longer an object of dread, his voice became kinder, his manner more gentle. A heavy and unusual rain, that had been falling, passed off that very day, so that the destruction from flood, which had been prophesied at the missions, was stayed, and the clergy sang "Te Deum" in the church. The old commandant never, to his dying day, had the heart to confess that the evil eye was only a glass one. THE PRISONER IN AMERICAN SHAFT An Indian seldom forgets an injury or omits to revenge it, be it a real or a fancied one. A young native of the New Almaden district, in California, fell in love with a girl of the same race, and supposed that he was prospering in his suit, for he was ardent and the girl was, seemingly, not averse to him; but suddenly she became cold, avoided him, and answered his greetings, if they met, in single words. He affected to care not greatly for this change, but he took no rest until he had discovered the cause of it. Her parents had conceived a dislike to him that later events proved to be well founded, and had ordered or persuaded her to deny his suit. His retaliation was prompt and Indian-like. He killed the father and mother at the first opportunity, seized the girl when she was at a distance from the village, and carried her to the deserted quicksilver mine near Spanish Camp. In a tunnel that branched from American Shaft he had fashioned a rude cell of stone and wood, and into that he forced and fastened her. He had stocked it with water and provisions, and for some weeks he held the wretched girl a captive in total darkness, visiting her whenever he felt moved to do so until, his passion sated, he resolved to leave the country. As an act of partial atonement for the wrong he had done, he hung a leather coat at the mouth of the tunnel, on which, in picture writing, he indicated the whereabouts of the girl. Search parties had been out from the time of her disappearance, and one of them chanced on this clue and rescued her as she was on the point of death. The savage who had exacted so brutal and excessive a revenge fled afar, and his whereabouts were never known. 
6606	----	MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND By Charles M. Skinner Vol. 1. THE HUDSON AND ITS HILLS CONTENTS OF ALL VOLUMES: THE HUDSON AND ITS HILLS Rip Van Winkle Catskill Gnomes The Catskill Witch The Revenge of Shandaken Condemned to the Noose Big Indian The Baker's Dozen The Devil's Dance-Chamber The Culprit Fay Pokepsie Dunderberg Anthony's Nose Moodua Creek A Trapper's Ghastly Vengeance The Vanderdecken of Tappan Zee The Galloping Hessian Storm Ship on the Hudson Why Spuyten Duyvil is so Named The Ramapo Salamander Chief Croton The Retreat from Mahopac Niagara The Deformed of Zoar Horseheads Kayuta and Waneta The Drop Star The Prophet of Palmyra A Villain's Cremation The Monster Mosquito The Green Picture The Nuns of Carthage The Skull in the Wall The Haunted Mill Old Indian Face The Division of the Saranacs An Event in Indian Park The Indian Plume Birth of the Water-Lily Rogers's Slide The Falls at Cohoes Francis Woolcott's Night-Riders Polly's Lover Crosby, the Patriot Spy The Lost Grave of Paine The Rising of Gouverneur Morris THE ISLE OF MANHATTOES AND NEARBY Dolph Heyliger The Knell at the Wedding Roistering Dirck Van Dara The Party from Gibbet Island Miss Britton's Poker The Devil's Stepping-Stones The Springs of Blood and Water The Crumbling Silver The Cortelyou Elopement Van Wempel's Goose The Weary Watcher The Rival Fiddlers Wyandank Mark of the Spirit Hand The First Liberal Church ON AND NEAR THE DELAWARE The Phantom Dragoon Delaware Water Gap The Phantom Drummer The Missing Soldier of Valley Forge The Last Shot at Germantown A Blow in the Dark The Tory's Conversion Lord Percy's Dream Saved by the Bible Parricide of the Wissahickon The Blacksmith at Brandywine Father and Son The Envy of Manitou The Last Revel in Printz Hall The Two Rings Flame Scalps of the Chartiers The Consecration of Washington Marion TALES OF PURITAN LAND Evangeline The Snoring of Swunksus The Lewiston Hermit The Dead Ship of Harpswell The Schoolmaster had not reached Orrington Jack Welch's Death Light Mogg Megone The Lady Ursula Father Moody's Black Veil The Home of Thunder The Partridge Witch The Marriage of Mount Katahdin The Moose of Mount Kineo The Owl Tree A Chestnut Log The Watcher on White Island Chocorua Passaconaway's Ride to Heaven The Ball Game by the Saco The White Mountains The Vision on Mount Adams The Great Carbuncle Skinner's Cave Yet they call it Lover's Leap Salem and other Witchcraft The Gloucester Leaguers Satan and his Burial-Place Peter Rugg, the Missing Man The Loss of Weetamoo The Fatal Forget-me-not The Old Mill at Somerville Edward Randolph's Portrait Lady Eleanore's Mantle Howe's Masquerade Old Esther Dudley The Loss of Jacob Hurd The Hobomak Berkshire Tories The Revenge of Josiah Breeze The May-Pole of Merrymount The Devil and Tom Walker The Gray Champion The Forest Smithy Wahconah Falls Knocking at the Tomb The White Deer of Onota Wizard's Glen Balanced Rock Shonkeek-Moonkeek The Salem Alchemist Eliza Wharton Sale of the Southwicks The Courtship of Myles Standish Mother Crewe Aunt Rachel's Curse Nix's Mate The Wild Man of Cape Cod Newbury's Old Elm Samuel Sewall's Prophecy The Shrieking Woman Agnes Surriage Skipper Ireson's Ride Heartbreak Hill Harry Main: The Treasure and the Cats The Wessaguscus Hanging The Unknown Champion Goody Cole General Moulton and the Devil The Skeleton in Armor Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket Love and Treason The Headless Skeleton of Swamptown The Crow and Cat of Hopkins Hill The Old Stone Mill Origin of a Name Micah Rood Apples A Dinner and its Consequences The New Haven Storm Ship The Windham Frogs The Lamb of Sacrifice Moodus Noises Haddam Enchantments Block Island and the Palatine The Buccaneer Robert Lockwood's Fate Love and Rum LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH The Swim at Indian Head The Moaning Sisters A Ride for a Bride Spooks of the Hiawassee Lake of the Dismal Swamp The Barge of Defeat Natural Bridge The Silence Broken Siren of the French Broad The Hunter of Calawassee Revenge of the Accabee Toccoa Falls Two Lives for One A Ghostly Avenger The Wraith Ringer of Atlanta The Swallowing Earthquake The Last Stand of the Biloxi The Sacred Fire of Natchez Pass Christian The Under Land THE CENTRAL STATES AND GREAT LAKES An Averted Peril The Obstinacy of Saint Clair The Hundredth Skull The Crime of Black Swamp The House Accursed Marquette's Man-Eater Michel de Coucy's Troubles Wallen's Ridge The Sky Walker of Huron The Coffin of Snakes Mackinack Lake Superior Water Gods The Witch of Pictured Rocks The Origin of White Fish The Spirit of Cloudy The Sun Fire at Sault Sainte Marie The Snake God of Belle Isle Were-Wolves of Detroit The Escape of Francois Navarre The Old Lodger The Nain Rouge Two Revenges Hiawatha The Indian Messiah The Vision of Rescue Devil's Lake The Keusca Elopement Pipestone The Virgins' Feast Falls of St. Anthony Flying Shadow and Track Maker Saved by a Lightning-Stroke The Killing of Cloudy Sky Providence Hole The Scare Cure Twelfth Night at Cahokia The Spell of Creve Coeur Lake How the Crime was Revealed Banshee of the Bad Lands Standing Rock The Salt Witch ALONG THE ROCKY RANGE Over the Divide The Phantom Train of Marshall Pass The River of Lost Souls Riders of the Desert The Division of Two Tribes Besieged by Starvation A Yellowstone Tragedy The Broad House The Death Waltz The Flood at Santa Fe Goddess of Salt The Coming of the Navajos The Ark on Superstition Mountains The Pale Faced Lightning The Weird Sentinel at Squaw Peak Sacrifice of the Toltecs Ta-Vwots Conquers the Sun The Comanche Rider Horned Toad and Giants The Spider Tower The Lost Trail A Battle in the Air ON THE PACIFIC SLOPE The Voyager of the Whulge Tamanous of Tacoma The Devil and the Dalles Cascades of the Columbia The Death of Umatilla Hunger Valley The Wrath of Manitou The Spook of Misery Hill The Queen of Death Valley Bridal Veil Fall The Governor's Right Eye The Prisoner in American Shaft AS TO BURIED TREASURE Kidd's Treasure Other Buried Wealth STORIED WATERS, CLIFFS AND MOUNTAINS PREFACE It is unthinkingly said and often, that America is not old enough to have developed a legendary era, for such an era grows backward as a nation grows forward. No little of the charm of European travel is ascribed to the glamour that history and fable have flung around old churches, castles, and the favored haunts of tourists, and the Rhine and Hudson are frequently compared, to the prejudice of the latter, not because its scenery lacks in loveliness or grandeur, but that its beauty has not been humanized by love of chivalry or faerie, as that of the older stream has been. Yet the record of our country's progress is of deep import, and as time goes on the figures seen against the morning twilight of our history will rise to more commanding stature, and the mists of legend will invest them with a softness or glory that shall make reverence for them spontaneous and deep. Washington hurling the stone across the Potomac may live as the Siegfried of some Western saga, and Franklin invoking the lightnings may be the Loki of our mythology. The bibliography of American legends is slight, and these tales have been gathered from sources the most diverse: records, histories, newspapers, magazines, oral narrative--in every case reconstructed. The pursuit of them has been so long that a claim may be set forth for some measure of completeness. But, whatever the episodes of our four historic centuries may furnish to the poet, painter, dramatist, or legend-building idealist of the future, it is certain that we are not devoid of myth and folk-lore. Some characters, prosaic enough, perhaps, in daily life, have impinged so lightly on society before and after perpetrating their one or two great deeds, that they have already become shadowy and their achievements have acquired a color of the supernatural. It is where myth and history combine that legend is most interesting and appeals to our fancy or our sympathy most strongly; and it is not too early for us to begin the collation of those quaint happenings and those spoken reports that gain in picturesqueness with each transmission. An attempt has been made in this instance to assemble only legends, for, doubtful as some historians profess to find them, certain occurrences, like the story of Captain Smith and Pocahontas, and the ride of General Putnam down Breakneck Stairs, are taught as history; while as to folk-lore, that of the Indian tribes and of the Southern negro is too copious to be recounted in this work. It will be noted that traditions do not thrive in brick and brownstone, and that the stories once rife in the colonial cities have almost as effectually disappeared as the architectural landmarks of last century. The field entered by the writer is not untrodden. Hawthorne and Irving have made paths across it, and it is hoped that others may deem its farther exploration worthy of their efforts. THE HUDSON AND ITS HILLS RIP VAN WINKLE The story of Rip Van Winkle, told by Irving, dramatized by Boucicault, acted by Jefferson, pictured by Darley, set to music by Bristow, is the best known of American legends. Rip was a real personage, and the Van Winkles are a considerable family at this day. An idle, good-natured, happy-go-lucky fellow, he lived, presumably, in the village of Catskill, and began his long sleep in 1769. His wife was a shrew, and to escape her abuse Rip often took his dog and gun and roamed away to the Catskills, nine miles westward, where he lounged or hunted, as the humor seized him. It was on a September evening, during a jaunt on South Mountain, that he met a stubby, silent man, of goodly girth, his round head topped with a steeple hat, the skirts of his belted coat and flaps of his petticoat trousers meeting at the tops of heavy boots, and the face--ugh!--green and ghastly, with unmoving eyes that glimmered in the twilight like phosphorus. The dwarf carried a keg, and on receiving an intimation, in a sign, that he would like Rip to relieve him of it, that cheerful vagabond shouldered it and marched on up the mountain. At nightfall they emerged on a little plateau where a score of men in the garb of long ago, with faces like that of Rip's guide, and equally still and speechless, were playing bowls with great solemnity, the balls sometimes rolling over the plateau's edge and rumbling down the rocks with a boom like thunder. A cloaked and snowy-bearded figure, watching aloof, turned like the others, and gazed uncomfortably at the visitor who now came blundering in among them. Rip was at first for making off, but the sinister glare in the circle of eyes took the run out of his legs, and he was not displeased when they signed to him to tap the keg and join in a draught of the ripest schnapps that ever he had tasted,--and he knew the flavor of every brand in Catskill. While these strange men grew no more genial with passing of the flagons, Rip was pervaded by a satisfying glow; then, overcome by sleepiness and resting his head on a stone, he stretched his tired legs out and fell to dreaming. Morning. Sunlight and leaf shadow were dappled over the earth when he awoke, and rising stiffly from his bed, with compunctions in his bones, he reached for his gun. The already venerable implement was so far gone with rot and rust that it fell to pieces in his hand, and looking down at the fragments of it, he saw that his clothes were dropping from his body in rags and mould, while a white beard flowed over his breast. Puzzled and alarmed, shaking his head ruefully as he recalled the carouse of the silent, he hobbled down the mountain as fast as he might for the grip of the rheumatism on his knees and elbows, and entered his native village. What! Was this Catskill? Was this the place that he left yesterday? Had all these houses sprung up overnight, and these streets been pushed across the meadows in a day? The people, too: where were his friends? The children who had romped with him, the rotund topers whom he had left cooling their hot noses in pewter pots at the tavern door, the dogs that used to bark a welcome, recognizing in him a kindred spirit of vagrancy: where were they? And his wife, whose athletic arm and agile tongue had half disposed him to linger in the mountains how happened it that she was not awaiting him at the gate? But gate there was none in the familiar place: an unfenced yard of weeds and ruined foundation wall were there. Rip's home was gone. The idlers jeered at his bent, lean form, his snarl of beard and hair, his disreputable dress, his look of grieved astonishment. He stopped, instinctively, at the tavern, for he knew that place in spite of its new sign: an officer in blue regimentals and a cocked hat replacing the crimson George III. of his recollection, and labelled "General Washington." There was a quick gathering of ne'er-do-weels, of tavern-haunters and gaping 'prentices, about him, and though their faces were strange and their manners rude, he made bold to ask if they knew such and such of his friends. "Nick Vedder? He's dead and gone these eighteen years." "Brom Dutcher? He joined the army and was killed at Stony Point." "Van Brummel? He, too, went to the war, and is in Congress now." "And Rip Van Winkle?" "Yes, he's here. That's him yonder." And to Rip's utter confusion he saw before him a counterpart of himself, as young, lazy, ragged, and easy-natured as he remembered himself to be, yesterday--or, was it yesterday? "That's young Rip," continued his informer. "His father was Rip Van Winkle, too, but he went to the mountains twenty years ago and never came back. He probably fell over a cliff, or was carried off by Indians, or eaten by bears." Twenty years ago! Truly, it was so. Rip had slept for twenty years without awaking. He had left a peaceful colonial village; he returned to a bustling republican town. How he eventually found, among the oldest inhabitants, some who admitted that they knew him; how he found a comfortable home with his married daughter and the son who took after him so kindly; how he recovered from the effect of the tidings that his wife had died of apoplexy, in a quarrel; how he resumed his seat at the tavern tap and smoked long pipes and told long yarns for the rest of his days, were matters of record up to the beginning of this century. And a strange story Rip had to tell, for he had served as cup-bearer to the dead crew of the Half Moon. He had quaffed a cup of Hollands with no other than Henry Hudson himself. Some say that Hudson's spirit has made its home amid these hills, that it may look into the lovely valley that he discovered; but others hold that every twenty years he and his men assemble for a revel in the mountains that so charmed them when first seen swelling against the western heavens, and the liquor they drink on this night has the bane of throwing any mortal who lips it into a slumber whence nothing can arouse him until the day dawns when the crew shall meet again. As you climb the east front of the mountains by the old carriage road, you pass, half-way up the height, the stone that Rip Van Winkle slept on, and may see that it is slightly hollowed by his form. The ghostly revellers are due in the Catskills in 1909, and let all tourists who are among the mountains in September of that year beware of accepting liquor from strangers. CATSKILL GNOMES Behind the New Grand Hotel, in the Catskills, is an amphitheatre of mountain that is held to be the place of which the Mohicans spoke when they told of people there who worked in metals, and had bushy beards and eyes like pigs. From the smoke of their forges, in autumn, came the haze of Indian summer; and when the moon was full, it was their custom to assemble on the edge of a precipice above the hollow and dance and caper until the night was nigh worn away. They brewed a liquor that had the effect of shortening the bodies and swelling the heads of all who drank it, and when Hudson and his crew visited the mountains, the pygmies held a carouse in his honor and invited him to drink their liquor. The crew went away, shrunken and distorted by the magic distillation, and thus it was that Rip Van Winkle found them on the eve of his famous sleep. THE CATSKILL WITCH When the Dutch gave the name of Katzbergs to the mountains west of the Hudson, by reason of the wild-cats and panthers that ranged there, they obliterated the beautiful Indian Ontiora, "mountains of the sky." In one tradition of the red men these hills were bones of a monster that fed on human beings until the Great Spirit turned it into stone as it was floundering toward the ocean to bathe. The two lakes near the summit were its eyes. These peaks were the home of an Indian witch, who adjusted the weather for the Hudson Valley with the certainty of a signal service bureau. It was she who let out the day and night in blessed alternation, holding back the one when the other was at large, for fear of conflict. Old moons she cut into stars as soon as she had hung new ones in the sky, and she was often seen perched on Round Top and North Mountain, spinning clouds and flinging them to the winds. Woe betide the valley residents if they showed irreverence, for then the clouds were black and heavy, and through them she poured floods of rain and launched the lightnings, causing disastrous freshets in the streams and blasting the wigwams of the mockers. In a frolic humor she would take the form of a bear or deer and lead the Indian hunters anything but a merry dance, exposing them to tire and peril, and vanishing or assuming some terrible shape when they had overtaken her. Sometimes she would lead them to the cloves and would leap into the air with a mocking "Ho, ho!" just as they stopped with a shudder at the brink of an abyss. Garden Rock was a spot where she was often found, and at its foot a lake once spread. This was held in such awe that an Indian would never wittingly pursue his quarry there; but once a hunter lost his way and emerged from the forest at the edge of the pond. Seeing a number of gourds in crotches of the trees he took one, but fearing the spirit he turned to leave so quickly that he stumbled and it fell. As it broke, a spring welled from it in such volume that the unhappy man was gulfed in its waters, swept to the edge of Kaaterskill clove and dashed on the rocks two hundred and sixty feet below. Nor did the water ever cease to run, and in these times the stream born of the witch's revenge is known as Catskill Creek. THE REVENGE OF SHANDAKEN On the rock platform where the Catskill Mountain House now stands, commanding one of the fairest views in the world, old chief Shandaken set his wigwam,--for it is a mistake to suppose that barbarians are indifferent to beauty,--and there his daughter, Lotowana, was sought in marriage by his braves. She, however, kept faith to an early vow exchanged with a young chief of the Mohawks. A suitor who was particularly troublesome was Norsereddin, proud, morose, dark-featured, a stranger to the red man, a descendant, so he claimed, from Egyptian kings, and who lived by himself on Kaaterskill Creek, appearing among white settlements but rarely. On one of his visits to Catskill, a tavern-lounging Dutchman wagered him a thousand golden crowns that he could not win Lotowana, and, stung by avarice as well as inflamed by passion, Norsereddin laid new siege to her heart. Still the girl refused to listen, and Shandaken counselled him to be content with the smiles of others, thereby so angering the Egyptian that he assailed the chief and was driven from the camp with blows; but on the day of Lotowana's wedding with the Mohawk he returned, and in a honeyed speech asked leave to give a jewel to the bride to show that he had stifled jealousy and ill will. The girl took the handsome box he gave her and drew the cover, when a spring flew forward, driving into her hand the poisoned tooth of a snake that had been affixed to it. The venom was strong, and in a few minutes Lotowana lay dead at her husband's feet. Though the Egyptian had disappeared into the forest directly on the acceptance of his treacherous gift, twenty braves set off in pursuit, and overtaking him on the Kalkberg, they dragged him back to the rock where father and husband were bewailing the maid's untimely fate. A pile of fagots was heaped within a few feet of the precipice edge, and tying their captive on them, they applied the torch, dancing about with cries of exultation as the shrieks of the wretch echoed from the cliffs. The dead girl was buried by the mourning tribe, while the ashes of Norsereddin were left to be blown abroad. On the day of his revenge Shandaken left his ancient dwelling-place, and his camp-fires never glimmered afterward on the front of Ontiora. CONDEMNED TO THE NOOSE Ralph Sutherland, who, early in the last century, occupied a stone house a mile from Leeds, in the Catskills, was a man of morose and violent disposition, whose servant, a Scotch girl, was virtually a slave, inasmuch as she was bound to work for him without pay until she had refunded to him her passage-money to this country. Becoming weary of bondage and of the tempers of her master, the girl ran away. The man set off in a raging chase, and she had not gone far before Sutherland overtook her, tied her by the wrists to his horse's tail, and began the homeward journey. Afterward, he swore that the girl stumbled against the horse's legs, so frightening the animal that it rushed off madly, pitching him out of the saddle and dashing the servant to death on rocks and trees; yet, knowing how ugly-tempered he could be, his neighbors were better inclined to believe that he had driven the horse into a gallop, intending to drag the girl for a short distance, as a punishment, and to rein up before he had done serious mischief. On this supposition he was arrested, tried, and sentenced to die on the scaffold. The tricks of circumstantial evidence, together with pleas advanced by influential relatives of the prisoner, induced the court to delay sentence until the culprit should be ninety-nine years old, but it was ordered that, while released on his own recognizance, in the interim, he should keep a hangman's noose about his neck and show himself before the judges in Catskill once every year, to prove that he wore his badge of infamy and kept his crime in mind. This sentence he obeyed, and there were people living recently who claimed to remember him as he went about with a silken cord knotted at his throat. He was always alone, he seldom spoke, his rough, imperious manner had departed. Only when children asked him what the rope was for were his lips seen to quiver, and then he would hurry away. After dark his house was avoided, for gossips said that a shrieking woman passed it nightly, tied at the tail of a giant horse with fiery eyes and smoking nostrils; that a skeleton in a winding sheet had been found there; that a curious thing, somewhat like a woman, had been known to sit on his garden wall, with lights shining from her finger-tips, uttering unearthly laughter; and that domestic animals reproached the man by groaning and howling beneath his windows. These beliefs he knew, yet he neither grieved, nor scorned, nor answered when he was told of them. Years sped on. Every year deepened his reserve and loneliness, and some began to whisper that he would take his own way out of the world, though others answered that men who were born to be hanged would never be drowned; but a new republic was created; new laws were made; new judges sat to minister them; so, on Ralph Sutherland's ninety-ninth birthday anniversary, there were none who would accuse him or execute sentence. He lived yet another year, dying in 1801. But was it from habit, or was it in self-punishment and remorse, that he never took off the cord? for, when he drew his last breath, though it was in his own house, his throat was still encircled by the hangman's rope. BIG INDIAN Intermarriages between white people and red ones in this country were not uncommon in the days when our ancestors led as rude a life as the natives, and several places in the Catskills commemorate this fact. Mount Utsayantha, for example, is named for an Indian woman whose life, with that of her baby and her white husband, was lost there. For the white men early found friends among these mountains. As far back as 1663 they spared Catherine Dubois and her three children, after some rash spirits had abducted them and carried them to a place on the upper Walkill, to do them to death; for the captives raised a Huguenot hymn and the hearts of their captors were softened. In Esopus Valley lived Winnisook, whose height was seven feet, and who was known among the white settlers as "the big Indian." He loved a white girl of the neighborhood, one Gertrude Molyneux, and had asked for her hand; but while she was willing, the objections of her family were too strong to be overcome, and she was teased into marriage with Joseph Bundy, of her own race, instead. She liked the Indian all the better after that, however, because Bundy proved to be a bad fellow, and believing that she could be happier among barbarians than among a people that approved such marriages, she eloped with Winnisook. For a long time all trace of the runaway couple was lost, but one day the man having gone down to the plain to steal cattle, it was alleged, was discovered by some farmers who knew him, and who gave hot chase, coming up with him at the place now called Big Indian. Foremost in the chase was Bundy. As he came near to the enemy of his peace he exclaimed, "I think the best way to civilize that yellow serpent is to let daylight into his heart," and, drawing his rifle to his shoulder, he fired. Mortally wounded, yet instinctively seeking refuge, the giant staggered into the hollow of a pine-tree, where the farmers lost sight of him. There, however, he was found by Gertrude, bolt upright, yet dead. The unwedded widow brought her dusky children to the place and spent the remainder of her days near his grave. Until a few years ago the tree was still pointed out, but a railroad company has now covered it with an embankment. THE BAKER'S DOZEN Baas [Boss] Volckert Jan Pietersen Van Amsterdam kept a bake-shop in Albany, and lives in history as the man who invented New Year cakes and made gingerbread babies in the likeness of his own fat offspring. Good churchman though he was, the bane of his life was a fear of being bewitched, and perhaps it was to keep out evil spirits, who might make one last effort to gain the mastery over him, ere he turned the customary leaf with the incoming year, that he had primed himself with an extra glass of spirits on the last night of 1654. His sales had been brisk, and as he sat in his little shop, meditating comfortably on the gains he would make when his harmless rivals--the knikkerbakkers (bakers of marbles)--sent for their usual supply of olie-koeks and mince-pies on the morrow, he was startled by a sharp rap, and an ugly old woman entered. "Give me a dozen New Year's cookies!" she cried, in a shrill voice. "Vell, den, you needn' sbeak so loud. I aind teaf, den." "A dozen!" she screamed. "Give me a dozen. Here are only twelve." "Vell, den, dwalf is a dozen." "One more! I want a dozen." "Vell, den, if you vant anodder, go to de duyvil and ged it." Did the hag take him at his word? She left the shop, and from that time it seemed as if poor Volckert was bewitched, indeed, for his cakes were stolen; his bread was so light that it went up the chimney, when it was not so heavy that it fell through the oven; invisible hands plucked bricks from that same oven and pelted him until he was blue; his wife became deaf, his children went unkempt, and his trade went elsewhere. Thrice the old woman reappeared, and each time was sent anew to the devil; but at last, in despair, the baker called on Saint Nicolaus to come and advise him. His call was answered with startling quickness, for, almost while he was making it, the venerable patron of Dutch feasts stood before him. The good soul advised the trembling man to be more generous in his dealings with his fellows, and after a lecture on charity he vanished, when, lo! the old woman was there in his place. She repeated her demand for one more cake, and Volckert Jan Pietersen, etc., gave it, whereupon she exclaimed, "The spell is broken, and from this time a dozen is thirteen!" Taking from the counter a gingerbread effigy of Saint Nicolaus, she made the astonished Dutchman lay his hand upon it and swear to give more liberal measure in the future. So, until thirteen new States arose from the ruins of the colonies,--when the shrewd Yankees restored the original measure,--thirteen made a baker's dozen. THE DEVIL'S DANCE-CHAMBER. Most storied of our New World rivers is the Hudson. Historic scenes have been enacted on its shores, and Indian, Dutchman, Briton, and American have invested it with romance. It had its source, in the red man's fancy, in a spring of eternal youth; giants and spirits dwelt in its woods and hills, and before the river-Shatemuc, king of streams, the red men called it--had broken through the highlands, those mountains were a pent for spirits who had rebelled against the Manitou. After the waters had forced a passage to the sea these evil ones sought shelter in the glens and valleys that open to right and left along its course, but in time of tempest, when they hear Manitou riding down the ravine on wings of storm, dashing thunderbolts against the cliffs, it is the fear that he will recapture them and force them into lightless caverns to expiate their revolt, that sends them huddling among the rocks and makes the hills resound with roars and howls. At the Devil's Dance-Chamber, a slight plateau on the west bank, between Newburg and Crom Elbow, the red men performed semi-religious rites as a preface to their hunting and fishing trips or ventures on the war-path. They built a fire, painted themselves, and in that frenzy into which savages are so readily lashed, and that is so like to the action of mobs in trousers, they tumbled, leaped, danced, yelled, sang, grimaced, and gesticulated until the Manitou disclosed himself, either as a harmless animal or a beast of prey. If he came in the former shape the augury was favorable, but if he showed himself as a bear or panther, it was a warning of evil that they seldom dared to disregard. The crew of Hudson's ship, the Half Moon, having chanced on one of these orgies, were so impressed by the fantastic spectacle that they gave the name Duyvels Dans-Kamer to the spot. Years afterwards, when Stuyvesant ascended the river, his doughty retainers were horrified, on landing below the Dans-Kamer, to discover hundreds of painted figures frisking there in the fire-light. A few surmised that they were but a new generation of savages holding a powwow, but most of the sailors fancied that the assemblage was demoniac, and that the figures were spirits of bad Indians repeating a scalp-dance and revelling in the mysterious fire-water that they had brought down from the river source in jars and skins. The spot was at least once profaned with blood, for a young Dutchman and his wife, of Albany, were captured here by an angry Indian, and although the young man succeeded in stabbing his captor to death, he was burned alive on the rock by the friends of the Indian whose wrath he had provoked. The wife, after being kept in captivity for a time, was ransomed. THE CULPRIT FAY The wood-tick's drum convokes the elves at the noon of night on Cro' Nest top, and, clambering out of their flower-cup beds and hammocks of cobweb, they fly to the meeting, not to freak about the grass or banquet at the mushroom table, but to hear sentence passed on the fay who, forgetting his vestal vow, has loved an earthly maid. From his throne under a canopy of tulip petals, borne on pillars of shell, the king commands silence, and with severe eye but softened voice he tells the culprit that while he has scorned the royal decree he has saved himself from the extreme penalty, of imprisonment in walnut shells and cobweb dungeons, by loving a maid who is gentle and pure. So it shall be enough if he will go down to the Hudson and seize a drop from the bow of mist that a sturgeon leaves when he makes his leap; and after, to kindle his darkened flame-wood lamp at a meteor spark. The fairy bows, and without a word slowly descends the rocky steep, for his wing is soiled and has lost its power; but once at the river, he tugs amain at a mussel shell till he has it afloat; then, leaping in, he paddles out with a strong grass blade till he comes to the spot where the sturgeon swims, though the watersprites plague him and toss his boat, and the fish and the leeches bunt and drag; but, suddenly, the sturgeon shoots from the water, and ere the arch of mist that he tracks through the air has vanished, the sprite has caught a drop of the spray in a tiny blossom, and in this he washes clean his wings. The water-goblins torment him no longer. They push his boat to the shore, where, alighting, he kisses his hand, then, even as a bubble, he flies back to the mountain top, dons his acorn helmet, his corselet of bee-hide, his shield of lady-bug shell, and grasping his lance, tipped with wasp sting, he bestrides his fire-fly steed and off he goes like a flash. The world spreads out and then grows small, but he flies straight on. The ice-ghosts leer from the topmost clouds, and the mists surge round, but he shakes his lance and pipes his call, and at last he comes to the Milky Way, where the sky-sylphs lead him to their queen, who lies couched in a palace ceiled with stars, its dome held up by northern lights and the curtains made of the morning's flush. Her mantle is twilight purple, tied with threads of gold from the eastern dawn, and her face is as fair as the silver moon. She begs the fay to stay with her and taste forever the joys of heaven, but the knightly elf keeps down the beating of his heart, for he remembers a face on earth that is fairer than hers, and he begs to go. With a sigh she fits him a car of cloud, with the fire-fly steed chained on behind, and he hurries away to the northern sky whence the meteor comes, with roar and whirl, and as it passes it bursts to flame. He lights his lamp at a glowing spark, then wheels away to the fairy-land. His king and his brothers hail him stoutly, with song and shout, and feast and dance, and the revel is kept till the eastern sky has a ruddy streak. Then the cock crows shrill and the fays are gone. POKEPSIE The name of this town has forty-two spellings in old records, and with singular pertinacity in ill-doing, the inhabitants have fastened on it the longest and clumsiest of all. It comes from the Mohegan words Apo-keep-sink, meaning a safe, pleasant harbor. Harbor it might be for canoes, but for nothing bigger, for it was only the little cove that was so called between Call Rock and Adder Cliff,--the former indicating where settlers awaiting passage hailed the masters of vessels from its top, and the latter taking its name from the snakes that abounded there. Hither came a band of Delawares with Pequot captives, among them a young chief to whom had been offered not only life but leadership if he would renounce his tribe, receive the mark of the turtle on his breast, and become a Delaware. On his refusal, he was bound to a tree, and was about to undergo the torture, when a girl among the listeners sprang to his side. She, too, was a Pequot, but the turtle totem was on her bosom, and when she begged his life, because they had been betrothed, the captors paused to talk of it. She had chosen well the time to interfere, for a band of Hurons was approaching, and even as the talk went on their yell was heard in the wood. Instant measures for defence were taken, and in the fight that followed both chief and maiden were forgotten; but though she cut the cords that bound him, they were separated in the confusion, he disappearing, she falling captive to the Hurons, who, sated with blood, retired from the field. In the fantastic disguise of a wizard the young Pequot entered their camp soon after, and on being asked to try his enchantments for the cure of a young woman, he entered her tent, showing no surprise at finding her to be the maiden of his choice, who was suffering from nothing worse than nerves, due to the excitement of the battle. Left alone with his patient, he disclosed his identity, and planned a way of escape that proved effective on that very night, for, though pursued by the angry Hurons, the couple reached "safe harbor," thence making a way to their own country in the east, where they were married. DUNDERBERG Dunderberg, "Thunder Mountain," at the southern gate of the Hudson Highlands, is a wooded eminence, chiefly populated by a crew of imps of stout circumference, whose leader, the Heer, is a bulbous goblin clad in the dress worn by Dutch colonists two centuries ago, and carrying a speaking-trumpet, through which he bawls his orders for the blowing of winds and the touching off of lightnings. These orders are given in Low Dutch, and are put into execution by the imps aforesaid, who troop into the air and tumble about in the mist, sometimes smiting the flag or topsail of a ship to ribbons, or laying the vessel over before the wind until she is in peril of going on beam ends. At one time a sloop passing the Dunderberg had nearly foundered, when the crew discovered the sugar-loaf hat of the Heer at the mast-head. None dared to climb for it, and it was not until she had driven past Pollopel's Island--the limit of the Heer's jurisdiction--that she righted. As she did so the little hat spun into the air like a top, creating a vortex that drew up the storm-clouds, and the sloop kept her way prosperously for the rest of the voyage. The captain had nailed a horse-shoe to the mast. The "Hat Rogue" of the Devil's Bridge in Switzerland must be a relative of this gamesome sprite, for his mischief is usually of a harmless sort; but, to be on the safe side, the Dutchmen who plied along the river lowered their peaks in homage to the keeper of the mountain, and for years this was a common practice. Mariners who paid this courtesy to the Heer of the Donder Berg were never molested by his imps, though skipper Ouselsticker, of Fishkill,--for all he had a parson on board,--was once beset by a heavy squall, and the goblin came out of the mist and sat astraddle of his bowsprit, seeming to guide his schooner straight toward the rocks. The dominie chanted the song of Saint Nicolaus, and the goblin, unable to endure either its spiritual potency or the worthy parson's singing, shot upward like a ball and rode off on the gale, carrying with him the nightcap of the parson's wife, which he hung on the weathercock of Esopus steeple, forty miles away. ANTHONY'S NOSE The Hudson Highlands are suggestively named Bear Mountain, Sugar Loaf, Cro' Nest, Storm King, called by the Dutch Boterberg, or Butter Hill, from its likeness to a pat of butter; Beacon Hill, where the fires blazed to tell the country that the Revolutionary war was over; Dunderberg, Mount Taurus, so called because a wild bull that had terrorized the Highlands was chased out of his haunts on this height, and was killed by falling from a cliff on an eminence to the northward, known, in consequence, as Breakneck Hill. These, with Anthony's Nose, are the principal points of interest in the lovely and impressive panorama that unfolds before the view as the boats fly onward. Concerning the last-named elevation, the aquiline promontory that abuts on the Hudson opposite Dunderberg, it takes title from no resemblance to the human feature, but is so named because Anthony Van Corlaer, the trumpeter, who afterwards left a reason for calling the upper boundary of Manhattan Island Spuyten Duyvil Creek, killed the first sturgeon ever eaten at the foot of this mountain. It happened in this wise: By assiduous devotion to keg and flagon Anthony had begotten a nose that was the wonder and admiration of all who knew it, for its size was prodigious; in color it rivalled the carbuncle, and it shone like polished copper. As Anthony was lounging over the quarter of Peter Stuyvesant's galley one summer morning this nose caught a ray from the sun and reflected it hissing into the water, where it killed a sturgeon that was rising beside the vessel. The fish was pulled aboard, eaten, and declared good, though the singed place savored of brimstone, and in commemoration of the event Stuyvesant dubbed the mountain that rose above his vessel Anthony's Nose. MOODUA CREEK Moodua is an evolution, through Murdy's and Moodna, from Murderer's Creek, its present inexpressive name having been given to it by N. P. Willis. One Murdock lived on its shore with his wife, two sons, and a daughter; and often in the evening Naoman, a warrior of a neighboring tribe, came to the cabin, caressed the children, and shared the woodman's hospitality. One day the little girl found in the forest an arrow wrapped in snake-skin and tipped with crow's feather; then the boy found a hatchet hanging by a hair from a bough above the door; then a glare of evil eyes was caught for an instant in a thicket. Naoman, when he came, was reserved and stern, finding voice only to warn the family to fly that night; so, when all was still, the threatened family made its way softly, but quickly, to the Hudson shore, and embarked for Fisher's Kill, across the river. The wind lagged and their boat drew heavily, and when, from the shade of Pollopel's Island, a canoe swept out, propelled by twelve men, the hearts of the people in the boat sank in despair. The wife was about to leap over, but Murdock drew her back; then, loading and firing as fast as possible, he laid six of his pursuers low; but the canoe was savagely urged forward, and in another minute every member of the family was a helpless captive. When the skiff had been dragged back, the prisoners were marched through the wood to an open spot where the principal members of the tribe sat in council. The sachem arose, twisted his hands in the woman's golden hair, bared his knife, and cried, "Tell us what Indian warned you and betrayed his tribe, or you shall see husband and children bleed before your eyes." The woman answered never a word, but after a little Naoman arose and said, "'Twas I;" then drew his blanket about him and knelt for execution. An axe cleft his skull. Drunk with the sight of blood, the Indians rushed upon the captives and slew them, one by one. The prisoners neither shrank nor cried for mercy, but met their end with hymns upon their lips, and, seeing that they could so meet death, one member of the band let fall his arm and straight became a Christian. The cabin was burned, the bodies flung into the stream, and the stain of blood was seen for many a year in Murderer's Creek. A TRAPPER'S GHASTLY VENGEANCE About a mile back from the Hudson, at Coxsackie, stood the cabin of Nick Wolsey, who, in the last century, was known to the river settlements as a hunter and trapper of correct aim, shrewdness, endurance, and taciturn habit. For many years he lived in this cabin alone, except for the company of his dog; but while visiting a camp of Indians in the wilderness he was struck with the engaging manner of one of the girls of the tribe; he repeated the visit; he found cause to go to the camp frequently; he made presents to the father of the maid, and at length won her consent to be his wife. The simple marriage ceremony of the tribe was performed, and Wolsey led Minamee to his home; but the wedding was interrupted in an almost tragic manner, for a surly fellow who had loved the girl, yet who never had found courage to declare himself, was wrought to such a jealous fury at the discovery of Wolsey's good fortune that he sprang at him with a knife, and would have despatched him on the spot had not the white man's faithful hound leaped at his throat and borne him to the ground. Wolsey disarmed the fellow and kicked and cuffed him to the edge of the wood, while the whole company shouted with laughter at this ignominious punishment, and approved it. A year or more passed. Wolsey and his Indian wife were happy in their free and simple life; happy, too, in their little babe. Wolsey was seldom absent from his cabin for any considerable length of time, and usually returned to it before the night set in. One evening he noticed that the grass and twigs were bent near his house by some passing foot that, with the keen eye of the woodman, he saw was not his wife's. "Some hunter," he said, "saw the house when he passed here, and as, belike, he never saw one before, he stopped to look in." For the trail led to his window, and diverged thence to the forest again. A few days later, as he was returning, he came on the footprints that were freshly made, and a shadow crossed his face. On nearing the door he stumbled on the body of his dog, lying rigid on the ground. "How did this happen, Minamee?" he cried, as he flung open the door. The wife answered, in a low voice, "O Hush! you'll wake the child." Nick Wolsey entered the cabin and stood as one turned to marble. Minamee, his wife, sat on the gold hearth, her face and hands cut and blackened, her dress torn, her eyes glassy, a meaningless smile on her lips. In her arms she pressed the body of her infant, its dress soaked with blood, and the head of the little creature lay on the floor beside her. She crooned softly over the cold clay as if hushing it to sleep, and when Wolsey at length found words, she only whispered, "Hush! you will wake him." The night went heavily on; day dawned, and the crooning became lower and lower; still, through all that day the bereft woman rocked to and fro upon the floor, and the agonized husband hung about her, trying in vain to give comfort, to bind her wounds, to get some explanation of the mystery that confronted him. The second night set in, and it was evident that it would be the last for Minamee. Her strength failed until she allowed herself to be placed on a couch of skins, while the body of her child was gently lifted from her arms. Then, for a few brief minutes, her reason was restored, and she found words to tell her husband how the Indian whose murderous attack he had thwarted at the wedding had come to the cabin, shot the dog that had rushed out to defend the place, beat the woman back from the door, tore the baby from its bed, slashed its head off with a knife, and, flinging the little body into her lap, departed with the words, "This is my revenge. I am satisfied." Before the sun was in the east again Minamee was with her baby. Wolsey sat for hours in the ruin of his happiness, his breathing alone proving that he was alive, and when at last he arose and went out of the house, there were neither tears nor outcry; he saddled his horse and rode off to the westward. At nightfall he came to the Indian village where he had won his wife, and relating to the assembled tribe what had happened, he demanded that the murderer be given up to him. His demand was readily granted, whereupon the white man advanced on the cowering wretch, who had confidently expected the protection of his people, and with the quick fling and jerk of a raw-hide rope bound his arms to his side. Then casting a noose about his neck and tying the end of it to his saddle-bow, he set off for the Hudson. All that night he rode, the Indian walking and running at the horse's heels, and next day he reached his cabin. Tying his prisoner to a tree, the trapper cut a quantity of young willows, from which he fashioned a large cradle-like receptacle; in this he placed the culprit, face upward, and tied so stoutly that he could not move a finger; then going into his house, he emerged with the body of Minamee, and laid it, face downward, on the wretch, who could not repress a groan of horror as the awful burden sank on his breast. Wolsey bound together the living and the dead, and with a swing of his powerful arms he flung them on his horse's back, securing them there with so many turns of rope that nothing could displace them. Now he began to lash his horse until the poor beast trembled with anger and pain, when, flinging off the halter, he gave it a final lash, and the animal plunged, foaming and snorting, into the wilderness. When it had vanished and the hoof-beats were no longer heard, Nick Wolsey took his rifle on his arm and left his home forever. And tradition says that the horse never stopped in its mad career, but that on still nights it can be heard sweeping through the woods along the Hudson and along the Mohawk like a whirlwind, and that as the sound goes by a smothered voice breaks out in cursing, in appeal, then in harsh and dreadful laughter. THE VANDERDECKEN OF TAPPAN ZEE It is Saturday night; the swell of the Hudson lazily heaves against the shores of Tappan Zee, the cliff above Tarrytown where the white lady cries on winter nights is pale in starlight, and crickets chirp in the boskage. It is so still that the lap of oars can be heard coming across the water at least a mile away. Some small boat, evidently, but of heavy build, for it takes a vigorous hand to propel it, and now there is a grinding of oars on thole-pins. Strange that it is not yet seen, for the sound is near. Look! Is that a shadow crossing that wrinkle of starlight in the water? The oars have stopped, and there is no wind to make that sound of a sigh. Ho, Rambout Van Dam! Is it you? Are you still expiating your oath to pull from Kakiat to Spuyten Duyvil before the dawn of Sabbath, if it takes you a month of Sundays? Better for you had you passed the night with your roistering friends at Kakiat, or started homeward earlier, for Sabbath-breaking is no sin now, and you, poor ghost, will find little sympathy for your plight. Grant that your month of Sundays, or your cycle of months of Sundays, be soon up, for it is sad to be reminded that we may be punished for offences many years forgotten. When the sun is high to-morrow a score of barges will vex the sea of Tappan, each crowded with men and maids from New Amsterdam, jigging to profane music and refreshing themselves with such liquors as you, Rambout, never even smelled--be thankful for that much. If your shade sits blinking at them from the wooded buttresses of the Palisades, you must repine, indeed, at the hardness of your fate. THE GALLOPING HESSIAN In the flower-gemmed cemetery of Tarrytown, where gentle Irving sleeps, a Hessian soldier was interred after sustaining misfortune in the loss of his head in one of the Revolutionary battles. For a long time after he was buried it was the habit of this gentleman to crawl from his grave at unseemly hours and gallop about the country, sending shivers through the frames of many worthy people, who shrank under their blankets when they heard the rush of hoofs along the unlighted roads. In later times there lived in Tarrytown--so named because of the tarrying habits of Dutch gossips on market days, though some hard-minded people insist that Tarwe-town means Wheat-towna gaunt schoolmaster, one Ichabod Crane, who cherished sweet sentiments for Katrina Van Tassell, the buxom daughter of a farmer, also a famous maker of pies and doughnuts. Ichabod had been calling late one evening, and, his way home being long, Katrina's father lent him a horse to make the journey; but even with this advantage the youth set out with misgivings, for he had to pass the graveyard. As it was near the hour when the Hessian was to ride, he whistled feebly to keep his courage up, but when he came to the dreaded spot the whistle died in a gasp, for he heard the tread of a horse. On looking around, his hair bristled and his heart came up like a plug in his throat to hinder his breathing, for he saw a headless horseman coming over the ridge behind him, blackly defined against the starry sky. Setting spurs to his nag with a hope of being first to reach Sleepy Hollow bridge, which the spectre never passed, the unhappy man made the best possible time in that direction, for his follower was surely overtaking him. Another minute and the bridge would be reached; but, to Ichabod's horror, the Hessian dashed alongside and, rising in his stirrups, flung his head full at the fugitive's back. With a squeal of fright the schoolmaster rolled into a mass of weeds by the wayside, and for some minutes he remained there, knowing and remembering nothing. Next morning farmer Van Tassell's horse was found grazing in a field near Sleepy Hollow, and a man who lived some miles southward reported that he had seen Mr. Crane striding as rapidly along the road to New York as his lean legs could take him, and wearing a pale and serious face as he kept his march. There were yellow stains on the back of his coat, and the man who restored the horse found a smashed pumpkin in the broken bushes beside the road. Ichabod never returned to Tarrytown, and when Brom Bones, a stout young ploughman and taphaunter, married Katrina, people made bold to say that he knew more about the galloping Hessian than any one else, though they believed that he never had reason to be jealous of Ichabod Crane. STORM SHIP OF THE HUDSON It was noised about New Amsterdam, two hundred years ago, that a round and bulky ship flying Dutch colors from her lofty quarter was careering up the harbor in the teeth of a north wind, through the swift waters of an ebbing tide, and making for the Hudson. A signal from the Battery to heave to and account for herself being disregarded, a cannon was trained upon her, and a ball went whistling through her cloudy and imponderable mass, for timbers she had none. Some of the sailor-folk talked of mirages that rose into the air of northern coasts and seas, but the wise ones put their fingers beside their noses and called to memory the Flying Dutchman, that wanderer of the seas whose captain, having sworn that he would round Cape Horn in spite of heaven and hell, has been beating to and fro along the bleak Fuegian coast and elsewhere for centuries, being allowed to land but once in seven years, when he can break the curse if he finds a girl who will love him. Perhaps Captain Vanderdecken found this maiden of his hopes in some Dutch settlement on the Hudson, or perhaps he expiated his rashness by prayer and penitence; howbeit, he never came down again, unless he slipped away to sea in snow or fog so dense that watchers and boatmen saw nothing of his passing. A few old settlers declared the vessel to be the Half Moon, and there were some who testified to seeing that identical ship with Hudson and his spectre crew on board making for the Catskills to hold carouse. This fleeting vision has been confounded with the storm ship that lurks about the foot of the Palisades and Point-no-Point, cruising through Tappan Zee at night when a gale is coming up. The Hudson is four miles wide at Tappan, and squalls have space enough to gather force; hence, when old skippers saw the misty form of a ship steal out from the shadows of the western hills, then fly like a gull from shore to shore, catching the moonlight on her topsails, but showing no lanterns, they made to windward and dropped anchor, unless their craft were stanch and their pilot's brains unvexed with liquor. On summer nights, when falls that curious silence which is ominous of tempest, the storm ship is not only seen spinning across the mirror surface of the river, but the voices of the crew are heard as they chant at the braces and halyards in words devoid of meaning to the listeners. WHY SPUYTEN DUYVIL IS SO NAMED The tide-water creek that forms the upper boundary of Manhattan Island is known to dwellers in tenements round about as "Spittin' Divvle." The proper name of it is Spuyten Duyvil, and this, in turn, is the compression of a celebrated boast by Anthony Van Corlaer. This redoubtable gentleman, famous for fat, long wind, and long whiskers, was trumpeter for the garrison at New Amsterdam, which his countrymen had just bought for twenty-four dollars, and he sounded the brass so sturdily that in the fight between the Dutch and Indians at the Dey Street peach orchard his blasts struck more terror into the red men's hearts than did the matchlocks of his comrades. William the Testy vowed that Anthony and his trumpet were garrison enough for all Manhattan Island, for he argued that no regiment of Yankees would approach near enough to be struck with lasting deafness, as must have happened if they came when Anthony was awake. Peter Stuyvesant-Peter the Headstrong--showed his appreciation of Anthony's worth by making him his esquire, and when he got news of an English expedition on its way to seize his unoffending colony, he at once ordered Anthony to rouse the villages along the Hudson with a trumpet call to war. The esquire took a hurried leave of six or eight ladies, each of whom delighted to believe that his affections were lavished on her alone, and bravely started northward, his trumpet hanging on one side, a stone bottle, much heavier, depending from the other. It was a stormy evening when he arrived at the upper end of the island, and there was no ferryman in sight, so, after fuming up and down the shore, he swallowed a mighty draught of Dutch courage,--for he was as accomplished a performer on the horn as on the trumpet,--and swore with ornate and voluminous oaths that he would swim the stream "in spite of the devil" [En spuyt den Duyvil]. He plunged in, and had gone half-way across when the Evil One, not to be spited, appeared as a huge moss-bunker, vomiting boiling water and lashing a fiery tail. This dreadful fish seized Anthony by the leg; but the trumpeter was game, for, raising his instrument to his lips, he exhaled his last breath through it in a defiant blast that rang through the woods for miles and made the devil himself let go for a moment. Then he was dragged below, his nose shining through the water more and more faintly, until, at last, all sight of him was lost. The failure of his mission resulted in the downfall of the Dutch in America, for, soon after, the English won a bloodless victory, and St. George's cross flaunted from the ramparts where Anthony had so often saluted the setting sun. But it was years, even then, before he was hushed, for in stormy weather it was claimed that the shrill of his trumpet could be heard near the creek that he had named, sounding above the deeper roar of the blast. THE RAMAPO SALAMANDER A curious tale of the Rosicrucians runs to the effect that more than two centuries ago a band of German colonists entered the Ramapo valley and put up houses of stone, like those they had left in the Hartz Mountains, and when the Indians saw how they made knives and other wonderful things out of metal, which they extracted from the rocks by fire, they believed them to be manitous and went away, not wishing to resist their possession of the land. There was treasure here, for High Tor, or Torn Mountain, had been the home of Amasis, youngest of the magi who had followed the star of Bethlehem. He had found his way, through Asia and Alaska, to this country, had taken to wife a native woman, by whom he had a child, and here on the summit he had built a temple. Having refused the sun worship, when the Indians demanded that he should take their faith, he was set upon, and would have been killed had not an earthquake torn the ground at his feet, opening a new channel for the Hudson and precipitating into it every one but the magus and his daughter. To him had been revealed in magic vision the secrets of wealth in the rocks. The leader in the German colony, one Hugo, was a man of noble origin, who had a wife and two children: a boy, named after himself; a girl,--Mary. Though it had been the custom in the other country to let out the forge fires once in seven years, Hugo opposed that practice in the forge he had built as needless. But his men murmured and talked of the salamander that once in seven years attains its growth in unquenched flame and goes forth doing mischief. On the day when that period was ended the master entered his works and saw the men gazing into the furnace at a pale form that seemed made from flame, that was nodding and turning in the fire, occasionally darting its tongue at them or allowing its tail to fall out and lie along the stone floor. As he came to the door he, too, was transfixed, and the fire seemed burning his vitals, until he felt water sprinkled on his face, and saw that his wife, whom he had left at home too ill to move, stood behind him and was casting holy water into the furnace, speaking an incantation as she did so. At that moment a storm arose, and a rain fell that put out the fire; but as the last glow faded the lady fell dead. When her children were to be consecrated, seven years later, those who stood outside of the church during the ceremony saw a vivid flash, and the nurse turned from the boy in her fright. She took her hands from her eyes. The child was gone. Twice seven years had passed and the daughter remained unspotted by the world, for, on the night when her father had led her to the top of High Torn Mountain and shown her what Amasis had seen,--the earth spirits in their caves heaping jewels and offering to give them if Hugo would speak the word that binds the free to the earth forces and bars his future for a thousand years,--it was her prayer that brought him to his senses and made the scene below grow dim, though the baleful light of the salamander clinging to the rocks at the bottom of the cave sent a glow into the sky. Many nights after that the glow was seen on the height and Hugo was missing from his home, but for lack of a pure soul to stand as interpreter he failed to read the words that burned in the triangle on the salamander's back, and returned in rage and jealousy. A knightly man had of late appeared in the settlement, and between him and Mary a tender feeling had arisen, that, however, was unexpressed until, after saving her from the attack of a panther, he had allowed her to fall into his arms. She would willingly then have declared her love for him, but he placed her gently and regretfully from him and said, "When you slept I came to you and put a crown of gems on your head: that was because I was in the power of the earth spirit. Then I had power only over the element of fire, that either consumes or hardens to stone; but now water and life are mine. Behold! Wear these, for thou art worthy." And touching the tears that had fallen from her eyes, they turned into lilies in his hands, and he put them on her brow. "Shall we meet again?" asked the girl. "I do not know," said he. "I tread the darkness of the universe alone, and I peril my redemption by yielding to this love of earth. Thou art redeemed already, but I must make my way back to God through obedience tested in trial. Know that I am one of those that left heaven for love of man. We were of that subtle element which is flame, burning and glowing with love,--and when thy mother came to me with the power of purity to cast me out of the furnace, I lost my shape of fire and took that of a human being,--a child. I have been with thee often, and was rushing to annihilation, because I could not withstand the ordeal of the senses. Had I yielded, or found thee other than thou art, I should have become again an earth spirit. I have been led away by wish for power, such as I have in my grasp, and forgot the mission to the suffering. I became a wanderer over the earth until I reached this land, the land that you call new. Here was to be my last trial and here I am to pass the gate of fire." As he spoke voices arose from the settlement. "They are coming," said he. The stout form of Hugo was in advance. With a fierce oath he sprang on the young man. "He has ruined my household," he cried. "Fling him into the furnace!" The young man stood waiting, but his brow was serene. He was seized, and in a few moments had disappeared through the mouth of the burning pit. But Mary, looking up, saw a shape in robes of silvery light, and it drifted upward until it vanished in the darkness. The look of horror on her face died away, and a peace came to it that endured until the end. CHIEF CROTON Between the island of Manhattoes and the Catskills the Hudson shores were plagued with spooks, and even as late as the nineteenth century Hans Anderson, a man who tilled a farm back of Peekskill, was worried into his grave by the leaden-face likeness of a British spy whom he had hanged on General Putnam's orders. "Old Put" doubtless enjoyed immunity from this vexatious creature, because he was born with few nerves. A region especially afflicted was the confluence of the Croton and the Hudson, for the Kitchawan burying-ground was here, and the red people being disturbed by the tramping of white men over their graves, "the walking sachems of Teller's Point" were nightly to be met on their errands of protest. These Indians had built a palisade on Croton Point, and here they made their last stand against their enemies from the north. Throughout the fight old chief Croton stood on the wall with arrows showering around him, and directed the resistance with the utmost calm. Not until every one of his men was dead and the fort was going up in flame about him did he confess defeat. Then standing amid the charring timbers, he used his last breath in calling down the curse of the Great Spirit against the foe. As the victorious enemy rushed into the enclosure to secure the scalps of the dead he fell lifeless into the fire, and their jubilant yell was lost upon his ears. Yet, he could not rest nor bear to leave his ancient home, even after death, and often his form, in musing attitude, was seen moving through the woods. When a manor was built on the ruins of his fort, he appeared to the master of it, to urge him into the Continental army, and having seen this behest obeyed and laid a solemn injointure to keep the freedom of the land forever, he vanished, and never appeared again. THE RETREAT FROM MAHOPAC After the English had secured the city of New Amsterdam and had begun to extend their settlements along the Hudson, the Indians congregated in large numbers about Lake Mahopac, and rejected all overtures for the purchase of that region. In their resolution they were sustained by their young chief Omoyao, who refused to abandon on on any terms the country where his fathers had solong hunted, fished, and built their lodges. A half-breed, one Joliper, a member of this tribe, was secretly in the pay of the English, but the allurements and insinuations that he put forth on their behalf were as futile as the breathing of wind in the leaves. At last the white men grew angry. Have the land they would, by evil course if good ways were refused, and commissioning Joliper to act for them in a decisive manner, they guaranteed to supply him with forces if his negotiations fell through. This man never thought it needful to negotiate. He knew the temper of his tribe and he was too jealous of his chief to go to him for favors, because he loved Maya, the chosen one of Omoyao. At the door of Maya's tent he entreated her to go with him to the white settlements, and on her refusal he broke into angry threats, declaring, in the self-forgetfulness of passion, that he would kill her lover and lead the English against the tribe. Unknown to both Omoyao had overheard this interview, and he immediately sent runners to tell all warriors of his people to meet him at once on the island in the lake. Though the runners were cautioned to keep their errand secret, it is probable that Joliper suspected that the alarm had gone forth, and he resolved to strike at once; so he summoned his renegades, stole into camp next evening and made toward Maya's wigwam, intending to take her to a place of safety. Seeing the chief at the door, he shot an arrow at him, but the shaft went wide and slew the girl's father. Realizing, upon this assault, that he was outwitted and that his people were outnumbered, the chief called to Maya to meet him at the island, and plunged into the brush, after seeing that she had taken flight in an opposite direction. The vengeful Joliper was close behind him with his renegades, and the chief was captured; then, that he might not communicate with his people or delay the operations against them, it was resolved to put him to death. He was tied to a tree, the surrounding wood was set on fire, and he was abandoned to his fate, his enemies leaving him to destruction in their haste to reach the place of the council and slay or capture all who were there. Hardly were they out of hearing ere the plash of a paddle sounded through the roar of flame and Maya sprang upon the bank, cut her lover's bonds, and with him made toward the island, which they reached by a protected way before the assailants had arrived. They told the story of Joliper's cruelty and treason, and when his boats were seen coming in to shore they had eyes and hands only for Joliper. He was the first to land. Hardly had he touched the strand before he was surrounded by a frenzied crowd and had fallen bleeding from a hundred gashes. The Indians were overpowered after a brief and bloody resistance. They took safety in flight. Omoyao and Maya, climbing upon the rock above their "council chamber," found that while most of their people had escaped their own retreat was cut off, and that it would be impossible to reach any of the canoes. They preferred death to torture and captivity, so, hand in hand, they leaped together down the cliff, and the English claimed the land next day. NIAGARA The cataract of Niagara (properly pronounced Nee-ah-gah-rah), or Oniahgarah, is as fatal as it is fascinating, beautiful, sublime, and the casualties occurring there justify the tradition that "the Thundering Water asks two victims every year." It was reputed, before white men looked for the first time on these falls--and what thumping yarns they told about them!--that two lives were lost here annually, and this average has been kept up by men and women who fall into the flood through accident, recklessness or despair, while bloody battles have been fought on the shores, and vessels have been hurled over the brink, to be dashed to splinters on the rocks. The sound of the cataract was declared to be the voice of a mighty spirit that dwelt in the waters, and in former centuries the Indians offered to it a yearly sacrifice. This sacrifice was a maiden of the tribe, who was sent over in a white canoe, decorated with fruit and flowers, and the girls contended for this honor, for the brides of Manitou were objects of a special grace in the happy hunting-grounds. The last recorded sacrifice was in 1679, when Lelawala, the daughter of chief Eagle Eye, was chosen, in spite of the urgings and protests of the chevalier La Salle, who had been trying to restrain the people from their idolatries by an exposition of the Christian dogma. To his protests he received the unexpected answer, "Your words witness against you. Christ, you say, set us an example. We will follow it. Why should one death be great, while our sacrifice is horrible?" So the tribe gathered at the bank to watch the sailing of the white canoe. The chief watched the embarkation with the stoicism usual to the Indian when he is observed by others, but when the little bark swung out into the current his affection mastered him, and he leaped into his own canoe and tried to overtake his daughter. In a moment both were beyond the power of rescue. After their death they were changed into spirits of pure strength and goodness, and live in a crystal heaven so far beneath the fall that its roaring is a music to them: she, the maid of the mist; he, the ruler of the cataract. Another version of the legend makes a lover and his mistress the chief actors. Some years later a patriarch of the tribe and all his sons went over the fall when the white men had seized their lands, preferring death to flight or war. In about the year 200 the Stone Giants waded across the river below the falls on their northward march. These beings were descended from an ancient family, and being separated from their stock in the year 150 by the breaking of a vine bridge across the Mississippi, they left that region. Indian Pass, in the Adirondacks, bore the names of Otneyarheh, Stony Giants; Ganosgwah, Giants Clothed in Stone; and Dayohjegago, Place Where the Storm Clouds Fight the Great Serpent. Giants and serpents were held to be harmful inventions of the Evil Spirit, and the Lightning god, catching up clouds as he stood on the crags, broke them open, tore their lightnings out and hurled them against the monsters. These cannibals had almost exterminated the Iroquois, for they were of immense size and had made themselves almost invincible by rolling daily in the sand until their flesh was like stone. The Holder of the Heavens, viewing their evil actions from on high, came down disguised as one of their number--he used often to meditate on Manitou Rock, at the Whirlpool--and leading them to a valley near Onondaga, on pretence of guiding them to a fairer country, he stood on a hill above them and hurled rocks upon their heads until all, save one, who fled into the north, were dead. Yet, in the fulness of time, new children of the Stone Giants (mail-clad Europeans?) entered the region again and were destroyed by the Great Spirit,--oddly enough where the famous fraud known as the Cardiff giant was alleged to have been found. The Onondagas believed this statue to be one of their ancient foes. THE DEFORMED OF ZOAR The valley of Zoar, in western New York, is so surrounded by hills that its discoverers--a religious people, who gave it a name from Scripture said, "This is Zoar; it is impregnable. From her we will never go." And truly, for lack of roads, they found it so hard to get out, having got in, that they did not leave it. Among the early settlers here were people of a family named Wright, whose house became a sort of inn for the infrequent traveller, inasmuch as they were not troubled with piety, and had no scruples against the selling of drink and the playing of cards at late hours. A peddler passed through the valley on his way to Buffalo and stopped at the Wright house for a lodging, but before he went to bed he incautiously showed a number of golden trinkets from his pack and drew a considerable quantity of money out of his pocket when he paid the fee for his lodging. Hardly had he fallen asleep before his greedy hosts were in the room, searching for his money. Their lack of caution caused him to awake, and as he found them rifling his pockets and his pack he sprang up and showed fight. A blow sent him to the bottom of the stairs, where his attempt to escape was intercepted, and the family closed around him and bound his arms and legs. They showed him the money they had taken and asked where he had concealed the rest. He vowed that it was all he had. They insisted that he had more, and seizing a knife from the table the elder Wright slashed off one of his toes "to make him confess." No result came from this, and six toes were cut off,--three from each foot; then, in disgust, the unhappy peddler was knocked on the head and flung through a trap-door into a shallow cellar. Presently he arose and tried to draw himself out, but with hatchet and knife they chopped away his fingers and he fell back. Even the women shared in this work, and leaned forward to gaze into the cellar to see if he might yet be dead. While listening, they heard the man invoke the curse of heaven on them: he asked that they should wear the mark of crime even to the fourth generation, by coming into the world deformed and mutilated as he was then. And it was so. The next child born in that house had round, hoof-like feet, with only two toes, and hands that tapered from the wrist into a single long finger. And in time there were twenty people so deformed in the valley: The "crab-clawed Zoarites" they were called. HORSEHEADS The feeling recently created by an attempt to fasten the stupid names of Fairport or of North Elmira on the village in central New York that, off and on for fifty years, had been called Horseheads, caused an inquiry as to how that singular name chanced to be adopted for a settlement. In 1779, when General Sullivan was retiring toward the base of his supplies after a destructive campaign against the Indians in Genesee County, he stopped near this place and rested his troops. The country was then rude, unbroken, and still beset with enemies, however, and when the march was resumed it was thought best to gain time over a part of the way by descending the Chemung River on rafts. As there were no appliances for building large floats, and the depth of the water was not known, the general ordered a destruction of all impedimenta that could be got rid of, and commanded that the poor and superfluous horses should be killed. His order was obeyed. As soon as the troops had gone, the wolves, that were then abundant, came forth and devoured the carcasses of the steeds, so that the clean-picked bones were strewn widely over the camp-ground. When the Indians ventured back into this region, some of them piled the skulls of the horses into heaps, and these curious monuments were found by white settlers who came into the valley some years later, and who named their village Horseheads, in commemoration of these relics. The Indians were especially loth to leave this region, for their tradition was that it had been the land of the Senecas from immemorial time, the tribe being descended from a couple that had a home on a hill near Horseheads. KAYUTA AND WANETA The Indians loved our lakes. They had eyes for their beauty, and to them they were abodes of gracious spirits. They used to say of Oneida Lake, that when the Great Spirit formed the world "his smile rested on its waters and Frenchman's Island rose to greet it; he laughed and Lotus Island came up to listen." So they built lodges on their shores and skimmed their waters in canoes. Much of their history relates to them, and this is a tale of the Senecas that was revived a few years ago by the discovery of a deer-skin near Lakes Waneta and Keuka, New York, on which some facts of the history were rudely drawn, for all Indians are artists. Waneta, daughter of a chief, had plighted her troth to Kayuta, a hunter of a neighboring tribe with which her people were at war. Their tryst was held at twilight on the farther shore of the lake from her village, and it was her gayety and happiness, after these meetings had taken place, that roused the suspicion and jealousy of Weutha, who had marked her for his bride against the time when he should have won her father's consent by some act of bravery. Shadowing the girl as she stole into the forest one evening, he saw her enter her canoe and row to a densely wooded spot; he heard a call like the note of a quail, then an answer; then Kayuta emerged on the shore, lifted the maiden from her little bark, and the twain sat down beside the water to listen to the lap of its waves and watch the stars come out. Hurrying back to camp, the spy reported that an enemy was near them, and although Waneta had regained her wigwam by another route before the company of warriors had reached the lake, Kayuta was seen, pursued, and only escaped with difficulty. Next evening, not knowing what had happened after her homeward departure on the previous night--for the braves deemed it best to keep the knowledge of their military operations from the women--the girl crept away to the lake again and rowed to the accustomed place, but while waiting for the quail call a twig dropped on the water beside her. With a quick instinct that civilization has spoiled she realized this to be a warning, and remaining perfectly still, she allowed her boat to drift toward shore, presently discovering that her lover was standing waist-deep in the water. In a whisper he told her that they were watched, and bade her row to a dead pine that towered at the foot of the lake, where he would soon meet her. At that instant an arrow grazed his side and flew quivering into the canoe. Pushing the boat on its course and telling her to hasten, Kayuta sprang ashore, sounded the warwhoop, and as Weutha rose into sight he clove his skull with a tomahawk. Two other braves now leaped forward, but, after a struggle, Kayuta left them dead or senseless, too. He would have stayed to tear their scalps off had he not heard his name uttered in a shriek of agony from the end of the lake, and, tired and bleeding though he was, he bounded along its margin like a deer, for the voice that he heard was Waneta's. He reached the blasted pine, gave one look, and sank to the earth. Presently other Indians came, who had heard the noise of fighting, and burst upon him with yells and brandished weapons, but something in his look restrained them from a close advance. His eyes were fixed on a string of beads that lay on the bottom of the lake, just off shore, and when the meaning of it came to them, the savages thought no more of killing, but moaned their grief; for Waneta, in stepping from her canoe to wade ashore, had been caught and swallowed by a quagmire. All night and all next day Kayuta sat there like a man of stone. Then, just as the hour fell when he was used to meet his love, his heart broke, and he joined her in the spiritland. THE DROP STAR A little maid of three years was missing from her home on the Genesee. She had gone to gather water-lilies and did not return. Her mother, almost crazed with grief, searched for days, weeks, months, before she could resign herself to the thought that her little one--Kayutah, the Drop Star, the Indians called her--had indeed been drowned. Years went by. The woman's home was secure against pillage, for it was no longer the one house of a white family in that region, and the Indians had retired farther and farther into the wilderness. One day a hunter came to the woman and said, "I have seen old Skenandoh,--the last of his tribe, thank God! who bade me say this to you: that the ice is broken, and he knows of a hill of snow where a red berry grows that shall be yours if you will claim it." When the meaning of this message came upon her the woman fainted, but on recovering speech she despatched her nephew to the hut of the aged chief and passed that night in prayer. The young man set off at sunset, and by hard riding, over dim trails, with only stars for light, he came in the gray of dawn to an upright timber, colored red and hung with scalps, that had been cut from white men's heads at the massacre of Wyoming. The place they still call Painted Post. Without drawing rein he sped along the hills that hem Lake Seneca, then, striking deeper into the wilds, he reached a smaller lake, and almost fell from his saddle before a rude tent near the shore. A new grave had been dug close by, and he shuddered to think that perhaps he had come too late, but a wrinkled Indian stepped forth at that moment and waited his word. "I come," cried the youth,--"to see the berry that springs from snow." "You come in time," answered Skenandoh. "No, 'tis not in that grave. It is my own child that is buried there. She was as a sister to the one you seek, and she bade me restore the Drop Star to her mother,--the squaw that we know as the New Moon's Light." Stepping into the wigwam, he emerged again, clasping the wrist of a girl of eighteen, whose robe he tore asunder at the throat, showing the white breast, and on it a red birth-mark; then, leading her to the young man, he said,--"And now I must go to the setting sun." He slung a pouch about him, loaded, not with arms and food, but stones, stepped into his canoe, and paddled out upon the water, singing as he went a melancholy chant--his deathsong. On gaining the middle of the lake he swung his tomahawk and clove the bottom of the frail boat, so that it filled in a moment and the chief sank from sight. The young man took his cousin to her overjoyed mother, helped to win her back to the ways of civilized life, and eventually married her. She took her Christian name again, but left to the lake on whose banks she had lived so long her Indian name of Drop Star--Kayutah. THE PROPHET OF PALMYRA It was at Palmyra, New York, that the principles of Mormonism were first enunciated by Joseph Smith, who claimed to have found the golden plates of the Book of Mormon in a hill-side in neighboring Manchester,--the "Hill of Cumorah,"--to which he was led by angels. The plates were written in characters similar to the masonic cabala, and he translated them by divine aid, giving to the world the result of his discovery. The Hebrew prophet Mormon was the alleged author of the record, and his son Moroni buried it. The basis of Mormonism was, however, an unpublished novel, called "The Manuscript Found," that was read to Sidney Rigdon (afterwards a Mormon elder) by its author, a clergyman, and that formulated a creed for a hypothetical church. Smith had a slight local celebrity, for he and his father were operators with the divining-rod, and when he appropriated this creed a harmless and beneficent one, for polygamy was a later "inspiration" of Brigham Young--and began to preach it, in 1844, it gained many converts. His arrogation of the presidency of the "Church of Latter Day Saints" and other rash performances won for him the enmity of the Gentiles, who imprisoned and killed him at Carthage, Missouri, leaving Brigham Young to lead the people across the deserts to Salt Lake, where they prospered through thrift and industry. It was claimed that in the van of this army, on the march to Utah, was often seen a venerable man with silver beard, who never spoke, but who would point the way whenever the pilgrims were faint or discouraged. When they reached the spot where the temple was afterwards built, he struck his staff into the earth and vanished. At Hydesville, near Palmyra, spiritualism, as it is commonly called, came into being on March 31, 1849, when certain of the departed announced themselves by thumping on doors and tables in the house of the Fox family, the survivors of which confessed the fraud nearly forty years after. It is of interest to note that the ground whence these new religions sprang was peopled by the Onondagas, the sacerdotal class of the Algonquin tribe, who have preserved the ancient religious rites of that great family until this day. A VILLAIN'S CREMATION Bramley's Mountain, near the present village of Bloomfield, New York, on the edge of the Catskill group, was the home of a young couple that had married with rejoicing and had taken up the duties and pleasures of housekeeping with enthusiasm. To be sure, in those days housekeeping was not a thing to be much afraid of, and the servant question had not come up for discussion. The housewives did the work themselves, and the husband had no valets. The domicile of this particular pair was merely a tent of skins stretched around a frame of poles, and their furniture consisted principally of furs strewn over the earth floor; but they loved each other truly. The girl was thankful to be taken from her home to live, because, up to the time of her marriage, she had been persecuted by a morose and ill-looking fellow of her tribe, who laid siege to her affection with such vehemence that the more he pleaded the greater was her dislike; and now she hoped that she had seen the last of him. But that was not to be. He lurked about the wigwam of the pair, torturing himself with the sight of their felicity, and awaiting his chance to prove his hate. This chance came when the husband had gone to Lake Delaware to fish, for he rowed after and gave battle in the middle of the pond. Taken by surprise, and being insufficiently armed, the husband was killed and his body flung into the water. Then, casting an affectionate leer at the wife who had watched this act of treachery and malice with speechless horror from the mountain-side, he drove his canoe ashore and set off in pursuit of her. She retreated so slowly as to allow him to keep her in sight, and when she entered a cave he pressed forward eagerly, believing that now her escape was impossible; but she had purposely trapped him there, for she had already explored a tortuous passage that led to the upper air, and by this she had left the cavern in safety while he was groping and calling in the dark. Returning to the entrance, she loosened, by a jar, a ledge that overhung it, so that the door was almost blocked; then, gathering light wood from the dry trees around her, she made a fire and hurled the burning sticks into the prison where the wretch was howling, until he was dead in smoke and flame. When his yells and curses had been silenced she told a friend what she had done, then going back to the lake, she sang her death-song and cast herself into the water, hoping thus to rejoin her husband. THE MONSTER MOSQUITOE They have some pretty big mosquitoes in New Jersey and on Long Island, but, if report of their ancestry is true, they have degenerated in size and voracity; for the grandfather of all mosquitoes used to live in the neighborhood of Fort Onondaga, New York, and sallying out whenever he was hungry, would eat an Indian or two and pick his teeth with their ribs. The red men had no arms that could prevail against it, but at last the Holder of the Heavens, hearing their cry for aid, came down and attacked the insect. Finding that it had met its match, the mosquito flew away so rapidly that its assailant could hardly keep it in sight. It flew around the great lake, then turned eastward again. It sought help vainly of the witches that brooded in the sink-holes, or Green Lakes (near Janesville, New York), and had reached the salt lake of Onondaga when its pursuer came up and killed it, the creature piling the sand into hills in its dying struggles. As its blood poured upon the earth it became small mosquitoes, that gathered about the Holder of the Heavens and stung him so sorely that he half repented the service that he had done to men. The Tuscaroras say that this was one of two monsters that stood on opposite banks of the Seneca River and slew all men that passed. Hiawatha killed the other one. On their reservation is a stone, marked by the form of the Sky Holder, that shows where he rested during the chase, while his tracks were until lately seen south of Syracuse, alternating with footprints of the mosquito, which were shaped like those of a bird, and twenty inches long. At Brighton, New York, where these marks appeared, they were reverentially renewed by the Indians for many years. THE GREEN PICTURE In a cellar in Green Street, Schenectady, there appeared, some years ago, the silhouette of a human form, painted on the floor in mould. It was swept and scrubbed away, but presently it was there again, and month by month, after each removal, it returned: a mass of fluffy mould, always in the shape of a recumbent man. When it was found that the house stood on the site of the old Dutch burial ground, the gossips fitted this and that together and concluded that the mould was planted by a spirit whose mortal part was put to rest a century and more ago, on the spot covered by the house, and that the spirit took this way of apprising people that they were trespassing on its grave. Others held that foul play had been done, and that a corpse, hastily and shallowly buried, was yielding itself back to the damp cellar in vegetable form, before its resolution into simpler elements. But a darker meaning was that it was the outline of a vampire that vainly strove to leave its grave, and could not because a virtuous spell had been worked about the place. A vampire is a dead man who walks about seeking for those whose blood he can suck, for only by supplying new life to its cold limbs can he keep the privilege of moving about the earth. He fights his way from his coffin, and those who meet his gray and stiffened shape, with fishy eyes and blackened mouth, lurking by open windows, biding his time to steal in and drink up a human life, fly from him in terror and disgust. In northern Rhode Island those who die of consumption are believed to be victims of vampires who work by charm, draining the blood by slow draughts as they lie in their graves. To lay this monster he must be taken up and burned; at least, his heart must be; and he must be disinterred in the daytime when he is asleep and unaware. If he died with blood in his heart he has this power of nightly resurrection. As late as 1892 the ceremony of heart-burning was performed at Exeter, Rhode Island, to save the family of a dead woman that was threatened with the same disease that removed her, namely, consumption. But the Schenectady vampire has yielded up all his substance, and the green picture is no more. THE NUNS OF CARTHAGE At Carthage, New York, where the Black River bends gracefully about a point, there was a stanch old house, built in the colonial fashion and designed for the occupancy of some family of hospitality and wealth, but the family died out or moved away, and for some years it remained deserted. During the war of 1812 the village gossips were excited by the appearance of carpenters, painters and upholsterers, and it was evident that the place was to be restored to its manorial dignities; but their curiosity was deepened instead of satisfied when, after the house had been put in order and high walls built around it, the occupants presented themselves as four young women in the garb of nuns. Were they daughters of the family? Were they English sympathizers in disguise, seeking asylum in the days of trouble? Had they registered a vow of celibacy until their lovers should return from the war? Were they on a secret and diplomatic errand? None ever knew, at least in Carthage. The nuns lived in great privacy, but in a luxury before unequalled in that part of the country. They kept a gardener, they received from New York wines and delicacies that others could not afford, and when they took the air, still veiled, it was behind a splendid pair of bays. One afternoon, just after the close of the war, a couple of young American officers went to the convent, and, contrary to all precedent, were admitted. They remained within all that day, and no one saw them leave, but a sound of wheels passed through the street that evening. Next day there were no signs of life about the place, nor the day following, nor the next. The savage dog was quiet and the garden walks had gone unswept. Some neighbors climbed over the wall and reported that the place had been deserted. Why and by whom no one ever knew, but a cloud remained upon its title until a recent day, for it was thought that at some time the nuns might return. THE SKULL IN THE WALL A skull is built into the wall above the door of the court-house at Goshen, New York. It was taken from a coffin unearthed in 1842, when the foundation of the building was laid. People said there was no doubt about it, only Claudius Smith could have worn that skull, and he deserved to be publicly pilloried in that manner. Before the Revolutionary war Smith was a farmer in Monroe, New York, and being prosperous enough to feel the king's taxes no burden, to say nothing of his jealousy of the advantage that an independent government would be to the hopes of his poorer neighbors, he declared for the king. After the declaration of independence had been published, his sympathies were illustrated in an unpleasantly practical manner by gathering a troop of other Tories about him, and, emboldened by the absence of most of the men of his vicinage in the colonial army, he began to harass the country as grievously in foray as the red-coats were doing in open field. He pillaged houses and barns, then burned them; he insulted women, he drove away cattle and horses, he killed several persons who had undertaken to defend their property. His "campaigns" were managed with such secrecy that nobody knew when or whence to look for him. His murder of Major Nathaniel Strong, of Blooming Grove, roused indignation to such a point that a united effort was made to catch him, a money reward for success acting as a stimulus to the vigilance of the hunters, and at last he was captured on Long Island. He was sent back to Goshen, tried, convicted, and on January 22, 1779, was hanged, with five of his band. The bodies of the culprits were buried in the jail-yard, on the spot where the court-house stands, and old residents identified Smith's skeleton, when it was accidentally exhumed, by its uncommon size. A farmer from an adjacent town made off with a thigh bone, and a mason clapped mortar into the empty skull and cemented it into the wall, where it long remained. THE HAUNTED MILL Among the settlers in the Adirondacks, forty or fifty years ago, was Henry Clymer, from Brooklyn, who went up to Little Black Creek and tried to make a farm out of the gnarly, stumpy land; but being a green hand at that sort of thing, he soon gave it up and put up the place near Northwood, that is locally referred to as the haunted mill. When the first slab was cut, a big party was on hand to cheer and eat pie in honor of the Clymers, for Mr. Clymer, who was a dark, hearty, handsome fellow, and his bright young wife had been liberal in their hospitality. The couple had made some talk, they were so loving before folks--too loving to last; and, besides, it was evident that Mrs. Clymer was used to a better station in life than her husband. It was while the crowd was laughing and chattering at the picnic-table of new boards from the mill that Mrs. Clymer stole away to her modest little house, and a neighbor who had followed her was an accidental witness to a singular episode. Mrs. Clymer was kneeling beside her bed, crying over the picture of a child, when Clymer entered unexpectedly and attempted to take the picture from her. She faced him defiantly. "You kept that because it looked like him, I reckon," he said. "You might run back to him. You know what he'd call you and where you'd stand with your aristocracy." The woman pointed to the door, and the man left without another word, and so did the listener. Next morning the body of Mrs. Clymer was found hanging to a beam in the mill. At the inquest the husband owned that he had "had a few words" with her on the previous day, and thought that she must have suddenly become insane. The jury took this view. News of the suicide was printed in some of the city papers, and soon after that the gossips had another sensation, for a fair-haired man, also from Brooklyn, arrived at the place and asked where the woman was buried. When he found the grave he sat beside it for some time, his head resting on his hand; then he inquired for Clymer, but Clymer, deadly pale, had gone into the woods as soon as he heard that a stranger had arrived. The new-comer went to Trenton, where he ordered a gravestone bearing the single word "Estella" to be placed where the woman's body had been interred. Clymer quickly sold out and disappeared. The mill never prospered, and has long been in a ruinous condition. People of the neighborhood think that the ghost of Mrs. Clymer--was that her name?--still troubles it, and they pass the place with quickened steps. OLD INDIAN FACE On Lower Ausable Pond is a large, ruddy rock showing a huge profile, with another, resembling a pappoose, below it. When the Tahawi ruled this region their sachem lived here at "the Dark Cup," as they called this lake, a man renowned for virtue and remarkable, in his age, for gentleness. When his children had died and his manly grandson, who was the old man's hope, had followed them to the land of the cloud mountains, Adota's heart withered within him, and standing beneath this rock, he addressed his people, recounting what he had done for them, how he had swept their enemies from the Lakes of the Clustered Stars (the Lower Saranac) and Silver Sky (Upper Saranac) to the Lake of Wandah, gaining a land where they might hunt and fish in peace. The little one, the Star, had been ravished away to crown the brow of the thunder god, who, even now, was advancing across the peaks, bending the woods and lighting the valleys with his jagged torches. Life was nothing to him longer; he resigned it. As he spoke these words he fell back, and the breath passed out of him. Then came the thunder god, and with an appalling burst of fire sent the people cowering. The roar that followed seemed to shake the earth, but the medicine-man of the tribe stood still, listening to the speech of the god in the clouds. "Tribe of the Tahawi," he translated, "Adota treads the star-path to the happy hunting-grounds, and the sun is shining on his heart. He will never walk among you again, but the god loves both him and you, and he will set his face on the mountains. Look!" And, raising their eyes, they beheld the likeness of Adota and of his beloved child, the Star, graven by lightning-stroke on the cliff. There they buried the body of Adota and held their solemn festivals until the white men drove them out of the country. THE DIVISION OF THE SARANACS In the middle of the last century a large body of Saranac Indians occupied the forests of the Upper Saranac through which ran the Indian carrying-place, called by them the Eagle Nest Trail. Whenever they raided the Tahawi on the slopes of Mount Tahawus (Sky-splitter), there was a pleasing rivalry between two young athletes, called the Wolf and the Eagle, as to which would carry off the more scalps, and the tribe was divided in admiration of them. There was one who did not share this liking: an old sachem, one of the wizards who had escaped when the Great Spirit locked these workers of evil in the hollow trees that stood beside the trail. In their struggles to escape the less fortunate ones thrust their arms through the closing bark, and they are seen there, as withered trunks and branches, to this day. Oquarah had not been softened by this exhibition of danger nor the qualification of mercy that allowed him still to exist. Rather he was more bitter when he saw, as he fancied, that the tribe thought more of the daring and powerful warriors than it did of the bent and malignant-minded counsellor. It was in the moon of green leaves that the two young men set off to hunt the moose, and on the next day the Wolf returned alone. He explained that in the hunt they had been separated; he had called for hours for his friend, and had searched so long that he concluded he must have returned ahead of him. But he was not at the camp. Up rose the sachem with visage dark. "I hear a forked tongue," he cried. "The Wolf was jealous of the Eagle and his teeth have cut into his heart." "The Wolf cannot lie," answered the young man. "Where is the Eagle?" angrily shouted the sachem, clutching his hatchet. "The Wolf has said," replied the other. The old sachem advanced upon him, but as he raised his axe to strike, the wife of the Wolf threw herself before her husband, and the steel sank into her brain. The sachem fell an instant later with the Wolf's knife in his heart, and instantly the camp was in turmoil. Before the day had passed it had been broken up, and the people were divided into factions, for it was no longer possible to hold it together in peace. The Wolf, with half of the people, went down the Sounding River to new hunting-grounds, and the earth that separated the families was reddened whenever one side met the other. Years had passed when, one morning, the upper tribe saw a canoe advancing across the Lake of the Silver Sky. An old man stepped from it: he was the Eagle. After the Wolf had left him he had fallen into a cleft in a rock, and had lain helpless until found by hunters who were on their way to Canada. He had joined the British against the French, had married a northern squaw, but had returned to die among the people of his early love. Deep was his sorrow that his friend should have been accused of doing him an injury, and that the once happy tribe should have been divided by that allegation. The warriors and sachems of both branches were summoned to a council, and in his presence they swore a peace, so that in the fulness of time he was able to die content. That peace was always kept. AN EVENT IN INDIAN PARK It was during the years when the Saranacs were divided that Howling Wind, one of the young men of Indian Carry, saw and fell in love with a girl of the family on Tupper Lake. He quickly found a way to tell his liking, and the couple met often in the woods and on the shore. He made bold to row her around the quieter bays, and one moonlight evening he took her to Devil's Rock, or Devil's Pulpit, where he told her the story of the place. This was to the effect that the fiend had paddled, on timbers, by means of his tail, to that rock, and had assembled fish and game about him in large numbers by telling them that he was going to preach to them, instead of which moral procedure he pounced upon and ate all that were within his grasp. As so often happened in Indian history, the return of these lovers was seen by a disappointed rival, who had hurried back to camp and secured the aid of half a dozen men to arrest the favored one as soon as he should land. The capture was made after a struggle, and Howling Wind was dragged to the chief's tent for sentence. That sentence was death, and with a refinement of cruelty that was rare even among the Indians, the girl was ordered to execute it. She begged and wept to no avail. An axe was put into her hands, and she was ordered to despatch the prisoner. She took the weapon; her face grew stern and the tears dried on her cheeks; her lover, bound to a tree, gazed at her in amazement; his rival watched, almost in glee. Slowly the girl crossed the open space to her lover. She raised the tomahawk and at a blow severed the thongs that held him, then, like a flash, she leaped upon his rival, who had sprung forward to interfere, and clove his skull with a single stroke. The lovers fled as only those can fly who run for life. Happily for them, they met a party from the Carry coming to rescue Howling Wind from the danger to which his courtship had exposed him, and it was even said that this party entered the village and by presenting knives and arrows at the breast of the chief obtained his now superfluous consent to the union of the fugitives. The pair reached the Carry in safety and lived a long and happy life together. THE INDIAN PLUME Brightest flower that grows beside the brooks is the scarlet blossom of the Indian plume: the blood of Lenawee. Hundreds of years ago she lived happily among her brother and sister Saranacs beside Stony Creek, the Stream of the Snake, and was soon to marry the comely youth who, for the speed of his foot, was called the Arrow. But one summer the Quick Death came on the people, and as the viewless devil stalked through the village young and old fell before him. The Arrow was the first to die. In vain the Prophet smoked the Great Calumet: its smoke ascending took no shape that he could read. In vain was the white dog killed to take aloft the people's sins. But at last the Great Spirit himself came down to the mountain called the Storm Darer, splendid in lightning, awful in his thunder voice and robe of cloud. "My wrath is against you for your sins," he cried, "and naught but human blood will appease it." In the morning the Prophet told his message, and all sat silent for a time. Then Lenawee entered the circle. "Lenawee is a blighted flower," she sobbed. "Let her blood flow for her people." And catching a knife from the Prophet's belt, she ran with it to the stream on which she and the Arrow had so often floated in their canoe. In another moment her blood had bedewed the earth. "Lay me with the Arrow," she murmured, and, smiling in their sad faces, breathed her last. The demon of the quick death shrank from the spot, and the Great Spirit smiled once more on the tribe that could produce such heroism. Lenawee's body was placed beside her lover's, and next morning, where her blood had spilt, the ground was pure, and on it grew in slender spires a new flower,--the Indian plume: the transformed blood of sacrifice. The people loved that flower in all years after. They decked their hair and dresses with it and made a feast in its honor. When parents taught their children the beauty of unselfishness they used as its emblem a stalk of Indian plume. BIRTH OF THE WATER-LILY Back from his war against the Tahawi comes the Sun, chief of the Lower Saranacs,--back to the Lake of the Clustered Stars, afterward called, by dullards, Tupper's Lake. Tall and invincible he comes among his people, boasting of his victories, Indian fashion, and stirring the scalps that hang at his breast. "The Eagle screams," he cries. "He greets the chief, the Blazing Sun. Wayotah has made the Tahawi tremble. They fly from him. Hooh, hooh! He is the chief." Standing apart with wistful glance stands Oseetah, the Bird. She loves the strong young chief, but she knows that another has his promise, and she dares not hope; yet the chief loves her, and when the feasting is over he follows her footprints to the shore, where he sees her canoe turning the point of an island. He silently pursues and comes upon her as she sits waving and moaning. He tries to embrace her, but she draws apart. He asks her to sing to him; she bids him begone. He takes a more imperious tone and orders her to listen to her chief. She moves away. He darts toward her. Turning on him a face of sorrow, she runs to the edge of a steep rock and waves him back. He hastens after. Then she springs and disappears in the deep water. The Sun plunges after her and swims with mad strength here and there. He calls. There is no answer. Slowly he returns to the village and tells the people what has happened. The Bird's parents are stricken and the Sun moans in his sleep. At noon a hunter comes in with strange tidings: flowers are growing on the water! The people go to their canoes and row to the Island of Elms. There, in a cove, the still water is enamelled with flowers, some as white as snow, filling the air with perfume, others strong and yellow, like the lake at sunset. "Explain to us," they cry, turning to the old Medicine of his tribe, "for this was not so yesterday." "It is our daughter," he answered. "These flowers are the form she takes. The white is her purity, the yellow her love. You shall see that her heart will close when the sun sets, and will reopen at his coming." And the young chief went apart and bowed his head. ROGERS'S SLIDE The shores of Lakes George and Champlain were ravaged by war. Up and down those lovely waters swept the barges of French and English, and the green hills rang to the shrill of bugles, the boom of cannon, and the yell of savages. Fiction and history have been weft across the woods and the memory of deeds still echoes among the heights. It was at Glen's Falls, in the cave on the rock in the middle of the river, that the brave Uncas held the watch with Hawkeye. Bloody Defile and Bloody Pond, between there and Lake George, take their names from the "Bloody morning scout" sent out by Sir William Johnson on a September day in 1755 to check Dieskau until Fort William Henry could be completed. In the action that ensued, Colonel Williams, founder of Williams College, and Captain Grant, of the Connecticut line, great-grandfather of the President who bore that name, were killed. The victims, dead and wounded alike, having been flung into Bloody Pond, it was thick and red for days, and tradition said that in after years it resumed its hue of crimson at sunset and held it until dawn. The captured, who were delivered to the Indians, had little to hope, for their white allies could not stay their savagery. Blind Rock was so called because the Indians brought a white man there, and tearing his eyes out, flung them into embers at the foot of the stone. Captives were habitually tortured, blazing splinters of pine being thrust into their flesh, their nails torn out, and their bodies slashed with knives before they went to the stake. An English prisoner was allowed to run the gauntlet here. They had already begun to strike at him as he sped between the lines, when he seized a pappoose, flung it on a fire, and, in the instant of confusion that followed, snatched an axe, cut the bonds of a comrade who had been doomed to die, and both escaped. But the best-known history of this region is that of Rogers's Rock, or Rogers's Slide, a lofty precipice at the lower end of Lake George. Major Rogers did not toboggan down this rock in leather trousers, but his escape was no less remarkable than if he had. On March 13, 1758, while reconnoitring near Ticonderoga with two hundred rangers, he was surprised by a force of French and Indians. But seventeen of his men escaped death or capture, and he was pursued nearly to the brink of this cliff. During a brief delay among the red men, arising from the loss of his trail, he had time to throw his pack down the slide, reverse his snow-shoes, and go back over his own track to the head of a ravine before they emerged from the woods, and, seeing that his shoe-marks led to the rock, while none pointed back, they concluded that he had flung himself off and committed suicide to avoid capture. Great was their disappointment when they saw the major on the frozen surface of the lake beneath going at a lively rate toward Fort William Henry. He had gained the ice by way of the cleft in the rocks, but the savages, believing that he had leaped over the precipice, attributed his preservation to the Great Spirit and forbore to fire on him. Unconsciously, he had chosen the best possible place to disappear from, for the Indians held it in superstitious regard, believing that spirits haunted the wood and hurled bad souls down the cliff, drowning them in the lake, instead of allowing them to go to the happy hunting grounds. The major reached his quarters in safety, and lived to take up arms against the land of his birth when the colonies revolted, seventeen years later. THE FALLS AT COHOES When Occuna, a young Seneca, fell in love with a girl whose cabin was near the present town of Cohoes, he behaved very much as Americans of a later date have done. He picked wild flowers for her; he played on the bone pipe and sang sentimental songs in the twilight; he roamed the hills with her, gathering the loose quartz crystals that the Indians believed to be the tears of stricken deer, save on Diamond Rock, in Lansingburgh, where they are the tears of Moneta, a bereaved mother and wife; and in fine weather they went boating on the Mohawk above the rapids. They liked to drift idly on the current, because it gave them time to gaze into each other's eyes, and to build air castles that they would live in in the future. They were suddenly called to a realization of danger one evening, for the stream had been subtly drawing them on and on until it had them in its power. The stroke of the paddle failed and the air castles fell in dismal ruin. Sitting erect they began their death-song in this wise: Occuna: "Daughter of a mighty warrior, the Manitou calls me hence. I hear the roaring of his voice; I see the lightning of his glance along the river; he walks in clouds and spray upon the waters." The Maiden: "Thou art thyself a warrior, O Occuna. Hath not thine axe been often bathed in blood? Hath the deer ever escaped thine arrow or the beaver avoided thy chase? Thou wilt not fear to go into the presence of Manitou." Occuna: "Manitou, indeed, respects the strong. When I chose thee from the women of our tribe I promised that we should live and die together. The Thunderer calls us now. Welcome, O ghost of Oriska, chief of the invincible Senecas! A warrior and the daughter of a warrior come to join you in the feast of the blessed!" The boat leaped over the falls, and Occuna, striking on the rocks below, was killed at once; but, as by a miracle, the girl fell clear of them and was whirled on the seething current to shoal water, where she made her escape. For his strength and his virtues the dead man was canonized. His tribe raised him above the regions of the moon, whence he looked down on the scenes of his youth with pleasure, and in times of war gave pleasant dreams and promises to his friends, while he confused the enemy with evil omens. Whenever his tribe passed the falls they halted and with brief ceremonials commemorated the death of Occuna. FRANCIS WOOLCOTT'S NIGHT-RIDERS In Copake, New York, among the Berkshire Hills, less than a century ago, lived Francis Woolcott, a dark, tall man, with protruding teeth, whose sinister laugh used to give his neighbors a creep along their spines. He had no obvious trade or calling, but the farmers feared him so that he had no trouble in making levies: pork, flour, meal, cider, he could have what he chose for the asking, for had he not halted horses at the plow so that neither blows nor commands could move them for two hours? Had he not set farmer Raught's pigs to walking on their hind legs and trying to talk? When he shouted "Hup! hup! hup!" to farmer Williams's children, had they not leaped to the moulding of the parlor wainscot,--a yard above the floor and only an inch wide,--and walked around it, afterward skipping like birds from chair-back to chair-back, while the furniture stood as if nailed to the floor? And was he not the chief of thirteen night-riders, whose faces no man had seen, nor wanted to see, and whom he sent about the country on errands of mischief every night when the moon was growing old? As to moons, had he not found a mystic message from our satellite on Mount Riga, graven on a meteor? Horses' tails were tied, hogs foamed at the mouth and walked like men, cows gave blood for milk. These night-riders met Woolcott in a grove of ash and chestnut trees, each furnished with a stolen bundle of oat straw, and these bundles Woolcott changed to black horses when the night had grown dark enough not to let the way of the change be seen. These horses could not cross streams of water, and on the stroke of midnight they fell to pieces and were oaten sheaves once more, but during their time of action they rushed through woods, bearing their riders safely, and tore like hurricanes across the fields, leaping bushes, fences, even trees, without effort. Never could traces be found of them the next day. At last the devil came to claim his own. Woolcott, who was ninety years old, lay sick and helpless in his cabin. Clergymen refused to see him, but two or three of his neighbors stifled their fears and went to the wizard's house to soothe his dying moments. With the night came storm, and with its outbreak the old man's face took on such a strange and horrible look that the watchers fell back in alarm. There was a burst of purple flame at the window, a frightful peal, a smell of sulphur, and Woolcott was dead. When the watchers went out the roads were dry, and none in the village had heard wind, rain, or thunder. It was the coming of the fiend. POLLY'S LOVER In about the middle of this century a withered woman of ninety was buried from a now deserted house in White Plains, New York, Polly Carter the name of her, but "Crazy Polly" was what the neighbors called her, for she was eccentric and not fond of company. Among the belongings of her house was a tall clock, such as relic hunters prize, that ticked solemnly in a landing on the stairs. For a time, during the Revolution, the house stood within the British lines, and as her father was a colonel in Washington's army she was left almost alone in it. The British officers respected her sex, but they had an unpleasant way of running in unannounced and demanding entertainment, in the king's name, which she felt forced to grant. One rainy afternoon the door was flung open, then locked on the inside, and she found herself in the arms of a stalwart, handsome lieutenant, who wore the blue. It was her cousin and fiance. Their glad talk had not been going long when there came a rousing summons at the door. Three English officers were awaiting admittance. Perhaps they had seen Lawrence Carter go into the house, and if caught he would be killed as a spy. He must be hidden, but in some place where they would not think of looking. The clock! That was the place. With a laugh and a kiss the young man submitted to be shut in this narrow quarter, and throwing his coat and hat behind some furniture the girl admitted the officers, who were wet and surly and demanded dinner. They tramped about the best room in their muddy boots, talking loudly, and in order to break the effect of the chill weather they passed the brandy bottle freely. Polly served them with a dinner as quickly as possible, for she wanted to get them out of the house, but they were in no mood to go, and the bottle passed so often that before the dinner was over they were noisy and tipsy and were using language that drove Polly from the room. At last, to her relief, she heard them preparing to leave the house, but as they were about to go the senior officer, looking up at the landing, now dim in the paling light, said to one of the others, "See what time it is." The officer addressed, who happened to be the drunkest of the party, staggered up the stair and exclaimed, "The d---d thing's stopped." Then, as if he thought it a good joke, he added, "It'll never go again." Drawing his sabre he gave the clock a careless cut and ran the blade through the panel of the door; after this the three passed out. When their voices had died in distant brawling, Polly ran to release her lover. Something thick and dark was creeping from beneath the clock-case. With trembling fingers she pulled open the door, and Lawrence, her lover, fell heavily forward into her arms, dead. The officer was right: the clock never went again. CROSBY, THE PATRIOT SPY It was at the Jay house, in Westchester, New York, that Enoch Crosby met Washington and offered his services to the patriot army. Crosby was a cobbler, and not a very thriving one, but after the outbreak of hostilities he took a peddler's outfit on his back and, as a non-combatant, of Tory sympathies, he obtained admission through the British lines. After his first visit to head quarters it is certain that he always carried Sir Henry Clinton's passport in the middle of his pack, and so sure were his neighbors that he was in the service of the British that they captured him and took him to General Washington, but while his case was up for debate he managed to slip his handcuffs, which were not secure, and made off. Clinton, on the other hand, was puzzled by the unaccountable foresight of the Americans, for every blow that he prepared to strike was met, and he lost time and chance and temper. As if the suspicion of both armies and the hatred of his neighbors were not enough to contend against, Crosby now became an object of interest to the Skinners and Cowboys, who were convinced that he was making money, somehow, and resolved to have it. The Skinners were camp-followers of the American troops and the Cowboys a band of Tories and renegade British. Both factions were employed, ostensibly, in foraging for their respective armies, but, in reality, for themselves, and the farmers and citizens occupying the neutral belt north of Manhattan Island had reason to curse them both impartially. While these fellows were daring thieves, they occasionally got the worst of it, even in the encounters with the farmers, as on the Neperan, near Tarrytown, where the Cowboys chased a woman to death, but were afterward cut to pieces by the enraged neighbors. Hers is but one of the many ghosts that haunt the neutral ground, and the croaking of the birds of ill luck that nest at Raven rock is blended with the cries of her dim figure. Still, graceless as these fellows were, they affected a loyalty to their respective sides, and were usually willing to fight each other when they met, especially for the plunder that was to be got by fighting. In October, 1780, Claudius Smith, "king of the Cowboys," and three scalawag sons came to the conclusion that it was time for Crosby's money to revert to the crown, and they set off toward his little house one evening, sure of finding him in, for his father was seriously ill. The Smiths arrived there to find that the Skinners had preceded them on the same errand, and they recognized through the windows, in the leader of the band, a noted brigand on whose head a price was laid. He was searching every crack and cranny of the room, while Crosby, stripped to shirt and trousers, stood before the empty fireplace and begged for that night to be left alone with his dying father. "To hell with the old man!" roared the Skinner. "Give up your gold, or we'll put you to the torture," and he significantly whirled the end of a rope that he carried about his waist. At that moment the faint voice of the old man was heard calling from another room. "Take all that I have and let me go!" cried Crosby, and turning up a brick in the fire-place he disclosed a handful of gold, his life savings. The leader still tried to oppose his exit, but Crosby flung him to the floor and rushed away to his father, while the brigand, deeming it well to delay rising, dug his fingers into the hollow and began to extract the sovereigns. At that instant four muskets were discharged from without: there was a crash of glass, a yell of pain, and four of the Skinners rolled bleeding on the floor; two others ran into the darkness and escaped; their leader, trying to follow, was met at the threshold by the Smiths, who clutched the gold out of his hand and pinioned his elbows in a twinkling. "I thought ye'd like to know who's got ye," said old Smith, peering into the face of the astonished and crestfallen robber, "for I've told ye many a time to keep out of my way, and now ye've got to swing for getting into it." Within five minutes of the time that he had got his clutch on Crosby's money the bandit was choking to death at the end of his own rope, hung from the limb of an apple-tree, and, having secured the gold, the Cowboys went their way into the darkness. Crosby soon made his appearance in the ranks of the Continentals, and, though they looked askant at him for a time, they soon discovered the truth and hailed him as a hero, for the information he had carried to Washington from Clinton's camp had often saved them from disaster. He had survived attack in his own house through the falling out of rogues, and he survived the work and hazard of war through luck and a sturdy frame. Congress afterwards gave him a sum of money larger than had been taken from him, for his chief had commended him in these lines: "Circumstances of political importance, which involved the lives and fortunes of many, have hitherto kept secret what this paper now reveals. Enoch Crosby has for years been a faithful and unrequited servant of his country. Though man does not, God may reward him for his conduct. GEORGE WASHINGTON." Associated with Crosby in his work of getting information from the enemy was a man named Gainos, who kept an inn on the neutral ground, that was often raided. Being assailed by Cowboys once, Gainos, with his tenant and stable-boys, fired at the bandits together, just as the latter had forced his front door, then stepping quickly forward he slashed off the head of the leader with a cutlass. The retreating crew dumped the body into a well on the premises, and there it sits on the crumbling curb o' nights looking disconsolately for its head. It may also be mentioned that the Skinners had a chance to revenge themselves on the Cowboys for their defeat at the Crosby house. They fell upon the latter at the tent-shaped cave in Yonkers,--it is called Washington's Cave, because the general napped there on bivouac,--and not only routed them, but secured so much of their treasure that they were able to be honest for several years after. THE LOST GRAVE OF PAINE Failure to mark the resting-places of great men and to indicate the scenes of their deeds has led to misunderstanding and confusion among those who discover a regard for history and tradition in this practical age. Robert Fulton, who made steam navigation possible, lies in an unmarked tomb in the yard of Trinity Church--the richest church in America. The stone erected to show where Andre was hanged was destroyed by a cheap patriot, who thought it represented a compliment to the spy. The spot where Alexander Hamilton was shot in the duel by Aaron Burr is known to few and will soon be forgotten. It was not until a century of obloquy had been heaped on the memory of Thomas Paine that his once enemies were brought to know him as a statesman of integrity, a philanthropist, and philosopher. His deistic religion, proclaimed in "The Age of Reason," is unfortunately no whit more independent than is preached in dozens of pulpits to-day. He died ripe in honors, despite his want of creed, and his mortal part was buried in New Rochelle, New York, under a large walnut-tree in a hay-field. Some years later his friends removed the body to a new grave in higher ground, and placed over it a monument that the opponents of his principles quickly hacked to pieces. Around the original grave there still remains a part of the old inclosure, and it was proposed to erect a suitable memorial--the Hudson and its Hills the spot, but the owner of the tract would neither give nor sell an inch of his land for the purpose of doing honor to the man. Some doubt has already been expressed as to whether the grave is beneath the monument or in the inclosure; and it is also asserted that Paine's ghost appears at intervals, hovering in the air between the two burial-places, or flitting back and forth from one to the other, lamenting the forgetfulness of men and wailing, "Where is my grave? I have lost my grave!" THE RISING OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS Gouverneur Morris, American minister to the court of Louis XVI, was considerably enriched, at the close of the reign of terror, by plate, jewels, furniture, paintings, coaches, and so on, left in his charge by members of the French nobility, that they might not be confiscated in the sack of the city by the _sans culottes_; for so many of the aristocracy were killed and so many went into exile or disguised their names, that it was impossible to find heirs or owners for these effects. Some of the people who found France a good country to be out of came to America, where adventurers had found prosperity and refugees found peace so many times before. Marshal Ney and Bernadotte are alleged to have served in the American army during the Revolution, and at Hogansburg, New York, the Reverend Eleazer Williams, an Episcopal missionary, who lies buried in the church-yard there, was declared to be the missing son of Louis XVI. The question, "Have we a Bourbon among us?" was frequently canvassed; but he avoided publicity and went quietly on with his pastoral work. All property left in Mr. Morris's hands that had not been claimed was removed to his mansion at Port Morris, when he returned from his ministry, and he gained in the esteem and envy of his neighbors when the extent of these riches was seen. Once, at the wine, he touched glasses with his wife, and said that if she bore a male child that son should be heir to his wealth. Two relatives who sat at the table exchanged looks at this and cast a glance of no gentle regard on his lady. A year went by. The son was born, but Gouverneur Morris was dead. It is the first night of the year 1817, the servants are asleep, and the widow sits late before the fire, her baby in her arms, listening betimes to the wind in the chimney, the beat of hail on the shutters, the brawling of the Bronx and the clash of moving ice upon it; yet thinking of her husband and the sinister look his promise had brought to the faces of his cousins, when a tramp of horses is heard without, and anon a summons at the door. The panels are beaten by loaded riding-whips, and a man's voice cries, "Anne Morris, fetch us our cousin's will, or we'll break into the house and take it." The woman clutches the infant to her breast, but makes no answer. Again the clatter of the whips; but now a mist is gathering in the room, and a strange enchantment comes over her, for are not the lions breathing on the coat of arms above the door, and are not the portraits stirring in their frames? They are, indeed. There is a rustle of robes and clink of steel and one old warrior leaps down, his armor sounding as he alights, and striking thrice his sword and shield together he calls on Gouverneur Morris to come forth. Somebody moves in the room where Morris died; there is a measured footfall in the corridor, with the clank of a scabbard keeping time; the door is opened, and on the blast that enters the widow hears a cry, then a double gallop, passing swiftly into distance. As she gazes, her husband appears, apparelled as in life, and with a smile he takes a candelabrum from the mantel and, beckoning her to follow, moves from room to room. Then, for the first time, the widow knows to what wealth her baby has been born, for the ghost discloses secret drawers in escritoires where money, title deeds, and gems are hidden, turns pictures and wainscots on unsuspected hinges, revealing shelves heaped with fabrics, plate, and lace; then, returning to the fireside, he stoops as if to kiss his wife and boy, but a bell strikes the first hour of morning and he vanishes into his portrait on the wall. 
58900	----	WHERE ANIMALS TALK West African Folk Lore Tales By ROBERT H. NASSAU Author of "Fetichism in West Africa," "The Youngest King," etc. RICHARD G. BADGER THE GORHAM PRESS BOSTON PREFACE The typical native African Ekano or legend is marked by repetition. The same incidents occur to a succession of individuals; monotony being prevented by a variation in the conduct of those individuals, as they reveal their weakness or stupidity, artifice or treachery. Narrators, while preserving the original plot and characters of a Tale, vary it, and make it graphic by introducing objects known and familiar to their audience. These inconsistencies do not interfere with belief or offend the taste of a people with whom even the impossible is not a bar to faith; rather, the inconsistency sharpens their enjoyment of the story. Surprise must not be felt at the impossibility of some of the situations; e.g., the swallowing by an animal of his wife, baggage and household furniture, as a means of hiding them. The absurdity of such situations is one of the distinctive attractions to the minds of the excited listeners. Variations of the same Tale, as told in different Tribes, were inevitable among a people whose language was not written until within the last hundred years; the Tales having been transmitted verbally, from generation to generation, for, probably, thousands of years. As to their antiquity, I believe these Tales to be of very ancient origin. No argument must be taken against them because of the internal evidence of allusion to modern things, or implements, or customs of known modern date; e.g., "cannon," "tables," "steamships," etc., etc. Narrators constantly embellish by novel additions; e.g., where, in the original story, a character used a spear, the narrator may substitute a pistol. Almost all these Tales locate themselves in supposed pre-historic times, when Beasts and Human Beings are asserted to have lived together with social relations in the same community. An unintended concession to the claims of some Evolutionists! The most distinctive feature of these Tales is that, while the actors are Beasts, they are speaking and living as Human Beings, acting as a beast in human environment; and, instantly, in the same sentence, acting as a human being in a beast's environment. This must constantly be borne in mind, or the action of the story will become not only unreasonable but utterly inexplicable. The characters in the stories relieve themselves from difficult or dangerous situations by invoking the aid of a powerful personal fetish-charm known as "Ngalo"; a fetish almost as valuable as Aladdin's Lamp of the Arabian Nights. And yet, with inconsistency, notwithstanding this aid, the actors are often suffering from many small evils of daily human life. These inconsistencies are another feature of the Ekano that the listeners enjoy as the spice of the story. From internal evidences, I think that the local sources of these Tales were Arabian, or at least under Arabic, and perhaps even Egyptian, influences. (Observe the prefix, Ra, a contraction of Rera equals father, a title of honor, as "Lord," or "Sir," or "Master," in names of dignitaries; e.g. Ra-Marânge, Ra-Mborakinda, Ra-Meses.) This is consistent with the fact that there is Arabic blood in the Bantu Negro. The invariable direction to which the southwest coast tribes point, as the source of their ancestors, is northeast. Such an ethnologist as Sir H. H. Johnston traces the Bantu stream southward on the east coast to the Cape of Good Hope, and then turns it northward on the west coast to the equator and as far as the fourth degree of north latitude, the very region from which I gathered these stories. Only a few men, and still fewer women, in any community, are noted as skilled narrators. They are the literati. The public never weary of hearing the same Tales repeated; like our own civilized audiences at a play running for a hundred or more nights. They are made attractive by the dramatic use of gesture, tones, and startling exclamations. The occasions selected for the renditions are nights, after the day's works are done, especially if there be visitors to be entertained. The places chosen are the open village street, or, in forest camps where almost all the population of a village go for a week's work on their cutting of new plantations; or for hunting; or for fishing in ponds. The time for these camps is in one of the two dry seasons: where the booths erected are not for protection against rain, but for a little privacy, for the warding off of insects, birds and small animals, and for the drying of meats. At such times, most of the adults go off during the day for fishing; or, if for hunting, only the men; the children being guarded at their plays in the camp by the older women, who are kept occupied with cooking, and with the drying of meats. At night, all gather around the camp-fire; and the Tales are told with, at intervals, accompaniment of drum; and parts of the plot are illustrated by an appropriate song, or by a short dance, the platform being only the earth, and the scenery the forest shadows and the moon or stars. The Bantu Language has very many dialects, having the same grammatical construction, but differing in their vocabulary. The name of the same animal therefore differs in the three typical Tribes mentioned in these Tales; e.g., Leopard, in Mpongwe, equals Njegâ; in Benga, equals Njâ; and in Fang, equals Nze. PRONUNCIATION In all the dialects of the Bantu language, consonants are pronounced, as in English; except that g is always hard. The vowels are pronounced as in the following English equivalent:-- a as in father e.g., Kabala â as in awe e.g., Njâ. e as in they e.g., Ekaga. e as in met e.g., Njegâ. i as in machine e.g., Njina. o as in note e.g., Kombe. u as in rule e.g., Kuba. A before y is pronounced ai as a diphthong, e.g., Asaya. Close every syllable with a vowel, e.g., Ko-ngo. Where two or more consonants begin a syllable, a slight vowel sound may be presupposed, e.g., Ngweya, as if iNgweya. Ng has the nasal sound of ng in "finger," as if fing-nger, (not as in "singer,") e.g., Mpo-ngwe. CONTENTS PART FIRST Mpongwe Tribe TALE PAGE 1 Do not Trust your Friend 13 2 Leopard's Hunting-Camp 18 3 Tests of Death: 1st Version 25 2nd Version 27 4 Tasks done for a Wife; and, The Giant Goat 30 5 A Tug-of-War 37 6 Agenda: Rat's Play on a Name 41 7 "Nuts are Eaten Because of Angângwe": A Proverb 49 8 Who are Crocodile's Relatives? 53 9 Who is King of Birds? and, Why Chickens live with Mankind 54 10 "Njiwo Died of Sleep:" A Proverb 58 11 Which is the Fattest:--Manatus, Hog, or Oyster? 60 12 Why Mosquitoes Buzz 62 13 Unkind Criticism 63 14 The Suitors of Princess Gorilla 65 15 Leopard of the Fine Skin 68 16 Why the Plantain-Stalk Bears but One Bunch 76 PART SECOND Benga Tribe 1 Swine Talking 81 2 Crocodile 82 3 Origin of the Elephant 82 4 Leopard's Marriage Journey 85 5 Tortoise in a Race 95 6 Goat's Tournament 99 7 Why Goats Became Domestic 100 8 Igwana's Forked Tongue 103 9 What Caused their Deaths? 106 10 A Quarrel about Seniority 109 11 The Magic Drum 113 12 The Lies of Tortoise 121 13 "Death Begins by Some One Person": A Proverb 126 14 Tortoise and the Bojabi Tree 129 15 The Suitors of Njambo's Daughter 134 16 Tortoise, Dog, Leopard, and the Njabi Fruit 140 17 A Journey for Salt 145 18 A Plea for Mercy 149 19 The Deceptions of Tortoise 153 20 Leopard's Hunting Companions 159 21 Is the Bat a Bird or a Beast? 163 22 Dog, and his Human Speech, 1st Version 165 2nd Version 168 23 The Savior of the Animals 173 24 Origin of the Ivory Trade, 1st Version 177 2nd Version 184 25 Dog and his False Friend Leopard 189 26 A Trick for Vengeance 192 27 Not My Fault! 195 28 Do not Impose on the Weak 196 29 Borrowed Clothes 198 30 The Story of a Panic 200 31 A Family Quarrel 201 32 The Giant Goat 202 33 The Fights of Mbuma-Tyetye; and, An Origin of Leopard 208 34 A Snake's Skin Looks like a Snake 226 PART THIRD Fang Tribe 1 Candor 233 2 Which is the Better Hunter, an Eagle or a Leopard? 234 3 A Lesson in Evolution 234 4 Parrot Standing on One Leg 235 5 A Question of Right of Inheritance 237 6 Tortoise Covers His Ignorance 238 7 A Question as to Age 239 8 Abundance: A Play on the Meaning of a Word 240 9 An Oath: With a Mental Reservation 242 10 The Treachery of Tortoise 243 11 A Chain of Circumstances 245 PART FIRST MPONGWE FOREWORD The following sixteen Tales were narrated to me, many years ago, by two members of the Mpongwe tribe (one now dead) at the town of Libreville, Gaboon river, equatorial West Africa. Both of them were well-educated persons, a man and a woman. They chose legends that were current in their own tribe. They spoke in Mpongwe; and, in my English rendition, I have retained some of their native idioms. As far as I am aware none of these legends have ever been printed in English, excepting Tale 5, a version of which appeared in a British magazine from a writer in Kamerun, after I had heard it at Gaboon. Also, excepting Tale 14. It appeared, in another form, more than fifty years ago, in Rev. Dr. J. L. Wilson's "Western Africa." But my narrator was not aware of that, when he told it to me. TALE 1 DO NOT TRUST YOUR FRIEND Place Country of the Animals Persons Njegâ (Leopard) Ntori (Wild Rat) Ra-Marânge (Medicine Man) Nyare (Ox) Ngowa (Hog) Nkambi (Antelope) Leopard's Wife; and others NOTE A story of the treachery of the Leopard as matched by the duplicity of the Rat. In public mourning for the dead, it is the custom for the nearest relative or dearest friend to claim the privilege of sitting closest to the corpse, and nursing the head on his or her lap. At a time long ago, the Animals were living in the Forest together. Most of them were at peace with each other. But Leopard was discovered to be a bad person. All the other animals refused to be friendly with him. Also, Wild Rat, a small animal, was found out to be a deceiver. One day, Rat went to visit Leopard, who politely gave him a chair, and Rat sat down. "Mbolo!" "Ai, Mbolo!" each saluted to the other. Leopard said to his visitor, "What's the news?" Rat replied, "Njegâ! news is bad. In all the villages I passed through, in coming today, your name is only ill-spoken of, people saying, 'Njegâ is bad! Njegâ is bad!'" Leopard replies, "Yes, you do not lie. People say truly that Njegâ is bad. But, look you, Ntori, I, Njegâ, am an evil one: but my badness comes from other animals. Because, when I go out to visit, there is no one who salutes me. When anyone sees me, he flees with fear. But, for what does he fear me? I have not vexed him. So, I pursue the one that fears me. I want to ask him, 'Why do you fear me?' But, when I pursue it, it goes on fleeing more rapidly. So, I become angry, wrath rises in my heart, and if I overtake it, I kill it on the spot. One reason why I am bad is that. If the animals would speak to me properly, and did not flee from me, then, Ntori, I would not kill them. See! you, Ntori, have I seized you?" Rat replied, "No." Then Leopard said, "Then, Ntori, come near to this table, that we may talk well." Rat, because of his subtlety and caution, when he took the chair given him on his arrival, had placed it near the door. Leopard repeated, "Come near to the table." Rat excused himself, "Never mind; I am comfortable here; and I came here today to tell you that it is not well for a person to be without friends; and, I, Ntori, I say to you, let us be friends." Leopard said, "Very good!" But now, even after this compact of friendship, Rat told falsehoods about Leopard; who, not knowing this, often had conversations with him, and would confide to him all the thoughts of his heart. For example, Leopard would tell to Rat, "Tomorrow I am going to hunt Ngowa, and next day I will go to hunt Nkambi," or whatever the animal was. And Rat, at night, would go to Hog or to Antelope or the other animal, and say, "Give me pay, and I will tell you a secret." They would lay down to him his price. And then he would tell them, "Be careful tomorrow. I heard that Njegâ was coming to kill you." The same night, Rat would secretly return to his own house, and lie down as if he had not been out. Then, next day, when Leopard would go out hunting, the Animals were prepared and full of caution, to watch his coming. There was none of them that he could find; they were all hidden. Leopard thus often went to the forest, and came back empty-handed. There was no meat for him to eat, and he had to eat only leaves of the trees. He said to himself, "I will not sit down and look for explanation to come to me. I will myself find out the reason of this. For, I, Njegâ, I should eat flesh and drink blood; and here I have come down to eating the food of goats, grass and leaves." So, in the morning, Leopard went to the great doctor Ra-Marânge, and said, "I have come to you, I, Njegâ. For these five or six months I have been unable to kill an animal. But, cause me to know the reason of this." Ra-Marânge took his looking-glass and his harp, and struck the harp, and looked at the glass. Then he laughed aloud, "Ke, ke, ke--" Leopard asked, "Ra-Marânge, for what reason do you laugh?" He replied, "I laugh, because this matter is a small affair. You, Njegâ, so big and strong, you do not know this little thing!" Leopard acknowledged, "Yes: I have not been able to find it out." Ra-Marânge said, "Tell me the names of your friends." Leopard answered "I have no friends. Nkambi dislikes me, Nyare refuses me, Ngowa the same. Of all animals, none are friendly to me." Ra-Marânge said, "Not so; think exactly; think again." Leopard was silent and thought; and then said, "Yes, truly, I have one friend, Ntori." The Doctor said, "But, look! If you find a friend, it is not well to tell him all the thoughts of your heart. If you tell him two or three, leave the rest. Do not tell him all. But, you, Njegâ, you consider that Ntori is your friend, and you show him all the thoughts of your heart. But, do you know the heart of Ntori, how it is inside? Look what he does! If you let him know that you are going next day to kill this and that, then he starts out at night, and goes to inform those animals, 'So-and-so, said Njegâ; but, be you on your guard.' Now, look! if you wish to be able to kill other animals, first kill Ntori." Leopard was surprised, "Ngâ! (actually) Ntori lies to me?" Ra-Marânge said, "Yes." So, Leopard returned to his town. And he sent a child to call Rat. Rat came. Leopard said, "Ntori! these days you have not come to see me. Where have you been?" Rat replies, "I was sick." Leopard says, "I called you today to sit at my table to eat." Rat excused himself, "Thanks! but the sickness is still in my body; I will not be able to eat." And he went away. Whenever Rat visited or spoke to Leopard, he did not enter the house, but sat on a chair by the door. Leopard daily sent for him; he came; but constantly refrained from entering the house. Leopard says in his heart, "Ntori does not approach near to me, but sits by the door. How shall I catch him?" Thinking and thinking, he called his wife, and said, "I have found a plan by which to kill Ntori. Tomorrow, I will lie down in the street, and you cover my body with a cloth as corpses are covered. Wear an old ragged cloth, and take ashes and mark your body, as in mourning; and go you out on the road wailing, 'Njegâ is dead! Njegâ, the friend of Ntori is dead!' And, for Ntori, when he shall come as a friend to the mourning, put his chair by me, and say, 'Sit there near your friend.' When he sits on that chair, I will jump up and kill him there." His wife replies, "Very good!" Next morning, Leopard, lying down in the street, pretended that he was dead. His wife dressed herself in worn-out clothes, and smeared her face, and went clear on to Rat's village, wailing "Ah! Njegâ is dead! Ntori's friend is dead!" Rat asked her, "But, Njegâ died of what disease? Yesterday, I saw him looking well, and today comes word that he is dead!" The wife answered, "Yes: Njegâ died without disease; just cut off! I wonder at the matter--I came to call you; for you were his friend. So, as is your duty as a man, go there and help bury the corpse in the jungle." Rat went, he and Leopard's wife together. And, behold, there was Leopard stretched out as a corpse! Rat asked the wife, "What is this matter? Njegâ! is he really dead?" She replied, "Yes: I told you so. Here is a chair for you to sit near your friend." Rat, having his caution, had not sat on the chair, but stood off, as he wailed, "Ah! Njegâ is dead! Ah! my friend is dead!" Rat called out, "Wife of Njegâ! Njegâ, he was a great person: but did he not tell you any sign by which it might be known, according to custom, that he was really dead?" She replied, "No, he did not tell me." (Rat, when he thus spoke, was deceiving the woman.) Rat went on to speak, "You, Njegâ, when you were living and we were friends, you told me in confidence, saying, 'When I, Njegâ, shall die, I will lift my arm upward, and you will know that I am really dead.' But, let us cease the wailing and stop crying. I will try the test on Njegâ, whether he is dead! Lift your arm!" Leopard lifted his arm. Rat, in his heart, laughed, "Ah! Njegâ is not dead!" But, he proceeded, "Njegâ! Njegâ! you said, if really dead, you would shake your body. Shake! if it is so!" Leopard shook his whole body. Rat said openly, "Ah! Njegâ is dead indeed! He shook his body!" The wife said, "But, as you say he is dead, here is the chair for you, as chief friend, to sit on by him." Rat said, "Yes: wait for me; I will go off a little while, and will come." Leopard, lying on the ground, and hearing this, knew in his heart, "Ah! Ntori wants to flee from me! I will wait no longer!" Up he jumps to seize Rat, who, being too quick for him, fled away. Leopard pursued him with leaps and jumps so rapidly that he almost caught him. Rat got to his hole in the ground just in time to rush into it. But his tail was sticking out; and Leopard, looking down the hole, seized the tail. Rat called out, "You have not caught me, as you think! What you are holding is a rootlet of a tree." Leopard let go of the tail. Rat switched it in after him, and jeered at Leopard, "You had hold of my tail! And you have let it go! You will not catch me again!" Leopard, in a rage, said, "You will have to show me the way by which you will emerge from this hole; for, you will never come out of it alive!" Some narrators carry the story on, with the ending of Tale No. 6, the story of Rat, Leopard, Frog and Crab. Leopard's pretence of death appears also in Tale No. 3. TALE 2 LEOPARD'S HUNTING CAMP Persons Ntori (A very large forest Rat) Njegâ (Leopard) And other Animals NOTE Besides the words for "hunger" and "famine," the Bantu languages have a third word meaning, "longing for meat." In this story, Leopard's greed is matched by the artifice of Rat:--It was a practice of African natives to hide their ivory tusks in streams of water until a time convenient for selling them. Polite natives will neither sit uninvited in the presence of their superiors, nor watch them while eating. If need be, to secure privacy, a temporary curtain will be put up, and the host will retire, leaving the guest alone. Rude or uncivilized tribes are offensive in their persistent effort to see a white foreigner's mode of eating. One of the tricks of native sorcerers is to jump into a fire. It was a time of ngwamba (meat-hunger) among the Animals in Njambi's Kingdom. Leopard, being the eldest in his tribe, said to Rat, "Ntori! child! this is a hard time for meat. I think we better go to the forest, and make a olako (camp) for hunting." Rat replied "Good! come on!" So they began to arrange for the journey. The preparation of food, nets, baskets, and so forth, occupied several days. When all was ready, they started. Having come to a proper place in the forest, they selected a site where they would build up their booths. Leopard was to have his own separate camp with his wives and his children and his people; and Rat his, with his wives and his children, and his people. So they began to make two camps. Leopard said, "Ntori! child! I have mine here. You go there yonder." So they built their booths for sleeping-places; and rested another day; and then built their arala (drying frames) over their fire-places for smoke-drying the meat that they hoped to obtain. Next day, they prepared their guns, and started out on the hunt. On that very first day, they met game, and, ku! (bang) went their guns, killing an Elephant, and, ku! a wild Ox. Then Leopard said, "Ntori! child! we are successful! Let us begin the work of cutting up!" After all the carcasses had been cut up, came the time to divide the meat between the two companies. So, Leopard said, "As I am your Uncle, I precede; I will choose first, and will give you the remainder." So Leopard chose, taking out all the best pieces. When Rat saw that most of the meat was going to Leopard's side, he thought it time to begin to get his share. But when Rat laid hold of a nice piece, Leopard would say, "No! child! do not take the best: that belongs to your Uncle"-- and Leopard would claim the piece, and hand it over to his women. So it went on in the same way; to every nice piece that Rat chose, Leopard objected that it belonged to him. After Leopard had taken all he wanted, there were left only the bowels and the heads and legs for Rat. Then they each went to their own camping-place, to spread the meat on their arala, and to cook their dinner. But, all the while that Rat was spreading bones and bowels on his orala, he was vexed; for, there was very little meat on those bones; while Leopard's people's arala were full of meat, and savory portions were simmering on their fires tied in bundles (agewu) of plantain leaves. At the noon meal, Leopard sat down with his family, and Rat with his. But Rat had only poor food; while Leopard and his people were rejoicing with rich meat. The second day was very much the same as the first. It was Rat who did most of the hunting. With him it was, ku! (bang!), and some beast was down; and, ku! and some other beast was down. Whenever Rat fired, Leopard would shout out, "Ntori! child! what have you got?" And it was Rat who would shout in reply, "Nyare" (ox), or "Njâku" (elephant), or "Nkambi!" (antelope), or whatever the game might be. And it was Leopard who offensively patronized him, saying, "That is a good boy, Tata! (Little Father); bring it here to your Uncle." Then Rat and all the servants would carry the carcass to Leopard. So that day, the cutting and dividing was just like the first day; Leopard claiming and taking the best, and leaving the skeleton and scraggy pieces and the bowels for Rat. After that second day's hunt, Rat was tired of this way of dividing, in which he got only the worthless pieces. So he decided to get back some of Leopard's meat by artifice, for his own table, even if he had to take it from Leopard's orala itself. He began to devise what he should do. As he was out walking, he came to a brook in which were sunken logs of hard heavy wood. They had lain there a long time, and were black with outside decay. With his machete in hand, he dived; and remaining under the water, he scraped the logs till he had removed the dark outside, and exposed the white inner wood. He kept on at the job scraping and scraping until the logs appeared white like ivory. Then he went back to Leopard's camp, and, with pretence of excitement, exclaimed, "Mwe Njegâ! I think we will be going to be rich. You don't know what I've found! Such a big ivory-tusk hidden in the water! I think we better leave off hunting meat, and go to get this fine ivory." Leopard replied, "Good! come on!" The next day, they first arranged their fires so that the smoke-drying of their meat might continue during their absence; and then started for the ivory. They all prepared themselves, for diving, by taking off their good clothing, and wearing only a small loin-cloth. Their entire companies went, men, women, and children, leaving not a single person in the camps. Leopard says, "You, Ntori, go first, as you know where the place is." Rat says, "Good! come on!" And they went on their way. Arrived at the brook, Rat says, "You all come on, and dive." Leopard asks, "My son! is it still there?" Rat, pointing, answers, "Yes! my ivory is there." Leopard, looking down in the water says, "I see no ivory!" Rat, still pointing, replies, "There! Those white things! Don't you see them?" Leopard says, "I never saw ivory look like logs." Rat answered, "No? But this is a new kind. I assure you they are ivory! I have been down there, and I cleaned the mud off of them." Leopard was satisfied, and said, "Good! come on!" And they all dived. They laid hold of the supposed ivory, and pulled, and pushed, and lifted, and worked. But it was stuck fast, and they could not move it. While they were thus working, Rat suddenly cried out, "Njegâ! O! I forgot something! I must go quickly back to the olako. I will not be gone long. I shall return soon." Rat came out of the brook; ran to the camp; took of his own bundles of bones and scraggy pieces, and put them on Leopard's drying-frames, and took the same number of bundles of good meat from Leopard's frames. Then he ran back to the brook, to continue the work at the so-called ivory. Soon after that, Rat says, "Mwe Njegâ! it is time to return to the olako; we have worked long; I am hungry." Leopard says, "Good! come on!" So they returned to the camp to eat. Rat says, "Njegâ! as I am so hungry, I will not wait with you, but will go to my own olako at once. And I will put up a curtain between us, as it is a shame for one to eat in the presence of his elder." So Rat put up a curtain; and opened a bundle of nice meat; and he and his people began to eat. When Leopard took down one of his bundles, and opened it to share with his women, he was amazed, and said, "See! only bones and mean pieces! Ah! what is this matter!" And he called out to the other camp, "Ntori! Tata!" Rat responds, "Eh! Mwe Njegâ?" Leopard inquires, "What kind of meat are you eating?" Rat answers, "My own, from my own bundles. But what kind have you, Mwe Njegâ?" Leopard says, "My women prepared meat that was nice; but now I have only bones. I am surprised at that." The next, the fourth day, Rat said to Leopard, "I think we better change from the hard work on the ivory. Let us go hunting today; and tomorrow we will resume the ivory." Leopard assented "Good! come on!" And they started out to hunt. They were successful again as on the previous days. At the time of the division of the meat, Rat showed no displeasure at Leopard's taking the best pieces; as he had now his own artifice to get them back. And the meats of the day were placed on their owners' respective drying-frames. By this day's doings, many of Leopard's baskets were full, ready to be taken to town, while most of Rat's were still empty. On the fifth day, they went to the brook again, to their fruitless work of pulling at the so-called ivory. The same things happened as before; Rat remembers that he has forgotten something; has to go in haste to the camp; rapidly changes the bundles on his and Leopard's frames; returns to the brook; they all come back to the camp to eat; and there were repeated Leopard's surprise, and his questions to Rat about the kinds of meat they were eating. Thus they continued; on alternate days hunting, and working at the ivory that was stuck immovably fast in the mud; and Rat stealing; and Leopard complaining. Finally, Leopard became tired of his losses; and, one day, without letting anyone know what he intended doing, he said, "I will take a little walk." Rat says, "You go alone? May I accompany you?" Leopard said, "No! I go alone; I won't be long away; and I do not go far." So Leopard went to the wizard Ra-Marânge, whom as soon as he saw him, exclaimed, "What are you come for? Are you in trouble?" Leopard told him the matter of the losses of the meat. Then Ra-Marânge jumped into his fire, and emerged powerful and wise. And he said, "I will make for you something that will find out for you who it is that takes your meat." So Ra-Marânge made a little image of a man, and conferred on it wisdom and power, and gave it to Leopard, who took it to his camp, and hid it in his hut. The next day they all resumed the work at the brook, with the ivory. There was the same diving, the same fruitless pulling, Rat's same need of going back to the camp, and his same attempts at stealing. While he was doing this, he sees something like a little man standing near him. Rat puts out his hand to take from Leopard's bundles as usual, and the image catches him by the wrist of that hand. Rat indignantly says, "You! this little fool! leave me! What do you catch me for?" But the image was silent; nor did it let go its hold. So Rat struck at it with his other hand. And the image caught that hand with its other hand. Then Rat was angry and kicked with one foot at a leg of the image. And that foot was retained by that leg of the image. Rat kicked with his remaining foot; it also was retained by the image's other leg. He was thus held in the power of the image. Rat, in desperation, said, "Let me go!" The image spoke, and simply said, "No!" Rat felt he was in a bad situation; but he put on a bold face. He knew that, by his long delay, the others must have given up the work at the brook, and would by now be returning to the camp; and, in a little while, he would be discovered. To forestall that discovery, he shouted out, "Mwe Nejgâ, come quickly! I've found the person who changes your bundles!" Leopard, on the path, heard his voice, and replied, "My child, is that so? Hold him fast!" Rat still daringly said, "Come quickly! He wants to get away from my grasp!" Leopard replied, "Hold fast! I am coming!" They all came hastily, both of Rat's people, and of Leopard's people; and there they saw Rat held fast by the hands and legs of the image. Leopard asked, "Where is he?" Rat, daring to the last, said, "This little man here that I am holding." Leopard said, "Now that I am here, let go of him, for I will take charge of him." Rat struggled, but in vain. Leopard several times repeated his direction to Rat, "Let go of him!" But Rat was utterly unable to withdraw his limbs from the power of the image. And he gave up the effort, in shame. Then Leopard had to help release Rat; the conferred power of the image being subservient to him. He did not strike Rat, he being his relative. But rebuked him, "Ah! Ntori! now I know it was you who made all the trouble about my meat!" And he took back all his fine bundles, and returned Rat his poor bundles. Rat went to his own camp ashamed, but still angry at the unjust division of the meat. As Leopard's baskets were now full, he announced that they should prepare to break camp, and return to town. Rat's women murmured, "Ah! all going away, and our baskets almost empty!" Rat comforted them, "Yes; it is so; but, we will find a way to fill them!" So, the next day, while the others were gone to get leaves and vines with which to tie up their baskets, Rat took his empty ones to the brook and filled them with stones, and tied them up with leaves, as if they contained meat. On the following day, as they were about to start on their journey, Rat said to Leopard, "As you are the elder, go you first, and I will follow." Leopard said, "Good! come on!" And they went on the path, Rat keeping close behind Leopard's people. (Baskets being carried tied on the back with a strap over the forehead, the bearer leans heavily forward, and cannot see what is happening behind.) Rat had prepared a hook with a handle. From time to time, as they came to narrow places in the path where thorny branches met, he would strike the hook into some basket before him, and in pretence, would say, "Wait! a thorn on this branch has caught your basket! Let me unfasten it." While the carrier would stand still for Rat to release the branch, the latter seized the chance to take pieces of meat from the basket, and substitute stones from his own baskets. The way was long; and, at every obstructed place, Rat kept on at his pretence of helping to free some basket of Leopard's from the thorns that caught it, and changed pieces of good meat for his stones. Before they reached Leopard's town, darkness began to fall, and both companies were very tired, especially that of Leopard; for, their baskets seemed to have grown heavier. Rat said, "Njegâ! All this hard day's walk! Hide our baskets, yours in one place, and mine in another, and let us go on to town and sleep; and we will send back our women for the baskets in the morning." Leopard assented, "Good! come on!" So they left their baskets, and all went to town. The next morning, Rat sent his people very, very early. Leopard sent his later, at the usual time of morning business. When his people were going they met Rat's people coming back with their loads, and exclaimed, "You are loaded already!" When Leopard's people brought their baskets to the town, and opened them, they were amazed to find that they had little else than stones and bones. Leopard was very angry; and, going to Rat, he began to scold, "You have taken away my meat!" "No I have my own. Look! these baskets, you know them, they are mine! Perhaps some one stole your meat in the night and put the stones in place. But, as you are in such a trouble, I will share with you of mine." So he called to his women, "Give Njegâ a few pieces of meat." Leopard took the meat, and Rat and his people went away to their own town. But Leopard was not satisfied. He was sure that Rat had played him a trick. He had forgiven Rat his stealing at the camp; but, for this last trick, he meditated revenge. TALE 3 TESTS OF DEATH--1ST VERSION Persons Njegâ (Leopard) Ntori (Wild-Rat) NOTE It is the proper and most friendly mode, that relatives and friends should hasten to visit their sick, on the very first information, without waiting to be invited or summoned. Leopard told his head-wife, "Ntori has taken our meat and deceived me in all these ways; I will kill him and eat him." So he pretended to be sick. The next day, news was sent to Rat that his Uncle Leopard was sick of a fever. The following day, word was again sent that he was very sick indeed, and that he wanted a parting word with Rat. Rat sent back a message, "I hear; and I will come tomorrow." Rat suspected some evil, and did not believe that Leopard was sick. So he went to the forest, and collected all kinds of insects that sting, and tied them into five little bundles. Next day, word came to him, "Njegâ is dead." Rat went quickly, taking the five little bundles with him. When he reached Leopard's town, he joined the crowd of mourners in the street, and lifted up his voice in wailing. Leopard's head-wife went to him, and said, "Come into the house, and mourn with me, at your Uncle's bed-side." Rat went with her; but he did not take the seat that was offered him, as a near relative, at the supposed dead man's head. He first explained, "After a person is reported dead, it is proper to make five tests to prove whether he is really dead, before we bury him." So he stood by the bed, at a point safe from Leopard's hands, and opened a bundle, and lifting the shroud, quickly laid the bundle on Leopard's naked body. The insects, infuriated by their imprisonment, flew out and attacked Leopard's body, as it was the object nearest to them, and they were confined under the shroud. Leopard endured, and did not move. Rat opened a second bundle, and thrust it also on another part of Leopard's body. Leopard could scarcely refrain from wincing. Rat opened a third, and laid it in the same way on another part. Leopard's face began to twitch with the torture. Rat opening a fourth, used it in the same way; and Leopard in pain began to twist his body; but, when Rat opened the fifth bundle, Leopard could endure the stings no longer. He started up from the bed, holding a dagger he had hidden under the bed-clothing. But Rat was too agile for him, and ran out before Leopard could fully rise from his supposed death-bed, and escaped to his own place. The mourners fled from the furious insects, and Leopard was left in agony under the poison of their stings. TALE 3 TESTS OF DEATH--SECOND VERSION Persons Njegâ (Leopard) Ibâbâ (Jackal) With Ngomba (Porcupine) Nkambi (Antelope) Njâgu (Elephant) Iheli (Gazelle) Ekaga (Tortoise) With Ndongo (Pepper) Hako (Ants) And Nyoi (Bees) And Others NOTE All of a neighborhood go to a mourning for a dead person. Failure to go would have been regarded, formerly, as a sign of a sense of guilt as the cause of the death. Formerly, at funerals, there was great destruction. Some of a man's wives and slaves were buried with him, with a large quantity of his goods; and his fruit trees adjacent to the houses were ruthlessly cut down. All, as signs of grief; as much as to say, "If the beloved dead cannot longer enjoy these things, no one else shall." The ancestor of the leopards never forgave the ancestor of the gazelles, but nursed his wrath at the trick which the latter had played on him with the insects. Unable to catch gazelles, because of their adroitness, the leopard wrecks his anger on all other beasts by killing them at any opportunity. These two beasts, Leopard and Jackal, were living together in the same town. Leopard said to Jackal, "My friend! I do not eat all sorts of food; I eat only animals." So, one day, Leopard went to search for some beast in the forest. He wandered many hours, but could not find any for his food. On another day, Leopard said to Jackal, "My friend! let us arrange some plan, by which we can kill some animal. For, I've wandered into the forest again and again, and have found nothing." Leopard made these remarks to his friend in the dark of the evening. So they sat that night and planned and, after their conversation, they went to lie down in their houses. And they slept their sleep. Then soon, the daylight broke. And Leopard, carrying out their plan, said to Jackal, "Take up your bedding, and put it out in the open air of the street." Jackal did so. Leopard laid down on that mattress, in accordance with their plan, and stretched out like a corpse lying still, as if he could not move a muscle. He said to Jackal, "Call Ngomba, and let him come to me." So Jackal shouted, "Come! Ngomba, come! That Beast that kills animals is dead! Come!" So Porcupine came to the mourning, weeping, and wailing, as if he was really sorry for the death of his enemy. He approached near the supposed corpse. And he jeered at it. "This was the person who wasted us people; and this is his body!" Leopard heard this derision. Suddenly he leaped up. And Porcupine went down under his paw, dead. Then Leopard said to his friend Jackal, "Well! cut it up! and let us eat it." And they finished eating it. On another day, Leopard, again in the street, stretched himself on the bedding. At his direction, Jackal called for Antelope. Antelope came; and Leopard killed him, as he had done to Porcupine. On another day, Ox was called. And Leopard did to Ox the same as he had done to the others. On another day, Elephant was called in the same way; and he died in the same way. In the same way, Leopard killed some of almost all the other beasts one after another, until there were left only two. Then Jackal said, "Njegâ! my friend! there are left, of all the beasts, only two, Iheli and Ekaga. But, what can you do with Iheli? for, he has many artifices. What, also, can you do against Ekaga? for, he too, has many devices." Leopard replied, "I will do as I usually have done; so, tomorrow, I will lie down again, as if I were a corpse." That day darkened into night. And another daylight broke. And Leopard went out of the house to lie down on the bedding in the street. Each limb was extended out as if dead; and his mouth open, with lower jaw fallen, like that of a dead person. Then Jackal called, "Iheli! come here! That person who wastes the lives of the beasts is dead! He's dead!" Gazelle said to himself, "I hear! So! Njegâ is dead? I go to the mourning!" Gazelle lived in a town distant about three miles. He started on the journey, taking with him his spear and bag; but, he said to himself, "Before I go to the mourning, I will stop on the way at the town of Ekaga." He came to the town of Tortoise, and he said to him, "Chum! have you heard the news? That person who kills Beasts and Mankind is dead!" But Tortoise answered, "No! go back to your town! that person is not dead. Go back!" Gazelle said, "No! For, before I go back to my town, I will first go to Njegâ's to see." So Tortoise said, "If you are determined to go there, I will tell you something." Gazelle exclaimed, "Yes! Uncle, speak!" Then Tortoise directed him, "Take ndongo." Gazelle took some. Tortoise said, "Take also Hako, and take also Nyoi. Tie them all up in a bundle of plantain leaves." (He told Gazelle to do all these things, as a warning.) And Tortoise added, "You will find Njegâ with limbs stretched out like a corpse. Take a machete with you in your hands. When you arrive there, begin to cut down the plantain-stalks. And you must cry out 'Who killed my Uncle? who killed my uncle?' If he does not move, then you sit down and watch him." So Gazelle went, journeyed and came to that town of mourning. He asked Jackal, "Ibâbâ! This person, how did he die?" Jackal replied, "Yesterday afternoon this person was seized with a fever; and today, he is a corpse." Gazelle looked at Leopard from a distance, his eyes fixed on him, even while he was slashing down the plantains, as he was told to do. But, Leopard made no sign, though he heard the noise of the plantain-stalk falling to the ground. Presently, Jackal said to Gazelle, "Go near to your Uncle's bed, and look at the corpse." Leopard began in his heart to arrange for a spring, being ready to fight, and thinking, "What time Iheli shall be near me, I will kill him." Gazelle approached, but carefully stood off a rod distant from the body of Leopard. Then Gazelle drew the bundle of Ants out of his bag, and said to himself, "Is this person, really dead? I will test him!" But, Gazelle stood warily ready to flee at the slightest sign. He quickly opened the bundle of insects; and he joined the three, the Ants, the Bees, and the Pepper, all in one hand; and, standing with care, he threw them at Leopard. The bundle of leaves, as it struck Leopard, flew open. Being released, the Bees rejoiced, saying, "So! I sting Njegâ!" Pepper also was glad, saying, "So! I will make him perspire!" Ants also spitefully exclaimed, "I've bitten you!" The pain of all these made Leopard jump up in wrath; and he leaped toward Gazelle. But he dashed away into the forest, shouting as he disappeared, "I'm not an Iheli of the open prairie, but of the forest wilderness!" So, he fled and came to the town of Tortoise. There he told Tortoise, "You are justified! Njegâ indeed is not dead! He was only pretending, in order to kill." And Tortoise, remarked, "I am the doyen of Beasts. Being the eldest, if I tell any one a thing, he should not contradict me." TALE 4 TASKS DONE FOR A WIFE Place In Njambi's Kingdom Persons A Rich Merchant and his Daughter Njâgu (Elephant) Njegâ (Leopard) Njina (Gorilla) Nguvu (Hippopotamus) Ekaga (Tortoise) Mbodi (An Enormous Goat) Servants, and Townspeople NOTE The artifices of Tortoise compete with the strength of Leopard. The story of the Giant Goat is a separate Tale in No. 32, of Part Second. In the time when Mankind and all other Animals lived together, to all the Beasts the news came that there was a Merchant in a far country, who had a daughter, for whom he was seeking a marriage. And he had said, "I do not want money to be the dowry that shall be paid by a suitor for my daughter. But, whosoever shall do some difficult works, which I shall assign him, to him I will give her." All the Beasts were competing for the prize. First, Elephant went on that errand. The merchant said to him, "Do such-and-such tasks, and you shall have my daughter. More than that, I will give you wealth also." Elephant went at the tasks, tried, and failed; and came back saying he could not succeed. Next, Gorilla stood up; he went. And the merchant told him, in the same way as to Elephant, that he was to do certain tasks. Gorilla tried, and failed, and came back disgusted. Then, Hippopotamus advanced, and said he would attempt to win the woman. His companions encouraged him with hopes of success, because of his size and strength. He went, tried, and failed. Thus, almost all beasts attempted, one after another; they tried to do the tasks, and failed. At last there were left as contestants, only Leopard and Tortoise. Neither was disheartened by the failure of the others; each asserted that he would succeed in marrying that rich daughter. Tortoise said, "I'm going now!" But Leopard said, "No! I first!" Tortoise yielded, "Well, go; you are the elder. I will not compete with you. Go you, first!" Leopard went, and made his application. The merchant said to him, "Good! that you have come. But, the others came, and failed. Try you." Leopard said, "Very well." He tried, and failed, and went back angry. Tortoise then went. He saluted the merchant, and told him he had come to take his daughter. The merchant said, "Do so; but try to do the tasks first." Tortoise tried all the tasks, and did them all. The first was that of a calabash dipper that was cracked. The merchant said to him, "You take this cracked calabash and bring it to me full of water all the way from the spring to this town." Tortoise looking and examining, objected, "This calabash! cracked! how can it carry water?" The merchant replied, "You yourself must find out. If you succeed, you marry my daughter." Tortoise took the calabash to the spring. Putting it into the water, he lifted it. But the water all ran out before he had gone a few steps. Again he did this, five times; and the water was always running out. Sitting, he meditated, "What is this? How can it be done?" Thinking again, he said, "I'll do it! I know the art how!" He went to the forest, took gum of the Okume (mahogany tree) lighted a fire, melted the gum, smeared it over the crack, and made it water-tight; then, dipping the calabash into the spring, it did not leak. He took it full to the father-in-law, and called out, "Father-in-law! this is the calabash of water." The merchant asked, "But what did you do to it?" He answered "I mended it with gum." The father said, "Good for you! The others did not think of that easy simple solution. You have sense!" Tortoise then said, "I have finished this one task; today has passed. Tomorrow I will begin on the other four." The next morning, he came to receive his direction from the merchant, who said, "Ekaga! you see that tall tree far away? At the top are fruits. If you want my daughter, pluck the fruits from the top, and you shall marry her." Tortoise went and stood watching and looking and examining the tree. Its trunk was all covered with soap, and impossible to be climbed. He returned to the merchant, and asked, "That fruit you wish, may it be obtained in any way, even if one does not climb the tree?" He was answered, "Yes, in any way, except cutting down the tree. Only so that I get the fruit, I am satisfied." Tortoise had already tried from morning to afternoon to climb that tree, but could not. So, after he had asked the merchant his question, he went back to the tree; and from evening, all night and until morning, he dug about the roots till they were all free. And the tree fell, without his having "cut" the trunk at all. So he took the fruit to the Merchant, and told him that he had not "cut down" the tree, but that he had it "dug up." The merchant said, "You have done well. People who came before you failed to think of that. Good for you!" On the third day, the merchant said to the spectators, "I will not name the other three tasks. You, my assistants, may name them." So they thought of one task after another. But one and another said, "No, that is not hard; let us search for a harder." Finally, they found three hard tasks. Tortoise was ready for and accomplished them all. Then the merchant announced, "Now, you may marry my daughter; and tomorrow you shall make your journey." They made a great feast; an ox was killed; and they had songs and music all night, clear on till morning. But, while all this was going on, Leopard, who was left at his town, was saying to himself, "This Ekaga! He has stayed five days! Had he failed, he would not have stayed so long! So! he has been able to do the tasks! Is that a good thing?" (On the day that Tortoise started on the journey to seek the merchant's daughter, Leopard had been heard to say, "If Ekaga succeeds in getting that wife, I will take her from him by force.") When Tortoise was ready to start on his return journey with his wife, the father-in-law gave him very many things, slaves and goats and a variety of goods, and said, "Go, you and your wife and these things. I send people to escort you part of the way. They are not to go clear on to your town, but are to turn back on the way." Tortoise and company journeyed. When the escort were about to turn back, Tortoise said, "Day is past. Make an olako (camp) here. We sleep here; and, in the morning, you shall go back." That night he thought, "Njegâ said he would rob me of my wife. Perhaps he may come to meet me on the way!" So, he swallowed all of the things, to hide them,--wife, servants, and all. While Tortoise was thus on the way, Leopard had planned not to wait his return to town, but had set out to meet him. So, in the morning, the two, journeying in opposite directions, met. Tortoise gave Leopard a respectful "Mbolo!" and Leopard returned the salutation. Leopard asked, "What news? That woman, have you married her?" Tortoise answered, "That woman! Not at all!" Leopard looking at Tortoise's style and manner as of one proud of success, said, "Surely you have married; for you look happy, and show signs of success." But Tortoise swore he had not married. Leopard only said, "Good." Then Tortoise asked, "But, where are you going?" Leopard answered, "I am going out walking and hunting. But you, where are you going?" Tortoise replied, "I did not succeed in marrying the woman; so I am going back to town. I tried, but I failed." "But," said Leopard, "what then makes your belly so big?" Tortoise replied, "On the way I found an abundance of mushrooms, and I ate heartily of them. If you do not believe it, I can show you them by vomiting them up." Leopard said, "Never mind to vomit. Go on your journey." And Leopard went on his way. But, soon he thought, "Ah! Ekaga has lied to me!" So he ran around back, and came forward to meet Tortoise again. Tortoise looked and saw Leopard coming, and observed that his face was full of wrath. He feared, but said to himself, "If I flee, Njegâ will catch me. I will go forward and try artifice." As he approached Leopard, the latter was very angry, and said, "You play with me! You say you have not married the woman I wanted. Tell me the truth!" Tortoise again swore an oath, "No! I have not married the woman! I told you I ate mushrooms, and offered to show you; and you refused." So Leopard said, "Well, then, vomit." Tortoise bent over, and vomited and vomited mushrooms and mushrooms; and then said triumphantly, "So! Njegâ you see!" Leopard looked, and said, "But, Ekaga, your belly is still full,--go on vomiting." Tortoise tried to excuse himself, "I have done vomiting." Leopard persisted, "No! keep on at it." Tortoise went on retching; and a box of goods fell out of his mouth. Leopard still said, "Go on!" and Tortoise vomited in succession a table and other furniture. He was compelled to go on retching; and slaves came out. And at last, up was vomited the woman! Leopard shouted, "Ah! Ekaga! you lied! You said you had not married! I will take this woman!" And he took her, sarcastically saying, "Ekaga, you have done me a good work! You have brought me all these things, these goods, and slaves, and a wife! Thank you!" Tortoise thought to himself, "I have no strength for war." So, though anger was in his heart, he showed no displeasure in his face. And they all went on together toward their town. With wrath still in his heart, he went clear on to the town, and then made his complaint to each of the townspeople. But they all were afraid of Leopard, and said nothing, nor dared to give Tortoise even sympathy. There was in that country among the mountains, an enormous Goat. The other beasts, all except Leopard, were accustomed to go to that Goat, when hungry, and say, "We have no meat to eat." And the Goat allowed them to cut pieces of flesh from his body. He could let any part of the interior of his body be taken except his heart. All the Animals had agreed among themselves not to tell Leopard where they got their meat, lest he, in his greediness, would go and take the heart. So they had told him they got their meat as he did, hunting. Tortoise, angry because Leopard has taken his wife, said to himself, "I will make a cause of complaint against Njegâ that shall bring punishment upon him from our King. I will cause Njegâ to kill that Goat." On another day, Tortoise went and got meat from the Goat, and came back to town, and did not hide it from Leopard. Leopard said to him, "Ekaga! where did you get this meat?" Tortoise whispered, "Come to my house, and I will tell you." They went. And Tortoise divided the meat with him, and said, "Do not tell on me: but, we get the meat off at a great Goat. Tomorrow, I go; and you, follow behind me." So, the next day, they went, Tortoise as if by himself, and Leopard following, off to the great Goat. Arrived there, Leopard wondered at the sight, "O! this great Goat! But, from where do you take its meat?" Tortoise replied, "Wait for me! You will see!" He went, and Leopard followed. Tortoise said to the Goat, "We have meat-hunger: we come to seek meat from you." The Goat's mouth was open as usual; Tortoise entered, and Leopard followed, to get flesh from inside. In the Goat's interior was a house, full of meat; and they entered it. Leopard wondered at its size; and Tortoise told him, "Cut where you please, but not from the heart, lest the Goat die." And they began to take meat. Leopard, with greediness, coveting the forbidden heart, went with knife near to it. Tortoise exclaimed, "There! there! be careful." But Leopard, though he had enough other flesh, longed for the heart, and was not satisfied. He again approached with the knife near it: and Tortoise warned and protested. These very prohibitions caused Leopard to have his own way, and his greediness overcame him. He cut the heart: and the Goat fell dying. Tortoise exclaimed, "Eh! Njegâ! I told you not to touch the heart! Because of this matter I will inform on you." And he added, "Since it is so, let us go." But Leopard said, "Goat's mouth is shut. How shall we get out? Let us hide in this house." And he asked, "Where will you hide?" Tortoise replied, "In the stomach." Leopard said, "Stomach! It is the very thing for me, Njegâ, myself!" So Ekaga consented, "Well! take it! I will hide in the gall-bladder." So they hid, each in his place. Soon, as they listened, they heard voices shouting, "The Goat is dead! A fearful thing! The Goat is dead!" That news spread, and all who had been accustomed to get flesh there, came to see what was the matter. They all said that, as the Goat was dead, it was best to cut and divide him. They slit open the belly, and said, "Lay aside this big stomach; it is good; but throw away the bitter gall-sac." They looked for the heart; but there was none! A child, to whom had been handed the gall-bladder to throw it away, was flinging it into some bushes. As he did so, out jumped something from among the bushes; and the child asked, "Who are you?" The thing replied, pretending to be vexed, "I am Ekaga; I come here with the others to get meat, and you, just as I arrived, throw that dirty thing in my face!" The other people pacified him, "Do not get angry. Excuse the child. He did not see you. You shall have your share." Then Tortoise called out, "Silence! silence! silence!" They all stood ready to listen, and he said, "Do not cut up the Goat till we first know who killed it. That stomach there! What makes it so big?" Leopard, in the stomach, heard; but he did not believe that Tortoise meant it, and thought to himself, "What a fool is this Ekaga, in pretending to inform on me, by directing attention to the stomach!" Tortoise ordered, "All you, take your spears, and stick that stomach! For the one who killed Goat is in it!" And they all got their spears ready. Leopard did not speak or move; for, he still thought Tortoise was only joking. Tortoise began with his spear, and the others all thrust in. And Leopard holding the heart, was seen dying! All shouted, "Ah! Njegâ killed our Goat! Ah! he's the one who killed it." Tortoise taunted Leopard, "Asai! (shame for you) you took my wife; and now you are dead!" Leopard died. They divided the Goat, and returned to town. Tortoise took again his wife and all his goods, now that Leopard was dead. And he was satisfied that his artifice had surpassed Leopard's strength. TALE 5 A TUG-OF-WAR Persons Ekaga (Tortoise) Njâgu (Elephant) Ngubu (Hippopotamus) NOTE African natives are sensitive about questions of equality and seniority. A certain term, "Mwera" (chum) may be addressed to other than an equal, only at risk of a quarrel. A story of the trick by which Tortoise apparently proved himself the equal of both Elephant and Hippopotamus. Observe the preposterous size of Elephant's trunk! But everything, to the native African mind, was enormous in the pre-historic times. Leopard was dead, after the accusation against him by Tortoise for killing the great Goat. The children of Leopard were still young; they had not grown to take their father's power and place. And Tortoise considered himself now a great personage. He said to people, "We three who are left,--I and Njâgu and Ngubu, are of equal power; we eat at the same table, and have the same authority." Every day he made these boasts; and people went to Elephant and Hippopotamus, reporting, "So-and-so says Ekaga." Elephant and Hippopotamus laughed, and disregarded the report, and said, "That's nothing, he's only to be despised." One day Hippopotamus met Elephant in the forest; salutations were made, "Mbolo!" "Ai, mbolo!" each to the other. Hippopotamus asked Elephant about a new boast that Tortoise had been making, "Have you, or have you not heard?" Elephant answered, "Yes, I have heard. But I look on it with contempt. For, I am Njâgu. I am big. My foot is as big as Ekaga's body. And he says he is equal to me! But, I have not spoken of the matter, and will not speak, unless I hear Ekaga himself make his boast. And then I shall know what I will do." And Hippopotamus also said, "I am doing so too, in silence. I wait to hear Ekaga myself." Tortoise heard of what Elephant and Hippopotamus had been threatening, and he asked his informant just the exact words that they had used, "They said that they waited to hear you dare to speak to them; and that, in the meanwhile, they despised you." Tortoise asked, "So! they despise me, do they?" "Yes," was the reply. Then he said, "So! indeed, I will go to them." He told his wife, "Give me my coat to cover my body." He dressed; and started to the forest. He found Elephant lying down; his trunk was eight miles long; his ears as big as a house, and his four feet beyond measure. Tortoise audaciously called to him, "Mwera! I have come! You don't rise to salute me? Mwera has come!" Elephant looked, rose up and stared at Tortoise, and indignantly asked, "Ekaga! whom do you call 'Mwera'?" Tortoise replied, "You! I call you 'Mwera.' Are you not, Njâgu?" Elephant, with great wrath, asked, "Ekaga! I have heard you said certain words. It is true that you said them?" Tortoise answered, "Njâgu, don't get angry! Wait, let us first have a conversation." Then he said to Elephant, "I did call you, just now, 'Mwera'; but, you, Njâgu, why do you condemn me? You think that, because you are of great expanse of flesh, you can surpass Ekaga, just because I am small? Let us have a test. Tomorrow, sometime in the morning, we will have a lurelure (tug-of-war)." Said Elephant, "Of what use? I can mash you with one foot." Tortoise said, "Be patient. At least try the test." So, Elephant, unwilling, consented. Tortoise added, "But, when we tug, if one overpulls the other, he shall be considered the greater; but, if neither, then we are Mwera." Then Tortoise went to the forest, and cut a very long vine, and coming back to Elephant, said "This end is yours. I go off into the forest with my end to a certain spot, and tomorrow I return to that spot; and we will have our tug, and neither of us will stop, to eat or sleep until either you pull me over or the vine breaks." Tortoise went far off with his end of the vine to the town of Hippopotamus, and hid the vine's end at the outskirts of the town. He went to Hippopotamus and found him bathing, and going ashore, back and forth, to and from the water. Tortoise shouted to him, "Mwera! I have come! You! Come ashore! I am visiting you!" Hippopotamus came bellowing in great wrath with wide open jaws, ready to fight, and said, "I will fight you today! For, whom do you call 'Mwera'?" Tortoise replied, "Why! you! I do not fear your size. Our hearts are the same. But, don't fight yet! Let us first talk." Hippopotamus grunted, and sat down; and Tortoise said, "I, Ekaga, I say that you and I and Njâgu are equal, we are Mwera. Even though you are great and I small, I don't care. But if you doubt me, let us have a trial. Tomorrow morning let us have a lurelure. He who shall overcome, shall be the superior. But, if neither is found superior, then we are equals." Hippopotamus exclaimed that the plan was absurd; but, finally he consented. Tortoise then stood up, and went out, and got his end of the vine, and brought it to Hippopotamus, and said, "This end is yours. And I now go. Tomorrow, when you feel the vine shaken, know that I am ready at the other end; and then you begin, and we will not stop to eat or sleep until this test is ended." Hippopotamus then went to the forest to gather leaves of Medicine with which to strengthen his body. And Elephant, at the other end, was doing the same, making medicine to give himself strength; and at night they were both asleep. In the morning, Tortoise went to the middle of the vine, where at its half-way, he had made on the ground a mark; and he shook it towards one end, and then towards the other. Elephant caught his end, as he saw it shake, and Hippopotamus did the same at his end. "Orindi went back and forth" (a proverb of a fish of that name that swims in that way), Elephant and Hippopotamus alternately pulling. "Nkendinli was born of his father and mother" (a proverb, meaning distinctions in individualities). Each one, Hippopotamus and Elephant, doing in his own way. Tortoise smiled at his arrangement with each, that, in the tug, if one overcame, it would be proved by his dragging the other; but, if neither overcame, they were not to cease, until the vine broke. Elephant holding the vine taut, and Hippopotamus also holding it taut, Tortoise was laughing in his heart as he watched the quivering vine. He went away to seek for food, leaving those two at their tug, in hunger. He went off into the forest and found his usual food, mushrooms. He ate his belly full, and then took his drink; and then went to his town to sleep. He rose in late afternoon, and said to himself, "I'll go and see about the tug, whether those fools are still pulling." When he went there, the vine was still stretched taut; and he thought, "Asai! shame! let them die with hunger!" He sat there, the vine trembling with tensity, and he in his heart mocking the two tired beasts. The one drew the other toward himself; and then, a slight gain brought the mark back; but neither was overcoming. At last Tortoise nicked the vine with his knife; the vine parted; and, at their ends, Elephant and Hippopotamus fell violently back onto the ground. Tortoise said to himself, "So! that's done! Now I go to Elephant with one end of the broken vine; tomorrow to Hippopotamus." He went, and came on to Elephant, and found him looking dolefully, and bathing his leg with medicine, and said, "Mwera! How do you feel? Do you consent that we are Mwera?" Elephant admitted, "Ekaga, I did not know you were so strong! When the vine broke, I fell over and hurt my leg. Yes, we are really equal. Really! strength is not because the body is large. I despised you because your body was small. But actually, we are equal in strength!" So they ate and drank and played as chums; and Tortoise returned to his town. Early the next morning, with the other end of the broken vine, he went to visit Hippopotamus, who looked sick, and was rubbing his head, and asked, "Ngubu! How do you feel, Mwera?" Hippopotamus answered, "Really! Ekaga! so we are equals! I, Ngubu, so great! And you, Ekaga, so small! We pulled and pulled. I could not surpass you, nor you me. And when the vine broke, I fell and hurt my head. So, indeed strength has no greatness of body." Tortoise and Hippopotamus ate and drank and played; and Tortoise returned to his town. After that, whenever they three and others met to talk in palaver (council) the three sat together on the highest seats. Were they equal? Yes, they were equal. TALE 6 AGENDA: RAT'S PLAY ON A NAME Persons Njegâ (Leopard) Ntori (Rat) Rângi (Frog) Igâmbâ (Crab) NOTE In native African etiquette, a company of persons is saluted with the use of the verb in the plural; but only the oldest, or the supposed leader, if his name is known, is mentioned by name. The native custom among polite tribes, is to leave a guest to eat without being watched. The twitching of a muscle of an arm, or any other part of the body (called okalimambo) is regarded as a sign of coming evil. Compare Macbeth, Act 4, Scene 1. "By the pricking of my thumb Something wicked this way comes." The absurd and the unreasonable (e.g., the swallowing of a wife, goats, servants, etc.) are a constant feature of the native legends in their use of the impossible. All native Africans have more than one name, and often change their names to suit circumstances. But, while all their names have a meaning (just as our English names, "Augustus," "Clara," etc.) those meanings are not thought of when denominating an individual; e.g., "Bwalo" which means canoe. Leopards do not like to wet their feet. Leopard wanted a new wife. So he sought for a young woman of a far country, of whom he heard as a nice girl, a daughter of one of the Kings of that country. He did not go himself, but sent word, and received answer by messenger. Neither the woman nor her father had ever seen Leopard. They knew of him only by reputation. The King was pleased with the proposed alliance, and assented, saying, "Yes! I am willing. Go! get yourself ready, and come with your marriage company." So Leopard went around and invited many other beasts, "Come! and help me get a new one!" They all replied, "Yes!" And they all started together for the King's town. When they had gone half-way, one of their number, a big forest Rat said, "Brothers! let us begin here to change our names, so that when we get to the town, we shall not be known by our usual names." But Leopard refused, "No! I won't! I stick by my old name. My name is Njegâ." All the others said the same, and retained their own names. But Rat insisted for himself, "I will not be called Ntori. I will be called 'Strangers.' My name is Agenda," (the plural of ogenda which means "stranger"). When they approached the town, the inhabitants, with great politeness, ran out to welcome them, shouting, "Agenda! Saleni, Saleni!" (Strangers! Welcome ye! welcome ye!) Rat turned to the company and said, "Hear that! you see they are saluting me as the leader of this company." Upon their entering the town, they were shown to the large public Reception-House; and the people said to them, "Now! strangers (Agenda!), march in!" Rat turned again to his companions, and said, "You see! they have again addressed me specially by name, asking me to take possession of this room." They all went in feeling uncomfortably; but Rat said to them, "Never mind! though this room was evidently prepared specially for me, I am not selfish, and I invite you to share it with me." After the visitors had all been seated, the people came to give them the formal final salutation, saying "Strangers (Agenda), mbolani! (long life to ye)." Rat promptly whispered to his companions, saying, "This mbolo is to me for you, I alone will respond to it." So, only he replied, "Ai Mbolani! Ai." (Mbolani is the second person plural of the irregular defective verb Mbolo equal to "live long.") The day passed. In the evening, the people brought in an abundant supply of food, and set it down on the table, saying, "Strangers (Agenda!), eat! Here is your food!" And they went out, closing the door, so that the guests in their eating should not be annoyed by spectators. Then Rat said, "You see! All this food is mine, though I am not able to eat it all." He alone began to eat of it. When he had satisfied his appetite, he said, "Truly this food is my own, but I am sorry for you, and I will give you of it." So he gave out to each, one by one, very small pieces of fish and plantain. In the morning, the people thoughtfully sent water for the usual morning washing of hands and face. Rat hasted to open the door; and the slaves carrying the vessels of water, said to him, "These are sent to the strangers (Agenda)." So Rat took the water and used it all for himself. This second day was a repetition of the first. The townspeople continued their hospitality, sending food and drink and tobacco and fruits; and making many kind inquiries of what "the Agenda" would like to have. Rat, received all these things as for himself; while the rest of the company felt themselves slighted, and were hungry and disgusted. On the third day, the company said among themselves, "Njegâ told us that our visit was to last the usual five days; but we cannot stand such treatment as this!" And they began to run away, one by one. Even Leopard himself followed them, provoked at his expected father-in-law's supposed neglect of him. But, before Leopard had gone, Rat went to the bride elect, and said, "I never saw such a party as this! They do not eat, and are not willing to await the Marriage Dance for the Bride on the fifth day." When they were all secretly gone, leaving Rat alone, he said to the woman, "I will tell them all to go, even my friend Njegâ whom I brought to escort me. But I will not go without you, even if we have not had the dance; for, I am the one who was to marry you." And the father of the girl said to Rat, "Since they have treated you so, never mind to call them again for the Dance. You just take your wife and go." So the King gave his daughter farewell presents of boxes of clothing, and two female servants to help her, and a number of goats, and men-servants to carry the baggage. Rat and wife and attendants set out on their journey. When they were far away from the King's town, Rat exclaimed, "I feel okalimambo (premonition)." (He suspected that Leopard was somewhere near.) So he dismissed the men-servants, and sent them back to the King. And then quickly, in order to hide them, he swallowed the woman and the two maid-servants and all the boxes of clothing, and the goats. Rat then went on, and on, and on, with his journey, until at a cross-roads, he saw Leopard coming cross-ways toward him; and he called out, "Who are you?" The reply came, "I am Njegâ. And who are you?" Rat answered, "Ntori." Then Leopard called to him, "Come here!" "No!" said Rat, "I am in a hurry, and want to get home--" And he went on without stopping. So Leopard said, "Well, I pass on my way too!" "Good!" said Rat, "Pass on!" And they went on their separate ways. But Leopard, at a turn in his road, rounded back, and hasted by another path to get in front of Rat. When Leopard again saw Rat a short distance before him, he calls out, "Who are you?" The reply was "Ntori; and who are you?" Leopard answered, "I'm Njegâ. Stop on your way, and come here to me!" Rat replied, "No! you asked me once before to stop, and I refused. And I refuse now; I must pass on." Because of Rat's unwillingness to stop, Leopard began to chase him, and to shout at him, "You have my wife!" Rat answered back, "No! I have no wife of yours!" "You lie! You have the woman with you. What makes your body so big?" Rat ran as fast as he could, with Leopard close after him. Rat's home is always a hole in the ground; and, as he was hard pressed in his flight, he dashed into the first hole he came to, which happened to be a small opening into a cave. But his tail was not yet drawn in and Leopard was so near that he seized it. Projecting from the mouth of the hole there was also the small root of a tree. Rat called out, "Friend Njegâ! what do you think you have caught hold of?" "Your tail!" said Leopard. Said Rat, "That is not my tail! this other thing near you is my tail!" So Leopard let go of the tail, and seized the root. Rat slid quickly to the bottom of the hole, and called out, "O! Njegâ! I did not think you were so silly! You had hold of my tail, and you let me go! You just look at your hand; you will see my tail-hairs clinging to it!" Leopard went away in wrath; and, finding Frog at a near-by brook, he said to him, "Rângi! you just watch. I do not want Ntori to escape from that hole. Watch, while I go to get some fire, with which to burn him out." Shortly after Leopard had gone, Rat began to creep out. Seeing Frog standing on guard, he said, "Good Rângi! let me pass!" But Frog replied, "No! I have my orders to watch you here." Then said Rat, "If that is so, why don't you come close here, and attend to your duty? You are too far from this hole. If a person is set to watch, he should be near the thing he watches. As far as you are there, I could, if I tried, get out without your catching me. So, it is better for you to have a good look down this hole." While Rat was saying all this, he was near the mouth of the hole; but, as Frog approached, he receded to the bottom, and went to the back end of the cave, where cayenne pepper bushes were growing. Frog came to the edge of the hole, and looking down, saw nothing. During this while, Rat was plucking pepper-pods and chewing them, retaining them in his mouth. Returning again to the entrance, he saw Frog still watching, and he said, "Rângi! get out of my way, and let me pass. Let me out!" Frog replied, "I will not!" Rat asked, "Do you know me?" Frog replied, "Not very well." Then Rat said, "Come near! Open your eyes wide, and take a good look at me!" As soon as Frog's eyes were wide open, Rat blew the pepper into them. This so startled Frog that he fell back, his eyes blinded by the smarting; and Rat jumped out and ran away. Frog, heedless of his prisoner, was jumping about in pain; and, abandoning his post, crawled to the water of the brook not far away, and tumbled into it to wash his eyes. Now, by this time, Leopard had returned with his fire. Seeing no one on guard, he called out, "Rângi! Rângi! where are you?" Frog, at the bottom of the brook, was still in agony with his eyes. He knew well that Rat was gone; but, in his vexation, he answered, "Ntori is there! Put in your fire!" So, Leopard put fire into the hole, and made a great smoke, but there was no sign of Rat. After a long time, Leopard became tired at not finding Rat, and called out, "Rângi! Rângi! Where indeed is Ntori? He has not come out by this fire!" Then Frog answered, "Ntori is not there. I just lied to you in vexation of the pain I got through serving you." So, Leopard was very angry and said to Frog, "You have deceived and fooled me! I will just come and eat you up!" Said Frog, "Good! come on!" Leopard ran to the brook, but, as Frog was at the bottom, Leopard had first to drink all the water, before he could reach him. Leopard drank and drank. But, as soon as the water was nearly drunk up, Frog jumped out, and hopped away to an adjacent pond. There Leopard followed, and began to drink up that water also. He drank, and drank, and drank, until he became so full and his belly so swollen that his feet no longer touched the ground; and he fell over on his back, before he had entirely emptied the pond. He was in such great pain, in his swollen belly, that he was helpless, and cried out to passersby, "Please, open a little hole in my body, and let out this water!" But each of the passersby said, "No! I am afraid that after I have helped you, then you will eat me." At last, among those who passed by, came Crab. Leopard pleaded with him, "Igâmbâ! please! open my skin. Let out this water, so that I may live!" At first, Crab replied as the others, "No! I fear that after I help you, you will eat me." But Leopard begged so piteously that Crab consented, and scratched Leopard's skin with one of his claws. And the water spurted out! It came in so fast a current that it began to sweep Crab away. So Leopard cried out, "Igâmbâ! Please! do not let yourself be taken away! Catch hold on some root or branch!" Crab did so, holding on to a projecting root. When the water had subsided, and Crab was safe, Leopard was able to rise; and he said, "Igâmbâ! you have been kind to me; let me take you home, and I will be good to you; I will cook dinner, so we can eat together." Crab agreed, and they went together. Leopard began to cook a kind of yam called nkwa, making a pot full of it. (When it is thoroughly cooked, it is soft and sticky.) The yam being finally ready to be eaten, Leopard said, "We do not put this food out on plates, but we bring the entire pot, and every one will help himself from it with his hands." Leopard thereupon began to take out handfuls of the nkwa, and to eat it. Crab tried to do the same, putting a claw into the sticky mass. But its heat burned his tender skin, and, in jerking his claw away, it stuck fast in the nkwa, and broke off. As soon as that happened, Leopard snatched up the claw and ate it. Crab protested, "Ah! Njegâ! you are eating my claw!" Said Leopard, "Excuse me! No, I thought it was nkwa." So the dinner went on; Leopard greedily eating, Crab trying in vain to eat, and losing claw after claw, which Leopard in succession promptly ate. Now, when Leopard had finished eating all the food, Crab's claws were all gone, and he had not been able to eat at all, and was left hungry. So Leopard says to Crab, "Now, as you are so helpless, what must I do for you?" He hoped that Crab, in despair, would tell him to eat him. But Leopard really was not hungry just then; and, when Crab said, "If you will just put me into some shallow water for two months, then all my claws will grow all right again," Leopard replied, "Good!" and he took Crab and placed him in a small stream of water. The next day, Leopard, being now hungry to eat Crab, came to the water and called out, "Igâmbâ! Igâmbâ! have you your claws grown now?" The reply was, "Why! No! I told you two months yesterday, when you put me in here." On the third day, Leopard came again to the water, and cried out to Crab, "Have your claws sprouted? Have they grown again?" "No!" said Crab curtly. Leopard continued thus day by day, vexing Crab with inquiries, as if anxious about his health, but really desirous of an excuse to eat him, yet ashamed to do so by violence, because of Crab's kindness to him when he had the water-colic. At last, Crab became tired of Leopard's visits. Hopeless to defend himself if Leopard should finally use force, he gave up in despair, and said, "So! I see why you ask me every day. You know that I told you two months. If you are determined to eat me, come on, and end the trouble at once!" With this permission as an excuse, Leopard was glad. He stepped to the edge of the water and took away Crab for his dinner. That was the return for Crab's kindness to him. After this, Leopard went out again to try to find Rat, but he never found him. TALE 7 "NUTS ARE EATEN BECAUSE OF ANGÂNGWE"; A PROVERB Places Kingdom of the Hogs; The Forest; and Towns Persons Angângwe, King of Hogs A Hunter Ingowa (Hogs; singular Ngowa) Njina (Gorilla) Nyare (Ox) Nkambi (Antelope) Njâgu (Elephant) NOTE "Inkula si nyo o'kângâ 'Ngângwe." This is a proverb expressing the obligation we all owe to some superior protecting powers. The Hogs had cleared a space in the forest, for the building of their town. They were many; men and women and children. In another place, a Hunter was sitting in his town. Every day, at daybreak, he went out to hunt. When he returned in the afternoons with his prey, he left it a short distance from the town, and entering his house, would say to his women and children, "Go to the outskirts of the town, and bring what animal you find I have left there." One day, having gone hunting, he killed Elephant. The children went out to cut it up and bring it in. Another day, he killed Gorilla. And so, each day, he killed some animal. He never failed of obtaining something. One day, his children said to him, "You always return with some animal; but you never have brought us Ngowa." He replied, "I saw many Ingowa today, when I was out there. But, I wonder at one thing; that, when they are all together eating, and I approach, they run away. As to Ingowa, they eat nkula nuts and I know where the trees are. Well, then, I ambush them; but, when I go nearer, I see one big Ngowa not eating, but going around and around the herd. Whether it sees me or does not see, sure when I get ready to aim my gun, then they all scatter. The reason that Ingowa escape me, I do not know." The Hogs, when they had finished eating, and were returning to their own town, as they passed the town of Elephant, heard mourning; and they asked, "Who is dead?" The answer was, "Njâgu is dead! Njâgu is dead!" They inquired, "He died of what disease?" They were told, "Not disease; Hunter killed him." Then another day, when Ox was killed, his people were heard mourning for him. Another day, Antelope was killed; and his people were mourning for him. All these animals were dying because of Hunter killing them. At first, the Hogs felt pity for all these other Beasts. But, when they saw how they were dying, they began to mock at them, "These are not people! They only die! But, as to us Ingowa, Hunter is not able to kill us. We hear only the report that there is such a person as Hunter, but he is not able to kill us." When Hogs were thus boasting, their King, Angângwe, laughed at them, saying, "You don't know, you Ingowa! You mock others, that Hunter kills them?" They answered, "Yes, we mock at them; for, we go to the forest as they do, but Hunter does not touch us." Angângwe asked, "When you thus in the forest eat your inkula-nuts, you each one eat them by his own strength and skill?" They answered, "Yes; ourselves we go to the forest on our own feet; we ourselves pick up and eat the inkula. No one feeds us." Angângwe said, "It is not so. Those inkula you eat si nyo o'kângâ wa oma (they are eaten because of a person)." They insisted, "No, it is not so. Inkula have no person in particular to do anything about them." Thus they had this long discussion, the Hogs and their King; and they got tired of it, and lay down to sleep. In the morning, when daylight came, the King said, "A journey for nuts! But, today, I am sick. I am not able to go to gather nuts with you. I will stay in town." The Hogs said, "Well! we do not mistake the way. It is not necessary for you to go." When they went, they were jeering about their King, "Angângwe said, 'Inkula si nyo o'kângâ w' oma'; but we will see today without him." They went to the nkula trees, and found great abundance fallen to the ground during the night. The herd of Hogs, when they saw all these inkula, jumped about in joy. They stooped down to pick up the nuts, their eyes busy with the ground. They ate and ate. No one of them thought of Hunter, whether he was out in the forest. But, that very morning, Hunter had risen, taken his gun and ammunition-box, and had gone to hunt. And, after awhile, he had seen the Hogs in the distance. They were only eating and eating, not looking at anything but nuts. Hunter said in his heart, "These Hogs, I see them often, but why have I not been able to kill them?" He crept softly nearer and nearer. Creeping awhile then he stood up to spy; and again stooping, and again standing up to spy. He did not see the big Hog which, on other days, he had always observed going around and around the herd. Hunter stooped close to the ground, and crept onward. Then, as he approached closer, the Hogs still went on eating. He bent his knee to the earth, and he aimed his gun! Ingowa still eating! His gun flashed! and ten Hogs died! The Hogs fled; some of them wounded. Those who were not wounded, stopped before they reached their town, and said, "Let us wait for the wounded." They waited. When the hindmost caught up and joined the others, they showed them their wounds, some in the head, some in the legs. These wounded ones said, "As we came, we saw none others behind us. There are ten of us missing; we think they are dead." So, they all returned toward their Town; and, on their way, began to mourn. When they had come clear on to the town, Angângwe asked, "What news, from where you come?" They answered, "Angângwe! evil news! But we do not know what is the matter. Only we know that the words you said are not really so, that 'nuts are eaten because of a certain person.' Because, when we went, each one of us gathered by his own skill, and ate by his own strength, and no one trusted to any one else. And when we went, we ate abundantly, and everything was good. Except that, Hunter has killed ten of us. And many others are wounded." The King inquired, "Well! have you brought nuts for me who was left in Town?" They replied, "No; when Hunter shot us, we feared, and could no longer wait." Then Angângwe said, "I told you that inkula are eaten because of a person, and you said, 'not so.' And you still doubt me." Another day, the Hogs went for inkula; and the King, remained in town. And, as on the other day, Hunter killed them. So, for five successive days, they went, the King staying in town; and Hunter killing them. Finally, Angângwe said to himself, "Ingowa have become great fools. They do not consent to admit that nuts are eaten by reason of a certain person. They see how Hunter kills them; and they still doubt my words. But, I pity them. Tomorrow, I will go with them to the nuts. I will explain to them how Hunter kills them." So, in the morning, the King ordered, "Come all to nuts! But when we go for the nuts, if I say, 'Ngh-o-o!' then every one of you who are eating them must start to town, and not come back, because then I have seen or smelt Hunter; and I grunt to let you know." All the Hogs agreed. They went on clear to the nkula trees, and ate, they stooping with eyes to the ground. But Angângwe, not eating, kept looking here and there. He sniffed wind from south to north, and assured them, "Eat you all! I am here!" He watched and watched; and presently he saw a speck far away. He passed around to sniff the wind. His nose uplifted, he caught the odor of Hunter. He returned to the herd, grunted "Ngh-o-o." And he and they all fled. They arrived safely at town. Then he asked them, "Who is dead? who is wounded?" They assured, "None." He said, "Good!" Thus they went nutting, for five consecutive days, they and their King, Angângwe only keeping watch. And none of them died by Hunter. Then Angângwe said to them, "Today let us have a conversation." And he began, "I told you, inkula si nyo o'kângâ w' oma; you said, 'Not so!' But, when you went by yourselves to eat nuts, did not Hunter kill you? And these five days that we have gone, you and I together, and you obeyed my voice, who has died?" They then replied, "No one! no one! Indeed, you spoke truly. You are justified. Inkula si nyo o'kângâ wa 'Ngângwe. It is so!" TALE 8 WHO ARE CROCODILE'S RELATIVES? Persons Ngando (Crocodile) Sinyani (Birds) Sinyama (Beasts) NOTE An Argument in Evolution--When and How does Life begin? Crocodile was very old. Finally he died. News of his death spread abroad among the Beasts; and his relatives and friends came to the Mourning. After a proper number of days had passed, the matter of the division of the property was mentioned. At once a quarrel was developed, on the question as to who were his nearest relatives. The tribe of Birds said, "He is ours and we will be the ones to divide the property." Their claim was disputed, others asking, "On what ground do you claim relationship? You wear feathers; you do not wear plates of armor as he." The Birds replied, "True, he did not wear our feathers. But, you are not to judge by what he put on during his life. Judge by what he was in his life's beginning. Look you! In his beginning, he began with us as an egg. We believe in eggs. His mother bore him as an egg. He is our relative, and we are his heirs." But the Beasts said, "Not so! We are his relatives, and by us shall his property be divided." Then the Council of Animals demanded of the Beasts on what ground they based their claim for relationship, and what answer they could make to the argument of the birds as to Crocodile's egg-origin. The Beasts said, "It may be true that the mark of tribe must be found, in a beginning, but not in an egg. For, all Beings began as eggs. Life is the original beginning. Look you! When life really begins in the egg, then the mark of tribe is shown. When Ngando's life began, he had four legs as we have. We judge by legs. So we claim him as our relative. And we will take his property." But, the Birds answered, "You Beasts said we were not relatives because we wear feathers, and not ngando-plates. But, you, look you! Judge by your own words. Neither do you wear ngando-plates, you with your hair and fur! Your words are not correct. The beginning of his life was not, as you say, when little Ngando sprouted some legs. There was life in the egg before that. And his egg was like ours, not like what you call your eggs. You are not his relatives. He is ours." But the Beasts disputed still. So the quarrel went back and forth. And they never settled it. TALE 9 WHO IS KING OF BIRDS? Places The Country of Birds in Njambi's Kingdom Njambi's Town Persons Ra-Njambi (Lord or Master of all) Njâgâni (Chicken) Ngozo (Parrot) Ngwanyâni (Eagle) Ugulungu (Schizorhis, Plantain-Eater) NOTE 1st--Ability to Speak a greater gift than ability in Walking, Flying, or any other Force. 2nd--Why Chickens live with Mankind. All the Birds had their dwelling-place in a certain country of Njambi's Kingdom. The pelicans, chickens, eagles, parrots and all other winged kinds all lived together, separated from other animals, in that country under the Great Lord Njambi. One day, they were discussing together on the question, "Who is King of the Birds?" They all, each one, named himself, e.g., the Chicken said, "I!;" the Parrot, "I!" the Eagle "I!" and so on. Every day they had this same discussion. They were not able to settle it, or to agree to choose any one of their number. So, they said, "Let us go to Ra-Njambi, and refer the question to him." They agreed; and all went to him so that he might name who was the superior among them. When they all had arrived at Njambi's Town, he asked, "What is the affair on which you have come?" They replied, "We have come together here, not to visit, but for a purpose. We have a discussion and a doubt among ourselves. We wish to know, of all the Birds, who is Head or Chief. Each one says for himself that he is the superior. This one, because he knows how to fly well; that one because he can speak well; and another one, because he is strong. But, of these three things,--flight, speech, and strength, we ask you, which is the greatest?" Immediately all the Birds began a competition, each one saying, "Choose me; I know how to speak!" Njambi silenced them, and bade them, "Well, then, come here! I know that you all speak. But, show me, each one of you, your manner of speaking." So Eagle stood up to be examined. Njambi asked him, "How do you speak? What is your manner of talking?" Eagle began to scream, "So-o-we! so-o-we! so-o-we!" Njambi said, "Good! Now call me your wife!" The wife of Eagle came, and Njambi said to her, "You are the wife of Ngwanyâni, how do you talk?" The wife replied, "I say, 'So-o-we! So-o-we! So-o-we!'" Ra-Njambi said to Eagle, "Indeed! you and your wife speak the same kind of language." Eagle answered, "Yes; I and my wife, we speak alike." They were ordered, "Sit you aside." Then Ra-Njambi directed, "Bring me here Ngozo." And he asked, "Ngozo, how do you talk? What is your way of speaking?" Parrot squawked, "I say, 'Ko-do-ko!'" Ra-Njambi ordered, "Well, call me your wife!" She came; and he asked her, "How do you talk? Talk now!" The wife replied, "I say, 'Ko-do-ko!'" Njambi asked Parrot, "So! your wife says, 'Ko-do-ko?'" Parrot answered "Yes; my wife and I both say, 'Ko-do-ko.'" Njambi then ordered, "Call me here, Ugulungu." He came, and was asked, "And how do you talk?" He shouted, "I say, 'Mbru-kâ-kâ! mbru-kâ-kâ! mbru!'" Njambi told him, "Call me your wife!" She came, and, when asked, spoke in the same way as her husband. Njambi dismissed them, "Good! you and your wife say the same thing. Good!" So, all the Birds, in succession, were summoned; and they all, husband and wife, had the same mode of speaking, except one who had not hitherto been called. Njambi finally said, "Call Njâgâni here!" The Cock stood up, and strutted forward. Njambi asked him, "What is your speech? Show me your mode of talking!" Cock threw up his head, stretched his throat, and crowed, "Kâ-kâ-re-kââ." Njambi said, "Good! summon your wife hither." The wife came; and, of her, Njambi asked, "And, what do you say?" She demurely replied, "My husband told me that I might talk only if I bore children. So, when I lay an egg, I say 'Kwa-ka! Kwa-ka!'" Njambi exclaimed, "So! you don't say, 'Kâ-kâ-re-kââ,' like your husband?" She replied, "No, I do not talk as he." Then Njambi said to Cock, "For what reason do you not allow your wife to say, 'Kâ-kâ-re-kââ?'" Cock replied, "I am Njâgâni, I respect myself. I jeer at all these other birds. Their wives and themselves speak only in the same way. A visitor, if he comes to their towns, is not able to know, when one of them speaks, which is husband and which is wife, because they both speak alike. But I, Njâgâni, as to my wife, she is unable to speak as I do. I do not allow it. A husband should be at the head; and in his wife it is not becoming for her to be equal with him or to talk as well as he does." Njambi listened to this long speech; and then inquired, "Have you finished?" Chicken answered, "Yes." Njambi summoned all the Birds to stand together in one place near him, and he said, "The affair which you brought to me, I settle it thus:--Njâgâni is your Head; because you others all speak, husband and wife, each alike. But, he speaks for himself in his own way, and his wife in her way; to show that a husband has priority and superiority over a wife. Therefore, as he knows how to be Head of his family, it is settled that Njâgâni is Head also of your Tribe." But, Njambi went on to say, "Though this is true, you, Njâgâni, don't you go back again into the Forest, to your Kingship of the Birds. For the other birds will be jealous of you. You are not strong, you cannot fight them all. Lest they kill you, stay with me in my Town." Cock went to get his wife and children, and returned and remained there with Ra-Njambi. Therefore, the original bird to dwell among Mankind was the chicken. When the other Birds scattered and went back to their own forest country without their king, they said, "Let it be so! We will not choose another King. Our King has left us, and has emigrated to another country, and has sat down in Njambi's Town." So, the Birds have lived in the forest without any King. There is another story which gives a different explanation of chickens being the first of birds to dwell among Mankind. The Birds had no fire. They had to eat their food raw, and to shiver on cold days. In flying over the other countries, they saw Mankind using, in the preparation of their food, a thing which birds did not have. They observed that that thing seemed to add much to the comfort of Mankind. So, they chose Chicken, not as their King, but, because he knew so well how to speak, to go as their messenger, to ask Mankind to share that thing with them. Chicken left the Forest, and started on his journey, and came to the towns of Men. He found so much food lying around, and it tasted so good because it had been touched by that bright thing which he heard people call "Fire," that he delayed the delivery of his message. And Men were pleased with his usefulness in awaking them in the morning, as he called them to get up and make their fires. The situation was so comfortable, as Mankind allowed him to walk in and out of their houses at will, that he forgot his errand, and chose to stay with Men, and never went back to the Forest. The birds, having no one else who united both audacity to act and ability to speak, never sent another messenger on that errand, and they remain without fire to this day. TALE 10 "NJIWO DIED OF SLEEP": A PROVERB Persons Njiwo (A Species of Antelope) Nyare (Ox) NOTE An event (the supposed death of the red antelope) is traced to its first cause (sleep) back of the immediate causes (the people who actually sought to kill him). Whence the proverb, "Eziwo a juwi na Antyâvinâ." "Eziwo" is a familiar way of pronouncing Njiwo. Antelope and Ox went to a town to dance Bweti (a certain spirit-dance). After the dance, Antelope, exhausted with the exercise, fell asleep in the Bweti-house. While he was there, certain persons made a plot to kill him. Ox heard of it, and came to warn him, calling gently, (lest he should be overheard and himself seized), "Njiwo! Eziwo!" But antelope did not hear, and Ox made no further effort, and ran away to his home in fear for his own life. Then came Antelope's wife, while he still slept, and loudly called him. He, only half-awake, grumbled, "What do you call me for? Let me rest. I'm tired by the dancing." She persisted, "I call you because certain persons want to kill you." But, he, still heavy with sleep, did not understand, and was not willing to rise, and went on sleeping. Then his wife, unable to arouse him, went to call other people to help her. While she was away, his enemies came and tied him with ropes, and left him there tied, still sleeping, alone in the house. They locked the house, and went away, intending to return and kill him when he should awake. Before they came back, his wife returned with aid; and, with machetes and knives, they cut open the door, and found him with his limbs tied, and still sleeping. They roughly shook him, and he, half-conscious, asked, "What do you want here?" His wife replied, "I have come to carry you away." So, she untied the ropes, and they lifted him and carried him away, still too sleepy to walk himself. While all this was going on, the people of the town to which Ox had fled, asked him, "There were two of you who went to dance Bweti. You are here, but where is the other?" Ox, assuming that Antelope was dead, and not knowing what Antelope's wife had done, told how he had been unable to waken him, and said, "Eziwo was killed while asleep." Then the village people said regretfully, "Eh! Eziwo! Sleep has killed him!" In the meantime, Antelope and his wife had reached the town, where the news of his death had preceded them; and the people wondered, saying, "Nyare reported that you were cut to pieces!" Then Antelope's wife explained that he would have been killed, because Ox had not made every effort to arouse him from his deep sleep. So the friendship of Ox and Antelope ended. And the proverb came, that, "Eziwo died of sleep." TALE 11 WHICH IS THE FATTEST? Persons King Ra-Mborakinda Manga (Manatus) Ngowa (Hog; Pl. Ingowa) Arandi (Oyster) NOTE Accept no challenge whose test you know you cannot endure. Oyster, without fat, accepted the challenge of the fat Hog and the fatter Manatus. The fat of the Manatus, or dugong seal, is delicious and very abundant. Ra-Mborakinda was dwelling in his Town, with his people and the glory of his Kingdom. There were gathered there the Manatus, the Oyster and the Hog, waiting to be assigned their kingdoms. To pass the time, while waiting until the King should summon them for their assignments, Oyster said, "You, Manga, and Ngowa, let us have a dance!" And they went to exhibit before the King. They danced and danced, each one dancing his own special dance. After that they made a fire, each one at his own fire-place, and sat down to rest. Then Hog proposed a new entertainment. He said, "You, Arandi, and Manga, we all three shall test ourselves by fire, to see who has the most fat." And they all three went into their respective fire-places, Hog into his, and Manatus into his, and Oyster into its. Under the influence of the heat, the fat in their bodies began to melt. Then the King announced, "To the one who shall prove to have the most fat, I will give a great extent of country as its kingdom." So, they all three tried to show much fat, in their effort to win the prize. Presently, the fat of Hog began to cease exuding, for he had not a great deal. As to Oyster, it had no fat. What it produced was not fat at all, but water; and that was in such quantity that it put out its fire. These facts about the Hog and Oyster were reported to the King, and when he inquired how Manatus was getting on, lo! it was found that she had such abundance of fat, that the oil flowing from her had burst into flame and had set the town on fire. At this, the King wondered, and exclaimed, "This Manga, that lives in the water, has yet enough fat to set the town afire!" Then Manatus with Hog and Oyster went and sat together in the open court before the King's house, to await what would be his decision. When he was ready, he sent two heralds to summon not only those three, but all the Tribes of the Beasts of the Forest, and of the Fishes of the Sea; and the town was full of these visitors. But, Hog and all his tribe had become impatient of waiting, and had gone off for a walk. All the other animals that had been summoned, came into the King's presence, and he, having ascended his throne, said, "I am ready now to speak with these three persons; but, I see that the Ingowa are not here. So, because of their disrespect in going off to amuse themselves with a walk instead of waiting for me, I condemn that they shall no longer wear any horns." Then the King announced that, as Manatus had the most fat, her promised territory should be the Sea, and of it she should be ruler. But, Manatus said, "I do not want to live in the Sea, lest I be killed there." The King asked, "Then, where will you prefer to live?" She answered, "In such rivers as I shall like." That is the reason that the Manatus lives only in rivers and bays. For, one day she and her children had floated with the tide to the mouth of a river and into the Sea; and some of them had been killed there by sharks and other big fish. So, the Manatus is never now found near the Sea on ordinary tides, but only when high tides have swept it down. Just as the King had made his announcement, the company of Hogs returned and entered the Assembly. They explained, "We have just come back from our walk, and we wish to resume our horns which we left here." But the King refused, and kept possession of the horns. Hog begged, "Please! let me have my horns!" But the King swore an oath, saying, "O savi! (By the Blessing!) wherever you go, and whatever you be, you shall have no horns." So the Hogs departed. Now Oyster stood up, and said, "I wish to go to my place. Where shall it be?" The King said, "I will give you no other place than what you already have had. I do not wish to put you into the fresh-water springs and brooks with Manga. You shall go into the salty waters." So Oyster went; and its race lives on the edge of the rivers, near the Sea, in brackish waters. And the King said to Oyster, "All the tribes of Mankind, by the Sea, when they fail to obtain other fish, shall be allowed to eat you." All knew that this was a punishment given by the King to Oyster, for having dared the test by fire, pretending that it had fat, the while it had none. TALE 12 WHY MOSQUITOES BUZZ Persons Mbo (Mosquito) Oroi (Ear) Aga (Hands) NOTE It is a practice of African natives, after taking a bath, to anoint their bodies with some oil or grease. In the time of Long-ago, in Njambi's Town, Mosquito and Ear went out to take a bath together. After taking her bath, Ear began to rub an oily substance over herself; while Mosquito did not. So Ear said to Mosquito, "Why do you leave your skin so rough? It is better to rub on a little oil." Mosquito replied, "I have none." So Ear said, "Indeed! I did not know that. I will give you part of mine, as I have plenty." Mosquito had to wait the while that Ear was rubbing the soft wax over herself. But, as soon as Ear had finished, she put back the wax into her ear where she usually kept it, and did not fulfill her promise to Mosquito. When Mosquito saw this, that the wax was put away, he came near to the door, and said, "I want the oil you promised for rubbing on my body." But Ear took no notice of him, except to call on Hands to drive Mosquito away. So, to this day, Mosquito is not willing to cease making his claim for the unfulfilled promise; and is always coming to our ears, and buzzing and crying. Always Mosquito comes and says, "I want my oil, Bz-z-z-z." But Ear remains silent, and gives no answer. And Mosquito keeps on grumbling and complaining, and gets angry and bites. TALE 13 UNKIND CRITICISM Persons Tyema (A Black Monkey) Ekaga (Tortoise) NOTE This story is probably of comparatively recent origin though known at least fifty years ago. It seems to point to the time when white men began to taunt negroes because of their color, the common insult by an angry white master being "You black monkey!" The tale cannot antedate the first coming of white men to West Africa three hundred years ago; for, no native would have invented this insult, though they do now imitate white men, when, in a quarrel, they wish to taunt an opponent. The Black Monkey, up a tree, saw Tortoise passing beneath, slowly and awkwardly moving step by step. Monkey laughed at the dull manner and appearance of Tortoise; and, to tease one whom he thought stupid and unable to resent insult, he jumped down onto the back of Tortoise. There, safely perched, he jeered at Tortoise, saying many unkind things. Tortoise was unable to throw off his tormentor; nor could he reach him. His short hands and feet could not touch Monkey. So, Tortoise was compelled to carry Monkey on the way, the while that the latter was taunting him. Finally, the patience of Tortoise was exhausted, and, his indignation being aroused, he stopped, and said angrily, "Get off of my back, you black monkey!" Monkey was sensitive about his color; and, at that word "black," he slipped off, and went away ashamed. But he was angry also, and determined to have some revenge. Some time after this, Monkey made a feast, and invited a number of beasts, among the rest Tortoise. But Monkey purposely placed all the dishes up high, so that Tortoise, unable to reach to them, could get no food, as he vainly went around and around the table. All the while, Monkey was sarcastically urging him to come and help himself and eat. Tortoise bore it without complaint; and at the end of the feast, he went away hungry. But he also determined to have his revenge. On another day, Tortoise made a feast, and invited the same persons who had seen his humiliation at the house of Monkey. Monkey came to the feast. But Tortoise had prepared the food in only one dish, around which the company were to sit on the ground, and from which they were to eat with their hands. Before calling them to eat, Tortoise had provided water and soap for them to wash their hands previous to their putting them into the same dish. As Monkey was about to put his, Tortoise reminded him that it was black, and that he should first wash it. He said, "Here is water, and the soap by which white people keep their hands from getting black." Monkey was ashamed, and lathered the soap over his hands until they were white with foam. "Now," said Tortoise, "put your hand into the water to remove the foam." Monkey did so; and his hands were still black. The rest of the company objected to his black hand going into their food. And he went away ashamed and hungry. TALE 14 THE SUITORS OF PRINCESS GORILLA Place Njambi's Country Persons King Njina (Gorilla) and His Daughter Njâgu (Elephant) Nguwu (Hippopotamus) Bejaka (Fishes: Sing. Ejaka) Ngowa (Hog) Njegâ (Leopard) Telinga (a very small Monkey) NOTE This story evidently dates back to the first introduction of Rum into Africa. Gorilla's "new kind of water" was Rum. Telinga's cheating did not finally succeed in obtaining him the wife; but was the cause of his now living only in trees; whereas formerly he lived in the long grass. The Telinga are very numerous, and they all look so alike that one cannot be distinguished from another. In the story, he had arranged with all his companions to help him drink. In the Gorilla Country there are no lions, and there he is readily called the King of Beasts, because of the fearful length and strength of his arms. How absurd that so horribly ugly a caricature of a human being should be supposed to have a beautiful daughter! King Gorilla had a daughter, whose beauty had been much praised. She being of marriageable age, he announced to all the tribes that he would give her in marriage to any one who could accomplish a certain task. He said he would not take any of the goods usually given in payment for a wife, as dowry. But, that he had a new kind of water, such as had never before been seen; and, whoever could drink an entire barrelful of it, should have the prize that had been coveted by many. So, all the tribes came together one day in the forest country of the King, to compete for the young woman, and the paths were crowded with the expectant suitors on their way to the King's Court. First, because of his size, Elephant stepped forward. He walked with his solemn dignity, his ponderous feet sounding, tubu, tubu, as he strode toward where the barrel stood. He could, however, scarcely suppress his indignation, in the presence of the King, at what he considered the insultingly small test to which he was about to be subjected. He thought in his heart, "That barrelful of water! Why! I, Njâgu, when I take my daily bath, I spurt from my trunk many barrelfuls over my whole body, and I drink half a barrelful at every meal. And this! Why! I'll swallow it down in two gulps!" He thrust his proboscis into the barrel to draw up a big mouthful. But, he instantly withdrew it, before he began to suck up any of it. "The new water" stung him. He lifted his trunk, and trumpeting with rage, declared that the task was impossible. Many in the company, who had feared that the big elephant would leave no chance for them, secretly rejoiced at his failure; and began to hope for themselves. Then Hippopotamus blundered forward. He was in haste, for he was sure he would succeed. He was not as big or heavy as Elephant, though he was more awkward. But he did not hesitate to boast aloud what he could do. "You, Njâgu, with your big body, afraid of that little barrel of water! Why! I live in water half of the time. And when I begin to drink in a river, I cause the Bejaka to be frightened." So he came bellowing and roaring, in order to impress the young woman with his importance. But his mouth had not sunk into the barrel as he thrust his nose in, before he jerked his head up with a bigger bellow of pain and disgust at the new water. Without making even a bow to the King, he shambled off to a river to wash his mouth. Next came Hog. He said to Gorilla, "King Gorilla, I do not boast like those two other fellows, nor will I insult you as they have done, even if I fail. But, I do not think I shall fail. I am accustomed to putting my nose into all sorts of dirty places; so I shall try." He did try, slowly and carefully. But, even he, used to all sorts of filth and bad smells, turned from the barrel in disgust, and went away grunting. Then Leopard came bounding forward, boasting and jumping from side to side to show his beautiful skin to the young woman. He derided the other three who had preceded him. "O! you fellows! You had no chance at all, even if you had drunk up that water. The woman would not look at you, nor live with such blundering, awkward gawks as you. Look at my graceful body and tail! These strong but soft paws of mine! And, as to that barrel, you shall see in a few minutes. Though we of the Cat Tribe do not like to wet our feet, I will do it for the sake of the woman. I'm the dandy of the Forest, and I shall go at it more gracefully than you." He leaped onto the barrel. But, its very fumes sickened him. He made one vain effort. And with limp tail between his legs he crawled away to hide his shame. One after another of the various Beasts attempted. And all failed. Finally, there crept forward the little Telinga. He had left the hundreds of his Tribe of little Monkeys hidden out in the grass field. As he advanced, there was a murmur of surprise from the unsuccessful spectators. Even King Gorilla could not refrain from saying, "Well! my little fellow! what do you want?" Telinga replied, "Your Majesty, did not you send word to all the Tribes that any one might compete?" "Yes, I did," he answered. And Telinga said, "Then I, Telinga, small as I am, I shall try." The King replied, "I will keep my royal word. You may try." "But, Your Majesty," asked Telinga, "is it required that the barrel must be drank at one draught? May I not, between each mouthful, take a very short rest out in the grass?" Said Gorilla, "Certainly, just so you drink it today." So Telinga took a sip, and leaped off into the grass. And, apparently, he immediately returned, and took another sip and leaped back into the grass; and, apparently, immediately returned again. And apparently--(They were his companions who had come one by one to help him!) Thus the barrelful of firewater was rapidly sipped away. King Gorilla announced Telinga as the winner of the prize. What the young woman thought of the loss of her graceful lovers, the Antelopes and others, is not known. For, when Telinga advanced to take her, Leopard and others dashed at him, shouting, "You miserable little snip of a fellow! You've won her; but if we can't have her you shan't. There! take that! and that! and that!" as they began to beat and kick and bite him. In terror, he jumped into the trees, abandoning his bride. And he and his tribe have remained in the trees ever since, afraid to come down to the ground. TALE 15 LEOPARD OF THE FINE SKIN Place Town of King Mborakinda Persons King Mborakinda Ilâmbe, His Daughter Ra-Marânge, A Doctor And Other People Njegâ (Leopard) Kabala (A Magic Horse) Ogula-Ya-Mpazya-Vazya, A Sorcerer NOTE Leopards can swim if compelled to, but they do not like to enter water, or wet their feet in any way. At the town of Ra-Mborakinda, where he lived with his wives and his children and his glory, this occurred. He had a beloved daughter, by name Ilâmbe. He loved her much; and sought to please her in many ways, and gave her many servants to serve her. When she grew up to womanhood, she said that she did not wish any one to come to ask her in marriage; that she herself would choose a husband. "Moreover, I will never marry any man who has any, even a little bit of, blotch on his skin." Her father did not like her to speak in that way; nevertheless, he did not forbid her. When men began to come to the father and say, "I desire your daughter Ilâmbe for a wife," he would say, "Go, and ask herself." Then when the man went to Ilâmbe's house, and would say, "I have come to ask you in marriage," her only reply was a question, "Have you a clear skin, and no blotches on your body?" If he answered, "Yes," Ilâmbe would say, "But, I must see for myself; come into my room." There she required the man to take off all his clothing. And if, on examination, she saw the slightest pimple or scar, she would point toward it, and say, "That! I do not want you." Then perhaps he would begin to plead, "All my skin is right, except--." But she would interrupt him, "No! for even that little mark I do not want you." So it went on with all who came, she finding fault with even a small pimple or scar. And all suitors were rejected. The news spread abroad that Ra-Mborakinda had a beautiful daughter, but that no one was able to obtain her, because of what she said about diseases of the skin. Still, many tried to obtain her. Even animals changed themselves to human form, and sought her, in vain. At last, Leopard said, "Ah! this beautiful woman! I hear about her beauty, and that no one is able to get her. I think I better take my turn, and try. But, first I will go to Ra-Marânge." He went to that magic-doctor, and told his story about Ra-Mborakinda's fine daughter, and how no man could get her because of her fastidiousness about skins. Ra-Marânge told him, "I am too old. I do not now do those things about medicines. Go to Ogula-ya-mpazya-vazya." So, Leopard went to him. As usual, the sorcerer Ogula jumped into his fire; and coming out with power, directed Leopard to tell what he wanted. So he told the whole story again, and asked how he should obtain the clean body of a man. The sorcerer prepared for him a great "medicine" by which to give him a human body, tall, graceful, strong and clean. Leopard then went back to his town, told his people his plans, and prepared their bodies also for a change if needed. Having taken also a human name, Ogula, he then went to Ra-Mborakinda, saying, "I wish your daughter Ilâmbe for wife." On his arrival, at Ra-Mborakinda's, the people admired the stranger, and felt sure that Ilâmbe would accept this suitor, exclaiming, "This fine-looking man! his face! and his gait! and his body!" When he had made his request of Ra-Mborakinda, he was told, as usual, to go to Ilâmbe and see whether she would like him. When he went to her house, he looked so handsomely, that Ilâmbe was at once pleased with him. He told her, "I love you; and I come to marry you. You have refused many. I know the reason why, but I think you will be satisfied with me." She replied, "I think you have heard from others the reason for which I refuse men. I will see whether you have what I want." And she added, "Let us go into the room; and let me see your skin." They entered the room; and Ogula-Njegâ removed his fine clothing. Ilâmbe examined with close scrutiny from his head to his feet. She found not the slightest scratch or mark; his skin was like a babe's. Then she said, "Yes! this is my man! truly! I love you, and will marry you!" She was so pleased with her acquisition, that she remained in the room enjoying again a minute examination of her husband's beautiful skin. Then she went out, and ordered her servants to cook food, prepare water, etc., for him; and he did not go out of the house, nor have a longing to go back to his town, for he found that he was loved. On the third day, he went to tell the father, Ra-Mborakinda, that he was ready to take his wife off to his town. Ra-Mborakinda consented. All that day, they prepared food for the marriage-feast. But, all the while that this man-beast, Ogula-Njegâ was there, Ra-Mborakinda, by his okove (a magic fetish) knew that some evil would come out of this marriage. However, as Ilâmbe had insisted on choosing her own way, he did not interfere. After the marriage was over, and the feast eaten, Ra-Mborakinda called his daughter, and said, "Ilâmbe, mine, now you are going off on your journey." She said, "Yes; for I love my husband." The father asked, "Do you love him truly?" She answered "Yes." Then he told her, "As you are married now, you need a present from me, as your ozendo (bridal gift)." So, he gave her a few presents, and told her, "Go to that house," indicating a certain house in the town; and he gave her the key of the house, and told her to go and open the door. That was the house where he kept all his charms for war, and fetishes of all kinds. He told her, "When you go in, you will see two Kabala, standing side by side. The one that will look a little dull, with its eyes directed to the ground, take it; and leave the brighter looking one. When you are coming with it, you will see that it walks a little lame. Nevertheless, take it." She objected, "But, father, why do you not give me the finer one, and not the weak one?" But he said, "No!" and made a knowing smile, as he repeated, "Go, and take the one I tell you." He had reason for giving this one. The finer-looking one had only fine looks; but this other one would some day save her by its intelligence. She went and took Horse, and returned to her father; and the journey was prepared. The father sent with her, servants to carry the baggage, and to remain with and work for her at the town of her marriage. She and her husband arranged all their things, and said good-bye, and off they went, both of them sitting on Horse's back. They journeyed and they journeyed. On the way, Ogula-Njegâ, though changed as to his form and skin, possessed all his old tastes. Having been so many days without tasting blood or uncooked meats, as they passed through the forest of wild beasts, the longing came on him. They emerged onto a great prairie, and journeyed across it toward another forest. Before they had entirely crossed the prairie, the longing for his prey so overcame him that he said, "Wife, you with your Kabala and the servants stay here while I go rapidly ahead; and wait for me until I come again." So he went off, entered the forest, and changed himself back to Leopard. He hunted for prey, caught a small animal, and ate it; and another, and ate it. After being satisfied, he washed his hands and mouth in a brook; and, changing again to human form, he returned on the prairie to his wife. She observed him closely, and saw a hard, strange look on his face. She said, "But, all this while! What have you been doing?" He made an excuse. They went on. And the next day, it was the same, he leaving her, and telling her to wait till he returned; and hunting and eating as a Leopard. All this that was going on, Ilâmbe was ignorant of. But Horse knew. He would speak after awhile, but was not ready yet. So it went on, until they came to Leopard's town. Before they reached it, Ogula-Njegâ, by the preparations he had first made, had changed his mother into a human form in which to welcome his wife. Also the few people of the town, all with human forms, welcomed her. But, they did not sit much with her. They stayed in their own houses; and Ogula-Njegâ and his wife stayed in theirs. For a few days, Leopard tried to be a pleasant Ogula, deceiving his wife. But his taste for blood was still in his heart. He began to say, "I am going to another town; I have business there." And off he would go, hunting as a leopard; when he returned, it would be late in the day. So he did on other days. After a time, Ilâmbe wished to make a food-plantation, and sent her men-servants to clear the ground. Ogula-Njegâ would go around in the forest on the edge of the plantation; and catching one of the men, there would return that day one servant less. One by one, all the men-servants were thus missing; and it was not known what became of them, except that Leopard's people knew. One night Ogula-Njegâ was out; and, meeting one of the female servants, she too was reported missing. Sometimes, when Ogula-Njegâ was away, Ilâmbe, feeling lonesome, would go and pet Horse. After the loss of this maid-servant, Horse thought it was time to warn Ilâmbe of what was going on. While she was petting him, he said, "Eh! Ilâmbe! you do not see the trouble that is coming to you!" She asked, "What trouble?" He exclaimed, "What trouble? If your father had not sent me with you, what would have become of you? Where are all your servants that you brought with you? You do not know where they go to, but I know. Do you think that they disappear without a reason? I will tell you where they go. It is your man who eats them; it is he who wastes them!" She could not believe it, and argued, "Why should he destroy them?" Horse replied, "If you doubt it, wait for the day when your last remaining servant is gone." Two days after that, at night, another maid-servant disappeared. Another day passed. On another day, Ogula-Njegâ went off to hunt beasts, with the intention that, if he failed to get any, at night he would eat his wife. When he had gone, Ilâmbe, in her loneliness, went to fondle Horse. He said to her, "Did I not tell you? The last maid is gone. You yourself will be the next one. I will give you counsel. When you have opportunity this night, prepare yourself ready to run away. Get yourself a large gourd, and fill it with ground-nuts; another with gourd-seeds; and another with water." He told her to bring these things to him, and he would know the best time to start. While they were talking, Leopard's mother was out in the street, and heard the two voices. She said to herself, "Ilâmbe, wife of my son, does she talk with Kabala as if it was a person?" But, she said nothing to Ilâmbe, nor asked her about it. Night came on; and Ogula-Njegâ returned. He said nothing; but his face looked hard and bad. Ilâmbe was troubled and somewhat frightened at his ugly looks. So, at night, on retiring, she began to ask him, "But why? Has anything displeased you?" He answered, "No; I am not troubled about anything. Why do you ask questions?" "Because I see it in your face that your countenance is not pleasant." "No; there's no matter. Everything is right. Only, about my business, I think I must start very early." Ogula-Njegâ had begun to think, "Now she is suspecting me. I think I will not eat her this night, but will put it off until next night." That night, Ilâmbe did not sleep. In the morning, Leopard said that he would go to his business, but would come back soon. When he was gone away to his hunting work, Ilâmbe felt lonesome, and went to Horse. He, thinking this a good time to run away, they started at once, without letting any one in the village know, and taking with them the three gourds. Horse said that they must go quickly; for, Leopard, when he discovered them gone, would rapidly pursue. So they went fast and faster, Horse looking back from time to time, to see whether Leopard was pursuing. After they had been gone quite a while, Ogula-Njegâ returned from his business to his village, went into his house, and did not see Ilâmbe. He called to his mother, "Where is Ilâmbe?" His mother answered, "I saw Ilâmbe with her Kabala, talking together; they have been at it for two days." Ogula-Njegâ began to search; and, seeing the hoof-prints, he exclaimed, "Mi asaiya (shame for me). Ilâmbe has run away. I and she shall meet today!" He instantly turned from his human form back to that of leopard, and went out, and pursued, and pursued, and pursued. But, it took some time before he came in sight of the fugitives. As Horse turned to watch, he saw Leopard, his body stretched low and long in rapid leaps. Horse said to Ilâmbe, "Did I not tell you? There he is, coming!" Horse hasted, with foam dropping from his lips. When he saw that Leopard was gaining on them, he told Ilâmbe to take the gourd of peanuts from his back, and scatter them along behind on the ground. Leopards like peanuts; and when Ogula-Njegâ came to these nuts, he stopped to eat them. While he was eating, Horse gained time to get ahead. As soon as Leopard had finished the nuts, he started on in pursuit again, and soon began to overtake. When he approached, Horse told Ilâmbe to throw out the gourd-seeds. She did so. Leopard delayed to eat these seeds also. This gave Horse time to again get ahead. Thus they went on. Leopard, having finished the gourd-seeds, again went leaping in pursuit; and, for the third time, came near. Horse told Ilâmbe to throw the gourd of water behind, with force so that it might crash and break on the ground. As soon as she had done so, the water was turned to a stream of a deep wide river, between them and Leopard. Then he was at a loss. So, he shouted, "Ah! Ilâmbe! Mi asaiya! If I only had a chance to catch you!" So, he had to turn back. Then Horse said, "We do not know what he may do yet; perhaps he may go around and across ahead of us. As there is a town which I know near here, we had better stay there a day or two while he may be searching for us." He added to her, "Mind! this town where we are going, no woman is allowed to be there, only men. So, I will change your face and dress like a man's. Be very careful how you behave when you take your bath, lest you die." Ilâmbe promised; and Horse changed her appearance. So, a fine-looking young man was seen riding into the street of the village. There were exclamations in the street, "This is a stranger! Hail! stranger; hail! Who showed you the way to come here?" This young man answered, "Myself; I was out riding; I saw an open path; and I came in." He entered a house, and was welcomed; and they told him their times of eating, and of play, etc. But, on the second day, as this young man went out privately, one of the men observed, and said to the other, "He acts like a woman!" The others asked, "Really! you think so?" He asserted, "Yes! I am sure!" So, that day Ilâmbe was to meet with some trouble; for, to prove her, the men had said to her, "Tomorrow we all go bathing in the river, and you shall go with us." She went to ask Horse what she should do. He rebuked her, "I warned you, and you have not been careful. But, do not be troubled; I will change you into a man." That night, Ilâmbe went to Horse; and he changed her. He also told her, "I warn you again. Tomorrow you go to bathe with the others, and you may take off your clothes; for, you are now a man. But, it is only for a short time, because we stay here only a day and a night more, and then we must go." The next morning all the town went to play, and after that to bathe. When they went into the water, the other men were all expecting to see a woman revealed; but they saw that their visitor was a man. They admired his wonderfully fine physique. On emerging from the water, the men said to the one who had informed on Ilâmbe, "Did you not tell us that this was a woman? See, how great a man he is!" As soon as they said that, the young man Ilâmbe was vexed with him, and began to berate him, saying, "Eh! you said I was a woman?" And she chased him and struck him. Then they all went back to the town. In the evening, Horse told Ilâmbe, "I tell you what to do tomorrow. In the morning, you take your gun, and shoot me dead. After you have shot me, these men will find fault with you, saying 'Ah! you shoot your horse, and did not care for it?' But, do not say anything in reply. Cut me in pieces, and burn the pieces in the fire. After this, carefully gather all the black ashes; and, very early in the following morning, in the dark before any one is up, go out of the village gateway, scatter the ashes, and you will see what will happen." The young man did all this. On scattering the ashes, he instantly found himself changed again to a woman, and sitting on Horse's back; and they were running rapidly away. That same day, in the afternoon, they came to the town of the father Ra-Mborakinda. On their arrival there, they (but especially Horse) told their whole story. Ilâmbe was somewhat ashamed of herself; for, she had brought these troubles on herself by insisting on having a husband with a perfectly fine skin. So, her father said, "Ilâmbe, my child, you see the trouble you have brought on yourself. For you, a woman, to make such a demand was too much. Had I not sent Kabala with you, what would have become of you?" The people gave Ilâmbe a glad welcome. And she went to her house, and said nothing more about fine skins. TALE 16 WHY THE PLANTAIN-STALK BEARS BUT ONE BUNCH Persons Oyila (Oil-Palm Tree) Mbindi (Wild Goat) Akândâ (Plantain-Stalk) NOTE According to native law of hospitality, duty to a guest requires almost any sacrifice. This is oriental. (See Genesis Chap. 19, vs. 8.) A plantain-stalk bears but one bunch. Therefore, to gather the fruit, the stalk with apparent ruthlessness is cut down. But, there are always from two to five young sprouts at the base, from 2 feet to 5 feet in height, which, in succession, take the place of the parent stem. Observe the Cannibalism. All African tribes were formerly Cannibals. Many interior tribes still are. This story is a marked illustration of the characteristic impossibilities in native tales, "Plantain" being at one and the same time a plant and a human being! Palm-tree produced Plantain tree. Then there stood up an animal called Wild Goat, and it went to seek marriage with Palm-tree's daughter Plantain. It was so arranged; and the marriage was held. As Goat and his wife were about departing to his own town, Palm-tree gave some parting advice to her daughter Plantain; "When you shall be about to become a mother, come back and stay with me." Not long after this, Plantain was to become a mother; and people went to Palm-tree to inform her of the fact. This daughter Plantain did not obey her mother's directions, but remained in the town until her child was born. This was told to mother Palm-tree, who was dissatisfied, and said, "Eh! I told Akândâ to have her child born with me!" The reason that Palm-tree had given this direction to Plantain was, that, as her own custom, in bearing her palm-nuts, was to have several bunches in sight at one time, and ripening in succession, she wished her daughter to have the same habit. After Plantain had borne her child, it grew well and became very strong. One day, strangers came to the town on a visit; and, when the villagers looked for food for the visitors, to their shame, they found they had none. Then one of the women of the village said, "Well! let us cut down this Akândâ, and cook it and eat it." So, a machete was seized, and Plantain's stalk was slashed, and Palm-tree's child Plantain was taken and cooked and eaten. At this, people went and told Palm-tree, saying, "Your child is cut down, and is cooked and eaten." The mother Palm-tree helplessly replied, "What can I do?" All this while, the husband Goat had been away on a journey. When he returned, and came to his town, and found that his wife, Palm-tree's child, was not there, he asked, "My wife; is she dead?" The people answered him, "Yes!" "But," he asked, "for what reason did she die?" They answered, "Because the people of the town had no food for their guests." Mbindi complained further, saying, "So! when Akândâ was cooked, you gave your guests only plantains; were you so inhospitable as to give them also no meat or fish?" At this the people were vexed, and they said, "Well then! let this husband be killed and eaten as the meat!" So they killed and ate him. This news, people also carried to Palm-tree, telling her that Plantain's husband was also killed and eaten. Then Palm-tree came to the town to speak about the death of Plantain. The people justified themselves, saying, "But, what else could we do? It was necessary to provide for the guests." Palm-tree submitted, "Truly, had Akândâ obeyed me and come to me and borne her child in my presence, she would have had abundance, and would not have died." PART SECOND BENGA TRIBE FOREWORD The tales of this second part had their source with narrators of Benga-speaking tribes of Corisco Island, the region of the Bonito River, and Batanga. Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4 were written in Benga by the pioneer missionaries, Rev. Messrs. Mackey and Clemens, from the dictation in Benga by natives of Corisco, more than 40 years ago; and were printed as reading-lessons in the Primer used in their schools. I have translated them into English. They having thus passed twice through foreign thought, have lost most of their native idioms. Tale 4 was independently re-told me at Batanga within the past few years, by a narrator living there. It differs from the version printed in the Primer, and I have combined the two. The remaining thirty tales were given me at Batanga; by three adult narrators, all of them civilized men. They spoke them with me alone, or in the presence of one or two silent attendants, sentence by sentence, in their Bapuku dialect of the Benga language. I rapidly made notes in an English translation of their principal words. This was always at night, in order to leave the narrator at that ease which he would naturally feel if he was telling the story to an audience in the street, as he is accustomed to do in the evenings. For that purpose also, I shaded my lamp, using its light only for my pencil; he therefore spoke unrestrainedly. Next morning, with my memory still fresh of the night's story, I filled out the sentences. This set of the tales therefore is more native, in the preservation of its idioms, than any other part. TALE 1 SWINE TALKING Persons Ingowa (Hogs) NOTE Unlike other native legends based on "they say," the native narrator, now more than 40 years ago, gave the name and family name of the man who is stated to have reported that he heard Swine talking with human speech. There was a certain man in the time long ago, by name Bokona, whose family name was Bodikito. He went to the depths of the forest to do some business. When he was about to return in the afternoon to go to his village, he heard in advance of him, a noise of conversation. He thought that perhaps they were people (of whose presence he was not aware; for, there were no villages in that part of the forest). But, when he had approached the spot, he did not see people; but only a herd of Hogs speaking with the voices of people. He was thus perfectly sure that they speak the language of Mankind. TALE 2 CROCODILE Persons Ngando (Crocodile) Two Children, and Towns-People Two children were bathing in a river; and a crocodile came where they were. It seized one, and, grasping it with its teeth, went with it to its hole in the river bank. It did not kill him, but said to him, "I leave you here, and I go straight back to bring the other one who remained." After the crocodile had left, the one thus put into the hole, turning his eyes about, saw it full of living fish (kept on hand by the crocodile as its food-supply). He saw also that there was another opening in the cavity, above, just over his head. Climbing up and jumping through it, he rapidly went straight away to his village. He related all this incident to the people. Then they gladly fired guns, for welcome of the child. When the crocodile reached the bathing-place on its return, it did not see the one whom it had left there; and it was angry. While it was thus angry, the people shot at it with guns, but their shots could not even wound it; and it went back again to its hole to seek for and eat the child whom it had seized. When it again entered into the hole and searched, and did not find him, it was very angry, and pursued him, going up to the very middle of the village. For three days it was there barking in the village, and trying to kill some one. TALE 3 ORIGIN OF THE ELEPHANT Persons Uhâdwe, Bokume and Njâku Sons of Njambi the Creator Towns-People, Sailors and Others NOTE I have never seen the place; but, intelligent natives, (though they did not believe in the legend itself) told me there was the likeness to a human foot-print in a rock on the beach of the north shore of Corisco Bay. Doubtless a fossil. Uhâdwe, Bokume, and Njâku were human beings, all three born of one mother. (Afterwards Bokume was called "Njâpe.") As time went on, Uhâdwe called his brethren, Bokume and Njâku, and said, "My brothers! Let us separate; myself, I am going to the Great Sea; you, Bokume go to the Forest; you, Njâku, also go to the Forest." Bokume went to the forest and grew up there, and became the valuable mahogany tree (Okume). Njâku departed; but he went in anger, saying, "I will not remain in the forest, I am going to build with the towns-people." He came striding back to the town. As he emerged there from the forest, his feet swelled and swelled, and became elephant feet. His ear extended 'way down. His teeth spreading, this one grew to a tusk, and that one grew to a tusk. The towns-people began to hoot at him. And he turned back to the forest. But, as he went, he said to them, "In my going now to the Forest, I and whatever plants you shall plant in the forest shall journey together," (i.e., that their plantations should be destroyed by him). So Njâku went; and their food went. When Uhâdwe had gone thence and emerged at the Sea, from the place where he emerged there grew the stem of "bush-rope" (the Calamus palm); and the staff he held became a mangrove forest. The footprints where he and his dog trod are there on the beach of Corisco Bay until this day. He created a sand-bank from where he stood, extending through the ocean, by which he crossed over to the Land of the Great Sea. When he reached that Land, he prepared a ship. He put into it every production by which white people obtain wealth, and he said to the crew, "Go ye and take for me my brother." The ship came to Africa and put down anchor; but, for four days the crew did not find any person coming from shore to set foot on the ship, or to go from the ship to set foot ashore, the natives being destitute of canoes. Finally, Uhâdwe came and appeared to the towns-people in a dream, and said, "Go ye to the forest and cut down Njâpe, dig out a canoe, and go alongside the ship." Early next morning they went to the forest, and came to the Okume trees; they cut one down, and hacked it into shape. They launched it on the sea, and said to their young men, "Go!" Four young men went into the canoe to go alongside the ship. When they had nearly reached it, looking hither and thither they feared, and they stopped and ceased paddling. The white men on the ship made repeated signs to them. Then the young men, having come close, spoke to the white men in the native language. A white man answered also in the same language. That white man said, "I have come to buy the tusks of the beast which is here in the forest with big feet and tusks and great ears, that is called Njâku." They said, "Yes! a good thing!" When they were about leaving, the white man advancing to them, deposited with them four bunches of tobacco, four bales of prints, four caps, and other things. When they reached the shore, they told the others, "The white men want Njâku's tusks; and also they have things by which to kill his tribe." The next morning, they went to the white men; they were trusted with guns and bullets and powder; they went to the forest, and fought with the elephants. In two days the ship was loaded, and it departed. This continues to happen so until this day, in the Ivory-Trade. TALE 4 LEOPARD'S MARRIAGE JOURNEY Persons Njambi (Chief of a Town) Njâ (Leopard) Etoli (House-Rat) Mbindi (Wild Goat) Vyâdu (Antelope) Ehibo (Red Antelope) Iheli (Gazelle) Ekwedikwedi (Fire-Fly) Leopard wanted to marry, and he sought a betrothal at Njambi's town. Secretly, Njambi had arranged with Leopard that he should bring him no goods in payment of the "Dowry," but only the bodies of animals. Leopard agreed, and said to Njambi's daughter, "I will dowry you only with animals." He returned to his home for a few days; and then he called Rat to escort him to the town of his prospective father-in-law. Rat consented. And they started on their journey. On their way, they came to a wide river; and Leopard said to Rat, "Before one crosses this river, he must throw his knife into it." Rat threw his knife; and so (apparently) did Leopard. They crossed; went on their way, and came to a Kuda tree; and they stopped, and began to gather the nuts. Leopard drew his knife from its sheath, and splitting the nut-shells and eating the kernels, said derisively to Rat, "One who has no knife will not be able to eat kuda." Rat, in his helplessness, made no protest. And they went on. They came to a certain "Medicine" tree; and Leopard said, "Etoli, if I shall fall sick on the way, and I tell you to go back and get the bark of a certain tree for medicine, see! this is the tree." Finally, they came to the town of the woman whom Leopard was to marry. There, food was cooked for them. Just before they were to sit down to eat, Leopard exclaimed, "Etoli! I am sick! Go, and get that medicine for me!" While Rat was gone, Leopard ate up almost all the food, leaving only a few scraps for Rat. At night, inside of the entrance of the house where the two strangers were to sleep, was a pit already dug. Leopard knew of it, and jumped over it; but Rat fell into it. Leopard shouted to the town's-people, "This is the animal I brought to pay on my Dowry! Come, and take him!" The people came, caught Rat, and ate him. The next morning, Leopard's father-in-law had food prepared for him; he ate; and returned to his town. There, the relatives of Rat asked him, "Where is the little one you took to escort you?" Leopard replied, "He refused to return, staying there with the woman." Again, Leopard prepared gifts of dried fish and tobacco for his mother-in-law, and arranged for another journey. He called to his relative, "Brother" Wild-Goat, "Come, escort me to the town of my marriage." Wild Goat consented; and they started. They came to the River; and, as in the case of Rat, Leopard said to Goat, "You will first throw away your knife, before you can cross this river." Goat actually did so; Leopard pretending to do so. Continuing their journey, they came to that Kuda tree. Leopard was careful to stand on a side of the tree opposite to Goat, as they gathered the nuts. But, he said provokingly, "One can not eat kuda without a knife." Wild Goat innocently replied, "But, you, Njâ, you are eating nuts! Did you bring two knives?" They journeyed on, and came to the Medicine tree. And Leopard gave to Goat the same directions about it as he had given to Rat. When they reached the marriage town, food was set before them. But Leopard immediately began to groan and scream, "I'm dead! I'm dead! I'm dead with pain!" Wild Goat sympathisingly inquired, "What shall I do to help you?" Leopard replied, as in the case of Rat, "Go back to that tree, and get its bark as a medicine for me." Wild Goat went; and while he was away, Leopard ate the food, leaving very little of it. On his return, Wild Goat protested at so little being given him. Leopard explained, "In my great suffering from tooth-ache, I ate nothing. Perhaps it was the town's-people who ate up the food, leaving you only these pieces." After they had eaten, they were called to the reception-house, and spent the evening in conversation with the people of the town. Then, they were shown to the house in which they were to sleep. It was the one with the pit-fall inside the door-way. Leopard, of course, jumped over it; but Wild Goat fell into it. And, as in the case of Rat, Leopard called out, "People of the town! This is your dowry-goods! I have brought it to you!" The next morning, Leopard took his journey, and came back home. When the people of his town asked him, as in the case of Rat, "Where is the friend you took with you?" he made the same reply, "Don't ask me! He is entangled off there with women." On a third journey, Leopard called Antelope to accompany him. Antelope agreed. They came to the River; and as before Leopard told how that river could not be crossed by travelers unless their knives were thrown away. This, Antelope did. Then, they came to the Kuda tree. There, Antelope heard Leopard splitting the nuts, and asked him. "Did you not throw away your knife? Do you travel with two?" Leopard answered, "Yes! I always travel with two." Then, they came to the Medicine tree. And Leopard explained about its bark being the cure for his frequent tooth-aches, when eating at his father-in-law's town. They came to the town. And when food was brought to them, Leopard cried out, "O! my tooth! my tooth!" Antelope asked, "Where is your medicine that you said you use?" Leopard answered, "At the tree which I showed you on the way. Go, and get it." While Antelope was gone, Leopard ate up almost all the food. On returning, Antelope exclaimed "What! only this little food for me?" Leopard explained, "With my great tooth-ache, I ate none. Nothing happened, except that the town's-people came, and were eating up the food; and I, in my kindness for you, begged them to leave at least a little for you." Antelope handed him the medicine, and Leopard said, "Put it down there"; and he threw it away, while Antelope's back was turned. After they had eaten, they went to their room for the night. Leopard, as usual, jumped over the pit; but Antelope fell in. And Leopard gave his shout to the people to come and take the Dowry-goods he had brought. The next morning, after breakfast, Leopard again started on his home journey. There, again he was anxiously asked, "But, those whom you take with you don't come back! Why?" He made the same reply, "They know why! Off there are damsels and dancing; and they were unable to return." For his next journey, Leopard asked Red Antelope, who heartily replied, "Yes, come on! There is nothing to prevent my going on a journey!" They journeyed, and they came to the River. There, Leopard made his statement about the necessity of throwing their knives into the river. Red Antelope wondered a little, but he consented saying, "Yes, but what is that to me?" Said Leopard, "Well, then, shut your eyes, and I will be the first to throw, lest you say I am deceiving you." Said Red Antelope, "Yes." And he shut his eyes tightly. Then Leopard, having a stone in his hand, flung it into the water, saying, "I've thrown mine; throw also yours!" Red Antelope demanded, "But, you must shut your eyes also." Leopard half-closed his eyes, and Red Antelope, knife in hand, flung it into the water. Then, wading across, they went on and on to the base of the Kuda tree. Said Leopard, "Mr. Ehibo, this Kuda is eaten of here only by each person on his own side of the trunk." Red Antelope assented; and they turned, this one to one side, and that one to the other side. There, as Red Antelope was vainly trying to crack the nuts with his teeth, Leopard was deriding him while himself was comfortably using his knife. Then, Leopard said, "Let us go on; for, the day is declining." Red Antelope agreed. As they went, they came to an Ebwehavu tree. And Leopard said, "Let us climb for Bebwehavu fruits. But, when we climb this particular tree, it is the practice here, to climb, one by one. While the one is climbing, the other has his eyes shut; and, the climbing is done, not by the trunk, but by this adjoining Bongo tree which you see here. But, first, close your eyes, and I will go up." (The Bongo's trunk is covered with hard sharp thorns.) Red Antelope stood, with his eyes tightly closed. Leopard grasped a vine; and, with one swing, he at once was up the tree. Red Antelope began climbing that Bongo, creeping slowly to the top, his whole body spoiled, and nothing on him but blood and blood. Said Leopard, "This Ebwehavu is accustomed to be plucked only the green unripe, but the dark ripe ones are to be left." That seemed strange to Red Antelope, nevertheless he said, "Yes." But Leopard was plucking the ripe and leaving the green. When they had finished plucking, Leopard said, "Ehibo! shut eyes! that I may descend!" Red Antelope shut his eyes. Leopard grasped the vine; and, with one spring, was on the ground. Then, he said, "Now, Ehibo, descend." Red Antelope began descending by the Bongo, down, down, landing finally on the ground. Leopard waited for him; and then said, "Having no fire, how shall we cook those green bebwehavu?" Just then, he saw a Fire-fly passing; and he said. "Mr. Ehibo! Pursue! That's fire passing there!" Red Antelope bent in rapid pursuit. Leopard turned to the base of the tree, gathered dried fire-wood, struck his flint, lighted a fire, cooked his fruits, ate them, finished, and put out his fire. Red Antelope, back again, said, "I did not reach it, I'm tired." Leopard said, "Well, let it go. I chewed mine uncooked. But, let us journey; and, as you go, you chew yours." They went on, and came to the town of the marriage. Food was cooked and set for them in their room. Said Leopard, "Ehibo, sit you on the floor, while I eat at the table. And, while I eat the flesh, you eat the bones." Red Antelope had become so utterly wearied and humiliated that he did not resent this indignity. They ate. And then Leopard said, "Ehibo, sweep up the scraps, and go and throw them into the back yard." (Immediately on his arrival at the town, Leopard had gone alone to his father-in-law, and said, "I have brought you an animal. But, let another pit, this time, be dug in the back yard of the room where we shall be. And, do you put spears and daggers and all kinds of sharp sticks there. When I shall send him to throw away the sweepings, and he shall fall in, kill ye him.") Red Antelope swept, and scraped up the sweepings, and threw them into a basket. He turned with them to the back yard, to fling them away. As he was about to do so, he slipped down to the bottom of the pit. Impaled on the spears, he was unable to jump out. When the town's-people arrived, they thrust him through with sharp poles; and he lay dead. When Leopard returned home, Red Antelope's people asked, "Where is Ehibo?" Leopard made his former answer, "Ehibo was hindered by the hospitality of that marriage town, with its food and its women; and, he said, 'I won't go back!'" Thus, with each journey, Leopard called for another animal. They went, over the same route; and the same things happened each time. So, matters went on for a long while. But, Gazelle, a very smart beast, began to suspect, observing that none of Leopard's travel-companions ever came back. In his heart, he thought to himself, "Leopard deceives people!" He determined to find out, by offering to go, and watch for himself. At last, he said, "Uncle Njâ, let me go to escort you to the town of your marriage. When next you go on your journey, call me to go with you." Said Leopard, "I don't want you." (He suspected Gazelle's smartness.) Gazelle insisted, "Uncle, as to these others whom you have invited to go with you, and not the rather me, your relative?" So, Leopard agreed, "Yes, let us go." By the next morning they started on their journey, going on and on, clear to the big River. There, as usual, Leopard told about knives to be thrown into the river; and he said, "Nephew Iheli, you first throw your knife." Said Gazelle, "First, you throw yours, then I will throw mine also." Said Leopard, "Well! shut your eyes!" Gazelle half-closed his hands on his eyes, and was peeping. He saw Leopard seize a chunk of wood and fling it in the water. Then he said, "Shut eyes! Let me also throw mine!" Leopard's eyes shut tight. Gazelle, seizing a stick, flung it into the water. Then, they crossed the river, and went on and on, until they came to the base of the Kuda tree. Leopard made his usual statement about parties eating the nuts on opposite sides of the tree. Gazelle, with apparent obedience, said, "Yes." Leopard, with knife drawn, began to hack and split the nuts, throwing the kernels into his mouth, and making his usual derisive remark, "By the truth! a person without a knife can not eat the kernels of kuda." Gazelle also, hacking his, and throwing them into his mouth, said, "Just exactly so! a person without a knife can not eat the kernel of kuda-nut!" Leopard exclaimed, "What are you doing? Have you two knives?" Gazelle replied, "But, what are you doing? Had you two knives?" Leopard answered, "Yes, for, I am the senior." Gazelle responded, "And I also carry two knives; for, I also am an adult." Leopard only said, "Iheli! Come on!" They went on, until they came to the Ebwehavu tree. There, Leopard made his usual explanation of climbing only by means of the Bongo tree. Gazelle agreed, and said, "Yes; climb you first." Leopard said, "Shut your eyes." Gazelle stood, with eyes apparently tightly closed. With one swing on a vine, Leopard is up the tree. Said Gazelle, "You also, shut your eyes. Let me go up." Leopard pretended to shut his eyes. And Gazelle, with one swing, was also up the tree. Leopard made his usual statement about plucking only the green fruit. To which, Gazelle seemed to assent. And they descended the tree, without Leopard attempting to deceive Gazelle about the Bongo tree. But, Leopard seeing the sun going down, said, "Iheli! Pursue! that's fire that's going there!" But, Gazelle showed he was not deceived, by simply saying, "That's not fire!" So, Leopard gathered fire-wood; and they cooked and ate their bebwehavu. Then, they resumed their journey, and came to the Medicine tree. There Leopard told his usual story about the bark of that tree being his great cure-all. Gazelle quietly said, "Yes." But, when they left the tree, and had gone a short distance farther, he exclaimed, "O! I forgot my staff! I must go back and get it!" He went back to the tree, stripped bark from it, put it into his traveling-bag, and overtook Leopard. And they came on together to the town. After they had entered their house, Gazelle remarked to Leopard, "Let me go out and see the other fellows, who came with you on your previous journeys, and who, you said, had stayed here with the women." He went out; and returned, saying, "I saw the women, but none of those fellows." Food was cooked for them, and they sat down to eat. But, suddenly, Leopard broke out in groans, "Iheli! I feel a pain in my stomach; go, get bark of that tree I showed you. The medicine! Get the medicine!" Gazelle answered "Yes, but just wait until I finish my plate;" and he continued eating rapidly. Leopard was distressed to see the food disappearing; but, as he had pretended sickness, he did not dare begin to eat. When, finally there was but little food left, Gazelle introduced his hand into his bag, and, handing out the pieces of bark, said, "Here's your medicine! That's it!" Leopard said, "Yes, just leave it there. I do not need the medicine now. The pain has ceased. Let us first eat. We will eat together." After finishing their eating, Gazelle swept up the scraps, and placed them in a basket. Said Leopard, "Come, I will go with you to show you the place where sweepings are to be thrown." Gazelle was about to fling the basket, as Leopard came to push him into the pit. But, Gazelle lightly leaped across to the other side of it, and cried out, "Uncle! what do you want to do to me?" Leopard said, "That's nothing!" It being night, they went to their sleeping-room, Leopard accompanied by his wife. He and she carefully jumped over the other pit that was inside of the door-way of that house. Gazelle also jumped, with careful observation, the while that people stood outside expecting him to fall into it. They retired for the night, Leopard and his wife on the bed; Gazelle on a mat on the floor. Said Gazelle, "Uncle, if you hear me stertorously snoring, then I am awake; but, if silently, then I am asleep." In a little while, Gazelle feigned gentle snoring. Leopard thinking Gazelle was asleep, took an iron rod, and thrust it into the fire. Gazelle saw what he was doing. When it was red-hot, he removed it, and, stepping softly, was about to stab Gazelle with it; who, quickly moving aside, exclaimed, "Eh! what are you doing?" Leopard coolly replied, "Nothing; I was only brushing away an insect that was biting you." Gazelle thought within himself, "Njâ will surely kill me to-night." So, he took chalk, and secretly marked circles around his eyes, making himself look as if his eyes were open and he awake, even if he should actually be asleep. After a while, Leopard slept, sound asleep with his wife. Then Gazelle passed over to Leopard's bed, and lifting the woman (unconscious in her sleep) to his mat on the floor, laid down in her place, beside Leopard in the bed. During the night, Leopard awoke, and, not noticing, in the darkness, the change at his side, went with the rod, to the mat where he supposed Gazelle was sleeping, and stabbed the woman to death. Then Gazelle (who had remained awake) cried out, "Eh! you kill another person? You are killing your wife!" Leopard exclaimed, "Umph! Is that you? I said to myself that this was you!" Gazelle said, "Yes! what did you go to my bed for? So, then! I am the one you wanted to kill!" Leopard confessed, "It is true that I came here to kill you, thinking this was you. But, as the matter is thus, say no more about it. Let us cut up and eat this woman. Come, cut up!" But, Gazelle said, "I? When the town's-people hear the chopping, then won't they say, 'What animal has Iheli killed in his brother-in-law's town, that he is cutting it up at night?' Yourself, cut her to pieces." So, Leopard said, "Well, leave the work on the body of the woman to me; but, do you attend to the cooking." Said Gazelle, "I? When the town's people shall hear the kettle boiling, then will they say, 'Whom has Iheli killed in the town of his brother-in-law, that he cooks at night?'" Leopard boiled the kettle. It was cooked; and he said to Gazelle, "Go, cut down a bunch of plantains, out there in the back-yard." (This he said, hoping that Gazelle would fall into that pit, either in going out or coming in.) But, Gazelle said, "I? When the town's people hear the strokes of the machete, and the crash of the fall of the bunch, then, will they not suspect me, and say, 'What meat has Iheli killed, that he is cutting down a plantain at night?' Cut it yourself." Leopard went and cut down a bunch of plantains, and said to Gazelle, "Now, come and peel the plantains, and cook them." Gazelle refused, "No; do you peel and cook. I'm in bed. I'll eat only greens." Then Leopard said (making a last effort to get Gazelle into the pit), "Well, go to the back-yard, and pluck pepper for the soup." Gazelle again refused, "No; when the town's-people hear the plucking of the pods, will they not say, 'What animal has Iheli killed that he is gathering pepper for the soup?'" Finally, Leopard, having done all the work, and finished cooking, and set the table, said, "Come, Iheli, I have finished all. Come, and eat." Gazelle came, but said, "First, put out all the lights." Leopard did so. And Gazelle added, "We will understand that whichever, at the close of the meal, has the largest pile of bones by his plate, shall be known as the one who killed the woman." Leopard agreed. The light having been extinguished, they ate in darkness. But, while they were eating, Gazelle chose only the bony pieces that had little meat; and, having picked them, he quietly laid the bones by Leopard's plate. When they had finished eating, the torches were re-lighted, and Gazelle cried out at Leopard's big pile of bones. They were counted. And Gazelle said, "Did you not say that whoever had the most bones would prove himself the murderer? So! indeed! you are the one who killed another person's child!" Leopard evaded, and said, "But, Iheli, take a broom and sweep up the scraps from the floor, and throw them into the yard." (Making thus a final effort to get Gazelle into that pit.) But, Gazelle, refused, "No; yourself do it. When the town's-people hear the bones falling as they are thrown in the yard, will they not suspect me, and say, 'What animal has Iheli killed at night, that he is clearing away the scraps?'" Leopard swept up the floor and table, and threw the pieces into the backyard. As they were finishing, day began to dawn. Gazelle said, "Njâ, the day is breaking; let us seek hiding-places; for, when the people come in, in the morning, and find that their daughter is dead, lest they kill us." So, they began to look around for hiding-places. Gazelle said, "I shall hide in this big box on the floor." But, Leopard objected, "No; that traveling-box befits me; and, as the elder, I shall take it." Gazelle said, then, "Well, I'll hide under the bed." But, Leopard again objected (hoping to leave Gazelle without a place). "No; that also is my place; it suits me." Gazelle protested, "You are claiming this and that place! Where shall I go? Well! I see! I'll hide over the door." "Yes" said Leopard, "that's the hiding-place for a young person like you." (This he said, still thinking of the pit near the door.) Gazelle agreed, saying, "I am here, by the door. You get into that box, and I'll tie it with a string, as if no one was in it." Leopard objected, "But, the string will hinder my breaking out." "No," replied Gazelle, "it shall be a weak twine. You can easily burst it, when you fling up the lid, and jump out, and run away." Leopard got into the box, and Gazelle began to tie it with a heavy chain. Leopard hearing the clanking, exclaimed, "With a chain, Iheli?" Gazelle had the chain fast; and he coolly replied, "It's only a little one." Then he piled heavy stones on the box. As day broke, he took his stand among a bundle of dried plantain-leaves that was over the door-way. The towns-people sent a child to open the door of the strangers' house, to call them to eat. As the child was about to enter, Gazelle struck him a blow on the head; and the child went away wailing with pain. The child's father said to his family that he would go to see what was the matter. As he pushed wide open the door of the strangers' house, Gazelle slid down, sprang out, and ran rapidly away, shouting, "Njâ is there! Njâ is in that box! He it is who has killed your woman!" And the towns-people shouted after him, "Is that so? Well, you're off, Iheli! Go!" Leopard, when he heard that, made desperate efforts to get out of the box. The town's-men entered the house and found the box with Leopard tied in it. They fired their guns at him, and killed him. As they did so, they reproached him, "Why did you kill our daughter, whom you came to marry?" Then they gathered together a great pile of fire-wood in the street, thrust on to it the dead body of Leopard, and burned him there. Gazelle went back to the town of Beasts, and they asked him, "Where is he with whom you went on your journey?" Gazelle told them, "He is dead. He it was who killed the other Beasts who went with him. And he is now killed by the relatives of the woman whom he was to marry, but whom also he had murdered." For this reason, that Gazelle informed on Leopard in the box, the relatives of Leopard since then have no friendship with Gazelle, and always pursue and try to kill him. The entire Leopard tribe have kept up that feud with the Gazelle tribe, saying, "You caused our father's death." And they carry on their revenge. TALE 5 TORTOISE IN A RACE Persons Kudu (Tortoise) Mbalanga (Antelope) NOTE Discussions about seniority are common causes of quarrel in Africa. The reason assigned why tortoises are so spread everywhere is that the antelope tribe, in public-meeting, recognized their superiority. At Batanga, Gaboon, Ogowe, and everywhere on the equatorial west coast, there are tortoises even in places where there are no other animals. On account of this, the tortoise is given many names; and has many nicknames in the native tribes, e.g., "Manyima," and "Evosolo." Tortoise had formerly lived in the same town with several other animals. But, after awhile, they had decided to separate, and each built his own village. One day, Tortoise decided to roam. So he started, and went on an excursion; leaving his wife and two children in the village. On his way, he came to the village of Antelope. The latter welcomed him, killed a fowl, and prepared food for him; and they sat at the table, eating. When they had finished eating, Antelope asked, "Kudu! My friend, what is your journey for?" Tortoise answered, "I have come to inquire of you, as to you and me, which is the elder?" Antelope replied, "Kudu! I am older than you!" But Tortoise responded, "No! I am the elder!" Then Antelope said, "Show me the reason why you are older than I!" Tortoise said, continuing the discussion, "I will show you a sign of seniority. Let us have a race, as a test of speed." Antelope replied derisively, "Aiye! how shall I know to test speed with Kudu? Does Kudu race?" However, he agreed, and said, "Well! in three days the race shall be made." Tortoise spoke audaciously, "You, Mbalanga, cannot surpass me in a race!" Antelope laughed, having accepted the challenge; while Tortoise pretended to sneer, and said, "I am the one who will overcome!" The course chosen, beginning on the beach south of Batanga, was more than seventy miles from the Campo River northward to the Balimba Country. Then Tortoise went away, going everywhere to give directions, and returned to his village. He sent word secretly to all the Tortoise Tribe to call them. When they had come very many of them together, he told them, "I have called my friend Mbalanga for a race. I know that he can surpass me in this race, unless you all help me in my plan. He will follow the sea-beach. You all must line yourselves among the bushes at the top of the beach along the entire route all the way from Campo to Balimba. When Mbalanga, coming along, at any point, looks around to see whether I am following, and calls out, 'Kudu! where are you?' the one of you who is nearest that spot must step out from his place, and answer for me, 'Here!'" Thus he located all the other tortoises in the bushes on the entire route. Also, he placed a colored mark on all the tortoises, making the face of every one alike. He stationed them clear on to the place where he expected that Antelope would be exhausted. Then he ended, taking his own place there. Antelope also arranged for himself, and said, to his wife, "My wife! make me food; for, Kudu and I have agreed on a race; and it begins at seven o'clock in the morning." When all was ready, Antelope said, to (the one whom he supposed was) Kudu, "Come! let us race!" They started. Antelope ran on and on, and came as far as about ten miles to the town of Ubenji, among the Igara people. At various spots on the way Tortoise apparently was lost behind; but as constantly he seemed to re-appear, saying, "I'm here!" At once, Antelope raced forward rapidly, pu! pu! pu! to a town named Ipenyenye. Then he looked around and said, "Where is Kudu?" A tortoise stepped out of the bushes, saying "Here I am! You haven't raced." Antelope raced on until he reached the town of Beyâ. Again looking around, he said, "Where is Kudu?" A tortoise stepped out, replying, "I'm here!" Antelope again raced, until he reached the town Lolabe. Again he asked, "Where is Kudu?" A tortoise saying to himself, "He hasn't heard anything," replied, "Here I am!" Again Antelope raced on as far as from there to a rocky point by the sea named Ilale-ja-moto; and then he called, "Wherever is Kudu?" A tortoise ready answered, "Here I am!" From thence, he came on in the race another stretch of about ten miles, clear to the town of Bongaheli of the Batanga people. At each place on the route, when Antelope, losing sight of Tortoise, called, "Kudu! where are you?" promptly the tortoise on guard at that spot replied, "I'm here!" Then on he went, steadily going, going, another stretch of about twenty miles to Plantation Beach. Still the prompt reply to Antelope's call, "Kudu, where are you?" was, "I'm here!" As he started away from Plantation, the wearied Antelope began to feel his legs tired. However, he pressed on to Small Batanga, hoping for victory over his despised contestant. But, on his reaching the edge of Balimba, the tortoise was there ready with his, "I'm here!" Finally, on reaching the end of the Balimba settlement, Antelope fell down, dying, froth coming from his mouth, and lay dead, being utterly exhausted with running. But, when Tortoise arrived, he took a magic-medicine, and restored Antelope to life; and then exulted over him by beating him, and saying, "Don't you show me your audacity another day by daring to run with me! I have surpassed you!" So, they returned separately to their homes on the Campo River. Tortoise called together the Tortoise Tribe; and Antelope called all the Antelope Tribe. And they met in a Council of all the Animals. Then Tortoise rose and spoke--"All you Kudu Tribe! Mbalanga said I would not surpass him in a race. But, this day I have surpassed!" So the Antelope Tribe had to acknowledge, "Yes, you, Kudu, have surpassed our champion. It's a great shame to us; for, we had not supposed that a slow fellow such as we thought you to be, could possibly do it, or be able to out-run a Mbalanga." So the Council decided that, of all the tribes of animals, Tortoise was to be held as greatest; for, that it had out-run Antelope. And the Animals gave Tortoise the power to rule. TALE 6 GOAT'S TOURNAMENT Persons Tomba (Goat) Njâ (Leopard) NOTE The reason why leopards wander everywhere, and fight all other animals, is their shame at being overcome by a goat. Their ancestor had said, "I did not know that a Goat could overcome me." The Tribe of Goats sent a message to the Tribe of Leopards, saying, "Let us have a Wrestling Match, in an effort to see which is the stronger." Then Leopard took counsel with his Tribe, "This Tribe of Goats! I do not see that they have any strength. Let us agree to the contest; for, they can do nothing to me." So, the Goat Tribe gathered all together; and the Leopard Tribe all together; and they met in a street of a town, to engage in the drumming and dancing and singing usually preceding such contests. For the wrestling, they joined in thirty pairs, one from each tribe. The first pair wrestled; and the representative of the Leopards was overcome and thrown to the ground. Another pair joined; and again the Leopard champion was overcome. A third pair joined and wrestled, contesting desperately; the Leopard in shame, and the Goat in exultation. Again the Leopard was overcome. There was, during all this time, drumming by the adherents of both parties. The Leopard drum was now beaten fiercely to encourage their side, as they had already been overcome three times in succession. Then, on the fourth effort, the Leopard succeeded in overcoming. Again a pair fought; and Leopard overcame a second time. The sixth pair joined; and Leopard said, "Today we wrestle to settle that doubt as to which of us is the stronger." So, pair after pair wrestled, until all of the thirty arranged pairs had contested. Of these, the Leopard tribe were victors ten times; and the Goat Tribe twenty times. Then the Leopard tribe said, "We are ashamed that the report should go out among all the animals that we beat only ten times, and the Tomba twenty times. So, we will not stay any longer here, with their and our towns near together:" for they knew that their Leopard tribe would always be angry when they should see a company of Goats passing, remembering how often they were beaten. So, they moved away into the forest distant from their hated rivals. In their cherished anger at being beaten, and to cover their shame, Leopard attacks a Goat when he meets him alone, or any other single beast known to be friendly to the Goats, e.g., Oxen or Antelopes. TALE 7 WHY GOATS BECAME DOMESTIC Persons Tomba-Ya-Taba (Goat) With Etoli, plural Betoli (Rat) Vyâdu (Antelope, plural Lâdu) Njâ (Leopard) Ko (Wild-Rat) Njâku (Elephant) Mankind Nyati (Ox) Goat and his mother lived alone in their village. He said to her, "I have here a magic-medicine to strengthen one in wrestling. There is no one who can overcome me, or cast me down; I can overcome any other person." The other Beasts heard of this boast; and they took up the challenge. First, house-Rats, hundreds of them, came to Goat's village, to test him. And they began the wrestling. He overcame them, one by one, to the number of two hundred. So, the Rats went back to their places, admitting that they were not able to overcome him. Then, forest-Rat came to wrestle with Goat. He overcame them also, all of them. And they went back to their own place defeated. Then, the Antelope came to wrestle with Goat. He overcame all the Antelopes, every one of them; not one was able to withstand him. And they also went back to their places. Also, Elephant with all the elephants, came on that same challenge. Goat overcame all the Elephants; and they too, went back to their place. Thus, all the Beasts came, in the same way, and were overcome in the same way, and went back in the same way. But, there still remained one Beast, only one, Leopard, who had not made the attempt. So he said he would go; as he was sure he could overcome. He came. Goat overcame him also. So, it was proved that not a single beast could withstand Goat. Then the Father of All-the-Leopards said, "I am ashamed that this Beast should overcome me. I will kill him!" And he made a plan to do so. He went to the spring where Mankind got their drinking-water. And he stood, hiding at the spring. Men of the town went to the spring to get water; Leopard killed two of them. The people went to tell Goat, "Go away from here, for Leopard is killing Mankind on your account." The Mother of Goat said to him, "If that is so, let us go to my brother Vyâdu." So they both went to go to Uncle Antelope. And they came to his village. When they told him their errand, he bravely said, "Remain here! Let me see Njâ come here with his audacity!" They were then at Antelope's village, about two days. On the third day, about eight o'clock in the morning, Leopard came there as if for a walk. When Antelope saw him, Goat and his mother hid themselves; and Antelope asked Leopard, "What is your anger? Why are you angry with my nephew?" At that very moment while Antelope was speaking, Leopard seized him on the ear. Antelope cried out, "What are you killing me for?" Leopard replied, "Show me the place where Tomba-Taba and his mother are." So, Antelope being afraid said, "Come tonight, and I will show you where they sleep. And you kill them; but don't kill me." While he was saying this, Goat overheard, and said to his mother, "We must flee, lest Njâ kill us." So, at sun-down, that evening, Goat and his mother fled to the village of Elephant. About midnight, Leopard came to Antelope's village, according to appointment, and looked for Goat, but did not find him. Leopard went to all the houses of the village, and when he came to Antelope's own, in his disappointment, he killed him. Leopard kept up his search, and followed to find where Goat had gone. Following the tracks, he came to the village of Elephant. When he arrived there, Elephant demanded, "What's the matter?" And the same conversation was held, as at Antelope's village, and the incidents happened as at that village, ending with Elephant's being killed by Leopard. For, Goat and his mother had fled, and had gone to the village of Ox. Leopard followed, and came to Ox's village. There all the same things were said and done, as in the other villages, and ending with Goat and his mother fleeing, and Ox being killed. Then, the mother, wearying of flight, and sorry at causing their entertainers to be killed, said, "My child! if we continue to flee to the villages of other beasts, Njâ will follow, and will kill them. Let us flee to the homes of Mankind." So, they fled again, and came to the town of Man, and told him their story. He received them kindly. He took Goat and his mother as guests, and gave them a house to live in. One time, at night, Leopard came to the town of Man, in pursuit of Goat. But Man said to Leopard, "Those Beasts whom you killed, failed to find a way in which to kill you. But, if you come here, we will find a way." So, that night, Leopard went back to his village. On another day, Mankind began to make a big trap, with two rooms in it. They took Goat and put him in one room of the trap. Night came. Leopard left his village, still going to seek for Goat; and he came again to the town of Man. Leopard stood still, listened, and sniffed the air. He smelled the odor of Goat, and was glad, and said, "So! this night I will kill him!" He saw an open way to a small house. He thought it was a door. He entered, and was caught in the trap. He could see Goat through the cracks in the wall, but could not get at him. Goat jeered at him, "My friend! you were about to kill me, but you are unable." Daybreak came. And people of Man's town found Leopard in the trap, caught fast. They took machetes and guns, and killed him. Then Man said to Goat, "You shall not go back to the Forest; remain here always." This is the reason that Goats like to live with mankind, through fear of Leopards. TALE 8 IGWANA'S FORKED TONGUE Persons Ngâmbi (Igwana) Njâ (Leopard) Betoli (Rats) Vyâdu (Antelope) Iheli (Gazelle) Ehibo (Red Antelope) NOTE Natives believe that the Igwana kills with its long tongue. This story assigns the fear of leopards as a reason why Igwanas like to live near water. Igwanas swim readily, while leopards (as all the cat-tribe) do not like even to wet their feet. There were two friends, Igwana and Leopard, living in the same village, one at each end. Igwana had six wives; Leopard also had six. Leopard begot twenty children; Igwana had eight. One time, at night, they were sitting with their wives and children in the street, in a conversation. Leopard said to Igwana, "Ngâmbi! I have a word to say to you." Igwana said, "Speak." Then Leopard said, "I wish you and me to have our food together." Igwana agreed, "Well." And Leopard arranged, "For two months, you shall come and eat in my house; and then, for two months, I at your house." And they separated, to go to their houses for sleep. Soon the night passed, and day broke. Leopard went to the forest and killed an Antelope. He and Igwana and their families spent four days in eating it. On another day, Leopard went to the forest and killed a Gazelle. It also was finished in four days. And again, Leopard went to the forest, and killed a Red Antelope. They were occupied in eating it also four days. So, they continued all the two months. Then Leopard said, "Ngâmbi! it is your time to begin the food." Igwana replied, "I have no wild meat, only vegetables." On the following day, Igwana got ready his food and sent word for Leopard to come to eat. He came and ate, there being on the table only vegetables and salt. Then the day darkened; and, in the evening they all came together in one place, as usual. Leopard said to Igwana, "I began my turn with meats in my house, and you ate them. I cannot eat only vegetables and salt." Igwana explained, "I do not know the arts for killing beasts." Leopard told him, "Begin now to try the art of how to catch beasts." Igwana replied, "If I begin a plan for catching Beasts, that plan will be a dreadful one." Leopard exclaimed, "Good! begin!" Igwana promised, "Tomorrow I will begin." And they all went to their houses to sleep their sleep. The night passed, and day broke. Igwana started out very early in the morning. On the way, he came to a big tree. He stood at its base, and, with a cord, he loosely tied his own hands and feet around the tree. Then he began to squeak as if in pain, "Hwa! hwa! hwa!" three times. At that same time, a child of Leopard had gone wandering out into the forest. He found Igwana tied to the tree and crying. Igwana said to him, "Ah! my child! come near me, and untie me." The child of Leopard came near to him; and then Igwana thrust his forked tongue into the nostrils of young leopard, and pulled his brains out, so that the child died. Then Igwana untied himself, skinned the young leopard, divided it, tied the pieces in a big bundle of leaves, and took them and the skin to the village. There he gave the meat to his wife, who put it in a pot. And he went to his house, and left the skin hanging in his bedroom. Then when the meat was cooked, he sent word for Leopard to come and eat. Leopard came and sat down at the table, and they ate. As they were eating, Leopard said, "Ah! my friend! You said you did not know how to catch beasts! What is this fine meat?" Igwana replied, "I am unable to tell you. Just you eat it." So, they ate, and finished eating. Igwana continued that way for two weeks, killing the young leopards. At that Leopard said to himself, "I had begotten twenty children, but now I find only ten. Where are the other ten?" He asked his children where their brothers were. They answered that they did not know, "Perhaps they were lost in the forest." The while that Igwana was killing the young leopards, he had hidden their skins all in his bedroom. On another day, Leopard and Igwana began a journey together to a place about forty miles distant. Before he started, Igwana closed his house, and said to his children, "Njâ and I are going on a journey; while I am away, do not let any one enter into my bedroom." And they two went together on their journey. They reached their journey's end, and were there for the duration of seven days. While they were gone, there was no one to get meat for their people, and there came on their village a great njangu (hunger for meat). One of those days, in the village, so great was that famine that the children of Leopard were searching for rats for food. The rats ran away to the house of Igwana that was shut up; and the children of Leopard pursued. But the children of Igwana said to them, "Do not enter the house! Our father forbade it! Stop at the door-way!" But the young leopards replied, "No! all the Betoli have run in there. We must follow." So, they broke down the door. There they found skins of young leopards, and they exclaimed, "So! indeed! Ngâmbi kills our brothers!" And two days later, the two fathers came back to the village. The young igwanas told their father that the young leopards had broken the door, and found leopard-skins hanging inside. Igwana asked them, "Really? They saw?" The young igwanas answered, "Yes! they saw!" Then Igwana said, "Be on your guard! For, Njâ will be angry with me." Also, the young leopards said to their father, "Paia! so it is that Ngâmbi killed our brothers. We saw their skins in his bedroom." Leopard asked, "Truly?" They answered, "Yes! we saw!" He said only, "Well, let it be." On another day, Leopard said, "This night I will go to Ngâmbi to kill him and all his children." The wife of Igwana heard this, and told him, "Tonight, Njâ will come to kill you and our children." At this, Igwana said to himself "But! we must flee, I, and my children, and my wives!" So, they all went and hid in the water of a small stream. Leopard came, in the dark of the morning, to Igwana's house, and entered it; but he saw no people, only the skins of his children. So he exclaimed, "At whatever place I shall see Ngâmbi, I will kill and eat him. We, he and I, have no more friendship!" TALE 9 WHAT CAUSED THEIR DEATHS? Persons Mbwa (Dog) Kudu (Tortoise) Mbala (Squirrel) NOTE Dog and squirrel were of the same age, and they met with the same end. They each had an object of their special liking, the excessive use of which finally was the cause of their death. Dog, Squirrel, Tortoise and others were living in one town. They all, at that time, ate of the same kind of food. But, they were at peace in that village during only two weeks. Then Squirrel and Dog said to Tortoise, "Let us divide, and have peace each at our separate villages. You, Kudu, and the others can stay at this spot if you like." Squirrel said he would remove to a place about three miles distant north. Dog went about three miles in the opposite direction. So, each had his own little hamlet. On another day, Squirrel said to his wife, "I am going on a journey to see my friend Mbwa." He started, came to Dog's place, and entered the house. Dog welcomed him, played with him, and killed a fowl for their dinner. With Squirrel had come one of his wives. While the women were cooking inside the house, Dog and Squirrel were sitting in the ikenga (reception-room). They were conversing there. After awhile, Dog said to Squirrel "Excuse me, I will go to see about the food." He went inside, and lay down near the fire, and Squirrel was left alone. Dog stayed there inside the house, until the food was cooked. Then he came out to his friend, and began to set the table, while the women came in with the food, and put it on the table. Dog drew up by the table ready to eat; and Squirrel also; and Squirrel's wife, and Dog's wife also, making four at the table. During the eating, Squirrel said to Dog, "My friend! when you left me here in the ikenga, where did you go to, the while that the women were cooking the food?" Dog answered, "Ah! my friend, you know that I like fire very much. While we were talking here, you and I, cold seized me." Then Squirrel said, "Ah! my friend, you like fire too much; I think you will die of fire some day." They finished the food; and after that, Squirrel prepared his return journey to his village. And he said to Dog, "My friend Mbwa, how many days before you shall come to my place?" Dog answered, "In two days, then will I come." So, Squirrel returned to his village. His wives and children told him the daily news of what had occurred in the village while he was away. And he told them about what he had seen at Dog's. And he added, "But, there is one thing I noticed; my friend Mbwa likes fire very much." He waited the two days; Dog came on his visit; and Squirrel killed a fowl for his guest. And he bade his woman cook the fowl. In the meanwhile, Dog and Squirrel sat in the ikenga conversing. Presently Squirrel said to Dog, "Excuse me, I am going. I will return." Squirrel went out into his garden, and climbed up a banana stalk, and began eating the ripe fruit at the top of the bunch. After awhile, he came down again. And he went into the ikenga to prepare the table for the food. When it was ready, Dog sat up at the table. With him were his wife, and Squirrel and Squirrel's wife. Presently, Dog inquired of Squirrel, "My friend! when you left me sitting here alone, where did you go to?" Squirrel answered, "My friend! you know I like to eat bananas. So, I was up the tree," Then Dog said, "My friend! you love bananas too much; some day, you will die with them." When they had finished their food, Dog said, "I am on my return to my village." So he returned thither. But he was arrived there only two days when he happened to fall into the fire-place. And he died in the fire. The news was carried to his friend Squirrel, "Your friend Mbwa is dead by fire." Squirrel replied, "Yes, I said so; for he loved fire too much." On another day, in Man's town, a person went to look for food at his banana tree. And he saw that the fruit was eaten at the top, by some animal. So, that Man made a snare at the Banana tree. On the next day, Squirrel said to himself, "I'm going to eat my banana food wherever I shall find it." He came to the town of Man, and climbed the tree. The snare caught and killed him; and he died there. The Man came and found the body of Squirrel; and he exclaimed "Good!" The news was carried to the village of Squirrel's children, "Your father is dead, at a banana tree." And they said, "Yes; for our father loved bananas very much. He had said that Mbwa would die by fire because he loved fire. And himself also loved bananas." TALE 10 A QUARREL ABOUT SENIORITY Persons Ihendi (Squirrel) And 2 children Ikundu (Vengeance) Ihana (Help) Pe (Viper) A Hunter NOTE This story suggests that when a neighbor flatters another, suspicion is raised that he is plotting some evil. Squirrel and the Adder professed great friendship; but their friendship was soon broken. Claims of seniority are a constant cause of native quarrels. A certain fetish-charm or "medicine" (generally poisonous) is supposed to be able to decide, on its being drunk by accused parties, as to their guilt or innocence. There is a common belief in premonitions by unusual beats of the heart, or twitching of any muscle. Squirrel and Adder were great friends, living in the same town. Each of them had two wives. One day, in the afternoon, Squirrel and one of his wives went into the house of Adder. The latter said to his wife, "Make ready food." So, she made a great deal of food. Then he said to his friend Squirrel, "Come, eat!" But Squirrel said, "I won't eat alone without my wife." So he called his wife to eat. His wife came and ate at the table. Then he said to Adder, "Also, you call your wife to eat with us." So Adder's wife came. And Squirrel said to Adder, "Now let us eat; for, everything is right." So they began to eat. While they were eating, Adder said, "I have a word to say about you, Ihendi." Squirrel replied, "Speak your word; I will listen." Then Adder asked, "You, Ihendi, and I, Pe; which is the elder? And your wife and my wife; also which is the elder?" Squirrel replied, "I am the elder, and my wife is older than your wife." But Adder said, "No! I am the elder; and my wife is older than yours." Squirrel responded, "I will give you my answer tomorrow in my own house." This occurred in the evening. Then the day darkened, and Squirrel went to his house to lie down. Adder also went to lie down in his bedroom. In the night, Squirrel remarked to his wife, "My wife! what sort of a word is this that Pe has spoken about so to me? I don't know about his birth, and he does not know of mine. We have no other person in the town who is able to decide which of us is the elder, and which the younger. This question has some affair behind it." His wife replied "I think that Pe wants to get up a quarrel in order to kill you or our children." Squirrel had two children, one named Vengeance and the other Help. Squirrel replied to his wife, "No! I will have no discussion with Pe; but tomorrow there shall be only a test of Medicine." Soon the day broke. Squirrel sent word to Pe, "Chum! you and I will have today nothing else but a medicine-test and no quarrel. For, you and I profess to love each other. I do this to prove both yourself and myself, lest you get up some affair against me, even though we love each other very much." Adder consented, "Yes; get the Medicine. I will know then what I shall say." Squirrel went to the forest to get leaves and bark of a certain tree for the kwai (test). On his return, he said to Adder, "Here is the test; let us drink of it." Adder replied, "The Medicine is of your getting. You first drink of it." Squirrel agreed, "Yes, I will drink first." So, Squirrel, conscious of his innocence, drank the test and swore an oath, "If I meet Pe's mother, it shall be only in peace. Or his father, only peace; or his children, only peace." Squirrel added, "I have finished speaking for my part." And he sat down on the ground. Then Adder arose from his seat and stood up. And he exclaimed, "Yes! let it be so!" He took up the medicine from the ground; and he drank of it greedily. And he swore, "If I meet with the children of Ihende, it will be only to swallow them. Or, father of Ihende, only to eat him; or mother of Ihende, only to eat her!" Then he sat down. But, Squirrel exclaimed, "Ha! my friend! you saw how I drank my share of the medicine, and I have not spoken thus as you. For what reason have you thus spoken?" Adder answered, "Yes! I said so; and I will not alter my words." They dispersed from the medicine ordeal, and went each to his house. Then that day darkened into night. And they all went to their sleep. Soon the next day broke. Squirrel and his wife prepared for a journey to the forest to seek food. He said to his wife, "Leave the children in the house." So the woman shut them in, and closed the doors tight. And he and she went off to the forest. Later on in the morning, Adder arose from his place, and he said to himself, "I'm going to stroll over to the house of my friend Ihende." So he came to Squirrel's house, and found no one there. He tried to break in the door; finally, he succeeded in opening it; and he entered the house. He found the two children of Squirrel lying together asleep. He shook them, and they awoke. He asked them, "Where is my friend?" They answered, "Our father and mother have gone to the forest." Then Adder suddenly joined the two children together and swallowed them. (They were both of them lads.) Then he went out of the house, and closed the door. His stomach being distended with what he had swallowed, he went back to his house, and laid down on his bed. Off in the forest, Squirrel said to his wife, "My heart beats so strangely! I have eaten nothing here; what should disturb my heart?" His wife replied, "Well! let us hasten back to town. Perhaps some affair has happened in our house!" They hastily gathered their food, to go back rapidly to town. On their arrival, they went at once to their house. Looking at the door, the wife exclaimed, "I did not leave this door so! Who has been at it?" Her husband urged, "Quickly! Open the door! Let us enter at once!" They opened the door; and found no one in the house. Then Squirrel, fearing evil, said to her, "Stay you here! I will go over to Pe's house. I know that fellow!" He came to Adder's house, and found him distended with this stomach. Squirrel asked him, "Chum! have you been at my house?" Adder answered, "Yes, I went to your house; but I have done nothing there." Squirrel asked him, feeling sure of his guilt, "But, where then are my children? Why did you not leave even one of them? Ah! my friend!" Adder replied, "When we drank the Test, did I not swear the truth that if I met with your children, I would swallow them?" Squirrel answered, "Yes! and you have kept your word well! But you shall see something just now and here!" Adder laughed, and said, "What can you do? You have no strength like mine." Close by the house of Adder (which was only a hole in the ground) was a large tree. Squirrel went out of the house, and climbed to the top of the tree. There he began to wail for his dead, and cried out, "Ikundu ja mâ! Ikundu ja mâ!" (A play on words: either an apostrophe to the name of one of his children, or a prayer for vengeance.) Another squirrel, that was a mile or two away, heard the wailing; and it came to where Squirrel was. Also his wife followed Squirrel to that tree; and she wailed too. And other squirrels came; about twenty. A hunter, living in the town of Mankind, started from his town to go hunting. Coming along the path, he heard Squirrel crying. Looking up, he exclaimed, "O! how many squirrels!" He thought to himself, "Why do these animals make this noise, and keep looking down at the foot of this big tree?" He approached near to the tree; and they dispersed among the branches. He then said to himself, "I will look around here at the bottom; for, as those squirrels continue their cry, they keep looking down here." Searching at the foot of the tree, he saw a hole, like the home of some beast. Looking in, he saw the Adder sluggish in his distention. The hunter killed it with his machete. And he took the dead adder with him to the town of Mankind. Squirrel, from the tree-top, shouted after dead Adder, "You have seen my promised Ikundu." (Another play on words; either--"You saw my child;" or, "You see my Vengeance.") TALE 11 THE MAGIC DRUM Persons Kudu (Tortoise) King Maseni, A Man Njâ (Leopard) Ngâmâ (A Magic Drum) NOTE The reason is here given why the turtle tribe of tortoises likes to live only in water; viz., their fear of the vengeance of the descendants of Leopard the King, because of the whipping to which he was subjected by the trick of the ancestor of the tortoises. In the Ancient days, there were Mankind and all the Tribes of the Animals living together in one country. They built their towns, and they dwelt together in one place. In the country of King Maseni, Tortoise and Leopard occupied the same town; the one at one end of the street, and the other at the other. Leopard married two women; Tortoise also his two. It happened that a time of famine came, and a very great hunger fell on the Tribes covering that whole region of country. So, King Maseni issued a law, thus:--"Any person who shall be found having a piece of food, he shall he brought to me." (That is, for the equal distribution of that food.) And he appointed police as watchmen to look after that whole region. The famine increased. People sat down hopelessly, and died of hunger. Just as, even today, it destroys the poor; not only of Africa, but also in the lands of Manga-Manene (White Man's Land). And, as the days passed, people continued sitting in their hopelessness. One day, Tortoise went out early, going, going and entering into the jungles, to seek for his special food, mushrooms. He had said to his wife, "I am going to stroll on the beach off down toward the south." As he journeyed and journeyed, he came to a river. It was a large one, several hundred feet in width. There he saw a coco-nut tree growing on the river-bank. When he reached the foot of the tree, and looked up at its top, he discovered that it was full of very many nuts. He said to himself. "I'm going up there, to gather nuts; for, hunger has seized me." He laid aside his traveling-bag, leaving it on the ground, and at once climbed the tree, expecting to gather many of the nuts. He plucked two, and threw them to the ground. Plucking another, and attempting to throw it, it slipped from his hand, and fell into the stream running below. Then he exclaimed, "I've come here in hunger; and does my coco-nut fall into the water to be lost?" He said to himself, "I'll leave here, and drop into the water, and follow the nut." So, he plunged down, splash! into the water. He dove down to where the nut had sunk, to get it. And he was carried away by the current. Following the nut where the current had carried it, he came to the landing-place of a strange Town, where was a large House. People were there in it. And other people were outside, playing. They called to him. From the House, he heard a Voice, saying "Take me! take me! take me!" (It was a Drum that spoke.) At the landing-place was a woman washing a child. The woman said to him, "What is it that brought you here? And, Kudu, where are you going?" He replied, "There is great hunger in our town. So, on my way, I came seeking for my mushrooms. Then it was that I saw a coco tree; and I climbed it; for, I am hungry and have nothing to eat. I threw down the nuts. One fell into the river. I followed it; and I came hither." Then the woman said, "Now then, you are saved." And she added, "Kudu! go to that House over there. You will see a Thing there. That Thing is a Drum. Start, and go at once to where the Drums are." Others of those people called out to him, "There are many such Things there. But, the kind that you will see which says, 'Take me! take me!' do not take it. But, the Drum which is silent and does not speak, but only echoes, 'wo-wo-wo,' without any real words, you must take it. Carry it with you, and tie it to that coco tree. Then you must say to the Drum, 'Ngâmâ! speak as they told to you!'" So, Tortoise went on, and on, to the House, and took the Drum, and, carrying it, came back to the river bank where the Woman was. She said to him, "You must first try to learn how to use it. Beat it!" He beat it. And, a table appeared with all kinds of food! And, when he had eaten, he said to the Drum, "Put it back!" And the table disappeared. He carried the Drum with him clear back to the foot of the coco tree. He tied it with a rattan to the tree, and then said to the Drum, "Ngâmâ! do as they said!" Instantly, the Drum set out a long table, and put on all sorts of food. Tortoise felt very glad and happy for the abundance of food. So he ate and ate, and was satisfied. Again he said, "Ngâmâ! do as they said!" And Drum took back the table and the food to itself up the tree, leaving a little food at the foot; and then came back to the hand of Tortoise. He put this little food in his traveling-bag, and gathered from the ground the coco-nuts he had left lying there in the morning, and started to go back to his town. He stopped at a spot a short distance in the rear of the town. So delighted was he with his Drum that he tested it again. He stood it up, and with the palm of his hand struck it, tomu! A table at once stood there, with all kinds of food. Again he ate, and also filled his traveling-bag. Then he said to a tree that was standing near by, "Bend down!" It bowed; and he tied the Drum to its branch; and went off into the town. The coco-nuts and the mushrooms he handed to his women and children. After he had entered his house, his chief wife said to him, "Where have you been all this long while since the morning?" He replied evasively, "I went wandering clear down to the beach to gather coco-nuts. And, this day I saw a very fine thing. You, my wife, shall see it!" Then he drew out the food from the bag, potatoes, and rice, and beef. And he said, "The while that we eat this food, no one must show any of it to Njâ." So, they two, and his other wife and their family of children ate. Soon day darkened; and they all went to go to sleep. And soon another day began to break. At day-break, Tortoise started to go off to the place where was the Drum. Arrived there, he went to the tree, and said to the Drum, "Ngâmâ! do as they said!" The Drum came rapidly down to the ground, and put out the table all covered with food. Tortoise took a part, and ate, and was satisfied. Then he also filled the bag. Then said he to the Drum, "Do as you did!" And Drum took back the things, and went up the tree. On another day, at day-break, he went to the tree and did the same way. On another day, as he was going, his eldest son, curious to find out where his father obtained so much food, secretly followed him. Tortoise went to where the Drum was. The child hid himself, and stood still. He heard his father say to the tree, "Bend!" And its top bent down. The child saw the whole process, as Tortoise took the Drum, stood it up, and with the palm of his hand, struck it, ve! saying, "Do as you have been told to do!" At once a table stood prepared, at which Tortoise sat down and ate. And then, when he had finished, saying, "Tree! bend down," it bent over for Drum to be tied to it. He returned Drum to the branch; and the tree stood erect. On other days, Tortoise came to the tree, and did the same way, eating; and returning to his house; on all such occasions, bringing food for his family. One day, the son, who had seen how to do all those things, came to the tree, and said to it, "Bow down." It bowed; and he did as his father had done. So Drum spread the table. The child ate, and finished eating. Then said he to Drum, "Put them away!" And the table disappeared. Then he took up the Drum, instead of fastening it to the tree, and secretly carried it to town to his own house. He went to call privately his brothers, and his father's women, and other members of the family. When they had come together in his house, at his command, the Drum did as usual; and they ate. And when he said to the Drum, "Put away the things!" it put them away. Tortoise came that day from the forest where he had been searching for the loved mushrooms for his family. He said to himself, "Before going into the town, I will first go to the tree to eat." As he approached the tree, when only a short distance from it, the tree was standing as usual, but the Drum was not there! He exclaimed, "Truly, now, what is this joke of the tree?" As he neared the foot of the tree, still there was no Drum to be seen! He said to the tree, "Bow down!" There was no response! He passed on to the town, took his axe, and returned at once to the tree, in anger saying, "Lest I cut you down, bend!" The tree stood still. Tortoise began at once with his axe chopping, Ko! ko! The tree fell, toppling to the ground, tomu! He said to it, "You! produce the Drum, lest I cut you in pieces!" He split the tree all into pieces; but he did not see the Drum. He returned to the town; and, as he went, he walked anxiously saying to himself, "Who has done this thing?" When he reached his house, he was so displeased that he declined to speak. Then his eldest son came to him, and said, "O! my father! why is it that you are silent and do not speak? What have you done in the forest? What is it?" He replied, "I don't want to talk." The son said, "Ah! my father! you were satisfied when you used to come and eat, and you brought us mushrooms. I am the one who took the Drum." Tortoise said to him, "My child, now bring out to us the Drum." He brought it out of an inner room. Then Tortoise and the son called together all their people privately, and assembled them in the house. They commanded the Drum. It did as it usually did. They ate. Their little children took their scraps of potatoes and meat of wild-animals, and, in their excitement, forgot orders, and went out eating their food in the open street. Other children saw them, and begged of them. They gave to them. Among them were children of Leopard, who went and showed the meat to their father. All suddenly, Leopard came to the house of Tortoise, and found him and his family feasting. Leopard said, "Ah! Chum! you have done me evil. You are eating; and I and my family are dying with hunger!" Tortoise replied, "Yes, not today, but tomorrow you shall eat." So, Leopard returned to his house. After that, the day darkened. And they all went to lie down in sleep. Then, the next day broke. Early in the morning, Tortoise, out in the street, announced, "From my house to Njâ's there will be no strolling into the forest today. Today, only food." Tortoise then went off by himself to the coco tree (whither he had secretly during the night carried the Drum). Arrived at the foot of the tree, he desired to test whether its power had been lost by the use of it in his town. So, he gave the usual orders; and they were, as usually obeyed. Tortoise then went off with the Drum, carrying it openly on his shoulder, into the town, and directly to the house of Leopard, and said to him, "Call all your people! Let them come!" They all came into the house; and the people of Tortoise also. He gave the usual commands. At once, Drum produced abundance of food, and a table for it. So, they all ate, and were satisfied. And Drum took back the table to itself. Drum remained in the house of Leopard for about two weeks. It ended its supply of food, being displeased at Leopard's rough usage of itself; and there was no more food. Leopard went to Tortoise, and told him, "Drum has no more food. Go, and get another." Tortoise was provoked at the abuse of his Drum, but he took it, and hung it up in his house. At this time, the watchmen heard of the supply of food at Leopard's house, and they asked him about it. He denied having any. They asked him, "Where then did you get this food which we saw your children eating?" He said, "From the children of Kudu." The officers went at once to King Maseni, and reported, "We saw a person who has food." He inquired, "Who is he?" They replied, "Kudu." The King ordered "Go ye, and summon Kudu." They went and told Tortoise, "The King summons you." Tortoise asked, "What have I done to the King? Since the King and I have been living in this country, he has not summoned me." Nevertheless, he obeyed and journeyed to the King's house. The King said to him, "You are keeping food, while all the Tribes are dying of hunger? You! bring all those foods!" Tortoise replied, "Please excuse me! I will not come again today with them. But, tomorrow, you must call for all the tribes." The next morning, the King had his bell rung, and an order announced, "Any person whatever, old or young, come to eat!" The whole community assembled at the King's house. Tortoise also came from his town, holding his Drum in his hand. The distant members of that Tribe, (not knowing and not having heard what that Drum had been doing) twitted him, "Is it for a dance?" Entering into the King's house, Tortoise stood up the Drum; with his palm he struck it, ve! saying, "Let every kind of food appear!" It appeared. The town was like a table, covered with every variety of food. The entire community ate, and were satisfied; and they dispersed. Tortoise took the Drum, and journeyed back to his town. He spoke to his hungry family, "Come ye!" They came. They struck the Drum; it was motionless; and nothing came from it! They struck it again. Silent! (It was indignant at having been used by other hands than those of Tortoise.) So, they sat down with hunger. The next day, Tortoise went rapidly off to the coco tree, climbed it, gathered two nuts, threw one into the river, dropped into the stream, and followed the nut as he had done before. He came as before to that landing-place, and to the Woman, and told her about the failure of the Drum. She told him that she knew of it, and directed him to go and take another. He went on to that House, and to those People. And they, as before, asked him, "Kudu! whither goest thou?" He replied, "You know I have come to take my coco-nut." But they said, "No! leave the nut, and take a Drum." And, as before, they advised him to take a silent one. So, he came to the House of Drums. These called to him, "Take me! take me!" Then, he thought to himself, "Yes! I'll take one of those Drums that talk. Perhaps they will have even better things than the other." So, he took one, and came out of the House, and told those People "I have taken. And, now, for my journey." He started from the landing-place, and on up the river, to the foot of the coco-tree. He tied the Drum to the tree with a cord, as before, set it up, and gave it a slap, ve! And a table stood there! He said, "Ngâmâ! do as you usually do!" Instantly, there were thrown down on the table, mbwâ! whips instead of food. Tortoise, surprised, said, "As usual!" The Drum picked up one of the whips, and beat Tortoise, ve! He cried out with pain, and said to the Drum, "But, now do also as you do. Take these things away." And Drum returned the table and whips to itself. Tortoise regretfully said to himself, "Those People told me not to take a Drum that talked; but my heart deceived me." However, a plan occurred to him by which to obtain a revenge on Leopard and the King for the trouble he had been put to. So, taking up the Drum, he came to his own town, and went at once to the house of Leopard. To whom he said, "To-morrow come with your people and mine to the town of King Maseni." Leopard rejoiced at the thought, "This is the Drum of food!" Then Tortoise journeyed to the King's town, and said, "I have found food, according to your order. Call the people tomorrow." In the morning, the King's bell was rung, and his people, accompanied by those of Tortoise and Leopard, came to his house. Tortoise privately spoke to his own people, "No one of you must follow me into the house. Remain outside of the window." Tortoise said to the King, "The food of today must be eaten only inside of your house." So, the King's people, with those of Leopard, entered into the house. There, Tortoise said, "We shall eat this food only if all the doors and windows are fastened." So, they were fastened (excepting one which Tortoise kept open near himself). Then, the Drum was sounded, and Tortoise commanded it, "Do as you have said." And, the tables appeared. But, instead of food, were whips. The people wondered, "Ah! what do these mean? Where do they come from?" Tortoise stationed himself by the open window, and commanded the Drum, "As usual!" Instantly the whips flew about the room, lashing everybody, even the King, and especially Leopard. The thrashing was great, and Leopard and his people were crying with pain. Their bodies were injured, being covered with cuts. But, Tortoise had promptly jumped out of the window. And, standing outside, he ordered, "Ngâmâ! do as you do!" And the whips and tables returned to it, and the whipping ceased. But, Tortoise knew that the angry crowd would try to seize and kill him. So, taking advantage of the confusion in the house, he and his people fled to the water of the river, and scattered, hiding among the logs and roots in the stream. As he was disappearing, Leopard shouted after him, "You and I shall not see each other! If we do, it will be you who will be killed!" TALE 12 THE LIES OF TORTOISE Persons Njâ (Leopard) Kudu (Tortoise) Etoli (Rat) Embonda (Prairie Antelope) Iheli (Gazelle) Ngando (Crocodile) Ngomba (Porcupine) NOTE African natives climb the palm-tree, cut out a cavity in the heart at the leafy top, and fasten a vessel below the cavity, to catch the sweet, milky juice that exudes. This is unintoxicating. But, like cider, it becomes intoxicating if kept a few days. The cutting destroys the tree in two or three months. The beginning of this tale is that Leopard went to the forest, to cut an itutu tree (bamboo-palm) for palm-wine. After he had fastened the bowl at the cavity he had cut at the top in the heart of the tree, then he came back to town. Tortoise came along to that palm-wine tree; and he climbed to the top. There he found that the sap had already collected in the bowl. And he drank three tumblerfuls. Excited by his success, he shouted out aloud, "I'm drunk! I'm drunk!" Off in the forest, Wild Rat heard his voice, and, following the sound, came to the place. To Tortoise, Rat said, "Whose wine-tree is this?" Tortoise replied, "My own!" So, Rat begged of him, "Give me a glassful!" Tortoise told him "Climb up! Of what are you afraid?" So, Rat climbed up the tree. He also drank two glassfuls. Presently, Tortoise heard Leopard coming, and he said to Rat. "Await me here, I'm just going down to the ground." When he reached the ground, Tortoise hid his body in a hole at the base of the tree. In a very little while, Leopard arrived at the tree. He lifted up his eyes to the top and saw Rat there. To him Leopard said, "Who owns this palm-tree?" Rat replied, "My Chum, Kudu." But, Leopard asked, "This Kudu, where is he?" Then Leopard flung one of his claws at Rat. It stuck in him, and Rat fell dead. Leopard took Rat's body and went away with it to his town. And he said to his wife, "Cook this; this is our meat." Soon after Leopard had gone from the tree, Tortoise came out of his hiding, and climbed the tree a second time. Then, having drank again, he shouted, as before, "I'm drunk! I'm drunk!" In his hole off among the rocks, Porcupine heard Tortoise shouting; and he came to the tree, and asked for a drink. Tortoise told him to climb; adding, "What are you afraid of?" So, Porcupine followed Tortoise up the tree, and drank two glassfuls of the wine. Again Tortoise heard Leopard coming, recognizing the thud of his steps as he leaped on the way. So, Tortoise cried out, as if in pain, "O! my stomach hurts me! I'm going down!" At the base, he hid himself again in the cavity of the tree. In a little while, Leopard appeared standing at the foot of the tree. Looking up, he saw Porcupine there. And he inquired, "Ngomba! who owns this tree?" Porcupine answered, "Chum Kudu!" Leopard asked, "This Kudu, who is he? I want to see him." Porcupine replied, "Kudu has gone off, his stomach paining him." Then Leopard exclaimed, "So! indeed! you are the ones who use up all my wine here!" And he added, "What day I shall meet Kudu I do not know. But, that day we will meet in fight." While he was saying all this, Tortoise, in the hole at the tree, heard. Then Leopard threw a claw at Porcupine. Porcupine fell down to the ground a corpse. Leopard taking it, went away with it to his town, and said to his wife, "Cook this meat, and let us eat it." After Leopard had left the tree, Tortoise emerged from his hiding-place. He climbed the tree a third time, and took a cup, and drank two glassfuls. Again he shouted, "I, Kudu, I'm drunk! I, Kudu, I'm drunk!" Out on a prairie, Antelope heard the shouting; and he came to the tree. Seeing Tortoise, he said, "Chum, give me a glass of wine!" Tortoise directed him, "Climb up! Of what are you afraid?" So, Antelope went up the tree, and drank. Soon Tortoise heard Leopard coming, bounding through the forest. And Tortoise said to Antelope, "Chum! my bowels pain me; I'll soon return." He descended, and hid his body as before. Leopard arrived as before. And he spoke to Antelope; and then killed it with another of his claws. He took its carcass to his town, and bade his wife cook it, as had been done with the others. After Leopard had gone from the tree, Tortoise climbed the tree a fourth time, again he drank; and again he shouted, changing his words slightly, "I've drank! I've drank!" In the jungle, Gazelle heard, and came to the base of the tree, but said nothing. Tortoise spoke first, "O! my nephew! the wine is finished!" Gazelle asked, "Who owns this tree?" Tortoise answered, "It's my own, and not another's." When he came from the jungle, Gazelle had brought with him a bag. As Gazelle still stood at the foot of the tree, Tortoise said to him, "Come up here! What do you fear?" So, Gazelle climbed; but went up only half-way. While the two were thus apart, and before Gazelle had drunk any of the wine, Tortoise heard Leopard coming, leaping through the bushes. Then Tortoise said to Gazelle, "Ah! nephew! let me pass! My stomach hurts me!" But Gazelle said, "No! uncle, let us stay and drink." Tortoise heard Leopard nearing the tree; and he said to Gazelle, "Ah! Hurry! Let me pass! How my stomach hurts!" Gazelle said, "No! uncle, we'll go down together." While they were thus talking, Leopard reached the foot of the tree. Then Gazelle took Tortoise and hid him in the bag. Leopard exclaimed, "Iheli! who owns this tree?" Gazelle replied, "This is the palm-wine tree of my uncle." Leopard asked, "Who is your uncle?" Gazelle answered, "Kudu." So, Leopard began to prepare to climb the tree, in order to fight with Gazelle. Then Gazelle put his hand into the bag, and drew out Tortoise, tightly grasped in his hand. And he flung Tortoise violently into Leopard's face. Leopard fell to the ground, dazed with the blow, while Gazelle leaped to the ground, and fled off in the forest. When Leopard rose from the earth, he found Tortoise sprawling helpless on its back. Leopard tied a string to him, and went away with him to town. And he said to his wife, "My wife! this is the person who drinks at my wine-tree!" So he suspended him by the string, waiting to kill him next day. The day began to darken towards night; and they went to their sleep. Then came the daylight of next morning. Leopard said to his wife, "I'm going to a palaver (council) at a place three miles distant. Take Kudu and cook him with udika (gravy of kernels of wild mango). When I come back, let me find the food all ready to be eaten at once." So, Leopard went on his journey. And his wife remained to do her work. But, she exclaimed, "Ah! I forget what my husband told me!" Tortoise, overhearing her said, "Your husband said, 'Take the dried Etoli from the shelf, and cook it with udika; give it to Kudu, and let him eat it; and then take Kudu and wash him in the water of the brook.'" The woman gladly listened, and said, "Eh! Kudu! you remember well what my husband said to me!" So, she did about the food as Tortoise had reported, and gave it to him to eat. When Tortoise had finished eating, the woman went with him to wash him in the water at the edge of the brook. While she was doing this, Tortoise asked, "Throw me off into the water where it is deep." The woman did so. And Tortoise shouted, "So! you will die this day by your husband's hands!" The woman began to see her mistake, and she begged Tortoise, "Come! let us go back to town." But Tortoise said, "I shan't come! I'm here safe in my place down in the bottom of the stream." Then the woman went back to her town; and as she went, she went crying. Late in the day, Leopard returned from the discussions of the Council. And he said to his wife, "O! my wife! I'm just dying of hunger!" She told him, "Ah! my husband! Kudu has run away!" Leopard, in his anger, flung a claw at her; and she died on the spot. Tortoise, in the meanwhile, went as fast as he could under the water of the stream. And he came to the house of Crocodile, and crept into the doorway. Crocodile, in tears, met him with the words, "Ah! Kudu! I'm just dying here with grief and crying." Tortoise asked her, "What is the matter?" She told him, "I've laid a hundred eggs, but none of them had children in them." Tortoise replied, "That's my work, the causing of eggs to have children. Shall I do it?" Crocodile consented, "Yes, I've here three hundred other eggs; you may make them have children." Tortoise told her, "I'm the only one to do that thing." So, Crocodile said, "Go into this room, and do it." Tortoise went into the room, found the eggs there; and said to Crocodile, "Give me here a kettle, also firewood and water. Give me my food here. For, I will not go out of this house; I will go out only at the time when I shall have caused the eggs to have children." Crocodile agreed, saying, "Yes, I am willing. It is well." And she gave direction to her people, "Give Kudu all the things he has asked for there." Then Tortoise locked all the doors, and stayed inside the room. He began to arrange the fire-wood, and set the kettle and put water in it. In the afternoon, he took twenty eggs, and cooked, and ate them with his food. At night, all went to sleep. At daybreak, he cooked twenty more eggs, and ate them; at noon he cooked and ate more; and at evening supper, he cooked and ate some more. So, he spent about seven days in eating all the eggs. Then he called out to Crocodile "Do you want to hear the little crocodiles talk?" Crocodile replied, "Yes! I want to hear!" Tortoise took two pieces of broken plates, and scraped one across the other, making a rasping sound. Crocodile and the people of the town heard the squeaking sounds, and they exclaimed in joy. "So! So, So!" They replied to Tortoise, "We hear the little ones talking!" Tortoise also told them, "Tomorrow, then, I will make a Medicine to cause them to talk loudly." But Crocodile began to have some doubts. And day darkened to night. Very early in the next morning, Crocodile's doubts having increased, she rose up without calling her people. And she went slowly alone to peep through a crack into the room of Tortoise. She saw only the piles of egg-shells; and she wondered, "Where are the little ones?" Then she went softly back to her own room; and she told the townspeople, "Get up! Let us open the room of Kudu!" They all got up, and they went to the house. They broke the room door by force; and they found Tortoise sitting among the scattered shells of the eggs. The Crocodile exclaimed, "Kudu! have you deceived me? Your life too ends today!" They tied Tortoise, and put him in the kettle; and they killed him there. They divided his flesh onto their plates. And Crocodile and her people ate Tortoise. This is the end of the lies of Tortoise. TALE 13 "DEATH BEGINS BY SOME ONE PERSON": A PROVERB Persons Kâ (A Very Big Snail) Ngâmbi (Igwana) Kudu (Tortoise) Lonâni (Birds) Kema (Monkeys) A Man NOTE Trouble came to all these animals, even to the innocent, through the noise of some of them. Igwanas are supposed, by the natives, to be deaf. Snail, Igwana and Tortoise all lived together in one village. One day, Tortoise went to roam in the forest. There he found a large tree called Evenga. He said to himself, "I will stay at the foot of this tree, and wait for the fruit to fall." During two days, he remained there alone. On the third day, Igwana said to Snail, "I must go and search for our Chum Kudu, wherever he is." So, Igwana went; and he found Tortoise in a hole at the foot of that tree. Igwana said to him, "Chum! for two days I haven't seen you!" Tortoise replied, "I shan't go back to the village; I will remain here." Then Igwana said to him, "Well, then; let us sit here together in the same spot." Tortoise objected, "No!" So Igwana climbed up the trunk a very short distance, and clung there. After two days, Snail, who had been left alone, said to himself, "I must follow my friends, and find where they are." So, Snail journeyed, and found Tortoise and Igwana there at that tree. Looking at the tree, he exclaimed, "Ah! what a fine tree under which to sit!" The others replied, "Yes; stay here!" So Snail said to Igwana, "I will stay near you, Chum Ngâmbi, where you are." But Igwana objected, "No!" There was a vine hanging down from the treetop to the ground, and Snail climbed up the vine. Thus the three friends were arranged; Tortoise in the hole at the foot of the tree, Igwana up the trunk a short way, and Snail on the vine half-way to the top. Igwana held on where he was, close to the bark of the tree. He was partly deaf, and did not hear well. After two days, the tree put forth a great abundance of fruit. The fruit all ripened. Very many small Birds came to the tree-top to eat the fruit. And very many small Monkeys too, at the top. Also big monkeys. And also big birds. All crowded at the top. They all began to eat the fruit. As they ate, they played, and made a great deal of noise. Tortoise hearing this noise, and dreading that it might attract the notice of some enemy, called to Igwana, "Ngâmbi! tell Kâ to say to those people there at the top of the tree, to eat quietly, and not with so much noise." Tortoise himself did not call to Snail, lest his shout should add to the noise. He only spoke in a low voice to Igwana. But, to confirm his words, he quoted a proverb, "Iwedo a yalakendi na moto umbaka" (death begins by one person). This meant that they all should be watchful, lest Danger come to them all by the indiscretion of a few. But Igwana did not hear; and was silent. Tortoise called again, "Ngâmbi! tell Kâ to tell those people to eat quietly, and without noise." Igwana was silent, and made no answer. A third and a fourth time, Tortoise called out thus to Igwana; but he did not hear. So, Tortoise said to himself, "I won't say any more!" A man from Njambo's Town had gone out to hunt, having with him bow and arrow, a machete, and a gun. In his wandering, he happened to come to that tree. Hearing the noise of voices, he looked up and saw the many monkeys and birds on the tree. He exclaimed to himself, "Ah! how very many on one tree, more than I have ever seen!" He shot his arrow; and three monkeys fell. He fired his gun, and killed seven birds. Then the Birds and the Monkeys all scattered and fled in fear. The Man also looked at the foot of the tree, and saw Tortoise in the hole. He drew him out, and thrust him into his hunting-bag. Then he looked on the other side of the tree, and saw Igwana within reach. He rejoiced in his success, "Oh! Igwana here too!" He struck him with the machete; and Igwana died. Observing the vine, the Man gave it a pull. And down fell Snail! The Man exclaimed, "So! this is Snail!" As the Man started homeward carrying his load of animals, Tortoise in the bag, mourning over his fate, said to the dead Igwana and the others, "I told you to call to Kâ to warn Kema and Lonani; and, now death has come to us all! If you, Kema and Lonani, in the beginning, on the tree-top, had not made such a noise, Man would not have come to kill us. This all comes from you." And Man took all these animals to his town, and divided them among his people. TALE 14 TORTOISE AND THE BOJABI TREE Place Country of All-The-Beasts Persons Mbâmâ (Boa Constrictor) Kudu (Tortoise) Etoli (House Rat) Vyâdu (Antelope) Njâku (Elephant) Iheli (Gazelle) Ngomba (Porcupine) Nyati (Ox) And the Bojabi Tree NOTE African natives hesitate to eat of an unknown fruit or vegetable, unless they see it first partaken of by some lower animal. All the tribes of Beasts were living in one region, except one beast, which was staying in its separate place. Its name was Boa Constrictor. His place was about thirty miles away from the others. In the region of all those Beasts, there was a very large tree. Its name was Bojabi. But none of those beasts knew that that was its name. There fell a great famine on that Country-of-all-the-Beasts. In their search for food, they looked at that tree; and they said, "This tree has fine-looking fruit; but, we do not know its name. How then shall we know whether it is fit to be eaten?" After some discussion, they said, "We think our Father Mbâmâ will be able to know this tree's name." So they agreed, "Let us send a person to Mbâmâ to cause us to know the name of the tree." They selected Rat, and said to him, "You, Etoli, are young; go you, and inquire." They also decided that, "Whoever goes shall not go by land along the beach, but by sea." (This they said, in order to prove the messenger's strength and perseverance; whether he would dally by the way ashore, or paddle steadily by sea.) Also, they told Rat that, in going, he should take one of the fruits of the tree in his hand, so that Boa might know it. So, Rat took the Bojabi fruit, stepped into a canoe, and began to paddle. He started about sun-rise in the morning. In the middle of the afternoon, he arrived at his journey's end. He entered into the reception-room of Boa's house, and found him sitting there. Boa welcomed him, and said to his wife, "Prepare food for our guest, Etoli!" And he said to Rat, "Stranger! eat! And then you will tell me what is the message you have brought." Rat ate and finished, and began to tell his message thus:--He said, "In our country we have nothing there but hunger. But there is there a tree, and this is its fruit. Whether it is fit to be eaten or not, you will tell us." Boa replied, "That tree is Bojabi; this fruit is Njabi; and it is to be eaten." Then the day darkened to night. And they slept their sleep. And then the next day broke. And Boa said to Rat, "Begin your journey, Etoli! The name of the tree is Bojabi. Do not forget it!" Rat stepped into his canoe, and began to paddle. He reached his country late in the afternoon. He landed. And he remained a little while on the beach, dragging the canoe ashore. So occupied was he in doing this, that he forgot the tree's name. Then he went up into the town. The tribes of All-the-Beasts met him, exclaiming, "Tell us! tell us!" Rat confessed, "I have forgotten the name just this very now." Then, in their disappointment, they all beat him. On another day, they said to Porcupine, "Ngomba! go you!" But they warned Rat, "If Ngomba brings the name, you, Etoli, shall not eat of the fruit." Porcupine made his journey also by sea, and came to the town of Boa. When Porcupine had stated his errand, Boa told him, "The tree's name is Bojabi. Now, go!" Porcupine returned by sea, and kept the name in his memory, until he was actually entering the town of his home; and, then, he suddenly forgot it. The tribes of All-the-Beasts called out to him, as they saw him coming, "Ngomba! tell us! tell us!" When he informed them that he had forgotten it, they beat him, as they had done to Rat. They had also in that country, another plant which was thought not proper to be eaten. They did not know that its leaves were really good for food. On another day, they said to Antelope, "Go you; and tell Mbâmâ, and ask him which shall we eat, this fruit or these leaves. What shall we Beasts do?" Antelope went by sea; and came to Boa's town. And he asked Boa, "What do you here eat? Tell us." Boa replied, "I eat leaves of the plants, and I drink water; that is all I do. And the name of the tree that bears that fruit is Bojabi. You, all the Beasts, what are you to eat? I have told you." Antelope slept there that night. And the next day, he started on his return journey. At his journey's end, as he was about to land on the beach, a wave upset the canoe, and he fell into the sea. In the excitement, he forgot the name. The anxious tribes of All-the-Beasts had come down to the beach to meet him, and were asking, "What is the name? Tell us!" He replied, "Had I not fallen into the water, I would not have forgotten the name." Then, in their anger, they beat him. Almost all the beasts were thus tried for that journey; and they all failed in the same way, with the name forgotten, even the big beasts like Ox and Elephant. There was no one of them who had succeeded in bringing home the name. But there was left still, one who had not been tried. That was Tortoise. So, he said, "Let me try to go." They were all vexed with him, at what they thought his audacity and presumption. They began to beat him, saying, "Even the less for us, and more so for you! You will not be able!" But Gazelle interposed, saying, "Let Kudu alone! Why do you beat him? Let him go on the errand. We all have failed; and it is well that he should fail too." Tortoise went to his mother's hut, and said to her, "I'm going! How shall I do it?" His mother told him, "In your going on this journey, do not drink any water while at sea, only while ashore. Also, do not eat any food on the way, but only in the town. Do not perform any call of Nature at sea, only ashore. For, if you do any of these things on the way, you will be unable to return with the name. For, all those who did these things on the way, forgot the name." So Tortoise promised, "Yes, my mother, I shall not do them." On another day, Tortoise began his journey to Boa, early. He paddled and he paddled, not stopping to eat or drink, until he had gone about two-thirds of the way. Then hunger and thirst and calls of Nature seized him. But he restrained himself, and went on paddling harder and faster. These feelings had seized him about noon; and they ceased an hour later. He continued the journey; and, before four o'clock in the afternoon, had arrived at Boa's. There Tortoise entered Boa's house, and found him sitting. Boa saluted, and said, "Legs rest; but the mouth will not. Wife! bring food for Kudu!" The wife brought food, and Tortoise ate. Then Boa said to Tortoise, "Tell me what the journey is about." Tortoise told him, "A great hunger is in our place. There also we have two plants; the one,--this is its fruit; and this grass,--the leaves. Are they eaten?" Boa replied, "The tree of this fruit, its name is Bojabi; and it is eaten. But, I, Mbâmâ, here, I eat leaves and drink water; and that is enough for me. These things are the food for All-us Beasts. We have no other food. Go and tell All-the-Beasts so." Tortoise replied, "Yes; it is well." Then the day darkened, and they slept. And another day came. And Tortoise began his journey of return to his home. As he went, he sang this song, to help remember the name:--"Njâku! Jaka Njabi. De! De! De!" (Elephant! eat the Bojabi fruit. Straight! Straight! Straight!) The chorus was "Bojabi," And, in each repetition of the line, he changed the name of the animal, thus:--"Nyati! jaka njabi. De! De! De. Bojabi" (Ox! eat the Bojabi fruit. Straight! straight! straight! Bojabi!) He thus nerved himself to keep straight on in his journey. And, as he went, he kept repeating the chorus. "Bojabi, bojabi! bojabi!" He had gone about one-third of the way, when a large wave came and upset the canoe, and threw him, pwim! into the water. He clung to the canoe, and the wave carried it and him clear ashore, he still repeating the word, "Bojabi! bojabi!" Ashore, he began to mend the canoe; but, all the while, he continued singing, "Bojabi!" When he had repaired the canoe, he started the journey again, and went on his way, still crying out, "Bojabi!" By that time, All-the-Beasts had gathered on the beach to wait the coming of Tortoise. He came on and on, through the surf near to the landing-place of the town. As he was about to land, a great wave caught him, njim! and the canoe. But, he still was shouting, "Bojabi!" Though All-the-Beasts heard the word, they did not know what it meant, or why Tortoise was saying it. They ran into the surf, and carried the canoe and Tortoise himself up to the top of the beach. And they, all in a hurry, begged, "Tell us!" He replied, "I will tell you only when in the town." In gladness, they carried him on their shoulders up into the town. Then he said, "Before I tell you, let me take my share of these fruits lying out there in the yard." They agreed; and he carried a large number, hundreds of them, into his house. Then he stated, "Mbâmâ said, 'Its name is Bojabi.'" And All-the-Beasts shouted in unison, "Yes! Bojabi!" Then they all began to scramble with each other in gathering the fruit; so that Tortoise would have been unable to get any, had he not first taken his share to his mother, whose advice had brought him success. He also reported to them, "Mbâmâ told me to tell you that himself eats leaves and grass, and drinks water, and is satisfied. For, that is the food of All-the-Beasts." Had it not been for Boa, the Beasts would not have known about eating leaves. But, though that is so, the diligence and skill, in this affair, was of Tortoise. So, All-the-Beasts agreed:--"We shall have two Kings, Kudu and Mbâmâ, each at his end of the country. For, the one with his wisdom told what was fit to be eaten; and, the other, with his skill, brought the news." TALE 15 THE SUITORS OF NJAMBO'S DAUGHTER Place In Njambo's Town Persons Njambo and His Daughter Ndenga Etoli (House Rat) Njâ (Leopard) Ko (Forest Rat) Nyati (Ox) Kudu (Tortoise) Njâku (Elephant) NOTE Africans cut down trees, not at the base, but some 12 or 20 feet up where the diameter is less. They sit in the circle of a rope enclosing the tree and their own body, the rope resting against their backbone at the loins, and their feet braced against the tree trunk. The reason why Tortoise lives in brooks is his fear of Leopard. All the Beasts were living long ago in one place, separate from the towns of Mankind; but they had friendship for and married with each other. Among the towns of Mankind was living a man named Njambo. There was born to him a female child named Ndenga. In the town, at one end of it, there was a very large tree. Njambo said of his daughter, "This child shall be married only with Beasts." So when the Beasts heard of that one of them, House-Rat, said, "I'm going to marry that woman!" So he went to the father to arrange what things he should pay on the dowry. Njambo said to him, "I do not want goods. But, if any one shall be able to hew down this tree, he shall marry my child." At once, Rat took the axe that Njambo handed him, and began to hack at the Tree. He tried and tried, but was not able to make the axe enter at all. At last, he wearied of trying and stopped. He said to himself, "If I go to Njambo, and tell him I am unable to do the task, he will kill me." So, he left the axe, at the foot of the tree, and fled to his town. Njambo waited a while, but seeing no signs of Rat's coming to him to report, himself came to the Tree, and found only the axe, but saw no person. He took up the axe, and went with it back to his house. Off in the Forest, all-Beasts saw Rat returning, and were surprised that he came alone. They asked him, "Where is the woman?" Rat answered, "I wearied of trying to get the woman, by reason of the greatness of the task of cutting down a tree. So, I gave up the work, and fled, and have come home." Then all the Beasts derided him, saying, "You like to live in another person's house, and scramble around, and nibble at other people's food, but you are not able to marry a wife!" Then Forest-Rat said, "I will marry that woman!" So he went to Njambo for the marriage, and came to the town. Njambo said to him, "I do not object to anybody for the marriage, but, I will only test you by that Tree off yonder. If you are willing to hew the Tree, you may marry this woman!" This Forest-Rat replied, "Yes! I shall wait here today; and will cut down the Tree early tomorrow morning." That day darkened. And Njambo's people cooked food for Forest-Rat as their guest. They all ate; and then they went to lie down to sleep. Then after awhile, the light of another day began to break. They arose. And they gave Forest-Rat an axe. He took it, and went to the foot of the Tree. He fastened two cords, with which to climb up to where the Tree was at half its thickness. There he tried to cut the Tree. But he was unable to cut away even the smallest chip. At last he exclaimed, "Ah! brother Etoli is justified! I am not able to cut this tree, because of its hardness." So, he came down the Tree, and left the axe at the foot, saying, "If I go back to the house of this Man, he will kill me. No! I am fleeing." When he arrived at his town, the other people asked him, "Where's the woman?" He answered, "The woman is a thing easy to marry, but the Tree was a hard thing to cut." After waiting awhile for the Forest-Rat, Njambo came to the foot of the Tree; and, seeing the axe lying, took it, and went with it to his House. Then Leopard tried for the woman; and failed in the same way as the two who preceded him. Next, Elephant tried, and failed in the same way. So did Ox in the same way. And all the other Beasts, one after another, in the same way, wearied of the task for obtaining this woman. But, there was left still one Beast, Tortoise, that had not made the attempt at the marriage. He stood up, and said, "I will go; and I shall marry that woman at Njambo's town!" Ox heard Tortoise say that; and struck him, saying, "Why! even more so we; and the less so you, to attempt to obtain her!" But Elephant said to Ox, "Let Kudu alone! Let us see him marry the woman!" So, Tortoise made his journey to Njambo's town, and came there late in the afternoon. He said to Njambo, "I have come to marry your child." Njambo replied, "Well! let it be so!" Tortoise said to Njambo, "First, call your daughter, to see if she shall like me." When she entered the room, Tortoise asked her, "Do you love me?" She answered, "Yes! I love you with all my heart." This made Tortoise glad; for the woman was very beautiful to look upon. Then Njambo told him, "Kudu, I want no goods for her; only the cutting of the Tree." Tortoise assented, "Yes! I will try." So they all went to sleep that night. And then the next day broke. An hour after sunrise, Njambo called Tortoise, and, showing him the axe, said, "This is the axe for the tree." Tortoise took the axe, and went to the foot of the Tree. He looked at its sides closely, and saw there was a difference in them. He also looked very steadily at the top of the tree. Then he took rattan ropes, and mounted to the middle of the thickness of the Tree. He chose also the side opposite that at which the others had cut. He found it soft when he began to cut; and, at once the chips began to fall to the ground. He had begun the chopping early, and by the middle of the morning, the Tree began to fall. And it fell to the ground with a great crash, nji-i! Njambo heard the fall of the tree, and he came to see it. And he said to Tortoise, "You have done well, because you have cut down the Tree. But, finish the job by cutting off the top end with its branches. That will leave the trunk clear." Tortoise asked Njambo, "What will you do with the log?" Njambo answered him, "To make a canoe." So, Tortoise cut off also the end of the Tree with its branches. Then Njambo told him, "Come on, into the town, to take your wife; because you have cut down the tree; that is the price I asked." The two came to the house in the town; and Njambo brought his daughter to Tortoise, saying, "This is your wife. And I give with the woman these other things." Those things were only different kinds of food. Tortoise made his journey with his wife towards his town. He journeyed, going, going on, until he had reached half of the way. Then he said to his wife, "What shall I do? For, Njâ is ahead in the way?" The wife replied, "No! go on! I think Njâ will do nothing to us." Shortly afterward, they met with Leopard in the path. Leopard said to Tortoise, "Ah! Chum! this wife is not proper for you to marry, only with me, Njâ." Tortoise said "No!" But Leopard insisted, "No! I take this one! I will give you another wife in her place." So, he snatched the woman from Tortoise, and ran away with her to his town. Tortoise went on his way, as he went, crying, till he came to his own village. There Elephant asked him, "Why do you cry as you go? Has Njambo struck you about the affair of the marriage? For, we had heard the news that you had cut down the tree, and had taken the woman. What then is the reason?" Tortoise answered, "Yes! I married the woman, because I had cut down the Tree. But Njâ took the woman away." Then Elephant called all the Beasts together to take counsel. He said to them, "What shall we do, because Njâ has taken away the wife of Kudu?" They all replied, "We are all afraid of Njâ. None of us can dare to say anything to him. For, he kills us people. So, our decision is: Let Kudu give up his wife to Njâ." But Tortoise said, "I am unable to leave her. If it be death, I will die because of my wife." So, they all dispersed from the house of Tortoise, and went to their own houses. At that time, Leopard had eight wives. Tortoise removed from the Town-of-all-the-Beasts, and built a village for himself, about one-and-a-half miles away. He built on the public highway, where passed by all people. He put a very large stone in front of his door-yard, large enough for one to sit down on it. He made also a bench near the stone. And he put a plate with water in it on the ground by the stone. Then he placed a certain magic-medicine on the seat of the bench. And he uttered a Charm: "Let any one else who sits on this seat go free from it. But, if it be Njâ, let him not go from it." He finished all these things late in the afternoon. The day darkened, and he went to his house, and slept his sleep. Soon the day broke. That day, Elephant said, "I'm going to the forest, and my wives with me." As he came on his way, he passed by the street of Tortoise's House. He observed the stone and the bench and the water. He exclaimed, "Ah! I'll sharpen my machete here!" So, he sat down on the bench, and sharpened his machete. Then, went on his way into the forest with his wives. After a while, Ox came on his journey, and saw the stone and water. He also sat down on the bench, and sharpened his machete. And then went on his way into the forest with his wives. Soon afterward, Leopard journeyed along with all his eight, and the new one, the ninth, the wife of Tortoise. He came to the house of Tortoise. Looking into the door-yard, he exclaimed, "Ah! good! and fine! that Kudu has prepared these things." Tortoise was in the house; he saw Leopard coming, and he rejoiced, "Very good! indeed! for the coming of this person." Leopard sat down on the bench, and sharpened his machete on the stone with the water of the plate. His women standing by, waited for him to finish the sharpening. When he had finished, he said, "I will get up, and start the journey again." But, he stuck fast to the bench. He exclaimed, "My women! I am unable to rise! What shall I do?" The "medicine" on the bench began to sting him like bees. And he cried out, "Ah! I'm dead! For, I am unable to rise!" Tortoise, coming out into the yard, said to Leopard, "I am the one who caused you this. You will not move thence until you give me back my wife. If you do not, you will remain there a whole month, a whole year." At this, Leopard felt very much grieved; and he inquired of his women, "The wife of Kudu is here in this company?" The woman answered, "Yes! I'm here." Then Leopard said, "Please, Kudu, take your wife, and remove me from this bench. It hurts me." So, Tortoise took his wife. And he added, "I want also my food you took from us in the path." Leopard sent a child back to his town in haste to cut plantains. The child went; and the plantains were brought. Tortoise took them, and said, "Njâ! you are done, for your part. I have taken all I owned. But, if I release you, you will kill me, and take again my wife. You shall be released only after I have fled." So, Tortoise fled with his wife and all his goods into a stream of water. When safely there, he shouted, "Let Njâ remove from that seat!" At once, Leopard stood up, and was free. And he went back to his town, giving up his intended journey into the forest. TALE 16 TORTOISE, DOG, LEOPARD AND THE NJABI FRUIT Persons Njâ (Leopard) Mbwa (Dog) Kudu (Tortoise) Inâni (A Bird) And Other Beasts Note: Observe the cannibalism of the human-animals. At first, all Animals were living in one region. Of these, Tortoise and Dog lived together in one place, and built a town by themselves. But, all the others, Leopard, Hippopotamus, Elephant, Ox, etc., lived together in another place. After some time, a great famine fell on the part of the country where Tortoise and Dog lived; and they had to seek for any kind of food. One day Tortoise said to Dog, "I'm going awalking into the forest." So, early at daybreak, he started off to seek for mushrooms. All those other Beasts that were living together had a kind of tree called Bojabi, bearing a very large heavy fruit called Njabi. And they had all agreed, "There are no other Animals, but our own companies, who shall eat of the fruit of this Tree." They were accustomed, whenever they had eaten of this fruit, to go to an adjacent prairie, to play. So that day, on his journey, Tortoise happened to come to the foot of that Tree. The ripe fruit were falling from it, and quantities were lying on the ground. He exclaimed "Eme! (indeed!), Ibele! (splendid), Eme! Abundance of food!" He gathered, and ate, and stayed a while gathering others, which he would carry back to his town. While doing this, a fruit fell from the branch above, and struck him hard on the back. The blow hurt him; but he only said, "Ah! the back of an aged person!" (My back feels like that of an aged person.) This he said because of the pain it gave him; but he made no out-cry. He had with him a bag, into which he put food on a journey. So, he filled it with the fruits, and resumed his journey to go back to his town. On his arrival at his house, his wife said to him, "Why did you delay so long?" He replied, "I found a Tree belonging to the Tribes-of-All-the-Beasts. Had they seen me, they would have killed me." And, he drew the fruits from the bag, and gave his wife and children, saying, "Eat ye!" But, he added, "While you eat of it, do not allow Mbwa to see it." One of the children ran out into the street, with the fruit grasped in his hand. Just then, Dog happened to meet the child in the street, and asked him, "Who gave you this fruit, child of Kudu?" The child answered, "My father came from the forest, and brought this fruit with him." In the evening, when the day had darkened, Dog came and said to Tortoise, "My friend! you are a bad fellow; for, we live together in one place, and you do not share with me! Chum! is it possible that you eat such good things here? Where did you discover them?" Tortoise then gave Dog and his children a share. But, he was not willing to tell the place of that Tree. He evaded, by saying, "As I went, I forced my way through the jungle of the forest. But, I did not find any mushrooms; they are about done. Also, we are not allowed to go to the place where this fruit grows." So it went on for some time. On another evening, Tortoise remarked, in conversation with Dog, that he would be going into the forest next day. Dog said nothing, but went back to his house, as if to sleep; while Tortoise remained in his house, and went to bed. Tortoise had left his hunting-bag hanging in the public reception-room by his house. At night, Dog arose from his house, and slowly and stealthily went to the house of Tortoise, clear into that room. Entering it secretly, and finding the bag, he threw ashes into its mouth and then, with his knife, made holes in it at the lower end. For, he said to himself, "When Tortoise shall go out early, then I will follow him." Then he went back to his house, and laid down again. When day-light began to break, early in the morning, Tortoise arose, took the bag, and started on a journey to that forest tree which belonged to the Beasts. As he went the ashes sifted through the holes in the bottom of the bag, and fell on the path. He finally arrived at the tree. Dog also arose early, and found which way Tortoise had gone, by the dropping of the ashes; for, as he went, Dog was looking out for the marks on the way; and, following the signs, they clearly showed him the route, until he reached the tree, soon after Tortoise had arrived. Tortoise exclaimed, "Ah! Chum! What have you come here to do? Who called you, you with your loud howling? Do you know who own this Tree? Can you endure if one of these fruits should fall down on you? For, if you cry out in pain, then the owners of this Tree will catch both you and me. If they seize me, who am Kudu, what shall I do? For, I, Kudu, do not know how to run rapidly." Then Dog said, "If they come to seize you, I will come to take you from their hands." At this, Tortoise laughed out aloud, "Those beasts of strength! When they seize me, you will come and take me from them? Really?" Just then while they were thus speaking, two of the fruits fell on Tortoise's back, at the same time, with a thud, ndu! ndu! Though in pain, he only unconcernedly remarked, "The hardened skin of an aged person! Ah! the back of an old man!" and went on eating. Dog exclaimed, "O! Chum! that big thing struck you, and you were able to refrain from crying!" Tortoise replied, "Wait till yours also!" Presently a very small fruit thus fell, and hit Dog on the head. He howled lustily, "Ow! ow! ow! ow!" Tortoise said to him, "Did I not tell you so!" There came down another fruit, and fell on Tortoise; he quietly disregarded it. Another then fell on Dog with a thump, ngomu! And he ran off howling, "mwâ! mwâ!" All this while, Leopard had been up the Tree. It was he who had flung the fruit at Dog and Tortoise. When Dog ran, Leopard instantly descended the Tree, and, disregarding Tortoise, chased Dog; but could not overtake him. Had he caught Dog, seizing him tightly, he would have killed him with one blow of his paw, ndi! and would have eaten him on the spot. While Leopard was away, Tortoise was in fear and did not know what to do, for he knew that he could not run from Leopard. A Bird whistled, "Pu! pu! pu! Chum Kudu, Hide! hide!" So Tortoise went into a hole at the base of the tree, and hid there. Leopard, on his return, sought for Tortoise, but could not find him. So, he climbed the Tree again, and gathered his fruits, and went off towards the town of the Beasts. But, he met those Beasts coming; for, they had heard the howls of Dog, and had shouted at him, "He! e. e.! Wait for us! Don't be afraid!" All those People-of-the-Tree came and gathered about its trunk. They searched; and presently they saw Tortoise. They exclaimed, "So! you are the one who eats for us the fruit of this tree! You shall die!" They tied him, and took him with them to their town. There they suspended him from the roof of a house, saying, "To-morrow, you will be eaten!" Off at his town, the wife of Tortoise asked Dog, "Where is my husband?" Dog answered, "I think that the Tribes-of-all-the-Beasts have caught him." After a while, Dog, thinking, said to himself, "I remember my word that I said to Kudu, 'If they seize you, I will come to take you.'" So, Dog went and gathered shells of a very large snail named Kâ. He took a large number, pierced each one with a hole, and strung them all on a string. These he placed about his neck; and, as he went along, he wriggled his body, and the shells struck together like little bells. Then said he to himself, "The time is fulfilled for taking away my friend." So, he went rapidly to where the Tribes-of-the-Beasts had a spring for their drinking-water. Those Beasts had sent one of their lads to get water with which to cook Tortoise. The lad came to the spring. Dog jingled the shells; and, the lad ran back to town screaming, "There's some Thing at the spring, which kills!" Then the Tribes sent a young man stronger than the lad, and said to him, "Go you, and get water at the spring." When the young man came near the spring, Dog jingled the shells, as before. And, the young man fled in fear. So, the people of the town said, "Let us all go to the spring together; for, that Thing can not hurt us all." So they came to the spring. Dog seeing that all were coming, left the spring, and ran around to their town by another path, to take Tortoise away. Dog found Tortoise suspended by a rope. He bit through the rope, and, with Tortoise on his back, he ran rapidly to their town. Those of the Tribes who first arrived at the spring, searched, inquiring, "Where is It? Where is It? Where is It?" Discovering nothing, they returned to the town. Then, they could not find Tortoise. And they said, "Let be! Kudu has slipped away." One day after this, the wife of Dog and the wife of Tortoise went into the forest to their gardens to seek for food. And their children went out on the prairie, to play. Dog and Tortoise both remained in the town. Notwithstanding that Dog had saved his life, Tortoise was still angry at him for having spoiled their going to the Njabi Tree. Tortoise came to Dog's end of the town and said to him, "Let us shave our foreheads." Dog was pleased, and said, "Kudu, you first do me; then I will do you." So Tortoise took the razor, and he shaved away Dog's front locks. Then Tortoise said to Dog, "Let me shave also your neck." Dog bent down his head. Tortoise slashed the entire neck, cutting Dog's head off. And Dog fell down a corpse. Tortoise cut up the body, and put the pieces in a kettle of water on the fire. Also, he gathered pepper pods, and ground them for the seasoning. He looked for salt, and saw it was up on top of a shelf. So, he took three chairs, putting them on top of one another, by which to climb up. As he was creeping up, the chairs fell over on the ground. As they fell, he tumbled also down, almost into the kettle of hot water, where were boiling the pieces of Dog. But, Tortoise scrambled away, and went off to his end of the town. After a while the children of Dog came back from their play, and not finding their father in his house, they came to the house of his friend Tortoise, and asked, "Where is our father?" Tortoise replied, "As for me, where I was, I did not see him. When he went from here, who sent for him?" When the two women returned, Dog's wife found, but did not recognize, the pieces of meat in her kettle. She wailed and mourned for him as dead. When, by the next day, the people of Dog did not find him, they said, "He is dead." But they suspected Tortoise. The wife of Tortoise also doubted him, and deserting him, returned to the house of her father. So, Tortoise left them all, and went to another place, fearing they would charge him with the death of Dog. TALE 17 A JOURNEY FOR SALT Persons Njâbu (Civet) Mbâmâ (Boa) Ngweya (Hog) Kudu (Tortoise) A Man, and Hunters NOTE Interior tribes formerly obtained their salt from sea-water evaporated by the coast tribes in large shallow brass pans, called "neptunes," imported by foreign traders. All these four Beasts were neighbors, living together in one town. One time, in the evening, about an hour after the regular six o'clock sunset, they all, were sitting conversing in the street. Then Tortoise said to the others, "Here! I have something to say! I wish to talk with you. Tomorrow, let us go on a journey, to take a walk through the forest down to the Sea, to buy salt." They all assented, "Yes! so let it be!" Late at night, they dispersed to their houses, to lie down for sleep. After awhile, the day began to break. Early in the morning, they prepared for their journey. And Tortoise said to them, "I have here another thing to say; my last word. That is: As we go, no one of us is to start any new affair on the way; only steadily down to the Seacoast." They all said, "Yes! we are agreed." So, they started through the forest, going on their journey. They went, and they went, on and on, expecting to go a long way, until they should by evening come to their camping-place for the night. But, on the way, Civet began to say, "Ah! my stomach aches! Ah! my stomach aches!" Tortoise asked, "What do you mean by 'stomach-ache?'" Civet answered, "'Stomach-ache' means that my bowels trouble me, and that I need to go." Tortoise said, "Well! go! step aside from the path into the bushes, and we will wait for you here." But Civet said, "No! not in the bushes; for, I must go back to the kitchen-garden of my mother in our town." Tortoise exclaimed, "By no means! When we arranged for this journey, what did I say in the town?" They all admitted, "You said that none of us should start any affair on the way." Therefore Tortoise said, "But, you, Njâbu, have begun a new matter on the way. If so, this journey is going to end in trouble!" Nevertheless, Civet ran rapidly back before night to his mother's kitchen-garden in his town, at the place where he usually went, while the three others sat down in the path to await his return. After a long time, Civet, having relieved himself, came again by night to his companions, saying, "I am feeling very well." The next day, they all rose, saying, "Now! Let us resume our journey!" and they started again. They walked, and they walked, until Boa cried, "O! my stomach! O! my stomach aches!" Then Tortoise asked him, "What is 'stomach ache'?" Boa replied, "It means that hunger has seized me." So Tortoise said, "Yes, that's right. We have with us food for the journey ready. So, come, all of you, let us all eat." But Boa said, "No! not this food. I must go and seek other food." Tortoise inquired, "What other kind of food?" Boa said, "Let me go over yonder a little way; and I shall return." As he was going, he came in sight of a red Antelope. Boa curled his body in folds, according to his manner of crushing his prey. The Antelope happened along; and Boa seized and killed it. He covered it with saliva very much, as is its manner in swallowing its prey. And, carrying it to their camp, Boa lay down with it. Tortoise said, "We will all eat together of it." But Boa replied, "We do not give each other in the town; shall we give each other on the journey?" Then he swallowed the entire carcass. Presently he called the other three; and they went to him. And he said to them, "I have finished eating, and I am satisfied." So, Tortoise said, "Come on, then; let us continue our journey." But Boa said, "No! I shall leave this place only when this Beast I have eaten dissolves." Tortoise expostulated, "Indeed! Chum! I said in the town, 'Let no one begin any matter on the way,' yet, first Njâbu began his affair; and now you, Mbâmâ, begin yours!" However, they all sat down, and waited for Boa's food to digest. For an entire month they waited there, delaying while that food was being digested. Finally, Boa said, "Now, we will journey, but first I will go to the river to drink." He drank a very great deal of water, which acted as a purgative to relieve his bowels of the bones of the Antelope. Then he reported to the others, "I am feeling very well. Let us go." They went, and they went. And they came to a large tree so recently fallen across the path that its leaves were still green. Hog jumped over to the other side of it. Also, Boa crawled over it. And Civet leaped over it. They called to Tortoise, who was vainly trying to climb over it, "Come on! Let us go ahead! Jump!" But, Tortoise being vexed, said, "No! I won't go! You know I have no long legs. What can I do! So, I shall leave this spot only when this tree has rotted through, giving me an open way!" They all wondered, and said, "No! this tree is new and fresh. It will rot in how many days?" Tortoise replied, "Not me! you! For, had not you two, Njâbu and Mbâmâ, delayed us, we would already have passed this spot long before this tree fell. You, Njâbu, first began a matter; soon, you, Mbâmâ, began your matter; now, this is my matter. Now wait for me." So, they waited and waited. But, while waiting, the other three went out sometimes by early daylight in the morning to an adjacent plantation, and found there corn, yams, plantains, and all kinds of food. Civet and Hog said, "We must eat!" They ate up the corn, and finished the plantains. One day, a Man of another town, was wandering in the forest. As he journeyed, he was looking from side to side on the way, peering for what he might find. And he saw many tracks of Beasts. Examining them closely, he said, "This track looks like that of a tortoise! Yes, and this like a hog's! And, here, O! this other is of a civet! And, ha! ha! a trail of a boa is this!" He exclaimed, "How many Beasts this place has! I will call the townspeople to come and kill these Beasts; for, there must be many." So, he hurried rapidly back, and arrived at the town. When there, he shouted, "Come on, men! Come to the forest! I've found many Beasts!" The owner of the Plantation came along. His people took their guns; and some took machetes; and some, spears and knives. Others took nets. And they all went together at once. They also had with them, dogs, to whose necks they tied little bells. When they came to that place where the four Beasts were, the dogs barked and shook their bells as they raced. And the men began to shout "Hâ! hâ!" to drive the Beasts into the net. They first came upon Hog, fired a gun at him, and he died. Next, they came upon Civet, and pierced him with a spear. They killed also Boa, who was lying dormant by the log. And they saw the other Beast, Tortoise, on one side of the log, trying to conceal itself among the decayed leaves, and seized it. Having the three dead bodies, they kept Tortoise alive, and tied him with a cord. They had begun the killing of these Beasts late in the afternoon, and they reached their town about sunset. And they said, "Put all the carcasses in one house; but suspend Tortoise from the roof." They consulted, "We shall eat those Beasts only tomorrow; for, the evening is too late to cut them up and cook them." So, they all went to sleep. Near midnight, Tortoise, after a long effort, wriggled out of the coils of the cord. He came to the corner of the room where were the bodies of the other three Beasts. He said over Civet's body, "Did I not say to you, 'Begin no new matter on the way?' And now you are a corpse." And over Boa, he said, "You too; I told you not to begin a matter; and now you are a dead body. Had we not begun these matters on the way, we would have finished our journey safely." Then he scratched a hole under the wall of the house, and escaped to the forest. After that, the day broke. And the townspeople said among themselves, "Bring the Beasts outside of the house; let us cut them up." They did so with the three dead bodies. And they told a lad, "Bring the Kudu that is suspended from the rafters." The lad looked and reported, "I have seen no Kudu." They all went to look for it, and could see nothing of it. So, they said, "Let us eat these. Let the other go; for, it has run away." TALE 18 A PLEA FOR MERCY Persons Njâbu (Civet) Uhingi (Genet) Kuba (Chicken) Vyâdu (Antelope) Kudu (Tortoise) Ivenga, A Woman and Her Husband Njambo NOTE This Tale seems to be a version of No. 17. The plea of Tortoise that he did not spoil the fruits of plantations is true; it does not injure the gardens of the natives. These four Beasts were living in one town; Civet, in his own house; Tortoise in his; Antelope also in his; Genet too in his own. But their four houses opened on to one long street. One day, in the afternoon, they all were in that street, sitting down in conversation. Tortoise said to them, "I have here a word to say." They replied "Well! Speak!" At that time, their town had a great famine. So, Tortoise said, "Tomorrow, we will go to seek food." They replied, "Good! just as soon as the day, at its first break." Then they scattered, and went to their houses to lie down for sleep. Soon, the day broke. And they all got up, and were ready by sunrise at six o'clock. They all went on their journey to find food. They searched as they walked a distance of several miles. Then they came to a plantation of Njambo's wife Ivenga. It was distant from Njambo's town about one hour's walk. It had a great deal of sugar-cane; also of yams and cassava. It had also a quantity of sweet potatoes. There also, the chickens of Njambo were accustomed to go to scratch for worms among the plants. At once, Civet exclaimed, "I'll go no further! I like to eat sugar-cane!" So he went to the plot of cane. Antelope also said, "I too! I'll not go any further. I like to eat leaves of potato and cassava." So he went to the plot of cassava. And Genet said, "Yes! I see Kuba here! I like to eat Kuba! I'll go no further!" So, he went after the chickens. But first, the three had asked Tortoise, "Kudu! what will you do? Have you nothing to eat?" Tortoise answered, "I have nothing to eat. But, I shall await you even two days, and will not complain." So, Civet remarked, "Yes! I will not soon leave here, till I eat up all this cane. Then I will go back to town." Antelope also said, "Yes! the same. I will remain here with the potato leaves till I finish them, before I go back." Genet also said, "Yes! I see many Kuba here. I will stay and finish them." Tortoise only said, "I have nothing to say." In that plantation was a large tree; and Tortoise went to lie down at its foot. They were all there about four days, eating and eating. On the fifth day, Njambo's wife Ivenga in the town said to herself, "I'll go today, and see about my plantation, how it is." She came to the plantation, and when she saw the condition in which it was, she lifted up her voice, and began to wail a lamentation. She saw that but little cane was left, and not much of potatoes. Looking in another part of the plantation, she saw lying there, very many feathers of chickens. She ran back rapidly to town to tell her husband. But, she was so excited she could scarcely speak. He asked her, "What's the matter, Ivenga?" She answered, "I have no words to tell you. For, the Plantation is left with no food." Then, the Man called twenty men of the town; and he said to them, "Take four nets!" They took the nets, and also four dogs, with small bells tied to the necks of the dogs. The men had also guns and spears and machetes in their hands. They followed into the forest; and they came on to three of the Beasts. They came first upon Antelope, with their dogs; and they shot him dead. Then the dogs came on Genet, and they followed him; and soon he was shot with a gun. They came also on Civet, and killed him. Taking up the carcasses, they said to each other, "Let us go back to town." On the way, they came to the big Tree, and found Tortoise lying at the base. They took him also, and then went on to their town. Arrived there, Njambo ordered, "Put Kudu in a house and suspend him from the roof." Also he ordered, "Take off the skin of Vyâdu and hang it in the house where Kudu is." He added, "Take off also the skin of Njâbu." They did so, and they put it into that house. He directed that Genet should also be skinned, and his skin hung in that same house. So, there was left of these beasts in the street, only the flesh of their bodies. These the men cut up and divided among themselves. And they feasted for several days. On the fourth day afterward, Njambo said to his wife, "I'm going on a visit to a town about three miles away. Do you, while I am away, kill Kudu, and prepare him with ngândâ for me, by my return." The woman got ready the ngândâ seeds (gourd) for the pudding, and then went into the room to take Tortoise. In the dim light, she lifted up her hand, and found the string that suspended Tortoise. But, before she untied it, Tortoise said, "Just wait a little." The woman took away her hand, and stood waiting. Tortoise asked her, "This skin there looks like what?" The woman replied, "A skin of Vyâdu." And Tortoise inquired, "What did Vyâdu do?" The woman answered, "Vyâdu ate my potatoes in the Plantation, and my husband killed him for it." Tortoise said, "That is well." Then Tortoise again asked, "This other skin is of what animal?" The woman replied, "Of Uhingi." Tortoise inquired, "What did Uhingi do?" The woman answered, "Uhingi killed and ate my and my husband's Kuba; and he was killed for that." Then Tortoise said, "Very good reason!" Again Tortoise asked the woman, "This other skin?" She answered, "Of Njâbu." Tortoise asked, "Njâbu, what did he do?" She answered, "Njâbu ate my sugar-cane, and my husband killed him." Tortoise said, "A proper reason! But, you, you are going to kill me and cook me with ngândâ-pudding. What have I done?" The woman had no reason to give. So she left Tortoise alive, and began to cook the gourd-seeds with fish. Soon, Njambo himself came back, and his wife set before him the ngândâ and fish. But he objected, "Ah! my wife! I told you to cook Kudu; and you have cooked me fish. Why?" The woman told him, "My husband! first finish this food, and then you and I will go to see about Kudu." So, Njambo finished eating, and Ivenga removed the plates from the table. Then they two went into the room where Tortoise was suspended. The woman sat, but Njambo was standing ready to pluck down Tortoise. Then Tortoise said to Njambo, "You, Man! just wait!" The woman also said to Njambo, "My husband! listen to what Kudu says to you." Tortoise asked, "You, Man, what skin is this?" Njambo answered, "Of Vyâdu. I killed him on account of this eating my Plantation." Then Tortoise asked, "And that skin?" Njambo answered, "Of Uhingi; and I killed him for eating my Kuba." Tortoise again asked, "And this other?" Njambo answered, "Of Njâbu; for eating my sugar-cane." Then Tortoise said, "There were four of us in the Plantation. What have I eaten? Tell me. If I have eaten, then I should die." Njambo told him, "I've found no reason against you." Tortoise then asked, "Then, why should I die?" So, Njambo untied Tortoise from the roof, and said to Ivenga, "Let Kudu go; for, I find no reason against him. Let him go as he pleases." So, Ivenga set Tortoise free; and he hasted back to his town in peace. TALE 19 THE DECEPTIONS OF TORTOISE Persons Njâ (Leopard) Kudu (Tortoise) Ngâmbi (Igwana) Mbâmâ (Boa) Ngando (Crocodile) With Men, A Woman, and Child NOTE A portion of this Tale seems to be a version of No. 12. Leopard and Tortoise built together a large town. Leopard said to Tortoise, "I will live with you, but I shall not be able to eat with you; for, I am a great man, and I eat alone." Some time after this, Tortoise went away, and married a wife. One day, his wife being hungry, he went off into the forest to seek food for her. And he found mushrooms. He gathered them; took them and returned with them to the town. There he said to his wife, "Eat!" and she ate. Some time after this, the woman was about to become a mother. And, on another day, Tortoise went again into the forest to find food for his wife. As before, he gathered mushrooms. But, when he brought them to his wife, she said to him, "I don't like these things; the same every day!" So, Tortoise went off again to seek food in the forest. He came near a strange town, and heard voices of Mankind talking. In fear, he hid himself, and watched what would happen. He observed that there were Men going off into the forest, with implements of search for wild animals. He saw them, but kept himself closely hidden. When they had gone, he came out of his hiding, and went into one of these houses of Men, and sat down there. Then he walked into the rooms. On the shelves of the kitchen, he saw a large quantity of wild meat drying. He took of that meat, and went away with it to his own town. He found on his arrival that his wife had already borne her child, the little tortoise. When Tortoise showed her the meat, she asked him, "Where did you get all this meat?" He replied evasively, "You told me to get you meat; so I went; and I have come with it." The woman was glad, and said, "Do so every day!" So, another time, Tortoise again went off into the forest. And he came to the town of those Men. They were not there; for, they had gone off on their hunting. He went again into their house; took of their meat, and returned to his place. On giving the food to his wife, he said to her, "Do not show Njâ this meat!" After this, little Tortoise grew, and began to go by itself, walking about the town. Tortoise told the child, "Do not show Njâ the things you eat." But, the child did not obey. One day, it went off toward Leopard's house, having in its hand the flesh of the wild animal it was eating. Tortoise saw his child going and called him back, but, he ran rapidly away to Leopard's; who, seeing the child with food in its hand, cried out, "Come here!" Leopard took hold of the child's hand to see what meat he was eating, and said to him, "Your father has no gun; where does he get all this meat?" The child was silent, not knowing whence the meat came, and did not answer; and he returned to his father's house. So, Leopard said to himself, "Kudu and I must have a talk." He told his wife to make ready their food. She did so. Then he told one of his children, "Go! call Kudu to come and eat with me." The child went and told as he was bidden. Tortoise sent word, "I can't come." His wife, however, said to him, "Go!" Tortoise objected to her, saying, "I'm afraid of that man!" Still his wife said to him, "Go!" So, he went. Leopard set out the food that had been prepared. Then he asked Tortoise, "Where did you get the meat which I saw with your child?" Tortoise replied, "I picked it up." Leopard said, "No! don't tell lies!" They changed the conversation, and went on eating. When they were done, Tortoise went back to his house. Next day, Leopard said to his people, "I'm going to visit Kudu." So he went, and entered into the house of the wife of Tortoise. There he saw much dried wild meat. He exclaimed, "O! Kudu! you told me falsely! You and I living in the same town, can't you let me know what happens?" Then Leopard went back to his house. That evening he said to his children, "Go to the house of Kudu. If you see a hunting-bag hanging there, take hold of it; with a knife pierce holes in the bottom; and fill the bag with ashes." They did so, putting in much ashes. They returned to their father, and told him what they had done. He replied, "Very good!" That night, Tortoise said to his wife, "Tomorrow, I shall not go out hunting." But, she said, "Yes! Go! and kill me some animal." So, he consented. Then day began to break. Tortoise went into the entrance-room; thence he took his hunting-bag; but, in the dark of the morning, he saw nothing wrong about it. And he went on his way. Soon, also, Leopard came out of his house; and, going to the house of Tortoise, he inquired, "Kudu is in the house?" The wife of Tortoise from her bed-room, replied, "Kudu is not here." Then Leopard went into the entrance-room of Tortoise; and looking about, he saw that the bag was not there. So, he followed after Tortoise; and, as he walked, he looked out for marks of the ashes. He followed, and he followed; and finally overtook Tortoise. Tortoise, as soon as he saw Leopard coming, said to him, "I'm going back to town!" Leopard asked, "Why? Don't go! Why do you go?" Tortoise, remembering his having said he was "a great man," answered, "Because you are proud." But, Leopard insisted, "No! go on where you were going." So, Tortoise consented, "Well, let us go!" They went, and came to the town of Men. And they found that the men were gone off into the forest. Tortoise observed that the house was closed and locked. Leopard said to him, "Open the house!" But Tortoise replied, "You, Njâ you open the house!" But, Leopard said, "I am a stranger here; you travel here continually; you know the way!" So, Tortoise opened the house; and they both entered. Leopard saw the bodies of many wild animals drying in the house. Tortoise said to him, "Carry the meat, and let us go!" But, Leopard said, "No! I'm staying here, and will cook some meat here." Tortoise objected, "No! take the meat and let us go. For, here are great Men who kill us people." However, Leopard insisted, "No! first let me eat." So, Tortoise said, "Very well! I'll carry away my share; for, I'm going." But Leopard still insisted, "No! wait for me." So, Tortoise yielded, and waited for him in the house. Leopard cooked his meat. While the pot was on the fire-place, and before he had eaten, suddenly the Men returned. Tortoise exclaimed, "The Men of the Town have returned! What shall we do?" For himself, Tortoise said, "I'm going to hide in the bedroom!" But, Leopard said, "No! I'm the elder; the bedroom is the place for me." He went into the bedroom. Tortoise remained in the reception-room, and hid himself in a pile of the women's cassava leaves. Soon afterward, the Men also came into that room. And a woman said, "I left those leaves here when I was cooking. I must throw them into the back yard." So, she swept the leaves (with Tortoise unseen among them) in a heap, and threw them out doors. In the bedroom, where Leopard had hidden, there was a child of this woman, sick with a skin-disease. The woman called out to her child, "My child! are you there?" The child replied, "Yes!" The Men in the entrance-room, observing the pot on the fire, asked the woman, "While we were away, did you leave a kettle on the fire-place?" The woman, thinking the pot belonged to someone else who had been cooking, answered, "No." The Men then directed her, "Make food for us!" So, she made them food in that pot which Leopard had left, adding other meat to it. The child in the bedroom, smelling the odor of cooking, called out, "Mother! I want to eat!" So, the mother made food for him. And she took the plate to him, setting it down in the doorway, (but did not enter the room, and so did not see Leopard). Leopard took the child's food. The child, in terror, made no out-cry. Leopard ate up all the food. Then the child began to weep. The mother, hearing, asked, "Why do you cry?" The child answered, "For hunger." She wondered that that plateful had not been sufficient; but, she made him more food. And she brought it to him into the room, but she did not see the Leopard; nor did the child tell her. She left the food there, and went out. The child was about to take the food to eat it, when Leopard again snatched it away. But, even then, the child, in fear, did not scream out. And Leopard ate all the food. Then the child began to weep out aloud. The mother again asked, "What do you want?" The child answered, "I want food." The mother wondered much, and, hastening into the bedroom, she saw Leopard. Then she shouted, "Men! Here's Njâ!" The men came, and they killed Leopard. All this while, Tortoise remained hidden in the bushes outside; and he heard all that was happening. He said to himself, "I'm going to town to tell the children of Njâ that he is dead." So, he went back to his town. At first, he told only his wife, "Men have killed Njâ." Then he said, "I must now call the children of Njâ." So, he called all the people of Leopard. And he said to them, "I will tell you something; but, don't kill me for my evil news. So, I tell you, Njâ is dead!" They all laughed in derision, as if it was not possible, "We will know about that matter tomorrow!" And that day darkened. In the evening, Tortoise told his wife and children, "We must flee to another place." For, he feared that Leopard's people would charge him with their father's death. So, that night they fled. And they built their town far away at another place. When the children of Leopard saw that Tortoise had fled, they believed him guilty; and they said, "The day we shall see Kudu, we will kill him." Tortoise and his family had been living at their new place only about a month, when, one day, he said to his family, "I'm going on a journey to the town of Mbâmâ." So he went to that town. He stayed there visiting about a week. While there, he said to Boa, "If a child of Njâ comes here, hide me." Shortly afterward, a child of Leopard did come. Boa took Tortoise, and set him for safety on a rock in the middle of the river. Tortoise sat there a long time; and, while there, he laid what looked like an egg. Surprised, he threw it into the water; and it floated away. Finally it came ashore at the landing-place of Crocodile's town. Crocodile saw it, and said, "Go, and seek the person who made this thing." His children went to seek. They journeyed, and found Tortoise, and took him. They brought him to their father, and told him, "This is the person." Crocodile asked Tortoise, "You made this Thing?" Tortoise said "Yes!" Then Crocodile told him, "Make me many of these Things." So Tortoise told him, "Bring me here a great many plantains; and arrange the house in order." Crocodile arranged all the house nicely. Tortoise entered it, and was given an inside room. He remained there in that room all by himself with the plantains. At last, one day he emerged. And he said to Crocodile, "Send me in company with one of your people across the river." Crocodile told him, "You yourself name the person who shall go with you." Tortoise said he wanted Crocodile's cousin Igwana, who was living there with Crocodile's people. So Igwana and Tortoise got into a canoe, and started to cross the river. Crocodile then entered the room where Tortoise had been. Searching there, he did not find any of the Things which Tortoise had promised to make. So Crocodile shouted after Tortoise, whose canoe had not yet crossed the river, to come back. Tortoise heard; and he asked Igwana, "Do you hear how Crocodile is calling to you? Don't you know what he is saying?" (Natives believe the Igwana to be deaf.) Igwana answered, "No! what does he say?" Tortoise said, "He tells you to paddle faster! Don't be so slow!" So, Igwana paddled rapidly; and soon his work was finished; and they reached the other side. There, Tortoise got out of the canoe; and he told Igwana to go back. Igwana did so. And Tortoise went on his way. After a while, a child of Leopard met with Tortoise on the path. The child asked him, "Is not this Kudu?" Tortoise replied, "Yes, I am he." Then the child of Leopard said to him, "You killed my father! I shall also kill you!" So, he killed Tortoise. TALE 20 LEOPARD'S HUNTING COMPANIONS Persons Njâ (Leopard) and His Nephew Etoli (House-Rat) Ngomba (Porcupine) Iheli (Gazelle) Nyati (Ox) Njâku (Elephant) Ko (Wild-Rat) Kudu (Tortoise) Indondobe (Wagtail) Leopard and other Beasts, with a son of Leopard's sister, were residing in the same town. One day, Leopard said to the others, "I have here a word to say." They replied, "Tell it." "We must go to kill Beasts (not of our company) for our food, at a place which I will show you a number of miles away." And they made their arrangements. After two days, he said, "Now, for the journey!" So they finished their preparations. And Leopard said to his nephew, "You stay in the town. I and the others will go to our work." They began their journey, and had gone only a part of the way, when Leopard exclaimed, "I forgot my spear! Wait for me while I go back to the town." There he found his nephew sitting down, waiting. Leopard said to him, "I have come to tell you that, every day, while we are away, you must come early to where we are killing the animals; and secretly you must take away the meat and bring it here to my house." The nephew heard and promised. Leopard returned to the others who were awaiting him on the road, and told them to come on. They went, and they arrived at the spot which he had chosen. There they hastily built a small house for their camp. The next day they said, "Now, let us go and make our snares for the animals." They began making snares; and set their traps early in the afternoon. A few hours later, they returned to the camp. Later still, before sunset, they said, "Let us go to examine our snares." They found they had caught an Igwana. They killed it and put it on the drying-frame over the fire in the house. Then the day darkened. And they went to their sleep. And then the day broke. And Leopard said, "While we go to the snares, who shall remain to take care of this house?" They agreed, "Let Etoli stay at the camp." House-Rat assented, "All right." So the others went away together. The camp had been made near a small stream. At that same hour, Leopard's nephew came to the camp, according to his uncle's directions. He had in his hands a plate and a drum. He came near to the house cautiously. With the plate he twice swept the surface of the water, as if bailing out a canoe. Rat heard the swish of the water, and called out, "Who is splashing water there? Who is dabbling in this water?" The nephew responded, "It is I, a friend." And Rat said, "Well, then come." The nephew came to the house. After a little conversation, he said to Rat, "I have here a drum, and, while I beat it, you dance for me." Rat was pleased, and said, "Very well." So, the nephew beat the drum, and Rat danced. After a while, the nephew said to Rat, "Go you, out into the front, and dance there, while I beat the drum here." As Rat went out, the nephew snatched the dried meat and ran away with it, suddenly disappearing around a corner of the house. He came to the town, and placed the meat in his own house. Rat waited a while in the front, and, not hearing the drum came back into the house, and called out, "Chum! where are you?" He looked about, and his eyes falling on the drying-frame, he saw that the dried meat was not there. He began to mourn, "Ah! Leopard will kill me to day, because of the loss of his meat." While he was thus speaking, the company of trappers, together with Leopard, came back from their morning's work. Leopard told Rat all that had occurred to them in the forest at their traps and snares; and then said, "Now, tell me what you have been doing, and the happenings of this camp." Rat told him, "Some one has come and taken away the dried meat, but I did not see who it was." Leopard said, "You are full of falsehood. Yourself have eaten it while we were away in the forest." So, Leopard gave him a heavy flogging. Then they put on the drying-frame the animal they had trapped that day. The next day they went again to the forest; and Wild-Rat was left in charge of the camp. The nephew came, as on the day before, with his plate and drum, and did in the same way at the water. And he deceived the Wild-Rat with his drumming, in the same way as he had done to House-Rat. When Leopard and the others came back from the forest, Wild-Rat told him of the loss of the meat; and said that he had seen no one, and did not know who took it. Leopard said to him, "You, Ko, have eaten the meat, just as your relative Etoli ate his yesterday." Thus Leopard and his company went each day to the traps. On the third day, Porcupine was caught; on the fourth Gazelle; on the fifth, Ox; on the sixth, Elephant. Beast after beast was caught, killed and dried; and, day by day, the meat of all was stolen. The last to be thus caught and stolen was Tortoise. The nephew in Leopard's town, looked with satisfaction on the pile of dried meat that had been collected in his own house. He said to himself, "My uncle told me to gather them; and I have done so. But, I will not put them in Uncle's house." In the camp, there was left only one animal of Leopard's companions that had not been placed on guard. It was a Bird, a water Wag-tail. It said to Leopard one day, "While you all go on your errand today, I will remain as keeper of the house." Leopard replied, "No! my friend, I don't wish you to remain." (For, Leopard knew that that Bird was very cautious and wise, more so than some other animals.) Nevertheless, they went, leaving the Bird in charge of the house. The nephew came, as usual, with his plate and drum. He splashed the water of the stream as usual, to see whether there was anyone in the house to respond. And the Bird asked, "Who are you?" The nephew answered, in a humble voice, "I." He came on through the stream, on his way, catching two cray-fish. He entered the house, and he said to the Bird, "Get me some salt, and a leaf in which to tie and roast these cray-fish." When the Bird gave him the leaf, he tied them in it, and laid the small bundle on the coals on the fire-place. But he at once took up the bundle, opened it, and ate the fish, before they were really cooked. The Bird said to him, "Those fish were not yet cooked. Your stomach is like your Uncle Njâ's. Both you and your Uncle like to eat things raw." The Bird at once suspected that the nephew was the thief. When the nephew said, "I have here a drum," Bird at once, as if very willing, replied, "Drum! I want to dance." The nephew was standing in the front with his drum, and he said to Bird, "Come and dance out here; for, the drum sounds much better outside." But the Bird said, "I will not dance in the same place with you." The nephew then said, "Well, then; change places; you come here, and I go into the house." But the Bird refused, "No! I stay in the house." Most of the morning was thus spent by the nephew trying to deceive the Bird, and get into the house alone. Finally, the nephew wearied, and gave up the effort and left. Soon the company of trappers with Leopard returned from the forest. He told the Bird all the news of their forest work. Looking at the drying-frames, Leopard saw that the dried meat was still there. He thought in his heart, "My nephew has not come today to get this meat." The Bird then told Leopard all the news of the camp, and how the nephew had been acting. At the last, he exclaimed, "So! it is your nephew who has been coming here every day to take away the dried meat!" And all the animals agreed, "So! so! that's so!" But Leopard replied, "I don't believe it. But, let us adjourn and examine." (He supposed the meat was hidden in his own house, and would not be discovered.) They all scattered, and hastened to their town. There they entered the nephew's house; and there they found a great pile of dried meat. They proved the theft on Leopard himself, pointing out, "Here is the very meat in the house of one of your own family. We are sure that you yourself made the conspiracy with your nephew for him to do the stealing for you." And they all denounced him, "You are a thief and a liar! You shall not join with us any more in the same town." Leopard went away in wrath saying, "Do you prove it on me? Well then! all you beasts, whenever and wherever I shall meet you, it will be only to eat you!" So, leopards are always enemies to all other animals, and they kill them whenever they are able. TALE 21 IS THE BAT A BIRD OR A BEAST? Persons Ndemi (Bat) and his Mother Joba (The Sun) Vyâdu (Antelope) Hako (Ants) Other Animals and Birds NOTE In Tropical Africa, it is not usual to retain a corpse unburied as long as 24 hours. Bat retained his mother's corpse too long. The "Driver" Ants of that country are natural scavengers. A reason why bats are not seen in the day time:--Also, why they make their plaintive cry at night, as if they were calling for their mother. Bat lived at a place by itself, with only its mother. Shortly after their settling there, the mother became sick, very near to death. Bat called for Antelope, and said to him, "Make medicine for my mother." Antelope looked steadily at her to discern her disease. Then he told Bat, "There is no one who can make the medicine that will cure your mother, except Joba." Having given this information, Antelope returned to his own place. On another day, early in the morning, Bat arose to go to call Sun. He did not start until about seven o'clock. He met Sun on the road about eleven o'clock. And he said to Sun, "My journey was on the way to see you." Sun told him, "If you have a word to say, speak!" So Bat requested, "Come! make Medicine for my mother. She is sick." But Sun replied, "I can't go to make medicine unless you meet me in my house; not here on the road. Go back; and come to me at my house tomorrow." So, Bat went back to his town. And the day darkened. And they all slept their sleep. And the next day broke. At six o'clock, Bat started to go to call Sun. About nine o'clock, he met Sun on the path; and he told Sun what he was come for. But Sun said to him, "Whenever I emerge from my house, I do not go back, but I keep on to the end of my journey. Go back, for another day." Bat returned to his town. He made other journeys in order to see Sun at his house, five successive days; and every day he was late, and met Sun already on the way of his own journey for his own business. Finally, on the seventh day, Bat's mother died. Then Bat, in his grief, said, "It is Joba who has killed my mother! Had he made medicine for me, she would have recovered." Very many people came together that day in a crowd, at the Kwedi (mourning) for the dead. The wailing was held from six o'clock in the morning until eleven o'clock of the next day. At that hour, Bat announced, "Let her be taken to the grave." He called other Beasts to go into the house together with him, in order to carry the corpse. They took up the body, and carried it on the way to the grave. On their arrival at the grave, these Beasts said to Bat, "We have a rule that, before we bury a person, we must first look upon the face." (To identify it). So, they opened the coffin. When they had looked on the face, they said, "No! we can't bury this person; for, it is not our relative, it does not belong to us Beasts. This person indeed resembles us in having teeth like us. And it also has a head like us. But, that it has wings, makes it look like a bird. It is a bird. Call for the Birds! We will disperse." So, they dispersed. Then Bat called the Birds to come. They came, big and little; Pelicans, Eagles, Herons and all the others. When they all had come together, they said to Bat, "Show us the dead body." He told them, "Here it is! Come! look upon it!" They looked and examined carefully. Then they said, "Yes! it resembles us; for, it has wings as we. But, about the teeth, No! We birds, none of us, have any teeth. This person does not resemble us with those teeth. It does not belong to us." And all the Birds stepped aside. During the while that the talking had been going on, Ants had come and laid hold of the body, and could not be driven away. Then one of the Birds said to Bat, "I told you, you ought not to delay the burial, for, many things might happen." The Ants had eaten the body and there was no burial. And all the birds and beasts went away. Bat, left alone, said to himself, "All the fault of all this trouble is because of Joba. If he had made medicine, my mother would not be dead. So, I, Ndemi, and Joba shall not look on each other. We shall have no friendship. If he emerges, I shall hide myself. I won't meet him or look at him." And he added, "I shall mourn for my mother always. I will make no visits. I will walk about only at night, not in the daytime, lest I meet Joba or other people." TALE 22 DOG, AND HIS HUMAN SPEECH (1st Version) Persons Mbwa (Dog), and His Mother A Man Njambo, and Daughter Eyâle NOTE In the pre-historic times, from which these tales come, all animals, both human and (what we now call) the lower animals, were supposed to associate together, even in marriage. This son Mbwa, in form (and speaking also) like what we now call a "Dog," spoke also with human speech. The reason is here given why this ancestor of Dogs left the country of the Beasts. But, though Dogs now live with Mankind, they cannot use human speech as their ancestor did. They can only say "Ow! Ow!" Dog and his mother were the only inhabitants of their hamlet. He had the power to speak both as a beast and as a human being. One day the mother said to the son, "You are now a strong man; go, and seek a marriage. Go, and marry Eyâle, the daughter of Njambo." And he said to his mother, "I will go tomorrow." That day darkened. And they both went to lie down in their places for sleep. Then soon, another day began to break. Dog said to his mother, "This is the time of my journey." It was about sun-rise in the morning. And he began his journey. He went the distance of about eight miles; and arrived at the journey's end before the middle of the morning. He entered the house of Njambo, the father of Eyâle. Njambo and his wife saluted him, "Mbolo!" and he responded, "Ai! mbolo!" Njambo asked him, "My friend! what is the cause of your journey?" Dog, with his animal language, answered, "I have come to marry your daughter Eyâle." Njambo consented; and the mother of the girl also agreed. They called their daughter, and asked her; and she also replied, "Yes! with all my heart." This young woman was of very fine appearance in face and body. So, all the parties agreed to the marriage. After that, about sun-set in the evening, when they sat down at supper, the son-in-law, Dog, was not able to eat for some unknown reason. That day darkened; and they went to their sleep. And, then, the next daylight broke. But, by an hour after sunrise in the morning, Dog had not risen; he was still asleep. The mother of the woman said to her, "Get some water ready for the washing of your husband's face, whenever he shall awake." She also said to her daughter, "I am going to go into the forest to the plantation to get food for your husband; for, since his coming, he has not eaten. Also, here is a chicken; the lads may kill and prepare it. But, you yourself must split ngândâ (gourd-seeds, whose oily kernels are mashed into a pudding)." She handed Eyâle the dish of gourd-seeds, and went off into the forest. Njambo also went away on an errand with his wife. The daughter took the dish of seeds, and, sitting down, began to shell them. As she shelled, she threw the kernels on the ground, but the shells she put on a plate. Shortly after the mother had gone, Dog woke from sleep. He rose from his bed, and came out to the room where his wife was, and stood near her, watching her working at the seeds. He stood silent, looking closely, and observed that she was still throwing away the kernels, the good part, and saving the shells on the plate. He spoke to her with his human voice, "No! woman! not so! Do you throw the good parts, to the ground, and the worthless husks onto the plate?" While he was thus speaking to his wife, she suddenly fell to the ground. And at once she died. He laid hold of her to lift her up. But, behold! she was a corpse. Soon afterwards, the father and the mother came, having returned from their errands. They found their child a corpse; and they said to Dog, "Mbwa! What is this?" He, with his own language replied, "I cannot tell." But, they insisted, "Tell us the reason!" So Dog spoke with his human voice, "You, Woman, went to the forest while I was asleep. You, Man, you also went in company of your wife, while I was asleep. When I rose from sleep, I found my wife was cracking ngândâ. She was taking the good kernels to throw on the ground, and was keeping the shells for the plate. And I spoke and told her, 'The good kernels which you are throwing on the ground are to be eaten, not the husks.'" While he was telling them this, they too, also fell to the ground, and died, apparently without cause. When the people of the town heard about all this, they said, "This person carries an evil Medicine for killing people. Let him be seized and killed!" So Dog fled away rapidly into the forest; and he finally reached the hamlet of his mother. His body was scratched and torn by the branches and thorns of the bushes of the forest, in his hasty flight. His mother exclaimed, "Mbwa! What's the matter? Such haste! and your body so disordered!" He replied, using their own language, "No! I won't tell you. I won't speak." But, his mother begged him, "Please! my child! tell me!" So, finally, he spoke, using his strange voice, and said, "My mother! I tell you! Njambo and his wife liked me for the marriage; and the woman consented entirely. I was at that time asleep, when the Man and his wife went to the forest. When I rose from my sleep, I found the woman Eyâle cracking ngândâ, and throwing away the kernels, and keeping the husks. And I told her, 'The good ones which you are throwing away are the ones to be eaten.' And, at once she died." While he was speaking thus to his mother, she also fell dead on the ground. The news was carried to the town of Dog's mother's brother, and very many people came to the Mourning. His Uncle came to Dog, and said, "Mbwa! what is the reason of all this?" But Dog would not answer. He only said, "No! I won't speak." Then they all begged him, "Tell us the reason." But he replied only, "No! I won't speak." Finally, as they urged him, he chose two of them, and said to the company, "The rest of you remain here, and watch while I go and speak to these two." Then Dog spoke to those two men with the same voice as he had to his mother. And, at once they died, as she had died. Then he exclaimed, "Ah! No! If I speak so, people will come to an end!" And all the people agreed, "Yes, Mbwa! it is so. Your human speech kills us people. Don't speak any more." And he went away to live with Mankind. TALE 22 DOG, AND HIS HUMAN SPEECH (2nd Version) Persons Njambo, His Wife Nyangwa-Mbwa, and His Son Mbwa (Dog) The Prophet, Totode, and a Sorcerer, Nja-Ya-Melema-Mya-Bato His Three Other Wives, Majanga, Inyanji, Mamendi; and Her Two Twins. NOTE Some African ant-hills are built in upright pillars, varying in diameter from 3 to 10 inches, and in height from 1 ft. to 3 ft. The bearing of a monstrosity formerly was punished (and in some tribes still) by driving the mother into seclusion in the forest, and generally with killing of the child. In some tribes, twins were considered monstrosities. The "Heart-beat" of Nyangwa-Mbwa was the commonly believed premonition of coming evil. There are many kinds of food, of which women are not allowed to partake. Though the three sisters were daughters of the same mother, the jealousy of two of them for the other one led them to hatred, and an attempt at murder. Their curse laid on Mbwa caused him to be a speechless beast; for, previous to that, he was talking as a human being. "Heart-life" is an entity distinct from both Body and Soul. Njambu married a woman named Nyangwa-Mbwa. She bore a creature that looked like no animal that existed at that time. But, because he spoke as a human being, he was not considered a Beast. He was given part of his mother's name, Mbwa. Njambu added other marriages. Among them he obtained three women, each one of whom had a special office. That of Majanga was to keep things clean. That of Inyanji for planting. Mamendi said that her work should be to bear twins. Now, these three women were sisters. The other two were jealous of Mamendi, because her work was greater and more honorable than theirs. In the course of time, Mamendi conceived; her pregnancy went regularly on. And the time for her confinement came. Majanga and Inyanji went to deliver her. But they tied a napkin over her face, and covered her eyes lest she should see what they would do to her. When the time of the birth was at hand, she bore twins. Then Inyanji and Majanga threw the twins into the pig-pen. And they took two ant-hills (slender conical structures). They smeared them with blood. And they went and showed them to Njambu as the things which Mamendi had borne. Njambu said, "Go! and throw those things into the forest." But Mbwa was going about; and as he went, he was scenting, till he came to the pig-pen; and he saw the twins. He took them, and carried them to his mother in their hut, which was isolated from the town. When the two women had left the twins in the pig-pen, their intention was that the pigs might kill them; and the women did not know that Mbwa had removed them. The twins stayed with Nyangwa-Mbwa, and she fed them and nursed them. But, when Majanga and Inyanji heard that those children were in the hamlet of Mbwa's mother, they said, "We will go there tomorrow." Early in the morning, Nyangwa-Mbwa had gone to the forest to her garden. When the two women came, they found the twins lying down. So, they struck them a blow; and they died. The while that Nyangwa-Mbwa was in the forest, her heart beat with anxiety. She at once picked up her basket, and came to her village, and found the corpses of both the twins. Then she began to cry. Mbwa also came, and found the dead bodies stretched out. Right away, he knew what had happened. So he went to the Prophet Totode, and inquired what he should do. Totode asked him, "Are you able to go to the town of Doctor Nja-ya-melema-mya-bato? (Hunger-for-the-hearts-of-people)." He agreed "Yes, I will go there." Then he went to the town of the Doctor. A child of the Doctor spoke to Mbwa, and asked, "What have you come to do?" He answered, "I have come to seek heart-life; because my father's wives have killed from me two children." Already Nja-ya-melema-mya-bato had gone to kill people for himself. In a little while he returned and suddenly, pieces of meat (from the dead bodies) began to fall, kidi! kidi! being thrown out on the ground in the street. Mbwa, awaiting a chance, hid himself under a bed. Then came the Doctor bringing in the heart-lives of the men he had killed. Mbwa, without permission, seized two of the hearts, and ran out quickly. Nja-ya-melema-mya-bato followed after him, running rapidly, da! da! da! But he did not overtake Mbwa. Mbwa ran in haste with the hearts, on to his village. There he thrust the new lives into the children. The twins arose again to life and stood, to show themselves, and then they sat down. Those twins went on growing, and became stout young men. One day they said to Mbwa, "We want guns." He went to his father, in the town, and said, "I want two guns." His father produced two guns for him. He took them, went to his home, and handed them to the twins. Then they tried the guns, and loaded them. Next day, in the morning, they went out early to hunt; they killed two gazelles; and they took them to their village. Mbwa cut up one of the beasts; and he said to his mother, "Cook it." Then he took the other one to his father. His father cut it up; and he called Majanga and Inyanji; and, dividing the meat, he said to them, "Go ye, and cook these in the pot, and those in a jomba." (Mbwa himself was still in the house watching them.) They boiled, and cooked; they put in the salt and pepper; and were about to taste the soup when Mbwa said, "Not so! This meat is not to be eaten by women." They took the food to the Reception-house, where their husband Njambu ate; and he laid aside some for them. But, what he laid aside for those women, Mbwa drew away and ate. Then he returned to his home. His mother made food; and they ate, all four of them. Next morning, the twins returned to their hunting. They killed also three antelopes, and they carried them to take them to their home, and left them in the path on the way outside of the village. In the village, they said to Mbwa, "Go, and bring the beasts from the forest." Mbwa started, and brought them to the village. He carried two to his father. His brothers exclaimed, "Where does Mbwa kill all those animals?" His father cut up the animals, and divided one with his children. He cut up the other, saying, "This belongs to myself." Then he prepared some to be cooked in momba (bundles tied in plantain leaves), and some to be dried, and some to be boiled. The women boiled the food (Mbwa still watching them). When it was cooked, they lifted up the pot from the fire, and they were about to taste it, when Mbwa said, "No! you must not taste it!" They put it in bowls, and set the food before their husband; and he ate. When he was about to give some to his wives, Mbwa said, "Not so!" The twins continued with their hunting just the same as at the first. Almost every day they were killing some animal. And Mbwa continued also with carrying meat to the town of his father. Finally, the twins became full-grown men. Then Mbwa said to himself, "Now, I'm ready to bring this matter to the ears of the people." When another day came, he said to his father, "Tomorrow, call all the people of the town together, in the afternoon." On the next day, his father did so. Mbwa dressed the twins very finely; and brought out three chairs, two for the twins, and one for his mother. All the people collected together. Thereupon, he brought forward his mother, and the twins. The people fixed their eyes on them; for they had not seen them in their little hamlet in the forest. The people exclaimed, "What fine-looking persons!" Then Mbwa stood up. He said, "Ye people! I have called you all that ye may recognize these two young men." The people said that they did not know them. He continued, "These are my father's children. For, my father had married these three women. Also, they had three duties; Majanga, her duty of keeping the house clean; Inyanji, her duty of planting; and Mamendi's was the bearing of twins. Mamendi became a mother. On the day of her confinement, her two sisters went to deliver her. They took a napkin and covered her eyes. And she bore these two twins. They threw them inside the pig-pen. And they took two small earthen pillars instead, and they went and showed them to their husband. Then, I entered the pig-pen; and I took these children out; and brought them to my mother. So, these children grew up. And they began hunting. You, my father, you remember when I brought you the wild meat, and you were about to give to these women; but, I went and took away the food. The reason is, because they are the ones who tried to kill the children. I brought them up from childhood to be men as now. So, this caused me to bring this case before the presence of all people; for, I say that those two women were murderesses. So, then, my father, these are your children; but, if you retain those women, these two twins shall not be your sons." Upon this, the father of Mbwa said, "Catch ye both of the women!" And they were bound in that self-same hour. (They had supposed that the twins had died when they had struck them in the hamlet of Mbwa's mother.) They could not deny. In their anger, as they were led away, they called out to Mbwa, "Mbwa-O!" He assented, "Eh? What is it?" They replied in anger, for having informed on them. And they laid a curse on him, saying, "You will never speak again with the voice of a human being. You shall be a dumb beast." But, the people took them, to be thrown into the depth of the sea. TALE 23 THE SAVIOR OF THE ANIMALS Persons Njambo and Wife and Son Utigebodi Ngwayi (Partridge) The Prophet Njambi Yungu (Eagle) Etoli (Rat) Njâku (Elephant) Nyati (Ox) Kudu (Tortoise) Njâ (Leopard) Ngomba (Porcupine) Inâni (Bird) NOTE This story plays on the meaning of the name U-tige-bode. It is an ancient word, not now used, meaning, "He-Who-Saves-People." In the Son's given name; his saving of the unworthy, in response to their appeals for mercy; his bearing of his father's wrath; his punishment on a tree; the derision of the very passers by, for whom he was to die, I think the legend echoes, even though faintly, the story of the Christ. Njambo married two women. He begot twenty-three children. And they all died. Also one of the wives died. There were left only himself, and one wife. The woman was old, and the man also was old. But, the woman was again to become a mother; and, at the proper time, she bore a child. The child was a male. The woman called the husband, saying, "Come! and give your boy a name." The husband said, "The name of the child is Utigebode." After this, the child grew to be a large man. One day, he said to his father, "Paia! I'm going to set snares in the forest." The father replied, "Yes! go! and catch me food!" He went. And he returned that morning. In the afternoon, he went back to examine the snares. And he found that two Partridges were caught. He exclaimed, "I'm very glad! My father shall eat one today, and the other shall be kept for tomorrow." Then the Partridges asked him, "What is your name?" He answered, "One-Who-Saves-People." Then the Partridges said, "If that is so, why are you about to kill us?" On another day, in the morning, he went again to examine his snares. And he found two Antelope (Tragelephas). He was glad; and he said, "I feel very good! My father shall eat one; and the other can be cooked for another day." The Antelopes asked him, "What's your name?" He answered, "One-Who-Saves-People." Again, they asked, "Why then are you about to kill us?" He replied, "That's so! Well! go!" And he returned to town. That afternoon he went out again, and found two Gazelles. And he said, "I'll take these two to town at once; and my father shall eat one today, and the other tomorrow." But the Gazelles said, "No!--you are the One-Who-Saves-People! Why then should you kill us?" So he loosed them, and let them go. He did the same way to two Elephants. And with two Oxen. At another time he found two Tortoises. And the Tortoises spoke to him as had done the others. And on another day, he found two Leopards. And, he released the Leopards, in the same way. At another time, two Porcupines, in the same way. One after another, almost all the Beasts were thus trapped and released. There was not one beast brought by Utigebode to his village; he freed them all. So, his father said to him, "My child! since you have set your snares, I have not seen you bring in a single beast, even an Etoli. What are you doing? I shall change your name. For, now that I am old, it is right for you to save me, and help me with food." Utigebode replied evasively, "Since I set the snares, I have not caught even a Inâni." The father said, "Well! if it is true that you have not killed any Beast or Bird, I will know tomorrow." The next day broke; and the father went to the village of Prophet Njambi. The Prophet saluted him, "What have you come for?" Njambo replied, "I come to you for you to tell me about my son, whether in his hunting he kills beasts, or whether he does not." Njambi answered, "He snares them constantly; but, because of the name you gave him, he saves the lives of the people of the tribes of Beasts." The prophet added, "If there be a doubt, I will show you a way to prove my words. When you go back to town you will meet Iheli at the end of the village. When you meet with him, call for the people to set nets to catch him. But, yourself shall stand and watch what the Beast does before your eyes." Njambo arose to go, and bade goodbye, saying, "This is my return journey to my village." And it was so that, on nearing the end of the village, he met with Gazelle. Njambo shouted, "Men! spread your nets! Here is a Beast! Let us catch it!" His men brought their nets, and began to surround Gazelle. And the son Utigebode came to assist. The men were shouting, "Hâ-hâ! Hâ-hâ!" to frighten the animal towards the nets. Gazelle looked forward, watching Utigebode closely; and it said to itself, "If I go toward the nets, I shall be caught; but, I will go toward Utigebode and shall be saved." So, Gazelle ran toward Utigebode, and he caught it as if to kill it. But Gazelle cried out, "Eh! Utigebode! you, the savior, will you be the one to kill me?" So, Utigebode said, "Pass on! for, it is true that I am The-One-Who-Saves." And Gazelle fled to the forest. Then Njambo was very angry, and said to Utigebode, "Ah! my child! I have found you in your falsehood! Was it not you who said you caught no Beast? So! you have been releasing them!" Then the company all went back to their village with their nets. They arrived there during the daytime. And the father ordered his son, "Go! climb that coco tree, and bring me a nut." The son began to climb the tree. But, as he climbed, the father, by Magic-Power, caused the tree to grow rapidly upward. When, finally, Utigebode reached the top, he was unable to come down the excessively long tree-trunk. He began to call to his father for help, "My father!" But the father was still very angry, and replied, "Call your friends, the Beasts and Birds, to save you. I will not help you." And Njambo went to sit down in his village, leaving his son in the treetop. The son saw Eagle passing, and he called to it, "Yungu! Help me!" Eagle replied, "I am not able to carry a Man; you are heavy;" so, Eagle passed on. Utigebode saw many Beasts one after another passing below, and he called to them, "Save me!" But, they said, "We have no wings with which to go up to you. How can we get you down? We are not Birds that could let you down. We Beasts are unable to help you. Do not expect us." He was left there in the tree-top a period of two weeks, living only on the coconuts; and then he died, and his body fell to the earth. Njambo came out to see the corpse, and he said to it, "You have died through lack of obedience. You disobeyed me; and your beasts did not help you." The father and the mother lived another year in their village; and then they died, because they had no children to help them with food or clothes. And the people came from other villages to bury them. TALE 24 ORIGINS OF THE IVORY TRADE (1st Version) Persons King Ukanakâdi, and His Son Lombolokindi, and His Mother, With Birds and Other Animals Tombeseki (A Magic-Spear); An Old Woman Njâku (Elephant); An Ox (A Metamorphosed Man) A Foreign Vessel, and Traders Ukanakâdi lived in his great house, having with him his many wives. One of them bore him a son whom he named Lombolokindi. As time passed on, the child grew in size, and strength, and skill. Because of this, his mother was treated by Ukanakâdi with special favor. This aroused the jealousy of one of the other wives. She took the child one day, and secretly gave him a certain evil medicine, which caused him to be constantly hungry, hungry, hungry. Even when he ate enormously, no amount of food could fill his stomach or satisfy his appetite. Ukanakâdi finally was angry at the child, and said to the mother, "All the food of my plantations is finished, eaten up by your child. We have no more plantains, no more cassava, no more eddoes, nor anything else in our plantations or in our kitchen-gardens. You have brought a curse upon us! Go away to your father's house!" (He said this, not knowing that a Fetish-Medicine had caused all the trouble.) So the mother went away with her child to her father's house. But there too, the boy ate up all the food of the gardens, until there was none left. Then her father said to her, "All my food is done here; go with your child to your grandfather, and find food there." So, she went to her grandfather's. But there the same trouble followed. After she had been there some time, and the child was now a stout lad, and she saw that they were no longer welcome, she said to herself, "Alas! it is so! All my people are weary of me! I will not longer stay at grandfather's. I will go wandering into the forest, and, with the child, will see what I can get." Taking with her only two ears of corn, she went far off with the lad into the forest. After much wandering, and eating only wild fruits, she selected a spot without having any idea of the locality, and built a shed for a camp in which to stay. At this place, she planted the corn. It quickly sprang up, and bore abundantly. And she planted other gardens. After a time came very many birds; and they began to eat up the corn. She exclaimed, "My son and I alone have come here, and have planted our corn. How is this that all the birds have come so soon to destroy it?" And the son, who by this time had grown to be almost a young man, said to her, "Mother, why do you allow the birds to eat? Why don't you do something?" She replied, "Why do the birds thus destroy the corn? What can I do?" So he came out of the shed into the yard in front of their house and shouted at the birds, "You birds! who have come here to spoil my corn, with this stick I will kill you all!" But the birds jeered at him, saying, "No! not all! Only one shall die!" The young man went into the house, took up a magic spear-head he owned, fitted it onto a stick as a shaft; and going out again, he hurled it at the birds. The spear flew at them, pursuing each one, and piercing every one of them in succession. Then it flew on and on, away out into the forest. The young man took up another medicine-charm that he had with him, and, calling to his spear by name, shouted after it, "Tombeseki-o-o! Come back, back, back, Here! again, again, again, Return!" The spear heard him, and obeyed, and came back. He laid hold of it, and put it again in the shed. So, he and his mother lived there. She planted a very large garden of plantains, cassava, and many other vegetables, a very large quantity. And her gardens grew, and bore fruit in plenty. Then there came all kinds of small Animals, hogs, and antelopes, and gazelles, very many; and they spoiled the gardens, eating the fruit, and breaking down the stalks. The mother exclaimed, "My son! the animals have finished all my food of the gardens; everything is lost! Why is this?" He replied, "Yes, it is so! And when they come again tomorrow, I know what I will do to them!" When they came the next day, he went into the house, took the spear, flung it; and it flew from beast to beast, piercing all of them in succession. Then it went off, flying into the forest, as before. He called after it to return. The Spear heard, and obeyed, and came back to the house. Then he and his mother sat down in the house, complaining of their hunger, and how the animals had spoiled their gardens. So the mother went out, and gathered up what little remained, brought it into the house, and cooked it, leaves and all. When the mother had planted a third garden, and it had grown, a herd of elephants came to destroy it. She cried out, "Ah! Njâku! what shall I do? You have come to destroy all my gardens! Shall I die with hunger?" The son brought out his Spear, and shouting at the elephants, threatened to kill them all. But the herd laughed and said, "When you throw that spear, only one of us shall fall." He threw the spear at the one that spoke. It struck him and all the elephants in succession; and they all died. The Spear kept on in its flight into the forest. The young man cried after it, "Spear! Spear! come back, come back!" And it came to him again. Each time that the Spear had thus gone through the forest, it had mowed down the trees in its path; and thus was made the clearing which the mother had at once utilized for the planting of her successive gardens. After the elephants, mother and son sat down again in their hunger; they had nothing to eat but leaves. These she cooked; and they ate them all at once. Then she planted another garden, thinking that now there were no more beasts who would come to ravage. But she did not know that there was still left in the forest one very, very large Elephant that had not been in the company of the herd that the son had killed. There was also, in that forest, one very, very large Ox. When the gardens had grown, that Ox came, and began to destroy. The young man hurled his Spear at the Ox. It was wounded, but did not fall; and it went away into the forest with the spear sticking in its side. The young man pursued the Ox, following, following, following far away. But he did not overtake it. On his way, he reached unexpectedly a small, lonely hut, where an Old Woman was living by herself. When she saw him, she said to him, "Do not follow any longer. That Ox was a person like yourself. He is dead; and his people have hung up that Spear in their house." The young man told the old woman that he was very hungry. So she cut down for him an entire bunch of plantains. He was so exceedingly hungry that he could not wait; and before the plantains were entirely cooked, he began to eat of them, and ate them all. The old woman exclaimed, "What sort of a person is this who eats in this way?" In her wisdom, thinking over the matter, she felt sure it was some disease that caused his voracity. The man, being tired with his journey, fell asleep; and she, by her magic power, caused him to hear or feel nothing. While he was in this state, she cut him open. As she did so, his disease rushed out with a whizzing sound; and she cut away, and removed a tumor, that looked like a stone of glass. That was the thing that had caused his excessive hunger all his life. By her Power, she closed the wound. When he awoke, she cooked food for him, of which he ate, and was satisfied with an ordinary amount like any other person. She then told him what she had done, and said, "As you are now cured, you may pursue that Ox. You will reach his town, and you will obtain your Spear. But, as you go there, you must make a pretense. You must pretend that you are mourning for the dead. You must cry out in wailing, 'Who killed my Uncle-o-o! who killed my Uncle-o-o!'" Thus he went on his way; and finally came to a town where was a crowd of people gathered in and about a house of mourning. Beginning to wail, he went among the mourners. They received him, with the idea that he was some distant relative who had come to attend the funeral. He walked up the street of this town of the Ox-Man, and entering into the house of mourning, said, "Had not the way been so long, my mother also would have come; but, I have come to look at that Thing that killed my Uncle." They welcomed him, commended his devotion, and said, "You will not go today. Stay with us. Sleep here tonight; and tomorrow you shall see and take away with you, to show to your mother, that Thing." So, the next day, they gave him the Spear, and said, "Go, but do not delay. Return for the closing ceremony (the "Washing") of the mourning." He went away, and came again to the Old Woman. She said to him, when he showed her the Spear, "I told you truly that you would obtain it. But, go with it and this bundle I have made of the tumor of your disease, and show them to your mother." So he came back to his mother. She rejoiced; and, not knowing that he was cured, she cooked a very large and unusually varied quantity of food, for his unusual hunger, two whole bunches of plantains, and eddoes, and potatoes, and yams, etc. Of this he ate only a little, sufficient for an ordinary hunger. As he had not yet told her of his being cured, she cried out in surprise, "What is this? My son will die, for not eating!" And she asked him, "What is the matter?" He replied, "No, I have eaten, and am satisfied. And, mother, this bundle is what I was cured of." Then he told her of what that old woman had done. On another day, that great Elephant that had remained in the forest, came and began to eat in the garden. The son said, "Mother! what shall I do? I thought I had killed all the elephants. I did not know there was this great big one left!" (Nor did he just then know there were left a very great many more.) Taking his Spear, he hurled it, and wounded the elephant. It did not fall, but went away with the Spear in its side. The man followed, followed, followed, pursuing the elephant, not, as the other animals had gone, into the forest, but away toward the sea; and it died on the sea beach. There the man found it and his Spear. The Sea was new to him; he had not seen it since his childhood. He climbed up on the elephant's body, in order to see all around. As he turned his eyes seaward, he saw a ship coming on the horizon. Also, the people on this ship were looking landward, and they said, "There is something standing on the shore like a person. Let the vessel go there, and see what is ashore." So, the ship anchored, and a surf-boat was launched into the water to go ashore. When the crew landed, they saw the carcass of the elephant, and a person standing with a spear who warned them, "Do not approach near to me!" But they replied, "We do not want you, nor will we hurt you. But we want these tusks of ivory of this elephant. We want elephants." Wondering at this wish, he cut out the tusks, and gave them to the strangers, adding, "Off in the Forest are very, very many more tusks, more than I can number. You seem to like them; but they are of no use to me." They earnestly said, "But, bring them, bring them! We will buy them of you with abundance of goods." He agreed, and promised, "I am going now; but, let your ship wait, and I will bring all of those things as many as it is possible for me to carry." So, he went back to his mother; and he and she carried many, many tusks. They filled the ship full; and the crew of the ship sent ashore an immense quantity of goods. When the vessel went away, it left ashore two carpenters, with direction to build a fine house, and have it completed before the vessel should come again. The man remained there awhile with the carpenters, after the ship had gone. One day, looking, on a journey down the coast, at a point of land, he was surprised to recognize his father's town, where he and his mother had lived in his childhood. He said to himself, "That's my father's town! I want them to come to me, and live at my town!" He sent word to them; they removed, and all of them came to live with him. And he married one of their young women. (In the meanwhile, he had brought his mother from the forest.) While he was living at his new home, one day looking seaward, he saw the promised ship coming to get more ivory, and to give more goods. And he went off to the vessel. Among the women who were still living of his father's people who had known him as a child, was the one who had given him the evil "medicine" long ago; her object in giving it having been to kill him. After he had gone off to the vessel, this woman came to his wife's home, and, seeing the Spear hanging tied from the roof, said, "What is that Thing tied there?" His wife replied, "It is a kind of "medicine" of my husband's. It must not be touched." But the woman said, "I know that Thing; and what it does." Then she seized it, and put into it its handle the man had removed. She hurled the Spear out to sea, and it went on and on, passing over the ship. The man sitting in the saloon, said to the crew, as he recognized the Spear in its flight, "I saw something pass over the ship!" He went up on deck, and called after it, "My Spear! come back! come! come! come back!" And he told all the people of the vessel to go below lest they should be injured. The Spear turned and came back to him; and he took possession of it. Then said he to the crew, "Come! escort me ashore!" They landed him ashore, and waited to see what he intended doing. He called all his father's family, and asked, "Why is it that you have tried to kill me today with this Spear! For this, I will this day kill all of you." He summoned all the people to come together. When they had come, he had his mother bring out that tumor bundle, and said, "This is the thing of long ago with which that woman (pointing to the one who in childhood had given him the evil disease) tried to injure me. And, for the same reason, she threw the Spear today; thus trying a second time to kill me. None of you have rebuked her. So, I shall kill you all as her associates." Though they were of his father's family, he attacked and killed them all. The whole town died that day, excepting himself, his wife, his mother, and his sister. These four, not liking to remain at that evil place, went off and took passage on the ship. So, he journeyed, and came to the country of the white people at Manga-Manene; and never returned to Africa. But, he kept up a trade in Ivory with his native country. But for him, that trade would not have been begun. For, besides his having brought the first elephant to the sea coast, he told the people of Manga-Manene beyond the Great Sea, about the tribes of people, and about the elephants that were so abundant, in Africa. And that is all. TALE 24 ORIGIN OF THE IVORY TRADE (2nd Version) Persons King Njambu, and His Four Wives Ngwe-Konde (Mother-of-Queens) Ngwe-Lege (Mother-of-Poverty) Ivenga (Watching); Ngwe-Sape (Mother of a Lock) Njambu's Son, Savulaka (Gluttony) The Spirit of an Uncle; Mekuku (Spirits of the Dead) A Magic Spear; A Great Elephant (A Metamorphosed Man) Birds, and Other Beasts Njambu built a town; and married four women. This one, Ngwe-Konde, that one Ngwe-Lege, another one Ivenga, another Ngwe-Sape. After Njambu had lived there a short time all his wives were about to become mothers. Then Ngwe-konde took a net, and (by Magic Art) threw it into the womb of Ngwe-lege. The net entered the belly of her child. At the time of their confinement, they all gave birth. The infants were washed. They were dressed also, and were given suck. Also, they were assigned their names. That of Ngwe-lege's was Savulaka. When he was given the breast, he was not satisfied, he was only crying and crying; for, whoever held him, there were only cries and cries. When his mother would nurse him, there was only crying. His father said, "If it is like this, then, lest he die, feed him the food of adults." His mother cut down a plantain bunch; she boiled it; it was cooked. The child ate, and finished the plantains; and yet it was crying and crying. They cut down another bunch; it was boiled, it was cooked. At only one eating, he finished the food, with cries in his mouth. Two more bunches were boiled; he ate. All at once, though born only that day, he spoke, "My mother! Hunger!" Four bunches were cut down; they were cooked; he ate, and finished them, but with crying. Then he was cooked for ten times; he ate; and at once finished. The people cooked, and he ate. The plantains of his father's town were all cleared off, the entire town was left like a prairie. The father spoke to the mother, and said, "No! go away with him to your father's town." Ngwe-lege picked up her child, carrying him away. She with the child went on, to the town of her father. Her father asked her, "My child! wherefore the crying, and your carrying the infant?" She replied, "My father! I know not! This one whom you see, since he was born, is not filled. He has made an end to all the plantains of his father's town, leaving the town a prairie. And his father said to me, 'Just go and take him to your father's.' So, I have brought him." The towns-people all were laughing, "Kye! kye! kye!" They said, "What? Really, food? No! it's something else, not food. But, enter into the house." She says, "You are talking foolishly." The child began to cry. They said, "Let us see!" Then, at once, they began to cook; the food is ready; he eats; and finishes it. Other food was placed; he ate it at once. Food was cooked again. At once, all of it, and the dishes, and the jars, and the plates, were swallowed up by him. Food is cooked again, and he ate; and then said, "My mother! Hunger!" Food is cooked again; he ate until he finished all the pots. All the food of the town, and all the gardens were done. Her father spoke to her saying, "My child! Just carry him to the town of your grandfather." She then carried the child, still crying with hunger, and made her journey, and came to her grandfather's town. The people there said, "What is it; for the crying?" She told all the whole affair to them. They inquired, "Food?" She replied, "Yes." They cooked, and he ate, and finished. They cooked again; and he finished all, even to the leaves in which the food was wrapped. They said, "Such a kind of child has never been born before!" Suddenly, the child Savulaka ceased to be a child; and, as a man, said to his mother, "My mother! Wash me some mekima (rolls of mashed boiled plantains)." So, his mother made the mekima. In the morning, very early, Savulaka starts on a journey. He went stepping very quickly, on, still with his journey; and, as he went, he talked to himself. He said, "This thing which has been done to me, now, what is it?" He still went on with the journey, until, at night, he lay down in the forest. Early in the morning, he starts again for his journey. As he was going in the forest he met with a Person (a brother of his mother, who belonged to a town of the Mekuku). This Person inquired, "Where are you going to?" (Savulaka was still eating the mekima, even its leaves going into his mouth.) This Person also said to him, "Stop at once!" Then he stood still. The Person said, "I, your Uncle, the brother of your mother, am the one who is inquiring of you." Savulaka answered him, saying, "I'm not able to tell you." But presently he did tell all the matter to him. So, the Uncle said to him, "Come, to my town." Then both of them returned on the path. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, they are at the town. The Uncle said, "My child, you are cured!" He put for him a medicine in a syringe, and gave him an injection. When he withdrew the syringe, here, at once, a net began to come out quick as ever it could move from the bowels! Then his Uncle spoke and told him, "It is thy father's wife who put the net into your bowels." Food was cooked for him; he began to eat a little as people usually eat. His Uncle said unto him, "You shall go tomorrow." On the morrow, early in the morning, his Uncle took all kinds and sorts of vegetables; and he took also a Spear; and malagetta pepper ("Guinea-grains," a species of cardomom), and handed them to him; and told him, "When you reach home, you must plant a garden." The Uncle said to him, "Close your eyes!" He closed his eyes tight. On opening his eyes, he at once found himself near his home, and his mother on the path, her form bent stooping down seeking for him. He then entered their house, and sat down, and his mother greeted him to her satisfaction. The mother took food, and boiled it; it was cooked; she removed it from the fire; she sat the food before Savulaka. And he ate only two fingers of plantains. His mother began to wonder. Then he said to himself, "Now, let me try to do as my Uncle has told me." He said, "Ngalo! (a fetish charm) I want this forest here to be cleared, all of it." (As quickly as I speak here, at once the garden was finished, like the passing of yesterday.) He said to his mother, "Take a list of all the plants I have brought; then let us go and plant them." So, he and his mother went to plant; that very day the garden was completely finished. Previously to that, his Uncle had warned him, "When the plants are sprung up, you will see Kenene (a kind of small bird) coming to eat them. When they shall arrive, they will be many. Then you take the Spear; fail not to use the cardomoms with it." The food increased; and the small birds came in countless numbers. Savulaka took up the Spear, and threw it at them; and all, even to the young birds, perished. Then he returned to his mother, and said, "My mother! go and pick up the sele" (another name of kenene). She gathered them; leaving many remaining abandoned in the forest. The village was filled with the sele. The same thing happened with all other kinds of birds. The same with every Beast. Then Elephants came to the garden. The man picked up the Spear and the cardomoms. When he came to the garden, he lifted up the Spear, and threw it, and wounded the Elephants. Numbers of Elephants that were eating in the garden, were killed. They were gathered, and the whole village was filled with the smell of the rotting meat; so that hardly any one would come to the village. I am not able to tell you the abundance of tusks; the mendanda (long ones), and the makubu (short thick ones), and the begege ("scrivillers," the small ones), that cannot be counted. The next morning, other elephants came again. The man took up the Spear, but he forgot the cardomom-pepper. When he arrived where they were, he did not wait, but hastily threw the Spear after an elephant, the leader of the herd, who turned aside, and ran away with the Spear in its body. The man followed him, but he did not reach him. Then he returned to his mother; and said to her, "My mother! mash me some mekima." (Food for a journey.) In the next morning, the man started on the journey, stepping quickly as ever, until he came to his Uncle's town. He was about to pass his Uncle by, not seeing him (a Spirit). The Uncle said to him, "Stand there!" So he stood. The Uncle directed, "Enter the house!" He entered, and sat down; and his Uncle said to him, "Did I not tell you that when you are going to kill an animal, you must not omit the pepper-grains? Sit down there; wait. Don't you go out. I must go and take for you your Spear." But, lo! it was the Chief of that very town, whom he had wounded, and who had come back to the town, and died. (That chief had metamorphosed himself into the form of an elephant.) The uncle passed out, and went to the other end of the town; and there he found the Spear. He took it, and gave it to Savulaka, and said, "Go!" Savulaka went; and met his mother on the way, waiting for him. Then they went home to their village. Next morning, he fastened the Spear handle. Elephants in the plantation shouted, "We have come!" The man stood up, and snatched his Spear. The Elephants stood waiting. The man said, "Here it is!" and flung it at them. And the carcasses of all fell in a heap. He said to the people of the village, "Go ye!" They went, and found dead bodies without number; the tusks the same, without number. After that, White-Man came with a quantity of goods. The Town of Savulaka was crowded with goods in abundance; every kind of foreign article. White men came to see Ivory. The sailing-vessels and steamers came any day (not only on scheduled dates). Thus it was that Ivory was exported, and goods imported. Business of Trading was made. Savulaka had a great many traders. All his father's brothers, and mother's brothers, all their dwelling was in the town of Savulaka. Rum was drunk constantly, and they were constantly intoxicated. Ivory went to White Man's Land. White men's things came, and were sent up to the Interior. This Trade is going on to the present days. It was a man who commenced with the thought of Trading; it was commenced by that one man. All the African tribes are now changed from what they were originally. At first we negroes had no (proper) knowledge. They spoke with wonder over the things that are made in Europe by white men. They said, "These are made by the Spirits of the dead; they are not made by the living." Because our people believed that the departed spirits have their home beyond the Sea. Why? Because Savulaka brought his wonderful Spear (by which so much ivory was obtained) from the Spirit-Town. TALE 25 DOG AND HIS FALSE FRIEND LEOPARD Persons Mbwa (Dog) Ngiya (Gorilla) Njâ (Leopard) NOTE The origin of the hatred between dogs and leopards. Friends should not have arguments. An argument separates a company. Dog and Leopard built a town. Dog then begot very many children. Leopard begot his many also. They had one table together. They conversed, they hunted, they ate, they drank. One day, they were arguing: Leopard said, "If I hide myself, you are not able to see me." Dog replied, "There is no place in which you can hide where I cannot see you." The next day, at the break of the day, Leopard emerged from his house at Batanga, and he went north as far as from there to Bahabane near Plantation. Dog, in the next morning, emerged. He asked, "Where is chum Njâ?" The women and children answered, "We do not know." Dog also started, and went: and as he went, smelling, until he arrived at Plantation (about 15 miles). He came and stood under the tree up which Leopard was hidden; and he said, "Is not this you?" Both of them returned, and came to their town. Food had been prepared; and they ate. Leopard said, "Chum! you will not see me here tomorrow." When the next day began to break, Leopard started southward, as far as to Lolabe (about 15 miles). Next day, in the morning, Dog stood out in the street, lifted up his nose, and smelled. He also went down southward, clear on till he came to Lolabe; and standing at the foot of a tree, he said, "Is not this you?" Leopard came down from the top of the tree; they stood; and then they returned to their town. Food was cooked for them; they ate, and finished. Leopard said, "Chum! you will not see me tomorrow again, no matter what may take place." Dog asked, "True?" Leopard replied, "Yes!" In the morning, Leopard started southward, for a distance like from Batanga to Campo River (about 40 miles). At the opening of the next day, Dog emerged, and, standing and smelling, he said, looking toward the south, "He went this way." Dog also went to Campo. He reached Leopard, and said, "Is not this you?" They came back to their town; they were made food; and they ate. The next day, Leopard emerged early. He went northward, as far as from Batanga to Lokonje (about 40 miles). Dog sniffed the air, and followed north also. In a steady race, he was soon there; and he reached Leopard. So, Leopard said, "It is useless, I will not attempt to hide myself again from Mbwa." Thereupon, Dog spoke to Leopard and said, "It is I, whom, if I hide myself from you, you will not see." Leopard replied, "What! even if you were able to find me, how much more should I be able to find you!" So, Dog said to him, "Wait, till daybreak." When the next day broke, Dog passed from his house like a flash unseen, vyu! to Leopard's. And, underneath the bed of Leopard in his public Reception-house, he lay down. Then Leopard (who had not seen him) came to the house of Dog; he asked the women, "Where is Mbwa?" They said, "Thy friend, long ago, has gone out hence, very early." Leopard returned to his house, and he said to his children, "That fellow! if I catch him! I do not know what I shall do to him!" He started southward on the journey, as far as Lolabe; and did not see Dog. So he returned northward a few miles, as far as Boje, and did not see him. Down again south to Campo; and he did not see him. That first day, he did not find him at all. Then he returned toward Batanga, and went eastward to Nkâmakâk (about 60 miles); and he did not see him. He went on northward to Ebaluwa (about 60 miles); did not see him. Up north-west to Lokonje; he did not see him. And Leopard, wearied, went back to his town. Coming to the bed (not knowing Dog was there) he lay down very tired. He said to his people, "If I had met him today, then you would be eating a good meat now." All these words were said in the ears of Dog, the while that Dog was underneath the bed. Then Dog leaped out, pwa! Leopard asked, "Where have you been?" Dog answered, "I saw you when you first passed out." Leopard said, "True?" And Dog says, "Yes!" Then Dog went out far to his end of the town. And, knowing that Leopard intended evil toward him, he said to his children, "Let us go and dig a pit." So they went and dug a pit in the middle of the road. Then Dog told his wives and children, "Go ye before, at once!" He also said, "I and this little Mbwa, which can run so fast, we shall remain behind." Then the others went on in advance. (Before that, Leopard, observing some movements of the Mbwa family, had been speaking to himself, "I do not know the place where Mbwa and his children will go today.") Dog warned this young one, "When you are pursued, you must jump clear across that pit." Then Dog, to cover the retreat of his family, came alone to Leopard's end of the town. He and his children chased after him. Dog ran away rapidly, and escaped. When Leopard's company arrived at the house of Dog, they found there only that little dog. So they said, "Come ye! for there is no other choice than that we catch and eat this little thing." Thereupon, Leopard chased after the little dog; but it leaped away rapidly, and Leopard after him. When the little Dog was near the pit, it made a jump. (Leopard did not know of the pit, nor why the Dog jumped.) When Leopard was come to the pit, he fell inside, tumbling, volom! His enemy Gorilla was following after Leopard, also in pursuit of Dog. He also fell into the pit, headlong, volom! Finding Leopard there, Gorilla said, "What is this?" Leopard stood at one side, and Gorilla at the other. When the one would be about to go near the other, if the other attempted to go near him, he would begin to growl, saying, "You must not approach here!" Dog, standing at the edge above, was laughing at them, saying, "Fight ye your own fight! Did you want only me?" But Leopard and Gorilla were not fighting in the pit. If the one approached, the other retreated. Dog spoke to them and said in derision. "I have no strength; but as to your fight, was it seeking only me?" TALE 26 A TRICK FOR VENGEANCE Persons Kudu (Tortoise) Ko (Wild-Rat) Njâ (Leopard) NOTE Because of deaths and sicknesses, African natives are constantly changing the location of their villages, believing the old sites infested by malevolent Spirits. The whole mass of Beasts were living in one place. They built houses; they cleared the forest for plantations. After this, Tortoise said, "I'm going to find my own place." So, he went and built in a place which he called Malende-ma-Kudu. The fame of it was spread abroad, people talking about "Malende-ma-Kudu." Leopard arose, came to the town of Tortoise, and said, "I have come to build here." Tortoise consented, "You may build." Leopard said, "I'm going to build at the end of the path, and by the spring." And he built there. One day, a child of Tortoise was passing by near the spring; and Leopard seized him, ku! Another day, another one was passing; Leopard seized him, also, ku! Then Tortoise said, "This is an evil place, I'm going to move from here." So he went and built another town called Jamba. Leopard came also, saying, "Kudu! I'm coming to build!" Then Tortoise said, "Really! what have your affairs to do with me? Nevertheless, come and build." And Leopard built at the end, by the spring. When the children of Tortoise were passing by the spring, Leopard constantly killed them. Tortoise wondered, "This thing which is destroying my children, what is it?" Thus day by day, Leopard was killing the children of Tortoise. Tortoise prepared again to remove, saying that he would go away and build another town to be called Dang. He went there. And the fame of it was spread around, people saying, "Dang, the town of Kudu!" Everybody was saying, "We are going to the town of Kudu; Dang, the town of Kudu!" Leopard comes again, and says, "I also have come to build here." Tortoise said to him, "Wait! really; why did you leave the other people?" However, Tortoise said to him, "Build." And Leopard built as usual. Also, when the children of Tortoise were passing to the spring, they were missing. And Tortoise felt sure that Leopard had seized them. Thereupon Tortoise made a plan for himself. He called Wild-Rat privately, saying, "I have heard that you know how to dig holes." Wild-Rat replied, "It is my work." Tortoise said, "But, I want you to dig me a tunnel from this room here, out to, and up towards the street, by measure." So, Wild-Rat dug a big hole, in size sufficient for Tortoise and his traveling-bag and his spears. Then Tortoise went and gathered together his spears and his traveling-bag. He went out the next day, early in the morning, and stood and announced in the street, "All the Tribes must come! I want to tell them the news of what I have seen." Then all the Beasts came to meet in the town of Tortoise. It was full of every kind of beast. Tortoise spoke, and said, "I have called you to say, that really we are not worth anything at all. Actually, the only dwelling we have is in the grave. All those my children who have died here, is it possible that it is my Father (of Spirits) who takes them? I met them sitting down in the Reception-House of that father, playing." The people said to him, "This is a Dream." He replied, "No! it is open to sight." Some said, "It is a lie." But Tortoise said, "You have doubted me? Well, tomorrow you must dig me a grave; and you shall see how I am going." They said, "Yes! let us see!" On the next day, in the morning, they were called together. He said, "Dig me a pit here." (He pointed to the privately measured spot over the tunnel which Wild-Rat had already made for him.) They dug it wide and deeply. Then, this Tortoise took his spears and his bag; and with these under his arm, he descended into the pit, and bade the people fill in the earth. He went to one side, until he reached and entered that tunnel of his which Wild-Rat had dug for him. And unseen he passed up to his room in his house, and lay down. Before that, he had promised the people, saying, "I shall lie there (in the pit) for six days." Before Tortoise had disappeared, the people (following his orders) began to throw back the earth into the pit, filling it solidly. After Tortoise had laid in his house for six days, he suddenly appeared in the street; and he called all the mass of the Beasts, and he told them the news. He said, "Over there is so beautiful! I will not stay in this town any more for as long as ten days. But, as I am here, I shall lie here only for three days, and two days over there." At once Tortoise was regarded as a person of great importance, and his fame was spread abroad. Thereupon, Leopard, (feeling jealous of the wonderful experience of Tortoise) said to his children, "Even Kudu! How much rather that I should get to that beautiful place! Dig me mine own pit. I also am going to see my forefathers. I and they, we have not seen each other for a long time." So, they dug a big pit. He announced, "I will lie there for seven days; on the eighth, then I shall come." Then he descended into the pit. And they rapidly filled it up with earth. Leopard, below, sought a cavity by which to pass on (as he thought) to the Land of Spirits; but, there was none. And he died. His children waited eight days; but they saw not their father. Then they asked Tortoise, "As to our father, up to this day, what has happened to him?" Tortoise answered them, "Why are you asking me this? When I went, what did my family ask of you? Maybe, your father remained to follow the pleasures of over there!" The women of Leopard had kept him some food, making it ready for him for the eighth day. But (giving up hope of him) they ate it. While they were still waiting, actually Leopard had begun to rot there (in the pit). Tortoise, fearing possible difficulty, gathered together his wives and remaining children, and fled with them into the forest afar off. TALE 27 NOT MY FAULT! Persons Yongolokodi (Chameleon) Ko (Wild Rat) Men, Hunters Chameleon and all the other Beasts built their villages near together, making a large town. And there was a time of great hunger. After that, there came a harvest time of large fruitage. The great produce could not be gathered for abundance. Then came Chameleon to the village of Wild-Rat, and he said to him, "Chum, Ko! this harvest is a great thing!" Rat said, "Don't speak about it!" Not long afterward, Mankind laid their snares, and the hunters prepared their bows. For, beasts and birds had come in crowds to eat of the abundance; and Man had overhead them speaking of it. Gunners came; the shots resounded; bows were twanged; the snares caught. Rat fell into one of the traps. Chameleon seeing him, and desiring to justify himself, reminded Rat that Rat himself had told him not to let others know of the great abundance, and that he himself had obeyed; that therefore he was not the cause of Rat's misfortune. So, Chameleon said, "I did not speak of it." TALE 28 DO NOT IMPOSE ON THE WEAK Persons Yongolokodi (Chameleon) Njâ (Leopard) NOTE Chameleons move very slowly. This story is given as a reason why, even if one is small in body, he should not be despised, as though he had no strength, or as though he could with impunity be deprived of his rights, e.g., in a race or in wrestling, or in any other circumstances. Leopard and Chameleon lived apart. This one had his village, and that one his. This one did his own business; that one his. And they were resting quietly in their abodes. Chameleon had a herd of sheep and of goats. Leopard came to the village of Chameleon on an excursion; and he saw the herd of sheep and of goats. He said to Chameleon, "Chum! give me a loan of sheep to raise on shares." Chameleon made food for him; and, when they had eaten, he said to Leopard, "You can send children tomorrow, to come and take the loan of sheep on shares." They had their conversation, talking, and talking. When they had ended, Leopard said, "My Fellow! I'm going back." His friend said to him, "Very good." Leopard went on to his village. He said, "My wife! I came on an excursion, to the town of Yongolokodi. He treated me with hospitality to the very greatest degree. Also he has given me sheep on shares." The next day, in the morning, he sent his children to the town of Chameleon to take the herd of sheep. They went; and they brought them; and goats also. (A "day" in an Ekano Tale is without limit as to length or shortness.) The goats and sheep increased, until the village of Leopard was positively full of them crowded in abundance. About three years passed, and Chameleon said to himself, "Our herd with Chum must be about sufficient for division." Thereupon he started on his journey crawling, naka, naka, naka, until he came to the house of his friend Leopard. Leopard said to his wife, "Make food!" It was cooked, they ate, and rested. Chameleon said to Leopard, "Chum! I have come, that we should divide the shares of the herd." Leopard replied, "Good! but, first go back today. Who can catch goats and sheep on a hot day like this? Come tomorrow morning." Chameleon said, "Very good." And he went back to his village. The next day, in the morning, he rose to go to the village of Leopard. (Actually, after midnight, Leopard had already opened the pens, and all the animals were scattered outside.) He protested regret to Chameleon, and said, "Chum! go back! I don't know how those fellows have opened their pens. I was expecting you, for this day; I had let my herdman know that a person was coming on the morrow. So, go back. And, as I am going tomorrow to the swamp for bamboo, you must come only on the second day." Chameleon submissively replied, "Very good." Chameleon continued coming; and his treatment was just so every time, with excuses. Leopard, hoping, said to himself, "Perhaps he will die on the way," because he saw him walking so slowly, naka, naka. And Chameleon kept on patiently going back and forth, back and forth. One night, Leopard and his wife were lying down; whereupon his wife asked him, "What is the reason that you and Yongolokodi have not divided the shares of the herd? Do you think he will die of this weakness?" Leopard answered, "No! it is not weakness, Njambe is the one who created him so; it is his own way of walking." Finally, Chameleon said to himself, "I must see what Njâ intends to do to me; whether he thinks that he shall eat my share." He went by night and waited outside of Leopard's. Next day, in the morning, as Leopard rose to go out, he found, unexpectedly, as he emerged from the house, Chameleon sitting on the threshold. There was no other deception that Leopard could seek; for, the animals were still in their pens. So, he called his children, and said, "Tie the goats and sheep with cords." So they tied them all. And he and Chameleon divided them. Then this one returned to his place; and that one to his. TALE 29 BORROWED CLOTHES Persons Koho (Parrot) Kuba (Chicken) NOTE A story of the cause of the enmity between chickens and parrots. When a chicken comes near to a parrot, the latter turns to one side, saying, "wâ!"; for fear that the chicken will take his fine feathers from him. Parrot and Chicken were fowls living in a village of Mankind near a town; which they had built together. They were living there in great friendship. Then Parrot said to Chicken, "Chum! I'm going to make an engagement for marriage." So, he prepared his journey. And he asked Chicken, "Chum! give me now thy fine dress!" (For the occasion.) Chicken, said, "Very good!" and he handed his tail feathers to him. Thereupon, Parrot went on his marriage journey. When he came home again, he said to himself, "These feathers become me. I will not return them to Kuba." So, when Chicken said to him, "Return me my clothes," he replied, "I will not return them!" Chicken, seeing that Parrot was retaining the feathers, said sarcastically, "Accept your clothing!" Thereupon, Parrot, pretending to be wronged, said, "Fellow! why do you put me to shame? I did not say that I would take your clothing altogether, only that we should exchange clothes." At night, then, Parrot took all his family, and they flew up in the air away. At once, he decided to stay there, and did not come to live on the ground again. Chicken was left remaining with Mankind in the town. Whenever Chicken began to call to Parrot up in the treetops, asking for his clothes, Parrot only screamed back "wâ! wâ!" That was a mode of speech by which to mock at Chicken. TALE 30 THE STORY OF A PANIC Persons Edubu (Adder) Ikingi (Fly) Ko (Wild-Rat) Ngomba (Porcupine) Njâku (Elephant) Ngubu (Hippopotamus) Nyati (Ox) Bejaka (Fishes) Ngando (Crocodile) NOTE Native Africans after bathing, rub more or less of some oil, either native palm, or foreign pomade, on their bodies. In the Dry Seasons, when the rivers are low, fish are caught by building dams across the streams, and then bailing out the water from the enclosed spaces. Observe flies, as carriers of disease. Adder went to bathe. He returned, and anointed himself with nyimba oil (oil of bamboo-palm nuts), and then climbed out on to a branch of a cayenne-pepper bush. Fly came and settled upon Adder's back. Adder, being annoyed, drove Fly away. Then Fly said to Adder, in anger, "Know you not that it is I who cause even Njâku, with his big tusks, to rot? And that I can cause Nyati and Ngubu to rot? And I can cause Mankind to rot! Then how much more you, this Thing who has only ribs and ribs!" When Adder heard this, he was alarmed, and he entered into the hole of Wild-Rat. Wild-Rat asked him, "Chum Adder! where do you come from in such haste?" He answered, "I have seen a Being which does not hesitate to cause Beasts and even Mankind to rot. Therefore, I am fled, by reason of fear of Ikingi." Whereupon Wild-Rat, frightened, arose, and entered hastily into the town of Porcupine. Porcupine, alarmed, asked Wild-Rat, "What is it?" He answered, "I'm afraid of Ikingi; Edubu says that it is he who causes both Mankind and Beasts to rot." Then Porcupine, in fear went out, running, going to the town of Hog. Whereupon Hog, being startled, asked him, "Chum! what is it?" He answered him, "I'm afraid of Ikingi. Ngomba says that he is the one who causes both Beasts and Mankind to rot." Hog at once ran out in terror, and went to a river with all his family. And the water of the river was promptly crowded out, leaving its channel dry. Then the Fishes (mistaking this motion of the water) arose in haste, saying, "The people who bail the river have come!" And they fled. Then Crocodile opened his mouth wide; and the fishes in their flight began to enter into his stomach. Among them was ingongo-Kenda (a young kenda; a fish with spines like a catfish). When Crocodile was about to swallow, the spines caught fast in his throat. And Crocodile died at once. Then the Fishes sang a song of rejoicing. "Ngando, with stealing, Ngando died by a sting in his throat." Such was the death that Crocodile died, on account of his attempt to swallow Fishes, who had rushed into his open mouth, as they fled, alarmed by the confusion raised by the panic of the other animals. TALE 31 A FAMILY QUARREL Persons Iheli (Gazelle) Njâ (Leopard) NOTE Among native Africans, in the case of a man and his wife, even if they fight together, her father or her brother usually do not interfere. For, every man who is married knows that his own wife will some day offend himself. Gazelle and Leopard built a town; living this one at his end of it; that one at the other end. After they had built; they cleared the forest for plantations; they married wives; and they sat down, resting in their seats. Gazelle had married the sister of Leopard who was of a proud disposition. And Leopard had publicly threatened, "The person who makes trouble for my sister, I will show him a thing." One day, the sister of Leopard began to give Gazelle some impertinence. Gazelle said to her, "Shut your mouth!" She replied, "I won't shut it!" Gazelle threatened, "Lest I beat you!" She dared him, "Come and beat me! You will see my brother coming to chew you!" Gazelle ran after her, struck her, ndo! and knocked her to the ground, ndi! As she lay there, he kept on beating her, and beating her, and shouting, "Who has married! Who has not married?" Leopard bristled up his whole mane, full of anger, and was about to go to Gazelle's end of the town to fight. But the older people said to him, "You hear what Iheli says, 'Who has not married'?" Leopard was at once disheartened. He saw there was no place for his bravery in a matter of marriage. TALE 32 THE GIANT GOAT Persons Kudu (Tortoise) Njâ (Leopard) A Giant Goat (Mbodi) Ngweya (Hog) Betoli (Rats) Ngwai (Partridge) NOTE Tortoise and Leopard had lived in peace in the same town, until their mutual use and abuse of the great Goat, the gift of Njambe, the Creator. A leopard is not satisfied unless he first takes the heart of the animal he has killed. Tortoise and Leopard built a town together. There they stayed. After they had built, they cleared plantations. Their food was only vegetables; for, they had no meat. Their hunger for meat became great. Their hunters killed nothing. One day, Tortoise, as he went in search of food, going and penetrating in the forest, came upon the Goat of Njambe (a mythical, enormous animal) in the forest by itself, and tied. It told Tortoise who and what it was, and invited him to enter. He said to It, "Mbodi, Friend-of-Njambe! open for me your house!" The Goat opened an aperture of its body; Tortoise entered in; and It closed the aperture. Inside of the Goat, Tortoise cut pieces of fine fat, and tied them into two bundles. Then he said, "Mbodi, friend of Njambe! open for me the house!" It opened the aperture; Tortoise at once went out; and It shut it. Tortoise returned to his town, and cut up the meat. He said to his women, "Make ready leaves for momba!" (bundles of green plantain leaves in which meats are cooked over hot coals). They at once plucked the leaves, tied up the momba, and put them over the fireplace. They set soup also on the fireplace. When it was boiled, they spread the table, sat down together, and ate. The children of Leopard, smelling a tempting odor, came to Tortoise's end of the town. The children of Tortoise showed their food to them, saying, exultingly, "Ye! do you eat such as that?" A child of Leopard said, "Chum! let me taste it!" And he allowed him to taste it. The children of Leopard went off hurriedly to their father, saying, "Father! such an animal as your friend has killed! Perhaps it is Ngweya; we do not know." Then Leopard went to where Tortoise was, and he asked him, "Chum! as to this meat-hunger, what shall we do? Let us arrange for the town." Tortoise responded. "Yes, I am willing." So, in the evening, he invited his friend Leopard that he should come and eat food. Leopard came; they sat down together; and they ate. When Leopard had tasted, he exclaimed, "Man! what animal is this?" But Tortoise would not tell him. When they had finished eating, Leopard said to himself, "I must know where Tortoise goes!" On the next day, before the Ngwai (a Bird, that announces the first coming of daylight) had sounded, Tortoise went out clear on to where was that giant Goat. He spoke, as on his previous journey, "O! Mbodi! Friend of the Creator! open for me the house!" It at once opened the aperture; he entered in; and began to slice pieces of meat from the Goat's inside. When he had finished, he said, "Open for me the house!" It opened the aperture; and he emerged and went back to his town. There he spoke to his women, saying, "Cook ye!" They boiled the meat; it was cooked; he invited Leopard; they ate; and finished. And Leopard went back to his house. But, when night came, Leopard took ashes, and, going to the house of Tortoise, thrust the ashes into Tortoise's traveling-bag, and stabbed holes in it. Said he to himself, "When Tortoise carries it, then the ashes will fall down." This he did, so that he might follow to the place where Tortoise would go. Next day, Tortoise was up at the same time with the first Ngwai. And at daybreak, Leopard followed, observing the ground closely with his eyes; and he saw the ashes. The fellow, at once, went on his journey, striding quickly, quickly, until he reached to where the great Goat was standing. It explained to him, as it had to Tortoise, its use, and invited him to enter. Said he, "O! Mbodi of my father Njambe! open to me the house!" And It opened the hole. He entered; and he discovered Tortoise cutting meat. Tortoise was displeased, and said to him, "Chum! is that the way you do?" They cut pieces of meat, they got ready, and they went back to town. The next day, although Tortoise was vexed at Leopard, they started together on their journey; and they arrived at the Goat. They said as before, "O! Mbodi! Friend! open to us the house!" It opened the aperture; and they entered. Tortoise warned Leopard, "Chum! Njâ! don't touch the heart!" They cut meat. Then Leopard said that he was going to lay hold of the heart. But Tortoise said, "No!" Leopard cut and cut, and was going on to the heart. Tortoise again said to him, "Not so!" They went on cutting. Finally Leopard laid hold of the heart! The Goat at once made a great outcry, "Ma-a! Mba-a!" and died instantly. The people of the town that was near by, heard, and they said, "The Mbodi! what has happened to it? Young men! go ye! Hasten ye! for, that Mbodi is crying!" They went, and discovered the body of the Goat stretched out. They went back to the town and told the people that, "The Mbodi is dead!" While this was going on, as soon as Tortoise inside the body knew that the Goat was dying, he began to seek for a hiding-place. He said, "I am for the stomach!" Leopard said, "No! that is the hiding-place of the elder one" (himself). Then Tortoise said, "I will go and hide in the bowels." Leopard said, "That also is the hiding place of the elder." Then Tortoise said, "Well! I'm going to hide in the fountain of the water of the belly" (the urinary bladder). Leopard said, "Yes! that is the share of the younger." Tortoise thrust himself in there. Leopard jumped into the stomach. When the people came, they discovered the Goat lying flat, and they said, "Tie ye it!" (to carry it away). Others said, "No! let it be butchered here." They all said, "Yes!" And they cut it in pieces. They took out the entire stomach, and laid it aside. They took that fountain, and flung it out in the bushes. Concealed by the bushes, Tortoise crawled out of the sac, and, pretending to be displeased, called out, "Who dashed that dirty water in my face, as I was coming here, seeking for my fungi here in the forest?" They apologized, saying. "Chum! we did not know you were in those bushes. But, come, and join us." So, he went there; and he, in pretence, exclaimed, "What thing can so suddenly have killed Friend-Creator his Mbodi there? Alas! But, Ime! what a large stomach that is! Would you say that it was not it that killed Mbodi? Let us send some children to pierce that stomach. But ye! when ye shall go to pierce it, first bring spears, then jab the spears through it. I have not seen such a stomach as that!" They finished the cutting in pieces; and they gave Tortoise his share of the animal. He left, bidding them await his return. He went hastily with the meat to his town, and sat down to rest for only a little while. Then he rapidly went back again to see what would happen to Leopard. The family of Njambe had taken that stomach and laid it in the water of a stream. Then they took spears, and they stabbed it. Leopard, being wounded, struggled up and down as he tried to emerge from inside the stomach. The people, when they saw this, shouted, "Aw! lâ! lâ! lâ!" And there was Leopard lying dead! For, in stabbing that stomach, the spears had reached Leopard. Tortoise said to them, "Give me the skin of Leopard!" So they handed it to him. He went off with it to his house. When it was dried, he took it into his inner room, and hung it up. He said to his children, "Let no person bring any of the children of Njâ into this room." Before that time, the children of Tortoise and of Leopard always hunted small animals; and they were accustomed daily to kill rats in their houses. On another day, the children of Leopard having no meat, and not knowing that their father was dead said, "A hunt for Betoli tomorrow!" The children of Tortoise replied, "Yes!" Early in the next day then, the children of Leopard made ready and called for those of Tortoise; and they all started together. They began at first at Leopard's end of the town; and, going from house to house, opened the houses and killed rats. They passed on toward Tortoise's end of the town, opening houses, and killing rats. When they came to the room of Tortoise himself, his children said to the others, "No!" The children of Leopard asked them, "Why?" As they arrived at the door, the children of Tortoise said, "Our father said that, even for catching rats, we should not enter that room." But the children of Leopard broke down the door, and entered into the room. There they lifted their eyes, and discovered the skin of their father Leopard hanging! At once, they all hasted out of the house. But, suppressing their sorrow and indignation, shortly after this, they all said, "To go to throw wheels on the beach!" (a game; solid wheels, about eight or ten inches in diameter, and some three inches thick, chopped out of an enormous tuber). They made ready their little spears, and they all went in a company. Their challenge was, "To the beach!" These arranged themselves on one side, and those on the other. The children of Tortoise began the game, rolling the wheel to the children of Leopard. These latter, as the wheel rolled by, pierced its center with all their spears; none failed. The Leopard company shouted in victory. "Boho, eh?" And the Tortoise company dared them with, "Iwâ!" Then the Leopard company insultingly retorted, "We are the ones who are accustomed to sleep with people's sisters, and continue to eat with them!" (i.e., that they could commit crimes with impunity, and still be allowed the intimate friendship of eating together, without the others daring to punish them). Then the Leopard company bowled the wheel toward the side of the Tortoise company. These latter pierced the wheel with all their spears; none missed. The Tortoise company shouted for victory, "Boho! eh?" And the Leopard company dared them with, "Iwâ!" Then the Tortoise children shouted boastfully, "We are those who are accustomed to kill people's fathers, and hang up their skins, eh?" At this, the Leopard children began to rage, and joined a fight with the children of Tortoise. The children of Tortoise, and himself, and their wives and their children, fled and scattered over the logs into the stream of water, and hid themselves in holes, and never came back to town. TALE 33 THE FIGHTS OF MBUMA-TYETYE AND AN ORIGIN OF THE LEOPARD Persons Mekuku, and Two of His Sons Mbuma-Tyetye and Njâ King Njambu Betoli (Rats) Mwamba (Snakes) Ngângâlâ (Millepedes) Kedi (Stinging Ants) Njambu Ya Mekuku (Spirits), and His Town Women Hidden in Chests Ngwaye (Partridge) Kâ (Snails) Ihonga-Honga (A Giant Tooth) Hova (A Magic Gourd) Tângâ (Horn) Ibumbu (Bundle of Medicine) Kanja (A Bowl) Ikanga (Spear) Ngalo (A Magic Amulet) NOTE Ngalo is a powerful fetish-charm. Sitting in a visitor's lap for a few moments, is a mode of welcome. "Njambu" is one of their forms of spelling the name of the Creator; very commonly used also for human beings. The account of the wrestling-match is suggestive of the surroundings of a modern athletic field. Njambu built a Town. He continued there a long time. After he had finished the town, he married very many wives. After a short time they all of them bore children. Those births were of many sons. He gave them names: Among them were, Upuma-mwa-penda (Year-of-doubt), and Njâ (Leopard). And again, his wives, after a short time, all of them became mothers. This time, they gave birth to a large number of daughters. He gave them also names. His town was full with men and women; they were crowded. And all busy. They that worked at stakes, went to cut saplings; those that made rattan-ropes, went to cut the rattan-vine; they that shaped the bamboo for building, went to cut the bamboo-palms; they that made thatch went to gather the palm-leaves; they that set up the stakes of the house-frame went to thrust them into the ground; they who fastened the walls, fastened them; they who tied thatch on the roof, tied it; they who split the rattan vines for tying, split them. The town was full of noise. The children of Njambu kept their father's town in motion. They rejoiced in the abundance of people and their force. They took dowries also for their sisters, and gave them in marriage to young men of other towns. Arguments were discussed; stories about White Men were told; amusements were played; food was eaten; and the sons of Njambu married wives. One of Njambu's sons, Upuma-mwa-penda, said to his mother, "Make me mekima," (mashed plantain). His mother asked him, "Where are you going with the mekima?" He answered, "I'm going to seek a marriage." And she said "Good!" In the morning, he took his rolls of mashed plantains, and started to go on his journey. He said to his mother, "You must keep my house." She replied, "It is well." He went on, on, on, until, on the road ahead, he met with two Rats, who were fighting. He took an ukima-roll, divided it, and gave to them, saying, "Take ye and eat." They accepted, and told him, "You shall arrive at the end." He goes on stepping quickly, quickly; and meets two Snakes fighting. He parted them. He took an ukima-roll and gave to them; they ate. They said to him, "You shall reach the end." He goes on with his journey, until ahead were two Millepedes fighting. He said to them, "For what are you killing each other?" He parted them, and gave them an ukima-roll. They took it and said, "You shall reach the end!" He lay down in the forest at night. At midnight, his mother saw, in her sleep, something that said, "Go with thy two daughters in the morning, and take food for Mbuma-Tyetye (another name for Upuma-mwa-penda)." Early in the morning, she awoke her two daughters, and said, "Come! let us go to follow after your brother; he is still on his way." They started, on, on, on, until they found him sitting down in the path. They brought out the food from their traveling-bag, and they said, "We have come to give you food." They prepared the meal, and they ate. And they slept that night in the forest. Next morning, they started again, and they walked on, on, on, with their journey. As they came on their way, they listened ahead, and they heard something, saying, "Eh! fellows, eh! eh! fellows eh! Nobody shall pass! Nobody shall pass here!" When they drew near, they met an immense quantity of Red stinging Ants spread from the ground up to the tree-tops, entirely closing the way. Mbuma-tyetye and his company said, "Ah! these are they who were shouting here!" He advanced to the fight, and called to his younger sister, "Come on!" She lifted her foot just to tread upon the Ants; and they instantly entirely covered her. He and his company tried in vain to draw her back. The Ants shouted, to strengthen themselves. "Eh! fellows, eh!" He, still fighting, called to the elder sister, "On ahead!" Just as she lifted her foot, there came all the Tribe of Red Ants, and would have covered her up. The woman jumped to one side vigorously, and stood there in that spot, fanning away the sweat of her exertions, pe, pe, pe. She returned again to the Ants; and they met. She called out, "Ngalo! hot water!" and it appeared. She took it, and dashed it at the Red Ants. But they all went into their holes; and came out at another opening, again closing the path. She still stood there ready to fight; but they covered her, and dragged her behind them. The Ants shouted over their victory, "Eh! fellows, eh! Today no person passes here!" The son called to his mother, "Mother! come on!" His mother said, "My child! I am unable." He called, "Ngalo! Fire!" Fire at once appeared. Having drawn back the corpses of his sisters, he seized the fire, and thrust it into the nests of the Ants. He thrust it also among the trees. The flame ignited them; and the surrounding forest burned to ashes with all the trees. And the Ants were all burned too. Then he brought his sisters to life, by taking that ashes, and throwing it over them, and down their throats into their stomachs. When the day darkened, he said, "Ngalo! a house!" A tent at once appeared, with a table, and tumblers, and water, and all food. They sat there and ate. When they finished eating, they set tea on the table. They drank; they talked of their experiences. When they ended, they said, "Let us lie down together." So they lay down for the night. As the next day was coming, a Partridge gave forth its voice, "Rise! tyâtyâ lâ! tyâtyâ lâ!" And the day broke also. They wash their faces; they set tea on the table, and drank it. They folded the tent-house, and swallowed it, (as a mode of carrying it). They started with their journey, and went conversing on the way. As they came along, Something was heard ahead. They listened, and heard a song. "Gribâmbâ! eh! Gribâmbâ! eh!" Mbuma-tyetye and his mother and sisters kept on going toward the sound, which continued, "Dingâlâ! eh! A person will not pass! No doubt about it! Dingâlâ! eh! Wherever he comes from, he can pass here only by coming from above." The man and his company approached the source of the song, and exclaimed, "There it is!" They went on and found the entire tribe of Snails filling the road hither and yonder. He said to his mother, "What shall we do with the Kâ Tribe?" They sat down to consider. They decided, "A fight! this very day!" They sat still, and rested for a while. Then he went ahead and shouted to his younger sister, "Come!" She called out, "Ngalo! a short sword!" It appeared. She called again, "A strong cloth!" It appeared, and she dressed herself with it. As she approached the Snails, one of them fell on her head with a thud, ndi! She took the sword, and struck it, ko! The Snails shouted, "We're nearing you!" A crowd of them came rapidly, one after another; in a heap, they entirely covered her, vyâ! And she lay a corpse! The Snails swarmed over her, and taking her, threw her behind them. They shouted in victory, "Tâkâ! Dingâlâ! eh!" Then the elder sister said she was going to help her brother in facing the Snails. Her mother objected, "You? Stay!" But she replied, "Let me go!" She girded her body tightly, and then she entered the fight. The Snails surrounded her. They were about to drag her to their rear, when, she, at the side of the path, attempted to spring from them. But they swarmed over her. And she lay a corpse! The mother was crying out, "O! My child!" when the Snails covered her too. Mbuma-tyetye retreated, to rest himself for a short time, and called out, "Ngalo! a helmet!" It appeared. He fitted it to his head. He called again, "Ngalo! a glass of strong drink, and of water too!" It appeared. He asked for tobacco. It appeared. "Matches!" They appeared. He struck a match, and smoked. As he thrust the cigar in his mouth, it stimulated him; it told him things of the future in its clouds of smoke. After he had rested, he stood up, again for the fight. The Snails tuned their song: "Iyâ! Dingâlâ! disabete! Iyâ! Dingâlâ! sâlâlâsâlâ! Disabete! Iyâ! Dingâlâ! Iyâ! Dingâlâ! Iyâ! Dingâlâ! Sâlâlâsâlâ! Iyâ! Dingâlâ! Eh! Bamo-eh!" The Snails, in their fierce charge, killed him, and were about to take away the corpse; when, his Ngalo returning him to life, he sprang erect, and cried out, "Ah! my Father Njambu! Dibadi-O!" And he took up his war-song:-- "Tata Njambu ya milole, milole mi we. Ta' Njambu! milole mi we. Ta' Njambu! milole mi we. Milole mi we. Ta' Njambu!" All that while, the mother and his sisters were lying dead. The Snails were shouting in their victory, "Tâkâ!" Mbuma-tyetye took a short broad knife in his hands, and shouted, "Dibadi!" He girded his body firmly, and stood erect. He called out in challenge, "I've come!" The Snails answered, "You've reached the end!" They fought. The man took his sword. The Snails fell down on him, ndwa! But the man stood up, and moved forward. He laid hold of a small tree. He cut it, and whirled it about at the Snails. And the Snails fell down on the ground, po! But they rose up again flinging themselves upon the man, ndwa! The man jumped aside crying out, "Ah! My father Njambu! Dibadi-O!" He took fire, thrust it among the tribe of Snails, and every one fell down on the ground, mbwâ! Then he shaped a leaf into a funnel, and dropped a medicine into the noses of his mother and sisters. They slowly rose and tried to sit up. He poured the ashes of the Snails over them, po! They breathed it into their stomachs, kii! and they came fully to life. Then they said, "You are safe! Now! for our return home!" He said, "Good!" And they returned. Mbuma-tyetye continued his own journey, on, on, on, until at a cross-roads, he found a giant Tooth, as large as a man. Tooth asked, "Where are you going?" Said he, "I'm going to seek a marriage at a town of Njambu-ya-Mekuku." Then, with his axe in hand, he turned aside from the path; chopped firewood, chop, chop, chop, chop, mbwâ! Then he kindly carried a lot of it, and presented it to Tooth. He also opened his bag, and taking out an ukima roll, laid it down at the feet of Tooth; also a bundle of gourd-seeds, and laid it down; and then he said, "I'm going." But the giant Tooth, pleased with him, said to him, "Just wait!" So, he waited; and, while waiting, said, "Ngalo! a fine house!" It appeared there. "A table!" There! "Good food!" There! "Fine drink!" There! They two ate, and drank, and had conversation together. Tooth said to him, "Where you go, do not fear." It brought out from its hut a water-gourd, and said, "I will not show you more, nor will I tell you anything at all, but this Hova itself will tell you." Then Tooth said to him, "Go well!" The man took the Gourd and clung to it as if it was a treasure. He started again on his journey, and had gone but a little way, when he found Kuda-nuts in immense abundance. He took up one, drew his knife, cracked the nut, and threw the kernel into his mouth. He stooped again, and was about to pick up another, when the Gourd warned him, "I! I!" So, he left the nuts. He came on in his journey, and found in abundance wild Mangoes. He took one, split it, and bit out a piece; and was about to add another, when the warning came, "I! I!" So, he left the Mangoes; yet his belly felt full. Still on his journey, thirst for water seized him at a stream. He took his cup, plunged it into the water, filled it, drank, and was about to take more, when the warning said, "I! I!" And he left the water. Yet his belly felt full. On his journey still, till he came to a large river. There he stood, and listened, as he heard a boat-song, "Ayehe! âhe! âyehe! e!" There passed by the sound of paddles, wom'! wom'! but he saw no person; nor did he see any canoe. Gourd said to him, "Call!" Then he called out, "Who are these? Bring me a canoe!" A voice replied, "Who are you?" He answered, "I!" The canoe came nearer, its crew singing, singing, until it grounded on the beach. He saw what seemed only a great log! Gourd said to him, "Embark!" He got in. The crew also (apparently) got in again; for, the sound of paddles was again heard, worom'! worom'! Instead of going straight across the river, they pulled far up stream, and then came all the way down again on the other side. As they came, they were constantly keeping up the song, until they grounded at the landing-place at that other side. Still he saw nothing of the invisible boatmen, when he landed. Ascending the bank of the stream, he saw a strange new town. He entered its public reception-house, and sat down. As he was looking for some one to come, a Horn came and sat on his lap, and then moved away. A Bundle of Medicine came, sat, and moved away. A Bowl came and sat. A Spear came and sat. All these Things saluted him. Behold! they were the People of that Town (in disguise); but he saw none of them. Gourd said to him, "Come and escort me into the back-yard." He at once stepped out; and, when in the back-yard, It said. "Put me down." (It had been carried suspended from his shoulder.) He put It down, standing It at the foot of a plantain-stalk. Gourd making a leaf funnel, dropped something into his eyes. His eyes suddenly, kaa! were opened, and he saw everything, and all the people, and the whole street. Returning to the house, he sat down. Maidens came. Such goodness as you have scarcely known! Forms lovely to see! The Chief of the town said, "Make ye food!" It was made at once. Then one whom he chose was given him for his wife. She and this young son-in-law were left sitting in the house. The wife began to weep, saying to herself, "What will be his manner of eating?" (a test to be applied to him as suitor). The Gourd called him with a voice like the stroke of a bell, ngeng! He went out to the Gourd, and It said to him, "When you shall eat, take one piece of plantain, flesh of the fowl, and then dip one spoonful of the udika (wild-mango gravy), put them in your mouth; and thou shalt say unto her, 'Take; you may remove the food.' You shall see what will happen." He did so. His wife laughed in her heart; and she went and told her mother, "He is a person of sense." The towns-people said to her, "What did he do?" She evasively said to them. "Let us see!" In the evening, the father-in-law said to him, "You have found us here in the midst of a work of garden-making for your mother-in-law." (A man is always expected to do some work for his wife's mother.) He said. "That's good, Father!" Gourd called to him, and told him, "It is not a garden; it is an entire forest; it is not planted; it is all wild country. But, tomorrow, at daylight, early, you say to your wife that she must go and show you. You must take one young plantain-set, and a machete, and an axe. When you shall arrive there, then you shall say to her, 'Go back!' And she will go back. Then, you will slash with the machete, kwa! and leave it. You take also the axe and cut, ka! and say, 'Ngunga-O! Mekud' O! Makako ma dibake man­jeya-O!' You shall see what will happen. Then you insert the plantain-set in the ground. Then you set up a bellows, and work it. And you shall see what will happen." (All that Garden-Plan was made by the townspeople in order that he might weary of the task, and they then find excuse for killing him. For they were Cannibals.) At daybreak, he did so. He called his wife. He and she went on until they came to the chosen spot. Said he, "Go back!" The woman went back. He did just as he had been directed, as to the clearing, and the felling, the incantation, and the planting. The plantains bore, and ripened at once. Every kind of food developed in that very hour. The man went back to the town, and sat down. They set before him food. They sent a child to spy the garden. The child returned, excitedly saying, "Men! the entire forest! with all such foods! only ripe ones!" They said to him, "You're telling a falsehood!" And they said, "Let another go and see." He went; and returned thence with a ripe plantain held in his hand. In the evening, the Chief said to him, "Sir! tomorrow, people will have been filled with hunger for meat. A little pond of your mother-in-law is over there. Tomorrow it is to be bailed out." (In order to get the fish that would be left in the bottom pools.) Gourd called him, ngeng! He went to It, and It said, "That is not a pond, it is a great river, (like the Lobi at Batanga). However, when you shall go, you must take one log up stream and one log down stream (for a pretence of dams). You shall see what will happen. Then you must bail only once, and say, 'Itata-O!' You shall see." Next morning, he did so. And the whole river was drained; and the fish were left in the middle, alone. He returned to the town, and sat down. The people went to see; and, they were frightened at the abundance of fish. For a whole month, fish were gathered; and fish still were left. The Chief went to call his townspeople, saying, "We will do nothing to this fellow. Let him alone; for, you have tried him with every test." They said, "Yes; and he has lingered here," (i.e., was no longer a stranger; and therefore should not be eaten). But, they said, "Tomorrow there will be only wrestling." (This was said deceitfully.) In the evening, the father-in-law called him, saying, "Mbuma-tyetye, tomorrow there is only wrestling. You have stayed long here. As you are about to go away with my child, there is left only one thing more that she wants to see, that is, the wrestling tomorrow." Gourd called him, and said to him, "It is not only for wrestling. You know the part of the village where is the Wrestling-Ground. There is a big pit there. You will take care if you are near that pit; and you must push them in." In the evening, food was made, and soon it was ready. He and his wife ate, and finished. They engaged in conversation. They took pleasure over their love that night. The next day, in the morning, very early, the drums, both the elimbi and the common, began promptly to tell things in the street. (The Elimbi is a specially made drum used to transmit information by a system of signal strokes. News is thus carried very far and very rapidly.) The Gourd called him, and handed him a leaf of magic-medicine, to hold in his hand, saying, "Go; fear not!" The townspeople began to shout back and forth a song (to arouse enthusiasm). Two companies ranged on each side of the street, singing. "Engolongolo! hâ! hâ! Engolongolo! hâ! hâ!" "Engolongolo! hâ! hâ! Engolongolo! hâ! hâ!" Hearing their song as a challenge, the young man went out of the house into the street. Up to this point, the strongest wrestler of the town, named Ekwamekwa, was not with them; he was out in the forest, felling trees. When the towns-people saw the young man standing in the street, they advanced as many as a hundred all at once. He laid his hands upon them, and they all went back; he also went back. Soon he advanced again, and his single opponent advanced. They two laid their hands on each other's shoulders. The townspeople began another song, as if in derision. "O! O! A! O! O! A! O! O! A!" At once, he seized his opponent, and threw him into the pit. Thereupon, his father-in-law shouted in commendation, "Iwâ!" Another one came forward; Mbuma-tyetye advanced; and as they met together, he took him, and threw him into the pit. Again the shout, "Iwâ!" The sisters of the two men in the pit began to cry. The others said to the girls, "What are you doing? He shall die today! It is we who shall eat those entrails today!" (Among cannibals, a choice portion.) Another one was coming, and, as they met together, again the shout of derision, "O! O! O! A! O! O! O! A! O! O! O! A!" But, at one fling, Mbuma-tyetye cast him into the pit. "Iwâ" was repeated. The sister of him who was thrown thus into the pit began to cry. The people rebuked her, "Mbâbâ! mbâbâ! Join in the singing!" Another one was coming; Mbuma-tyetye advanced; and as they came together, he lifted him, holding him by the foot. The singers, to encourage their man, said responsively, "Dikubwe! Dikubwe! Fear not an elephant with his tusks! Take off! take off!" Mbuma-tyetye lifted him, and promptly pushed him down into the pit, with a thud, 'kodom'! The people began to call out anxiously, "We-e! we-e! O! They are overcome! They are overcome! O! Some one must go hastily, and call Ekwamekwa, and tell him that people are being destroyed in the town, and he must come quickly." Some one got up, and ran to call Ekwamekwa, wailing as he went, "Iyâ! Iyâ! Iyâ! Ekwamekwa, iyâ-O! Come! People are exterminated in the town!" He heard with one ear (i.e. at once). He snatched up his machete and axe, saying, "What is it?" The messenger repeated, "Come! a being from above has destroyed many a one in the town!" The man Ekwamekwa, full of boasting, said, "Is it possible there is no man in the town?" He came, already shaking the muscles of his chest, pwâ! pwâ (a custom with native wrestlers, as a lion his mane). His muscles were quivering with rage, nyâ! nyâ! nyâ! The drums, both the elimbi-telegraph and the common, were being beaten, and were sounding without intermission. The singers were shouting; the wrestlers' bodies had perspiration flowing from them. The noise of the people, of the telegraph drums and other drums, and sticks (sticks beating time) were rattling kwa! kwa! kwa! As Ekwamekwa appeared, the women and children raised their shrill voices. The shouters yelled, "A! lâ! lâ! lâ! â!" Mbuma-tyetye advanced at once. He and Ekwamekwa laid hold of one another, and alternately pressed each other backward and forward. The one tried tricks to trip the other, and the other tried the same. Ekwamekwa held him, and was about to throw him on the ground. The other jumped to one side, and stood, his muscles quivering, po! po! po! tensely. Ekwamekwa seized him about the waist and loins. The people all were saying, "Let no one shout!" (lest Ekwamekwa be confused). They said, "Make no noise! He is soon going to be eaten!" And it was a woman who said, "Get ready the kettle!" Ekwamekwa still held him by the loins. So, they called out, "Down with him! Down with him!" But Mbuma-tyetye shouted, "I'm here!" He put his foot behind Ekwamekwa's leg, and lifted him, and threw him into the pit, kodom! Then there was a shout of distress by the people, "A! â! â! â!" and Ekwamekwa called out, "Catch him! catch him!" Mbuma-tyetye, lifting his feet, ran to his father-in-law's end of the town, and all the men came after him. His father-in-law protected him, and said to them, "You can do nothing with this stranger!" At night, the Chief said to him, "Sir, you may go away tomorrow." At daybreak, food was cooked. The Chief Njambu-ya-Mekuku, put his daughters into large chests. In one was a lame one; another, covered with skin disease; and another, with a crooked nose; and others, with other defects in other chests, each in her own chest. But, he put the wife into a poor chest all dirty outside with droppings of fowls, and human excrement, and ashes. In it also, he placed a servant and all kinds of fine clothing. Then said he to Mbuma-tyetye, "Choose which chest contains your wife." The Gourd at once called him, and It said to him, "Lift me up!" It whispered to him, "The chest which is covered with dirt and filth, it is the one which contains your wife. Even if they say, 'Ha! ha! he has had all his trouble for nothing; he has left his wife,' do you nevertheless carry it, and go on with your journey." He came to the spot where the chests were. The Chief said again, "Choose, from the chests, the one which contains your wife." Mbuma-tyetye picked up the poor one. They shouted. But, he at once started on his journey, and on, until he came to the river, stepped into a canoe, paddled to the other side, landed, and went on, carrying the chest. Almost in an instant (by his magic Ngalo) he was at the place of the Great Tooth. It asked, "How is it there?" He replied, "Good!" The Gourd, in leaving, reported to Its mother, the Tooth, "A fine fellow, that person there!" He went on with his journey, his feet treading firmly. Almost with one stride (by aid of his Ngalo), in the twinkling of eyes, he was near the spring at his own town. Then he said, "Now let me open the chest here!" On his opening it, a maiden attended by her servant came stepping out, arrayed in the clothing which had been placed in the chest for her dress. One's eyes would ache at sight of her silks, and the fine form of her person. And you or any other one could say, "Yes! you are a bride! truly a bride!" Two young women rose up in the town to go to the spring to dip up water. They were just about to come to the spring, when they saw their brother and his wife and her servant. They two went back together rapidly to the town, saying, "Well! if there isn't the woman whom Mbuma-tyetye has married! They are two women and himself!" The town emptied itself to go and meet them on the path. His father took powder and guns, with which to announce the arrival; and cannon were roaring. When the young woman came and stood there in the street, there was only shouting and shouting, in admiration. Another brother, named Njâ, when he came to see her, was so impressed to get a wife like her, that, without waiting for the salutations to be made, he said to his mother, "My mother! make for me my mekima, too." Mbuma-tyetye entered into the house, he and his wife. At once hot water was set before them, and they went to bathe. When they had finished, they entered the public Reception-Room. Njâ, impatient to get away and, in impolite haste, said, "Now, for my journey!" His brother advised him, "First wait; let me tell you how the way is." He replied, "Not so!" And he started off on his journey. The others sat down to tell, and to hear the news. They told Mbuma-tyetye the affairs of the town; and he responded as to how he had come. When he had completely finished, he was welcomed, "Iye! Oka! oka-O! But now, sit down and stay." Now, when Njâ had gone, he met the two Millepedes fighting. He exclaimed, "By my father Njambu! what is this?" He stood there with laughter, "Kye! kye! kye!" He clapped his hands, "Kwâ! kwâ! You! there! let me pass!" They asked, "Give us an ukima." He stood laughing, kwa! kwa! saying, "I will see this today! Food that is eaten by a human being! Is it so that they have teeth? As I see it, they, having no mouths, how can they eat?" But he opened his food-bag, took an ukima, and gave them a small piece. They rebuked him for his meanness, and laid a curse on him, "Aye! You will not reach the end." He responded, "I won't reach my end, eh? Humph! I'm going on my journey!" He left them; and they grabbed at the very little piece of ukima he had given them. He cried out, "Journey!" and went on both by day and by night, traveling until he met the two Snakes fighting. He derided them, and took a club, and was about to strike them, when they cursed him, "You will not reach the end!" However, he gave them, at their request, an ukima, and passed on. As he turned to go, and was leaving them, they made signs behind him, repeating their curse, "He will not reach safely!" And they added, "He has no good sense; let us leave him." He still cried out, "Journey!" and went on to that place of Ihonga-na-Ihonga whose size filled all the width of the way. He made a shout, raising it very loud, and repeated his exclamation, "By my father, Njambu! Thou who hast begotten me, thou hast not seen such as this!" Tooth asked, "Where are you going?" He, astonished, exclaimed, "Ah! It can talk! Alas! for me!" And he added a shout again, with laughter, "Kwati! kwati! kwati!" It spoke and said, "Please, split for me fire-wood." He replied, "What will fire-wood do for you?" He, however, split the wood hastily, ko! ko! ke! and left it in a pile. It said, "Leave me an ukima." He responded, "Yes; let me see what It will do with it now!" He opened his food-bag, and laid an ukima down disrespectfully, and said, "Eat! let me see!" Tooth said to him, "Sleep here!" Said he, "If I sleep here, what is there for me to sit on?" It replied only, "Sleep here!" He said, "Yes!" Then he invoked his Ngalo, "A seat!" It appeared, and he sat down. In the evening, he invoked, "Ngalo, a house!" It appeared. "A bed!" It appeared. "A table!" It appeared. "Food!" It was set out. He ate, but did not offer any to Tooth, and fell into a deep sleep. At daybreak, he was given water to wash his face, and food; and he ate it. Then the Tooth said to him, "Now, this is a Hova; go; the Hova will tell you what you should do." Said he sarcastically "Good! a good thing!" And he started on his journey. But, when he was gone, he despised the Gourd, and said to himself, "What can this water-jar do for me? I shall leave it here." And he laid it down at the foot of a Buda tree. There were many kuda (nuts of the Buda) lying on the ground. He prepared a seat, and sat down. He gathered the kuda nuts in one place. He took up a nut, broke it, threw its kernel into his mouth, and chewed it. He picked up another one, and was going to break it. Gourd warningly said, "I! I!" He replied, "Is it that you want me to give it to you?" Gourd answered only, "I-I!" And he said, "But, then, your 'I! I!' what is it for?" He broke many of the nuts, taking them up quickly; and finished eating all. And still his stomach felt empty, as if he had eaten nothing. He then said, "The Journey!" He started, still carrying with him the Gourd, going on, on, until he came to the Bwibe tree (wild mango). That Bwibe was sweet. He collected the mibe fruits, and began to split them. He split many in a pile, and then said, "Now! let me suck!" He sucked them all, but he felt no sense of repletion, although the Gourd had warned him. He took the skins of the mibe fruit, and angrily thrust them inside the Gourd's mouth, saying, "Eat! You who have no teeth, what makes you say I must not eat? But, take you!" He goes on with his journey. And he found water. He took his drinking-vessel, plunged it into the water, dipped, put it to his mouth, drank, and drained the vessel. He wanted more, plunged the vessel, and drank, draining the vessel. He took more again, disregarding the warnings of Gourd. The water said to him, "Here am I, I remain myself." (i.e. I will not satisfy you.) He gave up drinking, and started his journey again, journeying, journeying, crossed some small creeks, and passed clear on, until he came to the River. As he listened, he heard songs passing by. He said to himself. "Now! those who sing, where are they?" The Gourd spoke to him, saying, "Call for the canoe!" He replied, "How shall I call for a canoe, while I see no people?" Gourd repeated to him, "Call!" Then he shouted out, "You, bring me the canoe!" Voices asked, "Who art thou?" He answered, "I! Njâ!" Some of the voices said, "Come! let us ferry him across." Others said, "No!" But the rest answered, "Come on!" Then they entered their canoe, laid hold of their paddles, and came singing, "Kapi, madi, madi, sa! Kapi, mada, mada, sa!" And they came to the landing. He saw nothing but what seemed a log, and exclaimed, "How shall I embark in a log, while there is neither paddle, nor a person for a crew?" But Gourd directed him, "Embark!" So, he went in the log. They paddled, and brought him to the other side. He jumped ashore, and stood for a moment. Then he moved on with the journey, walking on to a certain town (that town of the Spirits). He saw nobody, but entered into the public Reception-House, and sat down. Gourd spoke to him, saying, "Come, and escort me to the back-yard." He curtly answered, "Yes." He carried It, and stood It at the foot of a plantain stalk. Then he went back to the Reception-House and sat down. A Bundle of Medicines came to salute him, and was about to sit on his lap. He jumped up saying, "What is this?" He sat down again. Another Bundle fell on his lap. He exclaimed, "Hump! what is that?" The Bundle being displeased, replied, "You will not come to the end." (i.e. you will not have a successful journey.) The Gourd called him; and he went to the back-yard. The Gourd said to him, "Stand up!" And he stood up. Then the Gourd took a leaf, folded it as a funnel, and dropped a Medicine into his eyes; and he began to see everything clearly. He said, "This is the only thing which I can see that this Hova has done for me." He passed by, and entered the Reception-House again, and sat down. A person came saluting him, "Mbolo!" He responded, "Ai!" Another came, "Mbolo!" He replied, "Ai!" They cooked food, and got it ready to bring to him. During this while, he told his errand, and was given a wife. Gourd called him. He went out to It: and It directed him, "When you are going to eat, you must take only one piece of plantain, and a piece of the flesh of the fowl. Then you dip it into the udika-gravy, and put it into your mouth; and you will chew it; and when you have swallowed it, then you leave the remainder of the food." He disregardfully said, "Yes! Yes!" And he laughed, "kye! kye! kye! I do not know what this Hova means! And that 'remainder,' shall I give it to It?" And he entered the house again, and sat down. The food was set out. Little children came; they said to each other, "Let us see how he will eat." He took up a piece of plantain, and put it in his mouth; he took a fowl's leg, put it in his mouth; and gnawed the flesh off of the bone. He took up another piece of plantain, dipped a spoon into the udika-gravy, and put it into his mouth; he took a piece of meat and a plantain, and swallowed them. The little children began to jeer at him, "He eats like a person who has never eaten before." He rose; but felt as if his stomach was empty. He again seated himself, and he and his wife played games together. Soon he said, "My body feels exhausted with hunger"; food was again made and was set out; he ate. The result was the same. The evening meal was also prepared; he ate, and finished; and still was hungry. In the evening, the Chief of the town called together the tribe and said to them, "Men! I see that this fellow has no sense; let him return to his place." On another day, Njâ said to himself, "Let me try, as the Hova has advised me, about the food." They cooked; they set it on the table. He took a piece of plantain, and some flesh of the fowl; he placed them on a spoon, and dipped them into the udika, and put them into his mouth. He rose up, saying, "I have finished!" And his stomach felt replete. Then he thought to himself, "So! is it possible that this Hova knows the affairs of the Spirits?" The next time when food was spread on the table, he did the same way; and his stomach was satisfied. Another day broke, and his father-in-law said to him, "On the morrow will be your journey." When the next day dawned, the Chief brought out the chests containing his daughters, and said, "Now, then! choose the one that you will take with you." The Gourd whispered to him, "Do not take the fine-looking one; you must take the one you see covered with filth." He responded, "Not I!" The one he chose was the fine one. He took it up, and carried it away. The town's-people began to cry out (in pretence), "Oh! he has taken from us that fine maiden of ours!" He was full of gladness that at last he was married. But, really, he was carrying a woman, crooked-nosed, and all of whose body was nothing but skin-disease, and pus oozing all over her. He went on his journey, on, on, on, on, until the town of the Tooth. Said he, "Here's your Hova!" The Tooth requested, "Tell me the news from there." The Gourd whispered to Tooth, "Let this worthless fellow be! Let him go! He did not marry a real woman. So, he is not a person." The man at once went on with his journey, continuously, until he came to the spring by his own town. Said he, "Let me bathe!" He put down the chest, and threw his body with a plunge, into the water. He bathed himself thoroughly, and emerged on the bank. Then he said to himself, "Now, then, let me open the chest!" The key clicked, and the chest opened. A sick woman stepped out! He demanded, "Who brought you here?" She replied, "You." Said he in astonishment, "I?" "Yes," answered she. He, in anger, said, "Go back! Do not come at all to the town!" He at once started to go to the town; and the woman slowly followed. There were two children who were going to the spring. As they went, they met with her; and they cried out in fear, "Aye! aye! aye! a Ghost! aye!" And they went back together in haste to the town. The town's-people asked them, "What's the matter?" They said, "Come! there's a Ghost at the spring!" The woman continued slowly coming. Other children said, "Let us go! Does a Ghost come in the daytime? That is not so!" As they came on the path, they met her. They asked her, "Who has married you?" She replied, "Isn't it Njâ?" The children excitedly cried out shrilly, "A! lâ! lâ!" They went back quickly to the town, saying, "Come ye! see the wife of Njâ!" The town emptied itself to go and see her. And they inquired of her, "Who is it who has married you?" She answered, "Is it not Njâ?" And the shrill cry of surprise rose again, "A! lâ! lâ! lâ!" When they reached the town, Njâ rose in anger from his house, picked up his spear, stood facing them, and threatened with his spear, "This is it!" He passed by them into the back-yard, and changed his body to that of a new kind of beast, with spots all over his skin. At once he stooped low on four legs; and thrust out his claws; and begun a fight with the people of the town, as a Leopard. Then he went, leaping off into the Forest. From there, he kept the name "Njâ," and has continued his fight with Mankind. The hatred between leopards and mankind dates from that time. Some of the people of that country had said to Mbuma-Tyetye that he would not be able to marry at the town of the Spirits, and had tried to hinder him. But he did go, and succeeded in marrying a daughter of Njambu-ya-Mekuku; while Njâ, attempting to do the same, and not waiting for advice from his brother, and treating with disrespect the Spirits on the way, failed. TALE 34 A SNAKE'S SKIN LOOKS LIKE A SNAKE Persons Bokeli, Son of Njambe-Ya-Manga Jâmbâ, Daughter of Njambe-Ya-Madiki Ko (Wild Rat) Mbindi (Wild Goat) Etungi, A Town Idler Kuba (Chicken) NOTE Bokeli was like a snake. When a snake changes and throws off his old skin, that slough, when it is left lying at any place, is almost as fearful to see, as the snake itself. The list of the dowry goods for Jâmbâ is a good illustration of native exaggeration. Njambe-of-the-Interior begot a daughter called Jâmbâ. And Njambe-of-the-Sea-Coast begot a son called Bokeli. Many men arrived at the town of Njambe-of-the-Interior, asking Jâmbâ for marriage. There they were killed (Njambe's people were cannibals), not being able to fulfill the tests to which they were subjected. So, people said, "Jâmbâ will not be married!" Finally Bokeli, the son of Njambe-of-the-Sea-Coast, said, "I am going to take Jâmbâ for marriage." He prepared for his journey; he went; and he arrived at the town. He at once entered into the public Reception-House, and sat down. There the people of the town exclaimed, "A fine-looking man!" And they saluted him, "Mbolo!" The young women at once went to tell Jâmbâ, saying, "What a fine-looking man has come to marry you!" Previous to this, the mother of Jâmbâ, who was lame with sores, was lying in the house. If a prospective son-in-law laughed in her presence, she would say to her husband, "He is mocking at me!" Then that visitor would die. All the men who had come there to marry, were killed in that way. Before this (as Bokeli understood the speech of all Beasts and of Birds) when he entered into the Reception-House, a Cock in the town spoke to him, and said, "If your hope for food rests on me, you will not eat! I will not be killed for you; neither shall you eat at all!" Also a loin of Wild-Goat meat, hanging in the kitchen, said, "For me, you will not eat!" But Njambe (who had overheard the Cock, and who was thinking of food for his guest) ordered, "Today, catch ye Kuba!" But Cock ran off to the forest. Then the people said, "Take the leg of Mbindi!" The leg of Wild-Goat protested, "I?" And it rotted. They sought some other thing to cook for Bokeli; but, there was nothing. So, Njambe sent his sons hunting to kill wild beasts. Then, the mother of Jâmbâ called for Bokeli, saying, "He must come; let me see him." So, he entered into her house, and he sat down. They began to converse. It was but a little while then that the mother said to her daughter, "Search for me on the drying frame (over the fire-place); you will find Ko there; take it for the guest, and cook it." The Wild-Rat spoke, saying, "If it is I, he will not possibly eat!" At this, Bokeli broke into a laugh. The mother was displeased, and said, "You are laughing at me!" Bokeli replied, "No!" But, the woman flung into a rage, and threw herself down on the ground, ndi! She exclaimed, "Ah! Njambe! He laughed at me! Catch him! And let him go to die!" They laid hold of him, and brought him out of the house. They were about to go a little further to the end of the town, when he suddenly pretended he was a corpse, and leaving his body, his spirit went back home, and assumed another body. They became quiet, all of them being startled. When they moved him, he was as cold as cold victuals. They said, "What shall we do here?" Some of them advised, "Let us take Jâmbâ and this corpse, and let us go together to his father, and explain, 'Bokeli is dead, but this woman is his wife.'" Others said, "What! lest his father will kill us!" Then they decided, "Not so! but, let us send as messenger some Etungi (useless person; no loss if he should be killed) to the father's town." The Etungi went on that errand. When he arrived at Bokeli's town, he met Bokeli sitting at the village smithy, and, not recognizing him, was intending to pass him by. Thereupon, Bokeli called to him, "Brother-in-law! what are you doing? You have found me sitting here, but you seem about to entirely pass me by. Though all your family do not like me, come in to the Reception-House." The Etungi thought to himself, "Ah! I am dead! Is not this a brother of Bokeli?" Bokeli called to his mother, and told her, "Bring out that food of mine quickly that is there! My brother-in-law has come; he feels hungry!" They set the food as soon as possible. And the Etungi ate. Bokeli asked him, "Where are you going to?" The Etungi replied, "I'm on my way going to tell Njambe that his son Bokeli is dead." Bokeli said to him, "This is I." Then he gave the Etungi a shirt and a cloth and a hat, as proofs of his reality. The Etungi returned to his town. And he reported to the people in the town, "Bokeli is not dead; I met him at the bellows, working." They thought he was lying, and they said, "Let him be beaten!" But the Etungi replied, "True! see ye this shirt, and the cloth, and this hat!" He added, "He that doubts must first go and see." Then went Kombe. When he arrived, he found Bokeli at the bellows. When Bokeli saw him coming, he arose at once, and went to his mother in the house; he seized a machete, and cut down a plantain bunch, yo! And he said to his mother, "Make haste to cook it!" Kombe had by that time entered the Reception-House. Bokeli welcomed him, sa-a! and said, "Sit down!" Kombe sat down. Food had been cooked; and he ate. Kombe then says, "I'm going back!" Bokeli at once put down at his feet the dowry for Jâmbâ, cloths, shirts, hats, etc, etc. Kombe carried away the things. And having arrived at his town, he says, "It is true!" Their father Njambe directed, "Come ye! over there with a present as a propitiation!" Then he gathered goats, fowls, ducks, plantains, dried meats, fishes, all sorts and kinds. He ordered, "Make ye a bier, and carry the corpse. I am going, even if I die!" (He still had a doubt about the real Bokeli.) They did so. They carried the presents, and they went, going on the journey. When those in front had arrived at the half-way of the road, the father said to his children, "You must now remain here. I shall first go to the town. If you hear a sound of guns, you will know that I am killed; then ye must go back." The father Njambe took Jâmbâ to accompany him, and his wives with him. When Bokeli saw them coming, at once the cannon were loaded, and were fired in a salute of welcome, and all the guns and musical instruments sounded, and people saying, "The bride is come!" The children of Njambe who were left on the way, when they heard the sounds of the cannons and guns, said to themselves that their father was killed, and they scattered and hid themselves. But he hastily started and went back to the place where he had left them; and he found nobody there. He called them; and they came out of their hiding. He commanded, "Throw away this thing (the supposed corpse); take up the goods; come to the town of Bokeli." Then they went to the town. They found Jâmbâ and her husband Bokeli sitting and playing. And they were treated with much kindness. Oxen and pigs were killed; they ate; they drank; and had great fun and very much enjoyment. Njambe-of-the-Interior then said that he was ready to journey back to his town. But his friend Njambe-of-the-Sea-Coast said, "Not today, but tomorrow in the morning; then I will give you the dowry." On the next day, they delivered the dowry; five millions of spear-heads (an iron currency); knives also, a million; one thousand hats; one thousand shirts; one hundred cloths; bags and trunks one hundred; bales of all kinds of white man's things; and native things in abundance; cattle also in abundance. Then they went away with them to their town. And Bokeli and Jâmbâ remained in the seaside town with their marriage. PART THIRD FANG TRIBE FOREWORD In this Part, are tales told me by an old Batanga man, of the Banâkâ Tribe. He could not give me the time to come to my room, and tell me, sentence by sentence, as the other two narrators had done. But, having some education, he wrote the stories in his native language, and, at my leisure, I translated them. The translation is literal, except when the short phrases, clear to native thought, would have been an imperfect sentence to an English eye; or, where an allusion to well-known native customs, perfectly obvious to a native, would have been obscure to most readers. In such cases, I have sacrificed to clearness the concise native idiom. To a student of higher criticism, the sentences which are mine will reveal themselves. In my literal translations of the native, I have used very simple short words, mostly of Anglo-Saxon origin. In my own paraphrases, words of Latin origin have appeared. Some tales of this Part are of Fang origin from the Bulu Tribe of the interior. My Batanga friend told me he heard them from Bulu people visiting at the Coast, and he wrote them as they were then current on the coast. After I had translated them from his Banâkâ vernacular, I found, and pointed out to him, that some of them had already been printed in Fang, as specimens of Bulu idioms, in a published Grammar of the Bulu-Fang Language ("Handbook of Bulu, by G. S. Bates"). This explanation is proper to be made, that while, unknown to me, Mr. Bates was collecting direct from his Bulu informants in the interior, my Batanga friend had collected for me, from his Bulu visitors; and the tales were in my possession, translated into English by myself, before I saw Mr. Bates' book, or even knew of its existence. TALE 1 CANDOR Persons Ngiya (Gorilla) Ingenda (A Small Monkey) Gorilla, among all Beasts, was derided and jeered at by them. They called him "Broken-face." So, he spoke to Ingenda of the Monkey Tribe, and ordered it, "Just examine for me this face of mine; whether it is really so, you tell me." The monkey was afraid to refuse, and afraid also to tell the truth. So it ascended a tree; and, as it went, it plucked the fruits. It said to Gorilla, "I must first eat before answering your question; I feel hungry." (As an excuse to give itself time to escape.) So Ingenda went; and, by the time it had eaten two of the fruits, it was near the tree-top. Then it called to Gorilla "Look here! with your face turned upward." So the Gorilla looked, with its face upward. And Ingenda, being in a safe place, acknowledged, "It is really so, really so." Gorilla was angry; but was helpless to revenge itself on Ingenda for its candid statement; for, he had no way by which to catch him. And Ingenda went off, leaping as it went from tree-top to tree-top. TALE 2 WHICH IS THE BETTER HUNTER, AN EAGLE OR A LEOPARD? Persons Mbela (Eagle) Nje (Leopard) Eagle and Leopard had a discussion about obtaining prey. Eagle said, "I am the one who can surpass you in preying." Leopard said, "Not so! Is it not I?" Then Eagle said, "Wait; see whether you are the one to surpass me in preying." Thereupon he descended from above, seized a child of Leopard, and flew up with it to his nest. Leopard exclaimed, "Alas! what shall I do?" And he went, and went, walking about, coming to one place, and going to another, wishing to fly in order to go to the rescue of his child. He could not fly, for want of wings; therefore it was the other one who flew up and away. So it was that the eagle proved that he surpassed the leopard in seeking prey. TALE 3 A LESSON IN EVOLUTION Persons Unyunge (The Shrew-Mouse) Po (A Lemur) NOTE The development of the Shrew's long nose, and of the Lemur's big eyes. Shrew and Lemur were neighbors in the town of Beasts. At that time, the Animals did not possess fire. Lemur said to Shrew, "Go! and take for us fire from the town of Mankind." Shrew consented, but said, "If I go, do not look, while I am gone, toward any other place except the path on which I go. Do not even wink. Watch for me." So Shrew went, and came to a Town of Men; and found that the people had all emigrated from that town. Yet, he went on, and on, seeking for fire; and for a long time found none. But, as he continued moving forward from house to house, he at last found a very little fire on a hearth. He began blowing it; and kept on blowing, and blowing; for, the fire did not soon ignite into a flame. He continued so long at this that his mouth extended forward permanently, with the blowing. Then he went back, and found Lemur faithfully watching with his eyes standing very wide open. Shrew asked him, "What has made your eyes so big?" In return, Lemur asked him, "What has so lengthened your mouth to a snout?" TALE 4 PARROT STANDING ON ONE LEG Persons Njâku (Elephant) Koho (Parrot) Iwedo (Death) NOTE In former times, in the days of Witchcraft, it was the custom not to bury a corpse until the question was settled who or what had caused the death. This investigation sometimes occupied several days; during which time decomposition was hindered by the application of salt, and even by drying the remains in the smoke of a fire. Elephant built his own town; and Parrot built also his. Then the children of Parrot went a-hunting every day; and when they came back, the town had wild meat in abundance, hida! hida! One day Elephant announced, "I must go on an excursion to the town of Chum Koho." He arrived there and found him, with that fashion of his, of standing with one leg bent up under his feathers hidden. His friend Elephant asked him, "Chum! what have you done to your leg?" He answered him (falsely), "My children have gone with it a-hunting." Elephant being astonished said, "On your oath?" He replied, "Truly!" Then Elephant said, "I came to see you, only to see. I'm going back." The other said, "Yes; very good." Elephant returned to his town, and said to his children, "Arrange the nets today; tomorrow for a hunt!" The next day, the children made ready. And he, ashamed that a small Bird should do a greater act than himself said, "Take ye a saw, and cut off my leg." His children did not hesitate at his command, as they were accustomed to implicit obedience. So, they cut it off; and they carried with them, as he directed, the leg, on their hunt. When they were gone, to their father Elephant came Death, saying, "I have arrived!" People of the town cried for help, "Come ye! Njâku is not well!" But, the children were beyond hearing, being still away at the hunt. During their absence, Elephant died. When they arrived, they found their father a corpse. People wondered, saying, "What is this? Since we were born, we have not heard this, that hunting is carried on with the legs of one who remains behind in the town." When others, coming to the funeral, from other towns, asked the children, "Who was the person who counseled you such advice as that?" they said, "Himself it was who told us; he said to us 'Cut.' So we cut." Then, on farther investigation, the people said, "The blame belongs to Koho," so, they called Parrot to account. But, Parrot said, "It is not mine. I did not tell him to cut off his leg." So, the charge was dismissed. And the burial proceeded. TALE 5 A QUESTION OF RIGHT OF INHERITANCE Persons Utati-Mboka (A Sparrow) Koho (Parrot) A Man NOTE Sparrow based his claim on the grounds of companionship, and community of interests. Parrot's claim is based on a very common line of argument in native disputes not only about property, but in all questions of liability. Parrot and Sparrow argued about their right to inherit the property that a Man had left. The Sparrow said, "The Man and I lived all our days in the same town. If he moved, I also moved. Our interests were similar. At whatever place he went to live, there also I stood in the street." The Parrot spoke, and based his claim on the ground that he was the original cause of the Man's wealth. He said, "I was born in the tree-tops; then the Man came and took me, to live with him. "When my tail began to grow, he and his people took my feathers; With which they made a handsome head-dress; Which they sold for very many goods; With which they bought a wife; And that woman bore daughters; Who, for much money, were sold into marriages; And their children also bore other children; Wherefore, for that reason, it is that I say that I caused for them all these women, and was the foundation of all this wealth." This was what Parrot declared. So, the people decided, "Koho is the source of those things." And he was allowed to inherit. TALE 6 TORTOISE COVERS HIS IGNORANCE Persons Kudu (Tortoise) Iheli (Gazelle) Nje (Leopard) A Vine NOTE It is customary for men to do some service for their fathers and mothers-in-law. Tortoise arose and went to the town of his father-in-law Leopard. Leopard sent him on an errand, saying, "Go, and cut for me utamba-mwa-Ivâtâ." (The fiber of a vine is used for making nets.) Then he went. But, while he still remembered the object, he forgot the name of the kind of Vine that was used for that purpose. And he was ashamed to confess his ignorance. So, he came back to call the people of the town, and said, "Come ye and help me! I have enclosed Iheli in a thicket." The people came, and at once they made a circle around the spot. But when they closed in, they saw no beasts there. Then Tortoise called out, "Let someone of you cut for me, utamba-mwa-Ivâtâ." (As if that was the only thing needed to catch the animal which he had said was there.) Thereupon, his brother-in-law cut for him a vine which he brought to him, saying, "Here is an Ihenga vine which we use for making nets." Whereupon Tortoise exclaimed, "Is it possible that it was the Ihenga vine that I mistook?" TALE 7 A QUESTION AS TO AGE Persons Asanze (A Shrike) Kudu (Tortoise) And other Animals Njâbâ (Civet) Uhingi (Genet) Edubu (Snake) NOTE Differences in age as revealed by differences in taste for food. Shrike was a blacksmith. So, all the Beasts went to the forge at his town. Each day, when they had finished at the anvil, they took all their tools and laid them on the ground (as pledges). Before they should go back to their towns, they would say to the Bird, "Show us which is the eldest, and then you give us the things, if you are able to decide our question." He looked at and examined them; but he did not know, for they were all apparently of the same age; and they went away empty-handed, leaving their tools as a challenge. Every day it was that same way. On another day, Tortoise being a friend of the Bird, started to go to work for him at the bellows. Also, he cooked three bundles of food; one of Civet with the entrails of a red Antelope; and one of Genet; and one of an Edubu-Snake. (Suited for different tastes and ages.) Then he blew at the bellows. When the others were hungry at meal time, Tortoise took up the jomba-bundles; and he said, "Come ye! take up this jomba of Njâbâ with the entrails, and eat." (They were the old ones who chose to come and eat it.) Again Tortoise said, "Come ye! take up the jomba of Uhingi." (They were the younger men who chose to pick it up and eat it.) He then took up the jomba of the Snake. And he said, "Come ye! and take of the jomba of Edubu." (Those who took it were the youngest.) After awhile they all finished their work at the bellows. They still left their tools lying on the ground, and came near to the Bird, and they said, as on other occasions, "Show us who is the eldest." Then Tortoise at the request of the Bird, announced the decision, as if it was its own, "Ye who ate of the Njâbâ are the ones who are oldest; ye who ate of Uhingi are the ones who are younger men; and ye who ate of the Edubu are the ones who are the youngest." So, they assented to the decision, and took away their belongings. TALE 8 ABUNDANCE: A PLAY ON THE MEANING OF A WORD Persons A Hunter; Man Mbindi (Wild Goat) A Dwarf, with Magic-Power Bwinge (Abundance, or "More") Ngweya (Hog) Ungumba (Riches) NOTE The Man's patience finally brought to him the Plenty which was promised him. "Bwinge" might be the name of a person or of a thing; or, it could be the "abundance" for which the hunter hoped. There was a certain Man who was very poor; he had no goods with which to buy a wife. He went one day into the forest to set snares. On the morrow, he went off to examine them; and found a Wild-Goat caught in the snares. He rejoiced and said, "I must eat Mbindi today!" But the Wild-Goat said to that Man, "Let me alone, Bwinge is coming after awhile." So, the Man, thinking that "Bwinge" was the name of some other and more desirable animal, at once let the Wild-Goat loose, and went off to his town. On the next day, the Man went to examine the snare, to see whether Bwinge was there, and found Hog caught fast in the net. And he exclaimed, "I must eat Ngweya today!" But the Hog said, "Let me go. Bwinge is coming." The man at once left the Hog, (still thinking that many more were coming); and it went away. The Man wondered, and said to himself, "What Thing is it that is named 'Bwinge'?" On another day, he went to set his snare. He found there a dwarf child of a Human Being; and, in anger, he said, "You are the one who has caused me to send away the beasts? Is it possible that you are he who is 'Bwinge'? I shall kill you." But the dwarf said, "No! don't kill me. I will call Ungumba for you." So, the Man said, "Call in a hurry!" The Dwarf ordered, "Let guns come!" And they at once came. (This was done by the Dwarf's Magic-Power.) The Man again said, "Call, in a hurry!" The Dwarf called for women; and they came. The Man again said to him, "Call for Goats, in a hurry!" And they came, with abundance of other things. Then the Man freed him, and said to him, "Go!" The Man also went his way with his riches. And he became a great man. This was because of his patient waiting. TALE 9 AN OATH, WITH A MENTAL RESERVATION Persons Ibembe (Dove) Nje (Leopard) Ngando (Crocodile) NOTE Covenants among natives are made under oath, by the two parties eating together of some fetish-mixture, called a "Medicine"; which, being connected with some Spirit, is supposed to be able to punish any infraction of the covenant. Because Dove "abused" Leopard, that is, deceived him, the dove no longer builds its nest on the ground, through fear of leopards. Dove was building in a tree-trunk by a river, because it preferred to walk on the ground. And Crocodile just then emerged from the river to the bank, and lay on his log where he usually rested. They two said, "Let us eat a Medicine-charm." So, Dove agreed, and swore, saying, "I say to you that, when anything at all shall happen openly, if I do not tell it to you, then may this Medicine find me out and kill me." Crocodile also uttered his oath, "When whatever thing shall come out from the river onto the ground, if I do not tell it to you, this Medicine must find me out and kill me!" When they had finished their Covenant, Crocodile returned to his hollow in the ground by the river. Dove also arose, and went away, walking to his place. Then he and Leopard suddenly met, on the path. Leopard asked, "Are you able to see Ngando for me? I want to eat it." Dove answered, "Ah! would that you and I were living in one place with an Agreement!" Leopard replied, "Come then! let us, I and you, eat a Medicine." So Leopard began. He said as his oath: "Anything at all that shall come to my place where I dwell, if I be there, and it wants to get hold of you, if I tell it not to you, let this Medicine find and certainly kill me!" Dove also with his oath, said, "If I see Ngando, and I do not tell you, let this Medicine find me and certainly kill me!" So, they made their promise; then they separated; and each one went to his own village. Thus Dove and Leopard ate their kind of "Medicine," after Dove and Crocodile had already eaten theirs. Then, one day, Crocodile came out from the river. Dove at once began to tell Leopard, saying, "He has emerged from the river and is about to settle on the log!" So, Leopard began slowly to come, and watching Crocodile, as he came. When he was near, in his advance, Dove spoke, telling Crocodile, and said, "Your watcher! Your watcher is coming! Do not approach here!" Thereat, Crocodile slipped back into the water. The next time that Dove and Leopard met, Leopard demanded, "What is this you have done to me? You swore to me this: 'If I see Crocodile I will tell you; and you must come catch him.' Now, as soon as you saw me, you turned around, and told Crocodile, 'Fall into the River!' You have mocked me!" And Leopard grew very angry. TALE 10 THE TREACHERY OF TORTOISE Persons Mbâmâ (Boa Constrictor) Kudu (Tortoise) Nje (Leopard) NOTE Observe the cannibalism of the story. Leopard married a wife. After awhile she was about to become a mother. Boa also married a wife; and, after awhile, she also, was about to become a mother. In a short time, like the drinking of a draught of water, the month passed, both for Leopard's wife and for Boa's wife also. Then Boa's wife said, "It is time for the birth!" So she gave birth to a child. And she lay down on her mother's bed. When they were about to cook food for her, she said, "I want to eat nothing but Nje!" The next day, the wife of Leopard said, "It is time for the birth!" And she also gave birth to a child. Food was given to her. But she said, "I am wanting only Mbâmâ!" When told of his wife's wish, Boa said, "What shall I do? Where shall I go? Where shall I find Mangwata?" (A nickname for Leopard.) Also, Leopard said, in regard to his wife's wish, "Where shall I find Mbâmâ?" Then Leopard went walking, on and on, and looking. He met with Manima-ma-Evosolo (a nickname for Tortoise). Leopard asked him, "Can you catch me Mbâmâ?" Manima said, "What's that?" And he laughed, Kye! Kye! Kye; and said, "That is as easy as play." Leopard said, "Chum, please do such a thing for me." And Tortoise said, "Very good!" When they separated, and Tortoise was about to go a little further on ahead, at once he met with Boa. And Boa asked him, "Chum! Manima-ma-Evosolo! Where have you come from?" Tortoise answered, "I have come, going on an excursion." Boa asked to Tortoise, "But, could you catch me Nje?" He replied, "That is a little thing." Then Boa begged him, "Please, since my wife has born a child, she has not eaten anything. She says she wants to eat only Nje." Tortoise returned back at once to his village. He called to the people of his village, saying, "Come ye! to make for me a pit." They at once went, and dug a pit. When they had finished it, Tortoise went to Leopard, and said to him, "Come on!" Leopard at once started on the journey (thinking he was going to get Boa). When they came to the place of the pit, Leopard fell suddenly into it headlong, volomu! He called to Tortoise, saying, "Chum! Where is Mbâmâ?" (Leopard did not understand that he was being deceived.) Tortoise did not reply, but started off clear to the village of Boa. He said to Boa, "Come on!" Boa did not doubt at all that he was going to get Leopard. He started, and went with Tortoise towards the pit. When he was passing near the spot, Boa fell headlong into the pit, volumu! And Leopard exclaimed, "Ah! now, what is this?" Tortoise only said to them, "You yourselves can kill each other." TALE 11 A CHAIN OF CIRCUMSTANCES Persons Etanda (Cockroach) Kudu (Tortoise) Kuba (Chicken) Uhingi (Genet) Nje (Leopard) A Man NOTE A Cause, from which came the enmity between Leopards, and other wild animals, and Mankind. Observe the resemblance to "The House that Jack Built." Tortoise was a blacksmith, and allowed other people to use his bellows. Cockroach had a spear that was known of by all people and things. One day, he went to the smithy at the village of Tortoise. When he started to work the bellows, as he looked out in the street, he saw Chicken coming; and he said to Tortoise, "I'm afraid of Kuba, that he will catch me. What shall I do?" So Tortoise told him, "Go! and hide yourself off there in the grass." At once he hid himself. Then arrived Chicken, and he, observing a spear lying on the ground, asked Tortoise, "Is not this Etanda's Spear?" Tortoise assented, "Yes, do you want him?" And Chicken said, "Yes, where is he?" So Tortoise said, "He hid himself in the grass on the ground yonder; catch him." Then Chicken went and caught Cockroach, and swallowed him. When Chicken was about to go away to return to his place, Tortoise said to him, "Come back! work for me this fine bellows!" As Chicken, willing to return a favor, was about to stand at it, he looked around and saw Genet coming in the street. Chicken said to Tortoise, "Alas! I'm afraid that Uhingi will see me, where shall I go?" So, Tortoise says, "Go! and hide!" Chicken did so. When Genet came, he, seeing the spear, asked, "Is it not so that this is Etanda's Spear?" Tortoise replied, "Yes." Genet asked him, "Where is Etanda?" He replied, "Chicken has swallowed him." Genet inquired, "And where is Chicken?" Tortoise showed him the place where Chicken was hidden. And Genet went and caught and ate Chicken. When Genet was about to go, Tortoise called to him, "No! come! to work this fine bellows." Genet set to work; but, when he looked into the street, he hesitated; for, he saw Leopard coming. Genet said to Tortoise, "I must go, lest Nje should see me!" Then Tortoise said, "Go! and hide in the grass." So, Genet hid himself in the grass. Leopard, having arrived and wondering about the Spear, asked Tortoise, "Is it not so that this is the Spear of Etanda?" Tortoise answered, "Yes." Then Leopard asked, "Where is Etanda?" Tortoise replied, "Kuba has swallowed him." "And, where is Kuba?" Tortoise answered, "Uhingi has eaten him." Then Leopard asked, "Where then is Uhingi?" Tortoise asked, "Do you want him? Go and catch him! He is hidden yonder there." Then Leopard caught and killed Genet. Leopard was going away, but Tortoise told him, "Wait! come! to work this fine bellows." When Leopard was about to comply, he looked around the street, and he saw a Human Being coming with a gun carried on his shoulder. Leopard exclaimed, "Kudu-O! I do not want to see a Man, let me go!" Then Tortoise said to him, "Go! and hide." Leopard did so. When the Man had come, and he saw the Spear of Cockroach, he inquired, "Is it not so that this is Cockroach's wonderful Spear?" Tortoise answered, "Yes." And the Man asked, "Where then is Cockroach?" Tortoise answered, "Kuba has swallowed him." Man asked, "And where is Chicken?" Tortoise answered, "Uhingi has eaten him." Man asked, "And where is Genet?" Tortoise answered, "Nje has killed him." Man asked, "And where is Leopard?" Tortoise did not at once reply; and Man asked again, "Where is Leopard?" The Tortoise said, "Do you want him? Go! and catch him. He had hidden himself over there." Then the Man went and shot Leopard, Who had killed Genet, Who had eaten Chicken, Who had swallowed Cockroach, Who owned the wonderful Spear, At the smithy of Tortoise. INDEX of Names of Animals, etc., among Certain Tribes on the West African Equator. ==================+=============+===========+===========+=========+========= ENGLISH | BENGA | MPONGWE | BAPUKU | KOMBE | FANG ------------------+-------------+-----------+-----------+---------+--------- Adder | Edubu | | | | Ant, red | Kedi | | | | Ant, black | Hako | | | | Antelope | Vyâdu | Nkambi | Vyâdu | | Antelope, | | | | | tragelephas | Mbalanga | | | | Antelope, red | Ehibo | { Njivo | Ehibo | | | | { Eziwo | | | Bat | Ndemi | | | | Beast | Tito | Nyama | | | Bird | Inâni | Nyâni | Inâni | | Boa Constrictor | Mbâmâ | Mbâmâ | Mbâmâ | | Chameleon | Yongolokodi | | | | Chicken | Kuba | Njâgâni | Kuba | | Ku Chimpanzee | Kwiya | | | | Civet | Njâbâ | | | | Cockroach | Etanda | | | | Fefaye Crab | Jâmbâ | Igâmbâ | Jâmbâ | | Crocodile | Ngando | Ngando | Ngando | | Ngane Dog | Mbwa | Mbwa | Mbwa | | Dove | Ibembe | | | | Yum Eagle | Mbela | Kungu | Yungu | | Ndowe Ear | Ditâ | Oroi | Itâi | | Elephant | Njâku | Njâgu | Njâku | Râku | Yâwo Frog | Jonda | Rânge | Eloto | | Gazelle (forest) | Iheli | | | Vizyele | Okwen Gazelle (prairie) | Embonda | | | | Genet | Uhingi | Osinge | Uhingi | | Nsin Goat (domestic) | Tomba | Mboni | Mbodi | | Goat (wild) | Mbindi | Mbinji | Mbindi | | Mvin Gorilla | Ngiya | Njina | Ngiya | | Nji Hippopotamus | Ngubu | Nguvu | | | Hog | Ngweya | Ngowa | | | Ngowe Igwana | Ngâmbi | | | | Jackal | Ibâbâ | | | | Lemur | Po | | | | Ojam Leopard | Njâ | Njegâ | | | Nje Lizard | Ehelele | | | | Manatus | Manga | Manga | | | Millepede | Ngângâlâ | | | | Monkey | Kema | { Ingenda | | | | | { Telinga | | Tyema | Kowe Mosquito | Ikungu | Mbo | | | Mouse House | Mpogo | | Ihuka | | Mouse, shrew | Unyunge | | | | Mbasume Ox | Nyati | Nyare | | | Oyster | Itandi | Orandi | Itambi | | Palm-tree, oil | Mbila | Oyila | Ilende | | Partridge | Ngwayi | Nkwani | | | Parrot | Koho | Ngozyo | | | Kos Plantain | Ekâi | Akândâ | | | Porcupine | Ngomba | | | | Rat (domestic) | Etoli | | | | Rat (wild) | Ko | | | | Sheep | Udâmbe | Odâmbe | | | Shrike | Asanze | | | | Asanze Snail | Kâ | | | | Snail (giant) | Idibavolo | | | | Snake | Mbâmbâ | Omwamba | | | Sparrow | Utatimboka | | | | Moakumba Squirrel | Ihende | Senji | Mbala | | Sun | Joba | Nkombe | | | Tortoise | Kudu | Ekaga | | | Kulu Viper | Pe | Ompene | Pe | | Wag-Tail | | | Indondobe | | ------------------+-------------+-----------+-----------+---------+--------- 
7017	----	A STUDY IN TINGUIAN FOLK-LORE By FAY-COOPER COLE Submitted in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy, in the Faculty of Philosophy, Columbia University Chicago 1915 A STUDY IN TINGUIAN FOLK-LORE This paper is based on a collection of Philippine folk-tales recently published by the Field Museum of Natural History. [1] The material appearing in that publication was gathered by the writer during a stay of sixteen months with the Tinguian, a powerful pagan tribe inhabiting the mountain districts of Abra, Ilocos Sur, and Norte, of Northern Luzon. In social organization, government, manner of house building, and many other details of material culture this tribe differs radically from the neighboring Igorot. Observation has also led me to the conclusion that the religious organization and ceremonies of this people have reached a higher development than is found among the near-by tribes, and that this complexity decreases as we penetrate toward the interior or to the south. In the main the folk-tales are closely associated with the religious beliefs of the present day, and hence it seems unlikely that they will be found, in anything approaching their present form, far outside the districts dominated by this tribe. Nevertheless, isolated incidents corresponding to those of neighboring peoples, or even of distant lands, occur several times. In the following pages an attempt has been made to bring together the culture of this people, as it appears in the myths, and to contrast it to present day conditions and beliefs. In this way we may hope to gain a clearer insight into their mental life, and to secure a better idea of the values they attach to certain of their activities than is afforded us by actual observation or by direct inquiry. It is also possible that the tales may give us a glimpse of the early conditions under which this people developed, of their life and culture before the advent of the European. It should be noted at the outset that no attempt is here made to reconstruct an actual historical period. As will appear later, a part of the material is evidently very old; later introductions--to which approximate dates may be assigned--have assumed places of great importance; while the stories doubtless owe much to the creative imaginations of successive story tellers. For the purposes of our study, the tales have been roughly divided into three parts. The first, which deals with the mythical period, contains thirty-one tales of similar type in which the characters are for the most part the same, although the last five tales do not properly fit into the cycle, and the concluding story of Indayo is evidently a recent account told in the form of the older relations. In the second division are the ritualistic and explanatory myths, the object of which seems to be to account for the origin of or way of conducting various ceremonies; for the belief in certain spirits and sacred objects; for the existence of the sun, moon, and other natural phenomena; for the attainment of fire, food plants, birds and domestic animals, as well as of magical jars and beads. Here it should be noted that some of the most common and important beliefs and ceremonies are, so far as is known, unaccompanied by any tales, yet are known to all the population, and are preserved almost without change from generation to generation. Division three contains the ordinary stories with which parents amuse their children or with which men and women while away the midday hours as they lounge in the field houses, or when they, stop on the trail to rest and smoke. None of the folk-tales are considered as the property of the tellers, but only those of the third division are well known to the people in general. Those of the first section are seldom heard except during the dry season when the people gather around bonfires in various parts of the village. To these go the men and women, the latter to spin cotton, the former to make fish nets or to repair their tools and weapons. In such a gathering there are generally one or more persons who entertain their fellows with these tales. Such a person is not paid for his services, but the fact that he knows "the stories of the first times" makes him a welcome addition to the company and gives him an enviable position in the estimation of his fellows. The purely ritualistic tales, called diams, are learned word by word by the mediums, [2] as a part of their training for their positions, and are only recited while an animal is being stroked with oil preparatory to its being sacrificed, or when some other gift is about to be presented to the superior beings. The writer has recorded these diams from various mediums in widely separated towns and has found them quite uniform in text and content. The explanatory tales were likewise secured from the mediums, or from old men and women who "know the customs." The stories of the last division are the most frequently heard and, as already indicated, are told by all. It is evident even to the casual reader that these show much more evidence of outside influence than do the others; some, indeed, appear to have been recently borrowed from the neighboring christianized Ilocano. [3] TALES OF THE MYTHICAL PERIOD Reconstruction of the Culture.--In the first division certain actors occur with great frequency, while others always take the leading parts. These latter appear under a variety of names, two or more titles often being used for the same individual in a single tale. To avoid confusion a list of the fourteen principal actors and their relationships are given in the accompanying table. It will appear that there are some conflicts in the use of names, but when it is realized that the first twenty-six myths which make up the cycle proper were secured from six story tellers coming from four different towns, the agreement rather than the disagreement is surprising. As a matter of fact there is quite as much variation between the accounts of the same narrator as between those gathered from different towns. TABLE OF LEADING CHARACTERS [4] I. Aponitolau. Son of Pagatipánan [male] and Langa-an [female] [5] of Kadalayapan; is the husband of Aponibolinayen. Appears under the following names: (a) Ligi, (b) Albaga of Dalaga, (c) Dagdagalisit, (d) Ingiwan or Kagkagákag, (e) Ini-init, (f) Ling-giwan, (g) Kadayadawan, (h) Wadagan, (i) Awig (?) II. Aponigawani. Sister of Aponitolau and wife of Aponibalagen. III. Aponibolinayen. Daughter of Pagbokásan [6] [male] and Ebang [female] of Kaodanan. Wife of Aponitolau. Appears as (a) Ayo, (b) Dolimáman (?). IV. Aponibalagen. Brother of Aponibolinayen, and husband of Aponigawani; also appears as Awig. V. Kanag. Son of Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen. Appears as (a) Kanag kabagbagowan, (b) Balokanag, (c) Dumanau, (d) Ilwisan, (e) also at times is identified with Dumalawi, his brother. VI. Dapilisan, wife of Kanag. VII. Dagoláyan. Son of Aponibalagen and Aponigawani. Also appears as Dondonyán of Bagonan--the blood clot child. VIII. Alokotán. An old woman who acts as a medium. Her home is at Nagbotobotán, where the rivers empty their waters into the hole at the edge of the world. IX. Gawigawen [male]. A giant who owns the orange trees of Adasin. X. Giambolan [male]. A ten-headed giant. XI. Gaygayóma. A star maiden who marries Aponitolau. The daughter of Bagbagak [male], a big star,--and Sinag [female], the moon--. XII. Tabyayen. Son of Aponitolau and Gaygayóma. Half brother of Kanag. XIII. Kabkabaga-an. A powerful female spirit who falls in love with Aponitolau. XIV. Asibowan. The maiden of Gegenáwan, who is related to the spirit Kaboniyan. The mistress of Aponitolau. In consequence of modern rationalism there is a tendency on the part of a considerable number of the Tinguian to consider these tales purely as stories and the characters as fictitious, but the mass of the people hold them to be true and speak of the actors as "the people who lived in the first times." For the present we shall take their point of view and shall try to reconstruct the life in "the first times" as it appears in the tales. The principal actors live in Kadalayapan and Kaodanan, [7] towns which our chief story teller--when trying to explain the desire of Kanag to go down and get fruit--assures us were somewhere in the air, above the earth (p. 141). [8] At other times these places are referred to as Sudipan--the term by which spirits are supposed to call the present earth--while the actors are referred to as Ipogau--the spirit name for Tinguian. Whatever its location it was a place much like the present home of this people. The sky, the chief abode of spirits and celestial bodies, was above the land, and the heroes of the tales are pictured as ascending to visit the upper realms. The trees, plants, and animals were for the most part those known to-day. The ocean appears to have been well known, while mention is made of some places in Luzon, such as Dagopan and San Fernando in Pangasinan with which the people of to-day are not at all familiar (p. 89, 168). We learn that each village is situated near to a river or waterway by the banks of which shallow wells are dug, and there we find the women gathering under the shade of the trees, dipping up water to be carried to their homes, washing and combing their hair, and taking their baths (p. 48). They seldom go singly, for enemies are apt to be near, and unless several are in the company it will be impossible to spread the alarm and secure help in case of attack (p. 43). Leading up from the spring to the village are bamboo poles on which the heads of enemies are displayed (p. 43). In cases where the warriors have been especially successful these trophies may surround the whole settlement (p. 76). About the town is a defensive wall, generally of bamboo, but in some cases made up entirely of gigantic snakes (p. 43). Within this inclosure are many houses. The bamboo floors are raised high above the ground, while the thatching is of grass. Ladders lead up to little porches, from which doors open into the dwellings. At least part of the houses have a cooking room in addition to that used by the family, while structures containing a ninth room are several times mentioned (pp. 43, 52, 85). In one corner of the living room is a box containing blankets, above which are pillows and mats used by members of the household and guests; an iron caldron lies on the floor, while numerous Chinese jars stand about. A hearth, made up of a bed of ashes in which stones are sunk, is used for cooking. Above it is a bamboo food hanger, while near by stand jars of water and various cooking pots. Food baskets, coconut shell cups, and dishes, and a quantity of Chinese plates appear when the meal is served, while the use of glass is not unknown. Cups of gold, wonderful jars, and plates appear at times, but seem to be so rare as to excite comment (pp. 33, 98, 102, 105). Scattered through the village are numerous small buildings known as balaua (p. 43), which are erected for the spirits during the greatest of the ceremonies, and still inside the enclosure are the rice drying plots and granaries, the latter raised high above the ground so as to protect their contents from moisture (pp. 150). About the town pigs and chickens roam at will, while half-starved hunting dogs prowl about below the kitchens and fight for morsels which drop from above (p. 99). Carabao are kept and used as food (p. 101), but in the cycle proper no mention is made of using them as work animals. [9] Game, especially deer and wild chickens, and fish are added to the domestic supply of food (p. 80), but the staple appears to be mountain rice. Beans, coconuts, oranzes, sugar cane, betel-nuts, and tobacco are also cultivated (pp. 33, 107, 121, 138). Clothing is scanty but nevertheless receives much attention. The poorest of the men wear clouts of banana leaf, and the women, when in danger of capture, don skirts of bark; but on most occasions we find the man wearing a colored cotton clout, above which is a bright belt of the same material, while for ceremonies he may add a short coat or jacket. A headband, sometimes of gold, keeps his long hair in place, and for very special events he may adorn each hair with a golden bead (pp. 74, 76, 81) The cotton skirts of the women reach from the waist to the knees; the arms are covered with strands above strands of beads, while strings of agate beads surround the neck or help to hold the hair in place. To the real hair is often added a switch which appears to be valued highly (p. 89). Ornaments of gold adorn the ears, and finger rings of the same metal are several times mentioned (pp. 39, 43, 124). The tales afford us a glimpse of the daily life. In the early morning the chilly mountain air drives the people from their mats to the yard, where they squat about the fires (p. 132). As it becomes light, part of the women begin pounding out the rice from its straw and husks (p. 144), while others depart for the springs to secure water (p. 101). In planting time husband and wife trudge together to the fields, where the man plants the seeds or cuttings, and his wife assists by pouring on water (p. 107). In midday, unless it is the busy season, the village activities are practically suspended, and we see the balaua filled with men, asleep or lounging, while children may be playing about with tops or disk-like lipi seeds (p. 139). As it becomes cooler, the town again takes on life; in the houses the women weave blankets or prepare food, the older women feed the chickens and pigs (p. 93), while the workers from the fields, or hunters with their dogs and game, add to the general din and excitement (p. 80). When night comes on, if it be in the dry season, bonfires spring up in different parts of the village, and about them the girls and women gather to spin. Here also come the men and boys, to lounge and talk (p. 117). A considerable portion of the man's time is taken up in preparation for or actual participation in warfare (p. 74). We have already seen that the constant danger of enemies makes it advisable for the women to go in parties, even to the village spring. One tale informs us of a girl who is left alone to guard the rice field and is promptly killed by the alzado; [10] another states that "all the tattooed Igorot are enemies" (pp. 43, 155, 161). Revenge for the loss of relations or townspeople is a potent cause of hostile raids; old feuds may be revived by taunts; but the chief incentive appears to be the desire for renown, to be known as "a man who goes to fight in the enemies' towns" (pp. 90, 59). Warriors sometimes go in parties, sometimes alone, but generally in couples (p. 67). At times they lie in ambush and kill young girls who go for water, or old men and women who pass their hiding place (p. 97). Again they go out boldly, armed with shield, spear, and headaxe; they strike their shields as they go and announce their presence to the enemy (p. 103). In five of the tales the heroes challenge their opponents and then refuse to be the first to use their weapons. It is only when their foes have tried in vain to injure them that they enter the conflict. In such cases whole towns are wiped out of existence and a great number of heads and a quantity of jars and other booty is sent back to the towns of the victors (p. 104). Peace is restored in one instance by the payment of a number of valuable jars (p. 91). Upon the return of a successful war party, the relatives meet them at the gate of the town and compel them to climb the sangap; [11] then invitations are sent out to friends and relatives in neighboring towns to come and aid in the celebration of the victory (p. 140). When they arrive at the entrance of the village they are met by the townspeople, who offer them liquor and then conduct them to the houses where they feast and dance to the music of gansas (p. 126). [12] Finally the captured heads are stuck on the sagang [13] and are placed by the gate, the spring, and, if sufficient in number, surround the town (p. 140). Taking the heads of one's neighbors does not appear to be common, yet cases are mentioned where visitors are treacherously killed at a dance (pp. 78, 83). The use of poison [14] is twice mentioned. In one case the victims are killed by drinking liquor furnished by the father of the girl about whose head they are dancing (pp. 148, 156). Bamboo spears appear to be used, but we are explicitly told that they fought with steel weapons, and there are frequent references to head-axes, spears, and knives (pp. 65, 76, 120). Marriage appears generally to be negotiated by the mother of the youth at his suggestion (p. 128). At times both his parents go to the girl's home, and after many preliminaries broach the subject of their mission (p. 128). The girl's people discuss the proposition, and if they are favorable they set a day for the pakálon--a celebration at which the price to be paid for the bride is decided upon (p. 49). The parents of the groom then return home after having left some small present, such as a jar or an agate bead, as a sign of engagement (p. 128). [15] The pakálon is held a few days later at the girl's home, and for this event her people prepare a quantity of food (p. 72). On the agreed day the close friends and relatives of both families will assemble. Those who accompany the groom carry jars and pigs, either in part payment for the bride, or to serve as food for the company (pp. 72, 128). The first hours are spent in bargaining over the price the girl should bring, but when this is settled a feast is prepared, and then all indulge in dancing the tadek (p. 59). [16] When the payment is made a portion is distributed among the girl's relatives (pp. 72, 74), but her parents retain the greater part for themselves. [17] The groom cannot yet claim his bride, although in one case he is allowed to take her immediately after the pakálon by making a special payment for the privilege (p. 74). A few nights later the groom goes to the girl's home carrying with him an empty jar with which he makes the final payment (p. 73). The customary rice ceremony [18] follows and he is then entitled to his bride (p. 73). Should the house or anything in it break at this time, it foretells misfortune for the couple, hence precautions are taken lest such a sign should, by accident, be given (p. 60). In all but two cases mentioned the girl and her husband go to live with his people. In the first instance their failure to do so raises a protest; in the second, the girl's parents are of much more importance than those of the groom, and this may explain their ability to retain their daughter (pp. 138, 159). When the bride reaches her future home, she sits on the bamboo floor with her legs stretched out in front of her. The slats which she covers are counted and a string of agate beads, equal in length to the combined width of the slats, is given to her. She now becomes a full member of the family and seems to be under the orders of her mother-in-law (p. 60). The tales give constant sanction for the marriage of near relatives. Dumanau, we are told, marries his cousin, [19] while we frequently meet with such statements as, "We are relatives and it is good for us to be married," or "They saw that they were related and that both possessed magical power, so they were married (p. 35)." It appears that a man may live with his sweetheart and have children by her, yet leave her, and, without reproach, marry another better fitted to be his wife (p. 54). He may also accept payment for a wife who has deserted him, apparently without loss of prestige (p. 64). No objection seems to be raised to a man having two wives so long as one of these is an inhabitant of the upper world (p. 111), but we find Kanag telling his former sweetheart that he cannot marry her since he is now married to another (p. 138). Again, when two women lay claim to Aponitolau, as their husband, they undergo a test and the loser returns to her former home (p. 94). However, this rule does not prevent a man from having several concubines (p., 120). Gawigawen, we are told, is accompanied to a pakálon by eighteen young girls who are his concubines (p. 59). Divorce is twice mentioned, but it seems to call out protest only from the cast off wife (pp. 63, 149). Closely associated with the celebration of a marriage seems to be a ceremony known as Sayang, during the progress of which a number of small structures--the largest known as balaua--are built. Judging by their names and descriptions, we are justified in considering them "spirit houses" as they are to-day. The details of the extended Sayang ceremony are nowhere given, but so much is made plain:--At its beginning many people pound rice, for use in the offerings and for food, and da-eng [20] is danced (p. 40). After the Libon [21] invitations are sent out, by means of betel-nuts covered with gold, to those whose presence is especially desired (p. 62). When the guests arrive at the village spring or gate they are offered food or drink, and then while they dance they are sprinkled with water or rice, after which all go up to the town (p. 41 note 2). A medium who knows the customs and desires of the spirits constructs a bamboo mat, which is known as talapitap, and on it offers food. To call their attention she frequently strikes the ground with the dakidak--split sticks of bamboo and lono [22] (p. 40). The guests are not neglected, so far as regards food, for feasting and dancing occupy a considerable portion of their time. The ceremonial dance da-eng is mentioned, but the tadek [23] seems to be the one in special favor (pp. 41, 59). One tale tells us that the Sayang was held immediately following a head hunt; and another, that Aponitolau went out to get the head of an old man before he started this ceremony (pp. 69, 76); however, the evidence is by no means conclusive that it is related to warfare. On page 105 we are told that Kanag's half sister is a medium, and the description of her method of summoning the spirits tallies with that of to-day. At the Sayang ceremony she is called to perform the Dawak, [24] with the assistance of the old woman Alokotán (p. 106). The Dawak is also held in order to stop the flow of blood from Aponitolau's finger (p. 113). The only other ceremony mentioned is that made in order to find a lost switch (p. 91). Certain well-known customs are strongly brought out in our material. The first, and apparently most important, is the necessity of offering liquor and food, both to strangers and to guests (p. 58). Refusal is so keenly resented that in one instance a couple decline to allow their daughter to marry a man whose emissaries reject this gift (p. 73). Old quarrels are closed by the tender of food or drink, and friendships are cemented by the drinking of basi [25] (p. 134). People meeting for the first time, and even friends who have been separated for a while, chew betel-nut together and tell their names and places of residence. We are repeatedly told that it is necessary to chew the nut and make known their names, for "we cannot tell our names unless we chew," and "it is bad for us if we do not know each other's names when we talk." A certain etiquette is followed at this time: old men precede the younger; people of the home town, the visitors; and men always are before the women (pp. 45, 133). The conduct of Awig when he serves liquor to the alzados [26] is that of to-day, i.e., the person who serves always drinks before passing it to others (p. 156). Certain other rules of etiquette or restrictions on conduct come out in the tales. We learn that it is not considered proper for a man to eat with the wife of another during his absence, nor should they start the meal before he comes in (p. 52). The master of a dance is deeply chagrined and chides his wife severely, because she insists on dancing before he has invited all the others to take their turns (p. 70). Greediness is reproved in children and Aponitolau causes the death of his concubines whose false tales had led him to maltreat his wife (p. 116). Unfaithfulness seems to be sufficient justification for a man to abandon his wife and kill her admirer (p. 78); but Kanag appears as a hero when he refuses to attack his father who has sought his life (p. 121). Of the ceremonies connected with death we learn very little except that the women discard their arm beads, the mourners don old clothing, and all wail for the dead (pp. 44, 90). Three times we are told that the deceased is placed on a tabalang, or raft, on which a live rooster is fastened before it is set adrift on the river. In the tales the raft and fowl are of gold, but this is surprising even to the old woman Alokotán, past whose home in Nagbotobotán all these rafts must go (p. 131). Up to this time in our reconstruction of the life of "the first times" we have mentioned nothing impossible or improbable to the present day Tinguian, although, as we shall see later, there are some striking differences in customs and ideas. We have purposely left the description of the people and their practice of magic to the last, although their magical practices invade every activity of their lives, for it is here that the greatest variations from present conditions apparently occur. These people had intimate relations with some of the lesser spirits, especially with the liblibayan, [27] who appear to be little more than their servants, with the evil spirits known as banbanáyo, [28] and with the alan [29] (p. 123). The alan, just mentioned, are to-day considered as deformed spirits who live in the forests: "They are as large as people but have wings and can fly; their toes are at the back of their feet and their fingers point backwards from their wrists." The several references to them in the tales such as "you alan girls whose toes on your feet turn out" indicate they were so considered in the first times (p. 161). Some of them are addressed as "you alan of the springs," and in one instance a man dives down into the water where the alan live (p. 148), but in general their homes seem to be similar to but much finer than those of the people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan. These spirits appear time after time as the foster mothers of the leading characters: Generally they secure a drop of menstrual blood, a miscarriage, or the afterbirth, and all unknown to the real parents, change them into children and raise them (p. 83). These foster children are pictured as living in houses of gold situated near springs, the pebbles of which are of Gold or beads; [30] the places where the women set the pots while dipping water are big plates or dishes, while similar dishes form the stepping stones leading up to the house. Articles of gold are found in the dwellings and valuable jars are numerous. When the true relationships of these children are established they always go to their blood parents, carrying with them these riches, which are a source of wonder and comment (pp. 43, 64). The people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan have many dealings with the celestial bodies. The big star Bagbagak appears as the husband of Sinag--the moon--and father of the star maiden Gaygayóma, who, Aponitolau assures his wife, is a spirit. When this girl comes down to steal sugar-cane she takes off her star dress and appears as a beautiful maiden; [31] she becomes enamored with Aponitolau and takes him to the sky, where he lives with her. They have a child, who later marries in Kadalayapan and thereafter stays below. Upon the occasion when Aponitolau visits his first wife and fails to return to the sky at the appointed time, a great company of stars are sent to fetch him, with orders to devour him if he refuses to obey (p. 109, ff.). In the first tale Aponitolau himself appears as "the sun," "the man who makes the sun," as "a round stone which rolls," but when it is established that he is the son of a couple in Kadalayapan he apparently relinquishes his duties in the sky and goes to live in the village of his people. With him goes his wife Aponibolinayen, who had been carried above by a vine. While at his post in the heavens, Aponitolau is closely associated with the big star, whose duty it is to follow him in the sky. Again we are told that Aponitolau is taken up by the spirit Kabkabaga-an, whom he marries and by whom he has a son (p. 114). In some instances this hero and his son Kanag converse with thunder and lightning, which appear at times not unlike human beings (p. 100); but in the eighth relation the two kinds of lightning are pictured as dogs who guard the town of Dona. These people enjoy unusual relations with inanimate things, and we find them conversing with spears and with jars. [32] In one case the latter appear to be pastured like animals, and surround Aponitolau when he goes to feed them with lawed [33] leaves and salt (p. 51). Weapons weep blood and oil when taken down for the purpose of injuring certain persons (p. 43). A nose flute, when played by a youth, tells him of his mother's plight (p. 152), while a bamboo Jew's harp summons the brothers of its owner (p. 162). Animals and birds are frequently in communication with them: The hawk flies away and spreads the news of the fight at Adasin [34] (p. 90); at the bidding of Dalonágan a spider spins a web about the town (p. 124); and Aponitolau is enabled to fulfill the labors assigned him by the ten-headed giant only through the aid of spiders, ants, and flies (p. 101). [35] During certain dances the water from the river flows over the town and fish come up and bite the feet of the dancers (p. 59). Crocodiles are left to guard the sister of Aponibalagen, and when they fail to explain their negligence they are whipped and sent away by their master (p. 87). A great bird is pleased with Aponitolau and carries him away [36] to its home, where it forces him to marry a woman it had previously captured (p. 92). In one instance an animal gives birth to a human child; a frog laps up the spittle of Aponitolau, and as a result becomes pregnant [37] and gives birth to a maiden who is taken away by the spirits (p. 105). Another account states that the three sons of Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen are born as pigs, but later assume human form (p. 116). Kanag becomes a snake when he tries to secure the perfume of Baliwán, but is restored to human form when he bathes in a magic well (p. 137). These and other mysterious happenings, many of which are not explained as being due to their own volition, befall them; thus Ingiwan, while walking, is confronted by an impassable hill and is compelled to cross the ocean, where he finds his future wife, but upon his return the hill has vanished (p. 86). In other instances the finger rings of people meeting for the first time exchange themselves (p. 92). The headband of Ligi flies away without his knowledge and alights on the skirt of a girl who is bathing in the river. As a result she becomes pregnant, and when the facts become known Ligi is recognized as the child's father (p. 144). It seems probable that the superior powers are responsible for these occurrences, for in at least one instance the great spirit Kaboniyan steals a maiden and turns her into a flock of birds, who talk with and assist the owner of a rice field (p. 151). While they thus appear to be to a certain extent under the control of the spirits and to be surrounded by animals and inanimate things with human intelligence and speech, the people of these "first times" possess great power over nature: Time and space are annihilated, for at their will daylight comes at once (p. 150), or they are transported to a place in an instant (p. 92). At their command people appear: Kanag creates betel-nut trees, then cuts the fruit into bits, Which he sows on the ground. From these come many people who are his neighbors, and one of whom he marries (p. 121). The course of nature is changed: A field is planted in an instant; the crops mature in a few days, and the grain and fruits take themselves to the store-house (p. 150). A strike-a-light turns into a hill which impedes pursuers (p. 75), [38] while a belt or head-axe serves as a ferry across a body of water (p. 84). A storm is called upon to carry a person or a building to a distance (p. 121), and a spring is created by killing an old man (p. 60). [39] Prepared food appears at a word; a stick when cooked becomes a fish, and though it is repeatedly broken and served it always appears ready for service at meal time (p. 33); a small jar containing a single grain of rice supplies an abundance of food; another jar no larger than a fist furnishes drink for a company and still remains a third full; while a single earring fills a pot with gold [40] (pp. 47, 119, 123). Quite as easy as the creation of beings is the causing of sleep or death. All the people of a village are put to sleep at the will of a single person (p. 145) and Albaga--while still at a distance--causes the death of Aponibolinayen (p. 44). At a word of command the spears and head-axes of the people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan go out and kill great numbers of the enemy, and the heads and booty take themselves in orderly fashion to towns of their new owners (pp. 66, 75). Many methods of restoring the dead to life are employed; spittle is applied to the wounds, or the victim is placed in a magic well, but the common method is for the hero "to whip his perfume," [41] whereupon the dead follow his commands (pp. 152, 157). The birth of a child, to a woman of these times, is generally preceded by an intense itching between the third and last fingers, and when this spot is pricked the child pops out "like popped rice." [42] Its growth is always magical, for at each bath its stature increases by a span (p. 102). Within a few days the baby is a large child and then begins deeds of valor worthy of the most renowned warriors (pp. 95, 96). The power of assuming animal forms appears to be a common possession, and we find the different characters changing themselves into fireflies, ants, centipedes, omen birds, and in one case into oil [43] (pp. 85, 99). One of the most peculiar yet constantly used powers of these people is their ability to send betel-nuts on various missions. Whenever an invitation to a ceremony or celebration is to be extended, nuts covered with gold are oiled and sent out. They go to the intended guest, state their errand, and, if refused, forthwith proceed to grow on his knee, forehead, or pet pig, until pain or pity compels him to accept (p. 146). In some cases it appears that the nuts themselves possess the magic properties, for we find Aponitolau demanding that his conquered foes give him their betel-nuts with magic power (p. 91). Relationships can be readily ascertained by the chewing of these nuts, for when the quids are laid down they are transformed into agate and golden beads and lie in such a manner that the associations are fully established (pp. 35, 36, 41). Enough has been mentioned to show how important a part magic and magical practices play in the life of this people, but one further reference should be made, since it is found in nearly every tale. When the marriage price is settled upon, the mother of the groom exercises her power and at once fills the spirit house with valuable jars and the like; this is repeated until enough are gathered to meet the demands of the girl's people (p. 133). Even when the agreed sum has been delivered we often find the girl's mother herself practicing magic, to secure additional payment, and by raising her elbows or eyebrows causing a part of the jars to vanish (pp. 133, 143). Despite their great gifts we find that these people are not all-powerful and that they deem it wise to consult the omens before starting on a task or a journey. The gall sack and liver of a pig are eagerly examined, [44] while the calls of birds, actions of animals, or signs received from the thunder and lightning regulate their conduct. In cases where these warnings are disregarded misfortune or death always overtakes the individual (pp. 48, 49, 100 ff). Death comes to them, but apparently is only a temporary state. The deceased are often revived by some magical process (p. 152), but if not the corpse is placed on a raft and is set adrift on the river. [45] The streams and rivers, we are told, all flow past Nagbotobotán before they empty into the hole where all streams go. In this place lives the old woman Alokotán, who is related to the people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan. Her duty it is to watch for dead relatives, to secure them, and make them alive again (p. 132). She is the owner of a magic pool, the waters of which revive the dead and renew youth. Comparison of the Reconstructed Culture with Present Day Conditions.--Before passing to a consideration of the tales in the last two divisions of our material, it may be well to compare the life and beliefs of these "people of the first times" with those of the living Tinguian. Kadalayapan and Kaodanan appear, in a vague way, to have been located in Abra, for we learn that the Ilocano, Don Carlos, went up the river from Baygan (Vigan) [46] to Kadalayapan; that the alzados [47] lived near by; while the tattooed Igorot occupied the land to the south (pp. 77, 155). The villages were surrounded by defensive walls such as were to be found about all Tinguian villages until recent times, and which are still to be seen about Abang and other settlements. Within the walls were many houses, the descriptions of most of which would fit the dwellings of to day. The one thing which seems foreign to present conditions is the so-called "ninth room" which receives rather frequent mention. There is nothing in the tales referring to buildings or house construction which lends support to the contention of those who seek to class the Tinguian as a modified sub-group of Igorot. [48] The Bontoc type of dwelling with its ground floor sleeping box and its elevated one room kitchen and storage room is nowhere mentioned, neither is there any indication that in past or present times the Tinguian had separate sleeping houses for the unmarried men and boys, and for the girls, as do their neighbors to the south. The other structures, such as the spirit houses, rice drying frames, and granaries were similar to those seen to-day in all the villages. Likewise the house furnishings, the musical instruments, and even the games of the children were such as are to be found at present, while our picture of the village life given on page 6 still fits nearly any Tinguian settlement in Abra. The animals mentioned are all familiar to the present people, but it is worthy of note that in the first twenty-six tales, which make up the cycle proper, the horse is not mentioned, nor does the carabao appear to be used as a work animal. Still more important is the fact that the terraced fields and the rice culture accompanying them, which to-day occupy a predominant place in the economic life of the people, are nowhere mentioned. On the other hand, the langpádan, or mountain rice, assumes a place of great importance. References to the cultivation of the land all seem to indicate that the "hoe culture," which is still practiced to a limited extent, took the place of agriculture. The clothing, hair dressing, and ornaments, worn by these people, agree closely with those of to-day. Beads seems to have been of prime importance, but could scarcely have been more prized or more used than at present. Unless she be in mourning, the hair and neck of each woman are now ornamented with strings of beads, many of them of evident antiquity, while strands above strands cover the arms from the wrist to the elbow or even reach to the shoulder. [49] The wealth of a person seems to have been, to a large extent, determined by the number of old jars in his possession. As at the present time, they formed the basis of settlement for feuds, as payment for a bride, and even figured in the marriage ceremony itself. The jars, as judged from their names, were evidently of ancient Chinese manufacture, and possessed power of speech and motion similar to that of human beings; but in a lesser measure the same type of jars have similar powers to-day. [50] The use of gold and jewels seems to have been common in the old times; the latter are seldom seen in the district to-day, but the use of bits of gold in the various ceremonies is still common, while earrings of gold or copper are among the most prized possessions of the women. [51] Placer mining is well known to the Igorot of the south, who melt and cast the metal into various ornaments. So far as I am aware, this is not practiced by the present Tinguian, but may point back to a time when the industry was known in this region, or when trade relations with the south were much freer than in recent years. The weapons of the warriors, which we are specifically told were of metal, are identical with those seen at the present time, while the methods of warfare agree with the accounts still told by the old men of their youthful exploits. A survey of the tales brings out boldly the fact that a headhunt was one of the most important events in Tinguian life. To-day stress of circumstances has caused the custom to suffer a rapid decline, but even now heads are occasionally taken, while most of the old men have vivid recollections of the days when they fought "in the towns of their enemies." A spirited account of a head celebration seen in the village of Lagangilang--from which ten of these tales were collected--will be found in the writings of La Gironiere, already referred to. [52] It is important to note that this account, as well as those secured from many warriors of the present generation, offers some striking differences to the procedure in the olden days, particularly as regards the disposal of the skulls. The tales tell of the heads being placed on the sagang [53] at the spring, at the gate, or about the town, after the celebration. Certain of the present villages make use of the sagang, but the more common type of head holder is the saloko, [54] which still figures in many ceremonies. However, the heads only remain in these receptacles until the day set for the festival. They are then carried to the centre of the village and there, amid great rejoicing, are cut open; the brains are removed and to them are added the lobes of the ears and joints of the little fingers, and the whole is then placed in the liquor, which is served to the dancers. Before the guests depart the skulls are broken into small pieces and a fragment is presented to each male guest, who carries it home and is thus often reminded of the valor of the takers. [55] A study of Tinguian beliefs furnishes an additional religious motive for the taking of heads, but with the people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan revenge and the desire for renown were the prime incentives. Every tale emphasizes the importance of the Sayang ceremony and the spirit structure known as balaua. [56] The ceremony is nowhere described in full, but the many details which are supplied show that it was almost identical with that of to-day. The same is true of the Dawak, [57] which we find mentioned on three different occasions, and of the ceremony made to aid in locating lost or stolen articles. The most noticeable fact, to the person familiar with Tinguian life, is that these are the only ceremonies mentioned among the many known and practiced at present. More than a score of different rites are now well known to this people, and occupy a very considerable portion of their time and attention during the first four months of the year. The failure to make mention of these very important events is explained, it seems to me, not by their absence, but by the fact that these rites vary in importance and that the privilege of celebrating them is hereditary in a family. Should one not entitled to hold such a ceremony desire to do so, he must first give, in order, all the lesser events, a costly procedure extending over a period of several years. The people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan always appear as being closely related to the spirit Kaboniyan, [58] and exceedingly powerful. It seems probable that the story teller takes it for granted that all of them are entitled to hold the most important ceremony known to the Tinguian. A prominent figure in these rites is the medium, through whom the ancient people generally conversed with the spirits, but in exceptional cases we found the heroes talking direct with the superior beings; however, this gift is not confined to the men of old, for in such tales as 55 and 59 people who are believed to have lived recently have conversed with the spirits and have even been joined to them in marriage. The procedure in choosing a bride, the engagement, the pakálon, [59] and the marriage proper are all those of the present day, but the rules governing the marriage of relatives differ radically. As already noted, one of the chief qualifications for marriage, among the people of the tales, was relationship, and even cousins became husband and wife. Such a thing is unthinkable among the Tinguian of to-day; first cousins are absolutely barred from marrying, while even the union of second cousins would cause a scandal, and it is very doubtful if such a wife would be allowed to share in her deceased husband's property. [60] It appears that only one real [61] wife is recognized as legitimate, but that from "the first times" to the present a man might have as many concubines as he could secure. So far as mythology and present day conditions can inform us the bride has always gone to the home of her husband and, for a time at least, has been subject to the dictations of her mother-in-law, although the couple are generally soon established in a home of their own, in the town of the groom. There is nothing in Tinguian life or tradition to indicate that they have ever had a clan system or a matriarchal form of government. The few references to the procedure immediately after a death indicate that, in part, the people of to-day follow the old custom; but here again an important departure occurs. We are thrice told that the corpse was placed on a little raft called tabalang and set adrift on the river; and in one case the afterbirth was treated in the same manner. Nothing of the sort is done to-day, nor does it seem at all likely that such has been the case in recent generations. The body is now buried beneath the house, and certain set rules govern the movements of all persons related to the deceased, as well as the disposal of the corpse. This procedure is so complex and so uniform throughout the whole Tinguian belt that it seems improbable that it has grown up, except through a long period of time. At this point it is interesting to note that at many ceremonies it is necessary to construct a small raft called tal-talababong, or talabong, to place offerings in it, and set it adrift on the stream, in order that any spirits who have been prevented from attending the ceremony may still secure their share. [62] The festivals, the dances, the observances of the proprieties required by good breeding or custom of to-day, follow closely those given in the tales. The greatest divergence is in the offering of betel-nuts and the telling of names, which occupies such an important place in the narratives. The use of betel-nut for chewing is less common among the Tinguian people than with most other Philippine tribes, a fact which may be accounted for by their constant use of tobacco. However, betel-nuts still occupy a most important place in the various ceremonies, and many offerings intended for the spirits must be accompanied with the prepared nut. In nearly every instance when invitations were sent out, for a ceremony, the people of the tales intrusted an oiled betel-nut covered with gold with this duty. This has its counterpart to-day in the small gifts of gold which are often carried to some friend, in another town, whose presence is particularly desired. It seems not improbable that the golden colored husks of the ripe betel-nuts may have suggested the substitution. Magic was practiced extensively in "the first time," but it is by no means unknown to the people of the present day. They cannot now bring a dead person to life, or create human beings out of bits of betel-nut; but they can and do cause sickness and death to their foes by performing certain rites or directing actions against garments or other objects recently in their possession. Even the name of an enemy can be applied to an animal or inanimate object and action against it be transferred to the owner. Like the Tinguian, the people of Kadalayapan and Kaodanan are warned or encouraged by omens received through the medium of birds, thunder, lightning, or the condition of the gall and liver of a slaughtered pig; [63] and like them they suffer for failure to heed these warnings, or for the infraction of a taboo. The myths of the first division make it plain that, to the people of those times, the sun, moon, and stars were animate--either spirits or human beings. In some cases a similar conception was held for thunder and lightning, while in others they appear as animals. It will appear that such ideas are not foreign to the second division of the tales, which represent present day beliefs. Thus, in the mountain village of Baay the sky is considered as a male spirit--the husband of the earth, and father of sun and moon. Again, in Lagangilang and Abang, the thunderbolt is identified as Kadaklan--the most powerful of all spirits--who "often eats the ground and releases his wife Agemem." This brings us to a most interesting question, namely: Are the chief actors in our tales to be considered as celestial beings and spirits, or as human heroes? We have already made note of the fact that in the first tale Aponitolau is identified with Ini-init whom, we are told, was "the sun," "the man who makes the sun," "a round stone which rolls." In this tale he marries Aponibolinayen, a maiden whose name may possibly be construed to mean "the woman in the moon." [64] However, we find Aponitolau abandoning his place in the sky and going to reside in Kadalayapan. This tale comes from the town of Langangilang where, as we have already seen, the celestial beings are regarded as spirits. Tale fifteen, coming from the same town, shows us this same Aponitolau going up to the sky, where he marries the spirit Kabkabaga-an, but as before he returns to his home below. A further indication of his celestial character is perhaps afforded us in tale fourteen, which was recorded in Patok, a valley town in which the sun, moon, and stars are now regarded as "lights" belonging to the spirit Kadaklan. Here we find that Aponitolau marries the star maid Gaygayóma, who is the daughter of the big star Bagbagak, and Sinag--the moon. In this same tale Aponibolinayen appears as the first wife of Aponitolau, and it is clear that in the mind of the story teller she is not identified with Sinag. Aponitolau appears in the other tales without any hint of celestial qualities. Aside from her name and the fact that she is once pictured as visiting the sky, there is nothing to indicate that his wife Aponibolinayen is to be considered as the moon. A careful study of the other characters who reside in Kadalayapan and Kaodanan fails to yield any evidence that they are considered as celestial beings. During the Sayang ceremony held in San Juan, a certain man and woman, who are then called Iwaginán and Gimbagon, [65] represent the good spirits and are defended by the people when evil spirits try to dispossess them of their property. This is the only instance I have observed in which the names of any of these characters of the tales appear in the ceremonies, while a list of more than one hundred and fifty spirits known to the Tinguian fails to reveal more. While in the practice of magic, and in their communication with nature, celestial bodies, and spirits, these "people of the first times" far excelled the present Tinguian, they had a material culture and ceremonial life much like that still found in Abra. It seems then that these people, about whom the stories cluster, are not to be identified as celestial beings or spirits. [66] They appear rather as generalized heroes whose life and deeds represent that of an earlier period, magnified and extolled by succeeding generations. RITUALISTIC AND EXPLANATORY MYTHS The second division of the tales now assumes a position of importance to us, for in it we find present day ideas and beliefs of the people strongly brought out, and are thus in a position to contrast them with the tenets of the people in "the first times." The influence of custom is exceedingly strong among the Tinguian of to-day. The fact that the ancestors did so and so is sufficient justification for performing any act for which they have no definite explanation. Nowhere is this influence greater than in the ceremonies. These, which accompany all the important happenings in their daily life, are conducted by mediums who are fitted for office by long training, and each one of whom is a check on the others if they wilfully or through carelessness deviate from the old forms. The ritual of these ceremonies is very complex and the reason for doing many acts now seems to be entirely lost, yet the one explanation "kadaúyan"--custom--is sufficient to satisfy any Tinguian. Other acts, as well as the possession of certain things, are explained by myths, such as we are considering. It seems certain that we are here dealing not with present day beliefs alone, but with at least relatively old customs and tales, which while enabling us to understand present day conceptions also give us a glimpse into the past. The myths 32-40, which are known to the people as diams, are now inseparable parts of the various ceremonies. Thus, when a pig is to be offered in the Sayang ceremony, the medium sits down beside it and strokes it with oiled fingers while she "talks to the spirits." The translation of her "talk" shows that this is in no sense a prayer but is rather an account of how the greatest of the spirits taught the Tinguian people to perform this ceremony correctly. Likewise, when she offers food in the Dawak [67] ceremony, she relates how the spirit Kaboniyan taught the Tinguian to do this in the same manner that he performs it. In the Pala-an [68] diam she relates, in story form, the cause of the sickness, but in this case ends with a direct invocation to the spirits in Dadáya to "make them well again if you please." The balance of the diams, 35-40, are in story form, and seem intended more as an explanation to the people as to the causes of their troubles than to be directed toward the spirits. However, the medium seldom has an audience, and rarely ever a single listener, as she recites the diams she has learned verbatim from her instructors when preparing for the duties of her office. Myths 41-54 are of quite a different type. They are generally told by the mediums or wise old people, during the ceremonies, but always to a crowd of eager listeners. They are not learned word for word, as are the diams, but their content is constant and they are thoroughly believed. That they exert a great influence on the beliefs and conduct of both old and young is undoubted. The evil which befalls a person who molests the guardian stones is thus made known even to the children who generally keep at a distance from the grove in which they stand. Again, these tales give sharp warning as to what befalls a person who even ignorantly breaks the taboos following a death; but at the same time advance means of thwarting the wrath of the enraged or evil spirits. Myths 55 to 62 at first glance to not appear to be explanatory at all, but seem rather to be a series of stories dealing with the relations between certain persons and the natural spirits or those of the dead. However, it is the intent and use rather than the form of these stories which has caused them to be included in this division, for they give the people authority for certain beliefs and conceptions which they hold. Tale 56 gives us a glimpse of the prevalent idea of the abode of the dead, where the spirits lead much the same sort of life as they did while alive, but we secure quite a different picture of this realm from the Baluga [69] tale, in which the home of the deceased is said to be in the ground while the "life" of the dead woman is kept in a bamboo cup. This last account was heard in Manabo, a town near to the Igorot settlements of the Upit river, and may be influenced by the beliefs held in that section. [70] Certain individuals appear to have intimate dealings with the natural spirits, in some instances even being joined to them in marriage. The afterbirth child, Sayen, is believed to have lived "not very long ago;" yet we find his life and actions quite similar to those of the heroes in "the first times," while his foster mother--the alan [71]--takes the same part as did the alan of old. Relations 63 to 74 appear as pure explanatory tales, accounting for the existence and appearance of celestial bodies and animals in their present state; they also account for the possession of fire and of many prized objects, such as jars and agate beads. Incidentally many essential traits and old customs come out, such, for instance, as those of war and mourning, which appear in connection with the origin of the kalau. [72] With few exceptions the myths of this division correspond to present beliefs; the spirits are those known to-day; the towns mentioned are now existing or their former locations are well known. They have thus the appearance of being of more recent origin than those of the first division, yet it is worthy of note that there is little in them which seems foreign to or out of keeping with the older tales. FABLES The last division may be said to be made up of fables, for the story tellers without hesitation label them as fictions. The last of these appears to be only a worked over incident of myth 56, in which the big bird Banog carries the hero to its nest, from which he escapes by holding to the wings of the young birds. It is possible that more of these fables are likewise incidents in tales prevalent among the Tinguian, but not heard by the writer. Whether or no this be true, it is certain that most of these stories are well known to the Ilocano of the coast and the other Christianized natives throughout the archipelago. Comparison with the folk-lore from other regions shows that these stories are by no means confined to the Philippines. The chief incidents in the narrative of the turtle and the monkey have been recorded from the Kenyah of Borneo [73] and from the northern peninsula of Celebes; [74] the race between the shell and the carabao is told in British North Borneo [75] in regard to the plandok and crab, while it is known to European children as the race between the turtle and the hare. The threat of the mosquito in 84 is almost identical with that recorded by Evans in Borneo; [76] while many incidents in the fable of Dogidog [77] are found in the Iban story of Simpang Impang. [78] When comparing the Tinguian versions of these fables with those of the Ilocano, one is impressed with the fact that while the incidents upon which they are founded are often identical, the stories themselves have frequently been moulded and changed by the tellers, who have introduced bits of old customs and beliefs until they reflect, in a way, the prevalent ideas of the people. Thus in the story of the magic poncho, [79] which is evidently of Spanish introduction, the owner is identified as the banbantay--a well-known minor spirit. Again, the first part of tale 85 is identical with that of the Ilocano, but ends with the parents of the groom preparing the things used in the pakálon--a very necessary part of the Tinguian marriage ceremony. The footnotes have called attention to the many incidents which have their parallels in other districts. Reference to these shows that a large percentage are found in the islands toward the south. While recognizing that similarity of incidents does not necessarily mean identity of origin, we must still give full credit to the effects of borrowing, even over great distances. The easy communication along the coast during the past four hundred years and the contact with Spanish and Christianized officials and traders will readily explain the likeness of the tales in Division III to those held in distant islands, or even in Europe, but, as just noted, these are now undergoing change. Doubtless a similar inflow had been taking place, although at a slower rate, long before the Spaniards reached the Islands, and Tinguian mythology has grown up as the result of blending of native tales with those of other areas, the whole being worked over and reshaped until it fitted the social setting. Previous writers--among them Ratzel and Graebner [80]--have sought to account for certain resemblances in culture, between Malaysia, Polynesia, and America, by historical connection. A part of our material--such as that of the blood-clot child (p. 125), [81] the rape of the maiden by the vine which carries her to the sky (p. 33), [82] the magic flight (p. 75), [83] and magic growth (p. 38) [84]--may seem to lend support to such a theory. These similarities are assuredly suggestive and interesting, but it appears to the writer that the material is too scanty and the folklore of intervening lands too little known to justify us in considering them as convincing proof of borrowing over such immense distances. [85] GENERAL RESULTS Our study has brought out certain general results. We have seen that Tinguian folklore has much in common with that of other tribes and lands. While a part of this similarity is doubtless due to borrowing--a process which can still be seen at work--a considerable portion of the tales is probably of local and fairly recent origin, while the balance appears to be very old. These older tales are so intimately interwoven with the ceremonies, beliefs, and culture of this people that they may safely be considered as having been developed by them. They are doubtless much influenced by present day conditions, for each story teller must, even unconsciously, read into them some of his own experiences and the current beliefs of the tribe. At the same time these traditional accounts doubtless exercise a potent influence on the thoughts, beliefs, and actions of the people. In Tinguian society, where custom still holds undisputed sway, these well-known tales of past times must tend to cast into the same mould any new facts or experiences which come to them. We believe that we are justified when we take the viewpoint of the Tinguian and consider "the stories of the first times" as essentially very old. How old it is impossible to state definitely, but a careful analysis of our material justifies us in believing that they reflect a time before the people possessed terraced rice fields, when domestic work animals were still unknown, and the horse had not yet been introduced into their land. That these are not recent events is attested by the great part they all now play in the ceremonial and economic life. It is evident that outside influences of great importance were introduced at a period later than the time when the Chinese first began to trade along the coasts of the Philippines for the prized jars, which play such an important rôle in the mythology, are not to be identified as those of native make but are ancient Chinese vessels dating back at least to the fourteenth and perhaps even to the tenth century. [86] It is probable that the glass, porcelain, and agate beads, which are second only to the jars in importance, are exceedingly old. Many ancient specimens are still in use and are held for as fabulous prices as are those found among the interior tribes of Borneo. Nieuwenhuis has shown that the manufacture of beads had become a great industry in the middle ages, and had extended even to China and Japan, whence the products may have spread contemporaneously with the pottery. [87] We have seen that, for the most part, the life, customs, and beliefs which appear in our reconstruction of "the first times" agrees closely with present conditions; certain things which seem formerly to have been of prime importance--such as the sending of a betel-nut covered with gold to invite guests to a festival or ceremony--appear to have their echo in present conditions. The betel-nut which played such a momentous part in the old times still holds its place in the rituals of the many ceremonies, although it is not now much used in daily life. The magic of to-day is less powerful than formerly, but is still a tremendous force. The communication of the ancient people with other members of the animate world, as well as with the inanimate and spiritual, and their metamorphosis into animals and the like, offers nothing strange or inconsistent to the people of to-day. They even now talk to jars, they converse with spirits who come to them through the bodies of their mediums, and people only recently deceased are known to have had the power of changing themselves, at will, into other forms. In short, there is no sharp break between the mode of thought of to-day and that exhibited in the folklore. It is true that the tales give sanction to some things not in agreement with Tinguian usage--such, for instance, as the marriage of relatives, or the method of disposing of the dead--and it may be that we have here a remembrance of customs which long ago fell into disuse. In a previous paper [88] the writer showed that there have been many migrations into Abra from the north, south, and west. A part of the emigrants have become thoroughly amalgamated with the Tinguian people and have doubtless introduced some part of their material culture and beliefs. This helps us to understand such conflicts as we have already noted in regard to the place held by thunder and lightning in the spirit world, as to the future abode of the spirits of the departed, as well as other discrepancies which the limits of this paper have prevented us from discussing. It is not impossible that those customs of "the first times," which are at variance with those of to-day, may represent older ideas which have been swamped, or, on the other hand, the memory of the strange customs once practiced by the emigrants may have caused them to be attributed to the people of the tales. Finally, we believe that a study of Tinguian mythology has shown us that we can gain a real knowledge of the past of a people through their folklore; that we can secure an insight into their mental life; and can learn something of the valuation they attach to certain of their activities and beliefs, which to us may seem at the surface trite and trivial. ABSTRACTS I 1 Two women are gathering greens when a vine wraps around one and carries her to the sky. She is placed near to spring, the sands of which are rare beads. Small house near by proves to be home of the sun. Woman hides until owner goes into sky to shine, then goes to house and prepares food. Breaks up fish stick and cooks it. It becomes fish. Single grain of rice cooked in pot the size of a "rooster's egg" becomes sufficient for her meal. Goes to sleep in house. Sun returns and sees house which appears to be burning. Investigates and finds appearance of flames comes from beautiful woman. Starts to prepare food, but awakens visitor. She vanishes. Each day sun finds food cooked for him. Gets big star to take his place in sky; returns home unexpectedly and surprises woman. They chew betel-nut together and tell their names. The quids turn to agate beads, showing them to be related, and thus suitable for marriage. Each night sun catches fish, but woman refuses it, and furnishes meat by cooking fish stick. Woman decides to go with husband on daily journey through sky. When in middle of heavens she turns to oil. Husband puts her in a bottle and drops it to earth. Bottle falls in woman's own town, where she resumes old form and tells false tale of her absence. She becomes ill, asks mother to prick her little finger. Mother does so and child pops out. Child grows each time it is bathed. Girl refuses to divulge name of child's father. Parents decide to celebrate balaua and invite all people. Send out oiled betel-nuts covered with gold to invite guests. When one refuses, nut begins to grow on his knee or prized animal until invitation is accepted. Child is placed by gate of town in hopes it will recognize its father. Gives no sign until sun appears, then goes to it. Sun appears as round stone. Girl's parents are angry because of her choice of a husband and send her away without good clothes or ornaments. Sun, wife and child return home. Sun assumes form of man. They celebrate balaua and invite all their relatives. Guests chew betel-nuts and the quid of the sun goes to that of Pagbokásan, so it is known that the latter is his father. Parents of sun pay marriage price to girl's people. 2 Aponibolinayen who is very ill expresses a desire for mangoes which belong to Algaba of Dalaga. Her brother dispatches two men with presents to secure them. One carries an earring, the other an egg. On way egg hatches and soon becomes a rooster which crows. They spread a belt on the water and ride across the river. When they bathe, the drops of water from their bodies turn to agate beads. Find way to Algaba's house by following the row of headbaskets, which reaches from the river to his dwelling. Defensive fence around the town is made up of boa constrictors, which sleep as they pass. Algaba seizes his spear and headaxe intending to kill the visitors, but weapons shed tears of oil. He takes other weapons, but they weep tears of blood. He then makes friends of the intruders. Learning their mission he refuses their gifts, but gets fruit and returns with them to their town. On way he uses magic and causes the death of Aponibolinayen. He takes her in his arms and restores her to life. While she rests in his arms, their rings exchange themselves. They chew betel-nuts and tell their names. The quids turn to agate beads and lie in rows. This is good sign. They marry and go to Algaba's town. They celebrate Sayang and send betel-nuts to invite their relatives. When the guests cross the river, the drops of water which run from their bodies are agate beads and stones of the river are of gold. Guests all chew betel-nut and lay down their quids. By arrangement of quids they learn the true parents of Algaba. His brother-in-law wishes to marry his new found sister and offers an engagement present. An earring is put in a jar and it is at once filled with gold, but Algaba lifts his eyebrows and half of the gold vanishes. Another earring is put in jar, and it is again full. Marriage price is paid later. 3 Aponitolau falls in love with girl he meets at the spring. They chew betel-nuts and tell their names. Girl gives false name and vanishes. Aponitolau sends his mother to arrange for his marriage with the girl. She wears a hat which is like a bird, and it gives her a bad sign, but she goes on. She crosses river by using her belt as a raft. The girl's parents agree to the match and price to be paid. Girl accepts a little jar and agate beads as engagement present. When Aponitolau goes to claim bride, he finds he is betrothed to wrong girl. His parents celebrate Sayang and invite many people, hoping to learn identity of girl at spring. She does not attend, but Aponitolau finds her among betel-nuts brought him by the spirit helpers. They chew betel-nuts and learn they are related and that both possess magical power. After their marriage Aponitolau goes to his field. There he keeps many kinds of jars which act like cattle. He feeds them with lawed leaves and salt. While he is gone, the woman to whom he was first betrothed kills his new wife. He restores her to life. Takes her and her parents to the field to see him feed his jars. 4 A bird directs Aponitolau in his search for the maiden Asibowan. Girl furnishes him with food by cooking a fish stick. They have a daughter who grows one span each time she is bathed. Aponitolau discovers that his parents are searching for him, and determines to go home. Asibowan refuses to accompany him, but uses magic and transfers him and child to his town. Aponitolau falls in love with girl he sees bathing, and his mother goes to consult her parents. She crosses river by using her belt as a raft; when she bathes, the drops of water from her body become agate beads. The girl's people agree to the marriage and accept payment for her. Aponitolau and his bride celebrate Sayang and send out betel-nuts to invite the guests. Asibowan refuses to attend, but a betel-nut grows on her pig until, out of pity, she consents. After the ceremony the brother of the bride turns himself into a firefly and follows her new sister-in-law. Later he again assumes human form and secures her as his wife. 5 The mother of Gawigawen is well received when she goes to seek a wife for her son. The girl's mother furnishes fish by breaking and cooking the fish stick. A day is set for payment of the marriage price. Guests assemble and dance. When bride dances she is so beautiful that sunshine vanishes, water from the river comes up into the town and fish bite her heels. When she arrives at her husband's home, she finds sands and grass of spring are made up of beads, and the walk and place to set jars are large plates. Her husband cuts off head of an old man and a new spring appears; his blood becomes beads and his body a great shade tree. Bride who has not yet seen the face of her husband is misled by evil tales of jealous women, and believes him to be a monster. During night she turns to oil, slips through floor and escapes. In jungle she meets rooster and monkey, who tell her she is mistaken and advise her to return home. She continues her way and finally reaches ocean. Is carried across by a carabao which at once informs its master of the girl's presence. The master comes and meets girl. They chew betel-nut, and the quids turn to agate beads, so they marry. They make Sayang and send betel-nuts to summon relatives. Nuts grow on pet pigs of those who refuse to go. Guests are carried across river by betel-nuts. During dance Gawigawen recognizes his lost wife and seizes her. Is speared to death by the new husband, but is later brought back to life. In meantime the alan (spirits) inform the parents of the new groom that he is their child (from menstrual blood). Parents repay Gawigawen for his lost bride, and also make payment to the girl's family. 6 The enemies of Aponibolinayen, thinking her without the protection of a brother, go to fight her. She glances off their spears with her elbows. Her weapons kill all but Ginambo, who agrees to continue fight in one month. Aponigawani has a similar experience with her enemies. A month later the two women meet as they go to continue the fight against their foes. They chew betel-nut, and quid of Aponibolinayen is covered with gold and that of her companion becomes an agate bead. They agree to aid each other. Go to fight and are hard pressed by foes. Spirit helpers go to summon aid of two men who turn out to be their brothers--were miscarriage children who had been raised by the alan. They go to aid sisters and kill so many people that pig troughs are floating in blood. One puts girls inside belt. They kill all the enemies and send their heads and plunder to the girls' homes. Brothers take girls to their parents. Father and mother of Aponigawani celebrate balaua and summon guests by means of oiled betel-nuts covered with gold. Guests chew betel-nut and spittle of children goes to that of parents, so relationship is established. Alan explain how they raised the miscarriage children. Heads of enemies are placed around the town and people dance for one month. Aponibolinayen marries brother of Aponigawani, who in turn marries the brother of her friend. Usual celebration and payments made. Relatives receive part of price paid for brides. 7 Aponitolau dons his best garments, takes his headaxe and spear, and goes to fight. When he reaches the spring which belongs to the ten-headed giant Giambólan, he kills all the girls, who are there getting water, and takes their heads. The giant in vain tries to injure him. Spear and headaxe of Aponitolau kill the giant and all the people of his town and cut off their heads. Heads are sent in order to hero's town--giants' heads first, then men's, and finally women's. On return journey Aponitolau is followed by enemies. He commands his flint and steel to become a high bank which prevents his foes from following. Upon his arrival home a great celebration is held; people dance, and skulls are placed around the town. 8 Aponitolau and his wife decide to celebrate Sayang, but he goes first to take the head of old man Ta-odan. He uses magic and arrives at once where foe lives. They fight and Ta-odan is beheaded. While Aponitolau is gone, an Ilocano comes to town and tries to visit his wife. She at first refuses to see him, but when he returns a needle she has dropped he puts a love charm on it. She then receives him into house. He remains until Aponitolau returns, then leaves so hastily he forgets his belt of gold. Woman hides belt in rice granary, but it reveals self by shining like fire. Aponitolau is suspicious and determines to find owner. As guests arrive for the celebration, he tries belt on each until he finds right one. He cuts off his head and it flies at once to his wife's breasts and hangs there. She flees with her children. They reach town, which is guarded by two kinds of lightning, but they are asleep and let them pass. They sleep in the balaua and are discovered by the owner of the place, who turns out to be an afterbirth brother of the woman. He removes the head of the dead Ilocano from her breasts. Betel-nuts are sent to summon their father and mother, who are surprised to learn of their afterbirth son. He returns home with them. Aponitolau fails to be reconciled to his faithless wife. 9 Ayo is hidden by her brother, but meets Dagdagalisit, who is fishing, and becomes pregnant. Child pops out between third and fourth fingers when Ayo has her hand pricked. Baby objects to first name; so is called Kanag. Milk from Ayo's breasts falls on her brother's legs while she is lousing him, and he thus learns of the child. He determines to build a balaua and invite all people, so he may learn who the father is. Sends out oiled betel-nuts to invite the guests and when one refuses to attend they grow on him or his pet pig. Dagdagalisit attends wearing only a clout of dried banana leaves. Brother of Ayo is enraged at her match and sends her and the baby away with her poor husband. When they arrive at her new home, Ayo finds her husband a handsome man who lives in a golden house, and whose spring has gravel of gold and agates. They summon their relatives to celebrate balaua with them. While Ayo's brother is dancing, her husband cuts off his head, but he is brought back to life. Ayo's husband pays her parents for her, but half the payment vanishes when her mother raises eyebrows. Husband again completes payment. They chew betel-nut and the quids of the children go to those of their parents. Dagdagalisit's parents learn he is a miscarriage child who was cared for by the alan (spirits). 10 Aponibalagen uses magic to create a residence in the ocean for his sister. Takes her and companions there on backs of crocodiles. Returns home. Ingiwan who is walking is confronted by high bank and is forced to cross the ocean. Rides on his headaxe past the sleeping crocodiles which guard the maiden. Turns self into firefly and reaches girl. Assumes own form and chews betel-nut with her. Omens are good. He returns home and soon maiden is troubled with intense itching between her last fingers. She has place pricked, and baby boy pops out. Child grows one span at each bath. Aponibalagen learns of child when milk from sister's breasts falls on him. He takes her home and prepares to celebrate balaua. Oiled betel-nuts are sent to summon guests. They grow on knees of those who refuse to attend. Ingiwan, poorly clad, appears at the ceremony and is recognized by the child but not by its mother. Girl's brother, in rage, sends her away with the stranger. He assumes own form and proves to be handsome and wealthy. When they celebrate balaua, they chew betel-nut and thus learn who are his true parents. 11 When Aponitolau goes to visit his cousin, he finds him celebrating Sayang. He is incensed because no invitation has reached him, so sits in shade of tree near the spring instead of going up to the village. He finds the switch lost by Aponibolinayen. He is induced to attend the ceremony, where he meets with an old enemy, and they fight. The hawk sees the struggle and reports the death of Aponitolau to his sister. She sends her companions to avenge the death and they kill many people before they learn that the hawk was mistaken. Aponitolau restores the slain to life. He agrees to fight his enemies in two months. Before he goes to battle he summons the old men and women, and has them examine a pig's liver and gall. The omens are favorable. During the fight he becomes thirsty and his headaxe supplies him with water. He stops the slaughter of his enemies when they agree to pay him one hundred valuable jars. The jars and heads of the slain take themselves to his home. A celebration is held over the heads, and skulls are exhibited around the town. Aponitolau goes to return the switch of Aponibolinayen. They chew betel-nuts and tell their names. Their finger rings exchange themselves, while their betel quids turn to agate beads and arrange themselves in lines--a sign of relationship. He cooks a stick and it becomes a fish. The girl vanishes, but Aponitolau turns himself into a firefly and finds her. They remain together one night, then he departs. On his way home he is seized by an immense bird which carries him to an island guarded by crocodiles. He is forced to marry a woman also captured by the bird. Aponibolinayen gives birth to a child called Kanag. Child is delivered when an itching spot on mother's little finger is pricked. Kanag is kept in ignorance of father's fate until informed by an old woman whom he has angered. He goes in search of his father. By using power of the betel-nut he is enabled to cross the water on the backs of sleeping crocodiles. He kills gigantic snakes and finally the bird which had carried away his father. He takes father and the captive woman back home. Both women claim Aponitolau as husband. A test is held and Aponibolinayen wins. 12 Pregnant woman expresses desire for fruit of bolnay tree. Her husband asks what it is she wishes, and she falsely tells him fish roe. He uses magic to catch all fish in the river, and selects one with roe, releases others. She throws it to the dogs, and tells husband it is the liver of a deer she needs. He secures it, but when it likewise is fed to the dogs, he changes self into an ant and hides near wife until he learns her real wish. He secures the bolnay fruit, but upon his return allows his sweethearts to get all but a small piece of it. His wife eats the bit left and desires more. She quarrels with husband, who in rage drags her to the bolnay tree and places her in a hole. Her child Kanag is born when an itching spot between her third and fourth fingers is pricked. Child grows with each bath. He agrees to go with other boys to fight. Plants a lawed vine which is to keep his mother informed as to his condition. Child's father is with war party, but does not recognize son. It rains continually so party cannot cook; but the spirit helpers of child's mother feed him, and he shares food with companions. They plan ambush near enemies' town. Kanag cuts off head of a pretty girl; his companions kill an old man and woman. They return home and hold dance around the heads. When Kanag dances, earth trembles, coconuts fall, water from river enters the town, and the fish lap his feet. His father is jealous and cuts off his head. His mother sees lawed vine wilt and knows of son's death. Informs her husband he has killed son. She restores Kanag to life and they leave. Husband tries to follow, but magic growth of thorns in trail prevents. He is finally reconciled to his family and has former sweethearts killed. 13 A pregnant woman desires the fruit of an orange tree which belongs to the six-headed giant Gawigawen. Her husband asks her what it is she desires and she replies falsely; first, that she wishes a certain fruit, then fish roe, and finally deer liver. He secures each, taking the roe and liver out of the fish and deer without causing their death. Each of the articles makes the woman vomit, so her husband knows that she is not satisfied. Transforming self into a centipede he hides until he learns her real wish. Arms self and starts on perilous mission, but first plants lawed vine in house. By condition of vine wife is to know of his safety or death. On way small dog bites him; he is tested by lightning and by thunder, and in each case gets a bad sign, but continues journey. Sails over ocean on his headaxe. Reaches cliff on which the town of the giant is placed, but is unable to scale it. Chief of spiders spins a web on which he climbs. Giant promises him the fruit provided he eats whole carabao. Chiefs of ants and flies calls their followers and eat animal for him. Is allowed to pick fruit, but branches of tree are sharp knives on which he is cut. He puts two of oranges on his spear and it flies away to his home. He dies and lawed vine at his house withers. Giant uses his skin to cover end of drum, puts his hair on roof of house and places his head at gate of town. Wife gives birth to child, which grows one span each time it is bathed. While still very small child angers old woman who tells him of his father's fate. Child determines to go in search of father despite mother's protests. On journey he meets all the tests put to his father, but always receives good signs. Jumps over cliff father had climbed on the spider web. He challenges giant to fight and shows valor by refusing to be the first to use his weapons. Giant unable to injure him, for he first becomes an ant, then vanishes. He throws his spear and it goes through giant, while his headaxe cuts off five of adversary's heads. Spares last head so it can tell him where to find his father. Collects father's body together and restores it to life. Lawed vine at their home revives. Father tries to cut off last head of giant, but fails; son succeeds easily. They send the headaxes to kill all people in town. Slaughter is so great the father swims in blood, but son stands on it. Both return home and hold a great celebration over the heads. The father's spittle is lapped up by a frog which becomes pregnant. Frog gives birth to baby girl which is carried away by anitos. Girl is taught to make dawak (the duties of a medium). Her half brother hears her, changes self into a bird and visits her in the sky. Is hidden in a caldron to keep anitos from eating him. Tries to persuade sister to return with him. She promises to go when their father celebrates balaua. The ceremony is held and girl attends. Is so beautiful all young men try to obtain her. They are so persistent that brother returns her to sky where she still lives and aids women who make dawak. 14 Aponitolau and his wife plant sugar cane, and by use of magic cause it to grow rapidly. The daughter of the big star sees the cane and desires to chew it. She goes with her companions and steals some of the cane, which they chew in the field. Aponitolau hides near by and sees stars fall into the cane patch. He observes one take off her dress and become a beautiful woman. He sits on her garment and refuses to give it up until they chew betel-nut together. The star girl falls in love with him and compels him to return with her to the sky. Five months later she has a child which comes out from space between her last two fingers. Aponitolau persuades her to allow him to visit the earth. He fails to return at agreed time, and stars are sent to fetch him. He returns to the sky, but visits the earth again, eight months later. Earth wife bears him a child and they celebrate Sayang. Sky child attends and later marries an earth maiden. 15 The wife of Aponitolau refuses to comb his hair; so he has another woman do it. She, in turn, refuses to cut betel-nut for him to chew. While doing it for himself he is cut on his headaxe. The blood flows up into the air, and does not cease until he vanishes. Ceremonies made for him are without avail. Aponitolau finds himself up in the air country. He meets maiden who is real cause of his plight. They live together and have a child which grows every time it is bathed. Aponitolau takes boy down to earth to visit his half brother. While there the tears of the mother above fall on her son and hurt him. They celebrate Sayang and the sky mother attends. After it is over the half brothers marry earth girls. 16 Ayo gives birth to three little pigs. Husband is ashamed, and while wife is at the spring he places the animals in a basket and hangs it in a tree. Basket is found by old woman, Alokotán, who takes it home. Pigs soon turn into boys. When grown they go to court the girls while they spin. Ayo hears of their visits and goes where they are. Milk from her breasts goes to their mouths and thus proves her to be their mother. They celebrate balaua. Ayo puts one grain of rice in each of twelve jars and they are at once filled with rice. Betel-nuts summon the people to attend the ceremony. The old woman Alokotán attends and the whole story of the children's birth and change to human form comes out. 17 Dumalawi makes love to his father's concubines who openly show their preference for the son. The father plans to do away with the youth. Gets him drunk and has storm carry him away. Dumalawi awakens in center of a large field. He causes betel trees to grow, then cuts the nuts into bits and scatters them on the ground. The pieces of nut become people who are his neighbors. He falls in love with daughter of one of these people and marries her. They celebrate Sayang and send out oiled betel-nuts to invite the guests. All guests, except Dumalawi's father, are carried across river on the back of a crocodile. Animal at first dives and refuses to carry him, but finally does so. All drink from a small jar which still remains a third full. Parents of Dumalawi pay the usual marriage price for girl, but her mother insists on more. Has spider spin web around the town, and groom's mother has to cover it with golden beads. 18 While two women are bathing, blood from their bodies is carried down stream. Two alan secure the drops of blood and place them in dishes. Each drop turns into a baby boy. Boys go to fight and kill many people at the spring. They challenge a ten-headed giant. He is unable to injure them, but their weapons kill him and his neighbors. Heads of the victors take themselves to homes of the boys. A storm transports the giant's house. Boys trample on town of the enemy and it becomes like the ocean. They use magic and reach home in an instant. Hold celebration over the heads. Some guests bring beautiful girls hidden in their belts. Alan tell history of lads and restore them to their people. One of boys falls in love and his parents negotiate match for him. The payment for the girl is valuable things sufficient to fill balaua eighteen times, and other gifts in her new home. 19 Kanag is lead by his hunting dog to a small house in the jungle. Girl who lives there hides, but appears on second day. They chew betel-nuts and tell their names. The quids turn to agate beads and lie in order, showing them to be related and hence suitable for marriage. They remain in forest two years and have children. Kanag uses magical power and transfers their house to his home town during night. Children see sugar cane which they wish to chew. Kanag goes to secure it, and while away his mother visits his wife and abuses her. She becomes ill and dies. Kanag tries to kill his mother, but fails. Puts body of wife on a golden raft, places golden rooster on it and sets afloat on the river. Rooster crows and proclaims ownership whenever raft passes a village. Old woman Alokotán secures raft before it vanishes into the hole where river ends. Revives the girl. Kanag and children reach home of Alokotán, and girl is restored to them. They celebrate balaua and send betel-nuts covered with gold to invite relatives. When guests arrive, they chew betel-nut and learn that Kanag and his wife are cousins. Kanag's parents pay marriage price, which is the balaua filled nine times with jars. Girl's mother raises eyebrows and half of jars vanish. Balaua is again filled. Guests dance and feast. Part of marriage price given to guests. 20 Kanaa's sweetheart desires the perfume of Baliwán and promises to fulfill his desires if he secures it for her. Gives him arm beads from left arm in token of her sincerity. Kanag and a companion set out on mission but are warned, first by a jar and later by a frog, not to continue. They disregard the advice and go on. They reach the tree on which perfume grows, and Kanag climbs up and breaks off a branch. He turns into a great snake, and his companion flees. Snake appears to Langa-ayan and proves its identity by the arm beads around its neck. She takes it to a magic well, the waters of which cause the snake skin to peel off, and the boy is restored to his own form. Kanag marries Amau, and when they celebrate balaua he returns the bracelet to his former sweetheart. His parents fill the balaua nine times with valuable articles, in payment for his bride. 21 Kanag is sent to watch the mountain rice, although it is well protected from wild pigs. Thinks parents do not care for him, is despondent. Changes self into an omen bird and accompanies his father when he goes to fight. Father obeys signs and secures many heads from his enemies. He holds a great celebration over the heads, but Kanag refuses to attend. Decides to go down to earth to eat certain fruits. Parents order their spirit helpers to accompany him and dissuade him if possible. They show him a beautiful girl with whom he falls in love. He assumes human form and meets her. They chew betel-nut and tell their names. Signs are favorable for their marriage. His parents agree to fill the balaua nine times with various kinds of jars. They do so, but mother of girl raises eyebrows and half of jars vanish and have to be replaced. Girl's mother demands that golden beads be strung on a spider web which surrounds the town. This is done, but web does not break. Girl's mother hangs on thread which still holds. She then agrees to the marriage. Guests dance and then return home, each carrying some of the jars. 22 While Ligi is bathing in river his headband flies away and alights on the skirt of a maiden who is bathing further down stream. The girl carries the headband home and soon finds herself pregnant. The child is born when she has the space between her third and fourth fingers pricked. With each bath the child grows a span and soon becomes so active that he hinders mother at her work. She decides to put him with his father during daytime. Uses magic and causes people of the town to sleep while she places child beside father. Ligi awakes and finds child and his headband beside him. Child refuses to answer questions. Mother secures child at nightfall and repeats acts next day. Child is hidden, so she fails to get him. Ligi determines to learn who mother of child is; sends out oiled betel-nuts covered with gold to invite all people to a Sayang. When summoned, the mother refuses to go until a betel-nut grows on her knee and compels her. She goes disguised as a Negrito, but is recognized by the child who nurses from her while she is drunk. Ligi suspects her, and with a knife cuts off her black skin. Learns she is child's mother and marries her. He divorces his wife Aponibolinayen, who marries husband of Gimbagonan. The latter poisons her rival, but later restores her, when threatened by her husband. 23 A flock of birds offer to cut rice for Ligi. He agrees, and goes home with a headache. Birds use magic so that the rice cutters work alone, and the tying bands tie themselves around the bundles. The birds each take one grain of rice in payment. They use magic again so that bundles of rice take themselves to the town. Ligi invites them to a ceremony, and then follows them home. He sees them remove their feathers and become one girl. They go back to the celebration, where all chew betel-nut. Girl's quid goes to those of her parents, from whom she had been stolen by the spirit Kaboniyan. The parents of Ligi pay the usual marriage price for the girl. 24 When the husband of Dolimáman pricks an itching spot between her third and fourth fingers, a baby boy pops out. Child who is called Kanag grows each time he is bathed. While his wife is away the father puts child on a raft and sets it afloat on the river. Child is rescued by old woman Alokotán, who is making a pool in which sick and dead are restored to health. Boy plays on nose flute which tells him about his mother, but he does not understand. Plays on bunkaka with same result. Mother who is searching her child passes by while he is playing. Milk from her breasts goes to his mouth, and she recognizes him. They stay with old woman despite pleading of husband. 25 Awig sends his daughter to watch the mountain rice. She stays in a high watch house, but is found by tattooed Igorot, who cut her body in two and take her head. Father goes to seek her murderers, but first plants a lawed vine in the house; by its condition his wife is to know of his safety or death. He climbs high tree and looks in all directions. Sees Igorot, who are dancing around the head of his daughter. He takes juice from the poison tree and goes to the dance, where he is mistaken for a companion. He serves liquor to others and poisons them. Takes daughter's head and starts home. Is followed by four enemies. Uses magic and causes cogon field to burn, so foes are delayed. Repeats this several times and finally escapes. He joins head and body of his daughter, and old woman Alokotán puts saliva on cuts and revives her. Old woman places four sticks in the ground and they become a balaua. Betel-nuts are sent out to invite guests and many come. When the girl dances with her lover, the water comes up knee deep into the town and they have to stop. She is engaged and her lover's parents fill the balaua three times with valuable gifts, in payment for her. Half of gifts vanish, when her mother raises her eyebrows, and are replaced. Her husband discovers the scar on her body where Igorot had cut her. Takes her to magic well where she bathes. Scars vanish. 26 The mother of Dumanágan negotiates marriage for her son with Aponibolinayen. Brother of girl puts her in his belt and carries her to place where agreement is made. When they reach gate of town, young girls offer them cakes, in order to take away bad signs seen on road. Boy's parents pay for girl and they marry. She gives birth to son named Asbinan. He marries Asigowan, but his jealous concubines cause her to cut her finger and she dies. Her body is placed in a tabalang on which a rooster sits, and is set afloat on the river. Crowing of the cock causes old woman Alokotán to rescue the corpse. She places it in her magic well and the girl is again alive and beautiful. She returns to her husband as a bird; is caught by him and then resumes own form. 27 Baby of four months hears his father tell of his youthful exploits. Decides to go on head hunt despite protests of parents. Is detained on his trip by young alan girls. Finally reaches Igorot town and by means of magic kills all the people and takes their heads. Heads take themselves to his home. On way back he plays bamboo jew's harp and it summons his brothers to come and see him. They chew betel-nut and make sure of relationship. Continuing his journey, he is twice lost. Finds an unknown sister hiding among lawed vines. Puts her in his belt and carries her home. Upon his arrival a celebration is held and the new found brothers and sister, who had been stolen by alan, are restored to parents. 28 The mother and caretaker of Asbinan try to arrange for him to marry Dawinisan, but are refused. Asbinan goes to the girl's home and feigns sickness. Is cared for by the girl, who becomes infatuated with him and accepts his suit. His parents pay jars and gold--in the shape of deer--for her. 29 Asbinan refuses to eat until his father secures fish roe. He then demands Chinese dishes from the coast town of Vigan. When these are supplied, he eats, and then demands the love charm which his father used when a young man. He goes to the place where the maidens are spinning, and when one offers to give him a light for his pipe, he blows smoke in her face. The charm acts and she becomes ill. He convinces her people that the only way she can be cured is by marrying him. Her parents accept payment for the girl. 30 Tolagan decides to visit certain places in Pangasinan. He rides on a pinto pony and carries rice cakes as provisions. At the spring in Kaodanan he meets a beautiful maiden who warns him to return home, because the birds have given him a bad sign. He returns only to find that his wife has been stolen by the spirit Kaboniyan. He fails to find her, but is comforted by winning a new bride (probably the girl of Kaodanan). 31 Two girls are adopted by a rich man, who treats them as his daughters, except that he does not offer them bracelets or rings. They dress as men and go to see a jeweler. Two young men suspect and follow them, but they succeed in escaping and return home. The spirit helpers of the youths take the forms of hawks and finally locate the maidens, whom they carry away. The youths plan to marry the girls and invite many friends to the celebration. Kanag and his companion attend, become enamored with the brides and steal them. Upon chewing betel-nuts they learn that they are related, so they are married. II 32 The Ipogau who are trying to celebrate Sayang make errors. The spirit Kadaklan and his wife instruct them to go and watch the Sayang at Sayau. They do as bidden and after learning all the details return home and perform the ceremony. The chief spirits are pleased and cause the lesser spirits to attend the ceremony when summoned by the medium. The sick improve. 33 The people who are conducting the Dawak ceremony fail to do it properly. Kaboniyan (a spirit) goes down and instructs them. After that they are able to cure the sick. 34 The spirits of Dadaya notice that their feather headdresses have lost their lustre. They place them on the house of some mortals, who at once become ill. The spirit Kaboniyan instructs them to make the Pala-an ceremony. They obey, the feathers regain their brightness and the people recover. 35 The father who is starting for a head-dance agrees to meet his wife and baby at sun down. When he reaches the agreed spot, he finds only their hats; he looks down and sees them in the ground. He tries in vain to get them out. The spirit Kaboniyan instructs him to perform the Ibal ceremony. He does so and receives his wife and child. 36 The spirit Ináwen, who lives in the sea, sends her servants to spread sickness. They kill many people who fail to make the Sangásang ceremony. A man is disturbed at night by barking of dogs, goes to door and meets a big spirit which has nine heads. Spirit tells him how to make the offering in Sangásang. He follows directions and spirits carry gift to their mistress. She mistakes the blood of a rooster for that of human beings. Is displeased with the taste and orders spirits to stop killing. 37 The spirit Maganáwan sends his servants to secure the blood of a rooster mixed with rice. People see many snakes and birds near gate of town. They make the ceremony Sangásang and offer blood and rice. The servants of Maganáwan carry the offering to him. He takes it in his mouth and spits it out, and in the same way the sickness is removed from the mortals. 38 The people who are digging holes for house poles get a bad sign from the omen bird. They abandon the place and dig again. The deer gives a bad sign, then the snake, then different birds. They change locations many times, but at last ignore the signs and complete the house. The family are continually in trouble and are ill. The spirit Kaboniyan goes to see the sick persons; he lets his spear drop through the house, and then tells them the cause of the trouble is that they have failed to make Sangásang. He instructs them what to do, and when they obey all become well. 39 The different parts of the house quarrel and each insists on its importance. At last they recognize how necessary each one is for the other and cease their wrangling; then the people who live in the house are again in good health. 40 The great spirit sees the people of Bisau celebrating the Ubaya ceremony, and determines to reward them by increasing their worldly goods. He appears as a man and rewards them. 41 Dayapán, who has been ill for seven years, goes to bathe. The spirit Kaboniyan enters her body and instructs her how to perform healing ceremonies. He also teaches her how to plant and reap, and she in turn teaches the Tinguian. While she is bathing she ties a cock and dog by the water side. The dog eats the cock, and thus death comes into the world. 42 Girl who lacks certain organs is ashamed to marry. She is sent by her mother to cause lameness to people who pass. A man who falls victim to her magic is only cured when the girl instructs him how to make the Bawi ceremony. 43 The spirit Kaboniyan instructs a sick man to make offerings at the guardian stones. He does as bidden and becomes well. They perform ceremonies near the stones when they go to fight or celebrate balaua, and sometimes the spirit of the stones appears as a wild rooster, a white cock, or a white dog. A man who defiles the stones becomes crazy. 44 Man sees a woman walking at night near the guardian stones. She refuses to talk and he cuts her in the thigh. She vanishes into the stones. Next day it is seen that one of the stones is cut. Man dies. 45 The old men of Lagayan see peculiarly shaped stones traveling down the river, accompanied by a band of blackbirds. They catch the stones and carry them to the gate of the village, where they have since remained as guardians. 46 The spirit Ibwa visits a funeral and is given some of the juices, coming from the dead body, to drink. Since then he always tries to eat the body of the dead unless prevented. He is accompanied by another evil spirit whose embrace causes the living to die. 47 A widow leaves the town before the period of mourning for her husband is past. The spirit appears first to the daughter-in-law and is fed by her, then asks for his wife. He goes to the place where she is watching the corn and sleeps with her. She apparently becomes pregnant, but fails to be delivered, and dies. 48 Two men agree to hunt carabao the following morning. In the night one dies, but the other not knowing this leaves the town and goes to the appointed place. He meets the spirit of the dead man, and only saves his life by running his horse all the way home. 49 A man and his wife are living near to their field when the husband dies. An evil spirit comes to the door, but is driven away by the wife w with a headaxe. Several evil spirits attempt to gain entrance; then the chief comes. He breaks down the door; he cuts off the dead man's ears and makes the woman chew them with him--like betel-nut. The signs are propitious. He changes the woman's two breasts into one, in the center of her chest, and takes her home. 50 A man, whose brother has just died, goes to hunt. He begins to cut up the game when his brother's spirit appears. He feeds it, but food comes out of its anus as fast as it eats. He flees and is pursued by the spirit until, by chance, he runs among alangtin bushes. The spirit dislikes the bush and leaves. 51 The people fail to put the banal vine and iron on the grave. An evil spirit notices the omission and steals the body. 52 A man goes to hunt his carabao in the mountains. He fails to plant branches at his head before he sleeps. A spirit expectorates on him, and he soon dies. 53 Two men who have to sleep in the mountains make beds of sobosob leaves. In the night they hear the evil spirits come and express a desire to get them. Spirits dislike the leaves, so do not molest the men. 54 Three hunters spend the night in the open. One covers himself with a red and yellow striped blanket. In the night two spirits come and think he is a little wild pig, and decide to eat him. The hunter hears them and exchanges blankets with one of his companions. The companion is eaten, and hence the kambaya, or striped blanket, is no longer used on the trail. 55 The spirit Bayon steals a beautiful girl and carries her to the sky, where he changes her breasts into one and marries her. She drops her rice pounder to the earth, and thus her people learn of her fate. Both she and her husband still attend certain ceremonies. 56 A hunter is carried away by a great bird. He is placed in the nest with its young and aids in feeding them. When they are large, he holds on to them, and jumps safely to the ground. He goes to fight against his enemies. While he is gone his wife dies. Upon his return he sees her spirit driving a cow and two pigs. He follows her to the spirit's town and is hidden in a rice bin. When spirits try to get him during the night, he repels them by throwing feathers. Feathers become exhausted, and he is forced to return home. 57 A man encounters a large being, which, from its odor, he recognizes as the spirit of a dead man. He runs to get his friends, and they find the spot trampled like a carabao wallow. 58 The dead wife of Baluga harvests his rice during the nighttime. He hides and captures her. They go together to the spirit town, in the ground, and secure her spirit which is kept in a green bamboo cup. As they are returning to the ground they are pursued, but Baluga cuts the vine on which their pursuers are climbing. When they reach home, they hold a great celebration. 59 An alan takes the afterbirth and causes it to become a real child named Sayen. Afterbirth child marries a servant, thinking he has married her mistress. Learns he is deceived, and causes death of his wife; then kills many people in the town of the girl who has deceived him. She gets him to desist, and after he revives some of the slain marries him. People of neighboring town are troubled by the komau, an evil spirit, who always causes the death of as many people as the hunters have secured deer. Sayen kills the komau. He fights with the great spirit Kaboniyan. Neither is able to overcome the other, so they become friends. They fight together against their enemies. Sayen often changes himself into a fish or chicken, and hides after a fight. This is observed by people who set a trap and capture him. He is killed. 60 A man while in the woods hears the alan near him. He feigns death and the spirits weep for him. They put gold and beads on the body. He springs up and seizes the offerings. They demand the return of one bead; he refuses, and the spirits burn his house. 61 Two men who have killed a wild pig desire fire. One goes to house of an alan and tries to secure it while the spirit sleeps. She awakes and goes with the man to the pig. Man carries liver of the animal back to the baby alan. He eats the liver and then throws the child into a caldron of hot water. He tells his companion what he has done, and they climb a tree near the water. The alan discovers their hiding place by seeing their reflection in the water. She climbs up, feet first, but they cut the vine on which she is ascending, and she is killed. They go to her house and secure a jar of beads and a jar of gold. 62 The flat earth is made by the spirit Kadaklan. He also makes the moon and sun, which chase each other through the sky. The moon sometimes nearly catches the sun, but becomes weary too soon. The stars are stones, the lightning a dog. 63 A flood covers the land. Fire has no place to go, so enters bamboo, stones and iron. It still lives there and can be driven out by those who know how. 64 A man finds his rice field disturbed even though well fenced in. He hides and in middle of night sees some big animals fly into it. He seizes one and cuts off its wings. The animal turns out to be a mare which is pregnant and soon has male offspring. The place where the wings once grew are still to be seen on the legs of all horses. 65 A lazy man, who is planting corn, constantly leans on his planting stick. It becomes a tail and he turns into a monkey. 66 A boy is too lazy to strip sugar cane for himself. His mother in anger tells him to stick it up his anus. He does so and becomes a monkey. 67 A lazy girl pretends she does not know how to spin. Her companions, in disgust, tell her to stick the spinning stick up her anus. She does so and at once changes into a monkey. 68 A war party are unable to cross a swollen river. They wish to become birds. Their wish is granted and they are changed to kalau, but they are not able to resume the human forms. Those who wore the white mourning bands, now have white heads. 69 A mother puts a basket over her lazy son. When she raises it a bird flies away crying "sigakók" (lazy). 70 A young man who owns a rice field gets a new wife. He leaves her to harvest the crop. She is discouraged over the prospect and wishes to become a bird. Her wish is fulfilled, and she becomes a kakok. 71 The dog of Ganoway chases a deer into a cave. The hunter follows and in the darkness brushes against shrubs which tinkle. He breaks off some branches. Cave opens again on the river bank, and he finds his dog and the dead deer at the entrance. He sees that fruits on the branches he carries are agate beads. Returns, but fails to find more. His townspeople go with him to seek the wonderful tree, but part of the cave is closed by the spirit Kaboniyan who owns it. 72 The jar Magsawi formerly talked softly, but now is cracked and cannot be understood. In the first times the dogs of some hunters chased the jar and the men followed, thinking it to be a deer. The jar eluded them until a voice from the sky informed the pursuers how it might be caught. The blood of a pig was offered, as the voice directed, and the jar was captured. 73 The sun and moon fight. Sun throws sand in moon's face and makes the dark spots which are still visible. 74 A man who went with a war party is away so long that he does not recognize his daughter when he returns. He embraces her when she meets him at the town gate. In shame she changes herself into a coconut tree. 75 Two flying snakes once guarded the gap in the mountains by which the Abra river reaches the sea. Two brave men attack them with banana trunks. Their wings stick in the banana trees and they are easily killed. The men are rewarded with gold made in the shape of deer and horses. 76 A man named Tagápen, of Ilocos Norte, with his wife and child goes up the Abra river on a raft. They stop at various towns and Tagápen goes up to each while his wife comforts the child. They finally reached Patok where they go to live in the balaua. They remain there teaching the people many songs. III 77 A turtle and a monkey go to plant bananas. The turtle places his in the ground, but the monkey hangs his in a tree. Soon the tree of the turtle has ripe fruit, but the monkey has none. Turtle asks monkey to climb and secure the fruit. Monkey eats all but one banana, then sleeps in the tree. Turtle plants sharp shells around the tree and then frightens monkey which falls and is killed. Turtle sells his flesh to other monkey and then chides them because they eat their kind. Monkeys catch turtle and threaten first to cut and then to burn him. He deceives them by showing them marks on his body. They tie weight to him and throw him into the water. He reappears with a fish. Monkeys try to imitate him and are drowned. 78 A turtle and lizard go to steal ginger. The lizard talks so loudly he attracts the attention of the owner. The turtle hides, but the lizard runs and is pursued by the man. The turtle enters the house and hides under a coconut shell. When the man sits on the shell the turtle calls. He cannot discover source of noise and thinks it comes from his testicles. He strikes these with a stone and dies. The turtle and the lizard see a bees' nest. The lizard hastens to get it and is stung. They see a bird snare and turtle claims it as the necklace of his father. Lizard runs to get it but is caught and killed. 79 A little bird calls many times for a boy to catch it. He snares it and places it in a jar. Lad's grandmother eats the bird. He discovers the theft, leaves home and gets a big stone to swallow him. The grandmother gets horses to kick the stone, carabao to hook it, and chickens to peck it, but without result. When thunder and her friends also fail, she goes home without her grandson. 80 A frog, which is attached to a hook, lures a fish so that it is caught. 81 The five fingers are brothers. The thumb goes to get bamboo. He tries to kiss the bamboo and his nose sticks. One by one the others go in search of the missing but are captured in the same manner. The little finger, which alone remains free, releases the others. 82 A carabao and a shell agree to race along the river. The carabao runs swiftly, then pauses to call "shell." Another shell replies and the carabao continues running. This is repeated many times until at last the carabao falls dead. 83 A crab and a shell go to get wood. The crab pulls the rope on his load so tightly that he breaks his big legs and dies. The shell finds his friend dead and cries until he belches his own body out of the shell and he dies. 84 A mosquito tells a man he would eat him were it not for his ears. 85 A messenger goes to negotiate a marriage. When he arrives he sees the people nodding their heads as they suck meat out of shells. He returns home without stating his mission, but reports an acceptance. Girl's people are surprised when people come for pakálon. 86 A man sees people eating bamboo shoots, and is told they are eating pagaldanen. He understands them to say aldan--"ladder," so he goes home and cooks his bamboo ladder. Is ridiculed by his friends. 87 A man with heavily laden horse asks the length of a certain trip. Boy replies, "If you go slowly, very soon; if you go fast, all day." The man hurries so that coconuts keep falling off the load and have to be replaced. It is dark when he arrives. 88 A woman eats the fruit belonging to crocodile and throws away the rind. Crocodile sees her tooth marks and recognizes the offender. He demands that she be given him to eat. Her people agree, but first feed him a hot iron. He swallows it and dies. 89 A lazy man goes to cut bamboo, and a cat steals his cooked rice. He catches the cat in a trap and takes it home. It becomes a fighting cock. The man starts for a cock fight, and on the way is joined by a crocodile, a deer, a mound of earth and a monkey. The rooster kills all the other birds at the fight, then the crocodile wins a diving contest, the deer a race, the mound of earth a wrestling match, and the monkey excels all in climbing. The man wins much money in wagers and buys a good house. 90 A spirit lets a man take his poncho which makes him invisible. He goes to his wife who recognizes his voice and thinks him dead. He takes off poncho and appears before her. 91 A fisherman is seized by a big bird which carries him to its nest. The small birds try to eat him, but he seizes one in each hand and jumps from the tree. He reaches the ground unhurt and returns home. VITA Fay-Cooper Cole Born Plainwell, Michigan, August 8, 1881. Educated at University of Southern California, Northwestern University, Chicago University, Berlin University, Columbia University. B.S. Northwestern University, 1903. Publications: The Tinguian. Philippine Journal of Science, Vol. III, No. 4. 1908. Distribution of the Non-Christian Tribes of Northwestern Luzon. Am. Anthro., Vol. II, No. 3. 1909. The Bagobo of Davao Gulf. Philippine Journal of Science, Vol. VI, No. 3. 1911. Chinese Pottery in the Philippines. Pub. Field Mus. Nat. Hist., Vol. XII, No. 1. Chicago, 1912. Wild Tribes of Davao District, Mindanao. Pub. Field Mus. Nat. Hist., Vol. XII, No. 2. Chicago, 1913. Traditions of the Tinguian. Pub. Field Mus. Nat. Hist., Vol. XIV, No. 1. Chicago, 1915. NOTES [1] Traditions of the Tinguian. (Pub. Field Museum of Natural History. Anthro. Series, Vol. No. I. Chicago, 1915.) [2] Men or women through whom the superior beings talk to mortals. During ceremonies the spirits possess their bodies and govern their language and actions. When not engaged in their calling, the mediums take part in the daily activities of the village. [3] See page 26. [4] The initial portion of some of these names is derived from the respectful term apo--"sir," and the attributive copulate ni; thus the original form of Aponitolau probably was Apo ni Tolau, literally "Sir, who is Tolau." However, the storytellers do not now appear to divide the names into their component parts, and they frequently corrected the writer when he did so, for this reason such names appear in the text as single words. Following this explanation it is possible that the name Aponibolinayen may be derived from Apo ni bolan yan, literally "Sir (mistress) who is place where the moon"; but bolan generally refers to the space of time between the phases of the moon rather than to the moon itself. The proper term for moon is sinag, which we have seen is the mother of Gaygayóma--a star,--and is clearly differentiated from Aponibolinayen. [5] [male]--male. [female]--female. [6] Occasionally the storytellers become confused and give Pagbokásan as the father of Aponitolau. [7] The town of Natpangán is several times mentioned as though it was the same as Kaodanan. [8] The figures in parentheses refer to pages in the volume Traditions of the Tinguian, Pub. Field Mus. Nat. Hist., Vol. XIV, No. I. Chicago, 1915. [9] The only possible exception to this statement is the mention of a carabao sled on p. 150, and of Aponitolau and Aponibolinayen riding on a carabao p.51. Traditions of the Tinguian. (Pub. Field Museum, vol. xiv, No. I; Chicago, 1915.) [10] A term applied to any of the wilder head-hunting tribes. [11] Ladders are placed on each side of the town gate and are inclined toward one another until they meet at the top. Returning warriors enter the village by climbing up the one and descending the other, never through the gate. [12] Copper gongs. [13] Sharpened bamboo poles which pass through the foramen magnum. [14] This poison is placed in the food or drink. The use of poisoned darts or arrows seems never to have been known to this people. [15] A similar custom is found among the Kayan of Borneo. See Hose and McDougall, Pagan Tribes of Borneo, Vol. II, p. 171 (London, 1912). [16] In this dance a man and a woman enter the circle, each holding a cloth. Keeping time to the music, they approach each other with almost imperceptible movements of feet and toes, and a bending at the knees, meanwhile changing the position of the cloths. This is varied from time to time by a few quick, high steps. For fuller description see article by author in Philippine Journal of Science, Vol. III, No. 4, 1908, p. 208. [17] The custom was formerly practised by the Ilocano. See Reves, Folklore Filipino, p. 126 (Manila, 1899). [18] See Philippine Journal of Science, Vol. III, No. 4, 1908, pp. 206, ff. [19] The Tinguian do not have a classificatory system of relationship terms. The term kasinsiu is applied alike to the children of mother's and father's brothers and sisters. [20] A sacred dance in which a number of men and women take part. It takes place only at night and is accompanied by the singing of the participants. [21] The night preceding the greatest day of the Sayang ceremony. [22] Runo, a reed. [23] See p. 8, note 2. [24] A short ceremony held for the cure of fever and minor ills. It also forms a part of the more extensive rites. [25] A sugar-cane rum. [26] See p. 7, note 1. [27] Lesser spirits. [28] Lesser spirits. [29] Lesser spirits. [30] Like ideas occur in the folk-tales of British North Borneo. See Evans, Journal Royal Anthro. Inst., Vol. XLIII, 1913, p. 444. [31] In various guises the same conception is found in Europe, Asia, Africa, and Malaysia. See Cox, An Introduction to Folklore, p. 121 (London, 1904).--In an Igorot tale the owner captures and marries the star maiden, who is stealing his rice. Seidenadel, The Language of the Bontoc Igorot, p. 491 ff. (Chicago, 1909). [32] The Dusun of Borneo have tales of talking jars. Evans, Journal Royal Anthro. Inst., Vol. XLIII, 1913, pp. 426-427. See also Cole and Laufer, Chinese Pottery in the Philippines (Pub. Field Museum of Nat. Hist., Vol. XII, No. I, p. 11 ff., 1912). [33] Piper sp. [34] Bagobo tales relate that in the beginning plants, animals, and rocks could talk with mortals. See Benedict, Journal American Folklore, Vol. XXVI, 1913, p. 21. [35] Tales of animals who assist mortals are found in all lands; perhaps the best known to European readers is that of the ants which sorted the grain for Cinderella. See also Evans, Jour. Royal Anthro. Inst., Vol. XLIII, 1913, p. 467, for Borneo; Tawney's Kathá Sarit Ságara, pp. 361 ff., Calcutta, 1880, for India. [36] Fabulous birds of gigantic size, often known under the Indian term garuda, play an important part in the beliefs of the Peninsular Malays. [37] A similiar incident is cited by Bezemer (Volksdichtung aus Indonesien). See also the Bagobo tale of the Kingfisher (Benedict, Jour. American Folklore, Vol. XXVI, 1913, p. 53). [38] The magic flight has been encountered in the most widely separated parts of the globe, as, for instance, India and America. See Tawney, Kathá Sarit Ságara, pp. 361, 367 ff. and notes, (Calcutta, 1880); Waterman, Jour. American Folklore, Vol. XXVII, 1914, p. 46; Reinhold Köhler, Kleinere Schriften, Vol. I, pp. 171, 388. [39] In the Dayak legend of Limbang, a tree springs from the head of a dead giant; its flowers turn to beads; its leaves to cloth; the ripe fruit to jars. See H. Ling Roth, The Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo, Vol. I, p. 372. [40] Similar incidents are to be found among the Ilocano and Igorot in Borneo; in Java and India. See Reyes, Folklore Filipino, p. 34, (Manila, 1889); Jenks, The Bontoc Igorot, p. 202, (Manila, 1905); Seidenadel, The Language of the Bontoc Igorot. p. 491, 541, ff, (Chicago, 1909); Evans, Journal Royal Anthro. Inst., Vol. XLIII, 1913, p. 462; Ling Roth, Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo, Vol. I, p. 319; Tawney, Kathá Sarit Ságara, Vol. II, p. 3, (Calcutta, 1880); Bezemer, Volksdichtung aus Indonesien, p. 49, (Haag, 1904). [41] This peculiar expression while frequently used is not fully understood by the story tellers who in place of the word "whip" occasionally use "make." In one text which describes the Sayang ceremony, I find the following sentence, which may help us to understand the foregoing: "We go to make perfume at the edge of the town, and the things which we take, which are our perfume, are the leaves of trees and some others; it is the perfume for the people, which we give to them, which we go to break off the trees at the edge of the town." Again in tale 20, Kanag breaks the perfume of Baliwán off a tree.--The use of sweetly scented oil, in raising the dead, is found in Dayak legends. See Ling Roth, The Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo, Vol. I, p. 314. [42] According to a Jakun legend, the first children were produced out of the calves of their mothers' legs. Skeat and Bladgen, Pagan Races of the Malay Peninsula, Vol. II, p. 185.--A creation tale from Mangaia relates that the boy Rongo came from a boil on his mother's arm when it was pressed. Gill, Myths and Songs of the South Pacific, p. 10 (London, 1876). [43] This power of transforming themselves into animals and the like is a common possession among the heroes of Dayak and Malay tales. See Ling Roth, The Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo, Vol. I, p. 312; Perham, Journal Straits Branch R., Asiatic Society, No. 16, 1886; Wilkinson, Malay Beliefs, pp. 32, 59 (London, 1906). [44] The present day Tinguian attach much importance to these omens. The gall and liver of the slaughtered animal are carefully examined. If the fluid in the gall sack is exceedingly bitter, the inquirer is certain to be successful; if it is mild he had best defer his project. Certain lines and spots found on the liver foretell disaster, while a normal organ assures success. See also Hose and McDougall, Pagan Tribes of Borneo, Vol. II, p. 60 ff. [45] See p. 21, note 1. [46] The present capital of Ilocos Sur. [47] See p. 7, note 1. [48] Barrows, Census of the Philippine Islands, Vol. I, pp. 456 ff., 1903. [49] Paul P. de La Gironiere, who visited the Tinguian in the early part of the nineteenth century, describes these ornaments as follows: "Their heads were ornamented with pearls, coral beads, and pieces of gold twisted among their hair; the upper parts of the hands were painted blue; wrists adorned with interwoven bracelets, spangled with glass beads; these bracelets reached the elbow and formed a kind of half-plaited sleeve. La Gironiere, Twenty Years in the Philippines, pp. 108 ff. [50] See Cole and Laufer, Chinese Pottery in the Philippines (Pub. Field Museum of Natural History, Vol. XII, No. 1). [51] This is entirely in agreement with Chinese records. The Islands always appeared to the Chinese as an Eldorado desirable for its gold and pearls. [52] See p. 17, note 2. [53] See p. 7, note 4. [54] A bamboo pole, about ten feet long, one end of which is slit into several strips; these are forced apart and are interwoven with other strips, thus forming a sort of basket. [55] See Cole, Distribution of the Non-Christian Tribes of Northwestern Luzon (American Anthropologist, Vol. II, No. 3, 1909, pp. 340, 341). [56] See p. 9. [57] See p. 10, note 3. [58] Among the Ifugao, the lowest of the four layers or strata which overhang the earth is known as Kabuniyan. See Beyer, Philippine Journal of Science, Vol. VIII, 1913, No. 2, p. 98. [59] See p. 8. [60] An Ifugao myth gives sanction to the marriage of brother and sister under certain circumstances, although it is prohibited in every day life. Beyer, Philippine Journal of Science, Vol. VIII, 1913, No. 2, pp. 100 ff. [61] As opposed to the spirit mate of Aponitolau. [62] According to Ling Roth, the Malanaus of Borneo bury small boats near the graves of the deceased, for the use of the departed spirits. It was formerly the custom to put jars, weapons, clothes, food, and in some cases a female slave aboard a raft, and send it out to sea on the ebb tide "in order that the deceased might meet with these necessaries in his upward flight." Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo, Vol. I, p. 145, (London, 1896). For notes on the funeral boat of the Kayan, see Hose and McDougall, Pagan Tribes of Borneo, Vol. II, p. 35.--Among the Kulaman of southern Mindanao an important man is sometimes placed in a coffin resembling a small boat, which is then fastened on high poles near to the beach. Cole, Wild Tribes of Davao District, Mindanao (Pub. Field Museum of Natural History, Vol. XII, No. 2, 1913).--The supreme being, Lumawig, of the Bontoc Igorot is said to have placed his living wife and children in a log coffin; at one end he tied a dog, at the other a cock, and set them adrift on the river. See Jenks, The Bontoc Igorot, p. 203, (Manila, 1905); Seidenadel, The Language of the Bontoc Igorot, p. 502 ff., (Chicago, 1909). [63] For similar omens observed by the Ifugao of Northern Luzon, see Beyer, Origin Myths of the Mountain peoples of the Philippines (Philippine Journal of Science, Vol. VIII, 1913, No. 2, p. 103). [64] Page 3, note 2. [65] See tale 22. [66] For a discussion of this class of myths, see Waterman, Jour. Am. Folklore, Vol. XXVII, 1914, p. 13 ff.; Lowie, ibid., Vol. XXI, p. 101 ff., 1908; P. W. Schmidt, Grundlinien einer Vergleichung der Religionen und Mythologien der austronesischen Völker, (Wien, 1910). [67] See p. 10, note 3. [68] The Pala-an is third in importance among Tinguian ceremonies. [69] Tale 58. [70] This is offered only as a possible explanation, for little is known of the beliefs of this group of Igorot. [71] See p. 11, note 1. [72] Tale 68. [73] Hose and McDougall, The Pagan Tribes of Borneo, Vol. II, p. 148, (London, 1912). [74] Bezemer, Volksdichtung aus Indonesien, p. 304, Haag, 1904. For the Tagalog version of this tale see Bayliss, (Jour. Am. Folk-lore, Vol. XXI, 1908, p. 46). [75] Evans, Folk Stories of British North Borneo. (Journal Royal Anthropological Institute, Vol. XLIII, 1913, p. 475). [76] Folk Stories of British North Borneo (Journal Royal Anthropological Institute, Vol. XLIII, p. 447, 1913). [77] Tale No. 89. [78] Hose and McDougall, The Pagan Tribes of Borneo, Vol. II, pp. 144-146. [79] Tale 91. The cloak which causes invisibility is found in Grimm's tale of the raven. See Grimm's Fairy Tales, Columbus Series, p. 30. In a Pampanga tale the possessor of a magic stone becomes invisible when squeezes it. See Bayliss, (Jour. Am. Folk-Lore, Vol. XXI, 1908, p. 48). [80] Ratzel, History of Mankind, Vol. I, Book II. Graebner, Methode der Ethnologie, Heidelberg, 1911; Die melanesische Bogenkultur und ihre Verwandten (Anthropos, Vol. IV, pp. 726, 998, 1909). [81] See Waterman, Journal American Folklore, Vol. XXVII, 1914, pp. 45-46. [82] See Waterman, Journal American Folklore, Vol. XXVII, 1914, pp. 45-46. [83] See Waterman, Journal American Folklore, Vol. XXVII, 1914, pp. 45-46. [84] Stories of magic growth are frequently found in North America. See Kroeber, Gross Ventre Myths and Tales (Anthropological Papers of the Am. Mus. of Nat. Hist., Vol. I, p. 82); also Lowie, The Assiniboin (ibid., Vol. IV, Pt. 1, p. 136). [85] Other examples of equally widespread tales are noted by Boas, Indianische Sagen, p. 852, (Berlin, 1895); L. Roth, Custom and Myth, pp. 87 ff., (New York, 1885); and others. A discussion of the spread of similar material will be found in Graebner, Methode der Ethnologie, p. 115; Ehrenreich, Mythen und Legenden der südamerikanischen Urvölker, pp. 77 ff.; Ehrenreich, Die allgemeine Mythologie und ihre ethnologischen Grundlagen, p. 270. [86] Cole and Laufer, Chinese Pottery in the Philippines (Publication Field Museum of Natural History, Anthropological Series, Vol. XII, No. 1, Chicago, 1913). [87] Nieuwenhuis, Kunstperlen und ihre kulturelle Bedeutung (Int. Arch. für Ethnographie, Vol. XVI, 1903, pp. 136-154). [88] Philippine Journal of Science, Vol. III, No. 4, 1908, pp. 197-211. 
6609	----	MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND By Charles M. Skinner Vol. 4. TALES OF PURITAN LAND CONTENTS: Evangeline The Snoring of Swunksus The Lewiston Hermit The Dead Ship of Harpswell The Schoolmaster had not reached Orrington Jack Welch's Death Light Mogg Megone The Lady Ursula Father Moody's Black Veil The Home of Thunder The Partridge Witch The Marriage of Mount Katahdin The Moose of Mount Kineo The Owl Tree A Chestnut Log The Watcher on White Island Chocorua Passaconaway's Ride to Heaven The Ball Game by the Saco The White Mountains The Vision on Mount Adams The Great Carbuncle Skinner's Cave Yet they call it Lover's Leap Salem and other Witchcraft The Gloucester Leaguers Satan and his Burial-Place Peter Rugg, the Missing Man The Loss of Weetamoo The Fatal Forget-me-not The Old Mill at Somerville Edward Randolph's Portrait Lady Eleanore's Mantle Howe's Masquerade Old Esther Dudley The Loss of Jacob Hurd The Hobomak Berkshire Tories The Revenge of Josiah Breeze The May-Pole of Merrymount The Devil and Tom Walker The Gray Champion The Forest Smithy Wahconah Falls Knocking at the Tomb The White Deer of Onota Wizard's Glen Balanced Rock Shonkeek-Moonkeek The Salem Alchemist Eliza Wharton Sale of the Southwicks The Courtship of Myles Standish Mother Crewe Aunt Rachel's Curse Nix's Mate The Wild Man of Cape Cod Newbury's Old Elm Samuel Sewall's Prophecy The Shrieking Woman Agnes Surriage Skipper Ireson's Ride Heartbreak Hill Harry Main: The Treasure and the Cats The Wessaguscus Hanging The Unknown Champion Goody Cole General Moulton and the Devil The Skeleton in Armor Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket Love and Treason The Headless Skeleton of Swamptown The Crow and Cat of Hopkins Hill The Old Stone Mill Origin of a Name Micah Rood Apples A Dinner and its Consequences The New Haven Storm Ship The Windham Frogs The Lamb of Sacrifice Moodus Noises Haddam Enchantments Block Island and the Palatine The Buccaneer Robert Lockwood's Fate Love and Rum TALES OF PURITAN LAND EVANGALINE The seizure by England of the country that soon afterward was rechristened Nova Scotia was one of the cruellest events in history. The land was occupied by a good and happy people who had much faith and few laws, plenty to eat and drink, no tax collectors nor magistrates, in brief, a people who were entitled to call themselves Acadians, for they made their land an Arcady. Upon them swooped the British ships, took them unarmed and unoffending, crowded them aboard their transports,--often separating husband and wife, parents and children,--scattered them far and wide, beyond hope of return, and set up the cross of St. George on the ruins of prosperity and peace. On the shore of the Basin of Minas can still be traced the foundations of many homes that were perforce deserted at that time, and among them are the ruins of Grand Pre. Here lived Evangeline Bellefontaine and Gabriel Lajeunesse, who were betrothed with the usual rejoicings just before the coming of the English. They had expected, when their people were arrested, to be sent away together; but most of the men were kept under guard, and Gabriel was at sea, bound neither he nor she knew whither, when Evangeline found herself in her father's house alone, for grief and excitement had been more than her aged parent could bear, and he was buried at the shore just before the women of the place were crowded on board of a transport. As the ship set off her sorrowing passengers looked behind them to see their homes going up in flame and smoke, and Acadia knew them no more. The English had planned well to keep these people from coming together for conspiracy or revenge: they scattered them over all America, from Newfoundland to the southern savannas. Evangeline was not taken far away, only to New England; but without Gabriel all lands were drear, and she set off in the search for him, working here and there, sometimes looking timidly at the headstones on new graves, then travelling on. Once she heard that he was a _coureur des bois_ on the prairies, again that he was a voyageur in the Louisiana lowlands; but those of his people who kept near her inclined to jest at her faith and urged her to marry Leblanc, the notary's son, who truly loved her. To these she only replied, "I cannot." Down the Ohio and Mississippi she went--on a raft--with a little band of those who were seeking the French settlements, where the language, religion, and simplicity of life recalled Acadia. They found it on the banks of the Teche, and they reached the house of the herdsman Gabriel on the day that he had departed for the north to seek Evangeline. She and the good priest who had been her stay in a year of sorrow turned back in pursuit, and for weary months, over prairie and through forest, skirting mountain and morass, going freely among savages, they followed vain clues, and at last arrived in Philadelphia. Broken in spirit then, but not less sweet of nature for the suffering that she had known, she who had been named for the angels became a minister of mercy, and in the black robe of a nun went about with comforts to the sick and poor. A pestilence was sweeping through the city, and those who had no friends nor attendants were taken to the almshouse, whither, as her way was, Evangeline went on a soft Sabbath morning to calm the fevered and brighten the hearts of the dying. Some of the patients of the day before had gone and new were in their places. Suddenly she turned white and sank on her knees at a bedside, with a cry of "Gabriel, my beloved!" breathed into the ears of a prematurely aged man who lay gasping in death before her. He came out of his stupor, slowly, and tried to speak her name. She drew his head to her bosom, kissed him, and for one moment they were happy. Then the light went out of his eyes and the warmth from his heart. She pressed his eyelids down and bowed her head, for her way was plainer now, and she thanked God that it was so. THE SNORING OF SWUNKSUS The original proprietor of Deer Isle, off the coast of Maine--at least, the one who was in possession one hundred and thirty years ago--had the liquid name of Swunksus. His name was not the only liquid thing in the neighborhood, however, for, wherever Swunksus was, fire-water was not far. Shortly before the Revolution a renegade from Boston, one Conary, moved up to the island and helped himself to as much of it as he chose, but the longer he lived there the more he wanted. Swunksus was willing enough to divide his domain with the white intruder, but Conary was not satisfied with half. He did not need it all; he just wanted it. Moreover, he grew quarrelsome and was continually nagging poor Swunksus, until at last he forced the Indian to accept a challenge, not to immediate combat, but to fight to the death should they meet thereafter. The red man retired to his half of the island and hid among the bushes near his home to await the white man, but in this little fastness he discovered a jug of whiskey that either fate or Conary had placed there. Before an hour was over he was "as full and mellow as a harvest moon," and it was then that his enemy appeared. There was no trouble in finding Swunksus, for he was snoring like a fog horn, and walking boldly up to him, Conary blew his head off with a load of slugs. Then he took possession of the place and lived happily ever after. Swunksus takes his deposition easily, for, although he has more than once paraded along the beaches, his ghost spends most of the time in slumber, and terrific snores have been heard proceeding from the woods in daylight. THE LEWISTON HERMIT On an island above the falls of the Androscoggin, at Lewiston, Maine, lived a white recluse at the beginning of the eighteenth century. The natives, having had good reason to mistrust all palefaces, could think no good of the man who lived thus among but not with them. Often they gathered at the bank and looked across at his solitary candle twinkling among the leaves, and wondered what manner of evil he could be planning against them. Wherever there are many conspirators one will be a gabbler or a traitor; so, when the natives had resolved on his murder, he, somehow, learned of their intent and set himself to thwart it. So great was their fear of this lonely man, and of the malignant powers he might conjure to his aid, that nearly fifty Indians joined the expedition, to give each other courage. Their plan was to go a little distance up the river and come down with the current, thus avoiding the dip of paddles that he might hear in a direct crossing. When it was quite dark they set off, and keeping headway on their canoes aimed them toward the light that glimmered above the water. But the cunning hermit had no fire in his cabin that night. It was burning on a point below his shelter, and from his hiding-place among the rocks he saw their fleet, as dim and silent as shadows, go by him on the way to the misguiding beacon. Presently a cry arose. The savages had passed the point of safe sailing; their boats had become unmanageable. Forgetting their errand, their only hope now was to save themselves, but in vain they tried to reach the shore: the current was whirling them to their doom. Cries and death-songs mingled with the deepening roar of the waters, the light barks reached the cataract and leaped into the air. Then the night was still again, save for the booming of the flood. Not one of the Indians who had set out on this errand of death survived the hermit's stratagem. THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL At times the fisher-folk of Maine are startled to see the form of a ship, with gaunt timbers showing through the planks, like lean limbs through rents in a pauper's garb, float shoreward in the sunset. She is a ship of ancient build, with tall masts and sails of majestic spread, all torn; but what is her name, her port, her flag, what harbor she is trying to make, no man can tell, for on her deck no sailor has ever been seen to run up colors or heard to answer a hail. Be it in calm or storm, in-come or ebb of tide, the ship holds her way until she almost touches shore. There is no creak of spars or whine of cordage, no spray at the bow, no ripple at the stern--no voice, and no figure to utter one. As she nears the rocks she pauses, then, as if impelled by a contrary current, floats rudder foremost off to sea, and vanishes in twilight. Harpswell is her favorite cruising-ground, and her appearance there sets many heads to shaking, for while it is not inevitable that ill luck follows her visits, it has been seen that burial-boats have sometimes had occasion to cross the harbor soon after them, and that they were obliged by wind or tide or current to follow her course on leaving the wharf. THE SCHOOLMASTER HAD NOT REACHED ORRINGTON. The quiet town of Orrington, in Maine, was founded by Jesse Atwood, of Wellfleet, Cape Cod, in 1778, and has become known, since then, as a place where skilful farmers and brave sailors could always be found. It also kept Maine supplied for years with oldest inhabitants. It is said that the name was an accident of illiteracy, and that it is the only place in the world that owes its title to bad spelling. The settlers who followed Atwood there were numerous enough to form a township after ten years, and the name they decided on for their commonwealth was Orangetown, so called for a village in Maryland where some of the people had associations, but the clerk of the town meeting was not a college graduate and his spelling of Orange was Orring, and of town, ton. His draft of the resolutions went before the legislature, and the people directly afterward found themselves living in Orrington. JACK WELCH'S DEATH LIGHT Pond Cove, Maine, is haunted by a light that on a certain evening, every summer, rises a mile out at sea, drifts to a spot on shore, then whirls with a buzz and a glare to an old house, where it vanishes. Its first appearance was simultaneous with the departure of Jack Welch, a fisherman. He was seen one evening at work on his boat, but in the morning he was gone, nor has he since shown himself in the flesh. On the tenth anniversary of this event three fishermen were hurrying up the bay, hoping to reach home before dark, for they dreaded that uncanny light, but a fog came in and it was late before they reached the wharf. As they were tying their boat a channel seemed to open through the mist, and along that path from the deep came a ball of pallid flame with the rush of a meteor. There was one of the men who cowered at the bottom of the boat with ashen face and shaking limbs, and did not watch the light, even though it shot above his head, played through the rigging, and after a wide sweep went shoreward and settled on his house. Next day one of his comrades called for him, but Tom Wright was gone, gone, his wife said, before the day broke. Like Jack Welch's disappearance, this departure was unexplained, and in time he was given up for dead. Twenty years had passed, when Wright's presumptive widow was startled by the receipt of a letter in a weak, trembling hand, signed with her husband's name. It was written on his death-bed, in a distant place, and held a confession. Before their marriage, Jack Welch had been a suitor for her hand, and had been the favored of the two. To remove his rival and prosper in his place, Wright stole upon the other at his work, killed him, took his body to sea, and threw it overboard. Since that time the dead man had pursued him, and he was glad that the end of his days was come. But, though Tom Wright is no more, his victim's light comes yearly from the sea, above the spot where his body sank, floats to the scene of the murder on the shore, then flits to the house where the assassin lived and for years simulated the content that comes of wedded life. MOGG MEGONE Hapless daughter of a renegade is Ruth Bonython. Her father is as unfair to his friends as to his enemies, but to neither of them so merciless as to Ruth. Although he knows that she loves Master Scammon--in spite of his desertion and would rather die than wed another, he has promised her to Mogg Megone, the chief who rules the Indians at the Saco mouth. He, blundering savage, fancies that he sees to the bottom of her grief, and one day, while urging his suit, he opens his blanket and shows the scalp of Scammon, to prove that he has avenged her. She looks in horror, but when he flings the bloody trophy at her feet she baptizes it with a forgiving tear. What villainy may this lead to? Ah, none for him, for Bonython now steps in and plies him with flattery and drink, gaining from the chief, at last, his signature--the bow totem--to a transfer of the land for which he is willing to sell his daughter. Ruth, maddened at her father's meanness and the Indian's brutality, rushes on the imbruted savage, grasps from his belt the knife that has slain her lover, cleaves his heart in twain, and flies into the wood, leaving Bonython stupid with amazement. Father Rasles, in his chapel at Norridgewock, is affecting his Indian converts against the Puritans, who settled to the southward of him fifty years before. To him comes a woman with torn garments and frightened face. Her dead mother stood before her last night, she says, and looked at her reprovingly, for she had killed Mogg Megone. The priest starts back in wrath, for Mogg was a hopeful agent of the faith, and bids her go, for she can ask no pardon. Brooding within his chapel, then, he is startled by the sound of shot and hum of arrows. Harmon and Moulton are advancing with their men and crying, "Down with the beast of Rome! Death to the Babylonish dog!" Ruth, knowing not what this new misfortune may mean, runs from the church and disappears. Some days later, old Baron Castine, going to Norridgewock to bury and revenge the dead, finds a woman seated on the earth and gazing over a field strewn with ashes and with human bones. He touches her. She is cold. There has been no life for days. It is Ruth. THE LADY URSULA In 1690 a stately house stood in Kittery, Maine, a strongly guarded place with moat and drawbridge (which was raised at night) and a moated grange adjacent where were cattle, sheep, and horses. Here, in lonely dignity, lived Lady Ursula, daughter of the lord of Grondale Abbey, across the water, whose distant grandeurs were in some sort reflected in this manor of the wilderness. Silver, mahogany, paintings, tapestries, waxed floors, and carven chests of linen represented wealth; prayers were said by a chaplain every morning and evening in the chapel, and, though the main hall would accommodate five hundred people, the lady usually sat at meat there with her thirty servants, her part of the table being raised two feet above theirs. It was her happiness to believe that Captain Fowler, now absent in conflict with the French, would return and wed her according to his promise, but one day came a tattered messenger with bitter news of the captain's death. She made no talk of her grief, and, while her face was pale and step no longer light, she continued in the work that custom exacted from women of that time: help for the sick, alms for the poor, teaching for the ignorant, religion for the savage. Great was her joy, then, when a ship came from England bringing a letter from Captain Fowler himself, refuting the rumor of defeat and telling of his coming. Now the hall took on new life, reflecting the pleasure of its mistress; color came back to her cheek and sparkle to her eye, and she could only control her impatience by more active work and more aggressive charities. The day was near at hand for the arrival of her lover, when Ursula and her servants were set upon by Indians, while away from the protection of the manor, and slain. They were buried where they fell, and Captain Fowler found none to whom his love or sorrow could be told. FATHER MOODY'S BLACK VEIL In 1770 the Reverend Joseph Moody died at York, Maine, where he had long held the pastorate of a church, and where in his later years his face was never seen by friend or relative. At home, when any one was by, on the street, and in the pulpit his visage was concealed by a double fold of crape that was knotted above his forehead and fell to his chin, the lower edge of it being shaken by his breath. When first he presented himself to his congregation with features masked in black, great was the wonder and long the talk about it. Was he demented? His sermons were too logical for that. Had he been crossed in love? He could smile, though the smile was sad. Had he been scarred by accident or illness? If so, no physician knew of it. After a time it was given out that his eyes were weakened by reading and writing at night, and the wonder ceased, though the veiled parson was less in demand for weddings, christenings, and social gatherings, and more besought for funerals than he had been. If asked to take off his crape he only replied, "We all wear veils of one kind or another, and the heaviest and darkest are those that hang about our hearts. This is but a material veil. Let it stay until the hour strikes when all faces shall be seen and all souls reveal their secrets." Little by little the clergyman felt himself enforced to withdraw from the public gaze. There were rough people who were impertinent and timid people who turned out of their road to avoid him, so that he found his out-door walks and meditations almost confined to the night, unless he chose the grave-yard for its seclusion or strolled on the beach and listened to the wallowing and grunting of the Black Boars--the rocks off shore that had laughed on the night when the York witch went up the chimney in a gale. But his life was long and kind and useful, and when at last the veiled head lay on the pillow it was never to rise from consciously, a fellow-clergyman came to soothe his dying moments and commend his soul to mercy. To him, one evening, Father Moody said, "Brother, my hour is come and the veil of eternal darkness is falling over my eyes. Men have asked me why I wear this piece of crape about my face, as if it were not for them a reminder and a symbol, and I have borne the reason so long within me that only now have I resolved to tell it. Do you recall the finding of young Clark beside the river, years ago? He had been shot through the head. The man who killed him did so by accident, for he was a bosom friend; yet he could never bring himself to confess the fact, for he dreaded the blame of his townsmen, the anguish of the dead man's parents, the hate of his betrothed. It was believed that the killing was a murder, and that some roving Indian had done it. After years of conscience-darkened life, in which the face of his dead friend often arose accusingly before him, the unhappy wretch vowed that he would never again look his fellows openly in the face: he would pay a penalty and conceal his shame. Then it was that I put a veil between myself and the world." Joseph Moody passed away and, as he wished, the veil still hid his face in the coffin, but the clergyman who had raised it for a moment to compose his features, found there a serenity and a beauty that were majestic. THE HOME OF THUNDER Some Indians believe that the Thunder Bird is the agent of storm; that the flashes of his eyes cause lightning and the flapping of his cloud-vast wings make thunder. Not so the Passamaquoddies, for they hold that Katahdin's spirit children are Thunders, and in this way an Indian found them: He had been seeking game along the Penobscot and for weeks had not met one of his fellow creatures. On a winter day he came on the print of a pair of snow-shoes; next morning the tracks appeared in another part of the forest, and so for many days he found them. After a time it occurred to him to see where these tracks went to, and he followed them until they merged with others in a travelled road, ending at a precipice on the side of Katahdin (Great Mountain). While lost in wonder that so many tracks should lead nowhere, he was roused by a footfall, and a maiden stepped from the precipice to the ledge beside him. Though he said nothing, being in awe of her stateliness and beauty, she replied in kind words to every unspoken thought and bade him go with her. He approached the rock with fear, but at a touch from the woman it became as mist, and they entered it together. Presently they were in a great cave in the heart of Katahdin, where sat the spirit of the mountain, who welcomed them and asked the girl if her brothers had come. "I hear them coming," she replied. A blinding flash, a roar of thunder, and there stepped into the cave two men of giant size and gravely beautiful faces, hardened at the cheeks and brows to stone. "These," said the girl to the hunter, "are my brothers, the Thunder and the Lightning. My father sends them forth whenever there is wrong to redress, that those who love us may not be smitten. When you hear Thunder, know that they are shooting at our enemies." At the end of that day the hunter returned to his home, and behold, he had been gone seven years. Another legend says that the stone-faced sons of the mountain adopted him, and that for seven years he was a roaming Thunder, but at the end of that time while a storm was raging he was allowed to fall, unharmed, into his own village. THE PARTRIDGE WITCH Two brothers, having hunted at the head of the Penobscot until their snow-shoes and moccasins gave out, looked at each other ruefully and cried, "Would that there was a woman to help us!" The younger brother went to the lodge that evening earlier than the elder, in order to prepare the supper, and great was his surprise on entering the wigwam to find the floor swept, a fire built, a pot boiling, and their clothing mended. Returning to the wood he watched the place from a covert until he saw a graceful girl enter the lodge and take up the tasks of housekeeping. When he entered she was confused, but he treated her with respect, and allowed her to have her own way so far as possible, so that they became warm friends, sporting together like children when the work of the day was over. But one evening she said, "Your brother is coming. I fear him. Farewell." And she slipped into the wood. When the young man told his elder brother what had happened there--the elder having been detained for a few days in the pursuit of a deer--he declared that he would wish the woman to come back, and presently, without any summons, she returned, bringing a toboggan-load of garments and arms. The luck of the hunters improved, and they remained happily together until spring, when it was time to return with their furs. They set off down the Penobscot in their canoe and rowed merrily along, but as they neared the home village the girl became uneasy, and presently "threw out her soul"--became clairvoyant--and said, "Let me land here. I find that your father would not like me, so do not speak to him about me." But the elder brother told of her when they reached home, whereon the father exclaimed, "I had feared this. That woman is a sister of the goblins. She wishes to destroy men." At this the elder brother was afraid, lest she should cast a spell on him, and rowing up the river for a distance he came upon her as she was bathing and shot at her. The arrow seemed to strike, for there was a flutter of feathers and the woman flew away as a partridge. But the younger did not forget the good she had done and sought her in the wood, where for many days they played together as of old. "I do not blame your father: it is an affair of old, this hate he bears me," she said. "He will choose a wife for you soon, but do not marry her, else all will come to an end for you." The man could not wed the witch, and he might not disobey his father, in spite of this adjuration; so when the old man said to him, "I have a wife for you, my son," he answered, "It is well." They brought the bride to the village, and for four days the wedding-dance was held, with a feast that lasted four days more. Then said the young man, "Now comes the end," and lying down on a bear-skin he sighed a few times and his spirit ascended to the Ghosts' road--the milky way. The father shook his head, for he knew that this was the witch's work, and, liking the place no longer, he went away and the tribe was scattered. THE MARRIAGE OF MOUNT KATAHDIN An Indian girl gathering berries on the side of Mount Katahdin looked up at its peak, rosy in the afternoon light, and sighed, "I wish that I had a husband. If Katahdin were a man he might marry me." Her companions laughed at this quaint conceit, and, filled with confusion at being overheard, she climbed higher up the slope and was lost to sight. For three years her tribe lost sight of her; then she came back with a child in her arms a beautiful boy with brows of stone. The boy had wonderful power: he had only to point at a moose or a duck or a bear, and it fell dead, so that the tribe never wanted food. For he was the son of the Indian girl and the spirit of the mountain, who had commanded her not to reveal the boy's paternity. Through years she held silence on this point, holding in contempt, like other Indians, the prying inquiries of gossips and the teasing of young people, and knowing that Katahdin had designed the child for the founder of a mighty race, with the sinews of the very mountains in its frame, that should fill and rule the earth. Yet, one day, in anger at some slight, the mother spoke: "Fools! Wasps who sting the fingers that pick you from the water! Why do you torment me about what you might all see? Look at the boy's face--his brows: in them do you not see Katahdin? Now you have brought the curse upon yourselves, for you shall hunt your own venison from this time forth." Leading the child by the hand she turned toward the mountain and went out from their sight. And since then the Indians who could not hold their tongues, and who might otherwise have been great, have dwindled to a little people. THE MOOSE OF MOUNT KINEO Eastern traditions concerning Hiawatha differ in many respects from those of the West. In the East he is known as Glooskap, god of the Passamaquoddies, and his marks are left in many places in the maritime provinces and Maine. It was he who gave names to things, created men, filled them with life, and moved their wonder with storms. He lived on the rocky height of Blomidon, at the entrance to Minas Basin, Nova Scotia, and the agates to be found along its foot are jewels that he made for his grandmother's necklace, when he restored her youth. He threw up a ridge between Fort Cumberland and Parrsboro, Nova Scotia, that he might cross, dry shod, the lake made by the beavers when they dammed the strait at Blomidon, but he afterward killed the beavers, and breaking down their dam he let the lake flow into the sea, and went southward on a hunting tour. At Mount Desert he killed a moose, whose bones he flung to the ground at Bar Harbor, where they are still to be seen, turned to stone, while across the bay he threw the entrails, and they, too, are visible as rocks, dented with his arrow-points. Mount Kineo was anciently a cow moose of colossal size that he slew and turned into a height of land, and the Indians trace the outline of the creature in the uplift to this day. Little Kineo was a calf moose that he slew at the same time, and Kettle Mountain is his camp-caldron that he flung to the ground in the ardor of the chase. THE OWL TREE One day in October, 1827, Rev. Charles Sharply rode into Alfred, Maine, and held service in the meeting-house. After the sermon he announced that he was going to Waterborough to preach, and that on his circuit he had collected two hundred and seventy dollars to help build a church in that village. Would not his hearers add to that sum? They would and did, and that evening the parson rode away with over three hundred dollars in his saddlebags. He never appeared in Waterborough. Some of the country people gave tongue to their fear that the possession of the money had made him forget his sacred calling and that he had fled the State. On the morning after his disappearance, however, Deacon Dickerman appeared in Alfred riding on a horse that was declared to be the minister's, until the tavern hostler affirmed that the minister's horse had a white star on forehead and breast, whereas this horse was all black. The deacon said that he found the horse grazing in his yard at daybreak, and that he would give it to whoever could prove it to be his property. Nobody appeared to demand it, and people soon forgot that it was not his. He extended his business at about that time and prospered; he became a rich man for a little place; though, as his wealth increased, he became morose and averse to company. One day a rumor went around that a belated traveller had seen a misty thing under "the owl tree" at a turn of a road where owls were hooting, and that it took on a strange likeness to the missing clergyman. Dickerman paled when he heard this story, but he shook his head and muttered of the folly of listening to boy nonsense. Ten years had gone by-during that time the boys had avoided the owl tree after dark--when a clergyman of the neighborhood was hastily summoned to see Mr. Dickerman, who was said to be suffering from overwork. He found the deacon in his house alone, pacing the floor, his dress disordered, his cheek hectic. "I have not long to live," said he, "nor would I live longer if I could. I am haunted day and night, and there is no peace, no rest for me on earth. They say that Sharply's spirit has appeared at the owl tree. Well, his body lies there. They accused me of taking his horse. It is true. A little black dye on his head and breast was all that was needed to deceive them. Pray for me, for I fear my soul is lost. I killed Sharply." The clergyman recoiled. "I killed him," the wretched man went on, "for the money that he had. The devil prospered me with it. In my will I leave two thousand dollars to his widow and five thousand dollars to the church he was collecting for. Will there be mercy for me there? I dare not think it. Go and pray for me." The clergyman hastened away, but was hardly outside the door when the report of a pistol brought him back. Dickerman lay dead on the floor. Sharply's body was exhumed from the shade of the owl tree, and the spot was never haunted after. A CHESTNUT LOG There is no doubt that farmer Lovel had read ancient history or he would not have been so ready in the emergency that befell him one time in the last century. He had settled among the New Hampshire hills near the site that is now occupied by the village of Washington and had a real good time there with bears and Indians. It was when he was splitting rails on Lovel Mountain--they named it for him afterward--that he found himself surrounded by six Indians, who told him that he was their prisoner. He agreed that they had the advantage over him and said that he would go quietly along if they would allow him to finish the big chestnut log that he was at work on. As he was a powerful fellow and was armed with an axe worth any two of their tomahawks, and as he would be pretty sure to have the life of at least one of them if they tried to drive him faster than he wanted to go, they consented. He said that he would be ready all the sooner if they would help him to pull the big log apart, and they agreed to help him. Driving a wedge into the long split he asked them to take hold, and when they had done this he knocked out the wedge with a single blow and the twelve hands were caught tight in the closing wood. Struggle as the savages might, they could not get free, and after calmly enjoying the situation for a few minutes he walked slowly from one to the other and split open the heads of all six. Then he went to work again splitting up more chestnuts. THE WATCHER ON WHITE ISLAND The isles of Shoals, a little archipelago of wind and wave-swept rocks that may be seen on clear days from the New Hampshire coast, have been the scene of some mishaps and some crimes. On Boone Island, where the Nottingham galley went down one hundred and fifty years ago, the survivors turned cannibals to escape starvation, while Haley's Island is peopled by shipwrecked Spanish ghosts that hail vessels and beg for passage back to their country. The pirate Teach, or Blackbeard, used to put in at these islands to hide his treasure, and one of his lieutenants spent some time on White Island with a beautiful girl whom he had abducted from her home in Scotland and who, in spite of his rough life, had learned to love him. It was while walking with her on this rock, forgetful of his trade and the crimes he had been stained with, that one of his men ran up to report a sail that was standing toward the islands. The pirate ship was quickly prepared for action, but before embarking, mindful of possible flight or captivity, the lieutenant made his mistress swear that she would guard the buried treasure if it should be till doomsday. The ship he was hurrying to meet came smoothly on until the pirate craft was well in range, when ports flew open along the stranger's sides, guns were run out, and a heavy broadside splintered through the planks of the robber galley. It was a man-of-war, not a merchantman, that had run Blackbeard down. The war-ship closed and grappled with the corsair, but while the sailors were standing at the chains ready to leap aboard and complete the subjugation of the outlaws a mass of flame burst from the pirate ship, both vessels were hurled in fragments through the air, and a roar went for miles along the sea. Blackbeard's lieutenant had fired the magazine rather than submit to capture, and had blown the two ships into a common ruin. A few of both crews floated to the islands on planks, sore from burns and bruises, but none survived the cold and hunger of the winter. The pirate's mistress was among the first to die; still, true to her promise, she keeps her watch, and at night is dimly seen on a rocky point gazing toward the east, her tall figure enveloped in a cloak, her golden hair unbound upon her shoulders, her pale face still as marble. CHOCORUA This beautiful alp in the White Mountains commemorates in its name a prophet of the Pequawket tribe who, prior to undertaking a journey, had confided his son to a friendly settler, Cornelius Campbell, of Tamworth. The boy found some poison in the house that had been prepared for foxes, and, thinking it to be some delicacy, he drank of it and died. When Chocorua returned he could not be persuaded that his son had fallen victim to his own ignorance, but ascribed his death to the white man's treachery, and one day, when Campbell entered his cabin from the fields, he found there the corpses of his wife and children scalped and mangled. He was not a man to lament at such a time: hate was stronger than sorrow. A fresh trail led from his door. Seizing his rifle he set forth in pursuit of the murderer. A mark in the dust, a bent grass blade, a torn leaf-these were guides enough, and following on through bush and swamp and wood they led him to this mountain, and up the slope he scrambled breathlessly. At the summit, statue-like, Chocorua stood. He saw the avenger coming, and knew himself unarmed, but he made no attempt to escape his doom. Drawing himself erect and stretching forth his hands he invoked anathema on his enemies in these words: "A curse upon you, white men! May the Great Spirit curse you when he speaks in the clouds, and his words are fire! Chocorua had a son and you killed him while the sky looked bright. Lightning blast your crops! Winds and fire destroy your dwellings! The Evil One breathe death upon your cattle! Your graves lie in the war-path of the Indian! Panthers howl and wolves fatten over your bones! Chocorua goes to the Great Spirit. His curse stays with the white man." The report of Campbell's rifle echoed from the ledges and Chocorua leaped into the air, plunging to the rocks below. His mangled remains were afterward found and buried near the Tamworth path. The curse had its effect, for pestilence and storm devastated the surrounding country and the smaller settlements were abandoned. Campbell became a morose hermit, and was found dead in his bed two years afterward. PASSACONAWAY'S RIDE TO HEAVEN The personality of Passaconaway, the powerful chief and prophet, is involved in doubt, but there can be no misprision of his wisdom. By some historians he has been made one with St. Aspenquid, the earliest of native missionaries among the Indians, who, after his conversion by French Jesuits, travelled from Maine to the Pacific, preaching to sixty-six tribes, healing the sick and working miracles, returning to die at the age of ninety-four. He was buried on the top of Agamenticus, Maine, where his manes were pacified with offerings of three thousand slain animals, and where his tombstone stood for a century after, bearing the legend, "Present, useful; absent, wanted; living, desired; dying, lamented." By others Passaconaway is regarded as a different person. The Child of the Bear--to English his name--was the chief of the Merrimacs and a convert of the apostle Eliot. Natives and colonists alike admired him for his eloquence, his bravery, and his virtue. Before his conversion he was a reputed wizard who sought by magic arts to repel the invasion of his woods and mountains by the white men, invoking the spirits of nature against them from the topmost peak of the Agiochooks, and his native followers declared that in pursuance of this intent he made water burn, rocks move, trees dance, and transformed himself into a mass of flame. Such was his power over the forces of the earth that he could burn a tree in winter and from its ashes bring green leaves; he made dead wood blossom and a farmer's flail to bud, while a snake's skin he could cause to run. At the age of one hundred and twenty he retired from his tribe and lived in a lonely wigwam among the Pennacooks. One winter night the howling of wolves was heard, and a pack came dashing through the village harnessed by threes to a sledge of hickory saplings that bore a tall throne spread with furs. The wolves paused at Passaconaway's door. The old chief came forth, climbed upon the sledge, and was borne away with a triumphal apostrophe that sounded above the yelping and snarling of his train. Across Winnepesaukee's frozen surface they sped like the wind, and the belated hunter shrank aside as he saw the giant towering against the northern lights and heard his death-song echo from the cliffs. Through pathless woods, across ravines, the wolves sped on, with never slackened speed, into the mazes of the Agiochooks to that highest peak we now call Washington. Up its steep wilderness of snow the ride went furiously; the summit was neared, the sledge burst into flame, still there was no pause; the height was gained, the wolves went howling into darkness, but the car, wrapped in sheaves of fire, shot like a meteor toward the sky and was lost amid the stars of the winter night. So passed the Indian king to heaven. THE BALL GAME BY THE SACO Water-Goblins from the streams about Katahdin had left their birthplace and journeyed away to the Agiochooks, making their presence known to the Indians of that region by thefts and loss of life. When the manitou, Glooskap, learned that these goblins were eating human flesh and committing other outrages, he took on their own form, turning half his body into stone, and went in search of them. The wigwam had been pitched near the Home of the Water Fairies,--a name absurdly changed by the people of North Conway to Diana's Bath,--and on entering he was invited to take meat. The tail of a whale was cooked and offered to him, but after he had taken it upon his knees one of the goblins exclaimed, "That is too good for a beggar like you," and snatched it away. Glooskap had merely to wish the return of the dainty when it flew back into his platter. Then he took the whale's jaw, and snapped it like a reed; he filled his pipe and burned the tobacco to ashes in one inhalation; when his hosts closed the wigwam and smoked vigorously, intending to foul the air and stupefy him, he enjoyed it, while they grew sick; so they whispered to each other, "This is a mighty magician, and we must try his powers in another way." A game of ball was proposed, and, adjourning to a sandy level at the bend of the Saco, they began to play, but Glooskap found that the ball was a hideous skull that rolled and snapped at him and would have torn his flesh had it not been immortal and immovable from his bones. He crushed it at a blow, and breaking off the bough of a tree he turned it by a word into a skull ten times larger than the other that flew after the wicked people as a wildcat leaps upon a rabbit. Then the god stamped on the sands and all the springs were opened in the mountains, so that the Saco came rising through the valley with a roar that made the nations tremble. The goblins were caught in the flood and swept into the sea, where Glooskap changed them into fish. THE WHITE MOUNTAINS From times of old these noble hills have been the scenes of supernatural visitations and mysterious occurrences. The tallest peak of the Agiochooks--as they were, in Indian naming--was the seat of God himself, and the encroachment there of the white man was little liked. Near Fabyan's was once a mound, since levelled by pick and spade, that was known as the Giant's Grave. Ethan Allen Crawford, a skilful hunter, daring explorer, and man of herculean frame, lived, died, and is buried here, and near the ancient hillock he built one of the first public houses in the mountains. It was burned. Another, and yet another hostelry was builded on the site, but they likewise were destroyed by fire. Then the enterprise was abandoned, for it was remembered that an Indian once mounted this grave, waved a torch from its top, and cried in a loud voice, "No pale-face shall take root on this spot. This has the Great Spirit whispered in my ear." Governor Wentworth, while on a lonely tour through his province, found this cabin of Crawford's and passed a night there, tendering many compliments to the austere graces of the lady of the house and drinking himself into the favor of the husband, who proclaimed him the prince of good fellows. On leaving, the guest exacted of Crawford a visit to Wolfeborough, where he was to inquire for "Old Wentworth." This visit was undertaken soon after, and the sturdy frontiersman was dismayed at finding himself in the house of the royal governor; but his reception was hearty enough to put him at his ease, and when he returned to the mountains he carried in his pocket a deed of a thousand acres of forest about his little farm. The family that he founded became wealthy and increased, by many an acre, the measure of that royal grant. Not far below this spot, in the wildest part of the Notch, shut in by walls of rock thousands of feet high, is the old Willey House, and this, too, was the scene of a tragedy, for in 1826 a storm loosened the soil on Mount Willey and an enormous landslide occurred. The people in the house rushed forth on hearing the approach of the slide and met death almost at their door. Had they remained within they would have been unharmed, for the avalanche was divided by a wedge of rock behind the house, and the little inn was saved. Seven people are known to have been killed, and it was rumored that there was another victim in a young man whose name was unknown and who was walking through the mountains to enjoy their beauty. The messenger who bore the tidings of the destruction of the family was barred from reaching North Conway by the flood in the Saco, so he stood at the brink of the foaming river and rang a peal on a trumpet. This blast echoing around the hills in the middle of the night roused several men from their beds to know its meaning. The dog belonging to the inn is said to have given first notice to people below the Notch that something was wrong, but his moaning and barking were misunderstood, and after running back and forth, as if to summon help, he disappeared. At the hour of the accident James Willey, of Conway, had a dream in which he saw his dead brother standing by him. He related the story of the catastrophe to the sleeping man and said that when "the world's last knell" sounded they were going for safety to the foot of the steep mountain, for the Saco had risen twenty-four feet in seven hours and threatened to ingulf them in front. Another spot of interest in the Notch is Nancy's Brook. It was at the point where this stream comes foaming from Mount Nancy into the great ravine that the girl whose name is given to it was found frozen to death in a shroud of snow in the fall of 1788. She had set out alone from Jefferson in search of a young farmer who was to have married her, and walked thirty miles through trackless snow between sunset and dawn. Then her strength gave out and she sank beside the road never to rise again. Her recreant lover went mad with remorse when he learned the manner of her death and did not long survive her, and men who have traversed the savage passes of the Notch on chill nights in October have fancied that they heard, above the clash of the stream and whispering of the woods, long, shuddering groans mingled with despairing cries and gibbering laughter. The birth of Peabody River came about from a cataclysm of less violent nature than some of the avalanches that have so scarred the mountains. In White's "History of New England," Mr. Peabody, for whom the stream is named, is reported as having taken shelter in an Indian cabin on the heights where the river has its source. During the night a loud roaring waked the occupants of the hut and they sprang forth, barely in time to save their lives; for, hardly had they gained the open ground before a cavern burst open in the hill and a flood of water gushed out, sweeping away the shelter and cutting a broad swath through the forest. Although the Pilot Mountains are supposed to have taken their name from the fact that they served as landmarks to hunters who were seeking the Connecticut River from the Lancaster district, an old story is still told of one Willard, who was lost amid the defiles of this range, and nearly perished with hunger. While lying exhausted on the mountainside his dog would leave him every now and then and return after a couple of hours. Though Willard was half dead, he determined to use his last strength in following the animal, and as a result was led by a short cut to his own camp, where provisions were plenty, and where the intelligent creature had been going for food. The dog was christened Pilot, in honor of this service, and the whole range is thought by many to be named in his honor. Waternomee Falls, on Hurricane Creek, at Warren, are bordered with rich moss where fairies used to dance and sing in the moonlight. These sprites were the reputed children of Indians that had been stolen from their wigwams and given to eat of fairy bread, that dwarfed and changed them in a moment. Barring their kidnapping practices the elves were an innocent and joyous people, and they sought more distant hiding-places in the wilderness when the stern churchmen and cruel rangers penetrated their sylvan precincts. An old barrack story has it that Lieutenant Chamberlain, who fought under Lovewell, was pursued along the base of Melvin Peak by Indians and was almost in their grasp when he reached Ossipee Falls. It seemed as if there were no alternative between death by the tomahawk and death by a fall to the rocks below, for the chasm here is eighteen feet wide; but without stopping to reckon chances he put his strength into a running jump, and to the amazement of those in pursuit and perhaps to his own surprise he cleared the gap and escaped into the woods. The foremost of the Indians attempted the leap, but plunged to his death in the ravine. The Eagle Range was said to be the abode, two hundred years ago, of a man of strange and venerable appearance, whom the Indians regarded with superstitious awe and never tried to molest. He slept in a cave on the south slope and ranged the forest in search of game, muttering and gesturing to himself. He is thought to be identified with Thomas Crager, whose wife had been hanged in Salem as a witch, and whose only child had been stolen by Indians. After a long, vain search for the little one he gave way to a bitter moroseness, and avoided the habitations of civilized man and savages alike. It is a satisfaction to know that before he died he found his daughter, though she was the squaw of an Indian hunter and was living with his tribe on the shore of the St. Lawrence. THE VISION ON MOUNT ADAMS There are many traditions connected with Mount Adams that have faded out of memory. Old people remember that in their childhood there was talk of the discovery of a magic stone; of an Indian's skeleton that appeared in a speaking storm; of a fortune-teller that set off on a midnight quest, far up among the crags and eyries. In October, 1765, a detachment of nine of Rogers's Rangers began the return from a Canadian foray, bearing with them plate, candlesticks, and a silver statue that they had rifled from the Church of St. Francis. An Indian who had undertaken to guide the party through the Notch proved faithless, and led them among labyrinthine gorges to the head of Israel's River, where he disappeared, after poisoning one of the troopers with a rattlesnake's fang. Losing all reckoning, the Rangers tramped hither and thither among the snowy hills and sank down, one by one, to die in the wilderness, a sole survivor reaching a settlement after many days, with his knapsack filled with human flesh. In 1816 the candlesticks were recovered near Lake Memphremagog, but the statue has never been laid hold upon. The spirits of the famished men were wont, for many winters, to cry in the woods, and once a hunter, camped on the side of Mount Adams, was awakened at midnight by the notes of an organ. The mists were rolling off, and he found that he had gone to sleep near a mighty church of stone that shone in soft light. The doors were flung back, showing a tribe of Indians kneeling within. Candles sparkled on the altar, shooting their rays through clouds of incense, and the rocks shook with thunder-gusts of music. Suddenly church, lights, worshippers vanished, and from the mists came forth a line of uncouth forms, marching in silence. As they started to descend the mountain a silver image, floating in the air, spread a pair of gleaming pinions and took flight, disappearing in the chaos of battlemented rocks above. THE GREAT CARBUNCLE High on the eastern face of Mount Monroe shone the Great Carbuncle, its flash scintillating for miles by day, its dusky crimson glowing among the ledges at night. The red men said that it hung in the air, and that the soul of an Indian--killed, that he might guard the spot--made approach perilous to men of all complexions and purposes. As late as Ethan Crawford's time one search band took a "good man" to lay the watcher, when they strove to scale the height, but they returned "sorely bruised, treasureless, and not even saw that wonderful sight." The value of the stone tempted many, but those who sought it had to toil through a dense forest, and on arriving at the mountain found its glories eclipsed by intervening abutments, nor could they get near it. Rocks covered with crystals, at first thought to be diamonds, were readily despoiled of their treasure, but the Great Carbuncle burned on, two thousand feet above them, at the head of the awful chasm of Oakes Gulf, and baffled seekers likened it to the glare of an evil eye. There was one who had grown old in searching for this gem, often scrambling over the range in wind and snow and cloud, and at last he reached a precipitous spot he had never attained before. Great was his joy, for the Carbuncle was within his reach, blazing into his eyes in the noon sunlight as if it held, crystallized in its depths, the brightness of all the wine that had ever gladdened the tired hearts of men. There were rivals in the search, and on reaching the plateau they looked up and saw him kneeling on a narrow ledge with arms extended as in rapture. They called to him. He answered not. He was dead--dead of joy and triumph. While they looked a portion of the crag above him fell away and rolled from rock to rock, marking its course with flashes of bloody fire, until it reached the Lake of the Clouds, and the waters of that tarn drowned its glory. Yet those waters are not always black, and sometimes the hooked crest of Mount Monroe is outlined against the night sky in a ruddy glow. SKINNER'S CAVE The abhorrence to paying taxes and duties--or any other levy from which an immediate and personal good is not promised--is too deeply rooted in human nature to be affected by statutes, and whenever it is possible to buy commodities that have escaped the observation of the revenue officers many are tempted to do so for the mere pleasure of defying the law. In the early part of this century the northern farmers and their wives were, in a way, providing themselves with laces, silver-ware, brandy, and other protected and dreadful articles, on which it was evident that somebody had forgotten to pay duty. The customs authorities on the American side of the border were long puzzled by the irruption of these forbidden things, but suspicion ultimately fell on a fellow of gigantic size, named Skinner. It was believed that this outlaw carried on the crime of free trade after sunset, hiding his merchandise by day on the islands of Lake Memphremagog. This delightful sheet of water lies half in Canada and half in Vermont--agreeably to the purpose of such as he. Province Island is still believed to contain buried treasure, but the rock that contains Skinner's Cave was the smuggler's usual haunt, and when pursued he rowed to this spot and effected a disappearance, because he entered the cave on the northwest side, where it was masked by shrubbery. One night the officers landed on this island after he had gone into hiding, and after diligent search discovered his boat drawn up in a covert. They pushed it into the lake, where the winds sent it adrift, and, his communication with the shore thus cut off, the outlaw perished miserably of hunger. His skeleton was found in the cavern some years later. YET THEY CALL IT LOVER'S LEAP In the lower part of the township of Cavendish, Vermont, the Black River seeks a lower level through a gorge in the foot-hills of the Green Mountains. The scenery here is romantic and impressive, for the river makes its way along the ravine in a series of falls and rapids that are overhung by trees and ledges, while the geologist finds something worth looking at in the caves and pot-holes that indicate an older level of the river. At a turn in the ravine rises the sheer precipice of Lover's Leap. It is a vertical descent of about eighty feet, the water swirling at its foot in a black and angry maelstrom. It is a spot whence lovers might easily step into eternity, were they so disposed, and the name fits delightfully into the wild and somber scene; but ask any good villager thereabout to relate the legend of the place and he will tell you this: About forty years ago a couple of young farmers went to the Leap--which then had no name--to pry out some blocks of the schistose rock for a foundation wall. They found a good exposure of the rock beneath the turf and began to quarry it. In the earnestness of the work one of the men forgot that he was standing on the verge of a precipice, and through a slip of his crowbar he lost his balance and went reeling into the gulf. His horrified companion crept to the edge, expecting to see his mangled corpse tossing in the whirlpool, but, to his amazement, the unfortunate was crawling up the face of a huge table of stone that had fallen from the opposite wall and lay canted against it. "Hello!" shouted the man overhead. "Are you hurt much?" The victim of the accident slowly got upon his feet, felt cautiously of his legs and ribs, and began to search through his pockets, his face betraying an anxiety that grew deeper and deeper as the search went on. In due time the answer came back, deliberate, sad, and nasal, but distinct above the roar of the torrent: "Waal, I ain't hurt much, but I'll be durned if I haven't lost my jack-knife!" And he was pulled out of the gorge without it. SALEM AND OTHER WITCHCRAFT The extraordinary delusion recorded as Salem witchcraft was but a reflection of a kindred insanity in the Old World that was not extirpated until its victims had been counted by thousands. That human beings should be accused of leaguing themselves with Satan to plague their fellows and overthrow the powers of righteousness is remarkable, but that they should admit their guilt is incomprehensible, albeit the history of every popular delusion shows that weak minds are so affected as to lose control of themselves and that a whimsey can be as epidemic as small-pox. Such was the case in 1692 when the witchcraft madness, which might have been stayed by a seasonable spanking, broke out in Danvers, Massachusetts, the first victim being a wild Irishwoman, named Glover, and speedily involved the neighboring community of Salem. The mischiefs done by witches were usually trifling, and it never occurred to their prosecutors that there was an inconsistency between their pretended powers and their feeble deeds, or that it was strange that those who might live in regal luxury should be so wretchedly poor. Aches and pains, blight of crops, disease of cattle, were charged to them; children complained of being pricked with thorns and pins (the pins are still preserved in Salem), and if hysterical girls spoke the name of any feeble old woman, while in flighty talk, they virtually sentenced her to die. The word of a child of eleven years sufficed to hang, burn, or drown a witch. Giles Corey, a blameless man of eighty, was condemned to the mediaeval _peine forte et dure_, his body being crushed beneath a load of rocks and timbers. He refused to plead in court, and when the beams were laid upon him he only cried, "More weight!" The shade of the unhappy victim haunted the scene of his execution for years, and always came to warn the people of calamities. A child of five and a dog were also hanged after formal condemnation. Gallows Hill, near Salem, witnessed many sad tragedies, and the old elm that stood on Boston Common until 1876 was said to have served as a gallows for witches and Quakers. The accuser of one day was the prisoner of the next, and not even the clergy were safe. A few escapes were made, like that of a blue-eyed maid of Wenham, whose lover aided her to break the wooden jail and carried her safely beyond the Merrimac, finding a home for her among the Quakers; and that of Miss Wheeler, of Salem, who had fallen under suspicion, and whose brothers hurried her into a boat, rowed around Cape Ann, and safely bestowed her in "the witch house" at Pigeon Cove. Many, however, fled to other towns rather than run the risk of accusation, which commonly meant death. When the wife of Philip English was arrested he, too, asked to share her fate, and both were, through friendly intercession, removed to Boston, where they were allowed to have their liberty by day on condition that they would go to jail every night. Just before they were to be taken back to Salem for trial they went to church and heard the Rev. Joshua Moody preach from the text, "If they persecute you in one city, flee unto another." The good clergyman not only preached goodness, but practised it, and that night the door of their prison was opened. Furnished with an introduction from Governor Phipps to Governor Fletcher, of New York, they made their way to that settlement, and remained there in safe and courteous keeping until the people of Salem had regained their senses, when they returned. Mrs. English died, soon after, from the effects of cruelty and anxiety, and although Mr. Moody was generally commended for his substitution of sense and justice for law, there were bigots who persecuted him so constantly that he removed to Plymouth. According to the belief of the time a witch or wizard compacted with Satan for the gift of supernatural power, and in return was to give up his soul to the evil one after his life was over. The deed was signed in blood of the witch and horrible ceremonies confirmed the compact. Satan then gave his ally a familiar in the form of a dog, ape, cat, or other animal, usually small and black, and sometimes an undisguised imp. To suckle these "familiars" with the blood of a witch was forbidden in English law, which ranked it as a felony; but they were thus nourished in secret, and by their aid the witch might raise storms, blight crops, abort births, lame cattle, topple over houses, and cause pains, convulsions, and illness. If she desired to hurt a person she made a clay or waxen image in his likeness, and the harms and indignities wreaked on the puppet would be suffered by the one bewitched, a knife or needle thrust in the waxen body being felt acutely by the living one, no matter how far distant he might be. By placing this image in running water, hot sunshine, or near a fire, the living flesh would waste as this melted or dissolved, and the person thus wrought upon would die. This belief is still current among negroes affected by the voodoo superstitions of the South. The witch, too, had the power of riding winds, usually with a broomstick for a conveyance, after she had smeared the broom or herself with magic ointment, and the flocking of the unhallowed to their sabbaths in snaky bogs or on lonely mountain tops has been described minutely by those who claim to have seen the sight. Sometimes they cackled and gibbered through the night before the houses of the clergy, and it was only at Christmas that their power failed them. The meetings were devoted to wild and obscene orgies, and the intercourse of fiends and witches begot a progeny of toads and snakes. Naturally the Indians were accused, for they recognized the existence of both good and evil spirits, their medicine-men cured by incantations in the belief that devils were thus driven out of their patients, and in the early history of the country the red man was credited by white settlers with powers hardly inferior to those of the oriental and European magicians of the middle ages. Cotton Mather detected a relation between Satan and the Indians, and he declares that certain of the Algonquins were trained from boyhood as powahs, powwows, or wizards, acquiring powers of second sight and communion with gods and spirits through abstinence from food and sleep and the observance of rites. Their severe discipline made them victims of nervous excitement and the responsibilities of conjuration had on their minds an effect similar to that produced by gases from the rift in Delphos on the Apollonian oracles, their manifestations of insanity or frenzy passing for deific or infernal possession. When John Gibb, a Scotchman, who had gone mad through religious excitement, was shipped to this country by his tired fellow-countrymen, the Indians hailed him as a more powerful wizard than any of their number, and he died in 1720, admired and feared by them because of the familiarity with spirits out of Hobbomocko (hell) that his ravings and antics were supposed to indicate. Two Indian servants of the Reverend Mr. Purvis, of Salem, having tried by a spell to discover a witch, were executed as witches themselves. The savages, who took Salem witchcraft at its worth, were astonished at its deadly effect, and the English may have lost some influence over the natives in consequence of this madness. "The Great Spirit sends no witches to the French," they said. Barrow Hill, near Amesbury, was said to be the meeting-place for Indian powwows and witches, and at late hours of the night the light of fires gleamed from its top, while shadowy forms glanced athwart it. Old men say that the lights are still there in winter, though modern doubters declare that they were the aurora borealis. But the belief in witches did not die even when the Salem people came to their senses. In the Merrimac valley the devil found converts for many years after: Goody Mose, of Rocks village, who tumbled down-stairs when a big beetle was killed at an evening party, some miles away, after it had been bumping into the faces of the company; Goody Whitcher, of Ameshury, whose loom kept banging day and night after she was dead; Goody Sloper, of West Newbury, who went home lame directly that a man had struck his axe into the beam of a house that she had bewitched, but who recovered her strength and established an improved reputation when, in 1794, she swam out to a capsized boat and rescued two of the people who were in peril; Goodman Nichols, of Rocks village, who "spelled" a neighbor's son, compelling him to run up one end of the house, along the ridge, and down the other end, "troubling the family extremely by his strange proceedings;" Susie Martin, also of Rocks, who was hanged in spite of her devotions in jail, though the rope danced so that it could not be tied, but a crow overhead called for a withe and the law was executed with that; and Goody Morse, of Market and High Streets, Newburyport, whose baskets and pots danced through her house continually and who was seen "flying about the sun as if she had been cut in twain, or as if the devil did hide the lower part of her." The hill below Easton, Pennsylvania, called Hexenkopf (Witch's head), was described by German settlers as a place of nightly gathering for weird women, who whirled about its top in "linked dances" and sang in deep tones mingled with awful laughter. After one of these women, in Williams township, had been punished for enchanting a twenty-dollar horse, their sabbaths were held more quietly. Mom Rinkle, whose "rock" is pointed out beside the Wissahickon, in Philadelphia, "drank dew from acorn-cups and had the evil eye." Juan Perea, of San Mateo, New Mexico, would fly with his chums to meetings in the mountains in the shape of a fire-ball. During these sallies he left his own eyes at home and wore those of some brute animal. It was because his dog ate his eyes when he had carelessly put them on a table that he had always afterward to wear those of a cat. Within the present century an old woman who lived in a hut on the Palisades of the Hudson was held to be responsible for local storms and accidents. As late as 1889 two Zuni Indians were hanged on the wall of an old Spanish church near their pueblo in Arizona on a charge of having blown away the rainclouds in a time of drouth. It was held that there was something uncanny in the event that gave the name of Gallows Hill to an eminence near Falls Village, Connecticut, for a strange black man was found hanging, dead, to a tree near its top one morning. Moll Pitcher, a successful sorcerer and fortune-teller of old Lynn, has figured in obsolete poems, plays, and romances. She lived in a cottage at the foot of High Rock, where she was consulted, not merely by people of respectability, but by those who had knavish schemes to prosecute and who wanted to learn in advance the outcome of their designs. Many a ship was deserted at the hour of sailing because she boded evil of the voyage. She was of medium height, big-headed, tangle-haired, long-nosed, and had a searching black eye. The sticks that she carried were cut from a hazel that hung athwart a brook where an unwedded mother had drowned her child. A girl who went to her for news of her lover lost her reason when the witch, moved by a malignant impulse, described his death in a fiercely dramatic manner. One day the missing ship came bowling into port, and the shock of joy that the girl experienced when the sailor clasped her in his arms restored her erring senses. When Moll Pitcher died she was attended by the little daughter of the woman she had so afflicted. John, or Edward, Dimond, grandfather of Moll Pitcher, was a benevolent wizard. When vessels were trying to enter the port of Marblehead in a heavy gale or at night, their crews were startled to hear a trumpet voice pealing from the skies, plainly audible above the howling and hissing of any tempest, telling them how to lay their course so as to reach smooth water. This was the voice of Dimond, speaking from his station, miles away in the village cemetery. He always repaired to this place in troublous weather and shouted orders to the ships that were made visible to him by mystic power as he strode to and fro among the graves. When thieves came to him for advice he charmed them and made them take back their plunder or caused them to tramp helplessly about the streets bearing heavy burdens. "Old Mammy Redd, of Marblehead, Sweet milk could turn to mould in churn." Being a witch, and a notorious one, she could likewise curdle the milk as it came from the cow, and afterward transform it into blue wool. She had the evil eye, and, if she willed, her glance or touch could blight like palsy. It only needed that she should wish a bloody cleaver to be found in a cradle to cause the little occupant to die, while the whole town ascribed to her the annoyances of daily housework and business. Her unpleasant celebrity led to her death at the hands of her fellow-citizens who had been "worrited" by no end of queer happenings: ships had appeared just before they were wrecked and had vanished while people looked at them; men were seen walking on the water after they had been comfortably buried; the wind was heard to name the sailors doomed never to return; footsteps and voices were heard in the streets before the great were to die; one man was chased by a corpse in its coffin; another was pursued by the devil in a carriage drawn by four white horses; a young woman who had just received a present of some fine fish from her lover was amazed to see him melt into the air, and was heart-broken when she learned next morning that he had died at sea. So far away as Amesbury the devil's power was shown by the appearance of a man who walked the roads carrying his head under his arm, and by the freak of a windmill that the miller always used to shut up at sundown but that started by itself at midnight. Evidently it was high time to be rid of Mammy Redd. Margaret Wesson, "old Meg," lived in Gloucester until she came to her death by a shot fired at the siege of Louisburg, five hundred miles away, in 1745. Two soldiers of Gloucester, while before the walls of the French town, were annoyed by a crow, that flew over and around them, cawing harshly and disregarding stones and shot, until it occurred to them that the bird could be no other than old Meg in another form, and, as silver bullets are an esteemed antidote for the evils of witchcraft, they cut two silver buttons from their uniforms and fired them at the crow. At the first shot its leg was broken; at the second, it fell dead. On returning to Gloucester they learned that old Meg had fallen and broken her leg at the moment when the crow was fired on, and that she died quickly after. An examination of her body was made, and the identical buttons were extracted from her flesh that had been shot into the crow at Louisburg. As a citizen of New Haven was riding home--this was at the time of the goings on at Salem--he saw shapes of women near his horse's head, whispering earnestly together and keeping time with the trot of his animal without effort of their own. "In the name of God, tell me who you are," cried the traveller, and at the name of God they vanished. Next day the man's orchard was shaken by viewless hands and the fruit thrown down. Hogs ran about the neighborhood on their hind legs; children cried that somebody was sticking pins into them; one man would roll across the floor as if pushed, and he had to be watched lest he should go into the fire; when housewives made their bread they found it as full of hair as food in a city boarding-house; when they made soft soap it ran from the kettle and over the floor like lava; stones fell down chimneys and smashed crockery. One of the farmers cut off an ear from a pig that was walking on its hind legs, and an eccentric old body of the neighborhood appeared presently with one of her ears in a muffle, thus satisfying that community that she had caused the troubles. When a woman was making potash it began to leap about, and a rifle was fired into the pot, causing a sudden calm. In the morning the witch was found dead on her floor. Yet killing only made her worse, for she moved to a deserted house near her own, and there kept a mad revel every night; fiddles were heard, lights flashed, stones were thrown, and yells gave people at a distance a series of cold shivers; but the populace tried the effect of tearing down the house, and quiet was brought to the town. In the early days of this century a skinny old woman known as Aunt Woodward lived by herself in a log cabin at Minot Corner, Maine, enjoying the awe of the people in that secluded burg. They moved around but little at night, on her account, and one poor girl was in mortal fear lest by mysterious arts she should be changed, between two days, into a white horse. One citizen kept her away from his house by nailing a horseshoe to his door, while another took the force out of her spells by keeping a branch of "round wood" at his threshold. At night she haunted a big, square house where the ghost of a murdered infant was often heard to cry, and by day she laid charms on her neighbors' provisions and utensils, and turned their cream to buttermilk. "Uncle" Blaisdell hurried into the settlement to tell the farmers that Aunt Woodward had climbed into his sled in the middle of the road, and that his four yoke of oxen could not stir it an inch, but that after she had leaped down one yoke of cattle drew the load of wood without an effort. Yet she died in her bed. THE GLOUCESTER LEAGUERS Strange things had been reported in Gloucester. On the eve of King Philip's War the march of men was heard in its streets and an Indian bow and scalp were seen on the face of the moon, while the boom of cannon and roll of drums were heard at Malden and the windows of Plymouth rattled to the passage of unseen horsemen. But the strangest thing was the arrival on Cape Ann of a force of French and Indians that never could be caught, killed, or crippled, though two regiments were hurried into Gloucester and battled with them for a fortnight. Thus, the rumor went around that these were not an enemy of flesh and blood, but devils who hoped to work a moral perversion of the colony. From 1692, when they appeared, until Salem witchcraft was at an end, Cape Ann was under military and spiritual guard against "the spectre leaguers." Another version of the episode, based on sworn evidence, has it that Ebenezer Babson, returning late on a summer night, saw two men run from his door and vanish in a field. His family denied that visitors had called, so he gave chase, for he believed the men to have a mischievous intention. As he left the threshold they sprang from behind a log, one saying to the other, "The master of the house is now come, else we might have taken the house," and again they disappeared in a swamp. Babson woke the guard, and on entering the quarters of the garrison the sound of many feet was heard without, but when the doors were flung open only the two men were visible and they were retreating. Next evening the yeoman was chased by these elusive gentry, who were believed to be scouts of the enemy, for they wore white breeches and waistcoats and carried bright guns. For several nights they appeared, and on the 4th of July half a dozen of them were seen so plainly that the soldiers made a sally, Babson bringing three of "ye unaccountable troublers" to the ground with a single shot, and getting a response in kind, for a bullet hissed by his ear and buried itself in a tree. When the company approached the place where lay the victims of that remarkable shot, behold, they arose and scampered away as blithely as if naught had happened to them. One of the trio was cornered and shot anew, but when they would pick him up he melted into air. There was fierce jabbering in an unknown tongue, through all the swamp, and by the time the garrison had returned the fellows were skulking in the shrubbery again. Richard Dolliver afterward came on eleven of them engaged in incantations and scattered them with a gunshot, but they would not down. They lurked about the cape until terror fell on all the people, remaining for "the best part of a month together," so it was deemed that "Satan had set ambushments against the good people of Gloucester, with demons in the shape of armed Indians and Frenchmen." Stones were thrown, barns were beaten with clubs, the marching of unseen hosts was heard after dark, the mockers grew so bold that they ventured close to the redoubtable Babson, gazed scornfully down the barrel of his gun, and laid a charm on the weapon, so that, no matter how often he snapped it at them, it flashed in the pan. Neighboring garrisons were summoned, but all battling with goblins was fruitless. One night a dark and hostile throng emerged from the wood and moved toward the blockhouse, where twenty musketeers were keeping guard. "If you be ghosts or devils I will foil you," cried the captain, and tearing a silver button from his doublet he rammed it into his gun and fired on the advancing host. Even as the smoke of his musket was blown on the wind, so did the beleaguering army vanish, the silver bullet proving that they were not of human kind. The night was wearing on when a cry went out that the devils were coming again. Arms were laid aside this time, and the watchers sank to their knees in prayer. Directly that the name of God was uttered the marching ceased and heaven rang with the howls of the angry fiends. Never again were leaguers seen in Gloucester. SATAN AND HIS BURIAL-PLACE Satan appears to have troubled the early settlers in America almost as grievously as he did the German students. He came in many shapes to many people, and sometimes he met his match. Did he not try to stop old Peter Stuyvesant from rowing through Hell Gate one moonlight night, and did not that tough old soldier put something at his shoulder that Satan thought must be his wooden leg? But it wasn't a leg: it was a gun, loaded with a silver bullet that had been charged home with prayer. Peter fired and the missile whistled off to Ward's Island, where three boys found it afterward and swapped it for double handfuls of doughnuts and bulls' eyes. Incidentally it passed between the devil's ribs and the fiend exploded with a yell and a smell, the latter of sulphur, to Peter's blended satisfaction and alarm. And did not the same spirit of evil plague the old women of Massachusetts Bay and craze the French and Spaniards in the South? At Hog Rock, west of Milford, Connecticut, he broke up a pleasant diversion: "Once four young men upon ye rock Sate down at chuffle board to play When ye Deuill appearde in shape of a hogg And frightend ym so they scampered away And left Old Nick to finish ye play." One of the first buildings to be put up in Ipswich, Massachusetts, was a church built on a ledge above the river, and in that church Satan tried to conceal himself for purposes of mischief. For this act he was hurled from the steeple-top by some unseen instrument of righteousness with such force that his hoofmark was stamped into a solid stone near by. This did not deter him from mounting to the ridge-pole and assuming a defiant air, with folded arms, when Whitefield began to preach, but when that clergyman's tremendous voice was loosed below him he bounced into the air in terror and disappeared. The Shakers report that in the waning of the eighteenth century they chased the evil one through the coverts of Mount Sinai, Massachusetts, and just before dawn of a summer morning they caught and killed and buried him. Shakers are spiritualists, and they believe their numbers to have been augmented by distinguished dead, among whom they already number Washington, Lafayette, Napoleon, Tamerlane, and Pocahontas. The two first named of these posthumous communists are still seen by members of the faith who pass Satan's grave at night, for they sit astride of white horses and watch the burial spot, lest the enemy of man arise and begin anew his career of trouble. Some members of the brotherhood say that this legend typifies a burial of evil tendencies in the hearts of those who hunted the fiend, but it has passed down among others as a circumstance. The Shakers have many mystic records, transmitted verbally to the present disciples of "Mother Ann," but seldom told to scoffers "in the world," as those are called who live without their pure and peaceful communes. Among these records is that of the appearance of John the Baptist in the meeting-house at Mount Lebanon, New York, one Sunday, clothed in light and leading the sacred dance of the worshippers, by which they signify the shaking out of all carnal things from the heart. PETER RUGG, THE MISSING MAN The idea of long wandering as a penalty, symbolized in "The Wandering Jew," "The Flying Dutchman," and the character of Kundry, in "Parsifal," has application in the legend of Peter Rugg. This strange man, who lived in Middle Street, Boston, with his wife and daughter, was esteemed, as a person of probity and good manners except in his swearing fits, for he was subject to outbursts of passion, when he would kick his way through doors instead of opening them, bite tenpenny nails in two, and curse his wig off In the autumn of 1770 he visited Concord, with his little girl, and on the way home was overtaken by a violent storm. He took shelter with a friend at Menotomy, who urged him to stay all night, for the rain was falling heavier every moment; but Rugg would not be stayed, and seeing that there was no hope of a dry journey back to town he roared a fearful oath and cried, "Let the storm increase. I will see home to-night in spite of it, or may I never see home!" With that he tossed the child into the open chaise, leaped in after her, lashed his horse, and was off. Several nights afterward, while Rugg's neighbors were out with lanterns trying to discover the cause of a heavy jarring that had begun to disturb them in bad weather, the excitable gentleman, who had not been seen since his Concord visit, came whirling along the pavement in his carriage, his daughter beside him, his black horse plunging on in spite of his efforts to stop him. The lanterns that for a moment twinkled in Peter's face showed him as a wet and weary man, with eyes turned up longingly at the windows where his wife awaited him; then he was gone, and the ground trembled as with an earthquake, while the rain fell more heavily. Mrs. Rugg died within a twelvemonth, and Peter never reached home, but from all parts of New England came stories of a man and child driving rapidly along the highways, never stopping except to inquire the way to Boston. Half of the time the man would be headed in a direction opposite to the one he seemed to want to follow, and when set right would cry that he was being deceived, and was sometimes heard to mutter, "No home to-night." In Hartford, Providence, Newburyport, and among the New Hampshire hills the anxious face of the man became known, and he was referred to as "the stormbreeder," for so surely as he passed there would be rain, wind, lightning, thunder, and darkness within the hour. Some years ago a man in a Connecticut town stopped this hurrying traveller, who said, in reply to a question, "I have lost the road to Boston. My name is Peter Rugg." Then Rugg's disappearance half a century before was cited by those who had long memories, and people began to look askant at Peter and gave him generous road room when they met him. The toll-taker on Charlestown bridge declared that he had been annoyed and alarmed by a prodigious tramping of hoofs and rattling of wheels that seemed to pass toward Boston before his very face, yet he could see nothing. He took courage one night to plant himself in the middle of the bridge with a three-legged stool, and when the sound approached he dimly saw a large black horse driven by a weary looking man with a child beside him. The stool was flung at the horse's head, but passed through the animal as through smoke and skipped across the floor of the bridge. Thus much the toll-collector said, but when asked if Rugg had appeared again he made no reply. THE LOSS OF WEETAMOO Winnepurkit, sagamore of the coast settlements between Nahant and Cape Ann, had married Weetamoo, daughter of Passaconaway, king of the Pennacooks, and had taken her to his home. Their honeymoon was happy, but old ties are strong, and after a little time the bride felt a longing to see her people again. When she made known this wish the husband not only consented to her visit, but gave her a guard of his most trusty hunters who saw her safe in her father's lodge (near the site of Concord, New Hampshire), and returned directly. Presently came a messenger from Passaconaway, informing his son-in-law that Weetamoo had finished her visit and wished again to be with her husband, to whom he looked for an escort to guide her through the wilderness. Winnepurkit felt that his dignity as a chief was slighted by this last request, and he replied that as he had supplied her with a guard for the outward journey it was her father's place to send her back, "for it stood not with Winnepurkit's reputation either to make himself or his men so servile as to fetch her again." Passaconaway returned a sharp answer that irritated Winnepurkit still more, and he was told by the young sagamore that he might send his daughter or keep her, for she would never be sent for. In this unhappy strife for precedent, which has been repeated on later occasions by princes and society persons, the young wife seemed to be fated as an unwilling sacrifice; but summoning spirit to leave her father's wigwam she launched a canoe on the Merrimack, hoping to make her way along that watery highway to her husband's domain. It was winter, and the stream was full of floating ice; at the best of times it was not easy to keep a frail vessel of bark in the current away from the rapids, and a wandering hunter reported that a canoe had come down the river guided by a woman, that it had swung against the Amoskeag rocks, where Manchester stands now, and a few moments later was in a quieter reach of water, broken and empty. No more was seen of Weetamoo. THE FATAL FORGET-ME-NOT Three miles out from the Nahant shore, Massachusetts, rises Egg Rock, a dome of granite topped by a light-house. In the last century the forget-me-nots that grew in a little marsh at its summit were much esteemed, for it was reported that if a girl should receive one of these little flowers from her lover the two would be faithful to each other through all their married life. It was before a temporary separation that a certain young couple strolled together on the Nahant cliffs. The man was to sail for Italy next day, to urge parental consent to their union. As he looked dreamily into the sea the legend of the forget-me-not came into his mind, and in a playful tone he offered to gather a bunch as a memento. Unthinkingly the girl consented. He ran down the cliff to his boat, pushed out, and headed toward the rock, but a fisherman shouted that a gale was rising and the tide was coming in; indeed, the horizon was whitening and the rote was growing plain. Alice had heard the cry of warning and would have called him back, but she was forsaken by the power of speech, and watched, with pale face and straining eyes, the boat beating smartly across the surges. It was seen to reach Egg Rock, and after a lapse came dancing toward the shore again; but the tide, was now swirling in rapidly, the waves were running high, and the wind freshened as the sun sank. At times the boat was out of sight in the hollowed water, and as it neared Nahant it became unmanageable. Apparently it had filled with water and the tiller-rope had broken. Nothing could be done by the spectators who had gathered on the rocks, except to shout directions that were futile, even if they could be heard. At last the boat was lifted by a breaker and hurled against a mass of granite at the very feet of the man's mistress. When the body was recovered next day, a bunch of forget-me-not was clasped in the rigid hand. THE OLD MILL AT SOMERVILLE The "old powder-house," as the round stone tower is called that stands on a gravel ridge in Somerville, Massachusetts, is so named because at the outbreak of the Revolutionary War it was used temporarily as a magazine; but long before that it was a wind-mill. Here in the old days two lovers held their tryst: a sturdy and honest young farmer of the neighborhood and the daughter of a man whose wealth puffed him with purse-pride. It was the plebeian state of the farmer that made him look at him with an unfavorable countenance, and when it was whispered to him that the young people were meeting each other almost every evening at the mill, he resolved to surprise them there and humiliate, if he did not punish them. From the shadow of the door they saw his approach, and, yielding to the girl's imploring, the lover secreted himself while she climbed to the loft. The flutter of her dress caught the old man's eye and he hastened, panting, into the mill. For some moments he groped about, for his eyes had not grown used to the darkness of the place, and hearing his muttered oaths, the girl crept backward from the stair. She was beginning to hope that she had not been seen, when her foot caught in a loose board and she stumbled, but in her fall she threw out her hand to save herself and found a rope within her grasp. Directly that her weight had been applied to it there was a whir and a clank. The cord had set the great fans in motion. At the same moment a fall was heard, then a cry, passing from anger into anguish. She rushed down the stair, the lover appeared from his hiding-place at the same moment, and together they dragged the old man to his feet. At the moment when the wind had started the sails he had been standing on one of the mill-stones and the sudden jerk had thrown him down. His arm caught between the grinding surfaces and had been crushed to pulp. He was carried home and tenderly nursed, but he did not live long; yet before he died he was made to see the folly of his course, and he consented to the marriage that it had cost him so dear to try to prevent. Before she could summon heart to fix the wedding-day the girl passed many months of grief and repentance, and for the rest of her life she avoided the old mill. There was good reason for doing so, people said, for on windy nights the spirit of the old man used to haunt the place, using such profanity that it became visible in the form of blue lights, dancing and exploding about the building. EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT Nothing is left of Province House, the old home of the royal governors, in Boston, but the gilded Indian that served as its weathercock and aimed his arrow at the winds from the cupola. The house itself was swept away long ago in the so-called march of improvement. In one of its rooms hung a picture so dark that when Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson went to live there hardly anybody could say what it represented. There were hints that it was a portrait of the devil, painted at a witch-meeting near Salem, and that on the eve of disasters in the province a dreadful face had glared from the canvas. Shirley had seen it on the night of the fall of Ticonderoga, and servants had gone shuddering from the room, certain that they had caught the glance of a malignant eye. It was known to the governors, however, that the portrait, if not that of the arch fiend, was that of one who in the popular mind was none the less a devil: Edward Randolph, the traitor, who had repealed the first provincial charter and deprived the colonists of their liberties. Under the curse of the people he grew pale and pinched and ugly, his face at last becoming so hateful that men were unwilling to look at it. Then it was that he sat for his portrait. Threescore or odd years afterward, Hutchinson sat in the hall wondering vaguely if coming events would consign him to the obloquy that had fallen on his predecessor, for at his bidding a fleet had come into the harbor with three regiments of red coats on board, despatched from Halifax to overawe the city. The coming of the selectmen to protest against quartering these troops on the people and the substitution of martial for civic law, interrupted his reverie, and a warm debate arose. At last the governor seized his pen impatiently, and cried, "The king is my master and England is my home. Upheld by them, I defy the rabble." He was about to sign the order for bringing in the troops when a curtain that had hung before the picture was drawn aside. Hutchinson stared at the canvas in amazement, then muttered, "It is Randolph's spirit! It wears the look of hell." The picture was seen to be that of a man in antique garb, with a despairing, hunted, yet evil expression in the face, and seemed to stare at Hutchinson. "It is a warning," said one of the company. Hutchinson recovered himself with an effort and turned away. "It is a trick," he cried; and bending over the paper he fixed his name, as if in desperate haste. Then he trembled, turned white, and wiped a sweat from his brow. The selectmen departed in silence but in anger, and those who saw Hutchinson on the streets next day affirmed that the portrait had stepped out of its canvas and stood at his side through the night. Afterward, as he lay on his death-bed, he cried that the blood of the Boston massacre was filling his throat, and as his soul passed from him his face, in its agony and rage, was the face of Edward Randolph. LADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, being orphaned, was admitted to the family of her distant relative, Governor Shute, of Massachusetts Bay, and came to America to take her home with him. She arrived at the gates of Province House, in Boston, in the governor's splendid coach, with outriders and guards, and as the governor went to receive her, a pale young man, with tangled hair, sprang from the crowd and fell in the dust at her feet, offering himself as a footstool for her to tread upon. Her proud face lighted with a smile of scorn, and she put out her hand to stay the governor, who was in the act of striking the fellow with his cane. "Do not strike him," she said. "When men seek to be trampled, it is a favor they deserve." For a moment she bore her weight on the prostrate form, "emblem of aristocracy trampling on human sympathies and the kindred of nature," and as she stood there the bell on South Church began to toll for a funeral that was passing at the moment. The crowd started; some looked annoyed; Lady Eleanore remained calm and walked in stately fashion up the passage on the arm of His Excellency. "Who was that insolent fellow?" was asked of Dr. Clarke, the governor's physician. "Gervase Helwyse," replied the doctor; "a youth of no fortune, but of good mind until he met this lady in London, when he fell in love with her, and her pride and scorn have crazed him." A few nights after a ball was given in honor of the governor's ward, and Province House was filled with the elect of the city. Commanding in figure, beautiful in face, richly dressed and jewelled, the Lady Eleanore was the admired of the whole assembly, and the women were especially curious to see her mantle, for a rumor went out that it had been made by a dying girl, and had the magic power of giving new beauty to the wearer every time it was put on. While the guests were taking refreshment, a young man stole into the room with a silver goblet, and this he offered on his knee to Lady Eleanore. As she looked down she recognized the face of Helwyse. "Drink of this sacramental wine," he said, eagerly, "and pass it among the guests." "Perhaps it is poisoned," whispered a man, and in another moment the liquor was overturned, and Helwyse was roughly dragged away. "Pray, gentlemen, do not hurt my poor admirer," said the lady, in a tone of languor and condescension that was unusual to her. Breaking from his captives, Helwyse ran back and begged her to cast her mantle into the fire. She replied by throwing a fold of it above her head and smiling as she said, "Farewell. Remember me as you see me now." Helwyse shook his head sadly and submitted to be led away. The weariness in Eleanore's manner increased; a flush was burning on her cheek; her laugh had grown infrequent. Dr. Clarke whispered something in the governor's ear that made that gentleman start and look alarmed. It was announced that an unforeseen circumstance made it necessary to close the festival at once, and the company went home. A few days after the city was thrown into a panic by an outbreak of small-pox, a disease that in those times could not be prevented nor often cured, and that gathered its victims by thousands. Graves were dug in rows, and every night the earth was piled hastily on fresh corpses. Before all infected houses hung a red flag of warning, and Province House was the first to show it, for the plague had come to town in Lady Eleanore's mantle. The people cursed her pride and pointed to the flags as her triumphal banners. The pestilence was at its height when Gervase Helwyse appeared in Province House. There were none to stay him now, and he climbed the stairs, peering from room to room, until he entered a darkened chamber, where something stirred feebly under a silken coverlet and a faint voice begged for water. Helwyse tore apart the curtains and exclaimed, "Fie! What does such a thing as you in Lady Eleanore's apartment?" The figure on the bed tried to hide its hideous face. "Do not look on me," it cried. "I am cursed for my pride that I wrapped about me as a mantle. You are avenged. I am Eleanore Rochcliffe." The lunatic stared for a moment, then the house echoed with his laughter. The deadly mantle lay on a chair. He snatched it up, and waving also the red flag of the pestilence ran into the street. In a short time an effigy wrapped in the mantle was borne to Province House and set on fire by a mob. From that hour the pest abated and soon disappeared, though graves and scars made a bitter memory of it for many a year. Unhappiest of all was the disfigured creature who wandered amid the shadows of Province House, never showing her face, unloved, avoided, lonely. HOWE'S MASQUERADE During the siege of Boston Sir William Howe undertook to show his contempt for the raw fellows who were disrespectfully tossing cannon-balls at him from the batteries in Cambridge and South Boston, by giving a masquerade. It was a brilliant affair, the belles and blades of the loyalist set being present, some in the garb of their ancestors, for the past is ever more picturesque than the present, and a few roisterers caricaturing the American generals in ragged clothes, false noses, and absurd wigs. At the height of the merriment a sound of a dirge echoing through the streets caused the dance to stop. The funeral music paused before the doors of Province House, where the dance was going on, and they were flung open. Muffled drums marked time for a company that began to file down the great stair from the floor above the ball-room: dark men in steeple-hats and pointed beards, with Bibles, swords, and scrolls, who looked sternly at the guests and descended to the street. Colonel Joliffe, a Whig, whose age and infirmity had prevented him from joining Washington, and whose courtesy and intelligence had made him respected by his foes, acted as chorus: "These I take to be the Puritan governors of Massachusetts: Endicott, Winthrop, Vane, Dudley, Haynes, Bellingham, Leverett, Bradstreet." Then came a rude soldier, mailed, begirt with arms: the tyrant Andros; a brown-faced man with a sailor's gait: Sir William Phipps; a courtier wigged and jewelled: Earl Bellomont; the crafty, well-mannered Dudley; the twinkling, red-nosed Shute; the ponderous Burnet; the gouty Belcher; Shirley, Pownall, Bernard, Hutchinson; then a soldier, whose cocked hat he held before his face. "'Tis the shape of Gage!" cried an officer, turning pale. The lights were dull and an uncomfortable silence had fallen on the company. Last, came a tall man muffled in a military cloak, and as he paused on the landing the guests looked from him to their host in amazement, for it was the figure of Howe himself. The governor's patience was at an end, for this was a part of the masquerade that had not been looked for. He fiercely cried to Joliffe, "There is a plot in this. Your head has stood too long on a traitor's shoulders." "Make haste to cut it off, then," was the reply, "for the power of Sir William Howe and of the king, his master, is at an end. These shadows are mourners at his funeral. Look! The last of the governors." Howe rushed with drawn sword on the figure of himself, when it turned and looked at him. The blade clanged to the floor and Howe fell back with a gasp of horror, for the face was his own. Hand nor voice was raised to stay the double-goer as it mournfully passed on. At the threshold it stamped its foot and shook its fists in air; then the door closed. Mingled with the strains of the funeral march, as it died along the empty streets, came the tolling of the bell on South Church steeple, striking the hour of midnight. The festivities were at an end and, oppressed by a nameless fear, the spectators of this strange pageant made ready for departure; but before they left the booming of cannon at the southward announced that Washington had advanced. The glories of Province House were over. When the last of the royal governors left it he paused on the threshold, beat his foot on the stone, and flung up his hands in an attitude of grief and rage. OLD ESTHER DUDLEY Boston had surrendered. Washington was advancing from the heights where he had trained his guns on the British works, and Sir William Howe lingered at the door of Province House,--last of the royal governors who would stand there,--and cursed and waved his hands and beat his heel on the step, as if he were crushing rebellion by that act. The sound brought an old woman to his side. "Esther Dudley!" he exclaimed. "Why are you not gone?" "I shall never leave. As housekeeper for the governors and pensioner of the king, this has been my home; the only home I know. Go back, but send more troops. I will keep the house till you return." "Grant that I may return," he cried. "Since you will stay, take this bag of guineas and keep this key until a governor shall demand it." Then, with fierce and moody brow, the governor went forth, and the faded eyes of Esther Dudley saw him nevermore. When the soldiers of the republic cast about for quarters in Boston town, they spared the official mansion to this old woman. Her bridling toryism and assumption of old state amused them and did no harm; indeed, her loyalty was half admired; beside, nobody took the pride in the place that she did, or would keep it in better order. That she sometimes had a half-dozen of unrepentant codgers in to dinner, and that they were suspected of drinking healths to George III. in crusted port, was a fact to blink. Rumor had it that not all her guests were flesh and blood, but that she had an antique mirror across which ancient occupants of the house would pass in shadowy procession at her command, and that she was wont to have the Shirleys, Olivers, Hutchinsons, and Dudleys out of their graves to hold receptions there; so a touch of dread may have mingled in the feeling that kept the populace aloof. Living thus by herself, refusing to hear of rebel victories, construing the bonfires, drumming, hurrahs, and bell-ringing to signify fresh triumphs for England, she drifted farther and farther out of her time and existed in the shadows of the past. She lighted the windows for the king's birthday, and often from the cupola watched for a British fleet, heeding not the people below, who, as they saw her withered face, repeated the prophecy, with a laugh "When the golden Indian on Province House shall shoot his arrow and the cock on South Church spire shall crow, look for a royal governor again." So, when it was bandied about the streets that the governor was coming, she took it in no wise strange, but dressed herself in silk and hoops, with store of ancient jewels, and made ready to receive him. In truth, there was a function, for already a man of stately mien, and richly dressed, was advancing through the court, with a staff of men in wigs and laced coats behind him, and a company of troops at a little distance. Esther Dudley flung the door wide and dropping on her knees held forth the key with the cry, "Thank heaven for this hour! God save the king!" The governor put off his hat and helped the woman to her feet. "A strange prayer," said he; "yet we will echo it to this effect: For the good of the realm that still owns him to be its ruler, God save King George." Esther Dudley stared wildly. That face she remembered now,--the proscribed rebel, John Hancock; governor, not by royal grant, but by the people's will. "Have I welcomed a traitor? Then let me die." "Alas! Mistress Dudley, the world has changed for you in these later years. America has no king." He offered her his arm, and she clung to it for a moment, then, sinking down, the great key, that she so long had treasured, clanked to the floor. "I have been faithful unto death," she gasped. "God save the king!" The people uncovered, for she was dead. "At her tomb," said Hancock, "we will bid farewell forever to the past. A new day has come for us. In its broad light we will press onward." THE LOSS OF JACOB HURD Jacob Hurd, stern witch-harrier of Ipswich, can abide nothing out of the ordinary course of things, whether it be flight on a broomstick or the wrong adding of figures; so his son gives him trouble, for he is an imaginative boy, who walks alone, talking to the birds, making rhymes, picking flowers, and dreaming. That he will never be a farmer, mechanic, or tradesman is as good as certain, and one day when the child runs in with a story of a golden horse, with tail and mane of silver, on which he has ridden over land and sea, climbing mountains and swimming rivers, he turns pale with fright lest the boy be bewitched; then, as the awfulness of the invention becomes manifest, he cries, "Thou knowest thou art lying," and strikes the little fellow. The boy staggers into his mother's arms, and that night falls into a fever, in which he raves of his horse and the places he will see, while Jacob sits by his side, too sore in heart for words, and he never leaves the cot for food or sleep till the fever is burned out. Just before he closes his eyes the child looks about him and says that he hears the horse pawing in the road, and, either for dust or cloud or sun gleam, it seems for an instant as if the horse were there. The boy gives a cry of joy, then sinks upon his pillow, lifeless. Some time after this Jacob sets off one morning, while the stars are out, to see three witches hanged, but at evening his horse comes flying up the road, splashed with blood and foam, and the neighbors know from that of Jacob's death, for he is lying by the wayside with an Indian arrow in his heart and an axemark on his head. The wife runs to the door, and, though she shakes with fear at its approach, she sees that in the sunset glow the horse's sides have a shine like gold, and its mane and tail are silver white. Now the animal is before the house, but the woman does not faint or cry at the blood splash on the saddle, for--is it the dust-cloud that takes that shape?--she sees on its back a boy with a shining face, who throws a kiss at her,--her Paul. He, little poet, lives in spirit, and has found happiness. THE HOBOMAK Such was the Indian name of the site of Westboro, Massachusetts, and the neighboring pond was Hochomocko. The camp of the red men near the shore was full of bustle one day, for their belle, Iano, was to marry the young chief, Sassacus. The feast was spread and all were ready to partake of it, when it was found that the bride was missing. One girl had seen her steal into the wood with a roguish smile on her lip, and knew that she intended to play hide-and-seek with Sassacus before she should be proclaimed a wife, but the day wore on and she did not come. Among those who were late in reaching camp was Wequoash, who brought a panther in that he had slain on Boston Hill, and he bragged about his skill, as usual. There had been a time when he was a rival of the chief for the hand of Iano, and he showed surprise and concern at her continued absence. The search went on for two days, and, at the end of that time, the girl's body was taken from the lake. At the funeral none groaned so piteously as Wequoash. Yet Sassacus felt his loss so keenly that he fell into a sickness next day, and none was found so constant in his ministrations as Wequoash; but all to no avail, for within a week Sassacus, too, was dead. As the strongest and bravest remaining in the tribe, Wequoash became heir to his honors by election. A year later he sat moodily by the lakeside, when a flame burst up from the water, and a canoe floated toward him that a mysterious agency impelled him to enter. The boat sped toward the flame, that, at his approach, assumed Iano's form. He heard the water gurgle as he passed over the spot where the shape had glimmered, but there was no other sound or check. Next year this thing occurred again, and then the spirit spoke: "Only once more." Yet a third time his fate took him to the spot, and as the hour came on he called his people to him: "This," said he, "is my death-day. I have done evil, and the time comes none too soon. Sassacus was your chief. I envied him his happiness, and gave him poison when I nursed him. Worse than that, I saw Iano in her canoe on her wedding-day. She had refused my hand. I entered my canoe and chased her over the water, in pretended sport, but in the middle of the lake I upset her birch and she was drowned. See! she comes!" For, as he spoke, the light danced up again, and the boat came, self-impelled, to the strand. Wequoash entered it, and with head bent down was hurried away. Those on the shore saw the flame condense to a woman's shape, and a voice issued from it: "It is my hour!" A blinding bolt of lightning fell, and at the appalling roar of thunder all hid their faces. When they looked up, boat and flame had vanished. Whenever, afterward, an Indian rowed across the place where the murderer had sunk, he dropped a stone, and the monument that grew in that way can be seen on the pond floor to this day. BERKSHIRE TORIES The tories of Berkshire, Massachusetts, were men who had been endeared to the king by holding office under warrant from that sacred personage. They have been gently dealt with by historians, but that is "overstrained magnanimity which concentrates its charities and praises for defeated champions of the wrong, and reserves its censures for triumphant defenders of the right." While the following incidents have been so well avouched that they deserve to stand as history, their picturesqueness justifies renewed acquaintance. Among the loyalists was Gideon Smith, of Stockbridge, who had helped British prisoners to escape, and had otherwise made himself so obnoxious that he was forced for a time to withdraw and pass a season of penitence and meditation in a cavern near Lenox, that is called the Tories' Glen. Here he lay for weeks, none but his wife knowing where he was, but at his request she walked out every day with her children, leading them past his cave, where he fed on their faces with hungry eyes. They prattled on, never dreaming that their father was but a few feet from them. Smith survived the war and lived to be on good terms with his old foes. In Lenox lived a Tory, one of those respectable buffers to whom wealth and family had given immunity in the early years of the war, but who sorely tried the temper of his neighbors by damning everything American from Washington downward. At last they could endure his abuse no longer; his example had affected other Anglomaniacs, and a committee waited on him to tell him that he could either swear allegiance to the colonies or be hanged. He said he would be hanged if he would swear, or words to that effect, and hanged he was, on a ready-made gallows in the street. He was let down shortly, "brought around" with rum, and the oath was offered again. He refused it. This had not been looked for. It had been taken for granted that he would abjure his fealty to the king at the first tightening of the cord. A conference was held, and it was declared that retreat would be undignified and unsafe, so the Tory was swung up again, this time with a yank that seemed to "mean business." He hung for some time, and when lowered gave no sign of life. There was some show of alarm at this, for nobody wanted to kill the old fellow, and every effort was made to restore consciousness. At last the lungs heaved, the purple faded from his cheek, his eyes opened, and he gasped, "I'll swear." With a shout of joy the company hurried him to the tavern, seated him before the fire, and put a glass of punch in his hand. He drank the punch to Washington's health, and after a time was heard to remark to himself, "It's a hard way to make Whigs, but it'll do it." Nathan Jackson, of Tyringham, was another Yankee who had seen fit to take arms against his countrymen, and when captured he was charged with treason and remanded for trial. The jail, in Great Barrington, was so little used in those days of sturdy virtue that it had become a mere shed, fit to hold nobody, and Jackson, after being locked into it, might have walked out whenever he felt disposed; but escape, he thought, would have been a confession of the wrongness of Tory principles, or of a fear to stand trial. He found life so monotonous, however, that he asked the sheriff to let him go out to work during the day, promising to sleep in his cell, and such was his reputation for honesty that his request was granted without a demur, the prisoner returning every night to be locked up. When the time approached for the court to meet in Springfield heavy harvesting had begun, and, as there was no other case from Berkshire County to present, the sheriff grumbled at the bother of taking his prisoner across fifty miles of rough country, but Jackson said that he would make it all right by going alone. The sheriff was glad to be released from this duty, so off went the Tory to give himself up and be tried for his life. On the way he was overtaken by Mr. Edwards, of the Executive Council, then about to meet in Boston, and without telling his own name or office, he learned the extraordinary errand of this lonely pedestrian. Jackson was tried, admitted the charges against him, and was sentenced to death. While he awaited execution of the law upon him, the council in Boston received petitions for clemency, and Mr. Edwards asked if there was none in favor of Nathan Jackson. There was none. Mr. Edwards related the circumstance of his meeting with the condemned man, and a murmur of surprise and admiration went around the room. A despatch was sent to Springfield. When it reached there the prison door was flung open and Jackson walked forth free. THE REVENGE OF JOSIAH BREEZE Two thousand Cape Cod fishermen had gone to join the colonial army, and in their absence the British ships had run in shore to land crews on mischievous errands. No man, woman, or child on the Cape but hated the troops and sailors of King George, and would do anything to work them harm. When the Somerset was wrecked off Truro, in 1778, the crew were helped ashore, 'tis true, but they were straightway marched to prison, and it was thought that no other frigate would venture near the shifting dunes where she had laid her skeleton, as many a good ship had done before and has done since. It was November, and ugly weather was shutting in, when a three-decker, that had been tacking off shore and that flew the red flag, was seen to yaw wildly while reefing sail and drift toward land with a broken tiller. No warning signal was raised on the bluffs; not a hand was stirred to rescue. Those who saw the accident watched with sullen satisfaction the on-coming of the vessel, nor did they cease to look for disaster when the ship anchored and stowed sail. Ezekiel and Josiah Breeze, father and son, stood at the door of their cottage and watched her peril until three lights twinkling faintly through the gray of driving snow were all that showed where the enemy lay, straining at her cables and tossing on a wrathful sea. They stood long in silence, but at last the boy exclaimed, "I'm going to the ship." "If you stir from here, you're no son of mine," said Ezekiel. "But she's in danger, dad." "As she oughter be. By mornin' she'll be strewed along the shore and not a spar to mark where she's a-swingin' now." "And the men?" "It's a jedgment, boy." The lad remembered how the sailors of the Ajax had come ashore to burn the homes of peaceful fishermen and farmers; how women had been insulted; how his friends and mates had been cut down at Long Island with British lead and steel; how, when he ran to warn away a red-faced fellow that was robbing his garden, the man had struck him on the shoulder with a cutlass. He had sworn then to be revenged. But to let a host go down to death and never lift a helping hand--was that a fair revenge? "I've got to go, dad," he burst forth. "Tomorrow morning there'll be five hundred faces turned up on the beach, covered with ice and staring at the sky, and five hundred mothers in England will wonder when they're goin' to see those faces again. If ever they looked at me the sight of 'em would never go out of my eyes. I'd be harnted by 'em, awake and asleep. And to-morrow is Thanksgiving. I've got to go, dad, and I will." So speaking, he rushed away and was swallowed in the gloom. The man stared after him; then, with a revulsion of feeling, he cried, "You're right, 'Siah. I'll go with you." But had he called in tones of thunder he would not have been heard in the roar of the wind and crash of the surf. As he reached the shore he saw faintly on the phosphorescent foam a something that climbed a hill of water; it was lost over its crest and reappeared on the wave beyond; it showed for a moment on the third wave, then it vanished in the night. "Josiah!" It was a long, querulous cry. No answer. In half an hour a thing rode by the watcher on the sands and fell with a crash beside him--a boat bottom up: his son's. Next day broke clear, with new snow on the ground. In his house at Provincetown, Captain Breeze was astir betimes, for his son Ezekiel, his grandson Josiah, and all other relatives who were not at the front with Washington were coming for the family reunion. Plump turkeys were ready for the roasting, great loaves of bread and cake stood beside the oven, redoubtable pies of pumpkin and apple filled the air with maddening odors. The people gathered and chattered around his cheery fire of the damage that the storm had done, when Ezekiel stumbled in, his brown face haggard, his lips working, and a tremor in his hands. He said, "Josiah!" in a thick voice, then leaned his arms against the chimney and pressed his face upon them. Among fishermen whose lives are in daily peril the understanding of misfortune is quick, and the old man put his hand on the shoulder of his son and bent his head. The day of joy was become a day of gloom. As the news went out, the house began to fill with sympathizing friends, and there was talking in low voices through the rooms, when a cry of surprise was heard outside. A ship, cased in tons of ice, was forging up the harbor, her decks swarming with blue jackets, some of whom were beating off the frozen masses from lower spars and rigging. She followed the channel so steadily, it was plain to be seen that a wise hand was at her helm; her anchor ran out and she swung on the tide. "The Ajax, as I'm a sinner!" exclaimed a sailor on shore. A boat put off from her, and people angrily collected at the wharf, with talk of getting out their guns, when a boyish figure arose in the stern, and was greeted with a shout of surprise and welcome. The boat touched the beach, Josiah Breeze leaped out of it, and in another minute his father had him in a bear's embrace, making no attempt to stop the tears that welled out of his eyes. An officer had followed Josiah on shore, and going to the group he said, "That boy is one to be proud of. He put out in a sea that few men could face, to save an enemy's ship and pilot it into the harbor. I could do no less than bring him back." There was praise and laughter and clasping of hands, and when the Thanksgiving dinner was placed, smoking, on the board, the commander of H. M. S. Ajax was among the jolliest of the guests at Captain Breeze's table. THE MAY-POLE OF MERRYMOUNT The people of Merrymount--unsanctified in the eyes of their Puritan neighbors, for were they not Episcopals, who had pancakes at Shrovetide and wassail at Christmas?--were dancing about their May-pole one summer evening, for they tried to make it May throughout the year. Some were masked like animals, and all were tricked with flowers and ribbons. Within their circle, sharing in song and jest, were the lord and lady of the revels, and an English clergyman waiting to join the pair in wedlock. Life, they sang, should be all jollity: away with care and duty; leave wisdom to the weak and old, and sanctity for fools. Watching the sport from a neighboring wood stood a band of frowning Puritans, and as the sun set they stalked forth and broke through the circle. All was dismay. The bells, the laughter, the song were silent, and some who had tasted Puritan wrath before shrewdly smelled the stocks. A Puritan of iron face--it was Endicott, who had cut the cross from the flag of England--warning aside the "priest of Baal," proceeded to hack the pole down with his sword. A few swinging blows, and down it sank, with its ribbons and flowers. "So shall fall the pride of vain people; so shall come to grief the preachers of false religion," quoth he. "Truss those fellows to the trees and give them half a dozen of blows apiece as token that we brook no ungodly conduct and hostility to our liberties. And you, king and queen of the May, have you no better things to think about than fiddling and dancing? How if I punish you both?" "Had I the power I'd punish you for saying it," answered the swain; "but, as I have not, I am compelled to ask that the girl go unharmed." "Will you have it so, or will you share your lover's punishment?" asked Endicott. "I will take all upon myself," said the woman. The face of the governor softened. "Let the young fellow's hair be cut, in pumpkin-shell fashion," he commanded; "then bring them to me but gently." He was obeyed, and as the couple came before him, hand in hand, he took a chain of roses from the fallen pole and cast it about their necks. And so they were married. Love had softened rigor and all were better for the assertion of a common humanity. But the May-pole of Merrymount was never set up again. There were no more games and plays and dances, nor singing of worldly music. The town went to ruin, the merrymakers were scattered, and the gray sobriety of religion and toil fell on Pilgrim land again. THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER When Charles River was lined with groves and marshes there lived in a cabin, near Brighton, Massachusetts, an ill-fed rascal named Tom Walker. There was but one in the commonwealth who was more penurious, and that was his wife. They squabbled over the spending of a penny and each grudged food to the other. One day as Tom walked through the pine wood near his place, by habit watching the ground--for even there a farthing might be discovered--he prodded his stick into a skull, cloven deep by an Indian tomahawk. He kicked it, to shake the dirt off, when a gruff voice spake: "What are you doing in my grounds?" A swarthy fellow, with the face of a charcoal burner, sat on a stump, and Tom wondered that he had not seen him as he approached. He replied, "Your grounds! They belong to Deacon Peabody." "Deacon Peabody be damned!" cried the black fellow; "as I think he will be, anyhow, if he does not look after his own sins a little sharper and a little less curiously after his neighbors'. Look, if you want to see how he is faring," and, pointing to a tree, he called Tom to notice that the deacon's name was written on the bark and that it was rotten at the core. To his surprise, Tom found that nearly every tree had the name of some prominent man cut upon it. "Who are you?" he asked. "I go by different names in different places," replied the dark one. "In some countries I am the black miner; in some the wild huntsman; here I am the black woodman. I am the patron of slave dealers and master of Salem witches." "I think you are the devil," blurted Tom. "At your service," replied his majesty. Now, Tom, having lived long with Mrs. Walker, had no fear of the devil, and he stopped to have a talk with him. The devil remarked, in a careless tone, that Captain Kidd had buried his treasure in that wood, under his majesty's charge, and that whoever wished could find and keep it by making the usual concession. This Tom declined. He told his wife about it, however, and she was angry with him for not having closed the bargain at once, declaring that if he had not courage enough to add this treasure to their possessions she would not hesitate to do it. Tom showed no disposition to check her. If she got the money he would try to get a share of it, and if the devil took away his helpmate--well, there were things that he had made his mind to endure, when he had to. True enough, the woman started for the wood before sundown, with her spoons in her apron. When Tom discovered that the spoons were gone he, too, set off, for he wanted those back, anyway; but he did not overtake his wife. An apron was found in a tree containing a dried liver and a withered heart, and near that place the earth had been trampled and strewn with handfuls of coarse hair that reminded Tom of the man that he had met in the woods. "Egad!" he muttered, "Old Nick must have had a tough time with her." Half in gratitude and half in curiosity, Tom waited to speak to the dark man, and was next day rewarded by seeing that personage come through the wood with an axe, whistling carelessly. Tom at once approached him on the subject of the buried treasure--not the vanished wife, for her he no longer regarded as a treasure. After some haggling the devil proposed that Tom should start a loan office in Boston and use Kidd's money in exacting usury. This suited Tom, who promised to screw four per cent. a month out of the unfortunates who might ask his aid, and he was seen to start for town with a bag which his neighbors thought to hold his crop of starveling turnips, but which was really a king's ransom in gold and jewels--the earnings of Captain Kidd in long years of honest piracy. It was in Governor Belcher's time, and cash was scarce. Merchants and professional men as well as the thriftless went to Tom for money, and, as he always had it, his business grew until he seemed to have a mortgage on half the men in Boston who were rich enough to be in debt. He even went so far as to move into a new house, to ride in his own carriage, and to eat enough to keep body and soul together, for he did not want to give up his soul to the one who would claim it just yet. The most singular proof of his thrift--showing that he wanted to save soul and money both--was shown in his joining the church and becoming a prayerful Christian. He kept a Bible in his pocket and another on his desk, resolved to be prepared if a certain gentleman should call. He buried his old horse feet uppermost, for he was taught that on resurrection day the world would be turned upside down, and he was resolved, if his enemy appeared, to give him a run for it. While employed one afternoon in the congenial task of foreclosing a mortgage his creditor begged for another day to raise the money. Tom was irritable on account of the hot weather and talked to him as a good man of the church ought not to do. "You have made so much money out of me," wailed the victim of Tom's philanthropies. "Now, the devil take me if I have made a farthing!" exclaimed Tom. At that instant there were three knocks at the door, and, stepping out to see who was there, the money lender found himself in presence of his fate. His little Bible was in a coat on a nail, and the bigger one was on his desk. He was without defence. The evil one caught him up like a child, had him on the back of his snorting steed in no time, and giving the beast a cut he flew like the wind in the teeth of a rising storm toward the marshes of Brighton. As he reached there a lightning flash descended into the wood and set it on fire. At the same moment Tom's house was discovered to be in flames. When his effects were examined nothing was found in his strong boxes but cinders and shavings. THE GRAY CHAMPION It befell Sir Edmund Andros to make himself the most hated of the governors sent to represent the king in New England. A spirit of independence, born of a free soil, was already moving in the people's hearts, and the harsh edicts of this officer, as well as the oppressive measures of his master, brought him into continual conflict with the people. He it was who went to Hartford to demand the surrender of the liberties of that colony. The lights were blown out and the patent of those liberties was hurried away from under his nose and hidden from his reach in a hollow of the Charter Oak. In Boston, too, he could call no American his friend, and it was there that he met one of the first checks to his arrogance. It was an April evening in 1689, and there was an unusual stir in the streets. People were talking in low tones, and one caught such phrases as, "If the Prince of Orange is successful, this Andros will lose his head." "Our pastors are to be burned alive in King Street." "The pope has ordered Andros to celebrate the eve of St. Bartholomew in Boston: we are to be killed." "Our old Governor Bradstreet is in town, and Andros fears him." While talk was running in this excited strain the sound of a drum was heard coming through Cornhill. Now was seen a file of soldiers with guns on shoulder, matches twinkling in the falling twilight, and behind them, on horseback, Andros and his councillors, including the priest of King's Chapel, all wearing crucifixes at their throats, all flushed with wine, all looking down with indifference at the people in their dark cloaks and broadbrimmed hats, who looked back at them with suspicion and hate. The soldiers trod the streets like men unused to giving way, and the crowd fell back, pressed against the buildings. Groans and hisses were heard, and a voice sent up this cry, "Lord of Hosts, provide a champion for thy people!" Ere the echo of that call had ceased there came from the other end of the street, stepping as in time to the drum, an aged man, in cloak and steeple hat, with heavy sword at his thigh. His port was that of a king, and his dignity was heightened by a snowy beard that fell to his waist. Taking the middle of the way he marched on until he was but a few paces from the advancing column. None knew him and he seemed to recognize none among the crowd. As he drew himself to his height, it seemed in the dusk as if he were of no mortal mould. His eye blazed, he thrust his staff before him, and in a voice of invincible command cried, "Halt!" Half because it was habit to obey the word, half because they were cowed by the majestic presence, the guard stood still and the drum was silenced. Andros spurred forward, but even he made a pause when he saw the staff levelled at his breast. "Forward!" he blustered. "Trample the dotard into the street. How dare you stop the king's governor?" "I have stayed the march of a king himself," was the answer. "The king you serve no longer sits on the throne of England. To-morrow you will be a prisoner. Back, lest you reach the scaffold!" A moment of hesitation on Andros's part encouraged the people to press closer, and many of them took no pains to hide the swords and pistols that were girt upon them. The groans and hisses sounded louder. "Down with Andros! Death to tyrants! A curse on King James!" came from among the throng, and some of them stooped as if to tear up the pavings. Doubtful, yet overawed, the governor wheeled about and gloomily marched back through the streets where he had ridden so arrogantly. In truth, his next night was spent in prison, for James had fled from England, and William held the throne. All eyes being on the retreating company, the champion of the people was not seen to depart, but when they turned to praise and thank him he had vanished, and there were those who said that he had melted into twilight. The incident had passed into legend, and fourscore years had followed it, when the soldiers of another king of England marched down State Street, and fired on the people of Boston who were gathered below the old State House. Again it was said that the form of a tall, white-bearded man in antique garb was seen in that street, warning back the troops and encouraging the people to resist them. On the little field of Lexington in early dawn, and at the breastwork on Bunker Hill, where farmers worked by lantern-light, this dark form was seen--the spirit of New England. And it is told that whenever any foreign foe or domestic oppressor shall dare the temper of the people, in the van of the resisting army shall be found this champion. THE FOREST SMITHY Early in this century a man named Ainsley appeared at Holyoke, Massachusetts, and set up a forge in a wood at the edge of the village, with a two-room cottage to live in. A Yankee peddler once put up at his place for shelter from a storm, and as the rain increased with every hour he begged to remain in the house over night, promising to pay for his accommodation in the morning. The blacksmith, who seemed a mild, considerate man, said that he was willing, but that, as the rooms were small, it would be well to refer the matter to his wife. As the peddler entered the house the wife--a weary-looking woman with white hair--seated herself at once in a thickly-cushioned arm-chair, and, as if loath to leave it, told the peddler that if he would put up with simple fare and a narrow berth he was welcome. After a candle had been lighted the three sat together for some time, talking of crops and trade, when there came a rush of hoofs without and a hard-looking man, who had dismounted at the door, entered without knocking. The blacksmith turned pale and the wife's face expressed sore anxiety. "What brings you here?" asked the smith. "I must pass the night here," answered the man. "But, stranger, I can't accommodate you. We have but one spare room, and that has been taken by the man who is sitting there." "Then give me a bit to eat." "Get the stranger something," said the woman to her husband, without rising. "Are you lame, that you don't get it yourself?" The woman paused; then said, "Husband, you are tired. Sit here and I will wait on the stranger." The blacksmith took the seat, when the stranger again blustered, "It would be courtesy to offer me that chair, tired as I am. Perhaps you don't know that I am an officer of the law?" When supper was ready they took their places, the woman drawing up the arm-chair for her own use, but, as the custom was, they all knelt to say grace, and while their faces were buried in their hands the candle was blown out. The stranger jumped up and began walking around the room. When a light could be found he had gone and the cushion had disappeared from the chair. "Oh! After all these years!" wailed the woman, and falling on her knees she sobbed like a child, while her husband in vain tried to comfort her. The peddler, who had already gone to bed, but who had seen a part of this puzzling drama through the open door, knew not what to do, but, feeling some concern for the safety of his own possessions, he drew his pack into bed with him, and, being tired, fell asleep with the sobs of the woman sounding in his ears. When he awoke it was broad day and the earth was fresh and bright from its bath. After dressing he passed into the other room, finding the table still set, the chair before it without its cushion, the fire out, and nobody in or about the house. The smithy was deserted, and to his call there was no response but the chattering of jays in the trees; so, shouldering his pack, he resumed his journey. He opened his pack at a farm-house to repair a clock, when he discovered that his watches were gone, and immediately lodged complaint with the sheriff, but nothing was ever seen again of Ainsley, his wife, or the rough stranger. Who was the thief? What was in the cushion? And what brought the stranger to the house? WAHCONAH FALLS The pleasant valley of Dalton, in the Berkshire Hills, had been under the rule of Miacomo for forty years when a Mohawk dignitary of fifty scalps and fifty winters came a-wooing his daughter Wahconah. On a June day in 1637, as the girl sat beside the cascade that bears her name, twining flowers in her hair and watching leaves float down the stream, she became conscious of a pair of eyes bent on her from a neighboring coppice, and arose in some alarm. Finding himself discovered, the owner of the eyes, a handsome young fellow, stepped forward with a quieting air of friendliness, and exclaimed, "Hail, Bright Star!" "Hail, brother," answered Wahconah. "I am Nessacus," said the man, "one of King Philip's soldiers. Nessacus is tired with his flight from the Long Knives (the English), and his people faint. Will Bright Star's people shut their lodges against him and his friends?" The maiden answered, "My father is absent, in council with the Mohawks, but his wigwams are always open. Follow." Nessacus gave a signal, and forth from the wood came a sad-eyed, battle-worn troop that mustered about him. Under the girl's lead they went down to the valley and were hospitably housed. Five days later Miacomo returned, with him the elderly Mohawk lover, and a priest, Tashmu, of repute a cringing schemer, with whom hunters and soldiers could have nothing in common, and whom they would gladly have put out of the way had they not been deterred by superstitious fears. The strangers were welcomed, though Tashmu looked at them gloomily, and there were games in their honor, Nessacus usually proving the winner, to Wahconah's joy, for she and the young warrior had fallen in love at first sight, and it was not long before he asked her father for her hand. Miacomo favored the suit, but the priest advised him, for politic reasons, to give the girl to the old Mohawk, and thereby cement a tribal friendship that in those days of English aggression might be needful. The Mohawk had three wives already, but he was determined to add Wahconah to his collection, and he did his best, with threats and flattery, to enforce his suit. Nessacus offered to decide the matter in a duel with his rival, and the challenge was accepted, but the wily Tashmu discovered in voices of wind and thunder, flight of birds and shape of clouds, such omens that the scared Indians unanimously forbade a resort to arms. "Let the Great Spirit speak," cried Tashmu, and all yielded their consent. Invoking a ban on any who should follow, Tashmu proclaimed that he would pass that night in Wizard's Glen, where, by invocations, he would learn the divine will. At sunset he stalked forth, but he had not gone far ere the Mohawk joined him, and the twain proceeded to Wahconah Falls. There was no time for magical hocus-pocus that night, for both of them toiled sorely in deepening a portion of the stream bed, so that the current ran more swiftly and freely on that side, and in the morning Tashmu announced in what way the Great Spirit would show his choice. Assembling the tribe on the river-bank, below a rock that midway split the current, a canoe, with symbols painted on it, was set afloat near the falls. If it passed the dividing rock on the side where Nessacus waited, he should have Wahconah. If it swerved to the opposite shore, where the Mohawk and his counsellor stood, the Great Spirit had chosen the old chief for her husband. Of course, the Mohawk stood on the deeper side. On came the little boat, keeping the centre of the stream. It struck the rock, and all looked eagerly, though Tashmu and the Mohawk could hardly suppress an exultant smile. A little wave struck the canoe: it pivoted against the rock and drifted to the feet of Nessacus. A look of blank amazement came over the faces of the defeated wooer and his friend, while a shout of gladness went up, that the Great Spirit had decided so well. The young couple were wed with rejoicings; the Mohawk trudged homeward, and, to the general satisfaction, Tashmu disappeared with him. Later, when Tashmu was identified as the one who had guided Major Talcott's soldiers to the valley, the priest was caught and slain by Miacomo's men. KNOCKING AT THE TOMB Knock, knock, knock! The bell has just gone twelve, and there is the clang again upon the iron door of the tomb. The few people of Lanesboro who are paying the penance of misdeeds or late suppers, by lying awake at that dread hour, gather their blankets around their shoulders and mutter a word of prayer for deliverance against unwholesome visitors of the night. Why is the old Berkshire town so troubled? Who is it that lies buried in that tomb, with its ornament of Masonic symbols? Why was the heavy iron knocker placed on the door? The question is asked, but no one will answer it, nor will any say who the woman is that so often visits the cemetery at the stroke of midnight and sounds the call into the chamber of the dead. Starlight, moonlight, or storm--it makes no difference to the woman. There she goes, in her black cloak, seen dim in the night, except where there are snow and moon together, and there she waits, her hand on the knocker, for the bell to strike to set up her clangor. Some say that she is crazy, and it is her freak to do this thing. Is she calling on the corpses to rise and have a dance among the graves? or has she been asked to call the occupant of that house at a given hour? Perhaps, weary of life, she is asking for admittance to the rest and silence of the tomb. She has long been beneath the sod, this troubler of dreams. Who knows her secret? THE WHITE DEER OF ONOTA Beside quiet Onota, in the Berkshire Hills, dwelt a band of Indians, and while they lived here a white deer often came to drink. So rare was the appearance of an animal like this that its visits were held as good omens, and no hunter of the tribe ever tried to slay it. A prophet of the race had said, "So long as the white doe drinks at Onota, famine shall not blight the Indian's harvest, nor pestilence come nigh his lodge, nor foeman lay waste his country." And this prophecy held true. That summer when the deer came with a fawn as white and graceful as herself, it was a year of great abundance. On the outbreak of the French and Indian War a young officer named Montalbert was despatched to the Berkshire country to persuade the Housatonic Indians to declare hostility to the English, and it was as a guest in the village of Onota that he heard of the white deer. Sundry adventurers had made valuable friendships by returning to the French capital with riches and curiosities from the New World. Even Indians had been abducted as gifts for royalty, and this young ambassador resolved that when he returned to his own country the skin of the white deer should be one of the trophies that would win him a smile from Louis. He offered a price for it--a price that would have bought all their possessions and miles of the country roundabout, but their deer was sacred, and their refusal to sacrifice it was couched in such indignant terms that he wisely said no more about it in the general hearing. There was in the village a drunken fellow, named Wondo, who had come to that pass when he would almost have sold his soul for liquor, and him the officer led away and plied with rum until he promised to bring the white doe to him. The pretty beast was so familiar with men that she suffered Wondo to catch her and lead her to Montalbert. Making sure that none was near, the officer plunged his sword into her side and the innocent creature fell. The snowy skin, now splashed with red, was quickly stripped off, concealed among the effects in Montalbert's outfit, and he set out for Canada; but he had not been many days on his road before Wondo, in an access of misery and repentance, confessed to his share of the crime that had been done and was slain on the moment. With the death of the deer came an end to good fortune. Wars, blights, emigration followed, and in a few years not a wigwam was left standing beside Onota. There is a pendant to this legend, incident to the survival of the deer's white fawn. An English hunter, visiting the lake with dog and gun, was surprised to see on its southern bank a white doe. The animal bent to drink and at the same moment the hunter put his gun to his shoulder. Suddenly a howl was heard, so loud, so long, that the woods echoed it, and the deer, taking alarm, fled like the wind. The howl came from the dog, and, as that animal usually showed sagacity in the presence of game, the hunter was seized with a fear that its form was occupied, for the time, by a hag who lived alone in the "north woods," and who was reputed to have appeared in many shapes--for this was not so long after witch times that their influence was forgotten. Drawing his ramrod, the man gave his dog such a beating that the poor creature had something worth howling for, because it might be the witch that he was thrashing. Then running to the shanty of the suspected woman he flung open her door and demanded to see her back, for, if she had really changed her shape, every blow that he had given to the dog would have been scored on her skin. When he had made his meaning clear, the crone laid hold on the implement that served her for horse at night, and with the wooden end of it rained blows on him so rapidly that, if the dog had had half the meanness in his nature that some people have, the spectacle would have warmed his heart, for it was a prompt and severe revenge for his sufferings. And to the last the hunter could not decide whether the beating that he received was prompted by indignation or vengeance. WIZARD'S GLEN Four miles from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, among the Berkshire Hills, is a wild valley, noted for its echoes, that for a century and more has been called Wizard's Glen. Here the Indian priests performed their incantations, and on the red-stained Devil's Altar, it was said, they offered human sacrifice to Hobomocko and his demons of the wood. In Berkshire's early days a hunter, John Chamberlain, of Dalton, who had killed a deer and was carrying it home on his shoulders, was overtaken on the hills by a storm and took shelter from it in a cavernous recess in Wizard's Glen. In spite of his fatigue he was unable to sleep, and while lying on the earth with open eyes he was amazed to see the wood bend apart before him, disclosing a long aisle that was mysteriously lighted and that contained hundreds of capering forms. As his eyes grew accustomed to the faint light he made out tails and cloven feet on the dancing figures; and one tall form with wings, around whose head a wreath of lightning glittered, and who received the deference of the rest, he surmised to be the devil himself. It was such a night and such a place as Satan and his imps commonly chose for high festivals. As he lay watching them through the sheeted rain a tall and painted Indian leaped on Devil's Altar, fresh scalps dangling round his body in festoons, and his eyes blazing with fierce command. In a brief incantation he summoned the shadow hordes around him. They came, with torches that burned blue, and went around and around the rock singing a harsh chant, until, at a sign, an Indian girl was dragged in and flung on the block of sacrifice. The figures rushed toward her with extended arms and weapons, and the terrified girl gave one cry that rang in the hunter's ears all his life after. The wizard raised his axe: the devils and vampires gathered to drink the blood and clutch the escaping soul, when in a lightning flash the girl's despairing glance fell on the face of Chamberlain. That look touched his manhood, and drawing forth his Bible he held it toward the rabble while he cried aloud the name of God. There was a crash of thunder. The light faded, the demons vanished, the storm swept past, and peace settled on the hills. BALANCED ROCK Balanced Rock, or Rolling Rock, near Pittsfield, Massachusetts, is a mass of limestone that was deposited where it stands by the great continental glacier during the ice age, and it weighs four hundred and eighty tons (estimated) in spite of its centuries of weathering. Here one of the Atotarhos, kings of the Six Nations, had his camp. He was a fierce man, who ate and drank from bowls made of the skulls of enemies, and who, when he received messages and petitions, wreathed himself from head to foot with poison snakes. The son of this ferocious being inherited none of his war-like tendencies; indeed, the lad was almost feminine in appearance, and on succeeding to power he applied himself to the cultivation of peaceful arts. Later historians have uttered a suspicion that he was a natural son of Count Frontenac, but that does not suit with this legend. The young Atotarho stood near Balanced Rock watching a number of big boys play duff. In this game one stone is placed upon another and the players, standing as far from it as they fancy they can throw, attempt to knock it out of place with other stones. The silence of Atotarho and his slender, girlish look called forth rude remarks from the boys, who did not know him, and who dared him to test his skill. The young chief came forward, and as he did so the jeers and laughter changed to cries of astonishment and fear, for at each step he grew in size until he towered above them, a giant. Then they knew him, and fell down in dread, but he took no revenge. Catching up great bowlders he tossed them around as easily as if they had been beechnuts, and at last, lifting the balanced rock, he placed it lightly where it stands to-day, gave them a caution against ill manners and hasty judgments, and resumed his slender form. For many years after, the old men of the tribe repeated this story and its lesson from the top of Atotarho's duff. SHONKEEK-MOONKEEK This is the Mohegan name of the pretty lake in the Berkshires now called Pontoosuc. Shonkeek was a boy, Moonkeek a girl, and they were cousins who grew up as children commonly do, whether in house or wigwam: they roamed the woods and hills together, filled their baskets with flowers and berries, and fell in love. But the marriage of cousins was forbidden in the Mohegan polity, and when they reached an age in which they found companionship most delightful their rambles were interdicted and they were even told to avoid each other. This had the usual effect, and they met on islands in the lake at frequent intervals, to the torment of one Nockawando, who wished to wed the girl himself, and who reported her conduct to her parents. The lovers agreed, after this, to fly to an Eastern tribe into which they would ask to be adopted, but they were pledged, if aught interfered with their escape, to meet beneath the lake. Nockawando interfered. On the next night, as the unsuspecting Shonkeek was paddling over to the island where the maid awaited him, the jealous rival, rowing softly in his wake, sent an arrow into his back, and Shonkeek, without a cry, pitched headlong into the water. Yet, to the eyes of Nockawando, he appeared to keep his seat and urge his canoe forward. The girl saw the boat approach: it sped, now, like an eagle's flight. One look, as it passed the rock; one glance at the murderer, crouching in his birchen vessel, and with her lover's name on her lips she leaped into her own canoe and pushed out from shore. Nockawando heard her raise the death-song and rowed forward as rapidly as he could, but near the middle of the lake his arm fell palsied. The song had ended and the night had become strangely, horribly still. Not a chirp of cricket, not a lap of wave, not a rustle of leaf. Motionless the girl awaited, for his boat was still moving by the impetus of his last stroke of the paddle. The evening star was shining low on the horizon, and as her figure loomed in the darkness the star shone through at the point where her eye had looked forth. It was no human creature that sat there. Then came the dead man's boat. The two shadows rowed noiselessly together, and as they disappeared in the mist that was now settling on the landscape, an unearthly laugh rang over the lake; then all was still. When Nockawando reached the camp that night he was a raving maniac. The Indians never found the bodies of the pair, but they believed that while water remains in Pontoosuc its surface will be vexed by these journeys of the dead. THE SALEM ALCHEMIST In 1720 there lived in a turreted house at North and Essex Streets, in Salem, a silent, dark-visaged man,--a reputed chemist. He gathered simples in the fields, and parcels and bottles came and went between him and learned doctors in Boston; but report went around that it was not drugs alone that he worked with, nor medicines for passing ailments that he distilled. The watchman, drowsily pacing the streets in the small hours, saw his shadow move athwart the furnace glare in his tower, and other shadows seemed at the moment to flit about it--shadows that could be thrown by no tangible form, yet that had a grotesque likeness to the human kind. A clink of hammers and a hiss of steam were sometimes heard, and his neighbors devoutly hoped that if he secured the secret of the philosopher's stone or the universal solvent, it would be honestly come by. But it was neither gold nor the perilous strong water that he wanted. It was life: the elixir that would dispel the chill and decrepitude of age, that would bring back the youthful sparkle to the eye and set the pulses bounding. He explored the surrounding wilderness day after day; the juices of its trees and plants he compounded, night after night, long without avail. Not until after a thousand failures did he conceive that he had secured the ingredients but they were many, they were perishable, they must be distilled within five days, for fermentation and decay would set in if he delayed longer. Gathering the herbs and piling his floor with fuel, he began his work, alone; the furnace glowed, the retorts bubbled, and through their long throats trickled drops--golden, ruddy, brown, and crystal--that would be combined into that precious draught. And none too soon, for under the strain of anxiety he seemed to be aging fast. He took no sleep, except while sitting upright in his chair, for, should he yield entirely to nature's appeal, his fire would die and his work be spoiled. With heavy eyes and aching head he watched his furnace and listened to the constant drip, drip of the precious liquor. It was the fourth day. He had knelt to stir his fire to more active burning. Its brightness made him blink, its warmth was grateful, and he reclined before it, with elbow on the floor and head resting on his hand. How cheerily the logs hummed and crackled, yet how drowsily--how slow the hours were--how dull the watch! Lower, lower sank the head, and heavier grew the eyes. At last he lay full length on the floor, and the long sleep of exhaustion had begun. He was awakened by the sound of a bell. "The church bell!" he cried, starting up. "And people going through the streets to meeting. How is this? The sun is in the east! My God! I have been asleep! The furnace is cold. The elixir!" He hastily blended the essences that he had made, though one or two ingredients were still lacking, and drank them off. "Faugh!" he exclaimed. "Still unfinished-perhaps spoiled. I must begin again." Taking his hat and coat he uttered a weary sigh and was about to open the door when his cheek blenched with pain, sight seemed to leave him, the cry for help that rose to his lips was stifled in a groan of anguish, a groping gesture brought a shelf of retorts and bottles to the floor, and he fell writhing among their fragments. The elixir of life, unfinished, was an elixir of death. ELIZA WHARTON Under the name of Eliza Wharton for a brief time lived a woman whose name was said to be Elizabeth Whitman. Little is known of her, and it is thought that she had gone among strangers to conceal disgrace. She died without telling her story. In 1788 she arrived at the Bell Tavern, Danvers, in company with a man, who, after seeing her properly bestowed, drove away and never returned. A graceful, beautiful, well-bred woman, with face overcast by a tender melancholy, she kept indoors with her books, her sewing, and a guitar, avoiding the gossip of the idle. She said that her husband was absent on a journey, and a letter addressed to "Mrs. Eliza Wharton" was to be seen on her table when she received callers. Once a stranger paused at her door and read the name thereon. As he passed on the woman groaned, "I am undone!" One good woman, seeing her need of care and defiant of village prattling, took her to her home, and there, after giving birth to a dead child, she passed away. Among her effects were letters full of pathetic appeal, and some verses, closing thus: "O thou for whose dear sake I bear A doom so dreadful, so severe, May happy fates thy footsteps guide And o'er thy peaceful home preside. Nor let Eliza's early tomb Infect thee with its baleful gloom." A stone was raised above her grave, by whom it is not known, and this inscription was engraved thereon: "This humble stone, in memory of Elizabeth Whitman, is inscribed by her weeping friends, to whom she endeared herself by uncommon tenderness and affection. Endowed with superior genius and acquirements, she was still more endeared by humility and benevolence. Let candor throw a veil over her frailties, for great was her charity for others. She sustained the last painful scene far from every friend, and exhibited an example of calm resignation. Her departure was on the 25th of July, 1788, in the thirty-seventh year of her age, and the tears of strangers watered her grave." SALE OF THE SOUTHWICKS Bitter were the persecutions endured by Quakers at the hands of the Puritans. They were flogged if they were restless in church, and flogged if they did not go to it. Their ears were slit and they were set in the stocks if they preached, and if any tender-hearted person gave them bed, bite, or sup, he, too, was liable to punishment. They were charged with the awful offence of preaching false doctrine, and no matter how pure their lives might be, the stern Salemite would concede no good of them while their faith was different from his. They even suspected Cobbler Keezar of mischief when he declared that his magic lapstone which Agrippa had torn from the tower at Nettesheim--gave him a vision of the time when men would be as glad as nature, when the "snuffler of psalms" would sing for joy, when priests and Quakers would talk together kindly, when pillory and gallows should be gone. Poor Keezar! In ecstasy at that prospect he flung up his arms, and his lapstone rolled into the Merrimack. The tired mill-girls of Lowell still frequent the spot to seek some dim vision of future comfort. In contrast to the tales of habitual tyranny toward the Quakers is the tradition of the Southwicks. Lawrence and Cassandra, of that name, were banished from Salem, in spite of their blameless lives, for they had embraced Quakerism. They died within three days of each other on Shelter Island, but their son and daughter, Daniel and Provided, returned to their birthplace, and were incessantly fined for not going to church. At last, having lost their property through seizures made to satisfy their fines, the General Court of Boston issued an order for their sale, as slaves, to any Englishman of Virginia or Barbadoes. Edward Butter was assigned to sell and take them to their master. The day arrived and Salem market-place was crowded with a throng of the curious. Provided Southwick mounted the block and Butter began to call for bids. While expatiating on the aptness of the girl for field or house-service, the master of the Barbadoes ship on which Butter had engaged passage for himself and his two charges looked into her innocent face, and roared, in noble dudgeon, "If my ship were filled with silver, by God, I'd sink her in harbor rather than take away this child!" The multitude experienced a quick change of feeling and applauded the sentiment. As the judges and officers trudged away with gloomy faces, Provided Southwick descended from the auction-block, and brother and sister went forth into the town free and unharmed. THE COURTSHIP OF MYLES STANDISH Myles Standish, compact, hard-headed little captain of the Puritan guard at Plymouth, never knew the meaning of fear until he went a-courting Priscilla Mullins--or was she a Molines, as some say? He had fought white men and red men and never reeked of danger in the doing it, but his courage sank to his boots whenever this demure maiden glanced at him, as he thought, with approval. Odd, too, for he had been married once, and Rose was not so long dead that he had forgotten the ways and likings of women; but he made no progress in his suit, and finally chose John Alden to urge it for him. John--who divides with Mary Chilton the honor of being first to land on Plymouth Rock--was a well-favored lad of twenty-two. Until he could build a house for himself he shared Standish's cottage and looked up to that worthy as a guardian, but it was a hard task that was set for him now. He went to goodman Mullins with a slow step and sober countenance and asked leave to plead his protector's cause. The father gave it, called his daughter in, and left them together; then, with noble faith to his mission, the young man begged the maiden's hand for the captain, dwelling on his valor, strength, wisdom, his military greatness, his certainty of promotion, his noble lineage, and all good attributes he could endow him with. Priscilla kept at her spinning while this harangue went on, but the drone of the wheel did not prevent her noting a sigh and a catch of the breath that interrupted the discourse now and then. She flushed as she replied, "Why does not Captain Standish come to me himself? If I am worth the winning I ought to be worth the wooing." But John Alden seemed not to notice the girl's confusion until, in a pause in his eloquence, Priscilla bent her head a little, as if to mend a break in the flax, and said, "Prithee, John, why don't you speak for yourself?" Then a great light broke on the understanding of John Alden, and a great warmth welled up in his heart, and--they were married. Myles Standish--well, some say that he walked in the wedding procession, while one narrator holds that the sturdy Roundhead tramped away to the woods, where he sat for a day, hating himself, and that he never forgave his protege nor the maiden who took advantage of leap year. However that may be, the wedding was a happy one, and the Aldens of all America claim John and Priscilla for their ancestors. MOTHER CREWE Mother Crewe was of evil repute in Plymouth in the last century. It was said that she had taken pay for luring a girl into her old farm-house, where a man lay dead of small-pox, with intent to harm her beauty; she was accused of blighting land and driving ships ashore with spells; in brief, she was called a witch, and people, even those who affected to ignore the craft of wizardry, were content to keep away from her. When the Revolution ended, Southward Howland demanded Dame Crewe's house and acre, claiming under law of entail, though primogeniture had been little enforced in America, where there was room and to spare for all. But Howland was stubborn and the woman's house had good situation, so one day he rode to her door and summoned her with a tap of his whip. "What do you here on my land?" said he. "I live on land that is my own. I cleared it, built my house here, and no other has claim to it." "Then I lay claim. The place is mine. I shall tear your cabin down on Friday." "On Friday they'll dig your grave on Burying Hill. I see the shadow closing round you. You draw it in with every breath. Quick! Home and make your peace!" The hag's withered face was touched with spots of red and her eyes glared in their sunken sockets. "Bandy no witch words with me, woman. On Friday I will return." And he swung himself into his saddle. As he did so a black cat leaped on Mother Crewe's shoulder and stood there, squalling. The woman listened to its cries as if they were words. Her look of hate deepened. Raising her hand, she cried, "Your day is near its end. Repent!" "Bah! You have heard what I have said. If on Friday you are not elsewhere, I'll tear the timbers down and bury you in the ruins." "Enough!" cried the woman, her form straightening, her voice grown shrill. "My curse is on you here and hereafter. Die! Then go down to hell!" As she said this the cat leaped from her shoulder to the flank of the horse, spitting and clawing, and the frightened steed set off at a furious pace. As he disappeared in the scrub oaks his master was seen vainly trying to stop him. The evening closed in with fog and chill, and before the light waned a man faring homeward came upon the corpse of Southward Howland stretched along the ground. AUNT RACHEL'S CURSE On a headland near Plymouth lived "Aunt Rachel," a reputed seer, who made a scant livelihood by forecasting the future for such seagoing people as had crossed her palm. The crew of a certain brig came to see her on the day before sailing, and she reproached one of the lads for keeping bad company. "Avast, there, granny," interrupted another, who took the chiding to himself. "None of your slack, or I'll put a stopper on your gab." The old woman sprang erect. Levelling her skinny finger at the man, she screamed, "Moon cursers! You have set false beacons and wrecked ships for plunder. It was your fathers and mothers who decoyed a brig to these sands and left me childless and a widow. He who rides the pale horse be your guide, and you be of the number who follow him!" That night old Rachel's house was burned, and she barely escaped with her life, but when it was time for the brig to sail she took her place among the townfolk who were to see it off. The owner of the brig tried to console her for the loss of the house. "I need it no longer," she answered, "for the narrow house will soon be mine, and you wretches cannot burn that. But you! Who will console you for the loss of your brig?" "My brig is stanch. She has already passed the worst shoal in the bay." "But she carries a curse. She cannot swim long." As each successive rock and bar was passed the old woman leaned forward, her hand shaking, her gray locks flying, her eyes starting, her lips mumbling maledictions, "like an evil spirit, chiding forth the storms as ministers of vengeance." The last shoal was passed, the merchant sighed with relief at seeing the vessel now safely on her course, when the woman uttered a harsh cry, and raised her hand as if to command silence until something happened that she evidently expected. For this the onlookers had not long to wait: the brig halted and trembled--her sails shook in the wind, her crew were seen trying to free the cutter--then she careened and sank until only her mast-heads stood out of the water. Most of the company ran for boats and lines, and few saw Rachel pitch forward on the earth-dead, with a fierce smile of exultation on her face. The rescuers came back with all the crew, save one--the man who had challenged the old woman and revengefully burned her cabin. Rachel's body was buried where her house had stood, and the rock--before unknown--where the brig had broken long bore the name of Rachel's Curse. NIX'S MATE The black, pyramidal beacon, called Nix's Mate, is well known to yachtsmen, sailors, and excursionists in Boston harbor. It rises above a shoal,--all that is left of a fair, green island which long ago disappeared in the sea. In 1636 it had an extent of twelve acres, and on its highest point was a gallows where pirates were hanged in chains. One night cries were heard on board of a ship that lay at anchor a little way off shore, and when the watch put off, to see what might be amiss, the captain, named Nix, was found murdered in his bed. There was no direct evidence in the case, and no motive could be assigned for the deed, unless it was the expectancy of promotion on the part of the mate, in case of his commander's death. It was found, however, that this possibility gave significance to certain acts and sayings of that officer during the voyage, and on circumstantial evidence so slight as this he was convicted and sentenced to death. As he was led to execution he swore that he was not guilty, as he had done before, and from the scaffold he cried aloud, "God, show that I am innocent. Let this island sink and prove to these people that I have never stained my hands with human blood." Soon after the execution of his sentence it was noticed that the surf was going higher on the shore, that certain rocks were no longer uncovered at low tide, and in time the island wasted away. The colonists looked with awe on this manifestation and confessed that God had shown their wrong. THE WILD MAN OF CAPE COD For years after Bellamy's pirate ship was wrecked at Wellfleet, by false pilotage on the part of one of his captives, a strange-looking man used to travel up and down the cape, who was believed to be one of the few survivors of that night of storm, and of the hanging that others underwent after getting ashore. The pirates had money when the ship struck; it was found in the pockets of a hundred drowned who were cast on the beach, as well as among the sands of the cape, for coin was gathered there long after. They supposed the stranger had his share, or more, and that he secreted a quantity of specie near his cabin. After his death gold was found under his clothing in a girdle. He was often received at the houses of the fishermen, both because the people were hospitable and because they feared harm if they refused to feed or shelter him; but if his company grew wearisome he was exorcised by reading aloud a portion of the Bible. When he heard the holy words he invariably departed. And it was said that fiends came to him at night, for in his room, whether he appeared to sleep or wake, there were groans and blasphemy, uncanny words and sounds that stirred the hair of listeners on their scalps. The unhappy creature cried to be delivered from his tormenters and begged to be spared from seeing a rehearsal of the murders he had committed. For some time he was missed from his haunts, and it was thought that he had secured a ship and set to sea again; but a traveller on the sands, while passing his cabin in the small hours, had heard a more than usual commotion, and could distinguish the voice of the wild man raised in frantic appeal to somebody, or something; still, knowing that it was his habit to cry out so, and having misgivings about approaching the house, the traveller only hurried past. A few neighbors went to the lonely cabin and looked through the windows, which, as well as the doors, were locked on the inside. The wild man lay still and white on the floor, with the furniture upset and pieces of gold clutched in his fingers and scattered about him. There were marks of claws about his neck. NEWBURY'S OLD ELM Among the venerable relics of Newbury few are better known and more prized than the old elm. It is a stout tree, with a girth of twenty-four and a half feet, and is said to have been standing since 1713. In that year it was planted by Richard Jacques, then a youthful rustic, who had a sweetheart, as all rustics have, and adored her as rustics and other men should do. On one of his visits he stayed uncommonly late. It was nearly ten o'clock when he set off for home. The town had been abed an hour or more; the night was murky and oppressively still, and corpse-candles were dancing in the graveyard. Witch times had not been so far agone that he felt comfortable, and, lest some sprite, bogie, troll, or goblin should waylay him, he tore an elm branch from a tree that grew before his sweetheart's house, and flourished it as he walked. He reached home without experiencing any of the troubles that a superstitious fancy had conjured. As he was about to cast the branch away a comforting vision of his loved one came into his mind, and he determined to plant the branch at his own door, that in the hours of their separation he might be reminded of her who dwelt beneath the parent tree. He did so. It rooted and grew, and when the youth and maid had long been married, their children and grandchildren sported beneath its branches. SAMUEL SEWALL'S PROPHECY The peace of Newbury is deemed to be permanently secured by the prophecy of Samuel Sewall, the young man who married the buxom daughter of Mint-Master John Hull, and received, as wedding portion, her weight in fresh-coined pine-tree shillings. He afterward became notorious as one of the witchcraft judges. The prophecy has not been countervailed, nor is it likely to be, whether the conditions are kept or not. It runs in this wise: "As long as Plum island shall faithfully keep the commanded Post, Notwithstanding the hectoring words and hard blows of the proud and boisterous ocean; As long as any Salmon or Sturgeon shall swim in the streams of Merrimack, or any Perch or Pickeril in Crane Pond; As long as the Sea Fowl shall know the time of their coming, and not neglect seasonably to visit the places of their acquaintance; As long as any Cattel shall be fed with Grass growing in the meadows which doe humbly bow themselves before Turkie Hill; As long as any Sheep shall walk upon Old town Hills, and shall from thence look pleasantly down upon the River Parker and the fruitful Marishes lying beneath; As long as any free and harmless Doves shall find a White Oak or other Tree within the township to perch or feed, or build a careless Nest upon, and shall voluntarily present themselves to perform the office of Gleaners after Barley Harvest; As long as Nature shall not grow old and dote, but shall constantly remember to give the rows of Indian Corn their education by Pairs; So long shall Christians be born there and being first made meet, shall from thence be translated to be made partakers of the Saints of Light." THE SHRIEKING WOMAN During the latter part of the seventeenth century a Spanish ship, richly laden, was beset off Marblehead by English pirates, who killed every person on board, at the time of the capture, except a beautiful English lady, a passenger on the ship, who was brought ashore at night and brutally murdered at a ledge of rocks near Oakum Bay. As the fishermen who lived near were absent in their boats, the women and children, who were startled from their sleep by her piercing shrieks, dared not attempt a rescue. Taking her a little way from shore in their boat, the pirates flung her into the sea, and as she came to the surface and clutched the gunwale they hewed at her hands with cutlasses. She was heard to cry, "Lord, save me! Mercy! O, Lord Jesus, save me!" Next day the people found her mangled body on the rocks, and, with bitter imprecations at the worse than beasts that had done this wrong, they prepared it for burial. It was interred where it was found, but, although it was committed to the earth with Christian forms, for one hundred and fifty years the victim's cries and appeals were repeated, on each anniversary of the crime, with such distinctness as to affright all who heard them--and most of the citizens of Marblehead claimed to be of that number. AGNES SURRIAGE When, in 1742, Sir Henry Frankland, collector of the port of Boston, went to Marblehead to inquire into the smuggling that was pretty boldly carried on, he put up at the Fountain Inn. As he entered that hostelry a barefooted girl, of sixteen, who was scrubbing the floor, looked at him. The young man was handsome, well dressed, gallant in bearing, while Agnes Surriage, maid of all work, was of good figure, beautiful face, and modest demeanor. Sir Henry tossed out a coin, bidding her to buy shoes with it, and passed to his room. But the image of Agnes rose constantly before him. He sought her company, found her of ready intelligence for one unschooled, and shortly after this visit he obtained the consent of her parents--humble folk--to take this wild flower to the city and cultivate it. He gave her such an education as the time and place afforded, dressed her well, and behaved with kindness toward her, while she repaid this care with the frank bestowal of her heart. The result was not foreseen--not intended--but they became as man and wife without having wedded. Colonial society was scandalized, yet the baronet loved the girl sincerely and could not be persuaded to part from her. Having occasion to visit England he took Agnes with him and introduced her as Lady Frankland, but the nature of their alliance had been made known to his relatives and they refused to receive her. The thought of a permanent union with the girl had not yet presented itself to the young man. An aristocrat could not marry a commoner. A nobleman might destroy the honor of a girl for amusement, but it was beneath his dignity to make reparation for the act. Sir Henry was called to Portugal in 1755, and Agnes went with him. They arrived inopportunely in one respect, though the sequel showed a blessing in the accident; for while they were sojourning in Lisbon the earthquake occurred that laid the city in ruins and killed sixty thousand people. Sir Henry was in his carriage at the time and was buried beneath a falling wall, but Agnes, who had hurried from her lodging at the first alarm, sped through the rocking streets in search of her lover. She found him at last, and, instead of crying or fainting, she set to work to drag away the stones and timbers that were piled upon him. Had she been a delicate creature, her lover's equal in birth, such as Frankland was used to dance with at the state balls, she could not have done this, but her days of service at the inn had given her a strength that received fresh accessions from hope and love. In an hour she had liberated him, and, carrying him to a place of safety, she cherished the spark of life until health returned. The nobleman had received sufficient proof of Agnes's love and courage. He realized, at last, the superiority of worth to birth. He gave his name, as he had already given his heart, to her, and their married life was happy. SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE Flood, Fluid, or Floyd Ireson (in some chronicles his name is Benjamin) was making for Marblehead in a furious gale, in the autumn of 1808, in the schooner Betsy. Off Cape Cod he fell in with the schooner Active, of Beverly, in distress, for she had been disabled in the heavy sea and was on her beam ends, at the mercy of the tempest. The master of the Active hailed Ireson and asked to be taken off, for his vessel could not last much longer, but the Betsy, after a parley, laid her course again homeward, leaving the exhausted and despairing crew of the sinking vessel to shift as best they might. The Betsy had not been many hours in port before it was known that men were in peril in the bay, and two crews of volunteers set off instantly to the rescue. But it was too late. The Active was at the bottom of the sea. The captain and three of his men were saved, however, and their grave accusation against the Betsy's skipper was common talk in Marblehead ere many days. On a moonlight night Flood Ireson was roused by knocking at his door. On opening it he was seized by a band of his townsmen, silently hustled to a deserted spot, stripped, bound, and coated with tar and feathers. At break of day he was pitched into an old dory and dragged along the roads until the bottom of the boat dropped out, when he was mounted in a cart and the procession continued until Salem was reached. The selectmen of that town turned back the company, and for a part of the way home the cart was drawn by a jeering crowd of fishwives. Ireson was released only when nature had been taxed to the limit of endurance. As his bonds were cut he said, quietly, "I thank you for my ride, gentlemen, but you will live to regret it." Some of the cooler heads among his fellows have believed the skipper innocent and throw the blame for the abandonment of the sinking vessel on Ireson's mutinous crew. There are others, the universal deniers, who believe that the whole thing is fiction. Those people refuse to believe in their own grandfathers. Ireson became moody and reckless after this adventure. He did not seem to think it worth the attempt to clear himself. At times he seemed trying, by his aggressive acts and bitter speeches, to tempt some hot-tempered townsman to kill him. He died after a severe freezing, having been blown to sea--as some think by his own will--in a smack. HEARTBREAK HILL The name of Heartbreak Hill pertains, in the earliest records of Ipswich, to an eminence in the middle of that town on which there was a large Indian settlement, called Agawam, before the white men settled there and drove the inhabitants out. Ere the English colony had been firmly planted a sailor straying ashore came among the simple natives of Agawam, and finding their ways full of novelty he lived with them for a time. When he found means to return to England he took with him the love of a maiden of the tribe, but the girl herself he left behind, comforting her on his departure with an assurance that before many moons he would return. Months went by and extended into years, and every day the girl climbed Heartbreak Hill to look seaward for some token of her lover. At last a ship was seen trying to make harbor, with a furious gale running her close to shore, where breakers were lashing the rocks and sand. The girl kept her station until the vessel, becoming unmanageable, was hurled against the shore and smashed into a thousand pieces. As its timbers went tossing away on the frothing billows a white, despairing face was lifted to hers for an instant; then it sank and was seen nevermore--her lover's face. The "dusky Ariadne" wasted fast from that day, and she lies buried beside the ledge that was her watch-tower. HARRY MAIN: THE TREASURE AND THE CATS Ipswich had a very Old Harry in the person of Harry Main, a dark-souled being, who, after a career of piracy, smuggling, blasphemy, and dissipation, became a wrecker, and lured vessels to destruction with false lights. For his crimes he was sent, after death, to do penance on Ipswich bar, where he had sent many a ship ashore, his doom being to twine ropes of sand, though some believe it was to shovel back the sea. Whenever his rope broke he would roar with rage and anguish, so that he was heard for miles, whereon the children would run to their trembling mothers and men would look troubled and shake their heads. After a good bit of cable had been coiled, Harry had a short respite that he enjoyed on Plum Island, to the terror of the populace. When the tide and a gale are rising together people say, as they catch the sound of moaning from the bar, "Old Harry's grumbling again." Now, Harry Main--to say nothing of Captain Kidd--was believed to have buried his ill-gotten wealth in Ipswich, and one man dreamed for three successive nights that it had been interred in a mill. Believing that a revelation had been made to him he set off with spade, lantern, and Bible, on the first murky night--for he wanted no partner in the discovery--and found a spot which he recognized as the one that had been pictured to his sleeping senses. He set to work with alacrity and a shovel, and soon he unearthed a flat stone and an iron bar. He was about to pry up the stone when an army of black cats encircled the pit and glared into it with eyes of fire. The poor man, in an access both of alarm and courage, whirled the bar about his head and shouted "Scat!" The uncanny guards of the treasure disappeared instanter, and at the same moment the digger found himself up to his middle in icy water that had poured into the hole as he spoke. The moral is that you should never talk when you are hunting for treasure. Wet, scared, and disheartened, the man crawled out and made homeward, carrying with him, as proof of his adventure, a case of influenza and the iron bar. The latter trophy he fashioned into a latch, in which shape it still does service on one of the doors of Ipswich. THE WESSAGUSCUS HANGING Among the Puritans who settled in Wessaguscus, now Weymouth, Massachusetts, was a brash young fellow, of remarkable size and strength, who, roaming the woods one day, came on a store of corn concealed in the ground, in the fashion of the Indians. As anybody might have done, he filled his hat from the granary and went his way. When the red man who had dug the pit came back to it he saw that his cache had been levied on, and as the footprints showed the marauder to be an Englishman he went to the colonists and demanded justice. The matter could have been settled by giving a pennyworth of trinkets to the Indian, but, as the moral law had been broken, the Puritans deemed it right that the pilferer should suffer. They held a court and a proposition was made and seriously considered that, as the culprit was young, hardy, and useful to the colony, his clothes should be stripped off and put on the body of a bedridden weaver, who would be hanged in his stead in sight of the offended savages. Still, it was feared that if they learned the truth about that execution the Indians would learn a harmful lesson in deceit, and it was, therefore, resolved to punish the true offender. He, thinking they were in jest, submitted to be bound, though before doing so he could have "cleaned out" the court-room, and ere he was really aware of the purpose of his judges he was kicking at vacancy. Butler, in "Hudibras," quotes the story, but makes the offence more serious-- "This precious brother, having slain, In time of peace, an Indian, Not out of malice, but mere zeal, Because he was an infidel, The mighty Tottipotimoy Sent to our elders an envoy Complaining sorely of the breach Of league." But the Puritans, having considered that the offender was a teacher and a cobbler, "Resolved to spare him; yet, to do The Indian Hoghan Moghan, too, Impartial justice, in his stead did Hang an old weaver that was bed-rid." The whole circumstance is cloudy, and the reader may accept either version that touches his fancy. THE UNKNOWN CHAMPION There was that in the very air of the New World that made the Pilgrims revolt against priests and kings. The Revolution was long a-breeding before shots were fired at Lexington. Stout old Endicott, having conceived a dislike to the British flag because to his mind the cross was a relic of popery, paraded his soldiers and with his sword ripped out the offending emblem in their presence. There was a faint cry of "Treason!" but he answered, "I will avouch the deed before God and man. Beat a flourish, drummer. Shout for the ensign of New England. Pope nor tyrant hath part in it now." And a loud huzza of independence went forth. With this sentiment confirmed among the people, it is not surprising that the judges who had condemned a papist king--Charles I.--to the block should find welcome in this land. For months at a time they lived in cellars and garrets in various parts of New England, their hiding-places kept secret from the royal sheriffs who were seeking them. For a time they had shelter in a cave in West Rock, New Haven, and once in that town they were crouching beneath the bridge that a pursuing party crossed in search of them. In Ipswich the house is pointed out where they were concealed in the cellar, and the superstitious believed that, as a penalty for their regicidal decision, they are doomed to stay there, crying vainly for deliverance. Philip, the Narragansett chief, had declared war on the people of New England, and was waging it with a persistence and fury that spread terror through the country. It was a struggle against manifest destiny, such as must needs be repeated whenever civilization comes to dispute a place in new lands with savagery, and which has been continued, more and more feebly, to our own day. The war was bloody, and for a long time the issue hung in the balance. At last the Indian king was driven westward. The Nipmucks joined him in the Connecticut Valley, and he laid siege to the lonely settlements of Brookfield, Northfield, Deerfield, and Springfield, killing, scalping, and burning without mercy. On the 1st of September, 1675, he attacked Hadley while its people were at church, the war-yelp interrupting a prayer of the pastor. All the men of the congregation sallied out with pikes and guns and engaged the foe, but so closely were they pressed that a retreat was called, when suddenly there appeared among them a tall man, of venerable and commanding aspect, clad in leather, and armed with sword and gun. His hair and beard were long and white, but his eye was dark and resolute, and his voice was strong. "Why sink your hearts?" he cried. "Fear ye that God will give you up to yonder heathen dogs? Follow me, and ye shall see that this day there is a champion in Israel." Posting half the force at his command to sustain the fight, he led the others quickly by a detour to the rear of the Indians, on whom he fell with such energy that the savages, believing themselves overtaken by reinforcements newly come, fled in confusion. When the victors returned to the village the unknown champion signed to the company to fall to their knees while he offered thanks and prayer. Then he was silent for a little, and when they looked up he was gone. They believed him to be an angel sent for their deliverance, nor, till he had gone to his account, did they know that their captain in that crisis was Colonel William Goffe, one of the regicide judges, who, with his associate Whalley, was hiding from the vengeance of the son of the king they had rebelled against. After leaving their cave in New Haven, being in peril from beasts and human hunters, they went up the Connecticut Valley to Hadley, where the clergyman of the place, Rev. John Russell, gave them shelter for fifteen years. Few were aware of their existence, and when Goffe, pale with seclusion from the light, appeared among the people near whom he had long been living, it is no wonder that they regarded him with awe. Whalley died in the minister's house and was buried in a crypt outside of the cellar-wall, while Goffe kept much abroad, stopping in many places and under various disguises until his death, which occurred soon after that of his associate. He was buried in New Haven. GOODY COLE Goodwife Eunice Cole, of Hampton, Massachusetts, was so "vehemently suspected to be a witch" that in 1680 she was thrown into jail with a chain on her leg. She had a mumbling habit, which was bad, and a wild look, which was worse. The death of two calves had been charged to her sorceries, and she was believed to have raised the cyclone that sent a party of merrymakers to the sea-bottom off the Isles of Shoals, for insulting her that morning. Some said that she took the shapes of eagles, dogs, and cats, and that she had the aspect of an ape when she went through the mummeries that caused Goody Marston's child to die, yet while she was in Ipswich jail a likeness of her was stumping about the graveyard on the day when they buried the child. For such offences as that of making bread ferment and give forth evil odors, that housekeepers could only dispel by prayer, she was several times whipped and ducked by the constable. At last she lay under sentence of death, for Anna Dalton declared that her child had been changed in its cradle and that she hated and feared the thing that had been left there. Her husband, Ezra, had pleaded with her in vain. "'Tis no child of mine," she cried. "'Tis an imp. Don't you see how old and shrewd it is? How wrinkled and ugly? It does not take my milk: it is sucking my blood and wearing me to skin and bone." Once, as she sat brooding by the fire, she turned to her husband and said, "Rake the coals out and put the child in them. Goody Cole will fly fast enough when she hears it screaming, and will come down chimney in the shape of an owl or a bat, and take the thing away. Then we shall have our little one back." Goodman Dalton sighed as he looked into the worn, scowling face of his wife; then, laying his hands on her head, he prayed to God that she might be led out of the shadow and made to love her child again. As he prayed a gleam of sunset shone in at the window and made a halo around the face of the smiling babe. Mistress Dalton looked at the little thing in doubt; then a glow of recognition came into her eyes, and with a sob of joy she caught the child to her breast, while Dalton embraced them both, deeply happy, for his wife had recovered her reason. In the midst of tears and kisses the woman started with a faint cry: she remembered that a poor old creature was about to expiate on the gallows a crime that had never been committed. She urged her husband to ride with all speed to justice Sewall and demand that Goody Cole be freed. This the goodman did, arriving at Newbury at ten o'clock at night, when the town had long been abed and asleep. By dint of alarms at the justice's door he brought forth that worthy in gown and night-cap, and, after the case had been explained to him, he wrote an order for Mistress Cole's release. With this paper in his hand Dalton rode at once to Ipswich, and when the cock crew in the dawning the victim of that horrible charge walked forth, without her manacles. Yet dark suspicion hung about the beldam to the last, and she died, as she had lived, alone in the little cabin that stood near the site of the academy. Even after her demise the villagers could with difficulty summon courage to enter her cot and give her burial. Her body was tumbled into a pit, hastily dug near her door, and a stake was driven through the heart to exorcise the powers of evil that possessed her in life. GENERAL MOULTON AND THE DEVIL Jonathan Moulton, of Hampton, was a general of consequence in the colonial wars, but a man not always trusted in other than military matters. It was even hinted that his first wife died before her time, for he quickly found consolation in his bereavement by marrying her companion. In the middle of the night the bride was awakened with a start, for she felt a cold hand plucking at the wedding-ring that had belonged to the buried Mrs. Moulton, and a voice whispered in her ear, "Give the dead her own." With a scream of terror she leaped out of bed, awaking her husband and causing candles to be brought. The ring was gone. It was long after this occurrence that the general sat musing at his fireside on the hardness of life in new countries and the difficulty of getting wealth, for old Jonathan was fond of money, and the lack of it distressed him worse than a conscience. "If only I could have gold enough," he muttered, "I'd sell my soul for it." Whiz! came something down the chimney. The general was dazzled by a burst of sparks, from which stepped forth a lank personage in black velvet with clean ruffles and brave jewels. "Talk quick, general," said the unknown, "for in fifteen minutes I must be fifteen miles away, in Portsmouth." And picking up a live coal in his fingers he looked at his watch by its light. "Come. You know me. Is it a bargain?" The general was a little slow to recover his wits, but the word "bargain" put him on his mettle, and he began to think of advantageous terms. "What proof may there be that you can do your part in the compact?" he inquired. The unknown ran his fingers through his hair and a shower of guineas jingled on the floor. They were pretty warm, but Moulton, in his eagerness, fell on hands and knees and gathered them to his breast. "Give me some liquor," then demanded Satan, for of course he was no other, and filling a tankard with rum he lighted it with the candle, remarked, affably, "To our better acquaintance," and tossed off the blazing dram at a gulp. "I will make you," said he, "the richest man in the province. Sign this paper and on the first day of every month I will fill your boots with gold; but if you try any tricks with me you will repent it. For I know you, Jonathan. Sign." Moulton hesitated. "Humph!" sneered his majesty. "You have put me to all this trouble for nothing." And he began to gather up the guineas that Moulton had placed on the table. This was more than the victim of his wiles could stand. He swallowed a mouthful of rum, seized a pen that was held out to him, and trembled violently as a paper was placed before him; but when he found that his name was to appear with some of the most distinguished in the province his nerves grew steadier and he placed his autograph among those of the eminent company, with a few crooked embellishments and all the t's crossed. "Good!" exclaimed the devil, and wrapping his cloak about him he stepped into the fire and was up the chimney in a twinkling. Shrewd Jonathan went out the next day and bought the biggest pair of jack-boots he could find in Hampton. He hung them on the crane on the last night of that and all the succeeding months so long as he lived, and on the next morning they brimmed with coins. Moulton rolled in wealth. The neighbors regarded his sudden prosperity with amazement, then with envy, but afterward with suspicion. All the same, Jonathan was not getting rich fast enough to suit himself. When the devil came to make a certain of his periodical payments he poured guineas down the chimney for half an hour without seeming to fill the boots. Bushel after bushel of gold he emptied into those spacious money-bags without causing an overflow, and he finally descended to the fireplace to see why. Moulton had cut the soles from the boots and the floor was knee-deep in money. With a grin at the general's smartness the devil disappeared, but in a few minutes a smell of sulphur pervaded the premises and the house burst into flames. Moulton escaped in his shirt, and tore his hair as he saw the fire crawl, serpent-like, over the beams, and fantastic smoke-forms dance in the windows. Then a thought crossed his mind and he grew calm: his gold, that was hidden in wainscot, cupboard, floor, and chest, would only melt and could be quarried out by the hundred weight, so that he could be well-to-do again. Before the ruins were cool he was delving amid the rubbish, but not an ounce of gold could he discover. Every bit of his wealth had disappeared. It was not long after that the general died, and to quiet some rumors of disturbance in the graveyard his coffin was dug up. It was empty. THE SKELETON IN ARMOR The skeleton of a man wearing a breastplate of brass, a belt made of tubes of the same metal, and lying near some copper arrow-heads, was exhumed at Fall River, Massachusetts, in 1834. The body had been artificially embalmed or else preserved by salts in the soil. His arms and armor suggest Phoenician origin, but the skeleton is thought to be that of a Dane or Norwegian who spent the last winter of his life at Newport. He may have helped to carve the rock at West Newbury, or the better-known Dighton rock at Taunton River that is covered with inscriptions which the tides and frosts are fast effacing, and which have been construed into a record of Norse exploration and discovery, though some will have it that the inevitable Captain Kidd cut the figures there to tell of buried treasure. The Indians have a legend of the arrival of white men in a "bird," undoubtedly a ship, from which issued thunder and lightning. A battle ensued when the visitors landed, and the white men wrote the story of it on the rock. Certain scholars of the eighteenth century declared that the rock bore an account of the arrival of Phoenician sailors, blown across the Atlantic and unable or unwilling to return. A representation of the pillars of Hercules was thought to be included among the sculptures, showing that the castaways were familiar with the Mediterranean. Only this is known about Dighton Rock, however: that it stood where it does, and as it does, when the English settled in this neighborhood. The Indians said there were other rocks near it which bore similar markings until effaced by tides and drifting ice. Longfellow makes the wraith of the long-buried exile of the armor appear and tell his story: He was a viking who loved the daughter of King Hildebrand, and as royal consent to their union was withheld he made off with the girl, hotly followed by the king and seventy horsemen. The viking reached his vessel first, and hoisting sail continued his flight over the sea, but the chase was soon upon him, and, having no alternative but to fight or be taken, he swung around before the wind and rammed the side of Hildebrand's galley, crushing in its timbers. The vessel tipped and sank, and every soul on board went with her, while the viking's boat kept on her course, and after a voyage of three weeks put in at Narragansett Bay. The round tower at Newport this impetuous lover built as a bower for his lady, and there he guarded her from the dangers that beset those who are first in savage countries. When the princess died she was buried in the tower, and the lonely viking, arraying himself in his armor, fell on his spear, like Brutus, and expired. MARTHA'S VINEYARD AND NANTUCKET There is no such place as Martha's Vineyard, except in geography and common speech. It is Martin Wyngaard's Island, and so was named by Skipper Block, an Albany Dutchman. But they would English his name, even in his own town, for it lingers there in Vineyard Point. Bartholomew Gosnold was one of the first white visitors here, for he landed in 1602, and lived on the island for a time, collecting a cargo of sassafras and returning thence to England because he feared the savages. This scarred and windy spot was the home of the Indian giant, Maushope, who could wade across the sound to the mainland without wetting his knees, though he once started to build a causeway from Gay Head to Cuttyhunk and had laid the rocks where you may now see them, when a crab bit his toe and he gave up the work in disgust. He lived on whales, mostly, and broiled his dinners on fires made at Devil's Den from trees that he tore up by the roots like weeds. In his tempers he raised mists to perplex sea-wanderers, and for sport he would show lights on Gay Head, though these may have been only the fires he made to cook his supper with, and of which some beds of lignite are to be found as remains. He clove No-Man's Land from Gay Head, turned his children into fish, and when his wife objected he flung her to Seconnet Point, where she preyed on all who passed before she hardened into a ledge. It is reported that he found the island by following a bird that had been stealing children from Cape Cod, as they rolled in the warm sand or paddled on the edge of the sea. He waded after this winged robber until he reached Martha's Vineyard, where he found the bones of all the children that had been stolen. Tired with his hunt he sat down to fill his pipe; but as there was no tobacco he plucked some tons of poke that grew thickly and that Indians sometimes used as a substitute for the fragrant weed. His pipe being filled and lighted, its fumes rolled over the ocean like a mist--in fact, the Indians would say, when a fog was rising, "Here comes old Maushope's smoke"--and when he finished he emptied his pipe into the sea. Falling on a shallow, the ashes made the island of Nantucket. The first Indians to reach the latter place were the parents of a babe that had been stolen by an eagle. They followed the bird in their canoe, but arrived too late, for the little bones had been picked clean. The Norsemen rediscovered the island and called it Naukiton. Is Nantucket a corruption of that word, or was that word the result of a struggle to master the Indian name? LOVE AND TREASON The tribes that inhabited Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard before the whites settled the country were constantly at war, and the people of the western island once resolved to surprise those of Nantucket and slay as many as possible before they could arm or organize for battle. The attack was to be made before daybreak, at an hour when their intended victims would be asleep in their wigwams, but on rowing softly to the hostile shore, while the stars were still lingering in the west, the warriors were surprised at finding the enemy alert and waiting their arrival with bows and spears in hand. To proceed would have been suicidal, and they returned to their villages, puzzled and disheartened. Not for some years did they learn how the camp had been apprised, but at the end of that time, the two tribes being at peace, one of their young men married a girl of Nantucket, with whom he had long been in love, and confessed that on the night preceding the attack he had stolen to the beach, crossed to Nantucket on a neck of sand that then joined the islands, and was uncovered only at low tide, sought his mistress, warned her of the attack, that she, at least, might not be killed; then, at a mad run, with waves of the rising tide lapping his feet, he returned to his people, who had not missed him. He set off with a grave and innocent face in the morning, and was as much surprised as any one when he found the enemy in arms. THE HEADLESS SKELETON OF SWAMPTOWN The boggy portion of North Kingston, Rhode Island, known as Swamptown, is of queer repute in its neighborhood, for Hell Hollow, Pork Hill, Indian Corner, and Kettle Hole have their stories of Indian crimes and witch-meetings. Here the headless figure of a negro boy was seen by a belated traveller on a path that leads over the hills. It was a dark night and the figure was revealed in a blaze of blue light. It swayed to and fro for a time, then rose from the ground with a lurch and shot into space, leaving a trail of illumination behind it. Here, too, is Goose-Nest Spring, where the witches dance at night. It dries up every winter and flows through the summer, gushing forth on the same day of every year, except once, when a goose took possession of the empty bed and hatched her brood there. That time the water did not flow until she got away with her progeny. But the most grewsome story of the place is that of the Indian whose skull was found by a roadmender. This unsuspecting person took it home, and, as the women would not allow him to carry it into the house, he hung it on a pole outside. Just as the people were starting for bed, there came a rattling at the door, and, looking out of the windows, they saw a skeleton stalking around in quick and angry strides, like those of a person looking for something. But how could that be when the skeleton had neither eyes nor a place to carry them? It thrashed its bony arms impatiently and its ribs rattled like a xylophone. The spectators were transfixed with fear, all except the culprit, who said, through the window, in a matter-of-fact way, "I left your head on the pole at the back door." The skeleton started in that direction, seized the skull, clapped it into the place where a head should have grown on its own shoulders, and, after shaking its fists in a threatening way at the house, disappeared in the darkness. It is said that he acts as a kind of guard in the neighborhood, to see that none of the other Indians buried there shall be disturbed, as he was. His principal lounging place is Indian Corner, where there is a rock from which blood flows when the moon shines--a memento, doubtless, of some tragedy that occurred there in times before the white men knew the place. There is iron in the soil, and visitors say that the red color is due to that, and that the spring would flow just as freely on dark nights as on bright ones, if any were there to see it, but the natives, who have given some thought to these matters, know better. THE CROW AND CAT OF HOPKINSHILL In a wood near Hopkins Hill, Rhode Island, is a bowlder, four feet in diameter, scored with a peculiar furrow. Witch Rock, as it is called, gained its name two centuries ago, when an old woman abode in a deserted cabin close by and made the forest dreaded. Figures were seen flitting through its shadows; articles left out o' nights in neighboring settlements were missing in the morning, though tramps were unknown; cattle were afflicted with diseases; stones were flung in at windows by unseen hands; crops were blighted by hail and frost; and in stormy weather the old woman was seen to rise out of the woods and stir and push the clouds before her with a broom. For a hundred yards around Witch Rock the ground is still accursed, and any attempt to break it up is unavailing. Nearly a century ago a scoffer named Reynolds declared that he would run his plough through the enchanted boundary, and the neighbors watched the attempt from a distance. He started well, but on arriving at the magic circle the plough shied and the wooden landside--or chip, as it was called--came off. It was replaced and the team started again. In a moment the oxen stood unyoked, while the chip jumped off and whirled away out of sight. On this, most of the people edged away in the direction of home, and directly there came from the north a crow that perched on a dead tree and cawed. John Hopkins, owner of the land, cried to the bird, "Squawk, you damned old Pat Jenkins!" and the crow took flight, dropping the chip at Reynolds's feet, at the same moment turning into a beldam with a cocked hat, who descended upon the rock. Before the men could reach her she changed into a black cat and disappeared in the ground. Hunting and digging came to naught, though the pursuers were so earnest and excited that one of them made the furrow in the rock with a welt from his shovel. After that few people cared to go near the place, and it became overgrown with weeds and trees and bushes. THE OLD STONE MILL If the round tower at Newport was not Benedict Arnold's wind-mill, and any one or two of several other things, it is probably a relic of the occupancy of this country by Thorwald and his Norsemen. After coasting Wonderstrands (Cape Cod), in the year 1007, they built a town that is known to historians--if not in their histories--as Norumbega, the lost city of New England. It is now fancied that the city stood on the Charles River, near Waltham, Massachusetts, where a monument may be erected, but it is also believed that they reached the neighborhood of Newport, Rhode Island. After this tower--popularly called the old stone mill-was built, a seer among the Narragansetts had a vision in which he foresaw that when the last remnant of the structure had fallen, and not one stone had been left on another, the Indian race would vanish from this continent. The work of its extermination seems, indeed, to have begun with the possession of the coast by white men, and the fate of the aborigines is easily read. ORIGIN OF A NAME The origin of many curious geographical names has become an object of mere surmise, and this is the more the pity because they suggest such picturesque possibilities. We would like to know, for instance, how Burnt Coat and Smutty Nose came by such titles. The conglomerate that strews the fields south of Boston is locally known as Roxbury pudding-stone, and, according to Dr. Holmes, the masses are fragments of a pudding, as big as the State-house dome, that the family of a giant flung about, in a fit of temper, and that petrified where it fell. But that would have been called pudding-stone, anyway, from its appearance. The circumstance that named the reef of Norman's Woe has passed out of record, though it is known that goodman Norman and his son settled there in the seventeenth century. It is Longfellow who has endowed the rock with this legend, for he depicts a wreck there in the fury of a winter storm in 1680--the wreck of the Hesperus, Richard Norman, master, from which went ashore next morning the body of an unknown and beautiful girl, clad in ice and lashed to a broken mast. But one of the oddest preservations of an apposite in name is found in the legend of Point Judith, Rhode Island, an innocent _double entendre_. About two centuries ago a vessel was driving toward the coast in a gale, with rain and mist. The skipper's eyes were old and dim, so he got his daughter Judith to stand beside him at the helm, as he steered the vessel over the foaming surges. Presently she cried, "Land, father! I see land!" "Where away?" he asked. But he could not see what she described, and the roar of the wind drowned her voice, so he shouted, "Point, Judith! Point!" The girl pointed toward the quarter where she saw the breakers, and the old mariner changed his course and saved his ship from wreck. On reaching port he told the story of his daughter's readiness, and other captains, when they passed the cape in later days, gave to it the name of Point Judith. MICAH ROOD APPLES In Western Florida they will show roses to you that drop red dew, like blood, and have been doing so these many years, for they sprang out of the graves of women and children who had been cruelly killed by Indians. But there is something queerer still about the Micah Rood--or "Mike"--apples of Franklin, Connecticut, which are sweet, red of skin, snowy of pulp, and have a red spot, like a blood-drop, near the core; hence they are sometimes known as bloody-hearts. Micah Rood was a farmer in Franklin in 1693. Though avaricious he was somewhat lazy, and was more prone to dream of wealth than to work for it. But people whispered that he did some hard and sharp work on the night after the peddler came to town--the slender man with a pack filled with jewelry and knickknacks--because on the morning after that visit the peddler was found, beneath an apple-tree on Rood farm, with his pack rifled and his skull split open. Suspicion pointed at Rood, and, while nothing was proved against him, he became gloomy, solitary, and morose, keeping his own counsels more faithfully than ever--though he never was disposed to take counsel of other people. If he had expected to profit by the crime he was obviously disappointed, for he became poorer than ever, and his farm yielded less and less. To be sure, he did little work on it. When the apples ripened on the tree that had spread its branches above the peddler's body, the neighbors wagged their heads and whispered the more, for in the centre of each apple was a drop of the peddler's blood: a silent witness and judgment, they said, and the result of a curse that the dying man had invoked against his murderer. Micah Rood died soon after, without saying anything that his fellow-villagers might be waiting to hear, but his tree is still alive and its strange fruit has been grafted on hundreds of orchards. A DINNER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES The Nipmucks were populous at Thompson, Connecticut, where they skilfully tilled the fields, and where their earthworks, on Fort Hill, provided them with a refuge in case of invasion. Their chief, Quinatisset, had his lodge on the site of the Congregational church in Thompson. They believed that Chargoggagmanchogagog Pond was paradise--the home of the Great Spirit and departed souls--and that it would always yield fish to them, as the hills did game. They were fond of fish, and would barter deer-meat and corn for it, occasionally, with the Narragansetts. Now, these last-named Indians were a waterloving people, and to this day their "fishing fire"--a column of pale flame--rises out of Quinebaug Lake once in seven years, as those say who have watched beside its waters through the night. Knowing their fondness for blue-fish and clams, the Narragansetts asked the Nipmucks to dine with them on one occasion, and this courtesy was eagerly accepted, the up-country people distinguishing themselves by valiant trencher deeds; but, alas, that it should be so! they disgraced themselves when, soon after, they invited the Narragansetts to a feast of venison at Killingly, and quarrelled with their guests over the dressing of the food. This rumpus grew into a battle in which all but two of the invites were slain. Their hosts buried them decently, but grass would never grow above their graves. This treachery the Great Spirit avenged soon after, when the Nipmucks had assembled for a powwow, with accessory enjoyments, in the grassy vale where Mashapaug Lake now reflects the charming landscape, and where, until lately, the remains of a forest could be seen below the surface. In the height of the revel the god struck away the foundations of the hills, and as the earth sank, bearing the offending men and women, waters rushed in and filled the chasm, so that every person was drowned, save one good old woman beneath whose feet the ground held firm. Loon Island, where she stood, remains in sight to-day. THE NEW HAVEN STORM SHIP In 1647 the New Haven colonists, who even at that early day exhibited the enterprise that has been a distinguishing feature of the Yankee, sent a ship to Ireland to try to develop a commerce, their trading posts on the Delaware having been broken up by the Swedes. When their agent, Captain Lamberton, sailed--in January--the harbor was so beset with ice that a track had to be cut through the floes to open water, five miles distant. She had, moreover, to be dragged out stern foremost--an ill omen, the sailors thought--and as she swung before the wind a passing drift of fog concealed her, for a moment, from the gaze of those on shore, who, from this, foretold things of evil. Though large and new, the ship was so "walty"--inclined to roll--that the captain set off with misgiving, and as she moved away the crew heard this solemn and disheartening invocation from a clergyman on the wharf:--"Lord, if it be thy pleasure to bury these, our friends, in the bottom of the sea, take them; they are thine: save them." Winter passed; so did spring; still the ship came not; but one afternoon in June, just as a rain had passed, some children cried, "There's a brave ship!" for, flying up the harbor, with all sail set and flaunting colors, was a vessel "the very mould of our ship," the clergyman said. Strange to tell, she was going flat against the wind; no sailors were on her deck; she did not toss with the fling of the waves; there was no ripple at her bow. As she came close to land a single figure appeared on the quarter, pointing seaward with a cutlass; then suddenly her main-top fell, her masts toppled from their holdings, the dismantled hulk careened and went down. A cloud dropped from heaven and brooded for a time above the place where it had vanished, and when it lifted the surface of the sea was empty and still. The good folk of New Haven believed that the fate of the absent ship had been revealed, at last, for she never came back and Captain Lamberton was never heard from. THE WINDAM FROGS On a cloudy night in July, 1758, the people of Windham, Connecticut, were awakened by screams and shrill voices. Some sprang up and looked to the priming of their muskets, for they were sure that the Indians were coming; others vowed that the voices were those of witches or devils, flying overhead; a few ran into the streets with knives and fire-arms, while others fastened their windows and prayerfully shrank under the bedclothes. A notorious reprobate was heard blubbering for a Bible, and a lawyer offered half of all the money that he had made dishonestly to any charity if his neighbors would guarantee to preserve his life until morning. All night the greatest alarm prevailed. At early dawn an armed party climbed the hill to the eastward, and seeing no sign of Indians, or other invaders, returned to give comfort to their friends. A contest for office was waging at that period between two lawyers, Colonel Dyer and Mr. Elderkin, and sundry of the people vowed that they had heard a challenging yell of "Colonel Dyer! Colonel Dyer!" answered by a guttural defiance of "Elderkin, too! Elderkin, too!" Next day the reason of it all came out: A pond having been emptied by drought, the frogs that had lived there emigrated by common consent to a ditch nearer the town, and on arriving there had apparently fought for its possession, for many lay dead on the bank. The night was still and the voices of the contestants sounded clearly into the village, the piping of the smaller being construed into "Colonel Dyer," and the grumble of the bull-frogs into "Elderkin, too." The "frog scare" was a subject of pleasantry directed against Windham for years afterward. THE LAMB OF SACRIFICE The Revolution was beginning, homes were empty, farms were deserted, industries were checked, and the levies of a foreign army had consumed the stores of the people. A messenger rode into the Connecticut Valley with tidings of the distress that was in the coast towns, and begged the farmer folk to spare some of their cattle and the millers some of their flour for the relief of Boston. On reaching Windham he was received with good will by Parson White, who summoned his flock by peal of bell, and from the steps of his church urged the needs of his brethren with such eloquence that by nightfall the messenger had in his charge a flock of sheep, a herd of cattle, and a load of grain, with which he was to set off in the morning. The parson's daughter, a shy maid of nine or ten, went to her father, with her pet lamb, and said to him, "I must give this, too, for there are little children who are crying for bread and meat." "No, no," answered the pastor, patting her head and smiling upon her. "They do not ask help from babes. Run to bed and you shall play with your lamb to-morrow." But in the red of the morning, as he drove his herd through the village street, the messenger turned at the hail of a childish voice, and looking over a stone wall he saw the little one with her snow-white lamb beside her. "Wait," she cried, "for my lamb must go to the hungry children of Boston. It is so small, please to carry it for some of the way, and let it have fresh grass and water. It is all I have." So saying, she kissed the innocent face of her pet, gave it into the arms of the young man, and ran away, her cheeks shining with tears. Folding the little creature to his breast, the messenger looked admiringly after the girl: he felt a glow of pride and hope for the country whose very children responded to the call of patriotism. "Now, God help me, I will carry this lamb to the city as a sacrifice." So saying, he set his face to the east and vigorously strode forward. MOODUS NOISES The village of Moodus, Connecticut, was troubled with noises. There is no question as to that. In fact, Machimoodus, the Indian name of the spot, means Place of Noises. As early as 1700, and for thirty years after, there were crackings and rumblings that were variously compared to fusillades, to thunder, to roaring in the air, to the breaking of rocks, to reports of cannon. A man who was on Mount Tom while the noises were violent describes the sound as that of rocks falling into immense caverns beneath his feet and striking against cliffs as they fell. Houses shook and people feared. Rev. Mr. Hosmer, in a letter written to a friend in Boston in 1729, says that before white settlers appeared there was a large Indian population, that powwows were frequent, and that the natives "drove a prodigious trade at worshipping the devil." He adds:--"An old Indian was asked what was the reason of the noises in this place, to which he replied that the Indian's god was angry because Englishman's god was come here. Now, whether there be anything diabolical in these things I know not, but this I know, that God Almighty is to be seen and trembled at in what has been often heard among us. Whether it be fire or air distressed in the subterranean caverns of the earth cannot be known for there is no eruption, no explosion perceptible but by sounds and tremors which are sometimes very fearful and dreadful." It was finally understood that Haddam witches, who practised black magic, met the Moodus witches, who used white magic, in a cave beneath Mount Tom, and fought them in the light of a great carbuncle that was fastened to the roof. The noises recurred in 1888, when houses rattled in witch-haunted Salem, eight miles away, and the bell on the village church "sung like a tuning-fork." The noises have occurred simultaneously with earthquakes in other parts of the country, and afterward rocks have been found moved from their bases and cracks have been discovered in the earth. One sapient editor said that the pearls in the mussels in Salmon and Connecticut Rivers caused the disturbance. If the witch-fights were continued too long the king of Machimoddi, who sat on a throne of solid sapphire in the cave whence the noises came, raised his wand: then the light of the carbuncle went out, peals of thunder rolled through the rocky chambers, and the witches rushed into the air. Dr. Steele, a learned and aged man from England, built a crazy-looking house in a lonely spot on Mount Tom, and was soon as much a mystery as the noises, for it was known that he had come to this country to stop them by magic and to seize the great carbuncle in the cave--if he could find it. Every window, crack, and keyhole was closed, and nobody was admitted while he stayed there, but the clang of hammers was heard in his house all night, sparks shot from his chimney, and strange odors were diffused. When all was ready for his adventure he set forth, his path marked by a faint light that moved before him and stopped at the closed entrance to the cavern. Loud were the Moodus noises that night. The mountain shook and groans and hisses were heard in the air as he pried up the stone that lay across the pit-mouth. When he had lifted it off a light poured from it and streamed into the heaven like a crimson comet or a spear of the northern aurora. It was the flash of the great carbuncle, and the stars seen through it were as if dyed in blood. In the morning Steele was gone. He had taken ship for England. The gem carried with it an evil fate, for the galley sank in mid-ocean; but, though buried beneath a thousand fathoms of water, the red ray of the carbuncle sometimes shoots up from the sea, and the glow of it strikes fear into the hearts of passing sailors. Long after, when the booming was heard, the Indians said that the hill was giving birth to another beautiful stone. Such cases are not singular. A phenomenon similar to the Moodus noises, and locally known as "the shooting of Nashoba Hill," occurs at times in the eminence of that name near East Littleton, Massachusetts. The strange, deep rumbling was attributed by the Indians to whirlwinds trying to escape from caves. Bald Mountain, North Carolina, was known as Shaking Mountain, for strange sounds and tremors were heard there, and every moonshiner who had his cabin on that hill joined the church and was diligent in worship until he learned that the trembling was due to the slow cracking and separation of a great ledge. At the end of a hot day on Seneca Lake, New York, are sometimes heard the "lake guns," like exploding gas. Two hundred years ago Agayentah, a wise and honored member of the Seneca tribe, was killed here by a lightning-stroke. The same bolt that slew him wrenched a tree from the bank and hurled it into the water, where it was often seen afterward, going about the lake as if driven by unseen currents, and among the whites it got the name of the Wandering Jew. It is often missing for weeks together, and its reappearances are heralded by the low booming of--what? The Indians said that the sound was but the echo of Agayentah's voice, warning them of dangers and summoning them to battle, while the Wandering Jew became his messenger. HADDAM ENCHANTMENTS When witchcraft went rampant through New England the Connecticut town of Haddam owned its share of ugly old women, whom it tried to reform by lectures and ducking, instead of killing. It was averred that Goody So-and-So had a black cat for a familiar, that Dame Thus-and-Thus rode on a broomstick on stormy nights and screeched and gibbered down the farm-house chimneys, and there were dances of old crones at Devils' Hop Yard, Witch Woods, Witch Meadows, Giant's Chair, Devil's Footprint, and Dragon's Rock. Farmers were especially fearful of a bent old hag in a red hood, who seldom appeared before dusk, but who was apt to be found crouched on their door-steps if they reached home late, her mole-covered cheeks wrinkled with a grin, two yellow fangs projecting between her lips, and a light shining from her eyes that numbed all on whom she looked. On stormy nights she would drum and rattle at windows, and by firelight and candle-light her face was seen peering through the panes. At Chapman Falls, where the attrition of a stream had worn pot-holes in the rocks, there were meetings of Haddam witches, to the number of a dozen. They brewed poisons in those holes, cast spells, and talked in harsh tongues with the arch fiend, who sat on the brink of the ravine with his tail laid against his shoulder, like a sceptre, and a red glow emanating from his body. In Devils' Hop Yard was a massive oak that never bears leaves or acorns, for it has been enchanted since the time that one of the witches, in the form of a crow, perched on the topmost branch, looked to the four points of the compass, and flew away. That night the leaves fell off, the twigs shrivelled, sap ceased to run, and moss began to beard its skeleton limbs. The appearance of witches in the guise of birds was no unusual thing, indeed, and a farmer named Blakesley shot one of them in that form. He was hunting in a meadow when a rush of wings was heard and he saw pass overhead a bird with long neck, blue feathers, and feet like scrawny hands. It uttered a cry so weird, so shrill, so like mocking laughter that it made him shudder. This bird alighted on a dead tree and he shot at it. With another laughing yell it circled around his head. Three times he fired with the same result. Then he resolved to see if it were uncanny, for nothing evil can withstand silver--except Congress. Having no bullets of that metal he cut two silver buttons from his shirt and rammed them home with a piece of cloth and a prayer. This time the bird screamed in terror, and tried, but vainly, to rise from the limb. He fired. The creature dropped, with a button in its body, and fell on its right side. At that moment an old woman living in a cabin five miles distant arose from her spinning-wheel, gasped, and fell on her right side-dead. BLOCK ISLAND AND THE PALATINE Block Island, or Manisees, is an uplift of clayey moorland between Montauk and Gay Head. It was for sailors an evil place and "bad medicine" for Indians, for men who had been wrecked there had been likewise robbed and ill treated--though the honest islanders of to-day deny it--while the Indians had been driven from their birthright after hundreds of their number had fallen in its defence. In the winter of 1750-51 the ship Palatine set forth over the seas with thrifty Dutch merchants and emigrants, bound for Philadelphia, with all their goods. A gale delayed them and kept them beating to and fro on the icy seas, unable to reach land. The captain died--it was thought that he was murdered--and the sailors, a brutal set even for those days, threw off all discipline, seized the stores and arms, and starved the passengers into giving up their money. When those died of hunger whose money had given out--for twenty guilders were demanded for a cup of water and fifty rix dollars for a biscuit--their bodies were flung into the sea, and when the crew had secured all that excited their avarice they took to their boats, leaving ship and passengers to their fate. It is consoling to know that the sailors never reached a harbor. The unguided ship, in sight of land, yet tossed at the mercy of every wind and tenanted by walking skeletons, struck off Block Island one calm Sunday morning and the wreckers who lived along the shore set out for her. Their first work was to rescue the passengers; then they returned to strip everything from the hulk that the crew had left; but after getting her in tow a gale sprang up, and seeing that she was doomed to be blown off shore, where she might become a dangerous obstruction or a derelict, they set her on fire. From the rocks they watched her drift into misty darkness, but as the flames mounted to the trucks a scream rang across the whitening sea: a maniac woman had been left on board. The scream was often repeated, each time more faintly, and the ship passed into the fog and vanished. A twelvemonth later, on the same evening of the year, the islanders were startled at the sight of a ship in the offing with flames lapping up her sides and rigging, and smoke clouds rolling off before the wind. It burned to the water's edge in sight of hundreds. In the winter following it came again, and was seen, in fact, for years thereafter at regular intervals, by those who would gladly have forgotten the sight of it (one of the community, an Indian, fell into madness whenever he saw the light), while those who listened caught the sound of a woman's voice raised in agony above the roar of fire and water. Substantially the same story is told of a point on the North Carolina coast, save that in the latter case the passengers, who were from the Bavarian Palatinate, were put to the knife before their goods were taken. The captain and his crew filled their boats with treasure and pulled away for land, first firing the ship and committing its ghastly freight to the flames. The ship followed them almost to the beach, ere it fell to pieces, as if it were an animate form, bent on vengeance. The pirates landed, but none profited by the crime, all of them dying poor and forsaken. THE BUCCANEER Among the natives of Block Island was a man named Lee. Born in the last century among fishermen and wreckers, he has naturally taken to the sea for a livelihood, and, never having known the influences of education and refinement, he is rude and imperious in manner. His ship lies in a Spanish port fitting for sea, but not with freight, for, tired of peaceful trading, Lee is equipping his vessel as a privateer. A Spanish lady who has just been bereaved of her husband comes to him to ask a passage to America, for she has no suspicion of his intent. Her jewels and well-filled purse arouse Lee's cupidity, and with pretended sympathy he accedes to her request, even going so far as to allow Senora's favorite horse to be brought aboard. Hardly is the ship in deep water before the lady's servants are stabbed in their sleep and Lee smashes in the door of her cabin. Realizing his purpose, and preferring to sacrifice life to honor, she eludes him, climbs the rail, and leaps into the sea, while the ship ploughs on. As a poor revenge for being thus balked of his prey the pirate has the beautiful white horse flung overboard, the animal shrilling a neigh that seems to reach to the horizon, and is like nothing ever heard before. But these things he affects to forget in dice and drinking. In a dispute over a division of plunder Lee stabs one of his men and tosses him overboard. Soon the rovers come to Block Island, where, under cover of night, they carry ashore their stealings to hide them in pits and caves, reserving enough gold to buy a welcome from the wreckers, and here they live for a year, gaming and carousing. Their ship has been reported as a pirate and to baffle search it is set adrift. One night a ruddy star is seen on the sea-verge and the ruffians leave their revelling to look at it, for it is growing into sight fast. It speeds toward them and they can now see that it is a ship--their shipwrapped in flames. It stops off shore, and out of the ocean at its prow emerges something white that they say at first is a wave-crest rolling upon the sands; but it does not dissolve as breakers do: it rushes on; it scales the bluff it is a milk-white horse, that gallops to the men, who inly wonder if this is an alcoholic vision, and glares at Lee. A spell seems to be laid on him, and, unable to resist it, the buccaneer mounts the animal. It rushes away, snorting and plunging, to the highest bluff, whence Lee beholds, in the light of the burning ship, the bodies of all who have been done to death by him, staring into his eyes through the reddening waves. At dawn the horse sinks under him and he stands there alone. From that hour even his companions desert him. They fear to share his curse. He wanders about the island, a broken, miserable man, unwilling to live, afraid to die, refused shelter and friendship, and unable to reach the mainland, for no boat will give him passage. After a year of this existence the ship returns, the spectre horse rises from the deep and claims Lee again for a rider. He mounts; the animal speeds away to the cliff, but does not pause at the brink this time: with a sickening jump and fall he goes into the sea. Spurning the wave-tops in his flight he makes a circuit of the burning ship, and in the hellish light, that fills the air and penetrates to the ocean bottom, the pirate sees again his victims looking up with smiles and arms spread to embrace him. There is a cry of terror as the steed stops short; then a gurgle, and horse and rider have disappeared. The fire ship vanishes and the night is dark. ROBERT LOCKWOOD'S FATE In the winter of 1779, General Putnam was stationed at Reading, Connecticut, with a band of ill-fed, unpaid troops. He was quartered at the Marvin house, and Mary, daughter of farmer Marvin, won her way to the heart of this rough soldier through the excellence of her dumplings and the invigorating quality of her flip. He even took her into his confidence, and, being in want of a spy in an emergency, he playfully asked her if she knew any brave fellow who could be trusted to take a false message into the British lines that would avert an impending attack. Yes, she knew such an one, and would guarantee that he would take the message if the fortunes of the colonial army would be helped thereby. Putnam assured her that it would aid the patriot cause, and, farther, that he would reward her; whereat, with a smile and a twinkling eye, the girl received the missive and left the room. When daylight had left the sky, Mary slipped out of the house, crossed a pasture, entered a ravine, and in a field beyond reached a cattle shelter. On the instant a tall form stepped from the shadows and she sank into its embrace. There was a kiss, a moment of whispered talk, and the girl hurriedly asked her lover if he would carry a letter to the British headquarters, near Ridgefield. Of course he would. But he must not read it, and he must on no account say from whom he had it. The young man consented without a question--that she required it was sufficient; so, thrusting the tiny paper into his hand and bidding him God-speed, she gave him another kiss and they parted--he to go on his errand, she to pass the night with the clergyman's daughter at the parsonage. At about ten o'clock Putnam was disturbed by the tramping of feet and a tall, goodlooking fellow was thrust into his room by a couple of soldiers. The captive had been found inside the lines, they said, in consultation with some unknown person who had escaped the eye of the sentry in the darkness. When captured he had put a piece of paper into his mouth and swallowed it. He gave the name of Robert Lockwood, and when Putnam demanded to know what he had been doing near the camp without a permit he said that he was bound by a promise not to tell. "Are you a patriot?" asked the general. "I am a royalist. I do not sympathize with rebellion. I have been a man of peace in this war." Putnam strode about the room, giving vent to his passion in language neither choice nor gentle, for he had been much troubled by spies and informers since he had been there. Then, stopping, he said: "Some one was with you to-night-some of my men. Tell me that traitor's name and I'll spare your life and hang him before the whole army." The prisoner turned pale and dropped his head. He would not violate his promise. "You are a British spy, and I'll hang you at sunrise!" roared Putnam. In vain the young man pleaded for time to appeal to Washington. He was not a spy, he insisted, and it would be found, perhaps too late, that a terrible mistake had been committed. His words were unheeded: he was led away and bound, and as the sun was rising on the next morning the sentence of courtmartial was executed upon him. At noon Mary returned from the parsonage, her eyes dancing and her mouth dimpling with smiles. Going to Putnam, she said, with a dash of sauciness, "I have succeeded, general. I found a lad last night to take your message. I had to meet him alone, for he is a Tory; so he cannot enter this camp. The poor fellow had no idea that he was doing a service for the rebels, for he did not know what was in the letter, and I bound him not to tell who gave it to him. You see, I punished him for abiding by the king." The general laughed and gazed at her admiringly. "You're a brave girl," he said, "and I suppose you've come for your reward. Well, what is it to be?" "I want a pass for Robert Lockwood. He is the royalist I spoke of, but he will not betray you, for he is not a soldier; and--his visits make me very happy." "The spy you hanged this morning," whispered an aide in Putnam's ear. "Give her the pass and say nothing of what has happened." The general started, changed color, and paused; then he signed the order with a dash, placed it in the girl's hand, gravely kissed her, watched her as she ran lightly from the house, and going to his bedroom closed the door and remained alone for an hour. From that time he never spoke of the affair, but when his troops were ordered away, soon after, he almost blenched as he gave good-by to Mary Marvin, and met her sad, reproachful look, though to his last day he never learned whether or no she had discovered Robert Lockwood's fate. LOVE AND RUM Back in the seventeenth century a number of Yankee traders arrived in Naugatuck to barter blankets, beads, buttons, Bibles, and brandy for skins, and there they met chief Toby and his daughter. Toby was not a pleasing person, but his daughter was well favored, and one of the traders told the chief that if he would allow the girl to go to Boston with him he would give to him--Toby--a quart of rum. Toby was willing enough. He would give a good deal for rum. But the daughter declined to be sold off in such a fashion unless--she coyly admitted--she could have half of the rum herself. Loth as he was to do so, Toby was brought to agree to this proposition, for he knew that rum was rare and good and girls were common and perverse, so the gentle forest lily took her mug of liquor and tossed it off. Now, it is not clear whether she wished to nerve herself for the deed that followed or whether the deed was a result of the tonic, but she made off from the paternal wigwam and was presently seen on the ledge of Squaw Rock, locally known also as High Rock, from which in another moment she had fallen. Toby had pursued her, and on finding her dead he vented a howl of grief and anger and flung the now empty rum-jug after her. A huge bowlder arose from the earth where it struck, and there it remains--a monument to the girl and a warning to Tobies. Another version of the story is that the girl sprang from the rock to escape the pursuit of a lover who was hateful to her, and who had her almost in his grasp when she made the fatal leap. In the crevice half-way up the cliff her spirit has often been seen looking regretfully into the rich valley that was her home, and on the 20th of March and 20th of September, in every year, it is imposed on her to take the form of a seven-headed snake, the large centre head adorned with a splendid carbuncle. Many have tried to capture the snake and secure this precious stone, for an old prophecy promises wealth to whoever shall wrest it from the serpent. But thus far the people of Connecticut have found more wealth in clocks and tobacco than in snakes and carbuncles. 
11028	----	This etext contains four articles that appeared in the "Journal of American Folk-Lore" (JAFL), all related to folklore in the Philippines. 1. "Philippine Folk-Tales," Clara Kern Bayliss, JAFL 15 : 46-53. 2. "Visayan Folk-Tales," Berton L. Maxfield and W. H. Millington, JAFL 19 : 97-112; JAFL 20 : 89-103; JAFL 20 : 311-318. 3. "Tagalog Folk-Tales," Fletcher Gardner, JAFL 20 : 104-120; 20 : 300-310. (including two shorter articles, 4. "A Filipino (Tagalog) Version of Aladdin" and 5. "Some Games of Filipino Children" by the same author.) 6. "Bagobo Myths," Laura Watson Benedict, JAFL 26 : 13-63. All are in the public domain. The multipart articles are joined together. This etext has been produced by Jeroen Hellingman Contents Philippine Folk-Tales. The Monkey and the Turtle. How the Farmer Deceived the Demon. Benito, the Faithful Servant. Visayan Folk-Tales. Introduction. How Jackyo Became Rich. Truth and Falsehood. Camanla and Parotpot. Juan, the Student. The Two Wives and the Witch. The Living Head. Juan Pusong. The Enchanted Ring. The Enchanted Shell. The Three Brothers. The Datto Somacuel. Magbolotó. Why Dogs Wag Their Tails. The Eagle and the Hen. The Spider and the Fly. The Battle of the Crabs. The Meeting of the Plants. Who Brings the Cholera? Masoy and the Ape. Arnomongo and Iput-Iput. The Snail and the Deer. Story of Ca Matsin and Ca Boo-Ug. Tagalog Folk-Tales. Juan Gathers Guavas. Juan Makes Gulay of his own Child. Juan Wins a Wager for the Governor. Juan Hides the Salt. The Man in the Shroud. The Adventures of Juan. The Aderna Bird. The Story of Juan and the Monkey. Juan the Drunkard who Visited Heaven. The Juan who Visited Heaven. The Sad Story of Juan and Maria. The Fifty-one Thieves. The Covetous King and the Three Children. The Silent Lover. The Priest, the Servant Boy, and the Child Jesus. The Story of Juan del Mundo de Austria and the Princess Maria. The Artificial Earthquake. The Queen and the Aeta Woman. The Child Saint. Tagalog Babes in the Woods. The King, the Princess, and the Poor Boy. Hidden Treasure. The Battle of the Enchanters. A Filipino (Tagalog) Version of Aladdin. Some Games of Filipino Children. Bagobo Myths Myths Associated with Natural Phenomena Cosmogony In the Days of the Mona Why the Sky Went Up Why the Sky Went Up The Sun and the Moon Origin of the Stars The Fate of the Moon's Baby The Black Men at the Door of the Sun Story of the Eclipse The "Ulit:" Adventures of Mythical Bagobo at the Dawn of Tradition Lumabat and Mebu'yan Story of Lumabat and Wari How Man Turned into a Monkey The Tuglibung and the Tuglay Adventures of the Tuglay The Tuglay and the Bia The Malaki's Sister and the Basolo The Mona Folk-Lore of the Buso How to See the Buso Buso and the Woman The Buso's Basket The Buso-Child The Buso-Monkey How the Moon Tricks the Buso The Buso and the Cat How a Dog Scared the Buso Story of Duling and the Tagamaling The S'iring How Iro Met the S'iring Animal Stories: Metamorphosis, Explanatory Tales, Etc. The Kingfisher and the Malaki The Woman and the Squirrel The Cat Why the Bagobo Likes the Cat How the Lizards got their Markings The Monkey and the Tortoise The Crow and the Golden Trees An Ata Story Alelu'k and Alebu'tud PART I Philippine Folk-Tales. [1] By Clara Kern Bayliss. CHAPTER 1 The Monkey and the Turtle. [2] One day a Monkey met a Turtle on the road, and asked, "Where are you going?" "I am going to find something to eat, for I have had no food for three whole days," said the Turtle. "I too am hungry," said the Monkey; "and since we are both hungry, let us go together and hunt food for our stomachs' sake." They soon became good friends and chatted along the way, so that the time passed quickly. Before they had gone far, the Monkey saw a large bunch of yellow bananas on a tree at a distance. "Oh, what a good sight that is!" cried he. "Don't you see the bananas hanging on that banana-tree? [pointing with his first finger toward the tree]. They are fine! I can taste them already." But the Turtle was short-sighted and could not see them. By and by they came near the tree, and then he saw them. The two friends were very glad. The mere sight of the ripe, yellow fruit seemed to assuage their hunger. But the Turtle could not climb the tree, so he agreed that the Monkey should go up alone and should throw some of the fruit down to him. The Monkey was up in a flash; and, seating himself comfortably, he began to eat the finest of the fruit, and forgot to drop any down to the Turtle waiting below. The Turtle called for some, but the Monkey pretended not to hear. He ate even the peelings, and refused to drop a bit to his friend, who was patiently begging under the tree. At last the Turtle became angry, very angry indeed: "so he thought he would revenge" (as my informant puts it). While the Monkey was having a good time, and filling his stomach, the Turtle gathered sharp, broken pieces of glass, and stuck them, one by one, all around the banana-tree. Then he hid himself under a cocoanut-shell not far away. This shell had a hole in the top to allow the air to enter. That was why the Turtle chose it for his hiding-place. The Monkey could not eat all the bananas, for there were enough to last a good-sized family several days; "but he ate all what he can," and by and by came down the tree with great difficulty, for the glass was so sharp that it cut even the tough hand of the Monkey. He had a hard time, and his hands were cut in many places. The Turtle thought he had his revenge, and was not so angry as before. But the Monkey was now very angry at the trick that had been played upon him, and began looking for the Turtle, intending to kill him. For some time he could not find his foe, and, being very tired, he sat down on the cocoanut-shell near by. His weariness increased his anger at the Turtle very much. He sat on the shell for a long time, suffering from his wounds, and wondering where to find the Turtle,--his former friend, but now his enemy. Because of the disturbance of the shell, the Turtle inside could not help making a noise. This the Monkey heard; and he was surprised, for he could not determine whence the sound came. At last he lifted his stool, and there found his foe the Turtle. "Ha! Here you are!" he cried. "Pray now, for it is the end of your life." He picked up the Turtle by the neck and carried him near the riverbank, where he meant to kill him. He took a mortar and pestle, and built a big fire, intending to pound him to powder or burn him to death. When everything was ready, he told the Turtle to choose whether he should die in the fire or be "grounded" in the mortar. The Turtle begged for his life; but when he found it was in vain, he prayed to be thrown into the fire or ground in the mortar,--anything except be thrown into the water. On hearing this, the Monkey picked the Turtle up in his bleeding fingers, and with all his might threw him into the middle of the stream. Then the Turtle was very glad. He chuckled at his own wit, and laughed at the foolishness of the Monkey. He came up to the surface of the water and mocked at the Monkey, saying, "This is my home. The water is my home." This made the Monkey so angry that he lost his self-possession entirely. He jumped into the middle of the river after the Turtle, and was drowned. Since that day monkeys and turtles have been bitter enemies. CHAPTER 2 How the Farmer Deceived the Demon. [3] Very many years ago, in a far-away land where the trees never changed their green leaves and where the birds always sang, there lived on an island a farmer with a large family. Though all alone on the island and knowing nothing of people in the outer world, they were always happy,--as happy as the laughing rills that rippled past their home. They had no great wealth, depending from year to year on the crops which the father raised. They needed no money, for they lacked nothing; and they never sold their produce, for no people were near to buy. One day in the middle of the year, after the crops were well started, a loud, unusual roar was heard. Suddenly a stiff gale blew up from the southwest, and with it came clouds which quickly hid the entire sky. The day turned to night. The birds ceased to sing and went to their nests. The wild beasts ran to their caves. The family sought shelter in the house from a heavy downpour of rain which continued for many days and nights. So long did it last that they became very anxious about the condition of things around them. On the eighth day the birds again began to sing, and the sun was, as usual, bright. The farmer arose early and went out to look at his fields, but, lo! his crop was all destroyed. He went back to the house and told the family that the water-god was angry and had washed away all that he had hoped to have for the coming year. What were they to do? The supply in the house was getting low and it was too late to raise another crop. The father worried night and day, for he did not know how he could keep his children from starvation. One day he made a long journey and came into a place that was strange to him. He had never before seen the like of it. But in the midst of a broad meadow he saw a tree with spreading branches like an elm, and as his legs and back were stiff from walking, he went over and sat down under it. Presently, looking up, he discovered that on the tree were large red fruits. He climbed up and brought some down, and after satisfying his hunger he fell asleep. He had not slept long when he was awakened by a loud noise. The owner of the place was coming. He was fearful to look upon. His body was like that of a person, but he was of enormous size; and he had a long tail, and two horns growing out of his head. The farmer was frightened and did not know what to do. He stood motionless till the master came up and began to talk to him. Then he explained that he had come there in search of food to keep his family alive. The monster was delighted to hear this, for he saw that he had the man and the man's family in his power. He told the traveller that in return for a certain promise he would help him out of his troubles. The demon, as he was called by some travellers to that land, showed the farmer a smooth, round stone, which, he said, gave its possessor the power of a magician. He offered to lend this to the farmer for five years, if at the expiration of that time the farmer and family would become his slaves. The farmer consented. Then the demon was glad. He said to the farmer, "You must squeeze the stone when you wish to become invisible; and must put it in your mouth when you wish to return to human form." The man tried the power of the magic stone. He squeezed it, and instantly became invisible to the demon; but he bade him farewell, and promised to meet him in the same place at the appointed time. In this invisible form the man crossed the water that washed the shore of the island on which he lived. There he found a people who lived in communities. He wanted something to eat, so he went into the shops; but he found that a restaurant owned by a Chinaman was the one to which most people of the city went. He put the stone in his mouth, thus appearing in visible form, and, entering the restaurant, ordered the best food he could find. He finished his meal quickly and went out. The waiter, perceiving that he did not pay, followed him. The man had no money; so he squeezed the stone and shot up into the air without being seen. The Chinaman, alarmed by the cry of the waiter, came out and ran in all directions, trying to find and catch the man. No one could find him; and the people thought he must indeed be a fast runner to escape so quickly, for they did not know of the gift of the demon. Not far from that place he saw groups of men and women going in and out of a large building. It was a bank. The farmer went in to see what he could find. There he saw bags of money, gold and silver. He chuckled with joy at this opportunity. In order to use his hands freely, he put the stone in his mouth; but before he could fill all his pockets with money, he was discovered by the two guards, who began to pound him on the head. He struggled to save his life, and finally took the stone out of his mouth and squeezed it. Instantly he vanished from their sight; but he was vexed at the beating he had received, so he carried off all the gold they had in the bank. The people inside as well as outside the building became crazy. They ran about in all directions, not knowing why. Some called the firemen, thinking the bank was on fire; but nothing had happened, except that the farmer was gone and the two guards were "half dead frightened." They danced up and down the streets in great excitement, but could not utter a word. Straight home went the farmer, not stopping by the way. His wife and children were awaiting him. He gave them the money, and told them all about the fortune which he had gotten from the man on their own island,--told all his secrets. Prosperous they became, and with the money which he had brought they purchased all they needed from the city just opposite them. The time passed so pleasantly that the man was surprised to discover that his promise would be due in two more days. He made preparations to go back to the land of his master. Arrived there, he met the same monster under the same tree. The demon was displeased to see the old man alone, without the family which also had been promised. He told the man that he would shut him in a cave and then would go and capture those left at home. But the farmer would not go to the cave. The demon tried to pull him into a deep hole. Both struggled; and at last the farmer squeezed the magic stone and disappeared. He took a green branch of the tree and beat the demon. The demon surrendered. He begged for mercy. The farmer went home, and from that day thought no more of the demon. He knew that while he held the stone the monster would never come to trouble him. And the family lived on in peace and happiness, as they had done before the water-god became angry with them. CHAPTER 3 Benito, the Faithful Servant. [4] On a time there lived in a village a poor man and his wife, who had a son named Benito. The one ambition of the lad from his earliest youth was that he might be a help to the family in their struggle for a living. But the years went by, and he saw no opportunity until one day, as they sat at dinner, his father fell to talking about the young King who lived at a distance from the village, in a beautiful palace kept by a retinue of servants. The boy was glad to hear this, and asked his parents to let him become one of the servants of this great ruler. The mother protested, fearing that her son could not please his Royal Majesty; but the boy was so eager to try his fortune that at last he was permitted to do so. The next day his mother prepared food for him to eat on the journey, and be started for the palace. The journey was tiresome; and when he reached the palace he had difficulty in obtaining an audience with the King. But when he succeeded and made known his wish, the monarch detected a charming personality hidden within the ragged clothes, and, believing the lad would make a willing servant, he accepted him. The servants of his Majesty had many duties. Theirs was not a life of ease, but of hard work. The very next day the King called Benito, and said, "I want you to bring me a certain beautiful princess who lives in a land across the sea; and if you fail to do it, you will be punished." Benito did not know how he was to do it; but he asked no questions, and unhesitatingly answered, "I will, my lord." That same day he provided himself with everything he needed for the journey and set off. He travelled a long distance until he came to the heart of a thick forest, where he saw a large bird which said to him, "Oh, my friend! please take away these strings that are wrapped all about me. If you will, I will help you whenever you call upon me." Benito released the bird and asked it its name. It replied, "Sparrow-hawk," and flew away. Benito continued his journey until he came to the seashore. There he could see no way of getting across, and, remembering what the King had said if he failed, he stood looking out over the sea, feeling very sad. The huge King of the Fishes saw him, and swam toward him. "Why are you so sad?" asked the Fish. "I wish to cross the sea to find the beautiful Princess," replied the youth. "Get on my back and I will take you across," said the King of the Fishes. Benito rode on the back of the Fish and crossed the sea. As soon as he reached the other side, a fairy in the form of a woman appeared to him, and became a great aid to him in his adventure. She knew exactly what he wanted; so she told him that the Princess was shut up in a castle guarded by giants, and that he would have to fight the giants before he could reach her. For this purpose she gave him a magic sword, which would kill on the instant anything it touched. Benito now felt sure he could take the Princess from her cruel guardsmen. He went to the castle, and there he saw many giants round about it. When the giants saw him coming, they went out to meet him, thinking to take him captive. They were so sure that they could easily do it, that they went forth unarmed. As they came near, he touched the foremost ones with his sword, and one after another they fell down dead. The other giants, seeing so many of their number slain, became terrified, and fled, leaving the castle unguarded. The young man went to the Princess and told her that his master had sent him to bring her to his palace. The young Princess was only too glad to leave the land of the giants, where she had been held captive. So the two set out together for the King's palace. When they came to the sea they rode across it on the back of the same fish that had carried Benito. They went through the forest, and at last came to the palace. Here they were received with the greatest rejoicings. After a short time the King asked the Princess to become his wife. "I will, O King!" she replied, "if you will get the ring I lost in the sea as I was crossing it." The monarch called Benito, and ordered him to find the ring which had been lost on their journey from the land of the giants. Obedient to his master, Benito started, and travelled on and on till he came to the shore of the sea. There he stood, gazing sadly out over the waters, not knowing how he was to search for what lay at the bottom of the deep ocean. Again the King of the Fishes came to him, asking the cause of his sadness. Benito replied, "The Princess lost her ring while we were crossing the sea, and I have been sent to find it." The King-Fish summoned all the fishes to come to him. When they had assembled, he noticed that one was missing. He commanded the others to search for this one, and bring it to him. They found it under a stone, and it said, "I am so full! I have eaten so much that I cannot swim." So the larger ones took it by the tail and dragged it to their King. "Why did you not come when summoned?" asked the King-Fish. "I was so full I could not swim," replied the Fish. The King-Fish, suspecting that it had swallowed the ring, ordered it to be cut in two. The others cut it open, and, behold I there was the lost ornament. Benito thanked the King of the Fishes, took the ring, and brought it to the monarch. When the great ruler got the ring, he said to the Princess, "Now that I have your ring, will you become my wife?" "I will be your wife," replied the Princess, "if you will find the earring I lost in the forest as I was journeying with Benito." Instantly Benito was called, and was ordered to find the lost jewel. He was very weary from his former journey; but, mindful of his duty, he started for the forest, reaching it before the day was over. He searched for the earring faithfully, following the road which he and the Princess had taken; but all in vain. He was much discouraged, and sat down under a tree to rest. To his surprise a mouse of monstrous size appeared before him. It was the King of the Mice. "Why are you so sad?" asked the Mouse. "I am searching for an earring which the Princess lost as we passed through the forest, but am unable to find it." "I will find it for you," said the King-Mouse. Benito's face brightened at hearing this. The King-Mouse called all his followers, and all but one little mouse responded. Then the King of the Mice ordered some of his subjects to find the absent one. They found him in a small hole among the bamboo-trees. He said he could not go because he was so satisfied (sated). So the others pulled him along to their master; and he, finding that there was something hard within the little mouse, ordered him to be cut open. It was done; and there was the very earring for which the tired servant was looking. Benito took it, thanked the King of the Mice, and brought the earring to his own King. When the monarch received it, he immediately restored it to its owner and asked, "Will you now become my wife?" "Oh, dear King!" responded the Princess, "I have only one more thing to ask of you; and if you will grant it, I will be your wife forever." The King, pleased with his former successes, said, "Tell me what it is, and it shall be granted." "If you will get some water from heaven," said the Princess, "and some water from the nether-world, I will become your wife. That is my last wish." The King called Benito, and commanded him to get water from these two places. "I will, my King," said Benito; and he took some provisions and started. He came to the forest; but there he became confused, for he did not know in which direction to go to reach either of the places. Suddenly he recalled the promise of the bird he had helped the first time he entered the wood. He called the bird, and it soon appeared. He told it what he wanted, and it said, "I will get it for you." He made two cups of bamboo, and tied one to each of the bird's legs. They were very light, and did not hinder the bearer at all. Away the bird flew, going very fast. Before the day was ended, it came back with each cup full of water, and told Benito that the one tied to its right leg contained water from heaven, and the one tied to its left leg contained water from the nether-world. Benito untied the cups, taking great care of them. He was about to leave, when the bird asked him to tarry long enough to bury it, as the places to which it had been were so far away that it was weary unto death. Benito did not like to bury the bird, but he soon saw that it really was dying, so he waited; and when it was dead, he buried it, feeling very sorry over the loss of so helpful a friend. He went back to the palace and delivered the two kinds of water to his master. The Princess then asked the King to cut her in two and pour the water from heaven upon her. The King was not willing to do it, so she did it herself, asking the King to pour the water. This he did, and, lo! the Princess turned into the most beautiful woman that ever the sun shone on. Then the King was desirous of becoming handsome; so he asked the Princess to pour the other cup of water over him after he cut himself. He cut himself, and she poured over his body the water from the nether-world; but from him there arose a spirit more ugly and ill-favored than imagination could picture. Fortunately, it soon vanished from sight. The Princess then turned to Benito, and said, "You have been faithful in your duties to your master, kind to me in restoring the jewels I lost, and brave in delivering me from the cruel giants. You are the man I choose for my husband." Benito could not refuse so lovely a lady. They were married amid great festivities, and became the king and queen of that broad and fertile land. Benito gave his parents one of the finest portions of his kingdom, and furnished them with everything they could desire. From that time on they were all very happy,--so happy that the story of their bliss has come down through the centuries to us. PART II Visayan Folk-Tales. Introduction. These stories are intended to bring before the American public a few of the tales related by Visayan parents to their children, or by the public story-teller in the market, as the people gather to buy the material for the evening meal. It was only toward the close of a three years' stay in the Islands, in one province, and in neighboring places, and after a fair acquaintance with Spanish and a little knowledge of the native dialect had enabled us to obtain a closer insight into the home life of our pupils than would otherwise have been possible, that we ventured upon the collection of these tales, hoping that they might prove of interest to people at home. Many of the stories were written by our boys and girls as part of their work in English composition. Others were prepared by the native teachers, some of whom had been well educated by the Spaniards and had already learned to write very fair English. Indeed, a few were able, at about the time that these stories were written, to pass the civil service examination for appointment as insular teachers. The articles on the superstitious beliefs of the people were prepared by one of these teachers, so that they might be as nearly correct as possible. As might be expected, the stories are often very crude and simple, presenting no difficult situations nor intricate plots. Sometimes they resemble well-known tales from other lands, although great care has been taken to collect only those from original sources. The tales here presented were collected during the spring of 1904, in the island of Panay, belonging to the Visayan group of the Philippine Islands, and were obtained in our own class rooms, from native teachers and pupils. Mr. Maxfield was stationed at Iloilo, and Mr. Millington at Mandurriao, places five miles apart. We daily came in contact with about one thousand pupils. The tales were gathered in both places, and were found to be substantially alike, the differences being only in petty details. After collecting one version, we endeavored to ascertain whether the same narrative was current among natives in other localities of the island. We were surprised to discover that they seemed to be known wherever we became acquainted with the people and had obtained their confidence sufficiently to induce them to talk freely. There were often variations, but the framework was always the same. If any stories were obtained from native teachers who knew Spanish, we have always verified them by getting children or natives from other places, who knew no Spanish, to relate them, in order to assure ourselves that the narrative could not be a mere translation of a Spanish tale. We who have collected these stories can claim little credit for any more than the mere arrangement of them, as, so far as possible, even the wording of the original manuscripts has been retained. Doubtless, much of the interest we have felt in the work is due to our personal acquaintance with the writers who put on paper for us these simple tales, yet we hope that they will not be wholly unattractive to those for whose sake they have been collected. February, 1906. B. L. M. W. H. M. CHAPTER 1 How Jackyo Became Rich. A long time ago there was a young man whose name was Jackyo. He was very poor, and by his daily labor could earn barely enough for his food and nothing at all for his clothes. He had a little farm at some distance from the village in which he lived, and on it raised a few poor crops. One pleasant afternoon Jackyo started off to visit his farm. It was late when he reached it, and after he had finished inspecting his crops, he turned back homewards. But the bright day had gone and the sun had set. Night came on quickly, and the way was dark and lonely. At last he could no longer see the road. Not a star was to be seen, and the only sounds he heard were the sad twitterings of the birds and soft rustling of the leaves as they were moved by the wind. At last he entered a thick forest where the trees were very big. "What if I should meet some wild beast," thought Jackyo; but he added half aloud, "I must learn to be brave and face every danger." It was not long before he was very sure that he could hear a deep roar. His heart beat fast, but he walked steadily forward, and soon the roar was repeated, this time nearer and more distinctly, and he saw in the dim light a great wild ox coming towards him. He found a large hole in the trunk of a huge tree. "I will pass the night here in this tree," he said to himself. In a little while an old man appeared. His body was covered with coarse hair and he was very ugly. He looked fiercely at Jackyo from head to foot and said: "What are you thinking of to come in here? Do you not know that this is the royal castle of the king of evil spirits?" Jackyo became more frightened than before and for a long time he could not speak, but at last he stammered: "Excuse me, sir, but I cannot go home on account of the dark night. I pray you to let me rest here for a short time." "I cannot let you stay here, because our king is not willing to help any one who does not belong to his kingdom. If he did so, his kingdom would be lost. But what is your name? Do you know how to sing?" said the old man. "My name is Jackyo, and I know a little bit about singing," replied Jackyo. "Well," said the old man, "if you know any song, sing for me." Now Jackyo knew but one song, and that was about the names of the days of the week except Sunday. He did not like to sing it, but the old man urged him, saying: "If you do not sing, I will cut your head off." So Jackyo began to sing. It happened that the king [5] of the evil spirits, whose name was Mensaya, heard Jackyo's song and was very much interested in it. He called a servant, named Macquil, and said: "Macquil, go downstairs and see who is singing down there, and when you find him, bring him to me." Jackyo went before the king, bowed to the floor, touching the carpet with his forehead, and stood humbly before the king. "Let me hear your song," said the king. So Jackyo, with great respect, sang the only song he knew. Here it is: Mon-day, Tues-day, Wednesday, Thurs-day, Fri-day, Sat-ur-day. While he was singing, all the evil spirits in the cave gathered around him to hear his song, and Mensaya asked him to sing it over and over again. They were all so pleased with it that Mensaya ordered Macquil to give Jackyo a large quantity of gold and silver as a reward for his beautiful song. When the morning came Jackyo returned home, full of joy, and became known as the richest man in the village. CHAPTER 2 Truth and Falsehood. One day Truth started for the city to find some work. On his way he overtook Falsehood, who was going to the city for the same purpose. Falsehood asked permission to ride on the horse with Truth, and his request was granted. On the way they questioned each other as to the sort of work they wanted. Truth stated that he intended to be a secretary, so that he might always be clean and white. Falsehood declared that he would be a cook, because then he would always have plenty of fine things to eat. As they were riding along, they met a man carrying a corpse to the cemetery. He had no one to help him, and Truth, in his great pity for the man, jumped off his horse and helped him. After the corpse was buried, Truth asked: "Did you pray for the repose of the soul of the dead?" "No," was the reply, "I do not know how to pray, and I have no money to pay the priest for candles." Then Truth gave the man all the money he had, that he might have prayers said for the dead man, and went back to his companion. When dinner time came, Falsehood was very angry at finding out that Truth had given all his money away, but finally proposed that they should go to the river and catch some fish for dinner. When they arrived at the river, they found some fish which had been caught in a shallow pool near the bank, and caught all they wanted. But Truth was very sorry for the fish, and threw his half back into the river. Falsehood murmured at him and said: "It would have been better for you to give them to me. If I had known that you would throw them into the river, I would not have given you any of them." Then they rode on. As they were going through a thick wood in the heart of the mountain they heard a noise as of crying, far away. Truth went forward to find what it was, but Falsehood, trembling with fear, hid himself close behind his comrade. At last they saw seven little eagles in a nest high in a tree. They were crying with hunger, and their mother was nowhere to be seen. Truth was sorry for them, and killed his horse, giving some of the meat to the young eagles, and spreading the rest on the ground beneath the tree, so that the mother-bird might find it. Falsehood hated his comrade for having killed the horse, because now they were obliged to travel on foot. They went down the mountain, and entering the city, presented themselves before the king, desiring to be taken into his service, the one as secretary and the other as cook. The king granted both requests. When Falsehood saw that his former companion sat at the table with the king and was always clean and dressed in good clothes, while he himself was dirty and had to eat in the kitchen, he was very angry and determined to do something to ruin the one whom now he hated so bitterly. One day the king and queen went to sail on the sea. As they were far from land, the queen dropped her ring overboard. When Falsehood heard of the accident, he went to the king and said: "My Lord, the King, my friend--your secretary--has told me that he was endowed with magic powers and is able to find the queen's ring. He says if he does not find it he is willing for you to hang him." The king immediately sent for Truth, and said to him: "Find the queen's ring without delay, or I will have you hanged early to-morrow morning." Truth went down to the shore, but seeing how impossible it would be to find the ring, began to weep. A fish came near, and floating on top of the water, asked, "Why are you weeping?" "I weep," Truth replied, "because the king will hang me early to-morrow morning unless I find the queen's ring, which has fallen into the sea." The fish swam out and got the ring and gave it to Truth. Then he said: "I am one of the fishes which you found on the bank of the river and threw back into the water. As you helped me when I was in trouble, I am very glad that I have been able to help you now." On another day, Falsehood went to the king and said: "My Lord King, do you remember what I told you the other day?" "Yes," replied the king, "and I believe you told me the truth, as the ring has been found." "Well," replied Falsehood, "my friend told me last night that he is a great magician and that he is willing for you to hang him in the sight of all the people, since it will not hurt him." The king sent for Truth and told him: "I know what you have said to your friend. To-morrow I will have you hanged in the sight of all the people, and we will see whether you are the great magician you claim to be." That night Truth could not sleep. About midnight, as he was in great distress, a spirit suddenly appeared to him and asked what was the cause of his grief. Truth related his trouble, and the spirit said: "Do not weep. To-morrow morning I will take your form and wear your clothes, and let them hang me." The next morning, just at dawn, the spirit put on Truth's clothes and went out to be hanged. Many people came to see the hanging, and after it was over, returned to their homes. What was the astonishment of the king and those with him when, upon their return to the palace, they found Truth there before them, alive and well! That night the spirit appeared to Truth and said: "I am the spirit of the dead man for whom you gave your money that prayers might be said for the repose of his soul." Then it disappeared. On another day Falsehood appeared before the king and said: "My Lord the King, my friend the secretary told me last night that if you would let him marry your daughter, in one night his wife should bring forth three children." The king sent for Truth and said: "I will give you my daughter to be your wife and if to-night she does not bear three children, I will have you buried alive to-morrow morning." So they were married. But at midnight, as Truth lay awake thinking of the fate that was in store for him in the morning, an eagle flew through the window, and asked the cause of his sorrow. Truth related his tale, and the eagle said: "Do not worry; I will take care of that." Then he flew away, but just before the break of day three eagles came, each bearing a new-born babe. Truth awakened the princess and said to her: "My dear wife, these are our children. We must love them and take good care of them." Then the king, who had been awakened by the noise of children crying, sent to ask what it was all about. When he heard the news he came into the tower where the princess was, and when he saw the children he was overcome with joy; for he had no sons, and greatly desired to have an heir to his throne. So the king made a great feast and gave over his crown and sceptre to his son-in-law, to be king in his stead. Thus we see that those who help others when in trouble shall themselves be aided when they are in difficulty. CHAPTER 3 Camanla and Parotpot. Camanla was a very poor but very busy man, and always praising his own work. When he talked with other people he ended every third or fourth word with "la," which was the last syllable of his name and is a word of praise. One day he made a boat, and when it was finished he began to talk to it. These were his words: "My boat, la, you may go, la, to find a pretty lady, la, for my wife, la, to make me happy, la." Then his boat started to sail without anybody to manage it. When she reached a large town she stopped in the river, near where the pretty daughters of some rich men of the town were taking a walk. They were accustomed to take any boat they might find and use it when they wished to cross the river, returning in the same way. As Camanla's boat was there and looked very fine, the young ladies decided to cross the river in it. The youngest was the first to jump into the boat. When the little boat felt that some one had come on board, she ran away, carrying the lady. When Camanla saw his boat coming, he began to praise it, saying: "My boat, la, is coming, la, to bring me, la, my pretty lady, to marry me, la." Very soon the boat anchored, and he went down to receive the lady, whom he soon married. Then was Camanla happy, but one day he had no food to give his wife, so he made a little taon, or fish trap, and said to it: "My pretty taon, la, you may go, la, to the river, la, to get me some fish, la." The taon then walked toward the river, and soon came back, full of fish. Camanla was an object of envy to all the world. His happiness was soon heard of by his friend Parotpot, who became very envious. At last he went to Camanla's house. When he met his friend, he said to him: "You are very happy, my friend, and I envy you." Camanla replied: "Yes, I am very fortunate. I have my little boat that sails every day to get my food, and a little taon that goes to the river and brings me fine fish." Parotpot returned sadly home. He concluded to build a boat like his friend's, but Parotpot, when he talked, ended every third or fourth word with "pot," (pronounced po) the ending of his name: This word has a scornful meaning. When the boat was finished, he began to talk to it as follows: "My boat, pot, you may go, pot, to find me a wife, pot, prettier than my friend's wife, pot." The boat sailed away, and reached a large river, just as some men were looking for a boat to take across the body of their grandmother, in order to bury it in the cemetery of the town. When they saw the boat they were glad to get across the river so easily, so they lifted the body and placed it in the boat. When the boat felt that something was on board, she sailed swiftly towards home, leaving the men behind. Parotpot was watching, and when he saw the boat coming, he began to talk thus: "My boat, pot, is coming, pot, to bring me, pot, a pretty lady, pot, to marry me, pot." But, alas! a dead grandmother, instead of a pretty lady! He was so angry that he seized his bolo and chopped the boat to pieces, leaving the body to float away. But Parotpot thought that he might succeed better with a fish-trap, like his friend Camanla's. When he had finished it, he sent it to the river, saying: "My taon, pot, go now to the river, pot, and catch many fishes, pot, for my dinner, pot." The taon went. It was Sunday and the people of the town were killing cattle for their Sunday dinner, and throwing the waste into the river. All this filth floated into the taon and filled it. Then it ran back home. While the taon had been gone, Parotpot had been making preparations for a great dinner. He cooked the rice and washed the dishes, and then invited his friends to come to his house and share his excellent dinner. When he saw the taon coming, he said: "My taon, pot, is coming now, pot, to bring me many fine fish, pot, for my dinner, pot." When his neighbors saw what was in the taon, they laughed, and Parotpot said: "I can never be as happy as my friend Camanla." Then he took the taon and threw it into the fire. CHAPTER 4 Juan, the Student. There was once a poor couple who lived happily in a quiet place. They had one son, named Juan, whom at first they loved very much; but afterwards, either because their extreme poverty made it difficult for them to support him, or because of his wickedness and waywardness, they began to hate him, and made plans to kill him. In order to carry out this purpose, the father called his son to him one evening, and said: "My son, to-morrow we will go to the mountain to get some lumber with which to repair our house. I want you to prepare our breakfast very early, so that we may set out before the sun rises." On the next morning they arose very early and ate their breakfast. As it consisted only of rice and a few small fishes, it was soon finished, and they set out for the mountain. When they had arrived at a lonely spot, the man seized his son and fastened him to a large tree. Then he took his bolo and cut down the tree in such a way as to cause it to fall on the boy and kill him. Then he returned home, thinking that he should have no more trouble on account of his son. Early the next morning, the man heard a noise as of some one approaching the house. On opening a window he perceived his son, whom he supposed he had killed on the previous day, coming towards the house and bearing a heavy load of wood. When the boy had come near he asked where he should put the wood. At first the father was too much frightened to reply, but at last he told his son to put the wood down near the house. For a long time Juan lived at home, but his parents hated him continually, and at last decided to give him poison. One day they sent him on a long trip, giving him seven pieces of poisoned bread for his food along the way. When he had become weary and hungry from walking, he sat down under a tree and began to open the handkerchief to get from it some of the bread to eat. Suddenly a number of crows flew down from the tree, seized the bread, ate it, and almost immediately died. The boy at once perceived the intention of his parents and returned home. As soon as he arrived there, he declared to his father and mother his intention of leaving them and going elsewhere to live. As soon as they heard him, they were full of joy, and readily gave him the desired permission. He went to a distant town, and decided to study. He made such progress that his teachers were charmed with his diligence. He was very fond of debates with his schoolmates, and one day asked them the following riddle: "Two tried to kill one, one killed seven, two were left, and one went away." They searched through the books for the answer to the riddle, but as they were unable to find it, they agreed that Juan was the cleverest one among them, since they could not answer his riddle. One day the student met a young lady to whom he gave the riddle. She asked for a little time in which to study it, and this being granted, went home, disguised herself as a young man and, returning, asked Juan to tell the answer to the riddle. "For I know," she said, "that many students have tried to find the solution of this riddle, but have not been successful." Juan finally granted her request, and told her the answer to the riddle, which was the story of his life. Then the young lady returned home, put on her own clothes, and went back to the student's house, to give him the answer to his riddle. When Juan heard her answer, he thought her a very clever young woman, since she had succeeded where so many young men had failed, so he fell in love with the young lady and married her. CHAPTER 5 The Two Wives and the Witch. There was once a man who had a wife that was not pretty. He became tired of looking at her, and so went away and married another wife. His first wife was in great sorrow, and wept every day. One day as she was crying by the well, where she had gone for water, a woman asked her: "Why are you weeping?" The wife answered: "Because my husband has left me and gone to live with another wife." "Why?" said the witch, for that is what the woman was. "Because I have not a pretty face," answered the wife. While she was talking the witch touched the wife's face, and then she said: "I cannot stay here any longer," and went off. When the wife reached home she looked in the glass and saw that her face had been changed until it was the most beautiful in the town. Very soon a rumor spread through the town that in such and such a house there was living a very beautiful woman. Many young men went to see the pretty woman, and all were pleased with her beauty. The bad husband went also. He was astonished that his wife was not at home, and that a pretty woman was living there alone. He bowed to the lady and avowed his love. The lady at first refused to believe him, and said: "If you will leave the woman who is now your wife and come to live with me right along I will take you for my husband." The man agreed, and went to live with the pretty woman. The other woman was very angry when she heard the news, for it was reported that the pretty woman was the man's first wife, who had been changed by a witch. She determined to try what the witch could do for her, and went to get water at the same well. The witch appeared and asked: "Why are you weeping, my good woman?" The woman told her that her husband had gone away to live with the pretty woman. As she was speaking, the witch touched her face, and said: "Go home, my good woman, and do not weep, for your husband will come very soon to see you." When she heard this she ran home as fast as she could. All the people whom she met on the road were afraid of her, because she was so ugly. Her nose was about two feet long, her ears looked like large handkerchiefs, and her eyes were as big as saucers. Nobody recognized her, not even her mother. All were afraid of such a creature. When she saw in the glass how ugly she was, she refused to eat, and in a few days she died. CHAPTER 6 The Living Head. There once lived a man and his wife who had no children. They earnestly desired to have a son, so they prayed to their God, Diva, that he would give them a son, even if it were only a head. Diva pitied them, and gave them a head for a son. Head, for that was his name, grew up, and gradually his father and mother ceased to think of his misfortune, and grew to love him very much. One day Head saw the chief's daughter pass the house, and fell in love with her. "Mother," he said, "I am in love with the chief's daughter and wish to marry her. Go now, I pray you, to the chief and ask him to give me his daughter to be my wife." "Dear Head," answered his mother, "it is of no use to go on such an errand, the chief's daughter will surely not be willing to marry only a head." But Head insisted, so, in order to quiet him, his mother went to the chief and made known her son's desire. Of course she met with a refusal, and returned home and told Head the result of her errand. Head went downstairs into the garden and began to sink into the ground. "Head, come up," said his mother, "and let us eat." "Sink! sink! sink!" cried Head. "Head, come up and let us eat!" repeated his mother. "Sink! sink! sink!" was Head's answer, and he continued to sink until he could no longer be seen. His mother tried in vain to take him out. After a while a tree sprang up just where Head had sunk, and in a short time it bore large, round fruit, almost as large as a child's head. This is the origin of the orange-tree. CHAPTER 7 Juan Pusong. The Visayans tell many stories which have as their hero Juan Pusong, or Tricky John. As the name implies, he is represented as being deceitful and dishonest, sometimes very cunning, and, in some of the stories told of him, endowed with miraculous power. The stories are very simple and of not very great excellence. The few which follow will serve as samples of the narratives told of this popular hero. I. Juan Pusong was a lazy boy. Neither punishment nor the offer of a reward could induce him to go to school, but in school-time he was always to be found on the plaza, playing with the other boys. His mother, however, believed him to be in school, and each day prepared some dainty for him to eat upon his return home. Juan was not satisfied with deceiving his mother in this way, but used to play tricks on her. "Mother," he said, one day, "I have already learned to be a seer and to discover what is hidden. This afternoon when I come home from school I will foretell what you have prepared for me." "Will you?" said his mother joyfully, for she believed all he said, "I will try to prepare something new and you will not be able to guess it." "I shall, mother, I shall, let it be whatever it may," answered Juan. When it was time to go to school, Juan pretended to set out, but instead he climbed a tree which stood near the kitchen, and hiding himself among the leaves, watched through the window all that his mother did. His mother baked a bibingca, or cake made of rice and sweet potato, and hid it in a jar. "I will bet anything," she said, "that my son will not guess what it is." Juan laughed at his mother's self-conceit. When it was time for school to close he got down, and with a book in his hand, as though he had really come from school, appeared before his mother and said: "Mother, I know what you are keeping for me." "What is it?" asked his mother. "The prophecy that I have just learned at school says that there is a bibingca hidden in the olla." The mother became motionless with surprise. "Is it possible?" she asked herself, "my son is indeed a seer. I am going to spread it abroad. My son is a seer." The news was spread far and wide and many people came to make trial of Pusong's powers. In these he was always successful, thanks to his ability to cheat. II. One day a ship was anchored in the harbor. She had come from a distant island. Her captain had heard of Pusong's power and wished to try him. The trial consisted in foretelling how many seeds the oranges with which his vessel was loaded contained. He promised to give Juan a great quantity of money if he could do this. Pusong asked for a day's time. That night he swam out to the vessel, and, hidden in the water under the ship's stern, listened to the conversation of the crew. Luckily they were talking about this very matter of the oranges, and one of them inquired of the captain what kind of oranges he had. "My friend," said the captain, "these oranges are different from any in this country, for each contains but one seed." Pusong had learned all that he needed to know, so he swam back to the shore, and the next morning announced that he was ready for the trial. Many people had assembled to hear the great seer. Pusong continued to read in his book, as though it was the source of his information. The hour agreed upon struck, and the captain of the vessel handed an orange to Juan and said: "Mr. Pusong, you may tell us how many seeds this orange contains." Pusong took the orange and smelled it. Then he opened his book and after a while said: "This orange you have presented me with contains but one seed." The orange was cut and but the one seed found in it, so Pusong was paid the money. Of course he obtained a great reputation throughout the country, and became very rich. III. Juan Pusong's father drove his cows out one day to pasture. Juan slipped secretly from the house, and going to the pasture, took the cows into the forest and tied them there. When his father was going for the cows he met Juan and asked: "Where did you come from?" The boy replied: "I have just come from school. What are you looking for?" "I am looking for our cows," said his father. "Why did n't you tell me that before," asked Juan. "Wait a minute," and he took his little book from his pocket and, looking into it, said: "Our cows are in such a place in the forest, tied together. Go and get them." So his father went to the place where Juan said the cows were and found them. Afterwards it was discovered that Juan could not read even his own name, so his father beat him for the trick he had played. IV. Pusong and Tabloc-laui. Pusong had transgressed the law, and was for this reason put into a cage to be in a short time submerged with it into the sea. Tabloc-laui, a friend of Pusong's, passed by and saw him in the cage. "What are you there for?" Tabloc-laui asked. "Oh!" answered Pusong, "I am a prisoner here, as you see, because the chief wants me to marry his daughter and I don't want to do it. I am to stay here until I consent." "What a fool you are!" said Tabloc-laui. "The chief's daughter is pretty, and I am surprised that you are not willing to marry her." "Hear me, Tabloc-laui!" said the prisoner. "If you want to marry the chief's daughter, let me out and get in here in my place; for tomorrow they will come and ask you if you will consent. Then you will be married at once." "I am willing!" exclaimed Tabloc-laui. "Get out and I will take your place!" Next morning the chief ordered his soldiers to take the cage with the prisoner to the sea and submerge it in the water. Tabloc-laui, on seeing the soldiers coming toward him, thought they would make inquiries of him as Pusong had said. "I am ready now," he said, "I am ready to be the princess's husband." "Is this crazy fellow raving?" asked the soldiers. "We are ordered to take you and submerge you in the sea." "But," objected Tabloc-laui, "I am ready now to marry the chief's daughter." He was carried to the sea and plunged into the water, in spite of his crying, "I am not Pusong! I am Tabloc-laui!" The next week the chief was in his boat, going from one fish-trap to another, to inspect them. Pusong swam out to the boat. The chief, on seeing him, wondered, for he believed that Pusong was dead. "How is this?" he asked. "Did you not drown last week?" "By no means. I sank to the bottom, but I found that there was no water there. There is another world where the dead live again. I saw your father and he charged me to bid you go to him, and afterwards you will be able to come back here, if you wish to do so." "Is that really true, Pusong?" asked the chief. "Yes, it is really true," was the reply. "Well, I will go there. I will have a cage made and go through the way you did." So the next morning the chief was submerged in the water, with the hope of coming back. When a considerable time had elapsed without seeing his return, his servants searched for Pusong, in order to punish him, but he had escaped to the mountains. V. The Enchanted Prince. There was once a king who had three young and beautiful daughters named Isabel, Catalina, and Maria. In the capital city of the kingdom lived a young man known by the name of Juan Pusong. He had as friends an ape, named Amo-Mongo, and a wildcat, whose name was Singalong. The three friends were passing one day in front of the palace, and, seeing the three young ladies, were greatly charmed by their beauty. Pusong, who posed as a young aristocrat of considerable learning, determined to go before the king and declare his love for the Princess Isabel. The king received him favorably, and offered him a seat; but Juan refused to sit down until he should know the result of his request. The king was astonished at his manner, and asked him what he wanted. Juan replied that he had presumptuously allowed himself to be charmed by the beauty of the Princess Isabel, and humbly requested the king's consent to their marriage. The king had the princess summoned before him, and in the presence of Pusong asked her if she would accept this man as her husband. She dutifully expressed her willingness to do whatever her father wished, so the king granted the request of Pusong, who was immediately married to Isabel. When Amo-Mongo saw how successful Pusong had been, he presented himself before the king, as his friend had done, and requested the hand of the Princess Catalina. The king, somewhat unwillingly, gave his consent, and these two were also married. When Singalong saw to what high positions his friends had attained, he became desirous of like fortune, so he went to the king and obtained his consent to his marriage with the Princess Maria. All three of the king's sons-in-law lived with their wives at the palace, at the king's expense. The latter seeing that his daughters' husbands were lazy fellows, determined to make them useful, so he sent Pusong and Amo-Mongo out to take charge of his estates in the country, while to Singalong he gave the oversight of the servants who worked in the kitchen of the palace. Pusong and Amo-Mongo went out to the hacienda with the intention of doing something, but when they arrived there, they found so much to do that they concluded that it would be impossible to attend to everything and so decided to do nothing. The latter, after merely looking over the estate, entered the forest, in order to visit his relatives there. His fellow monkeys, who knew of his marriage with the princess, believed him to be of some importance, and begged him to save them from the famine which was devastating the forest. This Amo-Mongo, with much boasting of his wealth, promised to do, declaring that at the time of harvest he would give them plenty of rice. When Pusong and his companion returned to the palace they were asked by the king how many acres they had cleared. They replied that they had cleared and planted about one thousand acres. The king was satisfied with their answer, and, at Amo-Mongo's request, gave orders for a large quantity of rice to be carried from the storehouse to the spot in the forest where his son-in-law had promised the monkeys that they should find it. On the other hand, Singalong during the day did nothing, and as the king never saw him at work he disliked his third son-in-law very much. Yet every morning there were great piles of fish and vegetables in the palace kitchen. Amo-Mongo, knowing that his brother-in-law usually went out at night in order to bring something home, contrived to get up early and see what there was in the kitchen, so as to present it to the king as the result of his own labors. In this way, Amo-Mongo became each day dearer and dearer to the king, while Singalong became more and more disliked. Maria knew that her husband procured their food in some way, for every morning he said to her: "All that you see here I have brought." However, the king knew nothing of all this. When the early harvest time came, the king commanded Amo-Mongo to bring rice to make pilipig. (Rice pounded into flakes and toasted, a dish of which Filipinos are very fond.) Amo-Mongo did not know where he could find it, but set out in the direction from which he had seen Singalong coming each morning, and soon came to an extensive rice-field bearing an abundant crop. He took a goodly portion of it and, returning to the palace, had the pilipig prepared and set before the king and his household. Every one ate of it, except Singalong, who was the real owner, and his wife, who had been secretly notified by him of the truth of the matter. Maria was greatly perplexed by what her husband had told her, so she determined one night to watch him. She discovered that, as soon as the other people were asleep, her husband became transformed into a handsome prince and left the palace, leaving behind him his cat's dress. As soon as he had gone, Maria took the cast-off clothing of her husband and cast it into the fire. Singalong smelt it burning and returned to the palace, where he found his wife and begged her to return to him his cat's dress. This she was unable to do, since it was entirely consumed. As a result, Singalong was obliged to retain the form of a prince, but he was afraid to appear before the king in this guise, and so hid himself. In the morning, Maria went to the king and told him the truth about her husband. Her father, however, thought that she was crazy, and when she insisted, invited her to accompany him to Amo-Mongo's farm, in order to convince her of her error. Many people went with them, and Amo-Mongo led them to the farm, which was really Singalong's, but told them that it belonged to himself. Besides other things, Singalong had planted many fruits, among them atimon and candol. Amo-Mongo, seeing the diversity of fruits, began to eat all he could, until he became unable to move a step. Whenever his wife urged him to come away, he would take an atimon under his arm and a candol or so in his hands, until at last his wife, angry at his greediness, gave him a push which caused him to fall headlong, striking his head against a stone and being instantly killed. Then Singalong, who had secretly followed the crowd from the palace, showed himself to the king in his proper form. After making suitable explanations, he led them to a fine palace in the middle of the hacienda. There they all lived together, but Pusong and his wife, who in former times had treated Singalong very harshly, giving him only the bones and scraps from the table, were now obliged to act as servants in the kitchen of the king's new palace. CHAPTER 8 The Enchanted Ring. There was once a king who had suffered for a long time with a painful disease, in spite of all the efforts of the doctors to cure it. At last he caused a proclamation to be made that whoever could cure him should marry his daughter as a reward. One day a snake appeared before the king and asked permission to cure him. The king at first refused, but the snake said that his body contained some gall whose power to cure was wonderful, so the king consented to try it, and was soon cured. The snake was really a prince who had been changed into this form by enchantment. Every night he took on his proper form and went for a walk around the city. His wife once saw him do this, so she asked him to tell her the truth. The snake told her his secret, but forbade her to tell any one, on pain of his leaving her. One day the other daughters of the king consulted as to how they should find out the truth about their sister's husband. They took their sister into the garden and asked her many questions, but Maria kept silent about the snake's secret. So her sisters fastened her to a tree at the bottom of which was an ant's nest. Maria could not long endure the pain of the bites of the ants and told her sisters the truth. They let her go back home, but she could not find her husband anywhere, and set out to look for him. She asked the birds she met if they had seen him, but they answered that they had flown over all the country around, for hundreds of miles, without seeing him. She was very sorrowful, and at last, worn out with grief and weariness, lay down to sleep under a tree which was barren of leaves, except for three large ones at the very top. Maria dreamed that her husband was in a house not far away and was dangerously ill. She dreamed, also, that the leaves on the top of the tree under which she was sleeping were the only cure for his sickness. As soon as she awoke, she climbed the tree and got the leaves and took them with her to the house, where she found her husband, just as she had dreamed. When she came to the door of the house she met a black woman whom she asked about Don Juan, which was the prince's name. The black woman told her that he was sick, and asked her why she had come. Maria replied that she had learned of his sickness and had come to cure him with some leaves. As soon as the negress learned about the leaves, she took them and gave them to the prince, who immediately recovered from his sickness. The prince had promised to marry any woman who could cure him, and as the black woman had cured him he married her. The negress, seeing that she was ugly, tried to make Maria so also, so she took her as a servant and painted her black; but Maria had an enchanted ring which gave her the power of changing her form. Every night in her room Maria made use of her ring, obtaining by means of it her maids of honor, fine dresses, and a band which played sweet music. It chanced one night that Don Juan was awakened by the sound of music. He traced it to a certain room, and looking through the keyhole, saw all that was going on in Maria's room. He was greatly astonished and stood watching for a long time. Suddenly he saw Maria take from her ring a pair of scissors. These at a sign suspended themselves in the air, ready, when Maria should give the signal, to fall and pierce her heart. Don Juan rushed into the room and caught the scissors just as they were falling. Then Maria told him all that had happened to her. She was proclaimed as the prince's true wife, and the black woman was put to death as a punishment for her deception. CHAPTER 9 The Enchanted Shell. In the olden time there lived a man and his wife who had no son. They prayed that they might have a son, even if he were only like a little shell. When their son was born, he was very small, and just like a shell, so he was named Shell. One day Shell asked permission of his mother to go and get some food. His mother at first would not let him, as she was afraid he would meet some animal which would kill him; but at last she consented, and he set out. He went to the river, where some women were catching fish and putting them into baskets. One of them laid her basket on the grass near the river and Shell crept into it. In a few minutes the woman picked up her basket and started for home. All at once Shell began to cry "Rain! Rain!" The woman was so frightened at hearing the fishes talk, as she supposed, that she threw down her basket and ran away. Then Shell took the basket full of fish to his mother. The next day Shell went out again. He saw an old man walking along the road and carrying the head of a cow, so he followed him. The old man went into the house of a friend, leaving the cow's head hanging on the fence. Shell climbed up the fence and got into the cow's ear, keeping very quiet. When the old man came out of the house he took the head and continued his walk. As he reached a desert place called Cahana-an, the head began to say: "Ay! Ay!" The old man became so frightened that he threw the head away, and Shell carried it home. Days passed. Shell told his mother that he was in love with a beautiful daughter of the chief and must have her for his wife. The poor mother was amazed and did not want to present his request to the chief. "My dear Shell," she said, "you are beside yourself." But he urged her and urged her, until at last she went. She begged the chief's pardon for her boldness and made known her errand. The chief was astonished, but agreed to ask his daughter if she were willing to take Shell for a husband. Much to his surprise and anger she stated that she was willing to marry him. Her father was so enraged that he exclaimed: "I consider you as being lower than my servants. If you marry this Shell I will drive you out of the village." But Shell and the girl were married, and escaped from the town to a little house in the fields, where they lived in great sorrow for a week. But at the end of that time, one night at midnight, the shell began to turn into a good-looking man, for he had been enchanted at his birth by an evil spirit. When his wife saw how handsome he was, she was very glad, and afterwards the chief received them back into his favor. CHAPTER 10 The Three Brothers. Once upon a time there was a great king who had three sons. The oldest was named Pedro, the next Pablo, and the youngest Juan. One day their father called them to him, and giving each one a small sum of money, said: "Go and seek for yourselves wives, for I am getting old and wish to see you settled down before I die. The one who gets the most beautiful wife shall have the kingdom. In addition to the money I have given you, you may each have a horse from my stables." Pedro and Pablo rushed off and secured the best horses, so that when Juan, who had stopped to thank his father, arrived at the stable, he found only an old horse, scarcely able to walk. However, he determined to set out; but after getting a mile or so from home, he saw that it was impossible to go farther, so sat down on a well-curb and wept bitterly. While he was weeping, a frog floated to the top of the water and asked what the matter was, and Juan told him all about his trouble. The frog said: "Never mind. Go to sleep for an hour and I will look for a wife for you." At the end of the hour the frog awoke Juan and said: "Go home now, and tell your father that you have found a wife." Juan did so, and found his brothers at home, each claiming to have found a wife. Their father said: "I wish to test your wives. Here are three handkerchiefs. Each of you must take one of them to his bride and have it embroidered." They took the handkerchiefs and departed; but Juan, when he had arrived at the well, sat down as before and wept, because he thought that now he would surely be found out. The frog floated again to the surface of the well and asked Juan what the matter was. Juan replied, "I told my father that I had found a wife, as you bade me, and now he wishes to test my wife, to see if she is a suitable mate for me, and has sent me with this handkerchief for her to embroider. I do not know what to do, for now my father will surely find out that I have deceived him, and I shall be disgraced." The frog said: "Do not worry. Give me your handkerchief and go to sleep for an hour and I will have it embroidered for you." At the end of the hour the frog brought to Juan the handkerchief, all beautifully embroidered. When Juan arrived at home, he found his brothers there, each with his handkerchief beautifully embroidered, but Juan's handkerchief was embroidered the most beautifully of all. Then their father said: "Your wives, evidently, can embroider well, but I must see how they can cook. Here are three cows. Each of you must take one of them and have your wife cook it." The brothers went off with the cows, but Juan led his cow to the well in which the frog lived, and, as before, sat down and began to weep. After a while the frog came to the top of the water and asked: "Why are you weeping so bitterly?" "Oh, my dear frog! Here is a cow which my father says my wife must cook. What shall I do?" The frog replied: "Go to sleep for an hour and I will cook the meat for you." Juan went to sleep, and at the end of the hour the frog woke him, and showing him the cow cooked whole, said: "Take this home and when you have carried it upstairs, break off one horn and see what will happen." Juan took the roast cow home, and when he arrived there found his brothers before him, with their meat roasted. Juan carried his cow upstairs and each animal was placed upon a table by itself. The king tasted Pedro's meat, and found it too salt. Then he tried Pablo's, and found it not salt enough. When he approached the table on which Juan's meat was laid, Juan broke off one of the cow's horns, and immediately a beautiful service of silver dishes, enough for twelve persons, rolled out, each dish taking its proper place upon the table, with the roast cow in the midst. Then the king and his councillors sat down to the feast, and when they had tasted the meat, they found it just right. On the next day the king ordered his sons to bring their wives to the palace, so that he might decide which was the most beautiful. Juan was in more trouble than ever, for now he was sure of being discovered; so he went to the well again, weeping bitterly and calling aloud for the frog. In a few minutes the frog appeared, and to him Juan related his trouble. The frog said: "Under that tree is a hammock; go to sleep in it for an hour, and three women will wake you by shaking the hammock. Take the middle one and return home, for that one is to be your wife." All happened as the frog had said. Juan took the woman home with him, and as he approached the house, his father was looking out of the window. When the king saw how beautiful Juan's wife was, he was so overcome with joy that he fainted. When he had recovered, he declared Juan's wife was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. So to Juan was given the kingdom. Pedro became the palace coachman, and Pablo the cook. Berton L. Maxfield, Ph. B. Brooklyn, N. Y. CHAPTER 11 The Datto Somacuel. Datto Somacuel was one of the seven chiefs who, coming from Borneo many years before the Spaniards conquered these islands, settled the Island of Panay. He lived in Sinaragan, a town near San Joaquin, in the southern part of Iloilo Province. His wife's name was Capinangan. Somacuel went every morning to the seashore to watch his slaves fish with the sinchoro, or net. One day they caught many fishes, and Somacuel commanded them:-- "Spread the fish to dry, and take care that the crows do not eat them up." A slave answered: "Sir, if your treasure inside the house is stolen by the crows, how do you expect those out of doors to be kept safe?" This was said with a certain intonation that made Somacuel conjecture that there was a hidden meaning in it. "What do you mean by that?" he asked. "Sir, I have to inform you of something that I should have told you long ago. Do not reprove me if I have been backward in telling you of the injury done you by your wife. It was due to my desire to get complete proofs of the truth of my statement." "End at once your tedious narrative!" said the datto, "What did my wife do?" "Sir," answered the slave, "she deceives you shamefully. She loves Gorong-Gorong, who is at this very moment in your house jesting at your absence." "Alas!" said Somacuel, "if this be true he shall pay well for his boldness." The chief hurried home, intending to surprise the offenders. He carried a fish called ampahan in a bamboo tube full of water, going around by a secret way, so as not to be seen. On reaching home he went up into the attic to observe what was going on, and found that his informant had told the truth. Gorong-Gorong and Capinangan were engaged in an affectionate dialogue. Involuntarily Somacuel spilled some of the water down, and, fearing that he would be discovered, seized a spear that was hidden in the attic and, dropping it down, dexterously ran Gorong-Gorong through the body, killing him instantly. "Oh, Diva!" exclaimed Capinangan, kneeling beside the inert corpse, "How shall I be able to take it away without being discovered by Somacuel?" Somacuel, who had not been seen at all, stayed quietly above, watching what Capinangan would do. Capinangan did not suspect that her husband was there, as he usually did not come home before nightfall. She tried to take the corpse out for burial, but could not carry the heavy body of her unfortunate lover. She must conceal it in some way, and it was dangerous for her to call for aid, lest she might be betrayed to her husband. So she took a knife and cut the body into pieces so that she could take them out and bury them under the house. After this task was done she managed to wash the blood up. She became tranquil for a moment, believing she would never be discovered. Somacuel, however, had observed all, and he formed a plan for punishing his wife as she deserved. When everything seemed to be calm he crept down, doing his best not to be seen. At the door he called his wife by name. Capinangan was afraid, but concealed her fear with a smile. "Capinangan," said her husband, "cut this fish in pieces and cook it for me." Capinangan was astonished at this command, because she had never before been treated in this way. They had many slaves to perform such tasks. "You know I cannot," she said. "Why not?" asked her husband. "Because I have never learned how to cut a fish in pieces nor to cook it," she replied. "I am astonished that you don't know how to cut, after seeing that cutting is your favorite occupation," said Somacuel. Capinangan then did not doubt that her husband knew what she had done, so she did as he had bidden. When dinner was ready the husband and wife ate it, but without speaking to each other. After the meal, Somacuel told his wife that he had seen all and should punish her severely. Capinangan said nothing. A guilty person has no argument with which to defend himself. Somacuel ordered his servants to throw Capinangan into the sea. At that time the chief's will was law. Neither pleadings nor tears softened his hard heart, and Capinangan was carried down to the sea and thrown in. Time passed by; Somacuel each day grew sadder and gloomier. He would have been willing now to forgive his wife, but it was too late. He said to his slaves: "Prepare a banca for me, that I may sail from place to place to amuse myself." So one pleasant morning a banca sailed from Sinaragan, going southward. Somacuel did not intend to go to any definite place, but drifted at the mercy of wind and current. He amused himself by singing during the voyage. One day the crew descried land at a distance. "Sir," they said, "that land is Cagayan. Let us go there to get oysters and crane's eggs." To this their master agreed, and upon anchoring off the coast he prepared to visit the place. Oh, what astonishment he felt, as he saw, peeping out of the window of a house, a woman whose appearance resembled in great measure that of Capinangan! He would have run to embrace her, had he not remembered that Capinangan was dead. He was informed that the woman was named Aloyan. He began to pay court to her, and in a few weeks she became his wife. Somacuel was happy, for his wife was very affectionate. Aloyan, on her part, did not doubt that her husband loved her sincerely, so she said to him:-- "My dear Somacuel, I will no longer deceive you. I am the very woman whom you caused to be thrown into the sea. I am Capinangan. I clung to a log in the water and was carried to this place, where I have lived ever since." "Oh," said Somacuel, "pardon me for the harshness with which I meant to punish you." "Let us forget what is passed," said Capinangan. "I deserved it, after all." So they returned to Sinaragan, where they lived together happily for many years. CHAPTER 12 Magbolotó. There was once a man named Magbolotó who lived in the depths of the mountains. One day on going down to a brook he saw three goddesses bathing in the water. They had left their wings on the bank, and Magbolotó managed to slip down and steal one pair of them. When the goddesses had finished bathing and looked for their wings, they could not find those belonging to the youngest, Macaya. At last the two goddesses put on their wings and flew up to heaven, leaving behind them Macaya, who wept bitterly, since without her wings she could not go home. Then Magbolotó, feigning to have come from a distance, met her and asked: "Why do you weep, lady?" "Why do you ask, if you will not help me in my trouble?" answered Macaya. "I will do my best to help you," said Magbolotó, "if you will tell me about it." So Macaya told him that she had lost her wings, and therefore could not return to her home in heaven. "I am sorry not to be able to help you out of your trouble," said Magbolotó, "but we terrestrial people do not use wings, nor know where to get them. The only thing I can do for you is to offer you a home with me." Macaya was obliged to accept his offer, since there was nothing else for her to do. About a year after Macaya became Magbolotó's wife they had a child. One day, as Magbolotó was making rice soup on the hearth, Macaya was swinging the child in a hammock. Accidentally, she noticed a bundle stuck into one of the bamboo posts in the partition. She withdrew the bundle, and upon unrolling it found, oh, joy! her long-lost wings, which Magbolotó had hidden in the hollow bamboo. She at once put them on, and leaving her husband and child, flew up to join her celestial family. Magbolotó, on missing his wife, began calling loudly for her. As he could not find her, he looked for the wings, and seeing that they were gone, knew at once what had happened. He began to weep bitterly, especially as he did not know how to take care of the child. So leaving it in the care of a relative, he set out to find the way to heaven. He had walked a great distance when he met North Wind. "Magbolotó, Magbolotó, why are you weeping?" asked North Wind. "Ask me nothing, if you cannot help me in any way," answered Magbolotó. "Tell me your trouble and I will help you," said North Wind. "Well," replied Magbolotó, "I have a wife who came from heaven. But now she has flown away, leaving a little child for me to take care of, and I am in great sorrow. Please show me the way that leads to her home." "Magbolotó," said North Wind, "I do not know the way, but my brother, East Wind, can tell you. Good-by." Magbolotó went on his way, and after a while he met East Wind. "Magbolotó, Magbolotó, why are you weeping?" asked East Wind. "Ask me nothing, if you cannot help me in any way," said Magbolotó. "Tell me all your trouble and I will help you," answered East Wind. Then Magbolotó related all his sorrow, just as he had done to North Wind. "Well," said East Wind, "I do not know the way, but my brother, South Wind, may be able to show it to you. Good-by." Magbolotó went on, and at last met South Wind. "Magbolotó, Magbolotó, why are you weeping?" asked South Wind. "Ask me nothing, if you cannot help me in any way," said Magbolotó. "Tell me your trouble and I will help you," answered South Wind. Then Magbolotó told him his story, just as he had done to North Wind and East Wind. "Well," said South Wind, "I do not know the way to heaven, but my brother, West Wind, can tell you the course to be taken to get there. Good-by." Magbolotó went on and on, and at last met West Wind. "Magbolotó, Magbolotó, why are you weeping?" asked West Wind. "Ask me nothing, if you cannot help me in any way," answered Magbolotó. "Tell me your trouble and I will help you," answered West Wind, and Magbolotó did as he was bidden. "Magbolotó," said West Wind, "I don't know the way to heaven, but my friend, Mr. Eagle, does. Good-by." Magbolotó went on until he met Mr. Eagle. "Magbolotó, Magbolotó, why are you weeping?" asked Mr. Eagle. "Ask me nothing, if you cannot help me in any way," answered Magbolotó. "Tell me your trouble and I will help you," replied Mr. Eagle. Then Magbolotó told Mr. Eagle his trouble. "Magbolotó," said Mr. Eagle, "get upon my back and I will carry you to your wife's home." Magbolotó climbed upon Mr. Eagle's back and they flew up until they reached Macaya's house. Then Magbolotó requested Macaya's grandmother, with whom she lived, to let her granddaughter return to earth with him. "By no means," said the grandmother, "unless you will spread ten jars of luñga (a certain very small grain) out to dry and gather them again in the evening." So Magbolotó spread the jars of luñga on the sand, and at noon began to gather them up; but sunset had come before he had gathered more than five handfuls, so he sat down and began to cry like a little boy. The king of the ants heard him, and wishing to help him, asked:--"Magbolotó, Magbolotó, why are you weeping?" "Ask me nothing, if you cannot help me." "Tell me about it and I will help you." So Magbolotó told the king of the ants all his history, and the condition imposed by the grandmother before he could have his wife, and how impossible it was to fulfil it. "Well, Magbolotó, you shall be helped," said the king of the ants. Then he blew his horn, and in a little while all his subjects came, and began picking up the grain and putting it into the jars. In a few moments all the grain was in the jars. The next morning Magbolotó went to get his wife, but the grandmother stopped him, saying:-- "You shall not take my granddaughter away until you have first hulled a hundred bushels of rice." Magbolotó was in despair, for he knew that to hull one hundred bushels of rice would take him not less than one hundred days, and the grandmother required him to do it in one day; so he cried like a child at his misfortune. The king of the rats heard him crying, and at once came to help him. "Magbolotó, Magbolotó, why are you weeping?" asked King Rat. "Ask me nothing, if you cannot help me." "Relate the matter, and I will." Magbolotó told him his trouble. Then the king of the rats called his subjects together and ordered them to gnaw the hulls from the rice. In an instant the rice was all hulled. The next morning Magbolotó made ready to depart with his wife, but the grandmother stopped him again, saying:-- "You may not go until you have chopped down all the trees you see on that mountain over there." There were more than a million trees, so Magbolotó was in great trouble, and as usual he began to weep. The king of the wild boars heard him and came up, saying:-- "Magbolotó, Magbolotó, why are you weeping?" "Ask me nothing, if you cannot help me." "Relate the matter, and I will." Magbolotó related all that had happened to him. Then the king of the wild boars called all his subjects together and set them at work cutting down the trees with their tusks. In a few minutes the trees were all down. When the grandmother saw that Magbolotó accomplished every task she gave him to do she became tired of trying to think of things for him to do; so she allowed him to depart with Macaya, and leaving the celestial abode they descended to their home on the earth, where they lived happily together for many years. CHAPTER 13 Why Dogs Wag Their Tails. Once upon a time there lived in a certain pueblo a rich man who had a dog and a cat. His only daughter, of whom he was very fond, was studying in a convent in a city several miles distant and it was his custom, about once a week, to send the dog and cat to take her a little present. The dog was so old that he had lost all his teeth, and so was unable to fight, but the cat was strong and very cunning, and so one could help the other, since the dog knew better how to find the way. One day the rich man wished to send a magic ring to his daughter, so he called the dog and the cat to him. To the cat he said: "You are very cunning and prudent. You may carry this magic ring to my daughter, but be sure to take very great care of it." To the dog he said: "You are to go with the cat to take a magic ring to my daughter. Take care not to lose the way, and see that no one molests the cat." Both animals promised to do their best and set out immediately. On the way they were obliged to cross a wide and deep river, over which there was no bridge, and as they were unable to find a boat, they determined to swim across it. The dog said to the cat: "Give me the magic ring." "Oh, no," replied the cat. "Did you not hear the master say just what each of us had to do?" "Yes, but you are not very good at swimming, and may lose the ring, while I am strong and can take good care of it," answered the dog. The cat continued to refuse to disobey its master, until at last the dog threatened to kill it, and it was obliged to intrust the ring to the dog's keeping. Then they began to swim across the river, which was so strong that they were about an hour in getting over, so that both became very tired and weak. Just before they came to the other side, the dog dropped the ring into the water, and it was impossible to find it. "Now," said the cat, "we had better go back home and tell our master that we have lost the ring." "Yes," answered the dog, "but I am very much afraid." So they turned back toward home, but as they drew near the house his fear so overcame him that he ran away and was never seen again. The master was very much surprised to see the cat back so soon, and asked him, "Where is your companion?" The cat was at first afraid to answer. "Where is the dog?" asked the master again. "Oh, he ran away," replied the cat. "Ran away?" said the master. "What do you mean? Where is the ring?" "Oh, pardon me, my master," answered the cat. "Do not be angry, and I will tell you what has happened. When we reached the bank of the river, the dog asked me to give him the ring. This I refused many times, until at last he threatened to kill me if I did not give it to him, and I was obliged to do so. The river was very hard to cross, and on the way the dog dropped the ring into the water and we could not find it. I persuaded the dog to come back with me to tell you about it, but on the way he became so frightened that he ran away." Then the master made a proclamation to the people, offering a reward to the one who should find his old dog and bring him to him. They could recognize the dog by his being old and having no teeth. The master also declared that when he had found the delinquent he would punish him by cutting off his tail. He ordered that the dogs all around the world should take part in the search, and so ever since that time, when one dog meets another he always asks: "Are you the old dog who lost the magic ring? If you are, your tail must be cut off." Then instantly both show their teeth and wag their tails to mean no. Since that time, also, cats have been afraid of water, and will never swim across a river if it can be avoided. CHAPTER 14 The Eagle and the Hen. One day the eagle declared his love for the hen. He flew down to search for her, and when he had found her he said: "I wish you to be my mate." The hen answered: "I am willing, but let me first grow wings like yours, so I can fly as high as you." The eagle replied: "I will do so, and as a sign of our betrothal I will give you this ring. Take good care of it until I come again." The hen promised to do so, and the eagle flew away. The next day the cock met the hen. When he saw the ring around her neck he was very much surprised and said: "Where did you get that ring? I think you are not true to me. Do you not remember your promise to be my mate? Throw away that ring." So she did. At the end of a week the eagle came with beautiful feathers to dress the hen. When she saw him she became frightened and hid behind the door. The eagle entered, crying: "How are you, my dear hen? I am bringing you a beautiful dress," and he showed it to the hen. "But where is your ring? Why do you not wear it?" The hen could not at first answer, but after a little she tried to deceive the eagle, and said: "Oh, pardon me, sir! Yesterday as I was walking in the garden I met a large snake, and I was so frightened that I ran towards the house. When I reached it I found that I had lost the ring, and I looked everywhere for it; but alas! I have not yet found it." The eagle looked keenly at the hen and said: "I would never have believed that you would behave so badly. I promise you that, whenever you have found my ring, I will come down again and take you for my mate. As a punishment for breaking your promise you shall always scratch the ground and look for the ring, and all your chickens that I find I will snatch away from you. That is all. Good-by." Then he flew away. And ever since, all the hens all over the world have been scratching to find the eagle's ring. Note.--The bird of whom this story is told is the dapay, or brahman kite. It is larger than most of our hawks and is more like the eagle in appearance, although not very large. CHAPTER 15 The Spider and the Fly. Mr. Spider was once in love with Miss Fly. Several times he declared his love, but was always repelled, for Miss Fly disliked his business. One day, when she saw him coming, she closed the doors and windows of her house and made ready a pot of boiling water. Mr. Spider called to be allowed to enter the house, but Miss Fly's only answer was to throw the boiling water at him. "Well!" cried Mr. Spider, "I and my descendants shall be avenged upon you and yours. We will never give you a moment's peace." Mr. Spider did not break his word, for to this day we see his hatred of the fly. CHAPTER 16 The Battle of the Crabs. One day the land crabs had a meeting. One of them said: "What shall we do with the waves? They sing all the time so loudly that we cannot possibly sleep well at night." "Do you not think it would be well for all of us males to go down and fight them?" asked the eldest of the crabs. "Yes," all replied. "Well, to-morrow all the males must get ready to go." The next day they started to go down to the sea. On the way they met the shrimp. "Where are you going, my friends?" asked the shrimp. The crabs answered: "We are going to fight the waves, because they will not let us sleep at night." "I don't think you will win the battle," said the shrimp. "The waves are very strong, while your legs are so weak that your bodies bend almost to the ground when you walk," and he laughed. The crabs were so angry at his scorn that they ran at the shrimp and pinched him until he promised to help them in the battle. When they reached the shore, the crabs looked at the shrimp and said: "Your face is turned the wrong way, friend shrimp," and they laughed at him, for crabs are much like other people, and think they are the only ones who are right. "Are you ready to fight with the waves? What weapon have you?" "My weapon," replied the shrimp, "is a spear on my head." Just then he saw a large wave coming, and ran away; but the crabs, who were all looking towards the shore, did not see it, and were killed. The wives of the dead crabs wondered why their husbands did not come home. They thought the battle must be a long one, and decided to go down and help their husbands. As they reached the shore and entered the water to look for their husbands, the waves killed them. A short time afterwards, thousands of little crabs, such as are now called fiddlers, were found near the shore. When these children were old enough to walk, the shrimp often visited them and related to them the sad fate of their parents. And so, if you will watch carefully the fiddlers, you will notice that they always seem ready to run back to the land, where their forefathers lived, and then, as they regain their courage, they rush down, as if about to fight the waves. But they always lack the courage to do so, and continually run back and forth. They live neither on dry land, as their ancestors did, nor in the sea, like the other crabs, but up on the beach, where the waves wash over them at high tide and try to dash them to pieces. CHAPTER 17 The Meeting of the Plants. Once upon a time plants were able to talk as well as people, and to walk from place to place. One day King Molave, the strongest tree, who lived on a high mountain, called his subjects together for a general meeting. Then every tree put itself in motion towards the designated spot, each doing its best to reach it first. But the buri palm was several days late, which made the king angry, and he cursed it in these terms:-- "You must be punished for your negligence, and as king I pass upon you this sentence: You shall never see your descendants, for you shall die just as your seeds are ready to grow." And from that day the buri palms have always died without seeing their descendants. CHAPTER 18 Who Brings the Cholera? The Filipinos, being for the most part ignorant of the laws of hygiene, attribute the cholera to any cause rather than the right one. In general, they believe it to be caused by some evil-minded men, who poison the wells, or, sometimes, by evil spirits, as the following story will show. Tanag was a poor man who lived in a town in the interior of one of the Philippine Islands. He had nothing to eat, nor could he find any work by which he might earn his food, and so he determined to emigrate. At that time the cholera was at its height. As Tanag was rather old, he walked so slowly that in a day he had gone but three miles. At sunset he was crossing a sheltered bridge over a smooth brook near the sea, and determined to rest and spend the night there. During the early part of the night he was all right, but later it occurred to him that he might be seen and killed by the ladrones, who often passed that way. Below the bridge was a raft of bamboo poles, and he thought it would be wise to get down there, where he could not so easily be seen. But there were many mosquitoes over the water, so that he was unable to sleep. He determined, however, to stay there until day dawned. At about four o'clock he heard a heavy step upon the floor of the bridge, and by the moonlight he could see that the new-comer was a huge giant with a long club. A little later another giant came, and Tanag, full of fear, heard the following dialogue:-- "Did you kill many people?" "Yes, I put my poison on the food, and in a short time those who ate of it were attacked by the cholera and died. And how are you getting along yourself?" "At first I killed many people with my poison, but now I am disappointed, because they have found out the antidote for it." "What is that?" "The root of the balingay tree boiled in water. It is a powerful antidote against the poison I use. And what is the antidote against yours?" "Simply the root of the alibutbut tree boiled in water. Luckily, no one has discovered this antidote, and so many people will die." In the morning Tanag saw the giants going to the shore, where many people were fishing with their nets. The giants flung their poison on the fish, and then disappeared from Tanag's sight. Tanag believed that the cholera was caused by the two giants, who poisoned the food and water by sprinkling poison on them, and he did not doubt that the roots of the balingay and alibutbut trees would prove to be the antidotes to the poison. So he gathered the roots and cooked them and advertised himself as a doctor. In fact he cured many people and earned so much money that he soon became rich. CHAPTER 19 Masoy and the Ape. [6] Masoy was a poor man who lived on a farm some miles from the town. His clothing was very poor, and his little garden furnished him scarcely enough to live on. Every week day he went to town to sell his fruits and vegetables and to buy rice. Upon his return he noticed each day that some one had entered the garden in his absence and stolen some of the fruit. He tried to protect the garden by making the fence very strong and locking the gate; but, in spite of all he could do, he continued to miss his fruit. At length Masoy conceived the happy idea of taking some pitch and moulding it into the shape of a man. He put a bamboo hat on it and stood it up in one comer of the garden. Then he went away. As soon as he was gone, the robber, who was none other than a huge ape, climbed the fence and got in. "Oh!" he said to himself, "I made a mistake! There is Masoy watching. He did not go away as I thought. He is here with a big bamboo hat, but he could not catch me if he tried. I am going to greet him, for fear he may consider me impolite." "Good morning, Masoy," he said. "Why do you not answer me? What is the matter with you? Oh! you are joking, are you, by keeping so silent? But you will not do it again." On saying this, the ape slapped the man of pitch with his right hand, and of course it stuck, and he could not get it loose. "For heaven's sake," cried the ape, "let me go. If you do not, I will slap you with my other hand." Then he struck him with the other hand, which, of course, stuck fast also. "Well, Masoy," cried the ape, "you have entirely exhausted my patience! If you don't let go of me at once, I shall kick you." No sooner said than done, with a result which may easily be imagined. "Masoy," cried the now enraged ape, "if you have any regard for your own welfare, let me go, for if you don't, I still have one leg left to kill you with." So saying, he kicked him with the remaining foot, getting so tangled up that he and the tar man fell to the ground, rolling over and over. Then Masoy came, and, when he saw the ape, he said: "So you are the robber who has stolen my fruit! Now you will pay for it with your life." But the ape cried, "Oh, spare my life, and I will be your slave forever!" "Do you promise not to steal my fruit again?" "I do, and I will serve you faithfully all my life." Masoy agreed to spare him. From that time on the ape worked very hard for his master. He sold the fruit and bought the rice and was honest and industrious. One day, on his way to market, he happened to find a small piece of gold and another of silver. At that time this country was not ruled by any foreign power, but each tribe was governed by its own datto or chief. The chief was naturally the bravest and richest of the tribe. The chief of Masoy's tribe had a very beautiful daughter. The ape schemed to have her marry his master. Now he hit upon a plan. He went to the chief's house and asked for a ganta, which is a measure holding about three quarts and used for measuring rice. "My master," he said, "begs you to lend him a ganta to measure his gold with." The chief was astonished at such an extraordinary request, and asked: "Who is your master?" "Masoy, who owns many gantas of gold and silver, acres upon acres of land; and uncountable heads of cattle," was the reply. The ape carried the ganta home, and there he stuck the piece of gold he had found on the inside of the bottom of the measure, and then returned it to the chief. "Oh, ape!" said the datto, "your master has forgotten to take out one piece of gold. Take it and give it back to him." "Never mind, sir," answered the ape, "he has so much gold that that small piece is nothing to him. You may keep it." Some weeks afterward, the ape went again to borrow the chief's ganta. "What do you want it for now?" asked the chief. "To measure my master's silver with," was the answer. So he carried it home, stuck inside the piece of silver he had found, and returned it. The chief found the piece of silver and offered to return it, but was answered as before, that it did not matter. The chief believed all that the ape said, but was puzzled to know how such a rich man could be living in his territory without his having heard of him. After a few days the ape, considering the way well prepared for his plans, called upon the datto and said: "My master requests you to give him your daughter in marriage. I am authorized to make all the arrangements with you for the wedding, if you consent to it." "Very well," answered the chief, "but before we arrange matters I wish to see my future son-in-law. Ask him to come to see me, and I will receive him in a manner befitting his rank." The ape returned home and said to Masoy, who knew nothing at all of the negotiations with the chief: "I have good news for you. The chief wants to see you, for he intends to give you his daughter in marriage." "What are you chattering about?" answered Masoy. "Have you lost your senses? Don't you know that I am too poor to marry the chief's daughter? I have not even decent clothes to wear and no means of getting any." "Do not worry about the clothes. I will get them for you somewhere," replied the ape. "And how shall I talk? You know that I am ignorant of city ways." "Oh, Masoy, don't trouble about that! Just answer 'Yes' to the questions they ask you and you will be all right." Finally Masoy consented to go, and went down to the river to wash off the dirt and grime. A rich merchant was bathing some distance up the river, and the ape slipped along the bank, stole the merchant's clothes, hat, and shoes, and running back swiftly to his master, bade him put them on. Masoy did so, and found himself, for the first time in his life, so well dressed that he no longer hesitated about going to the chief's house. When they arrived there they found that the chief was expecting them and had made a big feast and reception in honor of his future son-in-law. The chief began to talk about the wedding and said: "Shall we have the wedding in your palace, Masoy?" "Yes," answered Masoy. "You have a large palace, I suppose, have n't you, sir?" "Yes," was the reply. "Don't you think it would be well for us to go there this afternoon?" "Yes," was again the reply. Meanwhile the ape had disappeared. He went along the road towards home and said to all the people he met: "The datto will be along this way pretty soon and when he asks you to whom all these farms and cattle belong, you must say that they are Masoy's, for otherwise he will kill you." The ape knew that in a certain spot stood an enchanted palace invisible to men. He went to the place, and just where the front of the house appeared whenever it was visible, he began to dig a ditch. The witch who lived in the house appeared and asked: "What are you ditching there for, Mr. Ape?" "Oh, madam," was his answer, "have n't you heard the news? The chief is coming this way soon, and is going to have all witches and the low animals like myself put to death. For this reason I am digging a pit to hide myself in." "Oh, Mr. Ape!" said the witch, "let me hide myself first, for I am not able to dig for myself, and you are. Do me this favor, please." "I should be very impolite, if I refused to do a favor for a lady," said the ape. "Come down, but hurry, or you will be too late." The witch hurried as fast as she could and got down into the pit. Then the ape threw stones down on her until she was dead. The house then became free from enchantment and always visible. The ape then returned to the chief's house and reported that all was ready for the wedding. So the chief, Masoy, and the bride, escorted by a large number of people, set out for Masoy's palace. On the way they saw many rich farms and great herds of cattle. The chief asked the people who the owner of these farms and cattle was. The answer always was that they belonged to Masoy. Consequently the chief was greatly impressed by Masoy's great wealth. The chief greatly admired the palace and considered himself fortunate to have such a son-in-law. That night the wedding took place, and Masoy lived many years in the palace with his wife, having the ape and a great number of slaves to serve him. CHAPTER 20 Arnomongo and Iput-Iput. (The Ape and the Firefly.) One evening the firefly was on his way to the house of a friend, and as he passed the ape's house, the latter asked him: "Mr. Fire-fly, why do you carry a light?" The firefly replied: "Because I am afraid of the mosquitoes." "Oh, then you are a coward, are you?" said the ape. "No, I am not," was the answer. "If you are not afraid," asked the ape, "why do you always carry a lantern?" "I carry a lantern so that when the mosquitoes come to bite me I can see them and defend myself," replied the firefly. Then the ape laughed aloud, and on the next day he told all his neighbors that the firefly carried a light at night because he was a coward. When the firefly heard what the ape had said, he went to his house. It was night and the ape was asleep, but the firefly flashed his light into his face and awakened him. The firefly was very angry and said: "Why did you spread the report that I was a coward? If you wish to prove which of us is the braver, I will fight you on the plaza next Sunday evening." The ape inquired: "Have you any companions?" "No," replied the fire-fly, "I will come alone." Then the ape laughed at the idea of such a little creature presuming to fight with him, but the firefly continued: "I shall be expecting you on the plaza about six o'clock next Sunday afternoon." The ape replied: "You had better bring some one to help you, as I shall bring my whole company, about a thousand apes, each as big as myself." This he said, thinking to frighten the strange little insect, who seemed to him to be crazy. But the firefly answered: "I shall not need any companions, but will come alone. Good-by." When the firefly had gone, the ape called together his company, and told them about the proposed fight. He ordered them to get each one a club about three feet long and to be on the plaza at six o'clock the next Sunday evening. His companions were greatly amazed, but as they were used to obeying their captain, they promised to be ready at the appointed time and place. On Sunday evening, just before six o'clock, they assembled on the plaza, and found the firefly already waiting for them. Just then the church bells rang the Angelus, so the firefly proposed that they should all pray. Immediately after the prayer, the firefly signified that he was ready to begin. The ape had drawn up his company in line, with himself at the head. Suddenly the firefly lighted upon the ape's nose. The ape next in line struck at the firefly, but succeeded only in striking the captain such a terrible blow on the nose as to kill him. The firefly meanwhile, seeing the blow coming, had jumped upon the nose of the second ape, who was killed by the next in line just as the captain had been killed; and so on down the whole line, until there was but one ape left. He threw down his club and begged the firefly to spare him. The firefly graciously allowed him to live, but since that time the apes have been in mortal terror of the fireflies. CHAPTER 21 The Snail and the Deer. [7] The deer made fun of the snail because of his slowness, so the latter challenged the former to a race. "We will race to the well on the other side of the plaza," said the snail. "All right," replied the deer. On the day of the race the deer ran swiftly to the well, and when he got there he called, "Mr. Snail, where are you?" "Here I am," said the snail, sticking his head up out of the well. The deer was very much surprised, so he said: "I will race you to the next well." "Agreed," replied the snail. When the deer arrived at the next well, he called as before, "Mr. Snail, where are you?" "Here I am," answered the snail. "Why have you been so slow? I have been here a long time waiting for you." The deer tried again and again, but always with the same result; until the deer in disgust dashed his head against a tree and broke his neck. Now the first snail had not moved from his place, but he had many cousins in each of the wells of the town and each exactly resembled the other. Having heard the crows talking of the proposed race, as they perched on the edge of the wells to drink, they determined to help their cousin to win it, and so, as the deer came to each well, there was always a snail ready to stick his head out and answer, "Here I am" to the deer's inquiry. CHAPTER 22 Story of Ca Matsin and Ca Boo-Ug. [8] One day a turtle, whose name was Ca Boo-Ug, and a monkey, Ca Matsin, met on the shore of a pond. While they were talking, they noticed a banana plant floating in the water. "Jump in and get it," said Ca Matsin, who could not swim, "and we will plant it, and some day we will have some bananas of our own." So Ca Boo-Ug swam out and brought the plant to shore. "Let's cut it in two," said Ca Matsin. "You may have one half and I will take the other, and then we shall each have a tree." "All right," said Ca Boo-Ug; "which half will you take?" Ca Matsin did not think the roots looked very pretty, and so he chose the upper part. Ca Boo-Ug knew a thing or two about bananas, so he said nothing, and each took his part and planted it. Ca Boo-Ug planted his in a rich place in the garden, but Ca Matsin planted his in the ashes in the fireplace, because it was easy, and then, too, he could look at it often and see how pretty it was. Ca Matsin laughed as he thought how he had cheated Ca Boo-Ug, but soon his part began to wither and die, and he was very angry. With Ca Boo-Ug it was different. Before long his tree began to put forth leaves, and soon it had a beautiful bunch of bananas on it. But he could not climb the tree to get the bananas, so one day he went in search of Ca Matsin, and asked him how his banana-tree was getting along. When Ca Matsin told him that his tree was dead, Ca Boo-Ug pretended to be very much surprised and sorry, and said:-- "My tree has a beautiful bunch of bananas on it, but I cannot climb up to get them. If you will get some of them for me, I will give you half." Ca Matsin assented, and climbed the tree. When he got to the top, he pulled a banana, ate it, and threw the skin down to Ca Boo-Ug. Then he ate another, and another, throwing the skins down on Ca Boo-Ug's head. When he had eaten all he wanted, he jumped out of the tree and ran away to the woods, laughing at Ca Boo-Ug. Ca Boo-Ug did not say anything, but just sat down and thought what he should do to get even with Ca Matsin. Finally, he gathered a lot of bamboo sticks and planted them around the tree with the sharp points up, covering them with leaves so that they could not be seen. Then he sat down and waited. As soon as Ca Matsin got hungry again, he went around to Ca Boo-Ug's garden to get some more bananas. Ca Boo-Ug seemed glad to see him, and when Ca Matsin asked for some bananas, replied:-- "All right, you may have all you want, but on one condition. When you jump out of the tree you must not touch those leaves. You must jump over them." As soon as Ca Matsin heard that he must not jump on the leaves, that was just what he wanted to do. So when he had eaten all the bananas he wanted, he jumped out of the tree on to the leaves as hard as he could jump, and was killed by the sharp bamboo points. Then Ca Boo-Ug skinned him and cut him up and packed the meat in a jar of brine and hid it in the mud on the bank of the pond. In the dry season the banana-trees all died and the cocoanut-trees bore no fruit, so a troop of monkeys came to Ca Boo-Ug and asked him if he would give them something to eat. "Yes, I have some nice meat in a jar which I will give you, but if I do, you must promise to eat it with your eyes shut." They were very hungry, so they gave the required promise, and Ca Boo-Ug gave them the meat. All kept their eyes shut except one, a little baby, and like all babies, he was very curious and wanted to see what was going on. So he opened one eye and peeped at a bone which he had in his hand, then he called out:-- "Oh, see what I have found! Here is the little finger of my brother, Ca Matsin!" Then all the monkeys looked, and when they found that Ca Boo-Ug had killed a member of their tribe they were very angry, and looked for Ca Boo-Ug, in order to kill him. But they could not find him, for as soon as he saw what had happened he had hidden under a piece of cocoanut shell which was lying on the ground. The chief monkey sat upon the cocoanut shell, while he was planning with his companions how they should catch Ca Boo-Ug, but of course he did not know where he was, so he called out: "Where's Ca Boo-Ug? Where's Ca Boo-Ug?" Ca Boo-Ug was so tickled when he heard the monkey ask where he was that he giggled. The monkeys heard him, and looked all around for him, but could not find him. Then they called out: "Where's Ca Boo-Ug? Where's Ca Boo-Ug?" This time Ca Boo-Ug laughed out loud, and the monkeys found him. Then they began to plan how they should punish him. "Let's put him into a rice mortar and pound him to death," said one. "Aha!" said Ca Boo-Ug, "that's nothing! My mother beat me so much when I was little that now my back is so strong that nothing can break it." When the monkeys found out that Ca Boo-Ug was not afraid of being pounded in a rice mortar, they determined to try something else. "Let's make a fire on his back and burn him up," suggested another. "Oh, ho!" laughed Ca Boo-Ug, "that's nothing. I should think that you could tell by the color of my shell that I have had a fire lighted on my back many times. In fact, I like it, as I am always so cold." So the monkeys decided that they would punish Ca Boo-Ug by throwing him into the pond and drowning him. "Boo-hoo!" cried Ca Boo-Ug, "don't do that! You will surely kill me. Please don't do that! Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo!" Of course when the monkeys found that Ca Boo-Ug did not wish to be thrown into the pond, they thought they had found just the way to kill him. So, in spite of his struggles, they picked him up and threw him far out into the pond. To their surprise and chagrin, Ca Boo-Ug stuck his head out of the water and laughed at them, and then turned around and swam off. When the monkeys saw how they had been deceived, they were very much disappointed, and began to plan how they could catch Ca Boo-Ug again. So they called to a big fish, named Botete, that lived in the pond: "Botete! Drink all you can of the water in the pond and help us find the bag of gold that we hid in it. If you will help us find it, you shall have half of the gold." So Botete began to drink the water, and in a little time the pond was nearly dry. Then the monkeys determined to go down into the pond and look for Ca Boo-Ug. When he saw them coming, Ca Boo-Ug called to Salacsacan, the kingfisher, who was sitting on a branch of a tree which hung over the water:-- "Salacsacan! Salacsacan! Botete has drunk all the water in the pond, and if there is no water there will be no fish for you to catch. Fly down now and peck a hole in Botete, and let the water out, before the fish are all dead." So Salacsacan flew down and pecked a hole in the side of Botete, and the water rushed out and drowned all the monkeys. When Ca Boo-Ug saw that the monkeys were all dead, he crawled up on the bank, and there he lived happily ever after. Another version ends as follows:-- When the monkeys saw how they had been deceived, they were very much disappointed and began to plan how they could catch Ca Boo-Ug again. They decided to drink all the water in the pond, and then they could catch Ca Boo-Ug before he could escape. So they drank and drank, until they all burst. When Ca Boo-Ug saw that the monkeys were all dead, he crawled up on the bank, and there he lived happily ever after. W. H. Millington and Berton L. Maxfield. Brooklyn, N.Y. PART III Tagalog Folk-Tales. CHAPTER 1 Juan Gathers Guavas. [9] The guavas were ripe, and Juan's father sent him to gather enough for the family and for the neighbors who came to visit them. Juan went to the guava bushes and ate all that he could hold. Then he began to look around for mischief. He soon found a wasp nest and managed to get it into a tight basket. He gave it to his father as soon as he reached home, and then closed the door and fastened it. All the neighbors were inside waiting for the feast of guavas, and as soon as the basket was opened they began to fight to get out of the windows. After a while Juan opened the door and when he saw his parents' swollen faces, he cried out, "What rich fine guavas those must have been! They have made you both so very fat." CHAPTER 2 Juan Makes Gulay of his own Child. After Juan was married about a year a baby was born, and he and his wife loved it very much. But Juan was always obedient to his wife, being a fool, and when she told him to make gulay or stew he inquired of her of what he should make it. She replied of anac, [10] meaning anac hang gabi. [11] Then she went away for a while, and when she returned Juan had the gulay ready. She asked for the baby and was horrified to learn that Juan had made a stew of his own child, having taken her words literally. CHAPTER 3 Juan Wins a Wager for the Governor. Juan was well known for a brave man, though a fool, and the priest and the governor wished to try him on a wager. The governor told him that the priest was dead, and ordered him to watch the body in the church that night. The priest lay down on the bier before the altar, and after Juan came the priest arose. Juan pushed him down again and ran out of the church and secured a club. Returning, he said to the priest, "You are dead; try to get up again and I will break you to pieces." So Juan proved himself to be a brave man, and the governor won his wager. CHAPTER 4 Juan Hides the Salt. Juan's father came into possession of a sack of salt, which used to be very precious and an expensive commodity. He wished it hidden in a secure place and so told Juan to hide it till they should need it. Juan went out and after hunting for a long time hid it in a carabao wallow, and of course when they went to fetch it again nothing was left but the sack. CHAPTER 5 The Man in the Shroud. Juan, being a joker, once thought to have a little fun at others' expense, so he robed himself in a shroud, placed a bier by the roadside, set candles around it, and lay down so that all who went by should see him and be frightened. A band of robbers went by that way, and seeing the corpse, besought it to give them luck. As it happened, they were more than usually fortunate, and when they returned they began to make offerings to him to secure continuance of their good fortune. As the entire proceeds of their adventures were held in common, they soon began to quarrel over the offerings to be made. The captain became angry, and drew his sword with a threat to run the corpse through for causing so much dissension among his men. This frightened the sham dead man to such a degree that he jumped up and ran away, and the robbers, who were even more frightened than he, ran the other way, leaving all their plunder. Juan then returned and gathered all the money and valuables left behind by the robbers, and carried them home. Now he had a friend who was very curious to know how he came into possession of so much wealth, and so Juan told him, only he said nothing about robbers, but told his friend, whose name was Pedro, that the things were the direct reward of God for his piety. Pedro, being afraid of the woods, decided to lie just inside the church door; besides, that being a more sacred place, he felt sure that God would favor him even more than Juan. He arranged his bier with the candles around him, and lay down to await the shower of money that should reward his devotions. When the sacristan went to the church to ring the bell for vespers, he saw the body lying there, and not knowing of any corpse having been carried in, he was frightened and ran to tell the padre. The padre, when he had seen the body, said it was a miracle, and that it must be buried within the church, for the sanctification of the edifice. But Pedro, now thoroughly frightened, jumped off the bier and ran away, and the priest and the sacristan ran the other way, so the poor man never received the reward for his piety, and the church was deprived of a new patron saint. CHAPTER 6 The Adventures of Juan. Juan was lazy, Juan was a fool, and his mother never tired of scolding him and emphasizing her words by a beating. When Juan went to school he made more noise at his study than anybody else, but his reading was only gibberish. His mother sent him to town to buy meat to eat with the boiled rice, and he bought a live crab which he set down in the road and told to go to his mother and be cooked for dinner. The crab promised, but as soon as Juan's back was turned ran in the other direction. Juan went home after a while and asked for the crab, but there was none, and they ate their rice without ulam. [12] His mother then went herself and left Juan to care for the baby. The baby cried and Juan examined it to find the cause, and found the soft spot on its head. "Aha! It has a boil. No wonder it cries!" And he stuck a knife into the soft spot, and the baby stopped crying. When his mother came back, Juan told her about the boil and that the baby was now asleep, but the mother said it was dead, and she beat Juan again. Then she told Juan that if he could do nothing else he could at least cut firewood, so she gave him a bolo and sent him to the woods. He found what looked to him like a good tree and prepared to cut it, but the tree was a magic tree and said to Juan, "Do not cut me and I will give you a goat that shakes silver money from its whiskers." Juan agreed, and the bark of the tree opened and the goat came out, and when Juan told him to shake his whiskers, money dropped out. Juan was very glad, for at last he had something he would not be beaten for. On his way home he met a friend, and told him of his good fortune. The man made him dead drunk and substituted another goat which had not the ability to shake money from its whiskers, and when the new goat was tried at home poor Juan was beaten and scolded. Back he went to the tree, which he threatened to cut down for lying to him, but the tree said, "No, do not kill me and I will give you a magic net which you may cast even on dry ground or into a tree-top and it will return full of fish," and the tree did even so. Again he met the friend, again he drank tuba [13] until he was dead drunk, and again a worthless thing was substituted, and on reaching home he was beaten and scolded. Once more Juan went to the magic tree, and this time he received a magic pot, always full of rice; and spoons always full of whatever ulam might be wished, and these went the way of the other gifts, to the false friend. The fourth time he asked of the tree he was given a magic stick that would without hands beat and kill anything that the owner wished. "Only say to it 'Boombye, boomba,' and it will obey your word," said the tree. When Juan met the false friend again, the false friend asked him what gift he had this time. "It is only a stick that if I say, 'Boombye, boomba,' will beat you to death," said Juan, and with that the stick leaped from his hand and began to belabor the wicked man. "Lintic na cahoy ito ay! [14] Stop it and I will give you everything I stole from you." Juan ordered the stick to stop, but made the man, bruised and sore, carry the net, the pot, and the spoons, and lead the goat to Juan's home. There the goat shook silver from his beard till Juan's three brothers and his mother had all they could carry, and they dined from the pot and the magic spoons until they were full to their mouths. "Now," said Juan, "you have beaten me and called me a fool all my life, but you are not ashamed to take good things when I get them. I will show you something else. Boombye, boomba!" and the stick began to beat them all. Quickly they agreed that Juan was head of the house, and he ordered the beating to stop. Juan now became rich and respected, but he never trusted himself far from his stick day or night. One night a hundred robbers came to break into the house, to take all his goods, and kill him, but he said to the stick, "Boombye, boomba!" and with the swiftness of lightning the stick flew around, and all those struck fell dead till there was not one left. Juan was never troubled again by robbers, and in the end married a princess and lived happily ever after. CHAPTER 7 The Aderna Bird. There was once a king who greatly desired to obtain an aderna bird, which is possessed of magical powers, has a wonderful song, and talks like men. This king had a beautiful daughter, and he promised her to any one who would bring him an aderna bird. Now the quest for the aderna bird is very dangerous, because, if the heart is not pure, the man who touches the bird becomes stone, and the bird escapes. There were in that country three brothers, Juan, Diego, and Pedro, and they all agreed to set out together to catch the aderna bird. Afar in the mountains they saw him, and Diego, being the eldest, had first chance, and he caught the aderna bird, but being of impure life he became a stone, and the bird flew away over the mountains. Juan and Pedro pursued it over the rocky way till at last they saw it again, and Pedro, being the next eldest, essayed to catch it. He, too, being a bad man, was turned into stone and the aderna bird flew over another mountain, and Juan, undaunted, followed alone. When at last he saw the aderna bird he made a trap with a mirror with a snare in front and soon caught the bird. He made a cage for it and started on his homeward journey. When he reached the stone which was his brother Pedro, he begged the bird to undo its work and make him a man again, and the bird did so. Then the two went on to where Diego was, and again Juan entreated the bird to set the other brother free, and the bird did so. But Pedro and Diego, far from being grateful for what Juan had done for them, bound him, choked him, beat him, and left him for dead far from any road or any habitation, and went on their way to the king with the aderna bird, expecting for one the hand of the princess and for the other a rich reward. But the aderna bird would not sing. Said the king, "O Aderna Bird, why do you not sing?" The bird replied, "O Mighty King, I sing only for him who caught me." "Did these men catch you?" "No, O King, Juan caught me, and these men have beaten him and stolen me from him." So the king had them punished, and waited for the coming of Juan. Juan meanwhile had freed himself from his bonds, and wandered sore and hungry and lame through the forest. At last he met an old man who said to him, "Juan, why do you not go to the king's house, for there they want you very much?" "Alas," said Juan, "I am not able to walk so far from weakness, and I fear I shall die here in the forest." "Do not fear," said the old man, "I have here a wonderful hat that, should you but whisper to it where you wish to go, in a moment you are transported there through the air." So the old man gave him the hat, and Juan put it on and said, "Hat, if this be thy nature, carry me across the mountains to the king's palace." And the hat carried him immediately into the presence of the king. Then the aderna bird began to sing, and after a time Juan married the princess, and all went well for the rest of their lives. CHAPTER 8 The Story of Juan and the Monkey. Juan was a farmer, a farmer so poor that he had only one shirt and one pair of trousers. Juan was much annoyed by monkeys, who stole his corn. So he set a trap and caught several of them. These he killed with a club until he came to the last, which said to him, "Juan, don't kill me and I will be your servant all your life." "But I will," said Juan. "You are a thief and do not deserve to live." "Juan, let me live, and I will bring you good fortune, and if you kill me you will be poor all your life." The monkey talked so eloquently that Juan let himself be persuaded, and took the monkey home with him. The monkey was true to his word, and served Juan faithfully, cooking, washing, and hunting food for him, and at night going to distant fields and stealing maize and palay which he added to Juan's little store. One day the monkey said to Juan, "Juan, why do you not marry?" Said Juan, "How can I marry? I have nothing to keep a wife." "Take my advice," said the monkey, "and you can marry the king's daughter." Juan took the monkey's advice and they set out for the king's palace. Juan remained behind while the monkey went up to the palace alone. Outside he called, as the custom is, "Honorable people!" and the king said, "Come in." The king said, "Monkey, where do you walk?" and the monkey said, "Mr. King, I wish to borrow your salop. My master wishes to measure his money." The king lent him the salop (a measure of about two quarts), and the monkey returned to Juan. After a few hours he returned it with a large copper piece cunningly stuck to the bottom with paste. The king saw it and called the monkey's attention to it, but the monkey haughtily waved his hand, and told the king that a single coin was of no consequence to his master. The next day he borrowed the salop again and the coin stuck in the bottom was half a peso, and the third day the coin was a peso, but these he assured the king were of no more consequence to his master than the copper. Then the king told the monkey to bring his master to call, and the monkey promised that after a few days he would. They went home, and as Juan's clothes must be washed, Juan went to bed while the monkey washed and starched them, pulling, pressing, and smoothing them with his hands because he had no iron. Then they went to call on the king, and the king told Juan that he should marry the princess as soon as he could show the king a large house, with a hundred head of cattle, carabao, horses, sheep, and goats. Juan was very despondent at this, though he was too brave to let the king know his thoughts, he told his troubles to the monkey, who assured him that the matter was very easy. The next day they took a drum and a shovel and went into the mountains, where there was a great enchanter who was a very wealthy man and also an asuang. They dug a great hole and then Juan hid in the woods and began to beat his drum, and the monkey rushed up to the enchanter's house and told him the soldiers were coming, and that he would hide him. So the enchanter went with the monkey to the hole and the monkey pushed him in and began with hands and feet to cover him up. Juan helped, and soon the enchanter was dead and buried. Then they went to the house and at the first door they opened they liberated fifty people who were being fattened for the enchanter's table. These people were glad to help Juan convey all the money, cattle, and all the enchanter's wealth to the town. Juan built a house on the plaza, married the princess, and lived happily ever after, but his friend the monkey, having so well earned his liberty, he sent back to the woods, and their friendship still continued. CHAPTER 9 Juan the Drunkard who Visited Heaven. There was once a man named Juan, who was a drunkard. One day when he was drunker than usual he decided to visit his dead friends in heaven. He took no baggage except two long bamboo buckets full of tuba, which he carried one over each shoulder. He walked and walked for at least a week, until he came to a place where they sold tuba. There he filled his buckets, promising to pay on his return, and set out again. After walking a long time he came to a city with a wall around it, and at the gate sat an old man with a long beard and with keys at his girdle whom he knew at once as St. Peter. "Good-morning, St. Peter," said Juan. "I would like to see some of my friends that I think are here." "Who are you?" asked St. Peter, getting up angrily. "I am Juan and I have come a long way to see some of my friends. Won't you let me look?" "No," said St. Peter, "I won't. You are drunk." "Well, then, only be so good as to let me take just a little peep." So St. Peter opened the gate just the least bit, but Juan was not satisfied, so he said, "Good St. Peter, open the gate just a little wider for me to see with both eyes." Then he persuaded St. Peter to let him put his head in, and then by a little firmness he slipped in, still carrying his buckets of tuba. St. Peter ordered him to come out, but he started down a street he saw, or rather a road, for there were no houses there. "Stop!" said St. Peter, "that road won't take you to your friends. Go the other way." And Juan did so. After he had gone on for some time, he found that he was surrounded by devils who began to torment him, but he defended himself succesfully against them, and by giving them part of his tuba bribed them to tell him where to find his friends. To his friends he gave the remainder of his tuba and then set out to find God himself. Being ushered into the Divine Presence, he knelt humbly and said, "Lord, I beg thee to tell me how long I shall live." The Lord looked at him and said, "I have not sent for you; why are you here?" Juan bowed more humbly than before, and replied, "O Most High, I have come to see some of my dead friends, and I would like also to know how long I shall live on earth." So God told him that he had still a long earthly life before him and never to come again until he was sent for. So Juan left the heavenly city and passed back through St. Peter's gate, and at last, after a weary journey, came to earth again. And Juan lived a long and happy life and drank more tuba than ever. CHAPTER 10 The Juan who Visited Heaven. There was once an old couple who always prayed for a child, for they had always been childless. No matter how it looked, whether deformed or ugly, they must have a child. So after a short time they saw that their prayers would be answered, and in the course of nature a child was born, but the mother died at the birth. The new-born child ran to the church, climbed into the tower, and began to hammer on the bells. The priest, hearing the noise, sent the sacristan to see what was the matter. The sacristan went, and seeing there a little child, asked what he was doing and told him to stop, for the priest would be angry; but the ringing of the bells went on. Then the priest went up. "Little boy," he said, "what is your name?" "Juan," said the child. "Why are you ringing the church bells?" "Because my mother is dead." "When did she die?" "Only now." "If you stop ringing the bells she shall have a fine funeral and you shall live with me and be as my son," said the priest. "Very well, sir, if you will let me stay in the church all I wish." To this the priest assented. The dead woman was buried with all the pomp of music, candles, and bells, and the boy went to live in the convent. Always after his school was done he would be in the church. The father did everything that was possible for him, for he knew that he was not a natural child. After a time the padre sent for him to get his dinner, but he would not leave the church, so the priest had a good dinner cooked and sent it down to the church, but he told the sacristan to watch the church and see what happened. The sacristan watched and soon saw the statue of Jesus eating with the boy. This he told the padre, and the child's dinner was always sent to the church after that. One day not long after he went to the priest and said, "Master, my friend down at the church wants me to go away with him." "Where are you going?" "My friend wants me to go to heaven with him." The priest consented and the little boy and the Lord Jesus went away together. As they walked the little boy saw that two roads ran along together, one thorny and the other smooth. Asked the boy of his companion, "Friend, why is this road where we walk so thorny, and that other yonder so smooth?" Said the Lord, "Hush, child, it is not fitting to disturb the peace of this place, but I will tell you. This is the path of the sinless and is thorny, but that smooth way yonder is the way of the sinners and never reaches heaven." Again they came to a great house filled with young men and women who were all working hammering iron. Said the little boy, "Who are those who labor with the hammer?" "Hush, child, they are the souls of those who died unmarried." They journeyed on, and on one side were bush pastures filled with poor cattle while on the opposite side of the road were pastures dry and bare where the cattle were very fat. The child inquired the meaning of the mystery. The Lord answered him, "Hush, child! These lean cattle in the rich pastures are the souls of sinners, while those fat cattle on dry and sunburnt ground are the souls of sinless ones." After a while they crossed a river, one part of which was ruby red and the other spotless white. "Friend, what is this?" asked the boy. "Hush, child, the red is the blood of your mother whose life was given for yours, and the white is the milk which she desired to give to you, her child," said the Lord. At last they came to a great house having seven stories, and there on a table they saw many candles, some long, some short, some burned out. Said Juan, "Friend, what are all these candles?" "Hush, child, those are the lives of your friends." "What are those empty candlesticks?" "Those are your mother and your uncle, who are dead." "Who is this long one?" "That is your father, who has long to live." "Who is this very short one?" "That is your master, who will die soon." "May I put in another?" "Yes, child, if you wish." So he changed it for a long one, and with his heavenly companion he returned to earth. There he told his master, the padre, all that he had seen and heard and how he had changed the candles; and he and his master lived together a very long time. And in the fulness of time the padre died, but Juan went to heaven one day with his Lord and never returned. CHAPTER 11 The Sad Story of Juan and Maria. Juan and Maria were orphans. When Juan was about eight years old and Maria was about four their father died. The mother went into the hemp fields to earn a living for her family by stripping the fibre from the hemp, which is very hard work, so hard that she died worn out in a month or two afterward. Juan and Maria were then taken into the family of an uncle, their mother's brother, and little Juan began to work for his little sister's and his own living, by transplanting the tender shoots of the banana. Maria often accompanied him, as the children were much attached to each other. One day when they were out in the field Maria saw a beautiful bird which seemed very tame and tried to catch it, but the bird ran into the woods, and although she could come very close to it she could not catch it. On and on she went until she was almost ready to drop, her tiny feet leaving no trace, but still she followed the bird. Just at night she saw an old man with a very kind face, who came toward her, and putting the bird under one arm and taking Maria on his shoulder, he set off toward his house, which did not seem to be very far off. Arriving there he said to his wife, "See, wife, what good fortune I have had today." Seeing the child, his wife threw up her hands in thanksgiving and cried, "Thanks be to God, we have a child at last in our old age." Poor Juan, torn with fear, hunted the woods for days, but could not find his little sister. Convinced at last that his search was hopeless, he went home and worked hard and in a few years became a rich man. Then he began to consider where he could find a suitable wife. It was told him that there was an old couple beyond three ranges of mountains who had a beautiful daughter, and to her he determined to go. Maria had likewise grown up, and now she was the most beautiful damsel in many days' journey. When Juan set out on his search, it was to the house of Maria's foster parents that he was bound. Arriving there, he called to those within, "Honorable people," and the old man said, "Come in;" but Juan remained without until the third invitation. Passing within, he likewise would not sit down till he had been asked three times. Seating himself on a bench, he told the old man that he had come to marry his daughter, and the old man told him he might if he could show that he had enough money. As Juan was rich, this did not take long to do, and after a few days Juan and Maria were married, not knowing their relationship. They lived happily together, and a daughter was born to them. This child, like her mother, was very beautiful. One day, as the little girl was playing by the river, a crab came to the edge of the water and said,-- "Beautiful art thou, More beautiful than any other, But thou art the child Of sister and brother." Horrified, the child ran to her mother, and then the parents began to talk over the events of their childhood and found that they were indeed sister and brother. They went to Maria's foster father to ask what they must do, and he told them they must live apart; and then they went to the archbishop, who told them that they might live lawfully together, as the sacrament of marriage was above all, but, after much thought, they decided that they must live apart, and Maria went back to her foster father. Thus by a sinless crime were their lives saddened forever. CHAPTER 12 The Fifty-one Thieves. There were once two brothers, Juan and Pedro. Pedro was rich and was the elder, but Juan was very poor and gained his living by cutting wood. Juan became so poor at last that he was forced to ask alms from his brother, or what was only the same thing, a loan. After much pleading, Pedro gave his brother enough rice for a single meal, but repenting of such generosity, went and took it off the fire, as his brother's wife was cooking it, and carried it home again. Juan then set out for the woods, thinking he might be able to find a few sticks that he could exchange for something to eat, and went much farther than he was accustomed to go. He came to a road he did not know and followed it for some distance to where it led to a great rocky bluff and there came to an end. Juan did not know exactly what to think of such an abrupt ending to the roadway, and sat down behind a large rock to meditate. As he sat there a voice within the cliff said, "Open the door," and a door in the cliff opened itself. A man richly dressed came out, followed by several others, whom he told that they were going to a town at a considerable distance. He then said, "Shut the door," and the door closed itself again. Juan was not sure whether any one else was inside, but he was no coward and besides he thought he might as well be murdered as starved to death, so when the robbers had ridden away to a safe distance without seeing him, he went boldly up to the cliff and said, "Open the door." The door opened as obediently to him as to the robber, and he went in. He found himself inside a great cavern filled with money, jewels, and rich stuffs of every kind. Hastily gathering more than enough gold and jewels to make him rich, he went outside, not forgetting to say, "Close the door," and went back to his house. Having hidden all but a little of his new wealth, he wished to change one or two of his gold pieces for silver so that he could buy something to eat. He went to his brother's house to ask him for the favor, but Pedro was not at home, and his wife, who was at least as mean as Pedro, would not change the money. After a while Pedro came home, and his wife told him that Juan had some money; and Pedro, hoping in turn to gain some advantage, went to Juan's house and asked many questions about the money. Juan told him that he had sold some wood in town and had been paid in gold, but Pedro did not believe him and hid himself under the house to listen. At night he heard Juan talking to his wife, and found out the place and the password. Immediately taking three horses to carry his spoils, he set out for the robbers' cave. Once arrived, he went straight to the cliff and said, "Open the door," and the door opened immediately. He went inside and said, "Close the door," and the door closed tight. He gathered together fifteen great bags of money, each all he could lift, and carried them to the door ready to put on the horses. He found all the rich food and wine of the robbers in the cave, and could not resist the temptation to make merry at their expense; so he ate their food and drank their fine wines till he was foolishly drunk. When he had reached this state, he began to think of returning home. Beating on the door with both hands, he cried out, "Open, beast. Open, fool. May lightning blast you if you do not open!" and a hundred other foolish things, but never once saying, "Open the door." While he was thus engaged, the robbers returned, and hearing them coming he hid under a great pile of money with only his nose sticking out. The robbers saw that some one had visited the cave in their absence and hunted for the intruder till one of them discovered him trembling under a heap of coin. With a shout they hauled him forth and beat him until his flesh hung in ribbons. Then they split him into halves and threw the body into the river, and cut his horses into bits, [15] which they threw after him. When Pedro did not return, his wife became anxious and told Juan where he had gone. Juan stole quietly to the place by night, and recovered the body, carried it home, and had the pieces sewn together by the tailor. Now the robbers knew that they had been robbed by some one else, and so, when Pedro's body was taken away, the captain went to town to see who had buried the body, and by inquiring, found that Juan had become suddenly rich, and also that it was his brother who had been buried. So the captain of the robbers went to Juan's house, where he found a ball going on. Juan knew the captain again and that he was asking many questions, so he made the captain welcome and gave him a great deal to eat and drink. One of the servants came in and pretended to admire the captain's sword till he got it into his own hands; and then he began to give an exhibition of fencing, making the sword whirl hither and thither and ending with a wonderful stroke that made the captain's head roll on the floor. A day or two later, the lieutenant also came to town, and began to make inquiries concerning the captain. He soon found out that the captain had been killed in Juan's house, but Juan now had soldiers on guard at his door, so that it was necessary to use strategy. He went to Juan and asked if he could start a "tienda," or wine-shop, and Juan, who recognized the lieutenant, said, "Yes." Then the lieutenant went away, soon returning with seven great casks, in each of which he had seven men. These he stored under Juan's house until such time as Juan, being asleep, could be killed with certainty and little danger. When this was done, he went into the house, intending to make Juan drunk and then kill him as Juan had the captain. Juan, however, got the lieutenant drunk first, and soon his head, like the captain's, rolled on the floor. The soldiers below, like all soldiers, wished to have a drink from the great casks, and so one of them took a borer and bored into one of the casks. As he did so, a voice whispered, "Is Juan asleep yet?" The soldier replied, "Not yet," and went and told Juan. The casks by his order were all put into a boat, loaded with stones and chains, and thrown into the sea. So perished the last of the robbers. Juan, being no longer in fear of the robbers, often went to their cave, and helped himself to everything that he wanted. He finally became a very great and wealthy man. [16] CHAPTER 13 The Covetous King and the Three Children. There were once three orphan children, the oldest of whom was perhaps ten years old, and the others but little things, almost babies. They had a tiny little tumble-down house to live in, but very little to eat. Said the eldest to his little brother and sister, "I will go yonder on the sands laid bare by the falling tide, and it may be that I shall find something that we can eat." The little children begged to go, too, and they all set out over the sands. Soon they found a large living shell. "Thanks be to God," said the boy, for he was well instructed, "we shall have something to eat." "Take me home, but do not cook me," said the shell, "and I will work for you." Now this was probably the Holy Virgin herself, in the form of a shell, who had taken pity on the poor children. They took the shell home, and there it spoke again. "Put me into the rice pot, cover me up, and you shall turn out plenty of boiled rice for all of you." And they did so, and the boiled rice came from the pot. "Now put me into the other pot, and take out ulam." And they took out ulam in abundance. "Have you a clothes chest?" asked the shell; but there was none, so they put it into a box, and the box became filled with clothing. Then the shell filled the spare room with rice, and last of all filled another large box with money. Now the king of this city was a cruel man, and he sent for the children and told them that they must give up their money, their rice and all to him and be poor again. "O dear king," said the oldest child, "will you not leave us a little for our living?" "No," replied the king, "I will give you as much boiled rice as you need, and you ought to be glad that you get it." So the king sent ten soldiers to move the rice and the money, but, as soon as they got it to the king's house, it returned to the children. The soldiers worked a whole week without getting a grain of rice or a piece of money to stay in the king's house. Then because they were about to die from fatigue, the king sent ten more, and these too failed. Then the king went himself, but when he tried to move the money he fell down dead. The children, relieved from persecution, lived long and happy lives and were always rich and influential people. CHAPTER 14 The Silent Lover. A long time ago, when the world was young, there lived a very bashful young man. Not far from his house there lived the most beautiful young woman in the world. The young woman had many suitors but rejected all, wishing only for the love of the bashful young man. He in his turn was accustomed to follow her about, longing for courage to declare his love, but bashfulness always sealed his lips. At last, despairing of ever making his unruly tongue tell of his passion, he took a dagger and, following her to the bathing place on the river bank, he cut out his own heart, cast it at her feet, and fell down lifeless. The girl fled, terrified, and a crow pounced upon the heart, and carried it to a hollow dao-tree, when it fell from his beak into the hollow and there remained. But the love for the girl was so strong in the heart that it became reanimated and clothed again with humanity in the form of a little child. A hunter, pursuing the wild boar with dogs, found the child crying from hunger at the foot of the dao-tree and, being childless, took it home, and he and his old wife cared for it as their own. The young woman, knowing now the love of the young man, lived for his memory's sake, a widow, rejecting all suitors. But from the child was never absent the image of his loved one, and at last his love so wrought on his weak frame that he sickened. Knowing that his end was near, he begged of his foster mother that, after his death, she should leave him, and not be surprised if she could not find him on her return. He also asked that on the third day she should take whatever she should find in a certain compartment of the great chest and give it to the girl without price. All this she promised, realizing fully that this was not a natural child. At last he died, and when his foster mother left the body, his great love reanimated the body and it crept into the chest, becoming there transformed into a beautifully carved casket of fragrant wood. Obedient to his wishes, on the third day the old woman carried the casket to the girl, giving it to her without price. When the girl took the casket into her hands, its charm fascinated her, and she clasped it tight and covered it with kisses. At last the spell was broken by the magic of her kisses, and the casket whispered softly to her, "I am thy true love. I was the heart of him who killed himself for love of thee, and I was the youth who died for love of thee, but at last I am contented. In life and death we shall never more be separated." And it was so, for the woman lived to a great age, carrying the casket always with her, inhaling its fragrance [17] with her kisses, and when she died it was buried with her. CHAPTER 15 The Priest, the Servant Boy, and the Child Jesus. There was once a priest who had for his servant a very good boy. One day the padre wanted the boy, and, after looking everywhere for him, went to church. Opening the door quietly, he looked in and there he saw that the statue of the child Jesus had left its shrine and was down on the floor talking and playing with the boy. The priest slipped softly away and ordered a very fine dinner cooked for the lad. When the boy returned to the convent, the padre asked him where he had been. "I have been down to the church playing with a friend." "Very well, there is your dinner. If you play with your friend again, ask him if I shall go to glory in heaven when I am dead." The boy took his dinner to the church and ate, sharing it With the child Jesus. "Tell me, friend," said he to his heavenly companion, "will my master, the priest, go to glory in heaven?" "No," said the child Jesus, "because he has neglected his father and mother." When the boy carried these words to the priest he became very sad, and asked the lad to inquire whether he might atone for his wrong by doing good to other old people. "No," came the answer. "It must be his father and mother who shall receive their dues, and it may be that he shall enter heaven alive." So the priest sent for his poor old father and mother, and lavished on them every care, suffering no one else to do the least thing for them. At last the old people died, and the priest was very sad. Then one night, as he slept, came soft and very beautiful music around about and within the convent, and the boy awoke the priest to listen. "Oh," said the padre, "it is perhaps the angels come to carry us alive to heaven." And it was so. The angels carried the boy and the priest, his master, to be in glory in heaven. CHAPTER 16 The Story of Juan del Mundo de Austria and the Princess Maria. There was once a king who had three very beautiful daughters, Princess Clara, Princess Catalina, and Princess Maria. This king was sick for a long time with a dreadful disease, and although he spent much money on medicines and doctors he was only worse instead of better. At last he sent word to all his people proclaiming that whoever would cure him might have one of the princesses to marry. After several days one of the heralds returned, saying he had met a snake who inquired if the king would give his daughter to a snake to wife if he were cured. The king called his daughters and asked if they would be willing to marry a snake. Said Princess Clara, "I will be stung by a snake till I am dead before I give my virginity to a snake." Said Princess Catalina, "I may be beaten to death with sticks, but I will not give my virginity to a snake." Said Princess Maria, "Father, so you be but well, I care not what becomes of me. If a snake can cure you, I am willing to marry him." So the king's message was carried to the snake, and the king was made well. The snake and the princess were married, and set off through the forest together. After a long journey they came to a house in the forest, and there the snake and the beautiful Maria lived together many days. But the snake, being very wise, saw that the princess ate little and cried very much, and asked her why it was so. She told him that it was hard for her to live with a snake. "Very well," said the snake, and went into a house near by; after a little there came out a handsome man with silken clothes, and rings on his fingers, who told her that he was her husband, that he was known among men as Don Juan del Mundo de Austria, and that he was king of all the beasts, being able to take the form of any of them at will. They passed many happy days together till the time came for the great feast at the court of Princess Maria's father. Don Juan told her that she might go, but that she must on no account tell his name or rank, otherwise when she came to their trysting-place by the seashore she would not find him. He gave her a magic ring by means of which she might obtain anything she wanted, and left her close to her own city. When she arrived at home her sisters were greatly surprised to see her looking well, happy, and much more finely dressed than when she went away, but her father was very glad to see her. The elder sisters often asked her the secret of her husband's identity, but her answer was always the same, "Did you not both see that I married a snake? Who else could it be." The wicked women then determined to make her tell, whether she wished or not, and so they asked her to walk with them in a secluded garden. Then they took sticks and set upon her, beating her and telling her that she must tell who her husband was. The poor little princess defended herself a long time, saying that if she told she would never see him again, but finally, when she was nearly dead from beating, she told them that her husband was Don Juan de Austria. Then she was beaten for not telling the truth, but her tormentors finally desisted and she went to her father and told him all. He did not wish her to return to the forest and begged her to remain with him, but she insisted. When she arrived at the trysting-place, Don Juan was not there, but she set out bravely, asking of her ring whatever she needed for food, drink, and clothing. Wherever she went she inquired of the beasts and birds the whereabouts of her husband, Don Juan de Austria, and, when they knew who she was, they worshipped her and did all that was required. After many days of wandering she came to a place where there was a giant, who was about to eat her, but when he knew her for Don Juan's wife he worshipped her and sent her on her way. Soon she was found by a young giantess who, too, was about to eat her, but when she learned that Maria was the wife of Don Juan she carried her to her own house and hid her, saying that she must be cared for a while until her parents should return, for they might eat her without asking who she was. When the old giant and his wife came back, they told her that she must stay with them for a while, until they could find out about the whereabouts of Don Juan, when they would help her further. They were very good to her, for, said they, "Don Juan is not only king of the animals but of the giants and monsters of every kind." Then the giants took her to Don Juan's city and found her a place in the house of an old childless couple, and there she made her home. But Don Juan had taken another wife, the Lady Loriana, and the new wife saw the old and desired her for a servant. So the Princess Maria became a servant of her rival, and often sat in old rags under the stairs at her work, while her faithless husband passed her without seeing her. The poor girl was torn with jealousy and spent much time thinking about how she might win her husband again. So she asked the ring for a toy in the form of a beautiful little chick, just from the egg. The Lady Loriana saw the pretty toy and begged for it. "No," said Maria, "unless you grant me a little favor, that I may sleep on the floor to-night in your room." So Loriana, suspecting no deceit, agreed. That night Maria wished on her ring that Loriana might be overcome with sleep, and again that her own rags might be transformed into royal raiment and that her tiara should glitter on her forehead. Then she went to the head of the bed and called Don Juan. At first he would not answer, then, without turning to look at the speaker, he bade her go away, as his wife would be angry. "But that is not your wife, Don Juan," said Maria; "I am your true wife, Maria. Look at my dress and the jewels on my forehead--my face, the ring on my finger." And Don Juan saw that she was indeed the deserted wife, and after he had heard the sad story of her wanderings he loved her afresh. The next day at noon-time Maria was not to be found, although Dona Loriana looked everywhere. At last she looked into Don Juan's room, and there, locked in each other's arms fast asleep, were Don Juan and Princess Maria. Loriana aroused them, angrily saying to Maria, "Why do you wish to steal my husband? You must leave this house at once." But Maria resisted saying, "No, he is not your husband but mine, and I will not give him up." And so they quarrelled long and bitterly, but at last agreed to be judged by the council. There each told her story, and Maria showed Don Juan's enchanted ring, which worked its wonders for her but would not obey the Lady Loriana. When the matter was decided, it was the judgment of all, including the Archbishop, that Maria was the lawful wife, but that she and Don Juan must go away and never return. So Don Juan and the Princess Maria went away and lived long and happily. CHAPTER 17 The Artificial Earthquake. There was once in another town a man who had three daughters, all very beautiful. But one of them had an admirer, who by some means excited the old man's wrath, and the daughter was sent to a distant place. This in turn made the young man angry, and he determined to have revenge. He took a strong rope and attached it to one of the corner upright posts of the house, and waiting till it was dark and still inside, he hid behind a tree and began to pull the rope, alternately hauling and slacking. "Oh!" said one of the girls, "there is an earthquake." [18] The old man jumped up and, seizing his crucifix, began to recite the prayers against earthquakes. But the trembling kept up. For more than an hour the old man prayed to all the saints in the calendar, but the earthquake still shook the house. Then the earthquake stopped a moment, and a voice called him to come outside. His daughters begged him not to go, for said they, "You never can stand such a terrible earthquake." Taking his saw, his axe, and his long bolo, the old man went down, only to find everything quiet outside. He began to explore the surroundings of the house to see if he could find the cause of the disturbance, and fell over the rope. With that he began to curse and swear, saying, "May lightning blast the one of ill-omened ancestry who has shaken my house, frightened my family, and broken my bones," and many other harsh things, but he got no answer but a laugh, and the young man had his revenge. CHAPTER 18 The Queen and the Aeta Woman. There was once a king who was sick unto death. Though he was already married to a beautiful and charming woman, he promised to marry any woman who could save his life or recall him after death. Then he died and after his death the queen was superintending the preparations for burial and getting ready the collation for the mourners. While she was busy, an Aeta (Negrito) woman, black, ill-favored, dirty, and smelling like a goat went into the room. Kneeling by the body, she began pulling out pins from the flesh, and soon the king awoke, but his mind was lost. He clasped the Aeta woman to him and showered on her terms of endearment, thinking that she was the queen, while all the time the real queen was without. Seeing how matters stood, the Aeta woman called the queen, "Maria, Maria, bring food for the king," and she forced the queen to obey her and work as a slave in the kitchen, while she wore the queen's robes and lay on the queen's couch. Of course this made a scandal, but no one could interfere until at last a soldier passed through the kitchen and seeing the queen's face red with the fire and noting her beauty, he called the king's attention to her. Then the king remembered Maria and that she was the real queen, and that the other was only a hideous Aeta usurper, and he had the Aeta woman tied in a sack with stones and thrown into the sea. CHAPTER 19 The Child Saint. Once there was a child who was different from other children. She was very quiet and patient, and never spoke unless she was spoken to. Her mother used to urge her to play in the streets with the other children, but she always preferred to sit in the corner quietly and without trouble to any one. When the time came for the child to enter school, she begged her mother to get her a book of doctrines and let her learn at home. So her mother got a book of doctrines for her, and she was able to read at once without being taught. Day after day she sat in the corner reading her books and meditating. When she became a little larger she asked to have a little room built away from the house, where she might remain free from the intrusion of any earthly thought. Her mother had this done, and there in the tight little room with no one to see her she sat. She never tasted the food or drink placed at her door, and finally her mother, becoming alarmed, made a tiny hole and peeped through the wall. There sat the child reading her book, with a huge man standing beside her, and all manner of beasts and serpents filling the little room. More frightened than ever, the mother ran to the priest, who told her that those were devils tempting the child, but not to fear, for she would certainly become a saint. And it was so, for afterwards the evil shapes were gone. Then the priest and the people built a costly shrine and placed her in it, and there the people used to go and ask her to intercede for them. But at last the shrine was found empty, and surely she was taken alive into heaven and is now a saint. CHAPTER 20 Tagalog Babes in the Woods. Once upon a time there was a cruel father who hated his twin children, Juan and Maria, and drove them from the house on every occasion. The children used to live on the grains of rice that fell through the bamboo floor, and such food as their mother could smuggle to them. At last, when they were about six years old, their father took them off into the forest and left them without food or drink. They wandered for three days, being preserved by such fruits and leaves as they could gather. Finally poor Maria said she could go no farther, but that she would die. Juan cut a mountain bamboo and from its hollow joints gave Maria a refreshing drink. Then he climbed a tree and in the distance saw a house. After much exertion they reached it and called out, "Tauo po." [19] A voice from within said, "Come in, children." They went in and found a table set, but no one was there, though the same voice said, "Eat and drink all you want." They did so, and after saying, "Thank you, good-by," they started to go away, but again they were bidden to stay. So they stayed on for a long time until Juan was a young man and Maria a young woman. From a great chest that stood in the corner they took out new clothing as their old wore out, and the chest was never empty, and there was always food in the magic dishes on the table. CHAPTER 21 The King, the Princess, and the Poor Boy. There was once a king who loved his daughter very much, so much in fact that he did not wish her to marry; so he built for her a secret house or vault under the ground, and there he kept her away from all but her parents and her maid servants. There was also an old man in the same city who had a son. The old man said to his son, "Come, lad, let us go into the country and plant crops that we may live," for they were very poor. After they had worked a short time in the country, the old man died and the boy returned to the king's city and then went up and down the street crying, "Oh! who will buy me for a slave, that I may bury my father?" A kind-hearted rich man saw him and inquired his troubles, and the boy told him that he was greatly grieved because his father was dead and he had no money for the funeral. The rich man told him not to grieve, that his father would be buried with all the ceremonies given to any one. After the funeral the boy went to live with the rich man as his servant, and served him faithfully; so faithfully, indeed, that the rich man, who was childless, adopted him and gave him every advantage of education. One day the boy wrote a sentence and placed it in the window, "You may hide your treasure with every care, and watch it well, but it will be spent at last." Now the boy had no idea of any hidden meaning in this sentence, but the king chanced to pass that way and read it. Angrily he called the rich man to his carriage, and demanded of him what it meant. "I do not know, most exalted king," said the rich man, "I have only now seen it. It must have been written by a poor boy to whom I have given shelter since his father died." "Drive him away," said the king; "if he comes back he shall be put to death." So the rich man with a heavy heart, for he loved the boy, sent him out into the world. The boy wandered far and long, till at last he came to a house. He called out to those within, "Honorable people," and heard them answer, "Come in." Inside there was no one but only two statues, and one of these spoke, bidding him return to his own town and beg of his master princely clothing, a princely carriage, all gilt, and a music box that could play many tunes. So the poor boy returned to his master, who sent for the tradesmen and tailors and had them make all manner of princely clothing. Then he got into his carriage and drove around for a while, till he met a boy. To the boy he gave the music box and a piece of money and told him to play it everywhere but to sell it to nobody, and to report to him if any one wanted it. So the boy got into the carriage and took the music box with him, while the poor boy went back to the rich man's house. Soon the king saw the beautiful carriage and heard the sweet music of the music box. The king asked the boy who the owner was, and wished to buy them. The boy told the king that he must tell his employer, and soon the carriage and the music box were sent to the king for a present. The king was much pleased, for he knew the princess would be delighted, so he had the carriage and the music box taken into her vault, and played on the music box a long time. After he had gone, out stepped the poor boy from a secret compartment of the carriage, and knelt before her telling his love in gentle tones. She listened to him, much frightened at first, but later more composedly, till at last she gave him her heart and promised him her hand. When the king came in again he found them sitting holding each other's hands. He demanded in a loud voice, "Who are you? Why are you here? How did you come?" To this the boy modestly replied, saying that he had come concealed in the carriage, and told the king that "You may hide your treasure with every care, and watch it well, but it will be spent at last." But the princess entreated for him, and finally the king gave his consent to their marriage, and they lived happily ever after. CHAPTER 22 Hidden Treasure. There were once a husband and his wife who were very poor. They had a little plot of ground that helped to sustain them, but as the man was sick the woman went to work alone. As she was weeding in the fields she found a malapad, [20] and after a little she found another, and so on until she had a sec-apat. [21] With this she returned home and bought rice, but she was afraid to tell her husband lest he be jealous. The next day she went to work and on this day she found a silver peso. As she reached the edge of the field a voice spoke to her saying, "Tell no one of your good fortune, not even your husband, and you shall have more treasure." Afterwards she went to the field, and daily she found a peso until she had five pesos, which she hid in a safe place. On the seventh day she went to the field, but found nothing. She went to the edge of the field to boil her rice, and was blowing her fire when she heard the same voice again saying, "Never mind boiling your rice, but dig there under your pallok, [22] and you will find more than enough. Tell no one, not even your husband, of what you find." She dug down and there she found a great jar filled to the brim with gold pieces. She took one or two, and hastily covered up the rest and went home. Like a good wife she disliked to keep a secret from her husband, and finally she took him off to a quiet place and told him of their good fortune. He, overjoyed, could not restrain himself and went into the village and told every one of the treasure trove. Then they went to dig it up, but it was no longer there. Even the gold and the five pesos already saved and hid in another secret place were gone, and they were as poor as they had been before. How foolish they were to disobey the command of the voice! CHAPTER 23 The Battle of the Enchanters. [23] There was once a poor boy who was very ambitious to learn, and with the consent of his parents he bound himself to an enchanter who was a very wise man. The boy remained with him for a very long time, until at last his master sent him home, saying that he could teach him nothing more. The boy went home, but there he found nothing in the way of adventure, so he proposed to his father that he should become a horse, which his father could sell for twenty pesos to his late teacher. He cautioned his father that, as soon as he received the money for the horse, he should drop the halter as if by accident. The young man then became a horse, and his father took him to the enchanter, who gave him twenty pesos. As soon as the money was in the father's hand, he dropped the halter, and the horse at once became a bird which flew away. The enchanter metamorphosed himself into a hawk and followed. The bird was so hard pressed by the hawk that it dived into the sea and became a fish. The hawk followed and became a shark. The fish, being in danger from the shark, leaped out on to the dry ground and took the shape of a crab, which hid in a spring where a princess was bathing. The shark followed in the shape of a cat, which began to search under the stones for the crab, but the crab escaped by changing itself into a ring on the finger of the princess. Now it chanced that the father of the princess was very sick, and the enchanter went to the palace and offered to cure him for the ring on the finger of the princess. To this the king agreed, but the ring begged the princess not to give him directly to the enchanter, but to let him fall on the floor. The princess did this, and as the ring touched the floor it broke into a shower of rice. The enchanter immediately took the form of a cock and industriously pecked at the grains on the floor. But as he pecked, one of the grains changed to a cat which jumped on him and killed him. The young man then resumed his own form, having proven himself a greater man than his master. Fletcher Gardner. Bloomington, Ind. PART IV A Filipino (Tagalog) Version of Aladdin. Once on a time a poor boy and his mother went far from their home city to seek their fortune. They were very poor, for the husband and father had died, leaving them little, and that little was soon spent. The boy went into the market-place to seek for work, and a travelling merchant, seeing his distress, spoke to him and asked many questions. When he had inquired the name of the boy's father, he embraced him with many kind words, and told him that he was the father's long-lost brother, and that as he had no children of his own the boy should be his heir and for the present live with him as his son. He sent the boy to call his mother, and when she came he kissed her with many words of endearment, and would have it that she was his sister-in-law, though she told him that her husband had no brother. He treated her well and made her many presents, so that she was forced to believe he really was her brother-in-law. The merchant then invited the boy to go for a visit with him, promising that the mother should soon follow. Mother and son consented, and the merchant set off with his nephew in the afternoon. They went far and came to a mountain which they crossed, and then to a second, which seemed very high to the poor boy so that he begged to rest. The man would not allow this, and when the boy cried, beat him till he agreed to do whatever he was told. They crossed this mountain also, and came to a third, and on the very top they stopped. The merchant drew a ring from his own finger and put it on that of the boy. Then he drew a circle around the boy and told him not to be frightened at what would happen, but to stretch out his arms three times, and that the third time the ground would open, and that then he must descend and get a tabo [24] that he would find, and that with that in their hands they could quickly return. The boy, from fear of the man, did as he was told, and when the ground opened, went down into the cave and got the tabo. As he reached up his hand to be pulled from the cave, the man took the ring from his finger, and told him to hand up the vessel, but the boy, now much frightened, refused unless he were first helped out himself. That the man would not do, and after much talk drew another circle around the cave-mouth, bade it close, and left the boy a prisoner in most evil plight. Alone and helpless for three days in the underground darkness, the boy was a prey to awful fear, but at the end of the third day, having by accident rubbed slightly the tabo with his hand, at once a great sinio [25] or multo [26] stood before him, saying that he was the slave of the tabo, and that all things earthly were within his power. At once mindful of his mother, he told the multo to take him home, and in the winking of an eye, still carrying the tabo in his hand, he stood before his mother. He found her very hungry and sorrowful, and recounted all that had happened and again rubbed the tabo lightly. The multo reappeared and the good woman hid her face for terror at the sight, but the lad bade the multo bring him a dinner for them both on a service of silver with everything to match. After they had dined well for several days on the remnants of the food, the boy went to the market and sold the spoons that the multo had brought for two gold pieces, and on that they lived a long time: and as from time to time their money became exhausted, he sold more, till at last there was nothing left. Then, as he had become a young man, he required the multo to bring him a great chest of money, and soon became known as a very rich and generous person. Now there was in that city a woman who had a very handsome daughter whom she wished to marry to the young man, and by way of opening the matter, she and her daughter went one day to try to buy some of the rich table ware which he had, or at least so they pretended. The young man was not of a mind for that kind of alliance, and so told the old woman to rub the magic vessel. She did so and the multo at once whisked her inside. The daughter also went in to inquire for her mother, and as she admiringly touched the tabo the multo made her prisoner, and the two became the slaves of the young man and were never heard of again. A variant of this tale has been printed in Tagalog. It has probably reached the Phillppines through the medium of Spanish. Fletcher Gardner. Bloomington, Ind. PART V Some Games of Filipino Children. Os-Os. This is a game used by older persons to amuse small children, exactly as our game of the "Five Little Pigs." The child is grasped by the wrist with the left hand of the elder, who repeats "Ang áma, ang ína, ang káka, ang áli, ang nóno, tóloy, os-os sa kíli-kíli mo." That is, "The father (thumb), the mother (forefinger), the elder brother (middle finger), the elder sister (ring finger), the grandparent (little finger) straight up to your armpit." The armpit is then tickled. Os-os is a verb meaning "to go up stream." This is a common game among the Tagalogs of Mindoro Island. Marbles. The game of marbles is played with conical shells, propelled by laying on the ground and striking with the ulnar side of the index finger, which is snapped from the thumb against it. The goal is a hole in the ground, in which the stakes, usually consisting of other shells of the same kind, are deposited. The "taw" is a straight line some six or eight feet away. If a shell is struck, the owner of the striking shell has another shot, and the owner of the shell struck shoots from where he lies. He seems to incur no penalty. This is a common game on Mindoro, and is played usually at the beginning of the dry season. Tágo-Tágo. Translated, the name means, "Play at hiding." It is played exactly as "I spy" and the counting out beforehand is similar. There is a considerable number of counting-out rhymes to be heard, only one of which I am able to give entire. It is in Filipino Spanish. "Pim, pim, serapim, agua, ronda, San Miguel, arcángel." In English, "Phim, phim, seraphim, water, the night patrol, St. Michael, the archangel." Hop-Scotch. This game is played by marking out in the dust or sand a parallelogram, which is subdivided into a varying number of compartments. A small stone is put into the first subdivision, and the player, standing on one foot, kicks it into each in turn. If it goes out of bounds he is allowed to kick it back, so long as the other foot does not reach the ground. A failure to complete the circuit entails a loss of turn, and on the next round the player begins again at the first compartment. Jack-stones. Is played with pebbles or shells. I am unable to give the special movements, which resemble very much our own game. I suspect that it is of Spanish origin. Fletcher Gardner. Indianapolis, Ind. PART VI Bagobo Myths By Laura Watson Benedict The following stories were obtained from the Bagobo people, one of the groups of pagan Malays in southeastern Mindanao, Philippine Islands. Their habitat is on the eastern folds of the Cabadangan mountain-range, in the vicinity of Mount Apo, the highest peak, and on the foothills thence sloping down to the west coast of the Gulf of Davao. They practise a primitive agriculture--raising corn, rice, camotes, and several vegetables--in fields and little gardens at the edge of the forests. Their garments are of home-grown hemp; and their artistic interests centre largely around the decorative designs produced in dyeing, weaving, and embroidery. In spite of physical barriers interposed by mountain-spurs, frequent swift-flowing rivers, and dense undergrowth in the forests, there is considerable intercourse between the small villages, each of which contains from two to twenty or more houses. The people take long journeys on horse and on foot over the trails to assemble at ceremonial festivals and for purposes of trade, as well as for social visiting. On such occasions, stories and songs are repeated. That the component parts of the stories have been drawn from numerous and widely separated sources, is apparent, even at a cursory glance. Among these sources, the folk-lore material of Sanscrit writers seems to have left a distinctive impress upon the Bagobo mythical romance. Against a Malay background, and blended with native pagan elements, are presented chains of episodes, characteristic personalities, methods for securing a magical control of the situation, that suggest vividly parallel literary forms in the Sanscrit saga. Still more, one is conscious of a prevailing Indian atmosphere, that may sometimes elude analysis, yet none the less fails not to make itself felt. But as to the line of ethnic contacts which has transfused this peculiar literary quality into Malay myth,--whether it is to be traced solely to the influence exerted by Hindoo religion and Hindoo literature during ages of domination in the Malay archipelago, or whether we must reconsider the hypothesis of an Indonesian migration,--this is a problem of great complexity, for which no satisfactory solution has yet been offered. Modern foreign increments that have filtered into the stories from the folk-lore of neighboring wild tribes--notably that of the Bilan, the Tagacolo, and, to a less extent, the Culaman and Ata--will have to be sifted out eventually. In illustration of this point, one tale known to be outside of Bagobo sources is here introduced. The story of "Alelu'k and Alebu'tud" was told by an Ata boy to a Bagobo at the coast, who immediately related it to me. It was unquestionably passed on in Bagobo circles, and has become a permanent accession. Yet this was the sole case that came under my observation of a social visit made by an Ata in a Bagobo house; for the Ata live far to the northwest of the Bagobo, and are extremely timid, and "wild" in the popular sense. Recent ethnic influences from higher peoples, pre-eminently the Moro and the Spaniard, will have to be reckoned with. The story of "The Monkey and the Turtle" is clearly modified from a Spanish source. The myths here presented include only those of which no texts were recorded. A part of the material was given in the vernacular and interpreted by a Bagobo; a part was told in English, or in mixed English and Bagobo. The stories were taken down in 1907, on Mount Merar in the district of Talun, and at Santa Cruz on the coast. As regards subject-matter, the stories (ituran [27]) tend to cluster into groups fairly distinguishable in type. Foremost in significance for the cultural tradition of the people is the ulit, a long, romantic tale relating in highly picturesque language the adventures of the mythical Bagobo, who lived somewhere back in the hazy past, before existing conditions were established. Semi-divine some of them were, or men possessing magical power. The old Mona people; the Malaki, who portrayed the Bagobo's ideal of manhood; and the noble lady called Bia,--these and other well-marked characters figure in the ulit. Another class of stories deals with the demons known as Buso, who haunt graveyards, forests, and rocks. These tales have been built up by numerous accretions from the folk-lore of many generations. The fear of Buso is an ever-present element in the mental associations of the Bagobo, and a definite factor in shaping ritual forms and magical usages. But the story-teller delights to represent Buso as tricked, fooled, brought into embarrassing situations. Still another type of myth is associated with cosmogony and natural phenomena. It is probable that more extended research would disclose a complete cosmogonic myth to replace the somewhat fragmentary material here offered. The number of explanatory animal tales thus far collected is surprisingly small. Doubtless there are many more to be gathered. Yet, in view of the comparatively scanty mammalian fauna of Mindanao, we might anticipate a somewhat limited range of animal subjects. It will be observed that these groups of stories, tentatively thus classified for convenience, are not separated by sharp lines. Buso figures prominently in the ulit; animals play the part of heroes in Buso tales; while in nature myths the traditional Mona are more or less closely associated with the shifting of sky and sun. But this is merely equivalent to saying that all the tales hang together. A word as to the form of the stories and the manner of narration. Here we find two distinct styles dependent on the content of the myth. The tales of animals, cosmogonic myths, and the folk-lore of Buso, are all told in prose, with many inflections of the voice, and often accompanied by an animated play of dramatic gesture. In marked contrast is the style of the mythical romance, or ulit, which is recited in a rapid monotone, without change of pitch, with no gestures, and with a regard to accent and quantity that gives a rhythmic swing suggestive of a metrical rendering. Although Bagobo songs are often designated as men's songs and women's songs, in the case of the stories I have found as yet no monopoly by either sex of any special type. The ulit, however, is often told by a young woman just after she leaves the loom, when darkness drops. She sits on the floor, or lies on her back with hands clasped behind her head, and pours out her story in an unbroken flow to the eager young men and girls who gather to listen. Again, I have seen a girl of thirteen the sole auditor while a boy but little older than she rolled off an ulit that seemed interminable, with never a pause for breath. The children did not glance at each other; but the face of each was all alight with joy at the tale. CHAPTER I Myths Associated with Natural Phenomena Cosmogony In the beginning, Diwata [28] made the sea and the land, and planted trees of many kinds. Then he took two lumps of earth, [29] and shaped them like human figures; then he spit on them, and they became man and woman. The old man was called Tuglay, and the old woman, Tuglibung. [30] The two were married, and lived together. The Tuglay made a great house, and planted seeds of different kinds that Diwata gave him. Diwata made the sun, the moon, the stars, and the rivers. First he made the great eel (kasili), a fish that is like a snake in the river, and wound [31] it all around the world. Diwata then made the great crab (kayumang), and put it near the great eel, and let it go wherever it liked. Now, when the great crab bites the great eel, the eel wriggles, and this produces an earthquake. When the rain falls, it is Diwata throwing out water from the sky. When Diwata spits, the showers fall. The sun makes yellow clouds, and the yellow clouds make the colors of the rainbow. But the white clouds are smoke from the fire of the gods. In the Days of the Mona Long ago the sun hung low over the earth. And the old woman called Mona said to the sky, "You go up high, because I cannot pound my rice when you are in the way." Then the sky moved up higher. Mona [32] was the first woman, and Tuglay [33] was the first man. There were at that time only one man and one woman on the earth. Their eldest son was named Malaki; their eldest daughter, Bia. They lived at the centre of the earth. Tuglay and Mona made all the things in the world; but the god made the woman and the man. Mona was also called Tuglibung. Tuglay and Tuglibung got rich, because they could see the god. But the snake was there too, and he gave the fruit to the man and the woman, saying to them, "If you eat the fruit, it will open your eyes." Then they both ate the fruit. This made the god angry. After this, Tuglibung and Tuglay could not see the god any more. [34] Why the Sky Went Up In the beginning, when the world was made, the sky lay low down over the earth. At this time the poor families called "Mona" were living in the world. The sky hung so low, that, when they wanted to pound their rice, they had to kneel down on the ground to get a play for the arm. Then the poor woman called Tuglibung said to the sky, "Go up higher! Don't you see that I cannot pound my rice well?" So the sky began to move upwards. When it had gone up about five fathoms, the woman said again, "Go up still more!" This made the sun angry at the woman, and he rushed up very high. In the old days, when the sun as well as the sky was low down, the Mona had a deep hole in the ground, as large as a house, into which they would creep to keep themselves from the fierce heat of the sun. The Mona were all very old; but after the sun went up very high, they began to get babies. [35] Why the Sky Went Up In the beginning, the sky hung so low over the earth, that the people could not stand upright, could not do their work. For this reason, the man in the sky said to the sky, "Come up!" Then the sky went up to its present place. The Sun and the Moon Long ago the Sun had to leave the Moon to go to another town. He knew that his wife, the Moon, was expecting the birth of a child; and, before going away, he said to her, "When your baby is born, if it is a boy, keep it; if a girl, kill it." A long time passed before the Sun could come back to the Moon, and while he was gone, the Moon gave birth to her baby. It was a girl. A beautiful child it was, with curly hair like binubbud, [36] with burnished nails that looked like gold, and having the white spots called pamoti [37] on its body. The mother felt very sad to think of killing it, and so she hid it in the big box (kaban [38]) where they kept their clothes. As soon as the Sun returned, he asked the Moon, "How about our baby?" At once the Moon replied, "It was a girl: I killed it yesterday." The Sun had only a week to stay at home with the Moon. One night he dreamed that a boy with white hair came to him from heaven. The boy stood close to him, and spoke these words:-- "Your wife got a baby, but it was a girl; and she hid it away from you in the box." When the Sun wakened from sleep, he was very angry at the Moon, and the two fell to quarrelling about the baby. The Moon wanted the child saved. "You ought to keep it with you," she urged. "No, no!" protested the Sun. "I cannot keep it, because my body is so hot it would make your baby sick." "And I cannot keep it," complained the Moon, "for my body is very dark; and that would surely make the child sick." Then the Sun fell into a passion of rage; and he seized his big kampilan, [39] and slew the child. He cut its small body into numberless little bits,--as many as the grains of sand that lie along the seashore. Out of the window he tossed the pieces of the shining little body; and, as the gleaming fragments sparkled to their places in the sky, the stars came to birth. Origin of the Stars All the old Bagobo men say that the Sun and the Moon once had a quarrel about the Moon's baby. The Moon had a baby in her belly; and the Sun said, "If our baby is a girl, we will kill it, because a girl could not be like me." Then the Sun went on a journey to another town, and while he was gone, the baby was born; but it was a girl. Now, the Moon felt very sorry to think of her little child being killed, and she hid it in a box. In a few days, the Sun came home to rest with his wife. Then he asked her for the baby. The Moon answered, "I killed it yesterday: it was a girl." But the Sun did not believe what his wife said. Then he opened the box to get his clothes, and there he saw a baby-girl. And the Sun was very angry. He seized the baby and cut it into many pieces, and threw the pieces out of the window. Then the pieces of the baby's body became the stars. Before the Sun and the Moon had their quarrel, they journeyed together through the sky, and the sky was not far above the earth, as now, but it lay low down. The Fate of the Moon's Baby The Sun wanted the Moon to have a boy-baby so that it would be like its father. The Moon too hoped to give birth to a boy. But when the child was born, it was a girl. Now, at that time, the Moon was very hungry, and wanted to eat her own baby. Then the Sun killed the girl-child, and ate it up himself. The Black Men at the Door of the Sun The men who live in that part of the world near to where the sun rises are very black. They are called Manobo tagselata k'alo. [40] From sunrise until noon, they stay in a hole in the ground to escape the fierce heat of the sun. Just before sunrise, they put their rice in the big pot, with water, and leave it without any fire under the pot. Then they creep into their hole in the ground. The rising sun cooks the rice; and, when the black men come out of the hole at noon, their meal is all ready for them. From noon until sunset, and then all night, the black men play and work. But before the sun rises, they fix their rice in the pot, leave it for the sun to cook, and go down again into the big hole. Story of the Eclipse Before time began, very long ago, a great bird called "minokawa" [41] swallowed the moon. Seized with fear, all the people began to scream and make a great noise. Then the bird peeped down to see what was the matter, and he opened his mouth. But as soon as he opened his mouth, the moon sprang out and ran away. The minokawa-bird is as large as the Island of Negros or Bohol. He has a beak of steel, and his claws too are of steel. His eyes are mirrors, and each single feather is a sharp sword. He lives outside the sky, at the eastern horizon, ready to seize the moon when she reaches there from her journey under the earth. The moon makes eight holes in the eastern horizon to come out of, and eight holes in the western horizon to go into, because every day the big bird tries to catch her, and she is afraid. The exact moment he tries to swallow her is just when she is about to come in through one of the holes in the east to shine on us again. If the minokawa should swallow the moon, and swallow the sun too, he would then come down to earth and gulp down men also. But when the moon is in the belly of the big bird, and the sky is dark, then all the Bagobo scream and cry, and beat agongs, [42] because they fear they will all "get dead." Soon this racket makes the minokawa-bird look down and "open his mouth to hear the sound." Then the moon jumps out of the bird's mouth and runs away. All the old men know about the minokawa-bird in the ulit stories. CHAPTER II The "Ulit:" Adventures of Mythical Bagobo at the Dawn of Tradition Lumabat and Mebu'yan Long ago Lumabat [43] and his sister (tube' [44]) had a quarrel because Lumabat had said, "You shall go with me up into heaven." And his sister had replied, "No, I don't like to do that." Then they began to fight each other. Soon the woman sat down on the big rice mortar, [45] and said to Lumabat, "Now I am going down below the earth, down to Gimokudan. [46] Down there I shall begin to shake the lemon-tree. Whenever I shake it, somebody up on the earth will die. If the fruit shaken down be ripe, then an old person will die on the earth; but if the fruit fall green, the one to die will be young." Then she took a bowl filled with pounded rice, and poured the rice into the mortar for a sign that the people should die and go down to Gimokudan. Presently the mortar began to turn round and round while the woman was sitting upon it. All the while, as the mortar was revolving, it was slowly sinking into the earth. But just as it began to settle in the ground, the woman dropped handfuls of the pounded rice upon the earth, with the words: "See! I let fall this rice. This makes many people die, dropping down just like grains of rice. Thus hundreds of people go down; but none go up into heaven." Straightway the mortar kept on turning round, and kept on going lower down, until it disappeared in the earth, with Lumabat's sister still sitting on it. After this, she came to be known as Mebu'yan. Before she went down below the earth, she was known only as Tube' ka Lumabat ("sister of Lumabat"). Mebu'yan is now chief of a town called Banua Mebu'yan ("Mebu'yan's town"), where she takes care of all dead babies, and gives them milk from her Breasts. Mebu'yan is ugly to look at, for her whole body is covered with nipples. All nursing children who still want the milk, go directly, when they die, to Banua Mebu'yan, instead of to Gimokudan, and remain there with Mebu'yan until they stop taking milk from her breast. Then they go to their own families in Gimokudan, where they can get rice, and "live" very well. All the spirits stop at Mebu'yan's town, on their way to Gimokudan. There the spirits wash all their joints in the black river that runs through Banua Mebu'yan, and they wash the tops of their heads too. This bathing (pamalugu [47]) is for the purpose of making the spirits feel at home, so that they will not run away and go back to their own bodies. If the spirit could return to its body, the body would get up and be alive again. Story of Lumabat and Wari Tuglay and Tuglibung [48] had many children. One of them was called Lumabat. There came a time when Lumabat quarrelled with his sister and was very angry with her. He said, "I will go to the sky, and never come back again." So Lumabat started for the sky-country, and many of his brothers and sisters went with him. A part of their journey lay over the sea, and when they had passed the sea, a rock spoke to them and said, "Where are you going?" In the beginning, all the rocks and plants and the animals could talk [49] with the people. Then one boy answered the rock, "We are going to the sky-country." As soon as he had spoken, the boy turned into a rock. But his brothers and sisters went on, leaving the rock behind. Presently a tree said, "Where are you going?" "We are going to the sky," replied one of the girls. Immediately the girl became a tree. Thus, all the way along the journey, if any one answered, he became a tree, or stone, or rock, according to the nature of the object that put the question. By and by the remainder of the party reached the border of the sky. They had gone to the very end of the earth, as far as the horizon. But here they had to stop, because the horizon kept moving up and down (supa-supa). The sky and the earth would part, and then close together again, just like the jaws of an animal in eating. This movement of the horizon began as soon as the people reached there. There were many young men and women, and they all tried to jump through the place where the sky and the earth parted. But the edges of the horizon are very sharp, like a kampilan, [50] and they came together with a snap whenever anybody tried to jump through; and they cut him into two pieces. Then the parts of his body became stones, or grains of sand. One after another of the party tried to jump through, for nobody knew the fate of the one who went before him. Last of all, Lumabat jumped--quick, quicker than the rest; and before the sharp edges snapped shut, he was safe in heaven. As he walked along, he saw many wonderful things. He saw many kampilans standing alone, and fighting, and that without any man to hold them. Lumabat passed on by them all. Then he came to the town where the bad dead live. The town is called "Kilut." [51] There, in the flames, he saw many spirits with heavy sins on them. The spirits with little sins were not in the flames; but they lay, their bodies covered with sores, in an acid that cuts like the juice of a lemon. Lumabat went on, past them all. Finally he reached the house of Diwata, [52] and went up into the house. There he saw many diwata, and they were chewing betel-nut, [53] And one diwata spit from his mouth the isse [54] that he had finished chewing. When Lumabat saw the isse coming from the mouth of the god, it looked to him like a sharp knife. Then Diwata laid hold of Lumabat, and Lumabat thought the god held a sharp knife in his hand. But it was no knife: it was just the isse. And Diwata rubbed the isse on Lumabat's belly, and with one downward stroke he opened the belly, and took out Lumabat's intestines (betuka). Then Lumabat himself became a god. He was not hungry any more, for now his intestines were gone. Yet if he wanted to eat, he had only to say, "Food, come now!" and at once all the fish were there, ready to be caught. In the sky-country, fish do not have to be caught. And Lumabat became the greatest of all the diwata. Now, when Lumabat left home with his brothers and sisters, one sister and three brothers remained behind. The brother named Wari felt sad because Lumabat had gone away. At last he decided to follow him. He crossed the sea, and reached the border of the sky, which immediately began to make the opening and shutting motions. But Wari was agile, like his brother Lumabat; and he jumped quick, just like Lumabat, and got safe into heaven. Following the same path that his brother had taken, he reached the same house. And again Diwata took the isse, and attempted to open Wari's belly; but Wari protested, for he did not like to have his intestines pulled out. Therefore the god was angry at Wari. Yet Wari staid on in the house for three days. Then he went out on the atad [55] that joined the front and back part of the gods' house, whence he could look down on the earth. He saw his home town, and it made him happy to look at his fields of sugarcane and bananas, his groves of betel and cocoanuts. There were his bananas ripe, and all his fruits ready to be plucked. Wari gazed, and then he wanted to get back to earth again, and he began to cry; for he did not like to stay in heaven and have his intestines taken out, and he was homesick for his own town. Now, the god was angry at Wari because he would not let him open his belly. And the god told Wari to go home, and take his dogs with him. First the god fixed some food for Wari to eat on his journey. Then he took meadow-grass (karan), and tied the long blades together, making a line long enough to reach down to earth. He tied Wari and the dogs to one end of the line; but before he lowered the rope, he said to Wari, "Do not eat while you are up in the air, for if you eat, it will set your dogs to quarrelling. If I hear the sound of dogs fighting, I shall let go the rope." But while Wari hung in the air, he got very hungry, and, although he had been let down only about a third of the distance from heaven to earth, he took some of his food and ate it. Immediately the dogs began to fight. Then Diwata in the sky heard the noise, and he dropped the rope of meadow-grass. Then Wari fell down, down; but he did not strike the ground, for he was caught in the branches of the tree called lanipo. It was a tall tree, and Wari could not get down. He began to utter cries; and all night he kept crying, "Aro-o-o-o-i!" Then he turned into a kulago-bird. [56] At night, when you hear the call of the kulago-bird, you know that it is the voice of Wari. The kulago-bird has various sorts of feathers, feathers of all kinds of birds and chickens; it has the hair of all animals and the hair of man. This bird lives in very high trees at night, and you cannot see it. You cannot catch it. Yet the old men know a story about a kulago-bird once having been caught while it was building its nest. But this was after there came to be many people on the earth. The three dogs went right along back to Wari's house. They found Wari's sister and two brothers at home, and staid there with them. After a while, the woman and her two brothers had many children. "In the beginning," say the old men, "brother and sister would marry each other, just like pigs. This was a very bad custom." How Man Turned into a Monkey Before the world was made, the monkey looked like man, and was called manobo, [57] and was actually human. But after the world and people were made, the monkey took its present form. When people began to live in the world, they had many children. One man was called Lumabat. His father had a number of children, so that Lumabat had many brothers and sisters. One day a brother of Lumabat was climbing up over the roof, and in his hand he had a long ladle made of cocoanut-shell. He held the ladle behind his back, at the base of his spine, until by and by a tail began to grow. The ladle had turned into a tail, and presently Lumabat's brother became a monkey. After that, a few other people turned into monkeys. But all this came about before Lumabat went to heaven. The Tuglibung and the Tuglay Before time began, [58] an old woman (Tuglibung) and an old man (Tuglay) lived in a town at the centre of the world. There came a season of drought, when their bananas spoiled, and all their plants died from the hot sun. Tuglibung and Tuglay were very hungry, and looked skinny, because they had nothing to eat. One night as the old man slept, he dreamed that a little boy with white hair came close to him, and said, "Much better it would be, if you wouldstay here no longer; much better, that you go to the T'oluk Waig [59] ('water-sources'), where there is a good place to live." So the old folks started on their journey to the source of the rivers. On their way, they stopped at one place that seemed good, and staid for about a month; but there was little to eat, and they were always hungry. At last, one day, the man climbed up into a tall tree, whence he could see the whole earth, even to the border of the sky. Far away he could see a little smoke, just like a cigarette. Then he climbed "down the tree in a hurry, and told his wife what he had seen. "I will go and find out where that smoke comes from," he said, "and see if I can get some bananas and things,--all we can eat." So the man started out and travelled a long way, leaving his wife at home. As he approached the place where he had seen the smoke, he found himself in a vast field full of fruit-trees and sugarcane-plants. The sugarcane grew as big as trees; the bananas were as huge as the trunks of cocoanut-palms; and the papaya-fruit was the size of a great clay jar. He walked on until he reached a very large meadow, full of long wavy grass, where there were many horses and carabao and other animals. Soon after he left the meadow-grass, he could make out, some distance ahead of him, a big house with many smaller houses grouped around it. He was so scared that he could not see the houses very well. He kept his eyes on the ground at his feet. When he came up to the big house, he saw lying under it piles of human bones. He then knew that the Datu of the Buso [60] lived there. In all the other houses there were buso living too. But he went bravely up the steps of the big house, and sat down on the floor. Right away, while he sat there, the children of Buso wanted to eat him. But Tuglay said, "No, no! don't eat me, because I just came to get bananas of many different kinds." Then the man made a bargain with the Datu of the Buso, and said, "Give me some bananas, and I will pay you two children for them. Come to my house in nine days, and you shall have one boy and one girl for the bananas." But Tuglay had no children. Then the Buso gave Tuglay a basket of bananas, and let him go away. Now, while her husband was away, the woman gave birth to twins,--a boy and a girl. And when the man got home he was pleased, and said, "Oh! that's fine! You got some babies while I was away." But the man felt very sorry to think of giving his children to the Buso, and he went from place to place, hoping to find some friend who would help him. All the time, the days of the falla ("time of contract") were slipping by. He could get nobody to help him. Now it lacked only two of the nine days' falla. And while the children were asleep, Tuglay said to his wife, "Let us run away, and leave our babies here asleep, because to-morrow the Buso will come." Then Tuglay and Tuglibung ran away, and left their children. They ran and ran until they reached the T'oluk Waig; but they could not get away from the falla. The nine days of falla had caught up with them. At home, the children woke up and found no mother and father there, and they began to cry. They thought they would run after their parents. So they left the house, and forded the river, and began to run. When the nine days were up, the Buso came to Tuglay's house for his pay. When he found nobody at home, he ran after the children, carrying with him many iron axes and big bolos, and accompanied by a crowd of other buso. In all there were three thousand buso,--two thousand walking, and one thousand flying. The children had the start; but the three thousand buso kept gaining on them, until they were close behind. As they ran, the little boy said to his sister, "When we get to that field over there, where there are ripe bananas, you must not speak a word." But when they reached the banana-tree, the girl-child cried out, "Brother, I want to eat a banana." Then she ate a banana; but she felt so weak she could run no longer. She just lay down and died. Then the boy-child looked about for a place to put his sister's body. He looked at the fine branched trees, full of fruit, and saw that each single fruit was an agong, [61] and the leaves, mother-of-pearl. To one of the trees, the boy said, "May I put my sister here?" And the tree said that he might do it. Then the boy laid his sister on a branch of the tree, because the child was dead. After this, the boy ran back toward the Buso who led the rest, and called out to him, "I'm going to run very fast. Chase me now, and catch me if you can!" So the boy ran, and the Buso chased him. Hard pressed, the boy sprang toward a big rock, and shouted to it, "O rock, help me! The Buso will catch me." "Come up!" said the rock, "I'll help you, if I can." But when the boy climbed up, he found that it was not a rock, but a fine house, that was giving him shelter. In that house lived the Black Lady (Bia t' metum [62]), and she received the boy kindly. As soon as the Buso came up to the rock, he smiled, and said, "The boy is here all right! I'll break the rock with my axe." But when he tried to break the rock with axe and poko, [63] the hard stone resisted; and the Buso's tools were blunted and spoiled. Meantime, in the Black Lady's house the boy was getting ready for a fight, because the Black Lady said, "Go down now; they want you down there." Then with sharp sword and long spear, bearing a fine war-shield, and wearing ear-plugs of shining ivory, the boy went down to meet the Buso. When he went down the steps, all the other buso had come, and were waiting for him in front of the house. Then they all went to fighting the one boy, and he met them all alone. He fought until every one of the three thousand buso fell down dead. At last, one only of the buso stood up, and he was the great Datu of Buso. But even he fell down before that mighty boy, for none could conquer the boy. He was matulus. [64] After all was done, the boy married the Black Lady, and lived well in her house. Adventures of the Tuglay [65] It was eight [66] million (kati) years ago, in the days of the Mona, [67] that the following events took place. The Tuglay lived in a fine house the walls of which were all mirrored glass, and the roof was hung with brass chains. One day he went out into the woods to snare jungle-fowl, and he slept in the woods all night. The next day, when he turned to go home, he found himself puzzled as to which trail to take. He tried one path after another, but none seemed to lead to his house. At last he said to himself, "I have lost my way: I shall never be able to get home." Then he walked on at random until he came to a vast field of rice, where great numbers of men were cutting the palay. [68] But the rice-field belonged to Buso, and the harvesters were all buso-men. When they saw Tuglay at the edge of their field, they were glad, and said to one another, "There's a man! We will carry him home." Then the buso caught Tuglay, and hastened home with him. Now, the great Buso's mansion stretched across the tops of eight million mountains, and very many smaller houses were on the sides of the mountains, all around the great Buso's house; for this was the city of the buso where they had taken Tuglay. As he was carried through the groves of cocoanut-palms on Buso's place, all the Cocoanuts called out, "Tuglay, Tuglay, in a little while the Buso will eat you!" Into the presence of the great chief of all the buso, they dragged Tuglay. The Datto Buso was fearful to look at. From his head grew one great horn of pure ivory, and flames of fire were blazing from the horn. The Datto Buso questioned the man. "First of all, I will ask you where you come from, Tuglay." "I am come from my house in T'oluk Waig," replied the man. And the great Buso shouted, "I will cut off your head with my sharp kris!" [69] "But if I choose, I can kill you with your own sword," boldly answered Tuglay. Then he lay down, and let the Buso try to cut his neck. The Buso swung his sharp sword; but the steel would not cut Tuglay's neck. The Buso did not know that no knife could wound the neck of Tuglay, unless fire were laid upon his throat at the same time. This was eight million years ago that the Buso tried to cut off the head of Tuglay. Then another day the Tuglay spoke to all the buso, "It is now my turn: let me try whether I can cut your necks." After this speech, Tuglay stood up and took from his mouth the chewed betel-nut that is called isse, and made a motion as if he would rub the isse on the great Buso's throat. When the Buso saw the isse, he thought it was a sharp knife, and he was frightened. All the lesser buso began to weep, fearing that their chief would be killed; for the isse appeared to all of them as a keen-bladed knife. The tears of all the buso ran down like blood; they wept streams and streams of tears that all flowed together, forming a deep lake, red in color. Then Tuglay rubbed the chewed betel on the great Buso's throat. One pass only he made with the isse, and the Buso's head was severed from his body. Both head and body of the mighty Buso rolled down into the great lake of tears, and were devoured by the crocodiles. Now, the Tuglay was dressed like a poor man,--in bark (bunut [70]) garments. But as soon as he had slain the Buso, he struck a blow at his own legs, and the bark trousers fell off. Then he stamped on the ground, and struck his body, and immediately his jacket and kerchief of bark fell off from him. There he stood, no longer the poor Tuglay, but a Malaki T'oluk Waig, [71] with a gleaming kampilan in his hand. Then he was ready to fight all the other buso. First he held the kampilan in his left hand, and eight million buso fell down dead. Then he held the kampilan in his right hand, and eight million more buso fell down dead. After that, the Malaki went over to the house of Buso's daughter, who had but one eye, and that in the middle of her forehead. She shrieked with fear when she saw the Malaki coming; and he struck her with his kampilan, so that she too, the woman-buso, fell down dead. After these exploits, the Malaki T'oluk Waig went on his way. He climbed over the mountains of benati, [72] whose trees men go far to seek, and then he reached the mountains of barayung and balati wood. From these peaks, exultant over his foes, he gave a good war-cry that re-echoed through the mountains, and went up to the ears of the gods. Panguli'li and Salamia'wan [73] heard it from their home in the Shrine of the Sky (Tambara ka Langit), and they said, "Who chants the song of war (ig-sungal)? Without doubt, it is the Malak T'oluk Waig, for none of all the other malaki could shout just like that." His duty performed, the Malaki left the ranges of balati and barayung, walked down toward the sea, and wandered along the coast until he neared a great gathering of people who had met for barter. It was market-day, and all sorts of things were brought for trade. Then the Malaki T'oluk Waig struck his legs and his chest, before the people caught sight of him; and immediately he was clothed in his old bark trousers and jacket and kerchief, just like a poor man. Then he approached the crowd, and saw the people sitting on the ground in little groups, talking, and offering their things for sale. The Malaki Lindig Ramut ka Langit [74] and all the other malaki [75] from the surrounding country were there. They called out to him, "Where are you going?" The Tuglay told them that he had got lost, and had been travelling a long distance. As he spoke, he noticed, sitting among a group of young men, the beautiful woman called Moglung. She motioned to him, and said, "Come, sit down beside me." And the Tuglay sat down on the ground, near the Moglung. Then the woman gave presents of textiles to the Malaki Lindig Ramut ka Langit and the other malaki in her crowd. But to the Tuglay she gave betel-nut that she had prepared for him. After that, the Moglung said to all the malaki, "This time I am going to leave you, because I want to go home." And off went the Moglung with the Tuglay, riding on the wind. After many days, the Moglung and the Tuglay rested on the mountains of barayung, and, later, on the mountains of balakuna-trees. From these heights, they looked out over a vast stretch of open country, where the deep, wavy meadow-grass glistened like gold; and pastured there were herds of cows and carabao and many horses. And beyond rose another range of mountains, on the highest of which stood the Moglung's house. To reach it they had to cross whole forests of cocoanut and betel-nut trees that covered eight million mountains. Around the house were all kinds of useful plants and trees. When they walked under the floor [76] of the house, the Moglung said, "My grandmother is looking at me because I have found another grandchild for her." Then the grandmother (Tuglibung) called to them, saying, "Come up, come up, my grandchildren!" As soon as they entered the house, the Tuglay sat down in a corner of the kitchen, until the grandmother offered him a better place, saying, "Do not stay in the kitchen. Come and sleep on my bed." The Tuglay rested eight nights in the grandmother's bed. At the end of the eight nights the Moglung said to him, "Please take this betel-nut that I have prepared for you." At first Tuglay did not want to take it; but the next day, when the Moglung again offered the betel, he accepted it from her and began to chew. After that, the Tuglay took off his trousers of bark and his jacket of bark, and became a Malaki T'oluk Waig. But the Moglung wondered where the Tuglay had gone, and she cried to her grandmother, "Where is the Tuglay?" But the Malaki stood there, and answered her, "I am the Tuglay." At first the Moglung was grieved, because the Malaki seemed such a grand man, and she wanted Tuglay back. But before long the Malaki said to her, "I want you to marry me." So they were married. Then the Moglung opened her gold box, and took out a fine pair of trousers (saroa'r [77]) and a man's jacket (umpak [78] ka mama), and gave them to the Malaki as a wedding-gift. When they had been living together for a while, there came a day when the Malaki wanted to go and visit a man who was a great worker in brass,--the Malaki Tuangun; [79] and the Moglung gave him directions for the journey, saying, "You will come to a place where a hundred roads meet. Take the road that is marked with the prints of many horses and carabao. Do not stop at the place of the crossroads, for if you stop, the Bia [80] who makes men giddy will hurt you." Then the Malaki went away, and reached the place where a hundred roads crossed, as Moglung had said. But he stopped there to rest and chew betel-nut. Soon he began to feel queer and dizzy, and he fell asleep, not knowing anything. When he woke up, he wandered along up the mountain until he reached a house at the border of a big meadow, and thought he would stop and ask his way. From under the house he called up, "Which is the road to the Malaki Tuangun?" It was the Bia's voice that answered, "First come up here, and then I'll tell you the road." So the Malaki jumped up on the steps and went in. But when he was inside of her house, the Bia confessed that she did not know the way to the Malaki Tuangun's house. "I am the woman," she said, "who made you dizzy, because I wanted to have you for my own." "Oh! that's the game," said the Malaki. "But the Moglung is my wife, and she is the best woman in the world." "Never mind that," smiled the Bia. "Just let me comb your hair." Then the Bia gave him some betel-nut, and combed his hair until he grew sleepy. But as he was dropping off, he remembered a certain promise he had made his wife, and he said to the Bia, "If the Moglung comes and finds me here, you be sure to waken me." After eight days had passed from the time her husband left home, the Moglung started out to find him, for he had said, "Eight days from now I will return." By and by the Moglung came to the Bia's house, and found the Malaki there fast asleep; but the Bia did not waken him. Then the Moglung took from the Malaki's toes his toe-rings (paniod [81]), and went away, leaving a message with the Bia:-- "Tell the Malaki that I am going back home to find some other malaki: tell him that I'll have no more to do with him." But the Moglung did not go to her own home: she at once started for her brother's house that was up in the sky-country. Presently the Malaki woke up, and when he looked at his toes, he found that his brass toe-rings were gone. "The Moglung has been here!" he cried in a frenzy. "Why didn't you waken me, as I told you?" Then he seized his sharp-bladed kampilan, and slew the Bia. Maddened by grief and rage, he dashed to the door and made one leap to the ground, screaming, "All the people in the world shall fall by my sword!" On his war-shield he rode, and flew with the wind until he came to the horizon. Here lived the Malaki Lindig Ramut ka Langit. [82] And when the two malaki met, they began to fight; and the seven brothers of the Malaki Lindig that live at the edge of the sky, likewise came out to fight. But when the battle had gone on but a little time, all the eight malaki of the horizon fell down dead. Then the angry Malaki who had slain the Bia and the eight young men went looking for more people to kill; and when he had shed the blood of many, he became a buso with only one eye in his forehead, for the buso with one eye are the worst buso of all. Everybody that he met he slew. After some time, he reached the house of the great priest called "Pandita," and the Pandita checked him, saying, "Stop a minute, and let me ask you first what has happened to make you like this." Then the Buso-man replied sadly, "I used to have a wife named Moglung, who was the best of all the bia; but when I went looking for the Malaki Tuangun, that other Bia made me dizzy, and gave me betel, and combed my hair. Then she was my wife for a little while. But I have killed her, and become a buso, and I want to kill all the people in the world." "You had better lie down on my mat here, and go to sleep," advised the Pandita. While the Buso slept, the Pandita rubbed his joints with betel-nut; and when he woke up, he was a malaki again. Then the Pandita talked to him, and said, "Only a few days ago, the Moglung passed here on her way to her brother's home in heaven. She went by a bad road, for she would have to mount the steep rock-terraces. If you follow, you will come first to the Terraces of the Wind (Tarasu'ban ka Kara'mag [83]), then you reach the Terraces of Eight-fold Darkness (Walu Lapit Dukilum [84]), and then the Terraces of the Rain (Tarasuban k'Udan [85]). Eagerly the Malaki set out on his journey, with his kabir [86] on his back, and his betel-nut and buyo-leaf [87] in the kabir. He had not travelled far, before he came to a steep ascent of rock-terraces,--the Terraces of the Wind, that had eight million steps. The Malaki knew not how to climb up the rocky structure that rose sheer before him, and so he sat down at the foot of the ascent, and took his kabir off his back to get out some betel-nut. After he had begun to chew his betel, he began to think, and he pondered for eight days how he could accomplish his hard journey. On the ninth day he began to jump up the steps of the terraces, one by one. On each step he chewed betel, and then jumped again; and at the close of the ninth day he had reached the top of the eight million steps, and was off, riding on his shield. Next he reached the sharp-edged rocks called the "Terraces of Needles" (Tarasuban ka Simat), that had also eight million steps. Again he considered for eight days how he could mount them. Then on the ninth day he sprang from terrace to terrace, as before, chewing betel-nut on each terrace, and left the Tarasuban ka Simat, riding on his shield. Then he arrived at the Terraces of Sheet-Lightning (Tarasuban ka Dilam-dilam); and he took his kabir off his back, and prepared a betel-nut, chewed it, and meditated for eight days. On the ninth day he jumped from step to step of the eight million terraces, and went riding off on his war-shield. When he reached the Terraces of Forked-Lightning (Tarasuban ka Kirum), he surmounted them on the ninth day, like the others. But now he came to a series of cuestas named "Dulama Bolo Kampilan," [88] because one side of each was an abrupt cliff with the sharp edge of a kampilan; and the other side sloped gradually downward, like a blunt-working bolo. How to cross these rocks, of which there were eight million, the Malaki did not know; so he stopped and took off his kabir, cut up his betel-nut, and thought for eight days. Then on the ninth day he began to leap over the rocks, and he kept on leaping for eight days, each day jumping over one million of the cuestas. On the sixteenth day he was off, riding on his shield. Then he reached the Terraces of the Thunder (Tarasuban ka Kilat), which he mounted, springing from one terrace to the next, as before, after he had meditated for eight days. Leaving these behind him on the ninth day, he travelled on to the Mountains of Bamboo (Pabungan Kawayanan), covered with bamboo whose leaves were all sharp steel. These mountains he could cross without the eight days' thought, because their sides sloped gently. From the uplands he could see a broad sweep of meadow beyond, where the grass glistened like gold. And when he had descended, and walked across the meadow, he had to pass through eight million groves of cocoanut-trees, where the fruit grew at the height of a man's waist, and every cocoanut had the shape of a bell (korung-korung). Then he reached a forest of betel-nut, where again the nuts could be plucked without the trouble of climbing, for the clusters grew at the height of a man's waist. Beyond, came the meadows with white grass, and plants whose leaves were all of the rare old embroidered cloth called tambayang. [89] He then found himself at the foot-hills of a range of eight million mountains, rising from the heart of the meadows, and, when he had climbed to their summit, he stood before a fine big house. From the ground he called out, "If anybody lives in this house, let him come look at me, for I want to find the way to the Shrine in the Sky, or to the Little Heaven, where my Moglung lives." But nobody answered. Then the Malaki sprang up the bamboo ladder and looked in at the door, but he saw no one in the house. He was weary, after his journey, and sat down to rest in a chair made of gold that stood there. Soon there came to his ears the sound of men's voices, calling out, "There is the Malaki T'oluk Waig in the house." The Malaki looked around the room, but there was no man there, only a little baby swinging in its cradle. Outside the house were many malaki from the great town of Lunsud, and they came rushing in the door, each holding a keen blade without handle (sobung). They all surrounded the Malaki in the gold chair, ready to fight him. But the Malaki gave them all some betel-nut from his kabir, and made the men friendly toward him. Then all pressed around the Malaki to look at his kabir, which shone like gold. They had never before seen a man's bag like this one. "It is the kabir of the Malaki T'oluk Waig," they said. The Malaki slept that night with the other malaki in the house. When morning came, the day was dark, like night, for the sun did not shine. Then the Malaki took his kampilan and stuck it into his belt, and sat down on his shield. There was no light on the next day, nor on the next. For eight days the pitchy darkness lasted; but on the ninth day it lifted. Quick from its cradle jumped the baby, now grown as tall as the bariri-plant; that is, almost knee-high. "Cowards, all of you!" cried the child to the Malaki Lunsud. "You are no malaki at all, since you cannot fight the Malaki T'oluk Waig." Then, turning to the Malaki T'oluk Waig, the little fellow said, "Please teach me how to hold the spear." When the Malaki had taught the boy how to make the strokes, the two began to fight; for the boy, who was called the Pangalinan, [90] was eager to use his spear against the Malaki. But the Malaki had magical power (matulus [91]), so that when the Pangalinan attacked him with sword or spear, the blades of his weapons dissolved into water. For eight million days the futile battle went on. At last the Pangalinan gave it up, complaining to the Malaki T'oluk Waig, "How can I keep on fighting you, when every time I hit you my knives turn to water?" Disheartened, the Pangalinan threw away his spear and his sword. But the Malaki would not hurt the Pangalinan when they were fighting; and as soon as the boy had flung his weapons outside the house, the Malaki put his arm around him and drew him close. After that, the two were friends. One day the Pangalinan thought he would look inside the big gold box that stood in the house. It was his mother's box. The boy went and raised the lid, but as soon as the cover was lifted, his mother came out from the box. After this had happened, the Pangalinan got ready to go and find the Moglung whom the Malaki had been seeking. The boy knew where she lived, for he was the Moglung's little brother (tube' [92]). He took the bamboo ladder that formed the steps to the house, and placed it so that it would reach the Shrine in the Sky, whither the Moglung had gone. Up the bamboo rounds he climbed, until he reached the sky and found his sister. He ran to her crying, "Quick! come with me! The great Malaki T'oluk Waig is down there." Then the Moglung came down from heaven with her little brother to their house where the Malaki was waiting for her. The Moglung and the Malaki were very happy to meet again, and they slept together that night. Next day the Moglung had a talk with the Malaki, and said, "Now I want to live with you; but you remember that other woman, Maguay Bulol, that you used to sleep with. You will want her too, and you had better send for her." So the Malaki summoned Maguay Bulol, and in a few minutes Maguay Bulol was there. Then the Malaki had two wives, and they all lived in the same house forever. The Tuglay and the Bia Long ago, in the days of the Mona, the Tuglay lived on a high mountain. He lived very well, for his cocoanut-trees grew on both sides of the mountain. But he had no hemp-plants, and so he had to make his clothes of the soft dry sheath that covers the trunk of the cocoanut-palm (bunut). This stuff caught fire easily, and many a time his clothes ignited from the flame where his dinner was cooking, and then he would have to make fresh garments from bunut. One day he looked from his house over the neighboring mountains, and saw the village of Koblun. He thought it looked pretty in the distance. Then he looked in another direction, and saw the town of the Malaki Tuangun, and said, "Ah! that is just as nice looking as the Koblun town. I will go and see the town of the Malaki Tuangun." Immediately he got ready for the journey. He took his spear (that was only half a spear, because the fire had burned off a part of the handle) and his shield, that was likewise only half a shield. He started out, and walked on and on until he reached the mountains called "Pabungan Mangumbiten." Now, on another mountain there lived a young man named the Malaki Itanawa, with his little sister. They lived alone together, for they were orphans. The young girl said to her brother, "Let us travel over the mountains to-day." And the boy answered, "Yes, my sister, we will go." And the two climbed over the hills, and they reached the Pabungan Mangumbiten soon after the Tuglay. And they were astonished to see the great Tuglay. But when the Tuglay saw the young girl, who was named Bia Itanawa Inelu, [93] he was so bewildered and startled that he turned away his eyes, and could not look at the sister and brother. Then the girl prepared a betel-nut and offered it to the Tuglay, but he did not like to accept it. But when she had pressed it upon him many times, he took the betel and chewed it. Then the girl said, "Come with my brother and me to my house, for we have no companion." But when the girl saw the Tuglay hesitate, she asked him, "Where were you going when we met you?" The Tuglay answered, "I want to go to the town of the Malaki Tuangun, for to my home has come the word that the Malaki is a mighty man, and his sister a great lady." Then the girl looked at the Tuglay, and said, "If you want to make ready to go to the Malaki Tuangun's town, you ought to put on your good trousers and a nice jacket." At that, the Tuglay looked mournful; for he was a poor man, and had no fine clothes. Then, when the girl saw how the case stood, she called for beautiful things, such as a malaki wears,--fine hemp trousers, beaded jacket, good war-shield and brass-bound spear, ear-plugs of pure ivory, and eight necklaces of beads and gold. Straightway at the summons of the Bia, all the fine things appeared; and the Tuglay got ready to go away. He was no longer the poor Tuglay. His name was now the Malaki Dugdag Lobis Maginsulu. Like two big moons, his ivory ear-plugs shone; when he moved his shield, flames of living fire shot from it; and when he held up his spear, the day would grow dark, because he was a brave man. His new clothes he sent [94] upon the swift wind to the Malaki Tuangun's town. When the Tuglay started, the Bia gave him her own brass betel-box (katakia [95]) to take with him. It was a katakia that made sounds, and was called a "screaming katakia." "May I eat the betel-nut from your box?" asked the man; and she replied, "Yes, but do not throw away the other things in the box." The Malaki Dugdag Lobis Maginsulu walked on until he reached the town of the Malaki Tuangun, and sat down on the ground [96] before the house. The Malaki Tuangun was a great brass-smith: he made katakia and other objects of brass, and hence was called the Malaki Tuangun Katakia. As soon as he heard the other malaki call from outside, "May I come up into your house?" he sent down eight of his slaves to look and see who wanted to visit him. And the eight slaves brought word to their master that the Malaki Dugdag Lobis Maginsulu waited to enter. Then the Malaki Tuangun Katakia called to his visitor, "Come up, if you can keep from bringing on a fight, because there are many showers in my town." [97] Then the other malaki went up the steps into the house, and the Malaki Tuangun said to him, "You shall have a good place to sit in my house,--a place where nobody ever sat before." Then the Malaki Tuangun prepared a betel-nut for his guest. But the Malaki Dugdag Lobis Maginsulu would not take the betel-nut from him. So the Malaki Tuangun called his sister, who was called Bia Tuangun Katakia, and said to her, "You go outside and prepare a betel-nut for the Malaki." As soon as the Bia had finished preparing the betel, she took the (screaming?) katakia from the Malaki, and set it on the floor. Then the Malaki Dugdag Lobis Maginsulu took the betel-nut from the lady. When he had finished chewing it, he stood up and went to the place where the Bia Tuangun Katakia was sitting, and he lay down beside her, and said, "Come, put away your work, and comb my hair." "No, I don't like to comb your hair," she replied. The Malaki was displeased at this retort, so at last the woman agreed to comb his hair, for she did not want to see the Malaki angry. By and by the Malaki felt sleepy while his hair was being combed; and he said to the Bia, "Do not wake me up." He fell asleep, and did not waken until the next day. Then he married the Bia Tuangun Katakia. After they had been married for three months, the Bia said to the Malaki, "The best man I know is the Manigthum. He was my first husband." But the Manigthum had left home, and had gone off to do some big fighting. He killed the Malaki Taglapida Pabungan, [98] and he killed the Malaki Lindig Ramut ka Langit. [99] After the Manigthum had slain these great men, he came back to the home of his wife. When he came near the house he saw, lying down on the ground under the kinarum-tree, [100] the things that he had given his wife before he went away,--pendants of pearl, bracelets and leglets of brass, gold necklaces (kamagi [101]), hair-ornaments of dyed goats'-hair and birds'-down, finger-rings, and leg-bands of twisted wire hung with bells. As he looked at the beautiful ornaments all thrown on the ground, he heard the voice of the Malaki Dugdag Lobis Manginsulu calling to him, "Do not come up, because your wife is mine." Then the two malaki went to fighting with sword and spear. After a sharp fight, the Manigthum was killed, and the Malaki Dugdag Lobis Maginsulu had the Bia for his wife. The Malaki's Sister and the Basolo There is a certain mountain that has a sharp, long crest like a kampilan. Up on this mountain stretched many fields of hemp, and groves of cocoanut-palms, that belonged to the Malaki and his sister. Near to these hemp-fields lived the Basolo-man, under a tall barayung-tree. His little house was full of venison and pig-meat and lard, and he kept a dog to hunt pigs and deer. Although his hut looked small and poor, the Basolo possessed treasures of brass and beads and fine textiles. He had a kabir, [102] from which darted forked lightning; and in the bag was a betel-box and a necklace of pure gold. One day when the Malaki's sister went to look at her hemp, she felt curious to go inside the Basolo's house. The Basolo was lying on the floor, fast asleep, when the woman entered. She looked at the things in the house, and saw hanging on the wall the Basolo's bag with the lightning playing on it. Now the bag was an old one, and had a lot of mud in it; but the woman thought it must be full of gold, because the lightning never ceased to flash from it. So she crept across the floor, and took the bag from off the end of the bamboo slat on which it hung. Still the Basolo slept, and still the lightning continued to play upon the bag. The woman looked inside the bag and saw a fine gold betel-box, and when she lifted the lid, there in the box lay a necklace of pure gold. Swiftly she closed the box, and stealthily drew it out of the bag. Into the folds of her hemp skirt she slipped the precious box with the gold necklace inside, and very quietly ran down the bamboo ladder at the house-door. When she got home, her brother smiled, and said to her, "What has happened to you, my sister?" Bright flashes of lightning seemed to be coming from the girl. She looked almost as if she were made of gold, and the lightning could not escape from her. Then she took out the betel-box and the necklace, and showed them to her brother, saying that she had found them in the Basolo's hut. The Basolo awoke, and found his brass katakia and his fine necklace gone. "Who has been here?" he cried. In a frenzy he hunted through his kabir, throwing out of it his old work-knife and his rusty spear-head and all the poor things that he kept in his bag. Then he began to moan and weep for his betel-box and gold necklace. By and by he started out to find his lost things. In the soft soil close to the house, he found the footprints of the woman; and, following the prints, he traced her to the Malaki's house. Right there the footprints ended. The Basolo stood at the foot of the steps, and called, "Who has been in my house?" Then he ran up the ladder and rushed into the house, screaming to the Malaki's sister, "Give me back my gold necklace! If you don't give it back, I'll marry you." Quick came the woman's answer, "I don't like you, and I will not marry you." But her brother was angry because she refused to marry the Basolo. At last she agreed to the match, and said to the Basolo, "Yes, I will marry you; but I can't let you live in my house. You must stay in your own house over yonder." So the Basolo and the Malaki's sister agreed to meet and try [103] each other (talabana). Then the Basolo went home. Not long after this, there came a day when many men went out to hunt the wild pig and the deer. And from her house the woman heard the sound of many men gathering in the meadow. There were Malaki T'oluk Waig and other malaki, who were there ready for the chase. And the girl thought, "I will go out and see the men." Immediately she hurried to dress herself carefully. She put on nine waists one over another, and similarly nine skirts (panapisan); and then she girded herself with a chain of brass links that went a thousand times round her waist. Over her left shoulder she hung her small beaded basket (kambol) that was decorated with row upon row of little tinkling bells, a million in all, and each bell as round as a pea. But the Basolo knew that the girl was dressing to go out, and he was angry that she should want to go where there were so many men gathered. In order to keep watch on her movements, he climbed up into a hiding-place behind the great leaves of an areca-palm, [104] and waited. Presently he saw the woman walking to the meadow. And she staid there just one night. But the Malaki was alarmed when he found that his sister had gone out to see the men. And after he had taken off his clothes, he began to put them on again to follow his sister. Then, when the girl's brother and all the other malaki had assembled in the meadow, the Basolo came down from the tree and went home. When he got into his house, he took off his coat, and became a Malaki T'oluk Waig. His body shone like the sun (you could hardly look at him), and all his garments were of gold. He had on nine jackets, one over another, and nine pairs of trousers. Then he called for his horse, whose name was Kambeng Diluk; [105] and Kambeng neighed into the air, and waited, prancing, before the house. Soon the Malaki T'oluk Waig mounted his horse, and sitting on a saddle of mirrored glass, he rode toward the meadow. Then Kambeng Diluk began to run, just like the wind. When they reached the meadow, there were many people there. The Malaki's wife was sitting on the grass, with men grouped around her, and she was laughing with them. But she did not recognize her husband when he came riding up. After everybody had arrived, they set fire to the long grass, and burned off the meadow, so as to bring the wild pigs and the deer out of ambush. Then many men entered the chase and ran their horses; but none could catch the deer or the wild boar, except only the great Malaki, who had been the Basolo: he alone speared much game. When the burning of the meadow and the hunt were finished, many men wanted to marry the Malaki T'oluk Waig's wife, and many of them embraced her. But the Malaki T'oluk Waig stood up, fierce with passion. His body was almost like a flame to look at. And he fought the other malaki, and killed many, until at last all were dead but one, and that was the woman's brother. When all was done, the Malaki mounted his horse and rode back to his home. His house was all of gold, and yet it looked just like a mean little hut nestled under the barayung-tree. Then the Malaki picked up his coat and put it on: at once he became a Basolo again. He then went over to the woman's house and waited there for her to come back. By and by she came loitering along, crying all the way, because she was afraid to meet her husband. But the Basolo staid right along in the house, and lived with the woman and her brother. Then, after they had tried each other, they were married with Bagobo ceremony. The Basolo took off his coat, and again became a Malaki T'oluk Waig. They lived well in their house, and they had a big hacienda of hemp and cocoanuts and banana-plants. The Mona [106] When the Mona lived on the earth, there was a certain man who said to his wife, "I want to go out and make some traps." So that day he went out and made about thirty traps, of sticks with nooses attached, to snare jungle-fowl. His work finished, he returned home. Next day he went out to look at his traps, but found that he had caught, not a wild chicken, but a big lizard (palas [107]) with pretty figured patterns on its back. The man said to the lizard, "Halloo!" Then he released the lizard, and gave him his own carrying-bag and work-knife, and told him to go straight to his house. But the lizard was afraid to go to the man's house, for he suspected that the man wanted to make a meal of him. Instead, he ran up a tree, taking with him the knife and the bag. The tree overhung a clear brook, and the lizard could see his reflection (alung) in the water. No fowl could the man snare that day, and he went home. As soon as he reached the house, he said to his wife, "Are you all done cleaning that lizard?" "What lizard are you talking about?" returned the woman. "There's no lizard here." "I sent one here," insisted the man, "and I'm hungry." "We have no lizard," repeated his wife. In a hot temper the man went back to his traps, and there saw the tracks of the lizard, leading, not towards his house, but exactly in the opposite direction. Following the tracks, he reached the brook, and at once caught sight of the lizard's reflection in the water. Immediately the man jumped into the water, grasping for the image of the slippery lizard; but he had to jump out again with empty hands. He tried again. Hour after hour he kept on jumping, until he got so wet and cold that he had to give it up and go home. "The lizard is right over there in the brook," he told his wife; "but I could not get hold of him." "I'll go and look at him with you," she said. So together they reached the brook; and the woman glanced first into the water, and then up into the tree. "You foolish man," she smiled. "Look in the tree for your lizard. That's just his shadow (alung [109]) in the water." The man looked up, and saw the lizard in the tree. Then he started to climb up the trunk, but found himself so chilled and stiff from jumping into the water, that he kept slipping down whenever he tried to climb. Then the woman took her turn, and got part way up the tree. The man looked up at his wife, and noticed that she had sores on parts of her body where she could not see them, and he called to her, "Come down! don't climb any higher; you've got sores." So she climbed down. Then her husband wanted to get some medicine out of his bag to give her for the sores; but the lizard had his bag. "Throw down my bag and knife to me!" he shouted up to the lizard, "because I must get busy about fixing medicine for my wife." And the lizard threw down to him his knife and his bag. As soon as they got home, the man made some medicine for his wife; but the sores did not heal. Then he went to his friend Tuglay and said, "What is the medicine for my wife?" Tuglay went home with the man; and when they reached the house, he told him what he was about to do. "Look!" said the Tuglay. Then the man looked, and saw the Tuglay go to his wife and consort with her. And the husband let him do it, for he said to himself, "That is the medicine for my wife." When the Tuglay was done with the woman, he said, "Go now to your wife." Then the man went to her, and said, "This is the best of all." After that, the man cared for nothing except to be with his wife. He did not even care to eat. He threw out of the house all the food they had,--the rice, the sugarcane, the bananas, and all of their other things. He threw them far away. But after they had taken no food for several days, the man and the woman began to grow thin and weak. Still they did not try to get food, because they wanted only to gratify their passion [110] for each other. At last both of them got very skinny, and finally they died. CHAPTER III Folk-Lore of the Buso How to See the Buso The Buso live in the great branching trees and in the graveyard. The night after a person has been buried, the Buso dig up the body with their claws, and drink all the blood, and eat the flesh. The bones they leave, after eating all the flesh off from them. If you should go to the graveyard at night, you would hear a great noise. It is the sound of all the Buso talking together as they sit around on the ground, with their children playing around them. You cannot see the Buso; but if you do get a glimpse of one of them, it is only for a few minutes. He looks like a shadow. In the beginning, everybody could see the Buso, because then the Buso and the people were friendly together. Nobody died in those days, for the Buso helped the men, and kept them from dying. But many years ago the Buso and man had a quarrel, and after that nobody could see the Buso any more. Now, there is one way to see Buso; but a man must be very brave to do it. While the coffin for a dead man is being made, if you cut some chips from it and carry them to the place where the tree was felled for the box, and lay the chips on the stump from which the wood was cut, and then go again on the night of the funeral to the same place, you will see Buso. Stand near the stump, and you will see passing before you (1) a swarm of fireflies; (2) the intestines of the dead person; (3) many heads of the dead person; (4) many arms of the dead person; (5) many legs of the dead person; (6) the entire body passing before you; (7) shadows flitting before you; and finally (8) the Buso. But no one yet has been brave enough to try it. "But one thing I did when my uncle died," said my boy informant. "I chipped a piece of wood from the coffin, and tied it to a long string, like a fly to a fish-hook. This I let down between the slats of the floor, as I stood in the room where the dead body lay, and I held the line dangling. As a fish catches at the bait, so Buso seized that bit of wood, and for about two minutes I could feel him pulling at it from under the house. Then I drew up the string with the wood. Buso was there under the house, and smelt the chip from the coffin." Buso and the Woman In a little house there lived a man and his wife together. One night, after they had been married for a long time, the man told his wife that he would like to go fishing. "Oh, yes! my husband," said the woman eagerly. "Go, and bring me some nice fish to-morrow, so that we can have a good meal." The man went out that same night to fish. And his wife was left alone in the house. In the night, while her husband was away, the Buso came, and tried to pass himself off as her husband, saying, "You see I am back. I got no fish, because I was afraid in the river." Then the Buso-man made a great fire, and sat down by it. But the woman did not believe that it was her husband. So she hid her comb in a place on the floor, and she said to her comb, "If the Buso calls me, do you answer. Tell him that I have run away because I have great fear of the Buso." Then, when the Buso called, the Comb answered just as the woman had told it. By and by the Buso went away. In the morning, the man came back from fishing, because daylight had come. And he had a fine catch of fish. Then the woman told him all that had happened, and the man never again let his wife sleep alone in the house. After that, everything went well; for Buso was afraid of the man, and never again attempted to come there. The Buso's Basket Two children went out into the field to tend their rice-plants. They said these words to keep the little birds away from the grain:-- "One, one, maya-bird, [111] Yonder in the north; Keep off from eating it, This my rice." Just then they heard the sound of a voice, calling from the great pananag-tree, [112] "Wait a minute, children, until I make a basket for you." "What is that?" said the boy to his sister. "Oh, nothing!" answered the little girl. "It's the sound of something." Then the children called to their father and mother; but only from the pananag-tree the answer came, "Just wait till I finish this basket to hold you in." Down, then, from the tree came the great Buso, with a big, deep basket (such as women carry bananas and camotes [113] in) hanging from his shoulders. The frightened children did not dare to run away; and Buso sat down near by in the little hut where the rice was kept. Soon he said to the children, "Please comb out my nice hair." But, when they tried to comb his hair, they found it swarming with big lice and worms. "Well, let's go on now," said the Buso. Then he stuffed the children into his deep burden-basket, and swung the basket upon his back. On the instant the little girl screamed out, "Wait a minute, Buso! I've dropped my comb. Let me down to pick it up." So the Buso sat down on the ground, and let the girl climb out of the basket. He sat waiting for her to find her comb; but all the time she was picking up big stones, and putting them into the basket. Her brother got out of the basket too, and then both girl and boy climbed up into a tall betel-nut tree, [114] leaving Buso with a basket full of stones on his back. Up to his house in the pananag-tree went Buso with the heavy basket. When his wife saw him, she laughed and shouted very loud. She was glad, because she thought there was a man in the basket, all ready to eat. But, when Buso slipped the basket down from his shoulders, there was no human flesh in it, but only big stones. Then the angry Buso hurried back to look for the two children. At last he caught sight of them far up in the betel-nut tree, and wondered how he could get them. Now, at the foot of the tree there was a growth of the wild plant called "bagkang;" and Buso said words to make the bagkang grow faster and taller:-- "Tubu, tubu, bagkang, Grow, grow, bagkang, Baba, baba mamaa'n." [115] Handle, handle, betel-nut. But the children, in their turn, said:-- "Tubu, tubu, mamaa'n, Grow, grow, betel-nut, Baba, baba bagkang." Handle, handle, bagkang. By and by, when the bagkang-stems had grown so tall as almost to reach the clusters of betel-nuts at the top of the trunk, the boy and girl said to each other. "Let us pick betel-nuts, and throw them down on the bagkang." And as soon as they began to pick, the betel-nuts became so big and heavy that the bagkang-plants fell down when the betel-nuts dropped on them. Then the Buso went away; and the children climbed down in haste, ran home, and told their mother and father how the Buso had tried to carry them off. The Buso-Child Datu Ayo was a great man among the Bagobo, well known throughout the mountain-country for his bravery and his riches. He had gathered in his house many products of Bagobo workmanship in textiles and brass and fine weapons. At his death, human sacrifices of slaves were offered up for him. It was not many years ago that he went down to the great city of the dead, and many of his children and grandchildren are living now. His sons like to think about their father's renown; and, as a reminder, the eldest son, Kawayun, always kept in his medicine-case two of the incisor teeth of the great Ayo, until he needed money, and sold the medicine-case with its contents. It had made Kawayun happy to look at his father's teeth. When Datu Ayo died, his wife was about to become a mother. Now, the Bagobo women know that, when they become pregnant, they must be very careful to protect themselves from the evil Buso. On going to bed at night, an expectant mother places near her the woman's knife (gulat), the kampilan, [116] and all the other knives, to frighten Buso away. Failing this, the Buso will come to the woman while she sleeps, and change her baby into a Buso-child. One night, the wife of Datu Ayo lay down to sleep without putting any knives near her; and that very night the Buso came, and he transformed her child into a Buso-child. She did not know when he came, nor did she even think that a Buso had been near her, until her baby was born. Everybody around the woman at the birth saw that something was the matter with the child. It was little and frail, and as weak as threads of cotton. Its body was flat, and its legs and arms were helpless and flabby. Then all the men said, "That is a Buso-child." As the little boy grew old enough to creep, he moved just like a fish, with a sort of wriggling motion. He could not stand on his feet, for his legs were too weak to support his body; and he could not sit down, but only lie flat. He could never be dressed in umpak [117] and saroa'r, [118] and his body remained small and puny. Now the boy is more than fourteen years old, but he cannot walk a step. He understands very well what is said to him, and he can talk, though not distinctly. When he hears it said that somebody is dead, he breaks into laughter, and keeps on laughing. This trait alone would stamp him as a Buso-child. The Buso-Monkey One day a man went out, carrying seventeen arrows, to hunt monkeys; but he found none. Next day he went again, and, as he walked along on the slope of the mountain called Malagu'san, he heard the sound of the chattering of monkeys in the trees. Looking up, he saw the great monkey sitting on an aluma'yag-tree. He took a shot at the monkey, but his arrow missed aim; and the next time he had no better luck. Twice eight he tried it; but he never hit the mark. The monkey seemed to lead a charmed life. Finally he took his seventeenth and last arrow, and brought down his game; the monkey fell down dead. But a voice came from the monkey's body that said, "You must carry me." So the man picked up the monkey, and started to go back home; but on the way the monkey said, "You are to make a fire, and eat me up right here." Then the man laid the monkey on the ground. Again came the voice, "You will find a bamboo to put me in; by and by you shall eat me." Off went the man to find the bamboo called laya, letting the monkey lie on the ground, where he had dropped it. He walked on until he reached a forest of bamboo. There, swinging on a branch of the laya, was a karirik-bird. And the bird chirped to the man, "Where are you going?" The man answered, "I am looking for bamboo to put the monkey in." But the karirik-bird exclaimed, "Run away, quick! for by and by the monkey will become a buso. I will wait here, and be cutting the laya; then, when the monkey calls you, I will answer him." In the mean time the monkey had become a great buso. He had only one eye, and that stood right in the middle of his forehead, looking just like the big bowl called langungan (the very bad buso have only one eye; some have only one leg). After the Buso-monkey had waited many hours for the man to come back, he started out to look for him. When he reached the forest of laya, he called to the man, "Where are you?" Then the karirik-bird answered from the tree, "Here I am, right here, cutting the bamboo." But the man had run away, because the bird had sent him off, and made him run very fast. As soon as the bird had answered the Buso, it flew off to another bamboo-tree, and there the Buso spied it, and knew that he had been fooled; and he said, "It's a man I want; you're just a bird. I don't care for you." Directly then the Buso began to smell around the ground where the man had started to run up the mountain-side, and, as quick as he caught the scent, he trailed the man. He ran and ran, and all the time the man was running too; but soon the Buso began to gain on him. After a while, when the Buso had come close upon him, the man tried to look for some covert. He reached a big rock, and cried out, "O rock! will you give me shelter when the Buso tries to eat me?" "No," replied the rock; "for, if I should help you, the Buso would break me off and throw me away." Then the man ran on; and the Buso came nearer and nearer, searching behind every rock as he rushed along, and spying up into every tree, to see if, perchance, the man were concealed there. At last the man came to the lemon-tree called kabayawa, that has long, sharp thorns on its branches. And the man cried out to the lemon-tree, "Could you protect me, if I were to hide among your leaves and flowers?" Instantly the lemon-tree answered, "Come right up, if you want to." Then the man climbed the tree, and concealed himself in the branches, among the flowers. Very soon the Buso came under the lemon-tree, and shouted to it, "I smell a man here. You are hiding him." The Kabayawa said, "Sure enough, here's a man! You just climb up and get him." Then the Buso began to scramble up the tree; but as he climbed, the thorns stuck their sharp points into him. The higher he climbed, the longer and sharper grew the thorns of the tree, piercing and tearing, until they killed the Buso. It is because the monkey sometimes turns into a Buso that many Bagobo refuse to eat monkey. But some of the mountain Bagobo eat monkey to keep off sores. How the Moon Tricks the Buso [119] The Moon is a great liar. One night long ago, the Buso looked over the earth and could not discover any people, because everybody was asleep. Then Buso went to the Moon, and asked her where all the people were to be found. "Oh, you will not find a living person on the earth!" replied the Moon. "Everybody in the world is dead." "Good!" thought Buso. "To-morrow I shall have a fine meal of them." Buso never eats living flesh, only dead bodies. Next morning, Buso started for the graveyard; but on the way he met the Sun, and stopped to speak to him. "How about the men on earth?" he questioned. "They're all right," said the Sun. "All the people are working and playing and cooking rice." The Buso was furious to find himself tricked. That night he went again to the Moon and asked for the men, and, as before, the Moon assured him that everybody was dead. But the next morning the Sun showed him all the people going about their work as usual. Thus the Buso has been fooled over and over again. The Moon tells him every night the same story. The Buso and the Cat The cat is the best animal. She keeps us from the Buso. One night the Buso came into the house, and said to the cat, "I should like to eat your mistress." "I will let you do it," replied the cat; "but first you must count all the hairs of my coat." So the Buso began to count. But while he was counting, the cat kept wriggling her tail, and sticking up her back. That made her fur stand up on end, so that the Buso kept losing count, and never knew where he left off. And while the Buso was still trying to count the cat's hairs, daylight came. This is one reason why we must not kill the cat. If a Bagobo should kill a cat, it would make him very sick. He would get skinny, and die. Some Bagobo have been known to kill the cat; but they always got sick afterwards. How a Dog Scared the Buso The Tigbanua' are the worst of all the Buso; they want to be eating human flesh all the time. They live in great forests,--in the pananag-tree, in the magbo-tree, in the baliti-tree, and in the liwaan-tree. One day a man went out to hunt, and he took his dog with him. On his way to the woods, he speared a very little pig. By the time he reached the great forest, night had come. He made a little shelter, and kindled a fire. Then he cleaned the pig and cut it into pieces, and tied three sticks of wood together, and placed them on two upright pieces of wood stuck in the ground. On this paga he laid the pig-meat to broil over the flames. By and by he got very sleepy, and thought he would go under the shelter and take a nap. But just then he heard voices up in the big trees. He listened, and heard the Tigbanua' talking to one another. The Tigbanua' that lives in the liwaan-tree called out to the Tigbanua' that lives in the pananag-tree, "The mighty chief of all the Tigbanua', who lives in the sigmit-tree, gives this command to his people: 'Don't make fun of the man, because he has been here many times before.' " And right there, under the trees, the man, standing by his dog, was listening to the talk of the Buso. The dog was sleeping near the fire, and he was as big as the calf of a carabao. Very quietly his master spread his own sleeping-tunic (kisi) over the dog, and crept away, leaving him asleep in the warm place. The man hid in the shelter, and waited. Presently many of the Tigbanua' began coming down from the trees, for some of them did not give obedience (paminug) to their Datu. They gathered around the fire, and sat down. By and by, as they sat near the fire, the penis (tapo) of every one of the Tigbanua' began to grow bigger and bigger (lanag-lanag). All at once, the Tigbanua' caught sight of the tunic spread out, and showing the form of a huge head and body under it. They all thought it was the man; and they rushed up to it, and hugged it. But the dog woke up, jumped out from under the tunic, and bit the Tigbanua'. Then they all ran. One of them climbed up the tree to his own house, the dog holding on to his leg, and biting him all the time. But when they were halfway up the tree, the dog fell down and got hurt. And the Tigbanua' called down to the dog, "Swell up, swell up!" ("Pigsa, pigsa!") All the other Tigbanua' were afraid of the big dog, and ran away. So the man slept well all night, because the Buso could not hurt him now. Story of Duling and the Tagamaling Before the world was made, there were Tagamaling. The Tagamaling is the best Buso, because he does not want to hurt man all of the time. Tagamaling is actually Buso only a part of the time; that is, the month when he eats people. One month he eats human flesh, and then he is Buso; the next month he eats no human flesh, and then he is a god. So he alternates, month by month. The month he is Buso, he wants to eat man during the dark of the moon; that is, between the phases that the moon is full in the east and new in the west. The other class of Buso, however, wants human flesh all of the time. They are the Tigbanua', the chief of whom is Datu of all the Buso. A Tigbanua' lives in his own house, and goes out only to eat the bodies of the dead. The Tagamaling makes his house in trees that have hard wood, and low, broad-spreading branches. His house is almost like gold, and is called "Palimbing," but it is made so that you cannot see it; and, when you pass by, you think, "Oh! what a fine tree with big branches," not dreaming that it is the house of a Tagamaling. Sometimes, when you walk in the forest, you think you see one of their houses; but when you come near to the place, there is nothing. Yet you can smell the good things to eat in the house. Once a young man named Duling, and his younger brother, went out into the woods to trap wild chickens. Duling had on his back a basket holding a decoy cock, together with the snares of running-nooses and all the parts of the trap. While they were looking for a good spot to drive in the stakes for the snare, they heard the voice of Tagamaling in the trees, saying, "Duling, Duling, come in! My mother is making a little fiesta here." The boys looked up, and could see the house gleaming there in the branches, and there were two Tagamaling-women calling to them. In response to the call, Duling's younger brother went up quickly into the house; but Duling waited on the ground below. He wanted the Tagamaling-girls to come down to him, for he was enamoured (kalatugan) of them. Then one girl ran down to urge Duling to come up into the tree. And as soon as she came close to him, he caught her to his breast, and hugged her and caressed her. In a moment, Duling realized that the girl was gone, and that he was holding in his arms a nanga-bush, full of thorns. He had thought to catch the girl, but, instead, sharp thorns had pricked him full of sores. Then from above he heard the woman's voice, tauntingly sweet, "Don't feel bad, Duling; for right here is your younger brother." Yet the young man, gazing here and there, saw around him only tall trees, and could not catch a glimpse of the girl who mocked him. Immediately, Duling, as he stood there, was turned into a rock. But the little brother married the Tagamaling-girl. There is a place high up in the mountains of Mindanao, about eight hours' ride west of Santa Cruz, where you may see the rock, and you will know at once that it is a human figure. There is Duling, with the trap and the decoy cock on his shoulder. You may see the cock's feathers too. The S'iring The S'iring [120] is the ugly man that has long nails and curly hair. He lives in the forest trees. If a boy goes into the forest without a companion, the S'iring tries to carry him off. When you meet a S'iring, he will look like your father, or mother, or some friend; and he will hide his long nails behind his back, so that you cannot see them. It is the S'iring who makes the echo (a'u'd). When you talk in a loud voice, the S'iring will answer you in a faint voice, because he wants to get you and carry you away. There was once a boy who went without a companion into the forest, and he met a man who looked just like his own father, but it was a S'iring; and the S'iring made him believe that he was his father. The S'iring said to the boy, "Come, you must go with me. We will shoot some wild birds with our bow and arrows." And the boy, not doubting that he heard his father's voice, followed the S'iring into the deep forest. After a while, the boy lost his memory, and forgot the way to his own house. The S'iring took him up on a high mountain, and gave him food; but the poor boy had now lost his mind, and he thought the food was a milleped one fathom long, or it seemed to him the long, slim worm called liwati. So the days went on, the boy eating little, and growing thinner and weaker all the time. When he met any men in the forest, he grew frightened, and would run away. When he had been a long time in the forest, the S'iring called to him and said, "We will move on now." So they started off again. When they reached the high bank of a deep and swift-flowing river, the S'iring scratched the boy with his long nails. Straightway the boy felt so tired that he could no longer stand on his legs, and then he dropped down into the ravine. He fell on the hard rocks, so that his bones were broken, and his skull split open. All this time, the mother at home was mourning for her son, and crying all day long. But soon she arranged a little shrine (tambara [121]) under the great tree, and, having placed there a white bowl with a few betel-nuts and some buyo-leaf as an offering for her son, she crouched on the ground and prayed for his life to the god in the sky. Now, when the S'iring heard her prayer, he took some betel-nuts, and went to the place where the boy's body lay. On the parts where the bones were broken, he spit betel-nut, and did the same to the boy's head. Immediately the boy came to life, and felt well again. Then the S'iring took him up, and carried him to the shrine where the mother was praying; but she could not see the S'iring nor her boy. She went home crying. That night, as the woman slept, she dreamed that a boy came close to her, and spoke about her son. "To-morrow morning," he said, "you must pick red peppers, and get a lemon, [122] and carry them to the shrine, and burn them in the fire." Next morning, the woman hastened to gather the peppers, and get a lemon, and with happy face she ran to the shrine under the big tree. There she made a fire, and burned the lemon and the red peppers, as the dream had told her. And, as soon as she had done this, her son appeared from under the great tree. Then his mother caught him in her arms, and held him close, and cried for joy. When you lose your things, you may be sure that the S'iring has hidden them. What you have to do is to burn some red peppers with beeswax (tadu ka petiukan [123]), and observe carefully the direction in which the smoke goes. The way the smoke goes points out where your things are hidden, because the S'iring is afraid of the wax of bees. He is afraid, too, of red peppers and of lemons. How Iro Met the S'iring Not long ago, a young man named Iro went out, about two o'clock in the afternoon, to get some tobacco from one of the neighbors. Not far from his house, he saw his friend Atun coming along; and Atun said to him, "I've got some tobacco hidden away in a place in the woods. Let us go and get it." So they went along together. When they reached the forest, Atun disappeared, and Iro could not see which way he had gone. Then he concluded that it was not Atun, but a S'iring, whom he had met. He started for home, and reached there about eight o'clock in the evening. To his astonishment, he saw Atun sitting there in the house. Confused and wondering, he asked Atun, "Did you carry me away?" But his friend Atun laughed, and said, "Where should I carry you? I have not been anywhere." Then Iro was convinced that a S'iring had tried to lure him into the forest. When you have a companion, the S'iring cannot hurt you. CHAPTER IV Animal Stories: Metamorphosis, Explanatory Tales, Etc. The Kingfisher and the Malaki There came a day when the kingfisher (kobug [124]) had nothing to drink, and was thirsty for water. Then she walked along the bed of the brook, searching for a drink; but the waters of the brook were all dried up. Now, on that very day, the Maganud went up the mountain to get some agsam [125] to make leglets for himself. And when he came near to where the bulla grows, he stopped to urinate, and the urine sprinkled one of the great bulla-leaves. Then he went on up the mountain. Just then, the kingfisher came along, still looking for a mountain-stream. Quickly she caught sight of the leaf of the bulla-tree all sprinkled with water; but the man had gone away. Then the kingfisher gladly drank a few drops of the water, and washed her feathers. But no sooner had she quenched her thirst, and taken a bath, than her head began to pain her. Then she went home to her little house in the ground. Now, every day the kingfisher laid one egg, and that day she laid her egg as usual. But when the egg hatched out, it was no feathered nestling, but a baby-boy, that broke the shell. "Oh!" cried the frightened bird. "What will become of me?" Then she ran off a little way from her nest, and started to fly away. But the little boy cried out, "Mother, mother, don't be afraid of me!" So the kingfisher came back to her baby. And the child grew bigger every day. After a while, the boy was old enough to walk and play around. Then one day he went alone to the house of the Maganud, and climbed up the steps and looked in at the door. The Maganud was sitting there on the floor of his house; and the little boy ran up to him and hugged him, and cried for joy. But the Maganud was startled and dismayed; for he was a chaste malaki, [126] and had no children. Yet this boy called him "father," and begged for ripe bananas in a very familiar manner. After they had talked for a little while, the Maganud went with the child to the home of the kingfisher. The kingfisher had made her nest at the foot of a great hollow tree. She had dug out a hole, about four feet deep, in the soft ground, and fixed a roof by heaping over the hole the powdered rotten bark of the old tree. The roof stood up just a few inches above the ground; and when the Maganud saw it, he thought it was a mere little heap of earth. Immediately, however, as he looked at the lowly nest, it became a fine house with walls of gold, and pillars of ivory. The eaves were all hung with little bells (korung-korung [127]); and the whole house was radiantly bright, for over it forked lighting played continually. The kingfisher took off her feather coat, and became a lovely woman, and then she and the Malaki were married. They had bananas and cocoanut-groves, and all things, and they became rich people. The Woman and the Squirrel One day a woman went out to find water. She had no water to drink, because all the streams were dried up. As she went along, she saw some water in a leaf. She drank it, and washed her body. As soon as she had drunk the water, her head began to hurt. Then she went home, spread out a mat, lay down on it, and went to sleep. She slept for nine days. When she woke up, she took a comb and combed her hair. As she combed it, a squirrel-baby came out from her hair. After the baby had been in the house one week, it began to grow and jump about. It staid up under the roof of the house. One day the Squirrel said to his mother, "O mother! I want you to go to the house of the Datu who is called 'sultan,' and take these nine kamagi [128] and these nine finger-rings to pay for the sultan's daughter, because I want to marry her." Then the mother went to the sultan's house and remained there an hour. The sultan said, "What do you want?" The woman answered, "Nothing. I came for betel-nuts." Then the woman went back home. The Squirrel met her, and said, "Where are my nine necklaces?" "Here they are," said the woman. But the Squirrel was angry at his mother, and bit her with his little teeth. Again he said to his mother, "You go there and take the nine necklaces." So the woman started off again. When she reached the sultan's house, she said to him, "I have come with these nine necklaces and these nine finger-rings that my son sends to you." "Yes," said the sultan; "but I want my house to become gold, and I want all my plants to become gold, and everything I have to turn into gold." But the woman left the presents to pay for the sultan's daughter. The sultan told her that he wanted his house to be turned into gold that very night. Then the woman went back and told all this to her son. The Squirrel said, "That is good, my mother." Now, when night came, the Squirrel went to the sultan's house, and stood in the middle of the path, and called to his brother, the Mouse, "My brother, come out! I want to see you." Then the great Mouse came out. All the hairs of his coat were of gold, and his eyes were of glass. The Mouse said, "What do you want of me, my brother Squirrel?" "I called you," answered the Squirrel, "for your gold coat. I want some of that to turn the sultan's house into gold." Then the Squirrel bit the skin of the Mouse, and took off some of the gold, and left him. Then he began to turn the sultan's things into gold. First of all, he rubbed the gold on the betel-nut trees of the sultan; next, he rubbed all the other trees and all the plants; third, he rubbed the house and all the things in it. Then the sultan's town you could see as in a bright day. You would think there was no night there--always day. All this time, the sultan was asleep. When he woke up, he was so frightened to see all his things, and his house, of gold, that he died in about two hours. Then the Squirrel and the daughter of the sultan were married. The Squirrel staid in her father's home for one month, and then they went to live in the house of the Squirrel's mother. And they took from the sultan's place, a deer, a fish, and all kinds of food. After the sultan's daughter had lived with the Squirrel for one year, he took off his coat and became a Malaki T'oluk Waig. [129] The Cat Very long ago the cocoanut used to be the head of the cat. That is why the cat loves cocoanut so much. When the Bagobo are eating cocoanut, they let the cat jump up and have some too, because her head once turned into a cocoanut. When the cat hears the Bagobo scraping cocoanut in the kitchen, she runs quickly to get some to eat. We cut off some of the fur from the tip of the cat's tail, and put the hairs under one of the big stones (sigung) where the fire burns. This is why the cat loves the house where she lives. When the cat dies, her gimokud takawanan [130] goes down to Gimokudan, where the spirits of dead people go. Why the Bagobo Likes the Cat An old man was fishing in the brook; but the water kept getting muddy, and he did not know what was the matter. Then he went away, and he walked and walked. After he had gone some distance, he saw in the mud a big lion [131] that eats people. The Lion had been sleeping in the mud. He said to the man, "If you'll pull me out of the mud and ride me to my town, I will give you many things." Then the man drew the Lion from the mud. The Lion stood still a while, and then said, "Now you must ride on me." So the man mounted the Lion, and rode until they came to a large meadow, when the Lion said, "Now I am going to eat you." The man replied, "But first let us go and ask the Carabao." The Lion consented, and they went on until they reached the Carabao. "This Lion wants to eat me," complained the man. "Yes, indeed! eat him, Lion," answered the Carabao, "for the men are all the time riding on my back, and whipping me." There were many Carabaos in the field, and they all agreed to this. Then the man said to the Lion, "You may eat me; but we will first go and tell the Cows." Soon they reached the Cows' home, and the man told them that the Lion wanted to eat him. At once the Cows exclaimed, "Yes, eat him, Lion, because all day long the people drive us away from their fields." "All right!" assented the man; "but first let us speak to the Dogs." When they came to the Dogs' home, the man cried, "The Lion is going to eat me." The Dogs said to the Lion, "Devour this man; for every day, when men are eating, they beat us away from the food." At last the man said, "Sure enough, you will eat me up, Lion; but let us just go to the Cat." When they reached the Cat's home, they found her sitting at the door, keeping her nice house. It had groves of cocoanut-palms around it. The Cat lived all alone. The man said to her, "This Lion wants to eat me." "Yes, Lion," the Cat replied; "but first you make a deep hole in the ground. We will race each other into the hole. If you jump in first, then I shall lose and you will win." And the Lion ran, and jumped into the hole. Then the Cat covered him with earth and stones until he was dead. But before he died, the Lion called to the Cat, "Whenever I see your excrement (tai), I shall eat it." That is why the Cat hides her excrement, because she is afraid the Lion will come. Now, the Lion is the dog of the Buso. How the Lizards got their Markings One day the Chameleon (palas [132]) and the Monitor-lizard (ibid [133]) were out in a deep forest together. They thought they would try scratching each other's backs to make pretty figures on them. First the Chameleon said to the Monitor-lizard, "You must scratch a nice pattern on my back." So the Monitor went to work, and the Chameleon had a fine scratching. Monitor made a nice, even pattern on his back. Then Monitor asked Chameleon for a scratching. But no sooner had Chameleon begun to work on Monitor's back than there came the sound of a dog barking. A man was hunting in the forest with his dog. The sharp barks came nearer and nearer to the two lizards; and the Chameleon got such a scare, that his fingers shook, and the pretty design he was making went all askew. Then he stopped short and ran away, leaving the Monitor with a very shabby marking on his back. This is the reason that the monitor-lizard is not so pretty as the chameleon. The Monkey and the Tortoise [134] One day, when a Tortoise was crawling slowly along by a stream, he saw a baby-monkey drinking water. Presently the Monkey ran up to the Tortoise, and said, "Let's go and find something to eat." Not far from the stream there was a large field full of banana-trees. They looked up, and saw clusters of ripe fruit. "That's fine!" said the Monkey, "for I'm hungry and you're hungry too. You climb first, Tortoise." Then the Tortoise crawled slowly up the trunk; but he had got up only a little distance when the Monkey chattered these words, "Roro s'punno, roro s'punno!" [135] ("Slide down, slide down, Tortoise!") At once the Tortoise slipped and fell down. Then he started again to climb the tree; and again the Monkey said, "Roro s'punno!" and again the Tortoise slipped and fell down. He tried over and over again; but every time he failed, for the Monkey always said, "Roro s'punno!" and made him fall. At last he got tired and gave it up, saying to the Monkey, "Now you try it." "It's too bad!" said the Monkey, "when we're both so hungry." Then the Monkey made just three jumps, and reached the ripe fruit. "Wait till I taste and see if they're sweet," he cried to the Tortoise, while he began to eat bananas as fast as he could. "Give me some," begged the Tortoise. "All right!" shouted the Monkey; "but I forgot to notice whether it was sweet." And he kept on eating, until more than half of the fruit was gone. "Drop down just one to me!" pleaded the Tortoise. "Yes, in a minute," mumbled the Monkey. At last, when but three bananas were left on the tree, the Monkey called, "Look up! shut your eyes" (Langag-ka! pudung-nu yan matanu [136]). The Tortoise did so. The Monkey then told him to open his mouth, and he obeyed. Then the Monkey said, "I'll peel this one piece of banana for you" (Luitan-ko 'ni sebad abok saging [137]). Now, the Monkey was sitting on a banana-leaf, directly over the Tortoise; but, instead of banana, he dropped his excrement into the Tortoise's mouth. The Tortoise screamed with rage; but the Monkey jumped up and down, laughing at him. Then he went on eating the remainder of the bananas. The Tortoise then set himself to work at making a little hut of bamboo-posts, with a roof and walls of leaves. The upper ends of the bamboo he sharpened, and let them project through the roof; but the sharp points were concealed by the leaves. It was like a trap for pigs (sankil). When the Monkey came down from the banana-tree, the Tortoise said, "You climb this other tall tree, and look around at the sky. If the sky is dark, you must call to me; for the rain will soon come. Then you jump down on the roof of our little house here. Never mind if it breaks in, for we can soon build a stronger one." The Monkey accordingly climbed the tree, and looked at the sky. "It is all very dark!" he exclaimed. "Jump quick, then!" cried the Tortoise. So the Monkey jumped; but he got killed from the sharp bamboo-points on which he landed. Then the Tortoise made a fire, and roasted the Monkey. He cut off the Monkey's ears, and they turned into buyo-leaves. [138] He cut out the heart, and it turned into betel-nut. He took out the brain, and it became lime (apog [139]). He made the tail into pungaman. [140] The stomach he made into a basket. He put into the basket the betel and the lime and the pungaman and the buyo, and crawled away. Soon he heard the noise of many animals gathered together. He found the monkeys and the deer and the pigs and the wild birds having a big rice-planting. All the animals were rejoiced to see the Tortoise coming with a basket, for they all wanted to chew betel. The monkeys ran up, chattering, and tried to snatch the betel-nuts; but the Tortoise held them back, saying, "Wait a minute! By and by I will give you some." Then the monkeys sat around, waiting, while the Tortoise prepared the betel-nut. He cut the nuts and the pungaman into many small pieces, and the buyo-leaf too, and gave them to the monkeys and the other animals. Everybody began to chew; and the Tortoise went away to a distance about the length of one field (sebad kinamat), where he could get out of sight, under shelter of some trees. Then he called to the monkeys, "All of you are eating monkey, just like your own body: you are chewing up one of your own family." At that, all the monkeys were angry, and ran screaming to catch the Tortoise. But the Tortoise had hid under the felled trunk of an old palma brava tree. As each monkey passed close by the trunk where the Tortoise lay concealed, the Tortoise said, "Drag your membrum! here's a felled tree" (Supa tapo! basio' [141]). Thus every monkey passed by clear of the trunk, until the last one came by; and he was both blind and deaf. When he followed the rest, he could not hear the Tortoise call out, "Supa tapo! basio';" and his membrum struck against the fallen trunk. He stopped, and became aware of the Tortoise underneath. Then he screamed to the rest; and all the monkeys came running back, and surrounded the Tortoise, threatening him. "What do you want?" inquired the Tortoise. "You shall die," cried the monkeys. "Tell us what will kill you. We will chop you to pieces with the axe." "Oh, no! that won't hurt me in the least," replied the Tortoise. "You can see the marks on my shell, where my father used to cut my body: but that didn't kill me." "We will put you in the fire, then, and burn you to death," chorussed the monkeys. "Will that do?" "Fire does not hurt me," returned the Tortoise. "Look at my body! See how brown it is where my father used to stick me into the fire." "What, then, is best to kill you?" urged the monkeys. "The way to kill me," replied the Tortoise, "is to take the punch used for brass, bulit, [142] and run [143] it into my rectum. Then throw me into the big pond, and drown me." Then the monkeys did as they were told, and threw him into the pond. But the Tortoise began to swim about in the water. Exultantly he called to the monkeys, "This is my own home: you see I don't drown." And the lake was so deep that the monkeys could not get him. Then the monkeys hurried to and fro, summoning all the animals in the world to drink the water in the lake. They all came,--deer, pigs, jungle-fowl, monkeys, and all the rest,--and began to drink. They covered their pagindis [144] with leaves, so that the water could not run out of their bodies. After a time, they had drunk so much that the lake became shallow, and one could see the Tortoise's back. But the red-billed bakaka-bird that lived in a tree by the water was watching; and as quick as the back of the Tortoise came into sight, the bird flew down and picked off the leaves from the pagindis of the deer. Then the water ran out from their bodies until the lake rose again, and covered the Tortoise. Satisfied, the bird flew back into the tree. But the deer got fresh leaves to cover their pagindis, and began to drink again. Then the bird flew to the monkeys, and began to take the leaves from their pagindis; but one monkey saw him doing it, and slapped him. This made the bird fall down, and then all the monkeys left the Tortoise in the lake, and ran to revenge themselves on the bird. They snatched him up, pulled out every one of his feathers with their fingers, and laid him naked upon the stump of a tree. All the animals went home, leaving the bird on the stump. Two days later, one Monkey came to look at the Bakaka. Little feathers were beginning to grow out; but the Monkey thought the bird was dead. "Maggots are breeding in it," said the Monkey. Three more days passed, and then the Monkey came again. The Bakaka's feathers had grown out long by that time; and the Monkey said, "It was all rotten, and the pigs ate it." But the bird had flown away. He flew to the north until he reached a meadow with a big tual-tree in the middle. The tree was loaded with ripe fruit. [145] Perched on one of the branches, the bird ate all he wanted, and when done he took six of the fruit of the tual, and made a necklace for himself. With this hung round his neck, he flew to the house where the old Monkey lived, and sat on the roof. He dropped one tual through the roof, and it fell down on the floor, where all the little monkey-children ran for it, dancing and screaming. "Don't make such a noise!" chided the old Monkey, "and do not take the tual, for the Bakaka will be angry, and he is a great bird." But the bird flew down into the house, and gave one tual to the old Monkey. "That is good," said the old Monkey, tasting it. "Tell me where you got it." But the bird would not tell. Then the old monkey stood up, and kissed him, and begged to be taken to the tual-tree. At last the Bakaka said to all the monkeys, "Three days from now you may all go to the tual-tree. I want you all to go, the blind monkey too. Go to the meadow where the grass grows high, and there, in the centre of the meadow, is the tual-tree. If you see the sky and the air black, do not speak a word; for if you speak, you will get sick." At the set time, all the monkeys started for the meadow, except one female monkey that was expecting a baby. The deer and all the other animals went along, except a few of the females who could not go. They all reached the meadow-grass; and the monkeys climbed up the tual-tree that stood in the centre of the field, until all the branches were full of monkeys. The birds and the jungle-fowl flew up in the tree; but the deer and the other animals waited clown on the ground. Then the sky grew black, for the Bakaka and the Tortoise were going around the meadow with lighted sticks of balekayo, [146] and setting fire to the grass. The air was full of smoke, and the little monkeys were crying; but the old Monkey bit them, and said, "Keep still, for the Bakaka told us not to speak." But the meadow-grass was all ablaze, and the flames crept nearer and nearer to the tual-tree. Then all the monkeys saw the fire, and cried, "Oh! what will become of us?" Some of the birds and most of the chickens flew away; but some died in the flames. A few of the pigs ran away, but most of them died. The other animals were burned to death. Not a single monkey escaped, save only the female monkey who staid at home. When her baby was born, it was a boy-monkey. The mother made it her husband, and from this pair came many monkeys. It was the same with the deer. All were burned, except one doe who staid at home. When her little fawn was born, it was a male. She made it her husband, and from this one pair came many deer. The Crow and the Golden Trees The liver of the crow is "medicine" for many pains and for sickness. On this account the Bagobo kills the crow so that he may get his liver for "medicine." The liver is good to eat, either cooked or raw. If you see a crow dead, you can get its liver and eat some of it, and it will be "medicine" for your body. The crow never makes its nest in low-growing trees, but only in tall, big trees. Far from here, the old men say, in the land where the sun rises, there are no more living trees; for the scorching heat of the sun has killed them.all, and dried up the leaves. There they stand, with naked branches, all bare of leaves. Only two trees there have not died from the heat. The trunks of these trees are of gold, and all their leaves of silver. But if any bird lights on one of these trees, it falls down dead. The ground under the two trees is covered with the bones of little birds and big birds that have died from perching on the trees with the golden trunks and the silver leaves. These two trees are full of a resin that makes all the birds die. Only the crow can sit on the branches, and not die. Hence the crow alone, of all the birds, remains alive in the land of the sunrise. No man can get the resin from these trees. But very long ago, in the days of the Mona, there came a Malaki T'oluk Waig to the trees. He had a war-shield that shone brightly, for it had a flame of fire always burning in it. And this Malaki came to the golden trees and took the precious resin from their trunks. CHAPTER V An Ata Story [147] Alelu'k and Alebu'tud [148] Alelu'k and Alebu'tud lived together in their own house. They had no neighbors. One day Alelu'k said to his wife, "I must go and hunt some pigs." Then he started out to hunt, taking with him his three dogs. He did not find any wild pigs; but before long he sighted a big deer with many-branched antlers. The dogs gave chase and seized the deer, and held it until the man came up and killed it with the sharp iron spike that tipped his long staff (tidalan [149]). Then the man tied to the deer's antlers a strong piece of rattan, and dragged it home. When he reached his house, his wife met him joyfully; and they were both very happy, because they had now plenty of meat. They brought wood and kindled a fire, and fixed over the fire a frame of wood tied to upright posts stuck into the ground. On the frame they laid the body of the deer to singe off the hair over the flames. And when the hair was all burned off, and the skin clean, Alelu'k began to cut off pieces of venison, and Alebu'tud got ready the big clay pot, and poured into it water to boil the meat. But there was only a little water in the house, so Alubu'tud took her bucket (sekkadu [150]), and hurried down to the river. When she reached there, she stood with her bare feet in the stream, and dipped the bucket into the stream, and took it out full of water. But, just as she turned to climb up the river-bank, an enormous fish jumped out of the river, seized her, dragged her down, and devoured her. At home, Alelu'k was watching for his wife to come back bringing the water. Day after day he waited for her, and all day long he was crying from sorrow. The man (Alelu'k) symbolizes a big black ant that makes its nest in a hollow tree. The woman (Alebu'tud) is a little worm that lives in the palma brava tree. The fish is another man who carried off Alelu'k's wife. New York. NOTES [1] In these legends, in a few instances, the exact phrases of the narrators have been retained for the sake of their quaintness. [2] Obtained from José Teodoro, Bay, Laguna, P.I. [3] Obtained from Fabian de la Paz, San Fernando, Pompanga, P. I., who says it was "handed down from old time." [4] Obtained from Camilo Osias, Balayan, Luzon, P. I. [5] The word here translated "king" is hardly satisfactory, but perhaps nothing better can be substituted. Of course the idea "king" has crept in since the Spanish conquest. "Datto" or "chief" might be more satisfactory. What is really meant, however, is nothing exactly imaged by these words, but rather a sort of "head-man," a man more prominent and powerful than others. [6] See "Tar-Baby" in Uncle Remus, his Songs and Sayings, p. 7. Also "Puss in Boots" in Lang's Cinderella, p. 36. [7] See "Uncle Remus" on "Tortoise and the Rabbit," p. 87. Also Æsop's Fables, p. 162. [8] The incident of Ca Boo-Ug pretending that he did not wish to be thrown into the water is similar to an incident in the "Tar Baby" story (see Uncle Remus, his Songs and Sayings, p. 16). [9] Juan Puson, or "Jack Paunch," as he would be called in English, is a favorite character in Tagalog folk-lore. His adventures are considered to be the height of humor, and a recital of these never fails to be repaid with peals of appreciative laughter. The character is merely a conventional one, to which all sorts of stories, no matter how inconsistent with each of the others, may be attached. Some of the accounts, which deal with the death of Juan and various members of his family by burning, the writer has suppressed as too coarse for Western ideas. [10] Anac, child. [11] Anac hang gabi, young root of the caladium plant. It also means "child of the night." [12] Any kind of relish to be eaten with rice, meat especially. [13] Tuba, fermented juice of cocoa, buri, or nipa palms. [14] "Lightning blast the stick!" [15] The Tagalog word is literally "hash." [16] This story is probably derived from a Spanish version of "The Forty Thieves," but like all the stories of this collection, it is from an oral version of the Tagalog tale. [17] Filipinos do not kiss like Occidental peoples, but touch the tip of the nose, with sometimes the lips, and inhale the fragrance of the face or hair. [18] Native houses of the poorer classes are very slightly built, of four or six uprights, with bamboo floors and thatched roof and sides, the whole tied together with rattan. They are very safe in earthquakes. [19] "Honorable people." [20] Malapad--a copper piece worth about eighty to the peso or 0.0125 Mexican dollars. [21] Sec-apat--a real or one eighth of a peso. [22] Pallok--rice pot of earthenware. [23] This story is rather suggestive of the Arabian Nights. The writer in unable to determine its true source. [24] Tabo: a cocoanut shell cup. [25] Sinio: corrupted from Sp. genio; Eng. genius. [26] Multo: genius; etymology unknown. [27] The general name for a story, of whatever type. [28] Among the Bagobo the name "diwata" is used rather as a collective than as a specific term, and refers to the gods in general, or to any one of them. Pamulak Manobo, creator of the earth, is the diwata here referred to. [29] In Malayan-Arabic tradition, Adam was moulded from a lump of clay mixed with water (cf. W. W. Skeat, Malay Magic [1900], pp. 21-22); but the suggestion may as well have come from a Jesuit story. [30] Tuglay, the "old man" of Bagobo myth, and Tuglibung, the "old woman," were the Mona, who lived on the earth before time began. Tradition says that they were acquainted with only the rudest of Bagobo arts and industries; that they were very poor, and dressed themselves in the soft sheath torn from the cocoanut-trees. Tuglay and Tuglibung are not specific, but general, names for all those old people of the tales. [31] The Malaya of the peninsula have a similar tradition as to the snake element (cf. Skeat, l.c., p. 6). [32] The name "Mona" is ordinarily applied to the old man as well as to the old woman of prehistoric days. [33] A generic name for the old man of the ancient myths. The word seems to be related to tugul ("old"), which is used only of persons. "An old thing" is tapi. [34] With ready ease the Bagobo incorporates elements that have come from Catholic sources, yet without breaking the thread of his narrative. [35] A tradition of the first peopling of Mindanao was found by Mr. Cole at Cibolan. Cf. The Philippine Journal of Science, vol. vi, pp. 128-129 (1911). [36] Hemp warp that has been laced in a banded pattern before dyeing, in order to produce decorative figures In a textile, is called binubbud. After the binding-threads are clipped, there is an effect of rippling in the hemp, of which curly hair is suggestive. [37] Such auspicious white spots are referred to in the text of a Bagobo song (in manuscript), in which the Divine Man who lives at the source of the streams is said to have the pamoti on his body. [38] A well-made box of hard wood in which fine garments are kept. [39] A long, one-edged sword that hangs at the left side, in an elaborate scabbard, when a man is in full-dress. [40] Men (ta, "the;" -g-, a formal or euphonic infix; selat, "door;" k' [ka], "of;" alo, "sun") at the door of the sun. Manobo is a general term for "man," "people." [41] The Visayans believe that an eclipse of the moon is caused by an enormous animal that seizes the moon, and holds her in his mouth. Cf. this Journal, vol. xix (1906), p. 209. [42] Large percussion instruments made by the Chinese, imported from Singapore into Mindanao, and widely used by the wild tribes. [43] The first of mortals to reach heaven, and become a god (cf. the "Story of Lumabat and Wari"). In the tales that I have thus far collected, Lumabat does not figure as a culture-hero. [44] The word indicating the relationship between brother and sister, each of whom is tube' to the other, whether elder or younger. [45] The mortar in which rice is pounded is a large, deep wooden bowl that stands in the house. With its standard, it is three feet or more in height. [46] The place below the earth where the dead go (gimokud, "spirit;" -an, plural ending); that is, [the place of] many spirits. [47] The same word is used of the ceremonial washing at the festival of G'inum. Ordinary bathing is padigus. [48] See footnote 3, p. 15, also 3, p. 16. [49] This is also an element in Visayan myth (cf. Maxfield and Millington's collection in this Journal, vol. xx [1907], p. 102). For the Malay tradition, cf. Skeat, Malay Magic, p. 205. [50] See footnote 1, p. 18. [51] A synonyme for Gimokudan ("the city of the dead"). It is not ordinarily associated in the mind of the Bagobo with any idea of retribution. This episode shows traces of Jesuit influence. [52] See footnote 1, p. 15. [53] The popular name "betel-nut," has been retained in these stories to designate the fruit of the areca-palm. Strictly speaking, "betel" is the leaf of a climbing plant (buyo) that is chewed with the nut. [54] The solid part of the betel-nut that remains after the juice has been extracted by long chewing. [55] A sort of bridge or platform connecting the main body of the native house with the shelter that serves as kitchen, when this is separate from the living-room. [56] A fabulous bird, probably associated with the screech-owl (Aluco candidus) of the Philippines. It is a bird of ill-omen. Compare A. Newton, Dictionary of Birds, pp. 679-680 (1893-96). [57] General term for "man," "people." [58] The ulit has a stereotyped opening with the phrase unda'me (unda ume), "no year." [59] The fabulous source of all the mountain-streams [60] The anthropomorphic and zoömorphic evil personalities, whose number is legion. The traditional concept of Buso among the Bagobo has essentially the same content as that of Asuang with Visayan peoples. Both Buso and Asuang suggest the Rákshasa of Indian myth. [61] See footnote 2, p. 19. [62] Bia, "lady;" t' (to), "the;" metum, "black." [63] A stout work-knife, with broad, one-edged blade, and square tip; used to hew down trees, and cut kindling-wood. [64] A term regularly used of the great Malaki, and combining the sense of "all-wise" and "invincible." Matulus is often used with a connotation of having magical power. [65] See footnote 3, p. 15, also 3, p. 16. [66] The number sacred in ceremonial and song. [67] See footnote 2, p. 16. [68] Visayan word for rice growing in the field; Bagobo, 'ume. [69] The long sword of the Moro, with a wavy, two-edged blade. [70] The Babogo say, that, before the invention of weaving hemp, all the people clothed themselves in the soft, inflammable layers of the sheath that envelops the trunk of cocoanut-palms. [71] The semi-divine being who dwells at the mythical source of the mountain-streams (malaki, "good man;" t' [to], "the;" oluk, "source;" waig, "water"), Traditionally there are many of these malaki, devotionally there is but one. [72] A very hard, fine-grained wood susceptible of high polish, in color grading, according to age, from yellow to golden tan, and used to make handles for the most valuable swords. [73] These gods are of high rank. Salamia'wan occupies the second heaven, and Panguli'li, the ninth. [74] Malaki who lives at the horizon (lindig, "border;" ramut, "root;" ka, preposition "of;" langit, "sky"). [75] Although the name malaki properly is limited to men of high moral character, yet actually the story-teller calls all the young men malaki round whom the action centres. Often it means simply an unmarried man. [76] A typical Malay house presents the appearance of a pile-dwelling, the floor being raised several feet above the ground, and tied to the heavy upright timbers which run to the roof and form the framework of the house. [77] Short trousers of hemp, usually embroidered and beaded. [78] Short jacket of hemp (ka, "of;" mama, "man," "boy," the specific term for "man"). [79] Brass-smith. [80] A title of respect, which is best rendered by "lady" or "señora." [81] Brass toe-rings, corresponding to the paninsing ("finger-rings"). [82] See footnote 1, p. 29. [83] Rock-terrace (-an, plural ending; ka, "of;" karamag. "wind") of the Wind. [84] Terraces (walu, "eight;" lapit, "folded;" dukilum, "night," "darkness") of Eight-fold Darkness. [85] Udan ("rain"). [86] A large carrying-bag worn by Bagobo men on the back, by means of straps over the shoulders. It is woven of hemp, often heavily beaded, and contains the betel-box, the lime-tube, and a tight case of woven rattan for flint, steel, medicine, and other necessaries. [87] The leaf of a vine that is chewed with betel-nut. [88] Dulama ("soft rock"). This rock formation appears to be a cuesta structure. [89] An embroidery done by old women in former days, but now almost a lost art. Tambayang was used for the uppers of sleeves for fiesta, and it formed the scarf worn by mothers to carry the baby. There is a taboo on young women doing this special sort of needlework. [90] The "small boy" of the ancient tales (ulit), who in some magical manner becomes great. [91] See footnote 4, p, 26. [92] See footnote 2, p. 20. [93] Bia, "lady;" inelu, "orphan,"--the orphan lady Itanawa. [94] When a Bagobo makes an expedition over the mountains to attend a fiesta, he wears his old clothes, and carries his elaborately ornamented garments in the bag on his back. On nearing the end of the journey, he goes behind a tree, or into the jungle, and puts on his fine clothes. [95] A box with three compartments,--for betel-nut, buyo-leaf, and calcined shell,--cast in brass or bell-metal from a wax mould. This type has rectangular surfaces, and is to be distinguished from the kapulan, a type marked by its circular, or elliptical, or polygonal top and base. [96] It is the custom of the natives to wait for the host to say, "Come up," before mounting the ladder or notched log leading to the door. [97] The reference here is a little ambiguous. It is suggested that a transposition of clauses may throw light on the meaning. Transposed and expanded, the invitation would read thus: "Come up into the house for shelter, since there are many showers in my town. Come up, provided you can keep from bringing on a fight." [98] The good man [of the] Folded Mountains (taglapida, "folded;" pabungan, "mountains"). [99] Lindig, "border;" ramut, "root;" ka, preposition "of;" langit, "sky." [100] A low-growing tree yielding a black dye, which for a very long time has been used by women to color hemp. [101] A bead necklace, the most highly valued of all Bagobo ornaments. One section is a gold or silver cord, several inches long. made of small over-lapping scales of the precious metal. The necklace is thought to be of Moro manufacture, and is valued by the Bagobo at from one to four agongs. [102] See footnote 4, p. 32. [103] A trial-marriage before the Bagobo ceremony is not uncommon. [104] The tree that bears betel-nuts, and is commonly called "betel-nut tree." [105] Possibly a form of kambin ("goat"); diluk ("little"); i.e., "little goat," a name that would be selected readily by a Bagobo for a fleet horse. [106] See footnote 2, p. 15. [107] One of the Agamidæ. [109] The same word is used for the reflection in the water and for the shadow cast on the ground, since both phenomena are regarded as manifestations of the same spirit (gimokud). [110] The Mona were aged people, without sexual passions; hence this episode presents a situation out of the ordinary. [111] A small bird that steals grain from the growing corn and rice. A clapper of split bamboo is sometimes made to scare away the maya. [112] One of the thick-branching trees haunted by demons. [113] A native sweet-potato. The Bagobo name is kasila. [114] See footnote 2, p. 39. [115] Buso is saying a charm to make the stem of the bagkang-plant grow tall enough to form a handle for the betel-nut tree, so that the children may be dragged down (tubu, "grow;" baba, "rattan strap forming the basket-handle;" mamaa'n, "betel-nut"). The children, for their part, say other magic words to make the tree grow at an equally rapid rate, so that its branches may swing above the bagkang as a handle for it. The Buso's formula appears to have been the more effective of the two charms in producing a magically rapid growth. [116] See footnote 1, p. 18. [117] See footnote 2, p. 30. [118] See footnote 1, p. 30. [119] See footnote, p. 25. [120] The S'iring are said to appear in the likeness of some near relative of the wanderer in the forest (s-, prefix widely used by mountain Bagobo before an initial vowel of a proper name; iring, "like" or "similar to"). [121] The family altar seen in many Bagobo houses. It consists of two slim rods of bamboo (attached to the wall, and standing upright), split at the upper ends so as to support each a bowl of white crockery, in which offerings of betel-nut, brass bracelets, and other objects, are placed. Similar shrines are sometimes put up under trees or by a mountain-stream. [122] Red peppers and a piece or two of lemon laid under the house are effective in keeping Buso away from that vicinity; and the use of the same charm here against the S'iring suggests that the S'iring may not be separated by a very sharp line from the Buso who crowd the forests. [123] Tadu ("wax"), ka (preposition "of"), petiukan ("bees"). [124] This bird, often called a "hornbill" by foreigners in the Philippines, is probably the halcyon kingfisher (Ceyx euerythra) of the islands. The ground hornbill is confined to Africa; and the tree hornbill of the Philippines does not make its nest at the foot of trees, as in this story. [125] A mountain-plant whose stem has a thin, glossy, black sheath, that is stripped off and used in twisting the decorative leglet called tikus. [126] In a strict sense, the term malaki is never applied to a man, unless he is young, unmarried, and perfectly chaste. But this technical use is not always preserved. [127] Small bells cast from a hand-made wax mould, and extensively used for decorating baskets, bags, belts, etc. [128] See footnote 1, p. 38. [129] See footnote 2, p. 28. [130] The good soul that goes to the city of the dead, and continues to live much as on earth. The gimokud tebang, or bad soul, becomes a Buso after death. [131] The "lion" is borrowed from some foreign source, since in the Philippines there are no large carnivorous mammals. [132] The so-called "chameleon" of the Malay Peninsula and the Malay Islands is Calotes, one of the Agamidæ (cf. H. Gadow, Amphibia and Reptiles, pp. 517-518). [133] A semi-aquatic lizard of the Philippines that lays edible eggs, and otherwise answers to the description of the Varanus, or Monitor. [134] This story, in an abbreviated form, was found by Clara Kern Bayliss at Laguna (cf. this Journal, vol. xxi, p. 46 (1908)). [135] Roro, "slide;" s prefix (euphonic or formal, used by mountain Bagobo before vowels and many consonant sounds, as the labial p here); punno, "tortoise." [136] Langag, "look;" -ka (suffix, second person nominative), "you;" pudung, "shut;" -nu (pronominal suffix), "your;" yan (demonstrative pronoun), "that," "those;" mata, "eyes." [137] Luit (transitive verb and noun), "peel," "shell;" -ko (suffix, first person pronominal). "I;" 'ni (abbreviated from ini), "this," "here." in sense of "at hand;" sebad. "one;" abok, "piece;" saging, "banana." [138] See footnote 5, p. 32. [139] A white powder (calcined shell) that is sprinkled on the betel-nut. It is made by burning certain shells to ashes, and mixing with water. [140] The stem of a mountain-plant that is chewed in lack of betel-nut. It blackens the teeth, like betel. [141] Basio', term used of any old palma brava tree that has been broken down or felled, and lies on the ground (supa, "drag," "lower;" tapo, "penis"). [142] A short, pointed iron tool; used to punch ornamental designs in brass ornaments, especially bracelets and leglets. [143] In a slightly different version, the tortoise tells the monkeys to bore into his ear with the tiuk, a brass wire that forms a part of the hinge of a betel-box. [144] The distal opening of the urethra. [145] A small edible fruit with an acid pulp and red-and-white skin. [146] A light-weight bamboo with slender, thorny branches, very inflammable, and used where a rapid-burning and intense fire is needed (bale ["house"], kayo ["wood"]). This wood is extensively used in building the lighter parts of the framework of a house. [147] This story came to the Bagobo from a young man of the Ata tribe, whose habitat is the mountainous country in the interior, to the northwest of the Gulf of Davao. [148] "Alelu'k" and "Alebu'tud" are Ata names, for which the Bagobo forms are respectively Bungen and Batol. [149] The long handle or rod of a spear, tipped with a sharp-pointed iron cone; equally useful for killing animals, and, driven into the ground, for supporting the spear when at rest. The same name (tidalan) is applied to the shaft of a spear lacking the blade, and carried by old people like a mountain-staff. [150] A vessel formed of a single internode of bamboo, in which water is brought from the river, and kept in the house. 
56144	----	FOLK LORE NOTES. Vol. I--GUJARAT. COMPILED FROM MATERIALS COLLECTED BY the late A. M. T. JACKSON, indian civil service. R. E. ENTHOVEN, c.i.e., i.c.s. BRITISH INDIA PRESS, MAZGAON BOMBAY. 1914 INTRODUCTION. The circumstances attending the murder of Mr. A. M. T. Jackson in Nasik in December 1909 led to the raising of a small subscription among his friends, to be devoted to a memorial in some shape or form, showing the respect and affection with which he was regarded in Western India. A large part of the fund then raised was expended on the purchase of his valuable library, which now forms a part of the collection owned by the Bombay Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society. It was subsequently decided that the balance could not be better spent than in defraying the cost of publishing certain folklore materials which he had collected and intended, at the time of his untimely death, to publish in the pages of the Indian Antiquary. These materials were the result of an enquiry set on foot by him about the year 1900. His plan of operation was to forward, through the agency of the Education Department, Crooke's list of folklore questions to schoolmasters in various parts of the Presidency. The question paper is given below; the replies form the raw material from which these notes have been compiled. For convenience they are divided into two series: Gujarat and the Konkan. I desire at the outset of these introductory remarks to explain that, when at the request of the memorial committee I undertook the task of seeing these notes through the press, I did not contemplate any critical handling of the materials found in the papers made over to me. I had neither the leisure nor the knowledge to carry out Mr. Jackson's intention, i.e., to edit the notes carefully with such criticisms and comparisons as his ripe scholarship would have suggested. I make no claim, therefore, to have effected more than to have rescued from the wastepaper basket a number of replies to questions regarding the beliefs of the people in Gujarat and the Konkan. The notes as now presented doubtless contain much that is trivial, and possibly many inaccuracies; but among them students of folklore may on the other hand discover material of real value--such as they are, they will, I trust, repay careful study, and perhaps serve one day to form the basis of a further and more comprehensive examination of the folk-lore of the Bombay Presidency--an examination which should not be too long deferred, for the old practices and beliefs are yearly tending to decay and vanish in contact with the spread of education. The field for enquiry is wide and rich, but workers fail to come forward; and meanwhile the old beliefs and practices slowly disappear. On the subjects with which these notes deal, much information of value has already been collected and recorded by another oriental scholar, the late Sir James Campbell, K.C.I.E., and will be found partly in the pages of the Bombay Gazetteer, and partly in the notes on the Spirit Basis of Belief and Custom which he published from time to time in the Indian Antiquary. The present notes carry striking confirmation of Sir James Campbell's theory regarding the extent to which beliefs and religious practices in this country can be traced to the desire to propitiate spirit presences. It may be remarked that Campbell's work in the domain of Indian folk-lore does not seem to have received the notice that it deserves in the works of writers on folk-lore generally, possibly because so much of it is buried in the pages of the Bombay Gazetteer or in scattered numbers of the Indian Antiquary. The notes would amply repay the labour of republication, with a summary and suitable index. They deal very fully with spirit worship and possession, witchcraft and magic, and the evil eye. They differ from the present notes in being to a large extent comparative, assembling under the various heads of ancestor worship, spirit haunts, spirit possession, exorcism, etc., kindred beliefs from all parts of the world. Doubtless his work to no small extent suggested to Mr. Jackson the line of enquiry which is contained in the question paper. From the materials accumulated by these two scholars a comprehensive study of the folk-lore of western India may one day be compiled. The notes illustrate very fully the common beliefs in unseen presences causing mischief of various kinds. They illustrate the common methods of protection by propitiation, of spirit and disease scaring, and of avoidance of the effects of the evil eye. A full list will be found (pp. 126-130) of the lucky and unlucky omens besetting the undertaking of various acts, and much information is recorded regarding lucky and unlucky numbers, and spirit scaring names which has not, so far as I am aware, been made public before. Ceremonies for exorcising spirits that have possessed human beings are given in some detail. There will also be found an account of the interpretation commonly put on such natural phenomena as the rainbow, an eclipse, thunder, lightning, meteors, comets, &c. Many examples are given of the beliefs regarding the means for securing successful pregnancy. The trees and animals worshipped in the country side are described, with the ceremony that is held to be suitable in each case. An unusually interesting belief is that which attributes to a certain lake in Gujarat the power to transform males into females and vice versa (see p. 39). The curing of diseases by the wearing of magic threads and the application of mantras or holy verses is also dealt with in some detail. Finally a list is given of the shrines of the country side with the tradition regarding the holy man in whose honour and to whose memory they have been erected. They are for the most part worshipped alike by Hindu and Musalman. In conclusion, I would refer once more to the fact that no attempt has been made to edit critically the information embodied in these notes. In the scanty leisure available after official demands on my time have been met, it has only been possible to see the materials through the press as they stood, after translation. The task has been greatly lightened by the generous assistance received from R. B. P. B. Joshi who undertook the preparation of the whole of the MSS. of the Konkan series. I am also greatly indebted to Mr. G. M. Kalelkar for many arduous hours of work on the compilation of the Gujarat papers. To both these gentlemen my cordial thanks are due for their co-operation. If the publication of these materials serve to stimulate interest in the subject of Indian folk-lore, they will not have been printed in vain. Such as they are, they will, I trust, remain as a small tribute to the memory of an oriental scholar, of no mean merit, of whose services India was deprived in so untimely a manner. R. E. Enthoven. QUESTIONS ON FOLKLORE. By W. CROOKE, Late of the Indian Civil Service. Author of the Popular Religion and Folklore of Northern India. I. NATURE POWERS. 1. Give any indications of the connection of the worship of the Deota or minor local deities with the lower races, as, for instance, where the village deity is served by a priest drawn from the lower castes. 2. Give any current beliefs about sun worship. How and at what periodical feasts is the worship conducted and what form of ritual is adopted? 3. Give any customs of moving round temples or sacred objects in the course of the sun in the heavens: cases in which women after childbirth are exposed to the sun: conception believed to be caused by exposure to the rays of the sun: the use of the Swastika as an emblem. 4. Give any legends or customs connected with moon worship: the spots on the surface of the moon: the moon as a healer of disease: the custom of drinking the moon's rays: any ceremonies at new or full moon. 5. Give any legends and rites connected with eclipses. 6. Similarly for star worship; superstitions connected with the rainbow; the milky way. 7. Rites connected with worship of the earth mother: sacred things not to fall on earth: occasions when people sleep on the earth. 8. Superstitions connected with thunder and lightning. 9. Popular belief regarding earthquakes. 10. Collect instances of and ritual for worship of sacred rivers; springs; waterfalls; water spirits and goblins: prejudice against saving drowning people: ceremonies at digging and dedication of wells: well water as a cure for disease: instances of sacred lakes: palaces under the water. 11. Instances of sacred mountains and legends connected with them: dread of climbing mountains. 12. Name any deities supposed to control the weather, and describe the modes of causing or averting rain, of checking storms and hail. 13. Give instances of any rites in which women alone take part or from which they are excluded: any rites in which the worshipper must be nude. 14. Are there any sacred stones which are believed to influence the rain? 15. Note any superstitions in connection with aerolites and meteors. II. THE HEROIC GODLINGS. 16. Describe the ritual and any legends or superstitions connected with the worship of Hanuman, Bhimsen, Bhishma. 17. Name and describe the local deities most generally worshipped in your neighbourhood. What legends are connected with them; who are their priests; what offerings and on what occasions are offerings made to them? 18. How is the local deity of a new settlement selected and installed? 19. What local deity is considered responsible for crops and cattle? When and how is he worshipped? 20. Describe the worship of Bhairon or Bhairava, Ganesa, the Matris or Mothers, the deities of the jungle, those who assist parturition. III. DISEASE DEITIES. 21. Describe the worship of any deities who are believed to have the power of averting or causing disease, such as cholera, small pox, fever, etc. 22. Is epidemic disease attributed to witchcraft, and, if so, what precautions are taken? Give particulars of observances in connection with cattle disease. 23. What methods are in vogue for the exorcism of disease? Give examples of any rural charms used for this purpose. 24. Is dancing used in exorcism? If so, give instances of religious dances. 25. What are the position and functions of the village sorcerer and how is he appointed? 26. Give examples of the offering of rags, coins, etc., at sacred trees, wells, etc. 27. Give any methods of transferring disease to another person. 28. Give instances of the use of scapegoats. IV. THE WORSHIP OF ANCESTORS AND SAINTS. 29. Give instances of worship of ancestors: the belief that spirits are mortal and that the spirits of the dead are re-born in children. 30. Give instances of miracle-working tombs, and of saints who have been deified in modern times. 31. Give instances of Muhammadan saints whose worship has been adopted by Hindus. 32. Give the rural methods in vogue for the cure of barrenness. V. THE WORSHIP OF THE MALEVOLENT DEAD. 33. What are the current beliefs as to the cause of dreams and the omens derived from them? 34. Is it considered possible for the soul to leave the body temporarily? If so, give instances. 35. What is the popular conception of the character and functions of the Bhut or disembodied soul? 36. What beliefs are current as to the state of the soul after death; the path to the other world: the condition of souls in the other world: the possibility of the soul returning thence? 37. What belief is current as to the souls of those dying by a sudden or violent death? 38. What are believed to be the appearance and habits of the Bhut? 39. In what way do spirits enter or leave the body? 40. What is the current theory regarding sneezing and yawning? 41. What is known of the Rakshasa or malevolent demon? 42. Name and describe any other varieties of malignant spirits. 43. Do any evil spirits go about headless? 44. What special evil spirits infest burial or cremation grounds, and what are the other haunts of such spirits? 45. Does any special class of evil spirit infest mountains, jungles, trees? 46. What fiends attack the young mother and her child? 47. What belief prevails as to the spirits of those killed by tigers or other wild beasts? 48. What form does the ghost of a woman dying at childbirth or during her menses assume? 49. Is there any belief that the father has to take special precautions at the birth of his child? 50. Is there any belief in a connection of the bat or owl with spirits of the dead? 51. Describe the evil spirits which haunt ruins and guard buried treasure: or occupy caves and mines. VI. THE EVIL EYE AND THE SCARING OF GHOSTS. 52. Describe the belief in the Evil eye and the modes of evading it. 53. Does the belief in giving opprobrious names to children prevail, and if so, how is it accounted for? 54. Can you give instances of change of sex? 55. Illustrate the value of the following protection against evil spirits--iron and other metals: coral and shells: precious stones: blood: incense: spittle: salt: water: grain: colours: grasses: tattooing: leather: garlic: glass. 56. Describe the amulets generally used. 57. Illustrate the sacred circle as a protective. 58. Illustrate the belief in omens, numbers, lucky and unlucky days. 59. What means are adopted to help the spirit to the other world, to prevent it from returning and to secure its good-will to the survivors? 60. Illustrate the prevalence of earth burial and cremation: the customs of shaving the hair: placing food or other articles for the use of the dead. 61. Does the spirit reappear in the form of insects and animals? 62. Are the earthen vessels of the household broken at death: if so, why? Describe rites connected with mourning. 63. What spirits are benevolent? 64. Illustrate the belief in tree spirits. 65. What spirits are special protectors of crops and cattle? 66. What spirits are invoked to frighten children? VII. TREE AND SERPENT WORSHIP. 67. Name any sacred groves in your neighbourhood and describe any prejudice against cutting trees. 68. Are any trees specially connected with any local deity or saint? 69. Name any trees which receive particular respect or devotion and note any legends or superstitions in connection with them. 70. Does the custom of marrying a bride or bridegroom to a tree prevail? Any instances of marriage to a god: religious prostitution. 71. Give instances of snake worship and shrines of serpent deities: of deified snake heroes. 72. Does the belief prevail that snakes guard treasure? Give details. 73. What snake festivals are observed? Describe the ritual. 74. What is the village treatment of snake-bite? 75. The snake has a jewel in his head: he is connected with the rainbow: he has a palace under the water: he weds mortal girls: he protects the household--illustrate these beliefs. VIII. TOTEMISM AND FETISHISM. 76. Can you quote any beliefs which are suggestive of Totemism? Are any clans named after or do they claim descent from animals or plants? What animals are treated with special respect by particular tribes? Do special castes refuse to eat any special food? 77. Are any local deities specially associated with animal worship? 78. Illustrate the worship of stocks and stones. Is any respect shown to perforated stones? 79. Are there any modern survivals of human sacrifice? 80. Are fetish stones supposed to cure disease or to be the abode of spirits? 81. Are any fetishes peculiar to particular families or castes? 82. Is special respect shown to the corn sieve, the winnowing basket, the broom, the rice pounder, the plough? 83. Give instances of fire worship. Is the sacred fire maintained in any shrine? Is fire made by friction for special rites? IX. ANIMAL WORSHIP. 84. Illustrate from local examples the worship or respect paid to the horse, ass, lion, tiger, dog, goat, cow, buffalo, antelope, elephant, cat, rat and mouse, squirrel, bear, jackal, hare, crow, fowl, dove and pigeon, swan, and other birds, alligators, fish and insects, and give any legend or superstition in connection with them. X. WITCHCRAFT. 85. How far does the belief in witches and their powers prevail? Do they appear as animals and have they special haunts and seasons? 86. What ordeals are used to test a witch and what means to guard against her witchcraft? XI. GENERAL. 87. Describe the rural ceremonies in connection with ploughing, sowing the various crops, reaping and harvesting. 88. Rites intended for the protection of cattle; to ensure sunshine and favourable weather: to scare noxious animals or insects: to protect special crops: illustrate these from local custom. 89. Are there any rites in which secrecy and silence are essential? 90. Describe the observances at the Holi. 91. Give details of any rites performed when boys or girls attain puberty. TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Nature Powers. Page. Worship of minor local deities. Sun-worship. Circumambulation round images and other sacred objects. Exposure of women to the Sun after child-birth. The Swastika. Moon-worship. Eclipses. Worship of planets and stars. The rainbow. The milky way. Worship of the earth. Thunder and lightning. Earthquakes. Worship of sacred rivers, springs and pools. Water spirits and goblins. Ceremonies at digging of wells. Well water as a cure for disease. Sacred Lakes. Palaces under the water. Sacred mountains. Deities who control the weather. Methods of causing or averting rain and of checking storms. Vratas or religious vows practised only by women. Rites in which women are excluded. Rites in which the worshipper must be nude. Superstitions in connection with aerolites and meteors. 1 CHAPTER II. The Heroic Godlings. The worship of Hanuman, Bhimsen and Bhishma. Local deities. Installation of deities in new settlements. Deities responsible for crops and cattle. The worship of Bhairow, Ganesh, Matrikas or mothers, the deities of the jungle and the deities who preside over childbirth. 54 CHAPTER III. Disease Deities. Deities who can cause or avert diseases such as cholera, small pox, fever, etc. Causes of the outbreak of cholera. Remedies adopted to stop cholera. Causes of the outbreak of small pox. Remedies adopted for the cure of small pox. Causes of fever. Remedies adopted in cases of fever. Cattle diseases. Remedies practised by the village people in connection with them. The methods for the exorcism of disease. Methods of expelling evil spirits from the body. The village sorcerer. Offerings of rags, coins, etc. at sacred trees and wells. The transferring of disease from one person to another. Scapegoats. 74 CHAPTER IV. The worship of ancestors and saints. Shraddhas and other ceremonies performed for the propitiation and emancipation of the deceased. Worship of the founders of religious sects, of saints, etc. Ghosts. The length of their life. Rebirth of ancestors in the same family. Miracle-working tombs. Muhammadan saints whose worship has been adopted by Hindus. Rural methods for the cure of barrenness. 89 CHAPTER V. The worship of the malevolent dead. Popular notions about dreams. Auspicious and inauspicious dreams. Temporary abandonment of the body by the soul. Character and functions of the bhut or disembodied soul. The state of the soul after death. The rebirth of the soul. The souls of persons dying a sudden or violent death. The ways by which ghosts enter and leave the body. Methods of driving away evil spirits from the body. Beliefs regarding sneezing and yawning. Rakshasa or the malevolent demon. Maharakshasas. Other malignant spirits. Evil spirits which go about headless. The haunts of evil spirits. Ghosts of women dying an unnatural death. Spirits of persons killed by tigers and other wild beasts. Ghosts of women dying in child-bed or menses. Precautions taken by parents at the birth of children. Beliefs in connection with bats and owls. Spirits which haunt ruins, guard buried treasure and occupy valleys. 102 CHAPTER VI. The evil eye and the scaring of ghosts. Effects of the evil eye. Objects liable to be influenced by the evil eye. Precautions taken to evade the influence of the evil eye. Opprobrious names. Change of sex. Protection against evil spirits. Amulets. Charmed circles. Omens. Numbers. Lucky and unlucky days. Rites performed to help the soul to the other world. Cremation and burial. The customs of shaving the hair. Offerings of food to the dead. Manifestation of evil spirits in form. The practice of breaking earthen vessels at death. Rites connected with mourning. Benevolent spirits. Spirits which haunt trees. The guardian spirits of crops and cattle. Spirits invoked to frighten children. 120 CHAPTER VII. Tree and Serpent worship. Trees connected with deities and saints. Legends and superstitions connected with them. Marriage of brides and bridegrooms to trees. Snake worship. Shrines of snake deities. Deified snakes. Snakes guarding treasure. The village treatment of snake-bite. The jewel in the head of the snake. Its connection with the rainbow. Weddings of snakes with human beings. Guardian snakes. 136 CHAPTER VIII. Totemism and Fetishism. Names derived from animals. Names derived from plants. Clan names derived from trees and animals. Sacred animals. Deities associated with animal worship. Worship of stocks and stones. Survivals of human sacrifice. Disease-curing stones. Respect shown to corn sieves, corn pounders, the broom and the plough. Fire worship. 144 CHAPTER IX. Animal worship. Sacred animals and the legends and superstitions connected with them. 150 CHAPTER X. Witchcraft. Human and ghost by Dakans or witches. 152 CHAPTER XI. General. Rural ceremonies connected with agricultural operations. Rites performed for the protection of cattle. Rites performed for scaring noxious animals and insects. Rites performed for ensuring sunshine and favourable weather. Rites performed for the protection of crops. Rites in which secrecy and silence are observed. The observances at the Holi festival. Rites performed when girls attain puberty. 153 THE FOLKLORE OF GUJARAT NATURE POWERS CHAPTER I Besides the higher-grade deities, whose worship is enjoined and treated of in the Shastras and Puranas, numerous other minor deities, none of whom however find a place in the Scriptures, are worshipped by the lower classes. The principle underlying the whole fabric of the worship of these minor deities, who for the most part are the spirits of dead ancestors or heroes, has more in it of fear for their power of harming than of love for their divine nature. All untoward occurrences in domestic affairs, all bodily ailments and unusual natural phenomena, inexplicable to the simple mind of the villager, are attributed to the malignant action of these nameless and numerous spirits, hovering over and haunting the habitations of men. [1] The latent dread of receiving injuries from these evil spirits results in the worship by the low-class people of a number of devas and matas, as they are called. The poor villager, surrounded on all sides by hosts of hovering spirits, ready to take offence, or even to possess him, on the smallest pretext, requires some tangible protector to save him from such malign influences. He sets up and enshrines the spirit that he believes to have been beneficent to him, and so deserving of worship, and makes vows in its honour, often becoming himself the officiating priest. Each such deity has its own particular thanak (sthana) or locality. Thus there is hardly a village which has not a particular deity of its own. But in addition to this deity, others in far off villages are generally held in high esteem. There are a number of ways in which these lower-class deities can be installed. Their images are made either of wood, stone, or metal. [2] No temples or shrines are erected in their honour. [3] An ordinary way of representing them is by drawing a trident, (trishul, a weapon peculiar to god Shiva) in red-lead and oil on an upright slab of stone on a public road, on any dead wall, on the confines of a village, or a mountain side, or a hill top, in an underground cellar, or on the bank of a stream. [4] Some people paint tridents in their own houses. The trishul, or trident, may also be made of wood, in which case its three points are plastered with red-lead and oil and covered with a thin coating of tin. [5] Sometimes carved wooden images in human shape, daubed over with red-lead and oil, are placed in a small wooden chariot or in a recess about a foot square. In some shrines two brooms or whisks of peacock's feathers are placed on either side of the image. [6] A slight difficulty overcome or a disease remedied by a vow in honour of any of these deities offers the occasion for an installation, and in all future emergencies of the same kind similar vows are observed. A mata installed to protect a fortress or a street is called a Gadheri Mata, and the worshippers of a fortress, or street, mother are known as Pothias. [7] At the time of installation flags are hoisted near the dedicated places. A troop of dancers with jingling anklets recite holy verses, while the bhuva, exorcist-priest, performs the ceremonies. Generally installations are frequent during the Navaratra [8] holidays when, if no human-shaped image is set up, a trishul at least is drawn in red-lead and oil. [9] Some of these evil deities require, at the time of their installation, the balidan (sacrifice or oblation) of a goat or a he-buffalo. Also, when a spirit is to be exorcised, the symbol of the familiar spirit of the exorcist is set up and invoked by him. After the installation, no systematic form of worship is followed in connection with them. [10] Regular forms are prescribed for the real gods of the Puranas. But upon these the low-caste people are not authorised to attend. Still, in practice there are two forms of worship: ordinary or samanya-puja and special or vishesha-puja. [11] Ordinary worship is performed by bathing the deity--which can be done by sprinkling a few drops of water over it--burning a ghi, or an oil, lamp before it, and by offering a cocoanut and a pice or a half-anna piece. The last is taken away by the bhuva, or priest, who returns generally half or three-quarters of the cocoanut as a prasad of the god. There are no particular days prescribed for such worship, but Sundays and Tuesdays would seem to be the most favoured. [12] On such days, offerings are made for the fulfilment of a vow recorded in order to avoid a badha, or impending evil. In the observance of this vow the devotee abstains from certain things, such as ghi, butter, milk, rice, juvar, betelnut till the period of the vow expires. When a vow is thus discharged, the devotee offers flowers, garlands, incense, food or drink according to the terms of his vow. The dhupa, i.e., burning incense of gugal (balsamodendron) is one of the commonest methods of worship. The days for special worship are the Navaratra holidays, the second day of the bright half of Ashadh, the ninth month of the Hindu Calendar, [13] Divasa [14] or the fifteenth day of the dark half of Ashadh, and Kali-chaudas [15] or the fourteenth day of the dark half of Ashvin, the last month; besides other extraordinary occasions when a spirit has to be exorcised out of a sick person. The Navaratra days are said to be the most auspicious days for devi-worship. People believing in the power of the matas observe fast on these days. Most of them at least fast on the eighth day of the Navaratra known as Mata-ashtami, taking only a light meal which consists of roots, as a rule, especially the suran (Amorphophallus campanulatus), and of dates and milk. [16] On the Navaratra days red-lead and oil are applied to the images of the devis, and a number of oblations, such as loaves, cooked rice, lapsi [17], vadan [18] and bakla [19] are offered. [20] The utmost ceremonial cleanliness is observed in the preparation of these viands. The corn is sifted, cleaned, ground or pounded, cooked, treated with frankincense, offered to the gods and lastly partaken of before sunset, and all these operations must be performed on the same day; for the offerings must not see lamp-light. [21] Girls are not allowed to partake of these offerings. All ceremonies should be conducted with much earnestness and reverence; otherwise the offerings will fail to prove acceptable to the matas or devis. On Mata-ashtami and Kali-chaudas devotees sometimes offer rams, goats or buffaloes as victims to the devis or devas in addition to the usual offerings of lapsi, vadan and bakla. The night of Kali-chaudas is believed to be so favourable for the efficacious recitation (sadhana) of certain mantras, mysterious incantations possessing sway over spirits, that bhuvas (exorcists) leave the village and sit up performing certain rites in cemeteries, on burning-ghats, and in other equally suitable places where spirits are supposed to congregate. [22] On Divasa, the last day of Ashadh, the ninth month, low-caste people bathe their gods with water and milk, besmear them with red-lead and oil, and make offerings of cocoanuts, lapsi, bakla of adad (Phaseoleus radiatus) or kansar [23]. Particular offerings are believed to be favoured by particular deities: for instance, khichdo (rice and pulse boiled together) and oil, or tavo (flat unleavened loaves) are favoured by the goddess Meldi, boiled rice by Shikotar and lapsi by the goddess Gatrad. [24] On these holidays, as well as on the second day of the bright half of Ashadh the devotees hoist flags in honour of the spirits, and play on certain musical instruments producing discordant sounds. Meanwhile bhuvas, believed to be interpreters of the wills of evil spirits, undergo self-torture, with the firm conviction that the spirits have entered their persons. Sometimes they lash themselves with iron chains or cotton braided scourges. [25] At times a bhuva places a pan-full of sweet oil over a fire till it boils. He then fries cakes in it, and takes them out with his unprotected hands, sprinkling the boiling oil over his hair. He further dips thick cotton wicks into the oil, lights them and puts them into his mouth and throws red-hot bullets into his mouth, seemingly without any injury. [26] This process secures the confidence of the sevakas or followers, and is very often used by bhuvas when exorcising spirits from persons whose confidence the bhuvas wish to gain. A bowl-full of water is then passed round the head of the ailing person (or animal) to be charmed, and the contents are swallowed by the exorcist to show that he has swallowed in the water all the ills the flesh of the patient is heir to. In the cure of certain diseases by exorcising the process known as utar is sometimes gone through. An utar is a sacrificial offering of the nature of a scapegoat, and consists of a black earthen vessel, open and broad at the top, and containing lapsi, vadan, bakla, a yard of atlas (dark-red silk fabric), one rupee and four annas in cash, pieces of charcoal, red-lead, sorro (or surmo-lead ore used as eye-powder), an iron-nail and three cocoanuts. Very often a trident is drawn in red-lead and oil on the outer sides of the black earthen vessel. [27] The bhuva carries the utar in his hands with a drawn sword in a procession, to the noise of the jingling of the anklets of his companions, the beating of drums and the rattling of cymbals. After placing the utar in the cemetery the procession returns with tumultuous shouts of joy and much jingling of anklets. [28] Sometimes bhuvas are summoned for two or three nights preceding the day of the utar ceremony, and a ceremony known as Danklan-beswan or the installation of the dankla [29] is performed. (A dankla [30] is a special spirit instrument in the shape of a small kettle-drum producing, when beaten by a stick, a most discordant, and, by long association, a melancholy, gruesome and ghastly sound--K. B. Fazlullah). Many sects have special deities of their own, attended upon by a bhuva of the same order. [31] The bhuva holds a high position in the society of his caste-fellows. He believes himself to be possessed by the devi or mata whose attendant he is, and declares, while possessed by her, the will of the mata, replying for her to such questions as may be put to him. [32] The devis are supposed to appear in specially favoured bhuvas and to endow them with prophetic powers. [33] The following is a list of some of the inferior local deities of Gujarat and Kathiawar:-- (1) Suro-puro.--This is generally the spirit of some brave ancestor who died a heroic death, and is worshipped by his descendants as a family-god at his birthplace as well as at the scene of his death, where a pillar (palio) is erected to his memory. [34] (2) Vachhro, otherwise known by the name of Dada (sire).--This is said to have been a Rajput, killed in rescuing the cowherds of some Charans, who invoked his aid, from a party of free-booters. [35] He is considered to be the family-god of the Ahirs of Solanki descent, and is the sole village-deity in Okha and Baradi Districts. [36] Other places dedicated to this god are Padana, Aniala, Taluka Mengani, [37] Khajurdi, Khirasara and Anida. [38] He is represented by a stone horse, and Charans perform priestly duties in front of him. [39] Submission to, and vows in honour of, this god, are believed to cure rabid-dog-bites. [40] (3) Sarmalio commands worship in Gondal, Khokhari and many other places. Newly-married couples of many castes loosen the knots tied in their marriage-scarves as a mark of respect for him. [41] Persons bitten by a snake wear round their necks a piece of thread dedicated to this god. (4) Shitala is a goddess known for the cure of small-pox.--Persons attacked by this disease observe vows in her honour. Kalavad and Syadla are places dedicated to her. (5) Ganagor.--Virgins who are anxious to secure suitable husbands and comfortable establishments worship this goddess and observe vows in her honour. (6) Todalia.--She has neither an idol nor a temple set up in her honour, but is represented by a heap of stones lying on the village boundary--Padal or Jampa. All marriage processions, before entering the village (Sanka) or passing by the heap, pay homage to this deity and offer a cocoanut, failure to do which is believed to arouse her wrath. She does not command daily adoration, but on occasions the attendant, who is a Chumvalia Koli, and who appropriates all the presents to this deity, burns frankincense of gugal (balsamodendron) and lights a lamp before her. [42] (7) Buttaya also is represented by a heap of stones on a hillock in the vicinity of Sanka. Her worshipper is a Talabdia Koli. A long season of drought leads to her propitiation by feasting Brahmans, for which purpose four pounds of corn are taken in her name from each threshing floor in the village. (8) Surdhan.--This seems to have been some brave Kshatriya warrior who died on a battlefield. A temple is erected to his memory, containing an image of Shiva. The attending priest is an Atit. (9) Ghogho.--This is a cobra-god worshipped in the village of Bikhijada having a Bajana (tumbler) for his attending priest. (10) Pir.--This is a Musalman saint, in whose honour no tomb is erected, the special site alone being worshipped by a devotee. (11) Raneki is represented by a heap of stones, and is attended upon by chamars (tanners). Her favourite resort is near the Dhedvada (i.e., a quarter inhabited by sweepers). A childless Girasia is said to have observed a vow in her honour for a son, and a son being born to him, he dedicated certain lands to her; but they are no longer in the possession of the attendants. [43] (12) Hanuman.--On a mound of earth there is an old worn-out image of this god. People sometimes light a lamp there, offer cocoanuts and plaster the image with red-lead and oil. A sadhu of the Maragi sect, a Koli by birth, acts as pujari. (13) Shakta (or shakti).--This is a Girasia goddess attended upon by a Chumvalia Koli. On the Navaratra days, as well as on the following day, Girasias worship this goddess, and if necessary observe vows in her name. (14) Harsidh.--Gandhavi in Barda and Ujjain are the places dedicated to this goddess. There is a tradition connected with her that her image stood in a place of worship facing the sea on Mount Koyalo in Gandhavi. She was believed to sink or swallow all the vessels that sailed by. A Bania named Jagadusa, knowing this, propitiated her by the performance of religious austerities. On being asked what boon he wanted from her, he requested her to descend from her mountain-seat. She agreed on the Bania promising to offer a living victim for every footstep she took in descending. Thus he sacrificed one victim after another until the number of victims he had brought was exhausted. He then first offered his four or five children, then his wife and lastly himself. In reward for his self-devotion the goddess faced towards Miani and no mishaps are believed to take place in the village. [44] (15) Hinglaj.--This goddess has a place of worship a hundred and fifty miles from Karachi in Sind, to which her devotees and believers make pilgrimage. In the village of Jasdan, in Kathiawar, there is an ancient shrine of Kalu-Pir in whose memory there are two sepulchres covered with costly fabrics, and a large flag floats over the building. Both Hindus and Musalmans believe [45] in this saint, and offer cocoanuts, sweetmeats and money to his soul. A part of the offering being passed through the smoke of frankincense, burning in a brazier near the saint's grave in the shrine, the rest is returned to the offerer. Every morning and evening a big kettle-drum is beaten in the Pir's honour. [46] Other minor deities are Shikotar, believed by sailors to be able to protect them from the dangers of the deep; [47] Charmathvati, the goddess of the Rabaris; [48] Macho, the god of the shepherds; Meldi, in whom Vaghries (bird-catchers) believe; [49] Pithad, the favourite god of Dheds; [50] Dhavdi, who is worshipped by a hajam (barber); [51] Khodiar; [52] Géla, Dadamo, Kshetrapal, Chavad, [53] Mongal, Avad, Palan, Vir Vaital, [54] Jalio, Gadio, Paino, Parolio, Sevalio, Andhario, Fulio, Bhoravo, Ragantio, Chod, [55] Gatrad, Mammai and Verai. [56] There are frequent additions to the number, as any new disease or unusual and untoward incident may bring a new spirit into existence. The installation of such deities is not a costly concern, [57] and thus there is no serious check on their recognition. The sun, the beneficent night-dispelling, light-bestowing great luminary, is believed to be the visible manifestation of the Almighty God, [58] and inspires the human mind with a feeling of grateful reverence which finds expression in titles like Savita, Life-Producer, the nourisher and generator of all life and activity [59]. He is the chief rain-sender [60]; there is a couplet used in Gujarat illustrative of this belief. It runs:--"Oblations are cast into the Fire: the smoke carries the prayers to the sun; the Divine Luminary, propitiated, responds in sending down gentle showers." "The sacred smoke, rising from the sacrificial offerings, ascends through the ethereal regions to the Sun. He transforms it into the rain-giving clouds, the rains produce food, and food produces the powers of generation and multiplication and plenty. Thus, the sun, as the propagator of animal life, is believed to be the highest deity." It is pretty generally believed that vows in honour of the sun are highly efficacious in curing eye-diseases and strengthening the eyesight. Mr. Damodar Karsonji Pandya quotes from the Bhagvadgita the saying of Krishna: Prabhasmi sasisuryayoh "I am the very light of the sun and the moon. [61]" Being the embodiment or the fountain of light, the sun imparts his lustre either to the bodies or to the eyes of his devotees. It is said that a Rajput woman of Gomata in Gondal and a Brahman of Rajkot were cured of white leprosy by vows in honour of the sun. [62] Similar vows are made to this day for the cure of the same disease. Persons in Kathiawar suffering from ophthalmic disorders, venereal affections, leucoderma and white leprosy are known to observe vows in honour of the sun. [63] The Parmar Rajputs believe in the efficacy of vows in honour of the sun deity of Mandavraj, in curing hydrophobia. [64] Women believe that a vow or a vrat made to the sun is the sure means of attaining their desires. Chiefly their vows are made with the object of securing a son. On the fulfilment of this desire, in gratitude to the Great Luminary, the child is often called after him, and given such a name as Suraj-Ram, Bhanu-Shankar, Ravi-Shankar, Adit-Ram. [65] Many cradles are received as presents at the temple of Mandavraj, indicating that the barren women who had made vows to the deity have been satisfied in their desire for a son, the vows being fulfilled by the present of such toy-cradles to the sun. In the case of rich donors, these cradles are made of precious metal. [66] At Mandvara, in the Muli District of Kathiawar, the Parmar Rajputs, as well as the Kathis, bow to the image of the sun, on their marriage-day, in company with their newly-married brides. After the birth of a son to a Rajputani, the hair on the boy's head is shaved for the first time in the presence of the Mandavraj deity, [67] and a suit of rich clothes is presented to the image by the maternal uncle of the child. [68] The sun is sarvasaksi the observer of all things and nothing can escape his notice. [69] His eye is believed to possess the lustre of the three Vedic lores, viz., Rigveda, Yajurveda and Samaveda, and is therefore known by the name of vedatrayi. The attestation of a document in his name as Surya-Narayana-Sakshi is believed to be ample security for the sincerity and good faith of the parties. [70] Oaths in the name of the sun are considered so binding that persons swearing in his name are held to be pledged to the strictest truth. [71] Virgin girls observe a vrat, or vow, called the 'tili-vrat' in the sun's honour, for attaining akhamda saubhagya--eternal exemption from widowhood. In making this vrat, or vow, the votary, having bathed and worshipped the sun, sprinkles wet red-lac drops before him. [72] According to Forbes's Rasmala, the sun revealed to the Kathis the plan of regaining their lost kingdom, and thus commanded their devout worship and reverence. The temple named Suraj-deval, near Than, was set up by the Kathis in recognition of this favour. In it both the visible resplendent disc of the sun and his image are adored. [73] People whose horoscopes declare them to have been born under the Surya-dasha, or solar influence, have from time to time to observe vows prescribed by Hindu astrology. [74] Cultivators are said to observe vows in honour of the sun for the safety of their cattle. [75] The following are some of the standard books on sun-worship:-- (1) Aditya-hridaya--literally, the Heart of the Sun. It treats of the glory of the sun and the mode of worshipping him. (2) Brihadaranyakopanishad and Mandula-Brahmans--portions of Yajurveda recited by Vedic Brahmans with a view to tender symbolic as well as mental prayers to the sun. (3) Bibhrad--the fourth chapter of the Rudri. (4) A passage in Brahman--a portion of the Vedas, beginning with the words svayambhurasi Thou art self-existent--is entirely devoted to Sun-worship. [76] (5) Surya-Purana--A treatise relating a number of stories in glorification of the sun. (6) Surya-kavacha. [77] (7) Surya-gita. (8) Surya-Sahasranama--a list of one thousand names of Surya. [78] It is customary among Hindus to cleanse their teeth every morning with a wooden stick, known as datan [79] and then to offer salutations to the sun in the form of a verse which means: "Oh God, the datans are torn asunder and the sins disappear. Oh the penetrator of the innermost parts, forgive us our sins. Do good unto the benevolent and unto our neighbours." This prayer is common in the mouths of the vulgar laity. [80] Better educated people recite a shloka, which runs: "Bow unto Savitri, the sun, the observer of this world and its quarters, the eye of the universe, the inspirer of all energy, the holder of a three-fold personality (being an embodiment of the forms of the three gods of the Hindu Trinity, Brahma, Vishnu and Maheshvar)--the embodiment of the three Vedas, the giver of happiness and the abode of God. [81] After his toilet a high-caste Hindu should take a bath and offer morning prayers and arghyas to the sun. [82] The Trikala-Sandhya is enjoined by the Shastras on every Brahman, i.e., every Brahman should perform the Sandhya thrice during the day: in the morning, at mid-day and in the evening. The Sandhya is the prayer a Brahman offers, sitting in divine meditation, when he offers three arghyas to the sun and recites the Gayatri mantra 108 times. [83] The arghya is an offering of water in a spoon half filled with barley seeds, sesamum seeds, sandal ointment, rice, and white flowers. In offering the arghya the right foot is folded below the left, the spoon is lifted to the forehead and is emptied towards the sun after reciting the Gayatri mantra. [84] If water is not available for offering the arghyas, sand may serve the purpose. But the sun must not be deprived of his arghyas. [85] The Gayatri is the most sacred mantra in honour of the sun, containing, as it does, the highest laudations of him. A Brahman ought to recite this mantra 324 times every day. Otherwise he incurs a sin as great as the slaughter of a cow. [86] Accordingly a Rudrakshmala, or a rosary of 108 Rudraksh beads, is used in connecting the number of Gayatris recited. [87] It is exclusively the right of the twice-born to recite the Gayatri. None else is authorised to recite or even to hear a word of it. Neither females nor Shudras ought to catch an echo of even a single syllable of the Gayatri mantra [88]. A ceremony, called Suryopasthan, in which a man has to stand facing the sun with his hands stretched upwards at an angle towards the sun, is performed as a part of the sandhya. [89] Of the days of the week, Ravivar, or Sunday is the most suitable for Sun worship [90]. Persons wishing to secure wealth, good-health and a happy progeny, especially people suffering from disorders caused by heat and from diseases of the eyes, barren women, and men anxious for victory on the battlefield, weekly observe vows in honour of the sun, and the day on which the vow is to be kept is Sunday. [91] It is left to the devotee to fix the number of Sundays on which he will observe the vrat, and he may choose to observe all the Sundays of the year. [92] On such days the devotees undergo ceremonial purifications by means of baths and the putting on of clean garments, occupy a reserved clean seat, light a ghi-lamp and recite the Aditya-hridaya-patha, which is the prescribed mantra for Sun worship. [93] Then follows the Nyasa, (nyasa) in the recitation of which the devotee has to make certain gestures (or to perform physical ceremonials). First the tips of all the four fingers are made to touch the thumb as is done in counting. Then the tips of the fingers are made to touch the palm of the other hand. Then one hand is laid over the other. Then the fingers are made to touch the heart, the head, the eyes, and the hair in regular order. The right hand is then put round the head and made to smite the left. An ashtadala or eight-cornered figure is drawn in gulal, (red powder) and frankincense, red ointment and red flowers are offered to the sun. [94] Durva grass is also commonly used in the process of Sun-worship. [95] Sometimes a hexangular figure is drawn instead of the ashtadal, a copper disc is placed over it and the sun is worshipped by Panchopachar or the five-fold ceremonials. [96] Of all ceremonials a namaskar is especially dear to the sun. [97] It is said:-- Namaskarapriyo bhanurjaladharapriyah sivah | Paropakarapriyo visnurbrahmano bhojanapriyah || A namaskar or bow is dear to the sun; a stream of water (pouring water in a small stream over Shiva's idol) is dear to Shiva: benevolence to Vishnu and a good dinner to a Brahman. In observing vows in the sun's honour on Sundays, the following special foods are prescribed in particular months: [98]-- (1) In Kartika, the first month, the devotee is to take only three leaves of the Tulsi or the holy basil plant. (2) In Margashirsha, the devotee may only lick a few pieces of candied sugar. (3) In Pausha, the devotee may chew three stalks of green darbha grass. (4) In Magha, a few seeds of sesamum and sugar mixed together may be swallowed. (5) In Phalguna, a consecrated draught of curds and sugar may be drunk. (6) In Chaitra, people should break their fasts with a little ghi and molasses. (7) In Vaishakha, the only satisfaction allowed to those observing the vrat is to lick their own palms three times. (8) In Jyeshtha, the fast is observed simply on three anjalis or palmfuls of pure water. (9) In Ashadha, three chillies may be eaten. (10) In Shravana, only cow-urine and molasses are tasted. (11) In Bhadrapada, cow-dung and sugar are partaken of. (12) In Ashvina, the application of chandan (sandal wood) either in the form of an ointment or of powder. Only a few very pious and enthusiastic devotees observe all Sundays in the above manner. In average cases, the devotee allows himself rice, ghi, sugar, milk, i.e., white food, the restriction being only as to colour. People observing vows in honour of the sun take food only once during the day, and that too in bajas or dishes made of khakhara (or palash) leaves. This is considered one of the conditions of worship, there being some mysterious relation between Surya and the khakhara. [99] If the Pushya Nakshatra happens to fall on a Sunday, the worship of the sun on that day is believed to be most efficacious in fulfilling the desires of the devotees. [100] Of the days of the month, the seventh day of both the bright and the dark halves of each month [101] and the Amavasya day, i.e., the last day of a Hindu calendar month, [102] are set apart for Sun-worship. The ceremonies of the worship are the same as those on Sundays. In fact, in almost all the observances in connection with the sun the same ceremonials are to be gone through. Very often a Brahman recites the patha directing his hosts or hostesses to perform certain ceremonial gestures. On the last of the number of days which the devotee has decided to observe, the vrat is celebrated and Brahmans are feasted. This celebration of the vrat is known as vratujavavun. [103] The special occasions for Sun-worship are the Sankranti days and the solar eclipses. In each year there are twelve Sankranti days on which the sun moves from one sign of the zodiac to another. Sun-worship is performed on all these Sankrantis, but Makara-Sankranti, which falls on the 12th or 13th of January, is considered the most important. [104] The Uttarayana-parvan falls on this day, i.e., the sun now crosses to his northern course from his southern, and the time of that Parvan is considered so holy that a person dying then directly attains salvation. [105] On this day, many Hindus go on a pilgrimage to holy places, offer prayers and sacrifices to the sun, and give alms to Brahmans in the shape of sesamum seeds, gold, garments and cows. [106] Much secret, as well as open, charity is dispensed, [107] grass and cotton-seeds are given to cows, and lapsi [108] and loaves to dogs. Sweet balls of sesamum seeds and molasses are eaten as a prasad and given to Brahmans, and dainties such as lapsi are partaken of by Hindu households, in company with a Brahman or two, who are given dakshina after the meals. [109] On solar eclipse days, most of the Hindu sects bathe and offer prayers to God. During the eclipse the sun is believed to be combating with the demon Rahu, prayers being offered for the sun's success. When the sun has freed himself from the grasp of the demon and sheds his full lustre on the earth, the people take ceremonial baths, offer prayers to God with a concentrated mind, and well-to-do people give in alms as much as they can afford of all kinds of grain. [110] The Chaturmas-vrat, very common in Kathiawar, is a favourite one with Hindus. The devotee, in performing this vrat, abstains from food on those days during the monsoons on which, owing to cloudy weather, the sun is not visible. Even if the sun is concealed by the clouds for days together, the devout votary keeps fasting till he sees the deity again. [111] Barren women, women whose children die, and especially those who lose their male children, women whose husbands suffer from diseases caused by heat, lepers, and persons suffering from ophthalmic ailments observe the vow of the sun in the following manner. [112] The vows are kept on Sundays and Amavasya days, and the number of such days is determined by the devotee in accordance with the behests of a learned Brahman. The woman observes a fast on such days, bathes herself at noon when the sun reaches the zenith, and dresses herself in clean garments. Facing the sun, she dips twelve red karan flowers in red or white sandal ointment and recites the twelve names of Surya as she presents one flower after another to the sun with a bow. [113] On each day of the vrat, she takes food only once, in the shape of lapsi, in bajas of khakhara or palash leaves; white food in the form of rice, or rice cooked in milk is sometimes allowed. She keeps a ghi-lamp burning day and night, offers frankincense, and sleeps at night on a bed made on the floor. [114] People who are declared by the Brahmans to be under the evil influence (dasha) of Surya, observe vows in the sun's honour and go through the prescribed rites on Sundays. Such persons take special kinds of food and engage the services of priests to recite holy texts in honour of the sun. If all goes well on Sunday, Brahmans, Sadhus and other pious persons are entertained at a feast. This feast is known as vrat-ujavavun. Some persons have the sun's image (an ashtadal) engraved on a copper or a golden plate for daily or weekly worship. [115] On the twelfth day after the delivery of a child, the sun is worshipped and the homa sacrifice is performed. [116] If at a wedding the sun happens to be in an unfavourable position according to the bridegroom's horoscope, an image of the sun is drawn on gold-leaf and given away in charity. Charity in any other form is also common on such an occasion. A Nagar bride performs sun-worship for the seven days preceding her wedding. [117] In Hindu funeral ceremonies three arghyas are offered to the sun, and the following mantra is chanted [118]:-- Adityo Bhaskaro Bhanu Ravih Suryo Divakarah | Sannama smarennityam mahapatakanasanam || It means--one should ever recite the six names of the Sun, Aditya, Bhaskar, Bhanu, Ravi, Surya, Divakar, which destroy sin. The sun is also worshipped on the thirteenth day after the death of a person, when arghyas are offered, and two earthen pots, containing a handful of raw khichedi--rice and pulse--and covered with yellow pieces of cotton are placed outside the house. This ceremony is called gadaso bharvo. Rajahs of the solar race always worship the rising sun. They also keep a golden image of the sun in their palaces, and engage learned Brahmans to recite verses in his honour. On Sundays they take only one meal and that of simple rice (for white food is most acceptable to the sun). [119] Circumambulations round images and other holy objects are considered meritorious and to cause the destruction of sin. [120] The subject has been dwelt on at length in the Dharma-sindhu-grantha, Vrataraja, and Shodashopachara among the Dharma-Shastras of the Hindus. [121] The object round which turns are taken is either the image of a god, such as of Ganpati, Mahadev or Vishnu [122] or the portrait of a guru, or his footmarks engraved or impressed upon some substance, or the agni-kunda (the fire-pit), [123] or the holy cow [124], or some sacred tree or plant, such as the Vad (banyan tree), the Pipal (ficus religiosa), [125] the Shami (prosopis spicegera), the Amba (mango tree), the Asopalava tree (Polyalthea longifolia), [126] or the Tulsi (sweet basil) plant. It is said to have been a custom of the Brahmans in ancient times to complete their daily rites before sunrise every morning, and then to take turns round temples and holy objects. The practice is much less common now than formerly. [127] Still, visitors to a temple or an idol, usually are careful to go round it a few times at least (generally five or seven). The usual procedure at such a time is to strike gongs or ring bells after the turns, to cast a glance at the shikhar or the pinnacle of the temple, and then to return. [128] Women observing the chaturmas-vrat, or the monsoon vow, lasting from the eleventh day of the bright half of Ashadh (the ninth month) to the eleventh day of the bright half of Kartik (the first month) first worship the object, round which they wish to take turns, with panchamrit (a mixture of milk, curds, sugar, ghi and honey). The number of turns may be either 5, 7, 21 or 108. At each turn they keep entwining a fine cotton thread and place a penda [129] or a bantasa [130] or a betel-leaf or an almond, a cocoanut, a fig or some other fruit before the image or the object walked round. These offerings are claimed by the priest who superintends the ceremony. [131] When a sacred tree is circumambulated, water is poured out at the foot of the tree at each turn. [132] During the month of Shravan (the tenth month) and during the Purushottama (or the intercalatory) month, men and women observe a number of vows, in respect of which, every morning and evening, they take turns round holy images and objects. [133] People observing the chaturmas-vrat (or monsoon vow), called Tulsi-vivaha (marriage of Tulsi), worship that plant and take turns round it on every eleventh day of both the bright and the dark halves of each of the monsoon months. The gautrat-vrat (gau = cow) necessitates perambulations round a cow, and the Vat-Savitri-vrat round the Vad or banyan tree. The banyan tree is also circumambulated on the Kapilashashthi day (the sixth day of the bright half of Margashirsha, the second month) and on the Amavasya or the last day of Bhadrapada (the eleventh month). [134] Women who are anxious to prolong the lives of their husbands take turns round the Tulsi plant or the banyan tree. At each turn they wind a fine cotton thread. At the end of the last turn, they throw red lac and rice over the tree and place a betelnut and a pice or a half-anna piece before it. [135] The Shastras authorise four pradakshinas (or perambulations) for Vishnu, three for the goddesses, and a half (or one and a half) [136] for Shiva. [137] But the usual number of pradakshinas is either 5, 7, 21 or 108. In taking turns round the image of Vishnu, one must take care to keep one's right side towards the image, while in the case of Shiva, one must not cross the jaladhari [138] or the small passage for conducting water poured over the Shiva-linga. Sometimes in pradakshinas the votary repeats the name of the deity round which the turns are taken while the priest recites the names of the gods in Shlokas. [139] Sometimes the following verse is repeated. [140] Papoham papakarmaham papatma papasambhavah | Trahi mam pundarikaksa sarvapapaharo bhava || Yani kani ca papani janmamtarakrtani ca | Tani tani vinasyantu pradaksinapadepade || 'I am sinful, the doer of sin, a sinful soul and am born of sin. O lotus-eyed One! protect me and take away all sins from me. Whatever sins I may have committed now as well as in my former births, may every one of them perish at each footstep of my pradakshina.' The recitation and the turns are supposed to free the soul from the phera of lakh-choryasi [141]. Alms are given many times to the poor after pradakshinas. [142] The reason why pradakshinas are taken during the day is that they have to be taken in the presence of the sun, the great everlasting witness of all human actions. [143] As all seeds and vegetation receive their nourishment from solar and lunar rays, the latter are believed in the same way to help embryonic development. [144] The heat of the sun causes the trees and plants to give forth new sprouts, and therefore he is called 'Savita' or Producer. [145] Solar and lunar rays are also believed to facilitate and expedite delivery. [146] The medical science of the Hindus declares the Amavasya (new-moon day) and Purnima (full-moon day) days--on both of which days the influence of the sun and the moon is most powerful--to be so critical for child-bearing women as to cause, at times, premature delivery. [147] Hence, before delivery, women are made to take turns in the sunlight and also in moonlight, in order to invigorate the foetus, thus securing that their delivery may be easy. [The assistance rendered by solar rays in facilitating the delivery is said to impart a hot temperament to the child so born, and that by the lunar rays a cool one.] [148] After delivery, a woman should glance at the sun with her hands clasped, and should offer rice and red flowers to him. [149] Sitting in the sun after delivery is considered beneficial to women enfeebled by the effort. [150] It is a cure for the paleness due to exhaustion, [151] and infuses new vigour. [152] The Bhils believe that the exposure of a new-born child to the sun confers upon the child immunity from injury by cold and heat. [153] The practice of making recently delivered women sit in the sun does not seem to be widespread, nor does it prevail in Kathiawar. In Kathiawar, on the contrary, women are kept secluded from sunlight in a dark room at the time of child-birth, and are warmed by artificial means. [154] On the other hand, it is customary in many places to bring a woman into the sunlight after a certain period has elapsed since her delivery. The duration of this period varies from four days to a month and a quarter. Sometimes a woman is not allowed to see sunlight after child-birth until she presents the child to the sun with certain ceremonies, either on the fourth or the sixth day from the date of her delivery. [155] A ceremony called the Shashthi-Karma is performed on the sixth day after the birth of a child, and the Namkaran ceremony--the ceremony of giving a name--on the twelfth day. The mother of the child is sometimes not allowed to see the sun before the completion of these ceremonies. [156] Occasionally, on the eleventh day after child-birth, the mother is made to take a bath in the sun. [157] Exactly a month and a quarter from the date of delivery a woman is taken to a neighbouring stream to offer prayers to the sun and to fetch water thence in an earthen vessel. This ceremony is known as Zarmazaryan. [158] Seven small betel-nuts are used in the ceremony. They are carried by the mother, and distributed by her to barren women, who believe that, by eating the nuts from her hand, they are likely to conceive. [159] In difficult labour cases, chakrava water is sometimes given to women. The chakrava is a figure of seven cross lines drawn on a bell-metal dish, over which the finest white dust has been spread. This figure is shown to the woman in labour: water is then poured into the dish and offered her to drink. [160] The figure is said to be a representation of Chitrangad. [161] It is also believed to be connected with a story in the Mahabhaarata. [162] Subhadra, the sister of god Krishna and the wife of Arjuna, one of the five Pandavas, conceived a demon, an enemy of Krishna. The demon would not leave the womb of Subhadra even twelve months after the date of her conception, and began to harass the mother. Krishna, the incarnation of god, knowing of the demon's presence and the cause of his delay, took pity on the afflicted condition of his sister and read chakrava, (Chakravyuha) a book consisting of seven chapters and explaining the method of conquering a labyrinthine fort with seven cross-lined forts. Krishna completed six chapters, and promised to teach the demon the seventh, provided he came out. The demon ceased troubling Subhadra and emerged from the womb. He was called Abhimanyu. Krishna never read the seventh chapter for then Abhimanyu would have been invincible and able to take his life. This ignorance of the seventh chapter cost Abhimanyu his life on the field of Kuru-kshetra in conquering the seven cross-lined labyrinthine forts. As the art of conquering a labyrinthine fort when taught to a demon in the womb facilitated the delivery of Subhadra, a belief spread that drinking in the figure of the seven cross-lined labyrinthine fort would facilitate the delivery of all women who had difficulties in child-birth. The figure Swastika (literally auspicious), drawn as shown below, is an auspicious sign, and is believed to be a mark of good luck and a source of blessings. It is one of the sixteen line-marks on the sole of the lotus-like feet of the god Ishwar, the Creator of the Universe. [163] The fame of the good effects of the Swastika figure is said to have been first diffused throughout society by Narad-Muni, as instructed by the god Brahma. [164] Various conjectures have been made concerning the origin of this figure. The following explanation is found in a work named Siddhantsar. The Eternal Sat or Essence, that has neither beginning nor end nor any maker, exhibits all the religious principles in a chakra or a wheel-form. This round shape has no circumference; but any point in it is a centre; which being specified, the explanation of the whole universe in a circle is easy. Thus the figure [dotted circle] indicates the creation of the universe from Sat or Essence. The centre with the circumference is the womb, the place of creation of the universe. The centre then expanding into a line, the diameter thus formed represents the male principle, linga-rup, that is the producer, through the medium of activity in the great womb or maha-yoni. When the line assumes the form of a cross, it explains the creation of the universe by an unprecedented combination of the two distinct natures, animate and inanimate. The circumference being removed, the remaining cross represents the creation of the world. The Swastika, or Sathia, as it is sometimes called, in its winged form suggests the possession of creative powers by the opposite natures, animate and inanimate. [165] Another theory is that an image of the eight-leaved lotus, springing from the navel of Vishnu, one of the Hindu Trinity, was formerly drawn on auspicious occasions as a sign of good luck. The exact imitation of the original being difficult, the latter assumed a variety of forms, one of which is the Swastika. [166] Some people see an image of the god Ganpati in the figure. That god being the master and protector of all auspicious ceremonies has to be invoked on all such occasions. The incapacity of the devotees to draw a faithful picture of Ganpati gave rise to a number of forms which came to be known by the name of Swastika. [167] There are more ways than one of drawing the Swastika, as shown below, but the original form was of the shape of a cross. The first consonant of the Gujarati alphabet, ka, now drawn thus [KA], was also originally drawn in the form of a cross (+). Some persons therefore suppose that the Swastika may be nothing more than the letter ka, written in the old style and standing for the word kalyan or welfare. [168] Though the Swastika is widely regarded as the symbol of the sun, some people ascribe the figure to different deities, viz., to Agni, [169] to Ganpati, [170] to Laxmi, [171] to Shiva, [172] besides the sun. It is also said to represent Swasti, the daughter of Brahma, who received the boon from her father of being worshipped on all auspicious occasions. [173] Most persons, however, regard the Swastika as the symbol of the sun. It is said that particular figures are prescribed as suitable for the installation of particular deities: a triangle for one, a square for another, a pentagon for a third, and the Swastika for the sun. [174] The Swastika is worshipped in the Ratnagiri district, and regarded as the symbol as well as the seat of the Sun-god. [175] The people of the Thana district believe the Swastika to be the central point of the helmet of the sun; and a vow, called the Swastika-vrat, is observed by women in its honour. The woman draws a figure of the Swastika and worships it daily during the Chaturmas (the four months of the rainy season), at the expiration of which she presents a Brahman with a golden or silver plate with the Swastika drawn upon it. [176] A number of other ideas are prevalent about the significance of the Swastika. Some persons believe that it indicates the four directions; [177] some think that it represents the four margas--courses or objects of human desires--viz., (1) Dharma, religion; (2) Artha, wealth; (3) Kam, love; (4) Moksha, salvation. [178] Some again take it to be an image of the ladder leading to the heavens. [179] Others suppose it to be a representation of the terrestrial globe, and the four piles of corn placed in the figure, as shown below (p. 16) represent the four mountains, Udayachala, Astachal, Meru and Mandarachala. [180] The Swastika is also believed to be the foundation-stone of the universe. [181] The Swastika is much in favour with the gods as a seat or couch, and as soon as it is drawn it is immediately occupied by some deity. [182] It is customary therefore to draw the Swastika on most auspicious and festive occasions, such as marriage and thread ceremonies, the first pregnancy ceremonies and the Divali holidays. [183] In the Konkan the Swastika is always drawn on the Antarpat, or the piece of cloth which is held between the bride and the bridegroom at the time of a Hindu wedding. [184] And at the time of the Punyaha-wachan, a ceremony which precedes a Hindu wedding, the figure is drawn in rice and is worshipped. Throughout the Chaturmas some persons paint the auspicious Swastikas, either on their thresholds or at their doors, every morning. [185] On the sixth day from the date of a child's birth, a piece of cloth is marked with a Swastika in red lac, the cloth is stretched on a bedstead and the child is placed upon it. [186] An account of this ceremony is to be found in the treatises Jayantishastra, Jatakarma, and Janakalaya. Before joining the village-school, little boys are made to worship Saraswati, the goddess of learning, after having installed her on a Swastika, in order that the acquisition of learning may be facilitated. [187] A Brahman host, inviting a party of brother-Brahmans to dinner, marks the figure one (1) against the names of those who are eligible for dakshina, and a Swastika against the names of those who are not eligible. These latter are the yajamans or patrons of the inviting Brahman, who is himself their pujya, i.e., deserving to be worshipped by them. A bindu or dot, in place of the Swastika, is considered inauspicious. [188] The Swastika is used in calculating the number of days taken in pilgrimage by one's relations, one figure being painted on the wall each day from the date of separation. It is said that the Swastika when drawn on a wall is the representation of Jogmaya. Jogmaya is a Natural Power, bringing about the union of two separated beings. [189] The Jains paint the Swastika in the way noted below and explain the figure in the following manner:--The four projectors indicate four kinds of souls: viz., (1) Manushya or human, (2) Tiryach or of lower animals, (3) Deva or divine, (4) Naraki or hellish. The three circular marks denote the three Ratnas or jewels, viz., (1) Jnan or knowledge, (2) Darshana or faith, (3) Charita or good conduct; and the semi-circular curve, at the top of the three circles, indicates salvation. [190] Every Jain devotee, while visiting the images of his gods, draws a Sathia (Swastika) [191] before them and places a valuable object over it. The sign is held so sacred that a Jain woman has it embroidered on the reticule or kothali in which she carries rice to holy places. [192] 'I am the very light of the sun and the moon,' observes Lord Krishna in his dialogue with Arjuna, [193] and the moon also receives divine honours like the sun. Moon-worship secures wealth, augments progeny, and betters the condition of milch-cattle. [194] The suitable days for such worship are the second and the fourth days of the bright half of every month (Dwitiya or Bij and Chaturthi or Choth, respectively) and every full-moon day (Purnima or Punema). On either of these days the devotees of Chandra (the moon) fast for the whole of the day and take their food only after the moon has risen and after they have seen and worshipped her. [195] Some dainty dish such as kansar, [196] or plantains and puris, [197] is specially cooked for the occasion. A sight of the moon on the second day of the bright half of every month is considered auspicious. After seeing the moon on this day some people also look at silver and gold coins for luck. [198] The belief in the value of this practice is so strong that, immediately after seeing the moon, people refrain from beholding any other object. Their idea is that silver, which looks as bright as the moon, will be obtained in abundance if they look at a silver piece immediately after seeing the moon. [199] Moon worship on this day is also supposed to guarantee the safety of persons at sea. [200] In the south, milk and sugar is offered to the moon after the usual worship, and learned Brahmans are invited to partake of it. What remains after satisfying the Brahmans is divided among the community. On this day, those who keep cattle do not churn whey nor curd milk nor sell it, but consume the whole supply in feasts to friends and neighbours. [201] The Ahirs and Rabaris especially are very particular about the use of milk in feasts only: for they believe that their cattle are thereby preserved in good condition. [202] The fourth day of the dark half of every month is the day for the observance of the chaturthi-vrat (or choth-vrat). This vrat is observed in honour of the god Ganpati and by men only. The devotees fast on this day, bathe at night after seeing the moon, light a ghi lamp, and offer prayers to the moon. They also recite a path containing verses in honour of Ganpati, and, after worshipping that god, take their food consisting of some specially prepared dish. This vrat is said to fulfil the dreams of the devotees. [203] The day for the chaturthi-vrat in the month of Bhadrapad (the 11th month of the Gujarati Hindus) is the fourth day of the bright half instead of the fourth day of the dark half, [204] and on this day (Ganesh Chaturthi [205]) the moon is not worshipped. The very sight of her is regarded as ominous, and is purposely avoided. [206] The story is that once upon a time the gods went out for a ride in their respective conveyances. It so happened that the god Ganpati fell off his usual charger, the rat, and this awkward mishap drew a smile from Chandra (the moon). Ganpati, not relishing the joke, became angry and cursed Chandra saying that no mortal would care to see his face on that day (which happened to be the fourth day of the bright half of Bhadrapad). If any one happens to see the moon even unwittingly on this day, he may expect trouble very soon. [207] There is one way, however, out of the difficulty, and that is to throw stones on the houses of neighbours. When the neighbours utter abuse in return, the abuse atones for the sin of having looked at the moon on the forbidden night. The day is therefore called (in Gujarat) Dagad-choth, i.e., the Choth of stones. [208] On the fourth day of the dark half of Phalgun (the 5th month of Gujarati Hindus) some villagers fast for the whole of the day and remain standing from sunset till the moon rises. They break their fast after seeing the moon. The day is, therefore, called ubhi (i.e., standing) choth. [209] Virgins sometimes observe a vow on Poshi-Punema or the full-moon day of Pausha (the 3rd month of the Gujarati Hindus). On this day a virgin prepares her evening meal with her own hands on the upper terrace of her house. She then bores a hole through the centre of a loaf, and observes the moon through it, repeating while doing so a verse [210] which means: O Poshi-Punemadi, khichadi (rice and pulse mixed together) is cooked on the terrace, and the sister of the brother takes her meal. [211] The meal usually consists either of rice and milk or of rice cooked in milk and sweetened with sugar, or of kansar. She has to ask the permission of her brother or brothers before she may take her food; and if the brother refuses his permission, she has to fast for the whole of the day. [212] The whole ceremony is believed to prolong the lives of her brothers and her future husband. The moon is also worshipped at the time of griha-shanti, i.e., the ceremonies performed before inhabiting a newly-built house. [213] If the moon is unfavourable to a man born under a particular constellation, on account of his occupying either the 6th, the 8th or the 12th square in a kundali [214] (see below) prayers are offered to the moon; and if the occasion is a marriage, a bell-metal dish, full of rice, is presented to Brahmans. [215] The appearance of the moon and the position of the horns of her crescent at particular times are carefully watched as omens of future events. Cultivators believe that if the moon is visible on the second day of the bright half of Ashadh (the 9th month of Gujarati Hindus), the sesamum crops of that season will be abundant; but if the moon be hidden from sight on that day, the weather will be cloudy during the whole of Ashadh, and will prove unfavourable to vegetable growth. [216] If the moon appears reddish on a Bij day (or the second day of the bright half of a month), and if the northern horn of the crescent be high up, prices in the market are believed to rise; if, on the other hand, it is low, it prognosticates a fall in prices. If the two horns are on a level, current prices will continue. Similarly, the northern horn of the crescent, if it is high up on the Bij day of Ashadh, augurs abundant rainfall; if it is low, it foreshadows a season of drought. [217] If the moon presents a greenish aspect on the full-moon day of Ashadh, excessive rains may be expected in a few days; if on that day she rises quite clear and reddish, there is very little hope of good rains; if she is partly covered by clouds when she rises and then gets clear of the clouds, and then again disappears in the clouds in three ghadis, [218] three pohors, or three days, rain is sure to fall. [219] If on the 5th day of the bright half of Chaitra, the moon appears to the west of the Rohini constellation, the prices of cotton are believed to rise; if to the east, they are said to fall; and if in the same line, the current rates are believed to be likely to continue. [220] The Bij (2nd day) and the ninth day of Ashadh (the 9th month of the Gujaratis and the 4th month of the Hindus of the Deccan) falling on a Sunday is a combination that foretells excessive heat. If they fall on Wednesday, intense cold is said to be the result. Their occurring on a Tuesday, threatens absence of rains, and on a Monday, a Thursday or a Friday, foreshadows excessive rainfall. [221] Thunder on Jeth-Sud-Bij, or the second day of the bright half of Jyeshtha, is a bad omen and threatens famine. [222] The spots on the moon have given rise to numerous beliefs, mythological as well as fanciful. One of them is that they are the result of a curse, pronounced by the sage Gautama on Chandra. Indra, the god of rain, was infatuated with the charms of Ahalya, the wife of Gautama, and with the help of Chandra laid a cunning plot to gain his ignoble object. Accordingly, one night, Chandra set earlier than usual, when Indra assumed the form of a cock and crowed at midnight in order to deceive Gautama into the belief that it was dawn, and therefore his time for going to the Ganges to perform his religious services. The trick was successful, and the holy sage being thus got rid of, Indra assumed the form of Gautama himself and approached Ahalya, who was surprised to see her husband (as she thought) so quickly returned. The wily god allayed her suspicions by explaining that it was not yet time for the morning ceremonies, and thus enjoyed the favours due to her husband. Gautama, in the meanwhile, finding the water of the Ganges cool and placid, and discovering that it was not yet dawn, returned to his hermitage. On reaching home he detected the treachery of Indra, who tried to escape in the disguise of a tom-cat. The exasperated sage then cursed Indra, Chandra and his wife: Indra to have a thousand sores on his person, Ahalya to turn into a stone, and Chandra to have a stain on his fair face. [223] Another mythological story is that Daksha Prajapati, the son of Brahma, gave all his twenty-seven daughters in marriage to Chandra, who was inspired with love for one of them only, named Rohini, the most beautiful of them all. The slighted twenty-six sisters complained to their father, Daksha, of Chandra's preference for Rohini. Daksha in anger cursed Chandra to be attacked by consumption (which is supposed to be the reason of the waning of the moon) and his face to be marred by a stain. [224] The curse of Gautama and the curse of Daksha are also supposed to be reasons of the waxing and the waning of the moon. Another belief regarding the moon-spots is that when the head of Ganpati was severed by Shiva's trident, it flew off and fell into the chariot of the moon. The spots are either the head itself [225] or are due to drops of blood fallen from the flying severed head. [226] The spots are also said to be explained by the fact of the image of god Krishna or Vishnu [227] residing in the heart of the moon who, as a devotee of Vishnu, holds his image dear to his heart. [228] The moon is often called mriganka (lit. deer-marked) and mriga-lanchhana (lit. deer-stained); and a further explanation of the spots in this connection is that the moon-god took into his lap a strayed deer, out of compassion, and thus his lap became stained. [229] Jains believe that in the nether parts of the moon's viman or vehicle, there is an image of a deer whose shadow is seen in the spots. [230] Some persons declare the spots to be a shami tree (prosopis spicigera). [231] The belief of the masses in Gujarat is said to be that the spot on the moon's disc is the seat of an old woman, who sits spinning her wheel with a goat tethered near her. [232] If the droppings of the goat were to fall on earth, departed souls would return to the earth. [233] It is said that a child and a tree are never seen to grow except during the night. Such growth is therefore held to be due to lunar rays. [234] As all trees, plants, etc., thrive owing to the influence of the moon, the moon-god is called the lord of herbs. The moon is also a reservoir of nectar and is called Sudhakar, i.e., one having nectarine rays. [235] As the lord of herbs, the moon-god is supposed to have the power of removing all diseases that are curable by drugs, and of restoring men to health. [236] Persons suffering from white leprosy, black leprosy, consumption and diseases of the eyes are believed to be cured by the observance of the Bij and Punema vows. [237] Consumption in its incipient and latter stages is also said to be cured by exposure to the rays of the moon. [238] Constant glimpses of the moon add to the lustre of the eyes. [239] On the Sharad-Punema, or the 15th day of the bright half of Ashvin (the last month of the Gujaratis and the 7th month of the Deccani Hindus), tailors pass a thread through their needles in the belief that they will thereby gain keener eyesight. [240] A cotton-wick is exposed to the moon on Sharad-Punema, and is afterwards lighted in oil poured over the image of Hanuman. The soot, which is thus produced, if used on the Kali-chaudas day--the fourteenth day of the dark half of Ashvin--is said to possess much efficacy in strengthening the eyesight and also in preserving the eyes from any disease during the ensuing year. [241] Sweetened milk or water is exposed to moonlight during the whole of the night of Sharad-punema (the full-moon day of Ashvin) in order to absorb the nectarine rays of the moon, and is drunk next morning. Drinking in the rays of the moon in this manner is believed to cure diseases caused by heat as well as eye-diseases, and it similarly strengthens the eyesight and improves the complexion. [242] Sugar-candy thus exposed and preserved in an air-tight jar is partaken of in small quantities every morning to gain strength and to improve the complexion. [243] The absorption of the lunar rays through the open mouth or eyes is also believed to be of great effect in achieving these objects. [244] Once upon a time the gods and demons, by their united efforts, churned the ocean and obtained therefrom fourteen ratnas or precious things. [245] These were distributed among them. Lakshmi, the kaustubha jewel, the Sharnga bow and the conch-shell fell to the share of Vishnu, and the poison, Halahal visha, was disposed of to Shiva. Only two things remained, sudha, or nectar, and sura or liquor. To both gods and demons the nectar was the most important of all the prizes. A hard contest ensuing between them for the possession of it, the demons, by force, snatched the bowl of nectar from the gods. In this disaster to the gods, Vishnu came to their help in the form of Mohini--a most fascinating woman--and proposed to the demons that the distribution of the immortalising fluid should be entrusted to her. On their consent, Vishnu or Mohini, made the gods and the demons sit in opposite rows and began first to serve the nectar to the gods. The demon Rahu, the son of Sinhika, fearing lest the whole of the nectar might be exhausted before the turn of the demons came, took the shape of a god and placed himself amongst them between Chandra (the moon) and Surya (the sun). The nectar was served to him in turn, but on Chandra and Surya detecting the trick, the demon's head was cut off by Vishnu's discus, the sudarshana-chakra. Rahu however did not die: for he had tasted the nectar, which had reached his throat. The head and trunk lived and became immortal, the former being named Rahu, and the latter Ketu. Both swore revenge on Chandra and Surya. At times, therefore, they pounce upon Chandra and Surya with the intention of devouring them. In the fight that ensues, Chandra and Surya are successful only after a long contest, with the assistance of the gods, and by the merit of the prayers that men offer. [246] The reason of the eclipse is either that Chandra and Surya bleed in the fight with Rahu and their forms get blackened [247]; or that the demon Rahu comes between the two luminaries and this earth, and thus causes an eclipse [248]; or because Rahu obstructs the sun and the moon in their daily course, and this intervention causes an eclipse [249]; or because Rahu swallows the sun and the moon, but his throat being open, they escape, their short disappearance causing an eclipse. [250] Besides the mythological story, there is a belief in Gujarat that a bhangi (scavenger or sweeper), creditor of the sun and the moon, goes to recover his debts due from them, and that his shadow falling against either of them causes an eclipse. [251] A third explanation of the eclipse is that the sun and the moon revolve round the Meru mountain, and the shadow of the mountain falling upon either of them causes an eclipse. [252] It is believed amongst Hindus that eclipses occur when too much sin accumulates in this world. [253] Most Hindus regard an eclipse as ominous, and consider the eclipse period to be unholy and inauspicious. The contact of the demon Rahu with the rays of the sun and the moon pollutes everything on earth. Great precautions therefore become necessary to avoid pollution. [254] A period of three pohors [255] (prahars) in the case of the moon, and of four in the case of the sun, before the actual commencement of an eclipse, is known as vedha, i.e., the time when the luminaries are already under the influence of the demon. During this period and during the time of an eclipse people observe a strict fast. Anyone taking food within the prohibited period is considered sutaki or ceremonially impure, as if a death had happened in his family. [256] An exception is, however, made in the case of children, pregnant women and suckling mothers who cannot bear the privation of a strict fast. From the beginning of an eclipse to its end, everything in the house is believed to be polluted, if touched. As the sun and the moon are believed to be in trouble during an eclipse, people offer prayers to God from the beginning of the vedha for their release. It is the custom to visit some holy place on an eclipse-day, to take a bath there, and to read holy passages from the Shastras. Some people, especially Brahmans, sit devoutly on river-banks and offer prayers to the sun. Much secret as well as open charity is given at the time of an eclipse. But the receivers of charity during the actual period of an eclipse are the lowest classes only, such as bhangis, mahars and mangs. When an eclipse is at its full, these people go about the streets giving vent to such cries as apó dan chhuté chand (give alms for the relief of the moon!). [257] Among the gifts such people receive are cotton clothes, cash, grain such as sesamum seeds, udad, pulses, and salt. [258] The gift of a pair of shoes is much recommended. [259] Sometimes a figure of the eclipsed sun or moon is drawn in juari seeds and given away to a bhangi. [260] Although the period of an eclipse is considered inauspicious, it is valued by those who profess the black art. All mantras, incantations, and prayogas, applications or experiments, which ordinarily require a long time to take effect, produce the wished for result without delay if performed during the process of an eclipse. [261] If a man's wife is pregnant, he may not smoke during the period of an eclipse lest his child become deformed. [262] Ploughing a farm on a lunar-eclipse day is supposed to cause the birth of Chandra-children, i.e., children afflicted by the moon. After an eclipse Hindus bathe, perform ablution ceremonies, and dress themselves in clean garments. The houses are cleansed by cowdunging the floors, vessels are rubbed and cleansed, and clothes are washed, in order to get rid of the pollution caused by the eclipse. [263] Unwashed clothes of cotton, wool, silk or hemp, according to popular belief, do not become polluted. The placing of darbha grass on things which are otherwise liable to pollution is also sufficient to keep them unpolluted. [264] Brahmans cannot accept anything during the impious time of an eclipse, but after it is over, alms are freely given to them in the shape of such costly articles as fine clothes, gold, cattle and the like. [265] After an eclipse Hindus may not break their fast till they have again seen the full disc of the released sun or the moon. It sometimes happens that the sun or the moon sets gherayala (while still eclipsed), and people have then to fast for the whole of the night or the day after, until the sun or the moon is again fully visible. [266] There is a shloka in the Jyotish-Shastra to the effect that Rahu would surely devour Chandra if the nakshatra, or constellation of the second day of the dark half of a preceding month, were to recur on the Purnima (full-moon day) of the succeeding month. Similarly, in solar eclipses, a similar catastrophe would occur if the constellation of the second day of the bright half of a month were to recur on the Amavasya (the last day) of that month. [267] The year in which many eclipses occur is believed to prove a bad year for epidemic diseases. [268] The Jains do not believe in the Hindu theory of grahana (or the eclipse). [269] Musalmans do not perform the special ceremonies beyond the recital of special prayers; and even these are held to be supererogatory. [270] With the exception that some people believe that the stars are the abodes of the gods, [271] the popular belief about the heavenly bodies seems to be that they are the souls of virtuous and saintly persons, translated to the heavens for their good deeds and endowed with a lustre proportionate to their merits. [272] And this idea is illustrated in the traditions that are current about some of the stars. The seven bright stars of the constellation Saptarshi (or the Great Bear) are said to be the seven sages, Kashyapa, Atri, Bharadwaj, Vishwamitra, Gautama, Jamadagni and Vasishtha, who had mastered several parts of the Vedas, and were considered specialists in the branches studied by each, and were invested with divine honours in reward for their proficiency. [273] Another story relates how a certain hunter and his family, who had unconsciously achieved great religious merit, were installed as the constellation Saptarshi [274] (or the Great Bear). A hunter, it is narrated in the Shivaratri-mahatmya, was arrested for debt on a Shivratri [275] day, and while in jail heard by chance the words 'Shiva, Shiva' repeated by some devotees. Without understanding their meaning, he also began to repeat the same words, even after he was released in the evening. He had received no food during the day, and had thus observed a compulsory fast. In order to obtain food for himself and his family, he stationed himself behind a Bel [276] tree, hoping to shoot a deer or some other animal that might come to quench its thirst at a neighbouring tank. While adjusting an arrow to his bowstring, he plucked some leaves out of the thick foliage of the tree and threw them down. The leaves, however, chanced to fall on a Shiva-linga which happened to stand below, and secured for him the merit of having worshipped god Shiva with Bel-leaves on a Shivratri day. He was also all the while repeating the god's name and had undergone a fast. The result was that not only were his past sins forgiven, but he was placed with his family in heaven. [277] Similarly, Dhruva, the son of king Uttanapad, attained divine favour by unflagging devotion, and was given a constant place in the heavens as the immovable pole-star. [278] According to Hindu astrology, there are nine grahas [279] or planets, twelve rashis [280] or signs of the zodiac, and twenty-seven nakshatras [281] or constellations. Books on astrology explain the distinct forms of the nakshatras. For instance, the Ashvini constellation consists of two stars and presents the appearance of a horse. It ascends the zenith at midnight on the purnima (the 15th day of the bright half) of Ashvin (the first month of the Gujarati Hindus). The constellation of Mrig consists of seven stars, four like the legs of a sofa and three others under them in a line. All these twenty-seven groups of stars reach the zenith at midnight on particular days in particular months; and the months of the Hindu calendar are named after them. [282] All planets influence the life of a person, one way or the other, according to their position in the heavens at the time of his birth. A kundali, i.e., a figure like the one shown here, is drawn by astrologers to illustrate the respective positions of the planets. The twelve squares of the diagram represent the twelve signs of the zodiac, and the positions of the planets in different squares influence persons in different ways. Ravi (the Sun), Budha (Mercury) and Shukra (Venus) occupy one rashi for one month; Chandra (the Moon) occupies a rashi for 135 ghadis, [283] i.e., two days and a quarter; Mangal (Mars) for one month and a half; Guru (Jupiter) for thirteen months; Shani (Saturn) for two years and a half, and Rahu for a year and a half. This is their normal and ordinary motion. But if they take an abnormal course and move either too fast or too slow, they finish their revolution through a rashi within a shorter or a longer period. [284] If the planet Guru (Jupiter) occupies either the 1st, 3rd, 4th, 6th, 8th, 10th, or 12th, square of a kundali, it is said to bring about a rupture with friends, pecuniary wants, and an increase in the number of enemies. [285] If Shani (Saturn) occupies the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, 7th, 8th, 9th, or the 12th square in a man's kundali, it causes despondency of mind, family quarrels, imminent injuries from foes, and pecuniary wants. [286] The presence of Mangal (Mars) in the 3rd, the 6th, or the 11th square is auspicious. Of the nine planets, Budha, Guru, and Chandra are benevolent, Mangal and Ravi are neither benevolent nor baneful; and Shani, Rahu, and Ketu are downright malevolent. [287] Each planet has a story connected with it concerning its benevolence or malevolence, and showing also the way to secure its propitiation. For instance, the malevolence of Shani drove King Vikrama to unknown countries, and subjected him to grave calamities. On the advice of a wise man, however, he observed the Saturday-vows and thus overcame his difficulties. [288] When a planet is unfavourable to a person, it has to be propitiated by vows, and the person who is under its evil influence often lays upon himself the obligation of abstaining from particular articles of food or from wearing certain articles of clothing for a certain number of days. [289] Particular days of the week are set apart as appropriate for the worship of particular planets, and, on such days, the person keeping the vow observes a fast and worships the planet through the medium of a Brahman. [290] For instance, vrats or vows are observed on Tuesdays in honour of Mangal (Mars), when an image of the planet, engraved on a golden dish, is worshipped, and the person observing the vow takes food consisting of wheat only, and that too, only once during the day. This mode of fasting is followed for a number of consecutive Tuesdays prescribed by an astrologer; and on the last Tuesday, when purnahuti [291] is offered, Brahmans are feasted and dakshina is given to them. A piece of red cloth and some corn are used in the installation of the planet; these and the golden engraving are carried away by the priest. Similarly, in propitiating Rahu and Ketu the same ceremonies are gone through: only, instead of wheat, mug (Phaseolus mungo) is eaten by the devotee. In the same way Shani (Saturn) is said to favour the diet of adad (or lentils): Guru (Jupiter) inclines to chana (or gram), while Shukra (Venus) favours chola (dolichos sinensis). Certain forms or figures, called mandals, are favoured by particular grahas, and are drawn in their honour in worshipping them. Different things, too, are given in charity in honour of different planets. [292] All the nine grahas and the twenty-seven nakshatras are worshipped on the occasion of the Griha-Shanti ceremony, which is performed before occupying a newly erected building. It is considered inauspicious to hold a marriage ceremony while Shukra (Venus) is invisible. In such a case, however, the ceremony may be performed after setting up and worshipping a small golden image of the planet. Of the stars, the constellation of saptarshi is perhaps the one most often worshipped. Its worship forms a part of the ceremonies performed on the occasion of investing boys with the sacred thread [293] and also of the ceremonies of marriage. The worship of the saptarshi on marriage occasions is believed to be an attestation of the marriage, and to secure the benign care of the saptarshi for the couple. The form of worship is sometimes as follows: a red and white piece of cloth is stretched on the ground, bearing an image of the saptarshi over it; wheat and rice are scattered over the cloth, a ghi-lamp is lighted, and red lac and flowers are offered to the image. [294] Another form of worship is to mark seven red-lac-dots on a patla or a wooden stool, and to place seven pice and seven betel-nuts thereon. After worshipping the seven pice, the bridal pair are made to take four turns round the stool, touching the stool with their great toes at every turn. A proverb runs to the effect that, whatever may happen to the couple, still the seven pice of satpati (i.e., the ceremony described) are secure. [295] A third process is to form seven small piles of kamod, [296] on each of which, successively, the bride places her right foot while the bridegroom removes each pile one by one. [297] The fifth day of the bright half of Bhadrapad (the eleventh month of the Gujarati Hindus) is observed as a day of worship in honour of the saptarshi group. People observe a fast on that day. Brahmans set up seven chats [298] in honour of the seven sages, adding an eighth in honour of Arundhati, the wife of Vasishtha, and worship them by shodashopachar (i.e. sixteen-fold ceremonial). The worship is said to secure felicity for departed souls. [299] The saptarshi are also annually worshipped by Brahmans on cocoanut-day (the 15th day of the bright half of Shravan) on the occasion of changing their sacred threads. Hindu seamen also worship the constellation on the same day. [300] In the performance of the Nil-parvan ceremony, which is held to propitiate the spirits of departed ancestors, and which requires a calf and a heifer to be married, an entertainment being simultaneously given to one hundred and eight Brahmans, and on the occasion of Vastu or the ceremonies performed before or at the time of occupying a newly-built house, burnt offerings and worship are offered to the saptarshi. [301] Every Brahman must offer arghyas [302] to, and worship, the agastya constellation, in a hut of darbha [303] and kasada, within seven days from the date of its appearance. Failure to make this offering brings pollution on him for seven months, and disqualifies him from performing any of the rites or ceremonies prescribed by the Shastras. Married couples are made to look at the Pole star immediately after the Hymenal knot is tied by the priest, in the hope that they may be as long-lived or as inflexible or unmoved by the ups and downs of life. The twelfth day after the death of a person, known as Tara-baras (or the star-twelfth) is kept as the day of star-worship by the relatives of the deceased, when one member of the family observes a fast on that day in honour of the deceased, and takes food only after worshipping the stars at night. It is customary on this day to give up the use of bronze vessels and to give them away in charity. [304] Just as persons carrying or accompanying a corpse to the cemetery are considered sutaki (under ceremonial impurity), so those who witness this rite are also considered unclean: but they are purified by a sight of the stars. [305] Young girls watching the starry sky at night recite a verse which means, "I worshipped the star-spangled firmament first and then my lover Abhla dabhla Kankuna dabhla [306]--"Ye stars! blind the prowling thief and seize him if he tries to steal away, and your blessings on my lord confer!" [307] The Rohini and Krittika constellations, popularly known as Gadli, are supposed to indicate the rise and fall in the cotton-market. [308] The dimmest star of the saptarshi group foretells the death of a person within six months from the date on which it becomes invisible to him. [309] Again, if a man cannot perceive the saptarshi or the galaxy in the sky, it is considered such a bad omen that his end is believed to be near at hand. [310] The rainbow is believed to be the bow of Indra, [311] the god of rains, and is therefore called 'Indra-dhanushya.' We see it when Indra draws his bow to release the rains from the rakshasas (demons); [312] or, when successful in bringing down rain, Indra manifests his glory by drawing a bow; [313] or when in the struggle for supremacy between Summer and the rainy season, Indra draws his bow to defeat Summer. [314] It is also believed that when Ramachandra, the hero of the Ramayana, adjusted an arrow to the bow of Shiva, to compete for the hand of Sita in the swayamvara (or maiden's-choice marriage) celebrated by her, the bow was split into three pieces, which ever since present themselves as rainbows in the sky. [315] The rainbow is popularly regarded as an indication of good or bad rainfall according as it appears at particular hours and in particular directions. If a rainbow appears in the east a speedy rainfall is expected; if on the other hand it is seen in the west, rainfall is apprehended to be distant. [316] Some people, however, believe the contrary, i.e., they regard the appearance of a rainbow in the west as an indication of good rains, and in the east as a sign of scarce rainfall. [317] Perhaps both ideas are reconciled by a third belief according to which the appearance of a rainbow in a direction facing the sun, indicates the proximity of rain. [318] If a rainbow is seen at sunset or sunrise just before the commencement of rain the fall of rain will be excessive; but if it appears after rainfall, the rain will probably cease. [319] According to some persons the appearance of a rainbow in the morning portends a drought. [320] There is, however, a popular saying to the effect that were the kachbi, i.e., the rainbow, to be seen at sunrise in the west, it foretells great floods before nightfall. The sight of a rainbow is sometimes regarded as a bad omen. Some believe that it shortens a man's life and brings misfortunes to him. Others believe that it is calamitous to a man's relations by marriage, especially to the mother-in-law, who is sure to lose her power of hearing. [321] People sometimes clash earthen vessels against one another to avert the evils which are to be feared from a rainbow. [322] It is also said that the sight of the whole of the rainbow is a good omen: but the sight of a part, however large, is inauspicious. [323] According to the Puranas, the milky way or akash-ganga is the celestial River Ganga which was brought down by Bhagirath to the earth. [324] King Sagar once performed an ashwa-medha [325] sacrifice, when, according to custom, he let loose a horse, and sent his sixty thousand sons with it. Indra, jealous of the growing power of Sagar, stole the horse and concealed it in the hermitage of Kapila, when the sage was deeply absorbed in religious meditation. The sixty thousand sons of Sagar followed it to this asylum, where they taunted and insulted the sage, believing him to be the thief. Kapila, who was ignorant of the theft, opened his long-closed eyes in anger, emitting sparks of flame from them, and destroyed the sons of Sagar together with the whole of their army. Bhagirath, the grandson of Sagar, propitiated the sage, and on his advice practised religious austerities in honour of Shiva for the purpose of bringing down the River Ganga from heaven. Through the kindness of God Shiva, Bhagirath was at last successful in bringing the celestial river down to this world; and with the water of the river he revived the sons of Sagar. The River Ganga (i.e., the Ganges) in this world is therefore also known by the name of Bhagirathi. It is this heavenly river which we see as the milky way. [326] Like the sacred Ganges on the earth, the River Ganga in the celestial regions is held in great respect by the gods [327] and purifies the heavenly bodies, just as the earthly Ganges washes away the worst sins of mortals. Some people, however, believe the milky way to be the track by which the holy Ganges descended from heaven to earth. [328] Another belief is that the God Vishnu, at the time of his Vaman (or Dwarf) incarnation, touched the ina (i.e., the Egg) in his third footstep and thus caused a flow of waters, which is known as akash-ganga. [329] Some suppose the milky way to be a ladder leading to the heavens. [330] Astrologers call it Vatsa, a fictitious creature with numerous horns, mouths, and tails. [331] According to another belief, the milky way consists of two rekhas--lines--one of sin and the other of good and meritorious actions. The length of one line compared to the other betokens the predominance of good or evil as the case may be. [332] The milky way is also supposed to be the track left by the rath or car of Ramachandra. [333] Akash-ganga or the milky way is said to consist of one crore and eighty lacs of stars. [334] If a man cannot perceive the milky way in the sky, his end is believed to be near at hand. [335] The Musalmans declare the milky way to be the track formed by the footstep of the horse of the Prophet Muhammad, on the occasion of his night-journey to Heaven. The occasion for earth-worship most frequently arises when anything is to be built upon its surface. At the time of setting the manek-stambha, or the first pillar of a marriage-bower or a bower for a thread-ceremony, [336] before commencing the construction of wells, reservoirs, and tanks and in laying the foundation-stone of a house, a temple, or a sacrificial pit, [337] or of a street, a fortress, a city, or a village, [338] or of any constructive work raised upon or made under the ground, certain ceremonies, called khat-muhurt or khat-puja, are performed. The earth-mother is then worshipped in the manner prescribed in the Shastras, to propitiate her against interruptions in the completion of the work undertaken. The owner or the person interested in the new construction pours a little water on the earth where the foundation-pit is to be dug, sprinkles red lac and gulal (red powder), places a betel-nut and a few precious coins, and digs out the first clod of earth himself. [339] Some of the things offered to the earth at the time of khat-puja are panchamrit, [340] betel-nuts, betel-leaves, pancha-ratna (or the five kinds of precious things, namely, gold, silver, copper, coral, and pearls), a bowl and green garments. Under the influence of particular rashis (signs of the zodiac), particular corners of the building under construction are required to be dug in the khat-muhurt ceremonies. For instance, a little digging in the north-west corner is believed to be favourable to the constructor who happens to be under the influence of Sinha (Leo), Kanya (Virgo) and Tula (Libra): in the north-east corner, if under the influence of Vrishchika (Scorpio), Dhanu (Sagittarius) and Makar (Capricornus): in the south-east corner if under the sway of Kumbha (Aquarius), Min (Pisces) and Mesha (Aries): in the south-west corner in the case of Vrishabh (Taurus), Mithun (Gemini) and Kark (Cancer). After the worship of the earth-mother, sugar or molasses is distributed among neighbours, bystanders and relatives, in token of the auspiciousness of the occasion. [341] An image of Ganpati is worshipped in a copper-dish, this is buried underground, and a brick is laid on it when starting the work of construction. In setting up the manek-stambha on marriage occasions, a small earthen bowl is filled with milk, curds, turmeric, durva-sprouts [342] and mag seeds (Phaseolus mungo), and buried in the ground after being sprinkled over with red lac and rice. [343] The ceremonies appertaining to khat-muhurt are treated of at length in a book called Dharma-sindhu. [344] They are believed to secure durability of construction. On the Dasara [345] day or the 10th day of the bright half of Ashvin (the last month), Rajas go out in state with their ministers and subjects to worship the earth-mother and the holy shami tree (prosopis spicegera). A wetted plot of ground is first dug over with pikes, javala (tender wheat plants) and shami leaves are then mixed with the muddy earth, and small balls of the mixture are made. A pice and betel-nut are placed in each ball, and they are presented to the worshipper as a mark of good luck. Travellers carry such balls with them on their journeys for luck. Kings carry the same to obtain success on the battle-field. The Pandavas had such balls with them on the field of Kurukshetra when they obtained a victory over the Kauravas. [346] The balls are also used as pastana. [347] The javala in the balls are taken out and allowed to grow in an earthen vessel filled with clay and manure till they reach a span in height, when they are taken up and used. [348] Earth-worship is performed before burying treasure underground, and also when a marriage-procession, at the time of returning, reaches the limits of the bridegroom's village. [349] In some places, virgins worship the plot of ground on which the Holi is lighted, for about ten or twelve days after the Holi holiday. [350] Another occasion for earth-worship is the third day of the bright half of Chaitra (the sixth month), on which day Vishnu saved the earth in his Varaha (or Boar) incarnation, when it was being carried to the nether regions by the demon Shankhasur. [351] On the eighth day of the bright half of Magh and also of Ashvin (the fourth and the last month respectively), naivedya (an oblation of food) is offered to the earth-mother, and is then used as her prasad (gift). No cooked food is allowed to fall on the ground on this day: even the leavings after meals are given away to cows. [352] When any ceremony is to be performed on the earth's surface, as much of the spot as is required for the ceremony is cleansed by watering it and plastering it with cow-dung. A betel-nut and a pice are then placed on it as the Chada or rent of the spot. [353] On those occasions when dakshina is given to Brahmans outside the village limits, worship of the earth-mother is performed by pouring milk on the ground, and by placing seven betel-nuts and seven single copper-pieces thereon. [354] Some ambitious Brahmans dig earth from near the roots of a banyan tree after offering prayer to the earth, and out of it, make an image of Parthishwar--Lord of the Earth--hoping thereby to obtain wealth. The same ceremony, if observed near the roots of a pipal tree (ficus religiosa), is believed to confer wealth and male issue. When Vishnu killed the demons Madhur and Kaitabha, the earth was strewn with their flesh and marrow (meda). Therefore the earth is called medini, and for the same reason is unclean, and no holy objects are allowed to touch it. [355] Another explanation is that the earth was rendered unclean because blood was shed on its surface in the combat of the demon Vritrasur with the god Indra. [356] The things polluted by a contact with the earth are either objects which are to be dedicated to gods, such as sandal-wood ointment, panchamrit, [357] the leaves of the bel tree (Aegle marmelos), tulsi leaves (leaves of the holy or sweet basil plant), betel-leaves and flowers; [358] or objects which are sacred because of their having been dedicated to the gods, including tirtha [359] or water used in bathing the images of gods [360]; or things which are by nature so holy that it is improper to place them on the bare earth; for instance, images of deities, water of the sacred Ganges or the Jumna, [361] any holy writ, [362] a conch-shell and even gold. [363] Cooked food also deserves respect, as it supports the lives of men, and it is sinful in a Hindu to let it lie on the bare ground. Any irregular conduct in this respect arouses the wrath of the Annadeva (or the food deity). [364] It is, however, maintained by some that the reason why certain things, such as materials of worship, are not allowed to touch the earth, is that the earth itself being a deity, such things would be dedicated to this deity by a contact with the earth and would thus become incapable of any further use, as things that are dedicated to one deity cannot again be offered to another. [365] During the course of the recitation of mantras (holy hymns) in honour of Vishnu and Mahadeva; on the occasion of offering prayers to the grahas (planets) for their propitiation; and on occasions like Vishnuyaga, [366] Maharudra, Shatachandi, Gayatri-purashcharan [367] and Brahmana-varana [368] the devotee or the sacrificer and the priest sleep on darbha grass or on clean woollen blankets, spread on the bare ground. Other occasions for sleeping on the floor are the days of the observance of certain vrats or vows; such as, the Divasa or the 15th day of the dark half of Ashadh (the ninth month), the Janmashtami or the 8th day of the dark half of Shravana (the tenth month), the days of Goatrad, a vrat lasting from the 11th day to the 15th day of the bright half of Bhadrapad, Mahashivaratri or the 14th day of the dark half of Magh, the Ekadashi day or the 11th day of both the bright and dark halves of a month, the Navratra days or the first nine days of Ashvin, eclipse days, and the day of Jagran or the 15th day of the bright half of Ashadh, besides, sometimes, the whole of the months of Shravana and the Purushottam or intercalary month; and the chaturmas, i.e., the four months of the rainy season. [369] A Brahman in his brahmacharya (or the period of his life which, according to the Shastras, should be devoted to the acquirement of learning, and which commences from the date of his being invested with the sacred thread and terminates at the age of twenty-three) and a widow are not allowed by the Shastras to sleep elsewhere than on beds made on the ground. Women, while in menstruation, sleep on the floor for four days. Some women, when they are separated from their husbands, also sleep in this fashion. A dying person, two or three minutes before his death, is placed on the ground, which is first purified with cow-dung-plaster. [370] For ten days after a death, the members of the deceased's household and his relatives sleep on beds spread on the bare ground. [371] If the demise be very affecting, the nearest relatives sleep on the floor for periods which may extend to three months, six months, or even for a year, and sometimes the penance lasts for their whole lives. It is customary, among some sects, not to allow the sathara--i.e., the spot lately occupied by a corpse in the house--to be suna or unoccupied for a single night. Someone must sleep on the spot for twelve consecutive days from the date of demise. [372] Pilgrims, [373] after pilgrimage, abandon sensual pleasures, take their meals only once every day, and sleep on the floor. It is customary to sleep always on the ground while in holy places. Devotees, ascetics, sadhus, and their disciples sleep on the ground. The God Indra has twelve meghas or clouds under his control, and he directs each of them to pour out their waters wherever he likes. When in the least irritated in the execution of his orders, Indra's voice is heard in this world in thunder-claps which rise to a terrible pitch if the deity becomes downright angry. Thunder is also said to be the loud laughter of Indra when in a happy mood. [374] Another belief is that during the rainy season, Indra plays gedi-danda [375], and the strokes given to the gedi in the course of the game, produce what we call thunder; [376] or, that the clouds are god's footballs, and thunder is produced by his foot striking them, while at play during the rainy season. Some believe thunder to be due to the loud sounds produced by various musical instruments which are played upon the occasion of the marriage-ceremony of Indra. [377] According to others, thunder is produced by the cannon of Indra; [378] or, as some again say, by the trumpetings of Airavat, the elephant of Indra [379]; or, we hear thunder when Indra draws his bow and adjusts an arrow to the bow-string, in order to bring about the fall of rain. [380] A further belief attributes thunder to the very rapid pace of the chariot of Bhagwan. [381] Some people, however, say that it is produced when Bhima (one of the five Pandavas) wields his prodigious club or bludgeon. [382] In the opinion of others, Vidyut or Tanyatun, the offspring of Lamba, the daughter of Daksha, and the wife of Dharmaraj thunders in the rainy season. [383] It is also suggested that the god of rains shakes the heavens and thus produces thunder. The Shastras, it is said, declare that thunder is caused by the sounds of the dundubhi--or kettledrums--beaten by the gods in delight at the sight of rain. [384] There is also a popular belief in the Surat district that an old hag causes thunder either when she grinds corn or when she rolls stones in the clouds. [385] The prevalent belief about lightning seems to be that it is the girl whom Kansa tried to dash against a stone, but who escaped and went up to the sky. Kansa, the tyrant king of Mathura, was informed by a heavenly voice, by way of prophecy, that a son would be born to his sister who would cause his destruction. Kansa thereupon confined his sister Devaki and her husband Vasudeva in prison, loaded them with fetters, and kept the strictest watch over them. He took from Devaki, and slew, every child of hers as soon as it was born. In this way he disposed of her first six children. On the seventh occasion, however, on which Devaki gave birth to a son named Krishna, a girl was born at the same hour to Nanda in Mathura; and Vasudeva secretly interchanged the two children in spite of the vigilance of Kansa. When Kansa knew of his sister having been delivered, he seized the infant girl and tried to dash her against a stone. The little one immediately flew away to the skies, where she still dwells in the form of Vijli or lightning. [386] The Shastras describe Vijli as the distinctive weapon of Indra, just as pashupataka is peculiar to Shiva and the Gandiva bow to Arjuna. [387] Other beliefs about lightning are that Vijli is the sister of Megharaja, the god of rains, and appears to announce his approach: [388] that Vijli is a goddess who rests upon winds, fire, and rains: [389] that Vijli is but the thunderbolt of Indra: [390] that lightnings are the flashes of the bright weapon of Indra: [391] that lightning is the lustre of the fireworks and the lamps lighted by the gods in honour of the nuptials of Indra: [392] that lightning is produced by the sparks caused by the friction of the gedi and the danda of Indra when the god plays the game. [393] Vijli is also known as Saudamini, i.e., one residing on Mount Sudama. [394] The occurrence of thunder and the appearance of lightning on particular days and in particular directions are regarded as signs of the abundance or scarcity of rain during the season. Thunder during the Rohini nakshatra [395] is a bad omen: it foreshadows either a famine, [396] or a Boterun, i.e., complete cessation of rains for seventy-two days after the thunder-claps are heard. According to another view, if the Rohini nakshatra lasts for a fortnight and if the sky is clear during the period and yet lightning and thunder occur, a Boterun will be the consequence; but if lightning and thunder were to accompany the clouds in the same nakshatra, heavy and plentiful rains may be confidently expected. [397] Lightning without clouds in the same nakshatra is believed to be the cause of what is popularly called Rohini-dazi, i.e., the burning heat of Rohini. [398] Some persons expect a Boterun after kadakas or crashing thunder. Others apprehend a famine if they hear thunder on the second day of the bright half of Jyeshtha (the eighth month). Thunder or lightning in the Hasta [399] nakshatra foretells good harvests and a prosperous year. [400] Thunder in the same nakshatra is believed to muzzle the jaws of serpents and other noxious creatures, and to achieve this object, also, a samelu (or a log of wood) is struck against a mobhara (or a hollow stone used for threshing corn). [401] If thunder is not heard during this nakshatra, mosquitoes and other insects and vermin are believed to be likely to multiply. [402] If thunder is heard during the Ardra nakshatra, the rainfall will be delayed for a month. [403] Lightning is commonly seen on the second and the fifth day of the bright half of Ashadh, and is considered a sign of good rainfall, while its absence indicates a probable scarcity of rain. [404] Its appearance on the fifth day of Ashadh is believed by some to foretell an early fall of rain. Since the rainfall, and therefore the state of the crops during the ensuing year, are suggested by lightning on this day, corn-dealers settle a rise or fall in the price of corn according as lightning is or is not seen on that occasion. [405] Thunder in the east predicts a speedy fall of rain. If flashes of lightning are seen in the north-east or the north, rain will fall within three days. Lightning in the south-east or the south foretells extreme heat. [406] Long-continued thunder shows that the rainfall is distant. Similarly, continued flashes of lightning intimate danger to the lives and property of people. Sudden thunder portends an immediate cessation of rain. Thunder or lightning out of season threatens calamity to the country. [407] Vijli or lightning is said to be fettered on the fifth day of the bright half of Ashadh--(or, as some say, on the second day of Shravan)--after which date no apprehensions of its destructive powers need be entertained. [408] Till then, however, it is free and is likely to injure those persons [409] who have not cut or shaved their hair from their birth. [410] The occurrence of lightning is believed to cause the delivery and sometimes even the death of pregnant women. [411] Any period marked by the occurrence of lightning is considered inauspicious. [412] The Puranas speak of fourteen worlds--the seven swargas (celestial regions) and the seven patals (nether regions) [413]. Underneath the seventh patal [414] lies Shesha (the divine cobra) who supports all the fourteen worlds on one of his one thousand hoods. On account of the heavy burden, the serpent-god sometimes gets tired, and tries to change his position. The result of the movement is an earth-quake. According to another version, an earthquake occurs when Shesha changes his posture in sleep, [415] or is the result of a hair falling from the body of Shesha. [416] Some people say that ordinarily Shesha does not feel the weight of the fourteen worlds on his head; he bears the load as if it were only a single sesamum seed. But when too much sin accumulates in any of the regions, the burden becomes unbearable for him: he begins to shake under it, and an earthquake occurs. [417] Some believe that there is a tortoise under the divine cobra who supports the world; [418] others go further, and add a frog below the tortoise: [419] and it is said that the slightest motion on the part of either the tortoise or the cobra is the cause of an earthquake. Another belief is that earthquakes occur whenever there is tyranny or injustice on the part of a king, or whenever immorality spreads in society, because the earth is unable to bear the sin, and trembles at the sight of it. [420] According to a different opinion, the earth is supported by the Pothia or the favourite bull of Shiva on one of his horns. An earthquake is caused whenever he transfers the earth from one horn to another in order to relieve the former from the constant pressure of the burden. [421] There is also a belief that deities of some strange species reside in the nether regions, and the earth is shaken whenever these beings fight among themselves. According to the Varaha-sanhita, an earthquake is always the precursor of some unprecedented calamity. [422] The prevalent belief in the popular mind seems to be that an earthquake is the result of immorality and sin, and further that it forebodes some dire calamity, such as famine, pestilence, an outbreak of fire, a revolution, or a great war. [423] The phenomenon is, therefore, regarded with great fear; and when it occurs, people endeavour to avoid the contingent evils by such meritorious acts as the giving of alms, and generally by leading a virtuous life. [424] The most popular of the holy rivers are the Ganges, the Jumna (or Jamuna), the Narbada, the Saraswati (near Sidhpur), the Kaveri, the Godavari, the Gandaki, the Sarayu, the Damodari, the Sindhu (or Indus), the Mahanad, the Gomati (near Dwarka), the Brahmaputra, the Sabarmati, the Ghels (near Gaddheda), the Tungabhadra, the Suvarnabhadra, the Bhadrashita, the Jambuvati, the Phalaku (or Phalgu), the Kaushiki, the Tamraparni, the Sita and the Alakananda. Any point where three rivers meet is also a sacred place. Most of the holy rivers are the subject of many traditions, and books have been written to celebrate their merits. The Ganges, the Jumna, and the Godavari are said to be the holiest of all rivers. There are a number of beliefs about the origin of the Ganges. One of them is that the Ganges is the stream caused by King Bali washing the feet of Vaman (the Dwarf incarnation of Vishnu). [425] Another story relates that the god Brahma was exhausted by overwork at the time of the marriage of Shiva and Parvati. The gods, therefore, created water from their own lustres, and gave it to Brahma in a gourd, to be used in a similar contingency. When Vishnu in his Vaman avatar (or Dwarf incarnation) bestrode the heavens with a single step, Brahma washed his toe in the water from this gourd. A stream was thus created called Swarga-ganga and brought down to the earth by Bhagirath, the grandson of Sagar. When the Ganges fell from the heavens, it was supported and held fast by God Shiva in his jata or matted hair. It was released by his loosening the hair, and in its course, inundated the sacrificial ground of King Jahnu. The latter, being angry, drank up its waters. On the entreaties of Bhagirath, he released the stream by tearing off his thigh. [426] The river then flowed to the spot where the sixty thousand sons of Sagar were burnt to ashes; and it is said by some that one of the sixty thousand was saved at the end of each year up to the year 1955 of the Samvat era (corresponding to A. D. 1899), by the end of which period all the sixty thousand had attained salvation. From the earth the Ganges went to the nether regions. Thus flowing in the heavens, on the earth and in the Patal, the Ganges is called Tripathaga (i.e., flowing in three courses). In its divine form, the Ganges is the wife of Shiva. Owing to the curse of Brahma, she was born in human form in this world and was married to Shantanu, by whom she became the mother of Bhishma, the heroic uncle of the Kauravas and the Pandavas. [427] It is customary among Hindu pilgrims, when they visit Kashi (Benares) to take with them copper-vessels filled with Gangajal (water of the Ganges), and to worship the Ganga when they reach their homes after the pilgrimage. A figure is drawn in seven different kinds of corn; the bowl is placed on it; abil gulal (red powder), frankincense, and naivedya (an oblation of food) are offered: a ghi lamp is lighted: a Brahman woman is dressed as Uma, the wife of Shiva, and Brahmans are entertained at a feast, dakshina being given to them. [428] The water of the Ganges, as well as that of the Jumna, is believed to be so pure that it cannot be affected by microbes, even if kept for years in the house. This quality is believed to be a manifestation of its divine nature. It is further called patit-pavan (lit. purifier of the fallen), and exculpates the sinful from their sins, either by a single draught or by bathing in it. [429] Gangajal is kept in most Hindu families, a draught of it taken by a dying person being believed to secure moksha or eternal salvation for the soul. [430] A vow is observed by women, in honour of the Ganges, for the first ten days of the month of Jyeshtha. On these days they rise early in the morning and bathe in the holy waters of the Ganges. [431] Sometimes ghi lamps are placed upon the waters of the Ganges or the Jumna, and vessels of metal, pice, and cocoanuts are cast into the stream. At such a time, when many people are standing on the banks offering prayers with folded hands, or engaged in the arati, [432] the river presents a very picturesque scene, the numerous lights being reflected in the water. [433] The Jamuna or Yamuna is the daughter of the Sun, and the sister of Yama, the god of Death. The banks of the Jumna are well known as the scene of the amorous sports of God Krishna. [434] The story of the defeat of the demon Kaliya Nag who was ejected from the Jumna by Krishna is well-known. It is said that those who have bathed in the Jumna or have once tasted its water, need not be afraid of Yama, the god of Death. [435] It is considered meritorious among the Hindus to bathe the image of god Shiva in water from the holy Jumna or the Ganges or the Godavari. [436] There is a popular shloka in honour of the Jumna which runs:--"Victory to thee! Oh Yamuna, flowing through the Madhu-vana (the Madhu woods), the bearer of shining waters, the companion of Jahnavi, the daughter of Sindhu, the ornament of the enemy of Madhu (viz., Krishna), the appeaser of Madhava, the dispeller of the danger of Gokal, the destroyer of the sins of the world, the giver of intellect, the scene of the amorous sports of Keshava. Victory to thee! O remover of difficulties, purify me." [437] The banks of the Godavari are known as the site of the hermitage of Gautama. When the planet Brihaspati (Jupiter) enters the Sinha-rashi (the constellation Leo) [438] the holy Ganges goes to the Godavari, and remains there for one year. During that year, all the gods are believed to bathe in this river. Thousands of pilgrims visit Nasik to offer prayers to the Godavari, and after bathing in the river, give alms to Brahmans. Similarly, on the Kapilashashti day, on which six jogs or conjunctive incidents occur simultaneously, the virtue of all tirthas or holy places is believed to be concentrated in the Godavari at Nasik. The mere sight of the Narbada has the same effect as a bath in the Ganges or the Jumna. [439] It is said that the Narbada is the image of Shiva, and that fragments of the stony bow of Shiva are to be found in its bed. [440] The stones in the bed of this river have the same sanctity as the images of god Shiva. [441] Shaligram stones, which are worshipped as the images of Vishnu, are found in this river. It is an act of high merit among Hindus to take a pradakshina round the Narbada, i.e., to travel along the banks of the river, inhabited as the region is by many Sadhus and other holy persons. [442] Ashvatthama, the immortal son of Drona, is believed to reside on the banks of this river and to pay occasional visits to the Bhils in the neighbourhood. The Shukla-tirtha, situated on the Narbada, is visited by numerous pilgrims, and a fair is held there on every sixtieth year. The sage Kapila instructed his mother Devahuti with divine knowledge on the banks of the Saraswati. Since then, the river is held sacred and funeral ceremonies--Shraddhas--are performed on its banks in honour of departed female ancestors. Similarly Shraddhas in honour of male ancestors are performed at the confluence of the Ganges, the Jumna, and the Saraswati at Allahabad. [443] [444] Of the Gandaki it is said that it contains as many shankars (images of Shiva) as there are sankars (stones). The shaligram stone is found in this river also. The Saryu is sacred as the scene of the childish sports of Ramachandra, the hero of the Ramayana. On the banks of the Phalaku or Phalgu, Ramachandra performed Shraddha ceremonies in honour of his father Dasharath. A bath in the waters of a holy river washes away the sins of the bather. [445] It is also meritorious to repeat the names of the several holy rivers. [446] The performance of Shraddha ceremonies on the banks of a holy river secures the felicity of deceased ancestors in heaven. At the time of performing Shraddhas at a holy place, Hindus shave their moustaches, bathe in the sacred waters, and then go through the necessary ceremonies, in the course of which pindas are offered to the Pitars (spirits of dead ancestors). Brahmans are feasted after the ceremonies, and dakshina is given to them. [447] Tarpan or an offering of water with flowers, ointment, red lac, cocoanuts, and betel, is frequently made to the river on the banks of which the ceremonies are performed. [448] The bones of a deceased person, left unburnt after cremation of the body, are gathered together and thrown into holy rivers such as the Ganges, the Jumna, and the Godavari, for the purification of his soul. [449] When heavy floods threaten a village or a city with serious injury, the king or the headman should go in procession to propitiate the river with flowers, cocoanuts, and other offerings in order that the floods may subside. [450] A story is related of the occurrence of heavy floods in a village in the Jatalpur taluka, when a certain lady placed an earthen vessel (ordinarily used for curdling milk), containing a ghi lamp, afloat on the floods, whereupon the waters were at once seen to recede. [451] Besides the holy rivers, there are numerous kunds or sacred pools which are regarded with equal reverence, and in which a bath has the same efficacy for destroying sin. Similarly, they are equally suitable places for the performance of Shraddha ceremonies. These kunds are the subject of numerous beliefs, and each of them has a certain mahatmya or peculiar merit of its own. Six miles to the east of Dwarka, near the sea-coast, there is a kund called Pind-tarak, where many persons go to perform the Shraddha and the Narayan-bali ceremonies. They first bathe in the kund: then, with its water, they prepare pindas, and place them in a metal dish: red lac is applied to the pindas, and a piece of cotton thread wound round them; the metal dish being then dipped in the kund, when the pindas, instead of sinking, are said to remain floating on the water. The process is believed to earn a good status for the spirits of departed ancestors in heaven. It is further said that physical ailments brought on by the avagati--degradation or fallen condition--of ancestors in the other world, are remedied by the performance of Shraddha on this kund. [452] The Damodar kund is situated near Junagadh. It is said that if the bones of a deceased person which remain unburnt after his cremation are dipped in this kund, the soul of that person obtains moksha (or final emancipation). There is a vav or reservoir on Mount Girnar, known as Rasakupika-vav. It is believed that the body of a person bathing in it becomes as hard as marble, and that if a piece of stone or iron is dipped in the vav, it is instantly transformed into gold. But the vav is only visible to saints and sages who are gifted with a supernatural vision. [453] Kashipuri (Benares) contains a vav called Gyan-vav, in which there is an image of Vishweshwar (the Lord of the universe, i.e., Shiva). A bath in the water from this vav is believed to confer upon a person the gift of divine knowledge. In the village of Chunval, a few miles to the north of Viramgam, there is a kund known as Loteshwar, near which stands a pipal tree. Persons possessed by ghosts or devils, are freed from possession by pouring water at the foot of the tree and taking turns round it, remaining silent the while. [454] A bath in the Man-sarovar near Bahucharaji is said to cause the wishes of the bather to be fulfilled. There is a local tradition [455] that a Rajput woman was turned into a male Rajput of the Solanki class by a bath in its waters. There is a kund called Zilaka near Zinzuwada with a temple of Naleshwar Mahadev near it. The kund is said to have been built at the time of King Nala. It is believed locally that every year, on the 15th day of the bright half of Bhadrapad, the holy Ganges visits the kund by an underground route. A great fair is held there on that day, when people bathe in the kund and give alms to the poor. [456] There is also another kund close by, known as Bholava, where the river Saraswati is believed to have halted and manifested herself on her way to the sea. [457] There is a kund in Baladana near Wadhwan, dedicated to Hol, the favourite mata of the Charans. In this kund, black or red gagar bedinus--pieces of cotton thread--are sometimes seen floating in the water. They appear only for a moment, and sink if any one endeavours to seize them. The appearance of black pieces forebodes famine: but the red ones foretell prosperity. [458] In Bhadakon near Chuda there is a kund called Garigavo. The place is celebrated as the spot of the hermitage of the sage Bhrigu and a fair is held there annually on the last day of Bhadrapad. Persons anxious to attain heaven, bathe in the Mrigi kund on Mount Girnar; and a bath in the Revati kund, which is in the same place, confers male issue on the bather. [459] There is also a kund of the shape of an elephant's footprint Pagahein on Mount Girnar. It never empties and is held most sacred by pilgrims. [460] People bathe in the Gomati kund near Dwarka and take a little of the earth from its bed, for the purification of their souls. [461] In the village of Babara, Babhruvahan, the son of Arjun, is said to have constructed several kunds, all of which are believed to be holy. The Lasundra kund near Lasundra in the Kaira District [462] and the Tulsi-shyama kund on Mount Girnar [463] contain hot waters. There is also a hot kund called Devki-unai, about thirty miles to the south of Surat. There the waters remain hot throughout the whole of the year, except on the fifteenth day of the bright half of Chaitra. On this day, the waters cool, and people can bathe in the kund. Many pilgrims visit the place on this occasion, to offer money, cocoanuts, and red lac to the unai mata, whose temple stands near the kund. It is said that King Rama built this kund while performing a local sacrifice, and brought water up from the patal (nether regions) by shooting an arrow into the earth. [464] Other holy kunds are: the Bhim kund, the Gomukhi-ganga, and the Kamandalu kund on Mount Girnar near the temple of Bhimnath Mahadeo; the Radha kund, the Lalita kund, and the Krishna-sarovar in Dwarka; the Rama-sarovar, the Sita kund and the Devki-unai kund in Ayodhya (Oudh); [465] and the Suraj kund [466] and the Hanumandhara [467] kund on Mount Girnar. Waterfalls are not very familiar to the people of Gujarat. There is a belief, however, that barren couples obtain issue if they bathe in a waterfall, and offer a cocoanut. [468] If a river source issues from an opening, in the shape of a go-mukh (cow's-mouth), the stream is called dhodh, and is considered as sacred as the holy Ganges. A bath in such a dhodh has the same efficacy for absolving persons from their sins. [469] When a person dies an accidental death and before the fulfilment of his worldly desires, his soul receives avagati (i.e., passes into a degraded or fallen condition), and it is not released from this state till Shraddhas have been duly performed in its name, and the objects of its desire dedicated to it with proper ritual. The same fate befalls those souls which do not receive the funeral pindas with the proper obsequies. Such fallen souls become ghosts and goblins, [470] and are to be found where water is, i.e., near a well, a tank, or a river. [471] Those who meet death by drowning become goblins, residing near the scene of their death, and are a source of danger to all who approach the water; for instance, in Monapuri and Sasai, there are two ghunas (mysterious watery pits) haunted by bhuts (ghosts) which take the lives of one or two buffaloes every year. [472] Matas [473] and Shankhinis also haunt wells, springs, and tanks and either drown, or enter the persons of those who go near their resorts. Persons who are possessed in this manner, can be freed by bhuvas, who give them a magic thread to wear. [474] There is a vav called Nilkanth vav near Movaiya, in which a Pinjari (a female cotton-carder) is said to have been drowned, and to have been turned into a ghost, in which form she occasionally presents herself to the people. [475] Another ghost haunts an old vav, called Madha, in Vadhwan and drowns one human being every third year as a victim. But a male spirit named Kshetrapal resides in the kotha (or entrance) of the vav, and saves those who fall near the entrance. A person is, however, sure to be drowned if he falls in any other part of the vav. [476] A ghost also resides in the vav at Hampar near Dhrangadhra and terrifies the people at times. The goddess Rainadevi resides in water, and is worshipped by virgins on the fifteenth day of the bright half of Ashadh, when they grow javaras (tender wheat-plants) in an earthen vessel and present them to her, remaining awake for the whole of the night to sing songs in her honour. Darya-Pir, the patron of Luvanas (merchants) and Kharvas (sailors), resides in the sea; and vows are observed in his honour by these people on the second day of the bright half of every month, when they pass a little water through his sieve. [477] It is well known that a drowning person clings fast to anyone who tries to save him, and endangers the lives of both himself and his saviour. [478] It is also believed by some people that the messengers of Varuna (the lord of all waters) seize those persons who bathe in a river earlier than the usual hour in the morning; and the act of saving a drowning person thus deprives Varuna of his victim, and brings down the wrath of that deity. [479] Sometimes, for the sake of moksha, a person takes samadhi (i.e., drowns himself with a religious motive) in a holy river, such as the Ganges or the Jumna. In such a case the relatives and other persons refrain from interference, and do not try to rescue the person. When a well is to be dug, an expert is first called to select a likely spot on which to dig. A Brahman is then consulted as to the auspicious hour on which the work of digging should be commenced. [480] For this purpose, Tuesdays and those days on which the earth sleeps are to be avoided. The earth is supposed to be asleep on the following six days in every month, namely: the 1st, the 7th, the 9th, the 10th, the 14th and the 24th days following a sankranti (i.e., the day on which the sun crosses from one constellation to another). Excluding these days, a date is generally fixed on which the Chandra-graha (or the planet moon) is favourable to the constructor of the well. [481] On the appointed day, the expert, the constructor of the well, the Brahman priest, and the labourers go to the place where the well is to be dug, and an image of the god Ganpati--the protector of all auspicious ceremonies--is first installed on the spot and worshipped with panchamrit. [482] [483] A green coloured piece of atlas (silk cloth), about two feet long, is then spread on the spot, and a pound and a quarter of wheat, a cocoanut, betels, dates and copper coin are placed on it. A copper bowl containing some silver or gold coins and filled with water, is also placed there; the mouth of the bowl is covered with the leaves of the Ashoka tree (Jinesia Asoka) and a cocoanut is placed over the leaves. After this, the priest recites sacred hymns and asks his host to perform the khat [484] ceremonies. [485] Among favourite offerings to Ganpati and the earth in the course of worship and in the performance of the khat ceremonies are: curds, milk, honey, molasses, cocoanuts, dhana (a kind of spices), leaves of nagarvel (a kind of creeper) and red lac. The expert who is called to choose a proper site for the well offers frankincense and a cocoanut to the spot, and lights a lamp thereon. After the khat [486] ceremonies are over, the host distributes sugar or molasses among the bystanders, and offers a sum of money to the expert, who usually refuses it, asking the host to spend it in charity. Those who accept money give away a part of it in alms to the poor. Sometimes, to secure the unobstructed completion of the work, the god Ganpati and the goddess Jaladevi are installed and worshipped daily, till water appears in the well. Some people, however, install the goddess Jaladevi after the appearance of water, when a stone is taken out from the bottom of the well and is plastered with red-lead to represent the goddess and is ceremoniously worshipped. When the construction of the well is complete, vastu, i.e., the ceremony in vogue after the completion of a new building, or jalotsava (the water-festival) is celebrated, Brahmans being entertained at a feast, with dakshina given. [487] The water of the Krukalas well in the island of Shankhodwar is believed to cure fever and diseases caused by morbid heat. A draught of the water of the Gomukhi-ganga near Girnar, makes one proof against an attack of cholera. [488] The water of a gozara well (i.e., a well which is polluted on account of a person bring drowned in it) cures children of bronchitis and cough. [489] [490] There is a well near Ramdorana, of which the water is effective against cough, [491] and the water of the Bhamaria well near Vasawad possesses the same virtue. [492] The water of the Mrigi kund near Junagadh remedies leprosy. The Pipli well near Zalawad and the Detroja-vav near Kolki are well-known for the stimulative effect of their waters on the digestion. [493] If a dark stone is found in the course of digging a well, the water of that well is believed to have medicinal properties. [494] The birth of a child under the mul nakshatra endangers the life of its father: but the misfortune is averted if the child and its parents bathe in water drawn from one hundred and eight wells. Such water, if swallowed, is said to cure sanipat or delirium. [495] In the island of Shial there is a vav called Than-vav, where mothers, who cannot suckle their children for want of milk, wash their bodices. When they afterwards wear these bodices, these are believed to be able to cause the due secretion of milk. [496] The most famous of the sacred lakes are Pampa [497], Bindu [498], Pushkar and Sambhar near Ajmere, Man-sarovar near Bahucharaji, Narayan-sarovar in Cutch, Ravanrhad in the Himalayas, and Ramarhad. The following popular myth is related about Man-sarovar. Two kings once agreed that the two children that should first be born to them should marry each other. But it happened that both the kings had daughters. One of them, however, concealed the fact, and gave out that the child born to him was a son. So that when the children attained a marriageable age, they were married to each other according to the agreement. But the wife found out the secret when she went to stay with her supposed husband, and disclosed it to her parents, who invited the counterfeit son-in-law to their house with the object of ascertaining the truth. The alleged son, however, suspected the design and fled, with a mare and a bitch. On arriving near Man-sarovar, the animals went into the lake in order to refresh themselves, when there was an immediate transformation; and the bitch and the mare came out a horse and a dog. On observing this miracle, their mistress followed their example and was also turned into a male. The story is still sung by girls in a garabi (song) during the Navaratra holidays. [499] There is a belief that the ancient golden city of Dwarka, the capital of god Krishna, still exists in the sea, although it is invisible to the eyes of mortals. A story is told of a man named Pipo Bhagat, who, once perceiving a golden bowl floating in the sea, plunged into the water and saw the golden palaces of Dwarka and god Krishna resting therein. It is said that he returned with the tide and related his experience to several people. [500] Similarly, the golden Lanka of Ravan is still believed to exist under the sea, ruled over by Bibhishan, the brother of Ravan, and visible only to the eyes of saints and holy persons. [501] It is a common belief that the nether regions are inhabited by a species of semi-divine beings, half men and half serpents, called Nags, who possess magnificent palaces under the water. [502] The story of Kaliya Nag, who resided at the bottom of the Jumna and was driven from that place by Krishna, is well known. [503] There are a number of mythological traditions in the Puranas of kings and princes having visited these palaces in watery regions, and of their having brought back beautiful Nagakanyas (daughters of Nags) therefrom. [504] For instance, Arjuna married a Nagakanya named Ulupi when he was living in exile with his brothers. He also stayed for some time with the Nags. Ghosts and demons sometimes inhabit palaces under the water. Deep waters, unfrequented by men, are the favourite resorts of such beings. [505] The god Varuna resides in the waters, and is said to have once carried off Nand (the adoptive father of Krishna) to his watery abode, for having bathed in the Jumna before dawn. Kalindi, the daughter of the king of the Kalingas, practised religious austerities in a palace under the waters of the Jumna with the object of securing a suitable husband. Krishna, on being informed of this by Arjuna, went to the place and married her. [506] There is a story in the Puranas that a king, named Nandraj, used to bury his treasures in the sea with the assistance of a mani (jewel) which furnished a safe passage through the water. The mani was in the end burnt by the queen of Nandraj and the treasure still lies hidden in the waters of the sea. [507] It is narrated in the fourth chapter of Bhagvat-puran that the ten thousand sons of Prachetas used to reside in palaces built under water. [508] Mountains are held to be sacred in a variety of circumstances; thus, some are valued for possessing medicinal drugs: some are revered as the birthplaces of the gods, or as the residences of saints: some for possessing many tirthas (holy spots): some because they were visited by Rama or the Pandavas: some serve as guardians of the four quarters: and some contain the sources of holy rivers. Both the important ranges of the Presidency, the Sahyadri and the Satpuda, are subjects of veneration in the popular mind. The Himalayas, the Vindhya Mountains, and the Nilgiris command special respect. Other sacred mountains are Girnar and Shetrunja in Kathiawar, Mount Abu, Pavagad near Baroda, Brahmagiri Arasur, Tryambak near Nasik, Koyalo, Govardhan near Mathura, Revatachal near Dwarka, and Hinglaj in Sind. It is said that in ancient times there were deep miry ditches where Girnar and Abu stand at present. One day a cow belonging to the sage Vasishtha fell into one of them and was found by Kacha, the son of Brihaspati, after a long search. When the incident was brought to the notice of Vasishtha, he requested Meru (a mythical mountain) to send his two sons Girnar and Abu to occupy and fill the ditches. Girnar required sixty-eight tirthas to accompany him; and the boon was granted by the gods. [509] Girnar is one of the seven great mountains which once possessed wings. [510] [511] It is also known as the place where the sage Dattatraya performed religious austerities. [512] The place is so holy that any person dying within a radius of twelve gaus [513] from it is believed to attain moksha. [514] A visit to the temples on Girnar absolves one from all sins; and taking a turn round Girnar and Shetrunja is said to bring good fortune. [515] Bhagwan manifests himself to those who ascend the Bhairavajaya summit on Girnar. There is a rock on this mountain of which it is said that those who cast themselves from it directly attain heaven. [516] Pavagad is known for the temple of Mahakali Mata. It is said that King Patai once propitiated her by austerities, and on being desired to demand a boon, asked the goddess to accompany him to his palace. The goddess was highly incensed at this request, and promptly destroyed him. Hanuman, the monkey-god, once promised to take the Mountain Govardhan to meet Rama. It is well known how the monkey allies of Rama constructed a bridge of rocks across the sea to Lanka, and how Hanuman supplied the requisite material by fetching huge mountains. Whilst engaged on this work, he was one day carrying the Govardhan mountain to the site of the bridge, when Rama issued an order that all monkeys who were fetching mountains should deposit their burdens at the spot where they stood at the moment of the order. Hanuman could not disobey the order of his lord, and he had accordingly to drop the Govardhan mountain near Mathura. In order to fulfil Hanuman's promise, however, Vishnu held the mountain over his head for seven days, at the time of his Krishna incarnation. It is said that the inhabitants of the districts round Govardhan formerly revered and adored Indra. But Krishna condemned this custom, and introduced the worship of Govardhan. Indra was exasperated at this conduct, and poured tremendous rains on Gokal in order to drown Krishna and his followers. But Krishna held up the Govardhan mountain on his little finger and sheltered all his people under its cover. The mountain was supported in this manner for seven days, by the end of which the rains subsided and Indra confessed himself vanquished. Even now Vaishnavas form an image of Govardhan out of mud and worship it on the Janmashtami day (i.e., the eighth day of the dark half of Shravan). [517] The Oshama Hill near Patanvav (in the jurisdiction of Gondal) is noted for the beautiful temples of Tapakeshwar Mahadev, and Matari Mata. It is said that Bhima [518] the second of the five Pandavas, first met the giantess Hidimba, on this hill. [519] The charcoal-like stones which are dug out in numbers from this hill are believed by the people to have been blackened by the blood of the giant Hidimb, the brother of Hidimba who was killed by Bhima. [520] Mount Shetrunja (or Shatruñjaya) possesses numerous Jain shrines and attracts thousands of pilgrims every year. The hearts of all pilgrims are believed to be purified from the moment they come within six miles of the mountain. [521] Mount Abu possesses the temple of Amba Mata where Krishna's hair was clipped for the first time. [522] Tryambak is known for the temple of Tryambakeshwar and the source of the holy Godavari. [523] About Revatachal, it is said that the mountain was golden in ancient times. [524] In the Vindhya Mountains is situated the famous temple of Omkar Mandhata. [525] The hermitage of Kakbhushundi in the Nilgiris was visited by Rama when he listened to the religious stories read out by that sage. The sage Agatsya also is said to have resided in these mountains. [526] The temple of Hinglaj stands on a hill, which is situated at a distance of eighteen days' journey by road from Karachi. The Mata is ministered to by a Musalman and the place is mostly visited by Atits, Bavas, Khatris, Chhipas, Mochis, and other low-caste Hindus. On occasions the doors of the temple spontaneously open, and after the devotees have visited the Mata, they again shut in the same mysterious manner. As the abode of Shiva and as containing the sources of the holiest of rivers, the Himalayas are the most sacred of all mountains, and possess many holy places of pilgrimage, such as Badrinarayan, Kedarnath, Hardwar, etc. Badrinarayan is the favourite resort of those who have relinquished the world and who only wish to meditate on the Divine Being. The sages Nara and Narayan are said to have performed religious austerities in this place, and eighty-eight thousand rishis (sages) are believed to be similarly occupied there to-day. Owing to the excessive cold, the place is extremely difficult to reach. Pilgrims carry burning hearths with them to protect themselves against cold. Besides, it is necessary to cross the Pathar-nadi (or stony river), of which the water, if touched, turns one into stone. The method of crossing this river is to suspend sikans or slings above its water and to swing from one sling to another. [527] A hill called Swargarohan is believed to be twenty miles to the north of Badrikedarnath and is said to lead to heaven. In ancient times the Pandavas had repaired to this place in order to do penance for the sin of having killed their kinsmen in the Great War. But when they tried to ascend to heaven by the Swargarohan Hill, only Yudhishthir and his faithful dog were able to reach their goal: the rest were frozen in the snow. Mount Kailasa, the abode of Shiva, is supposed to be situated in the northern part of the Himalayas. The mountain is described as always covered with verdure and full of beautiful gardens and of palaces made of jewels, with roads paved with golden dust and sphatika-mani (crystal stone). It is said that Ravan, the king of Lanka, once uprooted this mountain and held it on the palm of his hand, in order to display his prowess. The demon Bhasmasur, who was enamoured of the goddess Parvati, is said to have performed the same feat in order to frighten Shiva. Another mythical mountain is Meru, which is supposed to occupy the centre of the earth. [528] The sun, the moon, and all the planets revolve round this mountain, and it therefore plays an important part in the causation of day and night. For night falls on one side of the earth when the sun goes to the other side of Meru; and the day begins when the sun emerges from that side of the mountain. Meru is sixty-eight thousand yojans [529] in height, and penetrates the earth to the depth of sixteen thousand yojans. Its eastern side appears white, the southern is yellow, the western is black, and the northern red. The mountain is also believed to consist of gold and gems. The Ganges, in her fall from the heavens, is said to have descended first on the top of this mountain and then to have flowed in four streams in four directions. The southern stream is known as the Ganges; the northern, in Tartary, is called Bhadrasoma; the eastern is the same as the Sita; and the western is named Chax or the Oxus. The top of this mountain is believed to be inhabited by gods, gandharvas (celestial musicians) and rishis (sages). [530] According to the Yoga-vasishtha, there is a kalpa-vriksha [531] on the Lalmani summit of Meru, where a rishi named Bhushundkak is engaged in devotional prayers since time immemorial. [532] The Puranas declare that Vaivaswat Manu, the first man, resided near Meru, and that his descendants migrated to Ayodhya to found there a kingdom which was afterwards ruled over by Rama. It is believed by some people that mountain-tops are inhabited by a class of recluses, called Aghori-bavas, who devour human beings. [533] The Kalika hill near Girnar is believed to be frequented by Joganis (female harpies) who take the lives of visitors to the hill, and it is said that none who visits the place is ever known to return. [534] Persons who visit the temple of Kalikamata on Mount Girnar always lose one of their party, who falls a victim to the goddess. [535] The changes in the seasons are attributed by some to Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahesha (Shiva), the gods of the Hindu Trinity. Brahma sends down the rains and produces corn, grass, etc., Vishnu protects and nourishes the harvests in winter, and Shiva causes the heat of the summer. [536] There is also a belief that these three gods go down in turns to the patal (nether regions) and stay there for four months. Vishnu descends on the eleventh day of the bright half of Ashadh, and on that day the rainy season begins. When Vishnu comes up and Shiva takes his place, people experience the cold of winter: but as this god always keeps a dhuni [537] burning near him, the waters under the surface of the earth, such as those in the wells, remain hot during this period. Such waters are cooled when Shiva returns and Brahma goes down to the patal: but the return of Shiva causes summer on the earth. [538] According to another belief, the sequence of the seasons is controlled by the sun-god. [539] There are six ritus or seasons: and the changes in the ritus depend upon the position of the sun in the twelve rashis or signs of the Zodiac. [540] Each ritu lasts for a period of two months, during which time the sun travels through two rashis. Vasant-ritu is the period which the sun takes to pass through the Min (Pisces) and Mesha (Aries) rashis. Grishma-ritu corresponds to the time during which the sun passes through Vrishabha (Taurus) and Mithun (Gemini). During Varsha-ritu the sun moves through the signs Karka (Cancer) and Sinha (Leo), and during Sharad-ritu through Kanya (Virgo) and Tula (Libra). Hemant-ritu is the time which the sun takes to travel through Vrishchika (Scorpio) and Dhanu (Sagittarius). Shishir-ritu occurs when the sun stands in the Makar (Capricornus) and Kumbha (Aquarius) rashis. [541] Indra (the god of rain), Varuna (the lord of all waters), Vayu (the god of wind), Agni (the god of fire), and the moon-god are also believed by some to have power over the seasons. [542] The belief is as old as the Vedas that demons sometimes obstruct the fall of rain, and confine the waters of the clouds. It is Indra who fights with them and breaks through their castles by means of his thunderbolt, sending down showers of rain for the benefit of his worshippers. So, whenever there is an unusual drought, people still invoke the aid of this god, and celebrate a festival in his honour, called Ujjani or Indramahotsava. Homas [543] are performed to propitiate the god, and Brahmans are entertained at a feast. Sometimes the festival is celebrated outside the village, where people go in large parties to dine together. The usual dish on such an occasion is Meghladu or sweet balls of wheat-flour fried in ghi. Another favourite ceremony supposed to cause rain to fall is the submersion of the image of Shiva in water, by blocking up the khal or passage in the Shiva-linga by which water poured over the image usually runs off. This ceremony is known as Jala-jatra. Rudrabhisheka, or the ceremony of pouring water in a constant stream over the image of Shiva for eleven consecutive days and nights, is sometimes performed with the same object. [544] Sometimes the assistance of Shringhi rishi is invoked to bring about a fall of rain. The rishi is installed in water, mantras are recited, and prayers are offered before a sacrificial fire. This ceremony, called Parjanya-shanti, is said to have been performed within recent years in Bombay, and to have been successful in bringing rain. [545] It is also said that rainfall can be caused by singing a song or a sacred hymn to the malar tune. There is a tradition that the well-known saint Narsinha Mehta once sang this tune on the occasion of the celebration of the first pregnancy of his daughter, and the performance was immediately followed by a shower of rain. Rain, which is brought down in this manner, can be put a stop to by singing to a different tune. [546] Low-caste women have recourse to the following expedient to bring rain. Five or six of them place a quantity of muddy earth on a wooden stool, which is carried by one of them. The lump of mud is covered with leaves of the Gidotan or Tindotan creeper, and is called mehulo or meghalo. The whole party then sing songs, and visit every house in the village. A bowl of water is poured over the mehulo and the women receive some corn for their trouble. [547] Some believe that when the worship of the village-gods is neglected and when the people grow corrupt, ill-treat the saints and are given to the killing of cows and Brahmans, Yama, the God of Death, directs his colleagues, Indra and Varuna, to threaten the world with a drought. The rainfall returns only when the people revert to righteous ways, and after Indra and Varuna have been conciliated by offerings. The lower classes of the people believe a prolonged cessation of rain to be due to the wrath of local minor deities, aroused by the neglect of their worship. In such a contingency, therefore, they prepare baklan [548] of udad (lentils), lapsi, [549] vadan [550] and other dishes, and offer them to the local gods for their propitiation. [551] To stop an incessant fall of rain, people often observe the Aladra vow. The patel or headman issues a proclamation that on a particular day none should cook, or churn whey, or fetch water, or wash clothes, or attend to any of the multifarious household duties; but that all should pass the day in prayer. A complete cessation from toil in favour of earnest devotion to divine powers are the peculiar features of this vow. People do not abstain from food: but food must be prepared on the previous day. If the rains do not cease in spite of this vow, but threaten the village with inundation, the headman leads a procession to the confines of the village and makes an offering to the waters. [552] In some places a spinning wheel, sometimes specially constructed of human bones, [553] is turned by a naked person in the reverse direction to the usual one, with the object of causing the cessation of immoderate rainfall. [554] A cessation of rains is also believed to be brought about by offering an oblation to the god Kasatia, and by the observance of the vow called Kasatia ganth (or tying the knot of Kasatia). The vow lasts for three weeks, and those who observe it do not partake of anything except rice [555] (or, according to others, jiran, a kind of spice [556]). Some persons attribute a heavy fall of rain to the wrath of Indra, and offer ceremonious prayers to appease that god. [557] In some places people engage the services of magicians to restrain the fall of rain. [558] Farmers sometimes brand the rain by casting burning sparks upon it in order to stop an incessant fall. [559] Vows in honour of samudra (the ocean) are also observed with the same object. In the changing circumstances of life, women more readily have recourse to religious vows for the fulfilment of their wishes than men. This fondness of women for vows has brought into vogue a number of vrats or religious observances which are practised by women only. Gangigor or Ganagor, Vat-Savitri, Molakat, Goutrat, Alavana or Alunda, Eva-vrat, Tulsi-vrat, Uma masheshwar-vrat, and Surya-vrat are instances of such vows. The Molakat-vrat is observed by virgins from the eleventh to the fifteenth day of the bright half of Ashadh. [560] The Goutrat-vrat is believed to secure male progeny, as well as long life to the husband. It is observed on the fourth day of the dark half of Shravana, on which day women fast till the evening, and then take food after worshipping a cow. [561] The object of the Eva-vrat (or Jiva-vrat) is to secure eternal exemption from widowhood, the day for this vow being the last day of Ashadh. It is then necessary to observe a fast till the evening; and the only food allowed is a preparation of wheat, taken at nightfall. [562] On the fourth day of the dark half of Shravan, women observe a vrat called Bolchoth. In the morning the woman worships a cow and her calf (which must both be of the same colour), applies a little cotton to the horns of the cow, and makes an auspicious mark on the foreheads of both with red lac. She then places an offering of betel and rice before the cow, takes four turns round the pair, and whispers in the ears of the cow the words tarun satya marun vritya (your truth and my devotion). A Brahman then recites the legend of the vrat. [563] After narrating this story, the Brahman takes the betel and other things placed before the cow. The woman then returns home and takes food for the first time during that day, the meal consisting of loaves of bajra-flour and some preparation of mag (phaseolus mungo). Some women take ghi and khir: but any preparation of cow's milk is strictly forbidden. Similarly, there is a prohibition against using things which have been cut by a knife or scissors. [564] The worship of the goddess Randal is a favourite vrat with Gujarati women. A bower is erected for the installation of the goddess, and a bajat or a wooden stool is placed therein. A piece of fine cloth is spread on the bajat, and a figure is drawn in seeds of corn. A kalasio or bowl, with a cocoanut on it, is placed over the figure. The cocoanut has two eyes painted on it in black collyrium and a nose in red lac, and is decorated with rich clothes and ornaments to represent the goddess Randal. Ghi lamps are kept constantly burning before the goddess for three consecutive days and nights. An invitation is sent to the neighbouring women, who bring offerings of ghi to the goddess, and dance in a group at night to the accompaniment of melodious garabis (songs). [565] Sometimes, if a child is ill, or some misfortune is apprehended, goranis, i.e., a certain number of unmarried girls and unwidowed women, are invited to a feast in honour of Randal. On the Nagapanchami day, i.e., the 5th day of the bright half of Shravan, [566] women draw an image of a nag (cobra), and worship it with sprouts of bajra. In some places it is the custom to avoid all food but khichedi [567] on this day. The wad (the banyan tree) is worshipped on the first day of the dark half of Shravan. On that day the woman wears a necklace of fifteen leaves of this tree and prepares a dish called navamuthium. [568] A dora or piece of string is also worn on the person to ward off evil. [569] Rishi-panchami, [570] Gauri-pujan, Shitalai-pujan, Shili-satem are holidays observed only by women. On the Rishi-panchami day only niar [571] rice is allowed to those who observe the vrat. [572] Besides the observance of vrats, there are other ceremonies, auspicious as well as inauspicious, in which women alone can take part. Only women are concerned with all those ceremonies which are gone through on the birth of a child. On the twelfth day after birth, a name is given to the child by its aunt. The ceremony of making an auspicious mark on the throne of a king is performed by an unwidowed woman or an unmarried girl. [573] At the time of a marriage, women make the auspicious mark on the forehead of the bridegroom and carry a laman-divo [574] to fetch ukardi. For nine days preceding the date of marriage the bride and the bridegroom are besmeared with pithi or yellow turmeric powder, when auspicious songs are recited by a party of women invited to witness the ceremony. When the bridegroom reaches the entrance of the marriage bower, he is welcomed there by his mother-in-law, who carries him on her hip to his seat in the marriage booth. [575] It is necessary to make certain marks on the corpse of a woman, and these marks are made by women only. [576] Similarly, women alone take part in the ceremony of getting a widow's hair shaved on the ninth day after her husband's death. [577] The Shastras have enjoined the worship of certain higher-grade deities, and have prescribed certain ceremonials for the purpose. But women are not authorised to make use of these ceremonies. The reason is that the Shastras regard women as inferior to men and do not grant them the privileges given to the latter. They are not allowed to learn the Vedas nor can the Gayatri-mantra be taught to them. The result is that women are not qualified to perform the ceremonial worship of such higher-grade deities as Vishnu, Shiva, Durga, Ganpati, and Hanuman; [578] similarly the sacrificial rites of Vishnuyag, Shaktiyag, Ashvamedha, Raja-yajna, and Gayatri-purashcharan can only be performed by men. [579] It is the duty of men only to worship the shami tree (prosopis spicegera) on the Dasara day, and the Hutashani fire on the day of Holi. Women are not allowed to worship the god Kartikey, who is said to shun women, and to have pronounced a curse against all who visit his image. The fifteenth day of the bright half of Chaitra is the anniversary of the birth of Hanuman, and a vrat called Hanuman-jayanti is observed on this day. This vrat, [580] as well as the Ganesh-chaturthi-vrat [581] are meant only for men. The ceremonies of Shraddha [582] and the Baleva [583] ceremonies can be performed by men only. The duty of giving agni-sanskar to corpses, i.e., of performing the necessary rites at a funeral, is also laid on men. People who practise the art of attaining mastery over spirits and fiends, usually remain naked while they are engaged in the performance of their mysterious rites. There are many branches of this black art: for instance, Maran, [584] Uchchatan, [585] Lamban, Vashikaran, [586] Mohan, [587] Stambhan, [588] etc., and although the meli vidya (sacrilegious art) is not held in respect by high-class Hindus, it is popular among the lower classes. There is a belief that knowledge of this art dooms a person to hell; but it secures to those who master it a position of much importance, and therefore finds many followers. The art consists in the knowledge of certain mysterious incantations, which enable a person to influence the spirits and to bring about certain results through their agency. Not only has every person when learning this art, to remain naked, but all those who make prayogas or experiments in it afterwards must observe the same precaution. The night of Kali-chaudas or the 14th day of the dark half of Ashvin, is considered to be the most favourable time for the sadhan or accomplishment of this secret art of remaining naked. [589] On this day, it is the custom of those who exercise the art, to go stripped to a cemetery in the dead of night, and to cook food in a human skull as an offering to the spirits residing in the neighbourhood. On the same night, some sorcerers, after stripping themselves, are said to ride round the village on some mysterious conveyance. [590] A practice is noted among low-class people of performing a sadhana before the goddess Jhampadi for the sake of progeny. The man who performs the sadhana, has first to go naked to a cemetery on a Sunday night, and to fetch therefrom the ashes of a corpse. At the time of the sadhana, the man takes his seat on a corpse, fills a madaliun or hollow bracelet with the ashes brought from the cemetery, and puts it on his arm above the elbow. [591] Dhobis, Malis, Valands and other low-caste people remain naked while worshipping Bhairav. [592] In the performance of the anushthan (propitiation) of such deities as Kal-Bhairav, [593] Batuk, Mani, [594] Griva, etc., the devotees keep their persons uncovered. The worshippers of the goddess Jakshani also remain naked when they attend upon her. [595] Persons who practise the art of curing men from the effects of serpent-bites by means of incantations, have to sit naked under water in order to gain efficacy for their mantras. Followers of the Devi-panth, Shakti-panth and Aghori-panth sects remain naked while worshipping or offering victims to their gods. [596] Vama-margis worship a nude image of the goddess Digambara. The hook-shaped instrument, known as ganeshio, which is used by thieves in boring a hole through the walls of a house, is sometimes prepared by a blacksmith and his wife on the night of Kali-chaudas, both being naked at the time. Instruments prepared in this fashion are believed to secure success for the thief, who scrupulously sets aside the first booty acquired by the help of the ganeshio for the blacksmith as a reward for his services. He does not grudge the reward however large the booty may be. In making dice according to the directions of Ramalashastra, the workers should remain naked. There is a belief that granulations in the eyes of a child are cured if the maternal uncle fetches naked the beads of the Arani tree, and puts a circlet of them round the neck of the child. [597] If a person uncovers himself on hearing the screech of an owl, and then ties and unties seven knots in a piece of string, repeating the process twenty-one times, the piece of string is believed to possess the virtue of curing Taria Tav or periodical fever. [598] Another remedy for the same ailment is to go to a distance of three miles from the village and there to eat food which has been cooked in a state of nudity. In the preparation of Nargudikalpa [599] or Gujakalpa, some drugs have to be procured by a naked person. [600] It is considered meritorious by some persons to rise early in the morning and to bathe naked on the Makar Sankranti day. [601] A Brahman boy must be naked at the time of the performance of his thread investiture ceremony. After the ceremony, the maternal uncle of the boy presents garments to him, which he thereupon puts on. [602] In Gujarat, for the most part, the people seem to be unacquainted with the belief that certain stones possess the virtue of influencing the rain. Some persons however attribute this quality to the stones on such sacred mounts as Girnar, Abu, and Pavagadh. [603] There is a point called Tonk, on mount Girnar, of which it is said that rain is certain to fall whenever anyone succeeds in climbing it. [604] There is also a common belief that arasi marble if heated has influence over rain. [605] It is a common practice to submerge the image [606] of Shiva in water with the object of bringing rain. Similarly the image of the goddess Harshadh is sometimes bathed when rain is desired. [607] The bhuva or the bhui, i.e., the male and the female attendants of the goddess are at the same time given a bath, and an offering of Khir [608] is made to the goddess. There are two goals which a pious Hindu tries to attain by leading a life of purity and virtue, viz., (i) moksha or final emancipation, merging into the Eternal Spirit, and (ii) swarga (heaven or paradise) where meritorious persons enjoy pure pleasures unalloyed by earthly cares. The stars are the spirits of so many righteous persons who are translated to swarga for their good actions, and are endowed with a lustre proportionate to their individual merits. But every moment of enjoyment in swarga diminishes the store of merit: and those whose whole merit is thus exhausted, on receiving their proportionate share of pleasures, must resume their worldly existence. The Bhagavad-gita says: "ksine punye martyalokam visanti" i.e., "they enter the mortal world when their merit is expended." Meteors are believed to be spirits of this description who fall from their position as stars, to live again on this earth. [609] Another explanation of meteors is that they are the sparks produced when the vimans (or vehicles) of celestial people clash against each other. [610] Meteors are also held to be the agar or charak (i.e., excreta) dropped either by a curious water-bird, or by Garud, the favourite eagle, and vehicle of Vishnu, [611] or by a fabulous bird Anal. [612] The latter is said to fly at an immeasurable height from the surface of the earth, and to take food only once a day. It is almost impossible to catch the charak when it falls to earth: but if ever it can be secured, the application of it to the eyes of a blind man will restore his eyesight. It also furnishes an effective remedy for leprosy, and gives a golden lustre to the body of a person suffering from that disease. Some declare that meteors are stars which fall owing to the curse of Indra, and subsequently assume the highest human form on earth. [613] It is also said that the stars descend to earth in human form when sins accumulate in the celestial world. [614] The influence of meteors on human affairs is treated at length in the Varahasanhita. [615] The phenomenon is popularly regarded as an evil omen: it is supposed to portend devastation by fire, an earthquake, a famine, an epidemic, danger from thieves, and storms at sea. [616] The appearance of a bright shooting star is supposed to foretell the death of some great man; [617] and on beholding one, it is customary to repeat the words 'Ram Ram' [618] several times. [619] A shower of meteors is believed to presage some civil commotion or a change in the ruling dynasties. Some persons, however, regard the appearance of meteors as auspicious or baneful, according to the mandal or group of stars, from which they are seen to fall. Meteors from the Vayu-mandal, (or the group of stars known by the name of Vayu) portend the breaking out of an epidemic: those from Varuna-mandal, are believed to be favourable to human happiness; if they fall from Indra-mandal, they forebode danger to all kings; those from Agni-mandal, threaten war between nations. [620] During the monsoons, rain is believed to fall in that direction in which a meteor is seen to shoot. [621] A meteor in the west is ominous to kings, and if it falls into the sea, it forebodes evil to the dwellers on earth. [622] The appearance of a comet is believed to portend some dire calamity to the king and the nation. It is said that if a heavenly body is seen, chhogalo, [623] chhogala kings (i.e., great and celebrated kings) are in danger of their lives. [624] A comet is also believed to threaten all tailed animals with destruction. CHAPTER II. HEROIC GODLINGS Several stories, in addition to the legend of the Ramayana, are related of the birth of the god Hanuman. Dasharatha, king of Ayodhya, being childless, once performed a sacrifice with the hope of thereby obtaining male issue. On the completion of the ceremony a heavenly being rose out of the sacrificial fire and presented the king with a celestial preparation, called payas, which he directed the king to give to his wives if he desired a son. The king divided the divine gift among his three queens; but the share of one of them was snatched away by an eagle. It was dropped into the hands of Anjani, who was herself childless, and was practising austerities for the sake of obtaining a son. On partaking of the payas, Anjani conceived, and the son born to her was afterwards known as the god Hanuman. Another story relates how Anjani was one of those persons who helped Indra in his evil designs on Ahalya, the wife of Gautama. She had on that account been cursed by Gautama, and threatened with the birth of a fatherless child. To prevent the curse from taking effect, Anjani buried herself in the ground as far as her waist, and began to observe religious austerities in the hope of propitiating Shiva. The latter was pleased with her devotion, and sent her a mantra through Narada, who was ordered to deliver it in her ear. Vayu, the god of wind, forced the mantra into her womb, and she conceived a son named Hanuman. This son had the form of a monkey, because, at the time of conception, Anjani happened to behold a monkey, named Keshi, on a neighbouring tree. Hanuman is a chiranjiva, i.e., one of those seven [625] persons who are to live for ever and are therefore considered to be immortal. He is represented as possessed of miraculous strength, and his body is vajramaya, i.e., adamantine. When Sita was carried off by Ravana, it was he who crossed the sea and brought news about her to Rama. When Ahi and Mahi, two cousins of Ravana, carried off Rama and Lakshmana by magic and decided to offer them as victims to their favourite goddess Panoti, Hanuman entered the temple of Panoti, crushed her under his feet, and released Rama and Lakshmana. Hence he is known as the conqueror of Panoti. After the death of Ravana, Hanuman was left to guard the kingdom of Lanka, which was conferred by Rama on Bibhishana, the brother of Ravana. [626] Hanuman is an incarnation of one of the eleven Rudras, [627] [628] is a brahmachari (i.e., one who has taken the vow of celibacy), a powerful and benevolent deity, and a giver of many blessings. At the same time, he is considered to be the master-deity of all bhuts, prets, pishachas, (ghosts, goblins, fiends), of dakans (witches), shakans, chudel, vantri, of the forty-nine virs (male fiends), of the fifty-two vetals, of yakshas and yakshinis and of all evil spirits in general, who are believed to obey his commands. [629] Vows are observed in honour of Hanuman if a person is possessed by a bhut or a pret, or if he is scared by a jhapat (sudden encounter) with a devil, or if he happens to step inadvertently within the kundalan [630] of an utar. Persons who are possessed by evil spirits are exorcised by the bhuvas by reciting the zanzira mantra in honour of Hanuman. [631] Kali-Chaudas, i.e., the 14th day of dark half of Ashvin [632] is considered to be the most favourable day for practising the black art; and the god Hanuman is accordingly worshipped with much ceremony by bhuvas on that day. All bhuts, prets and spirits are thus believed to obey the commands of the god Hanuman. In the course of a sadhana (i.e. the process of procuring the fulfilment of certain desires through the favour and by the agency of spirits) the latter are conjured in the name of Hanuman, so that the sadhana may not prove inefficacious. For this purpose the Hanuman raksha mantra is repeated one hundred and eight times before the image of the god, the devotee remaining standing all the time. A lamp of clarified butter is also lighted, and frankincense is burnt. The mantra runs as follows:--'Om namo Hanuman bala ghatapidam, panika rakhavala, lohaki kothadi, bajarka tala, deva-danava-kumar, nikal Hanuman asan, Mahadev basan, Hanuman hathela, bajarka khila.' It is neither pure Sanskrit, nor Gujarati, nor Hindustani, but roughly it means:--'Bow to the young Hanuman, the tormentor of ghata, the guardian of water, the iron-safe, the lock of vajra, the son of the gods and the demons. Take your seat, the receptacle of Mahadev, O stubborn god, O Nail of adamant.' After the repetition of the mantra, four nails are driven into the four corners of the seat of the votary, and it is believed that the sadhana is thus rendered sure of success. [633] The god Hanuman is sometimes worshipped when a serious epidemic is to be warded off. The usual mode of propitiating him in such cases, and also in exorcising spirits, is to pour red lead and oil over his image, to make an offering of udad seeds (Phaseolus radiatus) and molasses, and to invest the image with a wreath of one hundred and eight flowers of ankada [634] or of as many leaves or berries of the same plant. [635] The influence of the god is believed to be so powerful in some places that it is said that a bhut or a pishacha is at once exorcised from the body of a person who observes certain ceremonies there. In some places the mere sight of the image of the god has the same effect, and it is believed that ghosts shriek and fly from the bodies of possessed persons, if these visit the images of Hanuman. In Kodolia, about half a mile to the west of Lilapur in Gujarat, there is a temple of Hanuman where persons suffering from fever go on a Saturday, and take a meal before 2 p. m. at which time the god goes out to graze his cows. This proceeding is believed to work a cure in cases of fever and is called anagah. [636] A mere glance at the temple of Hanuman at Khandia and Saranghur, or of that image which is known as 'Bhid-bhanjan,' is sufficient to drive out evil spirits from the bodies of possessed persons. [637] The same virtue is attributed to the images of Hanuman at Bhurakhia, near Lathi and at Nariana, near Dhrangadhra, in Jhalavar, [638] Kathiawar. There are certain peculiar conjunctions of planets, which if they appear in a person's horoscope, always bring him misfortunes. In such circumstances, the person is said to be under the influence of panoti. [639] Such influence lasts for a period varying from one year to seven years and a half. [640] When the planet Shani (Saturn) enters the 1st, 11th, or the 12th rashi in relation to a person, the latter is said to be affected by sadasati-panoti, i.e., panoti extending over seven years and a half. [641] The panoti enters the life of such a person with feet either of gold, silver, copper or iron: and in most cases the result is disastrous. If the panoti affects the head of a person, he loses his wits; if it affects the heart, it takes away his wealth; when it affects the feet, it brings bodily ailments. In order to counteract the evil effects of panoti, people worship Hanuman as the god who crushed the malignant goddess Panoti under his feet. On Saturdays red lead and oil, adad, molasses are offered to the image of the god. Frankincense is burnt, a lamp is lighted, and a wreath of ankada flowers is sometimes dedicated. [642] A fast is observed on such days; and sometimes the services of a Brahman are engaged to recite verses in honour of the god. There is a belief that Hanuman cries out once in twelve years, and those men who happen to hear him are transformed into hijadas (eunuchs). Oil which has been poured over the image of Hanuman and caught in a vessel is called naman. It is sometimes carried in a vatki (a small metal cup) and is burnt to produce anjan (i.e., soot used as collyrium). This anjan is believed to improve the eyesight, and to protect a person from the influence of evil spirits. There is a saying in Gujarati that 'Kali-chaudasno anjyo, ane koine na jay ganjio'. i.e., a person using anjan on Kalichaudas day cannot be foiled by anyone. [643] Of the days of the week, Saturday is the most suitable for the worship of Hanuman. Of all offerings, that of red lead and oil is the most acceptable to him. When Hanuman was carrying the Drona mountain to the battlefield before Lanka, he was wounded in the leg by an arrow from Bharata, the brother of Rama. The wound was healed by the application of red lead and oil, and hence his predilection for these things. It is also said that after the death of Ravana and at the time of the coronation of Bibhishana, Rama distributed prizes to all his monkey followers, when nothing was left for Hanuman except red lead and oil. Mostly Ankada flowers are used in worshipping Hanuman, but sometimes Karan flowers also are made to serve the purpose. The favourite dishes of Hanuman are malidda [644], churama [645] and vadan. [646] The usual naivedya is malidda of Savapati, i.e., of wheat weighing about six pounds and a quarter and vadan. [647] Bhima the second of the Pandavas was begotten from Kunti by Vayu, the god of wind, and hence was called Vayusuta. From his childhood he was possessed of miraculous strength, and had a voracious appetite. Every day he consumed 12 kalashis [648] (or 192 maunds) of corn, and as much oil as is yielded by 13 ghanis. He also required a maund and a quarter of betelnuts after each dinner. These habits had procured him the name of Vrikodara, i.e., wolf-bellied. He played a very important part in the Great War, and on the last day of the battle smashed the thigh of Duryodhana with his ponderous mace. In his early days he killed several demons including Baka and Hidimba. [649] Bhima never took food without first worshipping Mahadev. On one occasion no temple of Shiva could be found within easy distance, and in a rage, Bhima turned his bowl upside down and set it up as Mahadev. Such was the first installation of Bhimanath Mahadev revered to this day by all Hindus. Once upon a time Bhima obstructed the stream of a river by laying himself across it, when the river rose to the banks and submerged a temple of Shiva near by. Shiva thereupon assumed the form of a lion and pretended to chase Parvati in the guise of a cow. Bhima, in his true Kshatriya spirit, instantly rose from the water in order to save the cow from the lion. But the latter gave Bhima a blow on the shoulder with one of his paws, and instantly transformed himself into a sage. After Bhima had fruitlessly searched for the lion for a long time, he was informed by the sage that it was he, Shiva, who had assumed the form of a lion in order to rouse him from his position across the river. Shiva then favoured him with a boon that the half of his body which had received the blow would be turned into vajra (adamant). On Bhima's request a further boon was granted to him that he should in future be able to digest as much as he could eat without suffering discomfort. Hence the proverb: Bhima khave shakuni aghe. [650] It is said that Bhima once played at navateri (lit. nine and thirteen), i.e., he flung into the sky nine elephants with his right hand and thirteen with his left. The corpses of these animals were afterwards brought down to earth by Shukamuni to expiate king Janmejaya's sin of Brahmahatya (Brahman-slaughter). In his whole life-time Bhima is said to have fasted only on one day, which happened to be the eleventh day of the bright half of Jyeshtha and is now called Bhima-agiaras. On this day people who desire to be cured of dyspepsia observe a strict fast, taking neither food nor water, and pass their hands over their bellies repeating the name of Bhima and also offer cocoanuts to his image. [651] On the night of Bhima-agiaras, persons who are anxious to obtain health, wealth and victory over their enemies, bathe the image of Bhima in water and panchamrit [652] and worship it according to the prescribed ceremonies. [653] In some places there are vavs (or tanks) called Bhima-vavs which are said to have been formed by the strokes of Bhima, when playing gilli-danda. [654] There are huge images of Bhima on Mount Palitana. [655] There are many places in different parts of India which possess such images and which are believed to have been visited by the Pandavas during their exile from Hastinapur. The Pandavas never attained the status of gods and there is no systematic form of worship for them. Bhishma, the uncle of the Kauravas and the Pandavas, was an incarnation of one of the Ashtavasus [656] and was the son of king Shantanu by Ganga. The stories about Bhishma are chiefly derived from the Mahabharat, and need not be repeated here. He is not regarded as a god and does not receive systematic worship. [657] A fast is observed on the eighth day of Magh, the anniversary of the death of Bhishma. A dora (a knotted piece of string) tied in the name of Bhishma is believed to cure fever. [658] The Yantra (a mystical formula or diagram) of Bhishma is sometimes drawn on a piece of paper, water is poured over it, and the water is offered to women in labour to drink, as likely to expedite delivery. Bhishma-worship is supposed to facilitate the observance of the Brahmacharya-vrat (the vow of celibacy) and to bestow heroism and learning. [659] Bhishma is credited with having composed the well-known poem, Bhishma-stavaraj, which recites the glory of Krishna and shows the way to attain salvation. [660] There is a large temple of Ganpati near the eastern gates of Dhhank. It is said that this Ganpati informed a goldsmith, by appearing in a dream, that he was buried in a particular spot, and promised that a son would be born to him if he raised a temple in honour of the god. The goldsmith satisfied the wishes of the god and was soon relieved from the repeated taunt of the vanziapana (i.e., the barrenness of his wife). [661] The following tradition is connected with a place, about a mile from Dhhank, called Dhhank-ni Fui. Dhhank was in ancient times a great city and was known as Preh Patan [662]. Once a bava (recluse), named Dhundhalimal, came to reside with his chela (disciple) in a cave on a neighbouring hill. Every day the chela went about the city begging alms for himself and his guru; but nobody except a poor kumbharan (a potter-woman) ever gave him anything. So the chela was obliged to cut and sell fuel in order to obtain means of subsistence, although he did not mention this fact to his guru. One day the guru noticed the growing baldness of his disciple and on being questioned about it, the latter had to admit his difficulties in earning a livelihood. The next day the bava decided to test the charity of the neighbourhood, and went on a begging round in person. He moved about the city from door to door, crying aloud alek alek, but nobody except the kumbhar woman offered him so much as a handful of flour. He then addressed the latter thus:--"Girl, this city is sinful and will shortly meet with destruction. Fly, therefore, instantly with your family and never turn your face towards the city in your flight". Having thus warned the only righteous person in the city, the bava returned to his cave where, after reciting an incantation in high exasperation, he pronounced a terrible curse for the destruction of the city 'Let Patan be buried and let maya [663] be reduced to mati (dust).' A whirlwind at once arose and destroyed the whole city. The kumbharan had already fled with her children; but she unfortunately happened to look back in her flight, in spite of the warning, and she and her children were all turned into stones. In this form she can be seen even to-day, with two of her children on her shoulders and leading the other two. To the south of the same village on the banks of a small lake are situated the temples of Hinglaj Mata and Kamdev Mahadev. If there is a prospect of a drought in any year, the people of the village make an offering of lapsi to the former deity in order to bring about a fall of rain. About two miles from Dhhank there is a temple of Vikani, in whose honour vows are observed for the cure of fractured bones of men and animals. Brahmans are feasted at the temple of Hanuman at Timbo, four miles away from Dhhank. At a distance of about two khetarvas (fields) there is the shrine of Ashabi-pir where Mussalmans feast fakirs and other co-religionists of theirs. [664] Besides the above there are the temples of Shankar Tapakeshwar Mahadev and Mungeshwar Mahadev near the hill mentioned in the paragraph above and the temples of Pipaleshwar Mahadev and Ramchandraji, to the south of Dhhank. There are also temples erected in honour of suttees known as Nomalmata, Hulmata, etc. The river Vinu meets the Bhadar, at a place two miles to the east of Ganod, and the Moja also joins the Bhadar a little further to the east. Hence the spot is called Traveni (a confluence of three rivers) and is regarded as holy. The beautiful temple of Baraneshwar Mahadev is situated here. Vows for feasting a certain number of Brahmans, are observed in honour of this deity. [665] The celebrated shrine of Husen-pir is situated in the vicinity of Ganod, and is much revered by the Khoja community, who hold a fair there on every Aso-sud-bij, i.e. the second day of the bright half of Ashvin. The fair lasts for seven or eight days, when Khojas from Bombay and even Zanzibar visit the place. A large building, the Khoja-khana, is set apart to the west of the shrine for the sabha (or meeting). The largest fair was held in samvat 1940 (1884 A.D.), when H. H. the Agashah paid a visit to the shrine. There is a large gathering of people at the place every bij day. Husen-pir was a native of Kadi and a Saiyed by birth. In his youth, with his father's permission, he decided to remain unmarried, and took to travelling. In the course of his wanderings he halted for a week on the spot where his shrine stands at present, and was so charmed with the place, that he asked the owner of it, a Rabari, Almora by name, for permission to reside there always. The Pir was accompanied by two followers of the Mujavar fakir sect. The present Mujavar attendants at the shrine are descended from them, and stand in the 12th or the 15th degree of descent. One evening (it was the 5th day of the dark half of Bhadrapad) the Pir accompanied by his two followers went to the Bhadar to offer the evening prayers. After the prayers were over, he told his followers that a flood was soon coming in the river, and asked both of them to leave him and return with their horses. One of them left the place as directed: but the other placed his head on the Pir's lap and was drowned along with his master in the flood, which came down as if in obedience to the Pir's words. Before dying the Pir granted a boon to the Mujavars that their line of descent would never fail for want of their heirs, and that their heirs would always be his attendants. The same night the Pir informed the Khojas of Keshod and Kutiana that his corpse and that of his Mujavar follower lay unburied at a particular spot. The Khojas, accompanied by the Rabari Almora, visited the place in the morning and made ready to carry the corpses to Junagadh. They found to their astonishment that the corpses could not be removed. Almora then recollected the request of the Pir, and told the Khojas of his favourite place. The corpses were then carried to their present place of rest, and all efforts of the Khojas to proceed further proved unavailing. At that time there was a village called Keralun about a mile from the present site of Ganod. It is, however, uninhabited and in ruins and its site is now known as the timbo of Keralun. The Khojas erected a shrine over the place where the Pir was buried, and the tombs of his relatives were afterwards erected in the vicinity. Vows observed in honour of the Pir having proved fruitful in many cases, the Pir's fame spreads wider every day. The Gondal Durbar has granted a wadi (a piece of land) for the maintenance of the Mujavar family, who also receive the things that are offered to the Pir. The Khojas consider it a merit to dedicate a portion of their earnings to this Pir. People of all castes from Ganod offer one kori [666] at the time of the marriage of a girl at their house. The knots of the marriage-scarves of newly-wedded couples are untied here, and the ceremony of shaving children for the first time is also performed in the presence of the Pir. The usual offering to the Pir consists of churamu and kansar: some people, however, offer a goat or a ram and call it panechednariel. [667] There is a hollow log of wood on the boundary of Lath, a sub-village of Gondal and a mile to the South of Ganod. Long ago a fakir, while accompanying a band of outlaws barvatias, was killed in a scuffle and was buried here. A babul tree grew over his tomb, and came to be known afterwards as Lakkad Pir (the wooden Pir). The tree after a time withered till its stem was reduced to a small log with a hole in the centre. People observe vows in honour of this Pir for the cure of cough and bronchitis in children. After recovery, the children are made to pass through this bakan or hole and an offering of kansar is made to the Pir. It is not only the Musalmans who observe vows in the Pir's honour: Hindus also have the same strong faith in him. Nearly twelve miles from Vanod lies the temple of Bechra Mata, who is the patron goddess of the Pavaiya sect. A male buffalo is offered to her as a victim on the 15th day of the bright half of every month. Near the temple there is the holy kund of Mansarovar, the legend about which has already been related in these notes. [668] The village of Dadvi possesses the shrine of Mangalsha Pir. Friday is the day for special worship of the Pir, when dainties and cocoanuts are offered, and a flag is hoisted. Frankincense is burnt every evening. [669] There is also a temple of Machho, the goddess of the Bharvads, who offer her lapsi and cocoanuts on every bij day. They also light a ghi lamp and lop off the ears of a goat or a ram, and offer the blood to the goddess. In Kolki a bava of the Bharvad caste named Hado Bhagat is said to have set up the images of all the gods in a certain temple. It is believed that he possessed miraculous powers. His descendants do not sell goats to Kasais (butchers [670]). There is a temple of Khodiar Mata in Chok. The goddess is worshipped by Atits, who offer her lapsi on every Dasara day. There is also a temple of Hanuman, where the Khakhis bring an offering to the god every Saturday. [671] In the village of Mota Devalia are the temples of Bholanath, Mahadev and Pipaleshwar Mahadev. Both the deities are worshipped by Atits, who perform the ceremony with the usual materials of frankincense, a ghi-lamp, cooked food, and who also blow a conch. It is said about Pipaleshwar Mahadev that none can stay at night in the temple. Once a Brahman, who insisted on passing the night there, was hurled to a distance of two fields. There is also a temple of Swami-Narayan and three temples of Thakorji where the ceremony of worship is performed every morning and evening in the usual way with frankincense, a ghi lamp, and arati. The shrine of Nila-Pir on the village boundary is revered alike by Hindus and Musalmans. [672] In the vicinity of Chhatrasa, there is a temple of Kishordas Hanuman. On Kali-Chaudas day the people of the village offer churamu and vadan to the god. The shrine of Gebalasha Pir is situated two miles away from Chhatrasa, on the boundary line between that village and Kalana. Sweet-balls, or sometimes only molasses, are offered to this Pir on the fulfilment of vows observed in his name. Near the village gates lies the shrine of Daudshah, of whom it is said that he deprives thieves of their eye-sight, if they try to enter Chhatrasa. In the Vishnu-mandir, annakut [673] is offered to Vishnu by the attendant priest, on the first day of the bright half of Kartik. [674] A temple of Khodiar Mata surrounded by Pandari creepers is to be seen on the way from Mojidad to Sanka. The Thakor of Limbdi used to kill a goat before the goddess during the Navaratra holidays; but an offering of lapsi is now substituted for the goat. There is another temple of the same goddess on the way to Zabala where she is worshipped by the Bhadkava Durbar. The attendants at both places are Atits, and the usual offering consists of lapsi and khir. [675] At a place near the boundary-line between Mojidad and Ayarda, Swami-Narayan Bhagwan and Sahajanand Swami are said to have bathed in the company of Hanuman in the river Vansal. The Brahmacharis [676] of the Swami-Narayan sect hold a fair there and offer prayers to Hanuman on the 15th day of the dark half of Bhadrapad. [677] Every marriage-procession on its way to and from the place of marriage has to offer a new earthen jar to such field-deities as Dadmokhodiar, Lalo, Hardas, etc. Failure to do so arouses the wrath of these deities and brings disasters to the married couple. The only form of worship in use for these deities is to apply red lead and oil to their images. Seven kinds of corn, viz. adad (phaseolus radiatus), mag (phaseolus mungo), kalathi, math, chana (gram), wheat and juvari are mixed and cooked together and the preparation which is called khichdi is offered to the deities at sunset. If the deities are not propitiated in this manner, they are believed to do harm to the people of the village. [678] On a hill near the village of Patanvav there is a temple of Mataji, where a ghi lamp is kept constantly burning at the cost of the Gondal Durbar. In Patanvav itself there is a shrine of Ahaba Pir attended upon by a fakir. At the approach of the monsoons, all the villages offer lapsi to Mataji and churamu to the Pir. [679] In Paj, near Sultanpur there is a shrine of Gebansha Pir surrounded by a number of babhul trees; and it is said that if a person were to cut any of the trees, he would meet with death or at least fall ill. There is a cobra deity, called Khetalo, near Sultanpur whose gors (attendant priests) are Nagmaga Brahmans. It is believed that this deity confers once on each generation of the gors, as much wealth as would suffice for the lifetime of all men of that generation. [680] There is a temple of Hadmatio Hanuman about half a mile to the west of Luvaria. A Kanbi of the Dhani tribe once, while pursued by robbers, took shelter behind the image of Hanuman, and vowed that he and his descendants would discharge priestly duties towards the god if he escaped safely out of the difficulty. The god protected him in his danger, and his descendants are now the recognised attendants at the temple. [681] The village of Aman possesses the holy tomb of Davalshah Pir. This Pir lived in the 15th century and was a native of Ahmedabad. He had come to serve in the Amaran thana, when he was killed in a battle. A tomb was built over his body, and he soon came to be regarded as a Pir. His name became famous when a blind Bharvad regained his eye-sight through his favour. The Pir also gave a son to a Bania from Ahmedabad who visits the tomb every year in a black suit. Once a Miana killed a cow and took refuge at the shrine of this Pir: but the shrine spontaneously caught fire and he was burnt with it. The present building was erected by the Bania, and the ladies of the Jamsaheb's court have supplied silver gates and copper railings to it. The Jamsaheb also presents kinkhab coverings for the tomb every year. On the night of the Uras (or the fair held in the Pir's honour) sandalwood is burnt before the Pir. [682] Charadwa is well-known for the temple of Rajeshwari Mata. King Prithwi Raj Chohan suffered from white leprosy and was once going to Dwarka, with the hope that residence in the holy city would cure him of his disease. On the way, one of his best bullocks suddenly fell. The animal was almost given up for dead when a young woman named Rajbai, daughter of Uda Charan, happened to pass by while carrying water in earthen pots. Rajbai touched the bullock with one of her toes, and to the astonishment of all beholders, the animal at once got up. Prithwi Raj got rid of his leprosy by the favour of Rajbai, who granted him an additional boon that she would come to help him on another occasion if he remembered her and sought her assistance. Rajbai then directed him to visit Dwarka. Long after, king Prithwi Raj, when he was at his own place, remembered her in a moment of distress, and she went there (in spirit) after giving instructions to her relatives not to dispose of her body, as she would return soon. But the relatives did not understand her, and before she had returned from Prithwi Raj's place, her body was disposed of according to the usual manner. For this, Rajbai cursed her relatives that one of their descendants in each degree would turn out a lunatic. In her memory a pillar was raised and an image set up, both of which are worshipped every morning and evening. Milk, sugar and cakes are offered to her every morning in a thal or dish, and milk and sugar every evening. There is a festival in honour of Rajbai during the Navaratra holidays. [683] The temple of Swami-Narayan at Charadwa contains the images of Shrikrishna, Baldev, Radha, Rama, Lakshman and Sita. The ceremony of arati is performed before the images five times every day. The first is called mangalarati or the auspicious arati and is performed early in the morning. The second is Shangar (Shringar) arati, when night garments are taken off the images and new ones are put on for the day. The third Rajbhog arati, takes place at the time when dainties and cooked food are offered to the gods. The Sandhya arati follows the offering of milk, sugar and cakes to the gods in the evening. The last, Pidhan arati, is performed at night, when night garments are substituted for the rich dresses of the day. There are five occasions during the year when a fair is held at this place: (1) the Annakut fair on the first day of Kartik; (2) Vasantapanchami fair, on the fifth day of the bright half of Magh; (3) Hutashani or Holi fair, on the 15th day of the bright half of Phalgun; (4) Ramanavami fair, on the 9th day of the bright half of Chaitra, (5) Janmashtami fair on the 8th day of the dark half of Shravan. [684] To the north of Charadwa there is a field-goddess, named Motisari Meldi Mata, in whose honour persons who are afflicted by diseases take a vow of presenting a tava (a cake fried in oil in a pan). There is also a serpent-god named Charmaria who receives an offering of lapsi on every Aso-sud-bij, i.e., the second day of the bright half of Ashvin. Besides these there are four temples of Shiva, one of Shaktimata, one of Hanumanji and two Mahomedan Pirs in the village. In Limbdi Taluka, there is a temple of Kalika Mata, in whose honour vows are observed by persons suffering from physical or mental afflictions. The attendant at the place is a Brahman, and the worshippers of the Mata visit her temple on a Sunday or a Tuesday and offer sweetmeats or lapsi. On the eighth day of Ashvin a havan is made (i.e., offerings are burnt) before the goddess. [685] Vows in honour of Khodiar Mata are efficacious in the prevention of such epidemics as cholera. The Khiyado Mamo quells evil spirits, bhuts and prets. The Khodo Mamo cures such diseases as cough and bronchitis. In the temple of Ramnath, a brahmabhoj--a feast to Brahmans--is given on the last day of Shravan. Near the western gates of Zinzuwada is seen the celebrated shrine of Rajbai Mata. In old times Zinzuwada was only the nehado [686] of a Bharvad called Zunza. At that time the queen of the reigning prince of Patan could not be delivered of a child even though two years had passed since the time of conception. Once while on tour the queen's party encamped near the nehado of Zunza Bharvad. The latter, when he learnt of the queen's misfortune, said that the co-wives of the queen had bewitched her by the kaman art, i.e., by passing an earthen pot round her and by burying the pot underground with a live frog hanging with its head downwards in it. He added that the queen would not be delivered unless the frog was brought out by some stratagem. He asked the queen and her followers to stay there for some time, and sent word to Patan with a messenger that the queen was delivered of a son. The co-wives of the queen, dismayed at the unexpected news and at the futility of the kaman art, went to look at the buried frog, which instantly jumped out and at the same moment the pregnant queen gave birth to a son. As the child was brought to birth by the instructions of a Siddha-purusha (a magician), it was named Siddharaj. The town of Zinzuwada was built in memory of Zunza Bharvad, and a temple of Rajbai Mata was erected in honour of the queen. A large lake named Sensasar was also constructed in memory of Sensa, the brother of Zunza. [687] Soon afterwards people began to observe vows in honour of Rajbai Mata. The devotees of the goddess visit her temple every evening. All newly-married couples in the village offer salutations to the Mata accompanied by hired musicians and a party of women who sing on the way to the shrine. A virgin walks in front of the party with an earthen pot and a cocoanut on her head. After the salutations, sweetmeats to the amount vowed for are distributed among all those who are present. Sometimes a woman who has observed vows for the sake of a son, presents a silver umbrella to the goddess, of the value of one rupee and a quarter or five rupees and a quarter, on the birth of a son to her. Burnt offerings and lapsi are presented to the goddess to protect the town from such misfortunes as cholera, plague, etc. [688] There is a well-known place called Vachhda-solanki about eight miles front Zinzuwada. Once a Rajput boy, aged sixteen, was going round the marriage-altar at the time of his wedding, in the village of Kuar, when he heard a piteous cry from a distressed cowherd, whose cows were being carried away by freebooters. The boy immediately ran to rescue the cows; but he was killed in the encounter. A temple was built on that spot in his honour. There is a small kund near the temple, the water in which is believed never to dry up and to possess the quality of curing hydrophobia. Goradia Hanuman lies three miles from Zinzuwada, and there is a tradition that there is a treasure hidden near by. Many vows are observed in honour of Dhama Hanuman, whose place is at a distance of two miles from Zinzuwada. The holy kund of Zilanand is one mile from Zinzuwada. It is a custom of the neighbourhood to throw the bones of deceased persons into this kund, and a fair is held annually at the place on the last day of Bhadrapad. The Bhotavo kund is one mile distant from Zilanand kund: the bottom of this kund presents a bluish appearance, and the water always remains hot. It is said that there are sulphur mines below. A princess of Marwar used to worship five gods: Sumaria Ganesh, Kanaknath, Ratneshwar Mahadev, Nagnath and Hanuman; and she had taken a vow never to take food before she had worshipped all of them. The gods followed her everywhere in all her tours, but they had made one condition, that they would stop if she looked behind at them on the way. The princess happened to look back at Ganpati on the ridge of Sumaria near Keshia, three miles to the east of Jodia. So Ganpati would not leave Sumaria, and was installed there as Sumaria Ganesh. The same happened to Ratneshwar near Badanpur; to Kanaknath, at a place midway between Kanakpuri (the modern Kunad) and Badanpur; and to Hanuman, near Kunad. In the same manner, Nagnath was installed near the Balambha gate of Jodia. The old town of Kanakpuri was buried by an earth-quake, and the image Kunadia Hanuman was found among its ruins. The attendants of Sumaria Ganesh are Atits. A fair is held there on the 4th day of Vaishakh, when thousands of Dheds flock to the place. The usual offering to the god consists of sweet balls. Kanaknath is attended upon by Atit Bavas who share among themselves whatever is offered to the god. Shaivas hold a fair here on the 8th day of the dark half of Shravan. The devotees of Kunadia Hanuman observe anagh (vulgarly called anagodha) at his place on Saturdays. They cook their food there and make offerings to the god before partaking of it, fasting afterwards for the day. The anagh is observed in the month of Margashirsha. The attendants of this god are Khakhi Bavas. [689] One mile to the north-west of Jodia, towards the sea, there is a stone image of a horse set up on a pedestal, known as Raval Pir. A heroic Girasia of the Dal sect, named Raval, was once shipwrecked while on an expedition from Cutch, and is said to have landed at the spot where Raval Pir stands at present. He received a hearty reception at the hands of the then ruling prince of Jodia (who was a Khavas) and was installed in the Durbar as Nana Raval Pir. On the second day of the bright half of Ashadh (which is the new year's day according to the Halari year) Hindus offer lapsi to Raval Pir as also on each Monday in the month of Bhadrapad. On occasions of popular distress, such as the breaking out of cholera or when the rains stop for days together, the bhuvas at the place, who are Dal Rajputs, receive the pedi (a small heap of lapsi) on behalf of the Pir, and being possessed, declare the will of the Pir as to when rain may be expected or when an epidemic will be warded off. Persons who are anxious for the success of their undertakings observe vows in honour of the Pir which may cost them anything from a single pice to twenty-five rupees. At the shrine of Nana Raval Pir, huge kettledrums are beaten and the ceremony of arati is performed every morning and evening. [690] The present site of Lilapur was formerly uninhabited, and the village stood nearly one mile off. Once the goddess Bhavani directed the patel of the village in a dream to reside on the present site, and promised him that he would be always happy and that none of his descendants for seven generations would die of cholera. In testimony of the reality of the dream a box of red lac, a cocoanut, a reel of red thread--called nadasadi and chunadi--were found under the patel's pillow. The village was then removed to its present site. The descendants of the patel are called Yadoda. The Mata chose to take a Bharvad to be her attendant. On the 15th day of the bright half of Shravan offerings are burnt before the Mata, when the attendant bhuva has to offer sweetmeats worth five rupees. Every Bharvad family spends a rupee and a quarter every third year in honour of the Mata. During the famine of the year 1895 Samvat era (= 1839 A. D.) the bhuva was thinking of leaving the Mata in order to escape from starvation, when the goddess appeared in a dream to him, and told him that he would find half a rupee every morning in the temple until he saw and partook of the new harvest. In the month of Shravan, he happened to partake of some new seeds and the coin could not be found as usual after this, although the new harvest was not quite ready till three months afterwards. At the entreaties of the bhuva, however, the Mata again told him in a dream that he would find a silver anklet, weighing 60 tolas, on the bhogava (village boundary) of the village of Shiyani. A number of vows are observed in honour of this goddess with various motives. [691] The Shakta Mata in the western part of the same village prevents the Joganis or female fiends from spreading contagious diseases. The Surdhans near the gates of Lilapur represent two heroes who were killed in an encounter with freebooters in the Samvat year 1836 (1780 A. D.). The knots of the marriage-scarves of the descendants of the Surdhans are untied before them, and any of their female descendants visiting the images without a veil on their faces, are subjected to serious calamities. About ten years ago Unad Bhagat and Jiva Bhagat of Paliad were one day walking together, when Unad Bhagat collected seven stones and placing them one over the other, said to Jiva Bhagat that he was constructing a palio, i.e., a tomb for Jiva. Immediately Jiva died, and Unad had to carry out what was merely meant in jest. Some rooms are built at the expense of the Jasdan Durbar, and a pujari daily offers worship to Jiva Bhagat. A fair is also held in his honour on the second day of Bhadrapad. [692] About two miles from Jasdan in the village of Bakhalvad there is a temple of Avad Mata. The latter represents the queen of one of the rulers of Jasdan. On every Vijaya-dashami, i.e., the 10th day of the bright half of Ashvin, the prince of Jasdan goes to visit the image in a procession, offers lapsi to Avad Mata, and then a feast is celebrated. Formerly it was the custom to kill a buffalo before the goddess on this day: but only lapsi is now offered instead. It is usual to take some wine also on this occasion. [693] On the Chitalia hill, two miles from Jasdan, there is a temple of Shitala, the goddess of small-pox, where children who have lately recovered from that disease are taken to offer salutations to the goddess. Silver images of human eye, milk, sugar, curds, grapes, cocoanuts, a sheet of blank paper, and a number of other things are presented to the goddess on such an occasion. Some persons vow to visit the goddess with a burning hearth on their heads. Such vows are discharged on a satem, i.e., the 7th day of the bright or the dark half of a month. On Shili Satem, the 7th day of the dark half of Shravan, there is a large gathering of people at the place. The village-gods of Upleta are Kaleshwar, Pragateshwar, Somnath, Nilkanth, Dadmo and Khetalio. Pragateshwar is said to have emerged from the earth of his own accord and is therefore called Swayambhu (self-existent). The same is said about Nilkanth and Somnath also. The temple of Dadmo lies a little away from Upleta. Persons suffering from cough observe vows in his honour and partake of parched gram. There is a devi near Pragateshwar before whom a sacrifice is performed on the 9th day of the bright half of Ashvin, and cakes, bread, khichdi and khir are offered. [694] In Gondal there is a temple of Gondalio Nag and one of Nagnath Mahadev. Pure milk is the usual offering made to both the deities. Gondalio Nag is installed in Durbargadh and is white in appearance. Newly married couples of high class Hindus untie the knots of their marriage-scarves before this deity. In the Durbargadh there are tombs of seven ghoris with whose assistance the first king of Gondal is said to have won his crown. There is also a family goddess of the Bhadeja Rajputs in Gondal known as Ashapuri, a vow in whose honour is believed to fulfil all desires. [695] There is a female spirit named Meldi in Movaiya who is worshipped by bhuvas on the 14th day of the dark half of Ashvin. On that day they heat oil in an iron pan and take out cakes from the burning oil with unprotected hands. A goat and a cock are also sacrificed on this occasion, and the meat is partaken of in order to win the favour of the goddess. [696] There is a beda tree near Movaiya about which the following story is told. Long ago there was a kanbi (farmer) in Movaiya who used to see a boy moving in front of him with an uncovered head whenever he was ploughing his field. One day the kanbi lopped off the hair from the boy's head who followed him to his home, entreating him to return the lock of hair. The kanbi however did not heed him, and concealed the lock of hair in a jar containing gram. The boy then served the kanbi as a field-boy, when one day he was asked by his master to take gram out of the jar for sowing. The boy, who was a bhut, found his lock of hair there, and when once he had obtained it, he took a very heavy load of gram to the kanbi and bade him good-bye. But before the boy had fled with his lock of hair, the kanbi begged of him a boon that a beda tree should grow in his field, where vows could be observed in honour of the bhut. The villagers in Sayala accompanied by several bhuvas and by musicians who beat the dhols and the danklan go outside the village to visit the temple of Khodiar Mata on the 15th day of the bright half of Shravan. The bhuvas wind a piece of cotton-thread round the village, and sometimes pour out milk or water in the same place in order to secure its safety from any epidemic. On the same occasion four divers, who are generally healthy young athletes, are presented with an earthen pot each and are made to stand in the village-tank till the water reaches to their necks. They are asked to dive simultaneously in the water at a signal from the headman of the village, and to get out immediately. Each of them is named after one of the four months of the rainy season and the amount of water in the pot of each is supposed to indicate the amount of rain which would fall in the respective months of the next year. After leaving the water the divers break the pots on the spot, and the fragments are taken away by the people, to be kept in their jars of corn, in the belief that they will bring prosperity in the ensuing season. The four divers are then made to run a race on the maidan, and he who wins the race gets a small plough and a cocoanut as a prize. The winner is called halino-jityo, and it is believed that he will be successful in all his undertakings. On the same day the bhuvas place a small four-wheeled chariot of the Mata outside the village, and it is believed that the chariot carries off the plague, cholera and similar diseases with it. Such ceremonies are performed in most of the villages on the Balev holiday (i.e., the Narel-Purnima day, or the 15th day of the bright half of Shravan). [697] The foundation of a new settlement is carried out in various ways. A series of unusual accidents befalling the residents of a village makes them doubtful of the security of their residence, and produces a desire to move to a safer home. Very often on such occasions the bhuvas or exorcists are possessed by the Devis, or Matas, and declare the will of the gods regarding a new settlement. Sometimes a change of home is recommended to the villagers in a dream: sometimes a heavenly voice is said to direct the change, in addressing one of the villagers. [698] An astrologer has first to be consulted as to the auspicious date on which the boundaries of the new settlement should be marked out. Three or four days before the delimitation, learned Brahmans are sent to purify the chosen site by the recitation of sacred mantras. [699] On the appointed day the headman of the village leads a procession to the site, and performs the ceremony of installing the village gods. It is said that, at the time of founding a new settlement, it is necessary to install and worship the panch-deva or the five deities, namely, Hanuman, Ganpati, Mahadev, Vishnu and Devi. Hanuman is installed at the village-gates, and is propitiated with an offering of churmu and vadan. The images of Ganpati and Vishnu are set up in a central place in the village, temples being built for them in due curse. Mahadev is generally installed on the village-boundary, and has a temple built for him afterwards. Devi may be set up anywhere: her installation is not permanent nor does she receive systematic worship. [700] But more generally only Ganpati, Hanuman and Mata are installed on this occasion. [701] Occasionally other deities, such as the Earth, Shesh Nag, [702] the Navagrah (the nine planets), the pole-star and Kshetrapal are also worshipped. [703] The village-gates are fixed after the ceremony of installation, and a toran--a string of asopalav leaves (Jonesia asoka) with a cocoanut in the centre--is fastened across them near the top. [704] Here the ceremony of khat-muhurt [705] is performed [706] and afterwards the headman, accompanied by a Brahman, who recites mantras, either winds a cotton-thread besmeared with red lac round the village or pours a stream of milk dharavadi along the village boundaries. [707] The headman has further to perform the homa at the gates of the village, when a company of Brahmans recite holy passages in honour of Hanuman and Mata. At the time of the completion of the homa, when the ahuti (an oblation of ghi) is thrown on the fire, all persons present offer cocoanuts to the sacrificial fire. [708] In some places it is usual to worship the newly chosen site itself, and then to drive into the ground a wooden peg besmeared with red lac, called the khili (peg) of Shesh Nag, which is first ceremoniously worshipped with red lac, sandal-ointment and rice. [709] After these ceremonies, the villagers are at liberty to build their own houses within the new settlement. When the houses are complete and ready for habitation, it is necessary to perform the ceremony known as vastun (or graha-shanti) for the propitiation of the nine planets. Both the day of installing the gods and the day of vastun ceremony, are observed as festivals, at which Brahmans are feasted, and lapsi, churmu and kansar are offered to the gods. [710] The new settlement may be named after the deity whose advice brought about the move or after the headman. It is sometimes named after the particular incident which drove the people to seek their new home. A failure of the harvest is in most cases due to the irregularity of the rains. It is therefore ascribed to the displeasure of Indra, the god of rain, and Varuna, the god of water. The mode of propitiating these gods has already been described. Sometimes a cessation of rains is attributed to the wrath of the village-gods, whereupon the festival of Ujani is celebrated in order to appease them. One day, preferably a Sunday, all the inhabitants go outside the village, and rich viands are cooked to be offered to the village-gods. At the same time, the headman performs a homa sacrifice and the dainties are partaken of after the villagers have thrown cocoanuts into the sacrificial fire. In similar circumstances people sometimes seek the protection of the gods Annadeva, Annapurna, and Kriya Bhaudai. Six dokdas [711] or six pice are collected from every house in the village to make what is called a chhakadi, and the whole amount is then bestowed in charity in the name of the above-named deities. [712] Rain during the Ashlesha and Magha nakshatras [713] is destructive to the crops, and is a sign of the wrath of Indra, who should be appeased with sacrificial offerings. [714] Diseases among cattle are believed to be brought on by the wrath of minor deities such as Shitala Mahakali [715] or the sixty-four Joganis. [716] [717] The bhuvas, when they are possessed, declare to the people which particular deity is exasperated, whereupon that deity is conciliated either by offering dainties or a goat or a ram, or by the observance of Ujani. A dharavadi--a stream of milk--is poured on to the ground adjoining the village side, and torans of asopalav leaves (Jonesia asoka) are fastened on the doors of the offended deity's temple. [718] It is also customary to place baklan and vadan at a spot where three roads meet in order to propitiate the evil spirits, who frequent such places. [719] Small-pox is supposed to be the result of the displeasure of the goddess Shitala. In all cases of small-pox the victim is left to suffer, the only remedy being the observation of vows in honour of the angry goddess. Different things are dedicated to the goddess according as the disease affects one part of the body or another; and they are usually offered on a Sunday or a Tuesday. The usual offering consists of kulera, [720] a tav (a sheet of paper), fried juvari, fried gram, and other articles varying according to the symptoms. [721] To ward off this disease the women of the village sometimes prepare cakes, ganthias, [722] etc., on the sixth day of a month, the preparations being partaken of on the next day, when no fresh food is to be cooked. [723] Kharava affects the hoofs of cattle, in which it produces irritation; it is generally due to worms in the hoofs. A jantra (a mystical arrangement of words) of the twelve names of Mahavir (the great warrior, i.e. Arjun) is written on a piece of paper, and tied round the neck of the diseased animal, fastened over the gates through which the cattle pass, or suspended over the street by which the cattle go out to graze. [724] The jantra is as follows:-- Shrisakha [725] Dhanurdhari Gajidhana Krishna-sakha. Dhananjaya Lalanlarkha Kapidhwaj. Jayahari. Gudakesh Pitabhava Narsinh Parth. Sometimes the paper on which the jantra is written is placed in a hollow bamboo stick which is then fastened over the gates. [726] The jantra is believed to have the power to cure the disease. Muva-keshibi causes saliva to flow continuously from the mouths of animals. A gagarbediun (a piece of leather thong or a piece of black wood, on which magic spells have been cast) is suspended over the village gates or is tied to the neck of the animal, in the case of this disease occurring. [727] In such diseases as kharava, sunaku, motudukh (lit. the great malady), valo, pet-tod, [728] Bandhai-javan, [729] a jantra is tied by a piece of indigo-coloured cloth or by a piece of thread of the same colour, round the neck of the animal, and is also fastened over the village-gates. A toran is prepared of the ears of juvari corn with a cocoanut in the centre, and after magical incantations have been pronounced over it, is suspended over the village-gates. All animals passing under the toran are believed to be proof against the disease. But if this is not successful in checking the course of the disease, it is usual to swallow the chelans [730] of Mungi Mata (the Dumb Mother). For this purpose the bhuvas of the Mata, who are Bharvads, are invited to the stalls of the affected cattle, where they recite magic incantations amidst tumultuous shouts and yells. After this they are fed with rice, ghi and sugar, this latter process being called 'swallowing the chelans of the Mata.' [731] In event of this process being of no avail in restraining the disease, the headman of the village in the company of his wife performs a homa sacrifice in the places dedicated to the Matas, and offers an ahuti--a sacrificial oblation--when all the villagers dedicate cocoanuts to the sacrificial fire. [732] Sometimes the wrath of the god Gorakhdev is supposed to be responsible for cattle-diseases. A bunch of the leaves of a poisonous medicinal plant ankdo is passed seven times over the body of the ailing animal with the prayer 'May Gorakhdev be pleased,' and a cocoanut is dedicated to the god. [733] Another method of checking cattle-disease is to bury the corpse of an animal which has died thereof near the village-gates. It is believed that this puts a stop to any further deaths among cattle from the same disease. [734] When such a disease as shili (small-pox), sakharado, or kharava prevails largely among cattle, a belief gains ground that the Dheds (who flay the dead cattle and sell their hides) have poisoned the drinking water of the cattle in order to increase their earnings. [735] The god Kal-bhairav was brought into existence by the fury of god Shiva, when he, being extremely angry with Brahma, cut off the fifth head of the latter. Kal-bhairav is the leader of all bhuts (ghosts) and dakans (witches), and resides at Kashi (Benares) by the order of Shiva. His favourite haunt is a cemetery. His image is always represented as fierce and ugly. [736] It is said that this god once entered the mouth of Gorakhnath and performed religious austerities in that strange abode. Although Gorakhnath was nearly suffocated, he could only persuade Kal-bhairav to come out by extolling his glory and by conferring on him the leadership of all bhuts and the guardianship of the Kotvalu fortress at Kashi. [737] Kal-bhairav does not command worship on any auspicious occasion. On the other hand, he is much revered by persons who practise the black art. On Kali-chaudas day his devotees worship him in a cemetery, offer an oblation of baklan, and recite magic incantations till late at night. [738] The offerings favoured by Kal-bhairav are khir, [739] cakes of wheat flour, sugar and vadan. [740] [741] The sacrifice of a live animal is also acceptable. [742] The offerings after presentation to the god, are given to black dogs. Pregnant women in order to secure a safe delivery sometimes vow to abstain from ghi till they have offered an oblation to Kal-bhairav. [743] The following lines are often repeated in honour of this god [744]:-- Bhuktimuktidayakam prasastañcaruvigraham | Bhaktavatsalam sthitam samastalokavigraham || Niskvananmanojñahemakimkinilasatkatim | Kasikapuradhinatham kalabhairavam bhaje || 1 || (I worship Kal-bhairav, the giver of food and of salvation, of auspicious and comely appearance, who is kind to his devotees.) Ganpati or Ganesh, about whose origin the traditional legends prevail, is represented with four hands, in one of which he holds a kamandalu (a gourd), in the second a ladu (or a sweet-ball), in the third a parashu (or an axe), and in the fourth a jap-mal (or a rosary). He is sometimes called Dundalo (lit., big-bellied) because of his having a protuberant belly. He puts on a yellow garment and rides a mouse. His brother is Kartik-swami who rides a peacock. His favourite dish consists of ladus or sweet-balls of wheat-flour fried in ghi and sweetened with molasses. Siddhi and Buddhi are the two wives of Ganpati. Before their marriage their father Vishwarupa had made a promise that he would bestow the hands of both on whomsoever circumambulated the whole Earth within one day. Ganpati reasoned that a cow and a mother are equal in merit to the Earth and by passing round the former, he got the hands of both. Ganpati is said to be the fastest writer of all, so that the sage Vyasa secured his services as a scribe, at the instance of Brahma, in writing the Mahabharat. When Ravan had conquered all the gods and made them serve in his household, Ganpati had to become a cowherd and to look after cows and goats. [745] On Vaishakh sud choth, known as Ganpati choth, i.e., the fourth day of the bright half of Vaishakh, Ganpati is ceremoniously worshipped with red lead, red flowers, milk, curds, honey, etc. The image of the god is besmeared with red lead and ghi, and the remnant of this ointment is applied to the doors and windows of the house. [746] Sweet-balls of wheat-flour fried in ghi and sweetened with molasses are first dedicated to Ganpati and are afterwards partaken of as the god's gift. [747] The people of Maharashtra observe Ganpati choth on the 4th day of the bright half of Bhadrapad, when an earthen image of Ganpati is made and worshipped with twenty kinds of leaves. [748] It is a custom among the Vaishnavas to draw an image of Ganpati in those vessels which are to be used for cooking food at the time of performing the obsequies of a deceased Vaishnava. [749] The Matrikas are sixteen in number, and are worshipped on such auspicious occasions as a yajna (i.e., a sacrifice), a wedding, or the ceremony known as vastu. [750] Their installation consists in painting the following marks with red lac on the back walls of a house. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The marks are besmeared with molasses, and a little ghi and a piece of some precious metal is affixed to them. [751] At the time of a marriage, fourteen are worshipped in the house, one outside the village limits, and one near the front door of the house where the wedding is celebrated. [752] The Matrikas or Matas are worshipped during the Navaratra holidays also. On this occasion small morias or earthen bowls with a hole in the centre of each, are plastered with khadi (red or green earth) and kaya; and young girls carry them on their heads with burning lamps from door to door. At each house they receive oil for the lamp and a handful of corn. On the last day, i.e., on the ninth day, all the bowls are placed on the special site dedicated to the Matas. The songs, which are also accompanied by dancing, are called garabi or garaba. [753] The Matrikas are also supposed to be the grahas or planets which influence the life of a child in the womb, and their worship is believed to bring about an easy delivery. [754] There is also a family goddess of the name of Matrika. In worshipping her, seven round spots are painted on a wall with red lac, and ghi is poured over them in such a manner as to form five small relas (streams). A mixture of molasses and ghi is then applied to these spots with a piece of adachh (red cotton yarn). By this process the devotee secures the motherly regard of the goddess. [755] One of the deities which preside over child-birth is Randal Mata or Ranna Devi, who is said to be the wife of the Sun. [756] In order to secure an easy delivery, pregnant women take a vow that they will invite one or more lotas (bowls) of this Mata. The process of "inviting the lotas" is as follows:-- The tufts round the shell of a cocoanut are pulled out, the nut is besmeared with chalk, and marks representing two eyes and a nose are painted on it. (Or the nut is so placed that the two spots on its surface represent eyes, and the pointed tuft of fibres between them serves the purpose of a nose). A bowl is placed on a piece of cloth stretched on a wooden stool, and the cocoanut is placed over the bowl. It is then dressed in elegant female attire, and a ghi lamp is kept constantly burning near it. This completes the sthapan or installation of Randal Mata. Women bow down before this representation of the Mata, and sing melodious tunes in its presence. On the morning of the following day, the image is carried to the temple of the village Mata, the cocoanut is deposited there, and the garments are brought home. The cocoanut is subsequently taken by the Brahman attendant of the Mata. On the day of the installation it is customary to invite five goranis [757] (married women whose husbands are living) to a feast of khir and cakes. On the next day, when the Mata is sent away, three virgins are entertained with rice, sugar and milk. [758] In some communities a custom prevails of "inviting the lotas of the Matas" on the occasion of the first pregnancy of a woman. On the day on which the lotas are to be invited, the pregnant woman takes a bath early in the morning, and calls upon thirteen goranis, whom she invites to dinner by marking their foreheads with red lac. A Brahman is called to set up the Matas, whose installation takes place in the same manner as that of Randal. The piece of cloth spread on the wooden stool is required to be green. When the goranis sit down to the dinner, the pregnant woman washes their right toes with milk and swallows that milk as charanamrit (lit. the nectar of the feet). The goranis are required to taste a morsel of some preparation of milk before they begin their meal. At night, a company of women dance in a circle round the Matas, singing songs. Next morning a bhuva is called, who declares the will of the Matas. On receiving a satisfactory reply from the bhuva, the party disperses. [759] The goddesses Bahucharaji (or Bechraji) and Ambaji are sometimes worshipped for the sake of safety during childbirth. The ceremony of Nandi-Shraddha which was performed when Rama was born is sometimes gone through at the birth of a child. [760] The deities of the forest reside in groves of trees or near the Piludi tree, to which their devotees must go in order to fulfil their vows. [761] These deities do not receive any formal worship. But they are noted for the cure of certain diseases, and the groves which they haunt are frequently visited by afflicted persons. These deities are installed in those places where they have manifested their powers. [762] There is a belief that if unmarried persons touch sindur or red lead, a cobra deity of the forest, Kshetrapal, takes them in marriage. But the danger can be averted by vowing to dedicate khichadi, red lead, a dokado [763] and some fruit to this god at the time of marriage. [764] CHAPTER III. DISEASE DEITIES. Such diseases as cholera and small-pox are believed to be brought on by the wrath of the Matas or Devis caused by neglecting to offer the usual oblations. In order to propitiate them, Brahmans are engaged to recite the Chandipath and to offer havans (sacrificial offerings). Very often the festival known as ujani is observed, in which all the villagers go outside the village to take their meals, and return home in the evening after witnessing the ahuti (the offering of cocoanuts to the sacrificial fire). [765] Another belief personifies the diseases as malin or evil spirits who are fond of human prey. To ward them off, a dhara-vadi, or stream of milk, is poured out in the village or a magic thread is passed round. The chariot [766] of the Mata is driven through the village with the same object. [767] There is a popular tradition that in ancient times cholera was subjugated by king Vikrama, and was buried underground. Once upon a time the British excavated the place in the belief that treasure was concealed there, and thus cholera was released. After many soldiers had fallen victims, the disease deity was at last propitiated by an oblation, and was handed over to the Bhangis (or scavengers). [768] This association of the Bhangis with cholera is present in most of the beliefs current about the disease. There is a story that once upon a time a number of students had put up in a house by which a Bhangi was in the habit of passing frequently. He daily used to hear the students reciting the sacred texts and this produced in his mind the desire to become a Sanskrit scholar. For this purpose, having concealed his low birth, he went to Benares and by diligent study, soon became a pandit. He even married a girl of high caste. But his imposture being at last discovered, he burnt himself to death, and his ashes gave rise to the disease known as cholera. [769] At the present day, if the epidemic breaks out, the Bhangis are often suspected in some way or other of having brought it about. It is said that they make statues of the flour of adad (phaseolus radiatus) and after piercing them with needles and pins, either throw them into the wells which are daily used by the villagers [770] or bury them in a spot over which the people frequently pass. The whole affair is managed very secretly and at the dead of night. The slightest rumour of such proceedings causes a tumult in the village, and the Bhangis are then in danger of being severely handled by the enraged villagers. [771] Another method by which the Bhangis are supposed to bring about cholera is to sprinkle the blood of a black cow on the image of Hanuman. The god is deeply offended at the insult, and in consequence spreads cholera in the neighbourhood. For this reason, offerings are burnt before Hanuman in order to stop an epidemic of cholera. [772] Bhangis are also supposed by some to accomplish the same result by the help of malin or evil deities who are first gratified by the offering of victims. [773] One of such deities is Ramdepir, to whom bali-dan (offering of a victim) is made by the people, through the medium of Bhangis, for the prevention of cholera. An outbreak of cholera offers a good opportunity to the Bhangis, who extort dainties and small sums of money from the people. Persons attacked by cholera often seek the services of a Bhangi and promise him liberal gifts if they are cured. The latter generally treats his patients by tying a magical thread round their elbows. [774] It is said that the Bhangis have to present an offering to their malin or evil goddess every third year, and that, in so doing, they kill a black animal before the goddess. They then place an iron pan full of sesamum oil on the fire, and suspend the body of the animal above it. It is believed that as many human beings will fall victims to cholera as the number of the drops of blood that fall from the body of the animal into the iron pan. [775] Another deity whose wrath is supposed to be responsible for the breaking out of cholera is Mahamari Devi. [776] The worshippers of this goddess are Bhangis. She is believed to send forth cholera when her oblations are stopped, [777] and her favour is regained by renewing the offer of these oblations. Sometimes the Navachandi sacrifice is performed at the principal village-gates, and the chandipath is recited at the other gates. A number of Brahmans and virgins are also feasted, and presented with garments. A magic cotton thread is passed round the village and a dhara-vadi, or stream of milk, is poured out. The bhuvas go round the village playing upon the harsh unpleasant danklan. A goat is then taken to the temple of the Mata, and the bhuvas, after cutting out its tongue, dip their hands in its blood and strike them against the doors of the temple. The goat is then killed and similar blood-marks are made upon every door in the village as well as on the village-gates, where an iron nail is driven into the ground with an incantation. A lime is then cut, and an oblation is offered to the Mata. Such a process is believed to stop the progress of the epidemic. Other deities connected in popular belief with cholera are the goddesses Visuchika [778] and Chandika. [779] Visuchika is conciliated by burnt offerings: the recitation of the chandipath wins the favour of Chandika. There is also a giantess named Karkata who is supposed to be responsible for cholera. She is said to have sprung from the sweat on the forehead of Brahma and to reside in the chandra mandal (or lunar sphere). [780] One of the remedies adopted to stop an epidemic of cholera is to propitiate Shiva by the performance of Rudrayag, [781] Maharudra, Shatachandi, Homahavan and by bestowing gifts on Brahmans and other holy men. [782] Sometimes vows are observed with the same object in honour of a minor local deity named Lala Hardev. [783] Another method of driving off the disease is to convey it to the body of a goat or a ram, or a he-buffalo, and to drive the animal out of the village. [784] Small-pox is believed to be the act of the goddess Shitala Mata, who spreads the disease whenever she is desirous of having victims. [785] Thus, in cases of small-pox, the patient very often receives no medical treatment, the only remedies adopted being directed towards the propitiation of the Mata. [786] A number of vows are taken in the Mata's name, to be fulfilled after the patient has recovered. Many people accomplish their vows before the Shitala Mata at Kalavad in Jamnagar. A vow to visit this place after the patient's recovery, and to abstain from certain things till the day of the visit, is taken by the mother of the affected person in case of a severe attack. But almost every village contains a temple of Shitala Mata, and those, who cannot go to Kalavad, vow in the name of the local Mata. One of such vows is to go to the temple of the Mata with a burning hearth on the head. Such a vow is generally undertaken by the patient's mother. Ordinarily in a case of small-pox, the patient is not allowed to bathe till he is completely free from all traces of the disease. A bath is then given on a Sunday, a Tuesday, or a Thursday, with water which has been heated by being placed in the sun. An image of Shitala Mata is set up in the house near the water room, and the patient worships the image after the bath. The image is drawn in cowdung with two cotton seeds to represent the eyes. An offering of kulera [787] and curds is made to the goddess. Five virgins are invited to dinner, and are served with cold food. All the members of the household also partake of cold food. On the 7th or the 13th day of the bright half of a month the patient is taken to the temple of Shitala Mata, when a cocoanut is broken in the presence of the goddess. Half of the cocoanut is brought home, the other half being carried away by the Mata's attendant. Some people place a new earthen vessel filled with water near the goddess. Silver eyes, which may be worth anything between half an anna and half a rupee, are dedicated to the Mata. The first visit to the Mata should take place on a Sunday or a Tuesday. The things vowed to the goddess are dedicated on this occasion. It is also necessary to go to the goddess again on the next Tuesday or Thursday after the first visit. This time only water and red lac are offered. [788] During the course of the disease no low-caste person and no woman in her monthly course is allowed to cast his or her shadow on the patient. The women in the house are prohibited from combing their hair, or churning curdled milk, or indulging in sexual intercourse. Such acts are believed to cause extreme displeasure to the Mata, who then causes some limb of the patient to be affected. Branches of nimb leaves are suspended over the doors of the house, and also round the patient's bed. The same leaves are used to fan the patient. When a child suffers from the disease, it is often weighed against dates, which are first dedicated to the goddess, and then distributed amongst the poor. [789] The child is taken to bow down before the goddess after nine or ten days from the date of attack, and the mother of the child offers several things to the Mata, among which are grapes, sugar, a pinch of flour, a small earthen bowl full of water, and a blank sheet of paper. [790] Different things are dedicated to the goddess according as the disease affects one part of the body or another. For instance, flour of bajra or juvari is offered in case of bronchitis; silver models of the human eye when the disease affects the eyes; a goras (a black earthen vessel full of curds) in case of morbid heat; a piece of black paper, in high fever, and salt if there is an itching sensation. [791] The Mata is said to live on cold food and to be very fond of things which have a cooling effect such as fruits, sugar, etc. The same things are given to the patient as food. [792] To secure the protection of Shitala Mata for their children, women annually observe the vow of shili satem on the 7th day of the dark half of Shravan. On this day the Mata is said to visit every house and to roll herself on the hearth. No fire is, therefore, lighted in the hearth on this day: for if the Mata comes and is scorched by the fire she is sure to bring misfortune on that household. For this reason, a number of dainties and all the food necessary for the day is prepared on the previous day. On the day of shili satem, juvari seeds are spread on the hearth, and after being sprinkled with red lac, a cowdung bowl containing a plant called vana is placed upon them. The women of the house bathe with cold water and take only one meal during the day. They further abstain from sewing and embroidering during that day. Sometimes a Brahman is engaged to recite the Shitala shloka from a book called Rudrayamal. [793] The following legend is related of shili satem. A certain woman once forgot to extinguish the fire in her hearth on Randhan Chhetha (lit. cooking sixth), i.e., the day previous to shili satem. On the next day, the Mata was scorched in the stomach when she came to roll herself on the hearth. In extreme anger the goddess cursed the woman saying that her only son would be burnt to death; and immediately the boy died. In her anguish the unfortunate mother confessed her fault to a friend, who advised her to go to the jungle and entreat the Mata to give back her son. She found the goddess rolling in distress under a babul tree. The woman slowly approached her, and began to comb out the Mata's hair. She then placed her son in the Mata's lap and entreated the goddess to revive the boy. The Mata felt much relieved by the woman's attentions and blessed her saying that her bosom should be as quiet as her own head. Immediately, at these words, the boy revived, to the intense joy of his mother. [794] Women whose relatives have recovered from a dangerous attack of small-pox observe a vow on every satem, i.e., the 7th day of the dark half of every month. They first bathe with cold water and, after offering an oblation of kulera, take their meals only once during the day. This food has to be prepared on the previous day. Shitala Mata is described as riding an ass in a nude state with the half of a supadun (a winnowing fan) for an umbrella and with a swing in one hand, and a broom in the other. [795] But more usually the Mata is represented by a mere trunkless head in stone, besmeared with red lead. This is said to be the head of Babhrivahan, the son of Bhima [796] the second of the Pandavas by a Nag mother. At the time of the Great War, he was sent by his mother from his residence in the patal (the regions below this world) to assist his father, and as he did not know the Pandavas, he was asked to join the weaker side. On coming to the earth he first met with Krishna who took a promise from him to lop his own head off. In return, Krishna promised him that he would be immortal, invisible and worshipped by all, and the head was set up on the flag of the Pandavas. This head began to trouble the Pandavas after their victory, and could only be quieted by the promise of Krishna to have him recognised as a deity with unlimited powers. This head afterwards came to be known as the controller of small-pox. How the head of the male Babhrivahan came to be identified with Shitala Mata, it is difficult to explain. [797] There is a tradition that a Kunbi once recovered his eyesight, lost in an attack of small-pox, by worshipping Shitala Mata, and by vowing not to tie his lock of hair till his blindness was cured. [798] It is said that the powderlike substance which falls from the scabs of small-pox cures cataract if applied to the eyes. Daksha Prajapati once celebrated a great sacrifice, but did not invite his son-in-law Shiva. The latter was extremely enraged at the insult, and eight sorts of fever were in consequence produced by his breath at that time. [799] According to another story zar or fever was created by Shiva in order to assist the demon Banasur in his contest with god Krishna, and it can be cured by the recitation of a piece called Ushaharan, from the Harivansha. [800] Some persons attribute fever to the wrath of Vishnu, and declare that it can be avoided by the recitation of Vishnusahasranama. [801] Others believe it to be due to the anger of Shiva, and say that it can be cured by pouring a stream of water over the image of Shiva by offering bel leaves (Aegle marmelos) to him, and by reciting the Mrityunjaya mantra in his honour. [802] Others again ascribe it to the displeasure of the gods Hari [803] and Har, saying that the heat is caused by the wrath of Shiva. [804] The following are some of the remedies adopted in cases of fever: (i) The recitation of sacred hymns in honour of the gods. (ii) The worship of Narsinh. [805] (iii) Rudrabhishek--pouring a stream of water on the image of Shiva with the recitation of verses in his honour. (iv) Drawing the jantra of Mrityunjaya (lit. Death-conquering, an epithet of Shiva) as shown below. (v) Tying a magic thread round the arm. [806] On a Sunday or a Tuesday a woollen thread or a piece of five-coloured silken thread is taken to a bava or a jogi, who mutters a few mystic words, and makes seven knots in the thread. The thread is treated with frankincense, and then tied round the arm. [807] Periodical fevers are believed to be under the control of certain spirits. There is a story connected with almost every sort of fever, and it is believed that a person who listens to such a story is cured of fever. [808] The following legend is connected with ekanterio--intermittent fever occurring on alternate days. Once a Bania, on his way to a village, came across a banyan tree where he unyoked his bullocks and went to a distance to seek for water. Ekanterio (the spirit controlling intermittent fever) resided on this tree, and when the Bania had gone sufficiently far he stole from behind the tree and carried away the Bania's carriage together with his family. The Bania was much surprised to miss them on his return, but he soon found out the author of the trick, and pursued Ekanterio. That spirit however would not listen to the Bania's entreaties to return his carriage, and the matter was at last referred for arbitration to Bochki Bai. The latter decided in favour of the Bania, and confined Ekanterio in a bamboo tube. He was released on the condition that he would never attack those persons who listen to this story. [809] There is a flower garden to the west of Jodia where there is a tree called ghelun (mad) tree. Vows in honour of this tree are believed to be efficacious in curing fever. It has been already said above that such epidemic diseases as cholera or the plague are often supposed to be the result of the sinister practices of the Bhangis. There is a belief that the Bhangis sometimes prepare an image out of the flour of adad (phaseolus radiatus) and pierce it with needles, and it is said that for every hole made in the image one human being falls a victim to some epidemic disease. Such an image is sometimes placed in an earthen vessel and buried underground in a public way so that every passer-by treading on the spot where it is buried may be attacked by some disease. Or it is thrown into the well which is most used by village people, with the object that all persons drinking water from the well may perish by the disease. [810] The Bhangis are also accused of causing an epidemic by means of boiling the ear of a buffalo and the flesh of an ox together in one vessel, it being believed that the virulence of the disease varies in proportion to the extent to which the boiling proceeds. This process is supposed to cause a disease among cattle also. [811] Another belief is that the Bhangis charm seeds of adad and cloves by repeating magic incantations over them, and afterwards strew them on a highway in order that those who step on them may be attacked by cholera or some similar disease. [812] One motive suggested for such action is that they are thereby likely to receive their garments, which would be used for covering the bodies. [813] Also at the outbreak of such an epidemic, clothes, cocoanuts, ghi, molasses, wheat flour, etc., are offered by the people to the Bhangis, who in return give a dora, a piece of thread, of black wool to be worn by the afflicted persons. [814] But apart from such beliefs, the appearance of an epidemic is also attributed to other causes. There is the usual belief that it is caused by the diminution of virtue and the increase of sin among people and the consequent wrath of the gods, who are only propitiated by the people again reverting to righteous ways and by the performance of sacrifices in their honour. [815] There is also a belief that the sixty-four Joganis, when they are desirous of victims, cause baneful epidemics among mankind, the remedies in such a case being such as offering a goat or a he-buffalo to them, or the observation of an ujani in their honour. The following tale is related regarding an occurrence said to have taken place not long ago in the village of Verad. The headman of the village who was a Rajput by birth but who had lost his caste owing to irregular conduct with a woman, died of fever, and as he was an outcaste his body was buried instead of being cremated. Soon after, a number of persons in the same village happened to die of the same fever and the people conjectured that the late patel's corpse must be lying in its grave with its face downwards chewing the khahan (? perhaps kaphan, i.e. the cloth in which a corpse is wrapped). Many thought that the health of the village would not be restored until the corpse was replaced in the correct position with its face upwards and unless the kaphan was taken out of its mouth. But none ventured to do so, being dissuaded by the fear of meeting with a worse fate. But although they did not open the grave yet they arranged for certain vows to be taken in honour of the dead man, and that put a stop to the disease. [816] Another story from the same place is that when small-pox once raged furiously in that village, the people of the place celebrated a magnificent feast of dainties prepared of wheat-flour, ghi, molasses, rice and pulse, and afterwards the Dheds of the village lopped off the head of a dead he-buffalo, burying it at the spot where the feast was held. [817] The remedies adopted for the abatement of epidemic diseases have already been mentioned above, the most common being the winding of a cotton-thread, the pouring out of dharavadi, i.e., milk, in the village, and the taking of the rath of the Mata in a procession beyond the village boundary, the epidemic being supposed to be expelled in the rath. In the last case, after the rath has been taken to the neighbouring village, a charmed peg is sometimes driven into the ground near the village boundary to prevent the epidemic from crossing back again. [818] Mention has already been made of the deities which protect the cattle and to whose displeasure diseases among cattle are attributed. It is said that such diseases are very common during the vishi of Shiva. A cycle of twenty years is called a vishi, three such cycles making a complete samvatsar of sixty years. Each of such vishis is presided over and named after each of the three gods of the Trinity, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. The vishi of Brahma is characterized by protection and creation, that of Vishnu by growth and that of Shiva by destruction, the last often bringing on such calamities as plague, famine and diseases among cattle. [819] The following are some of the remedies practised by the village people in the case of certain cattle-diseases. In the case of such diseases as mova kharava or the like, there is a practice of burying a plough near one's gates, which is afterwards covered with dust gathered from three streets and is worshiped with a branch of a tree, a plate of iron and red lead. This ceremony has to be performed either on a Sunday or a Tuesday, and the man who performs it has to remain naked at the time. [820] For the cure of valo (a disease in which the throat is inflamed), pieces of the stalk of kukad-vel (a kind of creeper) are tied round the neck or the horns of the diseased animal and no other food except ghi and molasses is allowed to it for two or three days. A handful of salt is sometimes thrown on the back of the animal. [821] Sesamum oil is also said to work as a good medicine in the case of the same disease. [822] Another remedy for the same disease is to pass a knotted bamboo stick with seven knots seven times over the back of the ailing animal. [823] Ghi is sometimes used as a medicine in the case of small-pox. In the case of shakario or kalo va, the animal is branded in the affected limbs. To one suffering from a stye in the eye an ointment prepared from the horn of a deer is applied, while a mixture of whey and salt is said to be useful in most eye maladies. The treatment for the swelling of the belly is a mixture of molasses, ajamo (ligusticum ajwaen) and sanchal (a kind of salt). To cure an animal of khapari (a disease which affects milch-cattle), the milk of the affected animal is poured on rafda (a kind of jujube tree). If after delivery, some part of the embryo remains inside an animal, milk and molasses are given to expedite its removal. [824] In the case of kharava the ailing animal is made to move about in hot sand and is treated with salt, which is first fried on the fire of Holi. The remedy for the disease known as kumbhava is to give a dose of castor oil, sanchal, ajamo and hot water to the sick animal and also to tie a magic thread round its neck. [825] A disease called okarinu (i.e., vomitting) sometimes breaks out among sheep. In this case the shepherds separate all the affected animals from the herd and remove them to a distance. All the sheep which die of the disease are buried deep in a pit, which is guarded for several days, lest some other animals dig it up and let lose the buried epidemic by exposing the carcasses. It is believed that the contagion of this disease lies in the ears; and the ears of all the sheep in the herd are carefully watched if they bleed. [826] The twin gods Ashvini Kumar are sometimes propitiated by means of an anushthan (the performance of religious austerities in their honour) in order that they may put a stop to a disease among cattle. [827] It appears that dancing often forms a part of the process of exorcism. Frequently dancing is accompanied by the beating of cymbals and drums and other loud noises. A mandalu is convened at the house of the person who is to be exorcised i.e., a number of bhuvas are invited to attend along with a number of low-caste drummers, and afterwards the ceremony of utar is gone through; the utar is then taken to a cemetery. [828] Sometimes the beating of drums and cymbals is alone resorted to for expelling an evil spirit from the person of a patient. It is believed that this process is effectual in proportion to the degree of the intensity of the noise created. [829] The patient is asked to sit facing the east. The Baval or Vaghri i.e., the drummer, sits in front of him, and not only beats the drum as loudly as he can, but also sings hymns at the top of his voice in honour of his favourite goddess. In the meanwhile, the bhuva, who is also in attendance, begins to be possessed, and discloses the fact by convulsive fits. After a while, the bhuva suddenly stamps his foot furiously on the floor, and, seizing the patient by a lock of his hair, and perhaps even giving him a blow on the back, asks in a stern voice, "Who art thou? speak out at once why thou hast come or else I will burn thee to death." [830] The patient will then perhaps reply: 'Don't you know me? I am charan', or I am zamhadi, (a female spirit guarding the village gates) or Vagharan [831] or Purvaj (the spirit of a deceased ancestor). Regarding the reason for possession, the evil spirit will give some such explanation as follows:--"Once upon a time the patient was taking a loaf and vegetables which he hid from me, and therefore I shall leave his person only with his life." The bhuva will then say "life is precious and not so cheap as you think. If you want anything else, say so and leave this person." After a dialogue such as the above, the bhuva and the spirit come to some compromise, and the bhuva then leads a procession with the utar either to the village boundary or to a cemetery. The bhuva then draws a circle on the ground with the point of a sword which he carries, and places the utar within the circle. He then slightly cuts the tip of his tongue with the edge of the sword, and spits blood into a fire lighted for the purpose. The smoke of this fire is supposed to carry the offering to the evil spirit. The utar is then taken away by the drummers, who share it secretly with the bhuva. In the event of the patient deriving no benefit from this ceremony, the bhuva advises the patient's relatives to repeat the process. [832] The following ceremony is sometimes performed in order to ascertain whether a person is under the influence of an evil spirit or not. A bhuva is invited to the patient's house in the company of drummers, and there he dances for some time amidst the din produced by the beating of the drums and by the loud recitation of hymns in honour of his favourite goddess. Afterwards a handful of grain is passed round the head of the patient and presented to the bhuva for inspection. The bhuva selects a few seeds from the grain and making certain gestures, offers them to the patient with either the words 'vacho' or 'vadhavo'. In case the bhuva says 'vacho' and the number of seeds happens to be even, what he declared to be the cause of the patient's trouble is believed to be true. So also if the bhuva says vadhavo and the number of seeds proves to be odd. But in case the number of seeds proves to be odd when the bhuva says 'vacho', or even, when he says vadhavo, then his explanation of the cause of the patient's trouble is not credited. Sometimes Brahmans instead of bhuvas are engaged to exorcise an evil spirit from the body of a sick person. A bell-metal dish, containing adad (phaseolus radiatus), wheat and jowari, is placed on a copper jar and struck violently with a stick, called velan, so as to produce a loud noise. The patient, who is made to sit in front, begins to tremble and sometimes even to rave. The Brahmans also create a loud noise and in a loud voice ask the patient who the evil spirit is and what it wants. The patient will then give out the name of some notorious dakan (witch) or of one of his deceased ancestors and will add that he desires a certain thing which he was used to get while in human form. The evil spirit is then propitiated by offering the things asked for and is requested to leave the body of the patient. [833] The following are other methods of expelling an evil spirit from the body:-- Either lobhan, i.e., incense powder, or chillies or even the excreta of dogs are burnt under the nose of the patient, who, overpowered by the unpleasant odour, is supposed to give out the name of the evil spirit and also what the latter wants. Water is charmed with incantations, and is either dashed against the patient's eyes or is given to him to drink. [834] If the evil spirit possessing a patient is a purvaj, i.e., the spirit of a deceased ancestor, either Narayan-bali Shraddha or Nil-Parvani Shraddha or Tripindi Shraddha is performed in order to propitiate it, and a party of Brahmans is invited to dinner. In case the purvaj is a female, a cocoanut is installed in a gokhalo (a niche) in the wall to represent it, ghi lamps are lighted, and frankincense is burnt every morning before it. On the anniversary of the death of the purvaj a party of goranis (unwidowed women) is invited to dinner. [835] If a woman is believed to be possessed by a dakan, she is made to hold a shoe in her teeth and is taken to the village boundary, where the shoe is dropped, and a circle is drawn round it with water from a bowl carried by the party. The holding of the shoe by the teeth signifies a vow on the part of the dakan never to re-enter the person of the exorcised woman. [836] The following are other occasions for religious dancing, namely during the Nav-ratra holidays (i.e., the festival which commences from the 1st day of the bright half of Ashvin and lasts for nine days); at the time of offering oblations to the village-gods; on the occasion of setting up a pillar in memory of a deceased person; at the time of the Nilotsava [837] ceremony. At the time when Randal the wife of Surya is installed and worshipped, a party of young women dance in a circle before the goddess to the accompaniment of garabis. [838] The eighth day of the bright half of Ashvin is dedicated to the worship of the Matas and devis (minor goddesses), and on this day, bhuvas have to dance each before his favourite mata. This they have also to do on the 1st day of the bright half of Ashadh. Bhuvas are also invited to dance on the Diwasa day i.e., the last day of Ashadh. The bhuva occupies a high place in the esteem of the village people, and commands much respect. In the first place, his position is that of a medium between the gods and goddesses on the one hand and human beings on the other. [839] He is the interpreter of the will of the gods, which he expresses to the public when in a state of trance. Besides he is believed to have power over the evil spirits which are visible to a bhuva though cannot be seen by ordinary eyes. [840] He is the guardian of the village, his duty, being to protect the people from the malignant influence of the evil spirits. In the next place, it is also the office of the bhuva to treat the sick. In cases when medicine is unavailing and where the malady is supposed to be the work of some evil spirit, the opinion of the bhuva is sought by the relations of the patient and is given by the test of the scrutiny of grain. [841] When the sick person is found to be under the influence of a spirit, the common mode of exorcising is to take an utar to the cemetery. An image of a human being is prepared out of the flour of adad (phaseolus radiatus) and is passed round the body of the sick person. The bhuva then holds the image near his heart and stretches himself on a bier with the image on his bosom. In this condition the bhuva is taken to the cemetery, and the evil spirit is believed to be driven by these means out of the patient's body. [842] The bhuva distributes doras (magic threads) and anklets among the people. Such things are coveted for their efficacy in warding off the influence of evil spirits and are often sought after by people for their cattle as well as for themselves. [843] The prosperity of the danklan-vagadnars (those who beat the drum) depends to a large extent on the success of the bhuva's business, and for this reason, the drummers are often very good advocates of the bhuva and take every opportunity of glorifying his powers and merits. The respect which a bhuva commands in this way is sometimes increased by the performance of such tricks as his putting lighted torches into his mouth, placing his hand in boiling oil, and similar performances. But although there may be some bhuvas who profit by imposing upon the credulity of the villagers, there are many bhuvas who do not work with the expectation of any reward, and are only actuated by benevolent motives. Many of them honestly believe that at the time when they are thrown into a state of trance, the matas or deities actually enter their bodies and speak their wishes through them as a medium. In some villages, the office of the bhuva is hereditary, and lands have been assigned to them in remuneration for their duty [844]. In addition to this religious calling, a bhuva often follows some other profession as that of agriculture, weaving or spinning. [845] The bhuva generally belongs to some low caste and may be a Koli, Bharvad, Rabari, Vaghri or even a Chamar. The bhuvas are also known as pothias. One good qualification for becoming a bhuva is to possess the habit of throwing one's self into convulsive fits followed by a state of trance, especially on hearing the beating of a danklan (drum). At such a time the mata or devi is supposed to possess the person of the bhuva and to speak out her wishes on being questioned. Some bhuvas are regularly possessed by some devi or mata on every Sunday or Tuesday. [846] A typical bhuva has a braid of hair on his head, puts one or more iron or copper anklets round his leg or elbow, and makes a mark with red lead on his forehead. A bhuva attending upon the goddess Meldi is generally [847] a Vaghri by caste and always wears dirty clothes. A Bharvad bhuva has generally a silver anklet round his waist. A bhuva has to observe a fast on all the nine days of the Nav-ratras. If a bhuva happens to come across another bhuva in convulsive fits or in a trance, he must need go into fits as well. Generally speaking every bhuva keeps an image of his favourite mata in or near his own dwelling. Generally he erects a hut for the purpose and hoists a flag upon it. Near the image are placed a number of conch-shells and stones and brooms of peacock feathers. The deity is not systematically worshipped every day but receives adoration every Sunday and Tuesday. Sometimes the bhuva has a disciple--a sevaka--who does the duty of dashing bell-metal cymbals at the time when the bhuva throws himself in a trance. [848] When a new bhuva is to be initiated into the profession, he is made to sit before an image of the mata, where he goes into convulsive fits while the danklan vagadnars beat the drums and loudly recite hymns in honour of the deity. Afterwards he is taken to a cemetery accompanied by the drummers and an expert bhuva, where the latter marks out a square on the ground with the edge of a sword. The novice is asked to lie prostrate within the area thus marked out and to get up and lie again, doing the same four times, each time with his head towards each of the four quarters. The bhuva who initiates the novice and who is thenceforth considered to be the guru or preceptor of the latter, ties a rakhadi (a piece of silk thread) round the elbow of the pupil. [849] Every bhuva is required to propitiate his favourite goddess every third year, the ceremony which is then performed being called Khad-Khadya-besadvi. This is performed either during the Nav-ratra holidays or during the bright half of either the month of Magh or Chaitra. All the bhuvas in the village are invited on the occasion, when there is ganja-smoking or bhang-drinking, partly at night. After the supper which follows this party, all the bhuvas gather together and go into convulsive fits till they are almost suffocated. Cocoanuts are then dedicated and cracked before the mata, and the kernel is distributed among those present. The party then break up. [850] It is believed by some people that the spirit of a Muhammadan saint, living or dead, dwells in such trees as the Khijado, i.e., Shami (Prosopis spicigera) and Baval, i.e., Babhul (Acacia arabica). It is known by the name of chitharia that is, the ragged Pir. It is a common belief that if a mother fails to offer a rag or a piece of cloth to such a holy tree while passing by it, her children run the risk of falling ill. Women and ignorant people, therefore, make a point of offering rags to such trees whenever they happen to pass by them. [851] According to another belief, travellers, in order to accomplish their journey safely, offer rags to such of the Khijado, Baval or Limdo (Nim) trees as are reputed to be the residences of spirits, if they happen to be on their road. [852] Some believe that both male and female spirits reside in the Khijado, Baval and Kerado trees, and throw rags over them with the object of preventing passers by from cutting or removing the trees. Some pile stones round their stems and draw tridents over them with red lead and oil. If superstitious people come across such trees, they throw pieces of stones on the piles, believing them to be holy places, and think that by doing so they attain the merit of building a temple or shrine. A belief runs that this pile should grow larger and larger day by day, and not be diminished. If the base of such a tree is not marked by a pile of stones, rags only are offered; and if rags are not available, the devotee tears off a piece of his garment, however costly it may be, and dedicates it to the tree. [853] Once, a child saw its mother offering a rag to such a tree, and asked her the reason of the offering. The mother replied that her brother, that is the child's maternal uncle, dwelt in the tree. Hence a belief arose that a chithario (ragged) uncle dwells in such trees. Others assert that the chithario pir dwells in such trees, and they propitiate him by offering cocoanuts and burning frankincense before it. There is a Khijado tree near Sultanpur which is believed to be the residence of a demon mamo. This demon is propitiated by the offerings of rags. Some declare that travellers fix rags of worn out clothes to the trees mentioned above in order that they may not be attacked by the evil spirits residing in them. Another belief is that the spirits of deceased ancestors residing in such trees get absolution through this form of devotion. It is also believed that a goddess called chitharia devi resides in such trees, and being pleased with these offerings, blesses childless females with children, and cures persons suffering from itch of their disease. There is a further belief that ragged travellers, by offering pieces of their clothes to the Khijado, Baval or Kerado trees, are blessed in return with good clothes. Some believe that Hanuman, the lord of spirits, resides in certain trees. They call him chithario or ragged Hanuman. All passers by offer rags to the trees inhabited by him. There is such a tree near the station of Shiroi. There is a tamarind tree on the road from Tamnagar to Khantalia which is believed to be the residence of chithario Hanuman and receives similar offerings. Another tamarind tree of this description is near Marad and there is a Khijado tree on the road between Kalavad and Vavadi which is similarly treated. [854] It is related by some people that in deserts trees are rare and the summer heat is oppressive. To the travellers passing through such deserts, the only place of rest is in the shadow of a solitary tree that is to be met occasionally. In order that no harm be done to such trees, some people have given currency to the belief that a spirit called mamo dwells in such trees and expects the offering of a rag and a pice at the hands of every passer by. Some are of opinion that the bhuvas, in order to raise money from the credulous by terrifying them, daub a tree within the limits of each village with the form of a trident, and fix rags to it, stating that it is the abode of a mamo or a pir. At times they ask their clients to offer certain things to such trees, which they appropriate to themselves. [855] There is also a belief, that the holy trees that receive offerings of rags from travellers, are the abodes of gods or evil spirits, and are distinguished from other trees of the same species by the epithet of chithario. Some people hoist flags on such trees instead of offering rags. In some places, the Boradi (jujube), Pipal, Vad (banyan) and the sweet basil receive offerings of a pice and a betelnut from travellers, while the Khijado and Baval are given rags. [856] It is stated by some people that the belief in chithario pir has grown during the last four hundred years. Rags are never offered to wells, but it is common to offer them copper coins and betelnuts. Sometimes flags are hoisted near holy wells in honour of the water-goddess Jaldevki. Travellers hoist flags on certain wells and throw copper coins into them in the course of their journey. The origin of this offering is said to be in the desire of travellers to prevent people from committing a nuisance near wells. Some wells are noted as being the abode of spirits who have the power of effecting certain cures. It is customary to throw a pice in such wells. When a person is bitten by a rabid dog, he goes to a well inhabited by a vachharo, the spirit who cures hydrophobia, with two earthen cups filled with milk, with a pice in each, and empties the contents into the water. It is a belief among Hindus that to give alms in secret confers a great merit on the donor. Some of the orthodox people, therefore, throw pice into wells, considering it to be a kind of secret charity. The belief in the practices adopted for transferring disease from one person to another obtains mostly among women, who have recourse to such practices for curing their children. One of such practices is to lay a suffering child in the cradle of a healthy child. This act is believed to result in transferring the disease of the ailing child to the healthy child. Another practice is that the mother of the sickly child should touch the mother of a healthy child with the object of transferring the disease of her child to the child of the latter. Some believe that the mere contact of an ailing child with a healthy child is sufficient to transfer the malady of the former to the person of the latter. Others maintain that this can be brought about by a mother either by touching the cradle of another child or by touching the person of another woman. There are others, who hold that the disease of a sickly child can be transferred to another child by feeding the latter with the leavings of the former. There is a further belief that a mother can transfer the disease of her suffering child to the child of another woman by applying the end of her robe to the end of the robe of the latter. In some places, when a child begins to weaken, its mother makes an idol of cow or buffalo dung, and keeps it fixed to a wall of the house, in the belief that the child will be cured slowly as the idol dries. It is stated that instances are actually known of the recovery of children by this process. These methods of transferring disease are called tuchakas i.e. mystic methods. As a rule superstitious women practise them on Sundays or Tuesdays, as it is believed, that to be efficacious, they must be practised on these days. In addition to the tuchakas above stated the utars, doras, etc., already described, are used for curing diseases. Some diseases are attributed to vir possession. Virs are male spirits fifty two in number. The bhuvas or exorcists are believed to have control over them, and are supposed to be able to detect an illness caused by possession by a vir. In such cases, the bhuvas drive away the evil spirits from the patients by magic incantations, or transfer them to others by waving a certain number of grain seeds round the head of the patient. By another process the bhuvas can confine the evil spirit in a glass bottle, which is buried underground. In order to eradicate a dangerous disease, an utar is frequently offered to a dog, in the belief that by eating the utar the disease is transferred to the dog. In some places, diseases of long standing due to spirit possession are cured by employing a bhuva, (exorcist), who, accompanied by others of his order, goes to the patient's house, makes a bamboo bier, waves an utar round the patient's head, and lays himself on the bier with the utar by his side. The bier is carried to the burning ground by four persons to the accompaniment of the beatings of drums, followed by the exorcists, who throw baklans (round flat cakes of juvari flour) into the air as the procession moves on. When the party reach the burning ground, the bier is put down, and the bhuva, shaking violently, offers the utar to a spirit of the place. He then prostrates himself four times with his face turned towards the four directions and drives a nail into the ground at each turn. Next, the bhuva lets loose a goat or a ram, to which the vir in the body of the patient is supposed to be transferred. It is said that the performance of this rite relieves the patient's mind of anxiety regarding the cause of his disease, and he thereafter shows signs of improvement. [857] When a man is suffering from anjani (a sore or mole on the eye-lid) he goes to another person's house and strikes earthen vessels against his door saying "I have shaken the vessels. May the anjani be with me to-day and with you tomorrow". It is also stated that such a patient goes to the house of a man who has two wives while the latter are asleep, and taps his door uttering the words "Anjani ghar bhangani aj mane ane kal tane" i.e., "May anjani, the breaker of the house, be to-day with me and tomorrow with thee." This process is believed to transfer the disease from the person of the patient to that of the husband of the two wives. A common method for transferring disease is to wave water round a sick person and give it to another to drink. Similarly, a goblet filled with water is passed round a patient's head and offered to a bhuva, who drinks off the contents. A belief prevails all over Gujarat that a disease can be passed from one species of animals to another, and various practices are adopted to effect this. Generally a bhuva or exorcist arranges the transfer. The bhuva, accompanied by a troupe of dancers and drummers, visits the house of the sick person and, after examining corn seeds danas which have been waved round the patient's head on a night preceding a Sunday or Tuesday, declares that the evil spirit possessing the patient requires a living victim. A cock, goat or a male buffalo is then brought as a substitute for the patient, is waved round him, the tip of its right ear is cut off, and it is offered to the mata or goddess, that is, it is released to stray as it pleases. These goats, etc., are called mata's goats, mata's cocks, or mata's male buffaloes, and are seen wandering about in many villages. Sometimes the goat, etc., is killed before the image of the mata and the bhuva dipping the palms of his hands into its blood, presses them against the doors of every house in the village. In the case of an outbreak of epidemic, the victim is set at liberty beyond the limits of the village affected. It is believed by some people that the animal to which a disease is conveyed in the above manner, dies of its effects. [858] In some places the patient is supposed to be possessed by a goddess instead of by an evil spirit. A goat, cock or a male buffalo is offered to the goddess in the same way as to an evil spirit. In some villages, when there is an outbreak of a serious epidemic, it is customary to drive a buffalo beyond the village boundary, with the disease on his back. The back of the buffalo which is chosen for this purpose is marked with a trident in red lead and covered with a piece of black cloth, on which are laid a few grains of adad and an iron nail. Thus decorated, the buffalo is driven beyond the limits of the village. It is believed that an animal driven in this way carries the disease wherever it goes. Very often, the beast to which a disease is transferred is kept tied to a post all its life, with the belief that by so doing the disease remains enchained. Jain teachers confine a disease in a bottle and bury it underground. Sometimes, a disease is passed on to a crow, whose legs are tied to a pillar, thus making it a life-long prisoner. Once upon a time, when there was an outbreak of cholera in a certain village, a bava (recluse) happened to arrive on the scene. He caught two rams, made them move in a circle, and left them in the burning ground, where they died, the epidemic disappearing with their death. Hence a belief gained ground that an epidemic of cholera can be expelled by passing it on to two rams or goats. [859] It is related that, at Gondal, a case of cholera was cured by a Bhangi (sweeper) by waving a cock round the patient's head. [860] A few years ago there lived in Khakhi Jalia, a village in the vicinity of Kolki, a Khakhi (recluse) named Narandas, who, when laid up with fever, passed on the disease to his blanket, and after a time drew it back to his own person. CHAPTER IV. WORSHIP OF ANCESTORS AND SAINTS. The spirits of a deceased father, grand father, great grand father, and of a mother, grand mother, and great grand mother, i.e., all the male and female ascendants up to the third degree, receive systematic worship when the Shraddha or funeral ceremonies are performed either on the anniversary of the death of any of them or on the day when the Narayan bali is performed in such holy places as Gaya, Siddhapur or Prabhas Patan. The spirits of those who meet heroic deaths on fields of battle are called Suropuros, and pillars are erected in their memory on the spot where they breathed their last. They receive only occasional worship. [861] The purvajas or spirits of deceased ancestors receive worship on the thirteenth or fourteenth day of the dark half of Shravan (the tenth month of the Gujarat Hindu year), on the fourteenth of the dark half of Ashvin, on the death anniversaries and on days on which the Shraddhas, tripindis or nil parnavavi ceremonies are performed. On these occasions, the pitriyas (deceased ancestors) are represented by twisted braids of the durva grass (cynodon dactylon). [862] Purvajas or ancestral spirits descend to the level of ghosts when they are strongly attached to worldly objects. Such spirits often possess the bodies of their descendants, though the necessary Shraddhas are performed for their release. The 13th, 14th and 15th days of the bright half of the months of Kartik and Chaitra are the special days for propitiation of departed spirits by their relatives either at home or in holy places, while the whole of the dark half of the month of Bhadarva is devoted to this purpose. [863] During this fortnight, shraddha is performed in honour of the deceased on the day corresponding to the day of his death, when Brahmans are feasted. Thus, a person dying on the 5th day of Kartik has his shraddha performed on the 5th day of the sharadian. On this occasion, water is poured at the root of the Pipal, tarpan or offerings of water are made, and pinds or balls of rice are offered to the deceased. Of all the days of the sharadian the 13th, 14th and 15th are considered to be of special importance. The death anniversary of a pitriya is called samvatsari, valgo samachari or chhamachhari, when a shraddha is performed and Brahmans are feasted. The pitriyas are also worshipped on auspicious occasions such as marriages, by the performance of a shraddha called nandi, when pinds (balls) of molasses are offered instead of rice. It is considered an act of merit to perform shraddha in honour of the pitriyas on the banks of a river or tank at midday on the 8th day of the dark half of a month. From the 13th to the 15th day of the dark half of Shravan, after their morning ablutions, orthodox people pour water over the Pipal, the Babul, the Ber (Zizyphus jujube) and durva grass, and on those places where cows are known to congregate, in the belief that by so doing the thirst of the spirits of the deceased is quenched. It is also believed that if feasts are given to the relatives of the deceased and to Brahmans the pitriyas are satisfied. According to some, the Sharadian lasts from the full-moon day of the month of Bhadarva to the new-moon day of the same month, that is for a period of sixteen days. The Shraddhas of those who die on the Punema or full-moon day of a month are performed on the full-moon day of Bhadarva, and the Shraddhas of those who die on the new-moon day amavasia of a month are performed on the amavasia of Bhadarva. The 13th day of the dark half of Bhadarva is called bala terash that is children's thirteenth. This day is specially devoted to the propitiation of the spirits of children. [864] On the Shraddha days Brahmans and relatives of the deceased are feasted, and oblations called Vash, consisting of rice and sweets, are offered to crows. On Asho Vad fourteenth, that is, the fourteenth of the dark half of Asho, it is customary to apply red lead to the pillars erected in honour of men that die heroic or noble deaths on fields of battle, to break cocoanuts before them, to light lamps fed with ghi and to offer cooked food to their spirits. [865] The spirits of those who die with strong attachment to the objects of this world are said to enter the state known as asur gati or the path of demons. In this condition the spirit of the deceased possesses the person of one of his relatives and torments the family in which he lived. The members of the family, when worried by his persecutions, engage the services of a bhuva or exorcist, who sets up a wooden image of the tormenting spirit in a niche in a wall of the house. A lamp fed with ghi is lighted daily before this image, and in times of trouble, a cocoanut is offered to it in the belief that the spirit can protect the offerers from injuries. The pitriyas or ancestral spirits are propitiated by pouring water over the Bordi (jujube), the Tulsi (sweet basil), the Vad (banyan), the Pipal or durva grass (cynodon dactylon) on the 13th, 14th and 15th days of the bright half of Chaitra and on the same days of the dark half of Kartik and Shravan. On Vaishakh Shud Trij, that is, on the third of the bright half of Vaishakh, which is called Akha Trij, women offer to Brahmans two earthen jars filled with water and covered with an earthen cup containing a betelnut, a pice and a pan or betel leaf, for the propitiation of the spirits of their deceased ancestors. [866] For the propitiation of a male spirit a party of Brahmans is feasted, and for the propitiation of a female spirit three unwidowed married women. [867] Rajputs, Bharvads, Ahirs and Kolis set up either a pile of stones or a single stone on the boundary of their village in honour of those among them who die on battle fields. These piles or stones are called Palios. On the Palios are placed engraved images to represent the deceased in whose memory the Palios are erected. Small pillars are also raised in the localities where such persons met their death. On the Kali Chaudas or black fourteenth, that is the fourteenth day of the dark half of Asho, the Palios are daubed with red lead and worshipped with offerings of cocoanuts. Women who have become sati receive worship and offerings on the Hindu new year's day. [868] Spiritual guides such as Shankaracharya, Vallabacharya, the maharajas or spiritual heads of the sect called Swaminarayan, Lalo Bhagat and Talo Bhagat are worshipped by their devotees with offerings of food, garments and cash. In this Kali Yuga or iron age, men who are really great are rare, and even if there be some, they are invisible to the faulty vision of the present day degraded mortals. A few come into contact with such holy men by virtue of the good deeds performed by them in their past lives. These are said to attain paradise by this satsang [869] (contact with the righteous). Holy men receive personal worship during their life-time. After they are dead, their relics, such as impressions of their footsteps, their photos or busts are worshipped with offerings of sandal paste, flowers, red powder, frankincense, lamps fed with ghi and arati (swingings of lamps). [870] Every sect of Hindus has a Maharaja or spiritual head, and it is considered meritorious to entertain and worship him on certain special occasions. The Maharaja or Guru is received with great éclat. His followers form a procession and carry him in a palanquin or a carriage and pair accompanied with music. At the house of the person who invites him, the floor is covered with rich cloth, over which the Maharaja is led to a raised seat specially arranged for the purpose. He is then worshipped by the host with the same details as the image of a god. His feet are washed by panchamrita (five nectars), that is a mixture of ghi, milk, honey, sugar and water, which is sipped by the worshipper and distributed among the followers of the Maharaja. Very often the feet of the Maharaja are washed in water, which is considered as purifying as the panchamrita. Great festivity and rejoicings are observed on this day at the house of the Maharaja's host, where crowds of the Maharaja's followers assemble eager for a sight of him. After spending about half an hour in the house, the Maharaja departs, first receiving valuable presents from the host. Spiritual guides who claim the power of working miracles are held in high esteem by the people. Some of these guides are said to have control over spiritual beings or to possess their favour. These spirits are supposed to endow them with the power of preparing mystic threads, which, when worn round the waist, neck or arm, cure various diseases. In the Kadavasan woods, near the village of Daldi, there lives a bava called Bhimputi, who is believed to possess miraculous powers. He surprises visitors by his wonderful feats and commands vows from the afflicted by mitigating their sufferings. Every day, before breakfast, the bava visits seven villages to collect sugar and flour, which he throws in handfuls over every anthill which he meets on his way. This act of charity has established him as a saint, and most of his prophecies are believed to be fulfilled. A Musalman named Muhammad Chhail is held in great respect by the people on account of his great magical powers. He is believed to be in the good graces of a Pir, who has endowed him with the power of commanding material objects to come to him from long distances, and of breaking them and making them whole again. [871] Great men of antiquity often command worship as gods. A fast is observed by Hindus on the 9th day of the bright half of Chaitra, the birth day of Rama, whose birth anniversary is celebrated at noon on that day in his temple. On this occasion, all visitors to the temple offer a pice or two to his image and receive his Prasad, that is, consecrated food, which consists of a mixture of curdled milk and sugar. The birth of Krishna is celebrated at mid-night on the eighth day of the dark half of Shravan, when people keep awake for the whole of the night. The Jains observe a fast for seven days from Shravan Vad Baras, that is the 12th day of the dark half of Shravan, to the 5th day of the bright half of Bhadarva, in honour of Mahavir Swami, one of their spiritual teachers, who is believed to have been born on the 2nd day of the bright half of Bhadarva. This period is known as the Pajusan, during which the Jains cause the slaughter-houses and fish markets to be closed and give alms to the poor. [872] A century ago there lived at Nalkantha a sage named Bhansab. He met a holy death by deep meditations, and a few days after rose up from his grave in his original form. This led him to be classed in the category of great men and to command divine worship. [873] Vithal, a sage of the Kathi tribe, is revered in Paliad. Savo, a devotee at Zanzarka, is worshipped by Dheds. Fehala, a Rajput and Tolat his wife, are enshrined at Anjar, a village in Cutch. Lalo, a Bania devotee of Sindhavar, received divine honours in his life-time and his image in Sayala is held in great reverence to this day. The samadh of Madhvagar, an atit of Vastadi, situated in Unchadi a village in the Dhandhuka taluka in Ahmedabad, is an object of worship. Harikrishna Maharaja, a Brahman saint of Chuda, received divine honours at Chuda and the Charotar. [874] If the souls of the departed ones are condemned to become ghosts, shraddha ceremonies performed by their descendants are said to be efficacious in freeing them from their ghostly existence and relegating them to some other form of life. The lives of bhuts and pishachas, male and female ghosts, are said to extend over a thousand years. [875] Shraddhas, such as the samachari i.e., the death anniversary and Narayanbali i.e., a shraddha performed in a holy place, emancipate the ghostly spirits from their wretched existence and make them eligible for birth in a better form. [876] Some believe that at the end of their ghostly existence (a thousand years) they take birth in the animal kingdom in the mortal world. [877] The soul is not said to have finally perished unless it merges into the divine self and attains moksha or salvation. The passions and desires of a dying man do not permit his soul ascending beyond a certain stage, where he or she remains as a ghost until the soul is purged of all his or her desires and sins by the performance of funeral ceremonies. For relieving ancestral spirits from the low order of bhuts and pishachas, shraddhas are performed by their surviving relatives in such holy places as Prabhas, Gaya and Pindtarak. These ceremonies are known as Narayanbali, Nilotsarga and saptaha-parayan (recitation of a sacred book for seven consecutive days). [878] Those persons who die with wicked thoughts still present and their desires not fulfilled, enter the order of evil spirits, from which they are liberated after their desires have been satisfied and their wicked thoughts eliminated. [879] Bhuts and pishachas--ghosts, male and female--can be prevented from doing harm by recourse to certain processes. For instance, the wife of a Nagar of Gadhada became a witch after her death and began to torment the second wife of her husband by throwing her out of bed whenever she was asleep. To prevent this, the husband took a vow to perform a shraddha at Sidhpur in the name of the deceased wife, after the performance of which the ghostly presence stopped harassing the new wife of her husband. [880] Bhuts and pishachas are believed by some people to be immortal, because they are supposed to belong to the order of demi-gods. In the Amarkosha--the well-known Sanskrit lexicon--they are classed with divinities, such as guhyaks, and sidhas. The bhut is defined as a deity that troubles infants and the pishacha as a deity that lives on flesh. Bhuts and pishachas are the ganas or attendants of Shiva, one of the gods of the Hindu Trinity. They are supposed to be upadevas or demi-gods. Preta is the spirit of a person that dies a sudden or unnatural death with many of his desires unfulfilled. His soul attains emancipation by the performance of a saptah, that is a recitation of the Bhagvat on seven consecutive days. It is described in the Bhagvat that Dhundhumari, the brother of Gokarn, who had become a preta, was released from his preta existence by the performance of a saptah which his brother caused to be made. The Garudpuran mentions that King Babruvahan emancipated a preta by the performance of a shraddha. The mukti or salvation of a preta is in itself its death. This would prove pretas to be mortal. [881] The span of life of the bhuts and pretas is very long, but those whose descendants offer them the usual oblations gain their emancipation sooner. There is a kund or spring called Zilanand in the vicinity of Jhinjhuvada, on the banks of which is a temple of Zilakeshwar Mahadev. The performance of the pitri shraddha by the side of this spring is believed to expedite the emancipation of the spirits of the deceased from ghostly life. Every year, on the Bhadarva amavasya, that is, the new moon day of the month Bhadarva, a great fair is held on this spot, when people from long distances visit the place to get their relatives exorcised by the bhuvas or exorcists. It is believed, that though bhuts, pretas and pishachas are immortal, they are scared away by the sound of a European band and of other musical instruments. [882] It is said that all drums and other weird instruments whether European or Indian, have the power of scaring away evil spirits. An evil spirit called Babaro had entered the person of the uncle of Maldev the king of Jhalavad much to the king's annoyance. Maldev offered a stubborn fight to Babaro, who, unable to cope with Maldev, promised to extend his kingdom over those villages in which he would hang up bunting in one night. It is said that the present extent of the Jahlwad territories was due to king Maldev's enterprise in hanging up bunting over these territories as asked by Babaro. [883] Though at the time of a man's death the faculties may hardly be sound, yet the varsana--the impressions--left on his mind by his past actions are in themselves good or bad enough to impress him so as to make his departing spirit assume a new form of life in keeping with them. For instance, a man following a particular profession becomes subject to dreams bearing on that profession. When the impression created by his actions in daily life is so deep as to induce dreams, his mind, even after death, leaves to his departing soul an inclination to be engaged in the subject of his mind's last activities. This is vasana. [884] It is a popular saying among Hindus that children inherit the nature of their parents. It is for this reason that high caste Hindus do not utter the names of their eldest sons. There is a further belief that the Pitriyas departed from the world with certain desires unfulfilled reappear as descendants of their children to have these desires satisfied. [885] As the saying goes Pita putrena jayate, that is a father is born in the form of the son, so the Pitriyas are born as descendants of their children, or according to the Bija vrikshanyaya, as a tree springs from its seed, that is, its offerings, so parents take birth as children of their offspring. [886] The Pitriyas, whose attachment to their children or family or wealth does not die with them, reappear in the same family as descendants. It is also believed that persons dying with debts unpaid with the consciousness that they must be paid, are reborn in this world for the discharge of their obligations. [887] It is not always that the Purvajas reappear in the same family. It is said about the departed spirits, that after undergoing punishment for their sins and enjoying the fruits of their good actions, they come down on earth again as drops of rain, and forming part of the grain which grows on rain water make their way into the wombs of animals and are thus reborn. [888] On account of the community of their feelings, habits and ideas in previous births, members of different families form different groups. The actions performed in this life keep them bound to one another either as recipients of the return of the obligations given in the past or as givers of fresh obligations. The members of a family stand thus to one another in the relation of debtors and creditors. It is for the discharge of these debts and recovery of dues that several individuals are united in a family. This naturally leads to the members of a family taking birth again in the same family for the proper discharge of debts. A virtuous child is declared to have been born to return the debts contracted in its past lives, and a vicious one to recover the dues. [889] When an atit or holy man or a recluse dies, his body is interred, and a platform rising waist high from the ground, or a small dome-shaped temple, is built over the spot. This is called a samadh. An image of the god Shiva is generally installed in the samadh; but sometimes padukas i.e. the impressions on stone of the footsteps of the deceased, are installed instead. Instances of the latter are the padukas of Dattatraya, Gorakha and Machchendra Nath. Both the Samadh and the image of the god Shiva as well as the padukas installed therein, are worshipped by the people, who, in course of time, give currency to the belief that the Samadh possesses certain miraculous powers, such as curing long-standing diseases, blessing barren women with children, etc. Offerings are made to the Samadh by pious persons and festivals or fairs are held in its honour by the inhabitants of the village in which the Samadh is located. [890] Kabars or tombs raised over the graves of Mahomedan saints or Pirs are held in equal reverence both by Mahomedans and Hindus. To these offerings are made, and fairs are held in their honour. Some Samadhs and Kabars noted for miraculous powers are given below. 1. Gorakhnath:--The Samadh of Gorakhnath lies on Mount Girnar. It is said that when the word Salam is shouted by any one standing on the brink of the hollow wherein the Samadh is said to be, the word "Aleka, Aleka, Aleka" is heard in response. [891] 2. Kevaldas:--The Samadh of Kevaldas stands in Susavav. It is told that, on one occasion, when a festival was being celebrated in honour of the Bava Kevaldas, a nimb tree (Azadirachta Indica) overhanging the Samadh was transformed into a mitho Limbdo (Ailantas excelsa). 3. The Samadh at Kanga:--In the religious house at Kanga, a village in the Junagadh State, there lived a bava given to religious austerities. It is said that he took Samadh [892] during life. This Samadh is said to work miracles at times. 4. Similarly, a bava in the religious house at Navanagar called Sharada Matha has taken a Samadh during life, and his remains and the structure over them have become an object of worship. 5. The Samadh of Lala bhakta:--Lala bhakta was a native of Sayola. He was famous for his piety, and after his death his Samadh was deified. It is said in reference to this Samadh that a meal of dainty dishes prepared for five or six persons by its side, would satisfy the hunger of a company of fifty, if one happened to arrive there at the time of serving the meal [893]. 6. Datar [894] Pir:--The tomb of this Pir is situated on Mount Girnar. Almost all people in Kathiawar and many from Gujarat offer vows to this Pir. [895] This Pir is also known by the name of Kala Yavan. [896] It is believed that he has the power of releasing the chain bonds of a person falsely accused with an offence provided he approaches the Pir in chains. The sanctity of this Pir is so great that vows in his honour secure to persons desiring male heirs the birth of sons. [897] 7. Asami Pir:--The tomb of this Pir is in Lunar. He is believed to ensure the fulfilment of certain vows made by those who have faith in him. [898] 8. Devalsha Pir:--The tomb of this Pir is situated at Amaran about seven miles from Todia. Many Hindus perform the first hair-cutting ceremony of their children at the shrine of this Pir with an offering of a sweet preparation of ghi, sugar or molasses, and wheat flour. The Muhammadans distribute cooked rice among the Fakirs about this shrine. A tradition runs that, once seven eunuchs defied the power of this Pir saying that they would put no faith in him unless they conceived sons. This they did, and when in terror regarding their approaching confinement, they were told that the children would have to be taken out by cutting their bodies open. The tombs of these seven eunuchs and their sons still stand near the tomb of Devalsha to bear testimony to his glory and miraculous power. [899] 9. The Kabar of Haji Karmani:--Is situated at Dwarkan and is much respected by both Hindus and Muhammadans. [900] 10. The tombs of Jesal and Toral:--These are said to be the tombs of a husband and wife of the names of Jesal and Toral. They are situated in Anjar, a village in Cutch. It is said that originally these tombs were at the distance of twenty-seven feet from one another, but now the distance between them is only 7 1/2 feet. A belief is current that the day of judgment will come when these two tombs meet. [901] 11. Haj Pir and Gebansha Pir:--The tombs of these Pirs are at Mendarda. Vows are offered to the Haj Pir (Pilgrims saint) with the object of securing a good rainfall after an unusual drought, also for the restoration of stolen property. Vows to the Gebansha Pir are believed to be efficacious in curing foot diseases of cattle and skin diseases of children. [902] 12. Panch or Five Pirs:--The tombs of these Pirs are situated in Dahura, each of them measuring about twenty-seven feet. A miracle is attributed to these tombs in the phenomenon that they can never be accurately measured, each attempt at measurement giving a different result. Women whose sons die in infancy make vows in honour of the Panch Pirs, and take them to their tombs on their attaining a certain age, where they observe fakiri [903] for ten days. [904] 13. Aulia Pir [905]:--The tomb of this Pir lies on Mount Girnar. It is believed to possess the miraculous power of stopping the career of galloping horses and bringing them to the ground, and of stupefying the senses of a person who enters the shrine. [906] 14. Miran Datar:--The celebrated tomb of this Pir is in the village of Unjha near Baroda, where a fair is held every Friday in Shravan. Persons possessed by evil spirits are said to be cured by visiting this tomb and offering an image of a horse stuffed with cotton, and a cocoanut. People from all parts of Gujarat and from distant places suffering from physical infirmities, observe vows in honour of this Pir. Some wear iron wristlets round their wrists in his honour. [907] 15. Pir Mahabali:--The tomb of this Pir is situated at Gotarka near Radhanpur. Every year a fair is held in honour of this tomb, when the chief Pujari of the shrine of Varalu goes there, holding in one hand a bayonet with its point touching his breast, and in the other, a cocoanut. It is said that when the Pujari reaches the third step leading to the entrance of the shrine, the locked doors of the shrine fly open, and the Pujari throws the cocoanut into the shrine. If the shrine gates do not open of themselves on his approach, the Pujari has to stab himself to death then and there. [908] 16. Kalu Pir:--It is said that this Pir leads a procession every night, when monstrous kettle-drums are beaten by his phantom followers. On every Friday this procession goes on its rounds, which cover a large area. [909] Other tombs noted for miraculous powers are those of Gebalsha Pir in Charadwa, of Daria Pir in Morvi, of Hajarat Pir in Baghdad and of Khoja Pir in Ajmere. [910] The followers of the tenets of Swami-narayan, Vallabhacharya, Kabir, Shankaracharya, Ramanuja, Madhwacharya, Nimbark and Talo Bhagat look upon these personages as gods, and worship their images. [911] Some of the spiritual teachers mentioned above maintained large establishments and made their supremacy hereditary. Their representatives (that is either their heirs or disciples) are looked upon as the embodiments of the same virtues as were concentrated in the founders of the sects. The great teachers are worshipped either in the form of their footprints, their images or their representatives. [912] The worship of the following Muhammadan Pirs has been adopted by Hindus:-- (1) Datar Pir in Junagadh. (2) Datar in Rataiya near Khirasara. (3) Gobalsha Pir:--This Pir is noted for curing boils. (4) Tag Pir or the live saint near Bhayavadar:--This Pir is believed to have the power of curing enlargement of the spleen. Persons suffering from this disease go to his shrine and distribute dry dates among children. This is supposed to propitiate him and to effect the cure. [913] (5) Miran Datar:--The miraculous and curative powers of this Pir are so potent that blind persons are known to have their eye-sight restored and childless persons to have their longings for children satisfied through his favour. Persons possessed by evil spirits are exorcised by merely wearing a ring in his name. [914] The shrine of this Pir is situated in the village of Unava in the Gaikwar's territory in North Gujarat. His Highness the late Gaikwar Khanderao has fixed solid silver railings round the shrine of this Pir in gratitude for a cure effected by him. (6) Ramde Pir:--This Pir has obtained the epithet of Hindva Pir as he is worshipped mostly by the Hindus. He has worshippers in many places, where shrines are erected in his honour and verses and hymns composed and sung in his praise. [915] He is evidently, as his name suggests, one of the first Khoja missionaries who practised teachings more Hindu than Musalman in order to secure a following among the Hindus. (7) Haji Karmani near Dvarikhan. (8) The Davalsha Pir near Amaran. (9) The Lakad Pir and the Hussein Pir in the vicinity of Ganod. (10) Mahabali Dada Pir:--This Pir is to be found close to the village of Varai. Milk offered to him in his shrine in indas (egg-shaped pots) is said to remain fresh for a year. Similarly, the doors of his shrine open of themselves after the lapse of a year. (11) Mangalio Pir:--This Pir is worshipped at Dadvi. (12) Moto Pir:--Is worshipped at Khandorana. (13) Hindva Pir:--This is the Pir of the Khojas in Pirana near Ahmedabad. He is so called because he is worshipped by the Hindus also. (14) Bhadiadaro Pir:--Is in the village of Bhadia near Dhorali. (15) Ingarasha Pir and Balamsha Pir. (16) Tamialsha and Kasamsha Pir:--The shrines of these Pirs are on the Girnar hill. [916] (17) Ganj Pir:--The shrine of this Pir is near Todia. Vows to offer a quarter of a pound of molasses to this Pir are believed to be efficacious in curing persons of fever and children of their ailments. [917] There is a Pir in the village of Vadhardun near Viramgam. Persons suspected of having committed thefts are conducted in chains before this Pir. It is said that, if the charge be false, the chains break asunder of themselves. [918] Apart from the respect paid to the Pirs mentioned above, the Hindus hold in great reverence the tabuts of the Muhammadans. [919] There are various rural methods in vogue for the cure of barrenness. One of these is for the barren woman to swallow the navel-string of a new-born child. [920] Another is to partake of the preparation called katlan. [921] There are two kinds of preparations which go by the name of katlan. One is prepared from seven pieces of dry ginger. [922] The other is a mixture of suva, [923] sunth (dry ginger), gundar (gum arabic), gol (molasses) etc. [924] In order to secure the desired effect, the katlan must be eaten seven times every Sunday or Tuesday seated on the cot of a woman in child-bed. [925] The longing for a child is also believed to be satisfied by partaking of the food served to a woman, in confinement, sitting on her bed, either on a Sunday or Tuesday. [926] There is also another preparation which is believed to cause conception. It consists of a mixture of pitpapdo (Glossocardi Boswellia), sugar-cane and butter. In order to be efficacious, it must be taken on seven consecutive days commencing from the fourth day of the monthly menstrual period. [927] Conception is also believed to be favoured by administering the gum of the babul tree dissolved in milk for three days commencing from the third day of the monthly period. Some believe that, in order to be effective, this mixture must be taken standing. [928] In some places, seeds of a vegetable plant called shivalangi are also administered. To secure conception, a bit of coral is also eaten, with the face turned towards the sun. Other preparations taken with the belief that they cause conception are:-- (1) Harde (Myrobalan) put in kansar (a preparation of wheat flour cooked in water and sweetened with molasses), (2) extract of the fruit called sarangdha, (3) paras pipalo (Thespesia populnea) mixed with clarified butter, (4) gum mixed with plantains, (5) juice of the cooked leaves of the Arani (Elaeodendren glaucum), [929] (6) powder of Nag kesar (Messua ferrea) put into milk, and (7) the roots of Bhong ringdi (a kind of poisonous plant) mixed with the milk of a cow. [930] It is also believed that if a barren woman succeeds in carrying away grains of rice from the folds of the upper garment of a pregnant woman, and eats them cooked in milk, her desire for a child is satisfied. [931] In celebrating the Simant or first pregnancy ceremony of a woman, the pregnant woman is taken for a bath to a dung-hill or to a distance of about thirty yards behind the house. After the bath is over, she returns home walking over sheets of cloth spread on her way. On this occasion her company is coveted by barren women for the purpose of tearing off unseen a piece of her upper garment, as this is believed to bring about conception. It is said that if a woman succeeds in doing this, she conceives, while the victim has a miscarriage. [932] Some believe that a slight pressure by a childless woman on the upper garment of a pregnant woman is sufficient to bring about the result mentioned above. [933] Others hold that a slight blow on the shoulder of a pregnant woman by a childless woman satisfies the desire of the latter for a child. [934] Conception is also said to be effected by branding children while at play in the streets. [935] It is believed that this brand, to have efficacy, must be inflicted on a Sunday or Tuesday. The operation is generally performed in the evening with a red-hot needle. It is said that the branded child dies while the branding barren woman conceives a child. [936] Offering bread to black dogs is also supposed to be a cure for barrenness. Conception is also favoured by passing under the bier or palanquin holding the corpse of an ascetic or holy man while it is being carried to the cemetery. [937] Some believe that such an ascetic or saint must be a follower of the Jain faith. [938] Others maintain that the desired end can be secured only by wearing round the elbows the grains of rice or coins offered to the bier of a saint on its way to the cemetery. [939] Other methods practised for the cure of barrenness are as follows: The barren woman cuts off a lock of the hair of a child-bearing woman and keeps it in her custody. [940] Some women collect the dust trodden on by a child-bearing woman in an earthen pot and eat it every day till it is exhausted. Some throw grains of adad (Phaseolus mungo) over the bed of a woman in confinement. [941] Others daub their foreheads with the blood emitted by a woman in menses. There are some who pour water in a circle at the village gate on a Sunday or Tuesday, and when in period, partake of the powder of mindhal mixed with lapsi (coarse wheat flour fried in ghi and sweetened with molasses or sugar) seated on the threshold of the house. [942] Many wear round their necks leaves called bhojapatras on which the mystical figure given below is drawn by an exorcist. +---+ 4 | 2 | 2 +---+-----+---+ 3| 3 | 4 | 3 | 3 | | +-+-+ | +---+---+ 3 +-+----+ | +-+-+ | | | 5 | 4 | 12 | 12 +-----+---+----+ 24 | 24 | 4 +-----+ Pieces of paper on which the following jantra is written by an ascetic, woven in a string made of five kinds of silk, are also worn round the elbows:-- Swaha aum rhin kling swaha. About a month and a quarter after the delivery of a woman, a ceremony called zarman zarvan is performed, when the woman goes to a neighbouring stream or well to fetch water for the first time after her delivery. Near the stream or well five small heaps of sand are made and daubed with red lead. Next, a lamp fed with ghi is lighted, and seven small betelnuts are offered to the stream or well. A cocoanut is then broken, and a part of it is thrown into the water as an offering. Next, the woman fills a jar with the water of the stream or well and returns home, taking with her six out of the seven betelnuts offered to the stream or well. On her way home she is approached by barren women who request to be favoured with one of the betelnuts, as it is believed that swallowing such a betelnut causes conception. [943] Some believe that only the smallest of the seven betelnuts has the power of producing this result [944]. Others hold that this betelnut must be swallowed on the threshold of a house. [945] Eating cocoa-kernel and molasses sitting on the threshold of the house on the fourth day of the monthly period is also believed to be a remedy for the cure of barrenness. Placing a box containing a kori, (a small silver coin) on a spot where three roads cross one another is also said to favour conception. [946] In some places, a black earthen pot containing charcoal and grains of adad (Phaseolus mungo) is placed on a spot where two roads cross one another, on a Sunday or Tuesday. On this day the barren woman has to take her meals without salt. [947] Cutting off a lock of a child's hair and keeping it in custody is also believed to satisfy the longing of a barren woman for a child. This result can also be obtained by securing a piece of a garment of a suckling child. Some worship daily a cocoanut and a betelnut consecrated with incantations. [948] Some take a bath on the third day of their period, and stand on the threshold of the house with their hair sprinkled over with kankotri (red powder). Next, a ghi-fed lamp is offered to the deities, and the devotee prostrates herself before the lamp. [949] It is also believed that barrenness can be cured by religious vows, by offering alms in propitiation of malignant planets such as Mars, and by reciting the jap or incantation called gopal santan to please the deity of that name. [950] One of the religious vows of this nature is to observe fasts on twelve consecutive Sundays or Tuesdays. On these days the devotee fixes her gaze on the sun and offers him worship, after which she takes a meal prepared in milk without salt or sugar. [951] Some hold a recitation of the chandi kavach a hundred times through Brahmans with sacrificial oblations of clarified butter, sesamum seed, kamod (a kind of rice), gugal (rhododendron), sandal wood and sugarcandy. [952] Others have the story of the Harivansha recited on seventeen consecutive days, during which period the devotee (i.e., the barren woman) observes brahmacharya, that is abstains from sexual enjoyment. This ceremony is believed to exorcise the fiend of barrenness. Some keep a vow of standing on their legs for the whole day on the fourteenth of the month of Phalgun (the fifth month of the Gujarat Hindu year) and of breaking their fast after worshipping the sacred pyre. [953] There is another vow called the Punema or full-moon day vow, the observance of which is believed to favour the birth of a son. [954] Pouring water at the root of, or circumambulating, a pipal or babul tree after a bath without removing the wet clothes, is also believed to cause conception. [955] Some observe the vow of entertaining thirteen Brahmans and thirteen virgins to a feast, and of setting up Randal Bantva. [956] Women whose children die in infancy give them opprobrious names such as Khacharo (filth), Ghelo (stupid), Natho, Uko, Ukardo, Bodho, Pujo, Adavo, Mongho, Tulhi, Tutho, Kadavi, etc. in the belief that by so doing the life of the children is lengthened. [957] The idea is almost Asiatic in extent. Among Musalmans also such names are given; and even among the Persians and Arabs boys are given such names as Masriequ and Osaid--the Stolen and the Black. Sometimes parents arrange that their children be actually stolen; and some next of kin, generally the aunt, is made to commit the kindly felony. She afterwards returns the child for a certain amount in cash or clothes. The custom is as old as the scriptures, there being an allusion in the Koran to how the little Joseph was made to steal some garment of his aunt and was claimed as a forfeit by her. Speaking about Levi, the older brothers of Joseph say to the Egyptian soldiers, "If he hath stolen (the king's goblet) verily the brother of his too did (formerly) steal." Some make a vow of not cutting the hair of their children till they are taken to Ambaji, where their hair is cut for the first time. [958] Some treat their children as beggars until they attain the age of five years, that is, they are dressed till that age in clothes obtained by begging. Some bore the nose of the child. CHAPTER V. WORSHIP OF THE MALEVOLENT DEAD. The beliefs current as to the cause of dreams are many. One of these is that memory of known facts or incidents heard or seen causes dreams. Dreams are also supposed to be caused by disorders in the brain, by brooding constantly over a particular occurrence, by anxiety or by the perpetration of sinful acts. [959] Those who are indebted to the pitris (ancestral spirits) are also said to be troubled by dreams. [960] A hearty meal at night just before going to bed is also supposed to cause dreams. [961] There are three conditions of human existence, (1) Jagriti that is wakefulness (2) Swapna that is dream and (3) Sushupti that is sleep. The incidents which impress the mind strongly during wakefulness are reproduced in dreams. Very often thoughts that never occur to our minds strike us in dreams. These are ascribed to the impressions made on the soul during past lives. [962] It is said that the interpretation of dreams goes by contraries. But at times they are fully borne out. A good dream is an indication of future good, and a bad one of future evil. [963] There are some persons whose dreams are always fulfilled. Dreams dreamt by persons pure of mind and heart seldom turn out false. Dreams occurring in the first quarter of the night are believed to be fulfilled in a year, those in the second quarter of the night in six months, those in the third quarter in three months, and those in the last quarter in one month. A dream seen during an hour and a half before daybreak bears fruit in ten days, while that seen just at day-break is realised immediately. [964] Dreams that occur before midnight are never fulfilled. [965] If a person has a bad dream, he should go to sleep at once, and not communicate it to any one. If he has a good dream, he should not sleep on that night after its occurrence. Early on the following morning he should communicate it to a preceptor or saint; but if neither be available, he should repeat it into the ears of a cow. A good dream should never be told to a bad or low-minded person. If a man sleeps after a good dream and has a bad one, the former loses its force while the latter gains ascendancy and comes true. [966] It is related that Allauddin the bloody once entered the house of a blacksmith when the latter was asleep dreaming that he saw a treasure trove after having bathed in a stream and drunk a little water. At the same time Allauddin saw a small insect come out of the blacksmith's nostril, drink water from a neighbouring cistern, and return to the place from whence he came. When the dream was over, the blacksmith woke and communicated it to Allauddin, which enabled the latter to spot the treasure, found by excavating the place where the insect was hidden. [967] The king Nala was questioned in his sleep several times by an individual unknown to him, "May I come now or later?" Nala replied "Come now" thinking that if it was misfortune that put him the question, it would be better to get rid of it soon, so that the latter part of life might be passed happily. The questioner proved to be misfortune, and it is related that Nala met many mishaps during his youth. Similarly, a bad dream dreamt by Harischandra was followed by a series of calamities. Ravan, the demon king of Lanka or Ceylon, had a dream in the third quarter of the night that Lanka was destroyed, and the destruction of Lanka followed. [968] To see or think or experience in dreams the following, as the case may be is considered to be auspicious:-- (1) A cow, (2) a bullock, (3) an elephant, (4) a palace, (5) a mountain, (6) a high peak, (7) the droppings of a bird, (8) ointment, (9) weeping, (10) a king, (11) gold, (12) the crossing of the ocean, (13) a lamp, (14) flesh, (15) fruit, (16) a lotus, (17) a flag, (18) the image of one's favourite god, (19) a saint, (20) a Brahman, (21) an ancestral spirit, (22) a white snake biting the right side, (23) a flowering tree, (24) climbing a tree, (25) climbing the Rayan (Mimusops hexandra), (26) a woman dressed in white, (27) walking over a layer of lead, (28) lifting a goblet filled with wine, (29) a lion, (30) the goddess of wealth, (31) a garland, (32) driving in a carriage to which an elephant, a lion, a horse or a bullock is yoked, (33) swallowing the disc of the sun or the moon, (34) the hands or feet of a man, (35) worship of a deity, (36) barley, (37) rice, (38) sandal paste, (39) the Dro grass (Cynodon Dactylon), (40) the moon, (41) the sun, (42) a goblet, (43) an ocean of milk, (44) jewels, (45) smokeless fire, (46) an image of the god Shiva, Brahma or Ganesh or of the goddess Gauri, (47) a celestial vehicle, (48) the heaven, (49) the Kalpavriksha or the magic tree that satisfies all desires, (50) a river in floods, (51) fish, (52) curdled milk, (53) going on a pilgrimage, (54) ornaments, (55) crossing a river, (56) eating the flesh of a man's legs or flowers. [969] To see in a dream (1) a person leading a life of celibacy, (2) a virgin, (3) a green tree, (4) or students returning from school, is also considered to foretell good fortune. [970] Similarly, the sight of an unwidowed woman and the thought of the death of any person, in a dream, is believed to bring good luck. A dream in which one of the following objects is seen is also supposed to be good:-- (1) An assemblage of Brahmans, (2) a gardener, (3) milk, (4) a prostitute, (5) a shield and sword, (6) a musket, (7) a scimitar, (8) an antelope, (9) an unwidowed woman carrying on her head a jar filled with water, (10) a mongoose, (11) a peacock, (12) a woman carrying a child on her waist, (13) newly-washed dry clothes, (14) a costly fan, (15) a man dressed in white clothes. [971] In a book called Harit-sanhita the subject of the influence of dreams on human happiness or misery is fully treated. The book says:--If the sun, the moon, the congregation of the stars, a lake filled with clusters of expanded lotuses, or crossing the sea or a river full of water be seen or experienced in a dream by a man, he attains wealth, happiness and prosperity and relief from diseases. "If a cow, a horse, an elephant, a king or a flower called prashasta is seen in a dream by a sickly person, his illness disappears; if by one laid in sick bed, he is cured; if by one confined in a jail, he is released." [972] If a child grinds its teeth and weeps in a dream, it indicates liquidation of pecuniary liabilities. One who sees a man die in a dream is blessed with longevity. [973] A bite by a white snake in a dream is an omen of increase of wealth. [974] "All black objects except a cow, a horse, a king, an elephant, and fish, seen in a dream, are the precursors of disease and calamity." "One who sees in a dream his body devoured by crows, herons, camels, serpents, boars, eagles, foxes, dogs, wolves, asses, buffaloes, birds moving in the sky, tigers, fishes, alligators or monkeys, experiences in the immediate future a heavy loss or a terrible disease." [975] The following objects seen, heard or experienced in a dream are believed to forebode evil:-- (1) Cotton, (2) ashes, (3) bones, (4) whey, (5) singing, (6) merriment, (7) laughing, (8) studying, (9) a woman dressed in red, (10) a red mark on the forehead, (11) a gandharva or heavenly bard, (12) a demon, (13) a wizard, (14) a witch, (15) a prickly shrub, (16) a cemetery, (17) a cat, (18) vomiting, (19) darkness, (20) a hide, (21) a woman with a bad reputation, (22) thirst, (23) a contest between two planets, (24) fall of a luminous body, (25) a whirlwind, (26) vishotak (a disease in which the skin is covered with ulcers), (27) one carrying away one's vehicle, wife, jewels, gold, silver or bell-metal utensils, (28) the breaking of one's own house, (29) the drinking of a poisonous liquid. [976] If in a dream one relishes a dish of sweetmeats, plays upon a musical instrument, or sees a widow dressed in the garment of an unwidowed woman, it is believed to prognosticate evil and bring misfortune. Similarly, if in a dream, the sleeper marries or hears the crowing of a crow or the bark of a dog, or an owl speak like a man, it portends misfortune. [977] Seeing an auspicious mark, or bathing in or being besmeared with oil, in a dream, is an indication of one's death in the near future. Going to the south riding a he-buffalo, or seeing a widow, brings on misfortune. [978] If a man in health comes across a corpse in a dream, he apprehends illness. If a patient does the same, he fears death. [979] It is a common belief that the soul can leave the body temporarily. When a man feels thirsty in sleep, his soul is supposed to leave the body to drink water, and if it finds the water pots covered, not to return to the body, which is found dead the next morning. [980] It is for this reason that most people drink water at the time of going to bed. [981] Shankaracharya was a life long celibate. Once, in a discussion with the wife of Mandan Mishra, she put to him a question on the subject of the pleasures of married life. To answer the question it was necessary to have the experiences of a married life. To gain these experiences Shankaracharya's soul left his body and entered the corpse of a king just dead, and enjoyed the pleasures of married life for six months in the company of the queen of the deceased king. It then returned to his body, which was preserved by his disciples according to his instructions, and answered the question put to him by the wife of Mandan Mishra. [982] It is related that the spirit of the daughter of a black-smith in Luvaria returned to her body two hours after her death, after which she lived for a fortnight. A similar story is told of a Nagar Brahman, who lived for some years after the return of his spirit to his body. [983] About forty years ago, the corpse of a Kanbi in Lilapur was carried to the burning ground for cremation, and there his spirit returned to his body. On being asked where he had been, the Kanbi replied that he had been to Dharmaraja, the lord of hell, who told him to go back to his body, saying that his life's thread had not yet ended. It is related that the Kanbi lived for some years after this incident. Another instance of the soul departing and then returning to the body is that of a Kanbi woman in Lilapur, whose soul returned to the body after she had been carried to the burning ground. The woman lived for five years after this occurrence. [984] A Brahman in Limbdi named Vaijnath had, by the performance of yoga, obtained the power of sending his spirit out of his body and recalling it at pleasure. [985] The soul of a living being leaves its physical tabernacle during sleep and hovers about. It can go to and return from even the heavenly and infernal regions. There are eighteen kinds of siddhis or accomplishments, one of which is parakayapravesh or the power of entering the body of another and returning to one's own body at will. The soul cannot exist separated from the body. When a person who revives after death is asked how he returned to life, he declares that he has been carried to the presence of the god of death by his messengers, being mistaken for another bearing the same name and living in the same locality. When such a mistake is detected, the god of death tells the soul of the man concerned that his life's span has not yet ended, and sends it back to the body, which appears to be dead. [986] Often the soul of a man ascends to his temples, when the man is supposed to be dead although he is alive. In such cases, when the soul descends, the man is supposed to come to life again. It is believed by some people that if all the desires of a man are not satisfied at the time of his death, his soul leaves the body to satisfy them and subsequently returns to the corpse, whereupon the body revives. [987] A devotee in his meditative trance can send forth his soul whithersoever he pleases. [988] It is also believed that the soul of man leaves the body in sleep to enjoy those pleasures which it cannot enjoy in wakefulness. [989] The popular conceptions of the character and functions of the bhut or disembodied soul are as follows: A ghost has no recognised form. It may assume the form of a human being, a goat, a blaze of fire, a whirl-wind or any other object it pleases. [990] Some assume a terribly gigantic and fearfully uncouth frame, with big fang-like teeth, long matted hair and a height that reaches the sky. At times they assume the form of a child and cry heart-breakingly at a concealed corner of a road. Should a passer-by, out of compassion, try to save it, the supposed infant begins to lengthen its legs to show its benefactor its real and supernatural dimensions. Sometimes it transforms itself into a gigantic and terrible being, taking possession of the man if he becomes afraid. [991] Some evil spirits manifest themselves as showers of burning charcoal, while some are so forward as to offer their services as guides to strangers from one village to another. Some assume the form of Bhensasur--a demon in the form of a buffalo--said to be a most malignant ghost. [992] The throat of a ghost is as narrow as the fine end of a needle, and yet it is believed to require a dozen potfuls of water to quench its thirst. It cannot get pure water, as such water is guarded by the god Varuna. It has, therefore, to quench its thirst with such dirty water as it can get. Similarly, it cannot get clean food, and has to satisfy its hunger on human excretions, the droppings of birds and other animals, urine, and the filth of houses. [993] It is generally believed that evil spirits do not cast shadows. All attempts to catch them prove futile, as they vanish in the form of a flame. [994] If it is sought to catch hold of a goat-shaped ghost, the goat swells into such a monstrous size that the spectator gets terrified, whereupon the ghost finds an opportunity of disappearing in a flame. It is believed that ghosts prefer darkness to light and silence to noise. They live on the Pipal (Ficus religiosa) or Shami (Prosopis spicigera) trees. [995] A ghost presents itself to the vision of a man by blocking its way in the form of a goat or some other animal. [996] Ghosts are believed to infest woods, unused wells, cellars and old tanks. They are also found in ruins and cemeteries. As far as possible they keep themselves aloof from mortals; but at times they are visible to human beings, mostly to those destitute of religion and morals. They roam about and terrify people. Sometimes they enter the persons of human beings. Such men either gain in strength, fall sick, or become senseless. The ghosts who possess them make them laugh or work, without being fatigued, with ten times the vigour they originally possessed. [997] Ghosts keep their persons uncovered, feed upon flesh and blood, sleep during the day, and roam about at night. [998] Often a large concourse of ghosts meet together and dance, sing and make merry uttering loud and fierce shrieks. A ghost has no back, and has its feet reversed. It keeps away from man, but terrifies him by pelting him with stones from a distance. [999] On the fourteenth day of the dark half of Ashvin (the twelfth month of the Gujarati Hindu year) all ghosts are believed to go about playing pranks with poor mortals and possessing them. [1000] The Navaratra holidays is the season when ghosts appear in many places. [1001] Ghosts enter corpses or possess human beings and speak through them as a medium. Sometimes they assume their original human form, and often torment people with disease. They present themselves as animals and pass away in a blaze. They hum in the air without being seen, wrestle with men or carry unseen human beings from one place to another. Some women are believed to conceive by intercourse with male ghosts. [1002] If a man happens to step in the circle described by water round the offering given to a ghost, viz., utar, he is possessed by the ghost. A house haunted by a ghost is the scene of great mischief. [1003] Ghosts are said to be most mischievous during the first part of the night. Their fury diminishes with the advance of night. [1004] Ghosts are inimical to human beings, terrify them, and sometimes, assuming the form of a cobra, kill those whom they hated most during life. [1005] They are pleased with offerings of blood. [1006] To throw stones at houses and trees and to set them on fire are their usual pranks. [1007] The ghost called Jan manifests itself as a giant, its height reaching the sky. If a man comes under its shadow, he is seized by it and dashed to pieces on the ground. On the contrary, if a man wins its favour, he becomes prosperous. Hence a proverb has been current that "seizing another as by a jan" meaning "being attacked by a dire misfortune." [1008] There is a female ghost called Chudel. Its back is covered with flesh, its feet are reversed, its form is hollow and its face handsome like that of a charming woman. [1009] It is said that a woman dying in childbed becomes a chudel. Her form is a skeleton behind with the figure of a pretty woman in front. It is believed that mastery over ghosts can be obtained by dint of incantations or mantras. Those who subjugate ghosts in this way have power to command them to do their behests. But the process by which such powers are procured is believed to be beset with dangers, and many lose their lives in so doing. [1010] There is also a belief that a bhut or ghost can be brought under control by lopping off a lock of its hair or top knot and keeping it in one's custody. [1011] It is said that this lock ought to be kept inside the right thigh by tearing a hole in the flesh. It is believed that the thigh can be cut open by a hair of the ghost without injury. [1012] The ghost so subjugated should never be kept unemployed; otherwise it oppresses its master. [1013] It is believed that the spirits of deceased persons become ghosts under the following conditions:-- 1 If scriptural ceremonies are not performed with the ceremonial offerings of rice balls to the deceased. 2 If the deceased dies with a strong attachment to worldly objects. 3 If the death is unnatural that is, caused by an accident. All ghosts get absolution by the performance of propitiative ceremonies by their descendants as prescribed in the scriptures. [1014] There are various beliefs current as to the state of the soul after death. The Garud puran contains many passages illustrating its movements after it leaves the body. Says the book:-- "When the soul leaves the body it assumes a form as small as a thumb. At this very moment it is caught by the servants of Yama while he is crying out ha! ha! looking at its corporal receptacle." And again:-- "Covering the body of the soul (which suffers intensely) and strangling it forcibly, the servants of the god Yama carry it away just as a culprit is carried by a king's soldiers." The verses that follow describe the miseries inflicted upon the poor thumb-shaped soul for the sins committed by him during his life-time. The sinful soul has to undergo similar miseries in hell. From hell it returns to this world guarded by the servants of Yama, to partake of the rice-balls and other articles of food offered by the sons or other relatives. It is then again taken to hell to suffer more miseries and penalties in expiation of past sins. Then it returns once more to receive the offerings of rice-balls made at shraddha ceremonies. If, even after this, any desires remain unfulfilled, it has to continue a wretched existence in the other world. [1015] In a chapter of the Pretamanjari of the Garud Puran it is stated that the souls of righteous men go to the next world unmolested. [1016] Some people believe that the departing soul assumes a form like a thumb, and remains in that state until relieved by the performance of shraddha by his heirs. It then enters the other world to enjoy the fruits of its good actions. The Yamapuri or the city of the god of death is 8,6´0 Yojans--a Yojan being equal to four miles--to the south of the earth. The lord of this place is Dharmaraja. Yama is his servant, whose duty is to carry the soul from one place to another. [1017] Others maintain that two states await the soul after death according to whether it has performed righteous or sinful acts during life. The righteous attain to heaven and enter the Parshad Vaikunta of Vishnu. The sinful go to hell or Yamaloka. [1018] The sinful souls go to Yamaloka and are made to suffer the miseries of twenty-eight naraks or hells in proportion to the sins perpetrated by them, after which they return to the earth. The following are some of the punishments meted out to wicked souls for their sins, in their next lives:-- 1 Those who murder Brahmans suffer from consumption. 2 Those who slaughter cows are born as tortoises. 3 Those guilty of female infanticide suffer from white leprosy. 4 One who kills his wife, as well as a woman guilty of causing abortion, becomes a beggar. 5 Those who commit adultery become impotent. 6 He who seats himself on the bed or seat of his preceptor is affected by skin diseases. 7 Flesh-eaters get a red body. 8 Those who indulge in drink get black teeth. 9 A Brahman partaking of prohibited food suffers from dropsy. 10 One who eats sweets without sharing them with the by-standers suffers from cancer in the throat. 11 One who offers polluted food to departed spirits suffers from black leprosy. 12 One who disobeys and despises his teacher suffers from wind apasmar. 13 One who does not believe in the shastras suffers from enlargement of the spleen or Bright's disease. 14 A perjurer is born dumb. 15 One who does not serve food equally to all the members at a dining table loses one of his eyes. 16 Those who break off a marriage alliance are punished with thick (negro-like) lips. 17 Those who steal books lose their eye-sight. 18 He who kicks a Brahman becomes lame. 19 A liar becomes a stammerer. 20 Those who listen to contradictory versions of what is generally believed to be true become deaf. 21 One who poisons another becomes a lunatic. 22 One who steals precious metals becomes indigent. 23 An incendiary is punished with a bald head. 24 Meat-sellers meet with misfortunes. 25 One who steals gold has his nails deformed. 26 He who steals food is born a mouse. 27 One stealing corn has to be reborn as a locust. 28 One stealing opium or other poisonous drugs is born a scorpion. 29 One who steals leaves or vegetables is born a peacock. 30 One who enjoys perfumes by stealing them is born a mole. 31 One who steals honey becomes an eagle. 32 One who steals flour, rice, etc. is born a monkey. [1019] The state of the soul after death depends upon a man's good or bad actions in life. The souls of the righteous leave the body without any trouble. The messengers of the god of death present themselves to these souls in the form of saints and carry them to that part of the heaven which is presided over by their favourite deity, by the eastern, northern, or western gates. They are received there with great respect. Here they enjoy the fruits of their merit, after which they return to this world and are born either in the family of a wealthy virtuous man or in that of a poor Brahman who has attained the knowledge of God. In this new life they accumulate further merit, in virtue of which they are endowed with a higher spiritual life in the following birth, and so on until they attain final emancipation. After attaining moksha or salvation the soul becomes free from the wheel of birth and rebirth. To the souls of the sinful, who leave their bodies with a great struggle, the messengers of the god of death present themselves in a terrible form. They are carried to hell by the southern gate, being constantly lashed on the way. There they are relegated to one of the twenty-eight pits (of hell) appropriate to their misdeeds, to suffer retribution for their sins. [1020] The soul is carried to Dharmaraja after it leaves the body. Thence, with the permission of the god, it returns to this world and halts for thirteen days at the threshold of its house. On the thirteenth day an earthen jar filled with water is emptied on a pipal tree (Ficus religiosa) after which its connection with this world ceases. Then it returns to the heavenly judge of actions (Dharmaraja), and is again born in the species prescribed by him. The soul of a strictly spiritual being merges into the divine entity and becomes free from birth and rebirth. Moksha or Mukti, that is final emancipation is of two kinds, sayujya or merging into the divine form and samishya or entering the divine order and living in this state so long as one's merits allow. Dharmaraja keeps an account of the good and bad actions of all men in his book called siddhi karan, and dispenses justice according to it. A man guilty of adultery is sentenced to embrace a redhot image of a woman; one who has slaughtered animals is devoured by those animals; while those who have committed the sin of murdering Brahmans are relegated to hell for ever. [1021] There are seven rungs to the ladder which leads to the next world. The first is covered with a thick forest. The second bristles with pointed spears. The third is strewn with gokharu (a species of thorns). The fourth has piercing blasts. On the fifth runs the river Vaitarna. The sixth is full of red-hot iron. The seventh is covered with deep streams. [1022] After death, the soul has to cross the river Vaitarna (vide the fifth rung above) on its way to the next world. Those who have given cows in charity can cross this river without difficulty by holding the tails of the cows, who present themselves to help them. Those who have given shoes in charity can tread the third step with ease. The sinful have to walk barefooted on ground studded with pointed spears, and to embrace red-hot iron pillars. It is with the object of avoiding these miseries that people distribute shoes and clothes in charity. [1023] The sinful expiate their sins by passing through a cycle of 8,400,000 births. [1024] They have to be born 2,100,000 times in the class of creatures born of eggs, 2,100,000 times in the species of worms produced from sweat, 2,100,000 times from embryonic birth and a similar number of times in the vegetable kingdom. Those who lack virtue but commit no sins are born in the divine order of a low grade such as the servants of Kuber, the attendants of the god Shiva, Gandharvas, Vaitals, Brahmarakshasas, Kushmands and other demigods. Virtuous women are born as goddesses or devis or as apsaras or celestial songstresses. Those who have performed only a few acts of righteousness enter the ranks of Jakhanis, Kinnaris, Matrikas, and the maid servants of the goddess Durga. [1025] The souls of the righteous are carried by Yamadutas or the messengers of the god of death through five cities, by a route passing through beautiful gardens; while those of the sinful are led barefooted over brambles and pointed spears by roads running through dense forests hidden in pitchy darkness. The latter have also to cross large rivers and pass through streams filled with blood and puss. As they pass, eagles prey upon their bodies and they are bitten by venomous snakes. [1026] The souls of those who have in life performed good actions pass through the sun and assume divine forms; while those of ordinary beings pass through the moon and return to this world. [1027] A sinful soul has to go to Yamaloka or hell through sixteen cities. On its way it has to cross the river Vaitarna, which consists of blood mixed with puss. He who has presented a cow to a Brahman can cross this river with ease. Beyond this river lies a land which is covered with spikes. Those who have given in charity ashtamahadan, that is, sesamum seeds, flour, gold, cotton, salt, clarified butter, milk and sugarcandy, can walk over this ground without being hurt. When the soul has reached Yama or the god of death, the sun and the moon, the ever-living witnesses of human actions, testify to its virtues and sins, and it is meted out a punishment appropriate to its sins. [1028] In order that the departed soul may not find its way difficult, his heirs make a gift to a Brahman of a bedstead, bedding, a lamp, corn, a pair of shoes and other articles, on the thirteenth day after death. This gift is called seraja. [1029] One enters the human order after passing through 8,400,000 species of living beings. It is in the human life that one can accumulate merit, and wipe out the influence of past sins. Those who meet a sudden or violent death, e. g., by being crushed under a falling house, by drowning in a well, by an accidental fall, by a snake bite, etc. enter the order of bhuts, pretas, pishachas, etc., and are said to have gone to durgati or to a bad path. [1030] But those who die on a field of battle are believed to attain heaven. [1031] According to another belief, persons dying a violent death have to pass through the same fate, that is, die violently, for the next seven lives. [1032] Their souls are said to be liable to enter the asurgati or the order of devils. They are emancipated from this condition by the performance by their descendants of the ceremony called Nil parnavavi or of those ceremonies prescribed in the Pal Shastra. [1033] It is also believed that such souls after entering the order of ghosts oppress and torment their descendants and relatives. [1034] In the case of suicides, when the crime is proved before the god of death the culprit is hurled into a hell called Maharaurava, where he has to pass a thousand years. After the expiry of this period he is born again into this world, again commits suicide, and again meets the same fate after death. This is repeated seven times, after which he has to pass through 8,400,000 species of animals before again obtaining the human life. [1035] If the suicide be caused by poisoning, the person, in his next life, becomes a serpent; if by drowning or strangling, he becomes a ghost. [1036] Some believe that the souls of persons meeting a violent death enter the order of such ghosts as Jinni, Mamo, etc. For their emancipation shraddhas are performed by their descendants. At times these ghosts possess the persons of their nearest relatives, and through this medium declare their desires. If they express a desire to have a palio or pillar erected in their name, one is erected on the spot where they breathed their last. On this pillar is engraved a figure riding a horse, representing the deceased, which is besmeared with red lead or ochre. This representation is worshipped as a deity with offerings of frankincense, cocoanuts and lamps fed with ghi. [1037] The palio is called surdhan, and is worshipped, especially on the death anniversary of the deceased. [1038] In some castes the surdhans are installed in the house of the deceased. [1039] There are various beliefs current as to the way in which spirits enter and leave the body. According to one belief, when a person gets frightened by the apparition of a ghost, the ghost enters his body through one of the organs, and makes him senseless and violent. [1040] According to another belief, a ghost, as stated above, takes an airy form and enters the body through any channel through which air can enter the body. It leaves the body by the same route. [1041] There is also a belief that evil spirits enter the body of a man through any part of the body and under their influence the person possessed dances, jumps, foams or sits idle [1042]. There is a further belief that a ghost enters the body through the thumb and gets out by the ears. [1043] According to some, a ghost makes its way into the body through the anus and its exit by the same route. [1044] Others maintain that it enters the body through the nostrils and gets out by the same passage. [1045] Some say that it finds an entrance and outlet through the skull. [1046] There are others who are of opinion that the immaterial form of a ghost can find admission into the body by the right side and egress the same way. [1047] It is said that when the body is unclean, a ghost can enter it through any of the organs. [1048] To drive away an evil spirit from the body of a person, a conjuror, Vanjha, Koli, Vaghri, Atit, Fakir or other exorcist is engaged to set a danklan [1049] and to offer a victim and frankincense to the evil spirit, which is supposed to drive the spirit out by the same route by which it entered the body. [1050] [1051] Another method of driving away an evil spirit from the body is as follows:-- As soon as it is ascertained that a man is possessed by an evil spirit, somebody catches hold of the top-knot of the man or ties it into a knot. Next he is lashed with a whip or chain until the ghost in him cries out "Please don't beat me. I shall leave the body and shall never return." Then the ghost is told that it is a liar, that it said a thousand times that it would leave the body and not return, but it did not do it. No faith, therefore, would be put in its word. After a haggling dialogue of this kind and on the ghost's confirmation of its offer never to return by some satisfactory oath or assurance, the top-knot is unloosed and the ghost disappears. [1052] A third method is to subject the person possessed to the fumes of red chillies or of black wood, or to tie a sacred thread round his elbow. After one of these processes has been performed to expel the ghost, the victim gives a deep yawn, and it is said that the ghost goes out in the yawn. Next the relieved person is given water to drink, and an exorcist is engaged to take measures to prevent the possibility of the ghost's return. [1053] In a book entitled Brahman Nighanta Ratnakar is described the method of driving away an evil spirit from the body of a man by an offering of dhup or frankincense. The dhup to be used for this purpose must be made of gugal, and it must be offered with honey and clarified butter, repeating the following mantra:-- "Amen. Bow to the divine Lord of the evil spirits, the Lord whose teeth, jaws, and mouth are fierce, by whose three eyes the forehead is ablaze, whose lustre is marked by irresistible anger, who holds a crescent moon on the forehead and matted hair on the head, whose body is besmeared with ashes; whose neck is adorned by the poison of the fierce lord of the cobras. Oh! may success attend to thee! Oh! Great one! The Lord of spirits! manifest thy form, dance, dance; move, move; tie with a chain, tie; terrify by a neigh, terrify; kill, kill by the adamantine wand; cut, cut off by a sharp weapon; tear off, tear off by the point of a spear; reduce, reduce to atoms by the bludgeon; remove remove, all the evil spirits Swaha." [1054] There are various superstitious beliefs entertained by people regarding sneezing. According to one belief, if a person sneezes face to face with another who is about to begin an auspicious act, such as starting on a journey, decking his person with ornaments, performing a marriage ceremony, and the like, it portends misfortune to the latter; but a sneeze on his right or at his back foretells good. A sneeze in front of a person starting to perform an auspicious act is supposed to mean that a blow has been struck on his forehead, suggesting that the act should be stopped. If, in spite of this warning, the act is commenced, evil consequences are sure to follow. A sneeze at a man's back confirms the unobstructed fulfilment of the act taken in hand, as it is believed to have patted the man on his back or shoulders in token of approval. Sneezes on either side, right or left, portend neither good nor evil. As a rule, sneezes are believed to forebode evil, and it is considered highly unmannerly to sneeze while one is about to begin an auspicious act or start with a good purpose. If, in spite of this etiquette, one sneezes, he excuses himself by saying that he is suffering from cold. [1055] Some people believe that a sneeze in front is an indication of a broil on the road, a sneeze on the left side portends loss of money, one from above is a harbinger of success, one from below foretells danger, while the sneeze of the man who is engaged or is starting on the act contemplated is believed to be very injurious. A sneeze on the right is considered neither good nor bad. [1056] A sneeze in the east causes anxiety, in the south-east foretells happiness, in the south speaks of coming loss, and in the south-west is an indication of good. A sneeze from the west or north-west is considered good, from the north injurious, and from the north-east auspicious. [1057] Some lines from the sayings of Gorakhraj run to the effect that a sneeze in the east causes anxiety, one in the south-east inflicts a sound beating, one in the south brings a visitor or guest, one in the south-west subjects the person concerned to a taunt, one in the west bestows a throne or crown, one in the north-west promises sweets or dainties, one in the north foretells good, one in the north-east brings disappointment, while one's own sneeze is so ominous that one should never start out on any business after sneezing. [1058] The beliefs enumerated above relate to sneezes which occur on certain week days. The sneezes which occur on Sundays have the following consequences. A sneeze from the east is good, one from the south-east points to delay in the fulfilment of one's intended object, one from the south brings in profit, one from the south-west results in death, one from the west in happiness, one from the north-west throws one into the society of good men, one from the north is productive of pecuniary gain, and one from the north-east of general wellbeing. [1059] It is a common belief that if while one is about to commence some act, somebody sneezes once, the act is doomed to fail, and to avoid failure it must be postponed. But if the sneeze is repeated, no harm ensues. A sneeze by an ailing person is believed to be a sign of his recovery, and more sneezes by the same person are supposed to indicate his complete recovery, even though the symptoms be not favourable. A sneeze by a cow at the commencement of an auspicious act is supposed to be the worst possible omen, and a sneeze by a cat is proverbially a portent of failure in any act taken in hand at the time. [1060] A yawn is generally believed to be harmless, as it does not foretell either good or evil. Still as sometimes it results in accidental instantaneous death, the elders of a person when he yawns, exclaim, "Be long-lived! Patience! Live long!", and the spiritually disposed repeat the name of the god of their devotion. [1061] Lest spirits may make their way into the body of a person through his mouth when he is yawning, or lest his soul may pass out of it, some people pinch him to stop the yawn while others utter the words "Ram" "Ram" to divert his attention. [1062] In mythological times, Brahma, one of the gods of the Hindu Trinity, once left his body for a time. Some people began to molest the body, when he cried out, "Rakho! Rakho!" that is "Keep aloof! Keep aloof!" or "Wait! Wait!". These people came to be called Rakho [1063] which in course of time corrupted into Rakshasa. The beings who hold sway over rakshasas are called Maharakshasas. In the Ramayan and other purans, rakshasas are represented as feeding on human flesh. [1064] A rakshasa is supposed to be sixteen miles in height and to roam about for his prey within a circle with a radius of sixteen miles. [1065] The Maharakshasas are supposed to have their abode in the seas. It is said that they burn or swallow ships sailing thereon. [1066] The rakshasas are supposed to number 60,000,000 and the maharakshasas 20,000. Kubera, a maharakshasa, is the lord of the rakshasas. [1067] It is said that the rakshasas, maharakshasas, wizards and witches were visible to the human eye during the tretayuga. With the commencement of the present or kaliyuga they have become invisible. It is stated in the Purans that during the recitation of the Surya kavach, Saptasani or the Narayan kavach, if the rakshasas or maharakshasas fall into or approach the limits circumscribed for them, the recitation proves ineffective. [1068] It is a common belief that there is bitter enmity between the gods and rakshasas. The former follow the path of virtue while the latter lead immoral lives devouring Brahmans and cows, feeding on flesh, and indulging in intoxicating drinks. The habitat of the rakshasas is the patal or nether world, Rawan being their king. [1069] The exploits of some of the rakshasas are described in the Mahabharat, Bhagvat and the Ramayan. For instance, the misdeeds of Jarasandh, Ghatotkacha and Hedamba are described in the Mahabharat; those of Kansa, Banasur, Pralambasur, Adhasur, Dhenukasur, Kalanemi, Shankasur and Vritrasur in the Bhagvat; and those of Ravan, Kumbhakarna and Indrajit in the Ramayan. [1070] A rakshasa named Tripurasur conquered the heavens, the earth and the nether regions, and began to annoy the gods. The god Shiva burnt the rakshasa to ashes. [1071] The two rakshasas Hiranyaksha and Hiranyakashyapu were originally the gate-keepers of Vishnu, one of the gods of the Hindu trinity. Once they affronted Sanatkumar, the son of Brahma, when they were cursed by Vishnu who decreed that they would be born rakshasas in three successive lives. In these lives they had to play the part of the enemies of gods and men, and were destroyed by Vishnu as such. A rakshasa named Jalandhar is stated to have met his death when the chastity of his wife was violated by the god Vishnu in the disguise of her husband. [1072] Maharakshasas are also known by the name of Brahma rakshasas. A Brahman dying without imparting all his learning to his disciples or with the guilt of the murder of a Brahman or a cow on him is believed to enter the order of Brahma rakshasas after his death. In this state he possesses a body without a head. A Brahma rakshasa is also called Khavis. [1073] [1074] In addition to the wizards and witches mentioned above, there are others the names of which are as follows:-- (1) Dakini, (2) Sakini, (3) Kushmand, (4) Zod, (5) Dholio, (6) Pale Marad, (7) Bhuchar, (8) Khechar, (9) Jalaj, (10) Jakharo, (11) Shikotrum, (12) Ashtabharo, (13) Chand Chani, (14) Chorosi Kantini, (15) Jogani, (16) Hathadi, (17) Miyali, (18) Ghanchini, (19) Mochini, (20) Baladi, (21) Molani, (22) Khuntini, (23) Suti, (24) Gavati, (25) Bethi, (26) Ubhi, (27) Avi, (28) Chaurar, (29) Madhu Pavanti, (30) Mansa Khavanti, (31) Bhasika, (32) Pratab, (33) Vira, (34) Vavanchara, (35) Chorasi Viru, (36) Nao Narasing, (37) Jaikha, (38) Jutaka, (39) Masida, (40) Gandharavi, (41) Jami, (42) Asmani, (43) Mamikula, [1075] (44) Zampadi, (45) Meladi, (46) Balla. [1076] Of the above, the first forty-three together with Chudela or Vantri and Preta are believed by some to be the names of so many Joganis or female evil spirits or witches. The remaining are living Dakans or witches who are believed to cause illness or even death by their evil eye to those on whom they throw a glance. [1077] Wizards live upon ordinary food, witches on air, while pretas require nothing to eat for their maintenance. It is said that their backs and shoulders are covered with filth and emit an offensive odour. [1078] It is generally believed that the spirits of such male members of low unclean castes as die a violent death become Khavis. [1079] Some believe that Khavis or Khabith is a Musalman ghost. [1080] Others hold that he is the lord of all ghosts. [1081] Khavis has no head. His eyes are located in the chest. He is as tall as a cocoa-palm or bamboo. He roams about holding in one hand a weapon and in the other a lump of flesh. Those over whom his shadow falls are said to fall ill. [1082] His appearance is so terrible that a person who sees him for the first time is frightened to death. [1083] It is stated that he starts on his excursions after sun-set. [1084] The attendants of the god Shiva known as Vaitalikas are said to have no heads. [1085] They live in cremation grounds, as they have a burning desire to possess the bodies of deceased persons. [1086] A belief runs that the trunk of the evil spirit called Suropuro, that is the spirit of one who meets a heroic death, moves about like a Khavis. [1087] It is a common belief that evil spirits haunt trees, groves, deserted tanks and woods. [1088] Vetal roams over burial and cremation grounds, as also Bhuchar, Khechar, Kal-Bhairav and a number of other ghosts. [1089] The Jimp, Babaro and some other ghosts reside in fortresses and unoccupied houses and roam about in the burning grounds. Chudela, Kotda and Brahma Rakshasa make their abodes on the tamarind, Shami (Prosopis spicigera), Babul and Kerado trees and in deep tanks and wells in deserted places. Their favourite haunts are river banks. [1090] It is stated by some people that the Chudel, Vantri, Dakan, Jimp, Khavis and other ghosts generally haunt cremation grounds, fields where battles have been fought, thresholds of houses and latrines and cross-roads. [1091] Some declare that ghosts are also to be found in temples in which there are no images and in dry wells. [1092] The ghost preta is said to be as tall as a camel, the passage of its throat being as small as the bore of a needle. It is therefore believed to be always wandering about in quest of water. [1093] The evil spirit Jan haunts mountains and forests and Mamo the centres of filth, while Vetal is found in cremation grounds. [1094] Jan, Brahma Rakshasa and Khavis reside in woods, trees, or on mountains, Khijadio Mamo lives in the Khijada or Shami tree and Amatho Mamo in a grove of trees. Spirits of high caste people not emancipated from the trammels of birth and rebirth have their abode in the Pipal tree. [1095] It is related that once a number of boys, on their return from a tank to which they had gone on a swimming excursion, passed by a Khijada tree, when one of them suggested to the others to throw stones at the tree, saying that any one not doing so would fall under the displeasure of God. One of the boys threw a stone at a neighbouring Babul tree with the result that on reaching home he fell ill in a fit of terror. He began to shake and said, "Why did you strike me with a stone? I had resorted to the Babul tree from the Khijado and you struck me there. I shall not depart until I take your life." Evidently it was the Khijadio Mamo who had possessed the boy who spoke the above words; and an exorcist was called who drove him out by the incantation of mantras; after which the boy recovered. [1096] It is believed that a woman who dies an unnatural death becomes a Chudel and troubles her husband, her successor or co-wife, or her children. [1097] There are three classes of Chudels, (1) Poshi, (2) Soshi and (3) Toshi. Those women that have not enjoyed before death the pleasures of this world to their satisfaction enter the order of Poshi Chudels. They fondle children and render good service to their widower husbands. Those women that are persecuted beyond endurance by the members of their families become Soshi Chudels after death. They dry up the blood of men and prove very troublesome to the members of the family. Those women who bear a strong attachment to their husbands enter the order of Toshi Chudels and bring great pleasure and happiness to their husbands in this life. [1098] Most high caste people, on the death of their first wives, take an impression of their feet on gold leaves or leaf-like tablets of gold and cause their second wives to wear them round their necks. [1099] These impresses of feet are called shok-pagalans or mourning footprints. Among the lower castes, the hands or the feet of the second wives are tattooed in the belief that this prevents the deceased wife from causing injury to the second wife. [1100] All female spirits called Pishachas or Dakans and male spirits called Virs or Bhuts oppress their descendants. [1101] It is also believed that any male member of a family dying with certain of his desires unfulfilled becomes a Surdhan and oppresses the surviving relatives, while a female member troubles others as Sikoturu or Mavadi. [1102] The spirits of men that fall victims to tigers or other wild animals are believed to enter the ghostly order and wander about until they are relieved from this state by the performance of the prescribed shraddha by some pious surviving relative. [1103] These evil spirits live in forests and eat nothing but flesh. [1104] If they do not get flesh to eat they eat the flesh of their own bodies. [1105] At times they put their relatives to great annoyance by entering their persons. To pacify them, palios are erected in their name, and their images are set up in the square cavities of walls. These images are besmeared with red lead and oil by their descendants on the fourteenth day of the dark half of Ashvin. The relief of such spirits is sought by the performance of a shraddha either at Siddhapur or at Gaya. [1106] It is believed that a woman dying in child-bed or menses enters the order of ghosts variously known as Chudels, Vantris or Taxamis. In order that she may not return from the cremation ground, mustard seeds are strewn along the road behind her bier, for a belief prevails that she can only succeed in returning if she can collect all the mustard seeds thus strewn on the way. [1107] In some places, loose cotton wool is thrown over the bier so as to be scattered all along the road to the cemetery. It is believed that the Chudel can only return to the house if she can collect all the cotton scattered behind her in one night. This is considered an impossible task, and no fear is therefore entertained of her return after the cotton has been scattered. [1108] To prevent the return of the Chudel, some people pass underneath the bier the legs of the cot on which the woman lay in her confinement, while others drive in an iron nail at the end of the street immediately after the corpse has been carried beyond the village boundary. [1109] In some places, the nail is driven into the threshold of the house. [1110] Even after the precautions mentioned above have been taken, to prevent the return of a Chudel or Vantri, Shraddhas are performed, and a number of Brahman women feasted on the twelfth and thirteenth day after death to propitiate her as the fear of the mischief done by her is very strong. A Chudel has no shoulders. [1111] Any passer by coming across her is asked by her to take her to his home, and if he agrees, she accompanies him, passes the night in his company, and brings his life to a speedy end. In the village of Charadi under the jurisdiction of Dhrangadhra, a Girasia named Halaji fell into the clutches of a Chudel who was driven from his person by the enchantment of a Jati on condition that he should not go into the eastern part of the village. [1112] It is believed that a woman can be relieved from the ghostly order of a Chudel by the performance of a shraddha at Siddhapur. [1113] There is no belief that the father has to take special precautions at the birth of his child except that care is taken to note the exact time of the child's birth for the purpose of casting its horoscope correctly. An inkstand and pen are also placed in the lying-in-room, as it is believed that the creator writes the destiny of a child as soon as it makes its appearance into the world. [1114] All children born in Jyeshta Nakshatra, Mula-nakshatra, or Yamaghanta are said to cause the death of their male parent. Such children were left to starve uncared for in forests in olden times; but now-a-days they are kept alive, as certain performances are believed to avert the evil. One such performance is only to see the child after clarified butter has been given in donation. Another is to see its face after it has been bathed with the water collected from eighteen wells in a pot with a thousand holes. [1115] In a third, the parents of the child hold in their hands goblets filled with clarified butter, and see their faces reflected in them before the child is presented to the sight of the father. Such children are named Mulubhai, Mulchand, Muli or Mulo. A child born in the month of Jyeshta prognosticates poverty. [1116] If the birth time of a child happens to fall within the ecliptic period, that is the period of nine hours before an eclipse takes place, as well as in the duration of the eclipse, the father does not see the child before performing certain rites, as to do so is supposed to bring misfortune. [1117] If a man has a child in his twentieth year he does not see the child before he completes it. [1118] If a child is born at a wrong juncture or conjunction of the stars, the father does not see it for twenty-seven days. [1119] A child born on the fourth, fourteenth or fifteenth day of a month is supposed to become a burden to its father. [1120] It is a common belief that a woman in child-bed should not see the face of her husband nor he of her. [1121] Women who do not obey the commands of their husbands, who partake of their meals secretly before their husbands, [1122] or violate any of their duties towards their husbands, are believed to enter the order of bats or owls after their death. [1123] According to another belief, men who have been incontinent become owls after death, while such women become bats. [1124] The owls and bats are blind during the day, but they can see corpses and the spirits of the deceased and converse with them in their own tongue. [1125] The spirits of the deceased are supposed to remain in their worldly tenement for twelve days, and owls and bats are supposed to be able to see them at night and talk to them. [1126] One of the beliefs entertained by Hindus about the owl is that none should throw a lump of earth at it, as the owl is believed to pick up the missile and throw it into a well or tank or any sheet of water, with the result that it gradually dissolves and disappears, and simultaneously the body of the person is said to be consumed. [1127] If perchance an owl utters some note perching on the top cross beam of a house on a Sunday or Tuesday night, the owner of the house should pass a dark woollen thread below the cross beam, to which a nude person should give a knot at every screech of the owl. If such a thread be kept in one's anklet, one need have no fear of ghosts nor can he be seen by a dakan or witch. If a person in sleep responds to the call of an owl, he is believed to expire within six months from that date. [1128] If an owl screeches every night for six months on one's house or an adjacent tree, a terror seizes the members of the house that some sure and certain calamity not short of death is imminent. [1129] An owl sitting on the house of a person and screeching is said to be uttering threats or forebodings of calamities and misfortunes, and is believed to foretell the death of some near relative or of a member of the household. [1130] If a miser dies after accumulating vast treasures, his spirit becomes a ghost or a snake and guards his wealth. [1131] According to another belief, a miser dying without an heir becomes a snake to guard his treasure. [1132] It is believed that such treasures are accessible to batrisas [1133] (those possessed of thirty two accomplishments). Those persons that die while ousted from the houses built by them become ghosts, and, residing in the houses, do not allow any body to live therein, and leave them only when they are demolished. [1134] Some evil spirits guard treasures in the form of drones. [1135] It is related that there is a pond called Lakhota near Jamvadi in Gondal. It contains a treasure guarded by a cobra which tries to bite whosoever attempts to remove it. [1136] The Janchar, Bhuchar, Jin and some other spirits are believed to haunt valleys. [1137] Some believe that those persons that meet their death in valleys become evil spirits and haunt the valleys. [1138] Rakhevalio, Andhario, Sevalio, Sulio and Ragatio are evil spirits that haunt the ruins of magnificent buildings and also valleys. [1139] CHAPTER VI. THE EVIL EYE AND THE SCARING OF GHOSTS. The superstitious dread of an evil eye is to be seen mostly among ignorant people, especially among women. If a boy were to fall ill, they say, "Chhotio (the name of the boy) was playing in the house wearing a fine dress and was prattling sweetly, when that wretch came to the house and her evil eye fell on him" [1140] or "The boy was eating a dainty dish when that devilish woman came up and her evil eye influenced the boy." [1141] Persons born on a Sunday or Tuesday are generally believed to have an evil eye. [1142] The evil eye causes its victim to vomit what he has eaten in its presence. [1143] If a child weeps all day long, or a person finds his appetite very weak, the evil is attributed to an evil eye. [1144] If milch cattle do not give milk, or if seva (vermicelli), papad (wafer biscuits), pickles, dudhpak (rice cooked in milk and sweetened with sugar) or such other eatables are spoilt, it is believed that the evil eye is at the root of the trouble. [1145] It is believed that the following objects are liable to be influenced by an evil eye:-- (1) Persons having fine glossy hair, fiery eyes, exquisite form, refined gait, fine speech or good handwriting, (2) good sportsmen, (3), pickles, (4) papad (wafer biscuits), (5) seva (vermicelli), (6) all attractive objects. If a person falls ill after he is praised, he is said to have been a victim of an evil eye. [1146] The precautions taken to evade the influence of the evil eye are as follows:-- (1) When children are dressed and decked with ornaments, a spot is made on their cheeks or near their necks with a black pigment or collyrium, as it is believed that the dark colour is an antidote against the influence of the evil eye. (2) Some efficacious inscription is engraved on a copper plate, which is suspended round the child's neck. (3) A bead of kachakada is also worn round the neck. (4) A tiger's nail or tooth is worn round the neck. (5) An iron ring is worn on the finger. (6) A lime is worn in the turban or headdress. (7) An incantation in the praise of Hanuman is written on a piece of paper and put in an anklet which is worn. (8) A piece of thread of five kinds of silk or cotton spun by a virgin is given seven knots on the fourteenth day of the dark half of Ashvin and worn on the person. (9) In order that sweet meats and other eatables such as papad (wafer biscuits), pickles, etc., may not be spoilt by an evil eye, a lime, an iron nail or a knife is put into them. (10) In order that a cot or cradle may not be broken by the influence of an evil eye, a black woollen thread is tied round it. (11) To prevent dudhpak (rice cooked in milk and sweetened with sugar) from being spoilt, a piece of charcoal is put into the pot in which it is prepared. [1147] While taking one's meal one should avoid the company of an evil-eyed person, but if perchance one happens to be present, a morsel of the food should be thrown behind him or set aside on the ground as an offering to the evil eye. [1148] If, in spite of the precautions mentioned above, the influence of the evil eye prevails, the following remedies are adopted to remove its effects:-- (1) The evil eye is fastened or curbed, as they say, by one of the processes described in Chapter III above. (2) A red-hot charcoal is placed on a dinner plate and covered with an earthen jar. A bowl filled with water is then passed round the head of the patient, emptied over the jar and placed on it with its mouth touching the jar. Next, a scythe is placed over the bowl. The jar, which is heated with the heat of the burning charcoal placed under it produces a hissing sound as soon as it is touched by the water in the bowl, and is said to speak. This process is called Ghadulo and is performed after sunset. [1149] In some places, it is a belief that the plate to be used in this process must be of bell-metal, and that over the fire placed in it mustard seeds, chillies and salt must be thrown before it is covered with the earthen jar. [1150] (3) An utar [1151] or sacrificial offering is taken to the village gate on a Sunday or Tuesday. (4) Milk is passed three or seven times round the head of the ailing child, poured into a black earthen pot, and offered to a black bitch on a Sunday or Tuesday. [1152] (5) The mother or some other near relative of the child suffering from the effects of the evil eye, puts in a bell-metal cup mustard seed, salt, chillies and seven stones from the village gate, passes the cup thrice round the child's head, puts burning charcoal in the cup, and after it is heated, places it overturned in a bell-metal pot and pours over it water mixed with cowdung, so that the cup adheres to the pot. This sticking of the cup is called najar chonti gai (the evil eye has stuck fast) and is believed to cure the child. [1153] (6) An exorcist is engaged to wave a bowl filled with water round the head of the patient. He then drinks off the water, and the patient believes that the disease has been drunk with it. [1154] (7) A handful of salt and chillies is passed thrice round the head of the patient and thrown into the fire. If the chillies burn without giving out fumes of an unpleasant odour, the evil eye is believed to be at the root of the illness. [1155] [1156] (8) A little dust collected from a spot where two roads cross one another, or red lead and oil offered to Hanuman, a red chilly, an iron nail and grains of adad (Phaseolus mungo) are packed into a piece of white cotton cloth with a black woollen thread, and tied to the cradle of the suffering child. [1157] (9) A side of a loaf of millet flour is baked by being exposed to fire, clarified butter is applied to this side, and a fine cotton thread is passed round the loaf. Next, the loaf is waved round the head of the ailing child and thrown into fire. If the cotton thread is not burnt by the fire, an evil eye is believed to be the cause of the illness. Sometimes the loaf is offered to a black dog after it has been waved round the child's head. (10) If the illness be due to the influence of the evil eye of a woman, she is called in and asked to pass her hand over the child's head. [1158] (11) In order to avoid the effects of the evil eye, when a child returns home from an outside visit, a bowl filled with water is passed thrice round its head and emptied outside the house before it crosses the threshold of the house. [1159] (12) The grains of Adad, twigs of the Thor (Euphoria nerifolia), salt and dust are passed seven times round the head of a person suffering from the effects of an evil eye, on the threshold of the house, and thrown away. [1160] (13) Grains of Adad, twigs of the Thor, salt, an iron nail and charcoal are put into an unused earthen pot and taken to the village boundary with a bowl filled with water. The person carrying the pot and bowl should not look behind either on his way to, or on his return from, the village boundary. The pot is placed on the village boundary, and water is poured over it seven times from the bowl. [1161] (14) A loaf baked on one side, with seven grains of Adad, seven grains of salt and seven cotton seeds placed over it, is passed seven times round the patient's head and placed on a spot where two roads cross one another. The person carrying the bread should not look behind while carrying it. [1162] Those whose children do not live, or die in infancy, or who get children with difficulty, give them opprobrious names, as it is believed that objects so named, being considered of no value, are left unharmed both by men and by gods. [1163] Some people believe that children so named are considered impure by Fate or Destiny, and consequently not molested by her. [1164] It is believed by some that, as good names attract attention, giving opprobrious names averts the danger of the evil eye. [1165] Some people throw a newly-born child on a dung-hill and take it back, saying that they found it on the dung-hill, with the belief that a child of such low origin cannot be snatched away from them by Fate. Such children are named Punjio, Unkardo or Kacharo meaning 'dung-hill.' Some children are named Khoto, Amatho or Jutho, all meaning 'false', with the belief that children so named are considered to belong to gods or Fate, and hence cannot be taken away from their parents by the god of death. Some people exchange their children for sweets, or offer them to others and purchase them back at a nominal price. Others roll them in the dust and name them Dhulio or dust. This is believed to ensure a long life to the children. [1166] In some places, a relative of the child's on the mother's side presents it with a necklace of gold beads shaped like large black ants. When the child attains the age of eight or ten years this necklace is offered to some god or goddess. The child is named Sankalio as it wears round its neck this sankal or chain, that is, necklace. [1167] It is held by some that children bearing contemptuous names are not affected by magic. [1168] Some weigh the child against corn and give the name of that corn to the child, e. g., 'Kodario', 'Juvario'. The corn is then distributed among beggars, which is supposed to ensure a long life to the child. [1169] Some make earthen figures of children, call them Ila Ili or Pithad, and carry them through the village on the Holi day (the full-moon day of Falgun), with the belief that by so doing they ensure a long life to the children. It is related that a carpenter's children used to die in infancy, so he named one of his sons 'Pithad' and he lived. Since then, parents whose children do not live name them 'Pithad'. Some name their children 'Jivo' that is 'Live' with the hope that they may live long. [1170] The opprobrious and other special spirit-scaring names generally given to boys are as follows:-- NAME. MEANING. Amatho Useless Jutho False Kacharo Refuse Nathu Tied Punjo Refuse Jivo Live Kalo Black Ghelo Mad Gafal Stupid Valu or Vayali Eccentric Sawo or Siwo Sewed Dungar Hill Ado Useless Bhabho Worthless Malo Bower Velo Creeper Nano Small Khodo Lame Oghad Fool Hakalo Bhukhan Uko Dung-hill Lavo Parasite Jino Small Doso Old Rano Lord (ironical) Bavo Recluse Rupo Handsome (ironical) Mor Peacock Popat Parrot Jado Fastened [1171] Bodho Gobaro [1172] Fakiro Beggar Mafatio Worthless Nago Shameless Bocho Coward Bakor Noise Bow Name of a demon How Ditto. Limbo Poisonous Ganglo Stony [1173] Bhikhari or Bhikho Beggar Vaigrai Recluse Amar Immortal Sidio Negro-like Vasto [1174] Polio or Polo Hollow Kadavo Bitter Bero Deaf Dipo Panther Vagh Tiger Cohampalo Meddlesome Chindharo Ragged Chiko Chuntho Ragged Jinthro Ragged Jalo Davalo Not loved Dendo The croaking of a frog. Dhingo Fat Bodo Bald-headed Rotal Womanish Radio Crying [1175] The contemptuous names given to girls are:-- NAME. MEANING. Liri Dhori White Zini Small Punji Refuse Kali Black Ful Light as a flower [1176] Nathi Juthi False Jadi Fat Monghi Jaba [1177] Kadvi Bitter Jivi Live Divi [1178] Veju, Bhilak, Chichi, Laghu [1179], Mafat (useless), Gheli (mad), Panchi [1180], Dedki, Kukadi and Zabu. [1181] It is said that in ancient times change of sex could be effected. Tradition relates that all the children of a certain Solanki king died in infancy, except the last child, a girl. She was dressed in male attire and passed for a boy. When the pretended boy attained marriageable age, he was betrothed to a princess. When the day fixed for the marriage drew near, the king became anxious and went on an hunting expedition to pass the time. On his way back from the hunt he became very thirsty, and quenched his thirst with the water of a pond near which a temple of Bahucharaji stands to this day. His bitch, which was with him, leapt into the pond, and on coming out of the water was found to be transformed into a dog. On seeing this the king brought his daughter and bathed her into the pond with the result that she was transformed into a boy. The king then built a big tank on the spot, which is known by the name of Man. [1182] In a chapter called Brahmottar Khand of the Padma Puran, which describes the glory of a vow called Uma Mahesh, the greatness of observing fasts on Mondays is described at length. Two Brahman brothers, one dressed as a man and the other as a woman, set out on a journey. Once they halted in a temple of the god Shiva, where lived a woman who had observed the fasts on Mondays. She invited them to dinner, taking them, as they appeared to be, for a man and a woman. The devotion of the hostess was so great that the brother dressed as a woman was actually transformed into a woman while partaking of the meal served to him. [1183] It is related that in ancient times the son of a certain sage once disguised himself as a girl with the result that he was actually changed into a girl. He was thereafter called Mudralopi and married to the sage Agastya. [1184] The warrior Shikhandi who assisted the Pandavas in killing Bhishma (who had vowed not to raise his arms against a woman) was at first a girl, and was subsequently transformed into a boy by the boon of the gods. [1185] There is supposed to be a forest of Parvati in a continent called Ilavrit. Any man visiting it is at once turned into a woman. [1186] A king named Sudyaman visited this forest and was transformed into a woman. It was only after appeasing Parvati by a sacrifice that he was restored to his original form. [1187] It is believed that in Kamaru Desha or the land of fairies, children are transformed into the opposite sex by the spell of the inhabitants. [1188] A belief is current that change of sex can be effected by the performance of the Shatchandi or the prayoga of Rudra, Bahucharaji, Ashapuri and Mahakali. [1189] It is also believed that change of sex can also be effected by the spell of magic. [1190] There is a further belief that Yogis by their incantations, and Mahatmas by their blessings or curses, can effect a change of sex. [1191] The following things are considered efficacious in protecting oneself against evil spirits:-- (1) A sword, (2) iron, [1192] (3) a woollen blanket, (4) fire, (5) a coin in the funeral pyre, (6) a nail of a tiger, (7) a blue thread, (8) the red lead offered to the god Hanuman, (9) a lime consecrated with incantations, (10) five kinds of cotton thread worn round the elbow, [1193] (11) blood, (12) corn, (13) frankincense, (14) salt, (15) water, (16) leather, (17) an amulet of iron procured from a well polluted by the death of some one in its water, [1194] (18) a garland, the beads of which are made of the wood of the Ekal ber (Zizyphus jujuba), (19) the sacred thread worn by Brahmans, [1195] (20) iron nails extracted from a wheel of a cart used for carrying fuel for cremation, [1196] (21) human blood, [1197] (22) a costly jewel. Amulets are generally used as a precaution against the attack of evil spirits or the influence of an evil eye. They are also used to cure diseases. They are made of iron, copper, tin, gold, silver, alloys of precious metals, or leather. Chithis or pieces of paper on which mystic signs are drawn are put into the amulets and are tied to the forearm with black woollen or silk thread. [1198] In some places, frankincense of gugal (Canarium strictum) or loban (olibanum) is offered to the amulets before they are worn. [1199] Amulets are also made of tad-patras (palm-leaves). They are tied round the arm with an indigo-coloured cloth. [1200] Doras or threads are also worn with the same object as amulets. They are generally made of five kinds of silk thread, black wool, or red or black cotton thread. The length of the dora must be eight feet, one and a quarter of a cubit or a man's height. They must have three folds and must be twisted seven or twenty-one times. After they are twisted, they are knotted seven, fourteen or twenty-one times, when they become ready for use. An offering of frankincense made of gugal or of loban is made to a dora before it is worn. [1201] It is believed by some people, that a chiti (amulet) or dora in order to be effective, must not be touched with water. The dora of the god Kal-bhairav at Benares, which is made of silk thread with seven twists, is tied round the wrist of a patient in the belief that it cures illness. A janjiro (black cotton thread with seven knots) of the god Hanuman is worn round the arm with the same belief. Surakano, that is, twisted iron wire, consecrated by the worshipper of the goddess Machhu, is worn by the Bharvads round the elbow or the wrist with the belief that it cures wind. Those people whose children do not live long put silver anklets round their left legs in the belief that by so doing their life is lengthened. [1202] An amulet made of a piece of cloth is called dhaga. [1203] It is either a piece of cloth used by a holy man, a piece of cloth containing a mixture of red lead and oil offered to the god Hanuman, [1204] or a piece of cloth in which are wrapped up the things put into an amulet. The dhaga is either worn round the wrist or suspended from the neck. [1205] Amulets tied to the horns of pet animals such as cows, bullocks, horses, etc., are called damanas. Sometimes they are also suspended from the necks of these animals. They are made of the hides of sacred animals and are believed to protect the animals against the evil eye, evil spirits and magic. [1206] It is believed by some people that one can escape injury from an evil spirit by seating oneself in a circle or square drawn in and plastered with cowdung. [1207] Others hold that the circle must be drawn with the point of a sword. Some maintain that the circle cannot be a protective unless it is drawn with enchanted water, milk or sesamum oil. There are others who are of opinion that the entry of evil spirits into the circle can be prevented only by calling upon God not to allow the evil spirits to enter it. [1208] When an evil spirit is expelled from the body of a person, it is buried underground, a circle of water is made round the spot and an iron nail is driven into the ground, in order that it may be imprisoned there. [1209] If anybody step into such a circle, the evil spirit confined therein takes possession of him, and is thus freed. [1210] To prevent this, evil spirits are generally confined in secluded spots. [1211] As the circle drawn by the point of a sword is a protection against an evil spirit, those who go to the burning ground to propitiate or subjugate evil spirits, seat themselves in such circles while reciting mantras. [1212] After entering the circle, some people recite the name of Hanuman, Chandi or Bhairav. [1213] Some people, after seating themselves in the circle, make offerings to the evil spirits, while reciting mantras, to propitiate them more easily. The Kali chaudas or the fourteenth day of the dark half of Ashvin is considered a suitable day for propitiating or subjugating evil spirits. [1214] There are various superstitious beliefs entertained by people regarding omens. 1. If when leaving the house on a visit or with some definite object in view, a deer crosses one's path from right to left, it is considered a bad omen, while crossing from left to right is considered good. On returning home, this omen is read in the reverse way to that just stated. [1215] 2. When starting on a journey, the braying of an ass on the right is a good omen and on the left, evil. [1216] 3. If on leaving the house, a man meets an unwidowed woman or a virgin with a jar filled with water on her head, it is an indication that the object of the expedition will be accomplished. [1217] 4. While starting on a good errand, if one breathes through the left nostril or comes across a person carrying a basket of eggs, it is a good omen. 5. If at the time of leaving for a visit to another town or village, the position of the moon in the circle explaining the position of stars with reference to one's birth-day stars, be in the rear or on the left of that position, it is a bad omen, but if it be in the front or on the right it is a good omen. The moon in front means fulfilment of the intended purpose, on the right, it confers happiness and prosperity, on the back it causes death, and on the left, loss of wealth. 6. The warbling of the bird bhairav on the right while going out and on the left while returning is a good omen, but the opposite is bad. [1218] 7. A cat or a serpent crossing one's path is ominous of evil; but if either passes on the right, it foretells good. 8. A jackal howling in the evening prognosticates damage by fire to the town or village; its howling at midnight predicts robbery; while in the last part of the night it foretells good. 9. Kag-rashias (expounders of the utterances of crows) know the good and bad indications of the croakings of crows. 10. The wailing notes of the bird Favadi forebode evil. 11. The throbbing of the right eye or side in the case of men and of the left eye or side in the case of women is considered to be a good omen, while the contrary is bad. 12. If the bird holo sweeps the roof of one's house continuously for a number of days, a calamity is supposed to be imminent for the inmates of the house. 13. If a dog barks in front of a man it is considered to be a bad omen. [1219] A Brahman, a cow, fruits, flowers, milk, pearls, jewels, a prostitute, an elephant, an umbrella, meat, fish, a gun, a bayonet, a mirror, a mongoose, a peacock with its plumage expanded, girls singing songs, band-players and a washerman carrying washed clothes are all considered to be good omens, if one comes across them while going out on business. [1220] The sight of a king, an armed man, a Dhed, a Bhangi or a Darji is also considered to be an auspicious omen. [1221] The sight of boys going to or returning from school is a good omen. [1222] A labourer carrying a load of fuel on his head, a corpse in front, a potter carrying earth on his head or on his donkey, a woman carrying her son, a man carrying molasses, are all auspicious omens. [1223] A male monkey or a donkey crying on the right while going out, and on the left while returning home is considered to be a good omen. [1224] Wine and good speech are also considered good omens. [1225] The sight of a herdswoman, a dog scratching its right side, a cuckoo singing on a tree or a black sparrow is a good omen. [1226] Fuel, hides, grass, vegetables, a smoking fire, sesamum oil, molasses, a barren woman, an enemy, a disorderly mob, a woman without the auspicious mark on her forehead, a man besmeared with oil, a eunuch, mud, wet clothes, an ascetic, a beggar, are all considered to be bad omens, if one sees them while going on business. [1227] The sight of dry cow-dung cakes is supposed to be a bad omen. [1228] The sight of a widow or of a corpse [1229] is bad. [1230] Weasels crossing the road, dogs shaking their ears, a man carrying a black earthen vessel, a woman with loose hair, a person carrying clarified butter, a man with gray moustaches, a man having no hair on his chest, a cat-eyed man, a person carrying flour, a Brahman without the sacred mark on his forehead are all bad omens. [1231] The sight of the husk of corn, a man with a medicinal application, or a lunatic, is a bad omen. [1232] The question "kian jao chho" that is "Where are you going" is a bad omen. [1233] The mixture of whey, mud and cow-dung, a recluse with matted hair, a man spitting, a cough, and a man with the whole of his head shaved are bad omens [1234]. Similarly, the sight of a drunkard, Adad or cotton seeds is a bad omen. [1235] A bride stumbling on her entry into the bridegroom's house is said to be a bad omen. [1236] A dog scratching its left side with his paws, a man riding a he-buffalo or a donkey, two Banias, one Musalman, one male goat, one ox, five she-buffaloes, six dogs, three cows, or seven horses, confronting a man on starting from the house are ominous of evil. [1237] Some numbers are believed to be auspicious and some inauspicious. There is a book on this subject, in which some good or evil is attributed to each number. One who wants to know the result of the undertaking in hand puts his finger on any number in the book, and the expounder of the science, reading the passage bearing on the number, explains how the undertaking will end. [1238] The numbers, 12, 18, 56 and 58 are considered inauspicious. [1239] An odd number is generally believed to be inauspicious. It is for this reason that newly-married girls are not sent to their husbands' house for the first time in any of the odd years of their age. They are also not sent back to their parents' house in an odd year of their age for the same reason. [1240] The numbers 5, 7, 9, 10, 11, 13, 15, and 21 are believed to be lucky while 3, 4, 8 and 12 are considered unlucky. [1241] A belief exists that if a company of three start on a mission, the mission is sure to fail. This has given rise to the proverb "Tran trikat ane maha vikat" that is, "Three persons going on an errand meet with great difficulties or danger." [1242] A zero is believed to be inauspicious. In monetary transactions or bargains, therefore, all numbers ending in a zero are avoided. If such numbers are unavoidable, the sign of 1/4 is placed before them. The number 12 is considered unlucky, to avoid which 11 1/2 is used in its place. [1243] Some people believe that the numbers 1 1/4, 5, 7, 21, 108 and 1,008 are lucky while 12 is unlucky. [1244] It is a belief that in the sales of cattle and certain other things if the price is raised by 1 1/4, it results in good both to the seller and buyer. [1245] It is for this reason that in subscribing to charitable funds people write 401 instead of 400 and so on. But 1 1/4 is preferred to 1 in valuing things. So in all purchases and sales 1 1/4 is added to the actual price of a thing. [1246] The numbers 5 and 7 are believed to be auspicious, because on starting on a journey from the house one is given five betelnuts as a sign of good omen, while in all auspicious ceremonies seven betelnuts are used. [1247] Certain days of the week are considered lucky while others are considered unlucky. It is also believed that certain days are auspicious for performing certain acts, while others are inauspicious for the performance of the same acts. Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday are considered lucky, while Tuesday, Saturday and Sunday are believed to be unlucky. [1248] It is a common belief that one should not go in certain directions on certain days; for doing so results in what is called disha-shul or pain caused by directions. [1249] Going to the north on Sunday, to the west on Tuesday, to the north-west on Monday, to the south-west on Wednesday, to the south on Thursday, to the south-east on Friday and to the east on Saturday is considered ominous of evil. [1250] According to another belief, Sunday and Thursday are inauspicious for going to the south-east; Monday and Friday, to the south-west; Saturday and Tuesday, to the north-west and Wednesday to the north-east. [1251] Some people believe that by going to the west on Monday or Saturday one secures the fulfilment of the desired object. [1252] Many hold that the favourableness or otherwise of the days for going in particular directions varies according to the occasion. [1253] The auspicious days for sending a girl to her husband's house are believed to be Monday, Thursday and Friday. Sunday and Tuesday are also considered auspicious for a girl to go to her house, but they are considered very unlucky for her to return to her parents. [1254] It is forbidden to eat dalia (baked split gram) on Sunday, but it is favoured on Friday. Wednesday is considered to be a lucky day for sowing corn, and making purchases of new articles. Thursday is believed to be auspicious for sending a boy to school for the first time. [1255] Wednesday is considered unfavourable for the separation of brothers and sisters, but it is considered a suitable day for their meeting. [1256] It is believed that if a man wears new clothes on Sunday they will be burnt; if on Tuesday, they will be lost; if on Wednesday or Saturday, a quarrel with some one is the result. [1257] It is considered auspicious to go to a Chamar or tanner on Sunday, to a prostitute on Monday, to a Kachhia (vegetable seller) on Tuesday, to a washerman on Wednesday, to a Brahman on Thursday, to a Bania on Friday and to a barber on Saturday. [1258] The beliefs regarding the lucky and unlucky days of a month are similar to those of the lucky and unlucky days of the week. According to some, all the days of the bright half of a month are auspicious for performing any good act, while the days in the dark half are considered favourable for perpetrating black deeds. [1259] Some believe that the 1st, 3rd, 5th, 6th, 8th, 10th, 11th, 13th and the full-moon day of a month are auspicious, while the 2nd, 4th, 7th, 9th and 14th, whether of the bright or dark half, as well as the new-moon day, are inauspicious. [1260] According to another belief, the 1st, 6th and 11th days of a month are good, the 3rd and 8th are dates of success (that is acts commenced on these days are crowned with success); the 5th, 10th and 15th are purna tithis, that is, complete days, (meaning that the moon on these days appears full one-third, full two-thirds and completely full); while the 2nd, 7th and 12th are auspicious days. The 4th, 9th and 14th days of a month are inauspicious. [1261] Some hold that if the 1st, 4th, 12th, 14th and 30th day of a month fall on a Saturday they are good; otherwise bad. [1262] The 1st, 13th or 14th day of either the bright or dark half of a month, as well as the full-moon and new-moon day, are considered unfavourable to patients. [1263] The 2nd, 14th and the last day of a month are considered unlucky. Those days on which there is a panchak--a grouping of constellations lasting for five consecutive days--are very inauspicious for commencing auspicious acts. [1264] A belief prevails that any one dying in a panchak draws five companions to heaven, that is, his death is followed by the death of four others of the same village. [1265] A son born on the full-moon day is believed to turn out brave, but is supposed to forebode evil to the parents. [1266] If a girl is born on the 2nd, 7th or 12th day of a month falling on a Tuesday or Saturday in the Ashlesha, Kritika or Shutbhilla nakshatra, she loses her husband. [1267] The Mul nakshatra falling on the 1st day of a month, Bharani on the 5th, Kritika on the 8th, Rohini on the 9th and Ashlesha on the 10th, has an effect like a volcano. A girl born on the 1st, 6th or 11th day of a month falling on a Saturday, Tuesday or Sunday in the Kritika or Mrigshar nakshatra is like poison. She is supposed to cause the death of herself, her husband, or all the members of her father's family. [1268] Some of the Hindu holidays are considered auspicious for performing certain deeds, while inauspicious for performing certain others. [1269] The ceremonies described below are performed to help the spirit to the other world. When a man is on the point of death the floor is cow-dunged and an offering of sesamum seeds, Durva grass (cynodon dactylon) and Java (barley) is made to the deities. Next, water of the Ganges or the Jumna is dropped into the mouth of the dying man and the name of Ram is whispered in his ear, as this is believed to turn his consciousness to God and thus facilitate his way to the other world. When a patient is convinced that his case is hopeless, he distributes money or other valuable articles among Brahmans, as this is believed to make his way to heaven easy. When life is extinct, the corpse is placed on the cow-dunged floor and then carried on a bier to the burning ground with the cries of "Shri Ram", "Ram", "Ram nam satya hai", [1270] or "Jaya Shri Krishna". In the fuel with which it is burnt is put Tulsi (sweet basil), Pipal and sandal wood and cocoanuts. The bones and ashes are collected and preserved, to be thrown into the Damodar kund, (pool of water) at Gaya or other holy waters. For three days after death, holy water and milk is offered to the spirit of the deceased. On the 10th, 11th and 12th day after death, on all the days of every month in the first year corresponding to the day of death, and on every anniversary of the death, Shraddha is performed. Shraddha is also performed annually on the day corresponding to the day of death in the dark half of the month of Bhadrapad. The ceremonies mentioned above are believed to make the passage of the soul to the other world easy. For his final emancipation a man must renounce all pleasures of the senses and all egotism. [1271] Giving alms to the poor, holding recitations of the Bhagvat, performing the Vishnu Yag, Gayatri-purashcharan and the Chandrayan vrat are also believed to make the passage of the soul to heaven easy. [1272] In order that the departing spirit may meet with no obstruction on the way, cows, articles of dress, shoes and food are presented to a Brahman for one year after death. [1273] Places for offering water to passers by, and houses in which to feed the needy, are also established by well-to-do people with the same object. [1274] The gift of sacks for holding corn, of umbrellas, blankets and bedding to travellers, is also believed to smooth the passage of the soul to heaven. [1275] The performance of the shraddhas and other ceremonies mentioned above is believed to prevent the return of the spirit to this world. [1276] Observing fasts by the survivors of the deceased on the Rishi Panchami (the 5th day of the bright half of Bhadrapad), the Janmashtami (the eighth day of the dark half of Shravan) and the Ramnavami (the ninth day of the bright half of Chaitra) is also believed to prevent the return of a spirit from heaven. Some worship the Pipal with the same object. [1277] Reading the Garud Puran for nine days after death is also believed to be a means of preventing the return of the soul to this world. [1278] Some people believe that performing shraddha in sixty-eight holy places secures this end. [1279] Daily offerings of rice and water to the departed spirits also prevent them from revisiting this world. [1280] The same means which are adopted to help the spirit to the other world and to prevent its return also secure its good-will to the survivors. [1281] Persons living on the banks of the Ganges do not burn the dead, but throw the corpses into the holy water of the river. [1282] If a pregnant woman dies in the eighth month of her pregnancy, the foetus is taken out by cutting open the womb and buried, while the woman is burnt. [1283] Corpses of persons dying an unnatural death are burnt in a Gondaro (place where the village cows rest) or on the village common, in the belief that by so doing the deceased escapes divine wrath and is freed from rebirth. [1284] When a grave is commenced in a certain spot, the corpse must be buried on that spot, even though the ground be rocky or otherwise unsuitable. As far as possible, the corpses of relatives are buried near one another. The occasions on which the hair is shaved are as follows:-- 1. When a boy attains the age of three years, his head is shaved completely for the first time. 2. At the time of performing shraddha in holy places, the head, except the top-knot, and the moustaches and face must be shaved. 3. On the ninth day after the death of a man, all his male relatives younger than himself have to shave their heads, except the top-knot, and the moustaches and chin. 4. On the day of investing a boy with the sacred thread his head is shaved before the investiture. 5. Amongst high caste Hindus the heads of widows are shaved on the tenth day after the death of their husbands. [1285] 6. Gorjis or preceptors of the Atits, Shravaks and Sanyasis have to get their heads shaved at the time of entering the order. [1286] 7. All the male relatives of the deceased have to get their heads shaved on the ninth day after death. 8. Atits and Bavas get the heads of their disciples shaved at the time of admitting them into their order. [1287] 9. The preceptors of the Swami Narayan sect shave off their moustaches every time they shave their heads. [1288] 10. At the time of admitting a Jain to the ascetic order of the religion, the hairs of his head are pulled out one by one until the head is completely bald. [1289] 11. On the occasion of a man being readmitted to his own caste, out of which he has been expelled for some breach of caste rules, he has to shave his head and face by way of prayaschitta or atonement. It is believed that if the head of a widow is not shaved on the tenth day after the death of her husband, his soul is not admitted to heaven, and the funeral ceremonies performed in his honour bear no fruit. [1290] The heads of such widows are shaved on the banks of the Godavari or at Benares or at some other holy place in the neighbourhood. [1291] The spirits of the dead are represented by balls of rice flour or cooked rice, and offerings of water, cotton thread, red powder, abir (white scented powder), red lead, sandal paste, frankincense, lamps, sesamum seeds and of the leaves of the Tulsi, the tamarind, the Agathio or Agathi (Sesbania grandiflora) and the Bhangra, and the flowers and seeds of the Java, are made to them. The ancestral spirits are also represented by chats (twisted braids of the Durva grass (Cynodon Dactylon)), and to them are offered the Suran (Elephant-foot) cooked rice, fried cakes of the flour of mag (Phaseolus mungo), rice cooked in milk, etc. [1292] It is believed that the departed spirits are pleased with offerings of pindas or rice-balls. [1293] Pindas are also made of wheat flour or molasses. Costly dishes, sesamum seeds, honey, curdled milk, clarified butter, and sugarcandy are also offered to the manes. [1294] The pindas are generally offered on the 10th, 11th and 12th day after death and on the occasion of performing shraddha. [1295] Rice balls are also offered to crows or thrown into water in the belief that by so offering they reach the spirits of deceased ancestors. A belief prevails that the messengers of the god of death eat the flesh of the deceased if pindas are not offered to them. So, in ancient times, offerings of flesh balls were made instead of rice ones. [1296] It is believed that male and female evil spirits such as bhuts and pishachas manifest themselves as dogs, notably black dogs, goats, fire, the whirl-wind, snakes or children. [1297] They may assume the form of a he-buffalo, a heifer, a ram, a man, a woman, [1298] a lion, a tiger or a cat. [1299] The evil spirit called jan is believed to manifest itself as a snake. [1300] The voice of an evil spirit in any of the above forms is heard from a distance, and the nearer the hearer approaches the more it is found to recede. [1301] Among Bharvads and Sonis, seven or nine earthen pots are broken in the house of the deceased on the tenth day after death. The number of the pots varies according to the individual merits of the deceased. [1302] Among some low castes, an earthen pot is broken on the village boundary and another in the burning ground. [1303] Some break an earthen pot at the village gate on their way back from the cemetery after the performance of shraddha. [1304] In some places, the earthen pots placed on the spot where the corpse is laid in the house are broken at the village gate. [1305] In some low castes two earthen pots are placed on the village boundary on the twelfth day after death, and broken by children. [1306] Some carry the funeral fire in a black earthen jar as far as the village gate, where the jar is broken and the fire carried in the hand, by one of the mourners, to the burning ground. [1307] According to some, this breaking of an earthen pot is a symbol indicating that the connection of the deceased with this world has broken or ceased. [1308] Others hold that it indicates the disintegration of the constituents of the body into the elements of which it was formed. [1309] There are others who are of opinion that the messengers of the god of death are satisfied with the breaking of an earthen pot after an offering to them of six rice balls and water. [1310] When a death takes place in a family, a prana-poka or death-wail is raised by the chief mourner, who is joined afterwards by the other relatives. [1311] The prana-poka is believed to open the gates of heaven for the admission of the soul. [1312] Some are of opinion that the object of the death-wail, which begins with "O mara bhai!" that is, "Oh my brother!" or "O mara bap!" that is, "Oh my father!", is that at the moment of death, the soul, by hearing the sound 'Om' may ascend to the brahmarandhra or the divine seat of the brain and thus attain salvation. [1313] When the funeral party start with the bier for the burning ground, the women of the house, accompanied by other women of the neighbourhood or village, follow them as far as the village gate, crying and singing funeral dirges. There they stop a while and sing more funeral dirges, keeping time by beating their breasts. They then start to return home, and, on their way, bathe in a tank or well and again mourn for some time before entering the house. The funeral party enter the house after the women and cry aloud for a few seconds. They also cry when the pyre is set on fire. [1314] The mourning of the women continues for thirteen [1315] days after death. They also weep on such holidays as the Holi, the Divali, etc., and on the quarterly, six-monthly and the first anniversary Shraddha day. [1316] Male relatives of the deceased wear a white turban as a sign of mourning. [1317] It is generally believed that bhuts or evil spirits prove beneficial to those who succeed in securing locks of their hair or subjugate them by incantations or magical rites. [1318] Such spirits generally belong to the class of the Bavan, the Vir, the Babro, Mamo, Vaital, Dadamo and Yaksha. Of these, Mamo, Vir, Vaital and Dadamo prove beneficial through favour, while the rest become the slaves of those who subdue them. [1319] It is believed that Suro Puro and Dado favour only their blood relations. [1320] It is related that in building the numerous tanks and temples attributed to Siddhraj Jaysing, a former king of Gujarat, he was assisted by the spirit Babario whom he had brought under his control. [1321] A tradition is current that Tulsidas, the celebrated author of the Ramayan in Hindi and a great devotee of Ram, had secured personal visits from the god Hanuman through the favour of a ghost. The king Vikram is said to have received great services from the evil spirits Vaital and Jal. [1322] In a book entitled Vaitala Pachisi it is described how a bhut lived on a banyan tree in Ujjain. [1323] It is related that in Rajkot a bhut called hunthia lived on a banyan tree. [1324] To the east of Kolki there is a tree called Jala which is inhabited by a mamo. It is related that the mamo frightens persons passing by the tree. Near the school at Kolki there is a Pipal on which lives a sikotarun who frightens people passing along the road. [1325] Is is related that a mamo lived on a Khijado tree at the gate of the village Surel. He manifested himself, dressed in white garments, for a period of nearly ten years. Once he frightened several persons out of their senses. It is said that on his being propitiated with an offering of wheaten bread at his abode (the Khijado tree), these persons recovered their senses. [1326] The Habib-Vad or Habib's banyan tree on the road leading from Mavaiya to Gondal is a favourite haunt of bhuts, who frighten and stupefy persons passing by that road. [1327] There is a step-well near Hampar under the jurisdiction of Dhrangadhra which is the resort of a bhut. A Girasia and his wife arrived here one day at midnight. The Girasia tied his mare to a tree hard by, and went to the well to fetch water for the mare. On his return he found there a number of mares like his own tied to the trees. He therefore smelt their mouths to recognise which of them was his own, but in the flurry caused by the appearance of so many mares, his waist-cloth got entangled, and while mounting his mare he fell down, which frightened him so much that he exclaimed "I am overtaken (by a ghost)" and died. [1328] It is related that in the Chhaliachok at Limbdi, no woman has yet succeeded in reciting a garabi (song) in honour of the goddess Mahakali to the end, as a ghost which lives on the tamarind tree opposite the chok (square) is averse to its completion. There is a house at Porbandar haunted by a ghost, in which none is able to reside. [1329] It is believed that only those trees, the wood of which cannot be used for sacrificial purposes, can be haunted by evil spirits. Such trees are the Khijado, the Baval, the Kerado and the tamarind. [1330] Kshetrapal is believed to be the guardian spirit of fields and Suropuro and Mamado are believed to protect harvest and cattle. [1331] It is also believed that the spirit jakhara protects crops and cattle. [1332] Mamo and Dadamo are also believed by some to be the guardian spirits of crops and cattle. [1333] A belief runs that if a cousin (father's brother's son) becomes a spirit after death, he proves beneficial to the cattle of his relatives. [1334] There are various ways of frightening crying children to silence, one of which is to invoke evil spirits. When a child continues to cry for a long time, the mother says, "keep quiet, Baghada has come." "Oh Bau, come and take away this child." "Babara, come here. Don't come, my child is now silent." "May Baghada carry you away." These exclamations are uttered in such a tone and with such gestures, that generally the child is at once frightened into silence. [1335] In addition to the spirits mentioned above, Babaro, Chudda, Dakana, Satarsingo and other spirits are also invoked to frighten a weeping child to silence. [1336] A Bava or Bairagi, a Fakir, a tiger, a dog, a cat or a rat are all presented to the child as objects of terror, and are called one after another to silence it. [1337] CHAPTER VII. TREE AND SERPENT WORSHIP. Certain trees are considered holy, and they are neither cut nor their wood used as fuel. The Pipal is one of such trees. It is considered to be the incarnation of a Brahman, and to cut it is considered to be as great a sin as murdering a Brahman. It is believed that the family of one who cuts it becomes extinct. [1338] Some people believe that the spirits of the deceased do not get water to drink in the next world. The water poured at the root of the Pipal on the 13th, 14th and 15th day of the dark half of Kartik and Shravan and on the 14th day of the bright half of Chaitra is believed to reach these spirits and quench their thirst. [1339] Although to cut the Pipal is supposed to be a great sin, it is believed that if a corpse is burnt with its wood, the soul of the deceased attains salvation. [1340] The Vad or banyan tree is believed to be a representation of the god Shiva. [1341] There is a proverb to the effect that one who cuts this tree is punished with the extirpation of his family. [1342] According to another belief, the god Vishnu once slept on this tree. [1343] The Tulsi or sweet basil is considered to represent Lakshmi, the wife of Vishnu. It is also related that Krishna wanted to kill the demon Jalandhar, but he could not be killed on account of the merit of the chastity of his wife Vrinda. Krishna, therefore, assumed the form of Jalandhar, violated the chastity of Vrinda, and was thus enabled to kill the demon. Krishna next expressed a desire to marry Vrinda, when she transformed herself into the Tulsi plant. It is considered an act of great religious merit to wed Krishna with the Tulsi, and this marriage is celebrated every year by all Hindus on the 11th day of the bright half of Kartik otherwise called Dev Divali. It is considered a great sin to uproot this plant, though no sin attaches to the plucking of its leaves during the day time. The leaves of the Tulsi are considered holy and are offered to the image of the god Vishnu and are required in all religious ceremonies. [1344] The Khijado or Shami tree is also held sacred. When the Pandavas lost their kingdom in gambling with the Kauravas, the latter promised the former that they would give them back their kingdom if they lived in the forest for twelve years and unknown for one year. After having completed their stay in the forest, the Pandavas remained unknown for one year in the city of Virat. During this year they concealed their weapons on a Khijado tree. Before taking these weapons, they worshipped the tree. Next took place the great battle of Kurukshetra in which the Pandavas won a splendid victory. This has given rise to the custom of worshipping the tree on the tenth day of the bright half of Ashvin or the Dasara day. [1345] It is a common belief that a tree haunted by ghosts should not be cut. So the Khijado is not cut, because it is the favourite residence of ghosts. [1346] The Kadamb (Anthocephalus cadumba) is considered sacred because it is believed that God Krishna rested under this tree when he took cattle to graze. [1347] The Limbdo (Nim tree) is also considered sacred as it represents the god Brahma. [1348] Some believe that it represents Jagannathji. [1349] The Rudraksha is believed to be a representation of the god Shiva. It is therefore considered a sin to cut it. Garlands of Rudraksha beads are worn round the neck by the devotees of Shiva. The leaves of the Bel (Aegle marmelos) are offered to the god Shiva as they are supposed to be liked by him. It is also considered a sin to cut this tree. [1350] The Karan (Mimusops hexandra) is believed to be a representation of Shiva. A grove of the Karan trees is supposed to be inhabited by natural powers called Matas and to cut a Karan is supposed to bring disaster to the cutter. [1351] The Maravo (Marjoram) is considered sacred by Musalmans. They dip its leaves into oil and rub them against the face of a corpse. [1352] There is a temple of Bhimnath Mahadev near Baravala in the shade of an ancient Jal tree. The worshipper at the temple, a wealthy man, once thought of erecting a grand temple over the image, but he was prevented from doing so by the god appearing in his dream and telling him that he preferred to live under the tree. [1353] Under a Jal tree near Dhandhuka there is a shrine of Bhimnath Shankar who is known as Bhimnath Jalvalo after the tree. [1354] There is a Sakhotia tree near Kutiana, which is supposed to be the abode of a snake deity. [1355] Near Rajkot in Kathiawar there is a tree called Gandu or mad, vows in honour of which are said to cure children of bronchitis. [1356] In the village of Vadal near Bhiyal in the Junagadh State there is a banyan tree called Lal Vad said to have sprung from the sticks of a Vad (banyan) used as tooth brushes by Lal Bava, a preceptor of the Vaishnav school. A silver staff and silver umbrella belonging to Lal Bava are kept near this tree, which is visited and worshipped by the followers of the preceptor. [1357] It is related that in this Lal Vad there is an opening through which the virtuous can pass to the other side, but not the sinful. [1358] There are two banyan trees near Anandpur, one of which is called Bhut-vad or the banyan tree of the evil spirits, as it is supposed to be inhabited by ghosts. The other is called Visalvad, because a devotee named Visaman Bhagat lived under this tree. [1359] There is a branch of the followers of Kabir called Khijada Panth. They worship the Khijada or Shami in their temples. [1360] There is a belief that the sanctity attached to the Pipal tree has been the act of the god Krishna. This tree is invested with a sacred thread. [1361] According to tradition, Krishna breathed his last under a Pipal tree. [1362] It is related that once blood gushed forth from a Pipal tree when it was cut. Thenceforward it came to be regarded as a Brahman and it is no longer cut. [1363] There is a Pipal tree in the village of Prachi near Prabhas Patan, vows in whose honour are believed to favour childless persons with children. [1364] It is described in the Puranas that Savitri, the daughter of King Ashupati, lost her husband within a year after her marriage. The death took place under a banyan tree, by worshipping which, Savitri succeeded in reviving her husband. Since then women perform a vow called Vat Savitri Vrat on the 13th, 14th and 15th days of the bright half of Jetha by observing a fast and worshipping and circumambulating the banyan tree. [1365] There is a legend that in mythological times a woman named Vrinda was cursed to be a plant for infidelity to her husband. She became the Tulsi (sweet basil), which is held sacred by Hindus, and worshipped by women. [1366] On the top of the hill in the village of Jasdan there are two tall trees called 'mad trees'. As the fruits of these trees resemble the face of a saint, they are considered divine and worshipped with offerings of red lead, oil and cocoanuts. [1367] Amongst Rajputs, during the marriage ceremony, the bride has to walk four times round the sacrificial fire in the company of the bridegroom. Two of these turns are generally taken with a wooden blade called Khandu. [1368] When a girl loses her betrothed twice in succession, she is married to a Pipal tree before being betrothed for the third time. [1369] If the betrothed husband of a girl dies before the celebration of the marriage, she is married to a Pipal or Ankda (a poisonous plant) in the belief that the danger of death will fall on the tree, and that the next husband of the girl will survive. [1370] If a man loses two wives one after the other, he is married to a Shami tree before he is married again, and his third marriage is called the fourth. [1371] In some places, such a man is married to a Bordi (Zizyphus Jujuba) instead of a Shami. [1372] In some places, if a man's wives do not live, his next wife is married to an Ankdi plant before her marriage with him. [1373] A belief prevails that an insane maiden is cured of her insanity if married to the field god Kshetrapal. [1374] If a girl attains puberty before marriage, she is married to a Pipal tree. A girl with congenital deformities is also married to a Pipal tree. [1375] It is generally believed that if a betrothed girl touches red lead, she is carried away by Kshetrapal. [1376] The belief that Kshetrapal carries away the bride from the marriage altar is so common, that a stone representing the god is placed on the marriage altar and touched by the bridal pair at every turn round the sacrificial fire. [1377] If this is not done, disastrous consequences follow, to avert which, that portion of the marriage ceremony in which Kshetrapal is propitiated has to be performed a second time. [1378] Disagreement between husband and wife soon after marriage is attributed to the wrath of Kshetrapal. To bring about a reconciliation between them, they are taken to a triangular field and married there to please the god. [1379] All Hindus worship the snake. The day especially devoted to its worship is the fifth day of the bright half of Shravan, which is called Nag panchami. In some places Nag panchami is observed on the 5th day of the dark half of Shravan. On this day an image of a snake is made of cowdung or earth, or its picture is drawn on the wall. The image is worshipped as a deity, and kulera, a mixture of wheat, oat or rice flour, clarified butter, and sugar or molasses is offered to it. After worship, the members of the household take their meal and eat kulera, cocoanuts and cucumbers. Only one meal is taken on this day by men and women. [1380] The Nag panchmi is observed as a vrat or vow, generally by women. They do not take any meal on this day, but live only on kulera. On this day, her Highness the Maharani of Baroda, mounted on an elephant, goes in procession to the woods to worship an ant-hill. The pipers who accompany the procession blow their pipes, and allured by the sound, the snakes come out of their holes, when they are worshipped and fed with milk. [1381] Women do not pound, grind or sift corn on the Nag panchami day, and all people try to see a snake. It is obligatory in some families to offer a cocoanut to the Nagdev (snake god) on the Nag panchami day. [1382] In some places, the likeness of the snake is engraved on a stone or copper plate and worshipped. In others, it is drawn on a piece of paper which is affixed to the wall. [1383] In many places there are temples dedicated to snake gods. These gods are known by various names. Some of the temples with the names of the gods installed in them are given below:-- 1. The temple of Sarmalio Nag at Arani Timba near Bikaner. 2. The temple of Ragatio Nag midway between Kanaza and Vanthali in the Junagadh State. 3. The temple of Charmalio Nag at Chokdi near Chuda. Vows of offering sweets are made to this Nag by persons bitten by snakes, who visit the temple, hold the sweets before the image of the god, distribute them among the visitors, and are in return presented with cotton thread which they wear round the neck. This god is also reputed to have the power of blessing childless persons with offspring. The offerings concerned consist of cradles, which are presented to the god after the wished for object has been fulfilled. 4. The temple of Vasuki Nag near Thangadh. This Nag is supposed to be a servant of the god Shiva. An old snake with gray moustaches is said to live in this temple. He drinks milk at the hands of visitors. Many vows are made in honour of this snake god. 5. The temple of Khambhadio Nag at Khambhada. 6. The temple of Nag Mandal at Dadvi. 7. The temple of Bhujia Nag at Bhuj. 8. The temple of Shimalia Nag near Jadeshvar in the neighbourhood of Jetpur. 9. The temple of Fulia Nag near Jopanath. 10. The temple of Malodaro Nag at Malod. 11. The temple of Charmalio Nag at Chudia. 12. The temple of Chhatrasia Nag in Chhatrasa. 13. The temple of Monapario Nag at Monpar near Chital. 14. The temple of Ashapal at Nanadiya in the Bantva State. 15. The temple of Khodial Nagini at Khokharda in the Junagadh State. 16. The temple of Gondalia Nag at Gondal. It is related that there were once divine snakes in the royal fort of Jodia. When a pair (male and female) of these snakes were found killed, the heinous act was atoned for by the bodies of the snakes being buried and a temple erected over the grave. The male snake of this pair is known as Nag Nath or the Lord of Snakes. According to others, Nag Nath was a big white snake with gray moustaches. He once waylaid a milkman of the royal household, forced him to put down the milkpot he was carrying, drank the milk and went away. This snake is believed to be divine. [1384] The god Shiva is supposed to wear a snake round his neck like a garland of flowers. So, in all temples of Shiva, an image of a snake is installed behind the idol of the god with his hood spread over the idol. [1385] In ancient times dead snakes were buried and temples and altars were erected over their graves. An image of the dead snake was engraved on the altar. [1386] There is a shrine dedicated to Chandalia Nag on the bank of the river Palavo on the road from Mota Devalia to Tramboda. It is visited by a sect of beggars called Nag-magas. The Nag-magas beg wealth of the snake god, and it is said, that he bestows it on them. They are never seen begging from any body else. [1387] In the Puranas, the Shesh Nag, the Takshak Nag, Pundarik, Kali Nag and Karkotak Nag are described as gods. In modern times, Sarmalio, Bhujo and Gadhio are believed to be as powerful as gods, and vows are observed in their honour. [1388] Dhananjaya, Pushkar and Vasuki are also considered to be very powerful. [1389] Takshak is believed to have drunk the nectar of immortality. [1390] A tradition is current that god Vishnu sleeps on the Shesha Nag in the Milky Ocean. This snake is believed to have a thousand mouths and to support the earth on its hood. [1391] It is described in the Puranas how King Parikshit was bitten by Takshak Nag and King Nala by Karkotak Nag. King Nala became deformed owing to the bite, but he could assume his original form by wearing a special dress, through the favour of Karkotak. Vasuki Nag was wrapped round the Mandar mountain, which was used as a churning handle by the gods and demons to churn the ocean for the recovery of the fourteen jewels from the ocean [1392]. It is a common belief that treasures buried underground are guarded by snakes. Generally a miser dying without an heir is supposed to be born as a snake after his death, to guard his hoarded money. It is believed by some people that on the establishment of a new dynasty of kings after a revolution, a snake makes its appearance to guard the accumulated wealth of the fallen dynasty. [1393] It is also believed that a rich man dying with his mind fixed on his wealth is born as a snake, to guard the wealth. [1394] There is a further belief that one who collects money by foul means and does not spend it, is born as a snake in his next life to guard his buried treasure. [1395] There is still another belief that a man who buries his treasure in a secret place becomes a snake after death, to guard the treasure. [1396] The beliefs mentioned above have given rise to the impression that places where big snakes are found are sure to have a treasure trove concealed in them. [1397] It is believed that the snake guarding the treasure of his previous life does not allow anybody to remove it, and bites any one who attempts to do so. [1398] If in spite of this, a man succeeds in seizing the treasure by force or by the power of mantras or incantations, it is believed that he leaves no heirs to use it. [1399] A belief is also current that such guardian snakes allow those persons to take away the treasures guarded by them if they are destined to possess them. [1400] To the south of Kolki there is a site of a deserted village. It is believed to contain a buried treasure which is guarded by a snake with white moustaches. This snake is seen roaming about the place. [1401] It is related that a Brahman once read in an old paper that there was a treasure buried under a Shami tree in Deola. He communicated the information to the Thakor of Dhrol who secured the treasure by excavating the place. The Brahman went to worship the spot, but was buried alive. The Thakor buried the treasure in his castle, but the Brahman, becoming a snake, guarded the treasure and allowed none to touch it. All attempts to dig it up were frustrated by attacks of bees and the appearance of a snake. A Kshatriya named Dev Karan, while the foundation of his house was being dug, found a treasure guarded by a snake. He killed the snake by pouring boiling oil over it and secured the treasure. A Kunbi of Malia, while digging a pit for storing corn, found a large vessel filled with costly coins guarded by a snake. He killed the snake and secured the vessel. [1402] There are many practices in vogue to render the poisonous bite of a snake ineffective. If the man bitten by a snake be bold, he cuts off the bitten part. Some have the bitten part branded. Those who have no ulcer in the mouth suck the poison, and spit it out. The powder of the fruit of the Nol Vel is also administered with water. Sometimes emetics and purgative medicines are given. A mixture of pepper and clarified butter is also believed to be efficacious. [1403] Other remedies for the cure of snake bite, are as follows:-- The patient is made to wear a cotton thread in the name of Charmalia Nag, Sharmalia Nag, or Vasangi Nag, and certain observances, as stated above, are promised to the snake deity. [1404] The ends of peacock feathers are pounded and smoked in a chilum (clay pipe) by the patient. [1405] A moharo (stone found in the head of a snake supposed to be a cure for snake poison) is applied to the wound caused by the bite. It absorbs the poison, and on being dipped into milk, transfers the poison to the milk. Thus it can be used any number of times. [1406] There is a Girasia in Lakhtar who is believed to cure patients suffering from snake poison. As soon as a person is bitten by a snake, one of the garments worn by him is taken to the Girasia, who ties it into a knot and this cures the patient. [1407] There is a Bava in Rajpara, a village near Anandpur. He and all the members of his family are reputed to be able to cure snake-bites. When a person is bitten by a snake, he or a friend goes to the Bava's house and informs him or any member of his family of the occurrence. The Bava or the person who receives the intimation folds into a knot a garment of the informant, which he afterwards unfolds. As soon as this is done, the patient is in great pain, loses his senses, is seized with convulsions and tells why the snake bit him. Thereupon the relatives of the patient implore the pardon of the snake, which is granted on condition that the patient should give alms to the poor. [1408] In some places, Bhagats or devotees of Mataji are invited to dinner along with a number of exorcists, who are generally Rabaris. After they have assembled at the house of the patient, they start out in a procession headed by one who holds in his hand a bunch of peacock feathers, to bathe in a river. On their way to and back from the river they sing songs in praise of the goddess to the accompaniment of drums and other musical instruments. After their return from the river, the whole party are treated to a feast, which is supposed to cure the patient of the effects of the snake-bite. [1409] Some people believe that snakes, like evil spirits, can enter the bodies of human beings. Such persons, when possessed, are supposed to have the power of curing snake-bites. [1410] Every village has an exorcist who is a specialist in curing the effects of snake-bites. When a person is bitten by a snake the exorcist is at once sent for. He gives the patient Nim leaves and pepper to chew, to determine the extent of the effect of the bite. Next he asks one of those present to bathe and bring water in an unused earthen jar. He then recites incantations, and sprinkles water from the jar over the body of the patient. If this does not counteract the effects of the poison, he throws red-hot pieces of charcoal at the patient, when the snake speaks through the patient and states that he bit the patient because he committed a certain offence, and that he will leave him if certain offerings are made. After he has ceased speaking, the patient begins to shake and to crawl about like a snake, and is then cured. If the man be doomed to death, the snake would say, "I have bitten him by the order of the god of death, and I will not leave him without taking his life." [1411] Sometimes the exorcist fans the patient with branches of the Nim tree, reciting mantras, and thereupon the patient becomes possessed by the snake and declares the cause of his offence. Some exorcists present a magic epistle or charm asking the snake that bit the patient to be present. The snake obeys the call, and appears before the exorcist. The latter then asks the snake to suck the poison from the wound of the patient, which is done by the snake, and the patient is then cured. [1412] In some places, the exorcist ties up the patient when the snake tells the cause of the bite. Next the exorcist calls on the snake to leave the body of the patient, who then begins to crawl about like a snake and is cured. On some occasions, the exorcist slaps the cheek of the person who calls him to attend the patient. It is said that the poison disappears as soon as the slap is given. [1413] Some exorcists take a stick having seven joints and break them one by one. As the stick is broken, the patient recovers, his recovery being complete when the seventh joint is broken. [1414] It is believed that the Dhedas are the oldest worshippers of Nags or snakes. When a person is bitten by a snake, he is seated near a Dheda, who prays the snake to leave the body of the patient. It is said that in some cases this method proves efficacious in curing the patient. [1415] It is stated that exorcists who know the mantra (incantation) for the cure of snake-bites must lead a strictly moral life. If they touch a woman in child-bed or during her period the mantra loses its power. This can be regained through purification, bathing, and by reciting the mantra while inhaling the smoke of burning frankincense. Some exorcists abstain from certain kinds of vegetables and sweets, e. g., the Mogri (Rat-tailed radish), Julebi (a kind of sweet), etc. They have also to abstain from articles of a colour like that of a snake. [1416] A belief prevails that there is a precious stone in the head of the snake. Such stones are called mohors. They are occasionally shown to the people by snake-charmers, who declare that it is very difficult to procure them. It is stated that on dark nights snakes take these mohors out of their head and place them on prominent spots in order to be able to move about in the dark by their light. [1417] It is believed that snakes give these mohors to those who please them. If one tries to take a mohor by force, the snake swallows it and dissolves it into water. [1418] As stated above, the mohor has the property of absorbing the poison from snake-bites. It is because a snake is believed to hold a precious stone in its head that it is called manidhar, that is, holder of a jewel. [1419] It is believed by some people that the mohor shines the most when a rainbow appears in the sky. [1420] According to the Puranas the patal or nether world is as beautiful as heaven. It is inhabited by Nags or snakes in human form. The Nag girls are reputed to be so handsome that an extraordinarily beautiful girl is commonly likened to a Nag girl. It is believed that in ancient times inter-marriages between Nags and human beings were common. [1421] It is a common belief that Kshetrapal, the guardian snake of fields, married human brides. So to propitiate him, his image is installed on the marriage altar, and the bride takes three turns round it when walking round the sacrificial fire with the bridegroom. [1422] According to the Puranas, king Dasharath married a Nag girl Sumitra. [1423] Similarly Indrajit, the son of Ravan, the Lord of Lanka or Ceylon, married a Nag girl. [1424] At times snakes are seen in houses. They are believed to be the guardians of the houses, and worshipped with offerings of lamps fed with ghi. After worship, the members of the family pray to the snake, "Oh snake! Thou art our guardian. Protect our health and wealth. We are thy children and live in thy garden." [1425] Some people believe that the spirits of deceased ancestors, on account of the anxiety for the welfare of progeny, become snakes and guard the house. [1426] CHAPTER VIII. TOTEMISM AND FETISHISM. The worship of totems is not known to prevail in Gujarat, but the names of persons and clans or families are occasionally derived from animals and plants. Instances of names derived from animals are given below:-- NAME. ANIMAL FROM WHICH DERIVED. 1. Hathibhai Hathi--an elephant. 2. Vaghajibhai Vagh--a tiger. 3. Nagjibhai Nag--a snake. 4. Popatbhai Popat--a parrot. 5. Morbhai Mor--a peacock. 6. Chaklibhat Chakli--a sparrow. [1427] 7. Kido Kidi--an ant. 8. Mankodia Mankoda--a black ant. 9. Tido Tid--a locust. [1428] 10. Hansraj Hansa--a goose. 11. Vinchi [1429] Vinchi--a female scorpion. 12. Olo Olo--a species of bird. 13. Ajo Aja--a goat. 14. Mena Mena--a species of bird. [1430] The Kali Paraj or aboriginal tribes in Gujarat give such names as Kagdo (crow), Kolo (Jackal), Bilado (cat), Kutro (dog) to their children according as one or other of these animals is heard to cry at the time of birth. [1431] The following are instances of names derived from plants:-- NAME. PLANT OR TREE FROM WHICH DERIVED. 1. Gulab [1432] Gulab--the rose. 2. Ambo Ambo--the mango. 3. Tulsibai Tulsi--the sweet basil. 4. Tulsidas Ditto. 5. Kesharbai Keshar--Saffron. 6. Galalbai Galal--Red powder. [1433] 7. Bili Bili--Aegle marmelos. 8. Dudhi Dudhi--Pumpkin. 9. Lavengi Laveng--Clove. 10. Mulo Mulo--Radish. 11. Limbdo Limbdo--The Nim tree. 12. Mako Maki--Maize. [1434] 13. Champo Champa--Michelia Champaca. [1435] Instances of family or clan names derived from trees and animals are as follows:-- NAME. DERIVATION. 1. Untia Unt--camel. 2. Gadheda Gadheda--An ass. 3. Dedakia Dedako--A frog. 4. Balada Balad--An ox. 5. Godhani Godho--A bull. 6. Bhensdadia Bhensa--A buffalo. 7. Ghetiya Gheta--A sheep. 8. Savaj A species of wild animals. [1436] 9. Kakadia Kakadi--cucumber. [1437] The cow, the she-goat, the horse, the deer, peacock, the Tilad or singing sparrow, the goose, the Nag or snake, the eagle, the elephant and the male monkey are believed to be sacred by all Hindus. Of these, the greatest sanctity attaches to the cow. Her urine is sipped for the atonement of sins. The cow is also revered by the Parsis. [1438] The mouth of the she-goat and the smell of the horse are considered sacred. An elephant is considered sacred, because when the head of Ganpati was chopped off by Shiva, the head of an elephant was joined to his trunk. [1439] The peacock is considered sacred on account of its being the conveyance of Sarasvati, the goddess of learning. A male monkey is held holy, because it is supposed to represent the monkey god Maruti. Some sanctity attaches to the rat also, as it is the conveyance of the god Ganpati. He is called Mama or maternal uncle by the Hindus. [1440] The pig is held taboo by the Musalmans. [1441] Brahmans, Banias, Bhatias, Kunbis, Sutars and Darjis abstain from flesh and liquor. [1442] Some Brahmans and Banias do not eat tadias (fruit of the palm tree) as they look like human eyes. [1443] Some Brahmans abstain from garlic and onions. Some do not eat Kodra (punctured millet). [1444] The masur (Lentil) pulse is not eaten by Brahmans and Banias, because, when cooked, it looks red like blood. [1445] The Humbad Banias do not eat whey, milk, curdled milk and clarified butter. [1446] The Shravaks abstain from the suran (Elephant foot), potatoes and roots that grow underground. [1447] Mahomedans abstain from the suran, because "su" the first letter of the word suran is also the first letter of their taboo'd animal the pig. [1448] There are some deities associated with the worship of animals. These animals, with the deities with whom they are connected, are given below. 1. Pothio or the bull is believed to be the vehicle of god Shiva. In all temples of Shiva its image is installed, facing the image of Shiva in the centre of the temple. 2. Sinha or the lion is believed to be the vehicle of Parvati, the consort of Shiva. The lion is also connected with the demon planet Rahu. 3. Hansa the goose is associated with Brahma the creator. 4. Gadhedo the ass is believed to be connected with Shitala, the goddess of small pox. 5. Undar the mouse is the conveyance of Ganpati. 6. Mor the peacock is the conveyance of Sarasvati, the goddess of learning. The peacock is also associated with Kartik Swami. 7. Garud the eagle is the conveyance of the god Vishnu. 8. Pado the male buffalo is the conveyance of Devis or goddesses. 9. Ghodo the horse is the conveyance of the Sun. The horse is also associated with the planet Guru or Jupiter and Shukra or Venus. 10. Mrig the deer is supposed to be the conveyance of the Moon as well as of Mangal or Mars. 11. Balad the ox is connected with Mars and Shani or Saturn. 12. Hathi the elephant is supposed to be the conveyance of Indra. It is also connected with Budha or Mercury. 13 The tiger is the conveyance of the goddess Ambaji. The animals mentioned above are worshipped along with deities and planets with whom they are associated [1449]. It is generally believed that the earth is supported by a tortoise. So, whenever the goddess earth or Prithvi is worshipped, the tortoise is also worshipped. [1450] In the temples of the Matas cocks and hens, and in the temple of Kal Bhairav, dogs, are worshipped. [1451] For the propitiation of goddesses and evil spirits, male goats, he-buffaloes and cocks are sacrificed. [1452] In his first incarnation, the god Vishnu was born as a fish, in the second as an alligator, and in the third as a boar. For this reason the images of these animals are worshipped. [1453] All the gods, goddesses and spirits mentioned in the preceding pages are represented by idols made of stone, metal or wood. In addition to stone idols of gods there are certain stones which are considered to represent gods and worshipped as such. Some of these stones are described below. All the stones found in the river Narbada are believed to represent the god Shiva and worshipped. There is a kind of stone found in the river Gandaki which is smooth on one side and porous on the other. It is either round or square and about five inches in length. This stone is called Shaligram and is believed to represent the god Vishnu. It is kept in the household gods and worshipped daily. There is another kind of hard, white, porous stone found near Dwarka. It is also worshipped along with the idol of Vishnu. Sometimes tridents are drawn with red lead on stones to represent goddesses. [1454] There is a tank near the Pir in Kutiana in which bored stones are found floating on the surface of the water. These stones are considered sacred. [1455] Certain stones are considered sacred on account of their supposed curative properties. One of such stones is called Paro. It is believed to be efficacious in curing rheumatism. [1456] There is also a kind of red stone which is supposed to cure skin diseases. [1457] Each of the nine planets is supposed to be in touch with a stone of a particular colour. For instance, the stone in touch with Shani or Saturn is black, and that with Mangal or Mars is red. These stones are bored, and set in rings which are worn by persons suffering from the influence of these planets. A kind of stone called Akik, found in abundance in Cambay, is considered sacred by the Mahomedan saints, who wear garlands made of beads carved out of these stones. [1458] In ancient times human sacrifices were offered on certain occasions. Now-a-days, in place of a human being, a cocoanut or a Kolu (Cucurbita maxima) is offered. At the time of making the offering, the cocoanut is plastered with red lead and other holy applications and covered with a silk cloth. The Kolu is offered by cutting it into two pieces with a stroke of a knife or sword. [1459] Sometimes an image of the flour of Adad is sacrificed in place of a human being. [1460] This sacrifice is generally made on the eighth or tenth day of the bright half of Ashvin. In place of human blood, milk mixed with gulal (red powder) and molasses is offered. [1461] In ancient times, when a well was dug, a human sacrifice was made to it if it did not yield water, with the belief that this would bring water into the well. Now-a-days, instead of this sacrifice, blood from the fourth finger of a man is sprinkled over the spot. [1462] It is also related that in ancient times, when a king was crowned, a human sacrifice was offered. Now-a-days, instead of this sacrifice, the king's forehead is marked with the blood from the fourth finger of a low caste Hindu at the time of the coronation ceremony. [1463] There are a few stones which are supposed to have the power of curing certain diseases. One of such stones is known as Ratvano Paro. It is found at a distance of about two miles from Kolki. It is marked with red lines. It is bored and worn round the neck by persons suffering from ratawa [1464] (a disease in which red spots or pimples are seen on the skin). There is another stone called Suleimani Paro which is supposed to have the power of curing many diseases. [1465] There is a kind of white semi-circular stone which is supposed to cure eye diseases when rubbed on the eyes and fever when rubbed on the body. [1466] Sieves for flour and corn, brooms, sambelus or corn pounders, and ploughs are regarded as sacred. Sieves are considered sacred for the following reasons. 1. Because articles of food such as flour, grain, etc., are sifted through them. [1467] 2. Because, on auspicious occasions, when women go to worship the potter's wheel, the materials of worship are carried in a sieve. 3. Because the fire used for igniting the sacrificial fuel is taken in a sieve, or is covered with a sieve while it is being carried to the sacrificial altar. [1468] 4. Because at the time of performing the ceremony when commencing to prepare sweets for a marriage, a sieve is worshipped. [1469] 5. Because, in some communities like the Bhatias, the bride's mother, when receiving the bridegroom in the marriage booth, carries in a dish a lamp covered with a sieve. [1470] The flour collected by Brahmans by begging from door to door is supposed to be polluted. But it is considered purified when it is passed through a sieve. [1471] The sambelu is considered so sacred that it is not touched with the foot. If a woman lie down during day time, she will not touch it either with her head or with her foot. One of the reasons why it is considered sacred is that it was used as a weapon by Baldev, the brother of the god Krishna. A sambelu is one of the articles, required for performing the reception ceremony on a bridegroom's entering the marriage pandal. [1472] It is believed that a fall of rain is expedited by placing a sambelu erect in a dish when there is a drought. [1473] Among Shrigaud Brahmans, on the marriage day, one of the men of the bridegroom's party wears a wreath made of a sambelu, a broom and other articles. Some special marks are also made on his forehead. Thus adorned, he goes with the bridegroom's procession and plays jokes with the parents of both the bride and bridegroom. His doing so is supposed to bless the bridal pair with a long life and a large family. [1474] On the marriage day, after the ceremony of propitiating the nine planets has been performed in the bride's house, in some castes three, and in others one sambelu, is kept near the spot where the planets are worshipped. Next, five unwidowed women of the family hold the sambelus and thrash them five or seven times on the floor repeating the words "On the chest of the ill-wisher of the host." The sambelus are bound together by a thread. [1475] If a woman has to take part in an auspicious ceremony on the fourth day of her monthly period, she is made to thresh one maund of rice with a sambelu. Her fourth day is then considered as the fifth [1476] and she becomes eligible for taking part in the ceremony. [1477] The plough is considered sacred, because it is the chief implement for cultivating the soil. It is worshipped on the full-moon day of Shravan which is known as a Balev holiday, the worship being called Grahan-pujan. [1478] Some people consider the plough sacred because Sita, the consort of Ram, was born of the earth by the touch of a plough. [1479] Others hold it sacred as it was used as a weapon by Baldev, the brother of the god Krishna. On account of the sanctity which attaches to the plough, it forms part of the articles, with which a bridegroom is received in the marriage pandal by the bride's mother. [1480] It is related that king Janak ploughed the soil on which he had to perform a sacrifice. Hence it has become a practice to purify with a plough the spot on which a sacrifice is to be performed. [1481] In some places, on the Balev day, a number of persons gather together near a pond, and each of them fills an earthen jar with the water of the pond. Next, one of the party is made to stand at a long distance from the others with a small plough in his hands. The others then run a race towards the latter. He who wins the race is presented with molasses and a cocoanut. [1482] It is customary among Brahmans to perform the worship known as Balevian after the performance of a thread ceremony. In Native States, the prime minister and other State officials and clerks join the ceremony, the principal function of the ceremony being performed by the prime minister. In villages, this function is performed by the headman of the village. The party go in procession to a neighbouring village or a pond where an earthen image of Ganpati besmeared with red lead is installed on a red cloth two feet square. Near this image are installed the nine planets, represented by nine heaps of corn, on each of which is placed a betelnut. This is called the installation of Balevian. A plough about two feet in length is kept standing near the Balevian with its end buried in the ground. The prime minister or the village headman worships the plough, after which, four Kumbhars or potters wash themselves, and holding four jars on their heads, run a race. Each of the Kumbhars is named after one of the four months of the rainy season. He who wins the race is presented with the plough. The expenses of the ceremony are paid from the State treasury or the village fund. [1483] According to a popular saying, a broom should not be kept erect or trampled under foot. This indicates that brooms are held sacred. When a newly-born infant does not cry, the leaves of a broom are thrown into the fire and their smoke is passed over the child. It is said that this makes the child cry. [1484] Some people consider brooms sacred, because they are used in sweeping the ground (that is the earth, which is a goddess). In some places, children suffering from cough are fanned with a broom. [1485] In some castes, a broom is worshipped on the marriage day. [1486] Many people deny any sanctity to a broom. A belief is common that if a man sees a broom the first thing after getting up in the morning, he does not pass the day happily. [1487] Some believe that if a broom be kept erect in the house, a quarrel between the husband and wife is sure to follow. There is also a belief that if a person thrashes another with a broom, the former is liable to suffer from a gland under the arm. [1488] Fire is considered to be a deity by all Hindus. In all sacrifices, fire is first ignited with certain ceremonies of worship. [1489] In all Brahman families, every morning before breakfast, a ceremony called Vaishvadeva is performed, in which fire is worshipped and cooked rice is offered to it. [1490] The Agnihotris keep a constant fire burning in their houses and worship it thrice a day, morning, noon and evening [1491]. The Parsis consider fire so sacred that they do not smoke. Neither do they cross fire. In their temples called Agiaris a fire of sandal wood is kept constantly burning. It is considered a great mishap if this fire is extinguished. Fire is specially worshipped on the Holi day, that is the full-moon day of the month of Falgun. [1492] Other special occasions on which it is worshipped are the thread ceremony, the ceremony of installing a new idol in a temple, the first pregnancy ceremony, and the ceremony performed at the time of entering a new house. [1493] Fire is also worshipped in Maharudra, Vishnuyag, Gayatri-purashcharan, Nilotsarga, Vastupujan, Shatachandi, Lakshachandi, and the sacrifices performed during the Navaratra and on the Dasara day. [1494] Fire is considered to be the mouth of God, through which he is supposed to receive all offerings. [1495] The offerings made to fire generally consist of clarified butter, cocoanuts, sesamum seed, the Java, chips of the wood of the Pipal and the Shami, curdled milk and frankincense. [1496] The fire to be used for sacrifices and agnihotras is produced by the friction of two pieces of the wood of the Arani, [1497] the Pipal, the Shami [1498] or the bamboo while mantras or incantations are being recited by Brahmans. [1499] CHAPTER IX. ANIMAL WORSHIP. The following animals are considered sacred and worshipped by the Hindus. 1. The cow:--is regarded as the holiest of animals. She is worshipped on the fourth day of the dark half of Shravan which is known as Bol Choth; [1500] and a vow is observed by women in her honour on the fifteenth day of Bhadarva. It is known as Gautrad Vrat. On this day women do not eat wheat, milk, clarified butter and the whey of a cow. [1501] The sanctity which attaches to the cow is due to the belief that in her body reside thirty three crores of gods. [1502] 2. The horse:--The horse is believed by some people to be the last incarnation of God. It is also believed to represent Vachhado, the deity who cures hydrophobia. [1503] Some people believe the horse to be a celestial animal. It is said that in ancient times it had wings, traces of which are believed to be still visible in its knees. Of the fourteen jewels obtained by the gods and demons by churning the ocean, one was a horse with seven mouths. Hence the horse is considered divine. [1504] The horse is worshipped on the Dasara day. [1505] 3. The elephant:--The elephant is considered divine because it is the vehicle of Indra, the lord of gods, and because its head was fixed on the trunk of Ganpati, the son of Parvati and Shiva. It is believed by some people that vows to offer cocoanuts to an elephant are efficacious in curing fever. [1506] At the time of celebrating a coronation ceremony an elephant is worshipped. There is a tradition that in ancient times the coronation waters were poured over the king by a she-elephant. [1507] 4. The lion:--The lion is considered sacred because it is believed to be the lord of the beasts of the forest and the vehicle of goddesses. 5. The tiger:--The tiger is worshipped with Vagheshvari Mata as it is believed to be her vehicle. 6. The she-buffalo:--Some sanctity attaches to the she-buffalo, as it is believed that a she-buffalo was given in dowry to a Nag kanya (snake girl) by her father. [1508] To atone for a great sin a she-buffalo decked with a black wreath, iron, red lead and marks made with the flour of adad is presented to a Brahman. [1509] 7. The donkey:--Is believed to be the vehicle of the goddess of small-pox. [1510] It is also believed that the god Brahma had formerly five mouths, one of which was like that of a donkey. [1511] 8. The dog:--The dog is believed to have divine vision and to be able to see the messengers of the god of death. Some believe that in its next life a dog becomes a man. [1512] The dog is also believed to be the vehicle of Kal Bhairav and is worshipped along with his image. [1513] Some people offer bread to dogs in the belief that they will bear witness to their merits before God [1514]. 9. The goat:--is worshipped by the Bharvads when they worship the goddess Machhu. [1515] 10. The cat:--is worshipped in the belief that by so doing a man can win over his opponents. [1516] 11. The bear:--is considered by some people to be a holy animal because the god Krishna married Jambuvanti, the daughter of Jambuvant, the heroic bear who assisted Rama. [1517] 12. Fish:--are considered sacred because they are supposed to carry the food (pindas) to the manes offered (in water) at the shraddha ceremony. [1518] 13. Alligators:--are worshipped in a pond at Magar Pir, near Karachi. [1519] 14. The crows:--are worshipped because they are supposed to represent rishis. [1520] Some people believe that crows were formerly rishis. They are supposed to have divine vision, and food offered to them is believed to reach deceased ancestors. A loaf is cut into three parts. One of them is designated kal (ordinary), the second dukal (famine), and the third sukal (plenty). Next they are offered to a crow. If the crow takes away the kal, it is believed that the crops in the following year will be normal; if it takes away the dukal a famine is apprehended in the following year, and if the sukal, it is believed that the crops will be plentiful. [1521] 15. The goose:--is supposed to be the vehicle of the goddess Sarasvati. It is believed that its worship ensures success in any enterprise. If a goose is seen in a dream, it is considered to be a very good omen. [1522] A goose is believed to be endowed with the power of separating milk from water. It is supposed to feed on rubies. It is found in lake Man in the Himalayas. [1523] 16. The cock:--is considered holy as it is believed to be the vehicle of the goddess Bahucharaji. [1524] 17. The hen:--is worshipped on the last Sunday of the month of Jeth. [1525] 18. The parrot:--is worshipped by singers desiring to improve their voice. It is also worshipped by dull persons desirous of improving their intellect. [1526] CHAPTER X. WITCHCRAFT. Dakans are of two kinds, human and of the order of ghosts. [1527] Girls born in the Ashlesha nakshatra on the bij or second day of a month, in the Kritika nakshatra on the seventh day of a month and in the Shatabhigha nakshatra on the twelfth day of a month, are believed to be human dakans. They cause the death of their husbands, and their evil eye injures all things and individuals that come under its influence. [1528] Women who die in child-bed, meet an untimely death or commit suicide, become Dakans or Chudels after death. Some people believe that women of such low castes as Kolis, Vaghris and Charans become Dakans. High caste Dakans are rare. [1529] A ghostly Dakan dresses in fine clothes and decks her person with ornaments. But she does not cover her back, which is horrible to look at. It is so frightful that any one happening to see it dies of horror. [1530] Ghostly Dakans trouble only women. When possessed by them, the latter have convulsive fits, loose their hair, and cry out without any reason. [1531] A ghostly Dakan lives with a man as his wife, brings him dainties and turns the refuse of food into flesh and bones. The man gradually becomes emaciated and ultimately dies. [1532] It is believed that generally a Dakan kills a man within six months. [1533] The Dakans do not allow calves to suck, cattle to give milk, and healthy persons to enjoy sound health. Sometimes they cause cattle to yield blood instead of milk. [1534] A Dakan by virtue of her powers, can ascend to the sky. She lives upon the flesh of corpses. [1535] A Dakan can assume any form she likes. She appears as a cat, a buffalo, a goat or any other animal. She can swell and shrink her body at will. Her feet are reversed. [1536] Dakans haunt trees, cemeteries, deserted tanks, mines or other desolate places. [1537] They also haunt ruins and places where four roads meet. [1538] CHAPTER XI. GENERAL. Various ceremonies are performed by cultivators at the time of ploughing the soil, sowing, reaping and harvesting. These ceremonies differ in details in different localities. In all places, an auspicious day for ploughing and sowing is fixed in consultation with an astrologer. On the day when ploughing is to be commenced, the front court yard of the house is cowdunged and an auspicious figure called Sathia [1539] is drawn on it with the grains of juvari. [1540] A dish called kansar is prepared, and served to all members of the family at the morning meal. Their foreheads are marked with red powder, and a pice and betelnut are offered to the household gods. Hand-spun cotton threads marked at intervals with red powder are then tied round the plough and to the horns of the bullocks which are to be yoked to the plough. [1541] Next, the farmer stands waiting at the front door of his house for good omens, [1542] and when a few are seen, sets out for his field. In some places, the foreheads of the bullocks are daubed with red lead, clarified butter is applied to their horns, and they are fed with molasses. [1543] In others, a betelnut is placed over the Sathia and given to the person who first meets the farmer on leaving his house. [1544] In some localities again, the farmer holds the plough over the Sathia, touching it with the end, eats a morsel of molasses, and bows to the Sathia before starting. [1545] As a rule, seed is not sown on Saturdays or Tuesdays. Wednesday is believed to be the most favourable day for this purpose. [1546] Sowing is commenced from that corner of the field which has been pronounced by the astrologer to be the best for the operation. [1547] Sunday is believed to be the most auspicious day for reaping. [1548] While reaping, a part of the crop is offered to the image of Kshetrapal and to other village deities. In order to secure a good harvest, sweets are offered to the village gods on the eighth or tenth day of the bright half of Ashvin or on the second day of the bright half of Kartik which is called Annakuta. [1549] No crop is brought into the house before a part of it has been offered to the local deities. [1550] When juice is to be extracted from sugar-canes, the mill is first worshipped. In the shed erected for storing the jars of molasses, an image of Ganpati is installed, and worshipped before placing the jars in the shed. [1551] The first jar of molasses and two bits of sugar cane are offered to the local deities. [1552] Before reaping cotton, offerings are made to the village gods. [1553] When a cow or she-buffalo is about to calve a packet containing a few pebbles or cowries, the mali (red lead) from the image of Hanuman, dust collected from a place where four roads meet, and grains of Adad, are tied to its horns by an indigo-coloured thread, in the belief that this protects the animal from the effects of the evil eye. [1554] To guard cattle against an attack of small-pox, women observe a vow called Shili Satem on the seventh day of the bright half of Shravan. [1555] To prevent a tiger from attacking cattle, a circle of the flour of charonthi is drawn round them by an exorcist reciting mantras or incantations. If a tiger tries to enter this protected area its mouth at once becomes swollen. [1556] In some places, salt heated over the fire of the Holi is put into the food given to the cattle in the belief that this protects them from disease. [1557] Instead of salt, some people give cattle leaves of castor-oil plants roasted over the fire of the Holi. [1558] In some places, on the Divali holiday, a torch and a rice pounder are placed in the cattle shed, and the cattle are made to cross them one by one. This process is believed to protect them from disease. [1559] A ceremony called the Doro of Mahadev is also performed in the month of Shravan to protect cattle against disease. [1560] Vows in the honour of Ashpal or Nagdev are also observed for the protection of cattle. [1561] In the Hasta nakshatra during the monsoon, when there is a thunder storm, a sambelu (rice pounder) is struck seven times against the main cross beam of the house in the belief that the sound thus produced destroys insects. [1562] To scare the insects called itidio, vows are observed in honour of the Itidio Pir. [1563] In order that insects and worms may not spoil the corn stored in a granary or in earthen jars, the ashes of the fire of the Holi or leaves of the nim tree are mixed with it. To prevent insects from spoiling wheat, bajari and juvari, mercury and ashes are put into them, while it is believed that gram cannot be eaten by insects if it is mixed with dust from a place where three roads meet. [1564] To drive away insects, a ceremony called Adagho Badagho or Mariyun is performed on the Divali holiday. It is as follows:-- One man holds a lighted torch in his hand, and another an earthen jar, which he beats with a small stick. The two men pass through every nook and corner of the house and the cattle-shed crying "Adagho may go, Badagho may go", that is, "May troubles and diseases disappear; may bugs, serpents, mice, scorpions, mosquitoes and other insects die out." Next they proceed, repeating the same words, through the streets to the village boundary, where the torch, the earthen jar and the stick are thrown away, thus ending the ceremony. [1565] In order to secure sunshine and favourable weather, oblations are offered to the local deities, sacrificial offerings are made and bunting is suspended from the doors of temples. [1566] In order to secure a favourable rainfall, a grand festival is observed on an auspicious day. On this day all agricultural work is stopped and megh laddus (sweet balls called megh or cloud) are eaten by the people. [1567] In some places, for the protection of the crops, a thread charmed by the incantations of an exorcist is passed round the hedge of the field. [1568] For the protection of crops of gram, wheat and sugar-cane against injury by rats, a ceremony called Dadh Bandhavi is performed, in which a thread over which incantations have been repeated by an exorcist is passed round the crop, and an image of Ganpati is installed and worshipped with offerings of sweet balls of wheat flour. [1569] In some places, the ceremony of Dadh Bandhavi is performed somewhat differently. Instead of passing a thread round the field, the exorcist walks round the field repeating incantations, holding in his hand a pot containing fire, over which is placed a pan containing Gugal. This ceremony is generally performed for the protection of sugar-cane crops against the attacks of jackals. It is believed that an animal entering the field after the performance of this ceremony has its dadh (gums) stiffened. [1570] Silence and secrecy are considered essential in working mystic lore, for it is a belief that if learnt openly such lore loses its power. [1571] The ceremony for obtaining command over Kal Bhairav is performed in perfect silence at midnight on the Kalichaudas, that is the fourteenth day of the dark half of Ashvin. [1572] Silence and secrecy are also essential in the ceremonies which are performed for subjugating such evil spirits as Meldi and Shikotar and Matas. [1573] When Vaishnavas make offerings to their gods, the doors of the shrine are closed. The initiating ceremonies of the Shakti Panthis and Margi Panthis are also performed in close secrecy. [1574] The Shravaks have to observe perfect silence at the time of performing the Shamag Padakamanu [1575] (a form of devotion to god). Some people observe a vow of keeping silent while taking their meals either for life or during the monsoon. [1576] There are various legends current among the people regarding the origin of the Holi holiday. The chief versions are as follows:-- 1. In ancient times there lived a demoness named Dhunda who preyed upon children. Her misdeeds caused great misery to the people, who went to Vasishtha, the preceptor of Rama, and implored him to tell them of some remedy for the mischief wrought by the demoness. Vasishtha told them to light a pyre in honour of the goddess Holika, which he said, would consume the demoness. The people accordingly lighted a huge fire, into which the demoness was driven by boys who led her to the spot by abusing her and troubling her in many ways. She was reduced to ashes by the fire, and the people were saved. [1577] 2. A demon named Hiraniaksha had a sister named Holika and a son named Prahlad. Hiraniaksha bore great enmity to Rama, while Prahlad was his devotee. Hiraniaksha did not like his son's devotion to Rama, and told him several times to give it up, and even threatened to take his life. But Prahlad did not swerve an inch from the path of his devotion. At last, being desperate, Hiraniaksha decided to kill him, and entrusted his sister with the mission. Holika raised a big pile of cow-dung cakes, set it on fire, and seated herself on the pile, taking Prahlad in her lap. But through the grace of Rama, Prahlad escaped uninjured while Holika was reduced to ashes. 3. A demoness called Dhunda had obtained a boon from Shiva to the effect that she would not meet her death during any of the three seasons of the year, either by day or by night. At the same time she was warned to beware of injury from children between sunset and nightfall at the commencement of a new season. To prevent any possibility of injury from children, she began to destroy them by preying upon their bodies. This caused a great panic among the people, who went to Vasishtha and asked his advice as to how to kill the demoness. He advised them to kill her in the way described in legend No. I above, and she was killed accordingly. [1578] 4. The Govardhan mountain had two sisters named Holi and Divali. Holi was a woman of bad conduct while Divali's character was good. Although unchaste, Holi boasted that she was chaste, and once, to prove her chastity, she threw herself on to a big fire. She could not bear the pain caused by the flames, and began to scream aloud, when people beat drums, abused her, and raised such a din that her screams became inaudible. Hence the custom of using abusive language and reciting abusive verses during the Holi holidays. Govardhan could not bear the disgrace attached to his sister's reputation. So he threw himself into the fire and met his death without uttering a word of pain. This has given rise to the custom of throwing into the Holi fire the cow-dung image of Govardhan, which is installed during the Divali holidays. [1579] On the Holi day sweet dishes are prepared and taken with the morning meal. Some women observe a vow on this day, and dine once only in the evening, after worshipping the Holi fire with an offering of a cocoanut and walking seven times round it. [1580] In some places, on the day preceding the Holi, which is known as Kamala Holi, sweet stuffed cakes are prepared, and on the Holi Punema day vermicelli is eaten. [1581] The fuel for the Holi fire is generally collected by boys. At about two in the afternoon on the Holi day a party of boys goes from house to house and receive five to fifteen cow-dung cakes from each household. These cow-dung cakes are bored, and strung on strings. [1582] The fuel thus collected is heaped at the village boundary or the end of the street. All the male residents of the village or street meet at the spot, a pit is dug, and earthen pots filled with wheat, gram and water mixed together are placed in the pit and covered with cow-dung cakes. Next, the headman of the village or the leading resident of the street worships the pile with the assistance of a Brahman priest. After worship, the pile is lighted, at the time fixed by an astrologer, [1583] by a low caste Hindu, generally a Bhangi or Kotwal, as Hindus of good caste consider it a sin to kindle the Holi fuel. The Bhangi or Kotwal receives a few dates and cocoanut kernel for this service. [1584] The offerings thrown into the Holi fire generally consist of fried juvari grain, fried gram and cocoanuts. Flowers of mango trees and tender mango fruits are also thrown into the Holi fire. It is believed that newly married pairs, by worshipping the Holi fire, are blessed with long life, prosperity, and the birth of children. After the principal ceremony is over, they worship it one by one with the ends of their upper garments tied in a knot, and walk seven times round the fire with their hands folded, the husband leading the wife. [1585] Infants dressed in gay clothes and decked with garlands of dry dates and bits of cocoanut kernel are also taken to the Holi fire by their parents. The latter worship the Holi Mata and walk four times round the fire, taking the children in their arms. Next they offer cocoanuts to the goddess, which are either thrown into the fire or distributed among those present. [1586] Women whose children die in infancy observe a vow of remaining standing on the Holi day. When the Holi is lighted they worship the fire, after which they may sit down and take their meal. It is believed that the observance of this vow ensures long life to children. [1587] Although the Holi itself falls on the full-moon day of Falgun the rejoicings connected with it commence from the first day of that month. The principal feature of the rejoicings consists in indulging in indecent and vulgar songs and language. Vulgar songs or fags in honour of the goddess Holi are also sung. Songs are composed abusing each caste, and sung addressing passers by, by groups of boys who have full license during the Holi holidays to indulge in all sorts of pranks and abuses. Some make wooden blocks with engravings of vulgar and indecent words, dip them in coloured water, and press them on the clothes of passers by. Others make naked idols of mud, and place them on the tops of houses. [1588] The day following the Holi is known as Dhul Padavo or Dhuleti. On this day people indulge in the throwing of cow-dung, black pigments, urine, mud, coloured water and red powder. In some places, on the Dhuleti day, a game is played with a cocoanut. The players form themselves into two parties and stand opposite to one another. Midway between them is placed a cocoanut. Each party tries to take away the cocoanut, and prevents the other from so doing by throwing stones and cow-dung cakes. The party which succeeds in taking away the cocoanut wins the game. [1589] Amongst Dheds, Kolis, Ravals and other low castes a post of the wood of the tamarind tree is planted in the ground and surrounded by women holding whips and cords in their hands. A party of men run to the women to drive them away and take possession of the post. The women prevent them from doing so by striking them with all their might with the whips and cords in their hands. This struggle commences at 10 A. M. on the Dhuleti day and continues till one o'clock in the morning on the following day. At last the men succeed in carrying away the post, thus ending the game. [1590] In some places, a man is tied to a bier as if he were a corpse, and carried on the shoulders of four men to the post of tamarind wood, followed by a party of men and women wailing aloud, to the great merriment of the crowd assembled near the post to witness the struggle described above. [1591] Sometimes contests are held between two parties of boys in singing vulgar songs. The contest commences by one of the parties singing a song. The other party responds to it by singing another song, which is generally more indecent than the song sung first. The contest goes on like this, and the party which fails to respond to its rival is said to be defeated. The immoral practices described above are only to be seen among low caste people, and even their women take part in these practices. The women of higher castes wear rich clothes and ornaments on the Dhuleti day, and sing songs in their houses. At times they throw coloured water and red powder at each other. [1592] In big temples a festivity called Ful Dol is observed, in which water coloured with the flowers of the Khakhra (Butea frondosa) is thrown by the party assembled, and kundalias or indecent songs are sung in a loud voice. [1593] In some temples, holy songs are sung at night and prayers are held. At the end, fried juvari, gram and sweets are distributed as the grace of God. [1594] The boys who take an active part in the Holi celebrations are known as geraiyas or holias. For two or three nights before the Holi they steal fuel for the Holi fire and beat and abuse those who try to prevent them from so doing. They also recite coarse songs and play with dirt and mud freely. Parties of them go from shop to shop and obtain by force dates and fried gram. [1595] At midnight of the Holi day a bower is erected in the centre of the village with bits of broken earthen vessels and cocoanut shells. A fool, generally a son-in-law of some low caste Hindu in the village, is induced, by the promise of dates and cocoanut kernel, to dress in a coat on which are drawn naked pictures. A garland of worn out shoes is tied round his neck and he is mounted on a donkey. He is then called Valam and taken from the bower through the village accompanied with music and crowds of people, who utter in a loud voice coarse and vulgar expressions as the procession moves on. At times they play jokes with the Valam, and give him blows on the head with their fists. [1596] In some places, this procession is called Valama Valami and is celebrated on the night preceding the Holi. Two poor stupid persons are dressed as bride and bridegroom, the latter in a ridiculously grotesque dress. They are married on the following morning, when vulgar songs are sung. The Valam and Valami are represented by two naked idols, made of rags, of a man and a woman. They are carried through the village in a noisy procession and married on an altar of black earthen vessels. They are then placed erect on two wooden posts side be side. [1597] In some villages, a large stone is placed in a spacious compound in the centre of the village, and broken earthen vessels are suspended over it with cords from the wooden bower erected over the stone. An ass is brought to the spot, and a fool decked with a garland of worn out shoes is mounted on it with his face turned towards the tail of the ass. He holds the tail of the ass in his hands as reins and is carried in procession through the village to be brought back to the bower and married to another fool, dust, ashes and water being freely used in the service. [1598] In some localities naked images of a husband and wife are set in a cart and taken through the village accompanied with music, the crowd singing indecent songs all the way long. [1599] On the Holi holiday children are presented with harda (garlands of balls made of sugar) by their relatives and the friends of their families. [1600] The Holi fire is extinguished by women on the morning of the following day. The earthen vessels containing wheat and gram which are put into the pit of the Holi before the fire is lighted are then taken out. The grain is cooked by the fire of Holi, and is called Ghugari. It is distributed among the villagers, the belief being that those who eat it are protected against disease by the goddess of the Holi. [1601] There are many other superstitious beliefs held by people in connection with the Holi. According to one belief, those who expose themselves to the heat of the Holi fire keep good health during the ensuing year. According to some, this can be secured by eating sugar-cane heated over the fire. Juvari stems heated over the fire are given to cattle with the same object. [1602] Some believe that if salt heated over the Holi fire is given to cattle it protects them against epidemics. Virgins take home a little of the Holi fire and light five cow-dung cakes with it in the courtyard of their house. When the cakes are burnt, the ashes are removed and the spot is purified with a plaster of cow-dung. Next, they draw some auspicious figures on the spot and worship them for a number of days in the belief that this ensures good health to their brothers. [1603] Among Gujarat Hindus no special ceremonies are performed when a girl attains puberty, except that on the third or fifth day she is bathed by an unwidowed woman and dressed in green or saffron-coloured robes. She is given rice in milk, sweetened with sugar, and is presented with a piece of green satin. [1604] In some places, the girl is bathed on the fourth day and given kansar to eat. She then bows to her mother-in-law and makes her a present of half a rupee. The mother-in-law blesses her and presents her with a bodice cloth. [1605] After the bath, a mark with red powder is made on her forehead and she is taken to the temple of the family deity. [1606] In some places, the red powder mark is made under the girl's right arm in the belief that this ensures to her the birth of many children. [1607] In some localities the girl is bathed on the third day, dainty dishes are served her, and she is presented with a cocoanut by each of her kinsfolk. [1608] In some castes, when a girl attains puberty, a feast of cooked rice and molasses is given to the caste people. In other castes, pieces of cocoanut kernel are distributed among children, and the girl is presented with a robe and bodice by her parents-in-law. [1609] In some castes, a girl is not allowed to cook before she attains puberty. [1610] No ceremonies are performed when a boy attains puberty, probably because in the case of boys the change is not so marked as in the case of girls. NOTES [1] Khan Bahadur Fazlullah and Mr. K. D. Desai. [2] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [3] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [4] Mr. N. D. Vora, Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [5] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [6] Mr. M. D. Vyas, Shastri, Bhayavadur. [7] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Schoolmaster, Limbdi. [8] The first nine days of Ashvin, the last month of the Gujarat Hindu Calendar, known otherwise as Matana dahada-mata's days. The influence of the matas is very strong in these days. [9] Mr. K. D. Desai. [10] Mr. M. D. Vayas, Shastri, Bhayavadur. [11] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [12] Mr. K. D. Desai. [13] Mr. N. D. Vora, Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [14] Mr. B. K. Dave, Schoolmaster, Kotda-Sangani. [15] Mr. N. D. Vora, Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [16] Mr. K. D. Desai. [17] Lapsi is coarse wheat-flour fried in ghi and sweetened with molasses or sugar. [18] Vadan-bean flour--generally of gram or peas--is allowed to remain in water with spices until the paste acquires a sufficient degree of consistence, when it is rolled into small biscuit-sized balls and fried in oil. [19] Bakla are small round flat cakes of dry boiled beans. [20] Mr. N. D. Vora, Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [21] Mr. N. M. Dave, Schoolmaster, Sanka. [22] Mr. N. M. Dave, Schoolmaster, Sanka. [23] Kansar is coarse wheat-flour cooked in three times as much water, sweetened with molasses or sugar, and taken with ghi.--B. L. Dave, Schoolmaster, Kotda-Sangani. [24] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [25] Mr. G. K. Dave, Schoolmaster, Sultanpore. [26] Mr. N. D. Vora, Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [27] Mr. B. K. Dave, Schoolmaster, Kotda-Sangani. [28] Mr. N. D. Vora, Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [29] Mr. Girijashankar Karunashankar, Schoolmaster, Songadh. [30] A dankla is otherwise known by the name of dug-dudioon. [31] Mr. Jagannath Hirji, Schoolmaster, Chok. [32] Mr. Jethabhai Mangaldas, Schoolmaster, Gondal. [33] Mr. Nandlal Kalidas, Schoolmaster, Chhatrasa. [34] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [35] Mr. H. R. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Khirasara. [36] Mr. L. G. Travadi, Schoolmaster, Upleta. [37] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [38] Mr. H. R. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Khirasara. [39] Mr. L. G. Travadi, Schoolmaster, Upleta. [40] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [41] Two pieces of cloth, a shouldercloth and a scarf are cast over the bridegroom and the bride, and they are tied together by a knot. It is the unloosing of this tie which is here referred to.--Mr. K. D. Desai. [42] Mr. N. M. Dave, Schoolmaster, Sanka. [43] Mr. N. M. Dave, Schoolmaster, Sanka. [44] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [45] The tendency to fraternise as much in belief as in nationality is a notable feature of Indian life. The saying goes:--Hindu Musalman ék Ram bijó Rehman. The Hindu and Musalman are not far apart; one is the follower of Ram, the other of Rehman (the most compassionate--a Kuranic name of Allah). Again says another proverb: The Hindu and Musalman are as closely connected as the breast and the skirt of a garment (Hindu né Musalman moli daman jo vehevar). The Hindu pays homage to the Pir, the Muslim repays the compliment by holding some of his Hindu brother's lower class deities, such as Vaital and Kali and Amba, in awe. The Hindu worships and breaks cocoanuts before the Moharram taazias--the Musalman responds by showing a sneaking sort of a regard for the Holi, whom he believes to have been a daughter of the patriarch Abraham. This reciprocal good fellowship in times of political agitation, like those of the Indian Mutiny, results in the "chapati", or unleavened bread loaf, being considered a symbol to be honoured both by Muslim and Hindu; and in more recent times, as during the plague troubles in Allahabad and Cawnpore, shows itself in the Muslim garlanding the Hindu on a holiday, and the Hindus setting up sherbat-stalls for Musalmans on an Id day.--Khan Bahadur Fazlullah. [46] Mr. J. N. Patel, Schoolmaster, Jasdan. [47] Mr. Jaggannath Hirji, Schoolmaster, Chok. [48] Mr. Nandlal Kalidas, Schoolmaster, Chhatrasa. [49] Mr. O. A. Mehta, Schoolmaster, Lakhapadar. [50] Mr. N. J. Bhatt, Moti Marad. [51] Mr. J. D. Khandhar, Sayala. [52] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [53] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [54] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [55] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [56] Mr. G. K. Dave, Sultanpore. [57] Mr. K. D. Desai. [58] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [59] Mr. K. D. Desai. [60] Mr. M. D. Vyas, Schoolmaster, Bhayavadur. [61] Cf. Alláho núr-us-samáwátiwal ard, mathalo nurihi-ka miskatin bihá nusbáh--Koran. Allah! He is the light of the Heavens and the Earth. The likeness of His Light being similar to a lamp in a glass.--Fazlullah Latfullah. [62] Mr. Jethabai Mangaldas, Schoolmaster, Gondal; and Damodar Karsonji, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [63] Mr. B. K. Dave, Schoolmaster, Kotda-Sangani. [64] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [65] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [66] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [67] A similar custom is observed in Gujarat. Unfortunate parents, who have lost many children, vow to grow the hair of their little children, if such are preserved to them, observing all the time a votive abstinence from a particular dish or betelnut or the like. When the children are 3 or 5 or 7 years old, the vow is fulfilled by taking them to a sacred place, like the temple of Ranchhodji at Dakor, to have their hair cut for the first time. This vow is known as babari in Southern Gujarat--K. D. Desai. [68] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [69] Mr. Jethabhai Mangaldas, Gondal. [70] Mr. K. D. Desai. [71] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [72] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [73] Mr. M. M. Rana, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [74] Mr. G. K. Dave, Schoolmaster, Sultanpore. [75] Mrs. Raju Ramjee Kanjee, 2nd Assistant, Girls' School, Gondal. [76] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [77] Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [78] Mr. Girijashankar Karmeashankar, Schoolmaster, Songadh. [79] The Hindus use the tender sprigs of the Nim or Babul trees for tooth-brushes. After they have done duty as brushes they are cloven into two and the tenderest part is used as a tongue-scraper.--Khan Bahadur Fazlullah. [80] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [81] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [82] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [83] Mr. K. D. Desai. [84] Mr. Jethalal Anupram, Schoolmaster, Aman. [85] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [86] Mr. K. D. Desai. [87] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [88] Mr. K. D. Desai. [89] Mr. M. D. Vyas, Shastri, Bhayavadur. [90] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Limbdi, and L. D. Mehta, Mota Devalia. [91] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara, and Mr. B. K. Dave, Kotda-Sangani. [92] Mr. B. K. Dave, Kotda-Sangani. [93] Mr. Nandlal Kalidas, Schoolmaster, Chhatrasa. [94] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Schoolmaster, Limbdi. [95] Mr. G. K. Bhatt, Songadh. [96] Mr. B. K. Dave, Schoolmaster, Kotda-Sangani. [97] Mr. Girijashankar Karunashankar, Schoolmaster, Songadh. [98] Mr. Nandlal Kalidas, Schoolmaster, Chhatrasa. [99] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [100] Mr. D. K. Shah, Charadavah. [101] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Limbdi. [102] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [103] Mr. K. D. Desai. [104] Mr. G. K. Bhatt, Schoolmaster, Songadh. [105] Mr. N. J. Bhatt, Moti-Murad. [106] Mr. Ranchhodji Becher Pandya, Shastri, Jelpur, Sanskrit Pathashala. [107] Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [108] Wheat flour fried in ghi with molasses. [109] Mr. K. D. Desai. [110] Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [111] Mr. K. D. Desai. [112] Mr. N. D. Vora, Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [113] The names are: 1 Aditya, 2 Divakar, 3 Bhaskar, 4 Prabhakar, 5 Sahasranshu, 6 Trilochan, 7 Haritashva, 8 Vibhavasu, 9 Divakrit, 10 Divadarshatmaka, 11 Trimurti, 12 Surya. [114] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [115] Mr. G. K. Dave, Sultanpur. [116] Mr. H. M. Bhatt, Schoolmaster, Ganod. [117] Mr. Girijashankar Karunashankar, Schoolmaster, Songadh. [118] Mr. H. M. Bhatt, Schoolmaster, Ganod. [119] Mr. Chhaganlal Motiram, Wala Taluka. [120] Mr. R. B. Pandya, Jetpur Sanskrit School. [121] Mrs. Raju Ramjee Kanjee, Girls' School, Ganod. [122] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [123] Mr. R. B. Pandya, Jetpur Sanskrit School. [124] Mr. J. D. Khandhar, Sayala. [125] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [126] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [127] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [128] Mr. N. D. Vora, Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [129] Milk and sugar ball. [130] A sugar cake. [131] Mr. N. D. Vora, Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [132] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [133] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [134] Mr. P. L. Mehta, Schoolmaster, Luvaria. [135] Mr. Jeram Vasaram, Schoolmaster, Jodia. [136] Mr. M. H. Raval, Ganod. [137] Mr. H. M. Bhatt, Ganod. [138] See figure above. A shows Shiva's image: the arrow-head, the jaladhari which a person is not to cross. He is to return from the point B in his first round and from the point C in his half turn. Thus B C remains uncrossed. The circle round A shows the Khal, place wherein god Shiva is installed--K. D. Desai. [139] Mr. G. K. Dave, Sultanpore. [140] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [141] Hindus believe that a soul has to go through a lakh and eighty-four thousand transmigrations before it attains final emancipation. The cycle of 1,84,000 births is called the phera of lakh-choryasi,--K. D. Desai. [142] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [143] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster. Dhhank. [144] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [145] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [146] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [147] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [148] Mr. Jethalal Anupram, Schoolmaster, Ainan. [149] Mr. R. B. Pandya, Jetpur Sanskrit School. [150] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [151] Mr. N. J. Bhatt, Moti-Murad. [152] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [153] Mr. D. K. Shah, Schoolmaster, Charadwa. [154] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Schoolmaster, Limbdi. [155] Mr. Nandlal Kalidas, Schoolmaster, Chhatrasa. [156] Mr. Chhaganlal Motiram, Schoolmaster, Wala Talu. [157] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Goholwad. [158] Mr. B. K. Dave, Kotda-Sangani, and the Schoolmaster, Movaiyam. [159] Mr. K. D. Desai. [160] Mr. R. B. Pandya, Jetpur Sanskrit School. [161] Mr. D. K. Shah, Charadwa. [162] Mr. K. D. Desai. [163] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [164] Mr. N. D. Vora, Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [165] Mr. N. J. Bhatt, Schoolmaster, Moti-Murad. [166] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Schoolmaster, Limbdi. [167] Mr. H. R. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Khirasara. [168] Mr. Girijashankar Karunashankar, Schoolmaster, Songadh. [169] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [170] Mr. H. R. Pandya, Khirasara. [171] Mr. D. K. Shah, Charadwa. [172] The Schoolmaster, Chank, Kolaba. [173] Mr. D. K. Shah, Charadwa. [174] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [175] The Schoolmaster, Pendhur, Ratnagiri. [176] The Schoolmaster, Anjar. [177] Mr. Jethabhai Mangaldas, Schoolmaster, Gondal. [178] Mr. Girijashankar Karunashankar, Schoolmaster, Songadh. [179] Mr. L. D. Mehta, Mota Devalia. [180] The Schoolmaster, Ganod. [181] The Schoolmaster, Agashi and Arnala. [182] Mr. T. D. Khandhar, Schoolmaster, Sayala. [183] Mr. Girijashankar Karunashankar, Songadh. [184] The Schoolmaster, Mith-bao, Ratnagiri. [185] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [186] Mr. Jethalal Anupram, Schoolmaster, Aman. [187] Mr. M. H. Raval, Vanod. [188] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [189] Mr. Girijashankar Karunashankar, Songadh. [190] Mr. K. D. Desai. [191] Mr. Girijashankar Karunashankar, Songadh. [192] The Swastika is found at Pompeii and in the Greek 'key' pattern. It is also found on Persian and Assyrian coins and in the Catacombs at Rome. It is to be seen on the tomb of the Duke of Clarence, who was drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine, at Tewkesbury, and occurs in Winchester Cathedral, where it is described as the fyle-foot.--R. E. E. [193] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. Compare a similar idea in the Kuran in the chapter An Nur (the Lights): "Allah is the Light of the Heavens and the Earth. The semblance of his light is the nyche wherein there is a light."--K. B. Fazlullah. [194] Mr. J. A. Jani, Schoolmaster, Aman. [195] Mr. N. D. Vora, Schoolmaster, Rajpara; and Mr. B. K. Dave, Schoolmaster, Kotda-Sangani. [196] Kansar is coarse wheat flour sweetened with molasses and cooked in water until the whole quantity of water is absorbed and taken with ghi. [197] Puris are cakes of fine wheat flour, fried in ghi. [198] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [199] Mr. K. D. Desai. [200] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [201] The Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [202] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Limbdi. [203] Mr. G. K. Bhatt, Songadh. [204] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Limbdi, and B. K. Dave, Kotda-Sangani. [205] All observers of the Chaturthi-vrat worship the god Ganpati on this day, and offer him one thousand trifoliate sprouts of durva (cynodon dactylon). The dish specially prepared for the occasion is Golanaladu--sweet-balls of wheat flour fried in ghi and mixed with molasses.--Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [206] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [207] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [208] Mr. K. D. Desai. [209] The Schoolmaster, Vanod. [210] The original is-- Poshi Poshi Punemadi, Agashe randhi khichadi, jame bhaini benadi. [211] The Schoolmaster, Kotda-Sangani and The Schoolmaster, Jodia. [212] Mr. R. B. Pandya, Jetpur Sanskrit School. [213] Mr. L. D. Mehta, Schoolmaster, Mota-Devalia. [214] A Kundali is an astrological diagram of the position of planets at any particular time. The numbers in the diagram change their positions according to the position of planets at any given time.--Mr. D. Desai. [215] Mr. Chhaganlal Motira, Wala Taluka. [216] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [217] The Schoolmaster, Khandhar. [218] One ghadi is equal to 24 minutes and one pohor (prahara) lasts for three hours. [219] Mr. M. P. Shah, Schoolmaster, Zinzuwada. [220] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [221] Mr. M. P. Shah, Schoolmaster, Zinzuwada. [222] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [223] The Schoolmasters of Dhhank, Rajpara and Limbdi. [224] The Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [225] The Schoolmaster, Dadvi. [226] The Schoolmaster, Lilapur. [227] Throughout the Hindu Scriptures, Vishnu and his incarnations are described as being of Shyama-varna or dark complexion.--Mr. K. D. Desai. [228] The Schoolmaster, Dadvi. [229] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Halar. [230] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Limbdi. [231] The Schoolmaster, Lilapur. [232] Mr. Nandlal Kalidas, Chhatrasa. [233] Mr. M. P. Shah, Zinzuwada. [234] The Mistress of Rajkot Civil Station Girls' School. [235] Mr. Nandlal Kalidas, Chhatrasa. [236] Rao Saheb Shelke and the Shastri of Bhayavadur. [237] The Schoolmaster, Rajpara. [238] The Schoolmaster, Dhhank. He refers to the books Vrataraj and Pathyapathya on this point. [239] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Halar; and the Schoolmaster of Chauk, Kolaba. [240] The Schoolmaster, Jodia. [241] The Schoolmaster, Kolki. [242] The Schoolmasters of Rajpara, Limbdi, and Ibhrampur. [243] Mr. K. D. Desai. [244] The Shastri of Jetpur, Pathashala. [245] The following Sanskrit verse mentions all of them:-- Laksmih kaustubhaparijatakasura dhanvamtariscandrama | Gavah kamaduhah suresvaragajo rambhadidevanganah || Asvah saptamukho visam haridhanuh samkhomrtam cambudheh | Ratnaniha caturdasa pratidinam kurvantu vo mamgalam || 1 || Rao Saheb P. B. Joshi. [246] The Schoolmasters of Jodia, Dhhank, Songadh, Rajpara, and Limbdi. [247] The Schoolmaster of Khirasara. [248] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [249] Mr. Laxmichand Hemji, Vasawad. [250] Mr. G. K. Bhatt, Songadh. [251] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Limbdi. [252] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Limbdi. [253] Mr K. D. Desai. [254] Mr. Laxmichand Hemji, Vasawad. [255] A pohor or prahar is equal to three hours. [256] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [257] Mr. Khan Bahadur Fazlullah. [258] The Schoolmasters of Jodia and Songadh. [259] Mr. K. D. Desai. [260] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [261] Mr. G. K. Bhatt, Songadh. [262] Mr. K. D. Desai. [263] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [264] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [265] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [266] Mr. K. D. Desai. [267] Mr. D. K. Shah, Charadwah. [268] Mr. T. D. Khandhar, Sayala. [269] The Schoolmaster, Jodia. [270] Khan Bahadur Fazlullah. [271] Mr. M. M. Rana, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [272] Mr. Nandlal Kalidas, Chhatrasa, and Mr. M. M. Rana, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [273] Mr. Motichand Vasanji Doshi, Kaluwad. [274] I believe the name of the constellation is wrongly given: it ought to be Mriga. One of the stars in this group, known as 'Sirius', in Western astronomy, is often called Vyadha (i.e., the hunter).--Mr. K. T. Gupte. The Mrig constellation is also said to represent the goddess Saraswati, who had assumed the form of a gazelle in order to escape the amorous grasp of Brahma, her father. While the deer in the Mrig constellation is Saraswati, the Ardra constellation is Mahadev who had followed to chastise Brahma, who also is seen as the Brahma constellation.--Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [275] The thirteenth day of both the bright and dark halves of a month, sacred to the worship of god Shiva. [276] The three-leaf-clusters of this tree are loved by the god Shiva if put upon his image.--Mr. K. D. Desai. [277] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [278] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [279] The nine grahas are, Ravi (the Sun), Chandra (the Moon), Mangal (Mars), Budha (Mercury), Guru (Jupiter), Shukra (Venus), Shani (Saturn), and Rahu and Ketu. [280] The names of the twelve rashis are:--1 Mesha (Aries), 2 Vrishabha (Taurus), 3 Mithun (Gemini), 4 Karka (Cancer), 5 Sinha (Leo), 6 Kanya (Virgo), 7 Tula (Libra), 3 Vrishchika (Scorpio), 9 Dhanu (Sagittarius), 10 Makara (Capricornus), 11 Kumbha (Aquarius), 12 Mina (Pisces). [281] The following are the twenty-seven nakshatras:--1 Ashvini, 2 Bharani, 3 Kritika, 4 Rohini, 5 Mrig, 6 Ardra, 7 Punarvasu, 8 Pushya, 9 Ashlesha, 10 Magha, 11 Purva-phalguni, 12 Uttara-phalguni, 13 Hasta, 14 Chitra, 15 Swati, 16 Vishakha, 17 Anuradha, 18 Jyeshtha, 19 Mul, 20 Purvashadha, 21 Uttarashadha, 22 Shravana, 23 Dhanishtha, 24 Shatataraka, 25 Purvabhadrapada, 26 Uttarabhadrapada, and 27 Revati. [282] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [283] One ghadi = 24 minutes. [284] Mr. Motechand Vasanji Doshi, Kalawad. [285] The Schoolmaster, Dadvi. [286] The Schoolmaster or Dadvi. [287] N. M. Dave, Sanka. [288] M. H. Raval, Vanod. [289] Hirji Monji, Ganod. [290] N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [291] I.e., a handful of rice, ghi, cocoanuts, and some other objects are cast into the fire as an offering. [292] Gangaram Tribhowandas, Lilapur. [293] D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [294] K. P. Joshi, Limbdi. [295] R. B. Pandya, Jetpur Sanskrit Pathashala. [296] A superior kind of rice. [297] The Schoolmaster of Khirasara. [298] Twisted braids of darbha grass. [299] D. K. Pandya, Dhhank, and N. M. Dave, Sanka. [300] B. K. Dave, Kotda-Sangani. [301] Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [302] Arghya is an offering of water in a spoon filled with barley seeds, sesamum seeds, sandal ointment, rice, and flowers. [303] Two varieties of sacred grass, used in thatching roofs. [304] Kalyanji Bhaishankar, Kolki, and R. B. Pandya, Jetpur. [305] G. K. Bhatt, Songadh. [306] Meaningless terms. [307] Odhowji Avichal, Lakhapadar. [308] Talakshi Dharamsi, Khandhar. [309] The Deputy Educational Inspector of Gohelwad. [310] Hirji Monji, Ganod. [311] Indra has full sway over the twelve meghas (or clouds), of which Shamaghana is the greatest. Indra directs them to pour down waters in whatever regions he likes. At the time of the deluge he lets loose all the twelve meghas under the lead of Shamaghana and thus brings about the destruction of this world.--N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [312] L. D. Mehta, Mota Devalia. [313] Nandlal Kalidas, Chhatrasa. [314] N. M. Dave, Sanka. [315] The Schoolmaster of Palanvar. [316] D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [317] K. P. Joshi, Limbdi. [318] The Schoolmaster of Luvaria. [319] Mr. Kalyanji Bhaishankar, Kolki. [320] The Schoolmaster of Khandhar. [321] Mr. R. B. Pandya, Jetpur. [322] Mr. M. M. Rana, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [323] Mr. D. K. Shah, Charadwah. [324] Mr. Jairam Vasaram, Jodia, and B. K. Dave, Kotda-Sangani. [325] When a king desired to be Chakravarti--Sovereign of all India--he used to perform a horse-sacrifice, and a horse was let loose with a copper-plate fastened to its head with the name of the king engraved upon the plate. The horse moved in front followed by the king's army. Those who were not willing to acknowledge the suzerainty of the king challenged his army by seizing the horse. Such a horse-sacrifice, if successfully completed, threatens the power of Indra, who is therefore said to be very jealous and to create obstacles to the performance of such sacrifices--K. D. Desai. [326] Mr. Vallabh Ramji, Mendarda. [327] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [328] Mr. Nandlal Kalidas, Chhatrasa. [329] Mr. Jethalal Anupram, Aman. [330] Mr. Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [331] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [332] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [333] Mr. K. B. Fazlullah. [334] Mr. G. K. Bhall, Songadh. [335] Mr. Hirji Monji, Ganod. [336] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [337] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [338] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [339] Mr. Talakshi Dharashi, Sayala. [340] A mixture of milk, curds, ghi, honey and sugar. [341] The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [342] Durva is a kind of sacred grass. [343] Mr. Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [344] The Schoolmaster of Gondal Taluka. [345] On the Dasara holiday, which is also known as Vijayadashmi, Hindus take special dishes, dress themselves in their best garments and go out of towns and villages to worship the earth-mother and the holy shami, with javala stalks, a few of which are inserted in the folds of their head-dress as auspicious tokens. In towns, and big cities a procession is formed, conducted by some city magnate or a native chief riding an elephant. They go in state to the place of worship, and after the completion of the worship a goat or a he buffalo, preferably the latter, is killed, and a salvo of three to seven or more cannon is fired. People then return home and prostrate themselves before their elders, and receive from them a handful of candied sugar, a betel-nut and leaf, with blessings for long-life and prosperity. Such blessings are considered likely to prove effective.--K. D. Desai. [346] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [347] Some Hindus, when intending to go on a journey, consult an astrologer as to the muhurt or auspicious hour for setting out. If they do not happen to leave their place at the prescribed moment, they put a pastana--some of the articles to be carried by them in their journey--such as a suit of clothes or a box, in a neighbour's house as a token of their having set out at the stated time.--K. D. Desai. [348] Mr. Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [349] Mr. H. M. Bhatt, Ganod. [350] Mr. Talakshi Dharashi, Sayala. [351] Mr. B. K. Dave, Kotda-Sangani. [352] Mr. Nandlal Kalidas, Chhatrasa, and the Schoolmaster of Jasdan. [353] The Schoolmaster of Patanvav. [354] The Schoolmaster of Sultanpur. [355] Mr. Laxmichand Hemji, Vasavad. [356] Mr. Madhowji Tulsiram, Movaiya. [357] A mixture of milk, curds, ghi, honey, and sugar. [358] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [359] The Schoolmaster of Lilapur. [360] Such objects are taken in a plate and thrown over a tulsi (or sweet basil) plant.--K. D. Desai. [361] Mr. Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [362] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [363] Mr. K. D. Desai. [364] The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [365] The Schoolmaster of Gondal Taluka. [366] Sacrifices in honour of Vishnu, Mahadev and the goddess Chandi, respectively.--K. D. Desai. [367] A form of devotion requiring the recitation of the Gayatri-mantra a hundred thousand times with certain symbolic ceremonies.--K. D. Desai. [368] The appointment of duly authorised Brahmans to perform religious ceremonies.--K. D. Desai. [369] Mr. M. M. Rana, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [370] Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [371] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [372] Mr. Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [373] Intending pilgrims sometimes impose such self-denials upon themselves, vowing abnegation from particular articles of food or wear till they have performed their pilgrimage. Some renounce the use of ghi, some of milk, others of betel-leaf or nut, others swear not to wear a turban or a dupatta--till they are given the merit of a pilgrimage.--Khan Bahadur Fazlullah. [374] Mr. L. I. Joshi, Surela. [375] This game, much resembling the English boys' game of Tip cat, is also known as gilli-danda. The gedi or gilli is a small piece of wood, two or three inches in length, an inch or less in diameter and sometimes tapering at both ends. The danda is a small round stick, of the same thickness and a foot or more in length, by which the gedi is played. There are two sides to the game as in cricket, though not composed of a definite number of players. There are a number of ways in which the game can be played.--K. D. Desai. [376] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Limbdi. [377] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara, or of Bhagwan, according to Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [378] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [379] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [380] The Shastri of Jetpur, Pathashala. [381] The Schoolmaster of Paolanvav. [382] Mr. G. K. Dave, Sultanpur. [383] The Schoolmaster of Rajkot Girls' School. [384] Mr. H. M. Bhatt, Ganod. [385] Mr. K. D. Desai. [386] The Schoolmasters of Dhhank, Sanka, Limbdi, and Sultanpur. [387] Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [388] The Schoolmaster of Lilapur. [389] The Schoolmaster of Charadwa. [390] The Schoolmaster of Surela. [391] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [392] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [393] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [394] The Schoolmaster of Gondal. [395] i.e., the period for which the Rohini nakshatra lasts. [396] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [397] Mr. B. K. Dave, Kotda-Sangani. [398] The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [399] The Hasta nakshatra generally commences at the end of Bhadrapad or the beginning of Ashvin and lasts for a fortnight. The rains during this period, which are required for the rabi crops, are so much esteemed that each drop of them is said to be worth a drop of ghi. People store the hathio-varshad or the rain water of Hasta in reservoirs for drinking purposes, believing it to be very pure and digestive.--K. D. Desai. [400] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [401] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [402] Mr. B. K. Dave, Kotda-Sangani. [403] The Schoolmaster of Luvaria. [404] The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [405] The Schoolmaster of Songadh. [406] Talakshi, Dharashi, Sayala. [407] Mr. L. H. Jadow, Vasawad. [408] Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [409] Among the Hindus it is customary for those whose children do not live to keep their children unshaved for a certain number of years, after which the children are taken to a holy place and shaved there for the first time. The temple of Ranchhodji at Dakor is a favourite place for such ceremonies.--K. D. Desai. [410] Mr. G. K. Dave, Sultanpur. [411] The Schoolmaster of Charadwa. [412] Mr. Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [413] The seven nether worlds are Atal, Vital, Sutal, Talatal, Mahatal, Rasatal, and Patal. [414] In an ocean, as some say--D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [415] Mr. Jethalal Devji, Bantwa. [416] Mr. G. K. Bhatt, Songadh. [417] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank, and Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [418] The Deputy Educational Inspector of Gohelwad. [419] Mr. Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [420] Mr. K. P. Joshi, Limbdi, and Mr. Raju Ramjee Kanjee Pathak, Girls' School, Gondal. [421] Mr. J. K. Upaddhyaya, Patanvao. [422] Mr. Raju Ramjee Kanjee Pathak, Gondal. [423] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [424] Mr. K. D. Desai. [425] Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [426] The river is, therefore, regarded as his daughter, and is called Jahnavi. [427] Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [428] The Schoolmaster of Lilapur. [429] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [430] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [431] The Schoolmaster of Upleta. [432] The waving of lights to and fro before an object of worship. [433] The Schoolmaster of Kolki and the Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [434] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [435] Mr. B. K. Dave, Schoolmaster, Kotda-Sangani. [436] The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [437] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Schoolmaster, Dhhank. [438] This happens every twelfth year. The year of Sinhastha i.e. the year when Brihaspati stands in the Sinha-rashi, is the only one in which marriages among the Kadvâ Kunbis take place; and for this reason the smallest children in the community, sometimes even those who are in the womb, are married in this year.--Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [439] The Schoolmaster of Upleta. [440] The Schoolmaster of Luvaria. [441] Mr. L. D. Mehta, Mota Devalia. [442] Mr K. D. Desai. [443] The Saraswati is believed to be present, but invisible at this spot. [444] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [445] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [446] Mr. D. K. Shah, Charadwah. [447] The Schoolmasters of Dhhank, Vanod, and Kolki. [448] Mr. M. R. Raval. [449] The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [450] The Schoolmaster of Limbdi Taluka. [451] Mr. K. D. Desai. [452] Mr. Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [453] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank, and the Headmistress of Gondal Girls' School. [454] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [455] See P. 42. [456] Mr. M. H. Raval, Vanod. [457] Mr. M. S. Shah, Zinzuwada. [458] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [459] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [460] Mr. L. D. Mehta, Mota Devalia. [461] The Schoolmaster of Khirasara. [462] The Schoolmaster of Lewaria. [463] Mr. Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [464] Mr. K. D. Desai. [465] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [466] The Schoolmaster of Moti Murad. [467] The Schoolmaster of Gondal Taluka. [468] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [469] Mr. K. D. Desai. [470] There are several species of bhuts and prets--ghosts and goblins--thus, for instance, Jalachar, i.e., those who live in water; Agnichar, i.e., those found in fire; Ehuchar, i.e., those hovering on the earth; Gaganachar, i.e., those moving in ethereal regions; Manushyachar, i.e., those moving among men; Khagachar or those moving among birds; and Pashuchar, i.e., those living among beasts.--N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [471] D. K. Pandya, Dhhank; the Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala and the Schoolmaster of Limbdi Taluka. [472] Mr. L. D. Mehta, Mota Devalia. [473] Vide page 1. [474] The Schoolmaster of Limbdi Taluka and the Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [475] The Schoolmaster of Movaiya. [476] N. M. Dave, Sanka. [477] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [478] N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [479] The Schoolmasters of Vanod and Kolki. [480] D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [481] H. M. Bhatt, Ganod. [482] A mixture of milk, curds, ghi, honey and sugar. [483] The Schoolmasters of Dhhank and Patanvav. [484] Vide page 29. [485] The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [486] Rich persons use silver or golden spades and hoes when turning up the first clod of earth. [487] The Schoolmasters of Ganod and Dadvi. [488] B. K. Dave, Kotda Sangani. [489] The schoolmasters of Limbdi and Chhatrasa. [490] It is a common practice to bring a small circular piece of an earthen vessel from the neighbourhood of such a well and to hang it by a piece of string round the neck of a child to cure it of hadakhi-udharas or strong cough.--K. D. Desai. [491] The Schoolmaster of Upleta. [492] The schoolmaster of Mota Devalia. [493] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [494] D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [495] The Schoolmaster of Patanvav. [496] G. K. Bhatt, Songadh. [497] Pampa is described in the Ramayana as being situated in the Dandaka forest, i.e., in the Deccan, and seems to be the modern Hampi in Bellary district. [498] Perhaps the one in Sidhapur--K. T. G. [499] Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [500] The Shastri of Jetpur, Pathashala. [501] The Schoolmasters of Dadvi and Kolki. [502] D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [503] H. M. Bhatt, Ganod. [504] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [505] Jairam Vasaram, Jodia. [506] The Schoolmaster of Khirasara. [507] N. M. Dave, Sanka. [508] The Deputy Educational Inspector of Halar. [509] The Schoolmasters of Dhhank, Moti Parabadi, and Luvaria. [510] The Schoolmaster of Chhatrasa. [511] All mountains once possessed wings and caused much havoc when they flew about. So Indra clipped their wings with his thunderbolt and they are lying motionless since.--K. D. Desai. [512] The Schoolmaster of Lilapur. [513] Three-fourths of a gau = one mile. [514] The Shastri of Jetpur, Pathashala. [515] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [516] The Schoolmaster of Lilapur. [517] The Schoolmasters of Kotda-Sangani, Vanod, and Luvaria. [518] After the conflagration of Lakshabhuvan, the Pandavas escaped to the Hidimba forest. There one day, in his excursions, Bhima came across the giantess Hidimba sitting on a see-saw. On her offering to marry him if he succeeded in swinging her see-saw, he is said to have swung it so high in the skies that she could even see the stars during daytime.--K. D. Desai. [519] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [520] The Schoolmaster of Patanvav. [521] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [522] The Schoolmaster of Lilapur. [523] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [524] R. B. Dave. [525] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [526] The Schoolmaster of Luvaria. [527] M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [528] The earth is believed to be flat like a dish and to consist of seven large islands, which are compared to the seven petals of a lotus. [529] One yojan = eight miles. [530] M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [531] A magic tree, supposed to grant all desires. [532] D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [533] The Schoolmaster of Limbdi. [534] The Schoolmaster of Upleta. [535] The Schoolmasters of Dhhank and Sanka. [536] The Schoolmaster of Zinzuwada. [537] Fire used for the purposes of smoking. [538] The Schoolmaster of Mendarda. [539] The Schoolmasters of Dhhank and Gondal Taluka. [540] The Shastri of Jetpur. [541] K. D. Desai. [542] N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [543] Offering oblations to gods by throwing ghi into the consecrated fire. [544] D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [545] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [546] The Schoolmaster of Upleta. [547] The Deputy Educational Inspector of Gohelwad and K. D. Desai. [548] A flat round loaf, about two to four inches in diameter, prepared from the flour of udad. [549] Coarse wheat-flour fried in ghi and sweetened with sugar or molasses. [550] Bean-flour, generally of gram or peas, is allowed to remain in water with spices, until the paste acquires a sufficient degree of consistency, when it is rolled into small biscuit-sized balls and fried in sweet oil. [551] K. D. Desai. [552] M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [553] The Deputy Educational Inspector of Gohelwad. [554] D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [555] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala, and the Schoolmaster of Vanod. [556] The Schoolmaster of Mota Dewalia. According to him, the same vow is also observed to bring about a rainfall. [557] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [558] The Schoolmaster of Vanod. [559] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [560] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [561] The Schoolmaster of Zinzuwâdâ. [562] The Schoolmaster of Mendarda. [563] The story tells how a woman and her daughter-in-law, intending to observe this vow, killed and cooked a calf by mistake; covered with shame, they locked themselves up in their house, and refused admission to the neighbours, to whom they confessed their crime. On searching for the remains of the calf, the neighbours discovered that it had been miraculously restored to life.--R. E. E. [564] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [565] The Schoolmasters of Vanod and Kolki. [566] Some observe the Nagapanchami on the fifth day of the bright half of Bhadrapad. [567] A mixture of rice and pulse treated with spices and cooked in water. [568] A preparation of nine handfuls of wheat. [569] The Schoolmaster of Surel. [570] Vide Page 24. [571] A kind of rice grown without ploughing. [572] The Schoolmaster of Jasdan. [573] Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [574] The mother of the bride, accompanied by other women who sing songs on the way, carries an iron lamp to the village-boundary, and from that place the party bring earth to erect the altars on which sacrificial fires are burnt. The lamp is called laman-divo and the earth which is brought is called ukardi.--K. D. Desai. [575] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [576] Mr. M. M. Rana, Rajkot. [577] The Schoolmaster of Zarama-Zarava. [578] The Schoolmaster of Kolki and the Head-Mistress of Rajkot Civil Station Girls' School. [579] Mr. K. D. Desai. [580] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [581] The Schoolmaster of Surel. [582] Vide question 10. [583] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [584] The art of taking the life of a person by means of a magical process called muth-maravi. The victim of this process suddenly vomits blood and loses his life, unless the evil influence is counteracted by another sorcerer.--B. K. Dave, Kotda Sangani. [585] Causing a person to leave his business by making him disgusted with it, by means of magical spells. [586] The art of so influencing the conduct of a person as to bring him perfectly under control. [587] Bewildering an enemy by means of magical charms. [588] The suppression of any force or feeling by magical means. [589] Mr. K. D. Desai. [590] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [591] Mr. N. M. Dave, Sanka. [592] The Schoolmaster of Moti Murad. [593] Mr. B. K. Dave, Kotda Sangani. [594] Mr. N. D. Vora, Rajpara. [595] Mr. D. K. Pandya, Dhhank. [596] The Schoolmasters of Dhhank and Songadh. [597] The Deputy Educational Inspector of Gohelwad. [598] The Schoolmasters of Upleta and Aman. [599] Name of a medicinal preparation. [600] The Schoolmaster of Aman. [601] The Deputy Educational Inspector of Halar. [602] Mr. K. D. Desai. [603] The Shastris of Jetpur and Bhayavadar. [604] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [605] The Schoolmaster of Chok. [606] But the virtue of influencing rain belongs to the Shiva linga and to the idol of Harshadh, not because they are made of any particular kind of stone, but because they represent certain deities. [607] The Schoolmaster of Patanvav. [608] Rice cooked in milk and sweetened with sugar. [609] Mr. K. D. Desai and the Schoolmaster of Dhhank. [610] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [611] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [612] The Schoolmasters of Dhhank and Ganod and the Mistress of Rajkot Civil Station Girls' School. [613] Mr. Nandlal Kalidas, Chhatrasa. [614] The Schoolmaster of Sayala. Perhaps it is the accumulation of sin in this world that brings down the saints of heaven in human form. The earth is unable to bear too much sin and would soon come to an end if the balance between virtue and sin were not maintained. It is for this purpose that saints are born in this world and add to the store of merit on earth, by preaching righteousness to people and by leading a virtuous life.--K. D. Desai. [615] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [616] The Schoolmasters of Rajpara, Vasawad, Upleta, and Khirasara. [617] The Schoolmasters of Patanvav and Sultanpur. [618] It is an act of merit to repeat the name of Ram, the seventh incarnation of Vishnu. As the death of a righteous person is due to the growth of sin in this world, people utter the name of Ram in order to atone for that sin. The name is repeated as long as the shooting star is visible. Vaishnavas recite the name of Krishna.--K. D. Desai. It is also said that the name of Ram or Krishna is repeated, because the falling star enters the Court of God Bhagwan.--The Schoolmaster of Lakhapadar. [619] The Schoolmaster of Sultanpur. [620] The Schoolmaster of Charadwa. [621] The Deputy Educational Inspector of Gohelwad. [622] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [623] (I.e.) with a tail. Chhoga is the end of a turban, which is allowed to hang down the back. [624] The Schoolmaster of Songadh. [625] The following couplet mentions all of them: Asvatthama Balirvyaso Hanumamsca bibhisanah | Krpah parasuramasca saptaite cirajivinah || [626] K. D. Desai, from the answers of various Schoolmasters. [627] A group of gods supposed to be inferior manifestations of Shiva, who is said to be the head of the group. [628] The Schoolmaster of Vasavad. [629] The Schoolmaster of Rajpara. [630] Kundalan is the circle formed round the utar by a bhuva, after he has placed the utar in a cemetery or over a crossway.--The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [631] The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [632] This is the day to learn such arts as that of muth, chot, maran, etc., i.e., the art of doing bodily injuries by means of magic even to persons who are at a distant place. The process is gone through in a cemetery at the dead of night.--The Schoolmaster of Rajpara. [633] The Schoolmaster of Limbdi Taluka. [634] A poisonous plant, the leaves of which are used in fomenting in cases of palpitation and of stomach troubles.--The Deputy Educational Inspector, Prant Halar. [635] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Prant Halar. [636] The Schoolmaster of Lilapur. [637] The Schoolmaster of Songadh. [638] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [639] The panoti cannot affect anybody who has an elder male relative living, i.e., it influences only the eldest male member of a family.--K. D. Desai. [640] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [641] The Schoolmaster of Sanka. [642] The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [643] K. D. Desai. [644] A sweet preparation of wheat flour fried in ghi. [645] Sweet balls of wheat flour fried and afterwards soaked in ghi. [646] Small biscuit-sized cakes of pulse flour treated with spices and fried in oil--K. D. Desai. [647] The Schoolmaster of Rajpara. [648] A ghani is that quantity of oil seeds which is put in at one time to be crushed in an oil mill. [649] K. D. Desai. [650] The Schoolmaster of Aman. [651] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [652] A mixture of milk, honey, curds, sugar and ghi. [653] The Schoolmaster of Rajpara. [654] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [655] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [656] The Vasus are a class of deities, eight in number, and are often collectively called Ashtavasus. [657] Mr. K. D. Desai. [658] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [659] The Schoolmaster of Rajpara. [660] The Schoolmaster of Charadwa. [661] The Schoolmaster of Dhhank. [662] Vide Bombay Gazetteer, Vol. VIII, page 414. [663] Maya, in philosophy, means the illusion, by virtue of which one considers the unreal universe as existent and distinct from the supreme spirit. Here it means the effect of maya, the unreal splendour of the world, in fact phenomena opposed to the noumenon. [664] The Schoolmaster of Dhhank. [665] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [666] Kori may mean either a new garment or an unused earthen jar. [667] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [668] See p. 42 Supra. [669] The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [670] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [671] The Schoolmaster of Chok. [672] The Schoolmaster of Mota Devalia. [673] An offering of all sorts of dainties and vegetables. [674] The Schoolmaster of Chhatrasa. [675] Milk and rice boiled together and sweetened with sugar. [676] I. e. persons who have taken the vow of celibacy. [677] The Schoolmaster of Mojidad. [678] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [679] The Schoolmaster of Patanvav. [680] The Schoolmaster of Sultanpur. [681] The Schoolmaster of Luvaria. [682] The Schoolmaster of Aman. [683] The Schoolmaster of Charadwa. [684] The Schoolmaster of Charadwa. [685] The Schoolmaster of Limbdi Taluka. [686] Nehado is the residence of Bharvads or shepherds. [687] The Schoolmaster of Zinzuwada. [688] The Schoolmaster of Zinzuwada. [689] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [690] The Schoolmaster of Goda. [691] The Schoolmaster of Lilapur. [692] The Schoolmaster of Jasdan. [693] The Schoolmaster of Jasdan. [694] The Schoolmaster of Upleta. [695] The Schoolmaster of Gondal Taluka and the Head Mistress of girls' school, Gondal. [696] The Schoolmaster of Movaiya. [697] The Schoolmaster of Sayala. [698] K. D. Desai. [699] The Schoolmaster of Khirasara. [700] The Schoolmaster of Chhatrasa. [701] The Schoolmasters of Jodia and Khirasara. [702] The celebrated serpent of one thousand heads who supports all the worlds. [703] The Schoolmaster of Rajpara. [704] The Schoolmasters of Chhatrasa and Rajpara. [705] Vide Chapter I, p. 29. [706] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [707] The Schoolmasters of Khirasara, Jetpur and Rajpara. [708] The Schoolmasters of Chhatrasa and Jetpur. [709] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [710] K. D. Desai. [711] 100 dokdas = 1 rupee. [712] The Schoolmaster of Chhatrasa. [713] The time taken by the sun to move through the constellations Ashlesha and Magha, which is approximately the month of August. [714] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [715] The Schoolmaster of Kotda-Sangani. [716] The Schoolmaster or Dadvi. [717] Generally the same ideas prevail regarding diseases of cattle as in the case of human ailments. Doras or magical threads and slips of paper are often used in cases of fever. In epidemics like cholera pollution is believed to be at the root of the evil. Bhangis are engaged to prepare images of corn to keep off the disease, and they forfeit their homesteads and property if the epidemic is not checked thereby.--The Schoolmaster of Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. (These images represent evil spirits presiding over particular diseases. Certain oblations are offered to these evil spirits, and after the recital of certain incantations they are either burnt or buried.) [718] The Schoolmaster of Dadvi. [719] The Schoolmaster of Mota-Devalia. [720] Small round cakes of wheat flour sweetened with molasses and fried in ghi. [721] The Schoolmaster of Dhhank. [722] A preparation of fine gram flour treated with spices, which after being made into a thick paste, is passed through a sieve into boiling oil. [723] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [724] The Schoolmaster of Dhhank. [725] Shrisakha, Gajidhana and Pitabhava are most probably corruptions of Shrishasakha, Gandivadhanva and Prithabhava respectively; Lalanlarkha perhaps of Lalama narakhya. [726] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [727] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [728] A disease which causes severe pain in the stomach of the affected animal. [729] A disease which stiffens the limbs of animals and renders them incapable of any movement. [730] The word chela in ordinary language means a pancake (pudalo) of wheat or gram, sweet or salt, and it is a favourite oblation to Mata. So the word chelan may have come to be used for any oblation to Mata and the expression swallowing the chelans may mean partaking of the oblation or offering of the Mata. [731] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [732] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [733] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [734] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [735] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [736] The Schoolmaster of Moti Murad. [737] The Schoolmaster of Chhatrasa. [738] The Schoolmaster of Jodia and Dodiala. [739] Milk and rice boiled together and sweetened with sugar. [740] Vide page 48. [741] The Schoolmaster of Aman. [742] The Schoolmaster of Patanvav. [743] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathashala. [744] The Schoolmaster of Dhhank. [745] The Schoolmaster of Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [746] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [747] The Schoolmaster of Dhhank. [748] The Schoolmaster of Dhhank. [749] The Schoolmaster of Jasdan. [750] The Schoolmaster of Aman. [751] The Schoolmaster of Dhhank. [752] The Schoolmaster of Aman. [753] The Schoolmaster of Zinzuwada. [754] The Schoolmaster of Ganod. [755] The Schoolmaster of Sanka. [756] The Schoolmaster of Sanka. [757] Also known as surasanis. [758] The Schoolmaster of Anandpur. [759] K. D. Desai. [760] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [761] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [762] Mr. K. D. Desai. [763] A ball of molasses and sesamum seeds mixed together. [764] The Schoolmaster of Kolki. [765] Vide Question 19. [766] A small wooden car five or six inches long is covered over with a piece of cotton cloth and the wooden image of a Mata--Khodiar or Kalka--besmeared with red lead is placed upon it. This rath or chariot of the Mata is then passed through the village on the shoulders of a low-caste person, who begs corn from door to door and afterwards places the image at the gates of the neighbouring village. From thence it is removed by the people of that village to the next village and so on till it reaches the sea.--Mr. K. D. Desai. [767] The Schoolmaster of Luvaria. [768] The Schoolmaster of Jodia. [769] The Schoolmaster of Kotda-Sangani. [770] Sometimes the statues of adad flour are besmeared with red lead and afterwards are boiled in dirty water. The whole of this preparation is then thrown into wells, the waters of which are used for drinking in the village.--The Schoolmaster of Songadh. [771] The Schoolmasters of Jodia, Dadvi, and Songadh. [772] The School Master of Dadvi. [773] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [774] The School Master of Jodia. [775] The School Master of Mendarda. [776] The School Master of Movaiya. [777] The School Master of Vanod. [778] The School Masters of Devalia and Vasavad. [779] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathshala. [780] The School Master of Charadwa. [781] These are different sacrifices, the first two in honour of Shiva, the third in honour of the goddess Chandi. [782] The School Master of Ganod. [783] The School Master of Dhank. [784] The School Master of Dadvi. [785] The School Master of Jodia. [786] The patient is often entirely made over to the Mata and is again purchased from her at a nominal price of a rupee and a quarter.--Mr. K. D. Desai. [787] A mixture of the flour of bajri, ghi, and molasses. [788] Mr. K. D. Desai. [789] The School Master of Jodia. [790] The School Master of Sayala. [791] The Deputy Educational Inspector of Halar. [792] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [793] The School Masters of Dhank and Ganod. [794] The School Master of Vanod. [795] The School Master of Ganod. [796] Babhrivahan was not the son of Bhima, he was the son of Arjun by Chitrangada, a princess of Manipur. [797] Mr. K. D. Desai. [798] The School Master of Jodia. [799] The School Master of Sanka. [800] The Mistress of Rajkot Civil Station Girls' School. [801] The School Master of Ganod. [802] The Shastri of Jetpur Pathshala. [803] Names of Vishnu and Shiva respectively. [804] The School Master of Charadwa. [805] The half-man and half-lion incarnation of Vishnu. [806] The School Master of Dhank. [807] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [808] Mr. K. D. Desai. [809] The School Master of Jodia. [810] Mr. K. D. Desai. [811] The Deputy Educational Inspector of Gohelwad. [812] The School Master of Rajpara. [813] The School Master of Jasdan. [814] The School Master of Rajpara. [815] The School Master of Kotda-Sangani. [816] The School Master of Devalia. [817] The School Master of Devalia. [818] The School Master of Sanka. [819] The School Master of Ganod. [820] The School Master of Dhank. [821] The School Master of Dhank and the Shastri of Jetpur Pathshala. [822] The Shastri of Bhayavadur Pathashala. [823] The School Master of Zinzuwada. [824] The Shastris of Jetpur and Bhayavadur. [825] The School Master of Wala Taluka. [826] The School Master of Anandpur. [827] The School Master of Kotda-Sangani. [828] The School Master of Zinzuwada. [829] The School Master of Kotda-Sangani. [830] All this of course is addressed to the evil spirit which is supposed to have possessed the patient. [831] Feminine of Vaghri belonging to the Vaghri caste. [832] The School Master of Sanka. [833] The School Masters of Ganod, Vanod and Kolki. [834] The School Master of Dadvi. [835] The School Master of Limbdi Taluka. [836] Mr. B. K. Desai. [837] Nilotsava or Nil-parnavum is a ceremony performed in honour of a young man, who has come to an untimely end. The chief part of the ceremony is the performance of the wedding of a bull-calf with a heifer. Sometimes a member of the deceased youth's family is possessed on such an occasion by the spirit of the deceased man and is believed to have then the power of correctly answering questions about future events, etc.--The School Master of Dhank. [838] The School Master of Devalia. [839] The School Masters of Dhank and Kotda Sangani. [840] The School Master of Sanka. [841] The School Master of Dadvi. [842] The School Masters of Dadvi and Kolki. [843] The School Masters of Kotda Sangani and Sanka. [844] The School Master of Zinzuwada. [845] The School Master of Jodia. [846] The School Master of Sanka. [847] The School Master of Dadvi. [848] Mr. K. D. Desai. [849] The Schoolmaster of Patanvav. [850] The School Master of Sanka. [851] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [852] The School Master of Davalia. [853] The School Master of Ganod. [854] The School Master of Limbdi Taluka. [855] The School Master of Kolki. [856] The School Master of Dadvi. [857] The School Master of Zinzuwada. [858] The School Master of Dhank. [859] The Pathashala Shastri, Talpur. [860] The School Mistress of Gondal. [861] The School Master of Dhank. [862] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [863] This period of 15 days is called Sharadian. [864] Mr. K. D. Desai. [865] The School Master of Luvaria. [866] The School Master of Jodia. [867] The School Master of Lilapur. [868] The School Master of Sanka. [869] The School Master of Dhank. [870] The School Master of Ganod. [871] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [872] The School Master of Jodia. [873] The School Master of Lalapur. [874] The School Master of Sanka. [875] The School Masters of Kotda Sangani and Dadvi. [876] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [877] The School Master of Dadvi. [878] The School Master of Ganod. [879] The School Master of Mota Devalia. [880] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohilvad. [881] Shastri Bhayavadar Pathshala. [882] The School Master of Todia. [883] The School Master of Jodia. [884] A vasana is the outcome of a person's good or bad actions. It is not the last desire of a man as supposed by some, but the result of his good or bad actions or rather of the workings of his mind during life. It is believed that, if at the moment of death, a man's mind is fixed on the strong attachment he feels for his children, he is born as a descendant of his offspring.--The School Master of Dhank. [885] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [886] The School Master of Ganod. [887] The School Master of Dadvi. [888] The School Master of Mota Devalia. [889] The School Master of Charadwa. [890] The School Master of Ganod. [891] The School Master of Dhank and the School Mistress of Gondal. [892] A samadh is taken during life in the following way. A deep pit is dug in the ground. The person who wishes to take a samadh goes into a deep trance by meditation, and then runs yelling and screaming to the pit, while drums are beaten furiously and a loud din is raised, so that none should hear a possible exclamation or cry from the runner. In the midst of this din the runner leaps into the pit and is covered over with salt and earth. An altar is raised over this spot with Shiva's image, which afterwards becomes an object of worship. It is believed that if a word or a cry from the runner is heard while he is taking the leap, the whole village will be destroyed.--Mr. K. D. Desai. [893] The Pathshala Shastri, Bhayavadar. [894] Datar means the great giver or munificent. The Pir is so called on account of his power of fulfilling the vows of many. [895] The School Master of Dhank. [896] The School Master of Movaiya. [897] The School Masters of Dhank and Moti Parabdi. [898] The School Master of Dadvi. [899] The School Master of Dadvi. [900] The School Master of Dadvi. [901] The School Master of Davalia. [902] The School Master of Mendarda. [903] A symbol of servitude of the saint. [904] The School Master of Sultanpur. [905] Aulia and Pir, synonymous terms, the first Arabic, the second Persian. Aulia is the Arabic plural of wali which means a saint. In Hindustani the plural form is used to signify the singular e. g., a single wali or saint is often spoken of as an aulia. The word Pir originally meaning an old man is used in Hindustan in the sense of a saint. Aulia Pir is the Gujarati for a single or many saints. [906] The School Master of Moti Porabdi. [907] The School Master of Zinzuwada. [908] The School Master of Surel. [909] The School Master of Jaseluan. [910] The School Master of Charadwa. [911] The School Master of Dhank. [912] Mr. K. D. Desai. [913] The School Master of Devalia. [914] The School Masters of Dhank and Vanod. [915] The School Mistress, Female Training College, Rajkot. [916] The School Master of Moti Parabadi. [917] The School Master of Todia. [918] The School Master of Lilapur. [919] Mr. K. D. Desai. [920] The School Master of Ganod. [921] The School Master of Dhank. [922] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [923] An ingredient used in preparing spices. [924] The School Master of Uptala. [925] The School Mistress, Girls' School, Gondal. [926] The School Master of Sultanpur. [927] The School Master of Dhank. [928] The School Master of Dadvi. [929] The School Mistress of Rajkot, Civil Station Girls' School. [930] The School Master of Bhayavadar. [931] The School Master of Sultanpur. [932] The School Master of Dhank and Mr. K. D. Desai. [933] The School Master of Dadvi. [934] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [935] The School Master of Ganod. [936] Mr. K. D. Desai. [937] The School Masters of Kotda Sangani and Chhatrasa. [938] The School Master of Jetpur. [939] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohilwad. [940] The School Master of Vanod. [941] It is for this reason that barren women are not allowed to approach the bed of a woman in child-bed. [942] The School Masters of Dadvi and Chhatrasa. [943] The School Master of Todia. [944] The School Master of Mota Devalia. [945] The School Master of Luvaria. [946] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [947] The School Master of Rajpara. [948] The School Master of Khirasara. [949] The School Master of Jhinjhuwada. [950] The School Master of Dhank. [951] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [952] The School Master of Ganod. [953] The School Master of Todia. [954] The School Master of Ganod. [955] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [956] The School Master of Khirasara. [957] The School Master of Ganod. [958] The School Master of Todia. [959] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [960] The School Master of Dhank. [961] The School Master of Dadvi. [962] The School Master of Ganod. [963] The School Master of Dhank. [964] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [965] The School Master of Ganod. [966] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [967] The School Master of Dhank. [968] The School Master of Todia. [969] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [970] The School Master of Ganod. [971] The School Master of Kolki. [972] The Shastri, Bhayavadar Pathashala. [973] The School Master of Todia. [974] The School Master of Gondal. [975] The Shastri, Bhayavadar Pathshala. [976] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [977] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [978] The School Master of Dadvi. [979] The School Master of Gondal. [980] The Musalman Haditte has it that spirits cannot open closed doors, uncover covered pots, or even remove a piece of cloth if it is spread over a tray or vessel to save its contents from view. [981] The School Master of Dhank. [982] The School Master of Dhank. [983] The School Master of Luvaria. [984] The School Master of Lilapur. [985] The School Master of Ganod. [986] The School Master of Vanod. [987] The School Master of Dadvi. [988] The School Master of Kolki. [989] The School Master of Mojidad. [990] The School Master of Dhank. [991] The School Master of Kolki. [992] The School Master of Dadvi. [993] The School Master of Ganod. [994] The School Master of Bantva. [995] The School Masters of Sanka and Songadh. [996] The School Master of Charadva. [997] The School Master of Dhank. [998] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [999] The School Master of Vanod. [1000] The School Master of Kolki. [1001] The School Master of Lilapur. [1002] The School Master of Ganod. [1003] The School Master of Dadvi. [1004] The School Master of Kolki. [1005] The School Master of Oman. [1006] The School Master of Khirasara. [1007] The School Master of Rajpara. [1008] The word Jan is the plural of the Arabic jinni. It has remained as a relic of Arab supremacy and occupation of the Kathiawar coast just in the beginning of Islam during its first conquests--about half a century after the Prophet's death. [1009] The School Master of Dhank. [1010] The School Master of Vanod. [1011] The School Master of Dadvi. [1012] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1013] The School Master of Gondal. [1014] The School Master of Ganod. [1015] The Shastri, Bhayavadar Pathshala. [1016] The School Master of Dhank. [1017] The School Master of Ganod. [1018] The D. E. Inspector, Halar. [1019] The Shastri, Pathshala, Bhayavadar. [1020] The School Master of Dhank. [1021] The School Mistress, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [1022] The School Master of Limbdi. [1023] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1024] "Like the green grass on the turf I have often grown and regrown. I have visited 770,000 bodies." Maulana Ilaluddin Rumi. [1025] The School Master of Ganod. [1026] The School Master of Vanod. [1027] The School Master of Jetalpur. [1028] The D. E. Inspector, Halar. [1029] The School Master of Dhank. [1030] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1031] The School Master of Charadva. [1032] The School Master of Dhank. [1033] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1034] The School Master of Kolki. [1035] The School Mistress, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [1036] The School Master of Bhayavadar. [1037] The School Master of Todia. [1038] The School Master of Songadh. [1039] The School Master of Devalia. [1040] The School Master of Dhank. [1041] The School Master of Ganod. [1042] The School Master of Patan Vao. [1043] The D. E. Inspector, Gohilwad. [1044] The School Master of Luvaria. [1045] The School Master of Bantva. [1046] The School Master of Rajpara. [1047] The School Master of Vala. [1048] The School Master of Ganod. [1049] See p. 3. [1050] If a lock of the hair of the person possessed by an evil spirit be knotted round and round while the exorcist is trying to cast the spirit, it cannot get out.--The School Master of Vanod. [1051] The School Master of Dhank. [1052] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1053] The School Master of Patan Vao. [1054] The School Master of Bhayavadar. [1055] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1056] The School Master of Sanka. [1057] The School Master of Kolki. [1058] The School Master of Chharadva. [1059] The School Master of Limbdi. [1060] The School Master of Jhinjhuwada. [1061] The School Master of Vanod. [1062] The School Master of Dhank. [1063] This derivation of the word rakshasa is obviously fanciful. Rakshasa is a Sanskrit word and has no connection with the Gujarati word rakho which itself is derived from the Sanskrit root raksha to protect. [1064] The School Master of Dhank. [1065] The School Master of Bantva. [1066] The School Master of Moti Parabdi. [1067] The School Master of Rajpara. [1068] The School Master of Charadva. [1069] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1070] The School Master of Ganod. [1071] The School Master of Lewaria. [1072] The School Master of Upleta. [1073] The School Master of Vanod. [1074] The word Khavis comes from the Arabic Khabith from the root verb Khabotha and means one who has become impure or unholy. [1075] The School Master of Sultanpur. [1076] The School Masters of Khirasara and Pipalana. [1077] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1078] The School Master of Anandpur. [1079] The School Master of Lilapur. [1080] The School Master of Khirasara. [1081] The School Master of Vasavad. [1082] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1083] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1084] The School Master of Khirasara. [1085] The School Master of Ganod. [1086] The School Master of Gondal. [1087] The School Master of Bantva. [1088] The School Master of Dhank. [1089] The School Master of Talpur and Luvaria. [1090] The School Master of Vanod. [1091] The School Master of Dadvi. [1092] The School Master of Kolki. [1093] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1094] The School Master of Dhank. [1095] The School Master of Kolki. [1096] The D. E. Inspector, Gohilwad. [1097] The School Master of Dhank. [1098] The School Master of Vanod. [1099] The School Master of Jetpur. [1100] The School Master of Songadh. [1101] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1102] The School Master of Jhinjhuwada. [1103] The School Master of Dhank. [1104] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1105] The School Master of Rajpara. [1106] The School Master of Vanod. [1107] The School Master of Dhank. [1108] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1109] The School Master of Vanod. [1110] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1111] The School Master of Limbdi. [1112] The School Master of Lilapur. [1113] The School Masters of Dhank and Vanod. [1114] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1115] The School Master of Vanod. [1116] The School Mistress, Female Training College, Rajkot. [1117] The School Master of Todia. [1118] The School Master of Lilapur. [1119] The School Master of Gondal. [1120] The School Master of Kolki. [1121] The School Master of Devalia. [1122] This is a point of conjugal etiquette in India. Hindu, and in Gujarat and the Deccan, Musalman women, would much rather starve than dine before their husbands. [1123] The School Master of Dhank. [1124] The School Master of Vanod. [1125] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1126] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1127] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1128] The School Master of Kolki. [1129] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1130] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1131] The School Master of Dhank. [1132] The School Master of Mavaiya. [1133] The School Master of Dhank. [1134] The School Master of Vanod. [1135] The School Master of Sayala. [1136] The School Master of Gondal. [1137] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1138] The School Master of Vanod. [1139] The School Master of Rajpara. [1140] The School Master of Dhank. [1141] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1142] The School Master of Kolki. [1143] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1144] The School Master of Jetpur. [1145] The School Master of Devalia. [1146] The School Master of Sayala. [1147] The School Master of Ganod. [1148] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1149] The School Master of Ganod. [1150] The School Master of Dhank. [1151] See page 3. [1152] The School Master of Ganod. [1153] The School Master of Vanod. [1154] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1155] This process is generally adopted in cases of milch cattle not giving milk and all other ailments to ascertain the influence of the evil eye. [1156] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1157] The School Master of Dadvi. [1158] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1159] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1160] The School Master of Bantva. [1161] The School Master of Aman. [1162] The School Master of Sayala. [1163] The School Master of Dhank. [1164] The School Master of Devalia. [1165] The School Master of Vanod. [1166] Mr. M. M. Rana, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [1167] The School Master of Sultanpur. [1168] The School Master of Moti Khilori. [1169] The School Master of Khirasara. [1170] The School Master of Todia. [1171] The School Master of Dhank. [1172] The School Master of Ganod. [1173] The School Master of Vanod. [1174] The School Master of Dadvi. [1175] The School Master of Kolki. [1176] The School Master of Dhank. [1177] The School Master of Ganod. [1178] The School Master of Kolki. [1179] The School Master of Bhayavadar. [1180] The School Master of Khirasara. [1181] The School Master of Sanka. [1182] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1183] The School Master of Dhank. [1184] The School Master of Uptela. [1185] The School Master of Ganod. [1186] The School Master of Vanod. [1187] The School Master of Bhayavadar. [1188] The School Master of Jetpur. [1189] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1190] The School Master of Mota Devalia. [1191] The D. E. Inspector, Halar. [1192] The School Master of Dhank. [1193] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1194] The School Master of Kolki. [1195] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohilwad. [1196] Anklets are made of these nails and worn round the wrist.--The School Master of Zinzuwada. [1197] The School Master of Vasavad. [1198] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1199] The School Master of Dhank. [1200] The School Master of Gohilwad. [1201] The School Master of Dhank. [1202] The School Master of Todia. [1203] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1204] The Pathashala Shastri, Jetpur. [1205] The Girls' School Mistress, Gondal. [1206] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1207] The School Master of Dhank. [1208] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1209] The School Master of Dadvi. [1210] The School Master of Todia. [1211] The School Master of Dadvi. [1212] The School Master of Ganod. [1213] The School Master of Chok. [1214] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1215] The School Master of Dhank. [1216] The School Masters of Dadvi and Dhank. [1217] The School Master of Dhank. [1218] The School Master of Ganod. [1219] The School Master of Vanod. [1220] The School Master of Dhank. [1221] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1222] The School Master of Ganod. [1223] The School Master of Vanod. [1224] The School Master of Dadvi. [1225] The School Master of Bhayavadar. [1226] The School Master of Songadh. [1227] The School Master of Dhank. [1228] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1229] The sight of a corpse is a good omen when one sees it on entering a village where he goes on business. [1230] The School Master of Ganod. [1231] The School Master of Vanod. [1232] The School Master of Dadvi. [1233] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1234] The School Master of Bhayavadar. [1235] The School Master of Limbdi. [1236] The School Master of Todia. [1237] The School Master of Songadh. [1238] The School Master of Dhank. [1239] The School Master of Ganod. [1240] The School Master of Vanod. [1241] The School Master of Dadvi. [1242] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1243] The School Master of Mota Devalia. [1244] The School Master of Limbdi. [1245] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1246] The School Master of Todia. [1247] The School Master of Todia. [1248] The School Master of Dhank. [1249] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1250] The School Master of Sayala. [1251] The School Master of Ganod. [1252] The School Master of Vanod. [1253] The School Master of Ganod. [1254] The School Master of Kolki. [1255] The School Master of Bantva. [1256] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1257] The School Master of Todia. [1258] The School Master of Songadh. [1259] The School Master of Dhank. [1260] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1261] The School Master of Moti Parabadi. [1262] The School Master of Charadva. [1263] The School Masters of Ganod and Vanod. [1264] The School Master of Kolki. [1265] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1266] The School Master of Mota Devalia. [1267] The School Master of Limbdi. [1268] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1269] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1270] "The name of Ram is alone true" meaning all else except God is illusion. [1271] The School Master of Dhank and Mr. K. D. Desai. [1272] The School Master of Ganod. [1273] The School Master of Patanvav. [1274] The School Master of Khirasara. [1275] The School Master of Halar. [1276] The School Master of Dhank. [1277] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1278] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1279] The School Master of Kolki. [1280] The School Master of Vanod. [1281] The School Master of Dhank and Mr. K. D. Desai. [1282] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1283] The School Master of Ganod. [1284] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1285] The School Master of Dhank. [1286] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1287] The School Master of Ganod. [1288] The School Master of Bantva. [1289] The School Master of Uptela. [1290] The School Master of Ganod. [1291] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1292] The School Master of Dhank. [1293] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1294] The School Master of Ganod. [1295] The School Master of Dadvi. [1296] The School Mistress, Girls' school, Civil Station, Rajkot. [1297] The School Master of Dhank. [1298] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1299] The School Masters of Chhatrasa and Uptela. [1300] The School Master of Dadvi. [1301] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1302] The School Master of Vanod. [1303] The School Master of Dadvi. [1304] The School Master of Gunjar. [1305] The School Master of Bhayavadar. [1306] The School Master of Ganod. [1307] The School Master of Halar. [1308] The School Master of Dadvi. [1309] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1310] The School Mistress, Civil Station Girls' School, Rajkot. [1311] The School Master of Dhank. [1312] The School Master of Gunjar. [1313] The School Mistress of Civil Station Girls' School, Rajkot and the School Master of Todia. [1314] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1315] It is believed that the spirit of the deceased returns to its house for thirteen days after death. Hence the period of mourning is thirteen days.--The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1316] The School Master of Ganod. [1317] The School Master of Todia. [1318] The School Master of Dhank. [1319] The School Masters of Vanod and Kotda Sangani. [1320] The School Master of Dadvi. [1321] The School Master of Kolki. [1322] The School Master of Uptela. [1323] The School Master of Dhank. [1324] The School Mistress of Girls' school, Gondal, and the School Master of Dhank. [1325] The School Master of Kolki. [1326] The School Master of Surel. [1327] The School Master of Mavaiya. [1328] The School Master of Lilapur. [1329] The School Master of Limbdi. [1330] The School Master of Moti Murad. [1331] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1332] The School Master of Jetpur. [1333] The School Master of Rajpara. [1334] The School Master of Zinzuwada. [1335] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1336] The School Master of Dhank. [1337] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1338] The School Master of Ganod. [1339] The School Master of Todia. [1340] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1341] The School Master of Dhank. [1342] The School Master of Moti Parabdi. [1343] The School Master of Todia. [1344] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1345] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1346] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1347] The School Master of Todia. [1348] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1349] The School Master of Dadvi. [1350] The School Master of Vanod. [1351] The School Master of Kolki. [1352] The School Master of Dadvi. [1353] The School Master of Dhank. [1354] The School Master of Kolki. [1355] The School Master of Dhank. [1356] The School Master of Dhank. [1357] The School Master of Bhayavadar. [1358] The School Master of Uptela. [1359] The School Master of Anandpur. [1360] The School Masters of Ganod and Khirasara. [1361] The School Master of Dhank. [1362] The School Master of Kolki. [1363] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1364] The School Master of Limbdi. [1365] The School Master of Limbdi. [1366] The School Master of Ganod. [1367] The School Master of Jasdan. [1368] The School Masters of Dhank and Dadvi. [1369] The School Masters of Dhank and Mavaiya. [1370] The School Master of Ganod. [1371] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1372] The School Master of Dhank. [1373] The School Master of Khirasara. [1374] The School Master of Dhank. [1375] The School Master of Vanod. [1376] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1377] The School Masters of Uptela and Limbdi. [1378] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1379] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1380] The Schoolmistress, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [1381] The School Master of Khirasara. [1382] The School Master of Sanka. [1383] The School Master of Dhank. [1384] The School Master of Jodia. [1385] The School Master of Ganod. [1386] The School Master of Jodia. [1387] The School Master of Mota Devalia. [1388] The School Master of Dhank. [1389] The School Master of Ganod. [1390] The School Master of Vanod. [1391] The School Master of Ganod. [1392] The School Mistress, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [1393] The School Master of Dhank. [1394] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1395] The School Master of Charadva. [1396] The School Master of Khirasara. [1397] The School Master of Ganod. [1398] The School Master of Vanod. [1399] The School Master of Songadh. [1400] The School Master of Sanka. [1401] The School Master of Kolki. [1402] The School Master of Todia. [1403] The School Master of Dhank. [1404] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1405] The School Mistress, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [1406] The D. E. Inspector, Halar. [1407] The School Master of Lilapur. [1408] The School Master of Anandpur. [1409] The School Master of Dhank. [1410] The School Master of Dadvi. [1411] The School Master of Dhank. [1412] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1413] The D. E. Inspector, Halar. [1414] The School Master of Songadh. [1415] The School Master of Sanka. [1416] The School Mistress, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [1417] The School Master of Dhank. [1418] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1419] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1420] The School Master of Kolki. [1421] The School Master of Vanod. [1422] The School Master of Kolki. [1423] The School Mistress, Civil Station Girls' School, Rajkot. [1424] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1425] The School Master of Vanod, and Mr. K. D. Desai. [1426] The School Master of Sayala. [1427] The School Master of Dhank. [1428] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1429] These are female names. [1430] The School Master of Kolki. [1431] The School Master of Halar. [1432] Both male and female. [1433] The School Master of Dhank. [1434] The School Master of Dadvi. [1435] The School Master of Kolki. [1436] The School Master of Dhank. [1437] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1438] The School Master of Dhank. [1439] The School Master of Todia. [1440] The School Master of Mota Devalia. [1441] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1442] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1443] The School Master of Vanod. [1444] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1445] The School Master of Songadh. [1446] The School Master of Patanvav. [1447] The School Master of Vala. [1448] The School Master of Songadh. [1449] The School Master of Dhank. [1450] The School Master of Vanod. [1451] The School Master of Vanod. [1452] The School Master of Dadvi. [1453] The School Master of Bantva. [1454] The School Master of Ganod. [1455] The School Master of Devalia. [1456] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1457] The School Master of Jetpur. [1458] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1459] The School Masters of Kotda Sangani, Zinzuvada and Gohelwad. [1460] The School Master of Halar. [1461] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1462] The School Master of Devalia. [1463] The School Master of Todia. [1464] The School Master of Kolki. [1465] The School Master of Dhank. [1466] The School Master of Jetpur. [1467] The School Master of Dhank. [1468] The School Master of Dadvi. [1469] The School Master of Aman. [1470] The School Master of Todia. [1471] The School Master of Lilapur. [1472] The School Master of Dhank. [1473] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1474] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1475] The School Master of Todia. [1476] Among Hindus women in menses are considered impure for four days. [1477] The School Master of Lilapur. [1478] The School Master of Dhank and Kota Sangani. [1479] The School Master of Ganod. [1480] The School Master of Dadvi. [1481] The School Master of Lilapur. [1482] The School Master of Zinzuvada. [1483] The School Master of Todia. [1484] The School Master of Dhank. [1485] The School Master of Kolki. [1486] The School Master of Songadh. [1487] The School Master of Limbdi. [1488] The School Master of Todia. [1489] The School Master of Dhank. [1490] The School Masters of Dhank and Vanod. [1491] The School Master of Kalavad and Mr. K. D. Desai. [1492] The School Masters of Ganod and Dhank. [1493] The School Master of Dadvi. [1494] The School Masters of Ganod and Kalavad and Mr. K. D. Desai. [1495] The School Master of Todia. [1496] The School Master of Wala. [1497] The School Masters of Dadvi and Dhank. [1498] The School Master of Jetpur. [1499] The School Master of Aman. [1500] See pp. 48-49. [1501] The School Master of Dhank. [1502] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1503] The School Master of Devalia. [1504] The Deputy Educational Inspector, Gohelwad. [1505] The School Master of Ganod. [1506] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1507] The School Master of Todia. [1508] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1509] The School Master of Moti Marad. [1510] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1511] The School Master of Moti Parabdi. [1512] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1513] The School Master of Aman. [1514] The School Master of Limbdi. [1515] The School Master of Aman. [1516] The School Master of Todia. [1517] The Deputy Educational Inspector of Gohelwad. [1518] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1519] The School Master of Dadvi. [1520] The School Master of Kolki. [1521] The School Master of Todia. [1522] The School Master of Todia. [1523] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1524] The School Master of Luvaria. [1525] The School Master of Aman. [1526] The School Master of Todia. [1527] The School Master of Dhank. [1528] The School Master of Ganod. [1529] The School Master of Gondal. [1530] The School Master of Sultanpur. [1531] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1532] The School Master of Vanod. [1533] The School Master of Dadvi. [1534] The School Master of Moti Khilori. [1535] The School Master of Ganod. [1536] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1537] The School Master of Dhank. [1538] The School Master of Ganod. [1539] See p. 14 Supra. [1540] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1541] The School Master of Vanod. [1542] The School Master of Devalia. [1543] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1544] The School Master of Jetpur. [1545] The School Master of Jetpur. [1546] The School Master of Ganod. [1547] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1548] The School Master of Jodia. [1549] The School Master of Movaiya. [1550] The School Masters of Zinzuvada and Devalia. [1551] The School Master of Luvaria. [1552] The School Master of Bhayavadar. [1553] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1554] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1555] The School Master of Vanod. [1556] The School Master of Chok. [1557] The School Master of Devalia. [1558] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1559] The School Master of Jetpur. [1560] The School Master of Patan Vav. [1561] The School Master of Moti Murad. [1562] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1563] The School Master of Patan Vav. [1564] The School Master of Sanka. [1565] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1566] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1567] The School Master of Vanod. [1568] The School Master of Dhank. [1569] The School Master of Ganod. [1570] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1571] The School Master of Kotda Sangani. [1572] The School Master of Vanod. [1573] The School Master of Dadvi. [1574] The School Master of Devalia. [1575] The School Master of Limbdi. [1576] The School Master of Ganod. [1577] The School Masters of Dhank and Ganod. [1578] The School Mistress, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [1579] Mr. K. D. Desai. [1580] The School Master of Vanod. [1581] The School Master of Moti Khiroli. [1582] The School Masters of Dhank and Songadh. [1583] This is generally in the evening or an hour or two after nightfall. [1584] The School Masters of Zinzuvada and Moti Marad. [1585] The School Masters of Dhank and Vanod. [1586] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1587] The School Master of Todia. [1588] The School Master of Songadh. [1589] The School Master of Kolki. [1590] The School Masters of Zinzuvada and Todia. [1591] The School Master of Todia. [1592] The School Mistress, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [1593] The School Master of Luvaria. [1594] The School Master of Todia. [1595] The School Master of Patan Vav. [1596] The School Masters of Ganod, Vanod and Dhank. [1597] The School Master of Kolki. [1598] The School Mistress, Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [1599] The School Master of Todia. [1600] The School Master of Songadh and Mr. K. D. Desai. [1601] The School Master of Patan Vav. [1602] The School Master of Songadh. [1603] The School Master of Khirasara. [1604] The School Master of Dhank. [1605] The School Master of Vanod. [1606] The School Master of Dadvi. [1607] The School Master of Chok. [1608] The School Mistress of Barton Female Training College, Rajkot. [1609] The School Master of Chhatrasa. [1610] The School Master of Uptela. 
37002	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) TALES OF THE SUN Or Folklore of Southern India. Collected by MRS. HOWARD KINGSCOTE and PANDIT NATÊSÁ SÁSTRÎ. London: W. H. Allen & Co. 13 Waterloo Place, and at Calcutta. 1890. PREFACE. In offering these few Indian tales to the public, I cannot refrain from adding a few words at the beginning to express to Pandit Natêsa Sástrî my gratitude for the great assistance he has given me in collecting them, assistance without which they would never have seen the light in the shape of a complete volume. When I began writing down these tales, my only means of collecting them was through my native servants, who used to get them from the old women in the bazaars; but the fables they brought me were as full of corruptions and foreign adaptions as the miscellaneous ingredients that find their way into a dish of their own curry and rice, and had it not been for Mr. Sástrî's timely aid, my small work would have gone forth to the world laden with inaccuracies. Mr. Sástrî not only corrected the errors of my own tales, but allowed me to add to them many that he had himself collected, and that had already been published, either in small volumes or in numbers of The Indian Antiquary. For this reason I have left several notes which Mr. Cowper Temple, Mr. Clowston, and others had added to the tales that had already been printed, as they were too valuable to dispense with, and may be of service to students of folklore. In conclusion, I would crave the indulgence of my readers with regard to the style in which the tales are written, which has been left as nearly as possible in the form of a literal translation, in order to lend the Stories a "couleur locale," which is characteristic of the country they spring from. G. K. CONTENTS. Chapter Page I. The Three Deaf Men 1 II. Why Brâhmans cannot eat in the Dark 5 III. The Soothsayer's Son 11 IV. Ranavîrasing 36 V. Charity alone Conquers 65 VI. Mr. Won't Give and Mr. Won't Leave 86 VII. Mr. Mighty-of-his-Mouth 93 VIII. The Mother-in-Law became an Ass 102 IX. The Story of Appayya 107 X. The Brâhmin Girl that Married a Tiger 119 XI. The Good Husband and the Bad Wife 131 XII. The Good Wife and the Bad Husband 135 XIII. The Lost Camel 140 The Three Calamities 143 The Honest but Rash Hunter 155 The Brâhman's Wife and the Mungoose 162 The Faithless Wife and the Ungrateful Blind Man 165 The Wonderful Mango Fruit 171 The Poisoned Food 179 Eating up the Protector 184 XIV. The Monkey with the Tom-Tom 187 XV. Pride goeth before a Fall 190 XVI. Good will grow out of Good 194 XVII. Light makes Prosperity 202 XVIII. Chandralêkhâ and the Eight Robbers 210 XIX. The Conquest of Fate 230 XX. The Brâhman Priest who became an Amildâr 248 XXI. The Gardener's Cunning Wife 257 XXII. Keep it for the Beggar 262 XXIII. Good Luck to the Lucky One 267 XXIV. Retaliation 274 XXV. The Beggar and the Five Muffins 280 XXVI. The Brahmarâkshas and the Hair 285 Notes 290 INTRODUCTION. It has often struck all lovers of Folklore and National Legends with wonder, that so many countries should have reproduced in different imagery and language the same tales. Persia, Arabia, and India give us the same fables as Italy, France, Norway, and Iceland, except for slight variations principally arising from difference of custom, distance of time, idiom and nationality. Able writers have explained this to us by a theory worthy of consideration, and admirable in its origin, but nevertheless wholly their own. They would have us believe that a certain group of tales belonged to a certain nation, and that through emigration and immigration, through wars and dispersions, these same tales have been carried backwards and forwards and dragged from country to country borrowing the language and peculiarities of the lands they passed through, just as the seed of some rare plant is borne on the breeze and bears fruit coarse or more refined according to the soil in which it at last takes root. In Germany we have Gödeck, Köhler, Sichecht, and a host of others who tell us that these tales are Oriental, and that all fable originates in the East, others again that they are transmitted to us by the same channel as the Aryan languages from Aryan tradition. I cannot see why one nation or one country alone should have the intelligence of producing fables which as a rule are next to religion in their teaching and intentions. If proverbs are the wisdom of nations, what are fables and legends but developed proverbs. What is the meaning of fable? It means an intent to convey moral instruction in a narrative in which the characters are represented by birds, beasts, or fishes; and often plants. Practically a parable is the same thing, and folklore and fairy-tales are the attempts of intelligent people to inculcate in their children or other ignorant people the great truths of religion or wisdom, by means of word-pictures that would bring these truths within the easy grasp of undeveloped minds, it is the old repeated tale? The Struggle between Right and Wrong. "Faust and Marguerite." The Wicked Punished, The Virtuous Rewarded. Disguise them as you will, there are certain tendons which run through the world from age to age; cords which no human hand has yet severed--which no decree of God's has changed--these are love and death, hate and vengeance, virtue and vice, right and wrong, suffering and joy; and as long as there is a world, as long as children are born, parents will invent fables with which to bring these facts before their offsprings' eyes in an intelligible manner. In the fables of the East, and especially of India, there is one peculiarity, namely, that craft and cunning are more generally rewarded than virtue, and stupidity condemned. This is the national characteristic. The tales of Southern India are as varied as any others, either Eastern or European. Magic and supernatural phenomena play a great part, but are usually assisted by the powers of the gods. This is again a national Hindoo characteristic. The Hindoo would shrink from any undertaking that is not under the patronage of the gods; yet here is a very noticeable feature, namely, that the divinities are treated as entirely secondary in power, interwoven only into a man's daily affairs as a sort of backbone or support in time of need, but to be despised and trampled upon at other times with impunity. This is a natural feature in a nation which has a deity to represent every vice and sin, and lends a certain character to the tales of Southern India different to the folklore of other countries. Probably further research will lay bare many still hidden treasures of Hindoo folklore; but this small collection of tales will doubtless suffice to throw light on Indian tradition, and to bring forward the natural peculiarities of the Hindoos as well as the assimilation of the folklore of different nations, an assimilation which I maintain results from the teaching propensities of each country and not from appropriation. Georgiana Kingscote. FOLKLORE IN SOUTHERN INDIA. I. THE STORY OF THE THREE DEAF MEN. When any awkward blunder occurs from a person acting under a mistaken notion, there is a common proverb in Tamil to the effect that the matter ended like the story of the three deaf men--(Muchchevidan kadaiyây mudindadu). The following is the story told to explain the allusion:-- In a remote village there lived a husband and wife. Both of them were quite deaf. They had made this household arrangement, namely, to cook cabbage with tamarind and soup without tamarind one day, and cabbage without tamarind and soup with tamarind on the other. Thus on every alternate day the same dishes were repeated. One day, when taking his meal, the husband found the tamarind cabbage so very tasty that he wanted to have it also next day, and gave instructions to that effect. The deaf wife did not understand the order. According to the established rule she cooked cabbage without tamarind next day. The husband, when he sat down to his meal, found his order disregarded and, being enraged thereat, threw the cabbage against the wall, and went out in a rage. The wife ate her fill, and prepared tamarind cabbage for her husband. The husband went out, and sat down in a place where three roads crossed, to calm down his anger. At that time a shepherd happened to pass that way. He had lately lost a good cow and calf of his, and had been seeking them for some days. When he saw the deaf man sitting by the way, he took him for a soothsayer, and asked him to find out by his knowledge of Jôsyam [1] where the cow was likely to be found. The herdsman, too, was very deaf; and the man, without hearing what he was saying, abused him, and wished to be left undisturbed. In abusing him the husband stretched out his hand, pointing to the shepherd's face. This pointing the shepherd understood to indicate the direction where the lost cow and calf would be found. Thus thinking the poor shepherd went on in that direction, promising to present the soothsayer with the calf if he found it there with the cow. To his joy, and by mere chance, he found them. His delight knew no bounds. "That is a capital soothsayer. Surely I must present him with the calf." So thought he to himself, and returned with them to the deaf man, and, pointing to the calf, requested him to accept it. Now it unfortunately happened that the calf's tail was broken and crooked. The man thought the herdsman was blaming him unreasonably for having broken the calf's tail, while he knew nothing about it, and so, by a waive of his hand, denied the charge. This the shepherd mistook for a refusal of the calf, and a demand for the cow. The shepherd said, "How very greedy you are! I promised you only the calf, and not the cow." The husband said, "Never; I know nothing of either your cow or calf. I never broke the calf's tail. Some other must have done it." Thus they quarrelled, without understanding each other, for a long time, when a third party happened to pass by. Understanding the cause of the dispute, and, desiring to profit by their stupidity, he interfered, and said in a loud voice, and yet so as not to be heard by the deaf husband, "Well, shepherd, you had better go away with the cow. These soothsayers are always greedy. Leave the calf with me, and I shall make him accept it." The shepherd, much pleased to have secured the cow, walked home, leaving the calf with the third person. When the shepherd had gone, the passenger said to the deaf man, "You see how very unlawful it is for the shepherd to charge you with an offence which you never committed. It is always the case with shepherds. They are the biggest fools in the world! But never mind, so long as you have a friend in me. I shall somehow explain to him your innocence, and restore the calf to him." The husband, much pleased, ran home to escape from the consequences of supposed guilt. At the expense of the stupidity and deafness of both, the third traveller walked home with the calf. The husband, on his return, sat down to his dinner, and his wife served him the tamarind cabbage. He happened to put his finger to the place where the cabbage without tamarind had previously been served on the leaf. On applying it to his mouth, he found it so very sweet that he demanded that dish again. The wife replied to him that she had already emptied the pan. "Then at least bring me the cabbage that is sticking to the saucepan," said the husband; and the wife did accordingly. Here ends the story. The latter portion is also said to be the explanation of a proverb that is prevalent in Tamil,--"Sevuru kîraiyai valichchu pôdudi sunaiketta mûli," meaning, "O thou feelingless deaf woman, give me at least the cabbage that is sticking to the saucepan." This proverb is applied to stubborn wives, who will have their own way, and do not obey their husbands submissively in unrefined society. II. WHY BRÂHMANS CANNOT EAT IN THE DARK. Among Hindûs, especially among Brâhmans of the Madras Presidency--and I now see from personal observation that it is the same in the Bombay Presidency also--there is a custom, while taking their meals, of leaving their food uneaten when it so happens that from any cause the light is blown out. Of course this could occur only in the night-time. Such mishaps now-a-days take place only in poor families, sitting down to supper with a single light. Hence the following story, told as the origin of this custom, is beginning to be forgotten. It runs as follows:-- In a certain village there lived a Brâhman who had an only daughter. She was deeply read in Sanskrit, and was of the most charming beauty. He procured a husband for her as deeply read as herself. The betrothal had already taken place; the muhûrta or auspicious time for her marriage was fixed at the tenth ghatikâ [2] of that night. On that very evening the son-in-law went to a tank to perform his Sandhyâ vandana or evening prayers. It swarmed with crocodiles. People never went near it. The son-in-law, being quite new to the village, entered the tank without knowing anything of the danger. Unfortunately, there was none near to warn him. He had set his foot in the water when a crocodile caught him by the leg, and began to drag him into the water. That very night was fixed for his nuptials, and a crocodile was taking him to feast on his flesh. He was extremely horrified at his position, and said humbly to his enemy, "My friend crocodile! Listen to my words first, and then decide for yourself. A wife, the only daughter of an old Brâhman, is waiting for me to-night. If you eat me now, you take me away without my seeing her, my father-in-law, and other relatives. Their hearts may break at the news of my death on the very day of the wedding. They may all curse you. If, on the contrary, you leave me now, I shall go home, speak to my wife and others about the sad calamity that has come over me, and after embracing and taking leave of her will come to you for your supper at the fifteenth ghatikâ. Till then leave me." The cruel crocodile, though very fond of human flesh, and himself dying of hunger, spared him for a few ghatikâs at his humble request. After extracting several oaths from him that he would return in accordance to his promise, the crocodile went into the water. The son-in-law also went home. All his joy vanished; how could he be happy after his promise to the crocodile. Still, to give no uneasiness to the aged parents of his wife, he underwent all the ceremonies of the marriage. Only five more ghatikâs remained for him to live in the world, as he thought. He, in a few words, explained everything to his wife, and asked her permission to leave her. She showed no sign of sorrow, preached to him about the iron hand of fate, and that he must undergo what was written on his forehead. She most willingly gave him permission to go, and he returned to the tank even a ghatikâ earlier, and called the crocodile, who came and seized him. At this moment a certain light glittered before the eyes of the crocodile and vanished. It was a woman that did it. The wife, after consoling her husband, and preaching to him about the supremacy of fate, had accompanied him unobserved with a lighted lamp concealed in a vessel. Just when the crocodile applied its teeth to the leg of her husband, she took the lamp out, flashed it before the crocodile's eyes, and quenched it. Nor was it without its intended effect. The crocodile left the husband to himself, and said, "You had better go now; I will never touch you after seeing a lamp extinguished when I began my meal to-day." The husband was astonished at the device of his wife, and still more at the faithful observance of a rule in an unreasonable beast. From that day it was fixed that men, who are still more reasonable, should never eat when the lamp is blown out. Another story is told. In a remote village there lived a poor woman, who laboured from morning till night in different houses, and returned to her hut with two measures of rice. That quantity would serve for ten ordinary persons. Being extremely poor, she used to keep no lamp, but cook her rice in the dark, only guided by the light of the fire. When she sat down for her meal even the light of the fire faded; so she had to eat in the dark. Though she used the full two measures of rice that she brought away every day, her hunger was never satisfied; she was always in extreme want. Now it so happened that she had a younger sister, who was somewhat richer than herself. The younger came to see her elder sister. The former never used to be without a light, and so asked her sister to buy some oil that night and light a lamp. The elder was compelled by necessity to do so; for that, she devoted a portion of her two measures of rice, and returned home with great uneasiness and perplexity of mind as to how less than two measures would furnish their supper that night, while full two measures were found insufficient on former occasions for herself alone. The lamp was set for the first time in her house, and she cooked the remaining rice. The younger sister was astonished to see her using so much for two. The elder, thinking within herself that the younger would soon see her mistake, cooked everything. Two leaves were spread, and they sat down to their supper. [3] Not even a fourth part of the rice in the pot was consumed, but already they were satisfied. The younger sister laughed at the foolishness of her elder, who now said, "I do not know what magic you have in you. Every day I cook two measures of rice, and fast the whole night, without finding them sufficient for myself. Now a fourth of less than two measures has satiated both. Please explain the cause." The younger sister, who was very intelligent herself, wanted to find out the cause, and asked next day if she might serve the meals without the lamp. Instead of eating she stretched out her hand and caught hold of a lock of hair. She asked the other at once to light the lamp, which, being done, they found a devil sitting by their side. On being questioned how he came there, he said that he was in the habit of going to every one who ate without a lamp, and swallowing his meals fast without leaving him a morsel. The elder sister perceived her mistake, and used a lamp from that day. The demon ceased to come. She had abundance for herself and something to spare. So when the lamp is blown out, devils are said to come and eat out of our leaves. Hence the custom of rising whenever such mishaps occur. III. THE SOOTHSAYER'S SON. Janmaprabhriti dâridryam dashavarshani bandhanam Samudratîrê marenam kiñchit bhôgam bhavishyati. Thus a Soothsayer when on his death-bed wrote the horoscope of his second son, and bequeathed it to him as his only property, leaving the whole of his estate to his eldest son. The second son pondered over the horoscope, and fell into the following reflections:-- "Alas, am I born to this only in the world? The sayings of my father never failed. I have seen them prove true to the last word while he was living; and how has he fixed my horoscope! Janma parabhriti dâridryam! From my birth poverty! Nor is that my only fate. Dasa varshâni bandhanam: for ten years, imprisonment--a fate harder than poverty; and what comes next? Samudratîrê maranam: death on the sea-shore; which means that I must die away from home, far from friends and relatives on a sea-coast. The misery has reached its extreme height here. Now comes the funniest part of the horoscope, Kiñchit bhôgam bhavishyati--that I am to have some happiness afterwards! What this happiness is, is an enigma to me: To die first, to be happy for some time after! What happiness? Is it the happiness of this world? So it must be. For however clever one may be, he cannot foretell what may take place in the other world. Therefore it must be the happiness of this world; and how can that be possible after my death? It is impossible. I think my father has only meant this as a consoling conclusion to the series of calamities that he has prophesied. Three portions of his prophecy must prove true; the fourth and last is a mere comforting statement to bear patiently the calamities enumerated, and never to prove true. Therefore let me go to Bânâras, bathe in the holy Gangâ, wash away my sins, and prepare myself for my end. Let me avoid sea-coasts, lest death meet me there in accordance with my father's words. Come imprisonment: I am prepared for it for ten years." Thus thought he, and after all the funeral obsequies of his father were over, took leave of his elder brother, and started for Bânâras. [4] He went by the middle of the Dakhan, [5] avoiding both the coasts, and went on journeying and journeying for weeks and months, till at last he reached the Vindhya mountains. While passing that desert he had to journey for a couple of days through a sandy plain, with no signs of life or vegetation. The little store of provision with which he was provided for a couple of days, at last was exhausted. The chombu, [6] which he carried always full, replenishing it with the sweet water from the flowing rivulet or plenteous tank, he had exhausted in the heat of the desert. There was not a morsel in his hand to eat; nor a drop of water to drink. Turn his eyes wherever he might he found a vast desert, out of which he saw no means of escape. Still he thought within himself, "Surely my father's prophecy never proved untrue. I must survive this calamity to find my death on some sea-coast." So thought he, and this thought gave him strength of mind to walk fast and try to find a drop of water somewhere to slake his dry throat. At last he succeeded, or rather thought that he succeeded. Heaven threw in his way a ruined well. He thought that he could collect some water if he let down his chombu with the string that he always carried noosed to the neck of it. Accordingly he let it down; it went some way and stopped, and the following words came from the well, "Oh, relieve me! I am the king of tigers, dying here of hunger. For the last three days I have had nothing. Fortune has sent you here. If you assist me now you will find a sure help in me throughout your life. Do not think that I am a beast of prey. When you have become my deliverer I can never touch you. Pray, kindly lift me up." Gangâdhara, for that was the name of the Soothsayer's second son, found himself in a very perplexing position. "Shall I take him out or not? If I take him out he may make me the first morsel of his hungry mouth. No; that he will not do. For my father's prophecy never came untrue. I must die on a sea-coast and not by a tiger." Thus thinking, he asked the tiger king to hold tight to the vessel, which he accordingly did, and he lifted him up slowly. The tiger reached the top of the well and felt himself on safe ground. True to his word he did no harm to Gangâdhara. On the other hand, he walked round his patron three times, and standing before him, humbly spoke the following words:--"My life-giver, my benefactor! I shall never forget this day, when I regained my life through your kind hands. In return for this kind assistance I pledge my oath to stand by you in all calamities. Whenever you are in any difficulty just think of me. I am there with you ready to oblige you by all the means that I can. To tell you briefly how I came in here:--Three days ago I was roaming in yonder forest, when I saw a goldsmith passing through it. I chased him. He, finding it impossible to escape my claws, jumped into this well, and is living to this moment in the very bottom of it. I also jumped in, but found myself in the first storey; [7] he is on the last and fourth storey. In the second storey lives a serpent half-famished with hunger. In the third storey lies a rat, similarly half-famished, and when you again begin to draw water these may request you first to release them. In the same way the goldsmith also may request. I tell you, as your bosom friend, never assist that wretched man, though he is your relation as a human being. Goldsmiths are never to be trusted. You can place more faith in me, a tiger, though I feast sometimes upon men, in a serpent whose sting makes your blood cold the very next moment, or in a rat, which does a thousand pieces of mischief in your house. But never trust a goldsmith. Do not release him; and if you do, you shall surely repent of it one day or other." Thus advising, the hungry tiger went away without waiting for an answer. Gangâdhara thought several times of the eloquent way in which the tiger addressed him, and admired his fluency of speech. His thirst was not quenched. So he let down his vessel again, which was now caught hold of by the serpent, who addressed him thus:--"Oh my protector! Lift me up. I am the king of serpents, and the son of Âdisêsha, [8] who is now pining away in agony for my disappearance. Release me now. I shall ever remain your servant, remember your assistance, and help you throughout life in all possible ways. Oblige me: I am dying." Gangâdhara, calling again to mind the Samudratîrê maranam--death on the sea-shore--lifted him up. He, like the tiger-king, walked round him thrice, and prostrating himself before him spoke thus:--"Oh, my life-giver, my father, for so I must call you, as you have given me another birth. I have already told you that I am Âdisêsha's son, and that I am the king of serpents. I was three days ago basking myself in the morning sun, when I saw a rat running before me. I chased him. He fell into this well. I followed him, but instead of falling on the third storey where he is now lying, I fell into the second. It was on the same evening that the goldsmith also fell down into the fourth storey, and the tiger whom you released just before me fell down into the first. What I have to tell you now is--do not relieve the goldsmith, though you may release the rat. As a rule, goldsmiths are never to be trusted. I am going away now to see my father. Whenever you are in any difficulty just think of me. I will be there by your side to assist you by all possible means. If, notwithstanding my repeated advice, you happen to release the goldsmith, you shall suffer for it severely." So saying, the Nâgarâja (serpent-king) glided away in zigzag movements, and was out of sight in a moment. The poor son of the Soothsayer who was now almost dying of thirst, and was even led to think that the messengers of death were near him, notwithstanding his firm belief in the words of his father let down his vessel for a third time. The rat caught hold of it, and without discussing, he lifted up the poor animal at once. But it would not go away without showing its gratitude--"Oh life of my life! My benefactor! I am the king of rats. Whenever you are in any calamity just think of me. I will come to you, and assist you. My keen ears overheard all that the tiger-king and serpent-king told you about the Svarnataskara [9] (gold-smith), who is in the fourth storey. It is nothing but a sad truth that goldsmiths ought never to be trusted. Therefore never assist him as you have done to us all. And if you do, you shall feel it. I am hungry; let me go for the present." Thus taking leave of his benefactor, the rat, too, ran away. Gangâdhara for a while thought upon the repeated advice given by the three animals about releasing the goldsmith, "What wrong would there be in my assisting him? Why should I not release him also?" So thinking to himself, Gangâdhara let down the vessel again. The goldsmith caught hold of it, and demanded help. The Soothsayer's son had no time to lose; he was himself dying of thirst. Therefore he lifted the goldsmith up, who now began his story:--"Stop for a while," said Gangâdhara, and after quenching his thirst by letting down his vessel for the fifth time, still fearing that some one might remain in the well and demand his assistance, he listened to the goldsmith, who began as follows:--"My dear friend, my protector, what a deal of nonsense these brutes have been talking to you about me; I am glad you have not followed their advice. I am just now dying of hunger. Permit me to go away. My name is Mânikkâsâri. I live in the East main street of Ujjaini which is twenty kâs [10] to the south of this place, and so lies on your way when you return from Bânâras. Do not forget to come to me and receive my kind remembrances of your assistance, on your way back to your country." So saying the goldsmith took his leave, and Gangâdhara also pursued his way north after the above adventures. He reached Bânâras, and lived there for more than ten years, spending his time in bathing, prayers, and other religious ceremonies. He quite forgot the tiger, serpent, rat, and goldsmith. After ten years of religious life, thoughts of home and of his brother rushed into his mind. "I have secured enough merit now by my religious observances. Let me return home." Thus thought Gangâdhara within himself, and immediately he was on his way back to his country. Remembering the prophecy of his father he returned by the same way by which he went to Bânâras ten years before. While thus retracing his steps he reached the ruined well where he had released the three brute kings and the goldsmith. At once the old recollections rushed into his mind, and he thought of the tiger to test his fidelity. Only a moment passed, and the tiger-king came running before him carrying a large crown in his mouth, the glitter of the diamonds of which for a time outshone even the bright rays of the sun. He dropped the crown at his life-giver's feet, and putting aside all his pride, humbled himself like a pet cat to the strokes of his protector, and began in the following words:--"My life-giver! How is it that you have forgotten me, your poor servant, for such a long time? I am glad to find that I still occupy a corner in your mind. I can never forget the day when I owed my life to your lotus hands. I have several jewels with me of little value. This crown, being the best of all, I have brought here as a single ornament of great value, and hence easily portable and useful to you in your own country." Gangâdhara looked at the crown, examined it over and over, counted and recounted the gems, and thought within himself that he would become the richest of men by separating the diamonds and gold, and selling them in his own country. He took leave of the tiger-king, and after his disappearance thought of the kings of serpents and rats, who came in their turns with their presents, and after the usual formalities and exchange of words took their leave. Gangâdhara was extremely delighted at the faithfulness with which the brute beasts behaved themselves, and went on his way to the south. While going along he spoke to himself thus:--"These beasts have been so very faithful in their assistance. Much more, therefore, must Mânikkâsâri be faithful. I do not want anything from him now. If I take this crown with me as it is, it occupies much space in my bundle. It may also excite the curiosity of some robbers on the way. I will go now to Ujjaini on my way, Mânikkâsâri requested me to see him without failure on my return journey. I shall do so, and request him to have the crown melted, the diamonds and gold separated. He must do that kindness at least for me. I shall then roll up these diamonds and gold ball in my rags, and bend my way homewards." Thus thinking and thinking he reached Ujjaini. At once he enquired for the house of his goldsmith friend, and found him without difficulty. Mânikkâsâri was extremely delighted to find on his threshold him who ten years before, notwithstanding the advice repeatedly given him by the sage-looking tiger, serpent, and rat, had relieved him from the pit of death. Gangâdhara at once showed him the crown that he received from the tiger-king, told him how he got it, and requested his kind assistance to separate the gold and diamonds. Mânikkâsâri agreed to do so, and meanwhile asked his friend to rest himself for a while to have his bath and meals; and Gangâdhara, who was very observant of his religious ceremonies, went direct to the river to bathe. How came a crown in the jaws of a tiger? It is not a difficult question to solve. A king must have furnished the table of the tiger for a day or two. Had it not been for that, the tiger could not have had a crown with him. Even so it was. The king of Ujjaini had a week before gone with all his hunters on a hunting expedition. All of a sudden a tiger--as we know now, the very tiger-king himself--started from the wood, seized the king, and vanished. The hunters returned and informed the prince about the sad calamity that had befallen his father. They all saw the tiger carrying away the king. Yet such was their courage that they could not lift their weapons to bring to the prince the corpse at least of his father. When they informed the prince about the death of his father he wept and wailed, and gave notice that he would give half of his kingdom to any one who should bring him news about the murderer of his father. The prince did not at all believe that his father was devoured by the tiger. His belief was that some hunters, coveting the ornaments on the king's person, had murdered him. Hence he had issued the notice. The goldsmith knew full well that it was a tiger that killed the king, and not any hunter's hands, since he had heard from Gangâdhara about how he obtained the crown. Still, ambition to get half the kingdom prevailed, and he resolved with himself to make over Gangâdhara as the king's murderer. The crown was lying on the floor where Gangâdhara left it with his full confidence in Mânikkâsâri. Before his protector's return the goldsmith, hiding the crown under his garments, flew to the palace. He went before the prince and informed him that the assassin was caught, and placed the crown before him. The prince took it into his hands, examined it, and at once gave half the kingdom to Mânikkâsâri, and then enquired about the murderer. "He is bathing in the river, and is of such and such appearance," was the reply. At once four armed soldiers fly to the river, and bound the poor Brâhman hand and foot, he sitting in meditation the while, without any knowledge of the fate that hung over him. They brought Gangâdhara to the presence of the prince, who turned his face away from the murderer or supposed murderer, and asked his soldiers to throw him into the kârâgriham. [11] In a minute, without knowing the cause, the poor Brâhman found himself in the dark caves of the kârâgriham. In old times the kârâgriham answered the purposes of the modern jail. It was a dark cellar underground, built with strong stone walls, into which any criminal guilty of a capital offence was ushered to breathe his last there without food and drink. Such was the cellar into which Gangâdhara was thrust. In a few hours after he left the goldsmith he found himself inside a dark cell stinking with human bodies, dying and dead. What were his thoughts when he reached that place? "It is the goldsmith that has brought me to this wretched state; and, as for the prince: Why should he not enquire as to how I obtained the crown? It is of no use to accuse either the goldsmith or the prince now. We are all the children of fate. We must obey her commands. Dasavarshâni Bandhanam. This is but the first day of my father's prophecy. So far his statement is true. But how am I going to pass ten years here? Perhaps without anything to sustain life I may drag on my existence for a day or two. But how pass ten years? That cannot be, and I must die. Before death comes let me think of my faithful brute friends." So pondered Gangâdhara in the dark cell underground, and at that moment thought of his three friends. The tiger-king, serpent-king, and rat-king assembled at once with their armies at a garden near the kârâgriham, and for a while did not know what to do. A common cause--how to reach their protector, who was now in the dark cell underneath--united them all. They held their council, and decided to make an underground passage from the inside of a ruined well to the kârâgriham. The rat râjâ issued an order at once to that effect to his army. They, with their nimble teeth, bored the ground a long way to the walls of the prison. After reaching it they found that their teeth could not work on the hard stones. The bandicoots were then specially ordered for the business; they, with their hard teeth, made a small slit in the wall for a rat to pass and repass without difficulty. Thus a passage was effected. The rat râjâ entered first to condole with his protector on his misfortune. The king of the tigers sent word through the snake-king that he sympathised most sincerely with his sorrow, and that he was ready to render all help for his deliverance. He suggested a means for his escape also. The serpent râjâ went in, and gave Gangâdhara hopes of delivery. The rat-king undertook to supply his protector with provisions. "Whatever sweetmeats or bread are prepared in any house, one and all of you must try to bring whatever you can to our benefactor. Whatever clothes you find hanging in a house, cut down, dip the pieces in water, and bring the wet bits to our benefactor. He will squeeze them and gather water for drink! and the bread and sweetmeats shall form his food." Having issued these orders the king of the rats, took leave of Gangâdhara. They, in obedience to their king's order, continued to supply provisions and water. The Nâgarâja said:--"I sincerely condole with you in your calamity; the tiger-king also fully sympathises with you, and wants me to tell you so, as he cannot drag his huge body here as we have done with our small ones. The king of the rats has promised to do his best to provide you with food. We would now do what we can for your release. From this day we shall issue orders to our armies to oppress all the subjects of this kingdom. The percentage of death by snake-bite and tigers shall increase from this day. And day by day it shall continue to increase till your release. After eating what the rats bring you, you had better take your seat near the entrance of the kârâgriham. Owing to the many sudden deaths that will occur some people that walk over the prison may say, 'How wicked the king has become. Were it not for his wickedness so many dreadful deaths by snake-bites could never occur.' Whenever you hear people speaking so, you had better bawl out so as to be heard by them, 'The wretched prince imprisoned me on the false charge of having killed his father, while it was a tiger that killed him. From that day these calamities have broken out in his dominions. If I were released I would save all by my powers of healing poisonous wounds and by incantations.' Some one may report this to the king, and if he knows it, you will obtain your liberty." Thus comforting his protector in trouble, he advised him to pluck up courage, and took leave of him. From that day tigers and serpents, acting under the special orders of their kings, united in killing as many persons and cattle as possible. Every day people were carried away by tigers or bitten by serpents. This havoc continued. Gangâdhara went on roaring as loud he could that he would save those lives, had he only his liberty. Few heard him. The few that did took his words for the voice of a ghost. "How could he manage to live without food and drink for so long a time?" said the persons walking over his head to each other. Thus passed months and years. Gangâdhara sat in the dark cellar, without the sun's light falling upon him, and feasted upon the bread-crumbs and sweetmeats that the rats so kindly supplied him with. These circumstances had completely changed his body. He had become a red, stout, huge, unwieldy lump of flesh. Thus passed full ten years, as prophesied in the horoscope--Dasavarshâni Bandhanam. Ten complete years rolled away in close imprisonment. On the last evening of the tenth year one of the serpents got into the bed-chamber of the princess and sucked her life. She breathed her last. She was the only daughter of the king. He had no other issue--son or daughter. His only hope was in her; and she was snatched away by a cruel and untimely death. The king at once sent for all the snake-bite curers. He promised half his kingdom and his daughter's hand to him who would restore her to life. Now it was that a servant of the king, who had several times overheard Gangâdhara's cries, reported the matter to him. The king at once ordered the cell to be examined. There was the man sitting in it. How has he managed to live so long in the cell? Some whispered that he must be a divine being. Some concluded that he must surely win the hand of the princess by restoring her to life. Thus they discussed, and the discussions brought Gangâdhara to the king. The king no sooner saw Gangâdhara than he fell on the ground. He was struck by the majesty and grandeur of his person. His ten years' imprisonment in the deep cell underground had given a sort of lustre to his body, which was not to be met with in ordinary persons. His hair had first to be cut before his face could be seen. The king begged forgiveness for his former fault, and requested him to revive his daughter. "Bring me in a muhûrta [12] all the corpses of men and cattle, dying and dead, that remain unburnt or unburied within the range of your dominions; I shall revive them all," were the only words that Gangâdhara spoke. After it he closed his lips as if in deep meditation, which commanded more respect than ever. Cart-loads of corpses of men and cattle began to come in every minute. Even graves, it is said, were broken open, and corpses buried a day or two before were taken out and sent for the revival. As soon as all were ready, Gangâdhara took a vessel full of water and sprinkled it over them all, thinking only of his Nâgarâja and Vyâghrarâja. [13] All rose up as if from deep slumber, and went to their respective homes. The princess, too, was restored to life. The joy of the king knew no bounds. He cursed the day on which he imprisoned him, blamed himself for having believed the word of a goldsmith, and offered him the hand of his daughter and the whole kingdom, instead of half as he promised. Gangâdhara would not accept anything. The king requested him to put a stop for ever to these calamities. He agreed to do so, and asked the king to assemble all his subjects in a wood near the town. "I shall there call in all the tigers and serpents and give them a general order." So said Gangâdhara, and the king accordingly gave the order. In a couple of ghatikâs [14] the wood near Ujjaini was full of people, who assembled to witness the authority of man over such enemies of human beings as tigers and serpents. "He is no man; be sure of that. How could he have managed to live for ten years without food and drink? He is surely a god." Thus speculated the mob. When the whole town was assembled, just at the dusk of evening, Gangâdhara sat dumb for a moment, and thought upon the Vyâghrarâja and Nâgarâja, who came running with all their armies. People began to take to their heels at the sight of tigers. Gangâdhara assured them of safety, and stopped them. The grey light of the evening, the pumpkin colour of Gangâdhara, the holy ashes scattered lavishly over his body, the tigers and snakes humbling themselves at his feet, gave him the true majesty of the god Gangâdhara. [15] For who else by a single word could thus command vast armies of tigers and serpents, said some among the people. "Care not for it; it may be by magic. That is not a great thing. That he revived cart-loads of corpses makes him surely Gangâdhara," said others. The scene produced a very great effect upon the minds of the mob. "Why should you, my children, thus trouble these poor subjects of Ujjaini? Reply to me, and henceforth desist from your ravages." Thus said the Soothsayer's son, and the following reply came from the king of the tigers; "Why should this base king imprison your honour, believing the mere word of a goldsmith that your honour killed his father? All the hunters told him that his father was carried away by a tiger. I was the messenger of death sent to deal the blow on his neck. I did it, and gave the crown to your honour. The prince makes no enquiry, and at once imprisons your honour. How can we expect justice from such a stupid king as that? Unless he adopts a better standard of justice we will go on with our destruction." The king heard, cursed the day on which he believed in the word of a goldsmith, beat his head, tore his hair, wept and wailed for his crime, asked a thousand pardons, and swore to rule in a just way from that day. The serpent-king and tiger-king also promised to observe their oath as long as justice prevailed, and took their leave. The goldsmith fled for his life. He was caught by the soldiers of the king, and was pardoned by the generous Gangâdhara, whose voice now reigned supreme. All returned to their homes. The king again pressed Gangâdhara to accept the hand of his daughter. He agreed to do so, not then, but some time afterwards. He wished to go and see his elder brother first, and then to return and marry the princess. The king agreed; and Gangâdhara left the city that very day on his way home. It so happened that unwittingly he took a wrong road, and had to pass near a sea coast. His elder brother was also on his way up to Bânâras by that very same route. They met and recognised each other, even at a distance. They flew into each other's arms. Both remained still for a time almost unconscious with joy. The emotion of pleasure (ânanda) was so great, especially in Gangâdhara, that it proved dangerous to his life. In a word, he died of joy. The sorrow of the elder brother could better be imagined than described. He saw again his lost brother, after having given up, as it were, all hopes of meeting him. He had not even asked him his adventures. That he should be snatched away by the cruel hand of death seemed unbearable to him. He wept and wailed, took the corpse on his lap, sat under a tree, and wetted it with tears. But there was no hope of his dead brother coming to life again. The elder brother was a devout worshipper of Ganapati. [16] That was a Friday, a day very sacred to that god. The elder brother took the corpse to the nearest Ganêsa [17] temple and called upon him. The god came, and asked him what he wanted. "My poor brother is dead and gone; and this is his corpse. Kindly keep it in your charge till I finish worshipping you. If I leave it anywhere else the devils may snatch it away when I am absent worshipping you; after finishing your pûjâ [18] I shall burn him." Thus said the elder brother, and, giving the corpse to the god Ganêsa, he went to prepare himself for that deity's ceremonials. Ganêsa made over the corpse to his Ganas, [19] asking them to watch over it carefully. So a spoiled child receives a fruit from its father, who, when he gives it the fruit asks the child to keep it safe. The child thinks within itself, "My father will forgive me if I eat a portion of it." So saying it eats a portion, and when it finds it so sweet, it eats the whole, saying, "Come what will, what can father do, after all, if I eat it? Perhaps give me a stroke or two on the back. Perhaps he may forgive me." In the same way these Ganas of Ganapati first ate a portion of the corpse, and when they found it sweet, for we know it was crammed up with the sweetmeats of the kind rats, devoured the whole, and began consulting about the best excuse possible to offer to their master. The elder brother, after finishing the pûjâ, demanded his brother's corpse of the god. The god called his Ganas who came to the front blinking, and fearing the anger of their master. The god was greatly enraged. The elder brother was very angry. When the corpse was not forthcoming he cuttingly remarked, "Is this, after all, the return for my deep belief in you? You are unable even to return my brother's corpse." Ganêsa was much ashamed at the remark, and at the uneasiness that he had caused to his worshipper. So he, by his divine power, gave him a living Gangâdhara instead of the dead corpse. Thus was the second son of the Soothsayer restored to life. The brothers had a long talk about each other's adventures. They both went to Ujjaini, where Gangâdhara married the princess, and succeeded to the throne of that kingdom. He reigned for a long time, conferring several benefits upon his brother. How is the horoscope to be interpreted? A special synod of Soothsayers was held. A thousand emendations were suggested. Gangâdhara would not accept them. At last one Soothsayer cut the knot by stopping at a different place in reading, "Samudra tîrê maranam kiñchit." "On the sea-shore death for some time. Then "Bhôgam bhavishyati." "There shall be happiness for the person concerned." Thus the passage was interpreted. "Yes; my father's words never went wrong," said Gangâdhara. The three brute kings continued their visits often to the Soothsayer's son, the then king of Ujjaini. Even the faithless goldsmith became a frequent visitor at the palace, and a receiver of several benefits from royal hands. IV. RANAVÎRASING. Once upon a time in the town of Vañjaimânagar, [20] there ruled a king, named Sivâchâr. He was a most just king, and ruled so well that no stone thrown up fell down, no crow pecked at the new drawn milk, the lion and the bull drank water from the same pond, and peace and prosperity reigned throughout the kingdom. Notwithstanding all these blessings, care always sat on his face. The fruit which makes life in this world sweet, the redeemer to him from the horrible Naraka of Put, [21] a Putra, [22] he had not. His days and nights he spent in praying that God might bless him with a son. Wherever he saw pîpal trees (Asvattharâjas), [23] he ordered Brâhmans to surround them. Whatever medicines the doctors recommended he was ever ready to swallow, however bitter they might be. "Eat even dung to get a son," says the proverb, and accordingly he did every thing to secure that happiness, but all in vain. Sivâchâr had a minister, named Kharavadana, a most wicked tyrant as ever lived in the world. The thought that the king was without an heir, and had no hopes of one, awakened in his mind the ambition of securing for his family the throne of Vañjaimânagar. Sivâchâr knew this well. But what could he do. His only care was to send up additional prayers to frustrate the thoughts of Kharavadana, and to secure for himself a good position after death, without undergoing the severe torments of the Put-hell. At last fortune favoured Sivâchâr; for what religious man fails to secure his desire? The king in his sixtieth year had a son. His joy can better be imagined than described. Lacs (Lâkhs) of Brâhmans were fed in honour of the son-birth festival, Putrôtsavam, as it is technically called. The state prisons were opened, and all the prisoners let loose. Thousands of kine and innumerable acres of land were offered to Brâhmans, and every kind of charity was duly practised. The ten days of the Sûtikâgrihavâsa (confinement) were over. On the eleventh day the father saw his much longed-for son's face, and read on the lines of it great prosperity, learning, valour, goodness and every excellent quality. The cradle-swinging, naming, and other ceremonies were duly performed, and the prince grew up under the great care generally shown to a king's son. His name the elders fixed as Sundara. [24] The minister whose only wish was to get the throne for his family, was much disappointed at the birth of a son to his master. The whole kingdom rejoiced at the event, and the minister was the only man who was sorry. When one is disappointed in his high hopes and expectations, he devises plans to take away the barrier that lies in his way. Even so, Kharavadana said to himself, "Let me see how affairs progress. The old king is near his grave. When he dies, leaving a son in his minority I myself must be his regent for a time. Shall I not then have opportunity enough of securing for ever for myself and my family the throne of Vañjaimânagar?" So thought he within himself, and was quiet for a time. Sivâchâr, who was a very shrewd man, on several occasions, read the minister's mind, and knew very well how his intentions stood. "This cruel devil may murder my only son. I care not if he usurps the throne. What I fear is, that he may murder him. Na daivam Sankarât param. No other god but Sankara. And he must have his own way. If it is so written on the prince's head I cannot avoid it." Thus sighed Sivâchâr, and this sorrow (sôka), made him leaner day by day. Just ten years after the birth of Sundara, the king fell ill and lay on his deathbed. Sivâchâr had a servant, named Ranavîrasing, whom he had all along observed to be very honest and faithful. That servant the king called to his side, and asking all others except Sundara, who was weeping by his father's pillow, to leave the room, addressed him thus:--"My dear Ranavîrasing! I have only a few ghatikâs before me. Listen to my words, and act accordingly. There is one God above us all, who will punish or reward us according to our bad or good acts. If by avarice or greed of money you ever play false to the trust that I am going to repose in you that God will surely punish you. It is not unknown to you what great difficulties I had in getting this only son, Sundara; how many temples I built, how many Brâhmans I fed, how many religious austerities I underwent, &c., &c.. God after all gave me a son." Here his sorrow prevented him from proceeding further, and he began to cry aloud, and shed tears. "Do not weep on my account, father. We cannot wipe off what was written on our heads. We must undergo happiness or misery as is thereon written by Brahmâ, cried the prince. Ranavîrasing was melted at the sight. He took the boy on his lap, and with his own upper garment wiped his eyes. The old man continued, "Thus you, my faithful Ranavîrasing, know everything. I now wish that I had not performed all that I did to get this son. For when I die at this moment, who is there to take care of him for the next? Kharavadana may devise plan after plan to remove my boy from this world, and secure the kingdom for himself. My only hope is in you. I give him into your hands." Here the aged father, notwithstanding his illness, rose up a little from his bed, took hold of his son's hand, and after kissing it for the last time, placed it in Ranavîrasing's. "Care not if he does not get the kingdom. If you only preserve him from the wicked hands of the minister whom I have all along seen to be covetous of the throne, you will do a great work for your old master. I make you from this moment the lord of my palace. From this minute you are father, mother, brother, servant, and everything to my son. Take care that you do not betray your trust." Thus ended the king, and sent at once for the minister. When he came he spoke to him thus, "Kharavadana! See what I am now. Yesterday I was on the throne. To-day, in a few minutes, I must breathe my last. Such is the uncertainty of life. Man's good acts alone follow him to the other world. Take my signet-ring. [Here the king took the ring from off his finger, and gave it to the minister.] Yours is the throne for the present, as long as the prince is in his minority. Govern well the kingdom. When the prince attains his sixteenth year kindly give him back the throne. Exercise a paternal care over him. Find a good and intelligent princess for his wife." Suddenly, before his speech was quite finished, the king felt the last pangs of death. The sage-looking minister promised him everything. Sivâchâr breathed his last. After the usual weeping and wailing of a Hindû funeral, his corpse was burnt to ashes in a sandalwood pyre. All his queens--and there were several scores--committed satî [25] with the corpse. The ceremonies were all regularly conducted, the minister himself superintended everything. Kharavadana then succeeded to the throne of Vañjaimânagar. Ranavîrasing became the lord of the palace, and true to his promise exercised all care over his trust. He was always at the side of Sundara. That he might not lose the sweetness of boyhood in study and play, Ranavîrasing brought to the palace twenty gentlemen's sons of good conduct and learning and made them the prince's fellow-students. A professor for every branch of learning was employed to teach the prince and his companions. Sundara thus received a sound and liberal education, only he was never allowed to go out of the palace. Ranavîrasing guarded him very strictly, and he had every reason to do so. For Kharavadana, as soon as he became king, had issued a notice that the assassin of Sundara should have a reward of a karôr [26] mohurs; and already every avaricious hand was in search of his head. Before the issue of this notice, Kharavadana found out a good girl and married her to the prince. She lived with her husband in the palace, and Ranavîrasing strictly watched her, as she had been chosen by the minister. He would not allow Sundara to speak to her. These strict prohibitions displeased the prince, even with his faithful servant. But the latter could not help it till he had full confidence in her. He used to advise Sundara not even to take a betel-leaf from her hands. But love is blind. So the prince within himself accused his old guardian; but he could not help following his orders. Thus passed on a few years. Sundara reached his sixteenth year. Nothing happened about the transference of the kingdom; the prince, almost in imprisonment in the palace, had forgotten everything about the kingdom. Ranavîrasing wished to wait till, as he thought, the prince had acquired better governing faculties. Thus some time passed. Full eight years had elapsed from the death of Sivâchâr. Sundara was already eighteen, and still he had not received his kingdom. Nothing was neglected in his education. Though Ranavîrasing exercised all paternal care over him, still it was not to his liking; for he found in him a great barrier to the pleasures of youth. The only pleasure for the prince, therefore, was the company of his friends. One fine evening on the fourteenth day of the dark half of the month of Vaisâkha of the Vasanta [27] season, the prince was sitting with his companions in the seventh story of his mansion viewing the town. The dusk of evening was just throwing her mantle over the city. People in their several vocations were at that time ceasing work, and returning home. In the eastern division of the town the prince saw a big mansion, and just to break the silence asked his friends what that was. "That is the Râjasthânik Kachêri, [28] a place you ought to have been sitting in for the last two years. The wretched minister, Kharavadana, has already usurped your seat; for, if he had intended to give you back the kingdom he would have done it two years ago when you reached your sixteenth year. Let us now console ourselves that God has spared your life till now, notwithstanding all the awards promised to the taker of your head. Even the proclamation is dying out of the memory of the people now." So said one of his friends and ceased. These words fell like arrows in the ear of Sundara and troubled him. Shame that he had been thus treated brought a change of colour over his face which all his friends perceived, and they felt sorry for having touched upon the subject. The prince, perceiving that he had played a woman's part among his friends, resumed or pretended to resume his former cheerful countenance, and changed the conversation to some pleasanter topics. They separated very late that night. Before doing so, Sundara asked them all to present themselves in the durbâr hall [29] early next morning. At the same time he also ordered Ranavîrasing to keep horses ready for himself and his friends for a morning ride through the town the next day. "I was only waiting to hear such an order from your own mouth, Mai Bâb Chakravarti! [30] I was thinking from your retired disposition that you were not an energetic man. I will have the horses ready." Ranavîrasing at once issued orders to his servants to keep ready saddled and decked twenty-one horses for the prince and his companions. He also appointed a certain number of his men to ride in front of the party. The morning came. The friends assembled, as promised the previous evening. The prince and they, after a light breakfast, mounted their horses. The horsemen rode in front and behind. The prince with his friends marched in the middle. Ranavîrasing with drawn sword rode by his side. The party went through the four main streets of the town. Every one rose up and paid due respect to their old king's son. When passing through the street where the minister's mansion was, Ranavîrasing perceived that Kharavadana paid no respect to the royal march. This seemed a most unbearable insult to Ranavîrasing. He bit his lips, gnashed his teeth, and wrung his hands. The prince observed all the mental pains of his faithful guardian, and laughed to himself at his simplicity. About mid-day the party returned to the palace. The friends dispersed, and Sundara after the ceremonies of the new-moon day had a slight dinner, and retired to rest. The morning ride was deep in the mind of the prince. Though he laughed to himself at the simplicity of Ranavîrasing when the latter gnashed his teeth in the morning, the insult had left a stronger and deeper impression in his heart. The day was almost spent. Sundara took a very light supper, and shut himself up in his bed-room before the first watch was quite over. Ranavîrasing, as usual, watched outside. The prince found his wife sound asleep in her bed, and without disturbing her he went up and down the room. A thread-like substance attracted his attention in a corner of the bed-chamber. On examination he found it to be a thread ladder. He had not even time to think how it came into the bed-chamber. Just then Ranavîrasing had retired for a few minutes to take his supper. "The old fool is off now to eat; and Paramêsvara has thrown this ladder in my way. Let me now escape." Thus thinking, Sundara came out unobserved by his old guardian, and ascended to the top of the seventh mansion. From that place he cast his ladder towards a big tree in the East Main street. On pulling it he found that it was firmly fixed. "Let me get down, and Paramêsvara will assist me." So praying, before the first watch was over, the prince got down from his palace, and was in a few minutes in the East street. The severe watch kept over him by Ranavîrasing made it very difficult for him to go out when he liked, and now by the grace of God, as he thought, he had escaped that dark new-moon night. "Life is dear to every one. What can I do if any of the minister's men find me out now and murder me? Na daivam Sankarât param. No god but Sankara, and he will now help me." Thus thinking he walked to the nearest pyal, and lingered there till the bustle of the town subsided. Nor was it in vain that he stopped there. He overheard while there the following conversation take place between the master and mistress of the house at which he lingered:--"Console yourself, my wife. What shall we do? Fate has so willed it on our heads. May Brahmâ [31] become without a temple for the evil that he has sent us. When the old king was living he appreciated my merits, and at every Sankrânti [32] gave me due dakshinâ [33] for my knowledge of the Vêdas. [34] Now there reigns a tyrant over our kingdom. I have been lingering here with the hope that the son of Sivâchâr would one day come to the throne and relieve our sufferings. Now that such hope is altogether gone, I have made up my mind to leave this nasty city, and go to some good place where there reigns a king who can appreciate our yôgyatâ (merit)." Of these words Sundara overheard every syllable, and these supplied the fuel to the fire of shame and anger that was already burning in his mind. "Let me try to win back my kingdom. If I succeed, I shall save other lives. If I die, I alone die. May Paramêsvara help me." So saying he walked out of the town, and passed the east gate. The night was as dark as could be, for it was a new moon night. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and there were some symptoms of rain. There was a Ganêsa temple on the way. As it was already drizzling, the prince went inside till the rain should cease. No sooner had he entered it than he saw two men, who by their conversation appeared to be shepherds, coming towards that same temple. They seemed to have been watching their flocks near an adjacent field, and had come to shelter themselves from the rain in the temple. Sundara when he saw them, trembled for his life, and crept in. The shepherds sat down on the verandah, and taking out their bags began to chew betel-nuts. An idle lizard began to chirp in a corner. To break the silence, one said to the other, "Well, Râmakôn, I have heard that you are a great soothsayer and interpreter of bird sounds and lizard speeches. Let me know what these chirps of the lizard that we heard just now mean. Tell me." Râmakôn replied, "This is news which I would never have revealed at any other time. But as no fourth person is likely to be here at this time on a rainy night, let me tell you that the prince of the town is now lingering here in this temple. So the lizard says. Hence I said, 'no fourth person.' I am glad that no evil hand has yet been tempted, though such a high price has been set upon his head. The very fact that he has lived up to this time unhurt in a tiger's domain augurs well for his future prosperity." Râmakôn had scarcely finished his speech when the idle lizard again made its chit, chit, and Râmakôn now asked his friend, Lakshmanakôn, for that was the other's name, to interpret those sounds. "This has rather a sad meaning for the prince. The Mantrî [35] and Pradhânî [36] are coming here in a few minutes (nimishas), to consult on a secret topic. So says the lizard," said Lakshmanakôn to Râmakôn, and at that very moment a light was seen at a distance. "It is the minister's carriage. Let us be off. God only must save the prince." So saying, they both ran away. The feelings of the prince inside were like that of a man who was being led to the gallows. The bitterest enemy of his life, the minister himself, was coming to that very place where he was hiding. "I foolishly accused my old guardian, Ranavîrasing, and now I see his good intentions. How I am to be spared from this calamity Sankara only knows." Thus thinking, he hurriedly fled to the inmost part of the temple behind the very image, and sat down there, still like a stump, without even breathing freely, lest his breath might reveal him. He had ample time there to admire the sound knowledge of the shepherds in interpreting the lizard chirps, their simplicity, their honesty and truthfulness; for, had they been otherwise, they might at once have caught hold of the prince and made him over to the tiger minister. True to the interpretation of the second shepherd, a carriage stopped in front of the Ganêsa temple, and there came out of it the Mantrî and the Pradhânî. Excepting themselves and, of course, the carriage driver and, as we know, the prince behind the Ganêsa, there were no others there. Kharavadana and his subordinate chose that solitary place at the dead of night to hold secret consultations. The Mantrî spoke first, and one could easily perceive from his words that he was in a fit of anger. "Why should the prince be thus allowed to ride free through my streets? Of the innumerable servants who eat our salt was there not one to cut down that impertinent head?" roared the minister. The Pradhânî replied, "My king, my lord, excuse me first for the humble words that I am going to speak before your honour. We have taken up a kingdom to which we have no right. If the prince had demanded the throne two years ago, we ought rightfully to have returned it to him. He never asked, and we did not restore it. He never troubles us with demands, but lives like a poor subject of the crown in his own quarters. Such being the case, why should we kill him? Why should we murder the only son of our old and much-respected king Sivâchâr? What I beg to suggest to your honour is, that we should no more trouble ourselves about his poor head." The Pradhânî, as he discovered that these words were not to the taste of Kharavadana, stopped at once without proceeding further, though he had much to say upon that subject. "Vile wretch! Dare you preach morals to your superiors. You shall see the result of this, before the morning dawns," bawled out the Minister. The Pradhânî saw that all his excellent advice was like blowing a horn in a deaf man's ears. He feared for his own life, and so at once begged a thousand pardons, and promised to bring the head of the prince within a week. And as Kharavadana wanted only that, he spared the Pradhânî. They then talked on different subjects, and prepared to start. The prince inside, behind the Ganêsavigraha, [37] was now almost stifled to death. The short breaths that he inhaled and exhaled were themselves enough to kill him. Add to that the horrible words that fell on his ears. For all that he continued to hide himself. Kharavadana and the Pradhânî finished their conversation and got into the carriage. Sundara called courage to his assistance, "Sankara has saved me till now; he may so save me throughout." So thinking to himself, he boldly came out of the temple without making the least noise and sat behind the carriage, and, as it rolled on, thought again within himself: "I will follow these, come what may, and find out what more plans they devise against my life." The carriage drove on to the opposite end of the town. It passed the west gate and entered a big park outside the town. The undaunted prince followed. In the middle of the park a fine tank was discovered. The banks looked like day, being lighted up profusely. In the midst of the tank a small island with a gaudy mansion was seen. Pillars of gold, sofas of silver and doors of diamonds made it the very Indralôka [38] itself. A broad road with avenues of sweet smelling flowering trees connected the island with the bank. It was at that road that the carriage stopped. The prince, before that was reached, had got down and hid himself under the shade of a tree, to see unobserved all that passed in the mansion which he had every reason to believe was the destination of the minister. Kharavadana descended from the carriage and sent the Pradhânî home. What most astonished the prince was the absence of male servants in that garden. At the entrance of the road twenty young females of the most exquisite beauty waited and conducted Kharavadana through the sweet bower to the mansion. When it was reached, the minister sat down on a most richly furnished gold couch, and ordered the females there to bring the queen. Ten females arranged themselves on each side of an ivory palanquin, and started, apparently, to bring the queen in it. "These females themselves resemble Rambhâ, [39] Urvasî, [39] &c. A woman who has beauty superior to the heads of these females must, of course, be of the greatest beauty imaginable in this world. Let me see her." Thus thinking, the prince Sundara anxiously awaited the return of the palanquin. In a few minutes it came. A female of the most charming beauty jumped briskly out of it. The minister came running to give his helping hand to her. Horror of horrors, what sees the prince! It was his own wife, the very girl that the minister had married to him a few years before, that got down from the palanquin. "Are my eyes deceived? Do they perform their functions aright? Let me look once more." So again and again wiping his eyes to clear them a little, the prince saw distinctly. It was his very wife herself. "Oh, I most foolishly accused that grey-headed guardian for a wicked fool, because he would not allow me to be friends with my wife. I now see what he saw a long time ago. Perhaps if I had seen more of her I should have thus been brought in here by some secret way that these devils seem now to have to the inmost parts of the palace. If I had taken anything from her hands I should have died that very day. My poor old man, my Ranavîrasing it is, who has saved me from all these calamities." These thoughts and a thousand more were passing through Sundara's mind when he saw his wife sitting down on the same couch with the minister. She accused him of the delay in murdering her husband, of his letting all opportunities escape during the morning ride. "Horrible! Did you, Kharavadana, marry me to such a faithful wife! Thank God and Ranavîrasing that I have not fallen into her snares," thought Sundara to himself. The minister offered a thousand excuses, related to her all that had taken place between himself and the Pradhânî, and of what the latter had promised. Then they both retired to bed. At that moment the treacherous owl began to hoot, and one of the maid-servants, who happened to be a clever interpreter of owl-hootings revealed, to secure the favour of the minister, that the prince was lurking behind a tree in that very garden. Knowing the price set on Sundara's head even female hands flew to cut it off. All ran with torches to search the garden. These words, of course, fell upon the ears of the prince like thunder. Before the people there began their search he began his race, jumped over a high wall, and flew like a kite. Before the lady-racers and the minister had left their sweet road to the tank-bank, Sundara found himself in the north street of the town. The news that the prince was out that night spread like a flame from the pleasure-park outside throughout the whole town, and before long avaricious persons were searching in the streets for his valuable head. Sundara thought it dangerous to pass through the streets, and wished to hide himself in a safe place. Fortune conducted him to one. It was a ruined old choultry, where food, during the days of his father, was distributed in charity to the beggars of the town, and which was now only resorted to by them to sleep, and not to receive rice. The prince entered it, and laid himself down in the midst of them, fortunately unobserved. He could hear from where he was the noise of the persons searching outside. In the garden the minister searched in vain, and accusing the female for her wrong interpretation as he thought, retired to bed. Outside the north gate, at a distance of three ghatikâs' walk, lived a robber. He used to start out on a plundering expedition once in seven years. In the houses and mansions he used to rob he took only jewels of various kinds, Gômêda, [40] pushparûga, (topaz) vajra, [41] vaidûrya, [42] &c.; gold and silver he rejected as being too mean for his dignity. As he was a high-caste robber, he used to take a coolie with him on his way to carry his booty. Of course, that coolie never returned from the cave. He was put to death after his services were over, lest he should disclose the secret of the robber. Unfortunately, that new-moon night happened to be the night of that cruel robber's plundering expedition. He came out, and when he saw people in search of the prince, thinking that he was not in his palace, he wanted to plunder it. Wishing for a coolie, he entered the ruined choultry, to pick out one among the beggars there. Passing over the others he came to the prince. He found him stout and strong. "This beggar will do me good service to-day. I shall break my custom, and amply reward this man for his services." So thinking to himself, the gentleman robber tapped Sundara with his cane on the back. The prince had just closed his eyes. In the short sleep that ensued he dreamt that the minister's servants were pursuing him, and that one had caught him. At that very moment the gentleman-robber's stroke fell upon his back, giving a sort of reality to his dream. He awoke with horror. "Tell me who you are," asked the unknown person, "A beggar," was the reply. "How does the night appear to you?" asked the robber. "As dark as dark can be," replied the prince. The robber applied a sort of kajjala [43] to the prince's eyes, and asked, "How does the night appear now?" "As luminous as if a karôr of suns were in the sky," answered Sundara. The robber applied a tilaka [44] to the intended coolie's forehead and addressed him thus: "I am a robber, now going to plunder the palace, from which the prince is absent. Follow me. I shall reward you richly. The kajjala has made the night a day to you. The tilaka takes you unobserved wherever you wish to go." So saying, and dragging the coolie or supposed coolie by the hand, the robber went off to the palace. Wherever he found a door locked, he applied a leaf that he carried in his hand to the fastening, and behold, the lock flew back, and the door opened of its own accord. The prince was astonished. In a few minutes the robber opened one and all of the gates and boxes, and extracted all the precious stones. He tied them up in a bundle, and set it on the prince's head, and asked him to follow. Sundara followed. He assisted in the plunder of his own palace, and carried the booty behind the robber, who, praised be his stupidity, never for one moment suspected he was a prince, but admired his coolie for the beauty of his person, thought of saving his life, and also of making him his son-in-law. For the robber had a beautiful daughter, for whom he had long been searching for a suitable husband. So with this thought he reached the cave, stopped before it, and taking the bundle from the prince's head ordered him to go into a large cell, the mouth of which he covered with a big stone, which he lifted up by pronouncing an incantation over it. The robber went with the bundle to his wife, and described to her the beauty of the coolie, and what a fair match he would be for their daughter. The wife did not like it, and asked her husband to do with the coolie as they usually did, i.e., murder him; and the robber, who never in anything acted against the will of his wife, went in to fetch his weapon. Meanwhile the robber's daughter, an excellent girl, of the most charming beauty, overhearing all that took place between her parents, came running to the cave where the coolie was confined. She pronounced a single word over the stone lid of the cave, and it opened, and the prince, who had lost all hopes of recovery, now beheld a beautiful girl coming towards him. "Whoever you may be, my dear coolie, fly for your life for the present. You are my husband. My father has so named you, but as my mother does not like it, he has gone to fetch his weapon to murder you. Excepting we three, none, not even Brahmâ, can open the once-shut gates. After hearing you once called my husband, I must ever regard you so. Now fly, and escape my father's sharp sword. If you are a man, marry me in kind remembrance of the assistance rendered. If you fail to do so you are a beast, and I shall die a virgin." So saying she conducted out in haste the supposed coolie, who had only time to take a hasty embrace, whispering in her ear that he was the prince, and that he would marry her without fail. He now ran for his life. Fearing the robber would come after him he left the way by which he reached the cave, and passing through unknown fields reached the south gate of the town. By that time the search for him had almost abated, and the prince, praising God for his delivery, reached the south street. The night was almost spent. Before returning to the palace he wished to take rest for a few minutes, till he had recovered his breath, and so he sat down on the pyal of an old and almost ruined house. That happened to be the house of a poor Brâhman, who had not even sufficient clothes to wear. As the prince sat down in a corner of the pyal the door of the house opened, and the old Brâhman came out. The old woman, the Brâhmanî, was standing at the door with a vessel containing water for her husband. Subhâsâstrî, for that was the Brâhman's name, looked up to the sky for a couple of minutes, after which he heaved a deep sigh, and said, "Alas, the prince, the only son of our former protector, Sivâchâr, is not to remain for more than two ghatikâs. A kâlasarpa (black serpent) will sting him. What shall we do? We are poor. If we could begin Sarpahôma [45] now we could tie the mouth of the snake, sacrifice it in the fire, and thus save the prince." So saying the poor Brâhman cried. Sundara, who overheard everything, jumped down in confusion, and fell at the feet of the Brâhman, who asked him who he was. "I am a herdsman of the palace. Preserve my master's life," was the reply. Subhâsâstrî was extremely poor. He had no means to procure a small quantity of ghî even to begin the hôma. [46] He did not know what to do. He begged from his neighbours, who all laughed at his stupidity, and ridiculed his astrology. The prince in a hopeless state of anguish wrung his hands, and in wringing them he felt his ring. Drawing it off his finger he gave it to Subhâsâstrî, and requested him to pawn it. The latter resorted to the nearest bâzâr, and awakening the bâzâr-keeper procured from him a little ghî, by pawning the ring. Running home and bathing in cold water the Brâhman sat down for the hôma. The prince, fearing the serpent, wished to sit inside the house, but at a distance from the place of the ceremony. Just at the appointed hour a large black serpent broke through the sky, fell on the head of the prince, whom he was not able to bite, and gave up its life in the fire. "This is no shepherd, but the very prince himself," said the Brâhmanî. [47] Sundara rose up, and running surrounded them thrice, spoke to them thus:--"You alone are my parents and protectors. This night has been a most adventurous one with me. There was every possibility of my escaping every other calamity, and so I did. But no other power except yours could have averted this snake-bite. So my rescue is due to you alone. I have no time to lose now. Before daylight I must fly unobserved to the palace, and you shall before long see my reward for this." So saying, Sundara ran to his palace and entered. Ranavîrasing was almost dead. The rumour that the prince was out reached him. He was astonished at the way in which Sundara had got out. He searched the whole palace. To his astonishment all the rooms had previously been opened and plundered. "Has the prince been stolen away by some vile tricks from the palace," thought Ranavîrasing, and without knowing what to do he was buried in the ocean of sorrow, from which he gave up all hopes of recovering. What was his joy, then, when he saw the prince enter the palace just at dawn. "Mai Bâb Chakravarti, where have you been the whole night, throwing away the advice of your poor slave? How many enemies you have in this world, you have yet to know," said Ranavîrasing. "I know them all now, only listen to what I say, and do as I bid. I have won the crown without a blow. Thank the day that gave me you as my protector, for it was only yesterday that I had ample reason to verify your statements. My adventures would make your hair stand on end. Thank God I have escaped from all of them unhurt. If you have a few men ready now, we have won the kingdom." So saying, the prince explained to him every detail of his adventure. "If we catch hold of the minister now, we have done all." "I could never for one moment think that you in a single night could have seen and done so much. Now that heaven has shown you the way, I shall obey you," said Ranavîrasing, and Sundara accordingly issued the orders. He described the house with the pyal at which he had lingered for a while the previous night, and asked a servant to bring the owner of that house to the Râjasthânik office. Ranavîrasing brought in the Pradhânî, who was extremely delighted at the good intention of the prince. He was offered the Mantrî's place. Two were sent to the shepherds. Twenty were sent to the pleasure-park to have the minister and his sweet paramour brought to the court in chains. The female servants were also ordered to be brought. The robber and his cruel wife were not forgotten. The prince minutely described the cave, and asked his servants to catch and imprison the robber by surprising him suddenly, without giving him time to have recourse to his vile tricks--lock-breaking kajjala, &c. The palace palanquin was sent for the robber's daughter, whom the prince had firmly made up his mind to marry. The palace elephants were decked and sent to fetch with all pomp Subhâsâstrî and his wife to the court. Thus, without a single stroke, Sundara won the kingdom. Ranavîrasing was thunder-struck by the excellent and bold way in which the prince in one night went through the series of calamities, and successfully overcame them all. The Pradhânî's delight knew no bounds. He himself broke open the court and every one connected with the previous night's adventure was ushered in. The prince bathed, offered up his prayers, and attended the council. When Subhâsâstrî came in with his wife the prince put them on the simhâsana, [48] and himself standing before them, explained to all his previous night's adventures, rewarded the poor Brâhman and the shepherds, punished by banishment the maid-servant who, knowing that the prince's head was coveted, revealed his concealment, and ordered his wife, the minister, the robber, and the robber's wife to be beheaded. He rewarded without limit his protector, Subhâsâstrî, and married the robber's daughter, being won over by her sincerity. The Pradhânî, as we have said already, he made his minister, and with his old guardian, the faithful Ranavîrasing, the prince reigned for several years in the kingdom of Vañjaimânagar. V. "CHARITY ALONE CONQUERS." Dharmamê jayam. In the town of Têvai [49] there lived a king called Suguna. He had an excellent minister named Dharmasîla. They ruled for a long time in prosperity over the kingdom. Both of them had sons. The prince's name was Subuddhi. He was a noble prince, and quite in keeping with his name, was always bent upon doing good to the world. The minister's son was named Durbuddhi, a most wicked boy, whose only delight was teasing beasts and birds from his infancy, and which ripened into all sorts of wickedness as he grew to boyhood. Notwithstanding the difference between their temperaments the prince and the minister's son were the best of friends. The motto of the prince was Dharmamê jayam--Charity alone conquers. That of the minister's son was Adharmamê jayam--Absence of Charity alone conquers. When rising from their beds, when beginning their prayers, when sitting down for meals or study, and, in fact, before beginning to do anything, each repeated his motto. The people had great hopes in Subuddhi, whom they fully expected to see a good and benevolent king; but the minister's son all thoroughly hated. Even the minister himself, his father, hated his son for his vile turn of mind, which he found impossible to change. His only friend, as we have already said, was the prince, who, notwithstanding all his faults, loved him sincerely. Both of them had grown up together from their very cradle, had played in the same dust, had read their lessons side by side in the same school under the same teachers. Fortune so ordained that the prince's mind should take such a bent, while the mind of the minister's son turned in a crooked way. Nor was Durbuddhi insensible to the disgust and dislike which every one manifested towards him. He was well aware of all that was going on around. Still he would not change. "I have no friend in this world excepting yourself, my dear Subuddhi," exclaimed Durbuddhi one day to his royal friend while they were riding together. "Fear nothing. I shall ever stand by you as your true friend," replied Subuddhi. "My very father hates me. Who else would like me then? On the other hand, every one likes you. You may soon get yourself married to some beautiful lady, while I must remain a bachelor; for no girl would marry me. You may soon rise to the place of a king; but I cannot become your minister, as the people do not like me. What can I do?" So said the minister's son, and hung down his head, as if conscious for a time of the utter hatred with which the people regarded him. Subuddhi replied, "Heed it not, I will make you my minister, give you everything you want, and see you well provided for." "If so, will you give me your wife one day, at least, if you happen to get married before me, and if I remain a bachelor after you," were the words which the wretched Durbuddhi shamelessly uttered to the face of his only friend. These words were enough in themselves to enrage the prince's mind. But he was of so good a nature that instead of becoming angry, he smiled at the stupidity of his companion, and agreed that he would thus give him his wife one day in case he got married first. Thus took place an agreement between Subuddhi and Durbuddhi while they were still quite young. Several years passed after this agreement, when one day the prince went to hunt in a neighbouring forest. His inseparable companion, the minister's son, and several hunters followed him to the wood. The prince and the minister's son both gave chase to a deer. They rode so much in advance of the hunters that they lost themselves in a thick jungle, where the latter could neither see nor follow them. The hunters returned after dark, and informed the king and the minister about the disappearance of their sons. They thought that as their sons were grown-up men they need not fear for their safety. The two friends chased the deer and found themselves in the midst of a thick forest in the evening. Except a slight breakfast in the early morning they had tasted no other food. Hunger was pinching them severely. The hot chase had awakened a severe thirst, to quench which they were not able to find a drop of water. In utter hopelessness of life they resigned themselves to the course of their steeds. The beasts seemed very well to understand the wants of their royal riders. They went on trotting, and at last, about midnight, stopped on the banks of a large tank. The riders, who were almost dead with thirst, opened their closed eyes when the horses stopped. All of a sudden, and to their great joy, they found themselves on the banks of a large tank. Their joy knew no bounds. "Surely God takes care of His children. Had it not been for His kind care how could we have come to this tank, when we had given ourselves up to the guidance of our horses?" thought Subuddhi to himself, and got down from his horse. The minister's son, who had become more exhausted by that time than his companion, also alighted. Subuddhi, true to the nobility of his mind, took both the steeds first to water, and, after satisfying their thirst and loosening them to graze by the side of a grassy meadow, he went into the water to quench his thirst. The minister's son also followed. After a short prayer Subuddhi took some handfuls of water, and returned to the bank. Durbuddhi also returned. They chose a clean spot, and sat down to rest during the remaining part of the night. The prince, when taking his seat, pronounced his usual motto, "Charity alone conquers," and the minister's son also repeated his, "Absence of Charity alone conquers." These words fell like venom into the ears of the prince at that time. He could not control his anger then, notwithstanding his mild disposition. The hardships of the day, their fortunate arrival on a tank in the dead of night to have their thirst quenched, were fresh in Subuddhi's mind, and the prayers that he was offering to God were not yet over. That the minister's son should never think of all this, and go on with his own stupid motto even at that time was intolerable to Subuddhi. "Vile wretch! detested atheist! have you no shame, to utter your wicked motto even after such calamities? It is not too late even now. Mend your character. Think of the God that saved you just now. Believe in Him. Change your motto from this day." Thus spoke the angry prince to the minister's son. Durbuddhi, who was naturally of a wicked and quarrelsome temperament, flew into a rage at once at the excellent advice of the prince. "Stop your mouth. I know as well as you do; you cannot wag your tail here. I can oppose you single-handed in this forest." Thus saying, the minister's son sprang like an enraged lion at Subuddhi, who, as he never dreamt of any such thing, was completely overpowered by the wicked Durbuddhi. The prince was thrown down in the twinkling of an eye, and the minister's son was upon him. He severely thrashed his royal master, and, taking hold of a twig that was lying close by, tore out the prince's two eyes, filled up the sockets with sand, and ran away with his horse, thinking that he had completely killed him. Subuddhi was almost dead; his body was bruised all over; his eyes were no more; his physical pain was unbearable. "Is there a God over us all?" thought Subuddhi. The night was almost over. The cool and sweet breeze of the morning gave him some strength. He rose up, and, crawling on the ground, felt his way to the entrance of a temple. He crept in, shut the gates, and fastened the bolt. It happened to be a temple of the fierce Kâlî. She used to go out every morning to gather roots and fruits, and to return at evening. That day, when she returned, she found her gates shut against her. She threatened with destruction the usurper of her temple. A voice, and we know that it was Subuddhi's, replied from within: "I am already dying of the loss of my eyes. So, if in anger you kill me, it is so much the better; for what use is there in my living blind? If, on the contrary, you pity me, and by your divine power give me my eyes, I shall open the gates." Kâlî was in a very difficult position. She was very hungry, and saw no other way of going inside than by giving Subuddhi his eyes. "Open the gates; your request is granted," said Kâlî. No sooner were these words uttered than the prince recovered his eyes. His delight may be better imagined than described. He opened the gates and vowed before Kâlî that he would from that day continue in that temple as her servant and worshipper. The wretched Durbuddhi, after his horrible act, rode on composedly, following the footsteps of his horse, and reached the forest where he had been hunting the day before in company with the prince. He thence returned home all alone. When his father saw him coming back he suspected something wrong to the prince, and asked his son what had become of him. "We chased a deer, and he rode so much in advance of me that he was out of sight, and finding all search vain, I returned alone," was Durbuddhi's reply. "This I would have believed from anyone but yourself. Never plant your feet in these dominions till you bring back the prince again. Run for your life," was the order of the minister, and Durbuddhi accordingly ran off, fearing the anger of his father. Thus the Prince Subuddhi served in the Kâlî temple; and Durbuddhi, fully confident that he had killed his friend, roamed about from place to place, as he saw no possibility of returning to his own country without the prince. Thus passed several months. The goddess Kâlî was extremely delighted at the sincere devotion of Subuddhi, and, calling him one day to her side, said: "My son! I am delighted with your great devotion to me. Enough of your menial services here. Better return now to your kingdom. Your parents are likely to be much vexed at your loss. Go and console their minds." Thus ended Kâlî, and Subuddhi replied: "Excuse me, my goddess, my mother, I no more regard them as my parents. This wood is not a large place if they wished to search for me. As they were so careless about me, I shall also from this day disregard them. You are my father and mother. Therefore permit me to end my days here in your service." So saying, Subuddhi begged Kâlî to allow him to stay, and the goddess agreed accordingly, for some time at least. After a few more months, Kâlî called the prince again to her, and addressed him thus: "My boy! I have devised another plan. Better not, then, go to your parents, as you do not wish to go now. At a short distance from this place, in the Kâvêrî country, reigns a staunch devotee of mine. His daughter had small-pox, and as he forgot to do proper respect to me, I have blinded both her eyes. The king has issued a proclamation that he will give the whole kingdom and his daughter in marriage to him who would cure her of her defect. He has hung up a bell (ghantâ) at which every physician who wishes to try the case strikes. The king comes running as soon as he hears the sound, takes home the doctor and shows him the case. Several persons have tried in vain; for who could repair a defect inflicted by the displeasure of the gods? Now I mean to send you there. That king is a staunch worshipper of my feet. Though I have punished him, still I pity the sad calamity that has come upon his daughter. You had better go there and strike the bell. He will take you and show you the case. For three consecutive days apply my holy ashes to her eyes. Though fools may deride these ashes, still by them a true devotee can work wonders. On the fourth day her eyes will be perfectly restored. Then you will secure her hand, and, what is more, the country of Kâvêrî. Reign there, for you are born to reign, being a prince, and not to spend your time here in this wood. If you do not do so you will commit a sin, and, what is more, incur my displeasure." Thus ended Kâlî, and the prince could not refuse; for he feared the anger of the goddess. Agreeing to her words, and with her manifold blessings, he started and reached the kingdom of Kâvêrî. He struck the bell. The king came running to welcome the new doctor. All the previous physicians had tried by medicines external and internal. The new doctor--Prince Subuddhi--proposed to treat the case by mantras--incantations. The old king, who was very religious, fully believed that the new doctor might effect the cure, and, just as he expected, on the fourth day his daughter's sight was completely restored. The king's joy knew no bounds. He enquired into the parentage of the doctor: and when he came to know that he had princely blood in his veins, that he was as honourably descended as himself, his joy was greatly increased. He sent up a thousand prayers to the god for giving him a royal son-in-law. As promised in his notice, he would have to give his daughter to anyone, whatever he might be, who effected the cure. The lowest beggar, the lowest caste-man, if he had only succeeded in curing her, would have had as much claim to her hand as the prince-physician. So when the person that effected the cure proved to be a prince, the king was extremely delighted, and at once made all arrangements for the marriage of his daughter, and gave her to Subuddhi: and, himself being very old, he gave the kingdom also to the prince at the same time. Thus by the favour of Kâlî, Subuddhi had a princess for his wife and a kingdom to govern. Subuddhi, as we know, was an excellent man. Though he became king now, he consulted his father-in-law in all matters, and, in fact, acted only as manager for the old man. Every evening he used to consult him for an hour or two before disposing of intricate cases. The duty of signing, too, he reserved for the old man. Thus even on those days when there were no cases he used to go to his father-in-law to get papers signed. Thus passed on a couple of years or so. One evening, while sitting in company with his wife in the loftiest room of his palace after the duties of the day, he cast his eyes to the east main street and contemplated the bustle of that part of the town. Carts creaking under the load of merchandise, the flourish with which the goods and wares were exposed for sale, fashionable gentlemen in their fanciful evening costumes walking to and fro, the troublesome hawkers that stand by the roadside questioning every one as to what they would buy, and several other things interested him, and for a time made him somewhat proud even, that he ruled over such a rich country. But sweetness is not always unaccompanied with bitterness. He saw in that same street a man whose face was very familiar to him, but whom he could not at once make out. A black man was sitting on a projecting pyal of a corner of a shop, and was mending some torn gunny bags. Subuddhi looked at him carefully. "Is it the minister's son, Durbuddhi? No; he is not so black; rather was not when I saw him last," thought Subuddhi with himself, and examining his face, he at last exclaimed, "It is he! It is he! It is my friend and companion." "Who is it?" exclaimed the princess, and rushed at once to his side. She had most carefully watched her husband's face for the past few minutes while he was in deep contemplation. "It is my friend, the minister's son, by name Durbuddhi. We were companions from our birth; we played in the same dust, read in the same school, and were ever inseparable companions. I do not know what has brought him to the condition in which I see him now," said Subuddhi, and sent some one to fetch him. Of the wicked and base act of the vile Durbuddhi he did not care to inform his gentle wife, who now retired to her inner apartments, as decorum did not allow her to be in company with her husband when he was receiving others. The persons sent brought in Durbuddhi. Whatever might have been the cruelty that he had received from the hands of the minister's son, the prince began to shed tears when he saw his old companion ushered in, not in that blooming cheerful red complexion in which he had seen him last, but in a weather-beaten dark skin and dejected colour of a coolie in which he saw him a few minutes ago. "I excuse you all your faults, my dear Durbuddhi. Tell me quickly what has brought you to this wretched plight," asked Subuddhi, and while asking he began to cry aloud. The minister's son also shed tears copiously, and cried or pretended to cry; for be it known that he was a perfect scoundrel, born to no good in the world. "My own mischief has brought me to this plight. When I returned to our country, after putting out your eyes and thinking that I had killed you, my father banished me from our dominions, and ordered me never to plant my feet within their limits without bringing you back. As I thought I had put an end to your life I never came back to that tank in search of you. I engaged myself as a coolie in the streets of this town after trying several other places without success, and I now stand before you." Thus ended Durbuddhi, and the prince quite forgot his cruelty to him. He ordered his servants to get the minister's son bathed, and attired in as rich robes as he himself wore. Then he related to him his own story, without omitting a single point, and at once made him his minister. The whole story of Durbuddhi, excepting the single point of his having put out his eyes, the prince related to his wife, father, and mother-in-law. Thus was Durbuddhi again restored to his high position, through the liberal kindness of Subuddhi. Subuddhi did not stop even at this. He began to send him with papers and other things to the old king for signature. This went on for some months. All the while Durbuddhi was as obedient as might be, and by his vile tricks had completely won over the heart of the old king. One evening, after the signatures were over, Durbuddhi stopped for a while as if desirous to speak. "What do you want?" said the old king. "Nothing but your favour," was the only reply, after which he retired. Thus he went on for some days and weeks. Every day he stopped for a few minutes after the state business was over, and when the old king asked the reason for it went on giving evasive answers. At last one evening the old king was extremely provoked. The cunning Durbuddhi had purposely intended this. "What a big fool are you to stop every day as if wishing to speak and never to utter a word," broke out the old king. "I beg pardon of your honour; I was thinking all the while whether I should let out my secret or not. At last, I have come to the conclusion that I will keep it to myself," replied the diabolical Durbuddhi. "No, you shall let it out," roared the old king, whose curiosity was more roused than abated by the words, purposely obscure, of the minister's son. Durbuddhi, after simulating much reluctance at disclosing the supposed secret, loudly began his harangue: "My lord, ever since I came here I have been making enquiries about the nobility of your family, about the sacrifices that you and your ancestors have performed, about the purifications that you and your elders have undergone, and about a thousand other particulars, each of which is enough to secure you and your descendants the place of Achyuta (Achyutapada) himself. These delighted me for a time--I say for a time--for listen, please, to what follows. When I compared with the pure fame of your famous family, that of your son-in-law, my heart began to pain me. Indeed the pain which began at that moment has not yet ceased. Know, then, that your son-in-law is not a prince. No doubt he has royal blood in his veins, which makes him look like a king. How came he to be so skilful in medicine. Just enquire the cause. To be no more in the dark, the king of my country--over which my father is the minister--set out one day on savâr. While passing a barber's street he saw a beautiful damsel of that caste. Bewitched by her beauty the king wanted to include her in his harem, notwithstanding her low position in society. The child of that woman, is your son-in-law. He being the son of a barber-mother acquired thus easily the art of medicine. That a king was his father makes him look like a prince. If he had been of pure birth why should he leave his kingdom, and come here to effect the cure of your daughter? Except this prince, or supposed prince, all those that came here were mere doctors by caste." Thus ended the vile Durbuddhi, and taking in his hand the papers, vanished out of the room quickly, like a serpent that had stung. The sweet words in which the minister's son clothed his arguments, the rising passion at the thought that he had been falsely imposed upon by a barber's son, the shame--or rather supposed shame--that he thought had come over his family, and a thousand other feelings clouded for a time the clear reason of the old king. He saw no other way of putting an end to the shame than by the murder of his dear daughter and son-in-law first, and of his own self and queen afterwards. At once he sent for the executioner, who came in. He gave him his signet-ring, and commanded him to break open the bed-room of his son-in-law that midnight, and murder him with his wife while asleep. The hukums, or orders given with signet-rings, can never be disobeyed. The executioner humbled himself to the ground, as a sign of his accepting the order, and retired to sharpen his knife for his terrible duty. Neither Subuddhi nor his affectionate wife had any reason to suspect this terrible mandate. The old queen and the treacherous Durbuddhi had equally no reason to know anything about it. The old man, after issuing the hukum, shut himself up in his closet, and began to weep and wail as if he had lost his daughter from that moment. Durbuddhi, after kindling the fire, as says the Tamil proverb, by means of his treachery, came back with the papers to the prince. A thought occurred in his mind that Subuddhi's fate was drawing near. He wanted to carry out the agreement between himself and the prince about the latter's wife. The excellent Subuddhi, who always observed oaths most strictly, was confused for a time. He did not know what to do. To stick to the oath and surrender his wife to another; or to break it and preserve the chastity of his own wife. At last, repeating in his own mind, "Charity alone conquers," and also thinking that Heaven would somehow devise to preserve his wife, he went to her, explained to her how the matter stood, and ordered her to go to the minister's son. She hesitatingly consented; for, as a good wife, she could not disobey her husband's commands. Subuddhi then told Durbuddhi that he might have his wife as his own. The princess went to her mother, crying that her husband had turned out mad. "Or else who would promise to give his wife to another. What does he mean by that?" "My daughter! fear nothing, perhaps, in his boyhood, he made this rash promise without thinking. The promise once made now pains him. Unable to break it, and leaving it to yourself to preserve your chastity, he has so ordered you. And he would, nay must, excuse you, if you by some means or other save yourself, and apparently make good your husband's promise also. A thought just comes to me how to do that. There is your foster-sister, exactly resembling you. I shall send her in your place." So consoling her daughter, the old queen at once made all the requisite arrangements. And, of course, Subuddhi had no reason then to know anything about them. In the middle of the night his door is forced open, and a ruffian with a drawn sword, blazing like lightning, rushes in, and murders the pair. Thus in that very night in which Durbuddhi had reached the topmost point of his vice, he was cut down by the supreme hand of God. For, it is said, that when crime increases, God himself cannot tolerate it. The morning dawned. Subuddhi rose from his couch, and after his morning prayers was sitting in the council hall. The princess and her mother rose from their beds, and were attending to their business. A servant just at that time came running to the old queen, and said: "Our king is weeping in his room that his daughter is now no more. I think that there is something wrong with his majesty's brains to-day. Come and console him." The queen, who knew nothing of what had happened, ran to her husband's room, quite astonished at the change. The husband reported everything to her--the sage-looking minister's son, the barber's son-in-law, and everything, and then concluded that their daughter and son-in-law were no more. "What! compose yourself. Our son-in-law is sitting in his durbar. Our daughter is just adorning herself in her dressing-room. Were you dreaming? Are you in your right senses?" said the queen. The king ordered the executioner to bring the heads, which, on examination, proved to be those of the minister's son and of the foster-sister. The queen told everything of the one-day-wife-giving engagement, and her own arrangements about it. The old king could not understand what all this meant. He drew out his sword and ran to the durbar like a maddened lion, and stood armed before his son-in-law. "Relate to me your true origin, and everything respecting yourself. Speak the truth. How came you to learn medicine? If you are a prince why should you leave your own dominions and come down here? What about this wicked agreement of giving your wife to another? Who is this minister's son?" Subuddhi, without omitting a single point, related everything that had taken place, even to the putting out of his eyes. The old man threw down his sword, took his son-in-law in his arms almost, for so great was his joy at the excellent way which fate had prepared for his escape, and said: "My son, my life, my eye. True it is, true it is. Dharma alone conquers, and you that hold that motto have conquered everything. The vile wretch whom, notwithstanding the series of rogueries that he practised upon you, you protected, has at last found out that his Adharmam never conquers. But he never found it out. It was his Adharmam that cut him off on the very night of his supposed complete conquest by it." Letters were sent at once to Têvai, inviting Suguna and Dharmasîla to the happy rejoicings at the prince and princess's delivery, and a re-marriage was celebrated with all pomp, in honour of their lucky escape. Dharmasîla, as he disliked his son, never shed a single tear for his loss. Subuddhi lived for a long time, giving much consolation to his own and his wife's parents. Through the blessings of Kâlî they had several intelligent sons. VI. VIDÂMUNDAN KODÂMUNDAN. MR. WON'T-GIVE AND MR. WON'T-LEAVE. In a certain town there lived a clever old Brâhman, named Won't-Give. [50] He used to go out daily and to beg in all the houses round, under the pretence that he had to feed several Brâhmans in his own house. Good people, that believed in his words, used to give him much rice and curry stuffs, with which he would come home, and explain to his wife how he had deceived such and such a gentleman by the imposition of feeding in charity many persons at home. But if any hungry Brâhman, who had heard of his empty boast of feeding Brâhmans at home, came to him, he was sent away with some excuse or other. In this way Mr. Won't-Give brought home a basketful of rice and other necessaries every day, of which he only used a small portion for himself and his wife, and converted the remainder into money. And thus, by imposition and tricks, he managed to live well for several years. In an adjoining village there lived another very clever Brâhman, named Won't-Leave. [51] Whenever he found any man reluctant and unwilling to give him anything that he begged of him, he would persist in bothering him until he had wrung from him a dole. This Mr. Won't-Leave, hearing of the charity of Mr. Won't-Give, and his benevolent feeding of Brâhmans, came to see him one day, and requested him to give him a meal. Mr. Won't-Give told him that for that day ten Brâhmans had already been settled, and that if he came the next day he would have his meal without fail. Mr. Won't-Leave agreed to this, and left him for that day. Mr. Won't-Give had, of course, told him the very lie he was accustomed to tell all that occasionally begged meals of him. Now Mr. Won't-Leave was not so stupid as to be thus imposed upon. He stood before Mr. Won't-Give's door precisely at the appointed ghatikâ (hour) the next day, and reminded the master of the house of his promise. Mr. Won't-Give had never before been taken at his word, and determined to send away the impertinent guest by some stronger excuse than the first, and so he spoke to him thus:-- "Sir, I am very sorry to say that my wife fell ill last night of a strong fever, from which she has not yet recovered. Owing to this unforeseen accident I have had to postpone my charitable feedings (samârâdhana) till her recovery, so do not trouble me, please, for some days more." Mr. Won't-Leave heard these words with an expression of sincere, or rather, seemingly sincere, sorrow in his face, and replied:-- "Respected sir, I am very sorry for the illness of the mistress of the house, but to give up charitable feeding of Brâhmans on that account is a great sin. For the last ten years I have been studying the art of cooking, and can now cook for even several hundreds of Brâhmans; so I can assist you now in preparing the necessaries for the samârâdhana." Mr. Won't-Give could not refuse such a request, but he deceitfully determined in his mind to get Mr. Won't-Leave to cook for him, and then to drive him away without giving him his rice. And so he said:-- "Yes, that is a very good idea. I am much obliged to you for your kind suggestion. Come in; let us cook together." So saying, the master of the house took Mr. Won't-Leave inside and they both went into the kitchen, while the mistress of the house, at the command of her husband, pretended to be ill. Now Mr. Won't-Give was a good liver, and prepared, with the assistance of Mr. Won't-Leave, several good dishes. And then the difficulty was to drive the fellow out, for the long-maintained rule of never feeding a single Brâhman must not be broken that day. So, when the cooking was all over, the master of the house gave to Mr. Won't-Leave a kâsu (copper coin), and asked him to bring some leaves from the bâzâr (for plates), and he accordingly went. Mr. Won't-Give, meanwhile, came to his wife, and instructed her thus:-- "My dearest wife, I have spared you the trouble of cooking to-day. Would that we could get such stupid fools as this every day to cook for us! I have now sent him out to fetch us some leaves, and it won't look well if we shut our doors against him or drive him away; so we must make him go away of his own accord. A thought has just come into my mind as to how we can do it. As soon as he comes you shall commence to quarrel with me. I shall then come to you and beat you, or, rather, the ground near you, with both my hands, and you must continue your abuse and cries. The guest will find this very disgusting, and will leave us of his own accord." Mr. Won't-Give had just finished when he saw Mr. Won't-Leave returning with the leaves. The wife, as pre-arranged, abused her husband right and left for his great imprudence and over-liberality in feeding the Brâhmans. Said she: "How are we to get on in the world if you thus empty the house of everything we have in feeding big-bellied Brâhmans? Must you be so particular as to invite them, even when I am sick?" These, and a thousand similar expressions, were now launched at the husband's head. He pretended not to hear it for a time, but at last, apparently overcome by anger, he went in and with his hands gave successive blows on the floor. At every blow on the floor the wife cried out that she was being murdered, and that those who had mercy in their hearts should come to her rescue. Mr. Won't-Leave, from the court-yard of the house, listened to what was taking place inside, but not wishing to interfere in a quarrel between husband and wife, left matters to take their own course, and got into the loft, where he hid himself, fearing that he would be summoned as a witness to the quarrel. After a time Mr. Won't-Give came out of the room where he had been beating the floor, and to his joy he could not find the guest. He cautiously looked round him and saw no signs of Mr. Won't-Leave. Of course, having had no reason to think that his guest would be sitting in the loft, he did not look up there; and even if he had done so, he would not have found him, for he had hidden himself out of sight. Mr. Won't-Give now carefully bolted the door, and his wife came out and changed her dirty cloth for a clean one. Said her husband to her: "At last we have succeeded in driving him out; come, you too must be hungry; let us have our dinner together." Two leaves were spread on the ground, and all the dishes were equally divided into them. Meanwhile Mr. Won't-Leave was watching all that took place below him and, being himself very hungry, was slyly watching for an opportunity to jump down. Mr. Won't-Give, gloating over his trickery, said to his wife: "Well, my love, did I not beat you without hurting you?" to which she replied: "Did I not continue to cry without shedding tears?" when suddenly there fell on their ears: "And did I not come to have my dinner without going away?" and down jumped Mr. Won't-Leave, from the loft, and took his seat in front of the leaf spread by Mr. Won't-Give for his wife. And Mr. Won't-Give, though disappointed, was highly pleased at the cleverness of his guest. This story is cited as the authority for three proverbs that have come into use in Tamil. "Nôvâmal aditten." "Oyâmal aluden." "Pôkâmal vandên." which represent the exchanges of politeness between the husband, the wife, and the guest, quoted in the foregoing paragraphs. VII. VAYALVALLAN KAIYAVALLA. MR. MIGHTY-OF-HIS-MOUTH AND MR. MIGHTY-OF-HIS-HANDS. In two adjoining villages there lived two famous men. The one was called Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth [52]--one that could accomplish wonders with words alone. The other was called Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands [53]--one who could make no use of that glib instrument the tongue, but was able to bear burdens, cut wood, and perform other physical labour. It so happened that they agreed to live together in the house of the Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth, to try and see which of them was the superior. They accordingly kept company for several months, till the great feast of the nine nights (navarâtrî) came on. On the first day of the feast Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands wanted to sacrifice a goat to the goddess Kâlî. So he said to Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth, "My dear friend, we both are mighty in our way, and so it would be shameful for us to buy the goat, that we want to sacrifice, with money. We should manage to get it without payment." "Yes, we must do so, and I know how," replied Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth, and he asked his friend to wait till that evening. Now there lived a shepherd at one ghatikâ's (hour's) distance from their house, and the two friends resolved to go to his fold that night and steal away one of his goats. Accordingly, when it was dark, they approached his fold. The shepherd had just finished his duties to the mute members of his flock, and wanted to go home and have his rice hot. But he had no second person to watch the flock, and he must not lose his supper. So he planted his crook before the fold, and throwing his blanket (kambalî) over it, thus addressed it: "My son, I am very hungry, and so must go for my rice. Till I return do you watch the flock. This wood is rich in tigers and goblins (bhûtas). Some mischievous thief or bhûta--or kûta [54] may come to steal away the sheep. Watch over them carefully." So saying the shepherd went away. The friends had heard what the shepherd said. Of course, Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth laughed within himself at this device of the shepherd to impress upon would-be robbers that he had left some one there to watch his sheep, while really he had only planted a pole and thrown a blanket over it. Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands, however, did not see the trick, and mistaking the stick to be an actual watchman sitting at his duty before the fold, spoke thus to his friend: "Now what are we to do? There is a watchman sitting in front of the fold." Thereon, Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth cleared away his doubts by saying that it was no watchman, but a mere stick, and entered the fold with his friend. It had also so happened that on that very night a bhûta (goblin) had come into the fold to steal away a sheep. It shuddered with fear on hearing the shepherd mention the kûta, for having never heard of the existence of kûtas, it mistook this imaginary being to be something superior in strength to itself. So thinking that a kûta might come to the fold, and not wishing to expose itself till it knew well what kûtas were, the bhûta transformed itself into a sheep and laid itself down among the flock. By this time the two Mighties had entered the fold and begun an examination of the sheep. They went on rejecting one animal after another for some defect or other, till at last they came to the sheep which was none other than the bhûta. They tested it, and when they found it very heavy--as, of course, it would be with the soul of the bhûta in it--they began to tie up its legs to carry it home. When hands began to shake it the bhûta mistook the Mighties for the kûtas, and said to itself:-- "Alas! the kûtas have come to take me away. What am I to do? What a fool I was to come into the fold!" So thought the bhûta as Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands was carrying it away on his head, with his friend following him behind. But the bhûta soon began to work its devilish powers to extricate itself, and Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands began to feel pains all over his body and said to his friend: "My dear Mighty, I feel pains all over me. I think what we have brought is no sheep!" Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth was inwardly alarmed at the words of his friend, but did not like to show that he was afraid. So he said: "Then put down the sheep, and let us tear open its belly, so that we shall each have only one-half of it to carry." This frightened the bhûta, and he melted away on the head of Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands, who, relieved of his devilish burden, was glad to return home safe with his friend. The bhûta, too, went to its abode and there told its fellow-goblins how it had involved itself in a great trouble and how narrowly it had escaped. They all laughed at its stupidity and said, "What a great fool you are! They were not kûtas. In fact there are no kûtas in the world. They were men, and it was most stupid of you to have got yourself into their hands. Are you not ashamed to make such a fuss about your escape?" The injured bhûta retorted that they would not have made such remarks had they seen the kûtas. "Then show us these kûtas, as you choose to call them," said they, "and we will crush them in the twinkling of an eye." "Agreed," said the injured bhûta, and the next night it took them to the house of the Mighties, and said from a distance: "There is their house. I cannot approach it. Do whatever you like." The other bhûtas were amazed at the fear of their timid brother, and resolved among themselves to put an end to the enemies of even one member of their caste. So they went in a great crowd to the house of the Mighties. Some stood outside the house, to see that none of the inmates escaped, and some watched in the back-yard, while a score of them jumped over the walls and entered the court-yard. Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands was sleeping in the verandah, adjoining the courtyard, and when he heard the noise of people jumping about, he opened his eyes, and to his terror saw some bhûtas in the court. Without opening his mouth he quietly rolled himself along the ground, and went to the room where Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth was sleeping with his wife and children. Tapping gently at the door he awoke his friend and said: "What shall we do now? The bhûtas have invaded our house, and will soon kill us." Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth told him quietly not to be afraid, but to go and sleep in his original place, and that he himself would make the bhûtas run away. Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands did not understand what his friend meant, but not wishing to argue rolled his way back to his original place and pretended to sleep, though his heart was beating terribly with fright. Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth now awoke his wife, and instructed her thus: "My dearest wife, the foolish bhûtas have invaded our house, but if you act according to my advice we are safe, and the goblins will depart harmlessly. What I want you to do is, to go to the hall and light a lamp, spread leaves on the floor, and then pretend to awake me for my supper. I shall get up and enquire what you have ready to give me to eat. You will then reply that you have only pepper water and vegetables. With an angry face I shall say, 'What have you done with the three bhûtas that our son caught hold of on his way back from school?' Your reply must be, 'The rogue wanted some sweetmeats on coming home. Unfortunately I had none in the house, so he roasted the three bhûtas and gobbled them up.'" Thus instructing his wife Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth pretended to go to sleep. The wife accordingly spread the leaves and called her husband for his supper. During the conversation that followed, the fact that the son had roasted three goblins for sweetmeats was conveyed to the bhûtas. They shuddered at the son's extraordinary ability, and thought, "What must the father do for his meals when a son roasts three bhûtas for sweetmeats?" So they at once took to their heels. Then going to the brother they had jeered at, they said to him that indeed the kûtas were their greatest enemies, and that none of their lives were safe while they remained where they were, as on that very evening the son of a kûta had roasted three of them for sweetmeats. They therefore all resolved to fly away to the adjoining forest, and disappeared accordingly. Thus Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth saved himself and his friend on two occasions from the bhûtas. The friends after this went out one day to an adjoining village and were returning home rather late in the evening. Darkness fell on them before half the way was traversed, and there lay before them a dense wood infested by beasts of prey: so they resolved to spend the night in a high tree and go home next morning, and accordingly got up into a big pîpal. Now this was the very wood into which the bhûtas had migrated, and at midnight they all came down with torches to catch jackals and other animals to feast upon. The fear of Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands may be more imagined than described. The dreaded bhûtas were at the foot of the very tree in which he had taken up his abode for the night! His hands trembled. His body shook. He lost his hold, and down he came with a horrible rustling of leaves. His friend, however, was, as usual, ready with a device, and bawled out: "I wished to leave these poor beings to their own revelry. But you are hungry and must needs jump down to catch some of them. Do not fail to lay your hands on the stoutest bhûta." The goblins heard the voice which was already very familiar to their ears, for was it not the kûta whose son had roasted up three bhûtas for sweetmeats that spoke? So they ran away at once, crying out: "Alas, what misery! Our bitter enemies have followed us even to this wood!" Thus the wit of Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth saved himself and his friend for the third time. The sun began to rise, and Mr. Mighty-of-his-hands thrice walked round Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth and said: "My dear friend, truly you only of us two are mighty. Mere physical strength is of no use without skill in words. The latter is far superior to the former, and if a man possess both, he is, as it were, a golden lotus having a sweet scent. It is enough for me now to have arrived at this moral! With your kind permission I shall return to my village." Mr. Mighty-of-his-mouth asked his friend not to consider himself under any obligation, and, after honouring him as became his position he let him return to his village. The moral of this short story is that in man there is nothing great but mind. VIII. THE MOTHER-IN-LAW BECAME AN ASS. Little by little the mother-in-law became an ass--vara vara mâmi kaludai pôl ânâl, is a proverb among the Tamils, applied to those who day by day go downwards in their progress in study, position, or life, and based on the following story:-- In a certain village their lived a Brâhman with his wife, mother, and mother-in-law. He was a very good man, and equally kind to all of them. His mother complained of nothing at his hands, but his wife was a very bad-tempered woman, and always troubled her mother-in-law by keeping her engaged in this work or that throughout the day, and giving her very little food in the evening. Owing to this the poor Brâhman's mother was almost dying of misery. On the other hand, her own mother received very kind treatment, of course, at her daughter's hands, but the husband was so completely ruled by his wife, that he had no strength of mind to oppose her ill-treatment of his mother. One evening, just before sunset, the wife abused her mother-in-law with such fury, that the latter had to fly away to escape a thrashing. Full of misery she ran out of the village, but the sun had begun to set, and the darkness of night was fast overtaking her. So finding a ruined temple she entered it to pass the night there. It happened to be the abode of the village Kâlî (goddess), who used to come out every night at midnight to inspect her village. That night she perceived a woman--the mother of the poor Brâhman--lurking within her prâkâras (boundaries), and being a most benevolent Kâlî, called out to her, and asked her what made her so miserable that she should leave her home on such a dark night. The Brâhmanî told her story in a few words, and while she was speaking the cunning goddess was using her supernatural powers to see whether all she said was true or not, and finding it to be the truth, she thus replied in very soothing tones:-- "I pity your misery, mother, because your daughter-in-law troubles and vexes you thus when you have become old, and have no strength in your body. Now take this mango," and taking a ripe one from out her waist-band, she gave it to the old Brâhmanî with a smiling face--"eat it, and you will soon become a young woman like your own daughter-in-law, and then she shall no longer trouble you." Thus consoling the afflicted old woman, the kind-hearted Kâlî went away. The Brâhmanî lingered for the remainder of the night in the temple, and being a fond mother she did not like to eat the whole of the mango without giving a portion of it to her son. Meanwhile, when her son returned home in the evening he found his mother absent, but his wife explained the matter to him, so as to throw the blame on the old woman, as she always did. As it was dark he had no chance of going out to search for her, so he waited for the daylight, and as soon as he saw the dawn, started to look for his mother. He had not walked far when to his joy he found her in the temple of Kâlî. "How did you pass the cold night, my dearest mother?" said he. "What did you have for dinner? Wretch that I am to have got myself married to a cur. Forget all her faults, and return home." His mother shed tears of joy and sorrow, and related her previous night's adventure, upon which he said:-- "Delay not even one nimisha (minute), but eat this fruit at once. I do not want any of it. Only if you become young and strong enough to stand that nasty cur's troubles, well and good." So the mother ate up the divine fruit, and the son took her upon his shoulders and brought her home, on reaching which he placed her on the ground, when to his joy she was no longer an old woman, but a young girl of sixteen, and stronger than his own wife. The troublesome wife was now totally put down, and was powerless against so strong a mother-in-law. She did not at all like the change, and having to give up her habits of bullying, and so she argued to herself thus:-- "This jade of a mother-in-law became young through the fruit of the Kâlî, why should not my mother also do the same, if I instruct her and send her to the same temple." So she instructed her mother as to the story she ought to give to the goddess and sent her there. Her old mother, agreeably to her daughter's injunctions, went to the temple, and on meeting with the goddess at midnight, gave a false story that she was being greatly ill-treated by her daughter-in-law, though, in truth, she had nothing of the kind to complain of. The goddess perceived the lie through her divine powers, but pretending to pity her, gave her also a fruit. Her daughter had instructed her not to eat it till next morning, and till she saw her son-in-law. As soon as morning approached, the poor hen-pecked Brâhman was ordered by his wife to go to the temple and fetch his mother-in-law, as he had some time back fetched away his mother. He accordingly went, and invited her to come home. She wanted him to eat part of the fruit, as she had been instructed, but he refused, and so she swallowed it all, fully expecting to become young again on reaching home. Meanwhile her son-in-law took her on his shoulders and returned home, expecting, as his former experience had taught him, to see his mother-in-law also turn into a young woman. Anxiety to see how the change came on over-came him, and half way he turned his head, and found such part of the burden on his shoulders as he could see, to be like parts of an ass, but he took this to be a mere preliminary stage towards youthful womanhood! Again he turned, and again he saw the same thing several times, and the more he looked the more his burden became like an ass, till at last when he reached home, his burden jumped down braying like an ass and ran away. Thus the Kâlî, perceiving the evil intentions of the wife, disappointed her by turning her mother into an ass, but no one knew of it till she actually jumped down from the shoulders of her son-in-law. This story is always cited as the explanation of the proverb quoted above--vara vara mâmi kaludai pôl ânâl--little by little the mother-in-law became an ass, to which is also commonly added ûr varumbôdu ûlaiyida talaippattal--and as she approached the village, she began to bray. IX. The Story of Appayya. [55] Apupena hatah chorah Hata khadgona kesari Turamgena hatam sainyam Vidhirbhagyanu sarini In a remote village there lived a poor Brâhman and his wife. Though several years of their wedded life had passed, they unfortunately had no children, and so, being very eager for a child, and having no hope of one by his first wife, the poor Brâhman made up his mind to marry a second. His wife would not permit it for some time, but finding her husband resolved, she gave way, thinking within herself that she would manage somehow to do away with the second wife. As soon as he had got her consent the Brâhman arranged for his second marriage and wedded a beautiful Brâhman girl. She went to live with him in the same house with the first wife, who, thinking that she would be making the world suspicious if she did anything suddenly, waited for some time. Isvara himself seemed to favour the new marriage, and the second wife, a year after her wedding, becoming pregnant, went in the sixth month of her pregnancy to her mother's house for her confinement. Her husband bore his separation from her patiently for a fortnight, but after this the desire to see her again began to prey upon his mind, and he was always asking his first wife when he ought to go to her. She seemed to sympathise fully with his trouble, and said:-- "My dearest husband, your health is daily being injured, and I am glad that your love for her has not made it worse than it is. To-morrow you must start on a visit to her. It is said that we should not go empty-handed to children, a king, or a pregnant woman; so I shall give you one hundred apûpa cakes, packed up separately in a vessel, which you must give to her. You are very fond of apûpas and I fear that you will eat some of them on the way; but you had better not do so. And I will give you some cakes packed in a cloth separately for you to eat on your journey." So the first wife spent the whole night in preparing the apûpa cakes, and mixed poison in the sugar and rice-flour of those she made for her co-wife and rival; but as she entertained no enmity against her husband the apûpas cakes for him were properly prepared. By the time the morning dawned she had packed up the hundred apûpas in a brass vessel which could be easily carried on a man's head. After a light breakfast--for a heavy one is always bad before a journey on foot--the Brâhman placed the brass vessel on his head, and holding in his hand the kerchief containing the food for himself on the way, started for the village of his second wife, which happened to be at a distance of two days' journey. He walked in hot haste till evening approached, and when the darkness of night overtook him the rapidity of his walk had exhausted him, and he felt very hungry. He espied a wayside shed and a tank near his path, and entered the water to perform his evening ablution to the god of the day, who was fast going down below the horizon. As soon as this was over he untied his kerchief, and did full justice to its contents by swallowing every cake whole. He then drank some water, and being quite overcome by fatigue, fell into a deep slumber in the shed, with his brass vessel and its sweet, or rather poisonous, contents under his head. Close by the spot where the Brâhman slept there reigned a famous king who had a very beautiful daughter. Several persons demanded her hand in marriage, among whom was a robber chieftain who wanted her for his only son. Though the king liked the boy for his beauty, the thought that he was only a robber for all that prevented him from making up his mind to give his daughter in marriage to him. The robber chief, however, was determined to have his own way, and accordingly despatched one hundred of his band to fetch away the princess in the night without her knowledge while she was sleeping, to his palace in the woods. In obedience to their chieftain's order the robbers, on the night the Brâhman happened to sleep in the shed, entered the king's palace and stole away the princess, together with the bed on which she was sleeping. On reaching the shed the hundred robbers found themselves very thirsty--for being awake at midnight always brings on thirst. So they placed the cot on the ground and were entering the water to quench their thirst; just then they smelt the apûpa cakes, which, for all that they contained poison, had a very sweet savour. The robbers searched about the shed, and found the Brâhman sleeping on one side and the brass vessel lying at a distance from him, for he had pushed it from underneath his head when he had stretched himself in his sleep; they opened the vessel, and to their joy found in it exactly one hundred apûpa cakes. "We have one here for each of us, and that is something better than mere water. Let us each eat before we go into it," said the leader of the gang, and at once each man swallowed greedily what he had in his hand, and immediately all fell down dead. Lucky it was that no one knew of the old Brâhmanî's trick. Had the robbers had any reason to suspect it they would never have eaten the cakes; had the Brâhman known it he would never have brought them with him for his dear second wife. Lucky was it for the poor old Brâhman and his second wife, and lucky was it for the sleeping princess, that these cakes went, after all, into the stomachs of the villainous robbers! After sleeping his fill the Brâhman, who had been dreaming of his second wife all night, awoke in haste to pursue the remainder of his journey to her house. He could not find his brass vessel, but near the place where he had left it he found several men of the woods, whom he knew very well by their appearance to be robbers, as he thought, sleeping. Angered at the loss of his vessel he took up a sword from one of the dead robbers and cut off all their heads, thinking all the while that he was killing one hundred living robbers, who were sleeping after having eaten all his cakes. Presently the princess's cot fell under his gaze, and he approached it and found on it a most beautiful lady fast asleep. Being an intelligent man he perceived that the persons whose heads he had cut off must have been some thieves, or other wicked men, who had carried her off. He was not long in doubt, for not far off he saw an army marching up rapidly with a king at its head, who was saying, "Down with the robber who has stolen away my daughter." The Brâhman at once inferred that this must be the father of the sleeping princess, and suddenly waking her up from her sleep spoke thus to her:-- "Behold before you the hundred robbers that brought you here a few hours ago from your palace. I fought one and all of them single-handed, and have killed them all." The princess was highly pleased at what she heard, for she knew of all the tricks the robbers had previously played to carry her off. So she fell reverently at the Brâhman's feet and said:-- "Friend, never till now have I heard of a warrior who, single-handed, fought one hundred robbers. Your valour is unparalleled. I will be your wife, if only in remembrance of your having saved me from falling into the hands of these ruffians." Her father and his army was now near the shed, for he had all along watched the conduct of the robber chieftain, and as soon as the maid-servants of the palace informed him of the disappearance of the princess and her bed, he marched straight with his soldiers for the woods. His joy, when he saw his daughter safe, knew no bounds, and he flew into his daughter's arms, while she pointed to the Brâhman as her preserver. The king now put a thousand questions to our hero, who, being well versed in matters of fighting, gave sound replies, and so came successfully out of his first adventure. The king, astonished at his valour, took him to his palace, and rewarded him with the hand of the princess. And the robber chieftain, fearing the new son-in-law, who, single-handed, had killed a hundred of his robbers, never troubled himself about the princess. Thus the Brâhman's first adventure ended in making him son-in-law to a king! Now there lived a lioness in a wood near the princess's country, who had a great taste for human flesh, and so, once a week, the king used to send a man into the wood to serve as her prey. All the people now collected together before the king, and said:-- "Most honoured king, while you have a son-in-law who killed one hundred robbers with his sword, why should you continue to send a man into the wood every week. We request you to send your son-in-law next week to the wood and have the lioness killed." This seemed most reasonable to the king, who called for his son-in-law, and sent him, armed to the teeth, into the wood. Now our Brâhman could not refuse to go, for fear of losing the fame of his former exploit, and, hoping that fortune would favour him, he asked his father-in-law to have him hoisted up into a big banyan tree with all kinds of weapons, and this was done. The appointed time for the lioness to eat her prey approached, and as she saw no one coming for her, and as sometimes those that had to come used to linger for a short time in the tree in which the Brâhman had taken refuge, she went up to it to see that no such trick has been played upon her this time. This made the Brâhman tremble so violently that he dropped the sword he held in his hand. At that very moment the lioness happened to yawn, and the sword dropped right into her jaws and killed her. As soon as the Brâhman saw the course which events had taken, he came down from the tree, and invented a thousand stories of how he had given battle to the terrible lioness and overcome her. This exploit fully established his valour, and feasts and rejoicings in honour of it followed, and the whole country round blessed the son-in-law of their king. Near this kingdom there also reigned a powerful emperor, who levied tribute from all the surrounding countries. To this emperor the father-in-law of our most valorous Brâhman, who, at one stroke, had killed one hundred robbers, and, at another, a fierce lioness, had also to pay a certain amount of tribute; but, trusting to the power of his son-in-law, he stopped the tribute to the emperor, who, by the way, was named Appayya Râja, and who, as soon as the tribute was stopped, invaded his dominions, and his father-in-law besought the Brâhman for assistance. Again the poor Brâhman could not refuse, for, if he did, all his former fame would have been lost; so he determined to undertake this adventure also, and to trust to fortune rather than give up the attempt. He asked for the best horse and the sharpest sword, and set out to fight the enemy, who had already encamped on the other side of the river, which flowed at a short distance to the east of the town. Now the king had a very unruly horse, which had never been broken in, and this he gave his son-in-law; and, supplying him with a sharp sword, asked him to start. The Brâhman then asked the king's servants to tie him up with cotton strings tight on to the saddle, and set out on the expedition. The horse, having never till then felt a man on its back, began to gallop most furiously, and flew onwards so fast that all who saw it thought the rider must lose his life, and he too was almost dead with fear. He tried his best to curb his steed, but the more he pulled the faster it galloped, till giving up all hopes of life he let it take its course. It jumped into the water and swam across to the other side of the river, wetting the cotton cords by which the Brâhman was tied down to the saddle, making them swell and giving him the most excruciating pain. He bore it, however, with all the patience imaginable. Presently the horse reached the other side of the river, where there was a big palmyra tree, which a recent flood had left almost uprooted and ready to fall at the slightest touch. The Brâhman, unable to stop the course of the horse, held fast on to the tree, hoping thus to check its wild career. But unfortunately for him the tree gave way, and the steed galloped on so furiously that he did not know which was the safer--to leave the tree or to hold on to it. Meanwhile the wet cotton cords hurt him so that he, in the hopelessness of despair, bawled out appa! ayya! [56] On went his steed, and still he held on to the palmyra tree. Though now fighting for his own life, the people that were watching him from a great distance thought him to be flying to the battlefield, armed with a palmyra tree! The cry of lamentation, appa ayya, which he uttered, his enemy mistook for a challenge, because, as we know, his name happened to be Appayya. Horror-struck at the sight of a warrior armed with a huge tree, his enemy turned and fled. Yathâ râjâ tathâ prajâh--"As is the king so are the subjects,"--and accordingly his followers also fled. The Brâhman warrior (!) seeing the fortunate course events had again taken pursued the enemy, or rather let his courser have its own furious way. Thus the enemy and his vast army melted away in the twinkling of an eye, and the horse, too, when it became exhausted, returned towards the palace. The old king had been watching from the loftiest rooms of his palace all that had passed on the other side of the river, and believing his son-in-law had, by his own prowess, driven out the enemy, approached him with all pomp. Eager hands quickly cut the knots by which the victorious (!) Brâhman had been held tight in his saddle, and his old father-in-law with tears of joy embraced him on his victory, saying that the whole kingdom was indebted to him. A splendid triumphal march was conducted, in which the eyes of the whole town were directed towards our victorious hero. Thus, on three different occasions, and in three different adventures, fortune favoured the poor Brâhman and brought him fame. He then sent for his two former wives and took them into his palace. His second wife, who was pregnant when he first started with the apûpa cakes to see her, had given birth to a male child, who was, when she came back to him, more than a year old. The first wife confessed to her husband her sin of having given him poisoned cakes, and craved his pardon; and it was only now that he came to know that the hundred robbers he killed in his first adventure were all really dead men, and that they must have died from the effects of the poison in the cakes, and, since her treachery had given him a new start in life, he forgave her. She, too, gave up her enmity to the partners of her husband's bed, and all the four lived in peace and plenty for many a long day afterwards. X. THE BRÂHMIN GIRL THAT MARRIED A TIGER. In a certain village there lived an old Brâhmin who had three sons and a daughter. The girl being the youngest was brought up most tenderly and became spoilt, and so whenever she saw a beautiful boy she would say to her parents that she must be wedded to him. Her parents were, therefore, much put about to devise excuses for taking her away from her youthful lovers. Thus passed on some years, till the girl was very nearly grown up, and then the parents, fearing that they would be driven out of their caste if they failed to dispose of her hand in marriage before she came to the years of maturity, began to be eager about finding a bridegroom for her. Now near their village there lived a fierce tiger, that had attained to great proficiency in the art of magic, and had the power of assuming different forms. Having a great taste for Brâhmin's food, the tiger used now and then to frequent temples and other places of public refreshment in the shape of an old famished Brâhmin in order to share the food prepared for the Brâhmins. The tiger also wanted, if possible, a Brâhmin wife to take to the woods, and there to make her cook his meals after her fashion. One day, when he was partaking of his meals in Brâhmin shape at a satra [57], he heard the talk about the Brâhmin girl who was always falling in love with every beautiful Brâhmin boy. Said he to himself, "Praised be the face that I saw first this morning. I shall assume the shape of a Brâhmin boy, and appear as beautiful can be, and win the heart of the girl." Next morning he accordingly became in the form of a great Sâstrin (proficient in the Râmâyana) and took his seat near the ghât of the sacred river of the village. Scattering holy ashes profusely over his body he opened the Râmâyana and began to read. "The voice of the new Sâstrin is most enchanting. Let us go and hear him," said some women among themselves, and sat down before him to hear him expound the great book. The girl for whom the tiger had assumed this shape came in due time to bathe at the river, and as soon as she saw the new Sâstrin fell in love with him, and bothered her old mother to speak to her father about him, so as not to lose her new lover. The old woman too was delighted at the bridegroom whom fortune had thrown in her way, and ran home to her husband, who, when he came and saw the Sâstrin, raised up his hands in praise of the great god Mahêsvara. The Sâstrin was now invited to take his meals with them, and as he had come with the express intention of marrying the daughter, he, of course, agreed. A grand dinner followed in honour of the Sâstrin, and his host began to question him as to his parentage, &c., to which the cunning tiger replied that he was born in a village beyond the adjacent wood. The Brâhmin had no time to wait for further enquiries, and as the boy was very fair he married his daughter to him the very next day. Feasts followed for a month, during which time the bridegroom gave every satisfaction to his new relatives, who supposed him to be human all the while. He also did full justice to the Brâhmin dishes, and swallowed everything that was placed before him. After the first month was over the tiger-bridegroom bethought him of his accustomed prey, and hankered after his abode in the woods. A change of diet for a day or two is all very well, but to renounce his own proper food for more than a month was hard. So one day he said to his father-in-law, "I must go back soon to my old parents, for they will be pining at my absence. But why should we have to bear the double expense of my coming all the way here again to take my wife to my village? So if you will kindly let me take the girl with me I shall take her to her future home, and hand her over to her mother-in-law, and see that she is well taken care of." The old Brâhmin agreed to this, and replied, "My dear son-in-law, you are her husband, and she is yours, and we now send her with you, though it is like sending her into the wilderness with her eyes tied up. But as we take you to be everything to her, we trust you to treat her kindly." The mother of the bride shed tears at the idea of having to send her away, but nevertheless the very next day was fixed for the journey. The old woman spent the whole day in preparing cakes and sweetmeats for her daughter, and when the time for the journey arrived, she took care to place in her bundles and on her head one or two margosa [58] leaves to keep off demons. The relatives of the bride requested her husband to allow her to rest wherever she found shade, and to eat wherever she found water, and to this he agreed, and so they began their journey. The boy tiger and his human wife pursued their journey for two or three ghatikâs [59] in free and pleasant conversation, when the girl happened to see a fine pond, round which the birds were warbling their sweet notes. She requested her husband to follow her to the water's edge and to partake of some of the cakes and sweetmeats with her. But he replied, "Be quiet, or I shall show you my original shape." This made her afraid, so she pursued her journey in silence until she saw another pond, when she asked the same question of her husband, who replied in the same tone. Now she was very hungry, and not liking her husband's tone, which she found had greatly changed ever since they had entered the woods, said to him, "Show me your original shape." No sooner were these words uttered than her husband's form changed from that of a man. Four legs, striped skin, a long tail, and a tiger's face came over him suddenly and, horror of horrors! a tiger and not a man stood before her! Nor were her fears stilled when the tiger in human voice began as follows:-- "Know henceforth that I, your husband, am a tiger--this very tiger that now speaks to you. If you have any regard for your life you must obey all my orders implicitly, for I can speak to you in human voice, and understand what you say. In a couple of ghatikâs we shall reach my home, of which you will become the mistress. In the front of my house you will see half-a-dozen tubs, each of which you must fill up daily with some dish or other, cooked in your own way. I shall take care to supply you with all the provisions you want." So saying the tiger slowly conducted her to his house. The misery of the girl may more be imagined than described, for if she were to object she would be put to death. So, weeping all the way, she reached her husband's house. Leaving her there he went out and returned with several pumpkins and some flesh, of which she soon prepared a curry and gave it to her husband. He went out again after this and returned in the evening with several vegetables and some more flesh, and gave her an order:-- "Every morning I shall go out in search of provisions and prey, and bring something with me on my return; you must keep cooked for me whatever I leave in the house." So next morning as soon as the tiger had gone away she cooked everything left in the house and filled all the tubs with food. At the tenth ghatikâ the tiger returned and growled out, "I smell a man! I smell a woman in my wood." And his wife for very fear shut herself up in the house. As soon as the tiger had satisfied his appetite he told her to open the door, which she did, and they talked together for a time, after which the tiger rested awhile, and then went out hunting again. Thus passed many a day, till the tiger's Brâhmin wife had a son, which also turned out to be only a tiger. One day, after the tiger had gone out to the woods, his wife was crying all alone in the house, when a crow happened to peck at some rice that was scattered near her, and seeing the girl crying, began to shed tears. "Can you assist me?" asked the girl. "Yes," said the crow. So she brought out a palmyra leaf and wrote on it with an iron nail all her sufferings in the wood, and requested her brothers to come and relieve her. This palmyra leaf she tied to the neck of the crow, which, seeming to understand her thoughts, flew to her village and sat down before one of her brothers. He untied the leaf and read the contents of the letter and told them to his other brothers. All the three then started for the wood, asking their mother to give them something to eat on the way. She had not enough rice for the three, so she made a big ball of clay and stuck it over with what rice she had, so as to make it look like a ball of rice. This she gave to the brothers to eat on their way, and started them off to the woods. They had not proceeded long before they espied an ass. The youngest, who was of a playful disposition, wished to take the ass with him. The two elder brothers objected to this for a time, but in the end they allowed him to have his own way. Further on they saw an ant, which the middle brother took with him. Near the ant there was a big palmyra tree lying on the ground, which the eldest took with him to keep off the tiger. The sun was now high in the horizon and the three brothers became very hungry. So they sat down near a tank and opened the bundle containing the ball of rice. To their utter disappointment they found it to be all clay, but being extremely hungry they drank all the water in the pond and continued their journey. On leaving the tank they found a big iron tub belonging to the washerman of the adjacent village. This they took also with them in addition to the ass, the ant, and the palmyra tree. Following the road described by their sister in her letter sent by the crow, they walked on and on till they reached the tiger's house. The sister, overjoyed to see her brothers again, ran out at once to welcome them. "My dearest brothers, I am so glad to see that you have come here to relieve me after all, but the time for the tiger's coming home is approaching, so hide yourselves in the loft, and wait till he is gone." So saying, she helped her brothers to ascend into the loft. By this time the tiger returned, and perceived the presence of human beings by the peculiar smell. He asked his wife whether any one had come to their house. She said, "No." But when the brothers, who with their trophies of the way--the ass, the ant, and so on--were sitting upon the loft, saw the tiger dallying with their sister, they were greatly frightened; so much so that the youngest, through fear, began to quake, and they all fell on the floor. "What is all this?" said the terrified tiger to his wife. "Nothing," said she, "but your brothers-in-law. They came here a watch [60] ago, and as soon as you have finished your meals they want to see you." "How can my brothers-in-law be such cowards," thought the tiger to himself. He then asked them to speak to him, whereon the youngest brother put the ant which he had in his hand into the ear of the ass, and as soon as the latter was bitten, it began to bawl out most horribly. "How is it that your brothers have such a hoarse voice?" said the tiger to his wife. He next asked them to show him their legs. Taking courage at the stupidity of the tiger on the two former occasions, the eldest brother now stretched out the palmyra tree. "By my father, I have never seen such a leg," said the tiger, and asked his brothers-in-law to show their bellies. The second brother now showed the tub, at which the tiger shuddered, and saying, "such a harsh voice, so stout a leg, and such a belly, truly I have never heard of such persons as these!" He ran away. It was already dark, and the brothers, wishing to take advantage of the tiger's terror, prepared to return home with their sister at once. They ate up what little food she had, and ordered her to start. Fortunately for her her tiger-child was asleep. So she tore it into two pieces and suspended them over the hearth, and, thus getting rid of the child, she ran off with her brothers towards home. Before leaving she bolted the front door from inside, and went out at the back of the house. As soon as the pieces of the cub, which were hung up over the hearth, began to roast, they dripped, which made the fire hiss and sputter; and when the tiger returned at about midnight, he found the door shut and heard the hissing of the fire, which he mistook for the noise of cooking muffins. [61] "I see," said he to himself, "how very cunning you are; you have bolted the door and are cooking muffins for your brothers. Let us see if we can't get your muffins." So saying he went round to the back door and entered his house, and was greatly perplexed to find his cub torn in two and being roasted, his house deserted by his Brâhmin wife, and his property plundered; for his wife, before leaving, had taken with her as much of the tiger's property as she could conveniently carry. The tiger now discovered all the treachery of his wife, and his heart grieved for the loss of his son, that was now no more. He determined to be revenged on his wife, and to bring her back into the wood, and there tear her into many pieces in place of only two. But how to bring her back? He assumed his original shape of a young bridegroom, making, of course, due allowance for the number of years that had passed since his marriage, and next morning went to his father-in-law's house. His brothers-in-law and his wife saw from a distance the deceitful form he had assumed, and devised means to kill him. Meanwhile the tiger Brâhmin approached his father-in-law's house, and the old people welcomed him. The younger ones too ran here and there to bring provisions to feed him sumptuously, and the tiger was highly pleased at the hospitable way in which he was received. There was a ruined well at the back of the house, and the eldest of the brothers placed some thin sticks across its mouth, over which he spread a fine mat. Now it is usual to ask guests to have an oil bath before dinner, and so his three brothers-in-law requested the tiger to take his seat on the fine mat for his bath. As soon as he sat on it, the thin sticks being unable to bear his weight, gave way, and down fell the cunning tiger with a heavy crash! The well was at once filled in with stones and other rubbish, and thus the tiger was effectually prevented from doing any more mischief. But the Brâhmin girl, in memory of her having married a tiger, raised a pillar over the well and planted a tulasi [62] shrub on the top of it. Morning and evening, for the rest of her life, she used to smear the pillar with sacred cowdung, and water the tulasi shrub. This story is told to explain the Tamil proverb, "Summâ irukkiraya, suruvattai kâttattuma," which means-- "Be quiet, or I shall show you my original shape." XI. THE GOOD HUSBAND AND THE BAD WIFE. In a remote village there lived a Brâhmin whose good nature and charitable disposition were proverbial. Equally proverbial also were the ill-nature and uncharitable disposition of the Brâhmanî--his wife. But as Paramêsvara (God) had joined them in matrimony, they had to live together as husband and wife, though their temperaments were so incompatible. Every day the Brâhmin had a taste of his wife's ill-temper, and if any other Brâhmin was invited to dinner by him, his wife, somehow or other, would manage to drive him away. One fine summer morning a rather stupid Brâhmin friend of his came to visit our hero and was at once invited to dinner. He told his wife to have dinner ready earlier than usual, and went off to the river to bathe. His friend not feeling very well that day wanted a hot bath at the house, and so did not follow him to the river, but remained sitting in the outer verandah. If any other guest had come, the wife would have accused him of greediness to his face and sent him away, but this visitor seemed to be a special friend of her lord, so she did not like to say anything; but she devised a plan to make him go away of his own accord. She proceeded to smear the ground before her husband's friend with cowdung, and placed in the midst of it a long pestle, supporting one end of it against the wall. She next approached the pestle most solemnly and performed worship (pûjâ) to it. The guest did not in the least understand what she was doing, and respectfully asked her what it all meant. "This is what is called pestle worship," she replied. "I do it as a daily duty, and this pestle is intended to break the head of some human being in honour of a goddess, whose feet are most devoutly worshipped by my husband. Every day as soon as he returns from his bath in the river, he takes this pestle, which I am ordered to keep ready for him before his return, and with it breaks the head of any human being whom he has managed to get hold of by inviting him to a meal. This is his tribute (dakshinâ) to the goddess; to-day you are the victim." The guest was much alarmed. "What! break the head of a guest! I at any rate shall not be deceived to-day," thought he, and prepared to run away. The Brâhmin's wife appeared to sympathise with his sad plight, and said:-- "Really, I do pity you. But there is one thing you can do now to save yourself. If you go out by the front door and walk down the street my husband may follow you, so you had better go out by the back door." To this plan the guest most thankfully agreed, and hastily ran off by the back door. Almost immediately our hero returned from his bath, but before he could arrive his wife had cleaned up the place she had prepared for the pestle worship, and when the Brâhmin, not finding his friend in the house inquired of her as to what had become of him, she said in seeming anger:-- "The greedy brute! he wanted me to give him this pestle--this very pestle which I brought forty years ago as a dowry from my mother's house, and when I refused he ran away by the back-yard in haste." But her kind-hearted lord observed that he would rather lose the pestle than his guest, even though it was a part of his wife's dowry, and more than forty years old. So he ran off with the pestle in his hand after his friend, crying out, "Oh Brâhmin! Oh Brâhmin! Stop please, and take the pestle." But the story told by the old woman now seemed all the more true to the guest when he saw her husband running after him, and so he said, "You and your pestle may go where you please. Never more will you catch me in your house," and ran away. XII. THE GOOD WIFE AND THE BAD HUSBAND. [63] In a remote village there lived a man and his wife, who was a stupid little woman and believed everything that was told her. Whenever people wanted anything from her they used to come and flatter her; but this had to be done in the absence of her husband, because he was a very miserly man, and would never part with any of his money, for all he was exceedingly rich. Nevertheless, without his knowledge cunning beggars would now and then come to his wife and beg of her, and they used generally to succeed, as she was so amenable to flattery. But whenever her husband found her out he would come down heavily upon her, sometimes with words and sometimes with blows. Thus quarrels arose, till at last, for the sake of peace, the wife had to give up her charitable propensities. Now there lived in the village a rogue of the first water, who had many a time witnessed what took place in the rich miser's family. Wishing to revive his old habit of getting what he wanted from the miser's wife he watched his opportunity and one day, when the miser had gone out on horseback to inspect his land, he came to his wife in the middle of the day and fell down at the threshold as if overcome by exhaustion. She ran up to him at once and asked him who he was. "I am a native of Kailâsa," said he, "sent down by an old couple living there, for news of their son and his wife." "Who are those fortunate dwellers on Siva's mountain?" said she. On this the rogue gave the names of her husband's deceased parents, which he had taken good care, of course, to learn from the neighbours. "Do you really come from them?" said she. "Are they doing well there? Dear old people. How glad my husband would be to see you, were he here! Sit down please, and take rest awhile till he returns. How do they live there? Have they enough to eat and to dress themselves?" These and a thousand other questions she put to the rogue, who, for his part, wanted to get away as quick as possible, as he knew full well how he would be treated if the miser should return while he was there, so he said:-- "Mother, language has no words to describe the miseries they are undergoing in the other world. They have not a rag to cover themselves, and for the last six days they have eaten nothing, and have lived on water only. It would break your heart to see them." The rogue's pathetic words fully deceived the good woman, who firmly believed that he had come down from Kailâsa, sent by the old couple to her. "Why should they suffer so?" said she, "when their son has plenty to eat and to dress himself, and when their daughter-in-law wears all sorts of costly ornaments?" With that she went into the house and came out with two boxes containing all the clothes of herself and her husband, and gave the whole lot to the rogue, with instructions to take them to her poor old people in Kailâsa. She also gave him her jewel box for her mother-in-law. "But dress and jewels will not fill their hungry stomachs," said he. Requesting him to wait a little, the silly woman brought out her husband's cash chest and emptied the contents into the rogue's coat, [64] who now went off in haste, promising to give everything to the good people in Kailâsa. Our good lady in accordance with etiquette, conducted him a few hundred yards along the road and sent news of herself through him to her relatives, and then returned home. The rogue now tied up all his booty in his coat and ran in haste towards the river and crossed over it. No sooner had our heroine reached home than her husband returned after his inspection of his lands. Her pleasure at what she had done was so great, that she met him at the door and told him all about the arrival of the messenger from Kailâsa, and how she had sent clothes, and jewels, and money through him to her husband's parents. The anger of her husband knew no bounds. But he checked himself for a while, and asked her which road the messenger from Kailâsa had taken, as he said he wanted to follow him and send some more news to his parents. To this she willingly agreed and pointed out the direction the rogue had gone. With rage in his heart at the trick played upon his stupid wife, our hero rode on in hot haste, and after a ride of two ghatikâs he caught sight of the departing rogue, who, finding escape hopeless, climbed up into a big pîpal tree. Our hero soon reached the bottom of the tree and shouted to the rogue to come down. "No, I cannot, this is the way to Kailâsa," said the rogue, and climbed up on the top of the tree. Seeing no chance of the rogue's coming down, and as there was no third person present to whom he could call for help, our hero tied his horse to an adjacent tree and began climbing up the pîpal tree himself. The rogue thanked all his gods when he saw this, and waited till his enemy had climbed nearly up to him, and then, throwing down his bundle of booty, leapt quickly from branch to branch till he reached the bottom. He then got upon his enemy's horse, and with his bundle rode into a dense forest in which no one was likely to find him. Our hero being much older in years was no match for the rogue. So he slowly came down, and cursing his stupidity in having risked his horse to recover his property, returned home at his leisure. His wife, who was waiting his arrival, welcomed him with a cheerful countenance and said:-- "I thought as much, you have sent away your horse to Kailâsa to be used by your father." Vexed as he was at his wife's words, our hero replied in the affirmative to conceal his own stupidity. Thus, some there are in this world, who, though they may not willingly give away anything, pretend to have done so when, by accident, or stupidity, they happen to lose it. XIII. THE LOST CAMEL AND OTHER TALES. FIRST PART. There was a city called Alakapuri, famous for all the riches that sea and land can yield, and inhabited by people speaking different languages. In that city reigned a king named Alakesa, who was a storehouse of all excellent qualities. He was so just a king that during his reign the cow and the tiger amicably quenched their thirst side by side in the same pond, the cats and the rats sported in one and the same spot, and the kite and the parrot laid their eggs in the same nest, as though they were "birds of a feather." [65] The women never deviated from the path of virtue, and regarded their husbands as gods. Timely rain refreshed the soil, and all Alakesa's subjects lived in plenty and happiness. In short, Alakesa was the body, and his subjects the soul of that body, for he was upright in all things. Now there was in Alakapuri a rich merchant who lost a camel one day. He searched for it without success in all directions, and at last reached a road which he was informed led to another city, called Mathurapuri, the king of which was named Mathuresa. He had under him four excellent ministers, whose names were Bodhaditya, Bodhachandra, Bodhavyapaka, and Bodhavibhishana. These four ministers, being, for some reason, displeased with the king, quitted his dominions, and set out for another country. As they journeyed along they observed the track of a camel, and each made a remark on the peculiar condition of the animal, judging from the footsteps and other indications on the road. [66] Presently they met the merchant who was searching for his camel, and, entering into conversation with him, one of the travellers inquired if the animal was not lame in one of its legs; another asked if it was not blind of the right eye; the third asked if its tail was not unusually short; and the fourth inquired if it was not suffering from colic. They were all answered in the affirmative by the merchant, who was convinced that they must have seen the animal, and eagerly demanded where they had seen it. They replied that they had seen traces of the camel, but not the camel itself, which being inconsistent with the minute description they had given of it, the merchant accused them of having stolen the beast, and immediately applied to king Alakesa for redress. On hearing the merchant's story, the king was equally impressed with the belief that the travellers must know what had become of the camel, and sending for them threatened them with his displeasure if they did not confess the truth. How could they know, he demanded, that the camel was lame or blind, or whether the tail was long or short, or that it was suffering from any malady, unless they had it in their possession? In reply, they each explained the reasons which had induced them to express their belief in these particulars. The first traveller said:-- "I noticed in the footmarks of the animal that one was deficient, and I concluded accordingly that it was lame of one of its legs." The second said:--"I noticed that the leaves of the trees on the left side of the road had been snapped or torn off, whilst those on the right side were untouched, whence I concluded that the animal was blind of his right eye." The third said:--"I saw some drops of blood on the road, which I conjectured had flowed from the bites of gnats or flies, and I thence concluded that the camel's tail was shorter than usual, in consequence of which he could not brush the insects away." The fourth said:--"I observed that while the forefeet of the animal were planted firmly on the ground the hind ones appeared to have scarcely touched it, whence I guessed that they were contracted by pain in the belly of the animal." When the king heard their explanation he was much struck by the sagacity of the travellers, and giving 500 pagodas to the merchant who had lost the camel; he made the four young men his principal ministers, and bestowed on each of them several villages as free gifts. XIII. THE THREE CALAMITIES. From that time these four young men became the confidential advisers of king Alakesa in all important affairs of state, and, as night is the house of sins, they in turn kept a regular watch in the city of Alakapuri, each patrolling the streets during three hours of the night. Thus they continued to faithfully serve king Alakesa, till one night, the First Minister, when his watch was over, proceeded as usual, to see whether the royal bedchamber was properly guarded; after which he went to the temple of the goddess Kâlî, where he heard what seemed to him the voice of a woman, lamenting and sobbing in great distress. Concealing himself behind the vad-tree of the temple, he called out:-- "Who are you, poor woman? and why do you thus weep?" At once the cries ceased, and a voice from the temple inquired:-- "Who art thou that thus questionest me?" Then the minister knew that it was Kâlî herself who wept; so he threw himself on the ground, and, rising up, exclaimed:-- "O, my mother!--Kâlî!--Sambhavi!--Mahamayi! [67] Why should you thus weep?" quoth Kâlî. "What is the use of my revealing it to thee? Canst thou render any assistance?" The minister said that, if he had but her favour, there was nothing he could not do. Then the goddess told him that a calamity was about to come upon the king, and fearing that such a good monarch was soon to disappear from the world, she wept. The thought of such a misfortune caused the minister to tremble; he fell down before the goddess, and with tears streaming from his eyes besought her to save him. Kâlî was much gratified to observe his devotion to his master, and thus addressed him:-- "Know, then, that your king will be in danger of three calamities to-morrow, any one of which will be sufficient to cause his death. First of all, early in the morning, there will come to the palace several carts containing newly-reaped paddy grains. The king will be delighted at this, and immediately order a measure of the paddy to be shelled and cooked for his morning meal. Now, the field in which that paddy grew is the abode of serpents, two of which were fighting together one day, when they emitted poison, which has permeated those grains. Therefore, the morning meal of your king will contain poison, but only in the first handful will it take effect and he will die. Should he escape, another calamity is in store for him at noon. The king of Vijayanagara will send to-morrow some baskets of sweetmeats; in the first basket he has concealed arrows. King Alakesa, suspecting no treachery, will order the first basket to be opened in his presence, and will meet his death by that device. And even should he escape this second calamity, a third will put an end to his life to-morrow night. A deadly serpent will descend into his bed room, by means of the chain of his hanging bed, and bite him. But, should he be saved from this last misfortune, Alakesa will live long and prosperously, till he attains the age of a hundred and twenty years." Thus spake Kâlî, in tones of sorrow, for she feared that the king would lose his life by one of these three calamities. The Minister prostrated himself on the ground, and said that if the goddess would grant him her favour he was confident he could contrive to avert all the threatened evils from the king. Kâlî smiled and disappeared; and the Minister, taking her kind smile as a token of her favour, returned home and slept soundly. As soon as morning dawned, the First Minister arose, and having made the customary ablutions, proceeded to the palace. He took care to reveal to no one the important secret communicated to him by the goddess--not even to his three colleagues. The sun was not yet two ghatikâs [68] above the horizon when several carts containing the finest paddy grains, specially selected for the king's use, came into the courtyard of the palace. Alakesa was present, and ordered a measure of it to be at once shelled and cooked. The coming in of the carts and the king's order so exactly coincided with Kâlî's words that the Minister began to fear that he was quite unequal to the task of averting the fatality; yet the recollection of the smile of the goddess inspired him with fresh resolution, and he at once went to the palace-kitchen and requested the servants to inform him when the king was about to go to dinner. After issuing orders for the storing of the grain, king Alakesa retired to perform his morning ablutions and other religious duties. Meanwhile a carriage containing the jars of sweetmeats sent by the king of Vijayanagara drove up to the palace, and the emissary who accompanied the present, told the royal servants that his master had commanded him to deliver it to king Alakesa in person. The First Minister well understood the meaning of this, and, promising to bring the king, went into the palace, caused one of the servants to be dressed like Alakesa, and conducted him to the carriage. The officer of the Vijayanagara king placed the first jar before the supposed Alakesa, who at once opened it, when lo! there darted forth several arrows, one of which pierced his heart, and he fell dead on the spot. [69] In an instant the emissary was seized and bound, and the officers began to lament the death of their good king. But the fatal occurrence spread rapidly through the palace, and soon the real Alakesa made his appearance on the scene. The officers now beheld one Alakesa dead and fallen to the ground, pierced by the arrow, and another standing there alive and well. The First Minister then related how, suspecting treachery, he brought out a servant of the palace dressed like the king, and how he had been slain in place of his royal master. Alakesa thanked the Minister for having so ingeniously saved his life, and went into the palace. Thus was one of the three calamities to the king averted by the faithful Bodhaditya. When it was the hour for dinner, the king and his courtiers all sat down, with the exception of the First Minister, who remained standing, without having taken a leaf for his own use. The king, observing this, with a smile pointed out a leaf to him, [70] but Bodhaditya would not sit; he wished to be near the king and to abstain from eating on that occasion. So the king allowed him to have his own way. The food having been served on the leaves, the hands of all, including the king, were mingling the rice, ghî, and dhâl for the first course. Near the king stood his faithful Minister Bodhaditya, and, when the king raised the first handful to his mouth, "Stop, my master," cried he, "I have long hoped for this handful as a present to me from your royal hands. I pray you give it to me, and feast upon the rest of the rice on your leaf." This was uttered more in a tone of command than of request, and the king was highly incensed at what he naturally considered as insolence on the part of the Minister. For such a request, especially when made to a king, is deemed nothing less than an insult, while to refuse it is equally offensive. So, whatever thoughts may have passed through Alakesa's mind, recollecting how the Minister had that morning saved his life, he gave him the handful of rice, which Bodhaditya received with delight, feeling grateful for the favour of the goddess in being the means of averting this second calamity. Far different, however, were the sentiments of the king and the assembled company. One and all declared Bodhaditya to be an insolent, proud fellow; but the king, while secretly blaming himself for having allowed him to use so much familiarity, suppressed his anger, in consideration of the important service the Minister had rendered him. On the approach of night the heart of the First Minister throbbed violently, for the third calamity predicted by the goddess was yet to be encountered. His watch being ended, before retiring to rest, he went to examine the royal bedroom, where he saw the light burning brightly, and the king and queen asleep side by side in the ornamented swing cot, which was suspended from the roof by four chains. Presently, he perceived, with horror, a fierce black snake, the smell of which is enough to kill a man, slowly gliding down the chain near the head of the queen. The Minister noiselessly went forward, and with a single stroke of his sharp sword, cut the venomous brute in two. Bodhaditya, to avoid disturbing any person at such an hour of the night, threw the pieces over the canopy of the bed, rejoicing at having thus averted the third and last calamity. But a fresh horror then met his eyes; a drop of the snake's poison had fallen on the bosom of the queen, which was exposed in the carelessness of slumber. "Alas, sacred goddess," he muttered, "why do you thus raise up new obstacles in my efforts to avert the evil which you predicted? I have done what I could to save the king, and in this last attempt I have killed his beloved queen. What shall I do?" Having thus briefly reflected, he wiped off the poison from the queen's bosom with the tip of his little finger, and, lest the contact of the venom with his finger should endanger his own life, he cut the tip of it off and threw it on the canopy. Just then the queen awoke, and perceiving a man hastily leaving the room, she cried: "Who are you?" The Minister respectfully answered: "Most venerable mother! I am your son, Bodhaditya," and at once retired. Upon this the queen thought within herself: "Alas! is there such a thing as a good man in the world? Hitherto I have regarded this Bodhaditya as my son; but now he has basely taken the opportunity of thus disgracing me when my lord and I were sound asleep. I shall inform the king of this, and have that wretch's head struck off before the morning." Accordingly she gently awakened the king, and with tears trickling down her beauteous face, she told him what had occurred, and concluded with these words:--"Till now, my lord, I considered that I was wife to you alone; but this night your First Minister has made me doubt it, since to my question, 'Who are you?' he answered, without any shame, 'I am Bodhaditya,' and went away." On hearing of this violation of the sanctity of his bedchamber, Alakesa was greatly enraged, and determined to put to death such an unprincipled servant, but first to communicate the affair to his three other Ministers. XIII. SECOND PART. When the Second Minister's watch was over, he went to inspect the guard at the royal bedchamber, and Alakesa hearing his footsteps inquired who was there. "Your servant, Bodhachandra, most royal lord," was the reply. "Enter, Bodhachandra," said the king; "I have somewhat to communicate to you." Then Alakesa, almost choking with rage, told him of the gross offence of which his colleague the First Minister had been guilty, and demanded to know whether any punishment could be too severe. Bodhachandra humbled himself before the king, and thus replied-- "My lord, such a crime merits a heavy requital. Can one tie up fire in one's cloth and think that as it is but a small spark it will do us no harm? How, then, can we excuse even slight deviations from the rules of propriety? Therefore, if Bodhaditya be really guilty, he must be signally punished. But permit me to represent to your Majesty the advisability of carefully inquiring into this matter before proceeding to judgment. We ought to ascertain what reasons he had for such a breach of the harem rules; for should we, carried away by anger, act rashly in this affair, we may repent when repentance is of no avail. As an example, I shall, with your Majesty's permission relate a story." The king having at once given his consent, the Second Minister began to relate the STORY OF THE HONEST BUT RASH HUNTER AND HIS FAITHFUL DOG. There dwelt in a certain forest a hunter named Ugravira, who was lord of the woods, and as such, had to pay a fixed sum of money to the king of the country. It happened once that the king unexpectedly demanded of him one thousand five hundred pons. [71] The hunter sold all his property and realised only a thousand pons, and was perplexed how to procure the rest of the required amount. At length he bethought him of his dog, which was of the best kind, and was beloved by him more than anything else in the whole world. He took his dog to an adjacent city, where he pledged him to a merchant named Kubera for five hundred pons, at the same time giving the merchant his bond for the loan. Before going away, the hunter with tears in his eyes, thus addressed the intelligent animal:-- "Mrigasimha, [i.e., lion among beasts] O my faithful friend, do not leave thy new master until I have paid him back the money I have borrowed of him. Obey and serve him, even as thou hast ever obeyed and served me." Some time after this, the merchant Kubera had to leave home and proceed with his merchandise to foreign countries: so he called the hunter's dog to his side, and bade him watch at his doors and prevent the intrusion of robbers and other evil-disposed persons. The dog indicated, both by his eyes and his tail, that he perfectly understood his instructions. Then the merchant, having enjoined his wife to feed the dog three times every day with rice and milk, set out on his travels. The dog kept his watch outside the house, and for a few days the merchant's wife fed him regularly three times a day. But this kind treatment was not to continue. She had for her paramour a wicked youth of the Setti caste, who, soon after the departure of Kubera, became a constant visitor at the merchant's house. The faithful dog instinctively surmised that his new master would not approve of such conduct; so one night, when the youth was leaving the house, Mrigasimha sprang upon him like an enraged lion, and seizing him by the throat, sent the evildoer to the other world. The merchant's wife hearing the scuffle, ran to the spot to save her lover, but found him dead. Though extremely grieved at the loss of her paramour, she had the presence of mind to immediately carry the body to the garden at the back of the house, where she concealed it in a great pit, and covered it with earth and leaves, vainly thinking that she had thus concealed her own shame. All this was not done, however, without being observed by the watchful dog; and, henceforward, the merchant's wife hated him with a deadly hatred. She no longer gave him food, and the poor creature was fain to eat such grains of rice as he found adhering to the leaves thrown out of the house after meals, still keeping guard at the door. After an absence of two months the merchant returned, and the dog, the moment he saw him, ran up to him and rolled himself on the ground at his feet; then seizing the merchant's cloth he dragged him to the very spot in the garden where the youth's body was hidden, and began to scratch the ground, at the same time looking into the merchant's face and howling dismally, from which Kubera concluded that the dog wished him to examine the place. Accordingly he dug up the spot and discovered the body of the youth, whom, indeed, he had suspected of being his wife's paramour. In a great fury he rushed into the house and commanded his wife, on pain of instant death, to relate the particulars of this affair without concealing anything. The wretched woman, seeing that her sin was discovered, confessed all, upon which her husband exclaimed!-- "Disgrace of womankind! you have not a fraction of the virtue possessed by this faithful brute, which you have, out of revenge, allowed to starve. But why should I waste words on thee? Happy am I in having no children by thee! Depart, and let me see thy face no more." So saying, he thrust her out of the house. Then the merchant fed the dog with milk, rice and sugar, after which he said to that lion of beasts (Mrigasimha, as he was called)-- "Thou trusty friend, language fails to express my gratitude to thee. The five hundred pons which I lent thy old master the hunter are as nothing compared with thy services to me, by which I consider the debt as more than paid. What must be the feelings of the hunter without thy companionship? I now give thee leave to return to him." The merchant took the hunter's bond, and tearing it slightly at the top as a token that it was cancelled, he placed it in the dog's mouth and sent him back to his former master, and he at once set off towards the forest. Now by this time the hunter had contrived to save up the five hundred pons, and with the money and the interest due thereon, he was going to the merchant to redeem his bond and reclaim his dog. To his great surprise he met Mrigasimha on the way, and as soon as the dog perceived him he ran up to him to receive his caresses. But the hunter immediately concluded that the poor brute, in his eagerness to rejoin him, had run away from the merchant, and determined to put him to death. Accordingly he plucked a creeper, and fastening it round the dog's neck tied him to a branch of a tree, and the faithful creature, who was expecting nothing but kindness from his old master, was by him most cruelly strangled. The hunter then continued his journey, and, on reaching the merchant's house, he laid down the money before him. "My dear friend," said Kubera, "the important service your dog rendered me in killing my wife's paramour, has amply repaid your debt, so I gave him permission to return to you, with your bond in his mouth. Did you not meet him on your way? But why do you look so horrified? What have you done to the dog?" The hunter, to whom everything was now only too clear, threw himself on the ground, like a huge tree cut at the root, and, after telling Kubera how he had inconsiderately slain the faithful dog, stabbed himself with his dagger. The merchant grieved at the death both of the dog and the hunter, which would not have occurred had he waited until Ugravira came to redeem his bond, snatched the weapon out of the hunter's breast and also stabbed himself. The news of this tragedy soon reached the forest, and the wife of the hunter, not wishing to survive her lord, threw herself into a well and was drowned. Lastly, even the wife of the merchant, finding that so many fatalities were due to her own misconduct, and that she was despised by the very children in the streets, put an end to her wretched life. "Thus," added the Second Minister, "five lives were lost in consequence of the hunter's rashness. Wherefore I would respectfully beseech your Majesty to investigate the case of Bodhaditya, and to refrain from acting merely under the influence of anger." Having thus spoken, Bodhachandra obtained leave to retire to his own house. XIII. THIRD PART. At the end of the third watch of the night, Bodhavyapaka, the Third Minister of king Alakesa, went to see whether the royal bedchamber was properly guarded, and the king, summoning him to his presence, told him of the First Minister's crime, upon which Bodhavyapaka, after making due obeisance, thus spake:-- "Most noble king, such a grave crime should be severely punished, but it behoves us not to act before having ascertained that he is guilty beyond doubt, for evil are the consequences of precipitation, in proof of which I know a story which I will relate, with your Majesty's leave." STORY OF THE BRÂHMAN'S WIFE AND THE MUNGOOSE. On the banks of the Ganges, which also flows by the most holy city of Banaras, there is a town named Mithila, where dwelt a very poor Brâhman called Vidyadhara. He had no children, and to compensate for this want, he and his wife tenderly nourished in their house a mungoose--a species of weasel. It was their all in all--their younger son, their elder daughter--their elder son, their younger daughter, so fondly did they regard that little creature. The god Visvesvara and his spouse Visalakshi observed this, and had pity for the unhappy pair; so by their divine power they blessed them with a son. This most welcome addition to their family did not alienate the affections of the Brâhman and his wife from the mungoose; on the contrary, their attachment increased, for they believed that it was because of their having adopted the pet that a son had been born to them. So the child and the mungoose were brought up together, as twin brothers, in the same cradle. It happened one day when the Brâhman had gone out to beg alms of the pious and charitable, that his wife went into the garden to cull some pot-herbs, leaving the child asleep in his cradle, and by his side the mungoose kept guard. An old serpent, which was living in the well in the garden, crept into the house and under the cradle, and was beginning to climb into it to bite the child when the mungoose fiercely attacked it and tore it into several pieces, thus saving the life of the Brâhman's little son, and the venomous snake, that came to slay, itself lay dead beneath the cradle. Pleased at having performed such an exploit, the mungoose ran into the garden to show the Brâhman's wife its blood-smeared mouth, but she rashly mistook the deliverer of her child for his destroyer, and with one stroke of the knife in her hand with which she was cutting herbs she killed the faithful creature, and then hastened into the house to see her dead son. But there she found the child in his cradle alive and well, only crying at the absence of his little companion, the mungoose, and under the cradle lay the great serpent cut to pieces. The real state of affairs was now evident, and the Brâhman presently returning home, his wife told him of her rash act and then put an end to her life. The Brâhman, in his turn, disconsolate at the death of the mungoose and his wife, first slew his child and then killed himself. "And thus," added the Third Minister, "by one rash act four creatures perished, so true is it that precipitation results in a series of calamities. Do not, then, condemn Bodhaditya before his guilt is clearly proved." Alakesa, having given Bodhachandra the signal to retire, he quitted the presence and went home. When the watch of the Fourth Minister, Bodhavibhishana, was terminated, he visited the private apartments of the king (who had been meanwhile pondering over the stories he had heard), and was called into the sleeping chamber by Alakesa, and informed of his colleague's unpardonable offence. The Minister, after due prostration, thus addressed his royal master:-- "Great king, I can scarcely bring myself to believe that Bodhaditya could ever be guilty of such a crime, and I would respectfully remind your Majesty that it would not be consistent with your world-wide reputation for wisdom and justice were you to pronounce judgment in this case without having inquired into all the circumstances. Evil and injustice result from hasty decisions and actions, of which a striking illustration is furnished in the STORY OF THE FAITHLESS WIFE AND THE UNGRATEFUL BLIND MAN. In the town of Mithila there lived a young Brâhman who, having had a quarrel with his father-in-law, set out on a pilgrimage to Banaras. Going through a forest he met a blind man, whose wife was leading him by means of a stick, one end of which she held in her hand, and her husband holding the other end was following her. She was young and fair of face, and the pilgrim made signs to her that she should go with him and leave her blind husband behind. The proposal thus signified pleased this wanton woman, so she bade her husband sit under a tree for a few minutes while she went and plucked him a ripe mango. The blind man sat down accordingly, and his wife went away with the Brâhman. After waiting a long time in expectation of his wife's return, and no person coming near him, (for it was an unfrequented place), her infidelity became painfully apparent to him, and he bitterly cursed both her and the villain who had enticed her away from him. For six days he remained at the foot of the tree, in woeful condition, without a morsel of rice or a drop of water, and he was well nigh dead, when at length he heard the sound of footsteps near him, and cried faintly for help. A man of the Setti caste and his wife came up to him, and inquired how he happened to be in such a plight. The blind man told them how his wife had deserted him, and gone away with a young Brâhman whom they had met, leaving him there alone and helpless. His story excited the compassion of the Setti and his wife. They gave him to eat of the small quantity of rice they had with them, and, having supplied him with water to quench his thirst, the Setti bade his wife lead him with his stick. The woman, though somewhat reluctant to walk thus in company with a man who was not her husband, yet, reflecting that charitable actions ought never to be left undone, complied with her lord's request, and began to lead the blind man. After travelling in this manner for a day, the three reached a town, and took up their abode for the night in the house of a friend of the Setti, where the latter and his wife gave the blind man a share of their rice before tasting a morsel themselves. At daybreak the next morning they advised him to try to provide for himself in some way in that town, and prepared to resume their journey. But the blind man, forgetting all the kindness they had shown him, began to raise an alarm, crying out:-- "Is there no king in this city to protect me and give me my rights? Here is a Setti rascal taking away my wife with him! As I am blind, she denies that I am her husband, and follows that rogue! But will not the king give me justice?" The people in the street at once reported these words to the king, who caused inquiry to be made into the matter. The fact of the Setti's wife having led the blind man, seemed to indicate that the latter, and not the Setti, was the woman's husband, and foolishly concluded that both the Setti and his wife were the real criminals. Accordingly he sentenced the Setti to the gallows, because he attempted to entice away a married woman, and his wife to be burnt in the kiln, as she wished to forsake her husband, and he a blind man. When these sentences were pronounced the blind man was thunder-struck. The thought that by a deliberate lie he had caused the death of two innocent persons now stung him to the heart. By this lie he expected that the Setti only should be punished, and that his wife would be made over to him as his own wife, but now he found she also was condemned to death. "Vile wretch that I am!" said he; "I do not know what sins I committed in my former life to be thus blind now. My real wife, too, deserted me; and I, heaping sins upon sins, have now by a false report sent to death an innocent man and his wife, who rescued me from a horrible fate and tended to all my wants last night. O, Mahêsvara! what punishment you have in reserve for me I know not." This soliloquy, being overheard by some by-standers, was communicated to the king, who bitterly reproaching himself for having acted so rashly, at once released the good Setti and his wife, and caused the ungrateful blind man to be burnt in the kiln. "Thus, you see, my lord," added the fourth Minister, "how nearly that king had plunged himself into a gulf of crime by his rashness. Therefore, my most noble king, I would respectfully and humbly request you to consider well the case of Bodhaditya, and punish him severely if he be found really guilty." Having thus spoken, the Fourth Minister obtained leave to depart. XIII. FOURTH PART. The night was now over: darkness, the harbourer of vice, fled away; the day dawned. King Alakesa left his bedchamber, bathed and made his religious ablutions, and, after breakfasting, summoned a council of all his father's old ministers and advisers. Alakesa took his seat in the midst of the assembly; anger was clearly visible in his countenance; his eyes had lost their natural expression and had turned very red; his breath was as hot as that of a furnace. He thus addressed them:-- "Know ye all, the ministers of my father and of myself, that last night, during the first watch, my First Minister, Bodhaditya, while I and my queen were asleep in our chamber, came and touched with his finger the bosom of my queen. Consider well the gravity of this crime, and express your opinions as to what punishment he merits." Thus spake king Alakesa, but all the ministers, not knowing what answer to return, hung down their heads in silence. Among those present was an aged minister named Manuniti, who called Bodhaditya to his side and privately learned the whole story. He then humbly bowed before the king, and thus spake:-- "Most noble king, men are not always all-wise, and, before replying to your Majesty's question, I beg permission to relate in your presence the story of a king in whose reign a certain benevolent action was repaid with disgrace and ignominy:-- STORY OF THE WONDERFUL MANGO FRUIT. On the banks of the Kâvêrî there was a city called Tiruvidaimarudur, where ruled a king named Chakraditya. In that city there lived a poor Brâhman and his wife, who, having no children, brought up in their house a young parrot as tenderly as if it had been their own offspring. One day the parrot was sitting on the roof of the house, basking itself in the morning sun, when a large flock of parrots flew past, talking to each other about certain mango fruits. The Brâhman's parrot asked them what were the peculiar properties of those fruits, and was informed that beyond the seven oceans there was a great mango tree, the fruit of which gave perpetual youth to the person who ate of it, however old and infirm he might be. On hearing of this wonder the Brâhman's parrot requested permission to accompany them, which being granted, they all continued their flight. When at length they arrived at the mango tree, all ate of its fruit; but the Brâhman's parrot reflected:-- "It would not be right for me to eat this fruit; I am young, while my adopted parents, the poor Brâhman and his wife are very old. So I shall give them this fruit, and they will become young and blooming by eating it." And that same evening the good parrot brought the fruit to the Brâhman, and explained to him its extraordinary properties. But the Brâhman thought within himself:-- "I am a beggar. What matters it if I become young and live for ever, or else die this very moment? Our king is very good and charitable. If such a great man should eat of this fruit and renew his youth, he would confer the greatest benefit on mankind. Therefore I will give this mango to our good king." In pursuance of this self-denying resolution, the poor Brâhman proceeded to the palace and presented the fruit to the king, at the same time relating how he had obtained it and its qualities. The king richly rewarded the Brâhman for his gift, and sent him away. Then he began to reflect thus:-- "Here is a fruit which can bestow perpetual youth on the person who eats it. I should gain this great boon for myself alone, and what happiness could I expect under such circumstances unless shared by my friends and subjects? I shall therefore not eat this mango-fruit, but plant it carefully in my garden, and it will in time become a tree, which will bear much fruit having the same wonderful virtue, and my subjects shall, every one, eat of the fruit, and, with myself, be endowed with everlasting youth." So, calling his gardener, the king gave him the fruit, and he planted it in the royal presence. In due course of time the fruit grew into a fine tree, and during the spring season it began to bud and blossom and bear fruit. The king, having fixed upon an auspicious day for cutting one of the mango-fruits, gave it to his domestic chaplain, who was ninety years old, in order that his youth should be renewed. But no sooner had the priest tasted it than he fell down dead. At this unexpected calamity the king was both astonished and deeply grieved. When the old priest's wife heard of her husband's sudden death she came and prayed the king to allow her to perform sati with him on the same funeral pyre, which increased the king's sorrow; but he gave her the desired permission, and himself superintended all the ceremonies of the cremation. King Chakraditya then sent for the poor Brâhman, and demanded of him how he had dared to present a poisonous fruit to his king. The Brâhman replied:-- "My lord, I brought up a young parrot in my house, in order to console me for having no son. That parrot brought me the fruit one day, and told me of its wonderful properties. Believing that the parrot spoke the truth, I presented it to your Majesty, never for a moment suspecting it to be poisonous." The king listened to the poor Brâhman's words, but thought that the poor priest's death should be avenged. So he consulted his ministers who recommended, as a slight punishment, that the Brâhman should be deprived of his left eye. This was done accordingly, and, on his return home, when his wife saw his condition, she asked the reason of such mutilation. "My dear," said she, "the parrot we have fostered so tenderly is the cause of this." And they resolved to break the neck of the treacherous bird. But the parrot, having overheard their conversation, thus addressed them:-- "My kind foster parents, everyone must be rewarded for the good actions or punished for the evil deeds of his previous life. I brought you the fruit with a good intention, but my sins in my former life have given it a different effect. Therefore I pray you to kill me and bury me with a little milk in a pit. And, after my funeral ceremony is over, I request you to undertake a pilgrimage to Banaras to expiate your own sins." So the old Brâhman and his wife killed their pet parrot and buried it as directed, after which, overcome with grief, they set out on a pilgrimage to the Holy City. Meanwhile the king commanded his gardener to set guards over the poison-tree, and to allow no one to eat of its fruit; and all the inhabitants soon came to know that the king had a mango tree in his garden, the fruit of which was deadly poison. Now, there was in the city an old washerwoman, who had frequent quarrels with her daughter-in-law, and one day, being weary of life, she left the house, threatening to eat of the poison tree and die. The young parrot who was killed for having brought the poisonous mango-fruit was re-born as a green parrot, and was waiting for an opportunity to demonstrate the harmless nature of the tree; and when he saw the old woman approach with a determination to put an end to her life by eating of its fruit, he plucked one with his beak and dropped it down before her. The old woman rejoiced that fate sanctioned her death, and greedily ate the fruit, when lo! instead of dying she became young and blooming again. Those who had seen her leave the house a woman over sixty years of age were astonished on seeing her return as a handsome girl of sixteen and learning that the wonderful transformation was caused by the supposed poisonous mango-tree. The strange news soon reached the king, who, in order to test the tree still further, ordered another fruit of it to be brought and gave it to a goldsmith of more than ninety years of age, who had embezzled some gold which had been entrusted to him to make into ornaments for the ladies of the palace, and was on that account undergoing imprisonment. When he had eaten the fruit, he, in his turn, became a young man of sixteen. The king was now convinced that the fruit of the mango-tree, so far from being poisonous, had the power of converting decrepit age into lusty and perennial youth. But how had the old priest died by eating of it? It was by a mere accident. One day a huge serpent was sleeping on a branch of the mango-tree, and its head hung over one of the fruit; poison dropped from its mouth and fell on the rind of that fruit; the gardener, who had no knowledge of this, when asked to bring a fruit for the priest, happened to bring the one on which the poison had fallen, and the priest having eaten it, died. And now the king caused proclamation to be made throughout his kingdom that all who pleased might come and partake of the mango-fruit, and everyone ate of it and became young. But king Chakaraditya's heart burnt within him at the remembrance of his ill-treatment of the poor Brâhman, who had returned with his wife from Banaras. So he sent for him, explained his mistake, and gave him a fruit to eat, which, having tasted, the aged Brâhman became young and his eye was also restored to him. But the greatest loss of all, that of the parrot who brought the fruit from beyond the seven oceans, remained irreparable. "Thus, my lord," continued the old minister, Manuniti, "it behoves us not to act precipitately in this affair of Bodhaditya, which we must carefully sift before expressing our opinion as to the punishment he may deserve at your majesty's hands." XIII. FIFTH PART. When Manuniti had concluded his story of the wonderful mango-fruit, king Alakesa ordered his four ministers to approach the throne, and then, with an angry countenance he thus addressed Bodhaditya:-- "What excuse have you for entering my bedchamber without permission, thus violating the rules of the harem?" Bodhaditya humbly begged leave to relate to his majesty a story of how a Brâhman fed a hungry traveller and had afterwards to endure the infamy of having caused that traveller's death, and on king Alakesa signifying his consent, he thus began:-- STORY OF THE POISONED FOOD. There was a city called Vijayanagara, to the north of which flowed a small river with mango topes [72] on both banks. One day a young Brâhmin pilgrim came and sat down to rest by the side of the stream, and, finding the place very cool and shady, he resolved to bathe, perform his religious ablutions, and make his dinner off the rice which he carried tied up in a bundle. Three days before there had come to the same spot an old Brâhmin whose years numbered more than three score and ten; he had quarrelled with his family, and had fled from his house to die. Since he had reached that place he had tasted no food, and the young pilgrim found him lying in a pitiable state, and placed near him a portion of his rice. The old man arose, and proceeded to the rivulet in order to wash his feet and hands, and pronounce a holy incantation or two before tasting the food. While thus engaged a kite, carrying in its beak a huge serpent, alighted upon the tree at the foot of which was the rice given by the pilgrim to the old man, and while the bird was feasting on the serpent some of its poison dropped on the rice, and the old Brâhmin, in his hunger, did not observe it on his return; he greedily devoured some of the rice, and instantly fell down dead. The young pilgrim, seeing him prostrate on the ground, ran to help him, but found that life was gone; and concluding that the old man's hasty eating after his three days' fast must have caused his death, and being unwilling to leave his corpse to be devoured by kites and jackals, he determined to cremate it before resuming his journey. With this object he ran to the neighbouring village, and, reporting to the people what had occurred on the tope, requested their assistance in cremating the old man's body. The villagers, however, suspected that the young pilgrim had killed and robbed the old Brâhmin; so they laid hold of him, and, after giving him a severe flogging, imprisoned him in the village temple of Kâlî. Alas! what a reward was this for his kind hospitality! and how was he repaid for his beneficence! The unhappy pilgrim gave vent to his sorrows in the form of verses in praise of the goddess in whose temple he was a prisoner; for he was a great Pandit, versed in the four Vêdas, and the six Sâstras, and the sixty-four varieties of knowledge. On hearing the pilgrim's verses, the rage of the goddess descended upon the villagers, who had so rashly accused and punished him for a crime of which he was innocent. Suddenly the whole village was destroyed by fire, and the people lost all their property, and were houseless. In their extremity they went to the temple of Kâlî, and humbly requested the goddess to inform them of the cause of the calamity which had thus unexpectedly come upon them. The goddess infused herself into the person of one of the villagers, and thus responded:-- "Know ye, unkind villagers, that ye have most unjustly scourged and imprisoned in our presence an innocent, charitable, and pious Brâhmin. The old man died from the effects of the poison, which dropped from a serpent's mouth on some rice at the foot of a tree when it was being devoured by a kite. Ye did not know of this; nevertheless ye have maltreated a good man without first making due inquiry as to his guilt or innocence. For this reason we visited your village with this calamity. Beware, and henceforward avoid such sins." So saying, Kâlî departed from the person through whom she had manifested herself. [73] Then the villagers perceived the grievous error into which they had fallen. They released the good pilgrim and implored his forgiveness, which he readily granted. And thus was an innocent man charged with murder in return for his benevolent actions. "Even so," continued Bodhaditya, "my most noble sovereign, I have this day had to endure the infamy of having violated the harem for saving your valuable life." He then sent for a thief who was undergoing imprisonment, and gave him the handful of rice which he had the preceding day snatched from the king at dinner, and the thief having eaten it, instantly died. He next caused a servant to go to the royal bed-chamber, and fetch from the canopy of the couch the pieces of the serpent and his little finger-tip, which he laid before the wonder-struck king and the counsellors, and then addressed his majesty as follows:-- "My most noble king, and ye wise counsellors, it is known to you all that we four ministers keep watch over the town during the four quarters of the night, and mine is the first watch. Well, while I was on duty the day before yesterday, I heard a weeping voice in the direction of the temple. I proceeded to the spot, and discovered the goddess sobbing bitterly. She related to me how three calamities awaited the king on the morrow. The first of them was the arrows despatched by the king of Vijayanagara as sweetmeats to our Sovereign; the second was the poisoned rice, and the third the serpent. In trying to avert these calamities, I have committed the offence of entering the harem." And he thereupon explained the whole affair from first to last. King Alakesa and the whole assembly were highly delighted at the fidelity and devotion of Bodhaditya; for it was now very evident that he had done nothing amiss, but had saved the life of the king on three occasions, and indeed also the life of the queen by wiping off the serpent's poison which had fallen on her bosom. Then Alakesa related the following story in explanation of the proverb:-- "EATING UP THE PROTECTOR." [74] In the country of Uttara there lived a Brâhmin named Kusalanatha, who had a wife and six sons. All lived in a state of prosperity for some time, but the entrance of Saturn into the Brâhmin's horoscope turned everything upside down. The once prosperous Brâhmin became poor, and was reduced to go to the neighbouring woods to gather bamboo rice with which to feed his hungry family. [75] One day while plucking the bamboo ears, he saw a bush close by in flames, in the midst of which was a serpent struggling for its life. The Brâhmin at once ran to its rescue, and stretching towards it a long green stick the reptile crept on to it and escaped from the flames, and then spread its hood and with a hissing sound approached to sting its rescuer. The Brâhmin began to weep and bewail his folly in having saved the ungrateful creature, at which the serpent asked him:-- "O Brâhmin, why do you weep?" Said the old man: "You now purpose to kill me; is this the reward for my having saved your life?" "True, you have rescued me from a terrible death, but how am I to appease my hunger?" replied the serpent. And quoth the Brâhmin, "You speak of your hunger, but who is to feed my old wife and six hungry children at my house?" The serpent, seeing the anxiety of the Brâhmin, emitted a precious gem from its hood, and bade him take it home and give it to his wife for household expenses, after which to return to the wood to be devoured. The old man agreed, and, solemnly promising to return without fail, went home. Having given the gem to his family, and told them of his pact with the serpent, the Brâhmin went back to the wood. The serpent had meanwhile reflected upon its own base ingratitude. "Is it right," said it to itself, "to kill him who saved me from the flames? No! I shall rather perish of hunger, if I cannot find a prey to-day, than slay my protector." So when the old Brâhmin appeared, true to his word, the serpent presented him with another valuable gem, and after expressing a wish that he should live long and happily with his wife and children, went its own way, while the Brâhmin returned joyously to his home. "Even as the serpent purposed acting towards its benefactor," continued the king, "so did I, in my rage, intend putting to death my faithful minister and the protector of my life, Bodhaditya; and to free myself from this grievous sin there is no penance I should not undergo." Then king Alakesa ordered a thousand Brâhmins to be fed every day during his life, and many rich gifts to be distributed in temples as atonement for his great error. And from that day Bodhaditya and his three colleagues enjoyed still more of the royal favour. With those four faithful ministers king Alakesa lived a most happy life and had a most prosperous reign. May there be prosperity to all! XIV. THE MONKEY WITH THE TOM-TOM. [76] In a remote wood there lived a monkey, and one day while he was eating wood-apples, a sharp thorn from the tree ran into the tip of his tail, he tried his best to get it out but could not. So he proceeded to the nearest village, and calling the barber asked him to oblige him by removing the thorn. "Friend barber," said the monkey, "a thorn has run into my tail. Kindly remove it and I will reward you." The barber took up his razor and began to examine the tail; but as he was cutting out the thorn he cut off the tip of the tail. The monkey was greatly enraged and said:-- "Friend barber, give me back my tail. If you cannot do that, give me your razor." The barber was now in a difficulty, and as he could not replace the tip of the tail he had to give up his razor to the monkey. The monkey, went back to the wood with his razor thus trickishly acquired. On the way he met an old woman, who was cutting fuel from a dried-up tree. "Grandmother, grandmother," said the monkey, "the tree is very hard. You had better use this sharp razor, and you will cut your fuel easily." The poor woman was very pleased, and took the razor from the monkey. In cutting the wood she, of course, blunted the razor, and the monkey seeing his razor thus spoiled, said:-- "Grandmother, you have spoiled my razor. So you must either give me your fuel or get me a better razor." The woman was not able to procure another razor. So she gave the monkey her fuel and returned to her house bearing no load that day. The roguish monkey now put the bundle of dry fuel on his head and proceeded to a village to sell it. There he met an old woman seated by the roadside and making puddings. Said the monkey to her:-- "Grandmother, grandmother, you are making puddings and your fuel is already exhausted. Use mine also and make more cakes." The old lady thanked him for his kindness and used his fuel for her puddings. The cunning monkey waited till the last stick of his fuel was burnt up, and then he said to the old woman:-- "Grandmother, grandmother, return me my fuel or give me all your puddings." She was unable to return him the fuel, and so had to give him all her puddings. The monkey with the basket of puddings on his head walked and walked till he met a Paraiya [77] coming with a tom-tom towards him. "Brother Paraiya," said the monkey, "I have a basketful of puddings to give you. Will you, in return, present me with your tom-tom?" The Paraiya gladly agreed, as he was then very hungry, and had nothing with him to eat. The monkey now ascended with the tom-tom to the topmost branch of a big tree and there beat his drum most triumphantly, saying in honour of his several tricks:-- "I lost my tail and got a razor; dum dum." [78] "I lost my razor and got a bundle of fuel; dum dum." "I lost my fuel and got a basket of puddings; dum dum". "I lost my puddings and got a tom-tom; dum dum." Thus there are rogues in this innocent world, who live to glory over their wicked tricks. XV. PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL. Corresponding to this English proverb, there is one in Tamil--Ahambhâ vam âlai alikkum--"Self-pride brings destruction;" and the following story is related by the common folk to illustrate it. In a certain village there lived ten cloth merchants, who always went about together. Once upon a time they had travelled far afield, and were returning home with a great deal of money which they had obtained by selling their wares. Now there happened to be a dense forest near their village, and this they reached early one morning. In it there lived three notorious robbers, of whose existence the traders had never heard, and while they were still in the middle of it, the robbers stood before them, with swords and cudgels in their hands, and ordered them to lay down all they had. The traders had no weapons with them, and so, though they were many more in number, they had to submit themselves to the robbers, who took away everything from them, even the very clothes they wore, and gave to each only a small loin-cloth (langôtî), a span in breadth and a cubit in length. The idea that they had conquered ten men, and plundered all their property, now took possession of the robbers' minds. They seated themselves like three monarchs before the men they had plundered, and ordered them to dance to them before returning home. The merchants now mourned their fate. They had lost all they had, except their chief essential, the langôtî, and still the robbers were not satisfied, but ordered them to dance. There was, among the ten merchants, one who was very intelligent. He pondered over the calamity that had come upon him and his friends, the dance they would have to perform, and the magnificent manner in which the three robbers had seated themselves on the grass. At the same time he observed that these last had placed their weapons on the ground, in the assurance of having thoroughly cowed the traders, who were now commencing to dance. So he took the lead in the dance, and, as a song is always sung by the leader on such occasions, to which the rest keep time with hands and feet, he thus began to sing:-- Nâmânum puli per, Tâlanum tiru pêr: Sâvana tâlanai Tiruvanan suttinân, Sâvana tâlan mîdi Tâ tai tôm tadingana. "We are puli men, They are tiru men: If one sâ man, Surrounds tiru men. Sa man remains. Tâ, tai, tôm, tadingana." The robbers were all uneducated, and thought that the leader was merely singing a song as usual. So it was in one sense; for the leader commenced from a distance, and had sung the song over twice, before he and his companions commenced to approach the robbers. They had understood his meaning, which, however, even to the best educated, unless trained to the technical expressions of trade, would have remained a riddle. When two traders discuss the price of an article in the presence of a purchaser, they use an enigmatic form of language. "What is the price of this cloth?" one trader will ask another. "Puli rupees," another will reply, meaning "ten rupees." Thus, there is no possibility of the purchaser knowing what is meant unless he be acquainted with trade technicalities. [79] By the rules of this secret language tiru means "three," puli means "ten," and sâvana (or shortly sa) means "one." So the leader by his song meant to hint to his fellow-traders that they were ten men, the robbers only three, that if three pounced upon each of the robbers, nine of them could hold them down, while the remaining one bound the robbers' hands and feet. The three thieves, glorying in their victory, and little understanding the meaning of the song and the intentions of the dancers, were proudly seated chewing betel and tambâk (tobacco). Meanwhile the song was sung a third time. Tâ tai tôm had left the lips of the singer; and, before tadingana was out of them, the traders separated into parties of three, and each party pounced upon a thief. The remaining one--the leader himself, for to him the other nine left the conclusion--tore up into long narrow strips a large piece of cloth, six cubits long, and tied the hands and feet of the robbers. These were entirely humbled now, and rolled on the ground like three bags of rice! The ten traders now took back all their property, and armed themselves with the swords and cudgels of their enemies; and when they reached their village, they often amused their friends and relatives by relating their adventure. [80] XVI. GOOD WILL GROW OUT OF GOOD. In a certain town there reigned a king named Patnîpriya, [81] to whose court, a poor old Brâhmin, named Pâpabhîru, [82] came every morning, with a yellow lime in his hand, and presenting it to the king, pronounced a benediction in Tamil:-- Nanmai vidaittâl, nanmai vilaiyum: Tîmai vidaittâl, tîmai vijaiyum: Nanmaiyum tîmaiyum pinvara kânalâm. "If good is sown, then good will grow: If bad is sown, then bad will grow: Thus good or bad the end will show." The king respected as much the noble benediction of the Brâhman as he did his grey hairs. In this way the presentation of the fruit continued daily, though the Brâhmin had nothing to request from the king, but simply wished to pay his respects. On observing that he had no ulterior motives, but was merely actuated by râjasêvana, or duty to his king, the king's admiration for his old morning visitor increased the more. After presenting the fruit the Brâhmin waited upon his sovereign till his pûjâ [83] was over, and then went home where his wife kept ready for him all the requisites for his own pûjâ. Pâpabhîru then partook of what dinner his wife had prepared for him. Sometimes, however, a Brâhmin neighbour sent him an invitation to dinner, which he at once accepted. For his father, before he breathed his last, had called him to his bedside, and, pronouncing his last benediction, had thus advised him in Tamil:-- Kâlai sôttai tallâde, Kannil Kandadai sollâde, Râjanukku payandu nada." "Morning meal do thou never spurn, Nor say thou what thine eyes discern, But serve thy king for fame to earn." Thus it was that Pâpabhîru began his visits to the king, nor did he ever reject an invitation to dinner, though it might come at a very inconvenient time. Now on a certain êkâdasi [84] morning, Pâpabhîru went to the king to pay his respects as usual, with the lime and the benediction, but found that he had gone to his pûjâ and so followed him there. On seeing the Brâhmin, the king's face glowed with pleasure, and he said:-- "My most revered god on earth, [85] I thought that some ill must have befallen you, when I missed you in the council-hall this morning; but praised be Paramêsvara for having sent you to me, though it is a little late. I never do my pûjâ without placing my scimitar by the side of the god, but last night I left it in my queen's room. It is under the pillow of the couch on which I usually sleep. Until you came I could find no suitable person to fetch it for me, and so I have waited for you. Would you kindly take the trouble to fetch it for me?" The poor Brâhmin was only too glad of the opportunity thus presented to him of serving his king, and so he ran to the harem and into the room where the king usually slept. The queen was a very wicked woman and always having secret meetings with courtiers of her husband, so when Pâpabhîru returned he surprised the queen and one of her lovers walking in the garden, he went through, however, to the king's room, and lifting up the king's pillow felt for the scimitar, and went away. True however, to his father's words, "Nor say thou what thine eyes discern," he never opened his lips and went his way with a heavy heart. The queen and her wicked suitor were greatly alarmed. "That rogue of an old Brâhmin has seen us and may report to the king at the first opportunity," faltered the minister. But the queen, as bold in words as in sin, said; "I will have him murdered before the sun rises. Wait you here. I shall inform the king of what is to be done and report the result to you, and then you may go home." So saying, she went and stood before her royal husband who was at his worship. Patnîpriya rose up and asked her the reason of her sudden appearance. Said she, "Your Majesty seems to think the whole world as innocent as yourself. That wretched old Brâhmin, though his hair is as white as milk, has not forgotten his younger days, he asked me to run away with him. If you do not order his death before to-morrow morning, I shall kill myself." The king was much vexed with what he heard, and all the regard he had for the Brâhmin disappeared at once. He called two of his executioners and spoke to them thus before his wife:-- "Take to the east gate of the town a large iron caldron, and keep it boiling to the brim with gingely oil. [86] A certain person shall come to you in the morning and ask you, 'Is it all done?' Without observing who he is, tie his hands and feet and throw him into the boiling oil. When he has been boiled to death, put out the fire and empty out the oil." The executioners received the order and went away to perform their terrible duty. The queen, too, glad at heart at having thus successfully arranged for the murder of the Brâhmin, reported the fact to the minister, but said nothing about the special question to be put by the victim. The minister, much pleased, went to his palace and waited for news of the Brâhmin's death. When his pûjâ was over the king sent for Pâpabhîru, and the poor Brâhmin, never having before been sent for at such a time, made his appearance with a beating heart. When he arrived the king, in order to arouse no suspicion in his mind, said gently to him:-- "My dear Brâhmin, to-morrow morning, when you go to make your ablutions, pass by the east gate. There you will see two persons seated by the side of a large caldron. Ask them, 'Is it all done?' And whatever reply they give you, come and communicate to me." Thus spoke the king, firmly believing that Pâpabhîru would never return to him; while the Brâhmin, glad to be able to serve the king a second time next morning, went home and slept soundly. Early in the morning, even a ghatikâ before his usual time, he got up, and, placing on his head a bag containing dry clothes, proceeded to the river for his morning bath. He took the road to the eastern gate as he had been ordered, but had not walked far when a friend invited him to a dvâdasi [87] breakfast. "My poor old mother did not taste even a drop of water the whole of the êkâdasi, (yesterday). Rice and hot water for a bath are ready. Pour a little of the water over your head, [88] pronounce one gâyatrî [89] and taste a handful of rice. Whatever may be the urgency of your business, oblige me for my poor mother's sake." Thus spoke his friend, and Pâpabhîru, out of regard to his father's order never to spurn a morning meal, ran in haste into his friend's house to oblige him; the king's order all the while sitting heavily on his mind. Meanwhile the minister was most anxious to hear the news of the Brâhmin's death, but was afraid to send any one to inquire about it, lest he should arouse suspicion. So he went himself to the east gate, as soon as the sun had risen, and asked the executioners, sitting by the side of the caldron, by way of a simple question: "Is the business all done?" And as they were instructed not to observe who the person was that came to question them, but to tie him up and boil him in the oil, they, notwithstanding his howls, bound him and threw him in. As soon as he was dead, they extinguished the fire, poured out the oil, turned over the caldron, corpse and all. The Brâhmin finished his dvâdasi breakfast, in great haste, and, with the betel leaf still in his hand, ran to the gate to inquire of the persons seated by the caldron whether it was all done. When he put them the question, they smilingly replied:-- "Yes, Sir, it is all done. The minister is boiled to death. We gave full execution to the king's orders. You may go and report the affair to him." The Brâhmin, not knowing the reason for the course events had taken, ran back and reported the reply of the executioners to the king. The minister's interference in the affair at once kindled suspicion in the king's mind. He unsheathed his scimitar, and holding it in his right hand, twisted the lock of hair on the Brâhmin's head into his left. He then asked him whether he had not tried to get his wife away from him the previous morning, and told him that, if he concealed the truth, he would make an end of him. The poor Brâhmin now confessed what he had seen, on which the king threw down the scimitar and fell down on his knees before him. "The words of thy benediction, O respected Brâhmin, have only now been explained to me. Thou hast sown nothing but good; and good in having thy life preserved, hast thou reaped. The wicked minister--whose conscious guilt made him so very anxious to hear about thy death--because he sowed a bad intention in his heart has reaped evil, even a death that he never expected. Another victim of evil sowing, remains in my queen, in whom I placed an undeserved love." So said he, and ordered her to the gallows. The old Brâhmin he appointed his minister and reigned for a long time. XVII. LIGHT MAKES PROSPERITY. There is a Tamil proverb dîpam lakshmîkaram, meaning, "light makes prosperity," and the following story is related to explain it:-- In the town of Gôvindapâthî there lived a merchant named Pasupati Setti, who had a son and a daughter. The son's name was Vinîta and the daughter's Garvî, and while still playmates they made a mutual vow, that in case they ever had children that could be married to each other, they would certainly see that this was done. Garvî grew up to marry a very rich merchant, and gave birth in due course to three daughters, the last of whom was named Sungunî. Vinîta, too, had three sons. Before, however, this brother and sister could fulfil their vow an event happened which threw a gloom over all their expectations. Pasupati Setti died, and his creditors--for he had many--grew troublesome. All his property had to be sold to clear his debts, and in a month or two after his father's death Vinîta was reduced to the condition of a penniless pauper. But being a sensible person he patiently bore up against his calamity, and tried his best to live an honest life on what little was left to him. His sister Garvî was, as has been already said, married into a rich family, and when she saw the penniless condition of her brother the engagements she had entered into with him began to trouble her. To give or not to give her daughters in marriage to the sons of her brother! This was the question that occupied her thoughts for several months, till at last she determined within herself never to give poor husbands to her children. Fortunately for her, two young merchants of respectable family offered themselves to her two eldest daughters, she gladly accepted them and had the weddings celebrated. The last daughter, Sugunî, alone remained unmarried. Vinîta was sorely troubled in his heart at this disappointment, as he never thought that his sister would thus look down upon his poverty; but, being very sensible, he never interfered and never said a word. The vow of his childhood was, however, known to every one, and some came to sympathise with him; while others spoke in a criticising tone to Garvî for having broken her promise, because her brother had become poor through unforeseen circumstances. Their remarks fell on the ears of Sugunî, who was as yet unmarried, and also was a very learned and sensible girl. She found her uncle Vinîta extremely courteous and respectful, and his sons all persons of virtue and good nature. The thought that her mother should have forgotten all these excellent and rare qualities in the presence of fleeting mammon (asthiraisvarya) vexed her heart very greatly. So, though it is considered most contrary to etiquette for a girl in Hindû society to fix upon a boy as her husband, she approached her mother and thus addressed her:-- "Mother, I have heard all the story about your vow to your brother to marry us--myself and my sisters--to his sons, our cousins; but I am ashamed to see you have unwarrantably broken it in the case of my sisters. I cannot bear such shame. I cannot marry anyone in the world except one of my three cousins. You must make up your mind to give me your consent." Garvî was astonished to hear her youngest daughter talk thus to her. "You wish to marry a beggar?" said she. "We will never agree to it, and if you persist we will give you away to your penniless pauper, but we will never see your face again." But Sugunî persisted. So her marriage with the youngest son of Vinîta was arranged. He had never spoken a word about it to his sister, but he had waited to make matches for his children till all his sister's daughters had been given away, and when he heard that Sugunî was determined to marry his youngest son, he was very pleased. He soon fixed upon two girls from a poor family for his other sons, and celebrated the three weddings as became his position. Sugunî was as noble in her conduct as in her love for her poor cousin. She was never proud or insolent on account of having come from a rich family. Nor did she ever disregard her husband, or his brothers, or father. Now Vinîta and his sons used to go out in the mornings to gather dried leaves which his three daughters-in-law stitched into plates (patrâvalî), which the male members of the family sold in the bâzâr for about four panams each. [90] Sometimes these leaf-plates would go for more, sometimes for less; but whatever money the father-in-law brought home his daughters-in-law used for the day's expense. The youngest of them was Sugunî, who spent the money most judiciously, and fed her father-in-law and his sons sumptuously. Whatever remained she partook of with her two poor sisters-in-law, and lived most contentedly. And the family respected Sugunî as a paragon of virtue, and had a very great regard for her. Her parents, as they had threatened, never returned to see how their last, and of course once beloved, child was doing in her husband's home. Thus passed a couple of years. One day the king of the town was taking an oil bath, and pulling a ring off his finger, left it in a niche in the open courtyard. A garuda (Brâhmanî kite) was at that moment describing circles in the air, and, mistaking the glittering rubies in the ring for flesh, pounced upon it and flew away. Finding it not to be flesh he dropped it in the house of Sugunî's husband. She happened to be alone working in the courtyard, while her sisters-in-law and the others were in different parts of the house. So she took up the sparkling ring and hid it in her lap. Soon afterwards she heard a proclamation made in the street that the king had lost a valuable ring, and that any person who could trace it and give it back to him should obtain a great reward. Sugunî called her husband and his brothers and thus addressed them:-- "My lord and brothers, I have the king's ring. Exactly at midday a garuda dropped it in our courtyard and here it is. We must all go to the king, and there, before you three, I shall deliver up the ring, explaining how I got it. When his majesty desires me to name my reward I shall do so, and beg of you never to contradict or gainsay my desires, if they appear very humble in your opinion." The brothers agreed, and they all started for the palace. They had a very great respect for Sugunî and expected a good result from this visit to the king. The palace was reached, and the ring was given back to the king with the explanation. His majesty was charmed at the modesty and truthfulness of Sugunî, and asked her to name her reward. "My most gracious sovereign! King of kings! Supreme lord! Only a slight favour thy dog of a servant requests of your majesty. It is this, that on a Friday night all the lights in the town be extinguished, and not a lamp be lit even in the palace. Only the house of thy dog of a servant must be lighted up with such lights as it can afford." "Agreed, most modest lady. We grant your request, and we permit you to have the privilege you desire this very next Friday." Joyfully she bowed before his majesty, and returned with her husband and the others to her house. She then pledged the last jewel she had by her and procured some money. Friday came. She fasted the whole day, and as soon as twilight approached she called both the brothers of her husband, and thus addressed them:-- "My brothers, I have made arrangements for lighting up our house with one thousand lamps to-night. One of you, without ever closing your eyes for a moment, must watch the front of our house and the other the back. If a woman of a graceful appearance and of feminine majesty wishes you to permit her to enter it, boldly tell her to swear first never to go out again. If she solemnly agrees to this, then permit her to come in. If in the same way any woman wishes to go out, make a similar condition that she must swear never to return at any time in her life." What Sugunî said seemed ridiculous to the brothers; but they allowed her to have her way, and waited to see patiently what would take place. The whole town was gloomy that night, except Sugunî's house; for, by order of his majesty, no light was lit in any other house. The Ashtalakshmîs--the Eight Prosperities--entered the town that night and went house by house into every street. All of them were dark, and the only house lit up was Sugunî's. They tried to enter it, but the brother at the door stopped them and ordered them to take the oath. This they did, and when he came to understand that these ladies were the Eight Prosperities, he admired the sagacity of his brother's wife. A nimisha after the eight ladies had gone in, there came out of the house a hideous female and requested permission to go, but the brother at the back would not permit this unless she swore never to come back again. She solemnly swore, and the next moment he came to know that she was Mûdêvî, or Adversity, the elder sister of Prosperity. For she said:--"My sisters have come. I cannot stay here for a minute longer. God bless you and your people. I swear by everything sacred never to come back." And so, unable to breathe there any longer, Adversity ran away. When the morning dawned, the Prosperities had already taken up a permanent abode with the family. The rice bag became filled. The money chest overflowed with money. The pot contained milk. And thus plenty began to reign in Sugunî's house from that day. The three brothers and her father-in-law were overjoyed at the way Sugunî had driven away their poverty for ever, and even Sugunî's parents did not feel it a disgrace to come and beg their daughter's pardon. She nobly granted it and lived with all the members of her family in prosperity for a long life. It is a notion, therefore, among orthodox Hindûs, that light in the house brings prosperity, and darkness adversity. [91] XVIII. CHANDRALÊKHÂ AND THE EIGHT ROBBERS. There was an ancient city named Kaivalyam, in the Pândiya country, and in that city there lived a dancing girl named Muttumôhanâ. She was an excellent gem of womankind, for though born of the dancing-girls' caste, she was a very learned and pious woman, and never would she taste her food without first going and worshipping in the temple of Siva. She moved in the society of kings, ministers, and Brâhmins, and never mingled with low people, however rich they might be. She had a daughter named Chandralêkhâ, whom she put to school with the sons of kings, ministers and Brâhmins. Chandralêkhâ showed signs of very great intelligence, even when she was beginning her alphabet, so that the master took the greatest care with her tuition, and in less than four years she began her lessons and became a great panditâ. [92] However, as she was only a dancing-girl by birth, there was no objection to her attending to her studies in open school till she attained to maturity, and, accordingly, up to that age she attended the school and mastered the four Vêdas and Sâstras and the sixty-four varieties of knowledge. She then ceased to attend the school, and Muttumôhanâ said to her:-- "My darling daughter, for the last seven or eight years you have been taking lessons under the Brâhmin, your master, in the various departments of knowledge, and you must now pay a large fee to remunerate your master's labours in having taught you so much. You are at liberty to take as much money as you please from my hoard." So saying she handed over the key to her daughter, and Chandralêkhâ, delighted at her mother's sound advice, filled up five baskets with five thousand mohars in each, and setting them on the heads of five maid-servants, went to her master's house with betel leaves, areca nut, flowers and cocoanuts in a platter in her hand, to be presented along with the money. The servants placed the baskets before the master and stood outside the house, while Chandralêkhâ took the dish of betel leaves, nuts, &c., and humbly prostrated herself on the ground before him. Then, rising up, she said:-- "My most holy gurû (master), great are the pains your holiness undertook in instructing me, and thus destroying the darkness of my ignorance. For the last eight years I have been a regular student under your holiness, and all the branches of knowledge hath your holiness taught me. Though what I offer might be insufficient for the pains your holiness took in my case, still I humbly request your holiness to accept what I have brought." Thus said she, and respectfully pushed the baskets of mohars and the betel-nut platter towards the Brâhmin. She expected to hear benedictions from her tutor, but in that we shall see she was soon disappointed. Replied the wretched Brâhmin:-- "My dear Chandralêkhâ, do you not know that I am the tutor of the prince, the minister's son and several others of great wealth in Kaivalyam? Of money I have more than enough. I do not want a single mohar from you, but what I want is that you should marry me." [93] Thus spoke the shameless teacher, and Chandralêkhâ's face changed colour. She was horrified to hear such a suggestion from one whom she had thought till then to be an incarnation of perfection. But, still hoping to convince him of the unjustness of the request, she said:-- "My most holy master! The deep respect I entertain towards your holy feet is such that, though your holiness's words are plain, I am led to think that they are merely uttered to test my character. Does not your holiness know the rules by which a preceptor is to be regarded as a father, and that I thus stand in the relationship of a daughter to your holiness? So kindly forget all that your holiness has said, and accepting what I have brought in my humble state, permit me to go home." But the wretched teacher never meant anything of the sort. He had spoken in earnest, and his silence now and lascivious look at once convinced the dancing-girl's daughter of what was passing in his mind. So she quickly went out and told her servants to take back the money. At home Muttumôhanâ was anxiously awaiting the return of her daughter, and as soon as Chandralêkhâ came in without the usual cheerfulness in her face, and without having given the presents, her mother suspected that something had gone wrong, and inquired of her daughter the cause of her gloom. She then related to her mother the whole story of her interview with her old master. Muttumôhanâ was glad to find such a firm heart in her daughter, and blessed her, saying that she would be wedded to a young husband, and lead a chaste life, though born of the dancing-girls' caste. The money she safely locked up in her room. Now, the Brâhmin, in consequence of his disappointment, was very angry with Chandralêkhâ, and, that no young and wealthy gentleman might visit her house, he spread reports that Chandralêkhâ was possessed of a demon (kuttîchchâtti). So no one approached Chandralêkhâ's house to win her love, and her mother was much vexed. Her great wish was that some respectable young man should secure her daughter's affections, but the master's rumours stood in the way. And thus a year passed, and the belief that a kuttîchchâtti had possessed Chandralêkhâ gained firm ground. After what seemed to these two to be a long period, a sage happened to visit Muttumôhanâ's house, and she related to him all her daughter's story. He listened and said:-- "Since the belief that a demon has taken possession of your daughter has taken firm hold of the citizens, it is but necessary now that she should perform (pûjâ) worship to the demon-king on the night of the new moon of this month in the cremation-ground. Let her do this and she will be all right, for then some worthy young man can secure her affections." So saying the sage went away, and his advice seemed to be reasonable to the mother. She very well knew that no such demon had possessed her daughter, but that it was all the master's idle report. But still, to wipe away any evil notion in the minds of the people she publicly proclaimed that her daughter would perform pûjâ in the cremation-ground at midnight at the next new moon. [94] Now, it is always the rule in such rites that the person who is possessed should go alone to the cremation-ground, and, accordingly, on the night of the next new moon, Chandralêkhâ went to the burning-ground with a basket containing all the necessary things for worship, and a light. Near Kaivalyam, at a distance of five kôs from it, was a great forest called Khândavam. In it there dwelt eight robbers, who used to commit the greatest havoc in the country round. At the time that Chandralêkhâ proceeded to the cremation-ground, these eight robbers also happened to go there to conceal what they had stolen in the earlier part of that night. Then, being relieved of their burden, they determined to go to some other place to plunder during the latter half of the night also. When Chandralêkhâ heard the sound of footsteps at a distance she feared something wrong, and, covering up her glittering light by means of her empty basket, concealed herself in a hollow place. The thieves came and looked round about them. They found nobody, but, fearing that some one might be near, one of them took out an instrument called kannakkôl, and, whirling it round his head, threw it towards the east. This kannakkôl is the instrument by which these robbers bore holes in walls and enter buildings, and some robbers say they get it from a thunderbolt. During a stormy day they make a large heap of cow-dung, into which a thunderbolt falls and leaves a rod in the middle, which is so powerful that it can bore even through stone walls without making any noise. It has also the attribute of obeying its master's orders. So when the chief of the eight robbers threw his kannakkôl towards the east, true to its nature, it fell into the hole in which Chandralêkhâ was hiding, and began to pierce her in the back. As soon as she felt it, she dragged it out by both her hands without making the slightest noise, and, throwing it under her feet, stood firmly over it. The robbers, having concealed the eight boxes of wealth they had brought with them in the sands near the cremation-ground, went away to spend the remaining part of the night usefully in their own fashion. As soon as the robbers had left the place Chandralêkhâ came out, and, taking possession of the robbers' rod, took out the eight boxes that the robbers had buried. With these she quickly hastened home, where her mother was awaiting her return. She soon made her appearance, and related all that had occurred during the night to her mother. They soon removed the contents of the boxes and locked them up safely. Then, taking the empty boxes, she filled them up with stones, old iron and other useless materials, and, arranging them two and two by the side of each leg of her cot, went to sleep on it. As the night was drawing to a close, the robbers, with still more booty, came to the ground, and were thunderstruck when they missed their boxes. But as the day was dawning they went away into the jungle, leaving the investigation of the matter to the next night. They were astonished at the trick that had been played upon them and were very anxious to find out the thief who had outwitted thieves. Now they were sure that their boring-rod, which they had aimed against the unknown person who might be lurking in the smasânam (cremation-ground), must have wounded him. So one of them assumed the guise of an ointment-seller, [95] and, with some ointment in a cocoanut-bottle, began to walk the streets of Kaivalyam city, crying out:-- "Ointment to sell. The best of ointments to cure new wounds and old sores. Please buy my ointment." And the other seven thieves assumed seven different disguises and also went wandering round the streets of the city. A maid-servant of Chandralêkhâ had seen that her mistress was suffering from the effects of a wound in her back, and never suspecting a thief in the medicine seller, called out to the ointment-man and took him inside the house. She then informed Chandralêkhâ that she had brought in an ointment-man, and that she would do well to buy a little of his medicine for her wound. The clever Chandralêkhâ at once recognised the thief in the medicine vendor, and he too, as he was a very cunning brute, recognised in the young lady the thief of his boxes, and found her wound to be that made by his boring-rod. They soon parted company. The lady bought a little ointment, and the thief in disguise, gladly giving a little of his precious stuff from his cocoanut-bottle, went away. The eight thieves had appointed a place outside Kaivalyam for their rendezvous, and there they learnt who had robbed them of their treasure. Not wishing to remain idle, they chose that very night both to break into Chandralêkhâ's house and bring away herself and their boxes. Chandralêkhâ, too, was very careful. She locked up all the treasures and kept the eight boxes filled with rubbish, so as to correspond with their original weights, under the cot on which she slept, or rather pretended to sleep, that night. The thieves in due course made a hole into her bedroom and entered. They found her to all appearance sound asleep, and to their still greater joy, they found beneath her cot their eight boxes. "The vixen is asleep. Let us come to-morrow night and take her away; but first let us remove our boxes." So saying to each other, they took their boxes, each placing one on his head, and returned in haste to their cave, which they reached early in the morning. But when they opened the boxes to sort out their booty, astonishment of astonishments, their eyes met only broken pieces of stone, lumps of iron, and other such rubbish. Every one of them placed his forefinger at right angles to the tip of his nose, and exclaimed:-- "Ah! A very clever girl. She has managed to deceive us all. But let this day pass. We shall see whether she will not fall into our hands to-night." Thus, in wonder and amazement, they spent the whole day. Nor was Chandralêkhâ idle at her own house. She was sure she would again see the robbers in her room that night, and, in order to be prepared for the occasion, she made a small sharp knife out of the robber's rod, and kept it beneath her pillow, in the place where she was accustomed to keep her purse containing a few betel leaves, nuts, chunam, &c., to chew. The night came on. Early Chandralêkhâ had her supper and retired to bed. Sleep she could not, but she cunningly kept eyelids closed and pretended to sleep. Even before it was midnight the eight thieves broke into her room, saying to themselves:-- "This clever lady-thief sleeps soundly. We will do her no mischief here. Let us range ourselves two and two at each leg of her cot, and carry her away unconscious to the woods. There we can kill her." Thus thinking, the eight thieves ranged themselves at the side of the four legs of the cot, and, without the slightest shaking, removed the cot with the sleeper on it outside the town. Their joy in thus having brought away their enemy was very great, and, not fearing for the safe custody of their prisoner, they marched to their cave. Meanwhile Chandralêkhâ was not idle on the cot. The way to the jungle was through a long and fine avenue of mango trees. It was the mango season, and all the branches were hanging with bunches of ripe and unripe fruit. To make up for her weight on the cot she kept plucking mango bunches and heaping them on it, and as soon as a quantity which she thought would make up her weight was upon her cot, she without the slightest noise took hold of a branch and swung herself off it. The thieves walked on as before, the weight on their heads not apparently diminishing, leaving our heroine safely seated on a mango branch to pass the few remaining ghatikâs of that anxious night there. The thieves reached their cave just at daybreak, and when they placed their burden down their eyes met only bunches of ripe mangoes, and not the lady they looked for. "Is she a woman of flesh and blood, or is she a devil?" asked the chief of the next in rank. "My lord! she is a woman fast enough, and if we search in the wood we shall find her," replied he, and at once all the eight robbers after a light breakfast began to search for her. Meanwhile the morning dawned upon Chandralêkhâ and let her see that she was in the midst of a thick jungle. She feared to escape in the daytime as the way was long, and she was sure that the robbers would soon be after her. So she resolved to conceal herself in some deep ambush and wait for the night. Before she left the cot for the mango branch she had secured in her hip the small knife she had made for herself out of the robbers' rod and the purse containing the materials for chewing betel; and near the tree into which she had climbed she saw a deep hollow surrounded by impenetrable reeds on all sides. So she slowly let herself down from the tree into this hollow, and anxiously waited there for the night. All this time the eight thieves were searching for her in different places, and one of them came to the spot where Chandralêkhâ had sat in the tree, and the dense bushes near made him suspect that she was hidden there; so he proceeded to examine the place by climbing up the tree. When Chandralêkhâ saw the thief on the tree she gave up all hopes of life. But suddenly a bright thought came into her mind, just as the man up above saw her. Putting on a most cheerful countenance she slowly spoke to him. "My dear husband, for I must term you so from this moment, since God has elevated you now to that position, do not raise an alarm. Come down here gently, that we may be happy in each other's company. You are my husband and I am your wife from this moment." So spoke the clever Chandralêkhâ, and the head of the thief began to turn with joy when he heard so sweet a speech, and forgetting all her previous conduct to himself and his brethren, he leapt into the hollow. She welcomed him with a smiling face, in which the eager heart of the robber read sincere affection, and gave him some betel-nut to chew and chewed some herself merrily. Now redness of the tongue after chewing betel is always an indication of the mutual affection of a husband and wife among the illiterate of Hindu society. So while the betel-leaf was being chewed she put out her tongue to show the thief how red it was, letting him see thereby how deeply she loved him: and he, to show in return how deeply he loved her, put out his tongue too. And she, as if examining it closely, clutched it in her left hand, while with her right hand in the twinkling of an eye cut off the tongue and nose of the robber, and taking advantage of the confusion that came over him she cut his throat and left him dead. By this time evening was fast approaching, and the other seven robbers, after fruitless search, returned to their cave, feeling sure that the eighth man must have discovered Chandralêkhâ. They waited and waited the whole night, but no one returned, for how could a man who had been killed come back? Our heroine, meanwhile, as soon as evening set in started homewards, being emboldened by the occasion and the circumstances in which she was placed. She reached home safely at midnight and related all her adventures to her mother. Overcome by exhaustion she slept the rest of the night, and as soon as morning dawned began to strengthen the walls of her bedroom by iron plates. To her most useful pocket-knife she now added a bagful of powdered chillies, and went to bed, not to sleep, but to watch for the robbers. Just as she expected, a small hole was bored in the east wall of her bedroom, and one of the seven robbers thrust in his head. As soon as she saw the hole our heroine stood by the side of it with the powder and knife, and with the latter she cut off the nose of the man who peeped in and thrust the powder into the wound. Unable to bear the burning pain he dragged himself back, uttering "na, na, na, na," having now no nose to pronounce properly with. A second thief, abusing the former for having lost his nose so carelessly, went in, and the bold lady inside dealt in the same way with his nose, and he too, dragged himself back in the same way, calling out "na, na, na, na." A third thief abused the second in his turn, and going in lost his nose also. Thus all the seven thieves lost their noses, and, fearing to be discovered if they remained, ran off to the forest, where they had to take a few days' rest from their plundering habits to cure their mutilated noses. Chandralêkhâ had thus three or four times disappointed the thieves. The more she disappointed them the more she feared for her own safety, especially as she had now inflicted a life-long shame on them. "The thieves will surely come as soon as their noses are cured and kill me in some way or other. I am, after all, only a girl," she thought to herself. So she went at once to the palace and reported all her adventures with the eight robbers to the prince, who had been her former class-mate. The prince was astonished at the bravery of Chandralêkhâ, and promised the next time the robbers came to lend her his assistance. So every night a spy from the palace slept in Chandralêkhâ's house to carry the news of the arrival of the robbers to the prince, should they ever go there. But the robbers were terribly afraid of approaching Chandralêkhâ's house, after they came to know that she had a knife made out of the boring-rod. But they devised among themselves a plan of inviting Chandralêkhâ to the forest under the pretence of holding a nautch, and sent to her house a servant for that purpose. The servant came, and, entering Chandralêkhâ's house, spoke thus to her:-- "My dear young lady, whoever you may be, you have now a chance of enriching yourself. I see plainly from the situation of your house that you are one of the dancing-girls' caste. My masters in the forest have made a plan to give a nautch to their relatives on the occasion of a wedding which is to take place there the day after to-morrow. If you come there they will reward you with a karôr of mohars for every nimisha (minute) of your performance." Thus spoke the servant, and Chandralêkhâ, knowing that the mission was from the thieves, agreed to perform the nautch, and, asking the man to come and take her and her party the next morning to the forest, sent him away. In order to lose no time she went at once to the prince and told him all about the nautch. Said she:-- "I know very well that this is a scheme of the thieves to kill me, but before they can do that we must try to kill them. A way suggests itself to me in this wise. To make up a nautch party more than seven persons are required. One must play the drum; a second must sound the cymbals; a third must blow upon the nâgasvara pipe, etc., etc. So I request you to give me seven of your strongest men to accompany me disguised as men of my party, and some of your troops must secretly lie in ambush in readiness to take the robbers prisoners when a signal is given to them." Thus Chandralêkhâ spoke, and all her advice the prince received with great admiration. He himself offered to follow her as her drummer for the nautch, and he chose six of the ablest commanders from his army, and asked them to disguise themselves as fiddlers, pipers, etc., and he directed an army of a thousand men to follow their footsteps at a distance of two ghatikâs' march, and to lie in ambush near the place where they were going to perform the nautch, ready for a call. Thus everything was arranged and all were ready by the morning to start from Chandralêkhâ's house. Before the third ghatikâ of the morning was over, the robbers' servant came to conduct Chandralêkhâ with her party to the forest, where the prince and six of his strongest men disguised as her followers, were waiting for him. Chandralêkhâ with all her followers accompanied him, but as soon as she left her house a spy ran off to the army, which, as ordered by the prince, began to follow her party at a distance of two ghatikâs. After travelling a long way Chandralêkhâ and her party reached the nautch pavilion at about five ghatikâs before sunset. All their hosts were without their noses, and some still had their noses bandaged up. When they saw that Chandralêkhâ's followers had a fine and prepossessing appearance, even the hard hearts of the robbers softened a little. "Let us have a look at her performance. She is now entirely in our possession. Instead of murdering her now, we will witness her performance for a ghatikâ," said the robbers to each other; and all with one voice said "agreed," and at once the order for the performance was given. Chandralêkhâ, who was clever in every department of knowledge, began her performance, and, by the most exquisite movement of her limbs, held the audience spell-bound, when suddenly tâ tai, tôm clashed the cymbals. This was the signal for the destruction of the robbers, as well as the sign of the close of a part of the nautch. In the twinkling of an eye the seven disguised followers of the dancing-girl had thrown down the thieves and were upon them. Before the servants of the robbers could come to the help of their masters the footsteps of an army near were heard, and in no time the prince's one thousand men were on the spot and took all the robbers and their followers prisoners. So great had been the ravages of these robbers in and round Kaivalyam that, without any mercy being shown to them, they and their followers were all ordered to be beheaded, and the prince was so much won over by the excellent qualities of Chandralêkhâ that, notwithstanding her birth as a dancing-girl, he regarded her as a gem of womankind and married her. "Buy a girl in a bâzâr" (kanniyai kadaiyir kol) is a proverb. What matter where a girl is born provided she is virtuous! And Chandralêkhâ, by her excellent virtue, won a prince for her lord. And when that lord came to know of the real nature of his teacher, who was also the teacher of Chandralêkhâ, he banished him from his kingdom, as a merciful punishment, in consideration of his previous services. XIX. THE CONQUEST OF FATE. In the Dakshinadêsa there lived a Brâhmin boy who from his childhood was given a very liberal education in Sanskrit. He had read so much in philosophy that before he reached the sixteenth year of his life he began to despise the pleasures of the world. Everything which he saw was an illusion (mithyâ) to him. So he resolved to renounce the world and to go to a forest, there to meet with some great sage, and pass his days with him in peace and happiness. Having thus made up his mind, he left his home one day without the knowledge of his parents and travelled towards the Dandakâranya. After wandering for a long time in that impenetrable forest, and undergoing all the miseries of a wood inhabited only by wild beasts, he reached the banks of the Tungabhadrâ. His sufferings in his wanderings in a forest untrodden by human feet, his loneliness in the midst of wild beasts, his fears whether after all he had not failed in his search for consolation in a preceptor to teach him the higher branches of philosophy, came up one after another before his mind. Dejected and weary, he cast his glance forward as far as it could reach. Was it a reality or only imagination? He saw before him a lonely cottage of leaves (parnasâlâ). To a lonely traveller even the appearance of shelter is welcome, so he followed up his vision till it became a reality, and an aged hoary Brâhmin, full fourscore and more in years, welcomed our young philosopher. "What has brought you here, my child, to this lonely forest thus alone?" spoke in a sweet voice the hoary lord of the cottage of leaves. "A thirst for knowledge, so that I may acquire the mastery over the higher branches of philosophy," was the reply of our young adventurer, whose name was Subrahmanya. "Sit down my child," said the old sage, much pleased that in this Kaliyuga, which is one long epoch of sin, there was at least one young lad who had forsaken his home for philosophy. Having thus seen our hero safely relieved from falling a prey to the tigers and lions of the Dandakâranya, let us enquire into the story of the old sage. In the good old days even of this Kaliyuga learned people, after fully enjoying the world, retired to the forests, with or without their wives, to pass the decline of life in solemn solitude and contemplation. When they went with their wives they were said to undergo the vânaprastha stage of family life. The hoary sage of our story was undergoing vânaprastha, for he was in the woods with his wife. His name while living was Jñânanidhi. He had built a neat parnasâlâ, or cottage of leaves, on the banks of the commingled waters of the Tungâ and Bhadrâ, and here his days and nights were spent in meditation. Though old in years he retained the full vigour of manhood, the result of a well-spent youth. The life of his later years was most simple and sinless. "Remote from man, with God he passed his days; Prayer all his business, all his pleasures praise." The wood yielded him herbs, fruits, and roots, and the river, proverbial [96] for its sweet waters, supplied him with drink. He lived, in fact, as simply as the bard who sang:-- "But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A bag with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring." His faithful wife brought him these, while Jñânanidhi himself devoted his whole time to the contemplation of God. Such was Jñânanidhi--the abode of all wise people--to whom the boy-philosopher, Subrahmanya, resorted. After questioning each other both were mightily pleased at the fortune which had brought them together. Jñânanidhi was glad to impart his hard-earned knowledge during his leisure moments to the young student, and Subrahmanya, with that longing which made him renounce the city and take to the woods eagerly swallowed and assimilated whatever was administered to him. He relieved his mother--for as such he regarded his master's wife--of all her troubles, and used, himself, to go out to bring the fruits, herbs, and roots necessary for the repasts of the little family. Thus passed five years, by which time our young friend had become learned in the many branches of Aryan philosophy. Jñânanidhi had a desire to visit the source of the Tungabhadrâ, but his wife was eight months advanced in her pregnancy. So he could not take her; and to take care of her he had to leave behind his disciple, Subrahmanya. Thus after commending the lady to Subrahmanya's care, and leaving for female assistance another sage's wife, whom he had brought from a distant forest, Jñânanidhi went his way. Now, there is a strong belief among Hindus that Brahmâ, the great creator, writes on everyone's head at the time of his birth his future fortunes in life. He is supposed to do this just at the moment of birth. Of course, the great god when he enters the room to discharge his onerous duty, is invisible to all human eyes. But the eyes of Subrahmanya were not exactly human. The supreme knowledge which Jñânanidhi had imparted to him made it easy for him to discern at once a person entering most impolitely the room in which his master's wife had been confined. "Let your reverence stop here," said the disciple angrily though respectfully. The great god shuddered, for he had been in the habit of entering hourly innumerable buildings on his eternal rounds of duty, but never till then had a human being perceived him and asked him to stop. His wonder knew no measure, and as he stood bewildered the following reprimand fell on his ears: "Hoary Brâhmin sage (for so Brahmâ appeared), it is unbecoming your age thus to enter the hut of my master, unallowed by me, who am watching here. My teacher's wife is ill. Stop!" Brahmâ hastily--for the time of inscribing the future fortune on the forehead of the baby to be born was fast approaching--explained to Subrahmanya who he was and what had brought him there. As soon as our young hero came to know the person who stood before him he rose up, and, tying his upper cloth round his hips as a mark of respect, went round the creator thrice, fell down before Brahmâ's most holy feet and begged his pardon. Brahmâ had not much time. He wanted to go in at once, but our young friend would not leave the god until he explained what he meant to write on the head of the child. "My son!" said Brahmâ, "I myself do not know what my iron nail will write on the head of the child. When the child is born I place the nail on its head, and the instrument writes the fate of the baby in proportion to its good or bad acts in its former life. To delay me is merely wrong. Let me go in." "Then," said Subrahmanya, "your holiness must inform me when your holiness goes out what has been written on the child's head." "Agreed," said Brahmâ and went in. After a moment he returned, and our young hero at the door asked the god what his nail had written. "My child!" said Brahmâ, "I will inform you what it wrote; but if you disclose it to anyone your head will split into a thousand pieces. The child is a male child. It has before it a very hard life. A buffalo and a sack of grain will be its livelihood. What is to be done. Perhaps it had not done any good acts in its former life, and as the result of its sin it must undergo miseries now." "What! Your supreme holiness, the father of this child is a great sage! And is this the fate reserved to the son of a sage?" wept the true disciple of the sage. "What have I to do with the matter? The fruits of acts in a former life must be undergone in the present life. But, remember, if you should reveal this news to any one your head will split into a thousand pieces." Having said this Brahmâ went away, leaving Subrahmanya extremely pained to hear that the son of a great sage was to have a hard life. He could not even open his lips on the subject, for if he did his head would be split. In sorrow he passed some days, when Jñânanidhi returned from his pilgrimage and was delighted to see his wife and the child doing well, and in the learned company of the old sage our young disciple forgot all his sorrow. Three more years passed away in deep study, and again the old sage wanted to go on a pilgrimage to the sacred source of the Tungabhadrâ. Again was his wife expecting her confinement, and he had to leave her and his disciple behind with the usual temporary female assistance. Again, too, did Brahmâ come at the moment of birth, but found easy admittance as Subrahmanya had now become acquainted with him owing to the previous event. Again did Brahmâ take an oath from him not to communicate the fortunes of the second child, with the curse that if he broke his oath, his head would split into a thousand pieces. This child was a female, and the nail had written that her fate was to be that of a frivolous woman. Extremely vexed was our young philosopher. The thought vexed him to such a degree, that language has no words to express it. After worrying a great deal he consoled himself with the soothing philosophies of the fatalists, that fate alone governs the world. The old sage in due course returned, and our young disciple spent two more happy years with him. After a little more than ten years had been thus spent the boy reached to five years and the girl to two. The more they advanced in years the more did the recollection of their future pain Subrahmanya. So one morning he humbly requested the old sage to permit him to go on a long journey to the Himâlayas and other mountains, and Jñânanidhi, knowing that all that he knew had been grasped by the young disciple, permitted him with a glad heart to satisfy his curiosity. Our hero started, and after several years, during which he visited several towns and learned men, reached the Himâlayas. There he saw many sages, and lived with them for some time. He did not remain in one place, for his object was more to examine the world. So he went from place to place, and after a long and interesting journey of twenty years he again returned to the banks of the Tungabhadrâ, at the very place where he lived for ten years and imbibed philosophical knowledge from Jñânanidhi. But he saw there neither Jñânanidhi nor his old wife. They had long since fallen a prey to the lord of death. Much afflicted at heart at seeing his master and mistress no more, he went to the nearest town, and there after a deal of search he found a coolie with a single buffalo. The fate which Brahmâ's nail had written on his master's son rushed into the mind of Subrahmanya. He approached the coolie, and, on closely examining him from a distance, our hero found distinct indications of his master's face in the labourer. His grief knew no bounds at seeing the son of a great sage thus earning his livelihood by minding a buffalo. He followed him to his home, and found that he had a wife and two children. One sack of corn he had in his house and no more, from which he took out a portion every day and gave it to his wife to be shelled. The rice was cooked, and with the petty earnings of a coolie, he and his family kept body and soul together. Each time the corn in the sack became exhausted he used to be able to save enough to replenish it again with corn. Thus did he (according to the writing of Brahmâ's nail) pass his days. Kapâlî was the name of this coolie, the sage's son. "Do you know me, Kapâlî?" said our hero, as he remembered his name. The coolie was astonished to hear his name so readily pronounced by one who was apparently a stranger to him, but he said:-- "I am sorry that I do not know you, Sir." Subrahmanya then explained to him who he was, and requested him to follow his advice. "My dear son," said he, "do as I bid you. Early morning to-morrow leave your bed and take to the market your buffalo and the corn sack. Dispose of them for whatever amount they will fetch. Do not think twice about the matter. Buy all that is necessary for a sumptuous meal from the sale proceeds and eat it all up at once without reserving a morsel for the morrow. You will get a great deal more than you can eat in a day; but do not reserve any, even the smallest portion of it. Feed several other Brâhmins with it. Do not think that I advise you for your ruin. You will see in the end that what your father's disciple tells you is for your own prosperity." However, whatever the sage might say, Kapâlî could not bring himself to believe him. "What shall I do to feed my wife and children to-morrow if I sell everything belonging to me to-day?" Thus thought Kapâlî, and consulted his wife. Now she was a very virtuous and intelligent woman. Said she:-- "My dear lord, we have heard that your father was a great mahâtmâ. This disciple must equally be a mahâtmâ. His holiness would not advise us to our ruin. Let us follow the sage's advice." When Kapâlî's wife thus supported the sage, he resolved to dispose of his beast and sack the next morning, and he did so accordingly. The provisions he bought were enough to feed fifty Brâhmins morning and evening, as well as his own family. So that day he fed Brâhmins for the first time in his life. Night came on, and after an adventurous day Kapâlî retired to sleep, but sleep he could not. Meanwhile Subrahmanya was sleeping on the bare verandah outside the house, and he came to the sage and said:-- "Holy sage, nearly half the night is spent, and there are only fifteen ghatikâs more for the dawn. What shall I do for the morrow for my hungry children? All that I had I have spent. I have not even a morsel of cold rice for the morning." Subrahmanya showed him some money that he had in his hand, enough to buy a buffalo and a sack of corn in case the great god did not help him, and asked him to spend that night, at least the remainder of it, in calm sleep. So Kapâlî, with his heart at ease, retired to rest. He had not slept more than ten ghatikâs when he dreamt that all his family--his wife and children--were screaming for a mouthful of rice. Suddenly he awoke and cursed his poverty which always made such thoughts dwell uppermost in his mind. There were only five ghatikâs for the lord of the day to make his appearance in the eastern horizon, and before this could happen he wanted to finish his morning bath and ablutions, and so he went to his garden to bathe at the well. The shed for the buffalo was erected in the garden, and it had been his habit daily before bathing to give fresh straw to his beast. That morning he thought he would be spared that duty. But, wonder of wonders! He saw another buffalo standing there. He cursed his poverty again which made him imagine impossibilities. How could it be possible that his beast should be standing there when he had sold it the previous morning? So he went into the shed and found a real buffalo standing there. He could not believe his eyes, and hastily brought a lamp from his house. It was, however, a real buffalo, and beside it was a sack of corn! His heart leapt with joy, and he ran out to tell his patron, Subrahmanya. But when the latter heard it he said with a disgusted air:-- "My dear Kapâlî, why do you care so much? Why do you feel so overjoyed? Take the beast at once with the corn-sack and sell them as you did yesterday." Kapâlî at once obeyed the orders and changed the money into provisions. Again fifty Brâhmins were fed the next day too, and nothing was reserved for the third day's use. Thus it went on in Kapâlî's house. Every morning he found a buffalo and a sack of corn, which he sold and fed Brâhmins with the proceeds. In this way a month passed. Said Subrahmanya one day:-- "My dear Kapâlî, I am your holy father's disciple, and I would never advise you to do a thing prejudicial to your welfare. When I came to know that you were the son of the great sage, Jñânanidhi, and were leading so wretched a life, I came to see you in order to alleviate your miseries. I have now done so, having pointed out the way to you to live comfortably. Daily must you continue thus. Do as you have been doing for the past month, and never store away anything, for if you reserve a portion all this happiness may fail, and you will have to revert to your former wretched life. I have done my duty towards you. If you become ambitious of hoarding up money this good fortune may desert you." Kapâlî agreed to follow the advice of the sage to the uttermost detail and requested him to remain in his house. Again said Subrahmanya:-- "My son! I have better work before me than living in your house. So please excuse me. But before leaving you, I request you to inform me as to where your sister is. She was a child of two years of age when I saw her twenty years ago. She must be about twenty-two or twenty-three now. Where is she?" Tears trickled down the eyes of Kapâlî when his sister was mentioned. Said he:-- "Do not, my patron, think of her. She is lost to the world. I am ashamed to think of her. Why should we think of such a wretch at this happy time?" At once the inscription made by Brahmâ's nail rushed into Subrahmanya's mind and he understood what was meant. Said he:-- "Never mind; be open and tell me where she is." Then her brother, Kapâlî, with his eyes still wet with tears, said that his sister, the daughter of the sage Jñânanidhi, was leading the worst of lives in an adjoining village, and that her name was Kalyânî. Subrahmanya took leave of Kapâlî and his wife, after blessing his little children and again warning his friend. He had conferred what happiness he could upon his master's son, and now the thought of reforming his master's daughter reigned supreme in his heart. He went at once to the village indicated and reached it at about nightfall. After an easy search he found her house and knocked at the door. The door was at once opened. But on that day she was astonished to see a face such as she could never expect to approach her house. "Do you know me, Kalyânî?" said Subrahmanya, and she in reply said that she did not. He then explained who he was, and when she came to know that it was a disciple of her father that was standing before her she wept most bitterly. The thought that after having been born of such a holy sage, she had adopted so wretched a life, the most shameful in the world, made her miserable at heart. She fell down at his feet and asked to be forgiven. She then explained to him her extreme misery, and the hard necessity which had compelled her to take to her present way of living. He then consoled her and spoke thus:-- "My dear daughter! My heart burns within me when I see that necessity has driven you to this wretched life. But I can redeem you if you will only follow my advice. From this night you had better shut your door, and never open it to any other person except to him who brings to you a large measure full of pearls of the first water. You follow this advice for a day and I shall then advise you further." Being the daughter of a great sage, and having been compelled by necessity to take to a wretched life, she readily consented to follow her father's disciple when he promised to redeem her. She bolted the door, and refused admission to anyone unless they brought a large measure full of pearls. Her visitors, fancying that she must have gone mad, went away. The night was almost drawing to a close and all her friends had gone away disappointed. Who was there in the village to give to her one measure full of pearls? But as the nail of Brahmâ had appointed for her such a life as stated, some one was bound to comply with her terms. And as there was no human being who could do so, the god Brahmâ himself assumed the shape of a young man, and, with a measure full of pearls, visited her in the last watch of the night and remained with her. When morning dawned he disappeared, and when Kalyânî explained to the disciple of her father the next morning that after all one person had visited her with a measure full of pearls on the previous night, he was glad to hear of it. He knew that his plan was working well. Said he:-- "My dear daughter, you are restored to your former good self hereafter from this day. There are very few people in this world who could afford to give you a measure full of pearls every night. So he that brought you the pearls last night must continue to do so every night, and he shall be hereafter your only husband. No other person must ever hereafter see your face, and you must obey my orders. You must sell all the pearls he brings you every day and convert them into money. This money you should spend in feeding the poor and other charities. None of it must you reserve for the next day, neither must you entertain a desire to hoard up money. The day you fail to follow my advice you will lose your husband, and then you will have to fall back on your former wretched life." Thus said Subrahmanya, and Kalyânî agreed to strictly follow his injunctions. He then went to live under a tree opposite to her house for a month to see whether his plan was working well, and found it worked admirably. Thus, after having conferred happiness, to the best of his abilities, on the son and daughter of his former master, Subrahmanya took leave of Kalyânî, and with her permission, most reluctantly given, he pursued his pilgrimage. One moonlight night, after a long sleep, Subrahmanya rose up almost at midnight, and hearing the crows crowing he mistook it for the dawn and commenced his journey. He had not proceeded far, when on his way he met a beautiful person coming towards him, with a sack of corn on his head and a bundle of pearls tied up in the end of his upper cloth on his shoulder, leading a buffalo before him. "Who are you, sir, walking thus in this forest?" said Subrahmanya. When thus addressed, the person before him threw down the sack and wept most bitterly. "See, sir, my head is almost become bald by having to bear to Kapâlî's house a sack of corn every night. This buffalo I lead to Kapâlî's shed and this bundle of pearls I take to Kalyânî's house. My nail wrote their fate on their respective heads and by your device I have to supply them with what my nail wrote. When will you relieve me of these troubles?" Thus wept Brahmâ, for it was no other personage. He was the creator and protector of all beings, and when Subrahmanya had pointed out the way for his master's children, and they had conquered fate, Brahmâ too was conquered. So the great god soon gave them eternal felicity and relieved himself of his troubles. XX. THE BRÂHMAN PRIEST WHO BECAME AN AMILDÂR. [97] In the Karnâta dêsa there reigned a famous king named Châmunda, who was served by an household priest, named Gundappa, well versed in all the rituals at which he officiated. Châmunda, one day, while chewing betel-leaves, thus addressed Gundappa, who was sitting opposite him:-- "My most holy priest, I am greatly pleased at your faithfulness in the discharge of your sacred duties; and you may ask of me now what you wish and I shall grant your request." The priest elated replied: "I have always had a desire to become the Amildâr [98] of a district and to exercise power over a number of people; and if your Majesty should grant me this I shall have attained my ambition." "Agreed," said the king, and at that time the Amildârship of Nañjangôd happening to be vacant, his Majesty at once appointed his priest to the post, thinking that his priest, who was intelligent in his duties, would do well in the new post. Before he sent him off, however, he gave Gundappa three bits of advice:-- (1). Mukha kappage irabêku. (2). Ellâru kevianna kachchi mâtan âdu. (3). ellâr juttu kayyalii irabêku. The meaning of which is: (1). You should always keep a black (i.e. frowning) countenance. (2). When you speak about State affairs you should do it biting the ear (i.e. secretly--close to the ear). (3.) The locks of every one should be in your hand (i.e. you must use your influence and make every one subservient to you). Gundappa heard these words so kindly given by the king, and the way in which he listened to them made his Majesty understand that he had taken them to heart. So with a smiling face the king gave the letter containing the appointment to Gundappa, who returned home with an elated heart. He told his wife about the change that had come over his prospects, and wished to start at once to take charge of the new post. The king and his officers at once sent messengers to Nañjangôd informing the officers of the Amîldârî that a newly appointed Amîldâr would be coming soon. So they all waited near the gate of the town to pay their respects to the new Amîldâr and escort him into it. Gundappa started the very next morning to Nañjangôd with a bundle containing clean clothes, six by twelve cubits long, on his head. Poor priest! Wherever he saw the kusa grass on the road, he was drawn to it by its freshness, and kept on storing it up all the way. The sacred grass had become so dear to him, that, though he would have no occasion to use it as Amîldâr of Nañjangôd, he could not pass by it without gathering some of it. So with his bundle of clothes on his head and his beloved kusa grass in his hands, Gundappa approached the city of Nañjangôd about the twentieth ghatikâ of the day. Now, though it was very late in the day, none of the officers, who had come out to receive the Amildâr had returned home to their meals. Everyone was waiting in the gate and when Gundappa turned up, no one took him to be anything more than a priest. The bundle on his head and the green ritual grass in his hands proclaimed his vocation. But everyone thought that, as a priest was coming by the very road the Amildâr would take, he might bring news of him--whether he had halted on the road and would or might be expected before the evening. So the next officer in rank to the Amildâr came to the most reverend priest and asked him whether he had any news of the coming Amildâr; on which our hero put down his bundle and taking out the cover containing the order of his appointment with a handful of kusa grass, lest his clothes be polluted if he touched them with his bare hands informed his subordinate that he was himself the Amildâr! All those assembled were astonished to find such a wretched priest appointed to so responsible a post, but when it was made known that Gundappa was the new Amildâr the customary music was played and he was escorted in a manner due to his position, into the town. He had been fasting from the morning, and a grand feast was prepared for him in the house of the next senior official, which Gundappa entered for a dinner and rest. He there informed the officials that he would be at the office at the twenty-fifth ghatikâ of the evening. From the way in which he issued the order all thought that he was really an able man, and that he had come in the guise of a simple priest in order to find out the real state of his district. So every officer went home, bathed, had his meal in haste and attended at the office. The chief assistant took the Amildâr to his house, and entertained his guest as became his position. Gundappa, being a priest, was a very good eater, for never for a day in his life had he spent money out of his own pocket on meals, so what reason had he to enquire about the price of provisions? It was at the expense of others he had grown so fat! And doing more than full justice to all the good things, much to the secret amusement of his host and assistant, Gundappa rose up from his food, and washed his hands. He then wanted betel-leaves though to ask for these before the host offers them is very impolite. But his subordinate interpreted it as an order from a master and brought the platter containing the necessary nutmeg, mace, nut, leaves, and chunam (lime). "Where is the dakshina?" [99] next asked the Amildâr. His host did not quite understand whether this was meant in earnest or in joke, but before he could solve the question in his mind:-- "Where is the dakshinâ?" reiterated the Amildâr, and his assistant, thinking that his new superior was prone to taking bribes, at once brought a bag containing 500 mohars and placed it in the platter. Now a dakshina to a Brâhmin is not usually more than a couple of rupees, but should an Amildâr ask for one, his assistant would naturally mistake him, and think he was hinting at a bribe! Gundappa greatly pleased at a princely dakshina such as he had never seen before in all his life, at once opened the bag and counted out every gold piece in it, carefully tying them up in his bundle. He then began to chew his betel, and at one gulp swallowed up all the nutmeg and mace in the platter! All this made his assistant strongly suspect the real nature of the new Amildâr; but then there was the order of the king, and it must be obeyed! Gundappa next asked his assistant to go on in advance of him to the office, saying that he would be there himself in a ghatikâ. The assistant accordingly left a messenger to attend on the Amildâr, and being very anxious to see things in good order, left his house for the office. Gundappa now remembered the three bits of advice given by the king, the first of which was that he should always put on, when in office, a black countenance. Now he understood the word "black" in its literal sense, and not in its allegorical one of "frowning," and, so going into the kitchen, he asked for a lump of charcoal paste. When this was ready he blackened the whole of his face with it, and covering his face with his cloth--as he was ashamed to show it--entered the office. With his face thus blackened and partly covered with a cloth, the new Amildâr came and took his seat. Now and then he would remove the cloth from his eyes to see how his officers were working, and meanwhile all the clerks and others present were laughing in their sleeves at the queer conduct of their chief. The evening was drawing to a close, and there were certain orders to be signed: so taking them all in his hand the assistant approached the Amildâr, and stood at a respectful distance. Gundappa, however, asked him to come nearer, and nearer the assistant came. "Still nearer," said Gundappa, and nearer still came the assistant. The second bit of advice from the king now rushed into the Amildâr's mind that he should bite the ears of his officials when he enquired into State affairs, and as Gundappa's want of sense always made him take what was said literally, he opened his mouth and bit the ear of his assistant, while in a muffled voice he asked him whether all his people enjoyed full prosperity! The assistant, now in very fear of his life, roared out that all the people were enjoying the greatest prosperity. But Gundappa would not let go his ear till the poor assistant had roared out the answer more than twenty times. The poor wretch's ear soon began to swell enormously, and leaving the office in disgust, he started to report to the king the insane acts of the new Amildâr. Two out of the three bits of advice from the king had now been duly obeyed, but the third, that the locks of all the people must be in his hands, remained unfulfilled, and Gundappa wished to carry out that also quickly. Night had now set in, and as the Amildâr still remained in his seat, all his officers were compelled to do the same. In this way the tenth ghatikâ of the night approached, and still the Amildâr would not get up, but sat with his black face secured in his cloth, now and then peeping out to see whether they were all asleep or awake. The fact was, he was waiting for an opportunity to have all the locks of his officers in his hand! As soon as all his officers fell asleep he intended to cut off all their locks, as usual understanding the words in their literal sense! At about midnight, never dreaming of the stupid act that the Amildâr was contemplating in his mind, every one fell asleep, and Gundappa rose up, and with a pair of scissors cut off all the locks of his officers. He then tied them all up in a bundle and returned to his assistant's home late at night, where the servants gave him something to eat; after which he started with his bag of mohars and bundle of locks to his king to inform him of how well he had obeyed his orders! In the early morning he reached the presence of his Majesty only a nimisha after his assistant had arrived. Seeing the Amildâr he was too afraid to to lodge any complaint, but his swollen ear drew the attention of every eye in the assembly. Gundappa now stood before the king with the charcoal on his face and said:-- "Most noble king, you ordered me to blacken my face for my new duty. See, I have not even yet removed the dye! You ordered me next only to speak while biting an ear. Look, please, at my assistant's ear, who stands before you and tell me whether I have not obeyed you!! And as for having the locks of my officers in my hands; why here they are in this bundle!!!" Never had the king seen a similar instance of such stupidity, and the thought that Gundappa had shorn so many respectable heads of their locks, and had really bitten the ear of a worthy gentleman, brought much shame to his heart. He begged pardon of the injured man and from that day forward was very careful in the choice of his officers! Poor Gundappa was dismissed even from the priestship, and his belly grew lean from having no longer the privilege of eating rich food at others' cost! XXI. THE GARDENER'S CUNNING WIFE. In a certain village there lived with his wife a poor gardener who cultivated greens in a small patch in the backyard of his house. They were in thirty little beds, half of which he would water every day. This occupied him from the fifth to the fifteenth ghatikâ. His wife used to cut a basketful of greens every evening, and he took them in the mornings to sell in the village. The sale brought him a measure or two of rice, and on this the family lived! If he could manage any extra work of an evening he got a few coppers which served to meet their other expenses. Now in that village there was a temple to Kâlî, before which was a fine tank with a mango tree on its bank. The fish in the tank and the mangoes from the tree were dedicated to the goddess, and were strictly forbidden to the villagers. If any one was discovered cutting a mango or catching a fish, he was at once excommunicated from the village. So strict was the prohibition. The gardener was returning home one morning after selling his greens and passed the temple. The mangoes, so carefully guarded by religious protection, were hanging on the tree in great numbers, and the gardener's eyes fell on them! His mouth watered. He looked round about him, and fortunately there was no one by, at least, as far as his eyes could reach. So he hastily plucked one of the mangoes and with nimble feet descended into the tank to wash it. Just then a most charming shoal of fish met his eyes. These protected dwellers in the tank had no notion of danger, and so were frolicking about at their ease. The gardener looked about him first and finding no one by caught half a dozen stout fish at one plunge of his hand. He hid them and the mango underneath the rice in his basket and returned home, happy in the thought that he had not been caught. Now he had a special delight in fish, and when he reached his house he showed what he brought to his wife and asked her to prepare a dish with the newly caught fish and the never-till-then tasted mango. Meanwhile he had to water his garden, and went to the backyard for the purpose. The watering was done by a pikôta. He used to run up and down the pole while a friend of his, the son of his neighbour, lifted the water and irrigated the garden. Meanwhile his wife cooked the dish of mango and fish in a pan, and found the flavour so sweet that even while the fish was only half cooked she began to taste one bit of it after another till more than half had already gone down her throat! The dish was at last cooked, and the few remaining slices in the pan were taken off the fire, so she went into the verandah and from thence saw her husband running up and down the pikôta. She beckoned to him that the dish was ready and that he should come in and taste it. However, he never noticed her, but kept on running up and down the pikôta, and while running up and down he was obliged to wave his hands about, and this his wife mistook as an indication that she might eat up her portion of the dish. At any rate her imagination made her think so; and she went in and ate a slice, and then went out into the verandah again to call her husband who was still running up and down the pikôta. Again, her husband, so she thought, waved his hands in permission to go on with her dinner. Again she went in and had another slice. Thus it went on for a full ghatikâ till the last slice was consumed. "Alas!" thought she, "With what great eagerness my husband fetched the fish and the mango, and how sadly, out of greediness, have I disappointed him. Surely his anger will know no bounds when he comes in. I must soon devise some means to save myself." So she brought the pan in which she cooked the fish and mango out of the house and covered it with another pan of similar size and sat down before it. Then she undid her hair and twisted it about her head until it was dishevelled. She then began to make a great noise. This action by a woman in an illiterate family of low caste is always supposed to indicate a visitation from a goddess and a demon; so when her husband from the pikôta tree saw the state of his wife, his guilty conscience smote him. The change in his wife alarmed him, and he came down suddenly and stood before her. As soon as she saw him she roared out at him:-- "Why have you injured me to-day by plundering my mango and fish? How dare you do such an irreligious act? You shall soon see the results of your impertinence!" "The goddess has come upon my wife most terribly," thought the poor man. "Her divine power may soon kill her! What shall I do?" So he fell at the feet of the divine visitation as he thought it to be, and said:-- "My most holy goddess, your dog of a servant has this day deviated from the straight path. Excuse him this time, and he will never do so a second time." "Run then with the pan which contains the fruits of your robbery and dip it deep into my tank. Then shall the fish become alive and the mango shall take its place in the tree." The gardener received the order most submissively, and taking the pan in his hand flew to the tank. There he dipped it in the water and came back to his house fully believing that his sin that day had been forgiven, and that the cooked fish had become alive again and the mango a living one. Thus did the cunning wife save herself from her husband's wrath! XXII. KEEP IT FOR THE BEGGAR. When anything sweet is prepared in the house on a particular night, and when the children, after feeding to their fill, say to the mother:-- "Ammâ, this pudding is sweet; keep it for the morning," the mother says at once:-- "Ask me to keep it for the beggar, and I shall do it." "Why should I not say keep it for the morning, Ammâ," ask the curious children, and the South Indian mother gives to her listening children the following story:-- In a certain village there lived an affectionate husband and wife. The husband would go to look after the fields and garden and return home with abundance of vegetables. The wife would cook and serve her lord to his fill. Before going out in the morning the husband used to take whatever of last night's dishes were left cold to remain for his breakfast. The husband was a great eater of dhâl [100] soup. Every night the wife used to prepare a large quantity of it and leave a good portion of it to stand for the morning's breakfast of her lord. And he, too, owing to his taste for the cold rice, used to warn his wife--though she was very careful--and say:-- "Keep me some of this soup for the next morning." The wife used to say: "Yes, my dear husband, I shall do so." This went on for several years. Every day the dhâl soup was invariably prepared for the night meal and a good portion of it was reserved for the cold rice. Every night, the husband, without forgetting for even a single day, used to ask his wife to reserve a portion. Thus passed on several years, as we have already said. One night this husband had his supper. The wife had sat at her husband's leaf to take her supper after her lord had had his. That night, too, our hero, as usual, repeated:-- "Keep, my dear, some of this soup for the morning." At once a gurgling laughter was heard near the doorsill of their house. The pair were astonished, and searched their whole house. No one was discovered. Again the husband said:-- "Keep, my dear, some of this soup for the morning." Again the laughter was heard. Finding that the laughter immediately followed his order, the husband repeated it a third time. A third time also the laughter broke out. They were astonished. Three times had laughter been heard in their house, and still they could see no one. Thinking that some one must have mocked him from the neighbouring houses, he made careful inquiries and satisfied himself that none of his neighbours had mocked him. He was afraid at the laughter which thrice proceeded from a part of his house, as he had heard it distinctly. That very night our hero had a sudden and unforeseen calamity, and just as he was dragging the latch of his backyard door a serpent stung him in his finger. Neighbours hearing of the venomous reptile in their next house, ran there with a stout cudgel. Already the master of the house, who was passionately fond of the dhâl soup, had swooned away. His wife was mourning by his side, saying:-- "My dear husband. How did you forget your soup so soon and leave us all for the other world? Just now you gave me the order, and before tasting it even you have died." The neighbours began to search for the snake; but they did not succeed. And again a voice exclaimed from vacuum:-- "This husband's fate ended at the twelfth ghatikâ of this night. Yama ordered me to go and fetch him to his world. I came down and reached this house at the eighth ghatikâ when the husband was giving the order to reserve for the morning meal his dear dhâl soup. I could not contain my laughter, and so broke out with a gurgling noise. As I am divine no one could perceive me. And so none ever found me in this house after they heard the laughter. Then I transformed myself into a serpent and waited for the hour to do my death-dealing duty. The poor man is now no more. Four ghatikâs ago he was of opinion that he would live and eat his cold rice to-morrow morning. How very sanguine people are in this world of uncertainty. The cause for my laughter was the husband's certainty when he issued that order to reserve the dhâl soup for the breakfast." Thus ended the messenger, and vanished of course to inform his master how he had executed his orders. And from that day, my children, it was fixed that our life in this world is always uncertain, and that one who lives at this moment cannot be sure of doing so at the next moment. While such is the case, how can you say, "Keep the pudding for to-morrow morning." Since you saw in the story just related to you, that we can never be certain of our life, you must say, instead of "for to-morrow morning, for the beggar." If we keep it for the beggar, and if we fortunately live till to-morrow morning, we shall use a portion of it and give the remainder to the beggar. Hence you must always, hereafter, say when any supper from overnight is to be left for the morning, "Keep it for the beggar, Ammâ." "Yes, mother. We shall do so hereafter," replied the children. In India, among Brâhmins, the wife must never take her food before her lord, unless she is pregnant or sick. In these two cases even on the days when it is possible to avoid the meal before her lord, the wife invariably does it; on other days she cannot probably help it when she is physically unable. And in taking her meal, the wife sits in front of the leaf (dish) from which her husband has eaten. Most husbands generally leave their leaves clean, some out of pure affection to their wives and out of a good intention of not injuring the feelings of their wives. But there are others, who, as they are unclean in their other habits, are also unclean in their eating. The appearance of their leaves after they have left off eating, is like those thrown out in the streets and mutilated by crows and dogs. But their wives, cursing their lot to have married such husbands, must, as long as they are orthodox, eat out of those leaves. XXIII. GOOD LUCK TO THE LUCKY ONE; OR, SHALL I FALL DOWN? In a certain town there lived a wealthy Brâhmin. He wished to build a house--pretty large and spacious--as became his riches. For that purpose he called in a great number of soothsayers, and fixed, guided by their scientific opinion, a place for building the mansion. A certain portion of every day is supposed to be bad for doing work. This portion is sometimes called the Râhu-kâla--the evil time of the demon râhu and sometimes tyâjya--the time to be avoided. And abandoning carefully all these evil hours the wealthy Brâhmin built his mansion in ten years. The first entrance into a new house to dwell is performed always with a great deal of pomp and ceremony, even by the poor according to their means. And our wealthy Brâhmin to please the gods of the other world and the gods of this world--bhûsuras Brâhmins--spent a great deal of his wealth, and with veoras and music sounding all around him he entered into his house. The whole of the day almost was spent in ceremonies and festivities. All the guests left the place at evening, and much exhausted by the exertions of the day the Brâhmin house-owner retired to rest. Before sleep could close his eyelids he heard a fearful voice over his head exclaiming:--"Shall I fall down? Shall I fall down?" Great was the concern of the landlord at hearing this voice. He thought that some demon had taken possession of his house, and that he was going to pull down the roof of his house over his own head. That very night with as much haste as he entered the new house, he vacated it and went back to his old house. Sirukakhatti perukavâlka is the Tamil proverb. The meaning of it is "build small and live great," i.e., build small houses without laying out much capital uselessly in houses and live prosperously; and in villages many a rich landlord would prefer small houses to big ones. The idea that he had spent a great deal of money to build a big house troubled our hero. The spaciousness of the house was one reason for the devil to come in so easily, as he thought. When he vacated his house on the very night of the day he entered it people began to talk all sorts of scandals about it. The ladies in the bathing places (ghats) in rivers began to give all sorts of colour to the devils in that house. One said that when she was coming to the river she saw a company of devils dancing round and round the middle pillar of the upper storey of that unfortunate house. Another said that she observed unearthly lights in that mansion the previous night. Thus people talked and talked, furnishing new colours and new adventures out of their pure imagination for a phenomena which they never saw. And our unfortunate rich man had to lock up his house which he built after so many days, and at the expense of so much money. Thus passed six months. In that town there lived a poor beggar Brâhmin. He was in extreme poverty, and spent a great portion of the day in begging from house to house his meal and clothes. He had, poor man, seven children. With this large family he was constantly in the greatest misery. He had not a proper house to live in. A miserable hut was all his wealth in that village. Winter was approaching, and the roof of their only hut began to fall down. The increasing miseries made the poor Brâhmin resolve upon suicide. He could not bring himself to do that by his own hand. He had heard of the haunted house, and resolved to go there with all his family and perish by the hands of the devils. This was his secret intention, but he never spoke of it to any one. One day he came to the rich Brâhmin who was the owner of the haunted mansion, and spoke to him thus:-- "My noble lord! The winter is approaching and the roof of my hut has fallen away. If you would kindly allow it I shall pass the rainy days in your big house." When the rich man heard this he was very glad to see that one person at least there was in his little world who wanted the use of his house. So, without hesitating any longer, he replied:-- "My most holy sir, you can have the free use of that whole house for whatever time you may want it. It is enough if you light a lamp there and live happily. I built it, and I am not destined to live there. You can go and try your fortune there." So said the rich landlord, and gave the key of that haunted house to the poor Brâhmin. The latter took it, and with his family went and lived there from that day. That very night he also heard the same voice: "Shall I fall down?" "Shall I fall down?" twice. Nothing daunted, and quite resolved to perish with his wife and children, who were sound asleep near him, he exclaimed, "Fall down," and lo! a golden river of mohurs and pagodas began to fall down in the middle of the room from the top of the roof. It began falling and falling without any stopping till the poor Brâhmin, who sat agape with wonder, began to fear that they would all be buried in mohurs. The moment he saw the sea of wealth before him, his idea of suicide abandoned him. "Stop please," said he at once, and the mohur-fall came to a sudden stop. He was delighted at the good nature of the devil, or whatever good spirit might have taken possession of the house, for its having given him so much wealth. He heaped up all the mohurs in one room, and locked it up, and had the key of it in his own possession. His wife and children got up during the mohur-fall. They also were informed of everything. The poor Brâhmin advised his wife and children to keep the matter secret, and they, to their great credit, did so. They all--the poor parents and children--rejoiced at the good fortune that had made its visit to them. As soon as morning dawned the poor Brâhmin converted little by little his mohurs into money and bought grains and clothes for his family. This he did day by day till rumour began to spread that the poor Brâhmin had found a treasure-trove in the rich landlord's house. Of course this rumour reached the ears of the wealthy man also. He came to the poor Brâhmin and asked him all about the treasure-trove. The latter to his great honour related to the landlord every bit of the mohur-fall. He also wished to witness it and sleep in the room with the poor Brâhmin, for the first time in his life, his thirst for mohurs inducing him to do so. At about midnight "Shall I fall down?" was again heard. "Fall down" said the poor Brâhmin, and lo! the mohurs began to descend like a water-fall. But, horror of horrors, they all appeared as so many scorpions to the house-owner. The poor man was heaping up the gold coins, but all of them seemed to crawl as so many scorpions to the eyes of the landlord. "Stop please," said the poor man, and the mohur-fall stopped. Then turning to the house-owner, the poor man said: "My lord, you may take home this heap for your use." The house-owner began to weep and said: "Most fortunate of mankind, I have heard my old father often repeat a proverb, 'To the fortunate fortune comes,' and its meaning I have discovered to-day only. I built the house and ran away when I heard the 'shall I fall.' No doubt I did very well, for had I remained a scorpion torrent would have sent me to the other world. Know then my most fortunate friend, that I see all your mohurs as so many scorpions. I have not the fortune to see them as mohurs. But you have that gift. So from this moment this house is yours. Whatever you can convert into money of your mohurs I shall receive and bless you." So saying the house-owner came out of the room fearing the scorpions. And our poor man thus had all the fortune to himself, and was no longer a poor man. He soon became one of the wealthiest of men of his time, but remembering that he owed all his riches to the wealthy landlord who gave him the house, he used to share with the latter half of his wealth every year. This story explains the Tamil proverb Madrishtam ullavanukku kidaikkum; to the fortunate good fortune. N.B.--This story was also related to me by my step-mother whose birth-place is a village in the Trichinopoly district. N. S. XXIV. RETALIATION--PALIKKUPPALI. There is a proverb in Tamil called Palikkuppali vângukiradu which would best be translated by the expression "tit for tat," and the following story I heard when a boy from my step-mother, illustrating that proverb, and I have of late found the same story also in the Trichinopoly districts. In a certain village there lived a poor Sûdra. He had made a vow to the goddess of his village, that if he came out successfully in a certain undertaking he would offer her a couple of goats. And he succeeded in his undertaking, and thought that his goddess alone had granted his request. Great was his joy and greater became his faith in her extraordinary powers. And as he promised he brought two fat goats and sacrificed them to her. These goats thus sacrificed and the Sûdra sacrificer who meanwhile had died by a sudden fever, after a short time were all re-born in the world to undergo the results of their goodness or sin. The two goats, because they were sacrificed to the goddess, were re-born as the king and the minister of a large country. The Sûdra, as he had as much faith in his former life as in his goddess, was reborn in the priest's (gurukkula) caste, of course neither the king and his minister nor the priest had any reason to know their former life, until the death of the latter approached, as we shall presently see. A large kingdom fell to the share of the king, and he with his minister reigned over it most peacefully. In an unfrequented wilderness was a famous temple of a powerful goddess of of that country, and in that pagoda the priest regularly conducted her worship. Thus passed several years, the king and minister happy in their own kingdom, and the priest executing his religious duties in the wilderness. The priest was leading a most calm and holy life, eating what grew in the wilderness. His life was as pure as pure can be. But for all that fate would not forgive him for his acts in his former life. The king and the minister had vowed to the goddess of the wilderness that if they returned successfully from the conquest of an enemy of theirs they would offer her some human sacrifice. And so they returned, and to make entire their vow to the goddess they left their kingdom like ordinary men and came to the wood. All along the way they searched for a person to sacrifice, but no one--fortunately for him--was to be found. They still thought that the vow must not be left unaccomplished, and resolved upon catching the priest of the temple and offering him up as their intended sacrifice. When such strong people like the king and his minister resolved to do so, what could the poor priest do? He was quite unable to escape when those two informed him of what they were going to do with him on his entering to worship the goddess. Said the priest:-- "Sirs! You have come here resolved upon offering me up as a sacrifice to the goddess. I cannot hereafter escape your hold. But if you would allow me to perform my pûjâ to the goddess this morning also, I shall gladly die after having done my duty." So said the priest, and the king and the minister watched at the entrance and let him in. The priest went into the Garbhagriha--the holy of the holies in the temple, and performed his worship to the goddess. After that was over he gave the image a severe blow on its back and thus addressed it:-- "Most merciless goddess. What have you done for all my faith in you. In this lonely wilderness, without knowing any other duty than your worship, I had been your true servant for the past many years. And in reward for all that, I must fall now a prey to the sacrifice of the king and the minister who are sharpening their knives outside to cut off my head at this moment. Is this the result of all my pûjâ (worship) to you." So spake the priest, and the goddess, laughing, thus replied from the vacuum:-- "My true priest. Your acts in your former life must trouble you in this. And the charitable acts of this life, even, cannot protect you in your next birth. In your former birth you had murdered two goats. They were born as king and minister, and have dragged you here to murder you. But this--the murder you are to undergo soon, by these hands will relieve you only of one of the two murders of your former life. And for the other murder you and they would be re-born again, and again they would kill you. So in your next third life from this one you would enjoy the fruits of all this devotion. Since now you know the story of your former life, you will forgive me, I think." Thus spoke the goddess, and the priest, as the knowledge of his former life dawned upon him, by the grace of the goddess, seemed resolved to die, in order to pay for his former sin. But the idea that in the next life he was to undergo the same punishment, vexed him much, and falling down at the goddess's feet, he respectfully requested her to try her best to let him off the next life; and the goddess's heart was also moved at the severity of fate which would make her devotee pass through one more life in misery before he enjoyed the fruits of his devotion. So she devised the following plan to exculpate him from his two crimes at the same time, and thus replied:-- "Priest! 'Intelligence can conquer even Fate,' is the proverb. When Kâli gave 500 years' life to Vikramâditya in his town, Bhatti, his minister, by making the king live six months in his capital and six months in the jungle, made his master's life to last for 1000 years. So by intelligence we conquer our fate too, sometimes. So hear my advice. Ask the king who has come to murder you to hold one end of the knife, and request his minister to hold the other end. Ask both of them to aim the blow at your neck; that will accomplish everything complete during this life. They will have no revenge to take from you in your next life." So saying, the voice of the goddess stopped. The priest came back with a cheerful heart to the king and the minister, and asked them to oblige him by each of them holding one end of the knife and murdering him. They agreed, and performed thus their vow. The poor priest, too, without having another miserable life, was born a king in his next life, and lived in prosperity. Here the story ends, and the story-teller in the Hindû household, and in my case my stepmother, would at once moralise, that if we did anything to any one in this life, that one would pay us out for it in our next life. N.B.--I am led to think that this story does not contain a purely Hindû moral. XXV. THE BEGGAR AND THE FIVE MUFFINS. In a certain village there lived a poor beggar and his wife. The man used to go out every morning with a clean vessel in his hand, return home with rice enough for the day's meal, and thus they lived on in extreme poverty. One day a poor Mádhava Brâhmin invited the pair to a feast, and among Mádhavas muffins (tôsai) are always a part of the good things on festive occasions. So during the feast the beggar and his wife had their fill of muffins. They were so pleased with them, that the woman was extremely anxious to prepare some muffins in her own house, and began to save a little rice every day from what her husband brought her for the purpose. When enough had been thus collected she begged a poor neighbour's wife to give her a little black pulse which the latter--praised be her charity--readily did. The faces of the beggar and his wife literally glowed with joy that day, for were they not to taste the long-desired muffins for a second time? The woman soon turned the rice she had been saving, and the black pulse she had obtained from her neighbour into a paste, and mixing it well with a little salt, green chillies, coriander seed and curds, set it in a pan on the fire; and with her mouth watering all the while, prepared five muffins! By the time her husband had returned from his collection of alms, she was just turning out of the pan the fifth muffin! And when she placed the whole five muffins before him his mouth, too, began to water. He kept two for himself and two he placed before his wife, but what was to be done with the fifth? He did not understand the way out of this difficulty. That half and half made one, and that each could take two and a half muffins was a question too hard for him to solve. The beloved muffins must not be torn in pieces; so he said to his wife that either he or she must take the remaining one. But how were they to decide which should be the lucky one? Proposed the husband:--"Let us both shut our eyes and stretch ourselves as if in sleep, each on a verandah on either side the kitchen. Whoever opens an eye and speaks first gets only two muffins; and the other gets three." So great was the desire of each to get the three muffins, that they both abided by the agreement, and the woman, though her mouth watered for the muffins, resolved to go through the ordeal. She placed the five cakes in a pan and covered it over with another pan. She then carefully bolted the door inside and asking her husband to go into the east verandah, she lay down in the west one. Sleep she had none, and with closed eyes kept guard over her husband: for if he spoke first he would have only two muffins, and the other three would come to her share. Equally watchful was her husband over her. Thus passed one whole day--two--three! The house was never opened! No beggar came to receive the morning dole. The whole village began to enquire after the missing beggar. What had become of him? What had become of his wife? "See whether his house is locked on the outside and whether he has left us to go to some other village," spoke the greyheads. So the village watchman came and tried to push the door open, but it would not open! "Surely," said they, "it is locked on the inside! Some great calamity must have happened. Perhaps thieves have entered the house, and after plundering their property, murdered the inmates." "But what property is a beggar likely to have?" thought the village assembly, and not liking to waste time in idle speculations, they sent two watchmen to climb the roof and open the latch from the inside. Meanwhile the whole village, men, women, and children, stood outside the beggar's house to see what had taken place inside. The watchmen jumped into the house, and to their horror found the beggar and his wife stretched on opposite verandahs like two corpses. They opened the door, and the whole village rushed in. They, too, saw the beggar and his wife lying so still that they thought them to be dead. And though the beggar pair had heard everything that passed around them, neither would open an eye or speak. For whoever did it first would get only two muffins! At the public expense of the village two green litters of bamboo and cocoanut leaves were prepared on which to remove the unfortunate pair to the cremation ground. "How loving they must have been to have died together like this!" said some greybeards of the village. In time the cremation ground was reached, and village watchmen had collected a score of dried cowdung cakes and a bundle of firewood from each house, for the funeral pyre. From these charitable contributions two pyres had been prepared, one for the man and one for the woman. The pyre was then lighted, and when the fire approached his leg, the man thought it time to give up the ordeal and to be satisfied with only two muffins! So while the villagers were still continuing the funeral rites, they suddenly heard a voice:-- "I shall be satisfied with two muffins!" Immediately another voice replied from the woman's pyre:-- "I have gained the day; let me have the three!" The villagers were amazed and ran away. One bold man alone stood face to face with the supposed dead husband and wife. He was a bold man, indeed for when a dead man or a man supposed to have died comes to life, village people consider him to be a ghost. However, this bold villager questioned the beggars until he came to know their story. He then went after the runaways and related to them the whole story of the five muffins to their great amazement. But what was to be done to the people who had thus voluntarily faced death out of love for muffins. Persons who had ascended the green litter and slept on the funeral pyre could never come back to the village! If they did the whole village would perish. So the elders built a small hut in a deserted meadow outside the village and made the beggar and his wife live there. Ever after that memorable day our hero and his wife were called the muffin beggar, and the muffin beggar's wife, and many old ladies and young children from the village use to bring them muffins in the morning and evening, out of pity for them, for had they not loved muffin so much that they underwent death in life? XXVI. THE BRAHMARÂKSHAS AND THE HAIR. In a certain village there lived a very rich landlord, who owned several villages, but was such a great miser that no tenant would willingly cultivate his lands, and those he had gave him not a little trouble. He was indeed so vexed with them that he left all his lands untilled, and his tanks and irrigation channels dried up. All this, of course, made him poorer and poorer day by day. Nevertheless he never liked the idea of freely opening his purse to his tenants and obtaining their good will. While he was in this frame of mind a learned Sanyâsi paid him a visit, and on his representing his case to him, he said:-- "My dear son,--I know an incantation (mantra) in which I can instruct you. If you repeat it for three months day and night, a Brahmarâkshas will appear before you on the first day of the fourth month. Make him your servant, and then you can set at naught all your petty troubles with your tenants. The Brahmarâkshas will obey all your orders, and you will find him equal to one hundred servants." Our hero fell at his feet and begged to be instructed at once. The sage then sat facing the east and his disciple the landlord facing the west, and in this position formal instruction was given, after which the Sanyâsi went his way. The landlord, mightily pleased at what he had learnt, went on practising the incantation, till, on the first day of the fourth month, the great Brahmarâkshas stood before him. "What do you want, sir, from my hands?" said he; "what is the object of your having propitiated me for these three months?" The landlord was thunderstruck at the huge monster who now stood before him and still more so at his terrible voice, but nevertheless he said:-- "I want you to become my servant and obey all my commands." "Agreed," answered the Brahmarâkshas in a very mild tone, for it was his duty to leave off his impertinent ways when any one who had performed the required penance wanted him to become his servant; "Agreed. But you must always give me work to do; when one job is finished you must at once give me a second, and so on. If you fail I shall kill you." The landlord, thinking that he would have work for several such Brahmarâkshasas, was pleased to see that his demoniacal servant was so eager to help him. He at once took him to a big tank which had been dried up for several years, and pointing it out spoke as follows:-- "You see this big tank; you must make it as deep as the height of two palmyra trees and repair the embankment wherever it is broken." "Yes, my master, your orders shall be obeyed," humbly replied the servant and fell to work. The landlord, thinking that it would take several months, if not years, to do the work in the tank, for it was two kos long and one kos broad, returned delighted to his home, where his people were awaiting him with a sumptuous dinner. When enemies were approaching the Brahmarâkshas came to inform his master that he had finished his work in the tank. He was indeed astonished and feared for his own life! "What! finished the work in one day which I thought would occupy him for months and years; if he goes on at this rate, how shall I keep him employed. And when I cannot find it for him he will kill me!" Thus he thought and began to weep; his wife wiped the tears that ran down his face, and said:-- "My dearest husband, you must not lose courage. Get out of the Brahmarâkshas all the work you can and then let me know. I'll give him something that will keep him engaged for a very very long time, and then he'll trouble us no more." But her husband only thought her words to be meaningless and followed the Brahmarâkshas to see what he had done. Sure enough the thing was as complete as could be, so he asked him to plough all his lands, which extended over twenty villages! This was done in two ghatikâs! He next made him dig and cultivate all his garden lands. This was done in the twinkling of an eye! The landlord now grew hopeless. "What more work have you for me?" roared the Brahmarâkshas, as he found that his master had nothing for him to do, and that the time for his eating him up was approaching. "My dear friend," said he, "my wife says she has a little job to give you; do it please now. I think that that is the last thing I can give you to do, and after it in obedience to the conditions under which you took service with me, I must become your prey!" At this moment his wife came to them, holding in her left hand a long hair, which she had just pulled out from her head, and said:-- "Well, Brahmarâkshas, I have only a very light job for you. Take this hair, and when you have made it straight, bring it back to me." The Brahmarâkshas calmly took it, and sat in a pîpal tree to make it straight. He rolled it several times on his thigh and lifted it up to see if it became straight; but no, it would still bend! Just then it occurred to him that goldsmiths, when they want to make their metal wires straight, have them heated in fire; so he went to a fire and placed the hair over it, and of course it frizzled up with a nasty smell! He was horrified! "What will my master's wife say if I do not produce the hair she gave me?" So he became mightily afraid, and ran away. This story is told to explain the modern custom of nailing a handful of hair to a tree in which devils are supposed to dwell, to drive them away. NOTES NOTES TO XIII.--FIRST PART. Few stories are more familiar and widely spread than that of the Lost Camel, which occurs in the opening of the romance. It was formerly, and perhaps is still, reproduced in English school reading-books. Voltaire, in chapter iii. of his "Zadig; ou, La Destinée" (the materials of which he is said to have derived from Geuelette's "Soirées Bretonnes,") has a version in which a lost palfrey and a she dog are described by the "sage" from the traces they had left on the path over which they passed. The great Arabian historian and traveller Mas'udi, in his "Meadows of Gold, and Mines of Gems," written A.D. 943, gives the story of the Lost Camel, and from Mas'udi it was probably taken into the MS. text of the "Thousand and One Nights," procured in the East (?Constantinople) by Wortley Montague, and now preserved in the Bodleian Library, Oxford. [101] In that MS. it forms an incident in the story of the Sultan of Yeman and his Three Sons: the princes, after their father's death, quarrel over the succession to the throne, and at length agree to lay their respective claims before one of the tributary princes. On the road one of them remarks, "A camel has lately passed this way loaded with grain on one side, and with sweetmeats on the other." The second observes, "and the camel is blind of one eye." The third adds, "and it has lost its tail." The owner comes up, and on hearing their description of his beast, forces them to go before the king of the country, to whom they explain how they discovered the defects of the camel and its lading. In a Persian work, entitled "Nigaristan," three brothers rightly conjecture in like manner that a camel which had passed, and which they had not seen, was blind of an eye, wanted a tooth, was lame, and laden with oil on the one side, and honey on the other. The story is also found in the Hebrew Talmud. Two slaves are overheard by their master conversing about a camel that had gone before them along the road. It was blind of an eye, and laden with two skin bottles, one of which contained wine, the other oil. In a Siberian version (Radloff), three youths are met by a man who asks them if they had seen his camel, to which they reply by describing the colour and defects of the animal so exactly that he accuses them to the Prince of having stolen it. "I have lost a camel, my lord," said he, "and when I met these three young men we saluted, and I told them that I had lost my camel. Quoth one of these youths, 'Was thy camel of a light colour?' The second asked, 'was thy camel lame?' And the third, 'Was it not blind of an eye?' I answered Yes to their questions. Now decide, my lord. It is evident these young men have stolen my camel." Then the Prince asked the eldest, "How did you know that the camel was of a light colour?" He replied, "By some hairs which has fallen on the ground when it had rubbed itself against trees." The two others gave answers similar to those in our version. Then said the Prince to the man, "Thy camel is lost; go and look for it." So the stranger mounted his horse and departed. NOTES TO XIII.--THE SECOND PART. The Hunter and his Faithful Dog.--A variety of this story is cited from a Cawnpore newspaper, in the "Asiatic Journal," Vol. XV. (new series), Part II. October, 1834, p. 78, which is to the following effect:--A Bunjarrah named Dabee had a dog called Bhyro, the faithful companion of his travels, who guarded his goods from robbers while he slept. He wished to go to a distant part of the country to trade in grain, but had not sufficient funds for the purpose. After much cogitation, he at length resolved to pledge his dog for 1,000 rupees, and when he applied to several persons was laughed at for his folly; but a wealthy merchant named Dyaram gave the money, on condition that it should be paid back within twelve months, taking the dog Bhyro in pledge. When eleven months had passed, the merchant began to bewail the stupidity which had induced him to lend so large a sum on so precarious a security. His relentings were, however, premature. One dark and dreary night he was aroused from his slumbers by a great noise, occasioned by the clashing of swords and the barking of Bhyro. A band of armed men had entered the house with intent to plunder, but before they could effect their purpose they had been observed by the faithful Bhyro, who commenced an attack upon them. Before Dyaram could render any assistance, Bhyro had laid two of the robbers dead at his feet; a third, on the approach of Dyaram, aimed a blow at his head, which was prevented from taking effect by Bhyro seizing the ruffian by the throat and laying him prostrate on the ground. After peace was restored, Dyaram congratulated himself on having received Bhyro in pledge for the Bunjarrah, by which act he not only escaped being plundered, but in all probably murdered. Next morning Dyaram called Bhyro, and after caressing him, said:--"The service you rendered me last night is more than an equivalent for the 1,000 rupees I lent your master; go, faithful creature. I give you a free discharge from your obligation as security for him." Bhyro shook his head in token that it was impossible for him to go until his master returned; but Dyaram, comprehending his meaning, soon arranged matters by writing a statement of the circumstances, and giving a voucher for the 1,000 rupees. This document he tied round Bhyro's neck, which done, Bhyro expressed his delight by leaping about in every direction, and, after licking the hands of Dyaram, darted out of the house and set off in quest of his master. While these scenes were transpiring in Dyaram's house, Dabee was not unmindful of the pledge he had left behind him, and, having succeeded in his speculation, was returning with all haste to redeem it. At his last stage homewards he was surprised to see Bhyro approaching him with every demonstration of joy, but at sight of him Dabee's rage was kindled, and repulsing Bhyro as he fawned upon him he thus addressed him:--"O, ungrateful wretch! is this the return you have made for my kindness to you? and is this the manner in which you have established my character for veracity? You remained faithful to your trust during eleven months--could you not have held out for thirty short days? You have, by your desertion from your post, entailed dishonour upon me, and for this you shall die." And, so saying, he drew his sword and slew him. After having committed this deed, he observed a paper tied round Bhyro's neck; having read it, his grief was indescribable. To atone in some measure for his rash act, caused poor Bhyro to be buried on the spot where he fell, and a superb monument to be erected over his remains. To the grave of Bhyro, even at the present day, resort natives who have been bitten by dogs, they believing that the dust collected there, when applied to the wounds, is an antidote for hydrophobia. NOTES TO XIII.--THE THIRD PART. The Brahman's Wife and the Mongoose.--We have, in this story, an Indian variety of the well-known Welsh legend of Llewellyn and his dog Gellert. A similar legend was current in France during the Middle Ages. But our story--mutatis mutandis--is as old as the third century B.C., since it is found in a Buddhist work of that period. It also occurs in two Sanskrit forms of the celebrated Fables of Pilpay, or Bidnaia namely the "Pancha Tantra" (five chapters), which is said to date as far back as the 5th century A.D., and the "Hitopadesa" (Friendly Counsels); also in the Arabian and other Eastern versions of the same work. It is found in all the texts of the Book of Sindibad--Greek, Syriac, Persian, Hebrew, Old Castilian, Arabic, &c., and in the several European versions, known generally under the title of "The History of the Seven Wise Masters," the earliest form of which being a Latin prose work entitled "Dolopathos." There are, of course, differences in the details of the numerous versions both Western and Eastern, but the fundamental outline is the same in all. In my work on the migrations of popular tales, I have reproduced all the known versions of this world-wide story, with the exception of that in the present romance, which is singular in representing the woman as killing herself after she had discovered her fatal mistake, and her husband as slaying his little son and himself. The author of the romance probably added these tragedies, in order to enable the supposed narrator to more forcibly impress the king with the grievous consequences of acting in affairs of moment with inconsiderateness and precipitation. In most versions it is the husband who kills the faithful animal. Among the Malays the story of the Snake and the Mongoose is current in this form:--A man left a tame bear in charge of his house, and of his sleeping child, while he was absent from home. On his return he missed his child, the house was in disorder, as if some great struggle had taken place, and the floor was covered with blood. Hastily concluding that the bear had killed and devoured the child, the enraged father slew the animal with his spear, but almost immediately afterwards found the carcase of a tiger, which the faithful bear had defeated and killed, and the child emerged unharmed from the jungle, where it had taken refuge. In a black-letter English edition of the "Seven Wise Masters," the knight, having slain his hound and discovered his child safe in its cradle, exclaims (and here the hand of the misogynist monkish writer is very evident!)--"Woe be to me, that, for the words of my wife, I have slain my good and best greyhound, the which had saved my child's life, and hath slain the serpent; therefore I will put myself to penance." And so he brake his sword in three pieces, and travelled in the direction of the Holy Land, and abode there all the days of his life. The preceding story of the Hunter and his Dog, it will be observed, is closely allied to that of the Brahman's Wife and the Mongoose; and in conclusion, where the hunter erects a stately tomb over his dog's remains, it presents a striking resemblance to the Welsh legend of Llewellyn and the dog Gellert, which is probably not merely fortuitous. A very curious version is found in a black-letter chapter-book, entitled the "Seven Wise Mistresses," written in imitation of the "Seven Wise Masters," by one Thomas Howard, about the end of the seventeenth century, in which a knight and his lady are wrecked and cast ashore on a desert island, and the knight soon afterwards dies. His wife takes a thorn out of a lion's foot (Androcles in petticoats), and the grateful animal follows her about, and provides her with food, and this is how the story goes on:-- "At last she began mourning to herself, deploring her condition in living in such obscurity in a foreign Country, and as her daily companion, a savage Beast, her mind yearning after her own habitation, she thus complained: 'Oh, how hath fortune frowned on me that I am driven out from all human knowledge, and am glad to take up my habitation with the Beast of the Field!' "As she thus complained to herself, the Devil chanced to appear to her, and demanded the cause of her complaint, and she related all to him as you have heard. Then said he to her: 'What wilt thou give and I will provide a ship which shall carry thee home to thy own country.' She answered: 'Half my Estates.' "'Nay,' said the Devil, 'If thou wilt give me thy Soul at the term of twelve years, I will set thee down in thy own country, and thou shalt live and flourish so long.' 'God forbid,' said the Lady. 'I would rather end my wretched life in this solitary island than that.' 'Why then,' said the Devil, 'I will make this bargain with you, that if you abstain from sleeping all the time of our voyage, which shall be but three days, I will have nothing to do with your Soul; if you sleep, I will have it as I have said.' "And upon this bargain the lady ventured, provided she might have her Lion with her. So 'twas concluded, and a brave Ship came and took the Lady and her Lion. When she lay down the Lion lay by her, and if she slumbered the Lion would touch her with his paw, by which means he kept her awake all the voyage, until she landed in her own country, and being come to her Father's house, she knocked at the gate. Then the Porter coming with all speed opened the gate and thought that it was a Beggar. "Frowningly he shut it again, saying, 'There's nothing here for you.' Then she bounced at the gate again, and asked the Porter if such a Knight lived there, meaning her Father, and he said 'Yes.' 'Then,' said she, 'Pray, deliver this piece of ring unto him.' Now this ring was it she brake betwixt her Father and she at her departure out of the land. Then the Porter delivered the Ring to his Master, saying: 'The Beggar woman at the gate willed me to deliver the piece of ring unto you.' "When the Knight saw the ring he fell down in a swound but when he was revived he said, 'Call her in, for she is my only Daughter, whom I thought was dead.' 'Then,' said the Porter, 'I dare not call her in, for there is a mighty Lion with her.' 'Though it be,' said the Knight, 'call her in.' Then said the Porter [to the Lady], 'You are to come in, but leave your Lion outside.' 'No,' said the Lady, 'my Lion goes whereever I go, and where he is not, there will I not be.' "And when she came to her Father she fell down on her knees and wept. Her Father took her up in his arms and kissed her, weeping as fast, and after he clothed her in purple, and placed her by him in a chair, and demanded an account of her travels, and she told him all that had happened, and how the Lion had saved her life, and was the greatest comfort she had in the Wilderness. It chanced afterwards that as the Knight was going into his Wood to look after his young Horses, he met with a wild Boar, with whom he fell in combat. The Lion loved the Old Knight, and by accident walking along he scented the Boar, and as the Lion ran toward the place where the Boar was, the Steward espied him, and he ran into the Palace, and cryed out, 'the Lion is running after my Master to destroy him.' "Then the Lady sent after him ten of her servants, who met the Lion, his mouth all bloody, and they ran back and told the Lady the Lion had destroyed her aged Father. Then said the Lady, 'O woe is me that ever I was born, that have brought a Lion from far to destroy my own Father.' Therefore she commanded her servants to slay the Lion, which no sooner was done but her Father came in, and said; 'O, I have met with a wild Boar, with whom I fought, and there came the Lion to my aid, and slew the Boar, and so saved my life, else I had died by the Boar.' "When the Lady heard this, O how she wept and wrung her hands, saying, 'For the words of a wicked Steward, I have slain my good Lion, who hath saved my life and my Father's. Cursed be the time I was advised by him.'" The Faithless Wife and the Ungrateful Blind Man.--I do not remember having met with this story in any other collection, although there are there many tales in Asiatic story-books of women abandoning their blind or infirm husbands, and going off with strange men. A very considerable proportion, in fact of Eastern stories turn upon the alleged wickedness and profligacy and intrigues of women. This most unjust estimate of "the sex" seems to have been universal in Asiatic countries from every remote times and probably was introduced into Europe through the Crusades. Not a few of the mediæval Monkish tales represent women in a very unfavourable light, and this is also the case in our early English jest-books, which were compiled soon after the invention of printing. In the oldest Indian literature, however, especially the two grand epics "Ramayana" and "Mahabharata," occur several notable tales of noble women, such as "Dushyanta and Sakuntala," and the charming romance of "Nala and Damayanti;" and in another work, the "Adventures of the Ten princes," ("Dasa Kumara Charita,") the fine story of Gomiui, who is held up as a pattern to her sex. NOTES TO XIII.--THE FOURTH PART. The Wonderful Mango-fruit.--A variety of this story occurs in the Persian "Tuti Nama" of Nakhshabi:--A Prince, who is very ill, sends a parrot of great sagacity to procure him some fruit of the Tree of Life. When at length the bird returns with the life-giving fruit, the Prince scruples to eat of it, upon which the parrot relates the legend of "Solomon and the Water of Immortality;" how that wise monarch declined to procure immunity from death, on consideration that he should thus survive all his friends and female favourites. The Prince, however, being suspicious regarding the fruit, sent some trusty messengers to "bring the first apple that fell from the Tree of Existence." But it happened that a black snake had poisoned it by seizing it in its mouth and then letting it drop again. When the messengers returned with the fruit, the Prince tried the effect on a holy man, who instantly falls down dead. Upon seeing this, the Prince dooms the parrot to death; but the sagacious bird suggests that, before the Prince should execute him for treason, he should himself go to the Tree of Life and make another experiment with its fruit. The Prince does so, and, returning home, gives part of the fruit to an old woman, "who, from age and infirmity, had not stirred abroad for many years;" and, no sooner had she tasted it, than she was changed into a charming girl of eighteen. But more closely resembling our story is a version in a Canarese collection, entitled "Katha Manjari":--A certain king had a magpie that flew one day to heaven with another magpie. From thence it took away some mango seed, and, having returned, gave it to the king, saying:-- "If you cause this to be planted and grow, whoever eats of its fruit old age will forsake him and his youth be restored." The king was much pleased, and caused it to be planted in his favourite garden. After some years, buds appeared and became flowers, then young fruit, then full grown; and when the fruit was ripe the king ordered one to be plucked and brought to him, when he gave it to an old man. But on it had fallen poison from a serpent as it was carried through the air by a kite, so the old man immediately withered and died. The king, on seeing this, exclaimed in wrath:-- "Is not this bird attempting to kill me?" And he seized the magpie and wrung off its head. Afterwards in the village the tree had the name of the poisonous mango. Now, it happened that a washerman, taking the part of his wife in a quarrel with his old mother, struck the latter, who was so angry at her son that she resolved to die, in order that the blame of her death should fall upon him; and having gone to the poisonous mango-tree in the garden, she cut off a fruit and ate it, when instantly she became more blooming than a girl of sixteen. This miracle she published everywhere and it came to the king's ears, who, having called her and seen her, caused the fruit to be given to other old people. Having seen what was thus done by the marvelous virtue of the mango-fruit, the king sorrowfully exclaimed:-- "Alas, the faithful magpie is killed which gave me this divine tree! How guilty am I!" And he pierced himself with his sword and died. "Therefore," adds the story-teller, "those who act without thought are certain to be ruined." The old Brahman's generously presenting the king with the wonderful mango-fruit in our story, finds its parallel with a difference, in the Hindu romance entitled "Simhasana Dwatrinsatri," or Thirty-two Tales of a throne, where a Brahman having received from the gods, as a reward for his devotional austerities, the fruit of immortality, joyfully proceeds home and shows it to his wife, who advises him to give it to the Raja Bhartrihari, as the wealth he should receive in return were preferable to an endless life of poverty. He goes to the palace, and presenting the fruit to the Raja, acquaints him of its nature, and is rewarded with a lakh of rupees. The Raja gives the fruit to his wife, telling her that if she ate it her beauty would increase day by day, and she should be immortal. The Kani gives it to her paramour, the chief of police, who, in his turn, presents it as the choicest of gifts to a courtesan, who, after reflecting that it would only enable her to commit innumerable sins, resolves to offer it to the Raja, in hope of a reward in a future life. When Raja Bhartrihari receives the fruit again he is astonished, and, on learning from the hætera from whom she had obtained it, he knew that his queen was unfaithful, and, abandoning his throne and kingdom, departs into the jungle, where he became an ascetic. NOTES TO XIII.--THE FIFTH PART. The Poisoned Food.--This is a third instance of food or fruit being poisoned by serpents, and it occurs very frequently in Eastern stories. The oldest form of this tale is found in a Sanskrit collection entitled "Twenty-five Tales of a Vampyre" (Vetalapanchavimsati), which is probably of Buddhist extraction, and which also exists in many of the vernacular languages of India. The wife of a man named Harisvamin having been stolen from him one night by a Vidyadhara Prince, he gave away all his wealth to the Brahmans, and resolved to visit the sacred waters to wash away his sins, after which he hoped to recover his beloved wife; and the story thus proceeds:--Then he left the country, with his Brahman birth as his only fortune, and began to go round to all the sacred bathing-places in order to recover his beloved. And as he was roaming about there came upon him the terrible lion of the hot season, with the blazing sun for mouth and with a mane composed of his fiery rays. And the winds blew with excessive heat, as if warmed by the breath of sighs furnaced forth by travellers grieved at being separated from their wives. And the tanks, with their supply of water diminished by the heat and their drying white mud, appeared to be showing their broken hearts. And the trees by the roadside seemed to lament on account of the departure of the glory of spring, making their wailing heard in the shrill moaning of their bark, with leaves, as it were, lips, parched with heat. At that season Harisvamin, wearied out with the heat of the sun, with bereavement, hunger and thirst, and continual travelling, emaciated and dirty, and pining for food, reached in the course of his wanderings a certain village, and found in it the house of a Brahman named Padmanabha, who was engaged in a sacrifice. And, seeing that many Brahmans were eating in his house, he stood leaning against the door-post, silent and motionless. And the good wife of that Brahman named Padmanabha, seeing him in this position, felt pity for him, and reflected:-- "Alas! mighty is hunger! Whom will it not bring down? For here stands a man at the door, who appears to be a householder, desiring food, with downcast countenance; evidently come from a long journey, and with all his faculties impaired by hunger. So is not he a man to whom food ought to be given?" Having gone through these reflections, that kind woman took up in her hand a vessel full of rice boiled in milk, with ghî and sugar, and brought it, and courteously presented it to him, and said:-- "Go and eat this somewhere on the bank of the lake, for this place is unfit to eat in, as it is filled with feasting Brahmans." He said "I will do so," and took the vessel of rice and placed it at no great distance under a banyan-tree on the edge of the lake; and he washed his hands and feet in the lake, and rinsed his mouth, and then came back in high spirits to eat the rice. But while he was thus engaged a kite, holding a black cobra with its beak and claws, came and sat on that tree. And it so happened that poisonous saliva issued from the mouth of that dead snake, which the bird had captured and was carrying along. The saliva fell into the dish of rice which was placed under the tree, and Harisvamin, without observing it, came and ate up that rice. As soon as in his hunger he had devoured all that food, he began to suffer terrible agonies, caused by the poison. He exclaimed:-- "When fate has turned against a man, everything in this world turns also; accordingly this rice has become poison to me." Thus speaking, Harisvamin, tortured with the poison, tottered to the house of that Brahman who was engaged in a sacrifice, and said to his wife:-- "The rice which you gave me has poisoned me; so fetch me quickly a charmer who can counteract the operation of poison; otherwise you will be guilty of the death of a Brahman." When Harisvamin had said this to the good woman, who was beside herself to think what it could all mean, his eyes closed and he died. Then the Brahman who was engaged in a sacrifice drove his wife out of the house, though she was innocent and hospitable, being enraged with her for the supposed murder of her guest. The good woman, for her part, having incurred groundless blame from her charitable deed, and so become burdened with infamy, went to a holy bathing-place, to perform penance. Then there was a discussion before the superintendent of religion as to which of the four parties, the kite, the snake, and the couple who gave rice, was guilty of the murder of a Brahman; but the question was not decided. It will be seen that our story differs very considerably from the foregoing, which we must regard as the original. The same story occurs in all the Eastern versions of the Book of Sindibad, but in most of these it is not a traveller who is thus poisoned, but a wealthy man and his guests; having sent a domestic to the market to buy sour curds, which she carried back in an open vessel, poison from a serpent in a stork's mouth dropped into the curds, of which the master of the house and his guests partook and died. The story is probably more than 2,000 years old. "Eating up the Protector." Akin to this, but with a very different conclusion, is the well-known story of the traveller who released a tiger from a trap into which he had fallen. The Brahman's fidelity to his pact with the serpent reminds one of the Arabian story of the Merchant and the Genie. In a Tamil tale, a cow having given herself up to a tiger to redeem her owner (it is to be understood, of course, that both animals are human beings re-born in those forms) she obtains leave to go and suckle her calf, after which she returns when the tiger, moved by her fidelity, lets her go free. The serpent's emitting gems recalls Shakespeare's allusion to the popular notion of the "toad, ugly and venomous, which bears a precious jewel in its head." It is a very ancient and widespread belief that serpents are the guardians of hidden treasures. Preller, in his work on Grecian mythology, refers to a Servian story in which a shepherd, as in our tale, saves the life of a snake in a forest fire, and, in return for this service, the snake's father gives him endless treasures and teaches him the language of birds. There is a very similar story in Dozon's "Contes Albanais." In the charming tale of "Nala and Damayanti," which occurs in the third part ("Vana Parva") of the grand Indian epic "Mahabharata," the exiled king perceives a snake with a ray of jewels in its crest, writhing in a jungle fire, and lifting it out, carries it some distance, and is about to set it down, when the snake says to him, "Carry me ten steps farther, and count them aloud as you go." So Nala proceeds, counting the steps--one, two, three--and when he said "ten" (dasa, which means "ten" and also "bite") the snake took him at his word, and bit the king in the forehead, upon which he became black and deformed. An abstract of a considerably modified form of our romance orally current among the people of Bengal may be given in conclusion: A king appoints his three sons to patrol in turn the streets of his capital during the night. It happens that the youngest Prince in going his rounds one night sees a beautiful woman issuing from the royal palace, and accosting her, asks her business at such an hour. She replies:-- "I am the guardian deity of this palace; the king will be killed this night, therefore I am going away." The Prince persuades the goddess to return into the palace and await the event. As in our story, he enters his father's sleeping chamber and discovers a huge cobra near the royal couch. He cuts the serpent into many pieces, which he puts inside a brass vessel that is in the room. Then seeing that some drops of the serpent's blood had fallen on his step-mother's breast, he wraps a piece of cloth round his tongue to protect it from the poison, and licks off the blood. The lady awakes, and recognises him as he is leaving the room. She accuses him to the king of having used an unpardonable freedom with her. In the morning the king sends for his eldest son, and asks him: "If a trusted servant should prove faithless how should he be punished?" Quoth the Prince: "Surely his head should be parted from his body; but before doing so you should ascertain whether the man is actually guilty." And then he proceeds to relate the following story:--"Once upon a time there was a goldsmith who had a grown-up son, whose wife was acquainted with the language of animals, but she kept secret from her husband and all others the fact of her being endowed with such a rare gift. It happened one night she heard a jackal exclaim: 'There is a dead body floating on the river; would that some one might give me that body to eat, and for his pains take the diamond ring from the finger of the dead man.' "The woman arose from her bed and went to the bank of the river, and her husband, who was not asleep, followed her unobserved. She went into the water, drew the corpse to land, and unable to loosen the ring from the dead man's finger, which had swelled, she bit off the finger, and leaving the corpse on the bank, returned home, whither she had been preceded by her husband. Almost petrified with fear, the young goldsmith concluded from what he had seen that his wife was not a human being, but a ghoul (rakshasi), and early in the morning he hastened to his father and related the whole affair to him--how the woman had got up during the night and gone to the river, out of which she dragged a dead body to the land, and was busy devouring it when he ran home in horror. "The old man was greatly shocked, and advised his son to take his wife on some pretext into the forest and leave her there to be destroyed by wild beasts. So the husband caused the woman to get herself ready to go on a visit to her father, and after a hasty breakfast they set out. In going through a dense jungle, where the goldsmith proposed abandoning his wife, she heard a serpent cry, 'O, passenger, I pray thee to seize and give me that croaking frog, and take for thy reward the gold and precious stones concealed in yonder hole.' The woman at once seized the frog and threw it towards the serpent, and then began digging into the ground with a stick. Her husband quaked with fear, thinking that his ghoul-wife was about to kill him, but she called to him, saying, 'My dear husband, gather up all this gold and precious gems.' "Approaching the spot with hesitation he was surprised to perceive an immense treasure laid bare by his wife, who then explained to him how she had learned of it from the snake that lay coiled up near them, whose language she understood. Then he said to his wife--'It is now so late that we cannot reach your father's house before dark, and we might be slain by wild beasts. Let us therefore return home.' So they retraced their steps, and approaching the house the goldsmith said to his wife--'Do, you, my dear, go in by the back door, while I enter by the front and show my father all this treasure.' The woman went in by the back door and was met by her father-in-law, who, on seeing her, concluded that she had killed and devoured his son, and striking her on the head with a hammer which he happened to have in his hand, she instantly expired. Just then the son came into the room, but it was too late." "I have told your Majesty this story," adds the eldest Prince, "in order that before putting the man to death you should make sure that he is guilty." The king next calls his second son and asks him the same question, to which he replies by relating a story to caution his father against rash actions. "A king, separated from his attendants while engaged in the chase, saw what he conceived to be rain-water dropping from the top of a tree, and, being very thirst, held his drinking cup under it until it was nearly filled, and, just as he was about to put it to his lips, his horse purposely moved so as to cause the contents to be spilled on the ground, upon which the king in a rage drew his sword and killed the faithful animal; but afterwards discovering that what he had taken for rain-water was poison that dropped from a cobra in the tree, his grief knew no bounds." Calling lastly his third son, the king asks him what should be done to the man who proved false to his trust. The Prince tells the story of the wonderful tree, the fruit of which bestowed on him who ate of it perennial youth, with unimportant variations from the version in our romance. Then the Prince explained the occasion of his presence in the Royal bedchamber, and how he had saved the king and his consort from the cobra's deadly bite. And the king, overjoyed and full of gratitude, strained his faithful son to his heart, and ever after cherished and loved him with all a father's love. NOTES [1] Soothsaying. [2] An Indian hour equal to twenty-four minutes. [3] It is the custom amongst widows to use betel leaves instead of plates. [4] In English, Benares. [5] The Deccan. [6] A small vessel. [7] Storey is here put for divisions in an Indian well. These divisions are little projecting ledges of stone made for natives to stand on so that they can get down close to the water if the well is not full. There are sometimes six or seven divisions, or ledges, of this sort. [8] The first serpent--the king of serpents. [9] Literally the stealer of gold--a practice very common in India among that class. There is a proverb to the effect that even from the gold given by their mothers to be turned into jewels, they will pilfer a little. [10] The distance of a kâs being equal to 2000 Indian poles. [11] Dungeon. [12] A period of time equal to an hour and a half. [13] King of tigers. [14] A ghatikâ is equal to twenty-four minutes. [15] Siva. [16] The eldest son of Siva commonly known as the belly god. [17] Another name of Ganapati. [18] Worship. [19] Attendants of Ganêsa. [20] Classical name of Karûr, a small, but very ancient, town in the Kôyambatûr District of the Madras Presidency. [21] Naraka of Put--Naraka is hell, and Put is a certain kind of hell to which, according to Hindû mythology, son-less persons are hurled down. [22] Putra-son, so-called as he protects the father from the hell of Put. [23] Ficus religiosa. [24] The fair. [25] Voluntary cremation of widows with the dead bodies of their husbands on the funeral pile. [26] Karôr is equal to ten lacs (lâkhs); mohur is an old gold coin. [27] Spring. [28] The king's court. [29] Council chamber. [30] My darling prince. [31] The creator of the Hindu mythology. [32] A Hindû feast. [33] Fee. [34] Vêdas--The sacred books of the Hindûs. [35] Minister. [36] The chief officer of the realm next to the minister. [37] The image of the belly-god. [38] The world of Indra, the regent of the sky. [39] Names of divine damsels. [40] Cinnamon-stone. [41] Diamond. [42] A precious stone (cat's eye). [43] A sort of paint for the eye (Hindustani--Surmâ). [44] A mark on the forehead. [45] Serpent sacrifice. [46] Sacrifice. [47] Brâhman woman. [48] Throne. [49] Têvai is the classical name of the modern town of Râmnâd in the district of Madurâ. [50] Kodâmundan. [51] Vidâmundan. [52] Vâyâlvallan. [53] Kaiyâlvallan. [54] There is no such word as kûta in Tamil. The Tamil and other Dravidian languages allow rhyming repetitions of word, like this--bhûta-kûta. [55] [Compare the tale of Fattû, the Valiant Weaver, Indian Antiquary, Vol. XI., p. 282 ff.--R. C. T.] [56] Which in Tamil are exclamations of lamentation, meaning, Ah! Alas! [57] A place of public feeding. [58] Among high caste Hindûs, when girls leave one village and go to another, the old woman of the house--the mother or grandmother--always places in her bundles and on her head a few margosa leaves as a talisman against demons. [59] A ghatikâ is twenty-four minutes. The story being Hindu, the Hindû method of reckoning distance is used. [60] A "watch" is a yâma, or three hours. [61] Tamil, tô'sai. [62] A fragrant herb, held in great veneration by the Hindûs; Ocymum sanctum. This herb is sacred alike to Siva and Vishnu. Those species specially sacred to Siva are--Vendulasî, Siru-tulasî, and Siva-tulasî; those to Vishnu are Sendulasî, Karundulasî and Vishnu-tulasî. [63] Compare the Singalese folktale given on p. 62, Vol I. of the Orientalist.--Ed. [64] Uparani or upavastra, an upper garment. [65] This kind of statement often occurs in stories in proof of the just reign of a monarch. The Hindu idea is that so long as justice and equity characterise a king's rule, even beasts naturally inimical are disposed to live in friendship. When timely rain fails or famine stalks through the land, turning his eyes from the natural causes, the orthodox Hindu will say that such a king is now reigning over them unjustly, and hence the calamity.--Translator. [66] "Distinguishing the peculiarities of an animal by its footsteps, &c., is often met with in Indian stories. Precisely the reverse of this is the tale of the four blind men who disputed about the form of an elephant. One of them had felt only the elephant's ears, and said it was like a winnow; another examined the breast and a foreleg, and said it was like a thick stump of wood; the third felt the trunk, and said it was like a heavy crook; while the fourth, having touched only the tail, declared it was like a sweeping rake."--W. A. Clouston. [67] The night-watch hearing the tutelary goddess of the village mourning, is a very ancient idea. It also occurs, for example, in the story of Viravara, in the Sanskrit book of fables entitled "Hitopadesa." Sambhavi and Mahamayi are different names of Kâlî--a fierce goddess, much worshipped as the presiding deity of cholera and smallpox.--T. [68] A ghatikâ = 24 minutes.--T. [69] Apparently the arrows were attached to some kind of mechanism which discharged them on the opening of the jar. There is "nothing new under the sun." Dynamite is perhaps a discovery of our own times, but "infernal machines," which served the purpose of king-killers, are of ancient date. [70] The Hindûs, at their meals, squat on the ground, with leaves in place of earthenware dishes, on which their food is served.--T. [71] A sum of money varying in different localities of the South of India. In the Chola grants "pon" also occurs. [72] An Indian word meaning clumps of trees. [73] It is a very common practice to dupe the ordinary people in this manner in Hindu temples. Some impostor will proclaim to the crowd that the spirit of a god, or goddess, is upon him, and utters whatever comes uppermost in his mind. He occasionally contrives to accomplish his private ends by such "revelations." The ignorant are greatly misled by these impostors, and learned Hindus condemn the practice as gross superstition.--T. [74] Corresponding to the English proverb: "Quarrelling with one's bread and butter." [75] Full grown and ripe bamboo bears a kind of corn which when collected and shelled resembles wheat. Hunters cook a most excellent food of bamboo grain and honey.--T. [76] Compare the story of "The Rat's Wedding" from the Pañjâb, The Indian Antiquary, Vol. XI., pp, 226ff: where, however, a better moral from the tale is drawn. [77] A low caste man; Pariah. [78] In response to the sound of the tom-tom. [79] Traders have also certain secret symbols for marking their prices on their cloths. [80] This story, apart from its folklore value, is specially interesting as showing that the customs mentioned in the Indian Antiquary, Vol. XIV., pp. 155ff., as being prevalent at Delhi, regarding secret trade language are universal in India. [81] i.e., lover of his wife. [82] i.e., a shudder at sin. [83] Worship of the household gods or devotion. [84] The eleventh lunar day of every fortnight, on which a fast is observed by orthodox Hindûs. [85] Bhûsura, bhûdêva; a generic name for a Brâhmin. [86] Oil of sesamun; til and gingely oil are the ordinary names for this common product of India. [87] Dvâdasi is the twelfth lunar day, on which early in the morning, before even the fifth ghatikâ is over, every orthodox Hindû is obliged by his religious codes to break the previous day's fast. [88] Lit. a "chombu-full;" the chombu is a small vessel. [89] A sacred hymn. [90] A panam is generally worth two ânâs. [91] See also the second tale in this series. [92] Learned woman. [93] There would of course be no real marriage between a dancing girl and a Brâhmin. Hence the insult. [94] In stories of a master falling in love with the girl he has been teaching, he is usually himself made a soothsayer. In that capacity he asks the guardian (father or mother) to put the girl in a light box and to float her down a river. The girl in the box is taken by a young man, sometimes a prince, and becomes his wife. A tiger or a lion is then put into the box, and when the teacher, a great way down the river, takes the box and wishes to run away with the girl inside, he is torn to pieces, as a fit reward for his evil intentions, by the beast. But here the story takes a different turn. [95] From this point up to the end we shall find the story to be similar to "Alî Bâbâ and the Forty Thieves" in the Arabian Nights, though the plot is different. [96] Gangâ snâna Tunga pâna. The Ganges for bath and Tunga (Tungabhadrâ) for drink. [97] A Kanarese tale related by a risâldâr. [98] Headman of the village. [99] Dakshinâs (fees given in donation to Brâhmins) are ordinarily given to priests. [100] A yellow grain, peculiar to India. [101] It is not generally known that the "Birnam Wood" incident in Shakespeare's "Macbeth" occurs in the same Arabian historical work. 
8226	----	FAIRY TALES, THEIR ORIGIN AND MEANING With Some Account of Dwellers in Fairyland By John Thackray Bunce INTRODUCTORY NOTE. The substance of this volume was delivered as a course of Christmas Holiday Lectures, in 1877, at the Birmingham and Midland Institute, of which the author was then the senior Vice-president. It was found that both the subject and the matter interested young people; and it was therefore thought that, revised and extended, the Lectures might not prove unacceptable in the form of a Book. The volume does not pretend to scientific method, or to complete treatment of the subject. Its aim is a very modest one: to furnish an inducement rather than a formal introduction to the study of Folk Lore; a study which, when once begun, the reader will pursue, with unflagging interest, in such works as the various writings of Mr. Max-Muller; the "Mythology of the Aryan Nations," by Mr. Cox; Mr. Ralston's "Russian Folk Tales;" Mr. Kelly's "Curiosities of Indo-European Folk Lore;" the Introduction to Mr. Campbell's "Popular Tales of the West Highlands," and other publications, both English and German, bearing upon the same subject. In the hope that his labour may serve this purpose, the author ventures to ask for an indulgent rather than a critical reception of this little volume. BIRMINGHAM, September, 1878. LIST OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. ORIGIN OF FAIRY TALES--THE ARYAN RACE: ITS CHARACTERISTICS, ITS TRADITIONS, AND ITS MIGRATIONS CHAPTER II. KINDRED TALES FROM DIVERS LANDS CHAPTER III. DWELLERS IN FAIRYLAND: STORIES FROM THE EAST CHAPTER IV. DWELLERS IN FAIRYLAND: TEUTONIC, SCANDINAVIAN, ETC. CHAPTER V. DWELLERS IN FAIRYLAND: CELTIC, THE WEST HIGHLANDS CHAPTER VI. CONCLUSION-SOME POPULAR TALES EXPLAINED. INDEX CHAPTER I.--ORIGIN OF FAIRY STORIES. We are going into Fairy Land for a little while, to see what we can find there to amuse and instruct us this Christmas time. Does anybody know the way? There are no maps or guidebooks, and the places we meet with in our workaday world do not seem like the homes of the Fairies. Yet we have only to put on our Wishing Caps, and we can get into Fairy Land in a moment. The house-walls fade away, the winter sky brightens, the sun shines out, the weather grows warm and pleasant; flowers spring up, great trees cast a friendly shade, streams murmur cheerfully over their pebbly beds, jewelled fruits are to be had for the trouble of gathering them; invisible hands set out well-covered dinner-tables, brilliant and graceful forms flit in and out across our path, and we all at once find ourselves in the midst of a company of dear old friends whom we have known and loved ever since we knew anything. There is Fortunatus with his magic purse, and the square of carpet that carries him anywhere; and Aladdin with his wonderful lamp; and Sindbad with the diamonds he has picked up in the Valley of Serpents; and the Invisible Prince, who uses the fairy cat to get his dinner for him; and the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, just awakened by the young Prince, after her long sleep of a hundred years; and Puss in Boots curling his whiskers after having eaten up the ogre who foolishly changed himself into a mouse; and Beauty and the Beast; and the Blue Bird; and Little Red Riding Hood, and Jack the Giant Killer, and Jack and the Bean Stalk; and the Yellow Dwarf; and Cinderella and her fairy godmother; and great numbers besides, of whom we haven't time to say anything now. And when we come to look about us, we see that there are other dwellers in Fairy Land; giants and dwarfs, dragons and griffins, ogres with great white teeth, and wearing seven-leagued boots; and enchanters and magicians, who can change themselves into any forms they please, and can turn other people into stone. And there are beasts and birds who can talk, and fishes that come out on dry land, with golden rings in their mouths; and good maidens who drop rubies and pearls when they speak, and bad ones out of whose mouths come all kinds of ugly things. Then there are evil-minded fairies, who always want to be doing mischief; and there are good fairies, beautifully dressed, and with shining golden hair and bright blue eyes and jewelled coronets, and with magic wands in their hands, who go about watching the bad fairies, and always come just in time to drive them away, and so prevent them from doing harm--the sort of Fairies you see once a year at the pantomimes, only more beautiful, and more handsomely dressed, and more graceful in shape, and not so fat, and who do not paint their faces, which is a bad thing for any woman to do, whether fairy or mortal. Altogether, this Fairy Land that we can make for ourselves in a moment, is a very pleasant and most delightful place, and one which all of us, young and old, may well desire to get into, even if we have to come back from it sooner than we like. It is just the country to suit everybody, for all of us can find in it whatever pleases him best. If he likes work, there is plenty of adventure; he can climb up mountains of steel, or travel over seas of glass, or engage in single combat with a giant, or dive down into the caves of the little red dwarfs and bring up their hidden treasures, or mount a horse that goes more swiftly than the wind, or go off on a long journey to find the water of youth and life, or do anything else that happens to be very dangerous and troublesome. If he doesn't like work, it is again just the place to suit idle people, because it is all Midsummer holidays. I never heard of a school in Fairy Land, nor of masters with canes or birch rods, nor of impositions and long lessons to be learned when one gets home in the evening. Then the weather is so delightful. It is perpetual sunshine, so that you may lie out in the fields all day without catching cold; and yet it is not too hot, the sunshine being a sort of twilight, in which you see everything, quite clearly, but softly, and with beautiful colours, as if you were in a delightful dream. And this goes on night and day, or at least what we call night, for they don't burn gas there, or candles, or anything of that kind; so that there is no regular going to bed and getting up; you just lie down anywhere when you want to rest, and when you have rested, you wake up again, and go on with your travels. There is one capital thing about Fairy Land. There are no doctors there; not one in the whole country. Consequently nobody is ill, and there are no pills or powders, or brimstone and treacle, or senna tea, or being kept at home when you want to go out, or being obliged to go to bed early and have gruel instead of cake and sweetmeats. They don't want the doctors, because if you cut your finger it gets well directly, and even when people are killed, or are turned into stones, or when anything else unpleasant happens, it can all be put right in a minute or two. All you have to do when you are in trouble is to go and look for some wrinkled old woman in a patched old brown cloak, and be very civil to her, and to do cheerfully and kindly any service she asks of you, and then she will throw off the dark cloak, and become a young and beautiful Fairy Queen, and wave her magic wand, and everything will fall out just as you would like to have it. As to Time, they take no note of it in Fairy Land. The Princess falls asleep for a hundred years, and wakes up quite rosy, and young, and beautiful. Friends and sweethearts are parted for years, and nobody seems to think they have grown older when they meet, or that life has become shorter, and so they fall to their youthful talk as if nothing had happened. Thus the dwellers in Fairy Land have no cares about chronology. With them there is no past or future; it is all present--so there are no disagreeable dates to learn, nor tables of kings, and when they reigned, or who succeeded them, or what battles they fought, or anything of that kind. Indeed there are no such facts to be learned, for when kings are wicked in Fairy Land, a powerful magician comes and twists their heads off, or puts them to death somehow; and when they are good kings they seem to live for ever, and always to be wearing rich robes and royal golden crowns, and to be entertaining Fairy Queens, and receiving handsome brilliant gifts from everybody who knows them. Now this is Fairy Land, the dear sweet land of Once Upon a Time, where there is constant light, and summer days, and everlasting flowers, and pleasant fields and streams, and long dreams without rough waking, and ease of life, and all things strange and beautiful; where nobody wonders at anything that may happen; where good fairies are ever on the watch to help those whom they love; where youth abides, and there is no pain or death, and all trouble fades away, and whatever seems hard is made easy, and all things that look wrong come right in the end, and truth and goodness have their perpetual triumph, and the world is ever young. And Fairy Land is always the same, and always has been, whether it is close to us--so close that we may enter it in a moment--or whether it is far off; in the stories that have come to us from the most ancient days, and the most distant lands, and in those which kind and clever story-tellers write for us now. It is the same in the legends of the mysterious East, as old as the beginning of life; the same in the glowing South, in the myths of ancient Greece; the same in the frozen regions of the Scandinavian North, and in the forests of the great Teuton land, and in the Islands of the West; the same in the tales that nurses tell to the little ones by the fireside on winter evenings, and in the songs that mothers sing to hush their babes to sleep; the same in the delightful folk-lore that Grimm has collected for us, and that dear Hans Andersen has but just ceased to tell. All the chief stories that we know so well are to be found in all times, and in almost all countries. Cinderella, for one, is told in the language of every country in Europe, and the same legend is found in the fanciful tales related by the Greek poets; and still further back, it appears in very ancient Hindu legends. So, again, does Beauty and the Beast, so does our own familiar tale of Jack the Giant Killer, so also do a great number of other fairy stories, each being told in different countries and in different periods, with so much likeness as to show that all the versions came from the same source, and yet with so much difference as to show that none of the versions are directly copied from each other. Indeed, when we compare the myths and legends of one country with another, and of one period with another, we find out how they have come to be so much alike, and yet in some things so different. We see that there must have been one origin for all these stories, that they must have been invented by one people, that this people must have been afterwards divided, and that each part or division of it must have brought into its new home the legends once common to them all, and must have shaped and altered these according, to the kind of places in which they came to live: those of the North being sterner and more terrible, those of the South softer and fuller of light and colour, and adorned with touches of more delicate fancy. And this, indeed, is really the case. All the chief stories and legends are alike, because they were first made by one people; and all the nations in which they are now told in one form or another tell them because they are all descended from this one common stock. If you travel amongst them, or talk to them, or read their history, and learn their languages, the nations of Europe seem to be altogether unlike each other; they have different speech and manners, and ways of thinking, and forms of government, and even different looks--for you can tell them from one another by some peculiarity of appearance. Yet, in fact, all these nations belong to one great family--English, and German, and Russian, and French, and Italian, and Spanish, the nations of the North, and the South, and the West, and partly of the East of Europe, all came from one stock; and so did the Romans and Greeks who went before them; and so also did the Medes and Persians, and the Hindus, and some other peoples who have always remained in Asia. And to the people from whom all these nations have sprung learned men have given two names. Sometimes they are called the Indo-Germanic or Indo-European race, to show how widely they extend; and sometimes they are called the Aryan race, from a word which is found in their language, and which comes from the root "ar," to plough, and is supposed to mean noble, or of a good family. But how do we know that there were any such people, and that we in England are descended from them, or that they were the forefathers of the other nations of Europe, and of the Hindus, and of the old Greeks and Romans? We know it by a most curious and ingenious process of what may be called digging out and building up. Some of you may remember that years ago there was found in New Zealand a strange-looking bone, which nobody could make anything of, and which seemed to have belonged to some creature quite lost to the world as we know it. This bone was sent home to England to a great naturalist, Professor Owen, of the British Museum, who looked at it, turned it over, thought about it, and then came to the conclusion that it was a bone which had once formed part of a gigantic bird. Then; by degrees, he began to see the kind of general form which such a bird must have presented, and finally, putting one thing to another, and fitting part to part, he declared it to be a bird of gigantic size, and of a particular character, which he was able to describe; and this opinion was confirmed by later discoveries of other bones and fragments, so that an almost complete skeleton of the Dinornis may now be seen in this country. Well, our knowledge of the Aryan people, and of our own descent from them, has been found out in much the same way. Learned men observed, as a curious thing, that in various European languages there were words of the same kind, and having the same root forms; they found also that these forms of roots existed in the older language of Greece; and then they found that they existed also in Sanskrit, the oldest language of India--that in which the sacred books of the Hindus are written. They discovered, further, that these words and their roots meant always the same things, and this led to the natural belief that they came from the same source. Then, by closer inquiry into the _Vedas_, or Hindu sacred books, another discovery was made, namely, that while the Sanskrit has preserved the words of the original language in their most primitive or earliest state, the other languages derived from the same source have kept some forms plainly coming from the same roots, but which Sanskrit has lost. Thus we are carried back to a language older than Sanskrit, and of which this is only one of the forms, and from this we know that there was a people which used a common tongue; and if different forms of this common tongue are found in India, in Persia, and throughout Europe, we know that the races which inhabit these countries must, at sometime, have parted from the parent stock, and must have carried their language and their traditions along with them. So, to find out who these people were, we have to go back to the sacred books of the Hindus and the Persians, and to pick out whatever facts may be found there, and thus to build up the memorial of the Aryan race, just as Professor Owen built up the great New Zealand bird. It would take too long, and would be much too dry, to show how this process has been completed step by step, and bit by bit. That belongs to a study called comparative philology, and to another called comparative mythology--that is, the studies of words and of myths, or legends--which some of those who read these pages may pursue with interest in after years. All that need be done now is to bring together such accounts of the Aryan people, our forefathers, as may be gathered from the writings of the learned men who have made this a subject of inquiry, and especially from the works of German and French writers, and more particularly from those of Mr. Max Muller, an eminent German, who lives amongst us in England, who writes in English, and who has done more, perhaps, than anybody else, to tell us what we know about this matter. As to when the Aryans lived we know nothing, but that it was thousands of years ago, long before history began. As to the kind of people they were we know nothing in a direct way. They have left no traces of themselves in buildings, or weapons, or enduring records of any kind. There are no ruins of their temples or tombs, no pottery--which often helps to throw light upon ancient peoples-no carvings upon rocks or stones. It is only by the remains of their language that we can trace them; and we do this through the sacred books of the Hindus and Persians-the _Vedas_ and the _Zend Avesta_--in which remains of their language are found, and by means of which, therefore, we get to know something about their dwelling-place, their manners, their customs, their religion, and their legends--the source and origin of our Fairy Tales. In the _Zend Avesta_--the oldest sacred book of the Persians--or in such fragments of it as are left, there are sixteen countries spoken of as having been given by Ormuzd, the Good Deity, for the Aryans to live in; and these countries are described as a land of delight, which was turned, by Ahriman, the Evil Deity, into a land of death and cold; partly, it is said, by a great flood, which is described as being like Noah's flood recorded in the Book of Genesis. This land, as nearly as we can make it out, seems to have been the high, central district of Asia, to the north and west of the great chain of mountains of the Hindu Koush, which form the frontier barrier of the present country of the Afghans. It stretched, probably, from the sources of the river Oxus to the shores of the Caspian Sea; and when the Aryans moved from their home, it is thought that the easterly portion of the tribes were those who marched southwards into India and Persia, and that those who were nearest the Caspian Sea marched westwards into Europe. It is not supposed that they were all one united people, but rather a number of tribes, having a common origin--though what was this original stock is quite beyond any knowledge we have, or even beyond our powers of conjecture. But, though the Aryan peoples were divided into tribes, and were spread over a tract of country nearly as large as half Europe, we may properly describe them generally, for so far as our knowledge goes, all the tribes had the same character. They were a pastoral people--that is, their chief work was to look after their herds of cattle and to till the earth. Of this we find proof in the words and roots remaining of their language. From the same source, also, we know that they lived in dwellings built with wood and stone; that these dwellings were grouped together in villages; that they were fenced in against enemies, and that enclosures were formed to keep the cattle from straying, and that roads of some kind were made from one village to another. These things show that the Aryans had some claim to the name they took, and that in comparison with their forefathers, or with the savage or wandering tribes they knew, they had a right to call themselves respectable, excellent, honourable, masters, heroes--for all these are given as probable meanings of their name. Their progress was shown in another way. The rudest and earliest tribes of men used weapons of flint, roughly shaped into axes and spear-heads, or other cutting implements, with which they defended themselves in conflict, or killed the beasts of chase, or dug up the roots on which they lived. The Aryans were far in advance of this condition. They did not, it is believed, know the use of iron, but they knew and used gold, silver, and copper; they made weapons and other implements of bronze; they had ploughs to till the ground, and axes, and probably saws, for the purpose of cutting and shaping timber. Of pottery and weaving they knew something: the western tribes certainly used hemp and flax as materials for weaving, and when the stuff was woven the women made it into garments by the use of the needle. Thus we get a certain division of trades or occupations. There were the tiller of the soil, the herdsman, the smith who forged the tools and weapons of bronze, the joiner or carpenter who built the houses, and the weaver who made the clothing required for protection against a climate which was usually cold. Then there was also the boat-builder, for the Aryans had boats, though moved only by oars. There was yet another class, the makers of personal ornaments, for these people had rings, bracelets, and necklaces made of the precious metals. Of trade the Aryans knew something; but they had no coined money--all the trade was done by exchange of one kind of cattle, or grain or goods, for another. They had regulations as to property, their laws punished crime with fine, imprisonment, or death, just as ours do. They seem to have been careful to keep their liberties, the families being formed into groups, and these into tribes or clans, under the rule of an elected chief, while it is probable that a Great Chief or King ruled over several tribes and led them to war, or saw that the laws were put into force. Now we begin to see something of these ancient forefathers of ours, and to understand what kind of people they were. Presently we shall have to look into their religion, out of which our Fairy Stories were really made; but first, there are one or two other things to be said about them. One of these shows that they were far in advance of savage races, for they could count as high as one hundred, while savages can seldom get further than the number of their fingers; and they had also advanced so far as to divide the year into twelve months, which they took from the changes of the moon. Then their family relations were very close and tender. "Names were given to the members of families related by marriage as well as by blood. A welcome greeted the birth of children, as of those who brought joy to the home; and the love that should be felt between brother and sister was shown in the names given to them: _bhratar_ (or brother) being he who sustains or helps; _svasar_ (or sister) she who pleases or consoles. The daughter of each household was called _duhitar,_ from _duh_, a root which in Sanskrit means to milk, by which we know that the girls in those days were the milking-maids. Father comes from a root, _pa_, which means to protect or support; mother, _matar_, has the meaning of maker."[1] Now we may sum up what we know of this ancient people and their ways; and we find in them much that is to be found in their descendants--the love of parents and children, the closeness of family ties, the protection of life and property, the maintenance of law and order, and, as we shall see presently, a great reverence for _God_. Also, they were well versed in the arts of life--they built houses, formed villages or towns, made roads, cultivated the soil, raised great herds of cattle and other animals; they made boats and land-carriages, worked in metals for use and ornament, carried on trade with each other, knew how to count, and were able to divide their time so as to reckon by months and days as well as by seasons. Besides all this, they had something more and of still higher value, for the fragments of their ancient poems or hymns preserved in the Hindu and Persian sacred books show that they thought much of the spirit of man as well as of his bodily life; that they looked upon sin as an evil to be punished or forgiven by the Gods, that they believed in a life after the death of the body, and that they had a strong feeling for natural beauty and a love of searching into the wonders of the earth and of the heavens. The religion of the Aryan races, in its beginning, was a very simple and a very noble one. They looked up to the heavens and saw the bright sun, and the light and beauty and glory of the day. They saw the day fade into night and the clouds draw themselves across the sky, and then they saw the dawn and the light and life of another day. Seeing these things, they felt that some Power higher than man ordered and guided them; and to this great Power they gave the name of _Dyaus_, from a root-word which means "to shine." And when, out of the forces and forms of Nature, they afterwards fashioned other Gods, this name of Dyaus became _Dyaus pitar_, the Heaven-Father, or Lord of All; and in far later times, when the western Aryans had found their home in Europe, the _Dyaus pitar_ of the central Asian land became the Zeupater of the Greeks, and the Jupiter of the Romans; and the first part of his name gave us the word Deity, which we apply to _God_. So, as Professor Max Muller tells us, the descendants of the ancient Aryans, "when they search for a name for what is most exalted and yet most dear to every one of us, when they wish to express both awe and love, the infinite and the finite, they can do but what their old fathers did when gazing up to the eternal sky, and feeling the presence of a Being as far as far, and as near as near can be; they can but combine the self-same words and utter once more the primeval Aryan prayer, Heaven-Father, in that form which will endure for ever, 'Our Father, which art in Heaven.'" The feeling which the Aryans had towards the Heaven-Father is very finely shown in one of the oldest hymns in the _Rig Veda_, or the Book of Praise--a hymn written 4,000 years ago, and addressed to Varuna, or the All-Surrounder, the ancient Hindu name for the chief deity:-- "Let me not, O Varuna, enter into the house of clay. Have mercy! Almighty, have mercy! If I go trembling, like a cloud driven by the wind, Have mercy! Almighty, have mercy! Through want of strength, thou strong and bright God, have I gone wrong; Have mercy! Almighty, have mercy!" But, besides Dyaus pitar, or Varuna, the Aryans worshipped other gods, whom they made for themselves out of the elements, and the changes of night and day, and the succession of the seasons. They worshipped the sky, the earth, the sun, the dawn, fire, water, and wind. The chief of these deities were Agni, the fire; Prithivi, the earth; Ushas, the dawn; Mitra, or Surya, the sun; Indra, the sky; Maruts, the storm-winds; and Varuna, the All-Surrounder. To these deities sacrifice was offered and prayer addressed; but they had no priests or temples--these came in later ages, when men thought they had need of others to stand between them and _God_. But the ancient Aryans saw the Deity everywhere, and stood face to face with Him in Nature. He was to them the early morning, the brightness of midday, the gloom of evening, the darkness of night, the flash of the lightning, the roll of the thunder, and the rush of the mighty storm-wind. It seems strange to us that those who could imagine the one Heaven-Father should degrade Him by making a multitude of Gods; but this came easily to them, partly out of a desire to account for all they saw in Nature, and which their fancy clothed in divine forms, and partly out of reverence for the great All Father, by filling up the space between Him and themselves with inferior Gods, all helping to make His greatness the greater and His power the mightier. We cannot look into this old religion of the Aryans any further, because our business is to see how their legends are connected with the myths and stories which are spread by their descendants over a great part of East and West. Now this came about in the way we are going to describe. The mind of the Aryan peoples in their ancient home was full of imagination. They never ceased to wonder at what they heard and saw in the sky and upon the earth. Their language was highly figurative, and so the things which struck them with wonder, and which they could not explain, were described under forms and names which were familiar to them. Thus the thunder was to them the bellowing of a mighty beast or the rolling of a great chariot. In the lightning they saw a brilliant serpent, or a spear shot across the sky, or a great fish darting swiftly through the sea of cloud. The clouds were heavenly cows, who shed milk upon the earth and refreshed it; or they were webs woven by heavenly women, who drew water from the fountains on high and poured it down as rain. The sun was a radiant wheel, or a golden bird, or an eye, or a shining egg, or a horse of matchless speed, or a slayer of the cloud-dragons. Sometimes it was a frog, when it seemed to be sinking into or squatting upon the water; and out of this fancy, when the meaning of it was lost, there grew a Sanskrit legend, which is to be found also in Teutonic and Celtic myths. This story is, that Bheki (the frog) was a lovely maiden who was found by a king, who asked her to be his wife. So she married him, but only on condition that he should never show her a drop of water. One day she grew tired, and asked for water. The king gave it to her, and she sank out of his sight; in other words, the sun disappears when it touches the water. This imagery of the Aryans was applied by them to all they saw in the sky. Sometimes, as we have said, the clouds were cows; they were also dragons, which sought to slay the sun; or great ships floating across the sky, and casting anchor upon earth; or rocks, or mountains, or deep caverns, in which evil deities hid the golden light. Then, also, they were shaped by fancy into animals of various kinds-the bear, the wolf, the dog, the ox; and into giant birds, and into monsters which were both bird and beast. The Winds, again, in their fancy, were the companions or the ministers of Indra, the sky-god. The Maruts, or spirits of the winds, gathered into their host the souls of the dead--thus giving birth to the Scandinavian and Teutonic legend of the Wild Horseman, who rides at midnight through the stormy sky, with his long train of dead behind him, and his weird hounds before. The Ribhus, or Arbhus, again, were the sunbeams or the lightning, who forged the armour of the Gods, and made their thunderbolts, and turned old people young, and restored out of the hide alone the slaughtered cow on which the Gods had feasted. Out of these heavenly artificers, the workers of the clouds, there came, in later times, two of the most striking stories of ancient legend--that of Thor, the Scandinavian thunder-god, who feasted at night on the goats which drew his chariot, and in the morning, by a touch of his hammer, brought them back to life; and that of Orpheus in the beautiful Greek legend, the master of divine song, who moved the streams, and rocks, and trees, by the beauty of his music, and brought back his wife Eurydike from the shades of death. In our Western fairy tales we still have these Ribhus, or Arbhus, transformed, through various changes of language, into Albs, and Elfen, and last into our English Elves. It is not needful to go further into the fanciful way in which the old Aryans slowly made ever-increasing deities and superhuman beings for themselves out of all the forms and aspects of Nature; or how their Hindu and Persian and Greek and Teuton descendants peopled all earth, and air, and sky, and water, with good and bad spirits and imaginary powers. But, as we shall see later, all these creatures grew out of one thing only--the Sun, and his influence upon the earth. Aryan myths were no more than poetic fancies about light and darkness, cloud and rain, night and day, storm and wind; and when they moved westward and southward, the Aryan races brought these legends with them; and they were shaped by degrees into the innumerable gods and demons of the Hindus, the divs and jinns of the Persians, the great gods, the minor deities, and nymphs, and fauns, and satyrs of Greek mythology and poetry; the stormy divinities, the giants, and trolls of the cold and rugged North; the dwarfs of the German forests; the elves who dance merrily in the moonlight of an English summer; and the "good people" who play mischievous tricks upon stray peasants amongst the Irish hills. Almost all, indeed, that we have of a legendary kind comes to us from our Aryan forefathers; sometimes scarcely changed, sometimes so altered that we have to puzzle out the links between the old and the new; but all these myths and traditions, and Old-world stories, when we come to know the meaning of them, take us back to the time when the Aryan races dwelt together in the high lands of Central Asia, and they all mean the same things--that is, the relation between the sun and the earth, the succession of night and day, of winter and summer, of storm and calm, of cloud and tempest, and golden sunshine and bright blue sky. And this is the source from which we get our Fairy Stories; for underneath all of them there are the same fanciful meanings, only changed and altered in the way of putting them, by the lapse of ages of time, by the circumstances of different countries, and by the fancy of those who kept the wonderful tales alive without knowing what they meant. When the change happened that brought about all this, we do not know. It was thousands of years ago that the Aryan people began their march out of their old country in mid-Asia. But from the remains of their language and the likeness of their legends to those amongst other nations, we do know that ages and ages ago their country grew too small for them, so they were obliged to move away from it. They could not go eastward, for the great mountains shut them in; they could not go northward, for the great desert was too barren for their flocks and herds. So they turned, some of them southward into India and Persia, and some of them westward into Europe--at the time, perhaps, when the land of Europe stretched from the borders of Asia to our own islands, and when there was no sea between us and what is now the mainland. How they made their long and toilsome march we know not. But, as Kingsley writes of such a movement of an ancient tribe, so we may fancy these old Aryans marching westward--"the tall, bare-limbed men, with stone axes on their shoulders and horn bows at their backs, with herds of grey cattle, guarded by huge lop-eared mastiffs, with shaggy white horses, heavy-horned sheep and silky goats, moving always westward through the boundless steppes, whither or why we know not, but that the All-Father had sent them forth. And behind us [he makes them say] the rosy snow-peaks died into ghastly grey, lower and lower, as every evening came; and before us the plains spread infinite, with gleaming salt-lakes, and ever-fresh tribes of gaudy flowers. Behind us, dark: lines of living beings streamed down the mountain slopes; around us, dark lines crawled along the plains--westward, westward ever. Who could stand against us? We met the wild asses on the steppe, and tamed them, and made them our slaves. We slew the bison herds, and swam broad rivers on their skins. The Python snake lay across our path; the wolves and wild dogs snarled at us out of their coverts; we slew them and went on. The forests rose in black tangled barriers, we hewed our way through them and went on. Strange giant tribes met us, and eagle-visaged hordes, fierce and foolish; we smote them, hip and thigh, and went on, west-ward ever." And so, as they went on, straight towards the west, or as they turned north and south, and thus overspread new lands, they brought with them their old ways of thought and forms of belief, and the stories in which these had taken form; and on these were built up the Gods and Heroes, and all wonder-working creatures and things, and the poetical fables and fancies which have come down to us, and which still linger in our customs and our Fairy Tales bright and sunny and many coloured in the warm regions of the south; sterner and wilder and rougher in the north; more homelike in the middle and western countries; but always alike in their main features, and always having the same meaning when we come to dig it out; and these forms and this meaning being the same in the lands of the Western Aryans as in those still peopled by the Aryans of the East. It would take a very great book to give many examples of the myths and stories which are alike in all the Aryan countries; but we may see by one instance what the likeness is; and it shall be a story which all will know when they read it. Once upon a time there was a Hindu Rajah, who had an only daughter, who was born with a golden necklace. In this necklace was her soul; and if the necklace were taken off and worn by some one else, the Princess would die. On one of her birthdays the Rajah gave his daughter a pair of slippers with ornaments of gold and gems upon them. The Princess went out upon a mountain to pluck the flowers that grew there, and while she was stooping to pluck them one of her slippers came off and fell down into a forest below. A Prince, who was hunting in the forest, picked up the lost slipper, and was so charmed with it that he desired to make its owner his wife. So he made his wish known everywhere, but nobody came to claim the slipper, and the poor Prince grew very sad. At last some people from the Rajah's country heard of it, and told the Prince where to find the Rajah's daughter; and he went there, and asked for her as his wife, and they were married. Sometime after, another wife of the Prince, being jealous of the Rajah's daughter, stole her necklace, and put it on her own neck, and then the Rajah's daughter died. But her body did not decay, nor did her face lose its bloom; and the Prince went every day to see her, for he loved her very much although she was dead. Then he found out the secret of the necklace, and got it back again, and put it on his dead wife's neck, and her soul was born again in her, and she came back to life, and they lived happy ever after. This Hindu story of the lost slipper is met with again in a legend of the ancient Greeks, which tells that while a beautiful woman, named Rhodope--or the rosy-cheeked--was bathing, an eagle picked up one of her slippers and flew away with it, and carried it off to Egypt, and dropped it in the lap of the King of that country, as he sat at Memphis on the judgment-seat. The slipper was so small and beautiful that the King fell in love with the wearer of it, and had her sought for, and when she was found he made her his wife. Another story of the same kind. It is found in many countries, in various forms, and is that of Cinderella, the poor neglected maiden, whom her stepmother set to work in the kitchen, while her sisters went to the grand balls and feasts at the King's palace. You know how Cinderella's fairy godmother came and dressed her like a princess, and sent her to the ball; how the King's son fell in love with her; how she lost one of her slippers, which the Prince picked up; how he vowed that he would marry the maiden who could fit on the lost slipper; how all the ladies of the court tried to do it, and failed, Cinderella's sisters amongst them; and how Cinderella herself put on the slipper, produced the fellow to it, was married to the King's son, and lived happily with him. Now the story of Cinderella helps us to find out the meaning of our Fairy Tales; and takes us back straight to the far-off land where fairy legends began, and to the people who made them. Cinderella, and Rhodope, and the Hindu Rajah's daughter, and the like, are but different forms of the same ancient myth. It is the story of the Sun and the Dawn. Cinderella, grey and dark, and dull, is all neglected when she is away from the Sun, obscured by the envious Clouds her sisters, and by her stepmother the Night. So she is Aurora, the Dawn, and the fairy Prince is the Morning Sun, ever pursuing her, to claim her for his bride. This is the legend as we find it in the ancient Hindu sacred books; and this explains at once the source and the meaning of the Fairy Tale. Nor is it in the story of Cinderella alone that we trace the ancient Hindu legends. There is scarcely a tale of Greek or Roman mythology, no legend of Teutonic or Celtic or Scandinavian growth, no great romance of what we call the middle ages, no fairy story taken down from the lips of ancient folk, and dressed for us in modern shape and tongue, that we do not find, in some form or another, in these Eastern poems. The Greek gods are there--Zeus, the Heaven-Father, and his wife Hera, "and Phoebus Apollo the Sun-god, and Pallas Athene, who taught men wisdom and useful arts, and Aphrodite the Queen of Beauty, and Poseidon the Ruler of the Sea, and Hephaistos the King of the Fire, who taught men to work in metals."[2] There, too, are legends which resemble those of Orpheus and Eurydike, of Eros and Psyche, of Jason and the Golden Fleece, of the labours of Herakles, of Sigurd and Brynhilt, of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. There, too, in forms which can be traced with ease, we have the stories of Fairyland--the germs of the Thousand and One Tales of the Arabian Nights, the narratives of giants, and dwarfs, and enchanters; of men and maidens transformed by magic arts into beasts and birds; of riches hidden in the caves and bowels of the earth, and guarded by trolls and gnomes; of blessed lands where all is bright and sunny, and where there is neither work nor care. Whatever, indeed, is strange or fanciful, or takes us straight from our grey, hard-working world into the sweet and peaceful country of Once Upon a Time, is to be found in these ancient Hindu books, and is repeated, from the source whence they were drawn, in many countries of the East and West; for the people whose traditions the Vedas record were the forefathers of those who now dwell in India, in Persia, in the border-lands, and in most parts of Europe. Yes; strange as it may seem, all of us, who differ so much in language, in looks in customs and ways of thought, in all that marks out one nation from another--all of us have a common origin and a common kindred. Greek and Roman, and Teuton and Kelt and Slav, ancient and modern, all came from the same stock. English and French, Spanish and Germans, Italians and Russians, all unlike in outward show, are linked together in race; and not only with each other, but also claim kindred with the people who now fill the fiery plains of India, and dwell on the banks of her mighty rivers, and on the slopes of her great mountain-chains, and who still recite the sacred books, and sing the ancient hymns from which the mythology of the West is in great part derived, whence our folk-lore comes, and which give life and colour and meaning to our legends of romance and our Tales of Fairyland. By taking a number of stories containing the same idea, but related in different ages and in countries far away from each other, we shall see how this likeness of popular tradition runs through all of them, and shows their common origin. So we will go to the next chapter, and tell a few kindred tales from East and West, and South and North. CHAPTER II.--KINDRED TALES FROM DIVERS LANDS: EROS AND PSYCHE. Once upon a time there lived a king and a queen, who had three beautiful daughters. The youngest of them, who was called Psyche, was the loveliest; she was so very beautiful that she was thought to be a second Aphrodite, the Goddess of Beauty and Love, and all who saw her worshipped her as if she were the goddess; so that the temples of Aphrodite were deserted and her worship neglected, and Psyche was preferred to her; and as she passed along the streets, or came into the temples, the people crowded round her, and scattered flowers under her feet, and offered garlands to her. Now, when Aphrodite knew this she grew very angry, and resolved to punish Psyche, so as to make her a wonder and a shame for ever. So Aphrodite sent for her son Eros, the God of Love, and took him to the city where Psyche lived, and showed the maiden to him, and bade him afflict her with love for a man who should be the most wicked and most miserable of mankind, an outcast, a beggar, one who had done some great wrong, and had fallen so low that no man in the whole world could be so wretched. Eros agreed that he would do what his mother wished; but this was only a pretence, for when he saw Psyche he fell in love with her himself, and made up his mind that she should be his own wife. The first thing to do was to get the maiden into his own care and to hide her from the vengeance of Aphrodite. So he put it into the mind of her father to go to the shrine of Phoebus, at Miletus, and ask the god what should be done with Psyche. The king did so, and he was bidden by an oracle to dress Psyche as a bride, to take her to the brow of a high mountain, and to leave her there, and that after a time a great monster would come and take her away and make her his wife. So Psyche was decked in bridal garments, was taken to a rock on the top of a mountain, and was left there as a sacrifice to turn away the wrath of Aphrodite. But Eros took care that she came to no harm. He went to Zephyrus, the God of the West Wind, and told him to carry Psyche gently down into a beautiful valley, and to lay her softly on the turf, amidst lovely flowers. So Zephyrus lulled Psyche to sleep, and then carried her safely down, and laid her in the place where Eros had bidden him. When Psyche awoke from sleep she saw a thick grove, with a crystal fountain in it, and close to the fountain there was a stately palace, fit for the dwelling of a king or a god. She went into the palace, and found it very wonderful. The walls and ceilings were made of cedar and ivory, there were golden columns holding up the roof, the floors were laid with precious stones, so put together as to make pictures, and on the walls were carvings in gold and silver of birds, and beasts, and flowers, and all kinds of strange and beautiful things. And there were also great treasure places full of gold, and silver, and gems, in such great measure that it seemed as if all the riches of the world were gathered there. But nowhere was there any living creature to be seen; all the palace was empty, and Psyche was there alone. And while she went trembling and fearing through the rooms, and wondering whose all this might be, she heard voices, as of invisible maidens, which told her that the palace was for her, and that they who spoke, but whom she might not see, were her servants. And the voices bade her go first to the bath, and then to a royal banquet which was prepared for her. So Psyche, still wondering, went to the bath, and then to a great and noble room, where there was a royal seat, and upon this she placed herself, and then unseen attendants put before her all kinds of delicate food and wine; and while she ate and drank there was a sound as of a great number of people singing the most charming music, and of one playing upon the lyre; but none of them could she see. Then night came on, and all the beautiful palace grew dark, and Psyche laid herself down upon a couch to sleep. Then a great terror fell upon her, for she heard footsteps, which came nearer and nearer, and she thought it was the monster whose bride the oracle of Phoebus had destined her to be. And the footsteps drew closer to her, and then an unseen being came to her couch and lay down beside her, and made her his wife; and he lay there until just before the break of day, and then he departed, and it was still so dark that Psyche could not see his form; nor did he speak, so that she could not guess from his voice what kind of creature it was to whom the Fates had wedded her. So Psyche lived for a long while, wandering about her palace in the daytime, tended by her unseen guardians, and every night her husband came to her and stayed until daybreak. Then she began to long to hear about her father and mother, and to see her sisters, and she begged leave of her husband that these might come to her for a time. To this Eros agreed, and gave her leave to give her sisters rich gifts, but warned her that she must answer no questions they might ask about him, and that she must not listen to any advice they might give her to find out who he was, or else a great misfortune would happen to her. Then Zephyrus brought the sisters of Psyche to her, and they stayed with her for a little while, and were very curious to know who her husband was, and what he was like. But Psyche, mindful of the commands of Eros, put them off, first with one story and then with another, and at last sent them away, loaded with jewels. Now Psyche's sisters were envious of her, because such good fortune had not happened to themselves, to have such a grand palace, and such store of wealth, and they plotted between themselves to make her discover her husband, hoping to get some good for themselves out of it, and not caring what happened to her. And it so fell out that they had their way, for Psyche again getting tired of solitude, again begged of her husband that her sisters might come to see her once more, to which, with much sorrow, he consented, but warned her again that if she spoke of him, or sought to see him, all her happiness would vanish, and that she would have to bear a life of misery. But it was fated that Psyche should disobey her husband; and it fell out in this way. When her sisters came to her again they questioned her about her husband, and persuaded her that she was married to a monster too terrible to be looked at, and they told her that this was the reason why he never came in the daytime, and refused to let himself be seen at night. Then they also persuaded her that she ought to put an end to the enchantment by killing the monster; and for this purpose they gave her a sharp knife, and they gave her also a lamp, so that while he was asleep she might look at him, so as to know where to strike. Then, being left alone, poor Psyche's mind was full of terror, and she resolved to follow the advice of her sisters. So when her husband was asleep, she went and fetched the lamp, and looked at him by its light; and then she saw that, instead of a deadly monster, it was Eros himself, the God of Love, to whom she was married. But while she was filled with awe and delight at this discovery, the misfortune happened which Eros had foretold. A drop of oil from the lamp fell upon the shoulder of the god, and he sprang up from the couch, reproached Psyche for her fatal curiosity, and vanished from her sight; and then the beautiful palace vanished also, and Psyche found herself lying on the bare cold earth, weeping, deserted, and alone. Then poor Psyche began a long and weary journey, to try to find the husband she had lost, but she could not, for he had gone to his mother Aphrodite, to be cured of his wound; and Aphrodite, finding out that Eros had fallen in love with Psyche, determined to punish her, and to prevent her from finding Eros. First Psyche went to the god Pan, but he could not help her; then she went to the goddess Demeter, the Earth-Mother, but she warned her against the vengeance of Aphrodite, and sent her away. And the great goddess Hera did the same; and at last, abandoned by every one, Psyche went to Aphrodite herself, and the goddess, who had caused great search to be made for her, now ordered her to be beaten and tormented, and then ridiculed her sorrows, and taunted her with the loss of Eros, and set her to work at many tasks that seemed impossible to be done. First the goddess took a great heap of seeds of wheat, barley, millet, poppy, lentils, and beans, and mixed them all together, and then bade Psyche separate them into their different kinds by nightfall. Now there were so many of them that this was impossible; but Eros, who pitied Psyche, though she had lost him, sent a great many ants, who parted the seeds from each other and arranged them in their proper heaps, so that by evening all that Aphrodite had commanded was done. Then the goddess was very angry, and fed Psyche on bread and water, and next day she set Psyche another task. This was to collect a quantity of golden wool from the sheep of the goddess, creatures so fierce and wild that no mortal could venture near them and escape with life. Then Psyche thought herself lost; but Pan came to her help and bade her wait until evening, when the golden sheep would be at rest, and then she might from the trees and shrubs collect all the wool she needed. So Psyche fulfilled this task also. But Aphrodite was still unsatisfied. She now demanded a crystal urn, filled with icy waters from the fountain of Oblivion. The fountain was placed on the summit of a great mountain; it issued from a fissure in a lofty rock, too steep for any one to ascend, and from thence it fell into a narrow channel, deep, winding, and rugged, and guarded on each side by terrible dragons, which never slept. And the rush of the waters, as they rolled along, resembled a human voice, always crying out to the adventurous explorer--"Beware! fly! or you perish!" Here Psyche thought her sufferings at an end; sooner than face the dragons and climb the rugged rocks she must die. But again Eros helped her, for he sent the eagle of Zeus, the All-Father, and the eagle took the crystal urn in his claws, flew past the dragons, settled on the rock, and drew the water of the black fountain, and gave it safely to Psyche, who carried it back and presented it to the angry Aphrodite. But the goddess, still determined that Psyche should perish, set her another task, the hardest and most dangerous of all. "Take this box," she said, "go with it into the infernal regions to Persephone, and ask her for a portion of her beauty, that I may adorn myself with it for the supper of the gods." Now on hearing this, poor Psyche knew that the goddess meant to destroy her; so she went up to a lofty tower, meaning to throw herself down headlong so that she might be killed, and thus pass into the realm of Hades, never to return. But the tower was an enchanted place, and a voice from it spoke to her and bade her be of good cheer, and told her what to do. She was to go to a city of Achaia and find near it a mountain, and in the mountain she would see a gap, from which a narrow road led straight into the infernal regions. But the voice warned her of many things which must be done on the journey, and of others which must be avoided. She was to take in each hand a piece of barley bread, soaked in honey, and in her mouth she was to put two pieces of money. On entering the dreary path she would meet an old man driving a lame ass, laden with wood, and the old man would ask her for help, but she was to pass him by in silence. Then she would come to the bank of the black river, over which the boatman Charon ferries the souls of the dead; and from her mouth Charon must take one piece of money, she saying not a word. In crossing the river a dead hand would stretch itself up to her, and a dead face, like that of her father, would appear, and a voice would issue from the dead man's mouth, begging for the other piece of money, that he might pay for his passage, and get released from the doom of floating for ever in the grim flood of Styx. But still she was to keep silence, and to let the dead man cry out in vain; for all these, the voice told her, were snares prepared by Aphrodite, to make her let go the money, and to let fall the pieces of bread. Then, at the gate of the palace of Persephone she would meet the great three-headed dog, Kerberos, who keeps watch there for ever, and to him, to quiet his terrible barking, she must give one piece of the bread, and pass on, still never speaking. So Kerberos would allow her to pass; but still another danger would await her. Persephone would greet her kindly, and ask her to sit upon soft cushions, and to eat of a fine banquet. But she must refuse both offers--sitting only on the ground, and eating only of the bread of mortals, or else she must remain for ever in the gloomy regions below the earth. Psyche listened to this counsel, and obeyed it. Everything happened as the voice had foretold. She saw the old man with the overladen ass, she permitted Charon to take the piece of money from her lips, she stopped her ears against the cry of the dead man floating in the black river, she gave the honey bread to Kerberos, and she refused the soft cushions and the banquet offered to her by the queen of the infernal regions. Then Persephone gave her the precious beauty demanded by Aphrodite, and shut it up in the box, and Psyche came safely back into the light of day, giving to Kerberos, the three-headed dog, the remaining piece of honey bread, and to Charon the remaining piece of money. But now she fell into a great danger. The voice in the tower had warned her not to look into the box; but she was tempted by a strong desire, and so she opened it, that she might see and use for herself the beauty of the gods. But when she opened the box it was empty, save of a vapour of sleep, which seized upon Psyche, and made her as if she were dead. In this unhappy state, brought upon her by the vengeance of Aphrodite, she would have been lost for ever, but Eros, healed of the wound caused by the burning oil, came himself to her help, roused her from the death-like sleep, and put her in a place of safety. Then Eros flew up into the abode of the gods, and besought Zeus to protect Psyche against his mother Aphrodite; and Zeus, calling an assembly of the gods, sent Hermes to bring Psyche thither, and then he declared her immortal, and she and Eros were wedded to each other; and there was a great feast in Olympus. And the sisters of Psyche, who had striven to ruin her, were punished for their crimes, for Eros appeared to them one after the other in a dream, and promised to make each of them his wife, in place of Psyche, and bade each throw herself from the great rock whence Psyche was carried into the beautiful valley by Zephyrus; and both the sisters did as the dream told them, and they were dashed to pieces, and perished miserably. Now this is the story of Eros and Psyche, as it is told by Apuleius, in his book of _Metamorphoses_, written nearly two thousand years ago. But the story was told ages before Apuleius by people other than the Greeks, and in a language which existed long before theirs. It is the tale of Urvasi and Pururavas, which is to be found in one of the oldest of the Vedas, or Sanskrit sacred books, which contain the legends of the Aryan race before it broke up and went in great fragments southward into India, and westward into Persia and Europe. A translation of the story of Urvasi and Pururavas is given by Mr. Max-Muller,[3] who also tells what the story means, and this helps us to see the meaning of the tale of Eros and Psyche, and of many other myths which occur among all the branches of the Aryan family; among the Teutons, the Scandinavians, and the Slavs, as well as among the Greeks. Urvasi, then, was an immortal being, a kind of fairy, who fell in love with Pururavas, a hero and a king; and she married him, and lived with him, on this condition--that she should never see him unless he was dressed in his royal robes. Now there was a ewe, with two lambs, tied to the couch of Urvasi and Pururavas; and the fairies--or Gandharvas, as the kinsfolk of Urvasi were called--wished to get her back amongst them; and so they stole one of the lambs. Then Urvasi reproached her husband, and said, "They take away my darling, as if I lived in a land where there is no hero and no man." The fairies stole the other lamb, and Urvasi reproached her husband again, saying, "How can that be a land without heroes or men where I am?" Then Pururavas hastened to bring back the pet lamb; so eager was he that he stayed not to clothe himself, and so sprang up naked. Then the Gandharvas sent a flash of lightning, and Urvasi saw her husband naked as if by daylight; and then she cried out to her kinsfolk, "I come back," and she vanished. And Pururavas, made wretched by the loss of his love, sought her everywhere, and once he was permitted to see her, and when he saw her, he said he should die if she did not come back to him. But Urvasi could not return; but she gave him leave to come to her, on the last night of the year, to the golden seats; and he stayed with her for that night. And Urvasi said to him, "The Gandharvas will to-morrow grant thee a wish; choose." He said; "Choose thou for me." She replied, "Say to them, Let me be one of you." And he said this, and they taught him how to make the sacred fire, and he became one of them, and dwelt with Urvasi for ever. Now this, we see, is like the story of Eros and Psyche; and Mr. Max-Muller teaches us what it means. It is the story of the Sun and the Dawn. Urvasi is the Dawn, which must vanish or die when it beholds the risen Sum; and Pururavas is the Sun; and they are united again at sunset, when the Sun dies away into night. So, in the Greek myth, Eros is the dawning Sun, and when Psyche, the Dawn, sees him, he flies from her, and it is only at nightfall that they can be again united. In the same paper Mr. Max-Muller shows how this root idea of the Aryan race is found again in another of the most beautiful of Greek myths or stories--that of Orpheus and Eurydike. In the Greek legends the Dawn has many names; one of them is Eurydike. The name of her husband, Orpheus, comes straight from the Sanskrit: it is the same as Ribhu or Arbhu, which is a name of Indra, or the Sun, or which may be used for the rays of the Sun. The old story, then, says our teacher, was this: "Eurydike (the Dawn) is bitten by a serpent (the Night); she dies, and descends into the lower regions. Orpheus follows her, and obtains from the gods that his wife should follow him, if he promised not to look back. Orpheus promises--ascends from the dark world below; Eurydike is behind him as he rises, but, drawn by doubt or by love, he looks round; the first ray of the Sun glances at the Dawn; and the Dawn fades away." We have now seen that the Greek myth is like a much older myth existing amongst the Aryan race before it passed westward. We have but to look to other collections of Aryan folk-lore to find that in some of its features the legend is common to all branches of the Aryan family. In our own familiar story of "Beauty and the Beast," for instance, we have the same idea. There are the three sisters, one of whom is chosen as the bride of an enchanted monster, who dwells in a beautiful palace. By the arts of her sisters she is kept away from him, and he is at the point of death through his grief. Then she returns, and he revives, and becomes changed into a handsome Prince, and they live happy ever after. One feature of these legends is that beings closely united to each other--as closely, that is, as the Sun and the Dawn--may not look upon each other without misfortune. This is illustrated in the charming Scandinavian story of "The Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon," which is told in various forms; the best of them being in Mr. Morris's beautiful poem in "The Earthly Paradise," and in Dr. Dasent's Norse Tales.[4] We shall abridge Dr. Dasent's version, telling the story in our own way: There was a poor peasant who had a large family whom he could scarcely keep; and there were several daughters amongst them. The loveliest was the youngest daughter; who was very beautiful indeed. One evening in autumn, in bad weather, the family sat round the fire; and there came three taps at the window. The father went out to see who it was, and he found only a great White Bear. And the White Bear said, "If you will give me your youngest daughter, I will make you rich." So the peasant went in and asked his daughter if she would be the wife of the White Bear; and the daughter said "No." So the White Bear went away, but said he would come back in a few days to see if the maiden had changed her mind. Now her father and mother talked to her so much about it, and seemed so anxious to be well off, that the maiden agreed to be the wife of the White Bear: and when he came again, she said "Yes," and the White Bear told her to sit upon his back, and hold by his shaggy coat, and away they went together. After the maiden had ridden for a long way, they came to a great hill, and the White Bear gave a knock on the hill with his paw, and the hill opened, and they went in. Now inside the hill there was a palace with fine rooms, ornamented with gold and silver, and all lighted up; and there was a table ready laid; and the White Bear gave the maiden a silver bell, and told her to ring it when she wanted anything. And when the maiden had eaten and drank, she went to bed, in a beautiful bed with silk pillows and curtains, and gold fringe to them. Then, in the dark, a man came and lay down beside her. This was the White Bear, who was an Enchanted Prince, and who was able to put off the shape of a beast at night, and to become a man again; but before daylight, he went away and turned once more into a White Bear, so that his wife could never see him in the human form. Well, this went on for some time, and the wife of the White Bear was very happy with her kind husband, in the beautiful palace he had made for her. Then she grew dull and miserable for want of company, and she asked leave to go home for a little while to see her father and mother, and her brothers and sisters. So the White Bear took her home again, but he told her that there was one thing she must not do; she must not go into a room with her mother alone, to talk to her, or a great misfortune would happen. When the wife of the White Bear got home, she found that her family lived in a grand house, and they were all very glad to see her; and then her mother took her into a room by themselves, and asked about her husband. And the wife of the White Bear forgot the warning, and told her mother that every night a man came and lay down with her, and went away before daylight, and that she had never seen him, and wanted to see him, very much. Then the mother said it might be a Troll she slept with; and that she ought to see what it was; and she gave her daughter a piece of candle, and said, "Light this while he is asleep, and look at him, but take care you don't drop the tallow upon him." So then the White Bear came to fetch his wife, and they went back to the palace in the hill, and that night she lit the candle, while her husband was asleep, and then she saw that he was a handsome Prince, and she felt quite in love with him, and gave him a soft kiss. But just as she kissed him she let three drops of tallow fall upon his shirt, and he woke up. Then the White Bear was very sorrowful, and said that he was enchanted by a wicked fairy, and that if his wife had only waited for a year before looking at him, the enchantment would be broken, and he would be a man again always. But now that she had given way to curiosity, he must go to a dreary castle East of the Sun and West of the Moon, and marry a witch Princess, with a nose three ells long. And then he vanished, and so did his palace, and his poor wife found herself lying in the middle of a gloomy wood, and she was dressed in rags, and was very wretched. But she did not stop to cry about her hard fate, for she was a brave girl, and made up her mind to go at once in search of her husband. So she walked for days, and then she met an old woman sitting on a hillside, and playing with a golden apple; and she asked the old woman the way to the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon. And the old woman listened to her story, and then she said, "I don't know where it is; but you can go on and ask my next neighbour. Ride there on my horse, and when you have done with him, give him a pat under the left ear and say, 'Go home again;' and take this golden apple with you, it may be useful." So she rode on for a long way, and then came to another old woman, who was playing with a golden carding comb; and she asked her the way to the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon? But this old woman couldn't tell her, and bade her go on to another old woman, a long way off. And she gave her the golden carding comb, and lent her a horse just like the first one. And the third old woman was playing with a golden spinning wheel; and she gave this to the wife of the White Bear, and lent her another horse, and told her to ride on to the East Wind, and ask him the way to the enchanted land. Now after a weary journey she got to the home of the East Wind, and he said he had heard of the Enchanted Prince, and of the country East of the Sun and West of the Moon, but he did not know where it was, for he had never been so far. But, he said, "Get on my back, and we will go to my brother the West Wind; perhaps he knows." So they sailed off to the West Wind, and told him the story, and he took it quite kindly, but said he didn't know the way. But perhaps his brother the South Wind might know; and they would go to him. So the White Bear's wife got on the back of the West Wind, and he blew straight away to the dwelling-place of the South Wind, and asked him where to find the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon. But the South Wind said that although he had blown pretty nearly everywhere, he had never blown there; but he would take her to his brother the North Wind, the oldest, and strongest, and wisest Wind of all; and he would be sure to know. Now the North Wind was very cross at being disturbed, and he used bad language, and was quite rude and unpleasant. But he was a kind Wind after all, and when his brother the West Wind told him the story, he became quite fatherly, and said he would do what he could, for he knew the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon very well. But, he said, "It is a long way off; so far off that once in my life I blew an aspen leaf there, and was so tired with it that I couldn't blow or puff for ever so many days after." So they rested that night, and next morning the North Wind puffed himself out, and got stout, and big, and strong, ready for the journey; and the maiden got upon his back, and away they went to the country East of the Sun and West of the Moon. It was a terrible journey, high up in the air, in a great storm, and over the mountains and the sea, and before they got to the end of it the North Wind grew very tired, and drooped, and nearly fell into the sea, and got so low down that the crests of the waves washed over him. But he blew as hard as he could, and at last he put the maiden down on the shore, just in front of the Enchanted Castle that stood in the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon; and there he had to stop and rest many days before he became strong enough to blow home again. Now the wife of the White Bear sat down before the castle, and began to play with the golden apple. And then the wicked Princess with the nose three ells long opened a window, and asked if she would sell the apple? But she said "No;" she would give the golden apple for leave to spend the night in the bed-chamber of the Prince who lived there. So the Princess with the long nose said "Yes," and the wife of the White Bear was allowed to pass the night in her husband's chamber. But a sleeping draught had been given to the Prince, and she could not wake him, though she wept greatly, and spent the whole night in crying out to him; and in the morning before he woke she was driven away by the wicked Princess. Well, next day she sat and played with the golden carding comb, and the Princess wanted that too; and the same bargain was made; but again a sleeping draught was given to the Prince, and he slept all night, and nothing could waken him; and at the first peep of daylight the wicked Princess drove the poor wife out again. Now it was the third day, and the wife of the White Bear had only the golden spinning-wheel left. So she sat and played with it, and the Princess bought it on the same terms as before. But some kind folk who slept in the next room to the Prince told him that for two nights a woman had been in his chamber, weeping bitterly, and crying out to him to wake and see her. So, being warned, the Prince only pretended to drink the sleeping draught, and so when his wife came into the room that night he was wide awake, and was rejoiced to see her; and they spent the whole night in loving talk. Now the next day was to be the Prince's wedding day; but now that his lost wife had found him, he hit upon a plan to escape marrying the Princess with the long nose. So when morning came, he said he should like to see what his bride was fit for? "Certainly," said the Witch-mother and the Princess, both together. Then the Prince said he had a fine shirt, with three drops of tallow upon it; and he would marry only the woman who could wash them out, for no other would be worth having. So they laughed at this, for they thought it would be easily done. And the Princess began, but the more she rubbed, the worse the tallow stuck to the shirt. And the old Witch-mother tried; but it got deeper and blacker than ever. And all the Trolls in the enchanted castle tried; but none of them could wash the shirt clean. Then said the Prince, "Call in the lassie who sits outside, and let her try." And she came in, and took the shirt, and washed it quite clean and white, all in a minute. Then the old Witch-mother put herself into such a rage that she burst into pieces, and so did the Princess with the long nose, and so did all the Trolls in the castle; and the Prince took his wife away with him, and all the silver and gold, and a number of Christian people who had been enchanted by the witch; and away they went for ever from the dreary Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon. In the story of "The Soaring Lark," in the collection of German popular tales made by the brothers Grimm, we have another version of the same idea; and here, as in Eros and Psyche, and in the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon, it is the woman to whose fault the misfortunes are laid, and upon whom falls the long and weary task of search. The story told in brief, is this. A merchant went on a journey, and promised to bring back for his three daughters whatever they wished. The eldest asked for diamonds, the second for pearls, and the youngest, who was her father's favourite, for a singing, soaring lark. As the merchant came home, he passed through a great forest, and on the top bough of a tall tree he found a lark, and tried to take it. Then a Lion sprang from behind the tree, and said the lark was his, and that he would eat up the merchant for trying to steal it. The merchant told the Lion why he wanted the bird, and then the Lion said that he would give him the lark, and let him go, on one condition, namely, that he should give to the Lion the first thing or person that met him on his return. Now the first person who met the merchant when he got home was his youngest daughter, and the poor merchant told her the story, and wept very much, and said that she should not go into the forest. But the daughter said, "What you have promised you must do;" and so she went into the forest, to find the Lion. The Lion was an Enchanted Prince, and all his servants were also turned into lions; and so they remained all day; but at night they all changed back again into men. Now when the Lion Prince saw the merchant's daughter, he fell in love with her, and took her to a fine castle, and at night, when he became a man, they were married, and lived very happily, and in great splendour. One day the Prince said to his wife, "To-morrow your eldest sister is to be married; if you would like to be there, my lions shall go with you." So she went, and the lions with her, and there were great rejoicings in her father's house, because they were afraid that she had been torn to pieces in the forest; and after staying some time, she went back to her husband. After a while, the Prince said to his wife, "To-morrow your second sister is going to be married," and she replied, "This time I will not go alone, for you shall go with me." Then he told her how dangerous that would be, for if a single ray from a burning light fell upon him, he would be changed into a Dove, and in that form would have to fly about for seven years. But the Princess very much wanted him to go, and in order to protect him from the light, she had a room built with thick walls, so that no light could get through, and there he was to sit while the bridal candles were burning. But by some accident, the door of the room was made of new wood, which split, and made a little chink, and through this chink one ray of light from the torches of the bridal procession fell like a hair upon the Prince, and he was instantly changed in form; and when his wife came to tell him that all danger was over, she found only a White Dove, who said very sadly to her-- "For seven years I must fly about in the world, but at every seventh mile I will let fall a white feather and a drop of red blood, which will show you the way, and if you follow it, you may save me." Then the White Dove flew out of the door, and the Princess followed it, and at every seventh mile the Dove let fall a white feather and a drop of red blood; and so, guided by the feathers and the drops of blood, she followed the Dove, until the seven years had almost passed, and she began to hope that the Prince's enchantment would be at an end. But one day there was no white feather to be seen, nor any drop of red blood, and the Dove had flown quite away. Then the poor Princess thought, "No man can help me now;" and so she mounted up to the Sun, and said, "Thou shinest into every chasm and over every peak; hast thou seen a White Dove on the wing?" "No," answered the Sun. "I have not seen one; but take this casket, and open it when you are in need of help." She took the casket, and thanked the Sun. When evening came, she asked the Moon-- "Hast thou seen a White Dove? for thou shinest all night long over every field and through every wood." "No," said the Moon, "I have not seen a White Dove; but here is an egg--break it when you are in great trouble." She thanked the Moon, and took the egg; and then the North Wind came by; and she said to the North Wind: "Hast thou not seen a White Dove? for thou passest through all the boughs, and shakest every leaf under heaven." "No," said the North Wind, "I have not seen one; but I will ask my brothers, the East Wind, and the West Wind, and the South Wind." So he asked them all three; and the East Wind and the West Wind said, "No, they had not seen the White Dove;" but the South Wind said-- "I have seen the White Dove; he has flown to the Red Sea, and has again been changed into a Lion, for the seven years are up; and the Lion stands there in combat with an Enchanted Princess, who is in the form of a great Caterpillar." Then the North Wind knew what to do; and he said to the Princess-- "Go to the Red Sea; on the right-hand shore there are great reeds, count them, and cut off the eleventh reed, and beat the Caterpillar with it. Then the Caterpillar and the Lion will take their human forms. Then look for the Griffin which sits on the Red Sea, and leap upon its back with the Prince, and the Griffin will carry you safely home. Here is a nut; let it fall when you are in the midst of the sea, and a large nut-tree will grow out of the water, and the Griffin will rest upon it." So the Princess went to the Red Sea, and counted the reeds, and cut off the eleventh reed, and beat the Caterpillar with it, and then the Lion conquered in the fight, and both of them took their human forms again. But the Enchanted Princess was too quick for the poor wife, for she instantly seized the Prince and sprang upon the back of the Griffin, and away they flew, quite out of sight. Now the poor deserted wife sat down on the desolate shore, and cried bitterly; and then she said, "So far as the wind blows, and so long as the cock crows, will I search for my husband, till I find him;" and so she travelled on and on, until one day she came to the palace whither the Enchanted Princess had carried the Prince; and there was great feasting going on, and they told her that the Prince and Princess were about to be married. Then she remembered what the Sun had said, and took out the casket and opened it, and there was the most beautiful dress in all the world; as brilliant as the Sun himself. So she put it on, and went into the palace, and everybody admired the dress, and the Enchanted Princess asked if she would sell it? "Not for gold or silver," she said, "but for flesh and blood." "What do you mean?" the Princess asked. "Let me sleep for one night in the bridegroom's chamber," the wife said. So the Enchanted Princess agreed, but she gave the Prince a sleeping draught, so that he could not hear his wife's cries; and in the morning she was driven out, without a word from him, for he slept so soundly that all she said seemed to him only like the rushing of the wind through the fir-trees. Then the poor wife sat down and wept again, until she thought of the egg the Moon had given her; and when she took the egg and broke it, there came out of it a hen with twelve chickens, all of gold, and the chickens pecked quite prettily, and then ran under the wings of the hen for shelter. Presently, the Enchanted Princess looked out of the window, and saw the hen and the chickens, and asked if they were for sale. "Not for gold or silver, but for flesh and blood," was the answer she got; and then the wife made the same bargain as before--that she should spend the night in the bridegroom's chamber. Now this night the Prince was warned by his servant, and so he poured away the sleeping draught instead of drinking it; and when his wife came, and told her sorrowful story, he knew her, and said, "Now I am saved;" and then they both went as quickly as possible, and set themselves upon the Griffin, who carried them over the Red Sea; and when they got to the middle of the sea, the Princess let fall the nut which the North Wind had given to her, and a great nut-tree grew up at once, on which the Griffin rested; and then it went straight to their home, where they lived happy ever after. One more story of the same kind must be told, for three reasons: because it is very good reading, because it brings together various legends, and because it shows that these were common to Celtic as well as to Hindu, Greek, Teutonic, and Scandinavian peoples. It is called "The Battle of the Birds," and is given at full length, and in several different versions, in Campbell's "Popular Tales of the West Highlands."[5] To bring it within our space we must tell it in our own way. Once upon a time every bird and other creature gathered to battle. The son of the King of Tethertoun went to see the battle, but it was over before he got there, all but one fight, between a great Raven and a Snake; and the Snake was getting the victory. The King's son helped the Raven, and cut off the Snake's head. The Raven thanked him for his kindness and said, "Now I will give thee a sight; come up on my wings;" and then the Raven flew with him over seven mountains, and seven glens, and seven moors, and that night the King's son lodged in the house of the Raven's sisters; and promised to meet the Raven next morning in the same place. This went on for three nights and days, and on the third morning, instead of a raven, there met him a handsome lad, who gave him a bundle, and told him not to look into it, until he was in the place where he would most wish to dwell. But the King's son did look into the bundle, and then he found himself in a great castle with fine grounds about it, and he was very sorry, because he wished the castle had been near his father's house, but he could not put it back into the bundle again. Then a great Giant met him, and offered to put the castle back into a bundle for a reward, and this was to be the Prince's son, when the son was seven years old. So the Prince promised, and the Giant put everything back into the bundle, and the Prince went home with it to his father's house. When he got there he opened the bundle, and out came the castle and all the rest, just as before, and at the castle door stood a beautiful maiden who asked him to marry her, and they were married, and had a son. When the seven years were up, the Giant came to ask for the boy, and then the King's son (who had now become a king himself) told his wife about his promise. "Leave that to me and the Giant," said the Queen. So she dressed the cook's son (who was the right age) in fine clothes, and gave him to the Giant; but the Giant gave the boy a rod, and asked him, "If thy father had that rod, what would he do with it?" "He would beat the dogs if they went near the King's meat," said the boy. Then Said the Giant, "Thou art the cook's son," and he killed him. Then the Giant went back, very angry, and the Queen gave him the butler's son; and the Giant gave him the rod, and asked him the same question, "My father would beat the dogs if they came near the King's glasses," said the boy. "Thou art the butler's son," said the Giant; and he killed him. Now the Giant went back the third time, and made a dreadful noise. "Out here _thy_ son," he said, "or the stone that is highest in thy dwelling shall be the lowest." So they gave him the King's son, and the Giant took him to his own house, and he stayed there a long while. One day the youth heard sweet music at the top of the Giant's house, and he saw a sweet face. It was the Giant's youngest daughter; and she said to him, "My father wants you to marry one of my sisters, and he wants me to marry the King of the Green City, but I will not. So when he asks, say thou wilt take me." Next day the Giant gave the King's son choice of his two eldest daughters; but the Prince said, "Give me this pretty little one?" and then the Giant was angry, and said that before he had her he must do three things. The first of these was to clean out a byre or cattle place, where there was the dung of a hundred cattle, and it had not been cleaned for seven years. He tried to do it, and worked till noon, but the filth was as bad as ever. Then the Giant's youngest daughter came, and bid him sleep, and she cleaned out the stable, so that a golden apple would run from end to end of it. Next day the Giant set him to thatch the byre with birds' down, and he had to go out on the moors to catch the birds; but at midday, he had caught only two blackbirds, and then the Giant's youngest daughter came again, and bid him sleep, and then she caught the birds, and thatched the byre with the feathers before sundown. The third day the Giant set him another task. In the forest there was a fir-tree, and at the top was a magpie's nest, and in the nest were five eggs, and he was to bring these five eggs to the Giant without breaking one of them. Now the tree was very tall; from the ground to the first branch it was five hundred feet, so that the King's son could not climb up it. Then the Giant's youngest daughter came again, and she put her fingers one after the other into the tree, and made a ladder for the King's son to climb up by. When he was at the nest at the very top, she said, "Make haste now with the eggs, for my father's breath is burning my back;" and she was in such a hurry that she left her little finger sticking in the top of the tree. Then she told the King's son that the Giant would make all his daughters look alike, and dress them alike, and that when the choosing time came he was to look at their hands, and take the one that had not a little finger on one hand. So it happened, and the King's son chose the youngest daughter, because she put out her hand to guide him. Then they were married, and there was a great feast, and they went to their chamber. The Giant's daughter said to her husband, "Sleep not, or thou diest; we must fly quick, or my father will kill thee." So first she cut an apple into nine pieces, and put two pieces at the head of the bed, and two at the foot, and two at the door of the kitchen, and two at the great door, and one outside the house. And then she and her husband went to the stable, and mounted the fine grey filly, and rode off as fast as they could. Presently the Giant called out, "Are you asleep yet?" and the apple at the head of the bed said, "We are not asleep." Then he called again, and the apple at the foot of the bed said the same thing; and then he asked again and again, until the apple outside the house door answered; and then he knew that a trick had been played on him, and ran to the bedroom and found it empty. And then he pursued the runaways as fast as possible. Now at day-break--"at the mouth of day," the story-teller says--the Giant's daughter said to her husband, "My father's breath is burning my back; put thy hand into the ear of the grey filly, and whatever thou findest, throw it behind thee." "There is a twig of sloe-tree," he said. "Throw it behind thee," said she; and he did so, and twenty miles of black-thorn wood grew out of it, so thick that a weasel could not get through. But the Giant cut through it with his big axe and his wood-knife, and went after them again. At the heat of day the Giant's daughter said again, "My father's breath is burning my back;" and then her husband put his finger in the filly's ear, and took out a piece of grey stone, and threw it behind him, and there grew up directly a great rock twenty miles broad and twenty miles high. Then the Giant got his mattock and his lever, and made a way through the rocks, and came after them again. Now it was near sunset, and once more the Giant's daughter felt her father's breath burning her back. So, for the third time, her husband put his hand into the filly's ear, and took out a bladder of water, and he threw it behind him, and there was a fresh-water loch, twenty miles long and twenty miles broad; and the Giant came on so fast that he ran into the middle of the loch and was drowned. Here is clearly a Sun-myth, which is like those of ancient Hindu and Greek legend: the blue-grey Filly is the Dawn, on which the new day, the maiden and her lover, speed away. The great Giant, whose breath burns the maiden's back, is the morning Sun, whose progress is stopped by the thick shade of the trees. Then he rises higher, and at midday he breaks through the forest, and soars above the rocky mountains. At evening, still powerful in speed and heat, he comes to the great lake, plunges into it, and sets, and those whom he pursues escape. This ending is repeated in one of the oldest Hindu mythical stories, that of Bheki, the Frog Princess, who lives with her husband on condition that he never shows her a drop of water. One day he forgets, and she disappears: that is, the sun sets or dies on the water--a fanciful idea which takes us straight as an arrow to Aryan myths. Now, however, we must complete the Gaelic story, which here becomes like the Soaring Lark, and the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon, and other Teutonic and Scandinavian tales. After the Giant's daughter and her husband had got free from the Giant, she bade him go to his father's house, and tell them about her; but he was not to suffer anything to kiss him, or he would forget her altogether. So he told everybody they were not to kiss him, but an old greyhound leapt up at him, and touched his mouth, and then he forgot all about the Giant's daughter, just as if she had never lived. Now when the King's son left her, the poor forgotten wife sat beside a well, and when night came she climbed into an oak-tree, and slept amongst the branches. There was a shoemaker who lived near the well, and next day he sent his wife to fetch water, and as she drew it she saw what she fancied to be her own reflection in the water, but it was really the likeness of the maiden in the tree above it. The shoemaker's wife, however, thinking it was her own, imagined herself to be very handsome, and so she went back and told the shoemaker that she was too beautiful to be his thrall, or slave, any longer, and so she went off. The same thing happened to the shoemaker's daughter; and she went off too. Then the man himself went to the well, and saw the maiden in the tree, and understood it all, and asked her to come down and stay at his house, and to be his daughter. So she went with him. After a while there came three gentlemen from the King's Court, and each of them wanted to marry her; and she agreed with each of them privately, on condition that each should give a sum of money for a wedding gift. Well, they agreed to this, each unknown to the other; and she married one of them, but when he came and had paid the money, she gave him a cup of water to hold, and there he had to stand, all night long, unable to move or to let go the cup of water, and in the morning he went away ashamed, but said nothing to his friends. Next night it was the turn of the second; and she told him to see that the door-latch was fastened; and when he touched the latch he could not let it go, and had to stand there all night holding it; and so he went away, and said nothing. The next night the third came, and when he stepped upon the floor, one foot stuck so fast that he could not draw it out until morning; and then he did the same as the others--went off quite cast down. And then the maiden gave all the money to the shoemaker for his kindness to her. This is like the story of "The Master Maid," in Dr. Dasent's collection of "Tales from the Norse." But there is the end of it to come. The shoemaker had to finish some shoes because the young King was going to be married; and the maiden said she should like to see the King before he married. So the shoemaker took her to the King's castle; and then she went into the wedding-room, and because of her beauty they filled a vessel of wine for her. When she was going to drink it, there came a flame out of the glass, and out of the flame there came a silver pigeon and a golden pigeon; and just then three grains of barley fell upon the floor, and the silver pigeon ate them up. Then the golden one said, "If thou hadst mind when I cleaned the byre, thou wouldst not eat that without giving me a share." Then three more grains fell, and the silver pigeon ate them also. Then said the golden pigeon, "If thou hadst mind when I thatched the byre, thou wouldst not eat that without giving me a share." Then three other grains fell, and the silver pigeon ate them up. And the golden pigeon said, "If thou hadst mind when I harried the magpie's nest, thou wouldst not eat that without giving me my share. I lost my little finger bringing it down, and I want it still." Then, suddenly, the King's son remembered, and knew who it was, and sprang to her and kissed her from hand to mouth; and the priest came, and they were married. These stories will be enough to show how the same idea repeats itself in different ways among various peoples who have come from the same stock: for the ancient Hindu legend of Urvasi and Pururavas, the Greek fable of Eros and Psyche, the Norse story of the Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon, the Teutonic story of the Soaring Lark, and the Celtic story of the Battle of the Birds, are all one and the same in their general character, their origin, and their meaning; and in all these respects they resemble the story which we know so well in English--that of Beauty and the Beast. The same kind of likeness has already been shown in the story of Cinderella, and in those which resemble it in the older Aryan legends and in the later stories of the Greeks. If space allowed, such comparisons might be carried much further; indeed, there is no famous fairy tale known to children in our day which has not proceeded from our Aryan forefathers, thousands of years ago, and which is not repeated in Hindu, Persian, Greek, Teutonic, Scandinavian, and Celtic folk-lore; the stories being always the same in their leading idea, and yet always so different in their details as to show that the story-tellers have not copied from each other, but that they are repeating, in their own way, legends and fancies which existed thousands of years ago, before the Aryan people broke up from their old homes, and went southward and westward, and spread themselves over India and throughout Europe. Now there is a curious little German story, called "The Wolf and the Seven Little Kids," which is told in Grimm's collection, and which shows at once the connection between Teutonic folk-lore, and Greek mythology, and Aryan legend. There was an old Goat who had seven young ones, and when she went into the forest for wood, she warned them against the Wolf; if he came, they were not to open the door to him on any account. Presently the Wolf came, and knocked, and asked to be let in; but the little Kids said, "No, you have a gruff voice; you are a wolf." So the Wolf went and bought a large piece of chalk, and ate it up, and by this means he made his voice smooth; and then he came back to the cottage, and knocked, and again asked to be let in. The little Kids, however, saw his black paws, and they said, "No, your feet are black; you are a wolf." Then the Wolf went to a baker, and got him to powder his feet with flour; and when the little Kids saw his white feet, they thought it was their mother, and let him in. Then the little Kids were very much frightened, and ran and hid themselves. The first got under the table, the second into the bed, the third into the cupboard, the fourth into the kitchen, the fifth into the oven, the sixth into the wash-tub, and the seventh into the clock-case. The wicked Wolf, however, found all of them out, and ate them up, excepting the one in the clock-case, where he did not think of looking. And when the greedy monster had finished his meal, he went into the meadow, and lay down and slept. Just at this time the old Goat came home, and began crying for her children; but the only one who answered was the youngest, who said, "Here I am, dear mother, in the clock-case;" and then he came out and told her all about it. Presently the Goat went out into the meadow, and there lay the Wolf, snoring quite loud; and she thought she saw something stirring in his body. So she ran back, and fetched a pair of scissors and a needle and thread, and then she cut open the monster's hairy coat, and out jumped first one little kid, and then another, until all the six stood round her, for the greedy Wolf was in such a hurry that he had swallowed them whole. Then the Goat and the little Kids brought a number of stones, and put them into the Wolf's stomach, and sewed up the place again. When the Wolf woke up, he felt very thirsty, and ran off to the brook to drink, and the heavy stones overbalanced him, so that he fell into the brook, and was drowned. And then the seven little Kids danced round their mother, singing joyfully, "The wolf is dead! the wolf is dead!" Now this story is nothing but another version of an old Greek legend which tells how Kronos (Time), an ancient god, devoured his children while they were quite young; and Kronos was the son of Ouranos, which means the heavens; and Ouranos is a name which comes from that of Varuna, a god of the sky in the old sacred books, or Vedas, of the Hindus; and the meaning of the legend is that Night swallows up or devours the days of the week, all but the youngest, which still exists, because, like the little kid in the German tale, it is in the clock-case. Again, in the Vedas we have many accounts of the fights of Indra, the sun-god, with dragons and monsters, which mean the dark-clouds, the tempest thunder-bearing clouds, which were supposed to have stolen the heavenly cows, or the light, pleasant, rain-bearing clouds, and to have shut them up in gloomy caverns. From this source we have an infinite number of Greek and Teutonic, and Scandinavian, and other legends. One of these is the story of Polyphemos, the great one-eyed giant, or Kyklops, whom Odysseus blinded. Polyphemos is the storm-cloud, and Odysseus stands for the sun. The storm-cloud threatens the mariners; the lightnings dart from the spot which seems like an eye in the darkness; he hides the blue heavens and the soft white clouds--the cows of the sky, or the white-fleeced flocks of heaven. Then comes Odysseus, the sun-god, the hero, and smites him blind, and chases him away, and disperses the threatening and the danger, and brings light, and peace, and calm again. Now this legend of Polyphemos is to be found everywhere; in the oldest Hindu books, in Teutonic, and Norse, and Slav stories; and everywhere also the great giant, stormy, angry, and one-eyed, is always very stupid, and is always overthrown or outwitted by the hero, Odysseus, when he is shut up in the cavern of Polyphemos, cheats the monster by tying himself under the belly of the largest and oldest ram, and so passes out while the blind giant feels the fleece, and thinks that all is safe. Almost exactly the same trick is told in an old Gaelic story, that of Conall Cra Bhuidhe.[6] A great Giant with only one eye seized upon Conall, who was hunting on the Giant's lands. Conall himself is made to tell the story: "I hear a great clattering coming, and what was there but a great Giant and his dozen of goats with him, and a buck at their head. And when the Giant had tied the goats, he came up, and he said to me, 'Hao O! Conall, it's long since my knife is rusting in my pouch waiting for thy tender flesh.' 'Och!' said I, 'it's not much thou wilt be bettered by me, though thou shouldst tear me asunder; I will make but one meal for thee. But I see that thou art one-eyed. I am a good leech, and I will give thee the sight of the other eye.' The Giant went and he drew the great caldron on the site of the fire. I was telling him how he should heat the water, so that I should give its sight to the other eye. I got leather and I made a rubber of it, and I set him upright in the caldron. I began at the eye that was well, till I left them as bad as each other. When he saw that he could not see a glimpse, and when I myself said to him that I would get out in spite of him, he gave that spring out of the water, and he stood in the mouth of the cave, and he said that he would have revenge for the sight of his eye. I had but to stay there crouched the length of the night, holding in my breath in such a way that he might not feel where I was. When he felt the birds calling in the morning, and knew that the day was, he said, 'Art thou sleeping? Awake, and let out my lot of goats!' I killed the buck. He cried, 'I will not believe that thou art not killing my buck.' 'I am not,' I said, 'but the ropes are so tight that I take long to loose them.' I let out one of the goats, and he was caressing her, and he said to her, 'There thou art, thou shaggy hairy white goat; and thou seest me, but I see thee not.' I was letting them out, by way of one by one, as I flayed the buck, and before the last one was out I had him flayed, bag-wise. Then I went and put my legs in the place of his legs, and my hands in the place of his fore-legs, and my head in the place of his head, and the horns on top of my head, so that the brute might think it was the buck. I went out. When I was going out the Giant laid his hand on me, and said, 'There thou art, thou pretty buck; thou seest me, but I see thee not.' When I myself got out, and I saw the world about me, surely joy was on me. When I was out and had shaken the skin off me, I said to the brute, 'I am out now, in spite of thee!'" It was a blind fiddler, in Islay, who told the story of Conall, as it had been handed down by tradition from generation to generation; just as thousands of years before the story of Odysseus and Polyphemos was told by Greek bards to wondering villagers. Here we must stop; for volumes would not contain all that might be said of the likeness of legend to legend in all the branches of the Aryan family, or of the meaning of these stories, and of the lessons they teach--lessons of history, and religious belief, and customs, and morals and ways of thought, and poetic fancies, and of well-nigh all things, heavenly and human--stretching back to the very spring and cradle of our race, older than the oldest writings, and yet so ever fresh and new that while great scholars ponder over them for their deep meaning, little children in the nursery or by the fire-side in winter listen to them with delight for their wonder and their beauty. Else, if there were time and space we might tell the story of Jason, and show how it springs from the changes of day and night, and how the hero, in his good ship Argo, our mother Earth, searches for and bears away in triumph the Golden Fleece, the beams of the radiant sun. Or we might fly with Perseus on his weary, endless journey--the light pursuing and scattering the darkness; the glittering hero, borne by the mystic sandals of Hermes, bearing the sword of the sunlight, piercing the twilight or gloaming in the land of the mystic Graiae; slaying Medusa, the solemn star-lit night; destroying the dark dragon, and setting free Andromeda the dawn-maiden; and doing many wonders more. Or in Hermes we might trace out the Master Thief of Teutonic, and Scandinavian, and Hindu legends; or in Herakles, the type of the heroes who are god-like in their strength, yet who do the bidding of others, and who suffer toil and wrong, and die glorious deaths, and leave great names for men to wonder at: heroes such as Odysseus, and Theseus, and Phoebus, and Achilles, and Sigurd, and Arthur, and all of whom represent, in one form or another, the great mystery of Nature, and the conflict of light and darkness; and so, if we look to their deeper meaning, the constant triumph of good over evil, and of right over wrong. CHAPTER III.--DWELLERS IN FAIRYLAND: STORIES FROM THE EAST. We have said something about the people and the countries which gave birth to our Fairy Stories, and about the meaning of such tales generally when they were first thought of. Then they were clearly understood, and those who told them and heard them knew what they meant; but, as time went on, and as the Aryan race became scattered in various countries, the old stories changed a great deal, and their meaning was lost, and all kinds of wild legends, and strange fables and fanciful tales, were made out of them. The earliest stories were about clouds, and winds, and the sun, and the waters, and the earth, which were turned into Gods and other beings of a heavenly kind. By degrees, as the first meanings of the legends were lost, these beings gave place to a multitude of others: some of them beautiful, and good, and kind and friendly to mankind; and some of them terrible, and bad, and malignant, and always trying to do harm; and there were so many of both kinds that all the world was supposed to be full of them. There were Spirits of the water, and the air, and the earth, forest and mountain demons, creatures who dwelt in darkness and in fire, and others who lived in the sunshine, or loved to come out only in the moonlight. There were some, again--Dwarfs, and other creatures of that kind--who made their homes in caves and underground places, and heaped up treasures of gold and silver, and gems, and made wonderful works in metals of all descriptions; and there were giants, some of them with two heads, who could lift mountains, and walk through rivers and seas, and who picked up great rocks and threw them about like pebbles. Then there were Ogres, with shining rows of terrible teeth, who caught up men and women and children, and strung them together like larks, and carried them home, and cooked them for supper. Then, also, there were Good Spirits, of the kind the Arabs call Peris, and we call Fairies, who made it their business to defend deserving people against the wicked monsters; and there were Magicians, and other wise or cunning people, who had power over the spirits, whether good or bad, as you read in the story of Aladdin and his Ring, and his Wonderful Lamp, and in other tales in the "Arabian Nights," and collections of that kind. Many of these beings--all of whom, for our purpose, may be called Dwellers in Fairyland--had the power of taking any shape they pleased, like the Ogre in the story of "Puss in Boots," who changed himself first into a lion, and then into an elephant, and then into a mouse, when he got eaten up; and they could also change human beings into different forms, or turn them into stone, or carry them about in the air from place to place, and put them under the spells of enchantment, as they liked. Some of the most wonderful creatures of Fairyland are to be found in Eastern stories, the tales of India, and Arabia, and Persia. Here we have the Divs, and Jinns, and Peris, and Rakshas--who were the originals of our own Ogres--and terrible giants, and strange mis-shapen dwarfs, and vampires and monsters of various kinds. Many others, also very wonderful, are to be found in what is called the Mythology--that is, the fables and stories--of ancient Greece, such as the giant Atlas, who bore the world upon his shoulders; and Polyphemus, the one-eyed giant, who caught Odysseus and his companions, and shut them up in his cave; and Kirke, the beautiful sorceress, who turned men into swine; and the Centaurs, creatures half men and half horses; and the Gorgon Medusa, whose head, with its hair of serpents, turned into stone all who beheld it; and the great dragon, the Python, whom Phoebus killed, and who resembles the dragon Vritra, in Hindu legend--the dragon slain by Indra, the god of the Sun, because he shut up the rain, and so scorched the earth--and who also resembles Fafnir, the dragon of Scandinavian legend, killed by Sigurd; and the fabled dragon with whom St. George fought; and also, the dragon of Wantley, whom our old English legends describe as being killed by More of More Hall. In the stories of the North lands of Europe, as we are told in the Eddas and Sagas (the songs and records), there are likewise many wonderful beings--the Trolls, the Frost Giants, curious dwarfs, elves, nisses, mermen and mermaids, and swan-maidens and the like. The folk-lore--that is, the common traditionary stories--of Germany are full of such wonders. Here, again, we have giants and dwarfs and kobolds; and birds and beasts and fishes who can talk; and good fairies, who come in and help their friends just when they are wanted; and evil fairies, and witches; and the wild huntsman, who sweeps across the sky with his ghostly train; and men and women who turn themselves into wolves, and go about in the night devouring sheep and killing human beings, In Russian tales we find many creatures of the same kind, and also in those of Italy, and Spain, and France. And in our own islands we have them too, for the traditions of English giants, and ogres, and dwarfs still linger in the tales of Jack the Giant-killer and Jack and the Bean-stalk, and Hop o' my Thumb; and we have also the elves whom Shakspeare draws for us so delightfully in "Midsummer Night's Dream" and in "The Merry Wives of Windsor"; and there are the Devonshire pixies; and the Scottish fairies and the brownies--the spirits who do the work of the house or the farm--and the Irish "good people;" and the Pooka, which comes in the form of a wild colt; and the Leprechaun, a dwarf who makes himself look like a little old man, mending shoes; and the Banshee, which cries and moans when great people are going to die. To all these, and more, whom there is no room to mention, we must add other dwellers in Fairyland--forms, in one shape or other, of the great Sun-myths of the ancient Aryan race--such as Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table and Vivien and Merlin, and Queen Morgan le hay, and Ogier the Dane, and the story of Roland, and the Great Norse poems which tell of Sigurd, and Brynhilt, and Gudrun, and the Niblung folk. And to these, again, there are to be added many of the heroes and heroines who figure in the Thousand-and-one Nights--such, for example, as Aladdin, and Sindbad, and Ali Baba, and the Forty Thieves, and the Enchanted Horse, and the Fairy Peri Banou, with her wonderful tent that would cover an army, and her brother Schaibar, the dwarf, with his beard thirty feet long, and his great bar of iron with which he could sweep down a city. Even yet we have not got to the end of the long list of Fairy Folk, for there are still to be reckoned the well-known characters who figure in our modern Fairy Tales, such as Cinderella, and the Yellow Dwarf, and the White Cat, and Fortunatus, and Beauty and the Beast, and Riquet with the Tuft, and the Invisible Prince, and many more whom children know by heart, and whom all of us, however old we may be, still cherish with fond remembrance, because they give us glimpses into the beautiful and wondrous land, the true Fairyland whither good King Arthur went-- "The island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns, And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea." Now it is plain that we cannot speak of all these dwellers in Fairyland; but we can only pick out a few here and there, and those of you who want to know more must go to the books that tell of them. As to me, who have undertaken to tell something of these wonders, I feel very much like the poor boy in the little German story of "The Golden Key." Do you know the story? If you don't, I will tell it you. "One winter, when a deep snow was lying on the ground, a poor boy had to go out in a sledge to fetch wood. When he had got enough he thought he would make a fire to warm himself, for his limbs were quite frozen. So he swept the snow away and made a clear space, and there he found a golden key. Then he began to think that where there was a key there must also be a lock; and digging in the earth he found a small iron chest. 'I hope the key will fit,' lie said to himself, 'for there must certainly be great treasures in this box.' After looking all round the box he found a little keyhole, and to his great joy, the golden key fitted it exactly. Then he turned the key once round"--and now we must wait till he has quite unlocked it and lifted the lid up, and then we shall learn what wonderful treasures were in the chest. This is all that this book can do for you. It can give you the golden key, and show you where the chest is to be found, and then you must unlock it for yourselves. Where shall we begin our hasty journey into Wonderland? Suppose we take a glance at those famous Hindu demons, the Rakshas, who are the originals of all the ogres and giants of our nursery tales? Now the Rakshas were very terrible creatures indeed, and in the minds of many people in India are so still, for they are believed in even now. Their natural form, so the stories say, is that of huge, unshapely giants, like clouds, with hair and beard of the colour of the red lightning; but they can take any form they please, to deceive those whom they wish to devour, for their great delight, like that of the ogres, is to kill all they meet, and to eat the flesh of those whom they kill. Often they appear as hunters, of monstrous size, with tusks instead of teeth, and with horns on their heads, and all kinds of grotesque and frightful weapons and ornaments. They are very strong, and make themselves stronger by various arts of magic; and they are strongest of all at nightfall, when they are supposed to roam about the jungles, to enter the tombs, and even to make their way into the cities, and carry off their victims. But the Rakshas are not alone like ogres in their cruelty, but also in their fondness for money, and for precious stones, which they get together in great quantities and conceal in their palaces; for some of them are kings of their species, and have thousands upon thousands of inferior Rakshas under their command. But while they are so numerous and so powerful, the Rakshas, like all the ogres and giants in Fairyland, are also very stupid, and are easily outwitted by clever people. There are many Hindu stories which are told to show this. I will tell you one of them.[7] Two little Princesses were badly treated at home, and so they ran away into a great forest, where they found a palace belonging to a Rakshas, who had gone out. So they went into the house and feasted, and swept the rooms, and made everything neat and tidy. Just as they had done this, the Rakshas and his wife came home, and the two Princesses ran up to the top of the house, and hid themselves on the flat roof. When the Rakshas got indoors he said to his wife: "Somebody has been making everything clean and tidy. Wife, did you do this?" "No," she said; "I don't know who can have done it." "Some one has been sweeping the court-yard," said the Rakshas. "Wife, did you sweep the court-yard?" "No," she answered; "I did not do it." Then the Rakshas walked round and round several times, with his nose up in the air, saying, "Some one is here now; I smell flesh and blood. Where can they be?" "Stuff and nonsense!" cried the Rakshas' wife. "You smell flesh and blood, indeed! Why, you have just been killing and eating a hundred thousand people. I should wonder if you didn't still smell flesh and blood!" They went on disputing, till at last the Rakshas gave it up. "Never mind," lie said; "I don't know how it is--I am very thirsty: let's come and drink some water." So they went to the well, and began letting down jars into it, and drawing them up, and drinking the water. Then the elder of the two Princesses, who was very bold and wise, said to her sister, "I will do something that will be very good for us both." So she ran quickly down stairs, and crept close behind the Rakshas and his wife, as they stood on tip-toe more than half over the side of the well, and catching hold of one of the Rakshas' heels, and one of his wife's, she gave each a little push, and down they both tumbled into the well, and were drowned--the Rakshas and the Rakshas' wife. The Princess then went back to her sister, and said, "I have killed the Rakshas!" "What, both?" cried her sister. "Yes, both," she said. "Won't they come back?" said her sister. "No, never," answered she. This, you see, is something like the story of the Little Girl and the Three Bears, so well known amongst our Nursery Tales. Another story will show you how stupid a Rakshas is, and how easily he can be outwitted.[8] Once upon a time a Blind Man and a Deaf Man made an agreement. The Blind Man was to hear for the Deaf Man; and the Deaf Man was to see for the Blind Man; and so they were to go about on their travels together. One day they went to a nautch--that is, a singing and dancing exhibition. The Deaf Man said, "The dancing is very good; but the music is not worth listening to." "I do not agree with you," the Blind Man said; "I think the music is very good; but the dancing is not worth looking at." So they went away for a walk in the jungle. On the way they found a donkey, belonging to a dhobee, or washerman, and a big chattee, or iron pot, which the washerman used to boil clothes in. "Brother," said the Deaf Man, "here is a donkey and a chattee; let us take them with us, they may be useful." So they took them, and went on. Presently they came to an ants' nest. "Here," said the Deaf Man, "are a number of very fine black ants; let us take some of them to show our friends." "Yes," said the Blind Man, "they will do as presents to our friends." So the Deaf Man took out a silver box from his pocket, and put several of the black ants into it. After a time a terrible storm came on. "Oh dear!" cried the Deaf Man, "how dreadful this lightning is! let us get to some place of shelter." "I don't see that it's dreadful at all," said the Blind Man, "but the thunder is terrible; let us get under shelter." So they went up to a building that looked like a temple, and went in, and took the donkey and the big pot and the black ants with them. But it was not a temple, it was the house of a powerful Rakshas, and the Rakshas came home as soon as they had got inside and had fastened the door. Finding that he couldn't get in, he began to make a great noise, louder than the thunder, and he beat upon the door with his great fists. Now the Deaf Man looked through a chink, and saw him, and was very frightened, for the Rakshas was dreadful to look at. But the Blind Man, as he couldn't see, was very brave; and he went to the door and called out, "Who are you? and what do you mean by coming here and battering at the door in this way, and at this time of night?" "I'm a Rakshas," he answered, in a rage; "and this is my house, and if you don't let me in I will kill you." Then the Blind Man called out in reply, "Oh! you're a Rakshas, are you? Well, if you're Rakshas, I'm Bakshas, and Bakshas is as good as Rakshas." "What nonsense is this?" cried the monster; "there is no such creature as a Bakshas." "Go away," replied the Blind Man, "if you make any further disturbance I'll punish you; for know that I _am_ Bakshas, and Bakshas is Rakshas' father." "Heavens and earth!" cried the Rakshas, "I never heard such an extraordinary thing in my life. But if you are my father, let me see your face,"--for he began to get puzzled and frightened, as the person inside was so very positive. Now the Blind Man and the Deaf Man didn't quite know what to do; but at last they opened the door just a little, and poked the donkey's nose out. "Bless me," thought the Rakshas, "what a terribly ugly face my father Bakshas has got." Then he called out again "O! father Bakshas, you have a very big fierce face, but people have sometimes very big heads and very little bodies; let me see you, body and head, before I go away." Then the Blind Man and the Deaf Man rolled the great iron pot across the floor with a thundering noise; and the Rakshas, who watched the chink of the door very carefully, said to himself, "He has got a great body as well, so I had better go away." But he was still doubtful; so he said, "Before I go away let me hear you scream," for all the tribe of the Rakshas scream dreadfully. Then the Blind Man and the Deaf Man took two of the black ants out of the box, and put one into each of the donkey's ears, and the ants bit the donkey, and the donkey began to bray and to bellow as loud as he could; and then the Rakshas ran away quite frightened. In the morning the Blind Man and the Deaf Man found that the floor of the house was covered with heaps of gold, and silver, and precious stones; and they made four great bundles of the treasure, and took one each, and put the other two on the donkey, and off they went, But the Rakshas was waiting some distance off to see what his father Bakshas was like by daylight; and he was very angry when he saw only a Deaf Man, and a Blind Man, and a big iron pot, and a donkey, all loaded with his gold and silver. So he ran off and fetched six of his friends to help him, and each of the six had hair a yard long, and tusks like an elephant. When the Blind Man and the Deaf Man saw them coming they went and hid the treasure in the bushes, and then they got up into a lofty betel palm and waited--the Deaf Man, because he could see, getting up first, to be furthest out of harm's way. Now the seven Rakshas were not able to reach them, and so they said, "Let us get on each other's shoulders and pull them down." So one Rakshas stooped down, and the second got on his shoulders, and the third on his, and the fourth on his, and the fifth on his, and the sixth on his, and the seventh--the one who had invited the others--was just climbing up, when the Deaf Man got frightened and caught hold of the Blind Man's arm, and as he was sitting quite at ease, not knowing that they were so close, the Blind Man was upset, and tumbled down on the neck of the seventh Rakshas. The Blind Man thought he had fallen into the branches of another tree, and stretching out his hands for something to take hold of, he seized the Rakshas' two great ears and pinched them very hard. This frightened the Rakshas, who lost his balance and fell down to the ground, upsetting the other six of his friends; the Blind Man all the while pinching harder than ever, and the Deaf Man crying out from the top of the tree--"You're all right, brother, hold on tight, I'm coming down to help you"--though he really didn't mean to do anything of the kind. Well, the noise, and the pinching, and all the confusion, so frightened the six Rakshas that they thought they had had enough of helping their friend, and so they ran away; and the seventh Rakshas, thinking that because they ran there must be great danger, shook off the Blind Man and ran away too. And then the Deaf Man came down from the tree and embraced the Blind Man, and said, "I could not have done better myself." Then the Deaf Man divided the treasure; one great heap for himself, and one little heap for the Blind Man. But the Blind Man felt his heap and then felt the other, and then, being angry at the cheat, he gave the Deaf Man a box on the ear, so tremendous that it made the Deaf Man hear. And the Deaf Man, also being angry, gave the other such a blow in the face that it made the Blind Man see. So they became good friends directly, and divided the treasure into equal shares, and went home laughing at the stupid Rakshas. From the legends of India we now go on to Persia and Arabia, to learn something about the Divs and the Peris, and the Jinns. When the ancient Persians separated from the Aryan race from which they sprang, they altered their religion as well as changed their country. They came to believe in two principal gods, Ormuzd, the spirit of goodness, who sits enthroned in the Realms of Light, with great numbers of angels around him; and Ahriman, the spirit of evil, who reigns in the Realms of Darkness and Fire, and round whose throne are the great six arch-Divs, and vast numbers of inferior Divs, or evil beings; and these two powers are always at war with each other, and are always trying to obtain the government of the world. From Ormuzd and Ahriman there came in time, according to popular fancy, the two races of the Divs and the Peris, creatures who were like mankind in some things, but who had great powers of magic; which made them visible and invisible at pleasure, enabled them to change their shapes when they pleased, and to move about on the earth or in the air. They dwelt in the land of Jinnestan, in the mountains of Kaf. These mountains were supposed to go round the earth like a ring; they were thousands of miles in height, and they were made of the precious stone called chrysolite, which is of a green colour, and this colour, so the Persian poets say, is reflected in the green which we sometimes see in the sky at sunset. In this land of Jinnestan there are many cities. The Peris have for their abode the kingdom of Shad-u-Kan, that is, of Pleasure and Delight, with its capital Juber-a-bad, or the Jewel City; and the Divs have for their dwelling Ahermambad, or Ahriman's city, in which there are enchanted castles and palaces, guarded by terrible monsters and powerful magicians. The Peris are very beautiful beings, usually represented as women with wings, and charming robes of all colours. The Divs are painted as demons of the most frightful kind. One of them, a very famous one named Berkhyas, is described as being a mountain in size, his face black, his body covered with hair, his neck like that of a dragon; two boar's tusks proceed from his mouth, his eyes are wells of blood, his hair bristles like needles, and is so thick and long that pigeons make their nests in it. Between the Peris and the Divs there was always war; but the Divs were too powerful for the Peris, and used to capture them and hang them in iron cages from the tree-tops, where their companions came and fed them with perfumes, of which the Peris are very fond, and which the Divs very much dislike, so that the smell kept the evil spirits away. Sometimes the Peris used to call in the help of men against the Divs; and in the older Persian stories there are many tales of the wonders done by these heroes who fought against the Divs. The most famous of these were called Tamuras and Rustem. Tamuras conquered so many of the evil spirits that he was called the Div-binder. He began his fights in this way. He was a great king, whose help both sides wished to get. So the Peris sent a splendid embassy to him, and so did the Divs. Tamuras did not know what to do; so he went to consult a wonderful bird, called the Simurg, who speaks all tongues, and who knows everything that has happened, or that will happen. The Simurg told him to fight for the Peris. Then the Simurg gave him three feathers from her own breast, and also the magic shield of Jan-ibn-Jan, the Suleiman or King of the Jinns, and then she carried him on her back into the country of Jinnestan, where he fought with and conquered the king of the Divs. The account of this battle is given at great length in the Persian romance poems. Then Tamuras conquered another Div, named Demrush, who lived in a gloomy cavern, where he kept in prison the Peri Merjan, or the Pearl, a beautiful fairy, whom Tamuras set free. Rustem, however, is the great hero of Persian romance, and the greatest defender of the Peris. His adventures, as told by the Persian poets, would make a very large book, so that we cannot attempt to describe them. But there are two stories of him which may be told. One night, while he lay sleeping under a rock, a Div, named Asdiv, took the form of a dragon, and came upon him suddenly. Rustem's horse, Reksh, who had magic powers, knew the Div in this disguise, and awakened his master twice, at which Rustem was angry, and tried to kill the horse for disturbing him. Reksh, however, awakened him the third time, and then Rustem saw the Div, and slew him after a fearful combat. The other story is this. There came a wild ass of enormous size, with a skin like the sun, and a black stripe along his back, and this creature got amongst the king's horses and killed them. Now the wild ass was no other than a very powerful Div, named Akvan, who haunted a particular fountain or spring. So Rustem, mounted on his horse Reksh, went to look for him there. Three days he waited, but saw nothing. On the fourth day the Div appeared, and Rustem tried to throw a noose over his head, but the Div suddenly vanished. Then he reappeared, and Rustem shot an arrow at him, but he vanished again. Rustem then turned his horse to graze, and laid himself down by the spring to sleep. This was what the cunning Akvan wanted, and while Rustem was asleep, Akvan seized him, and flew high up into the air with him. Then Rustem awoke, and the Div gave him his choice of being dropped from the sky into the sea, or upon the mountains. Rustem knew that if he fell upon the mountains he would be dashed in pieces, so he secretly chose to fall into the sea; but he did not say so to the Div. On the contrary, he pretended not to know what to do, but he said he feared the sea, because those who were drowned could not enter into Paradise. On hearing this, the Div at once dropped Rustern into the sea--which was what he wanted--and then went back to his fountain. But when he got there, he found that Rustem had got ashore, and was also at the fountain, and then they fought again and the Div was killed. After this Rustem had a son named Zohrab, about whom many wonderful things are told; and it so happened that Rustem and his son Zohrab came to fight each other without knowing one another; and Rustem was killed, and while dying he slew his son. Now all these stories mean the same thing: they are only the old Aryan Sun-myths put into another form by the poets and story-tellers: the Peris are the rays of the sun, or the morning or evening Aurora; the Divs are the black clouds of night; the hero is the sun who conquers them, and binds them in the realms of darkness; and the death of Rustem is the sunset--Zohrab, his son, being either the moon or the rising sun. But now we must leave the Peris and the Divs, and look at the jinns, of the Arabian stories. These also dwell in the mysterious country of Jinnestan, and in the wonderful mountains of Kaf; but they likewise spread themselves all through the earth, and they specially liked to live in ruined houses, or in tombs; on the sea shore, by the banks of rivers, and at the meeting of cross-roads. Sometimes, too, they were found in deep forests, and many travellers are supposed to find them in desolate mountain places. Even to this day they are firmly believed in by Arabs, and also by people in different parts of Persia and India. In outward form, in their natural shape, they resembled the Peris and the Divs of the ancient Persians, and they were divided into good and bad: the good ones very beautiful and shining; the bad ones deformed, black, and ugly, and sometimes as big as giants. They did not, however, always appear in their own forms, for they could take the shape of any animal, especially of serpents, and cats and dogs. They were governed by chief spirits or kings; and over all, good and bad alike, there were set a succession of powerful monarchs, named Suleiman, or Solomon, seventy-two in number--the last of whom, and the greatest, Jan-ibn-Jan, is said by Arabian story-tellers to have built the pyramids of Egypt. There is an old tradition that the shield of Jan-ibn-Jan, which was a talisman of magic power, was brought from Egypt to King Solomon the Wise, the son of King David, and that it gave him power over all the tribes of the Jinns, and this is why, in the common stories about them, the Jinns are made to call upon the name of Solomon. The Jinns, according to Arabian tradition, lived upon the earth thousands of years before man was created. They were made, the Koran says, of "the smokeless fire," that is, the hot breath of the desert wind, Simoon. But they became disobedient, and prophets were sent to warn them. They would not obey the prophets, and angels were then sent to punish them. The angels drove them out of Jinnestan into the islands of the seas, killed some, and shut some of them up in prison. Among the prisoners was a young Jinns, named Iblees, whose name means Despair; and when Adam was created, God commanded the angels and the Jinns to do him reverence, and they all obeyed but Iblees, who was then turned into a Shaitan, or devil, and became the father of all the Shaitan tribe, the mortal enemies of mankind. Since their dispersion the Jinns are not immortal; they are to live longer than man, but they must die before the general resurrection. Some of them are killed by other Jinns, some can be slain by man, and some are destroyed by shooting stars sent from heaven. When they receive a mortal wound, the fire which burns in their veins breaks forth and burns them into ashes. Such are the Arab fancies about the Jinns. The meaning of them is clear, for the Jinns are the winds, derived plainly from the Ribhus and the Maruts of the ancient Aryan myths; and they still survive in European folk-lore in the train of Woden, or the Wild Huntsman, who sweeps at midnight over the German forests. Some of the stories of the Jinns are to be found in the book of the Thousand and One Nights. One of these stories is that of "the Fisherman and the Genie." A poor fisherman, you remember, goes out to cast his nets; but he draws no fish, but only, at the third cast, a vase of yellow copper, sealed with a seal of lead. He cuts open the seal, and then there issues from the vase a thick cloud of smoke, which rises to the sky, and spreads itself over land and sea. Presently the smoke gathers itself together, and becomes a solid body, taking the form of a Genie, twice as big as any of the giants; and the Genie cries out, with a terrible voice, "Solomon, Solomon, great prophet of Allah! Pardon! I will never more oppose thy will, but will obey all thy commands." At first the fisherman is very much frightened; but he grows bolder, and tells the Genie that Solomon has been dead these eighteen hundred years, to which the Genie answers that he means to kill the fisherman, and tells him why. I told you just now that the Jinns rebelled, and were punished. The Genie tells the fisherman that he is one of these rebellious spirits, that he was taken prisoner, and brought up for judgment before Solomon himself, and that Solomon confined him in the copper vase, and ordered him to be thrown into the sea, and that upon the leaden cover of the vase he put the impression of the royal seal, upon which the name of God is engraved. When he was thrown into the sea the Genie made three vows--each in a period of a hundred years. I swore, he says, that "if any man delivered me within the first hundred years, I would make him rich, even after his death. In the second hundred years I swore that if any one set me free I would discover to him all the treasures of the earth; still no help came. In the third period, I swore to make my deliverer a most powerful monarch, to be always at his command, and to grant him every day any three requests he chose to make. Then, being still a prisoner, I swore that I would without mercy kill any man who set me free, and that the only favour I would grant him should be the manner of his death." And so the Genie proposed to kill the fisherman. Now the fisherman did not like the idea of being killed; and he and the Genie had a long discourse about it; but the Genie would have his own way, and the poor fisherman was going to be killed, when he thought of a trick he might play upon the Genie. He knew two things--first that the Jinns are obliged to answer questions put to them in the name of Allah, or God; and also that though very powerful, they are very stupid, and do not see when they are being led into a pitfall. So he said, "I consent to die; but before I choose the manner of my death, I conjure thee, by the great name of Allah, which is graven upon the seal of the prophet Solomon, the son of David, to answer me truly a question I am going to put to thee." Then the Genie trembled, and said, "Ask, but make haste." Now when he knew that the Genie would speak the truth, the Fisherman said, "Darest thou swear by the great name of Allah that thou really wert in that vase?" "I swear it, by the great name of Allah," said the Genie. But the Fisherman said he would not believe it, unless he saw it with his own eyes. Then, being too stupid to perceive the meaning of the Fisherman, the Genie fell into the trap. Immediately the form of the Genie began to change into smoke, and to spread itself as before over the shore and the sea, and then gathering itself together, it began to enter the vase, and continued to do so, with a slow and even motion, until nothing remained outside. Then, out of the vase there issued the voice of the Genie, saying, "Now, thou unbeliever, art thou convinced that I am in the vase?" But instead of answering, the Fisherman quickly took up the leaden cover, and put it on the vase; and then he cried out, "O, Genie! it is now thy turn to ask pardon, and to choose the sort of death thou wilt have; or I will again cast thee into the sea, and I will build upon the shore a house where I will live, to warn all fishermen against a Genie so wicked as thou art." At this the Genie was very angry. First he tried to get out of the vase; but the seal of Solomon kept him fast shut up. Then he pretended that he was but making a jest of the Fisherman when he threatened to kill him. Then he begged and prayed to be released; but the Fisherman only mocked him. Next he promised that if set at liberty, he would make the Fisherman rich. To this the Fisherman replied by telling him a long story of how a physician who cured a king was murdered instead of being rewarded, and of how he revenged himself. And then he preached a little sermon to the Genie on the sin of ingratitude, which only caused the Genie to cry out all the more to be set free. But still the Fisherman would not consent, and so to induce him the Genie offered to tell him a story, to which the Fisherman was quite ready to listen; but the Genie said, "Dost thou think I am in the humour, shut up in this narrow prison, to tell stories? I will tell thee as many as thou wilt if thou wilt let me out." But the Fisherman only answered, "No, I will cast thee into the sea." At last they struck a bargain, the Genie swearing by Allah that he would make the Fisherman rich, and then the Fisherman cut the seal again, and the Genie came out of the vase. The first thing he did when he got out was to kick the vase into the sea, which frightened the Fisherman, who began to beg and pray for his life. But the Genie kept his word; and took him past the city, over a mountain and over a vast plain, to a little lake between four hills, where he caught four little fish, of different colours--white, red, blue, and yellow--which the Genie bade him carry to the Sultan, who would give him more money than he had ever seen in his life. And then, the story says, he struck his foot against the ground, which opened, and he disappeared, the earth closing over him. Another story is that of the Genie Maimoun, the son of Dimdim, who took prisoner a young Prince, and conveyed him to an enchanted palace, and changed him into the form of an ape, and the ape got on board a ship, and was carried to the country of a great Sultan, and when the Sultan heard that there was an ape who could write beautiful poems, he sent for him to the palace, and they had dinner together, and they played at chess afterwards, the ape behaving in all respects like a man, excepting that he could not speak. Then the Sultan sent for his daughter, the Queen of Beauty, to see this great wonder. But when the Queen of Beauty came into the room she was very angry with her father for showing her to a man, for the Princess was a great magician, and thus she knew that it was a man turned into an ape, and she told her father that the change had been made by a powerful Genie, the son of the daughter of Eblis. So the Sultan ordered the Queen of Beauty to disenchant the Prince, and then she should have him for her husband. On this the Queen of Beauty went to her chamber, and came back with a knife, with Hebrew characters engraved upon the blade. And then she went into the middle of the court and drew a large circle in it, and in the centre she traced several words in Arabic letters, and others in Egyptian letters. Then putting herself in the middle of the circle, she repeated several verses of the Koran. By degrees the air was darkened, as if night were coming on, and the whole world seemed to be vanishing. And in the midst of the darkness the Genie, the son of the daughter of Eblis, appeared in the shape of a huge, terrible lion, which ran at the Princess as if to devour her. But she sprang back, and plucked out a hair from her head, and then, pronouncing two or three words, she changed the hair into a sharp scythe, and with the scythe she cut the lion into two pieces through the middle. The body of the lion now vanished, and only the head remained. This changed itself into a large scorpion. The Princess changed herself into a serpent and attacked the scorpion, which then changed into an eagle, and flew away; and the serpent changed itself into a fierce black eagle, larger and more powerful and flew after it. Soon after the eagles had vanished the earth opened, and a great black and white cat appeared, mewing and crying out terribly, and with its hairs standing straight on end. A black wolf followed the cat, and attacked it. Then the cat changed into a worm, which buried itself in a pomegranate that had fallen from a tree over-hanging the tank in the court, and the pomegranate began to swell until it became as large as a gourd, which then rose into the air, rolled backwards and forwards several times, and then fell into the court and broke into a thousand pieces. The wolf now transformed itself into a cock, and ran as fast as possible, and ate up the pomegranate seeds. But one of them fell into the tank and changed into a little fish. On this the cock changed itself into a pike, darted into the water, and pursued the little fish. Then comes the end of the story, which is told by the Prince transformed into the Ape:--"They were both hid hours under water, and we knew not what was become of them, when suddenly we heard horrible cries that made us tremble. Then we saw the Princess and the Genie all on fire. They darted flames against each other with their breath, and at last came to a close attack. Then the fire increased, and all was hidden in smoke and cloud, which rose to a great height. We had other cause for terror. The Genie, breaking away from the Princess, came towards us, and blew his flames all over us." The Princess followed him; but she could not prevent the Sultan from having his beard singed and his face scorched; a spark flew into the right eye of the Ape-Prince and blinded him, and the chief of the eunuchs was killed on the spot. Then they heard the cry of "Victory! victory!" and the Princess appeared in her own form, and the Genie was reduced to a heap of ashes. Unhappily the Princess herself was also fatally hurt. If she had swallowed all the pomegranate seeds she would have conquered the Genie without harm to herself; but one seed being lost, she was obliged to fight with flames between earth and heaven, and she had only just time enough to disenchant the ape and to turn him back again into his human form, when she, too, fell to the earth, burnt to ashes. This story is repeated in various forms in the Fairy Tales of other lands. The hair which the Princess changed into a scythe is like the sword of sharpness which appears in Scandinavian legends and in the tale of Jack the Giant Killer; the transformation of the magician reminds us of the changes of the Ogre in Puss in Boots; and the death of the Princess by fire because she failed to eat up the last of the pomegranate seeds, brings to mind the Greek myth of Persephone, who ate pomegranate seeds, and so fell into the power of Aidoneus, the God of the lower regions, and was carried down into Hades to live with him as his wife; and in many German and Russian tales are to be found incidents like those of the terrible battle between the Princess and the Genie Maimoun. CHAPTER IV.--DWELLERS IN FAIRYLAND: TEUTONIC, AND SCANDINAVIAN. Now we come to an entirely new region, in which, however, we find, under other forms, the same creatures which have already been described. From the sunny East we pass to the cold and frozen North. Here the Scandinavian countries--Norway, Sweden, and Denmark--are wonderfully rich in dwarfs, and giants, and trolls, and necks, and nisses, and other inhabitants of Fairyland; and with these we must also class the Teutonic beings of the same kind; and likewise the fairy creatures who were once supposed to dwell in our islands. The Elves of Scandinavia, with whom our own Fairies are closely allied, were a very interesting people. They were of two kinds, the White and the Black. The white elves dwelt in the air, amongst the leaves of trees, and in the long grass, and at moonlight they came out from their lurking-places, and danced merrily on the greensward, and played all manner of fantastic tricks. The black elves lived underground, and, like the dwarfs, worked in metals, and heaped up great stores of riches. When they came out amongst men they were often of a malicious turn of mind; they caused sickness or death, stole things from the houses, bewitched the cattle, and did a great deal of mischief in all ways. The good elves were not only friendly to man, but they had a great desire to get to heaven; and in the summer nights they were heard singing sweetly but sadly about themselves, and their hopes of future happiness; and there are many stories of their having spoken to mortals, to ask what hope or chance they had of salvation. This feeling is believed to have come from the sympathy felt by the first converts to Christianity with their heathen forefathers, whose spirits were supposed by them to wander about, in the air or in the woods, or to sigh within their graves, waiting for the day of judgment. In one place there is a story that on a hill at Garun people used to hear very beautiful music. This was played by the elves, or hill folk, and any one who had a fiddle, and went there, and promised the elves that they should be saved, was taught in a moment how to play; but those who mocked them, and told them they could never be saved, used to hear the poor elves, inside the hill, breaking their fairy fiddles into pieces, and weeping very sadly. There is a particular tune they play, called the Elf-King's tune, which, the story-tellers say, some good fiddlers know very well, but never venture to play, because everybody who hears it is obliged to dance, and to go on dancing till somebody comes behind the musician and cuts the fiddle-strings; and out of this tradition we have the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Some of the underground elves come up into the houses built above their dwellings, and are fond of playing tricks upon servants; but they like only those who are clean in their habits, and they do not like even these to laugh at them. There is a story of a servant-girl whom the elves liked very much, because she used to carry all dirt and foul water away from the house, and so they invited her to an Elf Wedding, at which they made her a present of some chips, which she put into her pocket. But when the bridegroom and the bride were coming home there was a straw lying in their way. The bridegroom got over it; but the bride stumbled, and fell upon her face. At this the servant-girl laughed out loud, and then all the elves vanished, but she found that the chips they had given her were pieces of pure gold. At Odensee another servant was not so fortunate. She was very dirty, and would not clean the cow-house for them; so they killed all the cows, and took the girl and set her up on the top of a hay-rick. Then they removed from the cow-house into a meadow on the farm; and some people say that they were seen going there in little coaches, their king riding first, in a coach much handsomer than the rest. Amongst the Danes there is another kind of elves--the Moon Folk. The man is like an old man with a low-crowned hat upon his head; the woman is very beautiful in front, but behind she is hollow, like a dough-trough, and she has a sort of harp on which she plays, and lures young men with it, and then kills them. The man is also an evil being, for if any one comes near him he opens his mouth and breathes upon them, and his breath causes sickness. It is easy to see what this tradition means: it is the damp marsh wind, laden with foul and dangerous odours; and the woman's harp is the wind playing across the marsh rushes at nightfall. Sometimes these elves take the shape of trees, which brings back to mind the Greek fairy tales of nymphs who live and die with the trees to which they are united. These Scandinavian elves were like beings of the same kind who were once supposed to live in England, Ireland, and Scotland, and who are still believed in by some country people. Scattered about in the traditions which have been brought together at different times are many stories of these fanciful beings. One story is of some children of a green colour who were found in Suffolk, and who said they had lived in a country where all the people were of a green colour, and where they saw no sun, but had a light like the glow which comes after sunset. They said, also, that while tending their flocks they wandered into a great cavern, and heard the sound of delightful bells, which they followed, and so came out upon the upper world of the earth. There is a Yorkshire legend of a peasant coming home by night, and hearing the voices of people singing. The noise came from a hill-side, where there was a door, and inside was a great company of little people, feasting. One of them offered the man a cup, out of which he poured the liquor, and then ran off with the cup, and got safe away. A similar story is told also of a place in Gloucestershire, and of another in Cumberland, where the cup is called "the Luck of Edenhall," as the owners of it are to be always prosperous, so long as the cup remains unbroken. Such stories as this are common in the countries of the North of Europe, and show the connection between our Elf-land and theirs. The Pixies, or the Devonshire fairies, are just like the northern elves. The popular idea of them is that they are small creatures--pigmies--dressed in green, and are fond of dancing. Some of them live in the mines, where they show the miners the richest veins of metal just like the German dwarfs; others live on the moors, or under the shelter of rocks; others take up their abode in houses, and, like the Danish and Swedish elves, are very cross if the maids do not keep the places clean and tidy others, like the will-o'-the-wisps, lead travellers astray, and then laugh at them. The Pixies are said to be very fond of pure water. There is a story of two servant-maids at Tavistock who used to leave them a bucket of water, into which the Pixies dropped silver pennies. Once it was forgotten, and the Pixies came up into the girls' bedroom, and made a noise about the neglect. One girl got up and went to put the water in its usual place, but the other said she would not stir out of bed to please all the fairies in Devonshire. The girl who filled the water-bucket found a handful of silver pennies in it next morning, and she heard the Pixies debating what to do with the other girl. At last they said they would give her a lame leg for seven years, and that then they would cure her by striking her leg with a herb growing on Dartmoor. So next day Molly found herself lame, and kept so for seven years, when, as she was picking mushrooms on Dartmoor, a strange-looking boy started up, struck her leg with a plant he held in his hand, and sent her home sound again. There is another story of the Pixies which is very beautiful. An old woman near Tavistock had in her garden a fine bed of tulips, of which the Pixies became very fond, and might be heard at midnight singing their babes to rest amongst them; and as the old woman would never let any of the tulips be plucked, the Pixies had them all to themselves, and made them smell like the rose, and bloom more beautifully than any flowers in the place. Well, the old woman died, and the tulip-bed was pulled up and a parsley-bed made in its place. But the Pixies blighted it, and nothing grew in it; but they kept the grave of the old woman quite green, never suffered a weed to grow upon it, and in spring-time they always spangled it with wild-flowers. All over the country, in the far North as in the South, we find traces of elfin beings like the Pixies--the fairies of the common traditions and of the poets--some such fairies as Shakspeare describes for us in several of his plays, especially in "Midsummer-Night's Dream," "The Merry Wives of Windsor," "The Tempest," and "Romeo and Juliet"--fairies who gambol sportively. "On hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain, or by rushing brook, Or by the beached margent of the sea, To dance their ringlets to the whistling wind." But the Fairy tribe were not the only graceful elves described by the poets. The Germans had their Kobolds, and the Scotch their Brownies, and the English had their Boggarts and Robin Goodfellow and Lubberkin--all of them beings of the same description: house and farm spirits, who liked to live amongst men, and who sometimes did hard, rough work out of good-nature, and sometimes were spiteful and mischievous, especially to those who teased them, or spoke of them disrespectfully, or tried to see them when they did not wish to be seen. To the same family belongs the Danish Nis, a house spirit of whom many curious legends are related. Robin Goodfellow was the original of Shakspeare's Puck: his frolics are related for us in "The Midsummer Night's Dream," where a hairy says to him-- "You are that shrewd and knavish sprite Called Robin Goodfellow. Are you not he That frights the maidens of the villagery, Skims milk, and sometimes labours in the quern, And bootless makes the breathless housewife churn; And sometimes makes the drink to bear no harm, Misleads night wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hob-Goblin call you, and sweet Puck; You do their work, and they shall have good luck." In the "Jests of Robin Goodfellow," first printed in Queen Elizabeth's reign, the tricks which this creature is said to have played are told in plenty. Here is one of them:--Robin went as fiddler to a wedding. When the candles came he blew them out, and giving the men boxes on the ears he set them fighting. He kissed the prettiest girls, and pinched the ugly ones, till he made them scratch one another like cats. When the posset was brought he turned himself into a bear, frightened them all away, and had it all to himself. The Boggart was another form of Robin Goodfellow. Stories of him are to be found amongst Yorkshire legends, as of a creature--always invisible--who played tricks upon the people in the houses in which he lived: shaking the bed-curtains, rattling the doors, whistling through the keyholes, snatching away the bread-and-butter from the children, playing pranks upon the servants, and doing all kinds of mischief. There is a story of a Yorkshire boggart who teased the family so much that the farmer made up his mind to leave the house. So he packed up his goods and began to move off. Then a neighbour came up, and said, "So, Georgey, you're leaving the old house?" "Yes," said the farmer, "the boggart torments us so that we must go." Then a voice came out of a churn, saying, "Ay, ay, Georgey, _we're_ flitting, ye see." "Oh!" cried the poor farmer, "if thou'rt with us we'll go back again;" and he went back.--Mr. Tennyson puts this story into his poem of "Walking to the Mail." "His house, they say, Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, And rummaged like a rat: no servant stayed: The farmer, vext, packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff, and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, 'What! You're flitting!' 'Yes, we're flitting,' says the ghost (For they had packed the thing among the beds). 'Oh, well,' says he, 'you flitting with us, too; Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again.'" The same story is told in Denmark, of a Nis--which is the same as an English boggart, a Scotch brownie, and a German kobold--who troubled a man very much, so that he took away his goods to a new house. All but the last load had gone, and when they came for that, the Nis popped his head out of a tub, and said to the man, "We're moving, you see." The Brownies, though mischievous, like the Boggarts, were more helpful, for they did a good deal of house-work; and would bake, and brew, and wash, and sweep, but they would never let themselves be seen; or if any one did manage to see them, or tried to do so, they went away. There are stories of this kind about them in English folk-lore, in Scotch, Welsh, in the Isle of Man, and in Germany, where they were called Kobolds. One Kobold, of whom many accounts are given, lived in the castle of Hudemuhler, in Luneberg, and used to talk with the people of the house, and with visitors, and ate and drank at table, just like Leander in the story of "The Invisible Prince;" and he used also to scour the pots and pans, wash the dishes, and clean the tubs, and he was useful, too, in the stable, where he curried the horses, and made them quite fat and smooth. In return for this he had a room to himself, where he made a straw-plaited chair, and had a little round table, and a bed and bedstead, and, where he expected every day to find a dish of sweetened milk, with bread crumbs; and if he did not get served in time, or if anything went wrong, he used to beat the servants with a stick. This Kobold was named Heinzelman, and in Grimm's collection of folklore there is a long history of him drawn up by the minister of the parish. Another Kobold, named Hodeken, who lived with the Bishop of Hildesheim, was usually of a kind and obliging turn of mind, but he revenged himself on those who offended him. A scullion in the bishop's kitchen flung dirt upon him, and Hodeken found him fast asleep and strangled him, and put him in the pot on the fire. Then the head cook scolded Hodeken, who in revenge squeezed toads all over the meat that was being cooked for the bishop, and then took the cook himself and tumbled him over the drawbridge into the moat. Then the bishop got angry, and took bell, and book, and candle, and banished Hodeken by the form of exorcism provided for evil spirits. Now there are a great many other kinds of creatures in the Wonderland of all European countries; but I must not stop to tell you about them or we shall never have done. But there is one little story of the Danish Nis--who answers to the German Kobold--which I may tell you, because it is like the story of Hodeken which you have just read, and shows that the creatures were of the same kind. There was a Nis in Jutland who was very much teased by a mischievous boy. When the Nis had done his work he sat down to have his supper, and he found that the boy had been playing tricks with his porridge and made it unpleasant. So he made up his mind to be revenged, and he did it in this way. The boy slept with a servant-man in the loft. The Nis went up to them and took off the bed-clothes. Then, looking at the little boy lying beside the tall man, he said, "Long and short don't match," and he took the boy by the legs and pulled him down to the man's legs. This was not to his mind, however, so he went to the head of the bed and looked at them, Then said the Nis--"Short and long don't match," and he pulled the boy up again; and so he went on all through the night, up and down, down and up, till the boy was punished enough. Another Nis in Jutland went with a boy to steal corn for his master's horses. The Nis was moderate, but the boy was covetous, and said, "Oh, take more; we can rest now and then!" "Rest," said the Nis, "rest! what is rest?" "Do what I tell you," replied the boy; "take more, and we shall find rest when we get out of this." So they took more corn, and when they had got nearly home the boy said, "Here now is rest;" and so they sat down on a hill-side. "If I had known," said the Nis, as they were sitting there, "if I had known that rest was so good I'd have carried off all that was in the barn." Now we must leave out much more that might be said, and many stories that might be told, about elves, and fairies, and nixes, or water spirits, and swan maidens who become women when they lay aside their swan dresses to bathe; and mermaids and seal maidens, who used to live in the islands of the North seas. And we must leave out also a number of curious Scotch tales and accounts of Welsh fairies, and stories about the good people of the Irish legends, and the Leprechaun, a little old man who mends shoes, and who gives you as much gold as you want if you hold him tight enough; and there are wonderful fairy legends of Brittany, and some of Spain and Italy, and a great many Russian and Slavonic tales which are well worth telling, if we only had room. For the same reason we must omit the fairy tales of ancient Greece, some of which are told so beautifully by Mr. Kingsley in his book about the Heroes; and we must also pass by the legends of King Arthur, and of romances of the same kind which you may read at length in Mr. Ludlow's "Popular Epics of the Middle Ages;" and the wonderful tales from the Norse which are told by Dr. Dasent, and in Mr. Morris's noble poem of "Sigurd the Volsung." But before we leave this part of Wonderland we must say something about some kinds of beings who have not yet been mentioned--the Scandinavian Giants and Trolls, and the German Dwarfs. The Trolls--some of whom were Giants and some Dwarfs--were a very curious people. They lived inside hills or mounds of earth, sometimes alone, and sometimes in great numbers. Inside these hills, according to the stories of the common folk, are fine houses made of gold and crystal, full of gold and jewels, which the Trolls amuse themselves by counting. They marry and have families; they bake and brew, and live just like human beings; and they do not object, sometimes, to come out and talk to men and women whom they happen to meet on the road. They are described as being friendly, and quite ready to help those to whom they take a fancy--lending them useful or precious things out of the hill treasures, and giving them rich gifts. But, to balance this, they are very mischievous and thievish, and sometimes they carry off women and children. They dislike noise. This, so the old stories say, is because the god Thor used to fling his hammer at them; and since he left off doing that the Trolls have suffered a great deal from the ringing of church bells, which they very much dislike. There are many stories about this. At a place called Ebeltoft the Trolls used to come and steal food out of the pantries. The people consulted a Saint as to what they were to do, and he told them to hang up a bell in the church steeple, which they did, and then the Trolls went away. There is another story of the same kind. A Troll lived near the town of Kund, in Sweden, but was driven away by the church bells. Then he went over to the island of Funen and lived in peace. But he meant to be revenged on the people of Kund, and he tried to take his revenge in this way: He met a man from Kund--a stranger, who did not know him--and asked the man to take a letter into the town and to throw it into the churchyard, but he was not to take it out of his pocket until he got there. The man received the letter, but forgot the message, until he sat down in a meadow to rest, and then he took out the letter to look at it. When he did so, a drop of water fell from under the seal, then a little stream, and then quite a torrent, till all the valley was flooded, and the man had hard work to escape. The Troll had shut up a lake in the letter, and with this he meant to drown the people of Kund. Some of the Trolls are very stupid, and there are many stories as to how they have been outwitted. One of them is very droll. A farmer ploughed a hill-side field. Out came a Troll and said, "What do you mean by ploughing up the roof of my house?" Then the farmer, being frightened, begged his pardon, but said it was a pity such a fine piece of land should lie idle. The Troll agreed to this, and then they struck a bargain that the farmer should till the land and that each of them should share the crops. One year the Troll was to have, for his share, what grew above ground, and the next year what grew underground. So in the first year the farmer sowed carrots, and the Troll had the tops; and the next year the farmer sowed wheat, and the Troll had the roots; and the story says he was very well content. We can give only one more story of the Trolls. They have power over human beings until their names are found out, and when the Troll's name is mentioned his power goes from him. One day St. Olaf, a very great Saint, was thinking how he could build a very large church without any money, and he didn't quite see his way to it. Then a Giant Troll met him and they chatted together, and St. Olaf mentioned his difficulty. So the Troll said he would build the church, within a year, on condition that if it was done in the time he should have for his reward the sun, and the moon, or St. Olaf himself. The church was to be so big that seven priests could say mass at seven altars in it without hearing each other; and it was all to be built of flint stone and to be richly carved. When the time was nearly up the church was finished, all but the top of the spire; and St. Olaf was in sad trouble about his promise. So he walked out into a wood to think, and there he heard the Troll's wife hushing her child inside a hill, and saying to it, "To-morrow, Wind and Weather, your father, will come home in the morning, and bring with him the sun and the moon, or St. Olaf himself." Then St. Olaf knew what to do. He went home, and there was the church, all ready except the very top of the weather-cock, and the Troll was just putting the finishing-touch to that. Then St. Olaf called out to him, "Oh! ho! Wind and Weather, you have set the spire crooked!" And then, with a great noise, the Troll fell down from the steeple and broke into pieces, and every piece was a flint-stone. The same thing is told in the German story of Rumpelstiltskin. A maiden is ordered by a King to spin a roomful of straw into gold, or else she is to die. A Dwarf appears, she promises him her necklace, and he does the task for her. Next day she has to spin a larger roomful of straw into gold. She gives the Dwarf the ring off her finger, and he does this task also. Next day she is set to work at a larger room, and then, when the Dwarf comes, she has nothing to give him. Then he says, "If you become Queen, give me your first-born child." Now the girl is only a miller's daughter, and thinks she never can be Queen, so she makes the promise, and the Dwarf spins the straw into gold. But she does become Queen, for the King marries her because of the gold; and she forgets the Dwarf, and is very happy, especially when her little baby comes. Directly it is born the Dwarf appears also, and claims the child, because it was promised to him. The Queen offers him anything he likes besides; but he will have that, and that only. Then she cries and prays, and the Dwarf says that if she can tell him his name she may keep the baby; and he feels quite safe in saying this, because nobody knows his name, only himself. So the Queen calls him by all kinds of strange names, but none of them is the right one. Then she begs for three days to find out the name, and sends people everywhere to see if they can hear it. But all of them come back, unable to find any name that is likely, excepting one, who says, "I have not found a name, but as I came to a high mountain near the edge of a forest, where the foxes and the hares say 'good-night' to each other, I saw a little house, and before the door a fire was burning, and round the fire a little man was dancing on one leg, and singing:-- "To-day I stew, and then I'll bake, To-morrow shall I the Queen's child take. How glad I am that nobody knows That my name is Rumpelstiltskin." Then the Dwarf came again, and the Queen said to him, "Is your name Hans?" "No," said the Dwarf, with an ugly leer, and he held out his hands for the baby. "Is it Conrade?" asked the Queen. "No," cried the Dwarf, "give me the child." "Then," said the Queen, "is it Rumpelstiltskin?" "A witch has told you that!" cried the Dwarf; and then he stamped his right foot so hard upon the ground that it sank quite in, and he could not draw it out again. Then he took hold of his left leg with both his hands and pulled so hard that his right leg came off, and he hopped away howling, and nobody ever saw him again. The Giant in the story of St. Olaf, as we have seen, was a rather stupid giant, and easily tricked; and indeed most of the giants seem to have been dull people, from the great Greek Kyklops, Polyphemos the One-Eyed, downwards to the ogres in Puss in Boots, and Jack and the Bean Stalk, and the giants in Jack the Giant Killer. The old northern giants were no wiser. There was one in the island of Rugen, a very mighty giant, named Balderich. He wanted to go from his island, dry-footed, to the mainland. So he got a great apron made, and filled it with earth, and set off to make a causeway from Rugen to Pomerania. But there was a hole in the apron, and the clay that fell out formed a chain of nine hills. The giant stopped the hole and went on, but another hole tore in the apron, and thirteen more hills fell out. Then he got to the sea-side, and poured the rest of the load into the water; but it didn't quite reach the mainland, which made giant Balderich so angry that he fell down and died; and so his work has never been finished. But a giant maiden thought she would try to make another causeway from the mainland to an island, so that she might not wet her slippers in going over. So she filled her apron with sand, and ran down to the sea-side. But a hole came in the apron, and the sand which ran out formed a hill at Sagard. The giant maiden said, "Ah! now my mother will scold me!" Then she stopped the hole with her hand and ran on again. But the giant mother looked over the wood, and cried, "You nasty child! what are you about? Come here, and you'll get a good whipping." The daughter in a fright let go her apron, and all the sand ran out, and made the barren hills near Litzow, which the white and brown dwarfs took for their dwelling-place. There are many other stories of the same kind. One of them tells of a Troll Giant who wanted to punish a farmer; so he filled one of his gloves with sand, and poured it out over the farmer's house, which it quite covered up; and with what was left in the fingers he made a row of little sand hillocks to mark the spot. The Giants had their day, and died out, and their places were taken by the Dwarfs. Some of the most wonderful dwarf stories are those which are told in the island of Rugen, in the Baltic Sea. These stories are of three kinds of dwarfs: the White, and the Brown, and the Black, who live in the sand-hills. The white dwarfs, in the spring and summer, dance and frolic all their time in sunshine and starlight, and climb up into the flowers and trees, and sit amongst the leaves and blossoms, and sometimes they take the form of bright little birds, or white doves, or butterflies, and are very kind to good people. In the winter, when the snow falls, they go underground, and spend their time in making the most beautiful ornaments of silver and gold. The brown dwarfs are stronger and rougher than the white; they wear little brown coats and brown caps, and when they dance--which they are fond of doing--they wear little glass shoes; and in dress and appearance they are very handsome. Their disposition is good, with one exception--that they carry off children into their underground dwellings; and those who go there have to serve them for fifty years. They can change themselves into any shape, and can go through key-holes, so that they enter any house they please, and sometimes they bring gifts for the children, like the good Santa Klaus in the German stories; but they also play sad tricks, and frighten people with bad dreams. Like the white dwarfs, the brown ones work in gold and silver, and the gifts they bring are of their own workmanship. The black dwarfs are very bad people, and are ugly in looks and malicious in temper; they never dance or sing, but keep underground, or, when they come up, they sit in the elder-trees, and screech horribly like owls, or mew like cats. They, too, are great metal-workers, especially in steel; and in old days they used to make arms and armour for the gods and heroes: shirts of mail as fine as cobwebs, yet so strong that no sword could go through them; and swords that would bend like rushes, and yet were as hard as diamonds, and would cut through any helmet, however thick. So long as they keep their caps on their heads the dwarfs are invisible; but if any one can get possession of a dwarf's cap he can see them, and becomes their master. This is the foundation of one of the best of the dwarf stories--the story of John Dietrich, who went out to the sandhills at Ramfin, in the isle of Rugen, on the eve of St. John, a very, very long time ago, and managed to strike off the cap from the head of one of the brown dwarfs, and went down with them into their underground dwelling-place. This was quite a little town, where the rooms were decorated with diamonds and rubies, and the dwarf people had gold and silver and crystal table-services, and there were artificial birds that flew about like real ones, and the most beautiful flowers and fruits; and the dwarfs, who were thousands in number, had great feasts, where the tables, ready spread, came up through the floor, and cleared themselves away at the ringing of a bell, and left the rooms free for dancing to the strains of the loveliest music. And in the city there were fields and gardens, and lakes and rivers; and instead of the sun and the moon to give light, there were large carbuncles and diamonds which supplied all that was wanted. John Dietrich, who was very well treated, liked it very much, all but one thing--which was that the servants who waited upon the dwarfs were earth children, whom they had stolen and carried underground; and amongst them was Elizabeth Krabbin, once a playmate of his own, and who was a lovely girl, with clear blue eyes and ringlets of fair hair. John Dietrich of course fell in love with Elizabeth, and determined to get her out of the dwarf people's hands, and with her all the earth children they held captive. And when he had been ten years underground, and he and Elizabeth were grown up, he demanded leave to depart, and to take Elizabeth. But the dwarfs, though they could not hinder him from going, would not let her go, and no threats or entreaties could move them. Then John Dietrich remembered that the little people cannot bear an evil smell; and one day he happened to break a large stone, out of which jumped a toad, which gave him power to do what he pleased with the dwarfs, for the sight or smell of a toad causes them pain beyond all bearing. So he sent for the chiefs of the dwarfs, and bade them let Elizabeth go. But they refused; and then he went and fetched the toad. Then the story goes on in this way:-- "He was hardly come within a hundred paces of them when they all fell to the ground as if struck with a thunderbolt, and began to howl and whimper, and to writhe as if suffering the most excruciating pain. The dwarfs stretched out their hands, and cried, 'Have mercy, have mercy! we feel that you have a toad, and there is no escape for us. Take the odious beast away, and we will do all you require.' He let them kneel a few seconds longer, and then took the toad away. They then stood up, and felt no more pain. John let all depart but the six chief persons, to whom he said, 'This night, between twelve and one, Elizabeth and I will depart, Load for me three waggons with gold, silver, and precious stones. I might, you know, take all that is in the hill; but I will be merciful. Further, you must put into two waggons all the furniture of my chamber (which was covered with emeralds and other precious stones, and in the ceiling was a diamond as big as a nine-pin bowl), and get ready for me the handsomest travelling carriage that is in the hill, with six black horses. Moreover, you must set at liberty all the servants who have been so long here that on earth they would be twenty years old and upwards, and you must give them as much silver and gold as will make them rich for life; and you must make a law that no one shall be kept here longer than his twentieth year.' "The six took the oath, and went away quite melancholy, and John buried his toad deep in the ground. The little people laboured hard and prepared everything, and at midnight John and Elizabeth, and their companions, and all their treasures, were drawn up out of the hill. It was then one o'clock, and it was midsummer--the very time that, twelve years before, John had gone down into the hill. Music sounded around them, and they saw the glass hill open, and the rays of the light of heaven shine on them after so many years; and when they got out they saw the first streaks of dawn already in the East. Crowds of the underground people were around them, busied about the waggons. John bid them a last farewell, waved his brown cap in the air, and then flung it among them. And at the same moment he ceased to see them; he beheld nothing but a green hill, and the well-known bushes and fields, and heard the church clock of Ramfin strike two. When all was still, save a few larks, who were tuning their morning song, they all fell upon their knees and worshipped God, resolving henceforth to lead a pious and Christian life." And then John married Elizabeth, and was made a count, and built several churches, and presented to them some of the precious cups and plates made by the underground people, and kept his own and Elizabeth's glass shoes, in memory of what had befallen them in their youth. "And they were all taken away," the story says, "in the time of the great Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, when the Russians came on the island, and the Cossacks plundered even the churches, and took away everything." Now there is much more to be told about the dwarfs, if only we had space--how there were thousands of them in German lands, in the Saxon mines, and the Black Forest, and the Harz mountains and in other places, and in Switzerland, and indeed everywhere almost--how they gave gifts to good men, and borrowed of them, and paid honestly; how they punished those who injured them; how they moved about from country to country; how they helped great kings and nobles, and showed themselves to wandering travellers and to simple country folk. But all this must be left for you to read for yourselves in Grimm's stories, and in the legends of northern lands, and in many collections of ancient poems, and romances, and popular tales. And in these, and in other books which deal with such subjects, you will find out that all these dwellers in Wonderland, and the tales that are told about them, and the stories of the gods and heroes, all come from the one source of which we read something in the first chapter--the tradition's of the ancient Aryan people, from whom all of us have sprung--and how they all mean the same things; the conflict between light and darkness, the succession of day and night, the changes of the seasons, the blue and bright summer skies, the rain-clouds, the storm-winds, the thunder and the lightning, and all the varied and infinite forms of Nature in her moods of calm and storm, peace and tempest, brightness and gloom, sweet and pleasant and hopeful life and stern and cold death, which causes all brightness to fade and moulder away. CHAPTER V.--DWELLERS IN FAIRYLAND: WEST HIGHLAND STORIES. In a very delightful book which has already been mentioned, Campbell's "Popular Tales of the West Highlands," there are many curious stories of fairy folk and other creatures of the like kind, described in the traditions of the west of Scotland, and which are still believed in by many of the country people. There are Brownies, for instance, the farm spirits. One of these, so the story goes, inhabited the island of Inch, and looked after the cattle of the Mac Dougalls; but if the dairymaid neglected to leave a portion of milk for him at night, one of the cattle would be sure to fall over the rocks. Another kind of Brownie, called the Bocan, haunted a place called Moran, opposite the Isle of Skye, and protected the family of the Macdonalds of Moran, but was very savage to other people, whom he beat or killed. At last Big John, the son of M'Leod of Raasay, went and fought the creature in the dark, and tucked him under his arm, to carry him to the nearest light and see what he was like. But the Brownies hate to be seen, and this one begged hard to be let off, promising that he would never come back. So Big John let him off, and he flew away singing:-- "Far from me is the hill of Ben Hederin; Far from me is the Pass of Murmuring;" and the common story says that the tune is still remembered and sung by the people of that country. It is also told of a farmer, named Callum Mohr MacIntosh, near Loch Traig, in Lochaber, that he had a fight with a Bocan, and in the fight he lost a charmed handkerchief. When he went back to get it again, he found the Bocan rubbing the handkerchief hard on a flat stone, and the Bocan said, "It is well for you that you are back, for if I had rubbed a hole in this you were a dead man." This Bocan became very friendly with MacIntosh, and used to bring him peats for fire in the deep winter snows; and when MacIntosh moved to another farm, and left a hogshead of hides behind him by accident, the Bocan carried it to his new house next morning, over paths that only a goat could have crossed. Another creature of the same kind is a mischievous spirit, a Goblin or Brownie, who is called in the Manx language, the Glashan, and who appears under various names in Highland stories: sometimes as a hairy man, and sometimes as a water-horse turned into a man. He usually attacks lonely women, who outwit him, and throw hot peats or scalding water at him, and then he flies off howling. One feature is common to the stories about him. He asks the woman what her name is, and she always replies "Myself." So when the companions of the Glashan ask who burned or scalded him, he says "Myself," and then they laugh at him. This answer marks the connection between these tales and those of other countries. Polyphemos asks Odysseus his name, and is told that it is Outis, or "Nobody." So when Odysseus blinds Polyphemos, and the other Kyklopes ask the monster who did it, he says, "Nobody did it." There is a Slavonian story, also, in which a cunning smith puts out the eyes of the Devil, and says that his name is Issi, "myself;" and when the tortured demon is asked who hurt him, he says, "Issi did it;" and then his companions ridicule him. Among other Highland fairy monsters are the water-horses (like the Scandinavian and Teutonic Kelpies) and the water-bulls, which inhabit lonely lochs. The water-bulls are described as being friendly to man; the water-horses are dangerous--when men get upon their backs they are carried off and drowned. Sometimes the water-horse takes the shape of a man. Here is a story of this kind from the island of Islay: There was a farmer who had a great many cattle. Once a strange-looking bull-calf was born amongst them, and an old woman who saw it knew it for a water-bull, and ordered it to be kept in a house by itself for seven years, and fed on the milk of three cows. When the time was up, a servant-maid went to watch the cattle graze on the side of a loch. In a little while a man came to her and asked her to dress or comb his hair. So he laid his head upon her knees, and she began to arrange his hair. Presently she got a great fright, for amongst the hair she found a great quantity of water-weed; and she knew that it was a transformed water-horse. Like a brave girl she did not cry out, but went on dressing the man's hair until he fell asleep. Then she slid her apron off her knees, and ran home as fast as she could, and when she got nearly home, the creature was pursuing her in the shape of a horse. Then the old woman cried out to them to open the door of the wild bull's house, and out sprang the bull and rushed at the horse, and they never stopped fighting until they drove each other out into the sea. "Next day," says the story, "the body of the bull was found on the shore all torn and spoilt, but the horse was never more seen at all." Sometimes the water-spirit appears in the shape of a great bird, which the West Highlanders called the Boobrie, who has a long neck, great webbed feet with tremendous claws, a powerful bill hooked like an eagle's, and a voice like the roar of an angry bull. The lochs, according to popular fancy, are also inhabited by water-spirits. In Sutherlandshire this kind of creature is called the Fuath; there are, Mr. Campbell says, males and females; they have web-feet, yellow hair, green dresses, tails, manes, and no noses; they marry human beings, are killed by light, are hurt by steel weapons, and in crossing a stream they become restless. These spirits resemble mermen and mermaids, and are also like the Kelpies, and they have also been somehow confused with the kind of spirit known in Ireland as the Banshee. Many stories are told of them. A shepherd found one, an old woman seemingly crippled, at the edge of a bog. He offered to carry her over on his back. In going over, he saw that she was webfooted; so he threw her down, and ran for his life. By the side of Loch Middle a woman saw one--"about three years ago," she told the narrator--she sat on a stone, quiet, and dressed in green silk, the sleeves of the dress curiously puffed from the wrists to the shoulder; her hair was yellow, like ripe corn; but on a nearer view, she had no nose. A man at Tubernan made a bet that he would seize the Fuath or Kelpie who haunted the loch at Moulin na Fouah. So he took a brown right-sided maned horse, and a brown black-muzzled dog, and with the help of the dog he captured the Fuath, and tied her on the horse behind him. She was very fierce, but he pinned her down with an awl and a needle. Crossing the burn or brook near Loch Migdal she grew very restless, and the man stuck the awl and the needle into her with great force. Then she cried, "Pierce me with the awl, but keep that slender hair-like slave (the needle) out of me." When the man reached an inn at Inveran, he called his friends to come out and look at the Fuath. They came out with lights, and when the light fell upon her she dropped off the horse, and fell to the earth like a small lump of jelly. The Fairies of the West Highlands in some degree resembled the Scandinavian Dwarfs. They milked the deer; they lived underground, and worked at trades, especially metal-working and weaving. They had hammers and anvils, but had to steal wool and to borrow looms; and they had great hoards of treasure hidden in their dwelling places. Sometimes they helped the people whom they liked, but at other times they were spiteful and evil minded; and according to tradition all over the Highlands, they enticed men and women into their dwellings in the hills, and kept them there sometimes for years, always dancing without stopping. There are many stories of this kind; and there are also many about the fondness of the Fairies for carrying off human children, and leaving Imps of their own in their places--these Imps being generally old men disguised as children. Some of these tales are very curious, and are like others that are found amongst the folk-lore of Celtic peoples elsewhere. Here is the substance of one told in Islay:-- Years ago there lived in Crossbrig a smith named MacEachern, who had an only son, about fourteen; a strong, healthy, cheerful boy. All of a sudden he fell ill, took to his bed, and moped for days, getting thin, and odd-looking, and yellow, and wasting away fast, so that they thought he must die. Now a "wise" old man, who knew about Fairies, came to see the smith at work, and the poor man told him all about his trouble. The old man said, "It is not your son you have got; the boy has been carried off by the Dacorie Sith (the Fairies), and they have left a sibhreach (changeling) in his place." Then the old man told him what to do. "Take as many egg-shells as you can get, go with them into the room, spread them out before him, then draw water with them, carrying them two and two in your hands as if they were a great weight, and when they are full, range them round the fire." The smith did as he was told; and he had not been long at work before there came from the bed a great shout of laughter, and the supposed boy cried out, "I am eight hundred years old, and I never saw the like of _that_ before." Then the smith knew that it was not his own son. The wise man advised him again. "Your son," he said, "is in a green round hill where the Fairies live; get rid of this creature, and then go and look for him." So the smith lit a fire in front of the bed. "What is that for?" asked the supposed boy. "You will see presently," said the smith; and then he took him and threw him into the middle of it; and the sibhreach gave an awful yell, and flew up through the roof, where a hole was left to let the smoke out. Now the old man said that on a certain night the green round hill, where the Fairies kept the smith's boy, would be open. The father was to take a Bible, a dirk, and a crowing cock, and go there. He would hear singing, and dancing, and much merriment, but he was to go boldly in. The Bible would protect him against the Fairies, and he was to stick the dirk into the threshold, to prevent the hill closing upon him. Then he would see a grand room, and there, working at a forge, he would find his own son; and when the Fairies questioned him he was to say that he had come for his boy, and would not go away without him. So the smith went, and did what the old man told him. He heard the music, found the hill open, went in, stuck the dirk in the threshold, carried the Bible on his breast, and took the cock in his hand. Then the Fairies angrily asked what he wanted, and he said, "I want my son whom I see down there, and I will not go without him." Upon this the whole company of the Fairies gave a loud laugh, which woke up the cock, and he leaped on the smith's shoulders, clapped his wings, and crowed lustily. Then the Fairies took the smith and his son, put them out of the hill, flung the dirk after them, and the hill-side closed up again. For a year and a day after he got home the boy never did any work, and scarcely spoke a word; but at last one day sitting by his father, and seeing him finish a sword for the chieftain, he suddenly said, "That's not the way to do it," and he took the tools, and fashioned a sword the like of which was never seen in that country before; and from that day he worked and lived as usual. Here is another story. A woman was going through a wild glen in Strath Carron, in Sutherland--the Glen Garaig--carrying her infant child wrapped in her plaid. Below the path, overhung with trees, ran a very deep ravine, called Glen Odhar, or the dun glen. The child, not a year old, suddenly spoke, and said:-- "Many a dun hummel cow, With a calf below her, Have I seen milking In that dun glen yonder, Without dog, without man, Without woman, without gillie, But one man; and he hoary." Then the woman knew that it was a fairy changeling she was carrying, and she flung down the child and the plaid, and ran home, where her own baby lay smiling in the cradle. A tailor went to a farm-house to work, and just as he was going in, somebody put into his hands a child of a month old, which a little lady dressed in green seemed to be waiting to receive. The tailor ran home and gave the child to his wife. When he got back to the farm-house he found the farmer's child crying and yelping, and disturbing everybody. It was a fairy changeling which the nurse had taken in, meaning to give the farmer's own child to the fairy in exchange; but nobody knew this but the tailor. When they were all gone out he began to talk to the child. "Hae ye your pipes?" said the Tailor. "They're below my head," said the Changeling. "Play me a spring," said the Tailor. Out sprang the little man and played the bagpipes round the room. Then there was a noise outside, and the Elf said, "Its my folk wanting me," and away he went up the chimney; and then they fetched back the farmer's child from the tailor's house. One more story: it is told by the Sutherland-shire folk. A small farmer had a boy who was so cross that nothing could be done with him. One day the farmer and his wife went out, and put the child to bed in the kitchen; and they bid the farm lad to go and look at it now and then, and to thrash out the straw in the barn. The lad went to look at the child, and the Child said to him in a sharp voice, "What are you going to do?" "Thrash out a pickle of straw," said the Lad, "lie still and don't grin, like a good bairn." But the little Imp of out of bed, and said, "Go east, Donald, and when ye come to the big brae (or brow of the hill), rap three times, and when _they_ come, say ye are seeking Johnnie's flail." Donald did so, and out came a little fairy man, and gave him a flail. Then Johnnie took the flail, thrashed away at the straw, finished it, sent the flail back, and went to bed again. When the parents came back, Donald told them all about it; and so they took the Imp out of the cradle, put it in a basket, and set the basket on the fire. No sooner did the creature feel the fire than he vanished up the chimney. Then there was a low crying noise at the door, and when they opened it, a pretty little lad, whom the mother knew to be her own, stood shivering outside. A few notes about West Highland giants must end this account of wonder creatures in this region. There was a giant in Glen Eiti, a terrible being, who comes into a wild strange story, too long to be told here. He is described as having one hand only, coming out of the middle of his chest, one leg coming out of his haunch, and one eye in the middle of his face. And in the same story there is another giant called the Fachan, and the story says, "Ugly was the make of the Fachan; there was one hand out of the ridge of his chest, and one tuft out of the top of his head; it were easier to take a mountain from the root than to bend that tuft." Usually, the Highland giants were not such dreadful creatures as this. Like giants in all stories, they were very stupid, and were easily outwitted by cunning men. "The Gaelic giants (Mr. Campbell says)[9] are very like those of Norse and German tales, but they are much nearer to real men than the giants of Germany and Scandinavia and Greece and Rome, who are almost, if not quite, equal to the gods. Their world is generally, though not always, underground; it has castles, and parks, and pasture, and all that is found above on the earth. Gold, and silver, and copper abound in the giants' land, jewels are seldom mentioned, but cattle, and horses, and spoil of dresses, and arms, and armour, combs, and basins, apples, shields, bows, spears, and horses are all to be gained by a fight with the giants. Still, now and then a giant does some feat quite beyond the power of man, such as a giant in Barra, who fished up a hero, boat and all, with his fishing-rod, from a rock and threw him over his head, as little boys do 'cuddies' from the pier end. So the giants may be degraded gods, after all." In the story of Connal, told by Kenneth MacLennan of Pool Ewe, there is a giant who was beaten by the hero of the tale. Connal was the son of King Cruachan, of Eirinn, and he set out on his adventures. He met a giant who had a great treasure of silver and gold, in a cave at the bottom of a rock, and the giant used to promise a bag of gold to anybody who would allow himself to be let down in a creel or basket, and send some of it up. Many people were lost in trying it, for when the giant had let them down, and they had filled the creel, the giant used to draw up the creel of gold, and then he would not let it down again, and so those who had gone down for it were left to perish in the deep cavern. Now Connal agreed to go down, and the giant served him in the same way that he had done the rest, and Connal was left in the cave among the dead men and the gold. Now the giant could not get anybody else to go down, and as he wanted more gold, he let his own son down in the creel, and gave him the sword of light, so that he might see his way before him. When the young giant got into the cave, Connal took the sword of light very quickly, and cut off the young giant's head, Then Connal put gold into the bottom of the creel, and got in himself, and covered himself over with gold, and gave a pull at the rope, and the giant drew up the creel, and when he did not see his son, he threw the creel over the back of his head; and Connal took the sword of light, and cut off the giant's head, and went away home with the sword and the gold. There was a King of Lochlin, who had three daughters, and three giants stole them, and carried them down under the earth; and a wise man told the King that the only way to get them back was to make a ship that would sail over land or sea. So the King said that anybody who would make such a ship should marry his eldest daughter. There was a widow who had three sons, and the eldest of them said he would go into the forest and cut wood, and make the ship; and his mother gave him a large bannock (oat cake), and away he went. Then a Fairy came out of the river, and asked for a bit of the bannock, but he would not give her a morsel; so he began cutting the wood, but as fast as he cut them down, the trees grew up again, and he went home sorrowful. Then the next brother did the same, and he failed also. Then the youngest brother went, and he took a little bannock, instead of a big one, and the Fairy came again, and he gave her a share of the bannock; and she told him to meet her there in a year and a day, and the ship should be ready. And it was ready, and the youngest son sailed away in it. Then he came to a man who was drinking up a river; and the youngest son hired him for a servant. After a time, he found a man who was eating a whole ox, and he hired him too. Then he saw another man, with his ear to the earth, and he said he was hearing the grass grow; so he hired him also. Then they got to a great cave, and the last man listened, and said it was where the three giants kept the King's three daughters, and they went down into the cave, and up to the house of the biggest giant. "Ha! ha!" said the Giant, "you are seeking the King's daughter, but thou wilt not have her, unless thou hast a man who will drink as much water as I." Then the river-drinker set to work, and so did the giant, and before the man was half satisfied, the giant burst. Then they went to where the second giant was. "Ho! ho!" said the Giant, "thou art seeking the King's daughter, but thou wilt not get her, if thou hast not a man who will eat as much flesh as I." Then the ox-eater began, and so did the giant; but before the man was half satisfied, the giant burst. Then they went on to the third Giant; and the Giant said to the youngest son that he should have the King's daughter if he would stay with him for a year and a day as a slave. Then they sent up the King's three daughters, and the three men out of the cave; and the youngest son stayed with the giant for a year and a day. When the time was up the youngest son said, "Now I am going." Then the Giant said, "I have an eagle that will take thee up;" and he put him on the eagle's back, and fifteen oxen for the eagle to eat on her way up; but before the eagle had got half way up she had eaten all the oxen, and came back again. So the youngest son had to stay with the giant for another year and a day. When the time was up, the Giant put him on the eagle again, and thirty oxen to last her for food; but before she got to the top she ate them all, and so went back again; and the young man had to stay another year and a day with the giant. At the end of the third year and a day, the Giant put him on the eagle's back a third time, and gave her three score of oxen to eat; and just when they got to the mouth of the cave, where the earth began, all the oxen were eaten, and the eagle was going back again. But the young man cut a piece out of his own thigh, and gave it to the eagle, and with one spring she was on the surface of the earth. Then the Eagle said to him, "Any hard lot that comes to thee, whistle, and I will be at thy side." Now the youngest son went to the town where the King of Lochlin lived with the daughters he had got back from the giants; and he hired himself to work at blowing the bellows for a smith. And the King's oldest daughter ordered the smith to make her a golden crown like that she had when she was with the giant, or she would cut off his head. The bellows-blower said he would do it. So the smith gave him the gold, and he shut himself up, and broke the gold into splinters, and threw it out of the window, and people picked it up. Then he whistled for the Eagle, and she came, and he ordered her to fetch the gold crown that belonged to the biggest giant; and the Eagle fetched it, and the smith took it to the King's daughter, who was quite satisfied. Then the King's second daughter wanted a silver crown like that she had when she was with the second giant; and the King's youngest daughter wanted a copper crown, like that she had when she was with the third Giant; and the Eagle fetched them both for the young man, and the smith took them to the King's daughters. Then the King asked the smith how he did all this; and the smith said it was his bellows-blower who did it. So the King sent a coach and four horses for the bellows-blower, and the servants took him, all dirty as he was, and threw him into the coach like a dog. But on the way he called the eagle, who took him out of the coach, and filled it with stones, and when the King opened the door, the stones fell out upon him, and nearly killed him; and then, the story says, "There was catching of the horse gillies, and hanging them for giving such an affront to the King." Then the King sent a second time, and these messengers also were very rude to the bellows-blower, so he made the eagle fill the coach with dirt, which fell about the King's ears, and the second set of servants were punished. The third time the King sent his trusty servant, who was very civil, and asked the bellows-blower to wash himself, and he did so, and the eagle brought a gold and silver dress that had belonged to the biggest giant, and when the King opened the coach door there was sitting inside the very finest man he ever saw. And the young man told the King all that had happened, and they gave him the King's eldest daughter for his wife, and the wedding lasted twenty days and twenty nights. One story more, of how a Giant was outwitted by a maiden. It is told in the island of Islay. There was a widow, who had three daughters, who went out to seek their fortunes. The two elder ones did not want the youngest, and they tied her in turns to a rock, a peat-stack, and a tree, but she got loose and came after them. They got to the house of a Giant, and had leave to stop for the night, and were put to bed with the Giant's daughters. The Giant came home and said, "The smell of strange girls is here," and he ordered his gillie to kill them; and the gillie was to know them from the Giant's daughters by these having twists of amber beads round their necks, and the others having twists of horse-hair. Now Maol o Chliobain, the youngest of the widow's daughters, heard this, and she changed the necklaces, and so the gillie came and killed the Giant's daughters, and Maol o Chliobain took the golden cloth that was on the bed, and ran away with her sisters. But the cloth was an enchanted cloth, and it cried out to the Giant, who pursued them till they came to a river, and then Maol plucked out a hair of her head, and made a bridge of it; but the Giant could not get over; so he called out to Maol, "And when wilt thou come again?" "I will come when my business brings me," she said; and then he went home again. They got to a farmer's house, and told him their history. Said the Farmer, who had three sons, "I will give my eldest son to thy eldest sister; get for me the fine comb of gold and the coarse comb of silver that the Giant has." So she went and fetched the combs, and the Giant followed her till they came to the river, which the Giant could not get over; so he went back again. Then the farmer said he would marry his second son to the second sister, if Maol would get him the sword of light that the Giant had. So she went to the Giant's house, and got up into a tree that was over the well; and when the Giant's gillie came to draw water, she came down and pushed him into the well, and carried away the sword of light that he had with him. Then the Giant followed her again, and again the river stopped him; and he went back. Now the farmer said he would give his youngest son to Maol o Chliobain herself, if she would bring him the buck the Giant had. So she went, but when she had caught the buck, the Giant caught her. And he said, "Thou least killed my three daughters, and stolen my combs of gold and silver; what wouldst thou do to me if I had done as much harm to thee as thou to me?" She said, "I would make thee burst thyself with milk porridge, I would then put thee in a sack, I would hang thee to the roof-tree, I would set fire under thee, and I would lay on thee with clubs till thou shouldst fall as a faggot of withered sticks on the floor." So the Giant made milk porridge and forced her to drink it, and she lay down as if she were dead. Then the Giant put her in a sack, and hung her to the roof tree, and he went away to the forest to get wood to burn her, and he left his old mother to watch till he came back. When the Giant was gone Maol o Chliobain began to cry out, "I am in the light; I am in the city of gold." "Wilt thou let me in?" said the Giant's mother. "I will not let thee in," said Maol o Chliobain. Then the Giant's mother let the sack down, and Maol o Chliobain got out, and she put into the sack the Giant's mother, and the cat, and the calf, and the cream-dish; and then she took the buck and went away. When the Giant came back he began beating the sack with clubs, and his Mother cried out, "Tis I myself that am in it." "I know that thyself is in it," said the Giant, and he laid on all the harder. Then the sack fell down like a bundle of withered sticks, and the Giant found that he had killed his mother. So he knew that Maol o Chliobain had played him a trick, and he went after her, and got up to her just as she leaped over the river. "Thou art over there, Maol o Chliobain" said the Giant. "I am over," she said. "Thou killedst my three bald brown daughters?" "I killed them, though it is hard for thee." "Thou stolest my golden comb, and my silver comb?" "I stole them." "Thou killedst my bald rough-skinned gillie?" "I killed him." "Thou stolest my glaive (sword) of light?" "I stole it." "Thou killedst my mother?" "I killed her, though it is hard for thee." "Thou stolest my buck?" "I stole it." "When wilt thou come again?" "I will come when my business brings me." "If thou wert over here, and I yonder," said the Giant, "what wouldst thou do to follow me?" "I would kneel down," she said, "and I would drink till I should dry the river." Then the poor foolish Giant knelt down, and he drank till he burst; and then Maol o Chliobain went off with the buck and married the youngest son of the farmer. CHAPTER VI.--CONCLUSION: SOME POPULAR TALES EXPLAINED. This brings us towards the end--that is, to show how some of our own familiar stories connect themselves with the old Aryan myths, and also to show something of what they mean. There are four stories which we know best--Cinderella, and Little Red Riding Hood, and Jack the Giant Killer, and Jack and the Bean Stalk--and the last two of these belong especially to English fairy lore. Now about the story of Cinderella. We saw something of her in the first chapter: How she is Ushas, the Dawn Maiden of the Aryans, and the Aurora of the Greeks; and how the Prince is the Sun, ever seeking to make the Dawn his bride, and how the envious stepmother and sisters are the Clouds and the Night, which strive to keep the Dawn and the Sun apart. The story of Little Red Riding Hood, as we call her, or Little Red Cap, as she is called in the German tales, also comes from the same source, and refers to the Sun and the Night. You all know the story so well that I need not repeat it: how Little Red Riding Hood goes with nice cakes and a pat of butter to her poor old grandmother; how she meets on the way with a wolf, and gets into talk with him, and tells him where she is going; how the wolf runs off to the cottage to get there first, and eats up the poor grandmother, and puts on her clothes, and lies down in her bed; how Little Red Riding hood, knowing nothing of what the wicked wolf has done, comes to the cottage, and gets ready to go to bed to her grandmother, and how the story goes on in this way:-- "Grandmother," (says Little Red Riding Hood), "what great arms you have got!" "That is to hug you the better, my dear." "Grandmother, what, great ears you have got!" "That is to hear you the better, my dear." "Grandmother, what great eyes you have got!" "That is to see you the better, my dear." "Grandmother, what a great mouth you have got!" "That is to eat you up!" cried the wicked wolf; and then he leaped out of bed, and fell upon poor Little Red Riding Hood, and ate her up in a moment. This is the English version of the story, and here it stops; but in the German story there is another ending to it. After the wolf has eaten up Little Red Riding Hood he lies down in bed again, and begins to snore very loudly. A huntsman, who is going by, thinks it is the old grandmother snoring, and he says, "How loudly the old woman snores; I must see if she wants anything." So he stepped into the cottage, and when he came to the bed he found the wolf lying in it. "What! do I find you here, you old sinner?" cried the huntsman; and then, taking aim with his gun, he shot the wolf quite dead. Now this ending helps us to see the full meaning of the story. One of the fancies in the most ancient Aryan or Hindu stories was that there was a great dragon that was trying to devour the sun, and to prevent him from shining upon the earth and filling it with brightness and life and beauty, and that Indra, the sun-god, killed the dragon. Now this is the meaning of Little Red Riding Hood, as it is told in our nursery tales. Little Red Riding Hood is the evening sun, which is always described as red or golden; the old Grandmother is the earth, to whom the rays of the sun bring warmth and comfort. The Wolf--which is a well-known figure for the clouds and blackness of night--is the dragon in another form; first he devours the grandmother, that is, he wraps the earth in thick clouds, which the evening sun is not strong enough to pierce through. Then, with the darkness of night he swallows up the evening sun itself, and all is dark and desolate. Then, as in the German tale, the night-thunder and the storm winds are represented by the loud snoring of the Wolf; and then the Huntsman, the morning sun, comes in all his strength and majesty, and chases away the night-clouds and kills the Wolf, and revives old Grandmother Earth, and brings Little Red Riding Hood to life again. Or another explanation may be that the Wolf is the dark and dreary winter that kills the earth with frost, and hides the sun with fog and mist; and then the Spring comes, with the huntsman, and drives winter down to his ice-caves again, and brings the Earth and the Sun back to life. Thus, you see, how closely the most ancient myth is preserved in the nursery tale, and how full of beautiful and hopeful meaning this is when we come to understand it. The same idea is repeated in another story, that of "The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood," where the Maiden is the Morning Dawn, and the young Prince, who awakens her with a kiss, is the Sun which comes to release her from the long sleep of wintry night. The germ of the story of "Jack and the Bean Stalk" is to be found in old Hindu tales, in which the beans are used as the symbols of abundance, or as meaning the moon, and in which the white cow is the clay and the black cow is the night. There is also a Russian story in which a bean falls upon the ground and grows up to the sky, and an old man, meaning the sun, climbs up by it to heaven, and sees everything. This comes very near the story of Jack, who sells his cow for a handful of beans, and his mother scatters them in the garden, and throws her apron over her head and weeps, thus figuring the Night and the Rain; and, shielded by the night and watered by the rain, the bean grows up to the sky, and Jack climbs to the Ogre's land, and carries off the bags of gold, and the wonderful hen that lays a golden egg every day, and the golden harp that plays tunes by itself. It is also possible that the bean-stalk which grows from earth to heaven is a remembrance, brought by the Norsemen, of the great tree, Ygdrassil, which, in the Norse mythology, has its roots in hell and its top in heaven; and the evil Demons dwell in the roots, and the earth is placed in the middle, and the Gods live in the branches. And there is another explanation given, namely, that "the Ogre in the land above the skies, who was once the All-father, possessed three treasures: a harp which played of itself enchanting music, bags of gold and diamonds, and a hen which daily laid a golden egg. The harp is the wind, the bags are the clouds dropping the sparkling rain, and the golden egg laid every day by the red hen is the dawn-produced sun."[10] Thus, in the story of "Jack and the Bean Stalk" we find repeated the same idea which appears in Northern and Eastern fairy tales, and in Greek legends; and so we are carried back to the ancient Hindu traditions, and to the myths of Nature-worship amongst the old Aryan race. It is the same with the story of "Jack the Giant Killer," which also has its connection with the legends of various countries and all ages, and has also its inner meaning, drawn from the beliefs and traditions of the ancient past. There is no need to tell you the adventures of Jack the Giant Killer; how he kills the Cornish giant Cormoran by tumbling him into a pit and striking him on the head with a pick-axe; how he strangles Giant Blunderbore and his friend by throwing ropes over their heads and drawing the nooses fast until they are choked; how he cheats the Welsh giant by putting a block of wood into his own bed for the giant to hammer at and by slipping the hasty-pudding into a leathern bag, and then ripping it up, to induce the giant to do the same with his own stomach, which he does, and so kills himself; or how he frightens the giant with three heads, and so gets the coat of darkness, the cap of knowledge, the shoes of swiftness, and the sword of sharpness, and uses these to escape from other and more terrible masters, and to kill them; and gets the duke's daughter for his wife, and lives honoured and happy ever after. Now Jack the Giant Killer is really one of the very oldest and most widely-known characters in Wonderland. He is the hero who, in all countries and ages, fights with monsters and overcomes them; like Indra, the ancient Hindu sun-god, whose thunderbolts slew the demons of drought in the far East; or Perseus, who, in Greek story, delivers the maiden from the sea-monster; or Odysseus, who tricks the giant Polyphemus, and causes him to throw himself into the sea; or Thor, whose hammer beats down the frost-giants of the North. The gifts bestowed upon Jack are found in Tartar stories, in Hindu tales, in German legends, and in the fables of Scandinavia. The cloak is the cloud cloak of Alberich, king of the old Teutonic dwarfs, the cap is found in many tales of Fairyland, the shoes are like the sandals of Hermes, the sword is like Arthur's Excalibur, or like the sword forged for Sigurd, or that which was made by the horse-smith, Velent, the original of Wayland Smith, of old English legends. This sword was so sharp, that when Velent smote his adversary it seemed only as if cold water had glided down him. "Shake thyself," said Velent; and he shook himself, and fell dead in two halves. The trick which Jack played upon the Welsh giant is related in the legend of the god Thor and the giant Skrimner. The giant laid himself down to sleep under an oak, and Thor struck him with his mighty hammer. "Hath a leaf fallen upon me from the tree?" said the giant. Thor struck him again on the forehead. "What is the matter," said Skrimner, "hath an acorn fallen upon my head?" A third time Thor struck his tremendous blow. Skrimner rubbed his cheek and said, "Methinks some moss has fallen upon my face." The giant had done what Jack did: he put a great rock upon the place where Thor supposed him to be sleeping, and the rock received all the blows. The whole story probably means no more than this: Jack the Giant Killer is the Wind and the Light which disperses the mists and overthrows the cloud giants; and popular fancy, ages ago, dressed him out as a person combating real giants of flesh and blood, just as in all ages and all countries the forces of nature have taken personal shape, and have given us these tales of miraculous gifts, of great deeds done, and of monsters destroyed by men with the courage and the strength of heroes. Now our task is done. We have seen that the Fairy Stories came from Asia, where they were made, ages and ages ago, by a people who spread themselves over our Western world, and formed the nations which dwell in it, and brought their myths and legends with them; and we have seen, too, how the ancient meanings are still to be found in the tales that are put now into children's books, and are told by nurses at the fireside. And we have seen something of the lessons they teach us, and which are taught by all the famous tales of Wonderland; lessons of kindness to the feeble and the old, and to birds, and beasts, and all dumb creatures; lessons of courtesy, courage, and truth-speaking; and above all, the first and noblest lesson believed in by those who were the founders of our race, that God is very near to us, and is about us always; and that now, as in all times, He helps and comforts those who live good and honest lives, and do whatever duty lies clear before them. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Edward Clodd, _The Childhood of Religions: Embracing a Simple Account of the Birth and Growth of Myths and Legends_, p. 76-77. (1878)] [Footnote 2: Kingsley's _Heroes_, preface, p. xv.] [Footnote 3: _Oxford Essays:_ "Comparative Mythology," p. 69.] [Footnote 4: _Popular Tales from the Norse_, by George Webbe Dasent, D.C.L.] [Footnote 5: _Popular Titles of the West Highlands_. Orally collected, with a Translation by J. F. Campbell. Edinburgh: Edmonton and Douglas. 4 vols.] [Footnote 6: Campbell's _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_, i. 112.] [Footnote 7: _Old Deccan Days_. Miss and Sir Bartle Frere.] [Footnote 8: _Old Deccan Days_.] [Footnote 9: _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_, vol. i., Introduction, p. c.] [Footnote 10: Baring-Gould, _Myths of the Middle Ages._] 
56614	----	VILLAGE FOLK-TALES OF CEYLON Vol. I Collected and Translated by H. PARKER Late of the Irrigation Department, Ceylon LONDON LUZAC & CO Publishers to the India Office 1910 CONTENTS PAGE Introduction 1 PART I. STORIES OF THE CULTIVATING CASTE AND VAEDDAS. NO. 1 The Making of the Great Earth 47 2 The Sun, the Moon, and Great Paddy 52 3 The Story of Senasura 54 4 The Glass Princess 57 5 The Frog Prince 67 6 The Millet Trader 72 7 The Turtle Dove 79 8 The Prince and the Princess 93 9 Tamarind Tikka 100 10 Matalange Loku-Appu 108 11 The White Turtle 113 12 The Black Storks' Girl 120 13 The Golden Kaekiri Fruit 129 14 The Four Deaf Persons 134 15 The Prince and the Yaka 137 16 How a Yaka and a Man fought 146 17 Concerning a Man and Two Yakas 148 18 The Three Questions 150 19 The Faithless Princess 157 20 The Prince who did not go to School 160 21 Nagul-Munna 169 22 The Kule-baka Flowers 173 23 Kurulu-gama Appu, the Soothsayer 179 24 How a Prince was chased by a Yaksani 186 25 The Wicked King 191 26 The Kitul Seeds 197 27 The Speaking Horse 199 28 The Female Quail 201 29 The Pied Robin 206 30 The Jackal and the Hare 209 31 The Leopard and the Mouse-deer 213 32 The Crocodile's Wedding 216 33 The Gamarala's Cakes 219 34 The Kinnara and the Parrots 224 35 How a Jackal settled a Lawsuit 228 36 The Jackal and the Turtle 234 37 The Lion and the Turtle 241 PART II. STORIES OF THE LOWER CASTES. 38 The Monkey and the Weaver-Bird (Potter) 247 39 The Jackal Devatawa (Washerman) 249 STORIES OF THE TOM-TOM BEATERS. The Foolishness of Tom-tom Beaters 252 40 A Kadambawa Man's Journey to Puttalam 253 41 The Kadambawa Men and the Hares 255 42 The Kadambawa Men and the Mouse-deer 256 43 The Kadambawa Men and the Bush 257 44 How the Kadambawa Men counted Themselves 258 45 The Kadambawa Men and the Dream 260 46 The Four Tom-tom Beaters 262 47 The Golden Tree 264 48 The Seven Princesses 270 49 Mr. Janel Siñña 278 50 The Nikini Story 284 51 The Aet-kanda Leniya 291 52 The Wimali Story 302 53 The Pots of Oil 304 54 The Mouse Maiden 308 55 Sigiris Siñño, the Giant 312 56 The Proud Jackal 316 STORIES OF THE DURAYAS. 57 The Seven Robbers 317 58 The Stupid Boy 319 59 The Gamarala and the Washerman 322 60 The Two Thieves 330 61 The Margosa Tree 334 62 The Gamarala's Foolish Son 336 63 The Jackal's Judgment 339 64 The Heron and the Crab 342 65 The Jackal and the Brahmana 347 66 The Cat who guarded the Precepts 349 67 The Lizard and the Leopard 355 68 The Lion and the Jackal 359 STORIES OF THE RODIYAS. 69 The Roll of Cotton 364 70 The Jackal and the Leopard 367 71 How the Boars killed the Rakshasa 370 72 The Grateful Jackal 373 STORIES OF THE KINNARAS. 73 Concerning a Monk and a Yaka 375 74 The Three Suitors 378 75 The Crocodile and the Jackal 380 Index 383 INTRODUCTION When the forest and jungle of north-central or north-western Ceylon is viewed from the upper part of a hill of considerable height, it has the appearance of a dark green sea, across which, if there be any wind, waves closely resembling those of the ocean roll along in parallel lines as the swaying tree tops bend under the gusts of the breeze. As clouds pass between it and the sun their shadows of darker green follow each other over this seemingly illimitable ocean. The undulations of the ground are lost; all appears to be at one general level, except that here and there a little island is visible where a low rocky mound succeeds in raising its head above the verdant waves. Any hills of lower elevation than our post of observation look strangely dwarfed, while higher ones behind us stand out more prominently than ever. In the immediate neighbourhood, perhaps glimpses may be obtained of one or two pale green rice fields, contrasting with the darker foliage around them, and of the light blue reflection of the sky in the water of a village tank; but further away there is no break in the uniformity of the forest sea. No houses are to be seen nor sounds heard, and the visible country appears to be an uninhabited silent wilderness of vegetation. Let us descend from such an elevated post, and proceed to examine the depths of the green ocean at closer quarters. I shall assume that the reader is accompanying me on a visit to a Kandian village, where we can learn something of the mode of life and the ideas of the dwellers in this jungle, and become acquainted with some of the animals who are introduced into the stories which they relate. We leave the dusty main roads, and follow a winding village path, never straight for a hundred yards except by accident--not such a path as was constantly encountered thirty or more years ago, on which the overhanging thorny bushes often made it necessary to bend low or run the risk of having one's clothes torn, but a track flanked with grass, having the bushes completely cleared away for a width of twelve feet. For a long distance we journey under an exhausting, pitiless, brazen sun, which during all the middle part of the day the traveller feels but never sees--never directing his gaze towards its blinding glare. The heat is reflected from the unsheltered path. Shut out from the cooling breath of the wind, we have on each side only closely interlaced jungle, a tangled growth, consisting chiefly of leafy thorns and creepers from ten to fifteen feet high, interspersed at varying intervals with a few large trees. This is the wild growth that has sprung up on the sites of abandoned chenas or jungle clearings, and will be cut down again for them from five to seven years afterwards. An occasional recent example of such a clearing may be passed, having a few large surviving scorched trees, and several smaller ones, interspersed among the growing crop of green millet. Round this a rough fence made by laying sticks and blackened sapling trunks horizontally between pairs of crooked posts--part of the unconsumed remains after the cut and dried up bushes had been burnt--protects the crop from the intrusion of deer and pigs and buffaloes. Near the middle of the clearing, where two young trees grow in proximity, two thin posts have been fixed in the ground, and between these four supports a floor of sticks has been constructed at a height of ten or twelve feet above the ground, reached by a rough stick ladder with rungs two feet apart, and having a thatched roof overhead, and a flimsy wall of sticks, interwoven with leafy twigs or grass on the windward side. A thin floor of earth, watered and beaten until it became hard, permits a small fire of sticks to be made in the shelter if the nocturnal air be chilly. In this solitary watch-hut a man, or sometimes two, sit or lie nightly, in order to drive away intruding animals that may successfully evade or break through the protecting fence, and feed on the crop. In such clearings are cultivated chiefly millet of different sorts, or edible grasses, sesame, and a small pulse called mun; while in the richer soil around some scattered conical brown anthills are planted maize, pumpkins, or red chillies, and a few small cucumbers called kaekiri, bearing yellow or reddish fruit some six inches long. Climbing up two or three of the smaller trees are to be seen gourds, with their curious, hanging, pale, bottle-shaped fruit. Along the path through the chena jungle there are not many signs of life. A Monitor Lizard or "Iguana," about four feet long, which we frighten as it was licking up ants and other insects on the roadside with its extensile thin tongue, scurries off quickly, and disappears down a hole in the side of an anthill. Over the jungle come the slow monotonous calls, "Tok, tok, tok, tok," of a small Barbet, perched on the topmost twig of one of the higher trees, jerking its body to the right and left as it repeats its single note. A Woodpecker crosses the path with a screaming cry, three times repeated, and a few other birds may appear at intervals, but otherwise there is not much to break the sameness. Then, if one be lucky, comes a tract of the original forest that has escaped the chena clearer's destructive bill-hook and fires, in which is immediately experienced the welcome relief afforded by the delightful cool shade cast by the forest trees of many species which stretch high above the lower bushes. This is the home of the Elephant, traces of which are observed in the wide footprints and an occasional broken-down sapling or fractured branch. A slightly leaning tree on the side of the path has tempted one to rub his back on it, and lower down are the scratches left by a Leopard's claws, as he scraped them on it like a cat. As we pass along the leaf-strewn way, the loud hoarse cry, "Ho, ho," of the large grey Monkeys (Semnopithecus priamus) whom we startle, resounds through the trees. They cease to feed on the succulent young leaves, and shake the rustling branches in their bold leaps among the higher ones. This is soon followed by a sudden stillness as they mysteriously conceal themselves, vanishing as though by magic among the denser foliage. Bird calls unfamiliar to a stranger are heard, especially the short cry of two notes, rather than the crow, of the Jungle-cock--the wild game-fowl of Ceylon,--the sheep-like bleats of the Lesser Hornbill, sometimes the rich notes of the Crested Drongo, or the often reiterated whistle, "To meet ye´-ou," of the Whistling Babbler. A charming Ground Dove that was picking up seeds on the path, flies off quickly down the path, and turns suddenly through the bushes. A few white or brown or striped Butterflies, and sometimes the lovely, large, dark velvety-green or steely blue Ornithoptera, flit about. A few sharp notes, uttered as a small timid creature, little bigger than a hare, darts off under the bushes, tell us that we have startled a little Mouse-deer, Miminna. These fragile-looking animals always stand on tiptoe, appearing exactly, as Mr. R. A. Sterndale expressed it in his work, The Mammalia of India, "as if a puff of wind would blow them away." But as a rule, there is not much animal life noticeable even in these forests, unless one can spare time to search for it. Another patch of the chena jungle succeeds the forest, and then the path reaches one end of the embankment of a village tank or reservoir, a shallow sheet of water varying in size from two or three acres to more than one hundred, but commonly from twenty to fifty in area. The trim, earthen, grass-sloped embankment, nearly straight, from an eighth of a mile to half a mile long, from nine to sixteen feet high, and six feet wide on the top, rises a few feet above the water level. In its contrast with the parched and heated ground along which we have come, the scene always appears strikingly beautiful. There are few fairer spots on the earth than some of the village tanks when they are nearly full of water. Here we may sit in the cool shelter of an umbrageous tree, and contemplate nature in its most idyllic aspect. The busy world, with its turmoil and stress, its noisy factories and clanging machinery, its hurrying railway trains and motor-cars, its crowded cities full of an artificial and unhealthy existence, has disappeared, as though it had been merely a fantastic vision of the night. Here all is peace: an uneventful calm that has survived the changes of perhaps two thousand years, and that may be unaltered in another two thousand. One may wonder if the fevered life of the present western civilisation will last as long, or will have burnt itself out, and been swept away like that of the dead civilisations that preceded it. Abandoning these day dreams, which the seclusion of the site induces, we look around us. At both sides of the tank and along the outer toe of the embankment grow lofty trees, with grey trunks often strengthened by wide buttresses, which are thrown out so as to afford their support in the direction in which it is chiefly needed. If a branch become unduly expanded on one side of the tree, always that on which it receives the rays of the sun, so as to displace the centre of gravity, the trunk at once proceeds to develop these thin triangular buttresses under it, wide at the base, and extending ten or fifteen feet upward. As though designed by an engineer, there are usually two which act as struts, and support the trunk below the overweighted branch; and on the opposite side a broader one which acts as a tie, and assists in holding back the stem. There is no lack of varied forms of animal life here. Often a party of brown Monkeys who have come to drink at the tank are to be seen in some of the trees, sitting quietly inspecting the visitors, or walking leisurely along the branches, a few of the females carrying under their bodies a young one tightly clutching them. In many tanks, a low grey or dark-stained rock in the water affords a favourite basking ground for the sluggish muddy-brown Crocodiles that make their home in all but a few of the smallest of these tanks. They lie on it like stranded logs, exposed to the sun's rays, often with wide-open mouths, as though overcome by the heat, from which, however, they make no effort to escape. A few black Cormorants and a white Egret or two may also be there, resting on another part of the rock; and close to the water even one or two little Black Tank Turtles, but not the edible White Tank Turtle (Kiri-ibba), which is much less common. On a stump in the water is usually perched a Darter, a bird that can outswim its fishy prey, with long snake-like neck, drying its expanded wings under the fiery tropical rays. Its mate will be immersed in the water, in which it swims with only its head and neck visible above the surface. Near the upper margin of the tank wades, with long deliberate strides, a lanky Great White Egret (Herodias alba), its neck outstretched in advance, and head held ready for a rapid spear-like thrust of its long tapering bill at any frog or small fish incautious enough to remain within its fatal reach. Nearer the edge of the shallowest water Lesser Egrets step more hurriedly in search of frogs, and often chase them as they rush spluttering along its surface. At the larger tanks the hoarse scream of a White-tailed Fishing Eagle (Polioaetus ichthyaetus), perched on one of the higher branches of a tall tree overhanging the water, resounds across the open space, without frightening a flock of reddish-brown Whistling Teal that float motionless near some lotus leaves, watching the human intruders, who monopolise all their attention. As we proceed along the embankment, we disturb some of the large Frogs that were sunning themselves on it, or catching flies near the edge of the water, and that plunge headlong into it with extended hind legs. We now perceive on the low side of the tank a stretch of fields, a couple of hundred yards, a quarter of a mile, or half a mile long, or even more, in which the clear uniform light green sheet of the paddy or growing rice affords a pleasant relief after the uninteresting chena jungle. A long group of feathery-fronded Coconut trees near the tank, fringing the far side of the field, indicates that we are close to a Kandian village. The thatched grey roofs of some of the houses are soon distinguishable below the palms, nearly concealed among the plantain trees and other bushes growing about them. Above these stand out several tall, deep green, pointed-leaved Mango trees, and higher still a few wide-spreading Tamarinds and slender Halmilla trees. Before we reach them, our attention is again arrested by the repeated mewing calls of the light-coloured Jacanas (Hydrophasianus chirurgus), with pheasant-like tails and enormously lengthened toes, which distribute their weight over a wide area. This enables them to walk on the round floating leaves of the lotus plants that cover one portion of the tank, picking unwary insects out of the water. Near the side of the tank are to be seen the upper parts of the dark heads of buffaloes, of which the bodies are immersed, as they lazily chew the cud. A White Egret is perched on one whose back appears above the water. At intervals a head disappears quietly below the surface, and the dense crowd of small flies that had settled on it is driven to flight, only to return once more as soon as it rises again. In the shallower water near them, and nearly stationary, or moving a few feet only at a time, stands a small silent Pond Heron (Ardeola grayi), avoiding observation as much as possible. Its shoulders are raised, and its head is drawn down, so that it appears to have no neck; its dorsal plumes spread over the closed wings and completely hide them. When it stands still in this, its usual, attitude it is almost unnoticeable among the aquatic weeds. On our approach it flies off with a croak, transformed into a bird displaying broad white wings and a long thin neck. It is far from being the voracious bird that a well-known tale represents it to be. A Chestnut Bittern (Ardetta cinnamomea), that had stationed itself at the foot of the embankment, flits silently across the water, and a Blue or Pied Kingfisher is seen poising itself with down-turned bill, over a shoal of small fishes, on which it drops unexpectedly with a sudden splash, and then wings its way to another position where others have been detected. On a patch of grass at the upper side of the tank we observe a couple of white-necked Black Storks (Ciconia leucocephala) promenading sedately in search of luckless frogs, but maintaining a careful watch for human enemies who may be tempted to endeavour to approach within gunshot. Near this end of the embankment, a party of village women who have brought their large, narrow-mouthed, brown earthen pots or "chatties" for water, holding them on their hips by passing an arm round the neck, will probably take to flight on seeing the white strangers, or otherwise stand as far off the path as the space permits, until they pass. A cry of rapidly shouted words is repeated through the village, announcing the arrival of "gentlemen," and soon some of the men emerge, and after saluting us with hands raised to the chest and palms touching each other, guide us into it. On our way we pass by single houses or groups of two or three, built in the midst of each little paddock, fifty or one hundred feet wide or more, often with a very slight fence around it, of the scattered area under the coconut palms which forms the gardens of the Kandian village. Decently clad men and women come out of their mud-walled and often whitewashed dwellings to stare at the strangers, as well as children of all sizes, in varying stages of scanty clothing, from a short piece of white calico which reaches from the waist to the ankles, down to its vanishing point. The men wear a plain white cloth from the waist to the ankles. The women have a white or coloured one about twelve feet long, one end passing from the waist over the front of the figure, with the corner thrown over the right shoulder, and hanging down behind as far as the waist; the rest of the cloth is wrapped twice round the lower part of the figure, from the waist downwards. When they visit other villages many of the people of both sexes wear white jackets; in the women's jackets the sleeves are gathered and puffed out at the shoulder, and reach only to the elbow, and there is a wide, sometimes frilled, double collar. Our guides lead us on until we reach a dwelling possibly a little more carefully constructed than the others, close to which is a thatched, open, rectangular shed, about twelve feet long by nine feet wide, with its roof resting on plain round wooden posts. Its raised earthen floor is hastily swept, a heavy wooden mortar cut out of a piece of tree trunk, and used for pounding rice in order to remove the skin, is rolled away, and the shed is then ready for our temporary occupation. This is a maduwa, or shed erected for travellers and strangers, as well as for the general use of the owner, in which the women may plait mats, or clean paddy or rice in the wooden mortar, with a long wooden pestle having an iron ring round the lower end. Here also the man's friends may sit and chat, and chew the leaf of the Betel vine with broken-up bits of the nut of the Areka Palm, and a little lime, and a fragment of tobacco leaf, while they discuss the state of the crops, or the local news. When such a shed is erected on the side of a path for public use, it may have, but rarely, half walls four feet high; or the posts may be tenoned into a rectangle of substantial squared logs that are halved into each other at the angles, where they rest upon large stones, so as to be clear of the ground, and thus partly protected from attacks by white ants. The squared beams act as seats for the tired passer-by. At the end of the maduwa in the village there is sometimes a very small room of the same width, in which is stored millet or pulse in bags, or ash-pumpkins, together with a few articles required about the house, such as surplus grass mats, and flat winnowing baskets. Under the roof of the maduwa, above the cross-beams and some sticks laid on them, will be the owner's little plough, and board for levelling the mud of the rice field before sowing, and some short coils of rope made from the twisted inner bark of tough creepers, and one or two fish creels. When there is no suitable shed of this kind for the visitor, a hut, usually one belonging to the village headman, is swept out and temporarily given up to our use. If information of the coming visit had been sent beforehand, the hut or shed would have been provided with a ceiling made of lengths of white calico borrowed from the family washerman, and perhaps the walls also would have been hung with others, sometimes including such coloured ones as he had washed for some of the villagers. While food is being prepared by our servants in a small shed or kitchen close to the house, we stroll through the village, and observe as we go that all the houses lie east and west, or north and south, and are thatched with straw or plaited Coconut leaves. They are all rectangular, usually eight or nine feet wide and some twelve feet long, and are raised a couple of feet from the ground, on a solid earthen foundation. Each one has a low veranda, two feet six inches or three feet wide, along the front side, and one heavy door of adzed or sawn timber near the middle; but there is very rarely a window, and even then only one of the smallest size. Near the end of the house, and within sight of the veranda, there are one or two round corn stores, considerably wider at the top than at the base, with conical thatched roofs. They rest upon cross sticks placed upon four horizontal adzed logs, which are supported by four small rough blocks of stone at the corners. Their walls are made of a wicker frame hung from four or five durable posts set in the ground, which are usually the heart wood of trees that are not eaten by white ants. The upper part of the wicker frame is firmly tied to the tops of these, and the whole wicker work is then thickly overlaid and stiffened by successive coatings of mixed clay and sand, on which, as on all the walls and floor of the dwelling house, there is placed a thin surface wash of cow-dung. These corn stores contain the household supply of paddy or millet. They are entered only by raising the loose conical roof on one side by a long prop, and getting inside by means of a rough ladder, at the opening thus made, over the top of the wall, which rises eight or nine feet above the ground. Sometimes, but rarely in the northern Kandian districts, a small rectangular hut is used as a corn store, the entrance in that case being made through a doorway in the middle of one side. The open ground along the front of the house is clean, and free from grass and weeds, and is swept every morning. In this space, called the midula, there is a stand of peeled sticks supported on thin posts, and having a stick platform about four feet, or a little more, in length and two feet in width, raised three feet from the ground, with often another similar platform below it. On these are laid, after being washed, the blackened earthenware cooking pots of the house, and spoons made of segments of coconut shell with long wooden handles, which are used with them. In the little kitchen at the end of the house, with a lean-to roof, the hearths or fire-places called lipa are formed of three round stones fixed on the ground, about eight inches apart, on which are set the cooking pots, over a fire of dry sticks. Sometimes a separate small shed is built as a kitchen, but often the cooking is done inside the single apartment of the house, at one end of it. In each garden are a number of Coconut trees, some thin Halmilla trees, and often a Mango tree, or a dark-leaved Jak tree, with its enormous light green fruit hanging on pedicles from the trunk or larger branches, as well as a Lime tree, and four or five clumps of Plantain stems nearer the dwelling. Round the base of one or two of the Coconuts or Halmilla trees are piled on end long bundles of firewood, nearly two feet thick and six or eight feet long, the unconsumed sticks from the chena, collected by the women, tied round with creepers, and carried home on their heads. Climbing up a small tree in front of the house is a fine Betel vine, which is watered every day during the dry weather. We notice that a bleached skull of a bull is fixed among the leaves to guard the creeper from the unlucky glance of the "Evil Eye," which might cause its premature decay. In the damper ground adjoining the rice field a few slender Areka palms are growing, with their clusters of small fruit hanging below their leafy crowns. On the outer side of the village, near the embankment of the tank, there are the large, rough-stemmed Tamarind trees that we noticed as we came. A number of separate thin posts are fixed in the bare ground below them, to which are tethered a few small Buffalo calves, which will be joined by their mothers at dusk, after their bath in the tank is finished. Further on, there is a small enclosure protected by a stick fence, round which a few thorns are placed. At the entrance, the halves of a split log, about nine inches wide, form gate posts; and five moveable horizontal bars pass easily through holes cut through them, a few loose thorns being rolled against them when the enclosure is shut up at night. This is a cattle-fold, or gala, into which the little harmless black humped cattle are driven each evening by some boys, with the repeated long-drawn cry, Gale, "Into the fold." In some districts tobacco or chillies will be planted on this well-manured plot of ground in the following spring, a new cattle fold being then made. On our return to the shed we see that our host's wife has cooked his evening meal of boiled rice and vegetable curry, with a bit of sun-dried fish as a flavouring, these last being often made burning hot with red chillies. She serves it in the raised veranda to him and a relative who has come from a distant village, after giving them water for rinsing out their mouths. Both sit or "squat" on their heels, and convey the food to their mouths with their right hands, out of the shallow, rather wide basins that act as plates. Where the supply of such household articles runs short, leaf plates made of a piece of plantain leaf, or two or three halmilla leaves pinned together, are used. When they have finished the meal, and have rinsed their right hands and drunk water--which is never taken while eating--and have been served with a chew of betel leaf and its accompaniments, the wife eats the remains of the meal alone, inside the house. If she and her husband were alone they would take it together, the husband being first served. The men now sit on mats spread in the narrow veranda, where a little oil lamp is perhaps hung, and the woman, after throwing out the remains of the food for the dog, and washing the basins and cooking utensils, and arranging them on their stand, joins the party, and shares in the evening's conversation. Sometimes, however, she finds it necessary to pound some paddy until bed-time, in order to remove the husk, in readiness for the meals of the following day; or millet or rice may require grinding into flour in the stone quern. If some intimate village friends were there, this would be the time when, after discussing the events of the day, or making arrangements for the morrow, a member of the party might finish the evening's chat by relating one of the familiar old stories of which translations appear in this book. In the end the woman retires, the visitor stretches himself on his grass mat in the veranda, and the host extinguishes the lamp, if one had been lit, and enters the single room of his house. On the next night it will be his turn to occupy the watch-hut at the chena, where his partner is sitting now. All take care to lie, if possible, in an east and west direction, and on no account with their heads to the south. This is the abode of Yama, the god of death, while the north is the quarter inhabited by demons. These directions are therefore exposed to evil influences which might affect the sleeper, and perhaps cause such unlucky omens as evil dreams. The dog curls himself on the ground at the front of the house, the cat wanders off to join some village cronies, and all is silent in the village, except the rustling of the Coconut fronds overhead, the monotonous call, "Wuk; chok-cho-tok," uttered by a small owl in one of the higher trees, and the more distant chorus of the frogs in the adjoining rice field. Now and again we hear at some villages the long-drawn, human-like cry, "Hoo, hoo, hoo," of a large Wood-Owl (Syrnium indranee), that is flying round high in the air, and answering its distant mate. It is a weird unearthly sound, which is always firmly believed by the villagers to be uttered by demons, as will be noticed in some of the stories. The earliest cry of the morning is the deep booming note, three or four times repeated, of the large Ground Cuckoo (Centrococcyx rufipennis), which is heard soon after dawn appears. Our host's wife is at work before daylight, scraping into shreds the kernel of a half coconut, and preparing some milk-rice--rice boiled in milk made by squeezing grated coconut in water until the latter assumes the colour of milk. By sun-rise, the Crows of the village are astir, and the Parrakeets, commonly called "Parrots" in the East, which have been sleeping in the coconut trees, fly away in parties in search of food. The notes of the double kettle-drum at a neighbouring wihara, or Buddhist temple, consisting of three deep-toned strokes at short intervals, followed by five rapid blows on a higher key, once repeated, the whole series being many times sounded, now announce to the villagers within hearing that this is one of the four Poya days of the month, the Buddhist Sabbath, kept at each of the quarters of the moon. About an hour later, our host's wife is joined by a party of eight or ten women, and one or two men, all dressed in clean white clothes. They proceed to the temple, each carrying in a small bowl a present of milk-rice and a few cakes, covered with a white cloth. There they chant three times, after the resident monk, the Buddhist creed, "I go to the Buddha-refuge, I go to the Faith-refuge, I go to the Community (of Monks)-refuge"; this is followed by some more stanzas in the ancient language, Pali, after which they return, and resume the ordinary occupations of the day. Our host is about to leave his room after his night's rest, when the chirp of a little pale-coloured House Lizard on the wall causes him to turn back suddenly, in order to avoid the evil influences against which the wise Lizard had uttered its warning voice. He occupies himself in the house for a short time longer, and then, at a luckier moment, makes his appearance afresh, taking care to step over the threshold with the right foot first. He is cheered by finding that nothing obstructs his way in the least after he comes out, and that we are the first living beings on which his gaze rests. To begin the day by seeing first a person of superior status is a lucky omen of the favourable character of the rest of the day, and one with which he is not often blessed. We increase the auspicious impression by a few judicious friendly remarks; but are careful not to offer any decided praise regarding any of his possessions, since we are aware of his opinion that one never knows if such sayings may not have a reverse effect through the malevolence of jealous evil spirits. There is an Evil Mouth, as well as an Evil Eye. A man or two, and a few boys, come from the adjoining houses to watch our doings, from the open space in front of the house, or the veranda; but all turn their faces away and ignore us from the moment when we sit down to our "early tea," and until it is finished. This is done so as to avoid any risk of our food's affecting us injuriously, owing to a possible glance of the Evil Eye, which a person may possess without being aware of the fact. We notice a little copper tube slung on the right upper arm of our host's wife, by means of a yellow thread which passes through two rings on its under side. In reply to our carefully worded inquiry regarding it, he informs us that as she had been troubled with evil dreams they had thought it advisable to get a friend of his, a Vedarala or doctor, who was acquainted with astrological and magical lore, to supply her with a magical diagram and spell against dreams, inscribed on a strip of dried palm leaf, which was rolled up and placed in the tube. The thread, a triple one, was coloured with saffron, and nine knots were made on it before it was tied on her arm, a magical spell being repeated as each knot was made. Thanks to this safeguard the dreams had ceased, but it was considered advisable not to remove the thread and charm for a few weeks longer. Our host's relative, having eaten some milk-rice, and taken a chew of betel and areka-nut in his mouth, is about to return to his distant village, and now leaves, saying only, "Well, I am going." "It is good; having gone come," is the reply. The latter word must not be omitted, or it might appear that his return in the future was not desired. So he sets off on his journey, the host accompanying him to the garden fence. However, in a few minutes he is back again, and explains that he had met with a bad omen which made it necessary to postpone the departure. A dog stood in the path, obstructing his way, and made no attempt to move even when he spoke to it. The host cordially agrees that it would be most unwise to continue the journey after such an unfavourable omen on starting, and it is settled that he will leave early in the afternoon, when the danger, whatever it may be, probably will have passed away. And so on, like a perpetual nightmare haunting him during his whole journey through life, the Kandian villager sees his dreaded portents in the simplest occurrences of his daily life. A few are prognostications of good luck; but far more in number are those which are to him obvious warnings, not to be disregarded with impunity, of some unknown but impending evil that he must avoid if possible. Every evil is directly due to evil spirits, either specially instigated to injure him by inimical magicians, or taking advantage of some accidental opportunity. The evil spirits are innumerable and malevolent, and ever ready to make use of any chance to annoy or injure human beings. Thus it would be the height of foolhardiness to ignore events that appear to be signs of some approaching unfavourable action on their part. One man informed me that in the dusk one evening he was unable to find the little exit path from his chena, and was compelled to remain all night there before the clearing work was finished. He attributed this entirely to the malicious action of an evil spirit, who had blocked it up in order to annoy him. When daylight came the path was clear, and so plainly to be seen that he was certain that he could not have missed it at night had it been in a similar state at that time. I knew of one instance in which a man who had arranged to make a lengthy trading journey, and had loaded his cart with produce ready for an early start at daybreak, abandoned the trip because he had a dream in the night which he considered indicated an unfavourable prospect. The reader will find a similar tale included among these stories; and although the villagers laugh at the foolish men of whom it is related, there are scores of others who would return home under such circumstances. It is a holiday season for the villagers, during which they can devote themselves to the congenial occupation of contemplating the growth of the rice and the millet crop; but it was preceded by much hard work in the rice field and the chena. The felling of the thorny jungle at the chena, the lopping and burning of the bushes, the clearing and hoeing of the ground, and the construction of the surrounding fence, were carried on continuously under a scorching sun from morning to night, until the work was completed shortly before the first light showers enabled the seed to be sown, after a further clearing of the weeds that had sprung up over the ground. As soon as the heavier rains had softened the hard soil of the rice field, baked, where not sandy, by the tropical sun until it became like stone, the work of ploughing and preparing the land for the paddy crop was one that permitted little or no intermission. Every morning the men carried their little ploughs on their shoulders, and yoking a couple of buffaloes to each of them, spent many hours in guiding the blunt plough backwards and forwards through the soil, overgrown since the last crop by a covering of grass. It requires no slight labour to convert such an apparently intractable material into a smooth sheet of soft mud, eight inches deep. After that is done, all the little earthen ridges that form the raised borders of each of the rectangular plots into which the field is divided, and that are necessary for retaining the sheet of water which is periodically flooded over the rice, must be repaired and trimmed. When that is accomplished the ground must be sown by hand without delay, with paddy which has already sprouted, and being merely scattered lightly on the surface of the thick mud, will grow at once. The preparation of the paddy for this purpose is one of the duties of the women, who soak it in water, and spread it a few inches thick on large mats laid on the floor of the shed or the veranda. In three days it will be sprouted, and ready for immediate sowing. After the sowing is completed, there still remains the repair or reconstruction of the stick fence which protects the field from cattle, or, in some parts, deer. It is thought to be essential for obtaining a satisfactory crop, that each of the more important operations of these or any other works should be commenced on a day and at an hour that have been selected by the local astrologer as auspicious. There must be no unfavourable aspects of the planets, which are held to have a most powerful and often deleterious influence on all terrestrial matters; planets or no planets, certain days are also recognised by every person who claims a modicum of intelligence, as being notoriously unlucky. After the time for beginning the ploughing, or commencing the clearing of the jungle at the chena, has been so chosen, a start must be made at that hour, even though it be nothing more than a beginning; and usually the plough is once run at that time through each little plot of the field, several days before the real ploughing is undertaken. In the case of the chena, a few branches will be lopped off at the lucky moment, and the remainder of the work can then be done when convenient. Without such necessary precautions no village cultivator would be astonished at the subsequent failure or unproductiveness of the crops, either through excess or deficiency of the rainfall, or damage caused by wild animals, or, in the case of the rice, by an excessive irruption of "flies" or bugs, which suck out the milky juices of the immature grains. The surprise would be felt, not at the failure of the crops under such unfavourable conditions, but at the survival of any crop worth reaping. Of course, in the case of the "flies" on the rice the usual remedy of their forefathers will be tried. A Bali Tiyanna, a priest who makes offerings to arrest or avert the evil influences due to unpropitious planets, will be summoned. After presenting a small offering, he will march round the crop, blowing a perforated chank shell in order to alarm any unfavourable spirits; at each side of the field he will formally exorcise the flies, and in a loud voice order them to depart. [1] But on the whole, notwithstanding the thorough confidence of the exorcist in the efficacy of this treatment, it is felt to be a last resort, which ought to be, but often is not, altogether as successful as the owner of the crop might desire. Planets and flies are sometimes intractable, and will not hearken to the charmer. Besides, thinks the cultivator, who knows if the Bali Tiyanna was so foolish as to speak to some one on his march round the field, and thus break the spell? Now that he comes to consider the matter, the cultivator remembers that he heard the cry of a Woodpecker [2] as he was leaving the house for the first ploughing. He thought at the time that, as the hour had been declared to be a fortunate one, that warning scream was intended for some other person; but now he is of opinion that it may have been addressed to him. It is unfortunate; it must have been settled by Fate that he should neglect it, but he will exercise more care another time. He feels that he can always place confidence in the House Lizards and Woodpeckers, because they receive their information from the gods themselves. When the chena crop is ripe, the wives of the owners collect a number of friends and relatives, and proceed with them to the place, each carrying a light sack or two, and a diminutive sickle. With this they cut off the heads of the millet, storing them in the sacks; the straw is left as useless. All the party are rather gaily dressed, usually in white, and often have a broad strip of calico tied over the head, with the ends falling down the back. This work is looked upon as a recreation, and is carried on amid a large amount of chatter and banter, and the singing of songs by first one and then another, each verse being repeated by the whole party. Some that are sung are simple verses from the olden time, which probably are believed to have a magical influence. At noon and in the evening the bags full of millet are carried to the houses of the owners of the crop. Meals are provided for the whole party by them, and no payment is made for the work. In most districts the men never take any part in this reaping, and their presence would be thought objectionable. As one of them expressed it, they stay at home and boil water. For the reaping of the rice crop, the man to whom it belongs collects a few assistants in the same way, the women also sometimes joining in the work. The stems of the plants are cut near the ground, and are tied up in little sheaves, which are collected first at some of the junctions of the earthen ridges in the field. The whole are removed afterwards and built into larger stacks at the side of the field, near a flat threshing-floor of hard earth, surrounded by a fence in which a few trees are planted as a shade. The threshing of the stacks is a business of great importance, which must be performed according to ancient customs that are supposed to have a magical effect, and prevent injurious demoniacal interference with the out-turn. After the floor has been thoroughly cleaned and purified, a magical circular diagram, with mystical symbols round it, is drawn on the ground round a central post, before the threshing can be commenced. The unthreshed rice is laid over the floor in a circle round the central post, and four buffaloes in a row are driven over it, round and round the post, following the direction taken by the sun, that is, from the east towards the south and so on through the circle, the stems of the rice being shaken up from time to time. After the corn has been thus trampled out of the ears it is collected and poured gradually out of baskets held high in the air, so that the wind may blow away the chaff. The corn is then placed in sacks and carried to the store. After the crop of the chena or field has been gathered in, a small offering of the first-fruits is made at the local Dewala, or demon temple, and cleaned rice is also presented to the resident monk at the local Buddhist temple. When the crop is placed in the store, the household supply of food for at least a great part of the year, and commonly for the whole year, has been provided for. Such additions as salt, sun-dried fish, and some of the condiments used in curries are obtained by bartering coconuts, or paddy, or millet, at little roadside shops which are established at a few places along the main roads throughout the country. These are kept by Muhammadan trades--commonly termed Tambi, with, in village talk, the honorific addition ayiya, "elder brother,"--or Sinhalese from the Low Country districts, or Tamils from Jaffna; and rarely or never by Kandians. From these shops, also, clothes are procured at long intervals in the same way, or a special journey is made to the nearest town or larger shopping centre. As a general rule, in the interior it is all a matter of barter, and very little money is used, so little indeed that if the crops be less satisfactory than usual the villager often has difficulty in paying the tax of a rupee and a half (two shillings), which is collected by Government each year from adult males, towards the cost of keeping the roads in order. In the poorer districts, the payment of this, the only direct tax of the villager, is like a recurring annual nightmare, which worries him for weeks together, and unfortunately cannot be charmed away, like his other nightmares, by a magic thread. Village life is on the whole a dull one. Its excitements are provided by demon-ceremonies for the cure of sickness, occasional law-suits, and more especially by weddings, which afford a welcome opportunity for feasting, and displaying clothes and jewellery, but sometimes also cause quarrels owing to caste or family jealousies. It would be too long a digression to attempt to describe these here. Pilgrimages to important Buddhist temples are also undertaken, about nine-tenths of the pilgrims being women, a proportion sometimes observable in church attendance in England. One of the pleasantest features of village life is the family re-union at the Sinhalese New Year, April 11 or 12, when all the members meet at their old home if possible, and make little presents to each other, and pay ceremonial visits, dressed in their best clothes, to their relatives and friends. The men also call on their local headmen, who in the same way visit their superiors. I have known considerable numbers of villagers tramp ninety miles on hot dusty roads, with an equally long return journey in prospect, in order to be present at this home gathering. For three weeks before the day, the whole village life is disorganised by preparations for this festival. The houses are furbished up, plantains and palm sugar are collected, often from places many miles away, new clothes are purchased, and every one's mind is given up to anticipation of the event and provision for it, to the complete exclusion of all ordinary work. It is also a busy time for astrologers, who are required to fix a suitable day and a lucky hour for the first lighting of the New Year's fire, the first cooking of food, and, three or four days later, the hour at which the heads of all shall be anointed, pending which important ceremony no work is begun or journey commenced. In many villages the women produce from some dark hiding-place the little board with fourteen little cup-shaped hollows, in two rows each consisting of seven cups, on which the ancient game called in Ceylon "Olinda" is played. Four bright red seeds of the Olinda creeper are placed in each cup, and the two players, who sit on opposite sides of the board, "sow" them one by one in the holes. As a rule, only the women play at this game, at which many of them are adepts, carrying it on for hours at a time with the greatest rapidity and skill. At the conclusion of the New Year's holiday, or soon after it, the boards are returned to their hiding-places, and often are not used again for another year. In the villages where Low Country influence has penetrated, many of the men find gambling a more attractive amusement, as well as a more exciting one, at this time. About once in a couple of years a party of Gypsies who speak Telugu, and broken Tamil and Sinhalese, come along the high road, and settle down on a patch of open grass near a tank. The talipat palm leaves with which their diminutive oblong huts are roofed, and strong creepers or bamboos curved in a semicircle, for making the skeleton framework, are transported on small donkeys, the women and children carrying the other few household goods and cooking utensils in bundles on their heads. Some take about with them large numbers of goats. As soon as they have raised their little huts, each about four feet high, and surrounded by a shallow channel for carrying off rain water, the adults leave them in charge of the children and old women, and spread through all the villages of the neighbourhood in order to collect food or money. The man carries in a round, flat, black basket slung in a cloth from his shoulder, a cobra or two, which are made to "dance," a term which means merely sitting coiled up (the head with the hood expanded being raised about fifteen inches from the ground), and making attempts to strike the moving knee or hand of the crouching exhibitor. The women tell fortunes by the lines on the hands. All the village girls endeavour to raise the requisite three halfpence or twopence so as to hear, often for the third or fourth time, of their past and future experiences, and to be promised handsome husbands possessing fields and cattle. The adults pay a little rice for the exhibition of the cobras. When the Gypsies have exhausted the contributory possibilities of the adjoining villages they move on again to another camping ground. They have always a number of dogs which assist in catching animals for the food supply, and it is few, whether provided with legs or without legs, that are thought unfit to eat. The diet includes white ants, rat-snakes, owls, and munguses, as well as any stray village fowls that can be acquired surreptitiously. These Gypsies of Ceylon are an interesting race, and I may be permitted a digression in order to furnish some details regarding them. I am not aware how long they have settled in Ceylon; they are permanent dwellers in the island, and are especially found in the northern half and the eastern districts, but also in the south and in the hill districts. In the Sinhalese districts they have developed a dialect which appears to be a curious compound of Telugu and Sinhalese. Thus fowls, which in Telugu are termed Kollu, are known by them as Guglu, the Sinhalese Kukulu. From a Gypsy with whom, by the aid of pecuniary intervention, I established friendly relations, cemented by my presenting him one day with a fine newly-caught cobra, I learnt that they enjoy general good health, notwithstanding the apparent hardships of their life. They attribute this to their constant changes of drinking-water and camping-sites, no camp being maintained in one place for more than seven days in the Sinhalese districts. In the Eastern Province, where the Gypsies possess very large herds of cattle, amounting sometimes to four or five hundred, they camp in one spot for a month if the grazing be sufficiently good. They do not keep their cobras for more than a month. After being kept for that period, they not only become too tame to "dance," but, what is far more important, their poison fangs grow afresh, and it would be dangerous to retain them. They are therefore always released at the end of that time, if not earlier. They are fed regularly upon fowls' eggs and occasional rats. My friend characterised as nonsense the idea of their handling and using cobras which have not had their fangs excised. The reader may remember Sir Bartle Frere's note in Old Deccan Days, p. 329, regarding a boy who continued to handle with impunity poisonous snakes with unremoved fangs, until at last one killed him. The reader is also referred to Drummond Hay's Western Barbary, 1844, pp. 105-108, in which an account is given of a snake-charmer who allowed a deadly snake to bite him. A fowl that it bit immediately afterwards died in a minute, while the man did not suffer from the bite. Hay saw the snake's fangs. He mentions another instance at Tangier, in which a youth who was sceptical regarding the poison allowed the snake to bite him, and died from the effect of it. I saw this Gypsy cut off the fangs of the cobra that I gave him. This was done with a common pen-knife which he kept for the purpose. The head being held sideways on a thick stick, so that the upper jaw lay on it, the fang was cut off at the base. The head was then turned, and the other fang removed. The man then passed his fore-finger along the jaw, and finding a slight roughness or projection, sliced off a little of the bone at each side. After this he released the cobra, which followed him and sprang at him furiously, time after time, and had its first lesson on the ease with which he evaded its strokes. When it became tired of attempting the impossible, he consigned it to his basket--another cobra ready for exhibition. Some of these men are extraordinarily expert in making pretended captures of cobras which they apparently fascinate by their pipes, so as to attract them from their holes or hiding-places. They perform this feat so cleverly as to deceive many people, who insist that it is a real capture. I have twice got them to do it for me--in the Southern and the North-western Provinces--and although I watched them from a very short distance, I was unable to see whence the cobra was produced. On both occasions I examined the mouth of the cobra immediately after it was captured, and in both instances I found that the fangs had been removed. My Gypsy friend also assured me that it was a mere trick which only a few learn. In each case, the man, who was dressed only in a cloth extending from the waist to the calf, after piping for some time at the edge of the bushes in which the snake might possibly be found, bent down suddenly, half entering the bush, and apparently endeavoured to seize a cobra which eluded him. After resuming the piping for a few seconds more, he bent down again at the same spot, and drew out a large cobra--one was nearly six feet long; it extended to the full length of his outstretched hands--holding it by the tail; then slipping his other hand rapidly along its body he grasped it tightly behind the jaws. Probably when first bending down he placed a cobra on the ground, afterwards seizing it by the tail as it was moving off. In one case, a pretence at being bitten on the thumb on the way back from the bush was very effective. There were two bleeding punctures between the nail and the knuckle, at the right distance apart, and the expressions of pain no doubt were not altogether simulated. The supposed poison was extracted by means of the usual spells and remedial agents--a charmed piece of creeper and a tiny ball of lime, the latter to check the progress of the poison along the arm, and the former to draw it down to the wounds; and two "snake stones"--nearly flat rectangular pieces of horn slightly hollowed on one side--which were placed on the wounds to extract the poison. These "stones" adhere by atmospheric pressure when wetted and pressed on the skin with the hollowed side downwards. I have been informed that the wounds are made by pressing on the thumb a thorny seed capsule which has two sharp spikes at a suitable distance apart. One of these men afterwards proceeded to a large village about a mile away, and appeared to capture three more cobras in the same manner at houses where the residents denied that any were to be found; but in the end I was told by the villagers that he had only two cobras in his basket, this being the number that I saw in his possession before these last pretended captures were made. These people are said to live well, better, indeed, than the majority of the villagers. The women are given to lavish personal adornment of an inexpensive kind, chiefly articles of brass and glass. On one lady, perhaps considered a beauty, I counted sixteen bead necklaces; twenty-four bangles, chiefly of common black glass, on the wrists; four silver armlets on the upper arms; and six rings on each finger and thumb, excepting only the middle finger of each hand. The Kandian village is a self-contained unit, producing everything that the inhabitants require, with the exception of the few articles previously mentioned. It hears a faint echo of the news of the great outer world, without feeling that this has any connexion with its own life. It would listen with almost equal indifference to a statement that the sky was blue, or that England was at war with a European power, or that a new Governor had been appointed. When I asked a villager's opinion regarding the transfer of a Government Agent who had ruled a Province for some years, he replied, "They say one Agent has gone and another Agent has come; that is all." The supervision of the work of maintaining in order the embankment of the village reservoir or "tank," upon which the rice crops depend, as well as of the fencing of the rice field, is in the hands of the Gamarala, now termed in other parts than the North-central Province, the Vidane. The latter title is not recognised in any of the folk-tales, in which (with one exception) the Gamarala is the only headman represented. His jurisdiction extends over two or three closely adjoining villages, or sometimes over one only. Of a higher rank and different functions is the Aracci (pronounced Aratchy), who rules over five or six villages, and who is responsible for the maintenance of order, arrests and prosecutes offenders, and acts as general factotum for seeing that the orders received from superior headmen are promulgated and obeyed. Of much more important authority are the Korale-Aracci and Korala, the latter being the head of a considerable district, and above these again is the Ratemahatmaya, who is the supreme and very influential chief of a large part of a Province. By successive steps in promotion the members of influential or respectable families may rise to any of these offices. Though all but the highest one are unsalaried, they are competed for with a good deal of eagerness on account of the power which they confer, the possibility of further promotion, and also for the opportunities which they afford for receiving "presents," which flow in a pleasing though invisible, but not therefore less remunerative, stream towards all but the Vidanes and Gamaralas. A few words may be added regarding the castes of the Kandian districts whose stories are given in this work, or who are referred to. The Smiths come next to the cultivating caste, sometimes occupying separate hamlets, but often living in the same village as the superior caste, though divided from it by an impassable gulf, of which only the women preserve the outward sign. Those of the cultivating caste are alone permitted by social custom to dress in one outer robe in one piece; all of lower rank must wear a separate garment from the waist upward. The Smiths are considered to be the highest class of their caste, called Nayide, the artificers. There are said to be five classes of Nayides:--(1) Acari (pronounced Atchary), which includes the Smiths, Painters, and Sculptors; (2) Badahaela, Potters; (3) Mukkara or Karawa, Fishers; (4) Madinna, Toddy-drawers ("toddy" is fresh palm-juice); (5) all "Moormen," the descendants of Muhammadan settlers. All these, and the other low castes, except the Rodiyas, cultivate rice and millet. The Potters live by making all local forms of earthen pottery, and tiles and bricks if required. They build up large temporary kilns filled with alternate layers of pots and fire-wood, and are often intelligent men. Some of them are priests or conductors of services for the propitiation of planets and other evil astronomical bodies, as well as astrologers. Next in the villages come the Washermen (Radawa, or Henaya, or Henawalaya), who possess great power as the arbiters regarding cases of the violation of social etiquette or custom. The disgrace of a refusal on their part to wash the clothes of objectionable persons is a form of social ostracism, and the offender soon has sad experience of the truth of the statement of the Maha Bharata that there is nothing (except fire) that is so purifying as gold (or its value). Some of the washermen are officiators at demon ceremonies. They are paid for their services as washermen in produce of various kinds, each family giving an annual subvention in paddy, etc., in return for its washing. One whom I knew could improvise four-line stanzas for an indefinite time, on the spur of the moment, each verse being composed while the audience chanted the refrain after the preceding one. The Tom-tom Beaters (Berawaya) are a peculiar and interesting caste, who formerly combined their present duties with the weaving of cotton fabrics in frames. Although the arduous work of their profession--often a whole night's hard dancing or tom-toming--leads at the time to a considerable consumption of "arrack," the spirit distilled from palm juice, I believe that few of them take much liquor at other times. In their own work many of them are very expert, the result of many years of training. On one occasion three tom-tom beaters requested permission to give me an exhibition of their skill. The leader first played a short simple tune, which was repeated in turn by the second and third players. They continued to play in this way, in turn, the tunes becoming increasingly difficult and rapid; whatever impromptu changes the leader introduced were all repeated in the same manner by the others. A number of villagers who were present, and listening critically, stated that it was a clever performance; it was also a noisy one. The boys are taught to learn thoroughly, without using a tom-tom, the whole of the complicated airs that are played, repeating a series of sounds such as ting, tang, etc., which with varying emphasis represent the various notes to be played on the tom-tom. Not until they can give in this manner the whole of an air correctly, as regards notes, time, and emphasis, are they considered to know it. It is a tonic sol-fa system. To these professionals, every air has its name and meaning, often expressed in words which fit the notes; so that when a very few notes have been heard they can state what is being said. The reader will find one or two references to this in the folk-tales. The Durayas are the carriers of baggage for the higher caste, and nearly always have tanks and fields of more than average quality. These have been granted to them in former times by the cultivating caste in return for their services, which could be claimed at any time if a man were about to proceed on a journey, and required himself or his luggage carrying. They still occupy a very low social position. Formerly the women were not allowed to wear above the waist more clothing than a strip of calico of about a hand's breadth, across the breast; a coloured handkerchief now generally takes its place. Much has been written about the Rodiyas. They may be of partly different descent from the Sinhalese, but I do not know how far this matter has been investigated. Their hamlets are never called gama, "village," but kuppayama. [3] I am not aware that any of them cultivate rice fields; they make ropes, and guard chenas and cattle for others. They also partly subsist by begging, and, it is said, by theft; some are gamblers also. The women usually wear no clothing above the waist. Their dialect differs from Sinhalese to some extent. Nothing is known regarding the origin of the Kinnaras, the lowest caste of all, in whose case there are several anomalies that deserve investigation. They do not hunt as a profession. They have village tanks and rice fields, own cattle, and have good houses and neat villages. Their caste occupation is mat weaving in frames, with Niyanda fibre alone or combined with grass. Some have their heads covered with a mass of thick, short, very curly hair, being the only people in the island possessing this distinctive characteristic. The features and the colour of the skin are of the ordinary type of the lower castes, and would not enable them to be recognised from others. Social rules forbid the growth of the hair beyond the neck. The dress of the women is restricted like that of the Durayas. Though they can never enter Buddhist temples, or the enclosures round them, they are all Buddhists. I was informed that their social ceremonies, as well as the religious ones, that is, those for propitiating evil spirits, whether demoniacal or planetary, closely resemble those of the other castes; and that they, as well as the Rodiyas, have their own medical practitioners, astrologers, soothsayers, and kapuwas or officiators at demon ceremonies. The men of the Chetti caste, or Hettiyas, who are mentioned in some of the stories, are either Indians, or the descendants of Indian settlers. The Chetti caste is one of great importance, and many of its members are persons of the highest respectability and often of great wealth. The persons referred to in these tales are only some of the inferior members of the race, some of whom have little road-side shops or cultivate small fields and gardens. Coming at last to the stories themselves, I may quote the words of the late Mr. W. Goonetilleke, the learned editor of The Orientalist, a journal published during the years 1884-1892, in which many folk-tales of Ceylon were given. Mr. Goonetilleke said (vol. i. p. 36), "What is really wanted ... are the genuine stories of the Sinhalese [and other races also], those which are quite free from foreign influences, and have existed among the people from time immemorial. These can only be gathered from the inhabitants of villages and of the remoter parts of the island into which western civilization has not yet penetrated." It is an adherence to this advice, and, I may say also, the complete absence of all attempts to give the tales a literary appearance that the originals do not possess, which constitute the special features of the present work. Though all have been collected by myself, I have only myself written down a very limited number from dictation. All the rest have been written for me in Sinhalese by the narrators themselves, or by other villagers employed by me to collect them, who wrote them just as they were dictated. I preferred this latter method as being free from any disturbing foreign influence. Only three very short stories were written down by me in English; two of them were related in English by a Sinhalese gentleman, and the other, a variant of another story, was written immediately after a Buddhist monk had related it to me in Sinhalese. The stories, as they now appear, are practically literal translations of the written Sinhalese originals, perhaps it may be thought in some respects too literal. My aim has been to present them as nearly as possible in the words in which they are related in the villages. The only liberty of any importance that I have taken has been the insertion of an occasional word or phrase where it was evidently omitted by the narrator, or was necessary in order to elucidate the meaning, or complete the sense. It was unavoidable that many expressions, such as "afterwards," "after that," "at that time," "then," "again," with which the village story-teller repeatedly begins his sentences, should be deleted. Many past participles which Sinhalese grammar requires have been transformed into the past tense, and most of the tense errors have been corrected, and in rare instances an unmanageable sentence has been cut in two. Such a word as "came," when it expressed "came back," is sometimes translated "returned"; and "said," where it referred to an answer, is occasionally turned into "replied." The word translated as "behead," is merely "cut" in the original; but the context sometimes shows that the other meaning is to be understood. In other respects, the reader may rely on having here the tales in their true village forms, and expressed in the same simple manner. I have even left one peculiar idiom that is often used, according to which a question is described as being asked, or a statement made, "at the hand" of a person; but I do not follow the village story-teller in using this form in conversations carried on with the lower animals. It is quite usual in Sinhalese to state that a question was asked by a person "at the hand" (lit. "from the hand," the same word meaning also "fore-paw") of a jackal, a deer, or a reptile. It will be seen that I have not attempted to translate the interjections into English. It will be noticed that in the majority of the tales the characters are introduced in the present tense, which is then abandoned. The narrators sometimes relapse into it afterwards, but as a rule, unless action is being emphasised, I have adhered to the past tense in such instances, excepting in the stories told by the Village Vaeddas and the lowest castes, in which it seemed advisable to make as little change as possible. Attention may be invited to the tales told by the lowest castes, probably the only stories of theirs that have ever been collected in Ceylon. From the Tom-tom Beaters a considerable number were obtained, some of which will appear in a later volume. The few tales that have been told by the Rodiyas and Kinnaras are very simple; the chief fact is that they have any to tell. It appeared to be likely that some of the Sindbad series of adventures might be found in Ceylon, but inquiries made in different districts, including part of the west coast, failed to reveal any tales belonging to the "Arabian Nights," with the exception of one which probably was derived from a printed work, and orally transmitted from one of the towns. It is still possible that some may be found, as the Rukh is included in the Sinhalese tales, and the ogre called Rakshasa, who is a familiar personage in them, is correctly described in his folk-tale form, in one of the Sindbad voyages. In one story, which is not included in this work, there is the incident of the demon who was imprisoned in a bottle. The demon was Mara, Death personified, and his captor was a Vedarala, or medical practitioner. The age of the tale is uncertain. It is evident that many of the stories belong to distant times, but there is little to indicate their age more definitely. In one tale only, of this volume, the money mentioned is the kahawanuwa, in old Sinhalese kahawana, the Pali kahapana, a coin that ceased to be current by the tenth or eleventh century A.D., if not considerably earlier. Commonly, we find that the coinage is the masurama, plural masuran, which came into use in the eleventh century and was not coined after the thirteenth; but of course this is far from proving that the stories in which it occurs are not of much earlier date. There are no references to the Portuguese, who arrived in Ceylon at the beginning of the sixteenth century, or to later foreign residents; but a Tamil king is mentioned. Although a large number of the stories relate the adventures of Kings, Queens, Princes and Princesses, it will be observed that these personages sometimes behave like ordinary villagers. The Queen or Princess often cooks the rice for the family meal; Sir Bartle Frere has stated in the notes at the end of Old Deccan Days, p. 324, that this "would be nothing unusual in the house of a Rajah.... It is still the most natural precaution he can take against poison, to eat nothing but what has been prepared by his own wife or daughter, or under their eye in his own zenana, and there are few accomplishments on which an Indian Princess prides herself more than on her skill in cookery." It is not to be understood that such persons in these stories are supposed to be members of the family of the ruling monarch of Ceylon. These so-called "kings," ruling over a small district or even a single city, are in reality some of the more important parumakas or feudal chiefs of the inscriptions of pre-Christian or early post-Christian years. This old title does not make its appearance in the stories, however. Vaedda rulers who are termed "kings" receive notice in three stories. In one which was given in Ancient Ceylon, p. 93, a Vaedda youth was appointed the king of a Sinhalese district, which is stated to have prospered under his rule. In a tale in the present volume (No. 4) reference is made to a Vaedda "king" who dwelt in a forest, and who arrested some travellers and imprisoned them in what is termed a house. In another story, which is not included here, there is an account of another Vaedda "king" who lived in a forest, and who ordered his archers to kill a prince who had succeeded to the sovereignty of a neighbouring district on the death of his father, and was proceeding there in order to assume it. His offence lay in travelling through the forest without first obtaining the permission of the Vaedda ruler. We also find references to Vaeddas who were accustomed to enter the towns; one of them laid a complaint before a Sinhalese "king" that a person had threatened to kill him in the forest. Probably in all these instances we have a true picture of the actual position, in early times, of some of the Vaeddas who had not yet adopted, or had abandoned, the village life. Their chiefs were practically independent in their wild forests. The Rakshasas (in village spelling Rasaya, Rasi) who are introduced into many tales are ogres like those of Europe. The Yakas are always demons or evil spirits, of little intelligence, often having a human appearance but black in colour. They live chiefly upon human flesh, like the ogres, and possess like them some supernatural powers. With regard to the animals mentioned, it is strange to find such prominence accorded to the Lion, which has never existed in a wild state in Ceylon. Its characteristics are correctly described, even including its ear-splitting roar. The place taken by the Fox of European tales is filled by the Jackal, full of craft and stratagems, but sometimes over-reaching himself. The Hare and Turtle are represented as surpassing all the animals in cleverness, as in African and American Negro stories. Of all the animals, the poor Leopard is relegated to the lowest place, both as regards want of intelligence and cowardice; and in only one adventure does he come off better than the Jackal. Even in that one his position is a despicable one, and he is completely cowed by a little Mouse-deer, the clever animal of Malay stories. In Ceylon the Leopard occupies the place taken in India by the foolish Tiger. It is perhaps the chief merit of these stories, and certainly a feature which gives them a permanent value, that we have in them the only existing picture of the village life of ancient times, painted by the villagers themselves. From the histories we can learn practically nothing regarding the life of those of the ancient inhabitants of Ceylon who were not monks or connected with royalty, or the conditions under which they existed. It is here alone that the reader finds the daily experiences and the ideas and beliefs of the villagers gradually unfolded before him. In some of the stories we may see how the village life went on in the early centuries after Christ, and how little it has changed since that time. Others doubtless contain particulars which belong to a much later period, and in some there is an incongruous mixture of the old and the new, as when the slates of school children are introduced into what is evidently a tale of considerable age. In the case of stories like these, composed for the amusement of villagers only, and related by villagers to other villagers, it might be expected that a considerable number of objectionable expressions would occur. So far from this being the fact, I am able to state with much satisfaction that in only three or four instances in this volume has it been thought desirable to slightly modify any part of the stories. It is to be remembered that it is not the function of these tales in general to inculcate ideas of morality or propriety, although kindness of heart is always represented as meeting with some adequate reward or success, and the wicked and cruel are punished in most cases. But successful trickery and clever stratagems are always quoted approvingly, and are favourite themes in the tales which are most evidently of entirely local origin. In this respect they do not differ from many Indian stories. Undaunted bravery, and also self-abnegation and deep affection, are characteristics which are displayed by many of the heroes and heroines; but untruthfulness is practised, and is never condemned. The instances of polygamy are almost confined to the members of the royal families; there is one case of polyandry in which both the husbands were brothers. Infanticide was practised; in one tale a woman is recommended to kill her infant son because his horoscope was said to be unpropitious, and in another the parents abandoned their newly-born infant in order to carry home some fruit. In a story that is not included in this volume, a king is described as ordering all his female children to be killed immediately after birth. In another tale which is not given here, another king is stated to have sold his children during a time of scarcity. These "kings," however, are almost always depicted in an unfavourable light. They are represented as cowardly, selfish, licentious, unintelligent, and headstrong, ordering their sons or others to be executed for very slight faults, in sudden fits of anger. Murders are referred to as being commonly committed with impunity, and by no means of unusual occurrence. One man is said to have exchanged his wife for a bullock. Yet although the story-tellers do not relate social events which were not within the range of the common experience or traditions of the people at the time when the tales were invented, it may be doubted if the great mass of the villagers differed much as regards crime and morality from those of the present day. The humdrum life of the ordinary villager did not appeal to the story-teller, who required more stirring incidents. It is not necessary to assume that such events were of everyday occurrence. Considering the situation of Ceylon and the Indian origin of the people, it was certain that numerous tales would be similar to those of India, if not identical with them; but, with the exception of the story of the Creation, there are merely bare references to the Indian deities in about four of the tales in this volume. The great majority of the folk-tales collected by me, and almost the whole of those given in this volume, come from districts of the far interior of the island, where story-books in Sinhalese, Tamil, [4] or Arabic do not appear to have penetrated, and English is unknown by the villagers. Such tales are therefore nearly free from modern extraneous influences, and must be looked upon as often of genuine Sinhalese origin, even when they utilise the usual stock incidents of Indian folk-stories. A very few which resemble Jataka stories may owe their dissemination to Buddhist teaching, and doubtless some also were orally transmitted by immigrants who were often of South Indian nationality--as their similarity to South Indian stories shows--or in some instances may have been settlers from the Ganges valley, or near it. With regard to the latter, it is not probable that they consisted only of the early immigrants of pre-Christian times. King Nissanka-Malla, who reigned from 1198 to 1207 A.D., has recorded in his inscriptions that he was a native of Sinhapura, then apparently the capital of the Kalinga kingdom, which extended far down the east coast of India, southward from the lower part of the Ganges valley; and he and his Chief Queen Subhadra, a Kalinga Princess, must have brought into Ceylon many of their fellow-countrymen. The Queens of two other earlier Kings of Ceylon were also Princesses from Kalinga. In the Galpota inscription at Polannaruwa (Prof. E. Müller's Ancient Inscriptions in Ceylon, No. 148), he stated that "invited by the King [Parakrama-Bahu I], who was his senior kinsman, to come and reign over his hereditary kingdom of Lakdiva [Ceylon], Vira Nissanka-Malla landed with a great retinue in Lanka" [Ceylon]. Further on in the same inscription he stated that "he sent to the country of Kalinga, and caused many Princesses of the Soma and Surya races to be brought hither." A connexion with the Kalinga kingdom seems to have been maintained from early times. In his inscriptions the same king claimed that the sovereignty of Ceylon belonged by right to the Kalinga dynasty. He described himself in his Dambulla inscription (Ancient Inscriptions, No. 143), as "the liege lord of Lakdiva by right of birth, deriving descent from the race of King Wijaya," the first king of Ceylon, who according to the Sinhalese historical works was also born at a town called Sinhapura, which is stated to have been founded by his father. In the Galpota inscription we read of "Princes of the Kalinga race to whom the island of Lanka has been peculiarly appropriate since the reign of Wijaya." Nissanka-Malla was succeeded by his elder half-brother, Sahasa-Malla, who remarked in his Polannaruwa inscription (Anc. Inscriptions, No. 156) that he also was born at Sinhapura. He, too, claimed that Wijaya was a member of their family. He said, "Because King Wijaya, having destroyed the Yakshas, established Lanka like a field made by rooting out the stumps, it is a place much protected by Kings from this very family." Thus it will be seen that stories which are current in Central India, or the lower part of the Ganges Valley, or even the Panjab, as well as tales of Indian animals such as the Lion, may have been brought direct to Ceylon by immigrants from Kalinga, or Magadha, or Bengal. Apparently it is in this manner that the evident connexion between the tales of Ceylon and Kashmir is to be explained, the stories passing from Magadha or neighbouring districts, to Kashmir on the one side, and from Magadha or Kalinga to Ceylon on the other. To show the connexion of the Sinhalese stories with those of India, the outlines of some Indian parallels have been appended after each tale, as well as a very few from the interior of Western Africa; but no European variants, except in two instances, where they are inserted for the benefit of readers in Ceylon. The stories have been arranged in two parts. In the first one are those told by members of the Cultivating Caste and Village Vaeddas; in the second one those related of or by members of lower castes. Those of each caste are given consecutively, the animal stories in each case coming last. The general reader is advised to pay no attention to diacritical marks or dots which indicate separate letters in the Sinhalese alphabet, or to note only the long vowels. In all cases ae is to be pronounced as a diphthong, like a in "hat," and not to rhyme with "me." It is short where not marked long. Enough material has been collected for a second volume, which it is hoped may be published next year. As reference has been made to the subject in the foregoing extracts from Sinhalese inscriptions, a few lines may be added regarding the district from which Wijaya came, and his journey to Ceylon. The sentences that have been quoted prove that at the beginning of the thirteenth century A.D., it was claimed by two kings of Ceylon who came from Sinhapura in the Kalinga country that they were of the same family as Wijaya. At a very early date the lands along the southern bank of the Ganges were divided into a series of states that once were independent. Proceeding eastward in the lower part of the valley, these were Magadha, occupying southern Bihar, with its capital Rajagaha (called also Rajagriha and Girivraja), afterwards abandoned in favour of Pataliputta, near Patna; Anga, separated from it by the river Campa (c pronounced as ch), on which was its capital Campa; Vanga or Banga, probably extending on both sides of the Ganges, and forming part of the modern Bengal; and Tamalitta, or Tamralipta, with a capital of the same name at Tamluk, near the southern mouth of the Ganges. Extending along the east coast was Kalinga; and between it and Magadha and Anga came the Pundra and Odra states, the latter occupying part of Orissa. An old legend recorded that several of these states had a common origin. It was said that the wife of a Yadava king Vali or Bali had five sons, Anga, Vanga, Kalinga, Pundra and Odra or Sunga, each of whom founded a separate state. The names of the first four are grouped together several times in the Maha Bharata, as taking part with Kosala and Magadha in the great legendary fight against the Pandavas, and on one day the troops from Magadha and Kalinga are said to have formed, with another people, one wing of the Kuru army. Regarding Kalinga, Pliny gives the name of a race called the Maccocalingæ, who have been thought to belong to Orissa, and he wrote that the Modogalingæ occupied a very large island in the Ganges, that is, apparently part of the delta. At a later date there were said to be three districts called collectively Trikalinga. Whether these were portions of the more southern part of the Kalinga country only, or included the land of the Modogalingæ, is not clear. If the Kalinga kingdom once included the territory of the Modogalingæ, the Tamalitta district would be part of the Kalinga country at that time; but apparently Vanga was unconnected with Kalinga, the two being mentioned as separate kingdoms. Divested of its impossibilities, the story of Wijaya's ancestry which is contained in the Sinhalese histories is that a king of Vanga, who had married the daughter of a king of Kalinga, had a daughter who joined a caravan that was proceeding to Magadha. On the way, either a robber chief called Siha, "Lion," attacked and plundered the caravan, and carried off the Princess, or she joined a member of the caravan who had that name. They settled down in a wild tract of country termed Lala, near the western border of the Vanga territory. There she had two children--the eldest being Siha-Bahu--with whom she afterwards returned to the Vanga capital, where her cousin Anura, who became King of Vanga, is said to have married her. Her son Siha-Bahu went back to his father's district, Lala, founded a town called Sihapura or Sinhapura, and lived there as the ruler of the country around. Evidently it was a subordinate district belonging to Vanga; it is stated that the Vanga king granted it to him (Mah. i. p. 31). It is not mentioned in the Ramayana, the Maha Bharata, the Jataka stories, or in the lists of countries given in the Puranas to which I have access; but the people of Lata are referred to in a tenth century grant from Bhagalpur, a town on territory that once formed the eastern part of Magadha (Indo-Aryans, by Dr. R. Mitra, ii. 273). The first marriage or elopement of the Princess does not appear to have affected the status of her son Siha-Bahu. According to the histories, his eldest son, Wijaya, eventually married the daughter of the Pandiyan king of the southern Madura, and his second son, Sumitta, who succeeded him, married the daughter of the King of Madda or Madra, probably a small eastern state of that name, rather than the distant Madda in the Panjab. The Sinhalese histories record that Wijaya was exiled on account of his lawless behaviour, but the truth of this statement may be doubted, and it is a suspicious fact that this part of the story resembles folk-tales from Kashmir. [5] We are informed in those works not only that he was exiled, but that he was also forcibly deported by sea, together with seven hundred followers, and their wives and children, that is, two or three thousand persons. All that is actually credible in this incident is that for a reason which is unknown, perhaps a love of adventure, or possibly at the solicitation of traders who had settled there, he proceeded by sea to Ceylon, where he became the first Sinhalese king. Most probably he accompanied a party of Magadhese or other merchants. It is recorded that from an early period vessels sailed across the Bay of Bengal from various ports on the Ganges. In the Jataka stories some are mentioned as passing down the Ganges from Benares with traders, and being far out at sea for several days, and even going to Suvanna Bhumi (Burma) and back. Tamalitta was a famous port in early times and for many centuries; and there is a definite and credible statement that vessels sailed direct from it to Ceylon in the reign of Asoka, in the third century B.C. There is no reason to suppose that similar voyages were not undertaken long prior to the period during which the Jatakas were being composed. If they are not mentioned in earlier Buddhist works, this may have been merely owing to the fact that their authors felt no interest in the trade of the countries near the mouth of the Ganges. In the presence of such evidence of the sea-going capabilities of the vessels which sailed from the ports on the Ganges, the statement of the Sinhalese histories that Wijaya embarked at Baroach, on the western coast, whether accompanied by a large party of followers and numerous women and children or not, cannot be credited. It is impossible to believe that any travellers who wished to proceed to Ceylon in the fifth century B.C., from a district lying between Anga and Vanga, and probably within a few miles of a port from which vessels sailed, would not step on board a ship at their own doors, so to speak, rather than undertake an arduous journey across several other countries, in order to embark at a port more than eight hundred miles away in a direct line, which when reached was still no nearer their destination. In any case, there is no likelihood that a large number of women and children were taken, unless we are prepared to accept the improbable hypothesis that a fleet of ships was expressly chartered for the voyage. In the case of the small vessels which ventured on such long trading expeditions, every foot of storage space would be required for the goods that were carried, and for the accommodation of the merchants who went to exchange these for the products of the ports at which they called. It is most unlikely that many other passengers were ever carried so far in Indian ships in early times, notwithstanding fanciful tales of imaginary ships with hundreds on board, in the Jataka stories. Nissanka-Malla and his brother do not claim that the Sinhapura at which they were born was the city founded by Wijaya's father. It is possible, however, that they could trace some distant connexion with the Lala family, and it has been noted already that Wijaya's great-great-grandfather was said to be a king of Kalinga. NOTE. With regard to the exorcism of the flies, I give a relation of the similar treatment of locusts in Abyssinia, by Father Francis Alvarez, who visited that country in 1520, in the suite of a Portuguese Ambassador. The account is appended in Pory's translation of the History of Africa, by Leo Africanus, 1600, p. 352. An appeal having been made to Alvarez to drive away an enormous flight of locusts, "which to our iudgement couered fower and twentie miles of lande," the following is his own record of the proceedings:-- "And so I went to the Ambassadour, and told him, that it would be very good to goe on procession, beseeching God that hee woulde deliuer the countrie, who peraduenture in his great mercie might heare vs. This liked the Ambassadour very well: and the day following we gathered togither the people of the land, with all the priests, and taking the consecrated stone, and the crosse, according to their custome, all we Portugals sung the Letanie, and appointed those of the land, that they should lift vp their voices aloud as we did, saying in their language Zio marina Christos, which is as much to say, as Lord God haue mercy vpon vs: and with this manner of inuocation we went ouer a peece of grounde, where there were fieldes of wheate, for the space of a mile, euen to a little hill: and heere I caused many of these locustes to be taken, pronouncing ouer them a certaine coniuration, which I had about me in writing, hauing made it that night, requesting, admonishing, and excommunicating them, enioining them within the space of three howers to depart towards the sea, or the lande of the Moores, or the desert mountaines, and to let the Christians alone: and they not performing this, I summoned and charged the birdes of heauen, the beasts of the earth, and all sorts of tempests, to scatter, destroy, and eate vp their bodies: and to this effect I tooke a quantitie of locusts, making this admonition to them present, in the behalfe likewise of them absent, [6] and so giuing them libertie, I suffered them to depart. It pleased God to heare us sinners, for in our returne home, they came so thicke vpon our backes, as it seemed that they woulde haue broken our heads, or shoulders, so hard they strooke against vs, as if we had beene beaten with stones and cudgels, and in this sort they went towards the sea: The men, women, and children remaining at home, were gotten vpon the tops, or tarrasses of their houses, giuing God thankes that the locusts were going away, some afore, and others followed. In the meane while towardes the sea, there arose a great cloude with thunder, which met them full in the teeth, and continued for the space of three howers with much raine, and tempest, that filled all the riuers, and when the raine ceased, it was a fearefull thing to behold the dead Locustes, which were more then two yardes [marginal note, or fathomes] in height vpon the bankes of the riuers, and in some riuers there were mightie heapes of them, so that the morning following there was not one of them found aliue vpon the earth." PART I STORIES TOLD BY THE CULTIVATING CASTE AND VAEDDAS. NO. 1 THE MAKING OF THE GREAT EARTH From the earliest time, the whole of this world, being filled up and overflowed by a great rain, and being completely destroyed, was in darkness. There were neither men, nor living beings, nor anything whatever. During the time while it was in this state, Great Vishnu thought, "In what manner, having lowered the water, should the earth be established?" Having thought this, Great Vishnu went to the God Saman. Having gone there, he asked at the hand of the God Saman, "What is the way to establish this earth?" The God Saman replied, "There is no one among us [gods] who can establish this earth." Thereupon the God Great Vishnu asked, "Then who is able to do it?" The God Saman said, "You must go to the residence of Rahu; he can do it." After that, the God Great Vishnu went to the abode of Rahu, and spoke to Rahu, the Asura Chief [7]: "Rahu, Asura Chief, our residence has been swallowed up by water; on account of that can even you make us an earth?" Then Rahu, the Asura Chief, said, "Countless beings having gone to the world of Brahma (i.e., having been destroyed in the water), how can I descend into the water which is there?" The God Great Vishnu asked, "In what way, then, can you make the earth?" Rahu told him to put a lotus seed into the water. After that, the God Great Vishnu, having returned to this world, placed a lotus seed in the water. Having placed it there, in seven days the lotus seed sprouted. Then the God Vishnu again went to the dwelling-place of Rahu. Having gone there, he spoke to Rahu, the Asura Chief: "The lotus plant has now sprouted." Afterwards Rahu arose, and came with the God Vishnu to this world. Having made ready to descend into the water, he asked Great Vishnu, "What thing am I to bring up from the bottom of the water?" Then Great Vishnu said, "I do not want any [special] thing; bring a handful of sand." Rahu, having said "Ha" (Yes), descending along that lotus stalk proceeded until he met with the earth. Having descended to the earth in seven days, taking a handful of sand he returned to the surface again in seven days more. Having come there, he gave the handful of sand into the hand of the God Great Vishnu. After it was given, taking it and squeezing it in his hand, the God Great Vishnu placed it on the water. Having placed it there the God Great Vishnu made the resolution: "This water having dried up, may the Earth be created." Afterwards, that small quantity of sand not going to the bottom, but turning and turning round on the surface of the water, the water began to diminish. Thus, in that manner, in three months and three-quarters of the moon, the water having diminished, the earth was made. After it was formed, this world was there in darkness for a long time. [After the light had appeared], the God Great Vishnu thought: "We must make men." Having gone to the God Saman he said, "What is the use of being the owner of this world when it is in this state? We must make men." The God Saman said, "Let us two make them." Then those two spoke to each other: "Let us first of all make a Brahmana." Saying that, they made a Brahmana from that earth, and having given breath to the Brahmana those two told him to arise. Then the Brahmana arose by the power of those Gods; and having arisen, that Brahmana conversed with those Gods. Then the God Vishnu said, "Brahmana, for thy assistance thou art to make for thyself a woman." Afterwards the Brahmana by the power of those very Gods made a woman, and from that time men began to increase in number up to to-day. North-western Province. This is evidently a story of the last creation. In Hinduism there is a series of four ages termed Yugas, each ended by a destruction of the world by fire, which is quenched by cataclysmal rainfall. These are the Krita, Treta, Dwapara, and Kali Yugas, their periods being respectively 4,000, 3,000, 2,000, and 1,000 divine years. There are also intermediate periods equal to one-tenth of each of the adjoining Yugas. A divine year being 360 times as long as a human year, the whole series, called a Maha Yuga, amounts to about 4,320,000 years (Vishnu Purana, Wilson, p. 24). When a series is ended the order is reversed, that is, the Kali Yuga, which is the present one, is followed by the Dwapara. The Vishnu Purana, p. 12, thus describes the state of things before the original creation: "There was neither day nor night, nor sky nor earth, nor darkness nor light, nor any other thing, save only One"--"the Universal Soul," the All-God, Vishnu in the form of Brahma. His action is thus summarised: "Affecting then the quality of activity Hari [Vishnu], the Lord of all, himself becoming Brahma, engaged in the creation of the universe." At the end of the Yuga, "the same mighty deity, Janarddana, invested with the quality of darkness, assumes the awful form of Rudra, and swallows up the universe. Having thus devoured all things, and converted the world into one vast ocean, the Supreme reposes on his mighty serpent couch amidst the deep: he awakes after a season, and again, as Brahma, becomes the author of creation (V.P., p. 19). In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 583, there were two Danavas, a form of Asura, "invincible even by gods," who impeded Prajapati in his work of creation. The only way which the Creator could hit upon to destroy them was to create two lovely maidens, one black and one white. Each of the Danavas wished to carry off both, so they fought over them and killed each other. It is only in the Sinhalese story that we find an Asura assisting in the creation. Rahu is usually known as a dark planetary sign, a dragon's head, which endeavours to swallow the sun and moon, and thus causes eclipses, at which time, only, it is seen. In the account of the great Churning of the Ocean, it is evident that he was supposed originally to have, or to be able to assume, a figure indistinguishable from those of the Gods. The story of the application of Vishnu for Rahu's assistance is based on the Indian notion that the Asuras were of more ancient date than the Gods. The Maha Bharata states that they were the elder brothers of the Gods, and were more powerful than the Gods, who were unable to conquer them in their strongholds under the sea. The God Saman is Indra, the elder brother of Vishnu. According to the Maha Bharata, Vishnu assuming the form of a boar raised the earth to the surface of the waters (which covered it to the depth of one hundred yojanas), on his tusk, without the aid of any other deity. The following accounts of the state of things in very early times are borrowed from The Orientalist, vol. iii., pp. 79 and 78, to which they were contributed by Mr. D. A. Jayawardana. "In the primitive good old days the sky was not so far off from the earth as at present. The sun and moon in their course through the heavens sometimes came in close contact with the house-tops. The stars were stationed so close to the earth that they served as lamps to the houses. "Once upon a time, there was a servant-maid who was repeatedly disturbed by the passing clouds when she was sweeping the compound [the enclosure round the house], and this was to her a real nuisance. One cloudy morning, when this naughty girl was sweeping the compound as usual, the clouds came frequently in contact with the broom-stick and interfered with her work. "Losing all patience she gave a smart blow to the firmament with the broom-stick, saying, 'Get away from hence.' The sky, as a matter of course, was quite ashamed at the affront [8] thus offered to it by a servant-girl, and flew away far, far out of human reach, in order to avoid a similar catastrophe again." The second account is as follows: "Till a long period after the creation, man did not know the use of most of the vegetables now used by him for food. His food at first consisted of some substance like boiled milk, which then grew spontaneously upon the earth. This substance since disappeared, and rice took its place, and grew abundantly without the husk. "The Jak fruit (Artocarpus integrifolia), one of the principal articles of food of the Sinhalese, was not even touched, as it was thought to be poisonous. The God Sakra [Indra] bethought himself of teaching mankind that Jak was not a deadly fruit, but an article of wholesome food." The story goes on to relate that, assuming the form of an old man, he got a woman to boil some Jak seeds for him, with injunctions not to eat them or she would die; but the smell being appetizing she first tasted one, and then ate a quantity. NO. 2 THE SUN, THE MOON, AND GREAT PADDY In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. There are also the children of those two persons, the elder brother and younger brother and elder sister. Well then, while these three persons were there, the man having died those children provided subsistence for the mother of the three. One day the three persons went to join a party of friends in assisting a neighbour in his work. [9] That mother stayed at home. For that woman there was not a thing to eat. Should those persons bring food, she eats; if not, not. When the three persons were eating the food provided for the working party, the elder sister and the elder brother having eaten silently, without even a [thought of the] matter of their mother, came away home. The younger brother thought, "Ane! We three persons having eaten here, on our going how about food for our mother? I must take some." Placing a similar quantity of cooked rice and a little vegetable curry under the corner of his finger nail, the three came back. Then the mother asked at the hand of the elder sister, "Where, daughter, is cooked rice and vegetable curry for me?" She said, "I have not brought any. Having indeed eaten I came [empty-handed]." Then the mother said to the daughter, "Thou wilt be cooked in hell itself." Having called the elder son she asked, "Where, son, is the cooked rice and vegetable curry for me?" The son said, "Mother, I have not brought it. Having indeed eaten, I came [empty-handed]." Then the mother said to the son, "Be off, very speedily." Having called the young younger brother she asked, "Where, son, is cooked rice and vegetable curry for me?" Then that son said, "Mother, hold a pot." After that, the mother brought it and held it. The son struck down his finger nail in it. Then the pot was filled and overflowed. Afterwards the mother, having eaten the rice and curry, gave authority to those three persons, to the elder brother, to the younger brother, and to the sister older than both of them. Firstly, having called the elder sister she said, "Thou shalt be cooked even in hell." That elder sister herself now having become Great Paddy, [10] while in hell is cooked in mud. She told the eldest son to go speedily. That elder brother himself having become the Sun, goes very speedily. For the Sun, in very truth (aettema), there is no rest. In the little time in which the eyelids fall, the Sun goes seven gawwas, [11] they say. At the time when the Great Paddy is ripening, the Sun goes across (harahin). [12] Because it is older than the Sun, [13] the Great Paddy represents the elder sister. Having called the younger son she said, "My son, go you in the very wind (pawanema) [14]." That one himself having become the Moon, now goes in the wind. For the Moon in very truth there is not a difficulty, by the authority given by the Mother. North-western Province. NO. 3 THE STORY OF SENASURA [15] In a certain country a man having been stricken by the evil influence (apale) of Senasura, any cultivation work or anything whatever which the man performs does not go on properly. The man having become very poor said, "I cannot stay in this country; I must go to another country"; and having gone away from that country he sat down at a travellers' shed. During the time while he was there a friend of the man's came there. That man, sitting down in the travellers' shed, said, "Friend, where are you going?" Then the man said, "What is it, friend? Well then, according to my reckoning there is no means of subsistence for me. I am going away to some country or other, to look if I shall obtain a livelihood." [He told him how everything that he did failed, owing to the ill-will of Senasura.] Then the friend said, "Friend, don't you go in that way; I will tell you a good stratagem. Having gone back to your village, when dry weather sets in cut chenas; when rain falls do rice field work." The man having come back again to his village, began to cut a chena. At the time when he was cutting the chena rain rained. Then, having dropped the chena cutting, he went to plough the rice field. Then dry weather again began to set in. Again having gone he chops the chena. Then rain rained. Again having gone he ploughs the rice field. In that manner he did the chena and rice field works, both of them. Having done the work, the [crops in the] chena and the rice field, both of them, ripened. After that, Senasura said at the hand of the man, "What of their ripening! I will not give more than an amuna (5·7 bushels) from a stack. Let it be so settled (aswanu)." Afterwards, having cut the rice crop, the man began to make the stacks separately of two or three sheaves apiece. Then having trampled out [the corn in] the stacks [by means of buffaloes] at the rate of the amuna from the stack--should there be one sheaf in it, an amuna; should there be two sheaves, an amuna--in that manner having trampled out [the corn in] the stacks he filled up two corn stores. Having cut the millet in the chena he filled up two corn stores of millet. In that very country there is an astrologer (naekatrala). Having gone to him, he informed the astrologer of the evil influence that there was from Senasura [and how he had outwitted him]. Then the astrologer said, "Until the time when you die the evil influence of Senasura over you will not be laid aside." The man said, "Can you tell me the place where Senasura is [and what I must say to him]?" The astrologer replied, "Senasura having taken a man's disguise and come to your house, will talk with you. Then say, 'The evil influence of Senasura has been over me. I did a good trick for it. I worked in both a chena and a rice field. I got the things into the corn stores. While staying here eating them I can do cultivation again [in the same way].'" Afterwards this man came home. While he was there, on the day foretold by the astrologer Senasura came. The man having given him sitting accommodation asked, "Where are you going?" Then Senasura said, "It is I indeed whom they call Senasura, the Divine King. Because of it tell me any matter you require." So the man said, "What is the matter I require? I have become very poor, having been stricken by the evil influence of Senasura. Now then, I want an assistance from you for that." Afterwards Senasura, the Divine King, having given the man a book said, "Without showing this book to anybody, place it in your house. Remain here, and make obeisance [to me] three times a day, having looked and looked into [the instructions in] the book. From any journey on which you may go, from any work you may do, you will obtain victory [that is, success]." Having said this, Senasura, the Divine King, went away. After that, having remained there in the very manner told by Senasura, the man became a person of much substance. North-western Province. In Indian Folk-Tales (Gordon), p. 61, a Jackal is represented as outwitting the great deity Siva or Mahadeo, by telling him that he was Sahadeo, the father of Mahadeo. See the notes at the end of Nos. 39 and 75. NO. 4 THE GLASS PRINCESS In a certain country there are seven Princes, the sons of a King. When the seven persons had grown up, messengers were sent to find the places where there were seven Princesses to be taken in marriage by them. They obtained intelligence that there was a kingdom where they were to be met with. After that, the seven portraits of the seven Princes having been painted, two or three ministers were summoned, and sent with the instructions, "Go to that kingdom, and observe if the seven Princesses are there. If they are there, take the portraits of the seven Princesses and come back with them." The ministers having gone there and looked, found that seven Princesses were there. So they went to the King, the father of the Princesses. After they had come, the King having given quarters to the ministers, and having given them food and drink, asked, "Where are you going?" Then the ministers said, "On account of news that you have seven Princesses, as there are seven Princes of the King of our country we have come, bringing the portraits of the seven Princes to show you, in order to marry the Princesses to those seven." The King and the Princesses having looked at the portraits were pleased with them. Afterwards, a suitable occasion for the marriage having been appointed, the portraits of the Princesses were painted, and given into the hands of the ministers, and they were sent away with them. The party having brought them, showed them to the King and the seven Princes. The King and the seven Princes being pleased with those persons after they had shown the portraits, the King of that city, on the very day appointed as the date for setting out for the marriage, having decorated an elephant for the King and Queen, and both of them having mounted on it, and having decorated seven other elephants for the seven Princes, the party made ready to go. Then the youngest Prince of all, having placed his sword on the back of the elephant, and made obeisance to his father, said, "I will not go. Should the Princess come after being married to the sword, let her come. If not, let her simply stop there." Having said this he did not go; he sent only the elephant, and the elephant and all the other persons went. Having gone there the six Princes were married to the six Princesses. Then the King whose Princesses they were, asked, "Is there not a Prince for the youngest Princess?" When he asked this, the King whose son was the Prince replied, "There is my youngest Prince. He has not come. If she will come after being married to the sword placed on the back of this elephant, he said she is to come; if not, he said that she is to remain here." The King whose Princess she was, was not satisfied with that. What of that? The youngest Princess was contented, and said, "Even a deaf man or a lame man would be good enough for me. Therefore I must be married." So having been married to the sword she came away with the others. The Prince who did not go, but stayed at home, knew that there was a pool on the way, and that there was also a Cobra which had charge of that pool. The Prince was well aware that if the people who went to the marriage came there, and being thirsty drank the water, that Cobra would ask for a human offering. How was that? A deity came to the Prince in a dream and told him. Having learnt this, the Prince went, and at the time when they were coming hid himself near the pool, and remained there. Then all the party having come there drank the water. Having drunk it, when they were setting out to come away, a large Cobra which had been in a rock cave near by, came out, and said, "Because you drank water from my pool one person must remain here as an offering to me. If not, I shall not permit even one of you to go." After that, the youngest Prince who had gone near and hidden himself came forward, and saying, "I will stay as the human offering; go you away," he started off all that marriage party, and sent them to their village. He said to the Princess who had come after being married to his sword, "Until whatever time it may be when I return, go and stay at the palace of mine which is there. There are servants at it. Set the party of them to work, and eat and drink in great contentment just as though I were there." After he had said this, the party returned to the city, and the youngest Prince went with the Cobra to the cave. After they had gone there, the Cobra said to the Prince, "There is an ulcer on my forehead. You may go after curing the ulcer. Because of your curing it I shall not require a human offering." The Prince said, "It is good," and continuing to eat the things for which it provided the expenses, stayed there. Twice a day he washed and washed the ulcer, while applying medicine to it, but it did not heal. Afterwards the Cobra said, "There is a certain daughter of the King of a city, called the Glass Princess. The Princess takes any disguise she likes and goes through the sky, supported by her power of flying through the air. The Princess knows a medicine by which, if it should be applied by her own hand, my ulcer will become healed; otherwise it will not heal, and there will be no going to your village for you." The Prince replied, "It is good. I will go and bring the Glass Princess." Having said this, he set off to go to the city where the Glass Princess lived. Having hurried along the road which led in that direction, there was a river to which he went. When he looked up the river he saw some rats coming floating in the water. Then what does he do? He seizes all those few rats, and goes and places them on the bank. After he had put them there the rats said, "Ane! O Lord, if Your Majesty should require any assistance, be pleased to think of us; then we will come and stay with you, and assist you." The Prince said, "It is good," and went to the city in which the Glass Princess dwelt. Having come there, being without a place to stay at he went to the spot where a widow-mother was stopping, and said, "Ane! Mother, give me a mat to sleep on." The widow-mother said, "It is good, son. Remain here. I am alone here, therefore it will be good for me also." Then the Prince said, "If so, mother, cook and give me a little rice. Having obtained some money to-morrow, I will bring it and give you it." The old woman having heard his words, cooked and gave him a little rice. When she had given it and he had eaten, the Prince asked that old woman, "Mother, what are the new things that are happening at this city?" The old woman replied, "What! Son, the new matters at this city are like those of other cities indeed; but there is one new affair at this city. If so, what is it? The daughter, called the Glass Princess, of the King of this city remains an [unwedded] Princess. The Princess, creating any disguise she wants, can go through the sky sustained by her power of flight through the air. Through the beauty of her figure she is a very celebrated person. Because of that, many royal Princes have come to ask to marry the Princess. Having come, they are asked, 'What have you come for?' When they have said, 'We have come to take this Princess in marriage,' the King puts on the hearth a very great cauldron of water, and having made it boil tells them to bathe in it without making the water lukewarm. There is a large iron tree in the open space in front of the palace. Having bathed in the water, he tells them to saw the iron tree in two. If they do not bathe in the water and cut it in two, he does not permit the Princes to go away; he beheads them there and then, and casts them out." The Prince asked the old woman, "Mother, can no one go to the place where the Glass Princess is staying?" The old woman said, "Ane! Son, even a bird which passes along in the air above cannot go to the place where the Glass Princess is." Then the Prince asked, "Mother, why do they say that the Princess is the Glass Princess?" The old woman said, "O son, they call her the Glass Princess. The bed on which the Princess sleeps is a bed of glass throughout. Glass is fixed all round the bed in such a manner that even the wind cannot get to her. [16] Because of that, they say that she is the Glass Princess." The Prince asked, "Mother, at what time does the Princess eat rice at night?" The old woman said, "O son, at night water for bathing, and cooked rice, having gone there for the Princess, they are placed in the upper story where the Princess sleeps alone. When the Princess has been sleeping at night, at about eight she awakes, and after bathing in the water eats rice. Before that she does not get up." Then the Prince, after listening to all these words, asked for a mat, and went off to sleep at the travellers' shed which was in front of the old woman's house. Having gone there, while he was lying down he thought, "Ane! O Gods, in any case you must grant me an opportunity of going to the place where that Princess is." Then while he was thinking, "Ane! Will even those rats that I took up that day out of the river and placed on the bank, become of assistance to me in this matter?" he fell asleep. After that, those rats, collecting thousands of rats besides, came there before the Prince awoke, and having come near the Prince while he was sleeping, waited until he awoke. When the Prince awoke and looked about, he saw that rats, thousands in number, had come and were there. The rats asked the Prince: "O Lord, what assistance does Your Majesty want us to give?" The Prince said, "I want you to excavate a tunnel, of a size so that a man can go along it erect, to the upper story of the house in which the Glass Princess is staying, and to hand it over without completing it, leaving a very little unfinished. It was on account of this that I thought of you." Then the rats went, and having dug it out that night, finished it and handed it over, and went away. The Prince having been in the travellers' shed until it became light, took the mat and went to the widow-mother. He gave her one masurama and said, "Here, mother, this is given for the articles I obtained. Bring things for you and me, and in order that I may go and get something to-day also, quickly cook and give me a little rice." The old woman speedily cooked and gave it. The Prince having eaten it, during the whole day walked round about the city. At night he went along the tunnel to the upper story where the Princess was. Having gone there, when he thought of looking in the direction of the Princess he could not through diffidence, it is said. The Princess was asleep on the glass bed; a lamp shone brightly. After that, the Prince having rubbed soap in the water which was ready for the Glass Princess, and washed in it, and eaten half the rice that was set on the table, and having eaten a mouthful of betel that was in the betel box, left the room without speaking, and went away after closing the opening through which he had come. The Princess arose at about eight, and having gone to bathe in the water, when she looked at it saw that soap had been rubbed in the water, and some one had washed in it. Then she went to the table on which was the rice, and when she looked half the rice had been eaten. So the Princess having returned without eating the rice, lay down and thought, "A much cleverer person than I, indeed, has done this work. Except a deity, no man can come to the place where I am staying. I shall seize that thief to-morrow." Having thought that, she went to sleep. The Prince having come away, and having been asleep in the travellers' shed, in the day-time went to the old woman and ate. Then having returned to the tunnel and slept there, he went that night also, and washed in the water and ate, and came away. That night, also, the Princess being asleep was unable to seize him. The Prince came back, and having slept that night, also, at the travellers' shed, in the day time asked the old woman for rice and ate it. Then he returned to the tunnel, and after sleeping in it, at about twelve went and washed in the water, and ate the rice. After eating betel he came away. The Princess being asleep on that night also, was unable to seize him. After that, what does the Princess do? At night, pricking her finger with a needle, and rubbing lime-juice in the place, she remained awake blowing it [on account of the smarting]. That night, also, the Prince went. The Princess having seen the Prince enter, took a sword in her hand, after awaking as though she had been asleep. Having seen that the figure of the Prince was beautiful, and being pleased with it, she closed her eyelids, pretending to be asleep. The Prince knew very well that the Princess was awake. Now, as on other nights, he went looking on the ground, and having soaped himself, washed himself in the water. Then having come to the table, he ate the rice. While he was eating it, the Princess, taking the sword, arose, and having come towards him, asked, "Who are you?" The Prince asked, "Who are you?" The Princess said, "I am she whom they call the Glass Princess." Then the Prince also said, "I am he whom they call the youngest Prince of the King of such and such a city." After that, the Prince and Princess ate the food, and having talked much, the Princess asked, "For what purpose have you come?" The Prince replied, "I have not come for anything else but to take you away." The Princess said, "Our hiding and going off would not be proper. Here, put away this jewelled ring and lock of hair. To-morrow morning, having gone to our father the King, say, 'I have come to marry your Princess.' "Then saying, 'It is good,' he will boil a cauldron of water and give you it, and tell you to bathe in it. And he will show you an iron tree, and tell you to saw it. When he has given you the water, put this jewelled ring in the water and bathe; it will be like cold water. When he has shown you the iron tree, pull this lock of hair across it; then it will saw it in two. After that, we two having been married, let us go to your city." Then taking the ring and the lock of hair, the Prince went back to the travellers' shed. Next day, the Prince in the very manner the Princess told him, came and spoke to the King. The King said, "It is good," and gave him those two tasks. The Prince performed both the tasks. After that, the King, being pleased, publicly notified the celebration of their marriage, and said, "If you wish to live here, stay here; if you wish to go, summon the Princess [to accompany you] and go." Afterwards, having performed the marriage ceremony, he called the Princess, and went to the place where that Cobra was staying. There she applied the medicine to the Cobra's ulcer, and it healed. The Cobra, being pleased, gave the two persons a hidden treasure consisting of gold, silver, pearls, and gems. After that, they went to the Prince's city. Thus, by bringing this Princess the Prince had two Princesses. The King, the Prince's father, was pleased because the Prince who went as the offering and the Princess had got married, and had returned. Having eaten the marriage feast they remained there. When those six elder brothers looked they saw that their Princesses were not so beautiful as the Glass Princess. Because of it, the six persons spoke together about killing the youngest Prince and taking the Glass Princess; and they tried to kill the Prince. The Glass Princess, knowing of it, told that Prince, and the two Princesses and the Prince set off to go to another King. While they were going in the midst of a forest, the Vaedda King who dwelt in that forest saw this Glass Princess. In order to take possession of the Princess, he seized the three persons, and having put them in a house, prepared to kill the Prince. So the Glass Princess, knowing this, became a mare, and placing the Prince on her back, and telling the other Princess to hang by her tail, went through the sky, and descended near another city. Having gone to the city and taken labourers, they engaged in rice cultivation. When they had been there a little while the King of the city died. After his death they decorated the royal tusk elephant, and set off with it in search of a new King. While they were going along taking it through the streets, the elephant went and knelt near this Prince. Then all the men having made obeisance, and caused the Prince to bathe, placing the Prince and the two Queens on the back of the elephant, went and stopped at the palace, and he became King. When he had been ruling a little time, there was no rain at the city of the King the Prince's father, and that country became abandoned. Those six Princes and their six Queens, and his father the King, and his mother, all these persons, being reduced to poverty, came to an almshouse which this King had established, bringing firewood to sell. There this King having seen them, recognising them, came back after summoning his father the King, and his mother, to the palace. He told them, "Because those six elder brothers and their six Queens tried to kill me in order that my elder brothers might seize and carry off the Glass Princess, I came away from the city, and was seized by a Vaedda King, but I escaped and came here." Then saying, "There is the place where I was cultivating rice. Go there, and cultivate rice and eat," he sent the brothers to that place. Having sent them, he gave them this advice: "For the crime that you tried to commit by killing me, that has befallen you. Therefore behave well now." After that, his father the King, his mother the Queen, the King and the two Queens, those five persons, remained at the palace. North-central Province. Although the whole story apparently has not been found in India, several of the incidents in it occur in Indian folk-tales. I have not met with the marriage to the sword in them, but in The Indian Antiquary, vol. xx, p. 423, it is stated by Mr. Prendergast that in southern India, among two Telugu castes, "the custom of sending a sword to represent an unavoidably absent bridegroom at a wedding is not uncommon. It is considered allowable among other Hindus also." In The Story of Madana Kama Raja (called by the translator, Pandita Natesa Sastri, The Dravidian Nights), p. 43, the Kings of Mathurapuri and Vijayanagaram caused the portraits of their respective son and daughter to be painted, and sent envoys with them in search of royal persons resembling them. The envoys met at a river, exchanged pictures there, and returned to their masters, who were satisfied with the portraits, and caused the wedding of the Prince and Princess to be celebrated at the latter's home, Vijayanagaram. In the same work, p. 12, a Prince in the form of a parrot, which was confined in a cage in the sleeping apartment of a Princess, on two successive nights resumed his human form, and smeared sandal and scent over the Princess while she slept, and then became a parrot once more. On the third night she was awake, and he told her his history. At page 103, also, the King of Udayagiri, father of a Prince who had run off when about to be beheaded, having been deprived of his kingdom by the King of the Otta country, was reduced to selling firewood for a living, together with his wife and six sons. They came for this purpose to the city over which the Prince had become sovereign, and were discovered by him and provided for. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 93, a thief gained access to the bedroom of a Princess by means of a tunnel. In Indian Fairy Tales (Thornhill), p. 122 ff., a Prince, riding a magical wooden horse, visited a Princess nightly while she was asleep, and pricking his arm each night, wrote "I love you," in blood on her handkerchief. Although she tried to keep awake, for six nights after the first one she was asleep when he came. On the next night she scratched her finger with a needle and rubbed salt into the wound, so that the pain might keep her awake. When he entered the room she started up and inquired who he was, and how and why he had come. In Indian Fairy Tales, Ganges Valley (Stokes), p. 163, the cutting of the tree trunk with the hair of the Princess occurs. In the Panchatantra (Dubois), an elephant released rats when caught and imprisoned in earthen pots, and the rats in their turn served him by filling up with earth the pit in which he had fallen. In the Katha Sarit Sagara, p. 360 ff., a Rakshasa King gave three tasks to the Prince who wished to marry his daughter. She assisted him by means of her magical powers, and he accomplished them successfully. NO. 5 THE FROG PRINCE At a city there is a certain King; a widow lives at a house near his palace. She subsists by going to this royal palace and pounding rice there; having handed it over she takes away the rice powder and lives on it. During the time while she was getting a living in this way she bore a frog, which she reared there. When it was grown up, the King of that city caused this proclamation to be made by beat of tom-toms: "I will give half my kingdom, and goods amounting to an elephant's load, to the person who brings the Jewelled Golden Cock [17] that is at the house of the Rakshasi (Ogress)." Every one said of it that it could not be done. The widow's Frog having heard the King's proclamation, said to the widow, "Mother, I will bring the Jewelled Golden Cock. Cook a bundle of rice and give me it." Having heard the Frog's words, the widow cooked a bundle of rice and gave it to him. The Frog took the bundle of rice, and hanging it from his shoulder went to an Indi (wild Date) tree, scraped the leaf off a Date spike (the mid-rib of the leaf), and strung the rice on it. While going away after stringing it, the Frog then became like a very good-looking royal Prince, and a horse and clothing for him made their appearance there. Putting on the clothes he mounted the horse, and making it bound along he went on till he came to a city. Hearing that he had arrived, the King of that city prepared quarters for this Prince to stay at, and having given him ample food and drink, asked, "Where art thou going?" Then the Prince said: "The King of our city has made a proclamation by beat of tom-toms, that he will give half his kingdom and an elephant's load of gold to the person who brings him the Jewelled Golden Cock that is at the Rakshasi's house. Because of it I am going to fetch the Jewelled Golden Cock." The King, being pleased with the Prince on account of it, gave him a piece of charcoal. "Should you be unable to escape from the Rakshasi while returning after taking the Jewelled Golden Cock, tell this piece of charcoal to be created a fire-fence, and cast it down," he said. Taking it, he went to another city. The King of that city in that very manner having prepared quarters, and made ready and given him food and drink, asked, "Where art thou going?" The Prince replied in the same words, "I am going to bring the Jewelled Golden Cock that is at the house of the Rakshasi." That King also being pleased on account of it gave him a stone, "Should you be unable to escape from the Rakshasi, tell this stone to be created a mountain, and cast it down," he said. Taking the charcoal and the stone which those two Kings gave him, he went to yet another city. The King also in that very manner having given him quarters, and food and drink, asked, "Where art thou going?" The Prince in that very way said, "I am going to bring the Jewelled Golden Cock." That King also being greatly pleased gave him a thorn. "Should you be unable to escape from the Rakshasi, tell a thorn fence to be created, and cast down this thorn," he said. On the next day he went to the house of the Rakshasi. She was not at home; the Rakshasi's daughter was there. That girl having seen the Prince coming and not knowing him, asked, "Elder brother, elder brother, where are you going?" The Prince said, "Younger sister, I am not going anywhere whatever. I came to beg at your hands the Jewelled Golden Cock which you have got." To that she replied, "Elder brother, to-day indeed I am unable to give it. To-morrow I can. Should my mother come now she will eat you; for that reason come and hide yourself." Calling him into the house, she put him in a large trunk at the bottom of seven trunks, and shut him up in it. After a little time had passed, the Rakshasi came back. Having come and seen that the Prince's horse was there, she asked her daughter, "Whose is this horse?" Then the Rakshasi's daughter replied, "Nobody's whatever. It came out of the jungle, and I caught it to ride on." The Rakshasi having said, "If so, it is good," came in. While lying down to sleep at night the sweet odour of the Prince having reached the Rakshasi, she said to her daughter, "What is this, Bola? [18] A smell of a fresh human body is coming to me." Then the Rakshasi's daughter said, "What, mother! Do you say so? You are constantly eating fresh bodies; how can there not be an odour of them?" After that, the Rakshasi, taking those words for the truth, went to sleep. At dawn on the following day, as soon as she arose the Rakshasi went to seek human flesh for food. After she had gone, the Rakshasa-daughter, taking out the Prince who was shut up in the box, told that Prince a device on going away with the Jewelled Golden Cock: "Elder brother, if you are going away with the Cock, take some cords and fasten them round my shoulders. Having put them round me, take the Cock, and having mounted the horse go off, making him bound quickly. When you have gone I shall cry out. Mother comes when I give three calls. After she has come, loosening me will occupy much time; then you will be able to get away." In the way she said, the Prince tied the Rakshasa-daughter, and taking the Jewelled Golden Cock mounted the horse, and making it bound quickly came away. As that Rakshasa-daughter said, while she was calling out the Rakshasi came. Having come, after she looked about [she found that] the Rakshasa-daughter was tied, and the Jewelled Golden Cock had been taken away. After she had asked, "Who was it? Who took it?" the Rakshasa-daughter said, "I don't know who it was." After that, she very quickly unfastened the Rakshasa-daughter, and both of them came running to eat that Prince. The Prince was unable to go quickly. While going, the Prince turned round, and on looking back saw that this Rakshasi and the Rakshasa-daughter were coming running to eat that Prince. After that, he cast down the thorn which the above-mentioned King of the third city gave him, having told a thorn fence to be created. A thorn fence was created. Having jumped over it they came on. After that, when he had put down the piece of stone which the King of the second city gave him, and told a mountain to be created, a mountain was created. They sprang over that mountain also, and came on. After that, he cast down the charcoal which the King of the first city gave him, having told a fire fence to be created. In that very manner a fire fence was created. Having come to it, while jumping over it both of them were burnt and died. From that place the Prince came along. While coming, he arrived at the Indi tree on which he had threaded the rice, and having taken off it all that dried-up rice he began to eat it. On coming to the end of it, the person who was like that Prince again became a Frog. After he became a Frog, the clothes that he was wearing, and the horse, and the Jewelled Golden Cock vanished. Out of grief on that account that Frog died at that very place. North-western Province. In the Jataka story No. 159 (vol. ii, p. 23) there is a tale of a Golden Peacock which lived upon a golden hill. A King got it caught and informed it that the reason was because "Your colour is golden; therefore (so it is said) those who eat your flesh become young and live so for ever." In the story No. 491 (vol. iv, p. 210) the chick is described as "of the colour of gold, with two eyes like gunja fruit, and a coral beak, and three red streaks ran down his throat and down the middle of his back." On p. 212, it is said that "they who eat his flesh will be ever young and immortal." This one lived in the Himalayas for seven thousand years. In The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 56, a Queen bore a Tortoise Prince who had the power of leaving his shell. At p. 141, a Queen also bore a Tortoise, which was reared by her, and eventually went in search of divine Parijata flowers (Erythrina indica) from a tree which grew in Indra's heaven. He seems to have been a turtle and not a tortoise, being described as swimming for weeks across the Seven Seas. He climbed Udayagiri, the Mountain of the Dawn, and blocked the way of the Sun-god (who rises from behind it), in honour of whom he uttered 1,008 praises. Pleased with this, the deity gave him a splendid divine body like a man's, and the power to resume his tortoise shape at will; he directed him to a sage, who sent him to another, and this one to a third, by whose advice he secured the love and assistance of a divine nymph, an Apsaras, by concealing her robes when a party of them were bathing. With her aid he obtained the heavenly flowers. In Old Deccan Days, Ganges Valley (Frere), p. 69, a Prince, using a wand belonging to a Rakshasi, created in order to stop her pursuit, a river, a mountain, and apparently a forest. Lastly, by throwing down three of her hairs that he had secured he set the trees on fire, and she was burnt in the flames. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), p. 360 ff., the daughter of a Rakshasa King gave the Prince who wanted to marry her "some earth, some water, some thorns, and some fire, and her own fleet horse," telling him how to use them. He was chased by the brother of the King, whom he went to invite to the wedding. When he threw down the earth a mountain was produced behind him; the water became a great river; the thorns a dense thorny wood. When the Rakshasa emerged from the wood and was coming on, the Prince threw down the fire, which set the bushes and trees in front of him ablaze, and finding this difficult to cross he returned home, "tired and terrified." NO. 6 THE MILLET TRADER At a certain city two men were cutting jungle, it is said. Having cut it for many days, one man said, "Friend, I will go and bring millet [19] to sow in this chena clearing; you continue to cut the jungle." The other man said "Ha" (Yes), and that man went to seek millet. Having gone to a village, he went along asking the way to a house where there was millet. After he had gone there it became night, so he remained in a shed at the house. A lucky hour had been fixed by astrology for cutting the hair [for the first time] of a child at the house, on the following day after that. Having told at the hand of his wife to put rice in water [to clean it], and to cook cakes from it, the man of the house that evening went to the watch-hut in his chena. The woman having pounded the rice and cooked cakes, selected the best cakes and put them in the rice mortar in order to give them to another man. The millet trader in the shed remained there looking on. Afterwards the man who went to the watch hut returned, and when he was eating the cakes said, "Give a couple of cakes from them to that millet trader." Then the woman having selected burnt, very burnt ones, and given them to the millet trader, the trader saying, "I cannot bite these," put the cakes on the others in the rice mortar, and pounded them. The woman scowled at the millet trader, but because her husband was present she was unable to say anything, so she remained silent. The millet trader, having pounded all the cakes and eaten, tied up the surplus ones and put them aside. After that, the man went again to the watch hut. Then that woman quickly put a gill of rice in water, and having pounded it into flour and very hurriedly cooked cakes, placed them in the house, and lay down in it. The millet trader awoke, and while he was there looking about, saw a man coming. Arising quickly, he came to the open space in front of the house and coughed. Then the man, thinking, "Perhaps the man is at the house," went back again. After that, the millet trader went inside the house. That woman taking those cakes gave them in the dark to the millet trader, and said, "Ando! When I was cooking cakes I put the best cakes in the rice mortar in order to give them to you. Then, after being in the watch hut he (the husband) came, and while eating the cakes said to me, 'Give a couple of cakes to that millet trader'; so I gave them. After that, the millet trader, that Rodiya, having put the cakes in the rice mortar that was full of the best cakes, pounded them and ate. Then I again put a gill of rice into water, and pounded it into flour, saying that you will come; and only just now finished cooking." The millet trader said, "Ha. It is good," and ate. Afterwards the woman said, "Now then, are we not cutting the child's hair to-morrow? Now, what will you give on account of it?" The millet trader said, "What have I got to give? When coming for millet I only brought four tuttu." [20] Then the woman, saying, "Be off! Be off! Rodiya! Are you the millet trader, Bola?" drove him away. When he had gone back to the shed, she again put a gill of rice in water, and having pounded it and very rapidly cooked cakes and brought them into the house, lay down. Afterwards, while the millet trader was there looking about, he again saw that man coming, so he arose quickly, and came to the open space in front of the house and coughed. That man again went away. After that, the millet trader went into the house again. That woman rose quickly, and gave those cakes to him, and said to the man, "Ando! When I was cooking cakes to give to you I put the best cakes in the rice mortar. Afterwards he came from the watch hut, and while eating the cakes said to me, 'Give a couple of cakes to that millet trader.' So I gave them. Afterwards that Rodiya, putting the cakes in the rice mortar which was full of the best cakes, pounded them and ate. Then I again put a gill of rice in water, and cooked more cakes. Then, while I was looking out for you, some one like you came in the dark. I gave them to him. While he was eating them I said, 'Now then, are we not cutting the child's hair to-morrow? What will you give?' That Rodiya said, 'Only the four tuttu that I brought for millet.' Then I got to know who it was. I drove him away, and again put a gill of rice in water, and pounded it, and I have only just finished cooking more cakes." The millet trader, saying, "Ha. It is good," ate the cakes. Then the woman said, "Now then, are we not cutting the child's hair to-morrow? What will you give?" The millet trader said, "If you should ask me even another time, still the same four tuttu." The woman saying, "Be off! Be off! Millet trader, Rodiya! Hast come again, thou!" drove him away. Then it became light. Afterwards, the man who went to the watch hut came, and handed over the millet to the millet trader. On his giving it, the millet trader, tying it up in two bundles and placing them on his head, set off to go into the house. That man saw it, and asked, "Where are you going there?" The millet trader replied, "I don't know. During the whole of last night they were going and coming along this very way, so I thought, 'Maybe this is a high road.'" The man said, "Put down the packages of millet there," and having gone to the millet store-room, and handed over a greater quantity from the millet in it, beat that woman. From there the millet trader went to another village, and sitting down at a house unfastened that package of pounded cakes, and was eating them. A woman who was looking on said, "Ade! What are you eating?" The trader said, "They are pounded cakes of our country." The woman saying, "The colour of them is good indeed; give me some to look at," begged and got some. After eating them she said, "Ade! These millet cakes have a sweet taste; they are indeed good." The trader replied, "In our quarter the millet is of that very sort; let us go there together if you like." The woman said, "Ha" and having taken out all the effects in the house placed them in the jungle, ready for taking when she went. Afterwards, taking those things, as they were getting very far away the man said, "What have you forgotten? Consider well." The woman replied, "I have not forgotten anything. I only forgot my flowered hair comb. It is of the pattern of my flowered hair pin." The trader said, "To be without a flowered hair comb is not proper in my country. I shall be here; you go and fetch it. If I should not be here on your return, call me, saying, 'Day-before-Yesterday! Day-before-Yesterday!' My name is Day-before-Yesterday (Pereda)." Then the woman came running home. When she returned, taking the flowered hair comb, the man was not there. So saying, "Day-before-Yesterday! Day-before-Yesterday!" the woman called and called. The man was not there. The woman returned home, weeping and weeping. While she was there, her husband, having gone somewhere or other, came back, and asked, "What are you crying for?" The woman said, "He who was taking millet, Day-before-Yesterday, plundered the house." The man said, "If he plundered the house day before yesterday, why didst thou not tell me yesterday?" The woman replied, "Not day before yesterday. He who was taking millet, Day-before-Yesterday." Then the man said, "Isn't that just what I'm saying? When he plundered the house day before yesterday, why didst thou not tell me yesterday?" Having said this, he beat the woman. When the millet trader, taking the effects and the bundles of millet, went from there carrying his load, he came to another village. On going to a house, a woman was there weeping and weeping. As the man was placing the effects and the millet bundles on the veranda of the house, he said, "Appe! I have been to the other world and back," [21] and laying them on the veranda, said, "What are you crying for, mother?" The woman said, "My daughter died six days ago. When I think of her I am weeping." Then she asked the millet trader, "Ane! My Latti went to the other world; did you meet her there?" The millet trader said, "Don't cry, mother. I did meet her there. She is now in the other world. I have taken in marriage that very Latti. I have come for Latti's things that she puts on her arms and neck. She told me to come." The woman quickly arose, and having cooked abundantly for the trader, and given him to eat, he said, "Mother, I must go immediately. Where is father-in-law?" "He went to plough; wait till he comes," she said. "I cannot," he said. "It is our wedding feast to-morrow. I must be off now to go to the wedding." So she gave the trader the silver and golden things for placing on her daughter's arms and neck, also. Then the trader taking the bundles of millet, the effects, and the things for the arms and neck, went away. After that, when the woman's husband who had gone to plough came, the woman was laughing. Seeing it, he asked, "What are you laughing at?" The woman replied, "Bolan, why shouldn't I laugh? Our son-in-law came." "What son-in-law?" the man asked. The woman said over and over again, "Latti's man came, Latti's man came. Our son-in-law, to whom our daughter is given in the other world. It is true." The man asked, "Bola, can any one in the other world come to this world? Didst thou cook and also give him to eat?" The woman replied, "What! Didn't I cook and give him to eat! After I had given him to eat he said that Latti had told him to take away the things for her arms and neck. So I gave him those also." Then the man said, "Where is now, Bola, the horse that was here?" and asking, "Which way did he go?" and mounting on the horse's back, went to seek that millet trader. As the trader was going along in the rice field he looked back, and having seen a man coming on horseback, said, "That one is coming to seize me." There was a Timbiri tree very near there into which he climbed. While he was there, that man making the horse bound along, having come up, tied the horse to the root of the Timbiri tree. After he had climbed up the tree to catch the trader, the trader, descending from the ends of the Timbiri branches and cutting the fastening, mounted the horse, after placing on it also the bundles of millet and the other goods, and went off on the horse. Then that man descended slowly from the tree, and having called "Hu" to the millet trader [to arrest his attention], said, "Tell Latti that your mother-in-law gave you a few things to put on her arms and neck, but your father-in-law gave you a horse." Having returned to the house, he said to the woman, "It is true. He is really Latti's man. I said 'Don't go on foot,' and having given him the horse I came back." The woman said, "Isn't it so indeed! I told you so." Then the millet trader having gone to his village, and divided the goods with the chena cultivator, sowed the millet in the chena, and remained there. North-western Province. The story about Latti's husband occurs in The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 62, the dead girl's name being Kaluhami. Her father was a Gamarala, and the man who carried off the things for her was a beggar. This part of the story is also given, with slight variations, in Tales of the Sun, Southern India (Kingscote and Natesa Sastri), p. 135 ff. In Folklore in Southern India (Natesa Sastri), p. 131 ff., the rogue did not pretend to be married to the woman's daughter, but represented to her that her parents were living in the other world in a very miserable state, without proper clothing, and without the means of purchasing food. She handed over to him the clothing, jewels, and cash in the house, and he went off at once with them. The ending of the incident is the same as in Ceylon. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xviii, p. 120, there is a story from Southern India, by Pandita Natesa Sastri, in which a youth obtained work under an appa [22] (or "hopper") woman, giving his name as "Last Year." When he absconded with her cash-box she gave the alarm in the village by saying, "Last Year (he) stole and took my box," and was thought to be out of her mind. In The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 182, the incident of the cakes pounded in the mortar is related. After eating part of the pounded cakes, the traveller was about to enter the corn-store in which the woman had concealed her lover. On the woman's stopping him, the husband's suspicions being aroused he examined the corn-store, and finding the man in it, beat him well, and his own wife also. NO. 7 THE TURTLE DOVE In a certain city there are two Princes, it is said. A flower-mother [23] cooks and gives food to the two Princes. The mother of the Princes is dead; the father is alive. The King has married another Queen, and because the Queen is not good to the Princes they live with the flower-mother. One day, while they were living in that manner, the two Princes having gone to shoot birds with bows and arrows, walked until night-fall, but were unable to find any birds. As they were coming back, there was a Horse-radish tree (Murunga) [24] at the front of the King's palace, in which was a turtle dove. The younger brother saw it, and said to the elder brother, "Elder brother, there! There is a turtle-dove." The elder brother shot at the turtle-dove, and it fell dead. Afterwards, the younger brother having picked it up and come back, said at the hand of the elder brother, "Elder brother, are we to give this to our father the King, or are we to give it to the flower-mother?" Then the elder brother said, "Why should we give it to our father the King? We will give it to the flower-mother who gives us food and clothing." Taking the turtle-dove, the two Princes came to the house of the flower-mother, and gave it into the flower-mother's hand. On that day the King was not at the palace; only the Queen was there. The Queen remained listening to all that the two Princes said, and stayed looking [to see] if they gave the turtle-dove into the hand of the flower-mother. That being so, after the King's return to the palace in the evening the Queen told at the hand of the King what the Princes said, and the fact that they gave the turtle-dove into the hand of the flower-mother. After that, the King settled to behead both Princes on the morrow. The flower-mother on hearing of it said at the hand of the Princes, "Children, the King said that he must behead you two to-morrow. To save both your lives go away somewhere." Having cooked a bundle of rice in the night, she placed gem-stones at the bottom of the bag and the cooked rice above them; and having tied up the bag she gave it into the hands of the Princes before it became light, and told them to go. The two Princes took the bundle of cooked rice and went away. Having gone on and on, being hungry they sat down in the shade of a great forest. For rinsing their mouths after chewing betel, before eating rice, there was no water. While they were seated there, a turtle-dove came and fell down, making a noise, "tas," as it struck the ground. The younger brother asked, "Elder brother, what shall we do with this turtle-dove?" Then the elder brother said, "Hide it in a heap of leaves, for us to eat it yet." The younger brother hid it. Thereupon a Vaedda came, and asked at the hand of the two brothers, "Ane! Didn't a turtle-dove fall here?" The two Princes said, "No." So the Vaedda sought for it, continuing to say, "Ane! After trying for seven years, I shot the turtle-dove with my bow and arrow." Then the Princes said, "Ane! Vaedi-elder-brother, why is the turtle-dove such a good one?" The Vaedda replied, "Why shouldn't it be good? The person who has eaten the right portion at that very time will receive the sovereignty. The person who has eaten the left portion will receive the sovereignty after seven years have gone by." Having said thus, the Vaedda sought and sought it; he was unable to find the turtle-dove, and he went away. Then, having cooked it, the elder Prince ate the right half; the younger Prince ate the left half. Having eaten it, the elder Prince, taking the small copper water-pot which the flower-mother gave them, went to seek for water. The younger brother remained there. The elder brother, breaking and throwing down branches all along the path, having gone on and on, came to a large stream. Hearing a beating of tom-toms while getting water in the pot, he stayed there, looking [to see] what it was about. While he was there, the tom-toming having come near him, a tusk elephant came close to the Prince and knelt down. The Prince knew that the royal elephant had selected him for the sovereignty, and said, "Ane! A younger brother of mine is there; how can I go without him? I will go there and come with him." Then the men who were there said, "You cannot seek your younger brother; you must mount now." Afterwards the Prince having mounted on the elephant, went to the city of that kingdom, and became the king. The younger brother, after having looked and looked for a long time, taking the bundle of cooked rice, came along the path on which the branches were broken, and descended to the stream. Then, having seen the elephant's footprints, continuing to say, "Ane! It is this very elephant that has killed elder brother," weeping and weeping he drank water; and having eaten part of the cooked rice, tied up the other part and went away. While going along the path on which were the elephant's footprints, he saw that his Prince's robes were torn and torn, and repeating, "Ane! Elder brother has been killed. It is this very elephant. Kill me also, O Gods," weeping and weeping, going on and on, he went after nightfall to a Hettiya's house at some city or other, and said, "Ane! You must give me a resting-place for the night." The Hettiya was not at home; only his wife was there. The woman said to the Prince, "No resting-place will be given here. We do not allow any one to come to our house. The Hettirala goes to the King, to fan his face. On that account the Hettirala does not permit any one to come to this house. To-day the Hettirala went to the King, to fan his face. He will come at this time. Before he comes go away quickly." The Prince said, "Ane! Don't say so. There is not a quarter to which I can go now. In some way or other you must give me it." Then the woman, taking a bit of mat, gave it into the Prince's hand, saying, "If so, go to that calf house. When the Hettiya comes don't even cough or anything. You must be silent." Afterwards, when the Prince was sitting in the calf house, the Hettiya returned, and while he was eating rice a cough came to the Prince. The Prince tried and tried to be silent. He could not. He coughed. The Hettiya having heard it said to his wife, "What is that, Bola, I hear there?" The woman said, "Ane! A youth, not vicious nor low, came and asked for a resting-place. I told him to go to the calf house. Do nothing to him. I told him to get up before daylight and go away." Then the Hettiya, saying, "I told thee, 'Do not give a resting-place to any one'; is it not so? Why didst thou give it?" beat the woman. Having finished eating rice he came into the raised veranda. When he was there, that Prince took the remains of his rice, and while eating it and thinking in his mind, "Ane! Was I not indeed a royal Prince before; why must I stop now in a calf house?" he saw the gem-stones at the bottom of the rice, and placing one on his knee ate the rice by its light. The Hettiya having seen the light, asked at the hand of the woman, "Ade! Did you go and give a light also to that one?" The woman said, "It is not a light that I took and gave him." Then the Hettiya got up and went to look, and having seen the gem-stone, scolded the woman. "Ade! When my friend from a foreign town came dost thou give him a resting-place in this way? What hast thou given it at the calf house for? Was there no better place to give?" Having said this, and again beaten the woman, "Quickly warm water," he said. After waiting while she was warming it, he took the water into the house, and having placed it there, said to the Prince, "Let us go, younger brother, to bathe," and gave him a bath. After finishing bathing him, having cooked food abundantly and laid the table, he gave him to eat. When that was finished, he prepared a bed for sleeping, and said, "Younger brother, come and sleep." The Prince came. Afterwards the Hettiya said to the Prince, "Younger brother, if there are any things of value in your hands give them into my hands. I will return them to you at the time when you ask for them. If they be kept in your hands they may be lost. There are thieves hereabouts; we cannot get rid of them. They will not let us keep anything; they carry it off." Then the Prince said, "Ane! There is nothing in my hands." The Hettiya said, "Nay, there was a gem-stone in your hand; I saw it. It will be there yet; give me it. I shall not take it in that way. I will give you it at the time when you ask for it." The Prince said, "Ane! Hetti-elder-brother, I know your Hetti slumber. It is necessary for me to arise early, while it is still night, and go away." Then the Hettiya said, "I shall give you it when you ask for it, no matter if I should be asleep. You can awake me; then I will give it." Having said thus and thus, the Prince gave all the gem-stones into the hands of the Hettiya. The Hettiya taking them and placing them in a house in the middle of seven houses, went to sleep. Afterwards, the Prince having been asleep, arose while it was still night, and awoke the Hettiya, saying, "Ane! Hetti-elder-brother, it is necessary for me to go expeditiously. Quickly give me those few gem-stones." Thus, in this manner he asks and asks. It is no affair of the Hettiya's. Then the woman said, "What is this! One cannot exist for this troubling. Must not persons who took a thing give it back? Must not this youth who is not vicious nor low go away? Why are you keeping them back?" After that, the Hettiya, having got up, opening the seven doors of the seven houses came out into the light, and saying, "When, Bola, did I get gem-stones from thee?" he cut off the hair-knot of the Prince, and took him for his slave. So the Prince remained there, continuing to do slave work for the Hettiya. Afterwards, one day the Hettiya and the Prince having gone on a journey somewhere, as they were coming to a stream the seven Princesses of the King of that country having been bathing in the stream, saw the Hettiya and the Prince going on the road. The youngest Princess said to the other Princesses, "Elder sisters, that one going there is indeed a Prince." The six Princesses said, "So indeed! The Hettiya's slave has become a Prince to thee!" Then the Princess said another time, "However much you should say it is not so, that is indeed a Prince going along there." The six Princesses said, "It is not merely that to thee the Hettiya's slave has become a Prince; he will come to call thee [to be his wife]." Then the Princess replied still another time, "It is really so; he is inviting me indeed. However much you should say that, it was really a Prince who went there." The six Princesses said, "If he is inviting thee go thou also. The Hettiya's slave is going there; go thou before he departs." The Princess replied, "I shall really go. You look. What though I have not gone now! Shall I not go hereafter?" After the seven Princesses had come to the palace, the youngest Princess said at the hand of her father the King, "When we were bathing now, a slave youth went along with the Hettiya. That slave youth is really a Prince." Then the King sent an order to the Hettiya that the Hettiya's slave and the Hettiya should come to him. Afterwards the Hettiya and the Hettiya's slave went to the King. The King asked, "Whence this slave youth?" Then before the Hettiya said anything the Prince replied, "I was formerly a royal Prince; now I am doing slave work for this Hetti-elder-brother." The King asked at the hand of the Hettiya, "Is he doing slave work for you?" The Hettiya said, "Yes." After that, the King decided that he would give his youngest daughter to the slave youth (as his wife), so he sent away the Hettiya, and the Princess with the slave youth. As those three were going to the Hettiya's house, the Hettiya, becoming hungry while on the way, gave money into the hand of the Prince, and said, "With this money get three gills of rice, and with these ten sallis (half farthings) get a sun-dried fish, and come back and cook them." He gave money for it separately into the Prince's hand. The Prince having bought three gills of rice with the money given for it, and placed it on the hearth to boil, took the ten sallis and went to the shops for the dried fish. When he looked at the dried fish there was none to get for ten sallis. As he was coming back bringing the ten sallis, a man was on the road, having laid down a heap of dried fish. When the Prince came there the man asked him, "Where, younger brother, are you going?" The Prince said, "I came for a dried fish; I have ten sallis. There being no dried fish to get for ten sallis I am going away." Then the man said, "Give me the ten sallis. Take any dried fish you want." So the Prince having given the ten sallis to the trader, selected a large dried fish, and putting it on his shoulder, as he was coming near the river the dried fish was laughing. After laughing, it asked, "Are you taking me in this manner to cook?" The Prince replied, "Yes, to cook indeed." The dried fish said, "Do not take me. You are going to die now. From that I will deliver you. Put me into the river." The Prince having placed the dried fish in the river, and come back "simply" (that is, without it), made sauce and cooked the rice. When he had finished, the Hettiya said, "Separate and give me the cooked rice boiled from two gills." So the Prince separated the rice from two gills and gave it. Then the Hettiya asked, "Where is the dried fish?" The Prince said, "I could not get a dried fish for ten sallis; I walked through the whole of the bazaar. I came back empty-handed ('simply')." Afterwards, the Hettiya having eaten half the rice in silence, heaped up the other half in the direction of the Princess (thus inviting her to eat it). The Princess saying, "Go thou! Have I come to eat rice out of the Hettiya's bowl?" [25] went to the place where the Prince was eating, and ate rice from the Prince's plate. Then the Hettiya said, "If it is wrong for thee to eat from my bowl, how is it thou art eating from my slave's bowl?" The Princess said, "Hettiya, shouldst thou any day say 'slave' again, I will tell it at the hand of my father the King, and get thee quartered and hung at the city gates." After that the Hettiya was silent. The whole three having finished eating rice, went on board the vessel that was to carry them along the river. While going along in the vessel, the Hettiya said to the Prince, "Cut me a mouthful of betel and areka-nut, and give me it." The Princess said, "Now then, having already cut betel and areka-nut, his food is done." The Prince saying, "It is not wrong; I will cut and give it," cut and gave it to the Hettiya. Afterwards the Hettiya again said to the Prince, "Get a little water and give me it." The Princess saying, "Now then, your doing slave work is stopped," told the Prince not to give it. The Prince said, "When there is thirst, how can one not give water? I will give him a little." While he was bending down over the side of the vessel to get the water, the Hettiya raised him, and threw him into the river. As the Prince fell into the river, the dried fish that he had previously put in the river took him on its back, and having brought him to the shore, left him there. The Hettiya and the Princess went on in the ship to the Hettiya's house. The Prince was in the sun, on a sandbank. Then, as a flower-mother was coming to the river for water, she saw the Prince, and said, "What is this, son, that you are in the sun? Come away and go with me." Inviting him, and going to her house with him, she warmed some water and made him bathe, and gave him food. While he was there, the Prince told all at the hand of the flower-mother. After telling it, when he said, "I must go again to the Hettiya's house," the flower mother said, "O son, let him do what he likes. Don't you go. Stop here." The Prince replying, "I cannot stay without going, O flower-mother; I will go there and come back to you," went there. After he had gone to the Hettiya's house he found that men had collected together there, and were saying that the Hettiya and the Princess were to be married on such and such a day. He stayed listening to them, and went again to the flower-mother's house. After he returned, asking for four sallis at the hand of the flower-mother he went to the potters' village, and giving them the four sallis told them, "When I come to-morrow you must have ready a kettle having three zig-zag lines round it and twelve spouts." So saying, he came back to the flower-mother's house. On the morning of the following day he walked to the potters' village, and taking the kettle, came to the Hettiya's house. As he arrived, men were dancing, and the King was looking on. At the time when they were finishing dancing he got on the raised veranda, and looked on. The dancing being ended he came out to the wedding hall. Then the Princess saw him and laughed. At that moment the Hettiya trembled. The Prince having gone there said, "Stop that. It is necessary for me to dance a little." Then he began to tell them all from the very beginning: "We were of such and such a city, the sons of the King of such and such a name. We were two Princes, an elder brother and a younger brother. Our mother was dead. A flower-mother gave us food and clothing." Having thus said a little of the story that he was relating, he danced, and while dancing sang to the kettle that he held in his hand-- Possessing three bent lines, a dozen spouts as well, Little kettle, hear this our trouble that befel. [26] Then he said, "While living thus we said one day, 'Let us go and shoot birds,' and elder brother and I went. Having walked till night-fall we did not meet with a single one. While we were returning home, as it was becoming night, there was a Horse-radish tree in front of the palace of our father the King. In that Horse-radish tree was a turtle-dove which elder brother shot; at the stroke it fell dead. "Afterwards I asked at elder brother's hand regarding it, 'Elder brother, to whom are we to give this?' Then elder brother said, 'There is no need to give it to our father the King; let us give it to the flower-mother who gives us food and clothing.' So saying, we took it home and gave it to the flower-mother." Again he danced, and sang while dancing-- Possessing three bent lines, a dozen spouts as well, Little kettle, hear this our trouble that befel. "Our Puñci-Amma (step-mother, lit. 'little mother') after hearing this, on the return of our father the King told him of it, and our father the King appointed to behead us. Afterwards our flower-mother to save the lives of us both told us to go away. Having cooked a bundle of rice, and tied up a bag of it, placing gem-stones at the bottom and the cooked rice above, she gave it into the hand of both of us, and told us to go away somewhere before it became light. So we both came away. Walking on and on, we came to a great forest, and both of us sat down in the shade." Then he danced again, and sang while dancing-- Possessing three bent lines, a dozen spouts as well, Little kettle, hear this our trouble that befel. After that, he told a further part of his tale, and then danced again. Thus, in that way he related all the things that had occurred. The King who had come to celebrate the wedding was the Prince's elder brother. While the Prince was relating all these things the King wept. Then the King asked at the hand of the Hettiya, "Is what he has said regarding the gem-stones, and the taking him as a slave, true?" The Hettiya replied, "It is true." Then the King caused the Hettiya to be quartered, and hung at the four gateways of the city. After the King had caused the Prince and Princess to be married, and had given that kingdom to the Prince, both the King and the Prince went to their cities. The elder brother who had eaten the right portion of the turtle-dove shot by the Vaedda, at that very time obtained the sovereignty. The younger brother having eaten the left portion, when seven years had passed, on that day obtained the sovereignty. So the Prince and Princess remained at their city. North-western Province. The notion that the persons who ate two birds, or the halves of one bird or of a fruit, would become Kings, or a King and his minister, is found throughout India in folk-tales. In the Jataka stories No. 284 (vol. ii, p. 280), and No. 445 (vol. iv, p. 24), two cocks were overheard to say that whoever ate one would get a thousand pieces of money, and the person who ate the other would become King, Chief Queen or Commander-in-Chief, and Treasurer or King's favourite cleric. The second one was selected and eaten, with the corresponding result. In The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 150, there is a story by Miss S. J. Goonetilleke, in which a blind man, sitting under a tree, heard a Rakshasa who was in the tree saying to others that if the fruit of the tree were rubbed on the eyes of a blind man he would recover his sight, and that a person who ate the fruit on the top of the tree would become a King within seven days. The man regained his sight in this way, and having also eaten the fruit was selected as King by the royal elephant, which knelt before him. The man who had blinded him married his Prime Minister's daughter; and ascertaining how the King recovered his sight and obtained his position, he got his wife to treat him in the same way and leave him under a tree, where he died. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xvii, p. 75, there is a tale of two Princes who were ordered to be blinded because of a false charge made by the Queen, their step-mother. They escaped, and killed a Chakwa (Sheldrake) which they heard informing its mate that he who ate its head would become a King, and he who ate the liver would be very happy after twelve years' wanderings. The elder brother went for food to a city, where the royal elephant threw a garland over his neck, and he became King. The younger brother being unable to find him worked for a potter, then travelled on and took the place of a woman's son who was going to be offered to an Ogre, who had forced a King to give him daily a cart-load of sweet cakes, a couple of goats, and a young man. The Prince killed the Ogre while he was eating the cakes. The King gave him his daughter in marriage, and half the kingdom. The elder brother came to the wedding, and they recognised each other. When they visited their father he sent the Queen into exile. In the Tamil work, The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 125 ff., a Mango tree growing in a thick forest bore a magical fruit once in one hundred years. A sage waited for it, and went to bathe in order to purify himself before eating it. As two Princes whose parents had been reduced to poverty, were passing, the younger one picked up the fruit and placed it in their packet of rice. The sage followed them, but they denied all knowledge of the fruit. He informed them that the person who ate the outer part would become a king, and that from the mouth of the person who ate the seed, gems would drop whenever he laughed. The brothers divided the fruit in this way, and a royal elephant coming in search of a new King placed a garland on the neck of the elder one, and depositing him on its back went off with him. The younger one, thinking he was carried off by a wild elephant, left the wood, and was received at the house of a dancing girl. One day when he laughed gems fell from his mouth, and after getting many more, they gave him a purgative pill and secured the magic stone. After other adventures he was united to his brother, recovered the mango stone, and became a King himself. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 138 ff., Tales of the Punjab (F. A. Steel), p. 129, two Princes ran away on account of their step-mother's cruelty, and while resting under a tree heard a Maina (Starling) and a Parrot telling each other that the two persons who ate them would become a King and a Prime Minister. They shot the birds with crossbows, and ate them. The younger one went back for the other's whip, which was left at a spring, and was bitten and killed by a snake. The elder was selected as King, by a royal elephant. A magician found the dead Prince, drained the spring into his wife's small brass pot, and the snakes being waterless gave back the Prince's life. After stirring adventures, the younger Prince married a Prime Minister's daughter, who went on a ship with him. There he was thrown overboard, but caught a rope and got back to his wife's cabin unobserved. He met his brother the King at last, and was made to relate his life story. This he did in sections, on seven days, and at the end the King claimed him as his brother, and he became Prime Minister. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 276 ff., a step-mother got two Princes exiled. At night while they were under a tree two birds were heard predicting that those who ate them would become a King and a Minister, so they shot and ate them. The whip and snake incident are as above, the guilty snake being brought up by a cowry shell, of which the magician had despatched four to the four quarters. The snake breathed into the Prince's mouth and revived him. He had wonderful adventures, and married a Princess, went on a ship with her, was thrown overboard, and assisted a gardener. The Princess had been sold at the palace, where the King, who was the elder brother, wished to marry her. The younger brother went disguised as a woman, and related his story by sections in three days, when the Princess claimed him as her husband. His brother made him Chief Counsellor, and at last he succeeded to his father's kingdom. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 78, the persons who ate the head and breast of a bird became Kings. At p. 159, the King's elephant selected a person as King, the elephant bowing down to him, and the royal hawk perching on his hand. At p. 167 ff., two Princes who escaped their death sentence, which was due to their step-mother's plotting, heard two birds say of two others that they who ate them would become a King and Minister. They shot and ate them. The whip and snake incident occurred, the latter being a dragon. The elder brother was selected as King by the royal elephant and hawk. A jogi emptied the spring and made the dragon restore the Prince, who was captured by robbers, saved by the daughter of one, went with her on board a ship, was pushed overboard, and was saved by the girl. They landed at the city where the elder brother was reigning, and he was made Minister, and eventually King when the elder brother succeeded their father. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), p. 99, a royal elephant with a rich howdah on its back selected a Prince as King, and took him to the city. NO. 8 THE PRINCE AND THE PRINCESS In a certain city there are a Prince and a Princess, it is said. Because these two go together to the school the teacher said, "You two came together to-day; on another day you must not do it again." When they were coming separately on that account, the Princess, being in front, one day went to the well, and having bent down while trying to drink water, her writing style fell into the well. Being there alone the Princess was unable to get the writing style. After the Prince came up she said, "Ane! My writing style fell into the well; get it and give me it." Then the Prince said, "I will get it and give you it if you will swear that you will not marry another person." The Princess said, "I will not marry another; I will only marry you yourself." Having touched the Prince's body she swore it, and the Prince having touched the body of the Princess also swore it. Then he got and gave her the writing pin, and one of them went in front and one went behind. Those two learnt their letters excellently. Afterwards, both having grown up, when they inquired about arranging the marriage for the Prince he said, "You must bring me in marriage such and such a Princess, of such and such a village. If not, I do not want a different marriage." Then the King said, "Do you want the kingdom, or do you want the Princess?" The Prince replied, "I do not want your kingdom at all; I want the Princess." Afterwards the King went and asked for the Princess. Then the father of the Princess said, "I will give the Princess to the persons who give me this well full of gold." So the Prince filled it and gave it, and the Prince and Princess having got married stopped many days at the Prince's house. Then the King said to the Prince, "Because at first you said that you did not want the kingdom, that you only wanted the Princess, you shall not live at my house. Go where you want." Then having gone to the Princess's house, after they had been living there many days the father of the Princess said, "Taking a well of gold, I sold the Princess. You shall not live at my house. Go where you want." So those two went away. As they were going the Princess went along sewing a jacket. Having gone very far, after they sat down at a travellers' shed near a city, the Princess gave the jacket that she had sewn into the Prince's hand, and said, "Take this, and having sold it at the bazaar bring something to eat." The Prince having taken it to the bazaar, after he had told the bazaar men to buy it they said, "We are unable to say a word about buying this. It is so valuable that we have not got the means to purchase it." The guards of the King of that country having been present looking on, and having seen this, told the royal servants to bring the jacket to the King. After they had brought it the King took it, and gave the Prince two bags of money. The Prince left one and took one away. The King having called his servants, ordered them, "Look at the place where that Prince goes and stays, and come back." Well then, the servants having gone and having seen that the Princess was stopping at the travellers' shed, came running, and said at the hands of the King, "There is a good-looking Princess at such and such a travellers' shed." The Prince having left at the travellers' shed the bag of money which he took, came for the other bag of money. While he was coming, the King, taking a horse also, went to the travellers' shed by a different road, and placing the Princess on horseback brought her to the palace. Well then, when the Prince, taking the other bag of money went to the travellers' shed the Princess was not there. He called and called; she did not come. Afterwards, taking both bags of money he comes away along the road. The Princess, while she was looked after by the guards, having seen from afar that the Prince was coming, said to the servants, "I am thirsty," and told them to bring an orange quickly. After it was brought and given to her, she opened the skin and wrote a letter thus: "Give even both those bags of money, and buying two horses come near the palace, and having tied up the two horses stay there without sleeping. After the King has gone to sleep I shall descend down robes tied together, and having come to you, when I mount a horse you mount the other horse, and we will go off." Having placed the letter inside the skin of the orange and shut it up completely, so as to appear like a whole orange fruit, she threw it behind the guards, in front of the approaching Prince. The Prince thinking, because he was hungry, "I must eat this," picked it up, and having gone into the shade of a Timbiri tree, sat down. When he opened the skin of the orange, having seen that there was a letter inside it he took it to the light, and read it aloud. A Karumantaya (a Kinnara, a man of the lowest caste) who was in the Timbiri tree heard all that was written in the letter. Well then, the Prince having given the two bags of money and taken two horses, and having come near the palace on the appointed day, tied the two horses there. While he was there the Karumantaya also came, saying, "Ane! I also must stop here at this resting place." The Prince said, "Do not stay here. Should the King hear of it he will drive us both away." The Karumantaya replied, "Don't say so. I also am going to stop here to-day," and stayed there. The Prince went to sleep; the Karumantaya remained awake. After the King had gone to sleep, the Princess, descending down some robes, came there. When she was mounting a horse, the Karumantaya mounted the other horse, and both of them went off together. Having gone off, when the Princess looked after it became light, she saw the Karumantaya. Afterwards she stopped the horse, and said to the Karumantaya, "Get and give me a little water." The Karumantaya said, "I will not; get it to drink yourself." After the Princess had said it yet another time, the Karumantaya dismounted from the back of the horse. When he had gone for water, the Princess cut with her sword the throat of the horse on which the Karumantaya came, and went off, making the horse bound along. The Karumantaya having run and run a great distance, returned again because he could not come up to her. While the Princess was going on horseback, she came to a place where seven Vaeddas were shooting with bows and arrows. Those seven persons having seen the Princess coming, said to each other, "That Princess who is coming is for me." The Princess having heard that saying, stopped the horse and asked, "What are you saying?" Then each of the seven said, "The Princess is for me, for me." Afterwards the Princess said, "You seven persons shoot your arrows together. I will marry the one whose arrow is picked up in front of the others." After that, they all seven having at one discharge shot their arrows, while the seven persons were running to pick up the arrows the Princess went off, making the horse bound along. Those seven persons having run and run for a great distance, returned again because they could not come up to her. The Prince having awoke, when he looked the two horses were not there, and the Princess was not there. So he walked away weeping and weeping. Then, while the Princess was going near yet another city, putting on Brahmana clothes she went to the school at that city, and there having begged from a child a slate [27] and slate pencil, [27] she wrote a name in Brahmana letters (Devanagari). When she had given it to the children who were at the school, nobody, including also the teacher, was able to read it. Then the teacher took it to the King of that country, and showed him it. The King also could not read it. So the King appointed her as a teacher, saying, "From to-day the Brahmana must teach letters at the school." Now, when the Brahmana had been teaching letters for a long time, men told the King tales about her: "That is a woman indeed; no Brahmana." Then the King having said, "Ha. It is good," told the servants, "Inviting that Brahmana, go to my flower garden. If it be a woman, she will pick many flowers and come away after putting them in her waist pocket. If it be a Brahmana, he will pick one flower, and come away turning it round and round near his eye." That Brahmana had reared a parrot. The parrot heard from the roof of the palace the words said by the King, and having gone to the school said to the Brahmana, "The King says thus." Next day, the Ministers having come to the school said, "Let us go to the flower garden," and inviting the Brahmana, went there. Keeping in mind the words said by the parrot, the Brahmana broke off one flower, and holding it near the eye came away turning it round and round. The King looking on said, "From to-day no one must say again that it is a woman." Again, in that manner, when she had been there a long time, people began to say to the King, "No Brahmana; that is a woman indeed." Then the King again said to the servants, "To-morrow, inviting the Brahmana, go to my betel garden. If it be a woman, she will pluck many betel leaves, and go away after putting them in her waist pocket. If it be a Brahmana, he will pluck one betel leaf, and holding it near his eye he will come away turning it round and round." Hearing that also from the roof of the palace, the Brahmana's parrot having gone to the Brahmana said, "The King says so and so." Next day, the King's Ministers having gone to the school said, "Let us go to the betel garden," and inviting the Brahmana, went there. Keeping in mind the words said by the parrot, in that very manner breaking off one betel leaf, and holding it near the eye, she came away turning it round and round. The King, looking on at it also, said, "From to-day I shall cut with this sword the one who says again that it is a woman." After that, the Brahmana having carved a figure like the Princess, gave it into the hands of the scholars, and said, "Taking this, go and collect donations (samadama). After you have gone, inviting to come with you him who on seeing this figure recognises it, return with him." After the scholars, taking the figure, had gone to a city, the seven Vaeddas saw it, and said, "Here is the Princess." Having drawn near they asked, "How is it that she has gone away for such a long time since she went from here that day? Where is she now?" Then the scholars, saying, "She is now at our city; let us go there," inviting those seven persons, returned with them. After they had come to the school the Brahmana said, "Cut them down, the seven persons." After they had cut them down, the Brahmana said to the scholars, "Take this again. Again inviting him whom you meet, return with him." The scholars took it again, and while they were going to another city met that Karumantaya. After he had said, "Ane! Amme! Where did you go for such a long time? Where is she now?" the scholars replied, "The Princess is now at our city; let us go there." After they had come to the school the Brahmana said, "Cut down that one also." After they had cut him down, she said to the scholars, "Take this again." The scholars, taking it, and having gone to another city, met with the Prince. Having come in front of it, the Prince fell down weeping. The scholars said, "Do not weep. She is in our city; let us go there." After they had come to the school, the Brahmana arose quickly, and having thrown off the Brahmana clothing, dressed herself in her Princess's robes. Having prepared warm water and made the Prince bathe, the Princess cooked ample food, and gave him to eat. While she was doing this, the scholars having gone to the King said, "It was a Princess who was there. After we went to a city to collect donations, having met with the Princess's Prince he came back with us. Both of them are now at the school." After that, the King, having come to the school, and having asked about those things from those two, built a house with a tiled roof, and gave it and half the village to the Princess as a present. North-western Province. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 86, a Prince induced three persons who were quarrelling over the ownership of some wonderful articles left by their master, a Fakir, to run for three arrows which he discharged in three directions. While they were absent, he took three of the articles, and seating himself on a magic seat which was one of the things, was conveyed away by it. At p. 306 ff. of the same work, a Prince and Princess eloped when the latter was about to be married to another Prince. While on their way, she remembered some jewels which she required, and he returned for them. In the meantime a robber had come up in the dark, and finding her servant asleep had ridden off with the Princess, who thought he was the Prince. When daylight came she found out her mistake, sent him to a village for food, and then rode off alone; and calling at a goldsmith's house for a drink, was detained and requested to marry him. On her agreeing, he gave her gold ear-rings and her jewels, with which she rode off, and stayed with a married couple, disguising herself as a man. An elephant selected her as King. Then she got an artist to paint her portrait, and she hung it in a thoroughfare of the city, with a guard who seized all who recognised her. These proved to be the robber, her servant, the goldsmith, and the two who befriended her, and lastly the Prince. When the Prince saw her portrait he fainted. He was first made Prime Minister, and afterwards the Princess revealed herself to him, and he became King. The robber and goldsmith were imprisoned, and the others rewarded. The resemblance to the Sinhalese story is striking. NO. 9 TAMARIND TIKKA In a certain city there are seven elder brothers and younger brothers, it is said. The seven have a younger sister, who cooks and gives food to all seven. While the seven brothers were cutting and cutting the sides of an earthen ridge (nira) in the rice field, they saw seven women coming, and said to them, "Where are you going?" The seven women replied, "We are seven elder sisters and younger sisters; and we are going to seek seven elder brothers and younger brothers." Then the seven brothers said, "We are seven elder brothers and younger brothers. Stop with us." The seven sisters said, "Ha." The seven brothers having brought the seven sisters to their house, leaving them there went again to the rice field, and chopped the ridges. Those seven sisters having boiled seven pots of paddy and spread it out to dry, said to their sister-in-law, "We are going for firewood; you stay at home and look after these things." After they had gone, that sister-in-law fell asleep. Then rain having fallen, the seven large mats (magal) on which the paddy was spread were washed away. When the seven sisters came, and saw that the mats and paddy had been washed away, they seized that woman, and having beaten her, drove her away from the house. So she went to the foot of a Tamarind tree on the roadside, and stayed there. When a long time had passed after she went there, all those seven women bore girls. The woman under the Tamarind tree bore a boy. As the eldest brother was going along the road on which was the tree, the woman said, "Ane! Elder brother, look at my boy's horoscope." He said, "I will not." As the next brother was going she said, "Ane! Elder brother, look at my boy's horoscope." He said, "I will not." Thus, in that way all the six elder brothers refused. Afterwards, when the youngest brother was going, on her saying, "Ane! Elder brother, look at my boy's horoscope," he said, "Ha," and went. When he looked at it, the astrologer said, "He is born such that he will bring misfortune to those seven girls. The child will be so lucky that he might obtain a kingdom." Then the brother having returned, said to that woman, "That one has been born such that he will eat thee. Knock his head on a stone or root, and kill him." The woman saying, "It is good. Let him eat me," reared him. The child having become big, said at the hand of the woman, "Mother, now then, oughtn't you to bring me an assistant (i.e. a wife)?" The woman replied, "Ane! Son, who will give in marriage to us?" Afterwards the youth went to a place where they were grinding flour, and having put a little flour under his finger nail, came back. "Mother, mother, quickly hold a basin," he said. The woman held one. Then, when he put into the basin the little flour that was under his finger nail, it filled it and ran over. Having gone again to a place where they were expressing coconut oil, in the same way he took a little coconut under his finger nail, and came back. "Mother, mother, hold that quickly," he said. The woman held it. That also was filled and overflowed. Again, having gone to a place where they were warming Palm-tree syrup, in the same way he took some under his finger nail, and came back. "Mother, mother, hold that quickly," he said. That also was filled and overflowed. Afterwards the youngster said, "Mother, cook cakes with those things, and give me them." So the woman having cooked them, tied up a pingo (carrying-stick) load, and gave it to him. The youngster, taking the pingo load, went to his eldest uncle [28]. After he asked him for his daughter's hand in marriage, the uncle said, "Be off! Be off! Who would give in marriage to Tamarind Tikka?" From there he went to the next uncle, and asked him. That uncle spoke in the same manner. All the six elder uncles spoke in the same manner. Then he went to the youngest uncle, and when he asked him the uncle said, "Put the packages of cakes there, then." (Intimating by this that he accepted him as a son-in-law. He alone knew of the nature of the boy's horoscope.) Afterwards, having cooked and given Tamarind Tikka to eat, the uncle said, "My buffalo cow has died, Tamarind Tikka. Let us go and bury it, and return." Tamarind Tikka said "Ha," and having gone to the place where the dead buffalo was lying, said, "Uncle, shall I make that get up?" The uncle said "Ha." So Tamarind Tikka went to the low bushes at the edge of the jungle, and came back cutting a white stick. Then calling out, "Into the cattle-fold, Buffalo cow! Into the cattle-fold!" he struck the buffalo. Then the buffalo cow that had been dead got up, and came running to the cattle-fold. By the calves from that buffalo cow the cattle herd was increased. One day, while the six uncles and Tamarind Tikka were watching cattle in the field, the uncles said, "Tamarind Tikka, we will watch. You go and eat, and come back." After he had gone home, the six uncles cut all the throats [29] of his cattle. When he returned the six uncles said, "Ane! Tamarind Tikka. Some men came, and having tied us all and thrown us down in the dust, cut all the throats of your cattle. Not a thing could we do." Tamarind Tikka said, "Ha. It is good." As he was going away, having seen people burying a corpse he waited while they were burying it, and after they had gone he dug out the grave, and raised the dead body to the surface. Then lifting up the body and taking it to a tank, he bathed it, dressed it in a cloth, tied a handkerchief round its waist, tied a handkerchief on its head, put a handkerchief over its shoulder, [30] and placing it on his shoulder went away with it. After nightfall, having gone to a village, Tamarind Tikka set the body upright against a clump of plantain trees, and asked at a house, "Ane! You must give us a resting-place to-night." When he said this the men in the house replied, "There will be no resting-place here. Go away, and ask at another house." Then he said, "Ane! Don't say so. Our great-grandfather is coming there." Women were driving cattle out of that garden. Tamarind Tikka said to them, "Ane! Our great-grandfather is coming there. His eyes cannot see anything. Don't hit him, any one." Then a woman at the raised terrace of the shop, having knocked down a stump, when she was throwing it at the cattle the dead body was hit, and fell down. At the blow Tamarind Tikka went running there, and cried out, "Appe! Great-grandfather is dead." The men came out of the house and said, "Tamarind Tikka, don't cry. We will give you a quart measure of money." "I don't want either a quart measure of money or two. Our great-grandfather is dead," Tamarind Tikka said, and cried aloud. Again the men said, "Appa! Tamarind Tikka, don't cry. We will give you three quart measures of money." Tamarind Tikka said, "I don't want either three or four. I want our great-grandfather." Again the men said, "Tamarind Tikka, don't cry. We will give you five quart measures of money." Tamarind Tikka said, "I don't want either five or six. Give me my great-grandfather." The men said, "Tamarind Tikka, don't cry. We will give you seven quart measures of money." Then Tamarind Tikka said, "Ha. It is good. Give me them. What of that! Will our great-grandfather come to his senses again?" Taking the seven quart measures of money, and returning to his village, Tamarind Tikka spread a mat on the raised veranda of his house, and having put the seven quart measures of money on it, was counting it. The six uncles having come, said, "Whence, Tamarind Tikka, this money?" "O! Will people with cattle hides to sell become in want of money?" he said. After that, the six uncles having cut the throats of all the cattle they had, and tied the skins into pingo loads, taking them to the villages asked, "Will you buy cattle hides?" The men said, "Go away. Go away. Who will give money for cattle hides?" Then the uncles having come to their village, becoming angry with Tamarind Tikka, spoke together, "We must kill him." So they went to him and said, "Tamarind Tikka, let us go on a journey together." He asked, "Where?" The six uncles said, "A daughter of ours has been asked in marriage. On that account we must go to-day to eat betel at the house of the people who have asked for her. Tamarind Tikka said "Ha," and went with the uncles. Having gone very far, they came to a foot-bridge made of a tree trunk (edanda), and on seeing it the uncles spoke together, "Let us hang Tamarind Tikka under this, and go away." So they put him in a sack, and having hung it under the foot-bridge, went off. While he was under it, as a washerman bringing a bundle of clothes was going over the bridge, Tamarind Tikka said, "Appe! The lumbago is a leetle better since I have been hanging here." Then the washerman said, "Tamarind Tikka, I also have lumbago; hang me up a little." Tamarind Tikka said, "If so, unfasten this sack." After the washerman unfastened it, Tamarind Tikka came out, and having put him in the sack, and again tied it in the same manner under the foot-bridge, took his bundle of clothes, came to the rice field with it, and spread the clothes out to dry. As the six uncles were returning, they cut the fastenings of the sack that hung under the bridge (thus letting it fall into the stream). While coming along afterwards to the village, they saw Tamarind Tikka in the rice field spreading clothes out, and asked, "Whence, Tamarind Tikka, these clothes?" Then he said, "O! Will people who have to be under foot-bridges become in want of clothes?" The six uncles said, "Hang us there also, Tamarind Tikka," and they brought six sacks and gave them to him. So he put the six uncles into the six sacks, and hung them under the foot-bridge, and afterwards cut the fastenings of the sacks. Then the six uncles were carried away down the river, and died in the sea. The six women (their wives) ran away; their six girls, saying, "Our fathers are going for clothes to wear. Let us go also," also ran away. So the six uncles, and the six women, and the six girls all died. Tamarind Tikka, and his wife, and uncle, and aunt, and mother, these five remained. North-western Province. In the Jataka story No. 432 (vol. iii, p. 304), a similar incident to the last one is related. A woman whom her son and his wife thought they had burnt while asleep, frightened a robber when he came to the cave in which she had taken refuge, and thus got his bundle containing jewels. When she returned home next day with the jewels, and was asked by her daughter-in-law where she got them, she informed her that all who were burnt on a wooden pile at that cemetery received a similar present. So she went there, and burnt herself. In The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 97 ff., a Prince was requested to deliver letters to the departed relatives of all at the palace of the King under whom he was employed, who twice before had endeavoured to kill him by giving him apparently impossible tasks. By the aid of the magical powers of his wives, he jumped into a pit of fire with the letters, and was saved by Agni, the Fire God, who sent him back next day out of the fire, with costly jewels and a splendid dress. All the persons who were hoping to kill him decided to follow his example, and were burnt up. The Prince then became the ruler of the kingdom. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. iii, p. 11, in a Bengal tale by G. H. Damant, six men burnt a farmer's house. He loaded two bags of the ashes on a bullock, and on the way met some men driving bullocks laden with rupees, changed two of their bags for his own, met the six men who burnt his house, and told them he got the money by selling the ashes. They burnt their houses and were beaten by people for trying to sell ashes. Then they went to the farmer's house, tied him, put him in a sack, and threw him into a river. He was saved by a man who was riding past, on his offering to cut grass for his horse without pay. He rode off on the horse, overtook the six men, and informed them that he found the horse in the river, where there were many more. They persuaded him to throw them in, tied in sacks, and all were drowned. In the same journal, vol. iv, p. 257, the incident is given as found among the Santals. A man who was in a sack, about to be drowned, induced another, a shepherd, to take his place. The man then took possession of the shepherd's cows, and when those who thought they had killed him heard from him that there were many more in the river, they allowed themselves to be tied up and thrown in. In vol. xviii, p. 120, in a South Indian story by Pandita Natesa Sastri, a man who had cheated some persons was carried off, tied up in a bag, to be burnt alive. While firewood was being fetched, he induced a cow-watcher to take his place, and he himself drove off the 1,001 cows of which the man had charge. When his enemies returned to his house after burning the watcher, they found him there to welcome them, the cows being all around. He informed them that on going to Kailasa, the residence of the God Siva, after being burnt, he met his father and grandfather, who stated that his allotted time on earth had not expired, and sent him back with the cows. The others decided to go also, and were tied up and burnt. A variant of the last incident is also found in West Africa, and is given in Contes Soudanais (C. Monteil), p. 121. A sorceress captured a youth, whom she wished to destroy enclosed in three goat skins, and she set her daughter to watch the package while she dug a pit and filled it with wood, which she set on fire. The girl heard the boy apparently eating food inside, and questioned him about it. He said, "I have better than that; I have some dainties." As she wanted some she released him and was tied up in his place, while he escaped clothed in her dress. The sorceress returned, and threw the bundle into the fire. Although she heard a voice inside saying the boy had tied up the girl in it, she believed it was only a trick of his. A similar incident is related in another story in the same volume, p. 164. It also occurs in a folk-tale of the Southern Province which I contributed to The Orientalist (vol. ii, p. 53). As other incidents in that story resemble some in the tales given below, I give it in full here. I may add that however improbable the marriage of seven brothers to seven sisters may appear, it has been nearly matched in recent years in England. The Daily Mail of January 20, 1908, contained the following words regarding an old lady who had just died:--"She was one of seven members of her family who married seven sons and daughters of a neighbouring farmer." NO. 10 MATALANGE LOKU-APPU Once upon a time there lived a man and a woman, whose son was a youth named Matalange Loku-Appu. One day the mother went to the river to fetch water, telling her son to allow nothing whatever to enter the house in her absence. While she was away a small lizard (hikanala) ran into the house. As it approached, the boy called out to it to stop, but it took no notice of him, and climbed up into the roof, whereupon Loku-Appu set fire to the roof and burnt the house down. When his mother returned, and asked him how the house came to be burnt, he informed her that he had done it in driving the lizard out of the roof. Afterwards the father came home, and on learning what had occurred set off into the forest with his son to cut sticks, in order to build a new house. While he cut the sticks he ordered Loku-Appu to collect them. A river flowed through the forest, and Loku-Appu asked him where it ran. "To your house," he replied. The son, taking this literally, threw all the sticks into the river, so that it might transport them home. When the father discovered that all the sticks were lost in this way, he flew into a passion, tied the boy on a log, and set him afloat in the river, saying, "Go thou also." At a short distance down the river there was a sweet-potato garden. The gardener saw the log and boy floating past, and rescued Loku-Appu. He inquired the boy's name, and was told it was "Uprooter-of-Creepers, Sweet-Potato-Eater." Nevertheless, he placed the boy in charge of his garden. After two or three days, the gardener returned to inspect his garden, and found all the sweet potatoes pulled up and eaten. So he tied the boy on the log again, and set him afloat once more. Further down the river there was a plantain garden, the owner of which saw Loku-Appu on the log, and drew him ashore. When asked his name, Loku-Appu replied, "Eater-of-the-first-Comb-of-Plantains, Crusher-of-young-Plantain-Shoots." The man gave him charge of the garden. In a few days, the man came to see how his garden progressed, and found everything broken down and eaten. On this, he at once dismissed Loku-Appu. Having nothing to live upon, Loku-Appu now began to borrow from some tom-tom beaters. After a few months, these men, finding that he did not repay them, called on him to make him come to a settlement. Loku-Appu saw them at a distance, and guessing their errand, put a young girl into the corn store-room, and began to trim a club with his knife. When the creditors arrived he requested them to be seated. Soon afterwards he fetched up an old woman who lived in the house, gave her a smart blow with the club, and put her also into the corn-store. After a few minutes, he called for betel to be brought, and the little girl came out with it. At this, the tom-tom beaters were greatly astonished, and made inquiries regarding the miracle, for such they thought it. Loku-Appu told them that the virtue lay in the club, with which all old women could be converted into young girls. When they heard this, they became exceedingly anxious to possess the wonderful club, but Loku-Appu refused to part with it on any terms. At last, finding persuasion useless, the tom-tom beaters took it from him by force, and went straight home with it. There they called up part of the old women of their village, and after beating them well with the club, put them into the corn store-rooms. To give the charm time to work they waited three days. Then they went to examine the old women, expecting to find them become young again; but all were dead. Full of anger, they went to Loku-Appu to tell him that he had deceived them, and that the women were all dead. While they were still at a distance, Loku-Appu cried out, "Alas, alas! They have taken hold of the wrong end of the stick!" When they came near he explained to them the blunder they had made. As they took the stick from him by force he was not responsible for it. This time he cut a mark on the right end of the stick to be used, telling the tom-tom beaters that if the wrong end were used the women would certainly die, while the proper end would as certainly change them into young girls. When the tom-tom beaters returned to their village they fetched up all the rest of the old women, and after belabouring them well with the proper end of the club, put them also into the corn-stores. Yet after three days they found that the result was just the same as at first; all the women were dead. Determined to revenge themselves on Loku-Appu, they came to his house, tied him up in a sack, and set off to the river with him, intending to drown him. On the way, they heard the beating of tom-toms, whereupon they set the sack down on the road, and went to see what it was about. During their absence, a Muhammadan trader in cloth who was coming along the road, found the sack, and heard a voice proceeding from it: "Alas! What a trouble this is that has come upon me! How can I govern a kingdom when I cannot either read or write?" The trader immediately untied the sack, and questioned Loku-Appu as to how he came there. Loku-Appu explained to the trader that he was about to be made a king, but not possessing the requisite amount of knowledge for such a high position he had refused the dignity; and now he was being carried off in this way to be put on the throne. "By force they are going to make me king," he said. The trader remarked to him, "It will be a great favour if you will let them do it to me instead"; and eventually they changed places, Loku-Appu tying the trader in the sack, and he himself taking the man's clothes and bundle of cloth. Loku-Appu then hid himself. In a short time the tom-tom beaters came back, carried away the sack with the would-be king, and threw it into the river. As they were returning past a part of the river, they saw, to their intense surprise, Loku-Appu washing clothes in it. They came to him and said, "What is this, Loku-Appu? Where have you come from? Where did you get all this cloth?" He replied, "These are the things which I found in the river bottom when you threw me in with the sack. As they are rather muddy I am cleaning them." The tom-tom beaters said that they would be greatly obliged if he would put them in the way of getting such treasures, so he requested them to bring sacks like that in which he had been tied. They soon came back with the sacks, were tied up in them, and were thrown into the river by Loku-Appu. Then Loku-Appu went to the tom-tom beaters' village, and took possession of their lands and houses. Some of the incidents of this story are found in No. 58 also. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. iii, p. 11, in a Bengal story, by Mr. G. H. Damant, some men who had been cheated by a farmer, called at his house regarding the matter. He offered them food, and when they sat down to the meal struck his wife with his bullock goad, and said, "Be changed into a girl, and bring in the curry." She went out, and sent back their little daughter with the food. He then sold the men the magic stick for one hundred and fifty rupees, telling them that if they beat their wives well with it they would all recover their youth. They acted accordingly, and beat them so thoroughly that the wives were all killed. Then they returned and burnt the farmer's house down, as noted at the end of the last story, where the later incidents are given. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xviii, p. 120, there is a South Indian story by Pandita Natesa Sastri, in which, when three persons who had been cheated by a man came to interview him regarding the frauds, they were welcomed by him. According to arrangement, he beat his wife, who was dressed as an old woman, with a pestle and put her inside the house, explaining to his guests that he had only done it to make her young again. Soon afterwards she reappeared as a young woman. He lent them the magic pestle for a week, but by its use they only killed their relatives. Then they returned in order to square up accounts with him, tied him in a bag, and carried him up a mountain, intending to burn him alive. When they went for the firewood, a cow-herd came up, learnt from him that he was about to be forcibly married to a girl, took his place, and was burnt, the impostor himself driving off the 1,001 cows which the man was watching. When the three cheated persons returned and learnt that he had been sent back from Kailasa with the cattle, as his time on earth had not expired, two of them got him to burn them in a similar way. NO. 11 THE WHITE TURTLE At a village there are an elder sister and a younger sister, two persons. The two are going away, it is said. While going, they saw two bulls going along. Then the cattle asked, "Where are you going?" "We are going to a country where they give to eat and to wear" (meaning that they were in search of husbands). "Are we good enough for you?" [31] the cattle asked. "What do you eat?" they asked. "Having been put in those chenas we eat paddy and jungle vegetables." Saying, "We don't want you," the two women go on. As they were going, they met with two jackal-dogs. "Where are you going?" they asked the two women. "We are going to a country where they give to eat and to wear," they said. "Are we good enough for you?" they asked. "What do you eat?" they asked. "We eat a few fruits and crabs," the two jackals said. "What do you eat?" "We eat dried-fish fry," they said. Saying, "We do not want two jackals," the two women still go on. While they were going, an elder brother and a younger brother were ploughing. They asked the two women, "Where are you going?" "We are going to a country where they give to eat and to wear," they said. "Are we good enough for you?" they asked. The two women asked, "What do you eat?" "We eat dry-fish fry," they said. "Then both parties eat it," they said. "It is good." "If so, it is good. Go to our house," the men said. [32] Afterwards those two men, having given the two keys of their houses into the hands of the elder sister and the younger sister, said, "The cooking things are in such a place; go there, and having opened the doors cook until we come." Then the two women went to the houses, and the elder sister opened the door of the elder brother's house and cooked; and the younger sister opened the door of the younger brother's house and cooked. Afterwards the two men came home, and having eaten, stopped there [with the sisters, as their husbands]. After many days had passed, the two sisters bore two girls. The younger sister had many things at her house; the elder sister had none. On account of that, the elder sister through ill-feeling thought, "I must kill younger sister." One day, the two sisters having cooked rice, while they were taking it to the rice field the younger sister went in front, and the elder sister went behind. On the way, they came near the river. Then the elder sister said, "Younger sister, didst thou never bathe? The skin on thy back is dirty. Take off that necklace and the clothes on thy body, and lay them down, and let us bathe and then go." They put down the two mat boxes of cooked rice, and having descended into the river, she called, while bathing, to her sister, "Younger sister, come here for me to rub thy back." While rubbing she threw her into the middle of the river. Then she took the two boxes of cooked rice and went to the rice field. The younger sister died in the river. After the elder sister went to the rice field, the younger brother asked at the hand of the elder sister, "Why has no one come from our house?" Then the elder sister said, "Ando! Catch her coming! [33] Isn't she playing [illicit] games at home?" Having given the two boxes of rice to the elder brother and the younger brother, that woman returned home. Afterwards that younger sister's girl asked, "Loku-Amma, [34] where is our mother?" Then the woman said, "Ando! Catch her coming! When I came she was still stopping in the rice field." After it became night, the elder brother and the younger brother having come home, the younger brother asked, "Girl, where is thy mother?" Then the girl said, "At noon she took cooked rice to the rice field with Loku-Amma; she has not come yet." The younger brother said, "Where? She did not go to the rice field." Then the girl said, "At the time when I asked at the hand of Loku-Amma, 'Where is our mother?' she said, 'She is at the rice field.'" Afterwards the elder sister, calling the elder brother and the younger brother, both of them [to be her husbands], took her sister's goods, and remained there with them. From the next day, having cooked she gave the rice into the hands of the two girls to take to the rice field. After the girls had gone near the river for two or three days, they saw one day a White Turtle in it, and approached and tried to catch it. When the elder sister's girl went to catch it, it went to the middle of the river; when the younger sister's girl went, it came to the bank, and rubbed itself over the whole of her body. After the elder sister's girl had gone home, she told the elder sister of it: "Mother, there is a White Turtle in the river. When that girl goes it comes to her; when I go it swims far away," she said. That elder sister said, "Ha. It is good. I shall eat it," and lay down. The younger sister's girl hearing it, went near the river, and said, "Mother, she must eat you, says Loku-Amma." Then the White Turtle said, "Ha. It is good, daughter. Let her eat. After she has cooked she will give you, also, a little gravy, and a bone. Drink the gravy, and take the bone to the cattle-fold, and having said, 'If it be true that you are our mother, may you be created a Mango tree,' throw it down." Afterwards, when those two men came home, having seen that the woman was lying down, "What are you lying down for?" they asked. Then the woman said, "It is in my mind to eat the White Turtle that is in the river." So the men went to the river, and having caught the White Turtle, and brought it home, and cooked it, gave it to the woman. Then the woman got up and ate it. She gave the girl a little gravy, and a bone. The girl having drunk the gravy, took the bone to the cattle-fold, and saying, "If it be true that you are our mother, may you be created a Mango tree," threw down the bone. After that, a Mango tree being created, in a day or two grew large and bore fruit. As the two girls were going near the Mango tree they saw that there were Mangoes on it, and went close to it. When the elder sister's girl went to pluck the Mango fruits, the branches rose up; when the younger sister's girl went to pluck them, the branches bent down, and spread over her body and head. Well then, after that girl had plucked and eaten as many as she wanted, the branches rose again. That also the elder sister's girl, having come home, told her: "Mother, there are fruits on the Mango tree at the cattle-fold. When I try to pluck them the branches rise; when that girl tries to pluck them the branches rub the ground." The woman said, "Ha. It is good. I will split that and warm it in the fire." After hearing that also, that girl, having gone to the Mango tree said, "Mother, having split you she must warm you in the fire, Loku-Amma says." Then the Mango tree said, "Ha. It is good, daughter. Let her split. A splinter having fallen will remain here. Take it, and having said, 'If it be true that you are our mother, may you be created a Kaekiri creeper,' put it down at the back of the house." Afterwards, when the elder sister's two men came, having seen that she was lying down, "What are you lying down for to-day also?" they asked. Then the woman said, "Having split the Mango tree at the cattle-fold, it is in my mind to have a few splinters warmed for me in the fire." So the two men having gone to the cattle-fold, and having cut and split up the Mango tree, and brought a few splinters home, put them in the fire and fanned it. After that, the woman got up, and warmed herself at the fire. Then that girl went to the place where the Mango tree was, and when she looked a splinter was there. Taking it, she came to the back of the house, and having said, "If it be true that you are our mother, may you be created a Kaekiri creeper," she put it down. In a day or two a Kaekiri creeper was created there, and bore fruits. On going there, the younger sister's girl said, "There is fruit," and having plucked and eaten as many as she wanted, she came home. When the elder sister's girl went to pluck them there was not a single fruit. Having returned home, the girl said regarding that also, "Mother, on the Kaekiri creeper which is at the back of the house there are many fruits when that girl goes to it; when I go, not a single one." The woman said, "Ha. It is good. Having uprooted it I will eat it in a dry curry." That girl after hearing that also, went near the Kaekiri creeper and said, "Mother, having uprooted you and cooked you in a dry curry, she must eat you, says Loku-Amma." The Kaekiri creeper said, "Ha. It is good, daughter. Let her eat. At the place where I am uprooted there will be a Kaekiri root. Take it to the river, and having said, 'If it be true that you are our mother, be created a Blue-Lotus flower,' throw it into the river." The elder sister having uprooted the Kaekiri creeper, took it home, and having cooked the curry, ate. After that, the girl went to the place where the Kaekiri creeper had been, and when she looked a Kaekiri root was there. Having taken it to the river, and said, "If it be true that you are our mother, be created a Blue-Lotus flower," she threw it into the river. Then a Blue-Lotus flower was created. When the two girls were going together to the river to bathe, having seen that there was a Blue-Lotus flower, that younger sister's girl went and held out her hands in a cup shape. Then the flower which was in the middle of the river came into the girl's hands, and opened out while in her hands. When the elder sister's girl was holding her hands for it, it goes to the middle of the river. That girl having come home, said of it also, "Mother, there is a Blue-Lotus flower in the river. When that girl goes it comes to her hands; when I go it moves far away." The woman said, "Ha! It is good. That also I shall seize, and take." The girl after having heard that also, went and said, "Mother, she must pluck you also, says Loku-Amma." Then the Blue-Lotus flower said, "Let that woman say so, daughter. She is unable to pluck me." Afterwards the woman having told at the hands of the two men, "Pluck the flower and come back," the two men having gone to the river tried to pluck it; they could not. When they are trying to pluck it, it goes to the middle of the river. Afterwards, the men having told it at the hand of the King of the country, and having told the King to cause the flower to be plucked and to give them it, the King also came near the river on the back of an elephant, together with the King's servants. The elder sister, and the two girls, and the two men stayed on this side. Then the people on this side and the people on that side try and try to take that flower; they cannot take it. That younger sister's girl having gone to one side, after looking on said, "Indeed I am able to take it, that flower." The King on the other side of the river having heard that, while he was on the back of the elephant, said, "What is it, girl, that you are saying?" Then that girl said, "O Lord, I am greatly afraid to speak; I indeed am able to take it, the flower." "Ha. Take it," the King said. Afterwards, when the girl was holding her hands in a cup shape, the flower that was in the middle of the river came into her hands. Afterwards the King, taking that flower, and placing the girl on the elephant, went to the King's city. North-western Province. In the Jataka story No. 67 (vol. i, p. 164), a woman went to a King and begged for "wherewith to be covered," by which she meant her husband, who had been arrested. She explained that "a husband is a woman's real covering." In Indian Fairy Tales (Stokes), p. 144, a girl who was supposed to be drowned became a pink-lotus flower which eluded capture, but came of its own accord into the hand of a Prince. NO. 12 THE BLACK STORKS' GIRL In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. The man cuts jungle at a chena clearing; the woman is weaving a bag. After the man comes home, the woman asks, "Is the jungle cut yet?" The man says, "A couple of bushes are cut; is the bag woven?" The woman says, "A couple of rows are woven." Continuing in that way, after the end of two or three days the man, while returning from cutting jungle, saw a Kaekiri creeper at a threshing-floor, and having come near, and seen that there was a fruit on it, plucked and ate it. A Kaekiri seed remained fixed in his beard. After he came home, the woman, seeing it, asked, "Where did you eat Kaekiri?" The man said, "When I was coming home there was a Kaekiri creeper at a threshing-floor on the way; on it there was a fruit. I ate it." Then the woman said, "There will be more on that creeper. After I have woven the bag let us go there." Afterwards, having gone with him to the threshing-floor, she saw that the Kaekiri creeper had spread completely over the floor, and that there were as many fruits as leaves. While plucking them, she bore a girl there. Afterwards, the man having plucked Kaekiri, and filled and tied up the bag, said to the woman, "Shall I take the girl, or shall I take the bag?" The woman told him to take the bag, leaving the girl there. So the girl was left at the threshing-floor, and the man and woman went home, taking the bag of fruit with them. While a Black Stork (Mana) and a female Black Stork (Mani) were going about seeking food, the female Stork saw that a girl was at the threshing-floor, and having gone near it, cried out, "Ade! A thing for me! Ade! A thing for me!" When the male Stork heard this he came running to the spot. Having looked at the girl, the two Black Storks took her to their house, and reared her there. After a time, the girl having become big, the female Black Stork and the male Black Stork said, "Daughter, we must go for golden bracelets and golden anklets for you." At that house there were a Parrot, a Dog, and a Cat, which were reared there. The two Storks told the girl, "Daughter, after we have gone, do not reduce the food of either the Parrot, or the Dog, or the Cat. Until we return, be careful not to put out the fire on the hearth, and not to go anywhere whatever." After saying this, they went to bring the golden bracelets and golden anklets. That girl having been careful for two or three days in the way the female Stork and male Stork told her, lessened the food of the Cat. That night the Cat extinguished the fire on the hearth. Next morning, the girl having gone to the hearth to cook, when she looked there was no fire on the hearth. So she said to the Parrot, "Younger brother, last night I reduced the food of the Cat a little. For that, the Cat has extinguished the fire on the hearth, and now there is no fire for cooking. You go and look from which house smoke is rising, and come back." Then the Parrot having gone flying, looked and looked. There was not any coming from any other houses; from the house of the Rakshasa, only, there was a smoke. The Parrot having come home, said, "Elder sister, I looked at the whole of the houses. There was not any; only from the house of the Rakshasa the smoke came." Afterwards the girl, having said, "If so, younger brother, you stop at home until I go and bring fire," went for the fire. The Rakshasa was not at home; only the Rakshasa's wife was there. The girl having gone to that house, said, "Give me a little fire." Then that woman made the girl boil and dry seven large baskets of paddy (unhusked rice), and pound the paddy in those seven, and bring seven large pots of water, and bring seven bundles of firewood. Then taking a piece of coconut shell with a hole in it, she put ashes at the bottom, and having placed a fire-charcoal on them, gave it to her. While the girl was going home, the ashes fell through the hole all along the path. Afterwards, when the Rakshasa came home, "What is this, Bolan?" he asked the woman; "there is a smell of a human body, a human body that has been here." The woman said, "A girl came for fire. Thinking you would come, I employed that girl, and having made her boil seven baskets of paddy, and dry it, and pound it, and bring seven large pots of water, and seven bundles of firewood, when I looked you were not to be seen. Afterwards, having placed ashes in a piece of coconut shell with a hole in it, I put a fire-charcoal on them, and gave her it. By this time she will have gone home. There will be ashes along the path on which that girl went. Go, looking and looking at the ashes-path," she said. Afterwards the Rakshasa went along the ashes-path. The Parrot having seen him coming in the rice field, said, "Elder sister, the Rakshasa is coming. Shut the door," he said. So the girl, shutting the door and bolting it, stopped in the house. The Rakshasa having come near the house, said, "Here are golden bracelets, O daughter. Here are golden anklets, O daughter. Open the door, my daughter." Then the Parrot said, "No golden bracelets, O elder sister. No golden anklets, O elder sister. Open not the door, wise elder sister." Then the Rakshasa ran to catch the Parrot. He could not catch it; the Parrot went into the forest and stayed there. Afterwards the Rakshasa having come again near the house said, "Here are golden bracelets, O daughter. Here are golden anklets, O daughter. Open the door, my daughter." Then the Dog, which was in the open space at the front of the house, said, "No golden bracelets, O elder sister. No golden anklets, O elder sister. Open not the door, wise elder sister." The Rakshasa having gone running after the Dog, and having caught and killed the Dog, came again near the house, and said, "Here are golden bracelets, O daughter. Here are golden anklets, O daughter. Open the door, my daughter." Then the Cat that was in the raised veranda said, "No golden bracelets, O elder sister. No golden anklets, O elder sister. Open not the door, wise elder sister." The Rakshasa, having gone running, killed also the Cat, and again having come near the house, said, "Here are golden bracelets, O daughter. Here are golden anklets, O daughter. Open the door, my daughter." Then the Gam-Murunga [35] tree said, "No golden bracelets, O elder sister. No golden anklets, O elder sister. Open not the door, wise elder sister." Afterwards the Rakshasa, having cut down and broken up the Gam-Murunga tree, again went near the house, and said, "Here are golden bracelets, O daughter. Here are golden anklets, O daughter. Open the door, my daughter." Then the Murunga logs said, "No golden bracelets, O elder sister. No golden anklets, O elder sister. Open not the door, wise elder sister." The Rakshasa, having set fire to the logs, and gone near the house again, said, "Here are golden bracelets, O daughter. Here are golden anklets, O daughter. Open the door, my daughter." Then the ashes of the burnt Murunga tree said, "No golden bracelets, O elder sister. No golden anklets, O elder sister. Open not the door, wise elder sister." The Rakshasa, having collected the ashes, and taken them to the river and placed them in it, and again having gone to the house, said, "Here are golden bracelets, O daughter. Here are golden anklets, O daughter. Open the door, my daughter." Then the water of the river said, "No golden bracelets, O elder sister. No golden anklets, O elder sister. Open not the door, wise elder sister." Afterwards, the Rakshasa, having gone to the river, and having drunk and drunk, could not finish the water, and at last he burst open and died. After that, the female Black Stork and the male Black Stork brought the golden bracelets and golden anklets, and having given them to the girl, remained there. North-western Province. In a variant of this story, related by a Duraya in the North-western Province, the persons who abandoned the child were a Gamarala and his wife, the Gama-mahage. On the Storks' finding it, they cried, "Ada! I have met with a gem!" Their home was in a rock-cave. When the Parrot warned the girl that the Rakshasa was coming, "having gone running, and having sprung into the cave, she shut the door. The Rakshasa says, 'Having brought bracelets for the arms, jackets for the body, cloths for the waist, O daughter, open the door, my daughter.' "Then the Parrot said, 'It is false that there are bracelets for the arms, jackets for the body, cloths for the waist. Open not the door, my elder sister.' "Then the Rakshasa tried to kill the Parrot. Having flown away it settled on a tree. The Rakshasa having smashed the Parrot's cage, again says, 'Having brought bracelets for the arms,'" etc. The Cat warned the girl and was killed, then the Dog, next the Ash-plantain tree, and lastly the Katuru-Murunga tree. I now translate again. "After that, he struck a finger-nail into the lintel, and having struck another finger-nail into the threshold, the Rakshasa went away. "After that, the male Black Stork and female Black Stork came. Having come, they say, 'Having brought bracelets for the arms, jackets for the body, cloths for the waist, open the door, my daughter.' "Then the Parrot says, 'It is true that there are bracelets for the arms, jackets for the body, cloths for the waist, elder sister. Open the door, my elder sister.' "As she was coming out opening the door, her foot was pricked by a finger-nail, and the crown of her head by a finger-nail. Then becoming unconscious she fell down, the finger-nails having entered her. Both Storks together drew out the finger-nails." She recovered, and they gave her the things they had brought, but sent her away. The rest of the story is an evident modern addition of no interest. She went to a large chena, and was taken home by a widow who was there. In another variant of the Western Province the two birds which reared the child were Crows. After the child was born, the mother, a Gamarala's wife (Gama-Mahage or Gama-Mahayiya) said, "Are we to take the child, or are we to take the bag of Kaekiri?" Her husband replied, "Should we take the child it will be [necessary] to give it to eat and to wear; should we take the bag of Kaekiri we shall be able to eat it for one meal." "So the Gama-Mahage, having put the child among the Kaekiri creepers, taking the bag went home." The Crows carried away the infant, and called it Emal Bisawa, Queen of the Flowers. When the girl had grown up, the birds went to bring pearls for her to wear, after giving her the usual injunctions regarding the food of the Dog, the Cat and the Parrot. She reduced the Dog's food, and it put out the fire. The Parrot found smoke rising from the house of a Rakshasi, and guided her to the place. The Rakshasi was absent; her two daughters gave the girl two amunas (nearly twelve bushels) of paddy to pound. "She thought, 'Having been pounded, go into the house,' and it became pounded of its own accord." Then they gave her seven perforated pots to be filled with water and brought. She filled them and handed them over. They gave her a piece of coconut husk with a hole in it, and a perforated coconut shell, and filled the former with sesame seeds, and the latter with ashes on which was placed burning charcoal. She hurried home with these, being warned by the Parrot that the Rakshasi was coming. When the Rakshasi asked her daughters who had been to the house, they replied that the female Crow's girl had taken some fire, and that there would be sesame and ashes along the path by which she had gone. The Rakshasi ran along it, found the door shut, and said, "Mother has come. Father has come. We are bringing pearls of the sea; we are bringing also wire for stringing the pearls. Open the door, O daughter." The Katuru-Murunga tree warned her that it was false; when it was burnt, its ashes repeated the warning, then the Dog, the Cat, and the Parrot. Then the Rakshasi, "having broken her finger nails, and having fixed one above and one below in the door-frame, went away. After that, her mother and father came, and said, 'Mother has come. Father has come. We are bringing pearls of the sea; we are bringing also wire for stringing the pearls. Open the door, my daughter.' The Parrot said the same. As she opened the door, a finger-nail having entered the crown of her head she died. When they asked the Parrot, 'What has happened?' 'Because of the Rakshasi elder sister died,' he said." In a fourth variant of the North-western Province the aspect of the story is partly changed, and I give a translation of the latter portion, because it contains an account of a runaway match, such as still sometimes occurs. In this story, a Gamarala's wife went with another woman to the chena while the Gamarala was asleep, and after eating as much fruit as possible they filled a bag also. As they were proceeding home rapidly with it, the Gamarala's wife gave birth to a child at a hollow in which pigs wallowed. She asked the other woman to carry it home for her, but this person refused, and took the bag of Kaekiri fruit instead, so the child was abandoned. Then the two Storks came, and carried the child to their cave, and reared it. After the girl grew up, they went off to seek bracelets and necklaces for her, instructing the girl to "give an equal quantity of food to the Cock, the Dog, the Cat, the Parrot, the Crow, the Rat, and the other creatures," and warning her that if she gave less to the Rat it would extinguish the fire. After some days she reduced the Rat's food, so it put out the fire. The Parrot found a house--not a Rakshasa's--from which smoke was rising, and guided the girl to it. The woman who was at it gave her some fire without delaying her, and she returned home with it. I now translate the concluding part. "After the son of the woman who had the fire came home, the woman says to her son, 'To-day a good-looking Princess came to the house.' Then the son asks, 'Mother, by which stile did the Princess go?' His mother says, 'Here, by this stile,' and showed him it. "Then the man having set off, and having gone near the cave, and seen the Princess, when he said, 'Let us go to our house,' the Princess said, 'Because my parents are not here [to give their consent] I cannot go.' This man says, 'No matter for that,' and seizing the hand of the Princess, they came to his house. "Afterwards the two Black Storks which went seeking bracelets and rings, having come near the cave, when they looked the Princess was not there. The Black Storks ask the Dog, the Cat, the Crow, the Parrot, the Rat, and the Cock, 'Where is the Princess?' They all say, 'A man came, and while the Princess was saying she could not go he seized her hand and took her away.' When the Storks asked, 'By which stile did he take her?' saying, 'There, by that stile,' the animals showed them it. "Then the two Black Storks having gone flying, when they looked the Princess was staying at the house. Afterwards the two Storks gave the Princess the bracelets, rings, and coral necklaces which they had brought; and having handed her over to the man, the two Black Storks went to their dwelling." In Old Deccan Days, Ganges Valley (Frere), p. 87 ff., there is a variant according to which the child was carried off to their nest by two eagles, from the side of the mother. After the eagles went to bring a ring for her, the cat stole some food, and on being punished by the girl put out the fire. The girl went to a Rakshasa's house for a light, and was detained by his mother, pounding rice and doing other housework. She left at last with instructions to scatter corn along the path. The Rakshasa followed the track and climbed to the nest, but the outer door was bolted, and he could not enter, so he left his nail in a crack of the door. When the girl opened the outer door--there were seven in all--the nail wounded her hand, and being poisonous apparently killed her. The eagles returned, and seeing this flew away. When a King arrived and drew out the nail, she recovered, and he married her. NO. 13 THE GOLDEN KAEKIRI FRUIT In a certain city there are a man and his daughter, it is said. The man's wife being dead, the girl cooks food for the man. The man cuts jungle at a chena clearing. The girl every day having cooked, and placed the food ready for her father, goes to rock in a golden swing. [36] Then a Mahage [37] comes and says, "Daughter, give me a little fire." The girl sitting in the swing says, "Is it here with me? It is at the hearth; take it." The Mahage goes into the house, pulls out and takes the things which that girl has cooked and placed there, and having eaten, carries away the fire. So, after two or three days had passed in that manner, the man asked, "Who, daughter, while I am coming home has eaten the rice that you have cooked and placed for me?" Then the girl said, "I don't know, father. Every day when I have cooked the food and placed it ready for you, and gone to rock in the golden swing, a Mahage comes and begs fire from me. Then I say, 'Is it here with me? It is at the hearth; take it.' It will be the Mahage." Then the man, having said, "Ha. Daughter, cook and arrange the food to-day also, and go to the golden swing," got onto the shelf, and stayed there. Afterwards the girl, having cooked and placed the food exactly as on other days, went to the golden swing. Then the Mahage having come on that day also, begged, "Daughter, give me a little fire." The girl said, "Is it here with me? It is at the hearth; take it." Then the Mahage having gone into the house, and drawn out the pots, and eaten part of the rice, when she was about to rise after taking the fire, the man on the shelf asked, "What is that you have been doing?" The Mahage said, "What indeed! Why don't you invite me [to be your wife]?" The man said, "Ha. Stop here." So the woman stayed. After a great many days had passed, the woman lay down. "What are you lying down for?" asked the man. The woman said, "It is in my mind to eat your daughter's two eyes." Afterwards the man called the girl, and said, "Daughter, a yoke of cattle are missing; let us go and seek them." While he went with the girl, taking a cord, the dog also followed behind. Having gone into a great forest, he said, "Daughter, come here in order that I may look at your head." [38] While he was looking and looking at it, the girl fell asleep. Then the man placed the girl against a tree, and tied her to it; and having cut out her two eyes, came home and placed one on the shelf and one in the salt pot. The dog that went with the man having come home, howled, rolling about in the open space in front of the house. There was also a child. That little one having gone somewhere, on coming back bringing a mango, asked that Mahage, "Loku-Amma, give me a knife." The woman said, "Have I got one here? It is on the shelf; get it." Then the child, going into the house, and putting his hand on the shelf, caught hold of the eye placed there by the man, and said, "This is indeed our elder sister's eye. Loku-Amma, give me a piece of salt." The woman said, "Have I got any here? Take it from the salt pot." When the child put his hand into the salt pot the other eye was there. He took it also. When he stepped down from the veranda of the house into the compound, the dog went in front, and the child followed after him. Having gone on and on, the dog came to the place in the great forest where the girl was, and stopped there. When the child looked, his elder sister was tied to the tree. He saw that red ants were biting her from her eyes downward, and having quickly unfastened her he took her to a tank, and bathed her. Then taking both her eyes in his hand, he said, "If these are our elder sister's eyes, may they be created afresh," and threw them down. After that, they were created better than before. Afterwards the girl said, "Younger brother, we cannot go again to that house. Let us go away somewhere." So they went off. While they were going along the road, a King was coming on horseback, tossing and tossing up a golden Kaekiri fruit. The child, after looking at it, said, "Elder sister, ask for the golden Kaekiri." The girl replied, "Appa! Younger brother, he will kill both of us. Come on without speaking." Then the child another time said, "Elder sister, ask for it and give me it." The King having heard it, asked, "What, Bola, is that one saying?" The girl replied, "O Lord, nothing at all." "It was not nothing at all. Tell me," the King said a second time. Then the girl replied, "O Lord, I am much afraid to say it. He is asking for that golden Kaekiri." The King said, "I will give the golden Kaekiri if thou wilt give me thy elder sister." The child said, "Elder sister and I, both of us, will come." So the King, having placed the girl on horseback, went to his city with the child, and married the girl. After many days had passed, when the King was about to go to a war the girl was near her confinement. So the King said, "If it be a girl, shake an iron chain. If it be a boy, shake a silver chain." Afterwards the girl bore a boy, and shook a silver chain. Before the King came back, the girl's father and Loku-Amma (step-mother), having collected cobras' eggs, polangas' [39] eggs, and the like, the eggs of all kinds of snakes, and having cooked cakes made of them, came to the place where the girl was. The girl's Loku-Amma told her to eat some of the cakes. When she did not eat them, that woman, taking some in her hand, came to her and rubbed some on her mouth. At that very moment the girl became a female cobra, and dropped down into a hole in an ant-hill. Her father and Loku-Amma went home again. The infant was crying on the bed. Afterwards, when the girl's younger brother was saying to the golden Kaekiri:-- They'll me myself to kill devise; In bed the gold-hued nephew cries; As a lady, gold-hued sister rise," [40] the cobra returned [in her woman's form], and having suckled and bathed the infant, and sent it to sleep, again [becoming a snake] goes back to the ant-hill. Then the King having returned, asked the younger brother, "Where, Bola, is thy elder sister?" The child said, "Our father and Loku-Amma having cooked a sort of cakes came and gave us them, and Loku-Amma told elder sister to eat. Afterwards, as she did not eat, Loku-Amma, taking some, rubbed them on elder sister's mouth. At that very moment elder sister became a female cobra, and dropped down into an ant-hill." Then the King asked, "Did she not return again, after she had dropped down into the ant-hill?" The child replied, "While I was calling her she came back once." The King said, "Call her again in that very way." So the boy said to the golden Kaekiri, They'll me myself to kill devise; In bed the gold-hued nephew cries; As a lady, gold-hued sister rise." Afterwards, the cobra came [in her woman's form], and having suckled and bathed the child, and sent it to sleep, cooked for the King, and apportioned the food for him. Then when she tried to go away [in her cobra form], the King cut the cobra in two with his sword. One piece dropped down into the ant-hill; the other piece became the Queen, and remained there. After that, the King collected cobras, polangas, all kinds of snakes, and having, with the Queen, put them into two corn measures, they took the two boxes, and went to the house where the Queen's father and Loku-Amma were. There they gave them the two boxes, and said, "We have brought presents for you. Go into the house, and having shut the door, and lowered the bolt, open the mouths of the two boxes. Otherwise, do not open the mouths in the light." The King and Queen remained outside. The Queen's father and Loku-Amma, taking the two boxes, went into the house, and having shut the door and bolted it, opened the mouths of the two boxes. At that moment, the snakes that were in them came out, and bit both of them, and both of them died. Afterwards, the King and Queen came to the city, and stayed there. North-western Province. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), p. 132, a girl received a fan, the shaking of which summoned a Prince, however far away he might be. At p. 239 also, a Queen received a golden bell, the ringing of which summoned the absent King. In the Sinhalese story, it is evidently to be understood that the shaking of the chain would be heard by the King while he was away, although the narrator omitted to mention this. NO. 14 THE FOUR DEAF PERSONS In a certain city there were a woman and a man, it is said. Both of them were deaf. A female child was born to that man, and this child was also deaf. The man to whom she was given in marriage when she grew up was also deaf. The girl's husband went to plough a rice field at the side of the high road. While he was ploughing, a man who was going along the road asked the way. Continuing to plough with the yoke of bulls, the deaf man said, "I brought this bull from the village. This other bull is from father-in-law's herd." "What are the facts about the bulls to me? Tell me the way," the man said. The deaf man replied, "The bull is from my herd." The man said again, "What are the facts about the bulls to me? Tell me the way." Then the deaf man, replying, "Don't say that another time," beat the man with the goad, and the man having received the blows went away. Afterwards, the deaf man's wife having brought cooked rice to the field, he unfastened the cattle which had been ploughing, and while he was eating said to the woman, "A man came just now, and saying, 'Whose is the yoke of bulls?' quarrelled with me about them." The woman replied, "Through seeking firewood and water and vegetables, and cooking, I was a little late in the day in coming." Having quarrelled with him over it, she bounded off, and having gone home, went to the place where her mother was plaiting a mat, and said to her, "Mother, our house man quarrelled with me, saying that I was late in taking the rice." The woman said, "Marry thy father! What is it to thee whether my works are good or not good now?" and she quarrelled with her. The woman having gone to the place where her husband was watching a sweet-potato chena during the day time, on account of thieves uprooting the plants, said, "To-day my daughter having taken cooked rice to the field, and having given it and returned, quarrelled with me, saying that the plaiting of my mat was bad. I also indeed scolded her a great deal, saying, 'What is it to thee whether my works are good or not good now?' I have come to tell you about it." Then the man said, "Bola, you infamous woman! Because I stopped in the chena you cooked and ate three sweet-potatoes, did you?" and he beat and drove away the woman. Then saying that it was useless to go on with the chena when his wife was eating the crop, he cut the fence, and abandoned it to the cattle. And the man left the village and the district, and went away. North-western Province. The quarrels of deaf persons through misunderstanding each other's remarks form a common subject of folk-tales. The mistakes of three deaf people are related in Folklore in Southern India (Natesa Sastri), p. 3 ff., and Tales of the Sun (Kingscote and N. Sastri), p. 1 ff. The Abbé Dubois published another amusing South Indian variant, which recounted the mistakes of four deaf men (le Pantcha-Tantra, 1872, p. 339 ff.). The four persons in it were a shepherd, a village watchman, a traveller who was riding a stolen horse, and a Brahmana. The shepherd requested the watchman to look after his flock during his temporary absence. In reply the latter refused to let him have the grass that he had cut. On the shepherd's return, he offered him a lame lamb as a reward for the trouble he thought the man had taken, but the watchman fancied he was being accused of laming it. They stopped a horseman who was riding past, and asked him to decide their quarrel. In reply, he admitted that the horse was not his. Each thought the decision was against him, and cursed him for it; and while the quarrel was at its height they referred it to a Brahmana who came up, who replied that it was useless for them to stop him, as he was determined never to return to his wicked wife. "In the crew of devils I defy any one to find one who equals her in wickedness," he said. The horse-thief, observing men coming in the distance, made off on foot, the shepherd returned to his flock, the watchman, seeing the lamb left, took it home in order to punish the shepherd for his false charge, and the Brahmana stayed at a rest-house, and went home again next day. In the Contes Soudanais (W. Africa), by C. Monteil, p. 18 ff., there is a story which resembles both this South Indian one and the Sinhalese one, in part. A shepherd in search of a lost sheep asked a cultivator about it. He replied, "My field begins before me and ends behind me." The shepherd found the sheep, and offered it to the cultivator in payment for quarters for the night. The latter thought he was being charged with stealing it, and took him before a village headman, who remarked, "Still another story about women! Truly this can't continue; I shall leave the village." When he told his wife to accompany him, she said she would never live with a man who was always talking of divorcing her. NO. 15 THE PRINCE AND THE YAKA A king of a single city had one son, who was a Prince of five years. At that time, a Yaka [41] having settled in that kingdom began to devour the people of the city, and by reason of this the whole city was like to be abandoned. At last, the King and the men of the city, making great efforts, seized the Yaka, and having made an iron house, put him in it, and shut the door. At that time it became necessary for the King of the city to go to war. After he had gone off to the war, when the King's son one day had opened the door of the house in which was the man-eating Yaka, and was looking at him, the Yaka fell down, and made obeisance to him, and signifying his misery to the Prince, began to weep. So the Prince, pitying him, told the Yaka to go away. Then the Yaka, saying to the Prince, "It is good. I will assist you, too," went away. After he had left, when the Prince had gone home the King who had gone to the war returned, having conquered. When he looked at the room in which the Yaka had been, the door was open. The King asked who had opened the door. The Queen replied that the Prince opened it. Then the King said, "To-morrow I must behead that wicked Prince." The Queen, being sorry at this, having tied up a packet of cooked rice, and given it and money to the Prince, and having given him a horse and sword, said, "The King has settled to behead you to-morrow for letting the Yaka escape. Go away at night to any country you like." So the Prince, taking the money and the bundle of cooked rice, and the sword, mounted the horse, and set off to go to another country. There was a travellers' shed at the road along which he was going. As he was unable to go further on account of weariness, he went that night to the travellers' shed; and having fastened the horse to one of the posts of the shed, he lay down, placing the bundle of rice at his side. Then seeing a youth running along the road, he called him, and asked, "Boy, where art thou going?" The boy said, "I am going to a place where they give to eat and to wear." Then the Prince said, "I will give you pay. Stop and look after my horse." The youth said, "It is good. I will stay." The Prince said, "I do not know the fords in this country; therefore tell me of a path by which we can go to another country." The youth replied, "There is a river here. On the other side of it there is a city, to go to which there is not a short road from here. However, there is another road further on. By it we must pass over a bridge." "If so," said the Prince, "having bathed here let us go." Having seen that three Princesses who were at the city on the other side were bathing, he also was pleased at bathing there. After he had gone to bathe, the three Princesses of the King of the country on the other side, when they looked saw the good figure of this Prince. After that, as the Prince wished to go after bathing, the youth who was to look after the horse having mounted it, began to ride away, wearing the Prince's clothes, and taking the sword. When the Prince, having bathed, and seen the Princesses on the other bank putting on their clothes, came ashore to put on his clothes, on his looking for them there were no clothes, no sword, no horse. The youngest Princess of the three who had bathed on the other side well knew what had happened. This Prince, having on only his bathing cloth, bounded off, and while running along overtook the horse and youth. When he was still far away, the youth said, "Do not come near me; should you come I will cut you with the sword. If you are willing to look after this horse, take hold of its tail and come." Then because that one in any case must go to the city, he said, "It is good," and having taken hold of the horse's tail went with him. Going thus from there, they arrived at the city. It was a custom of the King of that country that, having sent a guard, when any one of the men of another country arrived, he was to write the names of those persons, and come to the King. When these persons arrived, a guard being there asked their names. The youth who came on the horse said, "My name is Manikka Settiya; except the youth who looks after my horse, there is no one else with me." The guard having gone, said to the King, "Lord, a person called Manikka Settiyare has come and is there, together with a horse-keeper." Then the King thought, "Because the man called Manikka Settiyare has this name, Manikka, he will be able to value my gem" (manikya). A gem of the King's having been taken through the whole country, no one had been able to value it. So having summoned that Manikka Settiyare, the King, after giving him food and drink, showed him it, and said, "Manikka Settiyare, there is my gem. Can you value it?" That Manikka Settiyare replied, "My horse-keeper will tell you the value." The King became angry because he said, "My horse-keeper will tell you it," and indignantly caused the horse-keeper to be brought speedily, and asked, "Can you value this?" The horse-keeper Prince said, "If I try hard I can." Then the King gave it into his hands. Taking it and weighing it, and learning when he looked at it that there was sand inside the gem, he said, "As it now appears to me, the value of this gem is four sallis" (half-farthings). The King becoming angry asked, "How do you know?" The Prince replied, "There is sand inside this gem." Then the King asked, "Can you cut it, and show me it?" The horse-keeper said, "If you will ask for the sword belonging to that Manikka Settiyare, I will cut it and show you it." After that, the King gave him the sword that was in the hand of the Settiyare. Then the horse-keeper, taking the sword, and remembering the name of his father the King, and thinking, "By the favour of the Gods, if it be appointed that it will happen to me to exercise sovereignty over this city, I must cut this gem like cutting a Kaekiri fruit," put the gem on the table, and cut it with the sword. Then the sand that was in the gem fell out, making a sound, "Sara sara." Afterwards the King, thinking, "When this horse-keeper knows so much, how much doesn't this Settirala know!" having given food and drink to the horse-keeper, and also to the Settiyare, and having greatly assisted them, made them stay there a little time. The youngest Princess well knew the wicked things that this Settiyare was saying about the horse-keeper youth. On account of her great sorrow concerning this horse-keeper, the Princess instructed the butler who gave the food at the royal house: "Give the horse-keeper who accompanied that Manikka Settiyare, food like that you prepare for me, and a bed for sleeping on, and assist him a little." After that, the butler and the rest helped him. The Prince was unwilling to enjoy that pleasure. "Ane! I am a horse-keeper. Do not you assist me in that way," he said. After that, the King's youngest Princess, for the sake of sending the Prince away from the post of looking after the horse, went to the King, and wept while saying thus: "Ane! Father, [42] because of this youth who looks after them, my sheep are nearly finished. On that account, taking the horse-keeper who came with that Settiyare, to look after my sheep, let us send the youth who looks after the sheep to look after the horse." The King replied, "Having asked the Settiyare we can do it." The King having asked the Settiyare the thing she told him, "You can do it," he said; and after he had thus spoken to the Settiyare it was done. So the horse-keeper went to look after the sheep. Having gone there, while he was looking after them for a long time, the sheep increased in number by hundreds of thousands. One day, when the King had gone for hunting sport into the midst of the forest, he was seized there by a Yaka. After being seized, he undertook to give the Yaka the King's three Princesses, and having escaped by undertaking this charge he came back. Next day he made a proclamation through the whole city by beat of tom-toms. What was it? "Having been seized yesterday in the forest by a Yaka, I only escaped by promising to give him my three Princesses. To-morrow a Princess, on the day after to-morrow a Princess, on the day after that a Princess; in this manner in three days I am giving the three Princesses. If a person who is able to do it should deliver them, having married that person to them, I will appoint him to the kingdom." Then Manikka Settiyare said, "I can do it." On that day, that Prince who was looking after the sheep went to look after them. While he was there, a man, taking a sheep, ran off into the chena jungle. While bounding after him in order to recover it, having gone very far, the Prince saw him go down the hole of a polanga snake. After going near the polanga's hole, and looking down it, and seeing that the hole descended into the earth, the Prince went along that tunnel. Having gone on from there it became dark, and going on in the darkness he saw a very great light. Having gone to the light, when he looked about there was a man asleep, wearing very many clothes. Then it was in the mind of this shepherd to go away, and in his mind not to go. If you should say, "Who was sleeping there?" it was the Yaka who had formerly been in that iron house, and had left it. That Yaka at that very time saw in a dream that the Prince who had sent him out of that house had come to him, and was there. While seeing him in the dream, the sleeping Yaka awoke, and when he looked up the Prince was beside him. The Yaka, getting up from there, went to the Prince, and while he was embracing him the Prince became afraid. Then the Yaka said, "Lord, let not Your Majesty be afraid. The Yaka whom you sent away from that house is I indeed." After that, the Prince sat down. Then the Yaka asked, "Where are you going?" The Prince replied, "That I sent you away, our father the King decreed as a fault in me, and appointed that I should be beheaded. Then our mother, having tied up and given me a bundle of cooked rice, told me to go anywhere I wanted." Having said this he told him all the matter. After that, the Yaka brought the lost sheep, and having given it to the Prince, asked, "What more do you want?" The Prince said, "I want another assistance." "What is the assistance?" he asked. The Prince replied, "After I had remained in this way, the King, the father of the Princess who looks after the sheep, and of two more Princesses, having gone hunting and been caught by a Yaka, is giving the three Princesses to him as demon offerings. If there should be a person who can deliver them, he has made proclamation by beat of tom-toms that having given to him the three Princesses in marriage, he will also give him a part of the kingdom." The Yaka said, "It is good. I will bring and give you victory in it. Be good enough to do the thing I tell you. After you have eaten rice in the evening, be good enough to come to this palace." He then allowed the Prince to return home. The Prince having eaten his rice in good time, went to the Yaka. After he had gone there, the Yaka having given him a good suit of clothes, and a horse, and a sword, instructed him: "As you go from here there will be a path. Having gone along that path, there will be a great rough tree. Go aside at it, and while you are waiting there the Yaka from afar will make a cry, 'Hu.' Having come to the middle of the chena jungle he will say again, 'Hu, Hu, Hu.' At the next step, having bounded to the place where the Princess is stopping, he will again say, 'Hu.' After he has said this, as he comes close to the Princess you will be good enough to step in front. Then the Yaka, becoming afraid, will look in the direction of your face; then be good enough to cut him down with the sword." The Prince having gone in that manner to the tree, when he looked about, Manikka Settiyare having climbed aloft was in a fork of the trunk, lamenting, having turned his back. While he was lamenting he saw this Prince coming, and [thinking it was the Yaka], trembled and lost his senses. Then, in the very manner foretold, the Yaka came, crying and crying out. As he came near the Princess, the Prince cut him down, and having drawn out and cut off his tongue, and also asked for a ring off the hand of the Princess, came away to the palace of the friendly Yaka. Having arrived there, and placed there the clothes, the horse, and the tongue, all of them, he returned to his house before any one arose. Manikka Settiyare, having descended in the morning, chopped the Yaka's body into bits, and smeared the blood on his sword. While he was there, the King went in the morning to see if the Princess was dead or alive. Having arrived there, he saw Manikka Settiyare there looking on, and he returned to the city, taking Manikka Settiyare and the Princess. On the next night, also, they went and tied another Princess. The Prince that night also having gone there, killed a Yaka who came, and cut off the Yaka's tongue, and after asking for a jewelled ring came away. That time, also, Manikka Settiyare went there, and after smearing blood on his sword remained there. The King went there in the morning, and calling the two persons came away. On the following day he did the very same to the other Princess. This Prince, having taken away the three jewelled rings that were on the hands of the three Princesses, and the three tongues of the three Yakas that he had cut off, remained silent. As Manikka Settiya had come falsely smearing blood on his sword each morning, as though he had killed the Yakas, the King sent letters to all royal personages: "Manikka Settiya has cut down three such powerful Yakas, and has delivered the three Princesses who had been devoted to be given as a demon offering to the Yaka who seized me when I went hunting. Because of that, I am giving the three Princesses to him in marriage. You must come to the festival, and look at the Yakas who have been killed." After that, the royal persons came from those countries. While they were there, that Prince went to the palace of the friendly Yaka. The Yaka having given that Prince golden clothes, and a golden crown and necklace, and a golden sword, told him to go, taking those rings and tongues, and mounted on a white horse. The Prince putting on those things, and mounting the white horse, went. When he went to the palace where the royal persons were who had come to fulfil the object of the occasion, those royal persons became afraid, and having made obeisance to him, asked, "Lord, where is Your Majesty going?" "'I have cut down a very powerful sort of Yaka.' Letters went through foreign countries to this effect, and that there is a marriage festival for the person who killed the Yaka. On account of the news I also have come to look," he said. After that, those royal persons said, "It is good, Lord," and with pleasure showed him the heads of the Yakas. Then this Prince asked, "Is there or is there not a tongue to every living being whatever?" Every one said, "Yes, there is one." The Prince having looked for the tongues in the mouths of the Yakas, asked, "What is this, that there are not tongues for these Yakas?" After that, every one asked it of Manikka Settiya. Manikka Settiya being afraid, remained without speaking. Then he asked it of the two eldest Princesses. The two Princesses said, "We do not know." At the time when he was asking it of the youngest Princess, she replied, seizing the hand of the Prince who split off the tongues and took the jewelled rings, "This one went away after taking in his hand the ring, and cutting off the tongue of the Yaka." After that, the Prince brought to light the three rings and the three tongues, and showed them. Speedily having beheaded and cast out Manikka Settiya, they carried out the wedding festival of the marriage of the three Princesses to the Prince. After that, those royal personages went to their own kingdoms, and the kingdom having been bestowed on this Prince he remained there ruling it. North-western Province. In the Jataka story No. 510 (vol. iv, p. 305), an iron house was built, in which a King's son was confined for sixteen years in order to preserve him from a female Yaka who had carried off two children born previously. The demon was unable to break into it. In the Jataka story No. 513 (vol. v, p. 13), there is an account of a King who was seized by an Ogre while hunting. The latter allowed the King to go home on a promise to come back next day to be eaten. His heroic son returned in his place, but was spared by the Ogre. The Prince said of these beings, "The eyes of Ogres are red, and do not wink. They cast no shadow, and are free from all fear." NO. 16 HOW A YAKA AND A MAN FOUGHT In a certain country three men went shooting, [43] it is said. At the time when the three persons were going, one man was obliged to go aside for a certain purpose. The man went aside without telling those two men. A Yaka saw the man separate from those two persons. Having seen it, the Yaka seized the man, and began to push against him. At that time those two men were very distant. The men having said, "What has happened to this man?" came to look for him. When they came [they saw that] there was a black one near the man. The two persons spoke together, "Let us shoot this black one." So they shot [43] him. Then the black one went out of the way. Afterwards the men went to look near at hand. When they went the man had fallen. After that, having taken hold of the man and raised him, when they looked at him the man's body having gone quite slimy he was unconscious also. Afterwards, while the two men, raising [and carrying] that man, were [endeavouring] to come away, the Yaka did not allow them to come. He shakes the bushes; he breaks the trees; he blocked up the path all along. One man of the two men looked upward. Then the Yaka spit into the man's eye, and the man's eye became blind. Well then, the two men having uttered and uttered spells, with pain lifting up [and carrying] that man, came to the village. Having come there, and summoned a Yaksa Vedarala [44] to restore the man to consciousness, when he arrived they showed him this man. Then the Yaksa Vedarala told them to warm a large pot of water. So they warmed the water. After that, having bathed the man, and having uttered spells, after the Vedarala had tied protective written spells and diagrams [45] on him the man became conscious. After that, the Yaksa Vedarala and those two men asked about the circumstances that had occurred. The man said, "A Yaka having come, seizing me pressed against me for me to roll over on to the ground. What of that? I did not fall [on account of it]. After you two fired, indeed, I fell. Then the Yaka bounded off, and went away. Well, I don't know anything after that. Whether you came and lifted me up, or what, I do not know." The man having recovered from that, again the Yaka came, and having possessed the man he began to have the powers conferred by "possession." [46] Afterwards that Yaksa Vedarala having come again, and given the Yaka many offerings placed on frames (dola pideni), the Yaka went out of the way. The man remained very well [afterwards]. North-western Province. NO. 17 CONCERNING A MAN AND TWO YAKAS In a certain country there was a man who had cut a chena. The man, without any one joining with him, went one day and made ready to cut a fresh chena at a place where there was a large tree. Then the Yaka who dwelt in the tree became afraid, and having descended to the ground, and having said, "Lord, do not cut a chena here. At every eventide I will bring and give you rice, coconuts, chillies, etc.," he made obeisance. The man said, "It is good," and went home. That very evening the Yaka brought and gave him rice and all things sufficient for curries, and went away. After that, in no long time the man became in a good position and wealthy, through the Yaka's bringing him his provisions. When coming afterwards, the Yaka met another Yaka, who asked, "Where are you taking those things?" The Yaka replied, "A man came to cut the residence in which I stay. On account of it, I promised to give him food and goods." Then the Yaka said, "Do thou give the things to-day only. I will kill the man to-morrow." The other Yaka said, "It is good." On the following day, when the man of that house was going somewhere or other, the Yaka who said, "I will kill him," came to the house, and having crept under the bed remained there. At that time the man returned, and sitting on the bed, said to his wife, "Bola, I am hungry enough to eat a Yaka." His wife had placed the knife on the shelf, and having plucked a pine-apple had put it under the bed. The woman [not seeing the Yaka], said, "Look there! On the shelf. Look there! Under the bed." So the man, taking the knife that was on the shelf, went near the bed to get the pine-apple. Then the Yaka, thinking he was coming to kill and eat him, said, "Lord, do not eat me. I will bring and give you each month anything you want." So the man saying, "It is good," sent away the Yaka. Then the Yaka met that other Yaka, and said, "When I went to set you free I also was caught. Both of us are in the same state." After that he gave the things monthly. Then this man having become a great wealthy person, remained so. North-western Province. In a variant in Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), pp. 258-260, a barber frightened a Bhuta (evil spirit) who was going to eat him, by threatening to put him in his bag. He took out his looking-glass, and showed the Bhuta his reflection, which the evil spirit thought was another imprisoned one. The Bhuta promised to obey the barber's orders, and provided money, and a granary filled with paddy. The Bhuta's uncle told him that he had been cheated; but he was treated in the same way, and made to build another granary, and fill it with rice. NO. 18 THE THREE QUESTIONS [47] In a certain country, as a man was going through the middle of a city he met a man of the city, and asked him, "In what manner does the King of this city rule?" The man said, "It does not appear to us that he has any fault." Then the man said [sarcastically]: "Does the King of this city know these three matters--the centre of this country, the number of the stars in the sky, and the work which the King of the world of the Devas [48] does?" Having asked this, that wicked man went through the midst of the city. Afterwards, the man of the city came to the palace, and declared to the King that there were three matters regarding which a man had wanted information. After he had informed him, the King asked, "What are the three matters?" The man said, "The centre of the country, the number of the stars in the sky, and the work which the King of the world of the Devas does; these three matters," he said. Then the King, having caused the Ratemahatmayas--(the highest provincial Chiefs)--to be told that he ordered them to come, after he had asked them concerning these three matters, the Chiefs said that they could not tell him the answers. When they said that, the king commanded that the Ratemahatmayas should be beheaded. Thereupon the executioners came and beheaded them. After that, he caused the Adikaramas--(the Ministers)--to be brought, and asked them if they knew these three matters. Those persons also said that they could not explain them. He commanded that party also to be beheaded, and the executioners came and beheaded them. Having beheaded all the people of both parties, there remained still the Royal Preceptor [49] only, so he caused the Royal Preceptor to be brought, and asked him regarding these matters. Then the Royal Preceptor said, "I cannot tell you about them to-day. I will tell you to-morrow." After he had said this he returned to his house, and having come there, lying down prone on the bed he remained without speaking a word. The youth who looked after the Royal Preceptor's goats came at that time, and asked, "For what reason are you lying down, Sir?" The Royal Preceptor said, "They beheaded the Adikarama party and the Ratemahatmaya party to-day; they will behead me to-morrow. The post that I have told thee of [under the executioner] will be made over to one's self." The youth said, "Lord, you must tell me the reasons for it." The Royal Preceptor replied, "If I should be unable to-morrow to say which is the centre of the country, the number of the stars, and the work which the God of the world of the Devas does, they will behead me to-morrow." Then the youth said, "Are you so much troubled about that? I will say those very things for you." Afterwards, at the time when the Royal Preceptor, on the morning of the following day, was setting off to go to the palace, he called the youth, and went with him to the palace. The King asked for the answers to these three sayings. Then the Royal Preceptor said, "What is there in these for me to tell you? Even the youth who looks after the goats for me knows those three sayings." Then he told the youth to come forward, and the youth came near the King. The King asked, "Dost thou know the centre of the country, and the number of the stars, and the work which the God of the world of the Devas does?" The youth fixed a stick in the ground, and showed it. "Behold! Here is the centre of one's country. Measure from the four quarters, and after you have looked at the account, if it should not be correct be good enough to behead me," he said. The King lost over that. Then he told him to say the number of the stars in the sky. Throwing down on the ground the goat-skin that he was wearing, "Count these hairs, and count the stars in the sky. Should they not be equal be good enough to behead me," he said. The King lost over that also. Thirdly, he told him to say what work the God of the world of the Devas does. The youth said, "I will not say it thus." The King asked, "If so, how will you say it?" The youth said, "Should you decorate me with the Royal Insignia, and put on me the Crown, and give the Sword into my hands, and place me on the Lion-throne, I will say it." Then the King, having caused that youth to bathe, and having decorated him, placed him upon the Lion-throne. After that, he called the executioners, and said to them, "Ade! This one beheaded so many [innocent] people; because of that take him and go, and having beheaded him, cast him out. Behold! That indeed is the work which the King of the world of the Devas does," he said. Thus, having killed the foolish King, the youth who looked after the goats obtained the sovereignty; and ruling the kingdom together with the Royal Preceptor, he remained there in prosperity. North-western Province. The dramatic, and apparently improbable, ending of this Kandian story is founded upon an historical fact. It is recorded in the Mahavansa, the Sinhalese history (Part I, chapter 35), that King Yasalalaka-Tissa, who reigned in Ceylon from 52 to 60 A.D., had a young gate porter or messenger called Subha, who closely resembled him in appearance. The Mahavansa relates the story of the King's deposition by him as follows (Turnour's translation):-- "The monarch Yasalalaka, in a merry mood, having decked out the said Subha, the messenger, in the vestments of royalty, and seated him on the throne, putting the livery bonnet of the messenger on his own head, stationed himself at a palace gate, with the porter's staff in his hand. While the ministers of state were bowing down to him who was seated on the throne, the King was enjoying the deception. "He was in the habit, from time to time, of indulging in these scenes. On a certain occasion (when this farce was repeated), addressing himself to the merry monarch, the messenger exclaimed: 'How does that messenger dare to laugh in my presence?' and succeeded in getting the King put to death. The messenger Subha thus usurped the sovereignty, and administered it for six years." A variant was related to me by the resident monk at a Buddhist temple to the south of Colombo. Its tenour was as follows:-- THE FOUR DIFFICULT QUESTIONS. A certain King put four questions to a Sangha-raja, or Superior of the Buddhist monks. The first one was, "How deep is the sea?" the second, "How many stars are there?" the third, "Which is the centre of the earth?" and fourthly, he must tell the King what he, the King, thought. The Sangha-raja was allowed a certain time in which to find answers to the questions. One day a monk seeing him sad, asked him the reason, and was told that the King had put these questions to him, and had threatened to take his life if he could not answer them. The monk told him not to have any fear, and said that he would go on the appointed day, and answer the King. When the day came round, the monk dressed himself in the Sangha-raja's robes, and appeared before the King, saying that he was ready to answer the questions. The King asked him, "How deep is the sea?" He replied, "At first it is knee-deep; as you go on it is waist-deep; further on it is up to the neck; and beyond that it is over the head." The King was satisfied. He next asked, "How many stars are there?" "Twenty lakshas (two millions)," said the monk. "If you do not believe it, count them." With this answer, also, the King was satisfied. He then inquired, "Where is the centre of the earth?" The monk took a staff which he had brought with him, and fixed it upright in the ground. "Here is the centre," he said. "Measure each way from it, and you will find the distance the same." The King was satisfied with this answer also. "Lastly, you must tell me what I am thinking," the King said. The monk replied, "You think I am the Sangha-raja, but I am only one of his monks." So the four questions were all answered satisfactorily. I heard the following version in Cairo:-- A certain King said to his Chief Minister, "Find me a man who can measure the world and show me the centre of it, and who can count me the number of the stars." The Minister considered the matter carefully, but could think of no way of complying with the King's orders. At last his wife said, "I can see that something is troubling you. Tell me what it is; perhaps I can assist you." Then he told her the orders of the King, and that he did not know where to look for any one who could do what the King desired. "Go," she said, "to the coffee-dealer's shop. You will find there a man who is always taking hashish. He may be able to help you" [his mental powers being exalted by the drug]. So he went to the coffee-dealer's, and told the hashish-eater his difficulty. "I can soon solve these questions for you," replied the hashish-eater. "Take me to the King." Thereupon they proceeded to the palace, and the Minister introduced the hashish-eater to the King. He came with a donkey, which was drawing a great load of rope. "First show me the centre of the world," said the King. "This place is the centre," said the hashish-eater. "If you doubt it, send your men to drag the other end of this rope up to the sky, and I will prove to you that you are just in the middle." "Very well," said the King, "that is a satisfactory answer. Now give me the number of the stars." "Let your people count the hairs on my donkey. You will find that they are exactly equal to the stars in number," said the man. The King admitted that he could not prove that he was answered incorrectly. The English version is given in the ballad termed "King John and the Abbot of Canterbury," and is found in Bishop Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry (ed. 1844, ii, 328). I give some extracts, etc., for the benefit of readers in Ceylon, because of its resemblance to the second Sinhalese story. With a view to seizing the Abbot's wealth, the King put three questions to him, the penalty for failing to answer them being beheading. The Abbot received three weeks' grace in which to discover the replies, but the wisest doctors could not assist him: Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word; And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenforde; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise. However, as in the Kandian version, the shepherd came to his assistance, and took his place on the appointed day, robed as the Abbot, whose features resembled his, and accompanied by the usual train of servants and monks. Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say, 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth. "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told; And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou are one penny worser than hee." The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, I did not think I had been worth so littel! --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about. "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt, But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, I did not think, it could be gone so soone! --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke. "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place! "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write, ne reade." Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; And tell the old abbot when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good king John. NO. 19 THE FAITHLESS PRINCESS In a certain country there is a Prince, it is said. The Prince, saying that women are faithless, does not marry. The God Sakra having ascertained this, came in the appearance of a man, and asked at the hand of the Prince whether if he created a Princess out of his own very body, and gave her to him, he would be willing to take her in marriage. The Prince said, "It is good." Afterwards the God Sakra created a Princess from the Prince's body, and gave her to him. When the Prince and Princess, having got married, had been living together for a very long time, the Princess associated with a Nagaya. [50] When they had been thus for a long time, the Princess and the Nagaya spoke together as to how to kill the Princess's Prince. Then the Nagaya said, "Ask at the hand of the Prince where the Prince's death is. After you have got to know the place where his death is, I will bite [51] him there." After that, the Princess asked at the hand of the Prince, "Where is your death?" The Prince did not tell her. Every day the Princess was asking it. On a certain day the Prince said, "To-day my death is in my thumb." Then the Princess told the Nagaya, "He said that his death is in his thumb." So the Nagaya went [in his snake form, as a cobra], and stopped on the path on which the Prince was going for his bath, in order to bite [51] him. Afterwards, the Prince's people went first; the Prince went in the middle. Then the people who went first saw the Nagaya, and killed it. Afterwards, the people and the Prince having returned from bathing, the Prince told at the hand of the Princess, "As we were going to bathe to-day a cobra was on the path; my people killed it." The Princess, clasping her hands with grief, asked, "Where was it?" The Prince told her of the place where the cobra was staying, and she knew that it was the Nagaya. Afterwards the Princess having given gold to the goldsmith, and having got a waist-chain made, told him to make a case for it. The goldsmith made it, and gave it. Then the Princess went to the place where the cobra was, and cut off its hood; and placing the cobra in the case of the golden waist-chain, the Princess put it round her waist. Having it there, when they had eaten and drunk in the evening, and lighted the lamp in the house, both of them went into the house. Then the Princess said to the Prince, "I will ask you a riddle. Should you be unable to explain it, I will kill you. Should you explain it, you shall kill me." The Prince said "Ha," and both of them swore it. The Princess saying, The Naga belt Naga patiya (Is) the golden waist-chain. Ran hawadiya. Explain (it), friend. Tora, sakiya. told the Prince to solve it. For fifteen paeyas (six hours), without extinguishing the lamp, he tried and tried to explain it. He could not. So she was to kill the Prince next day. A Devatawa (godling) who drank the smoke of the lamp of that house, was there looking on [invisibly] until the lamp was extinguished. After the lamp was put out, having drunk a little smoke, he took a little that was only slightly burnt with him for his wife. The Devatawa and Devatawi lived in an Ironwood tree on the roadside. This Prince's elder sister, and the man to whom she was given in marriage, having set off to come to the Prince's city, stayed that night at the resting-place under the Ironwood tree. Then that Devatawa having brought a little of the under-burnt smoke of the lamp, after he had given it to the Devatawi she quarrelled with him until fifteen paeyas (six hours) had gone, saying, "Where have you been?" The Devatawa said, "Do not quarrel. In such and such a city, such and such a Prince's Princess having associated with a Nagaya, the Prince's people killed the Nagaya. Having cut off the Nagaya's hood, and laid aside her golden waist-chain, putting it round her waist in order to kill the Prince, because of her anger at the killing of the Nagaya, the Princess told a riddle to the Prince. Having sworn that should the Prince be unable to solve it she is to kill the Prince: should he solve it he is to kill the Princess, the Princess said, The Naga belt Is the golden waist-chain. Explain it, friend. "From the evening, without extinguishing the lamp, he tried to solve it. The Prince could not explain it. After fifteen paeyas had gone by, he put out the light. Up to the very time when he extinguished the lamp, so long I remained there. She said that she will kill the Prince to-morrow." Hearing it, there stayed below the Ironwood tree the Prince's elder sister, and the man to whom she was given. After having heard it, as it became light, when they were coming along to the Prince's house, they saw from afar that they were going to behead the Prince. The elder sister said from afar, "A! Don't behead him. I will solve that riddle." Having come near, the Prince's elder sister explained the riddle in the manner stated by the Devatawa. So the Prince was saved, and they beheaded the Princess. North-western Province. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 227, a Fakir split a King, and made a wife for him from half his body, but warned him that she would be unfaithful. She fell in love with one of his wazirs, but they were detected, and she was killed. NO. 20 THE PRINCE WHO DID NOT GO TO SCHOOL In a certain country there is a King, it is said, and there are two Princes of the King. The two Princes are sent to school, and as they are going from the palace the two go along together. After they have walked a little way, the younger brother goes along the path to the school, and having arrived at the school, learns his letters and returns home. The elder brother, after playing and playing in the water of the river, puts the school aside, it is said; and having come round that way and joined the younger brother, again comes to the palace with him. After many days had gone by in that manner, the King one day told the two Princes, "To-day I must look at your lessons." The younger brother said, "Father-King, I indeed go to the school, and having said my lessons return. Elder brother and I having met here, and set off together, after we have gone part of the way, where elder brother goes I do not know. Having gone somewhere or other, when I have left the school and am returning, elder brother meets me on the road, and we two come again to the palace. I can say my lessons; elder brother indeed cannot." After that, the King looked into the lessons of the two Princes. When he looked, the younger Prince's lessons were good. When he asked the elder Prince, he knew nothing. So the King settled to behead the elder Prince. The King had, besides, a Prince older than that Prince. He said to that elder Prince, "Behead this one." Then the Prince having taken a sword to the chena jungle, and killed a "Blood-sucker" lizard (Calotes sp.), returned after rubbing the blood on the sword, and showed it to the King. "Behold! Father-King, I cut younger brother," he said. Afterwards their mother having cooked a bundle of rice, and given it, and also a sword, to the Prince who was ordered to be beheaded, said, "Go to any place you like." As the Prince was going away taking the bundle of cooked rice and the sword, he met with a man. The man having uprooted Palmira trees and Coconut trees, was taking them away and tying a fence. Having seen this, the Prince said to that man, "Come thou and go with me." The man having said "Ha," as the two persons were going along together, another man was cutting the earthen ridges in a rice field. The blade of the man's digging hoe was as large as a liyadda (one of the squares into which the rice field was divided). Having seen that, the Prince said to that man who was cutting the ridge in the field, "Come thou and go with me." The man having said "Ha," and laid down his digging hoe at that very place, came away with those two persons. As the three were going along together, they saw yet a man ploughing. Having seen that the man ploughed a liyadda at one ploughing (furrow), the Prince said, "Come thou and go with me." The man said "Ha," and laying down his plough at that very place, went with the three persons. The three persons whom the Prince had met with on the way were three giants. The four persons having gone on and on, went near the house of a Rakshasi at a city. Sitting down there, the Prince said to one of the giants, "There! Go to that house and bring thou cooking pots and fire." So that giant went to the house of the Rakshasi. As he arrived there, the Rakshasi was pouring water over (i.e. bathing) a child. The giant went near the Rakshasi, and said, "Ane! Give me fire and cooking pots." The Rakshasi told him the way to the house in which she ate human flesh, and said, "There! They are in that house; take them." After that, at the time when the giant was going into the house, the Rakshasi went running and shut the door, so that the giant could not come out. Those two giants and the Prince remained a long time looking out; the giant did not come. Afterwards the Prince again told a giant to go. The giant having gone, asked the Rakshasi, "Didn't a man come here?" The Rakshasi said, "He did not come here." Then the giant said, "If so, give me cooking pots and fire." Then the Rakshasi, in the same manner in which she told that giant, showed him the way to the house in which she ate human flesh. As the giant was going into the house, the Rakshasi, having gone running, shut the door. That Prince and the third giant having been there a long time, neither of the giants came. Afterwards the Prince told the other giant to go. The giant went, and asked the Rakshasi, "Didn't two men come here?" The Rakshasi said, "They did not come here." So the giant said, "If so, give me cooking pots and fire." The Rakshasi, in that very way having told him the path to the house in which she ate human flesh, at the time when the giant was going into it shut the door. The Prince remained looking out for a long time; the three giants did not come. Afterwards the Prince, taking his sword, came near the Rakshasi, and asked, "Didn't three men come here?" The Rakshasi said, "They did not come here." Then the Prince, seizing the Rakshasi's hair knot, prepared to chop at her with the sword. "Give me quickly my three men; if not, I shall chop thy head off," he said. Then the Rakshasi, saying, "Ane! Do not kill me. At any place where you want it I will assist you," gave him the three men. After that, the Prince and the three giants having gone away without killing the Rakshasi, the Prince caused the three giants to stay at a city; and having given into their hands a Blue-lotus flower, said, "Should I not be alive, this Blue-lotus flower will fade, and the lime trees at your house will die." So saying, the Prince, taking his sword, went quite alone. After going a long way he came to a city, and having gone to the house of a Rakshasa, when he looked, the Rakshasa had gone for human flesh as food and only a girl was there. The Prince asked the girl for a resting-place. The girl said, "Ane! What have you come here for? A Rakshasa lives at this house. The Rakshasa having eaten the men of this city they are now finished." The Prince said, "I will kill him. Are there dried coconuts and meneri [52] here?" The girl said there were. The Prince told her to bring them, and the girl brought them. Then the Prince asked, "How does he come to eat men?" The girl said, "Having come twelve miles--(three gawwas)--away, he cries, 'Hu'; having come eight miles away, he cries, 'Hu'; and having come four miles away, he cries, 'Hu'; and then he comes to this house." After that, the Prince having spread out, from the stile at the fence, the meneri seed and the dried coconuts, over the whole of the open ground near the front of the house, went to sleep in the veranda, placing the sword near him, and laying his head on the waist pocket of the girl. Then the Rakshasa, when twelve miles away, cried, "Hu." Tears fell from the girl's eyes, and dropped on the Prince's head. The Prince arose, and said to the girl, "What are you weeping for?" Then the Rakshasa cried, "Hu," eight miles away. The girl said, "There! The Rakshasa cried, 'Hu,' eight miles away." Continuing to say, "He will cry, 'Hu,' the next time, and then come here," the girl wept. The Prince, having told the girl not to weep, took the sword in his hand, and while he was there the Rakshasa, crying "Hu," came into the open space near the house. Then the Prince chopped at the Rakshasa with his sword, and the Rakshasa went backward. Thereupon the Prince said, "Will not even the Rakshasi whom I set free that day without killing her, render assistance in this?" The Rakshasi came immediately, and struck a thorn into the crown of the Rakshasa's head, and at that very instant the Rakshasa died. After that, the Prince buried the body, and marrying the girl remained there. When he had been there a long time, a widow-mother came and said to the Prince and the girl, "Children, I will come and live with you, as you are alone." Both of them said "Ha," so the woman stayed there. After she had lived there a long time, the woman said to the girl, "Daughter, ask in what place is the life of the Prince." Afterwards the girl said to the Prince, "Mother is asking where your life is." The Prince said, "My life is in my neck." The girl told the woman, "I asked him; he said his life is in his neck." The woman said, "It is not in the neck. He is speaking falsely. Ask again." So the girl asked again. The Prince said, "My life is in my breast." The girl told the woman, "He said it is in his breast." The woman said, "It is not in the breast. Tell him to speak the truth." Afterwards she said again to the Prince, "Mother says it is not in your breast. She said that you are to speak the truth." Then the Prince said, "My life is in my sword." So the girl told the widow-mother, "He said it is in his sword." When a long time had gone by, one day the Prince, laying down the sword, went to sleep. After the Prince had gone to sleep, the widow woman and that girl having quietly taken the sword, put it in the fire on the hearth. Then as the sword burnt and burnt away the Prince died. After that, the widow woman took the girl, and gave her to the King, and the woman also stayed at the palace. Then the Blue-lotus flower which the Prince gave to those three giants on going away, faded, and the lime trees died. When the giants saw this they said, "Ade! Our elder brother will have died," and having spoken together, the three giants came to seek the Prince. Having come there, and asked the men of the city at which the Prince stayed, regarding him, they went to the house in which he lived, and searched for him. As they were digging in a heap of rubbish, they found that a little bit of the end of the sword was there, and they took it. Afterwards the giants placed it on a bed, and after they had tended it carefully, the sword little by little became larger. When the sword became completely restored, the Prince was created afresh. Afterwards, when the Prince looked to see if the girl whom he had taken in marriage was there, neither the girl nor the widow-mother was there. Then the Prince went with the three giants to the King's palace, and on looking there they learnt that the girl was married to the King, and that the widow woman also was there. So the Prince said to the widow woman, "Quickly give me the Princess whom I married." The woman said, "Ane! The Princess whom I knew is not here. She did not come with me." Then the Prince cut off the woman's head with his sword, and having gone to the King, asked, "Where is my Princess? You must give her to me." The King said, "No Princess will be here." Thereupon the Prince cut off the King's head with his sword; and he and the three giants having cut down all the servants who were in the palace, summoning the Princess, remained in that very palace. North-western Province. The giving a plant or flower as a life index, which fades when illness or danger besets the giver, and dies at his death, is a very common incident in folk-tales. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 52--Tales of the Punjab (Steel), p. 47--it was a barley plant. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), p. 189, a Prince planted a tree as his life index, and said, "When you see the tree green and fresh then you know that it is well with me; when you see the tree fade in some parts, then you know that I am in an ill case; and when you see the whole tree fade, then know that I am dead and gone." In Tota Kahani (Small), p. 43, when a man was about to leave his wife, she gave him a nosegay of flowers which would retain their freshness if she were faithful to him, and fade if she misconducted herself. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xvii, p. 54, a plant was given to each of two persons, as a Prince's life index. He said, "If this plant should fade, know that I am sick or in danger; if it should die know that I also am dead." The notion that a person's life may be concealed in some external object, usually a bird or a bee, is one of the commonest features of folk-tales. In the story numbered 24 in this volume, the King's life was in a golden parrot. In Wide-Awake Stories, p. 59--Tales of the Punjab, p. 52--a Jinni's life was in a bee, which was in a golden cage inside the crop (?) of a Maina [bird]. At pp. 62, 63, Tales of the Punjab, p. 55, a Prince's life was in his sword. When this was placed in the fire he felt a burning fever, and when it was made red-hot and a rivet came out of the hilt, his head came off. Afterwards, when the sword was repaired and repolished, the Prince was restored to life. At p. 83, Tales of the Punjab, p. 75, the life of a Princess was in a nine-lakh necklace, which was in a box inside a bee that lived in the body of a fish. When asked about it, she first said that her life was in each of the seven sons of the wicked Queen who wanted to kill her, all of whom were murdered by the Queen. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 49, the lives of Rakshasas were in seven cocks, a spinning-wheel, a pigeon, and a starling. At p. 134, the life of one was in a veranda pillar at his house; when it was broken he died. At p. 383, the life of one was in a queen-bee in a honey-comb hanging on a tree. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), pp. 2 and 6, the life of a Prince was in a golden necklace deposited in a wooden box which was in the heart of a fish. At pp. 85 and 86, the lives of seven hundred Rakshasas were in two bees which were on the top of a crystal pillar, deep in the water of a tank. If a drop of their blood fell on the ground, a thousand Rakshasas would start up from it. At p. 121, the life of a Rakshasi was in a bird that was in a cage. As its limbs were torn off, a corresponding limb dropped off the Rakshasi who had been made the Queen. At p. 253, the lives of two Rakshasas (m. and f.) were in two bees that were in a wooden box at the bottom of a tank. If a person who killed them allowed a drop of their blood to fall on the ground, he would be torn into seven hundred pieces by the Rakshasas. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. i, p. 86, in a Dardu legend (G. W. Leitner), the life of a King of Gilgit was in snow, and he could only die by fire. At p. 117, in a Bengal story (G. H. Damant), the lives of Rakshasas were in two bees in a gourd which was inside a crystal pillar at the bottom of a tank. If one drop of the bees' blood fell on the ground, the Rakshasas would be twice as numerous as before. The bees were killed by being squeezed to death. At p. 171, in a Bengal story (G. H. Damant), the lives of Rakshasas were in a lemon, and a bird. When the lemon was cut in Bengal, the Rakshasas in Ceylon died. As the bird's wings were broken, the Rakshasi Queen's arms were broken; when the bird died, she died. In vol. xvi, p. 191, the life of a giant was in a parrot; when it was killed he died. In vol. xvii, p. 51, a Prince's life was in a sword; if it rusted he was sick, and if it broke he died. In Folk-Tales of Hindustan, Allahabad (Shaik Chilli), p. 51, the life of a Prince was in the brightness of his sword. When it was placed in a furnace and lost the brightness, he died. A giant who was his friend found it, and discovering that a little brightness remained at the tip, rubbed it until it regained its lustre, on which the Prince revived. At p. 114, the lives of Rakshasas were in a number of birds; they died when these were killed. In a tale of the interior of W. Africa in Contes Soudanais (C. Monteil), p. 154, the life of a King was in a little box inside a small goat-skin, which was in a little pot placed inside a large pot. When the King was told this he died. Doubtless this strange notion of a life safeguarded by being hidden away, is of early date, and may be due originally to the early magical idea prevalent in Egypt, Assyria, and India, that a person might be killed from any distance by piercing the heart of a figurine formed to represent him. This action is mentioned in the Commentary on the Atharva Veda (Bloomfield's translation, p. 359); and in the Rigveda, i, 29, 7 (Griffith's translation), prayer is made to Indra for the destruction of "him who in secret injures us." In the Jataka story No. 208 (vol. ii, p. 111), a monkey escaped from a crocodile that was going to kill it in order to get its heart, by telling it that monkeys kept their hearts hanging on trees. In the Maha Bharata, Vana Parva, 135, 52, a Rishi caused buffaloes to shatter a mountain, and thereby killed a child whose life was dependent on its existence, if not supposed to be actually in it. The recovery of the three giants from the house of the Rakshasi is evidently based on the story of Wijaya, the first King of Ceylon, and Kuweni, a female Yakkha or aboriginal Princess, who, taking the form of a devotee, had captured his followers one by one, and imprisoned them. The story is given in the Mahavansa, chapter vii, as follows:--"All these persons not returning, Wijaya becoming alarmed, equipping himself with the five weapons of war, proceeded after them; and examining the delightful pond [to which they had gone to bathe], he could perceive footsteps leading down only into the tank; and he there saw the devotee. It occurred to him: 'My retinue must surely have been seized by her.' 'Woman, hast thou seen my attendants?' said he. 'Prince,' she replied, 'what need hast thou of attendants? Do drink and bathe ere thou departest.' Saying to himself, 'Even my lineage, this Yakkhini is acquainted with it,' proclaiming his title, and quickly seizing his bow, he rushed at her. Securing the Yakkhini by the throat with a 'naracana' ring, with his left hand seizing her by the hair, and raising his sword with his right hand, he exclaimed, 'Slave! restore me my followers, or I will put thee to death.' The Yakkhini, terrified, implored that her life might be spared. 'Lord! spare my life; on thee I will confer this sovereignty; unto thee I will render the favours of my sex, and every other service according to thy desire.' In order that she might not prove herself treacherous, he made the Yakkhini take an oath. While he was in the act of saying, 'Instantly produce my followers,' she brought them forth" (Mahavansa, i, p. 32). The idea of the thorn which was driven into the head of the Rakshasa, is borrowed from magical practice. In the case of a figurine made for the destruction or injury of a person, pins or nails or thorns were run into various parts of the body, one being inserted in the crown of the head. In a variant of the story numbered 73 in this work, a female Yaka was kept in subjection by means of an iron nail that was driven into the crown of the head. In Indian Fairy Tales (Stokes), p. 12, a pin was fixed in the head of a woman who had been transformed into a bird. When it was drawn out she resumed her human form. In The Illustrated Guide to the South Indian Railway, 1900, p. 232, it is stated regarding the great stone Bull, 12 feet high, at the Tanjore temple, that "it was popularly supposed by the natives that this bull was growing, and as they feared it might become too large for the mandapam [stone canopy] erected over it a nail was driven into the back of its head, and since this was done the size of the monolith has remained stationary." NO. 21 NAGUL-MUNNA In a village there were two persons called Nagul-Munna and Mun-aeta Guruwa. While those two were living there they spoke together, "Friend, while we two are remaining in this way matters are not going on properly." At the time when they spoke thus, Mun-aeta Guruwa replied to Nagul-Munna's talk, and said, "It is good, friend. If that be so let us two cut a chena." Having spoken thus, the two persons went to the chena jungle, and there being no watch-hut there, built one; and taking supplies week by week, began to chop down the bushes while they were living at the house in the jungle. Having chopped down the jungle, and burnt it, and sown the chena, the millet plants grew to a very large size. When the two persons were at the watch-hut they remained talking one night for a long time, and said, "To-morrow we must go to the village to bring back supplies." After talking thus, they went to sleep, both of them. During the time while they were sleeping, Mun-aeta Guruwa's clothes caught fire. Then Nagul-Munna awoke, and jumped down to the ground, and ran away. Mun-aeta Guruwa was burnt in the shed and died. On account of his being killed, through fear of being charged with causing his death, Nagul-Munna bounded off into the jungle, and did not return to the village. That day the relatives of those people who were in the village, thinking, "Nagul-Munna and Mun-aeta Guruwa will be coming to fetch supplies," getting ready the supplies, stayed looking for them. On that day the two persons did not come; because they did not come two men went from the village to look for them. The two having gone and looked, and seen that the watch-hut had been burnt, spoke together concerning it: "Both these men have been burnt and died. Let us go back to the village." So they returned. Nagul-Munna, who sprang into the jungle that night, having come home during the night of the following day, spoke to his wife, who was in the house. The woman, thinking that he had died, was frightened at his speech, and cried out, "Nagul-Munna has been born as a Yaka, and having come here is doing something to me." At that cry the men of the village came running; when they looked he was not there, having run off through fear of being seized. In that manner he came on two days. The woman, being afraid, did not open the door. On the third day he arose, and hid himself at the tank near the village. While he was there, a tom-tom beater having gone to a devil-dance, [53] came bringing a bit of cooked rice, and a box containing his mask and decorations. [54] As he was coming along bringing them, this Nagul-Munna having seen him, went and beat the tom-tom beater, and taking the bit of cooked rice and the box of devil-dancer's things, bounded into the jungle. Having sprung into the jungle, and eaten the bit of rice, he unfastened the box of devil-dancer's goods, and taking the things in it, dressed himself in them, putting the jingling bracelets [55] on his arms and the jingling anklets [56] on his legs. There was a large mask in it. Taking it, and tying it on his face, he went to the village when it became night, and having gone to a house there, broke the neck of a calf that was tied near it, and sprang into the rice-field near by. Having made a noise by shaking the jingling bracelets, and given three cries, "Hu, Hu, Hu," he shouted, "If you do not give a leaf-cup of rice and a young coconut at dawn, and at night a leaf-cup of rice and a young coconut, I will kill all the cattle and men that are in your village, and having drunk their blood, go away." The men of the village becoming afraid on account of it, began to give rice every day in the way he said. Having given it for about four or five years in this manner, the men spoke together, "Let us fetch a sooth-sayer to seize that Yaka." After having said concerning it, "It is good," they fetched a doctor (Veda). When the doctor went to the tank to catch that Yaka, Nagul-Munna came, and seizing that doctor, cut his bathing cloth, and having taken him to the place where he was staying, killed him, and trampled on his bathing cloth. Through the seizing and killing of the doctor, the men of the village became afraid to a still greater degree. After that, having talked about bringing another sooth-sayer they fetched one. In the same manner, when he went to the tank the Yaka killed the sooth-sayer. At that deed the men of the village became more afraid still. Having fetched a Sannyasi (a Hindu religious mendicant) from Jaffna, they went to him, and told him to seize the Yaka. That man said, "It is good"; and having gone to the aforesaid tank to look for him, the Yaka was in a tree. So the sooth-sayer repeated incantations to cause the Yaka to descend. The Yaka did not descend. After that, because he did not descend, that person got to know that he was a man, and on his calling "Hu," to the men of the village the men came. Afterwards, seizing Nagul-Munna, who was in the tree, they went to the village. Because Mun-aeta Guruwa had died, the relatives of Mun-aeta Guruwa came for their [legal] action against him. Saying that he had cheated them, and eaten food wrongly obtained from them, the men of the village came for their action. Because he had stolen the rice and the box with tom-tom beater's things in it, the tom-tom beater came for his action. Saying that he killed the first sooth-sayer, his people came for their action. The second sooth-sayer's people also in the same way came for their action. For his killing the calf the owner came for his action. After all who had brought these actions had came to one spot, the man, saying, "Because my wife told me to cut the chena together with Mun-aeta Guruwa, and through my cutting the chena with him, this happened," killed his own wife. Then, while he was going for his trial a bear bit that man on the way, and he died. North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. iii, p. 31, there is a nearly similar story of a tom-tom beater who was supposed to be burnt in his watch hut. In reality, it was a beggar who was burnt. The man being afraid of being charged with murdering him, got hid in the jungle. He came to his house at night, but was supposed to be the Mala upan Yaka, "the evil spirit born from the dead," and was refused admittance by his wife, who gave an alarm. As men were coming on hearing it, he ran off. On another night when he came, his wife assailed him with a volley of invectives, as demon-scarers; so carrying off his dancing paraphernalia, he again retired, and afterwards robbed travellers, and frightened the people till they threatened to leave the district. The King offered a handsome reward for his apprehension, but he tied up a Kattadiya or devil priest who came to exorcise him. In the end he was captured by a Buddhist monk, taken before the King, and after relating his adventures, appears to have been allowed to go unpunished. In the Jataka story No. 257 (vol. ii, p. 209), there is an account of four actions brought against one man on the same day. It is a folk-tale in Ceylon also. NO. 22 THE KULE-BAKA FLOWERS In a certain country a King was ruling; the King was without children. The King having performed many meritorious deeds, five children were born. When they looked into the Naekata (or prognostics resulting from the positions of the planets) at the time when the children were born, those of four were good, but that of the fifth child was that on seeing him his father's two eyes would become blind. The King told them to take the Prince and put him down in the forest. So having taken the Prince they put him in the forest. After that, animals having come through the favour of the Prince's guardian deity, gave him milk, and reared him. After much time had passed, the Prince's father, the King, went to have the jungle driven (for shooting); and having gone, while they were driving the jungle that Prince came, and bounded round the King's enclosure. Then, the King having seen him his eyes became blind, and he went away without his eyes seeing anything. The people who went with the King, lifting him up, carried him to the palace. Having arrived there, various medical treatments were applied; he was not cured. After that, he caused sooth-sayers to be brought, and after he had asked them regarding it, they said, "By applying medical treatment you will not meet with a cure. In the midst of the Forest of the Gods there is a flower called Kule-baka. Having brought that flower, and burnt it on your eyes, your eyes will see." Afterwards the King asked the people, "Who is able to bring this flower?" All the people said they could not do it. Then the four eldest Princes of the King, having said, "Let us go," asked permission of the King; the King told them to go. So the four persons having started, went. As they were going, the four persons went to a city. A courtesan stayed in that city; her name was Diribari-Laka. [57] She gambled (i.e. kept a gambling house). These four persons went to her house, and having gone there prepared to gamble. Then the woman said, "Should you lose by this game, I shall make you four persons prisoners (that is, slaves)." The four persons having said, "It is good," gambled, and all four having lost remained there as prisoners. The Prince who was in the forest, having got to know all these matters, also set off to seek the flower, and on his way arrived at the city at which the Princes who were made prisoners were staying. This one, having gone to the King of the city, was appointed to do messenger's work there. While he was living thus, this one obtained news that the courtesan was gambling, and thereupon this Prince asked the King for leave of absence. Having obtained it, he went to the house of an old woman near the courtesan's house. Having gone there, this Prince having fallen down near the feet of that old woman and made obeisance, weeping and weeping, these words are what he said, "Mother, are you in the enjoyment of health? Do not you let your face be even visible (to) scrofulous offspring. When lightning has struck you (may it) take your progeny." [58] Having spoken and spoken with these honours he remained weeping. The woman's child, not of small age, was there, and having said similar things to the child also, and while weeping having paid respect, the woman made that Prince rise, and asked him, "Where were you for such a long period?" "I was with a King," the Prince said. "Mother, whose is that house?" he asked. The woman said, "Why, son? Do not say anything about it. That house is the house of a courtesan. There is a gambling game of that woman's, and by it many persons, having lost, remain as prisoners." The Prince asked, "Mother, how does one win by that game?" Then the woman said, "A bent lamp having been lighted, is placed at the gambling place. Below the lamp a cat is sitting. While the woman is gambling the cat raises its head; then victory falls to the woman. When another person is playing the cat lowers its head; then defeat falls to that man. If you are to win, having extinguished the bent lamp, and driven away the cat, and brought and placed there another lamp, if you should then play you can win." After that, the Prince went to gamble. Having gone there, when he was ready to gamble she said, "Should you lose in gambling, you will be condemned to imprisonment; should you win you marry me." The Prince said, "It is good," and gambled. When he was losing, he extinguished the lamp, and having beaten and driven away the cat, he told the woman to bring another lamp. After that, the woman brought a lamp. Having brought and placed the lamp there, they gambled. The woman having lost all, the Prince won. Afterwards, that woman married this Prince. During the time while he was living there, as this Prince was starting to go and bring the Kule-baka flower, the woman said, "Don't go." The Prince said, "I did not come for this gambling; I came for the Kule-baka flower. I must indeed go, after having set off for this purpose," he said. So the Prince went to bring the flower. Before this, he had allowed the imprisoned men to go, and said to the four Princes, "Stop until I return." Having thus gone, he entered into the midst of a forest. While he was there, human-flesh-eating serpents and forest animals that were in the midst of the forest sprang to devour this Prince, but he made supplication to his deity, so they were unable to do it, and went away. Then the Yaka who was guarding the Kule-baka garden, having seen the Prince, and having arisen and come near the Prince, asked, "Have you, a man born in the world of men, come into my presence to be a prey to me?" The Prince said, "My father the King for a fault said he must behead me. On account of it, having made my way into the midst of the forest, I have come to you for you to eat indeed. If you are going to eat me, eat me; if you are going to keep me, keep me alive." After that, the Yaka asked, "What do you eat?" The Prince said, "We eat wheat flour, ghi, sugar, and camels' flesh. [59] These indeed we eat." All these requisites having been brought by the Yaka, after he had given them to the Prince, the Prince made the food, and gave to the Yaka also. The Yaka having eaten the food, sprang up into the air, and said to the Prince, "I never ate a meal like this. I will do anything you tell me." Then the Prince said to the Yaka, "Where is the path to go to the Kule-baka garden?" The Yaka sprang up into the air, and fell on the ground, and beating his head, said, "If you had said so before this, by this time I should have eaten you. What can I do now that I have promised to help you?" Having said, "Go away from here," he told him about the path. Then the Prince went along it. There, also, a Yaksani [60] (female Yaka) was guarding it, and the Prince came to her. The Yaksani asked the Prince, "Where are you going?" The Prince said, "Having delayed in the midst of a forest, as I was returning I was unable to find the country with my village. Now I have met with you here." As he appeared good to the Yaksani she caused him to stay there, and married her daughter to him. The name of the girl to whom the Prince was married was Maha-Muda. [61] During the time while he was there the Prince remained angry. The girl asked, "What are you angry for?" The Prince said, "I must go to look at the Kule-baka garden." Then the girl spoke about this matter to her mother. So that woman having fetched rats, caused a tunnel to be made by them to the Kule-baka garden. Along that tunnel the Prince went to the flower garden, and having gone there, and plucked the flowers, came back again. Having returned there, calling Maha-Muda he came to the house of Diribari-Laka. Having arrived there, he burnt on the lower part of the back the four Princes who had remained as prisoners. The Prince who went for the Kule-baka flowers having burnt in this way the four Princes, who stayed as slaves at the house of Diribari-Laka, these four persons were freed from imprisonment. Then the Prince, Maha-Muda, and Diribari-Laka, taking the flowers, came to the Prince's native country. Having arrived there, he burnt the Kule-baka flowers on the two eyes of his father the King, and the two eyes of the King became well. After that, the King having asked the Prince regarding these matters, learnt that he was the King's Prince, [and he and his two wives continued to live there with him]. North-western Province. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 276 ff.--Tales of the Punjab, p. 263, 264--a rat assisted King Sarkap in games at Chaupur (the Pachis game), until it was frightened by a kitten that Prince Rasalu had rescued from a potter's kiln. At p. 250 of the former work it was predicted that if his father saw the Prince during the twelve years after his birth, he (the father) would die. In Indian Nights' Entertainment, Panjab (Swynnerton), p. 319, a rat which had been saved from drowning assisted a girl to defeat a Princess at Chaupur, by attracting the attention of a cat that moved the pieces for the Princess. The cat was struck by the girl while trying to seize the rat which she held; when it ran off she won. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 149, the cat belonging to a female gambler, at a sign from her mistress, extinguished the lamp whenever the game was going against her. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), p. 277, a Princess, in order to get back her husband, started a gambling establishment at which they gambled with dice, the stake being one hundred thousand rupees, together with the imprisonment of the loser at her house. Her ruse was successful. A rich merchant's son, the Prefect's son, the Minister's son, and the Prince, all came in turn and lost. NO. 23 KURULU-GAMA APPU, THE SOOTH-SAYER In a certain city a man was stricken by a scarcity of food to eat, and he went to another country. Having gone there, during the time while he was residing in a village, the village men asked, "What sooth can you tell?" [62] He said, "I can tell one sooth; to do that sooth I want Jak-tree gum, Coconut oil, and Euphorbia milk" (the milky sap which exudes from cuts or bruises in the bark). Thereupon the men having collected those things that he mentioned, gave them to him. Then he went and warmed these things [making bird-lime] and placed [limed] twigs, and catching birds and coming with them, he gave them daily, two by two at each house, and thus ate. The man's name was Appu; his village was Kurulu-gama (Birds' village). While he was continuing to eat in this manner, the men of that village started to go to Puttalam, carrying produce for sale. That man also said, "I also must go." Then the men of the village asked, "You have nothing; what will you take?" Thereupon this one tying up a pingo load of chaff and coconut husks, goes with the men. Then the men who were going on that journey, having come down to the high road, set off to go. While they were going, the men having said [in fun] "Vedarala" (Doctor) to that man, he kept the name. Having gone very far, the Vedarala, telling the men who went with him to wait on the road, placed his pingo (carrying-stick) on the road, and went into an open place in the jungle. While going along in it, when he looked about, a yoke of cattle were entangled in the bushes. Then this Vedarala having gone near the yoke of cattle, looked at the letter marks branded on them, and having come back and taken up the pingo load, while they were going on it became night. This party having halted on the road near a village, sent the Vedarala to get a resting-place for the night. Having gone to a house in the village, when he asked for it the house men said, "What giving of resting-places is there for us! We are lamenting in sorrow for the difficulty we are in. Our yoke of cattle are missing." The Vedarala said, "Now then, what have we to do with your losing a yoke of cattle? Give us a resting-place." "If you want one, look there! There is the shed, come and stay there," they said. Then the Vedarala having come back, says to the people of the party, "There is a shed indeed. Stay if you like; go on, if you want to go," he said. So this party having come to the shed sat down. The people of the party said to the Vedarala, "Vedarala, why are you staying looking about? Night is coming on. We must seek a little firewood and water," they spoke together. The house persons having heard these words, said, "What is this, that you are saying 'Vedarala'? Does he know sooth and the like?" they asked. [63] The persons of the party said without a reason for it (nikamata), "To a certain extent he can tell matters of sooth." "If so, don't be delayed on account of anything you want. We will bring and give you rice, firewood, and water." So they brought and gave them five quarts of rice, a dried fish, a head of ash-plantains. This party, cooking amply, and having eaten, said at night to the person who owned the house, "Now then, bring a packet of betel leaves for him to tell you sooth." So the house person having brought the betel, gave it to the Vedarala. Thereupon the assumed (lit. "face") Vedarala, having taken the betel, after having looked at it falsely becoming "possessed," said, "It is a yoke of oxen of yours that have been lost, isn't it?" Then the house person said, "You have said the sooth very correctly. I asked it of the deities of many dewalas (demon-temples), and of sooth-sayers. There wasn't a person who told me even a sign of it." Thereafter the Vedarala asked, "What will you give me for seeking and giving you the yoke of cattle?" That person said, "Even if you can't give the full yoke of cattle, I will give a half share of the value"; thus he promised. The Vedarala having said, "It is good," and told him to get and bring a torch, cunningly having gone near the yoke of cattle that remained entangled in the bush at that place where he went on coming, asked if these were his oxen. Then the man said, "These are indeed my cattle," and having unfastened them and come back, in the morning gave him a half share [64] of the value of the cattle. Taking it, and throwing away the chaff and coconut husks, he went away. That day also, having gone on until the time when it was becoming night, he got a resting-place in the very way in which, having spoken before, he got one. At the time when they were in the shed the persons of the party said, "Vedarala, what are you staying looking about for? We must seek and get firewood and water." Then the house people say, "What are you saying 'Vedarala' for? Does he know to say sooth and the like?" After that, this party say, "He can also tell sooth. Last night he sought and gave a yoke of cattle." Then the house persons quickly having brought rice, fish, firewood, water, gave them to the men. This party having amply cooked and eaten, while they were sleeping, the house person, having brought a packet of betel leaves, spoke to the Vedarala: "How am I to ask sooth?" The Vedarala rebuked him. "All these persons being now without memory or understanding, what saying of sooth is there?" [65] Then that one having gone, he went to sleep. A woman of the house was there; her name was Sihibuddi. The woman having heard the words which the Vedarala said, came and having softly awakened the Vedarala, said, "The Sihibuddi you mention is I indeed. It was I indeed who stole this house person's packet of waragan. [66] I will give you a share; don't mention it." Thereupon the Vedarala says, "Where is it? Bring it quickly, and having brought it place it near that clump of plantains." Then this woman having brought the packet of waragan, and placed it at the foot of the plantain clump and gone away, he went to sleep. Afterwards the Vedarala called the house person. "Now then, bring betel for me to say sooth." The man having brought betel gave it to the Vedarala. Then the Vedarala, having taken the betel and looked at it, said, "It is a packet of waragan that has been lost, isn't it." That man said, "It is that indeed. Should you seek and give what has been lost of mine, I will give you a half share." Then the Vedarala having told him to get a light, becoming "possessed," went and took and gave him the packet of waragan that was at the foot of the plantain clump. Having taken from it a half share, at the time when the party were going on, thieves having broken into the box at the foot of the King's bed, [67] he made public by beat of tom-toms that many offices would be given by the King to a person who should seek and give it to him. At that time this party said, "In our party indeed, there is a sooth-sayer. On the night of the day before yesterday he sought out and gave a yoke of cattle. Yesternight he sought out and gave a packet of waragan." Thereupon the persons took this Vedarala near the King. Then the King asks, "Can he catch and give the thief who broke into the box at the foot of my bed?" The party said that he could. Then the sooth-sayer, having become afraid, thought, "I will tie a cord to my neck and die." So he said, "After tying white cloths in a house (as a decoration, on the walls and under the roof), and a piece of cord to the cross-beam, and placing a bed, chairs, and table in it, and setting on end a rice mortar, you must give me it in the evening." The King having prepared them in that very way, gave him them. Afterwards, the Vedarala, after it became night, having gone inside the house, told them to shut the door from the outside, and lock it. Then having mounted on the rice mortar, when he tried to put the cord round his neck it was too short. On account of it he said, "Both the cord is too short and the height is insufficient. What shall I do?" [68] As the Vedarala was saying this word Kumandaeyi, a citizen, Kumanda, an old thief, was there [listening outside]. Having heard this, he thought, "He is calling out my name"; so becoming afraid he came near and spoke to the Vedarala, and said, "It is I indeed whom you call Kumanda. It is I indeed who committed the theft. Don't say anything about it to the King." Then the Vedarala said, "If so, bring the things and put them in this house." Thereupon the old thief, having brought to the house all the things taken out of the box which was at the foot of the King's bed, gave them to the sooth-sayer through the window. Then the Vedarala slept until light having come it became daylight. Afterwards, the King having sent messengers in the morning, they awoke the Vedarala. Then the Vedarala, thinking it unseasonable, said, "Who is talking to me without allowing me to sleep?" and silently went to sleep again. So the messengers returned and told the King. Afterwards the King came and spoke to him, and opened the door. The Vedarala having come out, said, "O Lord, Your Majesty, I was unable to seize the thieves; the things indeed I met with." Then the King said, "The thief does not matter; after you have met with the things it is enough." Then the King, catching a great many fire-flies and putting them in a coconut shell, asked the Vedarala, "What is there in this?" The sooth-sayer, becoming afraid, went as far as he could see him, and thinking, "I will strike my head against a tree and die," came running and struck his head against a tree. [69] Then the sooth-sayer said, "O Father! It was as though a hundred fire-flies flew about." The King said, "That is true. They are indeed fire-flies that are in my hand." After that, the King caught a bird, and clenching it in his fist, asked the sooth-sayer, "What is there in this fist?" The sooth-sayer, having become afraid, began to beat his head on a stone. Then he said, "Kurulu-gama Appu's strength went (this time)." [70] The King said, "Bola, it is indeed a bird that is in my hand"; and having called the Vedarala, and given him many offices, and a house, told him to stay at that very city. Afterwards the Vedarala, thinking, "They will call me again to tell sooth," having put away the things that were in the house, and having set fire to the house, said, "Kurulu-gama Appu's sooth-saying is finished from to-day. The sooth books have been burnt." Having made it public he stayed at that very city. North-western Province. The second discovery of the sooth-sayer is extracted from a variant by a washerman, the rest of the story having been written by a man of the cultivating caste. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 272, there is an account of a pretended sooth-sayer, a poverty-stricken Brahmana. He first hid a horse, and when application was made to him to discover it, he drew diagrams and described the place where it would be found. After that, when a thief stole gold and jewels from the King's palace he was sent for and shut up in a room, where he began to blame his tongue, jivha, which had made a vain pretence at knowledge. The principal thief, a maid called Jivha, overheard him, and told him where she had buried her share of the plunder. Afterwards the King tested him by placing a frog in a covered pitcher. He expected that he would be killed, and said, "This is a fine pitcher for you, Frog (his father's pet name for himself), since suddenly it has become the swift destroyer of yourself in this place." He was thought a great sage, and the King presented him with "villages with gold, umbrella, and vehicles of all kinds." There is another story of a pretended sooth-sayer in vol. ii, p. 140, of the same work, but it does not, like the last, resemble the Sinhalese tale. NO. 24 HOW A PRINCE WAS CHASED BY A YAKSANI, AND WHAT BEFEL A prince went for hunting-sport. As he was going, a Yaksani (female Yaka) who was living in the midst of the forest, chased him, saying that she was going to eat the Prince, and drove the Prince down the path. The Prince having gone running, went bounding through the middle of a city. The Yaksani followed him in the disguise of a woman. The King of the city having seen them, sent the Ministers, and told them to look what it was about. The Ministers asked the Yaksani who was bounding behind him, "What is that for?" The Yaksani said, "My husband having quarrelled with me and left me, is running away. I am running after him because of it." The Ministers then brought her before the King, and having seen the beauty of the Yaksani, the King was pleased with her, and said, "If you should not go with him it does not matter; stay here." So the King, having prepared another house for the Yaksani, and having married her, establishing her in the office of Chief Queen, she remained there. While she was there, this Yaksani having gone like a thief during the time when all were sleeping, and killed and eaten the men of the city, brought a few of the bones, and placed them in a heap at the back of the houses in which the twelve Queens of the King slept. When a little time had gone by in this manner, the men of the city came to the King, and saying, "Since you have brought and are keeping this Yaksani this city is altogether desolate," made obeisance. Then the King made inquiry into the matter. Then that Yaksani said, "Ane! O Lord, Your Majesty, I indeed do not know about that, but I did indeed see that thief who eats human flesh, although I did not tell you." The King asked, "Who is it?" The Yaksani said, "If Your Majesty should look behind the houses of the twelve Queens you can ascertain." When the King went there and looked, he found that it was true, and gave orders for the twelve Queens to be killed. Then the Yaksani told him not to kill them, but to pluck out their eyes, and send them into the midst of the forest. Having heard the words which the Yaksani said, he acted in that very manner. So all this party of Queens went and stayed in one spot, and there all the twelve bore children. As each one was born, they divided and ate it. The youngest Queen put aside all the flesh that was given to her, and while she was keeping it she, also, bore a son. Then those eleven Queens made ready to eat that Prince, so that Princess gave them the flesh which she had kept, and the party ate it. As time went on that Prince having grown a little, began to bring and give them fruits that were lying on the ground. Then the Prince met with a bow and an arrow that had been concealed there. After that he began to shoot various kinds of small animals, and to bring and give them to the Queens. Afterwards he shot large animals, and having brought fire and boiled them, he gave the flesh to them. By this time the Prince understood all things thoroughly. After that, one day this Prince asked, "Mother, what is the reason why your eyes have become blind, and my eyes are well?" The party said, "We were the Queens of such and such a King; having taken a Yaksani in marriage, this was done to us through her enmity." Then the Prince remained thinking of killing the King. One day, as he was going hunting, he met with a Vaedda. Thinking he would kill the Vaedda, the Prince chased him along the path. The Vaedda, being afraid, went running away, and having met with the King said, "O Lord, Your Majesty, there is a very handsome Prince in the midst of this forest. One cannot say if the Prince is the son of a deity or a royal Prince. He does not come near enough to speak. When he sees a man he drives him away, saying he is going to eat him." He spoke very strongly about it. So the Ministers were sent by the King, who told them to seize and bring him. As the party were going to seize him, he sprang forward, saying that he was going to eat them. At that, the party became afraid, and ran away. Having come running, they told the King, "O Lord, Your Majesty, we cannot seize him. He comes springing at us saying he is going to eat us." Then the King came, bringing his war army. Thereupon the Prince, who before that was angry with the King in his mind, threw a stone in order to kill the King, and struck him. Being struck by the stone, the King's head was wounded (lit. split), so the King and all of them became afraid, and ran away. The King, having returned, wrote letters to foreign countries: "There is a wicked Prince in the midst of the forest in my kingdom. Who he is I cannot find out. Because of it you must come to seize the Prince." The Prince having got to know of it, and thinking, "It is not good for me to be killed at the hands of these men; having met with the King I will kill him," went to the royal palace. When he arrived there the King saw him, and asked, "Who are you?" The Prince said, "I am a royal Prince; I stay in the midst of this forest." The King said, "Would it be a bad thing if you remained at this palace?" The Prince asked, "What work would there be for me?" The King said, "Remain and do the work of the First Minister of the Ministers." The Prince asked, "How much pay would there be for me for the day?" The King replied, "I will give fifty masuran." "Fifty masuran are insufficient for me. Will you give me every day in the evening a hundred masuran?" he asked. The King said, "It is good," and after that he stayed there. While remaining there he came twice a day and assisted his twelve mothers. When no long time had gone by, some one was heard crying out in the night near the city. The King told him to look who was crying. The Prince having gone, taking his sword, when he looked, a dead body was hanging in a tree, and a Yaksani was springing up to eat the dead body. Being unable to seize it she was crying out. The Prince went and asked, "What is that for?" The Yaksani replied, "My son having gone into the tree cannot descend; because of it I am crying out." The Prince said, "Mount on my shoulders and unfasten him." The Yaksani having got on his shoulders, as she was about to eat the Prince he chopped at her with his sword. A foot was cut off, and she fled. Taking the foot and returning with it, the Prince showed it to the King. The King having seen the Prince's resoluteness, in order to cause him to be killed said that unless he should bring the other foot he could not take charge of this one. After that, the Prince went to the palace where the Yakas dwelt. There this Yaksani whom he had wounded came, and having made obeisance, fell down and said, "Lord, do not kill me. I will do anything you tell me." Summoning her to accompany him and returning, he showed her to the King. Afterwards he employed this Yaksani, and caused her to make a city at the place where his mothers were, and having made her construct a palace, he told the Yaksani and his mothers to dwell there. While they were there the Yaksani said to the Prince, "I know the place where the King's life is. Whatever you should do to the King himself you cannot kill him." The Prince asked, "Where is it?" "It is in a golden parrot in such and such a tree," she said. After that he went there and caught the parrot and killed it. Then the King died. After he died, the Prince having set fire to the palace there, and cut down the Yaksani who stayed with the King, left his mothers in charge of the city formed by the maimed Yaksani, and remained ruling the kingdom. Western Province. For some variants, see the notes at the end of the story numbered 48. In Indian Nights' Entertainment, Panjab (Swynnerton), p. 355, a Princess in man's disguise, acting as the King's guard, found a ghul in the form of a woman howling under a corpse that was hanging from a gallows. She stated that it was her son whom she could not reach, and she asked to be lifted up. When raised up to it by the Princess she began to suck the blood, on seeing which the Princess made a cut at her, but only severed a piece of her clothing, which proved to be of so rich a quality that the King ordered her to procure more for his wife. In the Jataka story No. 96 (vol. i, p. 235) an Ogress in the disguise of a woman followed a man into Takkasila, intending to devour him. The King saw her, was struck by her beauty, and married her. When he had given her authority over those who dwelt in the palace, she brought other Ogres at night, and ate the King and every one in the place. NO. 25 THE WICKED KING In a certain country there are a King and a Queen, it is said. The Queen has no children. During the time while she was rearing another (adopted) Prince, a child was born to the Queen. After it was born, the King and Queen having spoken together, "Let us kill the Prince whom we have brought up," said to the King's Minister, "Take this Prince and put him down in a clump of bamboos." The Minister having taken the Prince, and put him down in a clump of bamboos, returned. The Prince was seven years old. After that, a man having gone to the bamboo clump to cut bamboos, and having seen, when he looked, that this Prince was there, without stopping to cut bamboos took away this Prince. On the following day the King said to the Minister, "Look if the Prince is in the bamboo bush, and come back." Afterwards he went, and when he looked, the Prince was not there. So he came to the King, and said, "The Prince is not there." Then the King said, "The man who went away after cutting bamboos will have taken him. Give these thousand masuran, and bring him." Having said this, he gave him a thousand masuran. The Minister, having taken the thousand masuran, and given them to the man who took away the Prince, brought him and gave him to the King. Afterwards the King said to the Minister, "Take this one and put him down in the middle of the path to a cattle fold in which five hundred cattle are collected, and return, so that, having been trampled on as the cattle are going along the path, he may die." So the Minister having taken that Prince, and put him down in the middle of the path to a cattle fold in which five hundred cattle were collected, came away. After that, as the five hundred cattle were setting off to go into the cattle fold, when the great chief bull which went first was about to go in, having seen this Prince he placed him under his body, and allowing the other cattle to go in, this bull went afterwards. Subsequently, as the herdsman who drove the cattle was going along he saw this Prince, and taking the Prince the herdsman went away. On the following day the King said to the Minister, "Look if the Prince is at the cattle fold, and come back." The Minister went, and when he looked the Prince was not there. So the Minister came and said to the King, "He is not there." Then the King having given a thousand masuran into the Minister's hand said, "The herdsman who drove the cattle will have taken him. Give these thousand masuran and bring him." So the Minister having taken the thousand masuran, and given them to the herdsman, brought the Prince and gave him to the King. After that, the King said, "Take this one and put him down in the road on which five hundred carts are coming." So the Minister having taken the Prince, and put him down in the road on which five hundred carts were coming, returned. Then the carters, having seen from afar that the Prince was there, took the Prince, and placed him in a cart, and went home with him. On the following day the King said to the Minister, "Go and look if the Prince is in the road on which the five hundred carts come, and return." The Minister went, and when he looked the Prince was not there. So the Minister came and told the King, "The Prince is not there." Then the King gave the Minister a thousand masuran, and said, "The carters will have taken him. Give these thousand masuran and bring him." The Minister having given the thousand masuran to the carters, brought the Prince and gave him to the King. After that, the King said to the Minister, "Speak to the potter and come back. There is no other means of killing this one but surrounding him with pottery in the pottery kiln, and burning him." So the Minister went and spoke to the potter, "Our King tried thus and thus to kill this Prince; he could not. Because of that, how if you should surround him even in the pottery kiln?" The potter said, "Should you bring him I will surround him." So the Minister came and said to the King, "The potter told me to take the Prince." After that, the King wrote a letter: "Immediately on seeing the Prince who brings this letter, surround him in the pottery kiln, and kill him." Having written that in the letter, and given the letter to the Prince who had been adopted, he said, "Take this letter to such and such a potter, and having given it come back." Afterwards, as the Prince was going along taking the letter, the King's Prince having played at "Disks," [71] and the counters having been driven out, was dragging along the hop counters. Then, having seen this Prince, the King's Prince asked, "Where, elder brother, are you going?" The Prince said, "Father gave me this letter, and told me to give it to such and such a potter. Having given it I am going to return." The King's Prince said, "If so, elder brother, I will give that letter and come back. You drag these hop counters." Then this Prince having said "Ha," and given the letter into the hands of the King's Prince, dragged the hop counters. While the King's Prince was taking the letter, the potter was making ready the pottery kiln. After the Prince had given the letter to the potter, when the potter looked at it there was in the letter, "After you have seen this letter, surround in the pottery kiln the Prince who brings this letter, and set fire to it." So the potter taking the Prince surrounded him in the pottery kiln, and set fire to it. While it was burning in the pottery kiln the King's Prince died. After the adopted Prince finished dragging the hop counters, and came to the palace, the King asked, "Did you give the letter to the potter?" The Prince said, "As I was going there, younger brother having played at 'Disks,' and the counters being driven out, was dragging the hop counters. Having seen me going, younger brother asked, 'Where, elder brother, are you going?' I said, 'Father gave me this letter to give to such and such a potter; having given it I am going to return.' Then younger brother said, 'Elder brother, I will give that letter and come; you draw these hop counters.' So I gave the letter into the hand of younger brother, and I myself having drawn the hop counters came back." Then the King quickly said to the Ministers, "Go to the potter, and look if the Prince is there, and return." The Ministers went and asked the potter, "Is the Prince here?" The potter said, "I killed the Prince." So the Ministers came and told the King that the Prince was dead. The King immediately wrote a letter to the King of another city, that when he saw the Prince who brought the letter he was to kill him; and having given the letter into the hand of this adopted Prince, he said, "Give this letter to the King of such and such a city, and come back." The Prince having taken the letter went to the palace of the King of the city. At that time the King was not in the palace; the King's Princess was there. This Prince having grown up was beautiful to look at; the Princess thought of marrying him. Asking for the letter in the hand of the Prince, when she looked at it there was written that on seeing the Prince they were to kill him. Then the Princess having torn up and thrown away the letter, wrote a letter that on seeing the Prince they were to marry him to the Princess. Having written it and given it into the hand of the Prince, she said, "After our father the King has come give him this letter." After that, while the Prince, having taken the letter, was there, the King came. The Prince gave him the letter. When the King looked at the letter he learnt that on seeing the Prince he was to marry the King's Princess to him. So the King married the King's Princess to the Prince. Having married her, while the Prince was there, illness seized the King who brought up the Prince, and they sent letters for this Prince to come. The Prince would not. Afterwards they sent a letter: "Even now the King cannot be trusted [to live]; he is going to die even to-day. You must come." To that also the Prince replied, "I will not." The Princess said, "Having said 'I will not,' how will it be? Let us two go to-day." So the Prince and Princess came. When they arrived, the King was about to die, and breathing with difficulty. The Prince came and sat near the King's feet; the Princess sat near the King's head. The King told the Prince to come near in order to give him an oath [to repeat], in such a manner that he would be unable to seize any article of the King's. Well then, as the King was coming to mention the King's treasure houses and all other things, while he was opening his mouth to say the truth-oath to the Prince, the Princess, the King's daughter-in-law, being aware of it, stroked the King's neck, saying, "If so, father, for whom are they if not for us?" Then that which the King was about to say he had no opportunity of saying; while she was holding his neck he died. After that, the Prince having obtained the sovereignty, and the treasure houses, and the other different houses that were there, the Prince and Princess stayed at that very palace. Anun nahanda yanakota tamumma nahinawa. While they are going to kill others they die themselves. North-western Province. NO. 26 THE KITUL SEEDS A certain man and his son, who was a grown-up youth, were walking along a path one day, when they came to a place where many seeds had fallen from a Kitul Palm tree. The man drew his son's attention to them, and said, "We must gather these Kitul seeds, and plant them. When the plants from them grow up we shall have a large number of Kitul trees, from which we will take the toddy (juice), and make jaggery (a kind of brown sugar). By selling this we shall make money, which we will save till we shall have enough to buy a nice pony." "Yes," said the boy, "and I will jump on his back like this, and ride him," and as he said it he gave a bound. "What!" said the father, "would you break my pony's back like that!" and so saying, he gave him a blow on the side of the head which knocked him down senseless. E. G. Goonewardene, Esqre. North-western Province. There is another story of this type in the tale No. 53, below. In the Jataka story No. 4 (vol. i, p. 19), there is a tale of a young man who acquired a fortune and became Lord Treasurer by means of a dead mouse which he picked up and sold for a farthing, subsequently increasing his money by careful investments. In the Katha Sarit Sagara, vol. i, p. 33, a nearly identical mouse story is given. In Indian Fairy Tales (Stokes), p. 31, there is a different one. A man who was to receive four pice for carrying a jar of ghi, settled that he would buy a hen with the money, sell her eggs, get a goat, and then a cow, the milk of which he would sell. Afterwards he would marry a wife, and when they had children he would refuse some cooked rice which they would offer him. At this point he shook his head as he refused it, and the jar fell and was broken. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 23, a man who was carrying a jar of butter on his head, and who expected to get three halfpence for the job, was going to buy a hen, then a sheep, a cow, a milch buffalo, and a mare, and then to get married. As he patted his future children on the head the pot fell and was broken. In The Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., i, p. 296) there is a well-known variant in which the fortune was to be made out of a tray of glass-ware. NO. 27 THE SPEAKING HORSE There was once a certain King who was greatly wanting in common sense, and in his kingdom there was a Panditaya who was extremely wise. The King had a very beautiful white horse of which he was very proud. The Panditaya was respected and revered by all, but for the King little or no respect was felt, on account of his foolish conduct. He observed this, and became jealous of the Panditaya's popularity, so he determined to destroy him. One day he sent for him. The Panditaya came and prostrated himself before the King, who said, "I hear that you are extremely learned and wise. I require you to teach my white horse to speak. I will allow you one week to consider the matter, at the end of which time you must give me a reply, and if you cannot do it your head will be cut off." The Panditaya replied, "It is good, O Great King," [72] and went home in very low spirits. He lived with a beautiful daughter, a grown-up girl. When he returned she observed that he was melancholy, and asked the reason, on which the Panditaya informed her of the King's command, and said that it was impossible to teach a horse to speak, and that he must place his affairs in order, in preparation for his death. "Do as I tell you," she said, "and your life will be saved. When you go to the King on the appointed day, and he asks you if you are able to teach his horse to speak, you must answer, 'I can do it, but it is a work that will occupy a long time. I shall require seven years' time for it. You must also allow me to keep the horse by me and ride it, while you will provide food for it.' The King will agree to this, and in the meantime who knows what may happen?" The Panditaya accepted this wise advice. He appeared before the King at the end of the week, and prostrated himself. The King asked him, "Are you able to teach my white horse to speak?" "Maharajani," he replied, "I am able." He then explained that it would be a very difficult work, and would occupy a long time; and that he would require seven years for it, and must have the horse by him all the time, and use it, while the King would provide food for it. The King was delighted at the idea of getting his horse taught to speak, and at once agreed to these conditions. So the Panditaya took away the horse, and kept it at the King's expense. Before the seven years had elapsed the King had died, and the horse remained with the Panditaya. E. G. Goonewardene, Esqre. North-western Province. NO. 28 THE FEMALE QUAIL A female Quail having laid an egg on a rock, went to eat food. Then the [overhanging] rock closed over it, and when the bird returned there was no egg. "Ando! There is no egg," she said. Well then, she went to the Mason. The Mason said, "Sit down, O Bird." "What is [the use of] sitting and staying? What is [the use of] betel leaf and areka nut at the corner of the bed? Cut the rock, and give me the egg, O Mason," she said. The Mason said, "I will not." From there she went to the Village Headman. [73] The Village Headman said, "Sit down, O Bird." "What is the use of sitting and staying? What is the use of betel leaf and areka nut at the corner of the bed? O Village Headman, tie up the house-door [74] of the Mason, the Mason who did not cut the rock, and give me the egg," she said. The Village Headman said, "I will not." From there she went to the Pig. The Pig said, "Sit down, O Bird." "What is the use of sitting and staying? What is the use of betel leaf and areka nut at the corner of the bed? O Pig, feed in the rice field of the Village Headman, the Village Headman who did not tie up the house-door of the Mason, the Mason who did not cut the rock, and give me the egg," she said. The Pig said, "I will not." From there she went to the Vaedda. The Vaedda said, "Sit down, O Bird." "What is the use of sitting and staying? What is the use of betel leaf and areka nut at the corner of the bed? O Vaedda, shoot (with bow and arrow) the Pig, the Pig who did not feed in the rice field of the Village Headman, the Village Headman who did not tie up the house-door of the Mason, the Mason who did not cut the rock, and give me the egg," she said. The Vaedda said, "I will not." From there she went to the Timbol creeper. [75] The Timbola said, "Sit down, O Bird." "What is the use of sitting and staying? What is the use of betel leaf and areka nut at the corner of the bed? O Timbola, prick the body of the Vaedda, the Vaedda who did not shoot the Pig, the Pig who did not feed in the rice field of the Village Headman, the Village Headman who did not tie up the house-door of the Mason, the Mason who did not cut the rock, and give me the egg," she said. The Timbola said, "I will not." From there she went to the Fire. The Fire said, "Sit down, O Bird." "What is the use of sitting and staying? What is the use of betel leaf and areka nut at the corner of the bed? O Fire, burn the Timbola, the Timbola that did not prick the body of the Vaedda, the Vaedda who did not shoot the Pig, the Pig who did not feed in the rice field of the Village Headman, the Village Headman who did not tie up the house-door of the Mason, the Mason who did not cut the rock, and give me the egg," she said. The Fire said, "I will not." From there she went to the Water-pot. The Water-pot said, "Sit down, O Bird." "What is the use of sitting and staying? What is the use of betel leaf and areka nut at the corner of the bed? O Water-pot, quench the Fire, the Fire that did not burn the Timbola, the Timbola that did not prick the body of the Vaedda, the Vaedda who did not shoot the Pig, the Pig who did not feed in the rice field of the Village Headman, the Village Headman who did not tie up the house-door of the Mason, the Mason who did not cut the rock, and give me the egg," she said. The Water-pot said, "I will not." From there she went to the Elephant. The Elephant said, "Sit down, O Bird." "What is the use of sitting and staying? What is the use of betel leaf and areka nut at the corner of the bed? O Elephant, make muddy the Water-pot, the Water-pot that did not quench the Fire, the Fire that did not burn the Timbola, the Timbola that did not prick the body of the Vaedda, the Vaedda who did not shoot the Pig, the Pig who did not feed in the rice field of the Village Headman, the Village Headman who did not tie up the house-door of the Mason, the Mason who did not cut the rock, and give me the egg," she said. The Elephant said, "I will not." From there she went to the Rat. The Rat said, "Sit down, O Bird." "What is the use of sitting and staying? What is the use of betel leaf and areka nut at the corner of the bed? O Rat, creep into the ear of the Elephant, the Elephant who did not make muddy the Water-pot, the Water-pot that did not quench the Fire, the Fire that did not burn the Timbola, the Timbola that did not prick the body of the Vaedda, the Vaedda who did not shoot the Pig, the Pig who did not feed in the rice field of the Village Headman, the Village Headman who did not tie up the house-door of the Mason, the Mason who did not cut the rock, and give me the egg," she said. The Rat said, "I will not." From there she went to the Cat. The Cat said, "Sit down, O Bird." "What is the use of sitting and staying? What is the use of betel leaf and areka nut at the corner of the bed? O Cat, eat the Rat, the Rat who did not creep into the ear of the Elephant, the Elephant who did not make muddy the Water-pot, the Water-pot that did not quench the Fire, the Fire that did not burn the Timbola, the Timbola that did not prick the body of the Vaedda, the Vaedda who did not shoot the Pig, the Pig who did not feed in the rice field of the Village Headman, the Village Headman who did not tie up the house-door of the Mason, the Mason who did not cut the rock, and give me the egg," she said. The Cat said "Ha" (Yes). Well then, the Cat went to catch the Rat, the Rat went to creep into the ear of the Elephant, the Elephant went to make muddy the Water-pot, the Water-pot went to quench the Fire, the Fire went to burn the Timbola, the Timbola went to prick the body of the Vaedda, the Vaedda went to shoot the Pig, the Pig went to feed in the rice field of the Village Headman, the Village Headman went to tie up the house-door of the Mason, the Mason went to cut the rock, and take and give the egg. Here the story ends. "Was the egg given?" I asked. "It would be given," the narrator said. "No, he gave it," said a listener. North-western Province. In a variant which I heard in the Southern Province, a bird laid two eggs in a crevice between two stones, which drew close together. She went to a Mason or Stone-cutter; (2) to a Pig; (3) to a Hunter; (4) to an Elephant, which she requested to kill him; (5) to a Lizard (Calotes), which she told to crawl up the Elephant's trunk into its brain; (6) to a Jungle Hen, which she told to peck and kill the Lizard; (7) to a Jackal, who, when requested to kill the Jungle Hen, at once agreed, and said, "It is very good," and set off after her. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 209--Tales of the Punjab, p. 195--there is a variant. While a farmer's wife was winnowing corn, a crow carried off a grain, and perched on a tree to eat it. She threw a clod at it, and knocked it down, but the grain of corn rolled into a crack in the tree, and the crow, though threatened with death in case of failure, was unable to recover it. It went for assistance, and requested (1) a Woodman to cut the tree; (2) a King to kill the man; (3) a Queen to coax the King; (4) a Snake to bite the Queen; (5) a Stick to beat the Snake; (6) Fire to burn the Stick; (7) Water to quench the Fire; (8) an Ox to drink the water; (9) a Rope to bind the Ox; (10) a Mouse to gnaw the Rope; (11) a Cat to catch the Mouse. "The moment the Cat heard the name Mouse, she was after it, for the world would come to an end before a Cat would leave a Mouse alone." In the end the Crow got the grain of corn, and saved its life. In Indian Folk Tales (Gordon), p. 53, there is an allied variant. A bird had bought three grains of corn for three cowries, and while she was on a new cart eating them one fell into a joint of the cart where she was unable to get it. She appealed to (1) the Carpenter to take the cart to pieces, so that she might obtain it; (2) the King to make him do it; (3) the Queen to persuade the King; (4) a Deer to graze in the Queen's garden; (5) the Stick to beat the Deer; (6) the Fire to burn the Stick; (7) the Lake to quench the Fire; (8) the Rats to fill up the Lake; (9) the Cat to attack the Rats; (10) the Elephant to crush the Cat; (11) an Ant to crawl into the Elephant's ear; (12) the Crow, "the most greedy of all creatures," to eat the Ant. The Crow consented, and the usual result followed. NO. 29 THE PIED ROBIN At a certain city, while a female Pied Robin [76] was digging and digging on a dung-hill, she met with a piece of scraped coconut refuse, it is said. She took it, and put it away, and having gone again, while she was digging and digging there was a lump of rice dust. Having taken it, and put it to soak, she said, "Sister-in-law at that house, Sister-in-law at this house, come and pound a little flour." [77] The women, saying, "No, no, with such a fragment you can pound that little bit yourself," did not come. The Pied Robin pounded the flour, and cooking a cake of the size of a rice mat (wattiya), and tying a hair-knot of the size of a box, and putting on a cloth of the breadth of a thumb, while she was going away she met with a Jackal. The Jackal asked, "Where are you going?" "Having looked for a [suitable] marriage, I am going to get married," she said. The Jackal said, "Would it be bad if you went with me?" [78] The bird asked, "What do you eat?" The Jackal said, "I eat a land crab, and drink a little water." Then the bird said, "Chi! Bullock, Chi!" and while going on again she met with a blind man. The blind man asked, "Where are you going?" "Having looked for a [suitable] marriage, I am going to get married," she said. The blind man said, "Would it be bad if you went with me?" The bird asked, "What do you eat?" The blind man said, "Having chewed an eel, I drink a little water." Then the bird said, "Chi! Bullock, Chi!" and while going on again she met with a Hunchback, chopping and chopping at a bank (nira) in a rice field. The Hunchback said, "Where are you going?" "Having looked for a [suitable] marriage, I am going to get married," she said. The Hunchback said, "Would it be bad if you went with me?" The bird asked, "What do you eat?" The Hunchback said, "I eat rice cakes." Then the bird having said, "Ha. It is good," the Hunchback said, "I put rice on the hearth to boil, and came away. You go and look after it." After the bird had gone to the Hunchback's house, she found that the water was insufficient for cooking the rice, and except that it was making a sound, "Kuja tapa tapa, kuja tapa tapa," it was not cooking. So the bird went to the Hunchback, and said, "The water is insufficient for cooking the rice. It only says 'Kuja tapa tapa, kuja tapa tapa.' [79] Bring water, O Hunchback." The Hunchback became angry [at the nicknames], and having come home, when he was taking a water-pot to the well, a frog sitting on the well mouth jumped into the well, making a sound, "Kujija bus." [80] Then the Hunchback, having drawn and drawn up the water from the well, caught and killed the frog, and tried to fill the water-pot with water. The water continuing, as he poured it, to make a sound "Kuja kutu kutu, kuja kutu kutu," [81] except that it splashed up does not fill the water-pot. Through anger at it, he took the water-pot and struck it against the mouth of the well, and smashed it. While he was coming home he met a Village Headman. The Village Headman asked, "Where, Mr. Hunchback, did you go?" The Hunchback said, "What is the journey on which I am going to thee, Bola, O Heretic?" and having come home, killed the Pied Robin, and ate the cakes that the bird brought. North-western Province. In Indian Folk Tales (Gordon), p. 59, a large grain measure (paila) having quarrelled with his wife, the small grain measure (paili), and beaten her, she ran off, and on her way met with a Crow, which invited her to stay with him. She inquired, "What will you give me to eat and drink, what to wear and what to spend?" The reply being unsatisfactory, she went on, and met a Bagula (crane or heron), which also invited her to stay, and when asked the same question gave an unsatisfactory answer. She next met a King, who said, "I will place one cushion below you and one above, and whatsoever you desire you may have to eat." She refused this, and met a dog, who told her that in the King's store there was much raw sugar, of which they would eat as much as they pleased. She accepted this offer, and they lived in the store; but one day the King's daughter threw in the scales, which wounded the dog on the head, so the measure jumped out. NO. 30 THE JACKAL AND THE HARE In a certain country there are a Jackal and a Hare living together, it is said. One day when the Jackal was rubbing himself in the morning in the open space at the front of the house, there was a pumpkin seed in his hair. He took it and planted it. Afterwards, when the Hare went to the open ground, and was rubbing himself, he also had a pumpkin seed in his hair. He, too, took it and planted it. That which the Jackal planted, being without water, died. The Hare having brought water in his ears, and watered his seed, it sprouted, grew large, and bore a fruit. After the fruit had become large, the Jackal and Hare spoke together, "Friend, with that pumpkin fruit let us eat pumpkin milk-rice." They also said, "Whence the rice, coconut, and the like, for it?" Then the Hare said, "We two will go to the path to the shops. You stay in the bushes. I will be lying down in the grass field (pitiya) at the side of the path. Men going along the road, having placed on the path the articles which they are carrying to the shops, will come to take me. Then you take the goods, and go off to the bushes." When the Jackal and Hare had gone to the path that led to the shops, and seen a man coming, bringing a bag of rice, the Hare lay down in the grass field as though dead. The Jackal hid himself and waited. That man having come up, and seen that the Hare was dead, said, "Appa! Bola, there is meat for me." So he placed the bag of rice on the road, and went to get the Hare. Then the Jackal came running, and carried off the bag of rice into the bushes. When the man was approaching the Hare, it got up and ran away. So the man had neither the bag of rice nor the Hare. He went home empty-handed (nikam). Again when the Jackal and Hare were looking out, they saw a man come, bringing a pingo (carrying-stick) load of coconuts, and the Hare went and lay down again in the grass field. The Jackal hid himself and looked out. Afterwards that man came up, and as he was going on from there he saw that the Hare was lying dead, and saying, "Appa! Bola, there is a Hare," placed the pingo load of coconuts on the path, and went to get the Hare. The Jackal, taking the pingo load of coconuts, went into the bushes. As that man approached the Hare it got up and ran away. So the man had neither the pingo load of coconuts nor the Hare. He went home empty-handed. As the Jackal and Hare were looking out again, they saw that a man was bringing a bill-hook and a betel-cutter, which he had got made at the forge. So the Hare went and lay down again in the field. The man came up, and when going on from there, having seen that the Hare was dead, placed the bill-hook and betel-cutter on the path, and went to get the Hare. Then the Jackal carried the bill-hook and the betel-cutter into the bushes. As that man was coming near to take the Hare, it got up and ran away. So that man had neither the bill-hook, nor the betel-cutter, nor the Hare. He went home empty-handed. As the Jackal and Hare were looking out again, they saw a potter coming, bringing a pingo load of pots, so the Hare went and lay down again in the grass field. The Jackal hid himself and waited. When the potter was going on from there, he saw that the Hare was dead, and having placed the pingo load of pots on the path, he went to get it. Then the Jackal, taking the pingo load of pots, went off into the bushes. As the man was coming near the Hare it got up and ran away. So that man had neither the pingo load of pots nor the Hare. He went home empty-handed. Then the Jackal and Hare took home the bag of rice, and the pingo load of coconuts, and the bill-hook, and the betel-cutter, and the pingo load of pots. After that, having plucked and cut up the pumpkin fruit, and washed the rice, and put it in the cooking pot, and placed it on the fire, and broken the coconut, and scraped out the inside, while squeezing it [in water in order to make coconut-milk], the Jackal said to the Hare, "Friend, I will pour this on the rice, and in the meantime before I take it off the fire, you go, and plucking leaves without a point bring them [to use] as plates." While the Hare was going for them, the Jackal ate all the rice, and placed only a little burnt rice in the bottom of the cooking pot. Then he lay down on the ash-heap. Afterwards the Hare returned, and saying, "Friend, there is not a leaf without a point. I have walked and walked through the whole of this jungle in search of one," gave into the paws of the Jackal two leaves with the ends bitten off. Then, without getting up, the Jackal said, "Ando! Friend, what is the use of a leaf without a point now? The rice people, the coconut people, the bill-hook and betel-cutter people, the pots people having eaten the rice, and beaten me also, rolled me over on this ash-heap. There will still be a little burnt rice in the bottom of the cooking pot. Scrape it off, and putting a little in your mouth, put a little in my mouth too." So the Hare having scraped off the burnt rice, and eaten a little of it, put a little in the Jackal's mouth. Then the Jackal said, "Friend, a tick is biting my nose; rid me of it." When the Hare was coming near to rid him of it, the Jackal vomited all over the Hare's body. Then the Hare bounded off to the river, and jumped into it, and having become clean returned to the place where the Jackal was. The Jackal asked, "How, Friend, did you become clean?" The Hare said, "I went to a place where a washerman-uncle is washing clothes, and got him to wash me." The Jackal asked, "Where is he washing?" The Hare said, "Look there! He is washing at the river." Afterwards the Jackal went to the river, and said to the washerman-uncle, "Ane! Washerman-uncle, wash me too, a little." When the washerman-uncle, having taken hold of the Jackal's tail, had struck a couple of blows with him on the stone, the Jackal said, "That will do, that will do, washerman-uncle, I shall have become clean now." But the washerman-uncle, saying, "Will you eat my fowls again afterwards? Will you eat them?" gave him another stroke. Then the washerman-uncle, having washed the clothes, went home. From that time the Jackal and Hare became unfriendly, and the Jackal said that whenever he saw Hares he would eat them. North-western Province. According to a variant, the washerman struck the Jackal on the stone until he was dead. NO. 31 THE LEOPARD AND THE MOUSE-DEER In a jungle wilderness in the midst of the forest there is a rock cave. In the cave a Leopard dwells. One day when the Leopard had gone for food a lame female Mouse-deer (Miminni) crept into the cave, and gave birth to two young ones. Afterwards the Mouse-deer having seen that the Leopard, having got wet at the time of a very great rainfall, was coming to the cave, began to beat the young ones, so the young ones began to squall. Then the Mouse-deer came out, saying, "There is fresh Leopard's flesh, there is dried Leopard's flesh; what else shall I give you? Having eaten these, still you are crying in order to eat fresh Leopard's flesh!" As the Mouse-deer was saying it, the Leopard heard it, and thought, "They are going to eat me," and having become afraid, sprang off and ran away, thinking, "I will go to my Preceptor, and tell him." Having gone to him, the Jackal said, "What is it, Sir? You are running as though afraid. Why?" he asked. The Leopard then replied, "Preceptor, the danger that has happened to me is thus: A Mouse-deer having crept into the cave that I live in, and having borne young ones there, as I was returning came shouting and springing to eat me. Through fear of it I came running away," he said to the Jackal. The Jackal then said, "What of that! Don't be afraid. I will come with you and go there. As soon as I go I will bite her and cast her out." As they went near the cave, the Leopard having lagged a very little behind, said, "Friend, I cannot go, I cannot go." Then the Jackal said, "If you are afraid to that extent, be so good as to go after tying a creeper to my neck, and tying the other end to your waist, Sir," he said to the Leopard. So bringing a creeper, and tying one end to the Jackal's neck, and tying the other end to the Leopard's waist, they set off to go to the cave. As they were going there, the Mouse-deer, having seen that the Jackal was bringing the Leopard, began to beat the young ones. When the young ones were squalling, the Mouse-deer having come out, says, "Don't cry; the Jackal is bringing another Leopard for you." Then she says to the Jackal, "Jackal-artificer, after I told you to bring seven yoke of Leopards, what has the Jackal-artificer come for, tying a creeper to only this one lean Leopard?" After she had asked this, the Leopard thought, "They have joined with the Jackal, and are going to kill me," and began to run off. Then the creeper having become tightened round the Jackal's neck, the Leopard ran away, taking him along, causing the Jackal-artificer to strike and strike against that tree, this tree, that stone, this stone. The Leopard having gone a great distance in the jungle, after he looked [found that] the creeper had become thoroughly tightened on the Jackal-artificer's neck. Having seen that he was grinning and showing his teeth, the Leopard says, "The laugh is at the Jackal-artificer. I was frightened, and there is no blood on my body," he said. When he looked again, the Jackal was dead, grinning with his teeth and mouth. North-western Province. This story is given in The Orientalist, vol. iv, p. 79 (D. A. Jayawardana), but the animals that went to the cave are wrongly termed tiger and fox, which are not found in Ceylon. It is also related in vol. iv, p. 121 (S. J. Goonetilleke), the animals being a hind and a tiger. In vol. i, p. 261, there is a Santal story (J. L. Phillips), in which a goat with a long beard, which had taken refuge in a tiger's cave frightened it when asked, "Who are you with long beard and crooked horns in my house?" by saying, "I am your father." A monkey returned with it, their tails being tied together. When they came to the cave, the monkey asked the same question, and received the same answer, which frightened both animals so much that they fled, the monkey's tail being pulled off. When the tiger stopped, and began to lick himself, he found the monkey's tail so sweet that he went back and ate the monkey. In the Panchatantra (Dubois), a bearded goat frightened a lion that he found in a cave in which he took refuge, by saying, "I am the Lord He-goat. I am a devotee of Siva, and I have promised to devour in his honour 101 tigers, 25 elephants, and 10 lions." He had eaten the rest, and was now in search of the lions. A jackal persuaded the lion to return, but the goat frightened them again. In Old Deccan Days (Frere), p. 303, a pandit frightened a demon in this manner, by scolding a wrestler who brought for dinner an apparent goat which the pandit recognised as a demon. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 132 ff.--Tales of the Punjab, p. 123 ff.--a farmer's wife frightened a tiger that was going to eat a cow. A jackal persuaded it to return, their tails being tied together. On the tiger's running off again, the jackal was jolted to death. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. iv, p. 257, there is a Santal story by Rev. E. T. Cole, of a tiger which was frightened by two brothers. The three sat round a fire and asked riddles. The tiger's was, "One I will eat for breakfast, and another like it for supper." The men expressed their inability to guess the answer, and their riddle was, "One will twist the tail, the other will wring the ear." When the tiger was escaping, they held the tail till it came off. In Tota Kahani (Small), p. 98, a lynx took possession of a tiger's cave, and behaved like the mouse-deer when the tiger came up. When the tiger returned with a monkey, the lynx frightened it like the mouse-deer, by telling its young ones that a monkey friend had sworn to bring a tiger that day. On hearing this, the tiger killed the monkey, and fled. NO. 32 THE CROCODILE'S WEDDING In a certain country there is a Crocodile in the river, it is said. On the high ground on the other bank there was a dead Elephant. A Jackal of the high ground on this side came to the river bank, and on his saying "Friend," the Crocodile rose to the surface. Then the Jackal said, "Now then, how are you getting on, living in that [solitary] way? I could find a wife for you, but to fetch you a mate I have no means of going over to the land on that bank." The Crocodile said, "Ane! Friend, if you would become of assistance to me in that way can't I put you on the other bank?" The Jackal said, "If so, Friend, put me on the ground on the other side, so that I may go to-day and ask for a mate for you, and come back again." Then the Crocodile, placing the Jackal on his back, swam across the river, and after placing the Jackal on the other bank returned to the water. The Jackal went and ate the body of that dead Elephant. Having eaten it during the whole of that day, he returned again to the river. Having arrived there, when he said "Friend," the Crocodile rose to the surface and asked the Jackal, "Friend, did you ask for a mate for me?" Then the Jackal said, "Friend, I did indeed ask for a mate; we have not come to an agreement about it yet. To-morrow I must go again to settle it. On that account put me on the ground on the other side." So the Crocodile, placing the Jackal on his back, swam across the river, and placed the Jackal on this bank. Next day, as it became light, the Jackal went to the river, and as he was saying "Friend," the Crocodile rose to the surface. The Jackal said, "Friend, in order that I may go and make a settlement of yesterday's affair and return again, put me on the other bank." Then the Crocodile, placing the Jackal on his back crossed the river, and having placed the Jackal on the other bank went again into the water. The Jackal having gone to the dead body of the Elephant, and eaten it even until nightfall, came to the river after night had set in. As he was saying "Friend," the Crocodile rose to the surface, and asked, "Friend, did you get it settled to-day?" The Jackal said, "Friend, I have indeed settled the matter. They told me to come to-morrow in order to summon her to come. On that account put me on the far bank." After that, the Crocodile, placing the Jackal on his back, went across the river, and having placed the Jackal on the ground on this side returned to the water. The Jackal next day also, as it became light, went to the river. When he said "Friend," the Crocodile rose to the surface. The Jackal said, "Friend, if I must bring and give you your mate to-day, put me on the other bank." After that, the Crocodile, placing the Jackal on his back, went across the river, and having placed the Jackal on the ground on the other side, went into the water. The Jackal went that day to the dead body of the Elephant, and having eaten it until nightfall the Elephant's carcase became finished. In the evening the Jackal came to the river, and when he was saying "Friend," the Crocodile rose to the surface, and asked, "Friend, where is the mate?" Then the Jackal said, "Ando! Friend, they made a mistake about it to-day; they told me to return to-morrow to invite her to come. Because of that put me on the other bank again. Having come to-morrow I will bring and give you the mate." After that, the Crocodile, placing the Jackal on his back, swam across the river, and having put down the Jackal on the ground on this side, went into the water. Then the Jackal, sitting down on the high ground on this bank, said to the Crocodile, "Foolish Crocodiles! Is it true that a Jackal King like me is going to ask for a wedding for thee, for a Crocodile who is in the water like thee? I went to the land on that bank to eat the carcase of an Elephant which died on that side. To-day the carcase was finished. So now I shall not come again. Thou art a fool indeed." Having said this, the Jackal came away. North-western Province. This story is known by the Village Vaeddas. In The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 46, this story is given by Mr. E. Goonetilleke, the Crocodile being termed an Alligator. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 243--Tales of the Punjab, p. 230--there is a variant in which the Jackal was attracted by a fruit-laden wild plum tree. He made love to a lady Crocodile, and was carried across the river by her. NO. 33 THE GAMARALA'S CAKES At a village there are a Gamarala (a village headman or elder) and a Gama-Mahage (his wife) and their four sons, it is said. One day while they were there the Gamarala said to his wife, "Bolan, it is in my mind to eat cakes. For the boys and for me fry ample cakes, and give us them," he said. The Gamarala was looking out for them for many days; the Gama-Mahage did not cook and give him the cakes. Again one day the Gamarala thought of eating cakes. That day, also, the Gamarala reminded her of the matter of the cakes. On the following day the Gama-Mahage having fried five large cakes, placed them in the corn store. The boys having gone to the chena and come back, after they had asked, "Is there nothing to eat?" the Gama-Mahage said to the boys, "Look there! There are cakes in the corn store. I put them there for father, too; eat ye also," she said. The boys having gone to the corn store, all four ate the cakes. After they had eaten them, the Gamarala, having gone to the watch-hut, came back. After he came the boys said, "Father, we ate cakes." When the Gamarala asked, "Where are [some] for me?" "Mother puts them in the corn store," they said. When the Gamarala went to the corn store for the cakes to eat, there were no cakes. "Where, Bolan, are the cakes?" he asked. Saying, "Why are you asking for them at my hands? If there are none the boys will have eaten them," the Gama-Mahage pushed against the Gamarala. Then the Gamarala said, "Now I shall not remind you again. You do not make and give me the food I tell you about." Having said, "It is good," and thinking, "Having pounded and taken about half a quart of rice, and given it at a place outside, and got the cakes fried, I must eat them," pounding the rice he took it away. As he was going he saw a poor house. Having seen it the Gamarala thought, "Should I give it at this house, these persons because they are poor will take the rice, and I shall not be able to eat cakes properly." So having gone to a tiled house near it, and given a little rice, he said, "Make and give me five cakes out of this, please." The people of the house replied, "It is good," and taking a little of the rice fried some cakes. The woman who fried them then looked into the account. "For the trouble of pounding the rice and grinding it into flour, I want ten cakes," she said. "Also for the oil and coconuts I want ten cakes, and for going for firewood, and for the trouble of frying the cakes, I want ten cakes." So that on the whole account for cooking the cakes it was made out that the Gamarala must give five cakes. Next day the Gamarala, having eaten nothing at home, came to eat the cakes. Having sat down, "Where are the cakes?" he asked. Then the woman who fried the cakes said, "Gamarala, from the whole of the rice I fried twenty-five cakes. For pounding the rice and grinding it into flour I took ten cakes. For the oil and coconuts I took ten cakes. For going for firewood, and for the trouble of frying the cakes ten more having gone, still the Gamarala must bring and give me five cakes." Then the Gamarala thought, "Ada! What a cake eating is this that has happened to me!" After thinking thus, having gone outside and walked along, and come to that poor house, he sat down. As he was thinking about it that poor man asked, "What is it, Gamarala, that you are thinking about in that way?" The Gamarala said, "The manner in which they fried and gave me cakes at that house," and he told him about it. Then the man of that poor house said to the Gamarala, "Since we are poor you did not give the rice to us. If he had given it to us wouldn't the Gamarala have been well able to eat cakes? The Gamarala having given us the rice would have had cakes to eat, and still five cakes to give for that debt. "For those cakes I will teach the Gamarala a trick," that poor man said to the Gamarala. "The husband of the woman who fried the cakes has gone to his village. The woman is now connected with another man. Every day the man having come at night taps at the door when he comes. After she has asked from inside the house, 'Who is it?' he makes a grunt, 'Hum.' Then having opened the door he is given by her to eat and drink. To-day she will give the cakes made for the Gamarala. "After the Gamarala has gone at night in that manner, and tapped at the door, she will ask, 'Who is it?' Then say, 'Hum.' Then she will open the door. Having gone into the house without speaking, she will give to eat and drink. Having eaten and drunk, and been there a little time, open the door and come away." Thus the poor man taught his lesson to the Gamarala. In that manner, the Gamarala having gone after it became night, tapped at the house door. [82] "Who is it?" she asked. "Hum," he said. Then having opened the door and taken the Gamarala into the house, she gave him cakes and sweetmeats to eat. As he was eating them, some one else having come taps at the door. The Gamarala became afraid. "Don't be afraid," she said, and sent the Gamarala to the corn loft [under the roof of the house, at the level of the top of the side walls]. Having sent him there she asked, "Who tapped at the door?" "Hum," he said. Then she opened the door, and after she had looked it was the Tambi-elder-brother, [83] who was trading in the village. She got him also into the house, and gave him sweetmeats to eat. When a little time had gone, again some one tapped at the door. Then the Tambi-elder-brother, having become afraid, prepared to run off without eating the sweetmeats. "Don't be afraid," she said, and she put the Tambi also in another part of the corn loft [and he lay down]. Having come back, after she had opened the door and looked, it was the man of the house who, having been to the village, had come back. She gave him water to wash his face, hands, and feet. After he had finished washing, she gave him cakes and the like to eat, and water to drink. The man afterwards lay down to sleep. When a little time had gone, the man who went first to the corn loft, the Gamarala, asked for water, saying, "Water, water." Then the man of the house having opened his eyes, asked, "What is speaking in the corn loft?" "When you went to the village, as you were away a long time, I made an offering of a leaf-cup of water to the deity. Perhaps the deity is asking for it now," she said. Then the man told her to put a coconut in the corn loft. So the woman put a coconut in the corn loft. The Gamarala, taking the coconut in his hand, sought for a place on which to strike it [in order to break it, so that he might drink the water in it]. As he was going feeling with his hand, the Gamarala's hand touched a lump like a stone in hardness, the head of Tambi-elder-brother. After he touched it, the Tambi-elder-brother [not knowing what it was] through fear trembled and trembled, and did not speak. Then the Gamarala, taking the coconut, struck it very hard on the head of the Tambi-elder-brother, thinking it was a stone. The man of the house thought [before this], "The water in the coconut is insufficient for the deity. He will be ascending [and leaving us]." After he had quickly opened the door, and gone out to get more water to give him, the Tambi-elder-brother sprang from the corn loft, breaking his head, and ran away. Then the man who came out to get the water said, "My deity! Here is water, here is water," holding the water kettle in his hand. While he was calling out to him, the woman having opened her eyes said, "What is it, Bolan?" As she was coming outside the man said, "The deity jumped down and ran away." At that very time, breaking out from the corn loft, the Gamarala also jumped down and ran off. Then the man of the house asks the woman, "Who is that running away?" The woman says, "Why, Bolan, don't you understand in this way? Didn't the God Saman also run behind him?" Village Vaedda of Bintaenna. NO. 34 THE KINNARA AND THE PARROTS In a large forest there is a great Banyan tree. In that tree many Parrots roost. While they were doing so, one day, having seen a Crow flying near, a Parrot spoke to the other Parrots, and said, "Bolawu, [84] do not ye ever give a resting-place to this flying animal," he said. While they were there many days after he said it, one day, as a great rain was falling at night, on that day the flying Crow, saying, "Ka, Ka," came and settled on the tree near those Parrots. That night one Parrot out of the flock of Parrots was unable to come because of that day's rain. Having seen that this Crow was roosting on the tree, all the Parrots, surrounding and pecking and pecking the Crow, drove it out in the rain. Again, saying, "Ka, Ka," having returned it roosts in the same tree. As the Parrots getting soaked and soaked were driving off the Crow in this way, an old Parrot, sitting down, says, "What is it doing? Because it cannot go and come in this rain it is trying [85] to roost here. What [harm] will it do if it be here this little time in our company?" thus this old Parrot said. So the other Parrots allowed it to be there, without driving away the Crow. While it was there, the Crow in the night left excreta, and in the morning went away. At the place where the excreta fell a tree sprang up [from a seed that was in them]; it became very large. As it was thus, one day as Kinnaras were going near that [Crows'] village, having seen that another tree was near the tree in which the Parrots roosted, the Kinnaras spoke with each other, "In these days cannot we catch the Parrots that are in this tree?" they said. Before that, the Kinnaras were unable to catch the Parrots in the tree. There was then only that tree in which the Parrots roosted. When the Kinnaras were going along the tree to catch the Parrots, the Parrots got to know [owing to the shaking of the tree], so all the Parrots flew away. Because of that they were unable to catch the Parrots. The Kinnaras having [now] gone along the tree which had grown up through the Crow's dropping the seed under the tree, easily placed the net [over the Parrots' tree]. All the Parrots having come in the evening had settled in the tree. Having settled down, and a little time having gone, after they looked, all the Parrots being folded in the net were enclosed. The Parrots tried to go; they could not. While they were under the net in that way, the Parrot Chief says to the other Parrots, "How has another tree grown up under this tree that we live in?" thus the Parrot Chief asked the other Parrots. "At a time when I was not here did ye give a resting-place to any one else?" Then the Parrots say, "One day when it was raining at night, a Crow having come and stayed here, went away," they said. Then the Parrot Chief says, "I told you that very thing, 'Don't give a resting-place to any one whatsoever.' Now we all have become appointed to death. To-morrow morning the Kinnaras having come and broken our wings, seizing us all will go away." When a little time had gone, the Parrot Chief [again] spoke to the Parrots, and said, "I will tell you a trick. Should you act in that way the whole of us can escape," the Parrot Chief said. "When the Kinnaras come near the tree, all of you, tightly shutting your eyes and mouths, be as though dead, without even flapping your wings. Then the Kinnaras, thinking we are dead, having freed us one by one from the net, when they are throwing us down on the ground, and have taken and placed all there, fly away after they have thrown down the last one on the ground," he said. "That is good," they said. While they were there, a Kinnara, tying a large bag at his waist, having come to the bottom of the tree, says, "Every day [before], I couldn't [catch] ye. To-day ye are caught in my net." Having ascended the tree, as he was going [along it] the Kinnara says, "What is this, Bola? Are these dead without any uncanny sound?" Having climbed onto the tree, after he looked [he saw that] a part having hung neck downwards, a part on the branches, a part in the net, they were as though dead. Then the Kinnara saying, "Ada! Tell ye the Gods! Yesterday having climbed the tree I had no trouble in spreading the net; to-day having come to the tree I have no trouble in releasing the net. Ada! May the Gods be witnesses of the event that has occurred! What am I to do with these dead bodies!" and freeing and freeing each one from the net, threw it down on the ground. As he threw them to the ground he said "One" at the first one that he threw to the ground, and having taken the account [of them], after all had fallen, at the time when the Kinnara, freeing the net, was coming descending from the tree, the whole flock of Parrots went flying away. Village Vaedda of Bintaenna. A version of this story from the North-western Province, by a Duraya, though shorter, contains the same incidents, the tree, however, being another Fig, the Aehaetu, Ficus tsiela. It ends as follows-- "As he [the Kinnara] was throwing them down in this way, having been counting and counting 'One,' the Parrot which he counted last having flapped its wings and screamed, [according to a pre-arranged plan, to show] that the man was cheated and that it had escaped, flew away. All the Parrots having gone, after they had looked into the account of the whole flock [found that] they were all correct. "Then the Parrots said, 'Let us not give a resting-place to the Crow. At the places where he goes he is a dangerous one. To us also, this danger came now [through him]. Ada! Because we gave this one a resting-place. O Vishnu, burst thou lightning on him who did this to us! Ada! Where shall we all go now?' After flying and flying in the midst of the forest, all went to each place where they had relatives." The story is given in Old Deccan Days (Frere), p. 114, with the variations that a thousand crows came to the tree instead of one, and that snares of thread were used in place of the net. The last parrot did not escape, but was taken away and sold. In Tota Kahani (Small), p. 64, when a parrot and its young ones were caught in a net they feigned death. All the young ones escaped by this means. The mother was captured and sold to the King, and regained her liberty by pretending to fetch some medicine to cure his illness. NO. 35 HOW A JACKAL SETTLED A LAWSUIT. In a village there is a rich foolish man. One son was born to the man. When they had been there in that way for a long time, as the rich man's son was growing up, his father died. Then all this wealth came into the hands of his son. The son was a fool just like the father. One day, having seen a wealthy man going in a carriage in which a horse was yoked, that rich man's son thought he ought to go in that way in a carriage in which a horse was yoked. This rich man having gone home spoke to a servant, and said, "I will give thee thy expenses for going and coming. Go thou, and buy and bring me a horse," he said. Having said it, he gave him a hundred masuran, and having given them sent him away. This servant having gone on and on, went to a great big country. Having gone there, he made inquiry throughout the country--"Are there horses to sell in this country?" Then a man of that country said, "The Gamarala of this country has many horses," he said. This servant who went to bring horses having given a masurama to the man whom he had met, said, "Please show me the house of the Gamarala who has the horses," he said. So the man, calling the servant, having gone to the Gamarala's house, sent him there. The Gamarala asked these men, "What have you come here for?" The servant who went to get horses said, "I have come to take a horse for money," he said. "For whom?" he asked. "For a rich man in a village," he said. Having given fifty masuran he got a horse. After he got it he again gave a masurama to that man who went with him. Having given it, and the two persons having gone a considerable distance, [86] this man left both the horse and the man to go [alone], and went home. When the servant had taken the horse, and gone a considerable distance, after he looked [he found that] night was coming on. On seeing it, taking the horse and saying, "This night I cannot go," having sought and sought for a resting-place, he met with a place where there were chekkus (mills for expressing oil). There this man found a resting-place; and having tied the horse to an oil-mill, this servant went to a village, and ate and drank, and having returned went to a shed at the side of the oil-mill, and lay down to sleep. Having become much fatigued because he had brought this horse very far, the servant went to sleep. At dawn, the man who owned the oil-mill, having arisen and come near the oil-mill, when he looked saw that a horse was tied near the oil-mill. So this man thought, "Last night the oil-mill gave birth to a horse"; and unloosing it from the place where it was tied, the owner of the oil-mill, having taken the horse home, tied it in the garden. Then the servant having opened his eyes, after he looked, because the horse was not near the oil-mill went seeking it. Having seen it tied in a garden close to a house, he spoke to the [people in the] house, "Having tied this horse near the oil-mill, in the night I went to sleep. This one breaking loose in the night came here." Unfastening it, as he was making ready to go, the man who owned the house came running, [and saying], "Where did my oil-mill give birth to this horse for thee last night?" he brought the horse back, and began to scold the servant. Then the servant thought, "Now I shall not be allowed to go and give this horse to the rich man. Because of it, I must go for a lawsuit." As he was going seeking a trial he met with a place where lawsuits were heard. The servant having gone [there] told the judge about the business: "When I was bringing yesterday the horse that I am taking for a rich man, it became night while I was on the road. As there was no way to go or come, I tied and placed the horse at this oil-mill, and went to sleep. Having arisen in the morning, after I looked, because the horse that I brought was not there I went looking and looking along its foot-prints. Having seen that it was tied in the garden near the house of the oil-mill worker, thinking, 'This one breaking loose has come here,' I unfastened it. As I was making ready to bring it away, having scolded me and said that the oil-mill gave birth to the horse, he took it," he said to the judge; and stopped. Then the judge says, "If the oil-mill gave birth to the horse, the horse belongs to the man who owns the oil-mill," the judge said. The servant having become grieved says, "What am I to do now? Without the masuran which the rich man gave me, and without the horse that I got after giving fifty masuran, having gone to the village what shall I say to the rich man, so that I may escape?" he said with much grief. Then a Jackal having come there along the same road, and having seen it, asks the servant, "Because of what matter are you going sorrowing in this way?" The servant says to the Jackal, "Jackal-artificer, [87] is the trouble that happened to me right to thee, according to what was said?" As they were going along, the Jackal, having gone behind him, asks again, "Tell me a little about it, and let us go. More difficult things than that have happened to us--folds [full] of scare-crows tangled together. As we cleared up those with extreme care there is no difficulty in clearing up this also." So the Jackal-artificer said to the servant. Then the servant told the Jackal the way in which the rich man gave the servant one hundred masuran; the way in which, having given fifty masuran, he got the horse; the way in which, having brought the horse, he tied and placed it at the oil-mill; the way in which the oil-mill owner, unfastening the horse, went and tied it; the way in which, after he went to ask for it he would not give it, saying that the oil-mill gave birth to the horse, and came to scold him; then also what the judge said. The servant told [these] to the Jackal-artificer, making all clear. Then the Jackal-artificer says, "Ane! That's thick work. I'll put that right for you. You must assist me also," he said. "You yourself having gone near the judge again, and made obeisance, you must say, 'The oil-mill did not give birth to the horse. The owner of the oil-mill, unfastening it from the place where I tied it, took it away. I have evidence of it. Having heard the evidence please do what you want,'" so the Jackal taught him. So the servant having gone, made obeisance to the judge. "What have you come again for?" the judge asked. Then the servant says, "The oil-mill did not give birth to the horse. Unfastening it from the place where I tied it, and having gone, he tied it up. I have evidence of it. Having heard the evidence do what you want, Sir," he said. The judge says, "It is good. Who is your witness?" "The Jackal-artificer," he said. So the judge sent a message to the Jackal to come. That day the Jackal did not come. On the following day, also, he sent a message. He did not come. Next day he sent a message. That day the Jackal, having thoroughly prepared himself, came to the judgment court. After the judge asked, "Dost thou know about this lawsuit?" "Yes, Sir," the Jackal-artificer said. "Why didst thou not come yesterday," the judge asked the Jackal. "Yesterday I did not come; I saw the sky," he said. While saying it the Jackal was sleepy. Again he asked, "Why didst thou not come on the first day?" "On that day I saw the earth," he said. While saying it the Jackal was sleepy. "Why hast thou come to-day?" he asked. "To-day I saw the fire," he said. "Having seen the sky why didst thou not come?" the judge asked. Then the Jackal says, "O Lord, the sky cannot be trusted. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it clears up. Because of that I did not come." Having said it he was sleepy. "Having seen the earth why didst thou not come?" he asked. "That also cannot be trusted," he said. "In some places there are mounds, in some places it is flat; in some places there is water, in some places there is not water," he said. Having said it he was sleepy. "What hast thou come to-day for?" the judge asked. "To-day I saw the fire," he said. "Because of that I came," he said. Then the Jackal says, "After the fire has blazed up you do not look after your cold hut. I do not look after my palace also." [88] Having said it the Jackal was sleepy. On account of that saying the judge having become angry, "Being here what art thou sleeping for?" he asked. "Ane! O Lord who will become a thousand Buddhas [in future existences], I am very sleepy indeed," he said. "Why, Bola?" he asked. "Last night I went to look at the fishes sporting on the land. Because of that I am sleepy," he said. Then the judge having become angry with the Jackal, says very severely, "Having beaten him, cast ye him out." This rascally Jackal having prayed with closed paws, saying, "O Lord, who will become a thousand Buddhas," fell down and made obeisance. "In what country, Bola, Jackal, do the fish who are in the water sport on the land?" the judge asked the Jackal. The Jackal said, "I must receive permission [to ask also a question], O Lord. How does an oil-mill which expresses the kinds of oils give birth to horses?" Then the judge, having become ashamed and his anger having gone, told the rich man's servant to take away the horse. Village Vaedda of Bintaenna. In Indian Fables, p. 45, Mr. P. V. Ramaswami Raju gives a South Indian variant of the latter part of this story. A thief stole a horse that was tethered to a tree, and then stated that he saw the tree eat the horse. The case was referred to a fox [jackal]. The fox said he felt dull. "All last night the sea was on fire; I had to throw a great deal of hay into it to quench the flames, so come to-morrow and I shall hear your case." When he was asked how hay could quench flames, he replied, "How could a tree eat up a horse?" In Indian Nights' Entertainment, Panjab (Swynnerton), p. 142, there is a story about a foal that was born in the night while a mare was left near an oil-press, and was claimed by the oil man. The King who tried the case decided that the "mare could not possibly have had this foal, because, you see, it was found standing by the oil-press." A jackal assisted the owner to recover it, and fell down several times in the court, explaining that during the night the sea caught fire, and he was tired out by throwing water on it with a sieve, to extinguish it. When asked how this could be possible, the jackal retorted by inquiring if any one in the world ever heard of an oil-press's bearing a foal. In the interior of West Africa there is a variant, given in Contes Soudanais (C. Monteil), p. 23. A mare was buried near a house, and a pumpkin spread from the adjoining piece of land, until it extended round the stake to which she was formerly tied. When the owner of the pumpkin split open a fruit that grew near the stake, there were two foals inside it, which the owner of the mare claimed. The judgment was that as a dead mare could not bear foals nor a pumpkin contain horses, neither of the claimants had a right to the foals; but as one sowed the pumpkin, and the other had watered it, each should take one foal. In another tale in the same volume, p. 141, a hyaena had a bull and a hare a cow, which bore a calf in the hare's absence. This was claimed by the hyaena, as having been borne by the bull. The dispute was referred to a male rat, which sent its young ones to say that it could not leave its hole, as it was about to bear young ones. When the hyaena laughed at the idea, and inquired when such an occurrence had been known, the rat replied, "Since it has been the bulls which bore calves." NO. 36 THE JACKAL AND THE TURTLE At a village there is a large pond. At the margin of the pond two Storks [89] live. When they had been eating the small fishes in that pond in that way for a long time, the pond became dried up by a very great drought. These two Storks having eaten the small fishes in the pond until they were becoming finished, one day a Stork of these two Storks having spoken to the other Stork, says, "Friend, now then, that we have been here is no matter to us. Because of it let us go to another district." Thus he spoke. Now, a Turtle stayed in the pond. The Turtle having heard the speech of these two Storks, the Turtle says, "Ane! Friends, I also now have been staying in this pond a long time. The pond having now dried up, I also have nothing to eat, nor water to be in, and nowhere to go. Because of it, friends, having taken me to the village to which you two go, put me down there," the Turtle said to the two Storks. Then one Stork says to the Turtle, "Ane! Bola, foolish Turtles! How wilt thou go with us to another village?" Then the Turtle says, "Ane! Friends, I indeed cannot go flying to the village to which you go. You two somehow or other having gone with me must put me there." Then the two Storks say to the Turtle, "If thou, shutting thy mouth, wilt remain without speaking anything, we two having gone to the place where there is water will put thee down there," the two Storks said. Having said this they brought a stick, and said to the Turtle, "Grasp the middle of this stick tightly with the mouth, and hold it tightly." Having said this, the two Storks [holding the stick near the ends] took the Turtle. While they were going flying, as they were going above a dried field a Jackal saw the shadow going with the two Storks carrying the Turtle. Having seen it the Jackal says, "Isn't this a troublesome comrade they are taking?" Then the Turtle having become angry, says, "The troublesome comrade whom they are taking is for thy mother." So the Turtle's mouth was opened. Then the Turtle fell on the ground. The two Storks left him and went away. The Jackal having come running, after he looked saw the Turtle, and turning and turning it over to eat, when he tried to eat it the Turtle says, "I have now for a long time been staying dried up without water. In that way you cannot eat me. Having gone with me to a place where there is water and put me in it, should I become soaked you will be able to eat me," he said to the Jackal. Then the Jackal having taken hold of the Turtle with his mouth, and placed it in a pond containing water, when he had been treading on it [to prevent it from escaping] for a little time, the Turtle says, "Now every place is soaked. Under the sole of your foot, Sir, I have not got wet. Should you raise the sole of your foot a little it would be good," it said. So the Jackal raised the foot a little. Then the Turtle crept to the bottom of the mud. The Jackal quickly seized the Turtle [by its leg] again. After he had caught it the Turtle says, "The Jackal-elder-brother being cheated has got hold of the Ketala [plant] root." The Jackal-elder-brother quickly having let go the Turtle, speedily got hold of the Ketala root that was near by. Then the Jackal being unable [to go deeper], the Turtle going yet a little further in the water, says, "Bola! Even to-day you are Jackals! When didst thou eat us?" Many Jackals prated to the Jackal about the Turtle. On account of the Jackal's being unable to eat the Turtle or to seize it, he became much ashamed. While he was there, having contrived and contrived a trick, saying he must somehow or other kill the Turtle, another Jackal came there to drink water. Having drunk water, he asks the other Jackal, "What, friend, are you thinking of and clenching your nails about?" Then the Jackal who was unable to seize the Turtle, says, "Friend, a Turtle cheated me, and went into this pond. Having become angry on account of that, I am looking for it in order to kill that one should that one come onto the land," he said to the other Jackal. That Jackal says, "Ae, Bola! Fool! How many Turtles are there yet in the pond? How canst thou seek out the one that cheated thee?" the Jackal that came to drink water said. Every day in that manner this Jackal comes to the pond to drink water. One day when he came to drink water, having seen that a crowd of Turtles are grimacing on the lotus, the Jackal says, "If ye and we be friends, how much advantage we can gain by it!" Having spoken thus on that day the Jackal went away. Having gone, when he met the Jackal whom the Turtle cheated he said, "Friend, having met with a crowd of Turtles while they were in the pond to-day, I spoke words [to them]. We must devise together a trick to kill them." Having said this the two Jackals talked together. Again, on a day when the Jackal went to the pond to drink water, having seen in the [same] way as on that day the Turtles grimacing on the lotus, the Jackal says, "How can ye and we remain in this manner? Should ye and we, both parties, take wives [from each other] wouldn't it be good?" the Jackal asked the Turtles. Then the Turtles say, "If so, indeed how good it would be!" "Then one day we will come and speak with ye [about] the wedding." Having said this the Jackal went away. Having gone he says to the Jackals, "[After] speaking words with the Turtles who are in that pond regarding taking and giving wives I have come away." Then the other Jackals said, "It is very good. Some day let us all go." So they spoke. Again on a day, after the Jackal had gone to the pond to drink water, on that day, having seen that Turtles more than on the other day were [there], he says, "Friends, to-day about all of you are [here]. Because of it, on what day will it be good to come and summon [our wives]?" he asked. "We will say in a day or two days," they said. The Jackal having drunk water and having gone, said to the other Jackals, "They said they will say in a day or two days [on which day we are to go to summon our wives]." Then the Jackal whom the Turtle cheated said, "In some way or other we must completely destroy them. Friends, somehow or other having gone and spoken about this wedding, make ready quickly," he said. On the following day this Jackal went to drink water, and to speak about the wedding. Having drunk water the Jackal asked the Turtles, "When will it be good to come?" "To-morrow will be good," the Turtles said. Then the Jackal says, "We shall all come. All ye also having got ready be present." Having said this, the Jackal quickly came running, and after all the Jackals had collected together, said, "Let nobody of ye go anywhere to-morrow. We must all go to call the Turtles for the wedding, and return." The Jackal whom the Turtle cheated said, "Somehow or other having sought out the Turtle that cheated me and called it to the wedding, I must torture it and kill it," he said. After that, all the Jackals having collected together, started to go to call the Turtles for the wedding. Having set off, the Jackal who drank water at the pond having gone in front to invite the Turtles [to be ready], said, "They are coming to summon you to the wedding. All ye having prepared for it be pleased to be quite ready," he said. Then all the Turtles having come and climbed onto the branches of trees fallen in the pond, were looking out. The Jackal who came with the message having gone back near the Jackals, said, "All the Turtles having climbed on the trees and the branches, are present looking out till we come." Well then, all the Jackals having started, while they were going with the tom-tom beaters, the Jackal who drank water at the pond said, "You stay here. I will go and look if the Turtles are coming or what." Having gone, after he looked [he saw that] all the Turtles in the trees, more than the Jackals, all having climbed onto the branches, were looking out. Having seen [this] the Jackal says, "Haven't you tom-toms, drums, kettle-drums?" the Jackal asked the Turtles. "There! we indeed are coming beating well the tom-toms, kettle-drums, drums, and [blowing] trumpets," he said. Then the Turtle Chief said, "Beat our tom-toms," he said. Then all the Turtles began to beat tom-toms by singing, "Gaja, Gaja; Gora, Gora; Baka, Baka," enough to destroy the ears. Then the Jackal having come running to the front of the Jackals, said, "All the Turtles having climbed completely along the branches of the trees are there. We all having gone near the Turtles must go along the trees that we can mount onto, and seize the Turtles," he said. Then the Jackal Chief said, "Not so. As we come very near the Turtles beat this tom-tom verse," he said. Then all at a leap having jumped onto the trees where the Turtles are he told them to seize them. The very tom-tom verse that he told the tom-tom beaters to beat on the tom-toms is, "Ehe; Kata, kata, kata. Ehe; Kata, kata, kata." Then when they were far off, the Turtles having seen the Jackals coming, said, "There they are, Bola. Now then, get ready." As they were coming near, beating the tom-toms, "Ehe; Kata, kata, kata. Ehe; Kata, kata, kata," the Turtles having heard all this, all the Turtles began to cry out, "Baka, Baka," as they came near. Then, as they came very near, singing "Baka, Baka," all the Turtles sprang into the pond [and disappeared]. On account of this thing that they did, the Jackals became still more ashamed. "These Cattle-Turtles have cheated us," they said; and having become angry, went away. The way the Jackal-artificers called the Turtles to the wedding is good. Village Vaedda of Bintaenna. The first part of this tale is found in the Jataka story No. 215 (vol. ii, p. 123). In it two Hansas or sacred Geese asked a Turtle to accompany them to their home, a golden cave in the Himalayas. They carried it like the Storks. The Jackal is not introduced at all. Some village children saw the Turtle in the air, and made a simple remark to that effect. The Turtle, wishing to reply, opened its mouth, and was smashed by falling in the King's court-yard. In the Panchatantra (Dubois), as well as in a variant of the North-western Province of Ceylon, and elsewhere in the island, the story does not end at this point, but with the escape of the Turtle after the Jackal had soaked it in the water. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 37, the story ends with the fall of the Turtle, which was being carried to a lake in which there was water. In this case, as in the Jataka story, the point to be illustrated only required the Turtle to fall and be killed. The variant of the North-western Province is practically identical with the first part of the Vaedda tale, but the drought is stated to have lasted for seven years. The Jackal was about to howl, and on turning his head upward for the purpose saw two Black Storks carrying the Turtle. He asked, "Where are you taking a present?" (referring to the way in which a considerable load is sometimes carried slung on a stick, the ends of which rest upon the shoulders of two men, one in front and the other behind). The Turtle replied, "For your mother's head." When the Jackal tried to eat it he heard the Turtle laughing inside the shell, and said, "Friend, what are you laughing at?" The Turtle said, "I am laughing at your thinking you can eat me in that way. I have been dried up for seven years, and if you want to eat me you must first soak me in water." The Jackal did this, and the Turtle escaped in the way related by the Vaeddas. The rest of the story is, I think, found only among the Vaeddas. Although it is clear that it must have been invented by the settled inhabitants of villages, the marriage custom according to which the bride was to be taken to the bridegroom's house to be married is not that of the modern Sinhalese, but is in accordance with the story related in the Mahavansa, i, p. 33, regarding the marriage of a Vaedi Princess at the time of Wijaya's landing in Ceylon. The Sinhalese custom is found in the story of the Glass Princess (No. 4), in which six Princes accompanied by their parents, went to their brides' city to be married, returning home with their brides afterwards. It is probable that the original story ended with the escape of the Turtle from the Jackal after it was placed in the water. It is a folk-tale, and not a story written to illustrate a maxim. It appears to have been invented to show the folk-lore superiority of the Turtle's intelligence over that of the Jackal. The Turtle is always represented as a very clever animal, not only because of the ease with which he can protect himself by withdrawing his head and legs inside the shell--of which Mr. A. Clark, formerly of the Forest Department of Ceylon, and I once had an amusing illustration at a pool in the Kanakarayan-aru, when his bull-terrier made frantic attempts to kill one, like the Jackal--but possibly also because, as I was told of another amphibious animal in West Africa, "he lives both in the water and on the land, therefore he knows the things of both the land and the water." In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 134, the story as far as the escape of the Turtle was given by Mr. H. A. Pieris, the animals concerned being wrongly termed Tortoise, Cranes, and Fox; the two latter animals are not found in Ceylon. To this the Editor added the story found in the Hitopadesa, in which the animals were a Turtle and two Geese, which agreed to carry the Turtle to another lake in order that it might not be killed by some fishermen next day. Some herdsmen's boys saw it, and remarked that if it fell they would cook and eat it. The Turtle replied, "You shall eat ashes," fell down, and was killed by the men. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 37, the birds were "Swans" (probably Hansas, which are always represented as geese in ancient carvings in Ceylon). Some men made remarks to each other on the strange object that was being carried, and the Turtle, on asking the birds what the chattering was about, fell and was killed by the men. In Old Deccan Days (Frere), p. 310, a Jackal escaped from an Alligator [Crocodile] in the same manner as the Turtle. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 155--Tales of the Punjab, p. 147--an Iguana or Monitor Lizard outwitted a Jackal who had caught him by the tail as he was entering the hole in which he lived. Both pulled for a long time without any result. At last the Lizard said he gave in, and requested the Jackal to allow him to turn round and come out. When released he disappeared into the hole. NO. 37 THE LION AND THE TURTLE In a jungle there is a Lion King. While he was there, one day there was no prey for the Lion King when he was walking about seeking it. He obtained nothing as prey that day. As the Lion through fatigue was staying below a great big tree, avoiding the heat, he went to sleep. While he was sleeping, a Turtle came out [of the bushes], having set off to go away from there. As he was going along, a "sara, sara" sound was heard, having been made by the dry leaves. The Lion King having opened his eyes [90] at the sound of this Turtle's going, after he had looked saw the Turtle, and having become angry sprang at once near the Turtle. Having said, "Bola! What art thou going on a rapid journey in this manner for? Didst thou not see that I am [here]?" the Lion King pushed against the Turtle. Then the Turtle says, "O Lord who will become a thousand Buddhas [in future existences], I didn't come to cause you alarm, Sir; I am walking to procure my food," the Turtle said to the Lion King. "What art thou going to seek and eat in this forest?" the Lion asked. Then the Turtle says, "O Lord, I am walking to obtain and eat any sort of things that I can eat," the Turtle said. Then anger having gone to the Lion, he sprang to eat the Turtle. Then the Turtle, having brought his head inside, became like a stone. After he became thus, the Lion turning the Turtle to that side and to this side, and having clawed him and bitten him, looked at him, having been unable to do anything to him. After he had been looking the Lion says, "Having been like a what-is-it stone, didn't you preach to me in overbearing words?" When he had been looking at him a little time, as the Turtle, having put his head outside again, was going off, the Lion says, "Bola, art thou a being who can do anything?" "O Lord, the things that you, Sir, can do you do. I do the things that I can do," the Turtle said. "Bola, canst thou, who endest by drawing slowly and slowly what is like a lump of stone, run, jump, roar, swim in rivers that way and this way, equal to me? And what canst thou do to me, who having roared and caused the bottom of the ears to burst, and killed every animal, eats it?" the Lion said. Then the Turtle says, "You, Sir, frighten and eat even all. You cannot frighten and kill, nor eat, me except on land. In the water, you, Sir, cannot swim that side and this side equal to me," the Turtle said to the Lion. After the Lion, having become angry, said, "Wilt thou come to swim that side and this side with me? If not, I will put thee under a large stone," the Turtle having become afraid that he would kill him, having given his word to swim with the Lion that side and this side in a river, went near the river. Having gone [there] the Turtle met with yet a Turtle, and said, "Friend, a great trouble has befallen me to-day." After the friendly Turtle asked, "What is it, friend?" the other Turtle says, "The Lion King has come and wagered with me to swim that side and this side," he said. Then the Turtle says, "Why are you afraid of that, friend? Say, 'It is good.' I will tell you a good trick; you act in that way. What is it? You place a red flower in your mouth. I will place a red flower in my mouth. You having been on this side with the Lion King, and having sprung into the river and hidden at the bottom of the water very near there, remain [there]. I having hidden near the river bank on that side will be [there]. The Lion King having come swimming, as he is going to land on that side, I being near the river bank and having said, 'Kurmarsha,' [91] taking the flower will land [before him]. You also in that way having been hidden near the bank on this side, as the Lion King is going to land, having said, 'Kurmarsha,' quickly land [before him]." The friendly Turtle having said [this], hid at the bottom of the water near the bank on that side of the river. The Turtle that spoke with the Lion went near the Lion. Then the Lion asks, "Art thou coming to swim?" he asked. "Yes, Your Majesty," the Turtle said. Then [after they had gone to the river] the Lion said to the Turtle, "Thou, having swum in front, be off. I having come slowly shall get in front of thee," he said. Then the Turtle, also holding a red flower in his mouth, having descended to the river, and having gone a little far, got hid at the bottom of the water. While it was hidden, as the Lion was going swimming near the river bank, the other Turtle which stopped at that side, having got in front before the Lion landed, and said, "Kurmarsha," having placed a red flower also in his mouth, landed on the river bank at once. The Lion having seen him, again sprang into the river. As he came to this side, the Turtle that remained at the bank at this side, having got in front of the Lion at once, taking the flower also, said, "Kurmarsha," and landed. Again the Lion swam to the other side. In that very way the Turtle having been there and said, "Kurmarsha," landed [in front of him]. Thus, in that way, when swimming seven or eight times, the Lion, who was without even any prey that day, having become unable to swim, and being without strength in the middle of the river, died. Village Vaedda of Bintaenna. In a variant of the North-western Province, the Lion lived in a cave, and met the Turtle when he went to the river to drink. He told the Turtle that it was unable to travel quickly because it always lived in one place. The Turtle shrugged its shoulders, and replied, "Can you travel better than I?" The Lion challenged it to race with him, and the Turtle accepted the challenge, fixing the time eight days later. The race of the two animals was not across the river, but along it, a series of Turtles having been stationed at various points where it was arranged that the Lion should come to the bank and call out, "Friend." At each place a Turtle rose on hearing this, and said, "What is it, friend?" At the fifth stage, the Lion leapt over two stages as quickly as one, and broke his neck. The resemblance of the race in this variant to that between Brer Rabbit and Brer Tarrypin in Uncle Remus is striking; it even extends to the number of stages, five in both stories. In The Orientalist, vol. i, pp. 87, 88, Mr. W. Goonetilleke gave a variant from Siam, by Herr A. Bastian, in which the animals were the Garuda [or Rukh] and the Turtle; and two others by Lord Stanmore, from Fiji, where the animals were a Crane and a Crab in one instance, and a Crane and a Butterfly in the other, the insect being perched on the bird's back during the race. PART II STORIES TOLD OF OR BY THE LOWER CASTES NO. 38 THE MONKEY AND THE WEAVER-BIRD In the midst of a forest there were a Wandura (a large grey Monkey, Semnopithecus) and a Weaver-bird. One day the Monkey came to the tree in which the Weaver-bird lodged, and after that a great rain-storm began. The Weaver-bird without getting wet remained in much comfort in its nest; the Monkey stayed in a fork of the tree, getting thoroughly soaked. Then the Weaver-bird said, "Why does a person endowed with hands and feet, and strength, like thee, get soaked in this rain? Such a small animal as I am having built a house stays in it without getting wet. Not a drop of rain leaks into it. If I were equal to thee I should build a good house." On account of that remark the Monkey became angry, and saying, "What is my business to thee?" broke down the nest of the Weaver-bird. Then the Weaver-bird went to the [Monkey] King, and instituted an action [against the Monkey]. Afterwards, orders were issued by the King to seize the Monkey. After remaining in concealment, the Monkey, thinking, "If I should be caught they will kill me," plucked a Jak fruit, and went with it to the King. After that [the King] caused the Weaver-bird to be brought, so that he might try the case. As he was inquiring into the case, it came to be accepted that on account of his breaking down the nest the fault lay with the Monkey. Then the Monkey said, "The action is coming to an end. Will the Maharaja be pleased to look behind me?" At that very time, when the King having considered [his judgment], looked around, he saw that there was a Jak fruit behind the Monkey. Then the King, thinking, "The Jak fruit has been brought to be given to me for the sake of obtaining my favour," said to the Weaver-bird, "The fault is in thy hands. Whether he gets soaked or however he may be, it is no affair of thine." Having said this, the King drove her away; and the Monkey, having given him the Jak fruit, went away. At that time animals were able to talk. Potter. North-western Province. The first part of this story is given in the Hitopadesa, but not the trial before the Monkey King. NO. 39 THE JACKAL DEVATAWA In a certain country there was a dead Elephant, it is said. A Jackal having gone to eat the Elephant's carcase, and having eaten and eaten a hole into the Elephant from behind, passed inside it. While he was eating and eating the carcase of the Elephant as he remained inside it, the skin [dried and] became twisted up, and the path by which the Jackal entered became closed. A man who was a tom-tom beater was going near it, taking a tom-tom for a devil-dance. Then among the bones the sound of tom-tom beating was heard. So the Jackal asked, "Who is going here?" The tom-tom beater said, "I am going to this devil-dance." The Jackal said, "What art thou going this way for, without permission?" The tom-tom beater replied, "O Lord, I am going without knowing about this [permission's being necessary]." The Jackal asked, "What wilt thou obtain for the dancing?" The tom-tom beater said, "I receive presents and the like." Then the Jackal said, "I will give thee a present better than money. It is owing to thy good luck that thou hast come this way. I am a Devatawa (deity) who is guarding his own treasure here. If I am to give thee the treasure, split one eye (end) of the tom-tom which is in thy hand, and having filled it with water and brought it here, pour it on this Elephant." After that, the tom-tom beater having plucked out the eye of the tom-tom, filling it with water brought it, and poured it on the Elephant's dried up carcase. The Jackal, also, sitting inside it, worked and worked it into the skin with its muzzle. Having made the skin pliable it sprang out, and went away. When this man looked inside, no deity was there, but there were many maggots. So the man, taking his broken tom-tom, went home. In a few days afterwards, a rain having fallen, the Elephant's carcase floated, and went down into the water-course. From the water-course it passed down to the stream. A flock of crows covered the carcase. As they were going eating and eating the dead body, it descended into the river, and from the river it passed down to the great sea. There the skin having rotted began to fall to the bottom. After the crows had looked [around], there was not even a tree [to be seen], and before they were able to fly to a place where there were trees their wings were broken, and they died. Washerman. North-western Province. A variant related in another village is nearly the same. Some tom-tom beaters passing the Elephant's carcase were accosted by the Jackal, to whom they replied that they were going to "a poya tom-tom beating," that is, one given on the Buddhist sabbath, at the quarter of the moon. When he inquired what profit they would get from it, they stated that they would receive cakes and milk-rice. "You don't want cakes and milk-rice," he said, "I will give you gold. Bring water to this Elephant's carcase." They did so, breaking open the "eyes" of their tom-toms for the purpose, and the Jackal escaped. The story concludes: "For the tom-tom beaters there was neither gold, nor cakes and milk-rice. Having broken their tom-toms, lamenting and lamenting they went to their village." In the Jataka story No. 148 (vol. i, p. 315), a Jackal became imprisoned in the same way, but escaped when a tempest soaked the skin. The tale is also given in No. 490 (vol. iv, p. 206). In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 77, a man crept inside the skin of an Elephant from which jackals had eaten the flesh. A rain-storm caused it to contract (?) and closed the aperture. The flood carried it into the Ganges and thence to the sea. There a Garuda [Rukh] picked it up, and took it to Ceylon, where the man escaped when it tore open the hide. I insert the following as an account of the supposed state of things in Ceylon under the rule of Vibhisana, the Rakshasa King of Ceylon, after the death of Ravana: "Two Rakshasas contemplated him from a distance with feelings of fear." They reported his arrival to Vibhisana, who sent for him and entertained him in a friendly and hospitable manner. When asked how he came to Ceylon, the Brahmana cunningly replied that he had been sent by Vishnu, who had informed him that Vibhisana would present him with wealth. He stayed some time in the island, and was allowed a young Garuda on which to ride about the country, and at last he was carried back to Mathura by it. In Old Deccan Days (Frere), p. 179, a Jackal got inside a dead bullock, and informed the scavengers who came to bury it that he was the god of their village. They poured water on the hide, and he escaped. In Indian Folk Tales (Gordon), p. 61, a live Elephant swallowed a Jackal. The Jackal fed on the heart and killed the Elephant, but was imprisoned inside when the skin dried up. When the God Mahadeo (Siva), who was passing, heard cries and inquired who was there, the Jackal, after ascertaining who it was, said that he was Sahadeo, father of Mahadeo, and induced the latter to prove his identity by causing a heavy rainfall, owing to which the skin was softened and he escaped. It is said in the Southern Province that all tom-tom beaters are fools. [92] In the North-western Province the same opinion is held regarding some of them. To what extent it is justified I am unable to say, but an example which supported the general notion fell under my own observation. Some jungle was being cut for an irrigation channel, at the side of an uncultivated field belonging to a tom-tom beaters' village, and one of the men came to watch the progress of the work. I questioned him regarding eggs. He stated at first that only things which could fly laid eggs, but he admitted that this rule did not apply to crocodiles, lizards, and snakes. About bats he was not certain, but thought they do not lay eggs. Rats certainly do not lay them, he said. I had seen a Green Bee-eater flying near us, and I observed a small hole such as this bird makes as its nest-hole, in the sandy ground. I drew his attention to it, and he at once asserted that it was a rat-hole; of that he had no doubt whatever. "Well then, let us see if there are any eggs in it," I said, knowing that it was then the breeding season of the Bee-eaters. He looked on, smiling ironically, while I got one of my men to open the tunnel carefully. When he came to the end, there on the sand, in a little saucer-shaped cavity, were four shining, spherical white eggs of the bird. The man was astonished, but was quite satisfied that they were rat's eggs. "I saw them with my two eyes," he said to my men, who all laughed at him. The following stories were written for me as the foolish doings traditionally attributed to the tom-tom beaters of a village in the North-western Province. Apparently the village is at the side of a rice field. NO. 40 A KADAMBAWA MAN'S JOURNEY TO PUTTALAM In order to go to Puttalam, a Kadambawa man having yoked his bull in his cart, sent it in advance with the cart, saying, "My bull knows the way to Puttalam." He himself walked behind the cart. The bull [being without guidance], having gone completely round the rice field, came again to the path leading to the man's house. There the man's children came out, saying, "Ade! Has our father been to Puttalam and come back?" The man [thinking he had come to another village] said, "What are you saying 'Father' to me for? I am a Kadambawa man. I am going to Puttalam." Then he again sent on the bull in front [as before]. In the same manner as before, the bull having gone round the rice field came again to the house. Then those children saying, "Ade! Has our father been to Puttalam and come back?" went on in front. Then the man said, "Ha! At each place that I go to, the boys call me 'Father.' I am a Kadambawa man. I am going to Puttalam. At a village on the road, also, certain boys said 'Father' to me." So saying, he again sent on the bull in front. In the same way as before, the bull turning round the rice field came again to the village. Again the man's children said, "Ade! Has our father been to Puttalam and come back? Have you come on in front [of the others who went]?" Then the man said, "Ha! At each place that I go to, the boys say 'Father' to me. I am a Kadambawa man. I am going to Puttalam. At two villages on the road the boys called me 'Father.'" As he was setting off to go again, the man's wife came and spoke to him. Then the man having recognised that it was his own house, unfastened the bull, and having sent it off to eat food stayed quietly at home. In The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 102, there is a story by Mr. A. E. R. Corea, in which a man who was going to a village in order to hire out his bull, allowed the animal to take its own way while he trudged behind it. The bull wandered about eating, and at last lay down near a stream. The man being tired out also lay down, and fell asleep. He was close to his own house, and was found by his children when they went for firewood. When they spoke to him, he denied that he was their father, and drove them away; but his wife afterwards came, and by means of her broom-stick convinced him that he was at home. NO. 41 THE KADAMBAWA MEN AND THE HARES The Kadambawa men having gone to set nets, a great many hares were caught in the nets. Afterwards the men, having seized the hares, doubled up the hind legs of the hares at the joints, and the fore-legs at the joints, and threw them on the ground, in order to make a heap of them in one place afterwards. Then all the hares ran away into the jungle. After all the hares in the nets had been finished, when they looked for the dead hares there was not even one hare. Then the men were astonished at the coming to life of the hares which they had killed, saying, "How thoroughly we killed the hares!" After having become fixed like stone [with astonishment] until nightfall, they went in the evening to their houses. NO. 42 THE KADAMBAWA MEN AND THE MOUSE-DEER The Kadambawa men having appointed a wedding-[day], and having caught a great many Mouse-deer [for eating at it], tied clappers on their necks like those on goats, and having made an enclosure put them in it, and came away. The Mouse-deer escaped into the jungle. Having gone to it on the wedding-day, when they looked there was not one Mouse-deer left. Then the men, saying, "Ane! The Mouse-deer that we reared have all gone," came back to the village, much astonished. NO. 43 THE KADAMBAWA MEN AND THE BUSH As the Kadambawa men were going away with some drums one night, to attend a devil-dance, they met with a Wara [93] bush on the path, which looked like an elephant. The men became afraid, thinking, "Maybe an elephant has come onto the path." At the shaking of the leaves of the Wara bush they said, "He is shaking his ears." Being afraid to go past the elephant, they beat the drums until it became light, to frighten the Wara bush. When they looked after it became light, it was not an elephant; it was a Wara tree. After that, they came back to their village. So they had neither the devil-dance nor went to sleep. NO. 44 HOW THE KADAMBAWA MEN COUNTED THEMSELVES Twelve Kadambawa men having gone to cut fence sticks, and having cut and tied up twelve bundles of them, set them on end leaning against each other [before carrying them home]. Then a man said, "Are our men all right? Have all come? We must count and see." Afterwards a man counted them. When he was counting he only counted the other men, omitting himself. "There are only eleven men; there are twelve bundles of fence sticks," he said. Then another man saying, "Maybe you made a mistake," counted them again in the same way. He said, "This time also there are eleven men; there are indeed twelve bundles of fence sticks." Thus, in that manner each one of the twelve men counted in the same way as at first. "There are eleven men and twelve bundles of fence-sticks. There is a man short," they said, and they went into the jungle to look for him. While they were in the chena jungle seeking and seeking, a man of another village, hearing a loud noise of shouting while he was going along the road, having come there to see what it was, found these twelve men quarrelling over it. Then this man asked, "What are you saying?" The men said, "Twelve of our men came to cut fence sticks. There are now twelve bundles of sticks; there are only eleven men. A man is short yet." When this man looked there were twelve men. So he said, "All of you take each one his own bundle of fence sticks." Then the twelve men having taken the twelve bundles of sticks came to their village. In Indian Fables (Ramaswami Raju), p. 61, twelve pigs crossed a stream, and counting themselves in the same way on the opposite bank, thought that one had been drowned. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 305, seven Buneyr men [weavers] counted their number as six, and were so delighted when a shepherd proved that there were seven that they insisted on doing a month's free labour for him. Next day, however, one killed his mother in driving a fly off her face, and another chopped off the heads of several goats for mocking him by chewing their cud while he was eating, so he dispensed with the rest of their services. In the Adventures of the Guru Paramarta (Dubois, 1872) the Guru and his five foolish disciples, after long delay because of the danger, crossed a river in which the water was only knee-deep. On reaching the far bank one of them counted the party several times, omitting himself, and they concluded that one had been drowned in the river, which they had heard was a treacherous one. They lamented, and cursed the river, one after another, until a traveller arrived. When he had heard their story he offered to restore the missing man to them by means of magic, for which service they agreed to pay him all the money they had, forty panams of gold. He said to the Guru, "It is a very little thing in comparison with the service that I promise to render you. However, as you say it is all that you possess, and as you are in other respects a good man who does not intend any malice thereby, I consent." He set the six persons in a row, and struck each one a good blow on the back with his stick as he counted him in a loud voice. In the Laughable Stories, of Bar-Hebraeus (Budge), the counting tale is No. 569. A man counted his asses and found there were ten, then having mounted on one he omitted it, and made the number nine. He dismounted and found there were ten; mounted again and counted only nine. He got down again, and saw that there were ten. Then saying, "Verily there is a devil in me, for whenever I mount an ass I lose one of them," he went on foot for fear of losing one permanently. The counting incident is found in China also. In A String of Chinese Peach-Stones, by W. A. Cornaby, p. 276, a stupid Yamun underling who was taking a rascally monk to prison, kept counting the things he had with him, "Bundle, umbrella, cangue (the heavy wooden collar on the prisoner's neck), warrant, monk, myself." On the way he got drunk and went to sleep. The monk took advantage of the opportunity to shave his head and place the cangue on his neck, after which he absconded. When the man awoke, and began to count the things, he found everything there but himself. NO. 45 THE KADAMBAWA MEN AND THE DREAM When some Kadambawa men, having joined together, were going away to Puttalam, it became night while they were on the road. Having got a resting-place, and cooked and eaten, while they were sleeping a tusk elephant appeared to a man in a dream. On the morning of the following day the man said to the other men, "Friends, last night I saw an evil dream." The men asked, "What was in the dream?" The man said, "I saw a tusk elephant." Then the men began to interpret the dream. They said, "What is the meaning? If there is a tusk elephant there will be elephant's dung; if elephant's dung, paddy [which the elephant has eaten]; if paddy, uncooked rice; if uncooked rice, cooked rice; if cooked rice, it is a thing [found only] in the village. Therefore the elephant means the village. Something must have happened. It is useless for us to go on. Let us go back to the village." So all, weeping and weeping, set out to return to the village. As they came to the rice field of the village, the women and boys of the village having heard the men coming crying and crying aloud, said, "Ane! Our men are coming crying and crying. What is it? It will be a dreadful thing." So the women and boys, having come from the houses to that side of the field before those men came across, began to cry also. On seeing them, the man who saw the dream said to those other men, "Look there! Did I tell you falsely?" Then the men cried the more. Having seen it, these boys and women, they also cried more and more. The two parties having come quite near each other still cried. The women and boys on that side of the stile [at the edge of the field], these men on the field side of it, except that they cried said nothing. While they were crying and crying until it became night, as a man from another village was going along the path he heard this uproar, and came to see what it was. He asked at the hand of the men, "What is it? Who is dead?" Then the men, crying and crying, said, "Who is dead we don't know." After that, the man having gone near those women and boys, asked, "What is it? Who is dead?" Then those persons also said, crying and crying, "Who is dead we don't know." Afterwards the man having stopped the crying of both parties, when he had asked them about it, there was nothing dreadful. So the man went away, and these men and women and boys, they also went to their houses. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 348, a weaver girl said to herself that it would be a good thing if she married in her own village, but if she had a son and he were to die, how her relatives and friends would lament! The thought of it made her cry. When her aunts and friends observed it they all cried too, and her father and uncles and brothers coming up and seeing all these people crying, also cried. When a neighbour asked the men what it was about, who was dead? they could not tell him, but referred him to the women. He then learnt that these also did not know, but cried because they saw the girl crying. NO. 46 THE FOUR TOM-TOM BEATERS This story is told in the Southern Province to illustrate the foolishness of this caste. Four Tom-tom Beaters when proceeding along a road together, met a man of lower caste than themselves. Before passing them he made an obeisance, and (as usual in such cases) said, "Awasara," "Permission"--that is, "Have I permission (to pass)?"--and then walked away. While the Tom-tom Beaters were going along afterwards a dispute arose over it, each person claiming that he was the one who had been addressed, and to whom the obeisance had been made, as being the superior man of the party. Each maintaining his own view, and being unable to settle it in any other way, the four persons decided to refer the matter to the man himself. They therefore turned back and ran after him, and on overtaking him requested him to state from which of them he had asked the permission. As the question plainly indicated the sort of persons they were, he replied, "From the biggest fool among you." This left matters just where they were, as each one, in order to prove his claim to the obeisance, then declared himself to be the greatest fool; and at last they related their foolish actions. These were pointless, and I did not preserve the details. Each, however, had two wives, this being one of the grounds on which all based their claims, and the details they gave consisted of accounts of the ill-treatment that they received from these women. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 65, a traveller threw four pence to four weavers, each of whom claimed all the money. A second traveller's reasonable suggestion that each should take a penny was rejected, and they ran after the man, and asked for whom he had given them. When he inquired which was the wisest they told stories that only indicated their extreme stupidity, and in the end he gave them four pence each, all being equal in this respect. The Abbé Dubois gave a similar story from the Tamil of Southern India, the men being four Brahmanas to whom a soldier said, "Saranam, eiyar" ("Homage, Sir"). The four replied, "Asirvatam" ("Benediction"), and the man went off. After disputing about it, they ran after him for a league, and asked him whom he saluted. He said, "Well, it is the biggest fool of four whom I intended to salute." Eventually the matter was referred to the headmen of the next village, who after hearing their accounts of their silly deeds, decided that each one might claim superiority over the others. "Thus," said they, "each one of you has gained his case." The men were satisfied, as each had won. In Folk-Tales of Hindustan (Shaik Chilli), p. 1, there is a version in which two men were saluted by an old woman as they passed her. After a dispute over it, when they ran back and asked her about it, she replied that she saluted the greater fool of the two. Then they related their experiences to her, and she adjudged one to be a bigger fool than the other. NO. 47 THE GOLDEN TREE At a certain city there is a King, it is said; there are three Princes of that King. The King, while sleeping, saw in a dream that a Golden Tree sprang up, and on that Golden Tree a Silver Flower blossomed. A Silver Cock that was sitting on the Silver Flower crowed. Afterwards the King caused the three Princes to be fetched. When the eldest Prince had been brought he asked him, "Son, can you explain this dream which I have had?" The Prince asked, "What appeared in the dream, Father-King?" The King said, "A Golden Tree having been created, on it a Silver Flower blossomed, and a Silver Cock crowed while sitting upon the flower." The Prince said, "Ane! Father-King, I cannot interpret it; perhaps my two younger brothers will explain it." Then the King having caused the next Prince to be fetched, asked him, "Son, can you explain this dream?" The Prince asked, "Father-King, what appeared in the dream?" The King told him the manner in which the things appeared in the dream. The Prince said, "Father-King, I cannot explain it; perhaps younger brother will interpret it." Then the King having caused the youngest Prince to be brought asked him, "Son, can you explain this dream?" The Prince asked, "Father-King, what appeared in the dream?" The King told him the manner in which the things appeared in the dream. Then the Prince said, "O Lord, Your Majesty, I will interpret that dream, but I must first go in search of the explanation." After that, the three Princes obtained leave of absence for three years. Having got it, the three persons, cooking a bundle of rice, and taking from their father permission to depart, started to go in search of the interpretation. Having gone on and on, they came to a junction of three roads. Having arrived at it, and eaten the bundle of cooked rice, the eldest Prince said, "I will go along this road; you go on those two roads." So the eldest Prince went along one road, the second Prince went along another road, and the youngest Prince went on the remaining road. Having gone on and on, the youngest Prince arrived at the house of a widow woman. The woman said, "Ane! Son, what have you come here for? We have not even firewood for cooking." The Prince asked, "Why, mother, is that?" The widow woman said, "There is a Yaka in the jungle in which is the firewood. The Yaka has now eaten all the people of this city; few people are now in it." The Prince asked, "How does that Yaka seize the men?" The widow woman said, "When they go to the jungle and are cutting firewood, he comes saying 'Hu,' and eats them." Afterwards the Prince, taking his sword, went to the jungle, and chopped a piece of firewood. The Yaka came, saying "Hu." Then the Prince chopped at the Yaka with that very sword, and the Yaka died there. After that, the Prince, taking a bundle of firewood, returned to the house of the widow woman. The widow woman asked, "Son, did you meet with the Yaka?" The Prince said, "I met with him; I killed the Yaka." Then having cooked with the firewood, she gave the Prince to eat. On the morning of the following day the King went to the jungle, and chopped firewood. That day the Yaka did not come, saying "Hu." Afterwards, through the Yaka's not saying "Hu," the King went to look for him, and saw that the Yaka was dead. So the King returned to the city, and saying, "I must find now, in a moment, the man who killed the Yaka," caused proclamation to be made by beat of tom-toms to that effect. Having heard it, this widow woman, summoning the Prince, went to the palace, and told the King that he had killed the Yaka. After that the King asked at the hand of the Prince, "How did you kill the Yaka?" The Prince said, "I went to the jungle, and while I was chopping firewood the Yaka having come crying "Hu," sprang onto me. Then I speedily chopped at him and killed him." Having heard this, the King gave the Prince a district of that kingdom, and an elephant's load of goods. Afterwards the Prince gave all those things to the widow woman, and having gone away to another city, came to the house of a widow-mother. Having arrived there, the Prince said to her, "Ane! Mother, you must give me a resting-place to-day." The widow-mother said, "I can indeed give you a resting-place, but there is no place to sleep in. You cannot sleep in the veranda; a light falls there during the night, and any person who sees that light dies. Nobody can stop the light. In order to stop it, the King has made public proclamation by beat of tom-toms that to any person who stops it he will give an elephant's load of goods, and a district of the kingdom." The Prince asked her, "Mother, where does the light fall first?" The widow-mother said, "In an open grass field in the middle of the city." The Prince then said, "If so, go and tell the King to fix a raised platform at the place where the light falls, and having placed there a winnowing basket made of cow-dung, and a large pot of water, to come away. I will go there to-night and stop it." So the widow-mother went and told the King. After that, the King prepared the things in that very manner, and came away. In the evening, the Prince, having eaten food, went onto the platform. Near midnight, while he was there the light fell there. When the Prince looked, the Naga King of the world of the Nagas, having come there, had ejected from his mouth the Cobra Stone, and having gone far away was eating food [as a cobra]. Then this Prince put the cow-dung winnowing basket on the stone, whereupon the Naga King came crying out to the water-pot, taking it for the person [who had done it]. The Prince then chopped at him with his sword, and the Naga King died. After that, taking the Cobra Stone, the Prince washed it with water from the pot, and put it away in the waist pocket of his cloth. While he was there it became light. Then the King came to see if he had stopped the light. When he looked he saw that the cobra was lying in a heap. The King asked at the hand of the Prince, "Did you stop the light?" The Prince said, "Look there! The very one that made the light has been killed there." Afterwards the King gave the Prince an elephant's load of goods, and a district of that kingdom. Afterwards, the Prince having given to the widow woman all the things that had been given to him, went along the path on which the Naga King had come, to the world of the Nagas. When he got there, all the three Princesses of the Naga King whom he had killed were there, sitting in one spot. The Princesses said to this Prince, "What have you come for? Should our father the King return now he will eat you." The Prince saying, "Your father the King cannot come. I have come here after killing your father the King," showed them the Cobra Stone. Then the Princesses asked, "What have you come here for?" The Prince said, "I have come on account of a sooth-saying, in order to get it explained." The Princesses asked, "What is the sooth?" The Prince said, "At the time when our father the King was sleeping, a Golden Tree having sprung up, and a Silver Flower having blossomed on it, a Silver Cock which was sitting upon the flower crowed." The three Princesses said, "We cannot explain it here. Let us go to your father the King." The Prince said "Ha," and the three Princesses and the Prince set off to come to him. They came to the junction of the three roads at which at first the three Princes separated. Having arrived there they went along the road on which the eldest brother of the Prince had gone, and having met with him the Prince said, "Let us go back, elder brother, these three Princesses will explain the dream"; so they returned. Then they all went along the road on which the next brother had gone, and having found him the Prince said, "Let us go back." Having summoned him to go with them, those three Princes and the three Princesses, six persons, having met together in this manner, came to the Princes' city. Having arrived there, this youngest Prince caused their father the King to be called. So the King came to them. Then these three Princesses who had come from the world of the Nagas said to this youngest Prince, "Cause us three persons to stand at the thread" (that is, to toe the line). So this Prince caused them to stand at the thread. Then the three Princesses said, "Cut off our three heads at one stroke." So this youngest Prince cut off their three heads at one stroke. Thereupon the Golden Tree was created, and the Silver Flower having blossomed on it, the Silver Cock that was sitting on the top of the flower crowed. Then this youngest Prince chopped down the Golden Tree with his sword, and the three Princesses came to life again. Having come to life, the three Princesses asked at the hand of the King, the father of the Princes, "Was it thus in the dream that appeared to you?" The King said "Yes." Then the three Princesses told him that they were the Golden Tree, and the Silver Flower, and the Silver Cock. After that, the three Princesses, having been married to the three Princes, remained there. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. The Cobra King with the gem, a diamond, which he laid down while feeding, and swallowed afterwards, occurs in Old Deccan Days (Frere), p. 36. A girl, disguised as a Prince, hung in a tree a large iron trap fitted with knives underneath. Below it she scattered flowers and sweet scents "such as cobras love," and when the Cobra came at night she dropped the trap on him, and killed him. When she went to wash the diamond in the lake, the water on being touched by it rolled aside, and revealed a path which led to the garden at the Cobra's palace. In the garden she found a tree with a silver stem, golden leaves, and clusters of pearls as fruits. In the end, the Cobra's daughter came away with her. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), p. 18, a Cobra rose out of a tank, with a brilliant gem on its hood, which shone "like a thousand diamonds," and lit up everything around. The snake put it down and went in search of food, and swallowed the two horses of a Prince and his friend, the son of the Minister, who were belated, and sitting in a tree. While the snake was at some distance, the Minister's son descended, covered the gem with horse dung, and climbed back. The snake rushed to the spot, but could not find the gem, and eventually died. Next morning they descended, washed the gem in water, and saw by its light a palace under the water, in which they found a Princess whom the Prince married. In the Jataka story No. 253 (vol. ii, p. 197) we learn that the Naga King called Mani-Kantha, "Jewel-throat," appears to have kept the gem in his throat. He said-- Rich food and drink in plenty I can have By means of this fine jewel which you crave. In the story No. 543 (vol. vi, p. 94), the Naga gem is mentioned as "the jewel which grants all desires." Naga youths are described as placing it on a hillock of sand, and "playing all night in the water by its radiance." One on the head of the Naga King is referred to on p. 97 as being one which, "bright-red like a lady-bird, glows on his head a diadem." In the Panchatantra (Dubois), three jogis when killed while eating became three large copper pots filled with gold and valuable jewels. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 176--Tales of the Punjab (Steel), p. 166--a Princess was brought to life by cutting off, at one blow of the Sword, the heads of a pair of ducks. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. i., p. 115, in a Bengal story by Mr. G. H. Damant, a King dreamt of a silver tree, with golden branches, diamond leaves, and pearl fruits; peacocks were playing in the branches and eating the fruits. The tree was a girl, imprisoned by Rakshasas. When a Prince cut her in two she became the tree; when he dropped the knife she took her own shape again. NO. 48 THE SEVEN PRINCESSES In a certain country there are a King and a Queen, it is said; there are seven Princesses [the daughters] of the King. A Prince younger than those seven is born. The King went to a war, and having gone there the King was defeated in the war. When he returned, the royal food was not made ready for the King. Having arrived, he asked the Queen, "Why did you not prepare the royal food for me?" Then the Queen said, "I cannot bring up your children, and prepare the royal food for you also." The King asked, "Why? What have the Princesses done?" The Queen replied, "They go to the river, and after bathing there come back and rub oil on their heads, and comb their hair, [instead of assisting me to prepare the food]." On account of that the King settled to behead the seven royal Princesses next day. The Queen having cooked a bundle of rice and given it to those seven said, "Go to any place you like, or the King will behead you to-morrow." After that, they went off to the river, and after sitting there and eating the bundle of rice, the seven went away. Having gone on and on, they went to the house of a Rakshasa. When they got there the Rakshasa was not at home. The seven persons asked for and obtained a resting place from the Rakshasi (female Rakshasa). Then the youngest Princess said, "We have no food; give us something to cook." So the Rakshasi gave them a little paddy. The youngest Princess, taking the paddy, said to the other six Princesses, "Elder sisters, come and pound this small quantity of paddy." The six persons refused. After that, the Princess having pounded it, when she went out to winnow it saw that there was a heap of human bones behind the house. The Princess bearing that in mind winnowed it, and returned without speaking about them. Then she called the Princesses to come and cook it; they did not come. Afterwards the Princess having cooked, summoned those six persons to eat the rice. The six persons refused. Thereupon the Princess fed the six Princesses [by dividing the rice and giving each one her share of it]. Now, in the evening the seven Princesses went to sleep. There were seven girls at the house, the daughters of the Rakshasa, and the seven wore white clothes. The seven Princesses wore blue clothes. Then the youngest Princess having awoke in the night, took the seven white cloths of the seven Rakshasa girls, and put them on the Princesses, placing the dark cloths of the Princesses on the girls. The Rakshasa having returned during the night, and having learnt from his wife of the arrival of the Princesses, put one of the girls out of those who wore the dark cloths, in a large cooking-pot, and having boiled her the Rakshasa ate his own daughter. After seeing this, when the Rakshasa had gone to sleep, the little Princess, awaking those six Princesses, told them about it, and all the Princesses escaped together during the night. Having come to a river they remained there lying on a sandbank. A King having come that way while they were there, asked, "Are you Yakas or human beings?" The Princesses asked, "Is it a Yaka or a human being who asks?" The King replied, "It is indeed a human being who asks, not a Yaka." Then the Princesses said, "We indeed are human beings, not Yakas," [and they told him how they had escaped from the house of the Rakshasa and had come there]. On hearing this the King said, "Can you go with me?" The Princesses having said, "We can," went with the King to his palace, and became his Queens. [94] On the night of the following day, a daughter of the Rakshasa, having heard how the King had taken away the Princesses, came there, and remained lying on the sandbank. On the next day, also, the King having come that way asked, "Are you a Yaka or a human being?" The Rakshasa's daughter said, "Is it a Yaka or a human being who asks?" The King replied, "It is indeed a human being who asks, not a Yaka." The Rakshasa's daughter said, "I also am indeed a human being, not a Yaka." Then the King said, "If so, can you go with me?" The Rakshasi having said, "I can," went with the King to the palace, [and also became his wife.] After a long time had gone by, all those seven Princesses were about to have children. One night, when the Princesses were asleep, the Rakshasi plucked out the eyes of the seven Princesses by magic, without awaking them, and having done so hid all the eyes. Then when the seven Princesses, having arisen, tried to go about, they were unable to go; they found that they could not see, so they lay down again. Afterwards the King came to awake them. "Why are you sleeping yet?" he said. The seven Princesses replied, "We are unable to get up; we have no eyes." The King asked, "How have your eyes become displaced?" The seven Princesses said, "What has happened we do not know; they have been plucked out while we were asleep." Afterwards the King having said, "If so, go where you like," drove them away. The King allowed only the Rakshasi to stay. The seven Princesses, having gone on and on, and having fallen down at a pool, gave birth to seven Princes there. Now, there was no food for the seven, so having cut up the Prince of the eldest Princess, and divided the body into seven parts, they ate for a day. On the next day, having cut up the next Princess's Prince and divided the body, they ate it. Thus, in that manner they ate the six Princes of the six persons. On the next day they settled to cut up the Prince of the youngest Princess. Then the youngest Princess, on each of the days having put away her portions of flesh, said, "You shall not cut up my Prince. Look, here is your flesh," she said, and gave them the six portions of flesh. The six persons ate them. [The narrator did not state how they subsisted after that.] While this youngest Princess was rearing that Prince there, after the Prince went to the chena jungle one day, he met with a Vaedda. The Vaedda said, "Let us go together to the King's city." [95] The Prince said "Ha," and went with him. There the King saw him, and being pleased with him gave him food and the like. The Prince having eaten, after he had come again to the pool the Prince's mother asked, "Where did you go?" The Prince said, "I went to the King's city." His mother asked, "What did you go for?" The Prince replied, "I went 'simply'" (that is, for no special purpose). The Princess having said, "Aha!" while she was still there the Prince said, "I am going to the forge." Having gone to the forge he said to the smith, "Make and give me a bow and an arrow." The smith said, "Cut a stick and come with it." So the Prince went to the chena jungle to cut a stick. There was no suitable stick, but a golden shoot had fallen down there, and having taken it he gave it to the smith. The smith said, "This is not good; bring another stick," so the Prince went and brought another stick. The smith made a good bow and arrow out of the stick, and gave them to him. Then the Prince having taken the bow and arrow, and shot a deer, carried it to the city. After he had gone there they gave him paddy, rice, flesh, and cooking-pots, and the like for it. Then the Prince having taken them to the pool where the Princesses were, gave them to his mother the Queen. Afterwards he shot a deer every day, and having taken it to the city carried back to the Princesses the things that he received for it. One day having shot a deer, as he was about to take it to the city the Prince's mother told him to carry it to the palace. While he was there the Rakshasi saw him, and having made inquiry got to know that he was the son of the youngest Princess. So she said to him, "Take a letter to our house for me," and gave it to him. As the Prince was going that day taking the letter, it became night, so he went to a city, and asked a widow woman for a resting-place for the night. The woman of the house said, "Ane! What have you come to this city for? A Yaka has eaten all who were in this city. To-night he will be coming for my daughter." The Prince asked, "How will the Yaka come?" The woman said, "Four miles away he says, 'Hu'; then a mile away he says, 'Hu'; and having come from there near the stile at the road, he says, 'Hu'." The Prince asked, "Are there Kaekuna [96] seeds here?" The daughter said, "There are," and she gave him a sackful of them. Then he told the daughter, whose father had been the King of the city, not to be afraid. "If the Yaka should come I will kill him," he said. So the Prince went to sleep, placing a sword that he had brought at his side, and laying his head on the waist pocket of the Princess. Afterwards the Yaka cried "Hu," when four miles away, and tears fell from the eyes of the Princess on the breast of the Prince when she heard it. Next, the Yaka cried "Hu," when a mile away. The Princess having spoken words to him on hearing it, he arose. "What is it?" he asked. The Princess said, "The Yaka is coming." Then the Prince emptied the sack of Kaekuna seeds at the door, and took up his sword. As the Yaka, having come, was springing into the doorway, he slipped on the seeds, and fell. Thereupon the Prince cut and killed the Yaka with his sword, and having put his body in a well which was there, covered it up with earth. After the Prince had told the Princess about himself and the seven Princesses, he said, "I must go now." The Princess asked him, "What else is there in your hands?" The Prince replied, "There is a letter which the Queen has ordered me to take to her home." The Princess having said, "Where is it? Let me look at it," took it, and when she looked at it there was written in it, "Mother, eat the Prince who brings this letter, and eat the eyes of those seven persons." Then the Princess having torn up the letter, wrote another letter, "Mother, having taken care of the Prince who brings this letter, send medicine for the eyes of those seven persons." Having written it she gave it into the hands of the Prince. The Prince carrying the letter, and having taken a bundle of cooked rice to eat on the way, went to the house of the Rakshasi. As he was coming near the house he saw a Rakshasi sitting at the road. When she saw him she said, "The flesh of that one who is coming is for me." The Prince asked, "What art thou saying?" and gave the letter to the Rakshasi, and asked for the medicine for the eyes. After reading the letter the Rakshasi prepared abundant food for him, and gave him lodgings that day. Next day, showing him a tree, she said, "After you have rubbed the juice of this tree on the eyes of the persons who are blind, their eyes will become well." The Prince said, "If so, tie a little of it in a packet and give me it." So the Rakshasi having tied up a packet of it gave him it. Then the Prince having taken it back, rubbed it on the eyes of those seven persons, and their eyes became well. Afterwards, the Prince having gone with them to the city where he killed the Yaka, married the Princess, and remained there. North-western Province. This story does not appear to have been met with among the people of Southern India, but variants are well-known in other parts of the country. In all these forms of the tale the wicked Rakshasa Queen is killed. In Indian Fairy Stories (Ganges Valley), by Miss Stokes, there are two variants, pp. 51 and 176. In both, a demoness or Rakshasi whom the King married induced him to cause the eyes of his other seven Queens to be plucked out, and six of the infants whom they bore were eaten, the seventh being saved as in Ceylon. In one story the boy was sent for the milk of a tigress, an eagle's feather, and night-growing rice; in the other he went for rose-water, flowers, and a dress. A friendly Fakir in one tale, and a Princess in the other, substituted other letters for those in which the demons or ogres were instructed to kill him, so that he was well received and succeeded in his errands. In one case he got the blind Queens' eyes, and ointment to make them as before; in the other he brought back magic water that cured them. In Tales of the Punjab (Steel), p. 89, and Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 98, the demoness Queen persuaded the King to give her the eyes of the seven Queens, which she strung as a necklace for her mother. The seventh boy, who was shooting game for the blind Queens' food, was sent for the eyes and got thirteen, one having been eaten. The written message which requested that he should be killed was changed by a Princess. On two other journeys he obtained the Jogi's white cow which gave milk unceasingly, and rice that bore a million-fold, by the aid of which the seven Queens became the richest people in the kingdom. After he had married the Princess who assisted him, the King heard the whole story, and killed the demoness. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), p. 117, the Rakshasa Queen, after getting the seven Queens' eyes plucked out, ate up all the people, and no one remained to attend on the King. At last the boy offered his services. He always left before night, the time when the Ogress caught her victims. She sent him to her mother for a melon, with a letter which he tore up. He got back safely, bringing a bird in which was the life of the Ogress Queen; when he killed it she died. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. i, p. 170, there is a Bengal story by Mr. G. H. Damant. The Ogress or Rakshasa Queen obtained the eyes of the seven Queens from the King, and sent the boy for sea-foam, and afterwards for rice grown in Ceylon, "the home of the Rakshasas," that ripened in one day. A Sannyasi, or Hindu religious mendicant, changed him into a kingfisher on one trip and a parrot on the other, which brought the things, being re-converted into a Prince on the way back. Lastly, he was sent to Ceylon for a cow a cubit long and half a cubit high. The King paid him heavily for getting these things, and for the last one was obliged to sell his kingdom and give the proceeds to the boy. The Sannyasi instructed him to conciliate a Rakshasi by addressing her as "Aunt," and to deliver a pretended message from the Ogress Queen. He was well received, and learnt that the Rakshasas' lives were in a lemon and the Ogress Queen's in a bird. He cut the lemon and thus killed all the Rakshasas, brought back the blind Queens' eyes, and killed the bird, and with it the Ogress Queen. In Folk-Tales of Hindustan, Allahabad (Shaik Chilli), p. 105, the seven Queens were thrown into a large dry well; it is not stated that their eyes were plucked out. The seventh boy got his grandfather, a carpenter, to make him a wooden flying horse. He was sent for singing-water, magic rice, and news of the Rakshasa Queen's relatives. He met a lion, a wolf, and various other savage animals, which he appeased by addressing them as "Uncle," "Cousin," etc. A kind Yogi changed his letter, and he was welcomed by the Rakshasas, whose lives he learnt were in a number of birds. These he killed, taking back a pea-hen in which lay the life of the Ogress Queen, as well as the magic water and rice. Each of the animals sent a cub with him, and on his return these performed a dance, at the end of which he killed the pea-hen and the Ogress died. The persons who had been eaten by the Ogress revived when the magic water was sprinkled on their bones. The magic rice plant, called Vanaspati, grew into a tree forty yards high, and bore cooked rice. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 43, the seven Queens' eyes were put out, and they were thrown into a large dry well. The seventh boy was sent for the milk of a tigress, and then to the grandparents of the Ogress Queen. A friendly Fakir having altered the messages, he was well received, got medicine that cured the blind Queens' eyes, and also killed the birds and smashed a spinning-wheel in which were the lives of the Ogress Queen and her relatives. At p. 446, also, the eyes of a Queen which had been plucked out were replaced and healed. A variant of the Western Province of Ceylon, in which there were twelve Queens, whose sight was not regained, however, has been given already. See No. 24. NO. 49 MR. JANEL SIÑÑA In a certain city there are a King and a Queen, it is said. There are six Princes. The youngest Prince of the six plays with (lit. beats) the ashes on the ash-heap at the corner of the hearth; the other five Princes are doing work, and going on journeys together. The King said at the hands of the Queen that he must behead the Prince who was [idling] on the ash-heap. Then the Queen said, "What is the use of beheading him? Let us send the Prince whom we do not want to any place where he likes to go." Having come to the Prince, the Queen says, "Son, the King says that he must behead you; on that account go away to any place you like." Then the Prince said, "If so, give me a bundle of cooked rice, and a thousand masuran, in order to go and trade." So the Queen gave him a package of cooked rice and a thousand masuran. The Prince took the masuran and the package of cooked rice, and having gone on and on, when he was coming to a travellers' shed [saw that] a man was taking a brown Monkey, [97] in order to throw it into the river. This Prince called the man, and the man thereupon brought the Monkey and came to the travellers' shed. The Prince asked, "Where are you taking that Monkey?" The man said, "I am taking this to sell." The Prince asked, "For how much will you give it?" The man said he would give it for a thousand masuran. The Prince gave the thousand masuran that were in his hands, and got the Monkey, and that man having taken the thousand masuran went away. The Prince having unfastened the package of cooked rice, and given some to the Monkey also, and the Prince himself having eaten, took the Monkey and came back to the very city of the King. When he came there the King was not at the palace; only the Queen was there. The Queen asked, "What sort of goods have you brought?" The Prince says, "Mother, having given that thousand masuran I have brought a Monkey." Then the Queen says, "Ane! Son, should the King and the rest of them get to know that, he will behead you and behead me. As you have taken that Monkey put it away somewhere." So the Prince took the Monkey and put it in a rock cave in the jungle, and shutting the door came to the palace. While he was there the King saw him, and having seen him, called the Queen and said, "I shall not allow that one to stay in my palace for even a paeya (twenty minutes). I shall behead him to-morrow." Afterwards the Queen came to the Prince and said, "Son, the King says he must behead you to-morrow, therefore go to any place you like, and do not come back." The Prince said, "Give me a package of rice, and a thousand masuran." Afterwards the Queen having cooked a package of rice gave him it, and a thousand masuran. The Prince taking them, and having gone to the rock cave where the Monkey was, took it and went to [another] city. At that city he ate the package of rice at the travellers' shed, and having gone to the hearth the Prince slept on the ash-heap. The Monkey went away to dance in cities. Having gone and danced, collecting requisite articles, he came back to the place where the Prince was, and the Prince cooked some of the things he brought, and gave him to eat. The Monkey goes every day to dance; and having danced, the Prince and Monkey, both of them, eat the things he brings. In that way the Monkey brings things every day. One day, the Monkey having gone to a city and danced, fell down at the palace at that city. Then the King came and asked, "What is it, Monkey? Why have you fallen down there?" The Monkey says, "I have come to beg and take the measure [98] in which masuran are measured." Afterwards the King gave him the measure for measuring masuran. The monkey having taken it and having been absent for as much as a month, brought the measure back. Then the King asked, "What is this, Monkey, that having taken the measure thou hast been such a time [in returning it]?" The Monkey says, "For just so much time I measured masuran." The King asked, "Having measured them did you finish?" Then the Monkey said, "Ando! Could it be finished? Not even a quarter was finished." The King said, "Aha!" and was silent. The Monkey that day also having danced in that city, the King gave him many presents. Taking them, and stealing a cloth from a field where clothes were spread out [to dry], while he was coming a man having met him in the road asked the Monkey, "Monkey, to whom dost thou give the articles that thou art taking every day?" The Monkey says, "I give them to our Mr. Janel Siñña. I am supporting that gentleman." The Monkey having gone to the place where the Prince was, says, "Here is a cloth. It is good for the gentleman, is it not?" and he showed him the cloth which he had stolen. The Prince threw it aside, and said, "This cloth which I have is enough." Next day the Monkey having come to that city and danced, lay down on the lawn of the palace. Then the King asked, "What is it, Monkey, that you have fallen down there for?" Then the Monkey says, "Our Mr. Janel Siñña burnt his cloth while drinking. I have come to ask you to cause the cloth to be woven for him [anew]." The King said, "If so, bring it." Afterwards the Monkey having gone to the place where the Prince was, brought a thin cloth and gave it to the King. Afterwards the King caused one to be woven, and gave it to him. Then the Monkey says at the hand of the King, "You ought to marry your Princess to our Mr. Janel Siñña." The King said, "Ha. It is very good." The Monkey, begging two copper pots, [99] went away, and having gone, heated water in the two copper pots, and having made the Prince bathe, said to the Prince, "Do not eat largely of the sorts [of food] after I have cooked and given [the food] to you [at the palace]. I have asked for a [Princess in] marriage for you after I went there." Afterwards the Monkey, summoning the Prince also, went to the palace of the King of that city. Having gone there, and prepared a seat at the King's table, and made ready the food, after the Prince sat down to the food seven Princesses themselves began to divide [and serve] it. Then that Prince began to eat very plentifully. The Monkey having come and nudged him with his finger, said, "You have eaten enough." Taking no notice of it, the Prince went on eating. Having eaten that, he shaped his hand [into a cup] and reversing it there [when full], ate in excess. Then the King asked the Monkey, "What, Monkey, is [the reason of] that?" The Monkey said, "Our Mr. Janel Siñña having been overheated [by his bath] could not eat. Through that indeed it has befallen that he has lost his senses." That also the King kept in mind. Then the Prince and the King's eldest daughter were married. After that, the Monkey said that he wanted a thousand bill-hooks, and a thousand digging-hoes, and a thousand axes, and a thousand people. The King gave him a thousand bill-hooks, and a thousand digging-hoes, and a thousand axes, and a thousand people. [With these the royal party set off to deliver the Princess at the Prince's palace.] Afterwards, having given the tools to those people, the Monkey goes in front. The King and the Princess and the Prince come after. That Monkey goes [in the trees] jumping and jumping, and changing branches. The thousand people went footing and footing the road. While going thus they met with a city. Then the King quietly told the Monkey to halt; it stopped. Then the King asked the Monkey, "Whose is that city that is visible?" The Monkey says, "This city is our Mr. Janel Siñña's. It has been rented out to his work-people." Afterwards the King went on, keeping that also in his mind. The Monkey again went in front. Then again they met with a city. Again the King having called the Monkey asked, "Whose is that city?" Then the Monkey says, "It is our Mr. Janel Siñña's. It has been rented out to his work-people. In that way are the cities belonging to our Mr. Janel Siñña [given out]." Again the Monkey went off in front. Having gone thus, he went to the house of a Rakshasa, and having made the house ready in a second, when he stepped aside the King and the Prince and Princess went in. The King made the thousand work-people stay there, and having handed over the Princess, next day went back to his city. Afterwards the Monkey asked at the hand of the Prince, "For the help that you gave me I also am assisting you. What favour besides will you give me?" Then the Prince says, "When you have died I shall weep abundantly, and having made a coffin, and put you in the coffin, I will bury you." Then the Monkey said, "So much indeed is the assistance I want." One day the Monkey lay down, trickishly saying that he was getting fever. The Prince did not even go in that direction. Next day and the next day he stayed there; on those days he did not go. On the third day the Monkey cunningly shutting his eyes remained as though he had died. The Prince said to a man, "Look if that Monkey is dead." The man having gone near the Monkey, when he looked it was dead [in appearance]; he said at the hand of the Prince that it was dead. The Prince said, "Having put a creeper round its neck, drag it in the direction of that jungle, and having thrown it there come back." When the man tried to put the creeper on the Monkey's neck the Monkey got up. "Don't put the creeper on my neck," he said. Having gone near the Prince he said, "After I was dead [apparently], you were taking me without having put me in a coffin. Why do you [arrange to] drag me, having put a creeper on my neck? Don't take even so much trouble." Having said this, the Monkey went off to the midst of the forest, and died. Tom-Tom Beater. North-western Province. Of course, this is an Eastern form of Puss-in-Boots. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), p. 226 ff., there is an account of a clever match-making Jackal which induced a King to marry his daughter to a weaver. NO. 50 THE NIKINI STORY [100] In a certain country there are a man and a woman, it is said. There is a girl (daughter) of those two persons. The girl was asked [in marriage] for a Gamarala of another country who had much wealth in money. The girl having been summoned, and having gone to the Gamarala, and been with him for a long time, he went to chop jungle [for making a chena]. There he met with a fawn, and having returned home said to the girl, "Bolan, there was a fawn in the chena." The girl said, "Ane! After you have gone to-morrow bring it." On the following day the Gamarala brought it. When the girl had reared it for a long time, a longing came to her, and she lay down. Afterwards the Gamarala asked the Deer, "What, Deer, is thy elder sister's illness?" Then the Deer said, "Our elder sister has a longing." The Gamarala said, "What can she eat for it?" The Deer replied, "Our elder sister can eat the stars in the sky." Afterwards the Gamarala, having gone to seek the stars, and to seek for the corner of the sky [where it joined the earth, so as to ascend to them], searched until he became aged, but was unable to find the corner; and the Gamarala died. Then the girl, having sold the Gamarala's village, took the money that was obtained there, and the wealth that he possessed [and left]. While the girl and the Deer were going on their way they met with a King. He asked the Deer, "Where, Deer, are ye going?" The Deer said, "Our elder sister on account of thirst is going to seek a little water." Then the King said, "Wilt thou give thy elder sister to me [in marriage]?" The Deer said "Ha"; so having placed the Deer and the Deer's elder sister on the back of the King's elephant, they went to the palace. When a long time had passed, a longing came again to the girl, and she lay down. The King asked the Deer, "What is thy elder sister's illness?" The Deer said, "Our elder sister has a longing." The King asked, "What can she eat for it?" The Deer said, "Should you bring for our elder sister the sand which is at the bottom of the ocean, if she slept upon it she would be well." Afterwards, when the King was going to the bottom of the sea to take the sand, he was soaked with the water, and died. After this, when the Deer and the Deer's elder sister, taking all the King's things, and cooking a bundle of rice, were on their way again, they met with a man. The man asked the Deer, "Where, Deer, are ye going?" The Deer said, "We are going to seek a man for our elder sister." The man said, "If so, give thy elder sister to me." The Deer said "Ha," and the Deer and the Deer's elder sister went to the man's house. When they had been there a long time, a longing came to the woman, and she lay down. The man asked, "What, Deer, is thy elder sister's illness?" The Deer said, "Our elder sister has a longing." The man asked, "What can she eat for it?" The Deer said, "Our elder sister must eat Nikini. Should she not eat it, it will not only be very difficult for her [to recover]; her life will be lost." Now the sort called "Nikini" is not in any place whatever in the world. That ignorant man, not knowing of its non-existence, on account of the love that he bore for his wife went away on a search for Nikini. Afterwards, when the foolish man was on his way to seek for Nikini, a man was ploughing. The man who was ploughing asked, "Where are you going?" This man said, "I am going to seek for a little Nikini." Then the man said to this man, "If so, come here [and help me to plough]." Those two having ploughed during the whole of that day, went in the evening to the house of the man who had been ploughing. Both of them having eaten cooked rice, the man who went to seek for Nikini asked that man, "Ane! Now then, tell me the place where there is Nikini." The man said, "Ane! I don't know. Go you away." After that, when he had slept there that night, that man gave him a little cooked rice. Having eaten a little, while he was going on his way to seek for Nikini, a man was chopping earthen ridges in a rice field. The man asked, "Where are you going?" This man said, "I am going to seek for a little Nikini." Then that man said, "If so, come here [and help me]." After those two persons had chopped the ridges during the whole day, they went in the evening to the man's house. While they were [there], having eaten cooked rice this man who went to seek for Nikini said, "Ane! Tell me the site where there is Nikini." The man said, "Ane! I don't know. Go and ask at the hand of another person." When this man had slept there that day night, on the next day that man gave him a little cooked rice. Having eaten it he set off to go and seek Nikini. Then a man was sowing a rice field. The man asked him, "Where are you going?" This man said, "I am going to seek for a little Nikini." The man asked, "What for?" This man replied, "A longing has come to our house-mistress, so she told me to go and bring a little Nikini." The man said, "If so, come here and sow." For the whole of that day those two sowed. In the evening they came to the man's house, and both of them having eaten cooked rice, while they were there this man said, "Now then, tell me the place where there is Nikini." Then the man said, "Yako, [101] that was not [asked for] through want of Nikini. That was said through wanting to cause you to be killed. Your wife has a paramour." The man quarrelled with him, saying, "Not in any way. My wife is very good. She has great love for me. If you again say such a thing as that one is there, I shall strike you." The other man asked, "What will you give me to catch that paramour for you?" The person who went on the search for Nikini said, "I have a gem which has continued with us from generation to generation. I will give you that gem." [The man accepted this offer]. Then the two persons made a cage called, "The Cage of the God Sivalinga," and tied white cloth in it [as a lining], and trimmed a wooden cudgel and placed it inside. The man [who had gone for Nikini] was also placed inside the cage with a cloth on his shoulders, and closed in with similar cloths. Men having been fetched [and engaged to carry it]--saying that he was bringing the God Sivalinga--took it on their shoulders, and going off with it they went to a Hettirala's shop. Then that man said [to the person inside the cage], "After I have placed it inside the shop, take the cash-box which is in it, and put it inside the cage." The Hettirala asked, "What is that cage?" The man said, "Our deity, the God Sivalinga." The Hettirala asked, "What is it, then, that is necessary for offering to that deity?" The man said, "The cooked rice from two quarts of raw rice, and sweet plantains are wanted." So the Hettirala brought and gave him the cooked rice from two quarts of raw rice, and ripe sweet plantains. After that, the man gave to the man in the cage the cooked rice from a quart of the raw rice, and half the plantains. The other man ate the rice from the other quart, and the remaining plantains. In the evening the man gave the cage into the hands of the Hettiya, and told him to place it in the house. So the Hettiya put the cage in the house. [During the night the man inside it stole the cash-box.] When it got near midnight the man asked for the cage, saying, "Hetti-elder-brother, give me my cage so that I may go." The Hettirala gave it. As the man, taking the cage, was going along he met with a city. Then that man said [to the man in the cage], "After I have taken this cage and placed it in the palace, you get the things in it and put them inside the cage." Having said this they went to the palace. The King asked, "What is that?" The man said, "Our deity, the God Sivalinga. We are able to say sooth and the like." The King asked, "What do you require for him?" The man said, "Rice cooked from raw rice, and sweet plantains are necessary." So the King gave him cooked rice and sweet plantains. The man having given [a share of them] to the man in the cage, said, "It is necessary to place this cage inside the palace [for the night]." The King having said "Ha," he brought it, and placed it inside the palace. As it was becoming light the man said, "Now then, I want the cage in order to worship the deity." So the King gave him the cage. Afterwards, as the man was taking the cage near a tank it became light. He remained there until it was night, and then went to the house of the man who went to seek Nikini, and found that the woman had called in another man who was there. That man asked, "What is that?" The man said, "This is our deity, the God Sivalinga. We are able to tell sooth." The man said, "Ha. It is good. There is a sooth that we, too, require to ask about." Then the [pretended] Kapurala, whom the God Sivalinga was [supposed to be] goading [102] to it, became possessed. When he was saying sooth, the wife of the man who went to seek Nikini and the false husband who had joined her, came with their arms interlaced, and saying to the deity that a long time had elapsed since her husband had gone in search of Nikini, they asked, "Has anything happened to him now?" At that time the God Sivalinga said through the person possessed by Sivalinga, "The man has now become blind. Besides that, he will not be permitted to return to his village. He will die while in that state." Then because he said this in the manner that was in the mind of the woman, she took the food off the fire, and together with the false husband brought the deity to her house, and gave the rice cooked from two quarts of raw rice, and sweet plantains, in order that the Kapurala might present an offering. That night, when he had eaten, the Kapurala said, "We must place this our cage inside that [room]." "You may do it," they said, and they placed it in the house. Then when the wife of the man who was inside the cage and the false husband were spreading mats [to lie upon], and making ready for sleeping, the Kapurala who remained outside said, "Except that [cage], there is no room for two." Thereupon the man who was inside the cage came out, and beat the false husband even on the cheeks with the cudgel that he had taken. So the man died. After that, the man, as it was becoming light, went and threw the Deer's elder sister into the river. Having returned, and gone to the village with the Deer, the man who went for Nikini cooked for the other man, and gave him to eat. Then the two divided the money, and he gave the man the gem which he had, as a present for him, and sent that man back to his village. Afterwards this man, taking another wife, remained there. [According to another version, however, he became a Buddhist monk.] Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. The story is also related in a contracted form in the Western Province. In a variant by a Tom-tom Beater of the North-western Province, a young Boar takes the place of the Deer, and the woman married first a King, and afterwards a Rakshasa who was sent for the Nikini. At the Boar's suggestion he died by jumping into a fire made by the girl, and the Boar then followed his example, and was burnt up. The girl is represented as "smearing a great deal of gold on herself" before this, apparently becoming gilded. NO. 51 THE AET-KANDA LENIYA [103] At a certain city there are the King and the Queen, it is said. They had one son, and while the Prince was living there the Queen bore yet [another] Prince. One day the two Princes having gone to the river to bathe, a Princess from another city came to bathe [at the same place], and the eldest Prince hid the robes of the Princess. Afterwards, on his inviting the Princess she went with the Prince to his city. After they had gone there, when the King got to know of it he said, "Should this rascal stay with me the kingdom will be destroyed," and he ordered them to behead the Prince. Then the Queen, the Prince's mother, having cooked a bundle of rice and given it to him, said, "Go away where you like [or the King will behead you]." The Prince having taken the packet of cooked rice to the river, ate it with the Princess. After eating it the two persons went to the house of a widow woman. The Prince made the Princess stay with her, and having given the Princess's robes into the hands of the widow woman, said, "Mother, put those robes into that box and this box" (that is, here and there, not all in one place, so that the Princess should not be able to find them). Afterwards, when the Prince had gone to the forge to get a sword made, the Princess said to the widow woman, "Mother, give me my robes to look at." The widow woman said, "Ane! Daughter, I don't know where they are." The Princess said, "Why are you telling me lies? Give them to me." On account of that, the widow woman opened the boxes, and gave the robes to the Princess. The Princess took the robes, and saying, "Should he see me again it will be as [wonderful as] if he should see the young of the Aet-Kanda Leniya, or white where charcoal has been rubbed," went away to the city of the Princess. When the Prince came after getting the sword made, he asked at the hand of the widow woman, "Where is the Princess?" The woman said, "On her asking for her robes I gave them. Taking them, she said, 'Should he see me again it will be as [wonderful as] if he should see the young of the Aet-Kanda Leniya, or white where charcoal has been rubbed' [and then she went away]." The Prince on that account rubbed and rubbed charcoal, and when he looked there was a little white [colour]. Having seen it, he told the widow woman to cook cakes. When they were cooked he took some and ate; and tying up a cloth package of them, and taking it, and the sword, he went off. As he was passing through the middle of a forest, he saw a cobra beginning to climb a tree in which were the little ones of the Aet-Kanda Leniya, and he cut it in two with the sword. While he was climbing the tree after killing it, the little ones of the Aet-Kanda Leniya came to eat him. Then he said to the little ones, "O unrighteous ones! Why are ye coming to eat me? Look ye on the ground." When the Aet-Kanda little ones had looked on the ground, and seen the cobra that he had cut in two, they said, "[As you have saved us from the cobra] we will render you any possible assistance." Then the Prince after going to the nest where they were, unfastened the package of cakes, and having given to them also, ate. After eating, the little ones of the Aet-Kanda Leniya said, "Mother will indeed eat you to-day when she has come." The Prince said, "Ane! Somehow or other you must save me." They said "Ha," and made him creep among their wings. While he was there the Aet-Kanda Leni (the female Rukh, their mother), having pierced with its claws a tusk elephant, came bringing it, after flying round the sea in three circles. After she had come she said, "What is this, children! Here is prey for you; are you delaying to eat? On other days you come screaming for it." Those young ones said, "Mother, to-day we are not hungry. Food has been given to us." "Whence?" she asked. The little ones said, "There is a man with us; [he gave it to us]." "Show me him," the Aet-Kanda Leni said. "You will eat him, mother," they replied. The Aet-Kanda Leni said, "I will not eat him." "If so, take us and swear," [104] the little ones said. Then the Aet-Kanda Leni swore, "I will not eat him." After that, the little ones showed the Aet-Kanda Leni the Prince. The Prince said to the Aet-Kanda Leni, "Look at the foot of the tree; [I have saved your little ones by killing the cobra]." After having looked, the Aet-Kanda Leni said, "I will give you any possible assistance because you have done this." Afterwards, the Prince having descended from the tree was unable to cross the river. So the Aet-Kanda Leni broke a stick, and bringing it in her mouth told the Prince to hang from it. While the Prince was hanging, the Aet-Kanda Leni flew to the other side of the river; after [leaving him there] she returned to the nest where the little ones were. The Prince went on. As he was going along, some men were taking a great many elephants. "What are you taking those elephants for?" he asked. Those men said, "We are taking them to kill at the city." The Prince said, "I will give you these hundred masuran; let them go." Those men, saying "Ha," took the hundred masuran, and let the elephants go. After that, when he had gone much further still, he saw men taking a great many pigs. The Prince asked, "Where are you taking these pigs?" "We are taking them to kill at the city," the men replied. The Prince said, "I will give you these hundred masuran; let them go." The men said "Ha," and taking the hundred masuran let them go. When the Prince had gone still a little further, men were taking a great quantity of turtle-doves. "Where are you taking those turtle-doves?" he asked. "We are taking them to the city to kill," the men replied. The Prince said, "I will give you these hundred masuran; let the turtle-doves go." The men said "Ha," and taking the hundred masuran let them go. When he had gone a little further still, men were taking a great many fire-flies. "Where are you taking them?" the Prince asked. Those men replied, "We are taking them to the city to fry." The Prince said, "I will give you these hundred masuran; let them go." The men said "Ha," and taking the hundred masuran let them go. When he had gone a little further yet, seven widow women came to the well for water [which they said they wanted in order] to pour water on the head of that Princess, who had become marriageable. A widow woman said to that Prince, "Take hold of this water-pot [and help me to lift it up]." Then the Prince having taken the jewelled ring that was on his hand, put it in the water-pot [unobserved]; after that he took hold of the water-pot [and helped her to lift it]. When they had taken the water, and were pouring it on the head of the Princess, the jewelled ring fell down. Having seen it [and recognised it], the Princess ordered the woman to tell the Prince to come. So the Prince went there. After he had gone there [and told her that he had made a white mark with charcoal, and had saved the lives of the little ones of the Aet-Kanda Leniya], that Princess said to the Prince, "[Before I will marry you, you must perform the tasks that I shall give you. First you must] cut a chena suitable for sowing one and a half amunas [105] of mun" (a small pulse). The Prince said "Ha," and having gone and cut a branch or two at the chena, thought, "Ane! Will the elephants that I set free by giving a hundred masuran render an assistance?" Those elephants that he freed, having come at this word, broke down all that jungle and went away. After that, the Prince went to the Princess, and said, "The chena has been cut." "Then set fire [to it]," the Princess said. So the Prince went and set fire [to the bushes]. The chena burnt excellently; nothing remained, so well it burnt. Having gone to the Princess he said, "I set fire to the chena." Then the Princess gave him one and a half amunas of mun, and said, "Sow this and come back." When the Prince had gone he took the mun and sowed it at the chena. Afterwards the Prince said, "Ane! Will the pigs that I set free by giving a hundred masuran render an assistance?" Then the pigs that he had freed by giving the hundred masuran all came and dug [with their snouts] the whole of the chena. The Prince went to the Princess, and said, "I have sowed the chena." After that, the Princess told him to collect and bring back the mun that he had sown in the chena. So the Prince having gone to the chena, and collected a little mun, said, "Ane! Will the turtle-doves that I freed by giving a hundred masuran render an assistance?" Then the turtle-doves that he had set free having all come, picked up the whole. The Prince, collecting it and taking it to the city said to the Princess, "After collecting the mun that I sowed in the chena I have come back." "Then measure it," she said. When he was measuring it there was one mun seed less. As she said this a turtle-dove dropped it at the measuring place. After that, the father of the Princess put that Princess and seven widow women in a dark room. Having put them [there] the King said, "Unless you select and take out the Princess, or if you take out any other person, I shall behead you." When the Prince had gone into the room [he thought], "Will the fire-flies that I freed by giving a hundred masuran render an assistance?" Then all the fire-flies having come, fastened on the body of the Princess, as a lamp. After that, the Prince took the Princess out into the light. [As he had performed all the tasks, the Prince was married to the Princess]. Afterwards the Prince, calling the Princess, went to the house of that widow woman. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In a variant of the first part of this story, a youth whose father was dead, and whose mother, finding him in the way, wanted to get rid of him in order to marry another man, was sent by his mother to bring some milk, to be used medicinally for curing a pretended illness of hers. He was sent first to the Aet-Kanda Lihiniya (Leniya is an alternative spelling), and had the same experiences at its nest, before he got the milk. The young birds told their mother that he was their elder brother, the son of their Puñci-Amma. [106] When he stated that he had come to ask for the milk, the Lihini (the female Rukh) said, "Ando! Son, when did any one get milk from me, and cure a sick person with it? She has done that to kill you, not through want of it. However, since you have come I will give you a little milk." One of the young birds accompanied him to his home. After his mother had drunk the milk she pretended to be still ill, and sent him for the milk of the Demon Hound, [107] which lived in a cave in a forest. I translate this part:-- The woman cooked and gave him a packet of rice. This youth, taking the packet of cooked rice and his sword, and making the little one of the Aet-Kanda Lihini stay at the house, went to the cave where the Demon Hound was. When he arrived, the Demon Hound was not there; only the little ones of the Demon Hound were there. As the youth was going [to the cave] the little ones came growling to eat him. When this youth unfastened the packet of cooked rice, and showed them it, they stopped. Afterwards, the youth, having divided the packet of cooked rice, gave [part] to the Demon Hound's little ones, and taking some himself, they ate. After they had eaten, the young dogs said, "When mother has come she will indeed eat you." Then this youth said, "Ane! To-day you must somehow or other save me. Do not let her eat me." The young dogs said "Ha," and putting the youth in the hollow of the cave, the young dogs came to this side, [towards the entrance], and remained there lying down. While they were there the Demon Hound came. After she had come she said, sniffing twice, "Where does this smell of fresh human flesh come from?" The little ones of the Demon Hound replied, "You eat fresh human flesh, and you bring fresh human flesh; what is this that you are saying?" The Demon Hound said, "No, children, a fresh human smell is coming to me. Tell me [how it is]. Tell me." The little ones said, "You will eat him." The Demon Hound said, "No, children, I will not eat him. Tell me." The little ones said, "Take us and swear." After that, the Demon Hound took her little ones and swore, "I will not eat him." Then the little ones showed her that youth, saying, "Here he is, mother; our little mother's son has come, our elder brother." The Demon Hound asked at the hand of this youth, "What, son, have you come for?" This youth replied, "Mother, our mother is ill. On account of it she said, 'Should you go and bring a little milk, when I have drunk it I shall become well.' Because of that I have come to ask for a little milk." The Demon Hound said, "Ando! Son, when did a sick person get milk from me and become well! To [get] you killed is the explanation of that. However, since you have come, take a little milk and go." So saying she gave him a little milk. Afterwards, as this youth was preparing to set off with it, a young dog said, "I also want to go with our elder brother," and howling [on account of it was allowed by his mother] to come away with the youth. Having arrived and given the milk to the woman, after she had drunk it he asked, "Now then, mother, is your illness cured?" The woman said, "Ando! Son, it is not cured." The youth asked, "If so, what shall I do?" The woman replied, "Bring a little milk from the Bear that is in the cave in the forest, and give me it." He went for it, leaving the young Demon Hound at the house, and his adventures and the conversations were a mere repetition of those at the cave of the Demon Hound. One of the young Bears returned to the house with him. Lastly, he was sent to bring the milk of the Crocodile that was in the Sea, "the reservoir [108] for the sky, and the reservoir for the earth." He ate his rice on a mound in the sea, after which, as he was descending into the sea, he observed a blue-lotus flower, and found the Crocodile at it. It came to eat him, but he held out his sword in front of him, so it asked him why he had come, and after hearing his explanation, in the very same words as before, gave him a little milk. It warned him, like the other animals, that the sending him for it was only a device to get him killed. He took the milk home, and after drinking it his mother informed him that she was cured. The story is then concluded as follows:-- Having said this, the woman went to the man [whom she wanted to marry], and said, "Now then, there is no means of killing that one. From the places to which he went he has escaped and come back. What, then, shall we do to that one?" That man said, "Cook to-day after it has become night. I will break something in the lower part of the garden. Then say, 'Son. There! Did you hear something break in the lower part of the garden? Maybe cattle have come in.' He will come to see, and when he has come, I will chop him with the bill-hook, and kill him." Afterwards, this woman having returned to the house, as she was cooking when it became night, the man came and broke a stick in the lower part of the garden. The woman said, "Ando! Son, maybe cattle have come in. Go quickly [and drive them out]." Then, as this youth, having gone into the house and taken his sword, was going out, that little one of the Aet-Kanda Lihini, and the little one of the Demon Hound, and the little one of the Bear went with him. The three of them having gone [in front] to the lower part of the garden, bit the man who waited there, and having killed him returned. When this youth went and looked, the man had been killed. Then the youth came back, and having killed his mother stayed quietly there. So that little one of the Aet-Kanda Lihini, and the little one of the Demon Hound, and the young Bear, and the youth remained at the house together. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. There are Indian versions of several of the incidents of these stories. In Old Deccan Days (Frere), p. 15, a Prince killed a cobra that was about to ascend a tree in order to destroy two eaglets. They assisted him afterwards. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 221, the Garudas or Rukhs are described as being "of the nature of vultures." A Brahmana got hid among the back feathers of one while it was asleep, and was carried by it to the Golden City next day. These birds are referred to (vol. i, p. 78) as breeding on a mountain called Swarnamula, in Ceylon. Compare also the account of Bharunda birds in The Kathakosa (Tawney), p. 164. According to Prof. Sayce, the original idea of the Rukh is to be found in Zu, the storm-bird or god of the Sumerians (The Religions of Ancient Egypt and Babylonia, p. 353). A lion-headed eagle with outspread wings, holding a lion by each of its feet, formed the symbol of Lagash or Shirpurla, one of the earliest Sumerian cities. It was the emblem of Ningirsu, the god of the city (A History of Sumer and Akkad, by L. W. King, 1910, pp. 98, 100). According to Mr. King's revised chronology, this takes back the notion of this gigantic eagle, which carried off and devoured the largest quadrupeds, to the fourth millenium B.C. Its Sumerian name was Imgig. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), p. 134, a Prince's wife, disguised as a Sannyasi, or Hindu religious mendicant, on her way to join her husband who was ill--poisoned by lying on powdered glass that was spread over his bed--rested under a tree in which a pair of Rukhs (in this story called Bihangama and Bihangami) had their nest, containing two young birds. She cut in two a snake that was about to climb the tree, and that was accustomed to kill the young ones each year. She overheard the conversation of the birds, which was to the effect that some of their droppings would cure the Prince, if reduced to powder and applied with a brush to the Prince's body, after bathing him seven times, with seven jars of water and seven jars of milk. One of the birds carried her on his back to the Prince, with the rapidity of lightning. At p. 219, we learn that the dung of the young of this bird, when applied fresh to the eyeballs, would cure blindness. At pp. 189 and 192, a puppy and a young hawk joined a Prince on his journey, but apparently owing to the omission of some incident of the tale they were of no service to him. Such omissions are common; they can only be supplied by collecting variants. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), pp. 74, 75--Tales of the Punjab, pp. 66, 67--a crow, peacock, and jackal in turn warned a girl against a robber with whom she was going. At p. 273--Tales of the Punjab, p. 259--Prince Rasalu was given the task of separating a hundred-weight of millet seed from a hundred-weight of sand with which it had been mixed. This was done for him by crickets in return for his saving a cricket from a fire. In the Jataka story No. 444 (vol. iv, pp. 19, 20), a man laid his hand on the head of a boy who had been bitten by a snake, and then repeated a spell to restore him to health. The boy's father laid his hand on the boy's breast while saying a second spell. In the Tamil Story of Madana Kama Raja, or "Dravidian Nights" (Natesa Sastri), p. 21 ff., a Prince purchased for a hundred pagodas apiece, a kitten and a snake, which he reared for twelve years. They assisted him afterwards. At p. 91 ff., a Prince was ordered by a King to bring snake's poison, and afterwards whale's fat. At p. 109 ff., a Prince who had four heavenly wives lost them through his mother's returning to one of them her celestial garment, which had been concealed. When in search of a way to his wives, he saved an Ant-King, a Frog-King, and a Cricket-King. He went to Indra, who gave him four tasks, of which one was that after an acre of land had been sown with sesame seed and ploughed one hundred times, he was to collect all the seeds. The Ant-King brought his subjects and collected them for him. Another of the tasks, the last one, was the selection of Indra's daughter, who was one of his wives, from the four, who were all given the same appearance. The Cricket-King enabled him to do this, by hopping onto her foot. NO. 52 THE WIMALI STORY At a certain city there are a man and a woman, it is said. That woman was about to have a child. She cooked cakes to eat. While she was eating, a crow came, and stayed there looking on. "She will throw me a piece of cake, at least," it thought. The woman did not give it even a bit of the cakes. Afterwards the crow went to the house of the Rakshasa, and breaking off a mango fruit came to that house, and ate it in front of the woman who ate the cakes. While the crow was eating, the woman thought, "It will throw down a piece of it, at least." The crow did not give her any of it; it ate the whole and flew away. After the man of the house came, the woman said, "The crow brought a mango fruit, and turned it round and round, and ate the whole of it. [Somehow or other you must get me a mango.]" After that, the man went to the house of the Rakshasa, and having ascended the mango tree, tried to pluck a mango fruit. As he was plucking it the Rakshasa came home. Seeing the man in the tree, he asked, "Who is that in the tree?" "Ane! I am in the tree," said the man. "What are you plucking mangoes for?" he asked. "For our house-girl to eat. [She is about to have a child, and has asked for one,]" he said. "Well then, pluck one and descend," the Rakshasa said. So the man plucked one, and came down. After he had descended the Rakshasa said, "Should she bear a son he is for thee; should she bear a daughter, she is for me." The man said "Ha," and taking the mango fruit went home. News afterwards reached the Rakshasa that she had borne a girl. On account of it the Rakshasa went to the house [and took the girl]. As he was returning carrying the girl, he saw two boys going to school, and said, "Boys, boys, say a name for my daughter." The boys saying, "Wimali, Wimali" (pure or beautiful one), ran away. So the Rakshasa took the girl to his house, and shared it with her. Afterwards, when he had gone to eat human flesh, the Rakshasa heard the sound of tom-toms saying, "Wimali," [and thought they were calling the girl]. So he came home, and asked Wimali, "Have you been out?" "No, I have not been out. I have just got up," Wimali said. Next day he went again to eat human flesh. After he had gone he heard the sound of tom-toms saying, "Wimali." The Rakshasa came home, and asked Wimali again, "Have you been out?" "No, I have just put on my cloth," Wimali said. The Rakshasa having gone to eat human flesh on the following day, again heard the sound of tom-toms saying, "Wimali." He came home and asked Wimali, "Have you been out?" "No, I have only just combed my hair," Wimali said. After that, news reached the King that a girl called Wimali was at the Rakshasa's house. Having learnt this, the King came to take away Wimali. When he arrived there [the Rakshasa was out, so] he formed a figure of Wimali out of rice flour, and after placing that figure in the Rakshasa's house, took Wimali to the city. The Rakshasa came to the house and [finding that she was not there] said, "Wimali will not stay at home." Then he tried to eat her figure, and ate a great part of the flour figure. After he had eaten this [his mouth was choked with the flour, so] he said, "May a mouth be created on the top of my head." When he had said this [the mouth was created, and] the Rakshasa's head being split in two by it, he died. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 53 THE POTS OF OIL A man having gone to the Lower Twelve Pattus (the name of a district) to seek for coconuts, and having collected fifty or sixty coconuts at a shed [where he was lodging, found that] because of their great weight he was unable to bring them; and so he expressed [the oil from] them. Having expressed it, on the morning of the following day he asked for two large pots, and filling them with the oil he tied them as a pingo (carrying-stick) load (one below each end of the stick), and set off with them. During the time while he was coming on his way to his village, he met a man in the road, and having given him betel, etc., to eat, said, "Ane! Friend, you must assist me a little. Take this pingo load somewhat far, and hand it over to me. I will give you four tuttu" (three halfpence). [The man agreed to help him, and took the load.] Then the man, as he was going along the road, thought, "With the funds provided by these four tuttu I shall buy a hen chicken. Having taken it home, after it has become large and laid twelve eggs I shall [set them under it and] get twelve chickens. After the twelve chickens have become big, I shall sell them for sixpence apiece. With that money I shall get a he-goat and a she-goat, and that she-goat will bear two kids. "When the kids have become large I can sell them for five rupees apiece, and having given the ten rupees I shall get a buffalo cow. While I am rearing the buffalo cow she will bear a calf. At that time I shall go to ask about a lucky hour (fixed by astrology) for taking the [first] milk. "After I have got to know the lucky hour and gone to take the milk, the buffalo cow, becoming afraid, will kick at me." Saying this, he jumped aside in order to avoid it. As he was coming on the path, at this time he had reached a foot-bridge formed of a single tree trunk (edanda), and while going along at the middle of it he made the jump [to escape the cow's kick]. As he jumped, he fell off the tree trunk, taking the load of oil with him [and the two pots were smashed]. At his fall, the owner of the oil asked, "Having come so far taking care of this oil, why did you throw it down and break the pots at this foot-bridge, friend?" The man said, "With the funds provided by the four tuttu I thought of buying a chicken. This happened owing to that." Afterwards the owner of the oil, saying, "Never mind the spilling of the oil; you must go with me," invited the man to accompany him, and they went together. Having arrived at the village, because he was a capable man [the owner of the oil] gave him his daughter [in marriage]. Not a very long time afterwards, the men of the village said that they must go to Puttalam to load salt and sun-dried fish, and bring them back [bartering part of them on the way home]. The man said, "Father-in-law, I also must go to Puttalam." So the father-in-law made ready a cart load of goods, and giving them to him told him to go with the other men, and said, "[When disposing of the goods] the things which they count you also count and give; the goods which they give 'simply' (that is, without counting), you also give 'simply.'" [109] Afterwards the men who went from the village, while coming back from Puttalam, from place to place gave the goods they were bringing, and took [in exchange] the things they wanted. The man having observed which goods they counted, counted and gave the same goods, without [taking] money. The goods which the other men gave without counting, that man also gave without counting. Thus, in that manner he gave all the goods loaded into the cart, until at last only the cart and the yoke of bulls remained over. Afterwards the men who went in the party gave goods, and each one got a horse. This man gave the cart and yoke of bulls and got a horse. While they were coming bringing the horses, the men of the party gave goods, and each one got a goat of foreign breed. So this man gave his horse, and got a goat. While they were bringing the goats, the men of the party, saying, "We must each one get a dog with a party-coloured body," gave goods, and got one apiece. So this man gave the foreign goat that he was bringing, and got one. Having come to a shop where they were selling foreign pots, the men of the party gave goods, and each one got a foreign water-pot. This man giving the parti-coloured dog, also got one. Afterwards having come very close to their village, each of the men of the party, saying, "I will give four tuttu and get shaved," got shaved. So this man gave that foreign water-pot, and got himself shaved. In the end the man returned home without either cart, or yoke of bulls, or goods. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. Some Eastern variants have been mentioned above in the story of the Kitul seeds, No. 26. In The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 102, there is a story by Mr. A. E. R. Corea, in which a man who was going in search of work gathered some leaves on the road-side, which are eaten as a vegetable. In another district where there were no vegetables he exchanged them for fishes, a leaf for a fish. Going on, he bartered these for digging hoes, and these again for oxen, with which he set off on his return home. Having nothing to eat, he continued to give two oxen for two rice cakes, until at last he arrived at his house empty-handed. In the Panchatantra (Dubois), a Brahmana who had been at two feasts on the same day, carried away from the second some pots of ghi--or liquid butter,--milk, and flour, and began to consider how he would acquire wealth by means of them. He would sell them, and buy a she-goat, which would have kids, and in a short time he would possess a flock. He would then sell the goats and buy a cow and a mare, by selling the calves and foals from which he would become a rich man. He would get married and have numerous children, who would be well educated and well dressed. His wife would become inattentive to her duties at the house. During her absence the children would run about near the cows, and the youngest one would be injured by them. For neglecting them he would beat his wife, and taking up his stick to beat her he smashed the pots containing his provisions. NO. 54 THE MOUSE MAIDEN [110] There are a King and a Queen of a certain city, and there is a daughter of the Queen. They asked [permission] to summon the daughter to go [in marriage] to the Prince of another city. The King said "Ha," so they came from that city to summon the King's Princess. After coming, they told the bride to come out [of her chamber] in order to eat the rice [of the wedding-feast]. The Queen said, "She is eating cooked rice in the house." Then they told her to come out in order to dress her in the robes [sent by the bridegroom (?)]. The Queen said, "She is putting on robes [in her chamber]." Then they told her to come out in order to go [to the bridegroom's city]. So the Queen told two persons to come, and having put a female Mouseling [110] in an incense box, brought it, and gave it into the hands of the two persons, and said, "Take ye this, and until seven days have gone by do not open the mouth of the box." Having taken it to the city, when they opened the mouth of the box after seven days, a mouse sprang out, [and hid itself] among the cooking pots. There was also a (servant) girl at the Prince's house. The girl apportioned and gave cooked rice and vegetable [curry] to the Prince, and covered up the cooking pots [containing the rest of the food]. Then the Mouseling came, and having taken and eaten some of the cooked rice and vegetables, covered up the cooking pots, and went again among the pots. On the following day the same thing occurred. The Prince said to the girl. "Does the Mouseling eat the cooked rice? Look and come back." The girl having gone and looked, came back and said, "She has eaten the cooked rice, and covered the cooking pots, and has gone." The Prince said, "Go thou also, and eat rice, and come back." So the girl went and ate rice, and returned. Next day the Prince said, "I am going to cut paddy (growing rice). Remain thou at the house, and in the evening place the articles for cooking near the hearth." Then the Prince went. Afterwards, in the evening the girl placed the things for cooking near the hearth, and went out of the way. The Mouseling came, and cooked and placed [the food ready], and again went behind the pots. After evening had come, that girl apportioned and gave the rice to the Prince. The Prince ate, and told the girl, "Go thou also, and eat rice, and come back." So the girl went and ate rice, and having covered the cooking pots came to the place where the Prince was. Then the Mouseling came and ate rice, and covered up the pots. After that, she said to the [other] mice, "Let us go and cut the paddy," and collecting a great number of mice, cut all the paddy, and again returned to the house, and stayed among the pots. Next day when the Prince went to the rice field to cut the paddy, all had been cut. Afterwards the Prince came back, and saying, "Let us go and collect and stack [the paddy]," collected the men, and stacked it, and threshed it by trampling [it with buffaloes]. Then they went and called the women, and having got rid of the chaff in the wind, brought the paddy home. After they had brought it, the Prince went near the place where the cooking pots were stored, at which the Mouseling was hidden, and said, "Having pounded this paddy [to remove the husk], and cooked rice, let us go to your village [to present it to your parents, as the first-fruits]." The Mouseling said, "I will not. You go." So the Prince told the girl to pound the paddy and cook rice, and having done this she gave it to the Prince. The Prince took the package of cooked rice, and went to the Mouseling's village, and gave it to the Mouseling's mother. The Queen asked at the hand of the Prince, "Where is the girl?" The Prince said, "She refused to come." The Queen said, "Go back to the city, and having placed the articles for cooking near the hearth, get hid, and stay in the house." After the Prince returned to the city, he did as she had told him. The Mouseling having come out, took off her mouse-jacket, and [assuming her shape as a girl] put on other clothes. While she was preparing to cook, the Prince took the mouse-jacket, and burnt it. Afterwards, when the girl went to the place where the mouse-jacket had been, and looked for it, it was not there. Then she looked in the hearth, and saw that there was one sleeve in it. While she was there weeping and weeping, the Prince [came forward and] said, "Your mother told me to burn the mouse-jacket." So the Mouseling became the Princess again, and the Prince and Princess remained there. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. The notion of a skin dress that could be put off and on, and that transformed a person into one of the lower animals, is well-known in folk-tales. It is found in Old Deccan Days (Frere), pp. 183, 193, where a King had a jackal-skin coat which turned him into a jackal when he put it on, until it was burnt. At p. 222, a Princess concealed herself by putting on the skin of an old beggar woman. She was discovered when she removed it in order to wash it and herself. In the end it was burnt by the Prince she had married, and she retained her true form as a Princess. In Indian Fairy Tales (Stokes), p. 41 ff., there is a Prince who had a monkey skin, which he could put on and off as he wished. In Indian Nights' Entertainment, Panjab (Swynnerton), p. 344, four fairies came in the form of doves, and took off their feather dresses in order to bathe. A Prince concealed one dress, and the fairy was unable to resume her bird form and fly away. In The Story of Madana Kama Raja, or "Dravidian Nights" (Natesa Sastri), pp. 56, 57, there is an account of a tortoise Prince who had the power of leaving his shell and assuming his human form. His mother one day saw the transformation, and smashed the shell, after which he remained a Prince. In Folk-Tales of Hindustan, Allahabad (Shaik Chilli), p. 54 ff., the daughter of the King of the Peris had the form of a monkey while she wore a monkey's skin, and her own form at other times. When a Prince burnt the skin she took fire, and flew away in a blaze to her father's palace. While she was ill there, the Prince discovered her and cured her, and she did not resume her monkey form. The feather-vest of the Dove-maidens--female Jinn--in the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed.), iii, p. 417 ff., is well known. They removed it for bathing, and could not fly without it. NO. 55 SIGIRIS SIÑÑO, THE GIANT In a country there was a great person called Sigiris Siñño. He was a very wealthy person; under him ten hired labourers worked. During the time while he was in this state, Sigiris Siñño having thought he would drink arrack (spirit distilled from palm juice), began to drink a very little. In that way he became accustomed to drink very largely. Afterwards having come [home] drunk he went to beat the labourers; also he did not give them their wages properly. When he had acted in this manner for many days, they, after speaking together, gave Sigiris Siñño a good beating, and on account of their [short] pay took the goods of Sigiris Siñño, and went away. Then no one would give work to Sigiris Siñño, so he drank until the goods in his house were finished. Then, there being nothing for this one to drink or eat, and having become like a madman, at the time when he was walking and walking about he saw a man carrying a young coconut. Begging, "Give me that," and taking it, he went to a travellers' resting-shed. While he was there eating the young coconut after breaking it, a great number of flies began to settle there. After he had struck at the flies with his hand, twenty died. Thereupon this one went to a person who did tin work, and said, "Ane! Friend, do a little work for me and give me it." "What is it?" the tin worker asked. This one said, "Cut on a sheet of tin in Tamil and Sinhalese, 'I killed twenty,' and give me it." Having said, "It is good," he cut it and gave it. After he had cut and given it, this one took it, and preparing a hanging board, and hanging the sheet of tin on it, put the cord on his neck, and walked along the roads. Men who saw this stepped on one side through fear, and went away. Certain Tamils having seen this at a city, said to Sigiris Siñño, "In our country the King has a giant. Should any one fight with him and win, the King said he will give him a present of five hundred masuran, and the post of Prime Minister. This being so, can you go there with us [and fight him]," they asked. Then Sigiris Siñño, thinking, "Let me go even should I be struck by lightning," said, "I am able to fight with the giant," and went to that city with the Tamils. Having arrived there, these Tamils handed him over to the King under whom that giant had a post. The King asked this one, "I have a giant. Canst thou fight with the giant and win?" Sigiris Siñño said instantly, "A son who has killed twenty giants better than that one am I." So the King said to his giant, "Now then, do what fighting thou knowest, and conquer that one." Then the giant said to Sigiris Siñño, "To-day you must come and swim [against me] in the great sea for eight days. We require from the King ten rupees in order to get things to eat while we are swimming." Having said this and got them, the two giants went to the shops, and got things for the ten rupees. Then Sigiris the Giant said to that giant, "What are these few things! For one meal I want six quarts of rice and I want three bottles of arrack. I can swim for eight or ten months." After that, this giant thought, "I can't eat as much as this one, and I can't drink as much, and I can't swim for eight or ten months. Therefore I am indeed unable to swim with this giant and beat him." He told the King so. The King said, "If so, thou wilt lose." The giant said, "At swimming I shall lose. We must fight each other." "It is good," said the King. Then the King asked Sigiris Siñño, "Canst thou fight with this one?" Sigiris Siñño replied, "I will give that one one blow." So the King said, "Fight ye each other to-morrow." Thereupon Sigiris the Giant said, "Not to-morrow. After a month has gone both giants will fight each other. Having proclaimed it, and put both of us into two houses under one roof, you must give us to eat until the month is finished." The King said, "It is good." Sigiris the Giant having sought for an iron nail, from that day dug into the wall of the house in which the giant was [which separated their two rooms]. Having dug [nearly through] it, when the month would be finished to-morrow Sigiris the Giant said to that giant, "Ade! Giant, give me a little tobacco." That giant said, "How can I give you tobacco there?" Sigiris the Giant replied, "Knock a hole through that wall with your hand, and give me it." "I cannot," that one said. Then Sigiris the Giant said, "What sort of a giant art thou, one who can't make a hole through that wall and give me a little tobacco!" Saying, "Look there! Give me it through there," Sigiris the Giant struck with his hand at the place which he had previously bored. When he struck it his hand made a hole through to the other side. That giant becoming afraid at the blow, began to tremble, and thought, "I can't win in fighting with this one." On the following day they made them come out to fight. The place was filled with people who had come to look on. Sigiris the Giant thinks in his mind, "To-day is indeed my Fate. How shall I escape?" That giant, through fear his thoughts were the same. The King said, "Strike ye each other." Having said, "It is good," each one being afraid of the other, said, "Strike thou." Sigiris says to the other, "Thou strike," he says. By that one and by this one not a blow was struck. Then the King says to Sigiris the Giant, "Strike thou first." Sigiris the Giant said, "It is good," and thinking of running away, and saying to the people, addressing them loudly, "Get to both sides, and stop there," looked round to run off. At that, the other giant, rolling the people over, began to run away, and the people who were there cried "Hu," after him. Then the King having become pleased with Sigiris Siñño, and having given him a present of five hundred masuran, established him in the post of Prime Minister. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 89--Tales of the Punjab, p. 80--a weaver who killed a mosquito thought himself a hero, and eventually became the ruler of half the country. In Indian Nights' Entertainment, Panjab (Swynnerton), p. 208, a weaver killed nine flies on his arm, and called himself Nomar Khan, the Nine-killing Prince. He became Commander-in-Chief. NO. 56 THE PROUD JACKAL In the midst of a certain forest a Lion stayed. Having joined with that very Lion, a Jackal was eating and eating the flesh of animals killed by the Lion. After a few days had gone by, the Jackal, becoming arrogant, said to the Lion, "Don't say 'Jackal' to me." Thereupon, "What shall I say?" the Lion asked. Then the Jackal says, "You must call me, saying to me, 'Jackal-artificer' (Nari nayide)." In this way, when the Lion had said, "Jackal-artificer," for many days, he said, "Don't say 'Jackal-artificer.'" "What name am I to say?" the Lion asked. "Say to me, 'Small Lion'; don't say, 'Jackal-artificer,'" he said. After the Lion had been saying, "Small Lion," for a few days, "Say to me, 'Great Lion'; don't say, 'Small Lion,'" he said to the Lion. Then the Lion says, "For me to say, 'Great Lion,' you must make the Lion's roar," the Lion said. Then the Jackal having gone near a tusk elephant, after he had cried out, as the Lion's roar, "Hokkiye, Hokkiye" (the beginning of the customary yelping cry of the Jackal), the tusk-elephant kicked the Jackal. Thereupon the Jackal died. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In the Jataka stories 143 (vol. i, p. 306) and 335 (vol. iii, p. 75), a Jackal who acted as a Lion's servant induced his master to let him go out in the latter's place, in order to kill animals. He howled and sprang at an elephant, but was crushed to death by it. STORIES OF THE DURAYAS NO. 57 THE SEVEN ROBBERS In a country there are seven robbers. Among them, in the same gang, there is a fool. One day they went to commit robbery. While they were there, they got a devil-dancer's box, containing his mask and ornaments. Having brought it, the seven persons went into a rock cave to sleep. When they had gone there that foolish man became hungry. After the others went to sleep that fool took out the devil-dancer's clothes, and having looked at them put them on. After he had put them on, one of those men opened his eyes. Then on account of the noise of the bells [of the devil-dancer] the others opened their eyes also. When they saw the man dressed in the devil-dancer's clothes they were frightened, and saying, "Ade! The Kohomba deity is coming," the other six persons ran away. As they were running, that man who had the clothes ran after them, saying, "Stay there, stay there." While they were running those six persons leaped over a well [in the path]. This one also jumped, but being held back by the clothes he fell into the mouth of the well. After he had fallen into the well, a woman came to draw water. Then he placed his weight in the bucket when she lowered it. After the woman had got to know of the weight, striving and striving she got the bucket near the mouth of the well. The man who had fallen, and was in it, said, "A little more, my mother." Then the woman hearing this [and seeing what she thought was a demon in the well], let go, and bounded away. Duraya. North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 136, a story is given regarding twenty-five idiots, in which is a variant of this tale. Some robbers whom one of them was assisting left him outside a house with a basket that he had brought out of it. While they were inside searching for booty, he found in the basket the dress worn in representations of a demon termed Gara Yaka, and put it on. When the robbers came out they thought he was the demon himself, and ran off, with the idiot at their heels. In the end, they jumped into a well, were followed by him, and all were drowned. NO. 58 THE STUPID BOY In a certain city there are a Gamarala, a Gama-gaeni (his wife), and a son of theirs. The Gamarala went to the chena. The Gama-gaeni lay down, and told the Gama-puta (the son) to examine her head [for insects]. While he was looking through the hair she fell asleep, and a fly settled on her head. "Ade! Fly, do not bite our mother's head," he said, "mother will scold me." The fly having gone flying away, settled again on her head. Saying, "Now then, this fly is biting mother's head again," he placed his mother's head gently on the ground. Then having gone and taken a rice pestle, and come back with it, he said, "Is the fly still biting the head?" and struck at the fly with the rice pestle, killing his mother with the blow. The boy's father having come, tried to arouse her. "How is it that mother is dead?" he asked. The boy said, "A fly was biting our mother's head. I struck it with the rice pestle. Because of it she died." So the Gamarala took the woman away and buried her. Then he came home with the boy. Having arrived, the Gamarala told the boy to make a pot of gruel. Having made the pot of gruel he told the boy to take it, and they went to the jungle to cut fence sticks. The man, cutting and cutting the fence sticks, told the boy to draw them out, and throw them down. Then the boy, taking the fence sticks, threw them into the river. Taking the pot of gruel, and making a raised platform of sticks, he placed it on it. The Gamarala said to the boy, "Now then, as you have come here, go and drink gruel." Then the boy having gone under the stick frame, and pierced the bottom of the pot, and made a hole through it, placed his mouth under it, and drank a sufficient quantity. Still the gruel comes from the pot, so the boy said to the pot of gruel, "Father is there. Don't come out, gruel." Having cut the fence sticks, the Gamarala came to drink gruel. There was nothing in the gruel pot. He asked at the hand of the boy, "Where, Ada! is the gruel?" "The gruel went out while I was saying don't go," he said. Then the Gamarala thought, "There is no need to keep this boy," and having beaten him he drove him away. As the boy was going, weeping and weeping, he met with a Buddhist monk. [111] There were two bundles in the Lord's hand. He told the boy to take the couple of bundles. As the boy was carrying them he asked at the hand of the Lord, "What is there in the bundles?" "Palm-sugar packets, [112] and plantains," he said. The Lord asked at the hand of the boy, "What is thy name?" The boy said, "My name is Aewariyakka Mulakka." As he was coming along from there the boy lagged behind. So the monk spoke to the boy, "Aewariyakka Mulakka, Ada! Come on quickly," he said. Then the boy ate some packets of sugar, [113] and rows of plantains. [114] The monk having gone to the pansala (monk's residence), when he looked [found that] packets of sugar and rows of plantains were missing. "Ada! where are the other plantains and palm-sugar that were in these?" he asked. "Lord, I am a packet eater (Mulakka), and a first-row-of-plantains eater (Aewariyakka)," he said. "I ate them." There and then, having beaten the boy, he chased him away. Then, as a washerwoman-aunt was washing clothes, she saw the boy going along, and asked him, "Can you live at our house?" "I can," he said. She asked his name; Giya ("He went") he said was his name. Having taken the washed clothes, and placed them in the house, he asked at the hand of the mother for the [unwashed] clothes that were in the house. She told him to come [and take them]. After the boy had come in, the mother asked at the hand of the boy, "What is your name?" The boy said, Awo ("He came"), and took the clothes away. Afterwards, because both the clothes and the boy were missing, [the washer-woman] having searched and looked for him, went home. On account of her going late the washerman called her [and asked the reason]. She said, "It is because of Giya" (the words might also mean, "It is because he went"). A man who was in the house having heard it, said, "Ada! He said Awo." While both were saying, "Giya," "Awo," ("He went, he came"), the boy took the clothes, and went to his village. Duraya. North-western Province. The fly-killing incident occurs in Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 306, in which a Buneyr man killed an old woman by throwing a stone at a fly that was on her face. In the Jataka story No. 44 (vol. i, p. 116), a boy killed his father by striking with an axe at a mosquito that had settled on his pate, splitting his head at the blow. In the next Jataka tale, a girl killed her mother by aiming a blow with a pestle at the flies that had settled on her head when she was lying down. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 284, there is a Kashmir story by the Rev. J. H. Knowles, in which a bear who had become friendly with a man, killed him by throwing a piece of rock at a bee which had settled on his mouth. Reference is also made to a similar story in the Journal A.S.B., vol. iii, part i, 1883. A considerable part of the story now given is a variant of No. 10 above. I have inserted it on account of the low caste of the narrator. When the monk repeated the boy's name on ordering him not to lag behind, he was in reality telling him to eat the plantains and sugar, the meaning of Aewariyak ka Mulak ka being, "Eat thou a first row of plantains; eat thou a packet (of the sugar)." NO. 59 THE GAMARALA AND THE WASHERMAN In a certain country there are a Gamarala and a Washerman. [115] Those two persons cut a chena. As they were cutting the chena a jungle-cock crowed. The Gamarala said to the Washerman, "Please catch that crowing jungle-cock, and come back." Then the Washerman said, "Will you do the chena work until I catch the jungle-cock and come back?" he asked. "Until you come I will do the chena work," he said. From there that man came home, and remained there. When the chena [crop] was ripening he caught the jungle-cock, and went back. "I shall not give thee a share of the chena," the Gamarala said. Thereupon the Washerman instituted a lawsuit against him. When they were going for it on the day of the trial, he borrowed a cloth from the Gamarala, and went after putting it on. When the action was being heard the Washerman said, "He will say next that this cloth is that gentleman's." Then the Gamarala said, "It is so indeed. If not, Bola, whose is that cloth?" he asked. The Washerman said, "There! I said so. O Lord, when coming on account of this day of the trial, was it necessary for me to ask for a cloth from that gentleman? Am I without clothes to that extent?" After that, the judge told them to divide the chena in two, [and each take half of it]. Afterwards, having come there they divided it in two. Again, this Washerman and the Gamarala sowed a paddy field (rice field). Of the paddy plants in the field, those things that were above the ground were for the Washerman, they said. Those which were below the ground were for the Gamarala, they said. Having cut the paddy when the crop ripened, they threshed it by trampling [with cattle], and the Washerman took the paddy. Afterwards they cut the ground; there was nothing for the Gamarala. Again, these two persons planted onions. This time, those things that were above the ground were for the Gamarala, they said. Those that were below the ground were for the Washerman, they said. When the crop was ready, the Gamarala having cut off the onion stumps, heaps them up together; the Washerman dug up and got the onions. After that, those two persons got a buffalo bull. The front part of that bull was for the Washerman, they said; the after part for the Gamarala, they said. Next, the two persons got a buffalo cow. The front part was for the Gamarala; the after part for the Washerman, they said. Thereupon the calves which the buffalo cow bore belonged to the Washerman, he said. When the Gamarala asked for calves because the front part did not give birth to calves, "There is nothing for you," he said. After that, the Gamarala, in order to build a house, cut Waewarana, Kaetakala, Milla, Kolon trees (good timber trees commonly used in building houses). The Washerman, also, saying, "I also must build a house," cut Paepol, Eramudu, Murunga trees (all of which are soft woods, quite useless for any kind of work). When the Gamarala's wife was coming near his house, the Washerman, taking the Naekat Pota (an astrological book which deals with prognostications), read aloud from it [these sham prognostications regarding the results to the occupiers if these woods be used in house building]: "For a house of Waewarana, diarrhoea; for a house of Kaetakala, quarrel; for a house of Milla, hanging; for a house of Eramudu, purity; for a house of Paepol, land." Then the Gamarala's wife having heard this, goes and says to the Gamarala, "You have done a foolish thing again. We shall have only sickness and trouble if we build the house with those trees. In the Naekat Pota it is so written. If we use the trees that the Washerman has cut we shall be fortunate." So the Gamarala went to the Washerman, and persuaded him to exchange trees with him. Then the Washerman built himself a good house with the Gamarala's trees. The trees which the Gamarala got were of no use to him. Duraya. North-western Province. The incident at the trial in the first part of this story occurs in a slightly different form in a folk-tale that I heard in Cairo. As I am not aware that it has been published I give it here, condensing the first portion (see No. 60). The planting incidents are related by Rabelais, in Pantagruel, chapters 45 and 46. For the benefit of readers in Ceylon, I give the account:-- THE DEVIL AND THE HUSBANDMAN This devil having arrived at the place, addressed a husbandman and asked him what he did. The poor man replied to him that he sowed that field of early wheat to assist him in living during the following year. "But really," said the devil, "this field is not thine; it is mine and belongs to me ...; however, I leave thee the field. But it is on condition we shall share the profit." "I agree to it," replied the husbandman. "I mean," said the devil, "that of the coming profit we shall make two shares. The one shall be what grows above the ground, the other what shall be covered in the earth. The choice belongs to me, for I am a devil of a noble and ancient race; thou art only a villein. I choose that which will be in the ground, thou shalt have that above. When will the reaping be?" "In the middle of July," replied the husbandman. "Now," said the devil, "I need not be present here. In other respects do thy duty. Work, villein, work." The middle of July having come, the devil presents himself again at the place, accompanied by a squadron of little chorister devilets. Meeting there the husbandman, he said to him, "And now, villein, how hast thou been since my departure? It is requisite to make our division now?" "That is right," replied the husbandman. Then the husbandman, with his people, began to reap the corn. The little devils similarly drew the stubble from the ground. The husbandman threshed his corn in the air, put it in sacks, and carried it to the market to sell. The devilets did the same, and at the market seated themselves near the husbandman to sell their stubble. The husbandman sold his corn very well, and with the money filled an old sock which he carried at his belt. The devils sold nothing, but on the contrary the peasants jeered at them in the midst of the market. The market being over, said the devil to the husbandman, "Villein, thou hast cheated me this time; at another thou shalt not deceive me." "My Lord Devil," replied the husbandman, "how have I cheated you who have chosen first? True it is that in that choice you thought of cheating me, hoping that nothing would come out of the ground as my share, and to find, below, the whole of the corn that I had sown.... But you are very young at the trade."... "Leave this discourse," said the devil; "with what canst thou sow our field this following year?" "For profit," replied the husbandman, "and good economy it is expedient to sow radishes." "Now then," said the devil, "thou art an honest man; sow plenty of radishes. I shall protect them from tempests, and shall not hail at all on them. But, understand thoroughly, I keep as my share what shall be above ground; thou shalt have what is below. Work, villein, work." The time for the reaping having come, the devil was present at the spot with a squadron of household devilets. There, meeting the husbandman and his people, he began to reap and collect the leaves of the radishes. After him the husbandman dug and drew out the large radishes, and put them into sacks. So they went all together to the market. The husbandman sold his radishes very well. The devil sold nothing. What was worse, they jeered at him publicly. "I see well, villain," the devil then said, "that I am cheated by thee. I want to make an end of the field between thee and me." I add a variant of the cultivating caste, as some incidents are new. THE GAMARALA AND THE WASHERMAN. (VARIANT.) In a certain country there is a Gamarala, it is said. A Washerman, having come there, became friendly with the Gamarala. Having become friendly, he takes charge of the Gamarala's cattle for grazing. During the time while he was grazing them the two persons chop chenas and do rice field work. Well then, the two persons having become very thoroughly friends, at the time while they were thus, the cattle grazed by the Washerman increased by a buffalo bull and a buffalo cow. Afterwards, the Washerman having come [to the other man] said, "Now then, Gamarahami, [116] we must divide the two cattle between us." The Gamarala said, "Ha. Let us divide them." Afterwards the Washerman having gone and caught the two cattle, tied them up. The Gamarala went there. Then the Washerman said, "Now then, the Gamarahami indeed has cattle. I myself have no cattle. Because of it, let the after portion of this buffalo cow be for me. The front portion the Gamarahami will be good enough to take." The Gamarala, having consented to that, said, "Ha. It is good." Well then, in complete agreement they shared the buffalo cow. Again, to share the buffalo bull the Washerman said, "Gamarahami, let the front side of the buffalo bull be for me, the after side the Gamarahami will be good enough to take." Well then, the Gamarala having consented to that also, by the agreement of the two persons they divided the buffalo bull also. During the time while they were thus, the Washerman having taken the buffalo bull ploughs for himself. The Gamarala also one day was going to take the buffalo bull to plough. Then the Washerman quarrelled with him: "The front part belongs to me; the after part belongs to you. I will not allow you to plough with my side," he said. [117] The Gamarala having become angry came home. The buffalo cow having gone to the Gamarala's house eats by stealth. Men having come told the Gamarala, "Gamarala, your buffalo cow comes to our rice field [and eats the crop]. On that account attend well to its grazing." Then the Gamarala said, "Don't tell me. Tell that to the Washerman." Then the men having gone, told the Washerman, "Washerman, the buffalo cow that you are causing to graze eats by stealth [in our rice field]. Attend well to its grazing." The Washerman said, "What are you telling me? Doesn't the front half belong to the Gamarahami? Isn't it the Gamarahami who must attend to the grazing?" [118] The Washerman having come to the Gamarala's house, quarrelled with the Gamarala [over it]. The Gamarala became very angry. Afterwards, the Gamarala went to institute a lawsuit against the Washerman [on account of these matters]. That day, having entered the suit, and having come back to the village, he went to the Washerman to tell him the day of the trial. Having told him, the Gamarala came home. On the following day, the Washerman came to the Gamarala. Afterwards, the Gamarala having given the Washerman to eat and drink, and having made ready to go for the day of the trial, the Washerman said, "Gamarahami, I have no [suitable] cloth to wear when going." The Gamarala gave (that is, lent) him a cloth. The Washerman putting on the cloth, both of them went for the trial-day. After they went, the assessors [119] having assembled heard the lawsuit. When they asked the Gamarala [regarding the matter], the Gamarala said, "The after portion of the buffalo cow belongs to the Washerman; the front portion belongs to me." When they asked the Washerman he said, "Because the front portion of the buffalo bull belongs to me, I will not allow him to plough with the buffalo bull. Because the front portion of the buffalo cow belongs to the Gamarahami, the Gamarahami must attend to the grazing," he answered. Then after the assessors had thus asked him they said, "What the Washerman said is true." Thereupon the Washerman says, "That gentleman (Rahami) will now say that this cloth which I am wearing is the gentleman's, maybe!" The Gamarala asked, "Yes, indeed. Whose is it, Bola, if that cloth is not mine?" Then the Washerman says to the assessors, "There! Be good enough to look. Didn't that gentleman just now say that the cloth I am wearing is the gentleman's. In that manner, indeed, he has brought this lawsuit, also." At that time the assessors said to the Gamarala, "There is not a thing for us to say regarding this [except that] he is to gain [the action] against you." Then the Gamarala having lost, came back with the Washerman to the village. At that time, while the Gamarala was angry with the Washerman, the Gamarala, having said that he must build a house for himself, and having gone to the jungle, cut Halmilla, Milla, Waewarana trees; these three sorts [of good timber trees]. Then the Washerman, having got news that he had cut these woods, also went to the jungle, and having said, "I also must build a house for myself," cut Paepol wood, Murunga wood, Eramudu wood; those three sorts [of soft useless woods]. After heaping them together, he wrote a book [of sham prognostications]: "For the house [built] of Halmilla, begging; for the house of Waewarana, killing; for the house of Milla, begging; for the house of Paepol, land; for the house of Eramudu, purity; for the house of Murunga, purity." After writing these, the Washerman taking up the book while the Gama-Mahage (the Gamarala's wife) was going past for water, says them over every day for the Gama-Mahage to hear. The Gama-Mahage having heard them, said to the Gamarala, "A book of the Washerman's says thus. Because of it, come with the Washerman, and having given him our small quantity of timber speak with him to allow us to take his small quantity of timber." Afterwards, the Gamarala having gone to the Washerman, asked at the hand of the Washerman, "Washerman, give me your small quantity of timber, and take for yourself my small quantity of timber." Then the Washerman says, "I don't know [if I can do it], Sir (Rahamiye). I cannot [willingly], through sorrow [at the loss to me], give you my small quantity of timber, indeed; but because the gentleman says it, any way whatever is good. Be good enough to take it." Afterwards the Gamarala brought [home] the Washerman's small quantity of timber. The Washerman brought the Gamarala's small quantity of timber. Having brought it, the Washerman with the small quantity of the Gamarala's timber thoroughly built the house for himself, the Gamarala also building the house for himself from the Washerman's timber. When only three months had gone, the Gamarala's house fell down, and the Gama-Mahage, having been underneath it, died. The house which the Washerman built from good timber remained in good condition. North-western Province. NO. 60 THE TWO THIEVES Two thieves at Cairo were in love with the same girl, who promised to marry the one who showed the greatest cleverness. The first one assisted a rich merchant in purchasing some cattle, and eventually purloined a bag of money which the merchant was carrying in the large pocket in the front of his gown, and put a similar bag in its place containing an orange or two. The theft was discovered when the merchant was about to pay the money for the cattle. The robber assumed the rôle of the sympathising friend, and suggested that a mistake might have been made by the merchant's wife, and the wrong bag given to him. The merchant went home to inquire about it, and on his return the robber ran up to him, and embraced and kissed him, saying, "Hallo, Friend! I am very glad to see you again. I hope you have succeeded in finding your money." As he said this he put back the purse, and took the bag of oranges. The merchant replied, "I hope God will hear what you say." The thief said, "You are playing me a trick; put your hand in your pocket, and feel if your purse is not there." So he put his hand in his breast pocket, and found his bag of money there. The thief explained the matter, and requested him to relate the particulars to the girl, who then decided that she would marry this thief. I give the rest of the story in full, as it was dictated to me:-- The second thief said, "Oh! that is nothing. I can play a better trick than that. Will you be kind enough to come to-morrow morning to the Government offices to see me?" The merchant man said, "I also will come to see the trick." Then the merchant went away, and the three remained there till evening. After dinner, the second robber went out to the café to spend the time, and there he met one of the higher class people. The robber said, "Salam," and sat down next this merchant. They both smoked hashish together, and the thief told him, "I have just arrived from outside the city. The four gates are now shut, and I cannot return. I do not know where to go to sleep." The merchant told him, "Don't you feel ashamed to say that to me when you know what size my house is?" The robber said, "Thank you for the favour," and at the end of their smoke they went together to the merchant's house. When the two entered, lights were put in the writing room, with two beds for them, so that they might sleep together there. While the merchant was fast asleep and snoring, the robber awoke, and took the key of the money-box and the seal from the merchant's pocket, opened the box, counted the money, wrote a promissory note giving the amount of each kind of money, signed it with the merchant's seal, and put all back again as before, keeping the note. He then went to sleep again. Next morning they breakfasted together, becoming very friendly, and the robber said, "Please can you lend me your horse and a clean suit of clothes, because I must go to report a person to the Government?" So the merchant gave him a clean suit and a horse, and told him, "You can change your clothes and wash here. I must go to my office." He then left. The robber put on the clothes, and rode off to the Government office, and explained his case, and asked for a man to be sent to fetch the merchant, as he had to recover a large sum of money from him. The Chief of the Police sent a man to call him. When the merchant came, the Chief of the Police asked him, "Why don't you pay this gentleman the money you owe him?" He says, "Which gentleman?" "This gentleman," said the Chief of the Police, pointing to the robber. "This one!" "Yes, I am the one," said the robber. The merchant said, "Don't you feel ashamed at saying I owe you some money?" "Of course," he replied, and then he took out the promissory note, and handed it to the Chief of the Police. The Chief of the Police looked at it, and said, "Hallo! That is a big amount." The merchant asked to see it, and he looked at the list, and said, "I have not got so much money in my box. If I have so much in my house it must really be yours." The Chief of the Police sent some men to bring the box to the station, and on counting the money in it, he found it was exactly the amount written in the promissory note. The woman, and the other robber, and the merchant who was tricked on the previous day were all present and listening, and were all astonished. The Chief of the Police said, "Well, it must be the claimant's money," and he gave it to him. The merchant was angry, so the robber said, "I suppose you will be saying next that the horse is yours, and the suit I am wearing"; and when the merchant angrily demanded them the robber requested the Chief of the Police to lock the man up, because he was now trying to steal his horse and clothes. Then the merchant was locked up, and the robber left the money in the box at the Police Station, and rode off to his own home, where he met the woman and the first robber. He asked them, "How do you like that trick?" She said, "A very clever man you are," and she agreed to marry him. After three days they both went to the merchant, and told him the whole story, and returned him the money, and the horse and clothes. And the merchant was so pleased to get them back that he gave them some money to live upon. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 297 ff., two thieves had one wife, who agreed that she should belong only to the one who brought her the most valuable spoil in two days. The King executed her, as being the instigator of the robberies they committed. NO. 61 THE MARGOSA TREE In a certain city there is a King, it is said. The King thought of growing a Margosa tree without bitterness [in the fruit], so one day he made proclamation accordingly by beat of tom-toms. While two friends of one village were coming to seek a means of subsistence they heard this sound of tom-toms. When they asked at the hand of a tom-tom beater, "What is the sound of tom-toms for?" he said, "What is it? His Majesty our King will give presents to any person who should grow and give him a Margosa tree without bitterness." One of the friends, saying, "I can [do it]," went to the royal palace. "Canst thou grow and give me a Margosa tree without bitterness?" the King asked. "Yes, your Majesty," he said. "What things dost thou want for it?" the King asked. "I want monthly a hundred-weight of sugar and a large pot of cow's butter," he said. After that, the King asked, "Where wilt thou grow it?" "I must grow it on the edge of a river," he said. Having built and given him a house on the edge of the river, he gave him a hundred-weight of sugar and a large pot of butter monthly. Seven times in succession he planted seven trees. Seven times the seven trees were washed away by the river. During the time while he was there in that way, the other friend having come, asked, "Where is the tree?" Then the friend who had planted the tree says, "Either the King, or I, or the river." [120] The words that he said meant, "Either His Majesty the King will die; if not, I shall die, because of no means of subsistence." "Having cheated the King I get a living. When it is so, the foolish King has been caught by my trick." Duraya. North-western Province. NO. 62 THE GAMARALA'S FOOLISH SON While a Gamarala and a Gama-gaeni (his wife) were at a village, as there were no children to those two for a long time they went to a Dewala, and worshipped the Gods in order to obtain a child. After that they obtained a child. As that child was growing up the Gamarala and Gama-gaeni were becoming very old. So one day the Gamarala says to the Gama-gaeni, "Before we die we must summon and give a bride to the youth." Having said this they summoned and gave him a small girl. During the time while they were living thus, the Gamarala had an illness. After that the Gamarala died. Afterwards, while the Gama-gaeni, and the son, and the son's wife were there, one day the wife of the Gama-puta (son of the Gamarala) said, "Now then, let us go to my village, and having gone there, sowing our rice field lands let us do cultivation"; and both of them went. While they were there, one day, as an illness settled on the Gama-puta's wife, the Vedarala (village doctor) went to see her. The Vedarala asked, "What is the illness?" Then he said, "My wife has tumours which are growing large." The Vedarala having made a medicine which was to be rubbed [on the places], and having come to the house gave it, saying, "Rub thou this medicine on them." When he had been rubbing it for four or five days they grew larger. The Gama-puta having seen this, said, "Ada! These tumours are becoming very severe. I cannot go for medicine every day if they go on like this. Let us go to my village." So they set off to come to the Gama-puta's village. As they were coming, a man was driving a bull on the road. This Gamarala's son asked, "Where are you taking the bull?" The man said, "I am taking it to my village," he said. "Where are you going?" he asked. "We are going to my village. My wife has tumours. We are going to apply medical treatment," he said. "Where? Let us look at them. I also know a little medical art," he said. Then he showed them. When the man who was taking the bull saw them he said, "They are growing larger; they will never become well," he said. Then the Gama-puta thought, "This woman does not matter to me." So he said, "It would be good for you to give me that bull and take this woman." So taking the bull he gave the woman. "This one has water in his stomach (i.e., he had drunk water); you will be careful," the man said. Then having taken the bull, as he was going to the village he took a large cloth and tied it round the middle of the bull. While he was there after tying it, a man came, carrying a bill-hook on his shoulder. When he saw it he asked, "What is this doing?" "This one has water in his stomach; on that account I have tied the cloth round it," he said. Having seen the bill-hook, "What is that?" he asked. "This is a bill-hook," the man said. After he asked, "What do you do with the bill-hook?" the man said, "Taking a packet of cooked rice and a water-gourd, it is for cutting the jungle," he said. When he asked, "Will you take this bull and give me the bill-hook," the man said, "It is good," and having given the bill-hook went away taking the bull. Then the Gama-puta, having taken the bill-hook, and gone to the village, during the time while he was there thought he would go to cut jungle. Having thought so, he took a packet of cooked rice and a water-gourd, and the bill-hook, and having placed them upon a rock he remained looking on. Seeing that the bill-hook stayed [there] without cutting the jungle, and thinking that it was because he was looking at it, he came home. Having come and eaten rice, and having gone back afterwards, when he looked, the bill-hook having been put in the sun had become extremely hot. So the Gama-puta thinks, "The bill-hook having got fever, is it on that account it did not eat the cooked rice and did not cut the jungle?" He went quickly for medicine. Having gone he told the Veda (village doctor). The Veda having looked [at it] told him to bury it under the frame on which the water pots were set. Afterwards, having come home, he buried it under the water-pots' frame. On the following day, after he had looked [he found that] having become thoroughly wetted by the water it was cold. Having seen that, he got into his mind [the notion], "Ada! The medical treatment is very good." When a little time had gone, one day the Gamarala's wife had a severe illness, having got fever. The Gama-gaeni said, "Son, I have much fever. Having gone for medical advice and brought a little medicine, give me it," she said. He said, "It is good," and speedily having cut a hole under the water-pots' frame, and put the Gama-gaeni in the hole, he covered her with earth. Afterwards when he looked, the fever having thoroughly gone down she had become cold like a plantain tree; and saying, "Ada! Mother's fever is completely well," he went away. Duraya. North-western Province. In Indian Fables (Ramaswami Raju), p. 71, a variant of the last incident is given. A man with severe fever having cooled a red-hot poker in cold water, thought he could cool himself in the same way, so he sat in a tub of cold water, with a fatal result. In Indian Nights' Entertainment, Panjab (Swynnerton), p. 83, a weaver got a smith to make a sickle that would cut corn of itself. He laid it beside the standing corn, which he ordered it to cut; but on returning he found no work done, and the sickle ill with fever, through being in the sun. The smith to whom he applied for advice recommended him to tie a string to it, and lower it into a well; this cooled it. When his mother caught fever he treated her in the same way until she died and became cold. NO. 63 THE JACKAL'S JUDGMENT At a village there is a tank. A Crocodile, making a burrow in the [foot of the] embankment, stayed in it. Afterwards the mud having dried and become hard, the Crocodile being unable to get out of the hole was going to die. As a man was going past to fetch a midwife-mother to attend to his wife, the Crocodile, hearing him, said to the man, "Somehow or other manage to save me by breaking up the earth so that I may get out." The man broke up the earth, and let it out. After that, as there was no water left in the tank, the man, placing the Crocodile on his shoulder, went to the edge of the river. Having gone there, after he had placed it in the water, the Crocodile seized the arm of that man in order to eat him. "Why wilt thou eat me?" he asked. "Dost thou not know the help I gave thee? Yet thou art going to eat me!" The Crocodile said, "It is true, indeed, regarding the assistance. It is because I am hungry that I am going to eat thee." The man said, "It is good. Eat thou me. There are my witnesses, two or three persons. First ask them [regarding the justice of it], and then eat me." So they went to ask the witnesses about it. Having met with a Kumbuk tree, [121] he said to the Kumbuk tree, "This Crocodile is going to eat me. I ask this one's opinion of it." "What is that about?" The man said, "This Crocodile was going to die. I saved it. It is now going to eat me. Is that right?" Then the Kumbuk tree says, "O Crocodile-cultivator, do not let that man go. There is no animal so wicked as that man. He stays near the tree in the shade, and having broken off the bark and the leaves he takes them away. At last he cuts down and takes the tree." From there he goes and asks it of the Cow. "O Cow, I saved this Crocodile from death. This Crocodile is now going to eat me. Do you think it right?" The Cow says, "O Crocodile-cultivator, do not let that man go. That man is a wicked man. He takes our milk, and at last kills and eats us. Do not let him go." After that he asks it of the Jackal. The Jackal asks, "What is it about?" He says to the Jackal, "O Jackal-artificer, without letting this Crocodile die, I saved it. Now it is going to eat me." The Jackal-artificer says, "I cannot give this decision, not having seen what is the meaning of it. You must show me the whole affair from the beginning." Then the man, placing the Crocodile on his shoulder, and having gone with it and put it in the house in which the Crocodile was at first, [and closed the entrance], and made the soil hard, the Jackal says, "Now then, don't you be afraid. I am on your side." Then the man says, "Jackal-artificer, hear this case." "I am both the judge and the witness," the Jackal said. "Now then, taking a cudgel beat thou him until he dies. I saw thy excellence and this one's wickedness." Duraya. North-western Province. This is one of the best-known of folk-tales. A Malay variant is given in Mr. W. Skeat's Fables and Folk-Tales from an Eastern Forest, p. 20. A tiger, being released from a cage-trap by a man, seized him in order to eat him. When appealed to, the road and tree were against him. The Mouse-deer, which in Malaya fills the place of the clever animal in folk-tales, got the tiger to return to the cage, and called the neighbours to kill it. The tiger story is given in Old Deccan Days (Frere), p. 198 ff., and the appeal was made to a banyan tree, camel, bullock, eagle, and alligator [crocodile], which were against the man. The Jackal settled it in his favour. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 116--Tales of the Punjab, p. 107--the matter was referred to a pipal (or bo) tree, a road, and the Jackal, who induced the tiger to re-enter the trap, and left him there. In Indian Fairy Tales (Stokes), p. 16, the matter was not referred to others, but the Jackal told the tiger a good way of eating the man, by getting inside a large bag and having him thrown in to it. When it was inside the bag, the Jackal, a dog who was present, and the man tied it up, and beat the tiger to death. The Panchatantra (Dubois), as in several other instances, comes nearest to the Sinhalese story. A Brahmana carried a Crocodile in a sack from a stream to the Ganges, and was then seized by it. In reply to his appeal to the Crocodile's virtue and gratitude, he was told, "The virtue and gratitude of our days is to devour those who nourish us and who do good to us." Reference was made to a mango tree, an old cow (both of which agreed with the Crocodile), and a Jackal, who, stating that he wished to get to the bottom of the matter, induced the Crocodile to re-enter the sack, after which the Jackal broke his head with a stone. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 134, a boy on his way to fetch his bride, killed a mungus that was attacking a snake, which then turned on him, to eat him, but gave him eight days' grace to get married. When he returned with his wife she remonstrated with the snake, and was referred to some trees. One had preserved a thief in its hollow interior, but he found sandalwood there, and cut it down; and now it had become a rule to do evil for good. For the future widow's protection, the snake gave her magic powder capable of reducing to ashes whatever it fell on, so she applied it to the snake, and burnt it to dust. The tale is found in West Africa also, in a form which is very close to the South Indian and Sinhalese one. In Contes Soudanais (C. Monteil), p. 53, a child found a tired Crocodile, and carried it back to water. The Crocodile asked if he knew how goodness was rewarded. "By evil," the child said. The Crocodile was going to eat him, but referred the matter to an old horse and an old ass (both of which recommended it to do so), and lastly to a Hare, which refused to believe that the child could have carried it. When this was proved, and the Crocodile taken back, the Hare said to the child, "Doesn't thy father eat Crocodile?" "Yes." "And thy mother?" "Yes." "Hast thou not an axe?" "I have one," the child replied. "Then break the Crocodile's head and eat it," the Hare said. In many West African tales the Hare is the clever animal who outwits the others. NO. 64 THE HERON AND THE CRAB There is a great big mountain. On the mountain there is a rock-hole [containing water]. In it there are some small fishes. At all other places a Heron [122] eats the small fishes. In this rock-hole the Heron cannot eat the small fishes; he goes along [in the air], above the rock cave. On account of it, the Heron puts on a false appearance. "I am indeed an ascetic," he said. "I do not kill living creatures," he said. Thereupon the small fishes came for a talk. After they came he said, "Being in this hole ye cannot go up and down," he said. "Because it is so, I will take you and put you in a river possessing length and breadth," he said. After that, having taken them one by one he ate them. At the time when he was taking the Crab which remained over from them, the Crab took hold of the neck of the Heron. While on the way, when the Heron was preparing to kill the Crab, the Crab getting to know of it, cut the neck of the Heron with his claws and killed it. Duraya. North-western Province. THE POND HERON. (VARIANT.) At the time of a great drought the water of a pool having nearly dried up, the fishes [123] saw that they were coming near dying. A Pond Heron [124] which saw it, having very speedily come flying, spoke to the fishes: "Friends, I will go and conduct you to a pool in which there is much water," he said. They were pleased at it. The Pond Heron holding one by his bill, and having gone and put it down at the pool in which there was water, again brought it near those that were in the pool at which the water had dried up, and let it go. The fish which he brought informed them that there was a pool in which there was water, in the way the Heron said. All the fishes that were in the dried-up pool became wishful to go. Now then, the Pond Heron having taken them one by one, leaving aside the pool in which there was water, took them to a tree near it, and ate them. After not many days the fishes were finished; the Pond Heron ate all. Having eaten them, below the tree on which he put them there was a heap of bones to the extent of a tree in height. Afterwards having seen that a Crab was in the dried-up pool, the Pond Heron spoke to it: "Friend, you also come to be conducted there," he said. The Crab also spoke to the Pond Heron: "Friend, my shell is very thin," he said. "I will take you carefully," the Pond Heron said. After he had said it the Crab became wishful to go. The Pond Heron took hold of his shell, and the Crab took hold of the neck of the Pond Heron with his two claws. Having taken hold of him the Pond Heron flew away. Having seen that, leaving the pool on this side, he was flying to the tree, the Crab spoke to him. "The pool is here," he said. "I am taking thee to eat," the Pond Heron said. At that time having seized the two claws the Pond Heron killed him. Washerman. North-western Province. THE POND HERON. (VARIANT.) In a certain country a Pond Heron stayed, it is said. At the time while the Pond Heron was there, seeking small fishes in the tanks, a great general drought befel. On account of it all the tanks dried up. The Pond Heron ate all the small fishes that stayed in them. Having eaten them, he remained hungry for two or three days, there being no more small fishes. Having been in that state, and having flown away to seek food, as he was going along he saw that a tank having dried up, small fishes were there, being unable to go elsewhere. The Pond Heron having gone there, asked the small fishes, "What, friends, are you there for?" Then the small fishes said, "Ane! Friend, the little water that there was for us having dried up, we are without water." After that, the Pond Heron said, "If so, friends, there is a good river for you. I will take you to it, and put you down there." The little fishes said, "It is good, friend. If so, take us and put us down there." The Pond Heron said, "If so, let one come [first, and see the river]," and holding it with his bill he took it to the river, and put it down. That small fish going in the water all round the river came near the Pond Heron. Then the Pond Heron having said to the small fish, "Let us go, friend," the small fish said, "Friend, I cannot go." The Pond Heron said, "No, friend, let us go. Can you remain, without going? Your other people are to come." Afterwards the small fish said "Ha." So the Pond Heron, taking the small fish with his bill, came flying back. Having come to a great rough tree, and settled on a branch of the tree, he ate the small fish. Again he went flying to the place where the small fishes were. The small fishes asked, "Friend, one of us went with you. Where is he?" The Pond Heron replied, "Friends, he said he would not come. He stayed in the river." Then those small fishes said, "If so, go with us, and put us down in it." After that, the Pond Heron, taking one of them, settled on the tree at which he ate that small fish, and ate it. Again he came to the place where the other small fishes were. Then those small fishes said, "Friend, take us also, and put us in the river." The Pond Heron again having taken a small fish and settled on that very tree, ate it. Thus, in that way having taken the small fishes until they were finished, he ate them all. Having finished the small fishes, a Crab was omitted outside. The Pond Heron came and asked the Crab, "What, friend, are you here alone for?" The Crab said, "Ane! Friend, the small fishes of this tank went to the quarters where they went. I alone remain." Then the Pond Heron said, "Friend, shall I take you also to the river, and put you down in it?" The Crab said "Ha." Afterwards the Pond Heron, holding the Crab with his bill, took it and settled on the tree on which he ate the small fishes. While he was there the Crab asked, "What, friend, have you delayed here for?" Then the Pond Heron said, "It is here that I ate also the few small fishes that stayed in the tank. It is here I shall eat you also." Afterwards the Crab, having stiffened his claws a little, seized the neck of the Pond Heron. Then the Pond Heron with his bill tightened his hold of the Crab. Thus, in that way holding each other, both of them died, and fell on the ground below the tree. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. The Jataka story No. 38 (vol. i, p. 96), about a Crane and a Crab, nearly agrees with the second of these tales, but the ending is like that of the first one, the Crab killing the Crane. It is also much more artificial and developed in the conversations. It is possible that the story related by the Duraya may represent a very early form of the tale, or perhaps the original one. If the story were derived from the Jataka tale, it is very improbable that in a country where ponds are more numerous than in any other, we should find the pool of the Jataka, to which the fishes were to be taken, displaced in two of these by a river. The story is given in Indian Fables (Ramaswami Raju), p. 88. A Crane pretended to carry the fish to a pond, and was killed by a Crab. In Skeat's Fables and Folk-Tales from an Eastern Forest, p. 18, the bird was a Pelican, which was killed by a Crab. In the Panchatantra (Dubois), a Cormorant came to the fishes at a pool, and allayed their suspicions by putting on an appearance of piety and by alleging that he had become a religious devotee. He informed them that he foresaw a twelve years' drought, in which the pools would dry up and they would perish, and he offered to transport them to a mountain pool fed by a perennial spring. They were eaten on a rock, and the Crab strangled the bird. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 31, the animals were a Crane and a Makara, which is said by the translator to generally mean a crocodile, though in early carvings in Ceylon and India it is a fabulous animal with two short legs and a tail usually curved upon its back. The bird frightened the fish by saying that a man was coming to catch them with a net, and he offered to convey them to a lake. When the Makara was taken to the rock at which the others were killed, he cut off the Crane's head. This story nearly agrees with that in the Hitopadesa, in which a Crab killed the bird. NO. 65 THE JACKAL AND THE BRAHMANA In a certain city a Jackal according to custom was eating the fowls, it is said. Now, as the Jackal was there eating the fowls, by degrees he finished all the fowls in that manner. There was still one fowl at the royal palace. So this Jackal went to the royal palace to eat the fowl. After he had come there the Jackal tried to catch it, and while he was there striving to eat the fowl it became light. There being no means of going away because of the people, he sought a place in which to remain hidden. As he was seeking it, except that there was open ground and no jungle, when he looked there was only a clump of weeds as a hiding place. While he was in it peeping out, a Brahmana comes near. This Jackal asked, "You Brahmana! Where art thou going?" he asked. The Brahmana says, "I am going in search of a livelihood." The Jackal says, "I will give thee a means of subsistence; carry me here and there," he said. Then the Brahmana taking the Jackal slung him by his four legs. "Dost thou carry me by the legs to some place to give a livelihood to thee?" he said. "If not, how shall I carry thee?" the Brahmana asked. Then the Jackal says, "Having placed me in thy upper garment take me up and go," he said. "Look here! Take me and go thou along the road which leads to this jungle," he said. "Having taken me and gone on it there will be a clump of wild dates. Do thou put me down near the clump of wild dates," he said. So the Jackal came to the open ground in the bundle. Then the Jackal told this Brahmana, after he had placed the bundle on the ground, to stay looking in the direction of the sun. Having remained looking in the direction of the sun, he told him to look in the direction of the clump of wild dates, and to take the kahawanas (coins) which were placed in it. When he had looked in the direction of the clump of wild dates, the rays of the sun having entered his eyes a yellow colour went into everything, and he thought he saw some money in it. So the Brahmana crept into the clump of wild dates and passed his hand through it, and looked through it. Then because there were no kahawanas, he came out into the open ground. When he looked on the path there was no Jackal. Then the Brahmana said, "There is neither the journey that I came for, nor the kahawanas. Ada! Ada!" So he went away. Duraya. North-western Province. In this story we find one of the lowest castes of the Chandalas making fun of the highest caste of all, a mild revenge for their treatment by the latter. As part of the joke, the Jackal is represented as addressing the Brahmana in the manner in which the latter would have spoken to a Duraya, and as being carried about by him, thus turning the tables completely, the chief duty of the Durayas being carrying loads for others. In the Jataka story No. 113 (vol. i, p. 255) a Jackal having overslept himself in some bushes in Benares, concealed himself until a Brahmana came near. By promising him two hundred gold pieces he induced the man to carry him concealed under his robe until they reached the cremation ground. There he told him to dig up a tree in order to get the treasure, and then ran off while the man was occupied with the work. NO. 66 THE CAT WHO GUARDED THE PRECEPTS A Cat having seen that a sun-dried fish was in a bag of rice, at the time when he was going to it to eat it, a rosary [hanging there] fell on his neck. After it had fallen, as he was going away with it on his neck a Jungle-hen met him, and ran off. The Cat then says, "I am guarding (that is, keeping) the Precepts (of Buddha, sil rakinawa). Tummal Kitti, [125] come here and go with me." While he was taking her with him they met with a Ground Cuckoo. He called this one: "'Bug-bug'-singing Kaccale, [126] I am guarding the Precepts. Come here and go with me." As they were going they met with a Hare. He called him also: "Tokka [127] the Devil-dancer, come here and go with me. I am guarding the Precepts." Having gone to a rock cave [as a pansala or monk's residence], while they were there the Cat said, "Tokka the Devil-dancer, Tummal Kitti having scratched [the ground] in the pansala has defiled it. I must kill this one," he said. When the Hare said, "It is good," he killed her. After the Cat had said, "It is not a fault to eat a dead one, is it?" when the Hare replied, "No, there is not any fault in it," he ate her. Afterwards the Cat said, "Tokka the Devil-dancer, this 'Bug-bug'-singing Kaccale has been drinking arrack (palm spirit) until his eyes have become red." When he said, "I must kill this one," he killed it. Then saying, "There is no fault in eating a dead one," he ate it. Then he said, "Tokka the Devil-dancer, thou having dropped dung in the pansala art defiling it." When he said, "I must kill thee," the Hare said, "Yes, killing me is virtuous and proper. I must first perform a great gallop [128] and a little gallop, two gallops. [129] After that there will be no fault if you kill me," he said. "Yes, perform them," the Cat said. Then the Hare having run round [the cave], "There! The small gallop," he said. Again having gone running round, and [then] having jumped over the Cat's head, while he was running away he said, "There! The great gallop," and ran off. Duraya. North-western Province. HOW THE CAT BECAME AN UPASAKA. [130] (VARIANT.) At a certain time, at the house of a Gamarala, milk having been taken and placed on the shelf by him [to curdle], the Gamarala went to the chena. There is a Cat at the house. The Cat having looked [to see] when the Gamarala was not there, went to the shelf to eat the curds by stealth. Having gone there and eaten them by stealth, as he was coming away the Gamarala came home from the chena, and the Cat, becoming afraid, sprang down. The Gamarala's rosary was hanging on the shelf. As the Cat deceitfully was springing down, the rosary fell on the Cat's neck. Then while the rosary was on its neck it goes away. Why? Should the Gamarala get to know about its eating the curds he would thrash it inordinately. Well then, as it was going it met with a Rat. The Rat [seeing the rosary] asked the Cat, "Upasakarala, [131] where are you going?" "I am going to guard the Precepts," he said. "You also come and go along with me," he said. At the time when the two were going they met with the Squirrel called the Three-lined Chief. [132] "Upasakarala, where are you going?" he asked. "We are going to guard the Precepts. You also come and go with us," he said. The Squirrel having said, "Ha. I will come," the three went along [together]. As they were going they met with the Ground Cuckoo called Bum-bum the Tom-tom Beater. "Where, Upasakarala, are you going?" he asked. "We are going to guard the Precepts. You also come," he said. The Ground Cuckoo having said, "Ha. If so, I also will come," the four went together. At the time when they were going they met with the Hare called Tokkan the Devil-dancer. "Upasakaralas, where are you going?" he asked. "We are going to guard the Precepts. You also come and go with us," he said. Well then, the five went to the jungle. Having gone on and on, there was a rock cave. Having said, "Look there! Our pansala," he told the people to creep inside. "In order that I may go and rehearse the Precepts, let no single other person besides cause any disturbance," he said. Then the Rat, being hungry during the night, was wriggling about. So the Upasaka Cat said, "Ade! While Bum-bum the Tom-tom Beater stays there quietly, while the Three-lined Chief stays there [quietly], while Tokkan the Devil-dancer stays there [quietly], this one does not take [to heart] the things that were said. Being on guard over it I must put it out of the way." [133] Saying this, he ate the Rat. At the daybreak watch the Ground Cuckoo crowed [as usual]. After it had crowed, the Cat said, "While the Three-lined Chief stays there [quietly], while Tokkan the Devil-dancer stays there [quietly], because this one is making noises, and as I am on guard over it, I must put it out of the way," and seizing that one also he ate it. As it became light in the morning, at the time when the Squirrels were singing, "Tin-Tin," the Three-lined Chief also sang, "Tin-Tin." Then the Cat said, "While Tokkan the Devil-dancer stays there quietly, and I stay here [quietly], this one having said it through arrogance, and as I am on guard over it, I must put it out of the way." Having said this he ate that one also. Now then, the Hare called Tokkan the Devil-dancer ascertaining that he was eating it, began to cry in the morning. "What, Tokkan the Devil-dancer, are you crying for?" he asked. "I know thoroughly how to dance dances. Because there is no one to look at the dances I was sorry," he said. After he had said, "If so, dance a little for me to look at it," the Hare said, "Upasakarala, open the doorway so that a little light may fall into the cave. Having seen my dance you must eat me also," the Hare said. When he moved from the door, out of the way, for a little light to fall inside, the Hare, having jumped to the four corners of the cave, springing over the head of the Cat went away. P. B. Madahapola, Ratemahatmaya. North-western Province. HOW THE CAT PERFORMED BELL WORSHIP. (VARIANT.) In a certain country a man reared a Cat, it is said. The Cat every day goes to eat by stealth in the villages. On account of it the man one day caught the Cat, and having tied a hawk's bell [134] on its neck, let it go. After that, the Cat, without going that day into the village, went away along the path. As it was going along it met with a Rat. The Rat asked the Cat, "Where, O Cat-Lord, are you going?" Then the Cat said, "I am going for Bell Worship." The Rat asked, "Shall I come too?" The Cat said, "It is good." The Rat also having set off, as the two were going away they met with a Squirrel. The Squirrel asked the Cat, "Where, O Cat-Lord, are you going?" Then the Cat said, "I am going for Bell Worship." The Squirrel asked, "Shall I come too?" After that, the Cat said, "It is good." Now then, the Squirrel having set off, as the three were going away they met with a Jungle-cock. The Jungle-cock asked the Cat, "Where, O Cat-Lord, are you going?" Then the Cat said, "I am going for Bell Worship." The Jungle-cock said, "I shall come too." To that the Cat said, "It is good." The Jungle-cock having set off, the four persons went to a great rock cave in the jungle. Having made those three remain in the direction of the corner, the Cat stayed at the doorway. After being there [a short time], the Cat first of all said to the Rat, "O Rat, [135] I am hungry." Then the Rat said, "Let it be according to the wish of the Cat-Lord." After that, the Cat, seizing the Rat, ate it. In a little more time the Cat said to the Squirrel, "O Squirrel, [136] I am hungry." At that time the Squirrel also said, "Let it be according to the wish of the Cat-Lord." So the Cat having seized the Squirrel also, ate it. In a little more time the Cat said to the Jungle-cock, "O Jungle-cock, [137] I am hungry." At that time the Jungle-cock said falsely, "Let it be according to the wish of the Cat-Lord." Afterwards, when the Cat was approaching very near the Jungle-cock, having sprung at the Cat's face and with his spurs having plucked out both his eyes, the Jungle-cock flew away. The Cat there and then died. Cultivating Caste. North-western Province. The Precepts of Buddha to which reference is made in the first two stories, are the Ata-sil, or Eight Precepts, the keeping of which by lay devotees, called Upasakas, is a necessary obligation. The first one prohibits the taking of life. The others are against theft, immorality, lying, drinking intoxicants, eating after noon, attendance at theatrical amusements, dancing, singing, etc., and personal adornment. In the Jataka story No. 128 (vol. i, p. 281) there is an account of a Jackal who pretended to lead a saintly life, standing on one leg because the earth could not support his weight if he stood on all four, he said. He ate the rats which came to pay their respects to him, always seizing the hindmost as they left. The King of the Rats waited till the others had gone, and then sprang at the Jackal's throat and killed him. The next story, No. 129, is similar. In No. 384 (vol. iii, p. 170) a Crow pretended to be a saint, and also stood on one leg for the same reason, saying that it fed only on wind. When the other birds left it in charge of their young ones it ate them. At last it was killed by the other birds. In the Maha Bharata (Udyoga Parva) a Cat which pretended to be an ascetic killed the mice that placed themselves under its protection. In the Hitopadesa a Cat which gained the confidence of the birds by its pious demeanour ate their young ones. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 67, a pious Cat killed a hare and a bird. NO. 67 THE LIZARD AND THE LEOPARD At a village there are a Leopard and a Lizard. [138] The Lizard and Leopard cut a chena, it is said. Afterwards both having quarrelled they divided the chena between them. In the part which the Lizard got he planted Kaekiri creepers, which became large; in the part which the Leopard got the Kaekiri died, and he abandoned it. Then the Leopard ate the Kaekiri fruit in the Lizard's chena, and after eating rubbed himself on his hams over the fruits that were on the ground. So the Lizard gave some Kaekiri fruits to the smith, and having got a small knife made took it away. After getting it made, the Lizard ran it through some plucked Kaekiri fruits [and left it there]. Afterwards the Leopard came to eat Kaekiri. Having eaten, he rubbed himself on the plucked Kaekiri fruits. Then the knife pierced him. Over this matter the Leopard and Lizard quarrelled. Afterwards the Leopard, having eaten cattle flesh, became strong again. One day the Leopard told the Lizard that the Gamarala had a chena. The Lizard said, "Ade! Where is it? Let me look at it." Having gone with him to it, the Leopard shows him the fruits and says, "Ade! Lizard, eat thou there. Lizard, eat thou here." The Gamarala having heard it and having gone home, began to laugh. The Gama-Mahage (his wife) asked, "What are you laughing at?" The Gamarala said, "A Leopard sitting in the chena was saying and saying to a Lizard, 'Eat thou there, Lizard. Eat thou here, Lizard.'" Afterwards, when the Lizard was in the chena the Leopard goes to the house of the Gamarala and says, "Gamarala, see! The Lizard is eating thy chena." Then the Gamarala scolded him and said, "I heard thee telling the Lizard, 'Eat thou there, Lizard. Eat thou here, Lizard.'" Then the Leopard went to the Lizard, and said, "Friend, take thou my piece of chena, and give me thy piece of chena." Because the Lizard was afraid he said, "It is good," and they exchanged chenas. The Lizard planted the abandoned piece in a thorough manner. The Leopard ate the fruits in the part which he got, until they were finished. After that, the Leopard went to the Lizard again, and said, "Friend, let us exchange chenas again." The Lizard felt anger which he could not bear, but because he was afraid he said again, "It is good," to that also. Afterwards, the Lizard went to a man, and asked him to tell him a way of succeeding, so as to fight the Leopard. The man said, "When he asks you again, say you will not. The Leopard will come and quarrel with you. Then say, 'We cannot fight in that manner. You go, and after asking your mother about a means of success, return. I will go, and after asking my mother about a means of success, will return.' Having said it and come away, and having rolled in the mud and dried it, and again rolled in the mud and dried it, by rolling in the mud and doing thus you will become big. After that go to fight. The Leopard's claws will not enter your body." All this the man told the Lizard. Afterwards, one day the Leopard said, "Let us exchange chenas." The Lizard told him as the man said. When the Leopard went to his mother she told him to rub coconut oil over his body. The Lizard having gone to a mud hole, jumps into it, and climbs onto a post to dry the mud. Again it jumps into the mud and climbs onto the post. Thus, having acted in that manner he caused much mud to be smeared on his body. After that, having met each other, the Leopard and Lizard quarrelled again, and struck each other on the face. Then the Lizard springs on the Leopard's back and scratches his flesh. The Leopard jumps about, but only scratches mud off the Lizard. Having fought in that way, the Leopard, becoming afraid, went away. The Lizard went and washed off the mud. The Leopard having gone and crawled under the corn store at a house, while sitting there says, "Bite thou me here, too, Lizard. Bite thou me here, too, Lizard." [139] While he was there saying it he saw a boy [near him]. Then the Leopard says, "Ade! Do not tell any one, or I will kill thee." Because of it, the boy being afraid did not tell any one. Afterwards the Leopard, thinking, "The boy will tell it," came while the boy [140] was asleep on the bed [in the veranda], and having crept under the bed, lifted it on his back and went off with it, in order to eat him. When the boy awoke and saw that the Leopard was going along carrying him, he caught hold of a branch and hung by it. After the Leopard, having gone a long distance, looked back the boy was not there. Then the Leopard came running back to seek him. Having seen that the boy was on a branch, the Leopard asked, "Art thou descending to the ground, boy? I shall eat thee." The boy said, "Ade! Bola, art thou saying Bana? [141] I have no means of stretching out my hands to descend," he said. "What is in thy hands?" he asked. "In this hand I have small Lizard's eggs; in this other hand I have large Lizard's eggs," he said. "A sort of Lizards as big as Talipat trunks and Coconut trunks will be coming." Then the Leopard, saying, "Stay thou there, boy, until I have run a little far," bounded off and ran away. Duraya. North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 117 ff., the latter part of this tale was given by Miss J. A. Goonetilleke, containing the fight of the animals and the incidents that follow it. The animals were a "Bloodsucker" Lizard and a "tiger," a word often used in Ceylon where "leopard" is intended to be understood. There are no tigers in Ceylon. An incident like that in the chena, in which the knife wounded the Leopard, is found in Old Deccan Days (Frere), p. 177. In it a barber tied a knife to a cucumber, and it wounded a Jackal who began to eat the fruit. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 240--Tales of the Punjab, p. 227--a woman who was being carried off by robbers while on her bed, seized a branch and climbed up a tree when they paused under a Banyan tree. The same incident is given in The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 40. With regard to the fear of the lizard which the leopard is described in the Sinhalese story as exhibiting, I am able to state that it is not much exaggerated. Many years ago, on returning to my bungalow one day, at a tank in a wild part of the jungle, I found that a lizard of the species mentioned in this tale--a Katussa or "Bloodsucker"--had entered my bedroom. I brought up a tame, full-grown leopard which I then had, and introduced it to the lizard, as a new experience for it. At first it was inclined to play with the lizard, but on pretending to seize it with its mouth it felt the spikes on the lizard's back, and immediately showed the greatest fear of it. The attempts which it made to escape when the lizard came in its direction were quite ridiculous, and it became so terrified that I was obliged to take it away to the security of its den, a large packing-case under a tree to which it was tethered, leaving the lizard the complete master of the situation, though probably nearly equally alarmed. NO. 68 THE LION AND THE JACKAL While an old Lion was in a rock cave, after a Jackal went there the Lion says, "Ane! Bola, I have been thinking of eating fresh pig's flesh." When he said, "When I ran and sprang at some Boars now I couldn't catch one," the Jackal said, "If it come near this cave can't you seize it, Sir?" "In that way I can still do it. But will a Boar come near me? The thing you are saying would be a wonder." The Jackal says, "Somehow or other I will bring a Boar." The jackal having walked about in the jungle, and having seen a Boar, says, "How many days have I now been seeking thee!" After he had said, "Why should I be of assistance to thee?" the Boar says, "Uwah! Why is there so much need of it by me? Thou wilt not be of any assistance to me." The Jackal said, "Our King is there, having now become old. Is it true or not, Cultivator, that as he told me to seek a person to give the sovereignty to, I have been going about seeking thee? If not, am I telling lies? Come along and go there with me." Having gone near the Lion, taking him with him, the Jackal says, "Now then, having gone near the King and made obeisance, take the sovereignty." As the Boar was approaching in great fear the Lion sprang at him. After he had seized him, the Boar, pushing off his paws, bounded away. Then the Jackal says, "Did a thunderbolt strike you, Sir? Why didn't you hold the Boar?" The Lion says, "Ane! Bola, did I fail? Are you saying it falsely? When will such a Boar come near me again?" As the King was sorrowful the Jackal says, "Are you mad, Sir, that you doubt my powers? I will bring that one again now." The Jackal having gone on the path on which the Boar went, and having seen the Boar says, "What is the matter with thee? Ade! Did a thunderbolt strike thee, that thou camest bounding away?" The Boar says, "What did I come away for? Truly, I was running away. If I had stayed there it would be seen why!" Then the Jackal says, "If thou hadst stopped he wouldn't eat thee. Art thou a person afraid to have the sovereignty bestowed on thee? What was it? Except that he merely looked at thee he did not attempt to eat thee, Cultivator. If he had done so wouldst thou be thus? [142] No. Did he attempt the crime of eating thee?" [At last the Boar agreed to return to the Lion.] Afterwards, when they went near the Lion together, the Jackal says, "Friend, go without fear, and tell him to hand over the sovereignty." In that manner the Boar went near the Lion. Having sprung with great force on the neck of the Boar, and broken the neck, and broken the bone of the head, as he was going to eat the brains the Jackal said, "Don't." When the Lion asked, "Why not, Bola?" the Jackal says, "Though you, Sir, exercise the sovereignty your wisdom is less than ours. Do kings eat and drink in that manner?" After he had said, "Blood has fallen on your body, Sir. Having gone to the river, bathing and drying your body there, and having returned, be good enough to eat sitting down," the Lion went to bathe. After he had caused him to go, the Jackal ate the Boar's brains, and remained there silently. The Lion having come back, and taken the skull in his paws, sought for the brain in order to eat it. When he said, "There is no brain," the Jackal said, "Sir, don't you know so much? Having once escaped death and gone away, would he again be caught for killing if he had had brains? That one had no brains," he said. Duraya. North-western Province. HOW THE JACKAL CHEATED THE LION. (VARIANT.) In a more ancient time than this, a Lion King dwelt in a certain forest. A Jackal who lived in that very forest, establishing a friendly state with the Lion began to reside near him. Should I state the mutual trust of them both [it was this]--the Lion knew that although by the aid of the Jackal's means of success (that is, advice and stratagems), the Lion was seizing and eating the flesh of other animals, he did not get from the Jackal any other assistance that ought to be given. When a little time had passed in that way, it was evident that the Jackal's body was becoming very fat. The Lion saw it, and assuming a false illness remained lying down at the time when the Jackal came. Having seen it, the Jackal made obeisance to the Lion, and asked, "What, O Lord, are you lying down for? Has some ailment befallen Your Majesty? Are you not going to hunt to-day?" Then the Lion said, "My friend Jackal, a headache having afflicted me to-day, I am in a very serious state. From this time onward, having hunted, and eaten only the small amount of the brains of the animals, I will give thee all the rest of the flesh. Do thou subsist on it. For the reason that I am not well enough to go to hunt this day, thou and I, both of us, must remain hungry. Art thou unable to go hunting [alone] this day only?" he asked. Thereupon the Jackal said to the Lion, "O Lord, is that which should be done a difficult thing? Your Majesty will stay thus. I will go, and will return calling some animal or other [to come] near Your Majesty." Having instructed him to spring up and seize it as soon as it comes, the Jackal went to seek animals. While going for this purpose [it saw that] a Goat was tied in a field. Having told many falsehoods to the Goat it returned, inviting it [to come] near the Lion. Then the Lion sprang to seize it. Thereupon the Goat, having become afraid, ran away. The Jackal went [after it], and causing it to turn back again, returned [with it]. Then the Lion, having killed the Goat, went to bathe in order [to purify himself, so as] to eat the small quantity of brains. In the meantime the Jackal removed the brains, and having eaten them replaced the skin. The Lion having returned after bathing, when he came to split open the skin in order to eat the brains, saw that there were no brains. Having seen it, the Lion asked the Jackal, "Where are my brains?" Thereupon the Jackal said, "O Lord, if this one had any brains would it have come twice near Your Majesty? It came twice because it had no brains." So saying the Jackal ate the small quantity of flesh also. Western Province. Improbable as the notion appears that an animal, other than insects or fishes, would return into the same danger shortly after escaping from it, one instance of this has come under the observation of myself and a friend, with whose approval I insert this account of the occurrence. As Mr. H. E. H. Hayes, late of the Public Works Department, Ceylon, was walking one day near the water, at the embankment of the Vilankulam tank in the Northern Province, a crocodile made its appearance suddenly in the water near him, apparently attracted by his young terrier. He fired a charge of snipe shot at its head, and it disappeared. He and I went to the spot on the following day. I remained on the look-out on the top of the bank, while he was partly hidden behind a tree nearer the water. There he tweaked or pinched the dog so as to make it yelp a little. Then we observed a crocodile's head raised among some weeds far out in the tank. Not many minutes afterwards the crocodile's head appeared out of the water only a few feet away from the dog. Mr. Hayes at once shot it with his rifle; and when he recovered it found the shot marks of the previous day in its head. In this case it might almost be said with truth that the animal had no brains, since the brain of an ordinary tank crocodile is only about the size of a large walnut. When I split the skull of one, the men who were with me could not find the brain cavity, and thought it had no brains. In Indian Nights' Entertainment, Panjab (Swynnerton), p. 268, a Tiger with a broken leg takes the place of the Lion, and a Jackal brought an Ass to eat what he represented to be the superior grass at the place. After the Tiger had killed it and eaten part of it, he crawled to a spring for a drink, and in his absence the Jackal ate the heart (which the Tiger wanted itself), and gave the same explanation of its absence. The author added a note, "the heart among the Punjabis being the seat of reason." In the Panchatantra (Dubois), an Ass was brought to a sick Lion King in order that he might eat the heart and ears, as a remedy for his illness. When he was brought back the second time by a Jackal, the Lion killed him and ate the heart and ears. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), p. 85, there is a similar story, except that after killing the Ass the Lion went to bathe, and the Jackal then ate the heart and ears. He told the Lion that "the creature never possessed ears or a heart, otherwise how could he have returned when he had once escaped?" STORIES OF THE RODIYAS NO. 69 THE ROLL OF COTTON In a certain country there is a city. In the city there are two persons, an elder sister and a younger sister. There are two female children of the two persons. The younger sister took to spinning cotton. At that time her daughter also came there. A roll of cotton was driven away in the wind out of the daughter's hand. Then her mother beat the daughter. "Wherever it should go do thou bring back the roll of cotton," she said. This girl, weeping and weeping, follows the roll of cotton. She came to a betel plot which a lame man had made. To this girl who was following the roll of cotton the lame man says, "Ane! Pour water on this betel plot and go, please," he said. Afterwards, having poured it she went on. "The betel has been plucked," she said. As she was going [she came to a place where] a dog was tied. "Ane! Younger sister, tie me in the shade and go, please," he said. "While you are going home to-morrow there will be a haunch of a bull tied up [for you]," he said. So having tied the dog in the shade she went on. Then the roll of cotton having gone on, stopped in a cane-brake. At that time a King came there. That girl was tying hooked sticks in order to get the roll of cotton. So the King said, "I will bring the roll of cotton. Go thou to the royal palace and cook," he said. The girl went and cooked. The King got the roll of cotton. The King having gone, gave the roll of cotton to the girl. After he had given it, both of them ate the cooked rice. After they had eaten it the King called the girl to the house. Having called her, he said to the girl, "Please take from these boxes any box thou wantest," he said. Then the girl, having looked at them, took a small sandalwood box. Afterwards the King said, "This will provide a livelihood for the persons who are rearing thee, also," he said. Taking the box, she came near the dog that was tied up. There the dog had tied up the haunch of a bull. Having taken the haunch of the bull from there, she came near the lame man. Having got betel from there, she came near her mother at the girl's house. Having come there she opened that box. Having opened it, after she looked [in it she found that] the box was full of silver and gold; the box had been filled. Then that other elder sister and the elder sister's daughter saw these articles [and heard how the girl obtained them]. On the following day that mother and daughter took to spinning cotton. Afterwards, from the mother's hand by force a roll of cotton was carried away [by the wind]; having been carried away she beat the daughter, and told her to bring the roll of cotton. So this daughter, weeping and weeping, goes after the roll of cotton. She goes near the lame man who is making the betel plot. Then the lame man said, "Please pour water [on these plants]." Having said, "I will not," she went by the place where the dog was. The dog said, "Ane! Elder sister, tie me in the shade and go. As you go [home] I will place a haunch of a bull for you," he said. Having said she would not she went away. The roll of cotton having gone into the very cane-brake, that also stopped there. Then this girl was tying hooked sticks in order to get the roll of cotton. Then the King [came there, and] said, "I will bring the roll of cotton. Go thou to the palace and cook," he said. The girl having gone, without any deficiency cooked rice and vegetables. The King having taken the roll of cotton [there], both of them went to eat the rice. Having gone and looked [at it in order] to eat it, they could not eat it; it had the taste of water. Having called the girl he said, "From these please take for thyself any box thou wantest," he said. This one having searched and searched, took in her arms a great chest. Afterwards the King said, "Go thou; please open the box at the place where thy mother and father are," he said. The girl, after it became night, having summoned every one, [143] opened the box. All [the things] in the box were cobras and polangas. The cobras and polangas having bitten the people of the village, destroyed them. They made all the village desolate. Rodiya. North-western Province. In Wide-Awake Stories (Steel and Temple), p. 178--Folk Tales of the Punjab, p. 167--there is an account of the good luck of a kind girl and the bad luck of an unkind girl, but the incidents are unlike those of the Sinhalese story. NO. 70 THE JACKAL AND THE LEOPARD In a certain country there is a Gamarala. There is a goat-fold of the Gamarala's. At that goat-fold one by one the goats are disappearing during the night. Afterwards the Gamarala having gone there [to watch for the thief] went to sleep. In the hand of the Gamarala there was a lump of salt chillies. Afterwards the Leopard came at night. The Leopard lifting each goat looks at it. Having looked, afterwards having lifted up the Gamarala [and found he was the heaviest] he took him. Carrying him away he took him to his rock cave. Then the Gamarala quickly [entered it, and] shut the door. The Leopard then was trying to go into the cave. Having heard the uproar the Jackal Panditaya came. "What is this, Sapu-flowers' Minister, you are doing?" he asked. "In other years I brought goats [and ate them without trouble]. That one having entered the cave has shut the door." "You, Sir, having put your tail inside the cave be pleased to wave it," he said; the Jackal Panditaya said. "Do not catch hold of the tail," he said [to the Gamarala]. "Otherwise, having put thy foot against the wall, and having folded it two-fold or three-fold, hold it [fast]," he said. "Do not jam a little of the golden salt chillies under the tail of the Sapu-flowers' Minister," he said. Then the Gamarala having seized the tail jammed in the salt chillies. Afterwards the Sapu-flowers' Minister pulling out his tail bounded away. Having bounded off and gone, he sat down on a flat rock. Afterwards the Jackal Panditaya asked, "What are you on that flat rock for?" "I am looking if this country is fruitful or unfruitful," [144] he said. Again, the Gamarala, saving his life, went to the village. The Jackal Panditaya went to the Gamarala. "What is it, Gamarala? Couldn't you kill him?" "While he was outside how could I, sitting in the cave, kill him?" "I will tell you a trick for that one," the Jackal Panditaya said. Afterwards he said, "You must make a trap for that one," he said. "Where shall I make the trap?" [the Gamarala] asked. "At the fence of the goat-fold," he said. Afterwards he made the trap. The Sapu-flowers' Minister was noosed in the trap. On the following day the Gamarala came to look. Having come before the Gamarala, also the Jackal Panditaya came near the trap. "Gamarala, to-day indeed he has been hanged," he said. Etana metana to gasanne Kambul baeta dipanne Kanda sewanata aedapanne "Strike thou there and here a blow; Knocks upon the cheeks bestow; Drag him to the hill's shadow," the Jackal Panditaya said. Hampottayi to ganne Malu tika mata denne. Then he said-- "'Tis the skin will be for thee, The little flesh thou'lt give to me." Rodiya. North-western Province. Part of this story was given in The Orientalist, vol. iv, p. 30. A Jackal that had followed a Leopard which was trying to get at a man who had taken refuge in a corn store, advised it to insert its tail through a gap in the doorway, and wave it about. When it did so, the Jackal said in the Peraelibasa, [145] which the Leopard did not understand, Katu anuwe potun detak, which when transposed becomes atu kanuwe detun potak, "Two or three twists round the pillar of the corn store." The man acted as advised, and held the tail fast. When some men came up they killed the Leopard. NO. 71 HOW THE BOARS KILLED THE RAKSHASA There is a certain city. There is a very great jungle belonging to the city. A wild Sow stays in the jungle. The Sow having come to a house on the high ground, and pains having come to her, gave birth to a little Boar. The men of the house having seen the little Boar, catching it and amply giving it to eat, reared it. [After he had grown up], one day that village Boar says, "I cannot remain thus." Having thought, "I must go to a great jungle," he went away. After that, having gone to the jungle, while he was there a Rakshasa having come to that jungle was eating the large Boars. Afterwards the village Boar said [to the others], "I will tell you a good trick," he said. "What is it?" the other large Boars in the jungle asked. "Please dig two very large wells. At the bottom make the two wells one," [146] he said. "The large village Boar will be [on the ground] in the middle of the two wells," he said. He told the other large Boars to be round the well. The Rakshasa every day comes to a rock. The large village Boar asks the other large Boars, "This Rakshasa having come, what will you do as he comes?" The other Boars say, "This Rakshasa having come makes grimaces at us." "Then ye also make grimaces," he said. "Again, he inflates his sides at us." "Do ye also inflate your sides," he said. "He makes a very great roar." "Do ye also at that time roar all together," he said. On the following day the Rakshasa having come, and having looked in the direction of the Boars, made grimaces, inflated his sides, and made a very great roar. [The Boars did the same.] Then the Rakshasa thought, "To-day these Boars will eat me." Thinking this he went near the Lion. Afterwards the Lion scolded him. "Ane! You also having gone, and having been unable [to do anything], have you come back?" "What am I to do? All that I do the Boars are doing." Afterwards the Rakshasa again came to the place where the Boars were. After that, the village great Boar says to the other Boars, "To-day the Rakshasa is coming to eat us indeed. What shall we do?" he said to the great Boars. "[This is what we will do.] The Rakshasa having come, when he springs at the great Boars I will jump into the well. Having jumped in, I will come to the ground by the tunnel [and the other well]," he said. "Before I ascend you eat the Rakshasa," he said. In that way the Rakshasa came. Having come, as he was springing [at the Boar] the Boar jumped into the well. Then the Rakshasa having jumped [in after him] they bit him and ate him up. Afterwards the great village Boar asked the other Boars, "Who else is there to eat your flesh?" Then, "Still there is a Lion King," they said. Saying, "Ada! Seeking him there, let us all go," they all went. The Lion King as the Boars were coming climbed up a tree. Then the Boars at once having broken the roots of the tree, felled the tree to the ground. The Lion ran away. Then the Boars, saying, "Seize him, seize him!" having gone chasing him, killed the Lion. Rodiya. North-western Province. This tale is given in the Jataka story No. 492 (vol. iv, p. 217). A Boar reared by a carpenter joined the wild ones, and taught them how to kill a Tiger that devoured them, by means of two pits. The tunnel connecting them is omitted. The Boar did not jump into the pit; 'only the Tiger fell into one of the pits when he sprang at the Boar. After killing the Tiger they proceeded to kill a sham ascetic who was his abettor, in the same manner as in the Sinhalese story. Although the Rodiyas are not often present at the services at the Buddhist temples, they go to them occasionally, not, however, being permitted to enter the temple enclosure, but standing outside it. There they can hear the reading of the sacred books (bana), and perhaps in this manner they have learnt the story of the Boars. I have not met with it as a folk-tale elsewhere. The reference to the tunnel connecting the two pits shows that it has independent features. This tunnel alone explains the excavation of the two pits, one to jump into and the other to escape by. NO. 72 THE GRATEFUL JACKAL In a certain village there was a boy who looked after cattle. One day, in the morning having taken the cattle [to graze], as they were going to water, that boy, when a python seizing a Jackal was going to eat it, went and beat the python, saying, "Ane! This python is going to eat the Jackal, isn't it?" Then the python having let the Jackal go seized the boy. So the boy cried out, "Anda! Anda! O my father! The python has seized me!" he cried. Then the Jackal having come running, when he looked [saw that] the python had caught the boy, and thinking "Ada! Because of me this one seized the boy," the Jackal looking and looking backwards, ran off [to fetch assistance]. After he had looked [to see] if there was any one, there was no one. The Jackal heard several people in the distance. The Jackal went running there. When he was going near the men, the men said, "A mad Jackal has come," they said. Then again the Jackal came running to the place where the python was. Again he came running to the place where the men were. Having come [there], after the Jackal looked [he saw that] the clothes of men who were bathing were under a tree. The Jackal having gone to the place where the clothes were, taking a waist cloth in his mouth ran off. Having run off, and having put down the cloth at the place where the python, holding the boy, was staying, the Jackal ran into the jungle. Then those men having seen that the Jackal which had taken the cloth in its mouth was running away, saying, "Ada! The mad Jackal taking our cloth in its mouth is running away," followed the Jackal. When they looked, having seen that the python had seized the boy, they said, "Ada! The python has caught such and such a one's boy and encircled him." Then those men who were ploughing and ploughing having all come running, and having beaten and thrown down the python, saved the boy. [Afterwards] those men asked at the hand of the boy, "What did the python seize thee for?" Then the boy said, "As I was coming the python had seized the Jackal, and I was sorry. At that time I tried to save the Jackal, and that one having let the Jackal go, seized me." Rodiya. North-western Province. STORIES OF THE KINNARAS NO. 73 CONCERNING A MONK AND A YAKA A monk, tying a Yaka [by magical spells] gets work from him. For seven years he got work. Then the time having come for the Yaka to go, the Yaka every day having gone near the monk says, "Monk, tell me a work [to do]." The monk said one day, "In Galgamuwa tank there will be seven islands. Having gone there and planed them down, come back." After that, the Yaka having gone and planed the tank, and having very quickly come, said at the hand of the monk, "Monk, tell me a work." Then the monk said, "Having cut a well of seven fathoms, and having cut a Damunu [147] tree, and removed the splinters, and put it down to the bottom of a well, and tied a creeper noose to the Damunu stick, you are to draw it up [from inside the well] to the ground." Afterwards the Yaka having cut a well of seven fathoms, and cut a Damunu tree, and removed the bark from it, and tied a creeper noose to it, and put the Damunu stick to the bottom of the well, the Yaka sitting on the ground holding the creeper noose tried to draw it out. He could not draw it. When he was drawing it, because there was slime on the Damunu stick he was unable to draw it out. On account of the time during which the Yaka had been delayed near the well, the monk being afraid of the Yaka, the monk went backwards and backwards for three gawwas (twelve miles). The Yaka having pushed against the monk for so much time, and having got a bill-hook also, on the road he drove him (the monk) away. Having gone there [afterwards] to kill the monk, he met with the monk. After that, the Yaka threw the bill-hook, so that having cut the monk with it he would die. After he had thrown it, the bill-hook was behind, [148] and the monk was in front [of it]. On account of that, the name [of the place] there became Kaettaepahuwa [a village twenty-one miles from Kurunaegala, on the road to Anuradhapura]. Kinnara. North-western Province. This story is known throughout the district to the north of Kurunaegala. The explanation of the Damunu tree incident which was given to me is that the monk, being unable to find enough work for the Yaka, gave him this task as one that would provide occupation for him for a long time. When the bark is freshly removed, the Damunu sticks are extremely slippery. The creeper was tied at one end in a ring which was passed over the smooth stem of the tree. When the Yaka endeavoured to raise the tree by pulling at the creeper, the ring slipped up the stem instead of raising the tree. Elsewhere in the same district I heard of another man, a villager, who had mastered a Yaksani (female Yaka), and who made her perform work for him. In appearance she was an ordinary female, and the man's wife was unaware of her true character, as he had not informed her of it, being afraid of alarming her. The man kept the Yaksani under control by means of a magic iron nail, which he had driven in the crown of her head. One day during his absence she went to her mistress, and told her that a thorn had run into her head while she was carrying firewood on it, and that she was unable to draw it out. The woman extracted the nail for her, and the Yaksani, being then free, killed the family, and escaped. In Folk-Lore of Southern India (Natesa Sastri), p. 272--Tales of the Sun, p. 285--there is a story of a landowner who learnt an incantation by means of which he summoned a Brahma-Rakshasa, who became his servant, at the same time informing him that if he failed to provide work the Rakshasa would kill him. Everything he could think of was done in an incredibly short time--tank repaired and deepened, lands all cultivated--and there being nothing more to be done the wife gave the demon a hair of her head to straighten. He failed to do it, but remembering that goldsmiths heated wires when about to straighten them, he placed the hair on a fire, which burnt it up. He was afraid to face his mistress after it, so he ran away. Regarding the thorn in the demon's head, see No. 20. NO. 74 THE THREE SUITORS In a certain country dwelt a man and a woman, it is said. These two had a son and a daughter. When a man came one day and asked for the daughter [in marriage] at the hand of the father, the father said, "It is good. Come on Wednesday." The man having said "Ha," went away. Afterwards another man came and asked for the girl at the hand of the mother. The mother said, "It is good. Come on Wednesday." The man having said "Ha," went away. After that, yet a man came and asked for her at the hand of the girl's younger brother. The younger brother said, "It is good. Come on Wednesday." The man having said "Ha," went away. Well then, the company of three persons having come on Wednesday and eaten rice and betel, caused the girl to come out [of the house], inviting her to go. Then the three persons endeavoured to call her to go in three [different] directions. Because the girl was unable to settle the dispute she ate a kind of poison, and lying down died there and then. Afterwards they buried her. After that, the man who came first went to a sooth-sayer. The man who came next watched alone at the place where they buried her. The man who came last having said, "It doesn't matter to me," went to his village. The man who went to ask for sooth having inquired about it, came to the place where they buried the girl. Having come and made incantations in the manner prescribed by the sooth-sayer, he made her arise, and got her [back to life]. After she had recovered she went to the village. The man also went there. Now then, after the three men had come together there, the man who brought her back to life asked, "To whom do you belong?" The girl said, "The man who watched alone at the grave is my mother. The man who went to inquire of the sooth-sayer is my father. The man who went to his village is my man." Having said this, the girl went with the man to his village. Kinnari. North-western Province. This is a story of Vikrama and the Vampire, one of the puzzling questions set to the King being a decision as to whom the girl belonged. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 237, the girl threw herself down from the house-top. One of the suitors sprang on the funeral pile, and was burnt with her. The second watched over the grave. The third became a Fakir, and learnt how to revive the dead. He revived both the girl and the burnt suitor. The merchant whose opinion was required decided that the two who were burnt together were brother and sister, the Fakir who gave them renewed life was their father, and the man who merely sat by the grave must become her husband. In the Jataka story No. 150 (vol. i, p. 321), there is an account of a person who had learnt the spell for reviving the dead. In this case it was a tiger, who killed him. In Tota Kahani (Small), p. 139, out of three suitors for the hand of a girl who was carried off by a fairy, one learnt the manner of her disappearance and the place where she was, the second made a magical flying wooden horse, on which the third rode to rescue her, killed the fairy, and brought her back. The Parrot's decision was that the last one had the best right to her, as he had risked his life for her. NO. 75 THE CROCODILE AND THE JACKAL In a river in a certain country a Crocodile stayed, it is said. While it was living there, the Crocodile having become friendly with a Crab, the Crocodile said to the Crab, "Friend, you call the Jackal to drink water, so that I may seize and eat the Jackal after he has come." The Crab said "Ha." On the bank of that river there were Muruta [149] trees, and there were flowers on those Muruta trees. The Crocodile said to the Crab, "I will lie down on the high ground. You bring flowers that have fallen below those Muruta trees and cover me." Having said [this], the Crocodile lay down on the high ground near the water, and the Crab having brought the Muruta flowers covered the Crocodile. Having covered him, the Crab, calling the Jackal, came to drink water. The Crocodile stayed as though dead. Then the Jackal having come near the Crocodile said, "In our country, indeed, dead Crocodiles wag their tails. This Crocodile, why doesn't he wag his tail? Maybe he isn't dead." Then that Crocodile which remained as though dead, wagged his tail. After that, the Jackal, without stopping even to drink water, bounded off, and went away. Afterwards the Crocodile said to the Crab, "Friend, to-morrow I will stop at the bottom of the water. You come there with the Jackal. Then I will seize and eat him." The Crab having said "Ha," on the following day came with the Jackal to the place where the Crocodile was. Then the Crocodile seized the Jackal by the foot [as he was going to drink water]. The Jackal said-- Kimbulundae raewatundae Ketala ale dae gandae? "Are the Crocodiles cheated quite, Thus the Ketala yam to bite?" Then the Crocodile let go. After that, on that day also without drinking water he bounded off, and went away. From that day, the Jackals having become angry with the Crabs, and having seized and bitten the Crabs in the rice fields, place the Crabs' claws on the earthen ridges in the fields. Kinnara. North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 46, there is a story of a Jackal and a Crocodile, in the latter part of which the first incident is given, the tree being a Veralu (Elaeocarpus serratus). The Crab is not introduced into it. In the Jataka story No. 57 (vol. i, p. 142) a Crocodile endeavoured to entrap a Monkey by lying still on the top of a rock. The Monkey, suspecting some trick, from the unusual height of the rock, addressed the rock and inquired why it did not reply as usual. The Crocodile then spoke. In Indian Folk Tales (Gordon), p. 63, the God Mahadeo (Siva) took the place of the Crocodile, in order to be revenged on the Jackal for cheating him in the matter of the dead elephant (see No. 39, note); and the two incidents of the shamming death and seizure of the root are related. In Old Deccan Days (Frere) p. 310, a Jackal escaped from an Alligator [Crocodile] in the same manner. NOTES [1] See note at the end of the Introduction. [2] Cf. Jataka, No. 206 (vol. ii, p. 106). [3] From the Tamil kuppam, a village of small houses, perhaps + ayam, ground. [4] The Tamil stories of Mariyada Raman, or some of them, are known in one district. Arabic is unknown. [5] Folk-Tales of Kashmir, Knowles, 2nd ed., pp. 258 and 331. [6] Agata anagata, as the early cave inscriptions say. [7] Asurendraya. [8] It is one of the greatest possible insults in the East to strike a person with a broom. Even demons are supposed to be afraid of being struck by it, and thus it is a powerful demon-scarer. [9] A Kayiya, usually to provide help in clearing jungle, or ploughing, or reaping, for which no pay is given, but the party are fed liberally. [10] Ma Vi, the name of the largest variety of rice. [11] Twenty-eight miles. According to Indian reckoning of about six winks to a second, as given in the Maha Bharata, this would be an orbit of about 14,500,000 miles, with a diameter of 4,620,000 miles. [12] That is, the sun rises in the latitude of the district where the story was related. This would be within a day or two of February 22. [13] I cannot explain this remark. [14] This is, where refreshing breezes blow. [15] The deity of the planet Saturn. [16] The narrator understood this to mean that large upright sheets of glass were fixed round the bed. [17] Mini Ran Kukula. The spelling in this and other instances is according to the manuscripts, except in such words as Rakshasa and Rakshasi, the village forms of which are Rasaya and Rasi; and Brahmana, which is usually given as Brahmanaya. [18] A word without any special meaning in English, often used in addressing a person familiarly and somewhat disrespectfully. [19] Amu (Paspalum scrobiculatum), the Tamil Varaku, a small grain cultivated in jungle clearings. [20] Three halfpence. [21] Elawa gihin melawa awa, "Having gone to that world I came to this world." This is a common saying, meaning in village talk, "What a long and tiring journey I have had." According to the Rev. C. Alwis it also means, "I almost died, and recovered." (The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 62.) [22] Light rice cakes. [23] Old flower-seller. [24] Moringa pterygosperma. [25] A thing only done by a man's wife. [26] Wangi tunak aeti, kembi dolahak aeti, Apata waeduna duka me asapan kota kotali. [27] Evidently a modern interpolation, as the Princess was represented as using only a writing style. [28] Loku mama. [29] Lit. necks. [30] This is the dress of a villager when visiting friends. A white jacket is now often added. [31] Literally, "Are we bad?" [32] Up to this point the story follows one related by a Duraya; the rest belongs to the cultivating caste. [33] Literally, "Is there any coming for her?" [34] Great Mother: The title of a mother's elder sister; her younger sister is called Puñci-Amma, Little Mother. The letter c is pronounced as ch in transliterations. I follow the village writers in not marking the various forms of n; they write punci or punci. [35] Moringa pterygosperma. [36] Ran oncillawa. [37] A well-to-do woman of the village. Gama-Mahage is the title of the wife of a Gamarala, a village headman or elder. [38] To search for insects. She would sit down for the purpose. [39] Daboia russelli. [40] Un mamma nasindayi, Ranwan baena aende andandayi, Ranwan akka samine wendayi. [41] In these stories the Yakas are always evil spirits or demons. [42] Piyanan-wahanse. [43] The word used indicates the use of guns, and not bows and arrows. [44] A Vedarala (medical practitioner) or another man who knows the spells and magical practices which have power over demons. [45] Araksha baendala. [46] E minihata waehila, mayan wenda patangatta. [47] The Sinhalese title is, "The manner in which the Youth who looked after the Goats became King." [48] Inferior Gods, ruled by Indra. [49] Raja Gurunnanse, probably the Purohita Brahmana, the King's spiritual adviser. [50] A supernatural being who could take at will either a human form or the shape of a cobra (naya or naga). [51] Dohta karanawa = Dashta k., to give a poisonous bite. [52] Panicum sp., probably miliare, an edible grass seed. [53] Kankariya. [54] Wes. [55] Gigiri walalu. [56] Silambu. [57] Learned Brow. [58] On account of the strangeness of this speech, I give the Sinhalese words as they were written: Umba kaburupanjati jati umbe muna (sic.) penendawat epa. Umbata hena waediyamin umbe jatakaya ganin. It appears to be a Rabelaisian joke, and was considered such by the person who narrated it. [59] Otunne malu. This proves that the story is Indian, and perhaps from the Panjab, there being no camels in Ceylon. [60] The usual village spelling. [61] Great Happiness. [62] Equivalent to saying, "What things do you know?" Saestara, the noun used, means sooth, knowledge of things, and science. [63] The title "Vedarala" is applied both to native medical practitioners and to demon expellers, who are also sooth-sayers. [64] Twenty rupees, in a variant. [65] Sihi buddi naetuwata mona saestara kiyamanada? This might also be interpreted, "On account of the absence of Sihibuddi what saying of sooth is there?" The long final i of female names is usually shortened in conversation. [66] A South Indian gold coin, with the figure of a boar, Varaha, on the obverse, said by Winslow to be worth three and a half rupees. [67] "A box in which the most valuable ornaments of the most frequent use are kept, and which for the sake of safety is always placed at the foot of the bed" (The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 59, footnote). [68] Kumandaeyi mama karanne, which if not very clearly heard might be translated, "It is Kumanda; I am doing it," or "I will do it." [69] He might do any unusual acts of this sort without exciting much astonishment, while apparently under the influence of "possession." [70] Kurulu gama Appuge rissa giya. This might be translated, "On the birds' moving, Appu's strength went." [71] Sillu, "Hopscotch," a game omitted from my account of village games in Ancient Ceylon. I have seen boys playing a form of Hopscotch which may be this one. I do not understand the reference to "dragging" the counters home after it, unless the meaning is "carrying." The Sinhalese verb used is adinawa, which is sometimes employed with this other meaning. [72] Sadhu Maharajani. [73] Gamaya. [74] Ge-dora, which probably means only "house-door" in this case, and not buildings, etc., in general. [75] A creeper with long sharp thorns, punctures by which usually cause ulcers. [76] Polmicca kirilli. [77] An imitation of the song of the bird, apparently. [78] Mat ekka giyama nakeyi? [79] "Stooping man, there is heat, heat." [80] Kujija is a man who stoops. He may have thought it said, "Stooping man, you are refuse." [81] Kuti is a bend. He appears to have interpreted it as, "Stooping man, you are bent, bent." All these expressions are imitations of some of the notes of the bird's song. [82] Ge dorata. [83] A Muhammedan trader or pedlar, called "elder brother" in an honorary sense. [84] Plural of Bola, regarding which see No. 5. [85] Lit. "making." [86] Hungak dura, "a great deal far," a common village expression. [87] Nari-nayide; see also No. 56, and p. 28. [88] The meaning is that no appearances can be trusted, not even those of the earth and sky; but that sometimes untrustworthy things, even such a dangerous thing as fire, are wrongly trusted. He was referring to the judge's acceptance of the ridiculous statement regarding the birth of the horse. [89] Kokka, a word applied to several species of large waders. The name of the Black Stork is Mana, but probably this is the bird referred to, as in the Sinhalese variant. [90] Aehae aeragassi. [91] Apparently this is Kurma, turtle + marsha, mrish. The meaning would be "Permit the Turtle" (to precede you). In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 87, in which this part of the story is also given, it is stated that there is a saying, Kurmaya prativadena sinhasya maranan yatha, "As the death of the lion by the reply [? Kurmarsha] of the turtle." [92] As in India, the tom-tom beaters were the weavers also in Ceylon, until cheap imported cloth put an end to weaving. In the Folk Tales of Bengal (Day), p. 233, the "proverbial simplicity" of weavers is mentioned, and in several stories in Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton) their foolishness is the chief theme. In the Jataka story No. 59 there is an account of a foolish tom-tom beater boy also. See also the story No. 10, in this volume. [93] Calatropis gigantea. [94] This is prosaic love-making! [95] Probably in order to sell deer's flesh there. [96] Canarium zeylanicum. [97] Macacus pileatus. [98] Berae. [99] Haeliya. [100] Called also, "The Deer and the Girl and Nikini." [101] An expression often used in village talk, without any connexion with its literal meaning, "O demon." "Fellow!" nearly expresses its ordinary meaning, which is less respectful than that of the word Bola. [102] Totra karanawa. [103] Also written Lihiniya, "the Glider," a name applied to some hawks and swallows, etc. The whole name is "Tusk-Elephant-Mountain Hawk," or Eagle. I could learn nothing of the "Tusk-Elephant Mountain." This bird is the Rukh or Roc of the Arabian Nights. [104] Apparently she was to swear by them, touching them at the time. See No. 8, in which a Prince and Princess touched each other when swearing an oath. [105] An amuna is 5·7 bushels in the district where this story was told. [106] Little Mother, an expression meaning the mother's younger sister, or the step-mother. [107] Yabbaelli, apparently a kind of demon in the shape of a dog. [108] Talla. [109] The word used, nikan, "no-act," is employed in several senses; when a thing is given nikan, it usually means "without payment." To come or go nikan, is to come or go without any special reason or business, and also to go empty-handed, as in a former tale. [110] Mi Paetikki. It might be either a rat or a mouse. [111] Unnanse namak. In the villages, namak, "a name," takes the place of kenek, "person", in speaking of monks. [112] Hakurun. [113] Mulakun. [114] Aewariyakun. [115] Senawalaya. [116] A contraction of Gama-ralahami. Hami is an intermediate form between swami, "lord", and himi; Wanniyas still use the latter. [117] The yoke of the plough is placed on the neck and fastened there, on the Washerman's half of the animal. [118] Because the mouth which grazes is in the Gamarala's half of the cow. [119] Rate wissa. The word is new to me; this appears to be the meaning. [120] Raja ho, ma ho, ganga ho. "Either the King, or I, or the river" [floods] will come to an end (naeti wenawa). He meant that if the periodical floods in the river did not come to an end, the job would last during the King's life-time, and that if he gave it up he had nothing else to live upon. [121] Terminalia glabra. [122] Kokka, a word which also means Egret, and some other large wading birds. [123] Lula (Ophiocephalus striatus). [124] Kanakoka (Ardeola grayi). [125] Triple-wreathed famous one. [126] Probably, "He that moves about in the jungle," derived from the Tamil words kadu, jungle--in compounds, kattu--and salam, Skt. cala, moving, unsteady. The bird is Centrococcyx rufipennis, which utters a booming call, and has red eyes. [127] Tamil, tonku, to move with leaps, Skt. twang, to leap, gallop + ka, doer. [128] Maha tokkama. [129] Tokkam dekak. [130] Lay devotee. [131] Rala is an honorific termination, nearly equivalent to our Mr. [132] Tun-iri Mudiyanse, (Sciurus tri-striatus), a small squirrel with three yellow dorsal lines. [133] Lit. "Having guarded, I must place it." [134] Mini-gedi. [135] Miyane. [136] Lenane. [137] Wali-kukulane. [138] Katussa (Calotes sp.), a small lizard with a long tail, and spikes on the back, commonly called "Bloodsucker" in Ceylon. [139] Perhaps this means that the Leopard found some places where the Lizard had not yet bitten him. [140] A variant says it was the Gamarala. [141] "Art thou reciting the Buddhist Scriptures?" Used colloquially with the meaning, "What nonsense you are talking." [142] Ehema nan ehemada, "If so (would it be) so?" [143] Seramantama. [144] That is, as we should say, "I have come here to enjoy a view of the scenery!" [145] There appears to be some doubt regarding the spelling of this compound word. I give it as I have heard it. Except in the last letter I have followed that of the late Mr. W. Goonetilleke, the learned Editor of The Orientalist, who in vol. i, p. 8, of that journal said of it: "Perelibase therefore means 'the language of transposition,' or 'the transposed language.'" In Clough's Dictionary the second word is spelt basa. In Mr. A. M. Gunasekara's excellent Sinhalese Grammar the spelling is peralibasa in the Index, and perali base (or bhashawa) in the paragraph dealing with it. Professor E. Müller-Hess has drawn my attention to the form pereli on one of the inscribed tablets at Mihintale. [146] That is, unite them by a tunnel. [147] Grewia tiliaefolia (?). [148] Kaetta pahuwuna. [149] Lagerstroemia flos-reginae. 
29921	----	STORYOLOGY: Essays in Folk-Lore, Sea-Lore, and Plant-Lore by BENJAMIN TAYLOR. London: Elliot Stock, 62, Paternoster Row, E.C. 1900. To HER MEMORY IN WHOSE DEAR COMPANIONSHIP THESE PAPERS WERE WRITTEN PREFACE. The principal object of this Foreword is to inform the expert Folkloreist and the case-hardened Mythologist (comparative or otherwise) that the following pages are intended for those who, being neither expert nor case-hardened, come under that gracious and catholic term--general reader. The writer addresses not the scholiast, but the ordinary person who likes to read about what he has not time to study. Some portion of what is here printed has appeared in a once popular magazine now defunct. The author hastens to add, for the relief of the irreverent, that the journal long survived the ordeal of the publication. Nevertheless this book appears on its merits, or otherwise, and seeks no support from past attainment. Neither does it make any pretension to originality of matter or method, though it may, perhaps, contain one or two new ideas. It is unnecessary to add that the publication is made only at the tearful entreaty of multitudinous friends. That, of course, is well understood among myth-hunters. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE PREFACE vii I. STORYOLOGY 1 II. THE MAGIC WAND 23 III. THE MAGIC MIRROR 41 IV. THE MAGIC MOON 58 V. THE DEVIL'S CANDLE 78 VI. THE SEA AND ITS LEGENDS 91 VII. MOTHER CAREY AND HER CHICKENS 104 VIII. DAVY JONES'S LOCKER 113 IX. SOME FLOWERS OF FANCY 121 X. ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE 137 XI. HERB OF GRACE 149 XII. THE ROMANCE OF A VEGETABLE 163 XIII. THE STORY OF A TUBER 176 XIV. THE CENTRE OF THE WORLD 188 INDEX 201 STORYOLOGY. CHAPTER I. STORYOLOGY. I. What is a myth? According to Webster, it is 'a fabulous or imaginary statement or narrative conveying an important truth, generally of a moral or religious nature: an allegory, religious or historical, of spontaneous growth and popular origin, generally involving some supernatural or superhuman claim or power; a tale of some extraordinary personage or country that has been gradually formed by, or has grown out of, the admiration and veneration of successive generations.' Here is a choice of three definitions, but not one of them is by itself satisfying. Let us rather say that a myth is a tradition in narrative form, more or less current in more or less differing garb among different races, to which religious or superhuman significations may be ascribable. We say 'may be' ascribable because, although the science of comparative mythology always seeks for such significations, it is probable that the modern interpretations are often as different from the original meaning as certain abstruse 'readings' of Shakespeare are from the poet's own thoughts. In their introduction to Tales of the Teutonic Lands, Cox and Jones declare that the whole series of Arthurian legends are pure myths. These tales, they say, can be 'traced back to their earliest forms in phrases which spoke not of men and women, but of the Dawn which drives her white herds to their pastures'--the white clouds being the guardians of the cattle of the Sun--'of the Sun which slays the dew whom he loves, of the fiery dragon which steals the cattle of the lord of light, or the Moon which wanders with her myriad children through the heaven.' It is claimed that 'a strict etymological connection has been established' with regard to a large number of these and similar stories, 'but the link which binds the myth of the Hellenic Hephaistos with that of the Vedic Agni justifies the inference that both these myths reappear in those of Regin and of Wayland, or, in other words, that the story of the Dame of the Fine Green Kirtle is the story of Medeia, and that the tale of Helen is the legend of the loves of Conall Gulban. Elsewhere one reads that in the myth of Endymion, the Sun who has sunk to his dreamless sleep, the Moon appears as Asterodia journeying with her fifty daughters through the sky. 'In the Christian myth she becomes St. Ursula with her eleven thousand virgins--this Ursula again appearing in the myth of Tannhäuser, as the occupant of the Horselberg, and as the fairy queen in the tale of True Thomas of Ercildoune.' By the same method of comparative mythology, the whole series of the Arthurian stories are placed 'in that large family of heroic legends which have their origin in mythical phrases describing the phenomena of the outward world, and more especially those of the day and of the year.' This seems hard, for it compels us to believe that our remote ancestors were very much more intelligent, and imaginative, and poetical, and religious than anything else which they have sent down to us would have suggested. It is true that Cox and Jones do not deny that the names which figure in many of these legends, as in those of Greece, may have been the names of real personages, but yet the narrative, they say, must not be taken as historical. This may be true, but in what sense can we regard it as more probable that the story-makers invented allegories, and clothed them with the names of contemporary or preceding heroes, than that they invented tales of wonder to fit these heroes? Is it easier to believe, for instance, that Arthur came after the myths, and was tacked on to them, than that the myths, or stories, came after Arthur, and were tacked on to him? Is there anything in the story of St. Ursula and her virgins which could not have had natural 'spontaneous growth' in an age of deep devotional faith in miracles, that we must be compelled to regard it as purely a mediævalized version of the Greek myth of the sun and moon? I am not writing for experts and scholars, and therefore do not use the scientific terms and allusions familiar to students of these matters. I am merely writing for ordinary persons, who are often puzzled and pained by the extraordinary meanings which specialists contrive to twist out of simple and familiar things. It is not too much to say that the professional mythologists are among the most troublesome meddlers who disturb the repose of '_the average reader_.' Even Mr. Ruskin suffers in this connection. In The Queen of the Air he has given us one of his most delightful books, but there are probably few, outside the circle of philologists and comparative mythologists, who have not thought in reading the lovely interpretations of the myths of Athena, that there was more of Ruskin than of the Ancient Greek in the meaning evolved. Somehow, it seems easier to think that these things were conceived by a Professor of Art in the nineteenth century, than that they were the deliberate convictions of a primitive people ever so many centuries before Christ--a people, too, known to be steeped in sensualities, and addicted to very barbarous practices. Are there, then, reasons for supposing that comparative mythologists are not always right--that, in fact, their science is but a doubtful science after all? Mr. Andrew Lang boldly says that there are. In Custom and Myth his object is to show the connection between savage customs--or rather the customs of savage and uncivilized races--and ancient myths. But before this branch of Storyology is reached, we must consider the question of the relation between our familiar nursery-tales, the folk-lore of our own and other countries, and the old romances, with these same myths. There is something more than monotony in the theory which 'resolves most of our old romances into a series of remarks about the weather.' The author of Primitive Culture (Mr. Tylor) rebels against this theory. There is no legend, no allegory, no nursery-rhyme, he says, safe from it, and, as an amusing illustration, he supposes the Song of Sixpence to be thus interpreted by the mythologists. Obviously, the four-and-twenty blackbirds are four-and-twenty hours, and the pie to hold them is the underlying earth covered with the over-arching sky. How true a touch of nature is it, 'when the pie is opened,' that is, when day breaks, 'the birds begin to sing!' The King is the Sun, and his 'counting out his money' is pouring out the sunshine, the golden shower of Danae; the Queen is the Moon, and her transparent honey the moonlight. The maid is the rosy-fingered Dawn, who rises before the Sun, her master, and hangs out the clothes (the clouds) across the sky; the particular blackbird who so tragically ends the tale, by 'nipping off her nose,' is the hour of sunrise. The time-honoured rhyme really wants, as Mr. Tylor remarks, only one thing to prove it a sun-myth, and that one thing is some other proof than a mere argument from analogy. The same proof is wanting for those who would argue that the story of Red Riding Hood is only another dawn-myth. Mr. Hussin holds this view, but is not the story of the Cat and the Well capable of the same kind of reading? Pussy is the earth; Tommy, who shoves her into the well, is the evening or twilight; the well is Night; Johnny Stout is the Dawn who pulls the earth out of darkness again. There is no limit to this kind of application of so elastic a theory. But the very ease with which such explanations can be attached to any nursery-rhyme or folk-tale should warn us against their probability. As Mr. Tylor says: 'Rash inferences which, on the strength of mere resemblances, derive episodes of myth from episodes of nature, must be regarded with utter distrust, for the student who has no more stringent criterion than this for his myths of sun, and sky, and dawn, will find them wherever it pleases him to seek them.' The mention of the story of Red Riding Hood suggests a familiar folk-tale, upon which that of Red Riding Hood may or may not have been founded, but which certainly forms the basis of a good many similar tales, and has been the subject of a good deal of wise exposition by the mythologists. In the story of the Wolf and the Seven Little Kids, as told by Grimm, there is a goat who goes out one day, leaving her seven little ones safely locked in the house, after warning them to beware of the wolf, whom she describes. The wolf comes begging for entrance, pretending to be their mother, but they distrust first his voice and then his black paws. He gets his paws whitened and comes back, showing them against the window as proof that he is indeed their mother. Therefore they open the door, and he swallows six of them, one after the other, without going through the ceremony of mastication. After this he goes back to the wood and falls asleep under a tree, where the disconsolate mother finds him. With the assistance of the seventh and youngest kid, who had escaped by hiding herself in the clock-case, the wolf is cut open, and the six kids jump out all alive and kicking. Stones are then placed in the wolf's stomach, and it is sewed up. When the wolf wakens he cannot account for the jumbling and tumbling in his stomach, so he goes to the well to get a drink. But the weight of the stones makes him top-heavy; he falls in and is drowned. Now, there is nothing more remarkable in this story than there is in scores of our nursery or household tales, in which not only animals but also inanimate objects are gifted with speech, and in which the love of the marvellous rises superior to natural laws. According to Cox, we must understand the myth of the Wolf and Kids thus: 'The wolf is here the night, or the darkness, which tries to swallow up the seven days of the week, and actually swallows six. The seventh--the youngest--escapes by hiding herself in the clock-case; in other words, the week is not quite run out, and before it comes to an end, the mother of the goats unrips the wolf's stomach and places stones in it in place of the little goats, who come trooping out, as the days of the week begin again to run their course.' Very plausible this, from a comparative mythologist's point of view, and not easy to dispute--until we find that a similar tale is current all over the world where clock-cases are even yet unknown. We are told that the negroes of Georgia have such a legend; that the natives of Australia have one; that the Zulus have it; that the Indians of North America and of British Guiana, and the Malays, all have versions of it. In Brittany it is traceable in the legend of Gargantua; in Germany there are several variations; and in Greece it finds its counterpart in the legend of Saturn or Cronus. The Kaffirs tell the same story of a cannibal, but the way the negroes have it is like this: 'Old Mrs. Sow had five little pigs, whom she warned against the machinations of Brer Wolf. Old Mrs. Sow died, and each little pig built a house for himself. The youngest pig built the strongest house. Brer Wolf, by a series of stratagems, entrapped and devoured the four elder pigs. The youngest pig was the wisest, and would not let Brer Wolf come in by the door. He had to enter by way of the chimney, fell into a great fire the youngest pig had lighted, and was burned to death.' Here we have no clock-case, and no resurrection of the victims, but otherwise the _motif_ of the story is the same. Certainly the negroes did not receive this tale from the white races, and it seems equally certain that they had no notion of typifying the dawn or the night, or anything else, but only the popular notion among nearly all primitive peoples that the youngest is usually the most specially gifted and blessed. This is Mr. Lang's view: 'In the tale of the Wolf and the Seven Kids, the essence is found in the tricks whereby the wolf deceives his victims; in the victory of the goat; in the disgorging of the kids alive; and the punishment of the wolf (as of Cronus in Hesiod) by the stone which he is obliged to admit into his system. In these events there is nothing allegorical or mystical, no reference to sunrise or storms. The crude ideas and incidents are of world-wide range, and suit the fancy of the most backward nation.' The only thing in Grimm's tale which differs materially from those of 'world-wide range' is the clock-case--clearly a modern addition, but an item which forms an essential factor in Cox's definition of the 'myth.' So much by way of illustration; but dozens of tales might be produced, all pointing the same way. This is to the belief that, although stories have unquestionably been transmitted from race to race throughout the ages, and so have become widely distributed over the world, all the current nursery, or household, or folk, stories have not necessarily been so transmitted from some one creative race of myth-makers. We have just seen how an evidently modern interpolation (a clock-case) has come to be regarded as an essential part of a myth, and it is surely easier to believe that the other features are relics of some ancient customs of which we have no record, than that they bear the ingenious references to natural phenomena which the mythologists suppose. Max Müller holds that all the stories of princesses, imprisoned or enchanted, and delivered by young lovers, 'can be traced back to mythological tradition about the Spring being released from the bonds of Winter.' But he requires, first, to have the names of the personages of the story, because he traces the connection more by their etymology than by the incidents of the narrative--of which more anon. With regard to purely nursery or household tales, the question seems to resolve itself pretty much into this: Are they the remains of an older and higher mythology, or are they the foundations upon which the priests and medicine-men and minstrels of later ages built their myths? Are they, in short, surviving relics, or were they germs? The favourite scientific theory adopts the former view; I incline to the latter. There are many of the familiar folk-tales which it is impossible to explain, and there are many, doubtless, which are in some sort fragments of the old mythologies filtered to us through Greece. But, on the whole, it is more reasonable to conclude that the simple stories of the marvellous or irrational have their origin in 'the qualities of the uncivilized imagination.' Thus, with regard to the current superstitions of our peasantry and of the Highlanders, it is much more rational to consider them, as Dr. Robert Chambers did, as 'springing from a disposition of the human mind to account for actual appearances by some imagined history which the appearances suggest,' than as relics of the old-world mythologies. The untutored mind disregards the natural, even in these days of applied science. There is an old weir across the Tweed which the common people, forgetting the mill, that had disappeared, pointed out as the work of one of the imps of Michael Scott, the wizard. Wherever there are three-topped hills there is sure to be a legend of the work of this same Michael, or some other wizard. In the same way, deep, clear lakes exist in various parts of the country, concerning which traditions survive of cities lying at the bottom, submerged for their wickedness, or by the machinations of some evil spirit. Old buildings exist in many parts in such unfavourable situations that popular tradition can only account for the singularity by the operation of some unfriendly spirit transporting them from their original locality. Large solitary rocks off the coast, or on hilltops, have been deposited where they are by witches. Water springing from a rock by the roadside has always been the result of the stroke of some magician or saint. Large depressions on hillsides are generally the footprints of giants, like the mark left by Buddha's foot as he ascended to heaven, still to be seen on a hill in Ceylon. The circular green marks in the fields are the rings drawn by the fairies for their midnight dances, and a scaur or cliff bearing the marks of volcanic action or of lightning is invariably associated with some tale of diabolic fury. Almost every reader can add instances of natural appearances or effects idealized by the workings of the imagination of uncivilized or uncultivated minds. II. One of the most common forms of these idealized phenomena is that known as the 'Fairy-ring,' about which Nether Lochaber has said, in the Highlands of Scotland, 'We can perfectly understand how in the good old times, ere yet the schoolmaster was abroad, or science had become a popular plaything, people--and doubtless very honest, decent people, too--attributed those inexplicable emerald circles to supernatural agency; if, indeed, anything connected with the "good folks" or "men of peace" could properly be called supernatural in times when a belief in fairies and every sort of fairy freak and frolic was deemed the most correct and natural thing in the world. Did not these circles, it was argued, appear in the course of a single night? In the sequestered woodland glade, nor herd nor milkmaid could see anything odd or unusual as the sun went down, and lo! next morning, as they drove their flocks afield, there was the mysterious circle, round as the halo about the wintry moon.... And if we know better nowadays than to believe these green circles to be fairy-rings, we also know better than to give the slightest credence to certain authors of our own day who have gravely asserted that they are caused by electricity.... Fairy-rings ... are in truth caused by a mushroom (_Agaricus pratensis_), the sporule dust or seed of which, having fallen on a spot suitable for its growth, instantly germinates, and, constantly propagating itself by sending out a network of innumerable filaments and threads, forms the rich green rings so common everywhere.' Hardly more excusable than the electricity theorists, thinks this writer, are those learned authors who tell us that the West received the first hint of the existence of fairies from the East at the time of the Crusades, and that almost all our fairy lore is traceable to the same source, 'the fact being that Celt and Saxon, Scandinavian and Goth, Lapp and Finn, had their "dûergar," their "elfen" without number, such as dun-elfen, berg-elfen, munt-elfen, feld-elfen, sae-elfen and waeter-elfen--elves or spirits of downs, hills and mountains, of the fields, of the woods, of the sea, and of the rivers, streams and solitary pools--fairies, in short, and a complete fairy mythology, long centuries before Peter the Hermit was born, or Frank and Moslem dreamt of making the Holy Sepulchre a _casus belli_.' There is something very suggestive in these remarks, and one thought suggested is particularly in the direction of our inquiry, and that is, may not the theory of the Aryan mythological origin of our folk-tales be as imaginary and as groundless as the theory of the Oriental origin of fairies? At the same time, let us admit that the superstitious belief in capnomancy--_i.e._, divination by smoke--still said to be prevalent in some parts of the Highlands, is probably the relic of the old sacrifices by fire to the gods. In so far the superstition has a mythological significance, but then, are we not driven back to the consideration whether these gods were not actual personages in the minds of the old Celtic worshippers, and not symbols of natural phenomena? So much, however, for popular superstitions; and, as regards folk-tales, we must, in speculating as to their origin,[1] 'look not into the clouds, but upon the earth; not in the various aspects of nature, but in the daily occurrences and surroundings.' The process of diffusion must always remain uncertain. 'Much may be due to the identity everywhere of early fancy, something to transmission,' but 'household tales occupy a middle place between the stories of savages and the myths of early civilization.'[2] And as nursery-rhymes are but the simplified form of household or folk-tales, let us consider with Mr. Lang the relation between savage customs and ancient myths. The foundation of the method of comparative mythology is the belief that 'myths are the result of a disease of language, as the pearl is the result of a disease of the oyster.' The method of inquiry is to examine the names which occur in the stories, and having found or invented a meaning for these names, to argue back from them to a meaning in the myths. But then almost each scholar has his peculiar fancy in etymology, and while one finds a Sanskrit root, another finds a Greek, a third a Semitic, and so on. Even when they agree upon the derivation of the proper names, the scholars seldom agree upon the interpretation of them, and thus the whole system is full of perplexity and confusion to all who approach its study with unbiassed minds. There is a further division among the mythologists, for there are some who have a partiality for sun-myths, others for cloud-myths, sky-myths and fire-myths, and each seeks to work out an interpretation of an old-world story to suit his own taste in myths. How can they be all right? And in whom can we have confidence when we find so much disagreement, first, on the derivation of names, and second, on their meaning after the derivation is discovered? And then, how do we know that words had the same meaning to the ancients as they have to us? Was the sky, for instance, to the original story-makers 'an airy, infinite, radiant vault,' as it is to us, or was it a material roof, or even a person? And, further, how is it that we find the same myth, with slight alterations, in various parts of the world, but with totally different names? In opposition to the method of reading myths by the philological analysis of names, there is the method of reading them by folk-lore, _i.e._, by a comparison of the folk-tales and customs of primitive peoples. The student of folk-lore has to collect and compare the similar relics of old races, the surviving superstitions and traditions, and the ideas which still live. He is thus led to compare the usages, myths, and ideas of savages with those which remain among the European peasantry--classes which have least altered by education, and have shown the smallest change in progress. It is thus that we find even in our own country and in our own day such things as the beliefs in fairies and divination by smoke, which are as old as time. Similarly, the harvest-custom which is still practised by the children in parts of rural England and Scotland--the dressing up of the last gleaning in human shape, and conducting it home in musical procession--is parallel with a custom in ancient Peru, and with the Feast of Demeter of the Sicilians. But that does not necessarily prove any original connection between Peruvians, Scotch and Sicilians, any more than the fact that the negroes of Barbadoes make clay figures of their enemies and mutilate them, as the Greeks and Accadians of old used to do, proves any connection between the negroes and the Greeks and Accadians. If we find the Australians spreading dust round the body of a dead man in order to receive the impression of the footprints of any ghostly visitor, the same custom has been observed among the Jews, among the Aztecs, among the French, and even among the Scotch. Where we find, therefore, an apparently irrational and anomalous custom in any country, we must look for a country where a similar custom prevails, and where it is no longer irrational and anomalous, but in harmony with the manners and ideas of the people among whom it prevails. When we read of Greeks dancing about in their 'mysteries' with live serpents, it seems unintelligible, but when we read of Red Indians doing the same thing with live rattlesnakes, we can understand the meaning because we can see implied a test of physical courage. May not a similar motive have originated the Greek practices? The method of folk-lore, then, is 'to compare the seemingly meaningless customs or manners of civilized races with the similar customs and manners which exist among the uncivilized, and still retain their meaning. It is not necessary for comparison of this sort that the uncivilized and the civilized race should be of the same stock, nor need we prove that they were ever in contact.'[3] Similar conditions of mind produce similar practices, apart from identity of race, or borrowing of ideas and manners. In pursuing this method we have to compare the customs and tales of the most widely separated races, whereas the comparative mythologists, who hold it correct to compare Greek, Slavonic, Celtic and Indian stories because they occur in languages of the same family, and Chaldean and Greek stories because the Chaldeans and the Greeks are known to have been in contact, will not compare Greek, Chaldean, Celtic, or Indian stories with those of the Maoris, the Eskimos, or the Hottentots, because these last belong to a different language-family, and are not known to have ever been in contact with Aryan races. The 'bull-roarer,' a toy familiar to most children, is one example selected by Mr. Lang. It is a long, thin, narrow piece of wood, sharpened at both ends; attached to a piece of string, and whirled rapidly and steadily in the air, it emits a sound which gradually increases to an unearthly kind of roar. The ancient Greeks employed at some of their sacred rites a precisely similar toy, described by historians as 'a little piece of wood, to which a string was fastened, and in the mysteries it is whirled round to make a roaring noise.' The performers in the 'mysteries' at which this implement was used daubed themselves all over with clay. Demosthenes describes the mother of Æschines as a dabbler in mysteries, and tells how Æschines used to assist her by helping to bedaub the initiate with clay and bran. Various explanations have been offered of these practices, but let us see how they tally with any prevailing customs. First, the bull-roarer is to be found in almost every country in the world, and among the most primitive peoples. It is so simple an instrument that it is within the scope of the mechanical genius of the most degraded savages, and therefore it is quite unnecessary to suppose that the idea of it was ever transmitted from race to race. And as an instrument employed in religious rites or mysteries, it is found in New Mexico, in Australia, in New Zealand and in Africa, to this day. Its use in Australia is to warn the women to keep out of the way when the men are about to celebrate their tribal mysteries. It is death for women to witness these rites, and it is also forbidden for them to look upon the sacred turndun, or bull-roarer. In the same way, among the Greeks, it was forbidden for men to witness the rites of the women, and for women to witness those of the men. Among the Indians of Zuni, Mr. Cushing found the same implement used by the priests to summon the tribe to the sacrificial feasts. In South Africa, Mr. Tylor has proved that the bull-roarer is employed to call the men only to the celebration of sacred functions, and the instrument itself is described in Theal's Kaffir Folklore. Now, the same peoples who still employ the bull-roarer as a sacred instrument also bedaub their bodies with clay, for no apparent reason unless it may be to frighten their enemies or repel intruders. We thus find still prevailing in our own time among savage races practices which are perfectly analogous to practices which prevailed among the Greeks. The reasonable inference, therefore, is not that the bull-roaring and body-daubing were first used in the rites of a civilized race of Greeks, and thence transmitted to Africa, Australia and America, but that the employment of these things by the Greeks was a survival of the time when the Greeks were in the same savage condition as are the peoples among whom we find the same things now. The Greek story of Saturn is familiar to every schoolboy. Saturn, it will be remembered, wounds and drives away his father, Uranus, because of his unkindness to himself and his brothers. Afterwards Saturn marries his sister Rhea, and has several children--Demeter, Hera, Hades, Poseidon and Zeus--whom he swallowed as they were born, lest they might serve him as he served Uranus. But Rhea didn't like this, and at the time when Zeus was born she ran away to a distant place. Saturn followed, and, asking for the child, was given a stone, which he swallowed without looking at it. Zeus grew up in security, and in due time gave his father a dose which made him disgorge, first, the stone (which was placed at Delphi, where it became an object of public worship), and then the children, one after another, all living and hearty. The tale is told in various ways, but these are the main incidents. It is interpreted by the mythologists to typify, in its first part, the birth of the world and the elements; and the second part is held by some to typify the operations of time, by others the alternations of night and day--the stone swallowed by Saturn being the sun, which he afterwards disgorges at daybreak. By others Saturn is held to be the sun and ripener of the harvests; by others, again, the storm-god, who swallows the clouds, whose sickle is the rainbow, and whose blood is the lightning; by others still Saturn is regarded as the sky, which swallows and reproduces the stars, and whose sickle is the crescent moon. There is a great deal of diversity of opinion, it will be observed, about this myth of Saturn, or Cronus, but it is curious to note how all the leading incidents of this myth may be traced in various parts of the world.[4] Among the Maoris, the story of Tûtenganahaû is told, and this is a story of the severing of heaven and earth, very similar to the Greek story. In India and in China, legends tell of the former union of heaven and earth, and of their violent separation by their own children. As regards the swallowing performances of Saturn, they find analogues in tales among the Australians, among the Red Indians, among the natives of British Guiana, and among the Kaffirs. The conclusion, then, is that the first part of the Saturn myth is evidently the survival of an old nature-myth which is common to races who never had any communication with the Greeks. The second part is unintelligible, except as just such a legend as might be evolved by persons in the same savage intellectual condition as, say, the Bushmen, who account for celestial phenomena by saying that a big star has swallowed his daughter and spat her out again. Any myth which accounts for the processes of nature or the aspects of natural phenomena may, says Mr. Lang, conceivably have been invented separately, therefore it is not surprising to find the star-stories of savages closely resembling those of civilized races. The story of the lost sister of the Pleiades, according to the Greek myth, finds a parallel in a tradition among the Australians. Of star-lore generally, it may be said that it is much the same even among the Bushmen of Africa, as it was among the Greeks and Egyptians, and as it is among the Australians and Eskimos. Another interesting inquiry is to trace the legend current among the Greeks, and known to us as that of Jason and the Golden Fleece, in the Storyology of the Africans, the Norse, the Malagasies, the Russians, the Italians, the Samoans, the Finns, the Samoyedes and the Eskimo. Some of the resemblances are so exceedingly close and curious as to severely shake our belief in the dawn-sun-spring-lightning interpretations of the mythologists. They drive us to the conclusion that the Jason myth is not a story capable of explanation as a nature-myth, or as a result of 'a disease of language'; for as is pertinently remarked, 'So many languages could not take the same malady in the same way; nor can we imagine any stories of natural phenomena that would inevitably suggest this tale to so many diverse races.' The rational theory is that the Jason story, like its analogues among strange races, had its origin in a time of savage conditions, when animals were believed to talk, when human sacrifices and cannibalism were practised, and when efforts to escape being eaten were natural. CHAPTER II. THE MAGIC WAND. It is sufficiently remarkable that the rod, besides being an emblem of authority, is also an instrument of the supernatural. An indispensable instrument, one may say; for was ever a magician depicted in book, in picture, or in the mind's eye, without a wand? Does even the most amateurish of prestidigitateurs attempt to emulate the performances of the once famous Wizard of the North, without the aid of the magic staff? The magician, necromancer, soothsayer, or conjurer, is as useless without his wand as a Newcastle pitman is without his 'daug.' At first thought it might be assumed that the association of the rod or wand with necromancy is merely an indication of power or authority, in the same way as the sceptre is associated with kingship. But there is something more in it. Magic has been well called 'the shadow of religion,' and the early religious idea found expression in symbols. These symbols, as we know, have in many cases retained a certain significance long after the ideas they were meant to convey have been lost, or abandoned, or modified. If we bear these things in mind, it is not difficult to discover a religious origin for the symbolic wand of necromancy. Mr. Moncure Conway, in his book on Demonology and Devil-lore, mentions a thing which seems peculiarly apposite to our subject. In the old town of Hanover there is a certain schoolhouse, in which, above the teacher's chair, there was originally a representation of a dove perched upon a rod--the rod in this case being meant to typify a branch. Below the dove and rod there was this inscription: 'This shall lead you unto all Truth.' But the dove has long since disappeared, and there remains now but the rod and the inscription. It is natural that the children of the school should apply the admonition to the rod, ignorant that the rod was but the supporter of a symbol of the Holy Spirit. Thus has the pious design of inculcating a Divine lesson left only an emblem of mysterious terror. In some way, too, has the magic wand lost its religious significance and become but a dread implement of the occult. Yet we might trace the origin of the magician's wand to the very same root as that of the iron rod of the Hanover schoolhouse. We may find it in the olive-branch brought by the dove into the ark--a message of Divine love and mercy--and therefore a connecting-link between human needs and desires and superhuman power. To construe a mere symbol into a realized embodiment of the virtue symbolized were surely as easy in this case as in that of the Eucharist. But if this suggestion of the origin of the magician's wand be thought too hypothetical, there will be less objection to our finding it in Aaron's rod. Moses was commanded to take a rod from the chiefs of each of the twelve tribes, and to write upon each rod the name. The rods were then to be placed in the Tabernacle, and the owner of the one which blossomed was designated as the chosen one. The rod of the house of Levi bore the name of Aaron, and this was the only one of the twelve which blossomed. Here once more was the rod used to connect human needs with Divine will; but now a special virtue is made to appear in the rod itself. This virtue appeared again, when Pharaoh called all the sorcerers and magicians of Egypt to test their enchantments with Aaron's. All these magicians bore wands, or rods, and when they threw them on the ground the rods turned into serpents. Aaron's rod also turned into a serpent, and swallowed all the others. Now, here we find two things established. First, that even in these early days necromancy was a profession, and the rod a necessary implement of the craft; and, second, that the rod was esteemed not merely an emblem of authority, or a mere ornament of office, but as a thing of superhuman power in itself although the power could only be evoked by the specially gifted. We find the beginning of the idea in the story of Moses' rod which turned into a serpent when he cast it on the ground at the Divine command. This was what led up to the trial of skill with the Egyptian magicians, and seems to have been the first suggestion in early history of the miraculous virtues of the rod. Then we must remember that it was by the stretching forth of the rod of the prophet that all the waters of Egypt were made to turn into blood, and that the plagues of frogs and lice were wrought, and that the hail was called down from heaven which destroyed the crops and flocks of the Egyptians. In fact, all the miracles performed in the land of Egypt were made to appear more or less as the result of the application of the magic rod, just as to this day the clever conjurer appears to produce his wonderful effects with his wand. It was by the stretching forth of the rod of Moses that the Red Sea divided, and that the water sprang from the rock. The staff of Elisha and the spear of Joshua may also be cited in this connection, and other examples in Holy Writ may occur to the reader. They are mentioned here in no spirit of irreverence, but merely as evidence that the magic virtue of the rod was a fixed belief in the minds of the early writers. Belief in the vitalizing power of the rod may be found embalmed in many a curious mediæval legend. The budding rod, borrowed from the tradition of Aaron's, is, for instance, very frequent. Thus in the story of St. Christophoros, as preserved in Von Bülow's Christian Legends of Germany, we read of the godly man carrying the Child-Christ on his back through a raging torrent, and afterwards lying down on the banks of the stream, exhausted, to sleep. The staff which he stuck in the ground ere he lay down, budded and blossomed before he awoke, and in the morning he found a great umbrageous tree bearing fruit, and giving shelter to hundreds of gorgeous birds. There are many such legends in the traditions of all the Christian nations, and the collection and comparison of them would be an interesting and instructive task, but one too large for our present purpose. It is related by Holinshed, in connection with many wonderful visions which were seen in Scotland about A.D. 697, that once when the Bishop was conducting the service in the church of Camelon, with the crozier-staff in his hand, 'it was kindled so with fire that by no means it could be quenched till it was burnt even to ashes.' This was supposed to have been the handiwork of the devil, who has on other occasions used the staff or wand to emphasize his intentions or mark his spite. Thus, of the famous Dr. Fian it is narrated in the 'Newes from Scotland, declaring the damnable Life of Doctor Fian, a notable Sorcerer, who was burned at Edenborough in Januarie last 1591; which Doctor was Register to the Devill, that sundrie times Preached at North-Baricke Kirke to a number of notorious Witches,' etc.--that he made the following, among his other confessions: 'That the devill had appeared unto him in the night before, appareled all in blacke, with a white wand in his hande, and that the devill demanded of him if he would continue his faithfull service according to his first oath and promise made to that effect, whome (as hee then said) he utterly renounced to his face, and said unto him in this manner: "Avoide, avoide, Satan, for I have listened too much unto thee, and by the same thou hast undone me, in respect whereof I utterly forsake thee." To whom the devill answered, "That once, ere thou die, thou shalt be mine," and with that (as he sayed) the devill brake the white wand, and immediately vanished from sight.' After which, the chronicle goes on to tell how the redoubtable doctor actually escaped from prison, and began to resume his Satanic practices. This brings us to the most frequent use of the rod in superstitions--for the purposes of divination. There is a suggestion of the practice by Nebuchadnezzar, when he 'stood at the parting of the way, at the head of two ways, to use divinations, he made his arrows bright,' etc. He then threw up a bundle of arrows to see which way they would alight, and because they fell on the right hand he marched towards Jerusalem. Divination by the wand is also suggested in the shooting of an arrow from a window by Elisha, and by the strokes upon the ground with an arrow by which Joash foretold the number of his victories. Sir Thomas Browne speaks of a common 'practice among us to determine doubtful matters by the opening of a book and letting fall of a staff.' The 'staff' business is not quite so familiar in present days, but the opening of a book for prophetic guidance is, perhaps, more common than most people suppose. Sir Thomas Browne also speaks of a 'strange kind of exploration and peculiar way of Rhabdomancy' used in mineral discoveries. That is, 'with a fork of hazel, commonly called Moses his rod, which, freely held forth, will stir and play if any mine be under it. And though many there are,' says the learned doctor, 'who have attempted to make it good, yet until better information, we are of opinion, with Agricola, that in itself it is a fruitless exploration, strongly scenting of pagan derivation and the _virgula divina_ proverbially magnified of old. The ground whereof were the magical rods in poets--that of Pallas, in Homer; that of Mercury, that charmed Argus; and that of Circe, which transformed the followers of Ulysses. Too boldly usurping the name of Moses' rod, from which notwithstanding, and that of Aaron, were probably occasioned the fables of all the rest. For that of Moses must needs be famous unto the Egyptians, and that of Aaron unto many other nations, as being preserved in the Ark until the destruction of the Temple built by Solomon.' One may look in vain, perhaps, for modern instances of the divining-rod under the name of 'Moses his rod,' as old Sir Thomas found it. It is curious, however, that Sir Thomas Browne, who was so fond of delving among ancient writers, makes no reference to a striking passage in Herodotus. That historian, speaking of the Scythians, says, 'They have amongst them a great number who practise the art of divination. For this purpose they use a number of willow-twigs in this manner: they bring large bundles of these together, and having untied them, dispose them one by one on the ground, each bundle at a distance from the rest. This done, they pretend to foretell the future, during which they take up the bundles separately and tie them again together.' From this it may be seen that while the divining-rod was a familiar instrument 450 years before Christ, it was also then disbelieved in by some. Curious to think that what the old historian of Halicarnassus was wise enough to ridicule four centuries and a half before the birth of Christ, there are yet people, nineteen centuries after His advent, simple enough to accept! Herodotus goes on to tell that this mode of divination was hereditary among the Scythians, so how many centuries earlier it may have been practised one can hardly guess. He says that the 'enaries, or effeminate men, affirm that the art of divination was taught them by the goddess Venus,' a statement which will carry some significance to those who are familiar with the theories so boldly advocated by the author of Bible Folklore. Now, the attempt to divine by means of rods, arrows, staffs or twigs is evidently a good deal older than Herodotus, and it is to be found among almost every race of people on the face of the earth. Let us say 'almost,' because Mr. Andrew Lang instances this as one form of superstition which is not prevalent among savage races; or rather, to use his exact words, 'is singular in its comparative lack of copious savage analogues.' The qualification seems to be necessary, because there are certainly some, if not 'copious,' instances among savage peoples of the use of the divining-rod in one form or other. And Mr. Lang is hardly accurate in speaking of the 'resurrection' of this superstition in our own country. It has, in fact, never died, and there is scarcely a part of the country where a 'diviner' has not tried his--or her, for it is often a woman--skill with the 'twig' from time to time. These attempts have seldom been known beyond the immediate locality and the limited circle of those interested in them, and it is only of late years, since folklore became more of a scientific and general study, that the incidents have been seized upon and recorded by the curious. From the time of Moses until now the 'rod' has been almost continuously used by innumerable peoples in the effort to obtain supplies of water. In ancient times it was used, as we have seen, for a variety of other purposes; but its surviving use in our generation is to indicate the locality of hidden springs or of mineral deposits. There are cases on record, however, so recently as the last century, when the rod was used in the detection of criminals, and a modified application of it to a variety of indefinite purposes may even be traced to the planchette, which, at this very day, is seriously believed in by many persons who are ranked as 'intelligent.' Now, of the use of the divining-rod in England, Mr. Thiselton-Dyer thus wrote some years ago: 'The _virgula divinatoria_, or divining-rod, is a forked branch in the form of a Y, cut off a hazel-stick, by means of which people have pretended to discover mines, springs, etc., underground. It is much employed in our mining districts for the discovery of hidden treasure. In Cornwall, for instance, the miners place much confidence in its indications, and even educated, intelligent men oftentimes rely on its supposed virtues. Pryce, in his Mineralogia Cornubiensis, tells us that many mines have been discovered by the rod, and quotes several; but after a long account of the method of cutting, tying and using it, rejects it, because 'Cornwall is so plentifully stored with tin and copper lodes, that some accident every week discovers to us a fresh vein,' and because 'a grain of metal attracts the rod as strongly as a pound, for which reason it has been found to dip equally to a poor as to a rich lode.' But in Lancashire and Cumberland also, Mr. Dyer goes on to say, 'the power of the divining-rod is much believed in, and also in other parts of England.' The method of using it is thus described. The small ends, being crooked, are to be held in the hands in a position flat or parallel to the horizon, and the upper part at an elevation having an angle to it of about seventy degrees. The rod must be grasped strongly and steadily, and then the operator walks over the ground. When he crosses a lode, its bending is supposed to indicate the presence thereof. Mr. Dyer's explanation of the result is simple: 'The position of the hands in holding the rod is a constrained one--it is not easy to describe it; but the result is that the hands, from weariness speedily induced in the muscles, grasp the end of the twig yet more rigidly, and thus is produced the mysterious bending. The phenomena of the divining-rod and table-turning are of precisely the same character, and both are referable to an involuntary muscular action resulting from fixedness of idea. These experiments with a divining-rod are always made in a district known to be metalliferous, and the chances are, therefore, greatly in favour of its bending over or near a mineral lode.' The theory of 'involuntary muscular action' is a favourite explanation, and the subject is one well worthy of the investigation of all students of psychology. But how does this theory square with the story of Linnæus, told by a writer in _The Gentleman's Magazine_ in 1752? 'When Linnæus was upon his voyage to Scania, hearing his secretary highly extol the virtues of his divining-rod, he was willing to convince him of its insufficiency, and for that purpose concealed a purse of 100 ducats under a ranunculus which grew up by itself in a meadow, and bid the secretary find it if he could. The wand discovered nothing, and Linnæus's mark was soon trampled down by the company who were present, so that when Linnæus went to finish the experiment by fetching the gold himself, he was utterly at a loss where to find it. The man with the wand assisted him, and told him that it could not lie in the way they were going, but quite the contrary; so pursued the direction of the wand, and actually dug out the gold. Linnæus adds, that such another experiment would be sufficient to make a proselyte of him.' The explanation of this case by the incredulous would, of course, be that the owner of the wand had made a private mark of his own, and thus knew better than Linnæus where the gold lay. The divining-rod, however, is not used only in districts which are known to abound in metalliferous deposits, when minerals are being searched for, but has frequently been used by prospectors in new countries. Thus we recall that Captains Burton and Cameron in their book about the Gold Coast, tell how the rod was used by the early British explorers on the Gambia River. One Richard Jobson, in 1620, landed and searched various parts of the country, armed with mercury, nitric acid, some large crucibles, and a divining-rod. He washed the sand and examined the rocks beyond the Falls of Barraconda, with small success for a long time. At last, however, he found what he declared to be 'the mouth of the mine itself, and found gold in such abundance as surprised him with joy and admiration.' But what part the divining-rod played in the discovery is not related, and, for the rest, 'the mine' has disappeared as mysteriously as it was discovered. No one else has seen it, and all the gold that now comes from the Gambia River is a small quantity of dust washed down from the mountain-ridges of the interior. It is curious, however, to find civilized Europeans carrying the divining-rod to one of the districts where, according to Mr. Andrew Lang, it has no analogue among the primitive savages. I have mentioned, on the authority of Mr. Thiselton-Dyer, some of the districts of England in which the divining-rod is still more or less used. But something of its more extended use may be learned from Mr. Hilderic Friend's Flowers and Flower-Lore. That writer informs us of a curious custom of the hop-pickers of Kent and Sussex for ascertaining where they shall stand to pick. One of them cuts as many slips of hazel as there are bins in the garden, and on these he cuts notches from one upwards. Each picker then draws a twig, and his standing is decided by the number upon it. This is certainly an interesting instance of the divination by twigs reduced to practical ends. The same writer regards the familiar 'old-wife' fortune-telling by tea-leaves as merely another variation of this old superstition. It does seem to have some analogy to several of the practices to which we have briefly referred, and one finds another analogy in the Chinese custom of divining by straws. The divining-rod of England is described by Mr. Friend much in the same way as by Mr. Dyer. But, according to Mr. Friend, hazel was not always, although it has for a long time been, the favourite wood for the purpose. Elder, at any rate, is strictly forbidden, as deemed incapable of exhibiting magical powers. In Wiltshire and elsewhere Mr. Friend knows of the magic rod having been used recently for detecting water. It must be cut at some particular time when the stars are favourable, and 'in cutting it, one must face the east, so that the rod shall be one which catches the first rays of the morning sun, or, as some say, the eastern and western sun must shine through the fork of the rod, otherwise it will be good for nothing.' The same superstition prevails in China with regard to rods cut from the magic peach-tree. In Prussia, it is said, hazel-rods are cut in spring, and when harvest comes they are placed in crosses over the grain to keep it good for years, while in Bohemia the rod is used to cure fevers. A twig of apple-tree is, in some parts, considered as good as a hazel-rod, but it must be cut by the seventh son of a seventh son. Brand records that he has known ash-twigs used, and superstitiously regarded, in some parts of England; but the hazel is more generally supposed to be popular with the fairies, or whoever may be the mysterious spirits who guide the diviner's art. Hence perhaps the name, common in some parts, of witch-hazel, although, of course, philologists will have it that the true derivation is wych. In Germany the witch-hazel is the _zauber-streuch_, or the magic-tree, and it is probable that both witch and wych are from the Anglo-Saxon _wic-en_, to bend. It is curious, at any rate, that while in olden times a witch was called _wicce_, the mountain-ash, which, as we have seen, has supposed occult virtues, was formerly called _wice_. Whether this root has any connection with another name by which the magic wand is known--viz., the wishing-rod--may be doubted, but there is clearly a close connection between the hazel-twig of superstitious England and the _Niebelungen-rod_ of Germany, which gave to its possessor power over all the world. Of the employment of the divining-rod for the detection of criminals there are many cases on record, but the most famous in comparatively recent times is that of Jacques Aymar of Lyons. The full details of the doings of this remarkable person are given by Mr. Baring-Gould in his Curious Myths of the Middle Ages; but the story is told more concisely by another writer: 'On July 5, 1692, a vintner and his wife were found dead in the cellar of their shop at Lyons. They had been killed by blows from a hedging-knife, and their money had been stolen. The culprits could not be discovered, and a neighbour took upon him to bring to Lyons a peasant out of Dauphiné, named Jacques Aymar, a man noted for his skill with the divining-rod. The Lieutenant-Criminel and the Procureur du Roi took Aymar into the cellar, furnishing him with a rod of the first wood that came to hand. According to the Procureur du Roi the rod did not move till Aymar reached the very spot where the crime had been committed. His pulse then beat, and the wand twisted rapidly. Guided by the wand, or by some internal sensation, Aymar now pursued the track of the assassins, entered the court of the Archbishop's palace, left the town by the bridge over the Rhone, and followed the right bank of the river. He reached a gardener's house, which he declared the men had entered, and some children confessed that three men, whom they described, had come into the house one Sunday morning. Aymar followed the track up the river, pointed out all the places where the men had landed, and, to make a long story short, stopped at last at the door of the prison of Beaucaire. He was admitted, looked at the prisoners, and picked out as the murderer a little hunchback, who had just been brought in for a small theft. The hunchback was taken to Lyons, and he was recognised on the way by the people at all the stages where he had stopped. At Lyons he was examined in the usual manner, and confessed that he had been an accomplice in the crime, and had guarded the door. Aymar pursued the other culprits to the coast, followed them by sea, landed where they had landed, and only desisted from his search when they crossed the frontier. As for the hunchback, he was broken on the wheel, being condemned on his own confession.' This is briefly the story of Jacques Aymar, which is authenticated by various eye-witnesses, and of which many explanations have been tendered from time to time. Mr. Baring-Gould commits himself to no definite expression of opinion, but says: 'I believe that the imagination is the principal motive force in those who use the divining-rod; but whether it is so solely I am unable to decide. The powers of Nature are so mysterious and inscrutable that we must be cautious in limiting them, under abnormal conditions, to the ordinary laws of experience.' As, however, Jacques Aymar failed ignominiously under all the subsequent trials to which he was subjected, the most reasonable explanation of his success, with regard to the Lyons murder, is that he was by nature a clever detective, and that he was favoured by circumstances after he had once caught a clue. To return to the employment of the divining-rod in England, we find numerous instances of its application in searching for water, and these instances happen to be among the best authenticated of any on record. Some years ago a writer in the _Times_ boldly declared that he had himself seen the rod successfully used in seeking for water. He had even tried it himself, with the determination that the rod should not be allowed to twist, 'even if an ocean rolled under his feet.' But he confessed that it did twist in spite of him, and that at the place was found a concealed spring. Then it is recorded of Lady Milbanke, mother of Lord Byron's wife, that she had found a well by the violent twisting of the twig held in the orthodox way in her hand--turning so violently, indeed, as almost to break her fingers. Dr. Hutton was a witness of the affair, and has recorded his experience, which is quoted in a curious book called Jacob's Rod, published in London many years ago. This case, and others, were cited by a writer in the twenty-second volume of the _Quarterly Review_. De Quincey also asserted that he had frequently seen the divining-rod successfully used in the quest of water, and declared that, 'whatever science or scepticism may say, most of the tea-kettles in the Vale of Wrington, North Somersetshire, are filled by Rabdomancy.' Mr. Baring-Gould also quotes the case of a friend of his own who was personally acquainted with a Scotch lady who could detect hidden springs with a twig, which was inactive in the hands of others who tried it on the same spots. Other instances might be cited, but enough has been said to show that the magic rod, from the earliest periods, has been an instrument of supernatural attributes, and that even to this day in our own country it is still believed by some to have the special faculty of indicating the presence of minerals and water. With regard to minerals, there are no instances so well authenticated as those concerning the discovery of water. With regard to these last a considerable amount of haziness still exists, and, without venturing to pronounce them all fictions or productions of the imagination, it may be possible to find an explanation in a theory of hydroscopy. It is held that there are some few persons who are hydroscopes by nature--that is to say, are endowed with peculiar sensations which tell them the moment they are near water, whether it be evident or hidden, a concealed watercourse or a subterranean spring. If the existence of such a faculty, however exceptional, be clearly established, it will afford an explanation of certain successes with the divining-rod. CHAPTER III. THE MAGIC MIRROR. There is an old superstition, current, probably, in most parts of the country, that the breaking of a mirror will be followed by bad luck--usually a death in the family. This is, doubtless, the survival of a still older superstition--the belief in certain magic qualities of the mirror, which enabled it in certain circumstances to reflect the distant and to forecast the future. Nor was this superstition so childish as were some other popular delusions of old, for it had a certain philosophic basis. It is the peculiar property of the mirror to represent truth; to reproduce faithfully that which is; to show us ourselves as others see us. This is the idea expressed by Hamlet: 'To hold the mirror up to Nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.' The mirror has been, from time immemorial, a favourite form of charm for the exorcism of devils, and, indeed, to this day some of the African tribes believe that the best defence they have against their extremely ugly devil is a mirror. If they keep one at hand, the devil must see himself in it before he can touch them, and be so terrified at his own ugliness that he will turn tail and flee. We may take this symbolically--that a man shrinks from his worst self when it is revealed to him; but the untutored mind is prone to mistake symbol for fact. In this way, while the ancient philosophers may have used the mirror as a symbol of the higher nature of man, so polished and clarified that it showed him his lower nature in all its deformity, the crowd came to regard the crystal as an actual instrument of divination. Some of the oldest romances in the world have to do with the magical operation of the mirror. In the Gesta Romanorum there is a story of a knight who went to Palestine, and who while there was shown by an Eastern magician in a mirror what was going on at home. In the Arabian Nights the story of Prince Ahmed has a variant, an ivory tube through which could be discovered the far-distant--a sort of anticipation of Sam Weller's 'double million magnifying gas microscope of hextra power.' In the story of Prince Zeyn Alasnam, the enchanted mirror was able to reflect character, and was called the Touchstone of Virtue. Here again we have Hamlet's idea of holding the mirror up to Nature. The young King, Zeyn Alasnam, had eight beautiful statues of priceless value, and he wanted a ninth to make up his set. The difficulty was to find one beautiful enough; but the Prince of Spirits promised to supply one as soon as Zeyn should bring him a maiden at least fifteen years old, and of perfect beauty; only the maiden must not be vain of her charms, and she must never have told an untruth. Zeyn employed his magic mirror, and for a long time without success, as it always became blurred when he looked into it in the presence of a girl. At last he found one whose image was faithfully and brilliantly reflected--whose modesty and truthfulness were attested by the mirror. He took her with reluctance to the Prince of Spirits, because he had fallen in love with her himself; but his faithfulness to the contract was duly rewarded. On returning home, he found that the ninth statue, placed on its pedestal by the Prince of Spirits according to promise, was no cold marble, but the peerless and virtuous maiden whom he had discovered by means of his mirror. Paracelsus, in one of his treatises on Magic, gives the following account of the uses to which 'the witches and evil spirits' sometimes put the mirror. 'They take a mirror set in a wooden frame and put it into a tub of water, so that it will swim on the top with its face directed towards the sky. On the top of the mirror, and encircling the glass, they lay a cloth saturated with blood, and thus they expose it to the influence of the moon; and this evil influence is thrown towards the moon, and radiating again from the moon, it may bring evil to those who love to look at the moon. The rays of the moon, passing through the ring upon the mirror, become poisoned, and poison the mirror; the mirror throws back the poisoned ether into the atmosphere, and the moon and the mirror poison each other, in the same manner as two malicious persons, by looking at each other, poison each other's souls with their eyes. If a mirror is strongly poisoned in this manner, the witch takes good care of it; and if she desires to injure someone, she takes a waxen image made in his name, she surrounds it with a cloth spotted with blood, and throws the reflex of the mirror through the opening in the middle upon the head of the figure, or upon some other part of its body, using at the same time her evil imagination and curses; and the man whom the image represents may then have his vitality dried up, and his blood poisoned by that evil influence, and he may become diseased and his body covered with boils.' This, of course, is not divination, but sorcery. Paracelsus gives very minute directions for the making of a magic mirror. The material should be the 'electrum magicum,' which is a compound of ten parts of pure gold, ten of silver, five of copper, two of tin, two of lead, one part of powdered iron, and five parts of mercury. When the planets Saturn and Mercury conjoin, the lead has to be melted and the mercury added. Then the metal must cool, while you wait for a conjunction of Jupiter with Saturn and Mercury; when that occurs, you melt the amalgam of lead and mercury, and add the tin, previously melted in a separate crucible, at the exact moment of conjunction. Again you wait for a conjunction of either of the above-named planets with the Sun, when you add the gold; with the Moon, when you add the silver; with Venus, when you add the copper. Finally, when a conjunction of either of the planets occurs with Mars, you must complete your mixture with the powdered iron, and stir up the whole molten mass with a dry rod of witch-hazel. Thus far your metal; but the mirror is not made yet. It must be of about two inches diameter, and must be founded in moulds of fine sand at the moment when a conjunction of Jupiter and Venus occurs. The mirror must be smoothed with a grindstone and polished with tripoly and a piece of lime-wood; but all the operations must be conducted only when the planetary influences are favourable. By selecting the proper hours, three different mirrors may be prepared, and then, at a time of conjunction of two 'good' planets, while the Sun or Moon 'stands on the house of the lord of the hour of your birth,' the three mirrors should be placed in pure well-water and left for an hour. After this they may be wrapped in clean linen and kept ready for use. With a mirror made in this way from the 'electrum magicum,' Paracelsus says: 'You may see the events of the past and the present, absent friends or enemies, and see what they are doing. You may see in it any object you may desire to see, and all the doings of men in daytime or at night. You may see in it anything that has been ever written down, said, or spoken in the past, and also see the person who said it, and the causes that made him say what he did, and you may see in it anything, however secret it may have been kept.' Mirrors made of the 'electrum magicum' are warranted antipathetic to all evil influences, because there is hidden in the metal a 'heavenly power and influence of the seven planets.' The plastic and creative power of the mind is the power of imagination; but the power of imagination is, or should be, controlled by the will. It is not alone the mediæval dabblers in the occult who have adopted, or endeavoured to adopt, various means for suspending the will and making the imagination passive. The ancient Pythoness, as Dr. Franz Hartmann, the modern German exponent of the Science of Magic, pointed out, attempted to heighten her receptivity by the inhalation of noxious vapours; uncivilized peoples use poison, or the maddening whirl of the dance; others use opium, Indian hemp, or other narcotics--all for the same purpose, to suspend the will, render the mind a blank, and excite the brain so as to produce morbid fancies and illusions. The fortune-teller and the clairvoyant employ methods of their own for concentrating their attention, so as produce a condition of mental passivity. The Indian adept prides himself on being able to extract volition and suspend imagination by the mere exercise of will. A favourite device to bring about mental passivity has always been by staring at mirrors, or crystal, or sheets of water, or even pools of ink. 'There are numerous prescriptions for the preparation of magic mirrors,' says Dr. Hartmann in his work on Magic, 'but the best magic mirror will be useless to him who is not able to see clairvoyantly, while the natural clairvoyant may call that faculty into action by concentrating his mind on any particular spot, a glass of water, ink, a crystal, or anything else. For it is not in the mirror where such things are seen, but in the mind; the mirror merely serves to assist in the entering of that mental state which is necessary to produce clairvoyant sight. The best of all mirrors is the soul of man, and it should be always kept pure, and be protected against dust, and dampness, and rust, so that it may not become tarnished, but remain perfectly clear, and able to reflect the light of the divine spirit in its original purity.' A German writer of the fifteenth century takes a less favourable view of what he calls pyromancy, although pyromancy is really divination by fire. He reports the practices of certain Masters of Magic, who made children look into a wretched mirror for the purpose of obtaining information in an unholy manner. 'Young boys are said to behold future things and all things, in a crystal. Base, desperate, and faint-hearted Christians practise it, to whom the shadow and the phantom of the devil are dearer than the truth of God. Some take a clear and beautifully polished crystal, or beryl, which they consecrate and keep clean, and treat with incense, myrrh, and the like. And when they propose to practise their art, they wait for a clear day, or select some clean chamber in which are many candles burning. The Masters then bathe, and take the pure child into the room with them, and clothe themselves in pure white garments, and sit down and speak in magic sentences, and then burn their magic offering, and make the boy look into the stone, and whisper in his ears secret words which have, as they think, some holy import, but which are verily words of the devil.' A sixteenth-century German tells of a man at Elbingen, in Prussia, who 'predicted hidden truths' by means of a mirror, and sold the knowledge to his customers. Many crystal-seeing old hags are referred to as being upon terms of intimacy with Black Kaspar. Indeed, in German literature, both historical, philosophical, legendary, and romantic, we find endless references to the magic mirror and the divining crystal. Modern romancists still find dramatic use for the old superstitions. Quite recently a novel of the present day centred its interest upon an ancient mirror, which exchanged its reflection for the mind of him who gazed into it--a practical and startling realization of the idea that the glass reveals one's true self. Then, not to multiply incidents, Wilkie Collins, in The Moonstone, introduces what Mr. Rudyard Kipling in another story calls the 'ink-pool'; and readers of Dante Gabriel Rossetti will recall to mind the doings of the Spirits of the Beryl. In a large number of stories the magic mirror is not a looking-glass at all. But the beryl, the ink-pool, Dr. Dee's famous spherical speculum, the rock crystal, or even a glass of water, may all, according to the adepts, have the same properties as Vulcan's mirror, in which Penelope, the wife of Ulysses, beheld, according to Sir John Davies, a vision of all the wonder and grandeur of Queen Elizabeth's Court to be. Even a polished sword-blade has been asserted to have made an effective magic mirror, and it is recorded that Jacob Boehme penetrated into the innermost secrets of nature and the hearts of men by means of a tin cup. As to cups, the Septuagint gives one to understand that the cup placed by Joseph in the sack of Benjamin in Egypt was not an ordinary drinking-vessel, but a divining-cup. Now, the way of divining with a cup was to fill it with pure water, and to read the images which were then reflected. Some writers have supposed, from the mention of Urim and Thummim in Exodus, that divination by mirror was a recognised institution among the Jews. Urim signifies 'lights,' and Thummim 'reflections,' and the names were applied to the six bright and six dark precious stones on the breastplate of the high priest when he went to seek special revelations. Cambuscan's mirror was, according to Chaucer, of Oriental origin. It was given by the King of Tartary to the King of Araby, and it seemed to possess all the virtues of several kinds of magic mirrors. Thus it showed whether love was returned, whether an individual confronted with it were friend or foe, and what trouble was in store for those who consulted it. Merlin's mirror, also called Venus's looking-glass, had some of these properties, but was made in Wales, and was given by Merlin to King Ryence. It revealed what was being done by friend or foe at a distance, and it also enabled the fair Britomart to read the features, and also the name, of her future husband. The consultation of a pool, on certain special occasions, for the lineaments of 'the coming man,' has been a common enough practice with love-sick damsels in much more recent times. The wonderful looking-glass of Lao, described by Lien Chi Altangi in Goldsmith's Citizen of the World, reflected the mind as well as the body, and the Emperor Chusi used to make his ladies dress both their heads and their hearts before it every morning. Great, however, as are the Chinese in divination, and numerous as are their superstitions, we do not find, _pace_ Oliver Goldsmith, that the mirror occupies any prominent place in their magic. One of the most famous dealers in catoptromancy (divination by mirror) in this country was Dr. John Dee, who flourished about the middle of the sixteenth century. He had a speculum called the Shew Stone, and sometimes the Holy Stone, with which he divined by the aid of a medium named Kelly. This Kelly was a notoriously bad character, so his example does not carry out the popular idea that the seer must be a stainless child, or some absolutely pure-minded being. Dr. Dee professed to have a number of regular spirit-visitors, whom he described with much circumstantial minuteness, and thus his mirror-magic seems to have possessed more of the character of spiritualistic manifestations than of the usual Oriental crystallomancy. The famous Cagliostro--Prince of Scoundrels, as Carlyle called him--used a bottle of pure water, into which he directed a child to gaze, with results which were not always satisfactory. The Orientalist, Lane, published some sixty years ago, or more, a circumstantial narrative of an experience he had with an Egyptian magician, along with Mr. Salt, a British Consul. Invocations were liberally used, in order to summon the two genii of the magician, and verses were recited from the Koran, in order that the eyes of the medium--a boy--should be opened in a supernatural manner. The magician selected one at random from a group of boys, and drew in the palm of the boy's right hand a magic square, inscribed with Arabic figures. He then poured ink into the centre, and told the boy to gaze fixedly, while he himself proceeded to drop more written invocations, on slips of paper, into a chafing-dish. For some time the boy saw nothing but the reflection of the magician, and then he began to describe various scenes. At last Lane asked that Lord Nelson should be called up, and the boy said that he saw a man in dark-blue clothes, with his left arm across his breast. It was explained that the boy saw things as in a mirror, and that Nelson's empty right sleeve worn across the breast naturally appeared in the glass as the left arm. Now, the boy may have heard of Nelson, but could scarcely have seen him, though the figure of so famous a man must have been familiar to the magician. Hypnotism has, therefore, been suggested as the explanation of what Lane witnessed, and which seemed so miraculous at the time. Many scholars, philosophers, and scientific students of mediæval times, who had no pretence to magic, had yet firm faith in the power of mirrors, constructed in a special manner and under auspicious planetary influences, to reveal both the distant-present and the future. One of the modern adepts was a French magician, who foretold by his mirror the death of a Prince, and the regency of the Duc d'Orleans. There are many published prescriptions for the making of a magic mirror, but that which has already been given from Paracelsus is a fair specimen of the ultra-scientific method. Among directions for the use of the crystal may be cited those of Barth: 'When a crystal has been ground and polished, it is dedicated to some spirit or other; this is called its consecration. Before being used, it is charged--that is, an invocation is made to the spirit, wherein a vision is requested of the things that one wishes to experience. Ordinarily, a young person is chosen to look into the glass and behold the prayed-for vision. After a little time the crystal becomes enveloped in a cloud, and a tiny vision appears, which represents in miniature the persons, scenes, and things that are necessary to supply the required information. When the information has been obtained, the crystal is discharged, and after receiving thanks for the services he has performed, the spirit is dismissed.' In modern crystal-gazing and mirror-reading, however, there is no invocation. An American spiritualist says that he once put a crystal into the hands of a lady who knew nothing about its reputed virtues, but who straightway began to describe a scene which she saw in it, and which turned out afterwards to be a simultaneous incident at Trebizond. The mediumistic influence of the spirit of a North American Indian may not commend the story to non-spiritualists. The experiences of the Countess Wurmbrand, as related in her curious book, Visionen im Wasserglass, are more matter-of-fact, perhaps, but were also assisted by a mysterious spirit, who enabled her to read pictures in the glass and to describe them to her husband. She was more successful in her time than more recent experimenters and psychologists of her own country have been since. The Society for Psychical Research have given much attention to the subject, and have reported some remarkable observations--especially those of Miss Goodrich, a lady who has made several scores of experiments of her own in crystal-reading, always taking notes immediately. She tried the back of a watch, a glass of water, a mirror, and other reflecting surfaces, before arriving at the conclusion that polished rock crystal affords the best speculum for divination. Having reached this point, the lady draped her selected crystal in black, set it where no surrounding objects could be reflected in it, and sought it when in search of light and leading. Sometimes her consultations were very practical. Thus, one finds among her notes: 'I had carelessly destroyed a letter without preserving the address of my correspondent. I knew the county, and searching a map, recognised the name of the town, one unfamiliar to me, but which I was sure I should know when I saw it. But I had no clue to the name of the house or street, till at last it struck me to test the value of the crystal as a means of recalling forgotten knowledge. A very short inspection supplied me with "Hibbs House," in gray letters on a white ground, and having nothing better to suggest from any other source, I risked posting my letter to the address so strangely supplied. A day or two brought an answer headed "Hibbs House" in gray letters on a white ground.' Let us take an example of another of Miss Goodrich's crystal-readings, and let it be remembered that they are all reported as experiments of our own day: 'One of my earliest experiences was of a picture, perplexing and wholly unexpected--a quaint oak chair, an old hand, a worn black coat-sleeve resting on the arm of the chair--slowly recognised as a recollection of a room in a country vicarage which I had not entered, and but seldom recalled, since I was a child of ten. But whence came this vision? What association has conjured up this picture? What have I done to-day? At length the clue is found. I have to-day been reading Dante, first enjoyed with the help of our dear old vicar many a year ago.' And again: 'I happened to want the date of Ptolemy Philadelphus, which I could not recall, though feeling sure that I knew it, and that I associated it with some event of importance. When looking in the crystal, some hours later, I found a picture of an old man, with long, white hair and beard, dressed like a Lyceum Shylock, and busy writing in a large book with tarnished massive clasps. I wondered much who he was, and what he could possibly be doing, and thought it a good opportunity of carrying out a suggestion which had been made to me of examining objects in the crystal with a magnifying-glass. The glass revealed to me that my old gentleman was writing in Greek, though the lines faded away as I looked, all but the characters he had last traced, the Latin numerals LXX. Then it flashed into my mind that he was one of the Jewish Elders at work on the Septuagint, and that this date, 277 B.C., would serve equally well for Ptolemy Philadelphus. It may be worth while to add, though the fact was not in my conscious memory at the moment, that I had once learnt a chronology on a mnemonic system which substituted letters for figures, and the _memoria technica_ for this date was, "Now Jewish Elders indite a Greek copy."' One may, perhaps, find a simple and easy explanation of Miss Goodrich's mirror-reading, in a theory of unconscious cerebration. The crystal simply assisted her memory, and recalled incidents and scenes, just as a chance odour, a bar of music, a word, a look, a name, will often do for most of us. Clearly there is nothing necessarily either magic or spiritualistic in this particular example of the magic mirror. There are, however, some other experiments recorded which seem to be only explainable on a theory of telepathy; but Mr. Max Dessoir, commenting on the evidence of Miss Goodrich in an American Review, attributes the whole phenomena merely to 'revived memory.' This is all very well as to past events, but what shall we say to a case such as the following, among Miss Goodrich's experiments? 'In January last I saw in the crystal the figure of a man crouching at a small window, and looking into the room from the outside. I could not see his features, which appeared to be muffled, but the crystal was particularly dark that evening, and the picture being an unpleasant one, I did not persevere. I concluded the vision to be a result of a discussion in my presence of the many stories of burglary with which the newspapers had lately abounded, and reflected with a passing satisfaction that the only windows in the house divided into four panes, as were those of the crystal picture, were in the front attic, and almost inaccessible. Three days later a fire broke out in that very room, which had to be entered from outside through the window, the face of the fireman being covered with a wet cloth as a protection from the smoke, which rendered access through the door impossible.' Was this coincidence, or prevision, or what Mr. Dessoir calls the 'falsification of memory'? The thing was either a miracle, which none of us is prepared to accept, or the after-confusion of a vague foreboding with an actual occurrence in the mind of the observer. Mr. Dessoir suggested another explanation of crystal pictures in the doctrine of the double consciousness of the human soul; but that opens up another subject. While we have seen that mirror and crystal-reading is one of the most ancient of occult practices, we have also seen that it is practised in our own country even at this day. Moreover, it is said that there is in England a wholesale manufacture of magic mirrors as a regular industry--the site of which, however, the present writer is unable to specify. CHAPTER IV. THE MAGIC MOON. Certainly since, and probably long before, Job 'beheld the moon walking in brightness,' all the peoples of the earth have surrounded that luminary with legends, with traditions, with myths, and with superstitions of various kinds. In our time, and in our own country, the sentiment with which the orb of night is regarded is a soft and pleasing one, for 'That orbèd maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon,' is supposed to look with approval upon happy lovers, and with sympathy upon those who are encountering the proverbial rough places in the course of true love. Why the moon should be partial to lovers one might easily explain on very prosaic grounds--perhaps not unlike the reasoning of the Irishman who called the sun a coward because he goes away as soon as it begins to grow dark, whereas the blessed moon stays with us most of the night! Except Lucian and M. Jules Verne, one does not readily recall anyone who professes to have been actually up to the moon. Lucian had by far the most eventful experience, for he met Endymion, who entertained him royally, and did all the honours of the planet to which he had been wafted from earth in his sleep. The people of Moonland, Lucian assures us, live upon flying frogs, only they do not eat them; they cook the frogs on a fire and swallow the smoke. For drink, he says, they pound air in a mortar, and thus obtain a liquid very like dew. They have vines, only the grapes yield not wine, but water, being, in fact, hailstones, such as descend upon the earth when the wind shakes the vines in the moon. Then the Moonfolk have a singular habit of taking out their eyes when they do not wish to see things--a habit which has its disadvantages, for sometimes they mislay their eyes and have to borrow a pair from their neighbours. The rich, however, provide against such accidents by always keeping a good stock of eyes on hand. Lucian also discovered the reason of the red clouds which we on earth often see at sunset. They are dyed by the immense quantity of blood which is shed in the battles between the Moonfolk and the Sunfolk, who are at constant feud. The reason why the gentler sex are so fond of the moon is satirically said to be because there is a man in it! But who and what is he? An old writer, John Lilly, says: 'There liveth none under the sunne that knows what to make of the man in the moone.' And yet many have tried. One old ballad, for instance, says: 'The man in the moon drinks claret, But he is a dull Jack-a-Dandy. Would he know a sheep's head from a carrot, He should learn to drink cyder and brandy' --which may be interesting, but is certainly inconsequential. It is curious, too, that while the moon is feminine in English, French, Latin and Greek, it is masculine in German and cognate tongues. Now, if there is a man in the moon, and if it be the case, as is asserted by antiquarians, that the 'man in the moon' is one of the most ancient as well as one of the most popular superstitions of the world, the masculine is surely the right gender after all. Those who look to Sanscrit for the solution of all mythological, as well as philological, problems will confirm this, for in Sanscrit the moon is masculine. Dr. Jamieson, of Scottish Dictionary fame, gets out of the difficulty by saying that the moon was regarded as masculine in relation to the earth, whose husband he was; but feminine in relation to the sun, whose wife she was! With the Greeks the moon was a female, Diana, who caught up her lover Endymion; and Endymion was thus, probably, the first 'man in the moon.' The Jews, again, have a tradition that Jacob is in the moon; and there is the nursery story that the person in the moon is a man who was condemned for gathering sticks on Sunday. This myth comes to us from Germany--at all events, Mr. R. A. Proctor traced it there with much circumstantiality. Mr. Baring-Gould, however, finds in some parts of Germany a tradition that both a man and a woman are in the moon--the man because he strewed brambles and thorns on the church path to hinder people from attending Sunday mass, and the woman because she made butter on Sunday. This man carries two bundles of thorns, and the woman her butter-tub, for ever. In Swabia they say there is a mannikin in the moon, who stole wood; and in Frisia they say it is a man, who stole cabbages. The Scandinavian legend is that the moon and sun are brother and sister--the moon in this case being the male. The story goes that Mâni, the moon, took up two children from earth, named Bil and Hjuki, as they were carrying a pitcher of water from the well Brygir, and in this myth Mr. Baring-Gould discovers the origin of the nursery rhyme of Jack and Jill. 'These children,' he says, 'are the moon-spots, and the fall of Jack, and the subsequent fall of Jill, simply represent the vanishing of one moon-spot after another as the moon wanes.' In Britain there are references in the ancient monkish writings to a man in the moon; and in the Record Office there is an impression of a seal of the fourteenth century bearing the device of a man carrying a bundle of thorns in the moon. The legend attached is, 'Te Waltere docebo cur spinas phebo gero' ('I will teach thee, Walter, why I carry thorns to the moon'), which Mr. Hudson Taylor, who describes the seal, thinks to be an enigmatical way of saying that honesty is the best policy--the thorns having evidently been stolen. Chaucer has more than one reference to the man in the moon, and so have most of the older poets. Shakespeare not only refers frequently to 'a' man, but in the Midsummer Night's Dream Peter Quince distinctly stipulates that the man who is to play 'the moon' shall carry 'a bush of thorns.' The man in the moon, according to Dante, is Cain, carrying a bundle of thorns, and yet in that planet he found located only those comparatively mild sinners who had partly neglected their vows. A French legend, on the other hand, identifies 'the man' with Judas Iscariot. _Per contra_, in India the Buddhist legend places a hare in the moon, carried there by Indra for kindly service rendered to him on earth. May not this hare of the Indian mythology be the moon-dog of some of our own legends? Peter Quince, we know, recommended that the moon should have a dog as well as a bundle of sticks, and the association of the quadruped in the story is very common. The North American Indians believe that the moon is inhabited by a man and a dog. The Maoris believe in the man, but not in the dog, which is not surprising when we remember the limited fauna of the antipodes. The Maori legend runs something like this. A man called Rona went out one night to fetch water from a well, but, falling, sprained his ankle so as to be unable to return home. All at once the moon, which had risen, began to approach him. In terror he clung to a tree, which gave way, and both tree and Rona fell on the moon, where they remain even unto this day. Here we have clearly a variation of the 'bundle of sticks' legend, but there is an absence of apparent cause and effect in the Maori legend which is unsatisfactory. More precise is the Bushman legend, quoted by Dr. Bleek. According to this, the moon is a man who incurs the wrath of the sun, and is consequently pierced by the knife (the rays) of the latter, until there is only a little piece of him left. Then he cries for mercy for his children's sake, and is allowed to grow again until once more he offends his sunship; the whole process being repeated monthly. Dr. Rink relates a curious tradition of the Eskimo, not quite quotable here, the gist of which is that a man who desired to make his sister his wife was transformed into the moon, while the woman became the sun. Something like the same legend has been traced as far south as Panama. Another notable thing about Eskimo traditions is that the moon is associated with fertility in woman. This superstition is both very ancient and very widespread, and, indeed, seems to have been the root both of the moon-worship of the Oriental nations and of the mysterious rites of the Egyptians referred to by Herodotus. Luna is identified by some mythologists with Soma of the Indian mythology, _i.e._, the emblem of reproduction. In China, according to Dr. Dennys, the man in the moon is called Yue-lao, and he is believed to hold in his hands the power of predestining marriages. He is supposed to tie together the future husband and wife with an invisible silken cord, which never parts while life lasts. Miss Gordon-Cumming, in her interesting account of Wanderings in China, relates that, in the neighbourhood of Foo-Chow, she witnessed a great festival being held in honour of the full moon, which was mainly attended by women. There was a Temple-play, or sing-song, going on all day and most of the night, and each woman carried a stool so that she might sit out the whole performance. This recalls what Mr. Riley states in The Book of Days, as related by John Andrey in the seventeenth century: 'In Scotland, especially among the Highlanders, the women make a courtesy to the new moon, and our English women in this country have a touch of this, some of them sitting astride on a gate or stile the first evening the new moon appears, and saying, "A fine moon! God bless her!" The like I observed in Herefordshire.' As illustrative of this superstition may be instanced a curious practice in this country, in olden times, of divination by the moon. It is quoted by Mr. Thiselton-Dyer from an old chap-book: 'When you go to bed (at the period of harvest moon) place under your pillow a Prayer-Book open at the part of the matrimonial service, which says, "With this ring I thee wed"; place on it a key, a ring, a flower, and a sprig of willow, a small heart-cake, a crust, and the following cards: a ten of clubs, nine of hearts, ace of spades, and ace of diamonds. Wrap all these in a thin handkerchief, and, on getting into bed, cover your hands, and say: "Luna, every woman's friend, To me thy goodness condescend: Let me this night in visions see Emblems of my destiny." It is certainly hard to imagine pleasant dreams as the result of such a very uncomfortably-stuffed pillow. In this same connection may be named other items of folklore related by Mr. Dyer. For instance, in Devonshire it is believed that if on seeing the first new moon of the year you take off one stocking and run across a field, you will find between two of your toes a hair which will be the colour of the lover you are to have. In Berkshire the proceeding is more simple, for you merely look at the new moon, and say: 'New moon, new moon, I hail thee! By all the virtue in thy body, Grant this night that I may see He who my true love shall be!' The result is guaranteed to be as satisfactory as it is in Ireland, where the people are said to point to the new moon with a knife, and say: 'New moon, true morrow, be true now to me, That I to-morrow my true love may see!' In Yorkshire, again, the practice was to catch the reflection of the new moon in a looking-glass, the number of reflections signifying the number of years which will elapse before marriage. All these superstitions are suggestive of that which Tylor calls 'one of the most instructive astrological doctrines'--namely, that of the 'sympathy of growing and declining nature with the waxing and waning moon.' Tylor says that a classical precept was to set eggs under the hen at new moon, and that a Lithuanian precept was to wean boys on a waxing and girls on a waning moon--in order to make the boys strong and the girls delicate. On the same grounds, he says, Orkney-men object to marry except with a growing moon, and Mr. Dyer says that in Cornwall, when a child is born in the interval between an old and a new moon, it is believed that he will never live to manhood. Dr. Turner relates several traditions of the moon current in Samoa. There is one of a visit paid to the planet by two young men--Punifanga, who went up by a tree, and Tafaliu, who went up on a column of smoke. There is another of a woman, Sina, who was busy one evening cutting mulberry-bark for cloth with her child beside her. It was a time of famine, and the rising moon reminded her of a great bread-fruit--just as in our country it has reminded some people of a green cheese. Looking up, she said: 'Why cannot you come down and let my child have a bit of you?' The moon was so indignant at being taken for an article of food, that she came down forthwith and took up woman, child and wood. There they are to this day, for in the full moon the Samoans still see the features of Sina, the face of the child, and the board and mallet. Mr. Andrew Lang finds in an Australian legend of the moon something oddly like Grimm's tale of the Wolf and the Kids, which, again, he likens to the old Greek myth of Cronos. The Australian legend is that birds were the original gods, and that the eagle especially was a great creative power. The moon was a mischievous being, who walked about the earth doing all the evil he could. One day he swallowed the eagle. The eagle's wives coming up, the moon asked where he could find a well. They pointed out one, and while he was drinking, they struck him with a stone tomahawk, which made him disgorge the eagle. This legend is otherwise suggestive from the circumstances that among the Greeks the eagle was the special bird of Zeus, and it was the eagle which carried off Ganymede. There is another Australian fable that the moon was a man, and the sun a woman of doubtful reputation who appears at dawn in a coat of red kangaroo-skin belonging to one of her lovers. In Mexico, also, the moon is a man, across whose face an angry immortal once threw a rabbit; hence the marks on the surface of the planet. These same marks are accounted for in the Eskimo legend already mentioned as the impressions of the woman's sooty fingers on the face of her pursuer. By some mythologists the moon is thought to be Medea, but it is more common to interpret Medea as the daughter of the sun, _i.e._, the dawn. It is certainly not a little curious to find the moon-lore, as the star-lore, having so many points of resemblance among such widely-separated and different peoples as the Greeks, the Egyptians, the Australians, the Eskimos, the Bushmen of South Africa, the North American Indians, and the New Zealand Maoris. The comparative mythologists would argue from this resemblance a common origin of the myth, and a distribution or communication from one race to the other. The folk-lore mythologists would infer nothing of the sort. They say there is nothing remarkable in all savage races imputing human motives and sex to the heavenly bodies, for, in fact, to this day there are savages, as in the South Pacific, who suppose even stones to be male and female, and to propagate their species. On this method of interpretation the hypothesis is not that the Australians, Indians, etc., received their myths from, say, the Greeks, either by community of stock or by contact and borrowing, but because the ancestors of the Greeks passed through the same intellectual condition as the primitive races we now know. And thus it is that in listening to the beautiful legends of the Greeks, we are but, as Bacon says, hearing the harsh ideas of earlier peoples 'blown softly through the flutes of the Grecians.' Now, beside the personality of the moon, and the peculiar influence he or she is supposed to exercise on mortals, there has survived an old superstition that the moon has direct influence on the weather. Apropos of this association, there is a pretty little Hindoo legend which is current in Southern India, and which has been translated by Miss Frere, daughter of Sir Bartle Frere. This is the story as told her by her Lingaet ayah: 'One day the Sun, the Moon, and the Wind went out to dine with their uncle and aunt, the Thunder and Lightning. Their mother (one of the most distant stars you see far up in the sky) waited alone for her children's return. Now, both the Sun and the Wind were greedy and selfish. They enjoyed the great feast that had been prepared for them, without a thought of saving any of it to take home to their mother; but the gentle Moon did not forget her. Of every dainty dish that was brought round she placed a small portion under one of her beautiful long fingernails, that the Star might also have a share in the treat. On their return, their mother, who had kept watch for them all night long with her bright little eye, said: "Well, children, what have you brought home for me?" Then the Sun (who was eldest) said: "I have brought nothing home for you. I went out to enjoy myself with my friends, not to fetch a dinner for my mother!" And the Wind said: "Neither have I brought anything home for you, mother. You could hardly expect me to bring a collection of good things for you, when I merely went out for my own pleasure." But the Moon said: "Mother, fetch a plate; see what I have brought you;" and shaking her hands, she showered down such a choice dinner as never was seen before. Then the Star turned to the Sun, and spoke thus: "Because you went out to amuse yourself with your friends, and feasted and enjoyed yourself without any thought of your mother at home, you shall be cursed. Henceforth your rays shall ever be hot and scorching, and shall burn all that they touch. All men shall hate you, and cover their heads when you appear"; and this is why the sun is so hot to this day. Then she turned to the Wind, and said: "You also, who forgot your mother in the midst of your selfish pleasures, hear your doom. You shall always blow in the hot, dry weather, and shall parch and shrivel all living things, and men shall detest and avoid you from this very time"; and this is why the wind in the hot weather is still so disagreeable. But to the Moon she said: "Daughter, because you remembered your mother, and kept for her a share in your own enjoyment, from henceforth you shall be ever cool, and calm, and bright. No noxious glare shall accompany your pure rays, and men shall always call you blessed"; and that is why the moon's light is so soft, and cool, and beautiful even to this day.' It is remarkable, nevertheless, that among Western peoples, at any rate, the moon has usually been associated with the uncanny. It is an old belief, for instance, that the moon is the abode of bad spirits; and in the old story of the Vampire it is notable that the creature, as a last request, begged that he might be buried where no sunlight, but only moonlight, might fall on his grave. Witches were supposed to be able to control the moon, as witness the remark of Prospero in The Tempest: 'His mother was a witch, and one so strong, That could control the moon.' The Rev. Timothy Harley, who has collected much moon-lore, suggests that if the broom on which witches rode to the moon be a type of the wind, 'we may guess how the fancy grew up that the airy creation could control those atmospheric vapours on which the light and humidity of the night were supposed to depend.' But the 'glamour' of the moon is not a mere poetic invention or a lover's fancy. Mr. Moncure Conway reminds us that _glám_, in its nominative form _glámir_, is a poetical name for the moon, to be found in the Prose Edda. It is given in the Glossary as one of the old names for the moon. Mr. Conway also says that there is a curious old Sanscrit word, _glau_ or _gláv_, which is explained in all the old lexicons as meaning the moon. Hence 'the ghost or goblin Glam (of the old legend of Grettir) seems evidently to have arisen from a personification of the delusive and treacherous effects of moonlight on the benighted traveller.' Similar delusive effects are found referred to in old Hindoo writings, as, for instance, in the following passages from Bhása, a poet of the seventh century: 'The cat laps the moonbeams in the bowl of water, thinking them to be milk; the elephant thinks that the moonbeams threaded through the intervals of the trees are the fibres of the lotus-stalk; the woman snatches at the moonbeams as they lie on the bed, taking them for her muslin garment. Oh, how the moon, intoxicated with radiance, bewilders all the world!' Again: 'The bewildered herdsmen place the pails under the cows, thinking that the milk is flowing; the maidens also put the blue lotus-blossom in their ears, thinking that it is the white; the mountaineer's wife snatches up the jujube fruit, avaricious for pearls. Whose mind is not led astray by the thickly-clustering moonbeams?' Such was the 'glamour' of Glam (the moon) in ancient eyes, and still it works on lovers' hearts. The fascination has been felt and expressed by nearly all the poets, and by none better, perhaps, than by Sir Philip Sidney: 'With what sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrow tries? Sure if that long with love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case. I read it in thy looks--thy languish'd grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.' The number of human beings who have, articulately or inarticulately, cried with Endymion, 'What is there in thee, Moon, that thou should'st move my heart so potently?' are not to be measured in ordinary figures. To return, however, to the bad side of Luna's character. We read that in Assyria deadly influences were ascribed to the moon. In Vedic mythology there is a story, which Mr. Moncure Conway tells in Demonology and Devil-lore, of a quarrel between Brahma and Vishnu as to which was the first born. Siva interferes, and says he is the first born, but will recognise as his superior whoever is able to see the crown of his head or the soles of his feet. Vishnu thereupon transforms himself into a boar, pierces underground, and thus sees the feet of Siva, who salutes him on his return as the firstborn of the gods. Now, De Gubernatis regards this fable as 'making the boar emblem of the hidden moon'; and Mr. Conway thinks there is no doubt that the boar at an early period became emblematic of the wild forces of Nature. 'From being hunted by King Odin on earth, it passed to be his favourite food in Valhalla, and a prominent figure in his spectral hunt.' But it is with the moon, not with Odin, that we are at present concerned, and so note two curious items mentioned by Conway. In Sicilian legend, he says, 'Zafarana, by throwing three hog's bristles on embers, renews her husband's youth'; and in Esthonian legend, a prince, by eating pork, acquires the faculty of understanding the language of birds. All this opens up a very suggestive field of inquiry. Thus, Plutarch says that the reason why the Jews would not eat swine's flesh was because Adonis was slain by a boar, and Bacchus and Adonis, he says, were the same divinities. Now, if we turn to Herodotus, we find that wonderful narrator saying: 'The only deities to whom the Egyptians offer swine are Bacchus and Luna; to these they sacrifice swine when the moon is full, after which they eat the flesh,' which at other times they disdained. The meaning of these sacrifices is understood by those interested, and I do not propose to go further into the matter. All I wish to do is to point out the curious involvements, among so many nations, of the moon and the boar. May we not even trace a connection with the superstition current in Suffolk, according to 'C. W. J.,' in The Book of Days? 'C. W. J.' says that in his part of the world it is considered unlucky to kill a pig when the moon is on the wane; and if it is done, the pork will waste in boiling. 'I have known,' he says, 'the shrinking of bacon in the pot attributed to the fact of the pig having been killed in the moon's decrease; and I have also known the death of poor piggy delayed or hastened so as to happen during its increase.' Truly the old superstitions die hard! The moon's supposed influence on the weather is a matter of general knowledge. The writer last quoted mentions it as a very prevalent belief that the general condition of the atmosphere throughout the world, during any lunation, depends on whether the moon changed before or after midnight. Another superstition is, that if the new moon happens on a Saturday the weather will be bad during the month. On the other hand, in Suffolk the old moon in the arms of the new one is accounted a sign of fine weather; contrary to the belief in Scotland, where, it may be remembered, in the ballad of Sir Patrick Spens, it is taken as a presage of storm and disaster. Shakespeare has many allusions to the moon's influence on the weather, as: 'The moon, the governess of floods, pale in her anger, washes the air'; 'The moon, one thinks, looks with a watery eye; and when she weeps, weeps every little flower'; 'Upon the corner of the moon there hangs a vaporous drop profound'; and so forth. Then we have the old proverb: 'So many days old the moon is on Michaelmas Day, so many floods after.' Other beliefs are mentioned by Mr. Harley, such as, that if Christmas comes during a waning moon, we shall have a good year, and the converse; that new moon on Monday is a certain sign of good weather; that a misty moon indicates heavy rain; that the horns of the moon turned upward predict a good, and turned downward a bad, season; that a large star near the moon is a certain prognostication of storm. In fact, the superstitions in this connection are legion, and are not confined to any country. They are as common in China, where the moon is still worshipped, as they are in England, where, in some places, old men still touch their hats and maidens still bob a courtesy in sight of the new moon. Thus the relics of moon-worship are about us still, as well as a strong popular belief that the moon is an active physical agent. That the actual influence of the moon on the tides lies at the basis of the belief in its influence on the weather is probable; and, at any rate, it is curious that the Persians held that the moon was the cause of an abundant supply of water and rain; while in a Japanese fairy-tale the moon is made to rule over the blue waste of the sea with its multitudinous salt waters. The horticultural superstitions about sowing and planting according to the age of the moon is, no doubt, a product of the fusion of the meteorological superstition and that of the old-world belief in Luna being the goddess of reproduction. Any who have still doubts on the meteorological question cannot do better than refer to a letter of Professor Nichol's--once Professor of Astronomy in the University of Glasgow--which is quoted in The Book of Days. He asserts positively, as the result of scientific observation, that no relation whatever exists between the moon and the weather. But does any exist between the moon and the brain? 'Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad'; and the moon was supposed to be the instrument--nay, still is, as the very word 'lunacy' implies. The old astrologers used to say that she governed the brain, stomach, bowels, and left eye of the male, and the right eye of the female. Some such influences were evidently believed in by the Jews, as witness Psalm cxxi.: 'The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.' It may be remarked that Dr. Forbes Winslow is not very decided in dismissing the theory of the influence of the moon on the insane. He says it is purely speculative, but he does not controvert it. The subject is, however, too large to enter upon here. Whether or not it be true that 'when the moon's in the full then wit's on the wane,' it certainly is not true, as appears to be believed in Sussex, that the new May Moon has power to cure scrofulous complaints. Before leaving the subject, it is well to mention a remarkable coincidence to which Mr. Harley draws attention. In China, where moon-worship largely prevails, during the festival of Yue-Ping, which is held during the eighth month annually, incense is burned in the temples, cakes are made like the moon, and at full moon the people spread out oblations and make prostrations to the planet. These cakes are moon-cakes, and veritable offerings to the Queen of Heaven, who represents the female principle in Chinese theology. 'If we turn now to Jeremiah vii. 18, and read there, "The women knead dough to make cakes to the Queen of Heaven, and to pour out drink-offerings unto other gods," and remember that, according to Rashi, these cakes of the Hebrews had the image of the god or goddess stamped upon them, we are in view of a fact of much interest.' The interest becomes greater when we learn that in parts of Lancashire there exists a precisely similar custom of making cakes in honour of the Queen of Heaven. From these facts, the discovery of two buns, each marked with a cross, in Herculaneum, and other evidences, we are driven to the conclusion that the 'hot-cross buns' of Christian England are in reality but a relic of moon-worship! CHAPTER V. THE DEVIL'S CANDLE. So much legendary lore and so many strange fables have had their origin in the mandrake, or the 'Devil's Candle,' as the Arabians call it, that it is worth while to endeavour to trace if any, and what, analogy there be between it and the mandragoras of the Greeks and the Soma of the Indian mythology. The mandrake is so called from the German _Mandragen_, 'resembling man'--at least, so says Mr. Thiselton-Dyer; but this derivation is not quite satisfactory. The botanical name is _Mandragora officinalis_, and sometimes the May-apple, or _Podophyllum peltatum_, is also called mandrake; but the actual plant of fact and fancy belongs to the _Solanum_, or potato family. Although one may doubt if the English name be really derived from the German _Mandragen_, it is certain that the Germans have long regarded the plant as something uncanny. Other names which they have for it are _Zauberwurzel_, or Sorcerer's Root, and _Hexenmännchen_, or Witch's Mannikin, while they made little dolls or idols from it, which they regarded with superstitious veneration, and called _Erdmann_, or Earth-man. Yet in other places, according to one authority, the mandrake was popularly supposed to be 'perpetually watched over by Satan; and if it be pulled up at certain holy times and with certain invocations, the evil spirit will appear to do the bidding of the practitioner.' A superstition once common in the South of England was that the mandrake had a human heart at its root, and, according to Timbs, it was generally believed that the person who pulled it would instantaneously fall dead; that the root shrieked or groaned whenever separated from the earth; and that whoever heard the shriek would either die shortly afterwards or become afflicted with madness. To this last superstition there is direct reference made by Shakespeare in Romeo and Juliet: 'And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, That living mortals hearing them run mad.' Frequent allusions to this superstition are to be found in the old poets, although it is held by some that the effects claimed for decoctions of the mandrake really refer to those of the nightshade. This confusion has certainly arisen at times, but the most general idea concerning the mandrake was that it was a stimulant rather than a narcotic. It is true that Shakespeare regarded mandragora as an opiate, for he makes Cleopatra to exclaim: 'Give me to drink mandragora, That I might sleep out this great gap of time My Antony is away.' And, again, when in Othello he makes Iago say: 'Nor poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world Can ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owedst yesterday.' But, on the other hand, we find Apuleius--himself, by the way, not unsuspected of magical arts--writing that when the root of the mandrake is steeped in wine it produces vehement intoxication. The same idea is reflected in Mrs. Browning's Dead Pan: 'In what revels are ye sunken In old Ethiopia? Have the Pygmies made you drunken, Bathing in mandragora, Your divine pale lips that shiver Like the lotus in the river?' And there can be little doubt that the mysterious 'Lhasis,' referred to by Sir William Davenant[5]--a word whose etymology is so obscure--is nothing else than the mandrake or mandragora; if so, then we see that the plant was valued for its exciting and stimulating effects rather than as an opiate. Many commentators and most dictionaries dispose of Reuben's mandrakes as something altogether different from the plant now known by the name; but there is really no warrant for such a conclusion. The _Mandragora officinalis_ is quite common in Celicia, Syria, and elsewhere in the East, and is easily identifiable with the root of Baaras, which Josephus describes in the Wars of the Jews. This root, he says, is in colour like to that of flame, and towards the evening it sends out a certain ray like lightning. It is not easily to be pulled, it will not yield quietly, and it is certain death to anyone who dares pull it, unless he hangs it with the head downwards. As to the uses of the root, Josephus continues: 'After all his pains in getting it, it is only valuable on account of one virtue it hath: that if it only be brought to sick persons, it quickly drives away those called Demons, which are no other than the spirits of the wicked, which enter into men that are alive and kill them, unless they can obtain some help against them'; and the root was esteemed a useful stimulant, although in Baaras, at any rate, it seems to have lost its reputation as a love-philtre. It is noteworthy that Josephus also tells how Solomon had great skill in enchantments, and cast out devils by means of this root--an accomplishment he is said to have learned from some of the numerous foreign ladies with whom he surrounded himself. Now, it is interesting to turn from the old Jewish historian to the old English herbalist, Gerarde, who in 1597 wrote in his Herball pointing out how, by 'the corruption of time and the errour of some,' mandragora has been mistaken for what he calls Circaea, or Enchanter's Nightshade. But of the mandrake, or mandragoras, Gerarde says: 'There hath been many ridiculous tales brought up of this plant, whether of old wives, or some runagate surgeons, or physickemongers, I know not; but sure some one or more that sought to make themselves famous or skillful above others were the first brochers of the errour'--that the root resembles a man. 'They add further,' he says, 'that it is never, or very seldome, to be found growing naturally, but under a gallowes, where the matter that hath fallen from the dead body hath given it the shape of a man, and the matter of a woman the substance of a female plant, with many other such doltish dreames. The fable further affirms that he who would take up a plant thereof ... he should surely die in short space after.' This is clearly Josephus's 'root of Baaras' over again. Gerarde further holds it to be the identical mandragoras of the Greeks, and called Circaea because it was used by Circe for love-potions and enchantments. If this be so, then what was the 'moly' given to Odysseus by Hermes wherewith to counteract the charms of Circe? Was it a totally different plant, or was it merely the same applied on the homoeopathic principle? Mr. Andrew Lang thinks they cannot be the same, because the 'moly' is described by Homer as having a black root and a white flower, while the mandragoras is described by Pliny as having a yellow flower and white, fleshy roots. But we know that Homer is somewhat confusing in the matter of colours, and it is possible that various shades of the purplish flower of the true mandrake might appear to one observer as white, and to another as yellow. Upon the whole, the probability is that the two names meant one and the same plant, for the characteristics are too peculiar to be alike possessed by different species. If the moly were not mandragoras there is nothing else known to modern botany that it could be, unless it were rue, with which some scholars have sought to identify it, but not very successfully. The learned author of Pseudosia Epidemica, or Vulgar Errors, at any rate, was clearly of opinion that moly and mandragoras were one and the same. He quotes also from Pliny that the ancient way of pulling the root was to get on the windward side of the plant, and with a sword to describe three circles about it, whilst the operator kept his face turned to the west. The dangers attending the plucking of mandrakes are shrewdly disposed of by Sir Thomas Browne with the remark that it is 'derogatory unto the Providence of God ... to impose so destructive a quality on any plant ... whose parts are usefull unto many.' The same author mentions the superstition that the mandrake grows under gallows, fructified by the decaying bodies of criminals, that it grows both male and female, and that it shrieks upon eradication. This last idea he derides as 'false below confute, arising perhaps from a small and stridulous noise which, being firmly rooted, it maketh upon divulsion of parts.' 'A slender foundation,' he remarks, 'for such a vast conception; for such a noise we sometimes observe in other plants--in parsnips, liquorish, eringium, flags, and others.' The belief that the root of the mandrake resembles the human figure is characterized by the writer last quoted, as a 'conceit not to be made out by ordinary inspection, or any other eyes than such as regarding the clouds behold them in shapes conformable to pre-apprehensions.' It is traceable to the bifurcation of the root; a formation, however, which is frequently found 'in carrots, parsnips, briony, and many others.' There is no other importance, therefore, to be attached to 'the epithet of Pythagoras, who calls it anthropomorphon, and that of Columella, who terms it semihomo;' nor to Albertus, 'when he affirmed that mandrakes represent mankind with the distinction of either sex.' The roots, which were commonly sold in various parts of Europe 'unto ignorant people, handsomely made out the shape of man or woman. But these are not productions of nature but contrivances of art, as divers have noted.... This is vain and fabulous, which ignorant people and simple women believe; for the roots which are carried about by impostors are made of the roots of canes, briony, and other plants.' And the method of manufacture is then explained by the erudite doctor. It is evident from what has been cited that the prevalence of the superstition, and the existence of the German _erdmann_, were matters of common knowledge in the latter half of the seventeenth century. But the superstition can be traced still later, for as recently as 1810 some of these root-images were to be seen on sale in certain parts of France, and were purchased as love-charms. It is said that even now at this very day bits of the _Mandragoras officinalis_ are worn by the young men and maidens of Greece to bring them fortune in their love-affairs. In some parts of England--viz., in Oxfordshire, Buckinghamshire, and Somersetshire--the briony is called mandrake, and a small portion of the root is frequently given to horses among their food to make them sleek and improve their condition, and it is still also sold 'for medicinal and other purposes.' Yet in other places it is called 'Devil's Food,' because Satan is supposed to be perpetually watching over it and to jealously guard its magical properties. It is partly on this account, and partly because of its supposed effect in stimulating the passions, that the Arabs sometimes call the mandrake Tuphacel-sheitan, or Devil's Apple, although it is otherwise known as the Stone Apple. In many parts of Europe the mandrake is believed to possess, in common with some other plants, the power of opening locks and unshoeing horses. The belief that the mandrake had some peculiar association with the devil has made it a favourite plant with sorcerers and workers of enchantment in all ages. Lord Bacon refers to it as a favourite in his time, 'whereof witches and impostors make an ugly image, giving it the form of a face at the top of the root,' and leaving the natural threads of the root 'to make a broad beard down to the foot.' Mr. Moncure Conway, however, says that the superstition rightly belonging to the mandrake was often transferred to other roots--probably in ignorance as to the identity of the real plant. 'Thus,' he says, 'the author of Secrets du Petit Albert says that a peasant had a bryonia root of human shape, which he received from a gipsy. He buried it at a lucky conjunction of the moon with Venus' (the reader will not fail to note the reference to the Goddess of Love) 'in spring, and on a Monday, in a grave, and then sprinkled it with milk in which three field-mice had been drowned. In a month it became more humanlike than ever. Then he placed it in an oven with vervain, wrapped it afterwards in a dead man's shroud, and so long as he kept it he never failed in luck at games or work.' Then we learn from the same author that a German horse-dealer, of Augsburg, once lost a horse, and being poor, wandered in despair to an inn. There some men gave him a mandrake, and on his return home he found a bag of ducats on the table. His wife, however, did not like the business, and persuaded the man to return to give back the root to those from whom he got it. But he could not find the men again, and soon after the house was burned down, and both horse-dealer and wife perished. The only suggestion from this story is that the mandrake was supposed to bring 'devil's luck,' although, if so, it is difficult to understand why the _erdmanns_ were so carefully preserved from generation to generation. One German writer, Rist, says that he has seen one more than a century old, which had been kept in a coffin, on which was a cloth bearing a picture of a thief on the gallows and a mandrake growing underneath. Coles, who wrote The Art of Simpling, in 1656, says the witches use the mandrake-roots, 'according to some, or, as I rather suppose, the roots of briony, which simple people take for the true mandrake, and make thereof an ugly image, by which they represent the person on whom they intend to exercise their witchcraft.' But their professions must at times have been even larger, for it is on record that a witch was executed near Orleans, in France, about 1605, who was charged with having kept a living mandrake-fiend, having the form of a female ape! So much for the mandrake, of which, however, a good deal more might be said. But what has been said serves to establish that it was identical with the mandragora, and with the mandragoras of the Greeks; that it was probably also the briony; that superstitions have attached to it in all countries and from time immemorial, which ascribed to it occult virtues; that the powers it exercised varied a good deal according to locality and time, but that two main conceptions have almost universally prevailed, viz., that it was a stimulant, and a potent instrument in affairs of the heart. What, then, is the Soma, or Homa, of the Hindu mythology--the ambrosia of the Indian gods? It has been the subject of much discussion and some difference among comparative mythologists. Soma was the chief deity among the ancient Hindus--the author of life, the giver of health, the protector of the weak, and the guide to immortality. Once he took upon himself the form of man, but was slain by men and braised in a mortar. The similarity with the Christian legend is remarkable, and the method of death should be borne in mind. After his death, Soma rose in flame to heaven, 'to be the benefactor of the world and the mediator between God and man.' One of the articles of faith with the Hindus, therefore, is that they must hold communion with Soma, and they are taught thus to pray to him: 'O Soma! thou art the strength of our heroes and the death of our enemies, invincible in war! Fulfil our vows in battle, fight for us! None can resist thee; give us superiority! O Soma immortal! May we drink to thee and be immortal like thee!' Mr. Baring-Gould says that the whole legend of Soma is but the allegorical history of the plant _Sarcostemma viminalis_, which is associated with passionate love 'because of the intoxicating liquor which is derived from its juice. It is regarded as a godsend. The way in which it is prepared is by crushing it in a mortar; the juice is then thrown on the sacrificial flame and so rises to heaven.' The same writer tells us that a similar worship prevailed among the Iranians, who called the juice Homa, but they did not ferment it, and although they ascribed to it divine attributes, they did not make Homa a supreme deity. But both with them and with the Hindus, 'the partaking of the juice was regarded as a sacramental act, by virtue of which the receiver was embued with a portion of the divine nature.' Another writer, the author of Bible Folklore, says that the 'old Soma was the same as the Persian Homa, a brilliant god, who gives sons to heroes, and husbands to maidens. The juice of the plant, pounded in an iron mortar, is greenish in colour, and is strained through a cloth and mixed with the sap of a pomegranate branch; the yellow juice is then strained through a vessel with nine holes. Among the Parsees it is drunk, not as by the Brahmins in large quantities by sixteen priests, but in small quantities by the two chief priests, and is thus not intoxicating.' The symbol is confused with the deity, and 'Soma is at once the life-giving spring of the juice of immortality, and the juice itself'--a confusion not without analogy in some of the superstitions narrated of the mandrake. But of old Soma was drunk as mead was drunk by the Scandinavians, before and after battle. It gave power and good fortune as well as light and happiness, and when elevated into a god was supposed to be the origin of all creation. Now, of the _Sarcostemma_ it is to be noted that it belongs to the family of _Asclepiadaceæ_, which have all something more or less 'fleshy' looking about some parts of them, which, like the _Apocyneæ_, were in the old world credited with medicinal properties, and which are generally acrid, stimulating, and astringent. There are many poisonous members of the family, such as the dog's-bane and wolf's-bane of our own country, favourite plants with the enchanters, while the cowplant of Ceylon is of the same species. In Garrett's Dictionary of India it is stated that the Soma of the Vedas is no longer known in India, and the same statement is repeated by many writers. It is certainly not indubitable that the _Sarcostemma viminalis_ was the plant of wondrous virtues that was deified. On the other hand, we find that these ascribed virtues closely resemble those attributed to the mandrake, and it is known that the Aryan people received many of their ideas and superstitions from the old Jewish tribes. We have seen, further, that belief in the peculiar power of the mandrake in certain directions was a settled belief at a very early period of the Jewish history, and we thus arrive at the very probable suggestion that the original Soma was neither more nor less than the mandrake of Reuben, the 'Baaras root' of Josephus, the mandragoras of the Greeks, the moly of Homer, the mandragora of Shakespeare, the mandragen of Germany, and the mandrake, again, of England. CHAPTER VI. THE SEA AND ITS LEGENDS. One of the oldest superstitions connected with the sea is undoubtedly that which associated peril with the malefic influence of some individual on shipboard. We find it in the case of the seamen of Joppa, who, when overtaken by a 'mighty tempest' on the voyage to Tarshish, said to each other, 'Come and let us cast lots, that we may know for whose cause this evil is cast upon us.' The lot, as we know, fell upon Jonah, and after some vain wrestling with the inevitable, the men at last 'took up Jonah and cast him forth into the sea, and the sea ceased from her raging.' Without offering here any comment on, or explanation of, the Scriptural narrative, let us compare it with the following remarkable story, which that indefatigable delver after old-world wonders, Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, reproduced. Somewhere about midsummer of the year 1480, a ship, sailing out of the Forth for a port in Holland, was assailed by a furious tempest, which increased to such a remarkable degree for the mild season of the year, that the sailors were overcome with fear, and gave themselves up for lost. At length an old woman, who was a passenger by the vessel, came on deck and entreated them to throw her overboard as the only means of preserving their own lives, saying that she had long been haunted by an 'incubus' in the shape of a man, from whose grasp she could not free herself. Fortunately for all parties there was another passenger on board--a priest--who was called to the rescue. After a long admonition, and many sighs and prayers, 'there issued forth of the pumpe of the ship,' says Hollinshed, 'a foul and evil-favoured blacke cloud, with a mightie terrible noise, flame, smoke, and stinke, which presentlie fell into the sea, and suddenlie, thereupon, the tempest ceassed, and the ship passing in great quiet the residue of her journie, arrived in safetie at the place whither she was bound.' There is doubtless some association between this class of superstition and the old Talmudic legend, according to which the devils were specially angered when, at the creation, man received dominion over the things of the sea. This was a realm of unrest and tempest, which the devils claimed as belonging to themselves. But, says the legend, although denied control of the life that is in the sea, the devils were permitted a large degree of power over its waters, while over the winds their rule was supreme. There is scarcely a current legend or superstition which cannot be traced to very remote sources. Thus, in the Chaldæo-Babylonian cosmogony there was a Triad which ruled the three zones of the universe: the heaven, by Anu; the surface of the earth and the atmosphere, by Bel; and the under-world, by Nonah. Now, Nonah is held to be both the same as the Assyrian Hea, or Saviour, and as the Noah of the Bible. So when Tiamat, the dragon, or leviathan, opens 'the fountains of the great deep,' and Anu, 'the windows of heaven,' it is Hea, or Noah, who saves the life of man. This legend is supposed by M. François Lenormant to explain an allusion in one of the most ancient Accadian manuscripts in the British Museum to 'the serpent of seven heads, that beats the sea.' This Hydra was the type of the destructive water-demon who figures in the legends of all countries. In the same way, to the Syrian fish deities, Dagon and Artergatis, must we look for the origin of our Undines and fish-maidens, and mermaidens. The 'Nixy' of Germany has by some been supposed traceable to 'Old Nick'; but this is not probable, since St. Nicholas has been the patron-saint of sailors for many centuries. It was during the time of the Crusades that a vessel on the way to the Holy Land was in great peril, and St. Nicholas assuaged a tempest by his prayers. Since then he has been supposed to be the protector of mariners, even as Neptune was in ancient times; and in most Roman Catholic countries you will find in seaport towns churches dedicated to St. Nicholas, to which sailors resort to return thanks for preservation at sea, and to make votive offerings. The German Nixy was, no doubt, a later form of the old Norse water-god Nikke. You meet with him again, in another form, in Neckan, the soulless, of whom Matthew Arnold sings: 'In summer on the headlands The Baltic sea along Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings his plaintive song.' The 'Nixa' along the Baltic coast was once, however, much feared by the fishermen. It was the same spirit which appears as the Kelpie in Scotland--a water-demon which caused sudden floods to carry away the unwary, and then devoured them. There was a river-goddess in Germany, whose temple stood at Magdeburg, of whom a legend exists that she also once visited earth and went to market in a Christian costume, where she was detected by a continual dripping of water from the corner of her apron. Generally speaking, however, the Nixies may be described as the descendants of the Naiads of ancient times, and as somewhat resembling the Russian Rusalkas, of which the peasantry live in much dread. A Russian peasant, it is said, is so afraid of the water-spirits that he will not bathe without a cross round his neck, nor ford a stream on horseback without signing a cross on the water with a scythe or knife. In some parts these water-spirits are supposed to be the transformed souls of Pharaoh and his host, when they were drowned, and the number is always being increased by the souls of those who drown themselves. It is said that 'in Bohemia' fishermen have been known to refuse aid to drowning persons lest 'Vodyany' would be offended and prevent the fish from entering the nets. This 'Vodyany,' however, seems rather a variant of the old Hydra, who reappears in the diabolical names so frequently given to boiling springs and dangerous torrents. The 'Devil's Tea-kettles' and 'Devil's Punch-bowls' of England and America have the same association as the weird legends connected with the Strudel and Wirbel whirlpools of the Danube, and with the rapids of the Rhine, and other rivers. Curiously enough, we find the same idea in The Arabian Nights, when 'The sea became troubled before them, and there arose from it a black pillar ascending towards the sky, and approaching the meadow, and behold it was a Jinn of gigantic stature.' This demon was a waterspout, and waterspouts in China are attributed to the battles of dragons. 'The Chinese,' says Mr. Moncure Conway, 'have canonised of recent times a special protectress against the storm-demons of the coast, in obedience to the wishes of the sailors.' The swan-maidens, who figure in so many legends, are mere varieties of the mer-maiden, and, according to the Icelandic superstition, they and all fairies were children of Eve, whom she hid away on one occasion when the Lord came to visit her, because they were not washed and presentable! They were, therefore, condemned to be invisible for ever. A Scotch story, quoted by Mr. Moncure Conway, rather bears against this theory. One day, it seems, as a fisherman sat reading his Bible, a beautiful nymph, lightly clad in green, came to him out of the sea, and asked if the book contained any promise of mercy for her. He replied that it contained an offer of salvation to 'all the children of Adam,' whereupon she fled away with a loud shriek, and disappeared in the sea. But the beautiful stories of water-nymphs, of Undines and Loreleis, and mer-women, are too numerous to be even mentioned, and too beautiful, in many cases, to make one care to analyze. There is a tradition in Holland that when, in 1440, the dikes were broken down by a violent tempest, the sea overflowed the meadows. Some women of the town of Edam, going one day in a boat to milk their cows, discovered a mermaid in shallow water floundering about with her tail in the mud. They took her into the boat, brought her to Edam, dressed her in women's clothes, and taught her to spin, and to eat as they did. They even taught her something of religion, or, at any rate, to bow reverently when she passed a crucifix; but they could not teach her to speak. What was the ultimate fate of this remarkable creature is not disclosed. Everybody, of course, is familiar with the old sea-legend of the _Flying Dutchman_, whether in stories of phantom ships, or in the opera of Wagner. The spirit of Vanderdecken, which is still supposed to roam the waters, is merely the modern version of our old friend, Nikke, the Norwegian water-demon. This is a deathless legend, and used to be as devoutedly believed in as the existence of Mother Carey, sitting away up in the north, despatching her 'chickens' in all directions to work destruction for poor Jack. But Mother Carey really turns out on inquiry to be a most estimable being, as we shall presently see. 'Sailors,' says Brand, in his Popular Antiquities, 'usually the boldest Men alive, are yet frequently the very abject slaves of superstitious Fear. They have various puerile Apprehensions concerning Whistling on Shipboard, carrying a Corpse, etc., all which are Vestiges of the old Woman in human Nature, and can only be erased by the united Efforts of Philosophy and Religion.' It is to be regretted, however, that the good Brand did not devote as much attention to the superstitions of sailors as he did to those of some other folks. As is the case with almost all folk-lore, little variety is to be found in the sea superstitions of different nations. The ideas of the supernatural on shipboard are pretty much the same, whether the flag flown be the Union Jack, the German Eagle, the French Tricolor, the American Stars and Stripes, or even the Chinese Dragon. These superstitions are numerous, and are tenaciously preserved, but yet it would not be fair to say that seamen are, as a class, more superstitious than landsmen of their own rank. The great mystery of the sea; the uncertainty of life upon its bosom; the isolation and frequent loneliness; the wonder of the storms, and calms, and lights--everything connected with a sailor's occupation is calculated to impress him with the significance of signs and omens. That mariners do not like to have a corpse on board is not remarkable, for many people ashore get rather 'creepy' if they have to sleep in a house where lies a dead body. Moreover, the old idea of bad luck which led to the throwing overboard of Jonah, is in this case transferred from the living to the dead. The objection to whistling is also explainable by the time-honoured practice of 'whistling for a wind,' for an injudicious whistler might easily bring down a blow from the wrong quarter. There are some animals and birds which have a peculiar significance at sea. The cat, for instance, is generally disliked, and many sailors will not have one on board at any price. If there is one which becomes unusually frisky, they will say the cat has got a gale of wind in her tail. On one part of the Yorkshire coast, it is said, sailors' wives were in the habit of keeping black cats to insure the safety of their husbands at sea, until black cats became so scarce and dear that few could afford to buy one. Although Jack does not like a cat in the ship, he will not throw one overboard, for that would bring on a storm. Miss L. A. Smith, in her book about the Music of the Waters, states that a dead hare on a ship is considered a sign of an approaching hurricane; and Cornish fishermen declare that a white hare seen about the quays at night indicates that there will be rough weather. The pig is an object of aversion to Japanese seamen, and also to Filey fishermen, who will not go to sea if they meet one in the early morning. But, indeed, the pig seems to be generally disliked by all seafarers--except in the form of salt pork and bacon. Rats, however, are not objected to; indeed, it would be useless to object, for they overrun all ships. And rats are supposed to leave a vessel only when it is going to sink. A Welsh skipper, however, once cleared his ship of them without the risk of a watery grave, by drawing her up to a cheese-laden ship in harbour. He quietly moored alongside, and, having left the hatches open all night, cast off with a chuckle in the morning, leaving a liberal legacy to his neighbour. The stormy petrel is supposed to herald bad weather, and the great auk to tell that land is very near. This is true enough as regards the auk, which never ventures beyond soundings; but one doubts the truth of the popular belief that when the sea-gulls hover near the shore, a storm is at hand. The Scotch rhyme runs: 'Seagull, seagull, sit on the sand; It's never good weather when you're on the land!' Mr. Thiselton-Dyer quotes from Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, in confirmation of this belief, that in the county of Forfar, 'when they appear in the fields, a storm from the southeast generally follows; and when the storm begins to abate, they fly back to the shore.' This does not accord with the present writer's experience of the west coast of Scotland, where the sea-gulls frequent the lochs and hillsides far inland all the summer. Naturally there are storms sometimes after their appearance, but just as often fine weather continues. As well say that the flocks of these beautiful birds that follow in the wake of a tourist steamer, to pick up unconsidered trifles, presage sea-sickness to the passengers! One has heard that in Cornwall sailors will not walk at night along portions of the shore where there have been many wrecks, because they believe that the souls of the drowned haunt such localities, and that the 'calling of the dead' is frequently audible. Some even say that they have heard the voices of dead sailors hailing them by name. One can readily excuse a timorousness in Jack in such circumstances. Many persons besides sailors shrink from localities which have been the scenes of murder or sudden death. Friday is the sailor's pet aversion, as an unlucky day on which to sail or begin work. But this is not surprising, when we remember that Friday has everywhere more superstition and folk-lore attached to it than any other day in the week, originating, perhaps, as Mr. Thiselton-Dyer suggests, from the fact that it was the day on which Christ was crucified. Lord Byron had the superstitious aversion to Friday; and even among the Brahmins no business must be commenced on this day. In Lancashire a man will not 'go a-courting on Friday'; and Brand says: 'A respectable merchant of the city of London informed me that no person will begin any business, that is, open his shop for the first time, on a Friday.' The 'respectable merchant' might be hard to find nowadays, but still one does not need to go to sailors to find a prejudice against Friday. Other things which are accounted unlucky by superstitious seamen are: to sneeze on the left side at the moment of embarking; to count the men on board; to ask fishermen, before they start, where they are bound for; to point with the finger to a ship when at sea; to lose a mop or water-bucket; to cut the hair or nails at sea, except during a storm. These are a few of the sea superstitions as preserved in rhyme: 'The evening gray, and the morning red, Put on your hat or you'll wet your head.' (Meaning that it will rain.) 'When the wind shifts against the sun, Trust it not, for it will run.' (That is, soon change again.) 'When the sun sets in the clear, An easterly wind you need not fear. 'The evening red and morning gray Are sure signs of a fine day.' (A distich not peculiar to followers of the sea.) 'But the evening gray and morning red Makes the sailor shake his head.' This refers to the barometer: 'First rise, after low, Indicates a stronger blow.' And this: 'Long foretold, long last; Short notice, soon past.' These, however, are hardly superstitions, but maxims based on experience. Of the same character are the following: 'In squalls When the rain's before the wind Halyards, sheets, and braces mind.' Also, 'When the wind's before the rain Soon you may make sail again.' And 'When the glass falls low, Prepare for a blow; When it rises high, Let all your kites fly. 'A rainbow in the morning, Sailors take warning; A rainbow at night Is the sailor's delight.' The Manx fishermen have some curious sayings about herrings. Thus the common expression, 'As dead as a herring,' is due to them. They say also, 'Every herring must hang by its own gills'; and their favourite toast is, 'Life to man and death to fish.' They count one hundred and twenty-four fish to the hundred, thus: they first sort out lots of one hundred and twenty, then add three to each lot, which is called 'warp,' and then a single herring, which is called 'tally.' Before shooting the nets at sea, every man goes down on his knees at a sign from the skipper of the boat, and, with his head uncovered, prays for a blessing on the fishing. This, at least, used to be the general practice, but in how prevailing at the present day is doubtful. The sound of the death-bell is often supposed to be heard at sea before a wreck, and this idea may be either associated with the bell-buoy which marks many sunken, dangerous rocks, or with the religious ceremonies of the old days. At Malta it is, or was, usual to ring the church bells for an hour during a storm 'that the wind may cease and the sea be calmed,' and the same custom prevails both in Sicily and Sardinia. A Cornish legend of the bells of a church, which were sent by ship that was lost in sight of the town, owing to the blasphemy of the captain, says that the bells are supposed to be in the bay, and they announce by strange sounds the approach of a storm. There is a suggestion of Sir Ralph the Rover in this legend; but, indeed, the superstitions of those connected with the sea are so interwoven, that it is not easy to disentangle them, and they are numerous enough to need a book to themselves. No doubt our mariners derived many of them from the old Spanish navigators who once swayed the main, for the Spaniards are one of the most superstitious peoples in the world. CHAPTER VII. MOTHER CAREY AND HER CHICKENS. Who was Mother Carey the appearance of whose 'chickens' is supposed by the mariner to foretell a coming storm? This question is often asked, but seldom answered, and so a little light on the subject is desirable. Charles Kingsley gives a very vivid picture of her. In his charming book about The Water-Babies, he tells how little Tom, in search of his old master, Grimes, is instructed to find his way to Peacepool and Mother Carey's Haven, where the good whales go when they die. On his way he meets a flock of petrels, who invite him to go with them, saying: 'We are Mother Carey's own chickens, and she sends us out over all the seas to show the good birds the way home.' So he comes to Peacepool at last, which is miles and miles across; and there the air is clear and transparent, and the water calm and lovely; and there the good whales rest in happy sleep upon the slumbering sea. In the midst of Peacepool was one large peaked iceberg. 'When Tom came near it, it took the form of the grandest old lady he had ever seen--a white marble lady, sitting on a white marble throne. And from the foot of the throne there swam away, out and in, and into the sea, millions of new-born creatures, of more shapes and colours than man ever dreamed. And they were Mother Carey's chickens, whom she makes out of the sea-water all the day long.' Now, this beautiful fancy of Kingsley's--and how beautiful it is can only be realized by a reading of the whole story--is based upon fact, as all beautiful fancies must be. The fundamental idea of Kingsley's picture is that of a fruitful and beneficent mother. And Mother Carey is just the Mater Cara of the medieval sailors. Our Mother Carey's chickens are the 'Birds of the Holy Virgin,' of the South of Europe, the 'Oiseaux de Nôtre Dame' of the French seamen. One reason for associating the petrel with the Holy Mother may possibly have been found in its supposed sleeplessness. The bird was believed never to rest, to hatch its eggs under its wings, and to be incessantly flying to and fro on the face of the waters on messages of warning to mariners. Even to this day sailors believe that the albatross, the aristocratic relative of the petrel, sleeps on the wing; and the power of the albatross, for good and evil, readers of the Ancient Mariner will remember. We say for good and evil, because opinion fluctuated. Thus: 'At length did cross an albatross, Through the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name.' When the mariner with his crossbow did shoot the albatross, the crew said: 'I had done a hellish thing, And it would work them woe; For all averred I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. "Ah, wretch!" said they, "the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow!"' And once more, when the weather cleared, they changed: 'Then all averred I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist; "'Twas right," said they, "such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist!"' Coleridge got his idea from Wordsworth, who got it from a passage in Shelvocke's voyages, where a long spell of bad weather was attributed to an albatross following the ship. The poet who sang, 'Oh, stormy, stormy peterel! Thou art a bird of woe, Yet would I thou could'st tell me half Of the misery thou dost know!' has, however, misunderstood the feeling with which that little harbinger is regarded. So have many other persons. The petrel is not a bird of woe, but a bird of warning. The Virgin Mary--Mater Cara--was the special protectress of the early Christian seamen, just as Amphitrite had been the tutelary genius of his Greek, and Venus of his Roman, progenitors, and just as Isis, the moon goddess, had been the patroness of the Egyptian navigators. The Catholic mariner still believes that the Virgin has especial power over the winds and the sea. At Marseilles is the shrine of the Nôtre Dame de la Garde, greatly venerated by all the Provençal sailors; at Caen is the shrine of Nôtre Dame de Deliverance; at Havre, that of Nôtre Dame des Neiges. Brand tells, in his book of Antiquities, that on Good Friday Catholic mariners 'cock-bill' their yards in mourning and hang and scourge an effigy of Judas Iscariot. The practice still continues, and as recently as 1881 a London newspaper contained an account of the ceremony performed on board several Portuguese vessels in the London Docks. The proceedings always closed with a Hymn to the Virgin Mary. In Rome, at the Church of Santa Maria della Navicella, there is a small marble ship which was offered by Pope Leo the Tenth in execution of a vow after his escape from shipwreck. The first thing done by Magellan and his crew after their safe return to Seville was to perform penance barefooted, clad only in their shirts, and bearing lighted tapers in their hands, at the shrine of Our Lady of Victory. And it is related of Columbus, that on safe arrival after a storm at the Azores, 'The Admiral and all the crew, bearing in remembrance the vow which they had made the Thursday before, to go barefooted, and in their shirts, to some church of Our Lady at the first land, were of opinion that they ought to discharge this vow. They accordingly landed, and proceeded, according to their vow, barefooted, and in their shirts, toward the hermitage.' Countless instances might be cited, but these will suffice to show the estimation in which Mater Cara was held by Catholic seamen. How it came to be supposed that the smaller _Procellariæ_ are only visible before a storm is not very apparent. In point of fact, there is no more reason for associating the petrel specially with storms than there is for the belief expressed in the old Scotch couplet quoted in the last chapter: 'Seagull, seagull, sit in the sand; It's never good weather when you're on the land!' As a matter of fact, seagulls do fly far inland in fine weather, and especially during ploughing-time. And also, as a matter of fact, the petrel lives at sea both in fine weather and foul, because he is uncomfortable on land. It is only the breeding season that he spends on shore; while the seagull is just as much at home on the land as on the sea. The scientific name of the petrel tribe is _Procellariæ_, from the Latin _procella_--a storm. It is a large family, all the members of which are distinguished by a peculiar tube-like arrangement of the nostrils. Their feet, also, are peculiar in being without any back toe, so that they can only with great difficulty rise on the wing from dry land. Mother Carey's chickens are among the smaller species of this family, and they have both a shorter bill and a longer leg than their relatives. But all the _Procellariæ_ are noted for ranging further from land than any other of the sea-birds. Thus they are often visible from ship-board when no other animal life can be sighted; and thus it was, doubtless, that their appearance suggested safe harbour, and consequent thanks to Mater Cara, to the devout seaman. Why the petrels are associated with storms is thus not easily explained, seeing that they are abroad in all weathers; but a feasible suggestion was advanced by Pennant. It is that they gather from the water sea-animals which are most abundant before or after a storm, when the sea is in a state of unusual commotion. All birds are highly sensitive to atmospheric changes, and all sea-birds seem to develop extra activity in threatening and 'dirty' weather. There is another interesting thing about Mother Carey's chicken, and that is, that he is also called petrel, from the Italian 'Petrello,' or Little Peter. This is because he is supposed to be able, like the apostle, to walk on the water, and as in fact he does after a fashion, with the aid of his wings. Now, St. Peter, both as a fisherman and for his sea-walking, was always a favourite saint with sailors, and was often invoked during storms. He was the patron saint of Cortez, as he was also of the Thames watermen. There is an old legend that St. Peter went on board a fisherman's boat somewhere about the Nore, and that it carried him, without sails or oars, to the very spot which he selected as the site for Westminster Abbey. In the Russian ports of the Baltic there is firm belief in a species of water-spirits called Rusalkas, who raise storms and cause much damage to the shipping. The great anniversary of these storm-spirits is St. Peter's Day. The John Dory is St. Peter's fish, and it is said that the spots on each side of its mouth are the marks of the apostle's thumb and forefinger. It was called 'janitore,' or doorkeeper, because in its mouth was found the penny with which the temple-tax was paid. Now, St. Peter also was the doorkeeper of heaven, and from janitore to John Dory was an easy transition. With fishermen, as was natural, St. Peter was held in high honour; and in Cornwall and Yorkshire, until recently, it was customary to light bonfires, and to hold other ceremonies, on St. Peter's Day, to signalize the opening of the fishing season, and to bespeak luck. An old writer says of these customs at Guisboro', in Yorkshire, that: 'The fishermen, on St. Peter's daye, invited their friends and kinfolk to a festivall kept after their fashion, with a free hearte, and no show of niggardnesse. That day their boats are dressed curiously for the showe, their masts are painted, and certain rytes observed amongst them with sprinkling their bows with good liquor, which custome or superstition, sucked from their ancestors, even continueth down unto this present tyme.' Perhaps at 'this present tyme' the ceremonies are not so elaborate; but survivals of the 'custome or superstition' are to be found yet in our fishing villages. It is probable that the observers of St. Peter's Day do not know the origin of their curious customs. It is certain that sailors, as a class, do not now know why their favourite little bird is called petrel. We have tried to remove the stigma which in modern times has come to rest upon Mother Carey's chickens. Let us no longer do them wrong by supposing that they are always the harbingers of woe. They have a busy and a useful life, and it is one, as we have seen, with tender, even sacred, associations. It may be recalled as an interesting, although not an agreeable item, that in the days of the French Revolution there was a notorious brood of Mother Carey's chickens in Paris. They were the female rag-tag-and-bobtail of the city, whose appearance in the streets was understood to forebode a fresh political tumult. What an insult to our feathered friends to bestow their honoured name on such human fiends! The real Mother Carey is she who appeared to Tom and Ella in Peacepool, after they had learned a few things about themselves and the world. They heard her voice calling to them, and they looked, crying: '"Oh, who are you, after all? You are our dear Mrs. Do-as-you-would-be-done-by." '"No, you are good Mrs. Be-done-by-as-you-did; but you are grown quite beautiful now!" '"To you," said the Fairy; "but look again." '"You are Mother Carey," said Tom, in a very low, solemn voice, for he had found out something which made him very happy, and yet frightened him more than all that he had ever seen. '"But you are grown quite young again." '"To you," said the Fairy; "but look again." '"You are the Irishwoman who met me the day I went to Harthover!" 'And when they looked again she was neither of them, and yet all of them at once. '"My name is written in my eyes, if you have eyes to see it there." 'And they looked into her great, deep soft eyes, and they changed again and again into every hue, as the light changes in a diamond. '"Now read my name," said she at last, and her eyes flashed for one moment, clear, white, blazing light; but the children could not read her name, for they were dazzled, and hid their faces in their hands. 'They were only water-babies, and just beginning to learn the meaning of love.' CHAPTER VIII. DAVY JONES'S LOCKER. This expression of what may be called nautical slang has now become almost classic. At all events, everybody knows it; and most people may be presumed to know that to 'go to Davy Jones's Locker' is equivalent to 'losing the number of your mess,' or, as the Californian miners say, 'passing in your checks.' Being especially a sea-phrase, it means, of course, to be drowned. But how did the phrase originate? And who was Davy Jones? These questions must have frequently occurred to many, and it is worth while seeking an answer to them. There is an explanation for everything, if one only knows how to look for it. This saying about Davy Jones is a very old one--so old, that it cannot possibly have any reference to the famous Paul Jones. In fact, one hears very often of 'Davy's Locker' without any reference to 'Jones' at all. Then 'Davy,' again, is a vulgar slang expression for affidavit, but it is also used in thief-parlance by way of an oath. 'So help me Davy!' is the slang equivalent for the concluding sentence of the oath administered in the police-courts with which these gentry are familiar. It has thus been inferred that 'Davy' is a slang expression of somewhat blasphemous import; but this is by no means certain. It is much more likely to be associated with, or to have the same origin as, the 'Duffy' of the West Indian negroes. Among them Duffy means a ghost; and in the vocabulary of the gutter it may easily have been taken as the equivalent of soul. The transition from Duffy to Davy is by no means difficult. But how, then, did the vagabond users of 'flash' language get hold of this word? It is probable enough that it was brought home by the sailors from the West Indies, and picked up at the docks by the waifs and strays of our vast vagrant population. On the other hand, it is just as likely that the West Indian negroes picked up 'Duffy' from our own sailors; and that, in fact, Duffy is just the nigger contraction of Davy Jones. There is certainly a very close connection, both in sound and meaning, between the two expressions. We must go further back and further away, however, to get to the root of this matter. And, if we inquire diligently, we shall find our Davy in the Deva of the Indian mythology. The original Sanskrit meaning of Deva was 'The Shining One,' but in the operation of what has been called 'the degradation of Deities' in the Oriental religions, it became synonymous with our devil. In fact, we owe the word 'devil' to this same Sanskrit root; and it is noteworthy that while Deva meant the Good Spirit to the Brahmans, it meant the Evil Spirit to the Parsees. In this root we may also find the explanation of the gipsy word for God, which, curiously enough, is Devel. While it is easy to trace the transition from Deva to the sailor's Davy, one may note another curious thing. The name of the fabulous Welshman, Taffy, the thief, is a corruption of Dyved, which, as signifying an evil spirit, is the Cymric form of Deva. This would almost suggest that the addition of the apparent surname, Jones, was a Welsh performance. But this is only an amusing conjecture, not without a certain aptness. For the origin of Jones we must look to Jonah, who in nautical history is regarded as the embodiment of malevolence at sea. The prophet Jonah is not the only one who has been committed to the deep to appease the storm-fiends, whose anger his presence was supposed to have aroused. It is easy to account for this from the Bible narrative. 'The mariners were afraid, and cried every man unto his God. And they said, every one to his fellow, "Come, and let us cast lots, that we may know for whose cause this evil is upon us." So they cast lots, and the lot fell upon Jonah. So they took up Jonah and cast him forth into the sea, and the sea ceased from her raging.' The superstition of sailors is proverbial, and to this day they believe in good or ill luck being brought to a vessel by persons and things. In olden times there were many sacrifices to this Jonah superstition; and even in comparatively recent times, Holcroft, the actor, on a voyage to Scotland, narrowly escaped a watery grave, because the men took him for 'the Jonas.' And to this day 'He's a Jonah' is an expression often enough heard on ship-board applied to some unwelcome passenger. Here, then, we have the Sanskrit origin of Davy, and the Biblical origin of Jones, both words embodying much the same idea to the mind of the primitive seamen. But what of the 'locker'? This, of course, is a familiar piece of ship-furniture which it was not difficult to transfer to the mythical demon of the deep. Lieutenant Bassett thought that the locker might be the whale's belly in which Jonah found refuge; but this is hardly in harmony with the meaning of the phrase. In the sense in which it is thus used, locker does not mean a temporary resting-place or submarine harbour of refuge, but a place of final deposit. It is possible, indeed, to find the origin of the word locker as here applied in Loki, the personification of evil in the Scandinavian mythology. Loki, like Deva, was not always an evil spirit, but he became eventually identified with Satan. He became a flame-demon, a sort of incarnate spirit of fire. There is good reason for believing in this theory of the Scandinavian origin of the word 'locker' as used in the connection we are considering. It is to be remembered that, in olden times, death by drowning was even more dreaded than now, because drowned bodies were supposed to be debarred from the Resurrection. Going far back, we find that the sea was the abode of Typhoeus, who, besides being a hurricane-raising, was also a fire-breathing, demon, and was feared as the quencher of the sun, who sank at night into his bosom. The legend of St. Brandan and his burning islands preserved the idea that Hades was very near to the bottom of the ocean. Thus, then, we may readily perceive the conception of Loki having his receptacle for drowned mariners in the bed of the sea. A belief prevailed long into the Middle Ages that the sea-bottom was the abode of many demons, who lay in wait for passengers, to drag them down to the infernal depths. Thus, then, Davy Jones's Locker became, by a mixture of theogonies, 'the ocean, the deep sea-bottom, the place to which the body was committed, and to which the souls of the wicked fled.' This meaning is now somewhat modified. Sailors do not, as Smollett says they did in his day, regard Davy Jones as the fiend who presides over all the evil spirits of the deep, and who is seen in various shapes, warning the devoted wretches of death and woe. In fact, it is not Davy Jones they think of at all now, but his Locker; for to go to Davy's Locker is to be lost at sea and to find a watery grave. There is, however, a curious survival of the personal element still to be traced in some of the sailors' chanties. Take, for instance, that remarkable one about 'Burying the Dead Horse,' which still puzzles the passengers on board the packets sailing to the Antipodes. Without going into the question of the song and its attendant ceremonies just now, the following lines may be quoted as bearing on our subject: 'You poor old horse, what brought you here, After carrying turf for many a year? From Bantry Bay to Ballyack, When you fell down and broke your back? You died from blows and sore abuse, And were salted down for the sailors' use. The sailors they the meat despise; They turned you over and ---- your eyes; They ate the meat and picked the bones, And gave the rest to Davy Jones.' All the offal of a ship is thrown over to Davy Jones--doubtless because there is nothing else to be done with it. The favourite demon, if one may use the expression, of British sailors is now Old Nick, and one may trace his origin even more easily than that of Davy Jones. We can follow him through Saxon, German, Danish and Norwegian transitions to one of the names of Odin--Hnickar--for even All-father Odin shared the fate of his Oriental predecessors, and became demonized. Others, again, have carried the name Hnickar back still further to the Egyptian Nika, the serpent of the lower world, 'the Typhonic enemy of the Sun in his night-journey.' It is to the same root that we owe the Necken of the Baltic, and the Nixies--the water-fays--of the German legends. It is to the Norwegian Nökke, also, that we owe the Wild Huntsman of the Sea, on which the story of the _Flying Dutchman_ and a host of other legends of demon vessels and demon mariners are founded. There is, however, some confusion in the nautical mythology between the original Old Nick and the popular Saint Nicholas. This saint became the Christian successor of Neptune, as the protector of seamen. 'This saintly Poseidon,' says Mr. Conway, 'the patron of fishermen, in time became associated with the demon whom the British sailor feared if he feared nothing else. He was also of old the patron of pirates; and robbers were called "St. Nicholas' clerks."' It is certainly one of the curiosities of plutology that the patron saint of children who is still honoured at Christmas as Santa Claus should be the same as the dreaded Old Nick of the seafarers. These investigations are extremely interesting, and may lead us far; but our present purpose is merely to find an explanation of a popular phrase. It is more difficult to explain a number of other marine personalities, who are as lively to-day on shipboard as they were generations ago. There is, for instance, old Mister Storm-Along, of whom the chanty-man sings: 'When Stormy died, I dug his grave-- I dug his grave with a silver spade; I hove him up with an iron crane, And lowered him down with a golden chain.' Who was he? And who was the famous Captain Cottington, of whom it is related, in stentorian tones and with tireless repetition, that: 'Captain Cottington, he went to sea, Captain Cottington, he went to sea-e-e-e, Captain Cottington, he went to sea, Captain Cottington, he went to sea-e!' Who, also, was 'Uncle Peleg,' of whom a somewhat similarly exhaustive history is chanted? And, still more, who was the mysterious Reuben Ranzo, with whose name every fo'cs'le of every outward-bound British or American ship is constantly resounding? 'Pity Reuben Ranzo-- Ranzo, boys, a Ranzo! Oh, pity Reuben Ranzo-- Ranzo, boys, a Ranzo!' He had a remarkable career, this Reuben, according to the song. He was a tailor by trade; went to school on the Monday, learnt to read on Tuesday, and by Friday he had thrashed the master. Then he went to sea, and, after some ignominious experiences, married the captain's daughter, and became himself the captain of a whaler. But who was he? And how does he come to exercise such a fascination over all mariners, even unto this day? This is one of the mysteries of the ocean. The sea is covered with mystery, and with phantom shapes. Every ship that sails is peopled with a crew of dim shadows of the past that none can explain. CHAPTER IX. SOME FLOWERS OF FANCY. That the lily should symbolize purity seems appropriate enough, but why should parsley in olden times have been associated with death? It is recorded that a few bundles of parsley once threw a whole Greek army into panic, because in Greece the tombs of the dead were strewn with the herb. With them 'to be in need of parsley' was equivalent to being beyond hope. The name itself offers little explanation of this superstition, for it is derived from the Latin _petroselinum_, which, again, was taken from the Greek name signifying the 'plant of the rocks.' According to the myth, however, it sprang from the blood of Archemorus, or Orpheltes, the son of Lycurgus, King of Nemæa. Archemorus was killed by a serpent while his foster-mother was showing the soldiers of Adrastus where they might find a fountain. On the place where he died there sprang up the parsley, which the Greeks, in grief for his loss, wove into chaplets for the victors at the Nemæan games. At these games it was always customary to deliver a funeral oration in memory of Archemorus, while the participators were dressed in mourning. Hence the association of parsley with death among the Greeks, and the long-prevailing Western belief that the plant is 'unlucky,' is only another instance of the marvellous longevity of superstitions. It is said by Mr. Thiselton-Dyer that in Devonshire to transplant parsley is accounted a serious offence against the tutelary spirit of the herb, and is certain to be punished within the year by some great misfortune. In South Hampshire the country people will never give parsley away, for fear of trouble; and in Suffolk it is believed that if it be sown on any other day than Good Friday it will not grow double. The _Folklore Record_, some years ago, gave the case of a gentleman near Southampton whose gardener refused to sow some parsley-seed when ordered, because 'it would be a bad day's work' for him to do so; the most he would do was to bring a plant or two, and throw them down for the master to pick up if he chose. To give them, however, the man regarded as fatal. But even to move parsley is regarded in some places to be unlucky, and we have heard of a parish clerk in Devonshire who was bedridden, and who was popularly supposed to owe his trouble to having moved some parsley-beds. There is a similar superstition in Germany, and many readers have probably often come across an old saying, that 'Parsley fried will bring a man to his saddle and a woman to her grave.' The allusion to the saddle is obscure; but it is obvious that all the superstitious dread of parsley is a survival of the old Greek fable immortalized in the Nemæan games. That the rose should be associated with death may appear strange to some, yet so it was. The Greeks certainly used the rose in their funeral rites and for the decoration of their tombs. The Romans used it for similar purposes, and often bequeathed legacies for the express purpose of keeping their tombs adorned with the flower. Whether it was by them that the practice was introduced into England is not capable of direct proof, but it is worthy of note that at Ockley, a place where the Romans were often located in large numbers, it was a custom of comparatively recent experience for girls to plant roses upon the graves of their dead lovers. Hence, no doubt, its origin in Gay's riddle: 'What flower is that which royal honour craves, Adjoins the Virgin, and 'tis strewn on graves?' The answer is 'Rosemary,' which, although sometimes understood to mean the Rose of the Virgin Mary, is neither a rose, nor is it in any special way associated with the Virgin. On the other hand, the rose is associated by most Catholics with the Mother of the Saviour, and in Italy especially, during the celebrations of May, the rose is abundantly used. By some it has been thought that the early association of the rose with death led to the expression 'under the rose,' applied to anything to be done in secret or silence. Others, again, have ascribed the origin of that expression to the perfect beauty of the flower, which, as language is unable to portray it, may be a symbol of silence. Sir Thomas Browne, however, says the origin was either in the old custom of wearing chaplets of roses during the 'Symposiack meetings,' or else because the rose was the flower of Venus, 'which Cupid consecrated unto Harpocrates, the god of silence.' There is a basis of probability in both theories, and all know that the rose was peculiarly the property of the Goddess of Love. Indeed, according to the old fable, the flower was originally white until dyed by the blood which flowed from the foot of Venus, pierced by a thorn as she ran to the aid of her loved Adonis. Hence Spenser says: 'White as the native rose, before the change Which Venus's blood did in her leaves impress.' According to others, however, it was the blood of Adonis which dyed the flower. Thus Bion, in his Lament: 'A tear the Paphian sheds for each blood-drop of Adonis, and tears and blood on the earth are turned to flowers. The blood brings forth the rose, and the tears the wind-flower. Woe, woe, for Adonis! he hath perished, the lovely Adonis!' This tradition is preserved in the German name, _Adonis-blume_, which, however, is usually applied to the anemone. The rose being the emblem of love, and love having a natural abhorrence of publicity, it is not difficult to conceive the connection with silence. It is said that the Romans used to place a decoration of roses in the centre of their dining-rooms, as a hint to the guests that all that was said at the banqueting-table was in the nature of 'privileged communications,' and in old Germany a similar custom long prevailed. In the sixteenth century a rose was placed over confessionals, and the inference is that the hint was then well understood. There was also an obvious meaning in the adoption by the Jacobites of this flower as the emblem of the Pretender, to whose service they were secretly sworn. It was the white rose that was especially affected by the Stuarts, and the Pretender's birthday, the 10th of June, was for long known as 'White Rose Day,' much as 'Primrose Day' is now definitely associated with the late Lord Beaconsfield. The story of the Wars of the Roses is, of course, known to everybody, and how, in consequence of these feuds, the rose became the emblem of England, as the thistle is of Scotland, and the shamrock of Ireland. In the East there is even more of poetic significance attached to the rose than with us. It is related of Sadi, the Persian poet, that, when a slave, he earned his freedom by the adroit use of the flower. One day he presented a rose to his master, with the remark, made with all humility, 'Do good to thy servant whilst thou hast the power, for the season of power is often as transient as the duration of this flower.' This was in allusion to the Eastern fancy, which makes the white rose the emblem of life--transient and uncertain. In Persia they have a festival called 'The Feast of the Roses,' which lasts during the blooming of the flowers. One of their great works is called The Garden of Roses, and in all their poems and tales they closely associate the rose with the bulbul or nightingale. The belief is that the bird derives his melody from the beauteous flower, and they say, 'You may place a handful of fragrant herbs and flowers before the nightingale, but he wants nothing more than the odour of his beloved rose.' Thomas Moore seizes, with happy effect, on this legend in Lalla Rookh, which poem, indeed, is redolent of roses. But poetry generally is as full of the rose as the rose is of poetry, and it would take a volume to deal adequately with all the fancies and superstitious associations of the queen of flowers. Before quitting the subject, however, we should not overlook the Oriental traditions of how the rose received its various colours. It is said that when Mohammed was journeying to heaven, the sweat which fell from his forehead produced white roses, and that which fell from Al Borak produced yellow roses. But an older tradition is given by Sir John Mandeville. It is that of Zillah, the beauteous maiden of Bethlehem, who, being falsely accused, was condemned to be burned alive. At the stake the flames passed over her and shrivelled up her accuser, while, on the spot where she stood, sprang up a garden of roses--red where the fire had touched, and white where it had passed. 'And theise werein the first roseres that ever ony man saughe.' Reference has been made to the lily as the emblem of purity, but, curiously enough, this innocent-looking flower has its baleful superstitions as well. In Devonshire it is accounted unlucky to plant a bed of lilies-of-the-valley, and to do so is to ensure misfortune, if not death, within a year. Yet this flower has always been closely associated with the Virgin Mary, and according to one legend, it sprang from some of the milk which fell to the ground as she was nourishing the infant Jesus. The Greeks, however, had a similar legend, ascribing the origin of the flower to a drop of Juno's milk. The Greeks have always made a favourite of the lily, and even to this day use it largely in making up bridal wreaths, while the sacred significance which Christians have found in the flower may be traceable to our Lord's use of it in imagery. In this connection the legend of the budding lily of St. Joseph may be recalled, and also the fact that the mediæval painters generally depicted the Madonna with a lily in her hand. There is a tradition that the lily was the principal ornament in the crown of Solomon, and that it typified love, charity, purity, and innocence--a combination of virtues hardly to be found in the character of the wise King himself. Nor must we forget that the sacred flower of the East--the lotus--is a lily, and that even to name it seems to carry ineffable consolation to the Buddhist. Thus, the universal prayer of the Buddhists--that prayer which is printed on slips and fastened on cylinders which are incessantly revolving in Thibet--'Om mani padme hum!' means simply, 'Oh, the jewel in (or of) the lotus! Amen!' So Sir Edwin Arnold, in The Light of Asia: 'Ah, Lover! Brother! Guide! Lamp of the Law! I take my refuge in Thy name and Thee! I take my refuge in Thy Law of Good! I take my refuge in Thy Order! Om! The dew is on the lotus. Rise, Great Sun, And lift my leaf, and mix me with the wave. "Om mani padme hum," the sunrise comes. The dewdrop slips into the shining sea!' The lily, or lotus, was held sacred also in ancient Egypt, and the capitals of many of the buildings bear the form of an open lotus-flower. And naturally, in a land of Buddhism like China, the lotus occupies there an important place, both in art, in poetry, and in popular fancy. It is recorded that the old Jews regarded the lily, or lotus (_Lilium candidum_), as a protection against enchantment, and it is said that Judith wore a wreath of lilies when she went to visit Holofernes, by way of counteractant charm. The lotus which is the sacred lily of the East must not be confounded with the mysterious plant mentioned by Ulysses, and of which Tennyson has sung--the plant of oblivion and sensuousness. That there is an element of enchantment about the lily we have seen is still believed in our own country, but the association of misfortune with it is not universal. On the contrary, in some parts the leaf of the lily is supposed to have curative virtues in cases of cuts and wounds, and Gerarde, the old herbalist, even says that 'the flowers of lily-of-the-valley, being close stopped up in a glass, put into an ant-hill, and taken away again a month after, ye shall find a liquor in the glass, which being outwardly applied, helpeth the gout.' One hears, perhaps, of no modern experiments having been made with this remedy. But if not to cure gout, the flower has, it appears, been used to pay rents, for Grimm says that some lands in Hesse were held upon the condition of presenting a bunch of lily-of-the-valley every year. This, of course, would not be the whole burden, and the custom had, no doubt, a religious origin and significance. The flower is often associated with the sword of justice, and both the Dominicans and the Cistercians held it in high honour. It is worth noting, too, that some traditions make the lily the favourite flower of St. Cecilia, although the popular legend makes the angel bring her a bouquet of roses every night from Paradise. But how did the lily become the badge of France? One tradition is that it was adopted by the French kings because it was the emblem of purity, and closely associated with both Christ and Solomon. One old legend has it that after one of the great battles of the Crusaders, the French banners were found covered with lilies. According to others, the Fleur de lys is merely a corruption of Fleur de Luce, or Fleur de Louis, and was not a lily at all, but the purple iris, which Louis the Seventh adopted for his emblem on his departure to the Holy Land. On the other hand, there is a legend that a shield of azure bearing the device of three golden lilies was presented by an angel to Clothilde, the wife of Clovis, and it is claimed that the lily has been the true national emblem of France ever since the time of that Sovereign. Whatever the origin, however, of Fleur de lys, it certainly means lily now, and the Lily of France is a symbol as definite as the Rose of England, as the Shamrock of Ireland, or as the Thistle of Scotland. It is curious how much superstition and romance have clustered round the humble clover-leaf. Not one of us, perhaps, but has in childhood spent hours in looking for the four-leaved clover that was to bring untold luck. What trouble to find it! What joy when found! And what little profit beyond the joy of the search! As the old couplet has it, somewhat inconsequently: 'With a four-leav'd clover, double-topp'd ash, and green-topp'd seave, You may go before the queen's daughter without asking leave.' The advantage here suggested is not very obvious, but the Devonshire people had a more defined idea of the virtue of the double clover, and they state it thus: 'An even-leaved ash, And a four-leaved clover; You'll see your true lover Before the day's over.' But in Cambridgeshire it seems that the two-leaved clover is the object of desire, for there the saying goes: 'A clover, a clover of two, Put it on your right shoe; The first young man you meet, In field, or lane, or street, You shall have him, Or one of his name.' This, while presenting a considerable amount of uncertainty in the result has, at least, the merit of presaging something. In other parts, however, and in more ancient days, the carrying of the four-bladed clover was believed to bring luck in play and in business, safety on a journey, and the power of detecting evil spirits. In Germany the clover was held almost sacred whenever it had two or four blades. Now, as to luck, a curious thing is stated by the author of the Plant Lore of Shakespeare. He says that clover is a corruption of _clava_, a club, and that to this day we preserve the emblem of luck on our playing-cards in painting the suit of clubs. Somehow the etymology does not seem very satisfying; but at any rate we all know what 'living in clover' means. Yet, perhaps, everyone does not know that in rural districts the clover is looked upon as a capital barometer, the leaves becoming rough to the feel when a storm is impending. A writer, quoted by Mr. Thiselton-Dyer, says that when tempestuous weather is coming the clover will 'start and rise up as if it were afraid of an assault.' It is probable that the association of good luck with the four-bladed clover arose from its fancied resemblance to the cross. Support is given to this hypothesis by the traditional origin of the shamrock as the badge of Ireland. In the account given of St. Patrick in The Book of Days, it is stated that once when the Saint wanted to illustrate the doctrine of the Trinity to his pagan hearers, he plucked a piece of the common white clover. Now, it seems that the trefoil is called _shamrakh_ in Arabic, and was held sacred in Persia. And it is remarkable that Pliny says the trefoil is an antidote against the bites of snakes and scorpions. It is not by any means certain that the common clover was the original shamrock of Ireland; and even to this day many claim the title for the wood-sorrel. Still, for fifty years, at any rate, the popular belief has been that the trefoil-clover is the plant which was plucked by St. Patrick, who drove out the snakes from Ireland, who is still her patron-saint, and whose badge is worn to this day. But how did the name come from Arabia, and what is the connection between Pliny's theory and the legend, of St. Patrick's victory over the vermin? These remain among the unsolved mysteries of folk-lore. With the emblem of Scotland--the thistle--not so many classical associations and active superstitions are to be found, but yet it is not devoid of folk-lore. Of course opinions differ as to what was or is the true Scotch thistle, but of the several varieties of thistles many beliefs are entertained. One variety--the Carline--is esteemed in some parts as a barometer, as it closes up when rain is approaching. In Tartary there is a variety which grows to such a size that it is planted for shelter on the windward side of the huts on the Steppes. This thistle is called the 'Wind Witch,' because, after the heat of the summer is past, the dried portions take the form of a ball, with which the spirits are supposed to make merry in the autumnal gales. The origin of the name thistle is probably Scandinavian, and associated with Thor. The plant was, at any rate, sacred to the Scandinavian god, and was believed by the old Vikings to receive the colour of the lightning into its blossom, which thereupon became endowed with high curative and protective virtues. There was a species of thistle on Dartmoor which used to be called Thormantle, and was used in that district as a febrifuge. Some writers have said that in Poland some infantile disorders are supposed to be the work of mischievous spirits using thistle-seed. The Lady's Thistle, which some believe to be the true Scotch thistle, is one of the many plants associated with the Virgin. The tradition, according to Brand, is that the white spots on the leaves are due to the falling of some drops of the Holy Mother's milk, a legend we have seen to be attached also to the lily. Then the great Emperor Charlemagne's name is blended with that of the Carline Thistle, the story being that during the prevalence of an epidemic among his troops he prayed to God for help. An angel appeared, and indicated, by firing an arrow, a plant which would allay the disease. This was the _Carlina acaulis_, which, of course, cured all the sick soldiers, and possibly may have some of the febrifuge virtues which the Dartmoor people fancied existed in another kind of thistle. Nettle-soup is still a familiar housewife's remedy for some childish ailments. In some parts of Germany there is a superstition that sores upon horses' backs may be cured by gathering four red thistle-blossoms before daybreak, and placing them in the form of a square upon the ground with a stone in the middle. It is not easy to trace the probable origin of this belief, but many of the old herbalists mention the thistle as efficacious in cases of vertigo, headache, jaundice, and 'infirmities of the gall.' Says one, 'It is an herb of Mars, and under the sign Aries.' Therefore, 'it strengthens the attractive faculty in man and clarifies the blood, because the one is ruled by Mars. The continual drinking the decoction of it helps red faces, tetters, and ringworms, because Mars causeth them. It helps the plague, sores, boils, itches, the bitings of mad dogs and venomous beasts, all which infirmities are under Mars.' This same writer agrees with Dioscorides that the root of a thistle carried about 'doth expel melancholy and removes all diseases connected therewith.' In other words, the thistle was held to possess all the virtues now claimed for podophyllum, blue-pill, and dandelion--a universal antibilious agent! But how did the thistle become the emblem of Scotland? Well, there are as many traditions on the subject as there are opinions as to which variety of the plant is the true Scottish thistle. It would be tedious here to refer to all, so let us just note that although the _Carduus Marianus_, or the Blessed or Lady's Thistle--the origin of whose name we have given--is very commonly accepted, so competent an authority on Scottish lore as the author of Nether Lochaber rejects both that and all other varieties in favour of the _Cnicus acaulis_, or the stemless thistle. In doing this, he founds his belief upon the following tradition: Once, during the invasion of Scotland by the Norsemen, the invaders were stealing a march in the dark upon the Scots, when one of the barefooted scouts placed his foot upon a thistle, which caused him to cry out so loudly that the Scots were aroused, and, flying to their horses, drove back the Danes with great slaughter. Now, this could not happen, says Dr. Stewart, with any of the tall thistles, but only with the stemless thistle, which has sharp, fine spikes, and grows close on the ground. This, at least, is as reasonable an explanation as any of the great national badge of Scotland. It but remains to add that the first mention of the thistle as a national emblem occurs in an inventory of the jewels and other effects of James the Third, about 1467, and its first mention in poetry is in a poem by Dunbar, written about 1503, to commemorate the marriage of James the Fourth with Margaret Tudor, and called The Thrissell and the Rois. The Order of the Thistle dates from James the Seventh of Scotland and Second of England, about 1687. And now, as we began with the wreath of parsley, which symbolized death, let us end with the crown of orange-blossoms, which, among us, now symbolizes the twofold life of the married state. Among the Greeks, the brides used to wear garlands of myrtle and roses, because both of these plants were associated with the Goddess of Love. In China the orange has, from time immemorial, been an emblem of good luck, and is freely used to present to friends and guests. But although the orange is said to have been first brought by the Portuguese from China in 1547, nevertheless this fruit is supposed to have been the golden apple of Juno, which grew in the Garden of Hesperides. As the golden apple was presented to the Queen of Heaven upon her marriage with Jupiter, we may find here a definite explanation of the meaning attached to the fruit. But, besides this, it seems that orange-blossom was used centuries ago by Saracen brides in their personal decorations on the great day of their lives. It was meant to typify fruitfulness, and it is to be noted that the orange-tree bears both fruit and blossom at the same time, and is remarkable for its productiveness. It is possible, then, that the idea of orange-blossom for bridal decoration was brought from the East by the Crusaders; but it is uncertain at what date the custom began to be followed in England. However introduced, and whether retained as a symbol or merely for the exquisite beauty of the flower, it will continue to hold its place in the affections of the maiden-bride, to whom it seems to sing: 'Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, Long continuance and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you, Juno sings her blessings on you.' CHAPTER X. ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE. 'Doth not Rosemary and Romeo both begin with a letter?' asks Juliet's nurse. Yes, but what did she mean by the query, and by the further remark that 'Juliet hath the prettiest sententions of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it'? For answer we must make some search into the beliefs and customs of the past. Rosemary is the 'Ros-marinus' of the old herbalists, but it is not a native of Britain, and there is no exact record of when it was introduced here from the South of Europe. Mention of 'Ros-marinus' occurs in an Anglo-Saxon vocabulary of the eleventh century, where it is translated Feld-madder and Sun-dew. There is some doubt whether this has reference to the actual plant now known to us as rosemary, but in no case was it the Rose of Mary, as some have supposed. It is not a rose, and the 'Mary' is from 'marinus,' or 'maris.' The old English spelling was Rosmarin, or Rosmarine; in these forms one finds the word used by Gower, and Shenstone, and other old poets. In the South of Europe the rosemary has long had magic properties ascribed to it. The Spanish ladies used to wear it as an antidote against the evil eye, and the Portuguese called it the Elfin plant, and dedicated it to the fairies. The idea of the antidote may have been due to a confusion of the name with that of the Virgin; but as a matter of fact the 'Ros-marinus' is frequently mentioned by old Latin writers, including Horace and Ovid. The name came from the fondness of the plant for the sea-shore, where it often gets sprinkled with the 'ros,' or dew of the sea, that is to say, sea-spray. Another cause of confusion, perhaps, was that the leaves of the plant somewhat resemble those of the juniper, which in mediæval times was one of the plants held sacred to the Virgin Mary. In the island of Crete, it is said, a bride dressed for the wedding still calls last of all for a sprig of rosemary to bring her luck. And thus we come to find rosemary in close association with both marriage and death, just as the hyacinth was, and perhaps still is, among the Greeks. It is interesting to trace the connection by which the same plant came to have two such different uses. One of the earliest mentions of rosemary in English literature is in a poem of the fourteenth century called 'The Gloriouse Rosemaryne,' which begins thus: 'This herbe is callit rosemaryn, Of vertu that is gode and fyne; But all the vertues tell I ne can, Nor, I trowe, no erthely man.' Nevertheless, the poet proceeds to record at great length many astounding virtues, including the restoration of youth to the aged by bathing in rosemary water. The 'cheerful rosemarie' and 'refreshing rosemarine' of Spenser was once a great favourite in England, although now it is hardly allowed garden space. Sir Thomas More said: 'I let it run all over my garden walls, not only because my bees love it, but because 'tis the herb sacred to remembrance, and therefore to friendship: whence a sprig of it hath a dumb language that maketh it the chosen emblem at our funeral wakes and in our burial grounds.' The popularity of the plant was doubtless due to the long-enduring scent and verdure of the leaves. It is one of the most lasting of evergreens, and the pleasant aromatic odour lingers very long after the leaves have been gathered. Fragrance and endurance, then, are the characteristics of a plant which came to be commonly accepted as an emblem of constancy, and also of loving remembrance. Thus it is that Herrick sings of it: 'Grow for two ends, it matters not at all, Be't for my bridal or my burial.' Thus it is that we find Friar Laurence over Juliet's body, saying: 'Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary On this fair corse,' which is certainly not what the nurse meant when she told Romeo of the 'prettiest sententions.' High medicinal properties were ascribed to the rosemary, so much so that old Parkinson writes: 'Rosemary is almost as great use as bayes, both for outward and inward remedies, and as well for civill as physicall purposes; inwardly for the head and heart, outwardly for the sinews and joynts; for civill uses, as all do know, at weddings, funerals, etc., to bestow among friends; and the physicall are so many that you might as well be tyred in the reading as I in the writing, if I should set down all that might be said of it.' One of the 'physicall' uses was in stirring up the tankard of ale or sack, and at weddings a sprig was usually dipped in the loving-cup to give it fragrance as well as luck. The virtues of the plant are celebrated in a curious wedding sermon quoted by Hone: 'The rosemary is for married men, the which by name, nature, and continued use, man challengeth as properly belonging to himself. It overtoppeth all the flowers in the garden boasting man's rule; it helpeth the brain, strengtheneth the memory, and is very medicinal for the head. Another property is, it affects the heart. Let this ros-marinus, this flower of man, ensign of your wisdom, love, and loyalty, be carried not only in your hands but in your heads and hearts.' One does not easily reconcile this laudation with the popular superstition that wherever the rosemary flourished there should the woman be the ruling power. And to this superstition, be it noted, has been ascribed the disfavour into which the plant has fallen among gardeners since Shakespeare's time. The medical properties may have been over-rated by old Parkinson, but some are recognised even to this day. Thus rosemary is used as an infusion to cure headaches, and is believed to be an extensive ingredient in hair-restorers. It is also one of the ingredients in the manufacture of Eau-de-Cologne, and has many other uses in the form of oil of rosemary. It is said that bees which feed on rosemary blossoms produce a very delicately-flavoured honey. Perfumers are greatly indebted to it. According to De Gubernatis, the flowers of the plant are proof against rheumatism, nervous indisposition, general debility, weakness of sight, melancholy, weak circulation, and cramp. Almost as comprehensive a cure as some of our modern universal specifics! The medicinal properties of rosemary have been held by some to account for its funeral uses. At all events, an ingenious writer of the seventeenth century held that the custom of carrying a sprig at a funeral had its rise from a notion of an 'alexipharmick' or preservative virtue in the herb which would protect the wearer from 'pestilential distempers,' and be a powerful defence 'against the morbid effluvias of the corpse.' For the same reason, this writer asserts, it was customary to burn rosemary in the chambers of the sick, just like frankincense, 'whose odour is not much different from rosemary, which gave the Greeks occasion to call it Libanotis, from Libanos (frankincense).' The hyssop of the Bible is believed by some to be rosemary, and it is said that in the East it was customary to hang up a bunch in the house as a protection against evil spirits, and to use it in various ceremonies against enchantment. Perhaps there was some connection between this custom and that of the Greeks referred to by Aristotle, who regarded indigestion as the effect of witchcraft, and who used rue as an antidote. The dispelling of the charm was just the natural physical action of the herb. In Devonshire, however, there was a more mystic use for rosemary in dispelling the charms of witches. A bunch of it had to be taken in the hand and dropped bit by bit on live coals, while the two first verses of the sixty-eighth psalm were recited, followed by the Lord's Prayer. Bay-leaves were sometimes used in the same manner; but if the afflicted one were suffering physically, he had also to take certain prescribed medicines. Rosemary worn about the body was believed to strengthen the memory and to add to the success of the wearer in anything he might undertake. It is as an emblem of remembrance that rosemary is most frequently used by the old poets. Thus Ophelia: 'There is rosemary for you, that's for remembrance; I pray you, love, remember.' And in The Winter's Tale: 'For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep Seeming and savour all the winter long; Grace and remembrance be with you both.' And thus Drayton: 'He from his lass him lavender hath sent, Showing her love, and doth requital crave; Him rosemary his sweetheart, whose intent Is that he her should in remembrance have.' Quotations might be easily multiplied, but the reader will find in Brand's Popular Antiquities numerous references to the plant by writers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. As an emblem of rejoicing, rosemary was also often used. Hone quotes a contemporary account of the joyful entry of Queen Elizabeth into London in 1558, wherein occurs this passage: 'How many nosegays did her Grace receive at poor women's hands? How often times stayed she her chariot when she saw any simple body offer to speak to her Grace? A branch of rosemary given to her Grace, with a supplication by a poor woman about Fleet Bridge, was seen in her chariot till her Grace came to Westminster.' The object of the particular floral offering in this case is not very obvious, unless as an emblematic tribute to the maiden queen. Rosemary used to be carried in the hand at weddings, as well as strewed on the ground and dipped in the cup. Thus Stow narrates of a wedding in 1560, that 'fine flowers and rosemary were strewed for them coming home'; and Brand cites numerous instances from old plays. In one, 'the parties enter with rosemary, as if from a wedding'; and in Beaumont and Fletcher's Scornful Lady, the question is asked about a wedding, 'Were the rosemary branches dipped?' This dipping, moreover, was in scented water as well as in the loving-cup, and hence the allusion in Dekker's Wonderful Year to a bride who had died on her wedding-night: 'Here is a strange alteration; for the rosemary that was washed in sweet water to set out the bridal is now wet in tears to furnish her burial.' It is on record that Anne of Cleves wore rosemary at her wedding with Henry the Eighth; and in an account of some marriage festivities at Kenilworth, attended by Queen Elizabeth, there is frequent mention of the plant. An idea of how it was sometimes used is given in a description of a sixteenth century wedding quoted by the Rev. Hilderic Friend: 'The bride being attired in a gown of sheep's russet and a kirtle of fine worsted, attired with abillement of gold' (milliner's French even then!); 'and her hair, yellow as gold, hanging down behind her, which was curiously combed and plaited' she was led to church between two sweet boys, with bride-laces and rosemary tied about her silken sleeves. There was a fair bride-cup of silver-gilt carried before her, wherein was a goodly branch of rosemary gilded very fair, and hung about with silken ribands of all colours.' Coles says that the garden rosemary was called _Rosmarinus coronarium_, because the women made crowns and garlands of it. Ben Jonson says that it was customary for the bridesmaids to present the bridegroom next morning with a bunch of rosemary. And Brand says that as late as 1698 the custom still prevailed in England of decking the bridal bed with sprigs of rosemary. In Jonson's Tale of a Tub, one of the characters assembled to await the intended bridegroom says: 'Look an' the wenches ha' not found un out, and do present un with a van of rosemary and bays, enough to vill a bow-pott or trim the head of my best vore-horse; we shall all ha' bride-laces and points, I see.' And again, a country swain assures his sweetheart at their wedding: 'We'll have rosemary and bayes to vill a bow-pott, and with the same I'll trim the vorehead of my best vore-horse'--so that it would seem the decorative use was not confined to the bride, the guests, and the banquet. As a love-charm the reputation of rosemary seems to have come from the South. There is an old Spanish proverb which runs: 'Who passeth by the rosemarie, And careth not to take a spray, For woman's love no care has he, Nor shall he, though he live for aye.' Mr. Thiselton-Dyer says that rosemary is used in some parts of the country, as nut-charms are on Halloween, to foretell a lover; only, St. Agnes' Eve is the occasion on which to invoke with a sprig of rosemary, or thyme, with this formula: 'St. Agnes, that's to lovers kind, Come, ease the troubles of my mind.' For love-potions, decoctions of rosemary were much employed. As to funereal uses, those who are familiar with Hogarth's drawings will remember one of a funeral party with sprigs of rosemary in their hands. Misson, a French traveller (_temp._ William the Third), thus describes English funeral ceremonies: 'When they are ready to set out, they nail up the coffin, and a servant presents the company with sprigs of rosemary. Everyone takes a sprig and carries it in his hand till the body is put into the grave, at which time they all throw their sprigs in after it.' Hence Gay: 'To show their love, the neighbours far and near, Follow'd with wistful looks the damsel's bier; Sprigg'd rosemary the lads and lasses bore, While dismally the parson walk'd before. Upon her grave the rosemary they threw.' Whether the fact that the rosemary buds in January has anything to do with its funereal uses admits of conjecture, as Sir Thomas Browne would say; but that fact was certainly present to the writer of the following verses, which were worthily rescued by Hone from a 'fugitive copy,' although the writer's name has been lost: 'Sweet-scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And I will bind thee round my brow; And, as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song, And sweet the strain shall be, and long-- The melody of death. 'Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom A sweet decaying smell. Come, pressing lips, and lie with me Beneath the lonely alder-tree, And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude To break the marble solitude, So peaceful and so deep. 'And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Moans hollow in the forest trees, And, sailing on the gusty breeze, Mysterious music dies. Sweet flower! the requiem wild is mine. It warns me to the lonely shrine-- The cold turf-altar of the dead. My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where, as I lie by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.' In South Wales, in Cheshire, and in Bucks, the custom still obtains, according to Mr. Hilderic Friend, for each mourner to carry a sprig of rosemary to the grave, into which it is thrown. For weddings, rosemary was dipped in scented water, but for funerals in plain water. Hence the reference in an old play, quoted by Hone: 'If there be Any so kind as to accompany My body to the earth, let them not want For entertainment. Prythee, see they have A sprig of rosemary, dipp'd in common water, To smell at as they walk along the streets.' In Dekker's Wonderful Year there is a description of a charnel-house pavement strewed with withered rosemary, hyacinth, cypress, and yew. During the Plague rosemary was in such demand for funerals that, says Dekker, what 'had wont to be sold for twelvepence an armfull went now at six shillings a handfull.' Certainly a remarkable rise. What the price was in 1531 we know not; but in an account of the funeral expenses of a Lord Mayor of London, who died in that year, appears an item, 'For yerbes at the bewyral £0 1 0'--which presumably refers to rosemary. 'Cypresse garlands,' wrote Coles, 'are of great account at funeralls among the gentiler sort; but Rosemary and Bayes are used by the commons both at funeralls and weddings. They are all plants which fade not a good while after they are gathered and used, as I conceive, to intimate unto us that the remembrance of the present solemnity might not die presently, but be kept in minde for many yeares.' We have now seen something of the many significations of rosemary, and find an explanation of why the same plant was used for both weddings and funerals, in the fact that it emblemised remembrance by its evergreen and fragrant qualities. One may have doubts about the truth of the story of the man of whom it is recorded that he wanted to be married again on the day of his wife's funeral because the rosemary which had been used at her burial would come in usefully and economically for the wedding ceremony. But if the story is too good to be true, there is suggestion enough in the circumstance referred to by Shakespeare, that 'Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corpse.' CHAPTER XI. HERB OF GRACE. Why did Ophelia say: 'There's rue for you, and here's some for me; we may call it herb grace o' Sundays, for you must wear your rue with a difference'? For the same reason that Perdita says, in The Winter's Tale, when welcoming the guests of her reputed father and the shepherd: 'Reverend sirs, For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep Seeming and savour all the winter long; Grace and remembrance be to you both, And welcome to our shearing.' Remembrance, as we have already seen in the last chapter, was symbolized by the rosemary, and by both Ophelia and Perdita the rue is taken as the symbol of grace. How this came to be is what we have now to consider; but perhaps Mr. Ellacombe, author of Plant-Lore of Shakespeare, is stretching rather far in suggesting that the rue was implied by Antony, when he used the word 'grace' in addressing the weeping followers (Antony and Cleopatra, Act IV., Scene 2) thus: 'Grace grow where these drops fall.' What Ophelia said was: 'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for thought. There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb-grace o' Sundays. Oh! you may wear your rue with a difference.' There was a method in her madness, and she was distributing her flowers according to the characters and moods of the recipients. Fennel, for instance, emblemised flattery, and columbine ingratitude. Rue emblemised either remorse or repentance--either sorrow or grace--so 'you may wear your rue with a difference.' So we find the gardener in Richard II. saying, after the departure of the anxious Queen: 'Here she did fall a tear; here in this place I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace; Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen, In the remembrance of a weeping Queen.' The herb was believed to be endowed with high moral and medicinal properties, yet was supposed to prosper better in one's garden if stolen from that of a neighbour. But originally it was associated with sorrow and pity. The word rue is doubtless of the same root as 'ruth,' and to rue is to be sorry for, to have remorse. Ruth is the English equivalent of the Latin _ruta_, and in early English appeared as 'rude.' As regret is always more or less a mark of repentance, it was the most natural thing in the world for the herb of ruth, or sorrow, to become the herb of repentance; and as repentance is a sign of grace, so rue became known as 'herb of grace.' This, in brief, is the connection, but it is worth noting in passing that rue is only once mentioned in the Bible, and then only along with a number of other bitter herbs, and without any special significance. There is this association between rue and rosemary, that both are natives of some of the more barren coasts of the Mediterranean, and that both were very early admitted to the English herb-garden. The old herbalists make frequent mention of rue, and even in Anglo-Saxon times it seems to have been extensively used in medicine. Three peculiarities--a strong, aromatic smell, a bitter taste, and a blistering quality in the leaves--were quite sufficient to establish it in the pharmacopoeia of the herb doctors. The curative qualities of what Spenser calls the 'ranke-smelling rue' were reputedly of a very varied sort. Most readers will remember the reference in Paradise Lost: 'Michael from Adam's eyes the film removed, Which the false fruit which promised clearer sight Had bred; then purged with euphraie and rue The visual nerve, for he had much to see.' And perhaps its most popular use was as an eyewash. The old writers have recorded some hidden virtues known only to the animal world, such as that weasels prepared themselves for a rat-fight by a diet of rue. Old Parkinson, the herbalist, says that 'without doubt it is a most wholesome herb, although bitter and strong.' He speaks of a 'bead-rowl' of the virtues of rue, but warns people of the 'too frequent or over-much use thereof.' As both a stimulant and a narcotic the plant has even now recognised virtues, and is not without its uses in modern medicine. The Italians are said to eat the leaves in salad, but hardly of that species--_Ruta montana_--which botanists say it is dangerous to handle without gloves. Our garden species is _Ruta graveolens_ and is used by the French perfumers in the manufacture of 'Thieves Vinegar,' or 'Marseilles Vinegar,' once accounted an effective protection against fevers and all infectious diseases. A curious instance of the value of the herb in this respect occurred in 1760. In the summer of that year a rumour arose, and rapidly spread in London, that the plague had broken out in St. Thomas's Hospital. Immediately there was what would nowadays be called a 'boom' in rue, the price of which rose forty per cent. in a single day in Covent Garden. To allay the popular alarm a manifesto was issued, signed by the physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries of the hospital, certifying that there were no other than the 'usual' diseases among the patients in the wards. Another explanation of the origin of the name 'herb of grace' has been given than that referred to above. Warburton, among others, thinks that the name was adopted because the old Romanists used the plant on Sundays in their 'exorcisms.' However this may be, rue, or the herb of grace, has been in this country long accounted an antidote of witchcraft. But then, so it was in the days of Aristotle, before it became 'herb of grace,' and when it was hung round the neck as an amulet. The fact is, however, that rue became an antidote of witchcraft because it had become a noted implement in enchantment. Through its numerous reputed properties, rue early found its way into the magic cauldron. 'Then sprinkles she the juice of rue, With nine drops of the midnight dew, From lunary distilling,' as Drayton has it. In this incantation, again, we have the association with moonwort; and the connection is further illustrated in an old oracle ascribed to Hecate: 'From a root of wild rue fashion and polish a statue; adorn it with household lizards; grind myrrh, gum, and frankincense with the same reptiles, and let the mixture stand in the air during the waning of a moon; then address your words.' With regard to the association with moonwort, it is interesting to recall that this is one of the plants supposed to be employed by birds for opening nests and removing impediments. Thus in an anecdote gravely related to Aubrey, we find this virtue mentioned: 'Sir Bennet Hoskins told me that his keeper at his parke at Morehampton, in Herefordshire, did for experiment's sake drive an iron naile thwart the hole of a woodpecker's nest, there being a tradition that the dam will bring some leafe to open it. He layed at the bottom of the tree a cleane sheet, and before many houres passed, the naile came out, and he found a leafe lying by it on the sheete. They say the Moonwort will doe such things.' On the same subject Coles, the botanist, writes: 'It is said, yea, and believed, that Moonwort will open the locks wherewith dwelling-houses are made fast, if it be put into the keyhole.' And Culpeper, the herbalist, writes thus: 'Moonwort is a herb which, they say, will open locks and unshoe such horses as tread upon it. This some laugh to scorn, and these no small fools neither; but country people that I know call it Unshoe-the-horse. Besides, I have heard commanders say that on White Down in Devonshire, near Tiverton, there were found thirty horseshoes pulled off from the feet of the Earl of Essex's horses, being there drawn up in a body, many of them being newly shod, and no reason known, which caused much admiration.' As well it might! This power of the moonwort is said to be still believed in in Normandy, and a similar virtue was also ascribed to the vervain and the mandrake, both associated with rue. This curious property of moonwort it is which is referred to in Divine Weekes thus: 'Horses that, feeding on the grassy hills, Tread upon moonwort with their hollow heels, Though lately shod, at night go barefoot home, Their maister musing where their shoes become. Oh, moonwort! tell me where thou hid'st the smith, Hammer and pinchers, thou unshodd'st them with? Alas! what lock or iron engine is't That can the subtle secret strength resist? Still the best farrier cannot set a shoe So sure but thou, so shortly, canst undo.' The old alchemists, however, had a more profitable use for moonwort than the unshoeing of horses; they employed it for converting quicksilver into pure silver, at a time when that metal was neither 'degraded' nor 'depreciated.' There is an old and pleasant belief, of which John Ruskin makes effective use in driving home one of his morals, that flowers always bloom best in the gardens of those who love them. One could easily find a rationalistic explanation of this sentiment, of course, but it is akin to a superstition entertained in some parts that wherever the moonwort flourishes the owner of the garden is honest. The ingredients thrown into the mystic cauldron by European sorcerers were in close imitation of those of the ancient alchemists. Moncure Conway has pointed out that among the ingredients used by English and Scotch witches were plants gathered, as in Egypt, at certain seasons or phases of the moon. Chief among such plants were rue and vervain. The Druids called vervain the 'Holy herb,' and gathered it when the dog-star rose, placing a sacrifice of honey in the earth from which they removed it. In old Greece and Rome vervain was sacred to the god of war, and in Scandinavia it was also sacred to Thor. It was, moreover, carried by ambassadors of peace, and was supposed to preserve from lightning any house decorated with it. In later times it was believed that a decoction of vervain and rue, mixed, had such a remarkable effect on gun-metal that anyone using a gun over which the liquid had been poured would shoot 'as straight as a die.' This may be news to our modern musketry instructors. Had this belief, one may wonder, anything to do with the special effect on the eye always supposed to be possessed by rue? Its virtue as an eye-salve, at any rate, may explain how it came to be regarded as capable of bestowing the 'second sight.' To this day, in the Tyrol it is still believed to confer fine vision. If hallucinations were, as Moncure Conway assumes, the basis of belief in second sight, then we can understand the reputed virtues of rue in its narcotic qualities. We have seen how it came to be called 'herb of grace,' yet some think it got this name through being used in witchcraft by exorcists to try the devil. Speculating on why herbs and roots should have been esteemed magical, Mr. Andrew Lang concludes that it is enough to remember that herbs really have medicinal properties, and that untutored people invariably confound medicine with magic. Thus it was easy to suppose that a plant possessed virtue not only when swallowed, but when carried in the hand. The same writer examines the theory that rue was the Homeric moly, which in a former chapter we identified with the mandrake. But Lang rejects that theory, and says that rue was called 'herb of grace' and was used for sprinkling holy water because in pre-Christian times it had been supposed to have effect against the powers of evil. The early Christians were thus just endeavouring to combine the old charm of rue with the new potency of holy water. 'Euphrasy and rue,' says Lang, 'were employed to purge and purify mortal eyes. Pliny is very learned about the magical virtues of rue. Just as the stolen potato is sovran for rheumatism, so "rue stolen thriveth the best." The Samoans think that their most valued vegetables were stolen from heaven by a Samoan visitor. It is remarkable that rue, according to Pliny, is killed by the touch of a woman, in the same way as, according to Josephus, the mandrake is tamed. These passages prove that the classical peoples had the same extraordinary superstitions about women as the Bushmen and Red Indians. Indeed, Pliny describes a magical manner of defending the crops from blight by aid of women, which is actually practised in America by the red-man.' Although rue was found in the witches' cauldron, it is also to be found as a popular specific against the blight of witchcraft. Concerning this, however, Moncure Conway says that 'the only region on the Continent where any superstition concerning rue is found resembling the form it assumed in England as affecting the eye is in the Tyrol, where it is one of five plants--the others being broom-straw, agrimony, maidenhair, and ground-ivy--which are bound together, and believed, if carried about, to enable the bearer to see witches, or if laid over the door, to keep any witch who shall seek to enter fastened on the threshold.' In Scandinavia and North Germany, St. John's wort was used in much the same way for the same purpose. As to the vervain, which we have seen to be associated with rue, this is a plant the use of which against witchcraft was more widely distributed, just as its medical virtues were also more extensively known. The vervain, indeed, was a sacred plant among the Greeks, as well as among the Druids, who gathered it with solemn religious ceremonies, as they did the sacred mistletoe. Vervain was most esteemed, however, as a love potion, but the connection between its virtues in this respect, and its power over witches and spirits of evil, opens up a branch of inquiry away from our present purpose. We speak of vervain in connection with rue, because it was the 'holy herb,' just as rue was the 'herb of grace.' Not only was the vervain sacred among the early Druids, but it acquired an early sanctity among Christians. Thus the legend runs: 'All hail, thou holy herb, vervain, Growing on the ground; On the Mount of Calvary There wast thou found! Thou helpest many a grief, And staunchest many a wound; In the name of sweet Jesu, I lift thee from the ground.' Mr. Thiselton-Dyer says that a wreath of vervain is now presented to newly-married brides in Germany, but whether this is a survival of the sanctity of the plant, or of its ancient reputation as a love-philtre and charm, is not very clear. It is to be feared that vervain has sadly fallen out of favour in this country, although not many years ago a pamphlet was written to recommend the wearing of vervain tied by white satin ribbon round the neck, as preservative against evil influences and infection. 'On the Continent'--rather a wide term--Mr. Hilderic Friend says, 'the three essential plants for composing a magic wreath are rue, crane's-bill, and willow.' The crane's-bill is the Herb Robert, or Robin Hood, and the willow has always been connected with lovers. Such a wreath, then, is made by lovers when they wish to see their 'fate.' Love-sick maidens will employ such a wreath to find out how long they have yet to remain single. They walk backwards towards some selected tree, and as they walk throw the wreath over their heads until it fastens on one of the branches. Failure to 'catch on' requires another backward walk, and so on--each failure to buckle the tree counting as a year of spinsterhood. It seems rather an awkward way of getting at the future, but if not more blind than other processes of love divination, would at least require the guarantee of the absence of tight-lacing among the maidens practising it. Aristotle mentions the use made by the Greeks of rue as a charm against evil spirits, and he accounts for it, somewhat singularly, by the habit of the Greeks in not sitting down to table with strangers. The explanation is, that when they ate with strangers they were apt to become excited and nervous, and so to eat too rapidly, with the result of flatulence and indigestion. These effects were equivalent to bewitchment, as, indeed, disorders of the digestive organs are frequently regarded by many Eastern peoples even to this day. As rue was found to be an effectual antidote to these distressing symptoms, it became a charm against enchantment. Among many old-wife recipes for the cure of warts is the use of rue. Most people know the old folk-jingle: 'Ashen tree, ashen tree, Pray bury these warts of me,' which has to be accompanied by the thrust of a pin into the bark of the tree. The idea was doubtless to extract the sap, for the application of thistle-juice and the juice of the ranunculus are said to prove efficacious in removing warts. In Devonshire they use the juice of an apple, but in some parts of the country rue is preferred. Other wart-curing plants are the spurge, the poppy, the celandine, the marigold, the briony, and the crowfoot. As old Michael Drayton remarked: 'In medicine, simples had the power That none need then the planetary hour To helpe their workinge, they so juiceful were.' There is a substratum of truth in this, although it requires a wide stretch of imagination, as well as a profundity of faith, to believe that consumption can be cured by passing the body of the patient three times through a wreath of woodbine cut during the increase of the March moon. Yet to this day some French peasants believe that the curative properties of vervain are most pronounced when the plant is gathered, with proper invocations, at a certain phase of the moon. The notion that animals are acquainted with the medical properties of plants is an old one, probably older than either Pliny or Aristotle. Our own Gerarde, the herbalist, tells that the name celandine was given to that flower (which Wordsworth loved) from a word meaning swallow, because it is used by swallows to 'restore sight to their young ones when their eyes be put out.' Then Coles, the old botanist, also writes: 'It is known to such as have skill of Nature what wonderful care she hath of the smallest creatures, giving to them a knowledge of medicine to help themselves, if haply diseases are among them. The swallow cureth her dim eyes with Celandine: the wesell knoweth well the virtue of Herb Grace: the dove the verven: the dogge dischargeth his mawe with a kind of grass: and too long it were to reckon up all the medicines which the beasts are known to use by Nature's direction only.' A Warwickshire proverb runs to this effect: 'Plant your sage and rue together, The sage will grow in any weather,' the meaning of which is not very clear--but obscurity is a common complaint of rhymed proverbs. Another rhyme, however, in which rue appears, has a more practical note: 'What savour is better, if physicke be true, For places infected, than wormwood and rue?' Rue, indeed, seems to have been in special request as a disinfectant long before carbolic acid was invented, or Condy heard of, yet, perhaps, containing the germ of the idea materialised in 'Sanitas.' For disinfecting purposes wormwood and rue were used sometimes together, and sometimes separately. The connection between plants and heraldic badges is often close, and although we do not find rue frequent in heraldry, one curious instance of it is interesting. In 809 an Order was created whereof the collar was made of a design in thistles and rue--the thistle because 'being full of prickles is not to be touched without hurting the skin,' rue because it 'is good against serpents and poison.' Here we have a suggestion of the lizards of the old oracle quoted above. CHAPTER XII. THE ROMANCE OF A VEGETABLE. There used to be a popular acrostic the foundation of which is the subject of much speculation. It turned upon two lines of Scott's famous poem, and ran thus: '"Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion. Were I in gallant Stanley's place, When Marmion urged him to the chase, A word you then would all espy, That brings a tear to every eye.' The answer is 'Onion,' and the speculation which results is: Why does a raw onion make the eyes water? The Greeks, being aware of this characteristic, called the onion _kromuon_; and when they ate it raw, they prudently closed their eyes. Shakespeare's players in the Taming of the Shrew knew all about it: 'If the boy have not a woman's gift, To rain a shower of commanded tears, An onion will do well for such a shift, Which in a napkin, being close conveyed, Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.' So did Lafeu: 'Mine eyes smell onions, I shall weep anon.' So also did Domitius Enobarbus, who comforted Antony, on reporting the death of Fulvia, by saying, 'Indeed, the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow,' and who called himself 'onion-eyed' when the Roman addressed his followers before the battle. The fact, then, has been known for centuries, but the explanation only since chemistry came to be applied to matters of common life. The onion belongs to the genus _Allium_, all the species of which possess a peculiar, pungent, acrid juice, with a powerful odour. The garlic has a stronger smell than the onion, but the onion has more of the volatile oil which all the members of the genus possess. The constituents which make the genus valuable as food are: albumen, sugar, mucilage, phosphate of lime, and certain salts. All the members of the onion tribe yield a heavy volatile oil when distilled with water--an oil so pungent and concentrated that an ounce of it will represent the essence of forty pounds of garlic. This oil is a compound of sulphur, carbon, and hydrogen, and is called sulphide of allyl, because of its origin in the allium tribe. It is the more volatile, sulphurous fumes of this oil which ascend as an onion is cut that cause the eyes to water, just as sulphur fumes do anywhere. It is the less volatile portion of the oil which gives such permanence and adhesiveness to the onion odour as to render a knife that has been used to cut one offensive for a long time afterwards, in spite of washing. In the Arabian Nights the purveyor for the Sultan of Casgar tells a story of a man who lost his thumbs and great-toes through eating garlic. This was a youth who had married a beauteous bride, but was unfortunate enough on his marriage-day to eat of a dish strongly flavoured with garlic. The lady was so annoyed that she ordered the bridegroom to be bound, and his thumbs and toes cut off, as punishment for presuming to come to her without first purifying his fingers. Ever afterwards the unfortunate husband always washed his hands one hundred and twenty times with alkali, after dining off a garlic ragout, for, of course, he did not use a fork. But had he known Menander the Greek's receipt, he might have saved his digits. This was to roast beetroot on hot embers for the removal of the odour of garlic. It might be more generally known that if either walnuts, or raw parsley, be eaten along with onions, the smell of the latter will be destroyed, and digestion of them assisted. There is, one must admit, a certain association of vulgarity with the onion. It is a valuable food, and an indispensable accessory to the culinary artist; but as used by many people it is not suggestive of refinement. And yet the bulb has not only an honourable character--it has a sort of sacred history. Both Pliny and Juvenal, among old writers, and many Egyptologists of our own time and country, have recorded that the ancient Egyptians worshipped the onion. It is true that Wilkinson, who wrote on the Manners and Customs of the Ancient Egyptians, doubts the evidence of this; but he adds that the onion was admitted as a common offering on every altar, and that the priests were forbidden to eat it. In Ellis's History of Madagascar it is noted that the Malagasy of our time regard the onion as unclean, and forbidden by the idols. The symbolization of the universe in the concentric folds of the onion may be taken as an explanation of the high reverence in which it was assuredly held by some ancient races. Whether or not the onion was sacred in Egypt, the garlic, as Herodotus tells us, was the daily food of the Egyptian labourer. And the Jews, when they left Egypt, looked back with fondness to these delicacies. 'We remember the fish which we did eat freely in Egypt, the cucumbers, and the melons, and the leeks, and the onions, and the garlic,' so they told Moses. The onion is still a common food in Egypt, and sometimes almost the only one of the poorer classes. Moreover, the onions of Egypt are much sweeter than, and superior in quality to, those of Europe. It is also noteworthy that the onion grows coarser and more bitter as it is traced northward. Herodotus says that sixteen hundred talents were expended on garlic, onions, and radishes for the workmen during the building of the Pyramids; and it is recorded that an onion taken from the sarcophagus of an Egyptian mummy two thousand years old was planted and made to grow. We have also the authority of Pliny for what he calls the foolish superstition of the Egyptians in swearing by garlic and onions, calling these vegetables to witness when taking an oath. Botanists seem now agreed that the original habitat of the onion was the mountainous region of Central Asia; and, according to the _Gardener's Chronicle_, it is still found in a wild state in the Himalayas. The Mohammedans do not seem to have reverenced the _Allium_ tribe. On the contrary, they have a tradition that when Satan stepped out of the Garden of Eden after the fall of man, garlic sprang up where he planted his left foot, and onion where he planted his right foot. This is the reason alleged why Mohammed could never bear the smell of either, and even fainted when he saw them. Among the Greeks both onions and garlic were held in high regard, both as articles of food and as medicaments. Theophrastus wrote a book on onions, as did also Palladius. Then Homer tells that the onion was an important part of the banquet that Hecamede spread before Nestor and Machaon: 'Before them first a table fair she spread, Well polished, and with feet of solid bronze; On this a brazen canister she placed, And Onions as a relish to the wine, And pale, clear honey, and pure barley meal.' Among the Romans the onion seems to have been the common food of the people, although Horace could not understand how they digested it. Its use for promoting artificial tears was also well understood by them, for Columella speaks of _Lacrymosa cæpe_, and Pliny of _Cæpis odor lacrymosus_. Ovid, again, says that both onions and sulphur were given to criminals to purify them from their crimes, upon the old theory of purgation by fumigation. The Romans thought not only that the onion gave strength to the human frame, but that it would also improve the pugnacious quality of their gamecocks. Horace, however, thought that garlic was a fit poison for anybody who committed parricide. The Emperor Nero, on the other hand, thought that eating leeks improved the human voice, and as he was ambitious of being a fine singer, he used to have a leek diet on several days in each month. The onion tribe must have been held in reverence elsewhere than in Egypt, for, according to Mr. Thiselton-Dyer, in Poland the flower-stalk of the leek is placed in the hands of Christ in pictures and statues. On Halloween, in some parts of the country, girls attempt a method of divination by means of a 'Saint Thomas onion.' They peel it, wrap it up in a clean handkerchief, and, placing it under their heads, repeat the following rhyme: 'Good St. Thomas, do me right, And see my true love come to-night, That I may see him in the face, And him in my kind arms embrace.' On the other hand, to dream of an onion is supposed in some parts to foretell sickness. Or else: 'To dream of eating onions means Much strife in the domestic scenes, Secrets found out, or else betrayed, And many falsehoods made and said.' It is also a portent of the weather: 'Onion's skin very thin, Mild winter's coming in; Onion's skin thick and tough, Coming winter cold and rough.' It was the practice in some places to hang up or burn an onion as a safeguard against witchcraft, and the theory of this was that the devil respected it because it was an ancient object of worship. This seems a survival of the Egyptian story; but Mr. Hilderic Friend says that the Arabs, Chinese, and many other peoples, to this day employ onions, leeks, or garlic for preventing witchcraft, and that he himself has frequently seen them tied up with a branch of sago-palm over the doors of Eastern houses for this purpose. The old custom of throwing an onion after a bride is doubtless well known. It had the same origin as the old Scotch custom of throwing a besom after a cow on its way to market, to avert the evil-eye, and insure luck. The idea of bad dreams being associated with the onion seems due to the old herbalists. At all events, Coghan wrote in 1596: 'Being eaten raw, they engender all humourous and contemptible putrefactions in the stomacke, and cause fearful dreams, and, if they be much used, they snarre the memory and trouble the understanding.' Old Gerarde had no opinion of the medical properties of the tribe. Of both leeks and garlic he wrote most disparagingly, as 'yielding to the body no nourishment at all,' but 'ingendereth naughty and sharpe bloud.' Some of the other old herbalists treat it more kindly, and some ascribe almost every virtue to garlic and onion. Garlic came to be known as 'Poor Man's Treacle,' and in some old works is thus often described. But the word treacle here has no reference to molasses, and is probably derived from the Greek _theriakos_, meaning venomous, for garlic was regarded as an antidote against poison, and as a remedy for the plague. Pliny long ago wrote of garlic as a remedy for many of the mental and physical ailments of the country people. It was used by the Romans to drive away snakes; and the Romans seem to have adopted this idea from the ancient Greeks. It was recommended by one old English writer as a capital thing with which to frighten away birds from fruit-trees; and has been recently recommended, in solution, as the best preservative of picture-frames from the defilement of flies. Bacon gravely tells of a man who lived for several days on the smell of onions and garlic alone; and there was an old belief that the garlic could extract all the power from a loadstone. The belief that the eating of onions will acclimatize a traveller seems not uncommon in Eastern countries. Thus, in Burnes' Travels into Bokhara it is recorded that at Peshawur 'Moollah Nujieb suggested that we should eat onions in all the countries we visited, as it is a popular belief that a foreigner becomes acclimated from the use of that vegetable.' And in Morier's Travels in Persia it is said: 'Those who seek for sulphur, which is found at the highest accessible point of the mountain of Damarvend, go through a course of training previous to the undertaking, and fortify themselves by eating much of garlic and onions.' The general explanation given of how the leek became the emblem of Wales, and is worn on St. David's Day, is this: In 640 King Cadwallader gained a complete victory over the Saxons, owing to the special interposition of St. David, who ordered the Britons always to wear leeks in their caps, so that they might easily recognise each other. As the Saxons had no such recognisable headmark, they attacked each other as foes, and aided in their own defeat. There is a more poetic story. It is that St. David lived in the valley of Ewias, in Monmouthshire, spending his time in contemplation: 'And did so truly fast As he did only drink what crystal Hodney yields, And fed upon the leeks he gathered in the fields, In memory of whom, in each revolving year, The Welshmen, on his day, that sacred herb do wear.' St. David, however, died in 544, and therefore it is probable that the leek was a common and favourite vegetable in Wales during his lifetime--that is to say, more than thirteen hundred years ago. A still more prosaic explanation of the Welsh emblem is sometimes offered. It is that it originated in a custom of the Welsh farmers when helping each other in a neighbourly way to take their leeks and other vegetable provender with them. Now, as the word leek is from the Anglo-Saxon _leac_, which originally meant any vegetable, it is probable enough that the Saxons sneeringly applied the word to the Welsh on account of their vegetarian proclivities. We cannot, of course, be sure that the leek was worn as a badge in Cadwallader's time, but we have at any rate Shakespeare's authority for concluding that it was worn by the Welsh soldiers at the Battle of Poitiers in 1356. The phrase 'to eat the leek'--meaning to retract and 'knuckle-under'--is supposed to have originated in that famous scene in Shakespeare's Henry the Fifth, where Fluellan the Welshman compels Pistol to swallow the vegetable at which he had been expressing such abhorrence. But there is earlier evidence that the leek was regarded as something ignominious in England. Thus in Chaucer: 'The beste song that ever was made Is not worth a leke's blade, But men will tend ther tille.' Without dwelling on the culinary uses of the onion tribe, which have been exhaustively described by others, a few applications, not generally known, may be briefly noted. In olden times there was a famous ointment called Devil's Mustard, which was supposed to cure cancer, remove tumours, and so forth. It was a compound of garlic and olive-oil, and had a smell which was enough to frighten away any disease--or else to create one. Then the fair dames of old had a favourite cosmetic for the hands and face, and one also which was used as an antiseptic, which was largely composed of garlic. Leek ointment, again, made of pounded leeks and hog's lard, was used as a liniment for burns and scalds. It is said that in India, where dyspepsia is common, garlic is found to be a great palliative. It is in many countries regarded as a sure antidote against contagion; and persons have been known to put a small piece in the mouth before approaching the bed of a fever-stricken patient. Whether it has any real virtue of the kind one may doubt, but let us hope that it has more than is ascribed to some so-called disinfectants--the power to kill one bad smell with another. In The Family Dictionary, popular in our grandfathers' time, appears the following certain remedy for the plague: 'Take away the core of an onion, fill the cavity with treacle dissolved or mixed with lemon-juice, stop up the hole with the slice you have cut off, roast the whole on hot ashes so long till well incorporated and mixed together, then squeeze out the juice of the roasted onion, and give it to a person seized with the plague. Let him presently lie down in his bed and be well covered up that he may perspire. This is a remedy that has not its equal for the plague, provided the patient perspires presently.' And if it did promote perspiration, one can well believe that it might be curative. Not only has garlic been esteemed as an antidote to the bite of snakes, but it has also been regarded as a cure for hydrophobia, while onions have been claimed as a cure for small-pox, and leeks as an antidote for poisonous fungi. Old Celsus, from whom Paracelsus took his name, regarded several of the onion tribe as valuable in cases of ague, and Pliny had the same belief. In our own time the onion is held to be an excellent anti-scorbutic, and is thought to be more useful on ship-board than lime-juice in preventing scurvy. In fact, in all skin diseases, and in many inflammatory disorders, preparations of the onion have a real value. The juice is also useful in stopping bleeding, although one may hesitate to believe, as was popularly supposed, that a drop of it will cure earache, and that persistent application will remove deafness. There still exists, however, a belief that onion-juice is the best hair-restorer in the market, in spite of its disagreeable smell. It would take too long to mention all the virtues that have been claimed, with more or less reason, for all the members of the _Allium_ genus, but it is a curious fact that the onion, which relieves dyspepsia and aids the digestion of some, is a certain cause of indigestion in others. Is it not said that Napoleon, who was a martyr to indigestion, lost the Battle of Leipsic through having partaken of a too hurried meal of beefsteak and onions? It is a savoury dish, but has worked woe to many. One does not wonder that the old writers declared that onions brought bad dreams--if they were eaten raw, or badly cooked, at late supper. It is open to grave doubt whether the author of The Family Dictionary was right in saying that 'they that will eat onions daily will enjoy better health than otherwise.' What is one man's meat is another man's poison; and certainly there is no article in common use which produces such opposite effects upon the human system as the onion. It has often been found beneficial to individuals in feverish attacks, and yet the malingerers in our garrison hospitals know well how to promote febrile symptoms by a hearty consumption of garlic. A fitting conclusion to this chapter will be the summary of Sir John Sinclair, the author of a Code of Health and Longevity: 'Onyons in physick winneth no consent, To cholerick folke they are no nutriment; By Galen's rule, such as phlegmatic are A stomacke good within them do prepare. Weak appetites they comfort, and the face With cheerful colour evermore they grace, And when the head is naked left of hair, Onyons, being sod or stamp'd, again repair.' CHAPTER XIII. THE STORY OF A TUBER. The planting of a tuber by Clusius, in 1588, in the Botanical Gardens at Vienna, is often referred to as the introduction of the potato into Europe. As a matter of fact, however, this was not the first planting, for the Spaniards brought the real potato--_Solanum tuberosum_--home to Spain about 1580. From Spain it extended to Italy, and became at once a common article of food there. From Spain it also extended to Belgium, and was cultivated there; and it was from a Belgian that Clusius got the roots which he planted at Vienna in 1588. Then, again, it has been said that Christopher Columbus was the first European who ever tasted a potato, and that was in 1492, when he reached Cuba. From Cuba he brought samples back with him to Genoa. This would make our history one hundred years older, only it so happens that the _Solanum tuberosum_ is not a native of these parts, and could not have been at Cuba when Columbus was there. What he tasted and brought home was the _Convolvulus batatas_, or sweet potato, a very different article, although it gave its name, 'batatas,' to our tuber in the modified form of 'potato.' The real potato is a native of Chili, and it has been proved to the satisfaction of naturalists that it did not exist in North America before the arrival of Europeans. How, then, could Sir John Hawkins bring it from Santa-Fé in 1565, or Sir Walter Raleigh from Virginia in 1584? Well, in the first place, it was the sweet potato that Sir John brought; and in the second place, before Sir Walter went to Virginia, the Spaniards had brought there the real potato on returning from some of their South American expeditions. In 1580 they sent it home, and there is evidence that by 1580 the _Solanum tuberosum_ had been planted in North America. By the time Raleigh brought it to England, however, it was already a familiar root in Italy. But did he bring it? There are some who say that it was Sir Francis Drake who brought the roots and presented them to Sir Walter Raleigh, who planted them on his estate near Cork in the year 1594. M'Culloch, however, says that 1610 was the year of the introduction into Ireland, and other writers say that Raleigh knew so little of the virtues of the plant he was naturalizing that he caused the apples, not the tubers, to be cooked and served upon his own table. Buckle, however, says that the common, or Virginian, potato was introduced by Raleigh in 1586, and Lyte, who wrote in that year, does not mention the plant; but Gerarde, who published the first edition of his Herbal in 1597, gave a portrait of himself with a potato in his hand. Here, then, we have some negative certainties and some positive uncertainties. Columbus did not take the real potato to Genoa in 1492; Hawkins did not bring it to England in 1565. The Spaniards did take it to Spain in or about 1580; but whether Raleigh was the first to bring it to Britain, and in what year, remains open to doubt. During the whole of the seventeenth century the potato was quite a rarity in this country, and up to 1684 was cultivated only in the gardens of the gentry. In Scotland it does not seem to have been grown at all, even in gardens, before 1728. Phillips, in the History of Cultivated Vegetables, says that in 1619 the price in England was one shilling a pound. He further says that great prejudices existed against it, that it was alleged to be poisonous, and that in Burgundy the cultivation of it was prohibited. These early prejudices against the potato are explainable on the supposition that the people did not know how to cook it, and possibly ate it raw, in which state it is certainly unwholesome, if not actually poisonous. Then, again, it belongs to a family of ill-repute, the _Solanacæ_, of which the deadly nightshade and the mandrake are members, as well as more honoured specimens like the tomato, tobacco, datura, and cayenne-pepper plants. The mandrake, of course, was the subject of ancient dislike, and perhaps it was natural for our superstitious progenitors to regard with suspicion any relative of that lugubrious root. Even the tempting appearance of the tomato did not suffice to win favour for it when first introduced into Europe, until somebody discovered that, although undoubtedly sent by the infidels to poison the Christians, the Bon Dieu had interfered, and transformed it into an agreeable and wholesome fruit. One meets with two references to the potato in Shakespeare, and these are said to be the earliest notices of it in English literature. Thus in Troilus and Cressida: 'The devil luxury, with his fat rump, and potato finger, tickles these together!' In the Merry Wives, Falstaff says: 'Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the time of Green Sleeves; hail kissing-comfits, and snow Eringoes.' There are several references in the early dramatists, which the curious reader may find collected in a note in Steevens's Shakespeare, but which hardly serve our purpose. There is one reference, however, by Waller, which is interesting: 'With candy'd plantains and the juicy pine, On choicest melons and sweet grapes they dine, And with potatoes fat their wanton kine,' because it seems to be the case that, prior to 1588, the Italian peasants used the potato as food for their pigs as well as for themselves. We are constrained, however, to conclude that Shakespeare and the old dramatists referred to the sweet potato, sometimes called the Spanish potato. 'Eringoes,' mentioned by Falstaff, were candied roots. Eringo is curiously suggestive of 'Gringo,' which was the name of contempt applied by the Spaniards to all foreigners, but especially Englishmen. The word would seem to have been imported by the gentlemen-adventurers from the Spanish Main, in the time of Good Queen Bess. If we take 'candied roots' in association with 'kissing-comfits,' we are compelled to conclude that Falstaff's potato was the 'batatas,' the sweet, fleshy roots of which were described by Columbus to be 'not unlike chestnuts in taste.' Certain it is that the potato was not regarded in this country as an object of national importance until 1662, when the Royal Society advised that it should be planted. In the history of the Society there is the record of a recommendation of a committee, dated 1662, urging all the Fellows who possessed land to plant potatoes, and persuade their friends to do the same, 'in order to alleviate the distress that would accompany a scarcity of food.' In Scotland, the first mention of the potato occurs in the household book of the Duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth. From Chambers's Traditions of Edinburgh we learn that the price in 1701 was half-a-crown a peck. Robertson, of Irvine discovered what he thought the earliest evidence of potatoes in Scotland in the household book of the Eglinton family. The date of this entry, however, was 1733, and Robert Chambers showed that the date in the Buccleuch book was thirty-two years earlier. Further information is given by the Duke of Argyle in Scotland As It Was, And As It Is. There we learn that, until long past the middle of the eighteenth century, little or nothing was known of the potato in Scotland, although in after years it brought about the most prodigious effects on the population. The Celts of Ireland first began to use it as an adjunct, and then as a main article of food. From them it passed over to the Celts of the Hebrides, and was introduced into South Uist by Macdonald of Clanranald in 1743. The Highlanders, always suspicious of novelties, resisted the use of it for some years; and the neighbouring island of Bernera was not reached until 1752. It was soon found, however, that the tuber would grow luxuriantly almost anywhere--even on sand, and shingle, and in bogs. It was quickly planted in those patches of ditched-off land known in the Highlands as 'lazy beds'--a not inappropriate term, which in Ireland is applied to patches of potatoes not sown in drills. In Ireland and in the Highlands it quickly came to be the main food of the people during the greater portion of the year; but in the Lowlands of Scotland, and the rural districts of England, it was only used as a food accessory, though it soon became an important article of commerce. It has often happened that the potato crops have realized higher prices than any other product of the farm. It has been sometimes stated that the man who planted the first field of potatoes in Scotland died within the last forty years. This is an error. The first field planted in the Lowlands was at Liberton Muir, about the year 1738, by a farmer named Mutter, who died in 1808. An attempt had been made some years earlier by a farm-labourer, named Prentice, near Kilsyth, but not as a farming operation. In any case we do not get farther back than about 1730 for potato-planting in Scotland, whereas in England, by 1684 the recommendations of the Royal Society had been largely adopted, especially in Lancashire, where the first serious beginning seems to have been made. On the other hand, the cultivation has not extended so rapidly in England as in either Ireland or Scotland. The annual crop of Ireland is estimated as, on the average, equal to about one thousand three hundred and twenty pounds per inhabitant; that of Scotland, about three hundred and ninety pounds; and that of England, about one hundred and twenty pounds. Germany is the next largest producer to Ireland, and also the next largest consumer--the crops being equal to about one thousand and sixty pounds per head. Holland and Belgium each produce about five hundred and eighty pounds, and France about five hundred and fifty pounds, of potatoes per inhabitant per annum. It is curious that, although Spain and Italy were the first cultivators and users in Europe, the product of each of these countries is now only about fifty-five pounds per head. The annual value of the entire potato crop of Europe may be stated at about one hundred and sixty million pounds; and that of the United Kingdom at about one-tenth of this total. That of North America is about twenty million pounds more; and it is a curious instance of the vagaries of time that the _Solarium tuberosum_ is now known in America as the 'Irish potato,' to distinguish it from the batatas, or sweet potato. All this immense development of cultivation does not complete the topographical record of our tuber. It has been introduced into India, and is now successfully cultivated both in Bengal and in the Madras Presidency. It has found a home in the Dutch East Indies and in China; and its tastes and habits are affectionately studied in Australia. But as in the tropics it has to be grown at an altitude of three thousand feet, or more, above sea-level, it can never become so common in hot countries as in Europe. It is not only as a food-plant that the potato has secured the respect and affection of mankind. Starch is made from it both for the laundry and for the manufacture of farina, dextrin, etc. The dried pulp from which the starch has been extracted is used for making boxes. From the stem and leaves an extract is made of a narcotic, used to allay pain in coughs and other ailments. In a raw state the potato is used as a cooling application for burns and sores. A spirit is distilled from the tuber, which in Norway is called 'brandy,' and in other places is used for mixing with malt and vine liquors. Many of the farinaceous preparations now so popular in the nursery and sick-room are made largely of potato-starch; and in some places cakes and puddings are made from potato-flour. To the potato are also ascribed properties of another kind. The folklore of the plant is meagre, considering its wide distribution, but there are a number of curious superstitions connected with it. In some parts there is a belief that it thrives best if planted on Maundy Thursday; in others, that if planted under certain stars it will become watery. In Devonshire the people believe that the potato is a certain cure for the toothache--not taken internally, but carried about in the pocket. It is by several writers mentioned as a reputed cure for rheumatism in the same way; only it is prescribed that, in order to be an effective cure in such cases, the potato should be stolen. Mr. Andrew Lang mentions an instance of faith in the practice of this cure, which he came across in a London drawing-room. He regards this belief as a survival of the old superstitions about mandrake, and as analogous to the habit of African tribes who wear roots round the neck as protection against wild animals. The value of the potato as food has been much discussed; but it seems to rank next to the plantain, and a long way behind either rice or wheat. The author of the Chemistry of Common Life has pointed to the remarkable physiological likeness of tribes of people who live chiefly on rice, plantain, and potato. The Hindu, the negro, and the Irishman are all remarkable for being round-bellied, and this peculiarity is ascribed to the necessity of consuming a large bulk of food in order to obtain the requisite nourishment. It is not, of course, the root of the plant which we consume. The tubers known to the table are the swollen portions of the underground branches, and the so-called 'eyes' are really leaf-buds. It is by cuttings from these tubers, however, that the plant is mostly propagated. About three-fourths of the weight of the potato is water, and this may explain the injurious effect which excessive rainfall has on the crops. The disease which attacks the plant, and has been the cause of Irish famines, past and prospective, is a species of fungus, which first attacks and discolours the straws, and then spreads downwards to the tubers, increasing the quantity of water in them, reducing the quantity of starch, and converting the albumen into casein. When this disease once appears it is apt to spread over wide areas where the same climatic influences prevail, and when the disease appears in any strength the crops are rapidly rendered unfit for human food. The trouble of the Irish peasantry of the West is that they have no alternative crop to fall back on when the potato fails. Their plots are too small for cereals, and they cannot be persuaded to cultivate cabbages and other vegetables along with their tubers. It is thus that, when the day of tribulation comes, the potato appears to be really a curse rather than a blessing to agricultural Ireland. There have been frequent projects for reverting to original types--that is to say, for obtaining a fresh supply of the indigenous plant from South America, and breeding a new stock, as it were. It is a possible mode of extirpating the disease which may be resorted to. The Irish famine of 1847 was due to the failure of the potato crops in 1846, preceded by two or three years of bad crops. This failure was due to disease, and the eating of the diseased tuber brought on a pestilence, so that altogether the deaths by starvation and epidemics in that disastrous period amounted to nearly a million and a quarter persons. To deal with the distress various sums were voted by Parliament to the total amount of over ten millions sterling. This was supplemented by private philanthropy in this country, and by generous aid from the United States and some European countries. What was the actual money cost to the world at large of the failure of the Irish potato crop in 1846 can never be accurately known; but the amount was so enormous as to create a serious economic problem in connection with the homely tuber. There have been several partial failures since in Ireland, although nothing so extensive as that of 1846, and in 1872 the disease was very bad in England. In that year, indeed, the importation of foreign potatoes rose to the enormous value of one million six hundred and fifty-four thousand pounds to supply our own deficient crops. In 1876, again, there was great excitement and alarm about the 'Colorado beetle,' an importation from America, which was destined, it was said, to destroy all our potato-fields. But the beetle proved comparatively harmless, and seems now to have disappeared from these shores. The Englishman and Scotchman cannot do without his potato as an adjunct; but the error of the Irishman is in making it the mainstay of his life. The words of Malthus in this connection put the matter in a nutshell, much as he has been abused for his theory of the effects of the potato on population. 'When the common people of a country,' he says, 'live principally upon the dearest grain, as they do in England on wheat, they have great resources in a scarcity, and barley, oats, rice, cheap soups, and potatoes, all present themselves as less expensive, yet, at the same time, wholesome means of nourishment; but when their habitual food is the lowest in this scale, they appear to be absolutely without resource, except in the bark of trees--like the poor Swedes--and a great portion of them must necessarily be starved.' CHAPTER XIV. THE CENTRE OF THE WORLD. Where is it? 'At Charing Cross, of course,' says the self-assured Londoner; and in one sense he may not be far wrong. 'At Boston,' says the cultured inhabitant of the 'hub' of the universe. 'Wherever I am,' says the autocrat who essays to sway the destinies of nations. Well, we all know the story of the Head of the Table, and even if we did not know it, instinct would tell us where to look. But the centre of the world, in an actual, physical, racial, and mundanely comprehensive sense--where is it? One does not find it so easy to answer the question as did good old Herodotus, who scouted as absurd the idea of the earth being circular. 'For my own part,' says the Father of History--and of lies, according to some people--'I cannot but think it exceedingly ridiculous to hear some men talk of the circumference of the Earth, pretending without the smallest reason or probability that the ocean encompasses the Earth, that the Earth is round as if mechanically formed so, and that Asia is equal to Europe.' Herodotus found no difficulty in describing the figure and size of the portions of the earth whose existence he recognised, but then he said, 'from India eastward the whole Earth is one vast desert, unknown and unexplored.' And for long after Herodotus, the Mediterranean was regarded as the central sea of the world, and in the time of Herodotus, Rhodes was accounted the centre of that centre. It is very interesting, however, to trace how many centres the world has had in its time--or rather within the range of written history. The old Egyptians placed it at Thebes, the Assyrians at Babylon, the Hindus at Mount Meru, the Jews at Jerusalem, and the Greeks at Olympus, until they moved it to Rhodes. There exists an old map in which the world is represented as a human figure, and the heart of that figure is Egypt. And there exists, or did exist, an old fountain in Sicily on which was this inscription: 'I am in the centre of the garden; this garden is the centre of Sicily, and Sicily is the Centre of the whole Earth.' It is a grand thing to be positive in assertion when you are sure of your ground, and the builder of this fountain seems to have been sure of his. But then other people can be positive too, and in that vast desert eastward of India, imagined by Herodotus, there is the country of China, which calls itself the Middle Kingdom, and the Emperor of which, in a letter to the King of England in this very nineteenth century, announced that China is endowed by Heaven as the 'flourishing and central Empire' of the world. And yet, once upon a time, according to some old Japanese writings, Japan was known as the Middle Kingdom; and the Persians claimed the same position for Persia; and according to Professor Sayce, the old Chaldeans said that the centre of the earth was in the heart of the impenetrable forest of Eridu. This forest, by the way, was also called the 'holy house of the Gods,' but it does not seem to have had anything to do with the Terrestrial Paradise, the exact location of which Mr. Baring-Gould has laboriously tried to identify through the legends of the nations. It is a curious fact that a ninth-century map, in the Strasburg Library, places the Terrestrial Paradise--the Garden of Eden--in that part of Asia we now know as the Chinese Empire, and it is also so marked in a map in the British Museum. In a letter supposed to have emanated from the mysterious if not mythical Prester John, it is written: 'The river Indus which issues out of Paradise flows among the plains through a certain province, and it expands, embracing the whole province with its various windings. There are found emeralds, sapphires, carbuncles, topazes, chrysolites, onyx, beryl, sardius, and many other precious stones. There, too, grows the plant called Asbestos.' And all this was reported to be just three days' journey from the garden from which Adam was expelled, but as the geographical position of the province was not specified the information was a trifle vague. Prester John, however, described a wonderful fountain, the virtues of which correspond with those of a well in Ceylon described by Sir John Mandeville, and this is why some people say that the Garden of Eden was in the Island of Spices. There is a twelfth-century map of the world at Cambridge, which shows Paradise on an island opposite the mouth of the Ganges. And in the story of St. Brandan, the saint reaches an island somewhere 'due east from Ireland,' which was Paradise, and on which he met with a man who told him that a stream--which no living being might cross--flowing through the island, divided the world in twain. Another centre! In an Icelandic story of the fourteenth century are related the marvellous adventures of one Eirek of Drontheim, who, determined to find out the Deathless Land, made his way to Constantinople. There he received a lesson in geography from the Emperor. The world, he was told, was precisely one hundred and eighty thousand stages, or about one million English miles, round, and is not propped up on posts, but is supported by the will of God. The distance between the earth and heaven, he was told, is one hundred thousand and forty-five miles, and round about the earth is a big sea called the ocean. 'But what is to the south of the earth?' asked the inquisitive Eirek. 'Oh,' replied the Emperor, 'the end of the earth is there, and it is called India.' 'And where shall I find the Deathless Land?' he inquired; and he was told that slightly to the east of India lies Paradise. Thereupon Eirek and a companion started across Syria, took ship and arrived at India, through which they journeyed on horseback till they came to a strait which separated them from a beautiful land. Eirek crossed over and found himself in Paradise, and, strange to say, an excellent cold luncheon waiting for him. It took him seven years to get home again, and, as he died soon after his return, the map of the route was lost. Still, Eirek's Paradise may not improbably have been Ceylon. The latest location of the Garden of Eden is by a recent traveller in Somaliland, in the north-east shoulder of Africa and south of the Gulf of Aden. This is in the neighbourhood of the country of Prester John, but in its present aspects can by no means be regarded as a Terrestrial Paradise. Sir John Mandeville's description of the Terrestrial Paradise which he discovered gives it as the highest place on the earth--so high that the waters of the Flood could not reach it. And in the very centre of the highest point is a well, he said, that casts out the four streams, Ganges, Nile, Tigris, and Euphrates--all sacred streams. Now, in the Encyclopædia of India it is stated that 'The Hindus at Bikanir Rajputana taught that the mountain Meru is in the centre surrounded by concentric circles of land and sea. Some Hindus regard Mount Meru as the North Pole. The astronomical views of the Puranas make the heavenly bodies turn round it.' So here again we have a mountain as the terrestrial centre. In the Avesta there is reference to a lofty mountain at the centre of the world from which all the mountains of the earth have grown, and at the summit of which is the fountain of waters, whereby grow two trees--the Heavenly Soma, and another tree which yields all the seeds that germinate on earth. From this fountain, according to the Buddhist tradition, flow four streams to the four points of the compass, each of them making a complete circuit in its descent. This central mountain is the Navel of Waters where originated all matter, and where sits Yama under the Soma tree--just as in the Norse legend the Norns, or Fates, sit by the great central earth-tree, Yggdrasil. According to the Greek tradition, Jupiter, in order to settle the true centre of the earth, sent out two eagles, one from east and one from west. They met on the spot on which was erected the Temple of Delphi, and a stone in the centre of that temple was called the Navel of the World. A golden eagle was placed on each side of this stone. The design is preserved in many examples of Greek sculpture, and the stone itself is mentioned in several of the Greek plays. With reference to this, Mr. Lethaby, in his Architecture, Mysticism, and Myth, observes: 'We may see embodied in this myth of the centre-stone the result of the general direction of thought; as each people were certainly "the people" first born and best beloved of the gods, so their country occupied the centre of the world. It would be related how the oldest and most sacred city, or rather temple, was erected exactly on the navel. A story like this told of a temple would lead to the marking in the centre of its area the true middle point by a circular stone, a stone which would become most sacred and ceremonial in its import.' And Dr. Schliemann thus writes of a central circle he unearthed in the palace at Tirynthus: 'In the exact centre of the hall, and therefore within the square enclosed by the four pillars, there is found in the floor a circle of about 3·30 m. diameter. There can be little doubt that this circle indicates the position of the hearth in the centre of the megaron. The hearth was in all antiquity the centre of the house, about which the family assembled, at which food was prepared, and where the guest received the place of honour. Hence it is frequently indicated by poets and philosophers as the navel or centre of the house. In the oldest time it was not only symbolically but actually the centre of the house, and especially of the megaron. It was only in later days, in the palaces of the great Romans, that it was removed from the chief rooms and established in a small by-room.' All which may be true enough, and yet the placing of the hearthstone in the centre of the house may have had less reference to the earth-centre idea, than to the fact that in the circular huts of primitive man it was necessary to have a hole at the apex of the roof. Still, it is interesting to note that, as in the Imperial palace at Constantinople, so on the floor of St. Peter's at Rome, and elsewhere, is a flat circular slab of porphyry, associated with all ceremonials. Is there any connection between the old central hearthstone and the Dillestein--Lid of Hell--one meets with in Grimm? We have seen that the centre of the world is placed in Europe, in Asia, and in Africa, but who would expect to find it in America many centuries ago? Yet the traditions of Peru have it that Cuzco was founded by the gods, and that its name signifies 'navel'; and traditions of Mexico describe Yucatan as 'the centre and foundation' of both heaven and earth. We must, however, go back to the East as the most likely quarter in which to find it, and as the quarter to which the eyes of man have been most consistently turned. To successive centuries of both Jews and Christians Jerusalem has been the centre of the world, and the Temple the centre of Jerusalem. The Talmud gives directions to those who are in foreign countries to pray with their faces towards the sacred land; to those in Palestine to pray with their faces towards Jerusalem; to those in Jerusalem to pray with their faces towards the Mount; to those in the Temple to pray with their faces towards the Holy of Holies. Now, this was not merely because this sacred spot was a ceremonial centre, but also because it was regarded as the geographical centre of the earth. According to the Rabbis the Temple was built on the great central rock of the world. It is written in the Talmud: 'The world is like the eyeball of man: the white is the ocean that surrounds the wall, the black is the world itself, and the pupil is Jerusalem, and the image of the pupil is the Temple.' And again: 'The land of Israel is situated in the centre of the world, and Jerusalem in the centre of the land of Israel, and the Temple in the centre of Jerusalem, and the Holy of Holies in the centre of the Temple, and the foundation-stone on which the world was grounded is situated in front of the ark.' And once more: 'When the ark was removed a stone was there from the days of the first Prophets. It was called Foundation. It was three digits above the earth.' This claim is direct enough, and at Jerusalem to this day in the Dome of the Rock, supposed to occupy the site of Solomon's Temple, is a bare stone which, as Sir Charles Warren was assured, rests on the top of a palm-tree, from the roots of which issue all the rivers of the world. The Mohammedans have accepted this same stone as the foundation-stone of the world, and they call it the Kibleh of Moses. It is said that Mahomet once intended making this the sacred centre of Islam, instead of Mecca, but changed his mind, and predicted that at the Last Day the black stone--the Kaabah--will leave Mecca and become the bride of the Foundation-stone at Jerusalem. So that there can be no possible doubt of the centre of sacred influences. Concerning the stone at Jerusalem, Professor Palmer says: 'This Sakhrah is the centre of the world, and on the day of resurrection--it is supposed--the Angel Israfil will stand upon it to blow the last trumpet. It is also eighteen miles nearer heaven than any other place in the world, and beneath it is the source of every drop of sweet water that flows on the face of the earth. It is supposed to be suspended miraculously between heaven and earth. The effect upon the spectators, however, was so startling, that it was found necessary to place a building round it and conceal the marvel.' According to Hittite and Semitic traditions mentioned by Professor Sayce and Professor Robertson Smith, there was a chasm in this central spot through which the waters of the Deluge escaped. Right down to and through the Middle Ages Jerusalem was regarded by all Christians as the centre of the world; sometimes as the navel of the earth; and sometimes as the middlemost point of heaven and earth. The Hereford map of the thirteenth century, examined by Mr. Lethaby, shows the world as a plane circle surrounded by ocean, round whose borders are the eaters of men, and the one-eyed, and the half-men, and those whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. 'Within this border we find everything the heart could desire; the sea is very red, the pillars of Hercules are pillars indeed; there is the Terrestrial Paradise enclosed by a battlemented wall, and unicorns, manticoras, salamanders, and other beasts of fascinating habits are clearly shown in the lands where they live. The centre of all is Jerusalem, a circular walled court, within which again is a smaller circle, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.' Even when the earth was recognised as a sphere, the idea of Jerusalem being the centre was not given up. Dante held to it, and veracious Sir John Mandeville endeavoured thus to explain away the difficulty: 'In going from Scotland or from England towards Jerusalem, men go always upwards, for our land is in the low part of the earth towards the west; and the land of Prester John is in the low part of the world towards the east; and they have the day when we have the night, and on the contrary they have the night when we have the day; for the earth and sea are of a round form, and as men go upward towards one point they go downward to another. Also you have heard me say that Jerusalem is in the middle of the world; and that may be proved and shown there by a spear which is fixed in the earth at the hour of midday, when it is equinoctial, which gives no shadow on any side.' Ingenious, if not convincing! The Greek Church still regard Jerusalem as the middle of the world, and Mr. Curzon tells that in their portion of the Holy Sepulchre they have a magnificently decorated interior, in the centre of which is a globe of black marble on a pedestal, under which, they say, the head of Adam was found, and which they declare to be the exact centre of the globe. The Mohammedans generally, however, regard the Kaabah at Mecca as--for the present, at any rate--the true centre. This stone is supposed to have been lowered directly from heaven, and all mosques are built to look towards it. Even in the modern schools of Cairo, according to Mr. Loftie, the children are taught that Mecca is the centre of the earth. The Samaritans, however, look upon Gerizim as the holy mountain and centre of the religious and geographical world. And the Babylonians regarded the great Temple of Bel, according to Professor Sayce, as the house of the Foundation Stone of Heaven and Earth. Gaya, again, is the Mecca of the Buddhists, where Buddha sat under the tree when he received enlightenment. This tree is the Bodhi tree described by Buddhist writers as surrounded by an enclosure rather of an oblong than of a square shape, but with four gates opening to the four cardinal points. In the middle of the enclosure is the diamond throne which a voice told Buddha he would find under a Pipal tree, which diamond throne is believed to be of the same age as the earth. 'It is the middle of the great Chiliocosm; it goes down to the limits of the golden wheel and upwards it is flush with the ground. It is composed of diamonds; in circuit it is a hundred paces or so. It is the place where the Buddhas attain the sacred path of Buddhahood. When the great earth is shaken this spot alone is unmoved. When the true law decays and dies it will be no longer visible.' According to Sir Monier Williams, a stone marked with nine concentric circles is shown at Gaya as the diamond throne, and the Chiliocosm is not the centre of the world alone but of the Universe. But in China, also a land of Buddhists, we find another centre, and in India there is an iron pillar at Delhi, dating from the fourth century, supposed by the Brahmans to mark the centre from their point of view. And in Southern India the Tamils have the Temple of Mandura, in the innermost sanctuary of which a rock comes through the floor, the roots of which are said to be in the centre of the earth. The Indian Buddhists, of course, denied that China could be the Middle Kingdom, as the place where Buddha lived must necessarily be the centre. Nevertheless, the centre is now found by Chinese Buddhists in the Temple of Heaven at Pekin, where is one circular stone in the centre of circles of marble terraces, on which the Emperor kneels surrounded by circles--including that of the horizon--and believes himself to be in the Centre of the Universe and inferior only to Heaven. But in the sixth century a certain Chinese traveller, called Sung-Yun, went to India for Buddhist studies, and he made his way by the Pamirs, the watershed of the great Asiatic rivers Indus and Oxus. And of this country he wrote: 'After entering the Tsung Ling mountains, step by step, we crept upwards for four days, and reached the highest point of the range. From this point as a centre, looking downwards, it seemed just as though we were poised in mid-air. Men say that this is the middle point of heaven and earth.' This was written more than thirteen hundred years ago, and men to-day still call this part of Asia the Roof of the World. INDEX. INDEX. A Aaron's rod, 25 Æschines, 18 Agricola, 29 Albertus, 84 Animal instinct of cure by plants, 161 Anthropomorphon, 84 Architecture, Mysticism and Myth, 193 Ahmed, Prince, 42 Aristotle, 153 Arthurian legends, 23 Asterodia, 2 Australian legends, 8, 20, 21 B Baaras, root of, 80 Bacchus, 73 Bacon, 68, 85 Baring-Gould's Curious Myths of the Middle Ages, 37-39, 60, 61, 88 Barth, 52 Benjamin's sack, 49 Beryl, the, 48 the spirits of the, 48 Bhása, 71 Bion's Lament, 124 Black Kaspar, 48 Bodhi Tree, 199 Book of Days, 73, 75 Brand's Popular Antiquities, 97, 100, 107 Breton legends, 8 British Guiana legends, 8-20 Britomart, 50 Browne, Sir Thomas, 28, 29, 83 Browning's, Mrs., Dead Pan, 80 Buddha's foot, 11 'Bull-roarer,' the, 17, 18 Bushman legend, 63 C Cagliostro, 51 Cain in the Moon, 62 Cambuscan's mirror, 49 Camelon, 27 Capnomancy, 13 Cat and the Well, 6 Catoptromancy, 50 Celestial Paradise, 189 Chaldæo-Babylonian legends, 92 Chaucer, 49, 62 Chinese legends, 20, 95 Cingalese legends, 11 Circaea, or Enchanter's Nightshade, 81 Circe, 82 Cleopatra, 79 Clover leaf, the, 130 Coles' Art of Simpling, 86 Columbus, 107 Columella, 84 Conway's Demonology, etc., 24, 71, 72, 85, 95 Cornish legends, 66-103 Cox and Jones's Tales of Teutonic Lands, 2, 3, 7, 9 Cronus, 8, 9, 20 Crusade legends, 129, 136 Crusades, the, 13, 93 Cupid, 124 D Danae, 5 Dante, 62 Davy Jones, 114 Dawn Myths, 2, 5, 6 Dee's, Dr., Spherical Speculum, 48, 50 De Gubernatis, 72 Dekker's Wonderful Year, 147 Delphi, 19 Demeter, 19 Demosthenes, 18 Dessoir, Max, 56 Devil's Kettles, 95 Devil's Punch-bowls, 95 Devonian legends, 65, 122, 127 Dioscorides, 134 Divination by smoke, 15 Divining-rod, the, 30-32 Dove and the ark, 24 'Duffy,' 114 Dutch legend, 96 E Earth-man, 79 Eden, the Garden of, 190 Eastern idea of, 191 Icelandic idea of, 191 Mandeville's, Sir J., 192 Somaliland, 192 Prester John's, 190 Ellacombe's Plant-Lore of Shakespeare, 149 Endymion, 72 Esquimo legend, 67 Esthonian legend, 73 Eucharist, the, 24 F Fairy-lore, 12, 13 'Fairy-ring,' the, 12 Feast of Demeter, 16 Fian, Dr., 27 Fleur de lys, the, 130 Flying Dutchman, the, 96 Folk-lore methods, 15, 16 Bible, 88 Friend's Flowers and Flower-Lore, 147 G Ganymede, 67 Gargantua, legend of, 8 Garlic (or 'Poor Man's Treacle'), Pliny on, 170 Bacon on, 170 Eastern belief in, 170, 173 Garrett's Dictionary of India, 89 Gaya and Buddha, 199 Gerarde's Herball (1597), 81, 128 Gerizim, 199 German legends, 60, 93, 94 Gesta Romanorum, 42 Glam (the moon), 72 Goldsmith's Citizen of the World, 50 'Good folks,' 12 Goodrich's, Miss, experiments in crystal-reading, 53-55 Gordon-Cumming's, Miss, Wanderings in China, 64 Greek legends, 3, 4, 10, 19, 21, 60, 67, 82, 127 Grimm, Fairy Tales, 6, 66, 129 H Hades, 19 Hamlet, 41 Harpocrates, 124 Hartmann, Dr. Franz, 46 Hephaistos, 2 Hera, 19 Hermes, 82 Herodotus, 29, 30, 63, 73 Hesiod, 9 Highland superstitions, 10, 12, 13 Hindu legends, 20, 68, 71 Holcroft, the actor, 116 Holinshed, 27 Holy Spirit, symbol of the, 24 Homa, 87, 88 'Hot-cross buns,' 77 Hussin, 6 Hutton's Jacob's Rod, 39 Hydra, the, 93 I Icelandic legend, 95 'Ink-pool,' the, 48 Israfil, 196 J Jack and Jill, 61 Jacques Aymar of Lyons, story of, 37, 38 Jacob Boehme's tin cup, 49 Jamieson, Dr., and the Moon, 60 Jason and the Golden Fleece, 21 Jewish legends, 60, 90 Jobson, Richard (divining-rod), 34 Jonah, 115 Jonson's Tale of a Tub, 145 Josephus, 65, 81 Judas Iscariot, 62, 107 K Kaabah-stone, 198 Kaffir legend, 20 Kingsley's Water-Babies, 105, 111 L Lane's Magician, 51 Lang's Custom and Myth, etc., 4, 8, 14, 17, 21, 30, 34, 66, 82 Lao's looking-glass, 50 Leek, the, in Welsh tradition, 171 Legends: Australian, 8, 20, 21 Breton, 8 Bushman, 63 Ceylon, 11 Chaldæo-Babylonian, 92 Chinese, 20, 95 Cornish, 66, 103 Devonian, 65, 122, 127 Dutch, 96 Eskimo, 67 Esthonian, 73 German, 60, 93, 94 Greek, 3, 4, 10, 19, 21, 50, 67, 82, 127 Highland, 12 Hindu, 20, 68, 71 Icelandic, 95 Jewish, 60, 90 Kaffir, 20 Lenormant, François, 93 Lid of Hell, 195 Malay, 8 Maori, 62, 63 North American, 8, 62 of British Guiana, 8, 20 of St. Cecilia, 129 of St. David, 171 of St. Patrick, 131 of St. Peter, 109 of the Crusaders, 129, 136 Persian, 125 Roman, 124 Russian, 94, 110 Scandinavian, 61 Sicilian, 73 Syrian, 93 Talmudic, 92 Zulu, 8 Lethaby on Architecture and Myths, 193 Levi, house of, 25 Lhasis, 80 Lien Chi Altangi, 50 Lilly, John, 59 Linnæus, story of, 33 Lotus legends, 128 the Buddhist, 127 the Egyptian, 128 Lucian, 59 Luna, 63, 73 M Magic, 23 Magellan, 107 Malay legends, 8 Mandrake, the, 78, 83 anthropomorphon, 84 or Devil's Apple, 85 or Stone Apple, 85 Mandura, 200 Maori legends, 62, 63 Mecca, 198 Medea, 67 Merlin's mirror, 49 Michael Scott, 11 Middle Kingdom, the, according to Herodotus, 189 Eastern idea of, 189, 197, 200 Jewish tradition of, 196 Jupiter's, 193 Mecca, the, 199 Mexican tradition of, 195 Prester John, 198 Midsummer Night's Dream, 62 Milbanke, Lady, 39 Mister Storm-Along, 119 Mohammed, legend of, 126 Moonfolk, Lucian's, 59 Moon-lore, Australian, 67 Bushman, 67 Egyptian, 67 English, 70, 74, 76 Eskimo, 67 Greek, 67, 87 Maori, 67 North American Indian, 67 South African, 67 Moon, the, 2, 58 Moon-worship, 76 Moonwort, 153, 154 Conway, Moncure, 155 Culpeper, 154 in Divine Weekes, 154 in legend, 153 Moses' rod, 25, 26, 29 Mother Carey's chickens, 97, 104, 109 Müller, Max, 9 Mythology, Chinese, 63 Eskimo, 63 German, 133 Greek, 10, 78, 121 Hindu, 63, 87 Scandinavian, 116 Vedic, 72 N Nautical superstitions, 98, 100 Navel of the World, 193 Nebuchadnezzar, 28 Neptune, 93 Nether Lochaber, 12 Nikke, 96 North American legends, 8, 62 O Odin, 73 Odysseus, 82 Old Nick, 93 Onion among the Romans, 167 as food, 164 Homer on, 167 in The Arabian Nights, 165 Juvenal on, 165 Malagasy use of, 166 Mohammedan legends of, 167 myths, 168, 169 Napoleon and, 174 of the Greeks, 163, 165 of Herodotus, 166 Pliny on, 165, 167 Shakespeare on, 163 Sinclair, Sir J., on, 175 Ophelia, 148 Othello, 80 P Paracelsus's magic mirror, 43, 44 Paradise, the Garden of, 190 Parkinson the Herbalist, 151 Penelope, 49 Persian legend, 125 Peter the Hermit, 13 Pharaoh, 25 Pleiades, the, 21 Pliny, 132 Plutarch, 73 Pope Leo X., 107 Poseidon, 19 Potato, the, as food, 184 Buckle on, 177 Christopher Columbus and, 176 folklore of, 183 Gerarde on, 177 in Scotland and Ireland, 181 in Shakespeare, 179 introduction into Europe, 176 Sir Francis Drake and, 177 Prince Zeyn Alasnam, story of, 42 Proctor, R. A., 60 Prose Edda, 71 Prospero, 70 Pryce's Mineralogia Cornubiensis, 32 Pseudosia Epidemica, 83 Pyromancy, 47 Pythagoras, 84 R Rashi, 77 Red Riding Hood, 5, 6 Rhabdomancy, 28, 39 Rhea, 19 Riley's Book of Days, 64 Rink, Dr., 63 Rod, Moses', 25, 26 of the house of Levi, 25 the, 23 the divining, 30, 32 Roman legend, 124 Romeo and Juliet, 79 Rona in the Moon, 62 Roof of the World, the, 100 Rosemary, 123 Roses, Feast of the, 125 Rue as a disinfectant, 162 as salad, 152 derivation of, 150 in Aristotle, 153, 159 in Drayton, 153 in Ellacombe's Plant-Lore of Shakespeare, 149 in French perfumery, 152 in Milton, 151 in Parkinson, 151 in Pliny, 157 in Shakespeare, 149, 153 in Spenser, 151 in Warburton's works, 152 Ruskin's Queen of the Air, 4 Russian legend, 94, 110 Ruth, 150 Ryence, King, 50 S St. Brandan, 117 St. Cecilia, legend of, 129 St. Christophoros, story of, 26 St. David, legends of, 171 St. David's Day, origin of, 171 St. Joseph, legend of, 127 St. Nicholas, 93 St. Patrick, 131 St. Peter, legend of, 109 St. Peter's Day, 110 St. Ursula, 2, 3 Satan, 79, 85 Saturn, 8, 19, 20 Scandinavian legend, 61 Schliemann, Dr., 194 Sea chanties, 119, 120 Septuagint, the, 49 Shakespeare, 2, 62, 79 Sharpe, Charles Kirkpatrick, 92 Shelvocke's voyages, 106 Shew Stone, 50 Sicilian legend, 73 Sidney, Sir Philip, 72 Solomon's Temple, 196 Soma, 63, 87, 89, 90, 193 Song of Sixpence, 5 Sorcerer's Root, 78 Spring Myths, 10 Stormy petrel, 99 Sung-Yun and the Pamirs, 200 Superstitions: Accadian, 16 Aztec, 16 Bushmen, 21 Chinese, 75 Greek, 16 Highland, 10, 12 Jewish, 16, 76 Nautical, 98, 100, 117 Peruvian, 16 Red Indian, 16, 20 Sicilian, 16 Syrian legend, 92 T Talmudic legend, 92 Tannhäuser, 3 Tylor's Primitive Culture, 5, 65 Tempest, the, 70 Theal's Kaffir Folklore, 18 Thiselton-Dyer, 31, 34, 64, 78, 100, 131, 145 Thistle, the, 132 Stewart, Dr., on, 135 of Dioscorides, 134 Timbs, 79 True Thomas of Ercildoune, 3 Tûtenganahaû, story of, 20 Tweed, the, 10 Tylor, 6, 65 Typhoeus, 117 U Ulysses, 42 Urim and Thummim, 49 V Vampire, the, 70 Vedic Agni, 2 Venus, 30 Venus's looking-glass, 49 Verne, Jules, 59 Vervain of the Druids, 158 Friend on the, 159 of the Greeks, 158 Thiselton-Dyer on, 158 Virgin Mary, 106 Von Bülow's Christian Legends of Germany, 26 Vulcan's mirror, 49 W Warburton, 152 Warts, the cure of, 160 'White Rose Day,' 125 Winslow, Forbes, 76 Winter's Tale, The, 149 Winter Myths, 10 Witches' broom, the, 70 Witches' Mannikin, 78 Wolf and Seven Little Kids, 6, 7, 9, 66 Wurmbrand's Visionen im Wasserglass, 53 Y Yama, 193 Yggdrasil, 193 Z Zafarana, 73 Zeus, 19, 67 Zillah, legend of, 126 Zulu legend, 8 _Elliot Stock, 62, Paternoster Row, London._ Footnotes: [1] Farrer: Primitive Manners. [2] Lang: Custom and Myth. [3] Lang. [4] See Custom and Myth. [5] In 'The Cruel Brother: A Tragedy.' * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. The misprint "Lihgtning" was corrected to "Lightning" (page 68). The misprint "Catroptromancy" was corrected to "Catoptromancy" (index). Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. Additional spacing after some of the quotes is intentional to indicate both the end of a quotation and the beginning of a new paragraph as presented in the original text. 
57399	----	VILLAGE FOLK-TALES OF CEYLON Vol. II Collected and Translated by H. PARKER Late of the Irrigation Department, Ceylon LONDON LUZAC & CO. Publishers to the India Office 1914 CONTENTS STORIES OF THE CULTIVATING CASTE NO. PAGE 76 A Legend of Kandy 3 77 The Gamarala's Daughter 4 78 The Gamarala's Girl 7 79 How Gourds were put in Small-Mouthed Pots 10 80 The Royal Prince and the Carpenter's Son 13 81 Concerning a Royal Prince and a Princess 23 82 The Princes who Learnt the Sciences 33 The Nobleman and his Five Sons (Variant A) 36 The Seven Princes (Variant B) 39 The Attempt of Four Brahmana Princes to Marry (Variant C) 42 83 The Story of Kalundawa 46 84 How the Poor Prince became King 50 85 How the Gardener became King 54 86 How the Foolish Man became King 57 87 The Foolish Man 60 88 The Story of Marirala 64 89 The Invisible Silk Robe 66 90 The Foolish Youth 70 91 The Story of the Seven Thieves 76 92 The King who became a Thief 81 93 The Female Fowl Thief 88 94 Gampolaya and Raehigamaya 90 95 The Story of the Two Liars 96 96 The Three Hettiyas 98 97 Concerning Two Friends 101 98 Concerning Four Friends 107 99 Concerning a Horse 109 100 The Story of the Pearl Necklace 111 101 The Widow Woman and Loku-Appuhami 116 102 The Decoction of Eight Nelli Fruits 121 103 The Prince and Princess and Two Devatawas 124 104 Concerning the Prince and the Princess who was Sold 130 105 The Princess Hettirala 137 106 The Maehiyalle-gama Princess 142 107 The Wicked Princess 146 108 Holman Pissa 151 109 Concerning a Vaedda and a Bride 157 110 A Story about a Vaedda 160 111 The Story of the Four Giants 162 112 The Story about a Giant 172 113 Hitihami the Giant 175 114 The New Speech 181 115 The Master and Servant 191 116 How the Son-in-Law Cut the Chena 192 117 A Girl and a Stepmother 195 118 The Wicked Elder Brother 198 119 Nahakota's Wedding Feast 201 120 How a Man Charmed a Thread 204 121 How the Rice and Curry became Raw 206 122 How a Woman ate Cooked Rice by Stealth 207 123 How a Woman Offered Cakes 208 124 The Manner in which a Woman prepared a Flour Figure 210 125 How a Woman became a Lapwing 212 126 The Story of the Seven Wicked Women 215 127 The Story of the Old Man 219 128 The Magic Lute Player 221 129 The Lad who Sang Songs 223 130 The Hunchback Tale 226 131 The Poor Man and the Jewels 228 132 The Learned Poor Man 230 133 A Poor Man and a Woman 234 134 The Story of the Rakshasa and the Princess 237 135 The Way the Rakshasi Died 241 136 How a Rakshasa turned Men and Bulls into Stone 244 137 The Rakshasa-eating Prakshasa 247 The Rakshasa-eating Prakshasa (Variant A) 256 The Rakshasis-eating Prakshasa (Variant B) 257 The Rice-dust Porridge (Variant C) 262 The Evidence that the Appuhami ate Paddy Dust (Variant D) 266 138 The Story of the Cake Tree 269 The Lad and the Rakshasi (Variant A) 275 The Cake Tree (Variant B) 276 139 The Girl, the Monk, and the Leopard 280 140 The Washerman and the Leopard 286 141 The Frightened Yaka 288 142 The Story of the Seven Yakas 292 143 The Yaka and the Tom-tom Beater 294 144 How a Tom-tom Beater got a Marriage from a Gamarala 296 145 The Gem Yaksani 299 146 The Na, Mi, and Blue-Lotus Flowers' Princesses 309 The Story of the She-Goat (Variant A) 320 The Story of a Nobleman's Son (Variant B) 323 147 The Loss that occurred to the Nobleman's Daughter 330 148 The Ratemahatmaya's Presents 333 149 The Prince and the Minister 334 150 The Story of King Bamba 339 151 Concerning a Royal Princess and a Turtle 345 152 The Story of a King and a Prince 356 153 The Story of the Gourd 361 154 The Story of the Shell Snail 364 155 The Queen of the Rock House 367 155A The Story of the Elder Sister and Younger Brother 377 156 The Queen and the Beggar 380 157 The Frog in the Queen's Nose 382 158 Concerning a Bear and the Queen 385 159 The Leopard and the Princess 388 160 The Story of the Foolish Leopard 393 161 The Story of the Dabukka 396 162 The Leopard and the Calf 399 163 The Ash-Pumpkin Fruit Prince 401 164 The Kabaragoya and the Widow 407 165 The Frog Jacket 409 166 The Four-faced King and the Turtle 411 167 The Story of the Cobra and the Prince 414 168 The Ant Story 417 169 The Gamarala and the Cock 419 170 Concerning the Golden Peacock 421 171 The Story of the Brahmana's Kitten 425 172 The Story of the Mango Bird 430 173 How the Parrot explained the Law-suit 435 174 The Parrot and the Crow 440 175 The Crow and the Darter 442 176 Concerning the Crows and the Owls 443 177 The Female Lark 445 Index 449 See Additional Notes and Corrections in the Appendix, Vol. III. STORIES OF THE CULTIVATING CASTE NO. 76 A LEGEND OF KANDY [1] At a certain place in Lankawa (Ceylon), there was an extensive forest. In that forest there were elephants, bears, leopards, wanduras, [2] and many other jungle animals. At any time whatever, at the time when any animal springs for seizing an animal that is its prey, it comes running near a rock that is in an open place in the forest. Having arrived near the rock, the animal that ran through fear goes bounding back after the animal that is chasing it. Regarding that rock, it was the custom that it was [known as] "The Rock of the Part where there is Tranquillity" (Sen-kada-gala [3]). One day a Basket-mender for the purpose of cutting bamboos went into this forest. While he was cutting bamboos a certain jackal went driving a hare on the path. At the time when the hare arrived near this rock the jackal began to run back, and the hare ran behind it. The Basket-mender, having been looking at this, examined the place, and having gone near the King who was ruling at that time, told him of this circumstance. And the King, having thought that it is a good victorious ground, went there, and having built a city makes it his capital (raja-dhaniya). For that city he made the name Senkadagala [Nuwara--that is, Kandy]. Uva Province. NO. 77 THE GAMARALA'S DAUGHTER In a certain country there were a Gamarala and a daughter of the Gamarala's, it is said. Well then, for the Gamarala they brought a Gama-mahage. [4] The Gama-mahage's daughter and that Gamarala's daughter stayed in one place. The Gamarala and the Gama-mahage cook and eat separately; the Gamarala's daughter and the Gama-mahage's daughter cook and eat separately. A King comes every day to the house in which are the two girls. Afterwards, the Gama-mahage's daughter, having quarrelled with the Gamarala's daughter, went to the Gama-mahage and told tales: "A King comes every day to the house we are in." Then the woman said, "Daughter, you go to that house to-day [and watch if he comes]." Having said "Ha" (Yes), that girl went. Afterwards the girl came to the house in which was the Mahage. After having come, she said, "Mother, to-day also the King came." Then that girl's mother, having cut her finger-nails [5] and given them into the hand of the girl, said, "Daughter, take these and place them upon the beam of the threshold." The girl, having taken them and placed them on the beam of the threshold, came to the Mahage's house. On the following day the girl did not go to the house of the Gamarala's daughter. That day, also, came the King. After he came he placed his foot on the beam of the threshold; then the finger-nails pricked him. Immediately the King went to the city on the back of the tusk elephant. On the following day, when that [Gamarala's] girl was weeping and weeping under a tree because he did not come, while some crows were swallowing and swallowing the fruits of the trees a crow said, "Ando! What is that Gamarala's daughter crying for?" The other crow said, "What is it to thee! Do thou in silence quickly swallow two or three fruits off that." Afterwards, it having become night, part of the crows went to the nests; two still remained over in the tree. One of them said, "Ane! What is that Gamarala's daughter crying for?" The other crow said, "What is it to thee! Do thou in silence swallow the fruits off that. All the crows went away; mustn't we also go? It has become night." Then the Gamarala's daughter laments, "A light was falling and falling [into my life]; it is not there now." The crow said, "Being without a light, what art thou lamenting for?" The girl said, "A King was coming and coming to our house. Our stepmother having placed some finger-nails on the threshold, they pricked the King's foot, and having gone to the city he does not come now. On account of that I am lamenting." Then the crow said, "What are you lamenting for on that account! Having shot (with bow and arrow) a crow that is flying [in the air] above, and extracted its fat, should you take it to the city in which the King is, when you have rubbed it on the wound in the foot it will heal." Afterwards the girl, having shot a crow that was flying above, and extracted its fat, and tied up a packet of it, and dressed in men's clothes, went to the city, taking the fat. The girl, having gone to the city, and gone to the palace in which is the King, said, "What will He give me to cure His foot?" [6] The King replied, "I will give a gold ring." Then the girl rubbed the oil [on the wound], and after she drew out the finger-nail the foot became well. After that the King gave the girl the gold ring. The girl, taking it, came home. The King, taking a sword, on the following day came on the back of the tusk elephant to the house in which is the girl. The girl was asleep. Then the King descended from the tusk elephant, and taking the sword went to the place where the girl was. "Get up, thou," he said. The girl arose. Then the King prepared to cut her neck. The girl, having made obeisance, said, "Don't cut me with the sword; it was I who cured His foot." "How didst thou cure it?" he said. "I went to the city in which He was, and having rubbed fat [on the wound] and drawn out the finger-nail, came back," the girl said. Then the King said, "How didst thou go to my palace?" The girl replied, "I went in men's clothes, and having rubbed oil on the foot and drawn out the finger-nail, I came back." "If thou drewest it out, where is now the gold ring I gave thee?" he said. Then the girl, saying, "Here is the gold ring He gave me," showed it to the King. After that, placing the girl on the back of the tusk elephant, he went to the palace in the city. North-western Province. Regarding the poisonous nature of the finger-nails, see vol. i, pp. 124 and 128. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 199, a Princess in the disguise of a Yogi cured a Prince who had married her, and who had been poisoned by means of powdered glass laid on his bed. She applied earth from the foot of a tree, mixed with cold water, and rubbed this over him for three days and nights. When the Prince wished to reward her, she asked for a ring and handkerchief that she gave him on their wedding day. She afterwards informed him that it was she who had cured him, but he would not believe her until she produced these articles. NO. 78 THE GAMARALA'S GIRL In a certain city there was a King, it is said. The King sends letters into various countries to be explained. When they were sent, no one could explain the things that were in the letters. When he sent the letters, on the following day [the recipients] must come near the King. When they come the King asks the meaning in the letter; no one can tell it. Well then, he beheads the man. Thus, in that manner he sent letters to seven cities. From the seven cities seven men came to hand over the letters. He beheaded the seven persons. On the eighth day a letter came to the Gamarala. There is a girl of the Gamarala's. When they brought the letter the girl was not at home; she went to the village to pound paddy. Pounding the paddy and taking the rice, when the girl is coming home the Gamarala is weeping and weeping. So the girl asked, "What is it, father, you are crying for?" Then the Gamarala says, "Daughter, why shouldn't I cry? The King who beheaded seven men of seven cities has to-day sent a letter to me also. Now then, the letter which the people of seven cities were unable to explain, how can I explain? Well then, mustn't I take the letter to-morrow? It is I who must take the letter. When I have gone he will behead me. Well then, owing to your being [left] without anyone, indeed, I am weeping." Then the girl said, "Where is it, for me to look at, that letter?" Asking for it, and having explained all the things that were in the letter, she said to the Gamarala, "Father, having gone to-morrow, to what the King asks say thus and thus." The Gamarala on the following day went and handed over the letter. The King, in the very way in which he asked those seven persons, brought up the Gamarala, and asked him. The Gamarala replied in the very way the girl said. Then the King asked the Gamarala, "Who expounded this?" The Gamarala said, "There is a daughter of mine; that daughter herself explained it." After that, the King said, "To-morrow we are coming for the marriage [to your daughter]. You go now, and having built inner sheds and outer sheds, and milked milk from oxen, and caused it to curdle, and expressed oil from sand, place them [ready]; those [previously] unperformed matters," he said. When the Gamarala is coming home the girl is not at home. Having gone to pound paddy, and having pounded the paddy, when she comes, taking the rice, that day, also, the Gamarala, weeping and weeping, is digging some holes for posts. So the girl asked, "What, father, are you crying for to-day also?" Then the Gamarala says, "Ane! Daughter, the King is coming to-morrow to summon you in marriage, and return. Owing to it, the King said to me, 'Having built inner sheds and outer sheds, having milked milk from oxen and caused it to curdle, and having expressed oil from sand, place them [ready].' Now, then, how shall I do those things? It is through being unable that I am weeping." Then the girl says, "Father, no matter for that. Simply stay [here]. Please build the [usual] sorts of inner sheds and outer sheds. How are you to milk milk from oxen and curdle it? How are you to express oil from sand?" Afterwards the Gamarala indeed built the inner sheds and outer sheds. On the very day on which the King said he is coming, the girl, with another girl, taking a bundle of cloth, went along the road to meet the King. On the road there is a sesame chena. By the chena they met the King. When coming very far away, the Ministers said at the hand of the King, "That one coming in front is the Gamarala's daughter herself." The Gamarala's daughter, too, did go in front. Then the King asked at the hand of the Gamarala's daughter, "Where, girl, art thou going?" The Gamarala's daughter replied, "We are going [because] our father has become of age [in the same manner as women]. On account of it [we are going] to the washermen." The King said, "How, girl, are men [affected like women]?" Then the girl said, "So, indeed! You, Sir, told our father that having built inner sheds and outer sheds, having milked milk from oxen, and caused it to curdle, and having expressed oil from sand, [he is] to place them [ready]. How can these be [possible]? In that way, indeed, is the becoming of age by males [in the same manner as women]." Then the King, having become pleased with the girl, asked yet a word. He plucked a sesame flower, and taking it in his hand asked the girl, "Girl, in this sesame flower where is the oil?" Then the girl asked, "When your mother conceived where were you. Sir?" [7] Immediately (e parama) the King descended from the horse's back; and placing the Gamarala's girl upon the horse, and the King also having got on the horse, they went to the palace. The other girl came alone to that girl's house. On the second day, the King having sent the Ministers and told the Gamarala to come, marrying the girl to the King she remained [there]. The Gamarala also stayed in that very palace. North-western Province. NO. 79 HOW GOURDS WERE PUT IN SMALL-MOUTHED POTS At a certain time a man cut a sesame chena. In the sesame chena the sesame flowers blossomed. There was a female child of the man's. The child one day having gone to the sesame chena, while she was there the King came, in order to go near the sesame chena. Thereupon the King asked at the hand of the girl, "Girl, the flower that has blossomed, where did it come from in the plant?" Then the girl asked at the hand of the King, "Before your mother was married where were you?" At that time, the King having become angry at the word which the girl said, told the girl's father to come. After he came he said, "Because your girl said such a wicked word, come [to me after] putting a hundred gourd fruits in a hundred [small-mouthed] copper pots." Thereupon, the man being afraid at this word went home, and remained a dead dolt (manda). Then the girl asked, "Why, father, are you without sense?" Then the man told her the word said by the King. Having heard it, the girl said, "Father, why are you frightened at that? I will tell you a stratagem for that," and told him to bring a hundred [small-mouthed] copper pots. After he brought them, she told him to bring a hundred gourd-flower fruits (the small fruit at the base of the flower). After he brought them, she told him to put the hundred gourds into those hundred copper pots, and after he put them in, the girl and the man went to the King, and handed them over. Having given them, as they were coming away, the King said to the girl, "I will cause thee to be in widowhood." Then the girl said, "I will get a dirty cloth [set] on your head." The King, after that man and girl went away, came and married her. Having married her, and stayed a little time, in order to make her a widow he went on a journey which delayed him six months. Having waited until the time when he was going, what does this girl do? Having made up her hair-knot on the top of her head, tying it there, tying on a bosom necklace (malayak) like the Hettiyas, she went to the sewing-shop. Learning sewing for the whole of the six months, she sewed a good hat, putting a dirty cloth at the bottom [inside it], and above it having fastened [precious] stones; it was at the sewing-shop. At that time, as that King, the six months having been spent, was coming home through the middle of the street, he saw a costly hat in the shop; and having given a thousand masuran, taking the hat and placing it on his head, he went away. Having gone, he said to the girl, "I caused thee to be in widowhood, didn't I? I said so." Then the girl said, "On your head you got my dirty cloth, didn't you? I said so." The King said, "You are not old enough [8] to get your dirty cloth on my head." Thereupon the girl said, "Break up the hat and look." Then when the King broke up the hat and looked the dirty cloth was there. After that, having said, "The two persons are equal to each other," they remained in much trust [in each other]. North-central Province. In Indian Night's Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 315, a girl, the daughter of a smith, whom a Prince wanted to marry, in order to show her cleverness made some large earthenware jars, and without burning them painted and enamelled them, and introduced a small water-melon into each. When the melons had grown so as to fill the jars, she sent two of them to the palace, with a request that the melons should be taken out without breaking the jars or melons. No one being able to do it, she obtained permission to visit the palace, wrapped a wet cloth round each jar until it became soft, expanded the mouths, extracted the melons, and remade the jars as before. The smart village girl is known in China also. There is an account of one in Chinese Nights' Entertainment (A. M. Fielde), p. 57, the incidents being unlike those of the Sinhalese tale, however. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iii, p. 202) there is a story of a smart village girl and a King of Persia, Kisra Anushirwan, in which the King married the girl. NO. 80 THE ROYAL PRINCE AND THE CARPENTER'S SON In a certain country there were a King and a Queen. In the same city there were a Carpenter and his wife. There was a Prince of the King's. There was a son of the Carpenter's. They sent these two near a teacher to learn letters and sciences. After a number of years, one day, in order to look at this Prince's learning, the King, having gone near the teacher who teaches the sciences, and made inquiry regarding the Prince's lessons, [ascertained that] the King's Prince was not able to [understand] any science; the Carpenter's son was conversant (nipuna) with all sciences. Thereupon the King, having become grieved, went to the palace, and said to the Queen, "Thy Prince is a decided miserable fool. [9] Because of it, I must behead the Prince," the King settled. Then the Queen said to the Prince, "As you have not got any learning he has settled to behead you. Because of it, leave this city, and go somewhere or other." Having said [this], and, unknown to the King, tied up and given the Prince a package of cooked rice, and given him a horse and a sword and a thousand masuran, she sent him on his journey. This Prince and the Carpenter's son were very great confidential friends. Because of it, the Prince, having said that he must go [after] having spoken to his friend, went near his friend, and said, "Our father, because I am unable to [understand] letters and sciences, has settled to behead me. Because of it, I am going to another country." Thereupon the Carpenter's son said, "If you, Sir, are leaving this city and going away, I also must go to the place where you are going." Having said [this], the Carpenter's son set out to go with the Prince. Then the Prince said, "As for me, blame having fallen on me from the King, I am going; there is no reason at all for you to go." That word the Carpenter's son would not hear. Both of them having mounted on the horse, entered the jungle, and began to go away. At the time when they had gone a number of gawuwas (each of four miles), it became night; and having gone upon a high rock, and eaten the packet of cooked rice that was brought, at the time when the two persons were talking the Prince saw that a great light had fallen somewhat far away. Having said, "Friend, get up and look what is that light," when that one arose and looked, a great Nagaya, having ejected a stone, is eating food. The Prince said, "How is the way to take the stone?" The Carpenter's son said, "You go, and, taking the stone, come back running, without having looked back. The Cobra will come running; then I will cut it down." The Prince said, "I cannot; you go and bring it." Thereafter, the Carpenter's son having gone, at the time when he was coming back [after] taking the stone, the Cobra came after him, crying and crying out. The Prince, taking [the stone] and having waited, cut it down. Instantly, both of them having mounted on the back of the horse, began to run off. Having gone very far, after they halted they looked at the stone. On the stone was written, "There is a well in this jungle. When one has held the stone to the well, the water will dry up. Having descended into the well, when one has looked there will be a palace; there will also be a Princess in the palace. If there should be a person who has obtained this stone, it is he himself whom this Princess will marry." [This] was written upon the stone. Thereafter, after it became light, these two persons began to seek the well. At the time when they were seeking and looking for it they met with the well. When they held the stone to the well the water dried up. Both of them having descended into the well, when they looked about, they met with the palace also; the Princess, too, was there. Thereupon the royal Prince said to the Carpenter's son, "Owing to your good luck we met with this gem-treasure [10] and the Princess. Because of that, let the Princess be for you." The Carpenter's son said to the Prince, "You, Sir, are a great fool. You are my royal Prince; it is not right to say this word to me." Thereafter, having married the Princess to the Prince, and united the two persons, and set that Naga gem in a ring, and put it on the Prince's finger, he said, "On the Princess's asking for this ring on any day whatever, [11] don't give it. Women are never to be trusted." Having taught the Prince [this], having said, "In any difficulty whatever, remember me," the Carpenter's son, plunging into the water, came to the surface of the ground, and went [back] to their city. While this Prince and Princess were [there], one day she begged and got the ring that was on the Prince's hand, in order to look at it. When she begged and looked at it, this Princess saw that these matters were written in Nagara letters. On the following day, begging the ring from the Prince, and having gone noiselessly, when she held it out to the well the water dried up. Thereupon, the Princess, having mounted upon the well mouth, and stayed looking about, came again to the palace. In that manner, several times begging for the ring she stayed on the well mouth, and came back. One day, at the time when the Vaedda who goes hunting for the King of that city was going walking [in the forest], the Vaedda, having heard that this Princess sitting on the mouth of the well is singing, went and peeped, and remained looking at her. Thereafter he went and told the King of that city, "In such and such a jungle there is a well. Sitting on the well mouth, a Princess was singing and singing songs. Having stayed there, she jumped into the well. When I went and looked there is only water. The beauty of her figure is indeed like the sun and moon. In this city there is not a woman of that kind." Thereupon the King having become much pleased, on the following day the Vaedda, and the King, and the Minister, the whole three persons, went to look at the Princess. Having gone, at the time when they were hidden the Princess came that day also, and sitting on the well-mouth sang songs. Thereupon the King, taking the sword, went running to seize the Princess. As soon as the Princess saw them she jumped into the well. The King having gone near the well, when he looked there is only water. The Princess was not to be seen. Thereafter, the King, having been astonished, came to the city. Having come, he gave public notice by beat of tom-toms that if there should be a person who brought and gave him the Princess who is in the well in such and such a jungle, he will give him goods [amounting] to a tusk-elephant's load, and a half share from the kingdom. [This] he made public by the notification tom-toms. At the time when they were going in the street beating the notification tom-toms, a widow woman stopped the notification tom-toms, and asked, "What is it?" The notification tom-tom beater said, "The King said that to a person who brought and gave him the Princess who is in the well in such and such a jungle, he will give these goods, and a share from the kingdom." Thereupon the widow woman said [to the King], "I can. [12] Having constructed a watch-hut near the well in that jungle, you must give it to me," she said. The King very speedily sent men, and built a watch-hut, and gave it. This old woman went [there], and at the time when she was in the watch-hut, the Princess came, and sitting down upon the well mouth, sang songs. Thereupon the widow woman, drawing together the folds of her rags, breaking [loose] her hair and letting it hang down, placing her hand to her head, weeping and weeping, crying and crying out, came to the place where the Princess is. The Princess asked, "What, mother, are you weeping and weeping for?" "Ane! Daughter, there is a male child of mine. The child does not give me to eat, and does not give me to wear. Having beaten me he drove me away, to go to any place I like." Then the Princess said, "I will give you to eat and to wear. There is not anyone with me." Calling this old woman she went to her palace. The Prince also having become pleased, amply provided for the old woman. Very many times calling this old woman, [the Princess] having gone to the well-mouth, and stayed [there] singing songs, returned. One day this old woman, taking a piece of stone in her hand, unknown (himin) to the Princess, asked at the hand of the Princess, "Ane! Daughter, how does the water dry up in this well? How does it fill?" The Princess said, "Mother, there is a stone in my hand. By its power the water dries up, and fills it." [Saying], "Ane! Daughter, where is it? Please let me, too, look at it," she begged for and got the stone. Having been looking and looking at it a little time, she dropped that piece of stone which was in her hand, for the Princess to hear. This gem-treasure the woman hid. [The Princess] having said, "Appoyi! Mother, you dropped the stone!" the two persons, striking and striking themselves, began to cry, saying and saying, "For us, in the midst of this forest, from whom will there be a protection from everything (saw-saranak)?" At the time when they were weeping and weeping, having said, "It is becoming night," the old woman said to the Princess, "Now then, daughter, for us two to remain thus, a fine place (hari taenak) is this forest wilderness! There will be elephants, bears, leopards. Because of that, let us go. There is my house; having gone [there], early to-morrow morning let us come again here." Having said [this], deceiving the Princess, they went away. The old woman with dishonest secrecy having sent word to the King, the King came, and calling the Princess went [with her] to the palace. Thereafter, the King published by beat of tom-toms that he has brought the Princess who stayed on the well mouth. He made public that on such and such a day he will marry this Princess. Thereupon the Princess said, "In that manner I cannot contract marriage. My two parents have told me that the Prince [I am to marry] and I, both of us, having rowed a Wooden Peacock machine [13] in the sky, and having come back, after that must contract marriage, they have ordered." This word the Princess said as the Princess knows that the first friend of the Prince's, that is, the Carpenter's son, can construct the Wooden Peacock machine. Thereafter, the King of this city employed the notification tom-tom, "Who can construct the Wooden Peacock machine? If there should be a person who can, speedily come summoning him near the King." At the time when they were beating the notification tom-tom, that Carpenter's son, having caused the notification tom-tom to halt, said, "I can construct the Wooden Peacock machine." Thereupon, summoning the Carpenter's son, they went to the royal house. The King ordered that he should receive from the palace many presents. The King commanded that having quickly constructed the Wooden Peacock machine, and also prepared a person to row it, he should bring it. Thereafter, the Carpenter's son, ascertaining about the Princess who stayed at the well, quickly having set off, went near the well in the jungle, and diving into the water, and having gone to the palace, when he looked, the Prince having become stupefied through want of sleep, [14] had fallen down unconscious. Thereupon the Carpenter's son, having spoken to the Prince, said, "Didn't I tell you, Sir, 'Don't give the ring into the hand of the Princess,' ascertaining that this danger will happen? But," he said to the Prince, "don't you at any time become unhappy. [15] I will again bring the Princess near this palace, and give her to you." Saying, "Please remain in happiness," the Carpenter's son returned to the city, and began to construct the Wooden Peacock machine. While constructing it, he made inquiry how this widow woman was, [and learnt that] a male child of this widow woman's was lost while very young (lit., from his small days). One day, in the night the Carpenter's son, tying up a bundle of clothes and a packet of cooked rice, went, just as it was becoming night, [16] to the house at which is the widow woman. Having gone [there] he spoke: "Mother, mother!" Thereupon the woman quickly having arisen and come, asked, "Where, son, where were you for so many days?" Thereupon the Carpenter's son said, "Ane! Mother, having tramped through many countries, I have not obtained any means of subsistence. I obtained a few pieces of cloth and a little rice." Saying "Here," he gave them into the hand of that woman. "What are these for, son? Look; I have received from the King much goods, and a part of the kingdom," she said to the Carpenter's son. The old woman thought he was her own son. Having allowed him to press her eyes while she is lying down, the old woman said, "Son, I have still got something." Having said, "Ane! Mother, where is it? Please let me look at it," begging for it, when he looked [it was] that gem-treasure. Thereafter, having given it [back] into the hand of the old woman, and waited until the time when the woman goes to sleep, stealing that stone the Carpenter's son came away. Then, constructing the Wooden Peacock machine, he went near the King. Having gone, he said, "Except myself no one else can row this." At that time, the King and the Princess, both of them, having mounted on the Wooden Peacock machine [after] putting on the royal ornaments, these three persons rowed [aloft in] the Wooden Peacock machine. Having rowed very high above the sea, and stopped the Wooden Peacock machine, the Carpenter's son, taking the sword in his hand, asked the King whence the King obtained this Princess. Thereupon the King said that a widow woman of this city brought and gave him the Princess who stayed at a well in the midst of the forest. Then the Carpenter's son said, "Why do you desire others' wives? How much [mental] fire will there be for this Princess's husband! What His Highness (tuma) did is a great fault." Having said this, he cut down the King and dropped him into the sea, and, taking the Princess, rowed near that well in the jungle. Having gone [down the well] to the palace, and caused that Prince to put on these royal ornaments, the Prince, and the Princess, and the Carpenter's son, the whole three persons, having gone on the Wooden Peacock machine to the city, and said that the King and the Princess had contracted the marriage, that day with great festivity ate the [wedding] feast; but any person of the city was unaware of this abduction [17] [of the King] which he effected. Thereafter, this Prince and Princess having been saluted [18] by that widow woman, having tried her judicially they subjected her to the thirty-two tortures and beheaded her, and hung her at the four gate-ways, it is said. The Carpenter's son became the Prince's Prime Minister. The Prince exercised the sovereignty with the ten [royal] virtues, it is said. North-western Province. The ten royal virtues are: Almsgiving, keeping religious precepts, liberality, uprightness, compassion, addiction to religious austerities, even temper, tenderness, patience, and peacefulness (Clough). Regarding the flying wooden Peacock, see also the next story and No. 198 in vol. iii. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 378, there is also an account of a similar flying-machine called a Peacock, on which a young man, accompanied by the maker, first went to marry a girl, and afterwards, against the advice of its maker, flew aloft to show the people his own skill. He did not know how to make it return, and at last the cords broke, it fell in the sea, and he was drowned. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), pp. 378, 380, etc., there are several accounts of houses under the water; these were the residences of Bongas or deities. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. i, p. 115, Mr. G. H. Damant gave a Bengal story in which a King's son descends into a well, and finds there a Princess in a house, imprisoned by Rakshasas. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (L. Behari Day), p. 17 ff., a Prince and a Minister's son who was his bosom friend, while on their travels obtained a Cobra's jewel, and by means of it saw a palace under the water of a tank. They dived down to it, found a Princess who had been imprisoned there by the Cobra, which had died on losing its magic jewel, and the Prince married her by exchanging garlands of flowers. After the Minister's son left them in order to prepare for their return, the Princess, while the Prince was asleep, by means of the magic jewel ascended to the surface of the water, and sat on the bathing steps. On the third occasion when she did this, a Raja's son saw and fell in love with her. As soon as she observed him she descended to her palace, and the young man went home apparently mad. The Raja offered his daughter's hand and half his kingdom to anyone who could cure his son. An old woman who had seen the Princess offered to do it, and a hut was built for her on the embankment of the tank. When the Princess came to the bank the woman offered to help her to bathe, secured the jewel, and the Princess was captured. When the Minister's son returned on a day previously arranged, he heard that the Princess was to be married in two days. He personated the widow's son, who was absent, and was well received by the widow, who handed him the magic jewel. He saw the Princess, managed to escape with her, and they joined the Prince. In The Kathakoça (Tawney), p. 91, a serpent Prince saved a Queen who had been pushed into a well by her stepmother, and made a palace in the well, in which she lived until she was able to rejoin her husband. In Folk-Tales of Hindustan (Shaik Chilli), p. 52, a Princess who had been carried off and was about to be married to a Raja's son, stated (by pre-arrangement with her husband's party, who had come to rescue her) that it was "the custom of her family to float round the city in a golden aerial car with the bridegroom and match-maker." The Raja sent men to find a car. Two of her husband's friends, a goldsmith and a carpenter, now produced such a car. When the Raja, his son, the Princess, and the witch who had abducted her, began to sail above the city in it, at the Princess's request the car was stopped at a pre-arranged place, the Prince and his four friends sprang into it, took it high in the air, drowned the Raja, his son, and the witch, and returned with the Princess to their own city. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iii, p. 137 ff.) there is an account of a flying ebony horse, which rose or descended when suitable pegs were turned. When it was brought to a Persian King, his son tried it, was carried away like the Prince in the next story, and at last descended on the roof of a palace, where he saw and fell in love with the royal Princess, and returning afterwards, carried her off. In the Tota Kahani (Small), p. 139, a young man made a flying wooden horse, by means of which a merchant's daughter, who had been abducted by a fairy, was recovered. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 57, a young Brahmana who plunged into the Ganges to rescue a woman who appeared to be drowning found a temple of Siva, and a palace in which the girl who was a Daitya (an Asura) lived. In the same volume, p. 392, there is an account of a flying chariot, "with a pneumatic contrivance," made by a carpenter. A man flew two hundred yojanas (each some eight miles in length) before descending; he then started it afresh and flew another two hundred. On p. 390 wooden automata made by the same carpenter are mentioned; they "moved as if they were alive, but were recognised as lifeless by their want of speech." A similar automaton is mentioned in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 170; it was able to sing and dance. (This work consists of translations from the Chinese Tripitaka; all appear to have been translated from Indian originals, usually in the early centuries after Christ.) In The Indian Antiquary, vol. x, p. 232 (Tales of the Panjab, p. 42), in the story of Prince Lionheart, by Mrs. F. A. Steel, his carpenter friend went in search of a Princess who had been carried off by a King. He made a flying palankin, and returned in it with her. NO. 81 CONCERNING A ROYAL PRINCE AND A PRINCESS [19] In a certain city there were a King, a Carpenter, and a Washerman. There were three male children of these three persons. They sent these three children to learn letters near a teacher a yojana distant, or four gawuwas [20] distant. These three having at one time set off from the city when they went for [learning] letters, both that royal Prince and the Washer lad went and said the letters; when they are coming back the Carpenter's son is even yet going on the road. Those two go with much quickness. Because of it, the Carpenter's son said at his father's hand, "We three having set off at one time from the city, when we have gone, those two having got in front and gone, and said their letters, come back. Having gone (started) at one time, on even a single day having said my letters I was unable to come [with them]." Thereafter, he made for the Carpenter's son a [flying] Wooden Peacock machine, and gave him it. He having gone rowing it [through the air], and said his letters, when he is coming back those two are still going [on the road], for [their] letters. One day the royal Prince said to the Carpenter's son, "Ane! Friend, will you let me row and look at the Wooden Peacock machine?" he asked. Thereupon the Carpenter's son, having said, "It is good," and having told him the manner of treading on the chain, gave him it. Just as the Prince was taking hold of the chain, he went [up] in the Wooden Peacock machine, and was fixed among the clouds in the sky. At that time the King of the city and the multitude were frightened. Thereafter, having assembled the city soothsayers and astrologers, [the King] asked, "When will this Prince, taking the Wooden Peacock machine, come down?" Thereupon the soothsayers said, "After he has gone for the space of [21] three years and three months, having come back he will fall in the sea." Thereupon the King said to the Ministers, "Having been marking that number of years and number of days, surrounding the sea (i.e., keeping a watch all along the shore), and having been laying nets, as soon as the Prince falls you must take him ashore," he commanded. Thereafter, at the time when the Prince was holding the cords of the Wooden Peacock machine, it began to descend lower. At a burial ground at another city the Wooden Peacock machine came down upon a Banyan-tree. Thereupon the Prince, having placed the Wooden Peacock machine on the tree, and descended from the tree, went to the city, and began to walk about. At the time when the Princess of the King of the city, with yet [other] Princesses, was bathing at a pool, the Princess saw him at the time when this Prince also was going walking. As soon as she saw him, the Princess thought, "If I marry the Prince it is good." The Prince also thought, "If I marry this Princess it is good." Except that the two thought to themselves of each other, there was no means of talking together. Because of it, the Princess, plucking a blue-lotus flower in the pool, placed it on her head after having smelt (kissed) it; and again, having crushed it, threw it down, and trampled on it. The Princess did thus for the Prince to perceive that when he married her she would be submissive and obedient to him. The Prince understood it, and kept it in mind. Thereafter, at the time when the Prince was going walking in the city, he met with the palace in which is the Princess. At the time when the Prince had been there a little while, the Princess opened a window of the upper story, and when she was looking in the direction of the street, saw that this Prince was [there], and spoke to him. At that time she said to the Prince, "After it has become night I [shall] have opened this window. You come [then]." Then the Prince having come after all in the palace got to sleep, when he looked the window was opened. Having spoken to the Princess, he entered the palace. The two having conversed, the Prince, before it became light, got out of the palace, and having gone away, and waited until the time when it became night, comes again. Thereupon the Princess, in order to keep the Prince in the very palace, told a smith of the city to come secretly; and having given him also a thousand masuran, and made the man thoroughly swear [to secrecy], the Princess said, "Having made a large lamp-stand, and made it [large enough] for a man to be inside it, and turned round the screw-key belonging to it, as though bringing it to sell bring it to the palace. When you bring it I will tell the King, and I will take it." The smith having gone, and made the lamp-stand in the manner the Princess said, brought it near the King. Then the Princess having come and said, "I want this," took it, and put it in the palace. To the smith the King gave five hundred masuran. Thereafter, having put that Prince inside the lamp-stand, he remained [there]. When not many days had gone by, the Princess became pregnant. The King having perceived that the Princess was pregnant, placed a guard round the palace, and having published by beat of tom-toms [that they were] to seize this thief, the King and the guards made all possible effort to seize the thief, but they were unable. A widow woman said, "I can seize him if you will allow me to go evening and morning to the palace in which is the Princess, to seize the thief." Thereupon the King gave permission to the woman to go and stay during the whole [22] of both times. When several days had gone by, this woman, having perceived that a man is inside that lamp-stand, one day having gone taking also a package of fine sand, during the visit, while she stayed talking and talking with the Princess put the sand of the package round the lamp-stand, and having spread it thinly, came away. The Princess was unable to find this out. When that woman went on the morning of the following day, and looked, the Prince's foot-prints were in that sand. As soon as she saw it, the woman went and said to the King, "I caught the thief. Let us go to look." The old woman having gone, said, "There! It is inside that lamp-stand, indeed, that the thief is," and showed them to the King. At that time, when the King broke the lamp-stand and looked, the thief was [there]. Thereafter the King gave orders that having tortured the thief, and taken him away, they were to behead him, he said to the executioners. Thereupon the executioners [after] pinioning the Prince, beating the execution tom-tom, took him to that burial-ground. At that time the Prince said to the executioners, "If you kill any person, having given him the things he thinks of to eat and drink--is it not so?--you kill him. Because of it, until the time when I come [after] going into this Banyan-tree and eating two Banyan fruits, remain on guard round this tree. There is no opportunity (taenak) for me to bound off and go elsewhere." Thereupon, the executioners having said, "It is good," the Prince ascended the tree, and having mounted on that Wooden Peacock machine, rowed into the sky. While the executioners were looking the Prince went flying away. The executioners having said that blame will fall [on them] from the King, caught and cut a lizard (katussa), and having gone [after] rubbing the blood on the sword, showed it to the King, and said that they beheaded the thief. From that day, the Princess from grief remained without eating and drinking. Several days afterwards, the Prince, having come rowing the Wooden Peacock machine, and caused it to stop on the palace in which is the Princess, and having removed the tiles, dropped the jewelled ring that was on the Prince's hand at the place where the Princess is. He also dropped a robe of the Prince's. Thereupon the Princess, getting to know about the Prince's [being on the roof], threw up the cloth [again]. Tying the hand-line to descend by, at that time the Prince, having descended, said to the Princess, "To kill me they took me to the burial-ground. I having caused the executioners to be deceived, and climbed up the tree--my Wooden Peacock machine was on the tree--I mounted it and went rowing away." Thereafter, the Prince and Princess, both of them, went away. At the time when they were going, ten months were completed for the Princess. While they were going, pains began to seize her. [The Prince] having lowered the Wooden Peacock machine in a great forest jungle, and in a minute having made a house of branches, the Princess bore [a child]. Thereupon the Prince said, "Remain here until I go and bring a little fire." Saying [this] to the Princess, the Prince went rowing the Wooden Peacock machine. Having gone, at the time when, taking the fire in a coconut husk, he was coming rowing the Wooden Peacock machine over the midst of the sea, the coconut husk having burnt, the fire seized the Wooden Peacock machine, and it burnt away. The Prince having come [there], fell in the sea. That foretold number of years also had been finished on that day. The person who stayed casting nets in the sea [there], as soon as the Prince fell got him ashore. The Prince, planting a vegetable garden at the city, remained there. While the Princess who bore [the child] in that forest jungle was without any protection from all things (sawu-saranak), this trouble having become visible to an ascetic person who practises austerity in that forest jungle, he came to the place where the Princess was, and spoke to her. Thereupon the Princess, after she saw the ascetic, having a little abandoned the trouble that was in her mind, said to the ascetic, "While I walk into the midst of this forest seeking a little ripe fruit, will you look after this child until I come?" she asked. The ascetic said, "Should I hold the child it is impure (kilutu) for me. Because of it, you having made a stick platform (maessak), and hung it by a creeper, and having tied a creeper to the platform, go after having sent the child to sleep on the platform. At the time when the child cries I will come, and hold the creeper by the end, and shake it; then the child will stop." Having done in the manner the ascetic said, the Princess, seeking ripe fruits, ate. One day, the Princess having suckled the child, and sent it to sleep on the platform, went to seek ripe fruits. Thereafter, that child having rolled off the stick platform and fallen on the ground, at the time when it was crying the ascetic heard it, and came; when he looked, the child having rolled over had fallen on the ground. Thereupon, because it was impure for the ascetic to hold the child, he plucked a flower, and having performed an Act of Truth for the flower, thought, "May a child be created just like this child." Thereafter, a child was created just like it. The Princess having come back, and having seen, when she looked, that two children are [there], the Princess asked the ascetic, "What is [the reason of] it? To-day two children!" The ascetic said, "When I was coming, the child, having fallen, was crying and crying. Because it is impure for me to hold the child, I created a child just like it." The Princess said, "I cannot believe that word. If so, you must create a child again, for me to look at it." Thereupon the ascetic said, "According to the difficulty there is for you to rear one child, when there are three how much difficulty [will there be]!" "No matter. [Please] create and give me it; I can rear it." Thereupon, the ascetic plucked a flower, and having performed an Act of Truth, when he put it on the stick platform a child was created just like it. Thereafter, the Princess having been pleased, reared the children. The children having grown up, walked in the midst of the forest, seeking ripe fruits, and having come back the children gave them to their mother, and [then] began to eat. One day, at the time when these three are going walking, they met with a great river. When they looked, on the other bank of the river a great vegetable garden is visible. Thereupon these three having said [to each other], "Can you swim?" swam a considerable distance, and came back, saying, "Let us come to-morrow morning." Having gone seeking a very few ripe fruits, they gave them to their mother. On the following day, early in the morning, taking bows and arrows, the whole three went to the edge of the river. Having gone [there], and the whole three having gone swimming to the vegetable garden, when they looked many kinds of ripe fruits were [there]. Thereafter, these three having plucked [some], at the time when they are eating them the gardeners who watch the garden saw them, and having come running, prepared (lit., made) to seize them. Thereupon these three, taking their bows, prepared to shoot. The gardeners bounded off, and having gone running, told it at the hand of the King. These three having eaten as much as possible, [after] plucking a great many crossed over [the river], and went away. At that time the King said to the gardeners, "Should these thieves come to-morrow also, let me know very speedily." The following day, also, those three persons came, and at the time when they are plucking [the fruit], the gardeners went and told him. Thereupon the King, taking bows and arrows, came and shot at them. When he shot, the arrow having gone, when near these Princes turned (lit., looked) back, and fell down. Thereafter, that party shot at the King. Then also, in the very [same] way, the arrow having gone, when near the King turned (looked) back, and fell down. Thereupon, the whole two parties, after having come near [each other], spoke, "This was a great wonder. The circumstance that out of the two parties no one was struck, is a great wonder. Because of it, let us, the whole two parties, go near the panditayas [for them] to explain this." Thereupon, the whole of the two parties having gone, told the panditayas this circumstance that had occurred. Then the panditayas, having explained it, said to the King, "You, Sir, now above three or four years ago, summoned a Princess [in marriage]. The Princess's, indeed, are these three, the children born to you, Sir. Because of it, the Gods have caused this to be seen. Go, and summoning the Princess from the place where she is, [be pleased] to come," the panditayas said to the King. Thereafter, the King having remembered her, at that moment decorating a ship, with the sound of the five musical instruments he went into the midst of the forest in which is that Princess; and having come back [after] calling the Princess, the Princess, and the three Princes, and the King remained at the garden, it is said. North-western Province. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 9, a Prince mounted on a magic wooden flying-horse that a friend of his, a carpenter's son, had brought to the palace, and flew away on it. The carpenter promised that it would return in two months. The Prince alighted by moonlight on a palace roof five hundred leagues away, and fell in love with a Princess whom he saw there. After they had conversed, he flew off, fixed the horse in pieces amid the branches of a large tree, and stayed at a widow's house, returning each night to the palace. In the end he was arrested and condemned to death. When the executioners were about to hang him he got permission to climb up the tree, put the horse together, sailed back to the palace, and carried off the Princess to his father's home. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 158, a Prince who had stolen a magic bed which transported those who sat on it wherever desired, visited a Princess at night by means of it, and afterwards married her. In the same work, p. 208, a Prince and Princess saw each other at a fair. While the Prince watched her from his tent, she took a rose in her hand, put it to her teeth, stuck it behind her ear, and lastly laid it at her feet. The Prince could not understand her meaning, but a friend explained it, and said that she intended him to know that her father's name was Raja Dant (King Tooth), her country the Karnatak (karna = ear), and her own name Panwpatti (Foot-leaf). In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 487, it is stated that while Sita, the wife of Rama, was dwelling at Valmiki's hermitage with her infant son Lava, she took the child with her when she went to bathe one day. The hermit, thinking a wild beast had carried it off, created another child resembling it, from kusa grass, and placed it in the hut. On her return he explained the matter to her, and she adopted the infant, to which the name Kusa was given. In the same work, vol. ii, p. 235, a girl who came to bathe gave signals to a Prince by means of a lotus flower, which she put in her ear, and then twisted into the form of an ornament called dantapatra, or tooth-leaf. After this she placed another lotus flower on her head, and laid her hand on her heart. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 215, a Princess covered her face with lotus petals, and held up an ivory box to be seen by a Prince who was looking at her. By these signals he learnt her name and that of her city. He went to the city, visited her each day in a magic swing, and at length they eloped and were married. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 110, a wood-carver's son fashioned a hollow flying Garuda (possibly in the form of a Brahminy Kite), inside which a friend whose wife had been abducted flew to the Khan's palace where she was detained, and brought her away. In the same work, p. 316, a Princess made signals to a King's young Minister as follows: She raised the first finger of her right hand, then passed the other hand round it, clasped and unclasped her hands, and finally laid one finger of each hand beside that of the other hand, and pointed with them towards the palace. In the Maha Bharata and Ramayana javelins or arrows are sometimes represented as returning to the sender, who in such cases was a being possessing supernatural power. Thus, according to one story of Daksha's sacrifice, when the energy of a dart thrown by Rudra at Vishnu was neutralised, it returned to Rudra. In the fight between Karna and Arjuna some arrows which the former discharged returned to him (Karna Parva, lxxxix.). In performing an Act of Truth such as is mentioned in this story, the person first states a fact and then utters a wish, which in reality is a conjuration, the efficacy of which depends on the truth of the foregoing statement. Thus, in the Jataka No. 35 (vol. i, p. 90) the Bodhisatta in the form of a helpless quail nestling [23] extinguished a raging bush fire that was about to destroy it and other birds, by an Act of Truth, which took this form:-- "With wings that fly not, feet that walk not, Forsaken by my parents here I lie! Wherefore I conjure thee, dread Lord of Fire, Primæval Jataveda, turn! go back!" The account then continues: "Even as he performed his Act of Truth, Jataveda [the Fire Deity] went back a space of sixteen lengths; and in going back the flames did not pass away to the forest, devouring everything in their path. No; they went out there and then, like a torch plunged in water." There are several other examples in the Jataka stories, and one in No. 83 in this volume. In the first volume, p. 140, the Prince cut in two the gem through the efficacy of an Act of Truth expressed in a slightly different form: "If so-and-so be true, may so-and-so happen." This is the usual type of the conjuration; it occurs also in the story numbered 11. See also the Mahavansa, Professor Geiger's translation, p. 125, footnote. Other examples are given in the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 330, vol. ii, p. 82; Sagas from the Far East, p. 47; Von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 284; Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. ii, pp. 358, 396; and in the Maha Bharata. In chapter xvii. of the Mahavansa (Professor Geiger's translation, p. 118), King Tissa proved the authenticity of the collar-bone relic of Buddha by an asseveration of this kind. In chapter xviii. (p. 125), the Emperor Asoka severed the branch of the Bo-tree at Gaya, in order to send it to Ceylon, by an Act of Truth, previously drawing a magic line with a pencil of red arsenic round the branch to mark the place where it was to break off. In chapter xxv. (p. 171), King Duttha-Gamani by similar means is said to have caused the armour of his troops to take the colour of fire, so that they might be discriminated from the Tamils whom he was fighting. With regard to the messages given by signals, the reader may remember Rabelais' account of the argument by signs between Panurge and Thaumaste (Pantagruel, cap. xix.). Kandian girls make almost imperceptible signals to each other. If without moving the head the eyes be momentarily directed towards the door, the question is asked, "Shall we go out?" An affirmative reply is given by an expressionless gaze, a negative one by closing the eyes for an instant. NO. 82 THE PRINCES WHO LEARNT THE SCIENCES At a certain city there is a King, it is said. There are four Princes (sons) of the King, it is said. At the time when he told the four persons to learn the sciences that are [known] in that country, they were unable to learn the sciences. After that, the King, bringing a sword, told them to [go elsewhere and] learn the sciences [or he would kill them]. So all the four Princes, tying up a bundle of cooked rice, went away, and having gone to yet a city and sat down at a halting-place (ruppayak), the eldest Prince said, "At the time when we are coming back we must assemble together at this very halting-place." After that, the eldest Prince arrived (baehunaya) at a city. At the time when he asked, "What is the science that is [known] in this city?" they said, "In this city there is sooth." "You must go and send me to the house where they say sooth," he said. Then they went and sent him. The Prince learnt sooth. The next (etanama) Prince arrived (baessa) at a city. He asked, "What is the science that is [known] in this city?" "In this city there is theft," they said. "Please go and conduct me to the house where theft is [known]," he said. That one learnt theft. The next Prince went and arrived at a city. "What is the science that is [known] in this city?" he asked. "Archery is [known] in this city," they said. "Please go and send me to the house where there is archery," he said. They went and sent him. That one learnt archery. The next Prince went and arrived at a city. "What is the science that is [known] in this city?" he asked. "In this city there is carpenter's work," they said. "Please go and send me to the house where there is carpenter's work," he said. That one learnt carpenter's work. After that, the soothsayer [Prince] looked into the sooth, [to ascertain] on what day the other three persons would come. When he looked, it appeared that on the very day when the eldest Prince comes back the other three persons also will come. The eldest Prince having set off and come, returned to the halting-place (ruppe) at which they stayed that day. Having come, while he was there the other three also came and arrived at that halting-place. "What is the science you learnt?" they asked from the eldest Prince. "I learnt sooth," he said. They asked the next Prince, "What is the science you learnt?" "I learnt theft," he said. They asked the next Prince, "What is the science you learnt?" "I learnt archery," he said. They asked the young Prince, "What is the science you learnt?" "I learnt carpenter's work," said the young Prince. The three persons asked the eldest Prince, "What is there at our house?" Then he said, "On the Palmira-tree a female crow (kawadi), having laid three eggs, is sitting on them," he said. "What is missing from our house?" they asked. "The Rakshasa having taken the King's Queen to that [far] shore of the sea, [after] putting her in the middle room (lit., house) in the midst of seven, [24] has put the seven keys in his mouth," he said. After that, the whole seven came to the city. The King having come rubbing (whetting) a sword, asked the eldest Prince, "What is the science you learnt?" "I learnt sooth," he said. He asked the next Prince, "What is the science you learnt?" "I learnt theft." He asked the next Prince; "I learnt archery." He asked the youngest Prince, "What is the science you learnt?" "I learnt carpenter's work," he said. Having said, "It is good," the King asked, "What is there at my house?" "On the Palmira-tree a female crow is sitting on three eggs," [the eldest Prince] said. "What is lost from my house?" he asked, to look [if he knew]. "The Rakshasa having gone away, and put the King's Queen in the middle house (room) in the midst of seven, has placed the seven keys in his mouth," he said. "Doer of theft, without the female crow's flying away, while it is [sitting there] in that manner, take an egg, and come back," he said. Without the crow's flying away, while it was [sitting] in that manner he took an egg, and came back. Having caused the egg to be buried under the rice winnowing tray, he said, "Archer, without swerving to that side or this side, shoot [for the arrow] to go cutting it quite across." He shot so as to go quite across. "Doer of carpenter's work, fasten this [egg] in the very manner in which it was [at first]," he said. He fastened it in the very way in which it was. "Robber, without the crow's flying (padinne), go and place [the egg in the nest], and come back," he said. He went and placed it [in the nest], and came back. "Can you bring back this Queen?" he asked. "We can," they said. The whole four persons having gone, the thief went into the [Rakshasa's] house, and brought out the Queen successfully. When he was bringing her the Rakshasa was asleep. Taking the Queen, they came away. When they were coming, they told [the soothsaying Prince] to look by [means of] sooth [what the Rakshasa was doing]. Still he slept. Having come very far in that way, they told him to look [again]. "He is now coming on the path," he said. When they were returning thus, [the Rakshasa], having come quite near, sprang at them. At that very time the archer shot [at him; the arrow] having gone cutting his neck, he fell. The ship in which they had gone was damaged (tuwala wuna). The carpenter made [the damage good]. Then, [after crossing the sea] they brought the Rakshasa's head and the Queen, and gave them to the King. Thereupon the King gave them the sovereignty. Then the soothsayer says, "[The sovereignty ought to belong to me]. Through my looking at the sooth, indeed, ye will get the country, [if ye receive it]," he said. Then the thief says, "[The sovereignty ought to belong to me]. It was necessary that I should go and take [the Queen] successfully from the Rakshasa. [If ye get it], it is owing to me that ye will get the country," he said. Then the archer says, "[The sovereignty ought to belong to me]. When the Rakshasa came in order to go [after] eating you, through my having shot him and killed him ye will get the country [if ye receive it]." Then the Carpenter says, "[The sovereignty ought to belong to me]. Your ship having broken, by my fastening it [together] at the time when it was becoming rotten, ye will get the country [if ye receive it]." Afterwards they gave the sovereignty to the eldest Prince. Bintaenna, Uva Province. THE NOBLEMAN [25] AND HIS FIVE SONS. (Variant a.) In a city there are five sons of a nobleman. In yet [another] city there is a Princess without both parents. The Princess is a person possessing many articles. Having thought that when the eldest son of the nobleman went there she must make him stop [there], and having spoken with the Princess's kinsfolk [regarding it], the eldest son having gone near the Princess she caused him to remain. After he stayed there many days, this Princess asks this nobleman's son, "What do you know of the sciences?" Then he says, "I don't know a single one." Having said, "If so, you cannot stay near me; go you away," she drove him away. This nobleman's son came home. The nobleman asks his son, "What have you come for?" "The Princess asked me, 'What do you know of the sciences?' I said, 'I don't know anything.' 'If so, you cannot stay near me,' she said. Because of that I came," he said. Immediately, this nobleman says to all his five sons, "Unless you five learn five sciences, without [doing so] don't come to my house." Having said it he drove them away. Thereupon, these five persons went to five cities, and learning five sciences, after much time came home. [One was a soothsayer, the second was a marksman, the third a thief, the fourth made very rapid journeys, and the fifth could bring the dead to life.] This nobleman, after that having summoned the eldest son, asked, "What is the science that thou knowest?" "I know [how] to tell sooth," he said. To look at this one's knowledge, the nobleman, having seen that a female crow had laid eggs in a tree, said, "Should you tell me the sooth that I ask, you are [really] an astrologer." Having given his son betel he asked it [mentally]. After he asked it, this one says, "Father, you have asked me if a female crow has laid eggs in a tree. Is it not so?" he asked. Thereupon, the nobleman said to the one who was able to shoot, "Come here. Without the female crow's knowing it, and without breaking the egg, shoot thou so that it may become marked [only],--an egg out of the eggs that are in that nest," he said. The nobleman's son having said, "It is good," shot in the manner he told him. Then this nobleman, having summoned the thief, says, "Go thou, and without the crow's knowing, bring thou only the egg which this one shot." Having said, "It is good," he brought that very egg. Then the nobleman said, "Go again, and place thou it [back in the nest]." He said, "It is good," and went and put it [back]. Thereupon, [having called the eldest son again], what sooth did the nobleman ask? Thinking it in his mind [only], he asked, "How are now the happiness and health of the Princess whom you at first summoned [in marriage]?" After he asked, this one having looked at the sooth, says, "The Princess having now died, they have taken her to bury," he said. Thereupon, the nobleman said to the one who is able to go on rapid journeys, "Go, and do not allow them to bury her"; he went accordingly. Then this nobleman said to the one who causes life to be restored, [26] "Go and restore the life of the Princess, and come thou back to my city." Having said, "It is good," this one went, and, causing her life to be restored, the person who made rapid journeys, and the one who caused life to be restored, and the Princess, all three persons, came to the nobleman's city. Thereupon the Prince who caused her life to be restored, says, "I shall take the Princess whose life I caused to be restored." Then the person who went on rapid journeys says, "Unless I had gone quickly, and had not allowed them to bury her, and if they had buried her, how would you take her? Because it is so, I shall take her." Then the soothsayer says, "If I had not looked at the sooth, and told [you about her death], how would you two take her? Because it is so, I shall take her." Then the nobleman says, "Unless I caused the sooth to be looked at, [27] how would you three otherwise take her? Because it is so, I shall take her." Owing to that, these four persons were quarrelling. Now then, out of these four persons, to whom does she belong? According to our thinking, indeed, she belongs to the nobleman. North-western Province. THE SEVEN PRINCES. (Variant b.) At a certain city there are a King and a Queen. There are seven Princes of the King. The King every day [goes] to fish (lit., to lower bait). One day, the Princes having said, "Let us also go to look at the fishing," the King and the seven Princes went to the river to fish. The King having fished three Lullu, [28] gave them into the hand of the seven Princes to bring. The youngest Prince said, "Elder brother, let us put these into the water to look if they go down (sink)." Afterwards they put the three fishes in the water. Two went down; one remained over. Taking that fish, the seven Princes came to the city. Having come, and given it into the hand of the Queen, they said, "Our father the King gave us three Lullu. [29] When we were bringing them younger brother said to us, 'Let us place the three Lullu in the water to look if they go down.' Afterwards we placed them [in it]. Then two Lullu went down; this Lula remained over. Having cooked this one for our father the King, cook for us and give us a packet of rice," they said. The Queen having cooked and placed [ready] the Lula for the King, cooked a packet of rice for the seven Princes, and gave it. After that, the seven Princes, taking the packet of cooked rice, went away. [30] Having thus gone, the whole seven ate the packet of cooked rice near a piece of garden. When the whole seven were going away again, they met with a soothsayer. Then the eldest Prince said, "I must stay near this soothsayer," and having said it he stopped near the soothsayer. When the other six persons were going away, they met with a man who knows the crows' language. After that, the next Prince stayed near the man who knows the crows' language. When the other five were going away they met with a shooter [31]; near the shooter stayed the next Prince. When the other four were going away they met with a plough carpenter; near the carpenter stayed the next Prince. When the other three were going away they met with a ball-playing man; near the ball-playing man stayed the next Prince. When the other two were going away they met with a gang of thieves; both of them stayed near the gang of thieves. A long time the two persons in the gang of thieves remained breaking and breaking into houses. Having been thus and thus, the two persons spoke together: "Seeking articles [to take back with us] let us go to look at our elder brothers." Having said [this, after] getting the articles they came near the Prince who stayed near the man who is striking balls. When they looked he was learning to play at balls better than the ball-playing man. That Prince said, "Let us go to see the other [next] elder brother of ours." Having said [this], the three Princes came near the Prince who remained near the plough-carpenter; when they looked the Prince also was learning to bore (widinda) ploughs better than the plough-carpenter. That Prince said, "Let us go to the place where elder brother is." They came to look at the Prince who remained near the shooter. Having come there, when they looked he, also, was learning to shoot better than the shooter. After that, the Prince said, "Let us go to look at that other elder brother of ours." They came near the Prince who remained near the man who knows the crows' language. Having come there, when they looked he, also, was learning the crows' language better than the man who knows the crows' language. After that, the Prince said, "Let us go near that other elder brother of ours, near the Prince who remained near the soothsayer." The whole of the six Princes having come, when they looked he, also, was learning to say sooth better than the soothsayer. After that, the whole of the seven Princes having [thus] met together, came to the Princes' city. Thereupon, the King and the seven Princes went to the river to bathe. When they were bathing a crow cawed; then the King said, "Who can explain the language of that crow?" Then the Prince who knows the crows' language said, "I can. That cawed, having been at the place where it is roosting on the eggs." Then the King said, "Who can take the eggs by stealth [without disturbing the crow]?" The two who stayed in the gang of thieves having said, "We can," the two Princes taking the crow-eggs gave them to the King. After that the King and the seven Princes having come to the city, the King asked, "Who can say sooth?" The eldest Prince said, "I can," he said. The King said, "Look and find by sooth seven Princesses for you seven persons," he said. Afterwards the Prince having looked by sooth, said, "At such and such a city there is a Princess; at such and such a city there is a Princess." Saying and saying [this], he mentioned separately seven Princesses who are at seven cities. Then the King said, "Who can, [after] stealing them, come with those seven Princesses?" The two who remained in the gang of thieves having said, "We can," that day night having gone and having stolen two and come back, he gave the two Princesses to the eldest elder brother and the next elder brother. On the following day night having gone and having come back [after] stealing a Princess, he gave the Princess to the next elder brother. On the following day they went, and [after] stealing two Princesses for the [next] two persons, thereafter they went back to the very gang of thieves. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. This story is probably defective in parts, and some incidents in the last portion appear to have been omitted,--regarding the ball player, the shooter, and the plough maker. THE ATTEMPT OF FOUR BRAHMANA PRINCES TO MARRY. (Variant c.) A certain Brahmana had a daughter named Candrapati. She was a person endowed with beauty. Four Brahmana Princes having heard of the excellence of her figure, came to try to marry her. The Brahmana her father having inquired what sciences they knew, each one said that he did not know [any]. He said that he could not marry and give the Princess-daughter to them. Thereupon, they four having arrived at shame, came near a travellers' rest-house, and conversing [said], "We four persons having gone separately to districts for learning sciences, [after] three months in succession again let us arrive at this very place." Promising [this], and having looked in the four directions, they departed. In this manner the four of them having arrived each in a different district, and having [become] conversant with the sciences,--looking at omens, going in the sky, abating poison, giving life [anew,--after] three months in succession arrived at the aforesaid travellers' rest-house. Thereafter, they four again departed for taking in marriage the Princess. At that time a Huna (House Lizard) cried. Then the person who was clever at omens told the remaining three persons that a cobra having bitten the Princess, they are taking her to the grave at that time. Thereupon the person who possessed the power of flight through the air, having gone by the power of flight through the air, together with the other three, halted at the grave of the dead body. Then the poison discharger reduced the poison; the other gave her life. Afterwards, while the four of them are one by one boasting of the gain due to themselves, they quarrelled over it. For that reason, not obtaining the Princess, they again went away. North-western Province. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 349, four Brahmana brothers decided to "search through the earth and acquire some magic power." So they separated and went east, west, north, and south, after fixing upon a meeting-place. The rest of the story differs from the Sinhalese one; they met together, found a piece of bone, gave it flesh, hide, limbs, and life, so that it became a lion which killed them. In the same work, vol. i, p. 499, four men wanted to marry a Princess; one was a clever weaver, one a Vaisya who knew the language of beasts and birds, the third a Kshatriya who was an expert swordsman, the fourth a Brahmana who could raise the dead to life. She refused all four, and died after three months, and the Brahmana was unable to restore life to her corpse as she was only human owing to a curse which had come to an end. See also vol. ii, p. 276. In the same work, vol. ii, pp. 242, 258, there are variants in the series of Trivikramasena and the Vetala, the second one being like the Sinhalese tales in several respects. The father promised a girl to a man who had magic power, the mother promised her to one who had knowledge, her brother promised her to a hero. When they all came on the appointed day, she had disappeared. The learned man ascertained that she had been abducted by a Rakshasa, the magician prepared a magic chariot in which all three went to rescue her, and the hero killed the Rakshasa. Each one claimed her in a similar form of words to that employed by the learned man, who said, "If I had not known where this maiden was, how would she have been discovered when concealed?" The King decided that the hero ought to marry her. In the Tota Kahani (Small), p. 51, a carpenter, goldsmith, tailor, and hermit, halting in a forest one night and each working in turn, carved the figure of a beautiful woman, robed it, adorned it, and caused it to be endowed with life. In the morning they quarrelled regarding the ownership of the woman, and all those to whom the matter was referred also claimed her. When the decision was left to a large old tree, "the tree of decision," it burst open, and the woman entering it became wood once more. In the same work, p. 139, three young men saved a merchant's daughter from a fairy who had abducted her. One discovered where she was, the second made a flying wooden horse, on which the third rode and brought her back after killing the fairy. They then quarrelled regarding their claims to marry her. The parrot which related the story considered that she belonged to the last one because he risked his life for her. At p. 157 also, a girl's husband who had vowed to offer his own head to a deity in case he married her, decapitated himself at the temple. A Brahmana who entered feared he would be charged with murdering him, and cut off his head also. The girl came, and was about to follow their example when a voice from the shrine informed her that if she joined the heads to the trunks the two persons would be restored to life. In doing this she misplaced the heads, and both persons then claimed her. The parrot was of opinion that she belonged to the man with her husband's head. There is a variant in the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 261, the second man being the girl's brother. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 109, five companions went in search of the sixth, whose life-index tree had withered. One found him buried under a rock; the second, a smith's son, broke it and took out the body; the third, a doctor's son, made a potion which caused it to revive. The five then helped the man to recover his wife, who had been abducted by a Khan, and each one claimed her as his reward. In their struggle for her she was torn in pieces. In the same work, p. 299, four youths, working in turn, made a girl out of wood and gave her a soul; each one claimed her. The decision was that she belonged to the fourth, who gave the figure life. In this work, p. 277, it is stated that Prince Vikramaditya learnt from robber bands the art of robbery, and from fraudulent dealers to lie. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 93, Prince Abhaya, son of Bimbisara, King of Magadha, is stated to have learnt coach-making; another son, Jivaka, became a celebrated doctor. A full account of him is given in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 331ff. Sir R. Burton stated that, according to ancient Mohammedan practice, all rulers should learn a handicraft. (Arabian Nights, Lady Burton's ed., vol. i, p. 339, note). In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 110, a Prince who had been trained by an expert robber stole the egg from under a hawk while it sat on its nest, without disturbing the bird. There are West African variants of the Sinhalese tale. One from the coast provinces on the north side of the Congo is given in Notes on the Folklore of the Fjort (Dennett), p. 33. A hunter who had three wives was killed while hunting. The first wife dreamt of this, the second guided the others to the spot, the third collected simples and revived him. When they quarrelled regarding the one to whom his life was due, and it was settled that the one whose food he ate first should be considered his preserver, he ate the food of the third wife, and the majority of the people approved of his decision. In the same work, p. 74, the beautiful daughter of Nzambi, the Earth Goddess, could only be won by an earthly being who could bring down the heavenly fire. The spider went to fetch it, assisted by the tortoise, rat, woodpecker, and sandfly. Each of the animals afterwards claimed the girl, and in the end, Nzambi, as she could not give her to all, paid each one her value, and the girl remained unwed. A variant of the Sierra Leone district is given in Cunnie Rabbit, Mr. Spider, and the Other Beef (Cronise and Ward), p. 200. A man who had four young sons was killed while hunting. The sons heard the story from their mother when they were full grown, and went in search of him. The eldest found his gun and bones, the second collected and joined them, the third re-made the body with mud, the youngest blew up the nose through a charmed horn, and he became alive. The narrator stated that it has been impossible to decide to whom of the three his restoration to life was due. NO. 83 THE STORY OF KALUNDAWA In a certain country there were a Gamarala and Gama-mahage (his wife). There were seven daughters of the Gamarala's; there was no male child. Taking another male child, they reared him for themselves. This child was very thoroughly doing the work at the Gamarala's house. Thereafter, after he became big, they asked at the hand of the Gamarala's daughters, "Who is willing to marry this child?" All [the elder ones] said, "We don't want that scabby filthy one," but there was willingness [on the part] of the last young one. The two persons having married, the other six began to treat this young one harshly, but she did not take to heart (lit., mind) the things they are saying. While they are thus, the Gamarala's son-in-law went to a smithy to get a digging hoe made. He said to the smith, "Ane! Make and give me a digging hoe." Although the smith took no notice of it, yet for many days he went again and again. He did not make and give the digging hoe. One day, at the time when the smith was eating cooked rice, having put into the heat a piece of iron refuse which this person had thrown away, he began to blow the skins (bellows). Then the figure of a great lion having come to the smith, he came running, leaving the cooked rice and food, and when he looked, having seen that very valuable iron is becoming hot, in an instant he made the digging hoe and gave it. Thereafter, the smith said to the Gamarala, "This child is a very virtuous royal Prince. To this one, without delay a kingdom is about to descend." This boy again one day went to another man to ask for (borrow) a yoke of oxen. When he went there the man said, "I cannot to-day; come to-morrow." [32] The man brought him there many days. He did not give the yoke of oxen: "There are no oxen with me to give," [he said]. Well then, this one in sorrow came to his house. Although two [semi]-wild male buffaloes of the Gamarala's are staying on two hills, no one is able to catch them. Thereafter, this one, taking a yoke and having gone to the rice field, performed an Act of Truth. [33] Having set up the yoke in the grass, he said, "The sovereignty will fall to me indeed. The wild one on that hill and the wild one on this hill, to-morrow morning must have presented [themselves] neck by neck to this yoke." Thereafter, on the following day morning, he said to this one's wife, "Taking a little food, come to the rice field; I am going to plough." Then the woman said, "Where have you cattle to plough?" Having said it, she laughed. This one said, "There will be a yoke of cattle for me in the rice field." Having gone to the field, when he looked, both the wild buffaloes had come, presenting their necks to the yoke. Well then, this one having tied the yoke began to plough. His wife having come to the rice field taking the food, when she looked, saw that this one is ploughing. Afterwards, having gone near the yoke, she said, "There will be much weariness; be good enough to eat a little food." Thereafter, having stopped the yoke of cattle, and gone to a shade [after] washing off the mud, and having eaten the food, through weariness he placed his head on the waist pocket of his wife a little time, and went to sleep. While he was sleeping there a little time a dream appeared: on the yoke a hive of Bambara bees has been fastened. Then having awoke, he said to the woman, "Ane! Bolan, in a dream a hive of Bambaras was fastened on the yoke; look." Then the woman laughed and said, "If so, a kingdom will fall to you now." When he had been [sleeping] there again a little time, [he said], "Ane! Bolan, maggots [34] fell on the great toe of my foot; look." At that, also, this woman laughed, and said, "If so, you will receive the sovereignty now." When he was there [asleep] a little time again, the clods (hi kaeta) which this one ploughed up appear to be of silver colour. Again he said to the woman, "The plough clods are silver colour; look." At that, also, this woman laughed, and said, "If so, you will receive the sovereignty immediately." Again, when he had been sleeping, he said, "Ane! Bolan, I hear a great noise; look." At that, also, this woman having laughed, says, "Fetching you to go, they are coming to appoint you to the sovereignty." Again, when he had been sleeping, he said, "Ane! Bolan, I hear the noise very near this; look." This woman says, "Ane! There is nothing to be seen. On account of the three worlds [35] that you ploughed your head is made crazy. Be good enough to sleep a little time without speaking." When a little time had gone again, she awoke him: "The sound of the five kinds of tom-toms, [36] and the decorated tusk elephant are coming. Be pleased to arise quickly." Just as this one was awaking, the tusk elephant having come, kneeled down. Thereafter, having caused this one to bathe in scented sandal-wood water, having put on him the royal ornaments, and having put in that very manner the ornaments on his wife also, they placed both of them on the back of the tusk elephant. As they were going, he caused the smith to be brought, and impaled him. Having caused the person who did not give the yoke of buffaloes to be brought, he heated cow-dung, and having held both his lips to both sides, he poured it down his throat. As he was going near the house of the Gamarala, the King said, for the Gamarala's daughters to hear:-- Kalundawa pinma kale. Kalundawa performed very meritorious acts. Kalu undae pin no-kale. The agreeable ones performed not meritorious acts. North-western Province. NO. 84 HOW THE POOR PRINCE BECAME KING In a certain country there was a Prince, [the son] of a poor King, it is said. The Prince went to another country to learn letters. Having gone there, and in no time learning his letters, he said to the teacher, "I must go to my village." Afterwards the teacher gave him permission. After that, while the Prince was coming to the city, the Prince having become hungry, remained sleeping near a tree. A man having come there said, "What, Prince, art thou sleeping there for? It is not good to sleep there; [be pleased] to get up," he said. Then the Prince said, "I cannot even get up. I am hungry; because of it, indeed, I have fallen down here." Then the man says, "Well, then, what shall I do? In my hand also there is not a thing to give for food. There is an Attikka tree [37]; on that Attikka tree the fruit will be ripe. Let us go [for me] to show it to thee." Causing the Prince to arise, and having come near the Attikka tree, that very man, having plucked Attikka and given it to the Prince, after he ate said to the Prince, "Now then, go you along that path. Well, I'm going;" and the man went away. After that, as the Prince also was coming along the path he met with a leopard [standing] across the path. The Prince cannot come [on account of it]. Well then, while the Prince is there a man is coming along in the direction in which the Prince is. Then, as the man would drive this leopard to the Prince, he shouted, and said "Hu," and clapped his hands. Then the leopard bounded off and went away. Afterwards that man having come near the Prince, asked, "Prince, where art thou going?" The Prince says, "Having gone in this manner to learn letters, I am going to my city." Then the man says, "Going to the city does not matter to you. Come, to go with me." The Prince says, "How shall I go in that way? My parents will seek me. Because of it, having gone to the city, and asked at the hand of my parents I will come," he said. Then the man said, "I will be of the assistance that parents are of. You come with me." Afterwards the Prince went with the man. Having gone, they went to a city. Staying at a resting-place at the city, and doing hired work in the city, the two persons are getting their living. When they were there no long time, one day the man said to the Prince, "Child, I cannot work in this manner. You go and seeking [materials] for food, come back." Afterwards the Prince from the following day went [alone] for hired work, and [after] finding [and doing] it, returned. In that way for not many days he is getting a living. One day, a King and soldiers came to that city from another country to fight the King of that country, and surrounded the city. After that, the King told the Ministers to go to the battle. The King did not go to the battle. Afterwards the Ministers prepared to go to the battle, taking weapons and implements. Then this Prince said to that man, "Grandfather, I also must go to the fight." Then the man says, "Ane! Child, what battle [is there] for us! We poor men, can we go to fight with a King? You remain silent, doing nothing." Then the Prince said, "No, grandfather, I can fight very well." The man still said "Don't." Then the Prince says, "Grandfather, however much you should say 'Don't,' I am indeed going." Having said [this] the Prince went when the Ministers were going. Having gone there and waited for the fight, when on both sides they were making ready, this Prince said at the hand of the Ministers, "Give [38] me a weapon from those which you brought, for me to remain for the fight." Then the Ministers say, "What fighting dost thou know? Do thou be silent, doing nothing." Having said it, they scolded the Prince. After that, the Prince having bounded to one side, remained doing nothing. Then, having begun the battle, they were fighting; on this side many Ministers were cut down. [After] cutting them down, this side is coming to lose. The Prince having seen it, taking a weapon of that dead Minister's, fought and cut down the King and army of that side; and this side having conquered, the Ministers and the remaining people and this Prince came to the city. The Ministers having come to the royal palace, said to the King, "Many of our army died." Then the King asked, "If so, owing to whom did you win in this battle?" The Ministers said, "A youngster went with us. It is owing to the youngster, indeed, that we conquered." Afterwards the King asked, "Where is the boy?" As the Prince was here he went before the King. The King asked, "From what country camest thou?" The Prince said, "I am a stranger." Then the King asked, "What dost thou want done?" The Prince said, "I will take anything I receive." After that the King gave him villages, gave goods. After that, staying in these villages, that man and the Prince, both of them, were obtaining a livelihood from the goods. At the time when they were [there], the King had become very aged. While he was thus the King died. For the King there was neither a Prince nor anyone. Because of it, at the time when the Ministers, decorating the tusk elephant, are going in the four streets with the sound of the five musical instruments, the tusk elephant, having gone to the house at which are that Prince and the man, kneeled near that Prince. Having been [there] at the time when it was kneeling, the Ministers, causing the Prince to bathe in scented water, and placing the Prince on the tusk elephant, came to the royal palace, [and he became King]. Until the end of the Prince's life he remained exercising the sovereignty. The man who stayed with the Prince having become the Minister to the King, stayed in the palace itself. North-western Province. NO. 85 HOW THE GARDENER BECAME KING In a certain city there is a King, it is said. The King told them to plant a garden. After that, he said, "Can anyone (kata) plant a garden?" One man said, "I can." Every day the King gave the things the man wanted. The man, cutting channels and fixing the fence, began to plant the garden; he set various kinds [of plants] in the garden. After that, the King went to look at the garden; he saw that there were various kinds of sugar-cane, sweet oranges, mandarin oranges, in the garden. The King said to the gardener that he must look well after the garden. In that way, after not many days, the King said to the gardener, "Take bows and arrows; should thieves come, shoot them." Thereupon, by the authority of the King, he was thinking of shooting should they come in from outside. Not many days after that, the King said to the Adikarama (Minister), "Let us go to the garden [secretly] to look into the examination [of it made] by the gardener." Then the Adikarama said, "The order made by Your Honour is [that he is] to shoot thieves. It is not good for us to go." The King said, "That man by this time is asleep." Afterwards the King and the Adikarama, after the foolish King had taken off the royal ornaments, that very night, taking the disguise of thieves, went to the garden. Having gone, they began to pluck oranges. Then the gardener awoke. The man, taking his bow, and having come, shot at the King; when he shot him (widapuhama) the King died. After that, the Adikarama and the gardener spoke together, "What shall we do about this?" Speaking [further] the Adikarama said, "The things that are to happen happened." [39] Having said [this], the Adikarama having told the gardener to cut a hole, when he cut it they buried the King. After that, the Adikarama said to the gardener, "Come, and go to the palace." The two persons having gone to the palace, and [the Minister] having decorated the gardener with the royal insignia (abarana), while he was on the Lion throne all the Chiefs make obeisance. [40] The Adikarama does not make obeisance. Regarding this matter the King thought he must tell him a parable. Having thought so, and having called the Adikarama, he said, "In the midst of the forest there are many kinds of trees. Having cut a tree of good race out of them, and shaved [the bark off] it, and planed it, and done carving work, they take it as a log for a travellers' shed (ambalama). Taking it [there], after they have built the travellers' shed, do both persons possessing lineage and persons of no lineage stay in the travellers' shed?" [41] he asked. When he asked, the Adikarama said, "All persons stay in the travellers' shed." After that, the King said, "[There is] service for persons possessing the Adikarama lineage, service for persons of no lineage, service for [all in] the world." [42] After that, the Adikarama from that day made obeisance to the King. Well then, the King remained exercising the sovereignty quite virtuously (hondinma), without injustice. North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 55, a similar story is given, as related to Mr. K. J. Pohath by a Buddhist monk. According to it, the King visited the garden alone, pretending to steal Kaekiri fruits, and was shot by the gardener. When he was dead the gardener reported the matter to the Adikar, who got the King buried secretly, and proclaimed the gardener King. Some poor people whose lands the Adikar had seized complained to the new King, who held an enquiry, and gave judgment in their favour, remarking, "Adikar, even though it should so happen that I might be obliged to go back to the Kaekiri garden, I cannot say that the lands in dispute belong to you." NO. 86 HOW THE FOOLISH MAN BECAME KING In a certain country there was a Gamarala, it is said. There was a daughter of the Gamarala's. Bringing a son-in-law for the daughter, when he was there for many days the men of the village spoke of going to Puttalam. Then this Gamarala's son-in-law said to the Gamarala, "Father-in-law, I also must go to Puttalam." The Gamarala said, "It is good, son-in-law." After that, the whole of them obtaining occupation in loading sacks, the son-in-law went on the journey, and the Gamarala remained [at home]. The son-in-law, setting off for the journey, at the time when he was going along driving thirty [pack] bulls, met with a company of men going [after] placing sacks on twelve horses. After he met with them this man said, "Ane! Friends, taking my thirty bulls, give me (dilalla) those few horses." Then the men said, "It is good." This man having given the thirty bulls, at the time when he was going along taking the twelve horses, he met with yet a company of men who were going taking two elephants. After that, this man said, "Friends, taking my twelve horses, will you give me those two elephants?" The men said, "It is good." Then this man, having given the twelve horses, at the time when he was going along taking the two elephants, he met with yet some men who were going hunting, taking twelve dogs. Then this man asked, "Friends, taking my two elephants, will you give me those twelve dogs?" The men said, "It is good." After that, this man having given the two elephants, at the time when he was going on taking the twelve dogs he met with a company of potters, taking some pingo (carrying-stick) loads of pots. Then the man asked, "From these twelve dogs taking six, will you give me for cooking in order to eat, a small cooking pot and a large cooking pot?" The men said, "It is good." After that, the man having given six dogs, taking a small cooking pot and a large cooking pot he went hunting with the other six dogs. Having gone into the jungle, and prepared a hearth near an ant-hill, in order, after having cooked, to eat cooked rice, at the time when he was breaking fire-wood a cobra that was in that ant-hill came and bit the man. Then the man swooned owing to the poison's having fallen there. At the time when a Vaedda of another distant place came walking [there] while hunting, he saw that there are six dogs; and having seen that there is a hearth, said, "Why are these six dogs here, and a hearth, without a man?" While he was seeking and looking about, he saw that the man had fallen down. Having seen him, and lifted him up, when he looked [at him] the man was [as though] dead. After that, the Vaedda having said, "What is this man dead for?" When he looked [after] going near the body, there was a wound, and the Vaedda perceived that a snake had bitten him. Ascertaining it, after he had applied medicine the man got up. Then the Vaedda asked, "What happened to you?" This man said, "The journey I came on is thus; the things that happened to me are thus. Having come hunting, and prepared the hearth, in order, after I had cooked here, to eat, when I was breaking firewood a cobra bit me." The Vaedda said, "Come away, and go with me." This man having said, "Ha," the six dogs and the man went with the Vaedda to the Vaedda's city. Having gone there, that day the Vaedda gave him food. During the time while the man was there, that very day night the King of the city died. On the following day morning, there being no person for the sovereignty, [after] decorating the tusk elephant the Ministers went [with it] to seek a King. At the time when they were going, this tusk elephant was going along looking at the Vaedda's house. As it was going, that man whom the cobra bit was lying down in the Vaedda's veranda. The tusk elephant went and knelt near the man. After that, the Ministers, having told this man to get up, when he arose bathed him with perfumed water, and having decorated him with the royal crown, placing him on the back of the tusk elephant went to the palace. After he went there, the King caused the Vaedda to be brought, and said, "Owing to you, indeed, I attained to such exalted things." Having said, "Because of it, receive the post of Adikarama (Minister)," he appointed the office of Adikarama to the Vaedda. Having given him it, he remained up to the end of his life exercising the sovereignty with the ten [royal] virtues. North-western Province. NO. 87 THE FOOLISH MAN In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. There are two daughters of the two persons. They gave one daughter [in marriage]. The man at the place where they gave the daughter had suitable things. A very rich man having come, asked the other daughter [in marriage]. Then the girl's father said, "I will not give her to you; the lineage (wanse) of your people is not good." After that another man came and asked. The man had nothing; his lineage alone was good. The girl's mind was to go to the man who formerly came and asked, [but she was given to the second one]. Well then, when the girl [after her marriage] is without [sufficient] to eat and to wear, one day the girl's father went to see the girl. Afterwards, having given the man sitting accommodation, [43] and got the fire together, and put a potsherd on the hearth, she put tamarind seeds in the potsherd, and they began to fry, making a sound, "Kas, kas." Then the girl's father says, "What, daughter, are you frying?" The girl said, "Father, I am frying our lineage, [the only thing we possess]." After that, anger having come to the man, he got up, and came to his village. Having come there, on the following day, he went to the place where the other daughter is. When he went there, the daughter, having cooked the sweetmeats called Wellawaehun for the father, gave him to eat. He had not eaten them since he was born. That day, having eaten, when he was coming to his village saying and saying, "Wellawaehun, Wellawaehun," in order not to forget the name of them, his foot struck a stone that was on the path. Then the man was caused to exclaim "Hobbancodi" [44]; "Wellawaehun" was forgotten. From there until the time when he comes to his village, having come saying and saying "Hobbancodi, Hobbancodi," he says to his wife, "Bolan, to-day in our girl's quarter I ate Hobbancodi. The taste is very good; you cook them, too." Thereupon the woman says, "Ane! I have not even heard of them since I was born, so how shall I cook them?" Then the man, saying and saying, "What, Bola! Strumpet! Do you say you don't know? I ate them now, and came." While the two old people are quarrelling about this, men of the village having come, a man said, "She indeed is doing all this, bringing her mouth like a Wellawaehun roll." "There! I [meant to] say those indeed," the man said. After that, they two, having joined together, cooked five Wellawaehun rolls. Thereupon the man said, "There are three for me, two for you." The woman, too, said, "There are three for me, two for you." They two being unable to divide these, made an agreement, that is, "Let us two remain without speaking. For the person who speaks first there are two," they agreed. Being satisfied with it, having shut the door, they lay down. While they are lying down thus, perceiving that there was not any sound of them, the men of the village came, and having spoken to the door, finding that there was no sound they said, "These will have died." Having split open the door and gone into the house, at the time when they looked they remained as though dead. After that, in order to carry them to bury, men tied their hands and feet. The man, while they are tying his feet, having got hurt, said, "Uwah." Thereupon the woman said, "There are two for you." Scolding and scolding these two persons for their act, the men went away. The first part of this story belongs to the North-western Province; the middle part is found in the Western Province also, to which, also, the latter part belongs. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 237, Mr. H. White mentioned that a story about the frying of the family honour is contained in a work called Atita-vakya-dipaniya. In that instance apparently the pan which was placed on the fire was empty. In the same Journal, vol. i, p. 136, a variant of the latter part of the tale is given by Miss S. J. Goonetilleke. Twenty-five idiots were employed by a Gamarala, and it was their duty to provide plantain leaf plates for the other servants and themselves. One day they decided that they gave themselves unnecessary trouble in doing work which a single person could perform, so it was settled that all should sleep, and that the man who first opened his eyes or uttered a sound should cut all the leaves. When the leaves were not forthcoming at the meal-time the Gamarala and his men went in search of the idiots, and being unable to arouse them, thought they were dead and dug a grave for them. One after another they were thrown into it in silence, but as they were being covered with earth a digging tool struck one on the leg, causing him to utter an involuntary groan. The others instantly arose and told him that henceforth he must provide all the leaf plates. In the stories appended to the Pantcha-Tantra of the Abbé Dubois, a man at night disputed with his wife as to whether men or women are the greater chatterboxes, and each wagered a betel leaf that the other would speak first. As they did not appear next day, the door of their apartment was broken open, and the two were found sitting up but deprived of speech. It was concluded that they were suffering from some inimical magic, for which a Brahmana recommended the application of heated gold to their bodies. The man was burnt on his sole, above the knees, at both elbows, on the stomach, and on the crown of the head, and bore it in silence; but when the woman was burnt on the sole she cried, "Appa! That is enough," and handed her husband the betel leaf. In Folklore in Southern India (Pandit Natesa Sastri), p. 277, (Tales of the Sun, p. 280), a beggar and his wife who had been at a feast at which they ate muffins (tosei), cooked five muffins, and agreed that whoever opened an eye or spoke first should have only two of them. They then bolted the door and lay down. After three days the villagers entered by the roof and saw that the couple were apparently dead. They were carried to the cremation ground, placed on two pyres which were raised, and lights were applied. When the fire reached the man's leg a voice came from his pyre, "I shall be satisfied with two muffins." From the other pyre a voice replied, "I have gained the day; let me have the three." When the villagers heard the story, it was decided that, having apparently died and been on the funeral pyre, they could not return to the village or it would perish, so a separate hut was built for them. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 14, a farmer and his wife who disputed regarding the shutting of the door, agreed that it should be closed by the one who spoke first. After a wild dog had eaten their food, the barber called, shaved the man's head and half his beard and moustache, and blackened him with lamp-black. When the wife, who had gone out, returned and asked what he had been doing, she was told that it was she who must close the door. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 209, a man and his wife made three cakes; each ate one, and they agreed that the first who spoke should allow the other to eat the third cake. Robbers broke in, began to collect all the goods in the house, and at last seized the wife. The man still did not utter a word; when the woman cried out and scolded him, he said, "Wife, it is certainly I who have gained the cake." NO. 88 THE STORY OF MARIRALA In a country a man near the [New] Year spoke to the people of the village: "To bring palm sugar let us go to the quarter where there is palm sugar." "It is good," a few people said. Having said "I am going to-morrow," and having plucked fifty coconuts and removed the husks, he placed them in the corner in the house. On the following day morning, bringing the pingo stick and two sacks outside, and having broken [open] the sacks, and placed them below the raised veranda, when he was going into the house to bring the coconuts [his] wife said, "Stop and eat cooked rice. Be good enough to tie the pingo load." Having said, "If so, give me the cooked rice at the raised veranda," at the time when he was eating the cooked rice his relatives brought a coconut apiece; when they said, "Bring and give each of us also a packet of palm sugar," he replied, "Put them into those sacks." Subsequently, having eaten cooked rice and arisen, at the time when, having lifted the two sacks, he looked at them, there were collected together [in them coconuts] to the extent that he can carry. Subsequently, taking from his house, for expenses [on the journey], rice and two coconuts, having put them in a sack he tied up the pingo load. Afterwards, having called up the people who are going [with him], taking the pingo load he set off and went. Having gone many gawwu (each of four miles) in number, [after] exchanging [the coconuts for] palm sugar, he came back to the village. On the following day morning, having summoned the people of the village who gave the coconuts, and looked at the account according to the manner in which they gave the coconuts, he apportioned and gave [the packets of palm sugar] to them. Subsequently, at the time when he looked in the sack there was [left] one packet of palm sugar. When he inquired about it and looked, he perceived that it was exchanged for one out of the two coconuts that he carried for expenses. Afterwards having gone into the house, when he looked [there] having seen that there was [still] in the corner the heap of coconuts which he had husked for carrying, [and that he had taken only his relatives' coconuts, and left his own at home], he said, "Apoyi! What is the thing that has happened to me!" and struck blows on his breast. Then his wife got to quarrelling with him. Unable [to bear] the worry, having gone running to the pansala that was near he told the Lord (monk) the whole of these matters that occurred. "A barterer, [45] a fool like you, there is nowhere whatever in this country," the Lord said. Beginning from that time (taen), until he dies everybody called him Mariya (Barterer). North-western Province. NO. 89 THE INVISIBLE SILK ROBE [46] A Brahmana having told some men to come from a certain city, and having praised the robes which the King of the city is wearing, this Brahmana made seven stanzas, and gave them to those seven men. Those very seven men having taken the seven stanzas and gone, employed yet [another] Brahmana and got them explained. Should you say, "How was the meaning?" it was praise of the copper [coloured] silk robe which the King of that city is wearing. After they got this meaning explained, these seven men spoke together, "Let us make up a trick at this place." Speaking [thus] together, they arrived at a city at which there is a foolish King. Arriving [there], they spoke to the King of the city: "Maharaja, what a robe that is which Your Majesty is wearing! We have woven a copper [coloured] silk robe for the King of our city, and given it. It is like the thin silk robes obtained from the divine world. Having looked in the direction of that King, when we looked in your direction you appear like a servant who is near that King," these seven men said. While hearing this word, shame was produced in the King. Having been produced, he thought to himself, "While I also am a King, what is it to me!" Thinking, "Cannot I cause those silk robes to be woven?" he asked, "For [weaving] the silk robes what sort of other things are necessary?" Then the seven men say regarding it, "Having obtained silk thread from good silk yarn (lit., thread), be good enough to give us it. Having constructed a place in your auspicious [47] Sal [trees] garden, you must give us it. You must bring to that place and give us food and drink," they said to the King. Having said it, they said at the very time, "The silk cloth that we weave is not visible to a base-born person. Should he be a well-born (saha-jataka) person it is visible to him," they said to the King. At that time the King having procured silk thread to his mind gave it. The men having taken it to the auspicious Sal garden, and the party putting the thread away, when people come to look at the copper [coloured] silk robes these seven men run there and here in the auspicious Sal [48] garden. The silk robe is not visible; only according to the manner in which these seven persons are running the extent [of it] is visible. Thereupon the men think in their minds, "Because we are base-born this copper [coloured] silk robe is not visible to us." What of their thinking so! Except that each separate person thinks it for himself, no one speaks it. The King sent a messenger for the purpose of looking whether, having woven the robes, they are finished. Having seen that, except that after tying the hand-lines (at-wael) they are causing [their arms] to row (paddanawa), [49] the robe is not visible, [he thought], "Should I say that I do not perceive the robe they will say I am the son of a courtesan." Because of shame at it, the messenger having gone to the royal house, said, "The gang of them having assembled together are weaving a priceless robe. His [50] work is not finished. Having completed the work they will dress Your Honour in the robe," he said. On account of the statement of the messenger, many persons went to look at the robe, but except that they were causing [their arms] to row, the robe was not visible to anyone. The whole of the retinue who came, through fear that they will say they are illegitimate persons, without seeing the robe having said and said, "We perceive it. It is indeed a very costly robe," went away. Having woven for seven days, after the seven days' date which they got to finish in had elapsed, the King went to look at the silk robe. Having gone, when he looked it was not visible to the King also. What of its not [being visible]! He does not tell anyone the word of its not being visible. After that, those men having come, said to the King, "Having woven the copper [coloured] silk robe, it is finished. For you, Sir, with our [own] hands we must robe you in it," they said. "Having got out all the clothes which there are, descended from seven ancestors in succession, you must dress. Having dressed, you must give us all those clothes," they said to the King. The King, having heard the word, taking out all the royal vestments [51] that were of the time of his ancestors, and having adorned himself in a good manner, and driven away everybody, gave the party these clothes and all the other clothes that there were. After he gave them, all the seven men having surrounded him and said that they are putting on the King the copper [coloured] silk dress, began to stroke his body everywhere. They began to stroke the head, having said that they were putting on the crown. They stroked the arms, having said that they were putting on the jacket. In that way having stroked all parts of the body, and having said that they had dressed him, they caused them to bring the King into the middle of the great retinue, and said thus to the citizens: "Neither His Majesty our King nor any person of the retinue dwelling in this city in the olden time before this, either put on a robe in this manner, or saw one. Because of that, the whole of you, [after our] dressing His Majesty the King in this robe, causing His Majesty the King to sit on the festival tusk elephant, and having caused him to perambulate towards the right through all places in the city, again conduct him to the royal house." Having said this, they brought the tusk elephant, and caused the King to sit on the tusk elephant naked; and they began to go in procession to all places of the city. These men, taking [the contents of] this house of the royal insignia (rajabandagare), and having acted deceitfully, and said that they had woven the copper [coloured] silk robe,--because they got [the contents of] the house of the royal insignia when they were going, established for the city the name "[City] of Tambraparnni Island," [52] and went away. This foolish King remained without clothes. North-western Province. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 60, a girl who had promised to prove that the King sometimes lied, invited the King to visit a palace she had built, and to see God there, but stated he was visible only to one person at a time, and only if he was of legitimate birth. The two Ministers first entered successively, saw nothing, and declared that they had seen God inside. The King then entered, and on coming out insisted that he also had seen God there. The girl then convicted him of telling a falsehood, and as usual in folk-tales was married by the King. In Les Avadanas (Julien), No. xxxix, vol. i, p. 150, there is a story of a fool who handed some cotton to a spinner, and begged him to make it into extremely fine thread. The man did so, but the fool thought it too coarse. The spinner became angry, and pointing to the air with his finger, said, "There are extremely fine threads." When the man asked how it was he could not see them, the spinner replied it was because of their extreme thinness, which was such that even the best workmen could not see them, much less a stranger. The fool gave him a fresh order, and paid him handsomely. NO. 90 THE FOOLISH YOUTH In a certain country there are a woman and a man and a youth (their son), it is said. While they were there, the woman having given eight panams [53] to the youth said, "Son, take these eight panams to the shop and bring two plates." After that, the youth taking the eight panams to the shop said to the trader, "Mudalali, give me two plates." The trader, taking two plates, gave them to the youth. The youth said, "How is the price for these plates?" Then the trader said, "For one plate it is seven tuttu (quarter panams); for two plates give me fourteen tuttu (= three and a half panams). After that, the youth says, "Mudalali, are you trying to cheat me? You cannot cheat me. I will not give fourteen tuttu; also I did not bring fourteen tuttu. Mother gave me eight panams. [54] For the eight panams she told me to get two plates. If you will give them for the eight panams, give me two plates." Having said this, and given the eight panams to the trader, while he was coming away, taking the two plates, he met with a gang of thieves. Having met with them, they asked at the hand of the youth, "Where did you go?" Then the youth says, "Having told me to go to the shop to bring two plates, mother gave me eight panams. Taking them, and going to the shop, I asked the price for plates. Well then, the man tried to cheat me. For the two plates he told me to give fourteen tuttu. Also in my hand there were not fourteen tuttu; it was eight panams that I took. Having given the eight panams I am taking home these two plates." Then the men said, "If so, don't you go home. We are going to break [into] a house; come, and go for that." Afterwards the youth, having said "Ha," went with the thieves to break [into] the house. Having gone there and bored a hole through the wall, the thieves said to the youth who went for plates, "Go inside the house and put out into the light both all the things which you can lift and [the things] which you cannot lift. We will take them." After that, the youth, having crept into the house, put out all the things which the youth could lift. Having put them out, the youth could not lift the stone on which coconut was ground. The man who owned the house was sleeping, placing his head on the stone. The youth having shaken the man's body, awoke him. "Get up quickly. To take this stone outside I cannot lift it alone. Take hold of this a little in order to get it out," he said. The man having awoke at once, and seized and tied the youth, caught part of those men; part of them ran off. The thieves who were caught, and the youth, and the man who owned the house, all went for the trial. As they were going on the road, says the youth, "I am not a thief at all. Our mother gave me eight panams to bring two plates from the shop. Having gone to the shop I asked the price for plates. The man tried to cheat me; for two plates he asked fourteen tuttu. I did not give them; also in my hand there were not fourteen tuttu. I only gave eight panams, and taking the two plates, as I was going away I met with these men. Then the men said to me, 'Where did you go?' they asked. 'I went to the shop to get two plates,' I said. Then the men said, 'If so, don't go home. We are going to break [into] a house; you come too.' So I came. Having come there, the men bored a hole through the wall, and said to me, 'Creep you into this. Put outside the things you can lift and the things you can't.' I afterwards crept into the house, and put outside those I could lift. I tried to lift the stone on which your head was placed while you were sleeping. I couldn't lift it, so in order to get it out I awoke you. Well then, so much is my fault; I am not a thief. Now then, if you are going to put me in prison, put me in prison." After that the man said, "I will not put you in prison; doing the work that I tell you, you can stay with me." The boy said, "Ha. I will stay [with you]." After that, having gone for the trial, and put the other thieves in prison, the man came home with that youth. In that very way, doing the work which the man told him, the youth remained a considerable time. One day the man said, "Youth, let us go to cut a [branch for a] plough." The youth said, "Ha, let us go," and taking an axe, the man and the youth went to the forest on the river bank. Having gone there, the man said to the youth, "Cut thou this tree at the root." The youth cut the tree at the root. After he had cut it, the plough of the tree was not good. Afterwards having gone near another tree, when they looked at it there was a good plough in [a branch of] the tree. When they cut the plough it would fall in the river. The man said, "Having gone up this tree, cut thou that plough which is to be seen." [He then left him]. Then the youth having gone up the tree, when he was cutting the root (lower end) of the plough while sitting down [on the branch] at the top (or outer end) of the plough, a certain Lord (Buddhist monk) came. When the Lord looked up at the tree, having seen that the youth sitting at the top of the plough was cutting at the root, he said, "Foolish youth! Why, while you are at the top, are you cutting at the root? When it is cut at the root it will fall together with thee also, will it not, into the river? Sitting at the root [end], chop towards the top." Having said this the Lord went away. The youth said, "What does the Lord know about it? I shall cut it this way." Having said this, as he was chopping and chopping, the plough being cut at the root, the plough and the youth and the axe fell into the water of the river. Then the youth, having got up quickly, walked ashore, taking the axe and the plough. He put down the plough, and taking the axe, ran along the path on which the Lord went. Having run there he overtook the Lord. Having joined him, he said, "Lord, as you said that I should fall into the river you must tell me the day when I shall die. If not, I shall chop you with this axe." The Lord, when he looked, thought that there was no means of saying otherwise; on that account he said, "On the day when a drop of rain has fallen on the crown of thy head thou wilt die." The Lord then went away. After that, the youth, taking the plough, came with the man to the man's house. Having come there, when he had been there a long time, on a certain day a drop of rain fell on the crown of the youth's head, and on that day he died. (The narrator did not know how he died). The details of his death are given in the following variant of the latter part of this story: The monk said, "In such and such a year, in such and such a month, on such and such a day, thou wilt die." From that day until the time when this stated number of years and number of months and number of days had gone, having been looking [into the account], on the stated day, when it became light he said, "To-day, having cooked amply give thou me to eat." Having eaten and finished, he said, "I shall die to-day"; and having said, "Don't anybody speak to me," went into the house, and shutting the door lay down (budiya-gatta). The men who stayed outside from morning until the time when it became evening, remained looking out. There was not any sound from this man. Afterwards they said, "What are we keeping this dead man for? Let us take him and carry him away," and having placed a bamboo [ready], they tied [the bier] to it. Having tied it, they go away, taking it. Between the house and the burial ground there is a hill-rice chena. Because there is no other path to go on, taking him into the chena they hurried on (lit., ran). Then the men who watch the hill-rice chena having been there, said, "What is this, Bola, that you are taking the corpse through the hill-rice chena?" and they scolded them. Then the dead man sat up and said, "Except that I am dead, you should see [what I would do to you]," he said. Then the men who took the corpse said, "Ade! This one is speaking!" and dropped him. Having fallen upon a cut [pointed] stump [it pierced him, and] the man died. North-western Province. To carry a corpse through a chena is considered to be a very inauspicious act, which might have an injurious effect upon the crop. Even to carry through one the tools necessary for digging the grave would meet with strong remonstrances. In one instance, some of my labourers were refused a passage along the footpath in a village because they carried pickaxes and digging hoes, thus appearing, as the villagers objected, like persons who were going to dig a grave. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 136, Miss S. J. Goonetilleke related a story about twenty-five idiots, in which the death prediction occurs. The monk stated that the idiot would die when the third drop of dew fell on his back while he was sheltering under a gourd. The drops fell when he was beneath a frame on which a gourd grew, waiting while some robbers whom he had joined entered a house in order to commit robbery. He bellowed out, "I am dead, I am dead," and they all ran away. In vol. i, p. 121, the editor, the late Mr. W. Goonetilleke, gave the Sinhalese story of the branch cutting, the monk's prediction of the man's death when a drop of water fell on his head from the roof, and his remarks when the bier carriers were scolded by the owner of a garden through which they were about to pass. He also added variants. In one found in an Indian work called Bharataka dva-trinsika (Thirty-two Tales of Mendicant Monks), a stupid monk called Dandaka went to cut a post, and sat on the branch while chopping. Some passing travellers pointed out that when the branch broke he would fall and die; when he fell he therefore believed he must be dead, and lay still. The other monks came to carry him to the cremation ground; but on the way the road bifurcated, and they quarrelled as to which path should be followed. The supposed corpse then sat up and said that when alive he always went by the left road. Bystanders intervened and pointed out that as he had spoken he could not be dead, but Dandaka insisted that he was really dead, and it was only after a long argument that the monks were convinced that he was alive. Mr. Goonetilleke also gave a translation of a similar Turkish story in Meister Nasr Eddin's Schwänke und Räuber und Richter, in which the man was told he would die when his ass eructated the second time. He lay down, believing he was dead. When the bier carriers were doubtful how they should pass a mudhole, the corpse sat up and said that when alive he avoided the place. The editor also added Lithuanian, German, and Saxon variants, as well as an English one related to him by the Rev. S. Langdon, in which, however, the man broke his neck in falling from the tree. In the South Indian account of the Guru Paramarta and his foolish disciples, annexed to the Abbé Dubois' Pantcha-Tantra, p. 305, one of the disciples was cutting a branch when a Purohita Brahmana warned him that he would fall when it broke. After falling he ran after the Brahmana and inquired when the Guru would die. The answer was that cold at the hinder-parts is a sign of death, [55] a remark to which the Guru's death eventually was due. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 89, the warning was given to a weaver by a traveller, who afterwards stated that the man's death would occur when his mouth bled. Some days afterwards the weaver saw in a glass a bit of scarlet thread stuck between his front teeth, concluded that it was blood, and lay down to die, until a customer showed him what it really was. In the same work, p. 139, there is a story of a foolish weaver who went to steal with some thieves. When they told him to look for a suitable pole for raising the thatch of a house, he woke up the people who were sleeping outside, and asked them to lend him a pole for the purpose. An outcry was raised, and the thieves decamped. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 30, the person who warned a youth who was cutting a branch, said he would die when he found a scarlet thread on his jacket. When a thread stuck on it in the bazaar, he went off, dug a grave, and lay in it until he heard a passer-by offer four pice to anyone who would carry his jar of ghi for him; he then jumped up and offered to carry it. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 199, a stupid boy who was sent by his mother to sell a piece of cloth for four rupees, refused six rupees that were offered for it. NO. 91 THE STORY OF THE SEVEN THIEVES In a certain country there were seven thieves, it is said. Among them one was a fool, or one who was learning robbery. One day when these seven persons were going to break [into] a house, while on the road they spoke to that robber who was learning, and said thus: "Only we six persons will go for breaking [into] the house; you stay outside." Teaching him [this], and having gone [there], and in that manner having made the man wait outside, those six persons got inside the house for house-breaking. Thereupon, while those six persons were delaying a little, a thought having occurred to this foolish thief, "I also must steal something from this," having thought [thus], when he was going passing his hand over the things that were there a large millet [grinding] stone was caught [by him]. Because he was unable to get it up quite alone, he spoke to a man who was sleeping on a raised veranda, and said, "Oyi! Oyi! Get up to lift this stone a little." Thereupon this man having said, "What is it?" when he cried out the robber sprang off and ran away. The seven persons having collected together at one spot, [the other six] having beaten and scolded that foolish thief, gave him advice. Again, also, one day having gone calling him for breaking [into] a house, in the aforesaid very manner having made the man wait outside, the six persons got inside the house for robbery. While this fool was staying in the open, shaking and shaking a post under the stick frame of an ash-pumpkin creeper (on which it grew), an ash-pumpkin fruit that was at the post having broken off, fell on his head. Thereupon the fool, having become [frightened], began to cry out, saying, "They killed me!" Thereafter, the house men having awakened, when there was a disturbance the whole of the thieves sprang off, and went running away. When they collected together in one place, they thought thus, "With this fool we shall not succeed in committing robbery; it is necessary to send this one for a few robberies alone." Having thought [this], one day they spoke to the man, "Beginning from to-day, [after] stealing something for food for us, come back," they said. And he having gone to a house in which was one old woman, and having found a little pulse (mun-aeta), thought, "I must fry this little and carry it away," and put it into a broken pot. When frying it, when it was coming to be fried to a certain extent, taking a spoon he put [some] of it in the mouth of the old woman who was sleeping in the house, to look if it was fried. Thereupon the woman, unable to bear the burning in her mouth, began to cry out. While the men who were sleeping, having said, "What is this?" were coming to look, the thief sprang off and ran away. Again, also, one day having spoken to the foolish robber, "Catching two fowls for us from this house, come back," they sent him. And the robber having gone there, while he was asking, "[Am I] to bring the black ones [or] to bring the red ones?" the owners, having said, "Who is this who is taking the fowls?" drove him away. Thereupon the robber sprang off and ran away. Again also, one day having seen that there are two clumps of sugar-cane at a house, they said, "Cutting two from that for food for us, come away," and sent him. And this one having gone there and seen that there are equal shares of black and white sugar-canes, while he was asking, "Which sugar-cane of these shall I bring?" just as before, the owners having come and said, "What are you cutting sugar-cane for?" drove him away. While he was continuing to commit robberies in that manner for not many days, one day having met with a Gamarala, when he was asking, "[Where] are you going?" "We are going for a means of livelihood," they said. Having said, "If so, come; there is a niyara chopping [56] in my rice field," calling them and having gone to the house and handed over the work to them, the Gamarala set off, and having gone somewhere or other, in the evening came to the house. Having seen that they also, having finished with the work and come to the house, were [there], and having given them food and drink, etc., and given a place to sleep in, and in the morning also, after it became light, having given them food, he started them off and sent them away. Thereafter, the Gamarala having gone to the rice field, and when looking having seen that all the earthen ridges had been cut and thrown down, arriving at vexation he came home. While all the robbers were going away from there, they met with yet a man, and when he was asking, "Where are you going?" they said, "We are going for a means of livelihood." Thereupon the man having spoken to them and said, "If so, come; there is a thatching at my house," and having gone to the house, calling them, said, "Here. Cover this large house with straw." Having ordered it, he went away on a journey. At that time, having got ready, and seen that a certain old woman was in that house, they covered her with the whole of the straw. Thereupon that woman becoming afraid, all at the house came while she was crying out. When they asked, "What is this you are doing?" they say, "The man who was at this house having said, 'Cover this mahage [57] with straw,' went away. That work we are doing," they said. Thereupon the house men say, "It is not that old woman. Cover the roof with straw." At the time when they said it they did the work in that manner; and having gone to the lodgings (wadiya) where they were at first, and made that foolish thief stay there, the six other persons went for a robbery. Stealing a certain tom-tom beater's box of decorations they placed it at their lodgings, and went to sleep. That foolish robber having seen it, after those six persons went to sleep, this fool putting on all those [things], stayed warming himself at the fire. At that time, while sleep was going to fall heavily on him, when the jingling bangles placed on his arms gave the [usual] sound, one of those who were sleeping awoke and looked. Having seen that the Yaka of the box of decorations had come and was [there], he spoke to the other men and bounded off. Thereupon they also becoming afraid, the whole of them began to run away. Having heard the noise, this one also got up, and he having gone running behind them, the whole of them fell into a well and died. [58] Finished. North-western Province. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 140, a silly weaver went with three friends who were thieves, to break into a house. They made a hole through the wall, and telling him to wait outside and keep watch, the thieves entered. After waiting some time he followed them, and began to cook some food that he found near the fire. The owner's wife was sleeping close by on a low bed; on turning over in her sleep her arm, palm uppermost, was stretched out in front of the weaver. Thinking she was asking for some of the food, he placed a spoonful boiling hot in her hand. She shrieked out, the men were caught, and the King imprisoned the others, but released the weaver. In Les Avadanas (Julien), No. xcvii, vol. ii, p. 76, a party of comedians who were benighted on a mountain haunted by men-eating demons, slept beside a fire. On account of the cold, one who played as a Rakshasa put on his own costume while the rest were asleep. Several others on looking up saw a Rakshasa there, and fled; the rest followed, the man who had alarmed them running close behind them. They left the mountain, crossed a river, threw themselves into pools, and at last fell down worn out with fatigue. In the morning they recognised their comrade. This story is also given in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 203. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 136 ff., in the tale of the twenty-five idiots referred to in the notes to the last story, Miss S. J. Goonetilleke gave an account of the attempt to remove the millet-grinding stone, the scalding of the old woman's mouth, and the assuming of the dress of the Yaka (said to be the Gara Yaka), and the subsequent drowning of the party in the well. In the same work, vol. i, p. 131, the editor gave the incident of the covering of the Mahage with straw, in a tale termed "The Story of Hokka." The old woman, who was the Gamarala's mother, was suffocated. NO. 92 THE KING WHO BECAME A THIEF In a certain country a Prince went to ask about a marriage, it is said. As he was going, while on the road he met with a Princess. Having met with her, the two persons spoke angrily. Having spoken thus, the Prince said to the Princess, "Some day or other, having called Her [in marriage], I will punish Her much." [59] Then the Princess said, "Having borne a Prince to you, Sir, and having employed the Prince [for it], I will tie you to your horse's leg, and cause [them] to strike you fifty blows." Afterwards, the Prince, having come back, built brick walls like a prison, and placed a drain in it, and caused a house to be prepared for putting the Princess into when he brought her. Having prepared it, and having come calling the Princess [in marriage], he put her in the house; and he puts cooked rice for the Princess at the corner of the drain. The Princess having eaten it, is [there] without even going outside. There were two field rats (waeli miyo) which the Princess had reared before. The two came to the place where this Princess is. Having come, they dug a tunnel below the brick wall; having dug it, the Queen got out by the corner of the tunnel, and came away. Having come thus, she was in a party of dancing women. While there, the Princess said to the dancing women, "Take me, and go and dance at such and such a city." She said this regarding the city to which the Princess came in diga [marriage]. "While dancing there I shall faint. Then while I am there [in that state] you come away, having said, 'We shall come again to call our child.'" She taught the women thus. The Princess having taught them it, these women danced near the King, the father of the Prince who had placed her as though in prison when she came in diga [marriage]. The Prince also is there. While dancing thus, the Princess fainted. Afterwards, these women having said, "Let her stay until the time when we come back to call our child to go. We cannot now, while she is unconscious," the women went away. The Princess remained there. That she was that Prince's Princess he does not know. Having said that the Princess will still be in that very [prison] house, he places cooked rice [there for her] by means of the drain. The women after three or four months came to call this Princess to go. Then that Prince having married her, she was with child. The women, notwithstanding that, called her and went away [with her]. Afterwards, when she was there a little time [with them] the Princess bore a Prince. The Prince became considerably big. Afterwards he asked at the hand of the Princess, "Mother, where is my father?" Then the Princess said, "Son, your father is such and such a King of such and such a city. The King having wagered that he will take me in marriage, said that he will inflict on me unimposed punishments. I said, 'Having borne a Prince to you, I will employ the Prince and [get him to] tie you to your horse's leg, and cause you to be struck fifty blows.'" "In the way the King said, calling me [in marriage], when I came he punished me like the punishment of the prison. Having come from there by the help of two rats which I reared before, I was in the dancing women's party. Being in it, and having gone to that city to dance with these women, the women came away while I was there. Afterwards they went back to come with me. "During the time when I was there, the King marrying me, you were born when these women were going about. While I was there they came and called me. It is that King himself who is your father." After that, the Prince said, "Mother, if so, seek a few things for food for me, and give me them, for me to go to seek a livelihood for myself." Afterwards the Princess found the things, and after she gave them, the Prince, taking them, went to the house of a widow woman who worked for hire, and said, "Mother, I, also, came to stay with you." Then the widow woman said, "It is good; stay. I am alone." Afterwards the Prince stayed there. Staying there, this Prince began to steal the things of the city. Then the King made it public that they are to catch the thief. Afterwards they try to seize him; no one is able to seize him. That widow woman also does not know [that he is the thief]. The woman having come [home], tells at the hand of the Prince all the talk uttered at the royal palace: "A thief of this country is committing this robbery; they cannot catch the thief." All these words she said to the Prince. Afterwards the Prince said, "Mother, cook a few cakes and give me them." So the woman cooked cakes and gave them. Thereupon the Prince, taking the cakes, went to the chena jungle, and strung the cakes on the trees near a pool at the road (mankada) where a washerman is washing clothes. Having strung them, keeping still two or three cakes in his hand, and continuing to eat them, he came to the place where that washerman is washing clothes. Then the washerman asked at the hand of the Prince, "Whence come you eating and eating certain cakes?" The Prince said, "Ando! The cake stems on these trees having fruited, there are as many as you want (onae haetiye). Go there to look." Afterwards, the washerman having said, "If so, Chief (nilame), be good enough to remain near these few clothes," the washerman went to pluck the cakes. Then the Prince, taking those few clothes, came to the house of the widow woman. That washerman [after] plucking the cakes having come back, when he looked both the Prince was not there and the clothes were not there. Afterwards the washerman went home empty-handed. [60] That Prince asked at the hand of the widow woman, "Mother, to-day, in the direction of that city--isn't it so?--there is a report about the thief?" Then the widow woman said, "Ando! Why not, son? To-morrow the King is going, they say, to catch the thief." On the following day, taking also a bundle of clothes, he went to a pool at the road, and having tied a cord to an earthen cooking-pot, and sent the earthen pot into the water, continuing to tread on the cord with his foot, [so as to keep the pot below the surface], he washes the clothes. Then the King came on horseback, together with the Ministers. This Prince who is washing clothes asked at the hand of those Ministers, "Where are you going?" The Ministers said, "We are going to seize the thief." Then the Prince says, "Look here; he sprang into this water. Having seen him coming, the King must be ready to seize him when he comes to the surface." Afterwards, the King descended from the back of his horse, and having taken off the royal ornaments, putting on the bathing cloth [61] got ready to seize the thief at the time when he rises to the surface. Then this Prince deceitfully slackened a little the cord on which he was treading with his feet; then the earthen pot which was in the water rose to the surface a little. Having said, "Perhaps it is the head of the thief," those Ministers and the King sprang into the water. Then this Prince who was washing clothes, putting on those royal ornaments, mounted on the [King's] horse, and said, "Look there! There is the thief, seize him!" Then all having come near that King seized him. After that this Prince said, "Having tied him to the leg of this horse, [you are] to strike him fifty blows." Then those Ministers, having taken the King and tied him to the horse's leg, struck him fifty blows. Having struck them, when they took him to the city the King's father says, "That thief is indeed like my son." Having looked in the direction of that Prince who was wearing the royal ornaments, he said, "This indeed is not my son. What of that? There is a little like my son's face." After that, the Prince who was wearing the royal ornaments, said, "Ask at your son's hand who I am"; he said it at the hand of the Prince's grandfather. [62] When he (the grandfather) asked at the hand of the King who had become the thief, he said, "I do not know who he is." Then the Prince said, "If so, am I to tell you?" He said, "Ha." Then at the hand of that King who had become the thief, this Prince says, "You brought for yourself the Queen of such and such a city, did you not? Before bringing her there was an anger-wager, was there not?" Then the King said, "It is true." Then the Prince said, "You will give punishment to the Queen, you said, did you not? Then the Queen said, did she not? 'After I have borne a Prince to you, having tied you to the leg of the horse I will cause you to be struck fifty blows.'" Then the King said, "It is true." "From there having brought the Queen, while you were giving her the punishment the Queen had previously reared two field rats. The two having come, dug [under] the brick wall, and the Queen went away from there. "Having gone away, and been in a party of dancing women, while she was in it one day they came here, the Queen and those women, to dance. Having come and caused the Queen to stay, those women went away. After three or four months the women came back, and calling her, went away with her. While she was here, [63] I was born to you." Afterwards the grandfather said, "You yourself remain exercising the sovereignty. My son cannot; a fool." He having said this, the Prince himself received the sovereignty. North-western Province. In The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 246, a Prince told an oilmonger's daughter that he would marry her and imprison her for life. She retorted that she would bear him a son who should chastise him after first tying him up in a sack. When they were married the Prince shut her up in a room, her food being supplied through a small window. She escaped by a tunnel made by her father for her, learnt rope-dancing, and in disguise made a display of it before the court. The Prince fell in love with her, visited her daily, and she obtained from him his pearl necklace, diamond necklace, and ring. When the rope-dancers left, the girl rejoined her father, and bore a son, who learnt robbery and committed such daring thefts that the Prince, his father, determined to seize him himself at night. By a trick he got the Prince to enter a sack, dressed himself in the Prince's clothes, and handed it to the soldiers as containing the thief. In the morning he opened the sack and struck the Prince gently with the cord. The robber then explained everything to the King and Prince, his mother when fetched produced the articles given to her, and all ended happily. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 216, a merchant on leaving home on a long journey told his wife that on his return he expected to find that she had built a grand well, and had a son for him. By a trick she got money and built the well. Disguised as a milk-girl she met with her husband's boat, and sold milk at the river bank until he fell in love with her, married her, and took her to live on his boat. When he left after three months, giving her his cap and portrait, she returned home. On his arrival there she presented to him his son, and produced his gifts. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 620, a Brahmana told his bride, who had played a trick on him, that he would desert her; she retorted that a son whom she would bear him should bring him back. He put his ring on her finger while she slept, and went away to his own city, Ujjayini. She followed, and established herself as a courtesan, sending away each visitor without seeing her, until her husband came and, without recognising her, stayed some days with her. After returning home she bore a son, to whom she told the whole story. The boy went in search of his father, and by a wager made him his slave, took him back to his mother, and they were reconciled. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 104, a King of Kashmir and a girl whom he met while hunting made jokes at each other. The King married her and ignored her presence in his harem, so she returned to her parents. After three years she visited Kashmir, and stayed at the palace, where the King, who did not recognise her, fell in love with her. They exchanged rings, and she got his handkerchief, went home, and bore a son who became an expert thief, stealing an egg out of a hawk's nest without disturbing the bird. [64] He committed many impudent robberies in Kashmir, getting the high officials into ridiculous positions, and when the King offered his daughter in marriage and half the country if the thief would come forward, he confessed everything and restored the stolen money and goods. His mother came, explained everything and the impossibility of the marriage to his half-sister, produced the ring and handkerchief, and he became heir to the throne. NO. 93 THE FEMALE FOWL THIEF At a village a woman was married to a man. The woman has much fondness for food consisting of fowls' flesh. The woman having stolen the fowls, without the man's knowing it eats [them] in the night when the man has gone to sleep. When she was eating every day in this manner, the man perceived it one day. After that, the man through the necessity for catching this theft, one day said to the woman at night, "Bolan, I cannot [bear] in the cold. Go to the place where the bundles of firewood are, and bring a little firewood." Then the woman says, "Ane! Appa! In this darkness I cannot go through fear." After that, the man, not saying it again, remained without doing anything. On the following day, also, the man told her in the very same manner. On that day, also, this woman said, "Ane! Appa! I cannot go alone." On both these days he was unable to catch the woman's theft. In the night of the following day the man lay down, and in the manner as though asleep the man began to snore. On that day, too, having said [to herself], "The man has gone to sleep," the woman arose and went for fowl stealing. The man having allowed the woman to go, and having arisen also, began to go behind her. On that day a man of the village having died had been cremated also. The woman went to a village near the heap of fire-charcoal (the remains of the funeral pyre), and stealing a fowl from a house, came near that charcoal fire at the place of cremation (sohon), and having put the fowl upon the charcoal, roasted it. When she was eating the meat that man, having been hidden, threw a stone [at her]. When it struck her the woman says, "What are you throwing stones for?" [65] Having said, "Here. The demon-offering for ye; take that," she throws down a fowl bone. The man gathers the bone which she throws. The man again throws a stone. Having spoken in that very manner she throws away a bone; that also the man gathers. The man again throws a stone. In this very manner, the man having thrown stones, collected seven or eight bones. [After] collecting them he came home before the woman, and lay down. The woman having eaten the flesh and having finished, came back, and prepared to sleep. Then the man having gone to sleep [apparently], and as through arising having broken up his bodily reluctance [to get up], arose, and said, "Bolan, I cannot [bear] in the cold; bring a bundle of firewood from the place where the bundles of firewood are." That day, also, the woman said, "Ane! Appa! I cannot go alone." Then the man scolds her: "Bola, strumpet! During the whole night thou canst go to steal fowls; why canst thou not go to bring a bundle of firewood?" Well then, the woman having said, "It is not so," began to swear [to it]. Then the man having said, "What are these, Bola?" showed her the fowl bones. Then the woman's breath was drawn upward [66]; in that very way the woman's life departed. North-western Province. NO. 94 GAMPOLAYA AND RAEHIGAMAYA In a certain country there are a Gampolaya and a Raehigamaya, [67] it is said. The person called Gampolaya, having put Iriya [68] fruits in two bags, and said they were areka-nuts, tied them as a pingo load (one bag hanging under each end of the stick). Having been in his own country, he is going away to another country. The person called Raehigamaya tied up a pingo load of pepper (vine) leaves. The person called Raehigamaya, having said that the pingo load of pepper leaves was a pingo load of betel leaves, [69] is also going away to another country. At the time when he was going along there was a travellers' shed; in that travellers' shed he lodged. That person called Gampolaya, taking that pingo load of Iriya fruits, came there. Well then, those two persons came in contact [there]. The areka-nut trader (Gampolaya) asked, "What, friend, is your pingo load?" The betel trader (Raehigamaya) says, "[Betel leaves]. In our country areka-nuts are scarce to an inordinate (no-saehena) extent." "Ane! Friend, [I have brought areka-nuts]. In that very way, for our country there is difficulty over betel leaves," Gampolaya said. Having said, "If so, let us change our two pingo loads," the person possessing areka-nuts took the pingo load of betel leaves; the person who has the pingo load of betel leaves took the pingo load of areka-nuts. Gampolaya [afterwards] says, "I indeed met with a trading at a profit!" When he asked, "What was it?" "I obtained a pingo load of betel leaves" [he said]. Who asked it? A man going on the road. He took the pingo load of betel leaves to his country. Having gone there and having untied it, when he looked it was a pingo load of [worthless] pepper leaves. [The other man], taking the pingo load of areka-nuts, went to his village. Having gone [there] and unfastened it, when he looked they were [worthless] Iriya fruits. Well then, those two persons came together at the travellers' shed on another day. They spoke: "That day our trading did not go on properly. Now then, friend, we two being thieves at this city, [after] cooking rice and having eaten [together], at night let us go for robbery." Well then, except that those two say, "Let us cook," not even one of them brings the materials. [70] What is [the reason why] they do not bring them? They were persons who on former occasions had gone to the shop and brought things, [and had been cheated by another person's not bringing any], they said. In that manner it became night. One person, having said he is going to bathe, [went away, and] having eaten cooked rice at the shop, came back. The other [thought], "While he has gone to bathe, that one, going to the shop, will eat rice;" so this one having gone to another place ate cooked rice [there]. A second time they came to the travellers' shed. [Afterwards] they broke [into] the palace of the King of that city. Taking the box containing the gold things, and having gone [off with it], and during that very night having arrived at a rice field, they went to sleep at the bottom of a tree. Through dishonesty to one of them, the other, taking the box of things, bounded off. Having sprung off and gone, he crept into a mound of straw, and remained there. That [other] one having arisen, when he looked there was neither the man nor the box of things. Thereafter he seeks and looks about. When he was seeking and looking, [he noticed that] there was a threshing-floor near [the place] where they were sleeping. Having taken a [wooden] cattle-bell, on the following day, in the evening, he shook and shook the cattle-bell, and began to gore the corn stacks and mounds of straw that were at the threshing-floor. [71] Then that man who had got hid there, having said [to himself], "Perhaps it is a bull," spoke [to it, to drive it away]. Having spoken, when he looked it was the first thief. [When] they two are talking [about it, he said], "I didn't bring this box of things through dishonesty to you, but to look at your cleverness." During all the time each one is thinking of quietly taking the box of goods, and bounding off [with it]. Well then, those two persons having come back, and having walked to the sands of the sea, it became night. Placing that box of things in the midst of the two, when they were lying down the person who stole it at first went to sleep. Then the other man, taking the box, hid it at a recognisable place (ayiruwak) in the sea. Having hidden it and come back, and very quietly returned near the other one, he went to sleep. The person who hid the box of things and returned, went to sleep. Then the other one, having arisen very quietly, when he looks for the box of things, the box of things is not there. When he sought and looked about for it, he did not meet with it. [But] when he tasted [with the tip of his tongue], and looked at the body (skin) of that person who is sleeping, until the time when he comes [upward] near the hip there is salt taste. Now then, that one thought, "He will have hidden it in the water, waist deep in the sea." Having gone on account of the thought, when he looked in the water to the extent of a round [of the top] of the cloth (pili-watak, waist-deep) a tree was near. [The other man] having placed it near the tree he met with it [there]. As soon as he met with it, taking the box of things and having come to his village, he says to his wife and children, "Having sought me, should a man come here, say, 'He died yesternight. There is delay in going to bury him, until the time when his relatives assemble.'" Well then, they are lamenting falsely. Well, Gampolaya [having come there] says, "We, indeed, called Gampolaya and Raehigamaya, walked about and committed robbery at [each] city in turn. Now then, don't you be grieved that he died; I am more troubled in my mind than you. The agreement of us two indeed is that should I die first, he having come,--that kind of creeper called Habalossa; it is an extremely bad sort of thorn, [72]--having put [some] of the creepers on the neck there is a promise to go dragging me until the time when he goes to the edge of the grave. Should he die first the promise is [that I should act] in that very manner." Well then, having brought a Habalossa creeper, and put it round the neck of the person who was dead, when he prepared (lit., made) to drag him the person who was dead laughed. Having laughed, he says, "Friend, I did not bring the box of things on account of stealing it, [but] to look if you are a clever person." Well then, these two correctly divided in two the articles in the box of things. The two persons [afterwards] dwelt in happiness. North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 234, Mr. C. J. R. Le Mesurier gave a story in which five beggars agreed that each should put a handful of rice into a pot of boiling water, to make their common meal. When the time came to eat the meal the pot was found to contain only water, each one having placed an empty hand inside it, as though depositing rice. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (L. Behari Day), p. 165, when two thieves were digging, the younger one came on a jar full of gold muhrs (each worth about thirty shillings), and at once said it was only a large stone. While the younger man slept the elder thief returned to the spot, found there two jars of the coins, buried them in the mud of an adjoining tank, returned, and fell asleep near the other. When the younger thief awoke and found that the coins had been removed, he noticed mud on his comrade's legs, made a search at the tank, got the two jars, and went off with them, loaded on a cow. At dawn the other man missed his partner and the money, and went in pursuit, and by the slipper trick [73] got the cow and its load, and went home. When the younger man came up they divided the money except an odd coin, which was to be changed in the morning. In the morning the elder man who had charge of it pretended to be dead. His friend affected to pity the wife, made a straw rope, and dragged the body to the burning ground, but having no fire he climbed up a tree. The two afterwards frightened some robbers there, and got their booty. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 45, some of the Sinhalese incidents occur in an account of the doings of two merchants. One of them buried in the mud a brass plate which he stole from the other's house. The owner found and removed it, and the thief searched in vain for it. They cheated other people, and acquired forty thousand rupees with which one of them made off; the other recovered it by the slipper trick, buried it, pretended to be dead, and at the cemetery the two men frightened some robbers, got their booty, and made an equal division of all. In Folk-Tales of the Telugus (G. R. Subramiah Pantulu), p. 63, a man set out with a packet containing a quart of sand; a man of a different village was journeying with a packet containing a lump of cow-dung. They met in the evening, and halted at the same rest-house. Each wanted to get the other's packet, thinking it contained food. The second man said he had a packet of food (apparently cooked) but was not hungry, and asked the other what he had brought. The first one replied that he had uncooked rice with him, and felt very hungry. They exchanged packets, went off at once to avoid recriminations, and discovered that they were mutually cheated. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xxv, p. 21, in a Tamil story by Natesa Sastri, a man of Tanjore who was carrying a large ball of clay entirely hidden under cooked rice grains which his wife had stuck on it met with a man of Trichinopoly who had a brass pot full of sand covered with raw rice a quarter of an inch deep. Each wanted the other's rice. The first man stated that not being very well he was afraid to eat the cold rice he had brought, and would like to cook some raw rice. The second man made an exchange with him. After discovering that they were mutually cheated they became friendly, and had other experiences of each other's roguery (see the variant given after No. 248). In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 109, a foolish man, in order to avoid sharing with a friend some tasty food which his wife was cooking, pretended to be dead. The friend lamented loudly, neighbours came, they made a pyre at the burning ground, put the body on it and burnt it, the man having determined to die rather than give a share of the food. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 299, when two thieves had stolen some treasure from a caravan, one of them by means of the slipper trick got the whole, hurried home, and the pretended death and adventure with the robbers followed. In Folk-Tales from Tibet (O'Connor), p. 131, when two thieves by a fraud had secured a heavy bag of gold, one of them absconded with it. The other recovered the money by the boot-trick. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 316, a Brahmana who had some peas which were so old that it was impossible to cook them, took them to the market, and exchanged them for an ass which would never move when a load was put on its back, each of the barterers thinking he had got the best of the bargain. In the Sierra Leone stories, Cunnie Rabbit, etc. (Cronise and Ward), p. 300, there is a variant of the latter part of the Sinhalese tale in an account of two greedy men who lived in the east and west. The eastern man came to the western man's house carrying a box, and would not leave, intending to share in the rice that had been cooked. The owner of the house at last lay down, and told his wife to say he had died. The visitor remained all night, supplied clothes for the corpse, made a coffin, dug the grave, and had nearly covered the body when it requested to be taken out. In the end, the visitor got a share of their food. NO. 95 THE STORY OF THE TWO LIARS There are two Liars called the Eastern Liar and the Western Liar, it is said. The Eastern Liar was minded to go to seek the Western Liar, it is said. [74] Should you say, "What was that for?" it was for telling lies in competition (i.e., a lying match), it is said. Tying up the packet of cooked rice from one and a half amunas [75] of uncooked rice, and the flesh of twelve goats, and bringing it for the [mid] day food, he went to the house of the Western Liar. At the time when he was going there, the Liar was not at home; a daughter of his was there. He gave her the packet of cooked rice to put away. She took the packet of cooked rice with the point of the needle with which she was sewing and sewing, and put it away. The Eastern Liar [asked] the female child, "Where is thy father? In the forest?" Thereupon the child [said], "Our father [in order] to cover up the thundering went to skin a mosquito, and come back." Thereupon this very Liar, having become afraid, thinks, "At the time when this very child told lies to this degree, when her father has come to what extent will he tell lies?" Thinking it, and asking for the packet of cooked rice again, he went off back again. Because it was not yet day [76] [enough] for eating in the daytime, [76] having hung the bundle of cooked rice on a large Banyan tree he went to sleep. After that, at the time when the Western Liar, cutting sticks and creepers for a house and placing them under his armpits, was coming, the little female child who was at the house having gone in front [of him], says, "A man came to seek you," she said. Thereupon the man asked, "Where?" "Look; he went there," she said. Thereupon this very person, taking those sticks and creepers, and turning to the same quarter, went in chase of him. [77] At that time the Eastern Liar had gone to sleep. Having heard the sound of the coming of the Western Liar, he arose. That person having become frightened at the sound of his (the Western Liar's) coming, to take the packet of cooked rice seized the branch on which is the packet of cooked rice. Thereupon the tree, being completely uprooted, came into his hand. Taking also the tree itself, the same person having got in front ran away. This very person (the Western Liar), for [the purpose of] looking who it is, began to drive this very person backwards. Having heard this very sound, and having said, "Something is coming to happen in the country," an elephant-keeper who looked after a hundred tusk elephants, having sent off the elephants to their food and having become afraid, was looking about. Through that very despondency [which he felt] that some danger was coming to arrive at this very village, he said, "I must go to some other quarter"; and folding up the cloth in which he was dragging (= carrying) them, and in which were the whole hundred tusk elephants, he bolted. Then having gone to an outer open place, and having unfastened the cloth, when he looked [inside it], only the two white lice called Gourd and Ash-pumpkin were [there], having eaten the whole hundred tusk elephants. North-western Province. Nonsense stories such as this are rather unusual in the East. There is one in No. 29, vol. i, and an Indian one is quoted after it. No. 130 in this vol. is another Sinhalese variant, and No. 263 in vol. iii, is also a tale of this type. NO. 96 THE THREE HETTIYAS In a certain country there were three persons, Big Hettiya, Middle Hettiya, and Little Hettiya. During the time while they were there, the three persons having gone to dig [for] gems, dug [for] gems until the money of the parties was finished. They did not meet with even one gem. Because they did not, having come again to the village, certain acquaintances of those people were there. Taking (that is, borrowing) a little money from those parties, the whole three persons dug [for] gems again in partnership until the money was finished. They met with only one gem. It was in the mind of Big Hettiya to get it into a big box. It was in the mind of Middle Hettiya to get it into a middle [sized] box. It was in the mind of Little Hettiya to get it into a little box. Well then, the three persons having quarrelled about it, Little Hettiya made a little box, Middle Hettiya made a box larger than that, Big Hettiya made a box still larger than that. Having made them, they placed the gem in the little box of Little Hettiya, that box they placed inside Middle Hettiya's box, and having put it in they placed that box inside Big Hettiya's box. [Each one kept the key of his own box.] Having put it away in that manner, those three still borrowing a little money from suitable persons of the neighbourhood, went again to dig [for] gems. During the time while they were staying in that way, Little Hettiya, having made two false keys for Big Hettiya's box and Middle Hettiya's box, and opened both the boxes, taking out his own box and opening that box with the key he had, took the gem and hid it. This one, having thrown away both the false keys, remained like a man who had not committed theft. Not a long time after that, the men who lent the money came to ask for the money. Until the time when the money was finished they dug [for] gems; from it also they obtained nothing. After that, these three persons spoke to the creditors, "Having sold the gem which we have, let us give the money to these people." Having said so, the whole three having come, Big Hettiya, with the key that he had, opened the big box; Middle Hettiya, with the key that he had, opened [his]; Little Hettiya, with the key that he had, opened [his]. When they looked there was no gem. After that, the three keys being in the hands of the three persons, having said, "Who opened [the boxes]?" the three persons struck each other. [After] striking, they went near the King for a law suit. Having gone, the whole three persons said, "O Lord, Your Majesty, we three had a gem. Having put the gem into a little box, and put that into a still larger box, and put that into a still larger box, we three persons kept in our hands the three keys. Thereafter, when we three persons came together and looked [for it], it was not [there]. Because of it, Sir, somehow or other you must clear up this for us." After that, the King made much effort to sift the law suit. He being unable to explain the case, began to postpone it. The King's Queen having seen that the three Hettiyas are coming every day in this manner to the court of justice, one day asked the King, "O Lord, Your Majesty, three Hettiyas come every day to the court of justice. Why?" she asked. The King said, "The three Hettiyas having dug [for] gems, there was one gem. Little Hettiya having made a box and put it in, locked it and kept the key near him. Middle Hettiya having made a larger box than that, and placed that Little Hettiya's little box inside it, locked it and kept that key. Big Hettiya having made a large box, taking both those boxes placed them inside that box, and having locked it, he kept that key. Leaving the keys in the hands of the three persons, the gem was missing. I have been unable to explain the case. Because of it I postpone it every day," he said. After that, the Queen said, "If you will give me the sovereignty I will clear up the case." Thereupon he said, "It is good. Until you have heard the action I will give [you] the sovereignty." Having said, "It is good," the Queen went away and informed the Ministers, and told them to bring three bundles of cord and a whip. These people came bringing them. After that, the Queen having placed Big Hettiya on a support, told them to tie him. Having tied him, taking the whip and having said, "Will you give the gem? Will you give the gem?" she told them to flog him well. They flogged the Hettiya until blood came. Even after that he said, "No, indeed (naema)." Having also tied Middle Hettiya in that manner, they flogged him; that Hettiya said, "No, indeed." Having seized and tied up Little Hettiya also, they flogged him in that very way. When they had been striking four or five blows, he said, "I will give the gem." After that, she told him to bring the gem. That Little Hettiya having gone running, when he came [after] taking it from the dung-hill where he had buried and kept it, she told Big Hettiya and Middle Hettiya to divide [the value of] it. She gave nothing to Little Hettiya. Big Hettiya and Middle Hettiya divided [the value of] it between them. North-central Province. NO. 97 CONCERNING TWO FRIENDS At a certain time there were two men, friends. Of them, one person not having [food] to eat, was very poor. The other man had amply to eat and drink. At that time the man who had not [food] to eat, in order to get an assistance went near the friend who had [food] to eat. Then at the time when he went to the friend's house, having amply given him food and drink, the friend asked, "What have you come for?" Thereupon the man said, "Ane! Dear friend, not having to eat and to wear I came near you in order to get an assistance." Then the man having gone calling him to the bread shop, taking bread for ten shillings gave it to him, and said, "Here, friend, selling these things get a living. I am unable to give an assistance for more than ten shillings." Thereupon the man having said, "It is good," at the time when he was bounding about taking the bread box having walked until it was becoming black, did not sell [anything]. Through anger that he did not sell it, this man sat down near a tree, and said, "This day on which I got the evil-looking (musala) bread is not good; I will eat these things." At that time, the Devatawa who was in the tree, having become afraid, said, "Ane! O Lord, don't eat me; I will give you a good article," and gave him a plate. The man, taking the plate, asked, "With this plate what shall I do?" The Devatawa said, "Having taken away the plate, and well polished it, and spread a white cloth, place it upon the table. Then you will receive tasty food [from it]." So the man, taking the plate, came to the Hettiya's shop. The Hettiya asked, "Appuhami, have you met with anything even to-day?" The man said, "To-day, indeed, I met with a plate." [He gave the Hettiya an account of its good properties.] Thereupon, the Hettiya, having made the man drink arrack (spirit distilled from palm-juice), and made him drunk, and allowed him to sleep on the bed, took the plate. Taking it, he put another plate into the man's bread box. Then the man having become conscious, and gone home, told the man's wife, "Don't cook; we shall receive food." Having well polished the plate, and spread a white cloth, placing it upon the table he waited. Having ascertained that cooked rice did not descend, the man's wife came, and taking the plate threw it away, and having cooked, ate. On the following day, also, the man having walked without selling bread, came near that tree, and said in the former way, "I will eat. I will eat." [78] Thereupon, the Yaka [79] on that day gave him a ring, and said, "Having sold the ring, when you are going ten fathoms away the ring will come and place itself again in your hand." On that day, also, the Hettiya asked [what he had met with]. The man, just as in the former manner, said, "I obtained a ring," [and told him its property]. So the Hettiya on that day, also, made the man drunk, and taking the ring and having caused another ring to be made, put it on the man's hand. The man having become conscious, and gone away taking the ring, sold it. Having sold it, he went ten fathoms, and looked. That, also, did not come. Then the man on the following day also came without having sold the bread, and having come near that tree, said on that day, also, just as in the former manner. At that time the Devatawa gave him a cow which drops gold. "Having taken away this cow, take good care of it, and tie it up and keep it," he said. Thereupon the man, taking also the cow, just as before went away near that Hettiya's house. The Hettiya that day also asked, "What is it, Appuhami, that you have obtained to-day?" The man said, "To-day, indeed, I obtained, Hettirala, a cow which drops gold." So the Hettiya, that day also having given the man arrack to drink, and made him drunk, and allowed him to sleep on the bed, brought the Hettiya's old cow, and having tied it there the Hettiya took the cow which drops gold. Then that man having become conscious, and having gone away taking that cow also, washed the cow-dung which the cow dropped. Excepting cow-dung, there was no gold. Thereupon the man on the following day, also, having gone for bread-selling did not sell [any]. That day, also, he went near that tree, and said, "Thou son of a courtesan, when I told thee to provide me with a living thou cheatedst me. On account of it, to-day I shall eat thee indeed," and he began to chase the Yaka on the path. Then the Yaka said, "O Lord, do not chase me on the path." The Devatawa well knows about the theft of the articles. Having said, "The things that I give to this man yet [another] man takes," he gave him a cudgel. The man asked, "With this cudgel what shall I do?" The Yaka said, "Should anyone ask, 'What is this?' say 'Allan Bostan.' [80] Having said it, say, 'Stop, Bostan,' [in order to stop it]." Then the man, taking the cudgel, went just as before to the Hettiya's house. At that time the Hettiya, in the very same way as before, asked [what he had received]. The man said, "To-day I obtained a cudgel." Then the Hettiya asked, "What is the name of the cudgel?" The man said, "That, indeed, is Allan Bostan." Then the cudgel went and began to beat the Hettiya. Thereupon the Hettiya said, "Lord, don't beat me. I will give you all the things I took." So the man said, "Stop, Bostan." Then the cudgel stopped the beating. After that [the Hettiya] gave him that stolen plate and ring, and the cow that dropped gold, these very three things. After that, the man having become wealthy, remained so. North-central Province. In The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 130, a Prince stole the articles left by a dying Sannyasi,--a cup which supplied food, a bag which yielded everything desired, sandals that transported their wearer where he wished to go, and a cudgel which thrashed all enemies but is not mentioned again. By means of the bag he obtained a palace, but two dancing women cheated him and stole all his magical articles; he recovered them by the aid of some miraculous fruits. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (L. Behari Day), p. 53, an indigent Brahmana received from the goddess Durga an earthen pot out of which food fell when it was reversed. At an inn it was changed for a common one, and he was driven away. Durga gave him another pot out of which when reversed a number of demons issued and beat him, returning to it when it was set mouth upwards. When he was bathing the innkeeper reversed the pot, was thrashed by the demons, and the Brahmana regained the pot formerly stolen. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Dr. Bodding), p. 83, an indigent Prince received a magic cow that granted everything desired, from a jackal whose protection he craved. It was afterwards changed by a man at whose house he lodged for the night, but by the help of the jackal he recovered it. In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 182, a Brahmana who had seven daughters married the eldest to a jackal who was in reality a Raja in disguise and a magician. He gave the Brahmana a melon to plant; the fruits, which were ripe next day, contained precious stones, but, unaware of it, the man sold some and was cheated out of the others. The jackal gave him a pot which contained food when required, a Raja took it, and the man then received from his son-in-law another pot containing a stick and rope which would tie and beat people when ordered. When the Raja, hearing he had got a better pot than before, came to take it, the man caused him and his attendants to be beaten until he got back the former pot. In the same way he recovered all the precious stones. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 256, a religious mendicant gave an inexhaustible jar of copper to a poor man who had presented food to him, and warned him against inviting the King to his house. The man neglected the advice, and the King took the jar. He then received from the donor a pot filled with sticks and stones. When he demanded the copper jar the King ordered him to be seized, but the men were beaten by the articles which issued from the second jar, and the King returned the first one. In the same volume, p. 267, there is an account of a rice measure, a jar of ambrosia, and a bag of jewels which were all inexhaustible. When a King sent men to take them a magical stick drove them away. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 32, a foolish youth broke cakes into five pieces in the jungle, and said, "Now I'll eat this one, then the second, then the third, then the fourth, and then the fifth." The fairies who haunted the place thought he was about to devour them, and gave him a cooking pot out of which any food could be procured; at a cook's shop it was changed for a common one. When no food issued from this, he took five more cakes, repeated the words, received a box which produced any clothes required, and was drugged by the cook, who substituted a common box for it. He again took five cakes, and received a rope and stick which would tie and beat men when ordered. With these he recovered the other articles. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 13, a King called Putraka persuaded two Asuras to race for the possession of articles left by their father,--shoes on which one could fly, a staff that wrote only truth, and a food vessel. The King then put on the shoes, carried off the other things, and founded the city called Pataliputra after Patali (his wife) and himself. The translator gave references to an Indian variant in which the rod is replaced by a purse, and to European examples. In vol. ii., p. 3, of the same work four Yakshas presented a poor man with an inexhaustible food pitcher. When his kinsmen inquired about it he took it on his shoulder and began to dance, his foot slipped, the pitcher fell and was broken, and he reverted to his former poverty. This story is found in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 74. Inexhaustible bowls filled with jewels are mentioned in vol. ii, p. 220, also. In Les Avadanas (Julien), vol. ii, p. 8, and Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. ii, p. 185, the story of the demons (Pisacas) is almost the same as that above quoted. In the latter work, vol. iii, p. 259, two persons were quarrelling over a hat which rendered the wearer invisible, shoes with which he could walk on water, and a cudgel that would beat a person to death. When they raced for an arrow that a man shot he made off with the things. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 84, in a Kalmuk tale, a man who frightened away some demons found that they had left an inexhaustible gold goblet which provided food and drink. He exchanged it for a magic cudgel, a hammer which when struck on the ground nine times caused a nine story tower to rise, and a goat-skin bag out of which rain fell when it was shaken, in each case sending back the cudgel to recover the articles. In the Maha Bharata (Vana Parva, iii) Yudhishthira recited a Hymn to the Sun, on which this deity bestowed on him an inexhaustible copper pot out of which fruit, roots, meat, and vegetables were produced. There is a Bamana variant from the interior of Senegambia, given in Contes Soudanais (C. Monteil), p. 58. A hyæna found a small pot called The Generous Pot, out of which he obtained rice, kus-kus (large millet), and other food. His hostess informed the King, who after testing it, kept it, and attached it to his arm. The hyæna then found a cutlas which told him its name was Cutlas-who-strikes. The King heard from his hostess that it was better than the pot. When he took it the hyæna stood beside his arm on which the pot hung, told him the name of the cutlas, and while it was striking him snatched away the pot and absconded. In Folk Stories from Southern Nigeria (Dayrell), p. 20, a King had a drum the beating of which caused food to appear, but if the owner stepped over a stick or tree the food went bad, and men with sticks beat the guests and owner. NO. 98 CONCERNING FOUR FRIENDS In a single country there were four friends. During the time while they were staying there all four reared a dog. At the time when it had grown up the dog became extremely large. After that, the four persons having spoken together: "Let us divide the [ownership of the] dog [among us]," divided the dog, to one person the fore-leg, to one person the hind-leg; in this manner the four persons divided it into four [shares]. [After] dividing it, when no long time had gone, one fore-leg of the dog was broken. After it was broken, the other three persons having told the man who owned the fore-leg that the fore-leg was broken, found fault [with him for not attending to it]. Thereupon the man, taking a medicine and an oil for it, soaked a rag, and tied it round [the leg]. After he had tied it round, the dog went near the hearth, and while it was staying there the fire caught that oiled rag. The four persons had planted a cotton garden, and having [picked and] dried the cotton, had heaped it up. This dog's body coming against the heap of cotton, the fire caught it, and all the cotton burnt away. After that, the four persons quarrelled [over it], and beat each other. [After] beating each other, they went near the King of the country. The whole three persons brought actions against the man [for the value of their shares of the burnt cotton]. How did they bring them? "Ane! O Lord, Your Majesty, we were rearing a dog and planting a cotton garden. We four persons divided the [ownership of the] dog [into shares]. While we were there after dividing it, the fore-leg belonging to this owner was broken. He wrapped it in a cloth [soaked in] oil for wounds. The dog, having gone near the hearth, was sleeping. The fire caught the dog. When it caught it, the dog having gone, jumped upon the heap of cotton which had been dried and heaped up. The cotton was burnt up. Because of it, we ask for [the amount of] the loss from this man." They brought the action thus. The man says, "I am not a guilty person. I only wrapped the oiled rag on the fore-leg for the wound to heal. I did not do it in order to burn the cotton." Thereupon those other three persons [said], "We don't know that. It is owing to you indeed that the cotton was burnt. Because of it, you must pay the [amount of the] loss to us three." After that the King asked, "Was the dog's broken leg so thoroughly broken that it could not place the foot on the ground?" The three persons said, "It could not place the foot on the ground even a little." Then the King having considered, said regarding it, "Because it went by means of the three legs which belonged to you three persons, by your fault the cotton has been burnt, and [the amount of] his loss must be given to that one by you three persons." After that, by those three persons the price of his share of the cotton was paid to the other man. North-central Province. This is one of the stories related of Mariyada Raman (translation by Mr. P. Ramachandra Rao, p. 11), in which four dealers in cotton reared a cat, each one owning one leg. The judgment was that given by the King in the Sinhalese version. This form of the story is known in Ceylon, and was related by a Tom-tom Beater of the interior of the North-western Province. NO. 99 CONCERNING A HORSE A man, taking a horse, went on its back. When so going the [skin on the] horse's back was broken, [a sore being formed which rendered the horse unserviceable]. After it was broken, the man removing the few horse cloths, while the horse was [left] there went away. An oil trader, when coming on that path taking oil, having seen that [the skin on] this horse's back was broken, smeared a little of that oil on it, and went away. Still [another] man having come, when he looked [saw that] a horse had fallen down. When the man looked at it he saw that the [skin on the] back was broken, and that man, taking a great many large rags, bandaged the back well, for it to become strong. Having bandaged it, and having further poured a little oil on it, he went away. Near the path on which was the horse a man cut a chena, and set fire to the chena. When it was blazing some fire-sparks having come and fallen on the oil-rags on this horse's back, the fire seized the horse. Having seized it, when [the rags were] burning it was unable to get up [at first]. The horse having got up, and gone running, jumped into a citronella (paengiri) garden, and while it was running there and here, the fire seized the citronella plants, and the citronella plants burnt completely. The man who owned that citronella garden went near the King for the law-suit. Having gone, he said to the King, "O Lord, Your Majesty, a horse, which having broken [the skin of] its back was wrapped with oil-rags, having jumped into my citronella garden, the citronella garden was totally burnt." Having said this he instituted the action. Regarding it the King said, "It is not the fault of the man who wrapped the oil-rags round it. It is not the fault of the horse. Because thou didst not tie the fence [properly] the fault is thine, indeed." The horse having been burnt in that very fire, died. North-central Province. NO. 100 THE STORY OF THE PEARL NECKLACE At a certain city there are a King and a Queen, it is said. While they are there, one day the Queen with the female slave went to bathe at the pool in the King's garden. Having gone there, the Queen, having taken off her garments and put them down, placed her necklace upon the garments; and having told the female slave to stay there the Queen went into the pool, and is bathing. Then the female slave went to bathe. A thievish female Grey Monkey (Waendiriyak) that was in the garden, took the necklace, and having placed it in a hole in a tree remained silent. The Queen having bathed and come ashore, when she looked for the necklace while putting on her garments, there was no necklace. Afterwards she asked at the hand of the female slave, "Where, Bola, is the necklace?" Then the female slave said, "I did not see a person who came here and went away [with it]." Then both of them having come to the palace, the Queen told the King that thieves took the necklace. Thereupon the King caused the Ministers to be brought, and said, "Go quickly and seek ye the necklace." The Ministers speedily tying [up their cloths], [81] began to run [in search of it]. At that time a poor man from a distant place came into the jungle to seek sticks and creepers. When he was coming, the Ministers watching there were saying, "Seize him; he bounded away here." This poor man having heard it thought to himself, "Should I stay here they will seize me. Because of it, having bounded away from here I must go to my village." At the time when the man was running away, the Ministers having gone and seized the man, and beaten and beaten the man with their hands and feet, took him near the King. Thereupon the King asked at the hand of the man, "Didst thou take a gold [and pearl] necklace in this manner?" Then the man thought to himself, "Should I say that I did not take this necklace, the King will behead me. Because of it, I must say that I took it." Having thought this, he said, "I took it." Then the King asked, "Where is it now?" The man said, "I gave it to the Treasurer (sitano) of this city." Afterwards the King having caused the Treasurer to be brought, asked, "Did this man give thee a necklace?" Thereupon the Treasurer thought to himself, "Should I say that he did not give it to me, he will now behead this poor man. Because of it, I must say that he gave it to me." Having thought this, he said, "He gave it." The King asked, "Where is the necklace now?" Then the Treasurer said, "I gave it to a courtesan woman." Afterwards the King caused the courtesan woman to be brought. "Did this Treasurer give thee a necklace?" Thereupon the courtesan woman thought to herself, "What will this be about, that such a Treasurer said he gave me a necklace? Because of it, it is bad to say he did not give it; I must say he gave it." Having thought this, she said, "He gave it." Then the King asked, "Where is it now?" The courtesan woman says, "I gave it to the man who knows the science of astrology (ganita saestara), or to the Gandargaya" (sic). Afterwards the King having caused the Gandargaya to be brought, asked, "Did this courtesan woman give thee a necklace?" At that time the Gandargaya thought to himself, "What is this thing that this woman said? It will be about something regarding which the woman is unable to save herself. It is because of that [she will have said] that I took it that day. Because of it, it is not good to say she did not give me it; I must say she gave it." Having thought this he said, "She gave it." Well then, on that day it became night; there was no time to hear the case. After that, the Ministers said, "Having put all these four persons in one room, outside we must listen secretly to the manner in which this party talk." The King gave permission [to act accordingly]. Afterwards, the Ministers having put the four persons in one room, and shut the door, stayed outside secretly listening. Then firstly that Treasurer asked at the hand of that poor man, "When didst thou give me a necklace? What is this thing thou saidst?" Then the poor man says, "Ane! O Treasurer, I am a very poor man. Your Honour is a very wealthy person. Because of it, in order that I may save myself I said that I gave it to Your Honour. It was for that. Otherwise, when did I give Your Honour a necklace?" Afterwards that courtesan woman asked at the hand of the Treasurer, "O Treasurer, when did you give me a necklace? What is this you said?" Then the Treasurer says, "Thou, also, art a possessor of much wealth. I also am a person who has much wealth. On account of it, because we two can escape from this injury that has occurred [to us], I said it. Otherwise, when did I give thee a necklace?" Then the Gandargaya asked the woman, "What, woman, is this thing that thou saidst? When didst thou give me a necklace?" The courtesan woman says, "Ane! O Gandarvaya, [82] thou, having said sooth, art a person who obtains much wealth. Because of it, as we, having even paid the debt (the value of the necklace), can escape, I said it. Otherwise, when did I give thee a necklace?" Well then, the talk of the four persons was heard by the Ministers who were secretly listening. That day, after it became light, taking the four persons out, they took them near the King. The Ministers who had listened in secret said to the King, "These four persons are not the thieves." Then the King asked the Ministers, "How did ye ascertain that they are not thieves?" The Ministers said, "We stayed listening in secret; by that we ascertained." The King said, "If so, who are the thieves who took this necklace?" Then the Ministers said, "According to the way in which it appears to us, maybe it is a thievish female Grey Monkey that is in the garden, who took the necklace." The Ministers said, "You ought to set free these four persons." After that, the King having released the four persons sent them away. Afterwards, the Ministers having gone to the garden, caught a male Grey Monkey. [After] catching it they came to the palace, and having sewn the jacket and breeches, and put the jacket on the Monkey, and put the breeches [on it], and put flower garlands [on it], and dressed the Monkey, and again sent the Monkey to the garden, the Ministers remained looking on. Then that thievish female Grey Monkey who took the necklace, having seen the Monkey that had been clothed, went to the fork of the tree in which she placed the necklace, and placing the necklace on her neck, came outside. These Ministers having seen it, the Ministers clapped their hands [to frighten her]. At the time when they were saying "Hu," as that female Grey Monkey was going jumping and jumping from tree to tree, the necklace that was on the female Monkey's neck fell to the ground. After that, the Ministers went, and picking it up, came to the royal palace and presented it to the King. On account of it, the King having become much pleased with the Ministers gave them many offices. North-western Province. This is evidently the Jataka story No. 92 (vol. i, p. 224), in which the man who was first caught declared that he gave the necklace to the Treasurer, who said that he passed it on to the Chaplain, who stated that it was given to the Chief Musician, who said he handed it to the Courtesan. To make the monkey produce and wear it, a number of bead necklaces were placed on the necks, wrists and ankles of other monkeys that were caught. In this story the last person charged totally denied having received the necklace. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 181, the Queen hung the necklace on a tree, whence a monkey stole it. A beggar who was arrested first charged a merchant with receiving it from him, and afterwards also, as accomplices, a courtesan, a lute player, and the son of the Minister. The Minister got the King to release the prisoners, and to take the Queen to the park wearing a necklace. When she danced the monkey imitated her, and the necklace fell off its neck. With reference to the remarks of the prisoners in the Sinhalese version, that being wealthy persons they could escape by paying the value of the missing necklace, a statement not found in the Jataka story, Sirr, who was a Deputy Queen's Advocate in Ceylon, stated in Ceylon and the Cingalese (1850), vol. ii., p. 231, that "theft was punished by a fine equal to the value of the stolen property, by flogging, and by imprisonment; or, if the thief immediately restored the property, he was only flogged and paraded through the village where the crime had been committed." According to Dr. Davy, flogging and imprisonment were not always inflicted, however. In the middle of the seventeenth century, according to Ribeiro, "if the thief confessed his crime he was condemned to pay the highest value of the article which satisfied the other party, and as a penalty for his offence double its value to the Royal Treasury" (History of Ceilão, translation by Pieris, 2nd ed., p. 152). NO. 101 THE WIDOW WOMAN AND LOKU-APPUHAMI At a village a Siti [83] widow-mother had a son having the name Appuhami. That Loku-Appuhami, having seen that the men of that district are gambling, came to his mother, and said, "Mother, the men of this village are gambling. Having cooked rice during the day time give me it, and a little money, for me to go to gamble," he said. Then the woman says, "Ane! Son, whence is there money for us? You be quiet," [84] she said. The boy having heard the mother's word, through being unable to gamble went outside the house. When going, this boy saw that two men having been at the cattle herd near a tamarind tree, went away. Having seen them, this boy went there and looked; when he looked two sallis (half-farthings) had fallen down there. After that, this boy having taken the two sallis, said to his mother, "Mother, now then, cook and give me rice, to go to gamble," he said. Hearing that, the old woman asked, "Whence is there money for you?" Then the boy said, "There were two sallis for me at the root of the tamarind tree; they will do for me," he said. After that, the widow-mother having cooked rice dust, gave it. The boy having eaten the rice, went to the gambling place. Having gone, he laid down those two sallis, and told the men to play. The men did not play. Then a youth of that very sort having been there played for it. Then for the two sallis yet two sallis came. Next, he wagered (lit., held) the whole four sallis. On that occasion, for those four sallis yet four sallis came. In this manner he that day won a large amount. Having won and gone from there, on the following day, also, he came. Having come, and when playing that day having lost the money, he played also on credit. Having played on credit, after he went away, on the following day those creditors, through ill-feeling for him, went in order to ask for the debts. When they were going, this boy they call Loku-Appuhami was colouring a cudgel in a good manner. Before that, he had said to his mother, [85] "At first when the men come, when I am asking for betel and areka-nut, you remain silent, looking on. Then I shall come and beat you [with this cudgel]; then fall down as though you died. When I am calling you a second time, do you, having gone into the house and dressed well, like a good-looking young girl, bring the betel box," he said. Well then, she did in that manner. When he did it (i.e., struck her) the woman in that very way fell down. Having fallen, when she was [there] that one (araya) again called her. Then [getting up and] dressing well [inside the house] like a young girl, she takes a betel box. When [she was] coming, those men who came to take the debts asked, "What did you to your mother?" they asked. Then he says, "I made her Tirihan," [86] he said. Having said it, the man went into the house. After he went into the house these men who came to take the debt, thinking, "Ade! It is good for us also to make our women Tirihan; we don't want this debt," and taking that cudgel, bounded off. When they were bounding off, that Loku-Appuhami having quickly (wijahata) sprung out and called those persons (arunta) says, "Ade! You are taking it; that is right. Beat seven persons, and put them into one house (room), and remain without opening the door until the time when seven days are going, [for them] to become Tirihan," he said. Having heard him the party went. Having gone, and having beaten seven persons, and put them into one house, when they were there seven days blue-flies began to go over the walls of the house. Then this party say, "It is indeed because they have become Tirihan that the blue-flies are going." Having said [this] they looked; when they looked all had died. After that, they came in order to seize Loku-Appuhami. Having come they seized him; seizing him, and having placed his arms behind his back and tying him, they went to throw him into the river. Having gone, there was a travellers' shed near the river; having tied him at the post of the travellers' shed, those men went outside, and went away [temporarily]. After they went, a Moorman, taking a drove of laden pack-bulls (tavalama), went near the travellers' shed. When going, having seen that man who is tied to the post, this Moorman asks, "Why, Loku-Appuhami, are you caught and tied to that tree?" "Ane! Tambi-elder-brother, because I have lumbago I am tied." Then he says, "Ane! Loku-Appu, I also have lumbago. Because of it, catch and tie me also to that tree," he says. Then Loku-Appu said, "If so, unfasten me." After that, the Tambi having come, unfastened him. After he unfastened him, Loku-Appuhami having caught him, and placed him at the tree, and tied him, went away, driving the drove of pack-bulls. After he went, those men having come, when they looked he was the Tambi. Then those men say, "Ade! Loku-Appuhami took the appearance of a Moorman!" Having spoken together, and seized that Moorman, they put him into the river and went away. Then Loku-Appuhami, taking that Moorman's drove of pack-bulls, goes through the midst of those men's houses. When [he was] going, a woman said to the men, "Look there! Loku Appuhami who went to be thrown into the river,--On! he is bringing a drove of pack-bulls!" she said. Then a man, being in the house, said, "Strumpet, don't thou tell lies." Scolding her in this manner, the man also came out and looked; when he looked, in very truth (haebaewatama) he is coming! After that, he asked, "Loku-Appuhami, whence (kohendae) are you bringing that drove of pack-bulls and the goods?" Then Loku-Appuhami said, "Having gone to the bottom of the water in the river, when I looked these were [there]. After that, having looked out a good one from them (i.e., a good drove of bulls), [after] selecting it I came away," he said. Having heard that word, the party, as many as stayed at home, said, "We also having gone there, put us into the river to bring an excellent [87] bit of pack-bull drove." Having said, "It is good," calling the party, Loku-Appuhami put a person into the water. Then, having gone into the water, when dying he made a sound, "Boka, Boka," [88] and dust came to the surface. Then the party who stayed on the bank asked, "What, Loku-Appuhami, is that?" Loku-Appuhami says, "That is [because] he is finding excellent droves of pack-bulls." Then the other persons, also, who were on the bank, said, "If so, put us in also, to select good droves of pack-bulls and come." After that, he put that party in also. In that very way the whole of the persons went and died in the river. Loku-Appuhami having returned, taking all the goods that were in those persons' houses, went to those persons' houses. Having gone, he became rich to a good degree (honda haetiyata). North-western Province. This story is another version of the tales numbered 9 and 12 in vol. i, at the end of which the outlines of some variants are given. There is also a Khassonka story of West Africa extremely like the later incidents of No. 10, in Contes Soudanais (C. Monteil), p. 67. When his mother continually interrupted a young thief who was being questioned by a King, the son stabbed her with his dagger, in reality merely piercing a bottle of ox's blood which was concealed under her cloth. She fell down, the blood poured out, and she seemed to be dead. The son then, uttering spells, three times sprinkled the deceased's face with a cow's tail dipped in water. She recovered, and the son sold the cow's tail to the King for two thousand slaves. When the King cut the throat of his favourite wife and failed to restore her to life, he ordered the thief to be thrown into the river sewn up in an ox-hide. While the slaves who carried him left their bundle on the roadside, the thief, hearing the voices of a pious Muhammadan priest and his pupils and servants, began to cry out that he preferred a life on earth to one in Paradise. The priest opened the skin, and learning that the youth was being forcibly taken to Paradise, gladly exchanged places with him, and was drowned. The thief then took some gold that he found in the priest's house, and reported to the King that the King's father had sent him with it for the King, adding that there was much more to be got in Paradise. The King gave him half the gold, and got himself and his relatives sewn up in hides and thrown into the deepest part of the river. As they did not return the people made the thief King. NO. 102 THE DECOCTION OF EIGHT NELLI FRUITS [89] In a certain country there is a Vedarala. The Vedarala is a person possessing the knowledge of medical practice, a very clever person at telling prognostics (nimiti kimen). There is also a child of the Vedarala's. During the time while they are thus, the boy one day came running near the Vedarala, and said, "Ane! Father, you have been learning so much; you are now dying. Now then, where is your learning that you have taught me?" and he began to cry. After that, [the Vedarala] was not [sufficiently] conscious to tell him anything. While he was about to die, just as he was saying, "Ane! Son, you will have the decoction of eight Nelli [fruits]----" the Vedarala died. He having died, after a little time went by, a man's yoke of buffaloes were lost. After that, the man (minissa) speaks, "Ane! What shall I do? If the Vedarala were [here], he would look at the prognostics [to ascertain] on which hand the yoke of buffaloes went, and he would tell me. It is indeed to our loss that the Vedarala is lost." In that manner he spoke a word. Then one man who was present said, "Why are you saying thus? That Vedarala's son is [there]. Go and look for him, and ask it of him." After that, the man, having gone to the tree and plucked betel leaves, came in the manner in which they came before near the big Vedarala also, and having given betel leaves and money, asked that boy, "How, Vedarala, have my yoke of buffaloes been lost? On account of it you must look at the prognostics." Then the boy said regarding it, "Taking eight Nelli fruits, beat them and pour water [over them]; and having made a decoction, and made rock salt into powder, and put it in, and poured castor-oil in, drink it, and go and seek the yoke of buffaloes. Then they will be found," he said. Afterwards the man came home, and taking eight Nelli fruits, and having beaten them, and poured water [on them], made a decoction; and having made rock salt into powder, and put it in, and poured castor-oil in, drank it in the morning, and went to seek the lost cattle. When going a little far the man began to [experience the purgative effect of the medicine in a severe manner]. As he was going in the chena jungle he met with a pool. The man, washing his hands and feet at the pool, and sitting at noon near a tree at the pool because of the severity of the treatment, remained looking about. While he was looking about for a little time, the yoke of buffaloes, having stayed in that chena jungle and being thirsty, came there and drank water from that pool. While they were drinking, the man went to them, and catching the yoke of buffaloes, took them to the village. Having gone [there] he ate rice, and the [action of the medicine] ceased. On the following day, the man, tying up a pingo (carrying-stick) load and going with it, gave many presents to the Vedarala's boy. When a little time had passed, war having been made on the King of that country, and as still [another] King was coming to seize the country, because there were not people [left] to fight the King was in much fear. While he was thus, that man whose cattle having been lost were found, went and said, "O Lord, Your Majesty, the Vedarala's son, a small Vedarala indeed, somehow or other having made a stratagem on account of that, will do something so that they will not fight." After that, the King having sent men, asked for a device for it. On account of it, he said that everybody who was in the city should drink the decoction of eight Nellis. Thereupon, all in the city having made the decoction, and put in the rock salt and castor-oil, drank it that very night. Having drunk it, the whole of the people having entered the city, while they were sleeping all became [obliged] to go out. The men who stayed in the city would be about a hundred. At the city there is a small window at the back, called "the dark window" (aendiri kawla). From that window each one began to go out ten or twelve times to the open ground. The King who was coming to the city for the war, had sent spies to the city to look if [many] people are there. While the spies stayed looking at this, it was like a wonder. If there was not one, there was another went out until the time when it became light. Having said, "Leaving [out of consideration] the multitude who went out, how many people are there not in the city still! This war does not matter to us; because of it let us go away," all the men whom the King sent went away. After that, having said, "There are too many people at this city," through fear he did not come for the war. After that, the King of this city having given to the Vedarala's son many villages, fields, silver and gold, established him in the post of Minister. Thereafter, having been a soothsayer who bore a name just like that one's father, he was a very wealthy person. North-central Province. The "rock salt" (sahida-lunu) would be salt in crystals, this being the state in which the salt is collected in Ceylon after the water has evaporated. NO. 103. THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS AND TWO DEVATAWAS At a certain time, in the [Sun] Rising world, [90] a Prince was born. In the [Sun] Setting world [91] a Princess was born. When in the Rising world a Devatawa, and in the Setting world a Devatawi were coming to hear Bana (the Buddhist sacred writings), the Devatawa saw the Prince and the Devatawi saw the Princess. On that day, the Devatawa and the Devatawi, both of them, came later than on other days. The Devatawa asked the Devatawi, "Thou not having come [92] at the time when thou camest on other days, why hast thou delayed so much to-day?" Thereupon the Devatawi said, "I saw a Princess. As there is not in this world a beautiful Princess who is equal to the Princess, having stayed looking at the Princess I was delayed." Then the Devatawa [said], "Not like the Princess whom thou sawest, I saw a Prince possessing beauty to the degree which is not in this world. Because of it, having stayed looking at the Prince, I delayed so much." Well then, the Devatawa says, "The Prince whom I saw is more beautiful than the Princess whom thou sawest." The Devatawi says, "The Princess whom I saw is more beautiful than the Prince whom thou sawest." Having said [this], the two had a quarrel there. The Devatawa said, "When it is the time the Princess whom thou sawest is sleeping, for the purpose of looking if the Princess's beauty is more or the Prince's beauty is more, taking her together with even her bed while she is asleep, come thou to the place where this Prince is." Accepting the word, the Devatawi having brought the Princess, deposited her together with even the bed, near the place where the Prince has gone to sleep. After that, the Devatawa and Devatawi say, "We will now test the beauty of these two thus," that is, it was [settled] that when they have awakened these two from sleep, the beauty is the less of the person who first salutes, honours, and pays respects [to the other]. Well then, by the Devatawa the Prince was awakened. But the Prince [having seen the Princess] thinks, "It will be a thing that these parents of mine have done for the purpose of getting to know my motives in not marrying." Having put on the Princess's finger the jewelled ring that was on the Prince's hand, and putting the jewelled ring that was on the Princess's hand on the Prince's finger, not looking on that side, having looked on the other side (i.e., in another direction) he went to sleep. Thereafter awaking the Princess, she saluted and paid honours and respects to the Prince. Still the quarrel of the Devatawi and Devatawa not being allayed, for the purpose of looking which of their two words is right and which wrong, they summoned another Devatawa. The Devatawa having come, says, "Do not ye allow this quarrel to occur; the two persons are of equal beauty." Afterwards the Devatawa tells the Devatawi, "Please bring the Princess to her city, and place her [as before]," he said. The Devatawi did so. Afterwards, in the morning the Prince having arisen, not knowing this wonder that had happened, with the thought that it was done by his father the King, not eating, not drinking, he began to beg his father the King, and the Ministers, to give him the Princess. Thereupon, his father the King and the other persons, having thought, "Whence did we [bring and] place [there] this Princess of whom we are told! Through a malady's causing this to this Prince, he is babbling," began to apply medical treatment. The Princess, just like that, not eating, not drinking, began to beg for the Prince whom the Princess saw. Therefore her parents, just like that, to her also began to apply medical treatment. Vedaralas (doctors) having come, say, "We are unable to cure this malady." But one Vedarala said, "I can cure this malady." When he asked the Prince about the malady, the Prince [said], "I have no malady at all; but not obtaining the Princess whom I saw on the night of such and such a day is my malady." When he asked, "What mark of it have you, Sir?" the Prince said, "The ring that was on her hand,--look here, it is on my hand; the ring that was on my hand is on her hand." Well then, the Veda says, "In whatever country the Princess is I will bring her. You, Sir, without troubling [yourself], eat and drink, and be good enough to remain in pleasure." Thereupon a very great delight was produced for the Prince; the malady disappeared. Afterwards the Veda, taking the ring that was on the Prince's hand, and having gone from city to city successively, entered into the very city at which she alighted. At that time, the inhabitants of the city [said], "Our King's daughter has a malady." The Vedarala having heard it, when he asked, "What manner of illness is that malady?" the inhabitants say, "'Should I not obtain the Prince who was seen at night by me, my life will be lost,' the Princess says." Thereupon the Vedarala says, "I am able to cure the malady." [They informed the King accordingly.] Thereupon the King having given (promised) him several great offices, went summoning the Vedarala to the palace. Then the Vedarala asks the Princess, "What is the malady which has come to you?" When he said it, "Not obtaining the Prince whom I saw at night, indeed, is my malady," she replied. Then when the Vedatema (doctor) showed the ring that he took, with the quickness with which she saw the ring the malady became cured. Afterwards the Vedatema says [to the King], "Even should this malady be [apparently] cured in this manner, yet afterwards she may behave arrogantly. Because of it, there is my Preceptor [whom I must call in]. Having come with him, I must still apply medical treatment for this malady." After that, the King having said, "It is good," and having given him presents and distinctions, allowed him to go. The Vedarala having returned, went [back] with that Prince. After that, the two persons saw and married each other. When they had been [there] a little time, the two persons having come away for the purpose of seeing the Prince's two parents, when they were coming on the road, while she was sleeping near a river, suffering from weariness, the mouth of the Princess's box of ornaments having been opened by the Prince, he remained looking in it. A talisman [93] of the Princess's was there. A bird having carried the talisman aloft, began to go away with it. Thereupon the Prince began to go after the bird; after he had gone on a very distant unfrequented road, it became jungly (walmat), and being unable to find the path [on which he had come], he went to another city. As the Princess was afraid to go to seek the quarter to which the Prince went, putting on the Prince's clothes she went to another city. Having gone to the city, when she went near the King, the King asked what was the work she could do. This Princess says, "I can teach the arts and sciences." Thereupon the King appointed the [apparent] Prince to teach the Princesses, and when ships came from foreign countries to take charge of them [and examine their cargoes],--all these things. And the King, thinking this person is a Prince, married [to her] and gave her a Princess of the King's. Afterwards, not concealing from the Princess that she is a Princess, and the manner in which she is seeking her husband the Prince, she told her not to make it known; and she also concealed it in that very way. The Prince, on the journey on which he went to seek the ornament, having joined a man of another city, remained doing work for wages. While he was in that condition, when two birds were fighting, one having split open the stomach of the other threw it down. When the Prince looked at it, the ornament that he sought having been [in it], he met with it. From the country in which is the Prince, ships go to the country in which is the Princess. The gardener [under whom he worked] having obtained and given goods to the Prince, the Prince, taking the Princess's talisman and having put it in a box, [94] was about to go [in a ship] for the sale of the goods. But a little before he was coming away, they sent word that an illness had befallen the gardener, and when he went to look [at him] the ships went away. At that time the ships went to the other city. Afterwards, at the time when [the Princess] was examining the goods of the ships she met with this ornament. When she asked, "Whose are these goods?" on their saying they were those of such and such a gardener's labourer, she confiscated the goods until they brought him. Afterwards the sailors, having gone back, brought him. After that, having caused him to bathe in scented sandal water, and [the King] having appointed him to the sovereignty, marrying both the Princesses he remained [there]. P B. Madahapola, Ratemahatmaya, North-western Province. This story is evidently that found in the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. 2, p. 307), and termed there "Tale of Kamar al-Zaman," although in some details it adheres more closely to a story given in the Katha Sarit Sagara. In the Arabian Nights, the father of the Prince was King of the Khalidan Islands--(stated to be the Canaries)--and the Princess's father was the King of "the Islands of the Inland Sea in the parts of China." A Jinn Princess saw and admired the Prince, who had been imprisoned for refusing to marry; and an Ifrit saw the Princess, and by the order of the Jinn Princess brought her while asleep (without the bed) and laid her beside the sleeping Prince. At the suggestion of an Ifrit whom they summoned to decide their dispute as to which was the more beautiful, they awoke first the Prince and then, when he was asleep, the Princess, each of whom took the other's finger ring. The Princess was then carried back. Next day the two were thought to be insane, and they were kept in prison for three years. The Princess's foster-brother found the Prince, cured him by telling him about the Princess, and returned with him. He visited the Princess disguised as an astrologer; she at once recovered, and her father gave her in marriage to the Prince, as well as the rule over half the kingdom. The rest of the story agrees closely with that given above. The Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 209, contains a story which seems to be the Indian original of the first part of the tale. The second part relating to the loss and recovery of the talisman, appears to be an evident addition, since the first part is a complete tale by itself. The Indian story is as follows:-- At the orders of the God Ganesa, the Ganas his attendants transported Prince Sridarsana of Malava (without his bed), while asleep, to Hansadwipa, an island in the Western Sea, and placed him on the bed on which the King's daughter lay asleep. He awoke, thought it a dream, nudged her shoulder, and she awoke. When they had exchanged ornaments, the Ganas stupefied them and carried back the Prince. Next day the Prince's father, after hearing his story, issued a proclamation, but could not discover where Hansadwipa was. The Princess's father ascertained the facts by means of the power of contemplation possessed by an ascetic, who went "in a moment" by his mystical power to Malava, cured a madman by the touch of his hand, and was requested to restore the Prince to happiness. He carried him back to Hansadwipa, and after the two lovers were married conveyed them both to Malava, where the Prince eventually succeeded to the throne. In The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 29, a Prince by means of a magic ring caused a Princess to be transported to him while asleep on her bed. They agreed to be married, and he then sent her back to her own room in the same way. On the following day she told her father that she had dreamt of this Prince and had determined to marry him. A few days afterwards the Prince's Ministers arrived to ask her hand in marriage, and when the Prince went there they were married. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 299, a Prince who refused to marry was imprisoned by his father. Three Bongas (deities) saw him, the wife of the Bonga chief proposed to give him a bride, and during the next night he found a Bonga maiden sitting beside him when he awoke. They exchanged rings, were seen by the warders, who informed the Raja, and they were married. NO. 104 CONCERNING THE PRINCE AND THE PRINCESS WHO WAS SOLD In a certain country there was the son of a King. He gave charge of him to a teacher, and told him to teach the son. On the day on which he was handed over he was not there. On the following day, only, having gone to the school, after that having said he was going to school he went to the high road, and during the whole day-time [95] having been eating and eating kaju [nuts] in the evening he comes home and says that he went to school. A single person does not know of this deceit. In this manner, while two or three years are going he did thus. The teacher also did not give information to the King about this matter. He not giving it, one day the King to look into this Prince's learning wrote a letter and placed it on the table. After that lying Prince came, having said that he went to school, [the King], with the view that "If he was learning it is good for me to ascertain easily by [means of] letters," said, "Son, on that table there is a letter. I omitted (baeri-wuna) to look at it. Break it [open] and look what the letter is." Thereupon the Prince, having broken [open] the letter and looked at it, said, "Ane! Father, except that in this there are a sort of strokes and strokes, and a sort of drops, I indeed cannot perceive anything." Then the King having become angry at the teacher sent him a letter. The teacher having looked at the King's letter, sent a letter thus: "Ane! O King, except that you, Sir, handed over your son, I have not even yet seen the Prince after that." Thereupon the King having said, "We do not want the disobedient son," caused the executioners to be brought, and having said, "Having taken him and gone into the midst of the forest, you must behead him," gave him [to them]. At that time the Prince's Mother-Queen said to the executioners, "Don't kill him"; and having spoken to them and given a hundred thousand masuran to the Prince, and said, "Without having come bounding into this country again, go you to another country and get your livelihood," sent him away. As the Prince was going away to another country, he saw that four persons, holding a man who is dead, are dragging him to the four sides, and he asked, "Ane! You are tormenting that dead man! Why?" Then the men [said], "We four men are to get four hundred masuran from this man. [For us] to let him go, will you give the four hundred masuran?" they asked. Thereupon this Prince, having seen the torment they were causing to the dead body, said, "It is good"; and having given four hundred masuran to the four men, and further having given five hundred masuran, and caused the corpse to be buried, the Prince went away. That dead man having gone, was [re]born, and became a fish in the sea. When this Prince went from that city to another city, he saw that on account of a want of money the King was selling a Princess and two Princes of the King of the city; and this Prince having become inclined to take that Princess asked the price for the Princess. The King said, "It is a thousand masuran." Then when the Prince looked at the account of the masuran which he had, except that there were a thousand masuran by account, there was not even one in excess. [96] After that, having been considering and considering it, he gave the thousand masuran, and taking the Princess, went away. That this Prince is a royal Prince no one knows. Then this Prince, calling the Princess also, went to a house at which washermen stayed. The washermen asked, "Where are ye going?" Thereupon the Princess and Prince said, "We are going to a place where they give to eat and to wear." Then the washermen, in order to take [them for] work for them, said, "It is good. If so, remain ye here." Thereupon the two persons stayed there. When they were [there] not much time, the washermen, thinking, "What are we giving to eat to these two for?" said, "Go ye to any quarter ye want." At that time, the young Prince and Princess [97] having gone to yet [another] garden, building a stick house [there], this Prince having told that Princess to be in the house went and plucked coconuts during the whole day-time (dawal tisse). Taking the coconuts given as his hire (baelagedi), and having given them at the shop, in the evening procuring two gills of rice and the requisite things for it he comes back. When he brought them, what does that Princess do? Each day she put away at the rate of half a gill from the rice, and cooked the other things; and having given to the Prince also, and the Princess also having eaten, in this manner, when three or four days had gone, the rice that she put away was collected [sufficient] for eating at still a meal or two. Then the Princess said to the Prince, "Elder brother, [in exchange] for the things you obtain to-day not getting anything [else], bring a cubit of cloth, and thread, and a needle." Thereupon, having given the coconuts obtained that day he brought a cubit of cloth, and thread, and a needle. After he brought them, having eaten and drunk in the evening, and spread and given the mat for the Prince to sleep on, what does this Princess do? Having cut the cubit of cloth, and put sewing on it worth millions (koti ganan) of masuran, she sewed a handkerchief. Having sewn it, and finished as it became light, she said to that Prince, "Elder brother, give this, and not stating a price, asking for only what the shopkeeper gave [for such an article] bring that." Thereupon the Prince, taking the handkerchief, went to three or four shops. The shopkeepers said, "We have no words [to say] regarding taking that handkerchief." At that time there was still a great shop; to it he took it. The shopkeepers, taking the handkerchief, having seen the marvel of it, asked, "For this handkerchief how much?" Then this Prince said, "I cannot state a price for that. Please give the price that you give." Thereupon the shopkeepers having said, "Take as much rice and vegetables as you can," after he got them gave also a hundred thousand masuran. This Prince taking them and having returned, those two persons remained eating and drinking. In those days the King who sold the Princess made a proclamation by beat of tom-toms, [98] that is, "If there should be a person who came [after] finding my Princess, having married the Princess to him I will decorate him with the royal crown." Thereupon the King's Minister having said, "I can come [after] finding her; I want time for three months, and a handkerchief that the Princess sewed," asked for [the handkerchief]. The King gave it. Then the Minister also having come by sea, landed at the city at which this Princess and Prince stay. Having come there, he showed and showed that handkerchief at the shops, while asking, "Are there handkerchiefs of this kind?" The shopkeepers who got that handkerchief said, "Here; we have one," and showed it. Thereupon the Minister asked at the hand of the shopkeepers, "Who gave this handkerchief?" The shopkeepers said, "Behold. The man who stays at the house in the lower part of that garden brought and gave it." So having gone near the house, when he looked only the Princess was [there], not the Prince. Having said at the hand of the Princess, "Your father the King said to you [that you are] to go with me," he showed the handkerchief. Thereupon the Princess said, "No. It is not father who provided subsistence for me for so much time. There is a person who provided my livelihood. Because of it, unless I ask from him and go, without [doing so] I will not go." At that time the Prince came. After he came this Princess said to the Prince, "Elder brother, my father the King having said that I am to go, has sent this Minister. What do you say about it?" she asked. The Prince said, "If you will go, go; if you will be [here], stay. It is [according to] any wish of yours." Then the Princess spoke, "Don't say so, elder brother. Except that if you told me to stay I will stay, and if you told me to go I will go, for the word of my father the King I will not go. Because of it, let the whole three of us go." Thereupon the Prince also having said, "It is good," the whole three having embarked began to go. While going thus, except that the Princess and Prince remain on one side, and that Minister on one side, they do not allow him to approach them. The Minister is much annoyed about it. They went six days on the sea. On the whole six days, having said that the Minister will put into peril and kill the Prince, the Princess without sleeping remains simply looking on when the Prince has gone to sleep. In that way, on the seventh day after they embarked, the Princess being sleepy could not bear up, and said to the Prince, "Elder brother, during the time while I sleep a little you remain awake." Having said [this], the Princess went to sleep. The Prince having been awake a little time, through the manner of his reclining went to sleep. Thereupon this Minister having awoke, when he looked having perceived that both were asleep, quickly rolled the Prince into the sea. Just as he was thus rolling him over, that dead man having become a fish and having been [there], came and seized him behind. Having thus seized him, placing him on its back the fish asked at the hand of the Prince, "What will you give me to put you ashore?" Then the Prince said, "I have not a thing to give now. From the [first] things that I obtain afterwards I will give you a half part." Thereupon the fish brought him and put him ashore. Afterwards the Prince went to the Princess's city. [Having landed], that Minister said to the Princess, "Let us go to the palace." Thereupon the Princess said, "I will not go with thee. Tell thou my father to come." So the Minister having gone, told the King to come. Thereupon the King came. At that time that Prince also stayed near, so that he should be visible to the Princess. The Princess, having seen the Prince, asked, "Father, in this country how are the laws now regarding journeys?" The King said, "What, daughter, are you saying that for? They are just like [they were] when you were [here]." Thereupon the Princess said, "At the time when you were sending letters to me, my elder brother who gave me food and clothing, and I, and the Minister, having embarked came away. My elder brother who provided subsistence for me was lost. You must make inquiry about it in a thorough manner." Then the King having made inquiry and looked [into the matter], getting to know that the Minister threw him into the sea, [found that] unless he beheads the Minister there was nothing else [to do]. Because of it, he commanded them to behead the Minister. After that they beheaded him. Then, this Princess first marrying the Prince himself, he appointed the Prince to the sovereignty. Well then, when they are there no long time, the two persons went to the sea to bathe. At that time that fish having come, seizing the Prince's leg asked, "Where is the charge you undertook for me that day?" This Princess having heard it, asked, "What does it say?" Thereupon the Prince said, "When I was falling into the sea that day, this fish, taking me on its back, asked at my hand, 'What will you give [me] to put you on shore?' Then I said, 'From the things that I obtain first I will give a [half] share.' That share it now asks for." At that time the Princess having given into the Prince's hand the sword that was on the shore, said, "It is I whom you obtained first. Because of it, having split a [half] share off me give it to the fish." Then the fish said, "No need of it for me. This Prince one day has expended one thousand (sic) four hundred masuran over a dead body. Please say you do not want that debt. [I was that dead body]." Thereupon the Prince said, "I do not want the debt." After that, the fish having completely let go went away. The Prince-King and the Princess-Queen, both of them, [after] bathing came to the palace. Finished. North-western Province. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. v, p. 304), Princess Miriam, daughter of the King of France, who had been in a vessel that was captured, was offered for sale in Alexandria, and was bought by a youth for a thousand gold dinars (about £500), all the money he had. Each night she knitted a silk girdle, which he sold in the morning for twenty gold dinars. While he was wearing on his head a beautiful silk handkerchief worked by her, the work was recognised by a Minister sent by the French King in search of her. He bought it for a thousand dinars, and gave a feast at which he made the youth drunk and induced him to sell the Princess for ten thousand dinars; she was carried back to France, and married to the Minister. After some adventures while the youth was endeavouring to carry her off, the two lovers escaped to Baghdad, and were formally married by the Khalif. With her own hand she killed the Minister when he came to demand her return to France. Sir R. F. Burton agreed with Dr. Bacher that this story is based on a legend of Charlemagne's daughter Emma and his secretary Eginhardt (vol. vi, p. 290). Notwithstanding its resemblance to this tale, the Sinhalese story may be an independent one. The account of the Princess who works a jacket or scarf occurs in Nos. 8 and 248, in which, also, the sale led to her abduction. In a variant, robbers carried her off and sold her for a thousand masu. NO. 105 THE PRINCESS HETTIRALA In a certain country there are a King and a Queen, it is said. There is also a Prince (son) of those two persons. Having given seven thousand masuran, a Princess was brought, and given to the Prince by the King and Queen. The Prince that night having spoken to the Princess, told her to warm a little water and give him it. To that having said, "I will not," the Princess went to sleep. On that account, next morning the Prince went and sent away the Princess. After that, again having given seven thousand masuran, and brought yet [another] Princess, they gave [her to him]. In that very way having told that Princess to warm water, because she did not warm it he went and sent her away. Thus in that manner having brought six Princesses, because they did not warm water in the night he sent away the whole six. After that, having given ten thousand masuran, and come summoning yet a Princess, they gave [her to him]. That Princess at the time when the Prince told her, having warmed water gave it. Well then, while he is causing the days to pass with much affection for the Princess, the whole of the men of that country became ready to go to Puttalam. This Prince also having thought of going, when he asked [permission] at the hand of the King, the King and Queen, both of them, said, "Don't go. If you eat the things that are here and stop [here], it will be sufficient for you. They go to Puttalam near the city of the courtesan woman. When they are going away from there the courtesan woman catches and takes them, having said, 'Don't even go.'" They said many things. But the Prince without hearkening to it went away to Puttalam with the men. Having gone, he went to the city of the courtesan woman. Then certain men having been there, said, "Here, indeed, is the tavalam place [99]; throw down the sacks." Well then, this party threw down the sacks. Having thrown down the sacks, when they were becoming ready to cook, the courtesan woman having come, said, "Don't you cook; I am preparing food for all." The woman, however many persons should come, gives food to the whole of them. That night, also, having prepared food for these people, and called them to the house, and apportioned the cooked rice and given it, she said, "Having eaten this cooked rice and eaten betel, should my cat be holding the light at the time when it is becoming finished, this multitude, the cattle, and the sacks are mine. Should it be unable [to do] thus, my city, people, cattle, sacks, and all my goods are yours," she wagered and promised. This multitude having become pleased at it, began to eat the cooked rice. When they began, the cat came, and sitting down in the midst of the multitude remained holding the light. Having eaten both the cooked rice and the betel, because at the time when they were finishing it remained holding the light, the multitude, the cattle, the sacks, became attached [100] to the courtesan woman (i.e., became her property). This multitude being unable to go away, a number of years went by. The Princess's parents having ascertained that that Prince's Princess is living alone, without the Prince, the two came to go away with the Princess. That King and Queen (the Prince's parents), having said that on the top of the sorrow at the loss of the Prince they cannot send away the Princess also, were much agitated. But the Princess's parents without listening to it, joining with the Princess went to the Princess's country. Well then, the Princess, for the purpose of bringing the Prince, spoke to the men of the Princess's country: "Let us go to Puttalam." The men said, "Having gone away to Puttalam, so many persons were caught at the courtesan woman's city so many years ago; if, again, we also go and should be caught, how shall we come back? We will not." Thereupon the Princess said, "Without your becoming caught, I will save you; without fear do you become ready to go with me." After that, many persons got ready. The Princess having cut a long bamboo stick, and cleaned it inside, caught seven mice and put them in it; and having caught a few frogs and put them in it for food for the mice, closed both ends and put a little polish on the outside. The Princess having dressed in Hetti dress, taking that staff made the name [for it], having said that the name was "tavalam staff." Well then, this Hettirala (the Princess) went away to Puttalam with those many persons. Having gone, when they came to the city of the courtesan woman, certain men having been [there] said, "Here, indeed, is the tavalama place; throw down the sacks." Well then, having thrown down the sacks, when they were becoming ready to cook, the courtesan woman came and said, "I am preparing food for you also; don't cook;" and in the very manner [in which she behaved] to that first party, gave rice and made the promise. When this party were eating cooked rice, the cat, sitting in the midst of this party, is holding the lamp. [101] This Princess who was the Hettirala, having opened one side (end) of the tavalama staff, sent two mice to go near the cat's head. The cat, not having even opened its eyes, did not look [at them]. This Princess sent still two mice. At that also it did not awake and look; silently it remained holding the light. Then she sent the other three mice. Instantly the cat, having let go the lamp, sprang to catch the mice. Well then, the city, the multitude of the city, the cattle, the sacks, and the whole of the goods became the property of the Princess. Well then, the Princess having told about this to the Princess's Prince also, and having started off that party [who accompanied her] to the Princess's country, the Prince and Princess went with the party from the Prince's country. When they were coming along to the Prince's country, the Prince's mother and the King too, remained weeping and weeping under a tree in the rice field, wearing a sort of ugly clothes, the hair of the head unfastened and hanging down, and mucus trickling down, filthy to the extent that they could not look at them. The Prince and Princess having seen from very far that these two are [there], dressed themselves. But the two persons were unable to recognise the Prince and Princess. Having come very near they asked the King and Queen, "What are you weeping there for?" Thereupon, the two say, "There was only a single son of ours. There is news that that son, having gone away to Puttalam, has been caught at the courtesan woman's city. Now then, we have nobody; because of it we are weeping." Thereupon these two persons said, "Well then, what shall we do about that? Will you give us a resting-place in your kingdom?" they asked. Then these two persons having said, "We can," and having gone summoning them to the palace, gave them the resting-place. This Princess, taking off the Hetti clothes, and the Prince, having put on other clothes in such a manner that they can recognise them, and having summoned the King and Queen, the Princess told all this account from the top to the root, and having said, "Behold! Your Prince is [here]," she handed him over to them. Thereupon, this King and Queen having prepared sandal milk, [102] and caused the Prince and Princess to bathe in it, gave charge of the King's kingdom to the Princess; and in that very palace these four persons passed the time in a good manner. North-western Province. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 149, a woman who kept a gambling house was accustomed to win from everyone by the aid of her cat, which brushed against the lamp and extinguished it when the play was going against her. A young woman whose husband had in this way lost everything he possessed, and who had lost his liberty also, went in search of him, bribed the servants to tell her the secret of the gambling woman's success, and then went to play disguised as a man, having a mouse concealed in her sleeve. When the cat approached the lamp she released the mouse, which was chased by the cat. In the meantime she won back all that her husband lost. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Dr. Bodding), p. 115, a Prince while travelling was robbed of all his belongings by a Raja, and became a labourer. His wife, hearing of it, went to the same place, and it was settled that the person towards whom the Raja's cat jumped should possess the wealth taken from the Prince. The Princess had taken a mouse with her, and kept partly uncovering it and covering it again with her shawl. When the cat was released it sprang towards her to seize the mouse, so she regained the property. In Folk-Tales of Tibet (O'Connor), p. 39, a young man bet a person at whose house he halted that when it became night a cat would not carry a lantern into the room. Each person wagered all his property. The landlord's cat being trained to bring in the lantern, he won the wager, and the man became his servant. His wife came in search of him disguised as a man. She made the usual bet, got her husband to conceal in his bosom a box containing three mice, and to release these in turn when the cat approached. The cat allowed the first two to run off, but dropped the lantern and chased the last one. The man and his wife returned home with all the landlord's goods as well as their own. NO. 106 THE MAEHIYALLE-GAMA PRINCESS In a certain city there are seven elder brothers and younger brothers, it is said. Younger than the whole seven there is a young younger brother. Those seven elder brothers said to the younger brother, "Younger brother, you must bring a wife for yourself. In that way having eaten a meal from that house and a meal from this house, you cannot end [your] existence." Then the younger brother said, "I indeed at any time whatever will not bring a wife." Thereupon the elder brother said to the younger brother, pushing him, "If so, remain looking out in order to call [in marriage] the Maehiyalle-gama Princess." After that, the younger brother, having said, "It is so indeed," tied a ladder in order to go to Maehiyalle-gama. When he had gone along the ladder a considerable distance, having fallen from the ladder to the ground the Prince went into dust (kuduwela giya). After that, having come from the city Awulpura, they picked up the bits into which the Prince was smashed; having come from the great city Handi they joined them together; having come from Upadda city they caused the Prince to be [re]-born. [103] After that, the Prince went to Maehiyalle-gama. When he went there, the Princess having gone to bathe, only the servants were at the palace. The servants having gone, said to the Princess, "Some one or other has come to our palace." Then the Princess told them to give him a mat at the calf-house. The servants having given him a mat at the calf-house, he did not sit down. Again the servants went and said at the hand of the Princess, "He did not sit down." After that, the Princess told them to give him a mat at the manduwa (open shed). The servants gave a mat at the shed. The Prince did not sit down. Again the servants went and said at the hand of the Princess, "He did not sit down." Then the Princess told them to spread a mat inside the palace and give it. The servants spread a mat inside the palace, and gave it. The Prince did not sit down. The servants again having gone, said at the hand of the Princess, "He did not sit down." Then the Princess told them to give him a chair. Afterwards the servants gave a chair. The Prince did not sit down. The servants again went and said at the hand of the Princess, "He did not sit down." The Princess told them to give him a couch. Afterwards the servants gave a couch. The Prince did not sit down. The servants went and said at the hand of the Princess, "Then, also, he did not sit down." Afterwards the Princess said, "Give the couch on which I recline, if so." The servants gave the couch on which the Princess reclines. After that, the Prince sat down. Then the Princess, also, [after] bathing came to the palace. Having come, the Princess said at the hand of the servants, "To that person who has come give food." Then the servants asked at the hand of the Princess, "In what shall we give the cooked rice?" Then the Princess told them to give pieces of leaf. Afterwards the servants having put the cooked rice on pieces of leaf gave him it. The Prince did not eat. After that, the servants said at the hand of the Princess, "He does not eat." Then the Princess told them to put it on a plate and give it. The servants having put it on a plate gave it. He did not eat. The servants said at the hand of the Princess, "He did not eat." Afterwards the Princess said, "If so, put the plate upon the betel tray and give it." The servants having put the plate upon the betel tray, gave it. The Prince did not eat. Again the servants said at the hand of the Princess, "Then, also, he did not eat." Afterwards the Princess said, "Put it on my golden dish and give it." The servants, having put it on the Princess's golden dish, gave it. The Prince ate. After that, the Princess having come near the Prince, asked, "What is He? [104] A Yaka, or a Deity?" Then the Prince said, "I am neither a Yaka nor a Deity; a man." Then the Princess asked, "For what matter has He Himself come here?" The Prince said, "To marry the Princess; I for no other business whatever have come." The Princess said, "If so, stay." After that, the Princess marrying the Prince, when he was there for a considerable time the Prince said, "I must go to our city and come back." Then the Princess said, "I also must come." The Prince having said, "Ha, it is good; let us go," the two went to the Prince's city. Near the city there is a well; near the well there is a tree. Having caused the Princess to stay in the tree, the Prince went into the city to bring a horse for the Princess to go to the city. After he went there, a woman of the smiths' caste (aciri gaeni) came to the well for water. Having come, when the smith woman looked in the direction of the well, the reflection of the Princess who was in the tree appears in the well. She saw the figure, the smith woman. Having seen it, the woman thought it was the woman's [own] figure, and having seen the beauty of it, thought, "Ade! I am such a good looking woman as this! Why came I for water?" When she looked up the tree she saw that the Princess is [there], and the smith woman says, "Ane! Having descended, please bathe with a little water [that I will draw for you]. Why are you there?" The Princess remained there without descending. The smith woman once more said, "Please descend." Afterwards, the Princess having descended, and taken off her clothes, while she was bathing the smith woman said, "Please bend down for me to rub your back." The Princess bent down. Then the smith woman raised her and threw her into the well. The Princess was unable to come to the ground. The smith woman, putting on the clothes of the Princess, climbed up the tree. Then the Prince having come there bringing a horse, the Prince stopped, and thinking that the smith woman was the Princess, told the smith woman to descend; and the Prince and the smith woman went to the city on the horse. Then a blind man came near the well for water. The Princess, being in the well, said, "Having torn the cloth of the person who came for water, and knotted the pieces together, put it into the well." Afterwards, having torn the blind man's cloth, he put it into the well. Seizing it, the Princess came to the ground; and making clear the two eyes of the blind man, she went with the blind man [? to her palace]. North-western Province. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 3, while a King and Queen were travelling, a shoemaker's wife pushed the Queen into a well when she was going to drink, and then took her place, and held the King's head on her lap. Evidently she was accepted by the King as his wife, since she accompanied him when he proceeded on his journey. In the same work, p. 143, while a Prince was sleeping, his Princess, who was sitting at his side, was induced by a woman who came up, to exchange clothes and hand over her jewellery. Afterwards the two strolled about, went, at the woman's suggestion, to look at themselves in the water of a well, and the woman then pushed her in, and took her place beside the Prince. When he awoke, the woman attributed the change in her appearance to the bad air of the country, and he went off with her, and married her. NO. 107 THE WICKED PRINCESS In a country there was a King; the King had a Prince (son). He sent the Prince to a school to learn the arts, and the Prince quickly learnt the arts. The teacher, having become pleased with the Prince, gave his daughter in marriage to the Prince. When they were thus for no long time the Prince's father, the King, died. At that time he set out to go back with the Princess to his own country. When going, they were obliged to go through the middle of a forest on the path on which they were going. In the midst of the forest there was a Vaedda King. The Vaedda King having seen this Princess and Prince, asked, "Who are you? To go where, came you?" Thereupon the Prince says, "I indeed am the Prince called Manam, of the King here; this is my Princess," he said. "It is good. Who gave you permission to go through the middle of this forest of mine? Owing to your coming without permission, I shall now kill you," he said. "Otherwise, if you wish to go to your kingdom, having now made this Princess remain here, you may go." The Prince says, "I will not go, leaving here my Princess whom I married in my youth. If you will not let us go, it will be better that we two should die." When he had said this, the Vaedda King, although he spoke about it again and again, did not listen to him. Afterwards, having caused his army to be brought, "Look now at this army of mine," he said; "they will kill you. Then you will not have your kingdom, nor your Princess. Obtaining your kingdom will be better than that, having caused your Princess to remain here, and having gone, saving your life," he said. Then the Prince said, "My kingdom does not matter to me if there be not my Princess." "It is good. If so, look, now, in a little [time], at the way I shall kill you." "No matter for that." "My army! Come. Kill this Prince." Then the Vaeddas came running, bringing bows and arrows. The Prince having said to the Princess, "You sit down. Look at what I do to these Vaeddas. Don't cry. The favour of the Gods is for us," taking his bow, fights with the army of the Vaedda King. Having said, "Shoot! Kill the Prince!" all came, and sprang [forward], and began to shoot. The Prince having given his sword into the hand of his very Princess, taking the bow began to shoot at them. Well then, all having fallen, a few persons, only, being left over, they bounded off and went away. At that time the Vaedda King said, "Is He [105] a great clever one! What of my army's inability! I will not allow Him [105] to take the Princess and go. Come to fight,--we two persons;" and he called him. Thereupon the Prince, after he (the Vaedda King) took his bow, says, "Not in that way. We two having wrestled, must cut off the head of the person who should fall," he said. "It is good. I am satisfied." "If so, come. Princess, take this sword of mine," he said. At that time, the Vaedda having looked in the direction of the Princess, and having spoken [to her] without the Prince's knowing, the Princess was mentally bound to the Vaedda King. He had no beauty,--a very black colour. The Prince was a very beautiful person. Well then, while they were wrestling, the Vaedda King having got underneath, fell. Then the Prince asked the Princess for the sword. The Princess quickly having given the sheath of the sword to the Prince, gave the sword blade to the Vaedda King. Well then, the Vaedda King cut the Prince's neck with the sword blade. The Prince died. The Princess says, "Good work! That indeed was in my mind. Now then, there is no fear; we can remain," she said. The Vaedda King says, "You are very good. If you were not [here] to-day, no life for me. Owing to your faithfulness, indeed, I survive. Having taken off your clothes, and the tied things (belt, bracelets, necklace, etc.) and ornaments, give them into my hand, in order to place them on the [other] bank of that river, and come back," he said. Seizing them, and having taken them and placed them somewhere, and returned [he said], "Let us go; we have not any fear." Taking her to the middle of the river, he said, "Throughout this world there is not an evil bad woman like you." Having said, "It is bad [even] to remain in the country in which is the woman who gave the sword sheath, in order to kill outright the Prince whom you married while young,--having tied your mind on me whom you saw to-day [only]," having said this, he bounded off and went away. Her ornaments and her clothes having been lost, without even a place to go to for food or clothing, while she was on the bank of the river in the midst of the forest, a Jackal came running to the place where the Princess was staying, holding in his mouth a piece of meat. Having come there [and seen the reflection of the meat in the water], he placed the piece of meat on the ground, and sprang to seize a piece of meat that was inside the river. Then a kite that was flying above, having come, flew away, taking the piece of meat. The Princess having been looking on at it, says, "Bola! Foolish Jackal! Putting aside the piece of meat that was in thy mouth, thou wentest to eat meat in the river! Was that good?" After she had scolded him, the Jackal says, "Not like my foolishness was yours. Having been staying married to the King here, having indeed gone to be married to the Vaedda King seen [by you] at that very instant, now you are staying in that way, without even to eat or to wear, or even a place to go to. It is thou thyself hast done foolishness more than I." Having said this, and scolded her well, he went away. Afterwards the God Sakra having come, taking a Jackal's disguise, because of the wickedness which the Princess did, bit her and tore her to pieces. (According to a variant related by a Washerman she joined a poor man and went about with him, getting a living by begging, until she died.) P. B. Madahapola, Ratemahatmaya, North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 184, this story was given by Mr. H. A. Pieris, extracted from a dramatic work called Kolan-kavi-pota. A King named Maname and his Queen while on a hunting excursion lost their way in the forest. The Vaedda King stopped them, but offered to release the King if he would hand over the Queen. The King refused, they fought, and the Vaedda King got him down. Maname asked the Queen for his sword; but as she had fallen in love with the handsome Vaedda she held out the sheath, and when the King seized it drew out the sword and gave it to the Vaedda, who cut off the King's head. Afterwards the Vaedda made off with her jewels and clothes at the river. While she sat there, Sakra appeared in the form of a fox (jackal), holding a piece of meat, Matali as a hawk, and another deva [Pañcasikka] as a fish. The jackal dropped its meat on the bank, and plunged into the water to seize the fish as it swam by; the hawk then carried off the piece of meat. The Queen remarked on the stupidity of the jackal, which replied that her folly was greater than his; and she died of a broken heart when she realised it. This story is simply the Jataka tale No. 374 (vol. iii, p. 145), except that in the Jataka the woman is not described as dying or being killed. In the Aventures de Paramarta of the Abbé Dubois, a dog which had stolen a leg of mutton in a village, while crossing a river with it observed its reflection in the water, let go its own mutton, and sprang to seize that of the other dog, of course losing both. In the Tota Kahani (Small), p. 81, a young married woman eloped with a stranger one night, and while near a pond he stole her jewels when she was asleep. In the morning a jackal came up, carrying a bone. Seeing a fish that had fallen on the bank, it dropped the bone and rushed to catch the fish, which floundered into the water. In the meantime the bone was carried off by a dog. The woman laughed, quoted a proverb, "He who leaves the half to run after the whole, gets neither the whole nor the half," and told the jackal her story. It recommended her to return home shamming insanity; she did this, and allayed suspicion by it. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 76, a fool who went to drink water at a tank saw in it the reflection of a golden-crested bird that was sitting on a tree. Thinking it was real gold, he entered the water several times to get it, but the movement of the surface caused it to disappear each time. In Julien's Les Avadanas this story is No. XLVI, vol. i, p. 171; in this tale the man saw the reflection of a piece of gold which the bird had placed in the tree. In the Preface to The Kathakoça, p. xvii, Mr. Tawney quoted from Professor Jacobi's introduction to the Parisishta Parvan the Jain form of the story, in which the robber left the Queen without clothing on the river bank. The Vyantara god, in order to save her soul, took the form of a jackal carrying a piece of flesh. When he dropped it and rushed to seize a fish that sprang on the bank, a bird carried off the meat. The Queen laughed, the jackal retorted, exhorted her to take refuge in the Jina, and she became a nun. In Les Avadanas (Julien), No. LXXV, vol. ii, p. 11, a woman eloped with her lover, who carried her gold, silver, and clothes across a river and abandoned her. A fox which had caught a sparrow-hawk came up, let go the hawk in order to spring at a fish in the river, and lost both. When the woman remarked on his stupidity, the fox admitted it, and retorted that hers was still greater. This is the form in which the story occurs in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 381; but in vol. ii, p. 367, there is a variant which agrees with the following Tibetan tale. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 232, a robber chief for whom a woman abandoned a blind man, sent her first into the river and then made off with her things. A jackal which came with a piece of flesh dropped it in order to seize a fish on the bank; this sprang into the water, and a vulture carried away the meat. After the usual retorts, the jackal agreed to assist her on her promising it meat daily, told her to stand in the water immersed to the neck, and persuaded the King whose wife she had been to pardon her on account of this penance. NO. 108 HOLMAN PISSA A certain King had a very beautiful Princess (daughter). With much affection he sent the Princess to school. Having sent her, during the time while she was learning, the teacher who was instructing her asked this Princess, "Princess, wilt thou come to marry me?" Thereupon, the Princess because he was her teacher did not scold him, and did not say, "It is good"; from that day she stopped going to school. At that time the Princess arrived at maturity. Because that teacher was also the astrologer (naekatrala), the King went near him to ask about the naekata (prognostics depending on the positions of the planets) for her arriving at maturity. When he went, the teacher, in order to marry the Princess to himself, said on account of the manner in which she arrived at maturity, "Should you keep this Princess in this city, this city will become desolate throughout." At that time, the King, the father of this Princess, having heard that word, becoming afraid, prepared a little ship; and having put food inside the ship, and put in the Princess, and spread the sails, and gone down to the mouth of the river, sent her away. [106] Thereupon, that ship having gone, descended near yet a city. At that time, the ship was visible to the King of that city. Having been seen by him, he told the Minister to look at it and return. Then the Minister having gone, when he looked a Princess of beauty such as could not be seen [elsewhere] was inside the ship. In order that the Minister might marry the Princess, he went to the King, and said, "O Lord, Your Majesty, a leopardess is coming in the ship." Thereupon the King having said, "It is good. If so, let us go to look at the leopardess," set off. Then the Minister, because the Minister's lie is coming to light, having gone to the road, said at the hand of the King, "O Lord, Your Majesty, I did not say it in the midst of your multitude. What though I said leopardess! It is a Princess who is wonderful to look at." The King taking that speech for the truth, having gone, when he looked it was a good-looking Princess. Then the King having asked the Princess regarding the circumstances, came back, summoning her to the palace, and married her. When she was there a little time a Prince was born. Having been born, during the time while he was there, that teacher who had imposed [on the King], in much grief wrote false letters to the whole of the various cities that her father the King was very unwell, and that having seen the letter she was to come speedily; and he sent the letters. The King who had married this Princess having received the letter and looked at the letter, told the Princess. Because a King does not go to yet [another] city, he told the Princess to go with the army and Minister, and come back, and started off the Princess-Queen to go to the city at which is her father the King. Thereupon, at the time when the Queen, carrying that Prince, was going with the Minister on the sea, the Minister said thus to the Queen, "O Queen, now then, that King does not matter to us. Because of it, let us go to another city." Then the Queen, at the time when they were going ashore, said thus, "Why do you speak in that manner in the company of that crowd? We are now going ashore; when we have gone ashore let us go somewhere or other," she said. The Minister said, "It is good." Having come ashore and said, "Let us go to another city," and gone a little far, the Queen gave into the Minister's hand the Prince, and having said, "I will go aside and return," went and hid herself. Having hidden herself, and gone into a tree on which are many leaves, she remained looking in the direction of this Minister. When he had been looking out for a considerable time, she remained there looking on, and said, "When I am not [there], he will put down the Prince and go; then having gone there I will go away, carrying the Prince." While she was looking, the Minister, having called the Queen, because she was lost took the Prince by both legs, and having split him, and thrown him into the sea, he sought the Queen. He could not find her. After that, this Minister went away. Having gone, he said to the King of the city, "The Queen got hid, and went off with another man." This Queen thinking, "What is it that he has killed that Prince! My womb has not become barren," descended from the tree, and having gone through the chena jungle to a cemetery at another city, came out into the open ground. Having come out, when she looked about a daughter of a Moorman (a resident of Arab descent) having died, he came near the grave in which she was buried, and saying and saying, "Arise, daughter; arise, daughter," the man was weeping and weeping. This Queen trickishly having stayed looking at it, and thinking, "It is good. This Moorman will come to-morrow also, and will weep here. Then, having been lying at the grave, when he is calling I will get up," remained hidden there. After the man went away, she scraped away a little earth on the grave, and at the time when the man was coming she remained lying there. The man having come, when he was calling, "Arise, daughter," she said, "What is it, father?" and arose. Thereupon, the man having put on the face cloth, [107] closing her to the extent that [her face] should not be visible to anyone whatever, took her to the man's house, and placed her on the floor of the upper story. That Minister having gone back, and said that the Queen went off, at the very time when he was saying it, it caused the young younger brother of the King to seek the Queen, and he came away [for the purpose]. Having come away, and come seeking her through the whole of the various cities, and come also to the city at which is this Queen, while he was walking [through it] this Queen, who was on the floor of the upper story, saw him, and waved her hand to the Prince, and causing him to be brought, wrote a letter and threw it below from upstairs. The Prince taking the letter, when he looked at it she said [in it] that the danger which had occurred to her was thus. [It continued], "Because of it, to-day night having brought a horse to such and such a place, and put on it two saddles, and made ready for both you and me to go off, come and speak to me." So the Prince having made ready in that very manner, came at night, and [leaving the horse went near, and] spoke to the Queen. Then the Queen, having descended from the floor of the upper room, and come running by another path, a man of the city who walks about at night, called Holman Pissa, was [there]. The man met her first. After that, having gone holding the man's hand, sitting on the back of the horse she gave him the whip, and told him to drive it along a good path. At that time, that Holman Pissa, owing to his insanity, [108] turned down a bye-path without speaking at all, and driving the horse they began to go away. As he was going driving it, it became light. There when the Queen looked the man was a madman. In order to come away and save herself from the man, she said, "It is good. Now then, we two must get a living. Because of it, go and bring water for cooking." The madman having said, "It is good," went for water. Thereupon this Queen having bounded off, went along in the chena jungle, and came out (eli-baessa) at another city. Then this Holman Pissa having come bringing water, when he looked the Queen was not [there]. Because of it, he said, "Ane! If there is not my piece of gold what should I stay for?" and began to seek her. At that time, the teacher, and the King, and the Minister, and the King's son, and the Moorman, and Holman Pissa were seeking her. After that, this Queen having got hid in the chena jungle of the city to which she went, while she remained there looking out, she saw that an Arab having died they are bringing him to bury. Having buried the Arab, after they went away this Queen broke open the grave, and taking all the few Arab clothes, dressed in the Arab trousers and put on the Arab jacket. Tying on the turban,--there was an axe--hanging it on her shoulder, she went to the Arab shops at the city, and practising the means of livelihood which that party were practising, she stayed [there] a little time. The younger brother of that King having gone to his village, while he was there the King of the city died, and there being no one for the sovereignty, they decorated the tusk elephant and sent it [in search of a King]. At that time, the tusk elephant having gone, kneeled down near that Arab Queen. After that, they appointed the Arab Queen to the sovereignty, and she remained there. She issued commands in such a way that to either the place where she bathes or the place where she sleeps, no one whatever could come. When she was there in that manner no long time, the city King who had first married her, having shot (with an arrow) a deer, when he was coming bounding along was unable to catch the deer. The Queen's father, the King, taking dogs and having gone hunting, while he was there this King's dogs having seen the deer, they also began to chase the deer along the path. While they were coming chasing it, they came to the city at which this Arab Queen is staying. At that time, the people of the city having shot the deer, killed it. After it died, the three parties began to institute law-suits. The King who had married the Arab Queen says, "If I had not shot it, how would your dogs chase it?" The King, the Arab Queen's father, says, "If there had not been my dogs, how would you catch the deer?" The men of this city say, "If we had not killed it, how would you kill the deer?" After that, as they were unable to settle it, they came for the law-suit, near the Arab King (Queen). That King having explained the law-suit, and said that it belonged to the whole three parties, ended the law-suit. None whatever of those parties was able to recognise this Queen yet; the Queen recognised all. Recognising them, she said, "Nobody of you can go away; I must give you an eating (kaemak)." Having said [this] she caused all to remain. Having stopped them, the Queen went away and dressed in woman's clothes, and having returned, asked, "Can you recognise me?" Then all the party asked her about the matters. The Queen having told them the manner in which all had occurred, caused that Moorman to be brought, and gave him presents. In addition, having caused Holman Pissa to be brought, she gave him to eat and drink. To the teacher because he taught her letters she did nothing. To the King's younger brother she gave very great presents and wealth. Because that Minister, having seized both the legs of the [baby] Prince, had split him in two, having taken the Minister to the place where there are two Palmira trees, and brought the [tops of the] trees together at one place, and tied an arm and leg, and an arm and leg to each of the two trees, they let go the two trees. At that time, in the very way he split that Prince he was split in two. After that, just as before, she remained exercising the sovereignty in a thorough manner. North-central Province. The "Arab" mentioned in the tale might be an Afghan. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 606, a young Brahmana who had arranged to elope with a girl, sent a servant to her house at night with a mule. When she mounted it the man took her away a long distance and came to another city, telling her that he intended to marry her himself. She acquiesced; and when he went to buy the articles for their wedding she fled, and took refuge with an old man who made garlands. After some time the young Brahmana came to the same town, was seen by her, and married her. NO. 109 CONCERNING A VAEDDA AND A BRIDE In the midst of a forest a Vaedda stayed. When the Vaedda's wife went to bring water, taking the large water-pot, the Vaedda, taking his bow and having gone in front of the woman, as she is coming shoots [his arrows] to go by the woman's ear. Every day he shoots in that manner. One day when the woman went to bring water she met with the woman's elder brother; he asked, "What is it, younger sister, that you are so thin for?" Then the woman said, "Ane, elder brother, when I have taken water and am going home, the Vaedda shoots [his arrows] to go by my ear. Through that trouble I am becoming thin." After that, the Vaedda [her brother] says, "Younger sister, for that I will tell you a clever trick. To-day also when he has shot as you are going, say, 'There will be better shooters than that.'" That day when he was shooting the woman said this word. Then the Vaedda asked, "What, Adiye! didst thou say?" Afterwards the woman says, "There will be better shooters than that in this country." Then the Vaedda says, "Where, Adin! are they? I must seek them and look at them. Tie up a bundle of cooked rice and bring it." So having cooked a bundle of cooked rice she gave it. Taking it, the Vaedda began to go through the forest jungle (himalaye). At the time when he was going he saw that a man is staying looking upwards. The Vaedda having gone near asked, "What are you staying looking upward for?" "It is now eight days since I shot at a bird. I am waiting until it falls." When a little time had gone, the bird's flesh, having become decomposed, fell down. At that time the Vaedda thought, "A better shooter than I is this one." In order to inquire further, the two persons, having joined together, began to go through the midst of the forest. At the time when they were going they saw yet a man who is looking upward. These two having gone near asked, "What are you staying looking upward for?" The man said, "I see the celestial nymphs [109] dancing in the divine world." The two persons spoke together: "In sight this person is more dexterous than we." Thereupon these three having joined together, at the time when they were going [they saw that] at the bottom of a Jak tree a bride was staying, leaning against the tree. A cobra was preparing to strike the woman. Then the shooter said, "I do not see far. You aim the arrow and show me [the direction]; then I will shoot." Then he shot at the cobra. The arrow having entered the cobra in the quarter of the cobra's tail, came out near the bride's head. The three Vaeddas went to the place where the bride is. That they had shot the cobra no one in the bride's party knows. Thereupon, when they tried to call the bride and go away, the Vaeddas did not allow them to call her and go. [They said], "If this cobra having bitten her she had died, where would there be a bride for you?" Both the parties instituted law-suits. Both the parties having gone near the King told him to decide the law-suit. The King having heard the law-suit, after he had looked [into the matter] was also unable to decide it. At that time he asked the Vaeddas, "To whom must this woman belong?" Thereupon the Vaeddas said, "To both parties she cannot belong. She must belong to our teacher." Should you say, "Did they say who that was?" it was indeed that woman who at first took the water. North-western Province. In Folk-Tales of Hindustan (Shaik Chilli), p. 83, a Prince while travelling met with an archer who had shot an arrow at a star fourteen years before and was awaiting its fall. He saw its approach when it was still a thousand miles away, and warned the Prince to avoid it. In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 297, the chief amusement of a rich man was shooting his arrow every morning through one of the pearls of his wife's nose-ring. When her brother came to take her to visit her parents, he found her thin and miserable, as she feared the arrow might some day strike her face. Each day the husband asked her, "Was there ever a man as clever as I am?" and she replied that there never was one. Her brother advised her to say next time that there were many men in the world cleverer than he was. When she said this her husband left her in order to find one of them. He met a clever wrestler and a clever pandit, who joined him, and who frightened some demons that were going to eat them. NO. 110 A STORY ABOUT A VAEDDA [110] At a certain time, in a city, a danaya [111] was given at the royal palace. On the next day the surplus rice was deposited for animals to eat, and dogs, cats, pigs, fowls, and crows came and began to devour it. Then a Vaedi youth who had gone to kill some game and was hungry, came and saw the fowls and pigs eating some cold cooked rice, whereupon he went to the heap of rice, and pushing aside the upper part of it took a little from the bottom and ate it. At that time the royal Princess was at the open upper story of the palace. She saw this action of the Vaedda, and said to her mother, "Ane! Amme! However poor a man may be he does not do that disgusting work." The Queen admonished the Princess, and said to her, "Appa! My daughter, do not say so of any man whatever; you do not know what may happen to you" (meaning that it might be her fate to be married to such a man). Then the Princess, speaking in ridicule of the Vaedda's want of good looks, replied, "If so, why should I wear this costume? [I may as well begin to dress like my future husband's people]." The Vaedda, after stopping and hearing this conversation, went away. As a lion used to come to that city [and carry off the inhabitants] the King subsequently caused the following proclamation to be made by beat of tom-toms: "I will give my daughter to any person whatever who kills the lion which comes to this city." On hearing this, the Vaedi youth having dug a hole in the path by which the lion came, and having got hid in it, when the animal approached shot it with his bow and arrow and killed it. When the King learnt that somebody had killed the lion he gave public notice that its destroyer should be sought for. The Vaedi youth then came forward, and after he had [proved that he was the person who killed it] the King gave that royal Princess to him in marriage [and he went away with her]. While she was living with him another good-looking Vaedi youth accompanied him one day. On seeing him the Princess trickishly drove away the Vaedda who was her husband, and married that handsome Vaedi youth. It was not long before this Vaedda one night killed a buffalo, and [taking some of the flesh] said to the Princess, "Cook this, and give it to me." The Princess replied, "It would be disgusting work for me to do; it is no business of mine. [She added] "What does it matter if my first husband is not good-looking? He was good to me." Saying this, she drove this Vaedda away, and seeking the place where the first Vaedda whom she had married was stopping, went to him and said, "Let us go [off together]." But the Vaedda said, "I will not." After that, she put on her Princess's robes as before, and came away. In a little while afterwards that very Vaedda was appointed to the kingship, and everybody subsequently lived prosperously and in health. North-central Province. NO. 111 THE STORY OF THE FOUR GIANTS [112] In a certain country there were seven giants. The youngest giant of the seven of them without any means of subsistence remained on the ash-heap itself, near the hearth. At that time the other six persons scolded him: "How wilt thou eat and dress?" Then when this youngest giant was preparing to take a digging hoe with a broken corner the other persons scolded him regarding it [also]. Thereupon, having put down the digging hoe and gone, not bringing any tool, into the midst of a forest which had Wira, Palu, and such-like trees, and having looked for a place suitable for a rice-field, with his hand he loosened and uprooted and threw them all down. Having made the rice-field, and made the ridges in it, he came home and said, "I have made a little rice-field plot (liyadda); to sow it give me a little paddy," he asked his brothers. When he said it they did not give it. Thereafter, having gone near his uncle [113] he spoke thus, "I have made a rice-field plot; let us go to look at this rice-field plot. How about a little paddy for it?" he asked. Thereupon his uncle said, "Having looked at the rice-field I will give you paddy." The two together went to the rice-field. While there his uncle ascertained the size of the rice-field and the quantity of paddy that was necessary for it, and having come home told him to take a round corn store (bissak) in which sixty amunas (about 350 bushels) of paddy were tied up. Thereupon the giant who was on the ash-heap, placing the corn store of sixty amunas on his shoulder, brought it home; and having made [the paddy] sprout, sowed the rice-field. After the [paddy in the] rice-field ripened he cut it and trampled it [by means of buffaloes], and having collected and placed the paddy in a heap, came home. Having returned summoning his brothers, he told them to climb upon the heap of paddy, and look if the spires [of the dagabas] at Anuradhapura are visible. Having looked in that way, and having seen them, though they were visible they said they were not. Thereupon anger having come to the giant of the ash-heap, he kicked the paddy heap, and having come home, taking his sword began to go away somewhere. While going thus, he saw that yet [another] giant, having uprooted a Banyan-tree, is polishing his teeth [with it], and he went quite near. Thereupon, the giant asked the giant of the ash-heap, "Where are you going?" "I am going to seek a means of subsistence," he gave answer. The two persons having conversed in this manner, while the two were going away together they saw that yet a giant, having threaded an elephant on a fish-hook, had cast it in a river, [114] and they asked him, "What are you doing? Why have you thrown an elephant into the water?" The giant says, "I am trying to catch and take a sand fish. Where are you two going?" he asked these two persons. "We are going in order to seek a means of subsistence," these two said. Having said, "If so, I will come with you," and having abandoned his work, and cast away the elephant, he also set off with them, and the three persons began to go away. While they were going thus they met with a river. They saw that in the river yet [another] giant having placed his foot across the river, from this bank to the far bank, is causing the water to stop. The giant asked, "Where are you three persons going?" The three persons said, "We are going to seek a means of subsistence." "It is good. I also will come with you," the giant said. Well then, while these three are going, having met with yet a river, when the giant who was on the ash-heap told the other giants to hang on his body, the other giants hung on it. After that, having descended into the river, the giant began to swim in the river. At that time a fish came to swallow them. Having chopped the fish with his sword, the giant who stayed on the ash-heap, taking the fish and taking these giants, swam to the far bank. Thereafter, a giant having gone up a tree, they told him to look for a place where there is fire. He said that a fire smoke is rising. Then they told him to mark [the direction] and bring fire. The giant having gone, when he looked about saw that a woman, [after] placing a large pot of paddy on the hearth, was pouring water over (that is, bathing) a child. At the time when he asked for a little fire, she said, "I am pouring water over the child. You come and take it." The giant having gone, at the time when he was bending to take the fire the woman arose and came, and having lifted up and cast the giant on the heap of fire-charcoal, and killed him, put him in the house. Thereafter, to look for him yet [another] giant went. When that giant also in that way was bending down, the woman having arisen and come, and put him on the fire-heap, and killed him, put him into the house. When [the ash-heap giant] told that [other] giant to look for the two giants, he went, and asked, "Didn't our men come here?" Thereupon the woman said, "Those men I saw not." After that, like the giants who first got the fire, at the time when he was bending down to take the fire, the woman having arisen and killed him also in the way in which she killed the first giants, put him into the house. Thereafter, the giant who at first did cultivation work having gone, taking his sword also, asked, "Didn't my three men come here?" At that time the woman said, "I did not see them." Thereupon, at the time when the giant prepared to cut the woman with his sword, she said, "Ane! Don't cut me. I will give your men." Having said it, and restored the three men to consciousness, she gave them. [115] Taking the giants also who had brought the fire, and having come again near the last river, and roasted the fish, the four persons divided it, and ate. He put the [back] bone of the fish into the river. The four persons again began to go away. After that, having gone to the city, when they asked for a rest-house [the people] said, "The rest-house indeed we can give. A bone having become fixed across in this river, water has become scarce [on account of it]." They told them to remove the bone: "We will give a Princess of our King's for removing it. That also (et) anyone is unable to do." This speech the men of that country said to these giants. After that, these giants having said, "It is becoming night for us; we cannot go," stayed in the resting-place at that very spot. [Afterwards], that giant of the ash-heap having gone and thrown aside the bone, brought a pot of water. Yet [another] man, breaking the bone, took a piece near the King. And the King was ready to give the Princess to the man. Then the giant who was on the ash-heap having gone near the King (raju), taking the bone, said, "It was not that man; it was I who took and cast away the bone." Thereafter the King beheaded the man who said it falsely. He was ready to give the [Princess] to the giant who was on the ash-heap. But the giant gave the Princess to the giant who uprooted the Banyan-tree; and having planted a Lime-tree and put a Blue-lotus flower into a small copper pot full of water, and said, "Should any harm occur to me the Lime-tree will blanch, [116] or will become like dying; the Blue-lotus flower will fade. At that time thou must come seeking me," the giant of the ash-heap began to go away [with the other two giants]. Having gone to yet [another] city he asked for a resting-place. Thereupon they said, "Ane! We can give a resting-place indeed. A lion having come eats the city people. There is not a means of getting firewood [for cooking]. Also it is said that the King will give our King's Princess to a person who has killed the lion." After that, the giant of the ash-heap, getting a resting-place there, took an axe, and having gone into the jungle, at the time when he was walking about the lion was sleeping in the jungle. This giant having chopped with the axe at the head of the lion and killed it, came back [after] cutting off his ear. Yet [another] man having come [after] cutting off the lion's head, gave it to the King. Well then, the King became ready to give the Princess to the man. At that time this giant having gone near the King, said, "It is not that one who cut off the head; it is I [who killed it]," and he gave him the lion's ear. Thereafter, the King having beheaded the man who told him falsely, was ready to give [the Princess] to the giant of the ash-heap. The giant of the ash-heap gave the Princess to the giant who was stringing the elephant on the fish-hook; and in the very manner as at first having planted a Lime-tree and put a Blue-lotus flower in a small copper pot of water and given him it, he said, "Should any harm occur to me the Lime-tree will die, the Blue-lotus flower will fade. At that time you must come seeking me;" and those two giants began to go away. Having gone to a city they asked for a resting-place. Thereupon the men said, "In our country we cannot give resting-places. A leopard having come eats the men. There is a Princess of our King's. To a person who has killed the leopard he will give the Princess, he said. That also anyone is unable to do." Notwithstanding, these two giants got the resting-place there. The giant of the ash-heap taking also the axe, went into the jungle, and when he looked the leopard was sleeping. The giant having chopped at the leopard with the axe and killed it, came back [after] cutting off the ear. Another man having seen it, came [after] cutting off the head of the leopard, and gave it to the King. When the King was becoming ready to give the Princess to the man, the giant of the ash-heap went near the King, and said, "It is not that man who killed the leopard; it is I," and he gave him the leopard's ear. Thereafter, the King having beheaded the man who said it falsely, made ready to give the Princess to the giant of the ash-heap. The giant having given the Princess to the giant who stopped the water with his foot, and in the first manner having planted a Lime-tree and put a Blue-lotus flower into a small copper pot of water, and said, "If there be any harm to me the Lime-tree will die, the Blue-lotus flower will fade. At that time come seeking me," the giant of the ash-heap began to go away alone. Having gone to a city that had become abandoned, at the time when he is looking at the houses in a street, a Princess having been in an upper story says, "Our father having become insane, and having eaten all the city people, now this city is desolate. Why have you come?" Thereupon this giant said, "I came because of [the want of] a means of subsistence." Having halted there, and that day having eaten cooked rice from there, he asked at the hand of the Princess, "Are there meneri [seeds] [117] and dried areka-nuts?" Thereupon the Princess having said, "There are," sought and gave them. The giant of the ash-heap put down the meneri from inside the open ground in front of the house up to the house. The dried areka-nuts he put above it. Having put them down, taking the sword also and half shutting the door he remained [there]. At that time the King having come, sprang towards the doorway [and slipped upon the loose seeds and nuts]. Thereupon he of the ash-heap chopped at him with the sword, and killed the King. [118] Having killed him, taking the Princess he began to go away. Having thus gone, and having built a house near a river, they remained there. One day, when the Princess was bathing at the river, she uprooted a hair [119] of the Princess's, and it fell into the water. The hair having gone along the river, and having caught on a fish (malu kuriyekuta), the fish swallowed it. The fish fell into the net of the fisherman of the King of that country. Having cut open the fish, at the time when he looked [inside it] a hair had been made into a ball. When he unrolled the hair and looked at it, its length was seven fathoms seven hands. The fisherman gave it to the King. Thereupon the King said, "To a person who should find and give me the woman who owns this hair, I will give a fourth share from my city." A widow woman said, "I can, if you will give me a ship." Thereupon the King gave her a ship. The widow woman having taken the ship, found the Princess. Having been there a few days, she asked at the hand of the Princess, "Has your husband confidence in you?" The Princess said, "Yes, he has confidence in me." Thereupon the old woman said, "It is good. If he has confidence in you ask where his life is." The Princess asked at the hand of the Prince (giant), "Where is your life?" At that time the Prince (giant) said, "My life is in the sword." One day, the giant of the ash-heap, having placed the sword in the house, went on a journey. This Princess had previously (kalin, betimes) told at the hand of the widow woman that the giant's life is in the sword. That day the Princess said to the widow woman, "Look at my head" (to search for insects). After that, when the widow woman was looking and looking the Princess went to sleep. The widow woman having taken the sword that was on the ground [in the house], and put it into the fire on the hearth, [120] lifted up the Princess, and having put her in the ship, and crossed over to that bank, handed over the Princess to the King. The King gave the widow woman many presents and distinctions. The giant of the ash-heap having become unconscious, fell down. In the very way he told the three giants whom he caused to stay at first, the Lime-trees died, the Blue-lotus flowers faded. The three giants came seeking him. When they came he was dead. The three persons having dug the ash-heap, when they looked the sword was even yet there. Taking it, at the time when they were polishing it the giant of the ash-heap became conscious. His three friendly giants asked, "What is this that happened?" Thereupon the giant of the ash-heap said, "A widow woman stayed near us. It is that woman, indeed, who did this work." Thereupon the giants asked, "Whence came the woman?" "She came from the sea," he said. Well then, these very four giants having gone on the sea, and having gone to the city at which is the Princess, at the time when they looked saw that the Princess is bound [in marriage] to the King. Having cut down the King and the widow woman, the giant of the ash-heap exercised the sovereignty of that country; and the other giants went back to the very places where each of them stayed. [121] North-western Province. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xvii, p. 50, in a Salsette story by Mr. G. Fr. D'Penha, a Prince to avoid marrying his sister went away with a hunter and a carpenter. At a deserted city at which they stayed a Rakshasa came daily when one was left to cook, and ate the rice. On the third day the Prince was the cook, and he killed the Rakshasa. The Prince's life was in his sword; if it rusted he fell sick, if it broke he would die. He made the carpenter King of the city and the hunter King of another, giving them life-index plants. The Prince then went away, killed another Rakshasa, and got from his waist a diamond which showed a passage through the water of a tank to a palace where he married a Princess and became King. He then forgot his sword, and it rusted. His friends learnt by the fading plants that he was ill, and found him just alive. He recovered when they cleaned and repolished the sword, after which they became his Chief Officers of State. In Folk-Tales of Hindustan (Shaik Chilli), p. 45, a Prince, accompanied by the sons of a goldsmith, a pandit, and a carpenter, went to kill a giant. While they halted, a giant took the food that each in turn cooked. When the Prince cooked he vanquished the giant, who offered him his daughter in marriage, and joined his party. The Prince married her to the goldsmith's son, and went to another city where the Prince's giant killed a giant who ate the people. The King's daughter was married to the pandit's son. At a third city the giant killed a lion, and a Princess was married to the carpenter's son. When they arrived at the city of the giant they had come to kill, the Prince and giant found he was the one already killed at the second city. These giants could take any shape, and thus evidently were Rakshasas. The Prince married a Princess at the fourth city and lived there with his giant. One day his wife lost her shoe while bathing in a stream, and a Raja's son found it floating down. A witch undertook to find the owner, dived into the water, came to the fort, became the Princess's servant, and learnt that the Prince's life lay in the brightness of his sword; if it became rusty he would die. One night the witch burnt the sword in a furnace, the Prince died, and she took his wife through the water to her admirer's palace, where she demanded a year's delay before marrying him. The Prince's giant found and repolished the sword, and the Prince revived. They summoned the other friends, went in search of the Princess, killed the Raja, his son, and the witch, and returned home. In Tales of the Punjab (Mrs. Steele), p. 42, when a Prince was travelling accompanied by a knife-grinder, a blacksmith, and a carpenter, a demon in the form of a mannikin ate the food which the last three cooked in turn, but was killed by the Prince when he cooked. The Prince married the knife-grinder to the King's daughter, the blacksmith to the daughter of a King at another city at which the Prince killed a ghost (Churel), and the carpenter to a Princess at a third city. To each of the friends the Prince gave a barley plant as his life index; if it drooped he would be in trouble and needing their help. He went on, killed a Jinn who had carried off a Princess with golden hair, married her, and lived at the Jinn's palace. When bathing she set one or two hairs afloat in a Bo-leaf cup, which was secured by a King lower down the river. A wise woman sent to find their owner, discovered her, ascertained that the Prince's life was in his sword, at night put it in a fire, and when the hilt rolled off the Prince died. She then carried off the Princess to the King. As the barley plants snapped in two, the three friends came with armies, found the body of the Prince and his sword, repaired and repolished the latter, and thus restored the Prince's life. The carpenter discovered the Princess, made a flying palankin, into which she, together with the King's sister and the wise woman, mounted with him, and he sailed back to the Prince, throwing down the other two women on the way. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 39, four companions took possession of a house on a hill. They cooked in turn, the other three going to hunt. On each day a demoness in the form of a woman a span high begged a taste of the food, and she and the food and cooking-pot then disappeared. The fourth man killed her. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 386, the sword incident varies. A Prince's wife, wishing to deprive him of the magic power conferred by the sword, put the weapon in a fire while he slept. He became unconscious when the sword was dimmed, but recovered when the Goddess Durga restored its brightness. In the same work, vol. ii, p. 487, an Asura's vital point was his left hand; he died when a King shot him through it. In the Maha Bharata (Vana Parva, cccxi) four of the Pandava Princes were killed in turn by a Yaksha as soon as they drank at a pool. When the eldest brother answered his questions satisfactorily he revived them. NO. 112 THE STORY ABOUT A GIANT In a certain country two men spoke together: "Let us two persons go to seek the kingdom gored [by] the Sky Buffalo," [122] they said, it is said. After that the two went, it is said. Procuring provisions, they began to go. At the time when they are going thus for not much time, one man was struck by inability [to proceed]. The man said, it is said, "Don't you go here alone," he said. "Without going alone what shall I do?" he said. After that, that man died. This man having gone, contracted (lit., tied) a marriage. Putting [out of consideration] the displeasure of the woman's two parents, he contracted the marriage. The mother-in-law and father-in-law, both of them, having said, "Don't you two remain in my house," told them to go. After that, the son-in-law having caused thieves to be brought, took the goods in the house that he had not brought; the best (honda honda) goods the man took, a few things those men got. The man, taking the woman, went to another city. At the time when they were at the city no long time, a child was born to the woman. The child, at the time when he was seven years of age, catching the remaining Hares and Mouse-deer dashes them to the ground. A long time after twelve years were fulfilled, having run after Sambhar deer and caught them he dashes them to the ground; [123] having caught Boars also he dashes them to the ground. That he is doing thus was known to everybody. Having perceived it they told the matter to the King of that city. The King, causing the young man to be brought, and having given him many offices, made him remain near the King; he is stopping there. Then a hostile army having come to the city and laid [siege] to the city, [124] after the Ministers told the King, causing the giant to be brought he asked, "A hostile army having come is surrounding my city. On account of it, art thou able to drive off and send away the army?" The giant said, "I am not unable to do it." After that, the King said, "What are the things thou wantest for it?" he asked. When he asked, he said, "Should I receive a tusk elephant and the sword, it will do." Afterwards he gave the tusk elephant and sword. Having waited until the time when he gives them, he went for the battle. Having gone, and having cut down that army, he came to the royal palace. Having come, he made obeisance [125] to the King [and related an account of his victory]. After that, the King having given half the kingdom to the giant, he remained [there]. Well then, beginning from that day, he remained exercising the sovereignty [over the half of the kingdom] until the time when he dies. North-western Province. I was informed that in the allusion to the Sky Buffalo which gored the earth, reference is made to the country in which the sky pierces (that is, touches) the earth (see vol. i, p. 284). The Sky Buffalo is not mentioned elsewhere in these stories. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 6, the God Siva is represented as saying, "Moreover, this world resembling a skull, rests in my hand; for the two skull-shaped halves of the [Mundane] egg before mentioned are called heaven and earth." It is evident that here also the two halves of the egg, that is, the sky and the earth, are supposed to be in contact, the sky resting on the earth. In the Rigveda they are termed two bowls; the sun travelled in the hollow space between them (i, clx, 2), and the upper one was supported by pillars. The feats of the youthful giant in chasing and seizing wild animals are borrowed from the Mahavansa, chapter xxiii (p. 161 of Professor Geiger's translation), where it is stated of Khañjadeva, one of the ten leading chiefs under King Duttha-Gamani in the second century B.C., that "when he went a-hunting with the village folk he chased at these times great buffaloes, as many as rose up, and grasped them by the leg with his hand, and when he had whirled them round his head the young man dashed them to the ground, breaking their bones." NO. 113 HITIHAMI THE GIANT In the Wanni country, in the north-western quarter of the Island of Lanka (Ceylon), there is a village called Andara-waewa. In that village a giant was born. His parents, cherishing him, reared the child. While the child is at the age for playing seated, he eats about two quarts of cooked rice [daily]. At the walking age he eats about three quarts of cooked rice. While seven years of age he eats about four quarts of cooked rice. Having gone with children who walked about for amusement, having caught hares and mouse-deer, and struck them on the ground, killing them, he brings them [home]. After he has brought them, his two parents ask, "Whence, son, are these?" Then the child says, "Mother, having gone running I seized them." Thus, having been living in that manner, at the age of about twelve years he said to his mother, "Mother, give me food [to enable me] to go to cut a chena." So his mother gave him food. The child having eaten the food, and gone to the jungle taking two bill-hooks, cut the chena that very day. Having cut it, and come home, he said to his mother, "Mother, I cut a chena. I don't know the time for setting fire to it. Because of it, tell father to set fire to the chena." After that, his mother said, "Our son cut a chena. Set fire to it; son does not know the time for setting fire [to it]." After that, the man went and set fire to the chena. This giant-child having gone, cut the fence [sticks] for the chena in one day; on the next day he went, and sowed it till he finished it. The sowing account was a paela (a quarter of an amuna of 5.7 bushels) of millet. [126] On the next day he said to his mother, "Mother, I cut a chena indeed; for the purpose of going and doing the work at a tawalla [127] also, give me food." Afterwards his mother gave him food. Having eaten the food, the child went to the tawalla, and put up earthen ridges over the ground for [making a field large enough for sowing in it] one and a half amunas (8.55 bushels) of paddy. [128] Having put them up he came home. Having gone on the following day, he made [the soil into] mud [129] [by causing cattle to trample it]. Having made [it into] mud he came home. Having come, he said to his mother, "Mother, place one and a half amunas of paddy in water [to cause it to sprout] for sowing in the tawalla." Afterwards his mother made the paddy sprout. This child took the one and a half amunas of paddy, and sowed it that very day. In the evening he came home. On the following day he said to his mother, "Mother, give me food. I indeed sowed the tawalla; there is still to build the watch-hut in it." Afterwards his mother gave him food. The child ate the food, and went to the tawalla. Having gone there, and that very day having made the fence, and that very day having built the watch-hut, he came home. Having eaten food, he went back to the watch-hut, and with his own foot he sprinkles water over the amuna and a half of paddy. [130] At that time the King caused a Mallawa [131] giant to be brought to Kandy. Many men wrestled with the Mallawa giant and fell. After that, the King said to the Ministers, "Go and find a thoroughly strong giant, and come back." Afterwards the Ministers spread the news: "Is there a giant able to wrestle with the Mallawa giant?" Then certain men said, "At the village called Andara-waewa there is a man called Hitihami, who eats the cooked rice from seven [quarts] of rice. That man is good for wrestling with the Mallawa giant." After they said it, the Ministers went to Andara-waewa to seek the giant Hitihami. When they went there, the boy Hitihami was not at home; only the giant's mother was there. They asked at the hand of his mother, "Where is now Hitihami?" Then his mother said, "My son went to the watch-hut at the tawalla." After that, the Ministers went to the tawalla to seek him. As they were going there they saw Hitihami sprinkling water for the tawalla with his foot. Thereupon the Ministers went to the place where Hitihami was sprinkling water. Having gone, the Ministers asked, "Is it you they call Hitihami of Andara-waewa?" Then Hitihami said, "Yes, it is I myself. What matter have you come about?" he asked. Then the Ministers said, "It has been arranged by the King [that you are] to go for the Mallawa wrestling. Because of it, get ready [132] for you to go." After that, Hitihami having come home with the Ministers, asked at the hand of his mother, "Mother, haven't you cooked yet?" His mother said, "Son, I have not yet cooked. I have only boiled five quarts of meneri." Then Hitihami having [drunk] the milk taken from seven buffalo cows in the large cooking-pot, and having eaten those five quarts of boiled meneri, [after] washing his [right] hand and taking his betel bag also, said to the Ministers, "Let us go;" and Hitihami and the Ministers went. At the time when they are going, there are a great many pumpkins at a chena on the path. Having seen them, Hitihami, plucking four pumpkins also and continuing to eat them, went to Kandy. The Ministers who went with him said to the King, "Hitihami of Andara-waewa has come." The King told Hitihami to come near, and said, "Can you wrestle with the Mallawa one?" Then Hitihami replied, "Putting one Mallawa person [out of consideration], should seven come I am not afraid." After that, the King told him to go for the wrestling with the Mallawa one. As soon as Hitihami went, he seized the Mallawa one. Then the bones of the Mallawa one were broken. The King said, "A! Kill not my Mallawa one!" So Hitihami let go. The Mallawa one having died, fell on the ground. After that, the King was displeased with Hitihami. Having become displeased he said to the Ministers, "You must put Hitihami on the other bank of the river (Mahawaeli-ganga)." The Ministers put Hitihami on the other bank. As Hitihami was coming away to his village, sixty persons having come together for a paddy kayiya, [133] were at the foot of a tree. Hitihami having gone there, asked, "What are you come together there for?" Then the men said, "We have come together to cut a paddy kayiya." Hitihami said, "Are you willing for me also to cut the paddy plants for a breath (husmak)?" The men said, "It is very good; let us cut." Afterwards, asking for the sickles from each one of the men, and having broken them, and thrown them down, and drawn out the betel-cutter that was in Hitihami's betel wallet (bulat-payiya), taking it he began to cut the paddy plants. Only the paddy plants of two amunas of paddy (about four and a half acres) were ripe; there were no more. He finished the two amunas of paddy plants, and because there were no [more] ripe paddy plants, cutting the fence of the upper field and having gone [there], he began to cut the green paddy plants. Then the men who owned the field said and said, "Don't cut [those]." He does not stop. Afterwards the men tied a ball. [134] Afterwards, the giant having come to the high ground [outside the field], when he came to the place where the men were near the tree, the men said, "Let us go to eat the kayiya." Then Hitihami said, "You go and eat the kayiya; I am going to my village." As he was coming on and on, having met with a wild buffalo it began to gore him. So Hitihami seized the two horns of the buffalo, and loosening the two horns, went to his village [with them]. Having gone [there], and given into his mother's hand the two horns, he said, "Mother, having conquered in the Mallawa wrestling, at the time when I was coming back about sixty men had come together to cut the paddy plants in a rice field. At the hand of the men I asked, 'What are you many men joined together there for?' Then the men said, 'We are [here] to cut a paddy kayiya.' "Afterwards, asking for the men's sickles, I broke them and threw them down, and taking the betel-cutter [135] that was in my betel wallet, descended to the field, and having cut the paddy plants, there also I got the victory. "As I was coming away, a wild buffalo came to gore me. Afterwards, loosening the buffalo's two horns [I brought them away]. These indeed are the two horns." He told her all the matters. Then his mother said, "Son, except that you have said that word to me, do not say it for anyone else to hear;" and having cooked several kinds of cakes, and milk-rice, gave them to Hitihami the Giant to eat. North-western Province. This story differs from nearly all the others in being almost certainly based on a considerable statum of fact. Apparently, it is the exaggerated tradition about a very strong man who defeated a celebrated Indian wrestler at Kandy. The story also gives more details concerning the village cultivations than any others I have met with. Perhaps it is not the only record of this Hitihami. Among the names of the deified chiefs of ancient times, termed Bandara, there is one called Hiti Bandara, who is said to have lived at a village called Gokaraella, twelve miles north-east of Kurunaegala. It is possible that he is the hero of this story; but as the names of the villages are different there is considerable doubt regarding it. There was a village called Andara-waewa (in the Wanni Hat-pattu district of the North-western Province) which was abandoned some centuries ago, the field and village tank having become overgrown with jungle and forest. As Kandy was founded early in the fourteenth century, according to the manuscript Pradhana nuwarawal, the story may record events of the fourteenth, fifteenth, or possibly the sixteenth century, A.D. NO. 114 THE NEW SPEECH [136] A certain Gamarala had a daughter, it is said. Many persons having come, ask to marry the daughter. After they have asked it, this [137] Gamarala asks those people who come, "Do you know the New Speech?" At that time those people say, "Ane! There is not a New Speech that we know." "If so, go you away," the [138] Gamarala says to those parties. Well then, those people go. Then still a party come. He asks that party, also, in that very manner, "Do you know the New Speech?" Thereupon that party say, "Ane! There is not a New Speech that we know." Then the man says, "If so, I will not give my girl. I will give her [only] to the man who knows the New Speech." In this manner, many persons having asked and asked, went away. Because even one person is not learning the New Speech, even one person does not obtain her. A young man at yet [another] village said thus: "Ane! Father, I know [139] a New Speech. Because of it, marry and give that Gamarala's daughter to me," he said. Thereupon, he having gone asks the Gamarala, "My son knows a New Speech. Because of it, can you marry your daughter to my son?" he asked. Then the Gamarala, having become pleased, said, "It is very good." On the following day after that the marriage took place. When not much time had gone, one day when the father-in-law and the son-in-law were getting ready to go and plough the rice field, they said at the hand of the girl's mother, "Bring cooked rice to the rice field," and went to plough. While ploughing, the father-in-law's goad having broken he went to the jungle below the rice field to cut a goad. Then that girl's mother, bringing the cooked rice and coming to the field, asked the son-in-law, "Where, son-in-law, is your father-in-law now?" Then the son-in-law said, "Ando! Mother-in-law, is there any stopping in the field for him! There, On! A woman was beckoning with her hands; he will have gone on that account;" and leaving aside the quarter to which that man went, he stretched out his hand in another direction. "He went there, On! You go, too," he said. Afterwards the mother-in-law went there. Then that father-in-law having come to the rice field [after] cutting a goad, asked at the hand of that son-in-law, "Son-in-law, where is your mother-in-law?" Then the son-in-law said, "Ando! Father-in-law, is there any staying here for her! Having brought and placed here the [mat] box of cooked rice, there, On! A man was beckoning with his hand. She will have gone on that account;" and leaving the quarter to which she went, he stretched out his hand in another direction. "She went there, On! You go too," he said. The Gamarala, taking the goad, went there to seek the woman. That woman is seeking the man; the man is seeking the woman. While seeking him in that manner that woman came to the rice field, and asked, "Son-in-law, hasn't he come yet, your father-in-law?" Then the son-in-law said, "Not he, mother-in-law; he hasn't come yet." While she was there, the father-in-law came up and beat the woman until the goad was broken to pieces. Afterwards the woman came home. While the two men, having eaten the cooked rice, were ploughing, the son-in-law asked at the hand of the father-in-law, "Father-in-law, she is a slut whom you have called [in marriage], isn't she?" The father-in-law asked, "What is [the meaning of] that, son-in-law?" The son-in-law replied, "Ando! You have been married such a long time, too! Don't you know about it? When you are sleeping, having come every day she licks your body. Sleep to-day, also; while you are sleeping she will lick your body, On!" Afterwards, having ploughed, when it became night the son-in-law, going in front, came home, and says at the hand of the mother-in-law, "Ando! Mother-in-law, he is a salt leaf-cutter whom you have married, isn't he?" Then the mother-in-law asked, "What is [the meaning of] that, son-in-law?" The son-in-law said, "Ando! You have been such a long time married, too! Don't you know about it? To-day, after father-in-law has gone to sleep lick his body. There is salt taste, On!" Afterwards, in the night when the father-in-law had gone to sleep, the mother-in-law went and licked his body. Then the father-in-law, having awoke, said, "Ci! Ci [140]! Slut!" The mother-in-law said, "Ci! Ci! Salt Leaf-cutter!" and the two quarrelled. When not much time had gone by, the [141] Gamarala said a speech to the son-in-law in this manner. His elder daughter had been given [in marriage] to a person at a distant village. "Son-in-law, as I have got news that my daughter's illness is severe, I am going because of it, and having gone there am returning." Saying, "Sow one and a half amunas of paddy (eight and a half bushels), and block up [the gaps in] the fence, and tie the fence of the garden, and heat water, and place it [ready] for me to bathe when I come," he went. Thereupon the man, getting the whole of these into his mind, said, "It is good." After the Gamarala went away, he lowered out of the corn-store one and a half amunas of paddy, and having taken them placed them in the rice field; and having come back, and gone [again] taking the yoke of cattle and the plough, and driven two or three furrows for the whole length of the field, and sown over the field the amuna and a half, and tied the cattle at a tree [in the jungle], and cut the fence that was round the field, and come home, and also cut the fence of the garden, and heated a pot of water, also, until it was thoroughly boiling, while he was placing it [ready] the Gamarala came, at the time when the ground is being stricken dark. Having come, he asked, "Did you do all these services?" That son-in-law said, "Yes." After he said it, he asked, "Did you warm water for me to bathe?" At that time he said, "Father-in-law, I heated the water, and the chill has been taken off. Come to bathe." He brought that pot of boiling water, and called him. Then the Gamarala said, "I can bathe [myself]. You go." Thereupon he says, "When do you bathe (that is, pour water over yourself) by your own hand? Please bathe by my hand." Having said, "It is good," the father-in-law tying on the bathing cloth (ambuda baendaganda), told him to bathe him. Thereupon the son-in-law poured on his back, from the pot, that water which was boiling. Then the Gamarala, as it was burning his back, cried, "What, son-in-law, did you do here?" Then the son-in-law says, "Don't shout in that way, father-in-law; that indeed is a piece of the New Speech." Because his back had been scalded, the hot water having been thrown on it, the relatives were dismissed from his mind. The Gamarala's back was scalded to the extent that he was unable to rise for two or three days. After two or three days had gone by, when he looked at the fence of the garden, the fence had been cut. Thereupon the Gamarala asked at the hand of the son-in-law, "Son-in-law, who cut the fence of the garden?" Then he says, "Father-in-law, that indeed is a part of the New Speech," he said. At that time, also, the Gamarala was angry. [After] looking at it, he went to the rice field, and when he looked, the fence of the rice field also had been cut, and paddy had been sown in the [unploughed] rice field. When he asked also at the hand of the son-in-law, "What is [the meaning of] that?" "A part of the New Speech, indeed, is that," he said. The Gamarala at that also became angry. Afterwards he asked the son-in-law thus, "Where is even my yoke of cattle?" Thereupon the son-in-law said, "They are tied in the chena jungle." He was angry also concerning that [the cattle being then dead or nearly so]. For many a day afterwards he remained without talking with the son-in-law. During the time while he is thus, that daughter who had been given [in marriage] to an out-village, sent word that [her] father and brother-in-law, both of them, must come. Next day that father-in-law having cooked cakes, tied them in a bag, and having cooked a bundle of rice, tied that also in a bag, in order to go to the place where the Gamarala's elder daughter was given in marriage. Then he called the son-in-law, saying, "Let us go." The son-in-law, taking the cake bag, asked, "Father-in-law, what sort is this?" The father-in-law replied, [jokingly,] "There are cobras in it." Then the son-in-law, taking the bag of cooked rice, asked, "Father-in-law, what sort is this?" The father-in-law said, "That is for the road." Afterwards the son-in-law, taking the cake bag, went in front; the father-in-law taking the bundle of cooked rice, went behind. The father-in-law was unable to go quickly. The son-in-law while going on and on ate those cakes. At the place where the cakes were finished he broke open the mouth of the bag, and setting it on an ant-hill stopped there looking at it. Then the father-in-law having come up, asked, "What, son-in-law, is that?" The son-in-law said, "I don't know, father-in-law. As you said those were cobras I placed it on the ant-hill for them to creep out." Afterwards taking the rice bag, also, that was in the hand of the father-in-law, he again went a long way in front, opened the rice bag, and ate the cooked rice, and having thrown away the bag, stopped there, sitting down. The Gamarala having come up, said, "Let us eat the bundle of cooked rice. Where, son-in-law, is the rice bag?" Then the son-in-law said, "I don't know, father-in-law. As you said that was for the road, I put it on the road and came away." They were near a [road-side] shop. At that time, having given the son-in-law a panama, [142] the Gamarala said, "Go to that shop and bring plantains." Then having gone to the shop, taking sixteen plantains for the panama he thought thus:--"Should I take these sixteen plantains near father-in-law, I shall receive eight plantains [as my share]. Because of that, I must eat the eight plantains here and go." Thereupon he ate eight plantains. Having eaten them, he thinks again, "Should I take these eight plantains father-in-law will not eat them without having given me four plantains. Because of it, I must eat the four plantains in this very place." So he ate the four plantains. Having eaten them, still he thinks, "Should I go taking these four, father-in-law will never eat without giving me two. Because of it, after eating the two in this very place I must go." So from the four he ate two. Having eaten these, still he thinks, "Should I take these two near father-in-law [143], he will never eat without giving me one. Because of it, I must go after eating one in this very place." So from the two he ate one. Having eaten it, still he thinks, "Should I take this near father-in-law [143] he will never eat without giving me a piece. Because of it, I must go after eating the piece here." So breaking the plantain in two he ate a piece. Having eaten it, he brought the remaining piece, and gave it to his father-in-law. Thereupon the Gamarala asks, "Is there [only] so much plantain, son-in-law?" he asked. Then the son-in-law said thus, "Father-in-law, I ate my portion; your portion is that much," he said. The village at which was the father-in-law's daughter, was very near. Afterwards the son-in-law said, "Father-in-law, isn't there scarcity of food now everywhere in the country? On that account it is wrong for us both to go there at the same time. You come behind; I will go in front." Having gone to the place where the daughter was, he said, "Father-in-law is coming there. It is bad for him to eat anything; he has eaten a medicine. On account of the medicine he is only eating [paddy] dust porridge; it is bad to eat anything else. On that account cook quickly a little porridge from paddy dust, and place it [ready] for him," he said. After that, having amply cooked rice and curry for the son-in-law, she gave him to eat; and for the daughter's father, taking some of the paddy dust that was in the store-room, she cooked porridge. While she was looking for him the Gamarala came; afterwards she gave him the porridge. The man, thinking, "Ane! Our daughter must be without anything to eat," having eaten a very little of the porridge went to sleep. In the night that daughter's girl was crying. Saying, "I want to go and sleep near grandfather," she went to the place where the man was. Having gone there the girl was crying in the same way. Then the son-in-law, hearing her, asked at the man's hand, "What, father-in-law, is that girl crying for?" The father-in-law, being very sleepy, said, "I don't know, son-in-law; we must split her belly, [144] maybe." Afterwards the son-in-law, having got up, came to the place where the girl was, taking a knife, and split the girl's belly. Next day, having buried the girl, the father-in-law and the son-in-law came to their village. After they went, the son-in-law, having become desirous to eat cakes, told [his wife] to cook cakes. Thereupon the Gamarala's wife said there was no palm sugar. On account of it, the son-in-law, having become hostile, was minded to go once again to the village at which the Gamarala's elder daughter was given [in marriage]. Having gone there, he said to the Gamarala's daughter, "Ane! Mother-in-law having died, I came here to tell you of the pinkama. [145] The pinkama is on the day after to-morrow. Because of it, cooking a few cakes and the like, come," he said. Thereupon the Gamarala's daughter wept. Then this son-in-law says, "What are you crying for? As for the name 'crying,' we also cried. Through crying you will not meet with her. Because of it, plucking and setting to ripen a spike of plantains and the like, and cooking a few cakes, come on the day after to-morrow." Having said this he came back. Having come there, he said to the Gamarala and the whole of the other persons who were listening, "Father-in-law, your daughter having died, the pinkama is on the day after to-morrow. Because of it, they said to the whole of you that you are to go [after] plucking and setting to ripen spikes of plantains, and cooking cakes." Afterwards the Gamarala, the Gamarala's wife, the son-in-law, the son-in-law's wife, all having wept and wept, cooked cakes and milk-rice; and taking ripe plantains, and tying pingo (carrying-stick) loads of cakes and spikes of plantains, the two parties went until the time when they came face to face. When they are coming in contact the Gamarala's wife goes weeping, "Ane! Daughter, he said you died." Thereupon the daughter comes weeping, "Ane! Mother, it is for your pinkama we came here." While both parties, having made lamentation in this manner, are weeping, the son-in-law who knows the Gamarala's New Speech, said, "To-day also you cannot cook cakes! Eat ye," and began to eat the cakes. After that, their troubles being allayed, when they asked from this one, "What is this you said?" he said, "This indeed, father-in-law, is a little of the New Speech. For the purpose of your getting to know it I did it." After that all were consoled. North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 131, Mr. W. Goonetilleke gives the incident of the plantain eating as part of a tale called "The Story of Hokka." The hero of it was a servant of the Gamarala's. He bought sixteen plantains, and ate his half share, on his way back repeating the process until only one was left, which he offered to the Gamarala. His master complained of his stupidity in getting only one plantain for the money. Hokka replied that he received sixteen, but had eaten the rest. "How did you [dare to] eat them, you dog?" asked the Gamarala. Hokka held up the plantain, peeled it, and put it in his mouth, saying, "This is the way I ate the plantains, your honour." In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 92, a foolish man who was taking money to the local treasury, put it in some flour which he handed to a baker's wife to be made into cakes. In the morning, when he remembered and asked for it, she refused to return it unless he told her two stories this way and two that way, and as he could think of none he went off without it. When his clever brother heard of it, he put some brass finger-rings into flour, handed it to the same woman, and in reply to her remarks stated that there were many rings at the bush where he picked these. When she went to pick some, thinking them gold, the man told her husband that she had followed a man who beckoned to her, the husband took a bamboo and gave her a sound beating. The clever brother, learning that the baker's daughter was betrothed to a lad at another village, told a person whom he met to inform the boy's parents that the girl had died from snake-bite; he himself told the girl's mother that wolves had attacked and killed the lad. The two mothers met on the way, quarrelled and fought, and became reconciled on finding the reports false. The brother told the baker's wife that he had now told her two stories this way, and she was glad to give him his brother's money before he told her two that way. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 289, a barber whose wife was visited by a King pretended to be sick, and informed the King that his wife was a witch who extracted and sucked his entrails while he slept, and then replaced them. When the barber went home he told his wife that his razor had broken on some abnormal and very sharp teeth of the King's. When the King came, and the barber's wife stretched out her hand to find the teeth, the King cried, "A witch! A witch!" and escaped. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. i, p. 355) a negro slave related how when his master sent him home for some article, he informed his wife and daughters that his master had been killed by the fall of an old wall. They rent their robes, overturned the furniture, and broke the windows and crockery, the slave assisting them. Then, led by him, they and the neighbours went lamenting to bring the body home. The Governor also took labourers with spades and baskets. The slave got ahead, told the master that his house had fallen and killed his wife, daughters, and everything else. While his master and his friends were lamenting and tearing their robes the procession of mourners arrived and the hoax was discovered. The Governor made the slave "eat stick" till he fainted. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 211, a man who was sent by his master to buy mangoes, only sweet and fine ones, tasted each one to ascertain if it was of the requisite quality. NO. 115 THE MASTER AND SERVANT While a certain Master and Servant were going on a journey, they having become hungry the Master said, "Ada! Bring plantain flowers," [146] and gave money to the Servant. The Servant having brought plantain flowers, for the purpose of eating them they sat down at a place. The Master spoke to the Servant, "Ada! Don't throw away their rinds (potu); having given money also [for them] what are you throwing them away for?" he said. "If so, you must eat them," the Servant said. Thereupon, while the Master first was eating the peel (leli) of the plantain fruits, his stomach having filled he became unable to eat the core [of the peeled fruit]. After that, the Servant ate the small quantity of the core. Uva Province. NO. 116 HOW THE SON-IN-LAW CUT THE CHENA In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. There is a daughter of those two persons. Having brought a man to the house for the girl, he stayed there. One day the father-in-law said to the son-in-law, "[After] asking for a Naekata (a lucky hour, depending on the positions of the planets), and returning, prepare to cut a little jungle [for making a chena]." After that, the son-in-law went near the Naekatrala (astrologer) and asked for a naekata. Then the Naekatrala said, "The naekata will be on Thursday" (Burahaspotinda, sic). Afterwards the son-in-law, saying, "Burahas, burahas," comes away. The path on which to come is along the [front of the] Gamarala's house; except that, there is no other path. When he is coming away along the [front of the] Gamarala's house, the Gamarala's dog comes growling (burana) in front of him. Well then, the son-in-law forgets the naekata. Well then, having gone back again near the Naekatrala, he said, "Ane! Naekatrala, not having remembered the day I have come here again." Then the Naekatrala says, "Why do you forget; didn't I say Thursday?" When the son-in-law, again saying and saying, "Burahas, burahas," is coming away along the [front of the] Gamarala's house, the dog comes growling. Well then, again this man forgets the naekat day. Again having gone near the Naekatrala, he asks him. Thus, in that manner, that day until it becomes night he walks there and here. Afterwards the Naekatrala said, "What has happened to you that you are forgetting in that way?" Then this son-in-law says, "What is it, Naekatrala? Isn't it because of the Gamarala's dog? What else?" Then the Naekatrala said, "Why do you become unable [to remember] because of the dog?" This son-in-law replies, "When I am going from here saying and saying, 'Burahas, burahas,' along the [front of the] Gamarala's house, that dog comes in front of me growling. Well then, I forget it." The Naekatrala having given into the man's hand a cudgel, said, "Should the dog come, beat it with this;" and saying, "The day is Thursday," sent him away. After that, the man came home in the manner the Naekatrala said. That day was Wednesday; the next day, indeed, was the naekata. On that day he said to the man's wife, "To-morrow, indeed, is the naekata, Thursday. Early in the morning you must make ready a bundle of cooked rice." On the following day the woman cooked a bundle of rice and gave him it. The man, having taken the bundle of cooked rice and hung it on a tree, clearing at the tree only [sufficient] for the man to lie down, slept there until the time when it becomes noon. At noon, bathing in water and returning, he ate the bundle of cooked rice; and having been sleeping there again until the time when it becomes night, he came home in the evening. Thus, in that way, until the time comes for setting fire to the jungle, he ate the bundles of cooked rice. Then when men told the son-in-law they were going to set fire to the jungle [at their chenas] he said, "Father-in-law, I must set fire to my jungle. I cannot quite alone. If you go too it will be good." Afterwards the father-in-law said, "Ha, if so, let us go," and taking a blind (smouldering) torch, and taking also a bundle of [unlit] torches, the father-in-law quite loaded, the son-in-law empty-handed in front, they go on and on, without end. The father-in-law said, "Where, son-in-law, are we going still?" The son-in-law says, "Still a little further. Come along." Having said this, and gone near the tree where he ate the rice, a buffalo was asleep in the place which he had cleared and had been sleeping at. The son-in-law, cutting a stick, came and struck the buffalo, and drove it away, saying, "What did you come to sleep in my chena for?" Then the father-in-law asked, "Where, son-in-law, is the chena?" The son-in-law says, "Ando! Father-in-law, this Candala [147] buffalo was sleeping in one part that I had cut. The others men stole and went off with, maybe." After that, the father-in-law, having become angry, came home. North-western Province. NO. 117 A GIRL AND A STEP-MOTHER At a certain time, at a village there was a certain Gamarala. There was a daughter of the Gamarala's. The daughter's mother died. After she died, for the Gamarala they brought another [woman in] marriage. Of the previous diga (marriage) of that woman there is a girl. The woman and the girl are not good to the Gamarala's daughter. At the time when the Gamarala is not [there], she tells the two girls to clean cotton. She told that step-mother's daughter to remain at the corner of the house, and clean the cotton. She told the daughter of the Gamarala's previous marriage to clean cotton in the lower part of the garden, under the lime tree. Having told her to clean it, the step-mother says, "Should a roll of cotton go away through the wind I will split thy head," she said. When with fear on account of it, the [Gamarala's] girl is cleaning the cotton, a great wind having struck her, all the small quantity of cotton went away owing to the wind. The step-mother saw that the cotton is going. Having seen it, she went and said to the girl, "Why did'st thou send away the cotton in the wind? Thou canst not remain here. Thou having gone near the female Bear, [after] begging for the golden spindle (ran idda), the golden bow for cleaning cotton (ran rodda), the golden spindle (ran wawnna), the golden spinning-wheel (ran yantare), feed the seven mouths of the Seven-mouthed Prince and get a living. Unless [thou dost] that, thou canst not obtain a living here." Having said [this], she beat her. The girl, hearing the word which her step-mother said, went near the female Bear, and asking for [and obtaining] the female Bear's golden spindle, golden cotton-bow, golden spindle, golden spinning-wheel, went to the place where the Seven-mouthed Prince is. The Seven-mouthed Prince is a human-flesh-eating man; there are seven mouths for that man. At the time when the girl was arriving there, the Seven-mouthed Prince had not come back since he went [148] to eat human flesh. This girl having hastened, having cooked seven quarts of rice and seven curries, and covered those things and placed [them ready], remained hidden when the Seven-mouthed Prince was coming. The Seven-mouthed Prince having come, when he looked some rice and curry had been cooked. The Seven-mouthed Prince asks, "Who has cooked these?" The girl does not speak about it. After that, the Seven-mouthed Prince having prepared himself, ate the whole of the cooked rice and curry. Having eaten, and having been sleeping, on the following day, in the morning, he went for human-flesh food. Having waited until the time when he goes, the girl that day having cooked six quarts of rice, and having cooked six curries, cleaned and swept the house, and that day also got hid. That day also, having come, he asked in that manner [who had done it]. That day, also, she did not speak. That day he obliterated one mouth. In this order, until the time when it became one quart, she cooked and gave him to eat. Out of the seven mouths he obliterated six; one remained over. On that day, having cooked in the day a half [quart] of rice, and cooked two curries, and having warmed and placed water for the Seven-mouthed Prince to bathe, and taken another sort of cloth [for him], she placed those things [ready] for him. Having expressed oil, she placed it [ready for him]. That day the Seven-mouthed Prince having come, says, "Come down, person who is assisting me." Having said it, he called her. After that, the girl came. After she came, he asked, "What is the reason of your assisting me in this way?" Then the girl tells him. The girl says, "I have no mother; father has brought a step-mother. That step-mother having beaten me said, 'Thou canst not be here and obtain a living. Thou having gone near the female Bear, [after] begging for the female Bear's golden spindle, golden cotton bow, golden spinning-wheel, golden spindle, go near the Seven-mouthed Prince, and feeding the seven mouths obtain a living. Except that, thou canst not get a living here,' she said. Owing to that I came," she said. Afterwards he became much pleased about it. Having become pleased he told her to stay [as his wife]. Afterwards having called the Prince, and caused him to bathe in warm water, and caused him to put on good cloths, and rubbed oil [on his hair], and combed his head, that day the two sitting down ate cooked rice. From that time, the party became rich there to a good degree. The girl's father, and step-mother, and step-mother's girl, having gone to the place where she is, obtained a subsistence from there. North-western Province. Messrs. H. B. Andris and Co., of Kandy, have been good enough to inform me that the wawnna is a kind of spindle or yarn-holder, two and a half feet long, on which the thread is wound after spinning. It is narrow in the middle part and wider at each end. The rodda is eighteen inches long. NO. 118 THE WICKED ELDER BROTHER In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. There is a younger sister of the man. The elder brother's wife is very dear to the younger sister; the younger sister is a very good girl. One day the elder brother said at the hand of the woman, "It is in my mind to call my younger sister [to be my wife]." The woman says, "Well, what is it to me, if it be good to you?" While she was there, the woman having placed paddy on the hearth, and waited until the time when it is boiling, said to that sister-in-law, "Sister-in-law, having gone rubbing castor-oil on your two legs take out the paddy that is on the hearth." The woman combed the man's head. She said it to the girl unnoticed by the man, to save the girl. That girl having gone rubbing her two legs, when she was taking out the paddy the heat of the fire on the hearth struck her two legs, and the castor-oil, having become warm, descends down her two legs. Then that woman, having been combing and combing the man's head, says at the hand of the man, "There! You say it is in your mind to call your younger sister [to be your wife]. Look there, at the matter from her legs; her legs are ulcerated." [149] Then the man says, "It is unnecessary to keep that one; you take that one, and having taken this bill-hook cut that one's neck, and come back." After that, the woman, calling her sister-in-law and having gone, handed her over to a widow woman, and having secretly taken that man's money also, gave it to the widow woman for her expenses on account of the girl. While returning, she cut a dog on the path, and smearing the blood on the bill-hook, came back and showed it to the man, "Look here (Menna). The blood that has been cut from your younger sister." Well then, to the man's mind it is good. At the time when the man is not at home, having cut a tunnel from the woman's house to the widow woman's house, and from the woman's house to the widow woman's house having drawn a silver chain and an iron chain, she said at the hand of the widow woman, "If there be a sorrow shake the iron chain; if there be a pleasure shake the silver chain." [150] Having said it the woman came home. On a certain day the girl arrived at marriageable age. The widow woman shook the silver chain. Afterwards, this girl having gone [there], when she looked the girl had arrived at a marriageable age; and having distributed the present given to the washerman on the occasion, and the like, she again said at the hand of the widow woman, "If there be a pleasure, shake the silver chain; if a sorrow, shake the iron chain," and came home again. Again one day she shook the silver chain. This woman having gone again, when she looked [she found that] to give the girl [in marriage] the name [of the man] had been decided. Afterwards, having distributed the [food of the] wedding [feast] and the like, the woman came home. The girl having been [married] a little time, bore a boy. Afterwards the girl said to the girl's man, "Tying pingo (carrying-stick) loads, let us go to our village." The man also having said "Ha," cooking cakes, and carrying the little one also, they came to the widow woman's house. Then the widow woman shook the silver chain. The girl's sister-in-law came. Having come, when she looked the girl's little one is there also. Having given from the cakes to the widow woman, she took the others, and calling the girl, calling the girl's husband also, and carrying the little one, she returned home [with them]. Having gone home, the girl's sister-in-law caused the little one to lie in the waist pocket of the girl's elder brother, and said, "There. Your younger sister's little one!" [and told him how she had been saved]. After that, the elder brother having wept, took the little one in his arms. North-western Province. NO. 119 NAHAKOTA'S WEDDING FEAST In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. While they were there the woman bore two girls and a boy. When they were there a long time the man died. After that, the big girl having grown up, they gave her in diga (marriage). The boy cannot speak well; his nose is short. The other girl has become considerably big. That boy is older than the girl. It is Nahakota's [151] endeavour to call that younger sister [in marriage]. That woman (their mother) having perceived that, went with the daughter to the place where the other big daughter was given; and having conducted her [there], came back. After that, a day or two having passed, Nahakota went, in order to call the girl back [to be his wife]. Having gone [he said] at the girl's hand, "Younger sister, mother told me to go back with thee; on that account I came here." While coming with that girl, having met with villages on the road that girl says, "Elder brother, is our village still far away?" Then Nahakota says, "Why do you say, 'Elder brother, elder brother?' Would it be bad if you said, 'Husband, husband' (Wahe)?" Then that girl being frightened, comes without speaking. Again, when coming a little further, she asks, "Elder brother, is our village still far away?" Then Nahakota says, "Why do you say, 'Elder brother, elder brother?' Would it be bad if you said, 'Husband, husband?'" Then the girl being frightened comes without speaking. Thus, in that way they came quite home. Having come, Nahakota said to Nahakota's mother, "Mother, pound flour and cook cakes. I am going to spread nets to catch [animals] for my [wedding] feast." Having said it, Nahakota went to spread nets, joining with a man. After that, the girl says, "Mother, when elder brother and I were coming, I asked at elder brother's hand, 'Elder brother, is our village still further on?' Then elder brother said, 'Why do you say, "Elder brother, elder brother?" If you said, "Husband, husband," would it be bad?'" Afterwards the woman says, "Daughter, let us two go somewhere or other before that one comes." Having said it, and cut the throat (lit., neck) of a cock, and hung it above the hearth, and placed a cooking-pot on the hearth, and blown the fire, and shut the house door, the woman and the girl went somewhere or other. Nahakota, having spread nets, came home. While he was in the veranda, as the blood of the fowl [hanging] in that house was falling into the cooking-pot, the pot having become heated, for three watches (each of four hours) when each drop of blood was falling it makes a noise, "Cos, cos," [152] like cooking cakes. Nahakota thought, "Our mother, etc., cooking cakes, indeed, that is." [153] Having sprung into the open space in front of the house, and beaten and beaten tom-toms on his rear, he began to dance, singing and singing, "Ade! Tude! They are cooking cakes for my Nahakota feast." Having danced, after it became night, on account of their not opening the door Nahakota knocked at the door and told them to open the door. They did not open it. Afterwards, having opened the door, when he looked there was nobody. A cock, only, was hung near the hearth, a cooking-pot placed on the hearth, only the fire is blazing on the hearth. Afterwards, Nahakota having wept, remained there quietly. [154] North-western Province. NO. 120 HOW A MAN CHARMED A THREAD In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. The woman having falsely said that she had the Kadawara disease, [155] taking on false illness lay down. The man every day goes to the watch-hut [in the chena]. One day when he was going to the watch-hut, he asked for thread at the hand of the woman, in order to bring it on the morrow morning, [after] charming it for the Kadawara. After that, the woman gave him thread, having become pleased at it. The man knows about the woman's trickery. Knowing it, that day evening having gone to the watch-hut the man charmed the thread. How did he charm it? The woman's father's name was Palinguwa. At the very time when the man was going to sleep, holding the thread, the very manner in which he charmed it [was this]: having made [nine] knots [on it], he charmed it [by] saying and saying [only], "Palinguwa's woman, Palinguwa's woman." On the following day morning he came back, and tied it on the woman's arm. At the very instant, the woman, quickly having arisen, does her work. While she was thus, the woman says, "Having hastened quickly, you must distribute [betel]." [156] Afterwards, the man also having said, "It is good," he gave betel to Kadawara Vedas [157] who dance well, and said, "Come on such and such a day." He collected for it the articles to be expended, and caused arrack (spirit distilled from palm-juice) to be brought, and prepared all. On the Kadawara day the men came, and having eaten and drunk, and dressed themselves [in their dancing costume and ornaments], as they were descending [from the raised veranda] into the open space in front of the house, this woman quickly took out the mat also, and stretching out her two feet at the doorway, sat down on it, (ready for the ceremony, which would be performed in front of her). Then this man having come speedily, bringing the rice pestle, beat that woman with the pestle and put her in the house. Having shut the door and locked it, and come outside, as he was coming out the Kadawara Vedas, becoming afraid, prepared to run away, saying, "Perhaps this man is a mad-man." Then this man said, "Don't you run away. Dance well. There is arrack; drink as much as you want." Afterwards, they having drunk and drunk and danced until it became light, in the morning the man cooked abundantly, and gave the Kadawara Vedas to eat, and having given them presents sent them away. North-western Province. NO. 121 HOW THE RICE AND CURRY BECAME RAW At a certain time there were a woman and her husband, two persons. During the time while they were [there], one day the husband said to the woman, "I am going to-day to the watch-hut. Having gone there, I shall not come back to-morrow morning; I shall be delayed, ploughing the field below that field. Because of it, you must bring me cooked rice to-morrow morning." Then the woman during the whole night [158] having abundantly given food and the like to her paramours, without sleeping, it became light. After that, the woman went to sleep. [After] going to sleep, being without the means of bringing cooked rice [through want of time to cook it], she washed rice, putting it in a cooking-pot, and cut up dried fish and brinjal, [159] putting them raw into a large cooking-pot, and took them to the rice field [uncooked]. After she went, that man said, "Bola! Strumpet! Didst thou stay with thy paramours until so much time has gone?" and scolded her [for being late]. Thereupon, this woman, saying, "Apoyi! Because you said such a vile word to me may the cooked rice and curry which I brought for you become raw," put them down on the ground. When the man looked, the woman's speech was true; the cooked rice and curry had become raw. After that, the man, having said to the woman that she was a good woman, thoroughly respected her. North-central Province. NO. 122 HOW A WOMAN ATE COOKED RICE BY STEALTH In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. There is also a little one of the woman's; the little one cannot talk well yet. Having waited until the time when the man goes to the watch-hut [at night], this woman every day while he is in the chena having cooked raw-rice [160] eats small beans (maekaral) [with it] in the house. Every day having cooked fry of them (the beans), and given to the little one, they eat it every day at night [without his knowledge]. One day, at the time when the man comes, the little one says, "Father, having cooked maekittan fry, and having cooked raw-rice, let us eat her, eh?" Then that man says at the hand of the woman, "What, Bolan, does this one say?" The woman says, "I don't know. He eats in dreams, [161] maybe. Cause thread to be charmed for it and come back." Afterwards the man, causing the thread to be charmed, came and tied it on the arm of the little one. North-western Province. NO. 123 HOW A WOMAN OFFERED CAKES In a certain country there are a man and a woman, it is said. The woman has been brought from another country (district). A paramour has become associated with the woman. She said to the woman's husband, "In our country there is a custom. In the lower part of the garden we must offer cakes to the Yaka who is in the lower part of the garden; if not, the Yaka causes sickness. When I was living at my village, too, I offered them every day. Because of it, we must offer them now also." Afterwards the man said, "Ha, it is good. Continue to offer them. For it, what else do you want, etc.?" After that, the woman said, "We don't want anything else. Having set up two sticks, cleft into four at the top (aewari kanu), we must offer on one twenty cakes, on one thirty cakes. That is all." Having cooked the cakes, on the day on which she offers them she cannot cook more [food]. At the house no one can eat [afterwards on that day]; should they eat they will die. After that, the man having prepared the two cleft sticks in the lower part of the garden, gave her them. From that day, the woman having cooked fifty cakes, at one cleft stick offers twenty, at one cleft stick thirty. [162] When it is becoming dark, the paramour having come is in the lower part of the garden. The woman having offered the cakes says, "Leaving the twenty, taking the thirty, go, O Yaka." Having said [this] the woman comes home. The paramour having come, leaving the twenty, eats the thirty, and goes away. Afterwards the woman having come [there], eats the twenty, and goes back. In that very manner, the woman every day having given cakes to that paramour, the woman also eats. That man was unable to find out the roguery. North-western Province. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 118, a man who wished to have meat to eat, induced his sons to kill a sheep and offer the flesh to the deity of a tree which stood in their field, telling them that their prosperity was due to this god. NO. 124 THE MANNER IN WHICH A WOMAN PREPARED A FLOUR FIGURE In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said; the woman is associated with a paramour. The woman has been brought from another country. One day (dawasakda) the woman said, "In our country there is a custom. Having constructed a flour figure, and having made it sit upon a chair near the hearth, we must cook cakes and offer them [before it]." After that, the man having sought for the articles for cooking cakes gave her them. After that, the woman, having pounded flour and made [enough] for two cooking pots, having increased the syrup for one pot, and diminished the syrup for one, and having been there until the time when the man goes somewhere or other (kohedo), told the paramour to come. After having put and smeared flour over the whole body [163] of the man, having brought a chair near the hearth and made him sit upon the chair, the woman sitting down near the hearth cooks the cakes. That man having come home, when he looked there is the flour figure. While the man in silence is looking on in the raised veranda, having seen that the woman puts the well-cooked cakes separately into a pot and the badly cooked cakes into another pot, and getting to know about the flour figure paramour, to make the woman get up of necessity,--a calf had been brought from the woman's village--the calf had been tied up,--the man having gone very quietly (himimma) unfastened the calf. Very quietly having come again to the veranda he said, "On (there)! The calf that was brought from your village is loose; tie it and come back." The woman says, "I am unable to go; [164] you go and tie it, and come." The man said, "I will not." Afterwards the woman having arisen went to tie the calf. [Then] this man, having arisen from the veranda, struck the oil cooking-pot that was on the hearth on the top of the head (ismundune) of the flour figure paramour. The flour figure, crying out, is wriggling about. That woman having tied up the calf and come, says, "I had prepared the flour figure. Having thrown it away that one will have come and sat there [in its place]. What shall I do? [When] he escaped from you even so much [time], am I indeed going to eat that one's liver? [165] Why didn't you split that one's head?" Having said [this] she caused the man to be deceived. Finished. North-western Province. The woman's remark regarding the liver is an instance of the survival of a very old expression, perhaps connected with magical practices. In the translations from the Chinese Tripitaka published by M. Chavannes in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. i, p. 120, a girl cried, "May I become a demoniacal and maleficent being to devour the liver of the elder brother." In Folk-lore of the Santal Parganas (Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 419, it is stated that witches are believed to cause people's deaths by eating their livers. The Sinhalese text is, "Umbawaen occarawat beruwa mama nan okage kaewtu kanawa nae?" The final word is merely a colloquial expletive which adds emphasis to the question. It occurs also in No. 197, vol. iii, footnote No. 1, and elsewhere. Perhaps this is the original form of the curious syllable sometimes heard at the end of questions put to acquaintances by Burghers of the lower class in Ceylon, as in the query, "I say, man, what are you doing, no?" NO. 125 HOW A WOMAN BECAME A LAPWING [166] At a certain village there were an elder sister and a younger brother, it is said. He gave the elder sister [167] in diga [marriage] to a [man of another] country. For the younger brother they brought a wife to the house. When no long time had gone after the elder sister was given in diga, the elder sister's husband died; and being without [anything] to eat or drink, the elder sister came to the younger brother's house in order to beg for something. At that time, the man said, "Ade! Give our elder sister amply to eat and drink, and having tied up and given a bag of paddy amounting to a load, send her on her journey;" and in order to look at his wife's trustworthiness or untrustworthiness he stayed in a tree behind the house, looking out, near the path on which the elder sister goes. Thereupon, the man's wife, having given the man's elder sister a piece of stale cake to eat, put in a [mat] box a little worthless paddy chaff that had been blown away when she fanned paddy, and gave her it. After that, when this elder sister, being grieved, was going on the path, she went saying and saying, "Ane! If my younger brother were there she would not do thus. Sister-in-law gave me only paddy chaff and a few stale cakes; but [even] should my sister-in-law do magic against me, may a shower of flowers rain at my younger brother's doorway." Then, weeping and weeping she came home. Then the younger brother who stayed in the tree having been hearing that word, came home, and asked his wife, "Ade! Didst thou give my elder sister amply to eat and drink?" The woman said, "Andoma! When she had eaten I tied up a bag of paddy equal to a load, and gave it. What else will you tell me to give?" Thereupon the man having said, "It is good," and having been keeping it in his mind, after two or three days had gone, said, "Ade! Thy mother is ill. Prepare something and give me it [as a present for her, to enable me] to look at her and return," he said. The man said it falsely. The woman saying, "Perhaps it is true," cooked a packet of rice, and taking thirty ridis, [168] put them at the bottom of the packet of cooked rice, and tied and gave him it, for him to go to her parents' house and return. Unknown to the man [169] she did this dishonesty (i.e., put his money in the bag). Thereupon the man, taking the packet of cooked rice, went to the house of the man's elder sister. That day he remained there without coming back. That elder sister having unfastened the bag, when she looked [saw that] at the bottom of the rice there were thirty ridis. Afterwards the elder sister called the younger brother and asked, "Younger brother, whence are these thirty ridis at the bottom of the rice in this bag?" The younger brother said, "I told her of our house (ape gedara eki [170]) to cook and give me a packet of rice, in order to go to her village. She will have put in the thirty ridis." At that time a washerwoman who stayed in that village brought clothes to the younger brother's house. Thereupon this woman (his wife) asked at the hand of the washerwoman (radawi atin), "Washerwoman-aunt, our house man went to go to [my] village and return. Didn't you meet him on the way?" The washerwoman said, "Ane! Madam (mahattine), on the road indeed I did not meet with him; he is staying at the gentleman's (rahamille) elder sister's house. Except that it seemed that he is [171] at the house itself, he did not [otherwise] go to your quarter." Thereupon, at that instant [172] a disturbance (internal) having come to her, while this woman was saying, "Is it true, washerwoman? Is it true, washerwoman? Saw you him, washerwoman? Saw you him, washerwoman? Gave he them, washerwoman? Got she them, washerwoman? There are thirty ridis, there are thirty, there are thirty," [173] except that she got her breath upwards, she did not hold it down. Having gone in that very manner, when she said there were thirty ridis she became a female Red-wattled Lapwing, [174] and flew away. Now also the Red-wattled Lapwings say, "Hotae tikiri, hotae tikiri." [175] From that time, indeed, the Red-wattled Lapwings increased. Then the man having come back, not contracting another marriage he remained providing subsistence for his elder sister. Well then, we came here. [176] North-western Province. NO. 126 THE STORY OF THE SEVEN WICKED WOMEN [177] In a certain country, when seven elder sisters and younger sisters, fastening on bangles (at-wael) are going along, a woman having been near the well asked, "Where are they [178] going?" Then the seven elder sisters and younger sisters said, "We are going to seek for ourselves seven elder brothers and younger brothers." Then this woman said, "There are seven elder brothers and younger brothers of mine." Having said, "Let us go, if so, to our house," and having gone calling the seven persons and sent them to seven houses (rooms), she lowered [from the corn store] seven [mat] boxes of paddy, and gave them. The seven persons having boiled the paddy, and said, "Sister-in-law, look after this," [179] and spread it out to dry, the seven went for firewood. Having gone there they spoke, "Let us find a means [180] of killing sister-in-law." There was a Brown Monkey (rilawa); catching the monkey they brought it home. This younger sister having gone to sleep and a great rain having rained, all the paddy was washed away. [181] When those seven persons having come looked, all the paddy had been washed away. After that, the seven persons again having lowered paddy [from the corn-store], when they were pounding the paddy raw (lit., hard) that younger sister awoke. Having awoke thus, she asked at the hand of those seven, "Sister-in-law, is there cooked rice?" Then the women said, "Is there cooked rice in our hand? It is in the cooking pot, isn't it?" The women having previously (lit., betimes) broken up bits of potsherds, and put them in the drinking kettle, and put it away, are pounding paddy. Afterwards that sister-in-law having gone and eaten the cooked rice, and said, "Sister-in-law, give me water," these women said, "Is it in our hand? It is in the house, in the drinking kettle; take it and drink." Afterwards the sister-in-law having taken the drinking kettle, when she was drinking the water the pieces of potsherds stuck in her throat. These seven persons spoke, "Should that one's elder brothers come, indeed, we shall be unable to kill her. Before they come let us kill her." Having spoken thus, and having put the sister-in-law and that monkey into a bag and tied it, they hung it at the ridge pole. Having hung it, after the seven persons were pounding paddy the seven strike seven blows with the rice pestles at the bag. At the number they are striking, that monkey, jumping and jumping, scratches that woman who is in the bag. He having scratched her, afterwards blood descends from the bag. Then the seven persons having said, "Now then, it is bad [for her] to be [thus]; having released her let us put her down," having unfastened the bag, put down the sister-in-law at the veranda. Then the sister-in-law's elder brothers came home. Having come there the eldest brother asked, "Where is our younger sister?" Then these seven women said, "We don't know. Having gone behind Rodiyas, and her caste having [thus] fallen, there! she is weeping and weeping in the direction of the veranda." Afterwards the eldest elder brother having gone, "What, younger sister, happened to you?" he asked at the hand of the younger sister. The younger sister cannot speak, because a sharp piece of potsherd has stuck in her throat. The whole seven elder brothers having gone, spoke [to her]. Because she did not speak, the eldest elder brother said, "Who can cut [and kill] this younger sister?" The whole five other elder brothers said they could not; the young elder brother said, "I indeed can." Having said it, causing them to cook a bundle of rice, calling the younger sister also, and taking the sword, and taking the bundle of cooked rice, he went [with her] to a forest jungle (himalekata). Having gone there he said to the younger sister, "Younger sister, [for me] to look for lice on your head lie down." Afterwards the younger sister lay down; well then, the elder brother began to smash the lice. Then sleep went to the younger sister. Afterwards the elder brother having placed the younger sister's head very softly on the ground, and having cut a Rat-snake on the path he was coming on, [after] smearing the blood on the sword he showed the sword to the people who were at home. Afterwards that younger sister having awoke, when she looked her elder brother was not [there], in the midst of the forest. Well then, weeping and weeping, taking also the bundle of cooked rice, having bounded to a path she began to go. Having gone thus,--there is a city called "The City the Rakshasa eats"; there is an alms-hall at that city,--having gone, she arrived there. There, having eaten that bundle of cooked rice, and having joined herself to the people who are giving alms, she began to give alms. The eyes of the whole of these seven elder brothers and seven women became blind. After that, news reached those persons that there is an alms-hall of the city the Rakshasa eats. After that, they very fourteen persons went near the alms-hall. That sister-in-law also having gone in a diga [marriage], has borne a child also. She having given food to this party, when that sister-in-law and the sister-in-law's child were preparing (lit., making) to sleep, the child said to the sister-in-law, "Mother, for me to hear it tell me a story." Then the sister-in-law [said], "Son, what do I know? I will tell you the things indeed that happened to me." So the son said, "It is good, tell them." Afterwards she told him all the matters that occurred to this sister-in-law. Those seven elder brothers having heard the things she says, and having said, "Ane! Our younger sister to-day is relating our grandeur!" as soon as they gave the salutation "Sadhu!" the eyes of the whole seven elder brothers became clear. The eyes of the seven women did not become clear. The seven elder brothers also stayed at the very city at which is the younger sister. The seven women having been in much hunger they went and died. Finished. North-western Province. NO. 127 THE STORY OF THE OLD MAN [182] In a certain country an old man ground gunpowder. Having ground it until the time when it became night, he dried it in the sun. In the evening, at the time when he was preparing (lit., making) to put it in the powder-horn, the old gentleman's [183] grandson having come said, "Grandmother, let us burn (pussamu) gunpowder, to look at it." Then, having scolded the child she said, "Bring a fire-brand." Having brought it, "Grandmother, give me a little powder," he said. After that, she put gunpowder into a potsherd. Having put it in she told him to burn it. When he was placing the fire-brand [to it] the little powder that was in the potsherd all burnt. Because the old gentleman was near the potsherd the old gentleman's beard and body were burnt. On account of the difficulty of his body he said to his wife, "Warm and give me a little water," he said. The woman having warmed the water called him to bathe; at that time the old gentleman came there. After that, while the woman for the purpose of cooling the water went to bring cold water, the man, taking a piece of coconut shell, poured [the hot water] over his body. Because there was too much heat in the water his body began to burn. While he was crying out on his body's burning, a man having come said for that burning, "Cowdung (ela-goma) indeed is good." [184] Afterwards the man having gone running, bringing excrement deposited by a child called Goma, from the place where they tie the cattle, smeared it on the burning places. The [old] man perceiving the stench, at the time when he said to his wife, "What is this stench? Is this cowdung or what? Look," the woman brought a lamp. When she looked, perceiving that it was ordure, she said, "The things this foolish stubborn fellow is doing to himself!" Spitting, having brought water and bathed him she went with him into the house. Afterwards in many days she made him well. North-western Province. NO. 128 THE MAGIC LUTE PLAYER [185] In a country a Prince [after] constructing a Lute plays [186] it. Throughout the extent through which the sound was heard, not a female elephant nor tusk elephant stays away; it comes to look. In that manner he caused many elephants to be brought [up to him] in the jungles. A Princess of another city was minded to look at this Prince. Because it was so she said, "I will (would) give five hundred masuran to a person who brought and gave him; having given them I will marry that person." Yet [another] Prince asked, "I will bring and give him; will you marry me?" When he asked, the Princess says, "Cause him to be brought; I will [then] marry you." Thereupon this Prince having also taken a great quantity of white cloths, proceeded to that city. Having gone there, and having halted (natara-wela) in a jungle, cutting sticks he constructed a white tusk elephant with [them and] the white cloths; having made it this Prince is under the tusk elephant. Certain men (minissu wagayak) having seen this white tusk elephant, say to the Prince who having played the Lute causes the tusk elephant to be brought, "O Prince, there is a good white tusk elephant in that forest," they said. Afterwards this Prince took the Lute and played it as on other days; this tusk elephant did not come. Having said [to himself], "What is [the reason of] it, Bola? To-day this tusk elephant did not come!" and having gone a considerable distance he played it. Then this tusk elephant went a little further off (epitata). The Prince at that time went near and played it; then this elephant went still a little further. In that manner this Prince having placed and placed the Lute at the end (asse) of the tusk elephant's tail, plays it; still also this tusk elephant goes on. In that way these very two went to this Princess's city. Thereupon this Princess became much pleased, and having given five hundred masuran to this Prince got married to this Prince. The Prince who played the Lute she caused to remain as the Minister. North-western Province. Although there appears to be no Indian folk-tale of a musician who could attract the wild animals like the Finnish hero, the notion is found in that country, and one of the reliefs at the Ramaswami temple in Kumbakonam represents various wild animals listening to Krishna's flute playing. Colossal figures of animals are sometimes taken in processions; they are formed on a framework of bamboos or sticks; in one figure of an elephant the spaces in the frame were filled with leafy twigs. NO. 129 THE LAD WHO SANG SONGS At a certain time there was a man; the man had a girl and a boy. At the time when they were thus, the man went alone to the sea to catch fish (mas). Having gone, when he was catching fish a very large wave having knocked him into the sea, the man on account of the water (current) drifted away. At that time the men of the ferry-boat near there were laying nets. This man having gone was entangled (lit., tied) in the nets. Then the ferry-boat men drew out the nets. When they looked a man was entangled in a net. Then, taking the man ashore they laid him on his face, and while they were pressing on his belly with the feet, without the man's life going he breathed. [187] Then without having caused hurt to this man when they were treading on his belly for the water to go, the man became conscious. Then the men having said, "Of what country are you?" having spread the news around, and given him cooked rice which had been taken for the party to eat, they told him to choose [some] fishes. He having selected them, in the evening they went to the village, taking the man. Having gone [there], as this man who fell into the sea does not know the road to go to his village, doing work for hire for the ferry-boat men and continuing to eat [thus], he stayed [there]. The elder female child and the younger lad whom there were of the man who fell into the sea, went to the Hettiya's shop to bring salt. At the time when they went, the Hettiyas put the girl in the house, and shut the door. Having beaten the boy, they drove him away. At that time, the King of that city having made ready a very great eating (kaema), sent letters to the Kings of other cities to come for the eating. After that, those Kings all came to the city. In the royal party, the King of the city at which was the man who fell into the sea and went ashore, also came. Having come, all the party having assembled in that day night, after they ate the food this lad who had lost his father and elder sister had come [there]. Having given food to this lad, while he was [there] the royal party, having eaten and drunk, conversed together regarding the happiness and sorrow in the various cities. Then this lad who was without father and elder sister, thought of telling the matters which the party omitted, by way of a verse. Having thought of it he says, Apucci mude waetuna. Father fell into the sea. Akka Hettiya In his quarter the Chetti Padeta damala Elder sister has set; he Dora wahagatta. The door has shut on me. Ayinan! Ayinan! Alas! Alas! Thereupon, having met with this lad, hearing the words that ought to be known at the city at which they are, they spoke, "Hahak! Hahak! [188] don't speak." Having stopped the talk, they said, "Who is that lad who said the verse? Say that verse again for us to hear." Then the boy said again, Father fell into the sea. In his quarter the Chetti Elder sister has set; he The door has shut on me. Alas! Alas! Then the royal party, calling the boy near, and after that having heard of the matters that occurred, gave food to the lad from the royal house, and made him stay at the royal house. When he was [there] in that way for a little time, the King of that city having died, because a King was necessary to burn [the corpse] [189] they decorated the tusk elephant, and taking it they walk through the whole city. Then the tusk elephant keeps coming towards the palace itself. Because of it, men came out on the path on which the tusk elephant is coming. At that time, the tusk elephant having come, kneeling down made obeisance to that lad. Then those men, having made the lad bathe in sandal water (water perfumed with sandal), and placed him on the tusk elephant's back, went in procession round the city, and having come back they burnt that King, and made a funeral mound [over the ashes]. While exercising the sovereignty over the men of the city, when a little time had gone the King went to that place called the Hettiya quarter, and having beheaded all the Hettiyas, came back calling his elder sister [to accompany him], and gave her in marriage. There was a daughter of the dead King. After marrying that Princess, in a little time there was a child. After that, he went to that city in which his father is, and calling his father also, he returned. Having come back, he remained exercising the sovereignty in a good manner. North-central Province. NO. 130 THE HUNCHBACK TALE In a certain city, at one house there was a Hunchback. One day, at the time when this Hunchback went to the rice field, his wife, having cooked rice, called him, saying, "Hunchback! Hunchback!" Thereupon anger having come to him he went home and thrashed his wife; thereupon the woman died. Having buried the woman, at the grave he planted tampala. [190] When the tampala had become large a cow having approached there ate the tampala with the sound [191] that goes "Kuda caw caw." [192] At that time, also, anger having come to the man he struck and killed the cow. Having buried the cow, upon the grave he planted a foreign yam plant. [When it had grown], cutting up the foreign yam plant [after digging it up], and having gone and put it in a cooking-pot (haeliya), when he had placed it on the [fire on the] hearth, at the time when it boils [193] with the sound [191] that goes "Kuda goda goda, Kuda goda goda," [194] the man having become angry carried [the pot] also away, and struck it on the stone [and broke it]. After a few days, at the time when he was sleeping, with the sound that goes Kuda run [195] flies alighted on his body. Thereupon he having arisen, with the intention of killing the flies set fire to the house. After the fire became alight, having seen that it burns with the sound that goes "Kuda busu busu, Kuda busu busu," [196] he, also, sprang into the midst of the fire and was killed. Uva Province. The story is a variant of No. 29, vol. i, "The Pied Robin." NO. 131 THE POOR MAN AND THE JEWELS At a certain village attached to a seaport there was a poor man. The man tried to borrow twenty thousand pounds from rich men who were in the village. As there was not a thing to take from him [as security] any one was unwilling to give the money. While he was walking about asking for the money, a certain nobleman [197] having called him, said, "I will give you the money; I shall not take it again from you." Having said thus, he counted the money and gave it to him. And the man taking it, and having gone near the landing-place and expended two thousand pounds, caused a house to be built, and having expended sixteen thousand pounds caused the house to be filled with cow-dung, chaff, etc. After that, he set fire to the house, and having collected and put into sacks the whole of the ashes, he gave a thousand pounds, and bringing a ship for hire loaded the sacks into it. Having gone to a country in which cold, etc., proceed from serpents, [198] and heaped up the sacks, and told him to come in three months more, he sent away the shipmaster (naew-potiya). The man having unfastened the whole of the sacks of ashes, placed [the ashes] thinly [on the ground]. The whole of the serpents having come to the ashes, owing to their having slept there eject jewels. After three months he again put the ashes into the sacks. And the ship having arrived that day, he loaded the whole of the sacks [in it], and having gone to his own country and heaped up the sacks, and for the remaining cash taking a house for hire, he placed the sacks of ashes [in it], and dwelt there. One day having washed a little of the ashes from a bag, there was a quantity (rasiyak) of very valuable gems there. Having shown that to the nobleman who gave the money, he told him to take a part from the bags, but he said he did not want them. And the poor man having much importuned him, and given him a portion from the bags, the two persons lived in friendship. Finished. Uva Province. NO. 132 THE LEARNED POOR MAN In a certain country a poor man, having nothing to eat, went to another country. Having gone there, and gone to a travellers' shed, he remained lying down. During the time while he was there, still [another] man of the city who was without food and clothing came to the travellers' shed. Then the man who came first asked the man who came afterwards, "Where art thou going?" The man said, "Being without [food] to eat, I am going to this city to beg something." Then the man who came first says, "I, indeed, being without [food] to eat have come here. Now then, because we two are men without [food] to eat, I will tell you a device," said the man who came first to the man who came afterwards. Then the man who came afterwards asked, "What is it?" The man says, "Thou having gone to the royal palace and made obeisance, say at the hand of the King, 'From the exalted royal palace I ought to receive a salary.' Then the King will ask, 'On what account should I give pay to thee?' Then say thou, 'In this your kingdom, Sir, either for any needed fight, or any needed thing, when I have come into the midst of it I can manage the affair. I can [also] beat the notification tom-toms. Because of that, indeed, I am asking pay.'" Then the man having gone near the royal palace, asked in that manner. The King asked, "For what shall I give pay to thee?" The man replied in the very way which that man told him. Then the King having heard the words and being pleased, appointed a salary for that man, and said, "From to-day thou must look after the troubles of this city." The man having said, "It is good," said at the hand of the King, "I have nothing to eat," asking for the pay also, [and he received a sum in advance]. Having gone near that man who gave him the instructions, and told him this talk which occurred at the royal palace, and given the teacher a half share from that pay which was given, taking the other half share the man went to his village. That man who gave the instructions, not going anywhere else, remained cooking and eating at that very travellers' shed. Thereafter, for the man who received the pay the King established the name Beri-Nadaya. [199] Well then, when that Beri-Nadaya was coming and going to [and from] the palace, he was providing assistance for that teacher. At that time, on a road of the city a lion having lain in wait began to kill people. In those days, Beri-Nadaya, having come to his village, stayed [there]. Without telling Beri-Nadaya, because he was a new man, having sent the old accustomed Ministers and other multitudes for killing the lion, [the King] told them to return [after] killing the lion. Thereupon, the party having been sent to go, after they went, when Beri-Nadaya was going to the royal palace he went to the place where the teacher was staying. At that time, the news regarding this lion having reached the teacher, he said, "In this manner, a lion which eats men is staying at this city. I have news that men went from the royal palace to kill the lion. Because of it, as soon as you go, 'You must seize the lion,' the King will say. Thereupon, say 'I can,' and asking for a piece of cord, and placing it [coiled] round your neck, go. Then the men will come [after] killing the lion. Then say, 'There! People, the work you have done is good! (sarcastically). Asking for a cord I came from the palace [in order] to go [back after] seizing it [alive], so as to place it as a present [200] [for the King]. Concerning this, blame will fall on you from the King.' Having said this, frighten them. Thereupon the party will say, 'Ane! Beri-Nadaya, don't say that we killed it.' Then say thou, 'It is good. If so, let no one speak [about it]. Having placed [the deed] upon my own back, I will say it myself.' Then the men will say, 'It is good.'" When Beri-Nadaya was doing this, it happened in this very manner. [The King] gave Beri-Nadaya at the rate of a thousand masuran a month. Then Beri-Nadaya, taking the pay, as on other days continued to give little by little [only] to that teacher, so that his regard [for him] became lost, and remained so. At that time, to seize that city seven Kings and seven armies came, and surrounded the city. On account of it, this King having said, "To this Mara [201] army what shall I do?" was in fear. Then the King having waited until the time when Beri-Nadaya came, says, "It is not like you killed the lion. Seven Kings and seven armies having come, are near the city gates. Go and fight." That Beri-Nadaya went near that teacher, and told him this. The teacher said, "[After] asking for the King's festival tusk elephant and sword, come thou." After that, Beri-Nadaya having gone near the King, when he came [after] asking for the festival tusk elephant and the sword, both of them went for the fight. Having gone, Beri-Nadaya, being on the tusk elephant, when he peeped and looked having seen those monarchs [202] and the multitude, fell unconscious under the tusk elephant. Thereupon, that teacher, having dragged Beri-Nadaya aside, and cast him away, wrote a letter and shot it [attached to an arrow] to the place where those seven Kings were. The royal party said, "What is this that is fallen from the sky?" When they looked there was written, "It is I myself whom they call Danuddara Panditayo. [203] If you can, be pleased to come to fight." The royal party becoming afraid regarding it, all ran off to the quarters to which each one went. The Panditayo came to the palace on the tusk elephant. After he came, the Panditayo was placed by the King in the post of Prime Minister. North-western Province. In The Jataka, No. 80 (vol. i, p. 204) there is a story which closely agrees with this. The clever man was a dwarfish Brahmana who, aware that he would not be employed on account of his small size, joined with a huge ignorant weaver, who received an appointment as archer to the King at Benares. By following the Brahmana's instructions the weaver obtained all the credit of killing a tiger and buffalo as in this tale, but becoming proud, he treated his adviser with scorn. Afterwards, when ordered to attack a hostile force he was so overcome with fear that the Brahmana made him descend from the elephant on which they were riding, and he himself then attacked the enemy's camp, captured the King, and was loaded with honours. The despatch of the message attached to the arrow is not mentioned in this story; but in the Jataka tale No. 181 (vol. ii, p. 62) Prince Asadisa, son of a King of Benares, is represented as scratching a message on an arrow, firing it into the camp of some hostile forces headed by seven Kings who were besieging the city, and thereby scaring these enemies away. A footnote states that in the Mahavastu the message was wrapped round the arrow. In two instances in the Maha Bharata (Drona Parva, xcix, and cci) the senders' names were engraved on arrows. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. 4, p. 103), a Prince wrote a letter, set it on the point of an arrow, and shot it into a garden in which a lady was walking. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 519, a young Brahmana suggested to a Prince that he should receive a daily salary of one hundred gold pieces; this was paid to him. In the same work, vol. ii, p. 251, an unknown man demanded and received five hundred dinars (about £250) as his daily wage. In the Hitopadesa an unknown Rajput was granted four hundred gold pieces as his daily pay. While the Sinhalese were besieging the Portuguese in Colombo in A.D. 1588, the Sinhalese King shot into the fort a letter containing a demand for the safe conduct of officials who were to arrange a truce (Pieris, Ceylon, vol. i, p. 243). NO. 133 A POOR MAN AND A WOMAN At a certain city there were a poor woman and a man. Because the two persons had not [anything] to eat and to wear, the woman having pounded and pounded [paddy] obtained a livelihood. When not much time had gone in this manner, being unable to pound and eat, her strength and ability [to work] went. Thereupon she one day having beaten the man with the broom, [204] and having said, "Strumpet's son, bring thou from somewhere or other things for food," seized him by the hair-knot, and cast him out of the door-way. Then the man, through shame at what the woman had done, having gone along a road and sat down at a tree, when the time for eating rice came, wept. Thereupon, the Devatawa who stayed in that tree came and asked at the hand of the man, "Bola, what art thou crying for?" Then this man says, "O Lord, my wife having become without strength or ability [to work], because we two were unable to obtain [anything] having beaten me with the broom, seized me by the hair-knot and put me outside. Having come [here] owing to it, because I cannot bear my hunger I wept." The Devatawa asked, "What dost thou want?" The man said, "I want goods." Thereupon the Devatawa, having given the man three pills, says, "Taking these three pills, having thought of the thing thou wantest cast them down. The things thou wantest will be created." Then the man, taking the pills, for one said, "May my house be created a palace, together with the possession of wealth," and threw away one pill. In that manner this occurred. For the next one he said, "On each side of the door-way of my house, may a horse of silver and a tusk elephant of gold be created," and threw away a pill. In that manner they were created. For the other one he said, "A road to my house having been created, let a carriage for me to go in, and many things come into existence," and threw away the other pill. In that very way they were created. After that, having come home he remained in happiness. After that, a woman of another house came to this house for fire. Having come and seen these matters, she asked this woman, "Sister-in-law, how did you obtain these things?" Thereupon this woman says, "Having beaten my husband with the broom, I caught him by the hair-knot, and put him out at the door-way, to seek goods and come back. After that, he went, and having been near a tree came back [after] receiving them." Having said [this], she told the woman about these matters [and that her husband received the things he thought of]. Afterwards the woman, having gone home and beaten the woman's husband with the broom, caught him by the hair-knot, and put him out at the door-way. The man having gone also, stayed near the tree, weeping and weeping. At that time, by the Devatawa three pills were given (lit., gave) to [this] man also. The man, taking them, came home. Thereupon the woman having warmed water, and made him bathe, and given him to eat, and given him betel to eat, asked the man, "What have you brought?" The man showed her the three pills. The woman, taking the three pills in her hand, and having looked at them, said, "Are these ani that you have brought?" and threw them away. Then in every place on the woman's body ani were created. Then for three years having striven, finding the three pills she said, "Leaving the anus which was there, may the others be obliterated," and having picked up the three pills she threw them away. Thereupon she became as at first. North-central Province. The plight of the woman is nearly similar to that of Indra after he had been cursed by Gautama for visiting Ahalya, as related in the Katha Sarit Sagara, vol. i, p. 123. In Folklore in Southern India (Natesa Sastri), p. 208, while an indigent Brahmana was asleep in a forest, the God Siva and his wife Parvati ate his cooked rice, leaving in its place five magic cups of gold out of each of which an Apsaras came and served him with delicious food. After he had returned home and given a feast to the villagers, a rich landholder went off to obtain similar prizes, the God and Goddess ate his rice, and left five cups for him. As soon as he returned home he summoned the whole village to a feast; but when the cups were opened out several barbers issued from each, and held and shaved all the guests clean. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iv, p. 114) a man heard in the Night of Power that three prayers would be granted to him. After consulting his wife, he prayed that his nose might be magnified, as a sign of his nobility, and it became so large that he could not move. He then prayed to be rid of it, and his nose disappeared altogether; his last prayer caused it to be restored to its first state. NO. 134 THE STORY OF THE RAKSHASA AND THE PRINCESS [205] In a certain country there are a King and a Queen, it is said. The Queen bore a Princess. In that very country there are a Rakshasa and a Rakshasi. The Rakshasi, too, bore a son. In that Princess's horoscope there was [found] that she will contract marriage with a Rakshasa; in that Rakshasa's horoscope there was [found] that he will marry a Princess. After both had become considerably big the King and Queen died; only that Princess is in the palace. The Rakshasa can create anything [he has] thought of. The Rakshasa thought, "The palace and royal goods that are in the palace all are to disappear." In that very manner they disappeared. There not being a place for the Princess to stay in, when she is weeping and weeping the Rakshasa having come there asked at the hand of the Princess, "What are you weeping for?" Then the Princess said, "I weep as there is not a place for me to be in, and not a thing to eat,--because of that." After that the Rakshasa said, "I will give food and clothing; can you come to our house?" Then the Princess said, "I can." After that, the Rakshasa and the Princess came to the Rakshasa's house. Then at the hand of the Rakshasa asked the Rakshasa's mother, "Who, son, is that?" Then he said, "Mother, I have come summoning such and such a King's Princess, for you to get [some] ease." [206] After that, the Rakshasi having said, "Yes, it is good," while, having employed the Princess, she was making her do all the work, the Princess being like a servant of the Rakshasi's, the Rakshasi had the thought, "[How] if I eat the Princess?" Having thought it, one day when the Rakshasi was preparing to go to eat human bodies she said at the hand of the Princess, "[By the time] when I am coming, having brought and placed [ready] seven large pots of water, and brought and placed [ready] seven bundles of firewood, and boiled and pounded seven paelas of paddy (each about three-eighths of a bushel), and plastered cow-dung on [the floors of] seven houses, and cooked, warm water for me to bathe and place thou it [ready]. If not, I will eat thee." Having said this the Rakshasi went to eat human bodies. After that, the Princess remained weeping and weeping. So the Rakshasa asked, "What art thou crying for?" The Princess said, "Mother, telling me so many works, went away. How shall I do them?" Then the Rakshasa said, "Don't thou be doubtful about it. When mother, having come back, has asked, say thou that thou didst all the works." After that, the Princess, having remained silent in the very manner the Rakshasa said, told at the hand of the Rakshasi [on her return] that she did the works. When the Rakshasi looked to see if the works were right, all were right. Well then, to eat the Princess there was no means for the Rakshasi. After that, she sent word to the Rakshasi's younger sister, "There is a girl of the palace [here]; I have no means of eating that girl; whatever work I told her that work has been quite rightly done. Now then, how shall I eat [her]? I will send this girl near you; then you eat her." The Rakshasi said at the hand of the Princess, "Go to the house of our younger sister's people; a box of mine is there. If thou dost not bring it I will eat thee." After that, the Princess having come near the stile, while she was weeping and weeping the Rakshasa came there and asked, "What art thou weeping for?" Then the Princess said, "Mother told me that there is a box at the house of little-mother's people. [207] Having said [I am] to bring it, if not she will eat me, when I have gone for the box little-mother will eat me. To-day indeed I cannot escape." After that, the Rakshasa [said], "Little-mother is blowing and blowing [the fire] at the hearth; the box is near the door. Thou having gone running, taking the box come away." Afterwards, having gone running, at the time when the Princess looked the Rakshasi is blowing and blowing at the hearth; the box was near the door. The Princess having gone into the house, taking the box came running. The Rakshasi chased after her; she was unable to eat her. For that Rakshasi [who sent her] there, also there was not a way to eat her. When she was there in that way for a considerable time they asked for a marriage for the Rakshasa. Having asked it, the Rakshasi also having become ready to go for the marriage, said at the hand of the Princess, "When we come summoning the bride, having well prepared the house, and set the tables and chairs, and boiled and cooked for the marriage party, place [the food ready]." Saying [this] the Rakshasi went for the marriage. The Rakshasa having been behind said at the hand of the Princess, "Thou having remained without speaking, say thou didst all the works that mother told thee." Having said it the Rakshasa, too, went for the marriage. Afterwards the Princess having been [there] without speaking, after the wedding-party, summoning the bride, returned, the Rakshasi asked at the hand of the Princess, "Didst thou do all the works I told thee? Didst thou do them?" The Princess said, "Yes." When the Rakshasi looked all the works were right; there also there was no way to eat her. Afterwards she taught the bride, "Daughter, there! Eat that girl if you can; I tried to eat her in [every] possible manner." After that, the girl tried if she could eat her; [208] she was unable to eat the Princess. When she was there in that manner a considerable time, the Rakshasa and the Princess having got hid went away. Having thus gone, and having created the Princess's royal palace in the very manner in which it was [before], the two remained at the palace. Finished. North-western Province. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 215, a Brahmana married a Rakshasi Princess, and there is an account of a similar union in the story No. 135 which follows. NO. 135 THE WAY THE RAKSHASI DIED In a certain city there is a Rakshasi, it is said. The Rakshasi seizing each man who is going along, eats him. While a Brahmana was going along, she seized the Brahmana, but because the Brahmana had a good beautiful figure, putting him in her rock-house (cave) and shutting the door, she remained without eating him. During the time while he was there a child was borne to the Brahmana by the Rakshasi; the child was like the Brahmana. Having sought food she continued to give it to the Brahmana and the little one. While the Rakshasi was there in that way the youngster (paetiya) became big. One day having waited until the time when the Rakshasi goes to seek food, the youngster asked at the hand of the Brahmana, "Father, what is [the reason why] you have one form and mother a [different] form?" Then the Brahmana says, "Son, your mother is a Rakshasi. Seizing each man who is going past this place, she eats him. I also came to go this way. Then seizing me she put me in the rock cave. She has not done any harm to me yet." The youngster said, "Father, we cannot remain in this way. Rakshasis and men cannot be in one place." Then the Rakshasi came, bringing food. So the youngster said, "Mother, when you are not here how will it be for us? Tell us the limits [of the power] of these persons" (that is, those who lived there). The Rakshasi said, "In width they are five gawwas (twenty miles); in length they are ten gawwas (forty miles)." On the following day, during the time when the Rakshasi went to seek food, the Brahmana and the youngster having taken a large quantity of excellent (honda honda) goods, the two persons bounded off to go by the quarter that was ten gawwas long, and went away. Then the Rakshasi having come [after] seeking food, when she looked neither Brahmana nor youngster [was there]. After that, while the Rakshasi was going along continuing to cry aloud, these two persons had not yet succeeded in bounding through the forest that was ten gawwas in length. The Rakshasi, weeping and weeping, having said, "What was this need for you to abandon me?" came back, summoning these two [to accompany her]. On the following day, after the Rakshasi went to seek food, these two persons having bounded through the quarter that was five gawwas in width, reached the far bank of a river. Then the Rakshasi having come [after] seeking food, when she looked these two were not [there]. After that, as the Rakshasi was coming continuing to cry aloud, these two came to this bank of the river; the Rakshasi, sitting down on the bank on that [other] side, remained crying aloud. While she was there the Rakshasi said, "Son, there is a spell of mine; [after] learning it go." Thereupon the youngster said, "I will not [return to learn it]; say it while sitting there." Afterwards the Rakshasi, sitting on the bank on that side, said the spell. The youngster, sitting on the bank on this side, learnt the spell. "When you have uttered that spell, on this side of twelve years you will meet with any lost thing," the Rakshasi said. After that, the Brahmana and the youngster came away to the Brahmana's village. That Rakshasi having been looking while a trace of the heads of these two was visible, through the affection there was for the two persons, when those two were hidden [from her view] the Rakshasi's bosom was rent, and she died. While that Brahmana and the youngster, having gone to the village, were staying there, certain goods of the King's having been lost, the King published a proclamation by beat of tom-toms that to a person who found and gave the goods he will give wealth [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load, and a district from the kingdom. Then the Brahmana's youngster having said, "I can," and having uttered the spell taught by that Rakshasi, obtained the goods and gave them to the King. He having given them, the King gave to the Brahmana's youngster wealth [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load, and a district from the kingdom. North-western Province. This is the first part of the Jataka story No. 432 (vol. iii, p. 298), in which the King and family priest hid some valuable jewels taken by them out of the treasury, in order to test a youngster's power. He discovered them, but the King insisted on his declaring also who was the thief. He endeavoured to avoid doing this, and when at last he made it known, the people rose, killed the King and priest, and set the youngster (who was the Bodhisatta) on the throne. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 360, a similar story is also given. The Brahmana was seized by a Kinnari, who is afterwards termed a Yakshi. When the son and father escaped she did not die, but sent the boy a guitar by playing on which he would preserve his life. If, however, he touched the first string with his finger he would experience misfortune; of course he did this. NO. 136 HOW A RAKSHASA TURNED MEN AND BULLS INTO STONE In a certain country there are seven elder brothers and younger brothers. In a certain [other] country there are seven elder sisters and younger sisters. At the time when they are there the whole of the seven elder brothers and younger brothers are without wives; the seven elder sisters and younger sisters are without men (husbands). At the time when the seven elder brothers and younger brothers are doing work in the rice field, the seven elder sisters and younger sisters are going by the place where they are working. "Where are you going?" they asked (haehuwwa). At the time when they asked they said, "Seven elder sisters and younger sisters are going to seek for themselves seven elder brothers and younger brothers." "We indeed are seven elder brothers and younger brothers." With the eldest elder brother the eldest elder sister contracted (lit., tied) marriage; with those [other] six persons these six [other] persons contracted marriage. To the seven houses they took the seven persons (their wives). A Rakshasa came for religious donations (samadame). Having come, at the very first he got donations from the eldest elder sister. When he begged from the other six, five persons gave donations abundantly (hondatama). When he begged for donations from the youngest younger sister, she tried to give them [while] sitting in the house. "We do not take them in that way," [he said]. When, having come to the doorway, she tried to give them [there, the Rakshasa] placed a walking-stick in his hand, and when he extended [it towards her] he began to go in front; the woman, weeping and weeping, began to go behind the Rakshasa [holding the other end of the magic stick]. Having gone on and on, at the time when he stopped there were seven stone posts. When the walking-stick that was in his hand prodded the ground she became stone [like them]. The young younger sister's seven elder brothers and younger brothers went [on a trading journey?] taking seven yokes of bulls. At the time when they were taking them, the seven yokes of bulls and the seven men he made into stone. [209] He restored that woman to consciousness again; having restored her to consciousness the Rakshasa went with her [to his] home. After he went, when the son of the elder sister of the younger sister who went with [the Rakshasa] proceeded there (etenta gihama) [to seek] the seven yokes of bulls and the men who went [with them], his seven fathers [210] and the seven yokes of bulls were there [turned into stone]. (Apparently this is only a portion of a longer story, but the narrator was unacquainted with the rest of it.) North-western Province. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 222, a Jogi turned into stone seven brothers who had followed him in order to recover the wife of one of them whom he had carried off by getting her arm-tassel and going away with it. She was compelled to follow him while it was in his possession. When her son who was left behind proceeded in search of her, he came to the place where his petrified uncles were. As he was eating his food there he saw the stones weeping, recognised them, and placed a little food on each for them to eat. Afterwards, when he had killed the Jogi and was returning with his mother, he bathed, and then spread a cloth over the stones, on which they recovered their human shape, became alive, and thought they had merely slept. In the Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 85, a Prince who had stolen the garments of Indra's daughter while she was bathing, was turned by her spells into stone when he looked back at her. He was revived by an old woman with whom he lived; she sprinkled water on the stone and uttered spells. In the same work, p. 149, the Turtle Prince was informed that if he looked back after stealing the garments of a divine maid or Apsaras while she was bathing, he would be turned into stone. See the first note after No. 151 in this volume. See the notes after No. 155. NO. 137 THE RAKSHASA-EATING PRAKSHASA [211] In a certain country there is an islet; on the islet there are a few houses. On the islet a Rakshasa dwells. This Rakshasa having seized them eats [the men] from each house at the rate of one man every day. When the Rakshasa is coming seizing and eating the men in that way for a great number of years, the men of the islet having become finished, at one house, only, men have remained over. In that family there are two parents and four children. The names of the four are One-cubit, Two-cubits, Three-cubits, Four-cubits. While these children are there, the Rakshasa seized even both the parents of these children. Out of the children, the child called Four-cubits is a female child. The female child for grief at the loss of her mother is weeping and weeping. While these three elder brothers are unable to pacify her, one day at night, One-cubit having spoken says, "Two-cubits, Three-cubits, being now without our mother and father, there is not a thing for us to eat. Our younger sister having remembered mother at all times, is weeping and weeping. Because of it, I and Two-cubits having gone to a country, will come back [after] seeking something for you to eat. Three-cubits, you stay [at home], looking after and soothing younger sister." One-cubit and Two-cubits having crossed over from the island, and having gone on and on, arrived at a country. Having arrived, while they are going thus, they met with a youth who is looking after cattle. Having met with him, he asked these two, "Where are you two going?" "We two are going seeking any sort of livelihood," they said. "Can you two stay to look after cattle?" he asked. "We can," they said. Having said, "Come. Our Gamarala has many cattle. For looking after them he still wants people," this youth who looks after cattle, calling these two, went to the Gamarala's house. When they went, the Gamarala asked this youth who looks after the cattle, "Who are these two youths?" "These two came seeking a livelihood," he said. Then the Gamarala asks these youths, "What can ye do for a living?" "We can graze cattle," they said. Then the Gamarala asked the big youth, "What name?" "One-cubit," he said. He asked the younger youth, "What is thy name?" "Two-cubits," he said. Thereupon the Gamarala, having given charge of one hundred cattle to One-cubit, and one hundred cattle to Two-cubits, said, "Having thoroughly caused the cattle given to you to eat and drink, and having looked after them, not giving the cattle to jungle quadrupeds, ye must bring them in the evening, and completely put them in the folds," the Gamarala said. After many days, the Gamarala thought, "I must go to look at the cattle [that are] with One-cubit and Two-cubits." One day in the evening, at the time when they were putting them in the folds, he went and remained looking on. The cattle are thoroughly healthy. When the Gamarala looked [at the numbers] those of both persons are correct. The Gamarala, having become much pleased, having gone home, says, "The cattle of One-cubit and Two-cubits are in very good [condition]. Please give food amply to both youths," the Gamarala ordered at the house. Thereupon, they give food amply to both persons. For [many] days besides, the two are thoroughly taking care of the cattle. While Three-cubits is looking after the younger sister, one day the younger sister, having called to remembrance her mother, began to weep. Thereupon he said, "Four-cubits, younger sister, don't cry. Our big elder brother and little elder brother [after] seeking food for us two will now bring it. Then I will give you a great deal to eat." While he was speaking in order to pacify her, she began to weep still still more. Three-cubits endeavoured much to pacify her; he was unable to pacify her. Then Three-cubits says, "Younger sister, don't you cry; I will go on the island, and bring a Kirala [212] fruit, and give you it. You remain [here] without going to bathe, or going anywhere. I will go quickly, and bring Kirala." Having said [this], Three-cubits went to the edge of the island. Just as he is going there, the Rakshasa having landed on the island to seize and eat human bodies, when he is coming looking and looking at the whole of the houses, he saw this Four-cubits, the little lass, [213] and having sprung into the house, lifted her up and ran away. On the other bank of the island, sitting in a boat a man is killing fish. Then, having seen this Rakshasa lifting up this child and going away, the man who is killing fish, having become afraid of the Rakshasa, sprang from the boat into the water, and remained under water (lit., swallowed up). After the Rakshasa, not seeing him, went away, the man who is killing fish mounted into the boat. Well then, Three-cubits, [after] plucking Kirala quickly having gone taking them to give to his younger sister, when he looked his younger sister was not [there]. Thereupon, when Three-cubits, saying and saying, "Four cubits! Younger sister, younger sister!" was going weeping and weeping, seeking her, through not seeing her he sought and sought still still further, and went to the edge of the island. While he was there weeping and weeping, saying and saying, "Four-cubits! Younger sister!" that man who was rowing the boat heard it, and came to see what this youth is lamenting for. Having come, "What is it, boy, thou art lamenting for?" the boatman asked. Then he says, "Ane! Our younger sister was weeping and weeping at home. Then, having come on the island to pluck a Kirala fruit, I went back [after] plucking a Kirala fruit, to give it to younger sister. Having gone home, when I looked for younger sister, younger sister was not [there]," the youth, weeping and weeping, said to the boatman, saying and saying [also], "When elder brothers have come now, and have asked, 'Where is younger sister?' what shall I say?" Then the boatman says, "Thou having now wept, what [good] will it do? Why didst thou come away, leaving thy younger sister quite alone? It would be thy younger sister whom, a little time before now, when I was fishing and fishing sitting in the boat, I saw the Rakshasa carrying, and going away with, after crossing to the other shore. I also sank in the water through fear, and got hid." Then this youth, Three-cubits, saying and saying, "Ayiyo! My younger sister! My younger sister!" and again having wept and wept, rolling on the ground, the boatman says to him, "Thou having now lamented, what [good] will it do? Be off home!" Well then, while Three-cubits is at home, weeping and weeping, One-cubit having said, "Two-cubits! Younger brother," says [also], "Now then, it is enough. We have stayed here. We don't know now what our Three-cubits and Four-cubits our younger sister are doing at this time. Let us go to look." One-cubit and Two-cubits spoke together, and said, "Let us tell the Gamarala to-day, and to-morrow go to the village, and return. To go to look at either little younger brother or younger sister is good." One-cubit and Two-cubits, the cattle having gone [home] in the evening, put them in the folds; and having gone to the house told the Gamarala, "We must go to our village, and [after] looking at our younger brother and younger sister, come back," they said to the Gamarala. Then the Gamarala said, "It is good. Go and come back again." When he said, "What do ye want to take?" they said, "Should you tie up and give us a few cakes to take to the village, it would be good." Then the Gama-gaeni (wife of the Gamarala) quickly having tied up two packets of cakes in sufficient quantity for both of them, gave them to them to take. Both of them, taking them, set off to go to the village, and went away. Having gone, and crossed over to that shore, when they went home only Three-cubits, their younger brother, was at home. "Where, little younger brother, is younger sister?" asked One-cubit and Two-cubits. Then Three-cubits said, "Elder brothers, after you went younger sister began to cry. Then I said, 'Don't cry; I will go on the island and pluck a Kirala fruit, and bring it.' Having gone, when coming [after] plucking a Kirala fruit, a man who was in the boat at the island saw that the Rakshasa went away taking younger sister," he said. Then both the elder brothers asked, "Where did he bring her?" "To that side of the island she was brought," he said. The whole three having been [there] a few days, the three spoke together: "Let us go to seek our younger sister." Having said, "It is good," while the whole three are going along eating and eating the two packets of cakes that they brought, the two elder ones, having seen that the two packets of cakes are coming to be finished, said to the younger brother, "Our cakes are coming to be finished. You go along this path, and return [after] seeking something for us to eat," they said. Three-cubits went; he went to seek some food, and return. When going, he went to the house of the Kudu Hettirala [214] of that village. Having gone he said, "Ane! Hettiralahami, the food we brought became finished. You must give something for us to eat for the present on the road." When he said it, there was much paddy dust at the house of the Hettirala's people. The Hettirala told them to give a little of it. Then he made a large bag (olaguwak), and putting in it paddy powder to the extent it holds, when he was coming he saw (dituwaya) a large tree in the midst of the jungle. When coming near the tree he saw a bats' place. When he looked there, having seen that many bats' skins had fallen down, those also in a sufficient quantity he put into the bag. When he was coming [after] putting them in, he saw that both One-cubit and Two-cubits, being without food, were sitting at the root of a tree. When he asked, "What are you doing here?" "Until you came we were looking out at the road," they said. When they asked, "What is there for us to eat?" "Only paddy dust and bats' skins," he said. "What are we to do? Let us go, eating and eating even those," they said. When they were going very far in that manner, having seen that a man is bringing an ass to sell, said Three-cubits, "One-cubit, Two-cubits, you must take that ass and give it to me," he said; "if not, I will not come to look for younger sister," he said. Then, taking the ass they gave him it. When going still further having seen that a man is bringing two flat winnowing trays, "One-cubit, Two-cubits, having taken those two winnowing trays, you must give them to me," he said. Taking also the two winnowing trays they gave him them. When going still a little further, having seen that they are bringing two bundles of creepers, he told them to take them also, and give him them. Taking them also, when going on having seen that yet [another] man was bringing a tom-tom, he told them to take that also, and give him it. Taking that also, they gave him it. Having seen that still a man was bringing two elephant's tusks, he told them to take them also, and give him them. Taking them also they gave him them. When going still a little further, having seen that a man was taking porcupine quills, he told them to ask for and give him a few of those also. They asked for and gave them. When going still a little further, having seen that there were two red ants' nests in a tree, "Please break and give these also to me," he said. Those also they broke off and gave. When they gave them, having made two wallets, and put the things in the two wallets, tying them well and loading all on the back of the ass, as they were going very far they met with an old mother. Having met with her she asked, "Ane! where are you going on this path? This path is a path going to the house of the Rakshasa. Should you go [on it] the Rakshasa will kill and eat you," she said. Then they say, "It is on this path itself that our younger sister will be. Let us go on. If the Rakshasa kill us let him kill." Having said [this], the three persons having gone on and on, when they were going met with a great big house. The three spoke together: "It has now become night. Having stayed at a resting-place at this house, let us go on in the morning to-morrow," they said. Having said, "It is good," when they went near the house the Rakshasa's wife asked, "Who are you? Where are you going? What came you here for?" "We are One-cubit, Two-cubits, Three-cubits. Our younger sister, Four-cubits, having been in the island, a Rakshasa brought her away. We are going seeking her," they said. "Ane! My elder brothers, (ayiyandila)! Did you come seeking me?" Having said, "It is I myself," holding her elder brothers she smelt [215] them, and said, "Apoyi! When the Rakshasa has come now he will eat you." Having quickly called them into the house, she told the whole of them (seramanta) to ascend to the upper room (uda geta), and remain [there]. Even the ass they took up. "When the Rakshasa has gone in the morning we can talk together," she said. Having said [this], the younger sister, having gone outside, and made fast and tied up the stile, and come back quickly, and given her elder brothers to eat, became as though not knowing anything [about them]. While she was there, when the Rakshasa is coming saying "Hu" three times, the three elder brothers were frightened. The ass was more frightened than that; it began to move about. Then the younger sister says, "Elder brother, there! The Rakshasa is coming! Remain without moving about until it becomes light to-morrow." "It is good, younger sister," Three-cubits, the youngest elder brother, said. There! When that little time was going the Rakshasa came. Washing his face and mouth, he sat down to eat food. Having sat down, eating and eating food, he says, "There is a smell of human flesh; there is a smell of human flesh." Then the Rakshasi says, "If you eat human flesh, and in your mouth there is human flesh, and in your hand there is human flesh, is there not a smell of human flesh?" "No, it is a smell of fresh human flesh." When the Rakshasi said, "If so, it is to eat me you say that," the Rakshasa, having eaten without speaking, rolled over at that very place and went to sleep. All One-cubit's party (Ekriyanala), through the fatigue of the journey, the whole of them (seramantama) went fast asleep. When a little time is going by, a red ant (dimiya) having come out of a red ants' nest, and as it was going along having climbed up the ass's leg, the red ant bit it. Then the ass, making a sound "Tok, tok," began to kick the boards [of the floor]. Then One-cubit opened his eyes. When he was looking what was the noise, it was the noise of the ass kicking. Then One-cubit held the legs of the ass, for it not to make the noise. Then the ass, becoming afraid, got up, making a sound, "Didi-bidi." The Rakshasa having become afraid, and having jumped up, when he was saying, "What, Bola, is this one? I am going to eat this one," Three-cubits says, "Come here, thou! To eat thee is insufficient for me!" he said. Then the Rakshasa, having been frightened, said, "Who art thou, Clever One, to eat me?" "I am the Rakshasa [216]-eating Prakshasa," he said. The Rakshasa, becoming thoroughly frightened, called out, "Get down, and come here." "Thou come here," Three-cubits called out. "Who art thou?" he asked again. "It is I indeed, the Rakshasa-eating Prakshasa," he said. "If so, throw down thy two Jak trees," [217] he said. Then he lifted up and threw down the two bundles of creepers. "Throw down thy two tusks," he said. He lifted up and threw down the two [elephant's] tusks. "Throw down thy two ears," he said. He lifted up and threw down the two winnowing trays. "Show me one eye," he said. Then having put down the tom-tom at the corner of a plank on which there was plaster he showed him it. He told him to tap on his belly, and show him it. Then, pressing one hand on one side (end) of the tom-tom, at the other side (end) he made a noise, "Bahak, bahak." Then the Rakshasa having become [more] frightened, standing up holding the Rakshasi's hand, and looking for the road so as to run off, told him to cry out. Then Three-cubits thinks, "When he is running away now, he will run off taking with him younger sister." Having become afraid of it, taking a red ants' nest softly to the end of the boards, he broke and threw down the red ants' nest on the Rakshasa's head. Then the Rakshasa having let go the hand of the Rakshasi, began to scratch his head and body in all places. At that very time having put the other red ants' nest into the two ears of the ass, the three persons began to prick it with the porcupine quills. Then when it began to give hundreds of brays (buruwe beri), the Rakshasa having become thoroughly frightened, said, "I don't want you below"; and having abandoned even the Rakshasi, crying "Hu," and breaking through the fence also and upsetting the village, on account of the noise of the ass and the cunning of the three persons and the power of the red ants, he ran away. Then the elder brother, and the younger brothers, the three persons, taking their younger sister, went to their village. Kumbukkan, Eastern Province. In a variant (a) of the North-western Province the persons were a youth termed One-span (Ek-wiyata), his two elder brothers, and his elder and younger sisters. A quarrel having arisen among them, One-span and his younger sister went off alone. While they were in the midst of a forest a Rakshasi carried off the girl during her brother's temporary absence, so he returned home, informed the others, and he and his two brothers set off in search of her. The elder sister having been angry with him, gave One-span some cold boiled rice to take with him, and to the others warm rice. When the two opened their bag of warm rice they heard worms or grubs (panuwo) that were in it making a sound, "Mini, mini," as they gnawed at it, so they begged their brother to share his cold rice with them. He did so, and afterwards when they objected to take and carry along with them a coconut tree, a palmira tree, an elephant calf (aet-wassek), and two or three large black ants (kadiyo), on each occasion he demanded the return of the rice and curry they had eaten. They found their younger sister at "a very large tiled house," and she hid them and the young elephant and the other things in the loft. The Rakshasi returned, said, "There is a smell of fresh human flesh," and afterwards was frightened as in the story given above, and ran away. If the names in this tale and variant indicate the heights of the persons, as appears probable, this is the only instance in which dwarfs are mentioned in the Sinhalese folk-tales that I have collected. In the Saddharma Pundarika (Kern, S.B.E., vol. xxi, p. 83), mention is made of a form of dwarf demons, "malign urchins, some of them measuring one span, others one cubit or two cubits, all nimble in their movements." In Tales of the Punjab (Mrs. Steel), p. 3 (Wide-Awake Stories, p. 7), there is an account of a dwarf who was only one cubit high; he had magical powers. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 39, a demoness in the form of a woman one span high is mentioned (see p. 171). In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 189, there is an account of a man who was only a span high. In the last mentioned work, p. 81, two men who were in a tree frightened a Raja and his attendants by dropping a tiger's paunch and beating a drum out of which flew a number of bees that they had placed in it. These attacked and drove away the people below, and the men got their goods. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xiv, p. 135 (Folklore in Southern India, p. 116), in a Tamil story by Pandit Natesa Sastri, a tiger which knew magic took the form of a youth, married a girl who went off with him, and had a son who was a tiger. The girl sent a message to her three brothers, and they went to rescue her, taking an ass, an ant, a palmira tree, and a washerman's iron tub that they found. They were put in the loft by her. When the tiger told them to speak, one put the ant in the ear of the ass, to make it bray. He then told them to show him their legs and bellies; they held out the palmira tree and the tub, on seeing which he ran off, and they escaped with her. In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 229, a blind man and a deaf man when going for a walk found and took with them a washerman's ass, and the large pot in which he boiled clothes, and also put some large black ants into a snuff-box. They took shelter from a storm in the house of a Rakshasa, and fastened the door. When the ogre tried to enter, saying "I'm a Rakshas," the blind man replied, "Well, if you're Rakshas I'm Bakshas, and Bakshas is as good as Rakshas." The Rakshasa asked to see his face and was shown the donkey's; he asked to see his head and was shown the pot; he told him to scream, and the ants were put in the ears of the ass, the braying of which frightened the Rakshasa away. When they went off next day with his treasure, he came with six friends to kill them. They climbed up a tree (as in the next variant), the ogres stood on each other's shoulders to reach them, the blind man lost his balance, fell on the uppermost one, and all tumbled down together. When the deaf man shouted, "Well done; hold on tight, I'm coming to help you," all the Rakshasas ran away. THE RAKSHASIS-EATING PRAKSHASA. [218] (Variant b.) At a certain village there were a Gamarala and a Tom-tom Beater. For the Tom-tom Beater there was nothing to eat. Because of it, having gone to the Gamarala's house he got a large basket of paddy on loan. While he was eating it the two persons having joined together worked the Gamarala's two rice fields. Out of them, the [rice in the] Gamarala's field being of very good quality was well developed; [that in] the Tom-tom Beater's field was undeveloped. Because of it, the arrangement which the Tom-tom Beater made was thus: "Because I am to give a debt to you, you take my rice field, please, and give me your rice field, please," the Tom-tom Beater said to the Gamarala. So the Gamarala having told him to take it, the Gamarala took the Tom-tom Beater's field. The Tom-tom Beater having cut the growing rice in the field and trampled it [with buffaloes], got the paddy. The Gamarala obtained hardly anything (tikapitika). So not much time was occupied in eating it. After that, a daughter of the Gamarala's was taken away by a Rakshasa. Then the Gamarala having come near the Tom-tom Beater, and said, "Let us go on a search for my daughter," both persons went together. At that time the Gamarala took a bag of money. The Tom-tom Beater, not showing it to the Gamarala, took a bag of fragments of broken plates. The Gamarala tied up a bag of cooked rice; the Tom-tom Beater tied up a bag of rice-dust porridge. At the time when they were going, being hungry they stopped at the bottom of a tree and made ready to eat the cooked rice. Having made ready, the Tom-tom Beater, taking a small quantity of rice from the Gamarala's leaf [plate] of cooked rice, ate it. Having eaten it, the Tom-tom Beater says, "Don't you eat the cooked rice which I have polluted by eating; be good enough to eat my bag of cooked rice." Having said it, he gave him the bag of rice-dust porridge. Then when the Gamarala unfastened the bag there was only porridge. Having said, "Well then, what [else] shall I do?" the Gamarala ate the rice-dust porridge. The Tom-tom Beater ate the package of good cooked rice which the Gamarala brought. Thereupon the Gamarala said at the hand of the Tom-tom Beater, "I ate the rice-dust porridge; don't tell anyone whatever," he said. The Tom-tom Beater said, "It is good." At the time when they were going away, yet [another] Tom-tom Beater, taking a drum to sell, came up. So this Tom-tom Beater, thinking of taking the drum, spoke to the Gamarala [about it]. Then the Gamarala said, "If there is money in thy hand give it, and take it." The Tom-tom Beater, having shaken the package of plate fragments said, "There is money by me; I cannot unfasten it. If you have money be good enough to give it." The Gamarala said, "I will not." [219] Then the Tom-tom Beater said, "If so, I will say that you ate the rice-dust porridge." Then the Gamarala said, "Here is money," and gave it. So the Tom-tom Beater got the drum. Taking it, at the time when they were going along the path again, a man came taking a deer-hide rope. That, also, the Tom-tom Beater having thought of taking, in the very same way as at first he asked the Gamarala for money. The Gamarala said, "I will not give it." So the Tom-tom Beater said, "I will say that you ate the rice-dust porridge." Then having said, "Don't say it," the Gamarala gave the money. After that, the Tom-tom Beater taking the deer-hide rope, at the time when they were going along the road, a man came bringing a pair of elephant tusks. Then the Tom-tom Beater in the very same way as at first asked the Gamarala for money. The Gamarala said, "I will not [give it]." So the Tom-tom Beater said, "If so, I will say that you ate the rice-dust porridge." Then the Gamarala, having said, "Don't say it," gave the money. The Tom-tom Beater taking the pair of elephant tusks, they went to the Rakshasa's house. When they went, the Rakshasa having gone for human flesh food, only the Gamarala's daughter was [there]. The girl quickly having given food to the two persons, the Gamarala's daughter told them to go to the upper story floor. [220] Afterwards the Gamarala and the Tom-tom Beater went to the upper story floor. In the evening, the Rakshasa having come said, "Smell of fresh human flesh!" Then the Gamarala's daughter said, "Having come [after] eating fresh human flesh, what smell of human flesh!" After that the Rakshasa without speaking lay down. Then at the time of dawn the Tom-tom Beater was minded to chant verses, so he spoke to the Gamarala [about it]. The Gamarala said, "Don't speak." Without listening to it he chanted verses softly, softly (hemin hemin). Thereupon the Rakshasa having arisen, asked, "Who art thou?" The Tom-tom Beater said, "I myself am the Rakshasis-eating Prakshasa." Then the Rakshasa said, "If so, show me thy teeth." The Tom-tom Beater showed him the pair of elephant tusks. Then the Rakshasa, becoming afraid, said, "Show me the hair of thy head." The Tom-tom Beater showed him the deer-hide rope. Then the Rakshasa said, "If that be so, let us roar." Then having said, "It is good," the Tom-tom Beater began to beat on the drum. The Rakshasa becoming [more] frightened, said that he was going near his preceptor, and ran away. Then the Tom-tom Beater and the Gamarala, in order to get hidden, went into the midst of the forest of Palmira trees. Then the Rakshasa, placing his preceptor in front, came up to go through the middle of the forest of Palmira trees. At that time, having seen the two Rakshasas, these two persons being afraid prepared to climb two trees. Thereupon the Tom-tom Beater, taking the drum, went up the tree. The Gamarala being unable to go up the tree, having gone to the middle of the tree, slid down [with a] siri siri [noise] to the ground. Thereupon the two Rakshasas came near the Gamarala. Then the Tom-tom Beater, from the top of the tree, having shaken the leaves and beaten the drum first, said, "After I descend leave the big one for me, and do thou eat the little one." Then the two Rakshasas becoming afraid, ran off. Then the Tom-tom Beater descended from the tree, and again having gone with the Gamarala to the Rakshasa's house, taking the Gamarala's daughter and the goods that were in the Rakshasa's house they came to their village. While at the village the Gamarala said, "Take thou the goods; after the girl was there it is sufficient for me." Then the Tom-tom Beater having brought [home] the goods became very wealthy. After a little time had gone by since that, the Gamarala came to the Tom-tom Beater's house to take the debt of paddy. Then what does the Tom-tom Beater do? Before the Gamarala's coming, a very large basket was tied up [by him], shells and chaff having been put in it. After the Gamarala went, the Tom-tom Beater said, "Because of you, indeed, I have tied up that basket. If you want it, be good enough to take it and go." Then the Gamarala having gone and opened the mouth of the basket, when he looked there were only shells and chaff. Thereupon, at the time when the Gamarala was asking, "What is this chaff?" the Tom-tom Beater said, "Apoyi! What has happened here? Through your bad luck there were other things, indeed! In that way, indeed, you came down from the Palmira tree that day," the Tom-tom Beater said. Then the Gamarala, without speaking, went home without the paddy. North-central Province. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xiv, p. 77, in a Tamil story related by Pandit S. M. Natesa Sastri, two men who had previously frightened some bhutas, or evil spirits, were belated at night in a wood they haunted, so they climbed up a tree for safety. The bhutas afterwards came there with torches in search of animals for food, and this so terrified one of the men that he fell down among them. The other man then shouted to him to catch the stoutest of them if he must eat one, on which the bhutas all ran away. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 38, when a barber and fakir had climbed up a tree in order to overhear the talk of a number of tigers who came there at night, and also to collect valuables left by the tigers, the fakir became so alarmed when he heard the tiger King using threatening language against them, that he lost his hold and fell into the midst of the tigers. The barber instantly cried out loudly, "Now cut off their ears," on hearing which the tigers ran away. The fakir, however, received such injuries that he died. I have omitted two nocturnal incidents due to the Tom-tom Beater's inability to control his bodily functions. THE RICE-DUST PORRIDGE. (Variant c.) In a certain country there are a Gamarala and a Tom-tom Beater, it is said. The Gamarala having become very poor had not a thing to eat. That Tom-tom Beater was a very rich man. While they were thus, one day the two persons having spoken about going on a journey and said, "Let us go to-morrow," made ready. There being not a thing for the Gamarala to eat before going, and being without a thing to take for the road, [after] stirring with a spoon a little rice-dust porridge and taking the porridge to the road, he was ready to go. The Tom-tom Beater, having amply cooked rice and curry, and eaten, tying up a packet of cooked rice for the road also, went to the Gamarala's house. Having gone there, the two persons went on the journey. The Gamarala took the rice-dust porridge, the Tom-tom Beater took the packet of cooked rice. Having gone on and on, after it became late in the morning the Tom-tom Beater said, "Ha. Now then, Gamarahami, let us eat the packet of cooked rice." Afterwards, the Gamarala having said "Ha," and both of them having unfastened the two bags, the Tom-tom Beater, taking the packet of cooked rice, eats it. When the Gamarala was taking the rice-dust porridge the Tom-tom Beater asked, "What, Gamarahami, are those?" Then the Gamarala said, "In order to cook rice for myself quickly, I came [after] cooking porridge. Don't tell it at the hand of anyone." The Tom-tom Beater says, "Ane! Gamarahami, I shall not tell it. The gentleman (Rahami) will be good enough to eat it." The two persons having eaten and finished, when they are going on again, a man is going taking a rice pestle to sell. Then this Tom-tom Beater says to the Gamarala, "Ane! Gamarahami, be good enough to take and give me that rice pestle." The Gamarala says, "Where, Bolat, [221] have I the money [for it]?" Then the Tom-tom Beater says, "If so, I will say that the Gamarahami ate rice-dust porridge." Afterwards the Gamarala,--there is a little money in his hand,--having given from it, taking the rice pestle, gave it to the Tom-tom Beater. Again, when they had gone a great distance, a man is coming taking a [wooden] rice mortar to sell. So the Tom-tom Beater again says, "Gamarahami, Gamarahami, take that rice mortar, and be good enough to give me it." Then the Gamarala says, "Ane! Bolat, come thou on without speaking there. Where have I money to that extent, to take and give you those things?" Thereupon the Tom-tom Beater says, "If so, I will say that the Gamarahami ate rice-dust porridge." Afterwards the Gamarala took and gave him the rice mortar also. Again, when they had gone a great distance, a man is going taking a millet stone (quern) to sell. The Tom-tom Beater says, "Gamaralahami, you must indeed take and give me that millet stone." Afterwards, anger having come to the Gamarala, he says, "O Vishnu! [222] Bolat, where have I money to that extent?" Then the Tom-tom Beater says, "If so, I will say that the Gamarahami ate rice-dust porridge." Afterwards, the Gamarala having given money to the man who owned the millet stone, taking the millet stone gave it to the Tom-tom Beater. Taking that also, again when they are going a great distance a Tom-tom Beater is coming, taking a tom-tom. Again that Tom-tom Beater says to the Gamarala, "Gamarahami, be good enough to take and give me that tom-tom." Then the Gamarala says, "Ando! I having come with this Tom-tom Beater lump, [223] [see] what is happening to me! Where is the money to take and give these things in this way?" Having said [this], and given money to the man who owned the tom-tom, taking the tom-tom and having given it to the Tom-tom Beater, again they go on. When the Tom-tom Beater, taking the rice pestle, and the rice mortar, and the millet stone, and the tom-tom, all of them, was going with the Gamarala it became night. After that, they went to a house to ask for a resting-place. The house was a Rakshasa's house. The Rakshasa was not at home; only the Rakshasa's wife was at home. This Gamarala and Tom-tom Beater asked at the hand of the woman for a resting-place. Then the woman says, "Ane! What have you come here for? This indeed is a Rakshasa's house. The Rakshasa having come and eaten you also, will eat me. Before he comes go away quickly." Afterwards these two persons say, "Ane! Don't say so. There is no place for us to go to now. Somehow or other you must give us a resting-place." After that, this woman said, "If so, remain without speaking, having gone to that upper story floor." Thereupon these two persons ascended to the upper floor, and stayed [there]. Then the Rakshasa having come, asked at the hand of the woman, "What, Bola, is this smell of a human body that came, a human body that came?" The woman says, "What is this thing that you are saying! Every day you are eating fresh human flesh indeed; how should there not be a corpse smell?" After that, the Rakshasa without speaking lay down. Then to the Gamarala says the Tom-tom Beater, "Gamarahami, I must go out." The Gamarala says, "Remain without speaking. Now then, after the Rakshasa has come he will eat us both." Then this Tom-tom Beater says, "If so, I will say you ate rice-dust porridge." Thereupon the Gamarala says, "Owing to this one, indeed, I shall not be allowed to save my life and go." The Rakshasa having heard the talk, said, "What, Bola, is that I hear?" The woman says, "On the upper story floor the coconut leaves are shaking." At that, also, the Rakshasa remained without speaking. Again that Tom-tom Beater says, "Gamarahami, I must go out." Then the Gamarala says, "The Gods be witnesses! Endless times, having heard the talk, the Rakshasa asked at the hand of the woman, 'What is that I hear?' Now then, having come on this journey indeed, he will eat us. What shall I do? Let him eat, on account of my foolishness in coming." Then the Tom-tom Beater says, "If so, I will say you ate rice-dust porridge." The Rakshasa, having heard that talk also, again asked at the hand of the woman, "What, Bola, is that I hear?" Then the woman says, "What is it, Ane! Appa! that you are making happen to-day? There is very much wind; owing to it will the coconut leaves stay without waving about?" At that time also, having said, "Aha," the Rakshasa remained without speaking. Then the Tom-tom Beater again says, "Gamarahami, I have the mind to beat a tom-tom verse." The Gamarala said, "What is the reason why you (ombaheta) have such a mind to die?" The Tom-tom Beater says, "So indeed! I will say that you ate rice-dust porridge." Then the Gamarala said, "Beat very slightly and slowly, so that [the sound] will not come even to the ear." The Tom-tom Beater having said "Ha," very loudly beat, "Dombitan, Dombitan." Then when the Rakshasa, without asking the woman [about this noise] was ascending a great distance along the ladder, in order to go to the upper floor, the Tom-tom Beater dropped the rice pestle on the Rakshasa, and dropped the rice mortar. When he dropped the millet stone the Rakshasa died. The Tom-tom Beater, taking the tom-tom, went to his village. The Gamarala calling the Rakshasa's wife [in marriage] remained at the Rakshasa's village. North-western Province. THE EVIDENCE THAT THE APPUHAMI ATE PADDY DUST. (Variant d.) In a certain country a Padu [224] man, and an Appuhami [225] having joined together, went away on a journey, it is said. Of the two persons, the Padu man tied up for himself a packet of cooked rice, the Appuhami tied up for himself a packet of paddy dust, it is said. Those two persons having gone taking the two packets, when the time for eating cooked rice in the daytime arrived they halted at one spot, and having become ready to eat cooked rice, unfastened the two packets, it is said. At the time when they unfastened the two packets, the two persons mutually saw the Padu man's cooked rice and curry, and the Appuhami's paddy dust. Having seen them, without having spoken they ate the food in their own packets, and having stayed a little time, set off and went away. When they are going a considerable distance, a man came, bringing a tom-tom (berayak) to sell. The Padda having asked the price of the tom-tom from the man who brings the tom-tom to sell, said to the Appuhami, "Please take and give me this tom-tom." Then anger having gone to the Appuhami [he said], "Be off, dolt! [226] That I should come with thee being insufficient, thou toldest me to take and give thee this tom-tom!" "It is good, Appuhami. If so, I will mention the evidence that you ate paddy dust," he said. The Appuhami having become afraid, and having said, "Ane! Bola, I will take and give thee the tom-tom. Don't tell any one about the matter of the dust eating," took and gave the tom-tom to the Padda. Taking the tom-tom, when they are going a considerable distance, still [another] man brought a devil-dancer's mask (wes-muhuna) to sell. The Padda having asked the price of the mask, said, "Appuhami, please take and give me this mask." Having said, "Be off, dolt! Having taken and given thee a tom-tom, am I to take and give thee a mask too?" the Appuhami scolded the Padda. "If so, I will mention the matter of the dust eating," he said. Thereupon the Appuhami having become afraid, took and gave the mask. Taking also the mask, when they are going a considerable distance, yet [another] man brought a pair of devil-dancer's hawk's bells to sell. The Padda having asked the price of the bells also, and having said, "Appuhami, take and give me this pair of bells," when the Appuhami said he would not, "If so, I shall mention the evidence that you ate the dust," he said. Thereupon, the Appuhami having become afraid, and having said, "Now then, having taken and given thee anything thou art telling and telling [me to give], my money is done, too," took and gave the pair of bells. After that, again having gone a considerable distance they descended to a great abandoned village. When they were going a considerable distance in the village they saw that there is a house. These two persons at the time when it was becoming evening went to that house. The house was a Rakshasi's house. The Rakshasi's daughter having been [there] and having wept says, "Ane! Brothers, [227] our mother is a Rakshasi. She is not at home now; at this time she will be coming. As soon as mother comes, [228] seizing you two she will eat you. Having gone to any possible place, escape," she said. The Appuhami through fear began to tremble. The Padda says, "Why, younger sister? This night where are we to go? By any possible method get us inside the house," he said. "If so, you two, not talking, having ascended to this store-loft (atuwa) sit down," she said. The Appuhami and the Padda having climbed up to the store-loft, stayed [there]. After a little time the Rakshasi came. When she asked, "What is the smell of human flesh?" the daughter says, "Why, mother? Night and day continually having eaten and eaten human flesh and having come, why do you ask me what is the smell of human flesh?" she said. Thereupon the Rakshasi, not speaking, went to sleep, together with the daughter. The Padda sitting above in the store-loft says to the Appuhami, "Ane! Appuhami, it was in my mind to dance a little." Thereupon the Appuhami says, "Cah, Bola! Dolt! You are preparing to dance; I am hiding in fear. Shouldst thou go for thy dancing, the Rakshasi having killed us both will seize and eat us," he said. "If so, I will mention the fact that the Appuhami ate the dust," he said. The Appuhami then says, "If so, having taken and placed the tom-tom aside, do thou imagine that thou hast beaten the tom-tom; bringing the devil-dancer's mask near thy face, imagine that thou hast tied it on; and imagining that thou hast tied the pair of bells on thy two legs, having taken and taken all, put them on one side," he said. And the Padda, having said, "It is good," tying on well the devil-dancer's mask and having made it tight, and tying the pair of bells on his two legs, and tying the tom-tom at his waist, saying "Hu" with great strength, sprang down from the store-loft to the place where the Rakshasi was sleeping; and began to dance. The Rakshasi having become afraid, asked her daughter, "What is this?" "Why, mother, isn't that the Rakshasas-eating Prakshasa?" [229] she said. Then the Rakshasi, having become afraid and having gone running, being unable to escape sprang into a well. The Padda having also gone running just behind her, and having rolled into the well some great stones, killed the Rakshasi. After that, he took in marriage even the Rakshasi's daughter. The Appuhami went away to his village. Western Province. NO. 138 THE STORY OF THE CAKE TREE In a certain country there are a woman, and a youngster, and a girl, it is said. The woman is a Yaksani. One day the youngster said, "Mother, let us cook cakes." Then the Yaksani said, "Son, for us to cook cakes, whence [can we get] the things for them?" After that, this youngster having gone to the place where they were pounding flour, and having come back [after] placing a little flour under the corner of his finger nail, said, "Mother, mother, hold a pot," he said. The Yaksani held a pot. Then he struck down the finger nail; then the pot having filled, overflowed. Again, having gone to a place where they were expressing [oil from] coconuts, and having come [after] placing a little oil under the corner of his finger nail, "Mother, mother, hold a pot," he said. The Yaksani held a pot. Then the youngster struck down the finger nail; then the pot having filled, overflowed. After that, the youngster having gone to a place where they were warming [palm] syrup, and having come [after] placing a little syrup under the corner of his finger nail, "Mother, mother, hold a pot," he said. The Yaksani held a pot. The youngster struck down the finger nail; then the pot having filled, overflowed. [230] After that, the youngster said, "Mother, now then, cook cakes." Having said it, the youngster went to school. During the time while he was going and was there, the Yaksani and the girl having cooked cakes, and the Yaksani and the girl having eaten all the cakes, placed for the youngster a cake that fell on the ash-heap while they were cooking; and both of them remained without speaking. Then the youngster having been at school, came home. Having come, he asked that Yaksani, "Mother, where are the cakes?" Then the Yaksani said, "Ane! Son, the cooked cakes the flour people took away, the oil people took away, the syrup people took away. The cake which fell on the ash-heap while [we were] cooking is there. There; eat even that." After that, when the youngster looked on the ash-heap there was a cake on it. Having taken it, and planted it in the chena jungle, he said, "When I come to-morrow, may the Cake tree (kæwun gaha), having sprouted, be [here]." Having said it he came home. Having gone on the following day, when he looked a Cake tree had sprouted. Afterwards the youngster said, "When I come to-morrow, may flowers having blossomed be [on it]." Having said it he came home. Afterwards having gone, when he looked flowers had blossomed. After that, the youngster said, "When I come to-morrow, may cakes having fruited be [on it]." Having said it he came home. Having gone on the following day, when he looked there were cakes. After that, the youngster having ascended the tree, ate the cakes. Then the Yaksani having gone [there], sitting at the bottom of the tree said, "Son, a cake for me also." The woman having taken a sack also, put it [there]. Afterwards the youngster threw down a cake. Then the Yaksani falsely said, "Ane! Son, it fell into the spittle heap." The youngster again threw one down. Then the Yaksani said, "Ane! Son, it fell into the mucus heap." Afterwards the youngster again threw one down. Then also the Yaksani said, "Ane! Son, it fell into the cow-dung heap." Having said, "Not so; holding them with your hand and mouth jump into the sack," she held the sack, through wanting to eat the youngster. Then the youngster, holding them with the hand and mouth, jumped into the sack. After that, the Yaksani, tying the sack, came away. In a rice field certain men were ploughing. Having placed the sack very near there, the Yaksani went seven gawwas (twenty-eight miles) away [for necessary reasons]. Thereupon that youngster says, "Ane! Unfasten this sack, some one who is in this rice field." Then the men who were very near having heard it, unfastened the sack. After that, the youngster having come out, put a great many ploughed-up clods from a plot of the field into the sack, and again having tied the sack in the very way in which it was [before], and placed it there, the youngster again went to the Cake tree and ate. Then the Yaksani having come, and taken the sack, and gone home, and placed it [there], said to the girl, "Daughter, this one is in the sack. Unfasten this, and having cut up this one, and placed the bowl of [his] blood beneath the stile, place the flesh on the hearth [to cook]." Having said it the Yaksani went away. After that, the girl having unfastened the sack, when she looked the youngster was not in it; there were a great many ploughed-up clods. Afterwards the girl having thrown aside the ploughed-up clods, put the sack in the house. The Yaksani came back. Having come, when she looked beneath the stile there was no bowl of blood. Having gone near the hearth, when she looked there was no flesh. After that, she asked at the hand of the girl, "Daughter, why didn't you cut up that one?" The girl [said], "Mother, there was a sort of ploughed-up clods in the sack; having thrown them aside I put the sack in the house." Then the Yaksani said, "If so, daughter, give me the sack;" and asking for the sack, and having gone near the Cake tree, when she looked the youngster was eating cakes in the tree. Sitting down near the tree she said, "Son, a cake for me also." Afterwards the youngster threw down a cake. Then the Yaksani said, "Son, it fell here, into the spittle heap." The youngster again threw one down. Then the Yaksani [said], "Son, it fell into the mucus heap." The youngster again threw one down. Then the Yaksani said, "Ane, Son, it fell into the cow-dung heap. Not so, son. Holding them with the hand and mouth jump into the sack." After that, the youngster, holding them with the hand and mouth, jumped into the sack. Thereupon, the Yaksani, in that very manner tying the sack and taking it, went away; and again having placed it in that rice field, went to the very quarter to which she went at first. Then the youngster said, "Unfasten this sack, some one who is in this rice field." Having heard it, those men unfastened the sack. Then the youngster having come out, caught a great number of rat snakes; and having put them in the sack, and tied it in that very way, and placed it there, the youngster again went to the Cake tree and ate cakes. Then the Yaksani having come, and taken the bag also, and gone home, told the girl, "Daughter, cut up this one, and having placed the bowl of [his] blood beneath the stile, put the flesh on the hearth." Having said it she went away. After that, the girl having unfastened the sack, when she looked there were a great many rat snakes [in it]. The girl having waited until the time when the rat snakes went off, put the sack in the house. Then the Yaksani having come, when she looked if the bowl of blood was beneath the stile, it was not [there]; when she looked if the flesh was on the hearth, that also was not [there]. After that she asked at the hand of the girl, "Daughter, didn't you cut up that one?" Then the girl says, "Mother, in it there were a great many rat snakes. Having waited there until the time when they went off, I put the sack in the house." After that, the Yaksani [said], "If so, daughter, give me that sack;" and asking for the sack, and having gone near the Cake tree, when she looked this youngster was eating cakes. Afterwards the Yaksani, sitting down, said, "Son, a cake for me also." The youngster threw down a cake. Then the Yaksani said, "Ane! Son, it fell into the spittle heap." Afterwards the youngster again threw one down. Then the Yaksani said, "Ane! Son, it fell into the mucus heap." The youngster again threw one down. Then the Yaksani [said], "Ane! Son, it fell into the cow-dung heap. Not so, son. Holding them with the hand and mouth jump into the sack." Afterwards the youngster, holding them with the hand and mouth, jumped into the sack. After that, the Yaksani tied the sack, and placing it on her head and having come quite home, and placed the sack in the veranda, said to the girl, "Daughter, to-day indeed that one is [here]. Cut up that one, and having placed the bowl of [his] blood beneath the stile, place the flesh on the hearth." Having said it she went away. Afterwards this girl having unfastened the sack, when she looked the youngster was [in it]. Having brought the bill-hook, when she was about (lit., making) to cut up the youngster, the youngster said, "Elder sister, don't cut me up just now. Lie down here for me to comb your head." After that, the girl lay down. As he was combing and combing the head, this girl went to sleep. Afterwards, this youngster having cut the girl's throat (lit., neck), placed the bowl of [her] blood beneath the stile, and having put the flesh on the hearth, the youngster, taking a rice mortar, and a pestle, and a millet [grinding] stone,--at the doorway there was a Palmira [palm] tree--ascended the Palmira tree. While he was there the Yaksani came, and having drunk the bowl of blood that was beneath the stile, and come near the hearth and taken the flesh that was on the hearth, began to eat. While she was eating it, the youngster, being in the Palmira tree, says thus:-- "They themselves eat their own children. The Palmira tree [is] at the doorway; Jen kitak kita." [231] The Yaksani having heard it and said, "Ade! Where is this one?" and having looked around, again eats that flesh. Then that youngster again says, "They themselves eat their own children. The Palmira tree [is] at the doorway; Jen kitak kita." Then the Yaksani having come into the open ground in front of the house, when she looked up the tree the youngster was there. Afterwards the Yaksani said, "Ade! Stop there. [I am going] to eat this one." As she was setting off to go up the tree that youngster let go the pestle. The Yaksani, saying and saying, "Thou art unable to kill me," goes upward. After that, that youngster let go the rice mortar; then the Yaksani fell to the ground. Then that youngster let go the millet stone; then the Yaksani died. Only the youngster remained. North-western Province. In the Kolhan tales (Bompas) appended to Folklore of the Santal Parganas (Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 464, occurs an Indian version of this peculiar story. A boy whose mother gave him two pieces of bread daily, one day left one on a rock and found next morning that a tree which bore bread as fruit had grown from it. When he was in the tree eating the fruit one day, a woman who was really a Rakshasi came up and asked for a loaf, and saying that if it fell on the ground it would become dirty, induced him to descend with it. She then put him in her bag and went off. While she was getting a drink at a pool some travellers let the boy out. He filled the bag with stones. On reaching her home the woman told her daughter she had brought a fine dinner, but the daughter found only stones in the bag. Next day the woman returned to the tree, secured the boy in the same way, brought him to her daughter, and went to collect firewood. In reply to the boy, the girl said he was to be killed by being pounded in a mortar; while she showed him how it was to be done he killed her with the pestle, put on her clothes, and cut her up. The ogress returned, cooked and ate her, and went to sleep, on which the boy struck her on the head with a large stone, killed her, and took all her property. THE LAD AND THE RAKSHASI. (Variant a.) In a certain country there are a female Crow and a male Crow. While they were thus, the female Crow having thought of eating cakes, went with the male Crow to break firewood. Having gone, [after] breaking firewood the male Crow took a bundle of firewood [and came away with it]. When the female Crow was there unable to lift up her bundle of firewood, she saw that a lad who looks after cattle was going by, and having called to him, when she said, "Son, lift up the bundle of firewood and go; I will give you cakes," the lad lifted it up and gave her it, and went away. After that, the lad having come to eat cakes, when he asked for cakes the female Crow gave him cakes. The lad, having gone away taking the cakes, and ascended a tree, when he was eating them a Rakshasi came. When she looked up the tree, having seen a lad eating cakes, she said, "Ane! Son, throw down cakes for me also." So the lad threw down a cake. Having said, "It is in the dung-heap," she told him to throw down one more. Thereupon the lad threw down one more. "That also is in the dung-heap," she said. After all were finished in that way, the Rakshasi says to the lad, "Now then, son, tying both legs and both hands jump into this bag," she said. Then the lad jumped. The Rakshasi having put the lad in the bag, and [after] tying it having gone home, gave it to the Rakshasi's daughter, and said, "Fry this, and put it away until the time when I come." Having said [this], the Rakshasi went away somewhere or other. After that, the Rakshasi's daughter opened the bag, and taking out the lad, told the lad to blow up the fire on the hearth. Thereupon the lad says, "I don't know [how]," he said. Then when the Rakshasi's daughter descends to the hearth to show him, the lad pushed the Rakshasi's daughter into the oil cooking-pot that was on the hearth. After she was fried, having taken it off and put it away, taking the chillies [grinding] stone he climbed up the Palmira tree which was at the doorway. While he is [there] the Rakshasi, having come back, says, "Wherever went my daughter? Can she have gone for firewood? Can she have gone for water?" [232] Having said and said it, when she is eating, the lad sitting in the tree says, "Of the heifer's flesh "Naembige malu The heifer herself [is] the eater. Naembima kanna. The Palmira tree at the doorway. Dorakada tal gaha. Dan, dun." Dan, dun." While he is saying it, when the Rakshasi had looked up and seen that the lad is in the tree, as she is going to climb the tree the lad threw down the chillies [grinding] stone on the Rakshasi's body. Thereupon the Rakshasi died. After that, the lad having descended from the tree, put the Rakshasi into a well, and went away. Bintaenna, Uva Province. THE CAKE TREE. (Variant b.) In a certain country there was a house of a Gamarala, it is said. At that house there were seven children. Out of the seven, the elder six persons having arisen on all days just at daybreak, go to do work in the rice field. The young person for the purpose of learning goes to school. Having joined with yet [other] children (lamo), the party of children began to go near a house at which a certain Rakshasi dwells at that village. During the time when they are going thus, the Rakshasi who saw these children, from the day on which she saw the children made ready to seize and eat them. Although she made ready in that manner, through fear because men dwelt in the neighbourhood she did not seize the children. But the Rakshasi being unable to remain without eating the children, thought, "Seizing the children by a certain device, I must employ my daughter, and [after] boiling I must eat them." Having broken off all the leaves of a tree that was on the road on which the children go to school, and having wrapped strips of white cloth at all places on the tree, and hung cakes and plantains, etc., at all places on the tree, the Rakshasi got into the jungle and waited. At the time when she is staying thus, the party of children who are going to school, when they approached the root of that tree having seen the tree on which the cakes and plantains had been hung, said, "Look here, Bola; a Cake Tree;" and the whole of them having ascended the tree, plucked the cakes and plantains to the extent to which they had been hung on the tree, and ate them. That day, except that the Rakshasi had gone into the jungle, she did not come to the place where the children are eating the cakes and plantains. Why? It was through fear that many children having come to the place where she is, at the time when she is seizing them the children having become afraid, and run to that and this hand, when they have told the men they will kill her. Having thought thus, that day after the whole of the children, plucking the cakes and plantains, went away, the Rakshasi having come from the jungle into the open, arrived at her house, and stayed [there]. On the following day also, as on the former day, at daybreak having gone taking cakes and plantains, and hung them on the tree, she got hid, and remained looking out. That day, when she is thus, out of that troop of children going to school, the Gamarala's child having arisen more towards daybreak than on other days, and hurried, and eaten food, and drunk, and gone in front of the other boys, with the thought that he must pluck the cakes very quickly went that day quite alone. Having gone in that way, he ascended the Cake Tree and began to pluck them. At the time when he is thus plucking them, the Rakshasi having sprung out, quickly taking the bag also, and having come to the bottom of the tree, spoke to the Gamarala's boy, and says, "Ade! Son, pluck and give me one cake," she said. When the Rakshasi said thus, he plucked one and gave it. The Rakshasi having thrown on the ground that bit of cake says, "Ane! Son, the cake fell on the ground. Sand being rubbed on it, I cannot eat it. Give me still one," she said. At the time when she said thus, he plucked one more and gave it. Having dropped that also on the ground, she says, "Ane! Having struck my hand that also fell on the ground. I cannot catch the cakes that you are plucking and giving me. I will tell you a very easy work; you do it. Plucking as many cakes as you can, jump into my bag. Jumping in that way is easier than descending [by climbing down] the tree," she said. When the Rakshasi told him in that manner, this foolish child, thinking, "It is an easy work the Rakshasi is telling me," and plucking as many as possible for both hands and waist-pocket, jumped into the Rakshasi's bag. The Rakshasi, tying the mouth of the bag and having gone taking him without being visible to the men, arrived at her house, and having spoken to the Rakshasi's daughter, says, "Daughter, to-day I must eat a good flavour. In the bag that I brought, placing it on my shoulder, there is a tasty meat. Boil the meat for me and give me it." Having given it to her daughter, the Rakshasi went about another thing that should be done. When the Rakshasi's daughter is unfastening the bag to prepare the meat, there is a boy [in it]. When the Rakshasi's daughter having unfastened the bag is going to take the child out, having spoken he says, "Ane! Elder sister, there are lice on your head." Thereupon the Rakshasi's daughter says, "Ane! Younger brother, if so, catch them." Having said [this] she sat down. The Gamarala's son, having been for a little time turning and turning over the hairs of her head to that and this side in the manner when looking at the head, taking the axe that had been brought to kill the boy, and at once having struck the head of the Rakshasi's daughter and killed her, and having put her in the cauldron of water which was there, and placed her on the hearth, and boiled her, and made her ready and placed her to eat when the Rakshasi is coming, collecting the rice mortar, pestle, and a great many knives that were at the house, and having gone and placed them in a Palmira tree that is at the doorway,--at the time when the Rakshasi comes this one having also ascended the tree stayed [there]. [233] When the Rakshasi came [after] bathing, at the time when she is coming she says, "Daughter, even to-day has tasty food been prepared? Don't do that work for the men of the village to get news of it; if so, the men of the village will kill us." Saying this, she came into the house. Well then, except that having boiled the meat it is there to eat, the daughter is not to be seen. While calling her on that and this hand, at the time when she is seeking her that youth, sitting on the Palmira tree, says, "Their own flesh they themselves will eat. On the Palmira tree at the doorway; tan, tun." Saying [this] he began to beat a tom-tom (rambana). Then the Rakshasi having looked up when coming running to seize this one, this one threw at the Rakshasi the rice mortar and pestle that he had taken to the top of the tree, and struck her. The Rakshasi died at the bottom of the tree. This one having descended from the tree, and gone home, and given information to the other brothers of this circumstance, came with them, and took away the goods of the Rakshasi's that there were. Having gone away they lived in happiness. Western Province. In Kaffir Folk-Lore (Theal), p. 120, a cannibal placed in a bag a girl whom he intended to eat. When he went for water her brother took her out and put a swarm of bees in her place. These stung the cannibal when he opened the bag, and he fell into a pool, where he became a block of wood. NO. 139 THE GIRL, THE MONK, AND THE LEOPARD In a certain country there were a Gamarala and a Gama-Mahage (his wife). There was a female child of the Gamarala's. After the child became suitable [for marriage] he went near the Lord or monk of the pansala [234] to look at her naekata. [235] The Gamarala said to the monk, "Ane! Lord, there is a female child of mine; the child became suitable [for marriage]. You must look at the naekata," he said to the Lord. Thereafter, when the monk looked at the naekata, besides that it is very good for both the parents, it was said in the naekata that the man who calls her [in marriage] on that very day is to obtain a kingdom. Because of it, the monk after having placed the Gamarala in subjection (i.e., made him promise obedience), said, "The naekata is very angry. For the two parents, and for the man who calls her [in marriage], there is anger to the degree [that they are] to die," he said to the Gamarala. This lie the monk said to the Gamarala in order for the monk to call the female [in marriage] for himself. At that time the Gamarala, having become much troubled, asked the Lord, "What shall I do for this?" The monk said, "Don't kill the child outright, [236] and don't [merely] turn her out of the house. You go home and make a box. After having made it, and made ready for the box [various] sorts of food and drink, put this child in the box, and having put into it the kinds of food and drink, after having closed it go to the river, and put it in." Thereupon, the Gamarala having done in the manner the monk said, and having informed the monk that on such and such a day he will put the box in the river, went to the river and put the box in it. [237] The monk told the pupils who were at the pansala to wait [for it]. He said, "You go and wait near the river. At the time when you are there a box will come floating down. Taking it ashore, bring it to the pansala;" the pupils went on the journey. The monk that day, for the purpose of eating the [wedding] feast amply preparing [various] sorts of food and drink, remained ready. Two boys of that country, or two young men, had set a trap at the bank [of the river]. At the time when these two persons went to look at it, a leopard was caught in the trap. These two having become afraid, having said, "What shall we do about this?" at the time when they were talking and talking on the river bank, they saw that a box is coming floating [down the river], and the two persons spoke together [about it]. Both having agreed that the things inside the box [should be] for one person, and the box for one person, they got the box ashore. Having opened the mouth of the box, when they looked [in it] there were a woman, and [various] kinds of food and drink. Taking them aside, they seized the leopard, and having put it in the box and shut it, they took it to the river and put it in. Out of the two persons, one took the woman, the effects one took. The person who took the woman that very day obtained the kingdom, it has been said. Thereafter, that box floated down to the place where the monk's pupils stayed. Getting the box ashore, and tying [it as] a load (tadak) for a carrying pole, they took it to the pansala. The monk, taking the box, quickly placed it inside the house. The monk told the pupils to stay: "To-day I must say Bana [238] from a different treatise (sutra); to-day you must respond, 'Sadhu,' loudly." After it became night the monk told the pupils, "You also lie down," and having lit the lamp in the house, [after] shutting the door he opened the mouth of the box. Just as he was opening it, the leopard having sprung out, began to bite (lit., eat) the monk. Thereupon the monk cried out, "Apoyi! The leopard is biting me!" The pupils began to respond, "Sadhu!" louder than on other days. At the time when the monk is shouting and shouting, the pupils loudly, loudly, began to respond, "Sadhu!" When he had been crying and crying out no long time, the monk died. In the morning, having cooked rice gruel for the obligatory donation (hil daneta), when they were waiting, looking out for the time when the monk arose, he did not get up. Until the time when it became well into the day (bohoma dawal), they remained looking out. Still he did not [come out]. An upasaka (lay devotee) of that village comes every day to the wihara to offer flowers. He, too, remained looking out near the wihara until the time when the monk comes. Thereafter the upasakarala having gone to the pansala, asked at the hand of the pupils, "What is the reason the Lord has not yet arisen?" Then the pupils said, "During last night it was not the Bana which he says on other days that he said; from another sutra he said Bana. He told us, also, to respond 'Sadhu' more loudly than on other days." At that time the upasakarala tapped at the door to awake the monk; he did not speak. Having struck the door loudly [the upasakarala] spoke to him. At that also there was not any sound. Thereafter, the upasakarala having mounted on the roof and put aside the tiles, when he looked [down] the leopard sprang at him, growling. The upasakarala having become afraid, fell from the roof and died. Thereafter, many men having joined together and broken down the door, and killed the leopard, when they looked for the monk he was killed. So having put the leopard and the monk into one grave, they covered [them with] earth. North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 145, Mr. N. Visuvanathapillai, Mudaliyar, relates this as a Tamil story. The girl was Princess Devalli; to save the country she was condemned to death, but her mother bribed the executioners to set her afloat in the river, in a box. A hunter who had trapped a tiger on the river bank secured the box, released the Princess, and put in the tiger. The Guru (teacher) had heard of the Queen's stratagem, and sent a dozen of his pupils in a boat in search of the box. They brought it into a room in a deserted building, and remained in an adjoining one, being instructed to clap their hands and shout, "Hail! Long life to our Master!" when they heard the box opened. Amid this applause of the boys the tiger killed the Guru. (In The Orientalist, vol. iii, p. 269, Mr. J. P. Lewis noted that this story is from the Katha sintamani). In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 280, a Brahmana foretold that unless a baby Princess should be sent out of the country she would destroy it utterly. The Raja her father caused her to be placed in a box, which was launched on a river, and floated down. A merchant saw it, and got a fisherman to bring it ashore, the box to go to him and the contents to belong to the merchant. He got the Princess, reared her, and married her to his son. The rest of the tale is the legend of the Goddess Pattini, who caused Madura to be burnt in revenge for the execution of her husband on a false charge of stealing the Queen's bangle. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 102, an ascetic told a merchant that when his daughter got married all the family would die, and he advised him to set her adrift in a basket on the Ganges. Her father having promised to do this, the ascetic ordered his pupils to intercept the basket and bring it secretly to his monastery. A Prince who had gone to bathe found and opened the basket, married the girl by the Gandharva rite (in which a garland of flowers is thrown round the neck), put a fierce monkey in her place, and set the basket afloat again. The boys brought it, and the ascetic placed it in a room to perform incantations alone, he said. When he opened it the monkey flew at him and tore off his nose and ears, and he became the laughing-stock of the place. In the Kathakoça (Tawney), p. 132, an ascetic informed a merchant that the bad luck of his two daughters would bring about his destruction, and advised him to set them afloat in the Ganges in a wooden box, and cause a ceremony to be performed for averting calamity. The ascetic performed the ceremony for him, and sent his pupils to bring the box. The King of that city got the box ashore, took the girls, and put two apes in their place. When the ascetic opened the box at his monastery he was killed by the apes and became a Rakshasa. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., pp. 398, 399, 410, the incident occurs of newly-born infants being placed in boxes, set afloat in a river, and rescued by a person lower down. [239] At p. 445, a girl who had been married to a King was set afloat in a box, and rescued by a washerman. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 120, there is a Kalmuk variant in which a man who desired to take the wealth of an old couple, got inside a statue of Buddha, and instructed them to give their daughter to the man who knocked at their gate in the morning. The man himself came and knocked, and married her, and he and his new wife left with all their gold and precious stones. A Khan's son who was out hunting, taking a tiger with him, fired an arrow into a mound of sand; it struck something hard which proved to be a box which the man had placed there, containing the girl and jewels. The tiger was put in her place, and when the man carried off and opened the box in an inner room of his house it killed and ate him, and walked away next morning when the door was opened. The Prince married the girl. In the Sinhalese history, the Mahavansa, p. 147 (Dr. Geiger's translation), it is stated that in order to appease the sea-gods who had caused the sea to overflow the land on the western coast of Ceylon in the first half of the second century B.C., the King of Kaelaniya "with all speed caused his pious and beautiful daughter named Devi to be placed in a golden vessel whereon was written 'a king's daughter,' and to be launched upon that same sea." She was brought ashore at the extreme south-east of Ceylon, and married by the King of Ruhuna or Southern Ceylon. The original Indian story of the child who was consigned to the water in a basket or box appears to be that which is given in the Maha Bharata (Vana Parva). According to it, an unmarried Princess, Kunti, who bore a supernatural son to the deity Suriya, the Sun, placed the infant in a water-tight wicker basket, and set it afloat in the adjoining river, from which it passed down to the Ganges, and then drifted down that river until it arrived near Campa, the capital of the Anga kingdom. The basket was brought ashore and opened by a car-driver who had gone to the river bank with his wife. These two, being childless, adopted the infant, who afterwards became famous as Karna, the leading Kuru warrior in the great battle against the Pandava Princes and their allies. The story extends backward to the legend or history of Sargon I, of Akkad (about 2,650 B.C. according to the revised chronology), who stated in an inscription that his mother, a Princess, launched him on the Euphrates in a basket of rushes made water-tight with bitumen. He was rescued and reared by a cultivator, who placed him in charge of his garden. Through the affection of the Goddess Istar he acquired the sovereignty. NO. 140 THE WASHERMAN AND THE LEOPARD On a certain day, a man having gone to a chena which he had cut, and in which he had sown grain, as he was walking along at the edge of the fence, on this side of the corner of the stick fence a tail was visible, it is said. Having gone near very quietly, when he looked, a leopard lying at the edge of the fence, having let its tail come inside the chena, was asleep, it is said. Thereupon, this man on this side of the fence seized the leopard's tail which it had put there. After he seized it he cannot kill it, he cannot let go; should he let go, the leopard will kill the man. When the man was staying [there] thinking, "How is the expedient for this?" he saw a Washerman going along, taking a bundle of clothes. So this man called him, saying, "Washerman-uncle, come here." Then the Washerman having come, asked, "What is it?" He said, "Kill the leopard." Then the Washerman said thus, "Ane! His face is like our uncle's. Ane! I indeed cannot kill him." The man who was holding the leopard, said, "If so, I will kill him; you hold the tail." Then the Washerman having said, "It is good," took hold of the tail. At the time when he was holding it, this man said, "[You] who have become uncle and have become nephew, stay there," and came home. Thereafter, at the time when that Washerman was letting go the leopard's tail, the leopard killed and ate that Washerman, and went away. Subsequently, the man who owned this chena having gone [there], taking the bundle of clothes which that Washerman had taken and thrown down, came home. North-central Province. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 226, an old woman who was attacked by a bear, turned round a tree to avoid it. When the bear stretched its paws round the tree in trying to reach her, she seized and held them. A man who came up was requested by her to assist her to kill the animal and share the flesh. He accordingly also seized the paws; when he had got well hold the old woman let go and escaped, the man being afterwards mauled by the bear. NO. 141 THE FRIGHTENED YAKA In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said; there is also a boy of those two persons. In front of the house there is also a Murunga tree. A Yaka having come, remained seven years in the Murunga tree in order to "possess" the woman. While they were in that manner, one day the man and the boy went on a journey somewhere or other. The woman that day having [previously] put away the bill-hook, brought it to the doorway, and while preparing to cut a vegetable, said, "This bill-hook is indeed good [enough] to cut a Yaka." The Yaka who stayed in the Murunga tree at the doorway, having heard what the woman said, became afraid, and having waited until the time when the woman goes into the house [after] cutting the vegetable, the Yaka slowly descended from the Murunga tree. When he was going away, the woman's husband and boy, having gone on the journey, are coming back. The Yaka met them. Then the Yaka asked at the hand of those two, "Where did you go? I stayed seven years in the Murunga tree at the doorway of your house, to 'possess' your wife. To-day your wife, sharpening a bill-hook, came to the doorway, and looking in my direction said, 'This bill-hook is indeed good for cutting a Yaka.' Because of it, I am here, going away. Don't you go; that wicked woman will cut you. Come, and go with me; I will give you a means of subsistence. I, having now gone in front, will 'possess' such and such a woman of such and such a village. You two having said that you are Yaksa Vedaralas, [240] and having come [there], when you have told me to go I will go. Then the men having said that you are [really] Yaksa Vedaralas, will give you many things. When you have driven me from that woman, again I will 'possess' still [another] woman. Thus, in that manner, until the time when the articles are sufficient for you, I will 'possess' women. When they have become sufficient do not come [to drive me out]." Having said [this], the Yaka went in front and "possessed" the woman. After that, the man and the boy went and drove out the Yaka. From that day, news spread in the villages that the two persons were Yaksa Vedaralas. From that place the two persons obtained articles. The Yaka having gone, "possessed" yet a woman also. Having driven him from there, too, these two persons got articles. The Yaka "possessed" still [another] woman also. Thus, in that manner, until the very time when the things were sufficient for the two persons, the Yaka "possessed" women. After the articles became sufficient for the two persons, one day the Yaka said to the two, "The articles are sufficient for you, are they not?" The two persons said, "They are sufficient." Then the Yaka said, "If so, I shall 'possess' the Queen of such and such a King. From there I shall not go. Don't you come to drive me away." Having said it, the Yaka went to that city, and "possessed" the Queen. The two Yaksa Vedaralas came to their village, taking the articles they had obtained. Then a message came from the King for the Yaksa Vedaralas to go. The two persons not having gone, remained [at home], because of the Yaka's having said that he would not go. After that, the King sent a message that if they did not come he would behead the Yaksa Vedaralas. After that, the two persons, being unable to escape, went to drive out the Yaka. Having gone there, they utter and utter spells for the Yaka to go. The Yaka does not go. Anger came to the Yaka. In anger that, putting [out of consideration] his saying, "Don't," the two persons went and uttered spells, the Queen whom the Yaka has "possessed," taking a rice pestle, came turning round the house after him in three circles to kill the Vedarala. [241] When she was raising the rice pestle to strike the Vedarala, the man's boy said, "Look there, Yaka! Our mother!" Then, because he had been afraid [of her] formerly, when the boy said it, the Yaka, saying, "Where, Bola?" and also rolling the Queen over on the path, face upwards, and saying "Hu," went away. The Queen came to her senses. The King gave the two persons many articles. The Yaka did not again come to "possess" women. That man and boy having come to their village, and become very wealthy, remained without a deficiency of anything. North-western Province. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xvi, p. 217 (Folklore in Southern India, p. 214), in a Tamil story related by Natesa Sastri, a Brahmana was turned by Siva into a Brahma-Rakshasa for refusing to impart his knowledge of music to others, and he resided in a Pipal or Bo tree. A poor Brahmana of Sengalinirpattu (Chingleput, land of the blue lotus) assisted him to escape from the wretched music of a piper by removing into another tree, and out of gratitude the demon "possessed" the Princess of Maisur, in order that the Brahmana might obtain wealth by driving him out. Afterwards, when the demon "possessed" the Princess of Travancore, intending to remain, the Brahmana frightened him away by a threat that he would bring back the piper. In Folk-Tales of Hindustan (Shaik Chilli), p. 6, a beggar's wife beat him with a stick for coming home foodless, threw his turban into a tree and struck at it time after time, hitting the tree at each blow. The blows and her abuse frightened away from the tree the ghost or Bhut of a Brahmana of the family who had committed suicide. The ghost and the man travelled along together as friends in misfortune. By their arrangement the man drove the ghost from the Minister's daughter, but refused to officiate when it "possessed" the Sultan's daughter, until ordered to be executed. When the ghost threatened to kill him he told it he had terrible news, his wife would be there in a few minutes. The ghost left at once, and the man married the Princess and succeeded to the throne. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 298, a man's termagant wife was thrown into a well, and there married a demon, but in fear of her he soon hid as a man, in a mosque. Becoming friendly with the former husband, who recognised him, he promised to marry the man to the King's daughter, whom he thereupon "possessed." When the man drove him out she was given in marriage to him, together with half the kingdom. The demon, after warning him not to interfere, then "possessed" the Minister's daughter. After at first refusing to act, the man frightened him away by saying his former wife was coming. In The Enchanted Parrot (Rev. B. H. Wortham), a variant is given in the stories XLVI and XLVII. The woman terrified everyone around, and a goblin who lived in a tree near her house ran away. The husband also left, became friendly with him, and was advised to go and cure the King's daughter. He cured her, married her, and received half the kingdom. Then the goblin carried off this Princess. The man went in search of her, and frightened away the goblin by whispering that his wife was coming. NO. 142 THE STORY OF THE SEVEN YAKAS In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. One day the man went to plough. The woman placed a ripe pine-apple underneath the bed. On the very day she put it [there], seven Yakas having joined together and taken a hidden treasure, while six Yakas were dividing the articles one Yaka having come to the house of that man who went to plough, the Yaka remained sitting down under the bed at which is the pine-apple, in order to "possess" the woman. Then that man having ploughed came home. Having come there, sitting down on the bed he said to the woman, "Haven't you cooked yet? I have hunger [enough] to eat the Yaka." Then the woman said, "I am still cooking. If you cannot wait until the time [when I finish] there is [something] under the bed." The woman said it regarding the pine-apple. What of that! Because she did not explain and say [so] the Yaka thought, "It is regarding me, indeed, she said that;" and the Yaka having become afraid, very quickly having arisen said to the man, "Ane! Don't eat me. Come along (lit., come, to go), for me to show you a place where there is a good hidden treasure." After that, the man having got up from the bed and called the man's younger brother, the two persons went with the Yaka. Having gone, they went to the place where those six Yakas are dividing the articles. Then the Yaka said to the two men, "Until the time when I bring and give you the articles, there (onna), go to that tree." After that, the two men went into the tree to which the Yaka told them to go. Having gone there, while they are looking, six Yakas who had great beards and the Yaka who came summoning the men are apportioning the articles. Then, having seen the bearded youngsters (pollo), the elder became unconscious, and fell from the tree to the ground. Then the younger brother, being in the tree, said, "Elder brother, after you [have] jumped down seize the great-bearded youngster himself." Then because there are beards of the whole six, having said to each other, "It is for me, indeed, he said this; it is for me, indeed, he said this," one by one, in the very order (lit., manner) in which they sprang up and went, the whole six Yakas, having thrown down the articles, ran off. [Because] having been in the tree that man said thus after the man's elder brother fell down, those Yakas having said, "He will come and kill us," it was for that indeed the Yakas became afraid. Well then, [the Yaka] calling the men,--the elder brother and younger brother,--and together with the men the Yaka, the very three persons, having drawn (carried) all the articles--both the Yaka's portion and the six portions of those six who ran off--to that man's house, after they finished the Yaka went away. Those two men shared the articles. Finished. North-western Province. The first part of this story is a variant of part of the tale numbered 17 in vol. i. For the latter part, compare variant (b) of the story No. 137, and the notes after it. NO. 143 THE YAKA AND THE TOM-TOM BEATER In a country, at the time when a Tom-tom Beater was going to a devil-dance (kankariya), it became dark. While he was going along to the village in the dark, when he was near the village having the devil-dance, to the extent of two miles (haetaepma) from it, he met with [an adventure] in this manner. In the adjoining village, a man having died they took his dead body to the burning ground; and having raised a heap of firewood, and upon it having placed the corpse and set fire to it, at the time when his relatives went away in the evening Maha Son Yakshaya [242] came, and remained upon the burning funeral pyre. He said thus to the Tom-tom Beater, it is said, "Where art thou going?" When he asked it [he replied], "I am going to a devil-dance." At the time when [the Yaka] said, "Standing there, beat the [airs of] devil-dances, and the new ones that thou knowest," he unfastened the tom-tom, and tying it (i.e., slinging it from his neck), he beat various dances. The Yakshaya being pleased at it, said thus, "Do thou look every day in the house in which are the looms. [243] Don't tell anyone [about] the things that I give," he said. Beginning from that day, having gone into the house in which are the looms, at the time when he looked, raw-rice, and pulse (mun), and ash-plantains, and betel, and areka-nuts, and various things were there. Every day those said things were there. At the time when he is bringing them, his wife said, "Whence are these?" Every day she plagued him, and being unable to escape from it he told the woman. On the following day after the day on which he told her, at the time when he looked he had filled the looms with excrement. North-western Province. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. i, p. 143, Mr. W. C. Benett gave an Oudh story in which Bhawan Misr, a wrestler who had obtained gifts from a demon, lost them by revealing the secret to his wife. NO. 144 HOW A TOM-TOM BEATER GOT A MARRIAGE FROM A GAMARALA At a certain time there was a Gamarala. The Gamarala had a daughter. In the same country there was a very rich Tom-tom Beater (Naekatiyek). There was a son of the Tom-tom Beater's. In order to make search for a marriage for him he tramped through many countries. From those countries he did not obtain one. After that, he went to yet a country on the other side of a river. Having gone there, when he looked about there was a Gamarala at a village [who had a marriageable daughter]. When he asked for the daughter [in marriage], he said he would not give her. Thereupon, thinking and thinking of a scheme he acted accordingly, that is, in this manner. He caught an egret. He made a bundle of lights, and taking these he went again to the village at which the Gamarala stayed. Having gone [there], at the time when he looked about [he saw that] there was a large betel creeper on a tree in front of the doorway of the Gamarala's house. After that, having come at night and gone up the tree, and hidden himself so that he would not be seen, [after] lighting the bundle of lights he called the Gamarala: "Village Headman! Village Headman!" Then the Gamarala having come running, looked upward, and seeing that the bundle of lights were burning the Gamarala became afraid. Thereupon the Tom-tom Beater says, "I, indeed, the Devatawa of this village, am speaking. Wilt thou hearken to what I am saying?" he asked. The Gamarala, being afraid, said, "I will hearken." Then the Tom-tom Beater called the Devatawa, [said], "They say that thou wilt not give thy daughter to the boy of the Tom-tom Beater of such and such a village. Why?" The Gamarala said, "Because our pollution rules (indul) are different I said I cannot give her," he said. Then the Tom-tom Beater Devatawa who was in the tree [said], "Give thou thy daughter to him. On the seventh day from now he will obtain the sovereignty. If thou shouldst not give [her] I will kill thee." Tying the bundle of lights to the leg of the egret, he said, "I am going," and let the egret go. Thereupon, having seen that the lights were burning on the leg of the egret [as it flew away], the Gamarala thought that the Devatawa said it. Then the Tom-tom Beater, being invisible to everybody, descended from the tree, and went to his village. Two or three days afterwards, he came with the wedding party to the Gamarala's house, for the purpose of taking away the daughter. Thereupon, having eaten the [wedding] feast, on the morning of the following day, because the giving of the Gamarala's daughter was demeaning he put her in a sack, and having tied it as a bundle for carrying under a pole, [the Gamarala] gave her, placing [the pole] on the shoulders of two persons, and telling them to go. Then, lifting up the load, the party went away. Having gone thus, it having become night they stayed near a tree. At yet [another] city, the King of the city, having seized a bear that ate human flesh, and put it in a sack, and tied it as a bundle for carrying under a pole, gave it to two persons, and told them to take it and throw it into the river. At that time that party also came to the place where that [other] party were staying. Thereupon, without speaking they placed the two bundles in one spot. In the very same way again, without speaking they were sleeping in one place. On the morning of the following day, at dawn, the wedding party having arisen went to the village, taking the bundle in which the bear was tied. The people who remained here unfastened the bag in order to put the bear into the river. At that time [they saw that] a Princess was there. So the party having gone taking the Princess gave her to the King. Then the King married that Queen. The wedding party who went taking the bear bundle having gone to the house, that very day, in order that the faults (dosa) of the bride and bridegroom might go, drove away any evil influence of the planets (baliyak). At that time, having put the sack and the bridegroom into a house they shut and tied the door. Having tied it they conducted the service [against the evil influence of the planets] in the open. Thereupon the bridegroom who was inside the house unfastened the sack in order to take out the bride. Then the bear having come out began to bite the man. The bridegroom said, "Don't bite me! Don't bite me!" When he was saying it, the men who were sending away the evil planetary influences said, "Ayibo! Ayibo!" [244] The two who were in the house remained without speaking any words [after that]. Thereupon it became light. These people having gone [there] opened the door. Then the bear that ate men having sprung outside and bitten the [would-be] mother-in-law, went into the midst of the forest. The bridegroom, the bear having bitten him, died. North-central Province. In a variant of No. 59 in vol. i., the Gamarala inquired regarding the naekata at his daughter's reaching marriageable age. The man replied, "Through this little lass (paenci) seven men will die. Ane! O Gamarahami, because of this little lass don't make this country desolate," and advised killing her. When this man was carrying her away tied in a sack, intending in reality to marry her to his son, some people who had a savage bear in a similar sack found the bundle left on the roadside temporarily, and made an exchange. The son was killed by the bear while the father danced outside, beating a tom-tom (udaekkiya). NO. 145 THE GEM YAKSANI There were a King and a Queen of a single city. The two one day went for sport in the gardens. Then, sitting on a branch there was a little bird. At that time the Queen asked the King, "Is that little bird which is there the male or the female?" The King said, "The male." Then the Queen, having said, "It is not male; it is female," made a wager. What was the wager, indeed? "Let us catch it and look. Should it be the cock I will not stay with you; I will go away somewhere or other. Should it be the hen you must give me the sovereignty," she said. Thereupon the King said, "It is good." Having caught the bird they looked; when they looked the animal was the male. Then the Queen said, "I am going now," and she set off. The King said, "We said it for fun, didn't we? Are you going in that way for that little matter?" The Queen would not [stay], "I must really go," she said. Thereupon the King having said, "Are you going for that? We made monkey fun. [245] Owing to it where are you to go?" said much in the way of advice. Without hearkening to it the Queen went. What was [the real reason of] it? [It was] because the royal talk was Large. When the Queen was going, the [completion of the] ten months of her pregnancy was near; as she was going in a forest she bore a child. Carrying the infant, as she was going along a path there was a river in which the water had dried up. While she was going along the river the Prince began to cry. For the sake of stopping the crying she picked up a stone which was on the ground in the river; and having said, "Look here, son," she stopped the crying, and taking that little stone [with her] came to another city. Having come [there] and walked to all places, and looked about, and come to a house in which was a widow woman, she asked, "Mother, keeping this Prince for me, will you give me a little space to stay in, until the time when the Prince becomes big?" Thereupon the old woman said, "It is good, daughter. I also am alone; because of it remain here." The Queen, having said, "It is good," lived there, pounding paddy [at houses] throughout the streets; and up to the time when the Prince became big stayed there getting a living. By that time, seven years of the Prince's age had passed. While remaining [there] in this manner, one day the Prince said, "Mother, I am hungry," and cried. When he was crying, the stone which his mother had brought that day from the river in order to stop the Prince's [crying], had been thrown away into the open ground in front of the house (midula). This woman, having shown him the stone, said falsely, "Look there. Take that stone which is there, and having given it at the bazaar, and eaten rice cakes, come back." Then the Prince, having gone running, taking that stone, begged throughout the whole of the bazaar, "Ane! Take this stone and give me rice cakes." The men said to that Prince, "Who gives rice cakes for quartz stones, Bola?" and scolded him at each place to which he went. After that, the Prince, having asked at every place without [obtaining any cakes], went to the King's palace also, at the time when the King was walking at the Audience Hall, and said, "Ane! Take this stone, and give me rice cakes; I am hungry." Thereupon the King, having heard the sweet speech of this young Prince, becoming pleased, said, "Where, Bola, is the stone? Bring it here for me to look at it." The Prince took the stone, and gave it into the King's hand. The King taking the stone in his hand, when he looked at it, it was a gem-stone. Then the King asked, "Bola, whence [came] this stone to thee?" "This stone was in the open ground at the front of the house. Mother said to me, 'Take it, and having eaten rice cakes, come back.'" Then the King said, "I will give thee rice cakes. Go and tell thy mother to come." The Prince having gone running home, said, "Mother, a man said that you are to come, [so that he may] give rice cakes to me. The man, taking the stone, too, put it away." The Queen, walking with the Prince, said, "Which is the house?" Having said, "There, that house," the Prince stretched out his hand towards the royal palace. With the thoughts, "I shall be worn away with fear, I shall be worn away. Ane! The thing that this foolish boy has done! Having said that he gave him a quartz stone, the King, in order to appoint [the punishment for] his fault, told me to come here," she reached the royal palace. Thereupon the King having seen her, becoming much pleased, asked, "Whence didst thou obtain this stone?" Then the Queen began to tell him everything,--the way in which she made the bet with that King, the way in which she came away, the way in which she bore [a child], the way in which while coming, she stopped the [crying of the] Prince by picking up this stone from the river. Then the King said, "This is a gem-stone. Putting me [out of consideration], having appointed any person you like, he cannot state the value of this. I have not got even wealth [sufficient] to give for this. Because of it, having given to thee the wealth, too, thou hast not a place to put it in. Therefore stay ye in my palace itself until the Prince, having become big, marries a Princess." Having made ready and given them a good room, and given them the royal victuals, he made the two remain there. While they are staying there, having prepared two bracelets for the King's Queen, because there was not a stone more to [match] that stone for fixing in the two bracelets, he asked the Queen who gave the stone, "Canst thou find and bring a stone more, like this stone?" The Queen said, "I cannot go. If there be still [any] in the river, or what, I do not know." Then the Queen's Prince said to the King, "I can." The King asked, "Do you know the path to go on?" The Prince said, "I will ask mother, and go." Then the King said, "What is necessary for you?" The Prince [said], "From those that are in your stable be good enough to give me a horse which goes on hard journeys." Then the King gave the Prince the horse with the best qualities of all, a sword, and a bundle of cooked rice. The Prince would be about fifteen years of age. The Prince, having mounted on the horse, asked his mother, "Mother, on which hand is the river in which you picked up the stone?" The Queen said, "It is this hand," and stretched out her hand. Then driving the horse to that hand he began to go. Having gone away, and stopped at a river near that [gem] river, when he looked about, at a great rough tree [what was] like a large fire was visible. Then this Prince, in order to look at the conflagration, went near the tree. Having gone [there], when he looked a Devata-daughter endowed with much beauty [246] was there. Then this Prince asked the Devata-daughter, "Who art thou?" The woman said, "I am a Yaksani." Then the Yaksani asked the Prince, "Who art thou?" The Prince said, "I am a royal Prince." Then this Prince became mentally inclined towards the very beautiful Yaksani; the Yaksani also became mentally inclined towards the Prince. The Yaksani asked the Prince, "Where are you going, Sir?" The Prince said, "I came to seek a gem-stone." Then the Yaksani said, "We indeed remain in charge of this gem river. Should the Devatawa Unnaehae come he will kill you. It is I indeed they call the Gem Goddess. I can give gems. [After] marrying me and placing me on the horse, if you should not go twelve yojanas [247] before half a paeya (of twenty-four minutes) has gone, the Gem Devata Unnaehae [248] will come and behead both of us, and burn us." The Prince being pleased at it (that is, her proposal), said, "It is good", and placing the Princess on the back of the horse, asked, "Where are the gems?" The Devata-daughter said, "I will give them; I have them." Then he drove away the horse twelve yojanas before half a paeya [had passed]. Having driven it, when he went to the city the King asked the Prince, "Have you brought the gems?" That Yaksani had previously [249] said at the hand of the Prince that when the King asks, "Have you brought the gems?" he is to say, "I have brought [them]." Because of it, the Prince said, "I have brought the gems." Then the King said, "Where? Let me look at them." At that time the Devata-daughter said, "They will be outside," and threw down in the open space in front of the palace a gobbet [250] of saliva. When the King looked it was as though a rain of gems had rained. After that, the King, picking up the gems, went to the palace, and remained lying down without eating and drinking. The Minister having come, asked, "O Lord, what is the matter?" Then the King said, "The Prince who gave the gem has brought the Gem Princess. If I haven't the Princess what are these Gods for? What is this sovereignty for?" The Minister said, "Don't you, Sir, be troubled about it; I will tell you a stratagem for it." The King asked, "What is the stratagem?" The Minister said, "The stratagem indeed is in this manner:--You, Sir, be good enough to say to the Prince, 'Dear Prince, our mother and father died. Those persons are staying in the God-world. Canst thou [go there and after] looking [at their condition] come back?' Then the Prince through not understanding will say, 'I can.' Then, having summoned all them of the city and having cut an underground tunnel about a mile (haetaekma) deep (that is, in length), when you have told him to go by that way to the God-world, he will go. Then having put a stone on [the entrance to] it, and brought tusk elephants, and made them trample on it, you can take the Gem Princess." The King having become pleased at the word, caused the Prince to be brought, and asked, "Dear Prince, canst thou go to the God-world in three weeks' [time, to inquire after our father and mother], and come back?" The Prince said, "I can." Then the King having collected together the men of the city, and said falsely that he is cutting a path to go to the God-world, began to cause a tunnel to be cut, in order to kill the Prince. Thereupon the Prince said to the Gem Princess, "In this manner the King asked me: 'Can you go to the God-world and come back?' I said, 'I can.'" Then, owing to the wisdom of the Gem Princess she perceived that he is making the plan (suttare) to kill this Prince, and said, "Why, through foolishness did you, Sir, say you can? Since you said you can, [you must do as follows]:--Under the gem river an elder sister of ours is rearing rats. Having gone, and given her this ring of mine, be good enough to say, 'In such and such a city your younger sister is living. She said [you are] to send there two or three thousand rats.' Then she will send the rats. You [then] be good enough to come back, Sir." The Prince went, and having given her the ring, and told her in that very manner, the elder sister of the Gem Princess then said, "It is good; I will send them. You, Sir, be good enough to go." Then he came back. That day night, having started them off, she sent three thousand rats. The rats having come before the light fell, went to the room in which was the Gem Princess. At the time when they went, she gave food and drink to the rats, and said, "Before a week has gone they will cut the tunnel which the King is cutting, a mile deep. Because of it, you must cut [a path from here leading] into that tunnel at a mile from this room in which we are staying." So they cut and finished both tunnels on one day. Regarding the tunnel which the rats cut, the King was unable to learn even a little bit. Without making the tunnel which the rats cut break into and become part of [251] the King's tunnel, they turned it a little across [towards it at the end]. After that, having cut the [other] tunnel and finished it, and given the Prince a horse, and given him a sword, the King said, "Look here. We have cleared the path to go to the God-world. Having gone, come back." Then the Prince said, "It is good." Having said it, and gone near the Gem Princess, at the time when he was saying, "I will go, and come," [252] the Princess said, "Say to the King that you will come in a week; and go," she said. Then the Prince having told the King, "I shall come in a week," went. Having driven the horse into that tunnel which the King cut, and gone along the tunnel, and come to the other tunnel [excavated by the rats], during the daytime he stays in the tunnel. At night, having come near the Gem Princess, and eaten rice, and been sleeping, again as the light falls he goes to the tunnel and remains [there]. At the time when the Prince sprang into that tunnel, men threw stones into the tunnel, and heaped them up. They do not know the fact that that Prince is staying in the tunnel which the rats cut. After that, the King came, and spoke to the Princess, "Now then, let us two be married." Then the Princess said, "I will not. My husband has said that he will come in a week. Because of it, until he comes I will not marry any one whatever. If he come not I will marry," she said. The King having heard that word [said], "It is good. After a week has gone I will marry [you]." Thinking, "The Prince having been put into the tunnel, and stones trampled down [over it], when will he come again? That Princess, the Prince not [being here], in perplexity at his death is talking nonsense," he went away. What does the Princess do? Having taken gem-stones to the extent of many millions (in value), she caused to be sewn a diadem-wreath (otunu malawak), and a dress. Having sewn them, at early dawn (rae pandara) of the day following the week, having dressed this Prince, she said, "As the light is falling, having waited behind the King's palace be good enough to come as though returning," and sent him [there]. Thereupon, the Prince in that manner at the time when the King arises in the morning, presented himself for the King's cognizance (indiriyata). Then the King,--after becoming afraid concerning the return of the Prince whom he had put in the tunnel in which he had placed stones, and having employed tusk elephants had trampled them down,--asked, "Prince, whence camest thou?" Thereupon the Prince said, "O Lord, Your Majesty, your father the King and mother the Queen, also, are staying in happiness in the God-world. I went there. Having said my dress was bad (nakayi) they gave me, for wearing, a dress which, those persons having worn it, had become old," he said. When the King looked in the direction of his dress [he thought that] except that in the God-world [there might be] such a dress, it is of the kind which is not in this world. Because of it, it seemed to the King to be true. The Prince said, "The party said that you also, Sir, are to go. They tried not to permit me, also, to come back. Having said, 'I will come back,' for the purpose of what I am saying to you I returned. "When I went in the tunnel and looked about yet [another] path [leading] there had been cleared. Having gone on that path, when I looked the God-world was quite near." After that, the King, having collected the citizens, began to remove the earth at that tunnel which he cut to kill the Prince. Having heard of it, that Prince in order that the tunnel which the rats had cut should be closed, told the rats, and again made them push back the earth. Having pushed it back, while he is staying [there], on the following day the King alone went, and having said, "[After] looking [at the God-world] I shall return," went off. When he is descending into the hole to go, what does this Prince do? Having thrown down those stones that had been taken out, and blocked up the tunnel so as not to allow the King to return, the King died in the tunnel. After that, this Prince, having seized and beheaded the Minister who had told [the King] the stratagem for the purpose of killing him, summoned the whole of the citizens, and said to the people, "For the offence which the King committed against me I put the King into the tunnel, and killed him. From to-day the King of this city is I myself." [Thereafter] exercising the sovereignty, marrying the Gem Princess, and establishing that King's Queen as a female servant, he remained there. Siwurala (ex-monk). North-central Province. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 97, in a Kalmuk story a painter who was jealous of a wood-carver presented to the Khan a pretended note from his dead father, requesting that the carver might be sent to the kingdom of the Gods, and stating that the painter would show the way. The painter explained that the carver must be burnt in a pyre, with much drum beating, and rise to heaven on a horse through the clouds of smoke. The carver escaped by a tunnel which his wife excavated to the centre of the pyre, getting into it while the timber by which he was surrounded was burning. After a month he gave the Khan a letter from his father in heaven, ordering him to reward the carver richly, and to send the painter to decorate the temple which had been built. The painter was thus killed in the way he designed for the carver's death. There is a variant in the Sierra Leone country, given in Cunnie Rabbit, etc. (Cronise and Ward), p. 254. As advised by a messenger, a King who wished to kill his son told him that he should be King, and that in order to be crowned he must be tied in a mat, thrown into a deep pool, and left there three days. When the party halted on the way and left the bundle on the path for a time, the youth got a child to unfasten the package, and inserted a large stone which was afterwards duly thrown into the water. After three days the youth made his appearance wearing a crown and riding a horse. He was acclaimed as King, and he stated that he had been ordered to send his father's messenger to be crowned in the same way. He was seized, tied up, and drowned. NO. 146 THE NA, MI, AND BLUE-LOTUS FLOWERS' PRINCESSES In a certain country there is a King, and the King has three children, males. On the second poya day (the full-moon day), at the time when the moon has risen, having caused these three Princes to be brought, he asked, "Son, what is this moon good for?" The big son said, "This moon is good for [enabling] poor people to go on journeys; it is good for trampling stacks (threshing by means of buffaloes)." The King accepted this word. He asked at the hand of the next (ekkama) son; that son replied in that very manner. He asked at the hand of the next son. That son said, "It is good for [enabling] the Mi-flower [253] Princess, and the Na-flower [254] Princess, and the Blue-Lotus-flower Princess to perambulate on the carriage which they keep." Thereupon anger went to the King. Having caused the executioner to be brought, he started off the youngest Prince and the two elder Princes and the executioner, these four persons. He told him to behead the Prince. At the time when these four were going in the midst of the jungle, there was a Banyan-tree; the four persons sat down in the shade under the Banyan-tree. The youngest Prince having collected a heap of sand and having been [hidden] [255] in it, both the elder Princes and the executioner, these three persons, [not seeing him], set out to come away. Having come a considerable distance [the executioner], killing a lizard (katussa) and smearing the blood on the sword, came and told the King, "I beheaded him." The King took it for the fact. The Prince having arisen, when he looked about, his two elder brothers were not [there], and the executioner was not [there]. Because there was not a place to go to he went to sleep again under that very Banyan-tree. Having arisen in the morning, when he looked there was no water, no food. Having climbed up the tree, he saw that water was pouring down at the margin of a rocky hill. He descended from the Banyan-tree, and went along looking constantly at the hill. Taking a little water [at it], and washing his face, at the time when he was going up the hill a bee came, and turned (flew) round his head; then he struck at the bee. A second time having come it turned round his head; a second time he struck at it. Having come even the third time, when it was turning round his head he thought, "I must look for [the hive of] this." On the hill there were rocks. Having come [and found the hive], sitting down at them he drew out the comb. Having drawn it out, when he looked in the hive (miya) there was an ash-pumpkin [flower]. He took out the ash-pumpkin [flower], and when he looked in it there was a Princess. [256] Having gone away, taking the Princess also, after sitting down under a Na-tree and looking and looking around, eating and eating the honey he gave to the Princess also. This Princess in a day or two became big. Beneath that very Na-tree they stayed for three days. While one day sitting below the same Na-tree, when he looked upward in the Na-tree there was a large flower, a kind of ash-pumpkin [flower], in the Na-tree. He went up the tree for that flower also, and plucking the flower descended. After having thrown away the petals, when he looked [inside] there was a Princess. He gave honey to the Princess, and they remained under the same Na-tree. After four days they set out from beneath the Na-tree. In a day or two these two Princesses were [as big as though their age was] twelve years. Having gone along in the jungle, they came out at a certain country, and went to the house of a widow-Mahage (an old woman of good connections), and stayed there. The widow-Mahage eats by pounding paddy at the King's house and being given the rice-dust. She gave [some] to these three persons also; the two Princesses and the Prince were unable to eat it, they said. At that time the widow-Mahage having gone near the King says, "O King, Your Majesty, at the place where I live, two Princesses and a Prince having come thus, are staying." Thereupon the King says, "Widow-Mahage, wilt thou tell the Prince to come to my palace?" he said. The Mahage having come, told him. At the time when she is telling him, the Princesses say, "Should he tell you any work, don't say, 'Ha' (yes), and don't say, 'I cannot,' [257] and don't say, 'I can.' Having said, 'After having considered I will tell you,' come back," the Princesses say. To the Mi-flower Princess the chariot of the Gods is visible beyond a kalpa; to the Na-flower Princess the chariot of the Gods is visible beyond two kalpas. [When he went to the palace], "Prince," the King says to the Prince, "in the morning and in the evening I want seven handkerchiefs of Blue-lotus flowers." He did not say "Ha"; he did not say "I cannot." After having said, "I will consider and tell you," he came back to the place where he is living at the widow's house. This Prince having come, says to the two Princesses, "The King says to me, 'In the morning and in the evening I want seven and seven handkerchiefs of [Blue-lotus] flowers. Can you [bring them]?' Thereupon I said, 'After having considered I will tell you.'" The Princesses say, "Prince, when you have gone to pluck the flowers you would die while in the pool, [but we will save you]. In the pool there is a great Crocodile. Because the King is not clever [enough] to kill you and write (that is, contract) a marriage to us two, it is good to do thus," they said. Thereupon, the Prince having gone the second time near the King, this Prince says, "I can." After he came home taking seven handkerchiefs, both the Princesses, having called the Prince and having combed and tied up his hair (lit., head), uttered spells on his right over a handful of sand, and after giving it, say, "Having gone near the pool, throw down the handful of sand on the right. At that time the human-flesh-eating Crocodile having come will go ashore." Having given [the spells over] a handful on the left also, they said, "Plucking seven handkerchiefs of flowers, come out, and quickly on the left throw down this handful of sand, [or] the Crocodile will come." [He acted accordingly.] At the time when he was coming [after] plucking the flowers, a large Blue-lotus flower having been there he plucked that flower, and having come back, gave it [to the Princesses] at the house. Then having gone to the royal palace, taking also the seven handkerchiefs of flowers, [he gave them to the King]. Quickly having come back, taking the [Blue-lotus] flower at the house into his hand, and having cast away the petals, when he looked there was a Princess. At that time the widow-Mahage having gone to the royal house, says, "I don't know if this Prince is a magician; [258] I don't know if he is a person possessed of supernatural powers; [259] I cannot find out what he is. Now he is there, and three Princesses are there." Then the King thinks, "How [am I] to take these very three beautiful Princesses?" he thinks. Again he thinks, "Should I send this Prince to the Naga world I can take them; without it, indeed, I cannot." At that time the King says to the widow-Mahage, "Say thou to the Prince that I say he is to come." She accepted that word; having come she told the Prince. At the time when she is saying it, the Blue-lotus-flower Princess says to the Prince, "Prince, should he tell you any work, don't say, 'Ha'; don't say, 'I cannot'; don't say, 'I can.' Having gone to the royal palace, when he has said it come back, saying, 'After I have considered I will tell you.'" Having gone and returned, he says to these three Princesses, "The King says thus to me, 'How is it? Canst thou go to the Naga world?' he says. Thereupon I said, 'Having considered I will tell you.' Having said [this] I came back." Then these three Princesses say, "Prince, when [he thinks] you have died the King will come summoning us three to go [to become his wives]." These Princesses say to the Prince, "You go [to the King]. Having gone, say, 'I can.'" He having gone, and having returned after saying it, they thereupon summoned the Prince. Sitting near him, the Mi-flower Princess, taking a palmful of oil, after having uttered spells over it rubbed it on his head. The Na-flower Princess also having uttered spells over oil rubbed [it on his head]. The Blue-lotus-flower Princess also having uttered spells over oil rubbed [it on his head]. The Mi-flower Princess next having uttered spells over a handful of sand, gave it into his hand. The Na-flower Princess also having uttered spells [over sand] gave it into his hand, and told him to tie it himself at his waist. The Blue-lotus-flower Princess also having uttered spells over a handful of sand, said, "Having gone near the tunnel [leading to the Naga world], when just going into the hole throw down the sand of the Mi-flower Princess. At the time when you are descending and going down the hole, when going to the middle of the hole throw down the sand of the Na-flower Princess. When going to the foot of the tunnel, throw down the sand of the Blue-lotus-flower Princess." Having stayed at the house of the widow-Mahage, they cut a tunnel [which met the tunnel opened by the King, so that the Prince might escape by it]. The Prince does not go; the widow-Mahage does not know [about it]. Anyone you like [260] [sees it] not; they do not know [about it]. [On the appointed day] having gone into the tunnel at the King's midula (the open space in front of the palace), at the time when he is coming to this tunnel, the King, having blocked up the King's tunnel and having employed elephants and trampled [the earth down], and having come, says to the three Princesses, "Princesses, go ye to the royal palace." At that time these three say, "When our Prince has gone three months, and three poyas (at the quarters of the moon), and three days, and three half days, should he not return we will come. You, Sir, be good enough to go." Thereupon the King went back to the palace. [While he was there, the Prince, who had escaped by the secret tunnel, proceeded to the palace to see him.] Having [stated that he had] gone to the Naga world and come back, the Prince says to the King, "O King, Your Majesty's father, the [late] King, has arrived at old age; he says to you that you also are to go." At that time, [as he believed this], having removed the stones and earth [that he had placed] in the tunnel down which the Prince went, the King also began to go. Having handed over the sovereignty to the Crown and the Sword [of State], and gone near the tunnel, and summoned everybody (serotoma), he says, "Having handed over the sovereignty to the Crown and the Sword, I am going. When I have gone for the space (taena) of three months and three poyas, I shall come back. Until the time when I come be careful." At the very time when he is descending into the tunnel, they brought elephants, and having put stones and earth in it, when they trampled them down the King died. Three poyas and three days and three months went by. He came not ever. As the sovereignty was going to be lost, loading on the tusk elephant's back the robes and the Crown and the Sword, and having made notification by tom-toms, at the time when it is walking in the street the Mi-flower Princess, and Na-flower Princess, and Blue-lotus-flower Princess say to the Prince, "To-day you, Sir, will obtain the sovereignty. Do not go anywhere." Thereupon the Prince says, "How do you know?" These three say, "Now, now, you will obtain it." The tusk elephant having come, when it was making obeisance by kneeling he mounted on the tusk elephant, and putting on the Crown and taking the Sword in his hand, he went to the palace. For the dead King there were five hundred Princesses. Having separated them in a different house, he allowed the five hundred to be [there]. Thereafter, after building separate houses for the Mi-flower Princess, and for the Na-flower Princess, and for the Blue-lotus-flower Princess, he sent them to them. At the time when he was exercising the sovereignty in that manner, the country of his parents who told [the executioner] to behead this one, became abandoned. When this King was on the floor of the upper story, while this one's elder elder brother, taking a bundle of firewood [for sale], was going through the midst of the city, the King saw him. Having called him, and after he had thrown down the bundle of firewood having summoned him to come here, this King says, "There is not permission for yourself to come again to this city," and he sent away this one. At the next occasion, on the second day, at the time when the younger elder brother was coming, taking a pingo (carrying-stick) load of Jak [fruit], the King tells this one also. Calling him near he says, "Why hast thou brought Jak? Has thy city become waste, or what? Why is it?" he asks at the hand of this man who brought Jak. At that time this one says, "Our country having become waste, there is much scarcity of food to eat, for our King and people." Thereupon this King says, "Canst thou come here with the three persons (his parents and other brother)?" This one says, "Ane! O Lord; send us two, for us to come with those two." Thereupon the King, having been troubled [at the news], sent the two persons. These two having gone, say to this one's two parents, "Ane! Father-King, that King says that we four persons--between that city and this city there is a river--having come to the river he says we are to remain [there]." Thereupon, because there was no food for the four persons, and because they could not endure the hunger, on the second poya day, at the time when the moon had risen they came to the river, and stayed there. Thereupon the King, and the Mi-flower Princess, and the Na-flower Princess, and the Blue-lotus-flower Princess, sitting on the chariot, went near the river. Having seen these four persons, and descended from the chariot, he told that party of four persons to ascend the chariot. Then the four persons say, "Ane! We cannot mount on this. Whether you, Sir, [are going] to behead [261] us, or chop us [in pieces], [262] or kill us [in some other way], we do not know. We cannot mount on it." Making them mount by harassing them and combating [their objections], [263] they came to the palace. Having come to the palace, after having given them a separate house to live in, and given them expenses for food, he said, "Don't you be afraid; you remain [here]," this King says to these four persons. At the time when a long period had gone by in this manner, the King thought that with the four persons he must eat food at one table. Having thought so, after three or four months he sent four men to the four persons, and having caused them to bathe, and [then] caused them to bathe in coconut milk scented with sandal-wood, [264] and given to all the four persons four pairs of vestments that day, [265] he told [the servants] to send food [for all] to eat at one table. They having sent the food [and] table, and the four persons sitting down together with the Mi-flower, the Na-flower, the Blue-lotus-flower Princesses, at the time when he tells them to eat the cooked rice the four say, "Ane! We cannot eat at one table with you, Sir. How can you, Sir, a King, and we, eat [together]?" these four persons say. The King says, "Nothing will happen through your eating at one table with me." At the time when, through [his] harassing them and combating [their objections], [266] they are eating [after] having sat down at one table, the King asks, "Can you, or cannot you recognise me?" the King asks. Thereupon the four persons say, "Ane! We cannot recognise you." At the time when they have said and said [this], three drops of milk having come from the breast of his mother fell on the King's face. [267] When they fell she began to weep. Thereupon the King says, "Don't cry. The thing I said became correct." At that time the King [his father] becoming afraid and terrified, he said, "Father-King, here, behold! the Mi-flower Princess. Here, behold! the Na-flower Princess. Here, behold! the Blue-lotus-flower Princess," and showed them. Then the King says, "Are you willing to take the sovereignty of the city?" he asked at the hand of the King's father. "I can," he said. To his father he gave the sovereignty. To the elder brother he gave the Ministership (aemaetkoma); he appointed the [second] Ministership for the younger elder brother. "Now then," he said, "when we have gone you will not give us a little betel!" In this story is [related] the manner in which a foolish King, taking the sovereignty, without considering exercised the sovereignty. North-western Province. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xviii, p. 120, in a South Indian (Tamil) story by Pandit S. M. Natesa Sastri, a Brahmana who had seven sons asked them one night what they would like to do. The elders expressed good wishes, but the youngest stated that he would like to spend the fine moonlight in a beautiful house with lovely girls. The father turned him out for saying this, and he had various adventures unlike those of this Sinhalese story. In the same work, vol. xxvi, p. 109, in a Telugu story by G. R. Subramiah Pantulu, Divijakirtti, King of Cholamandala, had three sons, of each one of whom he inquired what he most desired. The first wished to be surrounded by learned men and to study the great Indian Epics and sacred books, the second wished to obtain wealth and visit sacred shrines, the third wanted to acquire a kingdom and gain a good reputation by making it prosperous. The King made over the sovereignty to the third one, giving the first one villages and the second one money to go on a pilgrimage. In The Jataka, No. 96 (vol. i, p. 234), the Bodhisatta received a charmed thread and some charmed sand from Pacceka Buddhas as safe-guards on a journey. These preserved him, the sand placed on his head and the thread twisted round his brow, from an Ogress (Rakshasi) who, with others, devoured all in the palace. In The Jataka, No. 380 (vol. iii, p. 161) a "being of perfect merit" fell from Sakra's heaven, and was re-born as a girl inside a lotus flower. "When the other lotuses grew old and fell, that one grew great and stood." An ascetic opened it, found the girl inside, and reared her. Sakra created a crystal palace for her, provided her with divine clothing and food, and in the end the King of Benares married her. In The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 81, when a King of Udayagiri one moonlight night asked his seven sons what they would like to be doing, the first suggested leading an army into an enemy's country, the second wished to be irrigating some land, the third wished to be ploughing, the fourth to be walking from one village to another, the fifth to be hunting, the sixth to be a cooly. The seventh son wished to be the sole Emperor of the world, reclining on a couch, attended by four wives, the daughters of Indra, Agni, Varuna, and Adisesha (the serpent-king). His mother, hearing that he was to be executed for this wish, sent him away secretly with a bag of money. Next morning the executioners showed the blood of an animal as that of the Prince. The Prince acquired the wished-for wives, induced a King who tried to kill him, to jump into a fire from which he himself had come successfully by Agni's aid, and became King of a magic city. In the meantime his father had been driven out of Udayagiri, and with his wife and other sons got a living by selling firewood. The young King recognised them, gave the sovereignty to his father, and himself took the post of Minister. He had further adventures afterwards. There are several Indian accounts of girls who made their appearance out of fruits or flowers, and one of a Prince, in addition to the deity in the tale numbered 153, and the sons of King Sagara, mentioned in the note after it. In one old legend the Goddess Pattini in one incarnation was produced from a Mango fruit, and in another from a Blue-lotus flower. In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 96, a girl was found inside a Mango fruit. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 11, a Prince and Princess who had been killed came to life afresh inside two fruits produced on a tree which grew at the spot where their livers had been thrown. At p. 81 a Princess reappeared full-grown inside a fruit in a King's garden. At p. 138, there is an account of a Princess who issued full-grown from a Bel fruit (�gle marmelos). After being drowned she became a Pink-lotus flower, and when this was destroyed she reappeared as an infant inside a Bel fruit. In the Kolhan tales (Bompas) appended to Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 461, there is a story of this type regarding a Princess who was in a Bel fruit. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 142, a tear of joy fell from the eye of a Vidyadhara maiden on a Jambu flower, and a fruit was produced; when it fell and broke open a heavenly maiden came out of it, and was reared by a hermit. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 327, a Buddhist nun, Amrapali, related an account of her previous births during ninety-one kalpas, from mango flowers. The details of her last birth are given; she became the mother of the celebrated physician Jivaka, the son of King Bimbisara, and afterwards took the religious vows. Professor Chavannes states that the work in which this story occurs was translated into Chinese between A.D. 148 and 170. In the same volume, p. 337, there is a story of the birth of two other girls from flowers, one from a Sumana flower and the other from a Blue lotus. In Korean Tales (Dr. H. N. Allen), p. 164, a girl who had drowned herself to appease an evil spirit who refused to allow the passage of some boats, was sent back to life in a large flower on a plant floating on the sea. A King who preserved the flower saw her when she emerged at night, and married her. In the Maha Bharata (Vana Parva, cxlvi ff.) Bhimasena, one of the Pandava Princes, went in search of golden lotus flowers, and found them in a lake at the Gandhamadana mountain, belonging to Kuvera, the God of Wealth. In Reynard the Fox in Southern Africa (Dr. Bleek), p. 55, a girl appeared out of a calabash in which a woman had placed her daughter's heart after it had been recovered from the body of a lion that had eaten her. The woman put with it the first milk of the cows which calved. THE STORY OF THE SHE-GOAT. (Variant a.) In a certain country there are a King and a Queen, it is said. There is an only Prince of the Queen's. The King was stricken by a very great scarcity (sayak). Well then, the Queen and the King and the Prince devoured (plundered) all the things and pansalas (monks' residences) that were in the city. Having devoured them, on the day when they were finished the King said at the hand of the Queen, "To-morrow I must behead our Prince." So the Queen, having tied a little cooked rice in a packet and given it into the hand of the Prince, said, "Go thou away to any place thou wantest." After that, the Prince taking the packet of cooked rice and having gone on and on, and eaten the packet of cooked rice sitting upon a rock, looked about, saying, "Where is a smoke rising?" When he looked a smoke was visible. After that, having descended from the rock, as he was going away he met with some goats; in the party of goats there was a large she-goat. When the Prince was going near the she-goat, the she-goat expectorated. The Prince, taking the piece of spittle and wrapping it in his handkerchief, went to the house of a widow woman. Having gone there and given the handkerchief into the hand of the widow-mother, he said, "Mother, having placed this handkerchief in the very bottommost pot, [268] put it away." After that, the woman having placed the handkerchief in the very bottommost pot, put it away. After seven days went by, having taken out the handkerchief, at the time when he looked [in the pot] three Princesses and four young rats were there, and filled the pot. Afterwards he took the three Princesses out of the pot. Having taken them out, placing the three Princesses in that very house, the Prince, marrying them, remained there. While he was living in that very way, news reached the King, the Prince's father, that this Prince is living with (lit., near) the widow-mother. Afterwards the King came there on horse-back, together with the army. Having come, he said to the Prince, "Can you pluck and give me the Blue-lotus flower which is in the Great Sea?" Then the Prince said, "I can." Owing to it, the widow woman was weeping at the Prince's saying he can. The three Princesses asked, "What, mother, are you weeping for?" Then the widow-mother says, "Ane! Now then, my son will die when he has gone into the Great Sea." Then the three Princesses say, "Ane! What do you weep at that for? Bring a little sand from an untrodden place." The widow woman brought a little sand from an untrodden place. Afterwards, the youngest Princess, having uttered spells over the sand, and given it into the Prince's hand, said, "Having gone into the Sea, when you put down this little sand, firm sand will become clear (i.e., will appear above the water). Having gone a little distance again, when you again put down a little sand, firm sand will become clear. Having come quite close [to the flower], when you have held the hands in a cup shape the Blue-lotus flower will come into the hands." Afterwards, the Prince, in that very manner having gone upon the hard sand, held his hands in a cup shape; then it came into his hands. Having taken it, when he comes back the King is still at the widow woman's house. Afterwards the Prince gave the Blue-lotus flower into the King's hand. Thereupon the King thought to himself, "Ah, Bola! by this also I was unable to kill this one." [269] There is a Bee-hive in a forest; no one can draw out [the honey combs]. The bees come further than two gawwas [270] (each of four miles) [to attack would-be plunderers of the hive]. To draw out that Bee-hive the King told this Prince. The Prince said, "I can." Afterwards that widow-mother is weeping. Then the three Princesses asked, "What is it, mother, you are weeping for?" Then the widow-mother said, "When my son has gone to draw out [the honey-combs at] the Bee-hive, the bees having stung (lit., eaten) him he will die." Then the Princesses said, "What are you crying for on that account? Come back [after] breaking a branch without disease or former disease." [271] Afterwards the woman, breaking a branch without disease or former disease, came back and gave it. After that, the youngest Princess, having uttered spells for the branch, and given it into the Prince's hand, said, "Strike at the Bee-hive with this branch; then the bees will go. Well then, you will be able to draw the Bee-hive." The Prince, having taken the branch, and gone to the place where the Bee-hive is, struck the Bee-hive with the branch. The bees went away. The Prince, drawing out [the honey-comb of] the Bee-hive, [272] came back and gave it to the King. The King thought to himself, "Ah, Bola! after I was unable to kill this one by this also, what shall I do?" Thinking [thus], he cut a well. Having cut it, and at the very bottom [273] having left a little earth, he said to the Prince, "Having descended down this, you must take out this earth to-morrow." Afterwards the Prince told it at the hand of the widow-mother; then the widow-mother wept. The young rats asked, "What is it, mother, that you are weeping for?" The widow-mother said, "When our son has gone into that well he will die." Then the four young rats said, "What are you weeping for at that?" From the house to the well they cut a tunnel. Having cut it, they said at the Prince's hand, "We have cut the tunnel from this house until the time when it goes to the well. When you have gone into the well, should the King close it with earth [274] come along this tunnel." Having said [this], they showed the tunnel to the Prince. On the following day, the King having told the Prince to descend into the well, the King remained on the surface. The Prince having descended into the well, when he is about (lit., making) to try to take a little earth the King closed it with earth. Then this Prince having come along that tunnel to the house of the widow-mother, remained [there]. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 549, it is stated that in a country in which the deficiency of rain had caused a famine, "the King began to play the bandit, leaving the right path, and taking wealth from his subjects unlawfully." In the same work, vol. ii, p. 569, a great sandbank is described as suddenly rising up in the midst of the sea, near Ceylon. THE STORY OF A NOBLEMAN'S SON. [275] (Variant b.) In a certain country there were three Princes, [the sons] of a nobleman. Having called the eldest Prince of the same three Princes he asks from the same Prince, "Son, what is the work thou canst do?" he asked. Thereupon the big Prince says, "Father, having gone to a threshing-floor on the [full moon] poya day, on the fifteenth of the light half [of the lunar month], it would be good to spread [and thresh] the stacks, if the moon be shining and shining," he said. Thereupon he told the same Prince to go aside. Having called the next Prince he asked, "Son, on the second poya day, on the fifteenth of this bright half [of the lunar month], what is the best work to do? What the best journey to go on?" The Prince says, "Father, according to me, on the second poya day, on the fifteenth of the bright half, when they have put packs on seven or eight pairs of bulls, if they drive them [on a trading journey] when the moon is shining and shining, it would be good," he said. Thereupon the father told the Prince to go aside. Having called the young Prince he asked, "Son, on this second poya day, on the fifteenth of the bright half [of the lunar month], what is the best work to do? What are the best journeys to go on?" Thereupon the young Prince says, "Father, according to me, if I should have placed the head on the Goat Queen's waist pocket, my shoulder on the Blue-Lotus Queen's waist pocket, my two feet on the Mi-flower Queen's waist pocket, it would be good," he said. Thereupon the father says to the above-mentioned two Princes, "Cut down this wicked Prince with the sword," he said. At that time, because they could not kill the young Prince, the above-mentioned two Princes did not speak. Then their mother, having called the above-mentioned two Princes, says, "Having fulfilled the hopes of seven kalpas, [276] [after] being hidden in the womb of one mother you [three] were born. Because of it, do not cut down your younger brother at your father's word," she said. Having said [to their father], "We are going away to cut him down," they abandoned him in the midst of a very great forest; and having killed a lizard (katussa) and said they killed the Prince, smearing the blood on the sword they came back, and said, "Father, we killed the Prince," and gave him the sword. Thereupon he became [filled] with happiness or great satisfaction. At the time when the Prince who was left in the midst of the forest was going along in the forest wilderness for seven days, as he was going along eating and eating sugar-canes, pine-apples, sweet oranges, various ripe fruits, he saw a great mountain. Having seen an aerial root of a Banyan which swung there, seizing the aerial root he went [climbing up it] to the rock, and when he looked about he saw a rock cave, and not a country furnished with villages (gama ratak). Thereupon, holding the aerial root of the Banyan he descended to the ground at the rock, and went away in the direction of the rock cave. Having seen a house near the rock the Prince went to the house. A woman, called the Mal-kara Amma (garland-making mother), who takes messages to the King of that country, saw that the Prince was going. At the time when she asked, "Where are you going?" a flock of goats which were there saw him, and a large female goat coughed. Thereupon a piece of mucus fell down. Taking the piece of mucus, he tied it up in his waist-pocket. Thereafter, to the garland-making mother he says, "I am going to a place where they give food and clothing." Then the garland-making mother says, "I have no child; come, for me to rear you," she said. The Prince said, "It is good," [and went to live with her]. Thereupon, having put [for him] outside [her room] cooked rice and curry, the flower mother went to inform the King. She having thus gone, the things that were in the waist-pocket of the above-mentioned Prince who came to the house, came to their time. [277] After three days, the Prince having arisen, on seeing the garland-making mother says, "Mother, I will take these flowers and give them to the King," he said. Thereupon the garland-making mother said, "Don't go." Thereafter, the garland-making mother went to the city [to present the flower-garlands], and came back. On the following day, when the above-mentioned Prince said that he must go to another place, the garland-making mother says, "Son, beginning from your young age, I reared you until the time when you are becoming as big as this. Now, to what place are you to go?" she said. "It is so, indeed. Give me the thing that I gave you that day to put away," he said. Thereupon, the garland-making mother, having gone to take the thing which she had put in the lowest earthen pot that was at the bottom of three or four earthen pots, when she looked saw that a Princess was in it, and being pleased took her out. Then the garland-making mother says, "This Princess is good for my son," and she gave her in marriage to him. Not much time afterwards, at the time when he was sleeping in that manner [which he mentioned to his father], placing his head on the waist-pocket of the above-mentioned Princess, the Ministers of the King of that country having seen it, told the tale to the King. On the following day, on seeing the garland-making mother he said, "Your son is a very great clever person. In the midst of the Great Sea there will be a great Blue-Lotus flower. Because of [his cleverness] tell him to bring and give me it," he said. The garland-making mother having come away weeping and weeping, came home. Thereupon, the Goat Queen asks, "What, mother, (maeniyan wahansa), are you crying for?" she asked. The mother says, "He said that he is to bring the Blue-Lotus flower that is in the midst of the Great Sea." "Without fear on that account, eat cooked rice," she said. Having waited a little time, she asked, "Can you bring and give [me] three handfuls of sand from a place they are not trampling on?" Having said "I can," she brought and gave them. The daughter-in-law, taking the three handfuls of sand, and having given them into the hand of her husband, says, "Having gone, taking those three handfuls of sand, throw down a handful; white sand will open out. Having gone upon that white sand, throw down the next handful; [the sand will then be extended]. Having thrown down the other handful of sand [the sand-bank will extend to the flower]; then taking the Queen of the Blue-Lotus flower, and plucking the flower, come back," she said. Having gone in the manner stated by his Queen, taking the Queen and the Blue-Lotus flower he came back. Marrying the Queen, he gave the Blue-Lotus flower into the mother's hand. The garland-making mother having gone to the royal house, and given the Blue-Lotus flower to the King, came back. Thereupon, the Ministers having come, for the above-mentioned Prince there was one Queen before; at the time when they looked now there are two. "Now then, indeed, the King will not succeed in exercising the sovereignty," they said. On the following day, the garland-making mother having waited [at the palace] until the time for going, [the King] says, "Your son is a great clever person. Because of it, tell him to break [into] the Royal Bee-hive [278] (Raja-miya) that is in the jungle, and come back [with the honey-combs]," he said. The garland-making mother having come back, when she was weeping and weeping, the above-mentioned Blue-Lotus-flower Queen asked, "What, mother, are you weeping and weeping for?" Thereupon the garland-making mother says, "Having brought [the honey-combs of] the Royal Bee-hive that is in the jungle, [the Prince] is to give him them, the King said. Because of it, indeed, I am weeping," she said. "Without fear on that account, come and eat cooked rice," she said. Then when the garland-making mother is eating cooked rice, the Blue-Lotus Queen says, "Can you bring and give me three handfuls of stones from a place they are not trampling on?" she said. Having said "I can," she brought and gave them. Thereupon the Blue-Lotus Queen, having given the three handfuls of stones into the hand of her husband, says, "From these three handfuls of stones taking one handful, go and throw it into the jungle. The bees will stop while you go three gawuwas (twelve miles). Having gone there, throw down the other handful; [they will then not attack you until you go to the bee-hive]. Having gone to the bee-hive they will assemble [to attack you]. Throw the other handful at the bee-hive, the head part of the bee-hive; the bees will go to the head part (the upper part). Then, breaking [into] the bee-hive, come back [with the honey-combs], calling the Queen who is in the bee-hive," she said. Thereupon, the Prince went, and breaking [into] the bee-hive and calling the Queen, came back, and gave [the honey-combs] into the hand of the garland-making mother. Then the garland-making mother, taking the honey and having gone to the city, gave it to the King. At that time the King says, "Because your son is a very great clever person he does the things I am saying and saying. Because of it, tell your son to come to the city to-morrow," he said. Thereupon, the garland-making mother having come weeping and weeping says, "To-morrow, indeed, he is really to kill my son. He says he is to go to the city." Then the Queen who was in the Royal Bee-hive says, "Without fear on that account, come and eat cooked rice." Thereafter she says [to the Prince], "The King's message indeed I know. Having told them to cut a well, and caused you to descend into the well, it is indeed to kill you he told you to go. For it, I will inform you of a stratagem," she said. When he asked "What is the stratagem?" she said, "Having gone near the well, without crookedness drawing a line from it, go a considerable distance. From there having gone cutting a tunnel, do thou cut it to the well, and come back," she said. He did in the manner his wife said. Having done the work, and gone to the city, he saw the King, and remained there. Then the King says, "The well has been [partly] filled up. Because of it, let us go to draw out the small quantity of earth." Having said this, that man and yet more people went. Having gone there, and put [a ladder of] bamboos into the well, he caused that man to descend. Having waited until the time when he descended to the foot of the well, he [drew up the ladder, and] began to throw down earth. Thereupon the man, ascertaining that he is throwing down earth, breaking down that little that remained at the tunnel that had been cut [by him], went into the tunnel, and having come along it, came to his house. Well then, the King, having filled the well, and said, "This one will be killed," with pleasure came to the city. This above-mentioned man having thought, "This King I must kill," made a stratagem. What was that stratagem, indeed? Cooking a box of cakes, and having gone to the city and given them to the King, he says, "Your Majesty (Devayan wahanse), having remained there at the time when you were putting me into the well, when you were closing it with earth I went to that [other] world. Having been there, I brought a box as a present (penum pettiyak) for Your Majesty." Thereupon the King says, "We also must go to that world. Because of it, put me down a well," he said. Then having put the King into the well they closed it with earth. In not many days, perceiving that the King was lost, and ascertaining that there was no one for the sovereignty, they decorated the tusk elephant, and went seeking a person for the sovereignty. The tusk elephant went and kneeled to the man whom they put in the well. Thereupon, they having come [to the palace] with that man and with those three Queens, he exercised the sovereignty. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In the tale numbered 243, in vol. iii, a Prince was induced to go for a lotus flower which grew in a pool guarded by a great crocodile. In The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 73, when a Prince was going to fetch a Golden Lotus flower that was on the far side of the Seven Seas, his wife, who understood magical arts, gave him seven pebbles, and told him that when he threw one into each ocean in turn, and said, "May the sea dry before and swell behind," a dry path would appear, along which he could proceed in safety. When he had crossed the Seven Seas in this manner, a Rakshasa in charge of a sacred pool beyond them sent on a note which the Prince had brought, to the Crocodile King, who forwarded the lotus to the Prince and ordered a crocodile to carry him back to his own country. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 227, a King of Sravasti, who wished to get possession of the beautiful wife of an upasaka, sent him, by the advice of his Ministers, to bring lotus flowers of five colours from a distant pool. All who were sent on this errand were killed by venomous snakes or demons or savage animals, but a demon whom he encountered saved the upasaka on learning of his piety, and fetched the flowers for him. When the King heard of this he begged his forgiveness. NO. 147 THE LOSS THAT OCCURRED TO THE NOBLEMAN'S DAUGHTER In a certain country there is a nobleman (Sitano), it is said. There is a Princess of the nobleman's, it is said. The Princess having become associated with the servant at the house, in secret they went to another country, it is said. At the time when the two persons had been there a long time, the Princess became pregnant. [279] When the ten months were coming to be fulfilled she said to the Princess's husband, "Dear (sondura), let us go to seek our two parents." At that word her husband was displeased. Afterwards, in not many days the child was born. When they had been some time thus, a fresh child was conceived. At the time when the ten months were coming to be fulfilled for that child, she said, "Dear, it is very difficult for me. Because of it, let us go to seek our two parents," she said. After that procuring all [necessary] provisions, afterwards they began to go. Having gone thus, that day it became night. They stayed near a tree in the midst of the forest. Because rain was coming, having said he must construct a leaf [parturition] house (kolasun geyak) he went to cut sticks, creepers, etc. Having gone, at the time when he was cutting them sitting upon an ant-hill, the Naga King who stayed in the ant-hill bit (datta kala) her husband in the leg; the man died there. At the time when that woman, placing the child near her, was staying [there], pain in the body having seized the woman she bore [a child]. Then rain began to rain. That night, until it became light, how much was her trouble for sleep! After it became light in the morning she went to seek her husband. Having gone, at the time when she was going walking she saw that the man is dead. From there, weeping and weeping, having walked [back] to the place where the children were, and having descended to the road carrying the two children, while she was going away to the very city of her two parents there was water in the river [that she must cross] on the road. After that, having gone to that [far] bank carrying the elder child, and having made the child stay there, she came to the middle of the river [in order] to return to this bank. Then, having seen that an eagle striking the child she bore yester-night was taking it, she clapped her hands and shouted. Then the child who was on that [far] bank said, "Mother is calling," and sprang into the river. Then, of both children, one the eagle took away, one having fallen in the water died. The two children were lost, and the man was lost. Well then, having said, "I myself must still go to seek my two parents," at the time when she was going she met with a man of that city whom she knew. From the man this woman asked, "Is the affliction of my two parents light, or what?" she asked. The man said, "Thy two parents' mansion (prasada) having broken down and fallen last night on account of the rain, and the two having died, it is the smoke, indeed, of the funeral pyre which burns the two, that is visible there," he said. After that, the woman lost her senses, and being without goods she began to go on still, quite like a mad person. The Devatawa taking as his dwelling-place the Banyan-tree near the road, thought, "Should this woman go on this path, through that depression of spirits she will jump into the fire that burns those two persons. I must show this woman a different path." Having said [this], he showed [her it]. The woman went on that path. Having gone, she went to a pansala. Having gone to it and become a nun she remained there until she died. (A variant agrees closely with this.) North-western Province. This is part of the story of the misfortunes of Krisa Gautami, one of the chief Buddhist nuns, as they are related in the Tibetan Kah-gyur (A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales, Ralston, p. 216). Her father was a rich householder of Benares, by whom she was married to a young merchant. For her first confinement she returned home, afterwards rejoining her husband. For the second, she and her husband went off in a waggon in which she was confined when they had gone about half way. Her husband sat down under a tree to await the event, fell asleep, a snake bit him, and he died on the spot. When the woman got down she found he was dead. In the meantime a thief stole the oxen. She then walked on with the children till she came to a river, flooded by a sudden rain. She carried the infant across, and while returning in the water for the other saw a jackal carry off the baby. When she waved her hands to frighten the animal, the elder child, thinking she was calling him, sprang down a high bank into the river, and was killed. The mother pursued the jackal, which dropped the infant, but it was then dead. At about the same time her parents and all their household but one man were destroyed by a hurricane. She met the survivor and heard his sad story, after which she wandered to a hill village, and lived with an old woman, spinning cotton yarn. After other unfortunate experiences she became a Buddhist nun. NO. 148 THE RATEMAHATMAYA'S PRESENTS A certain cultivator having gone to his Kaekiri garden, and having seen, when he looked [through it], that a very beautiful long Kaekiri fruit was ripe, presented it to the Chief of that country. The Ratemahatmaya, being pleased regarding it, presented to him a very valuable young bull. A man who lives in that country, ascertaining this, thought, "Should I also bring some present I shall receive a present [in return] in this manner" (that is, one of much higher value); and he presented to him a valuable heifer from his herd. Thereupon the Ratemahatmaya, this time being acquainted with the stratagem, presented to the man the Kaekiri fruit which the cultivator gave. North-western Province. My friend Mr. C. Tucker, of Harrogate, has been good enough to show me a variant of this story in a work called Lessons of Thrift, by a member of the Save-all Club, published in 1820. It is related of King Louis XI. of France. A peasant who had ingratiated himself by his services, when the King succeeded to the throne brought him a turnip of extraordinary size as the only present within his power. The King gave him one thousand livres in return. His landlord, a country squire, hearing of it, thought he must profit by this weakness of the King's, and said to himself, "If this madman give a thousand livres for a turnip, what will he give me for that beautiful horse in my best stable!" He took the horse to the Court. The King was delighted, and said, "Your noble disinterested present shall be richly rewarded." Then the King produced the turnip, with this sarcasm, "This, you know, cost me a thousand livres, and I give it you in return for your horse." In Keightley's Tales and Popular Fictions, pp. 253 ff., there are two Italian variants in which a cat was bestowed by a King as a gift in return for presents of great value. NO. 149 THE PRINCE AND THE MINISTER At a certain city there were a King and a Queen; the Queen had a Prince and a Princess. While they were thus, the King and Queen reached a very great age. Afterwards the King says to the Minister, "When the Prince has become big give him the kingship;" having said it, he gave the [temporary] kingship to the Minister. After that, the King and Queen died. After that, while the Minister and Prince and Princess, these three persons, are living thus, the Minister becomes changed towards the Prince. The men of that country perceived it. After that, men say to the Prince, "Should you, Sir, stay, the Minister will behead you; you go to another country," they said. After that, the Prince, taking the painting (portrait) of the Princess, said, "Don't you descend from the floor of the upper story until the time when I come back." Saying it, the Prince went to another city. The Prince went near a widow woman of that city. The widow woman asks, "Of what village are you?" she asked. The Prince says, "I don't know either my village or country," he said. After that, the widow woman says, "You stay near me." When she said it, the Prince having said, "It is good, mother," remained no long time. Afterwards, when the King of the city, having been at the palace, is going near the widow woman's house, the King having seen that the Prince is in the open space in front of the house, the King came back to the palace laughing with pleasure, and called the Minister. After the Minister came running, the King says, "To-day a pleasure has gone to me," he said. The Minister says, "Who is the man whom you, Sir, saw to-day in the morning? If you, Sir, see that man every day in the morning it will be good," he said. After that, the King says to the Minister, "Calling the widow woman and the boy, come back," he said. Afterwards the Minister, summoning them, came. The King says to the widow woman, "Give me the boy; I will give him food, drink, and clothing," he said. The widow woman gave him the boy. After that, the King having built a house for the boy, and given him food, drink, and clothing, said, "Show yourself to me in the morning at six," he said. The Prince on the following day went at six, and stayed [there]. After that, the Prince on the following day came at seven. Then the King says, "Why are you such a time?" he asked. The Prince says, "I went to sleep," he said. After that, the Prince on the following day at eight went near the King. Afterwards the King says to the Prince, "Should you not come at six to-morrow I shall behead you," and scolded him. On the day after that the Prince did not go at all. After that, the King, having called the servants, says, "Look ye for what [reason] that Prince did not come." The servants having gone, when they are peeping through the door, the Prince lying down and taking a painting, kisses it, weeps, places it on the ground, takes it again. These servants having seen it, told the King. "If so, seizing the Prince come [with him]," he said. The Minister, seizing him, came. The King asks, "Why did you not come?" Then the Prince said, "I went to sleep." Then the King said, "Give me your painting." Afterwards the Prince brought and gave it. As soon as the King looked at the painting he asked, "What [relative] of yours [280] is this Princess?" The Prince said, "My younger sister." Then the King says, "Bring the Princess for me to marry her." Then the Minister says, "Having been keeping that woman three months, because she is a courtesan I sent her away," he says. The Prince said, "This Minister neither saw my younger sister, and nor was keeping her. If you were keeping her, mention the Princess's marks." The Minister says to the King, "Please put this Prince in prison until the time when I come," he said to the King. He put the Prince in prison. Afterwards, the Minister, asking the King for the Princess's portrait, and taking a good entertainment, having embarked, went to the city in which is the Princess. Having gone [there] he exhibits the entertainment. The old woman who is with (lit., near) the Princess having seen it, [said] to the Princess, "There is an entertainment which was never at our city. Let us go to look at it," she said. After that, the Princess says, "Elder brother said, 'Until the time when I come don't descend from the floor of the upper story.' Because of it I will not. You look and come back," she said. Afterwards, having seen the old woman the Minister asks, "Is there a Princess [here] like this picture?" Then the old woman said, "There is," she said. The Minister said to the old woman, "[After] calling her come back," he said. After that, the old woman says, "The Princess's elder brother said, 'Until the time when I come back don't descend from the floor of the upper story,' he said; because of it she will not descend," she said. Then the Minister says, "Tell me a mark of the Princess's." Then the old woman said, "There is not another mark of the Princess's to tell you; on the right thigh there is the birth-mark (upan-lakuna)," she said to the Minister. After the Minister went back to the palace he said to the King, "Please tell that Prince to come," he said. The King caused the Prince to be brought. Afterwards the Minister said to the Prince, "On the right thigh of your younger sister there is the birth-mark only; no other mark," he said. The Prince said, "Yes, [it is so]." After that, the King commanded them to hang this Prince. The Prince says to the King, "I must [first] look at younger sister, and come." After that, the King sent the Prince with two men. The Prince having gone to the floor of the upper story, and beaten the Princess [and told her what the Minister said], the Prince came again to the city in which is the King. The Princess having been weeping and weeping went to sleep. Afterwards the King, [in order] to hang the Prince, took him upon the scaffold. That Princess learnt that he is hanging the Prince. After that, the Princess having mounted on a horse, the King saw her come driving it along. The King [said], "Don't hang the Prince just now." Afterwards, the Princess having come, and descended from the back of the horse, and tied the horse at a tree, the Princess sat on a chair near the King. The Princess asks at the hand of the King, "Why are these people [here] in this manner?" The King says, "To-day I am hanging a Prince; because of it the people have come." After that, the Princess says to the King, "The Minister having been keeping me three months, taking my slipper came away. Be good enough to ask for it, and give me it." The King said, "Minister, if you brought it give her it." The Minister says, "That Princess I neither kept nor know," the Minister said. Afterwards, having caused the Prince to descend from the scaffold, the King [said], "Who is this of yours?" The Prince said, "My younger sister." Afterwards the King having caused the Minister to be brought, [told him who she was, and asked], "Why did you tell lies?" After that the Minister says, "You, Sir, will marry the Princess; you will give the Minister's work to the Prince. Because of that." After that, the King ordered them to hang the Minister. The King married that Princess. [The Prince] having gone to the Prince's [own] palace, took the kingship from the Minister [who had been ruling temporarily]. To the Minister he gave the Minister's work [again]. Finished. North-western Province. With regard to the order to hang the Prince, and the subsequent hanging of the Minister, there is a reference to this punishment in the next story, in which a Minister recommends that a turtle which had frightened some Princesses should be hanged. In vol. i, p. 368, a jackal remarked that a leopard which had been caught in a noose had been "hanged," as though this were a well-known punishment. I think there is no other clear instance in these stories; but in vol. i, p. 189, a Prince found a Yaksani trying to eat a dead body which was hanging in a tree; if this had been a case of suicide the relatives might have removed the body. Hanging the body at the four gates of the city after quartering it is mentioned in two of these tales (vol. i, pp. 86 and 89, and in No. 80, p. 20 of the present volume). Hanging is not referred to in the stories of the Low-Country Sinhalese, where one might expect to meet with it. In the Wevaelkaetiya Inscription (Epigraphia Zeylanica, vol. i, p. 250), King Mahinda IV. (A.D. 1026-1042) ordered that persons convicted of robbery with violence should be hanged. Mr. Wickremasinghe in giving a translation of this inscription added a note to the effect that he had not found this punishment mentioned elsewhere in Sinhalese literature; but in the Mahavansa, ii, lxxv, vv. 166 and 196, and in the Rajavaliya (translation), p. 66, there are accounts of the hanging of people. In Marshall's Ceylon, p. 39, it is stated that "the punishment of death was usually carried into effect by hanging, or being killed by elephants." In Davy's work also, p. 182, it is said that "the sentence of death, in cases of murder, was carried into effect by hanging." In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 185, a young man who was in love with a Princess received her portrait from a painter, and "spent his time in gazing on, coaxing and touching, and adorning her picture; ... he seemed to see her, though she was only a painted figure, talking to him and kissing him, ... and he was contented, because the whole world was for him contained in that piece of painted canvas." In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. i, p. 183), when a Wazir showed his young son to a Sultan, the latter was so much pleased with him that he said, "O Wazir, thou must needs bring him daily to my presence." NO. 150 THE STORY OF KING BAMBA In a certain country there is a King. There are seven Princesses (daughters) of the King. He does not allow the seven Princesses to go anywhere outside [the palace precincts], and having caused a pool to be dug in the very palace for bathing, also, the Princesses bathe [in it]. When they have bathed, there is a drain for letting out the water. A Turtle came along the drain, and having entered the pool, when it was there, one day the water having filled the pool the Princesses went. While they were having water-games, one Princess struck against the Turtle, and while she was crying out [in alarm], the other six having become afraid sprang ashore. Having sprung there and gone running, they told their father the King. Afterwards the King and Ministers having come and opened the drain, when they looked after the water lowered there was a Turtle. The Ministers took away the Turtle. Thereupon the King said, "For the fault that it frightened my Princesses, what is the suitable punishment to inflict on this one?" Then a Minister said, "Having fixed a noose to its neck and hung it up for thirty paeyas (twelve hours), let it go." Thereupon another Minister said, "The punishment is not good enough. Not in that way. Having prepared a bon-fire you ought to put this Turtle into the bon-fire." Thereupon the Turtle laughed. Then yet [another] Minister said, "That punishment is not good enough; I will tell you one. In the Atirawati [281] river the water is very swift; the water goes and falls into the Naga residence. [282] Having taken that one you ought to put it into that." Then the Turtle, after having shrugged its shoulders, said, "O Lord, Your Majesty, though you should inflict all other punishments don't inflict that punishment on me." Just as it was saying it, the King said, "Ade! Take that to that very one and put it in." After that, the Ministers having taken the Turtle put it into the Atirawati river. When it was put in, the Turtle, having gone turning and turning round, fell into the Naga residence. Well then, the shore is not a suitable place. Now then, the Turtle thinks, "Should I stay thus the Nagayas, seizing me, will eat me. Because of it, I must go near the great Naga King, Mahakela [283] by name." The great Naga King, Mahakela by name, having seen this Turtle, asked, "Whence camest thou? Who art thou?" Then the Turtle gave answer, "O Lord, Your Majesty, they call me, indeed, the Minister, Purnaka by name, of King Bamba of Bamba City. Because there was no other man to come [to make] appearance (daekuma) before Your Honour (numba-wahanse), His Majesty our King sent me." Then the Naga King asked, "What is the business for which he sent thee?" Then the Turtle says, "There are seven Princesses of His Majesty our King. Out of them, His Majesty our King is willing to give any Princess you want, for the Naga residence. Because of it he sent me." Thereupon the Naga King says, "It is good. If he is thus willing I will cause two persons to make the journey with thee." Then the Turtle says, "O Lord, Your Majesty, permission has been given to me for [only] seven days' [absence]; because of it, I must go this very day." Afterwards the great Naga King, Mahakela by name, having despatched two Nagayas, said, "Ye having gone to the world of men (nara-lowa), looking into matters there, until ye come back do no injury to anyone." Well then, when these two Nagayas and the Turtle are coming along the Turtle says, "I am unable to go like Your Honours go; having lifted me up carry me a little." After that, the two Nagayas, lifting up the Turtle, came [with him] to this world. Having come near the city, the Turtle said, "Now then, place me on the ground; I cannot go thus. When I have gone to the palace, the Princesses having come and said, 'Our Minister has come,' will ask at my hand certain articles. Because of it, I will go to that pool; until the time when I come [after] plucking a handful of flowers, you stay here." Having said [this], the Turtle went to the pool; after it descended [into it] those two Nagayas are looking [out for it]. The Turtle having gone to the pool, got hid. The two Nagayas having gone to Bamba City, after they went near the King, the King asked, "From what country came ye?" Then the Nagayas said, "What is [the meaning of] that speech that Your Honour is saying? Your Honour must understand. By Your Honour a Minister [was] sent to our Naga dwelling-place--was he not?--thereafter to tell us to come. That there are Your Honour's seven Princesses, Your Honour's Minister, Purnaka by name, went and told our King. Afterwards our King sent us two, with Your Honour's Minister, Purnaka by name." Then King Bamba says, "Is it true that a King like me gives [in] marriage to frog-eating beasts like you?" Having said it, he scolded them with many low words. Afterwards the two Nagayas having gone again to the Naga residence told the Naga King, "King Bamba scolded us much;" having said it the two wept. Afterwards collecting as many Nagayas as were [there], the Naga King having come to Bamba City, the Naga King called Mahakela and yet [another] Naga King twined [themselves] from the King's head down to the two feet, and raising their heads above [him] asked at the hand of King Bamba, "Wilt thou give thy Princess or not?" King Bamba said, "To thy taking any Princess thou wantest to thy country, there is not any impediment by me." Afterwards the Naga King [284] having taken a good [looking] Princess, [a daughter of the King], and gone to the Naga residence, married the Princess to a Nagaya. During the time when she was [there] a child [was] conceived in her womb. After it was conceived, ten months having become complete she bore a Nagaya. That Nagaya in not much time having become big, asked at the hand of his mother, "Mother, what is [the reason] why you alone are unable to take the appearance you want?" Then the Princess said, "Son, how can I take the appearance I want? I am a human being (manussayek)." The Nagaya asks, "How, mother, was the manner in which you came to this country?" Then his mother says, "In this manner: As many Nagayas as were in this Naga residence having gone and fought with our father the King, taking me came away." Afterwards the Naga Prince says, "Mother, I cannot stay in this country; I must go to the world of men. For it, give me permission." Afterwards his mother gave the Naga Prince permission. Well then (etin), the Nagaya having come to the world of men began to practise asceticism in a rock cave. When no long time had gone in that manner, a Vaedda having seen that the Nagaya is in that rock cave, said to a snake charmer (ahi-kantayek), "I have seen a Nagaya thus. Canst thou catch him?" The snake charmer (ahi-kantakaya) having said "I can," and having gone with the Vaedda, as soon as he saw the Nagaya the snake charmer [by magic spells] put on it inability to move. [285] Having put it on, and caught the Nagaya, and at city by city successively [286] having made the Cobra dance, the snake charmer obtained many presents; the snake charmer became very wealthy. After that, the Nagaya's mother bore a Nagaya again. After that Nagaya also became big, just like the first Nagaya asked, he asked at the hand of his mother [regarding her appearance]. Then his mother, too, told him just like she told that first Nagaya. Afterwards, the Nagaya also asking permission at the hand of his mother to come to the world of men, on the very day when he came to the world of men, at the time when the snake charmer was making that first Cobra dance at the palace of King Bamba, creating a thousand hoods, the Nagaya who was born afterwards saw him. The dancing Nagaya also saw that that Nagaya is coming. At his very coming he sent a poisonous smoke to the snake charmer. The poisonous smoke having struck him, the snake charmer died at that very place. Afterwards, when the two Nagayas were conversing, the elder Nagaya said, "Our grandfather's palace, indeed, is this. Because of it, indeed, to-day I danced, creating a thousand hoods. From to-day I shall not dance again." Well then, the two, creating divine bodies, having gone to the midst of the forest, practised asceticism. North-western Province. In The Jataka, No. 543 (vol. vi, p. 83) there is an account of a tortoise (turtle) that frightened the semi-Naga sons of Brahmadatta, King of Benares, by raising its head out of the water of the royal pool when they were playing there. When it was netted the attendants suggested pounding it to powder in a mortar, or cooking and eating it, or baking it; and at last a Minister recommended that it should be thrown into the whirlpool of the Yamuna river. The turtle begged to be spared this last fate,--the one it desired,--but the King ordered it to be thrown into the river, in which a current led it to the dwelling of the Nagas. When the sons of the Naga King Dhatarattha found it, the turtle invented the story of its being a messenger called Cittacula, sent by the King of Benares to offer his daughter to the Naga King. Four Naga youths returned with the turtle to fix the wedding day, the turtle concealing itself in a pool on the way, on the plea of collecting lotus flowers. When the Nagas were treated with scorn, the Naga King and his forces compelled the King to surrender his daughter Samuddaja, who was married to the Naga King. Her second semi-Naga son out of four with only his Naga wife's knowledge went to fast on the earth, with a view to being re-born among the Gods. Lying as a cobra on an ant-hill he was pointed out by an outcast Brahmana, captured by means of a magical spell, taken to dance in villages, and at last brought to the King of Benares. The Naga's eldest brother disguised as an ascetic, with his Naga sister, disguised as a young frog that was hidden in his hair, rescued him. The heat from three drops of poison emitted by the frog turned the snake charmer into a leper; their virulence, had it not been magically quenched, would have caused a seven years' drought. Snake doctors in Ceylon classify the frog as a very poisonous form of serpent. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 213, a gold frog was the daughter of the Serpent King, who may have been a Naga. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 188, the story resembles that given in the Jataka tale. The King's name was Angada; he had a son and a daughter Añjana. When the turtle was caught the Ministers advised beheading it, burning it alive, or chopping it up and making it into soup; another said these deaths were not cruel enough, and recommended casting it into the sea; it was thrown into a river. The Naga's parents, sister, and brother sought for it in the form of birds, and the snake charmer was sent away by Angada, with presents. In the same work, vol. iii, p. 346, a Queen bore a human son after being visited by a great serpent while half asleep. Professor Chavannes referred to other early instances of such supposed births. In the Kolhan folk-tales (Bompas) appended to Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 452, there is an account of a woman who was married to a water-snake and lived with him under the water, where she bore four snake sons. In Kaffir Folk-Lore (Theal), p. 155, a girl became the wife of Long Snake; after she ran away her sister married him. When he visited their father the house was set on fire and he was killed. On p. 55 a girl married a five-headed snake who became a man. (See p. 401 below, also). NO. 151 CONCERNING A ROYAL PRINCESS AND A TURTLE At a certain period, at the time when a King and a Minister are passing the time with great trust [in each other], the King and the Minister had a talk in this manner. The talk, indeed, was thus: To the Minister the King says, "Minister, let us two at one time contract marriage; having contracted it, and your Queen (Devi) having borne a daughter, should my Queen bear a son let us accomplish the wedding festival of the two children who are born first." [This] was his speech. Thereupon the Minister said thus, "It is good, O King; your Queen having borne a Princess, should my Queen bear a Prince, [or] my Queen having borne a Princess should your Queen bear a Prince, let us accomplish the wedding festival," he said. At that the King having been much pleased, the two persons contracted marriage and remained passing the time in friendship. During the time when they are [thus], the royal Queen bore a Princess endowed with much beauty. On that very day [287] the Minister's Queen also bore a Turtle. Concerning the circumstance that the Minister's Queen bore the Turtle, the King and the Minister also remained in much grief. During the time when they were thus, the royal Queen bore yet six Princesses. At the time when she had borne [the last of them] ten years were fulfilled for the Princess whom she bore first. Thereupon this Minister asked the King thus, "O Lord, Your Majesty, for your Princess and my Turtle, for both of them, the age has now become equal. Because of it, now then, let us accomplish the wedding festival;" [thus] he spoke. At that time, getting into his mind the notion (lit., word) that, breaking the word the King has said at first, should he subsequently say a word otherwise he will go into hostility, the King unwillingly said thus: "You go and ask my Princess about it," he said. Thereupon the Minister having gone near the Princess asked her. The Princess said thus, "Ane! Appa! I cannot accomplish the festival of the marriage to that Turtle," she said. Thereupon the Minister, not even speaking anything about it, came out of the palace. Having come, while still a long time is going he remained without coming back. Having so remained, after no long time went by they were ready to accomplish the wedding festival for the other six Princesses of the King's, also. At that time the Minister having gone still [another] time, asked the King; the King told him in the very manner he said before that. Thereupon the Minister having gone asked the Princess. Thereupon the Princess said thus: "If I am to marry the Turtle, tell the Turtle to bring a Suriya-kanta flower; should he bring it I will marry him," she said. The Minister having returned [home], it having come [to him] he told it to the Turtle. "Father, I can bring and give it," the Turtle said. Then the Minister would say a word thus [doubtingly] to the Turtle, "Turtle, when would you bring it indeed?" Thereupon the Turtle, feeling (lit., bringing) shame at it in its mind, having descended into a river, went away; and having gone to the place where the Sun [God, Suriya], having risen, his chariot comes, and presented its head to [be crushed by] the chariot wheel, remained [there]. At that time the Sun asks thus, "O Turtle, why didst thou place thy head at this chariot wheel?" he asked. The Turtle says thus, "Ane! O Sun [God], you, Sir, must give me a fifth part from your rays (that is, one-fifth of their brilliancy). If not, unless I die here I will not go," it said. Thereupon the Sun having given power to the Turtle for the manner of its coming out into the light from its turtle shell, told it to come outside. Then by the authority of the Sun, the Turtle, abandoning the turtle shell, came into the light. After it came out it was created a man. Thereupon he gave him a fifth part from the Sun's rays. After he gave it, "What do you want still?" he asked. He said he wanted a Suriya-kanta flower also. Then the Sun, having shown the path to the house of the Devatawa who sleeps three months [at a time], and having said, "Thou having gone, when he arises while thou art displaying games then ask thou [regarding it]," the Sun rose on this side. Thereupon the Prince who was fettered by the disguise of the turtle, having gone near the Devatawa who sleeps three months, when he was displaying games the Devatawa awoke, and asked, "Because of what came you here?" The Prince said, "We came regarding the want of a Suriya-kanta flower for me." At that time the Devatawa showed him the path [leading] near the Devatawa who sleeps two months. Having gone there also, he awoke him. Having awakened, he asked the Prince thus, "Regarding what matter did you awake me?" he asked. There, also, the Prince said he came about the want of a Suriya-kanta flower. Thereupon the Devatawa showed him the path to the house of the Devatawa who sleeps one month. [288] Having gone there also, when he was displaying games that Devatawa also awoke. At that time he too asked regarding what want [he had come]. Thereupon he told him in the very manner he formerly said. After that, the Devatawa said thus, "Look there. When you have gone along that path there will be a pool in which the Virgin Women (Kanniya-Striyo [289]) bathe. Having gone there and been hidden, as soon as the Virgin Women have descended into the pool to bathe take even those persons' wearing apparel. There will be a dewalaya (temple) just there; having gone into the dewale shut the door yourself. Then the Virgin Women having come and told you to open the door, will make games, a disturbance, and the like. Do you, without opening the door through their saying those things, say thus: 'Except that should you bring and give me a Suri-kanta flower I will open the door and give you these ornaments, I will not otherwise give them.' Say [this]." While saying it he showed the Prince the path. The Prince having gone in that very manner, and got hid, while he was there, in the very way the Devatawa said, the Virgin Women came and descended into the pool to bathe. Thereupon this Prince, taking the wearing apparel of the Virgin Women, went into the dewalaya which was near there, and shut the door himself. At that time the Virgin Women having come played games [outside]. This Prince, not having looked in their direction even, in the very manner the Devatawa told him before asked for a Suriya-kanta flower. The Virgin Women said, "We will give a Suri-kanta flower; [be pleased] to give us our clothes." Thereupon the Prince while giving only [some] clothes for them to put on until the time when they give the Suriya-kanta flower, kept back the other wearing apparel. After that, the Virgin Women, having given oaths, begged for and got the other wearing apparel, too. [After] begging for them, they brought and gave him a Suriya-kanta flower. After they gave it, the Prince came near the Devatawa who told him the path. As soon as he came the Devatawa asked, "What else do you want?" "You must give me a power to beat men, even millions in number," he said. Thereupon the Devatawa having given him a cudgel, said, "However many [there may be], even to [the extent of] an army, place this cudgel in the road, and tell it [after] beating them to come back. [After] beating however many persons [there may be] it will come." Taking that also, the Prince went near the other Devatawa. When he went, that Devatawa also asked, "What else do you want?" Thereupon the Prince said, "You must still give me a [magic] lute (venawa), and a power to display the hidden things thought of." After that, having given him a bag called Kokka, [290] he said thus, "Having placed this bag called Kokka [hanging from your shoulder], think that anything you want is to make its appearance; anything you want will appear." Having said this he gave him it. He gave him a lute: "Being at any place you like, play (lit., rub) it; any person He [291] wants will hear and come," he said. Taking these and having come here from there, because the Virgin Women are possessors of the power of flight through the air, in order for them to come from the sky he remembered the party, and played the lute. Thereupon, the party came with the speed with which he played it. After they came, he gave that cudgel and the bag called Kokka, both of them, into the hand of the Virgin Women, saying, "When I want these, as soon as I play the lute you must very speedily bring and give me them;" and taking also the lute he crept into the turtle shell again, and came to his own city. What of his coming! Because he is inside the turtle shell he is still the Turtle. Well then, having given food and drink to the Turtle, "Did you bring a Suriya-kanta flower?" his father the Minister joked. Thereupon the Turtle said, "I have brought a Suriya-kanta flower." After that, "If so, bring it," the Turtle's father said. After that, having gone outside the city gate, when he was playing the lute the Virgin Women brought and gave him the Suri-kanta flower. After they gave it, having brought it he gave it into his father's hand. Having so given it, when he presented it to the Princess they accomplished the wedding festival of [the marriages of] six other Princes to the six younger Princesses who still remained to the King, and of the Turtle to the eldest Princess. Having accomplished it, during the time when they are thus those six Princes went hunting. Because they married and gave the eldest daughter to the Turtle, having built a house outside the palace and given it to these two, they separated [them from the others]. When this party are going near that house they ask at the hand of that eldest daughter, "Where [is he], Bola? Isn't thy Turtle going hunting?" Thereupon the Princess remains grieved at it. The Turtle, who had heard it, having called the Princess (devi), said, "Go to the royal palace, and asking for a horse and a sword for me bring them." At that speech the Princess went and asked for them at the King's hand. At that time the King having said, "For the Turtle what horses! what swords!" became angry at the Princess. The Princess having become grieved, told the Turtle that her father the King will not give them. After that, having said, "Asking for an old mare and a short sword, come [with them]," he sent her yet [another] time. After that, he gave her an old mare and a short sword. Having given them, after she brought them to the Turtle's house, to the Princess the Turtle says, "Pull creepers, and having placed me on the back of the mare, twine them [round me and the mare]." Thereupon the Princess having pulled creepers, wrapped [them round him on the mare]. Having wrapped them, making [the mare] bound he went somewhat far; and having come out of the turtle-shell, the Prince (as he now was), taking the lute, played the lute for the Virgin Women to come. Then the Virgin Women came. After they came, because those Princes went in white clothes on the backs of white horses, this Prince said, "You must bring and give me very speedily an excellent [292] horse, and a white dress, and an excellent [292] sword." Thereupon with that speed they brought and gave them. After they gave them, the Prince, having tied the old mare at a tree, putting on the [dress and] ornaments they brought, mounted on the back of the white horse. Having gone to a very large open place, and placed (that is, hung from his shoulder) the bag called Kokka, he thought, "A great number of all quadrupeds must assemble together in my presence." After that, all the quadrupeds that were in the midst of that forest, the whole having come, collected together. Without those six Princes meeting with any animal whatever, they approached near the Prince who had collected these quadrupeds together. Having arrived and said, "O Lord, where is Your Majesty going in the midst of this forest?" [the Princes], having paid reverence to him, made obeisance. Thereupon the Prince says, indeed, "I am the person who exercises sovereignty over the whole of the wild animals in the midst of this forest. Where are ye fellows going?" he asked falsely. At that time these six Princes said thus regarding it, "O Lord, we six persons came hunting; we did not meet with any animal whatever," they said. Thereupon this Prince says thus, "To you six persons I will give six deer should you cut off and give [me] six [pieces] of your cloths," he said. Thereupon having cut and given six pieces from the six cloths which the six Princes had been wearing, killing six deer they came away. Having allowed the party to come, this Prince descended from the back of the horse, and catching a rat and having killed it, brought it home; having come and having crept into the turtle-shell, he says thus [to his wife], "Give a half from this rat to your father the King, and cook the other piece for us two," he said. At that time the Princess doing thus, went and gave a half to the King. Thereupon the King having become angry at it, put her also outside the [palace] gate. The Princess, feeling (lit., bringing) vexation at it, having come weeping and weeping, the two cooked and ate the other half. In this way, six days they went hunting. On the whole of the six days the Turtle also having gone, gave hunting-meat to those six Princes, taking the jewelled rings from their fingers, ears, and the hairs of the head; all these when the seventh day was coming were finished. What of this Prince's acting with so much ability! That he is a Prince even yet any person you like has no knowledge. At the time when he is thus, having gone hunting and finished, on the seventh day making ready an eating like a very great feast they remained at the royal palace with the Kings [who had come for it]. Thereupon, on that day this Turtle was minded to bathe. Having become so minded, he told [his wife] to warm and give him water; having told her to give it, he told her to tie and give him mats also, round about [as a screen]. That day the Princess had boiled and boiled paddy at the hearth in the open space in front of the house. Having warmed water and tied the mats, she gave [it to him] to bathe. Having given it, this Princess went to light the fire [afresh] at the paddy hearth. When she was going, this Prince having gone to bathe, and having come out of the turtle-shell [within the screen], went outside from the place where the mats were tied, for the purpose of lowering water over his body. When he was going, this Princess having seen that he was a Prince, went running, and taking the turtle shell put it on the hearth at which she boiled that paddy. Thereupon the Prince having gone crying out, got only the lute that was in the turtle shell. The turtle shell burnt away. At that time the Prince, decorating himself, went to the royal palace. After he went he began to relate the manner in which he gave hunting-meat to the six Princes. While telling it he showed the [rings from the] fingers, ears, and hair, and the pieces of cloth of the six Princes. After he showed them, [the King], having given the sovereignty to the Prince, made the other Princes servants of the Prince. He married those six Princesses also to that very Prince. Finished. North-western Province. In The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 141, a tortoise (turtle) Prince went to the Sun in search of divine Parijata flowers; see vol. i, p. 71. The Queen bore the turtle and the Minister's wife the girl. The Minister refused to agree to their marriage, but the girl told him that she had vowed to marry whoever brought the divine flowers. The Apsaras who gave him the flowers also presented him with a vina, or lute, playing on which would summon her. From the first sage who showed him the way and who opened his eyes at each watch he got a magic cudgel in exchange for it, from the second sage who opened his eyes after two watches a purse which supplied everything required, from the third sage who opened his eyes after three watches he received magic sandals which would transport their wearer wherever desired. After exchanging the lute for each of these articles he recovered it each time by the aid of the cudgel. Afterwards he left the articles with the Apsaras, returned as a turtle with the flowers, and was married to the Minister's daughter. After his marriage the husbands of his sisters-in-law went hunting, the turtle followed tied on the back of a horse, got his club from a banyan tree where he had hidden it, went to the hunt on the magic sandals, and got from his brothers-in-law (who thought him Siva) the tips of their little fingers and their rings. On regaining his Prince's form he produced these, but the brothers-in-law were not punished. His wife broke the turtle shell when he was bathing, and in the end he succeeded to the throne. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. iv, p. 54, in a Bengal story by Mr. G. H. Damant, a Prince went in search of a beautiful woman seen in a dream by his father. An ascetic told him of five heavenly nymphs who came to bathe in a pool at the full moon, and instructed him to take their clothes and remain concealed. After being cursed and turned to ashes he was revived by the ascetic, again carried off their clothes, and sat in Siva's temple. They cursed him ineffectively and then agreed that he should marry one of them. He selected the ugliest, who was the disguised beauty; she gave him a flute by means of which he could summon her at any time. The rest of the story is unlike the Sinhalese one. In Mr. Thornhill's Indian Fairy Tales, p. 15, a Prince went in search of his wife, an Apsaras who had left him, to a sage who slept six months at a time, and after attending on him for three months was accompanied by him to the pool in which the Apsarases bathed on the full moon night. After being once turned to ashes and revived by the sage, he again stole his wife's shawl and escaped with it to the sage's hut, where he was safe. The Apsarases then agreed to give up his wife if he could select her. He picked out the ugliest, and Indra afterwards turned her into a mortal. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 343, a Prince secreted the feather dress of one of four fairies who, in the form of white doves, came to bathe at a pool in a palace garden. She was then unable to fly away, and he married her. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 452, a person who was in search of his master, a Prince, was advised by a hermit to carry off the clothes of one of the heavenly nymphs who came to bathe in a river. He did so, was followed by her, and the hermit agreed to return her garments on her giving information of the Prince's whereabouts; she afterwards became the ascetic's wife. She is termed a Vidyadhari. In the same work, vol. ii, p. 576, a gambler by order of the God Mahakala (Bhairava) similarly obtained a daughter of Alambusha, the Apsaras, as his wife. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 54, by the advice of a sage a hunter threw a magic unerring chain received from Nagas, over a Kinnara Princess when she bathed at a pool at the full moon; and she was unable to escape. She could fly only when wearing a head-jewel. The female Jinn who in the form of birds visited pools in order to bathe in them, and could not fly without their feather dresses, have been mentioned in vol. i, p. 311. See the Arabian Nights, vol. iii, p. 417, and vol. v, p. 68. In the second story the hero obtained in the Wak Islands a cap of invisibility, and a copper rod which gave power over seven tribes of Jinn, and by their aid recovered his wife and sons. He got the articles by inducing two sons of a magician to race for a stone which he threw; while they were absent he put on the cap and disappeared. On his return journey he presented the articles to the two magicians who had helped him. In the same work, vol. iv, p. 161, a man from Cairo obtained for a magician three magical articles, and received from him as a reward a pair of inexhaustible saddle-bags which provided any foods. In Folk-Tales of Hindustan (Shaik Chilli), p. 72, a Prince who was wandering in search of his fairy wife received from an ascetic, a musician, and a youth respectively, an iron rod which could beat anyone, a guitar that entranced all, and a cap of invisibility; from a Yogi he obtained balsam for healing burns, and slippers that transported him where desired. In Les Avadanas (Julien), No. lxxiv, vol. ii, p. 8, each one of two demons (Pisacas) had a box which supplied everything desired, a stick that rendered him invincible, and a shoe that enabled the bearer to fly, and each one wanted to possess those of the other demon. A man who offered to divide them put on both the shoes and flew off, taking the other articles. In Chinese Nights' Entertainment (A. M. Fielde), p. 10, a pious man who was wrecked and cast on an island obtained food and clothing from the inhabitants, and an apparent outcast gave him a hat of invisibility, a cloak of flight, and a basket that when tapped filled with gems. He left them to his three sons, and the power of the articles gradually declined. At p. 58, a woman had a son encased in a chank shell, which he could leave at will. His bride one night hid the shell, and he remained with her for some years, until her grandmother put it out to dry. He got into it, crawled into the sea, and disappeared. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 148, in a Kalmuk story, an inexhaustible bag was stolen from Dakinis (female evil spirits) by a man. When his brother went to get one the spirits seized him, drew out his nose to a length of five ells, and made nine knots on it. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 365, a Prince who worked as an under-gardener was selected by a Princess and married to her. The King's sons and sons-in-law through jealousy arranged a hunting expedition, and left him only a mare that no one could ride. He reached the jungle first, shot a jackal, bear, and leopard, cut off the tail, nose, and ear respectively, and when the others, who found no game, took back these animals and showed them as their own game, he produced his trophies. It was settled that he should succeed to the throne. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 41, the son of the youngest Queen, who was born with a removable monkey skin, three times performed the task of hitting a Princess with an iron ball in his Prince's form, and was married to her. After saving his life when the sons of the other six Queens threw him out of a boat into the water, his wife burnt his monkey skin, and he retained his human shape. At p. 130, the hunting incident is given, six Princes taking part in it and meeting with the Prince who, while disguised as a labourer, had been selected and married by the youngest daughter of their father-in-law. The others found no game, begged a meal from him, and were burnt with a red-hot pice on their backs, "the mark of a thief." The Prince rode home in his own form, and afterwards exposed the six Princes who had mocked him on account of his low origin. At p. 156, a Prince found four fakirs quarrelling over four articles, a flying bed, an inexhaustible bag, a bowl which yielded as much water as was required, a stick and rope that would beat and tie up everyone. While they raced for arrows that he shot, he got on the bed and went off with the other things. In Kaffir Folk-Lore (Theal), p. 170, a boy got a pair of inexhaustible horns which when spoken to supplied everything desired. They even provided him with a fine house. NO. 152 THE STORY OF A KING AND A PRINCE This is partly a variant of the story No. 22, in vol. i, called there "The Kule-Baka Flowers." The first part is a repetition of the narrative given in that one, up to the point where the King's sons were imprisoned at the gambling house. It then continues as follows:-- The Prince who also went afterwards having gone near a widow-mother of that very city [after] filling a bag with bits of plates, when he said, "Mother, a son of yours was lost before, is it not so?" the widow woman said "Yes." Then the Prince while weeping falsely said, "It is I myself." After that, she said, weeping, "Ane! Son, where did you go all this time?" [293] Having gone inviting him into the house, and given him to eat, after he finished she asked, "What is there in this bag, son?" The Prince says falsely, "In that bag are masuran, mother," he said. The woman says, "What are masuran to me, son! Look at that: the heap of masuran which the King has given for my having worked." After that, the Prince asks, "Whose house is that, mother?" Then the woman says, "Ane! Son, at that house an extremely wicked [294] woman gambles. Should anyone go to gamble she gives him golden chairs into which she puts [magical] life, to sit upon. She has put [magical] life into the lamp also. [When gambling], the woman is sitting upon the silver chair," she said. After that, after the woman went to sleep, the Prince having emptied the pieces of plate in the house, went to gamble [after] filling the bag with the [woman's] masuran. Afterwards, that gambling woman just as on other days having brought a golden chair, placed it for the Prince. Then the Prince says, "I am not accustomed to sit on golden chairs. Give me the silver chair," he said. The woman says, "It is not a fault to sit [on the golden chair]." The Prince says, "Having given me that silver chair here, and put aside this lamp also, come to gamble, bringing a good lamp," he said. Then the woman being unable [to effect] the punishment of the Prince, gave him the silver chair, and bringing a different lamp sat down to gamble. After that the Prince won. After he won he caused those aforesaid six Princes to be brought from the place where they were put in prison, and having burnt [their] names on their haunches, [295] sent them away. After that, this Prince said he must contract marriage with that woman who gambled. The woman says, "If you are to marry me please bring the Surangana flowers." [296] Then the Prince says, "That is not a journey for which I came here. The two eyes of my father the King have become blind. On account of it I am going to seek the Kule-Baka flowers. [After] finding them, on the return journey I will bring the Surangana flowers," he said. Having said this, he went to ask the path going to the Kule-Baka garden. When he was going near the Yakas who were on guard on it, a Princess whom the Yakas had seized and carried off came up, and said to the Prince, "What came you here for?" "Through news that you are here I came to marry you," [he replied]. Then the Princess says, "Should the Yakas come they will eat you up," she said. The Prince then says, "By any possible contrivance save me," he said. The Princess then opened the door of a rock house (cave), and having taken the Prince and put him in it, shut the door. After that, the Yakas having come, ask, "Who came here?" The Princess says, "Amme! I cannot be here [to be questioned] in this way. Seek and give me a husband." Then the Yakshani says, "There is no seeking and giving [297] for me. If you can, seek and take one," she said. The Princess says, "I will find one if you will not do any harm [to him]." The Yakshani said, "We will do no harm to him." "If you swear by the censure of your deity, I will show you my husband," she said. Afterwards she swore. After she took the Prince into the light, she asks the Prince, "What do you eat?" The Yakshani asks. The Prince said, "I eat ripe Jak, Waraka (a kind of Jak fruit), Sugar-cane, Pine-apples." The Yakshani went and brought and gave him them. Afterwards, after the Prince ate, she said, "Where are you going?" Then the Prince says, "Tell me the path [by which] to go to the Kule-Baka garden." Having informed him of the path, and given him also a robe [endowed] with the power of flying through the air, she told him to go. He went to the Kule-Baka garden, and [after] plucking the Kule-Baka flower that was in the pool, having come, calling the Princess, to the place where he gambled, he caused her to remain there. The Prince, taking the Kule-Baka flower, was going near his father the King. At the time when he was going across a river those six Princes were [there], cooking and cooking rice. Also at that very place a rich man without his two eyes was saying and saying, "To a man who should cure my two eyes I will give goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load, and also a tusk elephant." He was saying and saying [this]. This Prince having heard it, said, "I will give you them. [Please] bring the presents you mentioned." After he brought them he rubbed [298] his eyes with the Kule-Baka flower; after that, he succeeded in seeing the light. Those six Princes having seen it, spoke together: "Let us beat him, and snatch away the flower." The Prince having heard that speech, said, "Taking this flower for yourselves, give me a little cooked rice." Afterwards, taking the flower they gave him cooked rice. Having eaten the cooked rice the Prince came back to the place where he gambled. After that, while through hunger for them he was going to seek the Surangana flowers, three Princes who were coming mounted on horse-back asked this Prince, "Where are you going?" Then the Prince says falsely, "I am going in hunger in the midst of this forest." Then a Prince having unfastened a packet of cooked rice and given the Prince to eat, they went away. As they were going, this Prince went after them very softly. Having gone, when he looked he saw that those three Princes, having descended from horse-back, three times turned round the dewala (temple), and jumped into a vessel of boiling oil [and disappeared]. Having seen it, this Prince also having turned round the dewala three times, jumped into the oil vessel. After he jumped in, the deity, bringing that Prince out of the oil vessel, covered him with a white cloth when he had struck [him] three blows with a white wand. After he arose, when he asked, "What is the matter for which thou camest here?" [the Prince replied], "I came in order to seek and take Surangana flowers." Then the deity told him the path:--"Look there. When you are going along that path [you will meet with a pool. When she has put her cloth on the bank and is bathing], take the cloth of the woman who comes after three others to bathe in the pool, and come back [with it]," he said. After that, he took the cloth, and came. Afterwards that Princess having come running, gave him a chank shell into which she had put [magical] life, and taking the cloth went away. When he was coming taking the chank shell, an ascetic begged for the chank shell. The Prince says, "If you will give me presents I will give you the chank shell," he said. After that, he gave him a wallet (olo-payiya), assuring him that the things thought of will come into existence [in it]. After he gave it, the Prince, thinking of the things he wanted (the celestial flowers), put his hand into it, and when he looked they were inside the wallet. After that, the Prince, having become satisfied, with pleasure went away [and rejoined his two wives]. North-western Province. See the Notes appended to the previous story. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. iii, p. 150, in a legend of the origin of Patna, by Mr. Basanta Kumar Ningi, two Rakshasas came to a boy with three articles left by their father, out of which he cheated them. One was a bag from which all kinds of jewels could be extracted when the hand was inserted. The story is stated to be from the Brihat Katha. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 13, they were the sons of the Asura Maya, and were wrestling for the things. The boy suggested that they should race for them and while they were doing so he put on the magic shoes which were included in them, and disappeared with the staff and the vessel which supplied any required food. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 378, a shipwrecked Prince arrived at a cave which was the residence of a Rakshasa who had carried off a Princess, and who kept her there. She received him well, and hid him in a strong box. When the Rakshasa returned he smelt the man, and insisted on being shown him; but the brave behaviour of the Prince pleased him, and he permitted him to live in the cave, and brought presents for the two when he returned from his expeditions in search of prey. As they still feared he might eat them, the Princess managed to ascertain from him that his life was in a queen-bee in a honey-comb which could be reached by anyone who sat on a magic stool that was in the cave, which transported the sitter where he wished. Next day, when the Rakshasa was absent, the Prince wrapped himself up, smashed the comb, crushed and killed the bee, the Rakshasa died, and they escaped on the stool. NO. 153 THE STORY OF THE GOURD The Queen of the King of Maeda Maha-Nuwara being without children, seven years went by. To obtain children she gave alms-halls (dan-sael). Having given them she obtained a child. It was [necessary] for the King to go for a war. In sorrow for it, having called together women who assist [at child-birth], and many people, he gave them [to the Queen]. On his return journey she had not borne a child. On the very day on which he came, pains having seized her she gave birth [to a Gourd]. The women who were there, having taken the Gourd which this Queen bore, in order to throw it away at another city took the Gourd to a flower garden at the city, and put it there. When the garland-making mother (mal-kara amma) went to pluck flowers, "May I also pluck flowers?" the Gourd asked. "How will you, Gourd, pluck flowers?" she said. "That does not matter to you; I will pluck flowers. I must go to the garland-making mother's house," it said. Having gone [there], "I will plait flower chaplets (malwadan)," it said. To plait the chaplets it asked for the thread and needle. Better than the plaiting of the flower chaplets on other days it plaited the flower chaplets, and gave them. Having seen [the beauty of] the flower chaplets [when the flower mother took them to the palace], the Princess asked, "Who plaited the flower chaplets to-day?" she asked; [she was informed that the Gourd did it]. The Gourd was minded to contract marriage with the young Queen (Princess). It asked the King of the city [to give his consent]. "If the Queen (Princess) [299] is willing I am willing," he said. [When it asked the Princess, she said], "Having carried upstairs gold from the house of the garland-making mother, should you tie up [as a decoration] cloths [worked] with gold, in the morning I will celebrate the wedding festival." In the morning the Gourd went upstairs. It having gone [with the gold and hung up the cloths], the wedding festival was celebrated. The Gourd laughs at its contracting (lit., tying) the marriage with the young Queen. Through shame at it, grief was produced in her. When she asked for a medicine for [the illness caused by] the grief, they said, "Should you eat the flesh of the Fish (mastaya) in the midst of the sea, and the fat, you will be cured." [The King] having constructed six ships for the six Princes [the brothers of the Princess], told them to go to bring the Fish. The Gourd also at that time said [to the Princess], "Ask [for permission] for me also to go." [She asked her father accordingly]. Regarding that the King said, "The Gourd itself will apply medical treatment!" Having said it he gave it a broken-legged horse and a piece of broken sword. Taking them, it went near a Bo tree, and having tied the horse at the tree, [and assumed a human shape], put on clothes [taken] from a hollow in the Bo tree, and went away from the palace. The Gourd, [now a Prince], says, "The God Sakra (Indra) is I myself." The six persons for whom the ships were constructed and given, went away [on the sea, in search of the Fish]. When [the Gourd Prince] told those six persons [to catch the Fish], the whole six on one side tried to take it, [but failed]. They having said, "We cannot take it," he asked, "For me to take and give you it, what mark am I to make on you?" [They came to terms, and he caught the Fish]. Having stretched out the tongues of the six persons he cut them, and they gave him their jewelled finger-rings. When they brought from the Gourd [Prince] and gave [the Princess] the flesh and fat [of the Fish] the illness was cured. [As the six Princes claimed to have caught the Fish themselves, the Prince, who had left his clothes at the Bo tree and had again taken the form of the Gourd], caused many persons to be brought, and told them to stretch out and look at the tongues of these six persons. [It also produced their finger-rings as proof that it was the Gourd who had caught the Fish]. Having shown that the tongues of the six persons were cut, the Gourd, having employed the servants, [made them] cut open the Gourd. [The God Sakra then rose out of it in his Prince's form, and said,] "I am not [of] the things conceived in a womb. Because for the god Sakra that is impure, having created the Gourd I was born [in it]. As there was deficiency of merit for our father the King, I [thus] caused it to be cast away." (Probably he then returned to Indraloka, his divine world, but the narrator omitted to state this. There were many other omissions at which it will be seen that I have endeavoured to supply the necessary words). North-western Province. In the Maha Bharata (Vana Parva, cvi), a wife of King Sagara bore a gourd. The King was about to throw it away, but a celestial voice ordered him to preserve the seeds carefully, and each became a son; these were sixty thousand in number. In Korean Tales (Dr. H. N. Allen), p. 98 ff., a number of people made their appearance out of gourds which grew on plants obtained from seeds brought by swallows. NO. 154 THE STORY OF THE SHELL SNAIL In a certain country there are a Gamarala and a Gama-mahange (his wife), it is said. The children of those two are two sons and a daughter. The big son one day having worked a rice field, at noon came home for food. The Gama-mahange was a little late in giving the food. The son quarrelled [with her] over it. That day at night the Gama-mahange spoke to the Gamarala that he must bring and give an assistant (a wife) to the son. On the next day the Gamarala having gone to seek a girl, while he was going asking and asking from village to village, in even a single place he did not meet with a girl. Afterwards the Gamarala having come to the village, when he was there a considerable time, again the son of the Gamarala quarrelled with the Gama-mahange. While he was quarrelling, the Gamarala and the Gama-mahange, both of them, said, "Don't thou stay making and making quarrels here. Go to any place thou wantest." Afterwards the son went somewhere or other. The other younger son is going for rice-field work. For that elder brother who went away the younger sister had much affection. Because of it, from the day on which the elder brother went away this younger sister through grief does not eat. Having said, "Without seeing our elder brother I cannot remain," she is weeping. Then the younger elder brother says, "Why, younger sister? I am [here]; is that insufficient for you?" Then the younger sister says, "Why, elder brother, are you saying thus? If two persons give me more assistance than the assistance of one person, how good it is for me!" Afterwards, that elder brother one day having gone to the rice field, at the time when he was chopping the earthen ridges (niyara) met with a Shell Snail (golu-bellek). Having brought the Snail home, and given it into the hand of the younger sister, he said, "There, younger sister! I brought for you a small round-backed elder brother. Because of it, don't you be sorrowful now." Afterwards, that younger sister, taking the Snail, having wrapped it in a cloth and placed it in a box, put it away. Having put it away, three times a day having taken the Snail and looked at it, she says, "Our two parents having quarrelled with our elder brother drove him away. On account of it our little elder brother brought you and gave you to me. Owing to it [also], little round-backed elder brother, there is grief in my mind." She having said and said [this], and every day having said thus when putting it away, one day the Gamarala stayed listening. Having been listening he says at the hand of the Gama-mahange, "What, Bolan, is this thing that our girl is saying? You also come and listen." Then the Gama-mahange having come and been listening, the two persons spoke together, "It is through grief, indeed, that her elder brother is not [here]. There is no need to say anything about it." Well then, while the girl in that manner for a considerable time is saying and saying thus to the Shell Snail, one day when the girl is saying so again, the snail shell having burst open a Prince was born looking like a sun or a moon. After that, the girl having thrown away the bits of shell into which the snail shell burst, bathed the Prince, and took him. Having sent milk into a finger for the Prince, he continued to drink milk from her finger. When he was there no long time a tale-bearer told the King that there was a very good [looking] Prince at the Gamarala's house. Afterwards the King having sent Ministers caused them to look. The Ministers having looked and having gone, told the King, "The Prince, indeed, is the royal Prince sort." Afterwards the King gave permission [300] for summoning the Prince and the mother who was rearing the Prince to come to the palace. After that, the Ministers having gone to the Gamarala's house brought the Prince and the Gamarala's girl to the palace. Afterwards, the King taking charge of the Gamarala's girl and the Prince, when for the Prince the age of about twelve years was filled up, the King died. Having appointed the Prince to the sovereignty he remained ruling the kingdom with the ten kingly virtues. North-western Province. The feeding of a Prince from the finger is found in the Maha Bharata (Drona Parva, lxii), in which Indra is represented as thus feeding Prince Mandhatri, who made his appearance in the world out of his father's left side, as a consequence of the latter's having drunk some sacrificial butter or ghi, which had the magic property of causing the birth of a son. The food thus provided was so nourishing that the infant grew to twelve cubits in as many days. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), this Prince was not fed thus, but was suckled by the eighty thousand wives of his father, having been born from a tumour on the crown of the King's head; his boyhood occupied twenty-one million (and a few hundred thousand) years. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 216, in a legend of the founding of the Vaisali kingdom, two children are described as being reared by a religious mendicant by means of a supply of milk which issued from his thumbs. NO. 155 THE QUEEN OF THE ROCK HOUSE [301] A certain Gamarala had two daughters and two sons. During the time when they were [there], the elder sister and the younger sister go to the pansala to make flower offerings. Having gone, the younger sister when making the flower offering wishes, "May I receive wealth," she says. The elder sister when making the flower offering wished, "May I succeed in eating the bodies of the relatives whom there are of mine." The younger sister does not mention the form in which she wishes this wish. When there is a little time [gone] in this manner, having spoken about a marriage for the big daughter, the wedding was [made] ready. It having taken place, they went calling her to another village. Having gone, after a little time had gone the woman began to eat the men of that city. Having eaten and eaten them, after the men of the city were finished she ate also the husband who married [302] her. Belonging to him a female child was born. Keeping the child, without anyone of the city being with the woman she was alone. Then her father came. That day night, having given him amply to eat and drink,--there was a house [303] adjoining the house [303] in which she is; in the direction of the house in which she is, between that house and this house the wall was closed with coconut leaves,--in the house she allowed her father who came, to sleep at night. Having given it she said, "Father, at this village is much small-pox. The men of this village and my husband were lost [by it]. Having been lost, [while] so much time was passing you did not remember me. It happened that you did not want me; you have wanted only younger sister. It is good. What am I to do?" Having said [this] she wept a weeping. [304] Thereupon the old man says, "No, daughter, I have been ill. Because of it, indeed, I did not succeed in coming," he said. In that manner having said false words, having been weeping and weeping, she told him to sleep in the house beyond the house in which she is, and having spread mats gave them. Having given them she said, "Father, don't you be afraid; I also, so long a time, remained alone, indeed, with this child," she said. This woman also, having come away, lay down. [305] Having been lying down, after her father went to sleep this woman brought a stick, and having beaten and killed him, during that night ate that man also. Owing to that man's being missing, his son came. Him, also, in that very way she ate. His younger brother also came; him, also, she ate in that manner. Owing to the three persons, the persons who went, not coming, both [the father's] wife and younger daughter went. When they went, says this woman, "Ane! Mother, the men of this city, and father who came from there also, and both younger brothers and all, died. Keeping this girl, I am alone in this village. From anyone of you, at any time whatever, there will not be assistance [for me]. I said you will come; since yesterday I have been expecting you," and weeping she went in front of her mother and younger sister. Having gone and talked, she allowed the two persons to sit in another house. Having allowed them to sit in it, she made ready and gave food and drink, and having allowed those two persons to lie down, she told them to go to sleep. She also having gone lay down. What though she allowed this mother and daughter to sleep! In the mind of that younger sister of hers is that formerly wished word when making the flower offering. Owing to that circumstance she remained during that day and night without sleep. Her mother, snoring and snoring, was sleeping well. Having heard the snoring, this human-flesh-eating woman, taking also the men-killing party, came in order to kill and eat these two persons. When [they were] coming there, that girl cried out, "Elder sister, a dog came," she cried. Then this girl having gone into the house, and having been in the house, at the time of her coming half closing the door, said, "Ci, Ci, dog!" and came crying out. In this way [the elder sister] came two or three times. What of her coming! She was unable to eat them. [306] In this manner the girl having been awake, at the watch when it becomes light came calling her mother, and they began to run away. At the time when they were going this human-flesh-eating Rakshasi awoke. Having awoke, when she looked she got to know that these two persons have gone. Ascertaining it, that woman, learning that they had done this very trick, began to run [after them]. At the time when she was going running she met with these two persons. When meeting with them that girl cried out. While [she was] coming, when the big woman looked [back], having seen that this one is running [after them] she became stone there. That girl began to run [off alone]. That Rakshasi having eaten the point of the stone which her mother had become, when she looked that girl was running off. Because she was unable to eat the stone she bounded on the girl's path. When she was going bounding [on it], at the root of an Indi (wild date) tree the door of a rock house opened. After that, this Princess crept into the rock house [and the door closed again]. After that, the Rakshasi who became a demon went away. Then, when a King, the Ministers, and gentlemen (mahattayo) came walking, [the King] said a four-line verse. When he was saying it, this Princess who was in the rock house at the root of the Indi tree also said a four-line verse. Then anger having come to the King, he said, "There! Who is the person who said that four-line verse? Look and seek," he said. Thereupon, when the party sought and looked, anyone you like was not there. The party having gone back, and come to the King, told him, "O Lord, Your Majesty, we sought and looked everywhere; we indeed are unable to find her," they said. After that, the King said yet a four-line verse. To that also the Princess, being in the rock, said a four-line verse. At that time, also, he told the Ministers to seek; on that occasion, too, they could not find her. On that occasion, also, having come to the King, they said, "O Lord, Your Majesty, we this time also looked; we indeed are unable to find her," they said. After that, the King having gone near the spot where she said the four-line verse, said yet also a four-line verse. When [he was] saying it, having been very near under the ground she said a four-line verse. Then the King asks, "Did a Yaka, or a Yaksani, or a Deity, or a Devatawa (Godling) say that four-line verse? You must inform me to-day," the King said. Then the Princess who is in the rock house at the root of the Indi tree, said, "I am not a Yaka, and not a Deity, and not a Devatawa; I am a human being. Who speaks outside there I cannot ascertain. Because of it you must tell me who it is," the Princess who is in the rock house at the root of the Indi tree said. Then the King says, "I am not a Yaka. Me indeed they call the King of this city," the King said. "If so, is the truth the contrary, is the truth the contrary?" three times she asked. The King also assured her of his kingly state. After that the stone door of the rock house at the root of the Indi tree opened. After it opened, having seen that the Queen was there, possessing a figure endowed with much beauty, to the degree that he was unable to look [at her], the King was minded to marry her. Having been so minded, placing her on the back of the tusk elephant he went to the city at which he stayed. Having gone [there, and married her], when a little time was going a child was conceived (uppannaya) in the Queen's womb. When it was conceived, because the city in which she stayed was a solitary city (tani nuwara) in that country there was no midwife-mother. Because of it, when going through the middle of the jungle in order to proceed to yet [another] city, [she and the King arrived at an abandoned city]. Having arrived, this King walked around the city, and when he looked about, from one house, only, he saw that smoke goes. Having seen it he went to the house, and when he looked a woman and the woman's little girl were [there]. After that, this woman saw that the King is going. Having seen him she asked at the King's hand, "Lord, where is Your Majesty going?" she asked. Then the King said, "The Queen of the rock house at the root of the Indi tree having married me, she is with a child. For it there being no midwife, I came to seek one," the King said. Then the Rakshasa-goblin [307] got into her mind, "What of my younger sister's being hidden that day indeed! To-day I shall eat her." Thinking [this], this woman-Rakshasi said, "Maharaja, I well know midwifery. Regarding that indeed, why will you go to another place and become wearied?" she said. The King having said, "It is good," on hearing her word went summoning her. On the very day she went, in the night pains seized the Queen of the rock house at the root of the Indi tree. She went to the place where they were seizing her. When she went that Queen got to know that she came in order to eat her. Although ascertaining it she did not mention it to the King. Well then, [the Rakshasi] having come, during the night she bore [a child]. After she bore [the child] that Rakshasi ate all the after-birth (waedu-mas) that was there. The Queen did not tell that also to the King. Well then, having finished (nimadu wela) at the parturition house (waedu-ge[yi]n), during that night [the Queen] went to sleep. After she went to sleep, lifting up the child and the Queen with the bed on which they were sleeping, this Rakshasi during the night began to go away. When going this Queen awoke. Having awoke, when going under trees she broke and broke dead sticks, and put them into the bed for weight to be caused (bara-gaehenda). On her placing them [there], when the bed is being made heavy the Rakshasi says, "It is good; make it heavy. What of my being unable to eat you, you having crept into the rock house at the root of the Indi tree!" Saying and saying, "To-day indeed I shall eat you," disputing and disputing with her she went along. When she was going thus, a banyan branch had bent down to the path; on the banyan branch this Queen hung. This Rakshasi went on, carrying simply the bed. Having gone, having put the bed on the ground, when she looked the Queen was not on the bed. Afterwards she came bounding again very near this banyan tree. This one ascertained that unless [the Queen] goes near the banyan tree, she is unable to go by another place. Ascertaining it, and having gone on and on among the branches and among the leaves in the tree, saying and saying, "I will eat thee, I will eat thee," she began to walk about. Although she is walking about that Queen is not visible through the power of the resolution of the Gods. Then, on the morning of the following day, when [the King] looked this Queen is not [present]. Afterwards the King, together with the Ministers, for the purpose of seeking the Queen having entered the jungle forest wilderness, when going away to seek her, in the midst of the forest, near a leafy banyan tree they heard a sound of a human voice, "I will eat thee, I will eat thee." When they look what affair this is, the King's Queen and the child are in the tree. That Rakshasi having said [to herself] that this King will cut her down, ran off through fear. The King asked the royal Queen, "By what means came you here?" he asked. Then the Queen said, "The midwife-mother came lifting my child and me with the bed, in order to eat me." After that, the King having taken the Queen and gone, and having sent her to the palace, made a bonfire (lit., fire-heap) in the midst of the wilderness, and set fire to it. Having set fire to it, when the smoke was going that Rakshasi having walked [there] asked, "Regarding what circumstance is [this done]?" she asked. When she was asking the King said, "The Queen of the rock house at the root of the Indi tree having died, we are making the tomb for her relics (da sohon)," he said. As soon as he says it, [308] having said, "Ane! If I did not eat a little flesh from my younger sister to-day, what am I living for?" she sprang into the blazing heap; having sprung [into it] she died. The King after that, together with the Queen, remained in happiness. Because through fear on the day when the stone door at the root of the Indi tree opened, she sprang into the house, and having been there was married to the King, she kept the name, "The Queen of the Rock House at the root of the Indi tree." North-western Province. This story contains references to several notions that are still preserved in the villages, such as the fulfilment of wishes, either silent or expressed aloud, when presenting offerings at the wiharas, the protection of human beings by the personal intervention of guardian deities, and the existence of internal apartments in certain rock masses. A high rounded hill of gneiss is pointed out at Nirammulla, in the North-western Province, [309] inside which King Vira-Bahu is stated to have constructed a palace; and many flat rocks which emit a hollow sound when trodden on are supposed to contain such an apartment or "house" as that mentioned in this tale. The belief that a human being may become a demon before death is, I think, not now held; but in the Jataka story No. 321 (vol. iii, p. 48) a wicked boy became a preta "while still alive." Examples of the wishes made on presenting religious offerings are to be seen in the Jataka stories Nos. 514, 527, and 531. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 137, it is stated, "Thus, when one pronounces a wish in the name of acts productive of goodness that one has effected, the realisation depends solely on the heart and good fortune; whatever may be the mark at which one aims there is no one who does not attain it." In Tales of the Sun (Mrs. H. Kingscote and Pandit Natesa Sastri), p. 220, a girl who was being carried off by robbers while on her cot, escaped like the Queen in this story. In Tales of the Punjab (Mrs. F. A. Steel), p. 227, the same incident is found, the person who escaped being the wife of a barber, whom thieves were carrying off. In this case she did not first increase the load on the bed by branches or fruits. (See also vol. i, p. 357.) In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 140, a Prince who was going in search of a magic Bel fruit was instructed by a fakir how to take it, and was warned that if he looked back while returning, he and his horse would be turned into stone. This occurred, and nothing was then done to them by the fairies and demons who were chasing them. Afterwards the fakir found them, cut his little finger from the tip to the palm, smeared the blood from it on the Prince's forehead and on the horse, prayed to God, and they became alive again. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 210, the son of a Brahmana smashed with a lighted piece of wood the skull of a person who was being burnt in a funeral pyre in a cemetery. Some of the brain flew out and entered his open mouth, and he immediately became a Rakshasa. In the same work, vol. ii, p. 578, an Apsaras who was the wife of a gambler was by a curse of Indra's turned into an image (apparently a wooden or stone relief) on a pillar in a temple. The Jewish legend of Lot's wife shows that the notion of such transformations, especially when a person disobeyed an injunction not to look back, was of very ancient date. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., pp. 191 ff., four Princes were changed into stones by a Jogi, or Hindu ascetic. In a footnote, p. 192, Mr. Knowles gives references to such metamorphoses elsewhere, among them being the turning of a hunter into stone [310] owing to a curse by Damayanti. Mr. Knowles states that many stones in Kashmir are believed to be the petrified bodies of men who have been cursed. I do not remember seeing or hearing of any instances of such petrifaction in Ceylon, but we may gather from the story just given and that numbered 136 that such a belief is held there. In the same work, pp. 401-403, there is an account of two Princes who went in search of a wonderful bird, and were changed into stone when they turned back in alarm. Their younger brother was more successful, and got a pot of magic water, which when sprinkled on his brothers and on many other stones lying on the ground, caused them to resume their human state. In Folk-Tales from an Eastern Forest (W. Skeat), p. 67, it is remarked that the Malays believe that there were once numerous gigantic spirits who could transform people whom they addressed by name into wood or stone. In the Preface to The Kathakoça, p. xiii, Mr. Tawney quoted Dr. Bühler's words regarding the Jain belief in animism,--that souls are to be found "in apparently lifeless masses, in stone, in clods of earth, in drops of water, in fire and in wind"--and mentions that as far as he knew, the Jains stand alone in this belief. Nevertheless, in the cases of Ahalya and Rambha, and the Apsaras of the Katha Sarit Sagara,--who, while she was in the form of an image or relief, shed tears on seeing her husband,--as well as in the examples in the other folk-tales, [311] the notion appears to be that the soul or spirit continued to exist in the petrified body, which was ready to return to its original state as soon as some necessary occurrence took place, whether a sprinkling of charmed water which neutralised the former spell, or the termination of a period fixed by a curse, or otherwise. We can perhaps see further evidence of the existence of the same belief in India and Ceylon in the stone statues of guardian deities, such as Bhairava, Nagas, Yakshas, and Rakshasas, carved at religious edifices; they, as well as the figures in the Euphrates Valley and Egypt, appear to have been thought to act as protectors because, although formed of stone, a soul existed in them, that is, so far as evil spirits were concerned they were living stones, and not mere scarecrows. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 219, there is an account of the death and burial of a Prince aged fifteen, whose soul remained in his body afterwards. When a pine tree which had been planted over the grave sent down a root that reached his heart, the soul became alarmed, climbed up the root, and lodged among the leaves of the tree. It had other adventures. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. i, p. 145), a lady described her arrival at a city in which the King and Queen and all the inhabitants had been transformed by Allah into black stones, with the sole exception of the King's only son, a devout Muhammadan. In vol. vi of the same work, p. 121, a man arrived at a great city in which all the inhabitants, with the exception of the royal Princess, had been changed into stone at the prayer of a Muhammadan Prophet. In both these instances the petrified persons were not revived. See also the Notes after the last story in vol. iii. In Kaffir Folk-Lore (Theal), p. 36, a rock opened at a boy's request, and he and his sister lived in it, leaving and returning at will. At p. 83, some boys when chased by cannibals took refuge in a rock which "a little man" turned into a hut; to the cannibals it was still a rock. With regard to the remarks on the last page, two Sinhalese histories, the Rajavaliya and Pujavaliya, give a legend which indicates a belief that even the statues of guardian animals possessed souls. It is recorded of King Mitta-Sena (A.D. 435-436) that on one occasion when the state elephant was not ready for him when he had been worshipping the Tooth-relic of Buddha, "the King became angry and asked whether the great elephant image could not take him on its back. The elephant, made of tile [brick] and mortar, approached the King, made him to sit on his back, took the King to the city, placed him in the palace, and went away" (Raj., Gunasekara's translation, p. 54). It is probable that the figures of guardian animals or deities carved only in relief, or even represented in paintings, may have been thought to possess souls of their own--that is, to act protectively as sentient beings. It is merely a step forward to the idea in the Quatrain of wise old Omar Khayyam:-- "I saw a busy potter by the way Kneading with might and main a lump of clay; And lo! the clay cried, 'Use me tenderly, I was a man myself but yesterday!'" NO. 155A THE STORY OF THE ELDER SISTER AND YOUNGER BROTHER At a certain village there was a Gamarala. While a woman contracting (lit., tying) marriage with him was [there], a female child and a male child were born. After they two were born the woman died. After that, for the man they again brought a woman. Because the woman [312] did not take notice of the children, the children think, "There is no advantage to us in staying here; let us leave the country and go." Having said [this] they began to go. While they were thus going they entered a forest jungle, and at the time when they were proceeding in it the flowers of a Kina tree [313] having blossomed and faded, the elder sister picked up flowers that had fallen, and took them and smelt them. Having said, "These flowers are not good," the younger brother went up the tree and plucked flowers. At the time when he was descending the younger brother disappeared (naeti-wuna). The elder sister through grief at it remained at the bottom of the tree. While a King of the city was going hunting, having seen that the woman is staying under the tree, the King came near and spoke [to her]. Thereupon the woman did not speak; but the King, holding her by the hand, [314] went summoning her to the city [and married her]. While staying at the city, the woman having become pregnant a child was born. The King told her to fix a name for the child. Then also (et) the woman did not speak. While the two persons were staying thus for a little time, again a child was born. The King told the woman to fix a name for that child also. Then also this woman did not speak. "Why don't you speak?" the King asked. Then also she did not speak. On yet a day, the King went hunting with the Ministers, and having gone walking and come near the city, told the Ministers to go. The Ministers having gone there, say at the hand of that woman, "A bear bit (lit., ate) the King to-day." When they are saying it falsely, the Queen, taking the two children, and having descended from the palace to the path, and fallen on the ground, sitting down says to the two Princes, "Sun-rays Prince, Moon-rays Prince, weep ye for your father; I am weeping for my younger brother." The King having secretly come again near the palace, remained listening. Having seen it, the Queen, taking the two Princes, got into (etul-wunaya) the palace. The King having come to the palace and entered it, said, "Why did you not speak for so much time?" Then the Queen says, "After our mother was summoned and came to our father, after I and a younger brother were born our mother died. Then they brought a step-mother. Because that mother disregards [315] younger brother and me, younger brother and I left the country, and having entered a forest jungle, when we were coming the flowers of a Kina tree had blossomed and fallen. Taking the faded flowers I smelt them. Thereupon younger brother said, 'Don't smell the faded flowers; I will pluck and give [you] flowers.' Having said [this] and gone up the tree, at the time when [after] plucking the flowers he was descending, younger brother disappeared. Owing to grief at that I remained unable to speak." Afterwards the King, taking axe and saw and calling people, having gone near the Kina tree, and cut and sawn the tree, when he looked [inside it] the younger brother who was lost was [there]. Then the King, calling the younger brother, came to the city, and showed him to the elder sister. The elder sister arrived at happiness again. North-western Province. The story provides no explanation of the cause of the brother's imprisonment inside the trunk of the tree. Apparently the deity--presumably a Yaka--who resided in the tree punished him in this manner for plucking the flowers, yet the King cut down the tree with impunity. At the present day, the Sinhalese villagers would not venture to injure or pluck flowers from a tree infested by a Yaka. Many years ago all refused to fell a Kumbuk tree of this kind which it was necessary to remove from an embankment I was restoring; but some of my Tamil coolies had not the same scruples when encouraged by extra pay, to counterbalance the risk. Probably they would have been less venturesome in their own country. The notion that a person may exist inside a tree trunk in a state of suspended animation is found in other folk-tales. In No. 47, vol. i, a Naga Princess became a tree; in an Indian variant on p. 269, the tree was a girl imprisoned thus by Rakshasas. (See the notes after No. 155, and also p. 245 of this volume.) NO. 156 THE QUEEN AND THE BEGGAR At a city there exists a Beggar, begging, and continuing to eat [thus]. There is a travellers' shed near the pool at which the Queen of that city bathes. The Beggar having come [after] begging and begging, eats at that travellers' shed. When the Queen was coming [after] bathing in the water, the Beggar went in front of her. Having said, "Why did a Beggar like thee come, and come in contact with me?" [316] she spat three times. He having felt (lit., thought) much shame, went to the house of the washerman who cleans the cloths of the city. He remained doing work for him for wages. The washerman asked, "Why are you working for wages?" "[In order] one day to get the crown and [royal] suit of clothes [317] I am working for wages,--at the time when the King (raju) is coming to the chamber," [he said]. At the time when [the King] was coming to the chamber in which is the Queen, he stopped, investigating [matters]. Before the King came, [the Beggar], putting on the royal ornaments [and clothes], went. The guards finished the auspicious wish; [318] after that he went into the chamber. The Queen having come and given the auspicious wish, he forbade the adjuration. [319] When forbidding it, having said, "What [sort of] woman art thou also!" he spat in her face. This one having spat went away. After that the King came. The guards thought, "To-day the King went here; what came he again for?" After he went to the chamber the Queen did not give him the auspicious wish. The King inquired why she did that. Having said, "Now, on one occasion (gamanaka), as I am bad you spat in my face; have I now become good?" she asked. After that, the King [on hearing her account] sitting down there, wrote two bars of a four-line stanza (siwpada de padayak):-- "The angry tone displayed, the King is desolating; The courier bold who charmed my love, long bound, is flying. Speak not so harshly, here with frowns me eyeing; He will not long rejoice, I pride that day abating." [320] Having given these two bars of a four-line stanza to the Ministers, [321] he said he will give many offices to persons who explain them. [322] North-western Province. NO. 157 THE FROG IN THE QUEEN'S NOSE In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. The woman has also a paramour. One day the man went to a rice field to plough. At that time, this woman having quickly cooked milk-rice, made it ready to give to her paramour to eat. While that man (her husband) was ploughing, the yoke broke; after that, the man came home. Having seen that the man was coming, she quickly put the pot of milk-rice under the bed in the maduwa (open shed). That man as soon as he came sat upon the bed; then the man was burnt [by the hot rice under him]. Thereupon the man looked under the bed. When he was looking he saw the pot of milk-rice. Afterwards, having taken the milk-rice the man ate it. At that time, when the Queen of the King of the country was smelling a flower, a little young frog that was in the flower had gone into her nose, seven days before. Up to that very time, six men came, saying that they can take out the frog; they came at the rate of a man a day. Having come there, when he is unable to take it out they cut the man's neck. At that rate they beheaded the six men who came. That day the King caused the proclamation tom-toms to be beaten:--"To the person who should take out the young frog that is in the Queen's nose, I will give a district from the kingdom, and goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load." Then this woman having heard it, went running, and said, "My husband can," and stopped the proclamation tom-toms. [323] She stopped them because the man of the house ate the milk-rice without her succeeding in giving it to the paramour, with the motive that having killed this man she should take the paramour to live [there]. Having stopped the proclamation tom-toms, and come near her husband, she said, "I stopped the proclamation tom-toms now. You go, and having taken out that young frog which is in the Queen's nose, come back." Then this man through fear of death lamented, and said, "Now six men have been beheaded, men who thoroughly know medical treatment. I not knowing anything of this, when I have gone there they will seize me at once and behead me. What is this you did?" Thereupon, through anger about the milk-rice she said, "There is no staying talking and talking in that way. Go quickly." As she was saying the words, the messenger whom the King sent arrived there to take the man to the palace. Well then, having [thus] quickly driven away the man, the woman speedily cooked milk-rice again, and having sent to the paramour to come, and given him to eat, made the man stop at that very house. Then the woman says to the paramour, "Thus, in that manner the gallows-bird [324] of our house by this time will be killed. Now then, you remain [here] without fear." The paramour having said, "It is good," stayed there. Well then, when the messenger brought that man to the palace, he said to the King: "Maharaja, Your Majesty, this man can take out the frog." While he was there, having become ready for death, the King, having been sitting at the place where the Queen is, says to this man, "Ha, it is good. Now then, don't stop [there] looking. If thou canst, apply medical treatment for this and take thou out the young frog. If thou canst not, be ready for death." Thereupon that man, having become more afraid also than he was, began to relate the things that happened to the man:-- "When to plough I went away, snapped the wooden yoke in twain; When the yoke in pieces broke, slowly home I come again; When I to the house returned, I upon the bed remain; When upon the bed I lay, felt my rear a burning pain; When my hinder part I burned, 'neath the bed I search amain; When beneath the bed I look, hidden milk-rice there had lain. As I ate that rice, I ween these afflictions on me rain. Having this affliction seen, jump out, O Froggy-pawn!" [325] Having said [this] he ended. The Queen, from the time when he began to tell this story being without a place for passing down the breath, when this story was becoming ended, because that breath had been shut back gave a snort [326] (huh gala), and when she was sending the breath from her nose, the young frog quite of itself fell to the ground. Well then, having given this man a district from the kingdom, and goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load, they made him stay at the palace itself. That woman became bound to that paramour. North-western Province. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iii, p. 360), an Arab doctor was taken before a King, who ordered him to cure his sick daughter. He was told by the attendants that all who failed were put to death. He discovered that her malady was a religious one, and cured her. NO. 158 CONCERNING A BEAR AND THE QUEEN At a certain city there were a sister and two brothers. These three one day went to eat Damba [fruits]. Having gone thus, the two brothers went up the Damba tree, [327] the sister remained on the ground. At that time a Bear having come, went off, taking the woman. Having thus gone, placing her in a rock cave he provided subsistence for her. Thereupon the two brothers, being unable to find her, went home. During the time while the Princess was in the rock cave she was rearing a cock. On yet [another] day the two Princes in order to make search for the Princess went into the midst of the forest. Then having heard the crowing of the cock which the Princess was rearing, they went to that place. At that time the Bear was not there; on account of food it went into the midst of the forest. Then [the brothers] having met with the sister, they spoke to her. The Princess said, "The time when the Bear comes is near. Because of that return to the village, and come to-morrow morning to go with me." So both of them went to the village. After that, the Bear having come, at the words which he had heard walked away growling and growling with anger. Thereafter the two brothers came, and returned with the Princess to the village. Two children had been born to the Bear; with those two also they went. Thereupon the Bear having come to the rock cave, and perceived when he looked that the Princess and children were not [there], came [after them] of his own accord. When he came, he saw by the light the Queen and two children. Those two sprang off and went away. The Bear asked the Queen, "What are you going for?" "A cleverer Bear than you told me to come. Because of that I am going," she said. The Bear having said, "Where is there a cleverer Bear than I? Show me him," went [with her]. Then the Queen, having gone near a well, showed the reflection of the Bear that was at the bottom of the water. At that time the Bear which was on the ground sprang into the well in order to bite the Bear that was in the well. Having sprung in he died. Then the two brothers, and the Princess, and the two children went home and stayed there. North-central Province. In Le Pantcha-Tantra of the Abbé Dubois, the animals had made an agreement with a savage lion that one of them should be given to it each day. When the jackal's turn came he determined to find some way of destroying their enemy. Seeing his own reflection in a well, he went to the lion and informed him that another lion was concealed in a well, and waiting for an opportunity to kill him. When the lion demanded to be shown him, the jackal led him to the well; showed him his own reflection, and the lion sprang at it. The jackal then summoned the other animals, which rolled large stones into the well and killed the lion. In the Hitopadesa there is a similar story, the two animals being a lion and a stag which said another lion had delayed it. In Indian Fables (Ramaswami Raju), p. 82, the animals were a tiger and hare. In Folk-lore of the Telugus (G. R. Subramiah Pantulu), p. 15, they were a lion and fox (jackal) which stated that another lion had carried off a fox that it was bringing as the lion's food. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 4, they were a tiger and a hare which laid the blame on another tiger for his being late, saying it claimed the country. In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 172, they were a lion and a jackal and his wife who stated that they had been delayed by another lion. In The Enchanted Parrot (Rev. B. H. Wortham) this story is No. XXXI. The animals were a lion and a hare which said he had been kept a prisoner by a rival lion. This is the form of the tale in the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 32. In Folk-Tales from Tibet (O'Connor), p. 51, they were also a lion and a hare which recommended the lion to eat a large and fierce animal that lived in a pond, in place of itself. In Fables and Folk-Tales from an Eastern Forest (W. Skeat), p. 28, they were a tiger and a mouse-deer which said it had been stopped by an old tiger with a flying-squirrel sitting on its muzzle, and so had been unable to bring it an animal for food. The squirrel which accompanied the mouse-deer sat on the tiger's muzzle and the deer on its hind-quarters when it went to drive the other away. The tiger then sprang at its reflection in the river, and was drowned. NO. 159 THE LEOPARD AND THE PRINCESS In a certain country there are seven Princes, it is said. Younger than all seven there is their younger sister. For the seven Princes seven Princesses have been brought; a Prince having been brought for the younger sister, is settled there. While they are thus, the younger sister has pregnancy longings (doladuk). One day, while the younger sister and her elder brothers were going to their houses, having seen the whole seven Princesses eating Damba [fruits] the younger sister also stayed there to eat them, and asked at the hand of the eldest sister-in-law, "Sister-in-law, a Damba fruit for me also." Then the sister-in-law said, "There will not be Damba here to give." She asked at the hand of the next sister-in-law. That sister-in-law also replied in the same way. Thus, in that manner having asked at the hand of the whole seven, not even one person gave it. Afterwards, the younger sister having cooked and eaten, went alone to pluck Damba, and having ascended the Damba tree, while she was eating Damba it became night. A Leopard having come near the Damba tree [said], "[How] if you should throw down a Damba branch with your golden little hand?" After that, the Princess threw down a Damba branch. The Leopard having eaten [the fruit on] it, said again, "[How] if you should throw down a Damba branch with your golden little hand?" Again she threw one down. Then the Leopard said, "Holding fast, fast, [how] if you should slowly slowly descend?" Then through fear the Princess is there without descending. The Leopard another time said, "Holding fast, fast, [how] if you should slowly slowly descend?" The Princess descended. Then the Leopard, placing the Princess on his back, went to his rock cave. While living in that manner the Princess bore a child. The Leopard and Princess stayed there very trustfully. The Leopard had much goods. The paddy store-rooms had been filled, the millet store-rooms had been filled, the meneri store-rooms had been filled, there are many cattle. When they had been living there many days, the Leopard said, "I am about to go on a journey to-morrow; I shall be unable to return for two or three days. You, shutting the rock cave, must be [here]. Until the time when I come do not go outside." On the following day the Leopard went away. Well then, while the Princess was alone in the rock cave, the elder brothers of the Princess having come hunting, a great rain rained. The Princes having been [sheltering] near a tree, when they were walking along in the rain they met with the rock cave, and saw also their younger sister. "What art thou here for? We sought and sought so much time, and could not find thee. Here thou art! What was the manner in which thou camest here?" they asked at the hand of their younger sister. Then the younger sister said, "I asked for Damba at the hand of sisters-in-law. The whole seven did not give it. On account of that I came to eat Damba, and while I was alone in the Damba tree the Leopard came. "Afterwards he told me to throw down a Damba branch; I threw down two Damba branches. Saying and saying [it was only] until the time when the Leopard was going, I stayed in the tree. "While I was there it became night. Then the Leopard told me to descend. I stayed [there] without descending. The Leopard told me twice to descend. Afterwards I descended. The Leopard, putting me on his back, came here. From that day I am living here." Then the Princes asked, "Where is the Leopard?" The Princess said, "This morning he went somewhere or other; he said he will not come for a day or two." After that, the Princes said, "No matter for that one; let us go away home. We will take the things that are here." The Princess said, "I will not." What of her saying, "I will not!" The Princes, having taken all the [household] things that were there, said to the Princess, "Let us go." Afterwards the Princess through anger cut that child, and hung it aloft, near the hearth. She placed the small pot on the hearth, and taking a [piece of] muslin, all along the path tore and tore and threw down pieces, until the time when they went to the house. Having gone there, without eating she is crying and crying. Then the Leopard came near the rock cave, and saw that the child having been cut had been hung up; and having seen, also, that the Princess was not there, came away. Having come all along the path on which the muslin has been torn and thrown down, and having come up to the house [in a human form]; he saw that the Princess is there. While the Leopard is in the open space in front of the house, the Princess saw that the Leopard is [there]; and having come laughing, and given water to the Leopard to wash his face, and given sitting accommodation, and betel to eat, she is cooking in order to give the Leopard to eat. Then the Princes placed an earthen pot of water on the hearth, to become heated. After it became heated, they cut a hole very deeply, and put sticks on it, and above that leaves, and above that earth; and having taken the pot of water and placed it there, they came near the Leopard, and said to the Leopard, "Let us go, brother-in-law, to bathe." The Leopard said, "I cannot bathe, brother-in-law. As I was coming I bathed; I cannot bathe another time." While the Leopard was saying he could not, having gone calling the Leopard they told him to place his feet at the place where those sticks and leaves and earth have been put; and having told him to bend, they poured that pot of boiling water on the Leopard's body. That one having fallen into the hole that was cut deep, died. Those seven Princes having thrown in earth and filled it up, came away and ate cooked rice. That younger sister, having cooked and finished, seeks the Leopard. While she is seeking him the sisters-in-law say, "Sister-in-law, you eat that cooked rice. Elder brother is eating cooked rice here." The Princess is [there] without eating. While she is there the sisters-in-law say again, "Sister-in-law, eat; elder brother is eating cooked rice here. He will not come there, having become angry that you have come [away]." After that, the Princess came to look [for him]. Having looked at the whole seven houses without finding the Leopard, she went to the place where he bathed, and when she looked [saw that] earth was [newly] cut and placed there. Having seen it, thinking, "Here indeed having murdered him, this earth has been cut and placed [over him]," she went into the house, and did not eat; and having been weeping and weeping, and been two or three days without food, the Princess died through very grief at the loss of the Leopard. The eight Princes and the seven Princesses, taking the Leopard's goods and the Princess's goods, remained there. North-western Province. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xiv, p. 135 ff. (Folklore in Southern India, p. 116), in a Tamil story by Natesa Sastri, a girl who had married and gone off with a tiger disguised in the form of a Brahmana youth, escaped when her three brothers, in response to her request sent by a crow, came to rescue her. She first tore in two the tiger cub she had borne, and hung the pieces to roast over the fire. The tiger followed in the form of a youth, was well received, and food was cooked. On the pretext of giving him the customary oil bath (of Southern India) before dining, the brothers put sticks across the well, and laid mats over them. When the tiger-youth sat there for the bath he fell into the well, which they filled with stones, etc. The girl raised a pillar (apparently of mud) over the well, with a tulasi (basil) plant at the top; and during the rest of her life she smeared the pillar in the morning and evening with cow-dung, and watered the plant. In the Kolhan folk-tales (Bompas), appended to Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 454, a tiger which assisted a Raja by carrying a load of grass for him, received in marriage one of the Raja's daughters as a recompense. He ate her, and when he went to ask for another in her place, saying she had died, boiling water was poured over him while he was asleep, and he was killed. At p. 470, a Raja married a she-bear which took the place of his bride in her palankin; apparently the bear had a human form. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 57, the concealed pit-fall into which people fell is found. It was dug in one of the rooms of a merchant's house. A King, his son, and his wife the Queen were entrapped; but the King's daughter-in-law suspected some trick, refused to enter the house, and rescued them. There is a variant in the coast districts on the north bank of the River Congo, in West Africa. In Notes on the Folklore of the Fjort (Dennett), p. 49, a girl who had run away from home on account of her sisters' bad treatment of her, was married to a man who was a murderer. She wanted to return to her mother, made a flying basket, and escaped in it, carrying off his ornaments and slaves. Her husband saw the basket going through the air, and followed it. The girl's relations received him well, dug a deep hole and covered it with sticks and a mat, and prepared a great quantity of boiling water. Then they called the girl and her husband to sit there, placing the man over the hole. He fell into it, the water and burning wood were thrown over him, and he died. This Sinhalese story contains the only instance I have met with in Ceylon of a belief in power of the lower animals to take the form of men, with the exception of tales in which they have a removable skin or shell which hides a human form. In China the fox is thought to have the power of taking a human shape at will, and in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 76, one of these animals became a man in order to obtain a bag of roasted grain to present to an aged Brahmana. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 442, a man who had learnt witchcraft turned himself into a tiger in order to eat a calf. He gave his wife a piece of root first, and told her that when she applied it to his nose he would become a man again. Such changes as that occur in the Indian story numbered 266 in vol. iii, and its Sinhalese variants, in which the animals can then resume their human form. It is a common belief in Africa that some animals have this power (having the souls of men in them), and also that human beings can transform themselves into the lower animals, usually dangerous ones. In Reynard the Fox in Southern Africa (Dr. Bleek), p. 57, in a Hottentot story a woman became a lion at her husband's request, in order to catch a zebra for their food. In The Fetish Folk of West Africa (Milligan), p. 226, it is stated that "there is a man in the Gaboon of whom the whole community believes that he frequently changes himself into a leopard in order to steal sheep and to devour a whole sheep at a meal." NO. 160 THE STORY OF THE FOOLISH LEOPARD In a certain country, at the season when a Gamarala and his son are causing cattle to graze, having constructed a fold in a good manner the Gamarala encloses the cattle in the fold. One day, the Gamarala's son having driven in the cattle, while he was blocking up the gap (entrance) of the fold the Gamarala said, it is said, "Ade! Close the gap well; leopards and other animals (kotiyo-botiyo [328]) will come." When he was there, a big Leopard which was near having heard this speech that he is making, thinks, "The Leopard indeed is I; what is the Botiya?" In fear, with various ideas [about it], he got inside the fold; but having thought that the Botiya will come now, he went into the midst of the calves, and in the middle of them, his happiness being ended, he remained. In the meantime, a thief having got inside the fold, came lifting and lifting up the calves [to ascertain which was the heaviest]. Having come near the Leopard, when he lifted it up he placed the Leopard on his shoulder [in order to carry it away], because it was very heavy. The Leopard thinks, "This one, indeed, is the Botiya." Having thought, "Should I [try to] escape he will kill me," it was motionless. And the thief because he went quickly in the night [with it], for that reason thought that the calf was very good. At the time when he turned and looked at it he perceived that it was a Leopard, and he considered in what manner he could escape. Having seen a hill near there, near an abandoned pansala (the residence of a Buddhist monk), the man threw it down from the hill, and got inside the pansala. When he shut the door, anger having come to the Leopard by reason of the harm done to him [owing to his fall], at the time when he was near the door [trying to enter in order to kill the man], a Jackal asked the Leopard, "Why is this?" When he told the Jackal the reason, the Jackal thought he would like to eat the Leopard's flesh, [and therefore said], "I will tell you, Sir, a stratagem for opening the door. Should you put that tail of yours, Sir, through that hole the door will open." At the time when he said [this], the Leopard having thought that by this skilful act the door will open, put his tail through. Thereupon the thief twisted the tail round the post that was near the door. At the time when he was holding it, the Jackal went to the rice field near there in which men were working. While the Jackal was crying and crying out to the men, "Please come near, please come near," they went near the pansala. Having seen the Leopard, and beaten and killed the Leopard, they took away the skin, it is said. Then the Jackal with much delight ate the Leopard's flesh, it is said. North-western Province. This story is a variant of No. 70 in vol. i. In The Orientalist, vol. iv, p. 30, Mr. W. Goonetilleke gave a nearly similar story. The fold was one in which goats and sheep were enclosed. The man carried off the leopard which was concealed among them, and on discovering his mistake threw it down into a stream as he was crossing an edanda, or foot-bridge made of a tree trunk. He then ran off and got hid in a corn-store, where the jackal told him to twist the tail round a post, as related in vol. i, p. 368. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xiv, p. 77 (Tales of the Sun, p. 93), in a Tamil story given by Natesa Sastri, a shepherd, when he left his flock temporarily, fixed his stick at the place with his rug over it, and told it to keep watch, or some thief or bhuta or kuta might try to steal one. A bhuta, or evil spirit, which had come for this purpose, overheard this, and being afraid of the unknown animal called a kuta, lay down amid the flock. Two men who came to steal a goat selected the bhuta, and carried it off as being the fattest. Thinking these were the kutas, the bhuta tried to escape, and eventually melted away. The later incidents do not resemble those of this Sinhalese story. NO. 161 THE STORY OF THE DABUKKA [329] In a certain country there were a man's eight asses. One of them having been lost one day, while he was going seeking and looking for it [he saw] in the night that there was a house near a great jungle. In the house he heard a talk. After that he halted, and when he is listening to ascertain what is this talk which he hears, a woman says, "Ane! O Gods, during this night I indeed am not afraid of either an elephant, or a bear, or a leopard, or a Yaka; I am only afraid of the Dabukka," she said. The Leopard listening very near there said [to himself], "What is the Dabukka of which she is afraid, which is greater than the elephant, and the bear, and the leopard, and the Yaka?" Having become afraid in his mind he stood on one side, and remained looking [out for it]. Then the man who being without that ass sought for it, saw the Leopard [in the semi-darkness], and having said, "Is it the ass?" went running and mounted on the back of the Leopard. Saying, "O ass of the strumpet's son, why were you hidden last night?" he began to beat the Leopard. Having thought "Ade! It is this indeed they call the Dabukka," through fear it began to run away. As it was becoming light, that man, perceiving that it was the Leopard, jumped off its back, and having gone running crept inside a hollow in a tree. The Leopard having gone running on and fallen, a Jackal, seeing that it was panting, asked, "Friend, what are you staying there for as though you have been frightened?" "Friend, during the whole of yester-night the Dabukka, having mounted on my back, drove me about, beating and beating me enough to kill me." Then the Jackal says, "Though you were afraid of it I indeed am not afraid. Show me it. Let us go for me to eat up that one," he said. The Leopard says, "I will not go first," he said. The Jackal said, "Pull out a creeper, and tying it at your waist tie [the other end] on my neck," he said. When they had tied the creeper, after the Jackal went in front near the tree in which that man stayed, the Leopard said, "There. It is in the hollow in that tree, indeed," he said. The Jackal snarled. Then when the man struck the Jackal in the midst of the mouth his teeth were broken. After that, [both of them], the Jackal howling and howling, having run off and gone away, when they were out of breath a Bear came and asked "Friends, what are you panting for to that extent?" The Leopard says, "Yester-night the Dabukka killed me. The Jackal having gone to eat it, when he howled and snarled it broke two [of his] teeth," he said. Then the Bear said, "What of your being unable [to kill it]! Let us go, for me to eat up that one." The whole three went, the Bear being in front and close to it the Jackal; the Leopard went behind them. Having gone, they showed the Bear the place where the man was. The Bear having put its head inside the hollow in the tree, roared. Then the man seized the hair of its head fast with his hand. When it was drawing its head back the hair came out. Then the whole three, speaking and speaking, ran away, with their teeth chattering and their tails between their legs. Afterwards the man having descended from the tree to the ground, came to his village with a party of men. North-western Province. In Indian Fairy Tales (Thornhill), p. 227, a tiger heard an old woman say, "I do not fear the tiger; what I fear is the dripping; when the rain falls the dripping comes through the thatch and troubles me." The tiger lay still, dreading the coming of the terrible Dripping. A washerman whose ass had strayed came there, and thinking he had found it struck it with his stick and drove it to the village pound, where he fastened it by the leg, the tiger believing he must be the Dripping. In the morning it begged for mercy, and was allowed to go on promising to leave the district and not eat men. In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 206, the same story is repeated, the ass being one belonging to a potter who seized the tiger, beat and kicked it, rode it home, tied it to a post, and went to bed. Next day everyone came to see it, and the Raja gave the man great rewards, and made him a General. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 211, when a weaver who had been ordered to kill a tiger was entering his house he saw it outside. Saying loudly that he was going to kill the tiger, he added that he did not care for the wet or the tiger, but only for the dripping of the rain from the roof. The tiger was afraid, and slunk into an outhouse, the door of which the weaver immediately shut and locked. Next morning he reported that he had captured it with his hands, without the use of weapons. In a Malinka story of Senegambia in Contes Soudanais (C. Monteil), p. 137, a hare, while its partner, a hyæna, collected firewood, hid the flesh of a cow that they had killed, in a hollow baobab tree, the entrance being too small to admit the hyæna. The latter returned with an ostrich and saw the hare there. The ostrich came forward to seize it, but when its head was inside the hare slipped a noose over it and half-choked it. In its struggles the ostrich laid an egg, which the hyæna immediately devoured. The hare then induced it to believe that when they were half choked in the same way hyænas laid much better eggs. The hyæna accordingly inserted its head, and was noosed and strangled. NO. 162 THE LEOPARD AND THE CALF In a certain country, while cattle are coming along eating and eating food, a Leopard having been hidden and been there looking out seized a small Calf out of them, and at first ate an ear. Then the Calf says, "I am insufficient for food for you. When I have become big you can eat me, therefore let me go," he said to the Leopard. At that time the Leopard having said, "It is good," allowed the Calf to go. In a little time, having seen that the Calf has become big the Leopard came to eat him. Thereupon the Bull (the grown-up calf) says to the Leopard, "You cannot eat me in that way. Go to the jungle, and breaking a large creeper [330] come [back with it]," he said. Then when the Leopard brought a creeper the Bull said to the Leopard, "Tie an end round your waist [331] and the other end tie on my neck," he said. The Bull having dropped heated dung while the Leopard was doing thus, began to run in all directions [after they were tied together]. When he is running thus the Leopard says to the Bull [as he was jolted about], Bale--di--no--kae--kota While young--not--having--eaten thee Ma--ata--modakan--kota On my--part--I--did--foolishly. Gassa--gassa--no--duwa Jolting,--jolting--me,--don't--run, Periya--kan--kota O thou--great--short--earèd--one. The Leopard having been much wounded in this way, died. The Bull went near his master's son; he unfastened the Bull. North-western Province. In Tales of the Punjab (Mrs. F. A. Steel), p. 70, a lamb escaped from several animals that wanted to eat it by telling them to wait until it grew fatter. In the end it was eaten by a jackal. In Folk-Tales from Tibet (O'Connor), p. 43, a wolf that was about to eat a young wild ass was persuaded by it to wait a few months until it became fatter. When the time came for meeting it, the wolf was joined by a fox and a hare, to which it promised to give a share of the meat. The hare's suggestion that to avoid the loss of the blood the ass should be strangled was adopted, the fox borrowed a rope from a shepherd, the hare put slip-knots over the necks of each of the animals, and holding the end of the rope itself gave the word for all to pull. When they did so the wolf and fox were strangled, and the ass escaped. NO. 163 THE ASH-PUMPKIN FRUIT PRINCE At a certain time at a certain village there were a husband and a wife. During the time when they were [there] the two together went to a chena. Having gone, [after] plucking an Ash-pumpkin they brought it and placed it in a large pot under seven earthen cooking pots. When not much time had gone, the seven earthen cooking pots were shaken. Then this party having opened the mouths of the cooking pots, when they looked a Python had filled up the large pot. After that, the party plaited seven beds. [332] Having plaited them, they caused the Python to sleep on the seven beds. Next, having gone to a place where seven daughters were, they asked for an assistant (a wife) for that Python. Having asked, they brought the eldest sister. Having brought her, when they opened the house door the woman having seen this Python and being afraid, said, "Ane! The way in which fathers have sought and given me in marriage!" and just as it became light the girl went home. In that manner they brought the six women. All six being afraid of this Python went away. They brought the youngest girl of the seven. [She] having come there, when two or three months had gone they opened the house door. After that, the girl having seen the Python and being afraid, said in distress, "Ane! The danger that my parents have made for me, having given me in diga [marriage] to a Python! There is no place for me to lie down." Thereupon the Python having made room on one out of the seven beds, remained on six. On the following day she spoke in the same manner. Then the Python, having made room on two out of the seven beds, remained on five. On the following day in the evening she spoke in the same manner; then the Python, having made room on three out of the seven beds, was on four. On the following day in the evening she spoke in the same manner; then the Python, having made room on four out of the seven beds, was on three. On the following day evening she said the same; then the Python, having made room on five out of the seven beds, was on two. On the following day evening she said the same; then the Python, having made room on six out of the seven beds, was on one. On the seventh day morning the Python came to the veranda. At that time, the mother-in-law of the woman who had come in diga [marriage] to the Python, said to the woman, "Daughter, lower a little paddy from the corn store, [333] and having winnowed, boil it." Then the woman (girl), for the sake of causing the Python to speak, applied (dunna, presented) the forked pole [for raising the conical roof] on the outer side of the eaves. [334] Then the Python says, "In our country our mother said that on the other side (lit., hand) is the way." Thereupon the woman, having applied the forked pole on the inner side, and raised the (conical) roof, and lowered paddy, put it on the outer side of the winnowing tray, and began to winnow it. Then the Python says, "It is not in that way. In our country our mother said on the other side is the way." So the woman put it on the inner side of the winnowing tray, and winnowed the paddy. Having winnowed it, still for the sake of causing the Python to speak she put the paddy on the outer side of the large cooking pot, and prepared (lit., made) to boil it. Thereupon the Python says, "It is not in that way. In our country our mother said on the other side is the way." So the woman, having put it inside the large cooking pot, boiled the paddy. Still for the sake of causing the Python to speak having [taken out the paddy, and] placed it on the outer side of the mat, she prepared to spread out the paddy to dry. Thereupon the Python says, "It is not in that way. In our country our mother said on the other side is the way." So the woman, having put it on the inner side of the mat, spread out the paddy to dry. The woman, also for the sake of causing the Python to speak, having [taken it up after it was dried, and] placed it on the outer side (end) of the paddy mortar, prepared to pound the paddy. Thereupon the Python says, "It is not in that way. In our country our mother said at the other side (end) is the way." So having put it on the inside, and pounded the paddy [to remove the skin], she winnowed it. (It was now cleaned rice, ready for cooking.) Then a Bana (reading of the Buddhist Scriptures) having been appointed at the pansala near that village, all are going to the Bana. This woman says, "Owing to the fate which my parents have made for me there is also no hearing Bana [for me]." Thereupon the Python says, "Haven't you bracelets and rings to put on as ornaments? Haven't you dresses? Wearing them and adorning [yourself] in a good manner, go with our parents," he said. Then the woman says, "Other good caste (rate) women go, sending the men first. [335] It does not matter that I must go alone!" Thereupon, still the Python says, "I am staying at home. Go with my parents," he said. Then while the woman was going with her mother-in-law's party to hear Bana, the Python, having got hid, remained at the road on which she intended to go. At that time the Python having taken off his Python jacket and having placed it on the clothes-line in the enclosure (malu ane), went to hear the Bana [in the form of a Prince]. Thereupon, this woman having seen her husband who was going to the pansala, came home, and having taken the Python jacket which was placed on the clothes-line in the enclosure and put it [in the fire] on the hearth, the woman, too, went back to hear the Bana. Thereafter, the Python Prince having returned, when he looked for the Python jacket it had been put on the hearth [and burnt]. Thereupon he remained as a husband for that woman. After that, when not much time had gone, telling her, and having prepared, they went to the house of his mother-in-law and father-in-law. Thereupon the six women who were brought at first for the Python, having said, "Ane! Our husband is coming," came in front [of him]. Then this younger woman, having said, "At first having said ye do not want him, how does the Prince who has come become yours now? He belongs only to me," began to quarrel [with them]. Then of those six women the eldest woman having longed for this Python Prince, said, "Father, seek for a Python for me, and give me it," and remained without eating and without drinking. Thereupon, the man being unable to get rid [of the importunity] of that eldest daughter, calling men and having gone, and having set nets, when they were driving (elawana-kota) the middle of the forest a Python was caught in the net. Having brought the Python, the father of the woman, having asked her and said he brought it as her husband, put it in the house (room) of the woman, and said, "There. Take charge of it." Thereupon the woman having gone into the house, [after] shutting the door unfastened the sack in which was the Python. Then the Python seized the woman, and twisting around her, making fold after fold, began to eat her. At that time, the father of the woman [hearing sounds] like throwing down coconuts in the corn store, like pouring water into the water jar, said two or three times, "Don't kill my daughter, Ade!" Then the Python, having completely swallowed the woman, remained [as though] unconscious. On the following day, in the morning, the woman's parents having come and said, "Daughter, open the door," called her two or three times. Having called her, when they looked [for a reply] she did not speak. Because of that, having broken [through] the wall near the door bolt, and opened the door, when they looked, the Python, having swallowed the woman, [336] remained [as though] unconscious. Thereupon, they drove away and sent off the Python. North-central Province. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 595, a dependant of King Vikramaditya became a python on eating a gourd which he found in a garden. He was restored to his former shape by means of a sternutatory which was made from the extract obtained from a plant. In Chinese Nights' Entertainment (A. M. Fielde), p. 45, a man promised to give one of his three daughters in marriage to a serpent that seized him. The two elder ones refused; the youngest agreed to marry it. She lived with the snake in a palace. On her return one day with water from a distant spring after the well dried up she found the serpent dying of thirst, and plunged it in the water. The spell which bound it being thus neutralised it became a handsome man, with whom she continued to dwell happily. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 255, a herd-boy who saw a girl throw off a dog skin that she wore, and bathe, afterwards insisted on marrying this dog. Each night she removed the skin and went out, until on one occasion he threw the skin into the fire, after which she retained her human form. A friend of his determined to imitate him, and married a bitch with the usual ceremonies; but on the way home she was so savage that he let her go, and he was laughed at so much that he hanged himself. At p. 227 there is an account of a caterpillar boy who at night took off his outer skin and went to dance. The Princess who had selected and married him burnt his skin one night, and he retained his Prince's form afterwards. NO. 164 THE KABARAGOYA AND THE WIDOW In a certain country, to the house of a widow woman a Kabaragoya [337] continually comes. While time is going, the Kabaragoya, trusting the old woman, having come to the house dwells there. After much time went by, the Kabaragoya being like a son told the widow woman to find and give him a woman (wife). At that time, "Son, look at the manner of our house; besides that, to a Kabaragoya who will give a Kabaragoyi (female Kabaragoya)?" the widow asked. And the Kabaragoya having heard that speech, that very day night entreated that his house should be like a royal palace. On the following day morning, at the time when he looked the house was particoloured (wisituruwa) like a royal palace. The Kabaragoya that day also told her to seek and give him a woman. And the widow after that went to seek a woman in marriage for the Kabaragoya. There were seven Princesses of the King of that country who had come of age. The widow having gone near (kara) the King (raju), when she told him the matter he told her to take a person who was willing. And the widow having gone near the royal daughters, asked, "There is an only Kabaragoya of mine; is anyone willing to be married to it?" Six out of the seven royal daughters having said, "Are we also female Kabaragoyas to go with Kabaragoyas?" scolded and struck her; the young royal Princess who was the last, said, "Mother, I will go." At that time having come summoning the royal Princess, she married and gave her to the Kabaragoya. After a little time went thus, for the purpose of the occasion of a certain feast the King [338] sent a letter to the Kabaragoya and his royal daughter, [inviting them to it]. Thereupon the royal Princess having said, "Ane! How shall I go with this Kabaragoya, without shame?" While she is grieving, the Kabaragoya went to a certain rock cave, and having taken off and put there the Kabaragoya jacket, and decorated himself [in the form of a Prince], with royal ornaments, returned. At that time the royal daughter also, much pleased, went to the royal palace. After that, this Prince, wearing royal ornaments, remained in the appearance of a Prince. Uva Province. In Kaffir Folk-Tales (Theal), p. 38, a girl chose a crocodile as her husband. When at his request she licked his face he cast off the crocodile skin, and became a man. In a note (p. 209) the author states that he had been bewitched by his enemies. NO. 165 THE FROG JACKET In a certain country, at a house there was a very wealthy nobleman (sitana), but he had no children. Having seen that the men of the country are giving their children in diga [marriage] he was much grieved. While he is thus, one day at the time when he went to the rice field, having said, "Father," a certain female Frog fell weeping at the edge of his foot; and the nobleman having brought this female Frog home, nourished it. One day, having started on a journey, and tied up a bundle of cooked rice, and in the midst of it having put several rings, at the time when he was going along the path taking the bundle of cooked rice it became night while [he was] near a house, and he went there for the resting-place. At that house there was a young man. In the evening having unfastened the bundle of cooked rice, at the time when he was eating the rice he met with the rings, and having said, "Ane! My daughter's rings have fallen into the bundle of cooked rice," he showed them to the house people. Thereupon the house persons asked, "Is there a daughter?" "Yes, an only daughter of mine," he said. "There is an only male child of mine, also. Will you give your daughter to him?" the house-wife asked. The nobleman having said, "It is good," [after] fixing a day came away. On the appointed day, to look at the young woman the young man and his two parents came. At the time when they asked the nobleman, "Where is the daughter?" he said, "To-day she went with her grandfather." Having said, "If so, on such and such a day we will come to summon her to go," they went away. On that day, at the time when the young man and his two parents came he showed them his female Frog. After that, the young man's two parents were not satisfied, but the young man being satisfied, summoning the female Frog they went away. After a little time went by, they were to go to a [wedding] festival house. While the young man was in sorrow thinking of it, this female Frog took off her frog jacket [and thereupon became a young woman]. After that they went to the festival house. During the time afterwards, these two according to the usual custom dwelt excellently [together]. Uva Province. NO. 166 THE FOUR-FACED KING AND THE TURTLE At a certain city there was a King with four faces. The King thought he must take the city called Ibbawa. [339] For ten million lakhs (a billion) of turtles who are in that Ibbawa city, the Chief is the Turtle King. To kill the Turtle King and seize the city this Four-faced King went, taking many troops, and taking his sword. Having gone there, after having surrounded Ibbawa city, and set guards (raekala), he sent a letter to the Turtle King: "What is it? Wilt thou give thy city to us? If not, wilt thou fight?" Thereupon the Turtle King says, "For thy having thy four faces we are not afraid. What of thy four faces! We are dwelling with iron dishes both above and below us. Shouldst thou shoot at us and strike us, no harm will befall us." Afterwards the Four-faced King, having said, "Ha! If so, let us fight," began to fight. The Turtle King says to the other turtles, "Do ye decorate yourselves to go to battle." He gave notice to the whole of the turtles. The Four-faced King having ascertained that the turtles were being decorated for the battle, the King became afraid, and thought of going back. Because the King at first had not seen the turtles, although the Turtle King was about a yojana (perhaps sixteen miles) high and broad, and since it was the royal city, he says, "We did not come for the war, O Turtle King. I came to ask to marry Your Majesty's daughter to my son, Prince Kimbiya." After that, the Turtle King thinks, "At no time were men able to be tied [in marriage] to us. Because of it, we must give our daughter Gal-ibbi (Tortoise)." Having said [this] he was satisfied. So the Four-faced King and the King's army entered Ibbawa city. Well then, the Turtle King having given quarters to the army and the Four-faced King, made ready food. Because before that the turtles were not accustomed to give food and drink to men, having brought putrid birds (kunu sakunu) that turtles eat and drink, they gave them to all. After that, the Four-faced King says, "We do not eat this food." Then the turtles ask, "If so, O Four-faced King, what do you eat?" Thereupon the Four-faced King said, "We eat rice and curry." Then because the Turtle King receives the thing he wished for, having created very suitable food he gave it to the Four-faced King and the army. After that, the Turtle King and the Four-faced King having spoken [about it], appointed the [wedding] festival for the seventh day from to-day. The Four-faced King and the army having come to [their own] city, say, "We will not summon a [bride in] marriage from those turtles." Having said it, they remained without going to Ibbawa city. This Turtle King, after seven days passed, says to the other turtles, "Having said that they will take a [bride in] marriage from us, they treated us with contempt. Because of it, let us go to fight with the Four-faced King." Well then, the Turtle King, having come with the ten million lakhs of turtles, [after] setting guards round the city of the Four-faced King, says to the Four-faced King, "Will you fight with us, or take the marriage that was first spoken of?" After that, the Four-faced King began to fight with the Turtle King. Having fought for seven days, the Four-faced King having been defeated, and the city people also being killed, the Turtle King got the sovereignty of the city. Having spared only the son of the Four-faced King, Prince Kimbiya, to that Prince he gave Gal-Ibbi, the daughter of the Turtle King. Beginning from that time, the Turtle King exercised the sovereignty over both cities. Having summoned Gal-Ibbi [in marriage] seven Princes were begotten by Prince Kimbiya. The seven persons after they became big and great ascertaining that they were born from the womb of the tortoise, the mother of each of them, through shame ripping open (lit., splitting) each other, the whole seven died. North-western Province. NO. 167 THE STORY OF THE COBRA AND THE PRINCE In a country, during the time when a Prince is causing cattle to graze, the cattle having borne [calves] he goes to take milk in the morning every day, it is said. While he was going one day, at the time when he was bringing milk having met with a Nagaya and a female Cobra, [340] the Nagaya said, "Will you bring and give me every day, morning by morning, one leaf-cup of milk?" [341] he asked. The Prince said, "I will bring and give it." When he was bringing and giving it no long time, one day when he was taking the milk on that day the Nagaya was not [there]; the female Cobra and a Rat-snake were [there]. Well then, at his hand the female Cobra asked for the leaf-cup of milk. The Prince did not give it; he poured the milk into an ant-hill. At the time when the Nagaya came from the journey on which he went, the female Cobra says, "The Prince having come, not giving the milk went away." When she said this, the Nagaya having become angry went to the house at which the Prince stays, and remained at the corner of the mat on which the Prince sleeps. While it is [there] the Prince says [aloud to himself], "Now for a long time I was going and giving milk to a Nagaya and a female Cobra. To-day I went, taking the milk. When I was going the Nagaya was not [there]. Because the female Cobra and a Rat-snake were on the ant-hill, the female Cobra asked me for the milk. Not giving it I came home, having poured it into an ant-hill." The Nagaya having become angry regarding it, came back, and having bitten and killed the female Cobra, heaped her up. On the following morning, at the time when the Prince took the milk only the Nagaya was [there]; the female Cobra was killed. Further, the Nagaya says to the Prince, "Lie down there." The Prince without lying down began to run away. At the time when the Nagaya was going chasing after him the Prince fell. The Cobra having mounted on his breast, [said], "Do you without fear extend your tongue." The Prince afterwards in fear stretched out his tongue. On his tongue the Nagaya with the Nagaya's tongue wrote letters. "Having heard all kinds of creatures talk you will understand them. Do not tell it to anyone," [he said]. Afterwards the Nagaya died. He burnt up the Nagaya. The Prince having come home, while he is [there], when the Prince's wife is coming out from the house small red ants (kumbiyo) say, "A woman like the boards of this door, having trampled [on us] on going and coming, kills us," they said. The Prince having understood it, laughed. When his wife in various ways was asking, "Why did you laugh?" anger having come to him [he determined to burn himself on a funeral pyre, so] he said, "You in the morning having cooked food and apportioned it to me too, eat you also." Having eaten it, at the time when they are going, taking an axe, and a [water] gourd, and fire, two pigs having been digging and digging at a tank a pig says, "That Prince to-day will die." The [other] pig says, "The Prince will not die. Having constructed a funeral pyre (saeyak), the Prince will mount on it. Water-thirst having come, he will tell his wife to bring water," it said. "She having gone, when she is bringing the water she will slip and fall and will die," it said. He having constructed the funeral pyre, when the Prince mounted on it a water-thirst came. He told his wife to bring water. She went [to the tank for it], and having gone slipping through the amount of the weight, she fell in the water and died. Having put his wife on the pyre and burnt her, afterwards he went home. North-western Province. This story affords an illustration of a common belief in Ceylon, that cobras sometimes pair with rat-snakes. The Prince is evidently thought to have acted in a becoming manner in refusing to give the milk to the female cobra when she was improperly associating with the rat-snake during the absence of her mate. Regarding the drinking of milk by cobras, mention is made in the Jataka story No. 146 (vol. i, p. 311) of an offering of milk, among other things, made to Nagas. Dr. Chalmers Mitchell, F.R.S., the Secretary to the Zoological Society, has been good enough to reply as follows to my inquiry regarding the drinking of milk by cobras:--"I have not myself seen Cobras drinking milk, but I am sure that they will do so, and I see no reason to doubt it, as certainly many other snakes will drink milk." In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 382, there is a story the first part of which is a variant of this one, the latter part being a variant of the tale which follows. The daughter of a Naga King was beaten by a cow-herd, and complained to her father that the King of the country had done it. The Naga went at night as a snake, and while under the King's bed heard him tell the Queen that he had saved the girl from the cow-herd. Next day the Naga appeared before the King, offered to fulfil any wish of the King's, and at his request gave him the power of understanding the speech of all animals, informing him that he must be careful to let no one know of it (or, as the translator added in a note, the penalty would be death). When the King afterwards laughed on hearing the talk of some butterflies about their food, the Queen vainly asked the reason. After this occurred three times the Queen threatened to kill herself. The Naga, to save the King, by its magic power caused hundreds of sheep to cross a river in his presence. When the ram refused to return for a ewe she threatened to commit suicide, and reminded him that the King was about to lose his life because of his wife. The ram replied that the King was a fool to perish for the sake of his wife, and that the ewe might die, he had others. The King reflected that he had less wisdom than the ram, and when his wife again threatened to kill herself told her that she was free to do so; he had many wives and did not need her. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 394, a cow-herd who had relieved a Bonga (deity) of a heavy stone which had been placed on him, received from him the power to understand the language of ants. To give him this knowledge the Bonga merely blew into his ear. One day, when the man laughed heartily on hearing two ants abuse each other over a grain of rice, his wife insisted on being told the cause. On his telling her he lost the power conferred on him. NO. 168 THE ANT STORY At a city there is a King who knows the Ant language. At the time when the King and his Queen, both of them, are continuing to eat sugar-cane, a male Red Ant (kumbiya) and the Ant's wife having said, "Let us go to eat sugar-cane," went to the place where the two persons are eating it. Thereupon, the male Ant says, "Ane! Bolan, the things that women eat I cannot eat. Do you eat them. I will eat the things that the King is eating," the male Ant said to the Ant-wife. She having said, "It is good," out of the refuse which the King and Queen having eaten and eaten throw down, the male Ant eats the refuse which the King throws down, and the female Ant eats the refuse which the Queen throws down. Then the male Ant's belly being filled, he spoke to the Ant-wife, and said, "Now then, let us go." Then she says, "It is insufficient for me yet." Thereupon the male Ant says, "In any case women would be gluttonous; their bellies are large," he said. The King, understanding it, laughed. These two filling their bellies went away. Thereupon the Queen asks the King, "What did you laugh at? Please tell me," she asks. The King does not tell her. Well then, every day she asks. The King, being unable to get rid of it, went away into the midst of a forest. Having gone [there], while he was walking and walking in the forest, Sakra, having seen that this King is walking about hungry, creates five hundred Grey Monkeys (Semnopithecus) in the forest, plucking and plucking Mora [342] [fruit]. The party are eating [the fruits]. A female Monkey having said, "I don't want those things," quarrelled with the male Monkey. "If so, what shall I give thee?" the male Monkey asked. Having seen that there is a large Mora fruit at the end of the branch, she says, "Pluck that and give me it (dinan)." "One cannot go there to pluck that; eat thou these," the male Monkey said. The female Monkey said, "I will not." Thereupon the male Monkey says, "If five hundred are able to eat these, why canst thou not eat them?" Having said it, the male Monkey, taking a stick, beats her well. Then the female Monkey, weeping and weeping, was saying, "I will eat these." The King having been looking on at this quarrel, thinks, "These irrational animals are not afraid of their wives." Thinking, "Why am I in this fear?" he came to the King's palace [after] breaking a stick. At the very time when he was coming, the Queen said, "Tell me what it was you laughed at that day." Thereupon, at the time when the King, holding the Queen's hair-knot, was beating her, saying and saying, "Will you ask me again?" the Queen began to cry, saying and saying, "Ane! Lord, I will not ask again." Thereupon the King remained [there] quietly. North-western Province. In The Jataka, No. 386 (vol. iii, p. 175), a Naga King gave a King of Benares a spell which enabled him to understand all sounds. One day he heard ants conversing regarding the food that had fallen on the ground; on another occasion he heard flies talking; on a third he overheard more ant talk. As he laughed each time, the Queen pestered him about it and wanted to know the spell, to give which the Naga had warned him would ensure his instant death. When he was about to yield, Sakra saved him by advising him to beat his wife as the usual preliminary before repeating the spell to her; this effectually checked her curiosity. NO. 169 THE GAMARALA AND THE COCK In a certain country a Gamarala was continually quarrelling with his wife. In the Gamarala a disposition was manifested for ascertaining the motives of others. At the Gamarala's house there were twelve hens for one cock. One day, the two old people quarrelling while the Gamarala is on the raised veranda, the cock says to the hens, "Ane! What a fool this Gamarala is! I am keeping in order twelve wives; my master is unable to keep in order one wife. Should my wives make a disturbance I will beat the whole of them well," he said. The Gamarala having understood the motive for which the cock said it, and shame having been produced, went into the house and beat his wife well. After that, the woman and the Gamarala without a quarrel dwelt excellently [together]. Although this Gamarala can ascertain the motive in the minds of others, he does not tell it at any time to anybody. One day, the Gamarala and his wife having gone to the cattle shed (gawa maduwa), while they were [there] an ass asked a bull that having ploughed from morning was brought and tied [there], "Friend, is that work very difficult?" The friend to that remark says, "At present I have not strength to walk," he said. The Gamarala having understood that talk laughed. His wife teased him much and asked the reason why he laughed. Because of the woman's plaguing him the Gamarala said, "I laughed because this bull grinned at the cow." Uva Province. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. i, p. 13), a merchant heard an ass advise a bull to feign sickness and refuse to draw the plough or to eat, so as to get a holiday. He made the ass pull the plough all day in its place. The ass then said to the bull that their master had ordered the bull to be killed if it refused to plough again, and the merchant laughed until he fell on his back. His wife pestered him for the reason, which he could not give on pain of instant death. As he was about to tell her, the dog rebuked a cock for crowing and flapping its wings when their master was going to die. The cock replied that if their master would give his wife a good beating with mulberry twigs he might enjoy life in peace. The merchant accordingly beat her until she was nearly senseless, and she became "submissive as a wife should be." NO. 170 CONCERNING THE GOLDEN PEACOCK In a certain country there is a King, it is said. Near the city there is also a mountain; on the mountain a [golden-coloured] Peacock lodges. A Vaedda of that country saw that the Peacock lodges on the mountain; having seen it the Vaedda for a long time made efforts to seize the Peacock. At that time the Peacock, getting to know that this Vaedda is saying, "I will seize it," went to another mountain. Having gone, during the time while it was at the mountain this Vaedda got to know of it. Learning about it, the Vaedda went near that mountain also, and made efforts to seize the Peacock. Age having gone to the Vaedda while he was trying to catch [it], when he was about (lit., making) to die he told the Vaedda's son about the matter of the Peacock. While saying it the Vaedda died. After the Vaedda's son became big he went near the mountain on which the Peacock lodged. Having gone there, owing to its freedom from danger (abiyata) he was unable to seize this Peacock. "I at least must seize this Peacock," he thought. After that, taking a pair of noose-posts (mala-kanu), and catching also a peahen, he went there as the first light came, and having fixed the pair of noose-posts he made the peahen cry out. When it was crying out the Peacock came and perched (waehaewwa) near the peahen. Thereupon it was fastened at the pair of noose-posts, and while it was fastened the Vaedda went and seized the Peacock. The Vaedda, seizing it, released the Peacock from the pair of noose-posts. Having released it and said [to himself] that the Peacock is dead, he placed it on one side. Having put it aside he opened the noose of the noose-posts. In the twinkling of an eye the Peacock, having been as though dead, flew away. The Vaedda sorrowed more than his first sorrow [at being unable to catch it]. The Peacock having flown away, without staying in that country went to another country. In that country it began to lodge on a mountain of that country also. At the time when a Vaedda of that country was going hunting he met with the Peacock alone, and told the King of that country, "There is a gold-coloured Peacock at such and such a cave." When he said it the King caused the notification tom-toms to be beaten, and told all the Vaeddas of that country to come. Then all the Vaeddas came. After they came the King said, "On such and such a mountain a Peacock lodges. Catching the Peacock come back." Then the Vaeddas having gone tried to catch it; the Vaeddas were unable to catch it, so the Vaeddas told the King, "We cannot catch it." Then the King having become angry with the Vaeddas said, "Without staying in my country go ye to another country." So the Vaeddas went away. Out of them one Vaedda stopped and said to the King, "O Lord, Your Majesty, I will go quite alone and come back [after] catching it." Then having said, "It is good," the King asked, "To catch the Peacock what are the things you want?" The Vaedda said, "I want, for five days, food-expenses and a pair of noose-posts." So the King gave them. Then the Vaedda, taking the articles also, went near the mountain. Having gone there, he stayed for three or four days to get to know the time when the Peacock comes and goes for food; he learnt the times when the Peacock comes and goes. [After] learning them having fixed the pair of noose-posts in the morning before it became light, he made the peahen [which he had caught and brought with him] call in the very same manner as at first. Then the Peacock came and perched on the pair of noose-posts [and was caught]. Thereupon the Vaedda, taking the Peacock, came near the King. The King took the Peacock, and gave the Vaedda many presents and distinctions. Having given them he kept the Peacock. When it had been there in that way a considerable time, a King of another country, taking his army also, came to seize that city. At the time when he came, this King having prepared to go to the war and having come carrying the Peacock, said, "Should I win in this war I will free thee; if not, I will kill thee." Then the Peacock said, "Taking my feather, and placing it on your head, and tying it there, should you go you will win." So the King having gone in that manner conquered in that war. Having conquered he came to the palace, and having come near the Peacock, he says, "By thy power, indeed, I conquered in this war." Having said, "Because of it, half the kingdom is for thee, the other half for me," dividing the kingdom he remained there. North-western Province. In The Jataka, No. 159 (vol. ii, p. 23), and also No. 491 (vol. iv, p. 210), there is a story of a Golden Peacock. "The egg which contained him had a shell as yellow as a kanikara bud; and when he broke the shell, he became a Golden Peacock, fair and lovely, with beautiful red lines under his wings." We learn that "when day dawned, as he sat upon the hill [at Dandaka], watching the sun rise, he composed a Brahma spell to preserve himself safe in his own feeding-ground." It was as follows:-- There he rises, king all-seeing, Making all things bright with his golden light. Thee I worship, glorious being, Making all things bright with thy golden light. Keep me safe, I pray Through the coming day. [343] During the reign of six Kings it could not be captured on account of the spell, but at last a hunter with the assistance of a tame peahen owing to whose presence the bird forgot to utter the spell, succeeded in catching it in a spring net. [344] The Peacock proved to the satisfaction of the King that he had been a devout monarch himself in a former life, keeping the five Precepts, and after being rewarded with an existence in the heaven of Sakra had been re-born on earth as a Golden Peacock. After this he was allowed to return to "the golden hill of Dandaka." The bird admitted that "all who eat of me become immortal and have eternal youth." In the second story the Peacock was released by the hunter, whom he converted to Buddhism. In all the earlier part of this Jataka tale there is no trace of Buddhism; the Peacock was a sun worshipper, pure and simple. It is evident that the latter part has been tacked on to it in order to give it a Buddhist complexion. It is possible, therefore, that the Sinhalese form of the tale preserves an early version which the composer of the Jataka story modified to suit his purpose. See my note in vol. i, p. 240, on the story of the Jackal and the Turtle. NO. 171 THE STORY OF THE BRAHMANA'S KITTEN In a certain country a Brahmana reared a kitten, it is said. He said that he reared the kitten in order to give it [in marriage] to the greatest person of all in this world. After the kitten became big he took it to give to the Sun, the Divine King. [345] Having taken it there he gave it to the Sun, the Divine King. The Sun, the Divine King, asked, "What is the reason why you brought this kitten?" Then the Brahmana said, "Rearing this kitten since the day when it was little, [346] I have brought it to give to the greatest person of all in this world." Then the Sun, the Divine King, said, "Although I fall as sun-heat (awwa) like fire, into the world, there is a greater person than I. Mr. Rain-cloud [347] having come, when he has spread his car for himself I am unable to do anything. The gentleman is greater than I. Because of it, having taken it give it to the gentleman." After that, the Brahmana having taken the kitten gave it to the Rain-cloud. Then the Rain-cloud asked, "What is the reason why you brought this kitten?" Then the Brahmana said, "I reared this kitten since the day when it was little, to give it [in marriage] to the Sun, the Divine King. When I brought and gave it to the Sun, the Divine King, he said, 'There is a greater person than I. Give it to Mr. Rain-cloud.' Because of it, I brought this kitten to give it to you to marry." Then the Rain-cloud says, "I, the Rain-cloud, having come, what of my car's spreading out and remaining! The Wind-cloud having come, and smashed and torn me into bits, throws me down. He is greater than I. Because of it give it to him." After that, the Brahmana having taken the kitten gave it to the Wind-cloud. Then the Wind-cloud asked, "What did you bring this kitten for?" Then the Brahmana said, "I reared this kitten since the day when it was little, to give it [in marriage] to [His Majesty of] the Sun race. The Sun, the Divine King, told me to give it to the Rain-cloud. The Rain-cloud told me to give it to the Wind-cloud. Because of it, I brought it to give it to you to marry." Then the Wind-cloud says, "I, the Wind-cloud, having gone, what of my going throwing down the Rain-cloud and smashing the trees! I am unable to do anything to the Ground [348] Ant-hill. However much wind blows, the Ant-hill does not even shake. Because of it he is greater than I. Take it and give it to him." After that, the Brahmana having taken the kitten gave it to the Ground Ant-hill. Then the Ground Ant-hill asked, "What have you brought this kitten for?" Then the Brahmana says, "I reared this kitten to give it [in marriage] to His Majesty the Sun. When I brought it near the Sun, the Divine King, he told me to give it to the Rain-cloud. The Rain-cloud told me to give it to the Wind-cloud. The Wind-cloud said, 'There is a greater than I, the Ground Ant-hill. Give it to him.' Because of it I brought it to give it to you." Then the Ground Ant-hill said, "The Sun, the Divine King, can do nothing to me, the Rain-cloud can do nothing to me, the Wind-cloud can do nothing to me, but there is a greater person than I, the Bull (gon-madaya). He having come and gored me, smashes me and throws me down. Because of that give it to the Bull." After that, the Brahmana having taken the kitten gave it to the Bull. Then the Bull asked, "What did you bring this kitten for?" The Brahmana says, "To give this kitten [in marriage] to His Majesty the Sun, I reared it since the day when it was little. When I brought it there, the Sun, the Divine King, told me to give it to the Rain-cloud. When I brought it near the Rain-cloud he told me to give it to the Wind-cloud. When I brought it there he told me to give it to the Ground Ant-hill. When I brought it there he said, 'The Bull is greater than I; give it to him.' Because of it I brought it to give it to you." Then the Bull says, "There is a greater person than I, the Leopard. It is true that I trample on the Ant-hill, and gore it and throw it down; but the Leopard chases me, and tears me, and eats my flesh, therefore he is greater than I. Because of it give it to him." After that, the Brahmana having taken the kitten gave it to the Leopard. Then the Leopard asked, "What did you bring this kitten for?" The Brahmana says, "This kitten reared I to give [in marriage] to His Majesty the Sun. Well then, having walked from there in this and this manner, the Bull told me to give it to you. On account of that I brought it to give it to you." Then the Leopard says, "The Cat is greater than I; my Preceptor is the Cat. He taught me to climb up trees, but I have not yet learnt how to descend. [349] Because of it give it to the Cat." After that, the Brahmana having taken the kitten gave it to the Cat. Then the Cat asked, "What did you bring this kitten for?" The Brahmana says, "For you I did not rear this kitten. Having reared it to give [it in marriage] to the most powerful person of all in the world, I took it to give to the Sun, the Divine King. Then he told me to give it to the Rain-cloud. When I took it near him he told me to give it to the Wind-cloud. When I took it near him he told me to give it to the Ground Ant-hill. When I took it near him he said, 'There is a greater person than I, the Bull.' When I took it near him he told me to give it to the Leopard. When I took it near him the Leopard said, 'Because the Cat is my Preceptor give it to the Cat.' Therefore I brought this kitten to give it to you." After that, the Cat having said, "It is good," marrying the kitten it remained there. North-western Province. In the Literary Supplement to The Examiner of Ceylon for 1875, it was stated that the cheetah (leopard) applied to the cat to teach him the art of climbing, but the cat forgot to show him how to descend. From that time the cheetah never spares the cat if he can catch him, but out of veneration for his old teacher he places the body on some elevation and worships it [that is, makes obeisance to it], instead of eating it. (Quoted by Mr. J. P. Lewis in The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 149). In the short tales at the end of The Adventures of Raja Rasalu, (Panjab, Swynnerton), p. 179, the tiger was taught by the cat. When he thought he had learnt everything the cat knew, the tiger sprang at it, intending to eat it; but the cat climbed up a tree, and the tiger was unable to follow it. The story is repeated in Indian Nights' Entertainment, p. 350. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 56, an ambitious Candala girl who determined to marry a universal monarch saw the supreme King bow down to a hermit. She followed the latter, but when he prostrated himself at a temple of Siva she attached herself to that God. A dog behaved in such a manner at the shrine that she followed the dog, which entered a Candala's house and rolled at the feet of a young Candala; the girl therefore was married to him. In the same work, vol. ii, p. 72, a hermit transformed a young mouse into a girl, and reared her. When she had grown up he offered her to the Sun, saying he wished to marry her to some mighty one. He was referred in turn to the Cloud and the Mountains, but the Himalaya said that the Mice were stronger than he and dug holes in him. She was then transformed into a mouse once more, and married a forest mouse. This latter form of the tale is given in The Fables of Pilpay, in which it was the girl who wished to be married to a powerful and invincible husband. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 168, the parents of a beautiful girl of a semi-aboriginal caste determined to marry her to the greatest person in the world. They took her in turn to the Sun, the Cloud, the Wind, the Mountain, and the Ground Rat. When they applied to the rat it informed them that their own people were more powerful than the rats, as they dug out and ate them; so in the end the girl was married to a man of their own caste. NO. 172 THE STORY OF THE MANGO BIRD In a certain country a hen bird is eating the mangoes at a Wild Mango tree, it is said. While a man was chopping the earthen ridges in the field at which is the Wild Mango tree, having seen the Mango Bird [350] the man went up the tree, and having caught the Mango Bird and descended from the tree to the ground, struck the Mango Bird on the root of the tree. Having struck it he asked the Mango Bird, "Mango Bird, was that day good [or] is to-day good?" [351] Then the bird says, "Both that day was good and to-day is good Through eating the mangoes of a Mango tree, And looking if hardness in Mango root there be." After that, the man having placed the Mango Bird in a gap in the earthen ridge in the rice field, in which there was water, asks the bird, "Mango Bird, was that day good, [or] is to-day good?" Then the bird says, "Both that day was good and to-day is good Through eating the mangoes of a Mango tree, Looking if hardness in Mango root there be, And 'mid the lower lands the frolic watery." After that, as the man was coming home taking the bird, there was a grass field by the path. Having struck the bird [on the ground] in the field, the man asked, "Mango Bird, was that day good, [or] is to-day good?" Then the bird says, "Both that day was good and to-day is good Through eating the mangoes of a Mango tree, Looking if hardness in Mango root there be, 'Mid the lower lands the frolic watery, Keeping up old customs on the grassy lea." After that, the man having taken the bird, as he was going home struck the bird on the road stile, and asked, "Mango Bird, was that day good, [or] is to-day good?" Then the bird says, "Both that day was good and to-day is good Through eating the mangoes of a Mango tree, Looking if hardness in Mango root there be, 'Mid the lower lands the frolic watery, Keeping up old customs on the grassy lea, Finding that the road stile would be crossed by me." After that, the man having taken the bird, as he was going to go (sic) into the house struck it on the door-frame, and asked the bird, "Mango Bird, was that day good, [or] is to-day good?" Then the bird says, "Both that day was good and to-day is good Through eating the mangoes of a Mango tree, Looking if hardness in Mango root there be, 'Mid the lower lands the frolic watery, Keeping up old customs on the grassy lea, Finding that the road stile would be crossed by me, Learning the defects of the door-frame's carpentry." After that, the man, having [broken the ligature round the end of a torch, and] lighted the torch, and set the bird upon [the flame, to singe off the feathers], asked, "Mango Bird, was that day good, [or] is to-day good?" Then the bird says, "Both that day was good and to-day is good Through eating the mangoes of a Mango tree, Looking if hardness in Mango root there be, 'Mid the lower lands the frolic watery, Keeping up old customs on the grassy lea, Finding that the road stile would be crossed by me, Learning the defects of the door-frame's carpentry, Fracture of the tying of the torch by thee." After that, the man cut up the bird with the bill-hook, and says, "Mango Bird, was that day good, [or] is to-day good?" Then the bird says, "Both that day was good and to-day is good Through eating the mangoes of a Mango tree, Looking if hardness in Mango root there be, 'Mid the lower lands the frolic watery, Keeping up old customs on the grassy lea, Finding that the road stile would be crossed by me. Learning the defects of the door-frame's carpentry, Fracture of the tying of the torch by thee, Looking the smith's bill-hook's cutting to see." After that, the man put the bird in the cooking vessel, and having placed it on the hearth [to cook], asked, "Mango Bird, was that day good, [or] is to-day good?" Then the bird says, "Both that day was good and to-day is good Through eating the mangoes of a Mango tree, Looking if hardness in Mango root there be, 'Mid the lower lands the frolic watery, Keeping up old customs on the grassy lea, Finding that the road stile would be crossed by me, Learning the defects of the door-frame's carpentry, Fracture of the tying of the torch by thee, Looking the smith's bill-hook's cutting to see, Looking at the sittings in the potter's pottery." After that, this man, having apportioned the cooked rice on the plate, and having apportioned the flesh of the bird, while he was eating [it] asked, "Mango Bird, was that day good, [or] is to-day good?" Then the bird says, "Both that day was good and to-day is good Through eating the mangoes of a Mango tree, Looking if hardness in Mango root there be, 'Mid the lower lands the frolic watery, Keeping up old customs on the grassy lea, Finding that the road stile would be crossed by me, Learning the defects of the door-frame's carpentry, Fracture of the tying of the torch by thee, Looking the smith's bill-hook's cutting to see, Looking at the sittings in the potter's pottery. Sir, behold! Be good enough to remain looking out." Having said [this], the Mango Bird flew out of the man's nose. The man died just as the bird was flying away. North-western Province. The Sinhalese query and rhyme are:-- �tamba kirilliye, edada honda adada honda? "Edat hondayi, adat hondayi, �tamba gahaka aetamba kaen, �tamba mule hayiya baelin, Owiti maenda paen keliyen, Pitiye sameyan keruwen, Man-kadulle yana eññan deggatten, Uluwasse wadu-hadukan iganagatin, Hulu-atte baemma kaedin, Aciriye kaette kaepun baeluwen, Badahaelaye walande indun baeluwen. Ralahami, On! Bala-inda hondayi." There is a variant in the Sierra Leone district, given in Cunnie Rabbit, Mr. Spider, and the Other Beef (Cronise and Ward), p. 160. A devil who lived near a town had forbidden traps to be set in the "bush" [forest and bushes] there. A stranger set a trap, and caught a pigeon. The pigeon then told him to carry it to his house. When he had done this, it told him to kill it; then to pluck off its feathers; then to clean it; to put the pot on the fire; to cut it up; to cook it immediately; to put in salt; to put in pepper; to taste the food; and lastly it told him to eat it up. He complied with all the instructions. In the evening he went to the "bush" again. When he opened his mouth to speak, the bird flew out, the man died, and his body was carried off by the devil. In a Soninka story of Senegambia in Contes Soudanais (C. Monteil), p. 145, there are incidents of the same type. A hunter met with a female gazelle, which recommended him to look for a larger animal. He fired at it, but it did not fall. Then he killed it with a charmed bullet, saying, "Eh! Who is the stronger?" The animal replied, "Oh, oh! It is not finished!" It made the same remark when he cut its throat, when he skinned it, and also when he carried it home and learnt that his wife and son had died of colic. The man said no more words, but cut it up and placed it in a pot on the fire, on which it repeated the words. After cooking it for some hours he found the meat as hard as at first, and it murmured, "It is not finished." Neighbours seeing him cooking all day inquired what was in the pot. A voice came from it, "An antelope that won't be cooked. It is not finished." At last the man threw a magical powder into the pot, and the meat then became cooked, and he ate it without any ill result. NO. 173 HOW THE PARROT EXPLAINED THE LAW-SUIT In a certain country there is a King, it is said. For the King there is not a Queen. Near the royal palace there is a widow woman; the King is associating with that widow woman. The King gives the woman at the rate of five hundred masuran a day. While they were living in that way, another man thought of conversing much with that woman. Having thought it, one day the man having come near the woman, says, "Ane! Every day in a dream I am conversing much with you regarding the doubt in my mind." Then the woman said, "If so, seeking five hundred masuran come and converse much with me." After that, the man, seeking five hundred masuran, came on the following day. Having come there he gave the five hundred masuran into the hand of the woman. After that, the woman, taking the masuran and having placed them in the house, says to the man, "Ha; now then, should we converse much in the dream it is so much, should we converse in reality it is so much (that is, they are equal). Now then, our talk is finished; go you away." Having said it she neither gave the masuran nor conversed much with the man; she drove the man away. After she drove him away the man instituted a law-suit before the King who associates with the woman. After he instituted it, when hearing the action the King, because he is associating with the woman, declared judgment for the woman to win, and the man's [claim] came to be rejected. While the Parrot which had been reared in the palace was [there], this man's [claim] comes to be rejected. On account of it, the Parrot having gone there said to the King, "How was the way the woman won that law-suit? Is it not as though one saw a reflection below the water, what one says in a dream?" Having said [this], the Parrot explained the law-suit, and the five hundred masuran became the property of the man. Owing to it, the woman, through enmity against the Parrot, catching the Parrot and having given the Parrot into the hand of her girl (daughter), said, "Pluck this Parrot and cook it, and place it [for me to eat] when I come." Having said [this] the woman again went to the palace. The girl, having plucked the Parrot and finished it and placed the Parrot there, went into the house for the bill-hook in order to cut up the Parrot. At the place where the Parrot was put there was a covered drain. The Parrot having gone rolling and rolling over fell into that drain. When that girl, taking the bill-hook to cut up the Parrot, came there, the Parrot was not [there]. After that, the girl through fear of that woman having killed a chicken which was there, cooked it, and placed [it ready]. That woman having come and said, "Where is it? Quickly give me the Parrot's flesh," asked for it. Then that girl brought the fowl's flesh and gave it. Well then, that woman while eating the fowl's flesh, says, "Is it the Parrot's flesh! This I am eating is indeed the mouth that cleared up the law-suit! This I am eating is indeed the Parrot which said that he ought to give the masuran to that man!" Saying and saying it, she ate all the flesh of the chicken. When she was saying these things that Parrot stayed at the end of the drain; keeping them in his mind he remained silent. When cooking at the house, having washed the cooking pots they throw down the water at the end of the drain in which is the Parrot. Having squeezed coconut [in water, to make coconut milk], they also throw the coconut refuse there. When the Parrot, continuing to eat these things, was there a considerable time the Parrot's feathers came [again]. The woman thoroughly performed meritorious acts. The woman, having told a carpenter, causing a statue of Buddha to be made and placing the statue in the house, makes flower offerings evening and morning to it. After that, the Parrot having gone near a Barbet, said, "Ane! Friend, you must render an assistance to me." The Barbet asked, "What is the other assistance?" Then the Parrot said, "In the house of such and such a woman there is a statue of Buddha made of wood. You go and prepare a house (chamber) in it of the kind that I may be inside it. When I have gone inside it block it up." Afterwards the Barbet having said "Ha" and come with the Parrot, the Barbet dug out a house in the statue of the size that the Parrot can be in it. At the time when the Parrot crept into it, having blocked it up from the outer side so that they were unable to know the place where it was dug, the Barbet went away. After that, when the Parrot was there a considerable time, that woman every day in the morning and evening having come near the statue, and said stanzas, and made flower offerings, goes away. The Parrot every day remains listening. One day the woman having come and said stanzas, when she was making the flower offerings the Parrot being inside the statue said, "Now then, indeed! You are near going to the God-world. Still you have been unable to do one [really] meritorious act. Just as you are doing that meritorious act they will take you to the God-world while you are alive." Then the woman thought, "After the speaking of the statue, I am indeed near going to the God-world." Thinking it, she asked, "What is that meritorious act?" Then the Parrot said, "Having taken only this statue of Buddha half a mile (haetaekma) away and placed it there, and put all the other things in this house, and locked the house up, and sat outside, and set fire to this house, that indeed is the meritorious act." After that, the woman having taken the statue of Buddha and placed it half a mile away, and come back, and put all the other things into the house, and shut the door of the house, and locked it, the woman, sitting outside, set fire to the house. While the house is burning the woman is looking on, having said, "To take me to the God-world they will come at this very instant, they will come at this very instant." Then the Parrot, having been inside the statue of Buddha, came out, and having come flying says to this woman, "Haven't you gone yet to the God-world? There! Look! It is indeed in the God-world that that fire is blazing. Thou atest my mouth? For thy eating the mouth of the Parrot which explained the law-suit, this is what the Parrot did. There!" Having said [this] the Parrot flew away and went to the flock of Parrots. North-western Province. In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 118, a woodcutter dreamt that he married a dancing-girl and gave her a thousand gold muhrs. A dancing-girl who heard him say this determined to try to get the money from him, so she claimed him as her husband, demanded it from him, and took the matter before the Raja. Her friends having supported her statements the Raja could not decide the case, but a merchant's clever parrot (Vikrama Maharaja in disguise) gave judgment in favour of the woodcutter. When the girl afterwards obtained the parrot as a reward for her dancing, she ordered her maid to cook it. While the servant went for water after plucking it, the parrot got into the drain for kitchen refuse, the servant substituted a chicken for it, and the dancing-girl ate this, jeering meanwhile at the parrot. After its feathers grew again, it flew off and perched behind the statue of the deity in a temple. When the girl prayed to be transported to heaven, the parrot replied, "Your prayer is heard," and told her to sell everything, give away the money, break down her house, and return in seven days. She obeyed, and was accompanied by a crowd when she returned. Then the parrot flew over her head, told her it was a chicken she ate, and jeered at her. She fell down, dashed her head on a stone, and died. In Folk-Tales of the Telugus (G. R. Subramiah Pantulu), p. 17, a courtesan demanded one hundred pagodas from a Brahmana who had seen her in a dream. He appealed to the King, who promised to give her payment. He caused the money to be hung from the top of a post, and told her to take it out of a mirror placed beneath. In the Tota Kahani (Small), p. 14, a merchant who had left his parrot in charge of his house heard on his return from a journey that his wife had misconducted herself. Thinking the parrot had informed him she plucked out its feathers and threw it out, pretending the cat had run off with it. The parrot lived in a tomb at a cemetery on fragments of food left by travellers. When the merchant drove his wife away she went to the cemetery, and heard a voice--the parrot's--from a tomb telling her she should be reconciled to her husband after shaving her head and fasting for forty days. She did this; the parrot then told its master the wife's story was true regarding its being eaten by a cat, and that God had sent it to reconcile the husband and wife. The husband then brought her home again. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 163, when a merchant who had made a bet of five horses that a courtesan could not induce him to visit her, stated that he had been with her in a dream, she claimed the horses. The King was unable to give a decision, but the Minister's wife settled the matter by allowing her to see the reflection of the horses at the edge of a sheet of water. In the same work, p. 172, after the King of Videha had married the daughter of the King of Pañcala, the latter induced his daughter to send him a clever parrot that was assisting the former King against him. He plucked it bare, threw it out of the window, a falcon caught it, and being promised daily food placed it in a temple, where it got hid and ordered offerings to be made daily by the King, who thought this was the deity's voice. When its feathers had grown, it induced the King, Queen, Prince, and Ministers to come with shaven heads to receive forgiveness of their sins, and then it flew aloft jeering at them. NO. 174 THE PARROT AND THE CROW A crow beginning to roost at the house at which a Parrot roosts, when much time had gone, as those two were talking together the Crow asked the Parrot, "Friend, what do you eat?" Then the Parrot said, "I eat fruits possessing a good flavour." Having said, "If so, I also must eat the [same] kinds of fruits," the Crow went with the Parrot to the midst of the forest. When it was eating fruits for many days, as the Crow was unaccustomed to that food, not having eaten the food [before], it arrived at great privation. Thereafter, at the time when the Parrot asked at its hand [regarding it], the Crow says, "This food, indeed, not being customary for me, from somewhere or other having found flesh you must give me it. If not, I shall now eat the flesh of your body," it said. The Parrot said, "If so, stay there a little until I have sought for flesh and returned," and went to seek flesh. Having gone, and walked and walked, being unable to find and take a little flesh from anywhere, it came to the royal house, and when it looked a piece of meat had been hung up in the cooking house. Having seen it, the Parrot went near the Crow and said, "Friend, there was not flesh anywhere, only inside the [cooking] house at the royal house a piece of meat has been hung. I will go on the wall and cut the string of the piece of meat. When I cut it you, taking it, fly away." The Parrot having gone, cut the string that was tied to the piece of meat. When it was falling on the ground, the Crow, taking the piece of meat, flew away. Having gone it ate it with pleasure. That day the cooking man, being without meat to cook for the King, went to the King and said, "There is no meat to cook for you, Sir, to-day. In this manner a Crow took it away." Thereupon he told him to seek the Crow and shoot it. Thereupon this Crow having said, "This Parrot is better than I for walking and seeking food," frightened it, and said that it was better for seeking and bringing meat; and it employed the Parrot, and making it seek meat began to eat [in that way]. Then this Parrot for the purpose of causing this Crow to be killed having settled upon the roof of the house of the man whom [the King] told to shoot and kill that Crow, spoke to him. The man saying, "A Parrot that speaks well!" went to catch it. The Parrot having stayed looking, without going away, until the time when it is caught, said at the hand of the man, "Should you come with me, I will show and give you the Crow which ate that King's meat." Having said "It is good," the man went on the ground. The Parrot having gone [through the air] above, remained talking and talking with the Crow. Thereupon the man shot the Crow; the Parrot flew off and went away. The King asked, "How did you shoot to-day the Crow that you were unable to shoot for so many days?" The man said, "A Parrot settled on the roof of my house. Having remained there while I went to catch the Parrot, the Parrot said to me, 'I will show you the place where the Crow is.' Afterwards, having gone with the Parrot I shot the Crow." Thereupon the King, in order to ask the Parrot about these matters, told him to seek the Parrot, and come back. He was unable to find the Parrot. Central Province. NO. 175 THE CROW AND THE DARTER In a country, at the time when a Crow is walking about and seeking food, having seen a Darter [352] eating small fishes, [353] and gone near the Darter, he said, "Friend, because there is no food for me assist me." Thereupon the Darter having said, "It is good; I will give you food," and having constructed the nest on the high ground at the side of the tank at which the Darter stays, and told the Crow to be in the nest, the Darter brought small fishes, and gave [them to him] near the nest. When he was [there] a long time eating the fishes, the Crow, having thought of going to his country in which he stayed [before], said to the Darter, "Friend, I must go to my village," he said. The Darter says, "Why are you going?" When he asked, "Can't you remain and eat the small fishes I give?" to say otherwise, because there was not a fault of the Darter's the Crow says, "Friend, because there is one fault at your hand I must go," he said. [As an excuse] for the Crow to go, because there was no fault he says to the Darter, "Friend, every day at the time when you go to seek fish, drawing up your anus to me you go to the bottom of the water. Because it is so I cannot endure it." "If so, go you away," the Darter said. North-western Province. The latter part of the story reminds one of the rude-mannered peacock of the Jataka story No. 32, and also of one which lost its election as King of the birds owing to its indecent behaviour. Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes) vol. ii, p. 332. NO. 176 CONCERNING THE CROWS AND THE OWLS In a rock cave Crows and Owls made their dwelling. At night (rae dawasata) the eyes of the Owls see; the Crows' do not see. Night after night having fallen, when the Crows and Owls had eaten, [the Owls] seized and seized the Crows, and began to pluck off the feathers [and eat them]. By that act the Crows began to be destroyed. Thereafter the Crows spoke together: "Should we [continue to] make our dwelling with this party we shall all be destroyed. Because of it let us go to another country." Out of that set one Crow said, "You must make me stay [in order] to come [after] having killed the Owls. You all go." He said further, "Having plucked off my feathers [until I am] like a pine-apple fruit, go ye." Afterwards those Crows having seized that Crow and plucked off his feathers [until he was] like a pine-apple fruit, went away. The Owls having come, when they looked there was not a single Crow. They asked that Crow, "What is it, friend, that has happened to you?" Then the Crow says, "Ane! Friend, they said to me also, 'Let us go.' Because I said, 'I will not,' they seized me and plucked off my feathers, and the whole of them went away." Afterwards the Owls said, "Friend, can you show us the country in which the Crows are?" Then the Crow says, "If you will assist me a little I can show you it. Until the time when my feathers come you must bring and give me food." The Owls, having said, "It is good," nourished the Crow until the time when its feathers came. It having said, "Ane! Friend, as it becomes evening a chill strikes me. At the time when you are coming you must bring and give me a very little firewood to warm me on account of the cold," the Owls one by one brought and gave the firewood. It heaped up on both sides of the doorway all this firewood that they are bringing. At the time when all the Owls were inside the rock cave, after they were there, the Crow, having heaped all that firewood in the doorway, stealing a fire-stick and having come [with it], set fire to the firewood at the doors. All the Owls having been burnt, became ashes. The Crow went to the party of Crows. North-western Province. In Le Pantcha-Tantra of the Abbé Dubois, the owls lived in a cave, the crows in a great tree some distance away. The Chief of the owls intended to cause himself to be elected King of the Birds. The crows foresaw the dangers to which this would expose them, and one of their Ministers offered to endeavour to save them, and going as a humble suppliant became an intimate friend of the owls. He afterwards went to the crows, returned with them at noon, each carrying firewood, blocked up the entrance to the cave while the owls were asleep, and then set fire to the wood and suffocated them. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 64, the crows lived in a great banyan tree; at night the owls killed many on account of their preventing the owl-King's election as King of the Birds. By his own advice the feathers of a crow-Minister were plucked out, and he was left under the tree. When the owls found him he told them that this was his punishment for recommending the crows to conciliate the owls; he was taken to their cave and fed well until his feathers grew afresh. He then offered to bring the crows back to their tree where the owls could kill them, and at his recommendation the crows blocked the entrance to their cave with grass and leaves. The crow then fetched all the crows, each one carrying a stick and he himself a firebrand, the grass and sticks were set on fire, and all the owls were destroyed. In Les Avadanas (Julien), No. V, vol. i, p. 31, the story is similar. It is also given in a contracted form in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 144. NO. 177 THE FEMALE LARK In a certain country a female Lark [354] having laid two eggs on the path on which they go and come at a rock, remained sitting on the two with affection. One day, when a tusk elephant was going along the path the elephant placed its foot on the two eggs; so the two eggs were broken to pieces. Owing to it the female Lark became at enmity with the tusk elephant, thinking that she must kill it; and one day having gone near the Frog the bird said, "Friend, laying two eggs on the path on which all go and come at such and such a rock, I remained sitting on the two with affection. [Although] so many persons went by there, nothing happened to those two eggs. One day the tusk elephant having come, trampled on my two eggs, and having broken them to pieces went away. On account of it, of what assistance will you be to me?" Then the Frog says, "Ane! Friend, I will be of any assistance you tell me." After that, the female Lark, having said, "It is good," and having gone from there, went near the Crow. Having gone there, she says to the Crow, "Ane! Friend, having laid two eggs on the path on which all go and come at such and such a rock, I remained sitting on the two with affection. [Although] so many persons went along the path, nothing happened to my two eggs. One day the tusk elephant having come, trampled on the two eggs, and having broken them to pieces went away. On account of it, of what assistance will you be to me?" Then the Crow says, "Ane! Friend, I will be of any assistance you tell me." After that, the female Lark said, "It is good." At that time, there not being water in the water-holes there was much drought. One day the tusk elephant, being without water, is walking about seeking it. The bird having seen it,--in the garden where the tusk elephant was walking there was a very deep pool like a tunnel,--the bird having gone near the Frog, said, "Friend, to-day the tusk elephant being without water is walking about seeking it. In the garden in which the tusk elephant is walking there is a pool like a tunnel. You go to the pool and cry out. Then the tusk elephant having said, 'There is water indeed,' will come there." After that, the Frog came and cried out in the pool. Then the tusk elephant thought, "At the place where that Frog is crying out there will indeed be water." Thinking "At places where there is nothing Frogs do not cry out," it went there. When it was listening and looking, the tusk elephant fell into that pool which was like a tunnel. Well then, the tusk elephant cannot come ashore from there. The Frog, having come ashore, says to the female Lark, "Look there. Friend, I was of another assistance [to you]. Now then, you look [after it yourself]." Having said it the Frog went to a tank. After that, the female Lark having gone near the Crow, says to the Crow, "Ane! Friend, that tusk elephant which broke into bits my two eggs has fallen into the pool in such and such a garden. You go and pluck out its eyes, and pierce and pierce its face in two or three places with your bill, and come back." After that, the Crow having come, plucked out the tusk elephant's two eyes and ate them; and having pierced and pierced the face in two or three places with its bill, came ashore, and said to the female Lark, "Look there. Friend, I was of another assistance [to you]. Now then, you look [after it yourself]." Having said it the Crow went away. After that, the female Lark having gone near the Bee says to the Bee, "Friend, the Frog was of assistance to me, the Crow also was of assistance to me; only you have not yet been. The tusk elephant that broke to pieces my two eggs has fallen into the pool at such and such a garden, and his eyes have been plucked out. You go and beat [and sting] his head." After that, the Bee having come and beaten the tusk elephant's head, the tusk elephant died in that very pool. Afterwards the Bee also went away. On account of it, they still say in the form of verse:-- Being a handful merely, the Bush Lark Hen Got a tusker killed. Was it right, O Hen? [355] North-western Province. According to a variant from Uva, the nest of the bird, containing its two young ones, fell on the path on which the elephants passed. The bird begged them to be careful, and not to tread on them, but the king of the elephants deliberately trampled on the young birds. With the help of the crow, the blue-fly, and the frog, the elephant was killed, and the bird then strutted about on its dead body. With regard to the elephant's falling into the pool and being unable to get out, the very thing occurred during a severe drought in the North-western Province in 1877. At a small pool in the upper part of a low rock in the forest, a few miles from Maha-Uswaewa, my station at that time, a female elephant and her young one fell into the water, and were unable to escape because of the steep smooth sides. When I heard of it I sent an overseer with some men, to feed them and release them by throwing in a quantity of branches. This succeeded better than we anticipated; by mounting on the heap of branches they managed to escape during the night, so that we did not capture them as we intended. When the narrator of the folk-story described the pool as being "like a tunnel," he doubtless meant a vertical tunnel or shaft, having steep sides up which the elephant could not ascend. In The Jataka, No. 357 (vol. iii, p. 115), this folk-tale is given, with an evident addition at the beginning, so as to adapt it for service as illustrating the goodness of the Bodhisatta, and the wickedness of Devadatta, his rival. The Bodhisatta, as the leader of a vast herd of elephants, sheltered a quail's young ones under his body until his herd had passed. Then came a "rogue" elephant (Devadatta) and wilfully trampled on them. The quail got a crow, a blue-fly, and a frog to mislead and destroy the animal. The crow pecked its eyes out, the fly laid its eggs in the sockets, and the frog induced the blinded animal to fall over a precipice below which it croaked. This story being illustrated in the carvings at Bharahat must be of earlier date than 250 B.C. In Le Pantcha-Tantra of the Abbé Dubois, a South Indian version, the same story is given, the bird being a kind of large lark, according to the Abbé's note. When the bird's eggs were broken, the jackal summoned a crow, a gadfly, and a frog, and went with them in search of the elephant. The crow pecked its eyes, the gadfly entered one of its ears, the frog sprang into an adjoining well and croaked as loudly as possible. The elephant, rushing in search of water in which it might escape from its tormentors, jumped or fell into the well. In the Tota Kahani (Small), p. 204, a pair of birds--"Sugar-eaters"--made a nest in a tree against which an elephant rubbed its back, the shaking thus caused making the eggs fall out of the nest. One of the birds, determined to be revenged, consulted a bird which had a long bill, a bee, and a frog, and obtained their assistance. The bee intoxicated the elephant by its "ravishing hum," the bird pecked out its eyes, and the frog enticed it to a deep pit into which it fell. NOTES [1] The Sinhalese title is, "The Jackal and the Basket-mender,"--at least this is what I take to be the meaning of Kulupotta, a word I do not know, deriving potta from the Tamil pottu, to mend; compare Kuluyara, a basket-maker. [2] A large monkey of two species (Semnopithecus). [3] Deriving Sen from sema. Kandy appears to have been founded at the beginning of the fourteenth century (Ancient Ceylon, p. 354, note). [4] The title of a Gamarala's wife. [5] In Sinhalese this expression includes the toe-nails, the toes being termed "fingers of the foot." [6] This query is addressed to the King himself, it being more respectful to use the third person than the second. In the story numbered 106 a Princess addresses a Prince in the third person, and there are several other examples. Compare the first couplet of the conversation of the King and goose in the Jataka story No. 502 (vol. iv, p. 266). In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iv, p. 121) a Wazir employs the third person while speaking to his sovereign. [7] In the next story, and in the Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 246, are given a Prince's question regarding sesame, and a smart village girl's reply. [8] Lit. "Your age is insufficient." This is a not unusual form of village repartee. [9] Tindu kalakanni modaya. [10] Manikka-ratne, the jewel of a Cakravarti sovereign or universal monarch. It casts a light for a distance of four miles (Clough). [11] Kaemati dawasaka, on any day you like. [12] So, also, in the Maha Bharata, it was an old woman who, when others were unable to do it, undertook to bring to Lomapada, King of Anga, the horned son of an ascetic whose presence was declared to be indispensable for causing rains to fall. She effected it by the aid of her pretty daughter, who decoyed him. [13] Dandu monara yantrayak. [14] Ahomat-wela. [15] Kalasan = kalya + a + san. [16] Rae-wenda, rae-wenda. [17] Upaharana. [18] According to the text, nawala, bathed, probably intended for namala. [19] The text of this story is given at the end of vol. iii. [20] The gawuwa is usually four miles, but in this instance it is evidently the fourth part of a yojana of about eight miles; the boys would still have a walk of sixteen miles each day. [21] Giya taena. [22] Tisse de wele, lit., the thirty of both times--that is, the thirty paeyas into which each day or each night is divided, the paeya being twenty-four minutes. [23] In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 350, the bird was a pheasant, and the fire avoided a space eight feet in radius around the bird. [24] The room or "house" in the midst of seven, occurs in vol. i, p. 83. [25] Sitano. Except in a few instances in which a Treasurer appears to be referred to (as in No. 100), I have followed Clough in translating this word as "nobleman." In Mr. Gunasekara's excellent Sinhalese Grammar it is translated "Chief"; in the northern Kandian districts I have never heard it so used, the usual expression for a Chief being Nilame, a word, however, which occurs only once in these stories. The adjectival forms are Siti and Situ. Sitano is the honorific (pl.) form of Sitana. [26] Pana upaddan-eka. [27] Baelewwaen misa. [28] A large river and tank fish (Ophiocephalus striatus) which is usually caught with a line and live fish bait. At the present day, Kandian Sinhalese of the better castes consider it improper to fish with a hook, but this is done by some members of low castes. The story was related by a Tom-tom Beater. See Ancient Ceylon, p. 52. [29] The spelling of this word is according to the text. [30] They anticipated the usual death sentence or exile allotted to disobedient Princes in these tales. [31] The word which is used indicates one who shot with a gun. [32] Such a remark is a form of refusal, as in the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. i, p. 174), in which a man, asking a friend for assistance, was answered, "Bismillah! I will do all that thou requirest, but come to-morrow." The other replied in this verse: "When he who is asked a favour saith 'To-morrow,' The wise man wots 'tis vain to beg or borrow." In the Kaele-basa or Jungle language, "no" is expressed by saying Passe puluwani, "Afterwards [I] can." [33] Sattak kiriya-karala, lit., performed a Truth. [34] Panuwo. [35] The immense extent. [36] In the few instances in which their nature is mentioned, these stories agree with Clough's Dictionary in describing the five instruments of music (pañca-turya) as tom-toms. I presume that these are (1) the drum (dawula), (2) the ordinary hand tom-tom (beraya), (3) the double kettle-drum (tammaettama), (4) the small, narrow-waisted hand tom-tom (udakkiya or udikkiya, the Tamil udikkei), (5) the low hand-drum (rabana), unless a single-ended drum called daekke, the Tamil dakkei, be included. In Winslow's Tamil Dictionary the five musical instruments are defined as (1) skin instruments, (2) wind instruments, (3) stringed instruments, (4) metal instruments, (5) the throats of animals. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. v, p. 354, they are termed (1) tantri or sitara, (2) tal, (3) jhanjh, (4) nakara, (5) the trumpet or other wind instrument. Since this was in print, Messrs. H. B. Andris and Co., of Kandy, have informed me that the Sinhalese Pañca-turya are considered to be, (1) singarama, the drum, (2) bere, the ordinary tom-tom, (3) horanaewa, the horn trumpet, (4) tammattama, the double kettle-drum, (5) kayitalama, the cymbal. [37] A species of fig tree, Ficus glomerata. [38] Dilala, perhaps a mistake for dilalla, pl. hon. form. [39] Wenda tiyana de wuna. There is a strong belief in the action of Fate. When a person is accidentally killed a common remark is, "His day had come." [40] Muladaeni baehae dakinawa. [41] Like the people in the travellers' shed all alike were under the shelter of the King's authority, he meant. [42] That is, all, from the highest to the lowest, have duties which they should perform. [43] Probably a mat laid on the veranda. [44] As a possible derivation, I suggest that the first part of the word may be derived from sam + bhañj, meaning "shatter, smash," referring to his toes that were struck by the stone. The rest may consist of adi, foot, the whole word thus being sambhañjadi. In a variant the exclamation is Hottaeripancan. [45] Mariyek, probably intended for mariyek, from the Tamil root maru, in compounds mari, to exchange or barter. [46] Another title is, "Concerning a Foolish King." [47] Magul, auspicious or festival. [48] Shorea robusta. [49] As though using a shuttle. [50] Honorific, instead of "your." [51] Rajabarana, which usually refers to the ornaments and insignia; in No. 156, para. 5, and on p. 84, abarana includes the royal clothes. [52] A name of Ceylon. [53] Formerly this would be one shilling. The panama is one anna, sixteen being equal to a rupee. [54] Eight panams were thirty-two tuttu. [55] Asanam sitam jivana nasam. [56] Trimming of the earthen ridges which surround the plots of the field. [57] Maha ge is "large house"; mahage is an old or well-connected woman, such as the wife of a Gamarala. [58] A variant of the last incident is given in No. 57, vol. i. [59] See footnote, p. 5, on this use of the third person in place of the second. In this instance its employment is sarcastic. [60] This episode is also given in No. 254, vol. iii. [61] Ambuda gasagana. [62] That is, his own grandfather. It will have been noticed that the words his and her are avoided by these story-tellers. When they appear in the translation they are nearly always inserted by me; the same remark applies to the pronouns he, him, and she. [63] That is, with them, after they left. The first statement was that he was born after his mother went away. [64] This incident occurs in the Sinhalese story numbered 82 in this volume. [65] It is a general belief of village Sinhalese and Vaeddas that evil spirits or Yakas throw sand or stones at people during either the day or night. [66] It is said that death always occurs in this way; the breath is drawn upward to the head. [67] The names indicate that they were men of villages called Gampola and Raehigama. [68] A forest tree (Myristica iriya). [69] Betel leaves are packed in a special manner for carrying, enclosed above and below by circular plaited frames which everyone recognises. [70] Viyadama, expenses, but also employed with the meaning, "articles of food for which expenditure would be incurred"--that is, the results of it. [71] A favourite amusement of the little black humped bulls if they can get at them. [72] See the Jataka story, No. 486 (vol. iv, p. 184), for a parenthesis like this in the middle of a sentence. There are many instances in these Folk-tales. [73] Two valuable slippers or shoes are laid on a road at some distance apart. An approaching traveller passes the first one, which would be useless alone, but on seeing the second leaves his load at it and returns for the first one. The thief, who is hidden near the second one, then goes off with the load. [74] Compare the beginning of the last variant at the end of the previous story. [75] Eight and a half bushels. [76] Dawal. [77] Pannagana giya. [78] In Sinhalese this might mean, "I will eat [you]." [79] In the Jataka story No. 527 (vol. v, p. 112) a supposed tree-deity is termed a Yakkha (the Pali word for Yaka). [80] "Seize [him], Walking-stick" (bastama). [81] When a man is about to run quickly he pulls up his cloth to the upper part of the thighs, passes the loose portion between his legs, draws it tightly behind, and tucks the end through his belt. [82] Gandarvayini. [83] Feminine adjective of Sitana, a nobleman, or in some cases a Treasurer. [84] Nikan indin. [85] Maeniyaendaeta. [86] Tirisana is "one of the lower animals." In a variant of the Western Province he terms the stick a Tirihan cudgel. [87] Honda honda. [88] This resembles the cry, "Mok, Mok," made when driving cattle especially cart-bulls and pack-bulls. [89] Phyllanthus emblica. [90] Payana loke. [91] Bahina loke. [92] Naewit. [93] In the text it is termed yantraya, a machine, implement, contrivance; but maturapu yantraya is a talisman, a charmed implement. In the story given in the Arabian Nights it is termed a talisman, and it was on the Princess's neck. [94] In the Arabian Nights it was placed at the bottom of a jar of olives. [95] Dawal tisse, in the thirty [paeyas] of the day-time. [96] Some years appear to have elapsed since he went into exile. This is the case in other stories, although not mentioned by the narrators. [97] Ladaru kumarayo denna, the two young Princes. Kumarayo, Princes, is sometimes used when both a Prince and Princess are referred to. [98] Literally, made public a proclamation tom-tom. [99] A tavalama is a caravan or drove of pack cattle or buffaloes, loaded with sacks of goods. It was the old means of transport along paths that were impassable by carts, and is still employed in some jungle districts. [100] Hayi-wuna, lit., became fast. The words have a similar meaning in the last sentence of No. 157, a story by a different person. [101] Apparently the well-trained cat was sitting on its hams, holding the lamp between its fore-paws. [102] Handun kiri-paen, coconut milk, scented with a little sandal-wood. [103] The names of the three cities are verbal jokes. Awulpura is derived from awulanawa, to collect or pick up; Handi, from handi-karanawa, to join together; Upadda, from upaddanawa, to cause to be born. [104] See footnote, p. 5, regarding the use of the third person in addressing a person very respectfully. [105] The third person used as a sarcastic honorific in place of the second. [106] The account of the girl who was set afloat by the advice of an astrologer who wanted to marry her is also found in No. 139, where other references are appended. [107] Mukkaduwa. I have not seen this yashmak or veil worn in Ceylon; it is the top and back of the head which are covered in public by a cloth, which reaches to the waist or lower. The edge of this is sometimes drawn and held across the lower part of the face when strangers are passing. [108] Pissi gateta, probably intended for pissi gahatata, owing to [his] insane affliction. Holman Pissa means "the madman of uncanny noises." [109] Suranganawo, the Apsarases. [110] This story appeared in Ancient Ceylon, p. 93. [111] A free gift of food to the poor; see vol. iii, Nos. 212 and 241. [112] The Sinhalese title, is "The Story of the Seven Giants." [113] Mama, mother's brother. [114] This reminds one of the lines: "His hook he baited with a dragon's tail, And sat upon a rock and bobbed for whale." [115] This episode, and the Lotus-flower and Lime-tree as life indexes, are given in No. 20, vol. i, and the life indexes also in vol. iii, Nos. 187, 237, and 260. [116] He yayi, lit., will go white, that is, lose colour. [117] An edible grass, Panicum sp. [118] This episode occurs in vol. i, No. 20, and vol. iii, No. 260. [119] Isake gahak, lit., a head-hair tree. A similar episode occurs in vol. iii, No. 208. [120] The episode of the life in the sword which was burnt occurs in vol. i, No. 20, and vol. iii, Nos. 187, 237, 260. [121] Hitapu hitapu taenwalatama. [122] Asamima aenicci rajjaye. [123] Bima-gahanawa. [124] Nuwarata laewa. [125] Baehae daekka. [126] Kurahan, the Tamil kurakkan, the Indian ragi (Eleusine coracana). [127] A temporary rice-field made inside a village tank, at the edge of the water, after it has lowered considerably and left a tract of rich land exposed. Heavy crops are obtained from such fields, but they involve much labour, as the water for irrigating them must be raised from the level of that in the tank. [128] This would be a field of about three and a half acres. [129] Maendaewwa. [130] This is often done in such fields. The water is splashed sideways with one foot, out of the shallow channels in which it stands; the man balances himself on the other leg with the aid of a staff. [131] Probably Malwa in India; in the Jataka story No. 183 (vol. ii, p. 65), it is the Mallians who are referred to as well-known wrestlers. [132] Umbata yanda dodu-weyanin. [133] See vol. i, p. 52, foot-note. It is the Eastern form of the American "Bee." [134] Bolak baenda. I have no explanation of this expression. Probably it refers to a magical spell and charm for preventing anyone from unlawfully interfering with the crop. An instance of the employment of such a form of charm for this purpose occurred in 1901 in the Puttalam district; evidence regarding this was given in the Police Court there, and fines were inflicted on the placers of it, and were confirmed by the Supreme Court. [135] Puruk dae-kaetta. [136] Alut Kathawa. [137] Lit., by this. [138] Lit., by the. [139] Lit., "I am able for." The infinitive is often omitted: the villager says, Eka mata puluwani--"I am able [to do] it." Compare also No. 93. [140] C is pronounced as ch in English. [141] Lit., by the. [142] A sixteenth part of a rupee. [143] Mandi. [144] A village saying, perhaps intended to frighten the child and make her behave better. [145] The funeral feast given to Buddhist monks on such occasions. [146] He meant the fruits, as mentioned lower down. [147] The collective name of some of the lowest castes. [148] Giya haetiye awe nae. [149] Severe cases of ulceration of the lower part of the legs were formerly numerous in the jungle villages, and were due to a complaint termed the "Parangi disease." It is gradually dying out, now that people have more wholesome food and water. [150] Compare also vol. i, p. 131. [151] Short-nosed one. [152] In transliterations the letter c is pronounced as ch. The noise was a splutter. [153] This incident occurs in Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 154. A girl married to a tiger ran off after killing a cat and hanging it over the pan on the fire. When the tiger returned he thought she was cooking. [154] Nikan hitiya. The expression here implies, I think, that he did not again attempt to marry his sister. [155] Illness caused by one of the demons called Kadawara Devatawa. [156] Betel is presented to devil-dancers when inviting them to come for a demon ceremony. [157] A Veda (low caste) or Vedarala (good caste) is either a medical practitioner, or a soothsayer, or person who expels demons. [158] Rae tisse, during the thirty [paeyas, each being twenty-four minutes] of night. [159] Egg-plant, or aubergine (Solanum sp.). [160] Rice from which the skin has been removed without first softening it in hot water. After the cooking the grains adhere together. [161] This is considered to be a bad omen, hence the tying of the thread to put an end to such dreams; see vol. i, p. 15. I have been assured by those who have worn such threads that tying one on the arm has the desired effect in checking evil dreams. To dream of eating food is a prognostic of a future deficiency of food. [162] A leaf cup, a reversed cone, would be set point downwards in each cleft, and the cakes be heaped upon it. [163] �nga purama. [164] Mata yanda nae, lit., "There is not [an opportunity] for me to go." [165] The meaning is, "If you did not notice and punish him for so long, was it likely that I should?" [166] Another title is, "The Story of Thirty Ridis." [167] In a variant she is his younger sister. [168] Lit., "silvers." In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. i, p. 234) there is a similar expression denoting silver coins: "I gave the servant a few silvers." The ridi or larin is the silver wire "hook-money," at first imported from the Persian Gulf, where it was coined in Laristan, but afterwards made in Ceylon. Captain Robert Knox says of it, "There is another sort, which all People by the King's Permission may and do make. The shape is like a fish-hook, they stamp what mark or impression on it they please" (Hist. Relation of Ceylon, 1681, p. 97). Baldaeus remarked, "The most current coin here are the silver Laryns each whereof is worth about tenpence ... as well in Ceylon as Malabar two golden Fanams, at five-pence a piece, make a Laryn" (A Description of ye East India Coasts, etc., translation, 1672, p. 727). As a later value I was informed that three ridis were equal to one rupee. Further information regarding this money will be found in the Additional Notes at the end of vol. iii. [169] E minihata himin. Himin, hemin, or semin commonly means slowly, gently; hence in village talk, secretly, unperceived, unknown to. [170] See footnote on the first page of No. 201, vol. iii. [171] Innawa pewuni. [172] E parama, lit., at the very stroke. [173] The words are an imitation of the rapidly-uttered alarm notes of the common Lapwing of Ceylon:--Haebaeda ridiye, haebaeda ridiye, daekkada ridiye, dutuwada ridiye, dunnada ridiye, gattada ridiye, ridi tihayi, tihayi, tihayi. [174] Kirali (Lobivanellus indicus). [175] Perhaps this means, "[Our] bills are small." [176] The narrator is supposed to have been a spectator. [177] The text is given at the end of vol. iii, as an illustration of the usual conversational style in the villages. [178] Third person for second, in an honorific sense; she was speaking to the women. [179] Lit., "these," the word for paddy being plural, like that for rice. [180] Upaharana in the text, apparently intended for upakarana. [181] Agare giya; agaraya is a drainage area. The meaning is that the flow of the flood water over the ground carried away the paddy, which would be spread on mats laid on the ground. [182] Naki mahallae katantare. [183] Nakiralage. [184] From my own experience in the case of a severe burn, I can say that a paste of cow-dung smeared completely over a burnt place entirely removes all pain, and the wound soon heals under it. The paste dries immediately owing to the heat of the skin, and after that no unpleasant smell remains. [185] The Sinhalese title is, "The Story that tells the manner in which he played on the Lute for the Representation of the Tusk Elephant (�taerinba)." [186] The verb used throughout the story is ganawa, to rub. [187] Husma elunaya. [188] I do not know if this word is intended for an exclamation (= haha), or a noun, hasak, a sorrow. [189] See the variant from Tibetan Tales at the end of No. 190, vol. iii. [190] A vegetable cultivated in village gardens and chenas, Nothosærua brachiate. [191] Ana-karanayen; the verb ana-karanawa is usually "to order." [192] Apparently understood by him to be intended for Kuda chawa chawa. "Hunchback, [you are] vile, vile." [193] Idena, which ordinarily would mean "ripens." [194] He appears to have understood this to mean, "Hunchback, [you are] clownish, clownish," godaya being "clown." [195] Perhaps to be taken as one word, Kudarun, = Kudo + arun, "Hunchbacks [are] fellows." [196] Busa means chaff, cow-dung; he thought the meaning was, "Hunchback, [you are] chaff, chaff." [197] Sitana kenek. [198] Sarpayingen gahana sitadika ratakata gos. The meaning is not clear; apparently, as the bodies of snakes are always cold, they were in such numbers that they chilled the air. Like pariah dogs, they enjoyed the warmth and comfort afforded by the soft ashes, and on departing left the gems out of gratitude. [199] Tom-tom-voiced one (Bheri + nada + ya). [200] Daekun = dakshina. [201] Death personified. [202] Diviyan, for deviyan, literally, deities. [203] Many-bows-carrying Panditaya (Dhanu + ut + dara); it is a plural honorific form. [204] See foot-note, vol. i, p. 50. [205] The text of this story is given at the end of vol. iii. [206] Lehuwak. [207] Pinci ammalae gedara. Pinci or punci amma is the mother's younger sister. [208] Lit., tried can she eat her. This is the usual form of expression. It is common in Ireland also:--"A man came forward and asked me would I buy a stone with Irish letters on it" (Prehistoric Faith and Worship, p. 150). "He got into a bad rage entirely, and asked her was Manis asleep again" (Donegal Fairy Stories, p. 83). [209] Gal keruwa. He appears to have lain in wait for them. [210] Abuccala; the brothers of a man's father are termed his fathers. [211] In this tale the title is perhaps wrongly written Yakshayin kana Prakshaya, the Yakshas-eating Prakshaya. In variants of the latter part of the story the name is Rakshayan kana Prakshaya, Raksaya kana Praksaya, and Raksin kana Praksaya. [212] A species of cork-tree (Clough). [213] Gaenu kollawa, lit., the female lad or youth. [214] Perhaps a shopkeeper who sold rice, and who employed women to clean the husk (kudu) off paddy. [215] The only expression found in the stories, with one exception where a Prince kisses his sister's portrait; elsewhere "kiss" does not appear in them. It is the crown of the head which is smelt, or sniffed at with a strong inhalation; the effect seems to be quite satisfactory. [216] Yakshayin, in this story. [217] Sic, probably a euphemism. [218] Raksin kana Praksaya. [219] Mata bae, lit., "I cannot," but commonly used with the meaning "I will not." [220] Udu-mahal talawa. [221] The form of Bola used when addressing a person of low caste. [222] Vis unnahanse. [223] Gediya. [224] Padda is the Low-country name for a Duraya, a man of the Porter caste, Padu being the adjectival form. [225] Appuhami is a title applied to the son of a Chief, usually in the Low-country, Bastda or Bastdara being the Kandian equivalent. [226] Jadaya. [227] Sahodarayine. [228] A haetiye. [229] Rakshayan kana Prakshaya. [230] These incidents are given in vol. i, p. 101. [231] This is an instance of Peraeli-basa or Transposition, and the meaning is, "Go a little little [further]." Jen may be derived from ned; the other words are tika tikak. [232] Mage duwa kohe giyado? Darata giyado? Waturata giyado? [233] I have left this sentence as it was written, as a specimen of the village mode of expression. [234] Monk's residence. [235] Prognostics depending on the position of the planets at the time when she reached marriageable age. These are ascertained in the case of all girls. [236] Mara damanda epa. [237] Compare No. 108. [238] Buddhist sacred writings. To say Bana, is to recite or chant portions of these works. [239] This form of the story is found also in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. iii, p. 215. [240] Persons, often village doctors or soothsayers, who possess a knowledge of the incantations and procedure by means of which demons are driven away. [241] It is stated in the Maha Bharata (Vana Parva, ccxxix) that when a Yaksha enters a person he becomes insane. [242] A demon who frequents cemeteries. [243] The tom-tom beaters were formerly weavers also. [244] May life be long! This is the usual response made at incantations during ceremonies for removing sickness caused by demons or planets. The words are addressed to the power invoked, and must be uttered very loudly. [245] Kapi kawatakan, silly jokes. [246] The light that he saw was caused by her brilliance. See the end of No. 204, vol. iii. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 16, a beautiful girl is described as having "a face like a full moon, and eyes like a blue lotus; she had arms graceful as the stalk of a lotus, and a lovely full bosom; she had a neck marked with three lines like a shell, and magnificent coral lips; in short she was a second Lakshmi" (the Goddess of Prosperity). [247] In these stories the yojana may usually be taken to represent four gawu of four miles--that is, it would be sixteen miles. [248] Unnaehae is nearly equivalent to Mr., and is used in names in the same way. [249] Literally, betimes (kalin). [250] Katak, a mouth. [251] Kada watta-wanne naetuwa. Watta appears to be derived from the Sanskrit and Sinhalese vant, part, share. [252] The common form of adieu among Sinhalese and Tamils. [253] Bee-hive flower. [254] Ironwood, Mesua ferrea. [255] The story is difficult to understand in several places; I have tried to express the apparent meaning. [256] It is clear that she got her name from a flower found in the hive, which might thus be termed a Mi-mala (Mi-flower), and not from the flower of the Mi-tree (Bassia longifolia). [257] Mata bae, which often is used with the meaning, "I will not." [258] Wijja-karayek. [259] Bhutiyan-karayek. [260] Kaemaeti kenek, a common expression meaning anyone whatever. [261] Kapantada. [262] Kotantada. [263] Waden poren. [264] Handun kiri-paen. [265] Eda dawasa. [266] Waden poren. [267] This incident is given in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 83. The hundred sons of a Queen attacked their father's capital. The Queen mounted on a tower, pointed out their wickedness, and pressing her breasts milk was projected into their mouths, and they recognised her. In vol. iii, p. 12, she was on a white elephant, and had five hundred sons. [268] Yatama yata taliyata. [269] The narrator has omitted to state the reason why the King was so anxious to kill the Prince--that is, in order to marry the Princesses. [270] De gawwak tiya mi-maesso ewidinawa. [271] Poroga, perhaps for pura-roga. [272] This is the Raja-miya, or Royal Bee-hive, of the Wanniyas; it has this name in the next variant. [273] Pallem pallem. Pallem may be palla, bottom + im, pl. of ima, boundary, limit. [274] Pas waehaewwotin. [275] The Sinhalese title is, The Story of a Nobleman (Sitana kenekunge kathawa). [276] A kalpa is a day and night of Brahma, or 1,000 Yugas, and therefore 432 million years (see vol. i, p. 49). [277] Warata awaya, that is, become mature. [278] For an account of the Royal Bee-hive, see Ancient Ceylon, p. 170. [279] Daru garbayek upanna. [280] Umbe kawuda, your who? a common form of expression. [281] Aciravati, now the Rapti. [282] Nanga bawanata; throughout the text Nagaya is spelt Nangaya. [283] In the Mahavansa, chap, xxxi, the name of the Naga King is Mahakala, but in the Sin. Thupavansaya, p. 87, it is Mahakela. [284] Nanga rajayo. [285] This power over snakes by means of spells (mantras) is mentioned in the Maha Bharata (Adi Parva, cxcii). There are spells which are believed to render any animal incapable of movement. See also vol. iii, Nos. 245 and 252. On one occasion, when I went after a "rogue" elephant I had with me an old tracker who claimed to know an infallible spell of this kind. After we had been charged by the animal, however, I discovered him in the upper part of an adjoining tree, his excuse being that the elephant was deaf and could not hear the words of the spell. [286] Nuwarak nuwarak pasa. [287] Eda dawasema, on that day's very day. [288] Two months, according to the MS. [289] Sun-maidens or women (Suriya-kantawo). [290] A mendicant's wallet. [291] Tamunta, hon. pl. of tama, he. [292] White, if the word written su was intended for sudu. [293] Metuwak kal. [294] Wasa napuru. [295] Gatawala nam pussa. [296] The flowers of the Celestial Nymphs, the Apsarases. [297] Soyanta diyak. [298] Pissa. In the story No. 22 the word is wrongly translated "burnt," owing to my confounding the Sinhalese word with pussa and pissuwa, the colloquial expressions for "burnt." [299] Devin-wahanse. [300] The "permission" of a King is a command. [301] The Sinhalese title is, "Concerning a Woman's becoming a Rakshi (Rakshasi)." [302] Lit., tied the marriage. The little fingers or thumbs of the bride and bridegroom were tied together by a thread during the ceremony. [303] A room. The word meaning "room" is rarely used in these stories, the usual expression, kamara, being a Portuguese word. [304] In The Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. ii, p. 140), it is stated of a man that he "fell to weeping a weeping." [305] Budiya gatta. In village talk, the same expression is used for sleeping and lying down, the context alone showing which meaning is intended. The villagers rarely lie down except when about to sleep, or when ill. On p. 415, line 5, the same expression occurs. [306] In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 43, it is stated of Rakshasas, Yakshas, and Pisacas, "They never attack chaste men, heroes, and men awake." [307] Raksappreti. [308] Kiyana wahama. [309] The hill on the left side in Fig. 46, Ancient Ceylon. [310] Ashes, according to the Katha Sarit Sagara, vol. i, p. 564. To this may be added the transformation of Ahalya into stone by her husband, the hermit Gautama, for her intimacy with Indra, and the Rishi Visvamitra's turning the Apsaras Rambha into stone for disturbing his devotions (Maha Bharata, Anusasana Parva). [311] See especially the note to No. 136 of this vol. [312] Lit., by the woman. [313] Calophyllum sp., a tall forest tree. [314] Lit., near the hand, ata langin; in other cases the expression is sometimes ata gawin, with the same meaning. [315] Alessan-karana = alissam-k., with dat. [316] That is, meet me face to face; this would be an unfavourable omen. [317] �ndun kuttama. Kuttama being a pair, the reference appears to be to the jacket and cloth. [318] Some formal auspicious wish, such as, "May you be victorious, O King," or more simply, "Victory, O Great King." The word in the text is asiriwada, the Tamil asirvatam, and Skt. asirvada. [319] Anata ana-dunna. [320] "Koda nada pana e tibi huro nata denu we Madara dapana kal baedi wiri duta yanu we. Me tada bada kata no karan me mata raewanu we Mama oda eda baessa mu dura no pinu we." I offer the translation of these lines with considerable doubt. I have assumed that huro = suro, hon. pl. of sura; madara = ma adara; duta = duta; and pinu = pinu. The courier or messenger would be Kama, the god of love. Perhaps oda and eda ought to be transposed; the line would then end, "I that day's pride abating." [321] �maeta-inda. [322] Harigas kenakunda, lit., to persons who fit them (to the facts). [323] In The Kathakoça (Tawney), p. 29, when a king sent a crier with a drum to invite assistance in a certain affair of difficulty, a man stopped the proclamation by touching the drum. [324] Kadappuliya, apparently derived from the Tamil words kadam, grave-yard, and pilei, to escape. The Tamil word would be kadappileiyar, he (hon) who escaped from the grave-yard. Compare vedippulaya (for vedippileiyar), one who escaped from shooting (The Veddas, by Dr. and Mrs. C. G. Seligmann, p. 196). Handa giya kala wiya-gaha [324a] kaedune, Wiya-gaha kaedu kala gedarata emine, [324b] Gedarata a kala aenda uda sitine, �nda uda siti kala konda-pita daewe, Konda-pita dae kala aenda yata balane, �nda yata baelu kala kiri-bata tibune. Kiri-bata kalayi me duka waedune. Me duka balala paenapan Gembiritto! [324a] Lit., Yoke-tree, like our "axle-tree." [324b] ? Hemin en[n]e. [326] In trying to laugh at the man's doggerel, according to the narrator. [327] Jambu, the Rose-apple, Jambosa vulgaris. [328] There is not a word botiya, pl. botiyo, in Sinhalese, except when thus added to kotiya with the meaning given by me; compare praksaya in No. 137. [329] The meaning of the word dabukka is said to be waehi-poda, drop of rain, or drizzle. [330] In a variant it is termed a Kaburussa creeper, perhaps the same as the Habalossa creeper in No. 94. [331] In the variant both ends were tied on the animals' necks. [332] Beds are often made by a number of split canes laid longitudinally and fastened at the ends of the frame, with transverse canes interlaced through them. Coir strings (of coconut fibre) are also used. A grass mat is laid over the canes or strings. [333] See the description of the circular corn store, opened by raising the roof, in the Introduction, vol. i, p. 10. [334] Waru hantiya, end of the stack-like roof. [335] That is, they all go together, the men preceding the women. [336] I never heard of an instance of a python's swallowing a human being in Ceylon. Cases are known of their seizing dogs and deer; one which was brought to me had just killed the largest he-goat of a flock; it was eighteen feet long. In the story No. 72 in vol. i, a python is stated to have seized a boy who had rescued a jackal which it had caught. [337] A large amphibious lizard (Hydrosaurus salvator). [338] Lit., by the King. [339] Ibba is a fresh-water turtle; Ibbawa would be Turtle City. [340] Spelt by the narrator both haepinna and haepinni. [341] Udeta udeta eka eka kiri gotuwa. [342] A plum-like fruit, of pleasant flavour, but astringent, which grows on a tall forest tree, Nephelium longanum. [343] Similarly, in the Maha Bharata (Vana Parva, iii) it is declared that the repetition of the Hymn to the Sun recited by Yudhishthira grants any boon, and that its reading in the morning and evening twilight frees a man or woman from danger. [344] In the second story it was a spring noose, which held the Peacock dangling in the air, caught by the leg. Apparently this is what the Sinhalese narrator meant. [345] Suriya Diwa Rajaya. [346] Punci-da hita. [347] Waehi-megaya unnaehae. [348] This word is evidently inserted to distinguish it from the tree ant-hill, made of earth by a species of black ant. [349] The leopard often climbs up trees, but cannot descend more than a few feet down the trunk; from any considerable height it always jumps down. My tame leopard would climb down backwards for about six feet only. [350] �t-amba kirilli. [351] A form of comparison, meaning, "Which was the better, that day or to-day?" [352] Plotus melanogaster, diya-kawa (Sin.). [353] Kudamassan. [354] Kaeta kirilli, probably a Bush Lark (Mirafra affinis). One or two other species have this name in Sinhalese, but not the Quail. [355] Mitak witara aeti e kaeta kirilli �tek maerewwa. Harida kirilli? 
58889	----	VILLAGE FOLK-TALES OF CEYLON Vol. III Collected and Translated by H. PARKER Late of the Irrigation Department, Ceylon LONDON LUZAC & CO. Publishers to the India Office 1914 CONTENTS STORIES OF THE CULTIVATING CASTE NO. PAGE 178 Concerning the Friendship of the Hare and the Parrot 3 179 The Deer and its Friends 5 The Deer, the Jackal, and the Crow (Variant a) 8 The Rat and the Turtle that kept the Precepts (Variant b) 9 180 The Foolish Bird 13 181 The Golden Oriole 16 182 The Story of the Vira Tree Fish-Owls 18 183 The Lion and the Bull's trust in him 22 184 The Lizard and the Iguana 24 185 The Cobra and the Polanga 26 The Widow and the Mungus 27 185A The Crab and the Frog 29 186 A Louse and a Bug 30 STORIES OF THE LOWER CASTES STORIES OF THE POTTERS 187 The Three Yakas 35 188 The Time of Scholars 38 STORIES OF THE WASHERMEN 189 The Thief called Harantika 41 The Dexterous Thief and his Son (Variant) 43 190 The Story of the Four-fold Trap 48 191 The Foolish Prince 52 192 The Jackal and the Gamarala 54 STORIES OF THE TOM-TOM BEATERS 193 The Story of Batmasura 57 194 The Story of Ayiwanda 62 195 The Gamarala's Son-in-law 71 196 The Story of the Gamarala's Son 78 197 The Manner in which the Gamarala buried his Sons 84 198 The Story of the Wooden Peacock 89 199 The Wicked Step-mother 94 200 The Woman who ate by stealth 99 201 The Story of the Bitch 102 202 The Elephant Guard 106 203 The Elephant-Fool 110 204 The Girl who took Gruel 112 205 The Boy who went to learn the Sciences 115 206 The Prince and the Ascetics 117 207 The Turtle Prince 121 208 The Gem-set Ring 127 209 The Story of the Brahmana 136 210 The Story of a Siwurala 141 211 How the Poor Man became Wealthy 144 212 The Story of Madampe-rala 146 213 Æwariyakka 149 214 The Horikadaya Story 152 215 The Story of Bahu-Bhutaya 155 216 The Story of Golu-Bayiya 158 217 The Yaka of the Akaragane Jungle 161 218 The Four Rakshasas 166 219 The Story of the Rakshasa 173 220 The Thief and the Rakshasas 176 221 King Gaja-Bahu and the Crow 183 222 The Assistance which the Snake gave 185 223 The Leveret, or the Story of the Seven Women 187 224 The Greedy Palm-cat 189 STORIES OF THE WESTERN PROVINCE AND SOUTHERN INDIA NO. PAGE 225 The Wax Horse 193 226 The Three-cornered Hatter 200 227 The Gamarala who went to the God-World 207 The Tusk Elephant of the Divine World (Variant) 209 228 The Gamarala who ate Black Fowls' Flesh 212 229 How the Gamarala drove away the Lion 217 230 The Son who was Blind at Night 220 231 The Son and the Mother 223 The Wicked Daughter-in-law (Variant) 228 232 Concerning the Hetti Man's Son 230 233 The Fortunate Boy 234 234 How the Daughter-in-law got the Masuran 240 235 The Monkey and the Beggar 243 236 How the Beggar and the King gambled 249 237 The Story of the King 253 238 The King who learnt the Speech of Animals 258 239 The Mad King 261 The Kahawana sowing (Variant) 262 240 Concerning the Prince with his Life in his Sword 265 241 The Royal Prince and the Hettirala 272 242 Prince Sokka 285 243 The Affectionate Prince 293 244 The Prince who received the Turtle Shell 300 245 Concerning a Prince and a Kinnara Woman 304 246 The Way in which the Prince traded 310 247 A Princess and a Prince 313 248 Concerning a Royal Princess and Two Thieves 321 249 How the Nagaya became the Princess 325 250 The Story of the Cobra's Bite 328 251 How they killed the Great-bellied Tambi 336 252 How Maraya was put in the Bottle 339 253 The Woman Pre-eminent in Cunning 343 254 Matalana 347 255 The Five Lies quite like Truth 352 256 The Three Truths 354 257 The False Tale 355 258 The Story of Kota 359 The Flower-Garden Story (Variant) 361 259 The Story of Sokka 367 260 The Giant and his Two Friends 373 261 How they formerly Ate and Drank 380 262 The Gourd Fruit Devil-Dance 384 263 The Ascetic and the Jackal 386 SOUTH INDIAN STORIES 264 Concerning the Blind-Eyed Man 388 265 The Destiny Prince 392 266 The Teacher and his Pupil 400 The Teacher and the Bull (Variant a) 405 The Brahmana and the Scholar (Variant b) 407 SINHALESE TEXTS OF STORIES Introductory Remarks 413 81 Concerning a Royal Prince and a Princess 419 126 The Story of the Seven Wicked Women 423 134 The Story of the Rakshasa and the Princess 424 207 The Turtle Prince 426 216 The Story of Golu-Bayiya 429 225 The Wax Horse 430 APPENDIX ADDITIONAL NOTES, AND CORRECTIONS Omitted Incidents 457 Index 459 STORIES OF THE CULTIVATING CASTE NO. 178 CONCERNING THE FRIENDSHIP OF THE HARE AND THE PARROT In a certain country there are a Hare, and a Mouse-deer, and a Parrot near a river, it is said. The three every day come to the river to drink water. One day the Parrot said to the Hare, "Friend." Then the Hare having said, "What? We two are friends indeed. From our friendship what will be the profit? Should you find and give me a mate we should indeed be friends," afterwards the Parrot said, "If so, stay there until the time when I come [after] finding a mate for you," and the Parrot drank water and went away. On the following day, when the Parrot came he met with a Mouse-deer. Having seen the Parrot the Mouse-deer says, "Friend, where is your friend?" The Parrot says, "My friend has not come to-day." Then the Mouse-deer says, "What friendship with those Hares! If you become friendly with us what things cannot we do!" Then the Parrot says, "Friend, he is [my] former first friend; now then, I cannot abandon him." At that the Mouse-deer having become a little angry went away. Having so gone, the Mouse-deer, seeking the Hare, says to [1] the Hare, "Friend, with that Parrot what friendship! The food which that one eats is different, the place where that one lies down is different, that one is an animal which flies [in the air] above. Are we so? We lie down in one place, we eat one food. Because of it, give up [your] friendship with that one." At that the Hare became a little angry. After that, the Mouse-deer, having gone near the Parrot, says, "Take you [to heart] the things that I say, O Parrot-youngster." Thereupon the Parrot said, "What, friend?" The Mouse-deer says, "The sort called Hares at any place whatever are not trusted." Then the Parrot asked, "Well then, what are you telling me to do?" Then the Mouse-deer says, "On account of it, give up your friendship with the Hare." To that the Parrot did not consent. After that, the Mouse-deer, having gone near the Hare, said, "Friend, we having been in the midst of this forest, except that there is convenience through the water, through the food there is none. Because of it, let us go into the midst of the villages." The Hare also being pleased at this, and having said, "Ha; let us go," the two together went into the midst of the villages. Having gone there, the two crept into a bush. A man saw that this Hare and Mouse-deer crept into the bush. Having seen it, the man spoke to yet [other] men, and having brought nets they fixed them. When they had thus fixed them the Hare bounded away; the Mouse-deer was caught. The Hare having bounded away from there, went to the spot where it formerly stayed at first. After that, it met with the Parrot. Then the Parrot asked the Hare, [2] "Where, friend, is the Mouse-deer?" The Hare said, "Friend, men seized the one who tried to break the friendship of us two." Then the Parrot says, "Friend, through his going to break our friendship that we [have had] for a long time, danger befel that very one." Having said it, the friendship of the two was in the very same manner [as before], Anun nahanda yanakota tamumma nahinawa. While they are going to kill others they die themselves. North-western Province. NO. 179 THE DEER AND ITS FRIENDS At a certain time there were three years without rain. Because there was no rain, water everywhere was wanting. In the wilderness in the midst of the forest there was water at a single rock-hole. There a Deer drank water. At the time when the Deer, having eaten and eaten food in the jungle, was going, he met with a Crow. The Crow said, "Friend, you are in health, as though without any want of food or water. For us there is not a drop of water for bathing or drinking. Ane! Merit will be attained. [3] Please tell me also the place where you drink water." Thereupon he told the Crow the path to the rock-hole in which there is water. At the time when the two are coming thus and drinking the water, the Woodpecker met them. "Friends, where do you drink water? Merit will be attained; tell me also," the Woodpecker said. Afterwards they told the Woodpecker the path. At the time when the three were drinking the water, a Turtle met them. The Turtle also asked, "Friend, where do you drink water? We indeed are going (lit. making) to die. Merit will be attained. Tell us, too, the place where you drink water." They showed the path to the Turtle also. Well then, at the time when the four were drinking the water, a Jackal met them. The Jackal says, "Friend, where do you drink water? There is no want of food and water for you, indeed. Ane! Merit will be attained; tell me also." [The animals] having shown the path to the Jackal also, while the five were drinking the water there, a Vaedda having gone hunting also saw the water-hole. He saw that a Deer had drunk water at the water-hole. Having seen it, the Vaedda thought, "I must catch this Deer." He set a deer-hide noose there to catch the Deer. Well then, when the Deer was going [there] to drink water, the Deer was caught in that Vaedda's deer-hide noose. The Turtle, and the Crow, and the Woodpecker, and the Jackal, these four friends, having come to drink water, when they looked the Deer had been caught. Well then, the four having said, "Ane! Our friend who showed us the road to drink water to-day has been caught for killing," the other three said to the Jackal, "Ane! Friend, you indeed are able to bite this fold of deer-hide." The Jackal, thinking, "To-day a good eating has been hung up for me," said, "Ane! Friend, I am indeed unable to bite the deer-hide fold. My teeth are shaking about." Then those three said, "Ane! Friend, don't tell those lies; you can indeed somehow or other bite it." Having said, "Ane! I cannot," the Jackal lay down at the edge of the jungle. In [every] possible way the three told the Jackal. The Jackal did not bite it at all. Having said [to himself], "I shall obtain the stomach," he remained silent. The Turtle was biting and biting [the cord] as much as he could, during that day night-time. On the following day, as it became light, the Crow said to the Woodpecker, "Friend, you go, and when the Vaedda is preparing to come, make an evil omen (bada)." At dawn, the Vaedda having arisen says to the Vaedi woman (his wife), "Cook a packet of rice, and give me it. I have set a noose. In order to go to look at it." At that time the Woodpecker cried out. Then the Vaedda says, "Bolan, there is a bad omen. Having waited a little time, cook." [4] Afterwards, having waited a little time the woman arose. At that time, also, the Woodpecker cried out. When she was taking the rice also, the Woodpecker cried out, yet the woman having cooked the packet of rice gave it to the Vaedda. The Vaedda taking the axe and taking the packet of cooked rice, at the time when the Vaedda is going, the Woodpecker having come flying above tells the other friends, "Ane! Friend, now then indeed, we cannot save him. I made evil omens as much as possible; without hearkening to them the Vaedda is coming." Afterwards, the three beseeched the Jackal, and told it [to bite the cord]. Yet the Jackal did not bite it. Having said [to himself], "I shall obtain the stomach," without speaking he remained lying down. Then the Vaedda having come, and seen that the Deer has been caught, hung the packet of cooked rice on a tree, and taking the axe came near the Deer. As he was coming, the Crow tore open the packet of cooked rice. Then when the Vaedda is coming near the packet of cooked rice, the Crow goes away. When the Vaedda is going back near the Deer, again the Crow tears the packet of cooked rice. The Vaedda, having become angry at it, threw the axe to strike the Crow. The Crow flew away. The axe having struck the Jackal, the Jackal died. Then the Deer, breaking the deer-hide cord, bounded off. Well then, the friends having joined together went away. The Vaedda saying and saying, "Ane! Was it the Deer that I got, or the packet of cooked rice I got?" [5] went away. P. B. Madahapola, Ratemahatmaya, North-western Province. THE DEER, THE JACKAL, AND THE CROW. (Variant a.) In a certain country, when a Deer and a Crow were friends while a long time was going, one day the Deer met with a Jackal. The Jackal, having seen the Deer, says, "I also should be pleased to be friendly with you. Because of it, are you willing or not?" he asked. Then the Deer says, "I indeed am willing. I don't know if the Crow which has become my friend is willing or not." Then the Jackal asked the Crow. The Crow says, "I am not willing, but if the Deer is willing, remain," he said. After that the whole three were friendly. The Crow's dwelling was in a tree; the dwelling of the other two was under the tree. One day when the Jackal is going to seek food, having seen a rice field and come back, he says to the Deer, "Friend, let us two go for food. I have seen a good rice field to-day. You eat the rice there; I will eat crabs there," he said. The Deer says, "I will not. It is not good to go there; should we go there we shall come into danger," he said. The Jackal, on the following day having gone [there] and come back, says to the Deer, "Nothing having been done [to me] there, let us very two go to-morrow." This Jackal says thus with the intention that having killed the Deer he may eat the flesh. The Deer, trusting the word of the Jackal, went. Having gone, when he looked there is a paddy field. Having seen it and eaten the paddy (growing rice) that day, he came back. On the following day, too, the Jackal said, "Let us go." And because the Deer could not break the Jackal's word, on that day, also, he went. That day, the man whose field it is, the owner of the field, having come, when he looked saw that deer had eaten it; and having come home, and gone back taking a noose which was twisted from hides, he set it at the gap [in the fence] through which the Deer came. Thereupon, in order to eat the paddy the Jackal and Deer came to the field. While they were coming [through the fence] the Deer was caught in the noose which had been set. Then the Deer says, "Friend, to-day having come they will kill me. Because of it bite this noose," he said. Thereupon the Jackal says, "I cannot. This is Sunday; [6] how shall I bite hides to-day?" Having said this, the Jackal got hid and waited. The Crow, also, having seen that the Deer does not come for a long time, the Crow also came to seek the Deer. Having come, when he looked he saw that the Deer had been caught in the noose, and asked, "Friend, what is [the reason of] it?" And the Deer says, "This indeed is the Jackal's contrivance. To-day how shall I get free?" he asked the Crow. The Crow says, "I will tell you a stratagem. At the time when the rice-field owner is coming I will peck at your eye [as though you were dead]. I will caw at a [certain] time. At that time spring up and run away," he said. Thereupon the rice-field owner came, taking a cudgel. Having come, when he looked he saw that the Deer, having been caught in the noose, is dead. Then he began the folding up of the noose. When the Crow was cawing the Deer sprang up and ran away. Having seen the running Deer and thrown the cudgel that was in his hand, [it struck the Jackal, and] at the blow which was struck the Jackal died. (This is the story as it is found in the Hitopadesa, with an antelope in place of the deer.) North-western Province. THE RAT AND THE TURTLE THAT KEPT THE PRECEPTS. (Variant b.) In a certain country there is a river. At the river there is a Rat; in that river there is a Turtle. Every day when this Turtle rises to the surface this Rat is here. The Turtle said, "Friend, what are you [doing] there?" he said. "I am keeping the Precepts" (of Buddha). "Is it good for me also to come?" the Turtle said. This Rat said, "It is very good." After that the Turtle came. At the time when these two are keeping the Precepts a Deer came to the river for drinking water. Having seen these two here, "What, friends, are you [doing] there?" [he said]. "We are keeping the Precepts." "Is it good for me to come?" "Ane! It is very good," they said. After that, the Deer came. At the time when these three are keeping the Precepts a Crow came flying. The Crow said, "What, friends, are you [doing] there?" "We three are keeping the Precepts." "Would it be good for me to come, too?" he said. "You [Crows] are not trustworthy." "It is true, friend, [regarding the others]; nevertheless there is trustworthiness in me," he said. Thereupon they said, "Come." The Crow came. At the time when these four are keeping the Precepts a Jackal came. Having seen these four the Jackal said, "What, friends, are you [doing] there?" "We are keeping the Precepts." "Would it be good for me to come, too?" he said. "Your kind are not trustworthy," they said. "Yes, it is true [regarding the others]; nevertheless I am trustworthy," he said. "If so, come," they said. Afterwards the Jackal came. At the time when the five are keeping the Precepts, when the Jackal went for food and went to the Gamarala's chena, he saw that there is good corn there, and he said to the Deer, "Friend, there is a good food for you in the Gamarala's chena," he said. The Deer said, "[For you] to tell me the road let us go together," he said. The Jackal and Deer, both, having gone, the Deer ate food and filling his belly returned. On the following day, when the Jackal was going alone to the Gamarala's chena the Gamarala was [there]. This Jackal said, "Doesn't the corn disappear in this chena? The Deer, indeed, has eaten it. You can't find the gap [by which he came]; shall I find and show (lit., give) you it?" The Gamarala said "Ha." "Here, look; the gap. Having made the noose, and seized and killed it, you must give me meat," he said. The Gamarala made the noose. On the following day, when the Deer went to eat food on the high ground, he was tied in the noose. When the Jackal went he had been tied. The Jackal went near the Gamarala [and told him]. The Crow said, "Our friend went for food; why has he not come?" When he went to look, having seen that he had been tied in the noose, he said to the Rat, "Friend, that friend of ours went to eat food; having been tied in the noose he is unable to come." After that, the Rat having gone cut the noose. He said to this Deer, "Remain lying down in the grass field," he said. (To make it appear to be dead the Crow perched on the body of the Deer.) When [he saw that] this Crow had perched on the back of the Deer, that Gamarala says to the Jackal, "To-day indeed he has died." When this Gamarala was going near the Deer, the Deer, having said "Hu," bounded away. Then the Gamarala struck the Jackal [with his axe]. The Jackal says, "Not being obedient [to the Precepts], an axe-thunderbolt struck me," [and died]. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In The Jataka, No. 16 (vol. i, p. 49), a deer that was snared is described as shamming death [7] as in the second of these tales, and escaping when the hunter unfastened the noose. In the Jataka tale No. 216 (vol. ii, p. 106), when an antelope, a woodpecker, and a tortoise (turtle) lived near a lake, a hunter caught the antelope in a leather noose. While the tortoise endeavoured to gnaw through the leather, the woodpecker went off to make evil omens and delay the hunter in the early morning. It did this by uttering a cry, flapping its wings, and striking him in the face as he opened the front door of his hut. He thought "Some bird of evil omen has struck me," so he turned back and lay down for a short time. By repeating this at the back-door the bird made the man remain at home till sunrise. When at last he approached the antelope the tortoise had gnawed through all but one thong; the antelope burst this and escaped. The jackal is not introduced into this version, which being illustrated in the early Bharahat reliefs is of earlier date than 250 B.C. In Le Pantcha-Tantra of the Abbé Dubois, a crow, a rat, a turtle, and a gazelle formed a friendship together. When the gazelle was caught the rat brought others and gnawed through the nets and saved it. Afterwards when the rat and turtle were likely to be seized, the gazelle led the hunters away, and its friends escaped. The jackal is not mentioned. In the Hitopadesa a crow, a rat, a turtle, and an antelope were friends; a hunter caught the turtle and tied it to his bow in order to take it home. By the rat's advice the antelope feigned death, the crow perched on it, and while the hunter went with his knife to the antelope the rat gnawed in two the string that held the turtle, which at once plunged into the water; the antelope then ran off. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 52, a mouse takes the place of the rat. NO. 180 THE FOOLISH BIRD [8] In a certain country a hen bird laid eggs on a rock; when she was there a considerable time young ones were hatched from the eggs. While the young ones are on the rock, the bird having come [after] seeking food, gives it to the young ones. One day, when the bird was going seeking and seeking food, there was a Mi tree [9] in the jungle. The Mi flowers of that Mi tree had fallen on the ground. The bird, gathering the flowers, and having come and spread them out on the rock on which were the young ones, said to the young ones, "Children, until the time when I come [after] seeking food for you, look after these." Afterwards the young ones, having said "Ha," stayed looking in the very direction of the Mi flowers. The bird went to seek food. The sun's heat having fallen on them, [through their] drying and drying up the Mi flowers became extremely less; when one looked the Mi flowers were not even to be seen. The bird seeking food and having come, when she looked there were no Mi flowers. Having said, "The young birds ate them, indeed," she asked the young ones about it. The young birds said, "We did not eat them." The bird having become angry and said, "If ye did not eat them, who ate them?" struck all the young birds on the rock and killed them. Then the white lotus throne of Sakra, the Divine King, having become hot, he rained a rain. When it was thus raining it soaked those Mi flowers that had dried up, and [as they expanded again] the rock was filled with them in the same manner as before. The bird having been looking on, said, "Ane! My foolishness in killing my children!" and called her children. She called them in the manner of verse:-- They dried and dried until they shrank; my children on the rock I've slain. King Sakra's eyes divine beheld; he rainèd down a flowery rain. Then in the very form they had, a rock was filled with flowers again; But crying, "Son! My callow ones!" your mother called to you in vain. That indeed. Now also, those birds saying "Kuturun, Son, Son!" [10] call them. North-western Province. The text of the verse is:-- Weli weli adu-wena turu, daruwan gale gaesuwa. Saek rajune diwas bala, mal waessak waessa. Etakota mal tibunu lesama galen ekak piruna. "Pubborun, pute," kiya, amma anda-gaesuwa. In a variant by a Tom-tom Beater the verse is:-- Blossoms of jungle tree I saw and brought, and on the rock I strew. They dried and dried until they shrank; my children then I beat and slew. Now, crying, "Kuturu, Son, ku!" your mother vainly calls to you. Kaele gase pub daekala, gale genat waenuwa. Weli weli adu-wena turu, daruwan gasala maeruwa. "Kuturu, pute, ku,"[10] kiya, amma a[n]da-gasati. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 228, two pigeons collected ripe fruits and filled their nest with them. During drought which followed they shrank considerably; the male pigeon charged the female with eating them alone, and although she denied it he said, "If it were not that you have eaten them alone how could they have decreased?" and pecked her to death. When rain which fell afterwards caused the fruits to enlarge to their former size, the bird saw it, and felt remorse, and "then began to call his female with plaintive cries." In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iv, p. 117) there is a similar story. A pair of pigeons collected a store of wheat and barley during winter, but when summer came it was shrivelled with the heat, and shrank. The male pigeon charged the hen with eating it; when she denied it he beat and pecked her till he killed her. In the next cold season the grain swelled out again as at first; and the male pigeon, seeing that the hen was innocent, mourned over her, refused food, and died of grief. Sir R. Burton refers also to a variant in the Book of Sindibad, and Kalilah and Damnah. In the last line of the text of the verse on the preceding page, if Kuturu be corrected to Kuturu, and if the bird's cry is to be interpreted, the meaning might be, "[my] falsehood is great, O Son, [and my] guilt." NO. 181 THE GOLDEN ORIOLE At a certain time, a Golden Oriole having perched on a tree, while it was [there] reflected, "On account of my [golden] colour when shall I obtain a food [suitable] for me?" At the time when he was thinking thus, he saw that a fruit on a Jak-tree had ripened. Then a crow having come, dug into that very Jak-fruit. Thereupon the Golden Oriole, being pleased, laughed. Then after the crow flew away the Golden Oriole went near the Jak-fruit, and taking a section from it flew away. Putting away somewhere the food possessing the [golden] colour equal to his colour, he sang songs. He saw near there a King-Coconut tree, and thinking, "The fruit and flowers on the King-Coconut tree, and I, and my food are of one [golden] colour," he was pleased. Having perched on the King-Coconut tree, while he was eating the section of Jak a Crested Eagle, flying above, seizing the Golden Oriole for the purpose of the Crested Eagle's food, flew aloft [with him]. While it was flying [away with him] the Golden Oriole says, "For the fault that I committed (i.e., the pride in his personal appearance), taking me let us go flying still higher," he said to the Crested Eagle. Thereupon the Crested Eagle having killed the Golden Oriole ate him. North-central Province. This story reminds me of a little tragedy that I witnessed many years ago at Anuradhapura. While I was sitting in the veranda of the Rest-house, my attention was attracted by a friendly Black Robin (Thamnobia fulicata), a bird in habits much like the common Robin of Europe and with the same trustful confidence in man. After picking up insects on the ground close to the veranda it flew up, and perching in the shade on the lower branch of a tree a few feet distant from me, in the full enjoyment of its innocent life uttered a happy little song. Suddenly, in the midst of its notes there was a downward rush of a dark bird from behind, and in an instant the hapless Robin was being carried away in the merciless claws of a Sparrowhawk which must have been hidden in another part of the tree. The hawk was merely fulfilling the Law of Nature; the strong always devours the weak, without pity. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 355, a crow which uttered agreeable (that is, auspicious) sounds when a woman's husband was absent on a journey, was promised a golden cap by her if he returned safe and sound. When he came back in health and the crow repeated the agreeable sounds, she gave it the cap, and the crow put it on and flew about proudly with it. A falcon, seeing the cap, then tore off the crow's head on account of it (apparently because it coveted the gold). NO. 182 THE STORY OF THE VIRA TREE FISH-OWLS [11] There was a certain Bakarawata City. At the same city seven Fish-Owls who were friends dwelt at one place. Out of them the name of one was Rawana-Face; [the names of the others were] Great-Fisher, Long-Boned-One, Dumb-One, Trap-Setter, Noisy-Drummer, Big-Fool. [12] While they are in friendship in this way, without a marriage, one day, having called the others, [one of them] said thus:--"The whole of us are beings possessing much dignity. Because of it, let us summon a woman [as wife] for the whole seven of us." Having [thus] talked, for the purpose of asking for the daughter of King Motanis [in marriage] the two called Noisy-Drummer and Trap-Setter having gone to Kurupiti City, and perched on the portico (torana) near the palace of King Motanis, cried with the sound, "Um, Um." [13] At that time the King having come out, and perceiving, because he knows the Fish-Owl language, the matter for which they called out [to him], the King asks them, "What is the business that ye do? Your livelihood being of a different sort, how is it?" he asked Noisy-Drummer. Thereupon he says, "O King, Your Majesty, it is I indeed whom in Bakarawata City they call Noisy-Drummer. In the same city the Minister of King Kuru am I." Then the Fish-Owl called Trap-Setter says, "I am the son of King Motaba, who is near the same city," he said. Thereupon the King says, "Unless King Motaba will give marriage to you, we are unable [to do] so." Having said, "Ye are of the lower animals" (tirisannu), he abused them, and drove them away. After that Noisy-Drummer and Trap-Setter came to Bakarawata City, [and told the others of the failure of their mission]. While they were there, to Noisy-Drummer the other five say, "Ye fools! When ye asked for marriage in that way will they give it?" Having said [this], they quarrelled [with them]. What was that for? Because King Motaba is not an overlord of lineage, [14] if they had asked for the marriage from an overlord of lineage it would be good. Having said [this], they five quarrelled with them. After that, the two Fish-Owls called Great-Fisher and Long-Bones went to Sulambawati City in order to ask for [marriage with] the Nadakara Kumari, [15] the daughter of King Attapala. While they were there, sitting upon the porch of the palace of King Attapala, Long-Bones called out, "King Attapala!" After that the King having come, when he asked, "What is it?" as they were sitting upon the porch Long-Bones spoke to the King, "We came to ask for a marriage." At that time, King Attapala asks Great-Fisher, "Is this one thy brother, or thy friend?" Thereupon Great-Fisher says, "O Lord, this is our Long-Bones; he is my eldest brother. He is a person of the royal race. Just now, as we got cold in the head many days ago, our faces have become heavy [looking]," he said. After that, when the King asked them, "How do you get a living?" they say, "Aniccan dukkhan! [16] When Your Majesty is ruling you obtain all things, and get a subsistence [in that way]. We are not thus. For us seven brothers, at one place there are rice-fields [extending] over sixty yalas. [17] At yet [another] place there are nine amunas. The others indeed I am unable to mention separately. The whole [of the cultivators] of these rice-fields having come near us, after having asked [permission from] us work [in them], and bring and give the paddy at our very house." He wove and told a great many [such] lies. Having said, "It is good; I will give my Princess to thee. Come thou into the palace to look if she is beautiful," the King went inside the palace. At that time they also went. When he was threatening them,--"Now then, I will give ye a good marriage now!" becoming afraid, and having said, "There is no need of this marriage for us," they sprang off; and having gone even to Bakarawata City, they say to the others, "The King of that city is an extremely wicked one (wasa napurek). He abused and disgraced us in many ways," they said. Thereupon, Big-Fool says, "Ye are fools! If you went to a place where there is [good] lineage, and asked for a marriage, they will give it. By asking for a marriage from persons without lineage, will they give it?" Having said this, these two called Rawana-Face and Dumb-One also went for the purpose of finding the marriage. While they were journeying thus, they arrived near the Sun, the Divine King. While they were there, having seen the Sun they say thus, "O Lord, we came to ask to take in marriage for us Your Majesty's daughter, that is, Paduma Kumari," they said. Thereupon the Sun asked, "Of what lineage are ye, Fish-Owls?" "We are of Brahmana race," they said. Thereupon the Sun, the Divine King, having become angry, scolded them and drove them away. Then, having turned back and come to their own house, they say falsely in this way to the others, that is, "There is indeed a marriage. Because [our] country is far away he says he cannot give it," they said. After that, Big-Fool says, "No one of you is able to bring a [bride in] marriage. I must go." Tying up a package of cooked rice, and having gone quite alone to Totagamu City, and seen the King of the city, he got hid; and firstly having gone near the Fish-Owls of that city, he inquired, "How many daughters of the King are there?" Having looked, he ascertained that there are seven. Thereafter having gone near their palace, he cried out for the King to hear, "Will you give the youngest of the seven, Princess Sunumalli?" Princess Sunumalli having heard the voice, came outside and looked. Thereupon desire for the Fish-Owl having stirred her mind, secretly calling him near her they conversed; and he having been there many days, and thereafter having got hid, these two went to Bakarawata City. While there, this Princess was [the wife] in common for the whole seven; but because they were of the lower animals no children were born to her. To get medical treatment for it one of them went away, and when he asked the Vedarala (doctor) of Kukkapitiya, the Vedarala said, "Taking Black Cummin seed and White Cummin seed at the rate of four lahas (one-tenth of an amuna, of about six bushels), and having ground it, [you are] to give it to her to drink with human urine," he said. He having come home, in that manner the whole seven together made the medicine in the very way the Veda said, and gave it to her to drink. Thereupon, through the [quantity of the] four lahas, she burst open and died. After that, these seven having become very sorrowful, Long-Bones being unconscious, and Rawana-Face splitting his head, and Great-Fisher having jumped into the well, and Noisy-Drummer having jumped into the sea, and Dumb-One having cut his throat (neck), and Big-Fool having fallen from the top of a tree, [all these] died, Trap-Setter alone being left over. He, taking afresh a female Fish-Owl [as his wife], lived. North-western Province. This story is an evident satire, making fun of people who go about endeavouring to contract unsuitable marriages with the members of families much higher than their own in descent or position. The village medical practitioner is also parodied. NO. 183 THE LION AND THE BULL'S TRUST IN HIM A Jackal having seen that a Lion and a Bull are friendly, the Jackal went and asked the Bull, "Friend, how am I also to be friendly with you two?" Concerning it the Bull said, "You cannot." The Jackal being angry with the Bull because of it, thinking, "I must break the friendship of the Bull and the Lion," went one day, and said to the Lion, "O Lord, Your Majesty, your friend the Bull said at my hand regarding you, 'However much ability of that Lion there should be to do things, [after] taking and sifting out my share of it, should it be taken away the Lion will be destroyed.'" After that, the Jackal, having gone again near the Bull, said, "Ane! Friend, the Lion says of you, 'However much prowess and might of that one's there should be, should I once make the Lion's roar the other animals die, putting that one [out of consideration].'" Thereupon the Bull having said, "When we have remained on good terms such a time, if he says that of me I also am willing to fight with him." Having come near the Lion he said, "We two remained on good terms such a time. Because of [what you have said], to-day we must die." When he was fighting with the Lion the Lion made the Lion's roar. When he was making the Lion's roar the Bull came and gored him. In this way, on account of the Lion's roar the Bull died, [18] and the Bull having gored him the Lion died. After that, having said these false slanders and pushed the quarrel, the Jackal who had caused them to be killed having come after these two died, and having said, "He was unable through haughtiness to take me as his friend; how about it now?" ate the mouth from that one and the mouth from this one. While eating them, having summoned still [other] Jackals, and said, "I did such a clever deed; what did ye?" he laughed. "If ye also want, eat ye," he said. Central Province. In the Jataka story No. 349 (vol. iii, p. 100), a jackal in order to taste their flesh, set a friendly lion and bull at variance. "He said, 'This is the way he speaks of you,' and thus dividing them one from another, he soon brought about a quarrel and reduced them to a dying condition." When a King came to see them, "the jackal highly delighted was eating, now the flesh of the lion, and now that of the bull." This story, being included in the Bharahat carvings must be of earlier date than 250 B.C. In the Hitopadesa, as the lion was afraid of the bellowing of a bull that was abandoned on a journey, two jackals persuaded the bull to appear before the lion, which became friendly with it. Afterwards the jackals, determining to get the bull destroyed as it induced the lion to curtail their supply of meat, informed both the lion and bull that the other intended to kill it. When the bull approached the lion they had a long fight in which the lion was victorious. The same story is given in the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 27. In Le Pantcha-Tantra of the Abbé Dubois, p. 30, the story is nearly the same. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 192, a lioness before dying advised her cub and a calf she had reared to live together in peace. A fox which became jealous of the calf told it and the young lion false tales of their mutual intentions, and when they met they killed each other. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 325, the calumniator was a jackal. In the same work, p. 328, there is a variant in which the friendly animals were a lion and tiger which a jackal set at variance. When about to attack each other they spoke, ascertained that the whole quarrel was due to the jackal's falsehoods, and the lion thereupon killed it. This story is given in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, pp. 233 and 425; in the latter example a lion and bull killed each other. In Fables and Folk-Tales from an Eastern Forest (Skeat), p. 30, a mouse-deer in the same way induced two bulls to fight, and when one was killed the deer feasted on the flesh, after frightening away a tiger that wanted to share it with him. NO. 184 THE LIZARD AND THE IGUANA At a certain time a small Lizard [19] and an Iguana [20] became friends it is said. In this state they remained for much time. During the time while they were thus, these two quarrelled; having quarrelled, both struck each other with their tails. When they were striking each other the small Lizard lost. The Lizard, having sprung aside, was panting and panting. There was an ant-hill there; the Iguana crept into the ant-hill. A Vaedda from a distant place when walking about for hunting, not meeting with game is coming away. While he is coming, this panting Lizard asked, "Friend, where are you going?" Then the Vaedda said, "Friend, I went hunting, and did not meet with game." After that, the Lizard says, "Friend, an Iguana having dropped into this ant-hill is staying in it. Break it open, and take it." Then the Vaedda, having gone to his village and brought a digging hoe, goes breaking and breaking open the ant-hill. Thereupon the Iguana also, digging and digging, goes on in front [of him]. The Vaedda, a half-day having passed [in this way], took much trouble over this. When he had been digging for a great distance he did not meet with the Iguana. Thereupon, anger on account of [getting] no game, and anger on account of the trouble [he had taken uselessly] having seized the Vaedda, and having become angry also at the Lizard, he struck the Lizard with the digging hoe that was in the hand of the Vaedda. The Lizard rolled over and died. Owing to the injustice through which he went to kill his friend, he himself died. North-western Province. In the Jataka story No. 141 (vol. i, p. 303), a chameleon induced an iguana-trapper to kill a number of iguanas by digging out their burrows because he found his friendship with one of them troublesome. NO. 185 THE COBRA AND THE POLANGA At the time of a drought there was not even a little water for a Cobra to drink, it is said. Well then, when the Cobra went to a village, a little child at a house was playing with the water in a large bowl. The child's mother was not at home. The Cobra having gone there, while it is drinking the water the child throws water out of the coconut shell on the Cobra's head, and strikes it with hand and foot. On account of it nothing angry is aroused in the Cobra; having drunk its belly full of water it goes away. Thus, in that manner, when the Cobra was going drinking and drinking the water for two or three days, one day it met with a Polanga. [21] The Polanga asked, "Where, friend, do you drink water?" The Cobra said, "I drink it nowhere whatever. In this drought where is there water for anyone to drink?" Again the Polanga said, "Friend, do not you say so; you have drunk. Tell me also the quarter where you drink." After the Cobra had continued not telling it, it afterwards said, "At such and such a house a little child is playing and playing with the water in the bowl. Having gone there, as I drink the water the child throws water on my head with the coconut shell, and strikes me with hand and foot. Not becoming angry at all, I drink and come away. You, indeed, will be unable [to restrain yourself]. If you can [remain] without doing anything [to the child], go and drink, and come away." The Cobra having sent the Polanga, went behind, and having got hid, while it remained looking on [the child] throws water on the [Polanga's] head with the coconut shell, and strikes it with hand and foot. Until the time when the Polanga drinks its belly full, it remains doing nothing [to the child]. After it drank it bit the crown of the child's head. At the blow the child fell into the bowl as though dead. The Cobra having come running, sucked the poison from the crown of the child's head, and having made it conscious pursued after the Polanga. Having joined the Polanga it bit and killed it. From that day the Cobra and Polanga are opposed. North-western Province. THE WIDOW AND THE MUNGUS I have not met with this tale as a true village folk-story, but it was related as one of the episodes in the series of tales included under the title of "The Four Panditayas," in which various stories were told in order to induce a King not to execute the youngest Panditaya for wiping off the Queen's body a drop of blood which fell on her at night when he cut in two a cobra that was about to bite the King. The whole story is an Indian one. The account given to me is as follows:--[The Panditaya said,] "O Lord, Your Majesty, I myself will tell you a story, be pleased to hear it." Having said this he began thus:--"At a time, at a city a widow-mother reared a Mungus. The widow-mother alone takes firewood and water home. One day the woman having placed her child in the house, while the Mungus stays there she went for firewood. Having gone for firewood, when she was returning, the Mungus, [22] having blood smeared on its body and head, came in front of the widow-woman. The woman thought that having indeed bitten her child it came here. At the time when through anger at it she struck the Mungus with the firewood sticks that were in her hand, causing it to fall, it died. "When she came home, having seen that the Mungus had bitten in pieces a Polanga which came to bite (lit., eat) the child, she said, 'Ane! If not for my Mungus the Polanga would have bitten my child. Now, not making inquiry I killed the Mungus, the Mungus!' and having become grieved she died. After her death the child also died." P. B. Madahapola, Ratemahatmaya, North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 213, Mr. H. A. Pieris gave this story, the widow killing the Mungus with the rice pestle, and in the end committing suicide. In the Hitopadesa and Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 300, the story is similar, the owner of the animal being a Brahmana, who was overwhelmed with grief when he realised what he had done. Regarding the supposed enmity between the Cobra and Polanga, Capt. R. Knox wrote, "if the Polonga and the Noya meet together, they cease not fighting till one hath kill'd the other." (Hist. Rel., p. 29.) In my own experience I have seen nothing to support this belief; but as both snakes live on similar food it is probable that on their casually meeting when in search of it the stronger or fiercer one will drive the other away, and occasionally this may result in a fight. NO. 185A THE CRAB AND THE FROG At a certain time for a certain Frog food became deficient. Having gone near a certain Crab he brought paddy. He having brought the paddy, after not much time had gone the Crab asked the Frog for the [repayment of the] paddy debt. Then the Frog said, "I will afterwards give [you] the debt." For the Frog's getting two from the naeliya [23] that holds four patas, the Crab falsely asked for seven. So the Frog in this fashion swears:--"By Karagama Devi, by the one daughter of mine, out of the naeliya of four patas [it was], two, two, two, two." [24] Then the Turtle, being there, says from a side, "If [you] got them, give; if [you] got them, give." [25] Notwithstanding this, the Frog did not give them. North-western Province. NO. 186 A LOUSE AND A BUG In a certain country, at a King's palace there is a delightful bed for reclining on. There was a female Louse which dwelt among the exceedingly white sheets spread on the bed. And that female Louse, drinking blood on the body of the King, passed the time in happiness. At that time, one day a certain Bug walking anywhere came to the bed. At that time the White Louse said with a displeased countenance, "Emba! O meritorious Bug, because of what camest thou to this place? Before anyone gets to know about it go thou quickly from here." At that time the Bug said, "Emba! O meritorious female, although [addressed even] to a wicked person who came to the house, speech like this is not proper. Whether of acrid taste, bitter taste, or sour taste, the fault of [requiring] food being the cause, various kinds of blood of several low men were sucked and drunk by me. By me at any time a sweet blood was not drunk. On that account, sitting down, if thou art willing, [the desire of] very sweet food being the cause, by sucking for myself thus, betimes, the blood--any blood, be it inferior--on the body of this King, to-day I shall dwell in happiness. Therefore, to me who, not having obtained food, came to the house, may you be pleased to give this very food. The drinking this King's blood solitarily, by thee only, is not proper," he said. Having heard that, the Louse said, "O meritorious Bug, I suck and drink the blood of this very King who has gone to sleep. If thou swiftly shouldst be drinking the blood with me, thou wilt drink much blood." Having heard that, the Bug said, "O meritorious female, I will not do in that way; while thou drinkest the blood I will not drink. In the presence of this excellent King I will do it till full." While both of them were talking in this way they approached the King's bed. Thereupon the Bug having arrived at great greediness, bit the King. At that time the King having arisen from the bed and gone, said, "There are bugs in the bed; wipe it down to clean it." The servants having come there, and at the time when they looked having seen the White Louse, killed it. The Bug crept into a corner of the bed [and escaped]. Uva Province. STORIES OF THE LOWER CASTES STORIES OF THE POTTERS NO. 187 THE THREE YAKAS In a spacious great city three Yakas were born. Well then, the three Yakas spoke together: "Let us three Yakas go to the school of the Chief of the Yaka forces (Yaksa Senadipotiya), [26] to learn letters." After they learnt letters the three spoke together: "Let us go to learn the sciences." The three having walked along the path came to the travellers' shed at the place where there are again three paths. The three spoke together. One said, "I will learn the science of killing a man." One said, "I will learn the science of causing [re-]birth." The other said, "I will learn to do magic." In the hand of one Yaka [was] the sword; in the hand of one Yaka, the betel-cutter; in the hand of one Yaka, the axe. Those three Yakas said, "You go on that path; I will go on this path." Then the three Yakas go on the three paths. Before they went they said, "When any matter of sickness has happened to a person out of us three, how shall we get to know?" Then one said, "I will plant a lime tree"; one said, "I will plant a flower tree"; one said, "I will make a flower pool." [27] Well then, saying that should any accident occur to the Yakas the fruit will fall from the lime tree, or the flowers on the flower tree will fade, or the water of the pool will become muddy, [28] they went on the three paths. Having gone on the three paths, when they came to three countries the three summoned three wives, ordinary women (nikan gaenu). The Yakas taking human appearance, putting on good clothes like men, putting aside the teeth of Yakas (Yak-dat), taking good teeth, the women do not know that the three are Yakas. After a long time, a man died in the village of the Yaka who planted the lime tree. That Yaka having taken the corpse after they buried it, and having drawn it to the surface, ate it. [29] An old thief saw it. Having seen it, on seeing that woman he told her, "In this manner, the man who is in your house in this way eats human flesh," having seen that woman, he told that. Owing to it, that woman that day got to know that said Yaka is a Yaka. After that she prepared to kill him. The Yaka's wife asked, "Where is your life?" The Yaka said, "In my stomach." "No, you are telling lies." The Yaka said, "In my breast." "That also is false," she says. "Tell me the truth." The Yaka said, "In my neck." "It is not there, also," she says. At last the Yaka said, "My life is in [the brightness of] my sword." Afterwards, placing the sword near his head, he went to sleep. Then this woman having gone, collected a bon-fire (gini godak), and quietly taking the sword put it into the hearth. Well then, the woman having come back, when she looked that Yaka was dead. That eldest Yaka having arisen, when he looked [saw that] the flowers and fruit had all fallen from the lime tree. The Yaka said, "Ane! Bola, there will have been some accident; I must go to look." Well then, the eldest Yaka having tied up the lime fruits, and come to that Yaka's country, taking them, when he looked his younger brother was dead. When he sought for that sword it was not [there]. Afterwards, when he looked at the fire heap that sword was in the heap. Well then, taking the limes and having cut them, when he was thoroughly polishing it with the limes that dead Yaka revived (lit., was born). Then the elder Yaka, calling the revived Yaka, came to his [own] house [with him]. A pestilence having stricken the second Yaka, one morning when those two looked the flowers on that planted tree had fallen. Well then, having said, "Appa! Bolan, some accident will have stricken our Yaka," putting together those flowers also, they went away. Having gone, and having offered the flowers to the Gods of that country, the disease was cured; and calling that Yaka also, they came to that eldest Yaka's house. Having come [there], that eldest Yaka said to one Yaka, "You do loading work, and having loaded cattle get your living." To the other Yaka he said, "You trade and get your living. I will cultivate," he said. Well then, the three taking human appearance, all remained at the city where that eldest Yaka was. That Yaka who loaded sacks [with produce with which he went on trading journeys] was ruined by that very thing, and died. Then [in the case of] the Yaka who traded [at a shop], an old thief stole all the goods [obtained] by his trading. Out of grief on that account that Yaka died. That eldest Yaka, doing cultivation and having become abundantly wealthy, stayed at that very city, and abandoned the Yaka appearance. Potter. North-western Province. NO. 188 THE TIME OF SCHOLARS In a certain country there is, it is said, a [man called] Dikpitiya. A [married woman called] Diktaladi is rearing an [adopted] child. While it was [there] no long time, a [female] child was born; to Diktaladi a child was born. On the boy, the [adopted] boy she reared, she put a cloth for ploughing (that is, he grew old enough to plough). After the [female] child grew great and big, [the parents] gave her [in marriage] to that youth whom Diktaladi reared, [and they went to live in another village]. The boy she reared, after no long time went by, seeking oil, honey, flour, and cooking a bag of cakes, and giving them to that woman [his wife, set off with her] in order to go to look at that mother-in-law and father-in-law. At the time when the two are going together, having seen that much water is going in the river [which it was necessary to cross], both of them became much afraid in mind. Thereupon, when they are staying [there], these two persons, having seen that the one called Dikpitiya was on the opposite bank fishing and fishing, said, "Ane! It is a great hindrance that has occurred to us. Ane! In our hand there is not a thing for us to eat, not a place to sit down at. Should you take us two [across] to that side, it will be charity"; and those two persons make obeisance to Dikpitiya. Afterwards Dikpitiya, having left his bait creeper [30] (fishing-line), came swimming to this side. Having come, "Where are ye two going?" he asked. "Ane! We are going to look at our mother-in-law and father-in-law." Dikpitiya placed the bag of cakes on one shoulder, and placed the woman on the [other] shoulder. Afterwards he crossed, swimming, to that [far] side. After having crossed to that side [he said to the woman], "What a man that man is! The scare-crow tied in the paddy field! We two are of one sort; let us two go [off together]." Afterwards, unfastening the bag of cakes [they counted them, and he] having given [some] to the woman, the inferior ones, eating and eating the cakes both of them began to go away. After that, [when her husband came across and claimed her], Dippitiya having cried out, and dragged her, and obstructed her going with feet and hands, he said, "Having snatched away my wife canst thou strike blows? Come and go [with me]"; and they went for the trial [regarding their rival claims to be the woman's husband]. Having gone near the King, [and laid a complaint regarding it], the King [finding that both men claimed her], says, "Imprison ye the three of them in three houses." Afterwards the King asks at the hand of Dippitiya, "What is the name of thy mother?" "Our mother's name is Sarasayu-wiri." [31] "Secondly, how many is the number of the cakes?" "Three less than three hundred." Having caused Diktaladi's daughter to be brought, he asks, "What is thy mother's name?" "Kamaloli" (Love-desiring). "How many is the number of the cakes?" "Three less than three hundred." After that, [as both agreed regarding the number] he handed over the wife [to him]. Both of them, making and making obeisance, went away. Potter. North-western Province. With the exception of the ending, this is the sixth test case which was settled by the wise Mahosadha, in The Jataka, No. 546 (vol. vi, p. 163); [32] but the variations show that, like some other Sinhalese folk-tales, it is not taken over directly from the Jataka story, which appears to be one of the latest in that collection. There was a village, apparently of Vaeddas, called Dippitigama, in the North-western Province [33]; and "the house of the Dippitiyas, [34] at the village called Kotikapola" is mentioned in the story numbered 215 in this volume, related by a Tom-tom Beater. This latter tale apparently contains a large amount of fact, and ends "the persons who saw these [things said] they are in the form of a folk-tale." Thus there is a possibility that this part of the Jataka story is derived from a Sinhalese folk-tale of which the Potter's story gives the modern version. STORIES OF THE WASHERMEN NO. 189 THE THIEF CALLED HARANTIKA In a certain city there was a thief, Harantikaya by name. The thief, together with his father, goes to commit robberies. For a long period, at the time when they are committing robberies at that city not a single person could seize that thief. One day, the father and son having spoken about breaking in to the box of valuables at the foot of the bed [35] of the King of the city, entered the King's palace. Having entered it, and gone by a window into the kitchen, and eaten the royal food that was cooked for the King, he went into the very room and broke into the box at the foot of the bed; and taking the goods and having come back into the kitchen, he put [outside] the articles he had brought. It was the father who went into the house, and put out the articles. The son stayed near the window, on the outer side. Well then, the father tries (lit., makes) to come out by the window; [because of the quantity of food he has eaten] he cannot come. [36] Thereafter, the father, having put out his neck through the window, told the son to drag him out. Well then, the son tried hard to drag him out. Because he also could not do it the son cut off the father's head. Then the thief called Harantika (the son), taking the head and the articles stolen out of the box at the foot of the bed, came home. Thereafter, having come home he says at the hand of his mother, "Mother, our father was unable to come [out by the window at which he entered the kitchen at the palace]. He endeavoured as much as possible. Because father was unable to come, cutting father's neck with the knife that was in my hand, [I brought away his head and] I returned here. The theft will come to light. Now then, to-morrow, during the day, having said, 'Whose is the corpse?' they will bring it along these four streets. Don't you either cry out, or lament, or tell about us." These matters he told his mother. On the morning of the following day, fixing a noose to the two feet of the dead body, the King ordered the Ministers to take it, and walk [dragging the corpse] along the four streets. Next, he gave orders to the city that everyone, not going anywhere, must remain to observe whose was this dead body. Thereafter, when the Ministers were going along dragging the corpse, the men [and women of the city] remained looking on. At the time when the wife of the dead man, [on seeing the body] is crying out, "O my husband!" the thief called Harantika, having been in a Murunga tree [in front of the doorway], broke a Murunga branch, and fell to the ground. Well then, these city people having said, "Who is this who cried out?" at the time when they hear it a part say, "A boy fell from a tree; on that account she is crying out." Well then, that she cried out on account of this corpse nobody knows. That thief called Harantika was saved by that. It is owing to that, indeed, they say, "The stratagems which the thief has, even the God Ganesa (the God of Wisdom) does not possess." Washerman. North-western Province. THE DEXTEROUS THIEF AND HIS SON. (Variant.) In a certain country there was a very dexterous thief, it is said. This thief had a son and two daughters. These two daughters were wealthy, wearing better silver and golden sorts of things than the women-folk of the other important families of the village. Well then, because this principal thief's son was a person possessing divine skill (sura-nuwana), ascertaining that they had become wealthy because of the dexterous character of his father's robbery, he got into his mind [the notion] to earn the very same livelihood as his father, having become a dexterous thief to the same degree. When this principal thief was going for robbery it was a custom [of his] to go [after] tying two pairs of small bells on both feet. When the thief's son asked his mother, "What is the motive for going for robbery, tying on the bells?" she said thus: "Why, son? As though they are not hearing the noise of your father's pair of little bells, he goes [after] tying on the pair of little bells, having put them on the foot by way of ingenuity, for the purpose of remembering to commit [only] theft." Well then, one day, when the father had started to go for robbery, the son also asked his mother [for permission] to go with him. At that time his mother said thus: "Son, because of [your not possessing] your father's dexterity, at no time are you able, indeed, to get a bare subsistence by doing that for a livelihood. Because of that don't you try to go." On the following day, when the father was going for robbery this son also went without concealing himself, just behind his father. [The father] having dug into a house, when he was becoming ready to enter the house, this son went behind quietly, and cutting off the two pairs of little bells that were on his father's two feet, came home. The father, also, perceiving, before entering the house, that some one had cut both pairs of little bells off his two feet, having dropped the doing house-robbery, and having gone running home, from that day remained lying down, without eating, without drinking. When this thief's wife asked, "Why are you doing that?" the thief says, "After he cut off my two pairs of little bells, which, from the day I was born, for so much time were committing robbery more cleverly than all, well, I shall not go for robbery, and shall not eat, and shall not drink," he said. Because the thief's wife had ascertained that his son had cut off his father's two pairs of little bells, having said to the thief, "Don't be grieved," she told him that his own son cut off the two pairs of little bells. Thereupon the thief was extremely satisfied regarding his son. Again one day, on the day when there was a feast at the King's house, the principal thief was ready to go to commit robbery in the royal house. His son also said that he was wishful to go. Thereupon the father said, "Because thou also art a dexterous thief of my own quality, come." They two having gone, and having dug into the royal palace, while the son remained outside the father went into the house, and having brought gold, silver, pearls, gems, various other things, gave them to his son. From the time when the father, having dug into the house, entered it, the son said, "Father, however sweet the royal food should be, don't eat even a little, indeed." But as soon as the father's nose perceived the sweet odour of the tasty sorts of food, the father began to eat the royal provisions to the possible extent. Having thus eaten, and having finished, taking also a quantity of goods, when, having filled his belly, [he was] coming to give them to his son, his belly having been filled and having become enlarged, he was unable to creep out by the place which he first dug; and he stuck fast. Thereupon the son, having gone running to the house, taking also the goods, informed his mother about this; and again having gone to the King's house, taking a sword also, and having seen that the father having been stuck fast was dead, cutting the father's neck with the sword he brought home only the head. On the following day, in the morning having perceived that the goods at the royal house have been stolen, and having caused soothsayers to be brought to find the thief, when [the King] asked the sooth the soothsayers said, "The thief has entered on such and such a side of such and such a store-house, having dug a long tunnel. The thief indeed can be found; the things cannot be found." Thereupon the King, having made inquiry and when he looked having seen that in the end of the tunnel a man without the head part had become stuck fast, for the purpose of finding who are the relatives whom the man has, and his friends, commanded that during the whole of three days [they were] to walk, bringing the corpse, everywhere in the city. Well then, as this corpse--the above-mentioned corpse--was coming to pass in front of the house of its owners, the above-mentioned son said to his mother and sisters, "They are now taking our father's corpse [and are about to pass] in front of our house. Having seen it, don't anyone of you lament." This word the mother and sisters accepted. But because this son thinks there is uncertainty if they will lament, having ascended a Murunga tree that was in front of the doorway he remained [there]. At the time when he is thus, as they are taking the corpse in front of the said house, that mother and the sisters, unable to go on restraining their grief, cried out, "Ane! O our father!" [37] There and then, the son who was in the Murunga tree, breaking a branch also from the tree jumped down, and was as though dead. At that time that mother and the sisters, calling out, "Ane! O my son! Ane! O our elder brother!" and having come running, and gone, taking the son, into the house, gave him medicine and began to attend to him. Thereupon the people who were carrying that corpse thought, "They are crying owing to that woman's son's having died," and went away. By this means the people of the thief's family, not tasting (lit., eating) death from the King, escaped. Western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 59, Mr. W. Goonetilleke gave the story as it was related in the Supplement to the Ceylon Observer. The thief passed through a small pre-existing tunnel into the King's palace, and after feasting inside stuck fast in it on his way back, and ordered his son to cut off his head and escape with it. The youth acted accordingly and threw it in a weighted basket into the river. The rest of the story agrees with those given above. In the story related by Herodotus (Euterpe, 121, 1) of the robbery of the treasury of King Rhampsinitus, the thief entered by removing a loose stone, laid for the purpose by his father when he was building the treasury. He did not feast inside the palace nor stick fast on his way out, but was caught in a trap laid for him in the treasury. His brother entered, and at his own request cut off his head to save the family reputation. The King hung the body from the wall, and stationed sentinels who were commanded to arrest anyone who wept on seeing it. The brother made them drunk and carried off the corpse by his mother's orders. After vainly making use of his daughter as a bait for the thief, in the end the King forgave him on account of his cleverness and married his daughter to him. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 93, Karpara, one of two thieves, broke through the wall of the palace and entered the room of the Princess. She fell in love with him, but he remained too long, and was arrested and hanged; while being led away he signalled to his friend to carry off the Princess. The friend, Ghata, at night dug a tunnel into the palace, found the Princess in fetters, and brought her away. The King set guards near Karpara's body to arrest anyone who came to burn the corpse and perform the funeral rites, but Ghata tricked them, lamented over the body, burned it, and threw the remains of the bones into the Ganges. Although the King offered half his kingdom if the thief would reveal himself, Ghata left the country with the Princess. The translator mentioned European and other parallels (pp. 93 and 100). In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 39, a weaver went with a clever nephew to break into a house. As he was passing feet foremost through the hole they made, the people inside seized his feet and began to drag him through, so the boy cut off his head and decamped with it. The King ordered the trunk to be exposed at the cross-roads in the main street, in order to arrest anyone who wailed over it. The youth, personating various people, wailed over it as a madman, burned it, presented cakes, and threw the bones into the Ganges. The King then set his daughter at the river bank as a bait, and left a guard near. After sending down a number of floating water vessels the thief covered his head with one, and swam to the Princess, who afterwards had a son by means of whom the King identified the thief, to whom he formally gave the Princess and half the kingdom. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 380, the story is similar. NO. 190 THE STORY OF THE FOUR-FOLD TRAP [38] In a certain country there was a Gamarala. The Gamarala having tried for seven years caught a White Rat-snake. A Devatawa having come by dream told the Gamarala that when he had eaten the Rat-snake's head he would obtain the kingship. Having told the Gamarala's wife to cook the White Rat-snake the Gamarala went to wash his head (to purify himself). [39] After that, a Tom-tom Beater (Naekatiyek), weaving a cloth, came to the Gamarala's house [with it]. The Gama-Mahage (the Gamarala's wife) through stinginess [unwilling] to give meat, gave the Tom-tom Beater rice and that White Rat-snake's head, not knowing [its property]. The Gamarala having come [after] washing his head, asked the Gama-Mahage for the White Rat-snake's head. Then the woman said, "I gave it to eat, to the Tom-tom Beater (Berawaya) who came [after] weaving the cloth." Thereupon the Gamarala said, "Thou gavest it to thy man! Why? When seven years have gone by from this time he will obtain the sovereignty." After the seven years went by, it was commanded to give the kingship to the Tom-tom Beater. But the people of the city said they could not give him the kingship, because he was a Tom-tom Beater. Because, through the act of his eating the White Rat-snake's head they were unable to avoid giving (nodi) him the kingship, they said, "Let us give him the sovereignty for one paeya (twenty-four minutes). A strong man having shot an arrow aloft, let us give the kingship until it falls to the ground." Having promised this he shot it. For thirty years that arrow did not fall to the ground; Sakra held it. After thirty years had gone, the arrow afterwards fell to the ground. The kingship of that King Mota-Tissa having been changed that day, again a Prince of the royal line, suitable for the city, obtained the kingship. After that, on account of the Tom-tom Beaters who were in this Lankawa (Ceylon) claiming, "We, too, are of the royal line," the King and the other people, also, having become angry, say, "Can anyone, indeed, construct a Four-fold Trap?" they asked. A smith who knows various expedients (upa-waeda), having said, "I can," constructed a Four-fold Trap. Inside the Four-fold Trap having placed cakes and milk-rice, the King said, "To the Tom-tom Beaters who are in Ceylon the King will give an eating (feast)." He sent letters to the Tom-tom Beaters to come. They call that one with one mouth (entrance) like the Habaka (a snare-trap) the Four-fold Trap (Hatara-maha Lula). Well then, after all the Tom-tom Beaters came, the King says, "All of you go at one time into that house," [40] he said. After that, all the Tom-tom Beaters at one time entered the house. Afterwards the King struck off (gaesuwaya) the Four-fold Trap. Well then, all the Tom-tom Beaters died. Because one pregnant woman, only, was at the corner (or end, asse), the woman's neck having been caught she died. As ten months had fully gone, the infant was brought forth outside. Thereafter, at the time when the Gamarala, and the King of the city, and the Washerman who washes the clothes are going near the Four-fold Trap, an infant was crying and crying. Afterwards the Gamarala and the Washerman (Rada miniha) having gone away carrying the infant, reared it. After not much time, the King having died another Prince obtained the kingship. For the purpose of making [his accession to] the sovereignty public to the world, he told them to beat on the double kettle-drum. Although all the people of the country beat on the double kettle-drum the sound did not spread. The King asked, "Who must beat it for the sound of this to spread?" Then the people say, "Should a Tom-tom Beater beat, indeed, the sound of this will spread." Thereupon the King asks, "Are there not Tom-tom Beaters in this city?" Then the people say, "In the time of such and such a King, having constructed the Four-fold Trap he killed all the Tom-tom Beaters." The King asked, "Because of what circumstance did he kill them in that way?" Well then, these people [said], "Previously one of them called Mota-Tissa was a King. Well then, because of their arrogance, the King who next obtained the sovereignty, having prepared a Four-fold Trap, killed them all." They told the King all the matters that occurred. After that, the King made public that he will give gold [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load to a person who should find and give him a Tom-tom Beater. Then the Gamarala [and Washerman] having spoken to the King:--"We will give a Tom-tom Beater," gave him that youth whom they had reared. Well then, the King having caused the youth to dress well, having decorated a tusk elephant, and placed the youth on the back of the tusk elephant, caused the proclamation tom-tom to be beaten by means of the youth. The youth does not know anything whatever of beating. The Gamarala and the Washerman who reared the youth taught him, "Beat thou the tom-tom (bere) thus: 'Thy mother [was] Tangi, thy father [was] Tongi; Tangi and Tongi.'" [41] When the youth beat in that manner the proclamation by beat of tom-toms (anda-bera) was published in the city. Well then, because there was not much weaving (bo wimak) by him (owing to his household work), the King says, "Out of this city, by any method thou wantest, take any woman thou wantest," he said to the youth. Subsequently, the Gamarala and that Washerman said to the youth, "Because the Smiths who constructed the Four-fold Trap killed thy family, on account of it go thou and bring a Smith (caste) woman." After that, the youth, having brought a Smith (caste) woman, married her. The King having given many offices to the youth, he lived in happiness at the city. Washerman. North-western Province. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales derived from Indian Sources (Ralston), p. 129, the widow of a son of the King of Videha, who had a son called Bahvannapana, was given in marriage by the King of Pañcala, her father, to his Purohita or spiritual adviser. The Purohita one day heard a Brahmana predict when he heard a cock crow near the house, that the person who ate its flesh would become King. He therefore killed the cock, told his wife to cook it at once, and went to the palace on business. During his absence Bahvannapana returned hungry from school, saw the bird in the pan, cut off its head, and ate it. When the Purohita came back he heard of this, and ate up the rest of the fowl. On consulting the Brahmana about it he was informed that he who ate the head would become King, and that one who killed him and ate his head in turn would also become King, so he determined to kill the boy. His mother perceived this and sent the boy away to Videha, and he lay down to sleep in a park there. The King had just died, apparently without an heir, and the funeral ceremonies could not be performed until a new King was chosen. The Ministers, officials, Brahmanas, etc., went in search of a suitable heir, saw the boy, aroused him, ascertained that he was the true heir to the throne, and proclaimed him King. Messrs. H. B. Andris and Co., of Kandy, have been good enough to inform me that the Hatara-maha Lula is a large four-sided trap, made for catching large animals, such as deer and wild pigs. It has four entrances and four nooses. They state that the Habaka mentioned on p. 49 is a similar but smaller trap, with one noose, used for catching hares, mouse-deer, wild cats, etc. NO. 191 THE FOOLISH PRINCE At a certain city there were a Prince and a Princess. One day when the two are staying talking and talking, the Princess says, "Lord, please tell a story for me to hear," she said. Then the Prince said, "It is good. I know a story that no one knows; I will tell you it," and beginning it he told the story. At the time when he was telling it a Brahmana was listening. The Brahmana having gone away, said to the Brahmana's wife, "I know a story." Then the woman said, "If so, tell the story, for me to hear it." The Brahmana told the story. The Brahmana's wife also learning it, having come on the following day told the story to that Princess. The Princess asked the Brahmana's wife, "Who told you this?" Then the woman said falsely, "I learnt it [some time] previously." Well then, this Princess having said [to herself], "My Prince is indeed associated with this woman. If not, how does this woman know to-day the story which my Prince told yesterday for me to hear?" and having become angry with the Prince, the Princess also associated with another Prince. This Prince, ascertaining this, killed the Princess. In no long time after that, the thought having occurred to the Prince, "If my Princess were [here] it would be good for me," having walked throughout the whole of Lankawa (Ceylon) he looked where the Princess is now. [42] One day, this Prince asked another man, "Did you see my Princess?" At that time the [other] Prince said, "I saw that the Princess was staying yesterday in the daytime in the midst of such and such a forest." Well then, this Prince, asking and asking the way, having gone to the midst of the forest, at the time when he was walking in it a bear having bitten the Prince he died. Washerman. North-western Province. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 4, it is stated that when the God Siva was relating a story to his wife Parvati, one of his dependants, a Gana named Pushpadanta, entered unseen by his magic power, and listened to it. Afterwards he related it to his wife Jaya, who recited it in the presence of Parvati, whereupon the Goddess lost her temper, reproached Siva for telling her an old story known by others, and when she heard from him the true explanation, cursed Pushpadanta and turned him into a mortal. NO. 192 THE JACKAL AND THE GAMARALA In a certain country, while a Gamarala, being without cattle to plough, was going for the purpose of asking for a yoke of cattle after making a lump of milk-rice, he met two Jackals. Thereupon the Jackals ask, "Where, Gamarala, are you going?" "I am going to borrow (lit., ask for) a yoke of cattle to plough." "What things are on your head?" "A box of milk-rice." "Should you give us the box we will plough." Having said, "Ijaw! Eat ye it," he gave it. Thereupon the Jackals ate it. After that, having come dragging the two Jackals and tied the yoke [on their necks], they tried to draw [the plough]; the Jackals cannot draw it. After that, having beaten and beaten them he threw them into the weeds. On the following day, while he is going [after] cooking a box [of milk-rice], having met with two Jackals [they said], "Gamarala, where are you going?" "I am going to borrow a yoke of cattle to plough." "What things are on your head?" "On my head is a box of milk-rice." "Should you give us the box we will plough." "Yesterday also, having given milk-rice to a yoke of Jackals I was foolish." "They were Jackals of the brinjal (egg-plant) caste; owing to being in full bloom we are Jackals of the tusk elephant caste," they said. After that, having said, "Indaw," he gave them it. After they ate it, having come dragging the two Jackals and tied the yoke [on their necks], he tried to plough. Thereupon, when they were unable to draw [the plough] having beaten and beaten them he threw them into the weeds. At that time they saw that those [former] Jackals are groaning and groaning. These Jackals also having gone away, lay down. A Jackal having gone near the Wild Cat, [43] says, "Preceptor, [tell me] how to eat a little milk-rice from the Gamarala's house?" "If so, having hidden at the place of the firewood bundles remain [there]." After that, the Jackal having gone, remained hidden at the place of the firewood bundles. Having waited there, at the time when the Gamarala's wife is going for water the Cat told the Jackal to come into the house. Thereupon the Jackal having gone into the house got upon the platform (at the level of the top of the side walls). Then the Cat having gone, gave him a little milk-rice in a piece of coconut shell. While he was on the platform with the Cat it became evening. At that time, in the evening the Jackals having come to the rice field, howled. Thereupon this Jackal said, "Preceptor, I must bring to remembrance my religion." [44] Then the Cat said, "Ane! Appa! Having killed thee they will kill me." Again the Jackals at midnight having come into the rice field, howled. Thereupon the Jackal [said], "Preceptor, I must bring to remembrance my religion; I cannot endure it." When [the Cat] was saying, "The top of thy head will be split," he howled, "Hokkiya!" Then the Gamarala having awoke, at the time when he looked on the platform he saw that a Jackal was [there]. Thereupon, having beaten the Jackal he killed it outright. Washerman. North-western Province. In the Tota Kahani (Small), p. 221, after an ass and a stag which were friends had feasted one night in a garden, the ass became exhilarated and suggested that they should sing a song together. The stag endeavoured to prevent this, but the ass would not listen to it, and began to bray, on which the gardener came with some men, and caught and crucified both the animals. In Folk-Tales from Tibet (O'Connor), p. 64, a hare and a fox induced a wolf to leave a dead horse on which it was feeding, and to accompany them to a house where there was a wedding feast, at which they could obtain plenty to eat and drink. They got through a window into the larder, and after feasting abundantly decided, at the hare's suggestion, to carry away other provisions, the hare some cheese, the fox a fowl, and the wolf a jar of wine through the handle of which he put his head. Then the hare proposed a song before they started, and after some persuasion the wolf began to sing. When the people heard it they rushed to the larder. The hare and fox jumped through the window, but the wolf was stopped by the jar of wine, and was killed by the men. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 323, an ass joined a bull which was accustomed to break through a fence and feed in the evening in the King's bean-field. After eating, the ass suggested that it should sing; the bull told it to wait until he had gone and then do as it pleased. When it began to bray it was seized, its ears were cut off, a pestle was fastened to its neck, and it was set free. The same story is given in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 374. In the former work, p. 337, and in the latter one, vol. ii, p. 417, it is stated with reference to the jackal's uncontrollable desire to howl, "it is according to the nature of things that jackals, if they hear a jackal howl without howling themselves, lose their hair." STORIES OF THE TOM-TOM BEATERS NO. 193 THE STORY OF BATMASURA [45] In a certain country there are a God Îswara (Siva) and a Princess (Uma), it is said. That God Îswara was a good soothsayer. News of it having reached another country, a man called Batmasura came to learn soothsaying. Having come and been there a long time he learnt soothsaying. That Batmasura who was learning it went to his village. Having gone and been there a long time, he again came near the God Îswara. When he came there the God Îswara was not at home; only the Princess was there. Having soaked the cloth which the Princess wore she had placed it in the veranda [before washing it]. That Batmasura taking the cloth, and having gone and washed it, as he was holding it out [to dry] this Princess saw him. Having seen him she sat silently. Then Batmasura having come [after] drying the cloth, gave it into the hand of the Princess. After that, the Princess gave Batmasura the rice which had been cooked for the God Îswara. As Batmasura, having eaten the cooked rice, was finishing, the God Îswara came. After he came that Princess set about making ready food for the God Îswara. Then the God Îswara asked at the hand of the Princess, "What is the food so late to-day for?" After that, the Princess said, "That Batmasura having come, and that one having washed and brought and given my (mange) cloth, on account of it I gave him the food. Did you teach that one all soothsaying?" the Princess asked at the hand of the God Iswara. The God Iswara said, "I taught him all soothsaying indeed; only the Iswara incantation (daehaena) I did not teach him." Then the Princess said, "Teach him that also." The God Iswara said, "Should I utter to him the Iswara incantation also, that one will seize me." The Princess said, "He will not do so; utter it." After that, the God Iswara told the Princess to call Batmasura near. The Princess called to Batmasura [to come] near; Batmasura came near. Thereupon the God Iswara said to that Batmasura, "When I have uttered the Iswara incantation to thee, thou wilt seize me, maybe." Then Batmasura said, "I will not seize thee; be good enough to utter it, Sir." After that, the God Iswara said, "Hold thou my hand," to Batmasura; so Batmasura held his hand. Thereupon the God Iswara uttered it (maeturuwa). After that, Batmasura thought to himself, "Having killed the God Iswara I will go to my village, summoning the Princess [to be my wife]." Thinking it, Batmasura bounded on the path of the God Iswara. When the God Iswara was going running, the brother-in-law (Vishnu) of the God Iswara was rocking and rocking in a golden swing. Having seen that this God Iswara is running, the brother-in-law of the God Iswara asked at the hand of the God Iswara, "Where are you running?" Then the God Iswara said, "At Batmasura's hand I uttered over the hand the Iswara incantation. That one is [now] coming to seize me." After that, the brother-in-law of the God Iswara told him to stop [after] having gone running still a little distance further. So the God Iswara having gone running a little distance further, stopped there. Then while the brother-in-law of the God Iswara, creating for himself the appearance of a woman (Mohini, the Deluder), was rocking and rocking in the golden swing, Batmasura came running [there]. Batmasura while coming there having seen with delight that woman who was rocking in the golden swing, his mind went to that woman. His mind having gone there, the [other] incantations that he had learnt were forgotten, and the Iswara incantation was forgotten. Then the woman asked at the hand of Batmasura, "Where are you going?" Then Batmasura said, "I am going to seek the God Iswara." Having said that, he asked at the hand of the woman, "What are you here for?" The woman said, "Nothing. I am simply here" (that is, for no special purpose). After that, Batmasura asked, "Can you go with me?" The woman said, "I can indeed go. Is there your wife?" (that is, "Have you a wife?"). Batmasura said, "There is." Then the woman said, "If so, how can I go? I am with child. You go, and having asked at the hand of your wife about it, come back." After that, Batmasura came home and asked at the hand of his wife, "There is a woman at the road, rocking and rocking in a golden swing. The woman is with child. Shall I summon her to come [as my wife]?" The woman told him to summon her to come. Afterwards, when Batmasura was coming again to the place where this woman was, the woman having borne a child, that one was in her hand, and again she was with child. Then Batmasura having come, said, "Let us go," to that woman. The woman said, "There is [a child] in hand, and again I am with child. Having asked [about it] come back." After that, Batmasura went home again and asked at the hand of the woman, "She is carrying one in the arms, and is again with child. Shall I summon her to come?" The woman said, "Summon her and come." Afterwards as Batmasura was coming again to the place where the woman was, the woman was carrying two in the arms, and was again with child. Then Batmasura came, and said to the woman, "Let us go." The woman said, "How shall I go carrying two in the arms, and again with child? Go and ask about it, and come back." Afterwards Batmasura, having gone home, asked at the hand of his wife, "She is carrying two in the arms, and is again with child." Then the woman told him to summon her and come. After that Batmasura having come to the place where this woman stayed, when he looked there was neither woman nor children. Thereupon that one went away home. After that, the God Îswara went away to the house of the God Îswara. Having gone there, when a long time had passed Batmasura died, and having come was [re]-born inside the God Îswara. Afterwards the God Îswara went near another deity and asked, "What is this? My belly is enlarging!" That deity said, "Another living being (parana-karayek) has been caused to come inside your body. On account of it, you must split open your body, and throw it away." The God Îswara could not split open his body. Having said, "I shall die," he came home. Having come there, he ate medicine from another doctor; that also was no good. Again he went near that very deity. Having gone there, the God Îswara asked at the hand of that deity, "What, now then, shall I do for this?" Then the deity said, "There is nothing else to do; you must split your body." Then the God Îswara said, "When I have split my body shall I not be destroyed?" The deity said, "You will not be destroyed; your life will remain over." Afterwards, the God Îswara told him to split open his body. Having split the body, when he looked there was a lump of flesh. He seized it and threw it away. After that, the God Îswara having become well, went home. When a Lord (Buddhist monk) was coming with the begging-bowl, that lump of flesh was on the path. Having gathered it together with his walking-stick it fell into a hole (wala). [46] Next day, as he was coming with the begging-bowl, that lump of flesh sprang at the body of the Lord. Then the Lord having said, "Ci! Wala, ha!" [47] gathered it together [again] with his walking-stick. Thence, indeed, was the Bear (walaha). Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. With reference to the last paragraphs, it is strange that a somewhat similar notion regarding the foetal form of newly born bears was long current in Europe. In the thirteenth century Encyclopedia of Bartholomew Anglicus (ed. 1535), cap. cxii, it is stated that "Avicenna saith that the bear bringeth forth a piece of flesh imperfect and evil shapen, and the mother licketh the lump, and shapeth the members with licking.... For the whelp is a piece of flesh little more than a mouse, having neither eyes nor ears, and having claws some-deal bourgeoning [sprouting], and so this lump she licketh, and shapeth a whelp with licking" (Medieval Lore, Steele, p. 137). This is taken from Pliny, who wrote of bears: "At the first they seeme to be a lumpe of white flesh without all forme, little bigger than rattons, without eyes, and wanting hair; onely there is some shew and appearance of clawes that put forth. This rude lumpe, with licking they fashion by little and little into some shape" (Nat. Hist., P. Holland's translation, 1601, p. 215.) NO. 194 THE STORY OF AYIWANDA In a certain city there are an elder brother and a younger sister, two persons, it is said. Of them, the elder brother is a very rich person; the younger sister has nothing (mokut nae). The younger sister is a widow woman; there is one boy. The boy himself lodges at his uncle's watch-huts and the like; the youngster's name is Ayiwanda. The uncle having scraped a little rice from the bottom of the cooking-pot, and given him it, says, "Ade! Ayiwanda, be off to the watch-hut [at the cattle-fold]." The youngster came to the watch-hut. The uncle having gone and looked, [saw that] one or two calves were dead in the cattle-fold. Then the uncle having come home scolds Ayiwanda, "Ayiwanda, at the time when thou wert going to the watch-hut thou drankest a little milk, and there being no milk for the calves they are dying." Afterwards Ayiwanda having gone that day to the watch-hut, and having said that he must catch the thieves, without sleeping stayed awake until the time when it became dawn. Then Gopalu Devatawa, having opened the entrance (kadulla), came into the cattle-fold. Having come there and placed on the path his cord and club, [48] he began to drink milk. Afterwards Ayiwanda, having descended from the watch-hut, very quietly got both the cord and the club. Taking them he went again to the watch-hut. Well then, Gopalu Devatawa having drunk milk and the like, when he looked for both the cord and the club in order to go, they were not [there]. Afterwards, Gopalu Devatawa having gone near the watch-hut asked for the cord and club. Ayiwanda taking the two descended from the watch-hut to the ground. Then Gopalu Devatawa asked for the rope and cudgel, both, at the hand of Ayiwanda. Then Ayiwanda said, "I have heard scoldings for so much time, that as I drank the milk the calves are dying. To-day I stayed awake and caught the thief. Except that if you will give me an authority on that account I will give you the rope and cudgel, I will not otherwise give them." Then Gopalu Devatawa said to Ayiwanda, "Think in your mind, 'If there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave, may that hill and this hill, both, become united into one.'" Afterwards Ayiwanda thought in that way. Then the two hills became united into one. Then Gopalu Devatawa said to Ayiwanda, "Think in your mind, 'If there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave, these hills are again to become separated.'" Afterwards Ayiwanda thought in that manner. The two hills again became separated. Gopalu Devatawa said to Ayiwanda, "Think in your mind, 'If there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave, that tree and this tree are both to become one.'" Afterwards Ayiwanda thought in that manner. The two trees became united into one. Gopalu Devatawa said again to Ayiwanda, "Think in your mind, 'If there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave, the two trees are again to become separate.'" Ayiwanda thought in that manner. Then the two trees became separate. Now then, Gopalu Devatawa said, "The authority that Gopalu Devatawa gave [you] is true." Having said that, and told him that having gone he was to keep it in mind, he assured him of the fact (satta dunna). After that, to Gopalu Devatawa Ayiwanda gave both the cord and the cudgel. Well then, Gopalu Devatawa taking them went away. Ayiwanda having been [there] until the time when it became light, came home and said at the hand of Ayiwanda's mother, "Mother, ask for uncle's girl and come back." Then Ayiwanda's mother says, "Ane! Son, who will give [marriage] feasts to us? [We have] not a house to be in; we are in the hollow of a Tamarind. I will not. You go and ask, and come back," she said. Afterwards Ayiwanda went and asked. Then Ayiwanda's uncle said, "Who will give girls to thee?" Having said, "Be off!" [49] he scolded him. After that, Ayiwanda having come back is silent. Having come from an outside village, [people] asked for Ayiwanda's uncle's girl [in marriage]. Then he promised to give her there. He appointed it to be on such and such a day. The men went away. Then Ayiwanda's uncle gave betel to shooters who were in the neighbourhood, [so that they should shoot animals for the wedding-feast]. Ayiwanda thought in his mind, "Let those shooters not meet with anything, if there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave." Afterwards the shooters walked about at the time when they are saying that the [wedding] feast is to-morrow. They did not meet with even a thing. After that, Ayiwanda went to his uncle's house. When he said that the [wedding] feast would be to-morrow, to-day in the evening he asked, "Uncle, give me that bow and arrow." Thereupon his uncle said, "Ansca! [50] Bola, because there is no hunting-meat have you come to rebuke me? So many shooters were unable [to do it], and [yet] you will seek hunting-meat!" Having said [this], he scolded Ayiwanda. "Through being without hunting-meat, my girl, leaving the house and the like, will not stay, [you think]!" [51] Afterwards Ayiwanda came home. Then his mother told Ayiwanda to eat the rice scraped from the cooking-pot which had been brought from his uncle's house. Ayiwanda having eaten a little of the scraped rice, gave the other little to Ayiwanda's mother, and thought in his mind, "Preparing the bow from the rice-pestle and preparing the arrow from love-grass, I having gone to the watch-hut and ascended into the watch-hut, if there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave, may a Sambhar deer with horns come there and remain sleeping as I arise in the morning." Having said [this] Ayiwanda went to sleep. Having awoke in the morning, when he looked a Sambhar deer with horns having come was sleeping in the middle of the cattle-fold. Ayiwanda having descended from the watch-hut, taking the bow made from the rice pestle and the arrow made from love-grass, came near the Sambhar deer, and thought in his mind, "If there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave, that which is shot at this Sambhar deer from this side is to be passed out from the other side." Having thought it he shot. In that very manner the Sambhar deer died. Ayiwanda having gone to his uncle's house, said, "Uncle, there! I have shot down a Sambhar deer with horns at the cattle-fold; it is [there]. Go and cut it up, and come back." Then his uncle said, "Ansca dukkan! There is no hunting-meat of thine. I shall not make the feast desolate; somehow or other I shall indeed give it. Hast thou come to rebuke me?" After that, Ayiwanda, calling men and having gone, having come back [after] cutting up the Sambhar deer, put down the meat at his uncle's house. Thereafter, just before the feasters came having cooked the meat and cooked rice, he placed for Ayiwanda a little of the rice scrapings and two bones from the meat; and having given them to Ayiwanda, he said, "Eat those, and go thou to the watch-hut." Ayiwanda having eaten them and gone to the watch-hut, thought, "Now, at daybreak, may those who take hold of the cloth at the place where [the bridegroom] gives it to wear, [52] remain in that very way, if there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave." In that very way, at daybreak, when he was giving [her] the cloth to put on they remain in the very position in which the bridegroom held an end and the bride an end. Then the palm-sugar maker and the washerman [53] having gone and said, "What are you doing? Be good enough to take that cloth," those two also remained in the position in which they took hold at the two ends. Then the girl's father having gone and said, "What is this, Bola, that thou hast not yet taken that cloth?" that man also remained in the very position in which he got hold of an end. The bride, the bridegroom, the palm-sugar maker, the washerman, the girl's father, in the position in which they took hold of the cloth, in that very manner had become [like] stone. Having seen it, the girl's mother went running in the village, and having summoned two men made them go on a journey for medicine. The two men having gone to the Vedarala's house are coming calling the Vedarala, by the middle of a large grass field. Then Ayiwanda came after being in the watch-hut, and while he is at the place where his aunt is, saw the Vedarala and the two men going. Ayiwanda thought, "If there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave, may the Vedarala think of sitting down on the bullock's skull which is in that grass field." Then the Vedarala sat down on the bullock's skull. From morning until the time when it became night he pressed on it. Those two men are calling and calling to the Vedarala to come. The bullock's skull will not get free. Thus, in that manner until it became night he pressed against it. Afterwards Ayiwanda thought, "If there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave, the bullock's skull having become free, may the Vedarala succeed in going back again." After that, the Vedarala's bullock's skull having become free he went back home. Having said, "Never mind that medical treatment," the two men who went to summon the Vedarala to come, came to the bride's house. Then the bride's mother asked, "Where is the Vedarala?" The two persons say, "Ando! How well the Vedarala came! There was a bullock's skull in that grass field. From morning the Vedarala sat on it, and got up and tried to release the bullock's skull [from himself]. He could not release it, being pressed [against it]. Hardly releasing himself now he went back home. He has not come; he said he wouldn't." Afterwards near Ayiwanda came the bride's mother. Having come there she said, "Father has consented in this way [you wish]. Now then, let the girl be for you. If you know [how], do something for this." Having said [this], the woman came away. Ayiwanda thought in his mind, "If there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave, as soon as each one is released may each one go away." Thereupon the persons who were holding the cloth having been freed, went away. They did not go summoning the bride; they did not [even] eat the cooked rice. Having been holding the cloth from morning, in the evening they went to their villages. Afterwards the aunt and uncle having gone, came back [after] summoning Ayiwanda, and gave the bride to Ayiwanda. Ayiwanda sleeps on the mat on which the girl wipes her feet and places them. Then he eats what has been left over on the girl's leaf [plate]. The girl says, "Ade! [54] Ayiwanda, eat thou this little." When she has told him he eats. The girl sleeps on the bed, Ayiwanda sleeps under the bed. Well then, they remained in that way, without the girl's being good to Ayiwanda. When they had been in that very way for seven or eight days, a fine young man of the village having died, they buried him. Ayiwanda having waited until the time when the girl was sleeping, opened the door and went out; and having brought the corpse, and cut and cut off a great deal of flesh, he put only the bones under the bed under which Ayiwanda sleeps; and he shut the door and went away. On the morning of the following day, Ayiwanda's mother stayed looking out [for him], having said, "Ayiwanda will come out." He did not come out. The woman came into the house, and when she looked [for him] there is a heap of bones under the bed. After that, the woman says, "Ane! This one ate my son." Having said this she wept; having wept she went away. Ayiwanda having gone, joined a Moormen's tavalama [55] and drove cattle for hire. At the time when he was driving the cattle for three or four days he said, "Ansca, Bola! Whence is this tavalama for thee? It is mine, isn't it?" Then the men said, "Ansca, Bola! Whence is it for thee, for a man called up for hire?" Ayiwanda said, "If it be your tavalama, throw up five hundred dried areka-nuts, and catch them without even one's falling on the ground." The men tried to catch them; all the dried areka-nuts fell on the ground. Then Ayiwanda, after throwing up five hundred dried areka-nuts, thought, "If there be an authority which Gopalu Devatawa gave, may I be able to catch the whole of these five hundred dried areka-nuts without even one's falling on the ground." Having thrown up the five hundred dried areka-nuts, Ayiwanda caught them without even one's falling on the ground. After that, the tavalama became secured (hayi-wuna) [56] to Ayiwanda himself. The Moormen left it and went away. Afterwards, getting ready hired labourers for Ayiwanda, he went to Puttalam. Having gone there, loading [sundried] salt fish, [57] now then, Ayiwanda, having become a very great wealthy person, set off to come to Ayiwanda's village, taking the tavalama, together with the hired labourers. Having come, he caused the sacks to be put down under a Kon tree [58] in the field near the house of his aunt and uncle. Ayiwanda's mother came to the tank to pluck the leaves of a plant [59] [to cook as a vegetable]. Having come, through hearing the wooden cattle-bells of the herd of cattle she came near the tavalama. Having come [there] she says, "Ane! A son of mine was like the Hettirala. That son having gone [to be married], at the place where he was made to stay the woman killed and ate my son." Having said [this] repeatedly at the very hand of Ayiwanda, she wept. Then Ayiwanda says, "Don't cry. There is salt fish [here]; take [some] and cooking it eat. What are you plucking vegetables for [but to eat in curry]?" Having said [this], he gave rice and salt fish to Ayiwanda's mother. Thus, in that way he gave them for seven or eight days. After that, his aunt and uncle came near Ayiwanda for salt fish. Then Ayiwanda said, "I am not the Hettirala. It is I myself they call Ayiwanda. Take ye these things, so as to go." Afterwards he dragged the tavalama and the salt fish to the house. Summoning that very bride, [60] Ayiwanda having eaten, when a little [food] is left over on the leaf [plate] he gives it to her. Ayiwanda [now] sleeps on the bed; Ayiwanda's wife sleeps on the mat on which Ayiwanda wipes his feet, under the bed on which Ayiwanda sleeps. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In a Tamil story taken from the New Year Supplement to the Ceylon Observer, 1885, and reproduced in The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 22, Katirkaman, a poet who had acquired magical powers, awoke one night to find that some burglars had broken into the house and were removing the goods in it. He scratched a spell on a piece of palm-leaf, placed it under his pillow, and went to sleep again. When he awoke he found all the robbers silent and motionless in the positions they occupied when the spell affected them, some with the goods on their heads or shoulders, others with their hands on keys or door handles. When he spoke to them they apologised humbly, stated that they had mistaken the place and person they were to encounter, and promised never to attempt to rob the house again. He made them put back the goods, gave them a bath and a good meal, and stated that in future they should always have the right to eat and drink there. NO. 195 THE GAMARALA'S SON-IN-LAW At a city there is a Gamarala. There are two daughters of the Gamarala's; one is given in diga [marriage] two gawwas (eight miles) distant, the other is not given. He said he would give her to him who comes to ask for her. From [the time] when he said it he did not give her. Having brought [a man] he caused him to stay. On the following day morning the father-in-law says, "Child, there is a rice field of mine of sixty yalas twelve amunas. [61] Having ploughed the rice field in just one day, and sown paddy there, and chopped the earthen ridges in it, and on that very day blocked up the gaps [in the fence], and come back, and given to the twelve dogs twelve haunches of Sambhar deer, and given leaves to the twelve calves, and poured water on the twelve betel creepers, and come back [after] cutting the Milla stump, and warmed water, can you bathe me?" he asks. Then the son-in-law says, "Aniccan dukkhan! Who can do these things?" he says. Then saying, "I shall cut off [your] nose," he cuts off his nose. In that country they cannot say, "Aniccan dukkhan"; should they say it he cuts off the nose. Well then, giving [his daughter] in this fraudulent way, in the aforesaid manner having told two or three persons [these works], in the same way he cut off [their] noses, too. During the time which is going by in that way, there are an elder brother and a younger brother, two persons. The elder brother's wife having died, he came in the said manner. When he asked for [the girl], the Gamarala said he will give her. Then in the aforesaid manner he cut off his nose. Having gone away, through shame at going home he remained hidden near the well. The above-mentioned younger brother's wife having gone [there], when she looked saw that he was hidden, and having come running back, on seeing her husband told him. He went, and when he looked saw that his brother is there. Having seen him, when he asked, "What is it?" he says, "He cut off my nose." When he asked, "Why so?" he told him in the aforesaid manner. After that, that man says, "Elder brother, you stay [here]; I will go." Having said [this], and given charge of his wife to the elder brother, he went. Having gone, he asked for the above-mentioned marriage. When he asked, [the Gamarala] said he will give her. Then he asked if he can work [62] in the above-mentioned manner. He said, "I can." "If so, go to the rice field," he said. Having said this, and loaded the paddy [to be sown], he gave it. The man, taking a plough, a yoke pole, a digging hoe, a water gourd, the articles for eating betel, and driving the cattle, went to the rice field. Having gone [there], and tied the yoke on the unoccupied pair of bulls, and tied them exactly in the middle [of the field], and tied at both sides [of the field] the bulls which draw the load, he tore open the corners of the sacks. Having torn [them open] and allowed the paddy to fall, he began to plough. While he was turning two or three times there and here along the rice field, all the paddy fell down. After it fell he unfastened the bulls, and taking the digging hoe, put two or three sods on the earthen ridges (niyara); and having come, and brought away the plough and the yoke pole, and set the yoke pole as a stake in the gap [in the fence], and fixed the plough across it and tied it, and gone away to the house driving the above-mentioned bulls, and cut up the six bulls, and given [their] twelve haunches to the twelve dogs, and drawn out two or three betel-creeper plants, and given them to the twelve calves, and come after cutting the Milla stump, he began to warm the water. When it was becoming hot, he took water and poured it on the betel creepers. Having left the remaining water to thoroughly boil, he called to his father-in-law, "[Be pleased] to bathe with the water," and having cooled a little water, he poured it first on his body. Secondly, taking [some] of that boiling water he sprinkled it on his body. Thereupon his body was burnt. The Gamarala, crying out, began to run about; having checked and checked him he began to sprinkle [him again]. Thereafter, both of them came home and stayed there. While they are there the Gamarala, talking to his wife, says, "This son-in-law is not a good sort of son-in-law. I must kill this one." Having sought [in vain] for a contrivance to kill him, he says, "We cannot kill this one. Let us send him near our elder daughter." Having cooked a kuruniya (one-fortieth of an amuna) of cakes, and written a letter, and put it in the middle of the cakes, and given it into the hand of his boy (son), he says to the son-in-law, "Child, go near my elder (lit., big) daughter [and give her this box of cakes], and come back." Having said [this] he sent him near the above-mentioned elder daughter. These two persons (the little son and the son-in-law) having set off, while they were going away, when the boy went into the jungle the son-in-law went [with the box of cakes] to the travellers' shed that was there; and having unfastened the cake box he began to eat. While he was going on eating he met with the above-mentioned letter. Taking it, and when he looked in it having seen that there was said in it that [the daughter] is to kill him, he tore it up. Then having thought of the name of the boy who goes with him and written that she is to kill the boy, he put it in the box, and as soon as he put it in tied up [the box] and placed [it aside]. The boy having come and taken the box, and said, "Let us go," they set off. Having gone to the house, while he is [there] the above-mentioned elder daughter having cooked and given him to eat, and unfastened the box, while going on eating the cakes met with this letter. Taking it, and when she looked having seen that there was said [that she was] to kill her brother, quite without inquiry she quickly killed him outright. There was a Bali (evil planetary influence) sending away [63] at the house in which she was. When the woman was wishing and wishing long life (that is, responding loudly, Ayibo! Ayibo!) the boy (her son) said that he wanted to go out. Thereupon, speaking to her sister's husband, she says, "Conduct this boy to the door." When she said it, the man, calling the boy, went to the door. There the man with his knife pricks him. Thereupon the boy in fear comes running near his mother. After a little time, when he again said he wanted to go out, his mother says, "Ane! Bolan, split this one's belly." [64] When she said it, having gone taking the boy he split his belly. Having come back he asked for a little water to wash the knife. The boy's mother having come crying, when she looked the boy was killed. This one bounded off, and came running to the very house of the above-mentioned Gamarala. The Gamarala having sent a letter to the elder daughter and told her to come, after she came says, "Daughter, when you have gone off to sleep we will put a rope into the house. Put that rope on that one's neck and fasten it tightly," he said. Having put the Gamarala's younger son-in-law, and younger daughter and elder daughter, these very three persons, in one house, and shut the door, and left them to sleep, he extended a rope from the cat-window (the space between the top of the outer wall and the roof). The elder daughter who had been taught the above-mentioned method [of killing the son-in-law], went to sleep, and stayed so. While this man was looking about, he saw that the rope is coming [over the wall into the room]. Taking the rope, he put it on the elder daughter's neck and made it tight. The Gamarala, who stayed outside, having tied the [other end of the] rope to the necks of a yoke of buffalo bulls, made them agitated. When the yoke of cattle had drawn the rope [tight], the Gamarala, springing and springing upward while clapping his hands, says, "On other days, indeed, he escaped. To-day, indeed, he is caught," he said. Thereupon the son-in-law, having stayed in the house, came outside and said, "It is not [done] to me; it is your elder daughter herself," he said. Thereupon the Gamarala in a perplexity says, "Aniccan dukkhan! It is the thing which this one has done!" Just as he was saying it the son-in-law cut off his nose. Having cut it off he went to his own country. Because the word which cannot be said was said [by the Gamarala] he cut off his nose. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 131, Mr. W. Goonetilleke gave a story about a Gamarala who cut off the nose of any servant who used the words Aniccan dukkhan. A young man took service under him in order to avenge his brother who had been thus mutilated; but the incidents differ from those related in the story given by me. The Gamarala was surprised into saying the forbidden words when the man poured scalding water over him. The servant immediately cut off his nose, ran home with it, and kicked his brother, who was squatting at the hearth, so that he fell with his face against the hearth stone. This reopened the wound; and when the Gamarala's nose was fitted on and bandaged there after application of the juice of a plant which heals cuts, it became firmly attached, and as serviceable as the original nose. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 106, there is a story of a Moghul who engaged servants on the condition that if he or the servant became angry the other should pull out his eye. A man who had accepted these terms was ordered to plough six acres daily, fence it, bring game for the table, grass for the mare, and firewood, and cook the master's food. He lost his temper when scolded, and his eye was plucked out. His clever brother determined to avenge him, was engaged by the Moghul, and given the same tasks. He ploughed once round the six acres and twelve furrows across the middle, set up a bundle of brushwood at each corner, tied the bullocks to a tree, and went to sleep. He played various other tricks on his master, including the cooking of his favourite dog for his food. When the master was going for a new wife, the servant, who was sent to notify his coming, said his master was ill and by his doctor's orders took only common soap made into a porridge with asafoetida and spices. He was sick in the night after taking it, and next morning the man refused to remove the vessel he had used. As the Moghul was carrying it out covered up with a sheet, the friends being told by the man that he was leaving through anger at the food they gave him, ran out and seized his arms to draw him back, and caused him to drop and break the vessel. On their way home they had a quarrel and a scuffle, the Moghul admitted he was angry at last, and the man got him down and plucked out his eye. Some of the incidents are found in the stories numbered 241 and 242 in this volume. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 98, there is an account of a merchant who cut off the nose of any servant who was angry or abusive. In order to be revenged on him, the brother of a man who had been thus mutilated took service under the merchant, irritated him in various ways, was struck in the face, and thereupon cut off his master's nose. In Folktales of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 124, a Prince and a merchant's son ran away, and were engaged as labourers on the condition that if they threw up their work they should lose one hand and one ear, the master to be similarly mutilated if he dismissed them while they were willing to work. When the Prince was ordered to hoe sugar-cane he dug it up, when told to scrape and spin hemp he cut it into pieces, when sent to wash his master's child he beat it on a stone as a washerman beats cloths until it was dead. To get rid of him the master sent him to his father-in-law with a letter in which it was requested that he should be killed. The Prince read it, wrote a fresh one requesting that he should be married to the father-in-law's daughter, and was married accordingly. He killed his master when about to be killed by him. Some of the incidents are given in the story numbered 242 in this volume. In the same work, p. 258, a Prince who had wasted his money, took service with a farmer on the terms that if he gave it up his little finger was to be cut off, and if dismissed while working well the master was to suffer the same penalty. His friend took his place and over-reached the farmer, who ran away to save himself. In the Kolhan tales (Bompas) appended to the same volume, p. 497, there is also a story of a Prince who was accompanied by a barber when he was exiled. To get a living the Prince took service on the mutilation terms, the penalty being the loss of a piece of skin a span long. He worked badly and was mutilated. The barber to avenge him took his place, and irritated his master until he got an opportunity of mutilating him in the same way. NO. 196 THE STORY OF THE GAMARALA'S SON In a certain country there is a Gamarala; the Gamarala had no wives. While he was thus, at one time (eka parama) he brought seven wives; all the seven had no children. Again he brought yet a woman; that woman also had no children. After that, when the man was going in order to escort the woman [on returning her to her parents], they met with a Sannyasi. The Sannyasi asked, "What is it? Where are you going?" The man said, "I brought seven wives; all seven had no children. After that, I brought this woman. Because the woman also had no children I am going in order to escort her [to her parents again]." Then the Sannyasi says, "I will perform a protective spell (arakshawa) for children to be born, if you will give me the lad who is born first of all." The Gamarala promised, "I will give him." Afterwards the Gamarala having come back, when a little time had gone she bore a boy. After the boy became somewhat big he planted a flower tree. The Gamarala having told the Sannyasi to come gave him the boy; the Sannyasi having taken him went away. The lad says to the Gamarala, "Should I die the flowers on the flower tree will fade." Younger than this lad [the Gamarala's wife] bore yet a boy. When the Sannyasi was taking the lad he met with a man. This man said to the lad, "Lad, the Sannyasi will give you a thread. Tie it to a tree, and having got out of the way remain [there]." The Sannyasi having gone with the lad near a hidden treasure, gave a thread into the boy's hand, saying, "Remain holding this." The lad tied the thread to a tree; having hidden himself he remained [there]. The Sannyasi put "life" into it. [65] Then the Yaka [who guarded the treasure] having come, asked from the Sannyasi, "Where is the demon offering (billa)?" Thereupon the Sannyasi said, "There (an) he is, [at the end of the thread]." Then when the Yaka looked there was no one. Well then, the Yaka broke the Sannyasi's neck and drank his blood. After the Yaka went away the hidden treasure burst open. That lad having come and taken the things of the hidden treasure (nindane kalamana), again went to a Gamarala's [66] house. Having gone, and taken lodgings at the house, while he is there they are preparing (tanawa) to give that Gamarala's girl in diga (marriage). They will give her for the manner in which the Cinnamon-peeler's cloth is worn, and to a person who wore the cloth [most correctly]. Well, anyone of those who were there was unable to do it. This youth wore it. After that, the Gamarala gave the girl to the lad. When the lad was bathing one day the girl saw the beauty of the lad's figure. After that, the girl having said, "This man's figure is too beautiful! [67] I don't want him," prepared a contrivance to kill him. Having got a false illness she lay down. Afterwards the lad said, "What is the difficulty for you?" Then the girl [said], "You must bring and give me the milk of the wild Elephant that is in the jungle; if not, I shall die." After that, the lad having taken the coconut water-vessel, [68] and having gone into the jungle, went near the Elephant calves. Then the Elephant calves [asked], "What have you come for?" This lad said, "Ane! I came to take a little milk from the Elephant for medicine for me." The Elephant calves said, "If so, you remain hidden there; we will take and give it to you." The Elephant calves having gone near the female Elephant, one Elephant calf stayed near the Elephant's trunk; the other one drinks a little milk, and puts a little into the coconut water-vessel. Having done thus, and collected milk for that coconut water-vessel, it brought and gave it to this lad. The lad having brought it, [69] gave it to the woman, and told her to drink it. Afterwards the woman drank it. In still a little time, again having said that she had an illness, she lay down. That lad asked, "What are you again lying down for?" The girl says, "Bring the milk of the female Bear (walasdena) in the jungle. Should I drink it this illness of mine will be cured." Afterwards, this lad, having taken the coconut water-vessel, and gone to the jungle and gone near a Bear cub, said, "Ane! You must take and give to me a little Bear's milk for medicine." Afterwards, the Bear cub having said, "If so, you remain hidden there until the time when I bring it," took the coconut water-vessel, and having gone near the female Bear, drinks a little milk, and again pours a little into the coconut water-vessel. In that way having collected it, it brought and gave it to that lad. The lad brought the Bear's milk home, and gave it to the woman to drink. The girl having drunk it, in still a few days again lay down. The lad asked, "What are you again lying down for (budi)?" Then the girl [said], "Having brought for me the milk of the Giju-lihini [70] which is in the jungle, should I drink it this illness will be cured." Afterwards the lad, having taken the coconut water-vessel and gone, went near the young ones of the Giju-lihini, and said, "Ane! I must take a little milk of the Giju-lihini for medicine." Afterwards, those Giju-lihini young ones having told the lad to remain hidden, in the very same manner as before brought and gave the milk. The lad brought and gave it to the girl to drink. The girl having drunk it said that the illness was cured. Well then, these two persons have a boy (son). Still having said that she had illness, this girl lay down. The lad asked her [about it] in the same manner as before. The girl said, "Having wrestled [71] with the Yaksani who is in the jungle, should you come back after conquering, indeed, my illness will be cured." After the lad went into the jungle he met with the Yaksani. Having met with her, the Yaksani said, "We two must wrestle to-day; having wrestled, the fallen person (waeticci kena) will lose." This lad said, "It is good," and having wrestled the lad fell, and the Yaksani killed the lad. Then at that place [where he planted it] the flower also faded. Well then, the Gamarala sent the other younger youth on horseback to look [for him]. When the youth was coming he met with the Yaksani who killed that lad. Having met with her the youth said, "Give me (dila) my elder brother," he asked. The Yaksani said, "I don't know [about that]." Then the youth [said], "Don't say 'No'; you must give him, quickly." The Yaksani said, "Let you and me wrestle. Having wrestled, should you fall I shall not give him; should I fall I will give you your elder brother." Both having agreed to it, they wrestled. Having wrestled, the Yaksani lost. After that, the Yaksani having caused that killed lad to come to life, [72] gave him to that youth. Well then, the elder brother and younger brother, both of them, having mounted on the back of the horse went to the very city where the elder brother stayed. The younger brother again came [home], having caused the elder brother to remain at that very place. Well then, that elder brother's boy having said, "Father, there is no stopping here for us; let us go to another country," the two started, and at the time when they were going they met with a tank. The boy asked, "Father, how far (koccara taen) can you swim in this tank?" The boy's father said "Let us see," and having swum a little space (tikak taen) being unable [to swim further] came back. The boy said, "Father, if you cannot swim, clasping my hand let us go," he said. The man was held by the boy's hand. While swimming, the boy when he was going to the far bank caught a shark also. Having taken it also and gone to the far bank, he cut up the shark and divided it into three. Having divided it, and eaten two heaps of it, and taken the other heap, [73] they go away to another country. Having gone there they arrived (eli-baessa) at the palace (vimane) of a Rakshasa. When they went two Rakshasa lads were [there]. The Rakshasa and Rakshasi went to eat human flesh. The two Rakshasa lads said, "Ane! What have you come to this place for? Should our mother and father come they will eat you up (kala damayi)." Then these two having said, "Ane! Don't say so; to-day you must somehow or other (kohomawat) save us and send us away," those two Rakshasa lads hid them. The Rakshasa and Rakshasi came. Having come there, "What is this smell of dead bodies?" they asked. The Rakshasa lads [said], "Having come after eating men's flesh, what do you say 'smell of dead bodies' for?" Well then, the Rakshasi and Rakshasa swore, "We will not eat; son, tell us." At that place these two Rakshasa lads showed those two, father and son, to these two. Although this Rakshasi and Rakshasa could not bear not to eat those two, because they had sworn that day they were forbearing. On the next day the two persons went away to another country. Having gone there they arrived near a tank. Both having descended at the bank, swam. When they were going to the middle of the tank both of them being soaked with the water died. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 197 THE MANNER IN WHICH THE GAMARALA BURIED HIS SONS In a certain country there are a Gamarala and a Gama-Mahage (his wife), it is said. When they were there not much time (nombo kalayak), for the Mahage [there was] pregnancy longing; well then, she is not eating food. The Gamarala asked, "What is it, Bolan? You are not eating food," he asked. The woman said, "I have pregnancy longing." The man asked, "What can you eat?" The woman said, "Seven days (haddawasak) having warmed water (paen) give it to me." The Gamarala having warmed water gave it [on] seven days; the Gama-Mahage bathed seven days [with] the water. The Gamarala asked, "Now then, is it well, the pregnancy longing?" The woman said, "It is well." Well, ten months having been fulfilled she bore a boy. Until the time the boy becomes able to talk they reared him. [Then] the Gamarala said, "To look what this boy says, having taken him let us bury him." [74] The Gama-Mahage also having said "Ha," they took him to bury. Having cut the grave (lit., hole) and placed him in the grave, they covered [him with] earth (pas waehaewwa). Then the boy said, "Ane! What did mother and father [75] bury me for? If I remained with [them]--the smith does not beat the piece of iron [after] having placed it on the anvil--many will I beat (hammer) for them both." [76] The Gamarala and the Mahage having said, "That one to us [is] a smith's boy," and having well trampled still [more] earth [on him] came home. When they were thus for no long time, for the Mahage again [there was] pregnancy longing; well then, she is not eating food. The Gamarala asked, "What is it, Bolan? You are not eating food." The woman said, "I have pregnancy longing." The Gamarala said, "What can you eat for the pregnancy longing?" The woman said, "[On] seven days from the Blue-lotus-flower pool having brought water, seven days having warmed it give me it (dilan) to drink." The Gamarala having brought the water, [on] seven days having warmed it gave it; the woman on the very seven days drank. The Gamarala asked, "Now then, is it well, the pregnancy longing?" The woman said, "It is well." Well then, ten months having been fulfilled (lit., filled) she bore a son. Until the time he became able to talk they reared him. [Then] the Gamarala said, "To look what this one says, let us bury him." The woman having said "Ha," they took him, and having cut the grave and placed him in the grave, they covered [him with] earth. The boy said and said, "Ane! What did they bury me for? If I remained [with them]--the potter does not beat [the clay for] the pots--[for] many will I beat it." The two persons having said, "That one is not ours [77]--a potter's boy," and having put still [more] earth [on him] and trampled it, came home. Having come there, when they were [there] no long time, for the woman [there was] pregnancy longing; she is without food. The Gamarala asked, "What is it, Bolan? You are not eating food." The woman said, "I have pregnancy longing." The Gamarala asked, "What can you eat?" The woman said, "Having cut a hollow well (puhu lindak) and brought the water (diya), seven days having warmed it give me it for me to bathe." The Gamarala having cut a hollow well, [on] seven days having warmed the water gave it. The woman seven days bathed [with] the water. The Gamarala said, "Now then even, is the pregnancy longing well?" The woman said, "It is well." When she was [there] not much time she bore a boy. Having reared him until the time when the boy became able to talk, the Gamarala said, "Having taken this one let us bury him, to look what he says." The Gama-Mahage having said "Ha," they took him, and having cut the grave and placed him in the grave, covered [him with] earth. The boy said, "Ane! If I remained [with them]--the washerman does not wash cloth for them--many will I wash." The two persons having said, "That one [is] not ours--a washerman's boy," put still [more] earth [on him] and having trampled it came home. (On the next occasion the woman stated, in reply to her husband's inquiry as to what food she wanted, that she required nothing. When the son was buried he said, "What [did they bury] me for? For them [78] I--the tom-tom beater does not beat the tom-tom--will beat many." [79] They said, "That one [is] not ours--a tom-tom beater's boy," and they finished the burial and returned home. On the fifth occasion, when asked what she could eat, the woman said, "There is the mind to eat (sic) buffalo milk." When the boy was placed in the grave he said, "Ane! What did our mother and father bury me for? If I remained [with them], having arrived near a King, [after I am] exercising the sovereignty won't our mother and father, both of them, get subsistence for themselves?" [80] The story continues:--) Well then, the two persons having said, "This one himself [is] our child," getting him to the surface [81] they brought him home. (On the sixth occasion the woman required cow's milk. After she had "eaten" it (lit., them, the word for milk being a plural noun) the longing was allayed. Like the others, the boy who was born was buried when he could talk. He said, "Ane! What did our mother and father bury me for? If I remained [with them] won't the two persons get a subsistence, I having even done cultivation and trading?") The rest of the story is as follows:--The two persons having said, "This one himself [is] our child," getting him to the surface they brought him home. When they were rearing him not much time, the Gamarala's two eyes became blind. This boy having become big is continuing to give assistance to the two persons. Then the Gamarala died. The elder (lit., big) boy has taken the sovereignty. The elder brother and younger brother, both, [assisting her]--one having done cultivation (goyitan) and trading, one having exercised the sovereignty--that woman is obtaining a subsistence. The woman having become old, one day (dawasakda) that younger brother went to see that elder brother and return to the city. Having gone, as he was coming back Sakra having come, taking an old appearance, took away the Gama-Mahage. The boy having come and looked [for her], at his mother's absence is weeping and weeping. Sakra, creating an old appearance, having come asked at the boy's hand, "What are you weeping for?" The boy said, "On account of our mother's absence I am weeping." Sakra said, "Why? While your mother has become old you weep! Whatever time it should be, life goes." The boy said, "I must go to see our mother's life." Sakra having taken him to the Sakra residence (bawana) showed him the boy's mother. Having shown her, Sakra asked, "Can you stay here?" Then the boy said, "I having asked at elder brother's hand must come," and came [back to earth]. Having gone to the elder brother's city and said, "Elder brother, our mother having gone is in the Sakra residence; I also will go," the elder brother replied, "If you can, go." He having said it, he came away to go, [but] the boy not knowing the path simply stayed [at home]. Finished. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. I have inserted this pointless tale on account of the evidence it affords of a belief that infanticide was practised in former times; I may add that I have adhered as closely as possible to the text. It agrees with the story numbered 243 in this volume (a tale from Ratmalana, about eight miles south of Colombo), that children who were not likely to prove useful were sometimes buried alive. For other instances of infanticide see the Index to vol. i. I am unable to refer to Indian instances in which Sakra occupies the position of Yama as the God of Death; but in Ceylon he is sometimes represented as being a Dharma-raja, a god of righteousness or justice, and this is a function of Yama. See the verse at the end of the story numbered 179 in vol. ii; in No. 107, vol. ii, it is Sakra who kills the wicked Princess. The reason for cutting a special well with the water of which the women wished to bathe, was that they would thus obtain undefiled water. NO. 198 THE STORY OF THE WOODEN PEACOCK In a certain country there are a Carpenter and a Hettirala, it is said. There are also the wives of the two persons; there are also the two sons of the two persons. The Carpenter and the Hettirala spoke together: "Let us send our two children to school." Having spoken thus, they sent the Carpenter's son and the Hettirala's son to school. At the time when the two had been going to school no long period, the Hettirala took and gave a cart and a bull to the Hettirala's son. Well then, the Hettirala's son goes to school in the cart; the Carpenter's son goes on the ground. A day or two having gone by he does not go again. Afterwards the Carpenter asked, "Why, Ade! dost thou not go to school?" Then said the youngster, "The Hettirala's son goes in the cart; I cannot go on the ground." After that, the Carpenter also took and gave (anna dunna) a cart and a yoke of bulls to the Carpenter's son. Now then, the Carpenter's son also, tying [the bulls to] the cart, goes to school. Then the Hettirala's son, having sold the cart and bull, got a horse and horse carriage. The Hettirala's son began to go in the horse carriage. Then the Carpenter's son does not go to school. Then the Carpenter asked, "What dost thou not go to school for?" The Carpenter's son said, "The Hettirala's son goes in the horse carriage; I cannot go in an ordinary (nikan) cart." Afterwards, the Carpenter having said, "If the Hettirala's son goes in the horse carriage, am I not a Carpenter? Having made a better one than that I will give you it," constructed a wooden Peacock (dandu mondara) and gave it to the Carpenter's son. Afterwards the Carpenter's son, rowing on the wooden Peacock [through the air], goes to school. When they were thus for not a long time, the Carpenter died; the Carpenter's wife also died. Afterwards this Carpenter's son thought to himself that he must seek for a marriage for himself. Having thought it he went rowing the wooden Peacock to a city. There is a Princess of that city. The Princess alone was at the palace when the Carpenter's son was going. Afterwards the Carpenter's son asked at the hand of the Princess, "Can you (puluhanida) go with me to our country?" Then the Princess said, "I will not go; if you be here I can [marry you]." After that, the Carpenter's son marrying [82] the Princess, stays [there]. While he was there two Princes were born. After that, the Carpenter's son said to the Princess, "Taking these two Princes also, let us go to our country." The Princess said "Ha." Well then, while the Princess and the Carpenter's son, and the two Princes of these two, were going [through the air] on the back of that wooden Peacock, that younger Prince said, "I am thirsty." [83] The Carpenter's son having split his [own] palm gave him blood. The Prince said, "I cannot drink blood; I must drink water." Afterwards, having lowered the wooden Peacock to the ground, [the Carpenter's son] went to seek water. [While he was absent] the younger Prince cut the cord of the wooden Peacock. The Carpenter's son having gone thus, [after] finding water came back and gave it to the Prince. Afterwards, after the Prince drank the water he tried to make the wooden Peacock row aloft; he could not, because [the young Prince] cut the wooden Peacock's cord. Afterwards, having left (damala) the wooden Peacock there, [the Carpenter's son] came to the river with the Princess and the two Princes; having come [there] they told the boatman to put them across (ekan-karawanda). Afterwards, the boatman firstly having placed the Carpenter's son on the high ground on the other bank (egoda gode), and having come back to this bank, placing the Princess in the boat took her below along the river, and handed over the Princess to the King of the boatman's city. The Carpenter's son having stayed on the high ground on the other bank, became a beggar, and went away. [84] Those two Princes having been weeping and weeping on this bank, jumped into the river. The two Princes went upwards and upwards in the river--there is a crocodile-house (burrow)--along the crocodile-house they went upward [and came to the surface of the ground]. Having gone there, while they were there weeping and weeping a widow woman having come for water (watura pare) asked, "What are you weeping and weeping there for?" at the hand of the two Princes. Then the two Princes say, "Ane! Being without our mother and father we are weeping and weeping." Then the widow woman said, "Come, if so, and go with me." Afterwards, having said "Ha," the two Princes went with the widow woman. Having thus gone, the widow woman gave food to the two Princes. While they were growing big and large the King said at the hand of that Princess, "Now then, let us marry." Then the Princess said, "In our country, when a Princess has either been sent away (divorced, aericcahamawat) or has made mistakes (padawari weccahamawat), she does not marry until the time when three years [85] go by. When the three years have gone (gihama) let us marry." Afterwards the King, having placed a guard for the Princess, waited until the time when the three years go by. These two Princes who jumped into the river one day went to be on guard. The Princess asked at the hand of the Princes, "Whence are you?" Then the Princes said, "While we were young at a very distant city our mother and father were lost near the river. A widow woman having brought us away is now rearing us." Then the Princess said, "It is your (umbale) mother indeed who is I; your father is now walking about, continuing to beg and eat. I will perform a meritorious deed (pinkomak) and bring him; you, also, join yourselves to the beggars' party." Having said this, and given the two Princes silver and gold things, she sent them away. That Princess at the hand of the King said, "I must perform a meritorious deed, to give money to those with crippled arms, lame persons, and beggars." Afterwards the King by the notification tom-toms gave public notice to those with crippled arms, and lame persons, and beggars, to come [for the alms-giving]. Afterwards they came; that Carpenter's son, the beggar, also came. To the whole of them [86] she gave money; to that Carpenter's son she gave much,--silver and gold. Having given it, the Princess said, "Having taken these and gone, not losing them, construct a city for us to stay in when we have come together again," she said. "Our two Princes also are near such and such a widow woman; [after] joining them, go." Afterwards that Carpenter's son, joining the two Princes also, went and built a city. Afterwards this Princess--having placed a guard over whom, the King had stopped--having bounded off, unknown to the King [87] went to the city which the Carpenter's son and the two Princes built. Well then, the Princess, and the Carpenter's son, and the two Princes stayed at the city. Finished. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In the Jataka story No. 193 (vol. ii, p. 82), a Prince who was travelling alone with his wife is described as cutting his right knee with his sword when she was overcome with thirst, in order to give her blood to drink. In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 142, a Prince married a carpenter's daughter, and afterwards became poor, and a drum-beater for conjurers and dancers, a fate from which his second wife and her son rescued him. In a story of the Western Province numbered 240 in this volume, a Princess recovered her husband by giving a dana, or feast for poor people, and observing those who came to eat it. See also No. 247. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iii, p. 84), in the story of "Ali Shar and Zumurrud," the lady, who while disguised as a man had been chosen as King, recovered her husband by giving a free feast to all comers at the new moon of each month, and watching the persons who came, her husband Ali Shar, then a poor man, being present at the fifth full moon. At each of the earlier feasts she found and punished men who had been responsible for her own and her husband's misfortunes. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 101, a merchant's son who was travelling through a waterless desert for seven days, kept his wife alive by giving her his own flesh and blood. See vol. ii, Nos. 80 and 81, and the appended notes. NO. 199 THE WICKED STEP-MOTHER At a certain city there are a King and a Queen. There are also two Princes. During the time while they were living thus, while the Queen was lying down at noon, a hen-sparrow had built a house (nest) on the ridge-pole. The Queen remained looking at it. When the Queen was there on the following day [the bird] hatched young ones. When they had been there many days, a young sparrow, having fallen to the ground, died. The Queen, taking the young sparrow in her hand, looked at it. Having opened its mouth, when she looked in it there was a fish spine in the mouth. The Queen threw the young one away. After that, the hen-sparrow was not at the nest; another hen having come, stayed there. Afterwards, two young sparrows having fallen to the ground again and died, when the Queen taking them in her hand looked at them, two fish spines were in their mouths. The Queen threw them both away, too. On account of what she saw the Queen thought, "[This] is not the hen which hatched these young ones. [The cock-sparrow] having called in another one [as his mate], she has been making them eat these spines to kill them." Then from this the Queen got in her mind, "When I am not [here] it will indeed be like this for my children." Well then, through that grief the Queen died. After she died the King brought another Queen. This Queen beats and scolds the two Princes. Afterwards the Princes said to their father the King, "We must go even to our uncle's [88] house." "Why must you go?" asked the King. The Princes said, "Our step-mother beats and scolds us." Afterwards the King said, "Go there, you." When the two Princes went to their uncle's house, "What, Princes, have you come for?" the uncle asked. "Our step-mother beats and scolds us; on that account we came." "If so, stay," the uncle said. Afterwards, when they had been there in that way not much time, as they were going playing and playing with oranges through the midst of the city, an orange fruit fell in the King's palace. Then the Princes asked for it at the hand of the Queen: "Step-mother, give us that orange fruit." The Queen said, "Am I a slave to drag about anybody's orange?" After that, the big Prince having gone to the palace, taking the orange fruit came away. Afterwards, tearing the cloth that was on the Queen's waist, and stabbing herself with a knife [the Queen] awaited the time when the King, who went to war, came back. The King having come asked, "What is it?" "Your two Princes having come and done [this] work went away." On account of it the King appointed to kill the two Princes. Having given information of it to the King's younger brother also, the younger brother asked, "What is that for?" The King said, "After I went to the war these two Princes went to the palace, and tore the Queen's cloth also, and having stabbed and cut her with their knives, the blood was flowing down when I came." After that, the King's younger brother asked at the hand of those Princes, "Why did you come and beat the Queen, and stab and cut her with the knife, and go away?" The Princes said, "We did not do even one thing in that way. As we were coming playing and playing with oranges, our orange fruit having fallen in the palace, when we asked our step-mother for it she did not give it. 'Am I a slave to drag about oranges?' she said. Afterwards we went into the palace, and taking the orange fruit went away. We did not do a thing of that kind," they said. The King, however, did not take that to be true. "I must kill the two Princes," he said. Their uncle took the word of the two Princes for the truth. Afterwards the Princes' uncle said, "Go to the river, and [after] washing your heads come back." As they were setting off the Princes took a bow and arrow; and having gone to the river, while they were there, when they were becoming ready to wash their heads, two hares, bounding and bounding along, came in front of the two Princes. Having seen the hares, the younger son said, "Elder brother, shoot those two hares." He shot at them; at the stroke the two hares died. The two Princes, washing their heads, took away the two hares also. Having gone to the city, and given them into the uncle's hand, the uncle plucked out the four eye-balls of the hares, and gave them into the Queen's hands:--"Here; they are the four eye-balls of the Princes," he said. Afterwards, having looked and looked at the eyes, she brought an Indi (wild Date) spike, and saying and saying, "Having looked and looked with these eyes, did you torment me so much?" she went to the palace where the King was, and pierced [with the spike] the very four [eyes]. After that, having cooked the hares' flesh, and cooked and given them a bundle of rice, the uncle told the two Princes to go where they wanted, and both of them went away. (Apparently the story is incomplete, but the narrator knew of no continuation, and I did not meet with it elsewhere.) Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In The Jataka, No. 120 (vol. i, p. 265), a Queen of the King of Benares is described as scratching herself, rubbing oil on her limbs, and putting on dirty clothes in order to support the charge she brought against the Chaplain, of assaulting her during the King's absence on a warlike expedition. In No. 472 (vol. iv, p. 118) a Queen scratched herself and put on soiled clothes in order to induce the King to believe that her son-in-law, Prince Paduma, had assaulted her. Paduma was accordingly sentenced to be thrown down a precipice. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 27, a Queen who was a Prince's step-mother behaved in the same way until the King promised to kill the boy. He smeared the blood of a dog on his sword, and abandoned the boy in the forest. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 273, a King observed that two swallows had a nest in a veranda at the palace. The hen disappeared, having been caught by a falconer. The cock constantly attended to the young ones, but when it brought a fresh mate the two came only once on the second day, and the cock then disappeared. The King then examined the nest, and found in it four dead young ones, each with a thorn in its throat. He concluded that if his wife died and he married again the new Queen might ill-treat his two sons. After a while the Queen died and the King was persuaded by the Ministers to marry again. One day when the two Princes were amusing themselves with pigeons one of the birds alighted near the new Queen, who hid it under a basket and denied that she had seen it, but guided by signs made by an old nurse the younger Prince found and took it. On another occasion the elder Prince recovered one in the same way, though forcibly opposed by the Queen. The Queen then charged them with insulting her, the King banished them, and they went away. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 166, a King and Queen while in the veranda of the palace watched a pair of birds at a nest. One day a strange hen was seen to go with the cock to the nest, carrying thorns in her bill. When the nest was examined it was discovered that the thorns had been given to the young ones, and that they were dead. The King and Queen discussed it, and the King promised not to marry again if the Queen died. When she died, by the Ministers' advice and after many refusals he married a Minister's daughter who became jealous of the two Princes, complained of their disobedience and abusive language, and induced the King to order them to be killed in the jungle. There the soldiers' swords being turned into wood they allowed the boys to escape. The rest of the story is given in the last note, vol. i, p. 91. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iv, p. 71), in the Sindibad-nameh, the favourite concubine of the King of China fell in love with his only son and offered to poison his father, but on his rejection of her offers she tore her robes and hair, and charged him with assaulting her. The seven Wazirs told the King tales of the perfidy of women, and persuaded him to countermand the death penalty to which the Prince was sentenced, the Prince explained the affair, and the woman was sent away. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 107, the favourite concubine of a King being repulsed by the Crown Prince, charged him with improper conduct towards her, and induced the King to send him to govern the frontier districts. She and a Counsellor then forged an order that he must pluck out and send his eyes. When she received them she hung them before her bed and addressed opprobrious language to them. The Prince became a flute player, and while earning a living thus, accompanied by his wife, was recognised by his father, who scourged the two plotters with thorns, poured boiling oil on their wounds, and buried them alive. In Santal Folk Tales (Campbell), p. 33, a raja and his wife observed the attention paid by a hen-sparrow to her young ones, and that after she died another mate who was brought let them die of hunger. The queen pointed this out, and told the raja to take care of her children in case she died. When he was persuaded by his subjects to marry afresh after her death, the new wife took a dislike to the elder son, and by an assumed illness induced the raja to exile him. The other brother accompanied him, and they had various adventures. NO. 200 THE WOMAN WHO ATE BY STEALTH At a certain village there is a woman, it is said; the woman went in a diga [marriage]. Having gone in the diga, when she is there a great many days she began to eat by stealth (hora-kanda). Afterwards the man having said, "I don't want the woman who eats by stealth," and having gone [with her] to her village, put her back [there]. Afterwards, after many days went by, yet [another] man having come, went back, calling her [in marriage]. [When living] near (i.e., with) that man also she began to eat by stealth. Afterwards that man also having said, "I don't want this woman who eats by stealth," and having gone [with her] to her village, put her back [there]. Thus, in that way she went in ten or twelve diga [marriages], it is said. Because she eats by stealth, they bring her back and place her [at home again]. Afterwards, still a man came and asked [for her in marriage]. The woman's father said, "Child, I gave her in ten or twelve diga [marriages]. Because she eats by stealth, having brought and brought her, they put her [back here]. Because of it, should I give her to you it will not be successful," he said. Then the man said, "Father-in-law, no matter that she ate by stealth. If you will give her give her to me," he said. Afterwards the woman's father said, "If you are willing in that way, even now call her and go," he said. Thereupon the man, calling her, went away. [89] Having investigated for a great many days, when he looked [he saw that] she eats by stealth. Afterwards the man said to the woman, "Bolan, it has become necessary for me to eat a [special] food. How about it?" he said. "What is it?" the woman asked. "It is in my mind to eat milk-cake," [90] he said. Then the woman said, "Is that a very wonderful work? Let us cook it on any day you want it," she said. Afterwards the man said, "If so, when you cook it I cannot look and look on, eyeing it, and [then] eat it. To-day I am going on a journey; you cook." Having said [this], the man dressed himself well, and having left the house behind, and gone a considerable distance [returned and got hid]. When he was hidden, the woman, taking the large water-pot, went for water. Having seen it, the man went running, and having got on the platform in the room (at the level of the top of the side walls), remained looking out. The woman, taking rice and having put it to soak and pounded it into flour, began to cook. After having [cooked some cakes and eaten part of them, she] cooked a fresh package of cakes, and finished; and having put the fresh package of cakes into syrup, and laid the packet of cakes over the others which remained, and covered them, she took the water-pot and went to the well, and having taken water after bathing, set off to come back. The man quickly descended from the platform, and having gone to the path, got hid. The woman came to the house, taking the water, and having placed the water-pot [there], when she was taking betel the man came out from the place where he was hidden, and came to the house. Afterwards, the woman having apportioned the milk-cake on the plate, and said, "Inda! Eat," gave him it. Thereupon the man, looking in the direction of the plate, says, "What are ye saying? Get out of the way. Should she eat it secretly in that way, it is for her stomach, and should she eat it openly it is for her stomach," he said. In that way he says it two or three times. The woman heard. Afterwards the woman asked, "Without eating the milk-cake, what do you say that for?" she asked. Thereupon the man says, "These flies are saying to me that after you were cooking, you cooked a fresh package of cakes, and having finished, and put the package of cakes into syrup, you ate the package. Afterwards I said, 'Should she eat it secretly (hemin) it is for her (undaege) stomach; should she eat it openly it is for her stomach,'" he said. Beginning from that day, the woman, having said, "Do you tell tales in that way?" began to kill the flies. She also stopped eating by stealth. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 201 THE STORY OF THE BITCH In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. The woman has a pregnancy longing to eat Katuwala [yams]. There is a Bitch, also; she also has a pregnancy longing; that also is to eat Katuwala [yams]. After that, the man and the woman and the Bitch, the three, went to uproot Katuwala [yams]. Having gone there, and the man having said, "This is for her of ours" (his wife), [91] when he uprooted it on it there was no yam. Having said, "This is for the Bitch," when he uprooted it on it there were yams such that the hands could not lift them. Uprooting them, and having come home and boiled them, when they were eating the Bitch stayed at the doorway. Without giving [any] to the Bitch the man and woman ate them. Afterwards the Bitch thought, "For their not giving the Katuwala [yams] to me may the children born in my body be born in the woman's body, and the children born in the woman's body be born in my body." The Bitch went to the forest jungle (himale); having gone, and entered a rock cave, she bore two Princesses. Having borne them the Bitch went to eat food. [The Princesses grew up there.] Then a Vaedda having come shooting, when he looked there are two Princesses. Having seen them, the Vaedda, breaking and breaking branches [to mark the way to the cave], came to the city. Having come there he told at the hand of the King, "In the chena jungle, at such and such a place, in a rock cave there are two Princesses. It is to say this I have come here." Afterwards the King sent the King's two Princes to go with the Vaedda to summon the Princesses and come. While going there the Vaedda said on the road, to the Princes, "When I have gone and am begging for a little fire at the hand of the two Princesses, they will open the door in order to give the fire. Then you two must spring into the house." Having gone near the rock cave, the Vaedda asked for fire. Then the Princesses having opened the door a very little, when they were preparing to give the fire the two Princes sprang into the house. Then the two Princesses fainted, having become afraid. Afterwards, causing them to become conscious, summoning the two Princesses they went to the city [and married them]. The Bitch having come, when she looked the two Princesses were not [there]. After that, having gone along the path on which they had gone breaking branches she went to the city in which the Princesses are. Having gone there, when she went to the place where the elder Princess is, the Princess said, "Ci, Ci, [92] bitch!" and having beaten her, drove her away. Having gone from there, when she went to the place where the younger Princess is, she bathed her in water scented with sandal wood and placed her upon the bed. Then the Bitch became a golden ash-pumpkin. Then the Prince having come, asked at the hand of the Princess, "Whence the golden ash-pumpkin upon the bed?" The Princess said, "Our mother brought and gave it." Then the Prince thought, "When she brought so much to the house, after we have gone to her house how much will she not give!" Having said to the Princess, "Let us go," they take a cart also. On the road on which they are going there is a spired ant-hill (kot humbaha). Having gone near the ant-hill the Princess said, "Ane, Naga King! Whence has our mother silver and golden things? Let a thunderbolt strike me!" Then the Cobra [came out, and] not having raised his hood, said, "Look there. There are silver and golden things as much as you want [in the cave]." After that, the Prince and the Princess having taken the cart, and gone near the rock cave, when they looked silver and golden things had been created. Afterwards, loading them in the cart they brought them away. The elder Princess's Prince having seen that they are bringing silver and golden things, [and having heard their account of their journey for them], said at the hand of the Princess, "Younger brother having gone in that way, brought from your village silver and golden goods. Let us also go to bring [some]." When the elder Prince and Princess, having taken a cart, were going near the spired ant-hill that was on the road, the Princess said, "Ane, Naga King! Whence has our mother silver and golden goods? Please give me a thunderbolt." Then the Cobra having come and having raised his hood, bit the crown of the Princess's head, and went back into the ant-hill. The Prince, taking the cart, came to the city. The Princess died there. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In Tales of the Punjab (Mrs. F. A. Steel), p. 284, a poverty-stricken girl who was driven from home by her mother, married a Prince. When the mother came to her to claim a share of her good fortune, the girl prayed to the Sun for help; and on her husband's entering the room her mother had become a golden stool, which the girl declared had come from her home. The Prince determined to visit it, and again the girl appealed to the Sun for assistance. When they reached the hut they found it transformed into a golden palace, full of golden articles. When the Prince looked back after a three days' visit and saw only the hut, he charged his wife with being a witch, so she told him the whole story, and he became a Sun worshipper. In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 18, a Raja's wife bore two puppies, and their pet dog bore two girls which she deposited in a cave. A Raja and his brother while hunting discovered the girls, whom they carried away and married. When the bitch went in search of them, the elder one treated it kindly, but the other ordered her servants to throw stones at it and drive it away. One stone wounded it on the head, and it died at the elder daughter's house. The Raja tripped over the basket under which the body was placed, and found under it the life-size figure of a dog made of precious stones set in gold, which his wife said was a present from her parents. As her husband determined to visit them she decided to commit suicide, and put her finger in the open mouth of a cobra that was on an ant-hill; by doing so she relieved it of a thorn which had stuck in the snake's mouth. The grateful cobra agreed to assist her, and when she returned with her husband they found a great palace built of precious stones and gold, with a Raja and his wife inside to represent her parents. After a visit of six months, when they looked back on their way home they saw the whole place in flames which totally destroyed it. On seeing the valuable presents they took back, and hearing her sister's story, the younger sister went in the same manner, put her finger in the cobra's mouth, was bitten by it, and died. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 125, in a Kalmuk tale, after the girl who had been taken out of a box found on the steppe [93] had three children, the people began to complain of her want of respectable relatives, and she went home with her sons. Instead of her former poor dwelling she found there palaces, many labourers at work, and a youth who claimed to be her brother. Her parents entertained her well, and the Khan and Ministers came, and returned quite satisfied. On the following morning the palaces and all had vanished, and she returned to the Khan's palace, perceiving that the Devas had created the illusion on her behalf. (As she had claimed to be the daughter of the Serpent God, it would appear to have been the Nagas who had exerted their powers and done this for her. In the story numbered 252 in this volume, Mara, the god of death, assisted the son of a woman who had stated that he was her husband.) NO. 202 THE ELEPHANT GUARD In a certain country there are a woman and a man; there are a boy and a girl of those two. During the time when these four were [there], they heard the notification tom-tom at another city. Then the man said, "I am going to look what this notification tom-tom is that we hear." After the man went to the city the King said, "Canst thou guard my elephants?" The man said, "What will you give me?" The King said, "I will give a thousand masuran, and expenses [94] for eating." Thereupon the man says, "It is too little for me and my wife, and my boy and girl, for us four persons." After that the King said, "I will give two thousand masuran, and expenses for eating for you four persons." Thereupon the man said, "Having returned to my village I will go and call my wife and children to come." As he was going, a jewelled ring of a Maharaja had fallen [on the path]. This man, taking the jewelled ring in his hand, thought, "It is bad for me to destroy this jewelled ring; this I must give to the King." Thinking thus he went home, and summoning his wife and children came to the city. After he presented [95] that jewelled ring to the King, the King asked, "Whence [came] this jewelled ring to thee?" This man said, "This jewelled ring as I was going to the village had fallen on the path. It is that [ring] indeed which I placed [before you] as this present." After that the King [said], "A ring of a greater King than I! Because it is so it is bad to destroy this ring. What dost thou say about [thy reward for] it?" "I say nothing. The thing that is given to me I will take." Thereupon the King said, "Are you quite satisfied [for me] to give a district from the kingdom, and goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load?" This man said "Ha." After he said it the King gave them. Thereupon this man took charge of the guarding of the elephants. One day when he was guarding the elephants the Rakshasa came. This man asked, "What came you for?" The Rakshasa said, "It is to eat thee that I came." This man said, "What will you eat me for? Eat our King," he said. After that, the Rakshasa having come into the city, when he went near the King the King asked, "What hast thou come for?" The Rakshasa said, "I came to eat you, Sir." "Who, Bola, told thee?" the King said. Thereupon the Rakshasa said, "The man who guards the elephants told me." Then the King said, "What will you eat me for? Go thou and eat the man who guards the elephants." Afterwards the Rakshasa went near the man who guards the elephants. Thereupon the man asked, "What have you come here again for?" The Rakshasa said, "The King told me to eat you," he said. After that, the man said, "[First] bring the few silver and gold articles that there are of yours," he said. The Rakshasa having gone home, after he brought the few silver and gold things this man said to the Rakshasa, "Having come [after] drawing out a creeper, tie a turn on the elephant's neck and on your neck tie a turn." The Rakshasa having come after drawing out a creeper, tied a turn on the elephant's neck and tied a turn on the Rakshasa's neck. Afterwards this man said, "Ha; now then, come and eat me." When the Rakshasa tried to go dragging the elephant, the elephant struck the Rakshasa; then the Rakshasa died. Afterwards, while this man, taking those few silver and gold things, is guarding the elephants, one day having been soaked owing to the rain when is he squatting at the bottom of a tree, a snake appeared. This man thinking, "Ane! I must go to warm myself with a little fire," having gone away, when he looked about there were two Princesses in a rock-house (cave). Having seen them he went near [and said], "Ane! Will you give me a little fire?" Afterwards the eldest Princess said, "Come here; having warmed yourself a little at the fire go away." After that, the man went into the rock-house and warmed himself at the fire, and taking the elephants came to the city, and told the King, "Having seen that in this manner there are two Princesses in a rock-house I came to tell you," he said. The King said, "Our elder brother and I and you, we three, let us go to-morrow to fetch the two Princesses." The man said "Ha." On the following day the three persons having gone near the rock-house, that man went near that rock-house and asked for fire. At that time, when the eldest Princess is preparing to give the fire these three persons sprang in, and having drawn the two Princesses outside, when they were seizing them the two Princesses lost their senses. Afterwards restoring them to consciousness they came to the King's city. When the mother of these two Princesses [after] seeking food came to the rock-house, these two Princesses were not [there]. After that, when this widow woman is going weeping and weeping along a path, having seen that a great tusk elephant King is on the path this woman said, "Did you meet with my two Princesses?" The tusk elephant King said, "Two royal thieves and a man who guards the elephants, placing the two Princesses on the back of an elephant went away." Afterwards, when this widow woman was going to the city along the path on which they took the tusk elephant she saw that the elder Princess is near the well. This widow woman having become thirsty asked for a little water. The Princess said, "Go away, widow woman, there is not any water to give thee." Afterwards, when this widow woman met with the younger sister's house, the Princess having been in the house came out, and said, "Our mother!" Quickly having bathed her with coconut milk scented with sandal wood and placed her on the bed, as she is going aside that woman said, "Daughter (pute), go for a little silver and gold for yourself. As you are going along the path on which you came there will be a tusk-elephant King. The tusk-elephant King will give it." Afterwards, [when she had got the silver and gold] the Princess and the widow woman went away. They went away with another King. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 203 THE ELEPHANT-FOOL There is a man's elephant. Yet [another] man having gone [to him], said, "Friend, give (that is, lend) me your elephant; there is a work for me to do for myself," and asked for it. Then the man who owned the elephant says, "Take it and go." Afterwards the man having taken it, while it was doing his work the elephant died. Afterwards this man having come, says, "Friend, while your elephant was with me it died. On that account am I to take an elephant and give it to you; or if not am I to give the money it is worth?" he asked. Thereupon the man who owned the elephant says, "I don't want another elephant; I don't want the money, too. Give me my elephant itself," he says. Then this man says, "I cannot give the elephant that died. Do the thing that thou canst," he said. Thereupon the man who owned the elephant says, "I will kill thee." One day, having seen this man who owned the elephant coming, this man's wife says to the man, "Placing a large water-pot near the door, shut the door." This one having said, "It is good," placed a large water-pot near the door, and shut the door. Thereupon the man who owned the elephant having come to the house, asked the woman, "Where is thy husband?" Then the woman said, "There. He is in the house." Having said, "Open the door, courtesan's son," when he struck his hand on the door the door opened, and the water-pot was broken. Then this woman asks for it, saying, "After thou hast broken my water-pot, give it to me immediately." The man said, "I will bring a water-pot and give you it." "I don't want another; give me my very water-pot," she says. Thereupon, being unable to escape from this woman, having said, "For the debt of the elephant let the water-pot be substituted," the man who owned the elephant went away. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. A variant related by a Potter is nearly similar, except that both persons instituted lawsuits for the recovery of the elephant and the waterpot. The judge who tried the cases was the celebrated Mariyada Raman, termed by the narrator "Mariyaddurame," a word which suggests the name Amir Abd ur-Rahman. There is also a Chinese variant, given in Chinese Nights' Entertainments (A. M. Fielde), p. 111, in which a dishonest old woman lent a newly-married girl her cat, in order to kill the mice. The cat ran home, and the woman then applied for its return, praised its excellence, and estimated its value at two hundred ounces of silver. The girl discovered that her father-in-law had once lent the woman an old wooden ladle, and when the old woman called again about the cat she reminded her of it, and demanded its return. The cases were taken before a magistrate. The girl claimed that the ladle was made from a branch which fell down from the moon, and never diminished the food, oil, or money from which anything was taken by means of it; and she asserted that her father-in-law had refused an offer of three thousand ounces of silver for it. The magistrate decided that the two claims balanced each other. NO. 204 HOW A GIRL TOOK GRUEL In a certain country there are a girl and the girl's father, it is said. While they were there, one day the man went to plough, saying to the girl, "Bring gruel to the rice field." They spring across a stream as they go to the rice field. The girl, cooking gruel, pouring it into a wide-mouthed cooking-pot and placing the pot on her head, goes away to the field. While going there she met a Prince near the river. The girl asked at the Prince's hand, "Where are you going?" Having told him to sit down and given to him from the gruel, she said, "Go to our house and wait until the time when I come after giving the gruel to father;" and placing the gruel pot on her head she went to the far bank of the river. Then the Prince asked, "Are you coming immediately?" The Princess said, "Should [it] come [I] shall not come; should [it] not come, I shall come." [96] The Prince got into his mind, "This meant indeed (lit., said), 'Should water come in the river I cannot come; should water not come I will come.'" Again the Prince asked, "On which road go you to your house?" Then the girl unfastened her hair knot; having unloosed it she went to the rice field. Afterwards the Prince thought to himself, "Because of the girl's unloosing her hair knot she goes near the Kitul palm tree indeed." [97] The Prince having gone near the Kitul tree to the girl's home, remained lying down in the veranda until the girl came. The girl having given the gruel came home. Having come there and cooked for the Prince she gave him to eat. Then the girl's father came. After that, the girl and the Prince having married remained there. While they were [there], one day the Prince said, "I must go to our city." Then the girl also having said that she must go, as the girl and the girl's father and the Prince, the three persons, were going along there was a rice field. The girl's father asked at the hand of the Prince, "Son-in-law, is this rice field a cultivated rice field, or an unworked rice field?" Then the Prince said, "What of its being cultivated! If its corners and angles are not cut this field is an unworked one." When they were going still a little distance there was a heap of fence sticks. Concerning it the Prince asked, "Father-in-law, are these cut fence-sticks, or uncut fence-sticks?" Then the father-in-law says, "What of their being cut! If they are not sharpened these are uncut sticks." Well then, having gone in that manner, and gone to the Prince's city, he made the girl and the girl's father stay in a calf house near the palace, saying, "This indeed is our house." The Prince having gone to the palace said at the hand of the Prince's mother, "Mother, I have come, calling [a wife] from such and such a city. The Princess is in that calf house. Call her and come back after going [there]." After that, the Queen having gone near the calf house, when she looked a light had fallen throughout the whole of the calf house. The girl was in the house. After that the Queen, calling the girl and the girl's father, came to the palace. Well then, the girl, and the girl's father, and the Prince remained at the palace. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. The questions and answers remind one of those asked and given by Mahosadha and Amara, the girl whom he married, in the Jataka story No. 546 (vol. vi, p. 182), and one remark is the same,--that regarding the river water. Heroines are sometimes described as emitting a brilliant light, as in No. 145, vol. ii. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 158, there is a Princess who "comes and sits on her roof, and she shines so that she lights up all the country and our houses, and we can see to do our work as if it were day." In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 133, a heavenly maiden illuminated a wood, though it was night. In the same volume, p. 145, a girl "gleamed as if she were the light of the sun." In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., pp. 484 ff., the son of a Wazir asked a farmer whom he accompanied a number of cryptic questions which were understood by the farmer's daughter, whom he afterwards married. They have a general resemblance to those in the Sinhalese story, but differ from them. In one he asked if a field of ripe corn was eaten or not, meaning that if the owner were in debt it was as good as eaten already. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (Rev. Dr. Bodding) there are several instances of enigmatical replies of this kind. See pp. 269, 349, 368. In a Kolhan tale appended to the vol. by Mr. Bompas, p. 462, a Princess who was in a Bel fruit had such brilliancy that the youth who split it open fell dead when he saw her. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), a brilliant Prince is described in vol. i, p. 301, and a heroine in vol. ii, p. 17. In vol. iii, p. 172, a Prince's face shone like the moon among the stars. Buddha is usually described as possessing great brilliancy. In No. 237 below, there is a Prince whose brilliance dazzled a Princess so much that she swooned. NO. 205 THE BOY WHO WENT TO LEARN THE SCIENCES In a certain country a boy was sent by his two parents near a teacher for learning the arts and sciences. Then the boy, [after] learning for a long time the sixty-four mechanical arts, [98] came back to his home. The boy's parents asked the boy, "Did you learn all the sciences?" The boy told his parents that he learnt the whole of the sciences. At that time his father asked, "Did you learn the subtlety (mayama) of women?" Thereupon the boy said he did not. Having said, "[After] learning that very science come back," he was sent away again by his two parents. The boy having set off from there, at the time when he was going along, in the King's garden were the King and Queen. The King was walking and walking in the garden. The Queen, sewing and sewing a shawl, [99] was [sitting] in the shade under a tree. Having seen that this very boy is going, the Queen, calling the boy, asked, "Where are you going?" Thereupon the boy says, "When I came home [after] learning the arts and sciences, and the sixty-four mechanical arts, my parents asked, 'Did you learn the arts?' I said, 'Yes.' Then they asked, 'Did you learn the subtlety of women?' When I myself said I did not, because they said, '[After] learning that very science come back,' I am going away to learn that very science," he said to the Queen. Thereupon that very Queen said, "I will teach you the subtlety," and calling the boy near, placed the boy's head on the Queen's thigh, and having told him to lie [still], and taken the shawl that the Queen was sewing and sewing, and covered the boy [with it], the Queen remained sewing and sewing. At that time the King was not there. After that, the King came there. Then the Queen, having called the King [and said], "I wish to tell you a story," told the King to listen to the story. The King was pleased regarding it. The Queen, leaving the thigh on which was the head of the above-mentioned boy, having placed the head of the King on the other thigh, and told him to lie [there], told the story. The story indeed was:--"Like we are here, a King and Queen of the fore-going time, like we came here went for garden-sport, it is said. At that time the King went to walk in the garden, it is said. While that very Queen was staying [there] sewing a shawl, a boy came there. Then the Queen asked the boy, 'Where are you going?' Thereupon the boy says, 'Because my parents said I am to learn the subtlety of women, I am going away to learn that very subtlety,' he said. Then the Queen having said, 'I will teach you,' called the boy, and having placed his head on her thigh, and told him to lie [still], sewed the shawl. At that time the King came, like you now have come here. Then, having told the King to place his head on the other thigh and having told him this story, with the shawl that covered the boy she covered the King." [As she said this, she covered the King with the shawl.] Thereupon the boy quickly jumped up and went away. When his parents afterwards asked the boy, "Did you learn the subtlety of women?" he said that he had learnt it. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In The Jataka, No. 61 (vol. i, p. 148), there is an account of a Brahmana youth who, on completing the usual education, was asked by his mother if he had learnt the Dolour Texts, and on his replying in the negative was sent back to learn them. There were no such texts, but his mother intended him to learn the wickedness of women. This he did, but not in the manner related in the Sinhalese story. NO. 206 THE PRINCE AND THE ASCETICS In a certain country there is a Prince, it is said. After the Prince became big, for the purpose of marrying him they began to visit all cities to seek an unpolluted Princess. Because they did not meet with one according to the Prince's thought, he began to look at many sooth books. While looking, from a book he got to know one circumstance. The matter indeed [was this]:--There was [written] in the book that when the Prince remains no long time inside the hollow of a large tree, a Princess will be born from the Prince's very blood. Thereupon having considered it, according to the manner in which it was mentioned he stayed inside the tree. When he was there not much time he met with a Princess, also, in that before-mentioned manner. The Prince thereupon took the Princess in marriage. After he took her in marriage, having constructed a palace in the midst of that forest both of them stayed in it. While they are [there], the Prince having come every day [after] shooting animals, skinned them, and taking the skins and having fixed them on the wall, asks the Princess, "What animals' skins are these?" He asks the names from the Princess. Then the Princess says, "I don't know." On the day after that, after the Prince went for hunting a Vaedda came near the palace. The Princess having seen the Vaedda called him. Then the Vaedda went to the palace. After he went the Princess asked the Vaedda, "What animals' skins are these?" The Vaedda informed (lit., told and gave) the Princess of the names of the animals. Then the Princess asks the Vaedda, "Where do you live?" The Vaedda says, "I, also, live very near this palace, in the midst of the forest." The Princess says, "Vaedda, advise me how to cause you to be brought to me at the time when I want you." Then the Vaedda said, "I will tie a hawk's-bell in my house, and having tied a cord to it, and tied it on a tree near the palace, and pointed it out, at the time when the Princess wants me shake the cord. Then I shall come," he said. The Vaedda having informed the Princess about this matter, after the Vaedda went away the Prince having come back [after] doing hunting, just as on other days asked the Princess the names of these animals. That day the Princess told him the names of the animals. After that, she was unable to inform him of the name of the animal he brought. The Prince having reflected, walked round the palace. When he looked about, having seen that a cord was tied to a tree he shook it. Then having seen that the Vaedda comes to the palace the Prince remained hidden. The Vaedda having come and spoken to the Princess, after the Vaedda went away the Prince having gone to the palace went for hunting. Walking in the midst of the forest he went near a river, and when he was looking about having heard the talk of men the Prince went into a tree. Having gone [there], while he was looking three men (minis) came, and having slipped off their clothes and finished, after they descended to bathe from the three betel boxes of the three persons three women came out. They having opened the mouths of the three betel boxes of the three women, when he was looking the Prince saw that three men are inside their three betel boxes. After that, the Prince descended from the tree to the ground, and asked the three men [when they had bathed], "Who are you?" Then the men say, "We all three are ascetics," they said. After that the Prince, calling the three persons, went to the palace. Having gone [there] the Prince told the Princess to cook rice for twelve. After she cooked he said, "Having set twelve plates of cooked rice, place them on the table." After she put them [there] the Prince told the ascetics to sit down to eat cooked rice. After they sat down he said, "Tell the three wives of you three persons to sit down." [They came out and sat down.] Then when he told the three men (minis) who are in the three betel boxes of the three women to sit down, all were astonished. Then he told the Princess to call that Vaedda, and return. "I don't know [anything about him]," the Princess said untruthfully. Then the Prince pulled that cord; the Vaedda came running. Afterwards the whole twelve sitting down ate cooked rice. Afterwards, those said three ascetics and the Prince having talked, abandoned this party, and the whole four went again to practise austerities (tapas rakinda). Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In The Jataka, No. 145 (vol. i, p. 310), the Bodhisatta is represented as remarking, "You might carry a woman about in your arms and yet she would not be safe." In No. 436 (vol. iii, p. 314), an Asura demon who had seized a woman kept her in a box, which he swallowed. When he ejected it and allowed her liberty while he bathed, she managed to hide a magician with her in the box, which the unsuspecting demon again swallowed. An ascetic knew by his power of insight what had occurred, and informed the demon, who at once ejected the box. On his opening it the magician uttered a spell and escaped. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. i, p. 9), two Kings whose wives had been unfaithful, saw a Jinni (or Rakshasa) take a lady out of a casket fastened with seven steel padlocks and placed in a crystal box; he went to sleep with his head on her lap under the tree in which they were hidden. Noticing the men in the tree, she put the Jinni's head softly on the ground, and by threatening to rouse her husband made them descend. In her purse she had a knotted string on which were strung five hundred and seventy seal rings of the persons she had met in this way though kept at the bottom of the sea, and adding their rings to her collection she sent them away. In vol. iv, p. 130, the story is told of a Prince, and the woman had more than eighty rings. In the Tota Kahani (Small), p. 41, a Yogi took the form of an elephant, and to insure his wife's chastity carried her in a hauda or litter on his back. A man climbed up a tree for safety from the elephant, which halted under the tree, put down the litter, and went off to feed. The man descended and joined the woman, who took out a knotted cord and added another knot on it, making a hundred and one, which represented the number of men she had met in that way. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 80, two young Brahmanas, hiding at night in a tree close to a lake, saw a number of men appear out of the water and prepare a place and food which a handsome person, who came out of the water also, came to eat. He ejected from his mouth two ladies who were his wives; they ate the meal and he went to sleep. The Brahmanas descended from the tree to inquire about it. When the elder youth declined the advances of one of the women she showed him a hundred rings taken from the lovers she had had. She then awoke her husband and charged the youth with attempted violence, but the other told the truth and saved him. The being whose wives the women were is termed a water-genius and later on a Yaksha, who was subject to a curse. He told the youths that he kept his wives in his heart, out of jealousy. There is a nearly similar story in the same work, vol. ii, p. 98, in which the being who came out of the water was a snake-god who ejected a couch and his wife. When he went to sleep a traveller who was lying under the tree became her hundredth lover. When the snake-god awoke and saw them he reduced them to ashes by fire discharged from his mouth. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 378, a Prince who had climbed up a tree saw a Brahmana, who first bathed there, eject from his mouth a pot, out of which came a woman. While the Brahmana was asleep she also ejected a pot out of which came a young man, her lover; when he afterwards re-entered the pot she swallowed it again. Then the Brahmana awoke, swallowed her in the same way, and went off. The Prince told the King to invite the Brahmana to a feast, at which food for three was set near him. On his saying he was alone the Prince invited him to produce the woman, and when he had done so, she was made to bring out her lover, and all three ate the meal together. The Prince thus proved to his father, who had kept his wives in seclusion, that it was useless to shut women up. NO. 207 THE TURTLE PRINCE [100] At a certain city two noblemen [101] stay in two houses. When they are there, for the two noblemen there are two Queens. One Queen bore seven female children; the other Queen bore six male children and a Turtle. Then the same two noblemen spoke: "Cousin, not contracting the marriages of your children and my children outside, let us ourselves do giving and taking," they said. Having said, "If so, let us marry the eldest children," they married them. The second two children they also married. The third two children they also married. The fourth two children they also married. The fifth two children they also married. The sixth two children they also married. There was no way to marry the seventh two children. The matter of their not [marrying] indeed [was this:--the father of the girls] said, "Cousin, my daughter is a daughter possessing much beauty. Because of it, your young child indeed is not good. Should you say, 'What of the matter of his not being good, indeed!' Your child is the Turtle; because it is so I cannot [marry my daughter to him]," he said. Then the other cousin says, "Cousin, you cannot say so. The Turtle who is my young child says, 'I, father, if there be not that marriage for me, I will jump into the well, and make various quarrels,' the Turtle says. Because it is so you must marry your very child [to him], he says. If you cannot [do] so, let us cancel the marriages of the whole of the several persons," says the Turtle's father. Then he says, "If so, cousin, no matter about cancelling the marriages; I will give my daughter to the Turtle," he said. Having thus given her, they contracted the marriage. Having married them, when they were [there] there was notified by the King of the same city, "Can anyone, having brought it, give me the Fire Cock [102] that is at the house of the Rakshasa?" [103] he notified. The same King published by beat of tom-toms that to the persons who brought and gave it he will give many offices. Secondly, "I will give my kingdom also," he notified. That word the Turtle having ascertained, he said, "Mother, you go, and seeing the King, 'The Turtle who is my son is able,' say, 'to bring and give the Fire Cock.'" [She went accordingly.] Then the King said, "Tell your son to come to-morrow morning," he said. The following day morning the same Turtle having gone says, "I can bring and give the Fire Cock in seven days." Then the King said, "Not to mention [104] the Turtle, should anyone [whatever] bring and give it, I will give him offices and my kingdom also." The Turtle having come home said to the Turtle's wife, "Bolan, having cooked for me a packet [105] of rice, bring it," he said. Then the Turtle's wife asked, "What is the packet of cooked rice for you for?" she asked. "It is arranged by the King for me to bring and give him the Fire Cock that is at the Rakshasa's house. Because it is so, cook the lump of rice," he said. "Having cooked the lump of rice I can give it, indeed. How will you take it and go?" she said. Then the Turtle said, "Having put the cooked rice in a bag, place it on my back and tie it. I am able to take it and go," he said. After having placed it on his back and tied it, the same Turtle, having gone on the journey, while on the road went to a screen formed by Mahamidi [trees]. [106] Having gone there and unfastened the packet of cooked rice, and removed and put aside the turtle jacket, he ate the lump of cooked rice. Having eaten and finished, he hid the turtle jacket, and went on the journey [in the form of a Prince]. When he was going on the journey, it having become night while he was on the road he went to the house of a widow-mother. Having gone [there], "Mother, you must give me a resting-place," he said. Then the widow-mother said, "A resting-place indeed I can give," she said; "to give to eat [there is] not a thing." "If so, no matter for the food; should you give me only the resting-place it will do," he said. Then the widow-mother asked, "Where are you, son, going?" she asked. Then he said, "I am going for the Jewelled Cock at the Rakshasa's house," he said. The widow-mother then said, "Son, go you to [your] village without speaking [about it]. People, many multitudes in number, having stayed in the resting-place here, went for the Fire Cock. Except that they went, they did not bring the Fire Cock. Because it is so don't you go." Then he said, "However much you, mother, should say it, I indeed must really go." "Since you are going, not paying heed to my saying, eat this little rice dust that I cooked, and go." Then he said, "Except that to-day you cooked rice dust [for me], I shall not be able to cook [even] rice dust again for you," he said. ["Raw-rice, be created."] With the same speed [as his saying it] raw-rice [107] was created, [and he gave her power to do the same]. "Son, like the power which you gave, I will give you a power. You having gone to the Rakshasa's house, at the time when you are coming back the Rakshasa will come [for the purpose of] stopping you. Then on account of it having taken this piece of stone and said, 'Ci! Mountain, be created,' cast it down; the mountain will be created. The Rakshasa having gone up the mountain, while he is descending below you will be able then to go a considerable distance." Taking that [stone and] power from there when he was going away, while he was on the road it became night. After it became night, again he went to the house of a widow woman. The widow woman asked, "Where, son, are you going in this way when it has become night?" Then he said, "I am going for the Fire Cock at the Rakshasa's house," he said. "Don't you go on that journey; the people who go for that Fire Cock, except that they go, do not return." "Don't at any rate tell that fact to me indeed; I indeed must really go for the Fire Cock. I came here at the time when I wanted a resting-place." "A resting-place indeed I can give. To give to eat [there is] not a thing," the widow-mother said. "No matter for the food; should you give me a resting-place it will do," he said. While the person of the resting-place was staying looking on, because he could not eat, from what she had cooked of rice dust she gave him a little to eat. "Mother, being unable to cook again for you, although to-day you cooked rice dust, I will give you a power," he said. "Raw-rice, be created," [and he gave her power to do the same]. "If so, son, I will give you a power. Here (Menna). Having taken away this bamboo stick, for the Rakshasa's stopping you on the path when you are coming away, say, 'Ci! Bamboo, be created,' and throw down the bamboo stick. Then the bamboo fence will be created. The Rakshasa having gone up it, while he is coming down [on the other side] you will be able to come a considerable distance." When he was going away from there on the following day, while he was on the road it became night. It having become night, again he went to the house of a widow woman. Having gone there he asked for a resting-place. "In this way when night has come, where are you going?" she asked. Then he said, "I am going to bring the Fire Cock at the Rakshasa's house," he said. "Except that thousands of robbers, thousands of archers [108] go, except that the persons who went there went, they did not come back. Because it is so don't you go." "I indeed must really go for the Fire Cock. For me to stay here [to-night] you must give the resting-place." Then she said, "I can indeed give it. To give you to eat [there is] not a thing to give." "No matter for food for me; should you give me a resting-place it will do." The widow-mother having cooked a little rice dust gave him to eat. "Mother, I shall not again be able to cook [even] rice dust for you. I will give you a good power." He gave her a power to create raw-rice. "Better than the power you gave me I will give you a power. Having gone to the Rakshasa's house, when you are coming, taking the Fire Cock also, the Rakshasa will come running to eat you. When he is thus coming, here, having taken away this piece of charcoal and said, 'Ci! Fire, be created,' throw it down; the fire fence will be created. Then the Rakshasa having come will jump into the fire. Without speaking, slowly come home." [The Prince went, stole the Fire Cock, and escaped from the pursuit of the Rakshasa by means of the three gifts. [109] The Rakshasa was burnt at the fire fence.] [The Prince] having come there [again], and gone to the place where the turtle jacket is, putting on his body the turtle jacket [and resuming his turtle shape], came to his village. Having come there he handed over the Fire Cock to the King. When he was giving it the King said, "From to-day my country, together with the goods, is in charge for thee." "There are goods [belonging] to me which are better than that; I don't want it," he said. The same King, in order to make a [religious] offering of those goods, commanded a Bana (recitation of the Buddhist scriptures). When the Turtle's wife and yet [other] women are going to hear the Bana, the other women who are coming to hear the Bana, say, "O Turtle's wife, come, to go to hear the Bana." Having gone there, while they are hearing the Bana the Turtle, having taken off the turtle jacket [and become a Prince again], went to hear the Bana. Then the Turtle's wife thought, "It is my very husband, [110] this." Having thought it and come home, at the time when she looked she saw that the turtle jacket was there, and taking out the goods that were in it she put the same jacket on the [fire on the] hearth, and went [back] to hear the Bana. The Turtle's wife's husband having come home, when he looked the turtle jacket was not [there]. Having got into the house he remained silent. The Turtle's wife came home gaily. Other women asked, "What is [the reason of] so much sportiveness of the Turtle's wife which there is to-day?" "You will perceive [the reason of] my playfulness when you have gone to the house." The other women, to look at [the meaning of] those words, came to the house of the Turtle's wife with the Turtle's wife. Having come, when they looked the husband of the Turtle's wife is like a King. This story is the two noblemen's. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 208 THE GEM-SET RING In a certain country there are a King and a Queen, it is said; there are seven Princes of these two persons. Out of the seven, the youngest Prince from the day on which he was born is lying down; only those six perform service, go on journeys after journeys (gaman sagaman). Well then, at the time when this Prince is living thus, the King said at the hand of the Queen, "Should this Prince remain there is no advantage to us; I must behead him." The Queen said, "There is no need to behead him. Drive away the Prince whom we do not want to a quarter he likes." The King said, "It is good." The Queen having come near the Prince, said, "Son, he must behead you, says the King. Because of it go to a place you like, to seek a livelihood." Then the Prince said, "For me to go for trading give me (dilan) a thousand masuran, and a packet of cooked rice." After that, the Queen gave him a packet of cooked rice and a thousand masuran. The Prince having taken the packet of cooked rice and the thousand masuran, arrived (eli-baessa) at a travellers' shed. At the time when he is sitting in the travellers' shed a man came, bringing a Cobra. Then the Prince asked, "For how much will you sell the Cobra?" The man said, "It is a thousand masuran." Afterwards the Prince said, "There are a thousand masuran of mine. Here (inda), take them." Having given the thousand masuran he got the Cobra. Taking it, and having unfastened the packet of cooked rice, the Cobra and the Prince ate, and the Prince, taking the Cobra, came back to the Prince's city. Then the Queen asked, "Son, what is the merchandise you have brought?" The Prince said, "Mother, having given those thousand masuran that I took, I brought a Cobra." Afterwards the Queen said, "Appa! Son, should that one remain it will bite us. Take it to a forest, and having conducted it a short distance come back." The Prince having taken it and put it in a rock house (cave) in the forest, shut the door, and came back. At the time when he was there the Queen said, "Son, should the King come to know that you are [here] he will behead you. Because of it go to any place you like." Afterwards the Prince said, "Give me a thousand masuran, and a packet of cooked rice." The Queen gave them. After that, the Prince taking them and having gone, while he was in that travellers' shed a man taking a Parrot came to the travellers' shed. The Prince asked, "Will you sell that Parrot?" The man said he would sell it. The Prince asked, "For how much?" The man said, "It is a thousand masuran." The Prince gave the thousand masuran and got the Parrot. The Prince and the Parrot having eaten the packet of cooked rice, the two came to the Prince's city. The Queen asked, "Son, what is the merchandise you have brought to-day?" The Prince says, "Mother, having given those thousand masuran that I took I have brought a Parrot." Afterwards the Queen said, "We don't want the Parrot. Take it and put it in the forest, and come back." The Prince having taken the Parrot and put the Parrot also in the rock house in which is the Cobra, shut the door, and came back. While he was there the Queen said, "Son, should the King see that you are [here] he will behead you. Because of it go to any place you like." The Prince said, "Mother, give me a thousand masuran, and a packet of cooked rice." The Queen gave him a packet of cooked rice and a thousand masuran. Afterwards, the Prince having taken them, while he was at that travellers' shed again a man is taking a Cat which eats by stealth, in order to put it into the river. This Prince asked, "Will you sell that?" The man said he would sell it. The Prince asked, "For how much?" The man [said], "I will sell it for a thousand masuran." Afterwards the Prince gave the thousand masuran that were in his hand, and taking the Cat, and the Prince and the Cat having eaten the packet of cooked rice, the two came to the Prince's city. Then the Queen asked, "Son, on this journey what have you brought?" The Prince says, "Mother, having given the thousand masuran that I took I brought a Cat." Then the Queen said, "Don't thou come again. Go to any place thou wantest." The Prince said, "Mother, give me a thousand masuran, and a packet of cooked rice." After that, the Queen gave him a packet of cooked rice and a thousand masuran. The Prince, taking them and taking also the Cat, came to the rock house; and the whole four having eaten the packet of cooked rice started to go away. Having gone away, and having gone near a large Na tree, [111] while they were there the Cobra said, "You stay [112] here until I come back [after] seeking the Naga King." The Cobra having gone, and having returned near the large Na tree [after] seeking [and bringing] the Naga King, the Cobra said to the Naga King, "This Prince has been of very great assistance to me. Because of it you must set me free [by giving a suitable ransom]." Afterwards the Naga King gave the Prince a gem-set ring (peraes-munda), and said, "With this ring you can create anything you want." [113] The Naga King, taking that Cobra, went away. As this Prince and the Parrot and the Cat were going away the Prince thought, "Let a palace and a Princess be created here for me." Putting the gem-set ring on his hand he thought it. Then a palace and a Princess were created. At the time when they were there, the Princess and Prince went to the sea to bathe. Having gone there, while bathing a lock of hair (isakeya raelak) from the head of the Princess fell into the sea. Having gone it became fastened in the net of net fishermen. They, taking it, gave it to the King. The King being unable to guess whether it was a hair or a golden thread, sent out the notification tom-toms. A widow stopped the tom-toms. Having stopped them the woman went near the King and said, "This is not a golden thread (kenda), it is indeed hair of the head (isakeya gahamayi)." After that the King said, "Can you find the Princess who owns this hair?" The woman having said, "I can," came to the very city where the Princess is. When she came there, there was not any work place there. She asked at the hand of the Princess, "How, daughter (pute), do you eat?" Then the Princess says, "We eat by the power of the gem-set ring." Afterwards, the woman that day night having stayed there, after the Prince went to sleep taking the gem-set ring and taking also the Princess [by means of it], gave them to the King. The Prince having awoke, when he looked there were no Princess and no gem-set ring. The Parrot indeed knows the place where they are. He cannot summon the Princess and come [with her], he cannot get the gem-set ring. Owing to it he told the Cat to be [lying as though] sleeping at the corn-stack threshing-floor (kola-kamate):--"While you are there the rats will put their paws into your mouth. Do not seize them. When the King has put his paws in it seize him; do not let him go." After that, the Cat having gone [there], while he was [lying as though] sleeping at the corn-stack threshing-floor, the rats put their paws in his mouth. He did not seize them. The Rat King having come, and said, "One with cooking pot's mouth (appalla-kata), are you asleep?" put his paw there. Then the Cat seized him. [He explained to the Rat King that he wanted a rat to assist him, as the condition on which he would release him.] The Rat King said, "Seize thou any rat thou wantest." Having said, "Take this rat chief," he gave him. Afterwards the Cat let go [the Rat King]. The Parrot, calling that rat [who had been appointed to assist him], went to the palace in which was the Princess. After the rat had cut [his way into] seven boxes, there was a gem-set ring [in the last one]. Taking it, when he gave it to the Parrot, the Parrot said, "This ring is not ours (apata nae)." Afterwards the Parrot and the rat having come near the Prince, [the rat] said, "I cut into seven boxes; there was one ring. When I gave it to the Parrot youngster (gira-pota­kayata) the Parrot said, 'It is not ours,'" he said. Then the Prince said, "Are there not other boxes?" The rat said, "There is one more." The Prince said, "If so, cut thou [a hole in] it." The Parrot and the rat having gone [there], the rat cut into that box. Then the gem-set ring was there. [The rat took it to the Parrot, who handed it over to the Prince. By means of it he recovered the Princess.] Taking the ring, and having brought back the Princess, they all remained at the palace. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In The Jataka, No. 73 (vol. i, p. 178), a snake, a parrot, and a rat assisted a Brahmana who had saved their lives. In The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 20, a Prince whose uncle had usurped the throne received a hundred pagodas from his mother in order that he might trade. He first bought a kitten for the money, and subsequently, when she gave him another hundred, a snake; with these he went about begging for twelve years. The snake took him to visit its father, Adisesha, the Snake King, who in return for it gave him his ring which supplied everything wanted while it was worn. By means of the ring the Prince got a palace and kingdom and a capital; he married a Princess also. While she was bathing in the sea one of the hairs from her head came off and was cast on the shore. The King of Cochin found it, ascertained that it was twenty yards long, and promised rewards for the discovery of its owner. An old woman who was received into the Prince's palace learnt about the powers of the magic ring, and borrowing it to cure a headache returned to Cochin; by its power the Princess was brought there. She demanded a delay of eight days before marrying the King, in order to fast and make a religious donation to the poor. On the seventh day the Prince and his cat joined those who were fed. When rats came to eat the remnants the cat seized the largest one, who proved to be the Rat King, and offered him his liberty in return for the magic ring. His subjects found it in a box, and brought it to the cat, who gave it to the Prince. By means of it he recovered the Princess and his kingdom, and caused the Cochin kingdom to be destroyed and its King to become insane. In Folklore of the Santal Pargana (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 24, a youth set afloat in a leaf some hairs that came out while he was bathing. Two Princesses who were bathing lower down got the packet, found that the hairs were twelve cubits long, and the younger one refused food until their owner was discovered. A parrot met with him in the forest, and a crow enticed him to come by flying off with his flute. He married the Princess and became a Raja. See p. 75 ff., and Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, pp. 16 and 113. In a variant, p. 88, a youth bought a cat, an otter, a rat, and a snake that were about to be killed. The snake took him to its parents, from whom he received a magic ring which provided everything required if it were placed in a quart of milk. After he got married his wife stole the ring, and eloped with a former lover. The youth was imprisoned on a charge of murdering her, but the animals recovered the ring after the rat made the Prince's wife sneeze it up by tickling her nose with his tail. By means of it he brought up the absconders and was released. On p. 129 there is an account of the four animals and the ring given by the snake, by the aid of which a palace was made. On p. 228 ff., a boy who had a caterpillar's shape took off the skin when bathing in his own form. He set two hairs afloat in a leaf which a Princess bathing lower down the river recovered. She found that the hairs were twelve fathoms long, and refused to eat until their owner was brought. When he came she married him, saw him remove his skin covering at night, burnt it, and he remained in his own form afterwards. In the Kolhan tales (Bompas) appended to the same volume, p. 458, a man whose hair reached to his knees, while bathing set a hair afloat inside a split fruit. A Princess who found it determined to marry the owner, her father sent men who fetched him, and they were united. There is a similar story on p. 460. In Indian Fairy Tales (Thornhill), p. 67, a merchant's son who had saved the brother of the Snake King received from the latter a copper ring which converted into gold everything on which it was rubbed. By means of it he turned a palace into gold and married a Princess, whose hair touched the ring and became golden. A single hair fell into a stream, and was found by a Prince a thousand leagues lower down. A woman who was a magician went in search of the owner in a magic ebony boat smeared with the blood and fat of a tiger, which sailed upstream as she sang. She was engaged by the Princess, induced her to enter the boat to see the fishes, and carried her off. Before saving the snake, her husband had obtained a sea parrot and a white cat which divers brought up out of the sea, and he had left these at home on going away. When these two came in search of him and heard of the loss of the Princess they looked for her, the parrot carrying a letter tied on its leg. They delivered the letter and got a reply from her, the cat stole the ring from the old woman, and they returned and informed the Prince, who took an army and rescued his wife. In Tales of the Punjab (Mrs. F. A. Steel), p. 185, a Prince bought a cat, a dog, a parrot, and a snake, which he reared. The snake took him to its father, who in return for it gave him a ring which granted everything wished for. By means of it he obtained a Princess in marriage, after making a palace of gold in the sea; he also made her golden. One day she set afloat in a leaf cup two hairs which came out as she was washing. In another country a fisherman found them and gave them to the King, who sent a wise woman in search of their owner in a golden boat. She met with the Princess, stayed at the palace, learnt about the ring, induced the Princess to enter the boat, and took her away. The Princess refused to look at the King's son for six months. The parrot gave her husband the news, went in search of her with the cat, and learnt that the wise woman kept the ring in her mouth. The cat seized the longest-tailed rat that came to eat rice which the Princess scattered; it thrust its tail up the nose of the sleeping woman, and the sneeze she gave caused the ring to fly out of her mouth. The parrot took it to its master, who recovered the Princess by its aid. The ring was only effective when placed in the centre of a clean square place purified by being smeared with cow-dung, and there sprinkled with butter-milk. [114] In Folk-Tales of Bengal (L. Behari Day), p. 86, a Brahmana's son married a Princess whom he rescued from Rakshasas. She tied to a floating shell a hair that came off while she bathed; it was found by her husband's half-brother, who ascertained that it was seven cubits long. The Queen-Mother sent her servant, a Rakshasi, in search of the owner, in a magic boat which flew along the water wherever required when she uttered a spell and thrice snapped her fingers. She went to the palace, one day persuaded the Princess to enter the boat, and carried her away in it. The Princess said she had vowed not to look at a strange man's face for six months, her husband found her, was recognised by the King, and all ended happily; but the Rakshasi was buried alive, surrounded by thorns. A golden-haired Princess is often described in folk-tales. See No. 240 in this volume, and Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), pp. 62 and 98. In one of the Santal variants a grateful snake made a man's hair like gold by breathing on it (op. cit., p. 75). In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 20, a merchant's son bought a dog, cat, and snake that were likely to be killed. By means of a ring which the snake's father gave him he got a mansion and a wife with golden hair. She set afloat some hairs inside a reed; a Prince found them lower down the river, and his father sent his aunt, an ogress, to bring their possessor. She flew to the place in the form of a bee, became an old hag, was received as the girl's aunt, borrowed the ring, flew off with it, and by its means the Princess was brought away. She demanded a month's delay before marrying, the cat and dog found her, and secured the ring (which the ogress kept in her stomach) by seizing the Rat King's eldest son and getting it as his ransom, a rat having made the ogress cough it up by inserting its tail in her throat while she slept. They returned with it, and the Prince recovered his wife by it. At p. 132, a crow carried off the comb of a Princess whom a Prince had rescued from a Rakshasa and married, and it was discovered at a palace, inside a fish that had swallowed it when it was dropped in the sea. A woman sent to find the owner poisoned the Prince; the King carried off the widow, but she refused to marry him for six months. The Prince's two friends, a Brahmana and a Carpenter, found her, and by means of a magic horse of sandal wood which the latter made, that flew where required, they returned with her. By a touch the Brahmana restored to life the Prince's corpse which his wife had enclosed in a box. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 108, in a Kalmuk story, a Khan carried off a youth's wife who dropped in a stream, while bathing, a gem-set ring, which the Khan got. Her husband was killed and buried by his emissaries. When his life-index tree withered, his five comrades found and revived him, and made a flying bird by means of which he regained his wife. At p. 222, in a Kalmuk story, a maidservant gave a Khan some wonderful hairs which clung to her water jar, and which a wife whom the Snake King gave to a man had lost when bathing. The Khan's men captured her; after a year she made her husband dance, dressed in feathers, before her and the Khan. When the Khan to please her exchanged dresses with him, she ordered the Khan to be driven out, the dogs overtook and killed him, and her husband became King. Compare the ending of No. 18, vol. i. At p. 135, in a Kalmuk tale, a Brahmana's son bought and set free a mouse, a young ape and a young bear; when he was afterwards enclosed in a chest and thrown into the river the animals rescued him. He found a talisman as large as a pigeon's egg, made by its aid a city, palace, etc., exchanged the talisman for a caravan-load of goods, and all vanished. The animals recovered it, the palace was reconstructed, and he got a divine wife. In Korean Tales (Dr. Allen), p. 43, a man lost an amber talisman that a supernatural caller gave him. His dog and cat found it, and regained it by the aid of the rat-chief, who made a mouse creep into the soap-stone box in which it was hidden, after the rats gnawed a hole through the side. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 258, a King sent a youth for a Naga girl whose hairs, one hundred feet long, were found in a swallow's nest. By means of a cap of invisibility and shoes for walking on water, which he stole from two persons who were quarrelling about them, the youth fetched her; but seeing that the King was ugly she threw at him a cake of gold she had brought, the blow killed him, and the youth became King and married her. NO. 209 THE STORY OF THE BRAHMANA In a city a Brahmana has a small piece of ground; only that belongs to him. He sold that place for three masuran. "Now then, I shall go and earn a living. You remain [at home], getting a livelihood to the extent you can," he said to his wife. When the Brahmana was going along a path, yet [another] Brahmana was going in front. From the Brahmana who is going in front this Brahmana asks, "Emba! Brahmana, will you say a word [of advice] to me?" "If you will give me a masurama I will say it," he said. This one said, "I will give it." After he gave it, he says, "When you have gone to a country don't require honour." Having said it, the two persons go away [together]. When they had been going a considerable distance, this Brahmana asked, "Will you still say a word [of advice] to me?" "If you will give me yet a masurama I will say it," he said. "I will give it," he said. After he gave it, he said, "Don't do anything without investigation." He goes on in silence. When they had gone still a considerable distance, this one spoke, "Emba! Brahmana." "What is it?" he asked. "Will you say yet a word [of advice] to me?" he asked. "Then will you give me still a masurama?" he said. Having said, "I will give it," he gave him one masurama. "To one's own wife don't tell a secret." The Brahmana [whom he had met], turning to go along a different path, asked at the hand of this one, "Are there still masuran in your hand?" Then this one said, "I sold a plot of ground, and brought three masuran. For even my expenses there is no other in my hand." Having said, "If so, I will say a word without payment (nikan); don't tell lies to Kings," he went away. Thereupon this one being weakened by hunger, at the time when he was going on, a nobleman (sitanan kenek) of a city near there having died and there being no one to bury him, they gave notice by beat of tom-toms that they will give five hundred masuran to a person who can [do it]. This destitute Brahmana asked the tom-tom beater, "What is that tom-tom beating for?" The tom-tom beater says, "A man of this country has died and there is no one to bury him. Because of it I am beating the notice tom-tom," he said. This Brahmana thought, "'When one has gone to a country do not require honours,' he said." Having thought, "Because it is so I must bury this nobleman," this one said, "I can," and went. Thereupon this dead nobleman's son says to the Brahmana, "Thou having quite alone buried this dead body, come [to me]; I will give thy wages." This one having said, "It is good," and taken away the corpse, and cut the grave, thinks, "A sooth-saying Brahmana said to-day, 'Without investigation don't do a thing.'" Having said this he unfastened the cloth round the waist of this dead nobleman, and looked at the body. There was a belt. He unfastened it and looked [at it]; the belt was full of masuran. Having taken them he buried the corpse and came to the nobleman's house. Well then, the nobleman's son gave the Brahmana five hundred masuran. This one having taken them, came near a goldsmith, and causing him to make for his wife the things that she needed, he went to the Brahmana's village. Having gone he spoke to his wife and gave her these articles. After he gave them this woman asks the Brahmana, "Whence did you bring these?" in order that he should say the manner in which he brought them. This one thought, "Yet [another] Brahmana having taken one masurama from me said, 'To one's own wife don't tell a secret,' didn't he?" Thinking this, not telling her the way in which he brought them, he said, "Having become thirsty when I was coming home, when I looked about there was not a place to drink at. Having drunk a great quantity of Euphorbia milk [115] because the thirst was excessive, I was lying down upon a rock. Then the rock having split, masuran were thrown out. Collecting as many as I could, I got these things made," he said to his wife. As soon as he said it (kiwa wahama), this woman having gone running told it in this manner to a great number of women besides. Thereupon the women having come running to their houses said it to their husbands. Those persons, about twenty-five, taking cooking pots, went to drink Euphorbia milk. Out of the persons who drank it a portion died; the other persons [after] vomiting came back. Having said to this Brahmana and his wife, "You told our men to drink Euphorbia milk, and caused them to die," those women instituted a law-suit before a King. Thereupon the King caused both parties to be brought. The King asks the Brahmana, "How did this occur?" The Brahmana says, "Your Majesty (Devayan wahanse), having given three masuran, I asked for and got three words [of advice] from a Brahmana. 'Having gone to a country don't require honours,' he said; 'Without investigation don't do a thing,' he said; 'To one's own wife don't tell a secret,' he said; thereupon, the masuran being finished, he said without masuran, 'Don't tell lies to Kings.'" He then repeated to the King the true story (already given) of his adventures and actions, which I omit; and he ended by saying "On account of [the other Brahmana's] saying, 'Don't tell lies to Kings,' I told you the fact." The King having investigated the law-suit, set free the Brahmana and the Brahmana's wife. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. With this may be compared the advice given to the Prince in the story No. 250 in this volume. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 213 ff., a poor weaver who went away to improve his fortunes after borrowing forty rupees, met with a man who was silent until paid twenty rupees, when he said, "Friend, when four men give you [the same] advice, take it." When he gave the man his remaining twenty rupees, and said, "Speak again," the man warned him not to tell his wife what happened to him. After this, the weaver met with four men sitting round a corpse, and consented to carry it to the adjoining river for them, and throw it in. He found diamonds tied round its waist, appropriated them, returned home, repaid his loan, and lived in luxury. The village headmen wished to know how the weaver became rich, and the man's wife pestered him about it until he stated that while on his travels he was told to drink half a pint of mustard oil early in the morning, and he would then see hidden treasure. The headman's wife being told this by her, gave her husband and six children the dose at night, and in the morning they were all dead. When the King held an inquiry she charged the weaver's wife with advising her to do it; but the latter totally denied it, and the headman's wife was hanged. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 32, a Brahmana's wife sold to a Prince for a lakh of rupees four pieces of advice written by her husband, and the King banished the Prince for his foolishness in wasting the money thus. The advice was that a person when travelling must be careful at a strange place, and keep awake, (2) a man in need must test his friends, (3) a man who visits a married sister in good style will be well received, but if poor will be disowned, (4) a man must do his own work well. The Prince was saved from murder by keeping awake at night in his lodgings; was nearly executed when he visited his brother-in-law as a poor Yogi; rid a Princess of two snakes which issued from her nostrils, and was appointed her father's successor; was then received with humility by his brother-in-law, and cured his father's blindness by laying his hands on his eyes. At p. 332, four exiled Princes agreed to keep watch at night over the corpse of a great merchant; the reward was to be four thousand rupees. They had adventures with the corpse and demons. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 53, a Prince paid a man his only three gold coins for three pieces of advice, and the man gave him a fourth free of charge. The first was not to sit without moving the stool or mat offered; the second, not to bathe where others bathed; the third, to act according to the opinion of the majority; and, lastly, to restrain his anger, hear an explanation, and weigh it well before acting. The first saved him from being dropped into a well; the second saved his purse when left behind on bathing; the third obtained for him a roll of coin out of the waist cloth of a corpse which he threw into a ravine; and on returning home at night, when he found a pair of slippers and a sword outside his wife's door, inquiry showed that only her sister was with her. NO. 210 THE STORY OF A SIWURALA [116] In a certain country a Lord (monk) having been a monk is without clothes [to put on, in order] to abandon his monk's robes (siwru). Asking at the hand of a novice for a cloth and a handkerchief, he abandoned his robes (thus becoming a layman again). Having thus come away, when he was bathing in a river an elder sister and a younger sister were bathing lower down the river. Then, having seen that man who, having abandoned his robes and come [there], is bathing, the elder sister said, "That heap of wood which is coming is for me." Then the younger sister said, "The things that are in that heap of wood are for me." Then the elder sister went home for a cloth, to give to the man to wear. Afterwards the younger sister, having torn a piece from the cloth she was wearing, and having given it, goes away to her house with the man. Then the elder sister brings the cloth, too; having seen that these two are going the elder sister went back home. The younger sister and the Siwrala went home [and he remained there as her husband]. The man, continuing to eat without doing work, is quite unemployed. Afterwards the younger sister's mother, having told the younger sister and the Siwrala to eat separately, gave her a gill of rice, a small water-pot (koraha), a small cooking-pot (muttiya), a large cooking-pot (appalle), a rice-cleaning bowl (naembiliya), and a spoon. The man having gone into the village [117] and been [there], when he is coming the younger sister is weeping and weeping. So the man asked, "What are you crying for?" Then the woman says, "Having said that you do not work, mother told us to eat separately." Having said, "The things she gave (dipuwa), there they are," she showed him them. Afterwards the man having gone asked the Gamarala (his wife's father), "How [are we to do], then? There is not a thing for us to eat. I came here to ask to cut even a paela (quarter of an amuna) of your paddy on shares." The Gamarala said, "Ando! Thou indeed wilt not cut the paddy, having been sitting doing nothing." Then the man said, "No. I will cut a paela or two of paddy and come back." Having gone to the rice field, and that very day having cut the paddy [plants] for two paelas of paddy (when threshed), and collected them, and heaped them at the corners of the encircling [ridges], and carried them to the threshing floor, and trampled them [by means of buffaloes] that very day, he went to the Gamarala and said, "The paddy equal to two paelas has been cut and trampled (threshed). Let us go at once to measure it." Afterwards the Gamarala having gone there, [said], "I don't want this paddy; thou take it." The man having brought the paddy home, said [to his wife], "You present this as a religious act." [118] The woman having pounded the paddy and cooked it, gave away [the cooked rice] as a religious act. The man went [to a river near] the sea, to help men to cross to the other side. [119] When he helped them to cross, the man does not take the money which the men [offer to] give. When he was helping men to cross in that way, one day an old man came. He helped the man to cross. The man's betel bag, and walking stick, and oil bottle were forgotten [120] on that bank. Afterwards the old man says, "Ane! My betel bag was forgotten." That Siwrala, having gone to that bank, brought and gave him the betel bag. Then that old man said, "Ane! My walking-stick was forgotten." The Siwrala brought and gave that also. Then that old man said, "Ane! My oil bottle was forgotten." The Siwrala brought and gave that also. Well then, that old man tried to give money to this man; the Siwrala did not take it. The old man went away. This Siwrala came home. Having gone there, the Siwrala, having got fever, lay down. Well then, the Siwrala says, "I shall be still a little delayed." The woman asked, "What are you saying? Am I not becoming afraid [when you talk in that way]?" Then the man says, "Nay, I will say nothing. They are telling me to mount on that carriage, and telling me to mount on this carriage." The woman said, "That is false you are saying." Then the man said, "To look if it is false, string a flower garland and give me it." Afterwards the woman having strung a flower garland, gave it. The man, taking the flower garland, threw it on the [celestial] carriage [in the air]. Then the flower garland was arranged on the carriage. Having seen it, that woman, covering her face, died. Having died there, the woman having been [re]-born in the divine world, when she was coming again to the house the man had not yet died. On account of it the woman said, "Why have you not died yet? I, having died, and gone, and been [re]-born in the divine world,--is it not so?--came here. Come, and go with me," she said. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. The account of the dying man's words and the flower garland which hung on the celestial carriage is borrowed from Mah. I., p. 226 (Dr. Geiger's translation). When six gods invited the dying King Duttha-Gamani to join them on their celestial cars and proceed to their heavenly world, he motioned to them to wait while sacred verses were being chanted, and explained to the monks what his gesture signified. As it was thought that his mind was affected, he ordered flower garlands to be thrown into the air, and these arranged themselves on the cars, which were invisible to all but the King. NO. 211 HOW THE POOR MAN BECAME WEALTHY In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. During the time while they are there, there is an infant [son] of the two persons. After the infant became big they were stricken by a very great scarcity of food. Having given all and eaten, being without anything, at the time when, doing work at cities and having brought rice dust, they were continuing to eat, a King came, and calling that boy went away [with him]. The King having come again to this boy's house, said at the hand of the boy's mother and father, "How is the manner in which you get a living now?" The two persons said, "Having worked in these cities and brought rice dust [we cook and eat it]." The King said, "Can you go with me to my city?" The two persons having said "Ha," the two went with the King to the King's city. The King built and gave the two persons a house also (gekut), to be in, and the two, doing work at the city, [after] cooking continue to eat. All the city spoke of giving a danaya (religious feast) to the Gods and the host who come with the Gods. These two also spoke, "Let us also give (demu) a danaya." Having been there without eating for two or three days, they got together the things for the dana. When they will give the dana on the morrow, to seek a fish for the dana this man went to the sea quarter. As he is going, the sea fishermen, having drawn their nets ashore, are stringing the fishes together. Then the fishermen asked, "Where are you going?" This man said, "I am to give a danaya to the Gods to-morrow. For it I am going to seek a fish." The fishermen said, "We will give it. String these fishes." The man having said "Ha," until it became evening strung the fishes. Afterwards the fishermen gave that man a fish. Taking it, as he was coming a considerable distance he met a widow woman. The woman said, "Where did you go?" Then the man said, "I went to this sea quarter. I am giving a danaya to the Gods; I went to seek a fish for it." The woman said, "I also will go," and came with the man. At dawn the widow woman, asking [permission] from those two, cooked the dane for the Gods. One cannot stay in the city on account of the sweet [smell] of that fish having entered it. Those Gods and their host having come at the time of the dana, all at the city apportioned the whole of the food. [121] Near these three persons there was no one. So Sakra, [observing it], creating an old man's appearance, came. This man called to Sakra, "Come here, you; there is not a person here for the dane." Having spread a single-fold (tani-pota) mat, he gave the dane to Sakra. Sakra having eaten the dane went away. Those Gods and their host then also went. [122] As this man was folding the mat which he gave to that Sakra to sit upon, under it silver and golden things had been heaped up. The man with that silver and gold caused a city to be well built. That King's sovereignty having been changed, this man's son obtained the sovereignty. When he had been [there] not much time a very great scarcity of food struck the [former] King of the city, and the people. Doing work at the city of this [formerly] poor man, and having eaten, they remained there. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 212 THE STORY OF MADAMPE-RALA At a certain city there is a person, Madampe-rala. For that Madampe-rala he brought a [bride in] marriage, it is said. That bride (mangula) was sent away (aeruna). Still he brought a bride, it is said; that bride also was sent away. In that manner, he brought seven persons. The youngest one of the whole seven having prospered, remained. The whole of those very seven persons were sisters. Those six persons were sent away, having said they would not grind millet. While the above-mentioned youngest woman is prospering, one day the man says, "Bolan, cook for me to-morrow morning while it is still night, and give me it. It is [necessary] to go to cut jungle (wal)," he said. The woman during the night itself cooked seven [millet] cakes, and cooked the flesh of a deer, and packed them in a box; and having cooked still seven cakes and the flesh of a deer, and given [these last to him] to eat, he finished. That Madampe-rala ate the seven cakes and the flesh of the deer, and went to cut jungle, taking the other seven cakes and the flesh of the deer. Having gone, and having placed the things he took at the bottom of a tree, he began to cut jungle. Having cut three and a half chenas, [123] and come [to the tree] and eaten the seven cakes and the flesh of the deer which he took, and drunk a gourd (labbak) of water, he cut another three and a half chenas, and went home. A little time having halted and been at home, he came back to the chena, and having set fire to it he began to work [again]. Having sown it and finished, bringing his wife and bags after the millet (kurahan) ripened they went to the chena, and she began to cut the millet. In the whole seven chenas she cut the millet in just one day. Having cut it and collected it at one place, together with the man she dragged [124] (carried) it home. That she cut the millet in the whole seven chenas the man was much pleased. Having finished with the millet work, there having been a little paddy of his he cut that little, and collected it together. Having said that he must go to his father-in-law's village, while he is going away [after] tying five pingo (carrying-stick) loads, when going along through the middle of the King's rice field the men who are in the field seized him. Thereupon he says, "Don't seize me. There being no paddy for me to cut, a little paddy of my father-in-law's has ripened; to cut that little and return, I am going [after] tying also five pingo loads [of presents for my father-in-law]. I am unable [125] to stay to cut paddy [for you]," he said. Thereupon, the men while giving answer asked, "Bola, any person who goes through the middle of this field goes [after] having cut paddy. [126] If thou cut [some] and went, would it be bad?" Thereupon, the man began to cut the paddy. Having cut the seven amunas (about sixteen acres), and finished, he descended to the unripe paddy [127] and began to cut it. Having cut the unripe paddy and finished, he began to cut the young paddy. [128] That he cuts with an elephant's-rib pin. When he is cutting the young paddy, the men having gone running to the royal palace, say, "We called and got a man who was going on the path. That man having cut down all the [ripe] paddy is cutting the young paddy," they said. Thereupon the King having come to the rice field and called the man, when he asked, "What are you cutting the unripe paddy for?" the man says, "When I was going to father-in-law's village [after] tying five pingo-loads, they told me to cut paddy," he said. The King calling the man and having gone with him [to the palace], tied ten pingo-loads more, and sent him away with men [carrying them], it is said. Having gone to his father-in-law's house, while he is there, when the man is preparing to go to the watch hut [in the rice field] his father-in-law says, "Son-in-law, you cannot go. A malignant (wasa) boar comes to the rice field. It has eaten three or four men," he said. Having said, "No matter to me for that; I am not afraid of it," he went off, taking a large rice pestle. Having gone, when he was [there] the boar came; it having come there he shouted. Through fear at that it descended to rip open the man. When it was coming, the boar came and sprang to eat him. The man having given it blows with the rice pestle, killed it; having killed it he began to cut the paddy. In that paddy field he cut all the paddy before light falls. Having cut it and come away, he entered the watch hut and went to sleep. After light fell, his father-in-law who stayed at home was expecting that he would come; because [he did] not, with much grief he went to the rice field to look if the boar had eaten him. Having gone [there], when he looked he had gone to sleep. When his father-in-law spoke to him he turned and got up. When he said, "Boy, we were afraid that the boar would have eaten you," he replied, "The boar indeed came; I beat it. Look there; it is dead, look." Having looked at it, both of them went home, taking it. Thereafter he was much pleased with the son-in-law. Afterwards [the man] came home. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 213 ÆWARIYAKKA The first part of this story is a repetition, with little variation, of the incidents in No. 58, vol. i, and the first part of No. 10. After eating the fruit in the plantain garden the youth was set afloat in the river, and had a similar experience at a Kaekiri garden, where he said his name was Ena-ena-gaeta Kanna, Wael Peralanna,--Eater of the young fruits which keep coming, Turner-over of creepers. The present story continues:-- Then the ship (raft) went to the place where the washerman-uncle was washing clothes. "Ane! Washerman-uncle, take me out," the boy said. He got him ashore, and after taking him asked, "What is your name?" "Hu­kiyanna" (He who calls "Hu"), he said. Well then, calling him they went home. The woman who was in the house asked, "What is your name?" "Asiya," [129] he said. After that, the boy went with the washerman-uncle to a house, to tie cloths for decoration [on the walls and ceiling]. [130] While tying them the cloths became insufficient, so the washerman-uncle said, "Go home; take cloths from the box at the foot of the bed, [131] and bring them." The boy having gone home and opened the box, took cloths from it, and as he was coming back decorated with the cloths a Jambu tree [132] that was near the path. Having decorated it (that is, hung them from the branches), while he was there Hettiralas who were going trading in cloth [came up and] asked the boy, "What is that?" "This Jambu tree produces cloth as fruit," he said. When he said this, the Hettiralas said, "Give the cloth tree to us for money." Afterwards the boy having given them the cloth tree for money, said, "I have no cloth to wear. Give me those two cloths; the tree will bear other cloths for you." The men gave him the two cloths. After that, while he was taking the cloths he met with a Banyan tree, and decorated that tree also with the two cloths. While he was there [after] decorating it, a man was taking an elephant [along the path]. When he came near the tree he asked, "What is that?" "This Banyan tree produces cloth as fruit," the boy replied. After he said this [the man] said, "Taking this elephant give me that cloth tree." Then the boy, having given that man the cloth tree, took the elephant to a house. After he went there, having tied up the elephant he made the elephant eat (swallow) the gold [coins] which he had [got from the cloth traders]. Next morning it had voided them. Afterwards, taking [the elephant's dung], while he was washing it [and picking out the gold coins] the house man, [learning from him that the elephant always dropped gold coins in that way], said, "Give that elephant to me for money." He gave the elephant. After that, the boy, taking the money, went to his father's house. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. The last incident is given in The Indian Antiquary, vol. xviii, p. 120, in a Tamil story by Pandit Natesa Sastri. A Brahmana's son who was sent away by his father, stayed at a courtesan's house. At dawn he put two gold coins in each of the droppings of his horse, and when the sweeper came he refused to let him remove the horse dung until he took out his money. After the courtesan bought the horse, and learnt the spell which he said was necessary, he went away to Madura. In the same Journal, vol. iii, p. 11, in a Bengal story by Mr. G. H. Damant, a farmer made his cow swallow one hundred rupees. Six men who saw him afterwards collecting the rupees from the cow-dung, bought the animal for five thousand rupees. When they returned after discovering the trickery the stick incident followed, in which the wife was beaten in order to change her into a girl. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 109, a man made his servant insert rupees into his mule's dung overnight, and in the morning break it up and remove them. He then sold the mule for four thousand rupees to some people who had robbed his brother. In a Khassonka story of the interior of West Africa, given in Contes Soudanais (C. Monteil), p. 66, a boy received from a credulous King a thousand slaves in exchange for a hen which he averred changed all the herbs it ate into nuggets of gold. He explained that he did not know what to do with it because gold was nothing to him. The King kept the hen in confinement for a month, caused the dung to be washed, and of course found no gold. NO. 214 THE HORIKADAYA STORY In a certain country there are seven Queens, it is said. For the whole seven Queens there are no children. In the King's garden one Jak fruit grew [133]; after the Jak fruit ripened he cut it; in it there was one section containing a seed (madula). Afterwards the King said, "Can a Queen eat this Jak section and bear a child?" Six Queens said they cannot; one Queen ate it. She having eaten it, ten months were fulfilled (lit., filled) for bearing a child. Then the King happened to go for a war. Afterwards pains seized that Queen; she bore a Chank shell. Then when the six Queens made an Asura figure, [134] having taken that Chank shell they buried it in the dunghill. Well then, having waited until the time when the King came, the six persons showed him the Asura figure. Afterwards the King having struck blows at the Queen who was confined, drove her away. A bull having come to the place where that Chank shell was buried, and dug it with its horns, saw the Chank shell and swallowed it. The bull having gone to the sea evacuated the Chank shell; there also the shark having seen it swallowed it. From there, having killed the shark, fishermen (kewulo) took it to the city; when taking it along the street to sell, the Queen who bore that Chank shell met with them. Having seen the shark the Queen asked, "For how much are you selling this shark?" The fishermen said, "We are selling it for four tuttu (three half-pence)." Afterwards the Queen having given four tuttu, took the shark. Having brought it to her lodgings and cut it, when she looked there was a Chank shell in its stomach. Having put the Chank shell away, [after] cooking the shark meat she ate. When she was [there after] putting away the Chank shell, one day she looked at it. Then having seen that inside the Chank shell a Prince is drinking milk that is in his hand, [135] she took the Prince out. At that time (e para) the Queen got to know that it was the Chank shell that she bore. She gave the Prince a jacket. At the time when she put it on [136] there was a cutaneous eruption (hori) on his body. Afterwards the Queen said he was Horikadaya (the one with the bit of hori). After the Prince became big he went to the smithy; having gone and brought a bow, and an arrow-stem, and an arrow-head, [137] he went to shoot animals, and shot a deer. Having come [after] shooting it, he gave it to his nearest uncle. [138] Thus, in that manner, shooting and shooting deer he eats. When he was thus, one day when going to shoot he met with an Egret (kokka); when he caught it alive (amuwen), taking it [home] he reared it. [After] rearing it, the Egret and Horikadaya every day go to the chena jungle for hunting-meat, [139] to shoot deer for themselves. One day when they were going thus they saw that there were a horse, and a Prince, and a Minister; afterwards the two went there. Having gone, at that Prince's hand, "What [are you doing here]?" Horikadaya asked. "Because our father the King tried to kill us, on account of it we came and sprang into the chena jungle," the Prince said. Afterwards the five live in one place. While there, Horikadaya said to the Prince, "Let us go to seek a marriage." Afterwards the whole five having gone very near a city to seek the marriage, the Prince and the Minister having gone inside the city, and having tied the horse in the open space (midula) of the city, Horikadaya and the Egret remained among the branches [in the jungle]. The Prince asked the city Princess [in marriage]. The Princess said, "To the Prince I cannot go; I will go indeed to Horikadaya." Afterwards Horikadaya and the Princess contracted (lit., tied) the marriage. When the whole six having collected together are coming to the village, the horse and the Prince and the Minister say, "We can't give that Princess to that Horikadaya; owing to it let us kill Horikadaya." Afterwards, when the three, summoning Horikadaya, were going to the forest they met with a well. They made Horikadaya descend into the well; having made him descend and thrown down stones, they trampled [them down]. There Horikadaya died. Afterwards the three, calling the Princess, came away (enda awa) to the village. The Egret being without Horikadaya went away (giya yanda). Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 82, a girl who was married to a King bore one hundred eggs, out of which eventually issued one hundred Princes. The Queen and concubines, being jealous of her, showed the King a piece of plantain fruit trimmed so as to represent a demon, and stated that she had given birth to it. They placed the eggs in a pot (cruche) and set it afloat in a river, whence a King of a country lower down obtained it. In the same work, vol. i, p. 305, Sakra gave a Queen of Pañcala a fruit, telling her that after eating it she would have a son. NO. 215 THE STORY OF BAHU-BHUTAYA In a certain city a woman had become dexterous at dancing. It became public everywhere that there was not a single person in the whole of Great Dambadiva (India) to dance with (i.e., equal to) the woman. At the same time, there was also a boy called Bahu-Bhutaya, a boy of a widow woman. While he is [there], one day the aforesaid woman went for dancing to the village called Balaellaewa. [140] Having danced that day, she obtained a thousand masuran. Thereafter, she went to dance at the house of the Dippitiyas [141], at the village called Kotikapola, which was near the same village. On the same day the aforesaid Bahu-Bhutaya also went in order to look at the woman's dances. Bahu-Bhutaya before this had learnt dances from the Dandapola Korala (headman). While Bahu-Bhutaya, having gone, and looked and looked, was there, she began to dance, having sung and sung poetical songs, and beaten and beaten cymbals. The woman says, "The savages that are to Lanka bound! Alas! the savages upon my Lanka bound!" [142] When, in singing it, she had made it about Lankawa (Ceylon), when she [thought she] had made no opportunity (idak) for any other dancing person who might be present [to surpass her], having sung the poetical song she danced. At that time Bahu-Bhutaya, after having decorated himself with [dancer's] dress, taking the udakkiya (the small hand tom-tom), and asking permission from all (according to the usual custom), sang a song (a parody of the other). The very song indeed [was]:-- "Alas! Alas! Daub oil my head around; Or, if you won't, Athwart my chest observe how hairs abound." [143] (Ane! Ane! Mage isa wata tel gapan Baeri nan bada [144] wata kehuru balan.) Having sung the song, Bahu-Bhutaya descended to dance. Because the Dandapola Korala previously taught Bahu-Bhutaya that same song, and because the same teacher had given his sworn word [not to teach it to another person], the woman was unable to dance the same song. After having made obeisance to Bahu-Bhutaya, she says, "You, Sir, must give me teaching," the woman said to Bahu-Bhutaya. After that, Bahu-Bhutaya, marrying that very woman, began to teach her. After he had taught her, one day the woman thinks, "I must kill this Bahu-Bhutaya," she thought. "What of my being married to this Bahu-Bhutaya! From dancing I have no advantage; he himself receives the things. Because of it I will kill him," she thought. One day, lying down in the house, saying, "I have a very severe (lit., difficult) illness," the woman remained lying down. Bahu-Bhutaya having gone for a work, when he came back saw that she is lying down. Having seen it, he says, "What is it? What illness have you?" he asked. The woman, in order to kill the man, says, "Now then, I shall not recover; I have much illness," she said. Thereupon Bahu-Bhutaya, because the woman was good-[looking], thinks, "What medical treatment shall I give for this?" he thought. After that, the woman says, "If you are to cure my illness, having brought a little water which is at the bottom of the Great Sea beyond the Seventh Ocean, should I drink it (bunnot) my illness will be cured," she said. After that, Bahu-Bhutaya began to go. Having gone on and on he went on the Great Ocean. Through affection for his wife, because she was very handsome, he jumped [into it] to get the water from the bottom of the ocean. After he jumped [into it], the fishes having bitten him and the water having soaked him, he died. Beginning from that time, this woman, having associated with another husband also, when dancing brought back presents. After a long time, that very woman also, through the crime committed respecting her first husband, fell into the water and died. From that time, the persons who saw these [things said] they are in the form of a folk-tale. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 216 THE STORY OF GOLU-BAYIYA [145] In a country there was, it is said, a man called Gonaka-Bokka. There were ten younger brothers of that Gona-Bokka, it is said. The ten younger brothers spoke: "From elder brother Gona-Bokka there is not any advantage for us [because he idles and does no work]. It is difficult for us, doing [house] work for ourselves. On account of it, we will bring one [woman in] marriage for us ten persons." After having said it, having said, "Let us go to the village called Otannapahuwa," the young younger brother went to the village, it is said. He went to that Otannapahuwa to ask about the marriage. After that, the other nine persons speak, it is said: "When we say to our elder brother, 'Gona-Bokka,' the woman they are bringing for us will say, Bola, that the name called Gona-Bokka is not good caste [enough] for her. The woman they are bringing for us will come [now]. On account of it, let us call him Golu-Bayiya. Let us give her to our Golu-Bayi elder brother also to neutralise [146] our [inferior] names," they are talking together, it is said. Then, several days wearing down the road, the youngest brother of all having come, said, it is said, "Elder brothers, I went to ask at Otannapahuwa. The woman indeed is of good lineage (wanse). They sent word, 'Who gives in marriage to a young youngster? [147] Tell the elder brothers, one of them, to come.'" After that, the ten persons speak [together], it is said, "Let us send elder brother Golu-Bayiya, older than we ten, to ask about the marriage," they talk. Well, the person they call Golu-Bayiya is a great fool, it is said. After that, those ten spoke: "Elder brother, if you also agree (lit., come) to the things we say, you also come [after] calling [a woman] to live in one marriage for the whole of us eleven." After that, Golu-Bayiya said, "It is good; I will go." Causing them to cook a lump of rice, he set off and went. He goes and he goes. Because he does not know the path, having gone [part of the way], sitting down on a rock in the midst of the forest he ate the lump of cooked rice. Having eaten it, while he is there a woman of another country, having become poor, is coming away, it is said, along the path. Having come, she sat down near the rock on which is that Golu-Bayiya. After that, the woman asks, it is said, "Of what country are you? Of what village?" the woman asked the man. The man said, "I am going to Otannapahuwa to ask about a marriage," he said. [He told her of his brother's visit.] After that, the woman says, "Aniccan dukkhan! The woman of that village who was asked is I. My two parents, having made a mistake, drove me away. Because of it I am going to a place where they give to eat and to drink," she said. After that, Golu-Bayiya having thought, "Because the woman is good-looking, and because she has been asked before, not having gone at all to Otannapahuwa I must go [back] calling her [in marriage]," summoning the woman whom he met with while on the path he came to the village. Having come, he says to his younger brothers, "I went to Otannapahuwa." Having said, "The bride,--there, [that is] the woman; for the whole of us let us call her [to be our wife]," he said. After that, the other ten persons, because they had not seen her [before], from that day marrying the woman stayed [there with her]. Marrying her, while they were there several days the younger ten persons speak: "Elder brother quite alone, without anyone whatever [to assist him], came back calling our [bride in] marriage. It was good cleverness that our elder brother showed (lit., did). Because of it let us all do work. Having handed over our wife to our elder brother Golu-Bayiya to guard her continually, let us do work. Elder brother, guard the woman," they said. Having said, "It is good; I will guard her," to the places where the woman goes and comes, and to all other places if the woman goes, that Golu-Bayiya also goes. While [matters were] thus, one day a man came to the village for trading. The man's name was Gaetapadaya. That Gaetapadaya for several days having continued to do trading at the same house, stayed in the maduwa (open shed) at the same house [at which the brothers lived]. While staying there, Golu-Bayiya's wife associated with the same man they call Gaetapadaya. While they are thus, on a day when the first-mentioned ten persons went to work, Gaetapadaya says to the aforesaid Golu-Bayiya, "I saw a dream to-day. What was it? At such and such a place on the path I saw that a Sambhar deer is dead." Gaetapadaya told Golu-Bayiya to look at it and come back. While Golu-Bayiya went to look at the Sambhar deer, Gaetapadaya taking the woman, taking also the goods that were at the house, both of them absconded. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 217 THE YAKA OF THE AKARAGANE JUNGLE In a certain country there are a woman and a man, it is said. The man has worked in a rice field; in it he also built a watch-hut. The man is in the watch-hut every day. At the time when he is thus, a beggar came to the man's house. Afterwards the man having heaped up a great many coconut husks in the watch-hut [for making fires at night], told the beggar to go to the watch-hut. The beggar went to the watch-hut. Afterwards this man having gone to the watch-hut and set fire to the watch-hut, came back, and said at the hand of his wife, "You say, 'Our man, having been burnt at the watch-hut, died.'" [148] Furthermore he said, "Every day when I say 'Hu,' near the stile of the rice field, put a leaf-cup of cooked rice for me"; having said it the man went into the jungle. After it became night, the man having come to the rice field cried "Hu" near the stile. Then the woman brought the cooked rice and placed it there; having placed it there the woman went home. The man ate the cooked rice, and went again into the jungle. On the following day, also, the man, after it became night, came to the rice field and cried "Hu." Then the woman brought cooked rice and placed it there. While she was there, the man having come said, "Don't you bring cooked rice again; I am going to the Akaragane jungle." Afterwards the woman came home. That man, having eaten the cooked rice, went to the Akaragane jungle, and having rolled himself in a mud hole, [149] came to the path and remained [there]. Then, when a man was coming bringing cakes and plantains along the path, this man, breaking a bundle of branches, sprang in front of that man who was coming. Thereupon, the man having thrown down the cakes and plantains at that very spot, bounded off and went away. When this man, [after] taking and putting away the pingo (carrying-stick) load, was there, a potter comes along bringing a pingo load of pots. Then this man, again breaking a bundle of branches, sprang in front of that man who was coming. Thereupon the potter, having thrown down the pingo load of pots at that very spot, bounded off and went away. After that, the man, taking and putting away the pingo load of pots, remains [there]. (He frightened other men in the same manner, and secured pingo loads of coconuts, turmeric, chillies, salt, onions, rice, vegetables, and a bundle of clothes. Thus he had the materials that he required for making curries. The narrator gave the account of each capture in the same words as before.) Afterwards, this man having taken and put away there the pingo load of rice and vegetables,--near that forest there is a city,--having gone to the city and brought fire, [after] cooking ate. While he was [there], when a man who had gone to a devil-dance (kankariyakata) was coming, this man, breaking a bundle of branches, sprang in front of that man who was coming. Then that tom-tom beater, having thrown down there the box of decorations, and jingling bangles, and all, bounded off and went away. Afterwards, when this man was there [after] tying them on, while certain men who had gone to a [wedding] feast were coming calling the bride, again this man, breaking a bundle of branches, sprang in front of those men who were coming; and taking the bride and placing her in the chena jungle he sprang into a rock house (cave). Those men through fear bounded off and went away. Afterwards the King of the city said, "Who can seize that Yaka?" Then a man said, "I can." The King said, "What do you want?" "Having built a house in the chena jungle (lande) and tied white cloths [inside, on the walls and ceiling], [150] and put a bed [in it], you must give me it." Afterwards the King having caused a house to be built, and caused white cloths to be tied, and caused a bed to be placed [in it], gave it. Afterwards this man having caused the bride to stay in the rock house, and having gone much beforehand (kalimma), crept under the end of the bed in the house and remained [there] silently. The man who said he could seize the Yaka, after it became night having eaten and drunk, taking also a thread, came onto the bed in the house; having come he utters spells (maturanawa). Then the man who is under the bed shakes the jingling bangle a little. The man who is uttering spells, after saying, "Ha, are you getting caught?" utters spells loudly, loudly. [151] Then the man who was under the bed having arisen, taking the man together with the bed also, went to the rock house. Having gone there, when he was placing the bed in the rock house, the man who was on the bed, crying out and having got up, went to the city. Then the King asked, "What is it? Didst thou seize the Yaka?" The man having said, "Ane! O Lord, I indeed cannot seize him," went to the man's village. Afterwards the King having said that he can seize him, and the King having mounted on his horse, came with the army to the Akaragane jungle. Then this man, breaking a bundle of branches, sprang in front [of him]. Having sprung in front of the King who was coming, seizing the horse this man came to the rock house. The King and the army went to the city through fear. After they returned a Lord [152] came. The King asked if the Lord could seize the Yaka who is in the Akaragane jungle. Then the Lord asked, "When I have seized the Yaka what will you give me?" The King said, "I will give a district from the kingdom, and goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load, and the Akaragane jungle." The King said, "For seizing the Yaka what do you want?" The Lord said, "Having built a house, and tied cloths at it, and placed a bed [in it], please give me it." Afterwards the King having put a bed in that house which was built [already], gave him it. This man, just as on that day, crept beforehand under the bed in the house, and remained [there]. Afterwards the Lord having gone, taking also a thread, utters spells while sitting on the bed. Then the man who is under the bed shakes the jingling bangle a little. Then the Lord while uttering spells says, "Ha, being caught, come." Saying and saying it, he utters spells very loudly. Then the man who was under the bed, having shaken the jingling bangles loudly, lifting up [and carrying] the bed also, went to the rock house. Having gone there, when he was placing it [there], the Lord, crying out, bounded off and went away. Having thus gone, when he was [at the palace] the King asked, "What is it? Did you seize the Yaka?" Then the Lord having said, "Ane! I indeed cannot seize him," the Lord went to his pansala. Having caused the bride of the man who is in the rock house to remain in the rock house, and having taken off the man's jingling bangles and placed them in the rock house, [the man] came near the King. Then the King asked, "Can you seize the Yaka of the Akaragane jungle?" The man having said, "I can," said, "What will you give me?" The King said, "I will give a district from the kingdom, and goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load. I will also give the Akaragane jungle as a Nindema." [153] The King said, "For seizing the Yaka what do you want?" Then the man said, "I don't want anything." Having gone to the Akaragane jungle, and having come on the following day taking the jingling bangle and box of tom-tom beater's decorations, he showed them to the King, and said he seized the Yaka. Afterwards the King, having given the man the articles which the man took [to him], gave the man a district from the kingdom, and goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load, and the Akaragane jungle. The man having taken them, and come to the rock house, that woman and five children were [there]. The five children having gone to the man's village, in the man's village were his first wife and five children of the woman's. The children having sold the house at that village, and the two women and the ten children having come again to the Akaragane jungle, building a house in that jungle all remained in that very place. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 218 THE FOUR RAKSHASAS At a certain village there are five Gamaralas; for those five there are five wives. While the five persons are [there], five traders came to the house. To those women say the five traders, "Go with us." Having said, "Let us go," they went. Then when the five Gamaralas came home, having seen that the five women were not [there] they went to seek them. When going, they went into the forest jungle (himale) in which are four Rakshasas. The Rakshasas seized the men. Well then, the four Rakshasas having shared four men ate them; one person remained over. One Rakshasa said to another Rakshasa, "Take him for yourself." Then the other Rakshasa says, "I don't want him; you take him." This Rakshasa says, "I don't want him." Then that Rakshasa said, "Give him to me, if so." The other Rakshasa said, "I will not give him now, because previously when I was giving him you did not take him." Owing to it there having been a quarrel, the two [fought each other, and] died. Still two Rakshasas remained over. One Rakshasa having handed over the man to the other Rakshasa, says to the other Rakshasa, "You take charge of this man. Stay in this jungle; I am going to another jungle." After he said it the Rakshasa goes away. When going, he met with yet [another] man. Seizing the man he says, "What is in your box?" "In my box, cakes," he said. Then the Rakshasa says, "I don't want cakes; I must eat you." The man says, "It is I alone you eat now. [Spare me, and] I will give you cakes to eat," he said. The Rakshasa said, "I indeed don't eat these." The man says, "O Rakshasa (Raksayeni), it is for the name of thy Goddess, Midum Amma, [154] [that thou must spare me]." He having said this name, the Rakshasa, taking a cake, went to the river; he let the man go. Then the Rakshasa, having broken the cake into bits, says, "Under the protection (sarane) of Midum Amma, this cake is sprouting." Then it sprouted. Then the Rakshasa says, "On this tree four branches are being distributed, under the protection of Midum Amma." They were distributed. After they were distributed, he said, "On this tree four flowers are becoming full-grown, under the protection of Midum Amma." Then four flowers were full-grown. After that, he said, "Four cakes are becoming fruit on this tree, under the protection of Midum Amma." Then four cakes became fruit. After they became fruit the Rakshasa climbed the tree. While he was ascending, a Rakshasi came. Having come, she says, "O Rakshasa, please give me also cakes." The Rakshasa says, "Because I asked and got them from Midum Amma I cannot give them." The Rakshasi says, "Ane! O Rakshasa, you cannot say so. Please give me cakes." Then the Rakshasa gave her a [cake]-fruit. The Rakshasi said falsely, "The cake fell into the heap of cow-dung." Then the Rakshasa says, "To give cakes to thee, I shall not give again." The Rakshasi says, "O Rakshasa, [for me] to take [thee] to my house, place two cakes in thy two armpits, and taking one in [each] hand, do thou please jump into my sack." The Rakshasa says, "O Rakshasi, what happened to thy Rakshasa?" The Rakshasi says, "There is no Rakshasa of ours. O Rakshasa, I must take thee away." Then the Rakshasa says, "It is good." The Rakshasi says, "Having been in that cake tree, please jump into my sack." Then she held the sack. The Rakshasa jumped. He having jumped [into it], the Rakshasi tied the mouth of the sack, and placing it on her head goes on the path to the jungle. [155] When going, she met with a Moorman (Marakkek). The Rakshasi, having become afraid at seeing the man, bounded off. After she sprang off, the Moorman, having gone near the sack, placed the sack on his head; he took the sack away. Having gone again to the jungle he stays [there]. Then the Rakshasa came out and seized the Moorman. The man says, "What didst thou seize me for?" "Because there is not any food for me I seized thee to eat." The Moorman says, "Thou wilt eat me, only, now. There are five hundred children [of mine]. In the month I will give thee the children." Afterwards the Rakshasa let him go. The Moorman went home. The whole of the five hundred children of the Moorman go to school. When they came home from school the Moorman says, "Sons, come, to go on a journey." The five hundred and the Moorman having gone to the jungle, went to the place where the Rakshasa is. Having gone there, he called the Rakshasa; the Rakshasa came. Seeing the Rakshasa, this Moorman says, "O Rakshasa, they are in thy charge, these five hundred." Then the Rakshasa again seized the Moorman. The Moorman says, "What didst thou seize me for?" The Rakshasa says, "To eat thee I seized thee." Then the Moorman says, "My five hundred cattle are [there]; I will give them to thee." The Rakshasa says, "If so, wilt thou bring and give them?" The Moorman says, "I will bring and give them." Then the Moorman went to his house. Having gone [there], he came back, taking the five hundred cattle. He gave him them. Then the Rakshasa again seized the Moorman. The Moorman says, "What didst thou seize me for?" The Rakshasa says, "To eat thee." The Moorman says, "Five hundred goats are [there]. I will give them to thee; let me go." Then he let go the Moorman. The Moorman, having gone home, brought those five hundred goats and gave them. After he gave them the Rakshasa again seized the Moorman. When he was seizing him, he said to the Rakshasa, "I have brought and given thee so many things; thou didst not eat them." The Rakshasa says, "That is the truth. Take thy five hundred children; take thy five hundred cattle." When he said thus, the Rakshasa, taking the five hundred goats, ate. After that, the Moorman was sent home by the hand of the Rakshasa. After he sent him, this Rakshasa, having come to the Rakshasa's boundary, called the Moorman, and said, "Please take charge of this jungle; I am going away." The Moorman says, "O Rakshasa, where are you going?" The Rakshasa says, "I cannot live in this jungle!" The Moorman says, "If so, I will take over this chena jungle." He took it, the Moorman. The Rakshasa afterwards having gone from the jungle, a Yaka went into the jungle. In that jungle there is a very excellent [156] tree. In the excellent [tree] in that jungle the Yaka lives. When he was [there] he saw that the Rakshasa is going, the Yaka. The Yaka having become afraid began to run off, having descended. Then the Rakshasa came near the tree. Having come, when he looked he perceived that the Yaka had been [there]. The Rakshasa thought, "I must create for myself a man's disguise"; he created it. [After] creating it he ascended that tree; having ascended the tree he stayed [there] seven days. He saw two men taking a hidden treasure. The Rakshasa thought, "I must eat these two persons." Afterwards these two men came to that very tree. After they came the Rakshasa slowly descended. After having descended (baehaela hitan), having come near those men he says, "Where went ye?" Then the men say, "We came for no special purpose (nikan)." "What is this meat in your hand?" he asks. The men say, "This meat is indeed human." [157] Then the Rakshasa says, "Why didst thou tell me lies?" Having said it he seized them. Having finished seizing them, to those men says the Rakshasa, "I must eat you." The men say, "Shouldst thou eat us thy head will split into seven pieces." Then the Rakshasa says, "Art thou a greater person than I, Bola?" Thereupon the Rakshasa created and took the Rakshasa appearance. After he took it he asks, "Now then, art thou afraid of me now?" Then he ate a man. Seeing the other man, he seized his two hands. [158] After he seized them that man says, "O Rakshasa, what didst thou hold me for?" The Rakshasa says, "I hold thee for me to eat." "I have the tiger, greater than thee. Having employed the tiger I will kill thee," [the man said]. Then the Rakshasa, having abandoned the Rakshasa appearance, created the tiger appearance. After creating it, when he seized that man he says, "Is there a child of thine?" The man says, "There are two children of mine." The tiger says, "Am I to eat thee, or wilt thou give me thy two children?" he says. Then he says, "Don't eat me; I will give my two children." The tiger says, "Thou art telling lies." The man says, "In three days I will bring and give them to thee." Both the boys went to the jungle to break firewood. Afterwards, this man having come home, when he looked [they were] not at home. The man asked at the hand of his wife, "Where are the two youths?" The woman says, "The two boys went to break firewood." Then the man beat that woman. "Why didst thou send them to the chena jungle?" he said. The two youths came home. After they came they saw that their mother is weeping and weeping. "What, mother, are you weeping for?" they asked. Then said that woman, "Sons, your father beat me." Then the two youths say, "It is good, mother; if so, let him beat." [159] Thereupon the father called those two youths: "Having gone quite along this path, let one go on the rock that is on the path,--one," he said. He told the other youth to stay below the rock. Then he said to the youth who was going on the rock, "Having gone to the rock call your younger brother." Those boys having gone to that rock, the youth who went onto it called the other youth. The tiger heard that word. Having heard it he abandoned the tiger appearance; again he created the Rakshasa appearance. [After] creating it, he came running near the rock, the Rakshasa. Then after that youth who stayed on the ground had seen that Rakshasa, he seized the youth. After seizing him he says, "Who sent thee?" That youth said, "Father sent me into this chena jungle." The Rakshasa says, "Didst thou come alone?" [160] The youth says, "I came with my elder brother." Then the Rakshasa ate him. After that, that youth who is on the top of the rock says to his younger brother, "Younger brother, hold out your hands; I will jump." Having said, "Ha, jump," this Rakshasa opened his mouth. Then the youth jumped into his mouth. He having jumped into his mouth the Rakshasa ate him. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. This rambling story was related by a boy who supplied me with several other better ones. I have inserted it because it is the only one which mentions the deity of the Rakshasas, Midum Amma, the Mist Mother. The rest of the story gives a fair representation of some of the notions of the villagers regarding the Rakshasas. Their own statements to me regarding them are that the Rakshasas were found chiefly or only in the jungle called himale, the wild and little-frequented mixture of high forest and undergrowth. There are none in Ceylon now, they say; but in former times they are believed to have lived in the forest about some hills near this village of Tom-tom Beaters, at the north-western end of the Dolukanda hills, in the Kurunaegala district. Those at each place have a boundary (kada-ima), beyond which they cannot pass without invitation; this is referred to in the story No. 135. Ordinarily, they can only seize people who go within their boundary, unless they have been invited to enter houses or persons have been specially placed in their power. They are much larger than men, but can take any shape. Their teeth are very long, and are curved like bangles; they are as thick as a boy's arm. Their tangled hair hangs down over their bodies. They build good houses, and have an abundance of things in them, as well as silver and gold. They commonly rear only horses and parrots. They live on the men and animals they catch. Men are very much afraid when they see them; they seize anyone they can catch, and eat him,--or any animals whatever. Yakas (Yaksayo) do not usually eat men; they only frighten them. Rakshasas are much worse and more powerful than Yakas. Other notions of the villagers regarding these two classes of supernatural beings may be gathered from their folk-tales. In Tales of the Punjab (Mrs. F. A. Steel), p. 135, a Rakshasa is represented as living partly on goats. In the notes, p. 310, Sir R. Temple remarked that this was curious. It is in accordance with Sinhalese belief. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 602, a Rakshasa who had seized a man and was about to eat him, allowed him to go on his taking an oath that he would return, after doing a service for a Brahmana that he had promised. He got married in the place of the Brahmana's son, stole off in the night to redeem his promise, and was followed by his wife, who offered herself to the Rakshasa in his place. When the Rakshasa said that she could live by alms, and stated that if anyone refused her alms his head should split into a hundred pieces, the woman asked him for her husband by way of alms, and on his refusing to give him the Rakshasa's head split up, and he died. See also vol. i, p. 141, of these Sinhalese stories. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 405, a demon released a King on his promising to return to be eaten. NO. 219 THE STORY OF THE RAKSHASA In a certain country three youths, brothers, go to school. When not much time is going by, the youths' father called them in order to look at their lessons. The youngest one can say the lessons, the other two cannot say the lessons. After that their father drove them from the house. Well then, the two, setting off, went away from the house. Thereupon this young younger brother began to go with them both. Both those elder brothers having said, "Don't come," beat that youth. Taking no notice of it [161] he went behind them, weeping and weeping. Having gone thus, and entered a forest wilderness, while they were going they met with the Rakshasa's house. The youngest youth says, "Ane! Elder brother, having gone into the house place me in the middle, and sit down." At that time the Rakshasa brought and gave them food for all three to eat. These three said, "We cannot eat." After that, for the three persons to sleep the Rakshasa gave three mats. The Rakshasa sent the Rakshasa's two boys, also, to sleep. Those three wore red cloths; that Rakshasa's two boys wore white cloths. After that, the Rakshasa, having opened the door, came to eat those three persons. At that time the youngest youth was awake; owing to it the Rakshasa was unable to eat those boys. [162] He went back and lay down. Then that youngest youth taking the white cloths which the Rakshasa youths had put on, these three put them on. They put on those two the red cloths which these three had put on. When the Rakshasa came still [another] time, the three were lying down. That time, taking those two youths of the Rakshasa's who wore red cloths he ate them. When it was becoming light the three persons went to another village. After that, the two eldest contracted two marriages; that youngest youth remained to watch goats. To the owner of the goats those two who got married said, "At the Rakshasa's house there is a good parrot." The owner of the goats asked, "Who can bring it?" That youth who watched the goats said, "I can bring it." After that, the youth went at night to that Rakshasa's house, and having cut the parrot's cage brought the parrot, and gave it. Then those two said, "There is a good horse at that Rakshasa's house." Then, "Who can bring it?" he asked. The youth who watches the goats said, "I can bring it." After that, he went at night, and having unfastened the horse he brought it. Having brought it, he gave that also to the man who owned the goats. Then those two said, "At the Rakshasa's house there is a golden pillow." The man who owned the goats asked, "Who can bring the golden pillow?" The third boy said, "I can bring it." After that, having gone to the Rakshasa's house at night, opening the doors he went into the house. Having gone in, he took hold of the golden pillow in order to get it. On that occasion (e para) the Rakshasa awoke; after he awoke he seized that youth. He lit the lamp. Then he prepared to eat that youth, the Rakshasa. That youth said, "You cannot eat me in this way; having roasted me you must eat me." After that, that Rakshasa having given that youth into the hand of the Rakshasi, went to cut firewood. Then the youth calling the Rakshasi [to accompany him] came back, taking the Rakshasi and the pillow. Having brought them, he gave the pillow to the man who owned the goats. Thereupon the man who owned the goats told the boy to marry his girl (daughter). That youth said, "I cannot. When the woman who saved my life is here, I will marry that woman." After that, he married the Rakshasa's wife. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 220 THE THIEF AND THE RAKSHASAS In a certain village a man and a Rakshasa, having become friends, dwell. While they are there this friend went to the Rakshasa jungle. When going, the Rakshasa seized him to eat. Then the man says, "Don't eat me; I will give thee demon offerings." The Rakshasa, having said, "It is good," allowed him to go home. After that, that man having brought a youth gave him to the Rakshasa to eat. In that manner every day he brought and gave a youth until the time when the youths of the village were finished. All the youths having been finished there was not a youth for this man to give. While he was thus the man died. After he died, the Huniyan Yaka [163] began to come to the house [visiting the widow in the disguise of a man]. When he was coming, the woman's father having seen him went into the house to seize him. Having gone [there], when he looked there was not a Yaka. After that, the man having gone away went to sleep. Then the Huniyan Yaka having gone to that man's village, said, "Don't come to look at me." The man said afterwards to his daughter, "Daughter, ask for wealth at the hand of that man." After that, the woman says to the Yaka, "Bring and give me wealth." Thereupon the Yaka says, "I will bring and give it." Having gone to the place where that man is sleeping, says the Yaka, "Come thou, to go [with me] for me to give thee wealth." He went with the man near the hidden treasure. Having gone, he opened the door of the hidden treasure. "Take for thyself the treasure thou wantest," he said. Then the man took a golden necklace, two cloths, four gem-lamps, four cat's-eye stones (wayirodiya gal), and twelve pearls. Taking those, the man came home. When he was coming home, [four] other men having seen that he brought the wealth, the men went to break [into] the hidden treasure. After they went there, the four men having uttered spells, and put "life" [164] (i.e., magical life or power) into four stones, buried them at the four corners, in such a manner that no one could come [within the square formed by them]. After that, half the men break into the hidden treasure. (The others were repeating protective spells to keep away evil spirits.) The Huniyan Yaka ascertained about the breaking. Having ascertained it he came near the hidden treasure, but as the four stones are there he cannot seize the men. Having come, he created for himself the Cobra appearance; those four persons gave fowls' eggs to the Cobra. Again, he created the Elephant appearance; to the Elephant they gave a plantain stump. Again, a Hen with Chickens began to come near the hidden treasure; to the Chickens and to the Hen the men gave millet (kurahan). After having eaten they went away. [165] The Huniyan Yaka, [being unable to approach the place on account of the charmed stones, and the feeding of the animals], went to that woman's house. He went to the place where the woman's father is sleeping. The Yaka says, "Quickly go near the hidden treasure." Without hearing it the man slept. Then having come yet [another] time he struck the man. The man having arisen began to run naked near that hidden treasure. Those men who are breaking [into it], having seen the man [and thought he was a demon], uttered spells still more and more; they uttered spells to the extent they learnt. Notwithstanding, this man comes on. After having seen this man who is coming, those men began to run off through fear; they ran away. This man ran behind them. Those men, looking and looking back, run; this man runs behind. Then this man says, "Don't run; I am not a Yaka." The men say, "That is false which he says; that is indeed a Yaka." While running, one man stumbled and fell. Then that man who was coming behind went to the place where the man fell. After that, that man says, "Where are you going?" That man who had fallen says, "We having come to break [into] a hidden treasure, a Yaka came as we were running on the path. Then, indeed, I fell here." Those other men bounded off and went away. After that, these two men lament, "What is it that has happened to us? In this forest wilderness what are we to do?" they said. Having heard that lamenting, that Rakshasa came and said, "What are ye lamenting for?" Having come, he seized both of them. After he seized them he did not let either of them go. The men said, "Don't eat us. We two have two sons; we will give them to thee." Afterwards he let both of them go, and the men came to the village. After that, taking a youth they gave him to the Rakshasa. After that, they went and gave the other youth. Then that Rakshasa says to that man, "I must eat thee also; for to-morrow there is no corpse for me." Then the man says, "I must go home and come back," he said. The Rakshasa said, "Thou wilt not come." "I will come back," he said. Then the Rakshasa allowed him to go home. When he went home, the man having amply cooked, ate. After he ate, the man charmed his body (by repeating spells, etc.). Thereafter having gone to the jungle he called out to the Rakshasa. When the Rakshasa came, after he seized the man he ate him. After that, the Rakshasa remains there. A sleepiness came. After he went to sleep, the Rakshasa, having split in two, died. By the power of the [charmed] oil which that man rubbed [on his body], the Rakshasa having been split, died. The Rakshasa having gone, was [re]-born in the body of a Yaksani. The Yaksani says to the Yaka, "I am thirsty." Then the Yaka (her husband) having gone, brought and gave her water. The Yaksani again says to the Yaka, "I must sleep." The Yaka told her to go into the house and sleep. Then [while she was asleep], the Yaksani's bosom having been split, she died. That Rakshasa who was in her body at that time, splitting the bosom came outside. Having come he says to the Yaka (his apparent father), "You cannot remain in this jungle." Then the Yaka says, "Are thou a greater one than I?" The Yaka youngster (the former Rakshasa) says, "These beings called Yakas are much afraid of Rakshasas. Let us two go into the Rakshasa forest, the jungle (himale) where they are." Then that Yaka says, "Is that also an impossible thing [for me]?" The Yaka youngster became angry; then the two go to the Rakshasa forest. A parrot having been at the side of the road at the time when they are going away, says, "Don't ye go into the midst of this forest." Then that big Yaka through fear says he cannot go. That Rakshasa youngster says, "Where are you going?" "I am going to the new grave," that Yaka said. Well then, having gone to the burial place, he remains there. A man, catching a thief, is coming [with him] to the burial place. Having come [there], that man tied the thief to the corpse that was at the burial place, back to back. Then while the thief is [left] at the grave, the man came to his village. When he came he went to the thief's house, and seeing the mother and father he says, "Don't ye open the door; to-day, in the night, a Yaka will come." Having gone to the house, also, of that thief's wife, he says, "Don't thou open the door to-day; a Yaka will come to thy house to-day." Having gone to all the houses and said this, he went away. After that, taking on his back that dead body which was at the burial place, the thief came to his house. When he came he tells the woman to open the door. The woman is silent through fear. Then the thief says, "I am not a Yaka; you must open the door." The woman at that time, also, is silent through fear. He went to his father's house, this thief. Having gone, he says, "Mother, open the door." Then the woman through fear is silent. He went to the house of the thief's friends: "O friend, open the door." Having said, "This is a Yaka," the friends did not open the door. That thief afterwards went by the outside villages. When he was going on the journey the light fell. He went to the jungle in which is that Rakshasa. When going, the thief met with a parrot. Then the parrot says, "Friend, what did you come to this jungle for?" The thief thought, "Who spoke here?" When he looked up he got to know that the parrot is [there]. After that, he says to the parrot, "What art thou here for?" The parrot says, "I am sitting in my nest." The thief says, "If so, how shall I go from this jungle?" After the parrot descended it cut the tyings of that dead body. Having cut them and finished the parrot says, "Thou canst not go in this jungle." The thief says, "What is that for?" Then the parrot says, "In this there is the Rakshasa. Catching thee he will eat thee. Because of it don't thou go." The thief without hearkening to the parrot's word said he must go. Then the parrot says, "Listen to the word I am saying. The Rakshasa who is in this jungle is my friend. Say thou camest because I told thee to come." Afterwards the man went. After he went, the Rakshasa, with a great loud evil roar, seized the man on the path. After he seized him, the man says, "What didst thou seize me for?" Thereupon the Rakshasa says, "To eat thee." Then the man says, "A parrot told me to come in this manner: 'The Rakshasa is my friend,' [he said]." The Rakshasa says, "Those are lies thou art saying. Let us go, let us go, us two, near the parrot." When they came near the parrot, the Rakshasa says to the parrot, "Friend, didst thou send this one to my forest?" The parrot says, "I sent him." Then the Rakshasa says, "Am I to eat this one?" The parrot says, "Seize another man and eat him. Let that man go." Then the Rakshasa let him go; after that the man went away. Having gone and hidden, he stayed in the midst of the forest. The Rakshasa went to watch the path. After that, that man came to the Rakshasa's house. Having come, the man says to the Rakshasa's boy (son), "O youth (kolloweni), thy Rakshasa died." The Rakshasa youth is grieved, and says, "You are not my mother, not my father; what man are you?" Then the man says, "I am thy Rakshasa's elder brother." The man told a lie. The Rakshasa youth says, "It is good. There is much wealth of my father's," he said. Then the man went into the Rakshasa's house to take the wealth. Having gone in, there was a golden mat (kalale); he took it. There was a golden cloth; he took it. Taking these, the man went away unknown to the Rakshasa youths. [166] After he went secretly (himin), the Rakshasa next (dewanu) came to the house. Having finished coming, [167] he says, "Where is my golden mat?" he asked. Thereupon, the Rakshasa youth said, "Your elder brother came and took away the mat." Then the Rakshasa says, "Where have I, Bola, an elder brother?" That thief went near the parrot. "Look here, I met with a golden mat in the midst of this forest," he said. "Parrot, am I to take thee?" he said. Thereupon the parrot came near the thief. After he came, he seized the parrot by its two legs. Having waited until the time when he is catching it, when he caught it the thief killed the parrot. After that, the thief went away plucking and plucking off the feathers. The Rakshasa says to that Rakshasa's youth, "Where went this thief?" "He entered your forest wilderness," he said. The Rakshasa having gone along the thief's footprints, after he went to the place where the parrot was, the parrot was not [there]. He looked to see who killed this parrot:--"It is the very thief who killed this parrot." Then the Rakshasa fell down and wept through grief that the parrot was not [there]. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In the Maha Bharata (Santi Parva, CLXX) a crane sent a poor Brahmana to a Rakshasa King who was his friend. He was well-received on account of the bird's friendship, was presented with a large quantity of gold, returned to the bird, and killed and ate it. When the Rakshasa King noticed that the bird did not visit him as usual, he sent his son to ascertain the reason, the remains of the bird were found, and the Brahmana was pursued and cut to pieces. In Santal Folk Tales (Campbell), p. 81, a hero in search of gems possessed by an Apsaras (Indarpuri Kuri) fed, as he went and returned, her three animal guards stationed at her three doors,--an elephant with grass, a tiger with a goat, and a dog with a shoe which it worried. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 179, a man killed a monkey that had saved his life. In vol. iii, p. 51, a corpse was tied on a man's back. NO. 221 KING GAJA-BAHU AND THE CROW At the time when King Gaja-Bahu [168] was lying in the shade one day in his garden, he said, "There is not a greater King than I." He having said it, a Crow that was in the tree dropped excreta in his mouth. [169] Then he gave orders for the Crow to be caught alive, and published them by beat of tom-toms on the four sides. All the men said, "We cannot." Then a widow woman went to the King and said, "I can catch that Crow." The King asked, "What are the things you require for it?" The woman said, "I want a suckling woman and an [infant] child. How about the maintenance of those two?" The King said, "Up to the time when you catch the Crow I will give their maintenance." Afterwards the King caused a suckling woman and an [infant] child to be brought to her. With these two that woman went to her village, and having gone there began to give food to the crows every day. Many crows collected together there for it. She caused that child to be near the crows at the place where the crows were eating the food. During the time while it was there, that little one was playing in the midst of the party of crows, the crows surrounding it. [At last it came to understand their language.] Afterwards she taught the child, "When the crows are quarrelling, on hearing a crow say, 'It was thou who droppedst excreta in Gaja-Bahu's mouth,' seize that very Crow [which did it]." When the crows came to eat the food they quarrelled. At the time when they were quarrelling the child stayed in that very party of crows. Then a crow which was quarrelling said to another crow, "Wilt thou be [quiet], without quarrelling with me? It was thou who droppedst excreta in Gaja-Bahu's mouth." As it was saying the words the child seized that Crow. The woman having come, caught the Crow and imprisoned it, without allowing it to go. On the following day she took the Crow to the King. The King asked at the hand of that woman, "How didst thou recognise this Crow, so as to catch it?" The woman told him the manner in which it was caught. Then the King asked the Crow, "Why didst thou drop excreta in my mouth?" At the time when he was asking it there was a jewelled ring on his finger. The Crow replied, "You said, 'There is not a greater King than I.' I saw that there is a greater King than that; on that account I did this." Then the King asked, "How dost thou know?" The Crow said, "I have seen the jewelled ring that is on the finger of that King; it is larger than your jewelled ring. Owing to that I know." The King asked, "Where is that ring?" Then the Crow having said, "I can show you," calling him, went to a city. At that city there is a very large rock house (cave). Having gone near the rock house, he told him to dig in the bottom of the house, and look. The King caused them to dig, and having dug, a jewelled ring came to light. King Gaja-Bahu, taking the jewelled ring and the Crow, came back to his city. Having come there he put the jewelled ring on his head, and it fell down his body to the ground. Well then, the King on account of the strange event let the Crow go, and gave employment to the widow woman. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. NO. 222 THE ASSISTANCE WHICH THE SNAKE GAVE In a certain country the King's elephant every day having descended into a pool, bathes. In the water a Water Snake (Diya naya) stayed. One day a beggar went to the pool to bathe. As soon as he came the Snake came to bite him. When it came, the man having beseeched it and made obeisance, said, "Ane! O Lord, for me to bathe you must either go to the bottom or come ashore." "If so, because thou madest obeisance to me I will give thee a good assistance," the Snake said. "The King's tusk elephant every day comes to the pool to bathe. When it is bathing I will creep up its trunk. Having gone to the city from that place, the tusk elephant will fall mad on the days when it rains. [170] Then doctors having come, when they are employing medical treatment they cannot cure it. After that, you, Sir, having gone to the royal palace must say, 'Having employed medical treatment I can cure the tusk elephant.' Having heard it, the King will allow you to practise the medical treatment. Should you ask, 'What is the medical treatment?' [it is this:]--Having brought a large water-pot to the place where the tusk elephant is, and placed the elephant's trunk in the water, and covered and closed yourself and the tusk elephant with cloths, and tapped on the forehead of the elephant, [you must say], 'Ane! O Lord, you must descend into the water-pot; if not, to-day I shall cut my throat (lit., neck).' Then I shall descend into the water." This was all done as the Snake said. The beggar tapped on the tusk elephant's forehead, and said, "Ane! O Lord, you must descend into the water-pot; if not, to-day I shall cut my throat." Then the Snake came down the tusk elephant's trunk into the water-pot, as he had promised. The beggar then took the tusk elephant to the King; it was no longer mad. The King rode on it along the four streets, and came back to the palace, and descended. Then he asked the beggar, "How didst thou cure this sickness?" The beggar said, "I caused a Water Snake to come down the tusk elephant's trunk into the water-pot, and thus cured him." Then the King went with the beggar to look at the Snake. When he saw it in the water-pot he ascertained that the man's statement was true. After that he gave offices to the beggar. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. Dr. J. Pearson, Director of the Colombo Museum, has been good enough to inform me that the water-snake termed diya naya in Sinhalese (lit., Water Cobra) is Tropidonotus asperrimus. Though neither large nor venomous, snakes of this species sometimes attacked my men when they were bathing at a pool in a river, or endeavoured to carry off fishes which they had placed in the water after stringing them through the gills on a creeper. They did this even when the man held the other end of the creeper. NO. 223 THE LEVERET, OR THE STORY OF THE SEVEN WOMEN At a certain city there were seven women. The seven went into the jungle for firewood. Out of them one woman met with a young female Hare (Ha paetikki). The other six persons brought six bundles of firewood; the woman brought the Leveret. There were seven Princes (sons) of the woman who brought the Leveret. Out of them, to the youngest Prince she gave the Leveret in marriage. The above-mentioned seven Princes cut a chena. Having sown millet (kurahan) in the chena it ripened. After that, for cutting the millet the six wives of the above-mentioned six brothers having come out, said to the youngest Prince, "Tell your wife to come." Thereupon the Prince says, "How are there women for me? My parents gave me a female Leveret in marriage." Thereupon the Leveret says, "What is it to you? tik; I am proud, tik." [171] Having said it, springing into the house she stayed [there]. Having waited [there] in this way, when it was becoming night she went into the jungle, and collecting the whole of the hares of both sides (m. and f.) went to the chena, and having cut all the millet they carried the whole to the store-room. After that, having allowed all the hares (haho) to go, the Leveret the same night came home. After it became light, the above-mentioned female Hare's husband went to the chena. At the time when he looked there, ascertaining that the millet is cut and finished, he said thus, "Ane! Elder brothers' wives, with no helper, have finished the millet. Having divided the millet there they brought it [home]." Not a long time afterwards, while they are [there], people came for giving betel for a wedding at that village. [172] Having given betel there to the seven persons they went away. On the day for going there to the wedding they came [for them]. After that, the above-mentioned six women came out, and said, "Tell your wife to come out to go." Thereupon that Prince says, "How are there women for me? My two parents gave me a female Hare in marriage. I am unable to go," he said. Thereupon the female Hare says, "You go," she said. So the Prince went. Afterwards the female Hare went there; having taken off her hare jacket on the road, she went to the [wedding] feast. The Prince [recognised her there, went back, and found and] burned the hare jacket which she had hidden [so that she was unable to resume her hare form again]. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. In Folk-Tales of Hindustan (Shaik Chilli), p. 54, the youngest of seven Princes married a female Monkey who in the end proved to be a fairy, and took off her monkey skin. NO. 224 THE GREEDY PALM-CAT [173] At a certain city three cultivators cut a chena. Having cut it they spoke [about it]: "Let us plant plantains." Having planted plantains, the flowers that came on the plantains began to fall when the fruits were coming to mature. When they looked, having seen that except the fresh ones [the trees] were without ripe [fruits], they began to seek [the reason]. Having sought and sought it, they do not perceive whether some one is destroying them [or not]. Owing to it they contrived a device. What was it? Having brought a plantain tree they set it up [? after inserting poison in the fruits that were on it]. The flowers on it having fallen, and [the fruits] having become ripe, after they were emitting a fragrant smell [a female Palm-cat came there with its kitten]. When the [young] Palm-cat looked upward the female Palm-cat says, "Cultivator, that is not good." When it said it, the [young] Palm-cat says, "What though I looked up, if I didn't go up the tree!" it said. It went up the tree. Once more the female Palm-cat said again, "Don't." Thereupon the [young] Palm-cat says, "What if I went up the tree, if I didn't take hold of it!" it said. Having taken hold of it, it looked at it. When the female Palm-cat said, "What is that [you are doing]?" it said, "What if I took hold of it! If I didn't eat it is there any harm?" After it removed the rind, when she said, "What is that [you are doing]?" it says, "What if I removed the rind, if I didn't eat it!" Having set it to its nose it smelt at it. When she said, "What is that [you are doing]?" it said, "What if I put it to my nose, if I didn't eat it!" It put it in its mouth. "What if I put it in my mouth, if I didn't swallow it!" it said. It swallowed it; then it fell down. It having fallen down and died, the female Palm-cat went away lamenting. The thief of the garden was caught. Tom-tom Beater. North-western Province. STORIES OF THE WESTERN PROVINCE AND SOUTHERN INDIA NO. 225 THE WAX HORSE [174] In a certain country a son was born to a certain King, it is said. Having caused Brahmanas to be brought to write this Prince's horoscope, at the time when they handed it over, after they gave information to the King that when the Prince arrived at maturity he was to leave the country and go away, the King, for the Prince to be most thoroughly guarded, caused a room on an upper story to be made [for his occupation], it is said. This infant Prince having become somewhat big, being suitable for game amusements and the like, during the time while he was passing the days he saw in the street a Wax Horse that [persons] brought to sell; and having told his father the King to take and give him it, at the time when he considered it his father the King paid the price, and taking the horse gave it to his son, it is said. This horse, furnished with two wings, was one possessing the ability to fly in the sky. After he had got this horse for a little time, when the Prince became big to a certain extent, not concealing it from anyone whatever, by the help of the Wax Horse he went to fly. Well then, the saying, too, of the soothsayer-Brahmana became true. The Prince having gone flying by the power of the horse, went to the house of an old mother, who having strung [chaplets or garlands of] flowers gives them at the palace of yet [another] King. While here, having hidden the Wax Horse somewhere, when staying at the flower-mother's house he asked the flower-mother [about] the whole of the circumstances of the royal house, and got to know them. Ascertaining them in this way, and after a little time getting to know the chamber, etc., on the floor of the upper story in which the King's daughter stays, he went during the night time by the Wax Horse to a room in which is the beautiful Princess; and for even several days, without concealing himself having eaten and drunk the food and drink, etc., that had been brought for the Princess, he went away [before she awoke]. And the Princess, perceiving that after she got to sleep some one or other had come to the chamber and gone, on the following day not having slept, remained looking out, it is said. At that time the Prince having come, when he is partaking of the food and drink, etc., the Princess, taking a sword in one hand and seizing the Prince with one hand, asked, "Who art thou?" [175] The Prince having informed her that he was a person belonging to a royal family, and while conversing with her having become friendly, he, making a contract to marry her also, began to come during the following days after that. Well then, there was a custom of weighing this Princess in the morning on all days. [176] During the days after the Prince became [accustomed] to come, the Princess's weight having by degrees gone on increasing, the King, ascertaining that she was pregnant, and having thought that there will be a friendship of the Minister with the Princess, settled to kill the Minister. And during the time when the Minister was becoming very sorrowful, when the other daughters of the King having come asked the Minister, "Why are you in much grief?" he gave them information of the whole of the circumstances. The Princesses having assembled together, in order to save the Minister contrived a stratagem thus, that is, having thought that without a fault of the Minister's indeed, some one or other, a person from outside, by some stratagem or other will be coming near the Princess, they put poison in the bathing scented-water boat, and placed guards at the pool which is at the royal palace gateway. The Prince having come, when he bathed in the scented water prior to going to the Princess's chamber the poison burned him, and having gone running, when he sprang into the pool the guards seized him. Having gone [after] causing this Prince to be seized, when they gave the explanation of the affair to the King he freed the Minister, and ordered the Prince to be killed. At the time when the executioners were taking the Prince, having said "A thing of mine is [there]; I will take it and give it to you," he climbed a tree, and taking the Wax Horse which at first he had placed and hidden there among the leaves, he flew away. [177] Having gone thus a little far, and stopped, during the night time he came again to the royal palace; and calling the Princess, while they were going [on the flying horse] by the middle of a great forest wilderness, when pain in the body was felt by the Princess they alighted on the ground. Having caused her to halt [there] he went to a village near by, in order to bring medicine and other materials that she needed for it; and having set the Wax Horse near a shop and gone to yet [another] shop, when coming he saw that there having been a fire near the shop the Wax Horse having been melted had gone. After the Wax Horse was lost this Prince was unable to go to the place where the Princess stayed. And the Princess while in the midst of the forest having borne a son, said, "I don't want even the son of the base Prince"; and having put the child down she went into the neighbourhood of villages. During the time when this Princess's father went into the midst of the forest for hunting he met with this child, and having brought it to the royal house he reared it. The Princess who was this child's mother, having joined a company of girls, [178] during the time while she was dwelling [there] this boy whom [the King] reared having arrived at maturity went and sought a marriage; and having seen his own mother formed the design to marry her. Having thought thus, when on even three days he set off to go for the marriage contract there having been an unlucky omen while on the road, on even three days having turned he came back. One day, having mounted on horse-back, while he was on the journey going for the marriage contract some young birds having been trampled on by the horse, the hen in this way scolded the Prince, that is, "As it is insufficient that this one is going to take his mother [in marriage], he killed my few young ones." [Thus] she scolded him. Because during this day there was [this] unlucky omen, having turned back and come, he went on the following day. When going on that [second] day, a young goat having been trampled on by the horse the female goat also scolded him: "As it is insufficient that he is going to take this one's mother [in marriage], he killed our young ones." When going on the third day also, just as before there was the unlucky omen. This Prince in this way sought a marriage from the girls' society itself, because he being a foundling [179] no one gives a [daughter in] marriage on that account. Before this, one day while at the playground, when the other boys said, "He is base-born," he having asked the King who reared him where his two parents were, had ascertained that having brought him from the midst of the forest he reared him. Well then, on the third day, also, there having been the unlucky omen, not heeding it and having gone for the contract, not knowing even a little about his mother, from her bearing him up to the time when she came to the girls' society he asked about the principal occurrences [of her life. Hearing her account of her abandonment of her child], he said, "It was I indeed who was met with in the midst of the forest in such and such a district; because of it this is indeed my mother." Ascertaining it, and having gone spreading the news, and seeking out even his father and having returned, he was also appointed to the sovereignty in succession to the King his relative, or who was his mother's father; and having married [a Princess] from a royal family, he caused the time to go with glory, it is said. Western Province. See the first note after No. 81, vol. ii. In The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Pandit Natesa Sastri), p. 50, a Prince who had been adopted by a King of Madura, whom he had succeeded on the throne, saw, at the house occupied by dancing-girls, his own mother, from whom he had been separated since his birth, and who had been banished,--and took a fancy for her. When he was about to visit the house in the evening he trod on the tail of a calf and crushed it. In reply to the calf's complaint, the cow exclaimed that such an act might well not be considered a dishonour by one who was about to visit his own mother. The young King, who understood the language of animals, retraced his steps, prosecuted inquiries, learnt from the Goddess Kali the story of his birth, his abandonment, and protection by her, and the history of his mother. He brought his mother to the palace, and thanks to Kali's advice recovered his father, who had been spirited away by the Sapta-kanyas or Seven Divine Maids. In The Kathakoça (Tawney), p. 49, a Prince, who when an infant had been carried off and adopted by a Vidyadhara, afterwards saw his mother seated at a window, fell in love with her, and by the magical art of the Vidyadharas, which he had acquired, carried her off in an aerial chariot. While he was in a garden with her he heard the conversation of two monkeys, and learnt from it that he was her son. Two hermits confirmed this, and in the end the Prince and his parents became Jain hermits. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., pp. 177 ff., the son of a woman who had been sent away during her husband's absence, in the belief that she was an ogress, was sold to a Queen soon after birth by the widow with whom his mother lodged, and was brought up as her son, the King believing her false statement that she had borne him. When he grew up, the supposed Prince saw his mother, who still lived with the widow, fell in love with her, and induced the King to agree to his marriage to her. She stated that she was already married, and obtained a postponement of the wedding for six months. In the meantime her husband returned, went in search of his wife, heard that she was to be married to the Prince, sent her his ring, and they were reunited. The Prince ascertained that he was their son, the widow who sold him was executed, and the Queen was banished. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 79, a Brahmana who had obtained a young Garuda or Rukh from Vibhisana, the Rakshasa King of Ceylon, visited on it, on three successive nights, a courtesan with whom he had fallen in love, whom he eventually married. In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 145, there is an account of a Princess who was weighed every day against five lotus flowers, being no heavier than they were. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 1 ff., there is a story of a Princess who was weighed against one flower every day, after her bath. She was married by her parents to a Raja of the same weight as herself. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 376, a girl who was reared by a crane in its nest on the top of a tree was weighed daily by it. In this manner it ascertained that she had improper relations with a young man who had climbed up the tree and was concealed there by her. In Folk-Tales of Hindustan (Shaik Chilli), p. 108, a Prince got his grandfather, who was a carpenter, to make a wonderful wooden horse which could either move on the earth or fly in the air, as it was bidden. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iii, p. 137 ff.), an aged Persian sage presented a Persian King with a flying horse made of ebony, which could carry its rider where he wished, and "cover in a single day the space of a year." In return for it the King promised him his daughter in marriage, but her brother objected to this, tried the horse, and was carried far away before he found the pin which controlled the descent. He alighted at night on a palace roof, entered a Princess's room, was discovered, offered to fight all the troops if he had his own horse, and while they awaited his charge rose in the air and returned home. At night he sailed back and brought away the Princess. In a foot-note, p. 139, Sir R. Burton suggested that the Arabian magic wooden horse may have originated in an Indian story of a wooden Garuda [bird]. The legend of a flying horse, however, is found in the earliest hymns of the Rig Veda. If this period was about 2,000 B.C., the notion may have arisen in the third millennium B.C. In the hymn 163 of Book I, the horse is mentioned as possessing wings--"Limbs of the deer hadst thou, and eagle pinions" (Griffith's translation). In iv, 40, 2, the horse Dadhikras is described as having wings. In i, 85, 6, the wings of the spotted deer (clouds) which draw the cars of the Maruts, the Storm Gods, are referred to; the car of the Asvins was drawn by winged asses (i, 116-117, 2). At a later date, the account of the treasures produced by the great Churning of the Ocean by the Gods and Asuras includes the winged horse Uccaihsravas. In the Jataka tale No. 196, the Bodhisatta is described as transforming himself into a flying horse which carried a party of wrecked merchants and sailors from Ceylon to India. Two or three steps further bring us to the position in the folk-tales:--(1) the creation of a wooden flying horse by a supernatural being, (2) the construction of a similar animal by a human being, by magical art, (3) the construction of one by mechanical art. Thus, if this development occurred in India or Ceylon, the notion of a wooden or wax flying horse, such as the folk-tales describe, is possibly of earlier date than the time of Christ. Arabian traders or travellers may have carried the idea to their own country either by way of Persia or more directly by sea. They may have had a local tradition of flying quadrupeds, however, based on the winged lions and bulls of Assyria, belonging to the eighth and ninth centuries B.C. Winged quadrupeds of a composite character were known to the Babylonians in the time of Gudea, Patesi of Lagash (2450 B.C.), and probably some centuries earlier; [180] the idea may have spread from them to the early Aryans in the first place. NO. 226 THE THREE-CORNERED HATTER [181] In a certain country a greatly-poor man dwelt, it is said. The man having prayed to a friend of his [for assistance], received from his friend a calf. In order to sell the calf for himself, having set out from the village at which he stayed, and come and descended to the road, at the time when he was going along driving it he met with three young men of yet [another] village. At the time when the three young persons saw this poor man, they spoke together in this fashion. The speech indeed was, "Having cheated the man who is going driving this bull, let us seize the bull," they said. Having spoken to the man, when they asked him, "Will you give us the goat?" the poor man who is going driving the bull, says, "Friends, I am not taking the goat; it is a bull," he said. Then the men who were cheating him began to say, "Why, O fool, when you have come driving the goat, are you trying to make it a bull? We recognise goats, and we recognise bulls. Don't make fun [of us]. Having given us that goat, and taken a sufficient amount, go away," they said. Having said and said thus, when these three persons began to make an uproar [about it], the poor man who is driving the bull, having made the bull the goat, and spoken to the three persons, says, "It is good, friends. Taking this goat that I brought, and having fixed a sufficient price, give [me it]," he said. When he said thus, those three enemies say, "What are you saying? The full value of a goat is five rupees; this one is worth three rupees, but we shall not do in that manner to you. To you we will give four rupees," they said. Having said thus, and given that poor man four rupees, "Now then, you go away," they said. When they said thus, that man who went driving the bull having spoken [to himself]: "I will do a good work for these three persons," says, "Ane! Friends, except that I have a thought that I also having joined you three persons [should be] obtaining a livelihood, for what purpose should I go to my village? It is not the fact [that I think of going there]. It is my thought to live joined with you," he said. When he said this, those thieves say, "It is good. We also are much pleased at your living joined with us," they said. The two parties speaking thus, the man who came driving the bull stayed near those men who cheated him. Having stayed thus, after about eight days or ten days had gone, he said, "I will do a thing for their having cheated me and taken the bull"; and making a hat which had three corners he put it on his head. While he is there [after] thus putting the three-cornered hat on his head, those three persons ask, "What is it, friend? Where did you meet with a hat of a kind which is not [elsewhere]? This is the first time we saw such hats," they said. When they said thus, the man says, "Ane! Friends, if you knew the facts about this hat you will not speak in this way," he said. "Because of what circumstances are you praising this hat?" they asked. This poor man says, "By this hat I can obtain food and drink while at any place I like. Moreover, by the power of this hat I can also do anything I think of," he said. When he said thus, those three persons say, "Ane! Friend, will you give us that hat?" When they asked him, he says, "Having shown you the power which there is in my hat, I can give you the hat also for a sufficient sum," he said. They said, "If so, show us the power that is in your hat. We having looked at the power of the hat, we will give you the whole of the goods that there are of ours, and take the hat." Having said, "It is good. I will show you to-morrow the power of my hat," that day evening he went to the eating-houses that are in that village, and spoke to the persons who are in the eating-houses: "We four persons to-morrow are coming for food. When we have come you must promise to treat us four persons well. Take the money for it to-day." Having given the money, and also having gone to the place where they eat during the [mid]day, and the place where they drink tea, and the place where they eat at night, speaking in that manner he gave the money. On the following day he says to those three persons, "I will show you the power of my hat. Come along." [182] Summoning them, and putting on that hat, at the place where he came and gave the money first he went in, together with the three friends. Having taken off the three-cornered hat, when he lowered his head the men who were in the eating-house say, "It is good. Will you, Sirs, be seated there?" Having placed and given them chairs, and made ready the food, they quickly gave them to eat, and when they had finished, gave them cheroots. Having been talking and talking very much, the Three-cornered Hatter says, "Now then, we must go, and come [again]." When he said it, the men of the eating-house say, "It is good; having gone, come [again]. Should you come [this way] don't go away without coming here." When they said it, the Three-cornered Hatter says, "Yes; should we come, we will not go away without coming here." Having gone from there, and walked there and here, and at the time for the [mid] day rice having gone to the place where he gave the money, in that very manner they ate and drank. Having also gone to the tea drinking place, and in that very way having drunk, after it became night they went to the place where he gave the money for the night food, and ate. From the time when they came back to the place where they dwell, those three persons speak [together], "This hat is not a so-so [183] hat. To-day we saw the power there is in the hat. What are the goods for, that we have? Having given the whole of our goods, let us take that hat." Speaking [thus], and having spoken to the Three-cornered Hatter, they say, "Friend, taking any price you will take, give us this hat." When they said it [he replied], "Ane! Friends, having made the bull the goat, even should you [be willing to] take it, I cannot give this hat. My life is protected by that hat." When he said [this, they replied], "If so, it is good. Taking the whole of the goods that there are of us three persons, give us the hat." When they said [this], the Three-cornered Hatter says, "It is good. Because you are saying it very importunately, [184] and because up to this time from the first [I have been] the friend of you three persons, taking the hat give me the goods." Having said [this], tying all the goods belonging to the three persons in bundles, the Three-cornered Hatter says, "Now then, I am going. I gave you the hat that I had for the protection of my life; you will take good care of that hat." Having said it, the Three-cornered Hatter bounded off and went away. On the following day after that, those three persons made ready to go in the first manner, for eating. One putting on the hat, they went, and sitting in the eating-house they ate and drank. Having finished and talked, when they said, "We are going," [185] [the people of the eating-house] ask, "Where is the money?" When they said, "Having given the money, go away," where have these three got money to give? When they did not give it on the spot, the men who are in the eating-house, seizing them and having beaten them, put them out of the eating-house. When they put them out, these three persons are quarrelling along the road. [One of them] said, "Because, indeed, they did not see that you went [after] putting on the hat, we two also ate blows. I will see [about it]; I will put it on and go. Give me it here." This one, taking the hat from that man, and having gone [after] putting it on, to the place where they eat during the [mid] day, they ate and drank in the first manner. Having been there talking and talking for a little time, they say to the men of the eating-house, "Now then, we are going." When they said it, the men of the eating-house say, "Having gone, no matter if you should come again. For what you ate to-day we want the money. Give the money, and having gone, come [again]." When they said [this], these three persons, except that they ate in order to look at the power of the hat, whence are they to give the money? While they were there without speaking, they said in the very first manner, "Thrash these three thieves for the money," and there and then also seizing the men, beat them. When they had put them to the door, having descended to the path on the journey on which they are going, the man who did not put on the hat says, "[The people] not seeing you two [wearing it] and your putting on of that hat, can you go and look at the power of the hat, stupids both? If you want, you can look for yourselves [this] evening. Give me that hat. In the evening, at the place where they eat food I will show you the power of the hat." Having said [this], the man having gone in the evening [after] putting on the hat, to the place where they eat food, in the very first manner they ate and drank. Having been talking and talking, they say, "Well, we are going." When they said it, "Having given the money for what you ate, go," they said. Then these three persons, whence are they to give the money? Many a time (bohoma kalak) having asked for the money, while they were there without speaking, the men having well beaten these three persons put them out of the eating-house. The three persons that day's day having eaten blows three times, in much distress each one comes to his own house. In not many days, on account of these blows that they ate, and through sorrow at the loss of their goods, the end of the lives of the three persons was reached. The Three-cornered Hatter having gone away taking the goods of these three persons, and having eaten and drunk in happiness, [at last] he died. For their making the Three-cornered Hatter's bull the goat, taking the goods of these three he also destroyed the lives of the three persons. Western Province. In the Hitopadesa, a well-known form of the first incident occurs. Three rogues, seeing a Brahmana carrying home a goat on his shoulder for sacrifice, sat down under three trees at some distance apart on the road. As the man came up, the first rogue said, "O Brahmana, why dost thou carry that dog on thy shoulder?" "It is not a dog," said the Brahmana, "it is a goat for sacrifice," and he went on. When the second rogue asked the same question, the Brahmana put down the goat, looked at it, returned it to his shoulder, and resumed his journey. When the third man inquired in the same way, the Brahmana threw down the goat and went home without it, the rogues of course taking it to eat. This story is given in the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 68, with the difference that first one man spoke to the Brahmana, then two men, and lastly three. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 106, when a foolish man was passing through a village driving a buffalo that he had bought, some men asked him where he got the ram; and as the whole of them insisted that it was a ram he left it with them through fear of his brother's anger at his buying a ram instead of a buffalo. In Folk-Tales of the Telugus (G. R. Subramiah Pantulu), p. 61, it is repeated with the variation that the Brahmana had four or five goats which he was leading. Four Sudras (men of low caste) who wished to get them, in turn asked him why he was taking a number of mad dogs. The last Sudra suggested that it was unsafe to release them, so he tied them to a tree, whence the four men removed them when he had gone. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iii, p. 200), a thief promised another that he would steal an ass that a man was leading by a halter. He went up to it, quietly took off the halter and placed it on his own head without the ass-owner's observing it, and his friend led away the ass. When he had gone off with it, the haltered man stood still, and on the ass-owner's turning to look at his ass, told him that he was really the ass, and that he had been transformed into it because of his mother's curse when he went home drunk and beat her. She had now relented, and as the result of her prayers he had taken his original form once more. The ass-owner apologised for any bad treatment meted out to him, went home, and told his wife, who gave alms by way of atonement, and prayed to Heaven for pardon. Afterwards, when the owner went to purchase another ass he saw his own in the market, and whispered to it, "Doubtless thou hast been getting drunk again and beating thy mother! But, by Allah, I will never buy thee more." NO. 227 THE GAMARALA WHO WENT TO THE GOD-WORLD In a certain country there was a newly-married Gamarala, it is said. For the purpose of the livelihood of these two persons (himself and his wife), he begged and got a piece of chena from the King, to plant it on shares. [186] Near the time when they obtained the chena, having taken great pains and cut the ground and tied the fence, they sowed the millet (kurahan). But during the course of time having completely forgotten about the millet chena, they remained doing house work. After two or three months passed away in this manner, one day the Gama-Mahage (Gamarala's wife) having remembered the millet chena, spoke to her husband, "Have cattle eaten the millet chena?" and she sent him to look. The Gamarala, too, having gone hastily at the very time when he heard the word, saw at the time when he looked that rice mortars having gone had trampled the millet, and eaten it, and thrown it down. Having come home, perceiving at the time when he looked that his very own rice mortar had gone, making it fast he tied it to a tree. On the following day also having gone, and again having seen, at the time when he looked, that the rice mortars had come and had eaten the millet, he walked everywhere in the village, and ordered [the owners] to tie up the rice mortars that were at the whole of the houses. The residents in the village being other fools did in the way he said. On the third day, also, the Gamarala having come, and having seen at the time when he looked that the rice mortars still had come, he thought, "It is our own rice mortar," and having gone home he split the rice mortar with his axe, and burned it. The ashes he threw into the river. Nevertheless, on the fourth day having come, and at the time when he looked having seen that rice mortars had come, not being able to bear his anger he came home, and while he is [there] he remains in the house, extremely annoyed. "Why is it?" his wife asked. Thereupon the Gamarala replied thus, "The rice mortars having come to cause our millet eating to cease, I am not rich. Art thou clever enough to arrange a contrivance for it?" he asked. And the Gama-Mahage, having considered a little time, ordered the Gamarala to watch in the watch-hut at the chena. The Gamarala, accepting that word, on the following day went to the chena with a large axe, and during the night-time having been hidden, at the time when he was looking out saw that a tusk elephant, having come from the Divine World and trampled on the millet, and eaten it, and thrown it down, goes away. Having seen this wonderful tusk elephant, and thought that having hung even by his tail he must go to the Divine World, he went home and told the Gama-Mahage to be ready, putting on clothes to-morrow for the purpose of going to the Divine World. At the time when the Gama-Mahage also asked "In what manner is that [to be done]?" he made known to her all the news. The Gamarala's wife hereupon wanted to know the means to get clothes washed when she went to the Divine World. At that time the Gamarala said that they must perhaps take the washerman-uncle, [so he went to him and told him]. When the washerman-uncle set off to go he wanted his wife also to go, [and he brought her with him]. At last, these very four said persons having become ready and having been in the chena until the tusk elephant comes, after the tusk elephant came, at the very first the Gamarala hung by the tail. The Gamarala's wife hung at his back corner (piti mulla). After that, while the washerman-uncle and his wife were hung in turn behind the others, the tusk elephant, having eaten the millet, began to go to the Divine World. After these four persons with extreme joy went a little distance, the washerman-uncle's wife spoke to the Gamarala, and asked thus, "For a certainty, Gamarala, in that Divine World how great is the size of the quart measure which measures rice?" she asked. Thereupon the Gamarala, who was holding the tusk elephant's tail the very first, said, "The quart measure will be this size." Having put out his two hands he showed her the size. At that time, these very four persons being extremely high in the sky, and from that far-off place having fallen to the earth, each one went into dust. Western Province. THE TUSK ELEPHANT OF THE DIVINE WORLD (Variant). In a certain country a man having worked a rice field, after the paddy became big a tusk elephant comes from the Divine World and eats the paddy. The man having gone, when he looked (balapuwama) there are no gaps [in the fence] for any animal whatever to come; there are footprints. The man thought, "It is the rice mortars of the men of our village that have eaten this; I must tell the men to tie the rice mortars to the trees." Thinking it, in the evening the man having told it to the whole of the houses, [187] together with the man they tied all the rice mortars to the trees. Having tied them, the man who owned the rice field and the men of that village went to the rice field and remained looking out. Then from the Divine World they saw a tusk elephant, and with the tusk elephant also a man, come. Having seen them, when the men having become afraid are looking on, the tusk elephant eats the paddy. Then the men asked at the hand of the man who came with the tusk elephant, "You [come] whence?" Then the man said, "We come from the Divine World; if you also like, come." After that, the men having said "Ha," [added], "How shall we come now? At the speed at which you go we cannot come." Then the man said, "As soon as the tusk elephant has got in front [188] I will hang at the elephant's tail. One of you also take hold at my waist, [189] let still [another] man take hold at the man's waist, and thus in that manner all come." After that, the men having said "Ha," in that very way the tusk elephant got in front. The man having hung from the tusk elephant's tail, when they were going away, the other men holding the waists, there was a coconut tree in the path. Then the man who came from the Divine World said, "Ando! The largeness of these coconuts!" Then these men asked, "In the Divine World are the coconuts very large?" Then the man [in order] to say, "They will be this much [across]," released the hand which remained holding the tail of the tusk elephant. So the man fell to the ground, and all the other men fell to the ground. Only the tusk elephant went to the Divine World. Cultivating Caste, North-western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 234, Mr. C. J. R. Le Mesurier mentioned the man who tied up the rice mortars in the belief that the elephants' foot-prints in a rice field were caused by them. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 111, a man who got a tank made found that some animal tore up the surface of the embankment. When he remained on the watch for it he saw a bull descend from heaven, and gore it; and thinking he might go to heaven with it, he held the tail and was carried up to Kailasa, the bull evidently being the riding animal of the God Siva. After spending some time in happiness he descended in the same way, in order to see his friends. They asked him to take them with him on his return, and he consented. He seized the bull's tail, the next man held his feet, the third his, and so on, in a chain. While they were on their way upward one of the men inquired how large were the sweetmeats he ate in heaven. The first man let go, joined his hands in a cup shape, and said, "So big." Thereupon they all fell down and were killed. The story adds that "the people who saw it were much amused." NO. 228 THE GAMARALA WHO ATE BLACK FOWLS' FLESH AND HIN-AETI RICE In a certain country there were a Gamarala and a Gama-Mahage, it is said. There was a paramour for this Gama-Mahage, it is said. Because the Gamarala was at home the paramour was unable for many days to come to look at the Gama-Mahage. Because of it, the Gama-Mahage having thought she must make her husband's eyes blind, went on the whole of the days to the bottom of a spacious tree in which it was believed that there is a Devatawa, and cried, "O Deity, make my man's eyes blind." Having seen that in this way incessantly (nokadawama) the Gama-Mahage in the evening having abandoned all house work goes into the jungle, the Gamarala wanted to ascertain what she goes here for. The Gamarala also in order to stop this going of the Gama-Mahage settled in the afternoon that there will be a great quantity of work [for her] to do. The Gamarala, who saw that nevertheless, whatever extent of work there should be, having quickly finished all the possible extent she goes into the jungle, on the following day in the evening having been reminded of the preceding reflections, remained hidden in a hollow in the tree there. And the Gama-Mahage, just as on other days, in the evening having finished the work and having come, cried, "O Devatawa who is in this tree, make my man's eyes blind." Having cleared the root of the tree and offered flowers, she also lighted a lamp. The Gamarala who was looking at all these, having been struck with astonishment, after the Gama-Mahage went away descended from the tree and went home. On the following day, also, in the evening the Gamarala, catching a pigeon and having gone [with it], remained hidden in the hollow of the very same tree. At the time when he is staying in this way, the Gama-Mahage having come, and having offered oil, flowers, etc., just as before, when she cried out [to the deity] to blind her man's eyes, the Gamarala from the hollow of the tree, having changed his voice, spoke, "Bola!" Thereupon the Gama-Mahage, having thought, "It is this Deity spoke," said, "O Lord." At that time the Gamarala said thus, "If [I am] to make thy man's eyes blind, give [him] black fowls' flesh [190] and cooked rice of Hin-aeti rice." Having said [this], he allowed the pigeon which he had caught to fly away. Thereupon the Gama-Mahage having thought, "This Deity is going in the appearance of a pigeon," having turned and turned to the direction in which the pigeon is going and going, began to worship it. And the Gamarala after that having slowly descended from the tree, went away. Beginning from that day, the Gama-Mahage, walking everywhere, having sought for black fowls' flesh and Hin-aeti rice, began to give the Gamarala amply to eat. While the Gamarala, too, is eating this tasty food, after a little time he says to the Gama-Mahage, "Ane! Ban, [191] my eyesight is now less." When he said thus, the Gama-Mahage more and more gave him black fowls' flesh and cooked Hin-aeti rice. After a little time more went by, he informed her that by degrees the Gamarala's eyesight is becoming less. At this time the Gama-Mahage's paramour began to come without any fear. The Gamarala, groping and groping like a blind man, when he is walking in the house saw well that the paramour has come. Having said, "Ban, at the time when you are not [here], dogs having come into the house overturn the pots," the Gamarala asked for a large cudgel. Keeping the cudgel in this manner while he was lying down, when the paramour came having seized his two hands and beaten him with the cudgel, he killed him outright. While he was thus, when the Gama-Mahage came he said, "Look there, Ban. Some dogs having come from somewhere or other, came running and jumping into this. Having thrown them down with the cudgel, I beat them. What became of them I don't know." Having heard this matter, at the time when the Gama-Mahage looked she saw that the paramour was killed, and having become much troubled about it because there was also fear that blame would come to her from the Government, lifting up the corpse and having gone and caused it to lean against a plantain-tree in her father's garden, she set it there. Her father having gone during the night-time to safeguard the plantain enclosure, and having seen that a man is [there], beat him with his cudgel. Although the blows he struck were not too hard, having seen that the man fell and was killed, the plantain enclosure person, having become afraid, lifting up the corpse and having gone [with it], pressed the head part in the angle of the shop of a trader in salt, and went away. The salt dealer having thought, "A thief is entering the house," struck a blow with a cudgel. But having come near and looked, and seen that the man is dead, at the time when it became light he informed the Government. He said that the man could not die at his blow, and that some person or other had put him there. [192] Because on account of the dead man there was not any person to lament, having employed women for hire he caused them to lament. At this time one woman lamented: "First, it is my misfortune; next to that, father's misfortune; and after that the salt dealer's misfortune." [193] At the time when they asked, "What is that?" when she related the whole account for her punishment they ordered her to be killed. Western Province. In The Jataka, No. 98 (vol. i, p. 239), a man in order to cheat his partner got his father to enter a hollow tree, and personate a Tree-Sprite who was supposed to occupy it. When the matter in dispute was referred to this deity, the father gave a decision in favour of his son. In The Adventures of Raja Rasalu (Swynnerton), p. 138, a man whose wife absented herself every night, followed her and discovered that she prayed at the grave of a fakir that her husband might become blind. He hid himself in the shrine, and on the next night told her that if she fed her husband with sweet pudding and roast fowl he would be blind in a week; he then hurried home before her. Next morning she remarked that he was very thin and that she must feed him well; he acquiesced and was duly fed on the two dishes. He first stated that his eyes were getting dim, and after the seventh day that he was quite blind. Her paramour now began to visit the house openly. One day the man saw his wife hide him in a roll of matting; he tied it up, and saying he would go to Mecca, shouldered it and left. He met another man similarly cheated, and they agreed to let the lovers go. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 40, after two brothers buried at the foot of a tree two thousand gold dinars, one of them secretly carried them off, [194] and afterwards charged the other with stealing them. As the King could not decide the case, the thief claimed that the tree at which the money was buried would give evidence for him. The question was put to it next day and a voice replied that the innocent brother took the money; but when the officers applied smoke to the hollow the father who was hidden there fell out and died, so the thief was punished by mutilation. In Folk-Tales of the Telugus (G. R. Subramiah Pantulu), p. 28, there is a similar story in which the thief was sentenced to pay the whole amount to the other man. In the Kolhan folk-tales (Bompas) appended to Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 482, a Potter's wife whom a Raja advised to kill her husband, set up a figure of a deity in her house, and prayed daily to it that the man might become blind and die. On overhearing her, the Potter hid behind the figure, said her prayer was granted, and predicted that he would be blind in two days. When he feigned blindness she sent for the Raja, who together with the woman was killed at night by him, and his corpse placed in a neighbour's vegetable garden. Towards morning the neighbour saw an apparent thief, struck him on the head, and discovered he had killed the Raja. He consulted the Potter and by his advice placed the body among some buffaloes, where their owner knocked it over as a milk thief, and after consulting the Potter threw it into a well. It was discovered there and cremated. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 247, a smith was the hero in place of the Potter. The body of a Prince was left at three houses in turn, the last householder being imprisoned. In Santal Folk Tales (Campbell), p. 100, a man whose wife died left her corpse in a wheat field, tied in a bag loaded on a bullock, and got hid. When the field owner thrashed the bullock the man came forward, charged him with killing his sick wife, and received six maunds of rupees as hush money. The standard maund being one of 40 sers, each of 80 tolas or rupee-weights (Hobson-Jobson), this would be 19,200 rupees. Regarding the black fowls, Bernier stated that in India there was "a small hen, delicate and tender, which I call Ethiopian, the skin being quite black" (Travels, Constable's translation, p. 251). In a note, the translator added the remarks of Linschoten (1583-1589) on Mozambique fowls:--"There are certain hennes that are so blacke both of feathers, flesh, and bones, that being sodden they seeme as black as ink; yet of very sweet taste, and are accounted better than the other; whereof some are likewise found in India, but not so many as in Mossambique" (Voyage, i, 25, 26. Hakluyt Soc.). NO. 229 HOW THE GAMARALA DROVE AWAY THE LION In a certain country the wife of a Gamarala had a paramour. Having given this paramour to eat and drink, because she wants him to stay there talking and associated [with her] the Gama-Mahange every day at daybreak tells the Gamarala to go to the chena, and at night tells him to go to lie down at the watch hut; even having come to eat cooked rice, she does not allow him to stay at home a little time. The Gamarala, having felt doubtful that perhaps there may be a paramour for the Gama-Mahange, one day at night quite unexpectedly went home and tapped at the door. Then, because the paramour was inside the house, the Gama-Mahange practised a trick in this manner. During the day time the Gamarala had put in the open space in front of the house a large log of firewood that was [formerly] at a grave. "A Yaka having been in this log of firewood, and having caused me to be brought to fear, go and put down that log of firewood afar. Until you come I cannot open the door," the Gama-Mahange said. The Gamarala having been deceived by it, lifting up the log of firewood in order to go and put it away, went off [with it]. Then the paramour who was in the house having opened the door, she sent him out. When the Gamarala came back (apuwama) anybody was not there. After this, one day when the Gamarala came at the time when the door had been opened, because the paramour was in the house the Gama-Mahange told the paramour to creep out by the corner of the roof [over the top of the wall], to the quarter at the back of the house, and go away. But having crept a little [way], because he remained looking back the Gama-Mahange says, "You are laughing. Should he even cut my body there will be no blood [of yours shed]. Creep quickly. If not, there will be great destruction for us both." But because he does not speak, when she came near and looked she saw that the paramour having stuck fast was dead. Because his mouth was opened, this woman thought, "At that also he is laughing." Well then, when the Gamarala came into the house the Gama-Mahange said, "Look here. A thief having come and having prepared to steal the goods that are in the house, is dead on the path on which he crept from here when I was coming. It is a good work," she said. The Gamarala, taking this for the truth, buried the man. After this the Gama-Mahange met with another paramour. The man said to the Gama-Mahange, "We must kill the Gamarala. The mode of killing [shall be] thus:--Because it troubles men when a lion that is in the midst of such and such a forest in this country is roaring, to-morrow during the day the King will cause a proclamation tom-tom to be beaten [to notify] that he will give goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load to a person who killed [195] the lion, or to a person who drove it away. You having caused the proclamation tom-tom to halt, say that our Gamarala can kill the lion," the paramour taught the Gama-Mahange. In this said manner, the Gama-Mahange on the following day having stopped the proclamation tom-tom, said, "Our Gamarala can kill the lion." Well then, when the Gamarala came [home] they told him about this matter. Then the Gamarala, having scolded and scolded her, began to lament, and said, "Why, O archer, can I kill the lion?" But because the King sent the message telling the person whom they said can kill the lion, to come, when the Gamarala, having submitted to the King's command, went to the royal house [the King] asked, "What things do you require to kill the lion?" Thereupon the Gamarala thought, "Asking for [provisions] to eat and drink for three months, and causing a large strong iron cage to be made, I must go into the midst of the forest, and having entered the cage, continuing to eat and drink I must remain in it doing nothing." Having thought it, asking the King for the things and having gone into the midst of the forest, he got into the iron cage, and continuing to eat and drink stayed in it doing nothing. While he was staying in this manner, one day the lion having scented the iron cage looked at it. Then the Gamarala with a lance that was in his hand stabbed [at it, for the blade] to go along the nose. The Gamarala did thus through fear; but the lion having become afraid, not staying in the midst of that forest went to another forest. After that, the Gamarala [informed the King that he had driven it away, and] taking the goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load, went home and dwelt in happiness. Western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 175, in a story given by Mr. T. B. Panabokke, a foolish Adikar who was sent to kill a lion, ran off as it was coming, and climbed up a tree. The lion came, and resting its fore-paws against the tree trunk, tried to climb up it. The man was so terrified that he dropped his sword, which entered its open mouth and killed it. He then descended, cut off the head, and returned in triumph. In a variant in the same volume, p. 102, the animal was a tiger. The story is given in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 207, the animal being a lion. In Tales of the Punjab (Mrs. F. A. Steel), p. 85, a weaver who had been made Commander-in-Chief killed a savage tiger by accident in the same manner, through his dagger's falling into its open mouth when he was in a tree. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xiv, p. 109, in a South Indian story by Natesa Sastri, a man who was sent to kill a lioness climbed up a tree for safety. When the lioness came below it and yawned he was so much alarmed that he dropped his sword, which entered her open mouth and killed her. NO. 230 THE SON WHO WAS BLIND AT NIGHT In an older time than this, in a certain village there was a nobleman's family. In the nobleman's family there was a Prince whose eyes do not see at night. Because the nobleman-Prince is not of any assistance to his parents, the nobleman having spoken to his wife, told her that having given him suitable things, etc., she is to send off this one to any place he can go to, to obtain a livelihood. The lady (situ-devi) having tied up a packet of cooked rice and given it to her son, says, "Go in happiness, and earn your living." Thereupon this Prince whose eyes were blind at night, taking the packet of cooked rice and having started, goes away. Having gone thus, and at the time when it was becoming evening having eaten the packet of cooked rice, he thinks, "Should it become late at night my eyes do not see." Having thought, "Prior to that, I must go to this village near by," and having arisen from there very speedily, he arrived at a village. Having gone there and come to a house, during the time while he is dwelling with them this one says, "I am going away [from] there for no special reason (nikan). I am going for the purpose of seeking a marriage for myself," he said. Thereupon they say, "There is a daughter to be given with our assent. We do not give that person in that manner (i.e., not merely because she is sought for). From our grandfather's time there is a book in our house. To a person who has read and explained the book we are giving our daughter in marriage," they said. At that time this person who is blind at night asked for the book. The party brought and gave him the book. This person who is blind at night, taking the book into his hand, began to weep. When they asked, "What are you weeping for?" he says, "Except that in my own mind I completely understand the difficulty of the matters that are in this book, I wept because of the extreme difficulty that there is for some one else in expounding it," he said. At that time the party think, "To give our daughter [in marriage] we have obtained a suitable son-in-law." They gave her in marriage. At the time when he is living thus for a few days, his father-in-law having spoken, says, "Don't you be unoccupied (nikan). There is our chena; having gone to the chena with the other brothers-in-law, taking a tract of ground for yourself clear it and sow it for yourself." This one having said, "It is good," and having gone, taking a side of the chena began to clear it. This one worked more quickly than the other persons. Thereupon the father-in-law felt much affection for this person who was blind at night. During that time when he was clearing it, a porcupine having been there at the corner of a bush, he killed it unseen by anyone, and put it away and hid it. At the time when it became evening the other dependants (pirisa) went home. This one, his eyes not seeing, was in the chena, clasping the dead body of the porcupine. During the time while he was thus, the father-in-law came to seek him. Thereupon he says to the father-in-law, "It is excellent that you came first to do a work. Was it good to go home empty-handed? When I stopped for this business you went away, didn't you?" Thereupon the father-in-law says, "Don't you be displeased; we did not know that you stopped. Come, to go home." Then he says, "I cannot go in that way. Getting a stick and having come, hang this animal in the manner of the carrying-pole load (tada), in order to carry it," he said. Thereupon, tying the carrying-pole, and placing the father-in-law in front, [196] he came to the house. That his eyes do not see, this one did not inform the father-in-law. While a few days are going in that manner, the work in the chena having been finished he sowed it, and fitting up a watch-hut there he is [watching it] carefully. While he is thus, thieves having broken into the house of the King of that country came near the watch-hut to which this one goes, in order to divide the goods. When they were sitting there dividing the goods, this one opened his eyes, and becoming afraid says, "Seize them! Beat them! Tie them!" At once the thieves, leaving the goods and having become afraid, jumped up and ran away. When this one, collecting the heap of goods and having arrived at the house, informed the father-in-law, the father-in-law gave the King notice of it. The King having become much pleased, caused this one to be brought, and having given him various things appointed him to the office of Treasurer [197] of that city. Western Province. NO. 231 THE SON AND THE MOTHER [198] In a certain country a widow woman lived with her only son, it is said. At the time when her son arrived at a young man's age, this woman for the purpose of bringing and giving him a [bride in] marriage, having descended to the road, set off to go to a village not distant from it. While this woman was going thus, in order to quench her weariness she went to a travellers' shed that was at the side of the path. After a little time, yet [another] woman having arrived at this very travellers' shed, when these two were conversing one of those persons asked [the other] on account of what circumstances she went along by that road. At that time the woman who had come first to the travellers' shed gave answer thus, that is, "My husband having died I have only one son. Because of it, in order to seek a marriage for that son I set out and came in this manner," she said. Thereupon the other woman says, "My husband also having died, I have only one daughter. I came on the search for a suitable husband for that daughter," she said. After that, these two persons ascertaining that they were people belonging to the [good] castes, agreed to marry the son and daughter of these two persons. [After] promising in this manner, having given in marriage the other woman's daughter to the son of the first-mentioned woman, because the daughter's mother is living alone they summoned the whole four persons to one house, and resided there. When they are coming and dwelling in that manner a very little time, the young man said to his mother that his wife was not good. A very little time having gone thus, the young woman says to her husband, "I cannot reside here with your mother. Because of it [please] kill her. If it be not so, having gone away with my mother we shall live alone," she said. Although even many times he did not give heed to the word of his wife, because the young man was unwilling to kill his mother, in the end, at the time when his wife set off to go away, he said, "It is good; I will kill mother. You must tell me the way to kill her." Thereupon his wife said thus, "In the night time, when thy mother is sleeping, taking completely [199] the bed and having gone [with it], let us throw it in the river," she said. In the night time, at the time when all are sleeping, the young woman having tied a cord to the leg of the bed on which her mother-in-law is sleeping, went to sleep, placing an end of the cord in her hand. The young man having seen this circumstance, after his wife went to sleep unfastened the end of the cord that was tied to the leg of his mother's bed, and tied it to the leg of the bed of his wife's mother. While it was thus, suddenly this young woman arose, and spoke to her husband: "Now the time is good," she said. When he asked, "Because there is darkness how shall we find our mother's bed?" "I have been placing a mark," the woman said. Well then, because the end of the cord was tied to the leg of this woman's bed, both together lifting up the bed went and threw it in the river. After it became light, when she looked, perceiving that the young woman's mother was thrown into the river, and coming to grief, and having wept, she said thus to her husband, "For committing some fault [200] we have thrown my mother into the river. Well, let us kill your mother, too," she said again. The husband being not satisfied with this, because the request of his wife was stronger than that [disinclination], said, "It is good; let us kill her." When her husband further asked, "By what method shall we kill mother?" she said, "When thy mother is asleep, lifting up the bed completely and having gone [with it], and having placed a pile of sticks at a new grave, let us burn her." The husband approved of her word. On the following day, subsequently to its becoming light, when the woman whom the two persons were lifting up was asleep, having gone [after] lifting up the bed completely, they placed this woman together with the bed on the middle of the pile of firewood which they had gathered together previously. But to set fire to the heap of firewood they did not remember to take fire. Because of it, and because to bring fire each person was afraid to go alone, both set off and went. During the time while they were going thus, when strong dew was falling like rain the woman who was asleep on the pile of firewood having opened her eyes, said, "Am I not at this grave mound?" She also having looked far and near, [201] thought, "It is indeed a work, this, of my son and daughter-in-law;" and having descended from the pile of firewood, lifting up a new corpse that was at the grave, and having gone and placed it upon that bed that was on the pile of firewood, she plucked off her cloth, and having clothed the corpse she entered the jungle quite unclothed. The son and daughter-in-law having come, remained looking about. Then her son and daughter-in-law procuring fire, [202] and having come to the new grave, both persons made the fire burn at the two ends of the pile of firewood, and went away. The woman, who had looked very well at this business, because she was unclothed could not come near villages. Having entered a forest wilderness that was near there, when going a considerable distance she saw a rock house (cave). Having gone to this rock house, when she looked [in it] she saw that a great number of clothes, and ornaments, and kinds of food and drink were in this rock house, and having thought, "For these there will be owners," she remained quite afraid to seize them. At that time a gang of thieves who owned the goods, hundreds of thousands in number, that were in this rock house, having come and looked in the direction of the rock house, saw that an unclothed Yaksani had entered there. Having become afraid at it, the whole of them bounded off, and having gone running arrived near a Yakadura, [203] and said thus, "Friend, one Yaksani having entered is now staying at the rock house in which are the goods that we collected and placed [there] during the whole eight years in which we now have been committing robberies. Because of it, should you by any means of success whatever drive away the Yaksani for us, we will give a half from the goods," they said to the Yakadura. Thereupon the Yakadura being pleased, when he went to the neighbourhood of the rock house with the thieves, the thieves, through fear to go, halted. The Yakadura having gone quite alone to the rock house, when he asked the woman who was unclothed, "Art thou a human daughter [204] or a Yaksani?" she gave answer, "I am a human daughter." At that time the Yakadura said, "If so, I cannot believe thy word. Of a Yaksani, indeed, there is no tongue; of a human being there is the tongue. Because of it, please extend the tongue [for me] to look at it, having rubbed my tongue on thy tongue," the Yakadura said. Thereupon this woman thought thus, "If so, these men having thought I am a Yaksani, are afraid of me. Because of it, having frightened them a little more I must get these goods," she thought. Having thought thus, and having come near the Yakadura, at the time when he extended the tongue she bit his tongue. Thereupon, when the Yakadura began to run away, blood pouring and pouring from his mouth, the thieves, having become more frightened at it, ran away; and having said, "If she did so to the Yakadura who went possessing protective spells and diagrams, [after] uttering spells over limes, and uttering spells over threads coloured with turmeric, how will she do to us?" they did not go after that to even that district. Well then, that woman, putting on clothes that were in the rock house, and having eaten and drunk to the possible extent [after] making up the goods into bundles as much as possible, came to look for her son. When the daughter-in-law and son saw her coming while afar, having arrived at astonishment at it, they asked, "How have you who were put on the pile of firewood and burnt, come again? Whence are these goods?" Thereupon the woman says, "Why, Bola, don't you know that after their life, when they have burnt men they receive goods?" she asked. Then her daughter-in-law, having thought that she will be able to bring goods, said, "Ane! Please burn me also in that way." Having said, "It is good," the mother-in-law, having gone taking her daughter-in-law, and having put her on the pile of firewood, set fire [to it]. At that time, "Apoyi! I indeed cannot stay," she cried when she began to burn. Thereupon her mother-in-law cries out, "Ha! Ha! Don't cry out. Should you cry out you will not receive the goods. While you were burning me did I also cry out? Ane! Because you are stronger than I, [after] making a great many articles into bundles come back," she said. In this manner having told and told her, and having burnt the daughter-in-law, the mother-in-law went home. After a few days had gone, her son asks, "Mother, you by this time came bringing the goods. This giantess [205] has not [come] yet; what is that for?" he asked. She said, "No, son; she is staying to bring a great many goods." Having waited, one day the son having thoroughly tied the mother to kill her, on account of the manner in which he accepted the daughter-in-law's word, she said, "Why, Bola, fool! Dead men having arisen from the dead, will there be a country also to which they come? [206] I came in this manner," and having told her whole story, and employed her son, they went taking a great many carts, and brought to the village the whole of the goods that were in the above-mentioned rock house. After that, this son contracted another marriage. Having seen his wealthiness, the King of that country gave him a post as Treasurer. [207] Western Province. This is also a folk-tale called "The Wicked Daughter-in-law," in the North-western Province, the parents of the young man being a Gamarala and Gama-Mahage. The wife wished to kill her mother-in-law because the latter and her own mother were quarrelling. She and her husband threw the first bed into a forest pool (eba). The incident of the return of the robbers to the cave where they had hidden their plunder is omitted; the Mahage simply put on a number of silver and gold articles and carried home a bundle of others, including necklaces and corals. She told her daughter-in-law that there were many more at the burial ground, and the latter went to fetch them. When she arrived there she saw a fresh corpse, and became so much afraid that she fainted, and fell down and died. This story is given in The Jataka, No. 432 (vol. iii, p. 303). In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 88, a servant girl who had absconded with her master's store of gold, climbed up a leafy tree to escape from him. One of his servants climbed up it in search of her. Seeing that she would be captured, she pretended to be in love with him, and as she was kissing his mouth she bit off his tongue, and he fell down unable to speak. Her master thought he had been attacked by a demon, and at once ran off. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 141, a woman who wished to kill her mother-in-law persuaded her husband to believe that if she were burnt she would be re-born as a deity, and receive continual offerings from them. They made a great fire in a deep trench, gave a feast at it, and when the people had gone pushed the mother over the edge into it, and ran off. She fell on a ledge in the side of the trench and thus escaped, was unable to return home in the darkness, and climbed up a tree for safety from animals and demons. While she was there, robbers came to the foot of the tree with valuable articles they had stolen, and when they heard her sneeze ran off, thinking she was a demon. In the morning she returned home with a heavy bundle of jewellery they had left, told the daughter-in-law that she had become a deity and had therefore received these valuables, and offered to send her also. The fire was made up afresh, the man pushed his wife into it, and she was burnt up. NO. 232 CONCERNING THE HETTI MAN'S SON In a former time, in a certain country there was a certain Hetti family possessing a great quantity of goods, it is said. There were seven sons of the Hettiya. For the purpose of learning he sent the seven sons to school. Out of the Hetti children who go to school, as the youngest son was a mischievous rough fellow, having set out from the house in order to go to school, while on the road he got hid, not going to the school. At the time when, the school having been dismissed, the other children are coming back, this child also, like a person who went to school, comes to the house with his brothers, and dwells [there]. That this one did not go (nongiya) to school no one tells either the father or mother. Because of what thing? Because of the harshness that there is of his, should they give information to his parents that he did not go to school they are afraid he will cause great annoyance to the people who give the information. In that manner going to the school and coming according to his will, and making disturbance with the other children (lamo), and walking to several places at the time when he is dwelling [there], he one day in the eventide having descended to the city street goes to walk. While going, a certain horse-keeper taking a horse brought it for sale. He having stopped the horse-keeper, asks, "To which district are you taking this horse?" To that the horse-keeper gives answer, "I am taking this horse for sale." Thereupon he said, "It is good. For how much money will you give this horse?" Then the horse-keeper says, "You a man who takes horses, indeed! There is not any profit in telling you the amount. The value of this horse is much," he said. Thereupon, having much scolded the horse-keeper, and having arrived at his house calling [the man to bring] the horse, he speaks to his father and says, "Take and give me this horse." At that time his father the Hettiya having rebuked him, drove him away. As this one was a vile rough fellow, taking the saying heavily, he began to make disturbance with his father. Thereupon anger having gone to the father, seizing him and having beaten him, he drove him away. Having done thus, this one came into the house, and taking a gun speaks to his father and says, "Should you not take and give me this horse, shooting myself I will die." Thereupon his father having become afraid, took the horse and gave [him it]. From the day when he took and gave the horse, he did not even go to the school. Having gone away according to his own notion, he joined the war army of that country. During the time when he was thus, also, he began to work there, so as to be a great dexterous person. The Chief of the war army there showed him much favour. When a little time had gone thus, having been ordered to a war they came [for it]. Thereupon this one also having gone with the war force, and having been halted on the battle-ground, during the time while they are [there] the Chief of the Army spoke to this force (pirisa). When he said that in order to fight, a person who is able is to go to the enemy-King, and give the leaf missive (pattraya) which the Counsellor had prepared for the purpose, having seen that everyone remained without speaking, this one came forward, and having said, "I am able to go and give it," asked for the letter. When he thus asked, the Commander of the Army, having arrived at great sorrow, says, "By this fight to whom will occur victory, defeat, or any other thing I am unable to say. But should you stay on the battle-ground, harm not befalling you at any time, you may escape. The messenger who goes in order to give notice to this enemy-King does not escape at any time. When, having said the message, he is dismissed, the guards strike him down. I know that you are a person of a great wealthy family. I know that the advantage that is obtained from another twelve soldiers I am receiving from you. [But] because at the time when I spoke to any person who was willing to despatch and make known this message, you came forward, it is not justice to cause another person to go." Having said [this], the General arrived at great sorrow. Thereupon this one says, "Don't be afraid. Having gone and given the letter I shall come back. But I cannot go thus; I don't want these clothes. Please make afresh and give me clothes in the manner I say." When he said [this], the General, in the manner he said, made and gave him the clothes. Thereupon, putting on the clothes and having mounted on the back of the horse which his father took and gave him, taking the leaf that was written for the purpose of giving the notice to the enemy-King, he went off. At the time when he was going there, the guards of the King's house thought that a trader gentleman was coming in order to give assistance connected with the war. Without any fear whatever he went on horse-back to the royal palace; and having given the leaf and turned back, driving the horse a little slowly to the place where the guards are, and, having come there, driving the horse with the speed possible, he arrived at the place where his force is. When he arrived thus, the General, having become much attached to him, established this one as the third person for that force. After that, having fought he obtained victory in the fight also. After he obtained victory in the fight, he appointed him to the chiefship of the army. During the time while he was dwelling thus, he went and in still many battles he obtained victory. After that, having appointed him to the kingship, [208] he sent him to improve the out-districts. Having dwelt in that manner for much time, and having reached old age, he performed the act of death (kalakkiriya). Western Province. NO. 233 THE FORTUNATE BOY [209] At a certain city there was a poor family, it is said. Of that family, the father having died, the mother and also a son remained, it is said. The mother, by [reason of] her destitute state without food, was supported by pounding [rice into] flour for hire at the shops, it is said. While getting a living thus, having sent the son to school he began to learn letters. While he was staying in that way for learning them, one day [his mother] having sent him to school, at the time when he was coming home he was looking on nearby while a great rich man was getting a ship prepared on the sea shore. While he was thus looking, at the time when this boy having gone near looked, the work at the ship was becoming finished, it is said. Owing to it, the boy, speaking to the rich man, says, "Will you sell this ship?" He asked [thus], it is said. [In reply] to it, the rich man having looked in the boy's direction, said in fun, "Yes, I will sell it." The boy asked, "For how much will you sell it?" "For five hundred pounds for the ship on which pounds, thousands in number, have been spent I will give it," he said. On account of it the boy, having placed in pawn his books and slates at a shop near by, and having [thus got and] brought twenty-five cents, [210] and given them as earnest money for the ship, says, "To-morrow morning at nine, having secured the money I will take the ship," he said. The rich man through inability to say two words remained without speaking, it is said. The boy having gone home, at the time when he was there, when his mother asked, "Why, Bola, where are thy books and slates?" the boy says, "Having asked the price for a new ship of such and such a rich man, and agreed to take it, I placed the slates and books in pawn, and bringing twenty-five cents I gave them as earnest money," he said. His mother having become angry at it, and having beaten the boy, scolding him drove him away without giving him food, it is said. At the time when she drove him away, having gone near a Hettiya of that city he says, "Ane! Hettirala, I having agreed to take such and such a rich man's ship, and having gone to school, at the time when I was coming I placed my books and slates in pledge at a shop; and bringing twenty-five cents and having given them as earnest money, and agreed to secure the remaining money to-morrow morning at nine, I was going home meanwhile. When I told my mother these matters, she bringing anger into her (undae) mind, beat me, and drove me from the house without having given me food. Because it is so, you having paid this price for this ship keep it in your name," he said. The Hettiya becoming pleased at it, on the following day morning having made ready the money and gone with the boy, the Hettiya says, "I will stay here. You having gone with this money and given it to him, take the ship. As soon as you take it (e aragana wahama) speak to me; then I will come," he said. Then the boy, having gone in the manner he said, at the agreed time, and having spoken to the rich man, says, "According to the agreed manner, here (menna), I brought the price for you. Taking charge of it and having written the deeds, give me the ship," he said. The rich man, as soon as he was out of a great astonishment, [211] having gone and written the deeds, and having handed over the ship, says, "Ade! Bola, boy, is thy filth (kunu) a religious merit? Where, indeed, if this had not broken and fallen [on me], for a price of that manner was I to give the ship on which I incurred expenses to the amount of thousands of pounds! Thy birth having been consistent with it, it will be a debt [of a previous existence] which I was to give to thee. Because it is so, I will launch on the great sea this ship on which these five hundred pounds are spent, and will give [thee it there]," he said. On account of it, the boy having summoned the Hettiya, says, "There (Onna)! I got the ship! Although I got it, the price I gave for the ship was not mine; it was yours. Because of that, load into this ship the goods you want [to send], and having placed hired workmen [on board] for it, give charge of it to me. I having gone to some country or other [after] doing trading shall come back in happiness," he said. Then that man who sold the ship, having collected together people and incurred great expenses, and caused the ship to be launched on the sea, gave him it, it is said. Having acted in that manner and given it, out of that price not bringing a cent home, he spent it over that; and having related the circumstance to his family, not feeling (ne-gena) any grief, in good happiness he dispatched the time (kal aeriya), it is said. If you said, "What is [the reason of] that?" "There is no need for us to take [to heart] sorrow. From the debt that we were to give him [in a previous existence] we are released," he said. After that, the Hettiya having loaded into the ship bags of rice, thousands in number, and placed [over it] a hired captain, made the boy the principal (palamuweniya), and having given him charge sent it off, it is said. While the ship was going, time went by, many days in number, it is said; but while they were going on as a land (godak) was not yet to be perceived, the ship drifted to a great never-seen country, it is said. When they investigated in the country, and looked at the auspicious character of the kind of men who are [there], their faces were of the manner of dogs' faces, the body like these bodies of ours, [212] but the food was human-flesh food, it is said. On account of it, the persons who were in the ship being afraid, say, "Ane! This is indeed a cause for both ourselves and our ship to be lost!" While they are staying [there] the boy says anew, "I think of an expedient for this, that is, let us cook a great rice [feast] on the ship. Having cooked it, I will go to this village, and having spoken to the men and come [after] assembling them, and having eaten this food of ours, we will tell them to look [round the ship]." Having caused the rice to be made ready the boy went to the village, and having come [after] assembling the men, while giving them the food to eat, these men, perceiving that it was a food possessing great flavour that they had not eaten and not seen (no-ka nu-dutu) say, "This sort you call 'rice' we [first] saw to-day indeed. For what things will you give this?" [213] they asked. To that the sailors say, "Except that we give for money, for another thing we do not give," they said, it is said. Meanwhile the men (minisun) say, "In our country there is not a kind called 'money'; in our country there are pieces of silver and gold. If you will give it for them, give it," they said, it is said. After that, the sailors having spoken [together] and caused them to bring those things, began to measure and measure and give the rice, it is said. Should you say, "In what manner was that?" that kind of men, putting the pieces of silver and gold into sacks and having brought them, began to take away rice to the extent they give, it is said. During the time while they are doing taking and giving (ganu denu) in that way, because the sailors had great fear of staying, at night, at about the time when both heaps were equal (hari) by stealth they began to navigate the ship, it is said. At that very time, at the time when they looked at the accounts of that rice they gave, the cost had been not more than a hundred bags in number, it is said. For the rice that was of that cost there had been collected sacks of gold and silver,--about twelve were assembled, it is said. Having gone to yet [another] country, and sold those things, and made them into money (mudal kara), taking for the money yet nine ships, and together with this ship having loaded goods into the whole ten ships, he began to come to his own city. While coming there, at the time when [the citizens] looked at this it was like the mode of coming for a great fight. Meanwhile, not allowing them to approach their own country, the King asked, "Of what country are these ships? Are they coming for some fight, or what?" At that, having raised the flag of the ship they say, "No; we have not come for a fight. In these ships are trading-goods. In any other way but that we have not come," they said. Yet still the King asked, through the excess of his fear, saying and saying, "Whose ships? Who is the owner?" To that the boy, having caused them to raise the ship's flag, says, "Such and such a Hettirala's indeed are these ships," he said. Then speedily having caused the Hettiya to be brought, when he asked him, the Hettiya says, "These ships are not for me. I bought such and such a rich man's ship for such and such a boy, and loaded rice in it; since I sent it (aeriya haetiye) there is not even news yet," the Hettiya said. After that, having sent a boat, and caused the principal person of the ships to be brought, when he asked, indeed, thereafter the Hettiya gets to know [the facts]. As soon as he ascertained he caused the ships to be brought, and when the Hettiya asked the boy about these matters the boy gave account of (kiya-dunna) the wonderful things that occurred, it is said. At the time when he reported them the Hettiya says, "I will not take charge of these ships. Should you ask, 'What is [the reason of] that?' because your merit (pina) is great, when I have taken the things you obtained they will not flourish for me," he said. On account of it, the Hettiya took only the five hundred pounds that the Hettiya gave the boy, and the price of the rice, it is said. Thereupon the boy, having caused a great palace to be built, and having decorated his mother with great beauty, causing her to ascend a great horse-carriage, published it by beat of tom-toms; and obtaining the office of Treasurer (situ tanataera) he dwelt in that palace. Having established hired persons for the ships, he began to send them to various countries (rata ratawala), it is said. Western Province. NO. 234 HOW THE DAUGHTER-IN-LAW GOT THE MASURAN In a certain city there was a nobleman. [214] There had been a great quantity of the nobleman's goods, but the goods in time having become destroyed, he arrived at a very indigent condition. During the time while he was [thus], existing by his son and daughter's continuing to strongly exert themselves as much as possible, at last this nobleman died. After that, at the time when his son arrived at full age, his mother began to say to the son, "Son, because I am now a person who is approaching old age, you are unable quite alone to provide for me. Because it is so, thou must take in marriage a woman from a suitable family," she said. Well then, after he had married, the woman does not exert herself for his mother. Her husband having succeeded in ascertaining that she does not exert herself in this manner, and having thought that for [counteracting] this he must make a means of success, collected a quantity of fragments of plates that were at the whole of the places in the village; and taking a large skin, and having caused a purse to be made from the skin, and put in the skin purse the quantity of fragments of plate that he collected, he says to his mother, "Mother, when you have come near that woman, open the box so as to be visible from afar, and having behaved as though there were great wealth in it, and shaken this skin bag, place it in the box [again], and put it away." When he said thus, his mother, taking [to heart] her son's saying, having made a sound with the skin bag in the manner he said, so as to be noticed by her son's wife, and having treated it carefully, placed it in the box. From the day on which the son's wife saw it, she began to exert herself for her mother-in-law. During the time when she is exerting herself thus, a leprosy disease attacked her mother-in-law. Thereupon the son spoke to his mother, and said, "Mother, taking that skin bag, and placing it at the spot where you sleep, say in this manner to your relatives and my wife, that is, 'Beginning on the day when I was little (podi dawase patan) until this [time] I gathered together these articles. For not any other reason but in order to give them at the time of my being near death, to a person who has exerted herself for me, I gathered these together. Should any person out of you exert [herself] for me, to that person I will give these.' You say [this]," he said secretly to his mother. After that, his mother having gathered together her relatives, and having called her daughter-in-law near, while in front of the whole of them she said in the mode which her son taught her, that to the person who exerted herself for her she will give the skin bag of masuran. Thereupon each one, competing according to the measure of her power, attended on this female leper. That son's mind arrived at [a state of] much delight. [After] in this manner enjoying pleasure, when a little time had gone this female leper died. Thereupon, anybody among the relatives not having hidden it, the son's wife, stealing the masuran bag, concealed it. Having buried the corpse, after the disturbance was done with the son's wife unfastened the bag of masuran. When she looked [in it], having seen that it had been filled with only the fragments of the plates that were in the village, she arrived at extreme grief. That woman's mother also having come at this time, very noisily asked, "Did my daughter receive the bag of masuran?" Thereupon her daughter having told her that she was cheated, when she had shown her the bag of fragments of plates both of them wept; and that woman having become angry with her husband separated from him, and went to her own house. Western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. iv, p. 121, Miss S. H. Goonetilleke published nearly the same story without the introductory part, presumably as it is found in Kandy. The son gave his mother a bag containing stones, telling her to pretend that it held valuables. She threatened to leave owing to her daughter-in-law's neglect of her, and to go to her own daughter's house, and she went off while the daughter-in-law was asleep. The son scolded his wife, and told her the bag of gold would now be left to his mother's daughter, so she went off next morning, coaxed her back, and attended to her carefully afterwards, and only learnt about the trick when the woman was dying. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 241, an old man who was wealthy, thinking he was about to die, divided his property among his sons, who afterwards neglected and abused him, and treated him with cruelty. A friend to whom he related his troubles afterwards came with four bags of stones, and told him to pretend that he had returned to pay off an old debt of large amount, on no account allowing the sons to get the bags. This had the desired effect; the sons attended carefully to him until he died, and then greedily opening the bags learnt how they had been tricked. NO. 235 THE MONKEY AND THE BEGGAR, OR THE MONKEY APPUSIÑÑO AND THE BEGGAR BABASIÑÑO A certain Beggar having gone from village to village was earning a subsistence by making a Monkey [215] dance and dance. By it those two collected a very little money. Having changed the small coins they got a pound in gold, and a rupee. During that time the Monkey was well accustomed to [visit] the royal house. For marrying and giving the Princess of the King of the country, the King began to seek Princes. At that time royal Princes not being anywhere in those countries, he stayed without doing anything (nikan). At that time the Monkey called Appusiñño asked Babasiñño the Beggar, "Am I to arrange and give you an opportunity [for a marriage]?" Then Babasiñño said, "What is this you are saying, Appusiñño? For you and for us what [wedding] feast!" Then Appusiñño said, "It doesn't matter to you. I will arrange and give it from somewhere or other." Having said thus, Appusiñño went to the royal house. At that time the King having seen Appusiñño, asked, "What have you come for?" Then Appusiñño said, "The Mudaliyar [216] Babasiñño told me to go and ask for the bushel for measuring golden pounds. On that account I came." Then the King thinking, "Who is it, Bola, who is a rich man to that degree?" told him to ask a servant for it, and go. So Appusiñño, asking a servant for it, went back [with it]. [Afterwards] taking the golden pound which, having changed [their small coins for it], they were hiding, and having glued it in the bushel so as not to be noticed, he handed over the bushel, with the golden pound also, at the royal house. Thereupon the King, having looked at the bushel, said, "Look here. A golden pound has been overlooked [217] in this. Appusiñño, take it away." Thereupon Appusiñño said, "Golden pounds like that are swept up into the various corners of the house of our Lord Mudaliyar Babasiñño. Because of it, what of that one!" The King thought, "Maybe this person is a richer man than I!" The Lord Mudaliyar Babasiñño and Appusiñño stay in a hut enclosed with leaves. [218] There are deficiencies of goods for those persons, for cooking and eating; there are only the small cooking pot (muttiya) and the large cooking pot (appalla) [as their goods]. On yet a day Appusiñño went running to the royal house. Having said that the Lord Mudaliyar told him to go and ask for the bushel for measuring rupees, he asked for it. At that time the King asked Appusiñño, "Whence comes this money?" Appusiñño said, "All is indeed the revenue which he receives from gardens, and grass fields, and rice fields." After that, he took away the vessel. At that time taking the rupee which was hidden, having brought it again, he gave it [with the rupee inside]. That day also the King said, "Look here. A rupee has been overlooked; take it away." Thereupon he says, "If one gather up rupees at home in that way there are many [there]. What of that one!" Appusiñño having gone, and having walked to the shops in the villages, [after] finding about a hundred old keys, returned. Having brought the keys, and having thoroughly cleaned them, and made them into a bunch of keys, he tied them at his waist. [After] tying them at his waist he went in the direction of the royal house. The King, having seen this bunch of keys, asked, "Whence, Appusiñño, keys to this extent?" "They are the keys of the cash-boxes in the wardrobes of the Lord Mudaliyar," he said. Having said it, Appusiñño said, "O Lord King, Your Majesty, will you, Sir, be angry at my speaking?" The King replied, "I am not angry at your speaking, or at your saying anything you want." Thereupon Appusiñño says, "Our Lord Mudaliyar having walked to every place in this country, there was not an opportunity (idak) [for a marriage] to be found." The Monkey informed the King that although during the little time that had passed he was poor, at present he was a great rich man, and that he was a person born formerly of an extremely important lineage. "Because of it I am speaking," he said. At that time the King said, "That there are signs of his wealth, I know. His caste and birth [219] I do not know. Hereafter (dewenu) having inquired [about them], I will say." Thereupon Appusiñño having gone into a multitude of villages, told the men, "The King having sent messages and told you to come, will ask, 'Is Babasiñño a very wealthy person? Is he a person of good lineage?' Then say, 'He is of a very good caste.'" After that, the King having summoned the Talipat fan men [220] who were in that country, made inquiry, "Is Babasiñño's house (i.e., lineage) good or bad?" The whole of them began to say, "He is a monied man, an overlord of lineage," [221] they said. After that, Appusiñño came once to the royal palace. At that time the King said to Appusiñño that he must see the bridegroom. Thereupon Appusiñño having gone home, and again having gone to the bazaar and bought a piece of soap, caused the Lord Mudaliyar Babasiñño to bathe. Again, the Monkey known as Appusiñño, splitting his head with a stone, went running to the royal house. Thereupon the King asked Appusiñño, "What has split your head?" Appusiñño says, "The Lord Mudaliyar sought for the keys to get clothes to go somewhere or other. Out of my hand the keys were lost. On account of it having beaten me with a club and my head having been split, I came running here," he said. Thereupon the King says, "You can find the keys some time. Until then, there are the needful clothes. Go and give him any cloth you want out of them," he said. So having taken a good cloth in which gold work was put, he dressed him, and he having come to the royal house, the King became pleased with the Lord Mudaliyar Babasiñño; and having caused the naekat (planetary prognostics) to be looked at, settled to marry [him to his daughter]. Thereupon, having told the men who were in that country, and having decorated the city, he observed the [wedding] festival, having also been surrounded by much sound of the five instruments of music in an extremely agreeable manner. Well then, while they were going summoning the Princess to Babasiñño's own country, the Monkey through extreme delight ran jumping and jumping in front. While the Monkey was going thus, a party of boys who were causing certain goats to graze, having heard the noise of the five instruments of music, became afraid. At the time when they asked, "What is this?" "They are coming breaking up a country, upsetting a country. If ye are to save these goats, say they are the Lord Mudaliyar Babasiñño's," the Monkey said. When they are going a little further, certain herdsmen who are looking after cattle having become afraid, at the time when they asked [what the noise was], "They are coming breaking up a country, upsetting a country. If ye are to escape say, 'We are causing the Lord Mudaliyar Babasiñño's cattle to graze,'" the Monkey said. When they are going a little further, certain men who are doing rice-field work having become afraid, at the time when they asked, "What is this noise?" he said, "They are coming breaking up a country, upsetting a country. If ye are to escape say, 'We are doing work in the Lord Mudaliyar Babasiñño's rice fields.'" At the whole of the aforesaid places the men observed the method which the Monkey said. The Monkey saw during the time he was staying in the midst of the forest, a house in which is a Yaksani. As in that house there are riches, silver and gold, like a palace, and because there was nothing in Babasiñño's house, he thought of going there. Having thought it, and having left the bride and bridegroom and the whole of them to come in carts, and having said, "Come on this path," Appusiñño got in front, and having gone to the place where the Yaksani is, said, "Isn't there even news that they are coming breaking up a country, upsetting a country? The King is coming to behead you. Because of it, go to that stone well and get hid." Thereupon, the Yaksani having gone to the stone well, got hid. While she was hiding [in it], this Appusiñño having thrown stones [into it], and having killed the Yaksani, swept the Yaksani's house, and when the party were coming was there. The King and the rest having come, when they looked much wealth and corn were there. Having said, "This one is a great rich person, indeed," while the servants and the Princess remained there the King came back to the city. But however much assistance the Monkey gave, Babasiñño having forgotten the whole of it did not even look whether they gave the Monkey to eat. Well then, while the party are staying there, one day, to look, "Does the Lord Mudaliyar Babasiñño regard me?" Appusiñño was getting false illness. At that time Babasiñño said, "What a vile remnant [222] is this! Take it and throw it away into the jungle." Thereupon the Monkey made visible and showed the absence (naetikama) of Babasiñño's good qualities (guna), bringing forward many circumstances [in proof of it. He said], "Putting [out of consideration] that I was of so much assistance, you said thus!" Having said, "Because of it, staying here is not proper," he went into the midst of the forest. Western Province. NO. 236 HOW THE BEGGAR AND THE KING GAMBLED In a certain country there was a King who having gambled gets the victory. At that time, in that country there was a Beggar. One day, Senasura, [223] having come near the Beggar, said, "Taking the money that thou hast begged and got, go near the King, and say thou, 'Let us gamble.' Then the King will say, 'I will not.' Then say thou, 'Somehow or other, to the degree in which you, Sir, hold [a wager], I will hold wagers. Because of that you ought to play.' Then the King will say, 'Ha.'" At that time the Beggar by begging had obtained about a thousand pounds. Having taken that little money he spoke to the King about the gambling. Then the King scolded him: "What gambling with thee, Beggar!" Then the Beggar says, "Should I hold the wager that you, Sir, hold, that is as much [as matters] to you, isn't it? Why are you saying so? Let us gamble." Then anger having come to the King, and having said "Ha, it is good," he became ready to gamble. Having made ready the two gambled. While gambling the King began to lose at the wagers they were laying and laying. Having thus lost, he staked (lit., placed) the palace, also, and played. By that [throw] also, he lost. Then having staked Lankawa (Ceylon) also, he played. By that [throw] also, he lost. After that, going from the palace the King and Queen made an outer palace, and the Beggar stayed in the palace. This King and Queen [afterwards] went away. Being unable to go on, they sat down at a place. While they were sitting the Queen lay down, and placed her head on the foot of the King. During the time while the Queen was asleep, the King taking a ball of straw placed it for the Queen's head; and while the Queen was sleeping there the King went away. At that time some men came there, bringing laden oxen. Then having heard the noise of the caravan (tavalama), the Queen awoke. When she looked about the King was not there. Then the Queen also having joined the caravan people, went away [with them]. Having gone, while she was lying down at a place, Senasura, having come taking the disguise of a leopard, sprang at the party of caravan cattle. Then all the cattle which were tied up, breaking [loose] bounded off. Having bounded off, while they were running all these men sprang off on that road. This Queen sprang off to one hand (a different direction). Having bounded off she entered a city. The mother who makes garlands for the royal house, being without a person [as an assistant], having sought one and walked there, met with this Queen. At the time when she asked at the hand of the Queen [if she would help her], she said, "I can work." Well then, the Queen stayed [there], doing and doing garland-making work. That King having abandoned the Queen, while he was going away, Senasura, taking the disguise of a polanga [224] (snake), stayed on the path. When the King was going from there the polanga said, "Having swallowed a prey I am here, unable to go. Because of it take hold of my tail, and having drawn me aside and left me, go away." Thereupon the King having taken hold of the tail of the polanga, while he was drawing it aside it bit him on the hand. Then leprosy having struck the King, the King's eye became foul. At that time a horse belonging to the King of yet [another] city was born. [The King went there, and was appointed as a horse-keeper under the King who owned the horse.] That garland-making mother (the ex-Queen) one day having gone taking flowers, placed them on the couches at the palace. When she was coming out, a trader who sold clothes when at that gambling city, having brought clothes to this city and having seen her as that garland-making mother was coming out, this trader made obeisance to this garland-making mother. Thereupon the Queen of the King of the city having seen it summoned the trader, and asked him, "Why didst thou make an obeisance to our garland-making mother?" The trader says, "What of that Queen's doing garland-making work! [She is] the Queen of the King of such and such a city. Having seen her before, through being accustomed to it I made obeisance." When she asked the garland-making mother about the circumstances, all was correct. After that having told the King, when the King, having heard of it, went looking at her she was the King's elder sister. Thereupon he caused the garland-making mother to bathe in sandal-wood water, and robed her. Having heard the circumstances, in order to find the King (her husband) he made use of an expedient in this manner. Settling to eat a feast, he sent letters to the royal personages of cities successively, to come to this city. Then on the day the whole of the Kings came. Before that, he had told that Queen that should that King come she was to ascertain it. All these royal parties and their horse-keepers having come, and the royal party having arrived at the palace, that horse-keeper (the former King) went to another quarter, and placed a gill of rice on the hearth [to boil]. Cooking it and having eaten, because he was a King before that he set off to look at this royal party when eating food, and having come, peeped a little and looked. When he looked he saw that that Queen was there. Thereupon both these persons having seen each other began to weep. Then the whole of the Kings, having hit upon a little about it, inquired, "What is it?" Then the [royal] party said, "It is thus and thus." Then the King summoned the horse-keeper, and having made him bathe in sandal-wood water, kept the Queen and the King in the palace. Having much thanked that royal party [of guests] and said, "It was for the sake of finding this one, indeed, that I laid this feast," he sent the party [of guests] to those cities. This party (the King and Queen) remained at this royal house. Western Province. This story is a variant of the Indian tale of King Nala and Queen Damayanti. The two dice, Kali and Dwapara, personified, as well as several Gods, were in love with Damayanti, but she married Nala, selecting him at a Swayamvara (at which a Princess makes her own choice of a husband). In order to separate them, Kali entered Nala when he had neglected his religious practices one day; and he became a drunkard and a gambler, and thus lost his kingdom, which was won by his brother at dice. He and his wife wandered away, and after showing her the path to her father's kingdom, he abandoned her while she was asleep. He met with Karkotaka, a snake King, and carried him from a fire which scorched him. The snake then bit him on the forehead, causing him to become deformed, and gave him garments which restored his original form when worn; and he entered the service of a King as cook and horse-keeper. Damayanti joined a caravan, and then became a palace attendant of a Queen who proved to be her mother's sister. A Minister of her father's recognised her; and on her story's becoming known her uncle sent her back to her father. She heard of a clever cook and horse-keeper whom she suspected to be Nala; when she got a false notice of a Swayamvara to be sent to the King his employer he made Nala drive him there. Nala was tested in various ways by Damayanti, who at last felt sure of his identity; she then sent for him, and Kali having now left him he told his story, put on his magic garments, and they were re-united. He afterwards recovered his kingdom from his brother. In the Sinhalese version which has been given, the dice are not mentioned, and the reason why Senasura brought about the misfortunes of the King and Queen,--that is, his jealousy,--is also not explained. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 144, the story is given without any intervention of the deities or personified dice. After being abandoned, the Princess was engaged as a servant at a palace, and the Prince became a groom at the same place. She saw and recognised him, and afterwards the younger brother restored half the kingdom to him. NO. 237 THE STORY OF THE KING In a certain country, during the time when a King was exercising sovereignty the King married a Queen, it is said. In the Queen's womb, begotten by the Great King, three Princes were conceived, it is said. While the three Princes were in the state approaching full age, the eldest Prince of the three Princes improved himself in throwing stones with the stone-bow, it is said. During the time when he was improving himself thus, he became a very skilful and dexterous person at stone-bow throwing. After that, the same Prince having abandoned the stone-bow began the shooting of animals with the bow and arrows. By that means, having shot at animals and killed animals, while eating the flesh with good joy and pleasure he passed the time in happiness with his father the King, and his mother the Queen, and his younger brothers who were the other two Princes. At the time when he passed the time thus, his mother reached the other world. Not much time after it the Great King effected the wedding festival for yet [another] Queen from another country. The Queen was a childless proud woman. Because it was so, her happiness was in passing the time in discourtesy. Furthermore, by this Queen there not being any notice of the three Princes, and as she was passing the time in anger and jealousy, the three Princes spoke together, "When our father the King has gone to war with any city, we three persons, taking three bags of masuran and causing a bag of cooked rice to be made ready, will go to another country." [After] saying [this], at the time when they are there the King received the message to go to a war. As soon as he received it, [225] having spoken to the Princes and the Queen, "Remain in happiness, looking after the country and the palace," the Great King having been adorned to go went away. After he went, the three Princes, making ready the bags of masuran and cooked rice, and forsaking the country, having started to go to another country, went off. While they were thus going, a very severe water-thirst [226] seized the elder Prince. While going seeking water, perceiving that there was no water he said to the other young Princes, "Having gone to a high hill or up a large tree, look if there is water near." Then a Prince having gone up a tree, when he looked said that very far away a pool of water is visible. After that, having gone to the quarter in which is the pool and having met with water, staying there and dividing the bag of cooked rice they ate. Having eaten and drunk, and having finished, they spoke together, "Let us three pluck three [lotus] flowers from this pool. [After] plucking them let us go to three countries. When we have gone there, should there be harm to anyone whatever of us, the flowers of the remaining two will fade." Having said [this], the three Princes [plucked three flowers, and taking them with them] went to three countries. After they went there, while the eldest Prince was going on the road, a palace of great height was visible. When he went to the palace that was visible, there was a Princess [at it] possessing much beauty. Having seen this Prince's splendour [227] that very Princess fell down unconscious, without sense. Afterwards the Prince having restored the Princess to consciousness, asked, "What happened?" The Princess having spoken, said, "Having seen your beauty, Sir, it caused a great dizziness to seize me, and I fell down." After that, the Prince, begging a little water from the Princess, drank. After he drank, "Why is there no one in this palace?" he asked. The Princess spoke, "My father the King, and mother went for bathing their heads with water. [228] I and the flower-mother alone are [here]," she said. When the Prince asked on account of it, "Will the party come now?" "They will come now quickly," said the Princess. Then the King and the Queen, [after] doing the head-bathing, came. The King and the Queen having seen this Prince became greatly afraid. "Of what country are you, Sir? Who and whose?" they asked the Prince. The Prince says, "I am a son of such and such a King of such and such a city," he said. Because of it, the Great King asked, "Came you with the thought of perhaps a war, or what?" Then the Prince said, "No. After my mother died, while I was remaining in great sorrow, when my father the King, marrying another Queen, was there, for me a great shame entered my mind because of the Queen's unseasonable action; and while the King went for a war I having forsaken my country came to this country." After that, the truth of it went to the Great King, to his mind. As soon as it went there, [229] when a [little] time was going by, having married and given the King's daughter [to him], and made it public by the proclamation tom-tom, and having handed over the country also, he decorated them [with the regal ornaments]. While he was exercising the kingship of that country, the other Princes of the country, having become angry concerning this Prince and having thought of a means of killing him, said, "We will give the flower-mother five hundred masuran to give him this small quantity of poisonous drug, having deceived the Princess by some method or other." [They said to her], "Should you do as we said, we will give you these presents." Should she be unable in that manner they told her to [tell] the Princess to ask where the Prince's life is. In that way, the flower-mother having prepared a new [sort of] food for the Prince, and having also put [into it] this drug and deceived the Princess, at the time when the Prince is eating food she told her to give him this new food. This having seemed the truth to the Princess, at the time when the Prince was eating food she gave it. The Prince, too, having been much pleased with the food, and having eaten and drunk, finished. Owing to it, anything did not happen. On the following day the flower-mother says to the Princess, "Where is the Prince's life?" She told her to ask. When she asked the Prince on account of it, "My life is in my breast," he said. When she told it to the flower-mother in the morning, the flower-woman said, "What he said is false." She told her to ask thoroughly. At night on the following day, when she asked he asked for oaths from the Princess, [of a nature to ensure] the impossibility of escaping from them, that the Princess must not tell it to any person. Afterwards the Princess swore, "I will not tell it." Then the Prince says, "My life is in my sword," he said. On the following day, when the flower-woman asked, having deceived the Princess, the Princess said, "If you will not tell it to anyone I will tell you. [For me] to tell it, you [must] take an oath with me," she said. When the flower-mother swore to it the Princess said, "The Prince's life is in the Prince's sword." From the day when she heard the fact for herself, that flower-mother to an extent never [done] before, began to pile up a heap of firewood and coconut husks. When the Princess asked, "What is that for?" she says, "For us to put in the hearth at the time when rain rains," she said. While not much time was going in that way, one day not having shut the door of the palace, at night this flower-mother stole the Prince's sword, put it into that piled up heap of firewood, and set it on fire; but the handle for holding the sword was left outside the flames. That fire fell into the heap. [230] At the time when it was thoroughly burning the Prince's life was becoming ended here. After the sword was burnt the Prince completely died. Not allowing them to bury the dead body, the Princess having caused a coffin to be made, and placed the dead body inside the coffin, remained in much grief. While she was thus, the flowers of the Prince's brothers having faded, when they came seeking him ascertaining the truth they went to the palace. At the time when they went, having seen the Princess who was in the palace they asked the Princess, "Why? For what [reason] are you without cause (nikan) in this great trouble?" they asked. To that the Princess says, "At the time when a Prince of such and such a King of such and such a country came to this country, my father the King having asked the Prince his age, and looked [into his horoscope], married and gave me to him; and having given him charge to rule the country also, that person (her father) died," she said. "After that, while he is exercising the kingship this flower-mother told me to ask where the Prince's life is. When I asked, the Prince's life is in the Prince's sword, he said. After that, whether such and such a thing occurred I do not understand," she said. When those Princes sought for the sword there was no sword. Afterwards they looked in that heap of ashes on the fire ground. They met with only the piece of that hilt for holding. Having met with it, one person having gone running and having come [after] plucking limes, began to polish that piece of sword. The other having opened that coffin (lit. corpse-box) was near it. While he was there, by an authorisation of the Deity the sword was restored (lit. went right) better than it was [before]. Then life being as though [re-]established for the Prince also, he arose. After that, having investigated about these matters and looked [into them], perceiving what the flower-mother did he impaled that woman and killed her. Afterwards these three Princes and the Princess sought their father the King, and went to [their own] country. Western Province. NO. 238 THE KING WHO LEARNT THE SPEECH OF ANIMALS In a certain country a King was rearing wild animals. The King had learnt in a thorough manner the speech of animals. One day at that time the fowls were saying, "Our King assists us very much; he gives us food and drink." They thanked the King very much. The King having heard their talk, the King laughed with pleasure. The royal Queen having been near, asked, "What did you laugh at?" "I merely (nikan) laughed," the King said. Should he explain and give the talk to any person the King will die. Because of it he did not explain and give it. That the King knows the speech of animals he does not inform anyone. The royal Queen says, "There is no one who laughs in that way without a reason. Should you not say the reason I am going away, or having jumped into a well I shall die." Thereupon the King, because he was unable to be released from [the importunity of] the Queen, thought, "Even if I am to die I must explain and give this." Thinking thus, he went to give food to the animals. Then it was evident to those animals that this King is going to die. Out of the party of animals first a cock says, "His Majesty our King is going to be lost. We don't want the food. We shall not receive assistance. Unless His Majesty the King perish thus we shall not perish. In submission to me there are many hens. When I have called them the hens come. When I have told them to eat they eat. When I have told them to go they go. The King, having become submissive in that manner to the thing that his wife has said, is going to die." The King having heard it, laughed at it, also. Then, also, the royal Queen asked, "What did you laugh at?" Thereupon, not saying the [true] word, the King said, "Thinking of constructing a tank, I laughed." Then the Queen said, "Having caused the animals that are in this Lankawa (Ceylon) to be brought, let us build a tank." Then the King having said, "It is good," caused the animals to be brought. The King having gone with the animals, showed them a place [in which] to build a tank; and telling them to build it came away. The animals, at the King's command being unable to do anything, all together began to struggle on the mound of earth. Those which can take earth in the mouth take it in the mouth. All work in this manner. The Jackal, not doing any work, having bounded away remained looking on. After three or four days, the King having gone [there] trickishly stayed looking on. The King saw that the other animals are all moving about as though working; the Jackal, only, having bounded off is looking on. Having seen it he asked the Jackal, "The others are all working; thou, only, art looking upward. Why?" Thereupon the Jackal said, "No, O Lord; I looked into an account." Then the King asked, "What account art thou looking at?" The Jackal says, "I looked whether in this country the females are in excess or the males are in excess." The King asked, "By the account which thou knowest, are the females in excess or the males in excess?" The Jackal said, "So far as I can perceive, the females are in excess in this country." Then the King said that men are in excess. Having said it the King said, "I myself having gone home and looked at the books, if males are in excess I shall give thee a good punishment." The King having come home and looked at the books, it appeared that the males were in excess. Thereupon the King called the Jackal, and said, "Bola, males are in excess." Then the Jackal says, "No, O Lord, Your Majesty; they are not as many as the females. Having also put down to the female account the males who hearken to the things that females say, after they counted them the females would be in excess." Then the Jackal said, "Are the animals able to build tanks? How shall they carry the earth?" Thereupon the King having considered it, and having said, "Wild animals, wild animals, you are to go to the midst of the forest," came home. At that time, the Queen asked, "Is the tank built and finished?" Then the King, taking a cane, began to beat the Queen. Thereupon the Queen, having said, "Ane! O Lord, Your Majesty, I will never again say anything, or even ask anything," began to cry aloud. The King got to know that the Jackal was a wise animal. Western Province. Compare vol. ii., Nos. 167 and 168. In Santal Folk-Tales (Campbell), p. 22, after a King had received from the Snake King the power of understanding the speech of animals, he laughed on hearing a dispute between a fly and an ant over some grains of rice. As the Queen insisted on being told the reason, to disclose which he had been warned would be fatal to him, he was about to tell her and then get her to push him into the Ganges, when he overheard the talk of some goats. A he-goat replied to a she-goat's request that he would bring her some grass from an island in the river, that he would not be made like this foolish King who vainly tried to please a woman and was about to die because of it. The King saw his foolishness, made the Queen kneel to pay obeisance to him in order to be told the secret, and then beheaded her. NO. 239 THE MAD KING In a certain country there was a King. Madness seized the King. It having seized him, he caused all the men of the city to be brought, and seized from them their gains; should the party say even a word about it he kills them. Having killed them in this manner, when the city was diminished a half share, he sent to tell the Treasurer (sitano) to come. He knows thoroughly that in order to kill that person he had been told to come. The Treasurer asked at the hand of the Treasurer's wife, "What shall I do for this?" Thereupon the woman said, "You having gone, to the talk which the King says having said nothing [else] in reply, say 'Eheyi' (Yes), [231] to the whole." Having heard her word the Treasurer went to the palace. The King asked, "Treasurer, is there rain in your quarter?" The Treasurer said "Eheyi, Lord." "Are you well now?" he asked. The Treasurer, not saying another speech, to that also said, "Eheyi, Lord." In this manner they talked until the time for eating rice in the day time. To all he said, "Eheyi." Then the King said to the Treasurer, "Treasurer, now the time for eating rice has come, hasn't it?" The Treasurer said, "Eheyi, Lord." Thereupon the King said, "Treasurer, let us go to bathe." The Treasurer said, "Eheyi, Lord." The King said, "Ask for the copper water-pot." The Treasurer said, "Eheyi, Lord." Having said it and gone, he returned [after] asking for [and getting] it. Then the King said, "Get in front." The Treasurer said, "Eheyi, Lord"; having said it the Treasurer got in front. Having gone to the river, the King took off his clothes, and putting on the bathing cloth, [entered the water, and] asked the Treasurer, "Treasurer, won't you bathe?" The Treasurer, having said, "Eheyi, Lord," remained on the rock. While the King was talking and going backwards and backwards, he was caught by an eddy in the water, and went to the bottom. Having sunk, when he was rising to the surface he said, "Treasurer, I shall die; draw me out quickly." Thereupon the Treasurer said, "Eheyi, Lord," [but did not move]. When he was going to the bottom the next time the King died. Then the Treasurer, taking the few royal ornaments, came home. Having come, he said at the hand of the Treasurer's wife, "The King died," [and he gave an account of his death]. Thereupon the woman said, "O fool! I said that indeed. Putting on those royal ornaments, go to the royal palace and say, 'It is I who am King; also I killed the King. If ye do not hearken to the things I say I will kill you also.'" The Treasurer did in that very way. The whole of the men of the city were afraid. Well then, the Treasurer exercising the sovereignty over the city, the Treasurer's wife became the Queen. Western Province. THE KAHAWANA SOWING (Variant) At a certain city there was a foolish King. At the time when the King says anything he kills the whole of the Ministers who do not give answer, "Yahapati" (It is good), to it. In this way, by not remembering to say Yahapati a great number of Ministers tasted death. [232] By his doing thus, on account of his making this order [in the end] there was not a Minister for the King. After that, he caused notice to be given by tom-toms in the city for a person to come for the ministership (aemaeptiya­kama). Because they were not willing to taste death anybody was unwilling to do it. At last, a drunken cheat having the name Jobbuwa arrived. "Yahapati; be pleased to give me the office of Minister," he said. The King having said, "Yahapati," gave him the office of Minister. While time was passing, he spoke to the Minister one day, and said, "Cannot I obtain profit by cultivating kahawanas (coins)?" "Yahapati; you can get much gain by it," he said. "If so, for the purpose of sowing them cause a chena to be cut," the King said to the Minister. The Minister, having said, "Yahapataeyi" (It is good), went away, and firstly having told the Chiefs (pradaninta) of the village to collect and bring Tamarind seeds, told the villagers to put in order a wide, level, open place on the border of a certain river. The villagers having put the Tamarind seeds into sacks and stitched them up, brought them. Having cut the chena, after it was completed the Minister having gone, asked the King for kahawanas [to sow in it]. The King said, "Take as many as you require for sowing in the chena." The Minister having brought the kahawanas home, caused the Tamarind seeds to be sown in the chena. After they sprouted, the King said he must go to look at the chena. The Minister inviting the King [to go], having gone in state (peraharin) with him, and caused the army to stay on one side, the King and the Minister went into the chena. Because, when the Tamarind seeds sprouted, many young shoots were of golden colour [233] the King said, "These are very good." While he was walking there a long time, having arrived at weariness the King went to the river to bathe. In that river the water is very rapid. Because of it, at the time when the King descended into the water he began to be drawn down into the water. Thereupon, at the time when the King says, "Take hold of me," the Minister, having said, "Yahapati," remained looking on. After the King had been swallowed up in the river and died, the Minister, having put on the royal ornaments and gone away with the army, exercised the sovereignty of that city with renown. Uva Province. NO. 240 CONCERNING THE PRINCE WITH HIS LIFE IN HIS SWORD In a certain country there was a King. There were seven Princes for the King. Having instructed the whole seven, the King tried to fit them [for their position]. The party without wanting to do anything whatever passed the days in amusement. The King thought when he looked [at their idleness], "From this party of seven persons there is not an advantage," and having punished (dada gahala) the whole seven, "Go to any kingdom you can; don't stay in this country," he said. The seven persons speaking [together] said, "Our father the King told us to go!" and the whole of them went. Out of them, the eldest Prince, took six flower seeds. The whole seven having arrived at a kingdom, to the youngest Prince the eldest Prince said, "Getting any livelihood you can, remain in this country. At the place where you stay plant this flower seed for yourself. It having sprouted, when the flower tree has grown, on the tree a flower will blossom. At the time when the flower has faded come seeking me." Having told him thus he made the Prince stay in that country. In that very way he made the other five stay in five countries. Having given to those persons five flower seeds, he told them [about them] in the very way he told that Prince. To the last country the eldest Prince went. When he was living in that country doing cultivation work, one day he went to walk in the midst of the forest. In the midst of the forest there is a house. The Prince saw it. Having gone to that rock house (cave), when he looked a Princess was [there]. He asked the Princess, "Are you a human daughter, or a Yaksa-daughter?" Thereupon the Princess said, "I am a daughter of a King. Having eaten food at night I went to sleep. That Yaka having brought me, I am in this rock house. I also do not know a path for going away; I stay in fear," the Princess said. Then the Prince asked the Princess, "Will you come to go with me?" At that time the Princess having said, "It is good," the two together having bounded off, proceeded to the place where the Prince who went there stays. During the time while these persons are staying there obtaining a livelihood, the Prince's life is in his sword. Except that his brothers know that his life is in this sword, no other person knows. The Princess one day went to the river to bathe. While bathing there, three or four hairs of her head in the Princess's hair knot having become loosened and having floated, went away in the river. When the Prince of the King of that country was bathing lower down in the river, those hairs of her head which went became entangled on the hand of the Prince. When the Prince, having said, "What is this?" was looking, it was a sort of long hairs of the head, hair of the head of gold colour, and about two fathoms' length. Having seen this hair, and known that these were the very best, like [those of] a royal Princess, he thought, "I must seek this Princess," and went to the palace. Having taken the hairs of the head he showed them to his father the King. Having shown them he told him to do whatever [was necessary], and seek and give him the Princess to whom this hair of the head belongs. He published by the notification tom-tom that to a person who, having found, gave her, he will give goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load. An old woman who stayed near there said, "I can." Having told the old woman to come, the King asked, "What do you want in order to go to seek the Princess?" "I don't want anything, O Lord; I only want a boat," she said. So he gave her a boat. Having gone to the river taking the boat, the old woman sat in the boat, saying and saying lamentations, and having floated she went up [234] the river. Having gone in that way, and tied the boat on that side, the old woman went to the place where the Princess possessing that hair, and the Prince, are staying. When the old woman was going there the Prince was not at home. To the Princess the old woman said, "Ane! Daughter, there is no person to look after me. Assist me for the sake of charity," she said. The Princess becoming grieved at it told the old woman to remain. After a little, the Prince came home. Having come he asked, "This mother, a person from where is she? What came she here for?" Thereupon the Princess also [said], "She came and said, 'There is no one to give me to eat!' Because of it, I being alone I said, 'Remain with me,'" she said. While she was [there] in that way, at the time when the Prince was not [there] the old woman said to the Princess, "You having eaten and drunk, when you are lying down by way of fun ask the Prince, 'Where is your life?'" So the Princess asked the Prince, "Where is your life?" At that time the Prince said, "My life is in my sword." Through the ignorance of the Princess regarding it, she told that old woman that his life is in the sword. Well then, the old woman from that day, having said that it was for putting in the hearth on rainy days, sought for firewood and heaped it up. When the old woman is going to sleep, every day having built a bon-fire she goes to sleep. One day during the day time, having been [there] at the time when the Prince is not there, she looked where the sword is. Thereupon, at night a rain began. Having said, "To-day there is rain," she strengthened the bon-fire. After the Princess and the Prince went to sleep she brought the sword and put it in the bon-fire. Having arisen in the morning, when she looked the Prince having died the Princess began to lament. The old woman also falsely lamented. The two persons having been lamenting and lamenting a little time, the old woman, calling the Princess, went to obtain shelter at another place. Having gone there, and handed over the Princess to the King of that country, taking the presents also, the old woman went home. At that time the King told the Princess to take that Prince in marriage. Thereupon the Princess said, "My Prince is now dead only two or three days. Because of it I want time for a month." Having found an upper-story house very near there, he sent the Princess to stay in the upper-story house in that street. Having seen that the flowers of the flower trees of the younger brothers of that Prince had faded, [his brothers] began to seek him. Seeking him, they went to the place where the Prince is dead. Having gone, these six persons together said, "Where is the sword?" and began to seek it. When seeking it, the sword having been in a heap of ashes they took it. Thereafter having taken the sword to the river, they cleaned it; at that time life was [re-]established for that Prince. Then the Prince having arisen spoke to those Princes, and having said, "Now then, go you to each of the places where you were," he did that cultivation work, and remained obtaining a livelihood [thus]. This one got news that that old woman having taken the Princess and given her to the King, received for herself presents and distinctions. At that time sorrow having gone to the Prince he went to seek the Princess. When [he was] going walking in the street in which is the Princess, the Princess saw that this one is going. The Prince did not see her. At that time the Princess began to write a letter. Having written the letter, the Princess remained in expectation of the time when the Prince is coming. The Prince, through news that she is in that very street, came back. At that time the Princess, having seen that the Prince is coming, taking the letter dropped it [so as] to fall in front of him. The Prince having taken the letter, when he looked at it and read it there was written, "That old woman who stayed near us having deceived us and having brought and given me to the King, received for herself presents and distinctions. The King said to me that he must marry and give me to the King's Prince. Thereupon I said, 'My Prince is not dead a month now.' Because of it, asking for time for a month, I am staying in another house," there was written. "I said so through the thought that I shall obtain my Prince again. In three days more we are going to the church (palliya) to marry. Because of it, having got a horse carriage should you come on that day to the church we can escape and go off," there was written. Thereupon the Prince on the day she told him having got a horse carriage also, went near the church in the disguise of a horse-keeper, and halting the carriage, remained [there]. On the wedding day the King, the Prince, the Princess, the whole of the party, went in a horse carriage. The Princess saw that that Prince is staying like the horse-keeper, holding the horse. But when the Princess looking [at him] went into the church, the horse-keeper [Prince] having remained standing, becoming sleepy reclined a little. Then the Prince went to sleep. That Princess having got married and come, and having ascended into the carriage which the Prince brought, not knowing that the Prince was asleep struck the horse, and making it bound went off as though she flew. The other people who were there, not observing the quarter to which the Princess went, went away. The King and the married Prince after that sought her; they did not meet with her. The sleeping horse-keeper Prince having ascertained that the carriage was not [there], weeping and weeping began to go along the path on which that Princess went. When the Princess was going in the midst of a forest wilderness, Vaeddas having been there came and watched in order to seize her. Having watched, they said to the Princess, "If thou come not with us we will shoot and kill thee." Thereupon the Princess asked, "I can come with one of you. How shall I come with four or five persons?" The Vaeddas asked the Princess, "If so, how is it [to be]?" Thereupon the Princess says, "You having been set in line, all at one discharge shoot. Having shot, I will join the person whose arrow should fall far, who came [after] picking up the arrow, and will come [with him]," she said. At that time the whole of the party having been fixed in line shot [for the arrows] to go very far. Having shot, all ran for the purpose of bringing the arrows. Thereupon the Princess having struck the horse, driving it off went away without being perceived. The Vaeddas having got the arrows and come, went away without the Princess. When she was going to that side from the forest wilderness in which are the Vaeddas, the Princess thought that should she go by the carriage she will be unable to escape. So she descended from the carriage to the ground, and having unloosed the horse drove it into the jungle. She rolled the carriage over into the jungle. The Princess having thrown away the Princess's dress, dressing like a Hettiya went away. In this manner she went to another kingdom. In that country, establishing shops, there was a rich Hettiya. She approached near him. At that time the shopkeeper Hettiya having become much pleased with the [apparent] Hettiya, told him to remain there. Well then, the shopkeeper Hettiya asked, "Who art thou?" Thereupon the Princess said, "I am a Hettirala of a country; I came to establish a shop." The shopkeeper having heard that word, said, "If so, let us two trade in partnership." Having said [this] he handed over a shop to the Princess resembling a Hettiya. He gave for it suitable servants. At that time this Princess says, "I having come to a new country, when establishing a shop have the thought to give a dana (free donation of food), and secondly to establish the shop." Thereupon the shopkeeper Hettirala having become pleased, and having said, "Let us two pay the amount that the cost comes to," they gave the dana. Then that horse-keeper Prince having come, approached there. The Hettirala having seen the horse-keeper gave him alms. The [Princess] Hettirala after the man ate the food put him in a house and told the servants to shut the door. During that night having given the dana and having finished, "Whence are you?" the new Hettirala asked the horse-keeper. At that time the horse-keeper said to that Hettirala, "Ane! Hettirala, I indeed am a royal Prince. The Princess whom I had married, driving off in the horse-carriage came here. I also having become hungry when coming here [saw that] there was an alms-house. Because of it I came here," he said. The Hettirala, having cast off those clothes and put on clothes in the manner of a Princess, came and asked, "Am I the Princess?" Having said, "You indeed are my Princess," holding her hand he began to weep. The clothes that she wore like the Hettirala that Prince put on. After that, having gone near the shopkeeper Hettirala, they told him completely the things that occurred to these people. This Hettirala having become pleased at it told them to stay at that very shop. The two persons trading at the shop and having become very wealthy, remained at that very city. Western Province. NO. 241 THE ROYAL PRINCE AND THE HETTIRALA [235] In a certain country both the royal Prince and the Minister-Prince were joined together by much friendship, it is said. Thus, having been in that way, one day the royal Prince having talked with the Minister-Prince, says, "Friend, we two having come to a foreign country, let us do trading." The Minister-Prince also having said, "It is good," the two persons taking as much money as each can carry for the purpose of trading, set off to go to a foreign country. During the time when they are going thus, the two having met with a junction of two roads, the two persons say, "We two having separated at these roads let us go to two districts." So speaking, having separated they went to two districts. Out of them, the royal Prince having arrived at the place where a courtesan woman is gambling, and having staked with the courtesan woman this money he brought, gambled. The courtesan woman won the whole of the money. Well then, the royal Prince having staked the clothes he was wearing, when he gambled the Prince lost them also. Well then, the Prince says, "It is good. [236] If so, you and I having staked ourselves let us gamble." So speaking, staking each against the other they gambled. Thereupon the Prince lost. Having shaved the Prince's head, taking him for the state of labourer, while he was drawing water and washing pots, when the Hettirala of that village was going by that street he saw the Prince who was washing and washing pots, and great sorrow having been produced for the Hettirala, he spoke to the courtesan woman, and says, "The labourer who is washing these pots is of very white colour. It is not worth [while] taking this work from him. If you will give me him I can give him a suitable means of livelihood." Thereupon the courtesan woman says, "Yes, if there is sorrow for you concerning him; although I can give him I cannot give him without payment (nikan). Why? He has let me in [237] for a thousand masuran. If the Hetti-elder-brother give that money I can give him; if not so, I cannot give him," the courtesan woman said. Then the Hettirala says, "It is good. Taking the money from me give me him." The Hettirala gave the money; and taking the Prince and having arrived at his house the Hettirala having spoken to the Prince, asks, "What can you do?" The Prince says, "I can do anything." Thereupon the Hettirala says, "Don't you do work [so as] to become tired. There are my shops; you can stay at a shop." When he asked, "Can you [do] letter accounts?" [238] the Prince said, "I can." When he said it, having said, "If so, go to my shop," he started him, and having gone with the Hettirala he gave him charge of the shop. Thereupon the Prince asks, "Do you give the shop goods on credit (nayata) and the like? How is the mode of selling the goods?" The Hettirala says, "Yes, give them on credit. When giving them on credit don't merely give them; [after] writing the name give them." Thereupon the Prince having said, "It is good," and taking charge, from that time spoke to men who are going on the road. When the men came he asked, "Where are you going? Where is your village? What is your name?" Afterwards he says, "It is good. Taking anything you want, go." Having said and said it, and having brought in that manner all the men going on the road, in a week's time he finished the goods that were in the shop. During the time when he was giving the goods in that way, should anyone come and having given money ask for goods, taking the money he gave goods for the money. When he finished the goods in that manner, the Hettirala, not knowing [about it], having become much pleased, said, "You are very good, having looked with this promptitude at the account of the money for which you sold the goods. Bringing goods afresh will be good, will it not?" When he was preparing to look at the accounts, having brought the book in which he wrote the men's names, and a little money, [the Prince] placed them [before him]. The Hettirala asked, "What is this?" Then the Prince says, "Why, what is it you are asking? Have I blundered? In the book, indeed, the names will be correct; having indeed written the names I gave the goods. I did not give goods to even a person without having written the name." The Hettirala says, "Ane! You are a great fool; you are not a person who can do trading." Having said [this], the Hettirala, calling the Prince, went home again. Having gone [there], when three or four days were going the Hettirala's wife began to scold the Hettirala, "For what reason are we causing this one to stay, and undergoing expense by giving him to eat and to wear?" When she shouted to the Hettirala, "If this thief is sitting unemployed, this very day having beaten him I shall drive him away," the Hettirala asks the Prince, "Child, there are many cattle of mine; can you look after the cattle?" At that time the Prince says, "It is good; I can look after cattle." Thereupon the Hettirala having gone, calling the Prince, to the district where the cattle are, and having shown him the cattle, says, "All these cattle are mine. You must look after them, taking care of them very well. Do not send them into outside gardens. You must tie the fastening (baemma) well." Thereupon the Prince says, "It is good, Hetti-elder-brother. Don't be afraid. Having well tied the fastening I shall look after the cattle." Having started off the Hettirala and sent him away, the Prince placed each one of the cattle at each tree, and having tied the fastenings and tightened them to the degree that they were unable to take breath, was looking in the direction of the cattle. While he was there some cattle died, some were drawing the breath (i.e., gasping for breath). At that time, the time of eating cooked rice went by. The Hettirala, having remained looking for the Prince's coming at the time of eating cooked rice during the day, when the time went by thought, "He is a great fool, isn't he? Having sent the cattle into the gardens of others they have been seized, maybe." As he did not come at noon to eat cooked rice, he said, "I must go to look"; and having come there, when he looked some had died at the very bottom of the trees to which they were tied, some are drawing and drawing breath. The Hettirala asks the Prince, "Why, fool, what a thing this is you did! Do you look after cattle in this way?" Having said [this], he scolded him. Thereupon the Prince says, "What is the Hetti-elder-brother saying? The Hetti-elder-brother said at first, 'Having tied the fastenings well, look after them, not letting (nendi) them go into the gardens of others.' I tied the fastenings well, and stayed looking at them. What is it you are saying? Have I tied them badly? If there is a fault in the tying, tell me." Well then, the Hettirala being without a reply to say, [thought], "Because I told this fool to tie the fastenings well, he, thinking foolishly, in observance of the order killed my few cattle. I was foolish; this fool will not have the ability to do this work;" and he went, calling the Prince again, to the Hettirala's house. When he is there three or four days, in the very [same] manner as at first the Hettirala's wife began to scold the Hettirala:--"Having come calling this thief again, is he simply sitting down? Even for a day there will not be [the means] here to give this one to eat, sitting down unemployed. This very day I will drive him from the house." Having said various things she scolded the Hettirala. Thereupon the Hettirala having spoken to the Prince asks, "Can you plough rice fields?" At that time the Prince says, "It is good. I am able to do that work." Thereupon the Hettirala says, "It is good. If so get ready to go to-morrow morning." Having given the Prince a plough also, and having arisen at daybreak, the Hettirala set off to go on a journey. Calling the Prince on the journey on which he is going, and having gone and shown the Prince the Hettirala's fields, he says, "Look there. From the place where that egret is perched plough to that side until the time when I have gone on this journey and come back." Well then, this Prince says to the Hettirala, "It is good, Hetti-elder-brother. Let Him go on the journey He is going. [239] I will plough to the place where the egret is." Taking over the charge, and having started off the Hettirala and sent him away, he tied the yoke of bulls in the plough. When he went driving them to the place where the egret is, the egret having gone flying perched at another place. Driving the yoke of bulls he went there also. The egret having gone flying from there also, perched at another place. Driving the yoke of bulls he went there also. From there also the egret having gone flying, perched at another place. Thereupon the Prince, driving the yoke of bulls and having gone to the root of the tree, taking a large stick and beating and beating the yoke of bulls, says, "Why, bulls (gonnune)! Go to the place where the egret is. Should you two not go to the place where the egret is I shall not succeed in escaping from the Hettirala; to-day there is not any work [done], and I myself did not eat." Saying and saying [this], he began to beat the yoke of bulls. While he was there beating and beating them it became night. The Hettirala, also, having made that journey, came to the house. Having come there the Hettirala asks, he asks from the house people, "Hasn't the fool himself who went to the rice field come?" Thereupon the house people say, "After he went with the Hetti-elder-brother in the morning, he did not come back." The Hettirala says, "Apoyi! As that fool himself came not there will be some accident or other!" Quickly having gone running to the rice field, when he looked, at no place in the rice field had [the ground] been ploughed, and he does not see the yoke of bulls or the man. When the Hettirala looks on that and this side, the Prince whom the Hettirala came to seek having seen him, breaking a large cudgel he began to beat the yoke of bulls more and more, as though he did not see him. Thereupon the Hettirala, having heard this noise when he looked, having heard it and gone running, asks, "Why, fool! What is this you are doing?" The Prince says, "Go away, go aside. From the morning itself I drove and drove this yoke of bulls [so as] to go to the place where the egret is. They did not go yet. You are good, the way the bulls have been trained!" Having said [this], the Prince began to scold the Hettirala. Thereupon the Hettirala says, "Yes, the way that yoke of bulls has been trained is indeed not good. Because the bulls will not go up trees those bulls are not good. Afterwards taking a yoke of bulls that go up trees you can plough. Let us go now, to go home." Having said [this], he came calling the Prince. The Hettirala's wife asks, "Even to-day did that fool do even that work?" The Hettirala says, "To-day indeed don't speak to that fool. He has been very angry. Because he was angry I came calling him, without speaking anything." Thereupon the woman having been silent that day, on the next day began to scold the Hettirala and the Prince. The Hettirala having thought, "Should I remain causing this fool to stay he will cause much loss to me. Having gone, taking him, and having spoken to my son-in-law, I must put him in a ship and send him away." Having thought thus, and having spoken to the Hettirala's wife, he says, "Don't you scold; I am sending him away soon." Thereupon the woman remained without making any talk. Then the Hettirala says, "Taking him I must go to-morrow or the next day; having prepared a suitable thing (food) for it give me it." Thereupon the woman having gone, and very well prepared a food box to give to her daughter and son-in-law, and for these two persons to eat for food on the road a package of cooked rice, gave him them. The Hettirala tied them well, and taking also a suit (coat and cloth, kuttamak) of the Hettirala's new clothes to wear when they got near the son-in-law's house, and having tied them in one bundle, and called the Prince, he says, "We two must go on a journey and return. Can you go?" When he asked the Prince, the Prince says, "It is good; I can go." The Hettirala having said, "If so, take these two bundles," gave him the two packages. Just as he is taking the two bundles in his hand, the Prince asks, "What are these?" Thereupon the Hettirala says, "One bundle is my clothes; one is things for us for the road, to eat." The Prince taking them, when he was starting to go on the journey the Hettirala's wife gave him yet a package. The Prince asks, "What is this?" Thereupon the woman says, "For our son-in-law there is need of snakes' eggs; in that packet there are snakes' eggs. Having gone, give that packet into either son-in-law's hand or daughter's hand." The Prince, taking the packet, put it away. The Hettirala, dressing well, mounted upon the back of a horse, and calling the Prince went off. When he had gone a considerable distance, the Prince alone ate the package which she prepared and gave him to eat for the road. Taking the food which was in the packet that she told him to give to the son-in-law, having said they were snakes' eggs, he ate of them to the possible extent; and having thrown the remaining ones there and here, and seen an ant-hill on the path when coming, he broke a stick, and taking it, prodding and prodding [the ground] round the ant-hill he began to cry out. The Hettirala having turned back, when he looked the Prince says, "The snakes that were in this packet, look! they entered this ant-hill!" Thereupon the Hettirala, ascertaining that he is telling lies, having said, "It is good; if so, you come on," calling him, goes on. At that time, the time for eating cooked rice at noon having arrived, the Hettirala, stopping the horse, said, "Bola, I am now hungry. Take out even the packet which you brought to eat for the road." Thereupon to the Hettirala the Prince says, "Hetti-elder-brother, what is this you say? Because you said, 'They are for the road, to eat,' I threw them away for the road to eat, and came. For eating for the road, what shall we eat?" Well then, much anger having gone to the Hettirala, because there was not a thing to do he said, "If so, come, to go." As they were going, the Hettirala, having hunger which he was unable to bear, says to the Prince, "Bola, can you climb this tree, and pluck a young coconut for me and give it?" Thereupon the Prince says, "I can." Having climbed the tree, and gone round the stems of the branches of the tree, holding two stems firmly, with his two feet he began to kick down the clusters of [ripe] coconuts into the jungle, and the clusters of young coconuts into the jungle. Thereupon the Hettirala having descended from the horse's back, began to shout, "Ha! Ha! Don't pluck them, don't pluck them!" At that time the person who owned the place having come, prepared to beat him. Thereupon the Hettirala says, "It is I who sent him up the tree to make him pluck a young coconut. He is a great fool; don't beat him." The man, treating with respect the Hettirala's saying, said, "It is good. If so, having eaten as many young coconuts as possible, go ye"; and the man went away. Thereupon the Prince having eaten young coconut with the Hettirala, when they set off to go the Hettirala says, "Having struck [thy hand] on my head, swear thou in such a way that thou wilt not go [in future] by even a foot-bridge (edanda) in which a coconut trunk is laid, putting [out of consideration] going up a coconut tree." Thereupon the Prince having struck on the Hettirala's head, swears, "I will not go up a coconut tree, and I will not go by a foot-bridge in which a coconut trunk is placed." Having sworn this, they began to go. When going they met with a bridge in which a great many coconut trunks were placed. The Hettirala having gone to the other side, spoke to the Prince, [telling him to follow]. Thereupon the Prince says, "Ane! I cannot come. Having struck on the head of the Hetti-elder-brother and sworn, how can I come?" Thereupon the Hettirala having descended from the back of the horse, came [across]; and lifting up the Prince and having gone [over], placed him on the other side. Through that disturbance the cloth that was on the Hettirala's head fell on the ground. The Hettirala did not see it. The Prince having seen that the cloth fell, took it with his foot, and having thrown it into the bush went on. When going a considerable distance, ascertaining that the cloth on the Hettirala's head was not [there], he asks the Prince, "My cloth fell on the ground; didn't you see it?" Thereupon the Prince says, "The thing which the Hetti-elder-brother has thrown away when coming, why should I bring? I threw it into the bush with my foot." Then the Hettirala says, "Since you threw away the cloth and came, beginning from this time when anything has fallen from us don't leave it and come." The Prince says, "It is good. If so, beginning from this time, without throwing it away I will bring it." Beginning from there, taking the horse-dung and earth from the staling-place he went along putting and putting them in the Hettirala's clothes box. Having gone there, when they came near the house of the Hettirala's daughter, [the Hettirala] having spoken to the Prince asking for the bundle of clothes, he unfastened it. When he looked, he saw that the horse-dung and mud were in the bundle of clothes, and much anger having gone to the Hettirala, he said, "Æ! Enemy, what is this?" Thereupon the Prince says, "What, Hetti-elder-brother, are you saying? At first you said, 'Don't throw away anything that falls from us.' What is this thing you are saying now?" Then the Hettirala thought to himself the word he said at the beginning was wrong; bearing it because of it, he says, "With these clothes on my back I cannot go to the house of son-in-law's people. My clothes are very dirty. I shall come when it has become night. Thou having gone immediately (daemmama) say that I am coming." Having said [this], and told the Prince the road going to the house, he started him. Thereupon the Prince having gone to that house and having spoken, says, "The Hetti-elder-brother started and came in order to come with me. Thereupon he got a stomach-ache. [240] Before this also [241] he got a stomach-ache. The Hetti-elder-brother having told me the medical treatment he applies for the stomach-ache, and started me quickly, sent me to prepare the medicine," he said. Thereupon the Hettirala's daughter having become much afraid, asked, "What is the medicine?" The Prince says, "Don't be afraid; it is not a difficult medicine [to prepare]. Taking both coconut oil of seven years and the dust of Ma-Vi (the largest kind of paddy), and having ground them together, when you have made ball-cakes (aggala), and placed them [ready], it will do; that indeed is the medicine. Don't give him any other thing to eat." Thereupon, the Hettirala's daughter very quickly having ground up coconut oil and Ma-Vi dust, and made ball-cakes, placed them [ready]. When, after a very long time, the Hettirala came, quickly having given him to wash his face, hands, and feet, as soon as he had finished she gave him that ball-cake to eat. Thereupon the Hettirala thinks, "My daughter and son-in-law having become very poor, are now without a thing also to eat"; but through shame to ask he remained without speaking. Well, then, at the time for eating rice at night, although the whole of the [other] persons ate cooked rice and finished, she did not give cooked rice to the Hettirala. Having made ready [the necessary things,--mat and pillow]--to sleep, only, she gave them. The Hettirala lay down. Having been in hunger during the daytime and night, when he had eaten the ball-cakes he began [to experience the purgative effect of the oil]. After he had [been affected] four or five times, being without water to wash his hands and feet, having spoken to the Prince he asks, "Bola, the water is finished; there is not a means to wash my hands and feet. Didn't you see a place where there is water?" Thereupon the Prince says, "I saw it. There is a sort of water-pot." Having gone to the place where there are pots of palm juice, and filled a cooking pot, he brought the palm juice, and saying it was water gave it. Thereupon the whole of his body having been smeared with the palm juice, he says, "Bola, this is not water; it is a sort of palm juice. Seek something to wipe this, and give me it." Then the Prince having torn in two the pillow that was [there] for placing the head upon, gave him the cotton to wipe off the palm juice. When the Hettirala was wiping off the palm juice with the cotton, the palm juice and cotton having held together, it became more difficult than it was. Thereupon having become very angry with the Prince, and having looked to that and this hand, finding a little water and slightly washing himself he came to the bed, and made ready to go to sleep. Again [the purgative affected him violently, and he was compelled to utilise a cooking-pot which the Prince brought him]. When he was removing it in the early morning, unobserved by the people at the house, [the Prince] having gone running says to the Hettirala's daughter, "Look there. Last night it was very difficult for your father. Having become angry that you did not pay attention to him he is going away." Thereupon the Hettirala's daughter having gone, embraced the Hettirala. When she embraced him, the Hettirala and the Hettirala's daughter were [befouled by the contents of the vessel]. The Hettirala having become very angry said, "He having done me much injury until this time, now he smeared this on my body, didn't he?" Being unable to bear it, and having told his son-in-law all these matters in secret, "Taking him, we will go away and put him in a distant country," he said. The son-in-law having said, "It is good," and having spoken to the Prince, says, "We two are to go on a journey. The three [of us] having gone together, let us return." So saying, on the following day after that, the Hettirala, and the Prince, and the Hettirala's son-in-law, the three persons together, went to the wharf (naew-totta). Thereupon the Prince thought, "Now then, it is not good; I must spring off and go." Having thought [this], when he said to the two persons, "I must go aside [for necessary reasons]," the two said, "If so, having gone, come back." Having gone running from there to the place where the Hettirala's daughter is, he says, "They told me to ask for the money which he gave yesterday to be put away, and to go back quickly." Having said it, asking for [and getting] the money from the Hettiya's daughter, he bounded off and ran, and in much time arrived at his city. The Hettirala and the Hettirala's son-in-law having remained looking till the Prince comes, said, "Let that fool go to any place he wants." When they went home, ascertaining that he went [after] taking the money also, [they searched until] they became much fatigued, but did not succeed in finding him. The Minister-Prince, who having joined with the royal Prince went away, [after] trading very well and gaining profit, again arrived in happiness at the city. Having seen the royal Prince, while the two are [there], having discussed each other's happiness and sorrow, and binding their friendship in the very first manner, when the royal Prince's father the King died, the royal Prince was appointed to the sovereignty, and gave the post of Chief Minister to the Minister-Prince. Western Province. (By Saddhunanda Sthavira of Ratmalana Wihara.) In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 149, a young man who went to gamble lost everything he possessed, and was himself made a prisoner until he was rescued by his wife. Regarding some of the Hettirala's experiences, see the story of the Moghul and his servant, of which a condensed account is appended to the tale numbered 195 in this volume. In "The Story of Hokka," given by Mr. W. Goonetilleke in The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 131 ff., there is the incident of the tying up of the cattle. The order of the Gamarala was that the man was to look after them, but the Sinhalese word balapiya means also "look at," and the servant acted accordingly after tying up the cattle, the result being that they were too weak to stand when the Gamarala went to inspect them. NO. 242 PRINCE SOKKA [242] At a certain city, a lion having been caught by the King of the city had been put in a house. While the King's Prince and the Minister's Prince were playing at ball near the house in which was the lion, the royal Prince's ball fell into the cage in which the lion is lying. Thereupon the Prince asked the lion for the ball. Then the lion said, "Should you let me go I will give the ball." Then the Prince having said, "It is good," and having cheated him, asking for [and getting] the ball remained without letting the lion go. Having come on the following day, while those two were playing at ball, that day, also, the royal Prince's ball went and fell at the place where the lion is. The Prince that day also asked the lion for the ball. At that time the lion says, "You shall not cheat me as on that day, indeed; to-day indeed, unless you let me go I shall not give it." Then the Prince having let the lion go, asking for [and getting] the ball, played. The King having come, when he looked the lion was not [there]. "Where is the lion?" the King asked the party of Ministers. The party of Ministers said, "By the Prince the lion [was] sent away." Then the King having said, "Should the disobedient Prince remain at this palace I will kill him," sorrow seized the Queen regarding it, and having given the Prince expenses, and given him also a horse, and said, "Having gone to any country you like, get a living," sent him off. The Prince having mounted on the horse, when he was going the Minister-Prince (son of the Minister), the friend of the Prince, asked, "Where are you going?" Then the Prince says, "Having been guilty of sending away the lion, it has occurred that I am to go away, not staying in this country." Thereupon, the Minister-Prince, having said, "If my friend the Prince be not here my remaining is not proper," set off to go with the Prince. Having set out, when the two had gone a little far together, [they saw that] a letter had been written, and fixed on a tree. Having taken the letter, when they looked in it there was said that should one go to the right district good will happen, should one go to the left district evil will happen. Thereupon, having looked at the letter the Minister-Prince went to the right district, the royal Prince went to the left district. While the royal Prince was going he met with a gambling place. He, also, having gone there gambled. Having gambled he lost all the money he took. After that, being without money, while he was staying looking on, owing to a rich Hettiya's being there he sold him the horse, and taking the money played [again]. That also he lost. After that, having written himself as the slave of the Hettiya, and having said, "Should I be unable to bring back the money I will do slave work," taking the money he gambled [again]. That also he lost. At that time, the Hettiya, having mounted upon the horse, calling the Prince for the horsekeepership went away. The Hettiya having gone home established the name "Sokka" [243] for the Prince. That Sokka he told to look after the horse, having well attended to it and bathed it. That Sokka not giving food and water to the horse, the horse went decrepit. Owing to it, the Hettirala having become angry, said, "Sokka, you cannot look after the horse. Because of it, work you in the flower garden." Then Sokka says, "Hettiralahami, in our kingdom it was that very work that was mine. I am much accustomed to it." Having said this he took charge. [After] taking charge, every day uprooting and uprooting the best (lit., good good) flower trees (plants) he began to plant [them afresh]. The Hettirala having gone one day, when he looked saw that all the flower trees had died. Having said, "Sokka, thou canst not [do] this work; thou hast completely done for my flower garden," he beat him. He said, "After that, that work is of no use for thee," and gave him charge of a plantain garden. Having handed it over he said, "Sell the plantains; having brought the money thou art to give it to me." Then Sokka said, "It is good, Hettiralahami; I am accustomed to that work." Well then, what does that Sokka do? Leaving aside the ripe plantains, having cut the immature plantains he takes them to the shop. No one taking them, having brought them back he throws them away. By this means, all the plantain garden went to waste. The Hettirala having gone one day, when he looked the plantain garden had been destroyed. Thereupon, having called Sokka, and having said, "Where is the revenue obtained from this? Thou art a Yaka come to eat me," he became angry, and scolded him. Having said, "Thou canst not do that work. Look here (Menna); from to-day attend thou to the grazing of these cattle," he gave him charge of them. Then Sokka, having said, "It is good, Hettiralahami. In our country I do that for a livelihood; I am well accustomed to it," took charge of them. Taking charge, he went driving the cattle to the jungle. Having gone there he looked for a bull to eat, and having killed it, cutting a haunch he came home [with it]. At that time the Hettirala having seen the haunch of flesh, asked, "What is that, Sokka?" Then Sokka says, "As I was going a leopard was [there], seizing a deer. Then I said 'Hu.' Then the leopard sprang off and ran away. After that, because I was unable to bring it I came [after] cutting off a haunch." Thereupon the Hettiralahami said, "Sokka, it is good," and stroked his head, and said, "Give ye abundantly to eat to Sokka." By that method he began to bring the haunch every day, one by one. The Hettirala and the Hetti-woman on those days were very kind to Sokka. When a few days had gone, because of the eating of the deer's meat it appeared that the cattle of the herd were finished. Then, having called Sokka, he asked, "Where are the cattle?" Sokka says, "I could not drive the cattle to the stalls; they are in the jungle." The Hettirala, not trusting the word he said, went into the jungle to look at the cattle. When he was going, the stench [of the dead bodies] began to strike him to the extent that he was unable to go into the jungle. Having gone in, when he looked he saw that there are the heads and legs of the cattle. "Sokka is good! I ate the meat. I must kill Sokka," he got into his mind. The Hettirala had taken a contract to give firewood to a ship. He told Sokka to cut firewood by the yard account for the ship. Because he must give firewood once a month, having cut the firewood by the yard account he was to heap it up. At that time, Sokka, having said, "It is very good, Hettiralahami," taking that work also, went for cutting firewood. The ship came after a month. The Hettirala went and looked, in order to give the firewood. There were only three or four yards of firewood; there was no firewood to give to the ship. When the ship person, having called the Hettirala, asked for the firewood, there being no firewood to give a great fault occurred. Having fined the Hettirala he destroyed the firewood contract. "After Sokka came there was great loss of money; this one lost it. I must kill him," the Hettirala got into his mind. Getting it in his mind, he said to the Hetti-woman, "I am going to the quarter in which younger sister is. Having prepared something to eat on the road please give me it." The Hetti-woman having prepared a box of sugared food, and made ready a box of clothes, and tied them as a pingo (carrying stick) load, placed [them ready]. The Hettirala having arisen at dawn in the morning and mounted on horse-back, and said, "Sokka, taking that pingo load, come thou," the Hettirala went on horse-back in front. Sokka, while going on and on (yaddi yaddi), ate the sugared food until the box was finished. When going a little far in that manner, the whip that was in the Hettirala's hand fell down. Sokka picked it up and threw it into the jungle. The Hettirala, having gone a little far, asked, "Where [is the whip], Bola? You met with it." Thereupon Sokka said, "I don't know; there is no whip." Then the Hettirala having become angry, said, "Thou must bring anything that falls, whether from me or from the horse," and he scolded him. After that, Sokka picked up the dung which the horse dropped, and began to put it in the clothes box. In that way and this way, at noon the time for eating came. On that road there was a travellers' shed. For the purpose of eating food at that travellers' shed they halted. Having opened the box in order to eat, when [the Hettirala] looked there was nothing of food in the box. "Where is the food that was in this?" he asked Sokka. Sokka said, "I don't know what was [in it] when it was given to me, indeed." The Hettirala being very hungry, and in anger with Sokka also, started to go. Having gone, when they were coming near his younger sister's village he said to Sokka, "Go thou, and tell them to be quick and cook a little food because I am fatigued." Then Sokka having gone said to the Hettirala's younger sister and brother-in-law, "The Hettirala is coming; as he has become ill he is coming. Because of it, he does not eat anything. He said that having removed the shells from unripe pulse and prepared balls of it, you are to place them [ready]; and that having killed a fowl for me I am to eat it with cooked rice, he said. The Hettirala at night is himself accustomed to salt gruel." Afterwards that party, having prepared them, gave them in the evening. The Hettirala because of fatigue having eaten these things and drunk a great deal of salt gruel, went to sleep. (It is necessary to draw a veil over the nocturnal difficulties of the Hettirala owing to the purgative action of his evening's repast. In the morning) the Hettirala thought to himself, "It is Sokka himself makes the whole of these traps. Because of it I must kill him." Well then, having said, "We must go," and having opened the clothes box, when he looked horse-dung had been put [in it]. Then at the time when the Hettirala asked, "Sokka, what is this?" he said, "That day you told me to take anything that falls from the Hettirala or from the horse. Because of it I put these things away; I put them in that, without omitting one." After that, having set off, they went away to go home. Having gone a considerable distance, when they were approaching the house he said to Sokka, "Go thou, and as there has been no food for me for two days or three days, tell grandmother to prepare something for food." Having said "Ha," Sokka having gone running, says, "Grandmother, madness having seized him, the Hettirala is coming. No one can speak [to him]; then he beats them. You will be unable to be rid of it." He said all these words. Then the grandmother asked, "What, Sokka, shall we do for it?" Thereupon Sokka says, "Putting on a black cloth and a black jacket, take two handfuls of branches, and without speaking having gone in front of him, please wave them." Having said it and come running back to the Hettirala, he said, "Hettiralahami, there is no means of doing anything in that way. Madness having seized grandmother she is dancing, [after] putting on a black cloth and a black jacket, and breaking two handfuls of branches." When the Hettirala was asking at the hand of Sokka, "What shall I do for it?" Sokka said, "Breaking two handfuls of branches, and having gone without even speaking, please strike them on the head of grandmother." Thereupon the Hettirala, having gone in that very way, without speaking began to beat her. The grandmother also began to beat the Hettirala. In this way constantly for half a day they beat each other. Afterwards having recovered their reason, when he learnt, while they were speaking, that it was a work of Sokka's, he thought of injuring him. On the following day after that, he wrote a letter to the Hettirala's brother-in-law: "In some way or other please kill the person who brings this letter." Having said, "Go and give this letter, and bring a reply from brother-in-law," he gave it into Sokka's hand. Sokka, taking the letter, went to a travellers' shed on the road. While he was there yet [another] man came there. Having broken open this letter and shown it to the man, he asked, "What things are in this letter?" The man, having looked at the letter, said, "'The person who brings this letter has caused a loss to me of three or four thousand pounds.' Because of it, it is said [that he is] to kill him." Thereupon Sokka, having thrown the letter away, went to a house, and asking for pen and ink and having come back, told that man and caused him to write the [following] letter:--"The person who brings this letter has been of great assistance to me. Because of it, having given to him your daughter [in marriage], give him a half share of your landed property." Having taken it and gone, he gave it. Thereupon the Hettirala's brother-in-law having looked at the letter and having been pleased, married to him and gave him his eldest daughter; [244] and having given him a half share of his money, and told him to go again to the place where this Hettiya is, sent him away. Well then, the Prince whom the Hettiya caught, taking his Hetti wife, went away to the district where the Minister-Prince is. Western Province. In the Aventures du Gourou Paramarta (Dubois), p. 312, while the Guru and his foolish disciples were on a journey, the Guru being on horseback, the branch of a tree caught his turban, and it fell down. Thinking his disciples would pick it up he said nothing at the time. As he had previously told them to do nothing without orders, however, they left it. When he afterwards asked for it and found it was not brought, he scolded them, and sent one to fetch it, at the same time giving them orders to pick up everything that fell from the horse. While the disciple was returning with the turban he accordingly collected and stored in it the horse's droppings that he found on the road, and handed over the bundle to his master. The Guru made them wash the turban, and told them when they grumbled at being reprimanded for obeying his orders, "There are articles that are worthy of being picked up, and others that are unworthy of it." In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 81, two brothers who had run away from home came to a place where the road bifurcated, and found there an inscription on a stone, which contained a warning that one of the roads should be avoided. The adventurous elder brother went on this road and was robbed by a witch; the younger one selected the other, and after being wrecked became a King. In The Orientalist, vol. i, p. 131 ff., Mr. W. Goonetilleke gave "The Story of Hokka," in which the man who was sent in advance to announce the coming of the Gamarala, told the daughter that he could take only paddy dust. He left in anger on the following morning, and sent Hokka to let his wife know of his return. Hokka advised her to meet her husband clothed in rags and sitting on an edanda, or foot-bridge. In the dusk, Hokka, who was in front, kicked her off, calling her "Bitch," and she fell into the stream and was drowned, the Gamarala thinking it was a dog. The Gamarala had previously mutilated Hokka's elder brother, as related in No. 195, and Hokka was determined to have his revenge. The portion omitted on p. 290 will be found at the end of the Additional Notes, by those who wish to see how the villager treats such matters. NO. 243 THE AFFECTIONATE PRINCE In a certain city there was a King; the King was married. If the Queen bore a Prince they rear the Prince; if she bore a Princess, at the very time when she was born, [even] should she be alive, they bury her. This order is a thing commanded by the King. The King's Queen formerly having given birth to a first-born Prince, and having reared him and been satisfied with him, he continued to stay there. During the time while he was there the Queen bore yet a Princess. Then the King told them to bury the Princess. The midwife having given her into the hand of a man told him to bury her. So the man in order to bury the Princess took her and went to the burial ground. At that very time, as the elder Prince of the King, who had been for sport, was coming back, he saw that this man [after] putting this Princess into a bundle was going to the ground for new burials; and he asked the man, "What is that you are going with, [after] making it into a bundle?" The man said, "In this bundle is your younger sister, Sir." Then the Prince said, "Ane! Stop there for me to look at her a little." So the man stopped. When this Prince went and looked, she was a Princess who was beautiful to the extent that through sorrow he could not look at her. Thereupon asking the man for the Princess, what does this Prince do? Having given her to another woman, having given sufficient hire for it, he said, "Having very thoroughly brought her up until she reaches maturity, not showing her to anyone, hand her over to me." The woman said. "It is good." Well then, the Princess in not much time had reached maturity. After that, this Prince, sewing suitable robes for the Princess, came, and causing the Princess to put them on went with her to the palace at which he stayed. Then the King, having become angry at the Prince, contrived a stratagem to kill her, that is, he wrote to a great person of the city, "My Princess is [here]. To kill the Princess make ready an eating (feast) at your house, and having put poison into the food for the Princess send a letter to all of us to come for the eating." So the great man having made it ready just like that, sent a letter to this King for all who are at the royal palace to come. Thereupon the King, having looked at the letter, prepared to go there. This Prince perceived that it was a device which was adopted by the King for the purpose of killing the Princess. Having perceived it and told those parties to go before, at the time when they were going this Prince and his younger sister, both of them, mounted on a cart (carriage), and went along another path to the midst of a forest. As they were going on, leaving the forest wilderness behind, there was a city which a [wild] tusk elephant, having come, is making desolate. They went to the city. While they were going to the city it did not become light. As this Prince and Princess were going, not knowing that there is a tusk elephant laying waste the city, the tusk elephant walked through the whole city, and having broken down the houses, while it was coming to go back to the midst of the forest this Prince and Princess met it in front. Having met it, it chased the Prince and Princess along the road. As it was going chasing them this Prince drew his sword and struck it. Then the sword went and pierced the stomach of the elephant, and it died. After it died they stayed that day night at the city. The King of the city having gone with the city tusk elephant to stay at night at certain other rock houses (caves), comes to this city only for hearing law-suits in the daytime. Having come and repaired the houses which that [wild] tusk elephant had broken, and heard law-suits, as it becomes night he goes to the rock house. The King [had] notified by beat of tom-toms [245]: "To the person who [shall have] killed this tusk elephant I will give a portion from my kingdom and marry my Princess, and I will send him to stay at this city." Every one was unable. On the morning on which this Prince killed the tusk elephant, men came in order to build [the damaged houses in] the city. When they looked about that day, they said that the tusk elephant is still staying there, sleeping; and the men having become afraid, ran away. After that, a man came, and having slowly come near the tusk elephant, when he was looking at it perceived that was dead. Thereupon the man having come near, when he looked [saw that] some one had stabbed the tusk elephant. There was a house near by. Having gone near it, when he looked he saw that a Prince and a Princess were sleeping. Having seen them, he spoke to the Prince and awoke him, and asked, "How did you kill this tusk elephant?" Then the Prince said, "I stabbed it with my sword and killed it." The man said, "Ane! By favour to me you must stay there a little," and having gone he said to the King, "Last night a Prince and Princess came to our city; and having stabbed the tusk elephant with the sword and killed it, they are still staying [there], sleeping." Thereupon the King having come, when he looked they were there. The King having heard from the Prince about the matter, and having gone calling them to the palace, and given them food and drink, asked to marry his Princess to the Prince. At that time the Prince said, "Until the time when I marry and give my younger sister I will not marry"; and they went away to yet a city. When he was going, [persons] are robbing the city of this [other] King. Because of it, [the King] gave notice by beat of tom-toms, "Can any one seize them?" Thereupon all said they could not. This Prince having said, "I will endeavour [to do] this," went away. While going, he met with a young Leopard, a young Parrot, and a Kitten. Taking the three and placing them in a cart, while going on he saw in the midst of the forest a very large house like a prison. Thereupon the Prince, not going to look at it during the daytime, waited until it became night; and having gone at daybreak, when he was looking about, the robbers having come [after] committing robbery he ascertained that they were making ready to sleep. Having waited a little time after the men had gone to sleep, when he looked for an opening, because there was not one, being on the back of his horse he sprang on the wall. Having sprung on it, when he looked [he saw that after] putting down their armour on going to sleep, they were sleeping well. Thereupon the Prince cut them all down, beginning from one end. One of them having been wounded and got hid in the room, remained; all the other men died. The blood that came from them flowed to the depth of the Prince's knee. After that, having waited until it became light he cut a hole, and having put the dead bodies into the hole he thoroughly washed the houses and cleaned them. Because there were many silver and golden things there he stayed a little time. While he was staying, one day, having told the Princess to remain [there], the Prince, taking a gun, went to hunt. At that time the Parrot, the Leopard, and the Cat went with the Prince. The three and the Prince, or a person who would send him away, not being near, that robber who had been wounded that day, and having got hid remained after the Prince went away, came out into the light; and asking for cooked rice from the Princess and having eaten it, became associated with the Princess, and stayed a few days without the Prince's knowing it, healing those wounds and the like. Then that robber spoke to the Princess, "Having killed your elder brother and we two having married, let us remain [here]." Thereupon the Princess also being willing regarding it, asked the robber, "How shall we kill elder brother?" Then the robber said, "At the time when your elder brother comes, say that you have got fever, and remain lying down. Then he having come will be grieved. Then say, 'Elder brother, the deity who protects us--who he is I do not know--said there is a pool in the midst of this forest. In the pool there is a lotus flower. Unless, plucking the lotus flower, you come and boil it, and I should drink the gravy, my fever will not be cured otherwise.'" The Princess asked the robber, "When he has gone to the pool what will happen?" The robber said, "There is a Crocodile in the pool. No one can descend into the pool. Because the Celestial Nymphs (Apsarases) bathe [there], should another person go the Crocodile will swallow him." Then the Princess having become pleased, at the time when the Prince, having gone for hunting-sport, came back, she remained lying down groaning and groaning. The Prince having come asked, "What is it, younger sister?" The Princess said, "Ane! Elder brother, I have got fever." Thereupon the Prince through grief that the Princess had got fever does not eat the cooked rice. Then the Princess said all the words which the robber told her. So having said, "I will bring the lotus flower," the Prince went. Having gone and found the pool, when he looked there was a large lotus flower in the manner she said. The Prince, putting on the bathing cloth, [246] and fastening his sword in his waist string, prepared to descend into the pool. Thereupon, the three animals that went with the Prince said, "Don't descend," and began to say it again and again. Out of them the Parrot said, "Elder brother, having gone flying, I will bring each pollen grain of the flower. Don't you descend." The Prince said, "While thou art going and bringing each grain of pollen it will become night. On that account I will go, and cutting the flower from the outside will come back"; and he descended into the pool. As he descended, the Crocodile having come swallowed him. When it was swallowing him the sword fixed at the Prince's waist pierced the Crocodile's stomach, and the Crocodile and the Prince died. Thereupon the three animals which remained on the bank, rolling over and over on the ground, breaking and breaking up the soil of the earth, began to cry out. At that time the Celestial Nymphs came to the pool to bathe. Having come, and seen the lamentation of these animals, they told the Devatawa of the pool to come, and splitting open the stomach of the Crocodile he caused the Prince to be [re]-born. Having come to life, the Prince, plucking the lotus flower, came to the bank. Then the four, taking the lotus flower and having come back, and boiled and given it to that Princess, the false fever of the Princess was cured. Well then, by that they were unable to kill him. So the robber asked the Princess, "Now then, how to kill your elder brother?" Then the Princess said, "Elder brother having come [after] walking, goes from this side near the screen to wash his face. You stay on the other side [of the screen] and cut him with your sword." So he remained that day in that way. That day the Prince having come [after] walking did not go to the side to which he goes before; he went to the other side. At that time the man having been [there] tried to spring away. Then having cut down the man with the sword that was in the Prince's hand, he asked the Princess, "Whence this man?" The Princess remained silent. Thereupon the Prince said, "I shall not do anything to you; say the fact." The Princess told him the fact. Then the Prince having said, "Thou faithless one! Go thou also," cut her down with the sword; and taking those things, went with the three animals to the city where he killed that tusk elephant. Having gone there, and told the King the manner in which he killed the robbers, and all the dangers that had befallen him, the King, having been pleased, married the King's Princess [to him]; and having given the kingdom also to that very Prince, he remained there. The Prince having gone to his [father's] city, said to the King, "Father, having destroyed the word which you, Sir, said, by the acts that I performed, I was made to ascertain [the wisdom of] it." Having made obeisance to his father the King, and told him all the circumstances that had occurred, thereafter he came back with contentment to that city. Having come, he remained ruling over that city. Western Province. In the Kolhan tales (Bompas) appended to Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 468, a girl and her brother, fearing their father wished to kill them, ran away and lived in the jungle. While the brother was hunting, a Raja met with the sister and wanted to marry her; thinking the youth would object the Raja persuaded the girl to try to get him killed. She pretended to be ill, and told him she could not recover unless he brought a flower which grew in a lake. When the boy was swimming to the flower a gigantic fish swallowed him; but a Rakshasa friend drank the pool dry, caught the fish, and took out the boy alive. The Raja carried off the girl, but was defeated by the youth and Rakshasa and some animal friends, gave the youth half his kingdom, and married him to his own daughter. In the actions of the animals, expressive of their grief at the death of the Prince, there is a striking resemblance to those ascribed to the Werewolf in William of Palerne (E.E.T.S., ed. Skeat), on discovering that the child he was rearing was missing: For reuliche (ruefully) gan he rore · and rente al his hide, And fret (gnawed) oft of the erthe · and fel doun on swowe, And made the most dool (sorrow) · that man mizt diuise. The English translation of this twelfth-century Romance is said to date from about A.D. 1350. In vol. i, p. 130, a dog shows its grief by rolling about and howling, and in vol. iii, p. 446, a man rolls on the ground in feigned sorrow. NO. 244 THE PRINCE WHO RECEIVED THE TURTLE SHELL In a certain country there was a son of a King. After this son had become big to a certain extent, for the purpose of teaching him he sent him near a teacher; but as time was going on, the teacher, ascertaining that he could not teach this one, gave notice to His Majesty the King. Thereupon the King having summoned the Prince near him, sent him to stay unoccupied (nikan) in the royal house. During the time while he was thus, the other Princes, having finished learning the sciences and having again arrived near the King, began to show him, one by one, their dexterity. Some of them began to make jests about this ignorant Prince. Thereupon this Prince being much ashamed, and his father the King also not concealing it, his Prince, putting on his ornaments and decorating himself with his sword, bow, etc., having entered a forest wilderness went away. When he had gone in this manner for a considerable distance through the midst of the forest wilderness, he saw a house of a cow-herd. The Prince went to this cow-herd's house, and having told him of his hunger, asked for a little food. The cow-herd's wife, having thought that she must take the Prince's costly ornaments, gave the Prince to eat, drink, and sit, and [permitted him] to stay; and having told him to unfasten his clothes and go to sleep, handed over to him a bed also. Thereupon having thought, "This woman is a most kind person," the Prince having taken off his ornaments, gave them together with his weapons to the cow-herd's wife. The Prince having been sleeping, after his eyes were opened, when he asked for the ornaments from the cow-herd's wife, without giving them she told the Prince to dwell there. Well then, a certain goddess who saw that this young Prince in this manner was causing the cattle to graze, having shown great compassion towards him, one day approached near him and said thus, "I will give thee a turtle shell and a spell. By the power of the spell thou canst do the thing thou thinkest. Having got inside the turtle shell thou canst stay there. If not in that way, thou canst become a Prince decorated with beautiful ornaments. But without saying the spell just now, thou art to say it when thou hast become twenty-five years of age," she said. But this Prince, for the purpose of seeing whether the spell is true or false, having said it, became a Turtle; and again having said it became a handsome Prince. After that, until the twenty-fifth year arrives he put away and hid the turtle shell. After this time, the Prince having stayed [there] causing the cattle to graze, when the twenty-fifth year arrived, taking also the turtle shell he set off in the very disguise of a poor man, and went away to another country. This Prince having arrived at the house of a flower-mother who gives flowers to the King of that country, dwelt [with her] like a son. During the time when he was staying thus, he got to know the affairs of the royal house. Out of the King's seven daughters six having contracted marriages, only the youngest Princess was left. When the husbands of those six Princesses went hunting, the Prince who stayed near the flower-mother having gone into the midst of the forest became an extremely handsome Prince; and having decorated himself with the sword, bow, etc., and mounted upon a horse, and waited to be visible to the other Princes who were in the midst of the forest, when they were coming to look [at him] immediately having become a Turtle he hides in a bush. When he acted in this manner on very many days, the husbands of the six Princesses related this circumstance while at the royal house. [Their account of] this matter the youngest Princess who was unmarried heard. Thereafter, one day the six Princesses and their husbands also, went to the festival pool to bathe. The youngest Princess went with these. The Prince who had become the son of the flower-mother, creating a most handsome Prince's body, and having gone after the whole of them, waited [there] to show a pleasure to these Princesses who came to bathe; and immediately having become a Turtle, got hid at the side of the pool. Only the youngest Princess saw this circumstance. Having thus seen it, catching the Turtle and wrapping it in her silk robe she took it to the palace. After she took it to the Princess's chamber, the Turtle, having become the Prince, talking with the Princess told her all his story, and when he told her that he was a royal Prince the two persons agreed to marry each other. Beginning from that time (taen), this Prince whom men were thinking was the son of the flower-mother, by the favour of the Princess began to go to the floor of the upper story where the Princess resides. During the progress of time, the King perceived that the Princess was pregnant, and having menaced the Princess and asked who was the offender regarding it, ascertaining that he was the flower-mother's son, he gave the Princess to the flower-mother's son, and turned them out of the palace. After this, one day because of a great feast at the royal house, the King ordered these six Princes to go for hunting, and return. Because the flower-mother's son was in an extremely poor condition, except that the other Princes made jests at him they did not notice him. The other six Princesses ask the Princess of the flower-mother's son, "Is your husband going for the hunting-sport to-day?" Then having exhibited a most sorrowful state, the Princess says, "That I do not know. I must ask my husband, and ascertain." When the other Princes had ornamented [themselves] for the hunting-sport, the flower-mother's son, seeking a rust-eaten sword and rotten bow, went to the midst of the forest, and taking a Prince's appearance, mounted upon a horse. Having gone [hunting], cutting off the tongues of the whole of the animals that he hunted [and killed], and taking only a rat-snake [besides], he returned to the palace before everybody [in his ordinary form]. The King required to look at the animals which these Princes had hunted [and killed]. Thereupon, to be visible above the meat procured by the hunting of the whole of them, [the Prince] placed [on the top of them] the dead body of his rat-snake. Then the whole of them abused this one, it is said. Thereupon this one says to the King, "It was not these Princes; I killed these animals." Having said, "If these killed them, where are the tongues of these animals?" he opened [their] mouths and showed them. Having shown the King the tongues of the animals which he had, and caused them to see [him in] the likeness of the Prince decorated with all the ornaments, like the full moon, this flower-mother's son stood before the King. Thereupon, the King and the other Princes also, retreated in extreme astonishment. Thereupon, when he gave the King information of all the account of this Prince from the commencement, [the King] having handed over the sovereignty to him he put on the crowns. [247] Western Province. NO. 245 CONCERNING A PRINCE AND A KINNARA WOMAN In a certain country there was a King, it is said. There was a single daughter of the King's. From many places they spoke of marriage to that royal Princess, but her father the King did not agree to it. At last, when a certain royal Prince asked to marry this Princess, her father the King, having made inquiry, because of his not happening to be a son of the Chief Queen was not satisfied with it. But on account of the Prince's possessing a mind extremely attached to the said Princess, having considered several means of success for bringing away this Princess, he made a very large brass lamp. The chamber of the lamp had a size [sufficient] for the Prince to be concealed [in it]. Having caused the lamp to be constructed in this manner, after the Prince entered there, having employed four persons they took this very lamp to sell. In order to go in this way, the Prince said thus to his servants, "There is necessity for me to enter such and such a royal house. While [you are] taking this lamp, when anyone [elsewhere] asks for it, mention a price which it is not worth; but having gone to the royal house give it at whatever they ask it for," he said. Thereafter the servants, keeping this word in mind, and the Prince being concealed [in it], took the lamp to the royal house, it is said. The King, having seen the lamp and having thought, "This is an extremely fine lamp. This is suitable for placing in my daughter's chamber," asked the price of it, it is said. Thereupon the servants who took the lamp fixed the price at four hundred masuran. And when the King said, "This is not worth so much; I will give seventy-five [248] masuran," the servants because of the Prince's word gave the lamp at that price, it is said. Thereafter, for the purpose of beautifying the royal Princess's chamber he placed there this lamp. The Prince, also, having entered the lamp was [in it]. Although for the care of the Princess many servants were staying there, the Prince obtained opportunity in order to bring about conversation with the Princess, it is said. By this method obtaining about a [half] share of the Princess's food, the Prince remained hidden for a time. They give the Princess only one quantity of food. It was the custom once in seven days to weigh this Princess; [249] but as the Prince was eating a share of the Princess's food, the Princess having become thin became less in weight. Having seen that the Princess's weight by degrees was growing less, the servant women, becoming afraid, informed the King that the Princess perhaps had some illness. The King also having thought that the Princess perhaps had some sickness (abadayak), made inquiry, and having ascertained that she had not a sickness in that way, ordered them to give additional food on account of it. After this time, having seen that the Princess is increasing in weight by the method, at the time when he inquired about it, he ascertained, it is said, that the Princess had been pregnant for eight months. After this, although the King investigated by several methods regarding the manner in which this disgrace occurred to the Princess, he was unable to learn it. Everyone in the country got to know about this. In this way, after the King was coming to great grief, he caused notification to be made by beat of tom-toms throughout the country that to a person who should seize and give him the wicked man who caused the disgrace to the royal Princess, he will give goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load. A certain old woman, having caused the proclamation tom-tom to stop, said, "I can catch and give the thief," it is said. Thereupon they took the old mother near the King. Then the King having spoken, asked, "Canst thou catch and give the thief?" "It is so; may the Gods cause me to be wise," the old woman said, it is said. "Dost thou require something for it?" he asked. "[You] must give me a permission for it in this manner," she said. "That is to say, whether in the [right] time or in unseasonable time, [250] it is proper that I should receive permission for coming to any place I please in the palace," she said. And the King gave permission for it. The old mother, upon that same permission having come to the royal house, while conversing in a friendly manner with the Princess after many days had gone by ascertained that from outside anyone was unable to approach the palace. But perceiving that some one could hide inside the lamp that is in the Princess's chamber, one day, in the evening, at the time when darkness was about to fall, she came to the Princess's chamber, and having been talking, dishonestly to the Princess she scattered white sand round the lamp, and went away. In the morning, having arrived, when she looked she saw the foot-marks of a person who went out of the lamp, and perceiving that most undoubtedly the rogue is in the lamp, told the King (rajuhata), it is said. Thereupon the King having employed the servants and brought the rogue out, made the tusk elephant drink seven large pots of arrack (palm spirit), and ordered them to kill him by means of the tusk elephant. Having made the Prince sit upon the tusk elephant, they went near the upper story where the Princess was. The elephant-driver was a servant who was inside the palace for much time. As he was a man to whom the Princess several times had given to eat and drink, the Princess said for the elephant-keeper to hear, "With the tusk-elephant face don't smash the tips of the cooked rice." [251] The elephant-keeper also understanding the speech, without killing the Prince saved him. Although he employed the tusk elephant even three times, and made it trample on his bonds, at the three times he escaped. Thereupon the King [said], "This one is a meritorious person;" [252] and having caused him to be summoned, and made notification of these things after he came, at the time when he asked, "Who art thou? What is thy name?" he told all, without concealing [anything]. Thereupon he married and gave the Princess to the Prince. While the two persons were living thus, a longing arose for the Princess to wear blue-lotus flowers. As this time was a season without flowers, having heard that there would be flowers only at one pool at a Kinnara village at a great distance, the Prince went there. While he was there, a Rodi (Kinnara) woman by means of a [knowledge of the] teaching of the Kala [253] spells caused the Prince to stop there, it is said. When time went in this manner without the Prince's coming, the King started off and sent four Ministers for the purpose of finding him. The four persons, ascertaining that the Prince had been captured and taken into the Kinnara caste, went there, and spoke to the Prince. Perceiving that while by the mouth of the Rodi (Kinnara) [254] woman the word "Go" was being said, he was unable to go, [255] they spoke to the Prince, and did a trick thus, it is said; that is, they told the Prince to say, "Certain of my friends have come; we must give them amply to eat and drink." "Because of it [be pleased] to tell the Kinnara woman to cook food amply," they said. When the Prince told the Kinnari to cook food in that manner she did so. When the Prince summoned the Ministers to the food, they, the four persons, putting sand in their waist pockets and mixing it with the food, endeavoured to eat, it is said. Having done so, the four Ministers said, "Although we came so far seeking our friend, we were unable to eat even a mouthful of rice from our friend without sand and stones [being] in it," and having scolded the Prince they went away. At that time the Prince appeared as though approaching great grief. The Rodi (Kinnara) woman who saw this spoke to the Prince, "Go, calling your friends to come," she said. After the way in which she said this [word] "Go," the Prince very speedily having started, went with the four Ministers to his own country. Having gone thus and arrived at the palace, he told of the beauty of the Kinnara woman, and all his story. In the meantime the Kinnara woman also having arrived in front of him, the Kinnara woman having said, "Here he is," when she seized the Prince's hand the King, having pushed the Rodi (Kinnara) woman from there, sent her out of the way. The Kinnara woman because of this trouble drew out her tongue, and having bit it died, it is said; and after that having cast out the dead body they burned it. On the grave mound a plant [used as a] vegetable grew. Two women of the village near this place came here to break fire-wood. Because one of the two women had pregnancy longing, uprooting the plant [used as a] vegetable, she cooked and ate it to allay the longing. After she ate thus, the woman having given birth to a female child she grew up extremely beautiful, like the dead Kinnara woman. During this time, the Prince in succession to his father-in-law had come to the sovereignty, it is said. At the time when the child born like the Kinnara woman had arrived at sufficient age, the King having come and having seen her when he was going [past], remembered the dead Kinnara woman, and having tied his affections on the young woman endeavoured to obtain her, it is said. But her two parents not being pleased at it, as the King was going to walk away beat him, and killed him. After the King died, when the King's men were burying him they gave the kingship to his son. After this son arrived at the time when he understood matters, he asked his mother how his father the King died, and ascertaining it he seized the men of the village at which they killed the King, and having put them in a ship he launched it on the sea. The men having cast nets, catching fish [in them] got their livelihood. After this, having cast the net and made efforts, catching a hundred Seer fishes they went to the village that was visible on shore. That village, indeed, is now Migamuwa (Negombo). Western Province. The capture of the Prince by a low-caste village girl is apparently borrowed from Sinhalese history. In the second century before Christ, Prince Sali, the only son of King Duttha-Gamani, fell in love with a beautiful village girl of low-caste,--according to tradition a Duraya girl--married her, and in order to retain her abandoned his succession to the throne. According to the historians, his infatuation was due to his grandfather's having been a pious man of low-caste in his former life, and to the Prince's marrying the girl in a previous existence, both of them then being of the same caste. NO. 246 THE WAY IN WHICH THE PRINCE TRADED In a certain country the son of a King having thought that he himself earning it he must obtain a living, asked permission for it from his father the King. Then the King said, "Son, if the goods that there are of mine will do without your earning a living and [thus] obtaining it, you can live happily, enjoying the possession of this wealth which there is," he said. But the Prince, being dissatisfied with it, said to his father the King, "In order for me to do trading, having loaded goods in a ship please give me charge of it," he said. Because of the strong wish of the Prince in this matter, the King having caused three ships to be constructed, loaded goods in one and gave the Prince charge of it, and sent the other two ships for the purpose of his protection. After these three ships had sailed a considerable distance, a strong wind struck them; and the two ships which went for his protection having sunk, the ship in which was the Prince drifted to a shore. Thereupon the Prince having said, "At what country have we arrived?" when he began to walk there for the purpose of looking, he saw a city in which were houses without men, and an abandoned palace. At that time, in order to find a country in which are men, he caused a dependant of this Prince to climb up a very high tree; when he looked he saw at a place not far from there a city at which men are dwelling, and they went there. When the Prince asked the men who were at the city the reason of there being a city with abandoned houses and an abandoned palace, the men said thus, that is, "Because the King who exercised the sovereignty over that city did much wrong, a deity having sent a fire-ball [256] through the whole city once in three months, began to destroy it." Thereupon this Prince who owned the ship, asking for a very clever clerk from the Minister who ruled the city, arrived there on the day on which he sends the fire-ball to destroy the city. When he is sending the fire-ball the Prince asked the deity, "What is the reason for sending this fire-ball?" The deity said, "The King who ruled here stole the goods of such and such men to these extents, put in prison falsely such and such men." When he is saying a quantity of such-like matters, the clerk who went with the Prince wrote down the whole. Thereupon the Prince said to the deity, "The goods which the King stole from the men I will apportion and give to them. I will assist the men who were put in prison without cause. Because of it, henceforward do not send the fire-ball and destroy the city." When he said it the deity accepted it. After that, the Prince having sold the goods that were in the ship and the ship also, and having assisted the families whom the wicked King had injured, together with the Minister governed the country. One day this Prince having gone for hunting-sport, when he was going hunting, a deer, feeling the wound at the shooting and shooting, ran off in front. The Prince having run after the deer, became separated from his retinue. Having seen, when going along, that a very beautiful Princess is at a rock cave in the midst of the forest, when he asked her [regarding] the circumstance, she said, "A Yaka brought me and put me in this rock cave. Once in three months he comes to look [at me]." Thereupon the Prince, calling for his retinue, and when it came having gone away taking this Princess, gave her in marriage to the Minister. After this, because neither this Princess nor the Minister, both of them, paid regard to this Prince who had assisted them, the Prince having become angry went away. Having gone thus, becoming wearied he went to sleep near a pool in the midst of the forest. At this time, two robbers having come, placed [there] a very beautiful Princess on a golden bed, and being unable to divide them, [each] cried out, saying, "The bed for me; the Princess for me. Give me them." Thereupon the Prince, having opened his eyes and said, "Who are ye?" sprang near them, taking his sword, and said, "I am such and such a Prince. I will kill you. If I am not to kill you, give me the Princess, and if ye want the bed take ye it away." The two robbers having become afraid, taking the bed went away. This Prince went away, taking the Princess, and having arrived at a country, dwelt there in misery. At this time, her father the King made public that to the person who, having found, gave him this Princess, he will give a share from the kingdom, and marry and give her. Well then, for the purpose of finding her, a young man from the Princess's country having walked to all places, at last arrived by chance at the place where both of them are residing. Recognising the Princess, and during that day night getting a resting-place there and having stayed at it, he stole the Princess, and went near her father the King. Thereupon the Princess said to her father the King, "Do not give me in marriage to this wicked one. There is a Prince who at the very first delivered me from robbers. While that Prince was there [after] finding me, this wicked one having gone [there], stealing me by force came away." Thereupon the King commanded them to impale this man, and kill him. Through grief at [her loss], that Prince who was [there] having come after seeking her for three months, [the King] gave him this Princess in marriage, and gave him the kingship of that country, also. Western Province. NO. 247 A PRINCESS AND A PRINCE In a certain country a King had an only daughter, it is said. The Princess was a possessor of an extremely beautiful figure. The King taught her the sciences to the extent to which she was able to learn. This Princess having arrived at maturity, the King ordained that a Prince who having heaped up masuran [amounting] to five tusk elephants' loads, should show [and give] him them, may marry her. After that, although from several countries Princes came to marry her because this Princess's figure is beautiful, having been unable to procure masuran [amounting] to five tusk elephants' loads their minds became disheartened, and they went away. At last, out of the seven sons of a certain Emperor-King, one person said to his father the King, "Father, [257] should you not give me masuran [equal] to five tusk elephants' loads, undoubtedly, cutting my throat (lit., neck) myself, I shall die." The King asked, "What is that for?" "In such and such a country there is a very beautiful daughter of the King. To marry her, first it is necessary to give masuran [equal] to five tusk elephants' loads." Thereupon the Emperor-King having loaded the masuran into a number of carts, handed them over to the Prince. Well then, this Prince, taking the masuran also, approached near the Princess's father, the King. Having weighed his masuran, when he looked [into the account] still a few were short. Because of it having sold even the tusk elephant which the Prince brought, and having righted the five tusk elephants' loads, after he showed them to the King, the father of the Princess, he gave the Princess in marriage to this Prince. Because of this Prince's act, the Princes who having come first to marry the Princess and having been unable went away, became angry, and formed the design to steal the Princess for themselves. After the Prince lived in happiness for a little time at the palace of the King, the father of the Princess, he asked the King, the Princess's father, for permission to go to his own country with the Princess. When he had asked permission even many a time because the father of the Princess was very unwilling, by very strong effort he set off to go, together with the Princess. When going thus, the Princess's father gave her ten masuran. As these two persons, taking the ten masuran, were going journeying they fell into a great forest wilderness. Leaving behind the forest wilderness, when they arrived at another country, because [only] two masuran remained over for them, getting a living became very difficult. Thereupon the Princess said to the Prince, "I know the means to earn our living, therefore be not afraid. For [the value of] the remaining two masuran bring threads of such and such colours," she said. The Prince having brought them, the beautiful Princess knitted a scarf [like one] she was wearing, and having put flower work, etc., [in it], and finished, gave it to the Prince, and said, "Having gone taking this scarf and sold it to a shop, please bring and give me the money," she said. Thereupon the Prince having taken it and gone, and having sold it for twenty masuran, thereafter bought at the price the requisite threads of several colours, and gave them to the Princess. Well then, while the Princess is making ready scarves, having obtained money and rented a house at the city, she dwelt with the Prince. While [they were] dwelling thus, a Prince came to the shop at which she sold the scarves, and buying an invaluable scarf of these, and ascertaining that it was the scarf woven by such and such a Princess, asked the shopkeeper, "Who brought and sold the scarves?" Then the shopkeeper said, "Such and such a handsome man sold them to me," he said. Having said, "When will the scarf trader come again to the shop?" and having ascertained it from the shopkeeper, he came on the day which the shopkeeper mentioned, in order to meet the Prince scarf trader. Having come thus, and met with the very Prince who trades in the scarves, and conversed well, he asked, "Who knits the scarves?" Then the Prince gave answer, "My wife knits them." Thereupon the other Prince said, "The scarves are extremely good. I want to get knitted and to take about ten or fifteen of them." Having said [this], and having come to the place where this Princess and Prince are living, and given a deposit of part of the money for the month, he got a resting-place there that day night. In this manner getting a resting-place and having been there, in the middle of the night stealing the Princess, the Prince who got the resting-place took her to his palace. This Prince, for the Princess whom he stole and the Prince who was her lord to become unconscious, caused them to drink a poisonous drug while they were sleeping. This Prince who stole the Princess was a person who at first having gone to marry her, was not wealthy [enough] to procure the masuran [amounting] to five tusk elephants' loads. Well then, on the day on which he went stealing the Princess, he received a letter from his father the King, that he must go for a war. Because of it, having put the Princess whom he stole in the palace, and placed guards, and commanded that they should not allow her to go outside it, he went for the war. While she was [there] in this manner, in the morning consciousness having come to the Prince who had married the Princess and become her lord, he opened his eyes, and having seen that the Princess was not there, as though with madness he began to walk to that and this hand. While going thus, he went to go by the street near the palace in which his Princess is put. When going there, after the Princess had looked in the direction of the street from the floor of the upper story, she saw that her Prince is going; and at that very time having written a letter she sent it to the Prince by the hand of a messenger. In the letter was said, "At night, at such and such a time please come to such and such a place. Then I having arrived there, and both of us having joined together, let us go by stealth to another country." The Prince as soon as he received the letter went near a jungle, and thinking, "Here are no men," read the letter somewhat loudly. Then a man who, having gone into the jungle to draw out creepers and having become fatigued, was lying down near there, heard his reading of the letter. Because the man heard this matter, in the night time, at the time which was written in the Princess's letter, taking a sword also, he went to the place which she mentioned. When the Princess, too, at the appointed time went to the said place, the man who went to cut creepers having waited there, seized her hand, and they quickly travelled away. While they were going, in order that the guards and city residents should not be able to recognise them, not doing much talking they journeyed quickly in the darkness, by the jungle, to the road. The Prince who was appointed the husband of the Princess, having read without patience the letter which the Princess sent, arrived at the place mentioned before the appointed time; and having [sat down and] leaned against a tree until she comes, after the journey he made went to sleep. At this time the man who went to cut creepers came, bringing the sword. If he had met with the Prince, he would have even killed him, with the design to take away the Princess. This Princess, together with that man, having arrived at a great forest wilderness, both persons went to sleep under a tree. After it became light, having opened her eyes, and when she looked having seen that she had come with a very ugly man, unpleasing to look at, becoming very distressed she began to weep. Then the man said, "After you have now come so far with me, should you leave me you will appoint yourself to destruction. Because of it, are you willing that I should marry you?" he asked. The Princess said, "I am willing; but in our country there is a custom. In that manner we must keep it," she said. The creeper cutter agreed to it, that is, the woman and man, both of them, who are to marry, having looked face to face, with two ropes of fine thread are to be tied at a post, and after they have proclaimed their willingness or unwillingness for their marrying, they must marry. "Well then, because in this forest wilderness there are not ropes of fine thread, let us tie ourselves with creepers," she said. Because there was not anyone to tie the two persons at once (eka parata), the other having tied one person, after this one proclaimed her or his willingness the other was to be tied. Firstly having tied the Princess with a turn of creeper, after she proclaimed her consent he unloosed her. After that, the Princess, having very thoroughly made tight and tied to the tree the creeper cutter, quickly went away backward to seek her lord. While going in that way she met with two Vaeddas. Thereupon the two Vaeddas, with the design to take this Princess, began to make uproar. Thereupon the Princess said, "Out of you two, I am willing to come with the skilful one in shooting furthest," she said. At that time the two Vaeddas, having exerted themselves as much as possible, shot the two arrows [so as] to go very far, and to fetch the arrows went running to the place where they fell. While they were in the midst of it the Princess went off very stealthily. The two Vaeddas having come and having seen that the Princess had gone, began to seek her. When they were thus seeking her, that creeper cutter whom she had tied and placed there when she came away, somehow or other unfastening the tying, came seeking the Princess; and having joined with these Vaeddas began to seek [her with them]. While they were in the midst of it, the Princess having gone walking, met with a trader. The trader, taking her and having journeyed, at noon became wearied, and went to sleep in the shade under a tree. Then the Princess taking a part of the trader's clothes and putting them on, went like a man, and arrived at a royal palace. The King having said to this one, "What can you do?" [after] ascertaining it, gave this one the charge to teach the King's son and also the Minister's son. During the time while she is thus educating in the sciences these two Princes, one day the Minister's son, because of an accidental necessary matter went into the room where this Princess who was made his teacher is sleeping. At the time when he went, the Princess's outer robe having been aslant, the Minister-Prince saw her two breasts, and went seeking the King's son to inform him that she was a woman. The Princess, ascertaining this circumstance, stealing from the palace the clothes of a royal Prince and putting them on, went away very hastily. She went away thus in the disguise of a Prince, by a street near a palace of the chief city in another country. Because a handsome husband, pleasing to the mind of the daughter of the King of that country, had not been obtained by her, she remained for much time without having married. Although many royal Princes came she was not pleased with them. But having been looking in the direction of the street from a window of the upper story floor, and having seen this Princess of extremely beautiful figure going in the disguise of a Prince, very hastily she sent to her father the King, and informed him, "Please give me the hand of that Prince who is travelling in the street, as my lord-husband." Then the King, having sent a messenger and caused this Prince to be brought near the King, and shown him the Princess, said, "You must marry this Princess. If not, I shall appoint you to death." This Princess who was in the disguise of a Prince through fear of death consented to it. After that, having appointed the wedding festival in a great ostentatious manner, they married these two persons. In that night the Princess who was in the disguise of a Prince, having told the other Princess all the dangers that occurred to her, and told her that she is a Princess, said to her, "Don't inform any one about it." Remaining in this manner, the Princess who is in the Prince disguise began to seek her husband. It was thus:--This Princess having caused to be made ready a very spacious hall which causes the minds of the spectators who saw it to rejoice to the degree that from the outer districts men come to look at it, began to cause donations [of food] to be given to all who arrive there. Having caused her own figure to be made from wax, and having put clothes on it, and established it at a place in front of this hall, she caused guards to be stationed around, and commanded them, "Any person having come near this wax figure, at the very time when he has touched it you are to bring that person near me." She said [thus] to the guards. While a few days were going, men came from many districts to look at this hall. Among them, having walked and walked seeking this Princess, were her Prince and the creeper cutter, the two Vaeddas and the trader, the royal Prince and the Minister-Prince. The whole of them having come and seen this wax figure, touched the hand of the wax figure. The guards who were stationed there, because the whole of these said persons touched the wax figure, arrested them and gave charge of them to the Princess. Thereupon the Princess commanded them to kill the creeper cutter. Having censured the Vaeddas she told them to go. To the son of the King who caused her to teach, she gave in marriage the Princess whom, having come in the disguise of the Prince, she married. Taking charge of her own Lord she from that time lived in happiness. Western Province. The story of the Prince and Princess (No. 8, vol. i) bears a close resemblance to this tale in some of the incidents; see also No. 108 in vol. ii. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iii, p. 62) the story of Ali Shar and Zumurrud also contains similarities. When the two had no other means of support, Zumurrud sent her master or husband to buy a piece of silk and thread for working on it. She then embroidered it for eight days as a curtain, which Ali Shar sold for fifty dinars to a merchant in the bazaar, after she had warned him not to part with it to a passer-by. They lived thus for a year, till at last he sold one to a stranger, owing to the urging of the merchants. The purchaser followed him home, inserted opiates into a half plantain which he presented to him, and when Ali Shar became unconscious fetched his brother, a former would-be purchaser of Zumurrud, and they carried off the girl. By arrangement with an old woman, a friend of the youth's, she lowered herself from a window at midnight, but Ali Shar, who waited there for her, had fallen asleep, and a Kurdish thief in the darkness took her away, and left her in charge of his mother. When this woman fell asleep she escaped on horse-back in male attire, was elected King at a city at which she arrived, and by giving a monthly feast to all comers in a great pavilion that she erected for the purpose, seized all her captors, and caused them to be flayed alive. At last she found her husband in this way. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 301, the marriage of the disguised wife of a Prince to a Princess occurs. While they were travelling the Prince was imprisoned on a false charge, his wife dressed as a man, was seen by a Princess who fell in love with her, and agreed to marry the Princess if according to the custom of her own country the vermilion were applied to the bride's forehead with a sword (the marriage to the sword). When she told the Princess her story the latter informed the Raja, who released the Prince and remarried his daughter to him. NO. 248 CONCERNING A ROYAL PRINCESS AND TWO THIEVES In a certain country there was a King. There was one Princess, only, of the King's. Except the King's Queen and Princess, only, there was not any other child. At the time when the Princess was twelve years old the King died. After he died any person does not go to do the work at the royal house as in the time when the King was there. By reason of this, the Princess and Queen are doing the work in the palace without any one. When not much time had gone, two men came to the royal house without [anything] to eat and to wear. At that time this royal Queen asked, "What have ye come for?" Thereupon these men said that being without [anything] to eat and to wear they came seeking a means of subsistence. Then the Queen said, "It is good. If so, remain ye here." The men having said, "It is good," stayed there. The work she gave them, indeed, was [this]: she told one person to cause the cattle to graze; she told one person to pour water [on the plants] at the flower garden. After that, the man who looks after the cattle having taken the cattle to a garden of someone or other and left them, was lying down under a tree. At that time the owner of the garden having come, and having beaten him and the cattle, drove them away. After that, the man having put the cattle somewhere else, [after] causing them to graze there went to the palace. The man to whom was given the charge to pour the water, from morning until evening comes having drawn water, became much fatigued. On the following day, with the thought of changing [the work of] both persons that day, he asked the man who went to cause the cattle to graze, "Friend, how is the work you went for? Is it easy or difficult?" Thereupon the man who looks after the cattle said, "Ane! Friend, having taken the cattle and put them in a garden, I lie down. When it becomes evening I come driving them, and tie them up. Except that, there is not any difficulty for me," he said. Having said thus, the man who looks after the cattle asked the man who pours the water, "How, friend, is your work?" The man said, "What, friend, is my work? Having poured a bucket or two of water on the flower trees I simply amuse myself." Then the man who looks after the cattle said, "If so, friend, I will pour the water at the flower garden to-morrow; you take the cattle." Thereupon the man, being thankful, said, "It is good." On the following day both persons did accordingly. That day, also, he beat the man who looks after the cattle, in an inordinate manner. The man who remained at home, having poured water until it became night, was wearied. Having seen that these two works were difficult, both these men in the evening spoke together very softly. The Queen and Princess having become frightened at it, put all the money into an iron box, and having shut it and taken care of it, put it away. These men having heard that noise, and having waited until the time when the Princess and the Queen were sleeping, these two, lifting up that box, came away with it. There was a waterless well. Having said they would hide it in the well, one told [the other] to descend into the well. What did the other do? Taking a large round stone, he dropped it into the well, so that the man who was in the well should die. Having dropped it, the man, taking the cash-box, went somewhere else. That stone not having struck the man who descended into the well, with much exertion he came to the surface of the ground, and when he looked the man was not [there]. On the following day, the Queen having arisen, at the time when she looked she perceived that the cash-box was not [there]. Having perceived it, she asked the man who remained [regarding it]. The man said, "Ane! I don't know." When the Queen asked, "Where is the other man?" this man said, "That man himself will have taken it. The man is not here." The Queen having said, "Well, what can I do?" remained without doing anything. The man who stayed at the palace having inquired on the following day, when he looked about met with the cash-box, [the other man] having placed it in the chena jungle. Having taken it, he came back and gave it to the Queen. Thereupon, the Queen being very thankful, and having married and given that Princess to the man, he remained [there] exercising the kingship virtuously, as [was done] before. Western Province. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (L. Behari Day), p. 160, two thieves determined to live honestly, and were engaged by a householder, one to tend a cow, the other to water a Champaka plant, at which he was told to pour water until some collected round it. The dry earth absorbed all he poured, and in the afternoon, tired out, he went to sleep. The cow taken out by the other man to graze was a wild vicious one; it galloped about into rice fields and sugar-cane plantations, and did much damage, for which the man was well scolded, together with fourteen generations of his forefathers. At last he managed to catch the cow, and bring it home. Each man told the other of the easy day he had had, intending to get the other man's work; and at last they arranged to exchange duties. On the following day, when they met in the evening, both worn out, they laughed, and agreed that stealing was preferable to what people called honest labour. They decided to dig at the root of the plant, and learn why it took so much water. Their subsequent adventures are given in vol. ii, p. 94. A similar story is given in Folklore of the Santal Parganas (Dr. Bodding), p. 139, the men being two brothers who went off and were engaged as labourers, one by an oilman and the other by a potter. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xxv, p. 21, in a story by Natesa Sastri, two rogues who agreed to work for an old woman had similar experiences, each boasting of the easy day he had had. In this tale the woman had secret subterranean channels which carried the water to a field that she cultivated. Afterwards, as she overheard them arranging to rob her she buried her treasure in a corner of the house, filled the box which had contained it with stones and pieces of old iron, told them she hid it in the well during the dark half of the month (when thieves might try to take it), and made them carry it there and drop it in. At night they went to remove it, the man who descended opened it in the well and found she had tricked them, but being afraid the other would leave him in the well he emptied it, sat in it, said it was full of treasure, and told the other to draw it up. The man absconded with it as soon as he raised it, until a voice told him to walk more slowly, on which he opened it and found the other rogue in it. NO. 249 HOW THE NAGAYA BECAME THE PRINCESS In a certain country there was a royal Prince, it is said. This Prince one day having gone for garden sport, and while on his return journey having seen a beautiful woman belonging to a nobleman's family, his mind was attracted towards her, it is said. When the Prince with his mind thus greatly attracted towards the woman is feeling keen sorrow, not obtaining sleep, dwelling foodless, for several days in succession not having eaten, his body grew extremely emaciated. At the time when his father the King inquired what were the reasons of it, he informed him that he wanted to take in marriage a nobleman's daughter, it is said. The King having heard his word, asked the assemblage of Ministers whether the transaction was suitable or unsuitable. And the assemblage of Ministers having said that should he take [a wife] in marriage in that manner a disgrace will go to the royal race, he rejected it. But having seen that because of the young Prince's grief from day to day his body becomes [more] emaciated, his father the King took and gave him a [bride in] marriage from another royal family. Yet except that he contracted this marriage because of the urgent request of his father the King, for himself, indeed, he did not desire even to look in the direction of the Princess whom he married. At the time when he is thus, having concealed from the King that he does not pay regard to his married wife, since thereafter the Prince attempted the obtaining of the nobleman's daughter for himself [the King] ordered the Prince to go out of the country. The Prince, upon the word of his father the King having mounted on a ship and become ready to go to the foreign country, put the Princess whom he took in marriage into a rock house (cave), and having placed guards around, and made them give her food once in four days, said thus to the Princess, "When, having gone to a foreign country, I come again to this country, having borne a Prince like me do thou keep and rear him virtuously. Should it not be so I will speedily cause thee to be killed and cut into bits," he said. The Prince said thus with the intention of indeed killing the Princess. Why was that? Because from the day when he contracted the marriage there had not been a [conjugal] association of these two. Well then, she ascertained that she cannot perform even one of the orders that were told to the Princess. Well, this Princess's father had presented and given to her two tunnelling rats. [258] By the help of these rats having made a tunnel [by which] to go outside from the rock house, she came out by the tunnel, and making even the guards her friends, went near a woman who knows extremely clever dances; and having given money, [after] learning up to the other shore itself [259] her art of dancing, she went to the neighbourhood [of the place] from which on the first occasion the Prince was to mount into the ship, putting on a dress that was attracting the wonder of each of the persons who saw it, in such a manner that anyone should be unable to recognise her. Having shown dances in front of the Prince, and caused his mind to long for her, and that day night having slept with him, on the following day she went to the house of the King her father. The Prince having gone to foreign countries, the Princess was living in happiness at the house of her father until learning news of his coming again to his own country. Having heard news that the Prince descended from the ship, and having gone to the rock house together with the guards of whom at first she was making friends, she remained [there] in the manner which the Prince ordered on going. Because the Prince came after a number of years had passed away, she had a fine infant Prince. Well then, the Prince, having descended from the ship and having come with the intention [after] having killed his wife to take in marriage the nobleman's Princess, opened the door of the rock house, and at the time when he looked saw that the Princess is [there] with an infant Prince in the very manner he said. While he was in extreme anger, the Princess, while in the midst between the Royal Council and her husband, related the method by which she obtained her child. After that, when in a very public manner the Prince completely abandoned his wife her parents did not take charge of her. Because of it, having gone near an indigent woman she dwelt with her child. Because the Prince had extreme affection for the child he thought to take the child [after] having given poison to the Princess and killed her. At this time, because the Situ Princess whom the Prince was intending to take in marriage had been taken and given and settled for another person, he contracted marriage with another Princess. On the day of the festival at which he contracts [260] this marriage, on his sending to his indigent former wife a sort of cakes in which poison was mixed, when she was partaking of them she performed the act of Yama. [261] After she died, a Naga maiden began to give milk to the infant. The Prince having gone on horseback to bring the infant, at the time when he brought it to the royal house the Naga maiden also went behind [in her snake form]. The Prince having seen the Naga maiden while the head part of the Nagaya was inside the doorway and the tail part outside the doorway, when he cut it in two with his sword the Nagaya vanished, and the Princess who was the mother of the infant remained in front [of him]. [262] The Prince ascertaining [thereby] that he was unable to kill her, established her in the post of Chief Queen. Western Province. NO. 250 THE STORY OF THE COBRA'S BITE In a certain country there was a King, it is said. Belonging to that King there was only a single son-Prince. He handed over this Prince to a Royal Preceptor for teaching him the arts and sciences. Although until this Prince became big to a [considerable] degree he was learning near the Royal Preceptor, he did not properly get to know even a single letter. While he was staying thus, a King of another country sent a letter to his father the King. Thereupon he gave this letter to the Prince to read. The Prince, bringing the letter near his forehead, looked at it, rubbing his eye he looked, (after) running round the house he looked; but he was unable to read it. The royal retinue who saw this laughed. At that time anger having arisen in the King concerning this, he very quickly caused the Royal Preceptor to be brought. He spoke to him angrily. The Royal Preceptor, becoming afraid [said], "Your Majesty, your son is unable to learn. Let this [other] child who learnt at the same time with that Prince, and this child who came to learn after that, read, if you please;" and he presented two children before him. Thereupon the two children read the letter with ease. After that, the King being angry with his Prince, settled to kill him on the following day. His mother the Queen having arrived at much grief concerning this, on the following day, at the point of its becoming light, having tied up a packet of masuran and given it to him, ordered him to set off and go away from the country. And the Prince, in the manner his mother said, taking the packet of masuran set off and went away from the country. While he was thus going he saw a place where an astrologer, assembling children (lamo) together, is teaching. The Prince having halted at that place and spoken to the teacher about learning [under him], remained there. And although, having stayed there much time, he endeavoured to learn, while he was there also he was unable to learn. During this time the astrologer-teacher having become afflicted with disease, dismissed and started off the whole of the scholars. He told the Prince to go away. At the time when the Prince was going, he approached to take permission from the teacher. Thereupon the teacher, having spoken to the Prince, said, "Learning even the advice which I now give to yourself, take it and establish it in your mind as long as there is life." The Prince answered, "It is good." The advice indeed was this:--"Having gone to a place to which you did not go [before], should they give any seat for sitting down, without sitting there at once you must draw out and shake the seat, and [then] sit down. While you are at any place, should they give to eat, not eating the food at once, [but] taking a very little from the food, after having given it to an animal and looked at it a little time you must eat. Having come to an evil place to take sleep, not lying down at once you must lie down at the time of being sleepy. Not believing anything that any person has only said, should you hear it with the ear and see it with the eye [even], not believing it on that account only, [but] having inquired still further, you must act." [After] hearing this advice the Prince having set out from there, went away. At the time when he had gone a considerable distance, the Prince became hungry; and the Prince having halted at a place, said to the house man, "Ane! Friend, I am very hungry. I will give you the expenses; give me to eat for one meal." Having said [this], the Prince unfastened the packet of masuran that was in his hand, and from it gave him a single masurama. The man after having seen these told his wife about the packet of masuran that the Prince had. [263] The wife also having become desirous to take the packet of masuran, told her husband the stratagem to kill the Prince and take them. Talking in this way, they dug a secret (boru) hole and covered it, and having fixed a seat upon it made him sit there to eat food. The Prince having established in his mind the advice which the astrologer-teacher gave, drew away and shook the seat; at the time when he endeavoured to look [at the place] all the things that were there fell into the secret hole. Having seen this and arrived at fear, the Prince set off from there and began to go away. Having thus gone a considerable distance, and having halted at a place because of hunger, the Prince said to a man, "On my giving the expenses give me to eat for one meal." Thereupon the man said, "It is good." Then the Prince, having unfastened the packet of masuran, bringing a masurama gave it to the man. The man having told his wife also about the matter of the masuran, they arranged a means to kill the Prince and take the masuran. Having thought of giving poison to the Prince to kill him while here, they put poison into the food, and having set a seat and brought a kettle of water for washing himself, gave it to him. The Prince, after washing his [right] hand and mouth, having gone and sat down, according to the advice of the astrologer-teacher taking from all the food a very little gave it to the dog and cat that were near the Prince, and remained looking [at them] a little time. While he was [waiting] thus, in a little time the dog and cat died and fell down. Having seen this and become afraid, the Prince set off from there and began to go away. Having gone on and on in this way, near the palace of another King through hunger-weakness he fell, and struck the ground. The men who saw this having gone running, said to the King [that] a man like a royal Prince had fallen down, and was not far from the palace. The King gave orders, "Very speedily bring him here." Thereupon the men having lifted him up, took him to the royal house. While he was there, when he asked him [regarding] the circumstances, "I am very weak through hunger; [264] for many days I have not obtained any food," he said. "At first having made rice gruel, give ye him a little," the King said. Thereupon the servants having said, "It is good" (Yahapataeyi), prepared and gave it. After his weakness was removed in this way, he asked him [about] the circumstances. Commencing at the beginning, from the time (taen) when he went near the Royal Preceptor, he told the story before the King (raju). Then the King spoke, "Wast thou unable to learn letters? Not thus should a royal Prince understand. Wast thou unable to learn the art of swords, the art of bows, etc.?" he asked. Thereupon, when answering he said he knew the whole of those arts; only letters he did not know. At that time the King thought thus, "Because of his not knowing only letters, ordering them to kill him was wrong, the first-born son. Remain thou near me," he commanded. Belonging to the King there was a single daughter only. As there were no sons he regarded this Prince like a son. When not much time had gone thus, the King thought of giving [a Princess] in marriage to him. The King having spoken to him, said thus, "Tell me which place is good for bringing [a Princess from], to marry to thee." Many a time he told him [this]. And the Prince when replying on all the occasions said, "I am not willing to leave His Majesty the King and go away." Thereupon ascertaining that he says thus through willingness that he should marry the King's daughter to him, he said, "I am not willing to give my daughter to thee. Shouldst thou say, 'Why is that?' seven times now, seven Princes married (baendeya) that person. They having died, on the following day after the Princes married her it befel that I must bury them. Because death will occur to thee in the very same way, I am not willing to give my daughter to thee," he said. Thereupon the Prince said thus, "To a person for whom death is not ordained death does not come; death having been ordained that person will die. Because of that, I am wishful to marry (bandinta) that very Princess," he said. Then the King fulfilled his wish. Thus they two having married, according to the custom he sent them away [into a separate dwelling]. While he was with that very Princess, having remembered the warning given on that day by the astrologer-teacher, being heavy with sleepiness while eating betel, he woke up many times. At this time the Princess had gone to sleep. [At last] he hears a sound in the house. The Prince having heard it and become afraid, at the time when he was looking about [after] taking his sword in his hand, he saw a cobra of a size equal to a Palmira trunk descending from the roof. This cobra, indeed, was a young man who had tied his affection to this Princess, a person who having died through his love [for her] was [re-]born a cobra. Through anger towards all who marry the Princess he killed them. The royal Prince having gone aside, in a little time it descended until it was near the ground. [Then] the Prince by one stroke of the sword cut the cobra into three pieces. Thus the danger which there had been for much time that day was destroyed. On the following day, according to custom with fear the servants arrived in front of the Princess's house. But the Prince having come out, placed the three pieces of the cobra upon a post. Thereupon having been amazed, the royal servants very speedily ran off and told the King (rajuhata) about this. The King, also, having arrived there was astonished, and commanded them to take the trunk of the cobra to the cemetery, and burn it. During these very days, another King having asked the Great King for assistance for a war, sent letters. And the King sent this Prince to the war, with the army. When he had thus gone, in a few days the Princess bore a son. The war lasted twelve years. After twelve years, having conquered in the war he was ready to come to his own country. By this time the Princess's son had become big. But the people of the country, not knowing whose son [he was], thought him a person who had married the Princess. And this news had become spread through the country. The royal Prince having arrived near his own country, the Prince got to hear the news; but having remembered the warning of the astrologer-teacher, he thought that to believe it in the future he must make inquiry. Coming close to the royal palace by degrees, he addressed the army; and thereafter, after he had beaten on the notification tom-tom, "Assemble ye," having allowed them to go, when it became night he arrived inside the palace by an outer window. Thus he arrived in the house called after the Princess. Having come in that way and seen that a youth was living with the Princess, he became angry, and said, "I will cut down the two persons," taking the sword in his hand. [But] having remembered the warning of the astrologer-teacher, he said, "Without being hasty I will still test them," and again he put the sword into the sheath. At the sound, the [young] Prince who was with his mother opened his eyes, and having seen his father and become afraid, saying, "Mother, mother," crept under the bed. The mother, too, having opened her eyes at this time and when she looked having seen her lord, spoke [to him]. Thereupon he told the Princess the whole circumstances, and for the Princess there was great sorrow [at the report spread regarding her]. On the morning of the following day, the Prince having seen the Great King told him about the war, and the manner in which he got the victory in it. And the King, being much pleased, appointed great festivals at the city; and having decorated the Prince with the Crown and given him the kingship, the King began to perform acts in view of the other world. Western Province. Compare the advice given to the Brahmana in No. 209 in this vol., and the variants appended. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (L. Behari Day), p. 100, a Queen was married afresh every day to a person selected by the royal elephant, this new King each morning being found dead in some mysterious manner in the bed-room. A merchant's son who had been obliged to leave his home was chosen as King by the elephant, and heard of the nocturnal danger. While he lay awake armed, he saw a long thread issue from the Queen's left nostril; it grew thicker until at last it was a huge snake. He at once cut off its head, and remained there as the permanent King. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 137, each time the daughter of a King was married the bride-groom was found dead in the chamber on the following morning. When royal bride-grooms could be obtained no longer, the King ordered that from each house in turn a person of either the royal or Brahmana caste should be brought and allowed to remain in the room for one night, on the understanding that anyone who survived should be married to the Princess. All died, until at last a brave Brahmana from another country offered to take the place of the son of the widow with whom he was lodging. He remained awake, and in the night saw a terrible Rakshasa open the door, and stretch out his arm. The Brahmana at once stepped forward and cut off the arm, and the Rakshasa fled. The hero was afterwards married to the Princess. He met with the Rakshasa in the same way at another city, and learnt from him that by Siva's orders he was preventing the Princesses from being married to cowards. In the same work, vol. ii, p. 449, there is an account of a Brahmana who placed himself under a teacher at Pataliputra, but was so stupid that he did not manage to learn a single syllable. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 32 ff., there is a variant; see note after No. 209 in this volume. The closest resemblance is in the episode in which the Prince takes the place of the Potter's son who was about to be summoned to be married to the Princess whose husbands had all died on their wedding night. During the night the Prince was careful not to sleep; he lay down with his sword in his hand. In the middle of the night he saw two snakes issue from the nostrils of the Princess, and come towards him. He struck at them and killed them. Next morning the King was surprised to find him alive, and chatting with his daughters. The Prince then told the King who he was, and he became the heir apparent. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 291, after a certain King died, the persons who were elected in turn as his successor died each night without any apparent cause. Vikramaditya and his companion, a youth who had been reared by wolves, took the place of a youth who had been chosen as King, and on inquiry learnt that as secret offerings that were made by the former King to the devas and spirits had been discontinued, it must be the offended spirits who killed each new King every night. When the offerings were made the deities were appeased, and no more deaths occurred in this way. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iii, p. 263), there is an account of a haunted house in Baghdad; any person who stayed during the night in it was found dead in the morning. This was the act of a Jinni (demon) who was guarding a treasure which was to be made over to a specified person only. He broke the necks of all others, but when the right man came he gave him the treasure. There is a variant of the first danger from which the youth escaped, in a Sierra Leone story given in Cunnie Rabbit, Mr. Spider, and the Other Beef (Cronise and Ward), p. 251. A King who had been falsely told that his son was likely to depose him, gave him two tasks which he accomplished successfully, and afterwards caused a deep hole to be dug, placed broken bottles in the bottom, spread a mat over it, set a chair on it, and told the boy to sit on it. The boy replied that he never sat down without first shaking the place. When he beat the mat with a heavy stick the chair fell into the hole, and the boy escaped. For the pit-fall compare No. 159, vol. ii, and the appended notes. NO. 251. HOW THEY KILLED THE GREAT-BELLIED TAMBI [265] In a certain country there was a King, it is said. This King's palace having been dug into by three dexterous thieves, they stole and got the goods. Having seized these very three robbers, for the purpose of effecting their trial they brought them into the presence of the King. When the King asked these three robbers if they committed the robbery or not, they said that they committed the robbery. "If you thus committed the robbery are ye guilty or not guilty persons?" he asked. Thereupon they gave notice that they were not guilty persons. When he asked, "How is that?" [they said that], as it was easy for them to dig into [the wall], because when the mason built the palace the mortar had been put in loosely, the mason was the guilty person owing to his doing that matter. Thereupon the King having summoned the mason, when he asked him whether, because he put in the mortar loosely, he was guilty or not guilty, he gave notice that he was not guilty. When he asked again, "How is that?" the mason said thus, "I had appointed a labourer to mix the lime. Owing to his inattention when doing it the mortar had become loose. Because of that, the labourer is the guilty person," the mason said. Thereupon having summoned the said labourer, he asked him whether because he put the mortar in loose (i.e., improperly mixed) he was guilty or not guilty. Then he gave notice that he was not the guilty person. How is that? While he was staying mixing the lime, having seen a beautiful woman going by that road, because his mind became attached to her the work became neglected. The labourer said that the woman was the guilty person. Thereupon having summoned the woman, just as before he asked whether, regarding the circumstance that having gone by that road she caused the neglect of the labourer's work, she was guilty or not guilty. She, too, said that she was not guilty. Why was that? A goldsmith having promised some of her goods, through her going to fetch them because he did not give them on the [appointed] day, this fault having occurred owing to her doing this business, the goldsmith was the guilty person. Thereupon having summoned the goldsmith, when he asked him just as before he was not inclined to give any reply. Because of that, the King, having declared the goldsmith the guilty person, commanded them to kill the goldsmith by [causing him to be] gored by the tusk of the festival tusk elephant. He ordered them to kill this goldsmith, having set him against a large slab of rock, and causing the tusk elephant to gore him through the middle of the belly. Well then, when the executioner was taking the goldsmith he began to weep. When [the King] asked him why that was, the goldsmith said thus, "Two such shining clean tusks of the King's festival tusk elephant having bored a hole through my extremely thin body and having struck against the stone slab, will be broken. Because of sorrow for that I wept," he gave answer. "What is proper to be done concerning it?" the King asked. Then the goldsmith says, "In the street I saw an extremely great-bellied Tambi. If in the case of that Tambi, indeed, the tusk elephant gore the belly, no wound will occur to the two tusks," the goldsmith said. Thereupon the King having summoned the great-bellied Tambi, caused the tusk elephant to gore him through his belly. The goldsmith and the whole of the aforesaid [persons] went away in happiness. Western Province. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xx, p. 78, a South-Indian variant was given by Natesa Sastri. In order to commit robbery, a thief made a hole through a wall newly built of mud which slipped down on his neck and killed him. His comrade found the body, and reported that the owner of the house had murdered him. The owner blamed the cooly who built the wall; he blamed the cooly who used too much water in mixing the mud; he attributed it to the potter's making too large a mouth for the water-pot; he blamed a dancing-girl for passing at the time and distracting his attention. She in turn laid the blame on a goldsmith who had not re-set in time a jewel which she gave him; he blamed a merchant who had not supplied it in time, though often demanded. He being unintelligent could offer no excuse, and was therefore impaled for causing the thief's death. NO. 252 HOW MARAYA WAS PUT IN THE BOTTLE In a certain country, a woman without a husband in marriage bore a son, it is said. At that time the men living in the neighbourhood having come, asked the woman, "Who is thy husband?" Then the woman replied, "My husband is Maraya." [266] Maraya having heard this word and being much pleased, thought, "I must get this woman's son into a successful state." Having thought thus, after some time had gone, speaking to the son Maraya said thus, that is to say, "Become a Vedarala. I will give you one medicine only. Should I stay at the head side of any sick person, by giving the sick person the medicine the sick person will become well. Should I be at the feet side you cannot cure the sick person." After that, this son having gone from place to place and having applied medical treatment, became a very celebrated doctor. One day when this Vedarala went to look at a sick person whom he very greatly liked, Maraya was at the feet part of the sick person. At that time the Vedarala having thought, "I must do a good work," told them to completely turn round the bed and the sick person. Then the head side became the part where Maraya stayed. Well then, when he had given him the Vedarala's medicine the sick person became well. Maraya having become angry with the Vedarala concerning this matter, and having thought, "I must kill him," Maraya sat on a chair of the Vedarala's. Because the Vedarala had a spell which enabled him to perform the matters that he thought [of doing], [267] he [repeated it mentally and] thought, "May it be as though Maraya is unable to rise from the chair." Having thought thus, "Now then, kill me," the Vedarala said to Maraya. Well then, because Maraya could not rise from the chair he told the Vedarala to release him from it. Then the Vedarala said to Maraya, "If, prior to killing me, you will give me time for three years I will release you," he said. Maraya, being helpless, [268] having given the Vedarala three years' time went away. After the three years were ended Maraya went to the Vedarala's house. The Vedarala having become afraid, did a trick for this. The Vedarala said to Maraya, "Kill me, but before you kill me, having climbed [269] up the coconut tree at this door you must pluck a young coconut to give me," he said. After Maraya climbed up the coconut tree, having uttered the Vedarala's spell the Vedarala thought, "May Maraya be unable to descend from the tree." Well then, Maraya, ascertaining that he could not descend from the tree, told the Vedarala to release him. At that time the Vedarala, asking [and obtaining] from Maraya [a promise] that he should not kill him until still three years had gone, having released Maraya sent him away. The three years having been ended, on the day when Maraya comes to the Vedarala's house the Vedarala entered a room, and shutting the door remained [there]. But Maraya entered straightway (kelimma) inside the room. Then the Vedarala asked, "How did you come into a room the doors of which were closed?" Thereupon Maraya said, "I came by the hole into which the key is put." The Vedarala then said, it is said, "If I am to believe that matter, be pleased to creep inside this bottle," he said. Well then, after Maraya crept into the bottle the Vedarala tightened the lid (mudiya) of the bottle, and having beaten it down put it away. From that day, when going to apply medical treatment on all days having gone taking the bottle in which he put Maraya, he placed the bottle at the head side of the sick person; and having applied medical treatment cured the sick person. In this manner he got his livelihood. Western Province. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. i, p. 345, in a Bengal story by Mr. G. H. Damant, a shepherd discriminates a demon from a man whose form he has taken,--living with his wife during the man's absence,--by boring through a reed, and saying that the true person must be the one who could pass through it. As the demon was passing through it he stopped both ends of the reed with mud, and killed him. In the South Indian Tales of Mariyada Raman (P. Ramachandra Rao), p. 43, a husband was returning home on an unlucky day (the ninth of the lunar fortnight), with his wife, who had been visiting her parents. When he left her on the path for a few moments, "Navami Purusha," the deity who presided over the ninth day, made his appearance in the form of the husband and went away with the wife. The husband followed, and took the matter before Mariyada Raman. The judge got a very narrow-necked jug prepared, and declared that he would give her to the claimant who could enter and leave the jug without damaging it or himself. When the deity did it the judge made obeisance to him, and was informed that the man's form had been taken by him to punish him for travelling on an unlucky day against the Purohita's advice. In Folk-Tales of Bengal (Day), p. 182, when a Brahmana returned home after some years' absence he was turned away by a person of his own appearance, and the King could not decide the matter. A boy elected as King by others in their play offered to settle it, and producing a narrow-mouthed phial stated that the one who entered it should have judgment in his favour. When the ghost transformed himself into "a small creature like an insect" and crept inside, the boy corked it up and ordered the Brahmana to throw it into the sea and repossess his home. The first part resembles a story in the Kathakoça (Tawney), p. 41, the interloper being a deity in it. In the well-known tale in the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. i, p. 33), the receptacle in which the Jinni was imprisoned was "a cucumber-shaped jar of yellow copper" or brass, closed by a leaden cap stamped with the seal-ring of Solomon. In vol. iii, p. 54, and vol. iv, p. 32, other Ifrits were enclosed in similar jars made of brass, sealed with lead. NO. 253 THE WOMAN PRE-EMINENT IN CUNNING [270] At a city there was a very rich Hetti young man. During the time when he was [there], they brought a bride [271] for the young man. What of their bringing her! The Hetti young man was [engaged] in giving goods to many ships. Because of it, while the bride [272] married (lit., tied) to the Hetti young man was staying at home, the Hettiya went to give goods to ships. Having gone, [before his] coming back about six months passed. At that time, [while he was absent], the Hetti girl who was married [to him] one day went to the well to bring [water]. When she was going, a beard-cutting Barber man having stayed on the path and seen this beautiful woman, laughed. Thereupon the woman, not looking completely on that hand, looked at him with the roguish eye (hora aehin), and went to the village. On the following day also, the Barber having come, just as before laughed. At that time also the woman, just as before, looked with the roguish eye, and went away. The woman on the following day also came in order to go for water. That day also, the Barber having stayed on the path laughed. That day the woman having spoken to the Barber, asked, "What did you laugh for when I was coming? Why?" The Barber said, "I did not laugh at anything whatever but because of the affection which you caused." Thereupon the woman asked, "Were you inclined to come with me?" The Barber said, "Yes." Then this woman said, "If you come, you cannot come in that way. [273] The Great King having gone, after the Second King has come to Ceylon (Seyilama), after jasmine flowers have blossomed without [being on] creepers, having cut twenty, having stabbed thirty persons, having pounded three persons into one, when two dead sticks are being kneaded into one having mounted on two dead ones, should you come you can talk with me." Thereupon the Barber went home, and grief having bound him because he could not do [according to] the words which this woman said, he remained unable to eat cooked rice also. At that time the Barber woman asked, "What are you staying [in this way] for, not eating cooked rice, without life in your body?" The Barber said, "I thought of taking in marriage such and such a Hetti woman. Owing to it the Hetti woman said, 'When the Great King has gone, when the Second King has come to Ceylon, when the flower of the creeperless jasmine has blossomed, having cut twenty, having stabbed thirty, having pounded three persons into one, when two dead sticks are becoming knocked into one, come mounted on the back of two dead ones.' Because I cannot do it I remain in grief." Thereupon the Barber woman said, "Indo! Don't you get so much grief over that. For it, I will tell you an advice. 'The Great King having gone, when the Second King came to Ceylon,' meant (lit., said), when the sun has set and when the moon is rising. 'When the creeperless jasmine flower is blossoming,' meant, when the stars are becoming clear. 'Having cut twenty,' meant, having cut the twenty finger [and toe] nails. 'Having stabbed thirty,' meant, having well cleaned the teeth (with the tooth-stick), to wash them well. 'Having pounded three persons into one,' meant, having eaten a mouthful of betel (consisting of betel leaf, areka-nut, and lime) you are to come. [These] are the matters she said. [274] Because of it, why are you staying without eating? If you must go, without getting grieved go in this manner, and come back." Thereupon the Barber having gone in that manner, while he was there yet two [other] persons heard that those two are talking. When they heard--there is a custom in that country. The custom indeed is [this]: There is a temple [kovila] in the country. Except that they give [adulterers, or perhaps only offenders against caste prohibitions in such cases as this?] as demon offerings (bili) for the temple, they do not inflict a different punishment [on them]. Because of it, seizing these two they took them for the purpose of giving [them as] demon offerings for the temple. This Barber woman, learning about it, in order to save her husband undertook the charge of the food offering [275] for the temple, and went to the temple taking rice and coconuts. Having gone there, and said that they were for the kapuwa [276] (priest) of the temple, she came away calling her husband, too. Then to that Hetti woman this Barber woman [said], "Having said that you are cooking the food offering (puse) which I brought, stay at the temple until the time when the Hettirala comes. The deity will not take you as the demon offering (billa). [277] Your husband having come back will seek and look [for you]. When he comes seeking, say, 'I having married my husband, he went away now six months ago. Because of it, having told my husband to come I undertook the charge for [cooking] the food offering. [278] Just as I was undertaking the charge he came. Because of it, not having seen the face of my lord (himiya), paying respect to the deity I came to cook the food offering.' Continue to say this." Thereupon the Hetti woman having done in that very manner, the Hettiya came. Well then, she having made the woman [appear] a good woman, [her husband], taking charge of her, came calling her to the house, and she remained [there] virtuously (honda seyin). This story was related by a woman in the North-central Province, to a man whom I sent to write down some stories at a village at which I had been promised them. Her name, given as Sayimanhami (Lady Simon), and expressions she used, show that she probably belonged originally to the Western Province. It is difficult to understand how the condemned persons escaped. The interesting fact of the tale is the reference to the presentation of human offerings at a temple devoted to either one of the demons or the goddess Kali. The Sinhalese expression, deviyan wahanse, deity, given in the text, might be applied to either. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 91, it is related in one story that "whenever a man is found at night with another man's wife, he is placed with her within the inner chamber of the Yaksha's (Manibhadra) temple." In the morning the man was punished by the King; the country in which this occurred is not stated, but it was far from Tamralipta. When a merchant and a woman were so imprisoned, the merchant's wife, hearing of it, went at night with offerings, and was permitted to enter. She changed clothes with the woman, and sent her out; and in the morning, as the woman in the temple was found to be the merchant's own wife, the King dismissed the case, and freed the merchant "as it were from the mouth of death." Thus the usual punishment appears to have been death, as in the Sinhalese tale. NO. 254 MATALANA In a certain country there was a man called Matalana, it is said. This man was the son of the concubine of the King of that country, it is said. That Matalana from infancy was getting his living by committing robbery. Having been committing robbery in this manner, and having arrived at the age of a young man, Matalana having spoken to his mother, asked, "Mother, who is our father?" Thereupon his mother says to him, "Son, thou art not a so-so (ese-mese) person. The King of this country is thy father." When his mother said thus, having said, "It is good. If so, I will do a good work," he began to steal things belonging to the King. During the time while he is thus committing robbery, the King in various ways having fixed guards, endeavoured to catch the thief, but he was unable to seize him. Matalana getting to know that guard has been very carefully placed at the royal house, without going for robbery to the royal house began to steal the goods belonging to the King that are outside. Thereupon the King, having thought that somehow or other having caught the thief he must put him in the stocks, and having made the guards stop everywhere, caused a carpenter to be brought and said, "Having seized the thief who steals the things that are the King's property, to make him fast in the stocks make a pair of stocks in a thorough manner. Regarding it, ask for and take the whole of the requisite things from the royal house." When the King ordered it, the carpenter, taking all the things suitable for it and having gone, made the stocks. On the day on which they were finished, Matalana, having arrived at the carpenter's house, and having been talking very well [with him], asks the carpenter, "Friend, what is this you are making?" Thereupon the carpenter says, "Why, friend, don't you know? These are indeed the stocks I am making for the purpose of putting in the stocks the thief who steals the goods belonging to the King," he said. When Matalana asked, "Ane! How do you put the thief in the stocks in this," the carpenter having put his two legs in the two holes of the stocks, to show him the method of putting him in the stocks at the time while he is making them, Matalana, having [thus] put the carpenter in the stocks, taking the key in his hand [after locking them], struck the carpenter seven or eight blows, and said, "[After] opening a hard trap remain sitting in it your own self, master," and saying a four line verse also, [279] went away. On the following day, when the King came to look at the stocks he saw that the carpenter has been put in the stocks. When he asked, "What is this?" he ascertained that the thief named Matalana, who is stealing the goods belonging to the King, had come, and having put the carpenter in the stocks and struck him blows went away. Thereupon the King having said, "It is good, the way the thief was put in the stocks!" dismissed the carpenter and went away. After that, Matalana having gone stealing the King's own clothes that were given for washing at the washerman's house, at night descended to the King's pool, and began to wash them very hard. The washerman, ascertaining that circumstance, gave information to the King. Thereupon the King, having mounted upon the back of a horse and the army also surrounding him, went near the pool to seize Matalana. Matalana getting to know that the King is coming, the army surrounding him, came to the bank at one side of the pool, carrying a cooking pot that he himself had taken, and having launched [it bottom upwards] and sent it [into the pool], began to cry out, "Your Majesty, look there! The thief sank under the water; [that is his head]. We will descend into the pool from this side; Your Majesty will please look out from that side." While he was making the uproar, the foolish King, having unfastened [and thrown down] his clothes, descended into the pool. Then Matalana [quickly came round in the dark, and] putting on the King's clothes, and having mounted upon the back of the horse, says, "Look there, Bola, the thief! It is indeed he." When he said, "Seize ye him," the royal soldiers having seized the King, who had unloosed [and thrown off] his clothes, tied him even while he was saying, "I am the King." Having tied the King to the leg of the horse on which Matalana had mounted, and, employing the King's retinue, having caused them to thrash him, Matalana, in the very manner in which he was [before], having unloosed [and thrown off] the clothes [of the King], bounded off and went away. After that, the retinue who came with the King having gone taking the [supposed] thief to the royal house, when they were looking perceiving that instead of the thief they had gone tying the King, were in fear of death. The King, not becoming angry at it, consoled his servants; and having been exceedingly angry regarding the deed done by Matalana, and having thought by what method he must seize Matalana, made them send the notification tom-tom everywhere. After that, Matalana, again arranging a stratagem to steal clothes from the washerman, and preparing a very tasty sort of cakes, hung the cakes on the trees in the jungle, in the district where the washerman washes. Matalana, taking in his hand two or three cakes and having gone eating and eating one, asked the washerman for a little water. Thereupon the washerman asked Matalana, "What is that you are eating?" "Why, friend, haven't you eaten the Kaeppitiya [280] cakes that are on the trees near this, where you wash?" he asked. Thereupon the washerman says, "Ane! Friend, although I washed so many days I have not eaten cakes of trees of the style you mention that are in this district," he said. "If so, please eat one from these, to look [what they are like]." When he gave it to the washerman, the washerman having eaten the cake and having found much flavour in it, [281] says, "Ane! Oyi! Until the time when I have gone [there] and come [after] plucking a few of these cakes, you please remain here." When he said it, having said, "It is good. Because of the heat of the sun I will stay beneath this tree," Matalana, having sent the washerman to pluck the Kaeppitiya cakes and return, [after] tying in a bundle as many of the King's clothes as there were, went away [with them]. When the washerman comes [after] plucking the cakes, either the clothes or the man he had set for their protection, not being visible, he went speedily and gave information to the King. The King having become more angry than he was before, again employed the notification tom-tom [to proclaim] that to a person who, having seized, gives him this Matalana who steals the things belonging to the King, he will give goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load, and a share from the kingdom. Matalana, ascertaining that he sent the notification tom-tom, having stayed on the path and made the notification tom-tom halt, promised: "I know Matalana. Within still three months I will seize and give that Matalana while in a courtesan's house." The notification tom-tom beater, accepting this word, went, and when he gave information to the King, the King, because of the anger there was [in him] with this thief, having become much pleased told him to summon the man to come. Thereupon, after Matalana came to the royal house, when he asked, "In about how many days can you seize and give Matalana?" he said, "In about three months I can." After that, Matalana having been like a friend of the King until three months are coming to an end, one day, at the time when the King is going to the courtesan's house, he said to the King's Ministers and servants, "To-day I saw the place where the Matalan-thief is. In order to seize him [be pleased] to come." Summoning in the night time the whole royal retinue, and having gone and surrounded the house of the courtesan, and said [the King] was Matalana, there and then also they seized the King. When they seized him in this way, the King through shame remained without speaking. After that, seizing the King and having gone, and having very thoroughly struck him blows, and put him in prison, and kept [him there], in the morning when they looked, just as before they saw that the King had been seized, and struck blows, and put in the stocks. After all these things, Matalana, having again broken into the King's house, stealing a great quantity of goods, reached an outside district, and dwelt there. Western Province. This story is partly a variant of No. 92 in vol. ii. NO. 255 THE FIVE LIES QUITE LIKE TRUTH [282] A certain King sent for his Minister and informed him that if he could not tell him next morning five lies so closely resembling the truth that he would believe them, he should be beheaded. The Minister went home with a sorrowful heart; he refused to eat or drink, and threw himself on his bed. His wife came and inquired the reason for such behaviour. "What has a dying man to do with eating and drinking?" he replied, "to-morrow morning I must die;" and then he told her what the King had said. His wife answered, "Don't be afraid; I will tell you what to say to the King;" and she persuaded him to take his food as usual. She then related to him this story:--In a certain country there were four friends, a carpenter, a goldsmith, an areka-nut seller, and a dried-fish seller. The three latter persons decided to go and trade, and for that purpose they requested the carpenter to build them a ship. The carpenter did so; and understanding that large profits were to be made in other countries, he also decided to join them. The four men then wished to engage a servant to cook for them on board the ship, but they had considerable difficulty in finding one. At last they met with a youth who lived with an old woman named Hokki, who had adopted him as her son. The youth was willing to go, and as there was no one at home to take charge of the old woman after he left, it was settled that she should accompany them. Then they all sailed away, the goldsmith taking a number of hair-pins (konda-kuru) for sale, and the other traders taking areka-nuts (puwak) and sun-dried fish (karawala). After going some distance the ship ran on a rock and was totally wrecked, and all the party were drowned. In his next life the carpenter became a Barbet, which bores holes in trees, looking for a good tree with which to build a ship. The goldsmith became a Mosquito, which always comes to the ears and asks for the hair-pins (kuru-kuru) that he lost. The dried-fish seller became a Darter, and constantly searches for his dried-fish in the water. The areka-nut seller became a Water-hen (Gallinula phoenicura), and every morning calls out, "Areka-nuts [amounting] to a ship [-load], areka-nuts!" (a good imitation of the cry of the bird, Kapparakata puwak', puwak'). And the cook became a Jackal, who still always cries for his mother, "Seek for Hokki, seek" (Hokki hoya, hoya, the beginning of the Jackal's howl). Next morning the Minister told the story to the King, who fully believed the whole of it. The Minister then explained that it was pure fiction, whereupon the King instead of cutting off his head gave him presents of great value. Matara, Southern Province. I met with a story of this kind among the Mandinko of the Gambia, in West Africa, and as it is unpublished I give it here. It was related in the Mandinka language, and translated by the clerk on the Government river steamer, the Mansa Kilah. NO. 256 THE THREE TRUTHS One day a Hyæna met a Goat by the way. He tells the Goat, "Before you move from this place you tell me three words which shall all be true, or I eat you." The Goat said, "You met me in this place. If you return, [and if] you reach the other Hyænas and tell them, 'I have met a Goat by the way, but I did not kill him,' they will say, 'You are telling a lie.'" The Hyæna said, "It is true." The Goat said, "If I get out here myself, if I reach the other Goats at home, and I tell them, 'I met a Hyæna by the way, but he did not kill me,' they will say, 'You are telling a lie.'" The Hyæna said, "It is true." He said to him, "The third one is:--If you see us two talking about this matter you are not hungry." Then the Hyæna said, "Pass, and go your way. I am not hungry; if I were hungry we should not be here talking about it." McCarthy Island, Gambia. NO. 257 THE FALSE TALE At a certain city there was a poor family, it is said. In that family there were only a man called Hendrik, a female called Lusihami, and a boy called Podi-Appu. There was a brother younger than Hendrik, it is said. That person's name was Juwan-Appu. At the time when the two brothers were getting a living in one house, they having quarrelled, Juwan-Appu in the day time went away into the country. While the afore-said three persons are getting a living in that way, Podi-Appu's father died. The boy was very young. While Lusihami was doing work for hire, her boy got to be a little big. At that time the boy is a boy of the size for walking about and playing. One day, when the boy went to another house he saw that the children are playing. Having thought, "This boy must go for those games," he went there. From that day the boy goes for those games daily. In another city there is a soothsayer. The soothsayer is a very good clever person for bringing hidden treasures, it is said, the city in which the soothsayer stayed not being included in this talk. When he was going looking in the manner of his sooth, it appeared to him that there is an outside city at which is a very great hidden treasure. For taking the hidden treasure it appeared, according to his sooth, that he must give a human demon offering (nara billak). When he looked who is the man for the human demon offering, it appeared, according to the sooth, that he must give for the demon offering Podi-Appu, being the son of the aforesaid Lusihami. The soothsayer set off to seek this boy. What did he bring? Plantains, biscuits, lozenges (losinjar); in that manner he brought things that gladden the mind of the child. Having come to the district in which is the boy, walking to the places where children are playing, when walking in that district while dwelling there, one day having gone to the place where Podi-Appu and the like are playing he stayed looking on. Meanwhile, according to the soothsayer's thought, he had in mind that Podi-Appu was good [for his purpose]. Next, the soothsayer having gone to one side, taking his medicine wallet, when he turned over and looked at the book there was mentioned that it was Podi-Appu [who should be offered]. Afterwards calling the boy near him he gave him sorts of food. Meanwhile the boy's mind was delighted. Next, he gave him a little money. To the boy said the soothsayer, "Your father is lost, is it not so?" he asked; "that is I," the soothsayer said. The soothsayer by some device or other ascertained that the person's father [283] had left the country and gone. Afterwards the boy, he having told that tale, went home and informed his mother. And the mother said, "Ane! Son, that your father indeed was [here] is true. For this difficult time for us, if that livelihood-bringing excellent person were here how good it would be! You go, and calling that very one return." Afterwards the boy having gone, came home with the soothsayer. While both are spending the days with much happiness, one day in the morning he said, "Son, let us go on a journey, and having gone, come; let us go," he said. [The boy] having said, "It is good," with the little boy the soothsayer went away. Well then, the boy goes and goes. Both his legs ache. The boy says, "Father, I indeed cannot go; carry me," he said. Having said, "It is a little more; come, son," while on the road in that way the boy, being [almost] unable to go, weeping and weeping went near the hidden treasure. The soothsayer, having offered there things suitable to offer, began to repeat spells. Then the door of the hidden treasure was opened; the path was [there]. He said to the boy, "Son, having descended into this, when you are going along it, in the chamber a standard lamp [284] is burning. Without rubbing that kettle (the round body of the lamp) with your body, having removed the lamp and immediately for the light to go out having tilted it from the top, come back bringing the lamp." Having said [this], he caused the boy to descend inside the hidden treasure [chamber]. The boy having descended, when he looked about the boy had not the mind to come from it. He says, "It will be exactly a heavenly world. I will mention an abridgement of the things that are in it: golden king-coconuts, golden oranges, golden pine-apples, golden mandarin-oranges." Having told him in that manner, "I cannot make an end of them, indeed," he said. The boy, plucking a great many of them and having gone into the chamber as the soothsayer said, placing the lamp on his shoulder came away near the door. The soothsayer says, "First give me the lamp, in order to get you to the surface." The boy says, "I cannot in that way; first take me out," he says. In that manner there is a struggle of the two persons there. At the time when they are going on struggling in that way, anger having come to the soothsayer he moved the door, for it to shut. Then the boy having got into the middle of [the doorway] the door shut. The soothsayer went away. While the boy quite alone is wriggling and wriggling about there, in some way or other again, as it was at first the door of the hidden treasure opened. The boy placing the lamp on his shoulder and having become very tired, [carried away and] put the lamp and book in his house; and because of too much weariness fell down and went to sleep. The soothsayer went to his village. Western Province. This appears to be the first part of the story of Ala-addin, transformed into a Sinhalese folk-tale; but the variant quoted below shows that the general idea is of much older date and of Indian origin. A variant from the Uva Province is nearly the same, and also ends with the boy's return home. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 558, an ascetic induced a King to join him in obtaining a magical sword. Accompanied by the King, the ascetic went at night, and in the King's words, "having by means of a burnt-offering and other rites discovered an opening in the earth, the ascetic said to me, 'Hero, enter thou first, and after thou hast obtained the sword, come out, and cause me also to enter; make a compact with me to do this.'" The King entered, found a palace of jewels, and "the chief of the Asura maidens who dwelt there" gave him a sword, the possession of which conferred the power of flying through the air and bestowed "all magical faculties." The ascetic took it from him afterwards, but the King at last recovered it. NO. 258 THE STORY OF KOTA In a certain country there were two brothers, it is said. Of these two the elder one got married. The younger brother had a secret friendship with his elder brother's wife. One day, the elder brother having succeeded in ascertaining about this, and having gone summoning the younger brother into the midst of the forest, cut off his two hands and his two feet. Then the younger brother says, "Elder brother, you having cut off my hands and feet gave me the punishment that is to be inflicted. Please stop even now," he said. Thereupon the elder brother, having placed this Kota [285] without hands and feet in a boat and launched it in the river, sent him away. Prior to launching and sending him off, because he told him to bring and give him a Bana [286] book that was at the younger brother's house, he brought the book and having placed it on Kota's breast sent him away. Well then, this boat with Kota also, going drifting by the margin of the river, two old women having been [there], one said, "That boat which comes drifting is for me." The other woman said, "Should there be anything whatever inside the boat it is for me." Well then, when the boat drifted ashore, out of these two women one took the boat, one having taken Kota gave him to eat. During the time when he is thus, having heard that they were beating a notification tom-tom on the road [to proclaim] that to a person who having seized gave him the thieves who are stealing flowers in the King's flower garden, [the King] will give goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load, Kota caused this notice tom-tom to stop, having said, "I can." Causing them to build a little house in the flower garden, and he himself having told men, they lifted him up and went [with him there]; and lying down inside the little house, on the loft, in a very sweet voice he began to read his Bana book. At the time when he is saying Bana in this way, at night seven Princesses having come to pluck flowers, and having heard the sweet sound of Kota's saying Bana, went near the house and told him to open the door. Then, because in order to arise he had not two feet nor also two hands, when Kota said that he was unable to open the door, one person out of these Princesses having put on a ring able to display extreme power which she had, caused Kota's hands and feet to be created [afresh]. Then Kota having opened the door said Bana for the Princesses. The Princesses having heard the Bana, when they were going the youngest Princess on whose hand was the ring went after the whole. Then Kota having seized the hand of the Princess who went after, and drawn her into the house, shut the door. After it became light, having gone taking the Princess, and having given charge of her to the old woman who took charge of Kota, Kota went to the royal house to say that he caught the thief who plucks the flowers. When going there, Kota went [after] putting on the Princess's ring of power, [287] having given part of [the Princess's] clothes to the old woman. Kota having gone, told the King that he caught the thief. He told him to come with the thief. When Kota came home to bring the thief, he saw that having cheated the old woman, the Princess [after] asking for [and getting] her clothes had gone, and had concealed herself; and Kota's mind having become disheartened, he went away out of that country. While thus travelling, having seen six Princesses taking water from a pool that was in the middle of the forest, when Kota went near them he recognised that they were the Princesses who went to steal the flowers; and having seen that the Princess whom he seized was not there, for the purpose of obtaining the Princess he invented a false story in order to go to the place where they are staying. That is, this one, having asked the Princesses for a little water to drink, and having drunk, put into one's water jar the ring of power that was on his hand, and having allowed them to go, he went behind. When these six royal Princesses went to the palace of their father the King, Kota also went. Then when the royal servants asked Kota, "Why have you come to the royal house without permission?" he said that the Princesses had stolen his priceless ring. He came in order to tell the King, and ask for and take the ring, he said. "The ring will be in one of the Princesses' water jars," he said. But the whole seven Princesses, ascertaining that it was the ring of the youngest Princess of them, gave information accordingly to the King. Thereupon the King having much warned Kota, told him to give information of the circumstances under which he had come, without concealing them. Then Kota in order to obtain the youngest Princess told him how he came. Having said, "If you are a clever person able to perform and give the works I tell you, I will give [you] the Princess in marriage," the King ordered Kota to plough and give in a little time a yam enclosure of hundreds of acres. This Kota, while going quickly from the old woman after having left the country, obtaining for money a pingo (carrying-stick) load of young pigs that [a man] was taking to kill, for the sake of religious merit sent them off to go into the jungle. When any necessity [for them] reached Kota, when he remembered the young pigs they promised to come and be of assistance to him. Again, when going, having seen that [men] are carrying a flock of doves to sell, and a collection of fire-flies, taking them for money, for the sake of religious merit [he released them, and] they went away. These doves and fire-flies promised to be of assistance to Kota. Because he had done these things in this manner, when [the King] told Kota to dig and give the yams he remembered about the young pigs. Then the young pigs having come, dug and gave all the yam enclosure. Well then Kota having [thus] dug and given the yams, pleased the King. Again, the King having sown a number of bushels of mustard [seed] in a chena, told him to collect the whole of it and give it to the King. Thereupon, when Kota remembered about the doves, all of them having come and collected the whole of the mustard seeds with their bills, gave him them. Having gone to the King and given that also, he pleased the King. At the last, the King having put all his seven daughters in a dark room, told him to take the youngest Princess by the hand among them, and come out into the light. Thereupon, when Kota remembered the fire-flies, the whole of them having come, when they began to light up the chamber, Kota, recognising the youngest Princess and taking her by the hand, came into the light. After that, the King gave the Princess in marriage to Kota. They two lived happily. Western Province. Regarding the ring in the jar of water, and the tasks to be performed before the Princess could be married, see vol. i, p. 294. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 142, a Brahmana who wished to let his wife, a Vidyadhari who had taken refuge on Udaya, the Dawn Mountain, know of his arrival, dropped a jewelled ring into a water pitcher when one of the attendants who had come for water in which to bathe her, asked him to lift it up to her shoulder. When the water was poured over his wife she saw and recognised the ring, and sent for him. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 71, Prince Sudhana, who had made his way to the city of the Kinnara King in search of his wife, the Kinnari Manohara, met with some Kinnara females drawing water for pouring over Manohara, to purify her after her residence with him. He placed her finger-ring in one pot, and requested that it might be the first to be emptied over her. When the ring fell down she recognised it and sent for him, introduced him to her father the King, and after he performed three tasks was formally married to him. The third task was the identification of Manohara among a thousand Kinnaris. In this she assisted him by stepping forward at his request. The incident of the ring sent in the water that was taken for a Princess's bath, also occurs in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 302. She recognised it, and sent for her husband who had thus notified his arrival in search of her. THE FLOWER-GARDEN STORY (Variant) In a certain country there are a King and a Queen, it is said. While the two persons were acquiring merit for themselves a son was born. The child having become big, while he was increasing in size [the Queen] again bore one. They sent the second Prince to a pansala (residence of a Buddhist monk) to learn letters. When he was at the pansala the two eyes of his father the King having been injured (antara-wela) became blind. The Queen's two eyes also became blind. Owing to it the big Prince told the younger brother to come. After he came he said, "Younger brother (Male), the trouble that has struck us! Do you night and day say Bana." [288] So the younger brother night and day says Bana. He called to the elder brother, "Elder brother, come here." The elder brother asked, "What?" "For us three persons you are unable to provide hospitality; you bring a wife (hirayak)," the younger brother said. The elder brother said, "For my ear even to hear that don't mention it to me." After that, the younger brother again called the elder brother near. "For us three persons you are unable to provide hospitality; you bring a [bride in] marriage." The elder brother on this occasion (gamane) said "Ha." When he said it, having gone to another city he asked a [bride in] marriage [289]; having asked he came back. Having gone again he returned, summoning her. After that, for the four persons the Prince is providing hospitality. One day (dawasakda) he having gone to chop the earthen ridges in the rice field, the Prince's Princess was pounding paddy in order to [convert it into rice and] cook. To winnow it she leaned the pestle against the wall; it having fallen upon a waterpot the waterpot broke. When, having seen it, the Princess was weeping and weeping, the Prince (her husband) came from the rice field. "What are you crying for?" he asked. "Here! (Men), I am crying at the manner you, husband, [290] behaved," the Princess said. Afterwards the Princess said, "Go and conduct me to my village." When the Prince said, "What shall I go and escort you for? Cook thou," he called to the younger brother, "Younger brother, come here." [291] The younger brother having come, asked, "What?" "While she is cooking for us let us go to cut a stick," the elder brother said. Afterwards the two persons having gone to the chena jungle cut the stick. After having cut it [292] the elder brother said, "You lie down [293] [for me] to cut the stick to your length." When he was lying down the elder brother cut off his two feet and two hands. He having cut them, when he was coming away the younger brother said, "If you are going, pick up my book and place it upon my breast." After having placed it, the elder brother went away [294]; the younger brother remained saying and saying Bana. After the elder brother went, seven widow women having gone to break firewood and having heard that he was saying Bana, the seven persons came to the place and saw the Prince. "A Yaka or a human being (manuswayekda)?" they asked. The Prince asked, "Does a Yaka or a human being ask? The Bana a human being indeed is saying," he said. "And human beings indeed ask," the widow women said. Well, having said thus they came to hear the Bana. While hearing it, a woman having said, "Ade! We having been here, the gill of rice will be spoilt [295]; let us go to break firewood," six persons went away. The other woman saying, "I [am] to go home carrying (lit., lifting) Kota," and having stayed, lifting him and having gone and placed him [there], and cooked rice, and given him to eat, while he was [there] he heard the notification by beat of tom-toms:--"At the King's garden thieves are plucking the flowers." On seeing that widow, Kota said, "I can catch the thieves; you go to the King and tell him." Then the woman having gone to the place where the King is, the King asked, "What have you come for?" Well then, the woman said, "There is a Kota (Short One) with (lit., near) me; that one can catch the thieves, he says." The King [asked], "What does he require [296] for it?" Afterwards she said, "You must build a house." Then the King having built a house in the flower garden, having taken Kota the woman placed him in the house. In the evening having placed [him there], and lit the lamp, and placed the book, she came to her house. Well then, when Kota is saying Bana, five Naga Maidens [297] having come to pluck the flowers hear the Bana. Until the very time when light falls they heard the Bana. When the light was falling the five Naga Maidens said, "We [are] to go; we must give him powers (waram)." That Kota said, "Who said she will give power to me?" Then out of the five persons one said, "I will give powers for one hand to be created"; well then, for one hand to be created the Naga Maiden gave powers. [For] the other hand to be created another Naga Maiden gave powers. Also [for] the two feet to be created other two gave powers. The other Naga Maiden's robes (salu) Kota hid himself. Those four persons were conducted away [298]; one person stayed in that house (that is, the one whose clothes he had concealed). After that, the King came to look at the flower garden. Having come, when he looked [299] the flowers [were] not plucked. Having become pleased at that he gave Kota charge of the garden, to look after it, and he gave a thousand masuran, also goods [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load, a district from the kingdom. That Kota handed over the district to the widow woman; those goods [300] [amounting] to a tusk elephant's load he gave to the woman. Having split his thigh he put those masuran inside it. Tom-tom Beater, North-western Province. In the Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 87, a Prince, by the advice of an old woman for whom he worked, carried off the robe of Indra's daughter when she came to bathe in a pool. He handed it to the old woman, who in order to conceal it tore open his thigh, placed the robe in the cavity, and stitched up the wound. NO. 259 THE STORY OF SOKKA In a certain country there was a man called Sokka, it is said. For the purpose of this man's living, catching a monkey (Wandura) and having made it dance, he began to get money. [After] getting money in that way, when Sokka, drinking arrack (palm spirit) very well, is walking to that and this hand, the monkey sprang off and went away. After that, Sokka, having by means of the money which remained again drunk arrack very well and become drunk, fell into the ditch. Thereupon many flies began to settle on this man's body. This Sokka having become angry at it, when he struck at the flies with both hands a great many flies fell dead. In a little time his intoxication having evaporated his sense came. Thorough sense having come in that manner, when he looked round about he saw near him the quantity (rasiya) of flies that had died. While he was there, thinking, "Æyi, Bola, at one blow with my hand they were deprived of life to this extent; isn't it so?" a very foolish man who dwelt in that village came to go near this Sokka. The man having seen Sokka asked, "Friend, what are you doing?" Thereupon Sokka says, "Ade! What art thou saying? I being a person who has now killed ten or fifteen, thou art not enough even to put on my bathing-cloth for me." [301] This foolish man having become frightened by the very extent [of the deaths] that he heard of in this word of Sokka's, began to run off. As he was running he met with yet a man who is going on the road; he asks at the hand of this foolish man, "What, friend, are you running for?" Then this fool says, "Friend, a man who killed ten or fifteen men tried to kill me. Because of it I am running through fear," he said. At that time that man also, through the extent [of the deaths] that he heard of in that speech having become afraid, began to run off. As these two persons were running they said thus to the men going on the road, that is, "On the road there is a great murderer. Don't any one go." After that, having [thus] made Sokka a great furious one, it became public. The King of the city also got to know of it. Well then, the King having caused this Sokka to be brought, [said], "You are a dexterous swordsman and a dexterous fighter, they say. Is it true?" Then Sokka says, "O King, Your Majesty, when I have struck with one hand of mine, should there be ten or fifteen staying on that side the men fall dead." Thereupon the King asks Sokka, "If you are a dexterous man to that degree, will you come to fight with the first dexterous fighter of my war army?" Sokka says, "When ten or fifteen are dying by one hand of mine, what occupation is there [for me] with one! I am now ready for it." The King says, "When for three days time is going by, on the third day you having fought in the midst of a great assembly, the person out of the two who conquers I will establish in the post of Chief of the Army (Sena-Nayaka)." Sokka was pleased at it. The King having put these two persons into two rooms, placed guards. While they were thus, Sokka having spoken to the dexterous fighter, says, "You having come for the fight with me will not escape. To this and this degree I am a dexterous one at fighting. Fight in the midst of the assembly, and don't be shy." The dexterous fighter having become frightened at Sokka's word, got out of the chamber by some means or other, and not staying in the city, bounded off and went away. [302] When the third day arrived, the whole of the forces dwelling in the city assembled together to look at the fight of these two persons. Thereupon, only Sokka arrived there. Then when Sokka became more and more famous the King was favouring him. During the time while he is thus, a war arrived for the King. The King says to Sokka, "We must do battle with a war army of this extent. Because of it, having gone together with my war army can you defeat the enemies?" [303] Sokka says, "I don't want Your Honour's army. Having gone quite alone I can defeat them." Thereupon the King said, "What do you require?" Sokka, asking for a very rapidly running horse and a very sharp-edged sword, mounted upon the back of the horse, and having bounded into the middle of the hostile army who were building the enemy's encampment, driving on the horse to the extent possible, he began to cut on that and this hand (e me ata). Sokka having cut down as many as possible, stringing a head, also, on his very sword, came to the royal palace. Thereupon, the forces (pirisa) who were building the encampment, thought, "If so much damage came from one man, how much will there be from the other forces!" Having thought [this], they bounded off and ran away. Then the King having been pleased, married and gave his daughter, also, to Sokka, and gave him much wealth also. During the time while Sokka is dwelling in this manner at the royal house, Sokka thought to drink arrack, [after] going and taking the ornaments that his wife is wearing. Having thought it, as though he had an illness he remained lying on a bed, not eating, not drinking. [304] Thereupon his wife having approached near him asked the cause of the illness. At that time Sokka asks, "Dost thou think that I have obtained thee (ti) without doing anything (nikan)? To obtain thee I undertook a great charge. The charge is that thou and I (tit mat) having gone to such and such a mountain must offer gifts." Thereupon the Princess says, "Don't be troubled. To-morrow we two persons having gone [there], let us fulfil the charge," she said. Sokka having become pleased at it, on the following day, with a great retinue also, they went to fulfil the charge. Having gone in this manner, and caused the whole of the retinue to halt on the road, these two persons went to the top of the mountain. Sokka thereupon says, "I have come here now for the purpose of killing thee, so that, having killed thee, taking thy ornaments I may drink arrack." Then the Princess asked, "If I and the ornaments belong to Your Honour, [305] for what purpose will you kill me?" At that time Sokka said, "[Even] should that be so, I must kill thee." The Princess thereupon says, "If Your Honour kill me now, fault will occur to you at my hand; because of it please bear with me until the time when you forgive me," she said. Having said thus while remaining in front of him, and having knelt, she made obeisance. Then having gone behind his back, and exhibited the manner of making obeisance, she seized his neck, and having pushed him threw Sokka from the mountain, down the precipice. Sokka having become scattered into dust, died. After that, the Princess turned back with her retinue, and went to the royal palace. Western Province. In The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 176, the foolish Adikar (Minister) mentioned in the first note after the folk-tale numbered 229, was sent (on account of his destruction of the lion) at the head of an army, against an enemy who had defeated the best generals. His horse bolted and carried him towards the enemy's troops, who ran off when they observed his approach. He then rejoined and brought up his men, captured the contents of the camp, returned to the King with it, was handsomely rewarded, and retained the royal favour until his death. In The Jataka, No. 193 (vol. ii, p. 82), a woman in order to kill her husband pretended that she had taken a vow to make an offering to a hill spirit, and said, "Now this spirit haunts me; and I desire to pay my offering." They climbed up to the hill-top, taking the offering. She then declared that her husband being her chief deity she would first walk reverently round him, saluting him and offering flowers, and afterwards make the offering to the mountain spirit. She placed her husband facing a precipice, and when she was behind him pushed him over it. In No. 419 (vol. iii, p. 261), it was a robber who took his wealthy wife who had saved his life, to a mountain top, on the pretence of making an offering to a tree deity. They went with a great retinue, whom he left at the foot of the hill. When they arrived at the precipice at the summit, he informed her that he had brought her in order to kill her, so as to run off with her valuable jewellery. She said she must first make obeisance to him on all four sides, and when she was behind him threw him down the precipice, after which she returned home with her retinue. In Old Deccan Days (M. Frere), p. 209, a potter who had caught a tiger, and had consequently been appointed Commander-in-Chief, made his wife tie him firmly on his horse when he was ordered to defeat an enemy's troops. His horse bolted towards the enemy. In the hope of checking it, he seized a small tree which came up by the roots, and holding this he galloped forward, frightening the opposing force so much that they all ran away, abandoning their camp and its contents. Peace was made, and he received great honours. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 210, the same story is given, the hero being a weaver. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 181, a poor weaver who had asked to marry the daughter of the King of India, was sent to attack an enemy who was invading the kingdom. His troops refused to fight under him, so he went on alone. His horse bolted towards the enemy, he seized a young tree which was pulled up by the roots and with which he knocked down several of the opposing troops. The rest fled, throwing away their arms and armour, and he loaded a horse with it and returned to the King in triumph. Afterwards he killed by accident a great fox and seven demons, became the King's son-in-law, and ruled half the kingdom. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. xiv, p. 109, in a South Indian story by Natesa Sastri, a man who had accidentally saved a Princess whom some robbers were abducting, was sent to attack the enemy's troops who had invaded the kingdom. The horse given to him was wild, so he was tied on it. It galloped towards the enemy, swam across a river at which he seized a palmira tree that was about to fall, and the enemy, seeing him approaching with it, ran away. This version is also given in The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 102 ff., by Miss A. R. Corea. According to this Sinhalese tale the man succeeded to the throne at the death of the King, having previously been made Commander-in-Chief. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. i, p. 50, a woman who wished to kill her husband pretended to have a headache, for which it was necessary to offer prayers on a mountain to a local deity. She accompanied her husband to a precipice, made him stand facing the sun, went round him several times, and then pushed him over. He was saved by falling into a tree. In vol. i, p. 112, a woman who had fallen in love with a cripple determined to kill her husband, who had saved her life. On the pretence of assisting him to collect fruits she accompanied him up a mountain and seized an opportunity to push him over a precipice. He was saved by a local deity. In vol. ii, p. 140, there is an account of the weaver who frightened the enemy's troops when those of his own side were being defeated; these returned and gained a complete victory. The man was made Minister, with rank next the King. NO. 260 THE GIANT AND HIS TWO FRIENDS In a certain country a Prince was born to a King, it is said. For the purpose of giving milk to the Prince he caused a wet-nurse [306] to be brought. Because the nurse's milk was insufficient for the Prince, he caused yet [another] person to be brought. That also being insufficient he caused yet [another] person to be brought. In that manner having caused seven wet-nurses to be brought, the whole seven gave milk to the Prince. That milk also being insufficient, for the day he gave him also the cooked rice from a quarter [bushel] of rice, and a quarter of a goat, to eat. Having eaten this food, during the time when the Prince became somewhat big [so as] to walk here and there, he gave him the cooked rice from a half bushel of rice and the meat of a goat, to eat. Until the time when ten years were completed for the Prince he gave food thus. At that time the Prince began to jump that side and this side in the river. That circumstance was published in all cities. During the time when it was thus published, the people of the cities were collected together to look at this Prince. Thereupon, when the Prince was jumping to that bank of the river, while in the midst of the great multitude he fell into water of about two fathoms. Thereupon the Prince, having swum with great shame and having gone to the bank, again jumped to this bank. That time he fell into water of about three fathoms. At that time the Prince becoming very highly ashamed, not speaking at all, went to the royal house, and having been adorned with the five weapons, [307] entered the midst of the forest and went away. While going thus a little far he met with an old mother. Thereupon this Prince speaks to the old woman, "Ane! Mother, I am very hungry. Prepare and give me a little cooked rice to eat," he said. When he said so, the old woman, calling the Prince and having gone to her house, and given [him] a sort of vegetable stew to eat, says, "Ane! Son, to cook and give boiled rice I cannot get water. The crocodile in the river has fallen mad. I cannot go also into the midst of the forest to get firewood, the leopard having fallen mad. Should you bring and give firewood and water I can cook and give cooked rice," she said. Thereupon the Prince having said, "It is good," and taken his sword, and gone into the midst of the forest, when [he was] breaking firewood the leopard came and sprang [at him]. After that, the Prince having chopped with the sword and killed the leopard, cutting off his tongue and breaking as much firewood as he can bring, brought it and threw it down at the old woman's house. Thereafter, having taken his sword and the water-pot, at the time when he is going near the river the crocodile came springing [at him]. Thereupon, having chopped it with the sword, he cut the crocodile into four or five [pieces], cutting off its tongue also; and having come back [after] taking also a pot of water he gave it to the old woman; and having told her to make ready and give the food, because of pain in the body of the Prince, as soon as he had reclined a little he went to sleep. While he was there for a little time, the old woman having seen that a man is lifting up the leopard which the Prince killed, and going away [with it], having spoken to the Prince, says, "Son, a man, killing the leopard which had fallen mad is taking it to the royal house. The King had appointed that to a person who, having killed, gave the leopard and the crocodile, he will give much wealth. The King having given much wealth to the man, at the time when you went into the midst of the forest didn't you meet with the leopard?" Having said it, she told him the whole of these matters. After that, the Prince, not speaking at all, went to the royal house behind the man who is lifting and going with the leopard. The man having gone to the royal house, and made obeisance to the King, [and shown him the leopard], said, "O King, in the midst of the forest I killed the leopard that had fallen mad. Regarding it, please give me the wealth that Your Honour has appointed." Thereupon the King being much pleased, at the time when he is preparing to give the wealth this Prince went near the King, [and said], "O Great King, I killed this leopard. This man, taking the carcase of the leopard I killed, came to obtain the wealth for himself. If this man killed it be good enough to look where this leopard's tongue is. I have killed not only this leopard. The crocodile, too, that had fallen mad in the river will be [found to be] killed." Having said, "Here, look; the two tongues of those two," he gave them to the King. The King, too, having taken the two tongues and looked at them, believed that he killed the leopard, and having killed the man who told the lies gave much wealth to this Prince. The Prince, bringing the wealth and having given it to the old woman, and been there two or three days, the Prince went to another district. While going thus he met with a dried areka-nut dealer. Thereupon the two persons having become friends, while they were going along they met with an arrow maker. The three persons having joined together, talk together: "Friend, what can you do?" Thereupon the dried areka-nut dealer says, "Having uttered spells over this dried areka-nut of mine, when I have struck it having gone everywhere it comes again into my hand. After that, I can do what I have thought (hitu andamak)," he said. When they asked the arrow maker, he informed them that, in the very way which the dried areka-nut dealer said, with the arrow also he can display power. After that, the Prince says, "The cleverness of you two is from the dried areka-nut and the arrow; my cleverness is from the strength of my body. Should I think of going in the sky further than ye two, having sprung into the sky I go," he said. Thereupon those two persons having made obeisance to the Prince, the whole three went to one district. In that village, at a great wealthy house, an illness due to a demon (yaksa ledak) having been caused in a young woman, they had been unable to cure her. These three persons at that very house got resting-places. These three persons ascertaining this circumstance, the Prince having performed many demon ceremonies and cured the young woman's demon illness, married and gave the young woman to the dried areka-nut dealer; and having planted a lime seedling in the open ground in front of the house, he says, "Some day, should the leaves of this lime tree wither and the fruit drop, ascertaining that an accident has occurred to me, plucking the limes off this tree come very speedily seeking me." Having made him stay there he went away with the arrow maker. When going a little far, anciently a great collection of goods having been at yet [another] house, and it afterwards having reached a state of poverty, the principal person of the family having died, they got resting-places at the house, at which there are only a daughter and a son. At the time when these two asked the two persons of the house, "Is there nobody of your elders?" they told these two the whole of the accidents that had happened to the people. Thereupon the Prince, having spoken to the arrow maker and made him halt there, just as in the former way planted a lime seedling; and in the very manner of the dried areka-nut dealer having given him warning, the Prince went away quite alone. Having gone thus and arrived at a certain village, when he looked about, except that the houses of the village were visible there were no men to be seen. Arriving at a nobleman's house [308] in the village, a house at which there is only one Situ daughter, this Prince got a resting-place. Having given the resting-place, this Situ daughter began to weep. Thereupon this Prince asked, "Because of what circumstance art thou weeping?" Thereupon this Situ daughter says, "My parents and relatives a certain Yaka ate; to-day evening he will eat me too. Through the fear of that death I weep," she said. At that time the Prince says, "Putting (taba) [out of consideration] one Yaka, should a hundred Yakas come I will not give them an opportunity [309] to eat thee. Don't thou be afraid." Having satisfied her mind he asks, "Dost thou know the time when the Yaka comes?" Thereupon the Situ daughter said, "Yes, I know it. When coming, he says three [times], 'Hu, Hu, Hu'; that is, when he is setting off, one Hu, and while near the stile, one Hu, and while near the house, one Hu; he says three Hus." Thereupon the Prince asked, "Are there dried areka-nuts?" Afterwards the Situ daughter said, "There are." "If so, filling a large sack please come [with it]," he said. The Situ daughter having brought a sack of dried areka-nuts gave them. The Prince also having put them down thinly at the doorway, the Prince sitting inside the house and taking his sword also in his hand, waited. Thereupon he said the Hu that he says when setting out. At that time the Situ daughter in fear began to weep. When the Prince is saying and saying to the Situ daughter, "Don't cry," he said "Hu," the other Hu near the stile. In a little time more having come to the open ground in front of the house saying a Hu, when he was springing into the house the Yaka fell on the heap of dried areka-nuts. At that time the Prince with his sword cut the Yaka into four or five [pieces]. [310] Taking in marriage the Situ daughter, while he was dwelling there a long time, to take in marriage the Situ daughter they began to come from many various countries, because the Situ daughter is very beautiful. Out of them, a Prince caused the notification tom-tom to be beaten [to proclaim] that should anyone take and give him the Princess who is at the nobleman's house in such and such a village, he will give him much goods. Thereupon a certain woman having said, "I can obtain and give her," stopped the notification tom-tom, and having gone to the royal house, asking for three months' time went to the village at which that Prince and Princess are, and having become the female servant at that house, remained there. Meanwhile this woman asks the Princess, "Ane! Please tell me by what means your lord displays strength and prowess to this degree," she asked with humility. Thereupon the Princess said, "Don't you tell anyone; our Prince's life is in his sword." That woman from that day began to collect coconut husks and coconut shells. The Princess having seen it asked, "What are you collecting those coconut husks and coconut shells for?" Thereupon the woman said, "Ane! What is this you are asking? For houses, on the days when it rains is there not much advantage in [having] coconut husks?" And the Princess having said, "It is good," did nothing. While she was thus, the three months were passing away. One day, when this Prince and Princess were sleeping, in the night this woman, stealing the sword that was upon the Prince's breast and having put it under those coconut husks and coconut shells that she had previously collected, set fire to the heap. When the sword was becoming red [hot] the Prince became unconscious. Before this, this woman had sent a message to the Prince who caused that notification tom-tom to be beaten, to come with his retinue, taking a ship. That very day at night the retinue came. After that Prince became unconscious, this retinue having taken that Princess by very force, put her in the ship to go to their city. That Prince's two friends having arisen in the morning, and when they looked, having seen that the leaves had faded on the lime trees and the fruits had dropped, plucking the limes off them came seeking the Prince. Having come there, when they looked, except that the Prince is unconscious there is no one to see. Having seen that a bonfire is blazing very fiercely, they quickly poured water in the bonfire and extinguished the fire. When they were looking, the sword having burnt [away] (piccila) a little was left. Having got this piece of sword these two persons took it away. Having cut the limes, when they were rubbing and rubbing them on it, by the influence of the Prince the sword became perfect. At that time the Prince arose in health; and when he is looking perceiving that the Princess is not [there], he went running with those two persons to the port, and saw that at the distance at which it is [just] visible the ship is going. This Prince asked these two, "Can you swim to that ship?" Thereupon these two persons said, "If you, Sir, will swim we also will come." Then the Prince asked, "When you have gone to the ship how many men can you cut down?" The dried areka-nut dealer said, "I can cut until the time when the blood mounts to the height of a knee." The arrow maker also said, "I can cut until the time when the blood mounts to the height of a hip." Thereupon the Prince having said, "If you two will cut until the blood is at the height of a knee, and until the blood is at the height of a hip, I will cut until the blood is at the height of a shoulder," the whole three persons sprang into the river. Having gone swimming and mounted upon the ship, the areka-nut dealer, taking the [Prince's] sword and having cut the dead bodies until the blood is a knee [deep], gave the sword to the arrow maker. The arrow maker taking the sword and having cut dead bodies until the blood is a hip [deep], gave the sword to the Prince. The Prince having cut the men until the blood is shoulder deep, and having cast the dead trunks into the river, causing the ship to turn arrived with the Princess at his village. Having come there, the Prince [and Princess] resided there in health. Those two persons having gone to the cities at which each of them (tamu tamun) stayed, passed the time in health. Western Province. NO. 261 HOW THEY FORMERLY ATE AND DRANK In a certain country there was a very important rich family, it is said. In this family were the two parents and their children, two sons only. In the course of time the people of the family arrived at a very poor condition, it is said. During the time when they are thus, the mother of these two young children having gone near a shipping town, [311] winnowed the rice of the ships and continued to get her living. One day when she was winnowing the rice of a ship, quite unperceived by her the ship went to sea [with her on board]. During the time when he was thus unaware to which hand this woman who was the chief support [312] of the family--or the mother--went, the father one day for some necessary matter having gone together with the two sons to cross to that other bank of the river, tied one son to a tree on the bank on this side and placed him [there]; and having gone with the other one to the bank on that side, and tied the son to a tree there, came to take the other son [across]. While on the return journey in this way, this old man having been caught by a current in the river, and been taken by force to a very distant country, went to a village where they dry salt fish. An old woman having seen the two children who had been tied on the two banks by him, unfastened their bonds (baemi); having heard [from one of them] about their birth and two parents, learning all the circumstances, she employed some person and caused even the child who was on the bank on that [other] side to be brought, and reared both of them. During the time while the father of the two children was getting his living, drying salt fish, the King of that country died. Well then, because there was not a Crown Prince [313] of the King of the country, according to the mode of the custom of that country having decorated the King's festival tusk elephant and placed the crown on its back, they sent it [in search of a new King]. And the tusk elephant having gone walking, and gone in front of that poor man who was drying salt fish, when it bent the knee he mounted on the back of the tusk elephant, and having come to the palace was appointed to the sovereignty. After he was thus exercising the sovereignty a little time, it became necessary for this King to go somewhere to a country, and having mounted on a ship it began to sail away. The two sons who belonged in the former time to this King, who were being reared by the old woman, having become big were stationed for their livelihood as guards on this very ship. Their mother who was lost during the former time, earned a living by winnowing rice on this very ship. Well then, while these very four persons remained unable to get knowledge of each other, during the night time, when the ship is sailing, in order to remove the sleepiness of the two brothers who were on the ship as guards, the younger brother told the elder brother to relate a story. And when the elder brother said, "I do not know how to tell stories," because again and again he was forcing him to relate anything whatever, he said, "I do know indeed how to relate the manner of [our] ancient eating and drinking." "It is good. If so, relate even that," the younger brother said. Thereupon, the elder brother, beginning from the time when their parents were lost, told the story of the manner in which they formerly ate and drank, up to the time when they came for the watching on the ship,--how the two persons, eating and drinking, were getting their living. These two persons' mother, and the King who was their father, both of them, having remained listening to this story from the root to the top, at the last said, "These are our two sons." Having smelt (kissed) each other, all four persons obtaining knowledge of each other after that lived in happiness, enjoying royal greatness. Western Province. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 154, a defeated King who was driven into exile with his wife and two children, engaged a passage by a vessel, but it sailed away with the Queen before the others got on board. She was sold to a merchant whom she agreed to marry if she did not meet with her husband and children in two years. The King, while returning for the other child after crossing a river with one, was carried away by the current, sank, and was swallowed by a fish, and saved by a potter when it died on the bank. He became a potter, and was selected as King by the royal elephant and hawk. A fisherman who had reared the two sons became a favourite, and the boys were kept near the King. When the merchant who bought the Queen came to trade, these youths were sent to guard his goods. At night, on the younger one's asking for a tale his brother said he would relate one out of their own experience, and told him their history, which the Queen overheard, thus ascertaining that they were her sons. By getting the merchant to complain to the King about their conduct she was able to tell him her story, on which he discovered that she was his wife, and all were united. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 183, while a Raja and his wife were travelling in poverty the Queen was shut up by a rich merchant. At a river the Raja was swept away while returning for the child left on the bank, and afterwards selected as King by two state elephants. The children, reared by an old woman, took service under him, were appointed as guards for the merchant's wife (the former Queen) when she was brought to a festival, and were recognised by her. The merchant complained of the guards, and on hearing their story the King discovered that they were his sons and the woman was his wife. In a variant the children were left on one bank of the river, and a fish swallowed their father, the boys being reared by a cow-herd. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. iii, p. 366), a ship in which were an indigent Jew and his wife and two sons, was wrecked, one boy being picked up by a vessel, and the others cast ashore in different countries. The father secured buried treasures which a voice disclosed to him on an island, and became King there; the sons, hearing of his generosity, came to him and received appointments, but did not know each other. A merchant who came with their mother was invited to remain at the palace, the youths being sent to guard his goods and their mother at night. While conversing they found they were brothers; their mother, overhearing the story, recognised them, got the merchant to complain of their improper conduct, and on their repeating their history the King found they were his sons. The mother then unveiled herself, and all were united. NO. 262 THE GOURD FRUIT DEVIL-DANCE In a certain country a Gamarala cut a chena, it is said. Having planted a gourd creeper in the chena, on it a gourd fruit fruited. The gourd fruit, when not much time had gone, became very large, and ripened. The Gamarala, being unable to bring it alone, summoned several men of the village, and having given them to eat and gone with the men, and come back [after] plucking the fruit, and cut open the "eye" (at the end of the neck), placed it [for the contents] to rot. After it rotted he [cleaned it out and] dried it, so as to take it for work (use), and put it on a high place (ihalakin). In order to perform a devil-dance (kankariya) for the Gamarala, having given betel for it and told devil-dancers (yakdesso) to come, one day he made ready [for] the devil-dance. Having made ready that day, when they were dancing a very great rain rained, and the water was held up so that the houses were being completely submerged. At that time all the persons of this company being without a quarter to go to, all the men crept inside the Gourd fruit, and having blocked up with wax the eye that was cut open into the Gourd fruit, began to dance the devil-dance inside it. Then the houses, also, of the country having been submerged, the water overflowing them began to flow away. Then this Gourd fruit also having gone, went down into a river, and having gone along the river descended to the sea, and while it was going like a ship a fish came, and swallowed the Gourd fruit. Having swallowed it, the fish, as though it was stupefied, remained turning and turning round on the water. While it was staying there, a great hawk that was flying above having come and swallowed that fish, became unconscious on a branch. Then a woman says to her husband, "Bolan, [after] seeking something for curry come back." At that time, while the man, taking also his gun, is going walking about, he met with that hawk which had swallowed the fish. He shot the hawk. Having shot it and brought it home, he said to his wife that she was to pluck off the feathers and cook it. Then the woman having plucked off the feathers, when she cut [it open] there was a fish [inside]. Then the woman says, "Ade! Bolan, for one curry there are two meats!" [314] Taking the fish she cut [it open]; then there was a Gourd fruit. Thereupon the woman says, "Ade! Bolan, for one curry there are three meats!" When she looked the Gourd fruit was dried up. After that, having cooked those meats (or curries) and eaten, on account of hearing a noise very slightly in that Gourd fruit, taking a bill-hook she struck the Gourd fruit. Thereupon the whole of those men being in the Gourd fruit, said, "People, people!" and came outside. Having got down outside, when they looked it was another country. After that, having asked the ways, they went each one to his own country. And then only the men knew that light had fallen [and it was the next day]. Western Province. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. ii, p. 599, a fish swallowed a ship, with its crew and passengers. When it was carried by a current and stranded on the shore of Suvarnadwipa, the people ran up and cut it open, and the persons who were inside it came out alive. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, pp. 229 and 244, two infants who were thrown or fell into the water of rivers were swallowed by fishes and rescued alive after seven days, in the first instance by the child's father, and in the second by the King of the country in which the fish had been caught. NO. 263 THE ASCETIC AND THE JACKAL In a certain country, in the midst of a forest a pack of Jackals stayed, it is said. One out of the Jackals having gone near villages one day for the purpose of catching and eating the fowls and various animals, at the time when he was walking about having arrived at a shed in which was some toddy (fresh palm-juice), and having drunk toddy until his belly fills, after he became drunk fell down at one place and stayed [there], it is said. When he was staying thus, the Jackal went very thoroughly asleep, it is said. Having stayed in this way, when it was just becoming light the Jackal's eyes were opened. Well then, at that time the Jackal was unable to go to the pack. Because of what [reason] was that? Because the eyes of the whole of the persons in the village were opened. Owing to it he got into a jungle near by, and when he was there an extremely old ascetic came to go by the place where the Jackal is. The Jackal having seen the ascetic and spoken to him, says, "Meritorious ascetic, having been in which district are you, Sir, coming? I have sought and sought a meritorious person like you, Sir, and [now] I have met with you; it is very good," he said. When the Jackal spoke thus the ascetic asks, "On account of what matter dost thou speak to me in that manner?" When he asked him thus, the Jackal says, "I did not say thus to you, Sir, for my profit. I had sought and sought an excellent person like you, Sir. A quantity of my masuran are in the midst of such and such a forest. To give those masuran I did not meet with a good person like you, Sir. For many days I was watching and looking on this search, but until this occurred I did not meet with a meritorious excellent person, except only you, Sir. I am very happy to give the masuran to you, Sir," he said. The ascetic having been much pleased, asks the Jackal, "Regarding it, what must be done by me for thee?" When he said [this] the Jackal says, "I don't want you, Sir, to do any favour at all for me. If I am to give the masuran to you, Sir, please carry me to the place where the masuran are," he said. Thereupon the ascetic, carrying in his arms the Jackal, went into the midst of the forest where he said the masuran are. When he went into the midst of the forest, the Jackal having spoken to the ascetic, says, "Look, the masuran are here; please place me here," he said. Thereupon the ascetic placed the Jackal on the ground. The Jackal then says, "Taking your outer robe, Sir, and having spread it on the ground, please remain looking in the direction of the sun, not letting the eyelid fall. Having dug up the masuran I will put them into your robe, Sir," he said. When the Jackal said thus, the ascetic, through greed for the masuran, without thinking anything having spread the robe on the ground, was looking in the direction of the sun. When he was looking thus for a little time, the Jackal having dunged into the robe, and for a little time more having falsely dug the ground, said to the ascetic, "Now then, be pleased to take the masuran." Thereupon when the ascetic through greed for the masuran looks in the direction of the robe, because of the sun's rays his eyes having become weak, the Jackal dung that he had put [there] appeared like masuran. [315] Making [the robe] into a bundle he went away. The Jackal having bounded off, went into the midst of the forest. Western Province. This tale agrees in some respects with the Jataka story No. 113 (vol. i. p. 256), in which the person who carried the Jackal was a Brahmana, who, however, was not told to look at the sun, as in the Sinhalese tale No. 65, in vol. i, of which this is a variant. SOUTH INDIAN STORIES NO. 264 CONCERNING THE BLIND-EYED MAN In a certain country there was a blind man. The man had married a fine handsome woman. While the two persons were staying a little time begging, and seeking and getting a living, having said that country was not good and having thought of going to another country, one day the blind man said to his wife, "While we are staying in this country we have much inconvenience. Because of it let us go to another country." Thereupon the woman, too, said of it, "It is good." After that the two persons having set off, journeyed through the middle of a forest wilderness. At that time a Hettiya, also, of that city having quarrelled with his father, he also, as he was going to another country travelled on the path in the midst of the forest on which this blind man and his wife are going. The Hettiya encountered that blind man and his wife on the road. Thereupon, while this Hettiya was talking with the two persons he asked, "Where are you two going in the jungle in this forest wilderness?" Then this blind man and his wife said, "We are going to another country for the sake of a livelihood." The Hettiya said, "It is good, if so. I also having quarrelled with our father am going to another country. If so, let us all three go [together]." Thereupon all three having said, "It is good," while they were talking and journeying, because the blind person's wife is beautiful to the Hettiya his mind became attached to her, like marrying her. Because the Hettiya was a young man to the blind person's wife, also, her mind became attached to him. When these two persons, thinking in this manner, were going a little far, the Hettiya spoke to that woman, unknown to the blind person, [316] "Let us two go [off together]." Thereupon the woman gave her word, "It is good." To drop the blind person and go, the scheme which the woman told the blind person [was this]: "Ane! Husband, there is a kind of fruit-tree fruits in this forest wilderness which it gratifies me to eat. Therefore you must give permission to me to eat them and come back." Having said [this] she made obeisance. At that time the blind man, thinking it is true, said, "It is good. I will remain beneath this tree; you go, and having eaten the fruit come quickly." Thereupon the woman, saying, "It is good," while the blind person was continuing to stay there went with the Hettiya somewhere or other to a country. This blind man remained night and day in hunger beneath the tree, for six days. After that, yet [another] Hettiya, while going to the village of the woman who had married that Hettiya, tying up a packet of cooked rice also, to eat for the road, travelled with his wife by the middle of that forest wilderness. Thereupon the Hettiya met with that blind-eyed man. So the Hettiya spoke to his wife, "There is a man near that tree. Let us go near, and [after] looking let us go." The woman said, "It is good." Then the two persons having gone near that blind person, asked, "Who are you?" Then the blind person made many lamentations to that Hettiya: "Ane! Friend, I am a blind person. I having spoken with my wife about going to another country, while we were going in the middle of this forest wilderness, my wife got hid and went off with yet [another] man. I am now staying six days without any food. You arrived through my good luck. Ane! Friend, having gone, calling me, to the country to which you are going, send me to an asylum. [317] If not, in this forest wilderness there is not any all-refuge." [318] Thereupon the Hettiya, having become much grieved, unfastened the cooked rice that the party brought to eat for the road, and having given the blind person to eat, as they were going, inviting the blind person, to the city to which the party are going, he told that Hettiya's (his own) wife to come holding [one end of] the blind person's walking-stick (to guide him). Then the Hetti woman said, "Ane! O Lord, should I go holding this blind person's leading stick they will say I am the blind man's wife. I have heard that kind of story before this. But if you, Sir, say so, I will come holding it." The Hettiya said, "No matter, come holding it." While [she was] thus holding it, calling him they went to the city to which the party are going. Having gone [there] and told the blind man to stay [with them] that day night, they gave him amply food and drink, and the mat also for sleeping on. Next day after light fell having said to the blind person, "Now then; there! You having gone into that street and begged, seeking something, eat," with much kindness they started him. Then the blind person having gone near the royal house at that city, said, "Ane! O Deity, [319] when I was coming away with my wife by the middle of a forest wilderness, a Hettiya having quarrelled with his father, and said that he was going to another country, and for six days having not a meal, as he was coming fell behind us. We gave him the cooked rice that we brought for our expenses, and came calling him [to accompany us]. As though in that way the assistance were insufficient, the Hettiya uprooting my wife also [from me] said he will not give her to me, and drove me away. To whom shall I tell this suit? Do you investigate only suits for rich persons? Do you not institute suits for poor persons? Now then, how shall I obtain a living?" Having said [this] he began to weep. At that time the [royal] messengers having gone, told it to the King. Thereupon the King also having become grieved regarding it, sent messengers and caused the Hettiya who came with the blind person, and his wife, to be brought. Having heard the case, he said, "This young Hettiya did not take a wife [for himself]; he took the blind person's wife," and ordered them to behead the Hettiya. [320] Having said, "The woman having come in diga [marriage] to the blind person and in the meantime having endangered him, went with another man," he ordered them to put her in a lime-kiln and burn her. Having given a little money to the blind person he told him to go. Thereupon the blind person, taking the money also and having gone outside the royal palace, was saying and saying, "Ane! O Gods, what is it that has occurred to me! At the time when I remained for six days in the midst of the forest, this Hettiya and his wife having met with me while they are coming, and given food to me who was in hunger for six days, brought me to this city, and let me go. I having told all these (lit., these these) lies [in order] to take the woman, I was not allowed to take the woman, nor were the two persons allowed to live well together. The foolish King without giving me the woman ordered them to kill her. Now then, where shall I go?" At that time a man having heard him, quickly went and said to the King that this blind person says thus. Then the King quickly having caused the blind person to be brought, and having released the Hettiya and the woman from death, and given presents to the two persons, and sent them away, ordered the blind person to be killed. Immigrant from Malayalam, Southern India. (Written in Sinhalese, and partly related in that language.) This story is given in Tales of the Sun (Mrs. H. Kingscote and Natesa Sastri), p. 165. NO. 265 THE DESTINY PRINCE In a certain country a King had two Princes. After the two Princes became big, calling them near the King the King asked both, "Is Destiny the greatest thing or not?" [321] At that time the big Prince said, "Destiny is the greatest (widi lokuyi)"; the young Prince said, "It is insufficiently great (madi lokuyi)." Because the big Prince said, "Destiny is the greatest," the King commanded that they should behead and kill him. Thereupon the Prince's mother, having given him a little money, and said, "Son, go thou to a country thou likest," sent him away. Then the Prince having looked for a country to proceed to, went away. When he is going on the path, the men whom he meets ask, "Where are you going?" Thereupon the Prince, not saying another speech, gives answer to the talk, saying, "Destiny." However much they speak, this Prince, except that he says, "Destiny," does not give a different reply. While giving replies in this manner, this Prince walks through various countries. In yet [another] city, a daughter of the King, and a daughter of the Minister, and a daughter of a rich Hettiya called the Money Hettiya, these three having been born on one and the same day and the three having gone to one school learning letters, after they became big gave presents to the teacher. What of their giving presents to the teacher! Regarding the teacher's instructing these three children, it was in name only. There was a chief scholar; it was the scholar indeed who taught the letters to all these three children. Notwithstanding that it was so, they did not give him presents or anything. Because of it he being grieved at it, and thinking that if there should be a word which the King's daughter says, the Minister's Princess and the Money Hettiya's daughter hearken to it, he sent a letter in this manner to the royal Princess: "O Royal Princess, except that I taught you three persons the sciences [for him], our teacher did not teach them. Having tried so much and taught you three, at your not thinking of me I am much grieved." He wrote [thus] and sent it. The royal Princess had ordered the Minister's daughter and the Money Hettiya's daughter every day in the morning to come to the royal palace. Therefore the two persons, having stayed at home only at night, in the morning arrive at the royal palace. One day, while these very three are stopping and playing at the royal palace, a man brought a letter and gave it into the royal Princess's hand. Thereupon the royal Princess having broken open the letter, when she looked [in it] the party's second teacher [had written] that he was displeased. Then the Princess said thus to the Minister's daughter and the Money Hettiya's daughter: "Look. Omitting to give our presents or anything to our second teacher who took much trouble and taught us, and having given presents to our big teacher, when coming away we did not even speak, he has written. It is indeed foolishness at our hand. Because of it, let us write anything we want to send, and send a letter [to him]. Having sent it let us give anything he asks for," she spoke [to them]. [Thus] speaking, she wrote and sent: "Anything you ask we will give. Please write what thing you want." Thereupon, the letter having gone the party's second teacher received it. Having received it, owing to the form of the letter that person writes, "I want nothing. Because you three said you will give anything I want, I am coming to marry you three persons. What do you say about it?" He wrote and sent [this]. The letter having gone, the royal Princess, together with the other persons also, received it. When they looked at the letter, the party perceived that the letter they wrote was wrong. Perceiving it, the royal Princess said, "Comrades, [322] the word that we wrote and sent was wrong. The second teacher has sent letters [asking] how he is to come to marry us three. Because we made a mistake, and as we cannot tell lies, let us appoint a day and send [word]." Thereupon the two persons gave permission for such a word [to be sent]. She wrote and sent the letter: "To-morrow night, at twelve, you must come to the palace; at one you must come to the Minister's house; at three, you must come to the Money Hettiya's house." Having written it, [after] sending it in this manner the three persons making ready distilled Attar water [323] and several sweet drugs to put on his body when he comes, and priceless food, waited for him. That day, that royal Prince who is walking along saying "Destiny," coming to the city at night time and having become hungry, remained sleeping near the gate [324] of that palace. The second teacher loitered a little in coming. After the royal Prince had gone to sleep during the whole night [up to midnight], placing food and fragrant sorts on a tray in her own hands, and having come near the gate of the palace and felt about, when [the Princess] looked the Prince who says "Destiny" was there. At that time the royal Princess, thinking he was the second teacher, said, "What are you sleeping for? Get up." That Prince, saying, "Destiny," being unable to arise [through sleepiness,] remained lying down. Thereupon the royal Princess, touching his body with her hand, made him arise; and having given him this food to eat, and having sprinkled distilled Attar water on his body, and having complied with immoral practice, [325] the Princess went to the palace. Then the Prince who says "Destiny" was sleeping [again] near the gate of the palace. At that time the second teacher came. Having come there, he asked that Prince who says "Destiny," "Who are you, Ada?" Then that Prince said, "Destiny." "What is, Ada, Destiny?" he asked. Then again he gave answer, "Destiny." At this next occasion, having said, "What Destiny, Ada!" he pushed him away. Thereupon the Destiny Prince [having gone] near the gate of the Minister's house, was sleeping [there]. Then the Minister's daughter having come, asked, "Who are you?" The Prince said, "Destiny." Then the Minister's daughter said, "What is it you call Destiny? On account of the letter you sent, the royal Princess and we two also, having spoken have made ready. Eat these things quickly; I must go." Thereupon the Prince said, "Destiny." Then the Minister's daughter having touched him on the body and caused him to arise, gave him the food to eat, and having put distilled Attar water and several sweet drugs on the Prince's body, and complied with immoral practice, went away. The Destiny Prince went to sleep there. At that time the second teacher, having stayed looking about near the palace and the Princess not being [there], thinking he must go even to the Minister's house, came to the Minister's house. At that time the Destiny Prince was there. The second teacher having gone, asked this one, "Who are you, Ada?" He said, "Destiny." Thereupon having said, "What Destiny! Be off!" and having beaten him he drove him away. Having driven him away the second teacher stayed there looking about. The Destiny Prince having gone to the house of the Money Hettiya, there also stayed sleeping near the gate. Then the Hettiya's daughter having come with sandal-wood scent and distilled Attar water, asked, "Who are you?" At that time the Prince said, "Destiny." The Hettiya's daughter having said, "What Destiny! Get up," touched his body, causing him to arise; and having given him food also, putting distilled Attar water on his body, complied with immoral practice, and went into the house. The Destiny Prince went to sleep there. That second teacher having stayed looking about at the Minister's house, and having said [to himself] that because the Minister's daughter did not come he must go even to the Money Hettiya's house, came there. At that time, the Destiny Prince was sleeping there also. Then the second teacher asked, "Who are you, Ada?" Thereupon the Prince said, "Destiny." Saying, "What Destiny, Ada!" and having struck him a blow, he pushed him away. Thereupon the Destiny Prince having gone, remained sleeping in a grass field more than four miles away. That second teacher having stayed there watching until it was becoming light, went to his city. On the following day morning this fragrance [from the scents sprinkled on the Prince] having gone through the whole city, when the King was making inquiry [he learnt] that this Princess, too, had put on this scent. Thereupon the King thought, "Besides the Minister no other person comes to my palace. It is a work of his, this," he got into his mind. The Minister thinking, "Besides the King no other person comes to my house; this is a disgraceful step (kulappadiyak) of the King's," got angry. The Money Hettiya, thinking, "Except that the King comes, no one else comes to my house; because of that, this is indeed a disgraceful step of the King's," got angry. After that, the whole three having met at one place, speaking about this, when they were making inquiry the fragrance of the distilled Attar water on the body of the Destiny Prince came [to them]. Then seizing him and having come back, for the fault that he committed they appointed to kill him. At that time the royal Princess and the other two persons having come before them, said, "It is not an offence [of his]. After you kill that man please kill us three"; [and they gave a full account of the matter]. Before they said this word the Destiny Prince said even more words than anyone was saying and saying. After that, the King also having freed him from death, asked the Destiny Prince, "Of which village are you; of which country?" Then the Destiny Prince said, "I am of such and such a city, the son of the King. One day our father the King asked me and my younger brother, 'Is Destiny the greatest thing or not?' Thereupon I said, 'Destiny is the greatest'; younger brother said, 'It is not the greatest.' Because I said, 'Destiny is the greatest,' he appointed me for death. I having run away from there, I dwelt in this manner, walking through a multitude of cities. When they were speaking, I replied, 'Destiny.'" At that time the King and Minister, including also the Hettiya, speaking together, said, "This will be done to this one by the Gods. Therefore let us marry these three to this one; we did not marry and give the three to him." They married them accordingly, [and] the King handed over charge of the King's kingdom [to him]. After that, he remained exercising the kingship in a good manner, with justice. Another King having gone to the city in which the King the Prince's father stayed, [after] fighting him and taking the city, banished the King and his Queen and Prince. After that, the three persons having come away arrived at the city where the Destiny Prince was ruling, and stayed there, obtaining a living by breaking firewood and selling it. The Destiny Prince one day walking in the city, when returning saw that this King his father, and younger brother, and mother are selling firewood. Having seen them, and having come to the palace without speaking, he sent a messenger to tell the three firewood traders to come. The messenger having gone told the three firewood traders that the King says they are to come. Thereupon the three persons becoming afraid, and thinking, "Is selling firewood of the jungle of the Gods and getting a living by it, wrong?" in fear went to the royal palace. Then the Destiny Prince asked, "Of what city are you?" The party said, "We were exercising the kingship of such and such a city. Another King having gone [there], oppressing us and seizing the kingdom, told us to go away. Because of that, having come away and arrived at this city, we remain getting a living, breaking firewood in the jungle." Thereupon the Destiny King asked, "When you were staying at that city how many children had you?" The firewood trader said, "I had two Princes." Then the Destiny King asked, "Where then is the other Prince? Did he die?" The firewood trader said, "That Prince did not die. One day, when I was asking that Prince and this Prince, 'Is Destiny the greatest thing or not?' the Prince said, 'Destiny is the greatest'; this Prince said, 'It is insufficiently great.' Because of it I sent him out of the kingdom." Thereupon the Destiny Prince, saying, "It is I myself who am that Prince," told them the circumstances that had occurred to him. Both parties after that having become sorrowful, remained living [there], protecting that city in happiness. Immigrant from Malayalam, Southern India. (Written in Sinhalese, and partly related in that language.) In the Jataka story No. 544 (vol. vi, p. 117), the King of Videha sums up the Hindu belief in predestination from the day of a person's birth, as follows: "There is no door to heaven: only wait on destiny: all will at last reach deliverance from transmigration." His daughter afterwards illustrated the Buddhist doctrine that a person's destiny depends on his acts and thoughts in his present life as well as in previous ones:--"As the balance properly hung in the weighing-house causes the end to swing up when the weight is put in, so does a man cause his fate at last to rise if he gathers together every piece of merit little by little." The Maha Bharata (Santi Parva, cclviii), states that all gods must inevitably become mortals, and all mortals must become gods; and also (ccxcix) that whatever one's lot may be it is the result of deeds done in previous lives. The inevitable action of Karma is well exhibited in a story in Folk-Tales of the Telugus (G. R. Subramiah Pantulu), p. 59, in which when the God Siva and his wife Parvati saw a poverty-stricken Brahmana on his way home, and the latter wished to give him riches, Siva remarked that Brahma had not written on his face [at his birth] that he must enjoy wealth. To test this, Parvati threw down on the path a heap of a thousand gold muhrs (£1,500). When the Brahmana got within ten yards of it, he was suddenly struck by the idea that he would see if he could walk along like a blind man, so he shut his eyes, and did not open them until he had gone past the money. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 280, a Princess who had arranged through a confidante to meet a man in a temple at night, met there instead a Prince who was accidentally spending the night there, and without recognising who he was, accepted him as her husband, and afterwards returned to the palace. On the following day the Prince appeared before the King, who formally bestowed the Princess on him, one of the Ministers remarking to the King, "Fate watches to insure the objects of auspicious persons." In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 327, a King asked his two daughters which was the greater, Karma (fate, as the effect of acts in previous lives), or Dharma (righteousness). The younger said "Karma," the elder, "Dharma." He was so angry that he married the younger one to a young Brahmana thief; but he became very wealthy in a miraculous manner, and afterwards invited his father-in-law to a feast at which he was waited on by his daughter, the disgraced Princess, whom he did not recognise. At the end of it she told him who they were, and he promised to give the kingdom to her husband. In The Kathakoça (Tawney), p. 82, a Princess had as her companions the daughters of a merchant and a gardener who were born on the same day as herself. When the Princess was married she requested that her two comrades might be married to the same young man, and this was done. No. 266 THE TEACHER AND HIS PUPIL In a certain country there were a woman and her two children. After the woman's husband went and died, there not being any all-refuge (saw-saranak) for the woman and children, after the children became big they remained without learning. Thereupon the men of that country said to the woman, "Your children are male children, are they not? Because of it, make efforts and teach them. Should the persons learn a little it will be good for you." And the woman accepting this very speech, as she had nothing for expenses for teaching the children she went near a teacher, and said, "Ane! Mr. Teacher, from anyone whatever I have no all-protection. Therefore I have nothing to pay for an expense. Because of it, you, Sir, by favour to me having taught these two children, you taking one child be good enough to give me one child." The teacher also being pleased regarding it, said, "It is good," and took charge of the two children. [After] thus taking charge of them, although having made efforts he taught both children, and the young child, having more intelligence than the teacher, learnt, the other elder child was unable to learn even a little. Because he could not learn he sent him to look after the teacher's cattle. After the young child had thoroughly learned, the teacher, thinking a deceitful thought, for the purpose of causing the young child to remain and of sending the elder child home, taught the young child in this manner: "Child, I am sending a letter to your mother to-morrow [as follows]; 'Your young son indeed knows nothing; the elder child is learning very thoroughly. Because of it, having come [for him], go back summoning him [to accompany you].' When I have sent the letter your mother will come to-morrow. Then, putting on bad clothes, you remain, smearing cow-dung and the like on your hands. The elder child I shall dress well, and send to stay [at home]," he said. Because the young child was unable to say anything at that time on account of the teacher's word, he said, "It is good." After it became night, taking the disguise of a bird and having gone that night to his mother's house, and taught her [as follows], he came back:--"Mother, to-morrow our teacher will send you a letter [to this effect]: 'Your elder child is learning well; the young child indeed cannot [learn] anything. Because of it, you having come call the elder child and go.' In that way he will send the letter. Elder brother was unable to learn anything, therefore I am learning in a thorough manner. On account of it, to-morrow, when you are coming, our teacher, with the thought to cause me to stay, having smeared cow-dung on my body and put on me bad clothes, will put good clothes on elder brother. Then teacher will say, 'Look here. This big child indeed is learning a little; the young child cannot [learn] anything. Having put aside the young child for me, even to look after the cattle, call the big child and go.' Then you say, 'No, Mr. Teacher, you, Sir, having made such efforts, I do not want the child whom you have taught. Should you give me the young child it will do.' Somehow having made efforts, asking for me come [home]." And the teacher on the following day having written in the above-said manner, sent a letter. At that time the woman arrived at the teacher's house. After that the teacher said, "Your big child is learning the arts and sciences better than I; the young child knows nothing. Because of it, having caused the young child to stay to attend to the grazing of the cattle for me, you go back, summoning the elder child [to accompany you]." At that time, the woman said, "Ane! Teacher, you, Sir, having made such efforts, be good enough to take for yourself the child who has embraced [the learning]. Should you give me the young child, it will do." Thereupon the teacher said, "No, you are a poor woman, are you not? Because of it, calling the elder child go." Then the woman having said it in the very [same] way as before, calling the younger child went away. At that time the teacher having become angry regarding the young child, said: "Son of the courtesan! It is a work of yours, indeed, this! Somehow or other, should I be able I will take you." The young child having gone to his mother's house, the child said to his mother, "Mother, there is no way for us to obtain a livelihood. Because of it, I will create myself a vegetable garden. You having uprooted the vegetables and tied them in bundles, place them [aside]. Men will come and ask for vegetables. Give the vegetables; do not give the cord that is tied round the vegetables," he said. Thereupon, having said, "It is good," she did so, not giving the cord. Having sold the vegetables, for a few days they obtained a livelihood. After that, the child said to his mother, "Mother, now then, there is no way for us to obtain a livelihood. Because of it, I will become a fighting-cock. Men having come and given the price you say and say, will take the cock. Don't you give the cord only, with which the cock has been tied. Should you give it the men will capture me." His mother said of it, "It is good." After that, having become the fighting-cock, while he was so, certain men having come asked for the fighting-cock. After that, saying a great price and having given the cock, taking the cord that had tied the cock, and the money, with the money for a little time they obtained a livelihood. After that the child said to his mother, "Mother, because we have nothing for food or drink I will become a horse. Our teacher will come to take me. You give only the horse; don't give the cord." After that having become the horse, while he is it the teacher who taught him came. Having come and having offered a price for the horse he gave the money. Having given it, when he was preparing to bring away the horse that woman said she could not give the cord. At that time the teacher said, "I cannot give you the cord. I gave the money for the cord with it"; and not having given the cord to the woman, holding the cord and having mounted on the back of the horse he made it bound along without stopping, as though killing it. Causing it to bound along in this manner, when he was near a piece of water the horse, being unable to run [further], taking the appearance of a frog sprang into the water. The teacher became angry at it, and having collected a multitude of men besides, taking a net tried to catch the frog. At that time the frog having become a golden finger-ring, and crept inside [a crevice in] a stone step at the place where the royal Princess bathes at that tank, remained [there]. Although that teacher with extreme quickness made efforts to find the frog he did not meet with it. After that, a royal Princess and a female slave having come to the pool, when they were bathing the ring having been at the angle of the stone the female slave met with it. Having met with it she showed it to the royal Princess. Thereupon the royal Princess, taking it, put it on her hand. Placing it on her hand, and having bathed and finished, she went to the palace. The Princess having been sleeping, eats the evening food at about twelve at night. That day, in the night, the female slave, having taken cooked rice and gone to the royal Princess, and having placed it on the table, and made ready betel and areka-nut for the betel box, and placed it [ready], went to sleep. After all went to sleep, that ring, having loosened itself from the hand of that Princess and having become a man, and eaten a share from the cooked rice that was for the Princess, and eaten also a mouthful of betel, and come near the bed on which the royal Princess is sleeping, expectorated [326] on the Princess's clothes, and having come to her finger, remained like a ring on her hand. The Princess having arisen to eat the cooked rice, when she looked [saliva stained red by] betel [and areka-nut] had been expectorated on her clothes. Having said, "Who is it?" and having gone, when she looked at the cooked rice at that time a half of the cooked rice had been eaten. After that, not eating the rice, and thinking, "By whom will this work be done?" she went to sleep. Regarding this she did not tell anyone else. On the following day, also, in that way she went to sleep. That day, also, that ring having gone in that manner and eaten the cooked rice, and eaten the betel, and expectorated on the clothes, and gone [back] to the finger, remained [there]. The Princess that day also having awoke, when she looked, that day also, having eaten half the cooked rice and betel, he had expectorated on the clothes. On the following day, with the thought, "Somehow or other I must catch this man who comes," having pricked the Princess's finger with a needle and put a lime fruit on it, except that she simply stays closing her eyes, by its paining she remained without going to sleep. That day, also, that ring, with the thought, "This Princess will have gone to sleep," having loosened itself from the finger, when he was becoming ready to eat the cooked rice the Princess having come and said, "Who are you?" seized him. Thereupon the youth having told her all the circumstances, while staying there became the ring. The magic-performing boy, as it appears to him by the various sciences, said to the Princess, "The teacher who taught me the sciences will come here to-morrow to perform magic. I shall become a good beautiful necklace on your neck. He having come, and having thoroughly performed magic for the King's mind to become pleased, will think of getting presents. Then the King will ask, 'What dost thou want?' At that time that person will say, 'We indeed do not want any other thing; should you give that Princess's necklace it will be enough.' Then the King will tell you to give it. Thereupon, you, as though you became angry, having unfastened it from the neck and crushed it in the hand, throw it away into the open space in front of the palace. When throwing it there one grain will burst open. Then that magician, taking the appearance of a cock, will pick up each grain [of corn out of that one] and eat it. Then you remain treading on one grain [of corn] with your foot. Having been treading on it, when [the cock], having eaten all, is coming to an end, raise the foot. Then I having become a jackal, catching the cock will eat it." To that speech the Princess said, "It is good." On the following day, in the above-mentioned manner that magician came. In that way doing magic, he asked for that necklace as a present. The Princess did just as that youth said. At that time a grain burst. Thereupon the magician, having become a cock, ate the grains [of corn which came out of it]. Then the Princess having come, remained treading on one with the foot. The cock having eaten the grains, when they were becoming finished the Princess raised the foot. At that time the grain seed that was under the foot having become a jackal, caught and ate that cock. After that, the King, ascertaining that the youth was cleverer than that magician, having married and given to him the King's Princess, gave him the sovereignty also. After that, causing to be brought there the youth's mother and his elder brother also who stayed near the teacher, he remained exercising the kingship in a good manner. Immigrant from Malayalam, Southern India. (Written in Sinhalese, and partly related in that language.) THE TEACHER AND THE BULL (Variant a) In a certain country there was a most skilful teacher. One day when this teacher went to walk in the village, having seen that there were two sons of a widow woman at one house, asking for these two children from the woman for the purpose of teaching them the sciences he went away [with them]. The teacher began to teach these two the sciences. But perceiving that the elder one could not learn the sciences he taught him the method of cooking, and the younger one the sciences. After he had taught these two the sciences it was [agreed] that the mother should select the person [of them] whom she liked. When their learning was near being finished, the younger one having gone home said, "You ask for me; elder brother knows how to cook, only." The mother having said, "It is good," after their learning was finished the teacher told the mother to take the person she liked. That day she brought away the younger one. The teacher, perceiving the trick that the younger one had done for him, was displeased. The widow woman was very poor. One day the boy said, "Mother, let us sell cattle"; and taking a [charmed] cord and having given it to his mother, he said, "Having fixed this cord to my neck, at that time I shall become a bull. At the time when you sell the bull do not give the cord to anyone." When the woman put the cord on her son's neck he became a most handsome bull. Having taken the bull to the city and sold it, she brought the cord home. At the time when the merchant [who had bought the bull] looked in the evening, the bull had broken loose and gone away. After having done thus many a time, the merchant related the circumstance to the teacher of that district. The teacher, knowing the matter, said, "Having brought the bull together with the cord, place it and tie it at the side of a jungle." That woman on the following day having taken the bull [for sale], he gave about double the price he was paying for the bull, and having brought the cord also, tied it at the side of a jungle, [and informed the teacher]. While it was [there], in the evening the teacher having approached it in a leopard-disguise killed the bull. Uva Province. THE BRAHMANA AND THE SCHOLAR (Variant b) At a certain city there was a famous Brahmana. He taught a certain youth the whole of his science. After the scholar learnt the science the Brahmana became angry [with him]. While the time is going on thus, the Brahmana thought of killing the scholar. The scholar also got to know about it. While they were at a certain place, these two persons having struck [each other] on the face, the Brahmana chased the scholar along the path. The scholar being unable to run [further], took the appearance of a bull, and ran off. The Brahmana, also, bringing a leopard's appearance, chased him. The scholar being unable to run thus, becoming a parrot began to fly. The Brahmana, also, becoming a hawk began to go chasing it. At last the parrot, being unable to fly, entered the palace of a certain King by the window. The Brahmana, also, bringing a youth's appearance became appointed for looking after the oxen of a house near by. In this royal palace there was a Princess. The parrot having been during the day time in the disguise of a parrot, in the night time took also the appearance of a Prince. In the night time, in the appearance of a Prince he went near the Princess. Having been thus, in the day time, at the time when the parrot is bathing daily a cock comes. The parrot having gone away immediately got hid. Having been thus, and being unable to escape, one day at night having uttered spells over and given [the Princess] three Mi [327] seeds, he said that at the time when the cock comes she is to break them in pieces. On the following day, at the time when [the parrot] was bathing, the Brahmana came in the disguise of a cock. Thereupon she broke up the three Mi seeds. Immediately a jackal having come, seizing the neck of the cock went off [with it]. After that, the Prince, marrying the royal Princess, in succession to the King exercised the sovereignty over the city. Uva Province. This story with its variants is the first tale of The Story of Madana Kama Raja (Natesa Sastri), p. 2. The two sons of a deposed King who became a beggar were educated by a Brahmana on the understanding that he should keep one of them. By the younger son's advice he was selected by the parents, his brother being too stupid to learn anything. He first became a hen which the King bought for a hundred pagodas; in the night she became a bandicoot, a large rat, and returned home. Then he became a horse which the Brahmana bought for a thousand pagodas, and rode and flogged till it was exhausted. At a pool the spirit of the Prince entered a dead fish, and the horse fell down lifeless; then to save himself he entered a dead buffalo which thereupon became alive, and lastly a dead parrot which when pursued by the Brahmana in the form of a kite took refuge in a Princess's lap, and was put in a cage. On two nights while she slept the Prince resumed his own shape, rubbed sandal on her, ate her sweetmeats, and returned to the cage; on the third night she saw him and heard his story. As predicted by him, the Brahmana came with rope-dancers, and as a reward for their performance demanded the bird. By the Prince's advice the Princess broke its neck when giving it, and his spirit entered her necklace. She broke it, casting the pearls into the court-yard, where they became worms. When the Brahmana while still in the swing took a second shape as a cock and began to pick up the worms, the Prince became a cat and seized it. By the King's intervention the enemies were reconciled, the Prince married the Princess, and afterwards recovered his father's kingdom. In Indian Nights' Entertainment (Swynnerton), p. 216, the first part is similar, the teacher being a fakir. The youth turned himself into a bull which was sold, without the head-stall, for a hundred rupees, disappeared, and became the youth again. When he next changed himself into a horse the fakir chased it; it became a dove and the fakir a hawk, then it turned into a fish and the fakir a crocodile. When near capture the fish became a mosquito and crept up the nostril of a hanging corpse; the fakir blocked the nostril with mud and induced a merchant to bring him the body. Then follow some of the Vikrama stories, and at last at the corpse's request the merchant removed the mud, and the youth escaped. The fakir then accepted the boy's challenge that he should be a goat and the fakir a tiger, and one should devour the other. The goat was tied outside the town at night, men who were stationed to shoot the tiger when it came, fired, and both animals were killed. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (collected by Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 134, a Queen bore two sons owing to magical aid given by a Jogi, who was to have one of them as a reward. The clever younger one whom he wanted ran off. The man first chased him as a leopard, then they were a pigeon and hawk, a fly and egret. The fly settled on the rice plate of a Queen; when the Jogi induced her to throw the rice on the ground the boy became a coral bead in her necklace. The man then got her to scatter the beads on the floor, and while as a pigeon he was picking them up, the boy took the form of a cat and killed it. In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 342, a man became an ox when a witch tied a string round his neck, and regained his shape when it was removed. On p. 340 the animal was an ape; when the string was taken off a spell was also necessary to restore the man's form. In vol. ii, pp. 157, 168, a man was similarly turned into a peacock, and resumed his shape when the thread was removed. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 2, the elder son of a Khan studied without result under seven magicians for seven years; the younger son acquired their mystic knowledge by peeping through a crack in the door. The elder one afterwards sold the younger to them in the form of a horse; as they were killing it he entered a fish, which as seven larger fishes they chased. Then he became a dove, which when seven hawks pursued it took refuge in Nagarjuna's bosom and told him its story. When the seven men asked for his rosary he put the large bead in his mouth as requested by the youth, and biting the string, let the others fall, on which they became worms that seven cocks began to pick up. On the large bead's falling it changed into a man who killed the cocks with a stick; they became human corpses. In the same work, p. 273, when the father of Vikramaditya went to fight a demon he left his body near an image of Buddha for safety. On his younger wife's burning it on a pyre, he appeared in a heavenly form and stated that as his body was destroyed he could not revisit the earth. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. i, p. 118) a Princess-magician summoned an Ifrit (Rakshasa) who had turned a Prince into an ape, and with a sword made from a hair of her head cut him in two as a lion. They then became a scorpion and python, a vulture and eagle, a black cat and wolf. The cat became a worm which crept into a pomegranate; when this broke up and the seeds fell on the floor, the wolf (Princess) became a white cock which ate all but one that sprang into the water of a fountain and became a fish, the cock as a larger fish pursuing it. At last they fought with fire in their true forms, and were reduced to ashes. In the same work, vol. iv, p. 492, a magician warned a Prince not to part with the bridle of a mule which was a metamorphosed Queen, but her old mother bought the animal and got the bridle with it. When she removed the bridle and sprinkled water on the mule it became the Queen again at her orders. In the Katha Sarit Sagara, vol. i, p. 420, the Asura Maya showed a King his former Asura body. The King magically re-entered the body, abandoning his own frame, and the dead Asura arose. He embalmed and kept his human body, saying that it might prove useful to him. Apparently this approaches the Egyptian belief in the return of the soul to its body after death. Mr. Tawney referred such ideas in China to Buddhist influence. In the same work, vol. ii, p. 353, a decrepit old hermit who had magical power left his own body, and entered that of a boy of sixteen years who was brought to be burnt, after which he threw his old abandoned body into a ravine, and resumed his ascetic duties as a youth. In Dr. De Groot's The Religious System of China, vol. iv, p. 134 ff, instances are quoted from Chinese writers, of bodies which had been reanimated by souls of others who died, and it is stated that "it is a commonplace thing in China, a matter of almost daily occurrence, that corpses are resuscitated by their own souls returning into them." In the Rev. Dr. Macgowan's Chinese Folk-lore Tales, p. 109, the spirit of a King who was murdered by being pushed into a well three years before, appeared to a monk, gave an account of the murder, and said, "My soul has not yet been loosed from my body, but is still confined within it in the well." The body was taken out, and revived when a few drops of the Elixir of Life were applied to the lips. (See also the first note on p. 376, vol. ii.) In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 71, a cord placed round the neck of a Prince by the daughter of a sorceress changed him into a ram; when it was accidentally removed he became a Prince again. In The Kathakoça (Tawney), p. 38, a Vidyadhara gave a Prince the power of entering another body. When he utilised it, it was given out that he was dead. His spirit returned to his own body by its own volition. SINHALESE TEXTS OF STORIES The texts of a few of the stories in the second and third volumes are appended at the suggestion of Professor Dr. Geiger of Erlangen, who has expressed the opinion that they will be of interest to philological students, retaining as they do some old grammatical forms and expressions which elsewhere have been abandoned. They are fair examples of the Sinhalese tongue which is found in the villages, and the dialogues in particular give the language exactly as it is spoken in them. I regret that the size to which the work has grown compels me to restrict the number of stories thus given in Sinhalese. In order that the texts should possess a representative character, stories by different narrators have been selected. The village orthography has been carefully adhered to except in instances where a consonant has been accidentally omitted, or has been duplicated in carrying forward part of a word to the next line. Where a missing letter has been thus inserted by me it is enclosed in square brackets. The stories were written in pencil, always in unbroken lines, without separation into words and sentences, and without punctuation except an occasional full-stop. For convenience of reference, however, I have marked the dialogues and sentences as in the translations. My acquaintance with Pali and Elu is too slight to enable me to make special observations on the grammatical forms met with in the stories generally. I therefore merely note a few peculiarities, most of which I think are not included in Mr. Gunasekara's Grammar. In the nouns and pronouns a genitive form in ae or lae is often employed in both the singular and plural numbers. Thus, among numerous other instances, in the singular we have:--Diribari-Lakalae gedara, the house of Diribari-Laka (i, 177, line 14); nænda­mamalae gedara giyaya, [they] went to the house of [his] mother-in-law and father-in-law (ii, 404, line 14); unnæhælae akkalae gedara sitinawa mama dækka misa, tamuselae dihata nam giye nae, except that I saw [he] is at the gentleman's elder sister's house, [he] did not go to your quarter, indeed (ii, 214, variant); mi pætikkilae gamata gihin, having gone to the f. mouseling's village (i, 310, line 2); rassayae gedara, the rakshasa's house (iii, 122, note); umbalae gamata, to your village; ummbalae gedara, your house; umbalae piya-rajjuruwo, your father the king; as well as the titles of Nos. 127 and 216. In the plural:--Mewwae ingan kiyapan, tell [us] the limits of these (ii, 241, line 5); umbalae piya-rajjuruwanda enda bae, umbalae piya-rajjuruwo, etc., your father the king cannot come, your father the king, etc. (i, 267, line 30); ayiyalae gaenu, the elder brothers' wives; mama danne nae ewae wagak, I don't know anything of those [matters]; umbalae mas, your flesh. (See also No. 207 below.) Hotae (vol. ii, 214, line 24) is perhaps a special plural form. I was informed that the word gara, a kind of demon, has two plurals, garayo and gærae; I do not remember other instances. As a termination, ae usually takes the place of a in such words as kawaddae, [328] kawdae, kiyatadae, kohedae, kohomadae, mokaddae, mokak weladae, mokatadae, monawadae; we have also such forms as, awæn passe, baendæn passe, damamuyæyi, giyæn pasu, issaræhæta, kapan­neyæyi, nikæ hitapan, palapannæyi, weyæyi, wunæyin pasu. There are numerous instances in which a noun or pronoun as the subject takes an instrumental position, always governed by wisin or wihin, by; this is a common feature in Hindustani and Gujarati also. In translating such sentences I have occasionally made use of the passive verb when it appeared to suit the context--(as in the last paragraph of No. 98)--in order to retain the preposition. I may here mention that the passive form with laba is practically never used by the villager; there are not half a dozen sentences in which it occurs in the stories. The following are a few examples of the subject in the instrumental position--or, rather, governed by wisin or wihin:-- Vol. i, 247, line 19: Rajjuruwo wihin wandura allanda niyama-keruwaya, (by) the king ordered [them] to seize the wandura. Vol. ii, 126, line 15: Itin weda wisin kiyanne, well then, (by) the veda says; line 31: Ewita raja wisin noyek tanantra di, thereupon (by) the king having given several great offices. Vol. ii, 137, line 3: Kumariyak genat dunna rajjuruwoyi dewinnanseyi wihin, a princess brought and gave (by) the king and queen. Vol. ii, 147, line 5: Mama wisin dæn maranawaya, (by) I shall now kill [you]. Vol. ii, 206, line 3: Purusaya wisin ... kiwaya, (by) the husband said. Vol. ii, 258, line 12: Raksayak wisin aragana giyaya, (by) a rakshasa took away. Vol. iii, 22, line 12: Ayet nariya wisin gona langata gihin, (by) the jackal having gone again near the bull. Other instances are: Anit badu horunda baena wisin dunna, the other goods (by) the son-in-law gave to the thieves. Raja wisin æhæwwa, (by) the king asked. Raja wisin asa, (by) the king having heard [it]. Some examples are noted in the stories also. In the Sinhalese Mahavansa, c. 37, v. 10, wisin is employed in the same manner; in the Swapna-malaya occurs the line, Satten kiwu e bawa pandi wisina, truly said regarding it (by) the pandit. As in Elu works, there is much irregularity in the indefinite forms of the terminations of feminine nouns, but very rarely in those of masculine nouns, and never in neuter nouns, although these last are irregular in Elu. Thus we have quite usually gaeniyak instead of gaeniyek, a woman, but always minihek, a man. Similar forms are:--diwidenak, a leopardess; duwak, a daughter; eludenak, a f. goat; girawak, a parrot; kaputiyak, a f. crow; kellak, a girl; kenak, a person; kumarikawak, kumarikawiyak, kumariyak, a princess; manamaliyak, a bride; miminniyak, a f. mouse-deer; mi-pætikkiyak, a f. mouseling; yaksaniyak, a yaksani. Similarly, in Mah. ii, 37, 159, we have dewiyaktomo; in Thup. (1901), p. 50, putakhu, p. 60, wandurakhu; in Amawatura (1887), i, p. 23, ajiwakayakhu, p. 31, dewduwak. With regard to the general use of the word atin,--which, in order to retain the expression, I have translated, "at the hand of," [329]--this has virtually the power of a postposition commonly meaning "to," "of" or "from," and more rarely "by." [330] The following are examples:--E miniha æhæwwa me gaeni atin, the man asked (of) this woman. E kumarayage kiri-appa atin kiwa, [he] told (to) the prince's grandfather. Sitanange gaeni atin kiwa, [he] told (to) the treasurer's wife. Welihinni me kolla atin æhæwwa, the f. bear asked (of) this youth. E minissu atin rilawat illuwa, (from) the men the monkey also begged. Ura atin æhæwwa ara hat dena, (of) the boar asked those seven. Gamarala ... ketta atin kiwa, the gamarala told (to) the girl. The same use of this expression is found in Elu:--Amawatura, i, p. 24, raja ... uyanpalla atin asa, the king having heard from the gardener; Thup., p. 40, bodhisattwayo atin tun siyak la, (by) the Bodhisattwa having put three hundred (masuran). One of the commonest forms of the conjunction "and" is ignored by the grammars. In these stories there are many hundreds of instances in which "and" is represented by the particle yi or uyi, suffixed to each conjoined word. When the word ends in a vowel, yi is suffixed; when it terminates in a consonant, uyi, the pronunciation of this being practically wi. Some examples have been given in the stories; a few others are:--gætayi gediyi maluyi, immature fruits and [ripe] fruits and flowers; hettiyage walatayi hettiyatayi, to the hettiya's slave and the hettiya; kolayi potuyi, leaves and bark; minihayi gaeniyi e bælliyi, the man and woman and the bitch; mol­gahayi wangediyayi kurahan-galayi bereyi, the rice pestle and rice mortar and millet stone (quern) and tom-tom; rilawayi pætiyayi ammayi, the monkey and youngster and [his] mother; talayi aluyi, sesame and ashes; udetayi haendaewatayi, in the morning and evening; yanawayi enawayi [they] are going and coming; duwekuyi putekuyi, a daughter and a son; girawekuyi, ballekuyi, balalekuyi, a parrot and a dog and a cat; akkayi mayi, elder sister and I; umbayi mamayi, you and I,--(but tit [331] mat, thou and I). As in ordinary Sinhalese, many words that are well known as pairs are commonly written without conjunctions, as amma-appa, mother and father, (also, ammayi appayi or ammayi abuccayi); akko-nago, elder sisters and younger sisters; ayiyo-malayo, elder brothers and younger brothers; aet-maet, far and near; rae-dawal, night and day; hawaha-ude, evening and morning; at-kakul, hands and feet; gan­kumburu, villages and rice fields; ganu-denu, taking and giving; bat­malu, boiled rice and curry, (but also batuyi maluyi). Usually when a particle, especially yi, is suffixed to a noun or pronoun ending in a long vowel, this is shortened, in accordance with the common village pronunciation, as in several of the examples given above. Thus miniha, with yi or ta, becomes minihayi, minihata; amma and ayiya, with yi or la, become ammayi, ammala, ayiyayi, ayiyala; mal-amma, with ta, is mal-ammata; girawa, nariya, and hawa, with yi, become girawayi, nariyayi, and hawayi; dewinnanse, with yi or ta, becomes dewinnanseyi, dewinnanseta. There are a few instances of a form of verbal noun derived from a participial adjective, which is not mentioned by Mr. Gunasekara. In vol. iii, 146, line 5, we have dipuwa, evidently equal to dipu ewwa, the things [she] gave. In vol. i, 274, line 14, there is also, me nuwara hitapuwo okkama yaka kaewa, [a] yaka ate all those who stayed at this city. In vol. iii, 79, line 20, the same noun occurs in the form hitapuwanda, those who were [there]. At p. 370, line 6, we have pala tanbapuwa wagayak kanta dila, having given [him] a sort of vegetable stew to eat. See also uyapuwæn p. 428, line 12. From another form of the participial adjective we have in vol. iii, 66, line 38, redda allagattuwo, those who took hold of the cloth. In the same vol., p. 228, line 1, there is, mæricci minissu malawungen nækita ena ratakut ædda, dead men having arisen from the dead will there be a country, also, to which they come? On p. 315, line 11, there is, ita wisalawu dutu dutuwange sit pina-wana ... salawak, a very spacious hall, which causes the minds of the spectators who saw it to rejoice. In the Swapna-malaya the same expression occurs:--dutuwanhata anituyi me sinat, for the beholders this dream, too, is inauspicious. There are several examples of a peculiar form of subjunctive, one of which has been given in vol. ii, 323, note 1. Some others are:--apage piya-rajjuruwo awotin umba kayi, should our father-king come [he] will eat you; e beheta e kumari atin dæmmotin, should the princess apply the medicine with [her] hand; kiri tikak biwotin misa, unless [I] should drink a little milk; yan wædak kiwuwotin, should [he] tell [you] any work. In the work Swapna-malaya there are other similar expressions, such as, pibidunotin, pibidunahotin, dutotin, dutuwotina; the second of these exhibits the uncontracted form. A short form of participle is often employed, with either a present or a past signification. As a present participle:--balla burana enawa, the dog comes growling; budiyana innakota, when [they] are sleeping; eka balana hitiya, [he] remained looking at it; kumaraya budiyana indala, the prince having been sleeping. With a past participial meaning:--atu mitiyak kadana issarahæta pænna, breaking a bundle of branches [he] sprang in front; ewwa kadana æwit, having come [after] plucking them; kændana æwidin, having come [after] calling [her]; okke isa tiyana budiya-gatta, placing [his] head on [her] waist-pocket, [he] slept; wastuwa hoyana enda, to come [after] seeking wealth. There is often omission to mark the long vowels, many of which, however, are shortened in the pronunciation of the Kandian villagers. As regards spelling, I have noted the following variations of the word gos, having gone:--gosin, gosin, gohin, gihin, gihun, gihun, guhin, gusin, gehun, gehun, ginun. I also here mention the marked avoidance of the use of the personal and possessive pronouns of the third person, and of the guttural n, the palatal ñ, and the cerebral n, as well as the employment of the binduwa in the story No. 207, "The Turtle Prince," for all forms of mute n when followed by any consonant. Its use in this manner in this story, as well as in others sometimes, may indicate the origin of the curled form of the attached semi-consonantal n of all classes, which originally appears to have been a degraded form of the binduwa written hurriedly and united by an upstroke to the next letter. The abandonment of the first two forms of n is, I venture to think, an advantage in every way, since the class of these letters, and especially of the first one, would rarely be mistaken in Sinhalese, whatever form be used, and every step towards simplification of the alphabet under such conditions is an improvement. On the other hand, the class of t or t, d or d, is never mistaken by these villagers, except in the word katantaraya (which is sometimes written katantaraya) and in another word or two; but la usually takes the place of la, and sa of s'a. In his Sumero-Accadian Grammar, Mr. Bertin has classified the grammatical elements of a sentence under seven headings:--s, the subject; o, the object; i, the indirect object; r, the reason for the action; c, the complement, or manner of the action; d, the determinative of time (dt), place (dp), or state (ds); and v, the verb, with or without pronouns and particles; together with q, any qualificative which explains or specifies these elements, as the words, 'of honour,' in the expression, 'sword of honour.' With this classification, the ordinary formula of the arrangement of a complete sentence in Sinhalese is, dt--dp--s--r--ds--i--o--c--v. In the stories, however, the order of the components is most irregular, and very rarely quite accords with this, although most of the sentences partly adhere to this sequence. I have not met with all the elements in one sentence, partly because of the constant omission of the pronouns. The accompanying few examples show the want of uniformity in the arrangement; their order follows the position in which s occurs: s--dt--ds--v--c. Ibba hat-awuruddak weli weli hitiya diya nætuwa, the turtle a seven-year having dried and dried up, stayed water without. dt--qs--qi--r--o--v. Ewita e nuwara rajjuruwo wena nuwara­walwala rajunda kæmata enda liyun æriyaya, at that time the city king to other cities' kings for the eating to come, letters sent. dt--s--ds--o--v--i. Ewita berawaya issara wagema salli illuwaya gamaralagen, at that time the tom-tom beater, in the former very manner, money asked-for from the gamarala. dt--r--qs--o--v. Me dawaswaladima, maha rajagen yuddayakata udaw illa, wena raja kenek liyun ewweya, during these very days, from the great king for a war assistance having asked, another king letters sent. r--dt--s--v. E kumarikawata dæn bohoma dawasaka hita pissu­rogayak saedila, for the princess, now many a day since, an insanity having been developed. dt--c--i--s--v--o. Etakota hinen gaenita dewatawa kiwa, "Tota, etc.," then, by dream, to the woman the dewatawa said, "For thee, etc." dt--qo--i--v--qs. Itapasse rajjen palatakuyi ætek-barata wastuwayi dewinnanseta dunna kumarayage piya-rajjuruwo, after that, from the kingdom a district and to a tusk-elephant-load wealth, to the queen gave the prince's father-king. i--o--v--s. E kumarayanta kaema uyala-denne mal-amma kenek, to the princes food having-cooked-gives a flower-mother. i--ds--o--v--s. E kumarayata, masuran haddahak dila, kumariyak genat-dunna rajjuruwoyi dewinnanseyi wihin, to the prince, masuran seven thousand having given, a princess having-brought-gave the king and queen (by). The following transliteration has been adopted in these texts, being the same as in the translations of the stories, with the exceptions æ, ae, and sa. Initials: a, a, i, i, u, u, e, e, o, o, au, æ, ae. Gutturals: ka, kha, ga, gha, na. Palatals: ca, cha, ja, jha, ña. Cerebrals: ta, tha, da, dha, na. Dentals: ta, tha, da, dha, na. Labials: pa, pha, ba, bha, ma. Semi-vowels: ya, ra, la, wa, la, n. Sibilants, etc.: sa, sa, sa, ha. Semi-consonants thus: ng, nd, nd, mb. NO. 81 CONCERNING A ROYAL PRINCE AND A PRINCESS RAJA-KUMARAYAKUT KUMARIKAWAK GÆNA Ekomat eka nuwaraka raja kenekuyi waduwekuyi henayakuyi hitiyaya. Me tun denage pirimi daruwo tun denek sitiyaya. Me lamayi tun dena yodunak ipita nohot hatara gawuwakin ipita guru­warayek la[n]gata akuru iganaganda hæriyaya. Me tun dena eka aewara nuwarin pitat-wela akurata giyama ara raja-kumarayat hena­kollat denna guhin akuru kiyala enakota waduwage puta tawama maga yanawa. Ara denna bohoma kadisarakamin yanawa. E nisa waduwage puta ohuge piya atin kiwuwa "Api tun dena eka aewara nuwarin pitat-wela giyama ara denna issara-wela guhin akuru kiyalat enawa. Ekama dawasakwat eka aewara guhin akuru kiyala enda bæri-unaya." Næwata waduwage putata da[n]du monara yantreyak tanala dila eya eka pædagana guhin akuru kiyala enakota ara denna tawama yanawa akurata. Eka dawasak raja-kumaraya waduge putata kiwuwa "Ane yaluwe matat denawada da[n]du monara yantre pædala balanda" kiyala æhæwuwaya. Ewita waduwage puta "Hondayi" kiyala lanu da[n]ge pagana hæti kiyala dunnaya. Kumaraya lanu da[n]ge allanakotama da[n]du monara yantre guhin ahase walakulwala ræ[n]dunaya. Ewita e nuwara rajjuruwot senawat baya-wela hit[iy]a. Næwata e nuwara saestra-karayot ganitak-karayot ekatu-karala æhæwuwa "Me kumaraya kawadata da[n]du monara yantre ænna pat-weyida." Ewita saestra-karayo kiwuwa "Tun awurudu tun masayak giya tæna æwit mude wætenawaya." Ewita rajjuruwo æmættayinda kiwuwa "E awurudu ganan dawas ganan ayiru-karagana indala muda wata­kara dæl damana i[n]dala kumaraya wætena wahama goda-ganda onaeya" kiyala niyama-keruwaya. Næwata kumaraya da[n]du monara yantre lanu allana welawata pat-bahinda patan-gattaya. Wenin nuwaraka sohon bumiyaka nuga uksayak pitata da[n]du monara yantre pat-unaya. Ewita kumaraya da[n]du monara yantre gaha uda tiyala gahen bæhæla e nuwarata guhin æwidinda patan-gattaya. E nuwara rajju[ru]wanne kumarikawat tawat kumari­kawo samaga wilaka nana welawata me kumarayat æwidagana yana welawata kumarikawa dutuwaya. Dækapu wahama kumarikawa hituwa "Kumaraya kara-kara bæ[n]da-gannawa nam ho[n]dayi" kiyala. Kumarayat hituwa "Me kumari mata kara-kara bæ[n]da-gannawa nam ho[n]dayi" kiyala. Denna dennata hita-gatta misa kata-karaganda maruwak næti nisa kumari e wile manel malak kadagana eka ise tiyala ibala hita næwata podi-karala pagala dæmmaya. Kumari mehema keruwe kumaraya sarana-pawa gatta­hama eyata yatahat-wela kikaru-wela, inna bawa dænendayi. Kumarayata eka terila hitata gattaya. Næwata kumaraya e nuwara æwidagana yana welawata kumari inna maligawa sambu-unaya. Kumaraya tika welawak etana inna welawata kumarikawa udu-mahan-talawe janeleyak ærala widiya diha bala inna welawata me kumaraya inna bawa dækala kata-keruwaya. Ewita kumarayata kiwuwa "Oba ræ unayin passe mama me janele ærala tiyanawa. Oba waren." Næwata kumaraya maligawe serama nida-gattata passe æwit balapuwama janele ærala tibunaya. Kumarita kata-karala maligawata ætul-unaya. Næwata denna kata-baha-karala kumaraya eli-wenda palamuwen maligawen pita-wela guhin ræ wena kal i[n]dala ayet enawaya. Ewita kumari kumaraya maligawema tiyaganna pinisa e nuwara acari minihekuta rahase enda kiyala masuran dahasakut dila miniha ho[n]data diwurawala kumari kiwuwa "Loku pan-kandak tanala eka ætule minihekuta inda tanala ekata yaturu iskuppu karakawala wikunanda genena hætiyata raja-wasalata ænna waren genahama mama rajjuruwanda kiyala mama gañan." Ewita gurunnæha guhin kumari kiyapu hætiyata pan-kanda tanala rajjuruwo la[n]gata genawaya. Næwata kumari æwit "Meka mata onae" kiyala ænna guhin maligawe tiya-gattaya. Gurunnæhæta rajjuruwo masuran pan siyayak dunnaya. Næwata ara kumaraya pan-kanda atulata damala hitiyaya. Nobo dawasak yanakota kumari bada-gærbba unaya. Kumari badin inna bawa rajjuruwanda dænila maligawa wateta mura tiyala a[n]da bera prasidda kala me hora allanda rajjuruwot mura-karayot puluwan ussaha-keruwa hora allanda numut bæri-unaya. Eka kanawændum gaeniyak kiwuwa "Mata allanda puluwani hora allanda mata hawaha udæhana kumari inna maligawata yanda denawa nam." Ewita rajjuruwo e gaenita tisse de wele yanda ida dunnaya. Kipa dawasak yana welawata ara pan-kanda ætule minihek inna bawa me gænita dænila dawasak hin wæli pottaniyakut æragana guhin kumari ekka kata-kara kara hitapu gaman wæli pottaniya pan-kanda wateta damala tuni-karala awaya. Kumarita meka soya-ganda bæri-una. Ara gæni pahuwa da udema guhin bæluwama kumarayage adi tibunaya ara wælle. Dutu wahama gæni guhin rajjuruwo ekka kiwuwa "Mama hora ælluwa. Yan balanda." Mæhælli guhin "Onna oya pan-kanda ætule tamayi hora inne" kiyala rajjuruwanda pennuwaya. Ewita rajju[ru]wo pan-kanda kadala bæluwama hora hitiyaya. Næwata rajjuruwo niyama-keruwa horata wada-karala ænna guhin kapala damanda kiyala wada-karuwanda kiwaya. Ewita wada-karuwo kumaraya bæ[n]da­gana wada-bera gahagana ara sohon bumiyata anna giyaya. Ewita kumaraya kiwuwa wada-karuwanda "Yam kenek maranawa nam eyata hitu de kanda bonda dila neweda maranne. E nisa mama me nuga gahata guhin nuga gedi dekak kala enakal obala me gaha wateta ræggana hitapalla. Mata wena pænala yanda tænak næta." Ewita wada-karuwo "Ho[n]dayi" kiyala kumaraya gahata goda-wela ara da[n]du monara yantreta goda-wela ahasata pæddaya. Wada-karuwo balana hitiyakota kumaraya igilila giyaya. Næwata wada-karuwo rajjuruwannen soli wæteyi kiyala katussek allala kapala kaduwe le gagana guhin rajjuruwanda pennuwa hora kapala dæmmaya kiyala. Eda hita kumari soken kanne bonne nætuwa hitiyaya. Kipa dawasakata passe kumaraya da[n]du monara yantre pædagana æwit kumari inna maligawa uda hitawala ulu ahak-karala kumarayage ate tibunu peræs-munda kumari inna tænata ætæriyaya. Kumarayage saluwakut ataeriyaya. Ewita kumari kumaraya bawa dænagana redi ihalata wisu-keruwaya. At-wæla bæ[n]dagana bahinda ewita kumaraya bæhæla kumarita kiwuwa "Mama maranda sohon bumiyata ænna giya. Mama wada-karuwo rawatawala gahata goda-wela mage da[n]du monara yantre gaha uda tibuna mama ekata goda-wela pædagana giyaya." Næwata kumarit kumarayat dennama giyaya. Yana welawata kumarita dasa masa sampurna-wela hitiyaya. Yana welawata bade ruda allanda patan-gattaya. Næwata da[n]du monara yantre maha himalekata pat-karala winadiyata atu-geyak tanala kumari wædu­waya. Ewita kumaraya kiwuwa "Mama mehe guhin gindara tikak aragana ena kal hitapan" kiyala kumarita kiyagana da[n]du monara yantre pædagana kumaraya giyaya. Guhin pol-lellakata gindara aragana pædagana muda mædin ena welawata pol-lella dala da[n]du monara yantreta gindara allala daewaya. Næwata kumaraya æwit mude wætunaya. Ara palamu kiyapu awurudu gananat edata kammutu-wela tibunaya. Mude dæl damana hitapu aya kumaraya wætunu wahama goda-gattaya. E kumaraya e nuwara uyan-wattak wawagana etana hitiyaya. Ara himale wadapu kumarita kisi sawu-saranak nætuwa inna atara e himale tapas rakina tapasa kenekuta me duka penila kumari inna tænata æwit kata-keruwaya. Ewita kumari tapasayo dutuwata passe hite tibunu karadare tikak arila tapasa-inda kiwuwa "Mama me wanantare æwidala palawæla tikak soyagana ena turu me lamaya bala-ganna­wada" kiyala æhæwuwa. Næwata tapasayo kiwuwa "Mama lamaya ælluwot mata kilutayi. E nisa oba mæssak tanala eka wælakin ellala mæsse wælak bæ[n]dala lamaya mæsse budi-karawala hita palayan. Lamaya a[n]dana welawata mama æwit wæla gawin allala hollanñan ewita lamaya nawatinawa æta." Tapasayo kiyapu hætiyata karala kumari palawæla soyagana kaewaya. Eka dawasak kumari lamayata kiri powala mæsse budi-karawala palawæla soyanda giyaya. Næwata ara lamaya mæssen peralila bimata wætila a[n]dana welawata tapasa-inda æhila æwit bæluwama lamaya peralila bima wætila hitiyaya. Ewita tapasa-inda lamaya allanda kiluta nisa malak kadala malata sattak kriya-karala "Me lamaya wagema lamayek mæwiyan" kiyala hituwaya. Næwata e wagema lamayek mæwunaya. Kumari æwit balapuwama lamayi dennek innawa dækala kumari tapasa-ingen æhæwuwa "Mokada ada lamayi dennek." Næwata tapasayo kiwuwa "Mama enakota lamaya wætila a[n]da a[n]da hitiya. Mata lamaya allanda kiluta nisa mama e wagema lamayek mæwuwaya." Næwata kumari kiwuwa "Mata oya wacane wiswasa-karanda bæriya. Ehe nan ayet lamayek mawanda onae mata balanda." Ewita tapasayo kiwuwa "Obata eka lamaya tanaganda tiyena amaruwe hætiyata tun denek unama kopamana amaruwakda." "Kamak næta. Mawala dendeyi. Mata tanaganda puluwani." Ewita tapasayo malak kadala sattak kriya-karala mæssa uda tiyapuwama e wagema lamayek mæwunaya. Næwata kumari santosa-wela lamayi tænuwaya. Næwata lamayi tænila e lamayi wihin wanantare æwidala palawæla soyagana æwit mawuta dila kanda patan-gattaya. Eka dawasak me tun dena æwidagana yana welawata loku gangawak sambu-unaya. Balapuwama ga[n]gen egoda loku uyan-wattak penenawaya. Ewita me tun dena "Pinanda pulu wanda" kiyala hu[n]gak durata pinala apahu æwidin "Heta udema emu" kiyagana tika tika palawæla soyagana guhin mawuta dila pahuwa da udema dunu italut æragana tun denama ga[n]ga gawata giyaya. Guhin tun denama pinagana uyan-wattata guhi[n] bæluwama noyek palawæla jati tibunaya. Næwata me tun dena kadala kana welawata e uyana rakina uyan-gowuwo dækala duwagana æwit allanda tænuwaya. Ewita me tu[n de]na dunu æraga[na] widinda tænuwaya. Næwata uyan-gowuwo pænala duwagana guhin rajjuruwo atin kiwuwaya. Me tun dena puluwan tarama kala hu[n]gak kadagana ekan-wela giyaya. Ewita rajjuru[wo] uyan-gowuwanda kiwuwa "Hetat me horu awot wahama mata dannawapallaya." Pahuwa dat ara tun dena æwit kadana welawata uyan-gowuwo guhin kiwuwa. Ewita rajjuruwo dunu italut aragana æwit widdaya. Widapuwama itale guhin ara kumarayo la[n]ga apahu bala wætunaya. Næwata e gollat rajjuruwanda widdaya. Et e hætiyatama itale guhin rajjuruwo la[n]ga apahu bala wætunaya. Næwata de-gollama lan-wela hita kata-keruwaya "Meka loku pudumayak une. De-gollagen katawat wædune næti kariya loku pudumayak. E nisa de-gollama yan panditayo la[n]gata meka toranda." Ewita de-gollama guhin panditayinda kiwuwa me unu kariya. Ewita panditayo torala kiwuwa rajjuruwanda "Tamunnanse dænata tun hatara awurudda­kata ihatadi kumarikawak kændana hitiya. E kumarige tamayi me tun dena tamunnanseta jataka daruwo. E nisa dewiyo wihin meka pennala inne. Kumarikawa inna tænakin guhin kændana endeyi" kiyala panditayo rajjuruwan[da] kiwaya. Næwata rajjuruwanda matakwela winadiyata næwak sarasagana panca-suriya (sic) naden ara kumari inna wanantareta guhin kumari a[n]da-gahagana æwit kumarit kumarayo tun denat rajjuruwot e uyane hitiyaya kiyala tibenawaya. Cultivator, North-Central Province. NO. 126 THE STORY OF THE SEVEN WICKED WOMEN NAPURU GAENU HADDENAGE KATANTARAYA Ekomat eka rataka akko nago haddenek at-wæl bændagana yanakota gaeniyak linda gawa indala æhæwwa "Kohedae tamala yanne" kiyala. Etakota e akko nago haddena kiwa "Api ayiyo malayo haddenek hoya-ganda yanawa" kiyala. Etakota me gaeni kiwa "Mage innawa ayyo malayo haddenek. Yamalla ehe nan ape gedara" kiyala e haddena kændana gihin gewal hatakata ærala wi petti hatak bala dunna. E haddena e wi tambala me gaenita "Naene mewwa bala-ganin" kiyala wi wanala e haddena dara pare giya. E gihin kata-wuna "Naena maranda api upaharana karamu" kiyala. Rilawek hitiya e rilawa alla-gana gedara genawa. Me nagata budi gihin maha warusawak wæhæla wi okkama agare giya. Ara haddena æwidin bælukota wi okkama agare gihin. Ita passe e haddena aye wi bala e wi kækulen kotanakota ara nagata æhæruna. E æhærila ara haddena atin æhæwwa "Naene bat tiyeyi" kiyala. Etakota e gaenu kiwa "Bat tiyenne api ateyæyi hæliye newe tiyenne" kiyala. E gaenu kalimma kotaleta kæbilicca katu kudu-karala damala tiyayi wi kotanne. Passe ara naena gihin bat kala "Naene watura dilala" kiyala me gaenu kiwa "Api ateyæyi tiyenne geyi kotale tiyanawa anna bipan" kiyala. Passe e naena kotale anna diya bonakota kæbilicca katu ugure rænduna. Me haddena kata-wuna "Okige ayiyala awot nan maranda bæri-weyi. Enda issara maramu" kiyala e kata-wela naenayi ara rilawayi mallakata damala bændala yata-liye elluwa. E ellala e haddena wi kotamin hita haddena hat parak gahanawa mol-gaswalin e mallata. E gahana gane ara rila pæna pæna ara malle inna gaeni suranawa. E surala passe mallen le bahinawa. Etakota e haddena "Itin inda narakayi mundala damamu" kiyala malla mundala e naena pilikannata dæmma. Etakota e naenage ayiyala gedara awa. E æwidin wædimal ayiya æhæwwa "Koyi ape naga" kiyala. Etakota me gaenu haddena kiwa "Api danne nae. Rodi passe gihin kula wætila on pilikanna diha anda anda innawa" kiyala. Passe wædimal ayiya gihin "Mokadae nage umbata wune" kiyala æhæwwa naga atin. Nagata kata-karanda bae kæbilicca katuwak ugure ræ[n]dila tiyana nisa. E ayiyala haddenama gihin kata-keruwa. Kata-keruwe næti nisa wædimal ayiya kiwa "Me naga kapanda katadae pustuhan" kiyala. Anit ayiyala pas denama bae kiwa bala ayiya kiwa "Mata nan pustuwani" kiyala. E kiyala bat gediyak uyawagana nagat kændana kaduwat aragana bat gediyat aragana himalekata giya. E gihin nagata kiwa "Nage umbe oluwe ukunan balanda budiya-ganin ko" kiyala. Passe naga budiya-gatta itin ayiya ukunan bindinda patan-gatta. Etakota nagata budi-giya. Passe e ayiya nagage oluwa himimma bima tiyala emin para gærendiyek kapala kaduwe le gagana gedara inna ættanda kaduwa pennuwa. Passe ara naga æhærila bælukota ayiya nae wanantare. Itin anda anda bat gediyat anna parakata pænala yanda patan-gatta. E gihin raksaya kana nuwara kiyala nuwarak tiyanawa e nuwara dan-sælak tiyanawa etenda gihin eli-bæssa. Etanin ara bat gediya kala dan dena ættanda ek-wela dan denda patan-gatta. Me ayiyala haddenageyi gaenu haddenageyi okkagema æs kana-wuna. Ita passe e ættandat aranci-wuna raksaya kana nuwara dan-sælak tiyanawa kiyala. Ita passe ewun daha-hatara denama e dan-sæla gawata giya. Ara naena digekut gihin darawekut wadalat innawa. Me gollata kaema dila ara naenayi naenage lamayayi budi-yenda tana­kota e lamaya kiwa naenata "Amme mata ahanda kata-wastuwak kiyapan" kiyala. Etakota e naena "Pute mama monawadae danne mata wecci ewwa nan kiyaññan" kiyala. Etakota puta kiwa "Hondayi kiyapan" kiyala. Passe me naenata wecca karana serama kiwa. E kiyana ewwa ara ayiyala haddenata æhila "Ane ape naga ada ape warune kiyanne" kiyala sadu-kara dipu parama ayiyala haddenagema æs paeduna. Gaenu haddenage æs paedune nae. E ayiyala haddenat naga inna nuwarama hitiya. Gaenu haddena badi-ginnema indala un maerila giya. Nimi. Cultivator, Hiriyala Hat Pattu District, North-Western Province. NO. 134 THE STORY OF THE RAKSHASA AND THE PRINCESS RAKSAYAGEYI KUMARIKAWAGEYI KATANTARAYA Ekomat eka rataka rajjuruwo kenekuyi dewinnanse kenekuyi innawa lu. E dewinnanse kumarikawak wæduwa. E ratema raksayekuyi raksiyekuyi innawa. E raksit raksayek waeduwa. Ara kumarikawage handahane tibuna raksayekuta kasata bandinawa kiyala ara raksayage handahane tibuna kumarikawak kasata bandinawa kiyala. E dennama hungak loku-wunata passe rajjuruwoyi dewinnanseyi mæruna ara kumarikawa witarayi maligawe inne. Raksayata hitapu deyak mawanda puluwani. E raksaya hituwa "Maligawayi maligawe tiyana raja wastuwayi serama næti-wenda" kiyala e hætiyatama næti-wuna. Kumarikawata inda tænak nætuwa anda anda innakota raksaya etenda æwit kumarikawa atin æhuwa "Mokada andanne" kiyala. Etakota kumarikawa kiwa "Mama andanne mata inda tænak nae kanda deyak nae e nisa" kiyala. Ita passe raksaya kiwa "Mama kae-ændima deññan. Ape gedara enda puluwanda" kiyala. Etakota kumarikawa kiwa "Puluwani" kiyala. Ita passe raksayayi kumarikawayi raksayage gedara awa. Etakota raksaya atin æhæwwa raksayage amma "Kawdae pute oye" kiyala. Etakota kiwa "Amme ahawal rajjuruwanne kumarikawa mama kændana awa umbata lehuwak karawa-ganda" kiyala. Ita passe raksi "Ha hondayi" kiyala kumarikawa raksinge wæda-kariyak wage serama wæda kumarikawa lawwa karawagana innakota raksita hit-una "Kumarikawa kanawa nam" kiyala. E hitila dawasakda raksi mini kanda yanda tanakota kumarikawa ati[n] kiwa "Mama enakota diya kalagedi hatak genat tiyala dara miti hatak genat tiyala wi hæli hatak tambala kotala gewal hate goma gala uyala mata nanda watura unu-karala tiyapiya næt nam to kanawa" kiyala raksi mini kanda giya. Ita passe kumarikawa anda anda sitiya. Etakota raksaya æhuwa "Mokada to andanne" kiyala. Kumarikawa kiwa "Amma mata meccara wæda kiyagana giya. Ewwa mama kohomada karanne" kiya. Etakota raksaya kiwa "To ekata hæka-wenda epa. Amma æwadin ahapuwama e wæda okkama keruwa kiyapiya" kiyala. Ita passe kumarikawa raksaya kiyapu hætiyatama karabana indala raksi atin e wæda keruwa kiyala. Raksi e wæda harida kiyala balapuwama serama hari. Itin kumarikawa kanda hætiyak nae raksita. Ita passe raksige nangata wacanaya æriya "Maligawe kellak innawa e kella mata kanda hætiyak nae koyi wædak kiwwawat e wæde hariya­tama karala tiyanawa. Itin kohomada kanne. Mama me kella umba langata ewaññan etakota umba kapan" kiyala. E raksi kumarikawa atin kiwa "Ape nangalae gedara gihin ehe mage pettiyak tiyanawa. Eka genawe næt nam to kanawa" kiyala. Ita passe kumarikawa kadulla langata æwit anda anda innakota raksaya etenda æwidin æhæwwa "Mokadae to andanne" kiyala. Etakota kumarikawa kiwa "Amma mata kiwa pinci ammalae gedara pettiyak tiyanawa. Gene[n]da kiyala næt nam kanawa kiyala pettiya pare giyama pinci amma mama kanawa æti. Ada nam mata berenda bae" kiyala. Ita passe raksaya "Pinci amma lipata pimba pimba innawa pettiya dora langa tiyanawa. To duwagana gihin pettiya aragana wara" kiyala. Passe duwagana gihin kumari baelu wita e raksi lipata pimba pimba innawa pettiya dora langa tibuna. Kumarikawa geta gihin pettiyat aragana duwagana awa. Raksit passen panna-gatta kanda bæri-wuna. Ara raksita etaninut kanda hætiyak nae. Ohoma ohoma hungak kalak innakota raksayata mangulak æhæwwa. E ahala raksit mangule yanda dodu-wela kumarikawa atin kiwa "Api manamali kændana enakota gedara hondata hari-gassala mesa putu hadala mangul-karayinda tæmma uyala tiyapiya" kiyagana raksi mangule giya. Raksaya pahu-wela indala kumarikawa atin kiwa "To karabana indala amma kiyapu wæda okkama keruwa kiyapiya" kiyala raksayat mangule giya. Passe kumarikawa karabana indala manamali kændagana mangul-karayo awata passe raksi kumarikawa atin æhæwwa "Mama kiyapu wæda okkama keruwada keruwada" kiyala. Ita passe kumarikawa "Ow" kiwa. Raksi bælukota e wæda serama hari etaninut kanda hætiyak nae. Passe e manamalita igænnuwa "Pute on oye kella umbata puluwan nan kapan mama puluwan hætiye kanda tænuwa" kiyala. Ita passe e kella puluwan kanda tænuwa kumarikawa kanda bæri-wuna. Ohoma ohoma hungak kal innakota raksayayi kumarikawayi hængila giya. E gihin kumarikawage raja maligawa tibuna hætiyatama mawala e denna maligawe hitiya. Nimi. Cultivator, Hiriyala Hat-Pattu District, North-Western Province. NO. 207 THE TURTLE PRINCE IBI KUMARAYA Ekomat eka nuwaraka hitanan dennek gedarawal dekaka hitinawa. E innakota e hitanan dennata dewinnansela dennakut hitinawa. E inna atara eka dewinnanse kenek gaenu daruwo hat denek wæduwa anik dewinnanse pirimi daruwo haya denakut ibbakut wæduwa. Etakota ema hitano denna kata-kala "Massine obe daruwoyi mage daruwoyi pitata kasata no-bæ[n]da api apima denu ganu karagamu" kiwa. "Ehenan waedimal daruwo denna kasata ba[n]dimu" kiya kasata bænda. Deweni daruwo dennat kasata bænda. Tunweni daruwo dennat kasata bænda. Hatara-weni daruwo dennat kasata bænda. Pasweni daruwo dennat kasata bænda. Haweni daruwo dennat kasata bænda. Hatweni daruwo denna kasata ba[n]dinta hætiyak næta. E næti kariya nan "Massine mage duwa bohoma alankara æti duwa. Ema nisa obe bala daruwa nan ho[n]da næta" kiwa. "E ho[n]da næti kariya nan mokadae kiwot obe daruwa ibba ema nisa bae" kiwa. Etakota anik massina kiyanawa "Massine ehema kiyala bæ. Mage bala daruwa wana ibba kiyanawa 'Mama appucciye mata e magula næt nan mama li[n]data payinawa noyekut perali-karanawa' kiyala ibba kiyanawa. Ema nisa obe daruwama kasata ba[n]dinda onae" kiyanawa. "Ehema bæri nan daru kipa dena­gema kasata katu-gamu" kiyanawa ibbage appa. Etakota kiyanawa "Ehe nan massine kasata katu-gaemen kamak nae mage duwa ibbata denawa" kiwa. E dila kasata bænda. E kasata bæ[n]dala innakota ema nuwara rajjuruwannen yeduna "Rassayae gedara inna gini kukula genat denta kata puluwanda" kiya yeduna. Ema rajjuruwannen genat dunnu kenekunda noyek tanantara denawa kiya anda-bera gæsuwa. Deweni "Mage rajjayat denawa" kiya yeduna. E wacane ibbata dæni "Amme oba gosin kiyapan rajjuruwo dækkin "Mage puta wana ibbata puluwani" kiyala kiyapan "gini kukula genat denda." Etakota rajjuruwo kiwa "Obe putata enda kiyapan heta ude" kiwa. Pasuwa da ude ema ibba gosin kiyanawa "Mata gini kukula genat denda puluwani saddawasata." Etakota rajjuruwo kiwa "Ibba tiya kawuru genat dunnat tanantara saha mage rajjayat denawa." Ibba gedara æwit ibbage gaenita kiwa "Mata bolan bat gediyak uyala genen" kiwa. Etakota ibbage gaeni æsuwa "Obata bat gediya mokatadae" kiya æsuwa. "Mata rajjuruwannen yeduna rassayæ gedara inna gini kukula genat denda yeduna. Ema nisa bat gediya uyapan" kiwa. Etakota "Bat gediya uyala denda nan puluwani oba kohomadæ ænna yanne" kiwa. Etakota ibba kiwa "Bat mallakata damala maye pite tiyala bæ[n]dapan mata ænna gihaeki" kiwa. Pite tiyala bændæn passe ema ibba gamana gosin magadin mahamidi gæsicci rodakata giya. E gosin bat gediya una ibi hættaya galawa tiya bat gediya kaewa. Kala ahak-wela ibi hættaya hanga gamana giya. E gamana yanakota magadi rae wela kanawændun ammage gedara giya. E gosin "Amme mata nawa-tænak denda onae" kiwa. Etakota kanawændun ammandi kiwa "Nawa-tænak nan denda puluwani" kiwa "kanda denda deyak nae." "Ehe nan kaemen kamak nae nawa-tæna witarak dunnot ati" kiwa. Etakota kanawændun anmandi æsuwa "Oba kohedae pute yanne" kiyala æsuwa. Etakota kiwa "Rassayæ gedara mini kukula pare yanawa" kiwa. Kanawændun ammandi etakota kiwa "Pute oba karaba­gana gamata palayan. Boho rasi gananak senaga metana nawa-tæne hitala gini kukula pare giya. Giya misa gini kukula ænna awe nae. Ema nisa oba yanda epa. Etakota kiwa "Oba amme koccara kiwat mama nan yandama onae. "Maye kima no salaka oba yanawata passe me man uyapu kudu-hunusal tikak kala palayan." Etakota kiwa, "Ada oba kudu-hunusal iwuwa misa aye obata kudu-hunusal uyanda hanba-wenne nae" kiyala kiwa. Ema wahama kækulu hal mæwuna. "Pute oba dunnu warama wage mamat obata waramak denñan. Oba rassayae gedara gosin ena welawata rassaya nawatagana eyi. E etakota me gal-kæte ænna gosin 'Ci kanda mæwiyan' kiyala damapan kanda mæweyi. Rassaya kanda diga ihalata gosin pahalata bahinakota obata etakota hungak tæn gi-haeki." Etanine warama æragana yanda yanakota magadin rae una. Rae unæn pasu ayet kanawændun anmandi kenekunnge gedarata giya. Kanawændun anmandi æsuwa "Kohedae pute oba me rae unu mana yanne." Etakota kiwa "Mama rassayae gedara gini [332] kukula pare yanawa" kiwa. "Oba oye gamana yanda epa gini[332] kukula pare yana senaga yanawa misa enne nae." "Kohetma e waga mata nan kiyanda epa mama nan gini[332] kukula pare yandama onae. Mama mehe awe nawa-tænak onae wela." "Nawa-tæna nan denda puluwani. Kanda denda deyak nae" kiyala kanawændun anmandi kiwa. "Kaemen kamak nae mata nawa-tæna dunnot æti" kiwa. Nawa-tæn karaya balana iddin kanda baeri handa kudu-hunusal uyapuwæn tikak kanda dunna. "Amme obata kudu-hunusal ada iwuwa misa aye uyanda hanbawenne nætuwa mama waramak denñan" kiyala "Kækulu hal mæwiyan kiyala kiwa. "Ehe nan pute obata man waramak denñan kiyala menna me una kotuwa ænna gosin rassaya oba pare nawatana enda enakota 'Ci una mæwiyan' kiyala una kotuwa damapan. Etakota una wæta mæweyi. Una pa[n]dura diga rassaya ihalata gosin pahalata enakota obata hu[n]gak tæn ae-haeki." Etanin pasuwa da yanda yanakota magadi rae una. Rae wela ayet kanawaendun anmandi kenekunne gedarakata giya. E gosin nawa-tænak illuwa. "Me rae wunu mana oba kohedae yanne" kiyala æsuwa. Etakota kiwa "Mama rassayae gedara gini kukula genenda yanawa" kiwa. "Kola das mala das yanawa misa e giya ætto giya misa awe nae. Ema nisa oba yanda epa." "Mama nan gini[332] kukula pare yandama onae. Mata metana inda nawa-tæna denda onae." Etakota kiwa "Denda nan puluwani kanda denda denda deyak nae." "Mata kaemen kamak nae mata nawa-tæna dunnot æti." Kanawændun anmandi wisin kudu-hunusal tikak uyala kanda dunna. "Amme obata aye kudu-hunusal uyanda læbenne nae mama ho[n]da waramak den[ñ]an." Kækulu hal mæwenda waramak dunna. "Oba dunnu waramata wada mama denñan waramak. Rassayage gedara gosin gini kukulat ænna enakota rassaya kanda duwagana eyi. E enakota menna me a[n]guru kæte ænna gosin 'Ci gini mæwiyan' kiyala damapan, gini wæta mæweyi. Etakota rassaya æwit gindarata pani. Karabana hemihita gedara waren." E æwadin ibi hættaya tiyana tænata gosin ibi hættaya æ[n]gata porawagana gamata awa. E æwadin rajjuruwanda gini kukula bara-dunna. E denakota rajjuruwo kiwa "Ada hitan mage rata saha wastu samaga tota barayi." "Oyita wada wastu mata tiyanawa mata epa" kiwa. Ema rajjuruwo wisin e wastu puja-karanda banak niyama-kala. E bana ahanda ibbage [gae]ni saha tawat gænu bana ahanda yanakota anik ena gaenu kiyanawa "Ibbæ gaeniye bana ahanda yanda wara." E gihin bana ahana­kota ibba ibi hættaya galawala bana ahanda giya. Etakota ibbi gaeni kalpana-kala "Maye minihamayi me" kiyala. Kalpana-wela gedara æwadin bælu kala ibi hættaya tiyanawa dækala eke tibba wastuwa ænna ema hættaya lipata dama bana ahanda giya. Ibbae gaenige miniha gedara æwit bælukota ibi hætte nae. Geta wela karabana hitiya. Ibbæ gaeni sellamen gedara awa. Wena gaenu "Ibbae gaenige ada occara tiyana sellama mokadae" kiya æsuwa. "Mage sellama gedara gihama dæneyi." Ibbae gaenit samaga wena gaenu e wacane balanda ibbæ gaenige gedara awa. Æwadin bælukota ibbæ gaenige miniha raja kenek samanayi. Me katantaraya hitanawaru dennage. Tom-tom Beater, Hiriyala Hat-Pattu District, North-Western Province. NO. 216 THE STORY OF GOLU-BAYIYA GOLU BAYIYÆ KATHAWA Eka rataka sitiya lu Gonaka Bokka kiyala minihek. E Gona Bokkage malayo dasa denek sitiya lu. Malayo dasa dena katha-karala "Apata Gona Bokka ayiyagen apata kisi prayojanak næta. Apata wædapala karana apata amaruyi. Ekata api dasa dena­tama eka magulak genamu" kiya hita "Otannapahuwa kiyana gamata yan" kiya gamata bala malaya giya lu. E Otannapahuwata magulak ahanta giyaya. Ita passe anik nawa dena katha-karanawa lu "Ape ayyata 'Gona Bokka' kiyanakota apata gena gæni kiyayi bola Gona Bokka ki[ya]na nama wansa næti ewuntayi kiya. Apata gena gæni yayi. Ekata Golu Bayiya kiyamu" kiya. "Ape Golu Bayi ayatat ape [na]m makanta demu" kiya katha-karagana innawa lu. Etakota kipa dawasak maga gewagena hæmatama bala malaya æwit hita kiwa lu "Ayiyanela Otannapahuwe mama ahanta giya Gæni nan wanse ho[n]dayi. 'Bala pætiyakuta magul denne kawudæ. Wædimal sahodarayinta ekkenakunta enta kiyapan' kiya-ewwaya." Ita passe e daha dena katha-karanawa lu "Api dasa denata wædimal Golu Bayi ayiya magul ahanta arimu" kiyala katha-karanawaya. Itin e Golu Bayiya kiyana ætta maha modayek lu. Ita passe ara dasa dena "Ayye api kiyana deta obat enawa nam api ekolohama eka magulak kændagana inta obat warenna" kiyala kata-karanawa lu. Ita passe Golu Bayya kiwa lu "Ho[n]dayi mama yaññan" kiya. Bat gedi[ya]k uyawagana pitat-wela giya lu. Yanawa yanawa. Para no-danna nisa gihun galak uda wanantare i[n]dagana bat gediya kæwaya. Kala innakota wenin rataka gæniyak duppat wela enta enawa lu para diga. Æwit e Golu Bayiya inna gala gawa i[n]da-gattaya. In pasu gæni ahanawa lu "Oba koyi rateda koyi gameda" kiya gæeni miniyagen æsuwaya. In pasu miniya kiwa lu "Mama magulak ahanta Otannapahuwata yanawaya" kiya kiwaya. Ita pasu gæni kiyanawa lu "Anicchan dukkhan e game æsu gæni mamayi. Mama mage de-mawu-piyo wæræddak-wela pænnuwaya. E nisa mama kanta bonda dena tænakata yanawaya" kiwuwaya. In pasu Golu Bayiya "Gæni ho[n]da nisat palamu ahala tiyena nisat mama Otannapahuwata no-gohinma kændagana yanda onæya" hita e paredi hamba-wunu gæni kændagana gamata awaya. Æwit malayalata kiyanawa "Mama Otannapahuwata giyaya. Malawali onna gæni" kiya "siyallatama kændagamu" kiyala kiwaya. Ita pasu anik dasa dena nu-dutu nisa eda patan gæni pawagana hitiyaya. Pawagana kipa dawasak inna atara e bala dasa dena katha-karanawa lu "Ape magul ayiya tanikarema kisi kenekma nætuwa kændagana awaya. Ape ayiya kale ho[n]da hapankamayi. E nisa api siyalu wædapala karamu. Ape gaeni nilantarayen ape Golu Bayi ayiyata rakinta baradi api wædapala karamu. Ayiya gæni ræk­apan" kiwaya. "Ho[n]dayi mama rakimi" kiya gæni yana ena tænata adi haema tænakata gaeni ya nan e Golu Bayiyat yanawaya. E atara ek dawasak wela[n]damata ek miniyek e gamata awaya. E miniyage nama Gætapadayaya. E Gætapadaya kipa dawasak ema gedara wela[n]dam kara kara ema gedara maduwe sitiyaya. Sitina ataradi ema Gætapadaya kiyana miniyata me Golu Bayiyage gæni ek-unaya. E inna atara palamu ki dasa dena wædata giya dawasakadi pera ki Golu Bayiyata Gætapadaya kiyanne "Mama ada hinayak dutuwaya. Mokada. Asawal tæna pare gonek mærila innawa dutuwaya." Eka balala enta Golu Bayiyata Gætapadaya kiwaya. Golu Bayiya e gona balanda gi atara Gætapadaya gaenit ænna gedara tibu badut æna dennama pala-giyaya. Golu Bayyae katawa. Tom-tom Beater, Hiriyala Hat-Pattu District, North-Western Province. NO. 225 THE WAX HORSE ITI ASWAYA Ekamat eka rataka raja kenekuta putrayek upanna lu. Brahmanayin genwa me kumarayage handahana liyawanta baradun wita kumaraya wædi-wiya pæmununama rata æra-yanta tibena bawa rajjuruwanta dænun dunnama rajjuruwo kumarayawa udu-mahal-tale kamarayaka ita su-rækiwa inta sælæssuwa lu. Me ladaru kumaraya taramak loku wi keli-sellam adiyehi yedi dawas yawana kalayedi withiye wikunanta gena-yannawu iti aswayek dæka uwa aragana denta kiya piya-rajjuruwanta sæla-kala kalhi piya-rajjuruwo aswayawa mila di rægena tama putrayata dunna lu. Me aswaya piyapat dekakin yuktawu guwanehi igilenta puluwan­kama æti ekek wiya. Me aswaya gattata pasu swalpa kalayak sita kumaraya taramak loku wunama kisiwek-hatawat no-hangawa iti aswayage upakarayen igili yanta giya lu. Itin sastrakara-Brahmanayinge kimat sæbae wiya. Kumaraya aswayage balayen igilligana gos tawat raja kenekunge maligawata mal amuna dena mahalu ammandi kenekuge gedarata giya lu. Mehidi iti aswayawa kotanada sangawa mal-ammage gedara sitimin raja gedara tora­turu siyallama mal-ammagen asa dæna-gatta lu. Mese dænagana tika kalak sita rajjuruwange diyaniyan sitina udu-mahal-tale kamara adiya dænagana laksanawu kumarikawak sitina kamarayakata ratri kalayedi iti aswayagen gos kumarikawata genat tibuna kaema bimadiya ka bi kipa dawasakma no-hangawa yanta giya lu. Kumarikawada kamarayata ae nida-gattata pasu kawuru-namut æwit gihin tibena bawa dæna pasuwa da no-nida bala sitiya lu. Ewita kumaraya æwit kaema bimadiya anubhawa karana-kota kumari kaduwa eka atakin aragana kumarayawa eka atakin alwagena "Topa kawudæyi" kiya æsuwa lu. Kumarayat raja pawulakata ayiti kenek bawa danwa ae samaga katha-bas-kota yalu-wi aewa kara-kara bandintat giwisagana ita pasuwa dawaswaladit enta patan-gatta lu. Itin me kumariwa saema dawaswalama udeta kirana siritak tibuna lu. Kumaraya enta wunata pasuwa dawaswaladi kumarige bara kramayen wædi-wegana gos ae bada-gæbbarin siti bawa rajjuruwo dænagana kumari samaga amatyayage mitra-satthawayak ætæyi sita amatyayawa maranta niyama-kala lu. Amatyayada ita sokayata pæmina sitina kalayedi rajjuruwange anikut duru æwi[t] "Ita sokayakin sitinne mandæyi" kiya ama­tyayagen æsu wita siyalu toraturuma owunta dænun dunna lu. E kumarikawan ræs-wi æmættayawa galawana pinisa mese upakramayak yeduwa lu enam amatyayage nam dosayak næta kawuru-namut pita-kenek mona upakramayakin namut kumari samipayata enawa ætæyi sita nana suwanda pæn oruwe wisa dama raja wasala doratuwe tibena pokune mura tibba lu. Kumaraya æwit kumarige kamareta yanta prathama suwanda pæn naewama ohuta wisa pattu-wi duwagana gos pokune pænnama murakarayo ohuwa alla-gatta lu. Me kumarayawa alwagana gos rajjuruwanta karana terum kara-dunnama æmættayawa bera kumarayawa maranta niyama-kala lu. Kumarayawa wada-karuwo genayana wita "Mage wastuwak tibenawaya eka topata aragana dennan (sic)" kiya gahakata nægi ehi kola aturehi palamuwen taba sangawa tibuna iti aswayawa aragana igilli-diwwa lu. Mese madak dura gos næwati ratri kalayehi næwatat raja wasalata æwit kumariyawat anda-gasagana maha wanantarayak mædin yanakota kumarita bada-rudawa sædunama bimata bæsa aewa nawatwa ita onae karana behet adi upakarana gena ena pinisa swamipa grama­yakata gos iti aswayawa kadayak langa taba tawat kadekata gihin enakota kade langa gindarak tibi iti aswayawa diya-wi gos tibuna dutuwa lu. Iti aswaya næti-wunayin pasu kumariya siti tænata me kumarayata yanta bæri-wuna lu. Kumarida wanantrayedi putrayek wada "Asat-purusawu kumarayage putrayawat mata epaya" kiyala daruwawat dama gam samipayakata ae giya lu. Me kumarige piya wanantaraye dadayamata giya kalayedi me ladaruwawa sambhawi raja gedarata genat æti-kala lu. Me ladaruwage maw wana kumarikawi kanya pantiyakata bændi wasaya-karana kalayedi me æti-karagatta lamaya wædi-wiya pæmina saranayak soya gos tamagema maeniyo dæka aewa kara-kara bandinta adahas kala lu. Mese sita tun dawasakma sarana wicaranta yanta pitat-wuna wita marggayedi bada wi tun dawasedima hæri awa lu. Eka dawasak aswaya pita nægi sarana wicaranta yana gamanedi kurul pætaw wagayak aswayata paegi kirilli kumarayata mese bænna lu enam "Mu muge mo ganta yanawa madiwata mage pætaw tikat mara-dæmmaya" kiya bænna lu. Me dawasedi bada wuna nisa apasu hæri æwit ita pasuwa da giya lu. Eda yanakota elu pætiyekwa aswayata paegi eludenat "Muge amma ganta yanawa madiwata ape pætaw mara-dæmuwaya" kiya bænna lu. Tunweni dawasedit yanakota pera sema bada wuna lu. Me kumaraya mese kanya pantiyenma saranayak sewwe ohu hadagat purusayek nisa kisikenek sarana no-dena bæwinya. Mita pera eka dawasak sellam­paledi "Awajatakayayayi" anikut lamayin wisin kiwama ohuwa æti-karagatta rajjuruwangen ohuge de-maw-piyo koyidæyi asa wanantaraye sita ohuwa genat hadagat bawa dænagana tibuna lu. Itin tunweni dawasedit bada wela e gæna no-salaka sarana wicaranta gos tamage maeniyo bawa madakwat no-dæna aege utpattiye sita kanya pantiyata a kalaya dakwa waga tu[n]ga asa "Wanantaraye ahawal palatedi samba-wi tibenne mawa tamayi e nisa me mage maeniyo tamayi" kiya. Dænagana aranci karagana gos tamage piyawat soyagana æwit ohuge siyawu hewat ohuge maeniyange piya wana rajjuruwange aewaemen rajjayatada pat-wi raja pawulakin kara-kara bænda yahatin kal yæwwa lu. Ratmalana, Western Province. Corrections.--Page 424, line 7, for pustuhan read puluhan. Line 9, for pustuwani read puluwani. APPENDIX ADDITIONAL NOTES, AND CORRECTIONS, VOLUME I. Page 21, line 4. For trades read traders. Page 27, line 19. For Ratemahatmaya read Ratemahatmaya. Page 40. Tamalitta. In the Katha Sarit Sagara, vol. i, p. 329, note, Mr. Tawney stated that the Tamalitta district probably comprised the tract of country to the westward of the Hughli river, from Bardwan and Kalna on the north to the Kosai river on the south. Page 41. Lata. A country of this name is stated in a note in the same work in vol ii, p. 221, to have comprised Khandesh and part of Gujarat. It was a seat of the fine arts, and its silk weavers are mentioned in an inscription of 473-74 A.D., some of them having settled at Mandasor in the western Malwa (Ind. Ant., vol. xiv, p. 198). The Lala of Wijaya's father was evidently a different district. It is probably due to the similarity of the names of these two districts--the letters t and l being interchangeable--that Wijaya was supposed to have sailed for Ceylon from a port on the western coast of India, to which a resident in Lata would naturally proceed on his way to that island. Page 49. According to the Maha Bharata, the Kali Yuga is followed by the Krita Yuga. Page 51. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 401, the sky was formerly quite close to the earth; but one day when a woman after a meal threw out her leaf-plate a gust of wind carried it up to the sky. The supreme deity, the Sun, objected to be pelted with dirty leaf-plates, so he removed the sky to its present position. Page 53, note 3. Delete the second sentence. In Old Deccan Days, p. 169, the Sun, Moon, and Wind went to dine with Thunder and Lightning. The Sun and Wind forgot their mother, a star; but the Moon took home food for her under her finger-nails. The mother cursed the Sun and Wind, but blessed the Moon, her daughter, and promised that she should be ever cool and bright. Page 66. After Katha Sarit Sagara in the last note, add vol. i. In the same work, vol. i, p. 489, a King caused his portrait to be painted, and sent the artist to show it to another King and his beautiful daughter, and also to paint a likeness of her and return with it. She and the King were afterwards married. In vol. ii, p. 371, a King sent an ambassador to show a portrait of his son, and ask for a Princess in marriage for him. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 251, a Raja with five daughters determined to marry them to five brothers, and the Princes' father had a similar intention. Emissaries from both met at a river, the Princes and girls were seen, and the wedding day fixed. When his brothers went the eldest Prince gave them his shield and sword, and told them to perform the ceremony for him by putting the usual vermilion mark of Indian brides on his bride's forehead with the sword. Unlike the girl in the Sinhalese story, she at first refused to allow the ceremony to be performed, but in the end consented. On the return journey sixteen hundred Rakshasas devoured all the party except the eldest Princess, who was preserved by the Sun God, Chando. Her husband killed them, and brought the party to life. On p. 302, there is another account of a sword marriage, the bridegroom being a Princess disguised as a Prince. Page 71. In the Maha Bharata (Vana Parva, cxcii) King Parikshit married a Frog Princess who must never see water. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., p. 49, a Prince received from a Rakshasi, thanks to a changed letter, a jar of soap that when dropped became a mountain, a jar of needles that when dropped became a hill bristling with needles, and a jar of water which when poured out became a sea. He used these only for conquering other countries. In Kaffir Folk-Lore (Theal), pp. 82, 87, the magic obstacles also occur. In the former instance, some fat which was given was to be put on a stone; the cannibal pursuers then fought for the stone. In the latter case, a girl carried an egg, a milk-sack, a pot, and a smooth stone; her father pursued her. When thrown down, the egg became a mist, the milk-sack a sheet of water, the pot became darkness, and the stone a rock over which the man could not climb. Pages 73, 74, 304, 306, and Index. For tuttu read tuttu. Page 92. In Chinese Folk-Lore Tales (Rev. Dr. Macgowan), p. 25, a person called Kwang-jui purchased a fish and set it free in the river in which it was caught. It proved to be the River God in disguise, who afterwards saved Kwang-jui when he was stabbed and thrown into a river. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 239, two Princes who had saved some young birds by killing the snake which annually ate those in the same nest, were given food by their parents, and informed that he who ate the first piece would marry a Raja's daughter and he who ate the second piece would spit gold. These results followed. Page 107. In the same vol., p. 189, a dwarf a span high let a buffalo hide fall among some thieves who were dividing their booty under the tree in which he was hidden; they ran off and he took home the gold they had left, and informed his uncles that he got it by selling his buffalo skin. They killed all their buffaloes and were laughed at when they took the hides to sell. They then burned his house down, after which followed the pretended sale of the ashes, etc., as in a Bengal variant. In Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, p. 30, the story is similar, the persons cheated being the father-in-law (a King) and brothers-in-law, who were drowned when they were put in the river in bags, in order to find cattle such as the boy obtained from a cow-herd by changing places with him. At p. 204 of Folklore of the Santal Parganas, a mungus-boy propped the dead body of his mother against a tree as a drove of pack-bullocks was approaching. When she was knocked down he charged the drovers with causing her death, and got their cattle and goods as compensation. Page 112. For his vicious tricks the brothers of the same mungus-boy carried him off in a palankin to drown him. While they were searching for a deep pool, a shepherd came up with a flock of sheep. The boy cried out that he was being carried off to be married against his will, and would change places with anyone. The shepherd, thinking it a cheap marriage, took his place and was drowned, the boy driving off his sheep. After some days he reappeared, and said he got the sheep in the pool into which he was thrown, but in the deeper parts there were oxen and buffaloes. The brothers in order to get these took palankins, and were pushed into the water in them by the boy, and were drowned. At p. 242, there is the incident of the pretended rejuvenation of the wife by beating her. The man who saw it stole the club and afterwards beat his own wife severely without success. In the Kolhan tales (Bompas) appended to the same vol., p. 455, a jackal got a drum made out of the skin of a goat of his which the other jackals killed and ate; he stated that he found it in the river, where there were many more. The other jackals jumped in to get them, and were drowned. In the Arabian Nights (Lady Burton's ed., vol. 4, p. 367) a woman was sentenced to be tied on a cross by her hair, with ten men as guards. While the guards slept, an ignorant Badawi, coming that way, spoke to himself of his intention to taste honey fritters, and believed the woman when she informed him that she was to be freed after eating ten pounds of the fritters, which she detested. He offered to eat them for her, took her place, and she rode off on his horse, dressed in his clothes. Page 128. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 226, a potter's wife who gave birth to a boy while digging clay, decided to take home her basket of clay, and leave the child, which was found and reared by a tiger. On p. 289, a woman who had borne twins in the jungle while collecting fruit, left them, and took home her basket of fruit instead. They were found and reared by two vultures, rejoined their parents, and being discovered by the birds were torn in two during the struggle for them. Page 133. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 29, the King of Videha sent to the King of Kasi, as a present, a casket containing two poisonous snakes. When the King opened it the venom of the snakes blinded him. Page 136. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 348, a deaf Santal who was ploughing at cross roads was asked by a Hindu where the roads went, and not understanding the language thought he was claiming the bulls of the plough. After the question had been repeated several times he began to think the man really had a claim to them, so to avoid being beaten he unyoked them and handed them over to the man, who went off with them. The next mistake was about the food brought by his mother to the field; she complained of it when she returned home, and scolded her daughter-in-law. Page 145. In the Maha-Bharata (Adi Parva, cxlii), a Rakshasa called Vaka protected a country, but required daily one cart-load of rice, two buffaloes, and a man, as his supply of food. One of the five Pandava Princes, Bhimasena, at his mother's request took the place of a Brahmana whose turn had come to be eaten, ate up the food in front of the Rakshasa, and then threw him down and broke his neck. Page 159. In the Maha Bharata (Udyoga Parva, cix) it is stated that the residence of the gods who subsist on smoke is in the south. In Kaffir Folk-Lore (Theal), p. 22, it is said that "the hunger of the spirit is allayed with the smoke" of the burnt offerings of animals. Page 166. In the Katha Sarit Sagara, vol. i, p. 86, Siva gave two red-lotus flowers to a man and his wife, saying that if one of them proved unfaithful the other's lotus would fade. In vol. ii, p. 601, a man said that his wife had given him a garland which would not fade if she remained chaste. In a Khassonka story in Contes Soudanais (C. Monteil), p. 134, a lion gave a herb to his friend who had become King, telling him that while it was green and fresh the lion would be alive, but when it withered and became yellow he would be dead. In Kaffir Folk-Lore (Theal), p. 81, a boy who was about to visit cannibals stuck his assagai in the ground, and said, "If it stands still, you will know I am safe; if it shakes, you will know I am running; if it falls down, you will know I am dead." In Sagas from the Far East, p. 106, six friends separated at a place where six streams met, and each one planted at his stream a tree that would wither if evil befel him. When five returned and saw that the tree of the sixth had withered they went in search of him. Page 167. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir, 2nd ed., p. 73, the life of a sorcerer was bound up in an earthen pot which he left with his sister; when it was broken he died. In Folk-Tales from Tibet (O'Connor), p. 113, the life of an ogre was in a boy seated in an underground chamber, holding a crystal goblet of liquor, each drop of which was the spirit of a person whom the ogre had killed. At p. 154, the life of an ogre was in a green parrot in a rock cave. In the Arabian Nights, vol. 5, p. 20, the soul of a Jinni was in the crop of a sparrow which was shut up in a box placed in a casket; this was enclosed in seven others, outside which were seven chests. These were kept in an alabaster coffer which was buried in the sea, and only the person wearing Solomon's seal ring could conjure it to the surface. The Jinni died when the sparrow was strangled. In a story of Southern Nigeria (The Lower Niger and its Tribes, Leonard, p. 320) the life of a King was in a small brown bird perched on the top of a tree. When it was shot by the third arrow discharged by a sky-born youth the King died. Page 173, line 4 from bottom. For burnt read rubbed. Page 177, line 18. For burnt read rubbed. To the last note, add, A young man lost all he had, and was then made a prisoner. Page 178. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 245, a Raja became blind on kissing his youngest son. He ordered him to be killed, but his mother persuaded the soldiers to take him to a distant country instead; there he married the Raja's daughter, and in order to cure his father went by her advice in search of a Rakshasa, whose daughter he married. The two returned with a magical flower of hers and a hair of the Rakshasa's head, calling on the way for his first wife. By means of the hair a golden palace was created, and when his father's eyes were touched with the flower they were cured. Page 185. In the notes, lines 10 and 11, the letters v and h in jivha should be transposed. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 207, the King's money was stolen by two palace servants. After a soothsayer who was called had eaten the food they brought, he said, "Find or fail, I have at any rate had a square meal." The thieves' names being Find and Fail they thought he knew they were guilty, begged him not to tell the Raja, and disclosed the place where the money was buried. The soothsayer read a spell over mustard seed, tapped the ground with a bamboo till he came to the spot, and dug up and handed the money to the Raja, who gave him half. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 58, in a Kalmuk tale, an assumed soothsayer recovered a talisman that he saw a Khan's daughter drop. Through overhearing the conversation of two Rakshasas he was able to free the Khan from them, and at last by his wife's cleverness was appointed to rule half the kingdom. In Chinese Nights' Entertainment (Fielde), p. 18, a poor man, overhearing his wife and son's talk about food, pretended that he could find things by scent, and told his wife what food was in the cupboard. The news spread, and he was ordered to discover the Emperor's lost seal. He feared punishment, and remarked, "This is sharp distress! This is dire calamity!" Hearing this, two courtiers, Sharp and Dyer, told him they had thrown the seal into a well, and begged him not to betray them; he recovered the seal. The Empress then hid a kitten in a basket, and asked what it contained. Expecting to be beheaded, he said, "The bagged cat dies." When the basket was opened the kitten was dead. Page 190. In the Katha Sarit Sagara, vol. i, p. 211, a woman having told a man that she wished to give her husband who was impaled a drink of water, he bent down and she stood on his back. On looking up he saw that she was eating the man's flesh. He seized her by one foot, but she flew away, leaving her jewelled anklet, which he gave to the King, who married him to his daughter. When the Queen wanted a second anklet the man met with the Rakshasi again at the cemetery; she gave him the anklet and married her daughter to him. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir, 2nd ed., p. 334, a Prince while keeping watch over a dead body, cut off the leg of an ogress who came. When he gave the King her shoe he was rewarded. Page 196. The escape of the Prince by sending his foster-brother finds a parallel in a story recorded in the Sinhalese history, the Mahavansa, chapter x. The uncles of Prince Pandukabhaya had endeavoured to murder him because of a prophecy that he would kill them in order to gain the sovereignty, and he had taken refuge among some herdsmen. The account then continues in Dr. Geiger's translation, p. 69:--"When the uncles again heard that the boy was alive they charged (their followers) to kill all the herdsmen. Just on that day the herdsmen had taken a deer and sent the boy into the village to bring fire. He went home, but sent his foster-father's son out, saying: 'I am footsore, take thou fire for the herdsmen; then thou too wilt have some of the roast to eat.' Hearing these words he took fire to the herdsmen: and at that moment those (men) despatched to do it surrounded the herdsmen and killed them all." In the Katha Sarit Sagara, vol. i, p. 162, a King and Queen ordered their cook to kill the person who brought a message, and sent a Brahmana with it. On the way, the King's son told him to get a pair of ear-rings made, took the message, and was killed by the cook. In the Kathakoça, p. 172, a merchant who wished to get a youth killed, sent him with a letter to his son ordering poison (vishan) to be given to him. While the youth was asleep in the temple of the God of Love, the merchant's daughter Visha came there, read the letter, corrected the spelling of her name, and her brother married her to the youth. Eventually, the merchant's son was killed by mistake in place of the youth, who became the heir, and the merchant died of grief. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes, extracted from the Chinese Tripitaka), vol. i, p. 165, we find the Indian form of the whole story. A wealthy childless Brahmana householder adopted an abandoned infant (the Bodhisattva), but when his wife was about to be confined he left it in a ditch, where a ewe suckled it till the shepherd returned it to him. He next left it in a rut in a road, but when many hundred carts came next morning the bulls refused to advance until the child was placed in a cart. A widow took charge of it, the householder regretted what he had done, rewarded her, and regained it. Finding after some years that the boy was more intelligent than his own son, he abandoned him among some bamboos, but men seeking firewood saved him. When the householder heard of him he felt remorse, paid the men well, and took him back. Again becoming jealous of his intelligence and popularity, he sent him to a metal founder with a note in which the man was ordered to throw into his furnace the child who brought it. On his way the householder's son, who was playing with others at throwing walnuts, told him to collect his nuts, delivered the letter, and was thrown into the furnace. The householder feared some accident, but arrived too late to save him. Determined to kill the elder boy he sent him with a letter to a distant dependant, who was ordered to drown him. On the road the youth called at the house of a Brahmana friend of the householder, where during the night the host's clever daughter abstracted and read the letter, and replaced it by one giving instructions for the immediate marriage of the youth to her, and the presentation of handsome wedding presents; this was done. When he heard of it the householder became seriously ill; the couple went to salute him, and on seeing them he died in a fit of fury. Page 198. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 201, in a Kalmuk tale, a woman picked up some tufts of wool, said she would weave cloth and sell it until an ass could be bought for her child, and would have a foal. When the child said he would ride the foal, his mother ordered him to be silent and to punish him went after him with a stick; as he was trying to escape the blow fell on his head and killed him. In the Arabian Nights, vol. 5, p. 388, there is a story of a Fakir who hung over his head a pot-ful of ghi which he had saved out of his allowance. With the money for which he could sell it he thought he would get a ewe, and gradually breeding sheep and then cattle, would become rich, get married, and have a son whom he would strike if he were disobedient. As he thought this he raised his staff, which struck and smashed the pot of ghi; this fell on him, and spoilt his clothes and bed. Page 200. In the Katha Sarit Sagara, vol. ii, p. 60, a foolish King who wished to make his daughter grow quickly, was told by his doctors that they must place her in concealment while they were procuring the necessary medicine from a distant country. After several years they produced her, saying that she had grown by the power of the medicine, and the King loaded them with wealth. This story is given in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. ii, p. 166. Page 206. In Reynard the Fox in Southern Africa (Dr. Bleek), p. 33, there is a Hottentot variant. The clothes of a tailor had been torn by a Mouse which denied it and blamed the Cat; the blame was passed on to the Dog, the Wood, the Fire, the Water, the Elephant, and the Ant. The tailor got the Baboon to try them; in order to catch the real culprit it made each one punish the other. In a Sierra Leone story in Cunnie Rabbit, etc. (Cronise and Ward), p. 313, a boy killed a bird with a stone and his sister ate it, giving him in exchange a grain of corn. White ants ate this and gave him a waterpot. This was swept away by the water, which gave him a fish. A hawk took it and gave him its own wing, which the wind carried off, giving him in exchange much fruit. A baboon ate this and gave him an axe; the Chief took this and satisfied him by presenting him with money and slaves. Page 208, line 6 of notes. For crane read egret. Page 212. In Folktales of the Santal Parganas, p. 338, the hare, wanting a dinner of rice cooked with milk, lay down while watch was kept by its friend the jackal. Men taking rice put down their baskets and chased the hare, the jackal meanwhile removing the rice. In this way they got also milk, firewood, a cooking-pot, and some leaf-plates. The jackal brought a fire-brand, cooked the food, and hurried over his bath, at which the hare spent a long time. While it was away, the jackal ate as much rice as he wanted, and filled up the pot with filth over which he placed the remaining rice. When the hare discovered this he threw the contents over the jackal, and drove it away. Page 215. In the same work, p. 339, the animals were a leopard and a he-goat which occupied its cave and frightened it by saying "Hum Pakpak." The leopard returned with the jackal, their tails tied together, but when the goat stood up and the leopard remarked on the dreadful expressions it used in the morning, they both ran away and the hair was scraped off the jackal's tail. In Folk-Tales from Tibet, p. 76, two jackals with three cubs occupied a tiger's den, frightened it by telling the cubs they would soon be eating tiger's flesh, and it returned with a baboon which laughed heartily at the story. The jackal called out to the baboon to bring up the tiger quickly, and said they had expected two or three at least. The tiger bolted and bumped the baboon to death, their tails being twisted together. In Les Avadanas (Julien), No. cxxii, vol. ii, p. 146, the animals are a tiger and stag which frightened it in the same way when a monkey was leading it in search of an animal to kill. It said, "I never would have believed the monkey was so wicked; it seems he wants to sacrifice me to pay his old debts." In Folk-Tales from an Eastern Forest (Skeat), p. 45, in order to save an elephant a mouse-deer frightened a tiger. An ape went back with the tiger, the mouse-deer said it refused to accept only one tiger when two had been promised, and the tiger ran away. In Old Hendrik's Tales (Vaughan), p. 19, in a Hottentot variant a wolf and baboon, their tails tied together, were about to punish the jackal. When the female jackal made the cub squall, the male jackal said he had sent the baboon for wolf-meat and he was now bringing one. As he moved towards them, the wolf bolted, dragging the baboon, which got a kink in its tail. In Reynard the Fox in Southern Africa, p. 24, there is another Hottentot story, the animals being a leopard and ram. When the former ran off, a jackal took it back, fastened to it by a leather thong. As they drew near, the leopard wished to turn back. On the ram's praising the jackal for bringing the leopard to be eaten when its child was crying for food, it bolted and dragged the jackal till it was half-dead. Page 225, first line. For Crows' read Parrots'. Page 227. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 309, when a wise parrot saw a man take a large net to spread over their tree, the parrots roosted on a rock. Refusing the leader's advice to move again they were netted, and escaped as in the Sinhalese story, when the bird-catcher counted, "Seventy-one." Page 230. Mr. Pieris has pointed out in his recent work, Ceylon, vol. i, p. 554, that Nayide was formerly an honorific title of the sons of Chiefs. It is not now so applied. Page 233. See also The Jataka, No. 546 (vol. vi, p. 167), where one of the tasks of Mahosadha was to overcome the difficulty said to have arisen through the royal bull's being in calf; he settled it by a question. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 49, an oilman claimed that his bull bore a calf that a man left near it. The calf-owner was assisted by a night-jar and a jackal, which after pretending to sleep related their dreams; the former had seen one egg sitting on another, the latter had been eating the fishes burnt when the sea got on fire. When the jackal explained that they were as probable as the bull's bearing a calf, the man got it back. Page 240. In Les Avadanas, No. lvi, vol. i, p. 199. a turtle escaped when a boy at a man's recommendation threw it into water to drown it. This is given in Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. ii, p. 230, in which work also two forms of the earlier part of the Sinhalese tale appear. In vol. i, p. 404, a single large crane carried away the turtle in its bill. While passing over a town the turtle continually asked "What's this? What's that?" At last the crane opened its mouth to reply, and the turtle fell and was killed and eaten. In vol. ii, pp. 340 and 430, the birds were two wild-geese, and the turtle let itself fall when it spoke. It was killed by the fall in one variant, and by children in the other. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 215, in a Kalmuk tale, a frog advised a crow that had caught it to wash it before eating it. When the crow put it into a streamlet it crept into a hole in the rock and escaped. Page 244. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 329, the animals which raced were an elephant and some ants. Whenever the elephant looked down it saw two ants on the ground, and at last it died of exhaustion. The challenging ants never ran; ants were so numerous that some were always to be seen. In The Fetish Folk of West Africa (Milligan), p. 214, a chameleon challenged an elephant to race through the forest. After starting it turned back, having arranged that others should be at the end of each stage. Page 240. In Kaffir Folk-Lore, p. 187, when a lion who had been cheated by a jackal chased it, the jackal took refuge in a hole under a tree, but the lion seized its tail as it entered. The jackal said, "That is not my tail you have hold of; it is a root of the tree." The lion then let go, and the jackal escaped into the hole. Page 248. The same portion of the tale is found in the Jataka story No. 321 (vol. iii, p. 48). Page 251. The incident of the crows on the floating carcase is given in the Jataka story No. 529 (vol. v, p. 131). Page 253. In the title, for Kadmbawa read Kadambawa. Page 259. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir, 2nd ed., p. 322, ten peasants who counted themselves as only nine, remained weeping until a man told them to put their skull-caps down and count them. Page 263. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 352, while three men were sitting under a tree a stranger came up, placed a bunch of plantains on the ground before them, bowed, and went away. Each claimed the obeisance and plantains, and called the others fools; they related their foolish actions in the matter of their wives, and at last divided the fruit equally. Page 275, line 20. For Rakshasi read Rakshasi. Page 277. In The Kathakoça (Tawney), p. 164, a Prince whose eyes had been plucked out heard a Bharunda bird tell its young one that if the juice of a creeper growing at the root of the Banyan tree under which he sat were sprinkled on the eyes of a blind Princess she would regain her sight. He first cured himself with it, and afterwards the Princess, whom he married. Page 279, line 19. For paeya (twenty minutes) read paeya (twenty-four minutes). Page 282, line 4. For footing and footing read clearing and clearing. Page 283. In Folk-Tales of Kashmir, 2nd ed., p. 186, a jackal whose life a farmer had spared persuaded a King to marry his daughter to him. He explained away the man's want of manners, and burned his house down when the King was on his way to visit it. Page 299. Add footnote. Large crocodiles that lived in the ocean are mentioned in the Arabian Nights, vol. 5, p. 14. Sir R. Burton stated in a note that the crocodile cannot live in sea water, but it is well known that a large and dangerous species (C. porosus) is found in the mouths of rivers, where at times of drought the water in some sites is almost pure sea water. When I resided at Mount Lavinia, about seven miles south of Colombo, one of these crocodiles found its way into the sea there during some floods, and lived in it for a week or ten days. Residents informed me that others had been known to remain in the sea there for several days. Page 300, first line. After 15 insert, and in Indian Fairy Tales (Stokes), p. 182. Page 301. In a variant by a person of the Cultivating Caste, N.W.P., a Queen sent her three sons to bring three turtle doves from the Pearl Fort (Mutu Kotte). On the way, while the youngest Prince, aged seven years, was asleep his eldest brother blinded him with two thorns (timbol katu); but after he had been abandoned he learnt from the conversation of two Devatawas, who lived in adjoining trees, that by eating the bark of one of their trees he would be cured. After being twice again blinded in this way and regaining his sight, he killed a cobra that each year destroyed and ate the young of two Mainas (starlings, Saela-lihiniya) which had a nest on a tree. He climbed up to the nest, had similar experiences to those related in the story, was carried to the Pearl Fort by a Maina, and brought away three turtle-doves. In Indian Fairy Tales (M. Stokes), p. 160, a Prince had three tasks before marrying a Princess; he was to crush the oil out of eighty pounds of mustard seed, to kill two demons, and to cut a thick tree trunk with a wax hatchet. Ants did the first task, two tigers killed the demons, and with a hair from the head of the Princess fixed along the edge of the hatchet he cut the tree. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 45, a girl was given three tasks by her sisters-in-law. (1) To collect a basket of mustard seed when sown; pigeons picked it up for her. (2) To bring bear's hair for an armlet; two bear cubs helped her to get it. (3) To bring tiger's milk; two tiger cubs got it for her. Three other tasks do not resemble those of the Sinhalese tale. In Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, p. 119, a variant occurs in which bear's milk replaces the hair. In the Kolhan tales (Bompas) appended to the former vol., p. 481, a Potter was sent by a Raja for tiger's milk, which he obtained by the aid of the cubs. On p. 469 a girl was ordered by her sisters-in-law to collect pulse sown in a field; pigeons helped her to do it. She then went for bear's milk, which a she-bear gave her. In Folk-Tales from Tibet, p. 98, a boy by killing a dragon saved three young gryphons that were in a nest on a cliff. When they told their parents, the gryphons fed him, and the male carried him to the Fairy King. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 72, the Kinnara King gave Prince Sudhana three tasks to perform before marrying his daughter. The last was her identification among a thousand Kinnaris; she assisted him by stepping forward. Page 307. In Folk-lore of the Telugus (G. R. Subramiah Pantulu), p. 48, a poor Brahmana who had been presented with a pot of flour, thought he would buy a kid with the money he would get for it, and gradually obtain cattle till he was worth three thousand rupees. He would then marry, and have an affectionate son, and keep his wife under control by an occasional kick. As he thought this he kicked, broke the pot, and lost the flour in the dust. In the Hitopadesa a Brahmana who got a pot containing bread thought he would get ten cowries for it, buy larger pots, and at last become a rich dealer in areka-nuts and betel leaves. He would marry four wives, the youngest being his favourite; and the others being jealous of her he would beat them with his stick. He struck the blow with his stick and smashed his pot. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 140, a man who was carrying some pots of oil for two annas, thought he would buy chickens with one anna and gradually obtain cattle and land, and get married. When his children told him to wash quickly on his return from work, he would shake his head, and say, "Not yet." As he said this he shook his head, and the pots on it fell and were smashed. In Folk-Tales from Tibet, p. 31, a foolish young Mussalman who was promised a hen in return for carrying a jar of oil, thought he would become rich in the same way, and get married. When his child was naughty he would stamp his foot; he stamped as he thought it, and the pot fell and was broken. Page 311. In Sagas from the Far East, p. 92, in a Kalmuk tale, the wife of a person who usually had the form of a white bird, burned his feathers, cage, and perch while he was absent in his human form at a festival. On his return he informed her that his soul was in the cage, and that he would be taken away by the gods and demons. At p. 221, also in a Kalmuk tale, a man received from the Serpent-King a red dog which laid aside its form and became a beautiful maiden whom he married. Every morning she became a dog, until one day when she went to bathe he burned her form,--apparently the skin. At p. 244, in a Mongolian account of Vikramaditya it is stated that Indra gave his father the form of an ass, which he left outside the door when he visited his wife. She burned it, and he remained a man. In Reynard the Fox in Southern Africa, p. 52, a lion who had eaten a woman preserved her skin whole, and wore it and her ornaments, "so that he looked quite like a woman." He went to her kraal, and at last was detected through part of the lion's hair being visible. The hut was removed and a grass fire made over the sleeping lion. In Kaffir Folk-Lore (Theal), p. 38, when a girl who had married a crocodile licked its face at its request, it cast off its skin, and became a powerful man. Page 315. In China it is believed that only wicked persons are struck by lightning. Doolittle's Social Life of the Chinese (Paxton Hood), p. 557. In The Kathakoça, p. 159, three persons who expressed evil thoughts were struck by lightning. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. i, p. 104, a Queen who caused the Bodhisatta, in the form of an elephant, to be destroyed in order that she might have his tusks, was killed by a thunderbolt when she looked at them. In vol. iii, p. 125, a man who was about to kill his mother was similarly destroyed. Page 318. In the Arabian Nights, vol. 4, p. 383, a girl in Baghdad pretended that while drawing water for a man her finger-ring fell into the well; when he threw off his upper clothes and descended she left him there. As the owner's groom was drawing water afterwards the man came up in the bucket, the groom thought him a demon, dropped the cord, and the man fell down again. The well-owner got him exorcised, but he came up again when the bucket was raised, and sprang out amid shouts of "Ifrit!" Page 319, last line. For greul read gruel. Page 320, line 9. For don't read Don't. Line 31. For plantains read plantains'. Page 321. In Les Avadanas, vol. ii, p. 51, and Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. ii, p. 183, a man who drank water that was flowing through a wooden pipe twice ordered the water to stop when he had finished. He was called a fool, and led away. In the latter work, vol. ii, p. 269, there is an account of the boy who killed the mosquito that had settled on his sleeping father's head. Page 327. Add to second note, In the Katha Sarit Sagara, vol. ii, p. 497, the assessors at a trial acted as judges, but the sentence was pronounced by the King,--as in The Little Clay Cart, also. Compare also the orders of King Mahinda IV (A.D. 1026-1042) regarding the judicial powers of a court of village assessors, consisting of headmen and householders. They were required to try even cases of murder and robbery with violence, and to inflict the death penalty (Wickremasinghe, Epigraphia Zeylanica, vol. i, p. 249). Page 329. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. iii, p. 28, in a Maisur story by V. Narasimmiyengar, the Bharatas' Government took as its share or tax the upper half of a root crop, and got only leaves and stalks. For the next year, when the Government announced that the root part of the crop would be taken, the cultivators sowed paddy, ragi (millet), wheat, etc., and the tax collector got only straw. In Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, p. 93, a tiger and crane joined together, and planted a garden with turmeric. The tiger had the first choice of his share of the crop, and decided to take the leaves, leaving the roots for the crane. When the crop was gathered and the tiger found his share was valueless he quarrelled with the crane, which pecked his eyes and blinded him. Page 335. A variant regarding a Maditiya tree (Adenanthera pavonina) was related by a Tom-tom Beater of the North-Western Province. A man told the King that he had planted a golden seedling, and was given food and drink and ordered to take great care of it. When a flood carried it away he lamented and rolled about in assumed grief before the King, who after pacifying him ordered him to plant another golden seed. He made the same cryptic remark to his wife as in the other tale. Page 338. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 260, the incident of the sickle that had fever occurs, but the person who left it to reap the crop was an intelligent man who pretended to be stupid so as to trick a farmer. Page 341. In two Sinhalese variants of the North-Western Province, the animal which the man saved was a crocodile, and the first animals applied to for their opinions were a lean cow and a Naga raja or cobra, both of which advised the crocodile to kill the man. When the jackal was appealed to it sat upon an ant-hill to hear the case, got the crocodile and man to come there out of the water, and then told the man to kill it with a stick, after which it ate the flesh. In Folk-Tales from Tibet, p. 12, a musk-deer that let a tiger out of a house was seized by it, and appealed to a tree, a buffalo cow, and a hare. The two former condemned it; the hare induced the tiger to re-enter the house, shut the door, and left it to die of starvation. In Reynard the Fox in Southern Africa, p. 11, there is a Hottentot variant. A white man saved a snake's life by removing a stone that had fallen on it. When it was about to bite him it agreed to obtain the opinions of some wise people. A hyæna when asked replied, "What would it matter?" A jackal when questioned about the matter refused to believe that the snake would be unable to rise when under the stone, got the man to replace the stone on it, and then told him to leave it to escape by itself. On p. 13, in a variant, application was first made to a hare and afterwards to these other animals. I am indebted to my friend Mr. McKie, of Castletown, for an Eastern Bengal variant recently published in an Isle of Man paper. A benevolent Brahmana saved a tiger that was stuck in the mud of a tank. As the tiger was then about to eat him he appealed to a Banyan tree and an old pot, both of which condemned him. When the opinion of the jackal was asked for, it wished to see the place where the tiger was stuck fast, got the animal into its original position, and then ran off accompanied by the man. The tiger sank more deeply in the mud, and perished. A variant of this story is given in Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, p. 40, the pot being replaced by a cow, and the Brahmana by several men, who at last stoned and killed the tiger. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 150, the Panjab form of the tale is given, in which the bride saved the man. In the same vol., p. 313, a leopard which was about to eat a man who had saved its life, agreed to make inquiry if this was fair. The water and tree recommended that he should be eaten, but the jackal induced the leopard to enter the man's sack as before, and then told the man to smash its head with a stone. Page 346. In Folk-tales of the Telugus, p. 72, the story is told of a crane and some fish, to which it stated that it was doing penance, predicted a twelve years' drought, offered to carry them to an adjoining lake, and ate them. The crab is not introduced into this story. In the Arabian Nights, vol. v, p. 391, no bird is mentioned. The fishes applied to the crab for advice on account of the drought, and were recommended to pray to Allah, and wait patiently. They did so, and in a few days a heavy rain refilled their pond. Page 349, in last line of Notes. For ka, doer, read eka, one. Page 354. In A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales, p. 344, there is a story like that in The Jataka, the animals being an old cat that pretended to be doing penance, and five hundred mice; the cat seized the last mouse as they returned to their hole. The mouse chief exposed its false penance. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. ii, p. 414, the same story is given, the animals that were eaten being rats. In vol. iii, p. 139, a heron suggested that it and other birds should live together; during their absence it ate their eggs and young ones. They noticed this, and scolded and left it. Page 358. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 23, the last incident regarding the boy and the leopard occurs with little variation. In Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, p. 42, the daily fights of a tiger and lizard are described, the latter being victorious each time. When the tiger was carrying off a man whom it intended to eat it was frightened away by being told that he had the lizard with him. Page 363. The jackal's instruction to the lion to eat while seated is in accordance with the rules given in the Maha Bharata (Anusasana Parva). Page 366. There is a variant in the Sierra Leone district, given in Cunnie Rabbit, etc., p. 265. The surviving wife of two ill-treated the other's daughter, and sent her to get the devil to wash their rice stick. She behaved civilly to some hoe handles tied in a bundle which spoke to her, and to a one-eyed person,--(both being forms assumed by the demon),--and removed insects from the devil's head; he washed the rice stick for her, and told her to take four eggs from his house. She selected small ones, threw them down, one after another, on her way home, as he told her, and received houses, servants, soldiers, wealth, goods, and jewellery. She also, as instructed by him, pounded rice on her dead mother's grave, and sang, calling her back to life. When the other woman's daughter was sent she behaved rudely to all, and selected four large eggs, out of which came bees that stung her, snakes that threatened her, men who flogged her, and fire which burned up her house, her mother, and herself. Page 368. In last line of text, for tika read tika. Page 377. In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. iii, p. 250, a man was told when buying a demon (Pisaca) that he might be killed by him if he did not provide continual work for him. He did the work of ten men, and was employed for some years, his master becoming rich in consequence. One day when he forgot to provide work for the demon the latter put his master's son in a pot and cooked him. Page 379. After the first note, add, See also the Katha Sarit Sagara, vol. ii, pp. 242, 258. Page 381. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas, p. 341, there is the story of the jackal who escaped from the crocodile; when he said it must be a fool to seize a root instead of his leg it released him. In The Indian Antiquary, vol. iii, p. 10, in a Bengal story by Mr. G. H. Damant, the crocodile seized the jackal's leg, and let go on being told it was a stick for measuring the height of the water. It then waited in the jackal's house. He noticed this, and addressed the house, "O house! O house of earth! What have you to say?" The crocodile grunted in reply, and the jackal ran off. In Folk-Tales from Tibet, p. 145, a tortoise [turtle] wishing to punish a monkey, hid in the cave they both occupied. The monkey, suspecting it, called out "O great cave! O great cave!" When he repeated it and remarked on the absence of the usual echo, the tortoise repeated the words, and the monkey escaped. In Old Hendrik's Tales, p. 107, there is a Hottentot variant. The wolf, in order to settle some outstanding scores, got hid in the jackal's house during his absence; but the jackal, seeing his footprints, suspected this, and called out, "My ole house! My ole house!" When no reply came on his repeating it, he said he knew Ou' Wolf must be inside, or the house would say "Come in," as usual. On the wolf's repeating the words he laughed, and ordered it out. Page 384, line 16. For burning read rubbing. (I have been unable to examine the volumes of The Indian Antiquary after 1897.) VOLUME II. Page 13, footnote. For modaya read modaya. Page 20. The second footnote should be deleted, and in the story the last paragraph but one should be:--Thereafter, this Prince and Princess having caused that widow woman to be brought, and having tried her judicially (naduwa ahala), subjected her to the thirty-two tortures, etc. Messrs. H. B. Andris and Co., of Kandy, have been good enough to send me a list of the thirty-two tortures, compiled from Sinhalese manuscripts. As I think such a list has not been published I append it here, with the English equivalents. The Thirty-two Tortures. 1. Katu-saemitiyen taelima. Flogging with the thorny scourge. 2. We-waelen taelima. Flogging with cane. 3. Atak digata aeti muguruwalin taelima. Beating with clubs (or mallets) of the length of a hand. 4. Ata kaepima. Cutting off the hand. 5. Paya kaepima. Cutting off the foot. 6. At-pa de-kotasama kaepima. Cutting off both the hands and the feet. 7. Kana kaepima. Cutting off the ear. 8. Nasaya kaepima. Cutting off the nose. 9. Kan-nasa de-kotasama kaepima. Cutting off both the ears and the nose. 10. Ise sama galawa ehi kadi-diya waekkerima. Removing the skin of the head and pouring vinegar there. 11. Ise boralu ula sak patak men sudu-kerima. Rubbing gravel on the head, and cleaning it like a chank or leaf (of a manuscript book). 12. Mukhaya de-kan langata ira tel-redi purawa gini tibima. Splitting the mouth near the two ears, filling it with oiled cloth, and setting fire [to this]. 13. Siyalu sarira tel-piliyen wela gini tibima. Twining oiled cloth round the whole body and setting fire [to it]. 14. Hastayan tel-redi wela gini taebima. Twining oiled cloth on the hands and setting fire [to it]. 15. Sriwayehi patan hama galawa kendayehi taebima. Removing the skin, beginning at the neck, and placing it on the calf. 16. Tana mattehi patan sama uguluwa isehi taebima. Causing the skin to be plucked off, beginning at the top of the breasts, and placing it on the head. 17. Bima howa dedena de-waelamiti yahul gasa wata-kota gini dael-wima. Causing [the person] to lie on the ground, striking iron pins through both elbows, and making flames of fire round [him]. 18. Bili-katuwalin paehaera sam mas nahara uguluwa-daemima. Removing skin, flesh, with fish-hooks, and causing the tendons to be plucked completely out. 19. Kahawanu men sakala sarirayehi mas kaepima. Cutting the flesh from the whole body [in pieces] like kahapanas (coins). 20. Sakala sariraya kendila ksharawu karan gaelwima. Making incisions in the whole body and causing salt corrosiveness to sink [into them]. 21. Ek aelayakin bima howa kanehi yawul gasa karakaewima. Causing [the person] to lie on the ground in a trench, striking iron pins (or rods) in the ear, and turning them round. 22. Sarirayehi aeta-mas podi-kota piduru su[m]buluwak men kerima. Bruising the flesh on the bones in the body, and making it like a straw envelope. 23. Kakiyawana-lada tel aengehi isima. Sprinkling boiling oil on the body. 24. Sayin pidita sunakhayan lawa mas anubawa-kerima. Devouring the flesh by means of dogs suffering from starvation. 25. Katu-bere peralima. Rolling [the person] in the drum containing thorns. 26. Sakrame karakaerima. Turning [the person] round on the wheel. 27. Æsak uguluwa anik aesata penwima. Plucking out an eye, and showing it to the other eye. 28. Æha maeda yahul gasa karakaewima. Striking an iron pin into the middle of the eye, and turning it round. 29. Ænga-mas kapa baeda kaewima. Cutting off the flesh of the body, frying it, and making [the person] eat it. 30. Buta-seyyawen hinduwa nul gasa waeyen saehima. Setting [the person] in the attitude in which goblins recline (i.e., on the back), marking [the body by means of blackened] strings (as sawyers do), and slicing off [the projecting parts] with the adze. 31. Diwas-ula induwima. Setting [the person] on the impaling stake. 32. Kaduwen isa kapa-daemima. Cutting off the head completely with the sword. Page 26, note. For Tisse de wele read Tisse de wele. Page 32, line 19. After footnote add, and Part II, p. 164. Page 34, line 36. For seven read four. Page 36, note, and p. 116, note. For Sitana read Sitana. Page 46, line 23. For the figure, read a "Sending" (sihaerumak). Other Sendings are mentioned in vol. iii, pp. 178 and 250. Page 47. To the first note, add, See also Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. iii, p. 92. Pages 70, 71. For tuttu read tuttu. Page 80. Add, In Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, p. 127, a simpleton who accompanied some thieves placed boiling rice and milk in the open mouth of a man who said in his sleep, "I will eat." Page 89, line 14. For through read though. Page 97, footnote. For No. 263 read No. 262. Page 108. Add, In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. ii, p. 413, a sheep with its wool on fire owing to a blow with a fire-brand, set the hay on fire at the quarters of the royal elephants. In vol. iii, p. 145, a ram set fire to a village in the same manner. Page 119, note. For Honda read Honda. Page 126, line 13. For the read her. Page 136, footnotes, line 20. For 248 read 247. Page 160, second footnote. For 212 and 241 read 211 and 240. Page 165 and p. 169, footnotes. After 237 insert 240. Page 168, footnotes. After 208 add 240. Page 171. Add, In Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, p. 21, a man falsely claimed the reward for killing a demon whom two brothers had shot; when they exposed him he was beaten. On p. 59, a youth who was sent in search of the bones of an elephant that he had thrown across the Seven Seas, was joined by a giant who was fishing with a Palmira palm as a rod and an elephant as a bait. Afterwards they added to their party another who held a Banyan tree as a shade for his ploughmen. Page 184, line 24. For ambuda baendaganda read ambuda baendagana. Page 202, line 24. For four read three. According to Clough, the yama, or watch, is one of four hours, but the Swapna-malaya makes it three:-- Dawasakata paeya saeta For a [whole] day, paeyas sixty Weya, yamada atakata. Occur, and watches up to eight. In tis paeyaka raekata From them, thirty paeyas for a night, Yama satarak weya niyatata. [Or] watches four, occur for certain. Page 213. Regarding the Ridi, Tavernier remarked (Voyages, 1679, i, p. 589), "This money is called Larin, and is of the same standard as our écus. Five pieces are worth our écu." On p. 591, vol. ii, he noted that, "The rupee of gold ... is worth in the country [India] fourteen rupees of silver. We reckon the rupee of silver at thirty sols. Thus the rupee of gold comes to 21 livres of France.... All the gold and silver which enters on the lands of the Great Mogol is refined to the highest standard (au dernier tître) before being coined." Our sovereign contains 113 grains of fine gold; and as the full weight of the gold rupee or muhr (mohur) of the Mughal rulers was 175 grains, its full value as fine gold was £1 11s. of our money. At the mean weight of the gold (167.22 grs.) in 46 coins, as recorded in Hobson-Jobson, p. 438, the value would be £1 9s. 7 1/4d. By Tavernier's reckoning (at 21 livres) the full value was £1 11s. 6d. One-fourteenth of £1 11s. is 26.57d.; this was therefore the value of the silver rupee of the Mughals, which had the same weight as the gold coin. With the muhr at £1 11s. 6d. the value of the rupee would be 2s. 3d. At 26.57/30d., the French sol was worth 0.885d. Bernier remarked (Travels, Constable's translation, p. 200) that the value of the silver rupee was about 30 sols, and on p. 223, about 29 sols, Tavernier also agreeing that the actual value should be under 30 sols; in the latter case the sol would be equal to 0.916d. Taking the average value at 0.9d., and 20 sols to a livre, the value of the livre was 1s. 6d. Three livres were equal to one écu (4s. 6d.), one-fifth of which, as noted above, would make the value of the larin 10.8d. This was not an accurate estimate of its value, since according to Tavernier (i, p. 136) 46 livres 1 1/2 deniers (each = one-twelfth of a sol) were the exact equivalent of a Persian toman of that period, which was thus worth £3 9s. 2 1/4d. of our money; and as 80 larins made one toman (i, p. 136; ii, p. 590) the true value of the larin in Persia (and India) in the middle of the seventeenth century was 10.375d. This would require the silver in it to weigh 76.08 grains. According to Dr. J. G. Da Cunha, Sir John Chardin stated that the value was two and a half shahis, or 11 sols 3 deniers, that is, 10.122d.; but by Tavernier's reckoning (i, p. 135) two and a half shahis would be worth 10.406d. Tavernier added that from Baghdad to Ceylon all business was done in larins. W. Barret writing in 1584 on Money and Measures (Hakluyt), remarked of them, "These be the best currant money in all the Indies." Dr. Davy stated (Travels, etc., p. 181) that fifty ridis were equal to about twenty-nine shillings (1820); thus the value of the coin was then only about seven pence in Ceylon. Although Prof. Rhys Davids mentioned (Coins and Measures of Ceylon, p. 35) that five ridis were spoken of [about 1870] as the equivalent of a rix-dollar--both coins being then out of circulation--thus making the value of the ridi less than fivepence, he gave the weight of three of these coins as being from 72 1/2 to 74 1/2 grains. Dr. Da Cunha gave a weight of 68 1/2 to 72 grains (Contributions, etc., part 3, p. 10). With an allowance for wear, it is therefore probable that the Persian weight of 76 grains was adhered to in Ceylon, and also in India. In answer to my inquiry, Messrs. H. B. Andris and Co., of Kandy, have confirmed the statement made to me elsewhere, that the later value of the ridi in Ceylon was one-third of a rupee,--"panam pahayi salli hatarayi," five panams and four sallis. Prof. Rhys Davids noted that Pyrard stated the value of those made early in the seventeenth century in the Maldives, to be about eight sols, that is, 7.2d. It is not clear why the money had the low values recorded above, unless the quality of the silver had deteriorated. In Ceylon, in Knox's time all the coins were tested in the fire. According to the Mahavansa, King Bhuvaneka-Bahu VI in about A.D. 1475 constructed a relic casket out of seven thousand coins which are termed rajata in the Pali original, and ridi in the Sinhalese edition, both words meaning silver. As there appear to have been comparatively few other silver coins in the country, none, so far as is known, having been coined since the beginning of the previous century, these were probably larins. The next reference to the coin in Ceylon goes back to about the same date; it is given by Mr. Pieris (Ceylon: the Portuguese Era, i, p. 50), apparently taken from the manuscript history of de Queiroz. King Dharma Parakrama-Bahu in 1518 related to the Portuguese Governor of Colombo that in his youth a certain man who had killed another did not possess the fifty larins which would have ransomed his life, and therefore he was executed. One would understand from this that these coins were plentiful in the island before A.D. 1500. In the same work (i, p. 298) it is recorded that in 1596 the Portuguese captured five elephants laden with larins. Diogo do Couto mentioned that while besieged in Kotte in 1565, the Portuguese made some larins, "there being craftsmen of that calling" (Ferguson's translation, p. 233), thus confirming Knox's statement that this money was coined in Ceylon. The Massa or Masurama which is mentioned so frequently in the stories is probably in most cases a copper coin, but gold and silver massas were also issued. In vol. iii, pp. 136, 137, line 31, 150, 1. 24, 387, 1. 29, the coins appear to have been gold massas. It is apparently the gold massa which is referred to in Mah. ii, 81, v. 45, where it is stated that King Wijaya-Bahu (A.D. 1236-1240) paid 84,000 gold kahapanas to transcribers of "the sacred book of the law." Perhaps, also, in the stories the kahapanas may have been golden massas or double massas. Compare vol. i, p. 348, and vol. iii, p. 263, line 33, and see below. The commoner or standard coins of all three denominations have practically the same weight, which in the heavier examples is usually about 66 or 67 grains, though a few gold and silver coins exceed this weight, two silver ones of Nissanka-Malla, from Mahiyangana wihara, for which I am indebted to Prof. C. G. Seligmann, averaging 77 1/2 grains. Out of 150 copper coins only one turned the scale at 69 grains. If we assume that the Indian copper scale of General Cunningham was followed, and that, with allowance for wear and oxidation, the correct original weight of all three classes was 72 grains, a massa of fine gold would be worth 12s. 8.92d. of our money. Compared with the Persian larin, the value of the silver massa of 72 grains, if fine silver, would be 9.82d., or 1/15.56 of the gold one. Respecting the copper coin, Dr. Davy stated early last century (Travels, p. 245) that the ridi (or larin) was then equivalent to sixty-four "Kandian challies," that is, as he also terms them, "Dambadinia challies," the common village name of the copper massas; at this ratio the silver massa of 72 grains would be equivalent to 60.57 copper massas, each being worth 0.162d., or about one-sixth of a penny. [333] Late in the fifteenth century the Indian ratio of the value of copper to silver appears, according to Thomas, to have been 64 to 1, and at the beginning of the sixteenth, according to Whiteway, 80 to 1. [334] I have met with no villager who knew what the coins termed kahawanuwa (kahapana) and masurama were. Messrs. H. B. Andris and Co., of Kandy, have been good enough to send me the following table of the old values of Sinhalese coins, kindly supplied by the "High Priest" of the Malwatta Wihara, at Kandy, on what authority I am unaware:-- 4 salli = 1 tuttuwa. 8 tuttu = 1 massa. [? 20 tuttu]. 5 mahu (or masu) = 1 kahawanuwa. [? 2 masu]. In the latter half of last century, twelve salli, or four tuttu, made one copper panama, sixteen of which went to a rupee; the intrinsic value of this being 1s. 10 1/2d., the salliya was worth 0.117d., or nearly half a farthing. In the absence of more ancient data, applying this value to the coins in the table the ancient tuttuwa would be worth 0.468d., the massa 3.744d., and the silver kahawanuwa, 1s. 6.72d., a little less than the value of two silver massas of 72 grains. A double silver massa, which would appear to be this coin, has been discovered by Col. Lowsley; [335] its weight was not stated. With regard to the values of other coins, Capt. Percival wrote in 1803 that the rix-dollar "goes for about two shillings sterling; and four of them are equivalent to a star pagoda [the Tamil varakam, Sin. waragan], a Madras coin worth about eight shillings sterling" [in Ceylon; in India its official value was always three and a half rupees]. Page 229. Add, In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues, vol. iii, p. 226, a man observed that birds that visited an island, inaccessible to man, in which there were great quantities of jewels, roosted at night in tall trees planted by him. He prepared some exquisite food for them with which they satiated themselves, afterwards vomiting pearls that covered the whole ground. He collected them, and became very wealthy. Page 238, line 11. For paelas read hæliyas (large pots); and delete the following note in brackets. Page 257, first note. See also Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, pp. 8 and 9. In the same work, p. 25 ff., there is an account of a boy one span in height. See also ante, note to p. 107, vol. i. Page 261. Add, In Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, p. 19, some tigers who wanted to catch two men who had taken refuge on a palm tree, asked how they had ascended; they replied that they stood on each other's shoulders. When the tigers did the same, one of the men called to the other to give him his battle-axe, so that he might hamstring the tailless tiger (which was at the bottom). It jumped aside, and all fell down, and ran off. Page 266, note. For Bastda or Bastdara read Banda or Bandara. Page 274. Add, In Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, p. 12, a man who was in a tree was carried away in a bag by a demon. He escaped by putting a stone in it during the temporary absence of the demon, and was brought a second time. When the demon's daughter admired his long hair he informed her that it became long by being pounded, on which she put her head down to have her hair lengthened; he then killed her, cooked her, and the demon and his friends who came for the feast ate her. The man wore the daughter's clothes and was not recognised. Page 281, line 37. For tadak read tadak. Page 303. K. Raja-Sinha had a three-tiered hat (Knox, p. 34). Page 319, line 24, and Index. For Amrapali, read Amrapali. Page 321, note. For ewidinawa read aewidinawa. According to Mr. Gunasekara's Grammar, p. 452, this means, "the bees come as far as two miles." Page 324, line 12. After two feet insert (do paya). Page 344, line 37. Add, In vol. ii, p. 125, a lion was killed by the poisonous breath of a man-snake, and in vol. iii, p. 70, a lion and elephant perished in the same manner. Page 374, line 11. For 137 read 117. Page 398. Add, In Campbell's Santal Folk Tales, p. 12, a horse thief saddled and rode a tiger until daylight, thinking it a horse. On p. 46 it was a simpleton who rode. The tiger unwillingly returned with a jackal and bear, each holding the preceding one's tail. When they reached the thicket where the man was supposed to be, the tiger's courage gave way, and he bolted, dragging the others after him. A variant is given on p. 49, also. Page 408, line 7. For While read while. Page 433, line 7 of Sinhalese text. For deggatten read daeggatten. VOLUME III. Page 29, note 1. Through the kindness of Messrs. H. B. Andris and Co., I am able to add the following information regarding Kandian dry measures, chiefly furnished by Mr. A. J. W. Marambe, Ratemahatmaya of Uda Bulatgama. In the Kandian districts only heaped dry measures are employed, that is, the grain or whatever is being measured is raised up above the edge of the measure in as high a cone as is possible while pouring it out loosely. Kandian Dry Measures. 2 heaped pat (pl. of pata) = 1 heaped manawa [336] (0.01146 c. ft.). 2 heaped mana = 1 heaped naeliya (0.02292 c. ft.). 2 heaped naeli = 1 heaped seruwa (0.04584 c. ft.). 28 heaped seru (or 32 cut seru) = 1 imperial or cut bushel (1.28366 c. ft.). 5 heaped seru = 1 standard kuruniya or lahe. 10 heaped kuruni, lahas or las = 1 paela. 4 pael = 1 amuna. 20 amunu = 1 yala. A seruwa is a quart. Although the standard Kandian kuruniya is said by Mr. Marambe to be one of five heaped seru, there are others, according to him, of 4, 6 and 7 heaped seru, the latter being said to be employed in the Wanni or northern districts. In the interior of the North-Western Province, to the north and east of Kurunaegala, where most of the folk-tales were collected, the kuruniya was said to contain four heaped seru, according to which the local amuna would be 5.71 bushels. The Kandian amuna, at five seru to the kuruniya, would be equal to 7.1 bushels. An amuna of land is the extent sown by one amuna of seed, and varies according to the quality of the soil, less seed being needed for good land than poor land, where the plants are small. In the North-Western Province, an amuna of rice field is about two and a quarter acres, the amount of seed varying from two to three bushels per acre. One and a half heaped seru of kurahan (small millet) yield an amuna of crop in good chena soil; the yield from one heaped seruwa of tana, an edible grass cultivated in hill chenas, varies from one to two amunas; for the same out-turn with meneri four seru of seed are necessary. OMITTED INCIDENTS. The incidents which were omitted in vol. ii and vol. iii are as follows:-- Vol. ii, p. 260, line 3. Then at dawn, at the micturition time, urine having become oppressive (bara-wi) for the Tom-tom Beater, he spoke to the Gamarala. At that time the Gamarala having become frightened said, "The Rakshasa will eat us both; don't speak." Then the Tom-tom Beater, having remained on the upper-story floor, urinated. The urine came and fell on the body of the Rakshasa who was sleeping on the ground. At that time the Rakshasa having arisen asked the Gamarala's daughter. "What is the juice?" Then the girl said, "For the purpose of smearing the walls during the day-time, I put some water upon the upper floor. It will have been upset (namanda aeti) by the rats." Thereupon the Rakshasa silently went to sleep. Then the Tom-tom Beater still [another] time became [obliged] to go outside. [337] At that time having spoken to the Gamarala he told him. The Gamarala said, "Don't talk." Thereupon the Tom-tom Beater evacuated. Then the filth having gone, fell on the Rakshasa's body. The Rakshasa having arisen, at the hand of the girl, having scolded her, asked, "What is this?" Thereupon the girl says, "I put some cow-dung on the upper-story floor; it (lit. they) will have fallen." Then the Rakshasa without speaking went to sleep. Vol. iii, p. 290, line 4. Thereupon, in the night, for the Hettirala it became [necessary] to go outside.[337] So he spoke to Sokka, "I must go outside." Then Sokka cried out, "I cannot [find a utensil] in this night." When he was beseeching him to go to the door, having sought for a cooking-pot from there he gave him it. During the whole thirty [paeyas] of that night the Hettirala began to have diarrhoea. Then at dawn, when the Hettirala was saying, "Sokka, take away and put down this closet utensil (muttiya)," Sokka began to cry aloud, "I will not." Then at the time when the Hettirala was asking Sokka, "What shall I do for this?" Sokka says, "Putting on a cloth from the head [downwards], and placing the closet utensil in your armpit, go in the manner of proceeding to go outside, and having put it down please return." After that, the Hettirala having done thus, when the Hettirala was going Sokka went and said at the hand of the Hettirala's younger sister, "The Hettirala having become angry is going, maybe. Please go and take him by the hand." The woman having gone running and said, "Elder brother, where are you going?" caught him by the hand. Then the closet utensil having fallen on the ground, and the bodies of both persons having been smeared, both went and bathed. NOTES [1] Lit., with (ekka), a common form of expression. [2] Lit., from the hand of the Hare. [3] Pin sidda-weyi, a common expression of beggars when asking alms. [4] In the Katha Sarit Sagara (Tawney), vol. i, p. 285, it is stated that "an evil omen presenting itself to people engaged in any undertaking, if not counteracted by delay and other methods, produces misfortune." One of the other methods was a drinking bout (see the same work, vol. i, p. 331). [5] That is, "I lost the deer in order to save the packet of rice." [6] Sunday is not a good day for beginning any new work; of course this has no connection with the idea of the Christian sabbath. Wednesday and Saturday are the most unlucky days of the week. Thursday is the luckiest one for all purposes. (See vol. ii., p. 192.) [7] Partially trained cart-bulls, the little black humped ones, often pretend to be dead in order to avoid drawing a cart, and I have seen a wounded jackal and crocodile escape after behaving in this manner; I am not aware that deer act thus. (See Tennent's Nat. Hist., p. 285.) [8] Another title is, "The Story of the Female Turtle Dove." [9] Bassia longifolia. [10] An imitation of the notes of the Turtle Dove (Turtur suratensis). [11] Ketupa ceylonensis. The tree is Hemicyclia sepiaria. [12] The Sinhalese names are, Muna-Rawana, Pari-kewulla, Dik­aetaya, Goluwa, Atawanna, Nadakara-Panikkiya, Baka-modaya. [13] The ordinary call of this Fish-Owl; to be sounded through the nose, with the lips closed, the second note on a lower key than the first. [14] Wansadipatiyek. [15] Delight-making Princess. [16] See p. 64. [17] About 2,800 acres, at two and a half bushels of sowing extent per acre. The yala is 20 amunas, each 5.7 or 6 bushels. [18] In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. ii, p. 339, a jackal's heart broke into seven pieces on hearing several lions roar. [19] Katussa. [20] The Monitor Lizard (Varanus dracaena). [21] Daboia russelli, the most venomous snake in Ceylon. [22] Lit., by the Mungus. [23] A dry measure said by Clough to be about three pints wine measure. See the Additional Notes at the end of this volume. [24] Karagama Devi pal, eka mage duwa pal, hatara pata naeliyen dek, deka, deka, deka. Lit., "the protection of Karagama Devi," etc. The oaths of this kind most commonly heard are amma pal, "by [my] mother," and aes deka pal, "by [my] two eyes." But ammappa pal, "by [my] mother and father," and maha polowa pal, "by the great earth," are not unusual. [25] Gatta nan di, gatta nan di. All these are imitations of the voices of croaking frogs, the first being the rapid and shriller cries of the small frogs, and the second the deeper and slower calls of the larger frogs. [26] In Cinq Cents Contes et Apologues (Chavannes), vol. iii, p. 115, the King of the demons is called Pañcika. Professor Chavannes noted that in the Divyavadana, p. 447, he has the title Yaksha-senapati, General of the Yakshas. [27] A pool containing lotuses. [28] In The Jataka, No. 506 (vol. iv, p. 283), the life-index of a serpent King was a pool, which would become turbid if he were struck or hurt, and blood-red if a snake-charmer seized him. In Folklore of the Santal Parganas (Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 321, the life-index of a cow was some of her milk, which would become red like blood if she were killed by a tigress, as she expected. [29] The narrator explained that this was in early times. He stated that they do not eat human flesh now; it is done only by Rakshasas. [30] Where bushes or reeds are in the water near the shore, fishing is usually done by means of a baited hook at the end of a short fishing line attached to the extremity of a number of canes tied end to end. These float on the surface of the water, and are gradually pushed forward until the bait is in an open space in the water. [31] "Soft are the six seasons of woman"; but the text is so full of mistakes that it is possible this may be intended for Sarasayu-wiri, "the bee's life is delicate," or Sarasayu-wiri, "soft are the six seasons of Love." [32] See also A. von Schiefner's Tibetan Tales (Ralston), p. 134, in which the names are omitted. [33] See Ancient Ceylon, p. 100. [34] Dippitiyalage gedara. [35] Pamula pettiya. See vol. i, p. 183, footnote. [36] See vol. i, p. 10, on the small size of modern windows in the villages. [37] A very common exclamation of grief, surprise, or sometimes annoyance. The relative addressed is always either the father, the mother, or the elder brother, in such cases. [38] Hatara-maha Lula. I am doubtful regarding the meaning of maha; it appears to be derived from Skt. ma, to measure or be contained. According to Clough, lula is a snare or wicker fish-basket, perhaps from the Skt. lu, to cut or destroy. See final note. [39] This would include the bathing of the whole body. [40] The word ge, house, is used in the villages for "room." In this case the "house" was the trap. [41] Toge amma tangi, toge appa tongi; tangittongit. [42] Apparently, he thought she would be reborn on the earth again, with her former appearance. [43] Wal-bowa, a domestic cat that has become wild, or the descendant of such a cat. [44] After the manner of the Muhammadans, who chant prayers in the evening after sunset, and later on in the night. [45] More correctly spelt Bhasmasura. See another legend of him in Ancient Ceylon, p. 156. [46] The village spelling. [47] Ci, an exclamation of disgust. "Hole, don't," appears to be the meaning. [48] Bandayi pollayi. [49] Pala yanda. [50] The text has Ansca, evidently intended for Anicca. This is part of a Buddhist exclamation in Pali, Aniccan dukkhan, "transient is sorrow," often used colloquially to express astonishment. A Buddhist monk of my acquaintance invariably used it to express even slight surprise at anything, strongly accenting the last syllable of the first word; in fact, all is usually pronounced as though it formed only one word. See also p. 71 below. [51] This appears to be the meaning. [52] As a preliminary proceeding, the bridegroom gives the bride a new cloth to put on. [53] Kandeyayi henayayi. Kandeya, he of the hill = hakura. [54] This is a very disrespectful exclamation when addressed by a woman to a man, or an inferior to a superior. A Tamil head-mason once complained to me of the manner in which one of his men, a person of lower caste, had addressed him, and concluded by remarking, "He will say 'Ade!' to me next." [55] A drove of pack-oxen, driven in this instance by "Moormen" (Marakkala men). This method of transporting goods is still practised in districts deficient in cart roads. [56] See p. 138, vol. ii. [57] Karola, for karawala. [58] An Oak-like tree, Schleichera trijuga. [59] Mukunu-waella kola, apparently Alternanthera sp., termed by Clough Mukunu-waenna or Mikan-pala. [60] In the text the expression is mangula, feast; this word is sometimes used to denote the bride, as well as the wedding feast or the wedding itself. In a story not published we have, haya denekuta mangul genat innawa, for six persons brides have been brought. [61] The yala being twenty amunas, the total area was the extent that would be sown with 1,212 amunas, each being six bushels (or 5·7 bushels in the district where the story was related). At two and a half bushels per acre this would be about 2,900 acres. [62] Lit., Can he work. The same form of expression is used by the Irish. [63] Bali aerumak, conducted by a person termed Bali-tiyanna. The patient and a friend sitting on each side of him or her, respond in a loud voice, "Ayibo, Ayibo!" (Long life!) at each pause in the invocations. The wish of long life is addressed to the deity of the planet. [64] See vol. ii, p. 187. [65] Jivan keruwa, made magical "life" or power in it, by means of spells. [66] Gamarala kenekunne; this plural form is often used for the singular. A few lines further on we have, redda aendapu kenekundayi. [67] Probably said sarcastically; he may have had a bad figure. This kind of sarcastic talk is very common in the villages. [68] A coconut shell slung from cords, for use as a water-vessel (mungawe). [69] Lit., "them," kiri, milk, being a plural noun. [70] Compare the similar account on p. 296, vol. i. In Clough's Dictionary, Giju-lihiniya (lit., Vulture-glider or hawk) is termed Golden Eagle, a bird which is not found in India or Ceylon. Apparently the word is a synonym of Rukh (the Æt-kanda Lihiniya), which in the second note, p. 300, vol. i, is said to be "of the nature of vultures." In Man, vol. xiii, p. 73, Captain W. E. H. Barrett published an A'Kikuyu (East African) story in which when a man took refuge inside a dead elephant the animal was carried off by a huge vulture to a tree in the midst of a great lake. The man escaped by grasping one of the bird's tail feathers when it flew away, and being thus carried by it to land, without its knowledge. [71] Ottu-wela, having pushed against. [72] Lit., to be (re-)born. [73] The narrator, belonging to a village in the far interior, evidently thought a shark is a small fish, little larger than those caught in the tanks. Compare also No. 214, in which a Queen carries a shark home to eat. [74] Their idea apparently was that when at the point of death he would speak the truth, and they would thus learn if he were likely to be useful to them. [75] Ammayi abuccayi. [76] Ne owun dennata talanne. [77] Lit., Not for us. [78] Owanda. [79] Bere tadi-gahan[ne] naehae, newe talanne. [80] Raksa kara-gannawa nae. [81] Goda aragana. [82] Lit., "tying the hand"; the little fingers of the bride and bridegroom are tied together by a thread in the marriage ceremony. [83] Lit., "Water-thirst." [84] In the text this sentence follows the next one. [85] Lit., a tri-ennium, a three-year, tun-awuruddak. This is an invention of the woman's; there is no custom of the kind in Ceylon. [86] Ewunda okkotama. [87] Rajjuruwanda hemin. [88] Bappa, the father's younger brother. [89] The consent of the parent or legal guardian was the only essential for a legal marriage, according to the ancient customs. [90] Ki-roti. I do not know the cake, nor the meaning of the first syllable unless it be derived from kshira, milk. [91] Ape ewundaeta, a pl. hon. form. Husbands and wives do not usually mention each other's names; the wife is commonly termed ape gedara eki, "she of our house" (as in No. 125), or the mother of the youngest child if there be one, or "she of ours," or merely "she." [92] C is pronounced as ch in English. [93] See notes of variants appended to No. 139, vol. ii. [94] That is, the food materials. [95] Daekun tibbata passe. [96] Awot enne nae; nawot eññan. [97] Because Kitul fibre is like hair which is hanging loose. [98] Siwsaeta kala silpaya. [99] Saluwak. [100] The text of this story is given at the end of this volume. [101] Hitanan dennek. [102] Gini kukula, the fire [coloured] Cock. [103] Rassayae gedara. [104] Tiya, putting [out of consideration]. [105] Gediyak, a round lump, made into a package. [106] Premna latifolia. [107] Kaekulu hal, rice from which the skin has been removed without first softening it in hot or boiling water. It is used for making milk-rice (kiri-bat), but not usually for rice used with curries, as the grains are apt to coalesce when cooked. [108] Kola das, mala das. [109] As on p. 70, vol. i. [110] Lit., "man," the word translated "wife" in this story being also literally "woman." These words are commonly employed with these meanings by the villagers. [111] Nanga russayak, Ironwood tree. [112] Umbala hitilla. [113] The magical power lay in the Naga gem that was set in the ring. See notes, vol. i, p. 269, regarding the stone. [114] Compare the story of Prince Lionheart in Tales of the Punjab, p. 42 ff. [115] The milky sap which exudes from cuts in the bark or leaves. It is acrid, and blisters the skin if left on it. [116] An ex-monk. [117] Gaemmaedde. [118] Umba mewwa damma-dipan. [119] Ekan-karawanda. [120] Baeri-wuna, were unable (to be remembered), or omitted. [121] The food was to be eaten by any poor people who came for it. Of course the deities required only the essence. [122] Ara deviyoyi senawayi et giya. [123] That is, three and a half times the extent usually cleared by one man for the season's crop. [124] Æddeya. See note, vol. i, p. 193. [125] Lit., it is not for me to stay. [126] A common custom in the royal fields, I believe. Villagers employed on my works sometimes impressed wayfarers in this manner, as a joke. [127] Amu koyamata. [128] Dalu goyan. [129] Apparently "The Ace," with a personal suffix; but his real meaning was, "He who goes about cheating" (a + sri + ya). [130] Wiyan. This work is always done by the local washerman, who supplies the cloth for it. [131] Pamula pettiya. See note, vol. i, p. 183. [132] This is an old notion. In A Catena of Buddhist Scriptures (Beal), p. 74, it is stated, "Again, there are different kinds of kalpa trees which produce garments, from which they can select every sort of robe to wear." [133] Pala-gatta. [134] Danu rukadayak. [135] Ate kiri bonawa, usually meaning sucking the thumb. [136] Damapu para. [137] Dunnakuyi, igahakuyi, italayakuyi. [138] Ewaessa mama, mother's brother. [139] Dadayan para. [140] This may be the modern Balalli-waewa, on the Padeniya-Anuradhapura road. [141] Dippitiyalage gedara. [142] Laka wata baedi [*] sawaran! Ane! Mage Laka wata baedi sawaran! [*] There is a play on this word, baedi meaning jungle, while bae[n]di, which is sometimes written baedi, means tied, bound. A meaning might be, "The savages of the jungle around Lanka (Ceylon)." [143] A line of hairs from the throat to the navel is said to be considered a thing of beauty. [144] Bada is for banda. [145] The text is given at the end of this volume. [146] Makanta, to obliterate, but the meaning of the narrator appears to be more nearly expressed by the word I have inserted. [147] When a woman has more than one husband (brothers always), she goes through the marriage ceremony with the eldest, and is formally given to him only. [148] Apparently the fire originated accidentally, and the man was afraid of being charged with murdering the beggar. Compare story No. 21, vol. i, of which the Western Province has a variant. [149] Manda walaka. In village talk and writing, the semi-consonants n, n, and n are often inserted in words in which they do not occur in ordinary Sinhalese; on the other hand, these letters, and m as a semi-consonant, are often omitted in writing words in which they are always pronounced. [150] Wiyan baendala. [151] Hayiyen hayiyen. [152] Hamunduru namak, a Buddhist monk. [153] Tract "assigned for the exclusive use of the grantee," and his descendants. See Wickremasinghe (Epigraphia Zeylanica, vol. i, p. 244). [154] Mist Mother. In the Rig Veda, v, 32, 4, Sushna, the Danava, is termed Child of the Mist. [155] This episode is given in No. 138, vol. ii. [156] Ursha = vrisha. [157] Required as an offering to the demon in charge of the hidden treasure. Compare No. 196. [158] At deka gawin allagatta. [159] This reply is intended to show that the boys do not deserve sympathy. [160] To taniyenda awe? [161] E tiyaddin, "placing it" [aside or out of consideration]. [162] See footnote, vol. ii, p. 369. [163] The Yaka who gives effect to evil magic spells and charms, and to the evil eye and evil mouth, that is, evil wishes and curses. [164] Jivan karala. [165] In Folk-Tales of Kashmir (Knowles), 2nd ed., pp. 411, 412, a Prince who was going for a magical sandal-wood tree, fed two tigers which protected it, with the leg of a sheep, and the serpents with bread and curdled milk, after which they did not attempt to harm him. In Ceylon, it is believed that the demons who protect the treasure, or those who are summoned by means of evil invocations in other cases, take at first various forms of animals; and it is imperative that these animals must be fed with appropriate food, otherwise the demon would be able to destroy the persons engaged in the business. [166] Kollanta himin. [167] Æwadin ahakwela. [168] Probably Gaja-Bahu I, A.D. 113-135. [169] The Hitopadesa relates this of a traveller near Ujjain. [170] The narrator explained that when the rain came the snake would twist about inside the elephant's head, and drive it mad. [171] Obata mokada, tik; mama oda, tik. The tik represents the stamp of the hare's foot, or a snort, perhaps. [172] Each person who receives a packet is considered to be invited. [173] Kalavaedda (Paradoxurus musanga). [174] The text is given at the end of this volume. [175] This incident is also related on pp. 62 and 63 of vol. i. [176] In No. 245 the Princess was weighed once a week. [177] Lit., ran flying. [178] Kanya pantiyak; apparently they were courtesans or dancing girls. [179] Hadagat purushayek. [180] Mesopotamian Archæology (Handcock), pp. 295, 329. [181] Tun-mulu-Toppiya, the one with the three-cornered hat. [182] Lit., Come to go. [183] Ese-mese. [184] Bohoma durata, lit. very far. [185] Lit., We having gone, will come. [186] That is, the amount of the seed being first deducted, a certain share of the produce would be taken by the cultivator--sometimes one-half or one-third,--the rest going to the owner of the land, in this case the King. [187] Gedarawal ganettama. Gane or gana = gahana, multitude; compare kadawal ganema, vol. i, p. 86, line 17. [188] Issara weccahama. [189] Umbalat ekkenek mage ina gawin alla-ganilla (hon. pl.); gawin, "near," is commonly used for "at" or "by," as in ata gawin alla­gana, seizing the hand (vol. i, p. 127, line 23). [190] A breed of black fowls is considered to have the tenderest flesh of all; the flesh is very white, but the bones are black on the surface. [191] Contraction of Bolan, apparently; a Low-country expression. [192] These adventures of the corpse remind one of the Hunchback of the Arabian Nights, but they are Indian episodes. [193] Issarawela magane; i gawata appane; itat passe lunu huppane. magane = mage + anaya or ane. [194] When money stolen from me was buried, the leader of the thieves removed it during the same night, and buried it at a fresh place in the jungle. [195] Lit., having killed, gave. [196] That is, at the front end of the pole; the other man held the rear end on his shoulder, and was thus guided by it along the path which his eyes could not distinguish. [197] Or nobleman. [198] Puta saha Maeniyo; in the folk-tales the word meaning "son" is always spelt thus, with long a. [199] Pitimma [200] That is, as a punishment for some fault of theirs they had killed the wrong person. [201] Aet maet. [202] That is, blowing the glowing fire-sticks into flames. [203] A demon expeller of low caste. [204] Manuksa duwek: in the reply the first of these words is manussa. [205] Yodi, an expression often applied jestingly to a child, or a person who thinks herself strong. [206] In Sagas from the Far East, p. 22, a Khan's son with a friend had killed two serpent deities which ate the people, when he went to be their prey in the place of his father. His friend then suggested that they should return home, but the Khan's son replied, "Not so, for if we went back to our own land the people would only mock us, saying, 'The dead return not to the living!' and we should find no place among them." In vol. i, p. 77, of these Sinhalese tales, a man asks, "Can anyone in the other world come to this world?" But other Sinhalese stories show that there is, or was, a belief that people who have died may sometimes reappear on earth immediately, in their previous form, and not merely as new-born children, the common idea, as on p. 308, below. See Nos. 191 and 210. For the text of the sentence see p. 416. [207] Siti tanaturak. [208] Evidently a post in which he had the title of Raja, and not the general government of the whole country. A ruler termed "the Eastern King" (Pacina Raja) is mentioned in an early inscription (Dr. Müller's, No. 34A); as no such title is found in the histories, he may have been a district governor. The hero of this story appears to have received a somewhat similar post. [209] The Sinhalese title is, "The Story of the Ship and the Hettiya." [210] A quarter of a rupee, which in Ceylon was subdivided into one hundred cents about forty years ago. [211] Or, "having been in a great astonishment, speedily having gone," etc. The text is Mahat pudumayakin inda wahama gos. [212] In the paintings on the walls or ceilings of Buddhist temples, many Yakshas are represented as having the heads of animals, such as bears, dogs, snakes, and parrots, with bodies like those of human beings. [213] Lit., "these," hal, rice, being a plural noun. [214] Sitanan kenek. [215] Rilawa, the brown monkey, Macacus pileatus. A variant terms it a Wandura (Semnopithecus). [216] The title of a superior chief in the Low-country, equivalent to the Ratemahatmaya of the Kandians. [217] Baeri-wela tiyenawa. [218] That is, the spaces in the stick walls were merely closed with leafy twigs. [219] Jatiya-jamme. [220] Talattaeni minissu. [221] Kasi aettek, wansadipotiyek. [222] Narakatiyak. [223] The deity of the planet Saturn. [224] Daboia russelli. [225] Laebunu wahama. [226] There being several thirsts besides that caused by want of water,--such as thirsts for spirituous liquor, power, knowledge, happiness, etc.--the villager usually defines the former as water-thirst, diya or watura-tibbaha. [227] Tejase daeka. [228] Paen is-nanayata. It includes the bathing of the whole body. [229] E giya wahama. [230] That is, the fire burned into the midst of the heap, where the sword was placed. [231] A very respectful form of affirmative. [232] Maerum kaewoya, ate dying. [233] It is evident that some kahawanas were golden ones. See also vol. i, p. 348, and the Appendix, p. 454. [234] In the MS. the words are gañga-pahalata, 'down the river,' an evident mistake, as the hair passed down with the current. [235] The Sinhalese title is, "The Royal Prince and the Minister-Prince" (aemati-kumaraya). [236] This means here, "No matter." [237] Mata ahuwela tiyenne. [238] Akuru ganan, that is, "Can you keep accounts?" [239] The third person used honorifically instead of the second. [240] Bade gayak saedunaya. [241] Mita palamuwenut. [242] The Sinhalese title is, "Concerning the Royal Prince and the Minister-Prince." [243] Soka + eka, the one of sorrows; he was not aware that the sorrows were to be his own. [244] This incident occurs in Folklore of the Santal Parganas (Rev. Dr. Bodding), p. 261, the young man being a servant who was playing tricks on a farmer and had burnt his house down. [245] Anda bera gaesuwaya, beat the proclamation tom-toms. [246] Ambuñda gahagana. [247] Ceylon was formerly sometimes termed Tri-Sinhala, because it was divided into three districts, Pihiti-rata, the northern part, containing the capital; Malaya-rata, consisting of the mountainous part; and Ruhunu-rata, the southern part, round the hills. It is very doubtful if the supreme King ever wore a triple crown that symbolised his rule over the three districts; on the other hand, a triple head-covering like the Pope's tiara was certainly known, and is represented in the frontispiece to Ancient Ceylon. [248] Tun pas-wissak, lit., three [times] a five [and] twenty. [249] Compare No. 225. [250] Welawe ho awelawe ho. [251] Æt-muhunin bat munu bindinta epaya. [252] Because he thought the elephant was supernaturally prevented from killing him. [253] Apparently from Skt. kal, to impel, hold, fasten. (See p. 340.) [254] The narrator thought that Rodiyas are Kinnaras. [255] That is, she said the word with a mental reservation that he should be unable to act accordingly. [256] Gini gediyak. [257] Piyaneni. [258] Uman-miyo. Compare p. 81, vol. ii. [259] Para-teratama, completely, from top to bottom. [260] Lit., ties. [261] The God of Death. [262] Compare the similar incident in vol. i, p. 133. [263] Lit., that was near the Prince. [264] Lit., "For me [there is] much hunger-weakness." [265] Moorman, a Muhammadan trader. [266] Mara, the God of Death, or Death personified. [267] Compare the Kala spell in No. 245 of this vol., and the notes, p. 342, vol. ii. and p. 70 in this vol. [268] Baeri taena, in a position of inability [to do anything]. [269] Bada gala, that is, by clasping his arms round it and rubbing his body on it, as he "swarmed" up it. [270] Prayoga parannawanta gaeni. [271] Mangulak, a word which usually means a [wedding] feast, but is often used in the villages to signify the bride. [272] Kasade, literally "marriage," here also used to signify the bride. [273] That is, merely because he was inclined to go. [274] The narrator omitted to make the woman explain the last two cryptic sayings. The final one, that he was to go mounted on the back of two dead ones, of course means that he was to wear a pair of shoes or sandals. [275] Puseka, also puse later on. Doubtless this is the Tamil pusei (Skt. puja), one meaning of which is food given as a religious offering. Puseka is puse + eka, one, used in such instances to express the definite article, as in koteka, the coat. [276] Kapiwata in the text. The meaning is uncertain, kapi being a monkey, a sacred animal at Hindu temples. [277] Perhaps because she would acquire sanctity through cooking the consecrated food. [278] That is, made a vow to present or cook a food offering. [279] Not given by the narrator. [280] A jungle bush or small tree on which lac is formed, Croton lacciferum. [281] Lit., much flavour having fallen. [282] This story appeared in The Orientalist, vol. ii, p. 54. [283] The son's father's brothers are called his fathers in Sinhalese, the father's sisters being, however, his aunts, not mothers. [284] Kot vilakku panak. [285] Lit., "short person." [286] Buddhist Scriptures, and other religious works. [287] Bala-aeti mudda, power-possessing ring. [288] That is, recite the Buddhist Scriptures, apparently with a view to their parents' recovering their sight as a reward for his religious zeal. [289] Magulak aehaewwa. [290] Hura. To screen herself she blamed him for leaving her alone with the younger brother, thus suggesting that he had behaved improperly to her. [291] Male, mehe waren ko; ko is intensitive, making the order more imperative, like our "I say." [292] Kapala hitan. [293] Budiya-ganin. [294] Yanda giya. [295] Waeradeyi, will go wrong. [296] Onaenne = onae wenne. [297] Naga-kanyawo. [298] Aeradi-wuna ahakata; I am not sure of the exact meaning. [299] Balapuwama. [300] In these stories I have translated wastu as "goods," this being in the plural number, and wastuwa as "wealth." [301] Ambude gahagantawat. Compare p. 297, note. [302] Up to this point the story is a variant of the tale called "Sigiris Siñño the Giant," in vol. i, p. 312. [303] The meaning is, "Can you take my war army and defeat the enemies?" To express this in Sinhalese the narrator should have said, "Taking my war army, can you," etc. [304] Noka nombi. [305] Numba-wahanse. [306] Kiri-maw, milk-mother. [307] Sword, spear, bow, battle-axe, and shield (Clough). [308] Situ gedaraka. [309] Lit., leave place to them. [310] A similar episode occurs in vol. i, p. 163. [311] Naew-patunak. [312] Pradha stri. [313] Otunna-himi-kumarayek, lit., a Crown-Lord-Prince. [314] Eka maluwakata malu dekayi. The chief ingredients of curries are all termed malu or malu by villagers, whether meat, fish, or vegetables. The same word also means "curry." [315] Gold, according to a variant of the N.W. Province. Some of these coins were made of gold. See Appendix. [316] Pottayata hemin. [317] Seyilamakata. [318] Saw-saranak, refuge from all things. [319] Deviyane, honorific title of a King. [320] Lit., to cut the Hettiya's neck. [321] Widi lokuda madi lokuda, lit., Is Destiny great or insufficiently great? [322] The word in the text is golle, "O party." [323] Attara pini-diya. [324] Gettuwa. [325] Anacara darmme yedi. In the two later instances the second word is darmmayehi. [326] Leaving a red mark like blood, owing to the areka-nut he had chewed. [327] Bassia longifolia. [328] A form, kawadda, may indicate the intermediate stage; I think it occurs only once. [329] See Gunasekara's Grammar, p. 180. [330] Thup., quoted in the next paragraph. See vol. iii, p. 169, line 18. [331] Although Mr. Gunasekara states (Gram., p. 162, footnote) that ti is not used colloquially, the word is several times found in these tales, and I have heard it employed by villagers. [332] Corrected in MS., from Mini; apparently either word is correct. [333] This is the intrinsic value compared with our money; the purchasing value may have been thirty times as high in the stories, in which a masurama was paid for a day's food of rice and curry, and a country pony was bought for fifty. [334] A pound of copper was priced at 9.8d. of our money; the present wholesale values (July 9, 1914) are--silver, 25 7/8d. per oz. (Troy); copper, £62 5s. per ton, the ratio being 41.566. [335] Numismatic Chronicle, 1895, p. 221. [336] Apparently the same as the hunduwa (Tamil sundu), the colloquial term. [337] Eli-bahinda, a word which when thus used is well understood to refer to a necessary natural function. 
18450	----	made using scans of public domain works from the University of Michigan Digital Libraries.) Hawaiian Folk Tales A Collection of Native Legends Compiled by Thos. G. Thrum With sixteen illustrations from photographs Chicago A. C. McClurg & Co. 1907 Copyright, 1907 By A. C. McClurg & Co. Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England Published March 1, 1907 The Lakeside Press R. R. Donnelley & Sons Company Chicago PREFACE It is becoming more and more a matter of regret that a larger amount of systematic effort was not established in early years for the gathering and preservation of the folk-lore of the Hawaiians. The world is under lasting obligations to the late Judge Fornander, and to Dr. Rae before him, for their painstaking efforts to gather the history of this people and trace their origin and migrations; but Fornander's work only has seen the light, Dr. Rae's manuscript having been accidentally destroyed by fire. The early attempts of Dibble and Pogue to gather history from Hawaiians themselves have preserved to native and foreign readers much that would probably otherwise have been lost. To the late Judge Andrews we are indebted for a very full grammar and dictionary of the language, as also for a valuable manuscript collection of _meles_ and antiquarian literature that passed to the custody of the Board of Education. There were native historians in those days; the newspaper articles of S. M. Kamakau, the earlier writings of David Malo, and the later contributions of G. W. Pilipo and others are but samples of a wealth of material, most of which has been lost forever to the world. From time to time Prof. W. D. Alexander, as also C. J. Lyons, has furnished interesting extracts from these and other hakus. The Rev. A. O. Forbes devoted some time and thought to the collecting of island folk-lore: and King Kalakaua took some pains in this line also, as evidenced by his volume of "Legends and Myths of Hawaii," edited by R. M. Daggett, though there is much therein that is wholly foreign to ancient Hawaiian customs and thought. No one of late years had a better opportunity than Kalakaua toward collecting the _meles_, _kaaos_, and traditions of his race; and for purposes looking to this end there was established by law a Board of Genealogy, which had an existence of some four years, but nothing of permanent value resulted therefrom. Fornander's manuscript collection of _meles_, legends, and genealogies in the vernacular has fortunately become, by purchase, the property of the Hon. C. R. Bishop, which insures for posterity the result of one devoted scholar's efforts to rescue the ancient traditions that are gradually slipping away; for the _haku meles_ (bards) of Hawaii are gone. This fact, as also the Hawaiian Historical Society's desire to aid and stimulate research into the history and traditions of this people, strengthens the hope that some one may yet arise to give us further insight into the legendary folk-lore of this interesting race. T. G. T. _Honolulu_, January 1, 1907. NOTE In response to repeated requests, the compiler now presents in book form the series of legends that have been made a feature of "The Hawaiian Annual" for a number of years past. The series has been enriched by the addition of several tales, the famous shark legend having been furnished for this purpose from the papers of the Hawaiian Historical Society. The collection embraces contributions by the Rev. A. O. Forbes, Dr. N. B. Emerson, J. S. Emerson, Mrs. E. M. Nakuina, W. M. Gibson, Dr. C. M. Hyde, and others, all of whom are recognized authorities. T. G. T. _Honolulu_, January 1, 1907. CONTENTS I. Legends Resembling Old Testament History. Rev. C. M. Hyde, D.D. 15 II. Exploits of Maui. Rev. A. O. Forbes I. Snaring the Sun 31 II. The Origin of Fire 33 III. Pele and the Deluge. Rev. A. O. Forbes 36 IV. Pele and Kahawali. From Ellis's "Tour of Hawaii" 39 V. Hiku and Kawelu. J. S. Emerson 43 Location of the Lua o Milu 48 VI. Lonopuha; or, Origin of the Art of Healing in Hawaii. Translated by Thos. G. Thrum 51 VII. A Visit to the Spirit Land; or, The Strange Experience of a Woman in Kona, Hawaii. Mrs. E. N. Haley 58 VIII. Kapeepeekauila; or, The Rocks of Kana. Rev. A. O. Forbes 63 IX. Kalelealuaka. Dr. N. B. Emerson 74 X. Stories of the Menehunes: Hawaii the Original Home of the Brownies. Thos. G. Thrum 107 Moke Manu's Account 109 Pi's Watercourse 110 Laka's Adventure 111 Kekupua's Canoe 114 As Heiau Builders 116 XI. Kahalaopuna, Princess of Manoa. Mrs. E. M. Nakuina 118 XII. The Punahou Spring. Mrs. E. M. Nakuina 133 XIII. Oahunui. Mrs. E. M. Nakuina 139 XIV. Ahuula: A Legend of Kanikaniaula and the First Feather Cloak. Mrs. E. M. Nakuina 147 XV. Kaala and Kaaialii: A Legend of Lanai. W. M. Gibson 156 XVI. The Tomb of Puupehe: A Legend of Lanai. From "The Hawaiian Gazette" 181 XVII. Ai Kanaka: A Legend of Molokai. Rev. A. O. Forbes 186 XVIII. Kaliuwaa. Scene of the Demigod Kamapuaa's Escape from Olopana. From "The Hawaiian Spectator" 193 XIX. Battle of the Owls. Jos. M. Poepoe 200 XX. This Land is the Sea's. Traditional Account of an Ancient Hawaiian Prophecy. Translated from Moke Manu by Thos. G. Thrum 203 XXI. Ku-ula, the Fish God of Hawaii. Translated from Moke Manu by M. K. Nakuina 215 XXII. Aiai, Son of Ku-ula. Part II of the Legend of Ku-ula, the Fish God of Hawaii. Translated from Moke Manu by M. K. Nakuina 230 XXIII. Kaneaukai: A Legend of Waialua. Thos. G. Thrum 250 XXIV. The Shark-man, Nanaue. Mrs. E. M. Nakuina 255 XXV. Fish Stories and Superstitions. Translated by M. K. Nakuina 269 Glossary 277 ILLUSTRATIONS Hawaiian Girl of the Old Régime Frontispiece A Lava Cascade 40 View in Wainiha Valley, Kauai 66 Scene in Olokele Gulch, Makaweli, Kauai 86 "The Deep Blue Palis of Koolau" 104 Scene from the Road over Nuuanu Pali 112 View at the Head of Manoa Valley, Oahu 120 The Favorite Sport of Surf-Riding 130 Hawaiian Arrayed in Feather Cloak and Helmet 150 The Ceremony of the Hula 158 The Hula Dance 162 Kuumana, the Rain God of Kau 196 A Grass House of the Olden Time 210 Making Ready the Feast 228 Hawaiian Fisherman Using the Throw-Net 246 Coast Surf Scene 262 I LEGENDS RESEMBLING OLD TESTAMENT HISTORY _Rev. C. M. Hyde, D.D._ In the first volume of Judge Fornander's elaborate work on "The Polynesian Race" he has given some old Hawaiian legends which closely resemble the Old Testament history. How shall we account for such coincidences? Take, for instance, the Hawaiian account of the Creation. The _Kane_, _Ku_ and _Lono:_ or, Sunlight, Substance, and Sound,--these constituted a triad named _Ku-Kaua-Kahi_, or the Fundamental Supreme Unity. In worship the reverence due was expressed by such epithets as _Hi-ka-po-loa, Oi-e,_ Most Excellent, etc. "These gods existed from eternity, from and before chaos, or, as the Hawaiian term expressed it, '_mai ka po mia_' (from the time of night, darkness, chaos). By an act of their will these gods dissipated or broke into pieces the existing, surrounding, all-containing _po_, night, or chaos. By this act light entered into space. They then created the heavens, three in number, as a place to dwell in; and the earth to be their footstool, _he keehina honua a Kane_. Next they created the sun, moon, stars, and a host of angels, or spirits--_i kini akua_--to minister to them. Last of all they created man as the model, or in the likeness of Kane. The body of the first man was made of red earth--_lepo ula_, or _alaea_--and the spittle of the gods--_wai nao_. His head was made of a whitish clay--_palolo_--which was brought from the four ends of the world by Lono. When the earth-image of Kane was ready, the three gods breathed into its nose, and called on it to rise, and it became a living being. Afterwards the first woman was created from one of the ribs--_lalo puhaka_--of the man while asleep, and these two were the progenitors of all mankind. They are called in the chants and in various legends by a large number of different names; but the most common for the man was Kumuhonua, and for the woman Keolakuhonua [or _Lalahonua_]. "Of the creation of animals these chants are silent; but from the pure tradition it may be inferred that the earth at the time of its creation or emergence from the watery chaos was stocked with vegetable and animal. The animals specially mentioned in the tradition as having been created by Kane were hogs (_puaa_), dogs (_ilio_), lizards or reptiles (_moo_). "Another legend of the series, that of _Wela-ahi-lani_, states that after Kane had destroyed the world by fire, on account of the wickedness of the people then living, he organized it as it now is, and created the first man and the first woman, with the assistance of Ku and Lono, nearly in the same manner as narrated in the former legend of Kumuhonua. In this legend the man is called Wela-ahi-lani, and the woman is called Owe." Of the primeval home, the original ancestral seat of mankind, Hawaiian traditions speak in highest praise. "It had a number of names of various meanings, though the most generally occurring, and said to be the oldest, was _Kalana-i-hau-ola_ (Kalana with the life-giving dew). It was situated in a large country, or continent, variously called in the legends Kahiki-honua-kele, Kahiki-ku, Kapa-kapa-ua-a-Kane, Molo-lani. Among other names for the primary homestead, or paradise, are _Pali-uli_ (the blue mountain), _Aina-i-ka-kaupo-o-Kane_ (the land in the heart of Kane), _Aina-wai-akua-a-Kane_ (the land of the divine water of Kane). The tradition says of Pali-uli, that it was a sacred, tabooed land; that a man must be righteous to attain it; if faulty or sinful he will not get there; if he looks behind he will not get there; if he prefers his family he will not enter Pali-uli." "Among other adornments of the Polynesian Paradise, the Kalana-i-hau-ola, there grew the _Ulu kapu a Kane_, the breadfruit tabooed for Kane, and the _ohia hemolele_, the sacred apple-tree. The priests of the olden time are said to have held that the tabooed fruits of these trees were in some manner connected with the trouble and death of Kumuhonua and Lalahonua, the first man and the first woman. Hence in the ancient chants he is called _Kane-laa-uli, Kumu-uli, Kulu-ipo_, the fallen chief, he who fell on account of the tree, or names of similar import." According to those legends of Kumuhonua and Wela-ahi-lani, "at the time when the gods created the stars, they also created a multitude of angels, or spirits (_i kini akua_), who were not created like men, but made from the spittle of the gods (_i kuhaia_), to be their servants or messengers. These spirits, or a number of them, disobeyed and revolted, because they were denied the _awa_; which means that they were not permitted to be worshipped, _awa_ being a sacrificial offering and sign of worship. These evil spirits did not prevail, however, but were conquered by Kane, and thrust down into uttermost darkness (_ilalo loa i ka po_). The chief of these spirits was called by some Kanaloa, by others Milu, the ruler of Po; Akua ino; Kupu ino, the evil spirit. Other legends, however, state that the veritable and primordial lord of the Hawaiian inferno was called Manua. The inferno itself bore a number of names, such as Po-pau-ole, Po-kua-kini, Po-kini-kini, Po-papa-ia-owa, Po-ia-milu. Milu, according to those other legends, was a chief of superior wickedness on earth who was thrust down into Po, but who was really both inferior and posterior to Manua. This inferno, this Po, with many names, one of which remarkably enough was _Ke-po-lua-ahi_, the pit of fire, was not an entirely dark place. There was light of some kind and there was fire. The legends further tell us that when Kane, Ku, and Lono were creating the first man from the earth, Kanaloa was present, and in imitation of Kane, attempted to make another man out of the earth. When his clay model was ready, he called to it to become alive, but no life came to it. Then Kanaloa became very angry, and said to Kane, 'I will take your man, and he shall die,' and so it happened. Hence the first man got his other name _Kumu-uli_, which means a fallen chief, _he 'lii kahuli_.... With the Hawaiians, Kanaloa is the personified spirit of evil, the origin of death, the prince of Po, or chaos, and yet a revolted, disobedient spirit, who was conquered and punished by Kane. The introduction and worship of Kanaloa, as one of the great gods in the Hawaiian group, can be traced back only to the time of the immigration from the southern groups, some eight hundred years ago. In the more ancient chants he is never mentioned in conjunction with Kane, Ku, and Lono, and even in later Hawaiian mythology he never took precedence of Kane. The Hawaiian legend states that the oldest son of Kumuhonua, the first man, was called Laka, and that the next was called Ahu, and that Laka was a bad man; he killed his brother Ahu. "There are these different Hawaiian genealogies, going back with more or less agreement among themselves to the first created man. The genealogy of Kumuhonua gives thirteen generations inclusive to Nuu, or Kahinalii, or the line of Laka, the oldest son of Kumuhonua. (The line of Seth from Adam to Noah counts ten generations.) The second genealogy, called that of Kumu-uli, was of greatest authority among the highest chiefs down to the latest times, and it was taboo to teach it to the common people. This genealogy counts fourteen generations from Huli-houna, the first man, to Nuu, or Nana-nuu, but inclusive, on the line of Laka. The third genealogy, which, properly speaking, is that of Paao, the high-priest who came with Pili from Tahiti, about twenty-five generations ago, and was a reformer of the Hawaiian priesthood, and among whose descendants it has been preserved, counts only twelve generations from Kumuhonua to Nuu, on the line of Kapili, youngest son of Kumuhonua." "In the Hawaiian group there are several legends of the Flood. One legend relates that in the time of Nuu, or Nana-nuu (also pronounced _lana_, that is, floating), the flood, _Kaiakahinalii_, came upon the earth, and destroyed all living beings; that Nuu, by command of his god, built a large vessel with a house on top of it, which was called and is referred to in chants as '_He waa halau Alii o ka Moku_,' the royal vessel, in which he and his family, consisting of his wife, Lilinoe, his three sons and their wives, were saved. When the flood subsided, Kane, Ku, and Lono entered the _waa halau_ of Nuu, and told him to go out. He did so, and found himself on the top of Mauna Kea (the highest mountain on the island of Hawaii). He called a cave there after the name of his wife, and the cave remains there to this day--as the legend says in testimony of the fact. Other versions of the legend say that Nuu landed and dwelt in Kahiki-honua-kele, a large and extensive country." ... "Nuu left the vessel in the evening of the day and took with him a pig, cocoanuts, and _awa_ as an offering to the god Kane. As he looked up he saw the moon in the sky. He thought it was the god, saying to himself, 'You are Kane, no doubt, though you have transformed yourself to my sight.' So he worshipped the moon, and offered his offerings. Then Kane descended on the rainbow and spoke reprovingly to Nuu, but on account of the mistake Nuu escaped punishment, having asked pardon of Kane." ... "Nuu's three sons were Nalu-akea, Nalu-hoo-hua, and Nalu-mana-mana. In the tenth generation from Nuu arose Lua-nuu, or the second Nuu, known also in the legend as Kane-hoa-lani, Kupule, and other names. The legend adds that by command of his god he was the first to introduce circumcision to be practised among his descendants. He left his native home and moved a long way off until he reached a land called Honua-ilalo, 'the southern country.' Hence he got the name Lalo-kona, and his wife was called Honua-po-ilalo. He was the father of Ku-nawao by his slave-woman Ahu (O-ahu) and of Kalani-menehune by his wife, Mee-hewa. Another says that the god Kane ordered Lua-nuu to go up on a mountain and perform a sacrifice there. Lua-nuu looked among the mountains of Kahiki-ku, but none of them appeared suitable for the purpose. Then Lua-nuu inquired of God where he might find a proper place. God replied to him: 'Go travel to the eastward, and where you find a sharp-peaked hill projecting precipitously into the ocean, that is the hill for the sacrifice.' Then Lua-nuu and his son, Kupulu-pulu-a-Nuu, and his servant, Pili-lua-nuu, started off in their boat to the eastward. In remembrance of this event the Hawaiians called the back of Kualoa _Koo-lau_; Oahu (after one of Lua-nuu's names), _Kane-hoa-lani_; and the smaller hills in front of it were named _Kupu-pulu_ and _Pili-lua-nuu_. Lua-nuu is the tenth descendant from Nuu by both the oldest and the youngest of Nuu's sons. This oldest son is represented to have been the progenitor of the _Kanaka-maoli_, the people living on the mainland of Kane (_Aina kumupuaa a Kane_): the youngest was the progenitor of the white people (_ka poe keo keo maoli_). This Lua-nuu (like Abraham, the tenth from Noah, also like Abraham), through his grandson, Kini-lau-a-mano, became the ancestor of the twelve children of the latter, and the original founder of the Menehune people, from whom this legend makes the Polynesian family descend." The Rev. Sheldon Dibble, in his history of the Sandwich Islands, published at Lahainaluna, in 1843, gives a tradition which very much resembles the history of Joseph. "Waikelenuiaiku was one of ten brethren who had one sister. They were all the children of one father, whose name was Waiku. Waikelenuiaiku was much beloved by his father, but his brethren hated him. On account of their hatred they carried him and cast him into a pit belonging to Holonaeole. The oldest brother had pity on him, and gave charge to Holonaeole to take good care of him. Waikelenuiaiku escaped and fled to a country over which reigned a king whose name was Kamohoalii. There he was thrown into a dark place, a pit under ground, in which many persons were confined for various crimes. Whilst confined in this dark place he told his companions to dream dreams and tell them to him. The night following four of the prisoners had dreams. The first dreamed that he saw a ripe _ohia_ (native apple), and his spirit ate it; the second dreamed that he saw a ripe banana, and his spirit ate it; the third dreamed that he saw a hog, and his spirit ate it; and the fourth dreamed that he saw _awa_, pressed out the juice, and his spirit drank it. The first three dreams, pertaining to food, Waikelenuiaiku interpreted unfavorably, and told the dreamers they must prepare to die. The fourth dream, pertaining to drink, he interpreted to signify deliverance and life. The first three dreamers were slain according to the interpretation, and the fourth was delivered and saved. Afterward this last dreamer told Kamohoalii, the king of the land, how wonderful was the skill of Waikelenuiaiku in interpreting dreams, and the king sent and delivered him from prison and made him a principal chief in his kingdom." Judge Fornander alludes to this legend, giving the name, however, _Aukelenui-a-Iku_, and adding to it the account of the hero's journey to the place where the water of life was kept (_ka-wai-ola-loa-a-Kane_), his obtaining it and therewith resuscitating his brothers, who had been killed by drowning some years before. Another striking similarity is that furnished to Judge Fornander in the legend of _Ke-alii-waha-nui_: "He was king of the country called Honua-i-lalo. He oppressed the Menehune people. Their god Kane sent Kane-apua and Kaneloa, his elder brother, to bring the people away, and take them to the land which Kane had given them, and which was called _Ka aina momona a Kane_, or _Ka one lauena a Kane_, and also _Ka aina i ka haupo a Kane_. The people were then told to observe the four Ku days in the beginning of the month as _Kapu-hoano_ (sacred or holy days), in remembrance of this event, because they thus arose (_Ku_) to depart from that land. Their offerings on the occasion were swine and goats." The narrator of the legend explains that formerly there were goats without horns, called _malailua_, on the slopes of Mauna Loa on Hawaii, and that they were found there up to the time of Kamehameha I. The legend further relates that after leaving the land of Honualalo, the people came to the _Kai-ula-a-Kane_ (the Red Sea of Kane); that they were pursued by Ke-alii-waha-nui; that Kane-apua and Kanaloa prayed to Lono, and finally reached the _Aina lauena a Kane_. "In the famous Hawaiian legend of _Hiiaka-i-ka-poli-o-Pele_, it is said that when Hiiaka went to the island of Kauai to recover and restore to life the body of Lohiau, the lover of her sister, Pele, she arrived at the foot of the Kalalau Mountain shortly before sunset. Being told by her friends at Haena that there would not be daylight sufficient to climb the _pali_ (precipice) and get the body out of the cave in which it was hidden, she prayed to her gods to keep the sun stationary (_i ka muli o Hea_) over the brook Hea, until she had accomplished her object. The prayer was heard, the mountain was climbed, the guardians of the cave vanquished, and the body recovered." A story of retarding the sun and making the day longer to accomplish his purpose is told of Maui-a-kalana, according to Dibble's history. Judge Fornander alludes to one other legend with incidents similar to the Old Testament history wherein "Na-ula-a-Mainea, an Oahu prophet, left Oahu for Kauai, was upset in his canoe, was swallowed by a whale, and thrown up alive on the beach at Wailua, Kauai." Judge Fornander says that, when he first heard the legend of the two brother prophets delivering the Menehune people, "he was inclined to doubt its genuineness and to consider it as a paraphrase or adaptation of the Biblical account by some semi-civilized or semi-Christianized Hawaiian, after the discovery of the group by Captain Cook. But a larger and better acquaintance with Hawaiian folk-lore has shown that though the details of the legend, as interpreted by the Christian Hawaiian from whom it was received, may possibly in some degree, and unconsciously to him, perhaps, have received a Biblical coloring, yet the main facts of the legend, with the identical names of persons and places, are referred to more or less distinctly in other legends of undoubted antiquity." And the Rev. Mr. Dibble, in his history, says of these Hawaiian legends, that "they were told to the missionaries before the Bible was translated into the Hawaiian tongue, and before the people knew much of sacred history. The native who acted as assistant in translating the history of Joseph was forcibly struck with its similarity to their ancient tradition. Neither is there the least room for supposing that the songs referred to are recent inventions. They can all be traced back for generations, and are known by various persons residing on different islands who have had no communication with each other. Some of them have their date in the reign of some ancient king, and others have existed time out of mind. It may also be added, that both their narrations and songs are known the best by the very oldest of the people, and those who never learned to read; whose education and training were under the ancient system of heathenism." "Two hypotheses," says Judge Fornander, "may with some plausibility be suggested to account for this remarkable resemblance of folk-lore. One is, that during the time of the Spanish galleon trade, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, between the Spanish Main and Manila, some shipwrecked people, Spaniards and Portuguese, had obtained sufficient influence to introduce these scraps of Bible history into the legendary lore of this people.... On this fact hypothesis I remark that, if the shipwrecked foreigners were educated men, or only possessed of such Scriptural knowledge as was then imparted to the commonality of laymen, it is morally impossible to conceive that a Spaniard of the sixteenth century should confine his instruction to some of the leading events of the Old Testament, and be totally silent upon the Christian dispensation, and the cruciolatry, mariolatry, and hagiolatry of that day. And it is equally impossible to conceive that the Hawaiian listeners, chiefs, priests, or commoners, should have retained and incorporated so much of the former in their own folk-lore, and yet have utterly forgotten every item bearing upon the latter. "The other hypothesis is, that at some remote period either a body of the scattered Israelites had arrived at these islands direct, or in Malaysia, before the exodus of 'the Polynesian family,' and thus imparted a knowledge of their doctrines, of the early life of their ancestors, and of some of their peculiar customs, and that having been absorbed by the people among whom they found a refuge, this is all that remains to attest their presence--intellectual tombstones over a lost and forgotten race, yet sufficient after twenty-six centuries of silence to solve in some measure the ethnic puzzle of the lost tribes of Israel. In regard to this second hypothesis, it is certainly more plausible and cannot be so curtly disposed of as the Spanish theory.... So far from being copied one from the other, they are in fact independent and original versions of a once common legend, or series of legends, held alike by Cushite, Semite, Turanian, and Aryan, up to a certain time, when the divergencies of national life and other causes brought other subjects peculiar to each other prominently in the foreground; and that as these divergencies hardened into system and creed, that grand old heirloom of a common past became overlaid and colored by the peculiar social and religious atmosphere through which it has passed up to the surface of the present time. But besides this general reason for refusing to adopt the Israelitish theory, that the Polynesian legends were introduced by fugitive or emigrant Hebrews from the subverted kingdoms of Israel or Judah, there is the more special reason to be added that the organization and splendor of Solomon's empire, his temple, and his wisdom became proverbial among the nations of the East subsequent to his time; on all these, the Polynesian legends are absolutely silent." In commenting on the legend of _Hiiaka-i-ka-poli-o-Pele_, Judge Fornander says: "If the Hebrew legend of Joshua or a Cushite version give rise to it, it only brings down the community of legends a little later in time. And so would the legend of _Naulu-a-Mahea_,... unless the legend of Jonah, with which it corresponds in a measure, as well as the previous legend of Joshua and the sun, were Hebrew anachronisms compiled and adapted in later times from long antecedent materials, of which the Polynesian references are but broken and distorted echoes, bits of legendary mosaics, displaced from their original surroundings and made to fit with later associations." In regard to the account of the Creation, he remarks that "the Hebrew legend infers that the god Elohim existed contemporaneously with and apart from the chaos. The Hawaiian legend makes the three great gods, Kane, Ku, and Lono, evolve themselves out of chaos.... The order of creation, according to Hawaiian folk-lore, was that after Heaven and earth had been separated, and the ocean had been stocked with its animals, the stars were created, then the moon, then the sun." Alluding to the fact that the account in Genesis is truer to nature, Judge Fornander nevertheless propounds the inquiry whether this fact may not "indicate that the Hebrew text is a later emendation of an older but once common tradition"? Highest antiquity is claimed for Hawaiian traditions in regard to events subsequent to the creation of man. "In one of the sacrificial hymns of the Marquesans, when human victims were offered, frequent allusions were made to 'the red apples eaten in Naoau,' ... and to the 'tabooed apples of Atea,' as the cause of death, wars, pestilence, famine, and other calamities, only to be averted or atoned for by the sacrifice of human victims. The close connection between the Hawaiian and the Marquesan legends indicates a common origin, and that origin can be no other than that from which the Chaldean and Hebrew legends of sacred trees, disobedience, and fall also sprang." In comparison of "the Hawaiian myth of Kanaloa as a fallen angel antagonistic to the great gods, as the spirit of evil and death in the world, the Hebrew legends are more vague and indefinite as to the existence of an evil principle. The serpent of Genesis, the Satan of Job, the Hillel of Isaiah, the dragon of the Apocalypse--all point, however, to the same underlying idea that the first cause of sin, death, evil, and calamities, was to be found in disobedience and revolt from God. They appear as disconnected scenes of a once grand drama that in olden times riveted the attention of mankind, and of which, strange to say, the clearest synopsis and the most coherent recollection are, so far, to be found in Polynesian traditions. It is probably in vain to inquire with whom the legend of an evil spirit and his operations in Heaven and on earth had its origin. Notwithstanding the apparent unity of design and remarkable coincidence in many points, yet the differences in coloring, detail, and presentation are too great to suppose the legend borrowed by one from either of the others. It probably descended to the Chaldeans, Polynesians, and Hebrews alike, from a source or people anterior to themselves, of whom history now is silent." II EXPLOITS OF MAUI _Rev. A. O. Forbes_ I.--SNARING THE SUN Maui was the son of Hina-lau-ae and Hina, and they dwelt at a place called Makalia, above Kahakuloa, on West Maui. Now, his mother Hina made _kapas_. And as she spread them out to dry, the days were so short that she was put to great trouble and labor in hanging them out and taking them in day after day until they were dry. Maui, seeing this, was filled with pity for her, for the days were so short that, no sooner had she got her kapas all spread out to dry, than the Sun went down, and she had to take them in again. So he determined to make the Sun go slower. He first went to Wailohi, in Hamakua, on East Maui, to observe the motions of the Sun. There he saw that it rose toward Hana. He then went up on Haleakala, and saw that the Sun in its course came directly over that mountain. He then went home again, and after a few days went to a place called Paeloko, at Waihee. There he cut down all the cocoanut-trees, and gathered the fibre of the cocoanut husks in great quantity. This he manufactured into strong cord. One Moemoe, seeing this, said tauntingly to him: "Thou wilt never catch the Sun. Thou art an idle nobody." Maui answered: "When I conquer my enemy, and my desire is attained, I will be your death." So he went up Haleakala again, taking his cord with him. And when the Sun arose above where he was stationed, he prepared a noose of the cord and, casting it, snared one of the Sun's larger beams and broke it off. And thus he snared and broke off, one after another, all the strong rays of the Sun. Then shouted he exultingly: "Thou art my captive, and now I will kill thee for thy going so swiftly." And the Sun said: "Let me live, and thou shalt see me go more slowly hereafter. Behold, hast thou not broken off all my strong legs, and left me only the weak ones?" So the agreement was made, and Maui permitted the Sun to pursue its course, and from that time on it went more slowly; and that is the reason why the days are longer at one season of the year than at another. It was this that gave the name to that mountain, which should properly be called _Alehe-ka-la_ (sun snarer), and not _Haleakala_. When Maui returned from this exploit, he went to find Moemoe, who had reviled him. But that individual was not at home. He went on in his pursuit till he came upon him at a place called Kawaiopilopilo, on the shore to the eastward of the black rock called Kekaa, north of Lahaina. Moemoe dodged him up hill and down, until at last Maui, growing wroth, leaped upon and slew the fugitive. And the dead body was transformed into a long rock, which is there to this day, by the side of the road. II.--THE ORIGIN OF FIRE Maui and Hina dwelt together, and to them were born four sons, whose names were Maui-mua, Maui-hope, Maui-kiikii, and Maui-o-ka-lana. These four were fishermen. One morning, just as the edge of the Sun lifted itself up, Maui-mua roused his brethren to go fishing. So they launched their canoe from the beach at Kaupo, on the island of Maui, where they were dwelling, and proceeded to the fishing ground. Having arrived there, they were beginning to fish, when Maui-o-ka-lana saw the light of a fire on the shore they had left, and said to his brethren: "Behold, there is a fire burning. Whose can this fire be?" And they answered: "Whose, indeed? Let us return to the shore, that we may get our food cooked; but first let us get some fish." So, after they had obtained some fish, they turned toward the shore; and when the canoe touched the beach Maui-mua leaped ashore and ran toward the spot where the fire had been burning. Now, the curly-tailed _alae_ (mud-hens) were the keepers of the fire; and when they saw him coming they scratched the fire out and flew away. Maui-mua was defeated, and returned to the house to his brethren. Then said they to him: "How about the fire?" "How, indeed?" he answered. "When I got there, behold, there was no fire; it was out. I supposed some man had the fire, and behold, it was not so; the alae are the proprietors of the fire, and our bananas are all stolen." When they heard that, they were filled with anger, and decided not to go fishing again, but to wait for the next appearance of the fire. But after many days had passed without their seeing the fire, they went fishing again, and behold, there was the fire! And so they were continually tantalized. Only when they were out fishing would the fire appear, and when they returned they could not find it. This was the way of it. The curly-tailed alae knew that Maui and Hina had only these four sons, and if any of them stayed on shore to watch the fire while the others were out in the canoe the alae knew it by counting those in the canoe, and would not light the fire. Only when they could count four men in the canoe would they light the fire. So Maui-mua thought it over, and said to his brethren: "To-morrow morning do you go fishing, and I will stay ashore. But do you take the calabash and dress it in kapa, and put it in my place in the canoe, and then go out to fish." They did so, and when they went out to fish the next morning, the alae counted and saw four figures in the canoe, and then they lit the fire and put the bananas on to roast. Before they were fully baked one of the alae cried out: "Our dish is cooked! Behold, Hina has a smart son." And with that, Maui-mua, who had stolen close to them unperceived, leaped forward, seized the curly-tailed alae and exclaimed: "Now I will kill you, you scamp of an alae! Behold, it is you who are keeping the fire from us. I will be the death of you for this." Then answered the alae: "If you kill me the secret dies with me, and you won't get the fire." As Maui-mua began to wring its neck, the alae again spoke, and said: "Let me live, and you shall have the fire." So Maui-mua said: "Tell me, where is the fire?" The alae replied: "It is in the leaf of the a-pe plant" (_Alocasia macrorrhiza_). So, by the direction of the alae, Maui-mua began to rub the leaf-stalk of the a-pe plant with a piece of stick, but the fire would not come. Again he asked: "Where is this fire that you are hiding from me?" The alae answered: "In a green stick." And he rubbed a green stick, but got no fire. So it went on, until finally the alae told him he would find it in a dry stick; and so, indeed, he did. But Maui-mua, in revenge for the conduct of the alae, after he had got the fire from the dry stick, said: "Now, there is one thing more to try." And he rubbed the top of the alae's head till it was red with blood, and the red spot remains there to this day. III PELE AND THE DELUGE _Rev. A. O. Forbes_ All volcanic phenomena are associated in Hawaiian legendary lore with the goddess Pele; and it is a somewhat curious fact that to the same celebrated personage is also attributed a great flood that occurred in ancient times. The legends of this flood are various, but mainly connected with the doings of Pele in this part of the Pacific Ocean. The story runs thus: Kahinalii was the mother of Pele; Kanehoalani was her father; and her two brothers were Kamohoalii and Kahuilaokalani. Pele was born in the land of Hapakuela, a far-distant land at the edge of the sky, toward the southwest. There she lived with her parents until she was grown up, when she married Wahialoa; and to these were born a daughter named Laka, and a son named Menehune. But after a time Pele's husband, Wahialoa, was enticed away from her by Pele-kumulani. The deserted Pele, being much displeased and troubled in mind on account of her husband, started on her travels in search of him, and came in the direction of the Hawaiian Islands. Now, at that time these islands were a vast waste. There was no sea, nor was there any fresh water. When Pele set out on her journey, her parents gave her the sea to go with her and bear her canoes onward. So she sailed forward, flood-borne by the sea, until she reached the land of Pakuela, and thence onward to the land of Kanaloa. From her head she poured forth the sea as she went, and her brothers composed the celebrated ancient mele: O the sea, the great sea! Forth bursts the sea: Behold, it bursts on Kanaloa! But the waters of the sea continued to rise until only the highest points of the great mountains, Haleakala, Maunakea, and Maunaloa, were visible; all else was covered. Afterward the sea receded until it reached its present level. This event is called the _Kai a Kahinalii_ (Sea of Kahinalii), because it was from Kahinalii, her mother, that Pele received the gift of the sea, and she herself only brought it to Hawaii. And from that time to this, Pele and all her family forsook their former land of Hapakuela and have dwelt in Hawaii-nei, Pele coming first and the rest following at a later time. On her first arrival at Hawaii-nei, Pele dwelt on the island of Kauai. From there she went to Kalaupapa, [1] on the island of Molokai, and dwelt in the crater of Kauhako at that place; thence she departed to Puulaina, [2] near Lahainaluna, where she dug out that crater. Afterward she moved still further to Haleakala, where she stayed until she hollowed out that great crater; and finally she settled at Kilauea, on the island of Hawaii, where she has remained ever since. [3] IV PELE AND KAHAWALI _From Ellis's "Tour of Hawaii"_ In the reign of Kealiikukii, an ancient king of Hawaii, Kahawali, chief of Puna, and one of his favorite companions went one day to amuse themselves with the _holua_ (sled), on the sloping side of a hill, which is still called _ka holua ana o Kahawali_ (Kahawali's sliding-place). Vast numbers of the people gathered at the bottom of the hill to witness the game, and a company of musicians and dancers repaired thither to add to the amusement of the spectators. The performers began their dance, and amidst the sound of drums and the songs of the musicians the sledding of Kahawali and his companion commenced. The hilarity of the occasion attracted the attention of Pele, the goddess of the volcano, who came down from Kilauea to witness the sport. Standing on the summit of the hill in the form of a woman, she challenged Kahawali to slide with her. He accepted the offer, and they set off together down the hill. Pele, less acquainted with the art of balancing herself on the narrow sled than her rival, was beaten, and Kahawali was applauded by the spectators as he returned up the side of the hill. Before starting again, Pele asked him to give her his _papa holua_, but he, supposing from her appearance that she was no more than a native woman, said: "_Aole!_ (no!) Are you my wife, that you should obtain my sled?" And, as if impatient at being delayed, he adjusted his papa, ran a few yards to take a spring, and then, with this momentum and all his strength he threw himself upon it and shot down the hill. Pele, incensed at his answer, stamped her foot on the ground and an earthquake followed, which rent the hill in sunder. She called, and fire and liquid lava arose, and, assuming her supernatural form, with these irresistible ministers of vengeance, she followed down the hill. When Kahawali reached the bottom, he arose, and on looking behind saw Pele, accompanied by thunder and lightning, earthquake, and streams of burning lava, closely pursuing him. He took up his broad spear which he had stuck in the ground at the beginning of the game, and, accompanied by his friend, fled for his life. The musicians, dancers, and crowds of spectators were instantly overwhelmed by the fiery torrent, which, bearing on its foremost wave the enraged goddess, continued to pursue Kahawali and his companion. They ran till they came to an eminence called Puukea. Here Kahawali threw off his cloak of netted ki leaves and proceeded toward his house, which stood near the shore. He met his favorite pig and saluted it by touching noses, then ran to the house of his mother, who lived at Kukii, saluted her by touching noses, and said: "_Aloha ino oe, eia ihonei paha oe e make ai, ke ai mainei Pele._" (Compassion great to you! Close here, perhaps, is your death; Pele comes devouring.) Leaving her, he met his wife, Kanakawahine, and saluted her. The burning torrent approached, and she said: "Stay with me here, and let us die together." He said: "No; I go, I go." He then saluted his two children, Poupoulu and Kaohe, and said, "_Ke ue nei au ia olua_." (I grieve for you two.) The lava rolled near, and he ran till a deep chasm arrested his progress. He laid down his spear and walked over on it in safety. His friend called out for his help; he held out his spear over the chasm; his companion took hold of it and he drew him securely over. By this time Pele was coming down the chasm with accelerated motion. He ran till he reached Kula. Here he met his sister, Koai, but had only time to say, _"Aloha oe!"_ (Alas for you!) and then ran on to the shore. His younger brother had just landed from his fishing-canoe, and had hastened to his house to provide for the safety of his family, when Kahawali arrived. He and his friend leaped into the canoe, and with his broad spear paddled out to sea. Pele, perceiving his escape, ran to the shore and hurled after him, with prodigious force, great stones and fragments of rock, which fell thickly around but did not strike his canoe. When he had paddled a short distance from the shore the _kumukahi_ (east wind) sprung up. He fixed his broad spear upright in the canoe, that it might answer the double purpose of mast and sail, and by its aid he soon reached the island of Maui, where they rested one night and then proceeded to Lanai. The day following they moved on to Molokai, thence to Oahu, the abode of Kolonohailaau, his father, and Kanewahinekeaho, his sister, to whom he related his disastrous perils, and with whom he took up his permanent abode. V HIKU AND KAWELU _J. S. Emerson_ Not far from the summit of Hualalai, on the island of Hawaii, in the cave on the southern side of the ridge, lived Hina and her son, the _kupua_, or demigod, Hiku. All his life long as a child and a youth, Hiku had lived alone with his mother on this mountain summit, and had never once been permitted to descend to the plains below to see the abodes of men and to learn of their ways. From time to time, his quick ear had caught the sound of the distant _hula_ (drum) and the voices of the gay merrymakers. Often had he wished to see the fair forms of those who danced and sang in those far-off cocoanut groves. But his mother, more experienced in the ways of the world, had never given her consent. Now, at length, he felt that he was a man, and as the sounds of mirth arose on his ears, again he asked his mother to let him go for himself and mingle with the people on the shore. His mother, seeing that his mind was made up to go, reluctantly gave her consent and warned him not to stay too long, but to return in good time. So, taking in his hand his faithful arrow, _Pua Ne_, which he always carried, he started off. This arrow was a sort of talisman, possessed of marvellous powers, among which were the ability to answer his call and by its flight to direct his journey. Thus he descended over the rough clinker lava and through the groves of koa that cover the southwestern flank of the mountain, until, nearing its base, he stood on a distant hill; and consulting his arrow, he shot it far into the air, watching its bird-like flight until it struck on a distant hill above Kailua. To this hill he rapidly directed his steps, and, picking up his arrow in due time, he again shot it into the air. The second flight landed the arrow near the coast of Holualoa, some six or eight miles south of Kailua. It struck on a barren waste of _pahoehoe_, or lava rock, beside the waterhole of _Waikalai_, known also as the _Wai a Hiku_ (Water of Hiku), where to this day all the people of that vicinity go to get their water for man and beast. Here he quenched his thirst, and nearing the village of Holualoa, again shot the arrow, which, instinct with life, entered the courtyard of the _alii_ or chief, of Kona, and from among the women who were there singled out the fair princess Kawelu, and landed at her feet. Seeing the noble bearing of Hiku as he approached to claim his arrow, she stealthily hid it and challenged him to find it. Then Hiku called to the arrow, "_Pua ne! Pua ne!_" and the arrow replied, "_Ne!_" thus revealing its hiding-place. This exploit with the arrow and the remarkable grace and personal beauty of the young man quite won the heart of the princess, and she was soon possessed by a strong passion for him, and determined to make him her husband. With her wily arts she detained him for several days at her home, and when at last he was about to start for the mountain, she shut him up in the house and thus detained him by force. But the words of his mother, warning him not to remain too long, came to his mind, and he determined to break away from his prison. So he climbed up to the roof, and removing a portion of the thatch, made his escape. When his flight was discovered by Kawelu, the infatuated girl was distracted with grief. Refusing to be comforted, she tasted no food, and ere many days had passed was quite dead. Messengers were despatched who brought back the unhappy Hiku, author of all this sorrow. Bitterly he wept over the corpse of his beloved, but it was now too late; the spirit had departed to the nether world, ruled over by Milu. And now, stung by the reproaches of her kindred and friends for his desertion, and urged on by his real love for the fair one, he resolved to attempt the perilous descent into the nether world and, if possible, to bring her spirit back. With the assistance of her friends, he collected from the mountain slope a great quantity of the _kowali_, or convolvulus vine. He also prepared a hollow cocoanut shell, splitting it into two closely fitting parts. Then anointing himself with a mixture of rancid cocoanut and kukui oil, which gave him a very strong corpse-like odor, he started with his companions in the well-loaded canoes for a point in the sea where the sky comes down to meet the water. Arrived at the spot, he directed his comrades to lower him into the abyss called by the Hawaiians the _Lua o Milu_. Taking with him his cocoanut-shell and seating himself astride of the cross-stick of the swing, or kowali, he was quickly lowered down by the long rope of kowali vines held by his friends in the canoe above. Soon he entered the great cavern where the shades of the departed were gathered together. As he came among them, their curiosity was aroused to learn who he was. And he heard many remarks, such as "Whew! what an odor this corpse emits!" "He must have been long dead." He had rather overdone the matter of the rancid oil. Even Milu himself, as he sat on the bank watching the crowd, was completely deceived by the stratagem, for otherwise he never would have permitted this bold descent of a living man into his gloomy abode. The Hawaiian swing, it should be remarked, unlike ours, has but one rope supporting the cross-stick on which the person is seated. Hiku and his swing attracted considerable attention from the lookers-on. One shade in particular watched him most intently; it was his sweetheart, Kawelu. A mutual recognition took place, and with the permission of Milu she darted up to him and swung with him on the kowali. But even she had to avert her face on account of his corpse-like odor. As they were enjoying together this favorite Hawaiian pastime of _lele kowali_, by a preconcerted signal the friends above were informed of the success of his ruse and were now rapidly drawing them up. At first she was too much absorbed in the sport to notice this. When at length her attention was aroused by seeing the great distance of those beneath her, like a butterfly she was about to flit away, when the crafty Hiku, who was ever on the alert, clapped the cocoanut-shells together, imprisoning her within them, and was then quickly drawn up to the canoes above. With their precious burden, they returned to the shores of Holualoa, where Hiku landed and at once repaired to the house where still lay the body of his beloved. Kneeling by its side, he made a hole in the great toe of the left foot, into which with great difficulty he forced the reluctant spirit, and in spite of its desperate struggles he tied up the wound so that it could not escape from the cold, clammy flesh in which it was now imprisoned. Then he began to _lomilomi_, or rub and chafe the foot, working the spirit further and further up the limb. Gradually, as the heart was reached, the blood began once more to flow through the body, the chest began gently to heave with the breath of life, and soon the spirit gazed out through the eyes. Kawelu was now restored to consciousness, and seeing her beloved Hiku bending tenderly over her, she opened her lips and said: "How could you be so cruel as to leave me?" All remembrance of the Lua o Milu and of her meeting him there had disappeared, and she took up the thread of consciousness just where she had left it a few days before at death. Great joy filled the hearts of the people of Holualoa as they welcomed back to their midst the fair Kawelu and the hero, Hiku, from whom she was no more to be separated. LOCATION OF THE LUA O MILU In the myth of Hiku and Kawelu, the entrance to the Lua o Milu is placed out to sea opposite Holualoa and a few miles south of Kailua. But the more usual account of the natives is, that it was situated at the mouth of the great valley of Waipio, in a place called Keoni, where the sands have long since covered up and concealed from view this passage from the upper to the nether world. Every year, so it is told, the procession of ghosts called by the natives _Oio_, marches in solemn state down the Mahiki road, and at this point enters the Lua o Milu. A man, recently living in Waimea, of the best reputation for veracity, stated that about thirty or more years ago, he actually saw this ghostly company. He was walking up this road in the evening, when he saw at a distance the _Oio_ appear, and knowing that should they encounter him his death would be inevitable, he discreetly hid himself behind a tree and, trembling with fear, gazed in silence at the dread spectacle. There was Kamehameha, the conqueror, with all his chiefs and warriors in military array, thousands of heroes who had won renown in the olden time. Though all were silent as the grave, they kept perfect step as they marched along, and passing through the woods down to Waipio, disappeared from his view. In connection with the foregoing, Professor W. D. Alexander kindly contributes the following: "The valley of Waipio is a place frequently celebrated in the songs and traditions of Hawaii, as having been the abode of Akea and Milu, the first kings of the island.... "Some said that the souls of the departed went to the _Po_ (place of night), and were annihilated or eaten by the gods there. Others said that some went to the regions of Akea and Milu. Akea (Wakea), they said, was the first king of Hawaii. At the expiration of his reign, which terminated with his life at Waipio, where we then were, he descended to a region far below, called Kapapahanaumoku (the island bearing rock or stratum), and founded a kingdom there. Milu, who was his successor, and reigned in Hamakua, descended, when he died, to Akea and shared the government of the place with him. Their land is a place of darkness; their food lizards and butterflies. There are several streams of water, of which they drink, and some said that there were large kahilis and wide-spreading kou trees, beneath which they reclined." [4] "They had some very indistinct notion of a future state of happiness and of misery. They said that, after death, the ghost went first to the region of Wakea, the name of their first reputed progenitor, and if it had observed the religious rites and ceremonies, was entertained and allowed to remain there. That was a place of houses, comforts, and pleasures. If the soul had failed to be religious, it found no one there to entertain it, and was forced to take a desperate leap into a place of misery below, called Milu. "There were several precipices, from the verge of which the unhappy ghosts were supposed to take the leap into the region of woe; three in particular, one at the northern extremity of Hawaii, one at the western termination of Maui, and the third at the northern point of Oahu." [5] Near the northwest point of Oahu is a rock called Leina Kauhane, where the souls of the dead descended into Hades. In New Zealand the same term, "Reinga" (the leaping place), is applied to the North Cape. The Marquesans have a similar belief in regard to the northermost island of their group, and apply the same term, "Reinga," to their Avernus. VI LONOPUHA; OR, ORIGIN OF THE ART OF HEALING IN HAWAII _Translated by Thos. G. Thrum_ During the time that Milu was residing at Waipio, Hawaii, the year of which is unknown, there came to these shores a number of people, with their wives, from that vague foreign land, Kahiki. But they were all of godly kind (_ano akua nae_), it is said, and drew attention as they journeyed from place to place. They arrived first at Niihau, and from there they travelled through all the islands. At Hawaii they landed at the south side, thence to Puna, Hilo, and settled at Kukuihaele, Hamakua, just above Waipio. On every island they visited there appeared various diseases, and many deaths resulted, so that it was said this was their doings, among the chiefs and people. The diseases that followed in their train were chills, fevers, headache, _pani_, and so on. These are the names of some of these people: Kaalaenuiahina, Kahuilaokalani, Kaneikaulanaula, besides others. They brought death, but one Kamakanuiahailono followed after them with healing powers. This was perhaps the origin of sickness and the art of healing with medicines in Hawaii. As has been said, diseases settled on the different islands like an epidemic, and the practice of medicine ensued, for Kamakanuiahailono followed them in their journeyings. He arrived at Kau, stopping at Kiolakaa, on the west side of Waiohinu, where a great multitude of people were residing, and Lono was their chief. The stranger sat on a certain hill, where many of the people visited him, for the reason that he was a newcomer, a custom that is continued to this day. While there he noticed the redness of skin of a certain one of them, and remarked, "Oh, the redness of skin of that man!" The people replied, "Oh, that is Lono, the chief of this land, and he is a farmer." He again spoke, asserting that his sickness was very great; for through the redness of the skin he knew him to be a sick man. They again replied that he was a healthy man, "but you consider him very sick." He then left the residents and set out on his journey. Some of those who heard his remarks ran and told the chief the strange words, "that he was a very sick man." On hearing this, Lono raised up his _oo_ (digger) and said, "Here I am, without any sign of disease, and yet I am sick." And as he brought down his _oo_ with considerable force, it struck his foot and pierced it through, causing the blood to flow freely, so that he fell and fainted away. At this, one of the men seized a pig and ran after the stranger, who, hearing the pig squealing, looked behind him and saw the man running with it; and as he neared him he dropped it before him, and told him of Lono's misfortune, Kamakanuiahailono then returned, gathering on the way the young popolo seeds and its tender leaves in his garment (_kihei_). When he arrived at the place where the wounded man was lying he asked for some salt, which he took and pounded together with the popolo and placed it with a cocoanut covering on the wound. From then till night the flowing of the blood ceased. After two or three weeks had elapsed he again took his departure. While he was leisurely journeying, some one breathing heavily approached him in the rear, and, turning around, there was the chief, and he asked him: "What is it, Lono, and where are you going?" Lono replied, "You healed me; therefore, as soon as you had departed I immediately consulted with my successors, and have resigned my offices to them, so that they will have control over all. As for myself, I followed after you, that you might teach me the art of healing." The _kahuna lapaau_ (medical priest) then said, "Open your mouth." When Lono opened his mouth, the kahuna spat into it, [6] by which he would become proficient in the calling he had chosen, and in which he eventually became, in fact, very skilful. As they travelled, he instructed Lono (on account of the accident to his foot he was called Lonopuha) in the various diseases, and the different medicines for the proper treatment of each. They journeyed through Kau, Puna, and Hilo, thence onward to Hamakua as far as Kukuihaele. Prior to their arrival there, Kamakanuiahailono said to Lonopuha, "It is better that we reside apart, lest your healing practice do not succeed; but you settle elsewhere, so as to gain recognition from your own skill." For this reason, Lonopuha went on farther and located in Waimanu, and there practised the art of healing. On account of his labors here, he became famous as a skilful healer, which fame Kamakanuiahailono and others heard of at Kukuihaele; but he never revealed to _Kaalaenuiahina ma_ (company) of his teaching of Lonopuha, through which he became celebrated. It so happened that _Kaalaenuiahina ma_ were seeking an occasion to cause Milu's death, and he was becoming sickly through their evil efforts. When Milu heard of the fame of Lonopuha as a skilful healer, because of those who were afflicted with disease and would have died but for his treatment, he sent his messenger after him. On arriving at Milu's house, Lonopuha examined and felt of him, and then said, "You will have no sickness, provided you be obedient to my teachings." He then exercised his art, and under his medical treatment Milu recovered. Lonopuha then said to him: "I have treated you, and you are well of the internal ailments you suffered under, and only that from without remains. Now, you must build a house of leaves and dwell therein in quietness for a few weeks, to recuperate." These houses are called _pipipi_, such being the place to which invalids are moved for convalescent treatment unless something unforeseen should occur. Upon Milu's removal thereto, Lonopuha advised him as follows: "O King! you are to dwell in this house according to the length of time directed, in perfect quietness; and should the excitement of sports with attendant loud cheering prevail here, I warn you against these as omens of evil for your death; and I advise you not to loosen the _ti_ leaves of your house to peep out to see the cause, for on the very day you do so, that day you will perish." Some two weeks had scarcely passed since the King had been confined in accordance with the kahuna's instructions, when noises from various directions in proximity to the King's dwelling were heard, but he regarded the advice of the priest all that day. The cause of the commotion was the appearance of two birds playing in the air, which so excited the people that they kept cheering them all that day. Three weeks had almost passed when loud cheering was again heard in Waipio, caused by a large bird decorated with very beautiful feathers, which flew out from the clouds and soared proudly over the _palis_ (precipices) of Koaekea and Kaholokuaiwa, and poised gracefully over the people; therefore, they cheered as they pursued it here and there. Milu was much worried thereby, and became so impatient that he could no longer regard the priest's caution; so he lifted some of the ti leaves of his house to look out at the bird, when instantly it made a thrust at him, striking him under the armpit, whereby his life was taken and he was dead (_lilo ai kona ola a make iho la_). The priest saw the bird flying with the liver of Milu; therefore, he followed after it. When it saw that it was pursued, it immediately entered into a sunken rock just above the base of the precipice of Koaekea. As he reached the place, the blood was spattered around where the bird had entered. Taking a piece of garment (_pahoola_), he soaked it with the blood and returned and placed it in the opening in the body of the dead King and poured healing medicine on the wound, whereby Milu recovered. And the place where the bird entered with Milu's liver has ever since been called Keakeomilu (the liver of Milu). A long while afterward, when this death of the King was as nothing (_i mea ole_), and he recovered as formerly, the priest refrained not from warning him, saying: "You have escaped from this death; there remains for you one other." After Milu became convalescent from his recent serious experience, a few months perhaps had elapsed, when the surf at Waipio became very high and was breaking heavily on the beach. This naturally caused much commotion and excitement among the people, as the numerous surf-riders, participating in the sport, would land upon the beach on their surf-boards. Continuous cheering prevailed, and the hilarity rendered Milu so impatient at the restraint put upon him by the priest that he forsook his wise counsel and joined in the exhilarating sport. Seizing a surf-board he swam out some distance to the selected spot for suitable surfs. Here he let the first and second combers pass him; but watching his opportunity he started with the momentum of the heavier third comber, catching the crest just right. Quartering on the rear of his board, he rode in with majestic swiftness, and landed nicely on the beach amid the cheers and shouts of the people. He then repeated the venture and was riding in as successfully, when, in a moment of careless abandon, at the place where the surfs finish as they break on the beach, he was thrust under and suddenly disappeared, while the surf-board flew from under and was thrown violently upon the shore. The people in amazement beheld the event, and wildly exclaimed: "Alas! Milu is dead! Milu is dead!" With sad wonderment they searched and watched in vain for his body. Thus was seen the result of repeated disobedience. VII A VISIT TO THE SPIRIT LAND; OR, THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF A WOMAN IN KONA, HAWAII _Mrs. E. N. Haley_ Kalima had been sick for many weeks, and at last died. Her friends gathered around her with loud cries of grief, and with many expressions of affection and sorrow at their loss they prepared her body for its burial. The grave was dug, and when everything was ready for the last rites and sad act, husband and friends came to take a final look at the rigid form and ashen face before it was laid away forever in the ground. The old mother sat on the mat-covered ground beside her child, brushing away the intrusive flies with a piece of cocoanut-leaf, and wiping away the tears that slowly rolled down her cheeks. Now and then she would break into a low, heart-rending wail, and tell in a sob-choked, broken voice, how good this her child had always been to her, how her husband loved her, and how her children would never have any one to take her place. "Oh, why," she cried, "did the gods leave me? I am old and heavy with years; my back is bent and my eyes are getting dark. I cannot work, and am too old and weak to enjoy fishing in the sea, or dancing and feasting under the trees. But this my child loved all these things, and was so happy. Why is she taken and I, so useless, left?" And again that mournful, sob-choked wail broke on the still air, and was borne out to the friends gathered under the trees before the door, and was taken up and repeated until the hardest heart would have softened and melted at the sound. As they sat around on the mats looking at their dead and listening to the old mother, suddenly Kalima moved, took a long breath, and opened her eyes. They were frightened at the miracle, but so happy to have her back again among them. The old mother raised her hands and eyes to heaven and, with rapt faith on her brown, wrinkled face, exclaimed: "The gods have let her come back! How they must love her!" Mother, husband, and friends gathered around and rubbed her hands and feet, and did what they could for her comfort. In a few minutes she revived enough to say, "I have something strange to tell you." Several days passed before she was strong enough to say more; then calling her relatives and friends about her, she told them the following weird and strange story: "I died, as you know. I seemed to leave my body and stand beside it, looking down on what _was_ me. The me that was standing there looked like the form I was looking at, only, I was alive and the other was dead. I gazed at my body for a few minutes, then turned and walked away. I left the house and village, and walked on and on to the next village, and there I found crowds of people,--Oh, so many people! The place which I knew as a small village of a few houses was a very large place, with hundreds of houses and thousands of men, women, and children. Some of them I knew and they spoke to me,--although that seemed strange, for I knew they were dead,--but nearly all were strangers. They were all so happy! They seemed not to have a care; nothing to trouble them. Joy was in every face, and happy laughter and bright, loving words were on every tongue. "I left that village and walked on to the next. I was not tired, for it seemed no trouble to walk. It was the same there; thousands of people, and every one so joyous and happy. Some of these I knew. I spoke to a few people, then went on again. I seemed to be on my way to the volcano,--to Pele's pit,--and could not stop, much as I wanted to do so. "All along the road were houses and people, where I had never known any one to live. Every bit of good ground had many houses, and many, many happy people on it. I felt so full of joy, too, that my heart sang within me, and I was glad to be dead. "In time I came to South Point, and there, too, was a great crowd of people. The barren point was a great village, I was greeted with happy _alohas_, then passed on. All through Kau it was the same, and I felt happier every minute. At last I reached the volcano. There were some people there, but not so many as at other places. They, too, were happy like the others, but they said, 'You must go back to your body. You are not to die yet.' "I did not want to go back. I begged and prayed to be allowed to stay with them, but they said, 'No, you must go back; and if you do not go willingly, we will make you go.' "I cried and tried to stay, but they drove me back, even beating me when I stopped and would not go on. So I was driven over the road I had come, back through all those happy people. They were still joyous and happy, but when they saw that I was not allowed to stay, they turned on me and helped drive me, too. "Over the sixty miles I went, weeping, followed by those cruel people, till I reached my home and stood by my body again. I looked at it and hated it. Was that my body? What a horrid, loathsome thing it was to me now, since I had seen so many beautiful, happy creatures! Must I go and live in that thing again? No, I would not go into it; I rebelled and cried for mercy. "'You must go into it; we will make you!' said my tormentors. They took me and pushed me head foremost into the big toe. "I struggled and fought, but could not help myself. They pushed and beat me again, when I tried for the last time to escape. When I passed the waist, I seemed to know it was of no use to struggle any more, so went the rest of the way myself. Then my body came to life again, and I opened my eyes. "But I wish I could have stayed with those happy people. It was cruel to make me come back. My other body was so beautiful, and I was so happy, so happy!" VIII KAPEEPEEKAUILA; OR, THE ROCKS OF KANA _Rev. A. O. Forbes_ On the northern side of the island of Molokai, commencing at the eastern end and stretching along a distance of about twenty miles, the coast is a sheer precipice of black rock varying in height from eight hundred to two thousand feet. The only interruptions to the continuity of this vast sea wall are formed by the four romantic valleys of Pelekunu, Puaahaunui, Wailau, and Waikolu. Between the valleys of Pelekunu and Waikolu, juts out the bold, sharp headland of Haupu, forming the dividing ridge between them, and reminding one somewhat of an axe-head turned edge upward. Directly in a line with this headland, thirty or forty rods out in the ocean, arise abruptly from the deep blue waters the rocks of Haupu, three or four sharp, needle-like points of rock varying from twenty to one hundred feet in height. This is the spot associated with the legend of Kapeepeekauila, and these rocks stand like grim sentinels on duty at the eastern limit of what is now known as the settlement of Kalawao. The legend runs as follows: Keahole was the father, Hiiaka-noholae was the mother, and Kapeepeekauila was the son. This Kapeepeekauila was a hairy man, and dwelt on the ridge of Haupu. Once on a time Hakalanileo and his wife Hina, the mother of Kana, came and dwelt in the valley of Pelekunu, on the eastern side of the ridge of Haupu. Kapeepeekauila, hearing of the arrival of Hina, the beautiful daughter of Kalahiki, sent his children to fetch her. They went and said to Hina, "Our royal father desires you as his wife, and we have come for you." "Desires me for what?" said she. "Desires you for a wife," said they. This announcement pleased the beautiful daughter of Kalahiki, and she replied, "Return to your royal father and tell him he shall be the husband and I will be the wife." When this message was delivered to Kapeepeekauila, he immediately sent a messenger to the other side of the island to summon all the people from Keonekuina to Kalamaula; for we have already seen that he was a hairy man, and it was necessary that this blemish should be removed. Accordingly, when the people had all arrived, Kapeepeekauila laid himself down and they fell to work until the hairs were all plucked out. He then took Hina to wife, and they two dwelt together on the top of Haupu. Poor Hakalanileo, the husband of Hina, mourned the loss of his companion of the long nights of winter and the shower-sprinkled nights of summer. Neither could he regain possession of her, for the ridge of Haupu grew till it reached the heavens. He mourned and rolled himself in the dust in agony, and crossed his hands behind his back. He went from place to place in search of some powerful person who should be able to restore to him his wife. In his wanderings, the first person to whom he applied was Kamalalawalu, celebrated for strength and courage. This man, seeing his doleful plight, asked, "Why these tears, O my father?" Hakalanileo replied, "Thy mother is lost." "Lost to whom?" "Lost to Kapeepee." "What Kapeepee?" "Kapeepee-kauila." "What Kauila?" "Kauila, the dauntless, of Haupu." "Then, O father, thou wilt not recover thy wife. Our stick may strike; it will but hit the dust at his feet. His stick, when it strikes back, will hit the head. Behold, measureless is the height of Haupu." Now, this Kamalalawalu was celebrated for his strength in throwing stones. Of himself, one side was stone, and the other flesh. As a test he seized a large stone and threw it upwards. It rose till it hit the sky and then fell back to earth again. As it came down, he turned his stony side toward it, and the collision made his side rattle. Hakalanileo looked on and sadly said, "Not strong enough." On he went, beating his breast in his grief, till he came to the celebrated Niuloihiki. Question and answer passed between them, as in the former case, but Niuloihiki replied, "It is hopeless; behold, measureless is the height of Haupu." Again he prosecuted his search till he met the third man of fame, whose name was Kaulu. Question and answer passed, as before, and Kaulu, to show his strength, seized a river and held it fast in its course. But Hakalanileo mournfully said, "Not strong enough." Pursuing his way with streaming eyes, he came to the fourth hero, Lonokaeho by name. As in the former cases, so in this, he received no satisfaction. These four were all he knew of who were foremost in prowess, and all four had failed him. It was the end, and he turned sadly toward the mountain forest, to return to his home. Meantime, the rumor had reached the ears of Niheu, surnamed "the Rogue." Some one told him a father had passed along searching for some one able to recover him his wife. "Where is this father of mine?" inquired Niheu. "He has gone inland," was the reply. "I'll overtake him; he won't escape me," said Niheu. So he went after the old man, kicking over the trees that came in his way. The old man had gone on till he was tired and faint, when Niheu overtook him and brought him back to his house. Then Niheu asked him, "What made you go on without coming to the house of Niheu?" "What, indeed," answered the old man; "as though I were not seeking to recover thy mother, who is lost!" Then came question and answer, as in former cases, and Niheu said, "I fear thou wilt not recover thy wife, O my father. But let us go inland to the foster son of Uli." So they went. But Niheu ran on ahead and told Kana, the foster son of Uli: "Behold, here comes Hakalanileo, bereft of his wife. We are all beat." "Where is he?" inquired Kana. "Here he is, just arrived." Kana looked forth, and Hakalanileo recoiled with fear at the blazing of his eyes. Then spoke Niheu: "Why could you not wait before looking at our father? Behold, you have frightened him, and he has run back." On this, Kana, remaining yet in the house, stretched forth his hand, and, grasping the old man in the distance, brought him back and sat him on his lap. Then Kana wept. And the impudent Niheu said, "Now you are crying; look out for the old man, or he will get water-soaked." But Kana ordered Niheu to bestir himself and light a fire, for the tears of Kana were as the big dropping rains of winter, soaking the plain. And Kana said to the old man, "Now, dry yourself by the fire, and when you are warm, tell your story." The old man obeyed, and when he was warm enough, told the story of his grief. Then said Kana, "Almost spent are my years; I am only waiting for death, and behold I have at last found a foeman worthy of my prowess." Kana immediately espoused the cause of Hakalanileo, and ordered his younger brother, Niheu, to construct a canoe for the voyage. Poor Niheu worked and toiled without success until, in despair, he exclaimed, upbraidingly, "Thy work is not work; it is slavery. There thou dwellest at thy ease in thy retreat, while with thy foot thou destroyest my canoe." Upon this, Kana pointed out to Niheu a bush, and said, "Can you pull up that bush?" "Yes," replied Niheu, for it was but a small bush, and he doubted not his ability to root it up; so he pulled and tugged away, but could not loosen it. Kana looking on, said, tauntingly, "Your foeman will not be overcome by you." Then Kana stretched forth his hands, scratching among the forests, and soon had a canoe in one hand; a little more and another canoe appeared in the other hand. The twin canoes were named _Kaumueli_. He lifted them down to the shore, provided them with paddles, and then appointed fourteen rowers. Kana embarked with his magic rod called _Waka-i-lani_. Thus they set forth to wage war upon Kapeepeekauila. They went on until the canoes grounded on a hard ledge. Niheu called out, "Behold, thou sleepest, O Kana, while we all perish." Kana replied, "What is there to destroy us? Are not these the reefs of Haupu? Away with the ledges, the rock points, and the yawning chasms! Smite with _Waka-i-lani_, thy rod." Niheu smote, the rocks crumbled to pieces, and the canoes were freed. They pursued their course again until Niheu, being on the watch, cried out, "Why sleepest thou, O Kana? Here we perish, again. Thy like for sleeping I never saw!" "Wherefore perish?" said Kana. "Behold," replied Niheu, "the fearful wall of water. If we attempt to pass it, it will topple over and destroy us all." Then said Kana: "Behold, behind us the reefs of Haupu. That is the destruction passed. As for the destruction before us, smite with thy rod." Niheu smote, the wall of water divided, and the canoes passed safely through. Then they went on their course again, as before. After a time, Niheu again called out, "Alas, again we perish. Here comes a great monster. If he falls upon us, we are all dead men." And Kana said, "Look sharp, now, and when the pointed snout crosses our bow, smite with thy rod." And he did so, and behold, this great thing was a monster fish, and when brought on board it became food for them all. So wonderfully great was this fish that its weight brought the rim of the canoes down to the water's edge. They continued on their way, and next saw the open mouth of the sharp-toothed shark--another of the outer defences of Haupu--awaiting them. "Smite with thy rod," ordered Kana. Niheu smote, and the shark died. Next they came upon the great turtle, another defence of Haupu. Again the sleepy Kana is aroused by the cry of the watchful Niheu, and the turtle is slain by the stroke of the magic rod. All this was during the night. At last, just as the edge of the morning lifted itself from the deep, their mast became entangled in the branches of the trees. Niheu flung upward a stone. It struck. The branches came rattling down, and the mast was free. On they went till the canoes gently stood still. On this, Niheu cried out, "Here you are, asleep again, O Kana, and the canoes are aground!" Kana felt beneath; there was no ground. He felt above; the mast was entangled in weeds. He pulled, and the weeds and earth came down together. The smell of the fresh-torn weeds was wafted up to Hale-huki, the house where Kapeepeekauila lived. His people, on the top of Haupu, looked down on the canoes floating at the foot. "Wondrous is the size of the canoes!" they cried. "Ah! it is a load of _opihis_ (shell-fish) from Hawaii for Hina," for that was a favorite dish with her. Meantime, Kana despatched Niheu after his mother. "Go in friendly fashion," said the former. Niheu leaped ashore, but slipped and fell on the smooth rocks. Back he went to the canoes. "What sort of a coming back is this?" demanded Kana. "I slipped and fell, and just escaped with my life," answered Niheu. "Back with you!" thundered Kana. Again the luckless Niheu sprang ashore, but the long-eyed sand-crabs (_ohiki-makaloa_) made the sand fly with their scratching till his eyes were filled. Back to the canoes again he went. "Got it all in my eyes!" said he, and he washed them out with sea-water. "You fool!" shouted Kana; "what were you looking down for? The sand-crabs are not birds. If you had been looking up, as you ought, you would not have got the sand in your eyes. Go again!" This time he succeeded, and climbed to the top of Haupu. Arriving at the house, Hale-huki, where Hina dwelt, he entered at once. Being asked "Why enterest thou this forbidden door?" he replied: "Because I saw thee entering by this door. Hadst thou entered some other way, I should not have come in at the door." And behold, Kapeepeekauila and Hina sat before him. Then Niheu seized the hand of Hina and said, "Let us two go." And she arose and went. When they had gone about half-way to the brink of the precipice, Kapeepeekauila exclaimed, "What is this? Is the woman gone?" Mo-i, the sister of Kana, answered and said, "If you wish the woman, now is the time; you and I fight." Great was the love of Kapeepeekauila for Hina, and he said, "No war dare touch Haupu; behold, it is a hill, growing even to the heavens." And he sent the _kolea_ (plover) squad to desecrate the sacred locks of Niheu; for the locks of Niheu were _kapu_, and if they should be touched, he would relinquish Hina for very shame. So the kolea company sailed along in the air till they brushed against the sacred locks of Niheu, and for very shame he let go his mother and struck at the koleas with his rod and hit their tail feathers and knocked them all out, so that they remain tailless to this day. And he returned to the edge of the shore, while the koleas bore off Hina in triumph. When Niheu reached the shore, he beat his forehead with stones till the blood flowed; a trick which Kana perceived from on board the canoes. And when Niheu went on board he said, "See! we fought and I got my head hurt." But Kana replied, "There was no fight; you did it yourself, out of shame at your defeat." And Niheu replied, "What, then, shall we fight?" "Yes," said Kana, and he stood up. Now, one of his legs was named Keauea and the other Kaipanea, and as he stood upon the canoes, he began to lengthen himself upward until the dwellers on top of Haupu exclaimed in terror, "We are all dead men! Behold, here is a great giant towering above us." And Kapeepeekauila, seeing this, hastened to prune the branches of the kamani tree (_Calophyllum inophyllum_), so that the bluff should grow upward. And the bluff rose, and Kana grew. Thus they strove, the bluff rising higher and Kana growing taller, until he became as the stalk of a banana leaf, and gradually spun himself out till he was no thicker than a strand of a spider's web, and at last he yielded the victory to Kapeepeekauila. Niheu, seeing the defeat of Kana, called out, "Lay yourself along to Kona, on Hawaii, to your grandmother, Uli." And he laid himself along with his body in Kona, while his feet rested on Molokai. His grandmother in Kona fed him until he became plump and fat again. Meanwhile, poor Niheu, watching at his feet on Molokai, saw their sides fill out with flesh while he was almost starved with hunger. "So, then," quoth he, "you are eating and growing fat while I die with hunger." And he cut off one of Kana's feet for revenge. The sensation crept along up to his body, which lay in Kona, and Kana said to his grandmother, Uli, "I seem to feel a numbness creeping over me." And she answered, and said, "Thy younger brother is hungry with watching, and seeing thy feet grow plump, he has cut off one of them; therefore this numbness." Kana, having at last grown strong and fat, prepared to wage war again upon Kapeepeekauila. Food was collected in abundance from Waipio, and when it was prepared, they embarked again in their canoes and came back to Haupu, on Molokai. But his grandmother, Uli, had previously instructed him to first destroy all the branches of the kamani tree of Haupu. Then he showed himself, and began again to stretch upward and tower above the bluff. Kapeepeekauila hastened again to trim the branches of the kamani, that the bluff might grow as before; but behold, they were all gone! It was the end; Kapeepeekauila was at last vanquished. The victorious Kana recovered his sister, Mo-i, restored to poor Hakalanileo his wife, Hina, and then, tearing down the bluff of Haupu, kicked off large portions of it into the sea, where they stand to this day, and are called "The Rocks of Kana." IX KALELEALUAKA _Dr. N. B. Emerson_ PART I Kaopele was born in Waipio, Hawaii. When born he did not breathe, and his parents were greatly troubled; but they washed his body clean, and having arrayed it in good clothes, they watched anxiously over the body for several days, and then, concluding it to be dead, placed it in a small cave in the face of the cliff. There the body remained from the summer month of _Ikiki_ (July or August) to the winter month of _Ikua_ (December or January), a period of six months. At this time they were startled by a violent storm of thunder and lightning, and the rumbling of an earthquake. At the same time appeared the marvellous phenomenon of eight rainbows arching over the mouth of the cave. Above the din of the storm the parents heard the voice of the awakened child calling to them: "Let your love rest upon me, O my parents, who have thrust me forth, Who have left me in the cavernous cliff, Who have heartlessly placed me in the Cliff frequented by the tropic bird! O Waiaalaia, my mother! O Waimanu, my father! Come and take me!" The yearning love of the mother earnestly besought the father to go in quest of the infant; but he protested that search was useless, as the child was long since dead. But, unable longer to endure a woman's teasing, which is the same in all ages, he finally set forth in high dudgeon, vowing that in case of failure he would punish her on his return. On reaching the place where the babe had been deposited, its body was not to be found. But lifting up his eyes and looking about, he espied the child perched on a tree, braiding a wreath from the scarlet flowers of the _lehua_ (_Metrosideros polymorpha_). "I have come to take you home with me," said the father. But the infant made no answer. The mother received the child to her arms with demonstrations of the liveliest affection. At her suggestion they named the boy Kaopele, from the name of their goddess, Pele. Six months after this, on the first day (_Hilo_) of the new moon, in the month of Ikiki, they returned home from working in the fields and found the child lying without breath, apparently dead. After venting their grief for their darling in loud lamentations, they erected a frame to receive its dead body. Time healed the wounds of their affection, and after the lapse of six moons they had ceased to mourn, when suddenly they were affrighted by a storm of thunder and lightning, with a quaking of the earth, in the midst of which they distinguished the cry of their child, "Oh, come; come and take me!" They, overjoyed at this second restoration of their child to them, and deeming it to be a miracle worked by their goddess, made up their minds that if it again fell into a trance they would not be anxious, since their goddess would awake their child and bring it to life again. But afterward the child informed them of their mistake, saying: "This marvel that you see in me is a trance; when I pass into my deep sleep my spirit at once floats away in the upper air with the goddess, Poliahu. We are a numerous band of spirits, but I excel them in the distance of my flights. In one day I can compass this island of Hawaii, as well as Maui, Oahu, and Kauai, and return again. In my flights I have seen that Kauai is the richest of all the islands, for it is well supplied with food and fish, and it is abundantly watered. I intend to remain with you until I am grown; then I shall journey to Kauai and there spend the rest of my life." Thus Kaopele lived with his parents until he was grown, but his habit of trance still clung to him. Then one day he filled them with grief by saying: "I am going, aloha." They sealed their love for each other with tears and kisses, and he slept and was gone. He alighted at Kula, on Maui. There he engaged in cultivating food. When his crops were nearly ripe and ready to be eaten he again fell into his customary deep sleep, and when he awoke he found that the people of the land had eaten up all his crops. Then he flew away to a place called Kapapakolea, in Moanalua, on Oahu, where he set out a new plantation. Here the same fortune befell him, and his time for sleep came upon him before his crops were fit for eating. When he awoke, his plantation had gone to waste. Again he moves on, and this time settles in Lihue, Oahu, where for the third time he sets out a plantation of food, but is prevented from eating it by another interval of sleep. Awakening, he finds his crops overripe and wasted by neglect and decay. His restless ambition now carries him to Lahuimalo, still on the island of Oahu, where his industry plants another crop of food. Six months pass, and he is about to eat of the fruits of his labor, when one day, on plunging into the river to bathe, he falls into his customary trance, and his lifeless body is floated by the stream out into the ocean and finally cast up by the waters on the sands of Maeaea, a place in Waialua, Oahu. At the same time there arrived a man from Kauai in search of a human body to offer as a sacrifice at the temple of Kahikihaunaka at Wailua, on Kauai, and having seen the corpse of Kaopele on the beach, he asks and obtains permission of the feudal lord (_Konohiki_) of Waialua to take it. Thus it happens that Kaopele is taken by canoe to the island of Kauai and placed, along with the corpse of another man, on the altar of the temple at Wailua. There he lay until the bones of his fellow corpse had begun to fall apart. When six moons had been accomplished, at midnight there came a burst of thunder and an earthquake. Kaopele came to life, descended from the altar, and directed his steps toward a light which he saw shining through some chinks in a neighboring house. He was received by the occupants of the house with that instant and hearty hospitality which marks the Hawaiian race, and bidden to enter ("_mai, komo mai_"). Food was set before him, with which he refreshed himself. The old man who seemed to be the head of the household was so much pleased and impressed with the bearing and appearance of our hero that he forthwith sought to secure him to be the husband of his granddaughter, a beautiful girl named Makalani. Without further ado, he persuaded him to be a suitor for the hand of the girl, and while it was yet night, started off to obtain the girl's consent and to bring her back with him. The young woman was awakened from her slumbers in the night to hear the proposition of her grandfather, who painted to her in glowing colors the manly attractions of her suitor. The suit found favor in the eyes of the girl's parents and she herself was nothing loath; but with commendable maidenly propriety she insisted that her suitor should be brought and presented to her, and that she should not first seek him. The sun had hardly begun to lift the dew from the grass when our young hero, accompanied by the two matchmakers, was brought into the presence of his future wife. They found favor in each other's eyes, and an ardent attachment sprang up on the instant. Matters sped apace. A separate house was assigned as the residence of the young couple, and their married life began felicitously. But the instincts of a farmer were even stronger in the breast of Kaopele than the bonds of matrimony. In the middle of the night he arose, and, leaving the sleeping form of his bride, passed out into the darkness. He went _mauka_ until he came upon an extensive upland plain, where he set to work clearing and making ready for planting. This done, he collected from various quarters shoots and roots of potato (_kalo_), banana (_waoke_), _awa_, and other plants, and before day the whole plain was a plantation. After his departure his wife awoke with a start and found her husband was gone. She went into the next house, where her parents were sleeping, and, waking them, made known her loss; but they knew nothing of his whereabouts. Much perplexed, they were still debating the cause of his departure, when he suddenly returned, and to his wife's questioning, answered that he had been at work. She gently reproved him for interrupting their bridal night with agriculture, and told him there would be time enough for that when they had lived together a while and had completed their honeymoon. "And besides," said she, "if you wish to turn your hand to agriculture, here is the plat of ground at hand in which my father works, and you need not go up to that plain where only wild hogs roam." To this he replied: "My hand constrains me to plant; I crave work; does idleness bring in anything? There is profit only when a man turns the palm of his hand to the soil: that brings in food for family and friends. If one were indeed the son of a king he could sleep until the sun was high in the heavens, and then rise and find the bundles of cooked food ready for him. But for a plain man, the only thing to do is to cultivate the soil and plant, and when he returns from his work let him light his oven, and when the food is cooked let the husband and the wife crouch about the hearth and eat together." Again, very early on the following morning, while his wife slept, Kaopele rose, and going to the house of a neighbor, borrowed a fishhook with its tackle. Then, supplying himself with bait, he went a-fishing in the ocean and took an enormous quantity of fish. On his way home he stopped at the house where he had borrowed the tackle and returned it, giving the man also half of the fish. Arrived at home, he threw the load of fish onto the ground with a thud which waked his wife and parents. "So you have been a-fishing," said his wife. "Thinking you had again gone to work in the field, I went up there, but you were not there. But what an immense plantation you have set out! Why, the whole plain is covered." His father-in-law said, "A fine lot of fish, my boy." Thus went life with them until the crops were ripe, when one day Kaopele said to his wife, who was now evidently with child, "If the child to be born is a boy, name it Kalelealuaka; but if it be a girl, name it as you will, from your side of the family." From his manner she felt uneasy and suspicious of him, and said, "Alas! do you intend to desert me?" Then Kaopele explained to his wife that he was not really going to leave her, as men are wont to forsake their wives, but he foresaw that that was soon to happen which was habitual to him, and he felt that on the night of the morrow a deep sleep would fall upon him (_puni ka hiamoe_), which would last for six months. Therefore, she was not to fear. "Do not cast me out nor bury me in the ground," said he. Then he explained to her how he happened to be taken from Oahu to Kauai and how he came to be her husband, and he commanded her to listen attentively to him and to obey him implicitly. Then they pledged their love to each other, talking and not sleeping all that night. On the following day all the friends and neighbors assembled, and as they sat about, remarks were made among them in an undertone, like this, "So this is the man who was placed on the altar of the _heiau_ at Wailua." And as evening fell he bade them all _aloha_, and said that he should be separated from them for six months, but that his body would remain with them if they obeyed his commands. And, having kissed his wife, he fell into the dreamful, sacred sleep of Niolo-kapu. On the sixth day the father-in-law said: "Let us bury your husband, lest he stink. I thought it was to be only a natural sleep, but it is ordinary death. Look, his body is rigid, his flesh is cold, and he does not breathe; these are the signs of death." But Makalani protested, "I will not let him be buried; let him lie here, and I will watch over him as he commanded; you also heard his words." But in spite of the wife's earnest protests, the hard-hearted father-in-law gathered strong vines of the _koali_ (convolvulus), tied them about Kaopele's feet, and attaching to them heavy stones, caused his body to be conveyed in a canoe and sunk in the dark waters of the ocean midway between Kauai and Oahu. Makalani lived in sorrow for her husband until the birth of her child, and as it was a boy, she called his name Kalelealuaka. PART II When the child was about two months old the sky became overcast and there came up a mighty storm, with lightning and an earthquake. Kaopele awoke in his dark, watery couch, unbound the cords that held his feet, and by three powerful strokes raised himself to the surface of the water. He looked toward Kauai and Oahu, but love for his wife and child prevailed and drew him to Kauai. In the darkness of night he stood by his wife's bed and, feeling for her, touched her forehead with his clammy hand. She awoke with a start, and on his making himself known she screamed with fright, "Ghost of Kaopele!" and ran to her parents. Not until a candle was lighted would she believe it to be her husband. The step-parents, in fear and shame at their heartless conduct, fled away, and never returned. From this time forth Kaopele was never again visited by a trance; his virtue had gone out from him to the boy Kalelealuaka. When Kalelealuaka was ten years old Kaopele began to train the lad in athletic sports and to teach him all the arts of war and combat practised throughout the islands, until he had attained great proficiency in them. He also taught him the arts of running and jumping, so that he could jump either up or down a high _pali_, or run, like a waterfowl on the surface of the water. After this, one day Kalelealuaka went over to Wailua, where he witnessed the games of the chiefs. The youth spoke contemptuously of their performances as mere child's play; and when his remark was reported to the King he challenged the young man to meet him in a boxing encounter. When Kalelealuaka came into the presence of the King his royal adversary asked him what wager he brought. As the youth had nothing with him, he seriously proposed that each one should wager his own body against that of the other one. The proposal was readily accepted. The herald sounded the signal of attack, and both contestants rushed at each other. Kalelealuaka warily avoided the attack by the King, and hastened to deliver a blow which left his opponent at his mercy; and thereupon, using his privilege, he robbed the King of his life, and to the astonishment of all, carried away the body to lay as a sacrifice on the altar of the temple, hitherto unconsecrated by human sacrifice, which he and his father Kaopele had recently built in honor of their deity. After a time there reached the ear of Kalelealuaka a report of the great strength of a certain chief who lived in Hanalei. Accordingly, without saying anything about his intention, he went over to the valley of Hanalei. He found the men engaged in the game of throwing heavy spears at the trunk of a cocoanut-tree. As on the previous occasion, he invited a challenge by belittling their exploits, and when challenged by the chief, fearlessly proposed, as a wager, the life of one against the other. This was accepted, and the chief had the first trial. His spear hit the stem of the huge tree and made its lofty crest nod in response to the blow. It was now the turn of Kalelealuaka to hurl the spear. In anticipation of the failure of the youth and his own success, the chief took the precaution to station his guards about Kalelealuaka, to be ready to seize him on the instant. In a tone of command our hero bade the guards fall back, and brandishing his spear, stroked and polished it with his hands from end to end; then he poised and hurled it, and to the astonishment of all, lo! the tree was shivered to pieces. On this the people raised a shout of admiration at the prowess of the youth, and declared he must be the same hero who had slain the chief at Wailua. In this way Kalelealuaka obtained a second royal sacrifice with which to grace the altar of his temple. One clear, calm evening, as Kalelealuaka looked out to sea, he descried the island of Oahu, which is often clearly visible from Kauai, and asked his father what land that was that stood out against them. Kaopele told the youth it was Oahu; that the cape that swam out into the ocean like a waterfowl was Kaena; that the retreating contour of the coast beyond was Waianae. Thus he described the land to his son. The result was that the adventurous spirit of Kalelealuaka was fired to explore this new island for himself, and he expressed this wish to his father. Everything that Kalelealuaka said or did was good in the eye of his father, Kaopele. Accordingly, he immediately set to work and soon had a canoe completely fitted out, in which Kalelealuaka might start on his travels. Kalelealuaka took with him, as travelling companion, a mere lad named Kaluhe, and embarked in his canoe. With two strokes of the paddle his prow grated on the sands of Waianae. Before leaving Kauai his father had imparted to Kalelealuaka something of the topography of Oahu, and had described to him the site of his former plantation at Keahumoe. At Waianae the two travellers were treated affably by the people of the district. In reply to the questions put them, they said they were going sight-seeing. As they went along they met a party of boys amusing themselves with darting arrows; one of them asked permission to join their party. This was given, and the three turned inland and journeyed till they reached a plain of soft, whitish rock, where they all refreshed themselves with food. Then they kept on ascending, until Keahumoe lay before them, dripping with hoary moisture from the mist of the mountain, yet as if smiling through its tears. Here were standing bananas with ripened, yellow fruit, upland kalo, and sugar cane, rusty and crooked with age, while the sweet potatoes had crawled out of the earth and were cracked and dry. It was the very place where Kaopele, the father of Kalelealuaka, had years before set out the plants from which these were descended. "This is our food, and a good place, perhaps, for us to settle down," said Kalelealuaka; "but before we make up our minds to stay here let me dart an arrow; and if it drops soon we shall stay, but if it flies afar we shall not tarry here." Kalelealuaka darted his arrow, while his companions looked on intently. The arrow flew along, passing over many a hill and valley, and finally rested beyond Kekuapoi, while they followed the direction of its wonderful flight. Kalelealuaka sent his companions on to find the arrow, telling them at the same time to go to the villages and get some awa roots for drink, while he would remain there and put up a shelter for them. On their way the two companions of Kalelealuaka encountered a number of women washing kalo in a stream, and on asking them if they had seen their arrow flying that way they received an impertinent answer; whereupon they called out the name of the arrow, "Pua-ne, Pua-ne," and it came to their hands at once. At this the women ran away, frightened at the marvel. The two boys then set to gathering awa roots, as they had been bidden. Seeing them picking up worthless fragments, a kind-hearted old man, who turned out to be the konohiki of the land, sent by his servants an abundance of good food to Kalelealuaka. On their return the boys found, to their astonishment, that during their absence Kalelealuaka had put up a fine, large house, which was all complete but the mats to cover the floors. The kind-hearted _konohili_ remarked this, and immediately sent her servants to fetch mats for the floors and sets of kapa for bedding, adding the command, "And with them bring along some _malos_" (girdles used by the males). Soon all their wants were supplied, and the three youths were set up in housekeeping. To these services the konohiki, through his attendants, added still others; some chewed and strained the awa, while others cooked and spread for them a bountiful repast. The three youths ate and drank, and under the drowsy influence of the awa they slept until the little birds that peopled the wilderness about them waked them with their morning songs; then they roused and found the sun already climbing the heavens. Now, Kalelealuaka called to his comrades, and said, "Rouse up and let us go to cultivating." To this they agreed, and each one set to work in his own way, working his own piece of ground. The ground prepared by Kalelealuaka was a strip of great length, reaching from the mountain down toward the ocean. This he cleared and planted the same day. His two companions, however, spent several days in clearing their ground, and then several days more in planting it. While these youths occupied their mountain home, the people of that region were well supplied with food. The only lack of Kalelealuaka and his comrades was animal food (literally, fish), but they supplied its place as well as they could with such herbs as the tender leaves of the popolo, which they cooked like spinach, and with inamona made from the roasted nuts of the kukui tree (_Aleurites molluccana_). One day, as they were eking out their frugal meal with a mess of popolo cooked by the lad from Waianae, Kalelealuaka was greatly disgusted at seeing a worm in that portion that the youth was eating, and thereupon nicknamed him _Keinohoomanawanui_ (sloven, or more literally, the persistently unclean). The name ever after stuck to him. This same fellow had the misfortune, one evening, to injure one of his eyes by the explosion of a kukui nut which he was roasting on the fire. As a result, that member was afflicted with soreness, and finally became blinded. But their life agreed with them, and the youths throve and increased in stature, and grew to be stout and lusty young men. Now, it happened that ever since their stay at their mountain house, _Lelepua_ (arrow flight), they had kept a torch burning all night, which was seen by Kakuhihewa, the King of Oahu, and had caused him uneasiness. One fine evening, when they had eaten their fill and had gone to bed, Kalelealuaka called to Keinohoomanawanui and said, "Halloo there! are you asleep?" And he replied, "No; have I drunk awa? I am restless. My eyes will not close." "Well," said Kalelealuaka, "when you are restless at night, what does your mind find to do?" "Nothing," said the Sloven. "I find something to think about," said Kalelealuaka. "What is that?" said the Sloven. "Let us wish" (_kuko_, literally, to lust), said Kalelealuaka. "What shall we wish?" said the Sloven. "Whatever our hearts most earnestly desire," said Kalelealuaka. Thereupon they both wished. The Sloven, in accordance with his nature, wished for things to eat,--the eels, from the fish-pond of Hanaloa (in the district of Ewa), to be cooked in an oven together with sweet potatoes, and a bowl of awa. "Pshaw, what a beggarly wish!" said Kalelealuaka. "I thought you had a real wish. I have a genuine wish. Listen: The beautiful daughters of Kakuhihewa to be my wives; his fatted pigs and dogs to be baked for us; his choice kalo, sugar cane, and bananas to be served up for us; that Kakuhihewa himself send and get timber and build a house for us; that he pull the famous awa of Kahauone; that the King send and fetch us to him; that he chew the awa for us in his own mouth, strain and pour it for us, and give us to drink until we are happy, and then take us to our house." Trembling with fear at the audacious ambition of his concupiscent companion, the Sloven replied, "If your wish should come to the ears of the King, we shall die; indeed, we should die." In truth, as they were talking together and uttering their wishes, Kakuhihewa had arrived, and was all the time listening to their conversation from the outside of their house. When the King had heard their conversation he thrust his spear into the ground outside the inclosure about Kalelealuaka's house, and by the spear placed his stone hatchet (_pahoa_), and immediately returned to his residence at Puuloa. Upon his arrival at home that night King Kakuhihewa commanded his stewards to prepare a feast, and then summoned his chiefs and table companions and said, "Let us sup." When all was ready and they had seated themselves, the King said, "Shall we eat, or shall we talk?" One of them replied: "If it please the King, perhaps it were better for him to speak first; it may be what he has to say touches a matter of life and death; therefore, let him speak and we will listen." Then Kakuhihewa told them the whole story of the light seen in the mountains, and of the wishes of Kalelealuaka and the Sloven. Then up spoke the soldiers, and said: "Death! This man is worthy to be put to death; but as for the other one, let him live." "Hold," said the King, "not so fast! Before condemning him to death, I will call together the wise men, priests, wizards, and soothsayers; perchance they will find that this is the man to overcome Kualii in battle." Thereupon all the wise men, priests, wizards, and soothsayers were immediately summoned, and after the King had explained the whole story to them they agreed with the opinion of the soldiers. Again the King interposed delay, and said, "Wait until my wise kahuna Napuaikamao comes; if his opinion agrees with yours, then, indeed, let the man be put to death; but if he is wiser than you, the man shall live. But you will have eaten this food in vain." So the King sent one of his fleetest runners to go and fetch Napuaikamao. To him the King said, "I have sent for you to decide what is just and right in the case of these two men who lived up in the region of Waipio." Then he went on to state the whole case to this wise man. "In regard to Keinohoomanawanui's wish," said the wise man, "that is an innocent wish, but it is profitless and will bring no blessing." At the narration of Kalelealuaka's wish he inclined his head, as if in thought; then lifting his head, he looked at the King and said: "O King, as for this man's wish, it is an ambition which will bring victory to the government. Now, then, send all your people and fetch house-timber and awa." As soon as the wise man had given this opinion, the King commanded his chief marshal, Maliuhaaino, to set every one to work to carry out the directions of this counsellor. This was done, and before break of day every man, woman, and child in the district of Ewa, a great multitude, was on the move. Now, when the Sloven awoke in the morning and went out of doors, he found the stone hatchet (_pahoa_) of the King, with his spear, standing outside of the house. On seeing this he rushed back into the house and exclaimed to his comrades, "Alas! our wishes have been overheard by the King; here are his hatchet and his spear. I said that if the King heard us we should die, and he has indeed heard us. But yours was the fatal ambition; mine was only an innocent wish." Even while they were talking, the babble of the multitude drew near, and the Sloven exclaimed, "Our death approaches!" Kalelealuaka replied, "That is not for our death; it is the people coming to get timber for our houses." But the fear of the Sloven would not be quieted. The multitude pressed on, and by the time the last of them had reached the mountain the foremost had returned to the sea-coast and had begun to prepare the foundations for the houses, to dig the holes for the posts, to bind on the rafters and the small poles on which they tied the thatch, until the houses were done. Meantime, some were busy baking the pigs and the poi-fed dogs in ovens; some in bringing the eels of Kanaloa and cooking them with potatoes in an oven by themselves. The houses are completed, everything is ready, the grand marshal, Maliuhaaino, has just arrived in front of the house of the ambitious youth Kalelealuaka, and calls out "Keinohoomanawanui, come out!" and he comes out, trembling. "Kalelealuaka, come out!" and he first sends out the boy Kaluhe and then comes forth himself and stands outside, a splendid youth. The marshal stands gazing at him in bewilderment and admiration. When he has regained his equanimity he says to him, "Mount on my back and let us go down." "No," said Kalelealuaka, "I will go by myself, and do you walk ahead. I will follow after; but do not look behind you, lest you die." As soon as they had started down, Kalelealuaka was transported to Kuaikua, in Helemano. There he plunged into the water and bathed all over; this done, he called on his ancestral shades (_Aumakua_), who came and performed on him the rite of circumcision while lightning flashed, thunder sounded, and the earth quaked. Kaopele, on Kauai, heard the commotion and exclaimed, "Ah! my son has received the purifying rite--the offspring of the gods goes to meet the sovereign of the land" (_Alii aimoku_). Meanwhile, the party led by Maliuhaaino was moving slowly down toward the coast, because the marshal himself was lame. Returning from his purification, Kalelealuaka alighted just to the rear of the party, who had not noticed his absence, and becoming impatient at the tedious slowness of the journey,--for the day was waning, and the declining sun was already standing over a peak of the Waianae Mountains called Puukuua,--this marvellous fellow caught up the lame marshal in one hand and his two comrades in the other, and, flying with them, set them down at Puuloa. But the great marvel was, that they knew nothing about being transported, yet they had been carried and set down as from a sheet. On their arrival at the coast all was ready, and the people were waiting for them. A voice called out, "Here is you house, Keinohoomanawanui!" and the Sloven entered with alacrity and found bundles of his wished-for eels and potatoes already cooked and awaiting his disposal. But Kalelealuaka proudly declined to enter the house prepared for himself when the invitation came to him, "Come in! this is your house," all because his little friend Kaluhe, whose eyes had often been filled with smoke while cooking _luau_ and roasting kukui nuts for him, had not been included in the invitation, and he saw that no provision had been made for him. When this was satisfactorily arranged Kalelealuaka and his little friend entered and sat down to eat. The King, with his own hand, poured out awa for Kalelealuaka, brought him a gourd of water to rinse his mouth, offered him food, and waited upon him till he had supplied all his wants. Now, when Kalelealuaka had well drunken, and was beginning to feel drowsy from the awa, the lame marshal came in and led him to the two daughters of Kakuhihewa, and from that time these two lovely girls were his wives. PART III Thus they lived for perhaps thirty days (_he mau anabulu_), when a messenger arrived, announcing that Kualii was making war at Moanalua. The soldiers of Kakuhihewa quickly made themselves ready, and among them Keinohoomanawanui went out to battle. The lame marshal had started for the scene the night before. On the morning of the day of battle, Kalelealuaka said to his wives that he had a great hankering for some shrimps and moss, which must be gathered in a particular way, and that nothing else would please his appetite. Thereupon, they dutifully set out to obtain these things for him. As soon as they had gone from the house Kalelealuaka flew to Waianae and arrayed himself with wreaths of the fine-leaved _maile_ (_Maile laulii_). which is peculiar to that region. Thence he flew to Napeha, where the lame marshal, Maliuhaaino, was painfully climbing the hill on his way to battle. Kalelealuaka cheerily greeted him, and the following dialogue occurred: K. "Whither are you trudging, Maliuhaaino?" M. "What! don't you know about the war?" K. "Let me carry you." M. "How fast you travel! Where are you from?" K. "From Waianae." M. "So I see from your wreaths. Yes, carry me, and Waianae shall be yours." At the word Kalelealuaka picked up the cripple and set him down on an eminence _mauka_ of the battlefield, saying, "Remain you here and watch me. If I am killed in the fight, you return by the same way we came and report to the King." Kalelealuaka then addressed himself to the battle, but before attacking the enemy he revenged himself on those who had mocked and jeered at him for not joining the forces of Kakuhihewa. This done, he turned his hand against the enemy, who at the time were advancing and inflicting severe loss in the King's army. To what shall we compare the prowess of our hero? A man was plucked and torn in his hand as if he were but a leaf. The commotion in the ranks of the enemy was as when a powerful waterfowl lashes the water with his wings (_O haehae ka manu, Ke ale nei ka wai_). Kalelealuaka moved forward in his work of destruction until he had slain the captain who stood beside the rebel chief, Kualii. From the fallen captain he took his feather cloak and helmet and cut off his right ear and the little finger of his right hand. Thus ended the slaughter that day. The enthusiasm of the cripple was roused to the highest pitch on witnessing the achievements of Kalelealuaka, and he determined to return and report that he had never seen his equal on the battlefield. Kalelealuaka returned to Puuloa, and hid the feather cloak and helmet under the mats of his bed, and having fastened the dead captain's ear and little finger to the side of the house, lay down and slept. After a while, when the two women, his wives, returned with the moss and shrimps, he complained that the moss was not gathered as he had directed, and that they had been gone such a long time that his appetite had entirely left him, and he would not eat of what they had brought. At this the elder sister said nothing, but the younger one muttered a few words to herself; and as they were all very tired they soon went to sleep. They had slept a long while when the tramp of the soldiers of Kakuhihewa was heard, returning from the battle. The King immediately asked how the battle had gone. The soldiers answered that the battle had gone well, but that Keinohoomanawanui alone had greatly distinguished himself. To this the King replied he did not believe that the Sloven was a great warrior, but when the cripple returned he would learn the truth. About midnight the footsteps of the lame marshal were heard outside of the King's house. Kakuhihewa called to him, "Come, how went the battle?" "Can't you have patience and let me take breath?" said the marshal. Then when he had rested himself he answered, "They fought, but there was one man who excelled all the warriors in the land. He was from Waianae. I gave Waianae to him as a reward for carrying me." "It shall be his," said the King. "He tore a man to pieces," said the cripple, "as he would tear a banana-leaf. The champion of Kualii's army he killed, and plundered him of his feather cloak and helmet." "The soldiers say that Keinohoomanawanui was the hero of the day," said the King. "What!" said the cripple. "He did nothing. He merely strutted about. But this man--I never saw his equal; he had no spear, his only weapons were his hands; if a spear was hurled at him, he warded it off with his hair. His hair and features, by the way, greatly resemble those of your son-in-law." Thus they conversed till daybreak. After a few days, again came a messenger announcing that the rebel Kualii was making war on the plains of Kulaokahua. On hearing this Kakuhihewa immediately collected his soldiers. As usual, the lame marshal set out in advance the evening before the battle. In the morning, after the army had gone, Kalelealuaka said to his wives, "I am thirsting for some water taken with the snout of the calabash held downward. I shall not relish it if it is taken with the snout turned up." Now, Kalelealuaka knew that they could not fill the calabash if held this way, but he resorted to this artifice to present the two young women from knowing of his miraculous flight to the battle. As soon as the young women had got out of sight he hastened to Waialua and arrayed himself in the rough and shaggy wreaths of _uki_ from the lagoons of Ukoa and of _hinahina_ from Kealia. Thus arrayed, he alighted behind the lame marshal as he climbed the hill at Napeha, slapped him on the back, exchanged greetings with him, and received a compliment on his speed; and when asked whence he came, he answered from Waialua. The shrewd, observant cripple recognized the wreaths as being those of Waialua, but he did not recognize the man, for the wreaths with which Kalelealuaka had decorated himself were of such a color--brownish gray--as to give him the appearance of a man of middle age. He lifted the cripple as before, and set him down on the brow of Puowaina (Punch Bowl Hill), and received from the grateful cripple, as a reward for his service, all the land of Waialua for his own. This done, Kalelealuaka repeated the performances of the previous battle. The enemy melted away before him, whichever way he turned. He stayed his hand only when he had slain the captain of the host and stripped him of his feather cloak and helmet, taking also his right ear and little finger. The speed with which Kalelealuaka returned to his home at Puuloa was like the flight of a bird. The spoils and trophies of this battle he disposed of as before. The two young women, Kalelealuaka's wives, turned the nozzle of the water-gourd downward, as they were bidden, and continued to press it into the water, in the vain hope that it might rise and fill their container, until the noonday sun began to pour his rays directly upon their heads; but no water entered their calabash. Then the younger sister proposed to the elder to fill the calabash in the usual way, saying that Kalelealuaka would not know the difference. This they did, and returned home. Kalelealuaka would not drink of the water, declaring that it had been dipped up. At this the younger wife laughed furtively; the elder broke forth and said: "It is due to the slowness of the way you told us to employ in getting the water. We are not accustomed to the menial office of fetching water; our father treated us delicately, and a man always fetched water for us, and we always used to see him pour the water into the gourd with the nozzle turned up, but you trickily ordered us to turn the nozzle down. Your exactions are heartless." Thus the women kept complaining until, by and by, the tramp of the returning soldiers was heard, who were boasting of the great deeds of Keinohoomanawanui. The King, however, said: "I do not believe a word of your talk; when my cripple comes he will tell me the truth. I do not believe that Keinohoomanawanui is an athlete. Such is the opinion I have formed of him. But there is a powerful man, Kalelealuaka,--if he were to go into battle I am confident he would perform wonders. Such is the opinion I have formed of him, after careful study." So the King waited for the return of the cripple until night, and all night until nearly dawn. When finally the lame marshal arrived, the King prudently abstained from questioning him until he had rested a while and taken breath; then he obtained from him the whole story of this new hero from Waialua, whose name he did not know, but who, he declared, resembled the King's son-in-law, Kalelealuaka. Again, on a certain day, came the report of an attack by Kualii at Kulaokahua, and the battle was to be on the morrow. The cripple, as usual, started off the evening before. In the morning, Kalelealuaka called to his wives, and said: "Where are you? Wake up. I wish you to bake a fowl for me. Do it thus: Pluck it; do not cut it open, but remove the inwards through the opening behind; then stuff it with _luau_ from the same end, and bake it; by no means cut it open, lest you spoil the taste of it." As soon as they had left the house he flew to Kahuku and adorned his neck with wreaths of the pandanus fruit and his head with the flowers of the sugar cane, thus entirely changing his appearance and making him look like a gray-haired old man. As on previous days, he paused behind the cripple and greeted him with a friendly slap on the back. Then he kindly lifted the lame man and set him down at Puowaina. In return for this act of kindness the cripple gave him the district of Koolau. In this battle he first slew those soldiers in Kakuhihewa's army who had spoken ill of him. Then he turned his hand against the warriors of Kualii, smiting them as with the stroke of lightning, and displaying miraculous powers. When he had reached the captain of Kualii's force, he killed him and despoiled his body of his feather cloak and helmet, taking also a little finger and toe. With these he flew to the cripple, whom he lifted and bore in his flight as far as Waipio, and there dropped him at a point just below where the water bursts forth at Waipahu. Arrived at his house, Kalelealuaka, after disposing of his spoils, lay down and slept. After he had slept several hours, his wives came along in none too pleased a mood and awoke him, saying his meat was cooked. Kalelealuaka merely answered that it was so late his appetite had gone, and he did not care to eat. At this slight his wives said: "Well, now, do you think we are accustomed to work? We ought to live without work, like a king's daughters, and when the men have prepared the food then we should go and eat it." The women were still muttering over their grievance, when along came the soldiers, boasting of the powers of Keinohoomanawanui, and as they passed Kalelealuaka's door they said it were well if the two wives of this fellow, who lounges at home in time of war, were given to such a brave and noble warrior as Keinohoomanawanui. The sun was just sinking below the ocean when the footsteps of the cripple were heard at the King's door, which he entered, sitting down within. After a short time the King asked him about the battle. "The valor and prowess of this third man were even greater than those of the previous ones; yet all three resemble each other. This day, however, he first avenged himself by slaying those who had spoken ill of him. He killed the captain of Kualii's army and took his feather cloak and helmet. On my return he lifted me as far as Waipahu." In a few days again came a report that Kualii had an army at a place called Kahapaakai, in Nuuanu. Maliuhaaino immediately marshalled his forces and started for the scene of battle the same evening. Early the next morning Kalelealuaka awakened his wives, and said to them: "Let us breakfast, but do you two eat quietly in your own house, and I in my house with the dogs; and do not come until I call you." So they did, and the two women went and breakfasted by themselves. At his own house Kalelealuaka ordered Kaluhe to stir up the dogs and keep them barking until his return. Then he sprang away and lighted at Kapakakolea, where he overtook the cripple, whom, after the usual interchange of greetings, he lifted, and set down at a place called Waolani. On this day his first action was to smite and slay those who had reviled him at his own door. That done, he made a great slaughter among the soldiers of Kualii; then, turning, he seized Keinohoomanawanui, threw him down and asked him how he became blinded in one eye. "It was lost," said the Sloven, "from the thrust of a spear, in a combat with Olopana." "Yes, to be sure," said Kalelealuaka, "while you and I were living together at Wailuku, you being on one side of the stream and I on the other, a kukui nut burst in the fire, and that was the spear that put out your eye." When the Sloven heard this, he hung his head. Then Kalelealuaka seized him to put him to death, when the spear of the Sloven pierced the fleshy part of Kalelealuaka's left arm, and in plucking it out the spear-head remained in the wound. Kalelealuaka killed Keinohoomanawanui and beheaded him, and, running to the cripple, laid the trophy at his feet with the words: "I present you, Maliuhaaino, with the head of Keinohoomanawanui." This done, he returned to the battle, and went on slaying until he had advanced to the captain of Kualii's forces, whom he killed and spoiled of his feather cloak and helmet. When Kualii saw that his chief captain, the bulwark of his power, was slain, he retreated and fled up Nuuanu Valley, pursued by Kalelealuaka, who overtook him at the head of the valley. Here Kualii surrendered himself, saying: "Spare my life. The land shall all go to Kakuhihewa, and I will dwell on it as a loyal subject under him and create no disturbance as long as I live." To this the hero replied: "Well said! I spare your life on these terms. But if you at any time foment a rebellion, I will take your life! So, then, return, and live quietly at home and do not stir up any war in Koolau." Thus warned, Kaulii set out to return to the "deep blue palis of Koolau." While the lame marshal was trudging homeward, bearing the head of the Sloven, Kalelealuaka alighted from his flight at his house, and having disposed in his usual manner of his spoils, immediately called to his wives to rejoin him at his own house. The next morning, after the sun was warm, the cripple arrived at the house of the King in a state of great excitement, and was immediately questioned by him as to the issue of the battle, "The battle was altogether successful," said the marshal, "but Keinohoomanawanui was killed. I brought his head along with me and placed it on the altar _mauka_ of Kalawao. But I would advise you to send at once your fleetest runners through Kona and Koolau, commanding everybody to assemble in one place, that I may review them and pick out and vaunt as the bravest that one whom I shall recognize by certain marks--for I have noted him well: he is wounded in the left arm." Now, Kakuhihewa's two swiftest runners (_kukini_) were Keakealani and Kuhelemoana. They were so fleet that they could compass Oahu six times in a forenoon, or twelve times in a whole day. These two were sent to call together all the men of the King's domain. The men of Waianae came that same day and stood in review on the sandy plains of Puuloa. But among them all was not one who bore the marks sought for. Then came the men of Kona, of Waialua, and of Koolau, but the man was not found. Then the lame marshal came and stood before the King and said: "Your bones shall rest in peace, Kalani. You had better send now and summon your son-in-law to come and stand before me; for he is the man." Then Kakuhihewa arose and went himself to the house of his son-in-law, and called to his daughters that he had come to get their husband to go and stand before Maliuhaaino. Then Kalelealuaka lifted up the mats of his bed and took out the feather cloaks and the helmets and arrayed his two wives, and Kaluhe, and himself. Putting them in line, he stationed the elder of his wives first, next to her the younger, and third Kaluhe, and placing himself at the rear of the file, he gave the order to march, and thus accompanied he went forth to obey the King's command. The lame marshal saw them coming, and in ecstasy he prostrated himself and rolled over in the dust, "The feather cloak and the helmet on your elder daughter are the ones taken from the captain of Kualii's army in the first day's fight; those on your second daughter from the captain of the second day's fight; while those on Kalelealuaka himself are from the captain killed in the battle on the fourth day. You will live, but perhaps I shall die, since he is weary of carrying me." The lame marshal went on praising and eulogizing Kalelealuaka as he drew near. Then addressing the hero, he said: "I recognize you, having met you before. Now show your left arm to the King and to this whole assembly, that they may see where you were wounded by the spear." Then Kalelealuaka bared his left arm and displayed his wound to the astonished multitude. Thereupon Kakuhihewa said: "Kalelealuaka and my daughters, do you take charge of the kingdom, and I will pass into the ranks of the common people under you." After this a new arrangement of the lands was made, and the country had peace until the death of Kakuhihewa; Kalelealuaka also lived peacefully until death took him. X STORIES OF THE MENEHUNES HAWAII THE ORIGINAL HOME OF THE BROWNIES _Thos. G. Thrum_ Students of Hawaiian folk-lore find much of coincident interest with traditional or more historic beliefs of other and older lands. The same applies, in a measure, to some of the ancient customs of the people. This is difficult to account for, more especially since the Hawaiians possessed no written language by which such knowledge could be preserved or transmitted. Fornander and others discovered in the legends of this people traces of the story of the Flood, the standing still of the sun, and other narratives of Bible history, which some savants accept as evidence of their Aryan origin. This claim we are not disposed to dispute, but desire to present another line of tradition that has been neglected hitherto, yet has promise of much interest. It will doubtless interest some readers to learn that Hawaii is the real home of the Brownies, or was; and that this adventurous nomadic tribe were known to the Hawaiians long before Swift's satirical mind conceived his Lilliputians. It would be unreasonable to expect so great a range of nationalities and peculiar characteristics among the pygmies of Hawaii as among the Brownies of story. Tradition naturally represents them as of one race, and all nimble workers; not a gentleman dude, or policeman in the whole lot. Unlike the inquisitive and mischievous athletes of present fame, the original and genuine Brownies, known as the Menehunes, are referred to as an industrious race. In fact, it was their alleged power to perform a marvellous amount of labor in a short space of time that has fixed them in the minds of Hawaiians, many of whom point to certain traces of their work in various parts of the islands to substantiate the traditional claim of their existence. Meeting thus with occasional references to this active race, but mostly in a vague way, it has been a matter of interesting inquiry among Hawaiians, some of whom were noted _kaao_, or legend-bearers, for further knowledge on the subject. Very naturally their ideas differ respecting the Menehunes. Some treat the subject with gravity and respect, and express the belief that they were the original inhabitants of these islands, but gradually gave way to the heavier-bodied ancestors of the present race; others consider that the history of the race has been forgotten through the lapse of ages; while the more intelligent and better educated look upon the Menehunes as a mythical class of gnomes or dwarfs, and the account of their exploits as having been handed down by tradition for social entertainment, as other peoples relate fairy stories. In the Hawaiian legend of Kumuhonua, Fornander states that the Polynesians were designated as "the people, descendants from Menehune, son of Lua Nuu, etc. It disappeared as a national name so long ago, however, that subsequent legends have changed it to a term of reproach, representing them at times as a separate race, and sometimes as a race of dwarfs, skilful laborers, but artful and cunning." In the following account and selection of stories gathered from various native sources, as literal a rendition as possible has been observed by the translators for the better insight it gives of Hawaiian thought and character. MOKE MANU'S ACCOUNT The Menehunes were supposed to have been a wonderful people, small of stature and of great activity. They were always united in doing any service required of them. It was their rule that any work undertaken must be completed in one night, otherwise it would be left unfinished, as they did not labor twice on the same work; hence the origin of the saying: "_He po hookahi, a ao ua pau_,"--in one night, and by dawn it is finished. There is no reliable history of the Menehunes. No one knows whence they came, though tradition says they were the original people of the Hawaiian Islands. They are thought to have been supernatural beings, governed by some one higher in rank than themselves, whom they recognized as having power and authority over them, that assigned them to the mountains and hills where they lived permanently. They were said to be the only inhabitants of the islands up to the time of Papa and Wakea, and were invisible to every one but their own descendants, or those connected with them in some way. Many persons could hear the noise and hum of their voices, but the gift of seeing them with the naked eye was denied to those not akin to them. They were always willing to do the bidding of their descendants, and their supernatural powers enabled them to perform some wonderful works. PI'S WATERCOURSE Pi was an ordinary man living in Waimea, Kauai, who wanted to construct a _mano_, or dam, across the Waimea River and a watercourse therefrom to a point near Kikiaola. Having settled upon the best locations for his proposed work, he went up to the mountains and ordered all the Menehunes that were living near Puukapele to prepare stones for the dam and watercourse. The Menehunes were portioned off for the work; some to gather stones, and others to cut them. All the material was ready in no time (_manawa ole_), and Pi settled upon the night when the work was to be done. When the time came he went to the point where the dam was to be built, and waited. At the dead of night he heard the noise and hum of the voices of the Menehunes on their way to Kikiaola, each of whom was carrying a stone. The dam was duly constructed, every stone fitting in its proper place, and the stone _auwai_, or watercourse, also laid around the bend of Kikiaola. Before the break of day the work was completed, and the water of the Waimea River was turned by the dam into the watercourse on the flat lands of Waimea. When the work was finished Pi served out food for the Menehunes, which consisted of shrimps (_opae_), this being the only kind to be had in sufficient quantity to supply each with a fish to himself. They were well supplied and satisfied, and at dawn returned to the mountains of Puukapele rejoicing, and the hum of their voices gave rise to the saying, "_Wawa ka Menehune i Puukapele, ma Kauai, puoho ka manu o ka loko o Kawainui ma Koolaupoko, Oahu_"--the hum of the voices of the Menehunes at Puukapele, Kauai, startled the birds of the pond of Kawainui, at Koolaupoko Oahu. The _auwai_, or watercourse, of Pi is still to be seen at Kikiaola. At one time Pi also told the Menehunes to wall in a fish-pond at the bend of the Huleia River. They commenced work toward midnight, but at dawn the walls of the pond were not sufficiently finished to meet, so it was left incomplete, and has remained so to this day. LAKA'S ADVENTURE Wahieloa, a chief, lived at Kalaikoi, Kipahulu, Maui. He took to him a wife named Hinahawea. In due time a boy was born to them, whom Hinahowana, the mother of Hinahawea, brought up under her own care at Alaenui. She called him Laka-a-wahieloa. He was greatly petted by his parents. One day his father went to Hawaii in search of the _Ala-Koiula a Kane_ for a toy for his son, landing at Punaluu, Kau, Hawaii, where he was killed in a cave called Keana-a-Kaualehu. After a long absence Laka asked for his father, and his mother referred him to his grandmother, who, on being questioned, told him that his father went to Hawaii, and was supposed to be dead. Laka then asked for means by which he could search for his father. His grandmother replied: "Go to the mountains and look for the tree that has leaves shaped like the moon on the night of Hilo, or Hoaka; such is the tree for a canoe." Laka followed this advice, and went to the mountains to find the tree for his canoe. Finding a suitable one, he commenced to cut in the morning, and by sundown he had felled it to the ground. This accomplished, he went home. Returning the next day, to his surprise he could not find his fallen tree, so he cut down another, with the same result. Laka was thus tricked for several days, and in his perplexity consulted again with his grandmother, who sent him off with the same advice as before, to look for the crescent-shaped leaf. He went to the mountains again and found the desired tree, but before cutting it he dug a big hole on the side where the Kalala-Kamahele would fall. Upon cutting the tree it fell right into the hole or trench, as designed; then he jumped into it and lay in waiting for the person or persons who were reërecting the trees he had cut down for his canoe. While thus waiting, he heard some one talking about raising the tree and returning it to its former position, followed by someone chanting as follows: E ka mano o ke Akua, Ke kini o ke Akua, Ka lehu o ke Akua, Ka lalani Akua, Ka pukui Akua! E na Akua o ke kuahiwi nei, I ka mauna, I ke kualono, I ka manowai la-e, E-iho! [7] When this appeal ended there was a hum and noise, and in a short time (_manawa ole_) the place was filled with a band of people, who endeavored to lift the tree; but it would not move. Laka then jumped out from his place of hiding and caught hold of two of the men, Mokuhalii and Kapaaikee, and threatened to kill them for raising again the trees he had cut for his canoe. Mokuhalii then told Laka that if they were killed, nobody would be able to make a canoe for him, nor would anybody pull it to the beach, but if they were spared they would willingly do it for him, provided Laka would first build a big and long shed (_halau_) of sufficient size to hold the canoe, and prepare sufficient food for the men. Laka gladly consenting, released them and returned to his home and built a shed on the level ground of Puhikau. Then he went up to the woods and saw the canoe, ready and complete. The Menehunes told Laka that it would be brought to the halau that night. At the dead of night the hum of the voices of the Menehunes was heard; this was the commencement of the lifting of the canoe. It was not dragged, but held up by hand. The second hum of voices brought the canoe to Haloamekiei, at Pueo. And at the third hum the canoe was carefully laid down in the halau. Food and fish were there spread out for the workers, the _ha_ of the taro for food, and the opae and oopu for fish. At dawn the Menehunes returned to their home. Kuahalau was the name of the halau, the remains of the foundation of which were to be seen a few years ago, but now it is ploughed over. The hole dug by Laka still exists. KEKUPUA'S CANOE Kakae, a chief, lived at Wahiawa, Kukaniloko, Waialua, Oahu. One day his wife told him that she desired to go in search of her brother, Kahanaiakeakua, who was supposed to be living at Tahiti. Kakae thereupon ordered his man Kekupua to go into the woods and find a suitable tree and make a canoe for his wife for this foreign voyage. Kekupua, with a number of men under him, searched in the forest belt of Wahiawa, Helemano, and Waoala, as also through the woods of Koolau, without success. From Kahana they made a search through the mountains till they came to Kilohana, in Kalihi Valley, and from there to Waolani, in Nuuanu, where they slept in a cave. In the dead of night they heard the hum as of human voices, but were unable to discern any person, though the voices sounded close to them. At dawn silence reigned again, and when the sun arose, lo, and behold! there stood a large mound of stones, the setting of which resembled that of a _heiau_, or temple, the remains of which are said to be noticeable to this day. Kekupua and his men returned to their chief and reported their unsuccessful search for a suitable _koa_ (_Acacia koa_) tree for the desired canoe, and related also the incident at Waolani. Kakae, being a descendant of the Menehunes, knew immediately the authors of the strange occurrence. He therefore instructed Kekupua to proceed to Makaho and Kamakela and to stay there till the night of Kane, then go up to Puunui and wait till hearing the hum and noise of the Menehunes, which would be the signal of their finishing the canoe. And thus it was; the Menehunes, having finished the canoe, were ready to pull it to the sea. He directed them to look sharp, and two men would be noticed holding the ropes at the _pu_ (or head) of the canoe. One of them would leap from one side to the other; he was the director of the work and was called _pale_. There would be some men farther behind, holding the _kawelewele_, or guiding-ropes. They were the _kahunas_ that superintended the construction of the canoe. He reminded them to remember these directions, and when they saw these men, to give them orders and show them the course to take in pulling the canoe to the sea. Kekupua followed all these instructions faithfully. He waited at Puunui till dusk, when he heard a hum as of many voices, and proceeding farther up near the slope of Alewa he saw these wonderful people. They were like ordinary human beings but diminutive. He directed them to pull the canoe along the _nae_, or farther side of the Puunui stream. By this course the canoe was brought down as far as Kaalaa, near Waikahalulu, where, when daylight came, they left their burden and returned to Waolani. The canoe was left in the ditch, where it remained for many generations, and was called Kawa-a-Kekupua (Kekupua's canoe), in honor of the servant of the chief Kakae. Thus, even with the help of the Menehunes, the wife of Kakae was not satisfied in her desire. AS HEIAU BUILDERS The Menehunes are credited with the construction of numerous _heiaus_ (ancient temples) in various parts of the islands. The heiau of Mookini, near Honoipu, Kohala, is pointed out as an instance of their marvellous work. The place selected for the site of the temple was on a grassy plain. The stones in the nearest neighborhood were for some reason not deemed suitable for the work, so those of Pololu Valley, distant some twelve miles, were selected. Tradition says the Menehunes were placed in a line covering the entire distance from Pololu to Honoipu, whereby the stones were passed from hand to hand for the entire work. Work was begun at the quiet of night, and at cock-crow in the morning it was finished. Thus in one night the heiau of Mookini was built. Another temple of their erection was at Pepeekeo, Hilo, the peculiarity of the work being that the stones had been brought together by the residents of that part of the district, by direction of the chief, but that in one night, the Menehunes gathered together and built it. The chief and his people were surprised on coming the next morning to resume their labors, to find the heiau completed. There stands on the pali of Waikolu, near Kalaupapa, Molokai, a heiau that Hawaiians believe to have been constructed by no one else than the Menehunes. It is on the top of a ledge in the face of a perpendicular cliff, with a continuous inaccessible cliff behind it reaching hundreds of feet above. No one has ever been able to reach it either from above or from below; and the marvel is how the material, which appears to be seashore stones, was put in place. XI KAHALAOPUNA, PRINCESS OF MANOA _Mrs. E. M. Nakuina_ Akaaka (laughter) is a projecting spur of the mountain range at the head of Manoa Valley, forming the ridge running back to and above Waiakeakua, "the water of the gods." Akaaka was united in marriage to Nalehuaakaaka, still represented by some lehua (_Metrosideros polymorpha_) bushes on the very brow of the spur or ridge. They had two children, twins, Kahaukani, a boy, and Kauakuahine, a girl. These children were adopted at birth by a chief, Kolowahi, and chieftainess, Pohakukala, who were brother and sister, and cousins of Akaaka. The brother took charge of the boy, Kahaukani, a synonyme for the Manoa wind; and Pohakukala the girl, Kauakuahine, meaning the famous Manoa rain. When the children were grown up, the foster parents determined that they should be united; and the children, having been brought up separately and in ignorance of their relationship, made no objections. They were accordingly married and a girl was born to them, who was called Kahalaopuna. Thus Kolowahi and Pohakukala, by conspiring to unite the twin brother and sister, made permanent the union of rain and wind for which Manoa Valley is noted; and the fruit of such a union was the most beautiful woman of her time. So the Manoa girls, foster children of the Manoa rains and winds, have generally been supposed to have inherited the beauty of Kahalaopuna. A house was built for Kahalaopuna at Kahaiamano on the road to Waiakekua, where she lived with a few attendants. The house was surrounded by a fence of auki (_dracæna_), and a _puloulou_ (sign of kapu) was placed on each side of the gate, indicative of forbidden ground. The puloulou were short, stout poles, each surmounted by a ball of white kapa cloth, and indicated that the person or persons inhabiting the premises so defined were of the highest rank, and sacred. Kahalaopuna was very beautiful from her earliest childhood. Her cheeks were so red and her face so bright that a glow emanated therefrom which shone through the thatch of her house when she was in; a rosy light seemed to envelop the house, and bright rays seemed to play over it constantly. When she went to bathe in the spring below her house, the rays of light surrounded her like a halo. The natives maintain that this bright light is still occasionally seen at Kahaiamano, indicating that the spirit of Kahalaopuna is revisiting her old home. She was betrothed in childhood to Kauhi, the young chief of Kailua, in Koolau, whose parents were so sensible of the honor of the contemplated union of their son with the Princess of Manoa, who was deemed of a semi-supernatural descent, that they always sent the poi of Kailua and the fish of Kawainui for the girl's table. She was thus, as it were, brought up entirely on the food of her prospective husband. When she was grown to young womanhood, she was so exquisitely beautiful that the people of the valley would make visits to the outer puloulou at the sacred precinct of Luaalea, the land adjoining Kahaiamano, just to get a glimpse of the beauty as she went to and from the spring. In this way the fame of her surpassing loveliness was spread all over the valley, and came to the ears of two men, Kumauna and Keawaa, both of whom were disfigured by a contraction of the lower eyelids, and were known as _makahelei_ (drawn eyes). Neither of these men had ever seen Kahalaopuna, but they fell in love with her from hear-say, and not daring to present themselves to her as suitors on account of their disfigurement, they would weave and deck themselves _leis_ (wreaths) of maile (_Alyxia olivæformis_), ginger, and ferns and go to Waikiki for surf-bathing. While there they would indulge in boasting of their conquest of the famous beauty, representing the leis with which they were decked as love-gifts from Kahalaopuna. Now, when the surf of Kalehuawehe at Waikiki was in proper condition, it would attract people from all parts of the island to enjoy the delightful sport. Kauhi, the betrothed of Kahalaopuna, was one of these. The time set for his marriage to Kahalaopuna was drawing near, and as yet he had not seen her, when the assertions of the two makahelei men came to his ears. These were repeated so frequently that Kauhi finally came to believe them, and they so filled him with jealous rage of his betrothed that he determined to kill her. He started for Manoa at dawn, and proceeded as far as Mahinauli, in mid-valley, where he rested under a hala (_Pandanus odoratissimus_) tree that grew in the grove of wiliwili (_Erythrina monosperma_). He sat there some time, brooding over the fancied injury to himself, and nursing his wrath. Upon resuming his walk he broke off and carried along with him a bunch of hala nuts. It was quite noon when he reached Kahaiamano and presented himself before the house of Kahalaopuna. The latter had just awakened from a sleep, and was lying on a pile of mats facing the door, thinking of going to the spring, her usual bathing-place, when she perceived a stranger at the door. She looked at him some time and, recognizing him from oft repeated descriptions, asked him to enter; but Kauhi refused, and asked her to come outside. The young girl had been so accustomed from early childhood to consider herself as belonging to Kauhi, and of being indebted to him, as it were, for her daily food, that she obeyed him unhesitatingly. He perhaps intended to kill her then, but the girl's unhesitating obedience as well as her extreme loveliness made him hesitate for a while; and after looking intently at her for some time he told her to go and bathe and then prepare herself to accompany him in a ramble about the woods. While Kahalaopuna was bathing, Kauhi remained moodily seated where she had left him, and watched the bright glow, like rainbow rays, playing above the spring. He was alternately filled with jealousy, regret, and longing for the great beauty of the girl; but that did not make him relent in his dreadful purpose. He seemed to resent his betrothed's supposed infidelity the more because she had thrown herself away on such unworthy persons, who were, besides, ugly and disfigured, while he, Kauhi, was not only a person of rank and distinction, but possessed also of considerable manly beauty. When she was ready he motioned her to follow him, and turned to go without a word. They went across Kumakaha to Hualea, when the girl said, "Why don't you stay and have something to eat before we go?" He answered rather surlily, "I don't care to eat; I have no appetite." He looked so sternly at her as he said this that she cried out to him, "Are you annoyed with me? Have I displeased you in any way?" He only said, "Why, what have you done that would displease me?" He kept on his way, she following, till they came to a large stone in Aihualama, when he turned abruptly and, facing the young girl, looked at her with an expression of mingled longing and hate. At last, with a deep sigh, he said, "You are beautiful, my betrothed, but, as you have been false, you must die." The young girl looked up in surprise at these strange words, but saw only hatred and a deadly purpose in Kauhi's eyes; so she said: "If I have to die, why did you not kill me at home, so that my people could have buried my bones; but you brought me to the wild woods, and who will bury me? If you think I have been false to you, why not seek proof before believing it?" But Kauhi would not listen to her appeal. Perhaps it only served to remind him of what he considered was his great loss. He struck her across the temple with the heavy bunch of hala nuts he had broken off at Mahinauli, and which he had been holding all the time. The blow killed the girl instantly, and Kauhi hastily dug a hole under the side of the rock and buried her; then he started down the valley toward Waikiki. As soon as he was gone, a large owl, who was a god, and a relative of Kahalaopuna, and had followed her from home, immediately set to digging the body out; which done, it brushed the dirt carefully off with its wings and, breathing into the girl's nostrils, restored her to life. It rubbed its face against the bruise on the temple, and healed it immediately. Kauhi had not advanced very far on his way when he heard the voice of Kahalaopuna singing a lament for his unkindness, and beseeching him to believe her, or, at least, prove his accusation. Hearing her voice, Kauhi returned, and, seeing the owl flying above her, recognized the means of her resurrection; and, going up to the girl, ordered her to follow him. They went up the side of the ridge which divides Manoa Valley from Nuuanu. It was hard work for the tenderly nurtured maiden to climb the steep mountain ridge, at one time through a thorny tangle of underbrush, and at another clinging against the bare face of the rocks, holding on to swinging vines for support. Kauhi never offered to assist her, but kept on ahead, only looking back occasionally to see that she followed. When they arrived at the summit of the divide she was all scratched and bruised, and her _pa-u_ (skirt) in tatters. Seating herself on a stone to regain her breath, she asked Kauhi where they were going. He never answered, but struck her again with the hala branch, killing her instantly, as before. He then dug a hole near where she lay, and buried her, and started for Waikiki by way of the Kakea ridge. He was no sooner out of sight than the owl again scratched the dirt away and restored the girl, as before. Again she followed and sang a song of love and regret for her lover's anger, and pleaded with him to lay aside his unjust suspicions. On hearing her voice again, Kauhi returned and ordered her to follow him. They descended into Nuuanu Valley, at Kaniakapupu, and crossed over to Waolani ridge, where he again killed and buried the faithful girl, who was again restored by the owl. When he was on his way back, as before, she sang a song, describing the perils and difficulties of the way traversed by them, and ended by pleading for pardon for the unknown fault. The wretched man, on hearing her voice again, was very angry; and his repeated acts of cruelty and the suffering endured by the girl, far from softening his heart, only served to render him more brutal, and to extinguish what little spark of kindly feeling he might have had originally. His only thought was to kill her for good, and thus obtain some satisfaction for his wasted poi and fish. He returned to her and ordered her, as before, to follow him, and started for Kilohana, at the head of Kalihi Valley, where he again killed her. She was again restored by the owl, and made her resurrection known by singing to her cruel lover. He this time took her across gulches, ravines, and plains, until they arrived at Pohakea, on the Ewa slope of the Kaala Mountains, where he killed her and buried her under a large _koa_ (_Acacia koa_). The faithful owl tried to scrape the dirt away, so as to get at the body of the girl, but his claws became entangled in the numerous roots and rootlets which Kauhi had been careful not to cut away. The more the owl scratched, the more deeply tangled he got, and, finally, with bruised claws and ruffled feathers, he had to give up the idea of rescuing the girl; and perhaps he thought it useless, as she would be sure to make her resurrection known to Kauhi. So the owl left, and followed Kauhi on his return to Waikiki. There had been another witness to Kauhi's cruelties, and that was Elepaio (_Chasiempis sandwichensis_), a little green bird, a cousin to Kahalaopuna. As soon as this bird saw that the owl had deserted the body of Kahalaopuna, it flew straight to Kahaukani and Kauakuahine, and told them of all that had happened. The girl had been missed, but, as some of the servants had recognized Kauhi, and had seen them leave together for what they supposed was a ramble in the adjoining woods, no great anxiety had been felt, as yet. But when the little bird told his tale, there was great consternation, and even positive disbelief; for, how could any one in his senses, they argued, be guilty of such cruelty to such a lovely, innocent being, and one, too, belonging entirely to himself. In the meantime, the spirit of the murdered girl discovered itself to a party who were passing by; and one of them, a young man, moved with compassion, went to the tree indicated by the spirit, and, removing the dirt and roots, found the body, still warm. He wrapped it in his _kihei_ (shoulder scarf), and then covered it entirely with maile, ferns, and ginger, and, making a _haawe_, or back-load, of it, carried it to his home at Kamoiliili. There, he submitted the body to his elder brother, who called upon two spirit sisters of theirs, with whose aid they finally succeeded in restoring it to life. In the course of the treatment she was frequently taken to an underground water-cave, called Mauoki, for the _Kakelekele_ (hydropathic cure). The water-cave has ever since been known as the "Water of Kahalaopuna." The young man who had rescued her from the grave naturally wanted her to become his bride; but the girl refused, saying that as long as Kauhi lived she was his, and none other's, as her very body was, as it were, nourished on his food, and was as much his property as the food had been. The elder brother then counselled the younger to seek, in some way, the death of Kauhi. To this end they conspired with the parents of Kahalaopuna to keep her last resurrection secret. The young man then set to work to learn all the meles Kahalaopuna had sung to her lover during that fatal journey. When he knew these songs well, he sought the _kilu_ (play, or game) houses of the King and high chiefs, where Kauhi was sure to be found. One day, when Kauhi was playing, this young man placed himself on the opposite side, and as Kauhi ceased, took up the kilu and chanted the first of Kahalaopuna's meles. Kauhi was very much surprised, and contrary to the etiquette of the game of kilu, stopped him in his play to ask him where he had learned that song. The young man answered he had learned it from Kahalaopuna, the famous Manoa beauty, who was a friend of his sister's and who was now on a visit at their house. Kauhi, knowing the owl had deserted the body of the girl, felt certain that she was really dead, and accused the other of telling a lie. This led to an angry and stormy scene, when the antagonists were parted by orders of the King. The next night found them both at the kilu house, when the second of Kahalaopuna's songs was sung, and another angry discussion took place. Again they were separated by others. On the third night, the third song having been sung, the dispute between the young men became so violent that Kauhi told the young man that the Kahalaopuna he knew must be an impostor, as the real person of that name was dead, to his certain knowledge. He dared him to produce the young woman whom he had been representing as Kahalaopuna; and should she not prove to be the genuine one then his life should be the forfeit, and on the other hand, if it should be the real one, then he, Kauhi, should be declared the liar and pay for his insults to the other with his life. This was just what the young man had been scheming to compass, and he quickly assented to the challenge, calling on the King and chiefs to take notice of the terms of agreement, and to see that they were enforced. On the appointed day Kahalaopuna went to Waikiki, attended by her parents, relatives, servants, and the two spirit sisters, who had assumed human form for that day so as to accompany their friend and advise her in case of necessity. Akaaka, the grandfather, who had been residing in Waikiki some little time previous to the dispute between the young men, was appointed one of the judges at the approaching trial. Kauhi had consulted the priests and sorcerers of his family as to the possibility of the murdered girl having assumed human shape for the purpose of working him some injury. Kaea, a famous priest and seer of his family, told him to have the large leaves of the a-pe (_Calladium costatum_) spread where Kahalaopuna and party were to be seated. If she was a spirit, she would not be able to tear the a-pe leaf on which she would be seated, but if human, the leaf or leaves would be torn. With the permission of the King, this was done. The latter, surrounded by the highest chiefs and a vast assemblage from all parts of the island, was there to witness the test. When Kahalaopuna and party were on the road to the scene of the test, her spirit friends informed her of the a-pe leaves, and advised her to trample on them so as to tear them as much as possible, as they, being spirits, would be unable to tear the leaves on which they should be seated, and if any one's attention were drawn to them, they would be found out and killed by the _poe po-i uhane_ (spirit catchers). The young girl faithfully performed what was required of her. Kaea, on seeing the torn leaves, remarked that she was evidently human, but that he felt the presence of spirits, and would watch for them, feeling sure they were in some way connected with the girl. Akaaka then told him to look in a calabash of water, when he would in all probability see the spirits. The seer, in his eagerness to unravel the mystery, forgot his usual caution and ordered a vessel of water to be brought, and, looking in, he saw only his own reflection. Akaaka at that moment caught the reflection of the seer (which was his spirit), and crushed it between his palms, and at that moment the seer dropped down dead. Akaaka now turned around and opened his arms and embraced Kahalaopuna, thus acknowledging her as his own beloved granddaughter. The King now demanded of the girl and of Kauhi an account of all that had happened between them, and of the reported death of the maiden. They both told their stories, Kauhi ascribing his anger to hearing the assertions of the two disfigured men, Kumauna and Keawaa. These two, on being confronted with the girl, acknowledged never having seen her before, and that all their words had been idle boastings. The King then said: "As your fun has cost this innocent girl so much suffering, it is my will that you two and Kauhi suffer death at once, as a matter of justice; and if your gods are powerful enough to restore you, so much the better for you." Two large _imus_ (ground ovens) had been heated by the followers of the young men, in anticipation of the possible fate of either, and Kauhi, with the two mischief-makers and such of their respective followers and retainers as preferred to die with their chiefs, were baked therein. The greater number of Kauhi's people were so incensed with his cruelty to the lovely young girl that they transferred their allegiance to her, offering themselves for her vassals as restitution, in a measure, for the undeserved sufferings borne by her at the hands of their cruel chief. The King gave her for a bride to the young man who had not only saved her, but had been the means of avenging her wrongs. The imus in which Kauhi and his companions were baked were on the side of the stream of Apuakehau, in the famous Ulukou grove, and very near the sea. The night following, a great tidal wave, sent in by a powerful old shark god, a relative of Kauhi's, swept over the site of the two ovens, and in the morning it was seen that their contents had disappeared. The bones had been taken by the old shark into the sea. The chiefs, Kumauna and Keawaa, were, through the power of their family gods, transformed into the two mountain peaks on the eastern corner of Manoa Valley, while Kauhi and his followers were turned into sharks. Kahalaopuna lived happily with her husband for about two years. Her grandfather, knowing of Kauhi's transformation, and aware of his vindictive nature, strictly forbade her from ever going into the sea. She remembered and heeded the warning during those years, but one day, her husband and all their men having gone to Manoa to cultivate kalo (_Colocasia antiquorum_), she was left alone with her maid servants. The surf on that day was in fine sporting condition, and a number of young women were surf-riding, and Kahalaopuna longed to be with them. Forgetting the warning, as soon as her mother fell asleep she slipped out with one of her maids and swam out on a surf-board. This was Kauhi's opportunity, and as soon as she was fairly outside the reef he bit her in two and held the upper half of the body up out of the water, so that all the surf-bathers would see and know that he had at last obtained his revenge. Immediately on her death the spirit of the young woman went back and told her sleeping mother of what had befallen her. The latter woke up, and, missing her, gave the alarm. This was soon confirmed by the terrified surf-bathers, who had all fled ashore at seeing the terrible fate of Kahalaopuna. Canoes were launched and manned, and chase given to the shark and his prey, which could be easily tracked by the blood. He swam just far enough below the surface of the water to be visible, and yet too far to be reached with effect by the fishing-spears of the pursuers. He led them a long chase to Waianae; then, in a sandy opening in the bottom of the sea, where everything was visible to the pursuers, he ate up the young woman, so that she could never again be restored to this life. Her parents, on hearing of her end, retired to Manoa Valley, and gave up their human life, resolving themselves into their supernatural elements. Kahaukani, the father, is known as the Manoa wind, but his usual and visible form is the grove of ha-u (_hibiscus_) trees, below Kahaiamano. Kauakuahine, the mother, assumed her rain form, and is very often to be met with about the former home of her beloved child. The grandparents also gave up their human forms, and returned, the one to his mountain form, and the other into the lehua bushes still to be met with on the very brow of the hill, where they keep watch over the old home of their petted and adored grandchild. XII THE PUNAHOU SPRING _Mrs. E. M. Nakuina_ There formerly lived on the Kaala Mountains a chief by the name of Kahaakea. He had two children, a boy and a girl, twins, whose mother had died at their birth. The brother was called _Kauawaahila_ (Waahila Rain), and the girl _Kauakiowao_ (Mountain Mist). Kahaakea was very tenderly attached to his motherless children, and after a while took to himself a wife, thinking thus to provide his children with a mother's care and love. This wife was called Hawea and had a boy by her former husband. This boy was deformed and ugly, while the twins were very beautiful. The stepmother was jealous of their beauty, and resented the universal admiration expressed for them, while no one noticed her boy except with looks of aversion. She was very considerate toward the twins when their father was present, but hated and detested them most violently. When they were about ten years old their father had occasion to go to Hawaii, and had to remain away a long time. He felt perfectly safe in leaving his children with his wife, as she had always feigned great love for them, and had successfully concealed from him her real feelings in regard to them. But as soon as he was fairly away she commenced a series of petty persecutions of the poor children. It seems the mother of the children had been "_uhae ia_" at her death. That is, certain prayers, invocations, fasting, and humiliation had been performed by certain relatives of the deceased, and quantities of prepared awa, black, unblemished pig, red fish, and all the customary food of the gods, had been prepared and offered with the object of strengthening the spirit of the departed and of attracting it strongly, as well as giving it a sort of power and control over mundane affairs and events. So when Hawea began to persecute her stepchildren, the spirit of their own mother would assist and protect them. The persecutions of the stepmother at last became unendurable to the twins. She not only deprived them of food, clothing, and water, but subjected them besides to all sorts of indignities and humiliations. Driven to desperation, they fled to Konahuanui, the mountain peak above the Pali of Nuuanu; but were soon discovered and driven away from there by the cruel Hawea. They then went to the head of Manoa Valley. The stepmother was not at all pleased at their getting out of the way of her daily persecutions, and searched for them everywhere. She finally tracked them by the constant appearance of rainbows at the head of Manoa Valley, those unfailing attendants of rain and mist. The children were again driven away and told to return to Kaala, where they would be constantly under her eye; but they ran and hid themselves in a small cave on the side of the hill of Kukaoo, whose top is crowned by the temple of the Menehunes. Here they lived some time and cultivated a patch of sweet potatoes, their food at this time being grasshoppers and greens. The greens were the leaves and the tender shoots of the popolo, aheahea, pakai, laulele and potato vines, cooked by rolling hot stones around and among them in a covered gourd. This is called the _puholoholo_. When their potato tubers were fit to be eaten, the brother (Waahila Rain) made a double _imu_ (oven), having a _kapu_, or sacred side, for his food and a _noa_, or free side, for his sister. The little cave that was their dwelling was also divided in two, a sacred and a free part, respectively, for brother and sister. The cave can still be seen, and the wall of stone dividing it in two was still intact a few years ago, as also was the double imu. In olden times it was tabooed to females to appear at any eating-place of the males. When their crops were fairly ripe, the stepmother found them again, and drove them away from their cave, she appropriating the fruit of their labors. The children fled to the rocky hills just back of Punahou, where they found two small caves, which the brother and sister occupied, respectively, as dwellings. The rolling plains and small ravines of the surrounding country, and of what was later known as the Punahou pasture, were not then covered with manienie grass, but with the indigenous shrubs and bushes, tall limas, aheaheas, popolo, etc., making close thickets, with here and there open spaces covered with _manienie-akiaki_, the valuable medicinal grass of the olden times. These shrubs and bushes either bore edible fruit or flowers, or the leaves and tender shoots made nourishing and satisfying food when cooked in the way previously described. The poor children lived on these and grasshoppers, and sometimes wild fowl. One day the sister, Kauakiowao, told her brother that she wanted to bathe, and complained of their having taken up their residence in a place where no water could be found. Her brother hushed her complaint by telling her that it was a safe place, and one where their stepmother would not be likely to look for them, but he would try to get her some water. In his trips around the neighborhood for fruit and greens he had noticed a large rain-water pond to the east of the hill on which they dwelt. This pond was called Kanawai. Here he sometimes came to snare wild ducks. He also had met and knew the Kakea water god, a moo, who had charge of and controlled all the water sources of Manoa and Makiki Valleys. This god was one of the ancestors of the children on the mother's side, and was on the best of terms with Waahila rain. The boy paid him a visit, and asked him to assist him to open a watercourse from the pond of Kanawai to a place he indicated in front of and below the caves inhabited by himself and his sister. The old water god not only consented to help his young relative, but promised to divide the water supply of the neighboring Wailele spring, and let it run into the watercourse that the boy would make, thus insuring its permanence. Waahila Rain then went to the pond of Kanawai and dived under, the water god causing a passage to open underground to the spot indicated, and swam through the water underground till he came out at the place now known as the Punahou Spring. The force of the rushing waters as they burst through the ground soon sufficed to make a small basin, which the boy proceeded to bank and wall up, leaving a narrow outlet for the surplus waters. With the invisible help of the old water god, he immediately set to work to excavate a good-sized pond for his sister to swim in, and when she awoke from a noonday nap, she was astonished to behold a lovely sheet of water where, in the morning, was only dry land. Her brother was swimming and splashing about in it, and gayly called to his sister to come and try her bathing-place. Kauawaahila afterward made some kalo patches, and people, attracted by the water and consequent fertility of the place, came and settled about, voluntarily offering themselves as vassals to the twins. More and more kalo patches were excavated, and the place became a thriving settlement. The spring became known as _Ka Punahou_ (the new spring), and gave its name to the surrounding place. About this time Kahaakea returned, and hearing of the persecutions to which his beloved children had been subjected, killed Hawea and then himself. Rocky Hill, the home of the children, was called after him, and is known by that name to the present day. Hawea has ever since then been a synonyme in the Hawaiian mind for a cruel stepmother. The Mountain Mist and Waahila Rain afterward returned to the home of their infancy, Kaala, where they would stay a while, occasionally visiting Konahuanui and upper Manoa Valley, and may be met with in these places at the present day. They also occasionally visited Punahou, which was under their especial care and protection; but when the land and spring passed into the hands of foreigners, who did not pay homage to the twins, and who allowed the springs to be defiled by the washing of unclean articles and by the bathing of unclean persons, the twins indignantly left the place, and retired to the head of Manoa Valley. They sometimes pass swiftly over their old home on their way to Kaala, or Konahuanui, and on such occasions will sometimes linger sorrowfully for a few minutes about Rocky Hill. The rain-water pond of Kanawai is now always dry, as the shrubs and bushes which supplied the food of the twins favored of the gods have disappeared. Old natives say that there is now no inducement for the gentle rain of the Uakiowao and Uawaahila to visit those bare hills and plains, as they would find no food there. XIII OAHUNUI _Mrs. E. M. Nakuina_ On the plateau lying between Ewa and Waialua, on the island of Oahu, and about a mile off, and mauka of the Kaukonahua bridge, is the historical place called Kukaniloko. This was the ancient birthplace of the Oahu kings and rulers. It was incumbent on all women of the royal line to retire to this place when about to give birth to a child, on pain of forfeiting the rank, privileges, and prerogatives of her expected offspring, should that event happen in a less sacred place. The stones were still standing some years ago, and perhaps are yet undisturbed, where the royal accouchements took place. In ancient times this locality was taboo ground, for here the high priest of the island had his headquarters. Himself descended from the chief families, and being, in many instances, an uncle or younger brother of the reigning king, or connected by marriage with those of the royal line, and being also at the head of a numerous, well organized, and powerful priesthood, his influence was hardly second to that of the king, and in some matters his authority was paramount. A few miles mauka of Kukaniloko, toward the Waimea Mountains, is Helemano, where the last of the cannibal chiefs from the South Seas finally settled when driven from the plains of Mokuleia and Waialua by the inhabitants of those districts; for the people had been exasperated by the frequent requisitions on the _kamaainas_ (original inhabitants) by the stranger chiefs to furnish material for their cannibal feasts. To the east of Helemano, and about the same distance from Kukaniloko, is Oahunui (Greater Oahu), another historical place. This was the residence of the kings of the island. Tradition has it that previous to the advent of the cannibal strangers the place was known by another name. When the Lo Aikanaka, as the last of the man-eating chiefs are called, were constrained to take up their residence in upper Helemano, a district just outside of the boundaries of those reserved for the royal and priestly residences, a young man called Oahunui was king. An elder sister named Kilikiliula, who had been as a mother to him, was supposed to share equally with him the royal power and prerogative. This sister was married to a chief named Lehuanui, of the priestly line, but one not otherwise directly connected with royalty, and was the mother of three children; the two eldest being boys and the youngest a girl. They all lived together in the royal enclosure, but in separate houses, according to ancient custom. Now, the Lo Aikanaka, on establishing themselves in upper Helemano, had at first behaved very well. They had been circumspect and prudent in their intercourse with the royal retainers, and had visited the young King to render their homage with every appearance of humility. Oahunui was quite captivated by the plausible, suave manners of the ingratiating southern chief and those of his immediate retainers, and he invited them to a feast. This civility was reciprocated, and the King dined with the strangers. Here it was strongly suspected that the dish of honor placed before the King was human flesh, served under the guise of pork. The King found the dish very much to his liking, and intimated to the Lo Aikanaka chief that his _aipuu-puu_ (chief cook or steward) understood the preparation and cooking of pork better than the royal cook did. The Lo Aikanaka took the hint, and the young King became a very frequent guest at the Southerner's board--or rather, mat table. Some excuse or other would be given to invite the royal guest, such as a challenge to the King to a game of _konane_ (a game like checkers); or a contest of skill in the different athletic and warlike sports would be arranged, and Oahunui would be asked to be the judge, or simply invited to view them. As a matter of course, it would be expected that the King would remain after the sports and partake of food when on friendly visits of this nature. Thus with one excuse or another he spent a great deal of his time with his new subjects and friends. To supply the particular dainty craved by the royal visitor, the Lo Aikanaka had to send out warriors to the passes leading to Waianae from Lihue and Kalena, and also to the lonely pathway leading up to Kalakini, on the Waimea side, there to lie in ambush for any lone traveller, or belated person after la-i, aaho, or ferns. Such a one would fall an easy prey to the Lo Aikanaka stalwarts, skilful in the art of the _lua_ (to kill by breaking the bones). This went on for some time, until the unaccountable disappearance of so many people began to be connected with the frequent entertainments by the southern chief. Oahunui's subjects began to hint that their young King had acquired the taste for human flesh at these feasts, and that it was to gratify his unnatural appetite for the horrid dish that he paid his frequent visits to those who were his inferiors, contrary to all royal precedent. The people's disapproval of the intimacy of Oahunui with his new friends was expressed more and more openly, and the murmurs of discontent grew loud and deep. His chiefs and high priest became alarmed, and begged him to discontinue his visits, or they would not be answerable for the consequences. The King was thereby forced to heed their admonitions and promised to keep away from Lo's, and did so for quite a while. Now, all the male members of the royal family ate their meals with the King when he was at home. This included, among others, Lehuanui, his sister's husband, and their two sons--healthy, chubby little lads of about eight and six years of age. One day after breakfast, as the roar of the surf at Waialua could be distinctly heard, the King remarked that the fish of Ukoa pond at Waialua must be pressing on to the _makaha_ (floodgates) and he would like some aholehole. This observation really meant a command to his brother-in-law to go and get the fish, as he was the highest chief present except his two royal nephews, too small to assume such duties. Lehuanui, Kilikiliula's husband, accordingly went to Waialua with a few of his own family retainers and a number of those belonging to the King. They found the fish packed thick at the makaha, and were soon busily engaged in scooping out, cleaning, and salting them. It was quite late at night when Lehuanui, fatigued with the labors of the day, lay down to rest. He had been asleep but a short time when he seemed to see his two sons standing by his head. The eldest spoke to him: "Why do you sleep, my father? While you are down here we are being eaten by your brother-in-law, the King. We were cooked and eaten up, and our skulls are now hanging in a net from a branch of the lehua-tree you are called after, and the rest of our bones are tied in a bundle and buried under the tree by the big root running to the setting sun." Then they seemed to fade away, and Lehuanui started up, shivering with fear. He hardly knew whether he had been dreaming or had actually seen an apparition of his little sons. He had no doubt they were dead, and as he remembered all the talk and innuendoes about the King's supposed reasons for visiting the strangers and the enforced cessation of those visits at the urgent request of the high priest and the chiefs, he came to the conclusion that the King had expressed a desire for fish in his presence only to send him out of the way. He reasoned that no doubt the King had noticed the chubby forms and rounded limbs of the little lads, and being debarred a chance of partaking surreptitiously of human flesh, had compelled his servants to kill, cook, and serve up his own nephews. In satisfying his depraved appetite, he had also got rid of two who might become formidable rivals; for it was quite within the possibilities that the priests and chiefs in the near future, should he be suspected of a desire for a further indulgence in cannibal diet, might depose him, and proclaim either one of the young nephews his successor. The father was so troubled that he aroused his immediate body servant, and the two left Waialua for home shortly after midnight. They arrived at the royal enclosure at dawn, and went first to the lehua-tree spoken of by the apparition of the child, and on looking up amid the branches, sure enough there dangled two little skulls in a large-meshed fishing-net. Lehuanui then stooped down and scraped away the leaves and loose dirt from the root indicated, and out rolled a bundle of tapa, which on being opened was found to contain the bones of two children. The father reached up for the net containing the skulls, and putting the bundle of tapa in it, tied the net around his neck. The servant stood by, a silent and grieved spectator of a scene whose meaning he fully understood. The father procured a stone adze and went to the King's sleeping-house, the servant still following. Here every one but an old woman tending the kukui-nut candle was asleep. Oahunui was stretched out on a pile of soft mats covered with his _paiula_, the royal red kapa of old. The cruel wretch had eaten to excess of the hateful dish he craved, and having accompanied it with copious draughts of awa juice, was in a heavy, drunken sleep. Lehuanui stood over him, adze in hand, and called, "O King, where are my children?" The stupefied King only stirred uneasily, and would not, or could not, awake. Lehuanui called him three times, and the sight of the drunken brute, gorged with his flesh and blood, so enraged the father that he struck at Oahunui's neck with his stone adze, and severed the head from the body at one blow. The father and husband then strode to his own sleeping-house, where his wife lay asleep with their youngest child in her arms. He aroused her and asked for his boys. The mother could only weep, without answering. He upbraided her for her devotion to her brother, and for having tamely surrendered her children to satisfy the appetite of the inhuman monster. He reminded her that she had equal power with her brother, and that the latter was very unpopular, and had she chosen to resist his demands and called on the retainers to defend her children, the King would have been killed and her children saved. He then informed her that, as she had given up his children to be killed for her brother, he had killed him in retaliation, and, saying, "You have preferred your brother to me and mine, so you will see no more of me and mine," he tore the sleeping child from her arms and turned to leave the house. The poor wife and mother followed, and, flinging herself on her husband, attempted to detain him by clinging to his knees; but the father, crazed by his loss and the thought of her greater affection for a cruel, inhuman brother than for her own children, struck at her with all his might, exclaiming, "Well, then, follow your brother," and rushed away, followed by all his retainers. Kilikiliula fell on the side of the stream opposite to where the lehua-tree stood, and is said to have turned to stone. The stone is pointed out to this day, balanced on the hillside of the ravine formed by the stream, and is one of the objects for the Hawaiian sightseer. The headless body of Oahunui lay where he was killed, abandoned by every one. The story runs that in process of time it also turned to stone, as a witness to the anger of the gods and their detestation of his horrible crime. All the servants who had in any way been concerned, in obedience to royal mandate, in killing and cooking the young princes were, at the death of Kilikiliula, likewise turned to stone, just as they were, in the various positions of crouching, kneeling, or sitting. All the rest of the royal retainers, with the lesser chiefs and guards, fled in fear and disgust from the place, and thus the once sacred royal home of the Oahuan chiefs was abandoned and deserted. The great god Kane's curse, it is believed, still hangs over the desolate spot, in proof of which it is asserted that, although all this happened hundreds of years ago, no one has ever lived there since. XIV AHUULA A LEGEND OF KANIKANIAULA AND THE FIRST FEATHER CLOAK _Mrs. E. M. Nakuina_ Eleio was a _kukini_ (trained runner) in the service of Kakaalaneo, King of Maui, several runners being always kept by each king or _alii_ of consequence. These kukinis, when sent on any errand, always took a direct line for their destination, climbing hills with the agility of goats, jumping over rocks and streams, and leaping from precipices. They were so fleet of foot that the common illustration of the fact among the natives was the saying that when a kukini was sent on an errand that would ordinarily take a day and a night, fish wrapped in ki leaves (known as _lawalu_), if put on the fire on his starting, would not be cooked sufficiently to be turned before he would be back. Being so serviceable to the aliis, kukinis always enjoyed a high degree of consideration, freedom, and immunity from the strict etiquette and unwritten laws of a Hawaiian court. There was hardly anything so valuable in their master's possession that they could not have it if they wished. Eleio was sent to Hana to fetch awa for the King, and was expected to be back in time for the King's supper. Kakaalaneo was then living at Lahaina. Now, Eleio was not only a kukini, but he was also a kahuna, and had been initiated in the ceremonies and observances by which he was enabled to see spirits or wraiths, and was skilled in medicines, charms, etc., and could return a wandering spirit to its body unless decomposition had set in. Soon after leaving Olowalu, and as he commenced the ascent of Aalaloloa, he saw a beautiful young woman ahead of him. He naturally hastened his steps, intending to overtake such a charming fellow-traveller; but, do what he would, she kept always just so far ahead of him. Being the fleetest and most renowned kukini of his time, it roused his professional pride to be outrun by a woman, even if only for a short distance; so he was determined to catch her, and he gave himself entirely to that effort. The young woman led him a weary chase over rocks, hills, mountains, deep ravines, precipices, and dark streams, till they came to the _Lae_ (cape) of Hanamanuloa at Kahikinui, beyond Kaupo, when he caught her just at the entrance to a _puoa_. A puoa was a kind of tower, generally of bamboo, with a platform half-way up, on which the dead bodies of persons of distinction belonging to certain families or classes were exposed to the elements. When Eleio caught the young woman she turned to him and cried: "Let me live! I am not human, but a spirit, and inside this inclosure is my dwelling." He answered: "I have been aware for some time of your being a spirit. No human being could have so outrun me." She then said: "Let us be friends. In yonder house live my parents and relatives. Go to them and ask for a hog, kapas, some fine mats, and a feather cloak. Describe me to them and tell them that I give all those things to you. The feather cloak is unfinished. It is now only a fathom and a half square, and was intended to be two fathoms. There are enough feathers and netting in the house to finish it. Tell them to finish it for you." The spirit then disappeared. Eleio entered the puoa, climbed on to the platform, and saw the dead body of the girl. She was in every way as beautiful as the spirit had appeared to him, and apparently decomposition had not yet set in. He left the puoa and hurried to the house pointed out by the spirit as that of her friends, and saw a woman wailing, whom, from the resemblance, he at once knew to be the mother of the girl; so he saluted her with an aloha. He then said: "I am a stranger here, but I had a travelling companion who guided me to yonder puoa and then disappeared." At these strange words the woman stopped wailing and called to her husband, to whom she repeated what the stranger had said. The latter then asked: "Does this house belong to you?" Husband and wife, wondering, answered at once: "It does." "Then," said Eleio, "my message is to you. My travelling companion has a hog a fathom in length in your care; also a pile of fine kapas of Paiula and others of fine quality; also a pile of mats and an unfinished feather cloak, now a fathom and a half in length, which you are to finish, the materials being in the house. All these things she has given to me, and sent me to you for them." Then he began to describe the young woman. Both parents recognized the truthfulness of the description, and willingly agreed to give up the things which their beloved daughter must have herself given away. But when they spoke of killing the hog and making an _ahaaina_ (feast) for him, whom they had immediately resolved to adopt as a son, he said: "Wait a little and let me ask: Are all these people I see around this place your friends?" They both answered: "They are our relatives--uncles, aunts, and cousins to the spirit, who seems to have adopted you either as husband or brother." "Will they do your bidding in everything?" he asked. They answered that they could be relied upon. He directed them to build a large _lanai_, or arbor, to be entirely covered with ferns, ginger, maile, and ieie--the sweet and odorous foliage greens of the islands. An altar was to be erected at one end of the lanai and appropriately decorated. The order was willingly carried out, men, women, and children working with a will, so that the whole structure was finished in a couple of hours. Eleio now directed the hog to be cooked. He also ordered cooked red and white fish, red, white, and black cocks, and bananas of the lele and maoli varieties, to be placed on the altar. He ordered all women and children to enter their houses and to assist him with their prayers; all pigs, chickens, and dogs to be tied in dark huts to keep them quiet, and that the most profound silence should be kept. The men at work were asked to remember their gods, and to invoke their assistance for Eleio. He then started for Hana, pulled up a couple of bushes of awa of Kaeleku, famous for its medicinal properties, and was back again before the hog was cooked. The awa was prepared, and when the preparations for the feast were complete and set out, he offered everything to his gods and begged assistance in what he was about to perform. It seems the spirit of the girl had been lingering near him all the time, seeming to be attached to him, but of course invisible to every one. When Eleio had finished his invocation he turned and caught the spirit, and, holding his breath and invoking the gods, he hurried to the puoa, followed by the parents, who now began to understand that he was going to try the _kapuku_ (or restoration to life of the dead) on their daughter. Arriving at the puoa, he placed the spirit against the insteps of the girl and pressed it firmly in, meanwhile continuing his invocation. The spirit entered its former tenement kindly enough until it came to the knees, when it refused to go any further, as from there it could perceive that the stomach was beginning to decompose, and it did not want to be exposed to the pollution of decaying matter. But Eleio, by the strength of his prayers, was enabled to push the spirit up past the knees till it came to the thigh bones, when the refractory spirit again refused to proceed. He had to put additional fervor into his prayers to overcome the spirit's resistance, and it proceeded up to the throat, when there was some further check; by this time the father, mother, and male relatives were all grouped around anxiously watching the operation, and they all added the strength of their petitions to those of Eleio, which enabled him to push the spirit past the neck, when the girl gave a sort of crow. There was now every hope of success, and all the company renewed their prayers with redoubled vigor. The spirit made a last feeble resistance at the elbows and wrists, which was triumphantly overborne by the strength of the united prayers. Then it quietly submitted, took complete possession of the body, and the girl came to life. She was submitted to the usual ceremonies of purification by the local priest, after which she was led to the prepared lanai, when kahuna, maid, parents, and relatives had a joyous reunion. Then they feasted on the food prepared for the gods, who were only supposed to absorb the spiritual essence of things, leaving the grosser material parts to their devotees, who, for the time being, are considered their guests. After the feast the feather cloak, kapas, and fine mats were brought and displayed to Eleio; and the father said to him: "Take the woman thou hast restored and have her for wife, and remain here with us; you will be our son and will share equally in the love we have for her." But our hero, with great self-denial and fidelity, said: "No, I accept her as a charge, but for wife, she is worthy to be one for a higher than I. If you will trust her to me, I will take her to my master, for by her beauty and charms she is worthy to be the queen of our lovely island." The father answered: "She is yours to do with as you will. It is as if you had created her, for without you, where would she be now? We only ask this, that you always remember that you have parents and relatives here, and a home whenever you choose." Eleio then asked that the feather cloak be finished for him before he returned to his master. All who could work at feathers set about it at once, including the fair girl restored to life; and he now learned that she was called Kanikaniaula. When it was completed he set out on his return to Lahaina accompanied by the girl, and taking the feather cloak and the remaining awa he had not used in his incantations. They travelled slowly according to the strength of Kanikaniaula, who now in the body could not equal the speed she had displayed as a spirit. Arriving at Launiupoko, Eleio turned to her and said: "You wait and hide here in the bushes while I go on alone. If by sundown I do not return, I shall be dead. You know the road by which we came; then return to your people. But if all goes well with me I shall be back in a little while." He then went on alone, and when he reached Makila, on the confines of Lahaina, he saw a number of people heating an _imu_, or underground oven. On perceiving him they started to bind and roast him alive, such being the orders of the King, but he ordered them away with the request, "Let me die at the feet of my master." And thus he passed successfully the imu heated for him. When he finally stood before Kakaalaneo, the latter said to him: "How is this? Why are you not cooked alive, as I ordered? How came you to pass my lunas?" The kukini answered: "It was the wish of the slave to die at the feet of his master, if die he must; but if so, it would be an irreparable loss to you, my master, for I have that with me that will cause your name to be renowned and handed down to posterity." "And what is that?" questioned the King. Eleio then unrolled his bundle and displayed to the astonished gaze of the King and courtiers the glories of a feather cloak, before then unheard of on the islands. Needless to say, he was immediately pardoned and restored to royal favor, and the awa he had brought from Hana was reserved for the King's special use in his offerings to the gods that evening. When the King heard the whole story of Eleio's absence, and that the fair original owner was but a short way off, he ordered her to be immediately brought before him that he might express his gratitude for the wonderful garment. When she arrived, he was so struck with her beauty and modest deportment that he ask her to become his Queen. Thus, some of the highest chiefs of the land traced their descent from Kakaalaneo and Kanikaniaula. The original feather cloak, known as the "_Ahu o Kakaalaneo_," is said to be in the possession of the Pauahi Bishop Museum. At one time it was used on state occasions as _pa-u_, or skirt, by Princess Nahienaena, own sister of the second and third Kamehame-has. The ahuulas of the ancient Hawaiians were of fine netting, entirely covered, with feathers woven in. These were either of one color and kind or two or three different colors outlining patterns. The feathers were knotted by twos or threes with twisted strands of the olona, the process being called _uo_. They were then woven into the foundation netting previously made the exact shape and size wanted. The whole process of feather cloak making was laborious and intricate, and the making of a cloak took a great many years. And as to durability, let the cloak of Kalaalaneo, now several centuries old, attest. XV KAALA AND KAAIALII A LEGEND OF LANAI _W. M. Gibson_ Bordering upon the land of Kealia, on the southwest coast of Lanai, where was _pahonua_ or place of refuge, are the remains of Kaunolu, an ancient _heiau_, or temple. Its ruins lie within the mouth of a deep ravine, whose extending banks run out into the sea and form a bold, bluff-bound bay. On the top of the western bank there is a stone-paved platform, called the _kuaha_. Outside of this, and separated by a narrow alley-way, there runs a broad high wall, which quite encircles the kuaha. Other walls and structures lead down the bank, and the slope is terraced and paved down to the tide-worn stones of the shore. At the beach there is a break; a great block of the bluff has been rent away by some convulsion of nature, and stands out like a lone tower, divided from the main by a gulf of the sea. Its high walls beetle from their tops, upon which neither man nor goat can climb. But you can behold on the flat summit of this islet bluff, portions of ancient work, of altars and walls, and no doubt part of the mainland temple, to which this fragment once was joined. But man can visit this lone tower's top no more, and his feet can never climb its overhanging walls. Inland from the temple there are many remains of the huts of the people of the past. The stone foundations, the inclosures for swine, the round earth ovens, and other traces of a throng of people cover many acres of beach and hillside. This was a town famed as an abode of gods and a refuge for those who fled for their lives; but it drew its people mainly through the fame of its fishing-ground, which swarmed with the varied life of the Hawaiian seas. To this famed fishing-ground came the great hero of Hawaii to tax the deep, when he had subdued this and the other isles. He came with his fleets of war canoes; with his faithful _koas_, or fighting men, with his chiefs, and priests, and women, and their trains. He had a house here. Upon the craggy bluff that forms the eastern bank of the bay there is a lonely _pa_, or wall, and stones of an ancient fort, overlooking the temple, town, and bay. Kamehameha came to Kealia for sport rather than for worship. Who so loved to throw the maika ball, or hurl the spear, or thrust aside the many javelins flung at his naked chest, as the chief of Kohala? He rode gladly on the crest of the surf waves. He delighted to drive his canoe alone out into the storm. He fought with the monsters of the deep, as well as with men. He captured the great shark that abounds in the bay, and he would clutch in the fearful grip of his hands the deadly eel or snake of these seas, the terror of fishes and men. When this warrior king came to Kaunolu, the islanders thronged to the shore to pay homage to the great chief, and to lay at the feet of their sovereign, as was their wont, the products of the isle: the taro, the yam, the hala, the cocoanut, ohelo, banana, and sweet potato. They piled up a mound of food before the door of the King's pakui, along with a clamorous multitude of fat poi-fed dogs, and of fathom-long swine. Besides this tribute of the men, the workers of the land, the women filled the air with the sweet odors of their floral offerings. The maidens were twined from head to waist with _leis_ or wreaths of the _na-u_, which is Lanai's own lovely jessamine--a rare gardenia, whose sweet aroma loads the breeze, and leads you to the bush when seeking it afar off. These garlands were fastened to the plaited pili thatch of the King's pakui; they were placed on the necks of the young warriors, who stood around the chief; and around his royal brows they twined an odorous crown of maile. The brightest of the girlish throng who stood before the dread Lord of the Isles was Kaala, or Sweet Scented, whose fifteen suns had just burnished her sweet brown face with a soft golden gloss; and her large, round, tender eyes knew yet no wilting fires. Her neck and arms, and all of her young body not covered by the leafy pa-u, was tinted with a soft sheen like unto a rising moon. Her skin glowed with the glory of youth, and mingled its delicate odor of health with the blooms of the groves, so that the perfume of her presence received fittingly the name of Fragrance. In those rude days the island race was sound and clean. The supple round limbs were made bright and strong by the constant bath and the temperate breeze. They were not cumbered with clothing; they wore no long, sweating gowns, but their smooth, shining skins reflected back their sun, which gave them such a rich and dusky charm. Perhaps such a race cannot long wear all our gear and live. They are best clothed with sea foam, or with the garlands of their groves. How sweetly blend the brown and green; and when young, soft, amber-tinted cheeks, glowing with the crimson tide beneath, are wreathed with the odorous evergreens of the isles, you see the poesy of our kind, and the sweet, wild grace that dwelt in the Eden Paradise. The sweet Kaala stood mindless of harm, as the playful breeze rustled the long blades of the la-i (_dracæna_) leaves, hanging like a bundle of green swords from her waist; and as they twirled and fluttered in the air, revealed the soft, rounded form, whose charm filled the eye and heart of one who stood among the braves of the great chief--the heart of the stout young warrior Kaaialii. This youth had fought in the battle of Maunalei, Lanai's last bloody fight. With his long-reaching spear, wielded with sinewy arms, he urged the flying foe to the top of a fearful cliff, and mocking the cries of a huddled crowd of panic-scared men, drove them with thrusts and shouts till they leaped like frightened sheep into the jaws of the deep, dark chasm, and their torn corpses strewed the jagged stones below. Kaaialii, like many a butcher of his kind, was comely to see. With the lion's heart, he had the lion's tawny hue. A swart grace beamed beneath his curling brows. He had the small, firm hand to throttle or caress, and eyes full of fire for hate or love; and love's flame now lit the face of the hero of the bloody leap, and to his great chief he said, "O King of all the isles, let this sweet flower be mine, rather than the valley thou gavest me for my domain." Said Kamehameha: "You shall plant the Lanai jessamine in the valley I gave you in Kohala. But there is another who claims our daughter, who is the stout bone-breaker, the scarred Mailou. My spearman of Maunalei can have no fear; and you shall wrestle with him; and let the one whose arms can clasp the girl after the fight carry her to his house, where one kapa shall cover the two." The poor maid, the careless gift of savage power, held up her clasped hands with a frightened gesture at the dread name of the breaker of bones; for she had heard how he had sucked the breath of many a dainty bloom like her, then crunched the wilted blossom with sinews of hate, and flung it to the sharks. And the Lanai maiden loved the young chief of Hawaii. He had indeed pierced her people, but only the tender darts of his eyes had wounded her. Turning to him, she looked her savage, quick, young love, and said, "O Kaaialii, may thy grip be as sure as thy thrust. Save me from the bloody virgin-eater, and I will catch the squid and beat the kapa for thee all my days." The time of contest approached. The King sat under the shade of a leafy _kou_, the royal tree of the olden time, which has faded away with the chiefs it once did shelter. On the smooth shell floor, covered with the hala mat, stood the bare-limbed braves, stripped to the malo, who with hot eyes of hate shot out their rage of lust and blood, and stretched out their strangling arms. They stood, beating with heavy fists their broad, glossy chests of bronze, and grinning face to face, they glowered their savage wish to kill. Then, with right foot advanced, and right arm uplifted, they pause to shout their gage of battle, and tell to each how they would maim and tear, and kill, and give each other's flesh for food to some beastly maw. And now, each drawing near to each, with arms uplifted, and outspread palms with sinewy play, like nervy claws trying to clutch or grip, they seek a chance for a deadly clinch. And swift the scarred child-strangler has sprung with his right to the young spear-man's throat, who as quickly hooks the lunging arm within the crook of his, and with quick, sledge-like blow breaks the shoulder arm-bone. With fury the baffled bone-breaker grips with the uncrippled hand; but now two stout young arms, tense with rage, soon twist and break the one unaided limb. Then with limp arms the beaten brute turns to flee; but swift hate is upon him, and clutches him by the throat; and pressing him down, the hero of Kaala holds his knee to the hapless wretch's back, and with knee bored into the backward bended spine, he strains and jerks till the jointed bones snap and break, and the dread throttler of girls and babes lies prone on the mat, a broken and bloody corpse. "Good!" cried the King. "Our son has the strength of Kanekoa. Now let our daughter soothe the limbs of her lover. Let her stroke his skin, press his joints, and knead his back with the loving grip and touch of the lomilomi. We will have a great bake, with the hula and song; and when the feast is over, then shall they be one." A line of women squat down. They crone their wild refrain, praising the one who wins in strife and love. They seize in their right hand the hula gourd, clattering with pebbles inside. They whirl it aloft, they shake, they swing, they strike their palms, they thump the mat; and now with supple joints they twirl their loins, and with heave and twist, and with swing and song, the savage dance goes on. Kaala stood up with the maiden throng, the tender, guarded gifts of kings. They twined their wreaths, they swayed, and posed their shining arms; and flapping with their hands their leafy skirts, revealed their rounded limbs. This fires the gaze of men, and the hero of the day with flaming eyes, springs and clasps his love, crying as he bears her away: "Thou shalt dance in my hut in Kohala for me alone, forever!" At this, a stout yet grizzled man of the isle lifts up his voice and wails: "Kaala, my child, is gone. Who shall soothe my limbs when I return from spearing the ohua? And who shall feed me with taro and breadfruit like the chief of Olowalu, when I have no daughter to give away? I must hide from the chief or I die." And thus wailed out Opunui, the father of Kaala. But a fierce hate stirred the heart of Opunui. His friend was driven over the cliff at Maunalei, and he himself had lived only by crawling at the feet of the slayer. He hid his hate, and planned to save his girl and balk the killer of his people. He said in his heart, "I will hide her in the sea, and none but the fish gods and I shall know where the ever-sounding surf surges over Kaala." Now, in the morn, when the girl with ruddy brown cheeks, and glowing with the brightening dawn of love, stood in the doorway of the lodge of her lord, and her face was sparkling with the sheen from the sun, her sire in humble guise stood forth and said, "My child, your mother at Mahana is dying. Pray you, my lord, your love, that you may see her once more before his canoe shall bear you to his great land." "Alas!" said the tender child, "since when is Kalani ill? I shall carry to her this large sweet fish speared by my lord; and when I have rubbed her aching limbs, she will be well again with the love touch of her child. Yes, my lord will let me go. Will you not, O Kaaialii; will you not let me go to give my mother a last embrace, and I shall be back again before the moon has twice spanned the bay?" The hero clasped his young love with one stout twining arm, and gazing into her eyes, he with a caressing hand put back from her brow her shining hair, and thus to his heart's life he spoke: "O my sweet flower, how shall I live without thee, even for this day's march of the sun? For thou art my very breath, and I shall pant and die like a stranded fish without thee. But no, let me not say so. Kaaialii is a chief who has fought men and sharks; and he must not speak like a girl. He too loves his mother, who looks for him in the valley of Kohala; and shall he deny thy mother, to look her last upon the sweet face and the tender limbs that she fed and reared for him? Go, my Kaala. But thy chief will sit and watch with a hungering heart, till thou come back to his arms again." And the pretty jessamine twined her arms around his neck, and laying her cheek upon his breast said, with upturned tender glances, "O my chief, who gavest me life and sweet joy; thy breath is my breath; thy eyes are my sweetest sight; thy breast is my only resting-place; and when I go away, I shall all the way look back to thee, and go slowly with a backward turned heart; but when I return to thee, I shall have wings to bear me to my lord." "Yes, my own bird," said Kaaialii, "thou must fly, but fly swiftly in thy going as well as in thy coming; for both ways thou fliest to me. When thou art gone I shall spear the tender ohua fish, I shall bake the yam and banana, and I will fill the calabash with sweet water, to feed thee, my heart, when thou shalt come; and thou shalt feed me with thy loving eyes. "Here, Opunui! take thy child. Thou gavest life to her, but now she gives life to me. Bring her back all well, ere the sun has twice risen. If she come not soon, I shall die; but I should slay thee before I die; therefore, O Opunui, hasten thy going and thy coming, and bring back my life and love to me." And now the stern hero unclasped the weeping girl. His eye was calm, but his shut lips showed the work within of a strong and tender heart of love. He felt the ache of a larger woe than this short parting. He pressed the little head between his palms; he kissed the sobbing lips again and again; he gave one strong clasp, heart to heart, and then quickly strode away. As Kaala tripped along the stony up-hill path, she glanced backward on her way, to get glimpses of him she loved, and she beheld her chief standing on the topmost rock of the great bluff overhanging the sea. And still as she went and looked, still there he stood; and when on the top of the ridge and about to descend into the great valley, she turned to look her last, still she saw her loving lord looking up to her. The silent sire and the weeping child soon trod the round, green vale of Palawai. She heeded not now to pluck, as was her wont, the flowers in her path; but thought how she should stop a while, as she came back, to twine a wreath for her dear lord's neck. And thus this sad young love tripped along with innocent hope by the moody Opunui's side. They passed through the groves of Kalulu and Kumoku, and then the man swerved from the path leading to Mahana and turned his face again seaward. At this the sad and silent child looked up into the face of her grim and sullen sire and said: "O father, we shall not find mother on this path, but we shall lose our way and come to the sea once more." "And thy mother is by the sea, by the bay of Kaumalapau. There she gathers limpets on the rocks. She has dried a large squid for thee. She has pounded some taro and filled her calabash with poi, and would feed thee once more. She is not sick; but had I said she was well, thy lord would not have let thee go; but now thou art on the way to sleep with thy mother by the sea." The poor weary girl now trudged on with a doubting heart. She glanced sadly at her dread sire's moody eye. Silent and sore she trod the stony path leading down to the shore, and when she came to the beach with naught in view but the rocks and sea, she said with a bursting heart, "O my father, is the shark to be my mother, and I to never see my dear chief any more?" "Hear the truth," cried Opunui. "Thy home for a time is indeed in the sea, and the shark shall be thy mate, but he shall not harm thee. Thou goest down where the sea god lives, and he shall tell thee that the accursed chief of the bloody leap shall not carry away any daughter of Lanai. When Kaaialii has sailed for Kohala then shall the chief of Olowalu come and bring thee to earth again." As the fierce sire spoke, he seized the hand of Kaala, and unheeding her sobs and cries, led her along the rugged shore to a point eastward of the bay, where the beating sea makes the rocky shore tremble beneath the feet. Here was a boiling gulf, a fret and foam of the sea, a roar of waters, and a mighty jet of brine and spray from a spouting cave whose mouth lay deep beneath the battling tide. See yon advancing billow! The south wind sends it surging along. It rears its combing, whitening crest, and with mighty, swift-rushing volume of angry green sea, it strikes the mouth of the cave; it drives and packs the pent-up air within, and now the tightened wind rebounds, and driving back the ramming sea, bursts forth with a roar as the huge spout of sea leaps upward to the sky, and then comes curving down in gentle silver spray. The fearful child now clasped the knees of her savage sire. "Not there, O father," she sobbed and wailed. "The sea snake (the _puhi_) has his home in the cave, and he will bite and tear me, and ere I die, the crawling crabs will creep over me and pick out my weeping eyes. Alas, O father, better give me to the shark, and then my cry and moan will not hurt thine ear." Opunui clasped the slender girl with one sinewy arm, and with a bound he leaped into the frothed and fretted pool below. Downward with a dolphin's ease he moved, and with his free arm beating back the brine, moved along the ocean bed into the sea cave's jagged jaws; and then stemming with stiffened sinew the wind-driven tide, he swam onward till he struck a sunless beach and then stood inside the cave, whose mouth is beneath the sea. Here was a broad, dry space with a lofty, salt-icicled roof. The green, translucent sea, as it rolled back and forth at their feet, gave to their brown faces a ghastly white glare. The scavenger crabs scrambled away over the dank and dripping stones, and the loathsome biting eel, slowly reached out its well-toothed, wide-gaping jaw to tear the tender feet that roused it from its horrid lair, where the dread sea god dwelt. The poor hapless girl sank down upon this gloomy shore and cried, clinging to the kanaka's knee: "O father, beat out my brains with this jagged stone, and do not let the eel twine around my neck, and trail with a loathsome, slimy, creeping crawl over my body before I die. Oh! the crabs will pick and tear me before my breath is gone." "Listen," said Opunui. "Thou shalt go back with me to the warm sunny air. Thou shalt tread again the sweet-smelling flowery vale of Palawai, and twine thy neck with wreaths of scented jessamine, if thou wilt go with me to the house of the chief of Olowalu and there let thy bloody lord behold thee wanton with thy love in another chief's arms." "Never," shouted the lover of Kaaialii, "never will I meet any clasp of love but that of my own chief. If I cannot lay my head again upon his breast, I will lay it in death upon these cold stones. If his arm shall never again draw me to his heart, then let the eel twine my neck and let him tear away my cheeks rather than that another beside my dear lord shall press my face." "Then let the eel be thy mate," cried Opunui, as he roughly unclasped the tender arms twined around his knees; "until the chief of Olowalu comes to seize thee, and carry thee to his house in the hills of Maui. Seek not to leave the cave. Thou knowest that with thy weak arms, thou wilt tear thyself against the jagged rocks in trying to swim through the swift flowing channel. Stay till I send for thee, and live." Then dashing out into the foaming gulf with mighty buffeting arms he soon reached the upper air. And Kaaialii stood upon the bluff, looking up to the hillside path by which his love had gone, long after her form was lost to view in the interior vales. And after slight sleep upon his mat, and walking by the shore that night, he came at dawn and climbed the bluff again to watch his love come down the hill. And as he gazed he saw a leafy skirt flutter in the wind, and his heart fluttered to clasp his little girl; but as a curly brow drew near, his soul sank to see it was not his love, but her friend Ua (rain) with some sad news upon her face. With hot haste and eager asking eyes does the love-lorn chief meet the maiden messenger, and cries, "Why does Kaala delay in the valley? Has she twined wreaths for another's neck for me to break? Has a wild hog torn her? Or has the anaana prayer of death struck her heart, and does she lie cold on the sod of Mahana? Speak quickly, for thy face kills me, O Ua!" "Not thus, my lord," said the weeping girl, as the soft shower fell from Ua's sweet eyes. "Thy love is not in the valley; and she has not reached the hut of her mother Kalani. But kanakas saw from the hills of Kalulu her father lead her through the forest of Kumoku; since then our Kaala has not been seen, and I fear has met some fate that is to thwart thy love." "Kaala lost? The blood of my heart is gone!" He hears no more! The fierce chief, hot with baffled passion, strikes madly at the air, and dashes away, onward up the stony hill; and upward with his stout young savage thews, he bounds along without halt or slack of speed till he reaches the valley's rim, then rushes down its slopes. He courses over its bright green plains. He sees in the dusty path some prints that must be those of the dear feet he follows now. His heart feels a fresh bound; he feels neither strain of limb nor scantness of breath, and, searching as he runs, he descries before him in the plain the deceitful sire alone. "Opunui," he cries, "give me Kaala, or thy life!" The stout, gray kanaka looks to see the face of flame and the outstretched arms, and stops not to try the strength of his own limbs, or to stay for any parley, but flies across the valley, along the very path by which the fierce lover came; and with fear to spur him on, he keeps well before his well blown foe. But Kaaialii is now a god; he runs with new strung limbs, and presses hard this fresh-footed runner of many a race. They are within two spears' length of each other's grip upon the rim of the vale; and hot with haste the one, and with fear the other, they dash along the rugged path of Kealia, and rush downward to the sea. They bound o'er the fearful path of clinkers. Their torn feet heed not the pointed stones. The elder seeks the shelter of the taboo; and now, both roused by the outcries of a crowd that swarm on the bluffs around, they put forth their remaining strength and strive who shall gain first the entrance to the sacred wall of refuge. For this the hunted sire strains his fast failing nerve; and the youth with a shout quickens his still tense limbs. He is within a spear's length; he stretches out his arms. Ha, old man! he has thy throat within his grip. But no, the greased neck slips the grasp; the wretch leaps for his dear life, he gains the sacred wall, he bounds inside, and the furious foe is stopped by the staves of priests. The baffled chief lies prone in the dust, and curses the gods and the sacred taboo. After a time he is led away to his hut by friends; and then the soothing hands of Ua rub and knead the soreness out of his limbs. And when she has set the calabash of poi before him along with the relishing dry squid, and he has filled himself and is strong again, he will not heed any entreaty of chief or friends; not even the caressing lures of Ua, who loves him; but he says, "I will go and seek Kaala; and if I find her not, I die." Again the love-lorn chief seeks the inland. He shouts the name of his lost love in the groves of Kumoku, and throughout the forest of Mahana. Then he roams through the cloud-canopied valley of Palawai; he searches among the wooded canyons of Kalulu, and he wakes the echoes with the name of Kaala in the gorge of the great ravine of Maunalei. He follows this high walled barranca over its richly flowered and shaded floor; and also along by the winding stream, until he reaches its source, an abrupt wall of stone, one hundred feet high, and forming the head of the ravine. From the face of this steep, towering rock, there exudes a sweet, clear rain, a thousand trickling rills of rock-filtered water leaping from points of fern and moss, and filling up an ice cold pool below, at which our weary chief gladly slaked his thirst. The hero now clambers the steep walls of the gorge, impassable to the steps of men in these days; but he climbs with toes thrust in crannies, or resting on short juts and points of rock; and he pulls himself upward by grasping at out-cropping bushes and strong tufts of fern. And thus with stout sinew and bold nerve the fearless spearman reaches the upper land from whence he had, in his day of devouring rage, hurled and driven headlong the panic-stricken foe. And now he runs on over the lands of Paomai, through the wooded dells of the gorge of Kaiholena, and onward across Kaunolu and Kalulu, until he reaches the head spring of sacred Kealia called Waiakekua; and here he gathered bananas and ohelo berries; and as he stayed his hunger with the pleasant wild fruit, he beheld a white-haired priest of Kaunolu, bearing a calabash of water. The aged priest feared the stalwart chief, because he was not upon his own sacred ground, under the safe wing of the taboo; and therefore he bowed low and clasped the stout knees, and offered the water to slake the thirst of the sorrowing chief. But Kaaialii cried out: "I thirst not for water, but for the sight of my love. Tell me where she is hid, and I will bring thee hogs and men for the gods." And to this the glad priest replied: "Son of the stout spear! I know thou seekest the sweet Flower of Palawai; and no man but her sire has seen her resting-place; but I know that thou seekest in vain in the groves, and in the ravines, and in this mountain. Opunui is a great diver and has his dens in the sea. He leaves the shore when no one follows, and he sleeps with the fish gods, and thou wilt find thy love in some cave of the rock-bound southern shore." The chief quickly turns his face again seaward. He descends the deep shaded pathway of the ravine of Kaunolu. He winds his way through shaded thickets of ohia, sandalwood, the yellow mamani, the shrub violet, and the fragrant na-u. He halted not as he reached the plain of Palawai, though the ever overhanging canopy of cloud that shades this valley of the mountain cooled his weary feet. These upper lands were still, and no voice was heard by the pili grass huts, and the maika balls and the wickets of the bowling alley of Palawai stood untouched, because all the people were with the great chief by the shore of Kaunolu; and Kaaialii thought that he trod the flowery pathway of the still valley alone. But there was one who, in soothing his strained limbs after he fell by the gateway of the temple, had planted strong love in her own heart; and she, Ua, with her lithe young limbs, had followed this sorrowing lord through all his weary tramp, even through the gorges, and over the ramparts of the hills, and she was near the sad, wayworn chief when he reached the southern shore. The weary hero only stayed his steps when he reached the brow of the great bluff of Palikaholo. The sea broke many hundred feet below where he stood. The gulls and screaming boatswain birds sailed in mid-air between his perch and the green waves. He looked up the coast to his right, and saw the lofty, wondrous sea columns of Honopu. He looked to the left, and beheld the crags of Kalulu, but nowhere could he see any sign which should tell him where his love was hid away. His strong, wild nature was touched by the distant sob and moan of the surf. It sang a song for his sad, savage soul. It roused up before his eyes other eyes, and lips, and cheeks, and clasps of tender arms. His own sinewy ones he now stretched out wildly in the mocking air. He groaned, and sobbed, and beat his breast as he cried out, "Kaala! O Kaala! Where art thou? Dost thou sleep with the fish gods, or must I go to join thee in the great shark's maw?" As the sad hero thought of this dread devourer of many a tender child of the isles, he hid his face with his hands,--looking with self-torture upon the image of his soft young love, crunched, bloody and shrieking, in the jaws of the horrid god of the Hawaiian seas; and as he thought and waked up in his heart the memories of his love, he felt that he must seek her even in her gory grave in the sea. Then he looks forth again, and as he gazes down by the shore his eyes rest upon the spray of the blowing cave near Kaumalapau. It leaps high with the swell which the south wind sends. The white mist gleams in the sun. Shifting forms and shades are seen in the varied play of the up-leaping cloud. And as with fevered soul he glances, he sees a form spring up in the ever bounding spray. He sees with his burning eyes the lines of the sweet form that twines with tender touch around his soul. He sees the waving hair, that mingles on his neck with his own swart curls. He sees,--he thinks he sees,--in the leap and play of sun-tinted spray, his love, his lost Kaala; and with hot foot he rushes downward to the shore. He stands upon the point of rock whence Opunui sprang. He feels the throb beneath his feet of the beating, bounding tide. He sees the fret and foam of the surging gulf below the leaping spray, and is wetted by the shore-driven mist. He sees all of this wild, working water, but he does not see Kaala. And yet he peers into this mad surf for her he seeks. The form that he has seen still leads him on. He will brave the sea god's wrath; and he fain would cool his brow of flame in the briny bath. He thinks he hears a voice sounding down within his soul; and cries, "Where art thou, O Kaala? I come, I come!" And as he cries, he springs into the white, foaming surge of this ever fretted sea. And one was near as the hero sprang; even Ua, with the clustering curls. She loved the chief; she did hope that when his steps were stayed by the sea, and he had mingled his moan with the wild waters' wail, that he would turn once more to the inland groves, where she would twine him wreaths, and soothe his limbs, and rest his head upon her knees; but he has leaped for death, he comes up no more. And Ua wailed for Kaaialii; and as the chief rose no more from out the lashed and lathered sea, she cried out, "_Auwe ka make_!" (Alas, he is dead!) And thus wailing and crying out, and tearing her hair, she ran back over the bluffs, and down the shore to the tabooed ground of Kealia, and wailing ever, flung herself at the feet of Kamehameha. The King was grieved to hear from Ua of the loss of his young chief. But the priest Papalua standing near, said: "O Chief of Heaven, and of all the isles; there where Kaaialii has leaped is the sea den of Opunui, and as thy brave spearman can follow the turtle to his deep sea nest, he will see the mouth of the cave, and in it, I think, he will find his lost love, Kaala, the flower of Palawai." At this Ua roused up. She called to her brother Keawe, and laying hold on him, pulled him toward the shore, crying out, "To thy canoe, quick! I will help thee to paddle to Kaumalapau." For thus she could reach the cave sooner than by the way of the bluffs. And the great chief also following, sprang into his swiftest canoe, and helping as was his wont, plunged his blade deep into the swelling tide, and bounded along by the frowning shore of Kumoku. When Kaaialii plunged beneath the surging waters, he became at once the searching diver of the Hawaiian seas; and as his keen eye peered throughout the depths, he saw the portals of the ocean cave into which poured the charging main. He then, stemming with easy play of his well-knit limbs the suck and rush of the sea, shot through the current of the gorge; and soon stood up upon the sunless strand. At first he saw not, but his ears took in at once a sad and piteous moan,--a sweet, sad moan for his hungry ear, of the voice of her he sought. And there upon the cold, dank, dismal floor he could dimly see his bleeding, dying love. Quickly clasping and soothing her, he lifted her up to bear her to the upper air; but the moans of his poor weak Kaala told him she would be strangled in passing through the sea. And as he sat down, and held her in his arms, she feebly spoke: "O my chief, I can die now! I feared that the fish gods would take me, and I should never see thee more. The eel bit me, and the crabs crawled over me, and when I dared the sea to go and seek thee, my weak arms could not fight the tide; I was torn against the jaws of the cave, and this and the fear of the gods have so hurt me, that I must die." "Not so, my love," said the sad and tearful chief. "I am with thee now. I give thee the warmth of my heart. Feel my life in thine. Live, O my Kaala, for me. Come, rest and be calm, and when thou canst hold thy breath I will take thee to the sweet air again, and to thy valley, where thou shalt twine wreaths for me." And thus with fond words and caresses he sought to soothe his love. But the poor girl still bled as she moaned; and with fainter voice she said, "No, my chief, I shall never twine a wreath, but only my arms once more around thy neck." And feebly clasping him, she said in sad, sobbing, fainting tones, "Aloha, my sweet lord! Lay me among the flowers by Waiakeakua, and do not slay my father." Then, breathing moans and murmurs of love, she lay for a time weak and fainting upon her lover's breast, with her arms drooping by her side. But all at once she clasps his neck, and with cheek to cheek, she clings, she moans, she gasps her last throbs of love and passes away; and her poor torn corse lies limp within the arms of the love-lorn chief. As he cries out in his woe there are other voices in the cave. First he hears the voice of Ua speaking to him in soothing tones as she stoops to the body of her friend; and then in a little while he hears the voice of his great leader calling to him and bidding him stay his grief. "O King of all the Seas," said Kaaialii, standing up and leaving Kaala to the arms of Ua, "I have lost the flower thou gavest me; it is broken and dead, and I have no more joy in life." "What!" said Kamehameha, "art thou a chief, and wouldst cast away life for a girl? Here is Ua, who loves thee; she is young and tender like Kaala. Thou shalt have her, and more, if thou dost want. Thou shalt have, besides the land I gave thee in Kohala, all that thou shalt ask of Lanai. Its great valley of Palawai shall be thine; and thou shalt watch my fishing grounds of Kaunolu, and be the Lord of Lanai." "Hear, O King," said Kaaialii. "I gave to Kaala more of my life in loving her, and of my strength in seeking for her than ever I gave for thee in battle. I gave to her more of love than I ever gave to my mother, and more of my thought than I ever gave to my own life. She was my very breath, and my life, and how shall I live without her? Her face, since first I saw her, has been ever before me; and her warm breasts were my joy and repose; and now that they are cold to me, I must go where her voice and love have gone. If I shut my eyes now I see her best; therefore let me shut my eyes forevermore." And as he spoke, he stooped to clasp his love, said a tender word of adieu to Ua, and then with a swift, strong blow, crushed in brow and brain with a stone. The dead chief lay by the side of his love, and Ua wailed over both. Then the King ordered that the two lovers should lie side by side on a ledge of the cave; and that they should be wrapped in tapas which should be brought down through the sea in tight bamboos. Then there was great wailing for the chief and the maid who lay in the cave; and thus wailed Ua: "Where art thou, O brave chief? Where art thou, O fond girl? Will ye sleep by the sound of the sea? And will ye dream of the gods of the deep? O sire, where now is thy child? O mother, where now is thy son? The lands of Kohala shall mourn, And valleys of Lanai shall lament. The spear of the chief shall rot in the cave, And the tapa of the maid is left undone. The wreaths for his neck, they shall fade, They shall fade away on the hills. O Kaaialii, who shall spear the uku? O Kaala, who shall gather the na-u? Have ye gone to the shores of Kahiki, To the land of our father, Wakea? Will ye feed on the moss of the cave, And the limpets of the surf-beaten shore? O chief, O friend, I would feed ye, O chief, O friend, I would rest ye. Ye loved, like the sun and the flower, Ye lived like the fish and the wave, And now like the seeds in a shell, Ye sleep in your cave by the sea. Alas! O chief, alas! O my friend, Will ye sleep in the cave evermore?" And thus Ua wailed, and then was borne away by her brother to the sorrowful shore of Kaunolu, where there was loud wailing for the chief and the maid; and many were the chants of lamentation for the two lovers, who sleep side by side in the Spouting Cave of Kaala. XVI THE TOMB OF PUUPEHE A LEGEND OF LANAI _From "The Hawaiian Gazette"_ One of the interesting localities of tradition, famed in Hawaiian song and story of ancient days, is situate at the southwestern point of the island of Lanai, and known as the _Kupapau o Puupehe_, or Tomb of Puupehe. At the point indicated, on the leeward coast of the island, may be seen a huge block of red lava about eighty feet high and some sixty feet in diameter, standing out in the sea, and detached from the mainland some fifty fathoms, around which centres the following legend. Observed from the overhanging bluff that overlooks Puupehe, upon the summit of this block or elevated islet, would be noticed a small inclosure formed by a low stone wall. This is said to be the last resting-place of a Hawaiian girl whose body was buried there by her lover Makakehau, a warrior of Lanai. Puupehe was the daughter of Uaua, a petty chief, one of the dependents of the king of Maui, and she was won by young Makakehau as the joint prize of love and war. These two are described in the _Kanikau_, or Lamentation, of Puupehe, as mutually captive, the one to the other. The maiden was a sweet flower of Hawaiian beauty. Her glossy brown, spotless body "shone like the clear sun rising out of Haleakala." Her flowing, curly hair, bound by a wreath of lehua blossoms, streamed forth as she ran "like the surf crests scudding before the wind." And the starry eyes of the beautiful daughter of Uaua blinded the young warrior, so that he was called Makakehau, or Misty Eyes. The Hawaiian brave feared that the comeliness of his dear captive would cause her to be coveted by the chiefs of the land. His soul yearned to keep her all to himself. He said: "Let us go to the clear waters of Kalulu. There we will fish together for the kala and the aku, and there I will spear the turtle. I will hide you, my beloved, forever in the cave of Malauea. Or, we will dwell together in the great ravine of Palawai, where we will eat the young of the uwau bird, and we will bake them in ki leaf with the sweet pala fern root. The ohelo berries of the mountains will refresh my love. We will drink of the cool waters of Maunalei. I will thatch a hut in the thicket of Kaohai for our resting-place, and we shall love on till the stars die. The meles tell of their love in the Pulou ravine, where they caught the bright iiwi birds, and the scarlet apapani. Ah, what sweet joys in the banana groves of Waiakeakua, where the lovers saw naught so beautiful as themselves! But the "misty eyes" were soon to be made dim by weeping, and dimmer, till the drowning brine should close them forevermore. Makakehau left his love one day in the cave of Malauea while he went to the mountain spring to fill the water-gourds with sweet water. This cavern yawns at the base of the overhanging bluff that overtops the rock of Puupehe. The sea surges far within, but there is an inner space which the expert swimmer can reach, and where Puupehe had often rested and baked the _honu>_ or sea turtle, for her absent lover. This was the season for the _kona_, the terrific storm that comes up from the equator and hurls the ocean in increased volume upon the southern shores of the Hawaiian Islands. Makakehau beheld from the rock springs of Pulou the vanguard of a great kona,--scuds of rain and thick mist, rushing with a howling wind, across the valley of Palawai. He knew the storm would fill the cave with the sea and kill his love. He flung aside his calabashes of water and ran down the steep, then across the great valley and beyond its rim he rushed, through the bufferings of the storm, with an agonized heart, down the hill slope to the shore. The sea was up indeed. The yeasty foam of mad surging waves whitened the shore. The thundering buffet of the charging billows chorused with the howl of the tempest. Ah! where should Misty Eyes find his love in this blinding storm? A rushing mountain of sea filled the mouth of Malauea, and the pent-up air hurled back the invading torrent with bubbling roar, blowing forth great streams of spray. This was a war of matter, a battle of the elements to thrill with pleasure the hearts of strong men. But with one's love in the seething gulf of the whirlpool, what would be to him the sublime cataract? What, to see amid the boiling foam the upturned face, and the dear, tender body of one's own and only poor dear love, all mangled? _You_ might agonize on the brink; but Makakehau sprang into the dreadful pool and snatched his murdered bride from the jaws of an ocean grave. The next day, fishermen heard the lamentation of Makakehau, and the women of the valley came down and wailed over Puupehe. They wrapped her in bright new kapa. They placed upon her garlands of the fragrant _na-u_ (gardenia). They prepared her for burial, and were about to place her in the burial ground of Manele, but Makakehau prayed that he might be left alone one night more with his lost love. And he was left as he desired. The next day no corpse nor weeping lover were to be found, till after some search Makakehau was seen at work piling up stones on the top of the lone sea tower. The wondering people of Lanai looked on from the neighboring bluff, and some sailed around the base of the columnar rock in their canoes, still wondering, because they could see no way for him to ascend, for every face of the rock is perpendicular or overhanging. The old belief was, that some _akua_, _kanekoa_, or _keawe-manhili_ (deities), came at the cry of Makakehau and helped him with the dead girl to the top. When Makakehau had finished his labors of placing his lost love in her grave and placed the last stone upon it, he stretched out his arms and wailed for Puupehe, thus: "Where are you O Puupehe? Are you in the cave of Malauea? Shall I bring you sweet water, The water of the mountain? Shall I bring the uwau, The pala, and the ohelo? Are you baking the honu And the red sweet hala? Shall I pound the kalo of Maui? Shall we dip in the gourd together? The bird and the fish are bitter, And the mountain water is sour. I shall drink it no more; I shall drink with Aipuhi, The great shark of Manele." Ceasing his sad wail, Makakehau leaped from the rock into the boiling surge at its base, where his body was crushed in the breakers. The people who beheld the sad scene secured the mangled corpse and buried it with respect in the kupapau of Manele. XVII AI KANAKA A LEGEND OF MOLOKAI _Rev. A. O. Forbes_ On the leeward side of the island of Molokai, a little to the east of Kaluaaha lies the beautiful valley of Mapulehu, at the mouth of which is located the _heiau_, or temple, of Iliiliopae, which was erected by direction of Ku-pa, the Moi, to look directly out upon the harbor of Ai-Kanaka, now known as Pukoo. At the time of its construction, centuries ago, Kupa was the _Moi_, or sovereign, of the district embracing the _Ahupuaas_, or land divisions, of Mapulehu and Kaluaaha, and he had his residence in this heiau which was built by him and famed as the largest throughout the whole Hawaiian group., Kupa had a priest named Kamalo, who resided at Kaluaaha. This priest had two boys, embodiments of mischief, who one day while the King was absent on a fishing expedition, took the opportunity to visit his house at the heiau. Finding there the _pahu kaeke_ [8] belonging to the temple, they commenced drumming on it. Some evil-minded persons heard Kamalo's boys drumming on the Kaeke and immediately went and told Kupa that the priest's children were reviling him in the grossest manner on his own drum. This so enraged the King that he ordered his servants to put them to death. Forthwith they were seized and murdered; whereupon Kamalo, their father, set about to secure revenge on the King. Taking with him a black pig as a present, he started forth to enlist the sympathy and services of the celebrated seer, or wizard, Lanikaula, living some twelve miles distant at the eastern end of Molokai. On the way thither, at the village of Honouli, Kamalo met a man the lower half of whose body had been bitten off by a shark, and who promised to avenge him provided he would slay some man and bring him the lower half of his body to replace his own. But Kamalo, putting no credence in such an offer, pressed on to the sacred grove of Lanikaula. Upon arrival there Lanikaula listened to his grievances but could do nothing for him. He directed him, however, to another prophet, named Kaneakama, at the west end of the island, forty miles distant. Poor Kamalo picked up his pig and travelled back again, past his own home, down the coast to Palaau. Meeting with Kaneakama the prophet directed him to the heiau of Puukahi, at the foot of the _pali_, or precipice, of Kalaupapa, on the windward side of the island, where he would find the priest Kahiwakaapuu, who was a _kahu_, or steward, of Kauhuhu, the shark god. Once more the poor man shouldered his pig, wended his way up the long ascent of the hills of Kalae to the pali of Kalaupapa, descending which he presented himself before Kahiwakaapuu, and pleaded his cause. He was again directed to go still farther along the windward side of the island till he should come to the _Ana puhi_ (eel's cave), a singular cavern at sea level in the bold cliffs between the valleys of Waikolu and Pelekunu, where Kauhuhu, the shark god, dwelt, and to him he must apply. Upon this away went Kamalo and his pig. Arriving at the cave, he found there Waka and Moo, two kahus of the shark god. "Keep off! Keep off!" they shouted. "This place is kapu. No man can enter here, on penalty of death." "Death or life," answered he, "it is all the same to me if I can only gain my revenge for my poor boys who have been killed." He then related his story, and his wanderings, adding that he had come to make his appeal to Kauhuhu and cared not for his own life. "Well," said they to him, "Kauhuhu is away now fishing, but if he finds you here when he returns, our lives as well as yours will pay the forfeit. However, we will see what we can do to help you. We must hide you hereabouts, somewhere, and when he returns trust to circumstances to accomplish your purpose." But they could find no place to hide him where he would be secure from the search of the god, except the rubbish pile where the offal and scrapings of taro were thrown. They therefore thrust him and his pig into the rubbish heap and covered them over with the taro peelings, enjoining him to keep perfectly still, and watch till he should see eight heavy breakers roll in successively from the sea. He then would know that Kauhuhu was returning from his fishing expedition. Accordingly, after waiting a while, the eight heavy rollers appeared, breaking successively against the rocks; and sure enough, as the eighth dissolved into foam, the great shark god came ashore. Immediately assuming human form, he began snuffing about the place, and addressing Waka and Moo, his kahus, said to them, "There is a man here." They strenuously denied the charge and protested against the possibility of their allowing such a desecration of the premises. But he was not satisfied. He insisted that there was a man somewhere about, saying, "I smell him, and if I find him you are dead men; if not, you escape." He examined the premises over and over again, never suspecting the rubbish heap, and was about giving up the search when, unfortunately, Kamalo's pig sent forth a squeal which revealed the poor fellow's hiding-place. Now came the dread moment. The enraged Kauhuhu seized Kamalo with both hands and, lifting him up with the intention of swallowing him, according to his shark instinct, had already inserted the victim's head and shoulders into his mouth before he could speak. "O Kauhuhu, before you eat me, hear my petition; then do as you like." "Well for you that you spoke as you did," answered Kauhuhu, setting him down again on the ground. "Now, what have you to say? Be quick about it." Kamalo then rehearsed his grievances and his travels in search for revenge, and presented his pig to the god. Compassion arose in the breast of Kauhuhu, and he said, "Had you come for any other purpose I would have eaten you, but as your cause is a sacred one I espouse it, and will revenge it on Kupa the King. You must, however, do all that I tell you. Return to the heiau of Puukahi, at the foot of the pali, and take the priest Kahiwakaapuu on your back, and carry him up the pali over to the other side of the island, all the way to your home at Kaluaaha. Erect a sacred fence all around your dwelling-place, and surround it with the sacred flags of white kapa. Collect black hogs by the _lau_ (four hundred), red fish by the lau, white fowls by the lau, and bide my coming. Wait and watch till you see a small cloud the size of a man's hand arise, white as snow, over the island of Lanai. That cloud will enlarge as it makes its way across the channel against the wind until it rests on the mountain peaks of Molokai back of Mapulehu Valley. Then a rainbow will span the valley from side to side, whereby you will know that I am there, and that your time of revenge has come. Go now, and remember that you are the only man who ever ventured into the sacred precincts of the great Kauhuhu and returned alive." Kamalo returned with a joyful heart and performed all that had been commanded him. He built the sacred fence around his dwelling; surrounded the inclosure with sacred flags of white kapa; gathered together black hogs, red fish, and white fowls, each by the lau, as directed, with other articles sacred to the gods, such as cocoanuts and white kapas, and then sat himself down to watch for the promised signs of his revenge. Day after day passed until they multiplied into weeks, and the weeks began to run into months. Finally, one day, the promised sign appeared. The snow white speck of cloud, no bigger than a man's hand, arose over the mountains of Lanai and made its way across the stormy channel in the face of the opposing gale, increasing as it came, until it settled in a majestic mass on the mountains at the head of Mapulehu Valley. Then appeared a splendid rainbow, proudly overarching the valley, its ends resting on the high lands on either side. The wind began to blow; the rain began to pour, and shortly a furious storm came down the doomed valley, filling its bed from side to side with a mad rushing torrent, which, sweeping everything before it, spread out upon the belt of lowlands at the mouth of the valley, overwhelming Kupa and all his people in one common ruin, and washing them all into the sea, where they were devoured by the sharks. All were destroyed except Kamalo and his family, who were safe within their sacred inclosure, which the flood dared not touch, though it spread terror and ruin on every side of them. Wherefore the harbor of Pukoo, where this terrible event occurred, was long known as _Ai Kanaka_ (man eater), and it has passed into a proverb among the inhabitants of that region that "when the rainbow spans Mapulehu Valley, then look out for the _Waiakoloa_,"--a furious storm of rain and wind which sometimes comes suddenly down that valley. XVIII KALIUWAA SCENE OF THE DEMIGOD KAMAPUAA'S ESCAPE FROM OLOPANA _From "The Hawaiian Spectator"_ A few miles east of Laie, on the windward side of the island of Oahu, are situated the valley and falls of Kaliuwaa, noted as one of the most beautiful and romantic spots of the island, and famed in tradition as possessing more than local interest. The valley runs back some two miles, terminating abruptly at the foot of the precipitous chain of mountains which runs nearly the whole length of the windward side of Oahu, except for a narrow gorge which affords a channel for a fine brook that descends with considerable regularity to a level with the sea. Leaving his horse at the termination of the valley and entering this narrow pass of not over fifty or sixty feet in width, the traveller winds his way along, crossing and recrossing the stream several times, till he seems to be entering into the very mountain. The walls on each side are of solid rock, from two hundred to three hundred, and in some places four hundred feet high, directly overhead, leaving but a narrow strip of sky visible. Following up the stream for about a quarter of a mile, one's attention is directed by the guide to a curiosity called by the natives a _waa_ (canoe). Turning to the right, one follows up a dry channel of what once must have been a considerable stream, to the distance of fifty yards from the present stream. Here one is stopped by a wall of solid rock rising perpendicularly before one to the height of some two hundred feet, and down which the whole stream must have descended in a beautiful fall. This perpendicular wall is worn in by the former action of the water in the shape of a gouge, and in the most perfect manner; and as one looks upon it in all its grandeur, but without the presence of the cause by which it was formed, he can scarcely divest his mind of the impression that he is gazing upon some stupendous work of art. Returning to the present brook, we again pursued our way toward the fall, but had not advanced far before we arrived at another, on the left hand side of the brook, similar in many respects, but much larger and higher than the one above mentioned. The forming agent cannot be mistaken, when a careful survey is made of either of these stupendous perpendicular troughs. The span is considerably wider at the bottom than at the top, this result being produced by the spreading of the sheet of water as it was precipitated from the dizzy height above. The breadth of this one is about twenty feet at the bottom, and its depth about fourteen feet. But its depth and span gradually diminish from the bottom to the top, and the rock is worn as smooth as if chiselled by the hand of an artist. Moss and small plants have sprung out from the little soil that has accumulated in the crevices, but not enough to conceal the rock from observation. It would be an object worth the toil to discover what has turned the stream from its original channel. Leaving this singular curiosity, we pursued our way a few yards farther, when we arrived at the fall. This is from eighty to one hundred feet high, and the water is compressed into a very narrow space just where it breaks forth from the rock above. It is quite a pretty sheet of water when the stream is high. We learned from the natives that there are two falls above this, both of which are shut out from the view from below, by a sudden turn in the course of the stream. The perpendicular height of each is said to be much greater than of the one we saw. The upper one is visible from the road on the seashore, which is more than two miles distant, and, judging from information obtained, must be between two and three hundred feet high. The impossibility of climbing the perpendicular banks from below deprived us of the pleasure of farther ascending the stream toward its source. This can be done only by commencing at the plain and following up one of the lateral ridges. This would itself be a laborious and fatiguing task, as the way would be obstructed by a thick growth of trees and tangled underbrush. The path leading to this fall is full of interest to any one who loves to study nature. From where we leave our horses at the head of the valley and commence entering the mountain, every step presents new and peculiar beauties. The most luxuriant verdure clothes the ground, and in some places the beautifully burnished leaves of the ohia, or native apple-tree (_Eugenia malaccensis_), almost exclude the few rays of light that find their way down into this secluded nook. A little farther on, and the graceful bamboo sends up its slender stalk to a great height, mingling its dark, glossy foliage with the silvery leaves of the kukui, or candle-nut (_Aleurites moluccana_); these together form a striking contrast to the black walls which rise in such sullen grandeur on each side. Nor is the beauty of the spot confined to the luxuriant verdure, or the stupendous walls and beetling crags. The stream itself is beautiful. From the basin at the falls to the lowest point at which we observed it, every succeeding step presents a delightful change. Here, its partially confined waters burst forth with considerable force, and struggle on among the opposing rocks for some distance; there, collected in a little basin, its limpid waves, pure as the drops of dew from the womb of the morning, circle round in ceaseless eddies, until they get within the influence of the downward current, when away they whirl, with a gurgling, happy sound, as if joyous at being released from their temporary confinement. Again, an aged kukui, whose trunk is white with the moss of accumulated years, throws his broad boughs far over the stream that nourishes his vigorous roots, casting a meridian shadow upon the surface of the water, which is reflected back with singular distinctness from its mirrored bosom. To every other gratification must be added the incomparable fragrance of the fresh wood, in perpetual life and vigor, which presents a freshness truly grateful to the senses. But it is in vain to think of conveying an adequate idea of a scene where the sublime is mingled with the beautiful, and the bold and striking with the delicate and sensitive; where every sense is gratified, the mind calmed, and the whole soul delighted. Famed as this spot is for its natural scenic attractions, intimated in the foregoing description, its claim of distinction with Hawaiians is indelibly fixed by the traditions of ancient times, the narration of which, at this point, will assist the reader to understand the character of the native mind and throw some light also on the history of the Hawaiians. Tradition in this locality deals largely with Kamapuaa, the famous demigod whose exploits figure prominently in the legends of the entire group. Summarized, the story is about as follows: Kamapuaa, the fabulous being referred to, seems, according to the tradition, to have possessed the power of transforming himself into a hog, in which capacity he committed all manner of depredations upon the possessions of his neighbors. He having stolen some fowls belonging to Olopana, who was the King of Oahu, the latter, who was then living at Kaneohe, sent some of his men to secure the thief. They succeeded in capturing him, and having tied him fast with cords, were bearing him in triumph to the King, when, thinking they had carried the joke far enough, he burst the bands with which he was bound, and killed all the men except one, whom he permitted to convey the tidings to the King. This defeat so enraged the monarch that he determined to go in person with all his force, and either destroy his enemy, or drive him from his dominions. He accordingly, despising ease inglorious, Waked up, with sound of conch and trumpet shell, The well-tried warriors of his native dell, at whose head he sought his waiting enemy. Success attending the King's attack, his foe was driven from the field with great loss, and betook himself to the gorge of Kaliuwaa, which leads to the falls. Here the King thought he had him safe; and one would think so too, to look at the immense precipices that rise on each side, and the falls in front. But the sequel will show that he had a slippery fellow to deal with, at least when he chose to assume the character of a swine; for, being pushed to the upper end of the gorge near the falls, and seeing no other way of escape, he suddenly transformed himself into a hog, and, rearing upon his hind legs and leaning his back against the perpendicular precipice, thus afforded a very comfortable ladder upon which the remnant of the army ascended and made their escape from the vengeance of the King. Possessing such powers, it is easy to see how he could follow the example of his soldiers and make his own escape. The smooth channels before described are said to have been made by him on these occasions; for he was more than once caught in the same predicament. Old natives still believe that they are the prints of his back; and they account for a very natural phenomenon, by bringing to their aid this most natural and foolish superstition. Many objects in the neighborhood are identified with this remarkable personage, such as a large rock to which he was tied, a wide place in the brook where he used to drink, and a number of trees he is said to have planted. Many other things respecting him are current, but as they do not relate to the matter in hand, it will perhaps suffice to say, in conclusion, that tradition further asserts that Kamapuaa conquered the volcano, when Pele its goddess became his wife, and that they afterward lived together in harmony. That is the reason why there are no more islands formed, or very extensive eruptions in these later days, as boiling lava was the most potent weapon she used in fighting her enemies, throwing out such quantities as greatly to increase the size of the islands, and even to form new ones. Visitors to the falls, even to this day, meet with evidences of the superstitious awe in which the locality is held by the natives. A party who recently visited the spot state that when they reached the falls they were instructed to make an offering to the presiding goddess. This was done in true Hawaiian style; they built a tiny pile of stones on one or two large leaves, and so made themselves safe from falling stones, which otherwise would assuredly have struck them. XIX BATTLE OF THE OWLS _Jos. M. Poepoe_ The following is a fair specimen of the animal myths current in ancient Hawaii, and illustrates the place held by the owl in Hawaiian mythology. There lived a man named Kapoi, at Kahehuna, in Honolulu, who went one day to Kewalo to get some thatching for his house. On his way back he found some owl's eggs, which he gathered together and brought home with him. In the evening he wrapped them in ti leaves and was about to roast them in hot ashes, when an owl perched on the fence which surrounded his house and called out to him, "O Kapoi, give me my eggs!" Kapoi asked the owl, "How many eggs had you?" "Seven eggs," replied the owl. Kapoi then said, "Well, I wish to roast these eggs for my supper." The owl asked the second time for its eggs, and was answered by Kapoi in the same manner. Then said the owl, "O heartless Kapoi! why don't you take pity on me? Give me my eggs." Kapoi then told the owl to come and take them. The owl, having got the eggs, told Kapoi to build up a _heiau_, or temple, and instructed him to make an altar and call the temple by the name of Manua. Kapoi built the temple as directed; set kapu days for its dedication, and placed the customary sacrifice on the altar. News spread to the hearing of Kakuihewa, who was then King of Oahu, living at the time at Waikiki, that a certain man had kapued certain days for his heiau, and had already dedicated it. This King had made a law that whoever among his people should erect a heiau and kapu the same before the King had his temple kapued, that man should pay the penalty of death. Kapoi was thereupon seized, by the King's orders, and led to the heiau of Kupalaha, at Waikiki. That same day, the owl that had told Kapoi to erect a temple gathered all the owls from Lanai, Maui, Molokai, and Hawaii to one place at Kalapueo. [9] All those from the Koolau districts were assembled at Kanoniakapueo, [10] and those from Kauai and Niihau at Pueohulunui, near Moanalua. It was decided by the King that Kapoi should be put to death on the day of Kane. [11] When that day came, at daybreak the owls left their places of rendezvous and covered the whole sky over Honolulu; and as the King's servants seized Kapoi to put him to death, the owls flew at them, pecking them with their beaks and scratching them with their claws. Then and there was fought the battle between Kakuihewa's people and the owls. At last the owls conquered, and Kapoi was released, the King acknowledging that his _Akua_ (god) was a powerful one. From that time the owl has been recognized as one of the many deities venerated by the Hawaiian people. XX THIS LAND IS THE SEA'S TRADITIONAL ACCOUNT OF AN ANCIENT HAWAIIAN PROPHECY _Translated from Moke Manu by Thos. G. Thrum_ It is stated in the history of Kaopulupulu that he was famed among the kahunas of the island of Oahu for his power and wisdom in the exercise of his profession, and was known throughout the land as a leader among the priests. His place of residence was at Waimea, between Koolauloa and Waialua, Oahu. There he married, and there was born to him a son whom he named Kahulupue, and whom he instructed during his youth in all priestly vocations. In after years when Kumahana, brother of Kahahana of Maui, became the governing chief (_alii aimoku_) of Oahu, Kahulupue was chosen by him as his priest. This chief did evil unto his subjects, seizing their property and beheading and maiming many with the _leiomano_ (shark's tooth weapon) and _pahoa_ (dagger), without provocation, so that he became a reproach to his people. From such treatment Kahulupue endeavored to dissuade him, assuring him that such a course would fail to win their support and obedience, whereas the supplying of food and fish, with covering for the body, and malos, would insure their affectionate regard. The day of the people was near, for the time of conflict was approaching when he would meet the enemy. But these counsels of Kahulupue were disregarded, so he returned to his father at Waimea. Not long thereafter this chief Kumahana was cast out and rejected by the lesser chiefs and people, and under cover of night he escaped by canoe to Molokai, where he was ignored and became lost to further history in consequence of his wrong-doings. When Kahekili, King of Maui, heard of the stealthy flight of the governing chief of Oahu, he placed the young prince Kahahana, his foster-son, as ruler over Oahu in the place of his deposed relative, Kumahana. This occurred about the year 1773, and Kahahana took with him as his intimate friend and companion one Alapai. Kahahana chose as his place of residence the shade of the kou and cocoanut trees of Ulukou, Waikiki, where also gathered together the chiefs of the island to discuss and consider questions of state. The new ruler being of fine and stalwart form and handsome appearance, the chiefs and common people maintained that his fame in this respect induced a celebrated chieftainess of Kauai, named Kekuapoi, to voyage hither. Her history, it is said, showed that she alone excelled in maiden charm and beauty; she was handsome beyond all other chieftainesses from Hawaii to Kauai, as "the third brightness of the sun" (_he ekolu ula o ka la_). In consequence, Kahahana took her as his wife, she being own sister to Kekuamanoha. At this time the thought occurred to the King to inquire through the chiefs of Oahu of the whereabouts of Kaopulupulu, the celebrated priest, of whom he had heard through Kahekili, King of Maui. In reply to this inquiry of Kahahana, the chiefs told him that his place of residence was at Waimea, whereupon a messenger was sent to bid him come up by order of the King. When the messenger reached Kaopulupulu he delivered the royal order. Upon the priest hearing this word of the King he assented thereto, with this reply to the messenger: "You return first and tell him that on the morning after the fourteenth night of the moon (_po o akua_), I will reach the place of the King." At the end of the conference the messenger returned and stood before Kahahana and revealed the words of Kaopulupulu; and the King waited for the time of his arrival. It is true, Kaopulupulu made careful preparation for his future. Toward the time of his departure he was engaged in considering the good or evil of his approaching journey by the casting of lots, according to the rites of his profession. He foresaw thereby the purpose of the King in summoning him to dwell at court. He therefore admonished his son to attend to all the rites and duties of the priesthood as he had been taught, and to care for his mother and relatives. At early dawn Kaopulupulu arose and partook of food till satisfied, after which he prepared himself for the journey before him. After he had given his farewell greetings to his household he seized his bundle and, taking a cocoanut fan in his hand, set out toward Punanue, where was a temple (_heiau_) for priests only, called Kahokuwelowelo. This was crown land at Waialua in ancient times. Entering the temple he prayed for success in his journey, after which he proceeded along the plains of Lauhulu till reaching the Anahulu stream, thence by Kemoo to Kukaniloko, the shelter of whose prominent rock the chieftainesses of Oahu were wont to choose for their place of confinement. Leaving this place he came to Kalakoa, where Kekiopilo the prophet priest lived and died, and the scene of his vision at high noon when he prophesied of the coming of foreigners with a strange language. Here he stopped and rested with some of the people, and ate food with them, after which he journeyed on by way of Waipio by the ancient path of that time till he passed Ewa and reached Kapukaki. The sun was well up when he reached the water of Lapakea, so he hastened his steps in ascending Kauwalua, at Moanalua, and paused not till he came to the mouth of the Apuakehau stream at Waikiki. Proceeding along the sand at this place he was discerned by the retainers of the King and greeted with the shout, "Here comes the priest Kaopulupulu." When the King heard this he was exceedingly pleased (_pihoihoi loa_) at the time, and on the priest's meeting with King Kahahana he welcomed Kaopulupulu with loud rejoicing. Without delay the King set apart a house wherein to meet and discuss with the priest those things he had in mind, and in the consideration of questions from first to last, Kaopulupulu replied with great wisdom in accordance with his knowledge of his profession. At this time of their conference he sat within the doorway of the house, and the sun was near its setting. As he turned to observe this he gazed out into the sky and noticing the gathering short clouds (_ao poko_) in the heavens, he exclaimed: "O heaven, the road is broad for the King, it is full of chiefs and people; narrow is my path, that of the kahuna; you will not be able to find it, O King. Even now the short clouds reveal to me the manner of your reign; it will not be many days. Should you heed my words, O King, you will live to gray hair. But you will be the king to slay me and my child." At these words of the priest the King meditated seriously for some time, then spoke as follows: "Why should my days be short, and why should your death be by me, the King?" Kaopulupulu replied: "O King, let us look into the future. Should you die, O King, the lands will be desolate; but for me, the kahuna, the name will live on from one generation to another; but my death will be before thine, and when I am up on the heaven-feared altar then my words will gnaw thee, O King, and the rains and the sun will bear witness." These courageous words of Kaopulupulu, spoken in the presence of Kahahana without fear, and regardless of the dignity and majesty of the King, were uttered because of the certainty that the time would come when his words would be carried into effect. The King remained quiet without saying a word, keeping his thoughts to himself. After this conference the King took Kaopulupulu to be his priest, and in course of time he became also an intimate companion, in constant attendance upon the King, and counselled him in the care of his subjects, old and young, in all that pertained to their welfare. The King regarded his words, and in their circuit of the island together they found the people contented and holding their ruler in high esteem. But at the end of three years the King attempted some wrong to certain of his subjects like unto that of his deposed predecessor. The priest remonstrated with him continually, but he would not regard his counsel; therefore, Kaopulupulu left King Kahahana and returned to his land at Waimea and at once tattooed his knees. This was done as a sign that the King had turned a deaf ear to his admonitions. When several days had passed, rumors among certain people of Waialua reached the priest that he was to be summoned to appear before the King in consequence of this act, which had greatly angered his august lord. Kahahana had gone to reside at Waianae, and from there shortly afterward he sent messengers to fetch Kaopulupulu and his son Kahulupue from Waimea. In the early morning of the day of the messenger's arrival, a rainbow stood directly in the doorway of Kaopulupulu's house, and he asked of his god its meaning; but his prayer was broken (_ua haki ka pule_). This boded him ill; therefore he called to his son to stand in prayer; but the result was the same. Then he said, "This augurs of the day of death; see! the rising up of a man in the pass of Hapuu, putting on his kapa with its knot fastening on the left side of the neck, which means that he is bringing a death message." Shortly after the priest had ended these words a man was indeed seen approaching along the mountain pass, with his kapa as indicated; and he came and stood before the door of their house and delivered the order of the King for them to go to Waianae, both him and his son. The priest replied: "Return you first; we will follow later," and the messenger obeyed. When he had departed Kaopulupulu recalled to his son the words he had spoken before the advent of the messenger, and said: "Oh, where are you, my child? Go clothe the body; put on the malo; eat of the food till satisfied, and we will go as commanded by the King; but this journey will result in placing us on the altar (_kau i ka lele_). Fear not death. The name of an idler, if he be beaten to death, is not passed on to distinction." At the end of these words of his father, Kahulupue wept for love of his relatives, though his father bid him to weep not for his family, because he, Kaopulupulu, saw the end that would befall the King, Kahahana, and his court of chiefs and retainers. Even at this time the voices of distress were heard among his family and their tears flowed, but Kaopulupulu looked on unmoved by their cries. He then arose and, with his son, gave farewell greetings to their household, and set forth. In journeying they passed through Waialua, resting in the house of a kamaaina at Kawaihapai. In passing the night at this place Kahulupue slept not, but went out to examine the fishing canoes of that neighborhood. Finding a large one suitable for a voyage, he returned and awoke his father, that they might flee together that night to Kauai and dwell on the knoll of Kalalea. But Kaopulupulu declined the idea of flight. In the morning, ascending a hill, they turned and looked back over the sea-spray of Waialua to the swimming halas of Kahuku beyond. Love for the place of his birth so overcame Kaopulupulu for a time that his tears flowed for that he should see it no more. Then they proceeded on their way till, passing Kaena Point, they reached the temple of Puaakanoe. At this sacred boundary Kaopulupulu said to his son, "Let us swim in the sea and touch along the coast of Makua." At one of their resting-places, journeying thus, he said, with direct truthfulness, as his words proved: "Where are you, my son? For this drenching of the high priests by the sea, seized will be the sacred lands (_moo-kapu_) from Waianae to Kualoa by the chief from the east." As they were talking they beheld the King's men approaching along the sand of Makua, and shortly afterward these men came before them and seized them and tied their hands behind their backs and took them to the place of King Kahahana at Puukea, Waianae, and put them, father and son, in a new grass hut unfinished of its ridge thatch, and tied them, the one to the end post (_pouhana_) and the other to the corner post (_poumanu_) of the house. At the time of the imprisonment of the priest and his son in this new house Kaopulupulu spake aloud, without fear of dire consequences, so that the King and all his men heard him, as follows: "Here I am with my son in this new unfinished house; so will be unfinished the reign of the King that slays us." At this saying Kahahana, the King, was very angry. Throughout that day and the night following, till the sun was high with warmth, the King was directing his soldiers to seize Kahulupue first and put him to death. Obeying the orders of the King, they took Kahulupue just outside of the house and stabbed at his eyes with laumake spears and stoned him with stones before the eyes of his father, with merciless cruelty. These things, though done by the soldiers, were dodged by Kahulupue, and the priest, seeing the King had no thought of regard for his child, spoke up with priestly authority, as follows: "Be strong of breath, my son, till the body touch the water, for the land indeed is the sea's." When Kahulupue heard the voice of his father telling him to flee to the sea, he turned toward the shore in obedience to these last words to him, because of the attack by the soldiers of the King. As he ran, he was struck in the back by a spear, but he persevered and leaped into the sea at Malae and was drowned, his blood discoloring the water. His dead body was taken and placed up in the temple at Puehuehu. After the kapu days therefore the King, with his chiefs and soldiers, moved to Puuloa, Ewa, bringing with them the priest Kaopulupulu, and after some days he was brought before the King by the soldiers, and without groans for his injuries was slain in the King's presence. But he spoke fearlessly of the vengeance that would fall upon the King in consequence of his death, and during their murderous attack upon him proclaimed with his dying breath: "You, O King, that kill me here at Puuloa, the time is near when a direct death will be yours. Above here in this land, and the spot where my lifeless body will be borne and placed high on the altar for my flesh to decay and slip to the earth, shall be the burial place of chiefs and people hereafter, and it shall be called 'the royal sand of the mistaken'; there will you be placed in the temple." At the end of these words of Kaopulupulu his spirit took flight, and his body was left for mockery and abuse, as had been that of his son in the sea of Malae, at Waianae. After a while the body of the priest was placed on a double canoe and brought to Waikiki and placed high in the cocoanut trees at Kukaeunahi, the place of the temple, for several ten-day periods (_he mau anahulu_) without decomposition and falling off of the flesh to the sands of Waikiki. When King Kahekili of Maui heard of the death of the priest Kaopulupulu by Kahahana, he sent some of his men thither by canoe, who landed at Waimanalo, Koolau, where, as spies, they learned from the people respecting Kaopulupulu and his death, with that of his son; therefore they returned and told the King the truth of these reports, at which the affection of Kahekili welled up for the dead priest, and he condemned the King he had established. Coming with an army from Maui, he landed at Waikiki without meeting Kahahana, and took back the government of Oahu under his own kingship. The chiefs and people of Oahu all joined under Kahekili, for Kahahana had been a chief of wrong-doing. This was the first sea of Kaopulupulu in accordance with his prophetic utterance to his son, "This land is the sea's." Upon the arrival here at Oahu of Kahekili, Kahahana fled, with his wife Kekuapoi, and friend Alapai, and hid in the shrubbery of the hills. They went to Aliomanu, Moanalua, to a place called Kinimakalehua; then moved along to Keanapuaa and Kepookala, at the lochs of Puuloa, and from there to upper Waipoi; thence to Wahiawa, Helemano, and on to Lihue; thence they came to Poohilo, at Honouliuli, where they first showed themselves to the people and submitted themselves to their care. While they were living there, report thereof was made to Kahekili, the King, who thereupon sent Kekuamanoha, elder brother of Kekuapoi, the wife of Kahahana, with men in double canoes from Waikiki, landing first at Kupahu, Hanapouli, Waipio, with instructions to capture and put to death Kahahana, as also his friend Alapai, but to save alive Kekuapoi. When the canoes touched at Hanapouli, they proceeded thence to Waikele and Hoaeae, and from there to Poohilo, Honouliuli, where they met in conference with Kahahana and his party. At the close of the day Kekuamanoha sought by enticing words to induce his brother-in-law to go up with him and see the father King and be assured of no death condemnation, and by skilled flattery he induced Kahahana to consent to his proposition; whereupon preparation was made for the return. On the following morning, coming along and reaching the plains of Hoaeae, they fell upon and slew Kahahana and Alapai there, and bore their lifeless bodies to Halaulani, Waipio, where they were placed in the canoes and brought up to Waikiki and placed up in the cocoanut trees by King Kahekili and his priests from Maui, as Kaopulupulu had been. Thus was fulfilled the famous saying of the Oahu priest in all its truthfulness. According to the writings of S. M. Kamakau and David Malo, recognized authorities, the thought of Kaopulupulu as expressed to his son Kahulupue, "This land is the sea's," was in keeping with the famous prophetic vision of Kekiopilo that "the foreigners possess the land," as the people of Hawaii now realize. The weighty thought of this narration and the application of the saying of Kaopulupulu to this time of enlightenment are frequent with certain leaders of thought among the people, as shown in their papers. XXI KU-ULA, THE FISH GOD OF HAWAII _Translated from Moke Manu by M. K. Nakuina_ The story of Ku-ula, considered by ancient Hawaiians as the deity presiding over and controlling the fish of the sea,--a story still believed by many of them to-day,--is translated and somewhat condensed from an account prepared by a recognized legendary bard of these islands. The name of Ku-ula is known from the ancient times on each of the islands of the Hawaiian group, and the writer gives the Maui version as transmitted through the old people of that island. Ku-ula had a human body, and was possessed with wonderful or miraculous power (_mana kupua_) in directing, controlling, and influencing all fish of the sea, at will. Leho-ula, in the land of Aleamai, Hana, Maui, is where Ku-ula and Hina-pu-ku-ia lived. Nothing is known of their parents, but tradition deals with Ku-ula, his wife, their son Ai-ai, and Ku-ula-uka, a younger brother of Ku-ula. These lived together for a time at Leho-ula, and then the brothers divided their work between them, Ku-ula-uka choosing farm work, or work pertaining to the land, from the seashore to the mountain-top, while Ku-ula--known also as Ku-ula-kai--chose to be a fisherman, with such other work as pertained to the sea, from the pebbly shore to ocean depths. After this division Ku-ula-uka went up in the mountains to live, and met a woman known as La-ea--called also Hina-ulu-ohia--a sister of Hina-pu-ku-ia, Ku-ula's wife. These sisters had three brothers, named Moku-ha-lii, Kupa-ai-kee, and Ku-pulu-pulu-i-ka-na-hele. This trio were called by the old people the gods of the canoe-making priests--"_Na akua aumakua o ka poe kahuna kalai waa._" While Ku-ula and his wife were living at Leho-ula he devoted all his time to his chosen vocation, fishing. His first work was to construct a fish-pond handy to his house but near to the shore where the surf breaks, and this pond he stocked with all kinds of fish. Upon a rocky platform he also built a house to be sacred for the fishing kapu which he called by his own name, Ku-ula. It is asserted that when Ku-ula made all these preparations he believed in the existence of a God who had supreme power over all things. That is why he prepared this place wherein to make his offerings of the first fish caught by him to the fish god. From this observance of Ku-ula all the fish were tractable (_laka loa_) unto him; all he had to do was to say the word, and the fish would appear. This was reported all over Hana and when Kamohaolii, the King (who was then living at Wananalua, the land on which Kauiki Hill stands) heard of it, he appointed Ku-ula to be his head fisherman. Through this pond, which was well stocked with all kinds of fish, the King's table was regularly supplied with all rare varieties, whether in or out of season. Ku-ula was his mainstay for fish-food and was consequently held in high esteem by Kamohoalii, and they lived without disagreement of any kind between them for many years. During this period the wife of Ku-ula gave birth to a son, whom they called Aiai-a-Ku-ula (Aiai of Ku-ula), The child was properly brought up according to the usage of those days, and when he was old enough to care for himself an unusual event occurred. A large _puhi_ (eel), called Koona, lived at Wailau, on the windward side of the island of Molokai. This eel was deified and prayed to by the people of that place, and they never tired telling of the mighty things their god did, one of which was that a big shark came to Wailau and gave it battle, and during the fight the puhi caused a part of the rocky cliff to fall upon the shark, which killed it. A cave was thus formed, with a depth of about five fathoms; and that large opening is there to this day, situate a little above the sea and close to the rocky fort where lived the well known Kapeepeekauila. This puhi then left its own place and came and lived in a cave in the sea near Aleamai, called Kapukaulua, some distance out from the Alau rocks. It came to break and rob the pond that Ku-ula had built and stocked with fish of various kinds and colors, as known to-day. Ku-ula was much surprised on discovering his pond stock disappearing, so he watched day and night, and at last, about daybreak, he saw a large eel come in through the _makai_ (seaward) wall of the pond. When he saw this he knew that it was the cause of the loss of his fish, and was devising a way to catch and kill it; but on consulting with his wife they decided to leave the matter to their son Aiai, for him to use his own judgment as to the means by which the thief might be captured and killed. When Aiai was told of it he sent word to all the people of Aleamai and Haneoo to make ili hau ropes several lau fathoms in length; and when all was ready a number of the people went out with it in two canoes, one each from the two places, with Aiai-a-Ku-ula in one of them. He put two large stones in his canoe and held in his hands a fisherman's gourd (_hokeo_), in which was a large fishhook called manaiaakalani. When the canoes had proceeded far out he located his position by landmarks; and looking down into the sea, and finding the right place, he told the paddlers to cease paddling. Standing up in the canoe and taking one of the stones in his hands he dived into the sea. Its weight took him down rapidly to the bottom, where he saw a big cave opening right before him, with a number of fishes scurrying about the entrance, such as uluas and other deep sea varieties. Feeling assured thereby that the puhi was within, he arose to the surface and got into his canoe. Resting for a moment, he then opened the gourd and took out the hook manaiaakalani and tied the hau rope to it. He also picked up a long stick and placed at the end of it the hook, baited with a preparation of cocoanut and other substances attractive to fishes. Before taking his second dive he arranged with those on the canoe as to the signs to them of his success. Saying this, he picked up the other stone and dived down again into the sea; then, proceeding to the cave, he placed the hook in it, at the same time murmuring a few incantations in the name of his parents. When he knew that the puhi was hooked he signalled, as planned, to tell those on the canoe of his success. In a short while he came to the surface, and entering the canoe they all returned to shore, trailing the rope behind. He told those in the canoe from Haneoo to paddle thither and to Hamoa, and to tell all the people to pull the puhi; like instructions were given those on the Aleamai canoe for their people. The two canoes set forth on their courses to the landings, keeping in mind Aiai's instructions, which were duly carried out by the people of the two places; and there were many for the work. Then Aiai ascended Kaiwiopele Hill and motioned to the people of both places to pull the ropes attached to the hook on the mouth of the puhi. It was said that the Aleamai people won the victory over the much greater number from the other places, by landing the puhi on the pahoehoe stones at Lehoula. The people endeavored to kill the prize, but without success till Aiai came and threw three ala stones at it and killed it. The head was cut off and cooked in the _imu_ (oven). The bones of its jaw, with the mouth wide open, are seen to this day at a place near the shore, washed by the waves,--the rock formation at a short distance having such a resemblance. Residents of the place state that all ala stones near where the imu was made in which the puhi was baked do not crack when heated, as they do elsewhere, because of the imu heating of that time. It is so even to this day. The backbone (_iwi kuamoo_) of this puhi is still lying on the pahoehoe where Aiai killed it with the three ala stones,--the rocky formation, about thirty feet in length, exactly resembling the backbone of an eel. The killing of this puhi by Aiai gave him fame among the people of Hana. Its capture was the young lad's first attempt to follow his father's vocation, and his knowledge was a surprise to the people. After this event a man came over from Waiiau, Molokai, who was a _kahu_ (keeper) of the puhi. He dreamed one night that he saw its spirit, which told him that his _aumakua_ (god) had been killed at Hana, so he came to see with his own eyes where this had occurred. Arriving at Wananalua he was befriended by one of the retainers of Kamohoalii, the King of Hana, and lived there a long time serving under him, during which time he learned the story of how the puhi had been caught and killed by Aiai, the son of Ku-ula and Hinapukuia, whereupon he sought to accomplish their death. Considering a plan of action, he went one day to Ku-ula, without orders, and told him that the King had sent him for fish for the King. Ku-ula gave him but one fish, an ulua, with a warning direction, saying, "Go back to the King and tell him to cut off the head of the fish and cook it in the imu, and the flesh of its body cut up and salt and dry in the sun, for 'this is Hana the _aupehu_ land; Hana of the scarce fish; the fish Kama; the fish of Lanakila.' (_Eia o Hana la he aina aupehu; o Hana keia i ka ia iki; ka ia o Kama; ka ia o Lanakila_)." When the man returned to the King and gave him the fish, the King asked: "Who gave it to you?" and the man answered: "Ku-ula." Then it came into his head that this was his chance for revenge, so he told the King what Ku-ula had said but not in the same way, saying: "Your head fisherman told me to come back and tell you that your head should be cut from your body and cooked in the imu, and the flesh of your body should be cut up and salted and dried in the sun." The King on hearing this message was so angered with Ku-ula, his head fisherman, that he told the man to go and tell all his _konohikis_ (head men of lands with others under them) and people, to go up in the mountains and gather immediately plenty of firewood and place it around Ku-ula's house, for he and his wife and child should be burned up. This order of the King was carried out by the konohikis and people of all his lands except those of Aleamai. These latter did not obey this order of the King, for Ku-ula had always lived peaceably among them. There were days when they had no fish, and he had supplied them freely. When Ku-ula and his wife saw the people of Hana bringing firewood and placing it around the house they knew it foreboded trouble; so Ku-ula went to a place where taro, potatoes, bananas, cane, and some gourds were growing. Seeing three dry gourds on the vine, he asked the owner for them and was told to take them. These he took to his house and discussed with his wife the evil day to come, and told Aiai that their house would be burned and their bodies too, but not to fear death nor trouble himself about it when the people came to shut them in. After some thinking Ku-ula remembered his giving the ulua to the King's retainer and felt that he was the party to blame for this action of the King's people. He had suspected it before, but now felt sure; therefore he turned to his son and said: "Our child, Aiai-a-Ku-ula, if our house is burned, and our bodies too, you must look sharp for the smoke when it goes straight up to the hill of Kaiwiopele. That will be your way out of this trouble, and you must follow it till you find a cave where you will live. You must take this hook called manaiaakalani with you; also this fish-pearl (_pa hi aku_), called _Kahuoi_; this shell called _lehoula_, and this small sandstone from which I got the name they call me, _Ku-ula-au-a-Ku-ulakai_. It is the progenitor of all the fish in the sea. You will be the one to make all the ku-ulas from this time forth, and have charge also of making all the fishing stations (_ko'a lawaia_) in the sea throughout the islands. Your name shall be perpetuated and those of your parents also, through all generations to come, and I hereby confer upon you all my power and knowledge. Whenever you desire anything call, or ask, in our names, and we will grant it. We will stand up and go forth from here into the sea and abide there forever; and you, our child, shall live on the land here without worrying about anything that may happen to you. You will have power to punish with death all those who have helped to burn us and our house. Whether it be king or people, they must die; therefore let us calmly await the calamity that is to befall us." All these instructions Aiai consented to carry out from first to last, as a dutiful son. After Ku-ula's instructions to his son, consequent upon the manifestations of coming trouble, the King's people came one day and caught them and tied their hands behind their backs, the evil-doer from Molokai being there to aid in executing the cruel orders of Kamohoalii resulting from his deceitful story. Upon being taken into their house Ku-ula was tied to the end post of the ridge pole (_pouhana)_, the wife was tied to the middle post (_kai waena_) of the house, and the boy, Aiai, was tied to one of the corner posts (_pou o manu_). Upon fastening them in this manner the people went out of the house and barricaded the doorway with wood, which they then set on fire. Before the fire was lit, the ropes with which the victims were tied dropped off from their hands. Men, women, and children looked on at the burning house with deep pity for those within, and tears were streaming down their cheeks as they remembered the kindness of Ku-ula during all the time they had lived together. They knew not why this family and their house should be burned in this manner. When the fire was raging all about the house and the flames were consuming everything, Ku-ula and his wife gave their last message to their son and left him. They went right out of the house as quietly as the last breath leaves the body, and none of the people standing there gazing saw where, or how, Ku-ula and his wife came forth out of the house. Aiai was the only one that retained material form. Their bodies were changed by some miraculous power and entered the sea, taking with them all the fish swimming in and around Hana. They also took all sea-mosses, crabs, crawfish, and the various kinds of shellfish along the seashore, even to the opihi-koele at the rocky beach; every edible thing in the sea was taken away. This was the first stroke of Ku-ula's revenge on the King and the people of Hana who obeyed his mandate; they suffered greatly from the scarcity of fish. When Ku-ula and his wife were out of the house the three gourds exploded from the heat, one by one, and all those who were gazing at the burning house believed the detonations indicated the bursting of the bodies of Ku-ula, his wife, and child. The flames shot up through the top of the house, and the black smoke hovered above it, then turned toward the front of Kaiwiopele Hill. The people saw Aiai ascend through the flames and walk upon the smoke toward the hill till he came to a small cave that opened to receive and rescue him. As Aiai left the house it burned fiercely, and, carrying out the instructions of his father he called upon him to destroy by fire all those who had caught and tied them in their burning house. As he finished his appeal he saw the rippling of the wind on the sea and a misty rain coming with it, increasing as it came till it reached Lehoula, which so increased the blazing of the fire that the flames reached out into the crowd of people for those who had obeyed the King. The man from Molokai, who was the cause of the trouble, was reached also and consumed by the fire, and the charred bodies were left to show to the people the second stroke of Ku-ula's vengeance. Strange to say, all those who had nothing to do with this cruel act, though closer to the burning house, were uninjured; the tongues of fire reached out only for the guilty ones. In a little while but a few smouldering logs and ashes were all that remained of the house of Ku-ula. Owing to this strange action of the fire some of the people doubted the death of Ku-ula and his wife, and much disputation arose among them on the subject. When Aiai walked out through the flames and smoke and reached the cave, he stayed there through that night till the next morning, then, leaving his hook, pearl shell, and stone there, he went forth till he came to the road at Puilio, where he met several children amusing themselves by shooting arrows, one of whom made friends with him and asked him to his house. Aiai accepted the invitation, and the boy and his parents treating him well, he remained with them for some days. While Aiai was living in their house the parents of the boy heard of the King's order for all the people of Hana to go fishing for hinalea. The people obeyed the royal order, but when they went down to the shore with their fishing baskets they looked around for the usual bait (_ueue_), which was to be pounded up and put into the baskets, but they could not find any, nor any other material to be so used, neither could they see any fish swimming around in the sea. "Why?" was the question. Because Ku-ula and his wife had taken with them all the fish and everything pertaining to fishing. Finding no bait they pounded up limestone and placed it in the baskets and swam out and set them in the sea. They watched and waited all day, but in vain, for not a single hinalea was seen, nor did any enter the baskets. When night came they went back empty-handed and came down again the next day only to meet the same luck. The parents of the boy who had befriended Aiai were in this fishing party, in obedience to the King's orders, but they got nothing for their trouble. Aiai, seeing them go down daily to Haneoo, asked concerning it, and was told everything; so he bade his friend come with him to the cave where he had stayed after his father's house was burned. Arriving there he showed the stone fish god, Pohaku-muone, and said: "We can get fish up here from this stone without much work or trouble." Then Aiai picked up the stone and they went down to Lehoula, and setting it down at a point facing the pond which his father had made he repeated these words: "O Ku-ula, my father; O Hina, my mother, I place this stone here in your name, Ku-ula, which action will make your name famous and mine too, your son; the keeping of this ku-ula stone I give to my friend, and he and his offspring hereafter will do and act in all things pertaining to it in our names." After saying these words he told his friend his duties and all things to be observed relative to the stone and the benefits to be derived therefrom as an influencing power over such variety of fish as he desired. This was the first establishment of the _ko'a ku-ula_ on land,--a place where the fisherman was obliged to make his offering of the first of his catch by taking two fishes and placing them on the ku-ula stone as an offering to Ku-ula. Thus Aiai first put in practice the fishing oblations established by his father at the place of his birth, in his youth, but it was accomplished only through the mana kupua of his parents. When Aiai had finished calling on his parents and instructing his friend, there were seen several persons walking along the Haneoo beach with their fishing baskets and setting them in the sea, but catching nothing. At Aiai's suggestion he and his friend went over to witness this fishing effort. When they reached the fishers Aiai asked them, "What are those things placed there for?" They answered, "Those are baskets for catching hinaleas, a fish that our King, Kamohoalii, longs for, but we cannot get bait to catch the fish with." "Why is it so?" asked Aiai. And they answered, "Because Ku-ula and his family are dead, and all the fish along the beach of Hana are taken away." Then Aiai asked them for two baskets. Having received them, he bade his friend take them and follow him. They went to a little pool near the beach, and setting the baskets therein, he called on his parents for hinaleas. As soon as he had finished, the fish were seen coming in such numbers as to fill the pool, and still they came. Aiai now told his friend to go and fetch his parents and relatives to get fish, and to bring baskets with which to take home a supply; they should have the first pick, and the owners of the baskets should have the next chance. The messenger went with haste and brought his relatives as directed. Aiai then took two fishes and gave them to his friend to place on the ko'a they had established at Lehoula for the ku-ula. He also told him that before the setting of the sun of that day they would hear that King Kamohoalii of Hana was dead, choked and strangled to death by the fish. These prophetic words of Aiai came true. After Aiai had made his offering, his friend's parents came to where the fish were gathering and were told to take all they desired, which they did, returning home happy for the liberal supply obtained without trouble. The owners of the baskets were then called and told to take all the fish they wished for themselves and for the King. When these people saw the great supply they were glad and much surprised at the success of these two boys. The news of the reappearing of the fish spread through the district, and the people flocked in great numbers and gathered hinaleas to their satisfaction, and returned to their homes with rejoicing. Some of those who gave Aiai the baskets returned with their bundles of fish to the King. When he saw so many of those he had longed for he became so excited that he reached out and picked one up and put it in his mouth, intending to eat it; but instead the fish slipped right into his throat and stuck there. Many tried to reach and take it out, but were unable, and before the sun set that day Kamohoalii, the King of Hana, died, being choked and strangled to death by the fish. Thus the words of Aiai, the son of Ku-ula, proved true. By the death of the King of Hana the revenge was complete. The evil-doer from Molokai, and those who obeyed the King's orders on the day Ku-ula's house was fired, met retribution, and Aiai thus won a victory over all his father's enemies. After living for a time at Hana Aiai left that place and went among the different islands of the group establishing fishing ko'as (_ko'a aina aumakua_). He was the first to measure the depth of the sea to locate these fishing ko'as for the deep sea fishermen who go out in their canoes, and the names of many of these ko'as located around the different islands are well known. XXII AIAI, SON OF KU-ULA PART II OF THE LEGEND OF KU-ULA, THE FISH GOD OF HAWAII _Translated from Moke Manu by M. K. Nakuina_ After the death of the King of Hana, Aiai left the people of Haneoo catching hinalea and went to Kumaka, a place where fresh water springs out from the sand and rocks near the surf of Puhele, at Hamoa, where lay a large, long stone in the sea. This stone he raised upright and also placed others about the water spring, and said to his friend: "To-day I name this stone Ku-a-lanakila, for I have triumphed over my enemies; and I hereby declare that all fishes, crabs, and sea-moss shall return again in plenty throughout the seas of Hana, as in the days when my parents were living in the flesh at Lehoula." From the time Aiai raised this stone, up to the present generation, the story of Ku-ula and Aiai is well preserved, and people have flocked to the place where the stone stands to see it and verify the tradition. Some kahunas advise their suffering patients to pay a visit to the stone, Ku-lanakila, with some offerings for relief from their sickness and also to bathe in the spring of Kumaka and the surf of Puhele. This was a favorite spot of the kings and chiefs of the olden times for bathing and surf-riding, and is often referred to in the stories and legends of Hawaii-nei. This was the first stone raised by Aiai and established as a ku-ula at Hamoa; and the old people of Hana attributed to its influence the return of the fish to their waters. After Aiai's practice of his father's instructions and the return of the fishes, his fame spread throughout the district, and the people made much of him during his stay with them. A great service wrought by Aiai during his boyhood was the teaching of his friend and his friend's parents how to make the various nets for all kinds of fishing. He also taught them to make the different kinds of fishing lines. When they were skilled in all these branches of knowledge pertaining to fishing, he called the people together, and in their presence declared his friend to be the head fisherman of Hana, with full control of all the stations (_ko'a ia_) he had established. This wonder-working power second to none, possessed by Aiai, he now conferred on his friend, whereby his own name would be perpetuated and his fame established all over the land. The first _ko'a ia_ (fishing ground, or station) where Aiai measured the depth of the sea is near Aleamai, his birthplace, and is called Kapukaulua, where he hooked and killed the eel Koona. It is a few miles from the shore to the southeast of the rocky islet called Alau. The second station he established was at a spot about a mile from Haneoo and Hamoa which was for the kala, palani, nanue, puhi, and ula. These varieties of fish are not caught by nets, or with the hook, but in baskets which are filled with bait and let down in the deep sea. The third station, which he named Koauli, was located out in the deep sea for the deep sea fishes, the depth ranging about two hundred fathoms. This is the ko'a that fishermen have to locate by certain shore bearings, lest a mistake be made as to the exact spot and the bottom be found rocky and the hooks entangle in the coral. In all the stations Aiai located there are no coral ledges where the fisherman's hook would catch, or the line be entangled; and old Hawaiians commended the skill of such locations, believing that the success of Aiai's work was due to his father's influence as an ocean deity. At one time Aiai went over to the bay of Wananalua, the present port of Hana, with its noted hill of Kauiki and the sandy beach of Pueokahi. Here he made and placed a ku-ula, and also placed a fish stone in the cliff of Kauiki whereon is the ko'a known as Makakiloia. And the people of Hana give credit to this stone for the frequent appearance of the akule, oio, moi, and other fishes in their waters. Aiai's good work did not stop at this point; proceeding to Honomaele he picked up three pebbles at the shore and, going into the sea, out beyond the breaking surf, he placed them there. In due time these three pebbles gathered others together and made a regular ridge; and when this was accomplished, the aweoweo gathered from the far ocean to this ridge of pebbles for rest; whereupon the people came with net, hook, and line, and caught them as they desired. The writer witnessed this in 1845 with his own eyes. This ko'a for aweoweo is still there, but difficult to locate, from the fact that all the old residents are gone--either dead or moved away. He next went over to Waiohue, Koolau, where he placed a stone on a sharp rocky islet, called Paka, whereon a few puhala grow. It is claimed that during the season of the kala, they come in from the ocean, attracted to this locality by the power of this stone. They continue on to Mokumana, a cape between Keanae and Wailuanui. They come in gradually for two days, and on the third day of their reaching the coast, at the pali of Ohea, is the time and place to surround them with nets. In olden times while the fishermen were hauling in their nets full of kala into the canoes, the akule and oio also came in numbers at the same time, making it impossible to catch all in one day; and as there were so many gathered in the net it took them a day and a night before they could care for their draught, which yielded so many more than could be made use of that they were fed to the pigs and dogs. The kala of Ohea is noted for its fatness and fine flavor. Few people are now living there, and the people who knew all about this are dead; but the stone that Aiai placed on that little island at Waiohue is still there. Aiai stayed there a few days and then returned to Hana and lived at his birthplace quite a length of time till he was a man grown. During this period he was teaching his art of fishing in all its forms; and when he was satisfied the people were proficient, he prepared to visit other places for like service. But before leaving, Aiai told his friend to go and kill the big _hee kupua_ (wonderful octopus) in the deep sea, right out of Wailuanui, Koolau, and he consented. When the canoes were made ready and drawn to the beach and the people came prepared to start, Aiai brought the _hokeo_ (fishing gourd), where the _leho_ (kauri shell) that Ku-ula his father gave him was kept, and gave it to his friend. This shell is called _lehoula,_ and the locality at Hana of that name was called after it. Then the canoes and people sailed away till they got out along the palis near Kopiliula, where they rested. Aiai was not with the party, but overlooked their operations from the pali of Puhiai. While they rested, preparation for the lowering of the leho was being made, and when ready, Aiai's friend called on Ku-ula and Hina for the assistance of their wonderful powers. When he was through, he took off the covering of the gourd and took out the leho, which had rich beautiful colors like the rainbow, and attaching it to the line, he lowered it into the sea, where it sent out rays of a fiery light. The hee was so attracted by its radiance that it came out of its hole and with its great arms, which were as long and large as a full-grown cocoanut tree, came up to the surface of the water and stood there like a cocoanut grove. The men were frightened, for it approached and went right into the canoes with the intention of destroying them and the men and capturing the leho; but it failed, because Aiai's friend, with his skill and power, had provided himself with a stone, which, at the proper time, he shoved into the head of the squid; and the weight of the stone drew it down to the bottom of the sea and kept it there, and being powerless to remove the stone, it died. The men seized and cut off one of the arms, which was so big that it loaded the canoes down so that they returned to Hana. When the squid died, it turned to stone. It is pointed out to-day just outside of Wailuanui, where a stone formation resembles the body of a squid and the arms, with one missing. When Aiai saw from the pali that his friend was successful in killing the hee, he returned to Hana unseen, and in a short while the canoes arrived with its arm, which was divided among the people according to the directions of Aiai. When Aiai saw that his friend and others of Hana were skilled in all the art of fishing, he decided to leave his birthplace and journey elsewhere. So he called a council of his friends and told them of his intended departure, to establish other fishing stations and instruct the people with all the knowledge thereof in conformity with the injunction of Ku-ula his father. They approved of the course contemplated and expressed their indebtedness to him for all the benefits he had shown them. On leaving Aleamai he took with him the fish-hook, _manaiaakalani_, and the fish pearl, _Kahuoi_, for aku from the little cave where he had lodged on the hill of Kaiwiopele, and then disappeared in the mysterious manner of his parents. He established ku-ulas and ko'a aina, by placing three fish stones at various points as far as Kipahulu. At the streams of Kikoo and Maulili there stands a stone to-day, which was thrown by Aiai and dropped at a bend in the waters, unmoved by the many freshets that have swept the valleys since that time. Out in the sea of Maulili is a famous station known as Koanui. It is about a mile from the shore and marks the boundary of the sea of Maulili, and the fish that appear periodically and are caught within its limits have been subject to a division between the fishermen and the landowner ever since. This is a station where the fisherman's hook shall not return without a fish except the hook be lost, or the line cut. The first time that Aiai tested this station and caught a fish with his noted hook, he saw a fisherman in his canoe drifting idly, without success. When he saw Aiai, this fisherman, called Kanemakua, paddled till he came close to where Aiai was floating on an improvised canoe, a wiliwili log, without an outrigger,--which much surprised him. Before the fisherman reached him, Aiai felt a tug at his line and knew that he had caught a fish and began pulling it in. When Kanemakua came within speaking distance Aiai greeted him and gave him the fish, putting it into his canoe. Kanemakua was made happy and thanked Aiai for his generosity. While putting it in the canoe Aiai said: "This is the first time I have fished in these waters to locate (or found) this station, and as you are the first man I meet I give you the first fish caught. I also give you charge of this ko'a; but take my advice. When you come here to fish and see a man meeting you in a canoe and floating alongside of you, if at that time you have caught a fish, then give it to him as I have done to you, without regret, and thus get a good name and be known as a generous man. If you observe this, great benefits will come to you and those related to you." As Aiai finished speaking he suddenly disappeared, and Kanemakua could hardly realize that he had not been dreaming but for the assurance he had in the great fish lying in his canoe. He returned to the shore with his prize, which was so large and heavy that it required the help of two others to carry it to the house, where it was cut up and the oven made hot for its baking. When it was cooked he took the eyes of the fish and offered them up as a thanksgiving sacrifice. Then the family, friends, and neighbors around came to the feast and ate freely. During all this time Kanemakua was thinking of the words spoken by the young man, which he duly observed. The first ku-ula established in Maulili, Maui, was named after him, and from that time its fish have been given out freely without restriction or division. After establishing the different ku-ula stations along the coast from Hana to Kipahulu, Aiai went to Kaupo and other places. A noted station and ku-ula is at Kahikinui. All the stations of this place are in the deep sea, where they use nets of three kinds; there is also fishing with poles, and ulua fishing, because this part of the island faces the wind; but the ku-ulas are located on the seashore, as is also the one at Honuaula, where it is covered over by the lava flow. Thus was performed the good work of Aiai in establishing ku-ula stations and fish stones continued all around the island of Maui. It is also said that he visited Kahoolawe and established a ku-ula at Hakioawa, though it differs from the others, being built on a high bluff overlooking the sea, somewhat like a temple, by placing stones in the form of a square, in the middle of which was left a space wherein the fishermen of that island laid their first fish caught, as a thank offering. Awa and kapa were also placed there as offerings to the fish deities. An idea prevails with some people that the ko'a of Kamohoalii, the king shark of Kahoolawe, is on this island, but if all the stories told of it be examined there will be found no reference to a ko'a of his on this island. From Kahoolawe, Aiai next went to Lanai, where he started fishing for _aku_ (bonito) at Cape Kaunolu, using his pearl Kahuoi. This is the first case known of fishing for aku with pearl from the land, as it is a well known fact that this fish is caught only in deep sea, far from shore. In the story of Kaneapua it is shown that he is the only one who had fished for aku at the Cape of Kaunolu, where it was started by Aiai. From Kaunolu, Aiai went to Kaena Cape, where at a place close to Paomai, was a little sandy beach now known as Polihua. Here he took a stone and carved a figure on it, then carried and placed it on the sandy beach, and called on his parents. While making his incantations the stone moved toward the sea and disappeared under the water. His incantations finished, the stone reappeared and moved toward him till it reached the place where it had been laid; whereupon it was transformed into a turtle, and gave the name of Polihua to that beach. This work of Aiai on the island of Lanai was the first introduction of the turtle in the seas of Hawaii, and also originated the habit of the turtle of going up the beach to lay its eggs, then returning to the sea. After making the circuit of Lanai he went over to Molokai, landing at Punakou and travelled along the shore till he reached Kaunakakau. At this place he saw spawns of mullet, called Puai-i, right near the shore, which he kicked with his foot, landing them on the sand. This practice of kicking fish with the feet is carried on to this time, but only at that locality. Aiai continued on along the Kona side of Molokai, examining its fishing grounds and establishing ku-ulas till he got to Halawa. At the Koolau side of the island he stopped at Wailau and saw the cave of the eel Koona that went to Hana and stole the fish from his father's pond, and the cause of all the trouble that befell his parents and himself. When Aiai landed at Wailau he saw that both sides of the valley were covered with men, women, and children engaged in closing up the stream and diverting its water to another course, whereby they would be enabled to catch oopu and opae. The water being low, the gourds of some of the people were full from their catch. Aiai noticed their wanton method of fishing, whereby all oopus and opaes were caught without thought of any reservation for their propagation; therefore he called on his parents to take them all away. The prayer was granted, for suddenly they all disappeared; those in the water went up the stream to a place called Koki, while those in the gourds were turned to lizards which scampered out and ran all over the rocks. The people were much surprised at this change and felt sorely disappointed at the loss of their food supply. On account of his regard for a certain lad of that place, named Kahiwa, he showed him the place of the opaes to be up the precipitous cliff, Koki. The youth was attentive to the direction of Aiai and going there he found the oopus and opaes as stated, as they are to this day. That is what established the noted saying of the old people of that land: "Kokio of Wailau is the ladder of the opae." It is also known as the "Pali of Kahiwa." When Aiai left Wailau he showed this lad the ku-ula and the fish station in the sea he had located there, at the same distance as that rocky island known as Mokapu. He went also to Pelekunu, Waikolu and Kalawao, even to Kalaupapa, the present home of the lepers. At the latter place he left a certain fish stone. That is the reason fish constantly gather there even to this day. He also went to Hoolehua and so on as far as _Ka lae o ka ilio_ (the dog's forehead) and _Ka lae o ka laau_. Between these two capes in the sea is a station established by Aiai, where a tree grew out from under a rock, Ekaha by name. It is a hardwood tree, but the trunk and also the branches are without leaves. This place is a great haunt for fishermen with their hooks. Aiai then came to Oahu, first landing at Makapuu, in Koolau, where he founded a _pohaku-ia_ (fish stone) for red fish and for speckled fish, and called it Malei. This was a female rock, and the fish of that place is the uhu. It is referred to in the mele of Hiiaka, thus: "I will not go to the stormy capes of Koolau, The sea-cliffs of Moeaau. The woman watching uhu of Makapuu Dwells on the ledge of Kamakani At Koolau. The living Offers grass-twined sacrifices, O Malie!" From the time Aiai founded that spawning-place until the present, its fish have been the uhu, extending to Hanauma. There were also several gathering-places for fish established outside of Kawaihoa. Aiai next moved to Maunalua, then to Waialae and Kahalaia. At Kaalawai he placed a white and brown rock. There in that place is a hole filled with aholehole, therefore the name of the land is Kaluahole. Right outside of Kahuahui there is a station where Aiai placed a large round sandstone that is surrounded by spawning-places for fish; Ponahakeone is its name. In ancient times the chiefs selected a very secret place wherein to hide the dead bodies of their greatly beloved, lest some one should steal their bones to make fish-hooks, or arrows to shoot mice with. For that reason the ancients referred to Ponahakeone as "_He Lualoa no Na'lii_"--a deep pit for the chiefs. Aiai came to Kalia and so on to Kakaako. Here he was befriended by a man named Apua, with whom he remained several days, observing and listening to the murmurs of the chief named Kou. This chief was a skilful hiaku fisherman, his grounds being outside of Mamala until you came to Moanalua. There was none so skilled as he, and generous withal, giving akus to the people throughout the district. As Aiai was dwelling with his friend Apua at Kakaako, he meandered off one day along the shore of Kulolia, and so on to Pakaka and Kapapoko. But he did not return to the house of his friend, for he met a young woman gathering _limu_ (sea-moss) and fishing for crabs. This young woman, whose name was Puiwa, lived at Hanakaialama and was a virgin, never having had a husband. She herself, as the people would say, was forward to ask Aiai to be her husband; but he listened to her voice, and they went up together to her home and saw the parents and relatives, and forthwith were married. After living with this young woman some time a son was born to them, whom Aiai named Puniaiki. During those days was the distribution of aku which were sent up from Honolulu to the different dwellings; but while others were given a whole fish, they got but a portion from some neighbor. For this reason the woman was angry, and told Aiai to go to the brook and get some oopus fit to eat, as well as opae. Aiai listened to the voice of his wife. He dug a ditch and constructed a dam so as to lead the water of the brook into some pits, and thus be able to catch the oopu and opae. He labored some days at this work, and the fish and shrimps were hung up to dry. On a certain day following, Aiai and his wife went with their child to the brook. She left her son upon the bank of the stream while she engaged herself in catching opae and oopu from the pits. But it was not long before the child began to cry; and as he cried, Aiai told his wife to leave her fishing, but she talked saucily to him. So Aiai called upon the names of his ancestors. Immediately a dark and lowering cloud drew near and poured out a flood of water upon the stream, and in a short time the dam was broken by the freshet and all the oopu and opae, together with the child, were swept toward the sea. But the woman was not taken by the flood. Aiai then rose up and departed, without thought of his wife. He went down from the valley to Kaumakapili, and as he was standing there he saw some women fishing for oopu on the banks of the stream, the daughter of the chief Kikihale being with them. At that time, behold, there was caught by the female guardian of the daughter of Kikihale a very large oopu. This oopu she showed to her _protégée_, who told her to put it into a large calabash with water and feed it with limu, so that it might become a pet fish. This was done and the oopu was tended very carefully night and day. Aiai stood by and saw the fish lifted out of the brook, and recognized it at the same time as his own child, changed from a human being into an oopu. (At this point the story of Aiai gives place to that of his child.) When the oopu was placed in a large calabash with water, it was carefully tended and fed with sea-moss for some time, but one day in seeing to this duty the guardian of the chieftainess, on reaching the calabash, was startled to behold therein a human child, looking with its eyes. And the water in the calabash had disappeared. She was greatly surprised and seized with a dark foreboding, and a trembling fear possessed her as she looked upon this miraculous child. This woman went and told the chieftainess of this child they knew to have had the form of an oopu, and as Kikihale heard the story of her guardian she went quickly, with grave doubts, however, of this her report; but there, on reaching the calabash, as she looked she saw indeed a child therein. She immediately put forth her hands toward the child and lifting it, carefully examined its form and noted its agreeable features. As the thought quickly possessed this girl, she said: "Now, my guardian, you and your husband take and rear this child till he is grown, then I will be his wife." The guardian answered her: "When this child becomes grown you will be old; that is, your days will be in the evening of life, while his place will be in the early morn. Will you not thereby have lasting cause for dissatisfaction and contention between you in the future?" Kikihale answering her guardian said: "You are not to blame; these things are mine to consider, for the reason that the desire is mine, not yours, my guardian." After this talking the child was quickly known of among the chiefs and attendants. He was nourished and brought up to adult age, when Kikihale took him for her husband as she had said; and for a time they dwelt together as man and wife without disagreement between them. But during these days Kikihale saw plainly that her husband was not disposed to do anything for their support; therefore she mourned over it continually and angrily reproved him, finally, saying: "O my husband, can you not go forth also, as others, to assist our father and the attendants in the duties of fishing, instead of eating till you are satisfied, then rolling over with face upward to the ridge-pole of the house and counting the ahos? It may do while my father is alive; but if he should die, whence would come our support?" Thus she spoke reproachingly from day to day, and the words stung Puniaiki's heart with much pain. And this is what he said to his wife one day: "It is unpleasant to hear you constantly talking thus. Not as wild animals is the catching of fish in the sea; they are obedient if called, and you may eat wastefully of my fish when procured. I have authority over fish, men, pigs, and dogs. If you are a favorite of your father then go to him for double canoes, with their fishing appurtenances, and men to paddle them." When Kikihale heard these words of her husband she hastened to Kou, her father, and told him all that Puniaiki had said, and the request was promptly executed. Kikihale returned to her husband and told him all she had done. On Puniaiki's going down to the canoe place he found the men were making ready the canoes with the nets, rods, lines, and the pearl fish-hooks. Here he lit a fire and burned up the pearl fish-hooks, at which his wife was much angered and cried loudly for the hiaku pearl hooks of her father. She went and told Kou of this mischievous action of her husband, but he answered her not a word at this act of his son-in-law, though he had supplied five gourds filled with them, a thousand in number, and the strangest thing was, that all were burned up save two only which Kou had reserved. That night Puniaiki slept apart from his wife, and he told the canoe paddlers to sleep in the canoe sheds, not to go to their homes that night; and they obeyed his voice. It was Kou's habit to rouse his men before break of day to sail in the malaus for aku fishing at the mouth of the harbor, for that was their feeding-time, not after the sun had risen. Thus would the canoes enter the schools of aku and this chief became famous thereby as a most successful fisherman. But on this day was seen the sorcerer's work of this child of Aiai. As Kou with his men set out always before dawn, here was this Puniaiki above at his place at sunrise. At this time on his awaking from sleep he turned his face mountainward, and looking at Kaumakapili he saw a rainbow and its reddish mist spread out at that place, wherein was standing a human form. He felt conscious that it was Aiai his father, therefore he went there and Aiai showed him the place of the _pa_ (fish-hook) called Kahuai, and he said to his son: "Here will I stay till you return; be quick." Upon Puniaiki reaching the landing the canoes were quickly made ready to depart, and as they reached Kapapoko and Pakaka, at the sea of Kuloloia, they went on to Ulukua, now the lighthouse location of Honolulu harbor. At this place Puniaiki asked the paddlers: "What is the name of that surf cresting beneath the prow of our canoes?" "Puuiki," replied the men. He then said to them: "Point straight the prow of the canoes and paddle with strength." At these words of Puniaiki their minds were in doubt, because there were probably no akus at that place in the surf; but that was none of their business. As they neared the breakers of Puuiki, below the mouth of Mamala, Puniaiki said to his men: "Turn the canoes around and go shorewards." And in returning he said quickly, "Paddle strong, for here we are on the top of a school of akus." But strange to say, as the men looked in the water they saw no fish swimming about, but on reaching Ulakua Puniaiki opened up the fish-hook, Kahuai, from its wrapping in the gourd and held it in his hand. At this the akus, unprecedented in number, fairly leaped into the canoes. They became so filled with the fish, without labor, that they sank in the water as they reached Kapuukolo, and the men jumped overboard to float them to the beach. The canoe men wondered greatly at this work of the son-in-law of Kou the chief; and the shore people shouted as the akus which filled the harbor swam toward the fishpond of Kuwili and on to the mouth of Leleo stream. When the canoes touched shore Puniaiki seized two fishes in his hands and went to join his father where he was staying, and Aiai directed him to take them up to where his mother lived. These akus were not gifts for her, but an offering to Ku-ula at a ko'a established just above Kahuailanawai. Puniaiki obeyed the instructions of his father, and on returning to him he was sent back to his mother, Puiwa, with a supply of akus. She was greatly surprised that this handsome young man, with his gift of akus for her to eat, was her own son, and these were the first fruits of his labor. The people marvelled at the quantity of fish throughout the harbor, so that even the stream at Kikihale was also full of akus, and Puniaiki commanded the people to take of them day and night; and the news of this visit of akus went all around Oahu. This unequalled haul of akus was a great humiliation to Kou, affecting his fame as a fisherman; but he was neither jealous of his son-in-law nor angry,--he just sat silent. He thought much on the subject but with kindly feelings, resulting in turning over this employment to him who could prosecute it without worry. Shortly afterwards Aiai arranged with Puniaiki for the establishing of ku-ulas, ko'as, and fish stones around the island of Oahu, which were as follows: The Kou stone was for Honolulu and Kaumakapili; a ku-ula at Kupahu; a fish stone at Hanapouli, Ewa. Ahuena was the ku-ula for Waipio; two were assigned for Honouliuli. Hani-o was the name of the ko'a outside of Kalaeloa; Kua and Maunalahilahi for Waianae; Kamalino for Waimea; and Kaihukuuna for Laiemaloo, Koolau. Aiai and his son also visited Kauai and Niihau on this work, then they turned and went together to Hawaii. The principal or most noted fishing-grounds there are: Poo-a, Kahaka, and Olelomoana at Kona; Kalae at Kau; Kupakea at Puna, and I at Hilo. In former times at most of these fishing-grounds were seen multitudes and varieties of fish, all around the islands, and occasionally deep sea kinds came close in shore, but in this new era there are not so many. Some people say it is on account of the change of the times. XXIII KANEAUKAI A LEGEND OF WAIALUA _Thos. G. Thrum_ Long ago, when the Hawaiians were in the darkness of superstition and kahunaism, with their gods and lords many, there lived at Mokuleia, Waialua, two old men whose business it was to pray to Kaneaukai for a plentiful supply of fish. These men were quite poor in worldly possessions, but given to the habit of drinking a potion of awa after their evening meal of poi and fish. The fish that frequented the waters of Mokuleia were the aweoweo, kala, manini, and many other varieties that find their habitat inside the coral reefs. Crabs of the white variety burrowed in the sand near the seashore and were dug out by the people, young and old. The squid also were speared by the skilful fishermen, and were eaten stewed, or salted and sun-dried and roasted on the coals. The salt likely came from Kaena Point, from salt-water evaporation in the holes of rocks so plentiful on that stormy cape. Or it may have been made on the salt pans of Paukauwila, near the stream of that name, where a few years ago this industry existed on a small scale. But to return to our worshippers of Kaneaukai. One morning on going out upon the seashore they found a log of wood, somewhat resembling the human form, which they took home and set in a corner of their lowly hut, and continued their habit of praying to Kaneaukai. One evening, after having prepared a scanty supper of poi and salt, with perhaps a few roasted kukui-nuts, as a relish, and a couple of cocoanut cups of awa as their usual drink, they saw a handsome young man approaching, who entered their hut and saluted them. He introduced himself by saying, "I am Kaneaukai to whom you have been praying, and that which you have set up is my image; you have done well in caring for it." He sat down, after the Hawaiian custom, as if to share their evening meal, which the two old men invited him to partake of with them, but regretted the scanty supply of awa. He said: "Pour the awa back into the bowl and divide into three." This they did and at once shared their meal with their guest. After supper Kaneaukai said to the two old men, "Go to Keawanui and you will get fish enough for the present." He then disappeared, and the fishermen went as instructed and obtained three fishes; one they gave to an old sorceress who lived near by, and the other two they kept for themselves. Soon after this there was a large school of fish secured by the fishermen of Mokuleia. So abundant were the fish that after salting all they could, there was enough to give away to the neighbors; and even the dogs had more than they desired. Leaving the Mokuleia people to the enjoyment of their unusual supply of fish, we will turn to the abode of two kahunas, who were also fishermen, living on the south side of Waimea Valley, Oahu. One morning, being out of fish, they went out into the harbor to try their luck, and casting their net they caught up a calcareous stone about as large as a man's head, and a pilot fish. They let the pilot fish go, and threw the stone back into the sea. Again they cast their net and again they caught the stone and the pilot fish; and so again at the third haul. At this they concluded that the stone was a representative of some god. The elder of the two said: "Let us take this stone ashore and set it up as an idol, but the pilot fish we will let go." So they did, setting it up on the turn of the bluff on the south side of the harbor of Waimea. They built an inclosure about it and smoothed off the rocky bluff by putting flat stones from the immediate neighborhood about the stone idol thus strangely found. About ten days after the finding of the stone idol the two old kahunas were sitting by their grass hut in the dusk of the evening, bewailing the scarcity of fish, when Kaneaukai himself appeared before them in the guise of a young man. He told them that they had done well in setting up his stone image, and if they would follow his directions they would have a plentiful supply of fish. Said he, "Go to Mokuleia, and you will find my wooden idol; bring it here and set it up alongside of my stone idol." But they demurred, as it was a dark night and there were usually quicksands after a freshet in the Kamananui River. His answer was, "Send your grandsons." And so the two young men were sent to get the wooden idol and were told where they could find it. The young men started for Mokuleia by way of Kaika, near the place where salt was made a few years ago. Being strangers, they were in doubt about the true way, when a meteor (_hoku kaolele_) appeared and went before them, showing them how to escape the quicksands. After crossing the river they went on to Mokuleia as directed by Kaneaukai, and found the wooden idol in the hut of the two old men. They shouldered it, and taking as much dried fish as they could carry, returned by the same way that they had come, arriving at home about midnight. The next day the two old kahunas set up the wooden idol in the same inclosure with the stone representative of Kaneaukai. The wooden image has long since disappeared, having been destroyed, probably, at the time Kaahumanu made a tour of Oahu after her conversion to Christianity, when she issued her edict to burn all the idols. But the stone idol was not destroyed. Even during the past sixty years offerings of roast pigs are known to have been placed before it. This was done secretly for fear of the chiefs, who had published laws against idolatry. Accounts differ, various narrators giving the story some embellishments of their own. So good a man as a deacon of Waialua in telling the above seemed to believe that, instead of being a legend it was true; for an old man, to whom he referred as authority, said that one of the young men who went to Mokuleia and brought the wooden idol to Waimea was his own grandfather. An aged resident of the locality gives this version: Following the placement of their strangely found stone these two men dreamed of Kaneaukai as a god in some far-distant land, to whom they petitioned that he would crown their labors with success by granting them a plentiful supply of fish. Dreaming thus, Kaneaukai revealed himself to them as being already at their shore; that the stone which they had been permitted to find and had honored by setting up at Kehauapuu, was himself, in response to their petitions; and since they had been faithful so far, upon continuance of the same, and offerings thereto, they should ever after be successful in their fishing. As if in confirmation of this covenant, this locality has ever since been noted for the periodical visits of schools of the anae-holo and kala, which are prevalent from April to July, coming, it is said, from Ohea, Honuaula, Maui, by way of Kahuku, and returning the same way. So strong was the superstitious belief of the people in this deified stone that when, some twenty years ago, the road supervisor of the district threw it over and broke off a portion, it was prophesied that Kaneaukai would be avenged for the insult. And when shortly afterward the supervisor lost his position and removed from the district, returning not to the day of his death; and since several of his relatives have met untimely ends, not a few felt it was the recompense of his sacrilegious act. XXIV THE SHARK-MAN, NANAUE _Mrs. E. M. Nakuina_ _Kamohoalii_, the King-shark of Hawaii and Maui, has several deep sea caves that he uses in turn as his habitat. There are several of these at the bottom of the palisades, extending from Waipio toward Kohala, on the island of Hawaii. A favorite one was at Koamano, on the mainland, and another was at Maiaukiu, the small islet just abreast of the valley of Waipio. It was the belief of the ancient Hawaiians that several of these shark gods could assume any shape they chose, the human form even, when occasion demanded. In the reign of Umi, a beautiful girl, called Kalei, living in Waipio, was very fond of shellfish, and frequently went to Kuiopihi for her favorite article of diet. She generally went in the company of other women, but if the sea was a little rough, and her usual companion was afraid to venture out on the wild and dangerous beach, she very often went alone rather than go without her favorite sea-shells. In those days the Waipio River emptied over a low fall into a basin partly open to the sea; this basin is now completely filled up with rocks from some convulsion of nature, which has happened since then. In this was a deep pool, a favorite bathing-place for all Waipio. The King shark god, Kamohoalii, used to visit this pool very often to sport in the fresh waters of the Waipio River. Taking into account the many different tales told of the doings of this shark god, he must have had quite an eye for human physical beauty. Kalei, as was to be expected from a strong, well-formed Hawaiian girl of those days, was an expert swimmer, a good diver, and noted for the neatness and grace with which she would _lelekawa_ (jump from the rocks into deep water) without any splashing of water, which would happen to unskilful divers, from the awkward attitudes they would assume in the act of jumping. It seems Kamohoalii, the King-shark, had noted the charms of the beautiful Kalei, and his heart, or whatever answers in place of it with fishes, had been captured by them. But he could not expect to make much of an impression on the maiden's susceptibilities _in propria persona_, even though he was perfectly able to take her bodily into his capacious maw; so he must needs go courting in a more pleasing way. Assuming the form of a very handsome man, he walked on the beach one rather rough morning, waiting for the girl's appearance. Now the very wildness of the elements afforded him the chance he desired, as, though Kalei was counted among the most agile and quick of rock-fishers, that morning, when she did come, and alone, as her usual companions were deterred by the rough weather, she made several unsuccessful springs to escape a high threatening wave raised by the god himself; and apparently, if it had not been for the prompt and effective assistance rendered by the handsome stranger, she would have been swept out into the sea. Thus an acquaintance was established. Kalei met the stranger from time to time, and finally became his wife. Some little time before she expected to become a mother, her husband, who all this time would only come home at night, told her his true nature, and informing her that he would have to leave her, gave orders in regard to the bringing up of the future child. He particularly cautioned the mother never to let him be fed on animal flesh of any kind, as he would be born with a dual nature, and with a body that he could change at will. In time Kalei was delivered of a fine healthy boy, apparently the same as any other child, but he had, besides the normal mouth of a human being, a shark's mouth on his back between the shoulder blades. Kalei had told her family of the kind of being her husband was, and they all agreed to keep the matter of the shark-mouth on the child's back a secret, as there was no knowing what fears and jealousies might be excited in the minds of the King or high chiefs by such an abnormal being, and the babe might be killed. The old grandfather, far from heeding the warning given by Kamohoalii in the matter of animal diet, as soon as the boy, who was called Nanaue, was old enough to come under the taboo in regard to the eating of males, and had to take his meals at the mua house with the men of the family, took especial pains to feed him on dog meat and pork. He had a hope that his grandson would grow up to be a great, strong man, and become a famous warrior; and there was no knowing what possibilities lay before a strong, skilful warrior in those days. So he fed the boy with meat, whenever it was obtainable. The boy thrived, grew strong, big, and handsome as a young lama (_Maba sandwicensis_) tree. There was another pool with a small fall of the Waipio River very near the house of Kalei, and the boy very often went into it while his mother watched on the banks. Whenever he got into the water he would take the form of a shark and would chase and eat the small fish which abounded in the pool. As he grew old enough to understand, his mother took especial pains to impress on him the necessity of concealing his shark nature from other people. This place was also another favorite bathing-place of the people, but Nanaue, contrary to all the habits of a genuine Hawaiian, would never go in bathing with the others, but always alone; and when his mother was able, she used to go with him and sit on the banks, holding the kapa scarf, which he always wore to hide the shark-mouth on his back. When he became a man, his appetite for animal diet, indulged in childhood, had grown so strong that a human being's ordinary allowance would not suffice for him. The old grandfather had died in the meantime, so that he was dependent on the food supplied by his stepfather and uncles, and they had to expostulate with him on what they called his shark-like voracity. This gave rise to the common native nickname of a _manohae_ (ravenous shark) for a very gluttonous man, especially in the matter of meat. Nanaue used to spend a good deal of his time in the two pools, the one inland and the other opening into the sea. The busy-bodies (they had some in those days as well as now) were set to wondering why he always kept a _kihei_, or mantle, on his shoulders; and for such a handsomely shaped, athletic young man, it was indeed a matter of wonder and speculation, considering the usual attire of the youth of those days. He also kept aloof from all the games and pastimes of the young people, for fear that the wind or some active movement might displace the kapa mantle, and the shark-mouth be exposed to view. About this time children and eventually grown-up people began to disappear mysteriously. Nanaue had one good quality that seemed to redeem his apparent unsociability; he was almost always to be seen working in his mother's taro or potato patch when not fishing or bathing. People going to the sea beach would have to pass these potato or taro patches, and it was Nanaue's habit to accost them with the query of where they were going. If they answered, "To bathe in the sea," or, "Fishing," he would answer, "Take care, or you may disappear head and tail." Whenever he so accosted any one it would not be long before some member of the party so addressed would be bitten by a shark. If it should be a man or woman going to the beach alone, that person would never be seen again, as the shark-man would immediately follow, and watching for a favorable opportunity, jump into the sea. Having previously marked the whereabouts of the person he was after, it was an easy thing for him to approach quite close, and changing into a shark, rush on the unsuspecting person and drag him or her down into the deep, where he would devour his victim at his leisure. This was the danger to humanity which his king-father foresaw when he cautioned the mother of the unborn child about feeding him on animal flesh, as thereby an appetite would be evoked which they had no means of satisfying, and a human being would furnish the most handy meal of the kind that he would desire. Nanaue had been a man grown some time, when an order was promulgated by Umi, King of Hawaii, for every man dwelling in Waipio to go to _koele_ work, tilling a large plantation for the King. There were to be certain days in an _anahulu_ (ten days) to be set aside for this work, when every man, woman, and child had to go and render service, excepting the very old and decrepit, and children in arms. The first day every one went but Nanaue. He kept on working in his mother's vegetable garden to the astonishment of all who saw him. This was reported to the King, and several stalwart men were sent after him. When brought before the King he still wore his _kapa kihei_ or mantle. The King asked him why he was not doing koele work with every one else. Nanaue answered he did not know it was required of him. Umi could not help admiring the bold, free bearing of the handsome man, and noting his splendid physique, thought he would make a good warrior, greatly wanted in those ages, and more especially in the reign of Umi, and simply ordered him to go to work. Nanaue obeyed, and took his place in the field with the others, and proved himself a good worker, but still kept on his kihei, which it would be natural to suppose that he would lay aside as an incumbrance when engaged in hard labor. At last some of the more venturesome of the younger folks managed to tear his kapa off, as if accidentally, when the shark-mouth on his back was seen by all the people near. Nanaue was so enraged at the displacement of his kapa and his consequent exposure, that he turned and bit several of the crowd, while the shark-mouth opened and shut with a snap, and a clicking sound was heard such as a shark is supposed to make when baulked by its prey. The news of the shark-mouth and his characteristic shark-like actions were quickly reported to the King, with the fact of the disappearance of so many people in the vicinity of the pools frequented by Nanaue; and of his pretended warnings to people going to the sea, which were immediately followed by a shark bite or by their being eaten bodily, with every one's surmise and belief that this man was at the bottom of all those disappearances. The King believed it was even so, and ordered a large fire to be lighted, and Nanaue to be thrown in to be burnt alive. When Nanaue saw what was before him, he called on the shark god, his father, to help him; then, seeming to be endowed with superhuman strength in answer to his prayer, he burst the ropes with which he had been bound in preparation for the burning, and breaking through the throng of Umi's warriors, who attempted to detain him, he ran, followed by the whole multitude, toward the pool that emptied into the sea. When he got to the edge of the rocks bordering the pool, he waited till the foremost persons were within arm's length, when he leaped into the water and immediately turned into a large shark on the surface of the water, in plain view of the people who had arrived, and whose numbers were being continually augmented by more and more arrivals. He lay on the surface some little time, as if to recover his breath, and then turned over on his back, and raising his head partly out of the water, snapped his teeth at the crowd who, by this time, completely lined the banks, and then, as if in derision or defiance of them, turned and flirted his tail at them and swam out to sea. The people and chiefs were for killing his mother and relatives for having brought up such a monster. Kalei and her brothers were seized, bound, and dragged before Umi, while the people clamored for their immediate execution, or as some suggested, that they be thrown into the fire lighted for Nanaue. But Umi was a wise king and would not consent to any such summary proceedings, but questioned Kalei in regard to her fearful offspring. The grieved and frightened mother told everything in connection with the paternity and bringing up of the child, and with the warning given by the dread sea-father. Umi considered that the great sea god Kamohoalii was on the whole a beneficent as well as a powerful one. Should the relatives and mother of that shark god's son be killed, there would then be no possible means of checking the ravages of that son, who might linger around the coast and creeks of the island, taking on human shape at will, for the purpose of travelling inland to any place he liked, and then reassume his fish form and lie in wait in the many deep pools formed by the streams and springs. Umi, therefore, ordered Kalei and her relatives to be set at liberty, while the priests and shark kahunas were requested to make offerings and invocations to Kamohoalii that his spirit might take possession of one of his _hakas_ (mediums devoted to his cult), and so express to humanity his desires in regard to his bad son, who had presumed to eat human beings, a practice well known to be contrary to Kamohoalii's design. This was done, whereupon the shark god manifested himself through a haka, and expressed his grief at the action of his wayward son. He told them that the grandfather was to blame for feeding him on animal flesh contrary to his orders, and if it were not for that extenuating circumstance, he would order his son to be killed by his own shark officers; but as it was, he would require of him that he should disappear forever from the shores of Hawaii. Should Nanaue disregard that order and be seen by any of his father's shark soldiers, he was to be instantly killed. Then the shark god, who it seems retained an affection for his human wife, exacted a promise that she and her relatives were to be forever free from any persecutions on account of her unnatural son, on pain of the return and freedom from the taboo of that son. Accordingly Nanaue left the island of Hawaii, crossed over to Maui, and landing at Kipahulu, resumed his human shape and went inland. He was seen by the people, and when questioned, told them he was a traveller from Hawaii, who had landed at Hana and was going around sightseeing. He was so good looking, pleasant, and beguiling in his conversation that people generally liked him. He was taken as _aikane_ by one of the petty chiefs of the place, who gave his own sister for wife to Nanaue. The latter made a stipulation that his sleeping house should be separated from that of his wife, on account of a pretended vow, but really in order that his peculiar second mouth might escape detection. For a while the charms of the pretty girl who had become his wife seem to have been sufficient to prevent him from trying to eat human beings, but after a while, when the novelty of his position as a husband had worn off, and the desire for human flesh had again become very strong, he resumed the old practice for which he had been driven away from Hawaii. He was eventually detected in the very act of pushing a girl into the sea, jumping in after her, then turning into a shark, and commencing to devour her, to the horror of some people who were fishing with hook and rod from some rocks where he had not observed them. These people raised the alarm, and Nanaue seeing that he was discovered, left for Molokai where he was not known. He took up his residence on Molokai at Poniuohua, adjoining the ahupuaa of Kainalu, and it was not very long before he was at his old practice of observing and accosting people, giving them his peculiar warning, following them to the sea in his human shape, then seizing one of them as a shark and pulling the unfortunate one to the bottom, where he would devour his victim. In the excitement of such an occurrence, people would fail to notice his absence until he would reappear at some distant point far away from the throng, as if engaged in shrimping or crabbing. This went on for some time, till the frightened and harassed people in desperation went to consult a shark kahuna, as the ravages of the man-eating shark had put a practical taboo on all kinds of fishing. It was not safe to be anywhere near the sea, even in the shallowest water. The kahuna told them to lie in wait for Nanaue, and the next time he prophesied that a person would be eaten head and tail, to have some strong men seize him and pull off his kapa mantle, when a shark mouth would be found on his back. This was done, and the mouth seen, but the shark-man was so strong when they seized him and attempted to bind him, that he broke away from them several times. He was finally overpowered near the seashore and tightly bound. All the people then turned their attention to gathering brush and firewood to burn him, for it was well known that it is only by being totally consumed by fire that a man-shark can be thoroughly destroyed, and prevented from taking possession of the body of some harmless fish shark, who would then be incited to do all the pernicious acts of a man-shark. While he lay there on the low sandy beach, the tide was coming in, and as most of the people were returning with fagots and brush, Nanaue made a supreme effort and rolled over so that his feet touched the water, when he was enabled at once to change into a monster shark. Those who were near him saw it, but were not disposed to let him off so easily, and they ran several rows of netting makai, the water being very shallow for quite a distance out. The shark's flippers were all bound by the ropes with which the man Nanaue had been bound, and this with the shallowness of the water prevented him from exerting his great strength to advantage. He did succeed in struggling to the breakers, though momentarily growing weaker from loss of blood, as the people were striking at him with clubs, spears, stone adzes and anything that would hurt or wound, so as to prevent his escape. With all that, he would have got clear, if the people had not called to their aid the demigod Unauna, who lived in the mountains of upper Kainalu. It was then a case of Akua _vs_. Akua, but Unauna was only a young demigod, and not supposed to have acquired his full strength and supernatural powers, while Nanaue was a full-grown man and shark. If it had not been for the latter's being hampered by the cords with which he was bound, the nets in his way, as well as the loss of blood, it is fully believed that he would have got the better of the young local presiding deity; but he was finally conquered and hauled up on the hill slopes of Kainalu to be burnt. The shallow ravine left by the passage of his immense body over the light yielding soil of the Kainalu Hill slope can be seen to this day, as also a ring or deep groove completely around the top of a tall insulated rock very near the top of Kainalu Hill, around which Unauna had thrown the rope, to assist him in hauling the big shark uphill. The place was ever afterwards called Puumano (Shark Hill), and is so known to this day. Nanaue was so large, that in the attempt to burn him, the blood and water oozing out of his burning body put out the fire several times. Not to be outwitted in that way by the shark son of Kamohoalii, Unauna ordered the people to cut and bring for the purpose of splitting into knives, bamboos from the sacred grove of Kainalu. The shark flesh was then cut into strips, partly dried, and then burnt, but the whole bamboo grove had to be used before the big shark was all cut. The god Mohoalii (another form of the name of the god Kamohoalii), father of Unauna, was so angered by the desecration of the grove, or more likely on account of the use to which it was put, that he took away all the edge and sharpness from the bamboos of this grove forever, and to this day they are different from the bamboos of any other place or grove on the islands, in this particular, that a piece of them cannot cut any more than any piece of common wood. XXV FISH STORIES AND SUPERSTITIONS _Translated by M. K. Nakuina_ The following narration of the different fishes here given is told and largely believed in by native fishermen. All may not agree as to particulars in this version, but the main features are well known and vary but little. Some of these stories are termed mythical, in others the truth is never questioned, and together they have a deep hold on the Hawaiian mind. Further and confirmatory information may be obtained from fishermen and others, and by visiting the market the varieties here mentioned may be seen almost daily. In the olden time certain varieties of fish were tabooed and could not be caught at all times, being subject to the kapu of Ku-ula, the fish god, who propagated the finny tribes of Hawaiian waters. While deep sea fishing was more general, that in the shallow sea, or along shore, was subject to the restrictions of the konohiki of the land, and aliis, both as to certain kinds and periods. The sign of the shallow sea kapu was the placing of branches of the hau tree all along the shore. The people seeing this token of the kapu respected it, and any violation thereof in ancient times was said to be punishable by death. While this kapu prevailed the people resorted to the deep sea stations for their food supply. With the removal of the hau branches, indicating that the kapu was lifted, the people fished as they desired, subject only to the makahiki taboo days of the priest or alii, when no canoes were allowed to go out upon the water. The first fish caught by a fisherman, or any one else, was marked and dedicated to Ku-ula. After this offering was made, Ku-ula's right therein being thus recognized, they were free from further oblations so far as that particular variety of fish was concerned. All fishermen, from Hawaii to Niihau, observed this custom religiously. When the fishermen caught a large supply, whether by the net, hook, or shell, but one of a kind, as just stated, was reserved as an offering to Ku-ula; the remainder was then free to the people. DEIFIED FISH SUPERSTITION Some of the varieties of fish we now eat were deified and prayed to by the people of the olden time, and even some Hawaiians of to-day labor under like superstition with regard to sharks, eels, oopus, and some others. They are afraid to eat or touch these lest they suffer in consequence; and this belief has been perpetuated, handed down from parents to children, even to the present day. The writer was one of those brought up to this belief, and only lately has eaten the kapu fish of his ancestors without fearing a penalty therefor. STORY OF THE ANAE-HOLO The anae-holo is a species of mullet unlike the shallow water, or pond, variety; and the following story of its habit is well known to any _kupa_ (native born) of Oahu. The home of the anae-holo is at Honouliuli, Pearl Harbor, at a place called Ihuopalaai. They make periodical journeys around to the opposite side of the island, starting from Puuloa and going to windward, passing successively Kumumanu, Kalihi, Kou, Kalia, Waikiki, Kaalawai and so on, around to the Koolau side, ending at Laie, and then returning by the same course to their starting-point. This fish is not caught at Waianae, Kaena, Waialua, Waimea, or Kahuku because it does not run that way, though these places are well supplied with other kinds. The reason given for this is as follows: Ihuopalaai had a Ku-ula, and this fish god supplied anaes. Ihuopalaai's sister took a husband and went and lived with him at Laie, Koolauloa. In course of time a day came when there was no fish to be had. In her distress and desire for some she bethought herself of her brother, so she sent her husband to Honouliuli to ask Ihuopalaai for a supply, saying: "Go to Ihuopalaai, my brother, and ask him for fish. If he offers you dried fish, refuse it by all means;--do not take it, because the distance is so long that you would not be able to carry enough to last us for any length of time." When her husband arrived at Honouliuli he went to Ihuopalaai and asked him for fish. His brother-in-law gave him several large bundles of dried fish, one of which he could not very well lift, let alone carry a distance. This offer was refused and reply given according to instruction. Ihuopalaai sat thinking for some time and then told him to return home, saying: "You take the road on the Kona side of the island; do not sit, stay, nor sleep on the way till you reach your own house." The man started as directed, and Ihuopalaai asked Ku-ula to send fish for his sister, and while the man was journeying homeward as directed a school of fish was following in the sea, within the breakers. He did not obey fully the words of Ihuopalaai, for he became so tired that he sat down on the way; but he noticed that whenever he did so the fish rested too. The people seeing the school of fish went and caught some of them. Of course, not knowing that this was his supply, he did not realize that the people were taking his fish. Reaching home, he met his wife and told her he had brought no fish, but had seen many all the way, and pointed out to her the school of anae-holo which was then resting abreast of their house. She told him it was their supply, sent by Ihuopalaai, his brother-in-law. They fished, and got all they desired, whereupon the remainder returned by the same way till they reached Honouliuli where Ihuopalaai was living. Ever afterward this variety of fish has come and gone the same way every year to this day, commencing some time in October and ending in March or April. Expectant mothers are not allowed to eat of the anae-holo, nor the aholehole, fearing dire consequences to the child, hence they never touch them till after the eventful day. Nor are these fish ever given to children till they are able to pick and eat them of their own accord. MYTH OF THE HILU The hilu is said to have once possessed a human form, but by some strange event its body was changed to that of a fish. No knowledge of its ancestry or place of origin is given, but the story is as follows: Hilu-ula and Hilu-uli were born twins, one a male and the other a female. They had human form, but with power to assume that of the fish now known as hilu. The two children grew up together and in due time when Hilu-uli, the sister, was grown up, she left her brother and parents without saying a word and went into the sea, and, assuming her fish form, set out on a journey, eventually reaching Heeia, Koolaupoko. During the time of her journey she increased the numbers of the hilu so that by the time they came close to Heeia there was so large a school that the sea was red with them. When the people of Heeia and Kaneohe saw this, they paddled out in their canoes to discover that it was a fish they had never seen nor heard of before. Returning to the shore for nets, they surrounded the school and drew in so many that they were not able to care for them in their canoes. The fishes multiplied so rapidly that when the first school was surrounded and dragged ashore, another one appeared, and so on, till the people were surfeited. Yet the fish stayed in the locality, circling around. The people ate of them in all styles known to Hawaiians; raw, lawalued, salted, and broiled over a fire of coals. While the Koolau people were thus fishing and feasting, Hilu-ula, the brother, arrived among them in his human form; and when he saw the hilu-uli broiling over the coal fire he recognized the fish form of his sister. This so angered him that he assumed the form of a whirlwind and entered every house where they had hilu and blew the fish all back into the sea. Since then the hilu-uli has dark scales, and is well known all over the islands. THE HOU, OR SNORING FISH The hou lives in shallow water. When fishing with torches on a quiet, still night, if one gets close to where it is sleeping it will be heard to snore as if it were a human being. This is a small, beautifully colored fish. Certain sharks also, sleeping in shallow water, can be heard at times indulging in the same habit. There are many kinds of fish known to these islands, and other stories connected with them, which, if gathered together, would make an interesting collection of yarns as "fishy" as any country can produce. THE END GLOSSARY OF HAWAIIAN WORDS aaho, p. 142. ahaaina, feast, p. 150. aheahea, p. 135. aholehole, a species of fish. ahos, small sticks used in thatching, p. 245. Ahu o Kakaalaneo, the name given to the original feather cloak, p. 155. ahupuaa, a small division of a country under the care of a head man. ahuula, a feather cloak, p. 155. Ai Kanaka, man eater, p. 191. aikane, an intimate friend of the same sex, p. 264. Aina-i ka-kaupo-o-Kane (the land in the heart of Kane), the primeval home of mankind, p. 17. Aina kumupuaa a Kane, see Kan-aka-maoli. Aina lauena a Kane, p. 24. Aina-wai-akua-a-Kane (the land of the divine water of Kane), the primeval home of mankind, p. 17. aipunpuu, chief cook or steward, p. 141. akaaka laughter, p. 118. aku, a species of fish, the bonito. akua, a deity, p. 184. akule, a species of fish. ala, a smooth, round stone. alae, mud-hens, p. 33. alaea, red earth, of which the body of the first man was made, p. 16. Alehe-ka-la, sun snarer, p. 32. alii, chief. Alii aimoku, sovereign of the land. aloha, a word betokening greeting or farewell. Aloha ino oe, eia ihonei paha oe e make ai, he ai mainei Pele, Compassion great to you! Close here, perhaps, is your death; Pele comes devouring, p. 40. Aloha oe! Alas for you! p. 41. anae-holo, p. 270. anahulu, a period of ten days. Ana puhi, eel's cave, p. 188. ano akua nae, p. 51. Aole! no! p. 40. ao poko, short cloud, p. 207. apapani (or apapane), a scarlet bird, p. 182. a-pe, a plant having broad leaves of an acrid taste, like kalo, but stronger. auki, the ki leaf (Dracæna terminalis), p. 119. Aumakua, ancestral shades, p. 93; god, p. 220. aupehu, p. 220. auwai, watercourse, p. 110. Auwe ka make! alas, he is dead! p. 176. awa, the name of a plant of a bitter, acrid taste, from which an intoxicating drink is made; also the name of the liquor itself, expressed from the root of the plant. aweoweo, a species of reddish fish. Eia o Hana la he aina aupehu; o Hana keia i ka ia iki; ka ia o Kama; ka ia o Lanakila, p. 220. Elepaio, a small green bird (Chasiempis sandwichensis), p. 125. ha, the lower stem of leaves when cut from the root, p. 114. haawe, back-load, p. 126. haka, a medium devoted to the cult of a god, p. 263. hala tree (Pandanus odoratissimus), p. 121. halau, shed, p. 113. hau, a forest tree--a species of hibiscus; also, the bark of this tree from which ropes are made. he ekolu ula o ka la, the third brightness of the sun, p. 204. hee kupua, wonderful octopus, p. 234. heiau, temple. he keehina honua a Kane, p. 15. he 'lii kahuli, p. 19. He Lualoa no Na 'lii, a deep pit for the chiefs, p. 241. he mau anahulu, about thirty days. He po hookahi, a ao ua pau, in one night, and by dawn it is finished, p. 109. He waa halau Alii o ka Moku, the royal vessel, the ark, p. 20. hiaku, name of a place in the sea beyond the kaiuli, and inside the kohola, p. 242. Hi-ka-po-loa, Most Excellent, p. 15 Hilo, the first day (of the new moon), p. 75. hilu, a species of fish, spotted with various colors, p. 273. hinahina, leaves of a gray or withered appearance, p. 98. hinalea, a species of small fish. hokeo, a fisherman's gourd. hoku kaolele, a meteor, p. 253. holua, sled. honu, sea turtle, p. 183. hou, a species of fish, p. 274. hula, drum. ieie, the leaves of the ie, a decorative vine. iiwi, a small red bird. i ka muli o Hea, p. 24. Ikiki, a summer month--July or August, p. 74. i kini akua, spirits, angels. Ikua, a winter month--December or January, p. 74. i kuhaia, the spittle of the gods, p. 18. ilalo loa i ka po, p. 18. ili hau, the bark of the hau tree from which ropes are made, p. 218. ilio, dog. i mea ole, nothing. imu, oven. iwi kuamoo, the backbone. ka aina i ka haupo a Kane, p. 24. ka aina momona a Kane, p. 24. kaao, legend-bearer, p. 108. ka holua ana o Kahawali, Kahawali's sliding-place, p. 39. kahu, keeper, p. 188. kahuna lapaau, medical priest, p. 53. Kaiakahinalii, the Flood, p. 20. Kai a Kahinalii, Sea of Kahinalaa, p. 37. kai-ula-a-Kane, the Red Sea of Kane, p. 24. kaiuli, the deep sea. kai waena, middle post (of a house), p. 223. Kakelekele, hydropathic cure, p. 126. kala, a species of fish. Ka lae o ka ilio, the dog's forehead, p. 240. Ka lae o ka laau, p. 240. Kalana-i hau-ola (Kalana with the life-giving dew), the primeval home of mankind, p. 17. kalo, the well-known vegetable of Hawaii, a species of Arum esculentum; Colocasia antiquorum, p. 131. kamaainas, original inhabitants, p. 140. kamani tree, Calophyllum inophyllum, p. 72. kanaka, a man; the general name of men, women, and children of all classes, in distinction from animals. Kanaka-maoli, the people living on the mainland of Kane (Aina kumupuaa a Kane), p. 22. Kane, sunlight, p. 15. kanekoa, a deity, p. 184. Kane-laa-uli, the fallen chief, he who fell on account of the tree, p. 17. Kanikau, lamentation, p. 181. ka one lauena a Kane, p. 24. kapa, the cloth beaten from the bark of the paper mulberry, also from the bark of several other trees; hence, cloth of any kind; clothing generally. Kapapahanaumoku, the island bearing rock or stratum, p. 49. ka poe keo keo maoli, p. 22. kapu, sacred. kapu-hoano, sacred or holy days, p. 24. kapuku, the restoration to life of the dead, p. 151. Ka Punahou, the new spring, p. 37. Kauakiowao, Mountain Mist, p. 133. Kauawaahila, Waahila Rain, p. 133. kau i ka lele, p. 209. ki-wai-ola-loa-a-Kane, p. 23. kawelewele, guiding-ropes, p. 115. Keakeomilu, the liver of Milu, p. 56. keawemanhili, a deity, p. 184, Keinohoomanawanui, a sloven, one persistently unclean, p. 88. Ke po-lua ahi, the pit of fire, inferno, p. 18. Ke ue nei au ia olua, I grieve for you two, p. 41. ki, a plant having a saccharine root, the leaves of which are used for wrapping up bundles of food; the leaves are also used as food for cattle and for thatching. kihei, a mantle worn over the shoulders. kilu, play, or game, p. 127. koa tree, Acacia koa. ko'a aina aumakua, fishing-station, p. 229. ko'a ia, fishing-station. ko'a ku-ula, p. 227. ko'a lawaia, fishing-station, p. 222. koali, same as kowali. koas, fighting men, p. 157. koele, a small division of land; hence, a field planted by the tenants for a landlord; a garden belonging to the chief, but cultivated by his people, p. 260. kohola, a reef. kolea, plover, p. 71. kona, a severe storm that comes up from the equator, p. 183. konane, a game like checkers. Konohiki, feudal lord, a head man with others under him. konohili, wife of a feudal lord, p. 87. kou, a large shade tree growing mostly near the sea, p. 161. kowali, convolvulus vine, a swing made of these vines, p. 46. Ku, Substance. ku, arose, p. 24. kuaha, a stone-paved platform, p. 156. Ku-Kaua-Kahi, a triad--the Fundamental Supreme Unity, p. 15. kukini, trained runner. kuko, to wish, to lust, p. 89. kukui tree, Aleurites molluccana, p. 88. Kulu-ipo, the fallen chief, he who fell on account of the tree, p. 17. kumukahi, east wind, p. 41. Kumu-uli, the fallen tree, he who fell on account of the tree, p. 17. kupa, native born person, p. 271. Kupapau o Puupehe, Tomb of Puupehe, p. 181. kupua, demigod, p. 43. ku-ula, fishing-station. Lae, cape (of land), p. 148. la-i leaves, dracæna leaves. laka loa, p. 216. lalo puhaka, p. 16. lama, a forest tree (Maba sandwicensis) which has very hard wood, p. 258. lana, floating, p. 20. lanai, arbor, p. 150. lau, four hundred, p. 190. lauele, a species of turnip. lawalu, to cook meat on the coals wrapped in ki leaves, p. 147. leho, kauri shell. lehoula, a species of leho of a red color, a red shell-fish. lehua tree, Metrosideros polymorpha. leiomano, shark's tooth weapon, p. 203. leis, wreaths. lele, p. 150. lelekawa, to jump from the rocks into deep water, p. 256. lele kowali, p. 46. Lelepua, arrow flight, p. 88. lepo ula, red earth, of which the body of the first man was made, p. 16. lilo ai kona ola a make iho la, p. 55. limu, sea-moss, p. 242. Lo Aikanaka, the last of the man-eating chiefs. lomilomi, to rub or chafe the body. Lono, Sound. lua, killing by breaking the bones, p. 142. Lua o Milu, the nether world, p. 46. luau, the kalo leaf; boiled herbs; young kalo leaves gathered and cooked for food. ma, a syllable signifying accompanying, together, etc., p. 54. maika, the name of a popular game; also, the stone used for rolling in that game, p. 157. mai ka po mia, from the time of night, darkness, chaos, p. 15. mai, komo mai, p. 78. maile, Alyxia olivaeformis, p. 120; fine-leaved variety, Maile laulii, p. 95. makaha, floodgates, p. 142. makahelei, drawn eyes, p. 120. makahiki, the name of the first day of the year, p. 270. makai, seaward, p. 217. Makakehau, Misty Eyes, p. 182. malailua, goats without horns, such as were found on Mauna Loa, p. 24. malau, a place in the sea where the water is still and quiet; a place where the bait for the aku or bonito is found, p. 246. malos, girdles worn by the males. mamani, p. 173. manaiaakalani, p. 218. mana kupua, miraculous power, p. 215. manawa ole, in no time, p. 110; in a short time, p. 113. manienie-akiaki, a medicinal grass of the olden time, p. 135. manini, a species of fish caught by diving, p. 250. mano, dam, p. 110. manohae, a ravenous shark, p. 259. maoli, a species of banana; the long, dark-colored plantain, p. 150. mauka, inland. Milu, inferno. Moi, sovereign, p. 186. moi, a species of fish of a white color. moo, a general name for all lizards, a serpent. Moo-kapu, sacred lands, p. 210. mua, p. 258. Na akua aumakua o ka poe kahuna kalai waa, p. 216. nae, the farther side, p. 116. na-u, jessamine, gardenia. noa, pertaining to the lower class of people, p. 135. O haehae ka manu, ke ale nei ka wai, p. 95. ohelo, a species of small reddish berry; the Hawaiian whortleberry, p. 182. ohia, native apple. ohia hemolele, the sacred apple-tree, p. 17. ohiki-makaloa, long-eyed sand-crabs, p. 70. ohua, the name given to the young of the manini fish. Oi-e, Most Excellent, p. 15. Oio, p. 48. oio, a species of fish. oo, digger, p. 52. oopu, a species of small fish living in fresh water rivers and ponds. opae, a small fish; a shrimp; a crab. opihi-koele, a species of shell-fish, p. 224. opihis, shell-fish, p. 70. pa, wall, p. 157. pa, fish-hook, p. 247. pa hi aku, fish-pearl. pahoa, stone hatchet. pahoehoe, smooth, shining lava. pahonua, place of refuge, p. 156. pahoola, a remnant, a piece, p. 56. pahu kaeke, p. 186. paiula, the royal red kapa of old, p 145. pakai, an herb used for food in time of scarcity. pakui, a house joined to a house above--that is, a tower, p. 158. pala, ripe, soft; also, as a noun, a vegetable used as food in time of scarcity. pale, a director, p. 115. pali, precipice. Pali-uli (the blue mountain), the primeval home of mankind, p. 17. palolo, whitish clay, of which the head of the first man was made, p. 16. pani, a stoppage, a closing up, that which stops or closes. papa holua, a flat sled, p. 40. pa-u, skirt. pihoihoi loa, p. 206. pili, the long, coarse grass used in thatching houses, p. 158. pipipi, p. 54. po, night, chaos, pp. 15, 49. poe poi-uhane, spirit catchers, p. 129. pohaku-ia, fish stone, p. 241. poi, the paste or pudding which was formerly the chief food of the Hawaiians, and still is so to a great extent. It is made of kalo, sweet potatoes, or breadfruit, but mostly of kalo, by baking the above articles in an underground oven, and then peeling or pounding them, adding a little water; it is then left in a mass to ferment; after fermentation, it is again worked over with more water until it has the consistency of thick paste. It is eaten cold with the fingers. Po-ia-milu, inferno, p. 18. Po-kini-kini, inferno, p. 18. Po-kua-kini, inferno, p. 18. po o akua, p. 205. Po-papa-ia-owa, inferno, p. 18. Po-pau-ole, inferno, p. 18. popolo, a plant sometimes eaten in times of scarcity, also used as a medicine. pouhana, end post (of a house). poumanu, corner post (of a house), p. 210. pou o manu, corner post (of a house), p. 223. pu, head, p. 115. puaa, a hog, p. 16. puhala, the hala tree, p. 233. puhi, eel, sea snake. puholoholo, to cook (food) by rolling with hot stones in a covered gourd, p. 135. puloulou, sign of kapu, p. 119. puni ka hiamoe, p. 81. puoa, a burial tower, p. 148. Reinga, the leaping place, p. 50. tapa, p. 144. Ua, rain, p. 169. ua haki ka pule, p. 208. ueue, bait, p. 225. uhae ia, p. 134. uhu, a species of fish about the size of the salmon, p. 241. uki, a plant or shrub sometimes used in thatching; a species of grass, p. 98. uku, a species of fish. Ulu kapu a Kane, the breadfruit tabooed for Kane, p. 17. uo, a part of the process of feather cloak making, p. 155. uwau, a species of bird; a kind of waterfowl. waa, canoe, p. 194. waa halau, see He waa halau Alii o ka Moku. Wai a Hiku, water of Hiku, p. 44 Waiakoloa, p. 192. Wai nao, the spittle of the gods, p. 16. waoke, banana, p. 79. Wawa ka Menehune i Puukapele, ma Kauai, puohu ka manu o ka loko o Kawainui ma Koolaupoko, Oahu, the hum of the voices of the Menehunes at Puukapele, Kauai, startled the birds of the pond of Kawainui, at Koolaupoko, Oahu, p. 111. wiliwili tree, Erythrina monosperma, p. 121. NOTES [1] Now the Leper Settlement. [2] The hill visible from the Lahaina anchorage to the north of Lahainaluna School, and near to it. [3] It is not a little remarkable that the progress of Pele, as stated in this tradition, agrees with geological observation in locating the earliest volcanic action in this group, on the island of Kauai, and the latest, on the island of Hawaii.--_Translator._ [4] Ellis's "Polynesian Researches," pp. 365-7. [5] Dibble's History, p. 99. [6] An initiatory act, as in the priesthood. [7] O the four thousand gods, The forty thousand gods, The four hundred thousand gods, The file of gods, The assembly of gods! O gods of these woods, Of the mountain, And the knoll, At the water-dam, Oh, come! [8] A species of drum made out of a hollowed section of the trunk of a cocoanut tree and covered over one end with sharkskin. It was generally used in pairs, one larger than the other, somewhat after the idea of the bass and tenor drums of civilized nations. One of these drums was placed on either side of the performer, and the drumming was performed with both hands by tapping with the fingers. By peculiar variations of the drumming, known only to the initiated, the performer could drum out whatever he wished to express in such a way, it is alleged, as to be intelligible to initiated listeners without uttering a single syllable with the voice. [9] Situated beyond Diamond Head. [10] In Nuuanu Valley. [11] When the moon is twenty-seven days old. Hawaiian Yesterdays _By Dr. Henry M. Lyman_ "Belongs to the small and choice class of books which were written for the mere joy of calling back days that are past, and with little thought that other eyes than those of the most intimate friends of the writer would ever read the pages in which he had set down the memories of his childhood and youth. In this instance the childhood and youth were passed among the most unusual surroundings, and the memories are such as no one born of the present generation can ever hope to have. Dr. Lyman was born in Hilo in 1835, the child of missionary parents. With an artistic touch which has placed the sketches just published among 'the books which are books,' he has given an unequaled picture of a boyhood lived under tropical skies. As I read on and on through his delightful pages memories came back to me of three friends of my own childhood--'Robinson Crusoe,' 'The Swiss Family Robinson,' and 'Masterman Ready'--and I would be glad to know that all, old and young, who have enjoyed those immortal tales would take to their hearts this last idyl of an island."--_Sara Andrew Shafer, in the N.Y. Times Saturday Review._ "It is a delicious addition to the pleasanter, less serious literature about Hawaii... A record of the recollections of the first eighteen years of a boy's life, in Hawaii, where that life was ushered into being. They are told after the mellowing lapse of half a century, which has been very full of satisfying labors in an ennobling profession... Pure boyhood recollections, unadulterated by later visits to the scenes in which they had their birth"--_The Hawaiian Star_. "'Hawaiian Yesterdays' is a book you will like to read. Whatever else it is, every page of it is in its own way literature.... It is because of this characteristic, the perfect blending of memory and imagination, that these personal descriptive reminiscences of the childhood and early youth of the author in the Hawaiian Islands, in the times of those marvelous missionary ventures and achievements near the beginning of the last century, that this book takes its place as literature."--_Chicago Evening Post._ "Keeping the more serious and sometimes tragic elements in the background, the book gives, in a most interesting way, the youthful impressions and occupations and amusements of the writer. Indeed, not a few of his pages, in their graphic account of ingenious adaptation of means to ends, are agreeably reminiscent--unintentionally reminiscent, no doubt--of that classic of our childhood, 'The Swiss Family Robinson.' Could a reviewer bestow higher praise."--_The Dial_. "The author gives some delightful pictures of the islands, the people and the manner of living. There is a good deal of life and color and much interesting statement, particularly as to the life of the kings and queens who ruled like despots over the tiny kingdom."--_Philadelphia Inquirer_. "Evidently the author, even in boyhood, had a boundless love and admiration for the works of nature, for some of his descriptions of that wonderfully creviced and volcano-studded land are truly marvelous in their vivid and beautiful portrayal."--_Oregon Journal_. "If one desires to obtain an impression of the inside of the mission work which transformed the character of the Sandwich Islanders, as they used to be known, from heathenism to Christianity, he will find it in this interesting volume. It is a description of conditions in the Hawaiian Islands at the time when American missionaries were establishing their work."--_The Standard_. "The volume is unique in that it relates to a period about which American readers have known little."--_Boston Transcript_. _With numerous illustrations from photographs_ _$2.00 net_ A. C. McClurg & Co., Publishers 
58694	----	HIGHLAND LEGENDS BY SIR THOMAS DICK LAUDER, Bart. Author of "The Moray Floods," "The Wolf of Badenoch," "Lochandu," "Royal Progress in Scotland," &c. TWO VOLUMES IN ONE LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS, & CO. GLASGOW: THOMAS D. MORISON 1880 TO THE RIGHT HON. THE COUNTESS GREY. Dear Lady Grey. With your permission, I now dedicate these volumes to you. I should do so with great diffidence, did I not know that everything connected with Scotland is interesting to you. By associating them with a name so universally revered I give them value; whilst I afford to myself an opportunity of expressing my admiration of those many virtues and amiable qualities which have rendered it so much beloved in your person by all ranks who have the good fortune to come within reach of their influence; and I have thus also the satisfaction of expressing my warm sense of the kindness I have received from you and Lord Grey ever since I have had the honour of being known to you, as well as of assuring you that I am, With every possible respect, Dear Lady Grey, Very sincerely and faithfully yours, THOS. DICK LAUDER. EDITORIAL NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. In this volume the Publishers present to the reading public a new edition of Sir Thomas Dick Lauder's first collection of Highland Legends. Originally published under the somewhat misleading title of "Highland Rambles and Long Legends to Shorten the Way," it has been thought desirable that the title be abbreviated, and made more decidedly descriptive of the volume, as the "rambles" form no important part of the work. In all other respects the present edition is a verbatim reprint of the work as it came from the hands of the distinguished Author. CONTENTS. PAGE SCOTTISH MOORLAND SCENERY, 11 THE BURNING OF MACFARLANE'S FOREST OF BENLAOIDH, 15 COMPARATIVELY RECENT DESTRUCTION OF THE FORESTS, 42 MR. RUSSEL AND THE REAVER, 48 SCENERY OF THE FINDHORN, 66 THE CAIRN OF THE LOVERS, 68 HILL OF THE AITNOCH, 73 LEGEND OF JOHN MACKAY OF ROSS-SHIRE, CALLED IAN MORE ARRACH, OR BIG JOHN THE RENTER OF THE MILK OF THE COWS, 78 MORNING SCENE, 99 THE LEGEND OF JOHN MACPHERSON OF INVERESHIE, 104 A STRANGER APPEARS, 126 LEGEND OF THE FLOATING ISLET, 136 DOMINIE DELIGHTED, 157 LEGEND OF ALLAN WITH THE RED JACKET, 164 FEUDAL HEROES, 199 GLENGARRY'S REVENGE, 200 LONG YARNS, 214 THE LEGEND OF THE BUILDING OF BALLINDALLOCH, 215 SOMNOSALMONIA, 227 LEGEND OF THE LAST GRANT OF TULLOCHCARRON, 229 ANTIQUARIAN DISCUSSION, 255 LEGEND OF CHIRSTY ROSS, 257 FRESH LIGHT UPON THE SUBJECT, 282 LEGEND OF CHIRSTY ROSS CONTINUED, 283 COMPLIMENTARY CRITICISM, 313 LEGEND OF GIBBON MORE CUMIN AND HIS DAUGHTER BIGLA, 315 VELVET CUSHIONS, 346 LEGEND OF THE RIVAL LAIRDS OF STRATHSPEY, 359 HIGHLAND LEGENDS. SCOTTISH MOORLAND SCENERY. The scenery of the less cultivated parts of our native Scotland may, generally speaking, be said to be checkered, as human life is with its events; for as, during our pilgrimage here on earth, evil continually succeeds good, and good evil, so are beauty and deformity seen to alternate with each other on the simple face of Caledonia. A long stretch of dreary and uninteresting hill country is often found to extend between two rich or romantic valleys, so that the lover of nature has to plod his weary way from the one to the other over many a mile of sterile desert; and, if he be a pedestrian, through many a burn, and many a slough too, with little to disturb him, save the sudden whirr of the grouse, as he bounds off through the air with the velocity of a cricket-ball,--or the sharp frisp of the snipe, as he rises like the cork from a brisk bottle of champagne,--or the wailing teeweet of the green plover, who, like some endless seccatore, most perseveringly follows his track, unceasingly boring him with his dull flapping and his tiresome cry. When not broken in upon by any such incidents, these wildernesses are sometimes rather valuable to a solitary traveller. They afford him time for rumination whilst he is traversing them. They give him leisure to chew the cud of reflection, and he is thus enabled to digest the beauties of the valley which he has last devoured, before he proceeds to feast upon the charms about to be presented to him by that to which he is hastening. But whatever may be the advantages to be derived from journeying in any such single state of blessedness, I am disposed to think that the man who has a cheerful companion or two associated with him in his pilgrimage, will not be much inclined to wish them absent in such parts of the way; and as I do not think that either his moral or his physical digestion will be in any degree impaired by society, I am quite sure that his intellectual enjoyment will be thereby much increased. My own experience convinced me of the truth of this one fine autumnal morning, when, in company with two friends, I left the romantic valley of the Findhorn, to cross the moorlands towards Grantown, a village which may be called the capital of Strathspey. The sun that rose upon us, as we took our staves in hand to begin that day's walk, had continued to display a brighter and merrier countenance than any, perhaps, which I had ever seen showing face within the precincts of this vapour-girt island of ours. Yet vain were his friendly efforts to throw a glow of cheerfulness over the brown heaths and the black plashy bogs almost entirely covering the tame unmeaning undulations of the country before us. A scene apparently less calculated to furnish food for remark or conversation, can hardly well be conceived. But when the imagination is not altogether asleep, a very trifling hint will set it a working; and so it was, that the innumerable grey, ghastly-looking pine stocks of other years, that were everywhere seen pointing out of the peat-mosses, from amidst tufts of the waving cotton grass, and wiry rushes, and gaudy ranunculuses, quickly carried our minds back to former ages by a natural chain of connection, filled them with magnificent ideal pictures of those interminable forests which completely covered Scotland during the earlier periods of its history, and immediately furnished us with a subject for talk. Author.--You see yonder hill, called the Aitnoch. Although it is, as you may easily perceive, the highest in all this neighbourhood, yet an extensive plain on its summit, almost entirely peat-moss, is so thickly set with the stocks and roots of pine trees, such as these you are now looking at, and all fixed, too, like these, in the growing position, that, if the boles and branches were still standing on them, it would absolutely be a difficult matter for a deer, or even for a dog, to force a passage through among them. Grant.--I should like much to mount the hill to examine the plain you speak of. Well as I am acquainted with this north country, I never heard of it before. Author.--It will cost us little more than the additional fatigue created by its rather rough and steep ascent to do so, for it is not quite an hundred miles out of our way. Clifford.--Phoo! we are not to be tied to ways of any kind. Let us climb the hill, then, by all means. But, to return to what you were talking about, can you tell us how, and for what purpose, these vast forests were annihilated? Author.--The charred surfaces which most of these stocks and roots still exhibit sufficiently prove that fire must have been the grand instrument of their destruction. The logs which originally grew upon them, but which are now found lying horizontally under the present surface, all bear testimony to the same fact in a greater or lesser degree. Many of these, indeed, when dug up, present a very curious appearance, the nether part being left almost entire, whilst the upper side has been hollowed like a spout. This must have been effected by the flames, which naturally continue to smoulder on the upper surfaces of the fallen trunks, whilst the moisture of the ground where they fell extinguished them below. Clifford.--Come, that is all very well as to the how; now, let us have your wherefore. Author.--As to the causes of the devouring element being let loose among these aboriginal forests we might speculate long enough, for they were probably many and various. Accidental fires may have been kindled by the rude inhabitants, which afterwards spread destruction far and wide, as they often do now in the forests of America. Or they may have been raised with the intention of driving away wild beasts, or of aiding in their destruction, of annoying enemies, or even for the more simple purpose of clearing spots of ground for hunting or for pasture. The causes may have been trivial enough in themselves. You, Grant, who have travelled so much in Switzerland, must be aware of the practice which still prevails there, of burning down large patches of gigantic pine timber on the sides of the Alps, for no other reason than to allow the sun and the moisture to reach the surface of the ground, so as thereby to increase the quantity and value of the pasture growing beneath. Grant.--Yes, I can vouch for what you say with regard to the practice in Switzerland, and I am much inclined to think with you, that instead of attributing the fall of these mighty Caledonian forests, as many are disposed to do, to some one great and general catastrophe, we ought rather to place their ruin to the account of a combination and reiteration of fortuitous causes, by the increasing frequency of the repetition of which they were rapidly extirpated in detail. Indeed, in support of what I now say, I remember having heard a well authenticated tradition of exactly such an accidental conflagration, which is said to have taken place so late as the year 1640. Author.--I should be glad to hear the particulars of it. Do you think you can recall them? Grant.--I think I can, but you will perhaps find the story rather a long one. Clifford.--Long or short, let us have it by all means. And let me tell you for your comfort, my good fellow, none of Chaucer's pilgrims could have begun a story under circumstances so favourable. A parliamentary speech itself might have some chance of being listened to if uttered to one whilst passing through so dull a country as this--that is to say, without one's gun and pointers. THE BURNING OF MACFARLANE'S FOREST OF BEN LAOIDH. The sun had not yet disappeared behind the mountains on the western side of Loch Lomond, and the unruffled surface of the lake was gleaming with his parting rays, when the Laird of Macfarlane, as he was returning from the chase, looked down from the ridge of a hill over the glorious scene that lay extended beneath him. His eyes travelled far along the calm expanse of the waters, till they lost themselves in the distance, amid the tufted and clustering islands which lay glittering in the fleeting light like gems on the bosom of Beauty. He then recalled them along the romantic undulations and irregularities of its shores, to dwell with peculiar pride and inward satisfaction on the wide stretch of those rich and smiling pastures which he could call his own, and on the numerous herds of cattle which his vassals were then driving to their home-grazings for the night. All was still and silent around, save when the quiet of the balmy evening air was gently broken by those rural sounds which, when blended together and softened by distance, as they then were to Macfarlane's ear, never fail to produce a musical harmony that thrills to the very heart of the true lover of nature. The lowing of the cattle--the occasional prolonged shouts of the herdsmen--the watchful bark of their attendant dogs, careful to permit no individual of their charge to stray from the main body--the shrill and solitary scream of the eagle, coming from the upper regions of the sky, as he soared to his place of repose amid the towering crags of Ben Lomond--and, lastly, the mingled cawing of the retreating army of rooks as they wheeled away in black battalions, to seek for undisturbed roost among the branches of that forest which then filled the whole country from Loch Lomond to Glen Urchay with a dark and interminable sea of foliage,--such were the sounds that came in mellow chorus on the delighted ear of Macfarlane. He sat him down on a mossy stone to rest for a while, that his eyes and his ears might have fuller enjoyment. His faithful sleuth-hounds and braches, overcome with fatigue, quickly stretched out their wearied bodies in ready slumber around him; and his numerous followers no less gladly availed themselves of their lord's example to ease their tired shoulders of the heavy loads which the success of that day's woodcraft had imposed upon them. Macfarlane was a stern chief of the olden time. Yet, what heart, however stark or rude, but must have been subdued and softened beneath the warm influence of those emotions which such a scene, and such sounds, and such an evening combined to excite? As he sat apart from his people he was melted into a mood of feeling which he had rarely experienced during his life of feudal turmoil. His thoughts insensibly stole upwards in secret musings, which gradually exhaled themselves in grateful orisons to that Heaven whence he felt that all the blessings he possessed had so liberally flowed; and although these prayers were inwardly breathed in the formal and set terms prescribed by his church, yet his soul more fully and effectually suffused itself into them than it had ever done before. That mysterious and uncontrollable desire which man often feels to hold converse with his Creator alone, gradually stole upon him; and, having ordered his attendants to precede him, he arose soon after their departure, to saunter homewards through the twilight in that calm and dreamy state of religious reflection which had rarely ever before visited his stormy mind. As he slowly descended the mountain side that slopes down to the Arroquhar, the course of the little rill, which he followed, led him into a grove of natural birches, and his silent footstep betrayed him into an involuntary intrusion on the privacy of two lovers. These were his foster brother, Angus Macfarlane, and Ellen, a beautiful maiden, who was about to become his wife. The wedding-day was fixed, as the Laird of Macfarlane well knew; and as his heart was at this moment brimful of kindly feeling, the sight of this betrothed pair made it run over with benevolence. "What ho! my fair Ellen," cried he, as, chased away by her modest confusion, her sylph-like form was disappearing among the tender foliage of the birchen bushes like some delicate thing of air, "dost fear the face of thy chief? Knowest thou not that Macfarlane's most earnest wish ever is to be held as the father of his meanest clansman? and think ye that he would be less than a father to thee, sad posthumous pledge of the worthiest warrior that ever followed the banner of Loch Sloy, or for whom a gallant clan ever sung a wailing lament? But ha!" exclaimed he, as he kindly took her hand to detain her; "why dost thou look so sad? By this light, such as it is, it would seem as if the tear-drop had been in that blue eye of thine. My worthy Angus could never have caused this? He loves thee too well ever to give pain to so soft and confiding a heart as thine." "Angus never could wilfully give me pain," said the maiden earnestly, and throwing down her eyes, and blushing deeply as she said so. "Ha!" said Macfarlane, in a playful manner, "now I think on't, yours may have been the tears of repentance, seeing that you most wickedly have seduced my trusty master herdsman from his duty this evening, and that he hath left his people and his beasts to take care of one another, that he might come over the hill here to whisper soft things into thine ear, under the clustering woodbine, that wreathes itself through the holly there, and fills the air thus with its delicious perfume." "My good lord, I would humbly acknowledge my fault, and crave your pardon," replied Angus; "I must confess that I did leave the lads and the cattle to come to keep tryst here with Ellen. But albeit that she had some small share of blame in this, her tears fell not from compunction for any such fault. Say, shall I tell the cause, Ellen?--They fell because of a strange vision which her old Aunt Margery saw last night." "A vision!" exclaimed Macfarlane seriously; "tell me, Ellen, what did she see?" "It was last night, my lord," replied Ellen, "that my Aunt Margery came over to my mother's cottage to settle some matters regarding--a--a--I mean, to speak with my mother of some little family affairs, which kept her better than an hour after nightfall, when, as she was crossing the hill again in her way home, she suddenly beheld a red glowing gleam in the sky, and turning to look behind her, the whole of the forest below seemed to be on fire. She rubbed her eyes in her astonishment, and when she looked again the vision had disappeared." "Strange!" said Macfarlane seriously. "But this was not all," continued Ellen, with increased earnestness of manner, and shuddering as she spoke, "for by the light that still gleamed in the sky, she beheld a dark object at some distance from her on the heath. It moved towards the spot where she was. Trembling with fear, she stood aside to observe it, and on it continued to come, gliding without sound. A single stream of faint light fell upon it from a broken part of the sky, and showed the figure and the features of--of--of you, Macfarlane." "What, my figure! my features!" exclaimed the laird, in a disturbed tone; and then, commanding himself, he quietly added, "Awell, and saw she aught else?" "She did, my lord," added Ellen, much agitated, "for, borne over your right shoulder she beheld a human corse; the head was hanging down, and the pale fixed features were those of--of--my betrothed husband!" Overpowered by her feelings, Ellen sank down on a mossy bank, and wept bitterly. "Let not these gloomy fancies enter your head at a time like this, Ellen," said Macfarlane, roused by her sobbing from the fit of gloomy abstraction into which her narration had thrown him. "If not altogether an unaccountable and unreal freak of imagination, it can be interpreted no otherwise than felicitously for you. The burning forest is but a type of the extent and the warmth of your mutual affection, and the dead figure of Angus only shadows forth the fact that your love will endure with life itself." "There needed not such a vision to tell us these truths," said Angus energetically. "Yet do we often see matters as palpable as these, as wonderfully vouched for by supernatural means," said the chief. "Get thee home then, Ellen; and do thou see her safe, Angus, and let her not suffer her young mind to brood on such dreary and distressing phantasies as seem now to fill it. Be yours the joyous anticipations of the bride and bridegroom three days before they are made one for ever. Ere three days go round your indissoluble union shall be blessed by the happiest influence of the warm sunshine of your chief's substantial favour. Meanwhile, may good angels guard you both!--Good night." With these words, Macfarlane sought his way home, musing as he went, impressed, more than he even wished to own to himself, with the strange tale he had heard, and when he could contrive to rid himself of it, turning in his thoughts from time to time certain benevolent schemes which suggested themselves to him for the liberal establishment of Angus and his bride. The next day's sun had hardly reddened the eastern sky, so as to exhibit the huge dark mass of Ben Lomond with a sharp and well-defined outline on its glowing surface, when the herdsmen of the Laird of Macfarlane arose and left their huts, with the intention of driving their cattle across the dewy pastures back to the slopes of the mountains. The thick summer mist still hung over the lower grounds; and the men wandered about hallooing to each other whilst employed in actively looking for the animals of which they had the charge. They had left them the previous evening feeding in numerous groups among herbage of the most luxuriant description. They were well aware that it was much too fragrant not to tie them, by the sweetest and securest of all tethers, to the vicinity of those spots where they had been collected in herds; and they were quite sure that the animals never would have left them voluntarily. But all their shouting and all their searching appeared to be unsuccessful, and the more unsuccessful they were likely to be the more were their exertions increased. All was clamour, confusion, and uncertainty, till sunrise had somewhat dispelled the mist that had hitherto rolled its dense and silent waves over the bottom of the valley; and then one herdsman more active and intelligent than the rest, having climbed the mountain that sends forth its root to form the boundary between the enchanting mazes of the beautiful oak and birch-fringed lakes of Ballochan and the long stretch of Loch Lomond's inland sea, and having looked up Glen Falloch, and far and wide around him to the full extent that his eyes could reach,-- "We are harried!" shouted he in Gaelic to his anxiously inquiring comrades below. "Not a horn of them is to be seen! I can perceive a large herd of deer afar off yonder, clustered together in the open forest glade, but not a horn or hide of cow, ox, quey, or stirk, do I see within all the space that my eyes can light upon; and unless the muckle stone, the Clach-nan-Tairbh, down below there has covered them, as tradition tells us it covered the two wild bulls, when the fury of their battle was said to have been so great as to shake it down from the very craig upon them, our beasts are harried every cloot o' them!" "My curses on the catterans that took them then!" exclaimed Angus Macfarlane, the master of the herdsmen--"and my especial curses, too, because they have thus harried them the very night when I chanced to be wandering! But if they are above the surface of the earth we must find them; so come, lads, look about ye sharply." Like an eager pack of hounds newly uncoupled, who have been taught by the huntsman's well-understood voice that a fresh scent is at hand, the herdsmen now went dodging about, looking for the track of those who had so adroitly driven off a creagh so very numerous and so immensely valuable. Long experience and much practice in such matters soon enabled Angus to discover the country towards which the freshest hoof-prints pointed, and in a short time the whole band were in full and hot pursuit of the reavers. "They are Lochaber men, I'll warrant me!" said Angus, whose sagacity and acuteness left him seldom mistaken; and guessing shrewdly at the route they would probably take, he resolved to follow them cautiously with his assistants, that he might dog their footsteps and spy out their motions, whilst he sent one back as a messenger to the Laird of Macfarlane, to report to him the daring robbery that had been committed on him. If you have been able to conceive the calm that settled upon Macfarlane's mind when the placidity of the previous evening had brought it so much into harmony with all the surrounding objects of nature, that it might almost have been said to have reflected the unruffled image of Loch Lomond itself, you may easily imagine that the intelligence which he now received operated on him as some whirlwind would have done on the peaceful bosom of the lake. The eyes of the dark-browed chief kindled up into a blaze of rage, and shot forth red lightnings, and his soul was lashed into a sudden and furious storm ere the messenger had time to unfold half of his information. "What! all harried, said you?--Bid the pipers play the gathering! Shout our war-cry of Loch Sloy! We'll after them with what of our clansmen may be mustered in haste. By the blessed rood, we'll follow them to Lochaber itself, but we'll have back our bestial!" But Macfarlane was not one who allowed his rage to render him incapable of adopting the proper measures for the sure attainment of his object. A numerous party of his clan was speedily assembled, all boiling with the same indignation that excited their chief. Macfarlane himself saw that each man was equipped in the most efficient manner for celerity of movement; and when all were in order, he instantly set forward at their head, taking that direction which was indicated to him by the intelligence which the messenger had brought him. In their rapid march through the great forest, they threaded its intricacies, partly trusting to their local knowledge, partly to their leader's judgment of the probable route of the reavers, partly guided by the fresh tracks which they now and then fell in with, and partly by certain signal marks which the wily Angus had from time to time left behind him, by breaking the boughs down in a particular direction. Once or twice they encountered some individual of the party of herdsmen in advance, whom Angus had stationed in their way to give his chief intelligence; and at last, as the sun was fast declining towards the west, another man appeared, who came to meet them in breathless haste. "Well! what tidings now?" demanded the laird. "They are Lochaber men, sure enough," replied the man. "Pshaw! I never doubted that," said Macfarlane impatiently; "but, quick! tell me whither you have tracked them. We have no time to lose." "I'm thinking you may take your own leisure, Macfarlane," replied the man, "for I'm in the belief that they are lodged for the best part of this night, tethered as they are with the tired legs of the beasts." And so he went on to explain that they had been traced into what was then one of the thickest parts of the forest, to a spot lying between Loch Sloy and what is now the wide moss of the Caoran, stretching south-east from Ben Laoidh. "Then they cannot be far distant from the bothy of the lochan, where I slept when we last hunted in that quarter?" said the chief. "Sure enough, you have guessed it, Macfarlane," replied the man, "sure enough they are there, and Angus and Parlane, and the rest, are watching them. By all appearance there's a strong party of the limmers, and I'll warrant me they keep a good guard." "Let them guard as they may, our cattle are our own again," said the chief, with a laugh of anticipated triumph; "Saint Mary! but we'll make these gentlemen of Lochaber pay for their incivility, and for the unwilling tramp they have given both to us and to our beasts! Not a man of them shall escape to tell the tale!" A general exclamation burst from his followers. "Not a man of them!" was echoed around, and they besought Macfarlane to lead them instantly to the slaughter. "No!" replied he sternly, "I have said, and I now swear by the roof-tree of my fathers, and by the graves where they rest, that not a man of these vermin shall escape! and Macfarlane has never yet said, for weal or for woe, what he did not make good to the very letter. But no advantage must be lost by rashness. Every precaution must be taken coolly and deliberately, so that not a man of them may ever return to parent, to wife, or to child. Lochaber shall wail for them from one end of it to the other, and the men of that country shall pause long before they again attempt to lay hand even on a cat belonging to Macfarlane." Having thus checked their impatience, he marched them slowly onwards, without noise, till he discovered a thicket by the side of a brook, where, sheltered and concealed by an overhanging bank, his men could rest and refresh themselves without being observed, and there he patiently halted to wait for the night, and for further intelligence. Impenetrable darkness had settled over the forest, and the Macfarlanes had sat long in silence, listening eagerly to catch the distant but welcome sound of the lowing of the cattle, that came on their ears faintly at intervals, and assured them that they were now within a short march of their enemies, when the cracking of the withered branches of the firs at some distance ahead of them made them stand to their arms and look sharply out from their ambush. Human footsteps were evidently heard approaching. Not a word was uttered by those in the thicket, but every eye that peered from it was steadily fixed on a natural break among the trees growing on a bank, that rose with a gentle slope immediately in front of their position, where the obscurity being less absolutely impervious, they might at least be enabled to see something like the form of any object that came, however imperfectly it might be defined. The sounds slowly advanced, till at length one human figure only appeared on the knoll that crowned the bank. It stood for some moments, as if scrutinising every bush that grew in the hollow below. It moved--and then it seemed to stop, as if in hesitation. Macfarlane's henchman raised his arquebuse, and proceeded to light a match for its lock. The click of the flint and steel made the figure start. "It is a patrol of the Lochaber men," whispered the henchman, raising the piece to his shoulder to take aim; "I'll warrant they have got hold of Angus and the rest. But I'll make sure of that fellow at any rate." "Not for your life!" replied Macfarlane in the same tone, whilst he arrested his hand. "The whole forest would ring with the report, and all would be lost." Seizing a crossbow from one of his immediate attendants, he bent it, and fitted a quarrel-bolt to it, and, having pointed it at the object on the summit of the knoll, he challenged in such an under tone of voice as might not spread alarm to any great distance, whilst, at the same time, he was quite prepared to shoot with deadly certainty of aim the moment he saw the figure make the smallest effort to retreat. "Ho, there!" cried the chief. "Ho, there!" replied the figure, starting at the sound, and turning his head to look eagerly around him. "Where grew your bow, and how is it drawn?" demanded Macfarlane, in the same tone. "It grew in the isles of Loch Lomond, and it is drawn for Loch Sloy," was the ready reply. A long breath was inhaled and expired by the lungs of every anxious Macfarlane, as he recognised the well-known voice of Angus, the master herdsman. "Advance, my trusty Angus," said the chief; "the brake is full of friends." Angus had never left his post of watch until he was satisfied that the Lochaber men were in such a state of repose as to ensure to him time enough to return to meet his chief. He then planted some of his people to keep their eyes on the enemy, whilst he found his way back alone, to make Macfarlane fully aware of their position. The plunderers lay about a mile from the spot where the chief had halted. The great body of them, consisting of some thirty or more in number, had retired into the hunting-bothy, before the door of which a sentinel was posted, to give alarm in case of assault. To prevent the cattle from straying away, they had driven them together into a large open hollow, immediately in front of the knoll on which the bothy stood; and to take away all risk of their escape or abstraction, four men were stationed at equal distances from each other, so as to surround them. The poor animals were so jaded with their rapid journey, that they drew themselves around the shallow little lochan or pool in the bottom of the hollow, from which the bothy had its name, and having lain down there, they showed so much unwillingness to rise from their recumbent position, that the watchmen soon ceased to have any apprehension of their running away. The men rolled themselves up in their plaids, therefore, and each making a bed for himself among the long heather, they indulged in that sort of half slumber to which active-bodied and vacant-minded people must naturally yield the moment they are brought into an attitude of rest. Macfarlane had no sooner made himself perfectly master of all these circumstances, than he at once conceived his murderous plans--took his resolution--gave his orders; and, having cautioned every man of his party to be hushed as the grave, they proceeded, under the guidance of Angus, to steal like cats upon their prey--foot falling softly and slowly after foot, so that if they produced any sound at all, it was liker the rustle of some zephyr passing gently over the heather tops, than the pressure of mortal tread. Whilst they were proceeding in this cautious manner, Angus, who was at the head of the men, was observed suddenly to raise his crossbow, and to point it in the direction of Macfarlane, who was, at that moment, some ten or fifteen paces before the party. Filled with horror, the men who were nearest to him sprang upon him to prevent so great a treason as the murder of their chief. Angus was felled to the ground--but his bolt had already flown--and, with a sure aim too, for down fell among the heath, weltering in his blood, and with an expiring groan, not the chief of the Macfarlanes, but one of the Lochaber men. The quick eye of Angus had detected him standing half concealed by the huge trunk of a tree, exactly in the very path of the chief. Three more steps would have brought Macfarlane within reach of the very dirk of the assassin, which was already unsheathed, and ready to have been plunged in his bosom. Amazement fell upon all of them for some moments. Macfarlane could with difficulty comprehend what had happened; but when he was at length made to understand the truth, he ran towards Angus. He was already raised in the arms of those of his friends who had so rashly judged and punished him, but who were now sufficiently ashamed and repentant of their precipitation. "Look up, my brave Angus," said Macfarlane to his clansman, as he began to revive; "look up to thy chief, grateful as he is for that life which thou hast preserved to him!--Heaven forbid that it were at the expense of thine own life; and that, too, taken by the too zealous hands of Macfarlanes." "Fear not for me," replied Angus, somewhat faintly, "I was but stunned by the blow; and he that gave it me would have been well excused if he had given me a death-wound, if I could have been justly suspected of traitorie to my chief; and well I wot the bare suspicion of such villainy is wound enough to me." "Nay, nay, Angus," said Macfarlane; "you must not think so deeply of this accident. The judgment was necessarily as sudden as the action, and no wonder that it was faulty. But, how came this stray man to be patrolling about? Are we betrayed or discovered, think ye?" "I would fain trust that we are not," replied Angus. "As we watched, we saw one man leave the bothy to go out and spy around their post, as we guessed; but, as we afterwards saw a man come in again, we took him to be the same, when, I'll warrant me, he has been the fellow whom the first man went out to relieve. But, if we were deceived, the fault is luckily cured now, for this is doubtless the very man who"---- "Aye," said the chief interrupting him; "the very man, indeed, who would have certainly taken my life, had it not been for thine alert and timely aid. What do I not owe thee, my trusty Angus! But stay; let him sit down and rest for a brief space, till he recovers his strength, and then, if I mistake not, we shall bloodily revenge his passing injury." They now again moved forward, with much circumspection, until they at length began to perceive a distant light, which occasionally twinkled in advance of them. As they proceeded, the light became broader, though it was still broken by the intervention of the thick-set stems of the forest. But after groping their way onwards with redoubled care for some hundred yards farther, it burst forth fully and steadily on their eyes, as the trees ceased suddenly, and they found themselves close to the very edge of the open hollow described by Angus, and in the middle of the herdsmen who had been left by him as spies. After using their eyes very earnestly and intently for a little time, they could now perceive the surface of the shallow pool, which lay in the still shadow, in the centre of the bottom below them, and they could dimly descry the dusky mass of cattle lying crowded together around it. As the Macfarlanes stood peering into the obscurity, a low and melancholy voice of complaint would every now and then burst from some individual beast, reminiscent of the rich Loch Lomond pasture from which it had been driven, and bitterly sensible of the sad change of fortunes which a few hours had brought to it. The figures of the four watchmen were as yet invisible; but the whole face of the opposite knoll being free from wood, the door of the hunting bothy was clearly defined, by the bickering blaze of faggots that burned in the middle of the floor within, distinctly displaying the sentinel as he walked to and fro across the field of its light. The thick wooding of the forest that encircled this natural opening came climbing up the rear of the knoll until its tall pines clustered over the back of the bothy itself, and the existence of high grounds rising with considerable abruptness at no great distance, if not previously known, could only have been guessed at by the greater density of the shade which prevailed over everything that was beneath the lofty horizon, the limits of which were easily distinguished by the partial gleam that proceeded from the sky above it. There the clouds were now every moment growing thinner and thinner, as the driving rack skimmed across the face of heaven with a velocity that proclaimed an approaching hurricane. In obedience to the orders already given to them by their chief, the Macfarlanes retreated a few steps into the thick part of the skirting forest, the dark foliage of which arose everywhere around this naturally open space, and beneath its impenetrable concealment they made a silent movement to right and left, during which they posted single men at equal distances from each other, until they had completely surrounded the hollow, the bothy, and the whole party of Lochaber men, together with their booty. This manoeuvre was no sooner silently and successfully executed, than four choice young herdsmen, remarkable for their daring courage as well as for their strength and agility, were selected by Angus. These had well and accurately noted the respective spots where each of the Lochaber watchmen had lain down, and after some consultation, each had one of them assigned to him as his own peculiar object of attack. Having gone around the edge of the wood till each man was opposite to his slumbering enemy, they glided down the sloping edges of the hollow, armed with their dirks alone, and they crept on their bellies towards the bottom, drawing themselves like snakes silently and imperceptibly through the long heather. Full time was to be allowed for each man to reach his prey; and although the period was not in reality very long, yet you will easily believe that it passed over the heads of the Macfarlanes with a degree of anxiety that made it appear long enough. The moment the four herdsmen began to descend into the deep shadow which filled the sides of the hollow, their figures were entirely lost to the view of those who were stationed within the skirt of the surrounding forest. Every heart beat with agonising suspense. The smallest accident might ruin all. An occasional prolonged moan was heard to come from some of the cattle, and all felt persuaded, however contrary it might be to reason, that each succeeding recurrence of it must awaken the slumberers. But at length, whether from the operation of some peculiar instinct, or from some remarkable sense of smell which these creatures have occasionally proved that they possess, it happened that they really did become sensible of the approach of some of those who were wont to attend on them, I know not; but all of a sudden some ten or a dozen of them sprang up to their legs, and changed their long low moan into that sharp and piercing rout into which it is frequently known to graduate. "Look out! look out there!" cried one of the Lochaber watchmen in Gaelic, and half raising himself as he spoke. "Look out!" cried one of the others laughing, "I'm thinking that I would need the blazing eyes of the devil himself to be able to look at anything here." "What's the matter?" shouted the sentinel at the door of the bothy; and as he said so, he halted in the midst of his walk, and bent his body forward in all directions in his eagerness to descry the cause of the alarm. "Tut, nothing," replied another of the watchmen, "all's well, I warrant me." "Aye, aye," said another, "we're safe enough from all surprise this night; for, as Archy says, it would need the fiery e'en of the red de'il himself to grope a way through the forest in such darkness as this." "It's dark enough to confound an owl or a bat, indeed," said the watchman who first spoke, "but mine are eyes that can note a buck on Ben Nevis' side of an autumn morning a good hour before the sun hath touched his storm-worn top; and, by St. Colm, I swear I saw some dark-looking thing glide over the lip of the bank yonder." "It must have been a dark-looking thing, indeed, to have been visible there," replied his comrade; "but if it were not fancy, it must have been a fox or a badger." "Be it what it might," replied the man, "I swear I saw the back of the creature as it came creeping over the round of the bank." "What, think ye, makes the' cattle rout so strangely?" demanded the sentinel. "That which makes the pipes skirl so loudly," replied one of the men below, "a stomach full of wind. I promise you the poor beasts got but a scanty supper ere the sun went to. And here, unless they can eat gravel or sand in this hole, or heather as hard as pike-heads, they have little chance of filling their bellies with aught else but wind." A noise of talking was now heard within the bothy, where all had been so quiet previously, and immediately afterwards the doorway was darkened by the figures of two or three men, who came crowding out to gaze ineffectually around them. Some talking took place between them and the sentinel; and Macfarlane and his people gave up all hope of the success of the manoeuvres they had planned. But after some moments of most painful suspense, the talk of the Lochaber men terminated in a loud laugh, produced, no doubt, by some waggish remark made against some individual of the little knot, after which the figures retired into the hut. The sentinel resumed his silent walk, and the watchmen in the hollow below seemed to relapse into their former state of slumber. The silence that now prevailed was not less deep and intense than the darkness that sat upon this wild forest scene, where the plunderers lay unconsciously surrounded by their mortal foes. Macfarlane moved cautiously round the circle of his men, to assure himself that all were prepared, and sufficient time having now expired to have allowed the slumber of security to have again crept over his victims, he took a matchlock from his henchman, and stepping forth from under the trees, he pointed it with a deliberate and unerring aim at the sentinel, as he stood for a moment directly opposed to the full light proceeding from the doorway. He gave fire. This was the fatal signal--instantaneously fatal to him against whom the deadly tube was levelled, who sprang into the air and fell without a groan, pierced through the very heart. But it was not fatal to him alone; for ere the report of the shot had re-echoed from the surrounding heights of the forest, or its myriads of feathered inhabitants had been roused by it on the startled wing, the dirks of the four Macfarlane herdsmen had bathed themselves in the life's-blood of the four Lochaber watchmen; so that their living slumbers were in one moment exchanged for those of death. The wild war-shout of "Lochsloy! Lochsloy!" arose at once from every part of the ring of the Macfarlanes, who environed the place; and each man keeping his eyes on the light that issued from the bothy, on they ran towards it as to a centre from all parts of the circle. So sudden was the attack, that those within had hardly time to start from their sleep, and to hurry in confusion to the door, ere the Macfarlanes were upon them. The clash of arms was terrific, and the slaughter fearful. At once driven back in a mass, the remnant of the Lochaber men barricaded the doorway in despair, and determining to die hard, they fired many shots from behind it, as well as from a small window hole near it; but discharged as these were from a crowded press of men, where no aim could be taken, no very fatal effect could be produced by them. On the other hand, the assailants could do nothing, till Macfarlane kindled a slow-match, and prepared to thrust it into the dry heather that covered the roof. "Macfarlane!" cried Angus, eagerly endeavouring to interpose; "for the love of the Virgin fire not the thatch! Think of old Margery's vision!" Macfarlane did think of it; but, alas! he thought of it too late; for the slow match had been already applied--had already caught fatally; and in one instant it had burst into a blaze, that, amidst the pitchy darkness of that night, would have been a magnificent spectacle, could any one have beheld it without those dreadful emotions naturally excited by the cruel cause that created it, and the horrible circumstances that attended it. In one moment more the whole of the wooden structure was in flames, and inconceivably short was the period in which the tragedy was consummated. Loud and piteous were the cries for mercy; but they fell on ears which revenge had rendered deaf to mercy's call. The half-burned Lochaber men, yelling like demons, rushed in desperation forth from the blazing walls; but dazzled by the glare, they only rushed to certain destruction on the spears of the Macfarlanes, and were hewn down by their trenchant claymores, or despatched with their ready dirks: so that ere a few brief moments had fled away, all those who had been so recently reposing in fancied security, with the full pulses of robust life beating vigorously within their hardy frames, were heaped up in one reeking mass of carnage before the burning bothy. "Let us rid the earth of these carcases!" said Macfarlane after a pause; for now that the keenness of revenge and the exciting eagerness of enterprise had been fully satiated by success, he was half horror-struck with the ghastly fruits of it, which he thus beheld piled up before him. In obedience to his command, the whole of the dead bodies were immediately gathered together, and thrown within the burning bothy, where they were quickly covered with branches and half-decayed pieces of wood, hastily dragged from the forest, till the fire that was thus created shot up far above the trees in one spiral pillar of flame, bearing on its capital a black smoke that poisoned the air with the heavy and sickening taint with which it was loaded. The Macfarlanes stood for a while grouped in front of it, in silent contemplation of its fitful changes; but its light showed little of the flush of triumph on their sullen brows. Each man held dark communing with his own gloomy thoughts. Their chief, leaning on the deadly instrument which had given the fatal signal, looked on the scene with a cloud on his brow not less dark than that of the murky smoke itself. Whatever his reflections were, there was a restless and uneasy expression on his countenance. He started, for a dreadful sound came crashing through the forest. It was like that which might well have announced the coming of the demon of destruction or the angel of vengeance; and before he could mutter the Ave-Maria which mechanically came to his lips, that hurricane which the careering rack of the clouds had been for some time unheededly announcing, came rushing upon them with the swiftness of lightning and with resistless force. In one moment the frail wooden walls of the bothy, already yielding to the influence of the combustion, were levelled with the ground; and some six or eight of the tallest pines which stood nearest to them behind, were laid across them with all their branches in one heap by the blast. Macfarlane and his men were driven down on their faces, and compelled to cling to the knoll on hands and knees, like flies to a mushroom top. So tremendous was the violence of the tempest, that they could not rise from their crouching position, nor even dare to lift up their heads without the certainty of being whirled off their feet, and dashed to atoms against the boles of the neighbouring trees. This furious fit of the elements endured not long; but when a sudden lull of nature did allow them to assume the erect position, how terrible! how appalling was the scene they beheld! The funeral pile which they had themselves kindled for the massacred men of Lochaber, now arose in one broad resistless tower of fire, crowned, as it were, with many a pointed pinnacle of flame, that appeared to pierce the very sky, lighting up every part of the surrounding elevations, nay, every little crevice in the rocks, and every tree, bush, or petty plant that grew upon their rugged surface. If the spectacle was grand before, it was now sublime beyond all imagination. But, alas! the Macfarlanes were occupied with other contemplations; for the huge fallen pines which had so much augmented the conflagration, had formed a train of communication from the burning bothy to the thick forest immediately behind it; and the flames had spread so rapidly far and wide on every side, that already the whole of the surrounding circle of wood presented nearly one dense and lofty wall of fire through which there was hardly any door of escape left for them. For one instant, and for that one instant only, something like dismay appeared in Macfarlane's eye, as he first gazed around him, and then cast a glance full of anxious expression towards his faithful clansmen. "Perhaps I might have shown more mercy," half-muttered he to himself. "But if it be the will of Heaven to punish me, oh! why should these poor fellows suffer for the sin of their chief? My brave men," continued he aloud, "we cannot stand here. The air already grows hot and scanty. Follow me, and let us try to burst through yonder point where the flames seem to burn thinnest. Come on." Followed by his people, Macfarlane rushed down the sloping face of the knoll, with the intention of cutting across the open space by the most direct line towards the spot he had indicated; but they had not gone many steps ere the hurricane again came sweeping over the woods with all its former fury,--the enormous pines bent and groaned as if from the agony they were enduring,--the violence of the conflagration was increased tenfold,--the wall of fire by which they were environed was speedily closed in, so as to annihilate every lingering hope of escape,--and the Macfarlanes were compelled to throw themselves again flat on the ground, and to scramble down into the bottom of the hollow, to avoid being scorched up like moths by the fire which the uncertain whirlwind darted suddenly hither and thither in different directions, and to escape the risk of being snatched up into the air and launched amid the burning pines. It had happened so far well for the sufferers, that the cattle, terrified by the shouts of the conflict, and still more by the first blaze of the bothy, had fled up the bank from the hollow, and, forgetting their fatigue, they had charged full-tilt through the forest, routing and bellowing in that direction which led to their own Loch Lomond pastures, from which they had been so unwillingly driven. The small space towards the bottom of the hollow, therefore, was thus left entirely disencumbered of them; so that when the Macfarlanes were forced down thither, they were enabled to gather around the shallow pool of water in the centre of the place. There they endeavoured to defend themselves against the flying embers, by rolling up their bodies tight in their plaids. But although they were rid of the cattle, they were not left as the only occupants of the spot; for the place was soon covered with swarms of mice, weasels, adders, frogs, toads, and all the minuter sorts of animals, like them driven into the centre of the circle by the scorching heat of the devouring element that surrounded them. For now the flames raged fiercer than ever, and the dense canopy of smoke that covered the comparatively small space where they lay, was so pressed down upon them by the fury of the blast, that it appeared to shut out the very air; and they seemed to breathe nothing but fire and burning dust and ashes. Their very lungs seemed to be igniting, whilst at every temporary accession of the tempest, the half-consumed tops of the blazing pines were whirled among them like darts, inflicting grievous bruises and burns on many of them. And now, as if to consummate their afflictions and their miserable fate, the long, dry, and wiry heath that grew within the open space where they lay, was laid hold of by the fire; and the flames, running along the ground from all sides towards the centre, threatened them with instant, awful, and inevitable death. But one resource now remained; and to that they were not slow in resorting. They rolled themselves into the shallow pool, and wallowed together in a knot. They gasped like dying men, and their eyeballs glared and started from their sockets with the agony they endured; and in their utter despair they sucked the muddy water of the lochan in which they lay, to cool their burning mouths and throats. Macfarlane felt as if they had been already consigned to the purifying pains of that purgatory through which, as his religion told him, their guilty souls must pass. Their bewildered brains spun round, and strange and terrific shapes seemed to pass before their eyes. Some short ejaculations for mercy were breathed, but not a groan, nor a word, nor a sound of complaint, was permitted to escape from any one of their manly breasts, even although the pool, their last frail hope, was now fast drying up from the intensity of the heat. After a complication of indescribable torments, which made the passing minutes seem like hours, the force of the hurricane suddenly slackened for a short time, and the thick surface of heath around them having been by this time burnt out, and the trees which grew upon the immediate confines of the circle having had their boughs and foliage consumed and their trunks prostrated, the open space within which they were enclosed grew wider in its limits, and consequently the air became more abundant and freer in its circulation; so that they began gradually to revive. By degrees they were enabled to raise themselves in a weak and half-suffocated state from what was now reduced to little more than the mere mud of the pool. Then it was that their chief, though himself much overcome by the conjunction of his own bodily and mental sufferings, was roused to active exertion by that anxious desire to preserve his people which now sprang up within him, to the utter extinguishment of all consideration for his own person. He was so faint, that it was with some difficulty he could ascend the knoll; but he hastened to climb it, that he might endeavour to discover from thence whether any hope was likely to arise for them. There he found that the bothy, and the fuel and pine trees that had been heaped upon it, had already sunk into a smoking hillock of red-hot ashes, from the smouldering surface of which the ghastly half-consumed skulls of his Lochaber foes were seen fearfully protruding themselves. The undaunted heart of Macfarlane quailed before a spectacle so unlooked for and so unwelcome at such a moment. He started back and shuddered as their blackened visages met his eye, grinning, as it were, with a horrible fiend-like expression of satisfaction at his present misery. He turned from the sight with disgust, not unmingled with remorse, and then sweeping his eyes around the now far-retreating circle of the burning forest, and reflecting on the imminent destruction which he and his clansmen had so recently escaped, and looking to the peril by which they were yet environed, he crossed himself, threw his eyes upwards, uttered an inward prayer of penitence and of thankfulness, and then he bravely prepared himself to take every advantage of whatever favourable circumstances might occur. After scanning the blazing boundary all around with the most minute attention, Macfarlane thought he could perceive one narrow blank in the continuity of the fiery wall. His knowledge of the forest enabled him to be immediately aware that the blank was occasioned by a ravine which he knew was but partially covered with wood, through which a stream found its way. He took his determination; and summoning his people around him, and pointing out this distant hope of escape, he called to them to follow him. With resolute countenances they immediately began to make their difficult and hazardous way over the torrid and smoking ground, among the red-hot trunks of the pine-trees which stood half-consumed--smouldering fallen logs--tall branchless masts, which still blazed like upright torches, and which were every moment falling around them, or those which had already fallen, or which had been broken over, hanging burning in an inclined position across their way--whilst they were, every now and then, tripped and thrown down by some unseen obstacle among the scorching embers; and ever and anon each returning gust of the hurricane whirled up around them an atmosphere of ignited dust and cinders, almost sufficient to have deprived them of the breath of life. But still, with their heads half-muffled in their plaids, they persevered, till the increasing heat of the air they inhaled and of the ground they trod on, and the multiplication of the difficulties they had to encounter, would have been enough of themselves to have convinced them of their approach to the more active theatre of the conflagration, even if its fiery enclosure, and the groaning and crashing of the falling timber, had not been but too manifestly before their eyes and loud in their ears. The difficulties and dangers of their progress now became infinitely multiplied. Hitherto their endeavours to keep together had been tolerably successful; but now each individual could do no more than take care of himself, and every cloud of burning cinders that blew around them produced a greater separation among them, till finally they became so dispersed, that when the chief reached the head of the narrow ravine, through which he had hoped that he might have led them in a body, he cleared the burning dust from his eyes, looked everywhere around him eagerly for his people, and, to his bitter mortification, he beheld no one but his trusty Angus, who, amidst all the obstacles and hazards through which they had passed, had still contrived to stick close to his master. Old Margery's vision came across his mind, and, in the midst of the burning heats to which he was subjected, the blood ran cold to his heart. He cast his eyes down the trough of the ravine, over which clouds of flame and smoke were then rolling, and there, indeed, he did, at transient intervals, behold a handful of his clansmen toiling through the perilous passage. He shouted aloud to bid them stay; but the overwhelming roar of the whirlwind, combined with that of the combustion of the neighbouring trees, rendered his voice altogether powerless. Distressing doubts arose within him as to the fate of those who appeared to be amissing; but the rapid growth of the conflagration around him compelled him to shake off all such thoughts, and summoning up his sternest resolution, he rushed down into the ravine, with Angus at his back, as if he had been rushing to an assault under the spirit-stirring influence of the war-cry of the Macfarlanes. And few assaults indeed could have been so hazardous, for, ever and anon, huge burning pines were precipitated from the steeps above, so that even the water-course itself was in a great measure choked up by their hissing and smoking ruins. But still Macfarlane fought his way onwards amidst burnings and bruises, many of them occasioned by his frequently looking round with anxious solicitude for the safety of his faithful follower; but, in spite of all these difficulties and perils, he had already made considerable progress down the ravine, when, in one instant, he was deprived of all sense by the sudden descent of an enormous pine, which he could neither avoid nor see. When the chief recovered from his swoon, he found himself lying on his back, in a shallow part of the little stream, which there crept along between two great stony masses. He had been struck down by the spray and smaller branches of the upper boughs of the tree, which, fortunately for him, had rested across the great stones in such a manner as to form an arch over his body, and as this arch naturally produced a rush of air under it, he was thus saved alike from being crushed to death and from suffocation. Raising himself on his hands and knees, he made his way out from under the burning boughs, and got up so stunned and battered, that some moments elapsed ere he quite recovered his recollection. Recent events then crowded fast to his mind, and with these his anxiety for the safety of Angus recurred more strongly than ever. He called loudly and frequently on him by name, but the well-known voice of his faithful follower came not in return. A lurid light was thrown down into the depth of the ravine by the conflagration which was spreading widely above. He moved anxiously around the tree, looking earnestly everywhere underneath the smoking branches, till at last the manly countenance of Angus Macfarlane met his eye. The forehead exhibited a fearful ghastly-looking wound, and his body was lying so crushed down beneath the boughs that pressed upon it, as to take away all chance that a spark of life remained within it. With desperate strength and anguish of mind the chief drew his claymore, and hewed away the interposing branches, till he had so far relieved the body as to be able to draw it forth. He eagerly felt for the pulses of life, but they were for ever stilled. "Alas, alas, my faithful Angus!" cried Macfarlane, "art thou gone for ever! Alas, thy fate was indeed too truly read! But I cannot leave thee to feed the devouring flames, or to be a banquet for the ravens when this awful burning shall have passed away. Alas! I promised to provide for thy bridal, and now, since it hath pleased Heaven to dispose it otherwise, it shall not be said that thy chief permitted thee to lack funereal rites!" With these words Macfarlane stooped him down, and raised the body of Angus upon his shoulders. The way down the water-course was obstructed by the huge half-consumed trunks of the fallen pines, which lay in every direction across, resting irregularly on the large blocks of slippery stone, with their branches interwoven like hurdles. But Macfarlane, weakened as he was by the accumulated fatigue and suffering he had undergone, staggered on under his burden with an unsubdued spirit, determined to bear it so long as his limbs were able to sustain his own person. Inconceivable was the toil which he underwent, and many were the hairbreadth 'scapes which he made from instantaneous destruction. But still he persevered with undiminished courage, until his heroic exertions were at length rewarded by his reaching a spot of comparative safety, beyond the fiery barrier which had so long environed him. But here he only stopped to breathe for a moment, for, toil-spent, exhausted, and bruised, and faint as he was, he was still compelled, by a regard for his own life, to urge onwards over the smoother ground which he now trod, with longer and less cautious strides. His way was illuminated for an immense distance before him, by the triumphant conflagration that came roaring after him, and it was still gaining fresh strength every succeeding moment from the furious aid it was receiving from the increasing hurricane. As he bore his burden resolutely onwards, his uncertain path led him across a mossy patch of heath, where there were but few trees. There the lurid light of the conflagration, reflected as it was from the heavens, was sufficient to show him a white figure advancing hastily towards him. It was a maiden's slender form--she came--she uttered one wild and piercing shriek, and then she sank down amid the long heath. Macfarlane laid the body of Angus upon a small hillock, and ran to her aid. It was Ellen. He flew to a rill hard by, and brought water in his bonnet. She still breathed, but, as he lifted her head on his knee, each succeeding inspiration became fainter and fainter, till her fair bosom ceased to heave, and her lovely features settled into the marble stillness of death. Her frenzied efforts had been greater than her delicate frame could bear, and the severe mental shock which she received had suddenly expelled her pure spirit from its earthly tenement. Macfarlane leant over her for a time, altogether absorbed in the intensity of those feelings to which human nature compelled him to yield. But it was not long till the increasing roar of the advancing conflagration, which was now fearfully extending the breadth of its line of march, roused him from his stupor. What could he now do? Was he to abandon both, or even one of the bodies of those, the memory of whom he so much cherished, in order to consult his own safety? or was he to peril his own life for the purpose of performing a pious but by no means an imperatively necessary duty? He hesitated for a moment--a transient and accidental gleam disclosed to him the honest countenance of Angus--his heart filled with many an old recollection--his lip quivered--his eyes became moist--he moved towards the hillock where the body of Angus lay, and, stooping down hastily, he raised it again to his right shoulder, and then, passing onwards, he put his left arm around the slim form of Ellen, and lifting it up, he laboured on under the weight of both, with the long hair of the maiden sweeping over the tops of the purple heath as he went. Louder and louder came the roar of the conflagration behind him. He quickened his steps, toiling on every moment more and more breathlessly. But again the trees grew thicker as he advanced, and his way became more and more encumbered by their stems. The heat of the advancing flames now came more and more sensibly upon him, yet still he struggled on, firmly resolved not to relinquish either of his burdens till dire necessity should compel him to do so. The moment when this alternative was to arrive seemed to be fast approaching--nature was becoming exhausted--when his ears caught a shout which he well knew must come from some of his own clansmen. Faint as he was, the chief was not slow in replying to it; and, to his great relief, he was soon joined by some of those from whom he had been separated during the earlier part of their dreadful and bewildering retreat. He was now speedily relieved of both his burdens, and the flagging spirits of all of them being in some degree restored by this meeting, they again pushed on with renewed exertions, and without a halt, for some miles, during which they picked up several stragglers, whose bruised and blackened figures gave sufficient evidence of the dangers and difficulties they had passed through. Worn out almost to death, this remnant of the Macfarlanes with difficulty climbed the gentle slope of a considerable eminence that lay in their way, and as they wound over the summit of it, where the trees grew somewhat thinly, Macfarlane, as he looked behind him, had at last the satisfaction to perceive that they had now gained so much on their pursuing enemy as to render them secure of a safe and easy retreat. Many, I trow, was the cross that was signed, and the broken thanksgiving that was uttered ere the chief and this fragment of his followers threw themselves down to rest awhile, and to contemplate the awful scene of destruction from which they had so wonderfully escaped, of which their present commanding position gave them a full view. The flames had now spread for miles in every direction over the thickest parts of the forest, rising over the crested ridges and swelling elevations, and diving into the deepest valleys and hollows. It seemed like one great billowy sea of fire, agitated as it was from time to time by the hurricane, which, as it approached its termination, came in gusts, violent in strength, but short in duration. As each of these successively swept over the blazing woods, its terrible roar was mingled with the fearful crash of thousands of gigantic pines, which were levelled like reeds before it. These, as they fell, tossed up myriads of mimic stars and meteors into the firmament, which, being surrounded by a zone of dense and inky clouds on its horizon, shone from within that circumference to its very centre, like one vast concave plate of red-hot brass. The scene was enough to humble the proudest heart. The very deer were terrified into an unwonted degree of familiarity with man, for a herd of them that came sweeping over the brow of the eminence, flying in terror from the devouring flames, halted by them, and mingled with them, as if to claim protection from them. The dauntless heart of Macfarlane himself sank within him, as the whole desolating circumstances of this terrible night came crowding to his mind. It was wrung by a deep pang as he recalled the horrible spectacle of the massacred men of Lochaber; he wept like a child when he again looked on the inanimate bodies of those whose appointed bridal-day must now become that of their funeral. He groaned deeply as he gathered from his people around him the sad fate of many of those who were not now to be seen among them; and when such thoughts as these could be so far subdued as to permit him to gaze on the red and resistlessly devouring element, which was so rapidly annihilating his forest, he pictured to himself the melancholy devastation it would produce over his wide domains, and the destruction it would occasion to his hunting grounds, and already, in imagination, he beheld the sable livery of mourning that must soon be spread over his hitherto magnificent territory. And how well his anticipations were verified, we know from the fact, that ere many days went round the whole of the forest covering that country for above twenty-five miles in length, and of a breadth corresponding to that extent, was completely burned down, and the mosses which afterwards originated from it, and which still exist, are full of the embalmed witnesses of this terrible calamity. COMPARATIVELY RECENT DESTRUCTION OF THE FORESTS. Author.--Your legend, my dear Grant, is extremely valuable as matter of history. The preservation of the circumstances which fortuitously caused the destruction of one vast extent of forest, enables us easily to imagine those which may have contributed to the annihilation of all the rest. Grant.--Doubtless, it does. Author.--It appears that many of those tracts of woodland must have perished at periods much more recent than we should at first sight be led to suppose; and it now occurs to me, that I lately heard enough to convince me that this was the case with the forests covering the bare country you are now looking at. Both of you know enough of it to be aware that the upper part of Strathspey, far beyond those distant hills, is somewhat about eight and twenty or thirty miles from Cawdor Castle; and you know that bare heaths, such as we see before us, now cover the whole of that stretch of country, with two exceptions; I mean that of the picturesque forest of Dulnan, immediately to the south of the Bridge of Carr, and that presented by the now almost exhausted forest of Dulsie, the remnants of which you may see behind us yonder to our right, running along the trough of the river Findhorn, and covering part of the hills to the north of it. In the whole of the space I have mentioned, these are the only fragments of woodland left to interrupt the dull monotony of the moors. Clifford.--I was over it all this very season. It is not very easy for me to conceive that it could have ever been wooded at all. 'Tis excellent grouse ground every bit of it. But, as to timber, if there be any, it is all buried beneath the heathery sod. Author.--True. Yet a respectable man, perfectly worthy of credit, assured a friend of mine, that in his grandfather's younger days, the state of this part of the country was very different. The old man he alluded to lived near Aviemore. He sent his son, who was the father of my friend's informant, on some errand to Fort George. He had himself become blind from age, and as he had not travelled that way for many years, he earnestly questioned his son after his return. "What sort of a country is that you have been seeing?" said he; and when his son had described it as having pretty much the same appearance as it now wears, "Och, hey!" exclaimed the old man, "what a change! When I was a youth, I used to go in underneath the shade of the forest on this side of the woods of Dulnan, and I hardly ever saw the sun again till I got out of it below Cawdor Castle!" Grant.--That is a very curious fact. Why that would bring the existence of the forests of this part of the country down to within three generations; and, even allowing that your friend's informant was advanced in life when he told the story, and that his father and grandfather were rather patriarchal in the endurance of their lives, yet I think the evidence you have brought forward would enable us safely to say, that these moors we now look upon were still covered with wood at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Author.--Such, certainly, ought to be our conclusion. Is it not surprising, then, that I have never been able to pick up any account, legendary or otherwise, of the circumstances which must have produced the extirpation of these forests at a period comparatively so recent. Clifford.--From the roots and trunks which are left, it would appear that the trees were almost entirely pines. Author.--The pine is certainly the prevailing tree, but it is by no means the only one. Birches, alders, and hazels are common, and oaks of immense size, some of them three or four feet in diameter for a great way up the stem, are dug up in various parts of these moors, and many of them in situations where it is now matter of astonishment that such monarchs of the wood could have been produced; for they are found high on the hills yonder above Dulsie, as well as in the mosses far up the courses of the rivers Dorback and Divie. Clifford, with enthusiasm,--With what a different scene should we now be surrounded, if we could conjure up all these ancient tenants of the soil, like the reanimated bodies of dead warriors from their graves, as told in some fairy tale of my childhood, to live again, and to wave their leafy banners triumphantly over these hills and hollows! Grant.--It would be a very different scene indeed. Author.--Aye, truly it would. Conceive the bleak face of these moors so covered, and then carry your imagination back into remote ages, and let us endeavour to people it in fancy with the animals which must have roamed through its endless wildernesses, and couched within the protection of its almost impervious thickets. Clifford.--What a country for sport! Author.--Let us picture to ourselves the myriads of birds of all kinds which winged their flight over the boundless ocean of its foliage, as it was blown into billowy motion by the breezes, or which nestled among its branches as it quietly settled itself to repose, and we shall not only have produced out of these wastes a gorgeous landscape, most romantic in its character, but we shall have opened a wide field for the speculations of the naturalist. Clifford.--Yes; but, talking of the romantic character of your landscape, what would all that be to the ancient figures to be found in it? Fancy, only fancy the figures! Think of the dress, the arms, the hunting-implements, and the houses of its human inhabitants! Would we could have but one glimpse of them truly as they were! Author.--If you were to go far enough back for them, you would fill our forests with a race of men, rude as the scenes in which they lived and roamed, and the whole sketch would be one for which we could hardly now find any really existing resemblance, save in the wilds of North America. Grant.--Your view of the matter is probably correct enough. Author.--I believe it to be very correct; and, now I think of it, a discovery was made some eight or ten years ago, which would seem to bear evidence to the former existence of this ideal picture in which we have been indulging. Some labourers, who were employed in digging in a moss on Lord Moray's estate of Brae-Moray, to our left there, found a curious bundle, they took from under ten feet of a solid peat stratum. The bundle was about two feet long by one foot thick, and in form it very much resembled such a cloak-bag as you may have at times seen strapped behind a horseman's saddle. A careless inspection of it would have led one to believe that it was covered with leather tanned with the hair on it, and it looked, for all the world, like that of one of those strange old trunks which were frequently to be seen bristling like bears among the uncouth baggage on the top of our ancient Flies and Diligences. When I first saw it, a piece of it had been torn up by the curious peasants who had found it, and the aperture they had thus made enabled us to become instantly acquainted with the nature of the mass within, which proved to be tallow. Grant.--Tallow!--Adipocere, I suppose. That fatty substance into which animal fibre is frequently converted by long immersion in water. Author.--No such thing, I assure you. It was pure tallow; and the whole appearances connected with it were very easily explained. It was evident that the tallow, fresh taken from the recent carcase, had been pressed into the raw hide the moment it had been stripped from the newly slain animal, and the whole had been stitched or rather laced up with thongs cut from the skin itself. The perfect state of the leather into which the skin had been converted, exhibited a beautiful proof of the extent to which the chemical principle tannin exists in peat moss. No modern tan-pit could have performed the process more effectually. Nor were the preservative properties of moss less established by it; for the tallow was quite entire and uncorrupted, and perfectly inodorous and tasteless. On first inspection it presented a hard appearance, so much so indeed, that it might have been mistaken for chalk; but the moment heat was applied, it melted as readily as fresh tallow would have done. Clifford.--By your account of this strange mass, it might have been valuable for the candlemakers, if not for culinary purposes. Pray, what became of it? Author.--The noble proprietor of the estate where it was found gave it me at my request; and with his permission I sent it to the Museum of the Edinburgh University. But whilst it remained in my possession, I never could look at it without its bringing to my mind what we have so often read of in North American travels,--I mean the Indian practice of killing an elk, or a deer, or a buffalo, bundling up the tallow of the creature in its raw hide with all manner of expedition, with the future purpose of making pemmican of it, and so marching off with it on their shoulders, leaving the flesh to feed the wolves and the bears. And really I cannot divest myself of the conviction that the mass of tallow I have described belonged to a period of the history of this country when the state of its inhabitants differed but little from that of those nomade North American tribes. Grant.--It certainly does appear to give no small degree of probability to your fancy. Clifford.--Nay, but might not some of your cattle-lifters of a much later date have performed all that you suppose your savages to have done? Author.--The circumstance of the bundle being found beneath ten feet of solid moss, which had formed over it since the time it was left there, together with the various layers of trees found in the same bog, lying one over the other, would seem to forbid any such apparently modern explanation, and to throw back the period of its deposition to a very remote era indeed. Grant.--Undoubtedly; and the probability is, that the tallow was the produce of no vulgar beast, but rather that of some of the bisons or magnificent wild cattle of the ancient Caledonian forests. Author.--Certainly. But I have since had another lump of tallow sent me, which had all the evidences of a much more modern origin. It was found on the farm of Drumlochan, on the south side of the Findhorn, about a mile below Dulsie Bridge yonder; and it was covered by a little more than two feet of moss. Its form was very peculiar; for it was round one way and flat the other, like a North Wiltshire cheese, which it very much resembled in shape and size. It had indeed every appearance of having been pressed into a cheese shape until it had become firm enough to be removed. It had no covering of any kind on it; and although in hardness and consistence it was quite like the matter of the other mass, yet it must strike every one that its form, and the comparatively small depth at which it was found, render it probable that its origin was much more recent. I sent it to the Museum of the Northern Institution at Inverness. Clifford.--Ah! I shall be right at last, I find. This surely may have been the work of some of these freebooters of whom I have heard you speak,--of some of those very limmers, for example, who, as you once told me, stole Mr. Russel's cattle. Author.--Oh no. That story is much too modern even for this last mass of tallow. Grant.--Bravo! Have you a tale of cattle-stealing to tell also? Allons, let us have it. I have a fair right to demand it of you. Author.--There is little in my tale; and I fear it will tell but tamely after yours. Besides, I have already given an abridgment of it in an early number of a well-known magazine. But as you may not have seen it, and as we are now in the very scene where part of its events took place, we may sit down under the lee of yonder large stone on the brow of the hill, and I shall there give you the particulars of it, whilst you are enjoying the prospect which that elevated position commands. By the time we had reached the spot I had indicated, my friends were not sorry to rest a while, and I began as follows:-- MR. RUSSEL AND THE REAVER. The decided though cruel measures which followed the defeat of Culloden, whilst they were sufficient to extinguish the hopes of the Highlanders who had so enthusiastically espoused the cause of Charles, were ill calculated to subdue their warlike spirits. They were driven, it is true, to seek shelter in those rocky and inaccessible fastnesses which their highest glens afforded them; but there, amidst the wildest and most solitary scenes of nature, they permitted their minds to brood in bitter reflection over all their wrongs--over all those tragedies which history itself has blushed to record--their wives and children massacred amidst the midnight conflagration of their humble dwellings, or perishing in their flight through the snows of winter. But heroism such as theirs was not to be crushed even by such calamities as these,--calamities which were calculated to have bowed down less lofty and indomitable spirits to the very dust. With them the effect was like that which would result from some puerile attempt to curb and arrest the mountain cataract. They were divided, as its stream might be, into smaller and less important bodies, and their power was no longer so forcible as when they were united together in one stream, but each individual portion seemed to gain a particular character and consequence of its own by its separation from the main body, where it had hitherto flowed undistinguished and unobserved. It was thus that, lurking in little parties, in retreats only known to themselves, among craggy ravines and pine-clad precipices, they now resumed that minor and predatory warfare which they had been wont to wage against the inhabitants of the more civilised parts of Scotland,--I mean that which consisted in plundering those richer districts of their cattle. Perhaps no inconsiderable degree of political animosity may have mingled itself in many instances with the other motives that prompted these marauding expeditions in the later times of which I am speaking. But, be this as it may, we must not look upon those who were engaged in them as we do upon the wretched cow-stealers of the present day. That which is now considered as one of the most despicable of crimes was then, in the eyes of the mountaineer, esteemed as an honourable and chivalrous profession. In his untamed imagination no one was looked upon with so much admiration and envy as that individual who might be chosen as the leader of a daring band to harry the low country of its live stock; for these proud sons of the Gael had ever held the inhabitants of the plains in the most sovereign contempt, and they regarded them and their more favoured pastures in no other light than as so many nurses and nurseries, destined by Heaven to rear the cattle which they were born to consume. I can instance one well authenticated example which displays this opinion in its true light. The Laird of Grant, the great chieftain of the glen of Urquhart, having had his cattle driven off by a party of Camerons, and having sent a strong remonstrance to Cameron of Lochiel himself by a special ambassador, had his herds immediately restored to him, with a most courteous letter of apology, which, I believe, still exists, assuring him that his stupid fellows had entirely mistaken his orders, which were, that they should not begin to plunder until they had reached "Moray-land, where every gentleman was entitled to take his prey." It was soon after the middle of the last century that Mr. Russel, a gentleman of Morayshire, who resided at Earlsmill, near Tarnaway Castle, to the north of the Findhorn, and about ten miles from hence, was alarmed one morning by the unpleasant intelligence, that a strong body of Highlanders had come before daybreak and carried off the whole of his cattle from this very farm of the Aitnoch, which he had at that time taken as a hill-grazing. Mr. Russel was an extremely active and intelligent man; and although he did not make all the warlike preparations which your friend the Laird of Macfarlane did, yet he was not deficient either in promptitude of decision or in readiness of action. After putting a few questions to the scared and breathless messenger, he lost not a moment in summoning and arming his servants; and, instead of taking this way--towards the Aitnoch, he struck at once diagonally across the country in a westerly direction, and marched with great expedition, in order, if possible, to reach a part of the deep glen of the Findhorn, some miles above Dulsie yonder, in such time as to enable him to intercept the plunderers. You may trace with your eye the dark shadow of the glen, which sinks deep and abruptly into the bosom of those purple mountains which you see retreating behind each other in misty perspective. That is the grand pass into the Western Highlands, and Mr. Russel was well aware that if he did not succeed in arresting his cattle before the robbers had made their way through it, the boundless wastes to which it led would render all further search after them quite hopeless. Having reached the course of the river, Mr. Russel and his party made their way down the steep hill-side, forded the stream to its southern bank, and, carefully examining the ground to ascertain whether any fresh footprints were to be observed, they took their stand, satisfied that they had been so far successful. The spot chosen by Mr. Russel for his ambuscade was in the midst of that most beautiful range of retired and tranquil scenery known by the name of The Streems. There the hollow glen is so profound and so narrow in many places, that one of those little clusters of cottages which are now found here and there sprinkled in the pastoral bottom has the name of Tchirfogrein, a Gaelic appellation implying that it never sees the sun. There were then no houses near the place they had selected, but the party lay concealed behind some huge fragments of rock, shivered by the wedging ice of the previous winter from the summit of a lofty crag that hung half across the narrow holm where they had taken up their position. A little farther down the river the passage was contracted, and there was no approach from that point but by a rude and scrambling footpath irregularly worn along the steep face of the mountain, and behind them the glen was equally confined. Both extremities of the small amphitheatre thus enclosed were then, though they are not now, shaded by dense thickets of birch, hazel, and holly, whilst a few wild pines found a scanty subsistence for their roots on the face of the crags in midway air, and were twisted and writhed by lack of nutriment into the most fantastic and picturesque forms. The stillness of an unusually calm and breathless air hung over this romantic scene, and it was lighted by the now declining sun of a serene summer day, so that half the narrow haugh was in broad and deep shadow, that was strongly contrasted with the brilliant golden light falling on the tufted tops of the trees of a wooded bank on the opposite side of the river. Mr. Russel and his small party had not long occupied their post when, as they listened in the silence of the evening, they heard the distant lowing of the cattle and the wild shouts of the reavers as they came faint and prolonged up the hollow trough of the glen. The sounds gradually drew nearer and nearer, and increased in volume as they were swelled and re-echoed from the rocks on either side. At length the crashing of the boughs announced the appearance of the more advanced part of the drove; and the tired animals began to issue slowly from among the tangled wood, or to rush violently forth as the shouts of their drivers were more or less impetuous, or their blows chanced to light upon them. As they appeared individually, they gathered themselves into a group on the level open sward, where they stood bellowing, as if quite unwilling to proceed any farther. In rear of the last stragglers of the herd Mr. Russel now beheld, bursting singly from different parts of the brake, a party of fourteen Highlanders, all in the full costume of the mountains, and wearing the well-known tartan of a western clan. All of them were armed with the dirk, pistol, and claymore, and the greater number of them carried antique fowling-pieces. Mr. Russel's party consisted of not more than ten or eleven persons; but they were well armed, and they were people upon whom he could depend. Exhorting them to be firm, therefore, he drew them suddenly forth from their ambush, and ranged them up in array upon the green turf. The robbers appeared to be confounded for a moment, and uttered some uncouth exclamations of surprise; but a shrill whistle from their leader made them quickly recover their presence of mind, and they rushed forward in a body, and formed themselves in order of battle in front of their spoil. Mr. Russel and his party stood their ground with determination, whilst the leader of the enemy seemed to be holding counsel with himself as to what he should do. He was a little spare athletic man, with long red hair curling over his shoulders, and with a pale and thin, but acute visage. After leaning upon his gun for a time, and surveying the party opposed to him with the eye of a hawk, he shouldered his piece and advanced slowly a few paces in front of his men, until he considered himself to be sufficiently within earshot, and, raising his voice,-- "Mr. Russel," cried he, in very correct English, though with a Highland accent, "are you for peace or war? If for war, look to yourself. But if you are for peace and treaty, order your men to stand fast, and let you and me advance and meet each other half way." "I will treat," replied Mr. Russel; "but can I trust to your keeping faith?" "Trust!" exclaimed the other in an offended tone, and with an imperious air; "methinks you may well enough trust to the word and honour of a gentleman." "I am content," said Mr. Russel. The respective parties were now ordered to stand their ground, and the two leaders advanced about seventy or eighty paces each towards the middle of the open space, with their loaded guns cocked and presented at each other; and having abridged the distance that divided them to some ten or twelve paces, they halted, and the negotiation commenced. A certain sum was demanded for the restitution of the cattle. Mr. Russel had not so much money about him; but he offered to give all he had in his pocket, which amounted to a sum not a great deal short of what the robber had asked. After some little conversation this was accepted. The bargain was concluded, the money was paid, the guns were uncocked and shouldered, and the two hitherto hostile parties advanced to meet each other and to mingle together in perfect harmony. "And now, Mr. Russel," said the leader of the band, "you must look at your beasts, to see that none of them are wanting." "They are all here but one small dun quey," said Mr. Russel, after a minute examination of the herd. "Ha!" cried the Highland leader, darting an angry glance of inquiry around his men, "how is this? Ewan, I would speak with you." A tall handsome dark man, whom he had thus addressed, then moved a little way apart with him, and a conversation ensued between them in Gaelic, the sound of which could only be heard, whilst ever and anon the leader's eyes glanced towards one or other of his people; and his voice and gestures indicated anything but satisfaction. At last he returned towards the group. "Mr. Russel," said he, "you may make your mind easy about the dun quey. On the word of a gentleman, she shall be on your pasture before daylight to-morrow morning." The treaty being thus happily concluded, and the cattle taken possession of by those who were wont to have the charge of them, Mr. Russel and the Highland leader shook hands and parted, and each took his own way, attended by his followers. Clifford, interrupting the narrative, Ah! I have a shrewd suspicion that the cheese-shaped lump of tallow you spoke of will turn out, after all, to have been the produce of poor Dunny. Author.--Have patience, and you shall hear. We shall leave Mr. Russel and his people to return down the glen with the rescued herd, that we may inquire a little into the motions of the reaver and his men. They had no sooner threaded the mazes of the brake which shut in the upper end of the dell that was the scene of the strange negotiation I have described, than the leader halted them, in order to hold a conference. "Ewan," said he to him who seemed to act as his second in command, "this is an awkward affair, and you have been much to blame. You had charge of the rear, and not a beast should have strayed. But your carelessness has brought my honour into pledge; and, by all that is good, you must redeem it. I have said that the dun quey shall be on Mr. Russel's pasture in the morning; and, dead or alive, she must be there, for a gentleman's word must be kept." "I own I have not been so sharp as I should have been," said Ewan, with a mortified air; "but I think I have enough of cleverness in me to enable me to promise you, on the word of a gentleman, that your word shall be made good." "See that it be so, then," said the leader somewhat sternly, as he walked slowly away up the glen. "Take what strength you please with you, but see that you save both my honour and your own." His comrades crowded around Ewan, proffering him their friendly aid to enable him to search for and recover the quey. But he courteously declined all their kind offers; and tightening his plaid over his body with the utmost composure, he sprang up the almost perpendicular face of the southern mountain with the agility of a deer, and disappeared over the brow of it, without permitting his breath to come much quicker there than it had done whilst he was in talk with his companions in the deep glen below. Ewan wandered not over the moors and mosses which you see stretching over the mountain far off yonder like one who was bewildered, or like a hound at fault. Circumstances had arisen to his mind, which had afforded him some clue to the search he had undertaken; and of that clue he had at once laid hold, with a determined resolution to unravel it as speedily as possible to the end. His course, therefore, was taken at once; and it was a most direct one. You see that singular opening in the country between us and Strathspey? Perhaps you may remember that there is a narrow pass there, where a small lake fills the bottom of the defile, and where the face of the mountain that rises over it has all the appearance of having been shaven down by the sword of some giant. The strange tradition of the country indeed is, that it was done by the mighty Fingal, by way of trying the temper of a claymore which he had not yet put to the proof. Well does the weapon seem to have performed its office; and in honour of it the place has ever since been called Beemachlai, or the cut of the sword. Ewan then had no sooner breasted the mountain that hung over the Findhorn, than he turned his face directly southward, and took his way in a straight line for the pass; and despite of the ravines and burns, and peat-pots and moss-hags, and all the other difficulties and obstructions that lay in his road, and the darkness of the evening which settled down upon that wild hill to make all these difficulties ten times greater than they otherwise would have been, he, in a wonderfully short period of time, found himself planted in the narrow path that ran between the loch of Beemachlai, on the one hand, and the mountain that rises from its western margin on the other. But before taking up his post, the cautious Ewan stooped down, and carefully passed his hand over the whole surface of a bare spot, of some dozen or so of square yards in extent, which he knew must necessarily have been crossed by every man or beast travelling that way, to ascertain whether any fresh footprints had been made in the soft black surface of the moss. His experience in such investigations was so great as to enable him perfectly to satisfy himself that no animal at least had recently trodden there; and with this assurance he stationed himself in the very hollow of the pass, and, seated on a bank, he turned his head towards the north, whence the path came downwards along the base of the hill, and kept eager watch both with eyes and ears. The moon was at this time but young, and the sky was partially covered with thin fleecy clouds; so that when it did rise, it gave but a scanty and uncertain light, though it was enough to pourtray the bold profile of Fingal's hill on the calm bosom of the lake, as well as to enable any one to distinguish a human figure at some little distance. Ewan had not remained long in this position, when he distinctly heard the short sharp cry used by Highlanders for urging on a bullock. It was occasionally repeated; and by and bye it was followed by the faint sound of the footsteps of a beast and its driver, which grew upon his ear. Ewan bent his head towards the ground, that he might the better catch the figures of both against the sky; and ere they had already come within fifty yards of him, he rubbed his hands together with satisfaction to find that his judgment had not deceived him, and starting up to his feet, he planted himself directly in the middle of the path, so that his figure threw a broad shadow across it; and leaning on his gun, he calmly waited the advance of him who came. He was a tall--nay, almost a gigantic man, with an awkward shambling gait; and he held the dun quey by a long halter with his left hand, whilst he drove her on with a huge rough stick which he carried in his right. He halted the moment that Ewan's dark figure appeared. "What is it that stands there? Answer, in the name of God!" cried he in Gaelic, and in a tone that manifested great alarm. "Methinks a foul thief like you had little ado with any such name, Gilliesh," replied Ewan resolutely. "What devil tempted you to steal the dun quey from our herd?" "What devil told you that I had stolen her?" demanded Gilliesh, much relieved to find that he had to deal with nothing more than mortal flesh. "Did I not see thee lurking among the birches on the Doun of Dulsie?" said Ewan; "and did I not know that thou couldst be there for no good end; and when the quey was missed, did I not put that and that together to help my guessing, and have I not guessed rightly?" "What an you have?" replied Gilliesh; "'tis but a poor prize I have gotten after all, and hardly worth your tramping so far for. You had surely enough, without grudging me this bit dwining beast." "Such base thievery cannot be suffered," said Ewan, "besides, I have reasons of my own for what I do. Come away, then, and give me the rope; and bless your stars that you escape, for this time at least, being hanged by one. The beast must back with me, and you may take your own way home to Dulnan side at your leisure, and thank your good fortune that you get there in a whole skin." "Well may you speak so bold indeed," said Gilliesh bitterly, "with that big black gun in your hand, ready to bring me down in a moment like a muir-cock off a hillock. But by the great oath, ye would crack less crouse if ye stood there before me with nothing but your claymore by your side." "Ye lie, ye thieving vagabond," cried Ewan, "I'll stand at all times before you or a better man with this good sword alone. See here, my gun shall rest against this rock; and on the word and honour of a gentleman, I'll never touch stock or lock of it till I shall have chastised thee to thy heart's content, if thou wilt so have it." "Be it so," said the crafty Gilliesh; "and I'll tether the quey to this moss-fir stump here, and let her stand by to see the stour, and to be the prize of him who may prove himself to be the better man." It would have been a sight of some interest to have watched the preparations for this very extraordinary single combat. On the part of Ewan they consisted merely in his placing his gun against the rock with great tranquillity and with great care, and then drawing his claymore from its scabbard, and twisting the folds of his plaid tightly over his left arm, ere he put himself into the proper position for action. As for Gilliesh, he had no sooner tied the end of the quey's halter to the moss-fir stump, than he drew a broadsword of a magnitude so tremendous, as well corresponded with his almost Philistian height. The bare, flat, mossy piece of ground already noticed was the arena on which they were to contend; and if it was free from prints of any kind when Ewan examined it a brief space before, it was now destined ere long to have enow of them impressed upon it by the coming struggle. Aware of the great advantage which Gilliesh had over him from his superior height, and still more from the greater sweep of his arm and sword, Ewan approached his adversary very cautiously at first. On the other hand, numerous, and rash, and awkward, were the cuts and the thrusts which Gilliesh attempted to make; but they were given with a force and a fury that rendered it necessary for Ewan to use all the skill of which he was master, to enable him to dodge and to parry them. Now and then their blades came into fearful contact; and when they did so, the shearing of them together produced a sheet of flame that gave a temporary illumination to the deep shadow which a projecting bank threw over that part of the lake immediately below. As their desperate play went on, the clashing of the glowing steel struck terror into the timid animal that had occasioned the fight; and the powerful efforts which her fear impelled her to make having at last burst her tether from its fastening, she fled away beyond hearing of the fray. Meanwhile, the combat continued to rage, and as it went on the combatants gradually shifted their ground until they had changed places. On the part of Gilliesh this was not done without its intention; for no sooner did he find himself within reach of Ewan's gun, than he seized it up, and presented it without scruple at its owner, and without one shadow of remorse drew the trigger. But the hammer fell harmless into the empty pan. Ewan sprang upon him in a moment, and, ere he could recover the use of his sword, he gave him one desperate cut across the temple that brought him to the earth with his face bathed in blood. "Villain!" cried Ewan, as he stood over his prostrate foe with the point of his sword at his throat. "Traitor that thou art, wouldst thou have been a murderer as well as a thief? Had not a stray stag crossed me at a distance as I came over the hill, and tempted me to take an idle chance shot in the twilight, when my haste would not allow me to load again, I should have been at this moment stretched out a corpse by thy treachery." "Spare my life!" cried the wretch piteously. "Spare thy life!" replied Ewan contemptuously, as he quietly picked up his gun, and proceeded to load it; "I have no mind that thy worthless and cowardly life should stain this good sword of mine with dishonour, nor do I choose that it should be the means of cheating the gallows of what so justly belongs to it. Gather thyself up, then, as thou mayest, and take thy way to Dulnan side; for, by all that is good, if thou dost show thine ugly visage again to me, like a grim ghost on the moor, I'll not miss thy big body as I did that of the stray stag, but I'll open a door in it wide enough to allow thy rascally soul to issue forth and to join its kindred malignant spirits of the swamp and the fen." With these words Ewan threw his gun over his shoulder, and set out in search of the stray heifer. It was some time before he found her, and a still longer time after he had found her before he caught her, and after he had caught her it was but the commencement of a most toilsome night with her, ere he could compel her, tired as she was, to travel through bog and mire to the place of her destination. But be this as it may, Ewan saw that the reaver's word was made good,--next morning the dun quey was seen grazing with the rest of the herd on the farm of the Aitnoch. Nobody could tell how she came there; but the eagerness with which she plucked at the pasture, and her jaded and draggled appearance, afforded sufficient evidence of the length and nature of the night journey she had been compelled to perform. It was not very long after this that Mr. Russel happened accidentally to have ridden up to his farm here one morning, and, as he was engaged in moving about looking at his stock, his attention was attracted by a long drove of cattle, which he observed straggling up yonder opposite bank of the Dorback branch of the river Divie, to the eastward there, evidently with the intention of crossing at a ford a little way above. At first sight there appeared to be little remarkable in this, for he well knew that to be a common track, travelled by all whose route lay through this country, stretching up the south side of the Findhorn. But the drovers and their herd had no sooner passed the Dorback, and gained its western bank, and begun to advance in a direction pointing towards the course of the Findhorn, than Mr. Russel recognised the same Highland party and the same bold leader from whom he had so recently recovered his own cattle. Some of the men who were about him were led, from certain circumstances, to know that the drove of beasts which they now saw had been carried off from Gordonston, the seat of Sir Robert Gordon, about thirty miles distant in the Laigh of Moray. Mr. Russel was in habits of friendship with Sir Robert, and he quickly came to the resolution that he should allow no such hostile and predatory act to be done to him if he could help it, and above all that he should not facilitate it by permitting a passage for the robbers and their booty through his territory. He was here not only in the midst of his own people, but he was, moreover, in the very centre of Lord Moray's estate of Brae-Moray, of which he had the entire management, and accordingly he resolved to avail himself of these circumstances, and he determined immediately to arrest them. With this intention he hastily collected all the dependants who were within his reach, and, before the robbers came up with their booty, he found himself at the head of double their number of well-armed men. When the party arrived within hearing, Mr. Russel hailed the leader, and at once plainly told him that he could not stand by and suffer the cattle of his friend Sir Robert Gordon to be thus harried, far less could he tamely permit them to be thus driven through his farm. He therefore called upon the robber to halt, assuring him that if he offered to advance with his party, or to persist in driving the cattle one step farther, it should be at his own peril, and he must take the consequences; for that nothing but force should compel him to give them way. "Mr. Russel!" cried the leader, stepping before the rest with a haughty air, "this is not what I expected from you after what has already passed between us. You stopped and recovered your own beasts, and nobody could blame you; but, sir, it is not like a gentleman to offer to hinder me from taking cattle from anybody else." "My principles are very different," said Mr. Russel, with great coolness. "I tell you again," cried the little man, "that you will be acting unjustly if you persevere, and that you have no right to do so." "I am determined to persevere notwithstanding," said Mr. Russel, with great strength of emphasis and firmness of expression. "Then, sir, I must caution you that you had better take care what you do," said the Highlander. "I am prepared for all consequences," said Mr. Russel. "Well, well, sir," said the Highlander frowning, "we cannot help it; you are in your own kingdom here, and you must have your own way; but, I bid you take heed--you'll rue this yet,--look well to yourself." So saying, he called to his followers in Gaelic, who, with much apparent dissatisfaction, abandoned the cattle, and the whole party took the road to the hills, muttering dark threats and half-smothered imprecations against Mr. Russel. These denunciations were little heeded, and were probably soon forgotten by him against whom they were uttered, or if they were remembered at all it was only to produce greater vigilance on the part of those who had the charge of his stock. But it so happened that, during the course of the ensuing winter, some express business, connected with his charge of Lord Moray's affairs, carried Mr. Russel to Edinburgh. When he was on his return homewards, he arrived late one stormy and tempestuous night at the solitary inn of Dalnacaerdoch, situated, as everybody knows, at the southern extremity of that part of the great Highland road leading through the savage pass of Drumouachter. Seeing that it was quite hopeless to think of prosecuting his journey that night in such weather, he took a hasty supper and went to bed, with the resolution of rising as early next day as the lack of light at that season would permit. He was accordingly up in the morning, and in the saddle before he could well see his horse's ears, and he set out through the snow for the inn of Dalwhinnie, situated at the northern end of the pass, attended only by a single servant. He had not proceeded far into the wild and savage part of that solitary scene, where high poles, painted black, are erected along the edge of the road to serve as beacons during winter, to prevent travellers from deviating from the road and being engulphed in the snow-wreaths, when by the light of the dawn, he descried a man, at some two or three hundred yards' distance, who came riding towards him. As he came onwards, Mr. Russel had time to remark that he exhibited a thin spare figure which was enveloped in a long dark brown cloak or greatcoat. He rode one of the loose made garrons of the country, of a dirty mouse colour, having no saddle, and no other bridle than a halter made of small birchen twigs, twisted into a sort of rope, called by the common people a woodie. In spite of himself, the recollection of the Highland reaver and his angry threats darted across Mr. Russel's mind; and he was somewhat alarmed at first, when he observed that he who approached carried in his hand, poised by the middle, a very long fowling-piece, of that ancient character and description which gave our ancestors excellent hope of killing a wild duck sitting in the water half-way across a lake of half a mile broad. Mr. Russel instinctively pulled out his pistols and examined their locks, and he made his servant do the same by his; but the inequality of such weapons, compared with that which I have this moment described, was only thereby rendered the more woefully apparent to both of them. Mr. Russel rode slowly but resolutely on however, with his eyes intently watching every motion of him who came, and who was now drawing nearer and nearer to them. The stranger himself seemed to advance cautiously; but no sooner had he come close enough to enable him to recognise a human countenance, than he pushed up his shying steed by the application of ardent and repeated kicks; and, when he had at length succeeded in compelling him forward, to Mr. Russel's no inconsiderable relief, he recognised in him--the landlord of the inn of Dalwhinnie! "Keep us a', I'm glad I ha'e forgathered wi' ye in time, Mr. Russel!" he exclaimed in a south country tone and dialect, and without waiting for the ordinary preliminary salutations. "Why, what's the matter?" demanded Mr. Russel. "Matter!" replied the man; "a matter o' murder, gif I'm no far mistane." "Mercy on me! Who has been murdered?" cried Mr. Russel. "I didna say that ony body was murdered," answered the man; "but, an ye persevere on your road through the pass, I'm thinkin' that somebody will be murdered." "What makes you fancy so?" asked Mr. Russel. "Were ye no to hae been at my hoose last night?" demanded the Dalwhinnie landlord. "I did so intend," said Mr. Russel; "but the road turned out to be so much heavier than I had anticipated, that all I could do was to reach Dalnacaerdoch, and that at a late hour." "It was the yespecial providence o' Heevin that you didna get forrit," said the landlord, throwing up his eyes as if in thanksgiving, "for, if you had, you would have been assuredly a cauld corp at this precious moment." "A corpse!" exclaimed Mr. Russel, "what has put that into your head?" "Troth, as sure as ye are noo sittin' on your horse," replied the landlord, "ye wad hae been murdered, though you had had mair lives nor a cat." "Explain yourself, I entreat you!" said Mr. Russel. "It's an awfu' story," said the landlord, shuddering at the mere recollection of it. "It was at the dead hour o' the night, ye see, whan we war a' sound sleepin' in our beds, we war a' alarumed wi' a sudden noise and rissellin' in the yard, an' afore we kent whar we wuz, the hoose was filled wi' better nor twa dizzen o' great muckle armed hillan'men, wi' blackit faces. Aweel! they lighted great big lunts o' moss-fir at the kitchen fire, and cam' straught to my bedside, brandishin' their pistols and durks, and lookin' as if they wad eat me up.--'Whar's Mr. Russel sleepin'?' cries they.--'Gentlemen,' says I, 'as sure as death, Mr. Russel's no in this hoose.'--'We ken better,' says they, 'we ken he was to be here this night.'--'Some mistak, gentlemen,' says I, 'I'm dootin' that ye maun hae made some mistak, for Mr. Russel's not only no here, but, an' ye'll believe me, troth I didna even expeck him.'--A' this only made them waur. They threatent and swoore at me like very rampawgin deevils, and then they begud to search ilka hole and bore and cranny and corner in the hoose; an' no contented wi' the hoose, they rummaged a' the oothooses, lookin' even into places whaur it was just simply impossible that a very cat could ha'e concealed hersel', an' forcin' me alang wi' them a' the time, half naked, an' near hale dead wi' fear. And syne, whan they could find neither you nor your horses, preserve us a' what a furious hillant yell they did set up!--they war just a'thegither mad wi' rage and disappointment; an' some o' them war for burnin' the very hoose, that they might mak' sure that ye warna lurkin' somewhere aboot it after a'. At length, a stiff, stern wee body, wha seemed to be their captain, seelenced them in a moment; and having spoken to them for some time in Gaelic, their violence was moderated, or rather it seemed to be converted into downright hunger and drouth, for they begud to look for bread and cheese, and ither eatables, and whisky, for themsel's. Weel I wot, I gied them what they wanted wi' gude heart and wull, houpin' to get the sooner quite o' them; and little payment, I trow, did I expeck for my cheer. But what think ye, sir? As I'm a sinner, they honestly paid me every farden o' their shot afore they ga'ed awa." "Have you any notion as to whither they went after they left your house?" demanded Mr. Russel. "Some o' our herds war sayin' that their tracks i' the snaw lay towards Loch Ericht," replied the landlord; "and gif so be the case, I'se warrant that they have darned themsel's in some o' the queer hidy-holes aboot the craigs there awa'. And, I'll be bailed, they'll be ready to come back again or e'er ye ken whaur ye are, to murder you clean oot o' hand; for surely they maun contrive somehoo or ither to ha'e gude information." "It is certainly most strange how they could have known so well what my plans were," said Mr. Russel. "Troth, sir, they're just deevils incarnate," continued the landlord; "but ye maun on no account think o' gaein' on, Mr. Russel, for, gif ye do, ye gang to certain death. Gae ye yere ways back to Blair or Dunkeld, for I'm dootin' ye'll no be safe nae gate else, and I'll send ower into Morayshire for some o' your ain fouk, weel accoutred and furnished, to convoy ye safe hame." Mr. Russel was no coward, but he well knew the nature of the Highlanders he had to deal with. And what could the pistols of two men do against two dozen of well-armed assassins, springing on them at unawares by the way, or attacking them in their beds? After some little consideration, therefore, he deemed it most prudent to take the landlord's advice; and, accordingly, after he had thanked the honest fellow for the zeal he had manifested for his safety, and after the landlord had looked suspiciously around him and scanned the faces of the hills to their very tops with strong signs of apprehension, earnestly praying to God that their interview might not have been overlooked and watched by any of the robbers or their spies, they parted; and Mr. Russel and his servant retraced their steps at a good round pace. After nearly a week's delay at Dunkeld, Mr. Russel was enabled to renew his journey at the head of a well-armed party of between thirty and forty of his own people, who came to escort him. They travelled along with great caution, but they did not perceive the smallest show of hostility till they got into the middle of the Pass of Drumouachter. Then, indeed, they observed that they were reconnoitred from the rough face of one of the hills overhanging the road, by a body of more than twenty armed mountaineers. They seemed to have issued from the recesses of one of those Corries, or ravines, which there yawn over the valley like gashes on the lofty brow of a warrior; and after some minutes apparently spent in consultation, they began to move along the steep acclivity in a line parallel to the road which Mr. Russel pursued. Their dark tartans waved in the wind, and their figures were boldly relieved against the glazed and brilliant surface of the snow they trod on. A certain degree of hesitation seemed to mark all their movements, which appeared to have a manifest reference to those of the party below. Mr. Russel marched on with a steady and resolute pace, his men keeping a sharp lookout in all directions, and being perfectly prepared to resist any sudden attack. But the mountaineers, being conscious of an inferiority of strength which rendered any open attempt on their part quite hopeless, did not venture to assault so large and so well armed a band. After skirting along the hill-sides for five or six miles, they seemed gradually to slacken their pace, till the whole body came to a halt on a prominent point of the mountain, where they remained, following Mr. Russel and his people with their eyes, and probably with their curses also, so long as they remained within sight. Mr. Russel thought it prudent to halt but for a short time at Dalwhinnie; and well was it for him that he did not tarry there all that night, for the house was again surrounded and searched by an overwhelming force, whilst Mr. Russel was urging his way homewards with an expedition that enabled him to reach his residence in perfect safety. Whether a natural or accidental death, or some other cause, put an end to any further attempts on the part of the vindictive mountaineer, I know not; but certain it is, that Mr. Russel was never more troubled either by him or by his people. SCENERY OF THE FINDHORN. Clifford.--In justice to your story, I must say that it is much more interesting than the scene where it was enacted, if we may judge from the specimen at this moment before us. Grant.--Nay, but take the trouble to carry your eyes entirely over the foreground, and behold the sun gleaming afar off yonder on the broad sheet of the Moray Firth, with those bold dark headlands called the Sutors defending the entrance of the Bay of Cromarty beyond, backed by the blue mountains of Ross-shire and Sutherland in the distance. Clifford.--These are indeed features that would give dignity to any scene; but you must admit that this unmeaning flat which stretches everywhere from under our feet is sufficiently tiresome, notwithstanding the laudable efforts that are making to cover it with plantations. Author.--It is monotonous enough, to be sure; but how often do we find inestimable worth concealed under an unpretending exterior. The apparently dull stretch of country before you is a pregnant example of this; for the charms of the river Findhorn that bisects it from west to east are so buried in its bosom as to be quite overlooked from hence. Grant will tell you, that if you were to follow the river upwards through all the mazes of its deep and shadowy glen, you would find that it exhibits scenery of the wildest and most magnificent character. Grant.--Nay, it is hardly fair to refer him to me; for although I have a full impression of its grandeur upon my mind which will not easily be effaced, I can give him no very accurate account of its pools or its streams, as regards their excellence for salmon angling. Clifford.--Pho! none of your jokes, Mr. Grant. Although I like fishing and shooting, you know very well that I enjoy wild nature as much as either of you. Grant.--Ha! ha! ha! I know you do, my dear fellow. Clifford.--And, moreover, I have so much admired the scenery, as well as the fishing-pools of the river lower down, that if what you now speak of equals that with which I am already so familiar, it must be magnificent indeed. Author.--I think that it in many respects surpasses all that you have hitherto seen. In truth, I know no river scenery in Great Britain at all to be compared in sublimity to that of the Findhorn about Ferness. Indeed, it rises more into that great scale of grandeur exhibited by some of the Swiss gorges than anything I have ever met with at home. But you must take the first opportunity of visiting it, Clifford. And then, in addition to the treat that nature will yield you during your ramble, and the good fishing which you will certainly have, I think you will be much gratified by the inspection of that interesting relic of antiquity, The Cairn and Pillar of the Lovers, which you will find there. Clifford.--What! ha! ha! ha! some Pyramus and Thisbe,--some Petrarch and Laura,--among your heroes and heroines of the pemmican, I suppose! Author.--No, no. The lonely obelisk, and the cairn from which it rises, may indeed have stood on the green holm of Ferness, with the rapid Findhorn sweeping around them, for ages. They may have been there whilst the great forests still spread themselves thickly over the country, but you would judge wrong if you supposed them to have co-existed with my savages of the pemmican; for there must have been some considerable approach to civilisation amongst a people who could have cut and transported that great mass of rough-grained sandstone, of which the obelisk is formed, from the nearest quarries of the same rock, some fifteen or twenty miles off, to the spot where it has ever since stood, not to mention the beautiful hieroglyphical carvings with which it has been ornamented. Clifford.--Is there no legend attached to the monument? Grant.--There is; and our friend has woven it into a little poem, which he once repeated to me. Clifford.--Poem! come, let's have it! You need not fear to give it to me now, you know; for there is no birch at hand to punish you for your false quantities. Author.--To tell you the truth, I am quite tired of repeating the story in prose; so, lame though my stanzas may be, I shall prefer risking your criticism. But you must remember, that it is one thing to climb a rugged heathery hill like this, and another thing to mount Parnassus. THE CAIRN OF THE LOVERS. The raven of Denmark stretched his broad wing, And shot his dark flight o'er Moray's fair fields; And Findhorn's wild echoes were heard to ring With ill-omened croak, and the clash of shields. And the yelling shouts of the conflict broil, As Dane and Scot met in mortal toil,-- And cruel and fierce was the battle tide That raged on rocky Findhorn's side; And red was his wave, as it wailed away, By that plain where his slaughtered warriors lay. Yet stark stern in death was each hero's frown! Each fell not till crushed by an hundred foes! But, though hordes of Norsemen had borne them down, Dire vengeance had soothed their dying throes. For the bloody fight had not been won Till drooped to the west the slanting sun, And his golden beams a bright glory shed Around each dying hero's head, And lighted his soul with a cheering ray, E'er his dim eye closed on the parting day. But Findhorn's dark heights, and his wizzard wave, Were lighted anon by far fiercer rays, Calling bosoms abroad, that beat warm and brave, To muster around the tall beacon's blaze. And now, as afar o'er the plains they look, Where glistens with flame each winding brook, Red ruin enwraps both tower and town, And wild Norsemen's shouts reach the beacon Doun; And by shrieks of woe their hearts are wrung, Till each Scottish breast to revenge is strung. Whose steed-tramp resounds down the woody glen? Who bears, as he rides, his proud crest so high, His brow circled with gems, as chief of men, And gold shining bright on his panoply? 'Tis Fergus the King! The broad signal fire, And the Norsemen's ravage, have roused his ire; And, see how his clustering horsemen sweep From the forest dark and the dingle deep! And, hark to the tread of the many feet That crowd to those heights where the waters meet! Full little does Sewyn, the Norse King, know, As his ruthless Danes rifle the peaceful plain, That the Pass of the Dhuie conceals a foe Of far other mould than the shepherd swain. And far other herds, and far other flocks Than shepherds may feed, lie hid by these rocks. He doubts not but all who a spear could wield Have fall'n in the strife of one bloody field. Onward he presses, and, blindly led, Go his Norsemen, with hopes of plunder fed. The current was rapid, the stream was deep, And the cumbered waters foamed high and flashed, As horsemen and foot, from the shore so steep, Through the Dhuie in thick confusion dashed. But scarce were they rid of the rushing tide, Nor yet had they formed on the meadow's side, When by bursting yells the skies were rent, With the gleam of arms glowed the firmament, And down, like the lightning's fiery shower, Came King Fergus' force on King Sewyn's power. And quailed the black raven of Denmark then, And he cowered his wing, and he croaked his fear; And wide with the eagle's scream rang the glen, As eager she snuffed up her feast so near; And each Norseman's heart, though ne'er so bold, With panic-dread grew sick and cold, Nor dared they abide the battle shock, But fled away like some startled flock, Or some scattered herd of timid deer, When the howl of the gaunt mountain wolves they hear. The slaughter was wide, and the vengeance deep, That the Moray-men took of their Danish foes; But yet deeper revenge did Findhorn reap As high, in his anger, his billows rose. For he had wailed that his wave before The dye of his children's life's-blood bore; But now, full glutted with hostile dead, He reared him aloft, shook his oak-crowned head, And, roaring with fearful revelry, He swept off his spoils to his kindred sea. Who sits her and sighs on the castled isle That on Loch-an-Dorbe's dark breast doth float? And why lights her eye with a radiant smile As the moonbeam falls soft on that little boat? A fairy thing it seems to be, It glides o'er the wave so silently; And like such sprites of witching power It vanished beneath a shadowy tower, As its slender side lost the moonbeam's ray, Nor left it one trace of its liquid way. That maiden who sat in the castled isle Scanned that little boat with no idle gaze; And I ween that her eyes with their radiant smile Had hope blent with love in their glowing rays. Malvina she was that maiden fair, King Fergus' daughter, who sat her there. She's gone!--and her pulse may hardly beat, As in silence move her trembling feet To the dungeon where lonely her lover lies, And wastes the night in despairing sighs, The son of King Sewyn in battle ta'en, The gallant Prince Harrold, the brave young Dane. She unlocked the bolts with a master key, And Prince Harrold sprang forth to his lady's side. "Love favours our flight!" softly whispered she, "At the postern stairs doth the boat abide." Then they stole away by the shadowy wall. Yet she sighed to quit her father's hall, And her bosom heaved, and she dropped a tear, Whilst her lover essayed to hush her fear, And she clung to his arm as the little boat Did o'er the wide lake in silence float. 'Twas a right trusty page that gave them way, And he landed them 'neath the greenwood tree, Where tied to the oak was a courser grey; Prince Harrold to saddle sprang merrily. The fair Malvina behind him placed, With snow-white arms her lover embraced. The sun rose to welcome the bonny bride, As they fled them straight to the Findhorn's side; But its stream was swollen and barred their flight, And drove them for refuge to Dulsie's height. "Go, bring me Prince Harrold," King Fergus cried, His royal eyes sparkling with beams of joy, "My daughter Malvina shall be his bride, And Moray be freed from the Dane's annoy. Envoy to me hath King Sewyn sent, And peace shall their bridal knot cement." But Harrold was gone and Malvina fair! Yet a sharp-witted page could teach him where, And quick spoke the boy; for the King had told Such glad tidings, I ween, as made him bold. "To boat!" cried King Fergus, with eager haste, And--"To horse!" when he touched the farther shore, And furious he spurred through the forest waste, As to Findhorn's stream his swift course he bore. The lovers from Dulsie's wooded height Saw Moray's lord coming in kingly might. 'Twas better to tempt the swollen tide, Than captive be torn from his bonny bride. Harrold lifted Malvina to saddle again, And down Dulsie's slope urged his steed amain. Oh, Findhorn shrieked loud to warn them away! But louder yet did the water-fiends yell, Rebellious they laughed at his empty sway, As vainly he strove their wild rage to quell. And the sire's despairing cry was vain, "Malvina! my child! oh, turn again!" But the lovers, twined on the courser grey, Were swept from his outstretchd eyes away, And he smote his bosom and tore his hair As adown the big stream he sought the pair. Why tarries the knight in his lonely way At yon cairn on flowery Ferness holm? Why scans he yon pillar, so rough and grey, That rises from out its rudely-heaped dome? 'Twas there the love-twined youth and maid, Unsevered in death, were sadly laid; And there did King Fergus and Sewyn weep When they found them locked in death's cold sleep, And Findhorn still lingers around their grave, And sighs for their fate with repentant wave. HILL OF THE AITNOCH. Author.--See now how innumerable the stumps of the trees are here. They are peeping up through the moss in every direction. Conceive what a thick pine wood this must have once been. Grant.--You were certainly guilty of no great exaggeration when you said that a deer could hardly have penetrated it whilst it was standing in all its gloomy grandeur. Clifford.--It is well for our comfort that we can now pass so easily over its fallen majesty; and methinks the sooner we escape from so dreary a scene the better. Author.--Let us keep more this way, then. A short walk will now bring us to the southern brow of the hill, whence a new scene will open on us. Clifford, who first reaches the point.--Ha! what have we here? A dark lake,--its waves rolling sluggishly eastward, and breaking gently on a narrow stripe of yellow gravelly beach,--bare rocky hills without a tree,--and an island covered with the ruins of a very extensive castle. What do you call this wild and lonely scene? Author.--That is Loch-an-Dorbe, with its ruined castle. Grant.--The remains of the castle seem to be very extensive. Author.--They are said to occupy a space of not less than an hundred yards square. Clifford.--This, then, is the very castle whence your Danish prince escaped with his lady-love. Let me tell you, that if their grey steed had not gone with a somewhat freer pace than your verses do, the old king of the castle would have caught them ere they had covered half the way to Dulsie. Grant.--I'll warrant me those huge round towers and massive curtains have many strange and eventful histories attached to them. Clifford.--Come, Signore Cicerone, prelect to us about it, if you please. Author.--Loch-an-Dorbe was one of the few royal or national fortresses which Scotland possessed. When Edward the First traversed this country with his army in 1303, he came to Loch-an-Dorbe in the month of September, and occupied it for some time; and Edward the Third considered it as a place of so much importance, that he and Edward Baliol marched all the way from Perth to its relief in August, 1336, when Catherine de Beaumont, widow of David de Hastings, Earl of Athol, and her son were besieged in it by the brave Sir Andrew Moray, then Governor of Scotland. Sir Andrew would have been overwhelmed by the superior force of the English monarch, had he not baffled pursuit by crossing the river Findhorn at the celebrated pass, the Brig of Randolph, so called, as you know, from Randolph, Earl of Moray, Regent of Scotland. Another important historical fact is connected with this castle. It was here that William Bullock was confined. After abandoning the cause of Baliol, and after having risen to high honours under David the Second, he was enviously and maliciously accused of treason; and having been thrown into one of the dungeons within these massive walls, he was cruelly allowed to perish of cold and hunger. We also know that the famous Alexander Stewart, son of King Robert the Second, and who, from his ferocious disposition, was surnamed the Wolf of Badenoch, possessed and inhabited this castle. It was from hence he is supposed to have issued when he made his famous descent into the low country of Moray, and fired the Cathedral of Elgin, reducing that magnificent structure, that speculum patriæ et decus regni, as it was called, and many other religious edifices in the town, to a heap of ruins. Clifford.--Oh, you have told us enough, in all conscience, about that wild beast; "adesso parliamo d'altro." Author.--I am at a stand, so far as the history of Loch-an-Dorbe is concerned, excepting that I may add, that in more recent times it was possessed by the Earls of Moray, and passed from their hands into those of the Campbells of Cawdor, and thence to the Grants of Grant. I have seen at Cawdor Castle a massive iron gate, believed to have been that of the Castle of Loch-an-Dorbe, which tradition says was carried off from thence by Sir Donald Campbell of Cawdor, who bore it on his back all the way across the moors till he set it down where it is now in use, the distance being not less than some twelve or fifteen miles. But this is a story much too marvellous for belief in these matter-of-fact days of ours. Clifford.--It is incredible enough, to be sure. Yet I have a story, a well authenticated story too, which I think will almost match it. Grant.--Out with it then. Clifford.--No, I promise you you don't get my stories at so very easy a rate; and for this simple reason, that they are by no means so plenty as yours. Besides, I have just been thinking that with this warm breeze, that so gently ripples the surface of the lake, I could kill a handsome dish of trouts this afternoon, if trouts there be within its watery world. Why might we not loiter off the remainder of the day about this lake? Grant.--I like the idea much. I perceive a nice looking cottage on the other side, where I dare to say we may find lodging for the night. Author.--That cottage is a shooting-lodge belonging to the proprietor; and were he there in person, we should not lack a kind and hospitable reception. But at present its doors are locked, and its rooms void. Clifford.--There is a house, then, here on the nearer shore, immediately below us; why should we not go there? Author.--'Tis but a smoky uncomfortable place; but it may do well enough for a shelter for one night, and if you are content to abide there, so am I. Clifford.--Pho! as to comfort, I am a soldier, and can rough it. I have lain out all night to kill the enemies of my country, and would do no less at any time for a good day's shooting or fishing. Author, addressing gilly, who was leading a pony with panniers,--Go down thither, then, and see our quarters made as comfortable as may be. Clifford.--Aye, that will do. Come along, let us to work without more hesitation or talk. I am all impatience. Having sent round to borrow the proprietor's boat, we embarked on the lake, and were soon intensely occupied in all the exciting anxieties of the angle. Our success was various and unequal, like that of man in the great lottery of human life. It was not always when basking in the sunshine that we were most successful. Sometimes a warm shadow would cross the lake, and the trouts would rise and hook themselves three at a time on our lines. The bottom of the boat became alive, and shone and glittered with the growing numbers of our golden and silver captives. Anon, every cast we made was in vain; and then, when the foolish fish began again to bite, our eagerness was such, that we forgot each other's lines; and the loss of hooks, the destruction of the finer parts of our tackle, and the fracture of delicate top pieces, became the result of our numerous and grievous entanglements. Poor Clifford could not account for a sudden cessation of his luck at the very time that ours appeared to be doubled, and he went on in no very good humour, flogging the water unsuccessfully, whilst Grant and I were catching two and three at each cast; till at last, to his great chagrin, he found that he had been all the while fishing without flies, which were uselessly and most provokingly sticking in the rough coat and around the neck and head of my great Newfoundland dog Bronte, to the poor brute's great inconvenience. He did not fail to make up very quickly for this bad luck, however. Our evening was altogether most delightfully spent; for when we grew tired of the angle, we landed on the island, and wandered among the extensive ruins which cover it. We then sat on the mouldering walls of the castle till we saw the sun sink behind the western hill; after which we returned to the shore, and sought our place of retreat. It was a small old-fashioned house, once used as a sort of hunting lodge. It consisted of two stories, with little else than one ruinous room in each, the whole being filled with the great smoke that arose from the kitchen fire. But the exercise we had had, added to our hunger, prepared us for being pleased with any accommodation; and after a supper well eked out by a fritto of the delicious trouts we had taken, we drew our stools around the fire, to enjoy a temperate cup of pure Highland whisky, diluted with water from a neighbouring spring. Grant.--Now for your story, Clifford. Clifford.--'Tis of a famous Highlander, called John Mackay, of Ross-shire. I got the narrative, with all its nationalities, from an old Scottish brother officer of mine, a certain major of the name of Macmillan, who knew the hero of it well. Grant.--I should have hardly looked for such a story from a Sassenach like you. Clifford.--Tut. You know very well that my mother was a Highlandwoman, and that I have moreover always had a strong feeling for Scotland, and especially for the Highlands, as well as for everything connected with these romantic regions, where, let me tell you, I have had some wanderings as well as you. Author.--We admit your right to tell your story. So now, come away with it without further preface. Clifford.--If I tell you anything, I must very nearly tell you all honest John's life. Have you patience for so long a narrative? Grant.--We shall give you the full duration of the burning of these moss-fir faggots. Will that serve you? Clifford.--I think my story will have expired before them. And by that time we shall all be nearly ready for our blankets and heather; for such, I presume, will be our fate to-night. LEGEND OF JOHN MACKAY OF ROSS-SHIRE, CALLED IAN MORE ARRACH, OR BIG JOHN THE RENTER OF THE MILK OF THE COWS. My old Highland major told me, what perhaps you know better than I do, I mean, that some half century or more ago, before sheep were quite so much in fashion in the Highlands as I believe they now are, and when cattle were the only great staple of the country, the proprietors of the glens had them always well filled with cows. In those times it was the custom in Ross-shire to allow one calf only to be reared for each two cows of the herd. Each calf with its pair of cows was called a Cauret; and these caurets were let to renters, who, as they might find it most advisable, took one or more of them in lease, as it were, according as their circumstances might dictate; and the renter being obliged to rear one calf for the landlord for each cauret he held, he was allowed the remainder of the milk for his own share of the profit. These milk-renters were called arrachs; and John Mackay, the hero of my story, was called Ian More Arrach, from his lofty stature, and from his being one of these milk-renters. According to my informant the major, who personally knew him, Ian well merited the addition of More; for he declared that he was the most powerful man he had ever beheld. It so happened that Ian went down on one occasion into Strath-Connan, to attend a great market or fair that was held there, probably to dispose of his cheese; and as he was wandering about after his business was over, his eye was caught, exactly like those of some of our simple trouts of the lake here, by the red and tinsel, and silk and wool, and feather glories of a recruiting sergeant and his party. He had never seen anything of the kind before, and he stood staring at them in wonderment as they passed. Nor did his solid and substantial form fail to fill the sergeant's eye in its turn; but if I am to give you a simile illustrative of the manner in which it did so, I must say that it was in the same way that the plump form of a well-fed trout might fill the greedy eye of a gaunt pike. He resolved to have him as a recruit. The party was accordingly halted immediately opposite to the spot where Ian was standing; and after one or two shrill shrieks of the fife, and a long roll of the drum, the martial orator began an oration, which lasted a good half-hour, in which he largely expatiated on the glories of a soldier's life, and the riches and honours it was certain one day or other to shower on the heads of all those who embraced it. The greater part of this harangue was lost upon Ian More Arrach, partly because he but very imperfectly understood English, and partly because his senses were too much lost in admiration. But when the grand scarlet-coated gentleman approached him with a smiling air, and gaily slapping him on the back, exclaimed,-- "Come along with us, my brave fellow, and taste the good beef and mustard, and other provender, that King George so liberally provides for us gentlemen of his army, and drink his Majesty's health with us in his own liquor. Come, and see how jollily we soldiers live!" His wits returned to him at once, and he quickly understood enough of what was said to him, to make him grin from ear to ear, till every tooth in his head was seen to manifest its own particular unmingled satisfaction, and his morning's walk from his distant mountain residence having wonderfully sharpened his appetite, he followed the sergeant into a booth with all manner of alacrity, and quietly took his seat at a table that groaned beneath an enormous round of beef, flanked by other eatables, on which the hungry recruits fell pell-mell, and in demolishing which Ian rendered them his best assistance. The booth or tent was constructed, as such things usually are, of some old blankets stitched together, and hung over a cross-stick, that was tied horizontally to the tops of two poles fixed upright in the ground. It was the ambulatory tavern of one of those travelling ale and spirit sellers who journey from one fair or market to another, for the charitable purpose of vending their victuals and drink to the hungry and thirsty who can afford to pay for them. The space around the interior of the worsted walls of this confined place was occupied with boxes, vessels, and barrels of various kinds; and whilst the landlord, a knock-kneed cheeseparing of a man, who had once been a tailor, sat at his ease in one corner reckoning his gains, his wife, a fat, bustling, red-nosed little woman, was continually running to and fro to serve the table with liquor. Many were the loyal toasts given, and they were readily drank by Ian, more, perhaps, from relish of the good stuff that washed them down, than from any great perception he had of their intrinsic merit. His head was by no means a weak one. But the sergeant and his assistants were too well acquainted with all the tricks of their trade not to take such measures as made him unwittingly swallow three or four times as much liquor as they did. "Now, my gallant Highlander," exclaimed the sergeant, when he thought him sufficiently wound up for his purpose, "see how nobly his Majesty uses us. Starve who may, we never want for plenty. But this is not all. Hold out your hand, my brave fellow. See, here is a shilling with King George's glorious countenance upon it. He sends you this in his own name, as a mark of his especial favour and regard for you." "Fod, but she wonders tat sae big an' braw a man as ta King wad be thinkin' on Ian Arrach at a', at a'," said the Highlander, surveying the shilling as it lay in the palm of his hand; "but troth, she wonders a hantel mair, tat sin King Shorge was sendin' ony sing till her ava, she didna send her a guinea fan her hand was in her sporran at ony rate. But sic as it be, she taks it kind o' ta man," and saying so, he quietly transferred into his own sporran that which he believed to have come from the King's. "That shilling is but an arnest of all the golden guineas he will by and bye give you," said the sergeant; "not to mention all those bags of gold, and jewels, and watches which he will give you his gracious leave to take from his enemies, after you shall have cut their throats." "Tut, tut, but she no be fond o' cuttin' trotts," replied Ian; "she no be good at tat trade at a', at a'." "Ha! no fears but you will learn that trade fast enough," said the sergeant. "You mountaineers generally do. You are raw yet; but wait till you have beheld my glorious example--wait till you have seen me sheer off half a dozen heads or so, as I have often done, of a morning before breakfast, and you will see that there is nothing more simple." "Och, och," exclaimed Ian, with a shrug of his shoulders that spoke volumes. "Aye, aye," continued the sergeant, "'tis true you cannot expect that at the very first offer you are to be able to take off your heads quite so clean at a blow as I can do. Indeed, I am rather considered a rare one at taking off heads. For example, I remember that I once happened to take a French grenadier company in flank, when, with the very first slash of my sword, I cut clean through the necks of the three first file of men, front rank and rear rank, making no less than six heads off at the first sweep. And it was well for the company that they happened only to be formed two deep at the time, for if they had been three deep, no less than nine heads must have gone." "Keep us a'!" cried some of the wondering recruits. "Nay," continued the sergeant; "had it not been for the unlucky accident that by some mistake the fourth front rank man was a leetle shorter than the other, so that the sword encountered his chin-bone, the fourth file would have been beheaded like the rest." "Och, och!" cried Ian again. "But," continued the sergeant, "as I said before, though you cannot expect to take up this matter by nattral instinck, as it were, yet I'll be bail that a big stout souple fellow like you will not see a month's sarvice before you will shave off a head as easily as I shave this here piece of cheese, and----confound it, I have cut my thumb half through." "Her nanesell wunna be meddlin' wi' ony siccan bluidy wark," said Ian, shaking his head, and shrugging his shoulders. "She no be wantan' to be a boutcher. But, noo," added he, lifting up a huge can of ale, "she be biddin' ye a' gude evenin', shentilmans, and gude hells, and King Shorge gude hells, an' mony sanks to ye a'; and tell King Shorge she sall keep her bit shullin' on a string tied round her neck for a bonny die." And so rising up, Ian put the ale can to his head, and drained it slowly to the bottom. "But, my good fellow," said the sergeant, who had been occupied, whilst Ian's draught lasted, in tying up his thumb in a handkerchief and giving private signals to his party, "you are joking about bidding us good evening--we cannot part with you so soon." "Troth she maun be goin' her ways home," said Ian, "she has a far gate to traivil." "Stuff!" cried the sergeant; "surely you cannot have forgotten that you have taken King George's money, and that you have now the great privilege of holding the honourable and lucrative situation of a gentleman private in his Majesty's infantry, having been duly and volunteerly enlisted before all these here witnesses." "Ou, na," said Ian gravely and seriously; "she didna list--na, na, she didna list; troth na. So wussin' ta gude company's gude hells wanss more, an' King Shorge's hells, she maun just be goin' for she has a lang gate o' hill afore her." "Nay, master, we can't exactly part with you so easily," said the sergeant, rising up. "You are my recruit, and you must go nowhere without my leave." "Hoot, toots," replied Ian, making one step towards the door of the booth; "an' she has her nane leave, troth, she'll no be axan' ony ither." "I arrest you in the King's name!" said the sergeant, laying hold of Ian by the breast. "Troth, she wudna be wussin' to hort her," said Ian, lifting up the sergeant like a child before he knew where he was; "but sit her doon tere, oot o' ta way, till her nanesell redds hersell of ta lave, and wuns awa'." Making two strides with his burden towards a large cask of ale that stood on end in one corner of the place, he set the gallant hero down so forcibly on the top of it, that the crazy rotten boards gave way, and he was crammed backwards, in a doubled up position, into the yawning mouth of the profound, whilst surges of beer boiled and frothed up around him. Ian would have charitably relieved the man from so disagreeable a situation, which was by no means that which he had intended him to occupy; but, ere he wist, he was assailed by the whole party like a swarm of bees. The place of strife was sufficiently narrow, a circumstance much in favour of the light troops who now made a simultaneous movement on him, with the intention of prostrating him on the ground, but he stood like a colossus, and nothing could budge him; whilst, at the same time, he never dealt a single blow as if at all in anger, but ever and anon, as his hands became so far liberated as to enable him to seize on one of his assailants, he wrenched him away from his own person, and tossed him from him, either forth of the tent door, or as far at least as its bounds would allow, some falling among the hampers and boxes--some falling like a shower upon the poor owners of the booth--and some falling upon the unfortunate sergeant. The red-nosed priestess of this fragile temple of Bacchus shrieked in sweet harmony with the groans of the knock-kneed and broken-down tailor, and in the midst of the melee, one unhappy recruit, who was winging his way through the air from the powerful projectile force of Ian More, came like a chain-shot against the upright poles of the tent--the equilibrium of its whole system was destroyed--down came the cross-beam--the covering blankets collapsed and sank,--and, in a moment, nothing appeared to the eyes of those without but a mighty heap, that heaved and groaned underneath like some volcanic mountain in labour previous to an eruption. And an eruption to be sure there was; for, to the great astonishment of the whole market people, Ian More Arrach's head suddenly appeared through a rent that took place in the rotten blanket, with his face in a red hot state of perspiration, and his mouth gasping for breath. After panting like a porpoise for a few seconds, he made a violent effort, reared himself upon his legs, and thrusting his feet out at the aperture which had served as a door to the tent, he fled away with all the effect of a fellucca under a press of sail, buffeting his way through the multitude of people and cattle, as a vessel would toss aside the opposing billows; and then shooting like a meteor up the side of the mountain that flanked the strath, he left his flowing drapery behind him in fragments and shreds adhering to every bush he passed by, bounded like a stag over its sky line, and disappeared from the astonished eyes of the beholders. It were vain to attempt to describe the re-organisation of the discomfited troops, who, when their strange covering was thus miraculously removed, arose singly from the ground utterly confounded, and began to move about limping and cursing amidst the bitter wailings of the unhappy people whose frail dwelling had so marvellously fled from them. The attention of the party was first called to their gallant commander, who, with some difficulty, was extracted from the mouth of the beer barrel, dripping like a toast from a tankard. His rage may be conceived better than told. His honour had been tarnished, and his interest put in jeopardy. He, whose stirring tales of desperate deeds of arms and fearful carnage had so often extended the jaws of the Highland rustics whom he had kidnapped, and raised their very bonnets on the points of their bristling hair with wonder,--who could devour fire as it issued from the mouth of a cannon,--and who could contend single-handed against a dozen of foes, to be so unceremoniously crammed, by the arm of one man, into a beer barrel, in the presence of those very recruits, and to be afterwards basely extracted from it before the eyes of the many who had listened to his boastful harangues. And then, moreover, to be choused out of the anticipated fruits of his wily hospitality, as well as of a silver shilling, by the flight of the broad-shouldered Celt, whom he thought he had secured, and of whom he expected to have made so handsome a profit. All this was not to be borne, and, accordingly, wide as was Ross-shire, he determined most indefatigably to search every inch of it until he should again lay hands on him. From the inquiries made on the spot, it was considered as certain that Ian More had gone directly home to his lonely bothy, in a high and solitary valley some dozen of miles or so from the place where they then were; and as one of the recruits knew the mountain tracks well enough to act as guide, he collected the whole of his forces, amounting to nearly double the number of those who had been engaged in the battle of the booth, and after having refreshed and fortified them and himself with all manner of available stimuli, he put himself at their head, and set forward on his expedition at such an hour of the night as might enable them to reach the dwelling of Ian More Arrach before he was likely to leave it in the morning in pursuit of his daily occupation. Ian More was but little acquainted with the tricks of this world; and no wonder, for the habitation in which he lived, and from which he rarely migrated, was situated in one of those desert glens which are to be found far up in the mountains, where they nurse and perhaps give birth to the minuter branches of those streams, which, running together in numbers, and accumulating as they roll onwards through wider and larger valleys, go on expanding with the opening country until they unite to water the extended and fertile plains in some broad and important river. The ascent to the little territory of which Ian More was the solitary sovereign was by a steep and narrow ravine among rocks, down which the burn raged against the opposing angles, like a wayward child that frets and fumes against every little obstacle that occurs to the indulgence of its wishes. Higher up its course was cheerful and placid, like the countenance of the same child, perhaps, when in the best humour and in the full enjoyment for the time being of all its desires, laughing as it went its way among water-lilies, ranunculuses, and yellow marigolds, meandering quietly through a deep and well-swarded soil that arose from either side of it in a gently curving slope to the base of two precipitous walls of rock, within the shelter of which the caurets of Ian More had ample pasture for a stretch of about a quarter of a mile upwards to the spot where the cliffs, rising in altitude, and apparently unscalable, shut in the glen in a natural amphitheatre. There the burn issued from a small circular lochan; and it was on the farther margin of this piece of water, and immediately at the foot of the crags behind it, that the small sod hovel of Ian More Arrach was placed, so insignificant a speck amid the vastness of the surrounding features of nature as to be hardly distinguished from the rock itself, especially when approached, as it now was, in the grey light of the morning, until the sergeant and his party had come very near to it. The leader of the enterprise felt that no time was to be lost in a survey, lest, whilst they were hesitating, Ian might perceive them, and again make his escape. A simultaneous rush, therefore, was made for the door; but, albeit that Ian generally left it unfastened, he had somehow or other been led to secure it on this occasion, by lifting a stone of no ordinary size, which usually served him as a seat, and placing it as a barricade against it on the inside. Their first attempt to force it being thus rendered altogether unavailing,-- "John Mackay, otherwise Ian More Arrach, open to us in the name of King George," cried the sergeant, standing at the full length of his pike from the door, and poking against it with the point of the weapon. "Fat wud King Shorge hae wi' Ian More," demanded the Highlander. "Come, open the door and surrender peaceably," cried the sergeant; "you are the King's lawful recruit. You have been guilty of mutiny and desartion; but if you will surrender at discretion, and come quietly along with us, it is not unlikely that, in consideration of your being as yet untaught, and still half a savage, you may not be exactly shot this bout, though it is but little marcy you desarve, considering how confoundedly my back aches with the rough treatment I had from you. Keep close to the door, my lads," continued he, sinking his voice, "and be ready to spring on him the moment he comes out." Whilst the sergeant yet spoke, the whole hovel began to heave like some vast animal agonised with internal throes. The men of the party stood aghast for one moment, and in the next the back wall of the sod edifice was hurled outwards, and the roof, losing its support, fell inwards, raising a cloud of dust so dense as utterly to conceal for a time the individual who was the cause and instrument of its destruction. "Ha! look sharp, my lads!" cried the sergeant; "be on your mettle!" The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the herculean form of Ian More arose before his eyes from amidst the debris and dust, as did the figure of the Genii from the jar before those of the fisherman in the Eastern fable. "There he is, by Jupiter!" cried the sergeant, involuntarily retreating a step or two. "On him--on him, and seize him, my brave boys!" The nature of the spot seemed to forbid all hope of escape. The party blocked up the space in front of the bothy, and the narrow stripe of ground that stretched along between the lake on the one hand, and the cliffs on the other, grew more and more confined as it ran backwards, until it disappeared altogether at a point about an hundred yards distant, where the crags rose sheer up out of the water. In this direction Ian More moved slowly off, after throwing on the throng of his assailants a grim smile, which, however, had more of pity than of anger in it. Before he had taken a dozen steps the most forward of the party were at his skirts. He turned smartly round, and suddenly catching up the first man in his arms, he sent him spinning through the air into the lake as if he had been a puppy dog. The next in succession was seized with astonishment, but before he could shake himself free of it, he was seized by something more formidable, I mean by the iron hands of Ian More, who flung him also far amid the waters after his fellow. A whole knot of those who followed them sprang upon him at once, but he patted them off, one after another, as if they had been so many flies, and that he had been afraid to hurt them; but, as it was impossible for him to accommodate his hits with mathematical precision to the gentleness of his intentions, some of the individuals who received them bore the marks of them for many a day afterwards. The ardour of the attack became infinitely cooled down. But still there were certain fiery spirits who coveted glory. These, as they came boldly up, successively shared the fate of those who had gone before them. Some were stretched out, as chance threw them, to measure their dimensions on the terra firma, whilst others were hurled hissing hot into the lake, where they were left at leisure to form some estimate of their own specific gravity in a depth of water which was just shallow enough to save them from drowning. Meanwhile, the object of their attack continued to stalk slowly onwards at intervals, smiling on them from time to time, as he turned to survey the shattered remains of the attacking army that now followed him at a respectful distance, and halted every time he faced them. The sergeant, like an able general, kept poking them on in the rear with his pike, and upbraiding them for their cowardice. Meanwhile Ian gradually gained ground on them, and having produced an interval of some twenty or thirty yards between himself and them, just as they thought that he had arrived at a point where farther retreat was impossible, he suddenly disappeared into a crack in the face of the cliff, hitherto unobserved, and on reaching the place they found that the fearless mountaineer had made his slippery way up the chimney-like cleft, amidst the white foam of a descending rill that was one of the main feeders of the lochan, into which it poured. "The feller has vanished into the clouds," said the sergeant, shuddering with horror as he looked up the perilous rocky funnel, and, at the same time, secretly congratulating himself that Ian had not stood to bay. "He has vanished into the clouds, just out of our very hands, as I may say. Who was to think of there being any such ape's ladder as this here?" The party returned, sullen and discomfited, to the strath, and their leader now gave up all hopes of capturing Ian More Arrach either by stratagem or force. But his thirst for the large sum which he expected to realise by producing such a man at headquarters rendered him quite restless and unremitting in his inquiries, the result of which was, that he found out that Lord Seaforth, then, I believe, Lord Lieutenant of the County, might do something towards apprehending the runaway. He accordingly waited on his lordship to request his interference for procuring the seizure of John Mackay, surnamed Ian More Arrach, a deserter from His Majesty's service. Lord Seaforth inquired into the case, and believing that the man had been fairly enlisted, he procured his immediate appearance at Brahan Castle, by going the right way to work with him. There, it so happened, that Lord Rae was at that time a visitor, and Lord Seaforth called in his aid to work upon Ian More, who bowed to the ground in submission to the wishes of his chief. "This is an unlucky business, Ian More," said Lord Rae, "it seems that you have deserted from the King's service, after having accepted his money, and that, moreover, you have twice deforced the officer and party. Your case, I fear, is a bad one. Depend upon it, they will have you if it should cost them the sending of a whole regiment after you; and then, if you give them so much trouble, no one can say what may be the consequence. Take my advice and give yourself up quietly. I shall write to your commanding officer in such terms as will save you from any very bad consequences; and with the recommendations which you shall have, there is no saying but you may be an officer ere long. All the Mackays are brave fellows; and if all I have heard be true, it appears that you are no disgrace to the name." Ian was too proud of the interest taken in him by his noble chief, to dispute his advice or wishes for one moment. He would have sacrificed his life for him. And accordingly, abandoning his mountain-glen and his caurets, he surrendered himself to the sergeant, who implicitly obeyed the instructions he received from Lord Rae to treat him kindly, particularly as they were backed up with a handsome douceur; and Ian was soon afterwards embarked to join his regiment, then quartered in Guernsey. The regiment that Ian More was attached to was almost entirely a new levy, and the recruits were speedily put on garrison duty, frivolous perhaps in itself, but probably given to them more as a lesson, in order that they might become familiar with it, than from any absolute necessity for it. It so happened, that the first guard that Ian mounted, he was planted as a night sentinel on the Queen's Battery. The instructions given to his particular post were to take especial care that no injury should happen to a certain six-pounder, which there rested on its carriage; and when the corporal of the guard marched Ian up as a relief, he laughed heartily to hear the earnest assurances which he gave, in answer to the instructions he received from the man he was relieving, "Tat not a bonn o' ta body o' ta wee gunnie sould be hurt, at a', at a', while he had ta care o' her." And Ian kept his word; for he watched over the beautiful little piece of ordnance with the greatest solicitude. It so happened, however, that whilst he was walking his lonely round, a heavy shower of rain began to fall, and a bitter freezing blast soon converted every particle of it into a separate cake of ice, which cut against his nose and eyes, and nearly scarified his face, so that much as he had been accustomed to the snarling climate of the higher regions of the interior of Scotland, he felt as if he would lose his eyesight from the inclemency of the weather; and then he began to reason that if he should lose his eyesight, how could he take care of the gun? His anxiety for the safety of his charge, united to a certain desire for his own comfort, induced him gravely to consider what was best to be done. He surveyed the gun, and as he did so, he began to think that it was extremely absurd that he should be standing by its side for two long hours, whilst he might so easily provide for its security in some place of shelter; and accordingly he quickly removed it from its carriage, and poising it very adroitly on his shoulder, he carried it deliberately away. Strong as Ian was, the position and the weight of the six-pounder, considerably more than half a ton, compelled him to walk with a stiff mien and a solemn, measured, and heavy tread. He had to pass by two or three sentinels. These were all raw unformed recruits like himself, and full of Highland superstitions. Each of them challenged him in succession as his footstep approached; but Ian was too much intent on keeping his burden properly balanced to be able to reply. He moved on steadily and silently therefore, with his eyeballs protruded and fixed, from the exertion he was making, and with his whole countenance wearing a strange and portentous expression of anxiety, which was heightened by a certain pale blue light that fell upon it from one part of the stormy sky. Instead of attempting to oppose or to arrest such a phantom, which came upon them in the midst of the tempest like some unearthly being which had been busied in the very creation of it, each sentry fled before it, and the whole rampart was speedily cleared. It was not many minutes after this that the visiting sergeant went his rounds. To his great surprise, he was not challenged by the sentry upon Ian More's post; and to his still greater astonishment, he was permitted to advance with impunity till he discovered that Ian More was not there. But what was yet most wonderful of all the gun of which he was the especial guardian was gone. "Lord ha' mercy on us!" exclaimed the corporal, "I see'd the man planted here myself alongside the piece of ordnance; what can have become of them both?" "Tis mortal strange," said the sergeant. "Do you stand fast here, corporal, till we go down the rampart a bit, to see if we can see anything." "Nay, with your leave, sergeant," said the corporal, "I see no use in leaving me here to face the devil. Had we not better go and report this strange matter to the officer of the guard?" "Nonsense,--obey my orders; and if you do see the devil, be sure you make him give you the countersign," said the sergeant, who had had all such fears rubbed off by a long life of hard service. On walked the sergeant along the rampart. The other sentries were gone also. One man only he at last found, and him he dragged forth from under a gun-carriage. "Why have you deserted your post, you trembling wretch?" demanded the sergeant. "Did you not see it, then?" said the man, with a terrified look. "See what?" asked the sergeant. "The devil, in the shape of Ian More Arrach, with his face like a flaming furnace, shouldering a four-and-twenty pounder," replied the man; "och, it was a terrible sight." "By jingo, my boy, your back will be made a worse spectacle of before long, if I don't mistake," said the sergeant. By this time a buzz of voices was heard. The guard had been alarmed by the fugitive sentries, whose fright had carried them with ghastly looks to the guard-room. The guard had alarmed the garrison, and the whole place was thrown into confusion. Soldiers, non-commissioned officers, and officers, were seen running and heard vociferating in all directions, lanterns and flambeaux were everywhere flitting about like fire-flies, and soldiers' wives and children were heard screaming and crying. The cause of the tumult was reported in a thousand different ways. Some of the least rational of the women and juveniles even believed and asserted that an enemy had landed on the island; whilst those who really were aware that the true cause of the uproar was Ian More's mysterious disappearance, were employed in searching everywhere for him and the six-pounder; but he was nowhere to be found, and wonder and astonishment multiplied at every step. At length the tumult rose to such a height that the commanding officer was roused, and hurrying on his clothes, he came running to the Queen's Battery to know what all the hubbub was about. The place was filled with a crowd of all ranks, each individual of which was ready to hazard his own conjecture in explanation of this most unaccountable event. All gave way at the colonel's approach. After hearing what had happened, he inquired into the circumstances so far as they were known; he listened calmly and attentively to the various accounts of those who had been making ineffectual search, and having heard all of them patiently to an end-- "This is very strange," said he; "but well as you have searched, it appears to me that none of you seem to have ever thought of looking for him in his barrack-room. Let us go there." Off went the colonel accordingly to the barrack-room, followed by as many curious officers and soldiers as could well crowd after him; and there, to be sure, snug in bed, and sound asleep, lay Ian More Arrach, with the piece of artillery in his arms, and his cheek close to the muzzle of it, which was sticking out from under the blanket that covered both of them. The spectacle was too ridiculous even for the colonel's gravity. He and all around him gave way to uncontrollable bursts of laughter, that speedily awaked Ian from the deep sleep in which he was plunged. He stared around him with astonishment. "What made you leave your post, you rascal?" demanded the sergeant of the guard, so much provoked as to forget himself before his commanding officer. "Nay, nay," said the colonel, who already knew something of Ian, from the letter which he had received from his chief, "you cannot say that he has left his post; for you see he has taken his post along with him." "Is na ta wee bit gunnie as weil aside her nanesell here?" said Ian, with an innocent smile. "Is she na mockell better here aside her nanesell, nor wi' her nanesell stannin' cauld an' weet aside her yonder on ta Pattry?" "Well, well," said the colonel, after a hearty laugh. "But how did you manage to bring the gun here?" "Ou troth her nanesell carried her," replied Ian. "Come, then," said the colonel, "if you will instantly carry it back again to the place whence you took it, nothing more shall be said about it." "Toots! but she'll soon do tat," said Ian, starting out of bed, and immediately raising the gun to his shoulder, he set out with it, followed by the colonel and every one within reach; and, to the great astonishment of all of them, he marched slowly and steadily towards the battery with it, and replaced it on its carriage, amidst the loud cheers of all who beheld him. As Ian was naturally a quiet, sober, peaceable, and well-behaved man, a thorough knowledge of his duty soon converted him into a most invaluable soldier; and nature having made him a perfect model, both as to mould and symmetry of form, the colonel, who took a peculiar fancy to him, soon saw that he was altogether too tall and fine looking a man to be kept in the ranks. Accordingly he had him struck off from the ordinary routine of domestic duty, and drilled as a fugleman, in which distinguished situation Ian continued to figure until his services were terminated by an unlucky accident. It happened one evening that the colonel of an English regiment dined at the mess of the Highland corps. In the course of conversation this gentleman offered a bet that he had a man who would beat any individual who could be picked from among the Highlanders. One of the Highland officers immediately took him up, and engaged to produce a man to meet the English champion next morning. By break of day, therefore, he sent for Ian More Arrach, and told him what had occurred, and then added--"You are to be my man, Ian; and I think it will be no hard thing for you who shouldered the six-pounder to pound this boasting pock-pudding." "Troth na," said Ian, shaking his head, "ta pock-pudden no done her nae ill,--fat for wad she be fighten her? Troth her honour may e'en fight ta man hersell, for her nanesell wull no be doin' nae siccan a thing." "Tut! nonsense, man," said the officer, "you must fight him, aye and lick him too; and you shall not only carry off the honour, but you shall have a handsome purse of money for doing so." "Na, na," said Ian, "ta man no dune her nae ill ava, an she'll no be fighten for ony bodey's siller but King Shorge's." "Surely you're not afraid of him," said the officer, trying to rouse his pride. "Hout na!" replied Ian More, with a calm good humoured smile; "she no be feart for no man livin'." "So you won't fight," said the officer. "Troth na," said Ian, "she canna be fighten wissout nae raison." "Surely your own honour, the honour of the regiment, the honour of Scotland, the purse of gold, and my wishes thus earnestly expressed, ought to be reasons enough with you. But since you refuse, I must go to Alister Mackay; he will have no such scruples, I'll warrant me." This last observation was a master-stroke of policy on the part of the officer. Alister Mackay was a stout athletic young man; but he was by no means a match for the English prize-fighter. Nor did the officer mean that he should be opposed to him; for he only named him, knowing that he was a cousin of Ian More's, and one for whom he had the affection of a brother; and he was quite sure that his apprehension for Alister's safety would be too great to allow him to be absent from the field, if it did not induce him to take his place in the combat. And it turned out as he had anticipated. Ian came, eagerly pressing forward into the throng; and no sooner did he appear than the officer pointed him out to the Englishman as the man that was to be pitted against him; and as the Highlanders naturally took it for granted that the big fugleman was to be their man, they quickly made a ring for him amidst loud cheering. "Come away, Goliah! come on!" cried the Englishman, tossing his hat into the air, and his coat to one side. Ian minded him not. But the growing and intolerable insolence of the bully did the rest; for, presuming on Ian's apparent backwardness, he strode up to him with his arms akimbo, and spat in his face. "Fat is she do tat for?" asked Ian simply of those around him. "He has done it to make people believe that you are a coward, and afraid to fight him," said the Highland officer who backed him. "Tell her no to do tat again," said Ian seriously. "There!" said the boxer, repeating the insult. Without showing the smallest loss of temper, Ian made an effort to lay hold of his opponent, but the Englishman squared at him, and hit him several smart blows in succession, not one of which the unpractised Highlander had the least idea of guarding. "Ha!" exclaimed the Highland officer, "I fear you will be beaten, Ian." "Foo!" cried Ian coolly, "she be strikin' her to be sure, but she be na hurtin' her. But an she disna gie ower an her nanesell gets one stroak at her, she'll swarrants she'll no seek nae mair." The Englishman gave him two or three more hard hits that went against his breast as if they had gone against an oaken door; but at last Ian raised his arm, and swept it round horizontally with a force that broke through all his antagonist's guards; and the blow striking his left cheek as if it had come from a sledge hammer, it actually drove the bones of the jaw on that side quite through the opposite skin, and, at the same time, smashed the whole skull to fragments. The man fell like a log, dead on the spot, and horror and astonishment seized the spectators. "Och hone! och hone!" cried Ian More, running to lift him from the ground, in an agony of distress, "She's dootin' she kilt ta poor man." Ian was thrown into a fit of the deepest despair and sorrow by this sad catastrophe, sufficiently proving to every one around him that his heart was made of the most generous stuff; and, indeed, the effect of the horrible spectacle they had witnessed was such as to throw a gloom on all who were present, and especially on those who were more immediately concerned with the wager. The case was decidedly considered as one of justifiable homicide. It was hushed up by general consent, and a pass was granted to Ian to return to Scotland. As he was slowly journeying homeward, Ian happened to spend a night at Stonehaven, and, as he was inquiring of his landlord as to the way he was to take in the morning, the man told him that he might save some distance by taking a short cut through the park of Ury, the residence of Mr. Barclay of Ury, who, as you probably know, was even more remarkable for feats of bodily strength than his son, Captain Barclay, the celebrated pedestrian. "Ye may try the fut-road through the park," said Ian's host; "but oddsake, man, tak' care an' no meet the laird, for he's an awfu' chiel, though he be a Quaker, and gif ye do meet him I rauken that ye'll just hae to come yere ways back again." "Fat for she do tat?" demanded Ian. "Ou, he's a terrible man the laird," continued the landlord. "What think ye? there was ae night that a poor tinker body had putten his bit pauney into ane of the laird's inclosures, that it might get a sly rug o' the grass. Aweel, the laird comes oot in the mornin', and the moment he spied the beast, he ga'ed tilt like anither Samson, and he lifted it up in his airms and flang it clean oot ower the dyke. As sure as ought, gif he meets you, an' he disna throw you owre the dyke, he'll gar ye gang ilka fit o' the road back again." "Tuts! she'll try," replied Ian. Soon after sunrise, Ian took the forbidden path, and he had pursued it without molestation for a considerable way, when he heard some one hallooing after him; and turning his head to look back, he beheld a gentleman, whom he at once guessed to be the laird, hurrying up to him. "Soldier!" cried Mr. Barclay, "I allow no one to go this way, so thou must turn thee back." "She be sorry tat she has anghered her honour," said Ian bowing submissively, "but troth it be ower far a gate to gang back noo." "Far gate or short gate, friend, back thou must go," said Mr. Barclay. "Hoot na! she canna gang back," said Ian. "But thou must go back, friend," said the laird. "Troth, she wunna gang back," replied Ian. "But thou must go back, I tell thee," said the laird, "and if thou wilt not go back peaceably, I'll turn thee back whether with thy will or not." "Hoot, toot, she no be fit to turn her back," said Ian with one of his broad good-humoured grins. "I'll try," said the laird, laying his hands on Ian's shoulders to carry his threat into immediate execution. "An she be for tat," said Ian, "let her lay doon her wallet, an' she'll see whuther she can gar her turn or no." "By all means, good friend," said the laird, who enjoyed a thing of the kind beyond all measure. "Off with thy wallet, then. Far be it from me to take any unseemly advantage of thee." The wallet being quietly deposited on the ground, to it they went; but ere they had well buckled together, Ian put down the laird beside the wallet with the same ease that he had put down the wallet itself. "Ha!" cried the laird, as much overcome with surprise at a defeat which he had never before experienced, as he had been by the strength that had produced it. "Thou didst take me too much o' the sudden, friend, but give me fair play. Let me up and I will essay to wrestle with thee again." "Weel, weel," said Ian coolly, "she may tak' her ain laizier to rise, for her nanesell has plenty o' sun afore her or night." "Come on then," said Mr. Barclay, grappling again with his antagonist and putting forth all his strength, which Ian allowed him full time to exert against him, whilst in defiance of it all he stood firm and unshaken as a rock. "Noo! doon she goes again!" said Ian, deliberately prostrating the laird a second time, "an' gif tat be na eneugh, she'll put her toon ta tird time, sae tat she'll no need nae mair puttens toon." "No, no," said the laird panting, and, notwithstanding his defeat, much delighted not only with the exercise he had had, but that he had at last discovered so potent an antagonist. "No, no, friend! enough for this bout. I own that thou art the better man. This is the first time that my back was ever laid on the grass. Come away with me, good fellow, thou shalt go home with me." Ian's journey was not of so pressing a nature as to compel him to refuse the laird's hospitable offer, and he spent no less than fourteen days living on the fat of the land at Ury, and Mr. Barclay afterwards sent a man and horses with him to forward him a few stages on his way. On his return to Strath-Connan, Ian was welcomed by many an old friend, and he speedily felt himself again rooted in his native soil. He soon re-edified his bothy; but he did so after that much improved and much more comfortable style of architecture which his large experience of civilised life had now taught him to consider as essential. He again took readily to his caurets, and to the simple occupations attendant on the care and management of them, which he forthwith increased to a considerable extent by increasing their numbers; and every day he grew wealthier and wealthier by means of them. The taste which he had now had of society, led him more frequently to visit the gayer and livelier scenes of the more thickly inhabited straths; and it was seldom that a market, a marriage, or a merry-making of any kind occurred, where Ian's sinewy limb and well turned ankles were not seen executing the Highland fling to a degree of perfection rarely to be matched. These innocent practices he continued long after he was a husband and a father, yea, until he was far advanced in life. If Ian had a spark of pride at all, it was in the circumstance that the calves of his legs were so well rounded, that however much his limbs might be exercised, they always kept up his hose without the aid of a garter, an appendage to his dress which he always scorned to wear. One night a large party of friends were assembled in his house to witness the baptism of a recently born grandson. After the ceremony and the feast were both over, the young people got up to dance, and, old as he was, Ian More Arrach was among the foremost of them. To it he went, and danced the Highland fling with his usual spirit and alacrity, snapping his fingers and shouting with the best of them. But alas! when the dance was over, he suddenly discovered that his hose had fallen three inches from their original position, betraying the sad fact that his limbs had lost somewhat of their original muscle. This was to him a sad sinking in the barometer of human life. He surveyed his limbs for some time in silence with a melancholy expression; and then, with something like a feeling of bitterness, which no one had ever seen take possession of him before, he exclaimed,-- "Tamm her nanesell's teeths! She may weel gie ower ta fling, noo tat her teeths wunna haud up her hose!" MORNING SCENE. The shrill and persevering crow of a cock, who roosted on the rafters immediately over our heads, gradually succeeded in drawing up Grant and myself from the deep Lethean lake of slumber into which both had been plunged, and we arose yawning and most unwillingly from our simple couches, ere yet the sun had peeped above the horizon. With one consent we stole to the outer door in our dressing gowns and slippers, to inhale a few draughts of pure air, and to inform ourselves as to the state of the weather. A perfect calm prevailed, and the landscape was lying under one general sombre shadow, which made it so difficult to distinguish objects, that we could not even trace the exact line of boundary of the still waters of Loch-an-Dorbe. One glow of an aurora hue made the summit of the opposite hill to gleam faintly, but that was enough to produce a corresponding fragment of bright reflection on the bosom of the lake. In the middle of that warm spot rested a little boat with two men in it, one of whom was seated at the oars to keep it steady, whilst the other was standing in the stern eagerly occupied in fishing. Grant, rubbing his eyes,--Can that possibly be Clifford? Author.--Let us ascertain whether he is in his bed or not. Grant.--Aha! his gite is empty and cold! What an indefatigable fisherman! Author.--Depend upon it, we shall not see him here for some hours to come. Grant.--Then I shall employ the intervening time in repose. Author.--And I shall follow your good example. The very profound sleep into which we both of us sank, was at length interrupted by the return of Clifford with a beautiful dish of fresh trouts. Clifford.--You lazy fellows! See what a glorious morning's work I have had while you have been snoring away like a couple of tailors. Look how large and how fine they are! There is one now, twice as big as any that was killed last night. Author.--We are certainly greatly obliged to you for quitting your couch so early in order to procure us so luxurious a breakfast. Clifford.--I don't think that either of you deserve to share in it, though in truth you are already sufficiently punished for your indolence by missing the fine sport I have had, and therefore I shall act towards you with true Christian charity. Come then, my girl, get your fire up and your frying-pan in order, and I'll stand cook. Grant.--You must have had a delicious morning of it. Clifford.--Charming! The effect of the sunrise on the lake was enchanting, and the jumping of the trouts around me perfectly miraculous. Grant.--I am surprised that you could tear yourself away so soon. Clifford.--I believe I should have been there for some hours to come, had not my barefooted boatman told me that it was time to get on shore, for that the clouds which we saw heaping themselves up to the westward, threatened to discharge a storm upon us. Grant.--I suspect that the fellow will turn out to be a true prophet. What a dreadful blast that was! Let us hurry out to witness the effects of it. What a change had now taken place in the scene! The sun was already high above the horizon; but dense clouds hid his face from our view, and threw a deep inky hue over the whole face of nature, excepting only where the western blast took its furious course athwart the wide surface of the lake, lashing it up into white-crested billows, the sharp and fleeting lights of which acquired a double share of brilliancy amidst the general murky hue that prevailed everywhere around. The spray dashed over the island and the grey towers of the castle. The flocks of sea-mews, kittywakes, and other waterfowl that frequented the ruined walls, were whirled about in confused mazes, like fragments of foam carried into the air, and were utterly unable to direct their flight by their own volition. Nothing could be more sudden nor more sublime than this effect! It was so grand, and at the same time so transient, that nothing but the ready eye and the matchless mind of the Reverend John Thomson, of Duddingstone, our great Scottish Salvator, could have seized and embodied it. It passed away as speedily as it had come. A heavy shower of rain fell after it was gone; and after that had ceased, all was stillness and sunshine. When we again set out to pursue our way, which led by the margin of the loch, its waters were rippling gently with every light zephyr that fanned them, and sparkling and glowing under the untamed rays of the broad sun, whilst the sea-birds were partly wheeling over the deep with all their wonted variety and regularity of evolution, and partly dipping into the water, and partly resting in buoyant repose upon its swelling bosom. Having waved our last adieu to Loch-an-Dorbe from the summit of a knoll at some distance from the lower end of it, we took our course across the moorland, where the views on all sides were peculiarly dull and dreary. A black turf hut was now and then visible, proving that it was at least possible for human beings to live in this bare district; but all signs of cultivation were limited to a few wretched patches of arable ground lying along some of the small burns that here and there intersected the peat-mosses. Nothing could be more miserable than the country, or than the humble dwellings of its natives; and yet even here we fell in with a picture of human felicity that strongly arrested our attention. A group of ragged urchins were sporting on a little spot of greensward before the door of one of these hovels, and shouting and laughing loudly at their own fun. The youngest was mounted on a huge gaunt-sided sow, with a back as sharp as that of a saw; whilst two elder imps, one on either side, were holding him in his seat, and another was urging on the animal, by gently agitating the creature's tail. All this was done without cruelty, and in the best humour. The father and mother had been in the act of building up their next year's stock of peats into a stack, that rested against the weather gable of their dwelling, so that it might do the double duty of sheltering them from the prevailing blast, as well as furnishing them with food for their kitchen fire. But the merry scene that was passing below had become too touchingly attractive to the hearts of both the parents, and their labour was arrested in the most whimsical manner; for the man sat perched on all-fours on the top of the frail edifice he was engaged in rearing, grinning with broad delight at the gambols of his half-naked progeny; and his wife's attention having been arrested whilst she was in the very act of tossing up an armful of the black materials of her husband's architecture, she still stood fixed like a statue, with her arm raised, quite unconscious of the inconvenience of her attitude, and entirely absorbed in her enjoyment of the spectacle, her whole countenance beaming with the maternal joy she felt, and giving way to sympathetic roars of merriment. Grant.--You see it is not in the power of poverty altogether to extinguish human happiness. Author.--Nay, no more than riches can ensure it. Clifford.--How different the hard fortune of that poor creature from the sunshiny lot of those women of quality and fashion whom we have seen figuring in fancy dresses, and glittering like dancing Golcondas, at Almacks; and yet how much more heart and honesty and true mirth there is in that rustic laugh of hers than in all the hollow gaiety of that professed temple of pleasure. Author.--This merry Maggy of the moor here has indeed received but a small share of the good things of this life, compared with that which has been showered on the proud heads of those wealthy and titled exclusives. But individual happiness must not by any means be measured by the degree of wealth. And then, when we direct our thoughts to our prospects of happiness in a future life, and reflect how apt those favourites of fortune are to be led astray by that very abundance which has been heaped upon them here below, we cannot but congratulate Maggy there as having at least the safer, if not the better, share of the treasures of this world. Grant.--True; and we have the authority of almost every moral poet, from Horace to our Scottish Allan Ramsay, for the great truth that even happiness in this world is to be more readily found in a comfortable middle state than in either of the extremes,-- "He that hath just enough can soundly sleep, The o'ercome only fashes folk to keep." Clifford.--Ha! ha! sermons and poetry for pilgrims in the desert! But then arises the difficult question, what is it that constitutes that "just enough" which the poet holds to be the talisman of human happiness. Grant.--Give economy fair play, and it will make that talisman out of anything. Author.--And so, on the other hand, extravagance could never possess it, even if the subterranean treasures of Aladdin, or the diamond valley of Sinbad, were to be placed at its disposal. Clifford.--Your allusion to the Arabian tales puts me in mind of our story-telling; and the subject we have now accidentally got upon brings to my recollection a remarkable story which you once related to me, Grant. Grant.--You mean the legend of John Macpherson of Invereshie. Clifford.--The same. Pray tell it to our friend here. Grant.--If you, who have heard it before, have no objections to the repetition of it, I can have none to the telling of it. THE LEGEND OF JOHN MACPHERSON OF INVERESHIE. The John Macpherson of whom I speak lived in the very beginning of the seventeenth century. He was the same laird who is well known as having got the Crown charter of the lands of Invereshie. He was a tall handsome Highlander, with a somewhat melancholy cast of countenance. His manners were simple and unassuming, and though untaught by any instructor but nature, they were so much the reverse of vulgar that they might have even been called elegant. He was warm in his affections, kind in his intercourse with all around him, extremely bold and determined in any difficult or desperate juncture, and resolute and stern in his purpose when suddenly called on to deal with a matter of deep or stirring moment, and further--though that belonged to him less as anything peculiar than as a characteristic of the time he lived in--he was superstitiously alive to all those incidents or appearances that might chance to wear the semblance of ominous or fatal portent; and such as these did not unfrequently present themselves in days when the fables of Highland demonology reigned over the strongest minds with an absolute despotism. Living, as Macpherson did, almost entirely among his native mountains, his time was very happily as well as prudently divided between the chase of the red-deer, in which he particularly delighted, and those attentions which he found it necessary to bestow on the concerns of his landed territory; in looking to the well-being of his people, and the health, prosperity, and multiplication of those large herds of cattle which spread themselves over the broad sides of his hills, and brushed through the ancient fir forests or the birchen groves that shaded his glens. In this way his worldly means so increased, that he became an object of no inconsiderable solicitude to such of the neighbouring lairds and ladies as happened to have unmarried daughters; and so many were the fair parties presented to his choice, that, being attracted in all directions, he remained hanging, like a bunch of ripe grapes, in the fluctuating breezes of doubt and indecision, that threatened in time to dry and shrivel him up into an old bachelor. Whilst Macpherson was still in this negative condition, he happened to visit the castle of a certain chief. The company were assembling in the great hall to wait for the banquet, and he stood ensconced within the deep recess of one of its antique windows, where he had vainly endeavoured to retreat from the assaults of some three or four most agreeable spinsters, who, being of a certain age, less scrupulously adopted measures which were much too bold for their younger rivals to have ventured upon. Having brought him to bay in a place whence he could not retreat without rudeness, each commenced the discharge of her own independent fire against him, whilst, at the same time, little spiteful shots of malice, both from their tongues and their eyes, were every now and then interchanged from one fair competitor to another. This scene was going on, much to the amusement of the spectators, but very much to the annoyance of the victim of this persecution, when a sudden buzz from the company directed Macpherson's attention to the door of the hall, where entered a lady of surprising beauty and grace of mien. By a natural impulse, which he could neither explain nor command, Macpherson burst unceremoniously from among his tormentors, and stepped forward to gaze upon her as she moved easily up the hall. The intelligent eyes of the lovely stranger fell upon him, and fixed themselves upon him with a species of fascination which touched him to the soul. He was sensibly conscious of the resistless power of this influence, but at the same time he felt that it was a fascination of much too agreeable a nature for him to allow himself to struggle against it. He at once abandoned his heart to all its ecstasies, as a thirsty fly would yield itself up to the delicious temptation of quaffing the nectar from the cup of some beauteous and fragrant flower; and he gazed on her face with a rapture which he had never before experienced. Nor was all this very surprising, for she who thus attracted him had been born and educated in the metropolis,--had even mixed in the gay and splendid scenes of a court, and her dress and manners lent so dazzling an air to the lustre of her natural charms, that, compared to her, the native beauties congregated from all parts of the vast strath of the Spey, fresh and lovely, graceful and intelligent, as fame has ever held its ladies to be, appeared before her as so many dim and feeble fixed stars in the path of some brilliant and glorious planet. Invereshie's natural modesty made him shrink from asking for that very introduction for which his whole heart burned. But the lady was the niece of his host; she had recently arrived with the intention of residing with him for some months, and the introduction came in the ordinary course of etiquette. He was seated by her during the greater part of that evening. Something more than mortal as she at first appeared to be in his eyes, he soon found, on a nearer approach, that she had nothing about her either overawing or repulsive. He listened to her Syren tongue with an eagerness which until then had been quite a stranger to him. The hours flew like minutes. He suddenly perceived that every guest was gone but himself. He hurried away in confusion, and rode home in a delirium of delight so perfectly novel to him, that he two or three times seriously questioned himself by the way whether reason was still really holding her dominion over his brain, and the continual presence of the lady's image there almost convinced him that she had usurped the throne of that judicious goddess. Macpherson was soon drawn back to the castle of his friend by an attraction which was quite irresistible. The impression made upon him by a first acquaintance was powerfully strengthened by a second meeting,--a third and a fourth visit soon succeeded,--and their interviews became more and more frequent, as he began to perceive, with a certain air of triumph, that his attentions, offered at first with becoming deference, were much more graciously received than those which came from any of his brother lairds. His hunting expeditions became less numerous, and even his wonted prudential daily superintendence of his rural concerns gave way to a new and much more seductive occupation. He gradually became almost a constant inmate in his friend's castle. But, in devoting so much of his time to attendance on her who had thus gained so overwhelming a dominion over his heart, he consoled himself for this unusual neglect of his affairs, by reflecting that the prize he coveted was so rare as to be universally considered beyond all price--a gem far richer than any of those that adorned his brooch; and that besides all its glitter and sparkle, it was not without considerable intrinsic value also, seeing that, in addition to her other advantages, the lady's tocher was such as might well satisfy a much more avaricious man than he knew himself to be. As for the lady, I have only to say of her, that she was a woman. There are few of the fair sex whose bosoms have not been visited by a certain spirit of romance at one period or other, and, indeed, it may be matter of doubt whether those who have altogether escaped from this visitation are much to be envied. It is that which makes many a town-bred girl sigh for love and a cottage, until such fancies are extinguished by maturer judgment. The soul of her of whom I speak had been deeply embued with this poetry of life, and as yet she had seen no good reason for ridding herself of it. She was all enthusiasm. Invereshie's gay white tartan--his plumed bonnet and jewelled ornaments--his gallant, though unobtrusive, bearing--his firm tread and independent gait--the resolute and heroic character that sat upon his brow, and yielded a calm illumination to his pensive eye--and, above all, the enchanting scenery of his river--the sparkling Feshie--its wild glen, and the prospective witchery of a Highland life, painted as it was with all the glowing colours of her fervid fancy, and with a thousand adventitious attractions which that fancy threw around it, had conspired to do as much execution on her heart as her manifold charms had wrought upon his. The visions of town gaiety and grandeur, which had hitherto filled her young mind, speedily melted away. Rural circumstances and rural imagery occupied it entirely. She suddenly became fond of moonlight walks, of wandering on the banks of the magnificent river that wound majestically through the wide vale where she then resided, and of musing amid the checkered shadows which evening threw over the ruins of an ancient chapel and burial-ground, embraced by one bold and beautiful sweep of the stream at no great distance from the castle. She was one night seated on a grey moss-covered stone, one of the many frail memorials of the dead which were scattered through this retired spot, her eyes now lifted in admiration of the glorious orb that silently held its way through the skies above, and now thrown downwards to its image trembling in the mimic heaven then floating on the broad bosom of the stream below, when Invereshie, who had been called away by some express affair, was returning at a late hour to the castle. These were times, be it again remembered, when superstition held all mankind under her thrall, and when the boldest Highlander, who would have fearlessly rushed on death in the battlefield, would have quailed before the idle phantoms of his own imagination. Invereshie's nurse had early embued his mind with a firm faith in all the wildest of these imaginings, and with him this belief, then so common to all, had grown with his growth and strengthened with his strength. The horse that he rode started aside and snorted with affright when, on bursting from the deep shade of the grove that partly embosomed the burial-ground, he first saw the white figure of the lady before him; and it argued a more than common courage in the horseman, therefore, that he should have checked the flight of the terrified animal in order to ascertain the nature of the object he beheld. The moonbeams shone fully and clearly on a face which he could not for a moment mistake; yet their pale light shed so chilling and unearthly a lustre over its well-known features, that, taken in combination with the hour and the place, it made him hesitate for a moment whether he really beheld the form of her whom he so much loved, or whether that which presented itself to him was one of those unsubstantial appearances which he believed evil spirits had power to assume for the bewilderment and destruction of mortals. But the sound of the trampling of his horse's hoof had fallen upon the lady's ear while it was yet afar off; as it drew nearer, the fluttering of her heart had whispered to her that it was Invereshie who came; and ere he had recovered from his surprise, she arose and saluted him in that voice which had now become as music to his ear. His blood, chilled and arrested as it had for a moment been by superstitious dread, now went dancing to his heart in a rushing tide of joy. He sprang from his horse, and eagerly availing himself of so favourable an opportunity, where all eyes but those of God were absent, he made a full and animated confession of his passion; and that little solitary field of the dead, which had been accustomed for so many ages to scenes of woe and bereavement alone, was now once more doomed to witness the pure effusions of two as happy hearts as had ever been united together before its neighbouring altar, now so long dilapidated. "Macpherson!" said the lady, with that enthusiasm which so strongly characterised her, "never forget this solemn hour and place, and let the image of that bright moon be ever in your memory; for it has witnessed your vows, and beheld thee pledge thyself to me for ever!" "Never! never can I forget it, lady!" replied Invereshie, with a depth of feeling equal to her own. "Tis well!" said the lady. "And now it were better to shun the observation of prying eyes. This private converse of ours, at the witching hour of night, when none but spirits of the moon are abroad, might be misinterpreted. We must part here!" And ere he wist, she had disappeared among the brushwood. "The witching hour of night!" muttered Invereshie to himself, as he stood rivetted to the spot, overpowered by the surprise in which he was left by the strange and sudden manner in which she had vanished from his sight. There was something, he thought, marvellous and supernatural in it. His eyes wandered round the silent churchyard where he had found her seated. A thousand superstitious tales connected with that spot rushed upon his memory. It was there that in popular belief the wicked spirit of the waters often appeared to bewilder lated travellers, and to lure them to their destruction. He thought of the power which evil beings were supposed to have in re-animating the remains of the dead, or of thrusting forth human souls from their earthly habitations, in order that they might themselves become the tenants of the fairest and most angelic forms. His reason and his judgment were in vain opposed to these terrific phantoms of the brain. "The witching hour of night!" groaned he deeply. The hand which he had but a moment before so warmly pressed, and which had sent a fever of joy through every fibre of his frame, now seemed to have conveyed to him an icy chillness that ran through every vein till it froze his very heart; and as he hurriedly and almost unconsciously mounted his horse to prosecute his way towards the castle, his mind was perplexed and tortured by strange and mysterious doubts and misgivings, which continued to haunt both his waking and his sleeping dreams during the remainder of that eventful night. But as the dawn of morning swept away the fogs which hung upon the mountain-tops, so did it dissipate the gloomy visions which had thus for a few hours shrouded the lofty soul of Invereshie. Reason resumed her judgment-seat, and a little calm reflection brought a blush of shame into his cheek, occasioned by what he was now disposed to believe to have been his own weakness. Every manly feeling within him was aroused. Arraying himself in his richest attire, he sought for an audience of his friend the chief, and readily gained from him an uncle's and a guardian's consent to his union with her to whom his vows of love had been so recently plighted. Overjoyed at Invereshie's disclosure, the chief led him to the great hall, at that time thronged with guests, and having taken his seat to preside over the morning's meal, he called for a grace cup, and, drinking to the health of the happy pair, he publicly announced the alliance which had been that morning agreed on. All eyes were instantly turned on her to whom the flowing goblet had been so joyfully drained. But whether it was from the sudden swelling of those emotions naturally enough arising from this public declaration, or whether it was owing to some fortuitous cause altogether unconnected with what was then passing, no one could say; but, whatever might be the cause, her brilliant eyes had become fixed and glazed, the roses had fled from her cheeks, and she fell gently back in her chair, her lovely features exhibiting the ghastly hue of death. A chill shudder came over Invereshie's heart. Pushing back the seat in which he sat, he gazed with horror upon the spectacle before him. Again was his mind unmanned, and a vision of the unearthly appearance which the lady had presented to him when he first beheld her seated among the graves beneath the moonlight of the previous night rushed upon his imagination. Overpowered by his feelings, he remained as if unconscious of what was passing around him. Nor was he at all observed amidst the general panic. The women shrieked, the guests arose in confusion, they crowded around the lady, and she was borne off to her apartment by the attendants. For several hours the lady lay on her couch so perfectly exanimate, that every individual in the castle believed that she was dead, and mournful preparations were begun to be made for the funereal obsequies of her in whose animating smiles they had so recently rejoiced, and in whose bridal festivities they had anticipated that they were so soon to participate. Eloquent was the silence of that grief which reigned everywhere within the walls, unbroken save by the sobbing of those who hung around the couch of her who had already lived long enough among them to have gained the hearts of all who had approached her. But ere long it happily gave way to unrestrained joy; for, to the amazement of her attendants, the warm blush of life gradually began to revisit her cheeks,--the heaving of her bosom gently returned,--her eyelids slowly unsealed themselves,--the pulse resumed its former action,--the tide of life speedily carried renewed vigour into every limb,--her eyes regained their wonted brightness,--and, to the unspeakable surprise and delight of every one, she returned to the hall with a light and airy step, and with a sensible accession to her usual gaiety of heart, apparently resulting from its temporary slumber. But hers was a gaiety that touched no responsive chords in Macpherson's bosom. He had stood as it were appalled, a motionless spectator of the various wonderful changes which had been so strangely produced upon her; and he remained for some time sunk in silent abstraction, ill befitting an ardent lover who had thus had his soul's idol so miraculously restored to him from the very jaws of the grave. Those who were about him marvelled and whispered together. But his moody musings were quickly overcome by the lady's enchanting voice of gladness. The laughing sunshine that darted from her eyes soon dissipated those sombre clouds that overshadowed his brow. He again became the willing slave of every word and glance that fell from her. The fascination under which he was held increased every moment; and not many days went by ere the Laird of Invereshie, surrounded by a great gathering of his clansmen and followers, and proudly riding by her bridle-rein, led her home as his bride to the blithe sound of the bagpipe. As he approached the mansion of his fathers, Invereshie was met by crowds of women and children and old men, who thronged about the cavalcade with eager curiosity to behold their future lady, whom they greeted with shouts of gratulation that suffused her lovely cheek with blushes of joy, and flushed her husband's brow with a pride which he had never felt before. An event so interesting to all his dependants had made even the most aged and infirm to leave their humble dwellings. Some of those who had come from great distances were mounted on the shaggy little horses common to the country. The creatures were caparisoned in the rudest and most characteristic manner; and they formed many picturesque groups, which every now and then called forth expressions of surprise and delight from her who was the fair cause of their assemblage. One of these was peculiarly striking. Under an old twisted mountain ash stood a ragged red-headed boy, holding the withy that served as a halter to a pony, whose bones, exhibiting many an angle beneath his rough white skin, showed that he had arrived at an age but rarely reached by any of his long-lived race. From either side of the wooden saddle that filled his hollow back hung a huge pannier of the coarsest kind of wicker-work, and from each of these arose the plaided head and pale parchment features of an old woman. So very withered were these ancient crones, that, worn down and weak as was the animal that bore them, their wasted frames seemed scarcely to add anything, in his estimation, to the weight of the baskets that contained them. There was something, at first sight, indescribably ludicrous in the picture they presented; and the bride, who was by no means insensible to such emotions, could not resist giving way for an instant to the laughter which it excited in her as she drew near to them. It so happened that the line of march of the procession brought her close past the tree under which these strange figures were stationed. No sooner had she come opposite to it, than one of them, remarkable for the length of her grey elf-like locks, which streamed from beneath the uncouth mutch that covered her head, reared herself up from amidst the heap of tartan stuff that enveloped her person. Stretching out her bare and skeleton arm, her red and gummy eyelids expanded themselves so as to bring fully into action a pair of piercing black eyes that flashed with a fire which even extreme age had been unable to tame, and which now lent a fearful animation to her otherwise spectral features. She glared into the lady's face with a fixed gaze and a wild expression that blenched her cheek, and at once banished everything like mirth or joy from her bosom. In vain did the lady try to avert her eyes from an object which was now to her terrific,--they seemed as if enchained to it by a power like that of the basilisk; and to add to her misery some accidental obstacle created at that very moment a stop in their onward march. Anxiously did she wish to have taken refuge in conversation with her husband, but he was just then employed in replying to the warm compliments of some humble well-wisher, who addressed him from the opposite side of the way. Meanwhile the bony and toothless jaws of the old woman seemed to be moved by a temporary palsy, created by her anxiety to utter something which the lady dreaded to hear. But her very eagerness apparently deprived her of the power of speech; for though her skinny lips were seen to move, no sound proceeded from them except an inarticulate muttering, the import of which was lost amidst the din and bustle of the crowd. But although the lady gathered not the sense, the lurid lightnings that shot from the eyes of this miserable looking wretch told her that the words, if words they were, could have conveyed no prayer of benediction. A sudden failure of nature came over the lady, and she must have dropped from her saddle to the ground, had not her husband's attention been recalled to her at that moment by the renewal of the onward movement of the march. Altogether unconscious of what had caused this apparent faintness, nor indeed being quite aware of the full extent of it, his arm was ready to uphold her. Her vital spirits rallied at his touch. She recovered her seat, and then calling his attention to the object of her alarm, who was by this time left some short way behind them,-- "Tell me," said she, "tell me, I entreat thee, who is that fearful looking old woman under yonder tree?" "That," replied he, "is my old nurse Elspeth Macpherson, one who is believed by all to be gifted with more than mortal powers." "Her eye is indeed terrible!" replied the lady shuddering. "Why shouldst thou be afraid of her?" said Macpherson, in a graver tone. "She can never be terrible to thee? Great as her wisdom and great as her powers undoubtedly are, they can never come to me or to mine but to succour and to bless. From my cradle upwards hath she been as a guardian spirit to me, averting all misfortunes that might have assailed me; and, twined as thy future fate now is with mine, my love," continued he with a forced smile, "trust me, dearest, that her searching eye will be continually over it and on it." An involuntary tremor seized the lady at the very thought of her fate being under the control of an eye the piercing and unfriendly influence of which was still so strong upon her mind. She forebore to reply; but she could not exclude a train of very unpleasant reflections, which even the rapidly succeeding circumstances of the gay Highland pageant, in which she performed so prominent a part, failed for a while in removing. For some time, too, her husband rode by her side wrapped up in silence and abstraction, till rousing himself from what appeared to be a dreaming fit, he addressed to her some kind expressions, which fell on her soul like balm, and by degrees regaining her wonted cheerfulness, she at length rode onwards distributing sunshine and sweetness on all sides, in return for the many warm welcomes that were showered on her, till she was finally lifted from her saddle at the door of her future home, by the nervous arm of the enraptured Invereshie, amidst the deafening shouts of his friends and retainers. Invereshie's hospitable board was spread with more than its usual liberality on this joyful occasion; and, according to the custom of the time, its feast and revelry endured for many days. As his lady's previous nurture and education had accustomed her to much nicety of domestic arrangement, and to many luxuries then altogether unknown in the Highlands, he exerted himself to the utmost to lessen the disagreeable effect of that change which he was conscious she must experience on her first entrance into his family. He strove to anticipate every wish; and when he had failed in anticipating her wishes, he spared neither pains nor expense to gratify them the moment she had breathed them. He procured comforts and rarities of all sorts from great distances, and at a cost which he would have considered most alarming, had he not trusted that it would cease with the departure of the guests who thronged his house to welcome his newly married wife. But time wore on, and the lady seemed to have no inclination to get rid of either. There is a prudent and useful old saying--"begin with a wife as you mean to end with her." It would have been well for Macpherson that he had acted upon this principle. Instead of boldly bringing down his lady's ideas at once to that pitch which would have been in rational harmony with his own habits, as well as with his circumstances, to which her strong attachment to him would have most probably insured her ready submission, he had himself done all in his power to give a false colour to things, which he now felt it a very delicate and difficult matter to attempt to remove. Meanwhile she went innocently enough on in obedience to that bent which her education had given her, in the full persuasion that she was only doing that which her duty, as his wife, prescribed to her. Yielding to her resistless importunity and attractions, the neighbouring gentry were drawn around her, as if by some magic spell; and many of them became, in a manner, domesticated at her husband's hearth. Then every succeeding day brought to the old house some new friend from afar, whom she had been dying to make acquainted with that man of whom she was so proud, and to whom her whole heart was now devoted, that she might prove how much she had gained by relinquishing the world for a prize so inestimable; and for the entertainment of persons so cultivated as these were, it naturally followed that more refined schemes of pleasure and amusement were devised which, whilst they gratified Invereshie at the time, by exciting universal admiration at the tasteful genius of his lady who had conceived them, made him afterwards wince at the large and repeated demands which were made on his treasury, for purposes altogether foreign to the whole pursuits of his former life, and which the whole tenour of it had led him to consider as vain and unprofitable. He wondered that her ingenuity could be so enduring, and still comforting himself with the hope that each particular instance of it that occurred must necessarily be the last, he was still doomed to be astonished every succeeding day by new and yet more expensive projects. Amidst all this bustle and occupation, her speech was ever of the delights of her Highland Solitude, as she called their residence, whilst her thoughts seemed to be unceasingly employed in endeavours to invent means of depriving it of all claim to any such title, by filling it with as large a portion as she could of the gay crowd and vanities of a city. Of all these vanities none were so galling to the honest heart of Invereshie as the arrival of a certain knot of gallant rufflers from the court--men of broad hats jauntingly cocked to one side, and balanced by long feathers of various hues--who flaunted it in silken cloaks, and strutted it in long-piked shoes; all of which, in his eyes, seemed to sort but ill with the manly Celtic garb worn by himself and his Highland friends. But much as it irked him to be compelled to receive such popinjays as these, and irritated as he frequently was by their unblushing impudence, he submitted calmly to that which the rules of hospitality dictated, and even repressed all outward appearance of his dissatisfaction; and he was rendered the more ready to impose this restraint on himself, by the reflection that most of these gay gallants were in some way or other related to or connected with his wife; and he felt that, as her kinsmen or friends, they claimed the full extent of a Highland welcome. But these southern summerfly cousins were no sooner gone than they were succeeded by clouds of fresh and yet more thirsty insects of the same genus; and these tormentors not only contributed, in their own persons, largely to augment the consumption of those luxuries which had been so recently introduced into his house, and to the promotion of those extravagancies which were conceived and executed more especially for their amusement; but the more simple natives of the glens also were soon taught by their infectious example to relish them quite as much as they did. Invereshie was long silent under all this; but he did not suffer the less deeply in secret on that account. The ardent love with which he adored his wife, and that certain mistaken chivalrous notion of delicacy, which has been already noticed as operating so strongly on his feelings, long prevented him from attempting to restrain the expenses of so fascinating a woman, who had brought him money enough to furnish at least some apology for the expenditure she occasioned. But ample as her tocher had once appeared to him, he soon began to see that it was melting rapidly away under those immense drains which she was daily applying to it; and at length, with more of love than of chiding in his tone, he ventured to speak to her on the painful subject which had so long oppressed him. But alas! whilst he did speak to her, her very eye unmanned him, and what he did bring himself to say was couched in terms so gentle and so general, as neither to convey to her any very useful or impressive lesson, nor even any very definite idea of the extent to which she had erred. The lady flung her snowy arms around his neck, bedewed his face with her tears, and made many earnest and sincere protestations, all of which she sincerely intended most sacredly to fulfil. Macpherson was enraptured. He blamed himself for what he called his severity--kissed away the precious drops from her eyes with a more than ordinary glow of affection. They were the happiest pair in the universe, and in a few days her extravagance was going on at its usual rapid pace, whilst she was all the while in the most perfect belief that she was giving the fullest attention to his wishes. Many were the scenes of this description that afterwards, from time to time, took place between Invereshie and his lady. The kind of life into which he was now so unwittingly and unwillingly plunged, allowed him few moments for sober reflection. But when such moments did occur, they were bitter ones indeed. At such times gloomy and harrowing recollections, and dreadful and appalling doubts would steal over his soul, putting his very reason to flight before them, and his flesh would creep, and his hair would bristle, whilst his mind was thus yielding to its own speculative misgivings as to the mysterious nature of that fascination which could thus drag him on to certain ruin in despite of his own better judgment. But resolute as was his natural character, and deep as were his determinations at such times, they were all put to flight at once by the first bewitching love-glance of his lady's eye. Things had gone on in this way for months, growing worse and worse every day, when Invereshie, oppressed by that gloom which now clung more frequently and more closely to him, set out one morning very early to join some of his neighbours in a distant chase of the deer. He was that day more than usually successful; and his attendants having been left behind to bring home the spoils, he was compelled to return in the evening alone. The sun was getting low as he came down into the upper part of his own deep and precipitous Glen Feshie, and the shaggy faces of its eastern mountains were broadly lighted up by its rays, thus rendering the crags on its western side, and the shadows they threw across the wooded bottom, doubly obscured by the blazing contrast. As the laird advanced, he came suddenly in view of a cottage perched on the summit of a little knoll, and sheltered by one huge twisted and scathed pine alone, the bared limbs of which permitted the spot to be gladdened by a lingering sunbeam, to which the dense forest that surrounded it forbade all entrance elsewhere. This was the habitation of his nurse, whose strange appearance has been already described. She and the old crone her sister, who was believed to be scarcely less gifted than herself, were seated on settles at the door, availing themselves of what yet remained of the glowing light to twine a thrifty thread with distaff and spindle. The laird seldom passed this way without visiting old Elspeth; and on this occasion he turned from his direct path the more readily, because his conscience accused him that he had somewhat neglected her of late. The continual round of dissipation in which he had been for some time whirled, had not permitted him once to see her since that accidental glance he had had of her on the day she appeared at his marriage pageant. On that occasion, too, he felt that she should have been a guest at that table where his humbler friends were entertained; but he remembered that although she had been invited, she did not appear. The recollection of that joyous day shot across his mind like the gleaming lightning of a summer night, only to be succeeded by a deeper gloom, arising from the recurrence of all that had passed since. Unperceived by the frail owners of the cottage, he wound his way towards it with a sinking heart. In approaching it, he was compelled by the nature of the ground to make a half circuit around the knoll, which thus brought him up in rear of it; and he was about to discover himself to the two old women, by turning the angle of the gable of the little building, when his steps were almost unconsciously arrested by hearing his own name pronounced, and he halted for a moment. It was his nurse who was speaking to her sister emphatically and energetically in Gaelic; and that which he heard might have been nearly interpreted thus:-- "Och hone, Invereshie!" exclaimed she in a shrill tone of lament, as if she had been apostrophising him in his own presence. "Och hone! what but the black art of hell itself could have so cast the glamour o'er thee, my bonny bairn, that thou shouldst sit and see thy newly-chartered hills and glens melt from thy grasp as calmly and silently as yonder pine-clad rock beholds the sunshine creep away from its bosom, and never once come to seek counsel, as thou wert wont, from these lips which never lied to thine ear." "Witchcraft!" muttered her sister; "wicked witchcraft is at work with him." "Witchcraft!" cried the nurse with an emotion so violent as fearfully to agitate her whole frame; "witchcraft, said ye? The prince of darkness is himself at work with him. The foul fiend, in a woman's form, is linked to him. Bethink thee of her moonlight wanderings by the waters,--her unhallowed midnight orgies among the graves of the dead, where they say she is still seen to walk while he is sleeping,--her sudden death, for death it was, on that ill-starred morning which proclaimed their union,--the strange reanimation of the corpse by the foul fiend that now possesses it,--the momentary sinking, and terror, and confusion of that wicked spirit when he quailed before the gaze of mine own gifted eye, shot from beneath the shade of the spell-dispersing rowan-tree;--bethink thee of these things, sister Marion, and wonder not that mine unwilling lips should have been urged to mutter a curse where my heart would have fain poured forth a blessing." "I saw, I saw," replied the other crone, "thine eye was, indeed, then most potently gifted, sister, and thy will was not thine own." "Och hone, och hone!" wailed out the nurse again, "that I should live to see my soul's darling thus rent away from the care of Heaven, handed over to the powers of hell, and doomed to destruction both here and hereafter! Och hone, willingly would I give my worthless life if I could yet save him! Och hone, if I could but pour my burning words into his ear, so that his eyes might be opened, and that he might stent his heart-strings to the stern work of his own salvation." The unhappy laird had already heard enough. He felt as if the deadly juice of upas had found its way into his veins. His whole frame was, as it were, paralysed. He leaned against the gable of the cottage for some moments, during which he was almost unconscious of thought or of existence; and then, with his limbs failing under him, he staggered, giddy and confused, down the side of the knoll into the pathway below, and sank exhausted upon a mossy bank, where he lay for a time in a state nearly approaching to insensibility. Starting up at last with an unnatural effort which he had no reason left to guide, and regardless of all pathway, he hurried along by the brink of the stream with a fury as wild as that which impelled its rushing waters. Slackening his pace by degrees, as his bewildered recollection began to return to him, he at length stopped, and resting against a rock, his scattered thoughts returned thickly upon him. At first he resolved to go back to hold converse with his nurse, but ere he had well conceived this idea, he rejected it as an idle waste of time; for the fresh recurrence to his recollection of all she had uttered flashed conviction too strongly on his mind to render any further question necessary. Those dark and mysterious doubts which had so long tortured him from time to time during his moody musings, now reared themselves into one gigantic, horrible, and overwhelming certainty, to dwell on which, even for an instant, filled him with an agony that brought large drops of cold perspiration to his brow. His jaws chattered against each other, and a cold shudder ran through his whole system, like that which precedes the last shiver of death. Again, a burning fever seized his brain, and he struck his forehead with the palm of his hand, and he wept and groaned aloud. Relieved by this sudden burst of affliction, he started from his resting-place, and knocking violently on his breast, as if to summon up all of man that was yet left within him,-- "Invereshie!" cried he, addressing himself in unconscious soliloquy, "Invereshie! where is thy boasted resolution? Whither hath thy courage fled? But it shall come to thee now!" said he, setting his teeth together, and clenching his hands. "Hah! nor mortal nor demon shall keep me in this unhallowed state of enchantment, if it be in the power of fire or of water to break the spell. Let me think," said he again, striking his forehead, as if to rouse up his sharpest intellect; and then after a pause, during which he strode for a few turns backwards and forwards beneath the deep shadow of the rock, "I have it!" he exclaimed, and he urged on his steps with reckless haste towards his home. The distant murmurs of its mirth and its revelry came on his ears whilst he was yet above a bowshot off,--an arrow itself could not have rent his heart more cruelly. He flew forward, and brushing almost unnoticed through the crowd of serving-men in gay attire that obstructed his entrance, he sought a lonely chamber, where, in darkness and in silence, he sat brooding over his misery, and nursing the terrible purpose that possessed him. Every now and then his soul was stung to madness by the shouts of mirth, the music, and the other sounds of jollity which, from time to time, arose from the festal hall below, until, unable longer to bear the torture he suffered, he rushed forth again into the woods. There he wandered for some hours to and fro, torn by his contending passions; for love was still powerful within him, and would, even yet, often rise up for a time to wrestle hard with the wizard Superstition, who had now so irrecoverably entangled and bemeshed his judgment. But ever as the recurrence of the tender emotion was felt within him, he summoned up his sterner nature to exorcise it forth as something unholy. At length the broad moon arose, lighted up the bold front of the lofty Craigmigavie, spread its beams over the far-stretched surface of Loch Inch, shed a pale lustre on the distant Craigou, the Macpherson's watch-hill, and fully illuminated the wild scenery and the sparkling waters of the Feshie, and the noble birches that wept over its roaring rapids, and its deep and pellucid pools. It is not for me to say what were these mysterious associations which came over the mind of Invereshie as he beheld the ample disc of the glorious luminary arise over the mountain top, and launch itself upward to hold its silent and undisturbed way through the immensity of ethereal space. They seemed to bring an artificial calm to his bosom. But it was the calm of a mind irrevocably wound up to a determined purpose. And now, with his arms folded with convulsive tightness over his breast, as if to prevent the possibility of that purpose escaping thence, he stalked with a steady and resolute step towards the house. It was now midnight. The revelry which had raged within its walls was silent, and the guests, wearied with the feast and the dance, and the tired servants, were alike buried in sleep. John of Invereshie stole to his lady's chamber. She, too, had retired to rest, and that deep and quiet sleep which results from purity and innocence of soul had shed its balm upon her pillow. Her lamp was extinguished, but the moonbeams shone full through the casement directly on the bed where her beautiful form was disposed, and touched her lovely features with the pale polished glaze of marble. Had it not been for her long dark eyelashes, and those raven ringlets that, escaping from their confinement, had strayed over her snowy neck, she might, in very deed, have been mistaken for some exquisitely sculptured monumental figure. For one moment Invereshie's purpose was shaken. But it was for one moment only; for as memory brought back to him the lonely churchyard, her appeal to the moon, the mysterious events that followed their nocturnal meeting, and all those after circumstances which had combined to produce that awful and to him infallible judgment which accident had led him to hear his old nurse pronounce, his dread purpose became firmly restored to his mind. He stretched forth his hand and griped the wrist of the delicately moulded arm that lay upon her bosom. The lady awoke in alarm, but instantly recognising her husband, her fears were at once tranquillised, and springing from her recumbent posture, she threw herself on his neck. Surprised thus unexpectedly into her embrace, Invereshie stood silent and motionless. Love thrilled through every fibre with one last expiring effort. Aware of the potency of its influence over his heart, he threw his eyes upwards, and--ignorant and unhappy man!--blinded by the dark and bewildering mists of the wild superstition that had dominion over him, he actually prayed to Heaven to give him power to go through with his work; and then, with a fixed composure, gained from that fancied aid which he imagined he was thus experiencing, he calmly and quietly turned to the lady. "Dost thou see yonder moon?" said he; "never was there sky so fair, or scene so glorious. The night, too, is soft and balmy. Say, will ye wander forth with me a little while to note how the eddies of the Feshie are distilled into liquid silver by her beams?" "Let me but wrap me in my robe and my velvet mantle, and I will forth with you with good will," replied the lady, quite overjoyed to be thus gratified by her husband in the indulgence of her romantic propensity for such walks. "How kind in you, my love, to think thus of my fancies when rest must be so needful for you." And having hastily protected her person from the night air, she slipped her arm within her husband's, and with a short light step, that but ill accorded with the solemn and funereal stride of him on whom she leaned, she tripped with him down stairs and across the dewy lawn. "It is, indeed, a most glorious scene!" exclaimed the enraptured lady. "But, in truth, thou saidst not well, Invereshie, in saying that never was there sky so fair or scene so glorious." Then smiling in his face, and sportively kissing his cheek, she innocently added, "I trust thou art no traitor." "Traitor!" exclaimed Invereshie, with a sudden start that might have betrayed him to any one less unsuspicious. "Aye, traitor in very deed!" replied the lady laughing. "Traitor truly art thou if thou canst forget the lonely churchyard where you bound yourself to me for ever, and that broad moon which then shed over us her magic influence!" "Magic influence!" groaned Invereshie in a deep and hollow tone of anguish. "Alas! are you unwell, my dearest?" earnestly exclaimed his anxious and affectionate wife. "I fear you have already done too much to-day; and your kindness to me would make thee thus expose thyself when thou wouldst most need repose. See yonder dark cloud, too, pregnant with storm. Look how it careers towards the moon; might not one fancy that some demon of the air bestrode it? Had we not better return to bed? Thou art not well, my love. Come, come, let us return." "No!" replied Invereshie, in a tone calculated to disguise his feelings as much as possible. "I shall get better in the air. A sickness, a slight sickness only; a little farther walk will rid me of my malady." The lady said no more; and Invereshie walked onwards with a slow, firm, but somewhat convulsive step, treading through the checkered wood by a path that wound among green knolls covered with birches of stupendous growth, and that led them to the rocky banks of the Feshie. There they reached a crag that projected over a deep and rapid part of the stream. Its waves were dancing in all the glories of that silver light which they borrowed from the bright luminary that still rode sublimely within a pure haven in the lowering sky, its brilliancy increased by contrast with the dense, and pitchy, and portentous cloud that came sailing sublimely down upon it, like a huge winged continent. "Invereshie!" cried the lady, her feelings strongly excited by the grandeur and beauty of the scene; and bursting forth in rapturous ecstacy, "do we not seem like the beings of another world as we stand on this giddy point, with the moon thus pouring out upon us all its potent enchantment?" "Now God and Jesu be my guides but I will try thine enchantment!" cried Invereshie. Steeling up his heart to the deed, and nerving his muscular arms to the utmost, he lifted the light and sylph-like form of his lady. One piercing shriek burst from her as he poised her aloft,--a benighted traveller heard it at a distance, crossed himself, and hurried onwards with trembling limbs,--and ere the lady had uttered another scream, Invereshie had thrown her, like a breeze-borne snow-wreath, far amid the bosom of the waves. The wretched man bent forward from the rock, his fingers clenched, his teeth set together, and his eyeballs stretching after the object which his hands had but just parted with. "Holy Virgin, she floats!" cried he as he beheld her, by the light of the moonbeam playing on the ripple that followed her form as it was hurried down the stream, supported by her widespread mantle. "Help! oh help! my love! my lord!--'twas madness!--'twas accident!--but oh! mercy and save me!--save or I am lost for ever!" "She floats!" hoarsely muttered Invereshie, drawing his breath rapidly, and with a croaking sound in his throat that spoke the agonising torture he was enduring. "Ha! she floats! by Saint Mary then was the old woman right! Ha! she struggles at yonder tree!" He sprang from the rock to the margin of the stream, and scrambled towards the spot whither the eddy had whirled the already sinking lady. She had caught with a death-grasp by one frail twig of an alder sapling, though her strength was fast failing. Invereshie's eyes glared over her face as her head and her long dripping hair half emerged from the water. "Help!--oh save!--oh help!" was now all she could faintly utter, whilst her expiring looked fixed itself upon her husband. "Help, saidst thou? thou canst well help thyself by thy foul enchantments!" cried Invereshie. "Blessed Saint Michael be mine aid! thou hadst well-nigh taken from me my all, fiend that thou art; thou may'st e'en take that twig with thee, too!" and drawing from his belt his skian dhu, he sternly divided the sapling at its very root. As it parted from its hold, the lady disappeared amid the rough surges of the rapid stream, and the blindness which superstition had thrown over him fell at once from her distracted husband. "Holy angels, she sank!" exclaimed Invereshie with a maddening yell that overwhelmed for a moment the very roar of the flood. "My love! my wife! O murderer! murderer!" He rushed wildly among the waters to save her. But the impenetrable cloud which had been all this time careering onwards, at that very instant blotted out the moon from the firmament, and left his soul to the midnight darkness of remorse and despair. A STRANGER APPEARS. Our friend Grant's sad story of John Macpherson of Invereshie and his unhappy lady produced so powerful an effect on his auditors, that we continued to walk on in silence for some time after he had concluded, each of us musing after his own fashion. We had been accidentally joined by a stranger, a stout made athletic little man, in an old-fashioned rusty black coat and waistcoat, corduroy breeches, and grey worsted stockings. In one hand he carried a good oaken stick, and in the other a little bundle, tied up in a red cotton handkerchief. This personage walked sturdily forth from a small house of refreshment by the wayside a few minutes before our friend had commenced his narrative; and we had been too much occupied with our own conversation at the time of his appearance to notice him further than by exchanging with him the customary "good day to you" of salutation. But the stranger, having taken even this much as a sufficient introduction among pedestrians travelling in the same direction in so lonely a country as that we were then passing through, ventured to continue to keep pace with us in such a way as to be all the while within earshot of what was said. To the story of John Macpherson he listened with most unremitting attention; and to our no small surprise he was the first person to open his mouth to make a comment upon it, now that it was ended. After taking a short trot of several yards, to bring himself abreast of our friend the narrator, and at the same time taking off a very well worn hat with an air of marked respect towards him whom he was addressing, he spoke as follows:-- Stranger.--Might I be so bold, sir, as to offer a few remarks, critical, historical, and explanatory on the fragment of Macpherson history which you have just finished rehearsing? Grant (somewhat surprised).--Certainly, sir; I shall be very glad to hear them. Stranger (with a grave and solemn air).--Why, then, courteous sir, whilst I am altogether wishful to render unto your tale every such praise as may be justly found to be due to it as the produce of one remarkable for that sort of inventive genius which caused Homer to contrive so pretty a story out of the bare facks of the Trojan War, and which enabled Virgil to interest us so much with that long tale which he tells, by exaggerating those few dry adventures which befell the Pious �neas as he fled from Troy to found a new kingdom in Italy, yet must I honestly admit that I cannot compliment the historical fragment which you have given furth to your friends for being parteeklarly verawcious. Clifford.--Bravo! Well done, old fellow. Ha! ha! ha! You beat Touchstone all to sticks. Never heard the lie more ingeniously given in my life. Stranger (with great earnestness, and very much abashed).--Howt no, sir. Upon my solemn credit, I meant no such-an-a-thing. I only meant to convey to this gentleman, and that with all due respect and courtesy, my humble opinion, that in a grave piece of history, having reference to a brave and honourable Highland clan, the true yevents should be closer stuck to than it may be necessar to do where the subject matter is nothing better than such dubious and unimportant trash as that which the auncient Greek and Latin poets had to deal with. Grant (a little nettled).--And what reason have you to suppose that this is not the true and authentic statement of the facts of John Macpherson's history as they really occurred? I gave them as I got them from another. You do not suppose that I altered or invented them? Stranger (with an obsequious inclination of his body).--Howt away, no, no. No such-an-a-thing. If you got them from another I have no manner of doot but you have rehearsed them simply as ye had them, without adding, or eiking, or paring, or changing one whit. But, nevertheless, the real facks have been sorely and most grievously tampered with by some one. Grant.--Indeed. And how came you to know anything about this Macpherson story? and what is your authority for saying that the facts have been tampered with? Stranger (with oracular gravity).--Firstly, or, in the first place, I beg to premeese, that I am a schoolmaster; and therefore it is that I am greatly given to accurate and parteeklar inquiry. Secondly, or, in the second place, having daily practeesed myself into a habit of correcting the errors of my scholars, it is not very easy for me to pass silently by the blunders of other folk. And, thirdly, or, in the third place, and to conclude, I am a Macpherson myself; and as it is natural that I should on that account be all the more earnest and punctilious in expiscating the facks connected with the history of that great clan, so is it also to be presumed that I may have had greater opportunity for conducking such an investigation. And so, having premeesed this much, I may add, by way of an impruvment on the subject, that I shall be just as well pleased to correct your version of this history as I should be to correct the theme of any of my own boys. Grant (smiling).--I am truly obliged to you for this gratuitous offer of your tuition. Stranger (whom I shall now call Dominie Macpherson).--Not in the very least obliged to me, sir. The greatest pleasure of my life is to instruct the ignorant; and in yespecial I deem it a vurra high honour and delight to me to have this opportunity of instructing such a gentleman as you. Proud truly may I be of my scholar. Clifford (with mock gravity).--The master and the scholar, methinks, are quite worthy of each other. Dominie (with a bow to the speaker).--I am greatly obligated to you for the compliment, sir (then turning to Grant with a more confident and self-satisfied air than he had hitherto ventured to assume).--Firstly, or in the first place, then, sir, you must be pleased to know that John Macpherson of Invereshie did not espoose a south country woman; for his wife was a Shaw of Dalnabhert, on Spey-side there. Secondly, or in the second place, the leddy never had any such extraordinar fascination over him as you have described her to have; for she was in reality so ill-natured a woman, that she and her goodman were continually discording and squabbling together. In the third place, or, as I should say, thirdly,--and it being one of the few conditions in which your tale in some sort agrees with the true history,--she was undoottedly so great a spendthrift, that many was the bitter quarrel that arose 'twixt her goodman and her, because of her extravagances. But, fourthly, or in the fourth place, the worthy John Macpherson did not throw the lady into the Feshie; and this is a fack which I would in yespecial crave you to correct in any future edition, seeing that it brings an evil and scandalous report upon the said John, and would seem to smell of murder, when the true parteeklars of the history, known to me from the time I was a babe, are as follows, to wit:--It happened one day that the dispute between them ran to a higher pitch than common, and the lady left the house with the intention of fleeing to her father at Dalnabhert. There was neither bridge nor boat upon Feshie at that same time; but the woman was so demented with rage that she plunged into the water with the determination of wading through. Well, she had not gone three steps into the ford when she was carried off her legs entirely; but her body being buoyed up by reason of her petticoats, of which it is said that she was used to wear not less than four (my grandmother, honest woman, did the same), she floated down the stream into the deep water, until being brought by the swirl of an eddy near to a jutting out rock, she caught at a twig or branch that grew near the edge, and held by it like grim death. And here I must admit that, fifthly, or in the fifth place, Macpherson did of a surety apply the edge of his skian dhu to the bit twiggy she had a grip of. But, then, most people charitably believe that it was nothing else but pure courtesy that induced him to do so to the lady; for, as appearances most naturally caused him to believe that she had taken to the water with the full intent of making away with herself by drowning, he thought that the least that he as her husband could in common civility do, was to render to her what small help he could towards the effecting of her purpose. And then, as to his parting with her in these memorable words--which, to the great edification of all the wives of Badenoch, have since become a proverb in that country, to wit, "you have already taken much from me, you may take that with you too," it must strike you as being most evident, gentlemen, that if Macpherson was to part with his lady at all, he could not have parted with her in terms more truly obliging, or with words more generously liberal. But the most extraordinary and most important deviation from fack, of which the author of your romance has been guilty, yet remains to be noticed; for, in the sixth place, or sixthly, Macpherson, who seems in the whole matter to have had no other intention than that his lady should get a good dookie (as we say, Scottice) in the Feshie, whereby to extinguish the fire of her rage, did not only most gallantly jump into the water to try to save her life, but he actually did save it, or at least the lady's life was saved somehow or other, seeing that she was afterwards the mother of �neas Macpherson of Invereshie, the direct ancestor of the present worthy Laird of Invereshie and Ballindalloch. The modest yet dignified air of triumph which the schoolmaster gradually assumed, as he thus went on unfolding fact after fact, and which was considerably augmented as he approached the conclusion of this his critical oration, very much amused us all. Grant (with an assumed gravity).--I see that I have not only to do with a gentleman of liberal classical acquirement, with one, too, who, blessed with great acumen, has made the art of criticism an especial study, but with a person who is also great as an authority touching the particular historical point which is now in question. And yet, daring as it may be in one of my inexperience to enter the arena with an opponent so powerful, I may perhaps be permitted to observe, in defence of that version of this piece of history of which I have been possessed, that the apparent discrepancy between it and that which you are disposed to consider as the true statement, is, in truth, little or nothing in importance, and may, after all, be very easily reconciled. For, if we attend to the circumstances, we shall find, firstly, or in the first place, that there is nothing before us that may render it impossible for us to believe that Miss Shaw of Dalnabhert might not have received a boarding school education at Edinburgh, as many young ladies of Badenoch unquestionably do, yea, and an education, too, which might have well enough fitted her to have mingled in the gaieties of a court. Secondly, or in the second place, as to the discordings which you say took place between her and her husband, I think you must do me the justice to recollect that these were alluded to in my narrative, though they were delicately touched on, as you will allow that all such family quarrels should be. But even if you do not admit the propriety of this, you must at least grant that if I fell into an error at all in this respect, it was less an error of fact than of deeree. In the third place, or thirdly, the evidence of both authorities is agreed as to the fact of the lady's extravagance, as well as in the important circumstance that her extravagance was the cause which ultimately led the parties to the brink of the river Feshie. Fourthly, or in the fourth place, the conflicting statements in the two several reports regarding the mode in which the lady first got into the water will appear to be of little or no moment when we give to them a due consideration. We are nowhere informed that any one was present but Macpherson and his wife; and when we reflect that these two individuals must have been at the time in a state of excitement and agitation so very great as altogether to deprive them of the power of judging distinctly of anything, it would be quite vain for us to look to either of them for any accurate statement as to how the matter occurred. All accounts, however, are agreed as to the use made by Macpherson of the skian dhu. As to your sixthly, or in the sixth place, I think you will be disposed candidly to admit, that as my informant saw fit to carry his narrative only to a certain point of time, so as to break off at the black cloud and the despair, it is not only perfectly possible, but extremely probable, that he meant to tell, in his second chapter, of the happy recovery of the lady from the waters of the Feshie,--of the perfect reconcilement of the pair,--of her reformation in all respects,--of the retrenchment of her expenditure,--of the disappearance of all dandies with plumed hats and piked shoes,--of the happy birth of the young �neas,--and of his merry christening, with many other matters which the historian has now left us darkly to guess at. The astonished critic was utterly confounded by our friend's reply, so solemnly and seriously uttered as it was; and after one or two "hums" and "has!" and a "very true!" or two, he fell back some footsteps in rear of us; and notwithstanding divers malicious attempts made on the part of Clifford to bring him once more into the fight, he relapsed into an humble and attentive listener. Author.--Your tale, Grant, brings to my recollection a circumstance which, as tradition tells us, happened after the celebrated Raid of Killychrist. Grant.--I am not aware that I ever heard of the Raid of Killychrist, celebrated though you call it. Author.--I believe the outline of the story of that raid has been given somewhere or other in print by a literary friend of mine, though, to tell you the truth, I have never as yet had the good fortune to see it. But I will cheerfully give you my edition of it, such as it is, if you are willing to listen to it. Clifford.--But stop for one moment; and, ere you begin your story, tell me, if you can, what that strange scarecrow looking figure is, which we see standing in yonder green marshy islet near the edge of the small lake immediately before us? Author.--That figure has excited much speculation. It for some time greatly puzzled myself. I passed by this way more than once in the belief, from the cursory view I had of it, that it was a solitary heron. But my curiosity was excited at last, by observing that it was invariably and immovably in the same spot in the islet, whilst I discovered to my no small wonder, that the islet itself was never found by me twice successively in the same part of the little lake, being sometimes stationed in the middle of it and at other times somewhere towards either end, or near to either of the sides. Clifford.--Come, come! ha! ha! ha! you are coming magic over us now. You don't expect that we are to believe any such crammer as this! Author.--I assure you that what I state is strictly and literally true, though I must admit that you have some reason for doubt until you have a further explanation; and I am glad that I have it in my power to give it to you as it was given to myself by an intelligent man who lives in this neighbourhood. What you see is in reality a floating island. Clifford.--A floating island! I know that you Scots are said to be fond of migration; but I had no idea that any part of your soil was in the habit of making voyages either for profit or pleasure. Author.--Nay, nor does a Scot himself often move from any station where he finds himself comfortable, except it may be for the purpose of migrating into some other which may hold out yet greater advantages than that which he possesses. But this whimsical islet shifts its position without reason, exactly like an idle Englishman, who, without any fixed object, moves from one spot of Europe to another, he cannot himself tell why, and merely as the breezes of caprice may blow him about. Grant.--A Roland for your Oliver, Master Clifford! But (addressing Author) tell us how you account for this strange phenomenon? Author.--The mass, as you see, is not very large. Its extent is only a few yards each way. It is composed of a light, fibrous, peaty soil, which was probably originally torn from its connecting foundation by the influx of some sudden flood, aided by a contemporaneous and tempestuous wind. Being once fairly turned adrift in the lake, we can easily conceive that its specific gravity must have been every succeeding day lessened by the growth of the matted roots of the numerous aquatic plants that grew on it, till it rose more and more out of the water, and became at length so very buoyant as to be transported about by every change of the wind. Clifford.--Bravo! You have lectured to us like a geologist; and I must confess, with as much show of reason in your theory as those of many of these antediluvian philosophers can pretend to. But you have yet to play the part of the zoologist, and to give us some account of that strange animal, human being or beast, alive or stuffed, as it may be, that so strangely stands sentry yonder in the midst of it. One might almost fancy it to be one of Macbeth's weird sisters. Grant.--It has indeed a most uncouth and ghostly appearance when seen at this distance. It looks so much like some withered human figure, where we cannot easily reconcile it to reason that any human figure could possibly be. Author.--Yes; and when we think what its effect must be when it is seen by a stranger, sailing slowly over the surface of the little lake, impelled by a whistling wind, at that hour when spirits of all kinds are supposed to have power to burst their cerements, when the moon may give sufficient light to display enough of its wasted and wizard looking form to beget fearful conceptions, without affording such an illumination as might be sufficient to explain its nature, we may easily believe that many are the rustic hearts that sink with dread, and many are the clodpate heads of hair that bristle up "like quills upon the fretful porcupine," whilst whips and spurs are employed with all manner of good will on the unfortunate hides of such unlucky animals as may chance to be carrying lated travellers past this enchanted lake towards their distant place of repose. Clifford.--I can well enough conceive all this. But you have yet to tell us what the figure really is. Author.--Notwithstanding its imposing appearance, it is nothing more, after all, than a figure made of rushes and rags carelessly tied about a pole by some of the simple shepherds of these wilds. It is comparatively of recent creation; but I understand that the islet is by no means of modern origin, though I am led to believe that, like other more extensive pieces of earth, it has undergone many changes since its first creation. It must have been liable to be increased and diminished by various natural causes at different periods of its history. Dominie Macpherson (half advancing into the group, with a chastened air, and more obsequious inclination of his body than he had ever yet used.)--If I may make so bold as to put in my word--ha--hum. If I might be permitted to make so bold as to speak, I can assure you, gentlemen, that the bit island yonder has long existed. I have known these parts for many a long year; and I can testify to the fack, from my own observation, added to and eiked out by that of men who were old when I was born. Superstitious people call it the witches' island, and believe that the weird sisterhood hold it under their yespecial control and governance. Clifford.--Much better sailing in it than in a sieve. But have you gathered none of the adventures of the Beldams to whom you say it belongs? Dominie.--God forbid, sir, that I should say it belongs to such uncanny people! But truly there is a very strange story connected with it. Clifford.--A story, Mr. Macpherson, pray let's have your story without delay, if you please, that we may forthwith judge whether you are to rank higher in the world of letters as an historian or as a critic. "Perge Domine!" Grant.--You will gratify us much, sir. Dominie.--I shall willingly try my hand, sir; and if you find not the sweetness of Homer or Maro in my narrative, at least you shall be sure of that accuracy as to fack which so much distinguished the elegant author of the Commentaries. Clifford (with mock gravity).--Doth the narrative touch your own adventures, my friend? Are you, like Cæsar, the historian of your own deeds? Dominie.--Not so, sir; but I had all the facks from my father, who knew the hero and heroine, and all the persons whose names are mentioned in it. Clifford.--Ha! you have a hero, then, and a heroine too? Why that, methinks, looks somewhat more like romance than history. Grant (smiling).--Be quiet, Clifford! You forget that you are all this while keeping us from our story. Pray, sir, have the goodness to begin. The schoolmaster bowed; and taking a central place in the line of march, he proceeded with his narrative in language so mingled with quaint and original expressions, that I cannot hope, and therefore do not always pretend, to render it with the same raciness with which it was uttered. LEGEND OF THE FLOATING ISLET. I must honestly tell you, gentlemen, that my story hath much the air of a romance, as well as much of love in it, and many of the other ingredients of such like vain and frivolous compositions; but you shall have the facks as told me by my much honoured father, who, being a well-employed blacksmith, not many miles from the spot where we now are, may be said to have been the chronicler of the passing yevents of his day. Awell, you see, it happened that a well-grown, handsome, proper looking young shepherd lad, called Robin Stuart, had possessed himself of the young affections of a bonny lassie, the daughter of Donald Rose, one of the better sort of tenants of these parts. Their love for one another had grown up with them, they could not well say how. Its origin was lost in the innocent forgetfulness of their childhood, as the origin of a nation is buried in the fabulous history of its infancy; but, however born, this they both felt, that it had grown in strength and vigour every day of their lives, until with Robin it began to ripen into that honest and ardent attachment natural to a manly young heart, which was responded to on the part of bonny Mary Rose by all the delicacy and softness that ought to characterise the modest young maiden's return of a first love. But however natural it was for the tender heart of the daughter to beat in unison, or, as I may say, to swing in equal arcs with that of her lover, just as if they had been two pendulums of like proportions and construction, it was equally selon les règles, as the modern men of Gaul would say, that the churlish and sordid old tyke of a father, who had been accustomed to estimate merit more by the rule of proportion than anything else, exactly perhaps as he would have valued one of his own muttons according to the number of its pounds, should have stormed like a fury when he actually deteckit the callant Robin Stuart in the very ack of making love to his daughter in his own house! A desperate feud of some years' standing had made Donald the declared enemy of Robin's father, old Harry the herd of the Limekilns, a cognomen which he had from the circumstance of his cottage being placed on the side of yonder hill of that name, so called from a prevailing tradition that the lime used in the building of the Castle of Loch-an-Dorbe was brought in the state of stone in creels on horses' backs from the quarries near to Grantown, and burned there. Old Harry was a poor man and a herd, whilst Donald Rose was wealthy, and especially prided himself on being a Duniwassel, or small gentleman, so that there thus existed three most active awgents, to wit, enmity, avarice, and pride, which combined to compel him to put an instantaneous stop to all such proceedings between Robin Stuart and his daughter Mary. Without one moment's delay, he thrust the young shepherd, head and shoulders, violently forth from his door, and smacking the palm of his hand significantly and with great force and birr on his dirk sheath, so as to cause the weepon to ring again-- "I'll tell ye what it is, my young birkie," said he, in a voice like thunder, "gif I catch ye again within haulf a mile o' my dochter, ye sall ha'e a taste o' sweetlips here! An' as for you, Mary, an' ye daur to let siccan a beggarly chield as that come within a penny stane cast o' ye, by my saul but I'll turn ye out ower my door hauld wi' as leetle ceremony as I ha'e done the same thing to Rab himsell yonder!" But, as one of the ancient heathen poets hath it, love is a fire which no storm can extinguish; it feeds itself with hope, and only burns the brighter the more it is blown against by adverse blasts. You know, gentlemen, how Pyramus and Thisbe contrived to hold secret converse together. Though Robin and Mary had no crack in a wall through which to pour the stream of their mutual love,--nay, although their respective dwellings were some mile or two separate from each other, yet many were the private meetings which the youth and maiden contrived to obtain, during which they employed their time in fostering their mutual hopes, and in strengthening their belief that better and happier days were yet in store for them. And happy indeed would have been those days of their anticipation, if they could have proved happier than were those stolen hours which they thus occasionally enjoyed together. Now, it happened one beautiful day, in the beginning of summer, that Donald Rose rode off from his door to go to a distant market, whence there was no chance of his returning till late at night. The old saying hath it, that when the cat is away the mice will play. This was too favourable an opportunity to be lost by a pair of young lovers so quick-sighted as Robin and Mary. It had been marked by both of them for some weeks before it came; and the farmer's long-tailed rough grey garron had no sooner borne his master's bulky body in safety along the ticklish and treacherous path that went by a short cut through the long moss, and over the distant rising ground, than Robin Stuart, true to his tryst, appeared to escort his bonny lassie on a ramble of love. No one was at home to spy out their intentions but old Mysie Morrison, the good-natured hireling woman of all work; and she was too much taken up with her household affairs to trouble her head about watching the young lad and lass. Indeed, if she had thoughts of them at all, she was too much attached to her young mistress, and too well acquainted with her secret, and too shrewd to betray her either by design or by accident. As you may see, gentlemen, there was no great choice of pleasure walks in this bleak destrick, but the two young creatures were so taken up with each other, and so full of joy in each other's company, that the dreariest spot of it was as a rich and blooming garden in their delighted eyes. They tripped along merrily together, and bounded like roe deer over the heathery knolls, scarcely knowing, and not in the least caring, which way they went, until they found themselves by the side of the little lochan which we have but just left behind us. It was then the season when the wilderness of this upland country was clad in a mantle of wild flowers, and thereabouts especially they grew in so great variety and profusion that it seemed as if the goddess Flora had resolved to hold her court in that place. There, then, they resolved to rest a while; and Robin, producing the simple contents of a little wallet which he carried under his plaid, they sat down together and feasted luxuriously. When they had finished their meal the lovers began to waste the hours in idle but innocent sport. They roamed about here and there, gathering the gaudy flowering plants that grew around them; and after filling their arms with these wildling treasures, they again seated themselves side by side, to employ their hands in arranging and plaiting them into rustic ornaments. Whilst thus occupied they were too happy and too much taken up with their own pleasing prattle to think of the progress of the sun, who was all this time most industriously urging his ceaseless journey over their heads, without exciting any of their attention, except in so far as his beams might have lent a livelier hue to the gay garlands they were weaving for each other, or yielded a fresher glow to the cheeks, or a brighter sparkle to the eyes, of those who were to wear them. Whilst they were thus so happily and so harmlessly occupied, they went on, with all the innocent simplicity of rustic life, repeating over and over again to each other their solemn vows of eternal love and fidelity, as if they could never have been tired of these their sweet and sooth-fast asseverations, whilst, at the same time, they uttered them with a copiousness of phraseology and a variety of dialogue truly marvellous in such a muirland pair as they were. It would have absolutely astonished all your writers of novelles to have overheard them, and it would have puzzled any of these fiction-mongers to have invented the like. "Oh that your father was but as poor and as humble as mine, Mary!" exclaimed the youth at last, "or, rich and proud as he is, that you could leave him and content yoursel' wi' bein' a poor man's wife!" "Na, Robin!" replied she, shaking her head gravely, and then laying her hand upon his arm, and looking up wistfully into his eyes, "you would never ask me, my father's ae bairn, to leave him noo that he has grown auld, and that my dear mother has left us baith and gane to heeven! Gif, indeed, he could be but brought to look wi' a kind ee on you--then--then"--continued she, with a faultering tongue, whilst she blushed deeply, and threw her eyes down amidst the heap of flowers that lay at her feet,--"then, indeed, we might baith be his bairns." "Oh! I wish again that he were but a poor man!" cried Robin enthusiastically, "for then might thir twa arms o' mine mak' me as gude a match in his een as a' the bit tocher he could gie might warrant him to look for. Weel and stoutly wad I work for sic a prize as you, Mary!" "An' weel wad I be pleased that ye should ha'e it, Robin, little worth as it is!" said Mary, with an expression of undisguised fondness. "Though I could na gie up my father, I could gie up a' my father's gowd, gif it wad but bring you hame to help him. And gif it warna for him," added she, with a tear trembling in her eye, "I trow I could gang wi' you to the warld's end, an' I war never to see anither human face!" "O Mary!" exclaimed Robin, in a transport, "I could live wi' you in a desert. I could live wi' you in some wee uninhabited spot in the midds o' the muckle ocean, aye, though it war nae bigger than the bit witches' island there afore ye, aye, and as fond o' flittin' as it is too, and that we sould never leave its wee bit bouns." There was something so absurdly extravagant in the very idea of two people being confined together to a space of a few yards square, to live the sport of every varying breeze that might blow over the surface of the deep, that Mary's gravity was fairly overcome, notwithstanding the high pitch of devoted feeling to which she had been wound up at the moment. She could not control herself; and she gave way to loud peals of laughter, in which her lover as heartily joined her. "See!" cried she, the moment she could get her breath, whilst she pointed sportively to the little floating islet which was at that moment lying motionless, and almost in contact with the shore near to the spot where they were sitting, "see, see, Robby, how our wee bit fairy kingdom is waitin' yonder to bid us welcome!" "Come, then, my queen, let us take possession o 't then in baith our names!" cried Robin, in the same tone, and gaily and gallantly seizing her hand at the same time, he, with great pretended pomp and ceremony, led her, half laughing, and half afraid, towards the place where the island rested. At the time my story speaks of the borders of the loch were less encroached upon by weeds and rushes than you have seen that they now are, and the island lay, as if it had been moored, as mariners would say, in deep water close to the shore. It was, therefore, but a short step to reach it, and Robin easily handed the trembling Mary into it with as much natural grace, I'll warrant me, as the pious �neas himself could have handed Queen Dido. The lassie's light foot hardly made its grassy surface quiver as it reached it; but, full of his own frolic, and altogether forgetful for that moment of the precarious and kittle nature of the ground he had to deal with, he sprang in after her with a degree of force which was far from being required to effect his purpose, and so great was the impetus which he thus communicated to the floating islet, that it was at once pushed several yards away from the shore. With one joint exclamation of terror both stood appalled, and they silently beheld the small fragment of ground that supported them moving, almost insensibly, yet farther and farther towards the middle of the loch, so long as any of the force which Robin had so unfortunately applied to it remained, and then it settled on the motionless bosom of the deep and black looking waters, at such a distance even from the bank which they had just left as to forbid all hope of escape to those who could not swim. Fled indeed, gentlemen, was now all the mirth of this unlucky pair. Poor Mary was at once possessed by a thousand fears; and even the firmer mind of her companion, though sufficiently occupied with its anxiety for her, was not without its full share of those individual superstitious apprehensions naturally produced by the place where they were, and which secretly affected both of them. Neither of them could resist the belief that supernatural interference had had some share in producing their present distress. But whatever Robin's private thoughts may have been, he was too manly to allow them to become apparent to Mary. Plucking up some long grass and sedges, therefore, and making them into a large bundle, he took off his jacket, threw it over it, and by this means made a dry seat for her in the very middle of the quivering and spongy surface of the islet. Then casting his red plaid over his shoulder, he stood beside her, now bending over her to whisper words of comfort and encouragement into her ear, and by and by stretching his neck erect, that his eyes might have the better vantage to sweep around the whole circuit of the dull and monotonous surface of the surrounding wastes. How mixed, yet how antagonist to each other were the ideas which now passed rapidly through his mind! At one moment he felt a strange and indescribable rapture as the mere thought crossed him that this small floating spot of earth did indeed contain no other human being but himself and her whom he would wish to sever from all the world besides, that she might be the more perfectly dependent on himself alone, and therefore the more indissolubly bound to him; and then would he utter some endearing words to Mary. Then, again, the shivering conviction would strike him, that although there was no human being but themselves there, there might yet be other unknown and unseen beings in their company that neither of them wist of, and he looked fearfully around him, scanning with suspicious eye, not only the whole surface of the lake, but every little nook and crevice of the shore. And then bethinking him of night, he lifted up his eyes with anxious solicitude from time to time, to note the position of the sun, whose progress he and his fair companion had previously so much disregarded; and great was his internal vexation when he perceived how rapidly his car was now rolling downwards, not, as the auncient poets would say, in his haste to lay himself in the lap of Thetis, but as if he had been eager to escape behind yon great lump of a muirland hill yonder to the westward. But a yet more trying discovery soon began to force itself upon his attention. The islet on which they stood seemed, as he narrowly measured it with his eye, to have sunk some inches into the water! Already in idea he felt its bubbling wavelets closing over his own head and the dear head of her whom he so much loved! His heart grew sick at the very thought. Summoning up courage, however, he contrived to allow no outward sign to betray his feelings to Mary; and taking certain marks with his eye, he set himself to watch them with an anxiety so intense, and with a look so fixed, that he was unable rationally to reply, either by word or sign, to anything that the poor lassie said to him, so that she began at length to entertain new apprehensions at the wild expression which his countenance exhibited. By degrees, however, she became more assured, for, after long and accurate observation had led him to believe that at least no very rapid change was taking place, his features gradually relaxed, and hers were for the time relieved by that very sympathy which had so enchained them. And now the sun was fast approaching the horizon, and Robin's eyes were eagerly employed in endeavouring to penetrate even the most distant shadows that were rapidly settling down upon the hills, behind which he was about to disappear, whence they began to spread themselves over the wide extent of brown moors and black mosses that stretched everywhere around them. As the light passed away, his glances flew more hastily in every direction, in the vain search for some human being. Above all, he earnestly surveyed the road where he for some time sanguinely hoped that he might discover some one returning from the market, who might yet lend them an aid, though he felt that it quite defied him to form any rational conception as to what the nature of that aid could be. Again, he would most inconsistently shrink back, and instinctively shut his eyes, as if that could have concealed his person, from very dread that Donald Rose might come home that way and discover them in this their distressing and dangerous situation, for he was fully aware that he had but little chance of rising in the old man's estimation by having thus had the misfortune to bring the life of his only child into so great peril. As he thus ruminated, he remembered that although this was not old Donald's shortest way home, yet it was that which he was most likely to take towards night, as being the best. And he moreover distinctly perceived, that if he did come that way before it was dark, he could not fail to discover them. For as the rugged and irregular muirland road wound round nearly one-third of the whole margin of the little loch, by reason of its having to cross the bit brook that issues from its western extremity, it was self-evident that no one could travel that way without having his eyes intently fixed, for a considerable time, in a direction that must compel him to survey the whole surface of the sheet of water, so that not a duck or a dab-chick could yescape them. And what if the farmer did not come? Might they not be discovered by some other hard-hearted person, who, instead of assisting them, might be so wicked as to carry the news of their situation directly to old Rose, whose rage, he felt persuaded, would be enough to burn up the waters of the loch. Such a finis to the adventure was the least misfortune they could look for from the malice of those evil spirits of the islet, by whom he believed that he and Mary had been thus entrapped. Anxious as he had at first been to descry some one, he now longed for night to fall down on them and render them invisible. Then the utter hopelessness of eventual concealment occurred to him, for he reflected that the farmer must return home at some hour during the night; that when he did so return, he must find his daughter absent, and that his ungovernable fury would not be diminished by the tormenting suspense in which he would be kept regarding her until next day, when they should certainly be discovered. Robin's mind was tossed to and fro among such unpleasant thoughts as these, till they were all put to flight by the overwhelming force of that superstitious dread which taught him to believe that night would soon give an uncontrolled power to those evil beings who had thus so cruelly used them. "Oh, for a breeze of wind!" cried poor Robin in his agony, as a thousand formidable and ghastly shapes began to dance before his disturbed fancy. And-- "Oh, for a breeze!" sighed the soft and tremulous voice of Mary Rose, whose mind had all this while been silently following the same irregular train of thought, and sympathetically participating in the distressing emotions which had been agitating her lover. And now the sun went down in a blaze of glory beyond the western hills, and his last beams took leave of the surface of the water, after having shed a radiance over it, as well as a cheerful glow over the countenances of the two lovers, that but ill assorted with the misery of soul which they were enduring. By degrees a soft summer exhalation began to arise from the bosom of the loch, as well as from all the neighbouring pools, peatpots, and marshes. But balmy, and cheering, and invigorating as it was to all the parched offspring of nature that grew in this desert, which opened their bosoms to receive it, and gratefully exhaled their richest perfumes, it chilled the very hearts of the lovers, as night fell darkly and dismally around them. "Robin," said Mary in a voice that quivered from the effects of the chilling damp, combined with those secret terrors which were every instant taking more and more powerful possession of her, in spite of all her reason and resolution to resist them. "Robin, put on your jacket, you will starve." "Mair need for me, Mary, to gie ye this plaid o' mine," replied he in a tender tone. "Here, tak' it about ye, my dearest lassie, and keep up a gude heart." "Na, I'll no tak' nae mair aff ye," said Mary gently, refusing to allow him to throw the plaid over her. "Let me--let me gie ye haulf o't then," said he, with a modest hesitation. After some little further discussion, the matter was at last arranged, for Mary stood up by Robin's side, and the ample plaid having been thrown over both of them, somewhat in the manner of a tent, the edges of it were held together by her lover's nervous arm, so as in a great measure to exclude the cold damp air. If it was not altogether shut out, Robin at least for some time felt none of its influence, for, finding himself thus the sole protector of his beloved Mary, his heart burned within him with love and pride, and all thoughts of evil spirits were banished for a time. Things had not been long accommodated in this manner, when Mary complained that her feet began to grow cold and wet, and the change in Robin's thoughts may be conceived when he too became convinced that the water was certainly somehow or other gaining upon them. The darkness was now such as to render it impossible for him to make any such minute observation as he had done before. He could only now guess vaguely, and his whole frame shivered with horror as the suspicion crossed him, that the unusual weight which the islet now bore having pressed it downwards, the upper and more porous parts of it, which were formerly comparatively dry, had imbibed a greater quantity of water than usual, and the specific gravity of the whole being thus increased, it was gradually sinking, and must soon be altogether submerged. I say not that the poor lad reasoned thus upon pheelosophical principles, but, nevertheless, he did come to the conclusion that this treacherous bit of ground was sinking fast. How long or how short a time it might possibly take before the awful catastrophe should arrive, was more than he had any means of determining. He had nothing now left but to nerve himself with resolution to enable him to conceal his fears and his horrors from Mary, though, at the same time, he could not help clinging to her with an earnestness and a wildness of manner that did anything but allay her terrors. Dark as the night was, all those superstitious fancies which had disturbed their minds were banished by the overpowering conviction of speedily approaching dissolution which individually possessed them in secret. The black gulf by which they were environed seemed, in the mind's eye of each of them, to be yawning to swallow them up; and the thought that they should die in each other's arms, was the only consolation that visited their afflicted souls in that awful moment. "Let us pray to the Lord!" said Mary solemnly, "for our death-hour is come!" Robert, who would now have deemed it to be a sinful ack to speak to her of hope, which he had himself so utterly abandoned, immediately obeyed her command. You know, gentlemen, that it is the glorious preevilege of our Scottish peasantry to receive education from the pious and well conducked teachers of our parochial schools. Even the youngest men are thereby exerceesed in prayer, so that it becomes so much of a habit with them, that they are at all times prepared to pour out their souls in extemporaneous offerings to the Deevine Being. You can easily understand, therefore, that at such a moment when convinced that he himself, and she whom he loved beyond all yearthly things, were about to be summoned to the footstool of their Creator, his prayer was solemn, yearnest, simple, and sublime. So certain did the sealing of their doom now appear, that he put up few petitions for present help in this world. The whole force of his supplication was directed to their salvation through the merits of a Saviour, in that on which they were so soon to enter, and Mary clung closer to him as he spoke, and continued to follow all his expressions, now internally and now audibly, with a fervour that sufficiently proved the intensity of her faith and hope. Whilst the poor creatures were thus employed a dim gleam of light from the eastern horizon seemed as if struggling through the dense fog that hung over the loch, and soon afterwards a gentle passing breath of air was distinctly felt by both of them. It murmured around them, and fanned them, as it were, for a moment, and found its way even within the hollow of the plaid. Its voice was to them as the voice of their guardian angel, and it refreshed their drooping souls, although they knew not very well how it did so. In a very few minutes afterwards, however, the mist being broken up by the influence of a full moon that had just risen, began to collect itself into distinct spiral columns, which dissipated themselves one after another, as if they had been so many spirits melting into air. The long wished-for breeze then at length came singing most musically as it skimmed over the surface of the perfumed heath. And it had not long curled the hitherto still surface of the loch, till Robin and Mary began to perceive that the half-drowned island was sensibly increasing its distance from the shore whence they had taken their departure. There was something very fearful in this, and the poor lassie clung closer to her lover. But with all their fears it now seemed as if Hope was sitting beckoning to them on the opposite shore, towards which the breeze was so evidently, though so slowly, propelling them. The moon now shone forth in full radiance, and speedily dissipated the broken fragments of the fog that yet remained. One mass only, denser than the rest, still hung poised over their heads, naturally maintained in that position by the attraction of the damp floating earth they stood on. To their great joy they perceived that the breeze was increasing, and that their motion was gradually accelerating. "Mary, my dear," cried Robin, "keep a gude heart; I'm thinking that we'll maybe mak out yet. Let's hoize up the plaid till it catches mair o' the wund." And, accordingly, they raised their arms and kept the plaid high over their heads, till it was bellied out by the breeze like the lugsail of a herring buss, and their velocity was tripled. They were thus moving gallantly onwards, in anxious expectation that a very few minutes more would moor them in safety to the shore, so that there might yet be time for Mary to hurry home before her father should arrive to question her absence, when they suddenly perceived a horseman riding along the road which sweep't around the end of the loch they were now nearing so fast. What think ye, gentlemen, was the astonishment, dread, and mortification of the poor lassie and her lad when they beheld the moonbeams reflecked from a face as broad and as pale as the disc of the luminary from which they had been last projected? It was Donald Rose himself! As their supporting bit of earth drifted onwards with them, they stood together for a moment petrified with surprise and fear, whilst they beheld him check his horse, and turn his head towards the loch, as if to gaze at them; and then, with one shriek from Mary and a deep groan from Robin, which might have made a good treble and bass for the psalmody of the martyrs, both the two of them, by one simultaneous movement, sank down together among the rank grass and water-weeds in which they were standing, and the folds of the plaid collapsing around them, both were completely shrouded beneath it. There they lay, abandoning themselves to their perverse fate, and fearing to move or speak, until, in a very few seconds, they were drifted to the very spot where they too well knew that the enraged farmer must be already standing like a roaring lion ready to devour them; and they were thus prostrated, as it were, at the very feet of him whose ungovernable rage they had so much reason to wish to have avoided. The floating island had touched the terra firma for some seconds, but still the conscious pair dared not to peep from beneath the covering that enveloped them. They lay, as I might say, as quiet as two mice in a bag of meal. They uttered not a word. They hardly even dared to breathe. But tremblingly in need of support under circumstances so very trying, the poor lassie Mary clasped her Robin about the waist with an energy equal to the terror she was moved by. It was the feeling of this her utter dependence upon him for support and defence that first subdued Robert's own fears, and awakened him to a sense of his own dignity as a man. "An' ye'll hae but a thoughty o' patience, Maister Rose, I'll tell ye a' aboot it," said he, commencing his peroration from beneath the plaid, somewhat sotto voce, as the degenerate modern Romans would say. But gaining greater boldness as he heard the sound of his own voice, and that his words remained as yet unanswered, he went on to speak, gradually raising his tone as he did so, and at the same time erecting his person by slow degrees from his abject attitude, though without unveiling himself. "Ye may think as ye like, Maister Rose, but I canna help lovin' Miss Mary; I maun love her spite o' mysell, an' gin ye wad hae me no to love her nae mair, ye maun just dirk me here at aince. But for the sake o' a' that's good!" continued he, blubbering from very emotion, "dinna offer to hurt ae hair o' her bonny head, for by my troth an' ye do, Maister Rose!"---- These last words were uttered in so loud and impassioned a key, that it sufficiently indicated the nature as well as the resolute determination of the threat that was intended to follow, even if the furious action of the uplifted arm and clenched fist had not left it quite unequivocal. So violent was the effect, that the plaid which had risen along with the speaker, and which had up to this point continued to muffle his head and eyes, was suddenly thrown off. "Gude keep hus a' he's gane!" cried Robin with a stare of horror. "As I'm a leevin' man!--as I houp and believe I am"--continued he, pinching his own arms and thighs as he said so, to convince himself of the fack that he really was alive, "it was your father's wraith we saw, Mary!" Half fainting from the effect of the complication of terrors which had surrounded her, Mary Rose was hardly conscious of what Robin had said, and he for his part having gained that self-command of which the sudden nature of his alarm had for a moment deprived him, now bit his lip and studiously avoided uttering one word that might convey to her the least inkling of that conviction which had just then flashed upon him, or that might distress her mind with any share of that superstitious dread which at this moment so completely filled his own. "He's gane indeed, dear Mary," said he as he gently assisted her to rise; "let's be thankful that we're safe on dry land, and let me help you hame to your ain house as fast as I can, and may the Lord be aboot us!" Adjusting his plaid over her, and placing his arm around her slender waist to support her tottering steps, he guided her homewards by the light of the moon through the rugged moor by a short path. Often as they went did each of them secretly remember how auspiciously the morning sun had shone upon them as they had danced lightly together over the blooming heather! But they were both too much sunk by the unfortunate issue of their day's adventures, believing as they, poor things, foolishly did, that the powers of evil themselves had combined to thwart them; they were too much sunk, I say, to be able to utter much more than monosyllables to each other, or such words at least as were expressive of gratitude to Heaven for having permitted them to yescape with life, whilst an indefinite dread of the fate that awaited them hung secretly lowering over each of their minds. Lights blazed within the white-washed windows of Donald Rose's cottage as it appeared on a knoll before Mary's dizzy eyes. Whether these might indicate her father's presence or not, she could not daur to guess. The poor lassie was so feared, that she hesitated to approach the door herself; yet she felt that there was still greater danger there for Robin, and, with a delicate pressure of the young lad's hand, she bade him tenderly farewell. "Robin, haste ye hame to the Limekilns," said she. "Ye maunna face my father. Leave me to face him mysell." "No!" said Robin boldly and with peculiar emphasis, "I ha'e noo faced mair than your father, Mary; and sae I'm no ga'in' to flee your father himsell, though he does wear a durk. Gif he be comed hame, ye may the mair want my help to meet him." Fearfully alarmed for the consequences, and still more apprehensive for her father's wrath against him than against herself, she endeavoured to argue with him on the folly of his rashness; and whilst they were both engaged in an animated and somewhat imprudently loud discussion on this subject, they were startled by the voice of Mysie Morrison, who came suddenly upon them from the cottage. "Bless ye, my bairns, is that you?" exclaimed this good domestic. "What i' the warld has keepit ye sae lang oot daffin'? An' is that the end o' a' your courtin' after a', that you're to come hame an' end it that gate wi' a colly-shangy?" "Has my father come back frae the market yet, Mysie?" tremblingly demanded Mary. "Na, he's no come hame yet," replied the old woman, "and I'm thinkin' that he'll no be comin' hame the night noo. I 'se warrant he's been weel set wi' some drouthy customer, an' he'll hae staid whar he wuz. But come ye're ways in, my bairns, an' get some meat; I trow ye maun be clean starvin'." With Robin's recollection of the spectre which he had beheld riding by the loch-side he had little heart, at that hour, to cross the wide muir that lay between Donald Rose's house, where he then was, and his father's cottage on the hill of the Limekilns. He much preferred the risk of meeting Donald's substantial body of flesh and blood, dirk and fury and all, within the four walls of a well lighted up room, to having his moonlight path crossed upon the heath by the terrific simulacrum or wraith which had already blasted his sight. In addition, therefore, to the seducing attractions which Mary's society held out to him, coupled with those urgent admonitions which he was receiving at that moment from hunger and thirst, he had thus some vurra strong and powerful secret reasons for preferring to remain, to which he did not choose to give utterance. Mary, for her part, was sorely buffeted between her wishes and her fears. She had every desire to do that hospitality to her lover which her own faintness began to remind her must now be so highly necessary to him. On the other hand, she had the strongest apprehension that her father might suddenly return, in spite of all that Mysie had said to the contrary, and she thus hung for a moment in dootful equilibrio, as a body may say, between the two opposing forces which were thus operating on her. But Mysie, who was much less timorous, having done all she could to assure her that there was no danger of a surprise, she at length hushed her fears and tacitly yielded to her wishes. She and Robin, therefore, were soon seated over some comfortable viands by a blazing hearth, whilst Mysie, with a judgment and prudence that might have well befitted an attendant of Queen Dido herself when she took refuge from the storm with the Trojan king in the cave, retired to make security doubly sure, by setting herself to watch at the window of the neighbouring apartment, where, by the light of the moon, she might see her master return, so that she might give timeous notice to Robin Stuart to yescape by the back-door, whilst old Rose was occupied in putting his horse into the stable. This was well enough arranged in the old woman, gentlemen. Caius Julius Cæsar himself could not have made better dispositions to have prevented a night surprise. But, as our immortal bard, William Shakespeare, hath it, in the words which he hath put into the mouth of the lively Rosalind, time goes at different paces with different individuals. Upon this occasion it certainly went fast enough with Robin Stuart and Mary Rose. For, though their minds were for a short time crossed occasionally by very fearful visions of the past, of some of which they dared hardly to speak to each other, yet these were soon banished altogether by their mutual smiles, and by the ardent and endearing expressions which they went on interchanging together. Swift flew the minutes, and their conversation was still waxing more and more interesting. They were seated close together; and, as their tender dialogue became more intensely moving, Robin's arm had unconsciously found its way around Mary's waist, whilst hers had fallen carelessly over his shoulder, and had accidentally carried with it the folds of his plaid, which she had not yet thrown off. The cheerful gleam from the blazing moss-fir faggots threw a strong effect of light from the ample chimney over their figures. They indeed believed, from their inaccurate calculation, that this their felicity had endured for some short half hour only, whilst, by the drowsy account of old Mysie, who had sat nodding, and every now and then catching her head up to save it, if she possibly could, from dropping irrecoverably into the lap of Morpheus, the god of sleep, four good hours had gone by. As the truth probably lay between, I shall take the mean of these two extremes, and therefore I may say, with some degree of confidence, that about two hours had yelapsed when she at last yielded to the soporific influence, and fell into a sleep so profound, that ere it had endured for ten minutes, ten cannons or ten claps of thunder could hardly have awakened her; and whilst matters were in this state the door of the apartment where Robin and Mary were so comfortably seated as I have just described them to be,--the door of the apartment was suddenly opened, and Donald Rose himself, covered with mud from neck to heel, and with a countenance pale and haggard as death, entered,--followed, gentlemen, still stranger to tell, by--Harry Stuart, the herd of the Limekilns! The surprise by which the lovers were thus taken was perfectly complete. Their presence of mind was altogether gone. They started up together at once, without even attempting to unfold or withdraw their arms from the different positions which they had respectively assumed, whilst the drapery of the plaid hung over both of them, mingled with the garlands which they still wore. They stood as if they had been converted into statues. "Gude keep us a' frae evil!" cried Donald Rose the moment he entered, whilst, to their utter astonishment, he started back as he said so, his eyes glaring at them with a ghastly look of fear and horror that was much too natural not to be perfectly genuine. "Gude keep us frae a' evil, are ye wraiths or are ye real? The same plaid! the same garlands! and the same guise! Speak! speak! what are ye? But I see," continued he, after a pause, during which he recovered himself a little; "I see, Gude be thankit! that ye are baith flesh and bluid." "Aye, flesh and bluid we are," said Robin Stuart, summoning up all his resolution and speaking in a determined tone. "We are flesh and bluid truly, and I trust that we shall soon be one flesh and one bluid too! Our souls are already as one! sae let not ane auld man's avarice rend asunder twa leal hearts already joined by Heeven!" "Joined by Heeven, indeed, Rabby!" replied old Rose, with a solemn and mysterious air; "and Heeven forbid that sic a miserable vratch as I am sould daur to interfere. What Heeven hath joined let not man put asunder! O bairns! bairns!" continued he, as he swopped himself down into his great oaken elbow chair, as if quite overcome with fatigue both of body and mind; "och, bairns! bairns! what ane awfu' gliff I hae gotten this blessed night! As I was on my road hame frae the market--an' at a decent hour, too,--for the drover an' me had but three half mutchkins a-piece whan we pairted at Grantown--whan I was on my road hame, as I was sayin', an' just as I was gaein' to pass round this end o' the Witches' Loch, to cross at the bit fuirdy yonder, what does I see, it gars my very flesh a' creep again to think on't--what does I see, I say, but your twa figures, as plain as I see ye baith at this precious moment, in thay very garments ye hae on, an' wi' thay very garlands about your necks, an' shouthers, an' breasts, an' baith claspit thegither, as ye war just yenoo whan I came in. I say, I saw ye baith in that very guise, an' in that very pouster, comin' skimmin' o'er the surface o' the deep water o' the loch, wi' that very red plaid aboon ye baith for a sail. But, Gude proteck us a'!--what think ye?--The full moon was just risen in the east, an' her very light was shinin' through the twa spirits, an' aboot them there was a kind o' a glory, just like unto the mony coloured brugh that ye hae nae doot aften seen about the moon hersel'. Och me, it wuz a grusome sight! I wish I may e'er won ower wi't!" Robin and Mary exchanged intelligent glances with each other during this part of old Rose's narrative; but he was too much overpowered with what he had seen, and too full of his subject, to observe what passed between them. "Tak a wee drap o' this, father," said Mary, handing him a brimming cuach; "you will be muckle the better o't." "Thank ye, thank ye, my bonny bairn!" said the farmer, giving her back the empty cuach, and kindly patting her head as he did so. "I'm sure, my dauty, it was ill my pairt to cross ye as I did. But, stay!--whaur was I?--Weel, ye see, just as the twa speerits war comin' whush athort the loch upon me far faster than ony wild duke could flee,--the very dumb brute that I was on started back wi' fear, whurled aboot in a moment, an' whuppit me awa' back o'er the moss in spite o' mysel', regairdless o' ony road; and I trow I never stoppit till I wuz on the t'ither side o' Craig Bey, whar, by good luck, I forgathered wi' Harry o' the Limekilns there--fear, like death, will pit oot the fire o' the auldest feud; and whan Harry heard the cause o' my flight,--for whan he met me I was fleein' like a muir-cock down the wund,--I say, whan Harry heard o' what an a sight I had seen, an' he bein', as it were, in some degree conneckit wi' it, as weel as mysel', I trow he wuz as glad to hae me wi' him as I wuz to hae him wi me, wi' the houp o' keepin' aff waur company. Harry had nae better wull to gae by the Witches' Loch than I had, and sae we cam' ower by the short cut through the lang moss thegither. A bonny road, truly, for sic an afu' late hour of the night, for a' that we had the moon, as ye may see well eneugh by the dabbled state o' my trews. I'm sure my puir beast 'ill no be able to crawl the morn after a' the gliffin', an' galloppin', aye, an' I may say soomin' too, that he has had, for I hae some doots gif there be ae moss hole atween Craig Bey an' this hoose that he has na' had to swatter through." "Let me get dry stockin's for ye, father," said Mary. "Na, my dauty, its no worth while for a' the time!" replied Donald. "An' noo, Harry, man," continued he, turning to his companion, who had been all this while standing near the door, "cum ben, man, an' sit doon; what for dinna ye sit doon? An' noo, I say, although ye are but a poor man, Harry, an' no just sae weel come by deschent as I am, wha, as ye are maybe awaur, am come o' a cousin sax times removed of the Laird of Kilravock himself, which a' the warld kens to be ane o' the maist auncientest families in Scotland,--I say, though ye are no just descended frae siccan honourable forebears, yet ye are ane honest man." "I trust that I am sae, neebour," said Harry modestly, but with his head yereck, as ane honest man's always should be. "Aweel, aweel!" cried old Rose impatiently, "as I was gaein' to say, we's just owerlook a' thae things, an' souther up a' oonkindness that may hae been atween us, an' sae we'll mak' the best o't, an' hae your laddie an' my lassie buckled thegither as soon as the minister can mak' them ane. Come, man, gie's your hand on't!" "Wi' a' my heart!" replied Harry Stuart, with a good-natured chuckle; "an' I'll tell ye what it is, Carl, maybe ye'll find after a' that the son o' Harry the herd o' the Limekilns is no just sae bare a bargain as ye wad hae yemagined. The herdin' trade gif it maks little it spends less; an' I hae na been at it for better nor fifety years without layin' by a wee bit pose o' my ain; an' gif a gude bien bit hill farmie can be gotten for the twa, I'se no say but I may come doon wi' as muckle as may buy the best end o' the plenishen an' stockin'." "That's my hearty cock!" exclaimed old Rose, slapping Harry soundly on the back. "Mary, my dauty! I was sae muckle the better o' the wee drap ye gied me yon time, that I think neither Harry nor me wad be the waur o' anither tasse." It would be yequally vain and unnecessar, gentlemen, for me to attempt to describe the happiness of the two lovers, or the general joy of that night. If Homer or Maro were alive, and here present, they would fail to do justice to such a theme. I may shortly conclude by simply telling you, however, that Mysie's slumbers were rudely broken by the stentorian voice of her master,--that she was speedily put to work at her yespecial occupation in the kitchen,--that the rustic feast was quickly spread,--that the bowl circulated, or, rather, to speak with a due regard to fack, that it passed backwards and forwards very frequently from lip to lip of the two thirsty seniors,--that the young couple were in Elysium,--that the old men were garrulously joyous,--that Mysie was frantic, and danced about like a daft woman, and that the sun peeped in upon them from the distant eastern hills ere they even began to think of terminating their revels. DOMINIE DELIGHTED. Grant.--Why, sir, you are quite as great as a story-teller as you are as a critic. Clifford.--Homer or Maro could never have held a candle to you! Why your floating island would beat a steamer. But, joking apart, we are really much obliged to you for the very interesting story you have told us. Dominie (bowing).--I am yespecially proud and happy that you are pleased with it, sir. Author.--We are all very much indebted to you indeed, for you have helped us very agreeably over the most dreary part of our road. The good man rose an inch or two higher than he had hitherto appeared, and his cheek glowed with satisfaction. We had now come to the Pass of Craig-Bey, where the Grantown country opened to us. A rocky hill arose on our right, wildly wooded with tall Scottish pines, whilst, on our left, the ground declined into a hollow, through which the dark streamlet that drains the extensive peat-bog, whence the villagers of Grantown are supplied with fuel, throws itself into a deep rocky ravine, along which our road skirted. At some distance to our left, and on the farther side of the glen, a beautiful smiling portion of Highland country arose in swelling grounds, simply cultivated, amidst natural birchen groves; whilst every now and then we had a transient view directly downwards, where the stream threw itself into a fairy little holm, surrounded by tall castellated rocks, richly tinted with warm coloured mosses, and rising picturesquely from among woods of golden-leaved aspen and birch. Clifford.--Is there no story connected with that beautiful spot below? Author.--The place is called Huntly's Cove. It has its name from some cavity in the crag, which is said to have been the place of concealment of George, second Marquis of Huntly, in the time of Charles I. Clifford.--I forget his history at this moment. Author.--He was married, if I remember rightly, in 1609, to the Lady Anne Campbell, eldest daughter of Archibald, seventh Earl of Argyll; and he was, therefore, brother-in-law to Archibald, the eighth Earl of Argyll, who so strenuously exerted himself in the cause of the people against King Charles I., and who, as you may recollect, was appointed by the Convention of Estates, 16th April, 1644, commander-in-chief of the forces raised to suppress the insurrection of his brother-in-law, this very Marquis of Huntly of whom we are now talking. The Marquis, you know, rose in arms for the King in the north; but Argyll marching against him, dispersed the Royalists, and obliged Huntly to fly to Strathnaver, in Sutherland. Huntly again appeared in arms in 1645, and refused to lay them down even when commanded by the King, who was then under the control of the Parliament of 1646. He was exempted from the pardon granted on the 4th March, 1647, and he was that same year taken prisoner. I remember the peerage account of him states that his capture took place in Strathnaver--a blunder occasioned by the circumstance of his having fled to that district of country upon the first-mentioned occasion. It was in Strathaven that he was taken, and the similarity of names assisted in producing the confusion. Before his capture he lay concealed in Strathaven, or as it is very commonly called Stradaun, and when more than ordinarily alarmed by an increased activity in the search for him, he used to come over to hide himself here for greater security. I think it was an ancestor of the present Sir Neil Menzies of Castle Menzies who took him, but the legendary circumstances have escaped me, if I ever knew them. Grant.--Thus it is that some of our most curious and valuable traditions are lost. Clifford.--It is truly provoking that it should be so. As we have Roxburghe, and Bannatyne, and Maitland Clubs for the preservation and printing of old writings, would it not be a meritorious thing to establish a Legend Club, the object of which should be to proceed systematically throughout every part of the British dominions to collect and write down all the legendary and traditionary matter which may yet remain? Grant.--There is no doubt that an immense mass of materials might thus be gathered together for the use of the novelist and playwright. Clifford.--Nay, nay, Grant; but joking apart, I do think that although the great mass might be rubbishy enough, and, perhaps, much fitter for the compounder of melodramas than for anything else, croyez moi on doit cependant trouver des perles, ou plutot des diamants, dans ce grand fumier. And then when you think that the numerous fitful beams of light which might proceed from these recovered diamonds should be concentrated into one focus, it is not very impossible that history itself might receive some fresh illumination from the flame that might be kindled. Author.--Your scheme is amusing enough, and by no means undeserving of attention; but I conceive that the utility of such a society as you speak of would very much depend upon the efficiency of its secretary. Clifford (with an arch look).--Why, no doubt, it would so. And therefore I should propose to confer that important and distinguished post upon our new acquaintance, Mr. Macpherson here, seeing that he is so much given to searching out the truth of such things, and that he has, moreover, proved himself to be so able a narrator of them after he has found them out. Dominie (his eyes glistening with pride and delight as he again advanced to fill that place in the line of march which he had occupied during the time we were listening to his tale).--What could be more to my mind than such an occupation! And yet, sir, seeing that I am already planted as a teacher of youth in a comfortable house in Caithness, with a small garden and a cow's grass appended thereto; to all which there falls to be added a salary, which, though small, yet sufficeth for my mainteenance, who have no wife or "charge of children," as Lord Chancellor Bacon hath it, save that of the children of other people, whence there arises to me not expense but yemolument, it would be well to know what sum of money by the year might be incoming to the holder of that secretaryship of which you have spoken; seeing that prudence bids us be sure that we move not our right foot until our left be firmly set down. Clifford.--As to the matter of revenue, I fear there would be more of honorary dignity than of edible income attached to the situation. I would, therefore, earnestly advise you, since I now learn that your lot has already been so pleasantly cast, to hold your right foot fast in Caithness, where, were the society to go on, you might be appointed one of its honorary corresponding members. Dominie.--Thank you, sir, your advice is good. I could by no means afford to throw away my cow's grass and potato-yard to the dogs, to say nothing of my salary, without something better. I shall therefore e'en hold as I am. Clifford.--What mountain is that which I see rising blue and grand yonder in the eastern distance? Grant.--I have now a right to step forward as your cicerone, Clifford, for this is the country of the great clan to which I belong. Yet I must confess that I have no great knowledge of its history. I can at least tell you, however, that the mountain you are inquiring about is Ben Rinnes, the hill which rises over the ancient house of Ballindalloch, at the junction of the rivers Avon and Spey. Ballindalloch belongs to an old family of the Grants. Dominie.--I could tell you a curious legend about the building of the Castle of Ballindalloch, were it not deemed presumption in me to tell of the Grants in presence of so accomplished a member of the clan. Grant.--Sir, I shall cheerfully trust to you to do justice to the Grants, and especially to the Grants of Ballindalloch; for since the Macphersons are now engrafted on the family of that house, I think you will be disposed to say nothing that may be in anywise to their disparagement. Dominie.--God forbid that I should. They have always been kind friends of mine. Clifford.--I protest against any more stories till after dinner. I presume we shall find an inn at Grantown, and I therefore beg leave to move that all lengthened communications be adjourned until we are fairly set in to be comfortable for the evening. Grant.--Agreed. Now, then, follow me in at this gate that opens to our left here, and through this plantation, and I, as your cicerone here, shall show you something worth looking at. We had no sooner burst from the confinement of the trees, than a wide and extensive and grand prospect opened to us. From the immediate foreground the eye ran gently down some sloping cultivated inclosures, till, passing over the widespread woods by which these were surrounded, it swept with eagle flight across the wide valley of the Spey and the endless forests of Abernethy, and rested with joy and with a feeling of freedom on the blue chain of the Cairngorum mountains, rising huge and vast above these minor dependent hills that were congregated about their bases. To the left our view was bounded by tall groves of timber-trees, chiefly beeches, and after penetrating these, the lofty bulk of Castle Grant presented itself within an hundred yards of us. Clifford.--I think it will not be considered as any breach of the rule we have just laid down, if you should give us an outline, in three words, of the history of this the feudal residence of your chiefs. Grant.--All I can tell you regarding it is, that it has been the seat of the chief of our clan ever since the fourteenth century, when the surrounding lands were taken from the Cumins and bestowed on the Grants by the Crown. Another large cantle of the ancient possessions of the Cumins came into the family by the marriage of Sir John Grant with Matilda or Bigla, the heiress of Gilbert Cumin of Glenchearnich. Dominie.--True, true, sir, I have a curious story about that. You see, gentlemen, Gilbert Cumin, whose cognomen was Gibbon More---- Clifford.--You will forgive me for interrupting you, sir, but you will recollect, that although we allowed Grant to tell us what he knew about the castle, we have just laid it down as a rule, that we are to have no more long stories upon empty stomachs. Let us hasten to see the interior of this chateau, and then to Grantown and to dinner with what appetite we may. You shall dine with us, and I shall book you for there giving us Gibbon More, or any More you may be possessed of. Dominie.--Your pun is most excellent, sir, ha! ha! ha!--your reproof is most just, and your invitation most kind, and readily accepted. And as I can be of little use to you here, gentlemen, perhaps I shall be most benefeecially employed, both for your interest and my own, by stepping my ways on to Grantown, and looking to the preparation for your accommodation and entertainment at the inn. Author.--No, no, sir, we have already secured all that by the gilly who has preceded us with the pony. We cannot part with you so, your information may be useful to us. Clifford.--This huge pile seems to have been built at various periods, and with no great taste. That tower is the only picturesque part about it. Grant.--That is called the Cumin's Tower, and it is perhaps the only very old fragment of the building. The most modern part is the northern front, the style of which is quite inappropriate. Clifford.--Come, let us hasten to discuss the interior; my appetite at present is sufficiently sharp, yet it is for something more digestible than granite and mortar. We hurried through the castle, admired the great hall, some fifty feet by thirty in size, and were particularly delighted with some of the old family portraits, which are extremely curious as to costume. Clifford.--What a fierce old white-bearded fellow that is in the bonnet and tartan plaid, drawing a pistol as if he was about to shoot us. I should not like to meet in a wood with such an one as he appears to have been, unless I met him as a friend. Dominie.--That is old Robert Grant of Lurg. I can tell you many a story about him. He was surnamed old Stachcan, or the Stubborn; and--a---- Clifford.--Unless you are determined to deserve that surname, as well as ever the said Robert Grant did, you had better attempt no more stories till after dinner, my good friend. And now, methinks, we have seen enough of these bearded, belted, and bonneted heroes; and if you have no objections, I think we may as well proceed to march into quarters for the night. A walk of little more than a mile brought us to the village of Grantown, and a period of time something less than a couple of hours found us all seated, after a very good dinner, round a cheerful fire, each preparing to light his cigar, and moderately to sip the fluid that was most agreeable to him. Clifford (opening his tablets).--Let me see what my book says. Ha!--Legend of the Raid of Killychrist--Building of Ballindalloch--Gibbon More--Old Stachcan! The raid comes first--the raid stops the way,--so drive on with the raid if you please. Author.--Since you desire it, I shall do so, in order, as you say, to get it out of the way. But I must tell you that the Raid of Killychrist does in fact form so small a part of that which I have to narrate to you, that I might rather call it the Legend of Allan with the Red Jacket. Clifford.--Pray call it what you please, but quocunque nomine gaudet, let us have your legend, if you please, without further loss of time. LEGEND OF ALLAN WITH THE RED JACKET. As a prelude to the legend of the Raid of Killychrist, or Christ's Church, I must condemn you to listen to a considerable portion of the previous history of the great rival clans of MacDonell and MacKenzie, which led to that event. A deep-rooted feud had existed for many years between these two neighbouring Highland nations, as I may well enough call them. So savage was their mutual hatred, that no opportunity was lost, upon either side, of manifesting the bitterest hostility towards each other. They were continually making sudden incursions with fire and sword into each other's territory,--burning cottages--destroying crops--driving away cattle--levying contributions on defenceless tenants--carrying off hostages, and massacring such unfortunate individuals or straggling parties as might happen to fall in their way, without always showing much regard to age or sex. It was one unvarying history of rapine and bloodshed, uninterrupted except at such times and for such periods when both parties happened to be too much exhausted to act on the offensive. It was fortunate for the MacDonells, that about the beginning of the seventeenth century Donald MacAngus MacDonell of Glengarry, chief of the clan, had so harried the MacKenzie country in one dreadful and destructive raid, and had so swept away its wealth and thinned its people, as to have rendered them comparatively innocuous for a number of years; for, during the lapse of these, he became so old and infirm, as to be not only quite unable for any very active or stirring enterprise, but he would have been unequal to the defence of his own territories against the inroads of his neighbours. He had two sons, but neither of them was old enough to relieve him of the cares and fatigues incidental to the government of such a clan. Angus the eldest, indeed, although only some fifteen or sixteen years of age, was extremely bold and impetuous. Like the most forward and best-grown eaglet of the aerie, he would have often rashly braved, with unpractised wing, the storms which raged around the cliff where he was bred, had it not been for the wholesome restraint which the old man was with difficulty enabled to put upon him, and which he could hardly enforce, even with the assistance of his nephew, Allan MacRaonuill MacDonell of Lundy, who being then in the prime of life, acted as captain or chief leader of the clan Conell. Allan of Lundy, so called from the loch of that name near Invergarry, was the pride and darling of the clan, and it was not wonderful that he should have been so, for he possessed all those qualities which were likely to endear him to Highlanders in those savage times. He was remarkable for his great activity of body, for his wonderful agility in leaping, and his extraordinary swiftness of foot, and endurance in running. But these were not the qualities which the clansmen most especially prized in him; for, whilst he was kind to every one who bore the name of MacDonell, he was ever ready to visit those who were their enemies with the most ruthless and remorseless vengeance. He delighted in wearing a splendid jacket of scarlet plush richly embroidered with gold, and when the day of battle came, the brave MacDonells always looked to that jacket as to a rallying point, with as much devotion and confidence as they looked to the banner of the chief himself, for they were always certain to see it in the front of every charge, and in the rear of every retreat. It was from this that he acquired his most distinguished cognomen, that of Allan with the red jacket. It was not surprising that a youth of a haughty and impetuous temper, like that of Angus MacDonell, could ill brook the well intended admonitions which he received from a cousin, upon whose interference in the affairs of the clan he was taught, by the vile insinuations of certain sycophantish adherents, to look with a jealousy which was but an ill requital for all Allan of Lundy's affection towards him. That affection, though it came from a bosom which was capable of nursing that fierce and cruel spirit which animates the tiger, was deep and sincere. It was an affection which had its basis in gratitude, in love, and in veneration for the old chief, his uncle, who had been to Allan as a father, and, therefore, it was born with the birth of the boy Angus. It was an affection which had grown stronger and stronger every day with the growth of its object, on the development of whose character the future happiness and glory, or misery and disgrace, of the clan, must depend. It was an affection, in short, which nothing could shake, and which even the often unamiable conduct of Angus towards him could never for one moment chill. It happened one rainy and tempestuous night, that whilst a party of clansmen, returning from some distant expedition, were approaching the gate of Invergarry Castle, they suddenly encountered a tall man wrapped up in an ample plaid. He started when the MacDonells came upon him. "Friend or foe?" cried the leader of the party. "A friend!" coolly replied the other, "unless you are prepared to tell me that the days are past when a MacIntyre may claim hospitality from a MacDonell." "The day can never come when a MacIntyre shall not be welcome to a MacDonell," replied the other. "Are they not but as a limb of the goodly pine stock of clan Conell? say, what wouldst thou here?" "I am a wayfaring man," answered the stranger, "and all I would ask is shelter and hospitality for an hour or twain, till this tempest blow by." "Thou art come in the very nick of time, my friend," said the MacDonell, "for, hark! the piper has gone to his walk, and he is already filling his drone as a signal for us to fill our stomachs. The banquet is serving in the hall, so in, I pray thee, without more delay; trust me, we are as ready as thou canst be for a morsel of a buck's haunch, or a flagon of ale." The old chief of the MacDonells had already occupied his huge high-backed chair on the dais, at the upper end of the hall, and his eldest son Angus, and his cousin Allan of Lundy, the captain, and the other chieftains of the clan, had taken their seats around him, and the greater part of the places at the board had been filled, as rank might dictate, down to the very lower end of it, when the stranger was announced,-- "Give him entrance!" cried the hospitable old chief. "This is a night when the very demons of the storm seem to have been let loose to do their worst. No one would drive his enemy's dog to the door in such a tempest. Were he a MacKenzie we could not see him refused a shelter from so bitter a blast. A MacIntyre, then, may well claim a hearty welcome." The door of the hall was thrown open, and the stranger entered. He doffed his bonnet, and bowed respectfully to the chief, and to those assembled, yet his countenance remained partly shrouded by the upper folds of his plaid, which had been drawn over his head as a shelter from the fury of the elements, and it now hung down thence so as entirely to conceal his person. There was enough of him visible, however, to show that he was a tall, broad-shouldered, and very athletic man, in the prime of life, with large fair features, small sharp eyes, overhanging eyebrows, severe expression, and a profusion of yellow hair and beard that very much assisted in veiling his face. The retainers who were nearest to him eagerly scrutinised his plaid, as such persons were naturally enough wont to do; but it was so soiled with the mud-water of the mosses in which it seemed to have been rolled, that knowing as some of them were in the tartans of the different clans, they could not possibly make out the set of that which he wore. They saw enough, however, to satisfy them that it was green, and as they knew that to be the prevailing hue of the tartan of the MacIntyres, they examined no further. "Friend, thou art welcome!" said the chief; "a MacIntyre is always welcome to a MacDonell. Take your seat among us as your rank may warrant, and spare not the viands or liquor with which the board abounds--Slainte!" and with this hospitable wish of health and welcome, he emptied the wine cup which he held in his hand. "Thanks!" said the stranger, bowing his head with an overstrained politeness; and without more ado he seated himself in a retired and rather darksome nook, near the lower end of the board, where he immediately engaged himself deeply, and without any very great nicety of selection, with such eatables and drinkables as came within his reach, so that he speedily ceased to be any further interruption to the conversation which had been begun at the head of the table, to which everyone had been most attentively listening when he came in. "What sort of hunting had you to-day, Angus?" said Allan of Lundy. "I brought down a royal stag," replied Angus, with an air of sullen dignity. "That was well," replied Allan of Lundy; "it was as much as I did." "And why should I not do as much as you, cousin?" demanded Angus somewhat peevishly. "When you come to your strength, Angus, you may perhaps do more," replied Allan. "My body," said Angus haughtily, "aye, and my mind, too, are strong enough for everything that a chief of Glengarry may be called upon to perform. And now I think on't, father," continued he, turning towards the chief, "I grow tired of this wretched mimicry of war which I have so long waged against the deer of our hills. I would fain hunt for bolder game. It is time for me to be hunting the Cabar Fiadh [1] of the MacKenzies! Why should our ancient enmity against them have slept so long? We seem to have forgotten the disgrace of that ignominious day, never to be washed out but in rivers of MacKenzie blood, when fifty galleys of our clan fled from before the Castle of Eilean Donan, defended as it was by no other garrison than Gillichrist MacCraw and his son Duncan alone, when a single arrow from the boy's quiver pierced our chief, and dispersed his formidable armament. Let us hasten to wipe away so foul a disgrace." The speech of the young chief of Glengarry had been repeatedly cheered during the time he was speaking; and he finished amidst vociferous applause. The stranger in the green plaid halted in his meal to bend an anxious attention to everything he uttered. "Angus," said the old chief, "you have spoken unadvisedly, boy. These are subjects fitter for the private chamber of council than for the festive board. You, moreover, seem to have forgotten that the quiet which the MacKenzies are forced to keep, is owing to some successful enterprises of my own, from the humbling effects of which they have not even yet recovered." "If that be the case, father," cried Angus energetically, "let us keep them down when we have them down! Let me finish what you so nobly began. Promise me that you will grant me to lead a raid against these stags-heads. Promise me, dear father!" "A raid! a raid led by the young chief!" cried the vassals, starting up from the table as one man with enthusiastic shouts. "Aye," said Angus, "and the young chief shall not go unattended. Every warrior of the name of MacDonell, nay, every marching man who can trace one drop of his blood to the clan Conell, shall share in the glory to be gathered in the first raid of Angus MacDonell against the MacKenzies!" "All shall go! all shall go!" cried the clansmen who were present. "Aye, all shall go!" cried the young chief, warming more and more with the applause he was receiving. "And here, as a good omen of our success, here have we this night a MacIntyre among us. You, sir," continued he, addressing himself to the stranger in the green plaid, "you shall bear a message from me to your chieftain. Tell him to whom you owe service, that the tenth day of the new moon shall be the day of our gathering. It is long since our war-cry of Craggan-an-Fhithick has rung in a MacKenzie's ear!" "Craggan-an-Fhithick!" shouted the clansmen. "Tell him to whom you owe service, that Craggan-an-Fhithick shall once more rend the air," said Angus; "and that the young chief of Glengarry shall lead a raid against the MacKenzies, of the fame of which senachies and bards shall have to speak for ages to come." "I shall surely bear your message to him to whom I owe service," said the man in the green plaid, after rising slowly, and making a dignified but respectful bow. And then putting on his bonnet, and gathering his plaid tightly about him, he paced solemnly and silently out of the hall, and departed. "Methinks you have been somewhat rash and hasty in this matter, Angus," said the chief, with a cloud on his brow. "I have as yet given no consent. What think you of this affair, Allan of Lundy?" "Much as I am wearying to wreak my vengeance on the MacKenzies," replied Allan of Lundy, "I do think that my young cousin has been somewhat precipitate in this matter. A year or two more over his head would have confirmed his strength, and made him fitter for enduring the fatigue of such an enterprise. He is too young and unripe as yet to be gathered by death in the bloody harvest of the battlefield. The loss of one of so great promise would be a severe blow to our clan." "The loss of me, indeed?" cried Angus, with a lip full of a contempt which it had never before borne towards Allan of Lundy, and which Allan of Lundy could not believe had any reference to him. "If you did lose me you would only thereby be the nearer to my father's seat." "Speak not so, Angus!" said Allan with a depth of feeling to which he was but little accustomed. "Speak not so, even in jest." "Come then, MacDonells," cried Angus again, "let our gathering be for the tenth day of the new moon, and let the dastard MacKenzies once more quail before our triumphant war-cry of Craggan-an-Fhithick!" "Craggan-an-Fhithick!" re-echoed the clansmen, with a shout that might have rent the rafters; and deep pledges instantly went round to the success of the expedition. At this moment Ronald MacDonald, the chief's younger son, a shrewd boy of some eight or ten years of age, entered the hall,-- "What has become of the stranger in the green plaid?" cried he eagerly. "He is gone," answered several voices at once. "Then was he a foul and traitorous spy," said the boy. "When my brother was speaking about the raid, I perceived that he was devouring every word he was uttering. His grey eye showed no friendly sympathy. I resolved to watch him, and the more I did so, the more were my suspicions strengthened. I was struck with the dirty state of his plaid. As it was green it might have been MacIntyre. But to make sure of this I borrowed old nurse's shears, and whilst he was intent on what Angus was saying, I contrived to get near to him unperceived; and I clipped away this fragment, which nurse has since washed--and see!" said he, holding it up to the light of a lamp that all might have a view of it. "See! it has the alternate white and red sprainge of a base and double-faced MacKenzie!" "MacKenzie, indeed, by all that is good!" cried the old chief. "Out after him, and take him alive or dead!" "Fly!--after him!--out! out!--let us scour the country!--haste, haste!--out, out!" were the impatient cries that burst from every one in the hall, and in an instant there was a rushing, and a running, and a mounting in haste, and a flying off in all directions. Shouts came from different quarters without the castle walls; and by and by all was silence, for those who had gone in various ways after the fugitive were already out of hearing; and after a night of fruitless toil, they returned in wet and draggled parties of two and three, each expecting to hear those accounts of success from others which they themselves had it not in their power to give, and all were equally disappointed. It now suits my narrative best to leave the Castle of Invergarry for a while, in order to notice what passed some little time afterwards in that of Eilean Donan, where Kenneth MacKenzie, Lord Kintail, was seated in his lady's apartment trifling away the hours. A page entered in haste. "My lord," said he, "Hector Mackenzie of Beauly is here, and would fain have an audience." "Hector of Beauly!" exclaimed Lord Kintail, "what, I wonder, can he want? With your leave, my lady, let him be admitted. Hector," continued his lordship as his clansman entered, "where have you come from, you look famished and jaded?" "'Tis little wonder if I do, my lord," said Hector, "for the last meal of meat that I ate, and though good enough of its kind, it was but a short one, was in the Castle of Invergarry." "The Castle of Invergarry!" cried his lordship in astonishment. "Aye, in the Castle of Invergarry, my lord," continued Hector; "and if my meal there was short, I have had a long enough walk after it to help me to digest what I ate." "Are you in your right mind, Hector?" demanded his lordship. "Quick, explain yourself." "I cannot say that I altogether intended to honour the Glengarry chief's board with my presence," said Hector, drawing himself up; "but having some trifling occasion of my own to pass through the Glengarry country, I rolled my plaid in a moss-hole, and took the wildest way over the hills; and thinking that I might pass unnoticed amidst the darkness and howling of a most tempestuous night, I ventured so near to the castle, that before I knew where I was, a band of MacDonells were suddenly upon me. Seeing that there was nothing else for it but to brave the danger, I had presence of mind enough to pass myself for a MacIntyre, was invited into the castle, sat at the same table, and feasted with the old raven and his vassals, and heard that young half-fledged corby Angus MacDonell plan and arrange a raid of the whole clan Conell and its dependent families against the MacKenzie country. Taking me for a MacIntyre, he told me to bear his message to him to whom I owed service. To give obedience to his will, therefore, I have travelled without stop or stay, or meat or drink, save what I took from the running brooks by the way, in order that I may now tell you, my lord, to whom I owe service as my chief, that the MacDonells' gathering is to be for the tenth day of the moon, when their fire and sword will run remorseless through our land." "Hector, you are a brave man," said Lord Kintail, "you shall be rewarded for this. Meanwhile hasten to procure some refreshment and repose; for assuredly you must sorely need both." I presume that it is scarcely necessary for me to tell you that Lord Kintail and his lady had a speedy and very anxious consultation together. She was a woman of very superior talents, of quick perception, and equally ready in devising expedients as prompt in carrying them into execution. It was at once agreed between them, that this was too serious and impending a danger to admit of delay in preparing to resist it. Feeling, as they did, that the clan had not yet altogether gathered its strength since the last sweeping raid which old Donald MacAngus, chief of the clan Conell, had committed on their territories, both saw the necessity of losing no time in procuring all the foreign aid they could obtain. It was therefore agreed between them as the best precaution that could be taken, that Lord Kintail should forthwith set out for Mull to procure auxiliary troops from his friend and kinsman MacLean. Preparations were instantly made accordingly in perfect secrecy for his departure; and in the course of little more than an hour after the communication of Hector's intelligence, his lordship's galley stood out of Loch Duich and through the Kyles of Skye, and left the straits with as fair a north-eastern breeze as if he had bought it from some witch for the very purpose of wafting him to Mull. But secrets are difficult to keep; for notwithstanding the privacy of all these arrangements, not only Lord Kintail's destination, but the cause and object of his voyage, was known. Had the discovery been traced, perhaps it might have been found to have originated with my lady's woman, from whom it gradually spread, until it was quickly whispered, with every proper and prudential caution as to silence, into every ear in the Castle of Eilean Donan, whence it spread like wildfire over the whole district. The MacDonells, too, could have their scouts as well as the MacKenzies. When the hubbub occasioned by the hurried and hopeless chase after the false MacIntyre had subsided, a patient, painstaking, and most sagacious Highlander set off to try what he could make of it; and having once found a trace of the track the MacKenzie had taken, he never lost sight of it again, until he had followed him so far into the enemy's territories, that he had to thank a most ingenious disguise which he wore for saving his neck from being brought into speedy acquaintance with the gallows-tree of Eilean Donan. This man returned immediately to Invergarry with the intelligence that the projected raid of the MacDonells was as well known in Kintail as it was in Glengarry, and that Lord Kintail himself had gone to Mull to procure the powerful aid of his cousin MacLean. Young Angus of Glengarry was furious when he found that all his schemes, so well laid as he thought they had been, for establishing his own glory and that of the clan, had been thus baffled. "If that yellow-bearded buck's-head shall ever chance to cross my path again," said he, "young as my arm is, he shall have a trial of my sword." "Thy spirit is good, boy," said Allan of Lundy; "'tis like that of your father and your grandfather before you. But it will be wise in you to check its rashness until your sinews are better able to back it up. That same Hector MacKenzie whom we saw here among us, is moulded for some other sort of work than to give and take gentle buffets with a boy." "Thank thee, kind kinsman, for thy care of me," replied Angus, in anything but an agreeable tone. "'Tis true what Allan says," observed the old chief. "I rejoice in thy spirit, boy; it recalls to me mine own early days. But for the sake of the clan Conell, to whom your life is precious, and," added he, with a voice that age, or perhaps some strong feeling operating upon age, made falter, "and for the sake of your old father, who doats upon you, for the sake of your sainted mother, let me not have to mourn over the too early fate of her first-born!" "I shall not be rash, I shall be prudent, father," replied Angus, considerably touched by the old man's appeal. "But why should we not hasten to strike some blow ere their succours shall have time to arrive?" "There is something in that," said Allan of Lundy. "And since my young cousin so burns to flesh his maiden sword, there can be no safer way of his doing so, or with the certainty of a more easy victory, than by making a sudden attack on the shores of Loch Carron." "Safety! easy victory!" muttered the young chief, with an expression of offended dignity and ineffable contempt. "But 'tis well," added he, too much filled with joy at having any enterprise at all in prospect, to allow any other feeling to occupy his mind for a moment; "let us not lose time in talk. If we are to move with the hope of a surprise, it were fitting that not one moment be lost. Let all within reach be speedily summoned. By to-morrow's dawn we must march to Loch Hourn, where our galleys are lying. Said I not well now, father?" "Let it be so then, my son," said the chief, with a sigh which he could not check; "and oh! may all that is good attend and guard you!" The sun rose with unclouded splendour over the mountains to the eastward of Loch Carron, and poured out a stream of golden radiance over the surface of its waters, which were gently lifted into tiny waves by a western breeze. The whole of this Highland scene was glowing and smiling. The early smoke was tinged with brighter tints of orange, blue, and yellow, as it curled upwards from the humble chimneys of the cottages which were scattered singly or in small groups among irregular shreds of cultivation, that brightened the strip of land bordering the shore. The whole happy population was astir, and little boats were pushing forth from every creek amidst the sparkling waves, their crews eagerly engaged in preparing their nets and lines for fishing. Already had some of the old men taken their seats on their accustomed bench, to inhale the fresh breath of life from the pure morning air, and to look listlessly out to sea, that they might idly speculate on the wind and the weather. It was hardly possible that eye could have looked upon a more peaceful scene. Suddenly some two or three boats, which had gone down the little frith during the night, for the purpose of reaching a more distant fishing ground by the early dawn, were seen returning with all sail, and toiling with every oar. Curiosity first, and then alarm, brought out the inhabitants from the interior of their lowly abodes. The nearer fishing-boats drew their lines and half-spread nets hastily in, and there was one general rush, each individual crew making towards that point of the shore which was nearest, without any regard to the consideration whether it was the point most adjacent to their home or not. By this time all eyes were straining seaward, to discover what it was that created all this panic, when, one after another, there came sailing round the distant point, galley after galley, till a considerable fleet of them had appeared, their white sails filled with the favouring breeze, and shining with a borrowed lustre from the rich stream of light that poured aslant upon them from the newly-risen sun. What a scene of dismay and confusion now arose! Clamorous discussions began among the timid spectators,--all action seemed to be paralysed. None appeared to think of arming, where the force of the armament that was advancing was manifestly so resistlessly overwhelming. There were but few who had any doubts as to what clan it might probably belong; and these doubts were speedily removed as the fleet came on, by the appearance of the displayed red eagle, with the black galley that formed the bearings on the broad banner of Glengarry, together with the crest of the raven on the rock, with the appalling motto of Craggan-an-Fhithick. And now a bugle was heard to blow shrilly from the leading vessel, and in an instant the several galleys darted off from one centre towards different parts of the loch; and the defenceless inhabitants of the hamlets and cottages might be seen abandoning their dwellings and flying inland. And no sooner did the prow of each vessel touch the bottom, than the armed men which it contained were seen rushing breast-deep through the tide towards the shore, the broadswords in their hands flashing in the morning light. One band was led by the brave young chief of Glengarry, shouting his war-cry, with the faithful and affectionate Allan of Lundy by his side, intent on little else but to protect his precious charge from harm. There were but few men of the MacKenzies there to make a stand, and those who tried to do so were scattered, overpowered, and cut down. Wild were the shrieks that arose, as the miserable and comparatively defenceless people, leaving their wretched houses and boats to destruction, and their effects and cattle to be plundered, fled away towards the mountains. The impatient Angus no sooner reached the dry land, than he rushed impetuously after the flying MacKenzies,--and soon indeed did he overtake the rearward; but it was composed of the women, the aged, and the young, and these he passed by and left unharmed behind him to press on after those who might be more worthy of his sword. On he hurried for miles after the fugitives, calling on them from time to time to halt and yield to him but one fighting man as an opponent. But his appeal was in vain; and tired, and disappointed, and chagrined, he stopped to breathe, and he gnashed his teeth in a disappointment which even the friendly counsels of Allan of Lundy could not allay. "I'll warrant I could soon catch those caitiffs who are disappearing so swiftly over the hill-top yonder," said he; "but I care less to-day about taking the life of a MacKenzie or two, than I do about keeping the MacKenzies from taking thine." "Thank ye, cousin," replied Angus, his mortification by no means moderated by this well-meant speech. "I hope this arm will defend the citadel of my life's blood from all harm without other aid." As Angus returned slowly towards the shore, he was somewhat shocked to discover that some of his followers had been less scrupulous in the use of their swords than he had been; and he met with spectacles which informed him of deeds of atrocity and of blood wantonly perpetrated. He beheld those cottages in flames which were lately smoking in peace; and his heart smote him that he was now too late to prevent that carnage in which the grey hairs of the old were blended in one common slaughter with the fair locks of the young and helpless. There was no glorious triumph or splendid achievement to gild the horrors of this day, or to stifle that disgust which they naturally excited in a young man even of those times. Little pride or pleasure had he in the miserable articles of plunder which he saw his ruthless clansmen bearing off with blood-stained hands to their galleys; and he sat him down with Allan of Lundy, in a faint and feverish state of disquietude of mind, on one of those patriarchal benches which had been so lately and so placidly occupied by some of those elders of the hamlet whose lips were now cold, and whose hearts had now ceased to beat. I need not tell how long the young chief was compelled to tarry there, in the endurance of thoughts that bid defiance to all repose of mind, until he beheld the various bands of skirmishers return each to its own vessel, after having spread ravage and devastation, and fire and sword and murder, far and wide around that which was lately so happy a district. It happened that the Lady Kintail had gone on the battlements of her Castle of Eilean Donan, in order to enjoy the fresh air and the beautiful scenery of those twin sea-lochs which branch off from one another at the spot near to which that rocky island lies which gives name to the building that stands upon it, when, as she cast her eyes northward, she beheld a scattered crowd of people rushing down towards the point which creates the narrow ferry of Loch Ling. Some boats were moored there, and as she saw them hastily loose and put to sea to cross over to the castle, her anxiety to know what news they bore became so great, that she hurried down to the little cove where the landing-place was, that she might the sooner gain the intelligence they brought. "The MacDonells!" cried these scared and unhappy people. "The MacDonells are upon us, lady! They have burnt and harried all Loch Carron! and, och hone! we are ruined men!" "Och aye, my lady! och hone! we're all harried, and murdered, and burned!" cried some half a dozen of them at once. "Answer me like rational men," said the Lady Kintail impatiently, "and do not rout and roar like a parcel of stray beeves. How is 't say ye? the MacDonells!" And then proceeding to question them, she, by degrees, gathered from them that which had at least some resemblance to a true statement of what had happened. The lady was nothing daunted by all she heard. Her first step was to despatch certain trustworthy scouts to reconnoitre, and to bring her accurate information how matters stood; and then she retired to hold counsel with some of those leaders among her clansmen in whom she had most confidence. With their advice and assistance every precaution was immediately taken to secure the safety of the castle, as well as to receive into it such a garrison and stock of provisions as might enable her to hold it out until her husband's return, against whatever force might be brought to attack it; and her heroic heart beat so high with the resolute determination of resistance, that she felt something like a pang of disappointment when her scouts returned with intelligence that taught her to believe she had no reason to expect any assault. One of her people, who was no other than Hector of Beauly, brought back the most perfect information regarding the motions of the enemy. They were already glutted with slaughter, cumbered with spoil, and, in a great measure, sickened of their enterprise; and, from the top of a hill, he had seen their galleys weighing to stand out of Loch Carron. "They are tired of their raid for this time," said the lady with bitterness. "It has been undertaken, I'll warrant, but as a first fleshing for that young corby of an evil nest,--that Angus MacDonell; and his young beak having been once blooded by this mighty exploit done against women, old men, and children, he will be carried home to croak his triumph to his dotard old sire, and then he will be mewed up in safety till his wings grow long enough to admit of his flying in earnest. Would I had a good man or two who would deliver him a message from me, as he passes homewards through the Kyle Rhea in his dastard flight to Loch Hourn." Now, as we have no map here, I must remind you that there are three sea-lochs on that part of the coast of Scotland, all of which debouche into the western sea. Of these Loch Carron is the most northerly, and Loch Hourn the most southerly, and that Loch Duich, which lies between both, opens through the expansion at its mouth, which is called Loch Alsh, into the narrow strait between the Isle of Skye and the mainland, which is called the Kyle Rhea. "Would I had a good man or two who would deliver a message from me to that young chough Angus MacDonell as he passes through the Kyle Rhea," repeated the lady. "That most willingly will I, most noble lady," cried Hector of Beauly. "Have I not carried one message from the young Glengarry to my lord, and shall I not claim the honour of carrying that which the Lady Kintail has to send to the young Glengarry?" "Thanks, gallant Hector!" replied the lady. "Then shalt thou speak it from the mouth of a cannon! Trust me thou shalt make him hear on the deafest side of his head." Then calling him aside, she quickly explained to him the scheme she had conceived; and desiring him to select the individuals whom he should most wish to have in his party, and to choose the boat which he considered best fitted for such an expedition, she ordered two small cannon to be put on board, together with sufficient ammunition for their use; and as no time was to be lost, he and his brave and well-armed companions leaped immediately into the little craft, and pushed off. They pulled with all their strength, and with the utmost expedition, down through Loch Alsh to that isolated rock called the Cailleach, which lies close off the eastern angle of the Isle of Skye, and near to the northern entrance of the narrow strait of the Kyle Rhea. There they secretly ensconced themselves to await the return of the MacDonells. The night fell cold and calm, and the moon arose clear and bright, illuminating every part of these narrow seas, and every headland and rock that projected into them from either shore. It was in the latter part of the year, and by slow degrees some fleecy clouds arose from the horizon, and, after spreading themselves like a film of gauze over the expanse of heaven, they thickened in parts into denser masses, whence, as they passed overhead, some small, thin, and light particles of snow began to fall gently and rarely, such as the sky usually sends down as its first wintry offering to the earth. This was enough to complete the concealment of the party, hid as they were beneath the shadowy side of the rock, without much obscuring the surface of the sea elsewhere. There then they lay, with everything prepared, waiting impatiently for their prey. At length a distant sound of oars was heard, for there was not a breath of air in these land-locked seas to render a sail available; and the breaking of the billows on the shore, though hoarse, was neither so loud nor so frequent as to disturb the listeners. All ears, and all eyes, too, were on the stretch. The measured sound of the oars grew stronger, keeping time to a low murmuring chant which proceeded from those who pulled them, more for the purpose of preserving the regularity of the stroke than for any music that they might have made. By and by a galley appeared, dimly seen at some distance, and, as it drew nearer, it was at once known to be that which contained young Angus MacDonell from the broad banner that floated over it, though there was not light enough to descry the bearings of Glengarry. "Now, my gallant cannoniers," said Hector to those who had the charge of the small pieces of artillery, "be prepared. Remember, when I give the word, you go first, Ian, and then you are to follow, Hamish, in about as much time as you might easily count ten without hurrying yourself. But fail not to attend to my word. In the meanwhile, see that you level well." On came the young chief's galley. It approached the rock with a course which pointed to pass it clear at some fathoms distance to the eastward of it. But whilst it was yet in progress towards it, Hector, with great expedition and adroitness, pointed his first piece, and watched his time; and his fatal "Now!" resounded over the surface of the deep. Ere yet the lint-stock had been applied to the touch-hole, the galley was seen to quiver. Every motion of it indicated the alarm that had already been struck into its crew and helmsman by this ominous word. But the boom! of the first gun followed with the quickness of lightning; and the accuracy of the shot was told by the crashing of the balls with which it had been crammed upon the timbers of the hull and upper works, as well as by the cursing and confusion of the people on board, the groans and plaints of the wounded, and the swerving of the galley from its course. "That has done some small work, I'll warrant," said Hector, as he stooped to point the second piece. "Are you ready, Hamish? Now!" And boom! went the second gun with yet more decided effects. In the panic produced by this shot the helm was left to itself, the oars were abandoned, the galley swung round with the tide, and in a few seconds it was driven full upon the rock. "Angus of Glengarry!" cried a voice like thunder. "I, Hector MacKenzie, bore thy message to him to whom I owe service, and I have now brought thee the answer!" Singling out the young chief, and springing upon him like a tiger, he stabbed him to the heart with a left-handed blow of his dirk, ere the unhappy youth had recovered his footing from the shock which the little vessel received on the rock. The next moment saw his corpse floating on the waves. But Hector's broadsword was instantly needed to defend his own head. Desperate was the conflict which Allan of Lundy maintained with this hero of the MacKenzies. There was something awful in the wild yells of the combatants, the clashing of their claymores, the groans of the dying, and the choking and gasping of the drowning. The very sea-birds, which had been roused in clouds by the flash and roar of the two cannon shots, and which had soared about for some moments, screaming in affright at this rude and unwonted intrusion upon their solitary slumbers, now winged themselves in terror away. The crew of the galley were in a few seconds overpowered from the vantage ground possessed by the assailants, as well as by the sudden nature of the assault itself; and the slaughter was dreadful. The fearless Allan of Lundy fought furiously hand to hand with Hector, backed as the MacKenzie champion was by those who came to aid him after putting their own opponents to death. Terrific were the blows he dealt around him, and murderous were the wounds inflicted by the broad blade of his sweeping sword. But the number of those who were thus opposed to him individually went on increasing as his people fell around him, until all were gone; and he saw that he must be overwhelmed and taken if he should any longer attempt to continue his resistance. At once he took his resolution, and bounding boldly into the air, he dived into the bosom of the sea, leaving his astonished enemies filled with doubt and suspense as to his fate. "He's food for the fishes like the rest of them," said some of the MacKenzies. "The foul fiend catch him but yonder he goes!" cried one of them, as he saw him rise to the surface at some distance from the rock. "To your oars, men of Kintail!" cried Hector, "to your oars, I say, and let him not escape!" Meanwhile, stoutly did Allan of Lundy breast the tide, and so great was the confusion that prevailed among the Kintail men, that ere they could push off the boat, man the oars, and make her start ahead, the powerful swimmer had made considerable way against the billows. Soon, however, would they have diminished the distance he had gained, and soon would he have been the prey of those who thirsted so eagerly for his life, had not the other galleys at that moment appeared; their prows bearing gallantly onwards with the favouring tide, making the sea foam and hiss again with the sweep of their numerous oars, and the rapid rush of their course. In an instant the Kintail boat altered the direction of her head, and shot away off in an easterly direction; her rowers bending to their work like men who were anxious to escape from a pursuing danger. Allan with the red jacket was easily recognised amid the waves; but ere they could get him into the galley that first came up, the boat of the MacKenzies was already lost to their eyes in the gloom that brooded over the more distant part of the straits. Hopeless of overtaking her, the MacDonells, after bewailing the calamity that had befallen them, and looking for some time in vain for the remains of their young leader, pursued their sad and darksome voyage, with the pipes playing a wailing lament, until they reached Loch Hourn, whence most of them were to prosecute their melancholy march back to Invergarry Castle. The lady of Kintail was no sooner informed of the success of her enterprise, than she despatched a quick-sailing boat to the island of Mull to bear the news to her lord. This boat was observed to pass southwards by the MacDonells, as they were lying by for a short repose. The object of its voyage was quickly guessed at, but Allan of Lundy judged it unwise to interrupt it. "It is toiling to work out our revenge," said he to his people. "It goes to invite the lord of Kintail homewards. See that ye who are to tarry here keep a lively watch for him, and so shall his blood pay for that of our lamented young chief. Would that I could have remained to have wreaked my vengeance on his head! But I have other duties to perform,--I must go to soothe a bereaved father's sorrow. Alas! how shall I break the news of this sad affliction to the old man!" I need hardly tell you that the old chief of the MacDonells remained in a state of extreme mental anxiety after the departure of Angus with the expedition. He felt that not only the honour of the clan, but the honour and the life of his son, were at stake. He was restless and unhappy; yea, he cursed himself and his feeble limbs because he had not been able to go, as he was once wont to do, at the head of his people. Twenty times in the course of every hour did he fancy that he heard the triumphant clangour of the pipes played to his son's homeward march, and as often was he disappointed. At last something like their shrill music at a distance did strike upon his ear. "Hah!" cried he with an excited countenance, "heard ye that?--my boy comes at last. Heard ye not the sound? Though I be old, yet is mine ear sharp when it watches for the coming of my gallant boy! Help me to the barbican, that I may behold him! Well do I remember the time when I first came back in triumph! It was on that memorable occasion when----Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed he after a pause, occasioned by the unexpected appearance at that moment of Allan of Lundy, who had come on before the rest, and who now entered the hall with downcast and sorrowful looks, and with his arms folded across his bosom. "Merciful Heaven! Speak Allan! Tell me why look ye so sad? Where is my Angus? Where is my boy?" "Alas! alas!" said Allan of Lundy, "I cannot--cannot tell thee that it is well with him." "What!--wounded?" cried the old chief; "so was I in my first field. He must look for such fate as fell to the lot of those who have lived before him." "Alas! alas!" cried Allan of Lundy, weeping at the old man's words, "Alas! his fate has indeed come too soon!" "Hush!" said the old chief, suddenly starting and stretching his ear to listen. "What strains are these the bagpipes are playing?--a coronach! Ah! then am I a bereft father! Oh! my boy!--bereft!--bereft!--bereft!" and, springing convulsively from his chair, he smote his breast violently, his head turned round to one side, his neck suddenly stiffened, his eyes rolled fearfully, and then protruding themselves from their sockets, they became horribly fixed and glazed, his breath rattled in his throat, and sinking back into his chair, he had died before Allan of Lundy could rush forward to his aid. Now indeed did the coronach raise its wild lament on the pipes, the women mixing with it their wailings, and the men their groans. It was for their old chief--their ancient strength, Donald MacAngus MacDonell, and for the young and promising flower of their hopes, Angus, the eldest son and heir of Donald. The days of mourning, though not long, were sad, and the funeral obsequies of the chief were performed with all the solemnity, and pageantry, and ceremonial that were due to them, whilst those of his son were denied to them by the unhappy nature of his death. The council of the clan had already determined that Allan of Lundy should govern for the young Ronald, who being in boyhood was deemed quite unfit for so weighty and important a charge. The experienced warrior assumed the important trust with his usual boldness and confidence, though altogether overpowered by that honest and unfeigned grief which oppressed his heart for the loss of those relatives whom he had so long held dear. But his warlike and revengeful spirit was not long suffered to remain so clouded, for he had hardly been installed in the situation, to which the universal suffrages of the clan had raised him, when a breathless messenger from Loch Hourn entered the hall. "What news?" cried Allan impatiently--"say, has the young blood of our lamented Angus been avenged? Has the red tide from Kintail's heart been mingled with the angry currents of the narrow seas?" "Alas, no!" replied the messenger, "no such good fortune has attended us!" "How then?" demanded Allan, "methinks that if your leader had but followed the simple guidance which I gave him ere we parted, our grief might have been now somewhat assuaged by the thought that we had made that woman a widow who hath caused our woe, and that clan mourners who were rejoicing over the grief which they have wrought to us. But speak quickly, what hath happened?" "Your counsel was strictly followed," replied the messenger. "Our fleet of boats were all ready to be launched, and our men were lying prepared to embark at the first signal. Whilst all were on the watch, a galley appeared in sight, and we began to hurry on board. Suddenly we perceived that she was steering directly for the island where we lay, and we all went on shore again in the belief that she was the vessel with those friends we looked for from Ardnamurchan." "Quick, quick! what then?" cried Allan of Lundy. "On she came with her prow direct towards the port," replied the messenger, "and she continued to keep it so till she came within hail of the very entrance of it. Then the pipes played up Cabar Fiadh, and, ere she tacked to bear away again with all her oars out and hoisting her canvas to the uttermost, a hoarse voice came thundering from on board,--'The Lord Kintail here sends you his greeting by the hands of his captain, the captain of Cairnburgmore;' and in the same moment they poured out so murderous a storm of bullets from their falconets upon us who were then actively launching our boats to be after her, that many of our men were killed and wounded. The confusion among us was great, and she escaped to so great a distance before we were ready to pursue, that all pursuit became vain." "Curses be on her and on her crew!" cried Allan of Lundy, gnashing his teeth in bitterness; "it seems as if some fiend helped them! Curses be on Cairnburgmore! and curses be on the freight his galley carried! But I will be revenged on these MacKenzies! Here I swear," continued he, drawing his sword and striking it against the banner of the MacDonell that was then floating at the upper end of the hall. "Here do I solemnly swear to make so terrible a reprisal on the MacKenzies, that men's flesh shall creep upon their bones as they listen to the tale of it; and yet shall it be but as an earnest of what I shall inflict on that accursed clan for the grief and sorrow they have so lately wrought us!" These then, gentlemen, were the circumstances that preceded and gave birth to the celebrated Raid of Killychrist, and after so long a preliminary history, I shall now hasten to give you the particulars of that horrible piece of atrocity. It was Saturday, and the most active preparations were instantly ordered by Allan of Lundy to be made for a night-march. He had heard that there was to be a numerous gathering of the MacKenzies next day in the church of Killychrist, or Christ's Church, a short mile or two above the little town and priory of Beauly. Putting himself at the head of a determined band of followers therefore, he took his way across the mountains with inconceivable expedition, so that he found himself, early on the Sunday morning, in the heart of the MacKenzie country, and crossing the river Beauly, he was soon at the church of Killychrist, and he surrounded it with his MacDonells before any of his miserable victims were in the least aware of his presence. The church was filled with all ranks of the clan, but there was a great proportion of the higher class among them. Psalms were singing, and all within the sacred building were absorbed in that attention or abstraction which attends real or pretended devotion. Suddenly the doors were taken possession of by the armed MacDonells, with the grim and unrelenting Allan of Lundy at their head. In an instant the nasal chant of the psalmody was drowned by the screams of the timid, who already saw nothing but death before them, and by the exclamations of those who sought to make resistance, and to fight their way through their foes. But utterly impervious were the serried spear points that bristled through the low-arched doorways, as well as through every narrow lancet window of the holy fane; and stern and resolute, and utterly devoid of feeling, were the war-scarred countenances of those whose ferocious eyes glared in upon them. All was now panic and confusion among the MacKenzies, who filled the area of the church, where individuals crowded and jostled so against each other, that few could draw a dirk, much less a claymore from its sheath. Meanwhile shouts were heard without, and immediately afterwards those of the MacDonells who kept the doors and windows gave way for one single instant; but it was only to admit of the approach of a number of their comrades, who speedily threw in heaps of blazing faggots together with stifling balls of rosin and sulphur, and other combustibles. In an instant the ancient carved screens and other woodwork of the interior were ignited, and the very clothes of the unfortunate people caught fire; and still heaps upon heaps of inflammable materials were hurled incessantly inwards, until all within was in one universal blaze. "They have light enow within I trow,--they lack not light from without," cried the remorseless Allan of Lundy; "shut and fasten the doors and windows, and block them up with sods." His orders were speedily obeyed, and those within were now left to their agonising fate; but well I ween that the fancy of no one can imagine what were the horrors conveyed in those sounds that came half stifled from within the walls of that church. Even to Allan of Lundy they became utterly intolerable. "Alister Dhu!" cried he to the piper, "play up, man!--up with your hoarse melody, and drown these sounds of torture and death that fill our ears, as if we had been suddenly transported to the regions of hell. Play up, I tell you!" The piper instantly obeyed his command, and blew up loud and shrill; and, after having made his instrument give utterance to a long succession of wild and unconnected notes, altogether without any apparent meaning, he began his march around the walls of the church, playing extemporaneously that pibroch which, under the name of Killychrist, has ever since been used as the Pibroch of Glengarry. For a brief space of time, the horrible sounds which came from within the building continued to mingle themselves with the clangour of the pipes; but by degrees these became fainter and fainter, and the piper had not made many circles around the church till the shrieks, the groans, and the wailings had ceased; their spirits had been released from their tortured bodies, and all was silent within its walls. Allan of Lundy had no desire to unbar this scene of horror, that he might look upon his work ere he went. The preservation of his people, moreover, required that he should retreat as expeditiously as he possibly could. He was well aware that the whole MacKenzie country must very speedily be alarmed; that all of the clan who were within reach would be immediately in arms, and that the body of MacDonells which he had with him would be as a mere handful compared to that of his foes, if he should allow them time to assemble. He moved off therefore with the utmost expedition; but, with all the haste he could use, he could not shake off the MacKenzies, who collected in irregular numbers and followed him, harassing his rear and his flanks, whilst, like a lion retreating before the hunters, he marched on boldly, endeavouring to beat away the assailing crowds by halting from time to time as he went, and charging back upon them with resistless fury, making many a brave MacKenzie bite the dust. But still they continued to increase in force by fresh accessions. At length he had recourse to a manoeuvre which he hoped might have distracted the attention of his foes. He hastily divided his little band into two parties, and having given secret orders to a trusty leader to start off at the head of one band in the direction of the Bridge of Inverness, and so to pursue his way homewards by the south side of Loch Ness, he commanded the other to follow himself, intending to hold directly onwards over the hills by the route which they had come during the preceding night. This plan so far succeeded, that the MacKenzies were for some time much baffled and perplexed. But after some considerable delay, they recovered themselves so far as to divide their men also in the same manner; and one large body, under the command of Murdoch MacKenzie of Redcastle, followed hard after the first party of the MacDonells, whilst MacKenzie of Coull pressed onwards on the retreating steps of the captain of Glengarry. Availing himself of the temporary check which his pursuers had thus met with, Allan of Lundy and his party made extraordinary exertions, by which they gained so much ground on their pursuers, that they fairly left the MacKenzies out of sight. They were thus enabled to rest for a little while, like a tired herd of chased deer, in the hills near the burn of Altsay. But their repose was short. The pack of their enemies, who were following on their track, soon opened in yells like those of hounds when they came in view of them, and they were compelled to stand to their arms. A very sanguinary skirmish was the consequence, fought with great success on the part of the MacDonells, who slew numbers of their enemies; but this availed them little, for still the MacKenzies came crowding and gathering on in fresh numbers, whilst the ranks of Glengarry were every moment growing thinner and thinner. Retreat, therefore, became again expedient. Allan of Lundy made one desperate charge that scattered his foes over the hill-side, and then his bugle unwillingly gave the word of command for his brave MacDonells to retire. They did so with the utmost expedition, and at the same time with all the steadiness and coolness which became them. But as they moved on, many among their number were, from time to time, prostrated and sprinkled, man by man, on the earth, by the distant shots fired at them by their pursuers; and many a gallant clansman fell whilst endeavouring to cover from harm the scarlet-clad body of his leader, that conspicuously attracted the aim of his enemies. At length the number of the MacDonells became so much reduced, and the pursuit waxed so hot, that even a show of resistance was rendered utterly vain. "Men of Glengarry!" cried Allan of Lundy, "nothing now remains for us but flight. But ere we fly, let us make one more furious onset against these cowardly Bodachs. Let us first scatter them to the four winds of heaven, and then, when I give you a bugle blast, see that ye in your turn flee off suddenly apart, and so let each try to find his own way home. I shall shift well enough for myself. Now charge on them." Unprepared for this instantaneous assault, the effect of it was tremendous. Many of the MacKenzies were slain, and the whole of the remainder were dispersed like a flock of sheep. The MacDonells had hitherto kept together like a ball; but no sooner did they hear the shrill blast of Allan of Lundy's bugle, than they burst asunder, and each individual bounded off in that direction which seemed to offer him the best chance of baffling his pursuers. As hounds are astonished and divided by the sudden appearance of a trip of hares starting all at once from some well-preserved patch of furze, so were the MacKenzies confused by this new expedient of their enemies. For some time they stood confounded, until at last they gathered into little irregular bands, each of which followed that fugitive to whom the eyes of those that composed it were accidentally directed. But the splendid scarlet jacket of Allan of Lundy, which was as well known to the MacKenzies as to the MacDonells, and which upon this occasion particularly struck them as participating in the hue of that element which had recently done so cruel work upon the miserable wretches at Killychrist, drew on him the fixed attention of by far the greatest body. This was exactly what he wished for, as he saw that in this way even his flight would be the means of contributing to the safety of his men. "After the firebrand!" cried a powerful and athletic champion of the MacKenzies. "It is Allan with the red jacket himself. After him! See where he flies along the slope! But I'm thinking that there is something yonder afore him that will bring him to a check!--after him! after him!" Like greyhound freed from the slips, did this leader of the MacKenzies, and a great mass of those who followed him, burst away after Allan of Lundy, who seemed to devour the very ground by the rapidity of his flight, and the crowd of those that were after him very soon showed a long tail like that of a comet. The MacKenzie champion who had cheered them on to the pursuit, soon shot far-a-head of the great body of his party, some five or six of whom only could keep at all near him. He was well aware that the MacDonell had taken a course which must lead him to a fearful ravine,--a yawning chasm, something not much less than twenty feet in width, that seemed to sink black and fearful into that eternal night which may be supposed to exist in the bowels of the earth. The very stream that was heard to rush through it was there invisible. It was this that the MacKenzie leader had counted on as certain to prove a check to the flying Allan of Lundy. But little did he know that the bold hero of the MacDonells, trusting in his wonderful powers, had taken this very course with the hope of being thereby enabled to rid himself entirely of his pursuers. As Allan flew with a velocity that seemed to vie with that of the heathcock as he skims over the heather tops on a hill-side, he looked now and then over his shoulder to ascertain the state of the pursuit; and perceiving as he came within a few yards of the ravine, that the MacKenzie leader was considerably in advance of the handful of stragglers who toiled after him, he halted, and planted himself firmly in a position to await his assault. Nor was this halt of his altogether unseasonable; for his breathing came somewhat hurriedly for a few moments; but before his enemy came near to him, his lungs were again playing easily; and if his erect bosom heaved at all, it did so more with indignation and contemptuous defiance, than from over-exertion. The MacKenzie champion came to a stop within ten paces of him whom he had been pursuing. "Now!" cried he, whilst his words came thick and half-smothered by the exhaustion under which he laboured. "Now! now, Allan of the red jacket!--Now I have got ye!--The last time we met, you escaped from this good claymore by diving like a duck. Do so now, if you can. Dive now, if you dare, or stand like a man, and face Hector MacKenzie of Beauly,--Hector MacKenzie who slew"---- "Villain!" cried Allan of Lundy, "you need say no more. I thank thee for thus recalling to me thine accursed visage and name. The very sight of thee gives a new edge to this reeking blade of mine." Allan of Lundy rushed furiously at his foe, who advanced a step or two to meet him. A terrible single combat ensued. But active and adroit as the MacDonell leader had ever proved himself to be as a swordsman, he found in Hector MacKenzie of Beauly a cool, an experienced, and a powerful opponent. Conscious that his adversary had at that moment the advantage of him as to wind, and being aware that some five or six stark fellows of his own clan were fast nearing the scene of action, he saw that his game lay in protracting the fight, till numbers on his side might make his enemy an easy prey. He contented himself therefore with guarding and parrying the furious and not always well-directed cuts and thrusts of Allan of Lundy, until his aid should arrive to render his victory sure. They did come up at last, panting like overrun blood-hounds; and the brave MacDonell had just presence of mind enough to see that if he meant to save his life from that certain destruction that awaited it, from the fearful odds by which he was so speedily to be surrounded, he had no time to lose. With one desperate cut, which, though guarded, made his adversary reel beneath the very weight of it, he turned suddenly from him, and ran three or four steps towards the ravine--halted--threw back on his enemies a withering look of rage and scorn, and then darting towards the yawning gulf, he sprang over its fearful separation with the bound of a stag, and uttering a taunting laugh, he quietly leant upon his sword on the opposite bank to await the issue. The followers of Hector MacKenzie shuddered involuntarily as he sprang, but impelled by the rage of disappointment, Hector himself flew towards the chasm. He checked for a moment on the very brink, with his plumed bonnet thrown back, and his arms and sword high in air; and then casting one wild and searching look into the abyss that yawned beneath his feet, he retreated a few steps, and nerving himself with all his resolution, he flew at the desperate leap. "He is over!" shouted one MacKenzie. "God be here, he is down!" cried another. Neither of them were accurately right. He had failed in clearing the chasm by a single inch. His toes scratched away the loose earth and moss, and down indeed went his feet. His naked claymore dropped from his hand; but he caught at a young birchen sapling that grew from the very verge of the rock. It bent like a rope with his weight, and he hung over the black void into which his trusty weapon had disappeared, and down which it was still heard faintly clanging as it was dashed from side to side in its descent. Allan of Lundy looked remorselessly downwards upon the wretched man whose eyes glared fearfully amidst his convulsed features, as with extended jaws he uttered some incoherent and guttural sounds, which even the horrors of his perilous situation and impending fate could not compel his indomitable spirit to mould into anything like a petition for mercy from a MacDonell. "Hector of Beauly!" cried Allan of Lundy, "would that thou hadst but reached this solid ground claymore in hand! Then, indeed, might my revenge have been sweeter and more to my mind. But thy weird will have it so, and vengeance may not longer tarry. You it was who reft from us young Angus, the hope of our clan; and this day hast thou taken many of my brave fellows from me, and many trophies too hast thou taken. So thou mayest e'en take that too!" With one sweep of his claymore he cut the sapling in twain; and the agonised visage of his powerful foe dropped away and disappeared from his eyes. No shriek was heard; but Allan of Lundy started involuntarily backwards as a heavy muffled sound came upwards from the descending body, as it grazed against the successive projections of the chasm; and when the prolonged plunge that arose from an immeasurable depth below, told him of the utter annihilation of what had so lately been a man as full of life, of action, and of courage, as he still felt himself to be possessed of. Allan of Lundy stood for some moments as if transfixed to the spot. Wheresoever he gazed around him, the glaring eyeballs and the convulsed features of Hector of Beauly still haunted his imagination. But at length a shot from an arquebuse, that passed very near to him, and cut down a tall plant of bracken [2] immediately behind him, brought him back to his recollection. He then saw that a great mass of the pursuing MacKenzies had already joined those two or three men who had so closely followed Hector of Beauly, and these were now gathered on the opposite side of the ravine, raging with fury for the loss of their champion. He felt that it was no time or place for him to halt to be a butt for them to shoot at. He sprang again like a deer to the hill. But as he climbed its steep face, many were the bullets that were sent whizzing after him. By one of these random shots he was wounded in the leg, not very severely, but so as to produce a considerable effusion of blood. The MacKenzies saw that he was hit, and like huntsmen marking the effect of their discharge against a deer, they stood for some moments to observe him as he made his way up the hill-side. "He flags!" cried one. "He faints!" cried another. "He is mortally wounded!" cried a third. "He moves on!" cried a fourth. "Away! away!" cried another. "Away to the ford above the waterfall. He cannot last long. We shall soon come up with him." But the game was of a very superior description to what those who hunted him supposed; and they soon found that he was not quite so easily secured as they had calculated. Before they had made their circuit in order to cross the stream that poured itself headlong into the ravine which had been so fatal to their champion Hector of Beauly, the red jacket of Allan of Lundy had disappeared over the hill-top. But he had left his blood upon his track. A consultation was held as to what was best to be done. "Let us have Rory Bane's trusty sleuth-hound," said one of them. "See! yonder is his cottage on the other side of the moss." The advice was approved of, and with one consent they hastened to procure the dog. The animal was no sooner put upon the trail of the fugitive, than he was like to pull down the man who held his leash. But the steady Highlander kept his hold of him, for he was well aware that if once let slip the keenness of the animal would lead him on hot foot till he overtook the MacDonell, in which case the creature's death would be sealed long ere they could come up to lend him their aid. In order to benefit by his sagacity, they required to keep with him, and they found it hard enough work to do so. With his leash stretched till its collar almost choked him, he went bounding and yelling after the chase, whitening the very heath as he passed along with the foam of his mouth, and keeping not only the man who held him, but all those who were with him, going at a desperate pace. But still the temporary breathing which the Glengarry leader had enjoyed at the ravine, and the long start which he had gained whilst his pursuers were making their circuit to avoid it, and going out of their way to procure the dog, together with the time which the hound took in picking up the scent in parts where Allan of Lundy had forded the mountain streams, enabled that hero, who was so swift and enduring of foot, to reach the great valley of Loch Ness, even before the deep baying of the hound had first struck upon his ear. Then it was that a shout rang from the echoing face of the mountain that overhung the lake, for his red jacket had been descried by his pursuers, and they redoubled their speed. But Allan of Lundy was now incapable of increasing his. The blood that had continued to drop from his wound as he ran had now left behind it that incipient faintness, which the MacKenzies vainly thought had fallen on him at the time when they saw that the shot had told on him. But many miles of rough ground had he since fled over with little diminution of speed; and now the blue waters of Loch Ness stretched as it were from his feet far up between its retreating mountains. And only now it was that he felt a growing weakness, that told him that the chase could not endure a much longer time. Yet still he urged his flying steps, and still the baying of the hound, and the shouts of his pursuers, came nearer and nearer to his rear; and now and then a bullet would whistle among the foliage of the bushes that grew to right or left of him, or would tear up the turf in his very pathway, as circumstances gave those who followed him a chance view of him, whilst the echoes reverberated the sound of the discharge which had sent it. Already had he fled for some miles along the rocky and wooded faces of those mountains which arise from the northern side of Loch Ness, stopping from time to time for a few seconds on some knoll-top, to inhale the western zephyrs that blew on him with refreshing coolness from the wilds of Invergarry. But his exertions were so great and so long protracted, that even these his native breezes ceased to afford sufficient renovation to his wearied lungs and beating temples. He felt himself growing fainter and fainter, and this, too, when his pursuers, many of whom had but recently joined in the chase, were every minute gaining upon him more and more. Yet still he laboured on until even the very mountains seemed to conspire with his enemies against him. His path became reduced to a narrow and confined track, by the crags which towered above him on one hand, and the precipices that stooped sheer down into the loch on the other. All chance of escape seemed now to have departed from him. In his despair he flung a hasty glance over the waves that danced below him, and, as he did so, he descried a little boat about half-way across the sheet of water, with two or three individuals in it employed in fishing. The shouts of the MacKenzies now pressed closer and closer upon him. Like a stricken stag, he took his desperate resolve, and scrambling down to a pointed cliff that jutted out into vacancy over a deep and still part of the lake, he stood for a short time to breathe on its giddy brink. The yells of his enemies rent the air as they rushed wildly onwards to secure their prey, whilst the hound gave forth his deep bass to complete their terrific music. They were almost upon him. He cast his eyes once more downwards, then clasped his arms tightly over his breast, drew in one full draught of breath; and as the MacKenzies were clambering hurriedly along the dangerous path with their eyes fixed eagerly and intently upon his figure, they were astonished and confounded to perceive Allan of Lundy's well-known scarlet jacket shooting like a falling star through some fifty or sixty feet of air into the profound below! So perfectly had he preserved his perpendicular position during his descent, that he entered the water like an iron rod, so as scarcely to produce a ripple; and the simple action of stretching out his arms having instantly brought him like a cork to the surface, he was seen breasting his way towards the distant boat, with a vigour only to be accounted for from the circumstance, that the action he now used had brought a fresh set of muscles into play. Several random shots were fired at him by the MacKenzies but unsuccessfully; and he was soon beyond the reach of their bullets. Grouped upon the point whence he had thus so miraculously sprung stood his panting and toilworn pursuers, wondering at this extraordinary effort of his desperation; whilst the disappointed sleuth-hound continued to rouse the echoes with his prolonged howlings. And now they eagerly watched the fate of him whom they not unnaturally believed to have escaped from their weapons only to be drowned in the unfathomable depths of the loch. For the little boat was still far from him, much farther than any strong swimmer could well hope to reach; and although he swam stoutly enough at first, they began to perceive that he was striking out more and more heavily, as if death was fast shackling his powerful sinews. But now again, to their grievous disappointment, they saw that those in the boat had perceived him, and were pulling lustily towards him. It happened that the owner of the boat was no other than Fraser of Foyers, who had come out from his own place near the celebrated waterfall of that name, on the south side of the lake, to waste a few idle hours in fishing. He was the staunch ally of the MacDonell; and although he was at a considerable distance from the spot at the time, the meteor descent of the red jacket had struck his eyes so forcibly, that he immediately suspected that something had befallen Allan of Lundy, whose garment he guessed it to be. Having ordered his men to row in the proper direction, he soon began to recognise the red speck forcing its way through the water, and leaving a long line of wake behind it, while the hostile tartans that waved from the verge of the cliff, and the echoes that were awakened by the baying of the hound and the shouts of the men, told him enough of the story to induce him and his rowers to strain every nerve to save the gallant captain of Glengarry. And great as were their exertions, they were no more than were necessary for effecting their object; for they reached him as he was on the eve of sinking from very exhaustion. Fraser of Foyers had no sooner saved his friend, than he stood up in his boat and gave three hearty cheers, and then hoisting his tiny white sail, he availed himself of a favourable breeze, and bore away for the upper end of the lake, whilst the MacKenzies followed it with their eyes, and continued to pour out maledictions upon it, till it was lost in the yellow haze of the sunset in the western distance. The captain of the MacDonells returned to Invergarry Castle, to brood over the dire, though dear-bought revenge he had reaped in this terrible raid. His heart was especially filled with savage joy whilst ruminating on the dreadful death which he had bestowed on him who had killed his cousin Angus MacDonell. But these triumphant thoughts soon gave way before that ideal phantom of Hector of Beauly, which never ceased to haunt his fevered imagination, and which exhibited the last despairing, yet resolute look of that bold man, ere Allan of Lundy had cut the only remaining hold he had of earth, and sent him, as it were, into the very bowels of the infernal regions. Nor did the cries which arose from the burning church of Killychrist ever leave his ears. But few of the MacDonells who partook of this expedition survived with their leader. Even those who went round by the Bridge of Inverness did not escape; and it was somewhat remarkable that they died by a fate worthy of those who had been engaged in so cruel an expedition. Having been overcome with fatigue, they stopped to refresh themselves in a house of public entertainment near Torbreck, where they supposed that they were beyond all risk of further attack. But they were woefully mistaken; for MacKenzie of Redcastle having followed them thither with his party, suddenly surrounded them, and burned every one of them to death. FEUDAL HEROES. Dominie.--That same Allan with the Red Jacket was surely a terrible chield. I'm thinking that his moral and religious yeddication must have been vurra much neglected. Clifford (gravely).--I should strongly suspect so. Dominie.--Something might surely have been made of him by subjeckin him to proper early nuture and restraint. Clifford.--Aye, there is no saying what might have been made of him if you had had the flogging of him, Mr. Macpherson. Dominie.--Preserve me, sir! no salary upon yearth could have tempted me to undertake the flagellation of such a birky. Clifford.--Why, to be sure he might have rebelled a little under the lash; and if he had once run away from you, you would have been somewhat troubled to have caught him again. He would have been a grand fellow for a steeple-chase. He would have beaten the world on foot across a country. Dominie.--These MacKenzies and MacDonells were fearful chaps. I have many a story about them. Grant.--I have a few myself; and a legend which a friend gave me of a MacDonell of Glengarry and a Lord Kintail has this moment occurred to me, suggested by its similarity in certain circumstances to part of that to which we have been listening. Author.--Will you favour us with it? Clifford.--If he does, it must be by my especial licence. Our friend, Mr. Macpherson, is first in my book. But as I see he has lighted a fresh cigar, and as Grant has smoked his to the stump, he may e'en end it by throwing it into the fire, and commence his tale without further loss of time. Grant.--I bow to your supreme will. Clifford.--Pray make it short, if you please, for I begin to be rather sleepy, and I should be sorry to affront you by yawning. Besides, I mean to be up betimes to-morrow to try for a salmon. GLENGARRY'S REVENGE. My legend has to do with that very Castle of Eilean Donan with which yours has already made us so well acquainted. The time of the action was about the early part of the seventeenth century, and the great actor in it was a very celebrated MacDonell of Glengarry, whose name I have forgotten, but who is said to have been remarkable for his gigantic figure and Herculean strength. The Lord Kintail of that period was a great favourite with the Court, so that he thereby rose to great power and influence, which he very naturally employed, according to the laudable custom of those days, in humbling his enemies. Amongst these, none bore him a larger share of animosity than his hereditary foes, the MacDonells of Glengarry. It was not in their nature tamely to submit to the dominion which Kintail was permitted to exercise, with comparative impunity, over some of the other clans. On the contrary, they were frequently disposed not only to resist themselves, but they also very often found means to stir up others to resistance, and in this way they sometimes furnished Kintail with specious grounds for accusing them, when all apology for doing so might have been otherwise wanting. It happened that the chief of Glengarry was on one occasion engaged for some days in a hunting expedition in that range of his own country which surrounds the sea lake of Loch Hourn, already so often mentioned in the last legend. The sun was setting on a mild and beautiful evening, and the breeze was blowing softly from the sea, when, as Glengarry was returning from the chase, attended by a small party of his followers, he espied a couple of galleys standing in towards the very part of the shore where stood the little group of black bothies, that at such times formed his temporary place of encampment. Doubtful whether the approaching vessels might contain friends or foes, he deemed it prudent to put himself and his people into ambush behind some broken ground, where they might lie concealed until they could patiently observe the progress and the motions of those who came, and so judge as to the result. "Knowest thou the rig of those craft, Alaister More?" demanded Glengarry of his henchman, as they peered together over the black edge of a moss bank, and scanned the approaching sails with earnest eyes. "Whence may they come, thinkest thou?" "I would not say but they may be Kintail's men," replied Alaister. "Kintail's men!" exclaimed Glengarry, "what would bring Kintail's men here at this time?" "I'm not saying that I am just exactly right," replied Alaister, "but I'm thinking it looks like them." "Curses on them!" said Glengarry bitterly, "they are bold to venture hither while I am here." "They are so, I'm thinking," said Alaister; "but it may be that they have no guess that Glengarry is here. But, troth, that Kintail holds his head so high now-a-days, that I'm judging his men think themselves free to thrust in their noses just where they like. He's king of the north-west, as a man might say." "Accursed be his dastard dominion!" said Glengarry, with bitterness of expression; "and shame upon the slavish fools that yield their necks as footstools to his pride. Is't not galling to see it? Is't not galling to see men of wisdom and bravery, such a man as my staunch friend and ally, MacLeod, for instance, yielding so ready an obedience to one whom all should unite to oppose, overthrow, and crush as a common enemy." "That's very true that you're saying, Glengarry!" observed Alaister; "but I'm thinking that they are not all just blessed with your spirit. If they had been so, I'm judging that the MacCraws could not have been left as they were without help but what they got from you." "By all that is good, it was our help alone that saved them," cried Glengarry in an animated tone. "Half of them would have been hanged on the gallows-tree but for our interference. The MacKenzies had no reason to pride themselves on the event of that day, nor had we any cause to boast of the zeal of those whom we have been wont to reckon among our allies." "Troth, you're not wrong there, Glengarry," said Alaister. "So I'm judging that we must even go on to trust to our own MacDonell swords in all time coming; and we have reason to be thankful that their blades are not just made of cabbage stalks." "Thank God, indeed, that they are made of better metal!" said Glengarry, smiling proudly. "And small as this our party is, would, with all my heart, that these were Kintail's men, with Kintail himself at the head of them!" "I should not be that sorry to see Kintail," said Alaister. "We should give him a hotter welcome than this cold coast might lead him to look for," said Glengarry. "We'll not be slow in giving him that same, I'm thinking," said Alaister. "Stay! dost thou not make out a banner yonder?" demanded Glengarry. "I'm thinking I do see something like a banner," replied Alaister. "With this failing light we cannot hope even to guess at the bearing with which it may be charged," said Glengarry, straining his eyes, "but if that be a banner, as I believe it to be, then is there certainly a chief there. Look to your arms, MacDonells, and let us be prepared for what may happen!" By degrees the galleys drew nearer and nearer; but as the night was falling fast, their forms grew less and less distinct as their bulk swelled in the eyes of the MacDonells, till at last they came looming towards the shore like two dark opaque undefinable masses, which were suddenly reduced, by the displacement of their sails, to about one-fourth part of the size they had grown to. For a time they were rocked to and fro until their keels became fixed in the sand by the receding tide. The dusky figures they contained were then seen pouring out from them, and passing like shadowy spectres across a gleam of light that was reflected on the wet sand from the upper part of the sky; and they showed so formidably in numbers, as to render some short council of war necessary before assaulting them with an inferior force, not from any fear of defeat on the part of him who took this precaution, but dictated by his prudence to prevent all risk of the escape of those whom they were about to attack. Whilst Glengarry was thus concerting his measures, the strangers were seen moving a body towards the cluster huts, which stood at something less than an hundred yards from the water side, and speedily disappeared within their walls, and lights soon afterwards began to start up within them, as if they were preparing to make themselves comfortable for the night. Glengarry observed this, and in order that he might lull all apprehension of attack, he resolved to give them full time to employ themselves in cookery, or in whatever occupation they might find to be necessary. The broken ground which concealed the MacDonells discharged a small rill, that ran between the banks of mossy soil, in a diagonal line, and opened on the sand at a point almost opposite to the spot where the two galleys were lying. No sooner was the chief of Glengarry satisfied that the time was come when the assault could be most opportunely made, than he led his handful of men silently down between the hollow banks of the brook, so as to get unperceived between the enemy and their vessels. So far everything went well with them, but as they debouched from the mouth of the water-course, the partial light that gleamed from the upper part of the sky glanced unexpectedly on the blades of their naked claymores, and instantly a loud bugle blast blew shrilly from on board the nearer of the two galleys. "Dunvegan! Dunvegan!" cried a loud voice from the bothies, after the bugle had ceased. In an instant their little black heaps gave forth their living contents, some armed, and others with blazing torches of moss-fir, plucked suddenly from the great fires they had kindled. "'Tis MacLeod!" said Glengarry in a peevish tone, that sufficiently betrayed the disappointment he felt that his well-concerted scheme of attack was thus rendered useless. "'Tis but MacLeod, then, after all!" "Hoo!" said Alaister, "sure enough it's MacLeod, and no one else. So we'll be supping, I'm thinking, and drinking together like friends, instead of fighting like wild cats." "Would it had been otherwise!" said Glengarry, "much as I love MacLeod, I would at this moment rather a thousand times have encountered the Lord of Kintail. By the rood, but I was more i' the humour for dealing in blows than pledging in beakers! But since it could not be Kintail, I rejoice that it is MacLeod, for as I could desire no better foe than the one, I can have no worthier friend than the other." "Both good of their kind surely, I'm thinking," said Alaister. Nothing could exceed the joy and cordiality of the friends at thus meeting so unexpectedly. The fattest buck of the chase was dragged towards a fire, kindled for culinary purposes in one of the huts, steaks cut from its haunch were added to the fare which MacLeod's people were preparing, and after a hasty and unceremonious meal, the two chiefs retired with some of those in whom they reposed most confidence, into a separate bothy, where they might have leisure for full converse over a cup of wine. "To what happy accident am I to attribute our meeting thus in Knoidart?" demanded Glengarry. "If I had not chanced thus to meet you here," said MacLeod, "I should have gone on to Invergarry Castle, as I originally intended. But it is well that I am saved so long a journey." "Nay, by all that is friendly, that is not well said of you, MacLeod," said Glengarry. "But I shall not be baulked of your visit. We shall break up hence, and set forward thither before to-morrow's dawn. If there be deer on my hills, fish in my streams, steers in my pastures, or wine in my castle-vaults, thou shalt be feasted like a prince as thou art." "That may not be," said MacLeod, "for this is no time for you to devote to friendship and feasting. Thou knowest not that the object of this voyage of mine was no other than to warn thee of certain wicked plots that are about to be brought to bear against thee." "What! some evil machinations of the accursed Kintail, I warrant me," said Glengarry. "Thou hast guessed, and guessed rightly too," replied MacLeod. "Cowardly villain that he is!" cried Glengarry, "what has he done?" "Thou knowest that he is in high favour at Court," said MacLeod. "They even talk now of his being made an earl. But be that as it may, he hath somehow or other acquired the means of using the King's ear. And foully doth he misuse it, by pouring poison into it to further his own ambitious and avaricious views, to the injury of the innocent." "'Tis like the cold-hearted knave," said Glengarry. "But what, I pray thee, hath he said of me?" "I know not what he may have said of thee," answered MacLeod, "but I know that he must have sorely misreported thee, seeing that through certain channels he hath persuaded his Majesty to arm him with letters of fire and sword and outlawry against thee." "What said'st thou?" cried Glengarry, choking with his rising anger; "did I hear thee aright? Letters of outlawry, and of fire and sword, put into the hands of MacKenzie of Kintail, to be executed against me! Oh, impossible!" "What I tell thee is too true," said MacLeod. "The dastard dare not use them!" cried Glengarry, grinding his teeth from the violence of his rage. "Backed by the King, as he now is, he may dare do anything," said MacLeod. "I defy him though he be backed by the King," cried Glengarry in a fury; "aye, and though both were backed by the black monarch of hell? God forgive me for coupling the name of a sovereign whom I would fain love and honour, if he would but let me, with those of MacKenzie of Kintail, and that devil whom he delights to serve." "Moderate your passion, Glengarry," said MacLeod, "and listen to me quietly, until I put thee in possession of all that is brewing against thee." "I am calm," said Glengarry. "It is my duty as a friend of thine to tell thee, then," said MacLeod, "that a meeting is summoned for three days hence at the Castle of Eilean Donan of all those whom Kintail chooses to call the King's friends in these north-western parts, who are called together for the ostensible purpose of giving him counsel how best to put in force those letters against thee, which he affects to be deeply grieved to have been charged with." "Hypocritical villain!" cried Glengarry. "I am one of those friends of the King who are thus summoned," said MacLeod, "and my present object was to prove to thee, that although I may be so ranked, I am not the less a friend of thine. I wished to make thee fully aware of the whole state of matters before I go to Eilean Donan to swell, as in regard to my own safety I must needs do, that majority which he looks for to strengthen his hands against thee." "Thou hast proved thyself a friend indeed," said Glengarry, after ruminating a few seconds. "Thou hast proved thyself to be that old and steady friend of mine which I always have believed, and ever will believe thee to be. And now it is my turn to ask thee, whether thou hast ever found me in one instance to fail thee?" "Thou hast never failed me, Glengarry," said MacLeod, "and I trust our clans shall be ever linked together like one bundle of rods." "Aye!" said Glengarry, with a bitter laugh, "a bundle of rods which I trust may one day be well employed in scourging this pitiful tyrant of the north-west. I love thee too much to demand thine open aid at present. But haply thou mayest well enough find some excuse for not going to this meeting thou speakest of. An excuse, mark me, to be sent after the day is past. Thou canst be grievously ill, or anything may serve as an apology, if an apology should be required; for I have friends at Court, too, and I may yet find the means so to bring things into proper joint, as to render apologies more necessary from Kintail than from us. All that I ask of thee then is, that you may not appear at this nefarious assemblage at Eilean Donan." "MacDonell," replied MacLeod, "I know the risk I run, but I am ready to incur any risk for so old a friend as thou art, especially in a case where the securing aid in arms rather than in council is so evidently the object of Kintail in calling us together. Say no more then; we shall weigh hence for Dunvegan by to-morrow's dawn, and be assured nothing shall drag me thence to be marshalled against thee in any way." "Thank thee--thank thee!" said Glengarry, cordially shaking MacLeod by the hand. "This is no more than I expected of thy generosity and good faith. Thy kind and friendly information shall not be thrown away upon me. I shall start for Invergarry Castle by to-morrow morning's sunrise. But thou shalt hear from me without fail. And if thy little finger be but brought into jeopardy, thou shalt have my neck to answer for it." This important conversation between the two chiefs being now ended, they gave themselves up to the enjoyment of that good fellowship and revelry which arose between their two clans. Small was that portion of the time subjected to the rule of night which was by them devoted to slumber, and soon were they both astir each to pursue his separate way; and as the rising sun was glancing on the arms of Glengarry and his people as they wound inland over the muirland hills, they looked back towards Loch Hourn, and beheld the galleys of MacLeod winging their way for Skye, under a favouring land breeze, that seemed to have been begotten by the genial beams of morning, which then poured a flood of brilliant light after them as they flew over the trembling surface of the waters. The tide was fully up around the little island which gives name to the Castle of Eilean Donan, and the ferry-boat was moored on the landward side of the strait, when the shades of night began to descend upon it, and upon the whole of the surrounding scenery, on the evening of that day which was fixed for the gathering that Lord Kintail had summoned. "A plague take this MacLeod," said the boatman in Gaelic to his assistant, as they sat glued to their benches, listening with envy to the sounds of mirth that came to their ears from within the castle walls. "A plague upon this MacLeod, who keeps us waiting here in the cold when we might be warming our toes at a blazing fire, and cherishing our noses with a goodly flagon of ale!" "A plague upon him, with all my heart," echoed the other man. "Is it for him alone that we are condemned to tarry here?" "Aye, Donald," said the master, "MacLeod is the only man awanting, it seems; and, sure enough, I think there be plenty without him. Hast thou ever before seen such an inpouring of eagles' wings into the Castle of Eilean Donan? There is surely something a-brewing." "Whatever may be brewing, Master Duncan, we seem to have but little hope of drinking of it," said the man, laughing heartily at his own joke. "Faith, Master Donald, they may be brewing some browst which neither you nor I would be very eager to drink," replied the master; "I would rather be turning up a creaming cup of the castle ale than have aught to do with any such liquor. But hold, heard ye not the tread of men? Come, loose the rope, and to your oars. That will be MacLeod at last. Who comes there?" cried he, as he dimly perceived a small party of men approaching the spot where the boat lay. "MacLeod!" cried a voice in reply, and immediately a tall and bulky figure, completely enveloped in an ample plaid, advanced, and after having given some secret directions to his followers, to which the impatient boatmen neither cared nor tried to listen, he stepped solemnly and silently alone into the boat, and was speedily rowed across. The hall of Eilean Donan was that night crowded beyond all former precedent. The feast was already over, and Lord Kintail was then presiding over the long board, where flowing goblets were circulating among the numerous guests, who were all his friends or allies, or who at least feared to declare themselves to be otherwise. But fully aware of the uncertain materials of which this great assemblage was composed, the chief of the MacKenzies had most prudently intermingled the stoutest and bravest individuals of his own clan among these strangers; and, as was customary in these rude times, each man sat with his drawn dirk sticking upright in the board before him, ready for immediate use, in case of its services being required; and this precaution was the more naturally adopted upon the present occasion, because every one at that table was jealous and doubtful of those sitting to right and left of him. On a sudden the door of the hall was thrown open, and a huge man strode slowly and erectly into the middle of it. He was muffled up in a large dark plaid, of some nameless tartan; and it was so folded over the under part of his face as completely to conceal it; whilst the upper part of his features was shrouded by the extreme breadth of the bonnet he wore. His appearance produced a sudden lull in the loud talk that was then arising from every mouth, the din of which had been making the vaulted roof to ring again. The name of "MacLeod" ran in whispers around, and Lord Kintail himself having for a moment taken up the notion that had at first so generally seized the company, he signed to his seneschal to usher the stranger towards the upper end of the table where he himself sat, and where a vacant chair on his right hand had been left for the chief of Dunvegan. The stranger obeyed the invitation, indeed; but he sat not down. He stood erect and motionless for a moment, with all eyes fixed upon him. "MacLeod!" said the Lord Kintail, half rising to acknowledge his presence by a bow, "thou art late. We tarried for thee till our stomachs overmatched our courtesy. But stay, am I right? art thou MacLeod or not? Come, if thou art MacLeod, why standest thou with thy face concealed? Unfold thyself and be seated; for there are none but friends here." "I am not MacLeod!" said the stranger, speaking distinctly and deliberately, but in a hollow tone from within the folds of his plaid. "Who art thou, then, in God's name?" demanded Kintail, with some degree of confusion of manner. "I am an outlawed MacDonell," replied the stranger. "A MacDonell!" cried Kintail, with manifest agitation. "What wouldst thou under this roof?" "I am come to throw myself on thy good faith, Lord Kintail, with the hope that thou mayest be the means of procuring a reversal of the hard sentence which hath been so unjustly passed upon me and my clan." "I must first know more of thee," said Kintail. "I can give no promise until I know who thou art." "I said I was a MacDonell," replied the other. "That is a wide name," said Kintail. "Heaven knows that for the peace of the earth it holds too many that bear that name." "That may be as men may think," said the stranger, with greater quickness of articulation. "What MacDonell art thou, then?" demanded Kintail. "Pray, unmuffle thy face." "One MacDonell is like another," said the stranger carelessly. "That answer will not serve me," said Kintail. "I must see thy face. And methinks it is a bad sign of thee, that thou shouldst be ashamed to show it." "Ashamed!" said the stranger, with emphasis--and then, as if commanding himself,--"In times of feud like these," added he, after a pause, "thou canst not ask me to uncover my face before so promiscuous a company as this, where, for aught I know, I may have some sworn and deadly personal enemies, who may seek to do me wrong. But give me thy solemn pledge, Lord Kintail, that I shall suffer no skaith, and then thou shalt see my face." "I swear to thee before this goodly assemblage," said Kintail, "that whoever thou mayest be, or whatever enemies of thine may be amongst us, thou shalt be skaith-less. Nay, more; for thy brave bearing thou shalt have free assoilzieing from outlawry and all other penalties, be thou whom thou mayest, with one exception alone." "Whom dost thou except?" demanded the stranger, eagerly advancing his body, but without unveiling his face. "Glengarry himself," said Lord Kintail. "By all that is good, Glengarry may well be a proud man by being so distinguished," said the stranger, with great energy both of voice and of action. And then, after a short pause, he made one bold step forward, and throwing wide his plaid, and standing openly confessed before them all, he exclaimed in a voice like thunder,--"I am Glengarry!" There was one moment of fearful silence, during which all eyes were turned upon the chief of the MacDonells with the fixed stare of people who were utterly confounded. Then was every dirk plucked from the board by the right hand of its owner, and the clash which was thus made among the beakers and flagons was terrific; and the savage looks which each man darted upon his neighbour, in his apprehension of treachery, where each almost fancied that the saving of his own life might depend on the quick dispatching of him who sat next to him, presented a spectacle which might have frozen the blood of the stoutest heart that witnessed it. But ere a stroke was struck, or a single man could leave his place, Glengarry sprang on Kintail with the swiftness of a falcon on its quarry; and ere he could arm himself, he seized his victim with the vice-like gripe of his left hand, and pinned him motionless into his chair, whilst the dirk which he had concealed under his plaid now gleamed in his right hand, with its point within an inch of the MacKenzie's throat. "Strike away, gentlemen," said Glengarry calmly; "but if that be your game, I have the first cock!" The MacKenzies had all risen, it is true. Nay, some of them had even moved a step forward in defence of their chief. But they marked the gigantic figure of Glengarry; and seeing that the iron strength he possessed gave him as much power over Lord Kintail as an ordinary man has over a mere child, and that any movement on their part must instantly seal his doom, each man of them stepped back and paused, and an awful and motionless silence once more reigned for some moments throughout the hall. "Let any man but stir a finger!" said Glengarry in a calm, slow, yet tremendous voice, "and the fountain of Lord Kintail's life's-blood shall spout forth, till it replenish the goblet of him who sits in the lowest seat at this board! Let not a finger be stirred, and Kintail shall be skaithless." "What wouldest thou with me, MacDonell?" demanded Kintail, with half-choked utterance, that gave sufficient evidence of the rudeness of that gripe by which his throat was held. "Thou hast gotten letters of outlawry and of fire and sword against me and against my clan," said Glengarry. "I have," said Kintail. "They were sent me because of thy rescue of certain men of the MacCraws, declared rebels to the King." "I ask not how or whence thou hadst them," said Glengarry. "But I would have them instantly produced." "How shall I produce them, when thou wilt not suffer me nor any one to move?" said Kintail. "Let thy chaplain there--that unarmed man of peace--let him produce them," said Glengarry. "Go then, good Colin," said Kintail to the chaplain, "go to yonder cabinet, thou knowest where they lie. Bring them hither." "This is well!" said Glengarry, clutching the parchments with his armed hand from the trembling ecclesiastic, and thrusting them hastily into his bosom. "So far this is well. Now sit thee down, reverend sir, and forthwith write out a letter from thy lord to the King, fully clearing me and mine in the eyes of his Majesty from all blame, and setting forth in true colours my own loyalty and that of my brave clan. Most cruelly have we been belied, for before these gentlemen I do here swear that, as God shall be my judge, he hath nowhere more faithful subjects." "Use thy pen as he dictates," said Kintail, "for if he speaks thus, I will freely own he hath been wronged in the false rumours which have been conveyed to me, and through me to his Majesty." "'Tis honest at least in thee to say so much, Lord Kintail," said Glengarry, "and since thou dost grant me this, thine amanuensis here may as well write me out a short deed pledging thee to the restitution of those lands of mine which were taken from me, by the King's order, on former false statements of delinquency. And be expeditious, dost thou hear, lest thy good lord here may suffer too long from the inconvenience of this awkward posture in which thou art thyself detaining him by thy slow and inexpert clerkship." "Write as thou art bid, and as expeditiously as may be," said Kintail, sincerely coinciding with Glengarry's last recommendation. Accordingly, the papers were made out exactly as he desired, signed by Kintail, and then placed in the capacious bosom of the MacDonell chief. "All this is so far well," said Glengarry. "Now swear me solemnly that I shall be permitted to return home without molestation, and that thou wilt faithfully, and truly, and honestly observe all these thine engagements." "I swear!" said Kintail, "I solemnly swear that thou shalt pass hence and return into thine own country, without a hair of thy head being hurt; and I shall truly and faithfully observe everything I have promised, whether in writing or otherwise." "Then," said Glengarry, quietly relinquishing his grasp, sheathing his dirk, and coolly seating himself at the board as if nothing had happened; "then let us have one friendly cup ere we part,--I would pledge to thy health and to thy rooftree, my Lord Kintail!" and, saying so, he filled a large goblet of wine and drained it to the bottom, turning it up when he had finished, to show that he had done fair justice to the toast. "Glengarry!" said Kintail, "thou shalt not find me behind thee in courtesy. Thine to be sure hath been in certain respects somewhat of the roughest to-night, and I must own," continued he, chafing his throat, "that a cup of wine never could come to me more desirably than at this moment, so I now drink to thee as a friend, for enemies though we have ever been, thy gallant courage has won my full applause." "And I repeat the pledge, and in the same friendly guise, Kintail," said Glengarry taking him by the hand, and squeezing it till this demonstration of his new-born friendship became almost as inconvenient to the chief of the MacKenzies, as the effects of his ancient enmity had so lately been. "And now I must bid you all God-speed in a parting draught,--Slainte!" "One cup more, Glengarry, to Deoch-an-dorrus!" said Kintail. "With all my heart," said Glengarry, and this last pledge was a deep one. Again he squeezed Kintail's hand, till he made the tears come into his eyes. "Be assured," said he, "thy letter to the King is in safe hands, my Lord Kintail, for I shall see it delivered myself." "Lights and an escort there for Glengarry!" cried Lord Kintail; and the bold chief of the MacDonells, bowing courteously around him to all that were assembled in the hall, left them full of wonder at his hardihood, whilst he was marshalled with all due ceremonial and honour to the boat, and ferried across to his impatient people. He found that his little knot of MacDonells, with Alaister More at their head, had been kept so long in a state of anxiety, and they had begun to doubt and to fear so much for his safety, that they were on the very eve of resolving to endeavour to break into the castle, that they might ascertain what had befallen him, or to die in the attempt. "My horse, Alaister!" cried Glengarry, as soon as his foot had touched the shore; and throwing himself into the saddle, he let no grass grow at his heels till he reached the capital, and was presented at Court, where he speedily re-established himself in the good opinion of his sovereign. LONG YARNS. Clifford (yawning).--Now, Mr. Macpherson, your story comes next, and if it is but of brevity as reasonable as that which we have now heard,--aw!--aw--I think,--aw-ah-ah-aw!--that in justice to you, we are bound to hear it ere we go to bed--a--aw-aw. Dominie.--I cannot positively say what my story might measure out to in the hands of ane able story-teller. Some clever chield like Homer, or Virgil, or Sir Walter Scott, for example, any one of whom could spin you a thread as if they were working it off by the hundred ells, with that machine once vurra much used by the Highland wives, called the muckle wheel. But, plain man as I am, you can never expeck me to tell anything but the bare facks. Yet I must not let you yemagine, gentlemen, that there is any fack at all in the foolish fairy story I am now going to tell you. Clifford.--Why, Mr. Macpherson,--aw--aw--ha! if I have any of my logic left in me at all, I think I can prove that de facto you have no story to tell. As thus:-- You tell nothing but facks. In your story there is no fack. Therefore you have nothing to tell. Quod erat demonstrandum. Ergo, as a corollary, I think we had better--aw--aw--a--go to bed. Grant.--Very ingeniously made out, Clifford. But we know from experience, that logic and common sense are not always equal to the same thing, and therefore they are not always equal to one another. So, to cut the argument short, I now move that Mr. Macpherson do forthwith begin his story. Author.--I second the motion. Clifford.--Well, I shall--aw, aw--light another cigar, and if he does not finish in the smoking of it, I for one shall bowl off to bed. Grant.--Come then, Mr. Macpherson, pray take the start of him. THE LEGEND OF THE BUILDING OF BALLINDALLOCH. As you go down the avenue leading from the bridge to the present house of Ballindalloch, gentlemen, you cross a small rivulet that rushes headlong with a cheerful sound from the wooded banks rising on your right hand, the which, after finding its way under the road through what is commonly called a cundy bridge, throws itself over the rocks directly into the pellucid stream of the Aven, that accompanies you on your left. If you should chance to go down that way, and if you should be tempted to trace that little rill upwards through the wild shrubbery, and among the tangled roots of the venerable oaks and other trees which shoot up everywhere in fantastic shapes from its sides, and by throwing their outstretched arms across its bed here and there, produce a pleasing contrast of checkered light and shade, you will find many a nook amid its mazes which a fanciful yemagination might set apart as a haunt befitting those frisking creatures of the poet's brain, Oberon and Titania, and where the sly tricks and pawky gambols of Puck and the fairy folk might well be played. I think, indeed, that I could almost venture to assert, that no one truly filled with what may be termed the romance of poetry, could well pass a few hours' vigil in the thick retirement of that lovely and sequestered grove, with the full moon piercing through the openings in the canopy of foliage, and shining directly down the little ravine where that musical rill flows, its beams converting the rushing waters into silver, and the dewdrops of every leaf, flower, or blade of grass, on its banks, into diamonds, without looking to come pop upon some tiny fairy palace, or to be charmed by some witching sight or sound, that, for the time at least, may make him forget that he is a mortal. This opinion I venture to pronounce on the mere internal yevidence afforded by the spot itself, as well as by the recollections of my own feelings when I chanced to wander up the place under similar circumstances, with this simple addition, to be sure, that I had been at a wedding that night, and had consequently a small drop of toddy in my head. But be that as it may, the vulgar supposition that it is inhabited by supernatural beings is borne out by the corroborative testimony of very ancient tradition. From time immemorial it has been called the Castle Stripe, and the origin of this name is linked with some old foundations which are still to be seen on the summit of the bank above, the legendary history of which I am now going to tell you. It is believed that several centuries have passed away since the Laird of Ballindalloch proposed to build himself a castle or peel-tower for his more secure abode in times when the prevalence of private feuds required strength of position and solidity of structure; and having, doubtless, first and foremost sat down, like a sensible man, to count the probable cost of his contemplated edifice, he next, with yespecial prudence, set about considering where he should find the best site to yerect it on; and after a careful examination of his domains, he at last fixed on the vurra spot now occupied by those old foundations I spake of. This place possessed many advantages in his eyes, for, whilst it was itself overlooked by nothing, it not only commanded a pleasant prospect over all the haughs and low grounds of his own property, but it also enjoyed a view of the whole of the lands of Tullochcarron, lying on the opposite side of the Aven; and between that river and the Spey, above their point of junction, and this the good man considered a thing of very great importance at a time when that property was in the hands of another laird, with whom, if there was not then a quarrel, yet nobody could say how soon a quarrel might arise. This very weighty matter of consideration being thus settled in his own mind, he began his operations with vigour. Numerous bodies of masons and labourers were applied to the work. In a few days the foundations were dug and laid, and several courses of the masonry appeared above ground, and the undertaking seemed to be going on in the most prosperous manner, and perfectly to the laird's satisfaction. But what was the astonishment of the workmen one morning, when, on returning by sunrise to their labour, they discovered that the whole of the newly built walls had disappeared, aye, down to the vurra level of the ground! The poor fellows, as you may guess, were terrified beyond measure. Fain would they have altogether desisted from a work over which, it was perfectly plain, that if some powerful enemy had not the control, some strange and mysterious fatality must certainly hang. But in those days lairds were not men to whom masons, or simple delvers of the ground, could dare to say nay. He of whom I am now telling you was determined to have his own way, and to proceed in spite of what had occurred, and in defiance of what might occur; and having sent round and summoned a great many more workmen in addition to those already employed, he set them to the work with redoubled vigilance, and ere the sun of another day went down, he had raised the walls very nearly to the height which they had reached the previous evening before their most unaccountable disappearance. But no sooner had the light of a new morning dawned, than it was discovered that the whole work had again disappeared down to the level of the ground. The people were frightened out of their senses. They hardly dared to go near the spot. But the terrors which the very name of the laird carried with it, swallowed up all their other terrors, as the serpent into which the rod of Moses was converted swallowed up all those that sprang from the rods of the magicians of Egypt; and as the laird only became so much the more obstinate from all these mysterious thwartings which he met with, the poor people were obliged to tremble in secret, and immediately to obey his will. The whole country was scoured, and the number of workmen was again very much increased, so that what by cuffing and what by coaxing (means which I find it vurra beneficial to employ by turns to stimulate my own scholars to their tasks), nearly double the usual quantum of work was done before night. But, alas! the next morning's dawn proved that the building of this peel-tower of Ballindalloch continued to be like unto the endless weaving of the web of Penelope, for each succeeding morning saw the work of the previous day annihilated by means which no human being could possibly divine. "What can be the meaning of all this?" said the laird to Ian Grant, his faithful henchman, vexed out of all patience as he was at last by this most provoking and perplexing affair. "Who can be the author of all this mischief?" "Troth I cannot say, sir," replied Ian. "The loons at the work think that it is some spite taken up against us by the good people." [3] "Good people!" cried the laird in a rage. "What mean you by good people? More likely fiends, I wot." "For the love of the Virgin use better terms, Ballindalloch," replied Ian. "Who knows what ears may be listening to us unseen." "If I did not know thee to be as brave a fellow as ever handled a broadsword, I would say shame on thee, Ian, for a coward!" cried the laird. "Hark, ye! I would not wilfully anger the good people more than thou wouldst do. But I cannot help thinking that some bad people, some of my unfriends, some secret enemies of mine, of mortal mould, must have, somehow or other, contrived by devilish arts to do me all these ill turns." "It will be easy to find that out, sir," said Ian, "we have only to plant a good guard all night on the works." "That was exactly what I was thinking of, Ian," said the laird, "and I was a fool not to have thought of it before. Set the masons to their task again, then, without delay, and see that they be not idle, and take care to have a night-watch ready to mount over the work the moment the sun goes to bed. I'll warrant me we shall find out the scoundrels, or if we do not, we shall at least have the satisfaction of putting a stop to their devilish amusement." None of Ballindalloch's people, however brave, were very much enamoured of any such duty, however honourable it might have been considered. But his orders were too imperative to be disobeyed, and so some dozen or twain of stout handlers of the old broad-bladed Scottish spear were planted as sentinels to patrol around the walls during the night. These gallant fellows took care to carry with them some cordials to keep their spirits up, and by a liberal use of them, the first two or three dreary hours of darkness passed off with tolerable tranquillity and comfort, and as time wore on, and their courage waxed stronger and stronger, they began to be of the laird's opinion, that however wonderful previous yevents had appeared to be, there had in reality been nothing supernatural in them; and, moreover, whatever might be the nature of the enemy, they were by no means disposed to venture to molest the brave defenders of the new walls. Full of these convictions, their contempt of all earthly foes increased, as their dread of unearthly enemies subsided; and as there was an ancient and wide-spreading oak-tree growing within about forty or fifty paces of the walls, they thought that they might as well retire beneath the shelter of its shade, as some protection from the descending damps. This they were the more readily induced to do, seeing that from thence they could quite easily observe the approach of any suspicious people who might appear. Nay, they even judged that the cowardly enemy who might otherwise have been scared by observing so stout an armed band about the walls, might now be encouraged to show themselves by their temporary concealment. "Come away now, Duncan man," said one of these heroes to a comrade, after they had drawn themselves together into a jovial knot, close to the huge trunk of the oak. "Come away, man, with your flask. I'm wondering much whether the juice that is in its body be of the same mettlesome browst, as that which came with so heart-stirring a smack out of the vitals of Tom's leathern bottle." "Rest its departed spirit, Charley! it was real comfortable and courage-giving stuff," said another. "By Saint Peter, but that's no worse!" said Charley, tasting it and smacking his lips, "Hah! it went to my very heart's core. Such liquor as this would make a man face the devil." "Fie! let us not talk of such a person," said Tom. "I hope it is enow, if its potency amounteth even so high, as to make us do our duty against men like ourselves." "Men like ourselves!" cried Charley. "I trow such like as ourselves are not to be furnished from the banks of either Aven or Spey, aye, or from those of any other river or stream that I wot of. Give me another tug of thy most virtuous flask there, Duncan. Hah! I say again that the power of clergy and holy water is nothing to this. It would stir a man up to lay the very devil himself. What sayest thou and thy red nose, old Archy Dhu?" "I say that I think thou art speaking somewhat unadvisedly," replied Archy, stretching out his hand at the same time, and taking the flask from Charley as he was about to apply it to his lips for the third time in succession. "Stay thy hand, man. Methinks it is my turn to drink." "Silence!" said one who had command over them. "Can ye not moderate your voices, and speak more under breath? Your gabbling will spoil all." "Master Donald Bane hath good reason with him, gentlemen," said Archibald Dhu, in a subdued tone. "For my part, I shall be silent;" and well might he say so, seeing that at that moment he turned aside to hold long and sweet converse with the flask. "I tell ye, we must be quiet as mice," said Master Donald. "Even our half-whispers might be heard by any one stealing towards the walls, amidst the unbroken stillness of this night." The night was indeed still as the grave. Not a leaf was stirring. Even the drowsy hum of the beetle was hushed, and no sound reached their ears but the tinkling music of the tiny rill that ran through the little runnel near them, in its way towards the ravine in the bank, and the soft murmur of the stream of the Aven, coming muffled through the foliage from below; when, on a sudden, a mighty rush of wind was heard to arise from the distant top of Ben Rinnes, which terribly grew in strength as it came rapidly sweeping directly towards them. So awfully terrific was the howl of this whirlwind, that the very hairs of the heads of even the boldest of these hardy spearmen stood stiff and erect, as if they would have lifted up their iron skull-caps. Every fibre of their bodies quivered, so that the very links of their shirts of mail jingled together, and Aves and Paternosters came not only from the mouths of such brave boasters as Charley, but they were uttered right glibly by many a bold bearded lip to which, I warrant me, they had been long strangers. On came the furious blast. The sturdy oak under which they had taken shelter, beat every man of them to the ground by the mere bending of its bole and the writhing of its boughs and branches. Wild shrieks were heard in the air amid the yelling of the tempest, and a quick discharge of repeated plunges in the Aven below announced to them that some heavy materials had been thrown into it. Again, the whirlwind swept instantaneously onwards; and as it was dying away among the mountains to the north of the Spey, an unearthly laugh, loud as thunder, was heard over their heads. No sooner had this appalling peal of laughter ceased, than all was again calm and still as death. The great oak under which the discomfited men of the watch lay, heaped one on another, immediately recovered its natural position. But fear had fallen so heavily on these bruised and prostrate men-at-arms, that they dared not even to lift their bodies to the upright position; but creeping together around the root of the tree, they lay quivering and shaking with dread, their teeth chattering together in their heads like handfuls of chucky stones, till the sun arose to put some little courage into them with his cheering rays. Then it was that they discovered, to their horror and dismay, that the whole work done by the masons during the preceding day at the new building had been as completely razed and obliterated as it had ever been upon any of the previous nights. You may believe, gentlemen, that it required some courage to inform their stern master of the result of their night's watch; and with one consent they resolved that Ian Grant, the laird's henchman, should be first informed; and he was earnestly besought to be their vehicle of communication. "Psha!" cried the laird impatiently, when the news reached him. "I cannot believe a word of this, Ian. The careless caitiffs have trumped up this story as an apology for their own negligence in keeping a loose watch. I'll have every mother's babe of them hanged. A howling tempest and an elrich laugh, saidst thou? Ha! ha! ha! Well indeed might these wicked unfriends of mine, who have so outwitted these lazy rascals, laugh till their sides ached, at the continued success of their own mischief. I'll warrant it has been some of Tullochcarron's people; and if my fellows had been worth the salt that they devour at my expense, assuredly we might have had the culprits swinging on the gallows-tree by this time. So our men may e'en swing there in their stead." "If Tullochcarron's people have done these pranks, they must be bolder and cleverer men than I take them for," said Ian calmly. "But before we set these poor fellows of ours a-dancing upon nothing, with the gallows-tree for their partner, methinks we may as well take a peep into the stream of the Aven, where the wonderful clearness of the water will show a pebble at the depth of twenty feet. Certain it is that there came a strange and furious blast over these valleys last night; and there may be no harm in just looking into the Aven, to see if any of the stones of the work be lying at the bottom." "There can be no harm in that," said the laird, "so let us go there directly." They went accordingly; and to the great surprise of both master and man, they saw distinctly that the bed of the river was covered over with the new hammer-dressed stones; and yet, on examining the high banks above, and the trees and bushes that grew on them, not a trace appeared to indicate that human exertions had been employed to transport them downwards thither from the site of the new building. The laird and his attendant were filled with wonder. Yet still he was not satisfied that his conjectures had been altogether wrong. "If it has been Tullochcarron's people," said he doubtingly, "they must have enlisted the devil himself as their ally. But let them have whom they may to aid them, I am resolved I shall unravel this mystery, cost what it will. I'll watch this night in person." "I doubt it will be but a tempting of powers against which mortal man can do but little," said Ian. "But come what come may, I'll watch with thee, Ballindalloch." "Then haste thee, Ian, and set the workmen to their labour again with all their might," said the laird, "and let the masons raise the building as high as they possibly can from the ground before night; and thou and I shall see whether we shall not keep the stones from flying off through the air like a flight of swallows." The anxious laird remained all day at the work himself; and as you know, gentlemen, that the master's eye maketh the horse fat, so hath it also a strange power of giving double progress to all matters of labour that it looketh upon. The result was, that when the masons left off in the evening, the building was found to have risen higher than it had ever done before. When night came, the same watch was again set about the walls; for the laird wished for an opportunity of personally convicting the men of culpable carelessness and neglect of duty. To make all sure, he and his henchman took post on the embryo peel-tower itself. The air was still, and the sky clear and beautiful, as upon the previous night, and, armed with their lances, Ballindalloch and his man Ian walked their rounds with alert steps, throwing their eyes sharply around them in all directions, anxiously bent on detecting anything that might appear like the semblance of treachery. The earlier hours, however, passed without disturbance; and the confidence of the laird and Ian increased, just as that of the men of the guard diminished when the hour began to approach at which the entertainments of the previous night had commenced. As this hour drew near, their stolen applications to their cordial flasks became more frequent; but sup after sup went down, and so far from their courage being thereby stirred up, they seemed to be just so much the more fear-stricken every drop they swallowed. They moved about like a parcel of timid hares, with their ears pricked up ready to drink in the first note of intimation of the expected danger. A bull feeding in the broad pastures stretching between them and the base of Ben Rinnes bellowed at a distance. "Holy Mother, there it comes!" cried Charley. In an instant that hero and all the other heroes fled like roe-deer, utterly regardless of the volley of threats and imprecations which the enraged laird discharged after them like a hailstorm as they retreated, their ears being rendered deaf to them by the terror which bewildered their brains, and in the twinkling of an eye not a man of them was to be seen. "Cowards!" exclaimed the laird, after they were all gone. "To run away at the roaring of a bull! The braying of an ass would have done as much. Of such stuff, I warrant me, was that whirlwind of last night composed, of which they made out so terrible a story." "What could make the fellows so feared?" said Ian. "I have seen them stand firm in many a hard fought and bloody field. Strange that they should run at the routing of a bull." "And so the villains have left you and me alone, to meet whatever number of arms of flesh may be pleased to come against us! Well, be it so, Ian; I flinch not. I am resolved to find out this mystery, come what may of it. Ian, you have stood by me singly ere now, and I trust you will stand by me again; for I am determined that nothing mortal shall move me hence till morning dawns." "Whatever you do, Ballindalloch," replied his faithful henchman, "it shall never be said that Ian Grant abandoned his master. I will"---- "Jesu Maria! what sound is that?" exclaimed the laird, suddenly interrupting him, and starting into an attitude of awe and dread. And no marvel that he did so; for the wail of the rising whirlwind now came rushing upon them from the distant summit of Ben Rinnes. In an instant its roar was as if a tempestuous ocean had been rolling its gigantic billows over the mountain top; and on it swept so rapidly as to give them no further time for colloquy. A lurid glare of light shot across the sky from south to north. Shrieks,--fearful shrieks,--shrieks such as the mountain itself might have uttered, had it been an animated being, mingled with the blast. It was already upon them, and in one moment both master and man were whirled off through the air and over the bank, where they were tossed, one over the other, confounded and bruised, into the thickest part of a large and wide-spreading holly bush; and whilst they stuck there, jammed in among the boughs, and altogether unable to extricate themselves, they heard the huge granite stones, which had been that day employed in the work, whizzing through the air over their heads, as if they had been projected from one of those engines which that warlike people, the ancient Romans, called a balista or catapult; and ever and anon they heard them plunged into the river below, with a repetition of deep hollow sounds, resembling the discharge of great guns. The tempest swept off towards the north, as it had done on the previous night; and a laugh, that was like the laugh of a voice of thunder, seemed to them to re-echo from the distant hills, and made the very blood freeze in their veins. But what still more appalled them, this tremendous laugh was followed by a yet more tremendous voice, as if the mountain had spoken. It filled the whole of the double valley of the Aven and the Spey, and it repeated three times successively this whimsical command, "Build in the Cow-haugh!--Build in the Cow-haugh!--Build in the Cow-haugh!" and again all nature returned to its former state of stillness and of silence. "Saint Mary help me!" cried Ian from his position, high up in the holly bush, where he hung doubled up over the fork of two boughs, with his head and his heels hanging down together like an old worsted stocking. "Saint Mary help me! where am I? and where is the laird?" "Holy St. Peter!" cried the laird, from some few feet below him, "I rejoice to hear thy voice, Ian. Verily, I thought that the hurricane which these hellish--no--I mean these good people raised, had swept all mortals but myself from the face of this earth." "I praise the Virgin that thou art still to the fore, Ballindalloch," said Ian. "In what sort of plight art thou, I pray thee?" "In very sorry plight, truly," said the laird, "sorely bruised and tightly and painfully jammed into the cleft of the tree, with my nose and my toes more closely associated together than they have ever been before, since my first entrance into this weary world. Canst thou not aid me, Ian?" "Would that I could aid thee, Ballindalloch," said Ian mournfully; "but thou must e'en take the will for the deed. I am hanging here over a bough, like a piece of sheep's tripe, without an atom of fushon [4] in me, and confined, moreover, by as many cross-branches as would cage in a blackbird. I fear there is no hope for us till daylight." And in good sooth there they stuck maundering in a maze of speculation for the rest of the night. When the morning sun had again restored sufficient courage to the men of the watch, curiosity led them to return to ascertain how things stood about the site of the building which they had so precipitately abandoned. They were horrorstruck to observe, that in addition to the utter obliteration of the whole of the previous day's work, the laird himself, and his henchman Ian Grant, had disappeared. At first they most naturally supposed that they had both been swept away at once with the walls of the new building on which they stood, and that they could never hope to see them again, more than they could expect to see the stones of the walls that had been so miraculously whirled away. But piteous groans were heard arising from the bank below them; and on searching further, Ballindalloch and his man Ian were discovered and released from their painful bastile. The poor men-at-arms who had formed the watch were mightily pleased to observe that the laird's temper was most surprisingly cooled by his night's repose in the holly bush. I need not tell you that he spoke no more of hanging them. You will naturally yemagine, too, that he no longer persevered in pressing the erection of the ill-starred keep-tower on the proud spot he had chosen for it, but that he implicitly followed the dread and mysterious order he had received to "Build in the Cow-haugh!" He did, in fact, soon afterwards commence building the present Castle of Ballindalloch in that beautiful haugh which stretched between the Aven and the Spey, below their junction, which then went by the name of the Cow-haugh; and the building was allowed to proceed to its conclusion without the smallest interruption. Such is the legend I promised you, gentlemen, and however absurd it may be, I look upon it as curious; for it no doubt covers some real piece of more rational history regarding the cause of the abandonment of those old foundations, which has now degenerated into this wild but poetical fable. SOMNOSALMONIA. Clifford (asleep).--Ha! ha! ha! There he comes! What a noble fish! Didn't I tell you I would do for him? Ha! there--there now--I shall land him beautifully at last. Author.--Why, he's asleep, Grant; give him a good shake, will you. Clifford (half-awaking).--Oh! oh! oh! what are you at? Will you throw me into the water, you scoundrels? Hah! what are you at? Aw--a--a! what a magnificent salmon I had caught when you snapt my line. Eh!--hah--aw--a--aw. I believe I have been dozing. Grant.--Nay, not dozing only, but snoring; and, finally fishing in your sleep. Clifford.--Then am I a fool--aw--a--a--to stay here awake doing nothing, when I might go to bed and there so happily continue the sport which you so cruelly interrupted,--aw--a--aw, so good night to you,--I'm off. Taking up his candle, Clifford quickly disappeared, and following his example, we broke up for the night; and having agreed to devote the next day to our friend's favourite sport, we invited our new acquaintance, the schoolmaster, to dine with us again. Next day Grant and I spent five or six hours in thrashing the river without being gratified even with a single rise, whilst Clifford killed no less than three large salmon and one grilse. We expected that he would have crowed mightily over us, and we accordingly exhibited great humbleness of aspect in his presence. But he was magnanimous beyond our hopes. Clifford.--Don't be downcast, my dear friends, your fate had been mine and mine yours, had we only exchanged our fly-boxes in the morning. Your flies have been made by some Cockney for fishing in the New River. These Limerick hooks are the things; they never fail. You shall try them next time, and I'll warrant your success. Clifford picked out the best fish for our dinner, and after a liberal provision of those ingredients which are supposed to contribute to the sociality of an evening, Author (to Clifford).--Come along, Mr. Secretary, how stands your book? Clifford.--Mr. Macpherson is down two or three times over. But, for aught I know, he may have told all his tales last night while I slept. By the by, I have to apologise to him for having done so. Dominie.--Hout no, sir, I am sure I am well pleased if my tales can in any manner of way contribute to your happiness, whether it may be by exciting your interest or mirth, or by lulling you to sweet repose. I am not the first story-teller whose tales have had a soporific yeffeck. Clifford.--Can you favour us then; you will yourself recollect which of your stories comes first in the list. Dominie.--'Pon my word, sir, my memory does not serve me in that respeck. But I have another story altogether, in which the Laird of Ballindalloch was also concerned; and, as it has been brought to my mind, nay, I may say, into my vurra mouth at this moment, by the pleasing flavour of Mr. Clifford's excellent fish, on which we have all dined so heartily, I may as well give you that. Clifford.--You are a perfect mine of legendary lore, Mr. Macpherson. LEGEND OF THE LAST GRANT OF TULLOCHCARRON. In my legend of yesternight, gentlemen, I think I told you, that one of Ballindalloch's yespecial reasons for selecking the site he did for his peel tower was the commanding view which he thence enjoyed all over the lands of Tullochcarron, lying above the fork of the Aven and the Spey, and which then belonged to another family of Grants, with whom he was liable to be frequently at daggers drawn. It is of the last laird of Tullochcarron, that I am now going to tell you. In the earlier part of his life, this laird of Tullochcarron lost a younger brother, who was killed while fighting bravely by his side in a feudal skirmish with a former laird of Ballindalloch. Tullochcarron had a strong affection for this brother, and would have been inconsolable for his death, had he not left an only son behind him, called Lachlan Dhu. Tullochcarron was then unmarried, and he therefore instantly transferred all that which had been his fraternal affection to his orphan nephew. Accordingly, he set himself to nurture the boy with all the care and solicitude he could bestow, and with the full intention of making him his heir. But you are well enough aware, gentlemen, that yeddication in those days must have been a mere farce. Indeed, judging from the worthy Dame Julian Berner's Boke of St. Alban's, the which, I take it for granted, was the gentleman's vade mecum in its day, it was worse than a farce, nothing being taught there but hawking and hunting, and the mysteries thereof; as, for example, how to physic a sick falcon, and such like follies, with all the foolish vanities of coat armour, and the frivolities of fishing. Eh! I beg your pardon, Mr. Clifford! I see you are not just altogether pleased with that observe of mine. But I meant no offence,--as sure as death I did not. Where was I? Well, as the lad, Lachlan Dhu, grew up, certain indications of ane evil disposition began to manifest themselves, and these unpromising buds did so bourgeon through time, that after trying to prune away the wicked shoots that sprang from them, and finding, as is often the case, that they only sprouted forth the thicker and the stronger for the lopping, like the poisonous heads of the hydra, the good Tullochcarron found himself compelled to abandon his kind intentions towards the young man, so far as regarded the heirship. But he still continued to make his house his home, and likewise to show him all such kindness as an uncle might be expected to use towards a nephew. Being thus disappointed in his views of a successor, the worthy man set himself to the serious consideration of another plan, and having cast his eyes about him, they fell upon a fair leddy, whom he resolved, with her consent, to make his wife, and accordingly, after a reasonable courtship, they were married. No couple could have been happier than they were, and his joy was, in due time, rendered complete by the birth of a son and heir, who was called Duncan. But, alas! what is yearthly felicity? Fleeting as the wintry sunbeam on a wall. His beloved wife died soon after the birth of her infant boy, whom she left as the only remaining hope of his family. Lachlan Dhu had nearly reached manhood before his uncle's marriage, but Tullochcarron had taken especial care, from the very first, never to allow his nephew to know that he ever had any intention of leaving him the succession of his estate. There was therefore no ostensible cause for disappointment or jealousy in Lachlan. But the youth was sharp enough to have seen the position in which he had so long stood, and to have drawn his own conclusions; and certain it was, that jealousy and disappointment did follow his uncle's marriage and the birth of his cousin Duncan. But young though he might be, he was already so profound a master of the art of dissimulation, that he not only most perfectly concealed them, but he actually contrived to produce so great a seeming change for the better in his own character, that he gradually succeeded in vurra much effacing the recollection of his former errors and iniquities from the memory of his kind and forgiving uncle. Duncan Bane, as the young Tullochcarron was called from his fair complexion, was, in every respect, a contrast to Lachlan Dhu, or Black Lachlan. Tullochcarron had committed his infant boy to be nursed and fostered by a respectable lady, a distant relation of the family, who, though low in circumstances, was high in piety and virtue. To this lady the infant Duncan opportunely came to supply the place of a child she had just then lost, and as the little fellow drew his nourishment from her bosom, all the strength of a mother's attachment fell in tender sorrow upon him; and he who never knew any other mother, repaid it with corresponding affection. Tullochcarron was too conscious of the failure in his attempt at yeddication, in the instance of his nephew, to risk a repetition of it in the still more interesting case of his son. He therefore gladly left the tutoring of the boy to the care of his excellent nurse, who appears to have been as intellectually gifted as any woman of those barbarous times could have been. It is true that she must, in all probability, have been tinctured with some portion of the learning of Dame Julian. For, although nothing remains to establish that the young man had studied hawking and hunting, the legend certainly informs us, that he had a complete knowledge of, and an ardent love for,--hum--ha--I would say for that art of which it would ill become me to speak dispraisingly, seeing that we have had this evening so much reason to thank Mr. Clifford for having so ably and successfully exerceesed it. But--what was much better--under her godly care the boy's heart was filled with all the best feelings of religion and humanity. He was amiable, generous, and kind-hearted, and ever ready on all occasions to sacrifice his own little interests to those of others; and he was so utterly devoid of guile himself, that he felt it almost impossible to imagine its existence in others. It was not wonderful, therefore, that he grew up with the warmest attachment to his cousin, Lachlan Dhu, who was the very prince of deceivers, and who well knew how to put on the mask of kindness. He allowed no opportunity of gaining his young cousin's affections to pass unprofitably, and so unremitting was his attention to the young Duncan, that he even succeeded in throwing sand into the eyes of old Tullochcarron himself, who began to thank Heaven for the happy change that had taken place on his nephew, and to trust that he might yet look to him as the future protector of his son's youth and inexperience, in the very probable event of his being called from this world before his boy had grown to the years of manhood. But the old man was still a hale and hearty carle when his boy's seventeenth birthday came round. He had indeed been a marvellously stout and healthy man all his life. The only disease, indeed, with which he had ever been afflicted was an almost insatiable appetite for food, which no endeavours of his own could restrain. It was a never-ending ravenous hunger, for which the poor man was by no means morally responsible, and from the gnawing effects of which he must have died, if it had not been frequently and largely administered to. Nor did he ask for dainties, although there certainly was one species of food which he preferred to all others when he could get it in its season, and that was--salmon. Tullochcarron's complaint, as you may very naturally conceive, grew with his growth, which was immense, and increased with every additional year that he lived. But, old as he was, and enormous as he became in bulk, his great strength remained unimpaired, and he was still able to move about with wonderful activity in the superintendence of his concerns. I have already told you, that although he and Ballindalloch were not at absolute war, yet there did exist between them that ancient grudge and jealousy, left by the ill-salved, though apparently bandaged up wounds of a peace, patched together when both parties had suffered too much to continue the war. And although the then existing Ballindalloch was not the man in whose reign and under whose attack Tullochcarron's much-loved brother had fallen, yet those were times in which the son was made answerable for his father's sins. The then laird of Ballindalloch, therefore, succeeded to all that secret animosity which his father had so industriously laboured to earn. Thus, as one might say, the military precaution, as well as the civil management of Tullochcarron's little kingdom, required ane active superintendence and administration. But although he now scrupled not to employ his nephew in all duties where he thought his services might be useful to him, and although he had even begun of late to give occasional occupation to his son, yet, as they used to say in those days, he was aye upon the head of his own affairs himself, watched everything with his own eye, and gave every order of importance from his own mouth. Lachlan Dhu, then, having but little else in which to employ himself, spent most of his time in the chase, and the venison which he slew was always sure to procure him a blessing from his hungry uncle. As for Duncan Bane, his whole attention was directed to fishing, and the salmon which he caught were always sure to be more highly prized than the best buck that his cousin ever brought from the forest. In strict attention to the fack, as well as in justice to the character of the youth himself, I must tell you, that the desire of procuring savoury dishes for his father, to whom his devoted attachment was excessive, was one great reason, as well as in some measure an apology,--that is, I mean, a-a to say, Mr. Clifford, if fishing ever required any apology at all, which I must confess your excellent salmon of this day hath led me vurra much to doot; I say it was a good reason for his following out that quieter sort of sport, instead of that of the chase, which some of your wild Nimrods would look upon as by much the more active and manly. But I must likewise inform you, that there was also a secondary cause that contributed to make him prefer this occupation to all others. This cause, you will doubtless consider of inferior strength to the other; but still it is a cause which is in itself supposed by many to be very powerful in some of its effecks; the cause I mean was--love. Anna Gordon was the eldest of three orphans who were left to the care of their aunt, who was the vurra lady whom I have already introduced to you as the nurse and female preceptor of the youth Duncan Bane. Anna was but a year younger than the young laird of Tullochcarron. They had grown up together, and had loved one another like companions, until their attachment insensibly assumed a warmer character. The penury to which the Gordons and their aunt had been reduced by circumstances, had hitherto induced Duncan to keep the mutual passion that subsisted between him and Anna a secret from his father, who never ceased to talk of some splendid alliance for his son as one of his most favourite schemes. But as this love of the young man for the lady waxed stronger, his fondness for fishing was most strangely and marvellously augmented in a similar proportion. Were I to attempt to guess at the cause of this whimsical combination of two predilections apparently so inconsistent with one another, I should say, that he began daily more and more to take to fishing, because it furnished him with an apology for more frequently visiting his nurse's cottage, that was situated on a beautifully wooded knoll rising on the north bank of the river Aven. It was, moreover, an amusement which he could pursue without losing the society of her he loved. For as he loitered along the river's bank with his angle-rod in his hand, Anna Gordon was ever at his side; and I am doubting much that they wasted many a good hour in idle talk rather than in fishing. But I am no more than the simple historian of their tale, therefore it is no business of mine to defend either him or her from the charge which you will of necessity bring against both of them for such a mis-spending of their precious time. However, I'm thinking, gentlemen, that they must have had some peculiar pleasure in one another's conversation, or they never would have stolen secretly away thus by them two selves, as they were continually wont to do, even escaping from Anna's little sister and brother. The boy, poor little fellow, had been born deaf and dumb, and could have understood no other language but that of the eyes; and let me tell you, gentlemen, that learned as I am in tongues, both ancient and modern, that is one of which I must confess myself to have no knowledge, though they do say that there is much eloquence in it when it is rightly comprehended. It was not always an easy matter to jink these two children, for Duncan Bane had been so kind to both of them, especially to the poor dumb boy, that wherever he went, they ran after him like two penny doggies; and as he had too much good feeling in his composition to allow him to treat them harshly, he was often obliged to steal their sister Anna away from them when he wished to have a private saunter with her. The lovers had one day escaped from them and all the world in this manner, for Duncan was anxiously desirous to be alone with Anna, that he might learn from her why it was that her fair brow wore an unwonted cloud upon it, and why her large blue eyes seemed to have been dimmed by recent tears. He was impatient till they reached a grove by the river's side, which was their ordinary place of retreat when they wished to be free from all vulgar or prying eyes. "Anna," said the youth, the moment they had got within its shade, "something unpleasant has befallen thee; though thy face cannot be robbed of its loveliness, yet it wants to-day that smile which is wont to be the sunshine of my heart." "I must try to call it up, then," said she, with an effort to be playful that could not be mistaken. "I would not have thy heart chill if I can help it." "Nay, but I entreat thee to tell me what has vexed thee, my love!" said he tenderly. "If I cannot relieve thy distress, let me at least share it with thee!" "I would fain tell thee, Duncan," replied she, "for I would fain shut up no secrets from thee in that heart which is so entirely thine; but"---- "But what, my dearest?" cried Duncan impatiently; "do not keep me longer in suspense. There ought, indeed, to be no secrets with either of us that are not shared between us." "There never shall be any on my part," said Anna, throwing down her eyes. "And yet--and yet I have much difficulty in uttering what I would now tell thee." "Keep me on the rack no longer, my love, I beseech thee!" said Duncan. "I will take courage to tell thee, then," said she, "but thou must first give me a solemn promise." "What! of secrecy?" said Duncan. "Methinks thou mayest safely enough trust to me in that respect." "The promise I would exact of thee goes somewhat beyond that of mere secrecy," said she gravely. "Thou must promise me that thou wilt not act upon what I have to tell thee, but in such manner as prudence may permit me to sanction." "And dost thou think, my Anna," replied Duncan, "that I could ever do, or desire to do, anything that thou couldst wish me not to do?" "But promise me, solemnly promise me!" said Anna, persevering with unwonted eagerness in her demand; "do promise me, I entreat thee!" "Well, well, I do promise thee,--thus solemnly promise thee," replied Duncan, kissing the hand which he held. "And now, come! relieve my anxiety, what is this gloomy secret? This is the first time I have seen traces of tears in thine eyes since the death of the poor thrush I gave thee." "The present matter is somewhat more serious," said Anna, with a gravity and dignity of manner which he had never seen her assume before. "Your cousin, Lachlan Dhu, dared this morning to address me in odious terms, which he called love. I answered him with a scorn and a reproof which I had hardly believed my young, weak, and untaught tongue could have used to one of his manhood. But the Blessed Virgin lent me language; and he stood so abashed before me, that I trust I have reason to hope that he will not again dare to repeat his offence." "My cousin Lachlan!" exclaimed Duncan, overwhelmed with astonishment. "My cousin Lachlan, didst thou say? Did my ears hear thee aright? Impossible!" "I grieve to say it is too true," said Anna Gordon. "O villain, villain!" cried Duncan. "Most deep and consummate villain! Can so much apparent goodness be but the mask of deceit and villainy? But--I must straightway question him! I will drag him from the disguise which he wears, and--and then!" "Remember that solemn promise which you have this moment made to me," said Anna, calmly taking his hand. "You see how wise it was in me to secure it. To be the innocent cause of awakening feud between kinsmen of blood so near, would indeed be a heavy affliction to me; and were any of that blood to be spilled--were thy blood to flow--but thou must keep thy solemn engagement to me; and thou must now pledge me thy word, that never till I give thee leave to do so wilt thou, even by a look, discover to anyone what I have now told thee." "Anna," said Duncan, after some little hesitation, "I will promise you what you desire; but my promise is given on the faith of a counter-pledge, which I now expect to have from thee. Promise me, on thy part, that no such cause of offence shall be again offered to thee that thou dost not instantly tell me of it." "My present frankness should be my best pledge that I will do as thou wouldst have me," said Anna. "But the promise thou hast given me must then be held as consequently renewed." "I am content," said Duncan. "I am content to trust that you will not tie me down too rigidly." Guileless as Duncan Bane naturally was, he felt it no easy task to commence and to carry on a train of dissimulation with one with whom he had been on terms of open and unreserved intercourse of mind from his childhood, as I may say, save on the one subject of his love alone. Duncan dreaded that the very next meeting he should have with his cousin would throw him off his guard. He, therefore, proceeded forthwith to school himself as to the face and manner he should wear, and the words he should utter? and so successfully did he do so in his own judgment, that, after the first interview with his cousin was over, he congratulated himself that the deep dissatisfaction which he secretly felt had been entirely shrouded from him who had excited it. And certainly, whether it was so or not, the crafty Lachlan Dhu gave him no reason to believe that it was discovered. It was on the vurra night after this, however, that the Laird of Ballindalloch was seated in the cap-house of the great round tower of the castle he had so lately built, engaged in some confidential talk with his faithful henchman, Ian Grant, when his favourite old sleuth-hound, that lay beside his chair, raised up his long heavy ears and growled; and soon afterwards a step was heard ascending the narrow screw stair leading to the small apartment where they were. "See who is there, Ian," said the laird, in answer to a gentle tap at the door. Ian obeyed, and on opening it one of the domestics appeared to announce that a stranger, who refused to tell his name, had been brought, at his own request, to the castle guard-room, having expressed a wish to be admitted to a private conference with the laird. "A stranger demands to have an interview with me after the watch is set, and yet refuses to tell who or what he is!" cried Ballindalloch. "By Saint Peter, but this smells of treachery, methinks! Yet let him appear, we fear him not; let him appear, I say," repeated he, waving off the attendant. "Ian," continued he after the man was gone, "look that your dirk be on your thigh." "My dirk is here, sir, and sharp," readily replied the henchman, as he moved towards the door, and planted himself beside it, to be prepared to strike, if any sudden emergency should require him to do so. Again steps were heard ascending the stair, the door opened, and the doorway was filled by the bulky figure of a man, whose dark features were almost entirely hid by a blue Kelso bonnet of more than ordinary breadth, and the ample web of a large hill plaid, of the red Grant tartan, put on as Highlanders know how to do when they would fain conceal themselves, completely enveloped the whole of his figure, as well as the lower part of his face, leaving little more visible than the tip of his nose and his dark moustachios. For some moments he stood silent before Ballindalloch. "Speak!" said the laird at length. "Thy name and thine errand at this untimeous hour!" "Ballindalloch," replied the stranger, looking around him, and glancing at Ian, "thou shalt have both incontinently, but it must be in thine own particular ear alone." "Leave us then, Ian," said Ballindalloch, waving him away, whilst at the same time he stretched forth his hand to lift his claymore within easier reach of the place where he sat. "Leave us, I say, Ian! I would be private with this stranger." "Uve! uve!" said Ian under his breath; then he moved, hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, looked at the stranger as if he would have penetrated him, plaid and all, to the very soul; then he shifted his position--yet still he did not quit the chamber, but stood and threw an imploring look of remonstrance towards the laird. "Begone, Ian!" said Ballindalloch in a voice of impatience; and Ian at last vanished at the word. "Sir stranger!" said Ballindalloch, "I hope I may now ask thee to rid me of all this mystery." "I am most ready to do so, Ballindalloch," said the other, laying aside his bonnet and plaid, and showing himself, to all appearance, entirely unarmed. "Lachlan Dhu Grant of Tullochcarron?" exclaimed the laird with astonishment; "what stirring errand has moved thee hither at such an hour?" "I come to thee but on peaceful private conference," replied Lachlan Dhu, with a respectful obeisance: "and I use this secrecy because it is for the interest of both of us, that what I have to treat of should reach no other ears but our own." "Proceed," said Ballindalloch, "thou mayest speak safely here, for in this place we are beyond all earshot." "I need not tell thee, Ballindalloch," continued Lachlan Dhu, "I need not tell thee, I say, that which is sufficiently notour to all, that mine uncle, old Tullochcarron's patrimony, would have been mine as a fair succession, had he not married on purpose to disappoint me." "I know this much," said Ballindalloch, not altogether dissatisfied to see something like discontent in what he naturally held to be the enemy's camp. "Perhaps thou hast had but scrimp justice in this matter." "Justice!" exclaimed Lachlan Dhu, catching eagerly at his words. "Justice! I have been deeply wronged. Bred up and cockered by the old man for a time as his successor, as if it had been with the very intent of throwing me the more cruelly off, and rendering the blasting of my hopes the more bitter, from the very fairness of those blossoms which his pretended warmth of affection had fostered!" "'Twas not well done in the old man," said Ballindalloch; "but now, methinks, 'tis past all cure." "Nay," said Lachlan Dhu sternly, "I hope there is yet ample room for remede." "As how, I pr'ythee?" said Ballindalloch. "Mark me, and thou shalt quickly learn," said Lachlan Dhu. "But first of all I must tell thee, that I now come to offer myself to thee as thy vassal on this simple condition, that thou wilt give me thine aid and countenance against all questioners to help me to keep what shall be mine own after I shall have fairly won it." "And how dost thou propose to win it?" demanded Ballindalloch, with a grave and serious air that seemed to argue a most attentive consideration of a proposal in itself so inviting to him. "By secretly ridding myself of mine uncle's sickly stripling boy, whenever favouring fortune may yield me fitting opportunity," replied Lachlan Dhu, approaching his head nearer to Ballindalloch, and sinking his voice to a low sepulchral tone, and with a coolness that might have befitted a practised murderer. "What!" exclaimed Ballindalloch, with an air of surprise. "What hath the youth done to deserve so much of thy hatred?" "Twice hath he crossed my path," continued Lachlan Dhu, his features blackening, and his dark eyeballs rolling as he spoke. "He hath twice crossed my path; first when he came into this world, and now a second time by thwarting me in my love." "And what have I to do with all this?" demanded Ballindalloch. "Much," replied Lachlan Dhu earnestly. "I am now thy sworn vassal. The feudal superiority of Tullochcarron will henceforth insure to thee friendship and strength, where thou hast long had to deal with open or secret foes, and"---- "Thou speakest as if thou wert already Laird of Tullochcarron," said Ballindalloch, interrupting him. "That young foulmart once disposed of, I soon shall be," said Lachlan Dhu, with fiend-like expression. "Mine uncle's time cannot now be long, even were nature left to take its course; or,--it may be shortened. Sudden death to a man of his gross form and purfled habit could never seem strange; and then"---- "True," said Ballindalloch calmly; "but how can I aid thee in thy scheme?" "I lack no present aid while I have this arm," replied Lachlan Dhu; "it is the support and defence of thy faithful vassal, Lachlan Dhu Grant, Laird of Tullochcarron, that I require of thee, if unhappily some unlucky circumstance should awaken idle suspicions against him." "I trust I shall always know how to defend my vassals," said Ballindalloch proudly. "Then am I safe," said Lachlan Dhu; "but in the meanwhile secrecy is essential to our purpose." "I hope I have prudence enough to know how to conduct myself in all cases of delicacy," replied Ballindalloch. "'Tis well," said Lachlan Dhu, again folding his plaid around him, and putting on his bonnet. "Now I must begone; for time presses. Farewell! I shall trust to thee, and thou mayest trust to me." "I shall not forget what is due to thee, when thou art my vassal," said the laird, "nor shall I ever forget what ought at all times to be expected from Ballindalloch. Here, Ian Dhu, see this stranger safe beyond the walls and outposts." The night I speak of seemed to be quite pregnant with strange visitations; for, at a still later hour, after old Tullochcarron had himself seen that the guard at the barbican of his small place of strength was on the alert, and had secured the iron doors of the entrance of the peel-tower, and had finally retired to his apartment to go to rest, he was surprised to see a packet lying on his table, of which no one of his attendants could give him any account. It was tied with a morsel of ribbon, the ends of which were secured with wax, but without any impression. It was simply addressed:-- "To Tullochcarron." And on cutting it open, he found that it contained the following letter, with a broad seal at the end of it. "Tullochcarron,--I write this private communication, to tell thee that thou hast a traitor in thy house, that thou dost nourish a viper in thy bosom that would sting thee. The life of thine only son is certain to be taken, if thou dost not secure it by the instant seizure of thy nephew, Lachlan Dhu. Thine own murder will speedily follow. The cold-blooded villain came to me secretly under the cloud of this night, and did unfold his devilish plans, offering to me the feudal superiority of thy lands of Tullochcarron, provided I should protect him as my vassal against all after question. I seemed to listen, and yet I evited direct promise; and I now hasten to certiorate thee of these facts through ane trusty messenger, who engages, by certain means best known to himself, to have these placed upon thine own private table before thou sleepest. This traitorie is as yet alone known to thee, to me, to the foul faitour who planned, and to the devil who prompted it. And that thou mayest have no doubt left in thee of the truth of what I have here written, I do hereto affix my sign-manual, as well as the seal, the which is attached to the last instrument of pacification that passed between our houses.--Ballindalloch." You may conceive, gentlemen, that this letter, read alone, at midnight in his chamber, dreadfully alarmed old Tullochcarron. He started from the large oaken chair in which he had seated himself to peruse it, and snatching his lamp, he rushed to his son's apartment, where he held up the light, and gazed with fear and trembling on his son's couch, almost expecting to see his boy foully murdered, and weltering in his blood. Stretched on his bed, he did indeed find him; but his eyes were closed in the sweet slumbers that attend the pillow of pure and spotless youth. He gazed on him in silent anxiety for some time, till he was really certain that he breathed; and then the old man's lip quivered, and his eyes were dimmed by the big drops that rapidly distilled over his eyelids. Stooping gently down, he kissed Duncan's cheek, and then quitting the room upon tiptoe, he called up an old and tried domestic. "Hamish," said he, "I had a strange and troubled dream, as I dozed in mine arm-chair." "Thou didst sup somewhat of the heaviest, Tullochcarron," replied Hamish. "After so many pounds' weight of salmon, 'tis but little wonder if the foul hag on her nightmare should have been riding over and over thee." "Psha!" said Tullochcarron in a vexed tone and manner that showed he was too seriously affected to be trifled with. "My dream touched the safety of thy young master. Hark ye! I bid thee watch his couch, and let no one approach it with impunity." "My young master!" said Hamish with energy. "These grey hairs shall be trodden under foot ere the latch of his door shall be touched." "I know thy fidelity," said Tullochcarron. "Be sure thou givest me the alarm if aught extraordinary should occur." Having taken this hasty precaution, the old Laird of Tullochcarron again seated himself in his arm-chair to read over for the second time the alarming communication he had received. Ballindalloch's name and seal were the first things his eyes rested on after opening it. Doubts and suspicions instantly flashed across his mind. "What a silly fool am I after all," said he, "to let any information from such a quarter so agitate me! What truth is to be expected from a house so full of hereditary enmity against mine of Tullochcarron! And is not Lachlan Dhu the son of that very brother of mine who worked so much sore evil to the house of Ballindalloch? And is he not at this moment the best, the stoutest, and the sharpest arrow I have in my quiver? And are not these reasons enough to prompt such a secret enemy to urge me to whet my knife against him? Dull old idiot that I was! but now I see it all! I see it all! What a trap was I about to run my head into! But stay, let me think what is best to be done. Prudent precautions with regard to my son can do no harm. I shall put him well on his guard; and that secured, the best thing I can do is to bury the contents of this paper in mine own bosom." With such determinations as these, Tullochcarron retired to rest; but his repose was disturbed and put to flight by visions which were not altogether to be laid to the account of the heavy meal he had taken ere he retired to rest. He was early visited by his son Duncan. "Father," said the young man, "how was it that old Hamish took post in my chamber last night? I found him sitting by my bedside at daybreak this morning, and all the explanation I could extract from him was that he had the laird's orders for being there." "He had my orders my dear boy," said Tullochcarron, pressing his son to his bosom, and kissing his forehead. "A strange dream had come over me, that alarmed my foolish old heart about thy safety." "A dream about me!" said the young man smiling. "What harm couldst thou dread for me, father?" "I dreamed that thy life was threatened, boy," said his father; "and therefore it was that I made Hamish watch thee." "My life in danger, father!" exclaimed Duncan, "and from whose hand?" "From the hand of thy cousin Lachlan Dhu," replied his father. "Hast thou any cause to dread that my dream might have aught of reality in it?" "My cousin Lachlan Dhu!" exclaimed Duncan, with unfeigned surprise. "Nay," continued he, after some little hesitation, during which he remembered the promise he had given to Anna Gordon; "why should I think that Lachlan should wish to injure me?" "Why should we think it, indeed?" exclaimed the old man, with considerable emotion. "Both I and mine should look for anything but hostility from Lachlan Dhu, if there be any faith or gratitude left in man. Let us then think no more about it." "Trust me, I shall think no more of it," said Duncan. "Aye!" said the old man again; "but yet I'd have thee to be cautious. I would entreat thee to guard thyself as if there were danger. Thou hast a dirk and a hand to use it, boy! Thou hast a claymore and an arm that can wield it; and though thou art as yet but a stripling, still thou art the son of old Tullochcarron! But let faithful Hamish be thy constant henchman, and then my heart will be at ease." "I will defend mine own head as a true Tullochcarron should do, if dirk or steel can do it," said the youth energetically, and by no means relishing the idea of his motions being watched, and his person eternally haunted by an attendant. "But I have nothing to fear, and Hamish might be better employed than in following me in all my idle wanderings." Duncan thought with himself that he had perhaps better grounds for entertaining some suspicion of evil intentions against him on the part of his kinsman, than any which a dream could have afforded to his father; and yet we must not wonder, gentlemen, that, in such superstitious times, old Tullochcarron's alleged vision had also its own effect upon the young man, when taken in combination with that strange new light that had recently opened on his cousin's character. The gallant youth was above all fear, however; but he had prudence enough to resolve to expose himself to no unnecessary danger. As to old Hamish, Duncan thought it better to gratify his father by allowing that faithful servant to be his companion at all times, save and except only when he went to meet her, of his attachment to whom he still thought it wise to keep Tullochcarron ignorant. Then, indeed, the god of love inspired him with so much ingenuity in escaping from his attendant, that he baffled every attempt at discovery. It was upon one of these occasions, when he had an especial wish to have an hour or two of private talk with Anna Gordon, that he, in the first place, contrived to escape from old Hamish, and afterwards to steal her from her dumb brother and little sister. Away tripped the pair together laughing, and rejoicing in their own cleverness. Duncan had his angle-rod in his hand, but he wandered with Anna through the groves, by the margin of the Aven, without ever thinking of casting a line into its waters. The subject of their conversation was one of peculiar interest to both of them, for Duncan had sought this interview for the purpose of informing her that, from certain circumstances which had recently occurred, he was led to believe that their secret attachment might now be safely divulged to the old laird his father, in the hope that he might be brought to consent to the speedy solemnisation of their marriage. The time they spent together was by no means short, though to them it appeared as trifling. At length they found out that it was time to part, and a more than usually lingering parting took place between them on the top of that vurra high and precipitous crag, where now rests the northern extremity of the noble bridge that spans the river Aven above Ballindalloch. When they did at last sever from each other, Anna took her way homeward by a footpath leading up the river through the thick oak copsewood that covered the ground behind it, and clustered to the very brink of the precipice where she left Duncan. The young man stood entranced with his own happy thoughts for a moment after Anna had disappeared, and then bethinking him that he must hasten to make the best use of the time that now remained, if he would not return empty-handed to his father, he stood on the verge of the cliff, eyeing the stream below, and thoroughly occupied in preparing his tackle with all manner of expedition, previous to descending by a circuitous way to the water's edge to commence his sport. He was alone, as you may think, gentlemen; but there was an evil eye that watched him with the tiger's lurid and unvarying gaze, aye, with such a gaze as the tiger's fiery orbs assume when he has slowly and silently tracked his unconscious prey through all the mazes of the jungle, till he at last beholds it within his reach. As the head of the traitor Lachlan Dhu appeared from the thicket within three paces of the spot where young Tullochcarron stood, a fiendish smile of eager triumph gave a hellish expression to its features. It was but one desperate spring. One piercing shriek was uttered by the unhappy Duncan Bane, and in one instant his lifeless corse was floating, shattered and bleeding, on the crystal stream of the Aven. That scream was heard by Anna Gordon, and from the moment it entered into her ears, it never left her mind. As it reached her, she happened to be passing round a turn of the river some little way above, whence the fatal crag was still visible. "Merciful saints!" she cried, as she turned quickly round, "that was my Duncan's voice!" She caught one instantaneous glimpse of the figure of Lachlan Dhu, as he fled from the summit of the crag. A dreadful suspicion shot across her mind. Winged by her agonising terrors, she flew back to the spot where she had parted with Duncan. There she met the poor dumb boy, her brother, pulling his little sister along by the arm. No sooner did he behold Anna, than with a wild animation of countenance, and with gesture so expressive, that no one but a creature deprived of the power of language could have employed, he imitated the action of one person pushing another over the face of the cliff, and then he ran down the path that followed the course of the stream. Anna rushed franticly after him; and when she had reached the margin of the Aven, her eyes rested on the lifeless corse of her beloved, which had been carried by the eddying current into a little quiet nook, where it lay half-stranded on a grassy bank. It happened that old Hamish, who as usual had been anxiously seeking his young master, came a few moments afterwards accidentally to the same spot; and what a spectacle did he behold! Seated on the bank by the water's edge was the wretched Anna Gordon, with her lover's mangled and bleeding head upon her knee. Her eyes were fixed upon its livid and gory features, as if they had been gazing on vacancy. Not a tear flowed, not a groan nor a sigh was uttered. A monumental group could not have been more motionless or silent. Hamish was distracted. He tried to make her speak; for altogether ignorant of the powerful cause of interest which operated upon her, he viewed her but as an idle spectator, an indifferent person, from whom he anxiously desired to extract something that might enable him to guess as to how this dreadful calamity had occurred. His questions were rapid, urgent, and incessant; but still she minded him not, until he bent forward as if to attempt to lift the body from her knee. Then it was, that turning round with all the frenzied dignity of fixed insanity, she fastened the severe gaze of her unsettled eyes upon him, and spoke in a tone that froze his very heart. "Begone, old man!" said she, "begone. What! wouldst thou rob me of my love on our bridal day? He is mine! he is mine! But hush," said she, suddenly lowering her voice and changing her expression, "hush! he sleeps! He slumbers sweetly now. But he will awake anon with smiles, and then our bridal revels will begin. Go, go, old man! go, bid the guests! Bid all!--bid all, I tell thee!--bid all, but--but--the murderer!" A shrill shriek, graduating into a violent hysterical laugh, followed these wild wandering words; and a convulsion shook her delicate frame till she fainted away, as if life itself had fled from her. I must leave this heart-rending scene, gentlemen, to tell you what soon afterwards took place in the old peel-tower of Tullochcarron. "What!" exclaimed the laird, as he was in the act of sitting down to one of those many meals which the craving of his naturally enormous appetite rendered so essentially necessary for him. "What!" said he, "still no salmon? Hath Duncan not yet returned, then? Why, methinks the boy must have tyned his luck altogether. But I trow that the fish have lost the way into our waters, they are so rare to be seen. Ha! who comes there with haste so impatient? Is it thou, Lachlan Dhu?" "Alas, uncle!" cried the murderer, rushing in without his bonnet, and with a frantic air, "alas, uncle! alas! alas! Duncan! Duncan!" "What--what of Duncan?" exclaimed the anxious and alarmed father, starting from the table. "Duncan," cried the traitor, "my poor cousin Duncan is no more?" "What! Duncan? Villain! accursed villain! you lie," cried the old man half-distracted, and grappling his nephew by the throat with his powerful gripe. "You lie, most accursed villain!" "Alas! alas! I wish I did!" said Lachlan Dhu, with feigned sorrow. "But I grieve to say that what I tell is, alas, too true. I was walking accidentally by the banks of the Aven, about a bowshot above the high craig, when, on looking towards it, I beheld him standing carelessly on the very brink of the cliff; and whether it was that his foot had tripped upon some of those roots that scramble for a sustenance over the surface of the rock, or whether some sudden gust of wind had caught him, I know not; but I saw him fall headlong thence; and after being dashed horribly against the projecting points below, I could perceive his inanimate body borne off by the stream. Wild with despair, and scarcely knowing what I was doing, I ran directly home hither to tell thee the doleful news; and"---- "Villain!" shouted the old man in a voice like thunder. "Villain! thou art his murderer. Seize him, and drag him hence to the dungeon. He hath reft me of my boy! my only hope on earth! the solace of my old age! O fool! fool! Why did I not take the well-meant warning? Oh! I am now indeed bereft! But his murderer must die ere the sun goes down. Where is Hamish? He at least should have been at my poor Duncan's side!" At that moment Hamish himself entered. He whose hypocritical acting I have just described, had taken so long to prepare it for exhibition that this old and faithful attendant had had full time to procure help to carry his young master's remains, and had now come on before the body, with the well-meant intention of breaking the afflicting intelligence as easily as he could to the bereaved father. He had been relieved of the task, as I have already told you; and the sad news had spread so, that all the vassals and dependants within reach had crowded to meet the body of their beloved Duncan Bane. The woeful wail of the pipes was heard at a distance. The old laird became dreadfully agitated. The sound drew nearer. Tullochcarron bit his nether lip, clenched his hands, and wound himself up to go through with the trying scene as he felt that Tullochcarron should do. He put on his bonnet with energy, wrapped his plaid tight around him, and descended with a resolute step into the court-yard. The clang of the pipes became louder; and yet a louder crash of their rude music burst forth, as they passed inwards from beneath the arched gateway. The old man strode two or three steps forcibly forwards, with his eyes fixed upon the spot where the rush of human figures came squeezing in. At length his sight fell on the bloody corse of his murdered son, his only earthly hope; and he became rooted to the ground he stood on. And now a light airy figure appeared tripping fantastically beside the bier with her hair fancifully wreathed up with worthless weeds. She came dancing towards the old laird with gay smiles upon her face, and threw herself upon her knee before him. "Thy blessing, father! thy blessing!" said she, "we come to crave thy blessing, father! and now," continued she, starting up, "let the feast be prepared!--and the dance!--for Duncan, thine own dear Duncan, has made me his bride, and I am the happiest maiden in all Scotland! See, see! look here, how gaily my head is garlanded! Indeed, indeed, as all the neighbours were wont to say, we were made for each other. And now I am Duncan's bride! Aye, gentlefolks!" added she, curtseying gracefully around, and then hiding her blushing face in her hands for a moment, "and I shall soon be my Duncan's lady! So, as the fair maid sings in the old ballad,-- 'Oh! I shall henceforth be, my love, As happy as a queen, For such a youth as thee, my love, Was never, never seen--never! no, never!' Father! father! thou art my father now as well as Duncan's--hath not Duncan told thee all, father? Methinks it was but to-day that we agreed to break the secret of our love to thee; and Duncan, thine own Duncan Bane, was to tell thee all! and thou wert to give us thy blessing; and we were to be wedded--aye, wedded as man and wife, never again to sunder--but my brain so burns with joy, and my foolish heart beats so, that--but no matter--ha!--I forget--I must go bid the guests!--I must away--I must go bid the bridal guests, they will take it all the kinder that I bid them myself. Hush, then!" added she, sinking her voice, and approaching the bier upon tiptoe, and gently stooping to kiss the cold lips of the corse. "Hush, then, Duncan, my love, rest thee in sweet slumber till I return. All good be with ye, good gentlefolks. Mark me, I bid ye all to our bridal; but I have other guests to bid--I must away!--I have many guests to bid--away, away!" and so she hurried forth from the gateway, singing as she went,-- "And when that we shall wedded be, All by the holy priest, Full many a knight and lady bright Shall grace our bridal feast." The true interpretation of the cause of Anna's frenzy came palpably to the mind of the old laird of Tullochcarron. Whatever he might have thought of the attachment of the lovers under other circumstances, he now felt that the discovery of it had only come like a gleam of sunshine to enhance the brightness of those earthly prospects which were henceforth darkened for ever. Yet still with iron nerve he strung himself firmly up to bear it all. He gave one piteous glance of despair towards the bier where lay the dead body of his son, his only child, and then he suffered himself to be led passively up into the hall of the peel-tower, whither the corpse was immediately carried and laid out. Then it was that human courage could no longer support him,--it yielded, and he gave way to all a father's grief. For a time he indulged fully in this; and then, drying up his tears, he summoned his vassals, ordered in the prisoner Lachlan Dhu, and instantly proceeded to hold a court upon him. The murderer would have fain denied his guilt, but little evidence was necessary to convict in those days. In this case there was enough to convince all present. An assize was set upon him--Ballindalloch's letter was produced and read: at once his bold and resolute air of innocence was shaken. The prisoner's own statement as to the point where he stood when he had witnessed the alleged accident, was proved to be false by old Hamish, who chanced to see him whilst running along a path which led, not from that point, but directly from the brow of the cliff whence Duncan Bane had met his death. The dumb boy described and pointed out, with most intelligent action, how and by whom the murder was perpetrated; and his little sister distinctly told, that she and her brother had seen Lachlan Dhu push Duncan Bane over the crag. Finally, the sheet was removed from the body of Duncan, and then, they say, the wounds began to well forth afresh; and the agitation of the murderer was so great, that he called for a priest, confessed all, was shortly shriven; and as the sun of that day which had witnessed his crime was preparing to disappear behind the western mountains, its slanting rays were throwing a horrible splendour over his powerful but now exanimate frame, as it swung to and fro in the evening breeze from the fatal tree on the gallow hill. The afflicted Anna Gordon wandered wildly about with maniac energy during all that day, no one knew where. At last, her friends, who went in search of her, found her on the mountain, and led her gently homewards. It happened that the path they took passed by the gallow hill. At some distance off she descried the figure of him who had so recently paid the penalty of his crime. "Yonder is a guest! I will bid yonder guest!" cried poor Anna, with a frantic laugh, as she broke from her friends, and hurried towards the spot where it hung, ere anyone could arrest her. She stood for some moments with her eyes steadily fixed upon the ghastly visage, and then bursting out in a sudden fit of frenzy, "I heard my Duncan's cry!" she shrieked aloud, in a voice that pierced the ears and the hearts of all who heard her. "'Twas his last joyous cry to call me to our bridal! quick! quick!--let us away!--hark!--hark!--again!--again!--again!" She rushed rapidly forwards a few steps, as if she had been flying to meet her lover. She tottered, and fell in a swoon, was borne home by her friends in a state of stupor, and placed in bed. But it would seem that some internal and vital failure had taken place, for the poor thing ceased to breathe; and the gentle spirit of Anna Gordon fled to unite itself with that of him she loved. Nor were their earthly remains sundered, for the father of Duncan Bane saw them consigned together to the same grave, and he wept over them both. The old laird of Tullochcarron was but little seen beyond the court-yard of his peel-tower for many weeks after his son's murder; then, indeed, he did come abroad, as if to superintend his affairs as he was wont to do, but it was more because he thought that it was right for him so to do, than from any relish he had in the employment. It was this conviction of what was expected of him, that likewise made him force a false smile of cheerfulness over his good-humoured countenance, which, alas! was with him but as the sunshine that gilded the sepulchre of inextinguishable mourning within. One of the first visits that he paid was to the castle of his ancient feudal enemy, Ballindalloch. He was kindly received, for his severe recent affliction was sincerely pitied by his generous neighbour. "Ballindalloch," said he, "I am come to thank thee for the friendly caution which thou gavest to a foolish old man, who, if he had taken it as it was meant, would have had his roof-tree still fresh and firm. But let that pass," continued he, with a sigh, and with the full tear rising over his eyelid. "The obligation I owe to thee is not the less, that I, blinded man, refused to give more heed to thy caution." "Talk not of this, sir," said Ballindalloch. "I must e'en confess to thee, Tullochcarron, that the advice came from so questionable a quarter, that had I been in thy case I might have spurned it myself. But say, sir, wilt thou not eat and drink with me?" "Willingly," replied Tullochcarron. "Wilt thou name aught that might, perchance, be most pleasing to thy taste?" said Ballindalloch. "I know I need not ask for salmon," said Tullochcarron, "for such food is hardly now to be had." "Though the fish have been somewhat rare with us of late," said Ballindalloch, "I think I can promise thee that thou shalt have as much of thy favourite dish as shall satisfy thee." "Alas!" said Tullochcarron with a faltering voice, and with a tear rolling down his cheek, "salmon have, indeed, been rare with me since--since--but," added he, making a strong effort to overcome the feelings excited by the recollection of his son, and perhaps with the hope of hiding his agitation under a good-humoured jest, "I hear that the salmon are so bewitched, that they hardly ever come farther inland now than the Bog of Gight. In so great a scarcity, then, I much doubt whether the stock of fresh fish within the Castle of Ballindalloch will stand against my well-known voracity." "Be assured that there is as much in the house, of mine own catching, too, as will extinguish thine appetite, and leave something to spare," said Ballindalloch. "Thou knowest not what a cormorant I am," said Tullochcarron. "I have heard much of thy powers," said Ballindalloch. "And I am as sharp set at this moment as ever I was in my life," said Tullochcarron. "All that may be; yet I fear thee not," said Ballindalloch laughing. "Art thou bold enough to lay a wager on the issue?" demanded Tullochcarron. "I am so bold," said Ballindalloch. "Well, then," said Tullochcarron, "I will wager thee the succession and heirship of my lands against thy grey gelding, that I shall not leave thee a morsel to spare." "Thou dost give me brave odds, indeed," said Ballindalloch; "thou hadst best bethink thee again ere we strike thumbs on it." "Nay, I require no more thought," said Tullochcarron; "and, moreover, I grow hungrier every moment. Besides," said the old man with a sigh, that showed that all this jocularity was only assumed to cover a broken heart; "I am putting in peril that in which I can have no interest, whilst, if I win thy gallant grey, I shall be sure of being well mounted for the rest of my life. Art thou afraid of losing thy steed? or wilt thou say done to the wager?" "I do say done, then, since thou wilt have it so," said Ballindalloch, and he accordingly gave the necessary orders for having the matter put to the proof. After a little time, a serving man entered with a covered trencher, in which lay, smoking hot, one half of a small salmon. When Tullochcarron lifted the cover, he eyed it with something like contempt, and impelled as he was by his irresistible disease, he fell upon it, and devoured it with an alacrity that astonished every beholder. A whole salmon, but of moderate size, was then brought in, and was instantly attacked by Tullochcarron with as much avidity as if he had not eaten a morsel. Wonderfully and fearfully did he go on to clear his way through it; but as he approached the conclusion of it, his jaws began to go rather more languidly than before. Ballindalloch observed this. "Ho there! bring more salmon!" cried he aloud. "No," said Tullochcarron, shoving the trencher from him, and wiping his knife and fork in his napkin, and sticking them into his dirk sheath. "No, no; I have enough. Ballindalloch, my lands shall be yours the moment the breath is out of my body." "Nay, then," said Ballindalloch, "I must in truth and honesty confess that I called for more salmon but as a bravado; for thou hast indeed finished all the salmon that was in the house, and it is my grey gelding that is thine, not thy lands that are mine." "It matters not, Ballindalloch," replied the other. "The lands of Tullochcarron are thine notwithstanding. See, there are the writings which I had made out the week after my poor Duncan was so foully murdered. Thou wilt find that thy name was then inserted therein. I but seized on this of the wager as a whimsical means of breaking the matter to thee; and now thou mayest make of Tullochcarron what it may please thee. I shall not stand long in the way, poor decayed sproutless stock as I am! and I have now known enough of thee to be convinced that thou wilt not see me kicked over before my time; but that thou wilt take care of me during the brief space that I may yet cumber this earth, and see me laid decently beside Duncan when I die." Such then, gentlemen, was the way in which the lands of Tullochcarron came to be united to those of Ballindalloch,--ane union, the which I am told, did vurra much impruv the value of both, and which still subsists to the present day. ANTIQUARIAN DISCUSSION. Clifford.--Why, this is the best story I have heard for many a day, for it has both salmon and salmon fishing in it. Author.--The secret is out now about the fairies and the peel-tower, and, for my own part, I shall never in future doubt the prévoyance and judgment of these good people. Aware, as they must have been, that fate had decreed the lands of Tullochcarron to be merged in those of Ballindalloch, and seeing that this coming event would render the commanding site of Ballindalloch's proposed peel-tower utterly valueless, as he would no longer have any enemy's territory to overlook, their regard for his interest induced them to drive him out of his fancy, and to compel him to descend into the delightful repose and shelter of the beautiful haugh below. Dominie.--'Pon my word, sir, there is much reason in that observe of yours. That is, always premeesing that the story I told had been a tale of reasonable and probable fack. Author.--But as you yourself remarked at the conclusion of it, Mr. Macpherson, the wild faery tale connected with the ancient foundations of the peel-tower may have some matter of truth wrapped up in it; and why may we not suppose then, that Ballindalloch, having commenced some small exploratory building there, had afterwards discontinued it when the prospect of his succession to the lands of Tullochcarron opened to him. Dominie.--Troth, I'm thinking you have guessed it sir,--that wull just be it. Grant.--The conjecture is at least as good as those of most antiquaries. Clifford.--It would certainly seem to have some foundation in the old site. Author.--If that was meant as a pun, Mr. Secretary, I think you should be immediately condemned to tell us a long story, in expiation of so grave an offence. Clifford.--The first time, certainly, that I ever heard a pun called a grave offence; but, to bury all further controversy, I will tell you a legend which I learned when I was on a visit to some of my relations in Ross-shire; and since you think that my offence is so very heavy, I shall impose on myself a long penance, of which I pray the gods that you, my good auditors, may not suffer any share. LEGEND OF CHIRSTY ROSS. About the middle of last century, there resided in the burgh of Tain, on the eastern coast of Ross-shire, a poor shopkeeper of the name of Ross. The contents of that strange and multifarious emporium, which he called his shop, might have been well advertised by a handbill, like that which I once met with in Ireland, where, in the long list of miscellaneous articles enumerated, I remember to have seen "tar, butter, hog's-lard, brimstone, and other sweetmeats--brushes, scythe-stones, mouse-traps, and other musical instruments." You may easily imagine, that the profits arising from the sale of such trumpery wares as these, were barely sufficient to provide the necessaries of life for his numerous family, and to bestow on his children the common education which Scotland, very much to her credit, so readily and cheaply affords. Although Mr. Ross's enjoyments were not numerous, yet, by endeavouring to have as few wants as possible, he managed to live contentedly and happily enough, and he cheerfully struggled on drudging at his daily occupation, thanking God for the mercies which were bestowed on him, and looking forward with hope to the prospect of better days yet in store. A circumstance occurred one afternoon, which led him to imagine that this prospect was nearer realisation than he could have believed it to be. A stranger, of a spare form and extremely atrabilious complexion, was seen to ride into the town at a gentle pace, and to go directly up to the principal house of entertainment for travellers, as if the way to it had been familiar to him. He had not been long housed there, when a waiter came across the street to Mr. Ross, with compliments "from the gentleman at the inn," who requested a few minutes' conversation with him. The eager shopkeeper, anticipating some important sale of his goods, waited not to doff his apron and sleeves, but hurried over the way directly, and, what was his astonishment and delight, when, after a few words of inquiry and explanation had passed between them, he found himself weeping tears of joy in the arms of an affectionate elder brother. This man had left his father's house when very young, with little else but hope for his portion, and after being so lost sight of by his relations, that they had long believed him to be dead, he now most unexpectedly returned to them from India with an ample fortune. Wonderful were the visions of wealth which now arose in the mind of the poor shopkeeper, and, on his warm invitation, his brother, and his brother's saddle-bags, were quickly transferred from the inn to his small and inconvenient house, and the Indian was speedily subjected to the danger of being smothered in the embraces of his sister-in-law and her numerous progeny. Narrow as was his apartment, and small as was his bed, the nabob felt himself in elysium in his brother's house. He had never before experienced the genial effects of the warmth of kindred blood. He was idolised by every one of the family, and imminent was the risk he ran of being killed with kindness. Nor was he the great object of attention to his immediate relations alone. He soon became the oracle of a large circle of kind friends and neighbours, who were seen crowding Mr. Ross's small back parlour, which many of them had never before condescended to enter. And not only was the Indian feasted by small and great, but his humble brother and his sister-in-law were also invited to parties by people who had hardly before been aware of the fact that such an individual as Mr. Ross, the grocer and hardwareman, existed in the place. But now Mr. Ross was not only discovered, as it were, but he was discovered to be a very sensible man, having much of his brother, the nabob's sound intellect, though wanting the advantages of cultivation. As to the nabob, he was a rara avis in terris,--an absolute phoenix, a creature a specimen of which is not to be met with in every age of the world. What the nabob uttered was considered as law; and even when he was absent, "the nabob said this," and "the nabob said that," and "that's the way the nabob likes it," were expressions continually employed by the good people of the town and neighbourhood to put an end to a debate; and they never failed to be quite conclusive upon every question. All this had a certain charm for the old Indian. It was extremely pleasant thus despotically to rule over men's opinions, aye, and over women's too, even in such a place as Tain. But the copper of the gilded crown and sceptre of his dominion soon began to appear through its thin coating. His own origin had indeed been humble, but as his wealth had grown by degrees, so had he been gradually elevated above his original sphere, till he had at last risen into familiar intercourse with people of rank and consequence, from whose society his address, and still more, his ideas had received a certain degree of polish. This did not prevent him from greatly enjoying the plain, honest, warm, but very vulgar manners of his brother and his townsmen, whilst they were as yet new to him. They pleased him at first, precisely on the same principle of novelty, combined with old association, which made him relish for a certain time sheep's-head broth and haggis. But having unfortunately expressed himself rather strongly in his admiration of these dishes, the good folks thought themselves bound to give them to him upon all occasions, so that they soon began to lose their charm; and just so it was that the uninterrupted converse with the good, yet homely people around him, to which he was daily subjected, very soon became dull, tiresome, ennuyant, and, finally, disgusting, until it eventually grew to be so very intolerable that he altogether abandoned the thought he had entertained of purchasing an estate in that neighbourhood which was then for sale, and he quickly came to the determination of bringing this visit to his native town to a speedy conclusion, and of returning to London to take up his abode there among people who like himself had known what it was to live on curries and mulligatawny, and who could talk with him of tiffins and tiger hunting. How shall I describe that wet blanket of disappointment that fell upon the shoulders of Mr. Ross, the grocer and hardwareman, and his family, when the nabob communicated to them this change in his plans. All the poor shopkeeper's splendid visions departed from him with the same suddenness with which the figures from a magic lantern disappear from a wall the moment its light is extinguished. He had already set it down in his own mind as a thing absolutely certain, that his beloved brother would live and die in his house; and he and his wife had been calculating, that as every child they had would be as a child to its bachelor uncle, every child of them would be better provided for than another. Ten thousand cobwebby castles had been erected in the air by this worthy couple, who had already made lairds of all the boys, and lairds' ladies at least of all the girls. "Out of sight out of mind" was a proverb that came with chilling truth to their hearts; and although the nabob had already shown much affection to them, and had behaved generously enough in giving liberal aid towards the improvement of his brother's condition and that of his family, yet they could not help considering his threatened separation from them as the removal of the sunshine of fortune from the hemisphere of their fate. Never was the anticipated departure of any one more deeply or sincerely deplored. The nabob himself had no such feelings. He looked forward to his escape from his relatives and friends as to a period of happy relief. Yet to this there was one exception. Chirsty Ross, as his niece Christina was provincially called, was then a very beautiful and extremely engaging little girl of some five or six years of age. From the first day that the old Indian took up his residence in her father's house, she had innocently and unconsciously commenced her approaches against the citadel of his heart. Each succeeding hour saw her gain outpost after outpost, and defence after defence, until she fairly entwined herself so firmly around his affections, that he could not contemplate the approaching loss of her smiles, of her kisses, and of her prattle, with anything like philosophy. He had been naturally enough led to shower a double portion of his favours upon her. She was already in the habit of calling him "her own uncle," as if he had belonged exclusively and entirely to herself, and to this she had been a good deal encouraged by the nabob. It is not wonderful, therefore, that when his departure was communicated to her, she was thrown into an inconsolable paroxysm of grief, and clung to his knees, giving loud vent to her plaints, and sobbing as if her little heart would have burst. "Take me with you! take me with you, my own dear uncle! oh, take your own Chirsty with you!" cried she. "I shall take you with me, my little dear!" exclaimed the nabob, snatching her up, and kissing her. "I shall take you with me, provided your father and mother will but part with you." A negotiation was speedily entered into. The parents were too sensible of the great advantages which such a proposal opened for their child to think for one moment of throwing any obstacle in the way of its fulfilment. They, moreover, hoped that this arrangement might have the desirable effect of keeping up a connecting tie between them and their rich relative. However much they might have been disappointed in this last respect, they certainly never had any reason to accuse the nabob of any forgetfulness of those promises which he made to them at parting. He was no sooner established in his house in town than he set about providing proper instructors for Chirsty, and a very few weeks proved to him that his care was by no means thrown away. The child's perception was quick, and her desire to learn was strong, so that things which were difficult to others were, comparatively speaking, easy to her. So rapid was her progress, that her uncle became every day more and more interested in it; and as she advanced, he was from time to time led to engage firstrate masters, in order to perfect her in all manner of solid acquirements and elegant accomplishments. With all this her person became every day more graceful as she grew in stature; and everything she said and did was seasoned with so much sweetness of manner, that she gained the hearts of all who had the good fortune to meet with her. Not a little proud of what he had so good a right to call his own work, the nabob, on her fifteenth birthday, put the master-keys of his house with great but affectionate ceremonial into her hands, and with them he gave her the entire control and management of his household affairs. But she did not long continue to enjoy the distinguished situation in which he had thus placed her. Too close an application to the numerous branches of education she occupied herself with soon brought upon her that delicacy of health which is too often the produce of the similar over-confinement of young growing girls in our own days. A very alarming cough came on, her strength visibly declined daily, and her spirits began to sink. She was compelled to give up all her favourite pursuits. Books and music lost their charms for her, and her hours were spent in list-less idleness, not unfrequently broken in upon by nervous fits of crying, which she could by no means account for. Then it was that in her moody dreamings her mind would revert to the innocent pleasures of her childhood, to the simple, the rustic, yet highly relished happiness she had enjoyed whilst surrounded by her brothers and sisters, when they wandered about the furzy hillocks in a joyous knot, inhaling the perfume of the rich yellow blossoms,--when they dug little caves in the sandy banks, or built their mimic houses, or planted their perishable gardens, with careless hearts, noisy tongues, and laughing eyes. The thought that she might never again behold them or her dear parents renewed her tears, and she pined more and more. Her affectionate uncle became alarmed at this rapid and melancholy change. So far as gold could purchase the aid of the best medical skill he commanded its attendance. But even the most learned of the London physicians could discover no medicine to remove her malady. In their own minds they despaired of her, but as usually happens in such cases, to cover the deficiency of their art, they recommended her native air as the dernier ressort. Chirsty eagerly caught at this last remaining hope, so congenial to the current of her feelings at the time, and her uncle was thus obliged to yield to necessity; and as certain matters in which he had engaged rendered it quite impossible for him to take charge of her himself, he was obliged to resign her to the care of her maid. The doctors were right for once. Every breeze that blew on her from her native land as she proceeded on her journey seemed to be fraught with health; her spirits rose, and long before she reached the place of her birth, she was so far recovered as to remove all fears of any serious termination of her complaint. How did her mind go on as she travelled, sketching to itself ideal pictures of the charms of home! But alas! how changed did every person and everything seem to her when she at last reached it. How pitiful did the provincial town appear to her London eyes! The streets seemed to have shrunk in, and the very houses and gardens to have dwindled; and when she reached her paternal mansion, she blushed to think how very grievously the fondness of her ancient recollections had deceived her. The full tide of unrestrained affection which burst forth the moment she was within its walls was so gratifying to her heart, that for some time every other feeling or thought was absorbed by it; but many weeks did not pass over her head until the conversation and manners of her parents and family, which had startled her even at the first interview, began to obtrude themselves on her notice in spite of all she could do to shut her eyes against them, until they finally became intolerably disagreeable to her. She soon discovered,--and a certain degree of sorrow and self-reproach accompanied the discovery,--that the refined education which she had received had rendered it quite impossible that she could long endure the mortifications to which she was daily and hourly exposed by her vulgar though affectionate and well-meaning relatives. Painful as the thought was for many reasons, she became convinced of the necessity of an early separation; and, accordingly, she made her uncle's wish for her speedy return to him an apology for fixing an early day for her departure. Yet do not suppose from this that the ties of affection were not strong within her. The parting scene was not gone through without many tears and lingering embraces, that sufficiently proved the triumph of nature in her mind over the arbitrary dictates of fashion. And after she was gone, the large richly bound folio bible, out of which her father ever afterwards read on Sundays,--the gold-mounted spectacles which enabled him so well to decipher its characters, and of which he was at all times so justly vain,--the cashmere shawl that kept her good mother so warm, and the caps, the bonnets, the gowns, the globes, and the books of prints, with which her grown-up sisters and brothers were so much delighted, and the dolls and humming-tops of which the junior members of the family, down to the very youngest, were so proud as having been the gifts of "the grand leddy from Lunnon," for sister they dared hardly to call her, were not the only marks of her affection that she left behind her. Besides these keepsakes there were other presents of a more solid nature bestowed in secret, which, whilst they contributed to enable her father to hold his head higher as he walked up the causeway of the main street of Tain, compelled Chirsty herself to exercise a very strict economy in providing for those wants which her own style of life rendered essential to her, large as was the sum which she had received from the bounty of her uncle. Passing through Edinburgh on her way to London, she was visited and kindly invited by a lady of fashion who had known her in the metropolis, and she soon found herself deeply engaged in gaiety. Perhaps she did not enter into it the less readily that she had so recently returned from what might have been well enough called her life of mortification at Tain. Having once got into the vortex, she found it difficult to extricate herself from it, and this difficulty was not lessened by the admiration which her beauty and accomplishments so universally excited both in public and in private. She became the chief object of interest, and she was so caressed and courted by every one, that it was not very surprising if the adoration that was paid to her did in some degree affect so young a head. However this might be, three things were very certain,--in the first place, that she had been extremely regular in writing to her uncle during her stay at Tain; secondly, that before leaving that place she had heard from her uncle, who had warmly expressed his anxiety for her return to him; and thirdly, that whereas she had intended to stay in Edinburgh for two or three days only, she was led on from day to day by this ball and the other party to remain, till nearly a whole winter had melted away like its own snows, during all which time she had likewise procrastinated, and, consequently, had entirely omitted the duty of writing to her uncle. The day of thought and of self-disapproval came at length, and bitter were her reflections. She resolved at least to do all in her power to repair her fault. She sat down immediately and wrote a long letter to her uncle, in which she scrupled not to blame herself to the fullest extent for her want of thought and apparent negligence towards so kind a friend and benefactor, and she declared her repentance and her intention of returning to him immediately. Having accordingly reached London very soon after her letter, she was driven to her uncle's well-known door. Her impatience to behold him was such, that she could hardly rest in the chaise till the postilion dismounted to knock for her admittance. How intense were her emotions during that brief space! How eagerly did her eyes run over every window in the ample front of the house! How rapidly did the images of her uncle, and of Alexander Tod, his old and faithful servant, dance through her imagination whilst she gazed intently on the yet unopened door, prepared to catch the first smile of surprise and of welcome which she knew would illuminate the honest countenance of that tried domestic, the moment he should discover who it was that summoned him. As she looked she was surprised to perceive that the door itself had strangely changed the modest and unpretending hue which it had worn when she last saw it for a queer uncouth flaring colour, somewhat between a pink and an orange. Before she had time to wonder at this metamorphosis the door did open, and if its opening did produce any surprise it was her own; for, instead of discovering the plain but respectable figure of Alexander Tod, whom she had been long taught to consider more as an old friend than as a menial, she beheld a saucy fopling, bepowdered, underbred footman, in a gaudy vulgar looking livery. The man stared when she asked for her uncle, and seemed but half inclined to consent to the hall being encumbered with her baggage, and, after having shown her with unconcealed petulance into a little back parlour, she had the mortification, through the door which he had carelessly left ajar behind him, to hear herself thus announced,-- "A young person in the back parlour who wishes to speak to you, sar." And, chagrined as she was by this provoking delay, she could not help laughing, as she threw herself into a sofa to wait for her uncle's appearance. He came at last, and his joy at again beholding her was great and unfeigned. "Welcome again to my house, my dear Chirsty," said he, with tears of joy, after his first warm and silent embraces were over; "Oh! why did you cease to write to me? But I need say no more, for what is done cannot be undone; yet, if you had but written to me, things might have been otherwise." "I ought indeed to have written to you, my dear uncle," replied Chirsty; "but much as I have deserved your anger, things cannot be but well with me, whilst I am thus affectionately and kindly received by you." Her uncle replied not; but, with his eyes thrown on the ground, and with an air of solemnity which she had never seen him wear before, he led her upstairs to the large drawing-room, where she found seated a middle-aged and rather good-looking woman, with an expression of countenance by no means very prepossessing, and whose person was tawdry and very much overdressed. What was her astonishment, and what was the shock she felt, when her uncle led her up to this lady, saying,-- "Mrs. Ross, this is my niece, of whom you have heard me speak so much; and Chirsty, my dear, you will henceforth know and treat this lady as my wife and your aunt." However little sensible people may think of those newborn and baseless dreams which have been recently blown up into something falsely resembling a science by the folly and vanity of man, and which I for one yet hope, for the honour of human intellect, to see burst and collapse ere I die, it must be admitted, that all are more or less Lavaterists; and that even the youngest of us will involuntarily exercise some such scrutiny on the features of a countenance, when we happen to be placed in such circumstances as Chirsty Ross now found herself thrown into. She, poor girl, failed not to bring all the little knowledge of this sort which she possessed into immediate requisition. The result of her investigations were most unfavourable to the subject of them, nor were these disagreeable impressions at all diminished by the profusion of protestations of kindness and affection which the lady lavished upon her with a vulgar volubility, whilst at the same time she seemed to eye the young intruder in a manner that augured but little for her future happiness. But although Chirsty perceived all this, she inwardly determined to doubt the correctness of her own observation,--at all events, sorrowfully as she retired to rest, or rather to moisten her pillow with her tears, she failed not to arm herself with the virtuous resolution, that as this woman, be she what she might, was the wife of her uncle, who had acted as a father to her, she would use her best endeavours to gain her affection, seeing that she was now bound to regard her as a parent. But yet she did not close her eyes, without having almost unconsciously exclaimed, "What could have induced my uncle, with such tastes as he has, to marry such a person as this? Ah! if I had not fooled away my time in Edinburgh! or if I had only but written!" Next morning she met her uncle alone in the library, and a single sentence of his explained the whole. "What could have induced you to forget to write to me, Chirsty?" said the good man, kissing her tenderly, whilst his eyes betrayed a sensation which he vainly tried to hide. "We were so happy here alone together! But I have been a fool, Chirsty! Blinded by momentary pique, I saw not the slough of despond into which I was plunging until too late! But she is not a bad woman, though not quite what I was at first led to believe her to be; and so, all we can now say is, that she is your aunt and my wife, and we are both bound to make the best of it." Chirsty assured her uncle that nothing should be wanting on her part towards her aunt; and she kept her word, for, neglecting all other things, she devoted herself entirely to the task of pleasing her. For some little while her pious endeavours seemed to have succeeded; but it happened that Chirsty, unambitious as she was to shine, so far eclipsed her aunt in every attraction that makes woman charming, that without intending it, or rather whilst intending the very reverse, she monopolised all the attention of those with whom they associated either at home or abroad. Compared to her Mrs. Ross was treated like a piece of furniture,--any table or cabinet in the room had more attention paid to it. She could not shut her eyes to her own inferiority, and envy, hatred, and malice took full possession of her. Chirsty's efforts to please, though they had ceased to be successful, were still unremitting; but her uninterrupted gentleness was met by perpetual peevishness and ill humour, always excepting such times as her uncle chanced to be present, when the lady's words and manner were ever bland, kind, and false. With such devilish tempers it often happens that the more they torture the more they hate, and so it was that the dislike of this woman towards her niece rapidly grew to so great a height, that she resolved to get her removed from the house. Fondly believing that she had a stronger hold over her husband's affections than she really possessed, she first of all attempted to undermine her in her uncle's good opinion by sly insinuations against her truth, her temper, and what she called the girl's pretended love for him, which she declared was in reality no greater than her attention to her own self-interest required. But finding that this line of attack only excited his anger, she with great art gradually withdrew from it, and by slow degrees she began to confess that she now believed she had been altogether mistaken in her estimation of Chirsty, and every succeeding day heard her bestow more and more praise on her temper and disposition. This was a language that was much more congenial to the nabob, but he was not altogether the dupe of it. He however listened with seeming attention to his wife when she prosed on about the zeal she felt for her niece's interest, as well as when, after a long prologue, she finally proposed the grand scheme of sending Chirsty out to India to the care of a particular friend of the nabob's at Calcutta, that she might there make some wealthy match, so as to secure her a magnificent independence for life. Plainly as Mr. Ross saw through the motives that dictated all this apparent solicitude, he took care to appear to think it quite genuine. Nor did he refuse to entertain the project; for as he began shrewdly to suspect that his niece could now have but little happiness under the same roof with his wife, he resolved at least to put it in Chirsty's power to accept or reject this proposal. He accordingly sought for a private interview with her, and then it was that her tears, and her half confessions with difficulty extracted, satisfied him of the correctness of his suspicions, and the readiness with which she acceded to the plan which he laid before her at once determined him as to the propriety of going immediately into it. He therefore lost not a moment in securing everything that might contribute to her comfort and happiness during the voyage, and he presented her with a letter of credit for a sum of money amply sufficient to put her above all anxiety as to that matter on reaching the shores of the Ganges. These substantial marks of her uncle's affection towards her, supported as they were by a thousand little nameless kindnesses, did not tend to allay the grief which she felt at parting with him. The reflection that she went because she felt convinced that her uncle's future domestic comfort required her absence, was all that she had to give her courage to bear it, and she was so much absorbed in this conviction, that she hardly gave much thought to the consideration of what her own future fate might be. The gallant ship had gone merrily on its voyage for several days before Chirsty began to mix at all with her fellow-passengers. But when she first came upon deck, it was like the appearance of the morning sun over the eastern horizon of some country where he is worshipped. All eyes were instantly bent upon her; and ere the people had been familiarised to her beauty, the elegance of her manners, and the charms of her conversation, soon made her the great centre of attraction to all who walked the quarter-deck. Above all others, she seemed to have made a deep and powerful impression on the commander, whom I shall call Captain Mordaunt, a very elegant and agreeable man, of superior intellect and information. He soon showed himself indefatigable in his attentions to her. His command of the ship gave him a thousand opportunities of manifesting a marked degree of politeness towards her, by doing her many little courteous services which no one else had the power to perform. He easily invented means of keeping all other aspirants to her favour at a sufficient distance from her. Her heart was as yet her own; and as Mordaunt never lost any opportunity of engaging her in conversation, and as his talk was always well worth listening to, it was no wonder that so many unequivocal proofs of an attachment on the part of so handsome a man, in the prime of life, and of address so superior, should have soon prepared the way for her favourable reception of his declared passion; and this having once been made, and mutually acknowledged, it seemed to grow in warmth as the days fled merrily away, and as the progress of the prosperous bark carried them nearer and nearer to that sun which gives life and heat to all animated nature. Often did Mordaunt gladden the artless mind of Chirsty Ross as they sat apart together on the poop of the vessel, towards the conclusion of their voyage, in the full enjoyment of the fanning sea-breeze, by the enchanting pictures which he painted of the happiness of their future wedded life. "I have already realised a tolerable fortune," said he, one evening carelessly, "so that by the time I return to Calcutta from my trip to China, whither you know the vessel is bound, I may safely claim your hand, in order that we may sail home together as man and wife. You can have no dread of spending our honeymoon on the wide waters, my love, since they have yielded us so happy a courtship, especially when you think that we shall be on our way to some sweet rural residence in England, where we shall be insured the enjoyment of tranquillity and happiness for the rest of our days. And there, with what I have saved, added to the liberal allowance which your rich uncle will give you during his life, and with the certainty which you have of succeeding to his immense fortune at his death, we shall be able to live in a style altogether worthy of that exquisite beauty, and that angelic soul, with which Heaven has blessed you, and of those fascinating manners and brilliant accomplishments, which are calculated to make you the queen of any society you may be pleased to grace with your presence." "Stay, stay, Mordaunt!" replied Chirsty, smiling playfully. "You are running too fast before the wind. I need not tell you what you have so often told me, that I am prepared to be thine on the wide ocean, in the populous city, or in the lonely desert, in sickness or in health, in wealth or in poverty! And well is it, indeed, that you have so often vowed all this much to me, for I must needs disabuse your mind of some part of its visions of riches, so far at least as that share may have reached which your fancy has ascribed to me. I have neither claims nor expectations from my uncle, who has already done more for me than any niece in my circumstances had a right to expect." "Haul taut that weather main-brace!" cried the captain, suddenly starting from her side; and although there appeared to be little change in the wind or the weather to warrant such activity, he became from that moment too much occupied in the care of the ship for any further conversation with Chirsty that evening. In the morning the lovers met as usual, and then, as well as during the few remaining days of the voyage, Mordaunt was as full of affection and endearment to her as ever. Their last private interview took place ere she left the ship to go into the small craft that was to take her up the river, and then all their mutual vows were solemnly repeated. An understanding took place between them, that their engagement should be kept private, unless circumstances should arise which might render a disclosure necessary. Poor Chirsty gave way to all the poignancy of that grief which she felt at being thus obliged to part, even for a few months, from him to whom, in the then orphan state of her soul, she had given up the whole strength of her undivided affections. But hard as she found the effort to be, she was obliged to dry up her tears, and even to throw a faint and fleeting smile over her countenance as she left the ship, that she might not betray her own secret before indifferent persons; and it was only that warm and cherishing hope that lay nearest to her heart that kept the pulses of her life playing, and that enabled her to go through the trying scene of parting coolly with her lover, after he had deposited her under the roof of her uncle's friend, where they bid each other such a polite adieu as might have befitted two well-bred people who were separating with mutual esteem for one another, and who were, at the same time, very little solicitous as to whether there did or did not exist any future chance of their ever meeting again. Mr. Gardner, as I shall call the gentleman to whose protection the nabob had consigned Chirsty, well deserved the confidence which had been placed in him. He spoke warmly of the many obligations under which he lay to Mr. Ross, and he declared himself to be delighted in having the opportunity which had thus been afforded him of proving his gratitude for those obligations. His lady entered deeply into all her husband's feelings, and both of them zealously occupied themselves in doing all in their power to promote the young lady's comfort and happiness. Numerous and brilliant were the parties which they made for the purpose of introducing their lovely protegé with sufficient eclat to the society of Calcutta. But not even the novelty and grandeur of Eastern magnificence, though produced for her with all its splendour, had any effect in removing that pensive air which their young friend wore when she landed, and which she continued to wear notwithstanding all the smiling new faces to which she was every moment introduced. One very natural result, however, was soon produced by these numerous public appearances which the kindness of her friends obliged her to make. She was immediately encircled by crowds of admirers; and before she had been many months in the country she had been put to the unpleasant necessity of declining proposals of marriage from numerous military men and civilians of rank so high as to make those with whom she lived wonder at the indifference she displayed. The more she was courted the more retiring she appeared to become. Among the few who were admitted to a somewhat more familiar intercourse with Chirsty, was a Scottish gentleman of good family, whom I shall call Charles Græme. Though young, he had risen to a high civil situation, and he had already realised a very handsome fortune. He was a gentleman of enlarged mind and extremely liberal education; and as he was of manners much more retiring than most of those with whom she had become acquainted, she the more readily yielded to that intimacy which his greater friendship with her host and hostess gave him very frequent opportunities of forming with her. Like herself he was full of accomplishments; yet such was his modesty, that she had known him for a considerable time before accident led her to discover them. His mind was richly stored with the treasures of European literature; yet it was only on particular occasions that he allowed himself to give forth the sweets he had hoarded up, or to indulge in those critical remarks to which every one was prepared to listen with delight. As he became better known to her, and more at his ease with her, she discovered that his tastes, his acquirements, his sentiments, nay, his very soul, were all so much in harmony with her own, that she soon began to prefer his society to that of any other gentleman who approached her. Had her heart been unengaged, she might perhaps have had some degree of palpitation in its pulses, as she sensibly felt their friendship becoming every day more and more familiar; but, as the partridge believes that when its head is in the bush the whole of its body is secure, so she, knowing her own safety, owing to that secret cause which bound her to another, never dreamed that the accomplished Scotchman could be in any danger of feeling for her any sentiment one degree warmer than that of esteem. Thus it was, that with perfect unconsciousness on her part of the havoc she was working in his heart, she read with him, criticised with him, played with him, sang with him, or sketched with him, as the fancy of the moment might dictate, her heart being all the while filled with gratitude to him for so good-naturedly enabling her to pass, with at least some degree of rational enjoyment, some of those tedious hours that must yet elapse ere the return of him to whom she had pledged her virgin affections. As for Charles Græme, he soon began to find that he existed only when his soul was animated by her bright eyes and her seraphic voice. When absent from their influence he felt like a walking mass of frozen clay. Her society became more necessary to him than food or air. He almost lived at the house of the Gardners, who, on their part, gave him every encouragement, being secretly pleased at what they believed to be the mutual attachment that was so rapidly growing, as they thought, between two individuals whom they had reason to love so much, and whom they knew to be so worthy of each other, and so well calculated to make each other happy for life. Day after day the infatuated young man drank deeper and deeper draughts of the sweet intoxication of love. At last the hour of wretchedness came. Seizing what he fondly believed to be a favourable moment, and with a bosom full of bounding hopes, he laid open the state of his heart to the idol of his soul. The scales fell, as if by magic, from her mental vision. "What have I done, Mr. Græme," she cried, whilst her cheeks were suffused with blushes, and her whole frame trembled. "I have been blind! I have been thoughtless, most culpably thoughtless. Forgive me! oh, forgive me! but I cannot, I dare not, love you! I am already the pledged bride of another." It would be vain for me to attempt to describe the kind of temporary death that fell upon her unfortunate lover as she uttered these terrible words, which, like the simoom of the desert, left no atom of hope behind them. Sinking into a chair, he uttered no sound, and he sat for some time quite unconscious even of those attentions which her compassion for him at the moment led her unscrupulously to administer to him. The friendship and the high respect which she entertained for him, as well as a regard for her own justification in his eyes, forbade her to allow him to leave her without a full explanation. It was given to him under the seal of secrecy, and the interview terminated with an agony of feeling and floods of tears upon his part, in which her compassion for that affliction which she had so innocently occasioned him compelled her, in spite of herself, to participate. The young Scotchman tried for some time after this, to frequent the house where she lived as he had done previously. But her smiles fell upon him like sunshine upon a spectre. Reason and prudence at last came to his aid; and seeing that his heart could never hope for ease whilst he remained within reach of her attractions, he, to the great astonishment and disappointment of his friends, made use of the powerful interest which he possessed to procure another situation in a distant station, and he tore himself away from Calcutta. And now came the time of misery to poor Chirsty herself, the season of hope deferred, of nervous impatience, and of sad forebodings. The period for which her fond heart panted in secret arrived--it passed away. Days, nay, weeks and months beyond it elapsed; and yet no tidings came of the gallant vessel that bore her betrothed husband. Delicately alive to the apprehension of betraying her secret by inquiry, she did not dare to ask questions. Fears, agonising fears, began to possess her, that some fatal calamity had befallen the ship, till, happening accidentally one day to cast her eyes over an old shipping list, she read, and her sight grew dim as she read, of its arrival from China, and its subsequent departure for England! How indestructible is hope! Even then she imagined it possible that all this might have been the result of accident, or might have arisen from the orders of superiors. But still her anxiety preyed terribly upon her mind, whilst she now looked forward to the new period of the ship's return from England. In vain did she try to occupy herself in her former pursuits. In vain did her friends endeavour to interest her with the amusements they provided for her. All were equally fruitless in their efforts; and the only explanation which the Gardners could find for her mysterious abstraction, was in the belief that the remembrance of Charles Græme was not altogether indifferent to her; and thence they cherished the hope that the matter between that young man and her might yet one day end as they wished it to do. Months rolled on as if the days of which they were composed had been years, till Chirsty was one evening, with some difficulty, induced by her friends to go to a great public entertainment. She entered the room, leaning on Mrs. Gardner's arm; and they were on their way to find a seat at the upper end of it, when her eyes suddenly beheld him for whose return she had been so long vainly sighing. Her heart beat as if it would have burst from its seat in her bosom. She clung unconsciously with a firmer hold to the arm of her friend, and her limbs tottered under her with nervous joy as she moved forward. He was advancing slowly with a lady; and as he drew near, she held out her hand to him with a smile of happy and welcome recognition. He started at sight of her; and then, after scanning every feature of her countenance with calm indifference, he bowed coldly, turned aside, and moved away. Chirsty uttered a faint cry, swooned away, and was carried home by her friends in a state of insensibility, leaving the whole room in confusion. Sufficient natural and ordinary reasons were very easily found by a company in such a climate as that of India for such an accident. But Mrs. Gardner had seen enough to convince her that some deeper and more powerful cause had operated upon Chirsty, than the mere heat of weather or the crowded state of a room; and after she had successfully used the necessary means for recovering her from her fainting fit, she insisted on being allowed to share confidentially in the secret of her afflictions. Chirsty felt some slight relief in telling her all; and strange it was that she still clung most unaccountably to hope. He might not have recognised her at first. He would yet appear. But Mrs. Gardner's common sense told her there was no hope; and she judged that it would be far better that Chirsty should receive conviction, however cruel that conviction might be, rather than remain in an anxiety which was so agonising and destructive. A very little time enabled Mrs. Gardner to collect all the particulars of his treachery. To sum up all in one word, he had arrived at Calcutta from England with a rich wife, with whom he had already sailed on his last voyage home. This overwhelming intelligence was too much for the shattered frame of poor Chirsty Ross. She was attacked by a most alarming fever, which finally produced delirium; and even after the physicians had been able to master the bodily disease, the mental derangement continued so long, unabated, that her friends the Gardners considered it proper to write home to inform her uncle of her unhappy state. It pleased God, however, to restore her at length to her right mind; and then it was that she was seized with an unconquerable desire of returning to England. The most that the Gardners could prevail upon her to agree to, was to delay her voyage to a period so far distant as might insure that fresh letters should reach her uncle, to inform him of her perfect mental recovery, and to teach him to look for her arrival by a certain ship they named; and after impatiently waiting till the time destined for her departure arrived, she bade her kind friends the Gardners an affectionate farewell, and sailed with a fair wind for Britain. Who was it that arrived a week afterwards at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Gardner in the middle of the night, having come by Dawk from a far distant province? It was the shadow of Charles Græme! "Thank God! thank God!" cried he energetically, after being told of her recovery, and at the same time bursting into a flood of tears, which weakness and fatigue left him no power to restrain. "Thank God for her restoration! But oh! that I had reached Calcutta but eight days sooner!" He took his determination, applied for leave, to which the state of his health might of itself well enough have entitled him, and went for England by the very first fleet that sailed. Chirsty Ross had a prosperous, but not a happy voyage. Her bodily health improved every day that she was at sea; but her thoughts having full time to brood over her miseries, her spirits became more and more sunk. She rallied a little when she beheld the English shore; and when she arrived in the river, her heart began to beat with affectionate joy at the prospect of again embracing her dear uncle. Even the image of her aunt had had its asperities softened down by length of time and absence; and she almost felt something resembling pleasure at the prospect of seeing her again. As the vessel arrived in the evening at her moorings, a boat came alongside, and a voice was heard to demand if there was a Miss Ross on board? Readily did Chirsty answer to the inquiry; and being told that it was her uncle's servant come to take her home, she lost not a moment in desiring her black maid to hand up a small box, containing a few things to be put into the boat; and leaving the girl to follow next day with her heavy baggage, she quickly descended the ladder. She was immediately accosted by a stout, vulgar-looking man out of livery, who announced himself to her as Mr. Ross's servant, and informed her that a carriage waited for her near the landing-place. She did accordingly find a post-chaise there; but when the door of it was opened, and the steps were let down, she started back on perceiving that there was a man seated at the farther side of it. "Only a friend of Mr. Ross, ma'am, whom he has sent to attend you home," said the fellow who held the handle of the carriage-door. Surprised as she was at the vulgarity of the dress and appearance of the gentleman who was inside, and still more at his want of politeness in not coming out of the carriage to hand her into it, her heart was too full of home at the moment to admit of her inquiring very particularly into circumstances, and accordingly, without more ado, she entered the vehicle. But whilst she was yet only in the act of seating herself, the fellow who had passed himself as her uncle's servant, sprang in after her, pulled up the steps, shut the door, the side blinds were drawn up, and the post-chaise was instantly flying at the rate of twelve or fourteen miles an hour. She screamed aloud, but the ruffian hands of both the villains were immediately on her mouth and silence was inculcated with the most horrible and blasphemous menaces. "We must have none of your Indian fury here, mistress," said one of the fellows. "Behave peaceably and quietly, and you shall be treated gently enough, but if you offer to rave and riot, the whip, the gag, and the strait-waistcoat shall be your portion." "Merciful Providence!" said Chirsty Ross, "why am I thus treated, and whither would you carry me?" "As to your treatment, young lady," said the man, "methinks you have no right to complain of that as yet; and as to the why, I should be as mad as yourself were I to hold any talk with you about that; and, then, as to the whither, you have been already told that you are going to your uncle's residence." "Mad!" exclaimed Chirsty, with a shudder that ran through her whole frame. "But, ah! I see how it is. Mr. Gardner's letters have been received by my uncle, and not those which I wrote to him sometime afterwards. And yet how did he know to expect me in England, and by this particular ship, too, if my letters have not yet reached him? It is very puzzling--very perplexing--very distressing; but since I am going to him, I may thank God that all will soon be put to rights." "Aye, aye," said both the men at once, whilst they laughed rudely to one another, "all will soon be put to rights, I'll warrant me." Chirsty sat silently dreaming over this strange and most vexatious occurrence, yet hoping that her misery would be but of short duration, till the chaise suddenly stopped, when one of the men let down the window, and called to the postilion to ring the great bell at a gate, which he had no sooner done than the peal was answered by the fierce barking of a watch-dog. "What place is this?" cried Chirsty, with new-born alarm. "This is not the house of my Uncle Ross." "You will see that all in good time, ma'am," replied one of the men. "Postboy, ring again. What are they all about, I wonder?" At this second summons the huge nail-studded leaves of the ponderous oak and iron-bound gate were slowly rolled back, and the chaise was admitted into a large paved court, where the lights that were borne by one or two men of similar appearance to those who accompanied her, showed the plain front of a pretty considerable brick building, the narrow windows of which were strongly barred with iron. The door, too, was of the most massive strength, and the whole character of the edifice would of itself have conveyed to her the heart-sinking conviction that she was within the precincts of a mad-house, even if those strange sounds of uncouth laughter, wild rage, and wailing despair that came from various parts of the interior, had been altogether unheard by her. Rapidly did her thoughts traverse her mind. The first natural impulse that possessed her was a desire to scream out for help. But Chirsty was not destitute of resolution and self-command; and as she immediately reflected that nothing but the calmest behaviour could afford her any chance of convincing the people of such an establishment that she in reality was sane, she at once resolved to restrain herself from everything that might look like excitement. "Where is Sarah?" cried one of the men as he assisted Chirsty out of the vehicle. "Aye, aye, here she comes. Here is your charge, Sall." "A tall, handsome young woman," said Sarah, surveying Chirsty from head to foot, whilst she herself exhibited a person in every respect the reverse of that which she was admiring, being almost a dwarf, though with a body thickly and strongly built. Her head was large, with harsh prominent features, and her legs were bowed, and her arms long and uncouth looking. Round her waist, if waist that might be called where waist there was none, there was fastened a leathern belt, to which was appended a large bunch of great keys. In the eyes of Chirsty she was altogether a most formidable looking object. "A tall handsome young woman," said she. "In what sort of temper is she, I wonder?" "She was a little bit riotous at first," said one of the men, "but she has been quiet enough ever since." "Come this way, young lady," said Sarah to Chirsty, in a rough tone and sharp voice, and at the same time she stretched out her long arm, and grasped her wrist with her bony fingers, whilst with the other hand she held up an iron lamp, the light of which she threw before her. "Treat me not harshly," said Chirsty gently. "I am ready to obey you. I am quite aware that, from the strange mistake that has occurred, it would be vain for me to attempt to convince you at present of my sanity. I must patiently submit, therefore, to whatever restraint you may impose on me, until my uncle comes to see me, and convince himself. But do not, I pray you, exercise any unnecessary severity." "No, no, poor thing," replied Sarah. "No, no; no severity, that is not quite necessary, I promise you. As to your uncle--ha! ha! ha!--no doubt you may chance to see un ere you leave this. Come this way." Whilst this dialogue was passing, Chirsty was led by her strange conductress through some long passages, in which were several rectangular turnings, past many strongly secured doors, from within which issued strange discordant sounds of human misery, mingled with the clanking of chains; and up one or two flights of stairs, which induced her to believe that the apartment to which she was about to be introduced was in the upper story, and in a wing of the building. The door was like those she had seen in her way thither, of immense strength, and it was secured by a powerful lock, a couple of heavy bolts, and a huge chain and padlock. It was the last door of the narrow passage, which terminated about a yard beyond it in a dead wall. The little woman pushed Chirsty past it into the cul-de-sac which the passage thus formed, and then quitting her arm, she planted the fixed gaze of her formidable eye upon her, and placing the lamp on the ground, she selected the necessary keys, and using both hands she exerted her strength to undo the lock and padlock, and then drawing the bolts and removing the chain, she opened the den within. Beckoning to her charge with an air of command not to be misunderstood, she pushed Chirsty into the place, and then standing in the aperture of the half-closed door for a minute or more, with her right hand on the key, she threw in the light of the lamp so as fully to show the whole interior. It was indeed a wretched place. A low narrow bedstead, with bedclothes of the coarsest and meanest description, was the whole of its furniture, and that occupied more than a fourth part of the space contained within its four brick and stone walls. The floor was of flags,--it had no fireplace, and one small narrow iron-grated window was all the visible perforation that could admit light or air. "May I not be allowed to have the few things which came in my travelling-box?" said Chirsty mildly, after having seated herself on the side of the bed. "We shall consider of that, young lady," said Sarah sternly. "But in the meanwhile, to satisfy my mind that you may be safely left for a little time, you must suffer me to put those lily-white hands of yours into this glove," and setting the lamp on the floor, she drew from her ample pocket a leathern bag, into which Chirsty patiently submitted to have both her hands thrust together, after which they were secured by a strap in such a manner as to leave them entirely useless. "Let me see now that you have got nothing dangerous about you," said Sarah; and after searching her all over, and removing from her a pocket-book containing such small instruments as women generally use, together with one or two other articles, and not forgetting her purse, which she secreted carefully in her own bosom, she added, "I shall be back with you in the twinkling of an eye, for you must have food ere you go to rest; meanwhile, the quieter you are the better it will be for you," and with these words she lifted the lamp and retired with it, locking and bolting the door with the utmost care. It is needless for me to speculate as to what were Chirsty's thoughts, left as she was in the dark, as she listened to the retreating steps of her keeper until a stillness reigned around her that was only interrupted at times by the distant baying of the watch-dog in the court-yard, or by some of those melancholy demonstrations of madness that came every now and then upon her ear, of different degrees of intensity, as they chanced to be modified by circumstances. Notwithstanding all the resolution which she had summoned to her support, she shuddered to think of the vexatious confinement to which she might be exposed ere her fond uncle might be able to gather courage enough to come to visit her in the melancholy state of mind in which he probably believed her to be. Whilst she was ruminating on such matters, she heard the returning footsteps of Sarah. "Here is some food for you," said her keeper, after opening the door and entering cautiously, "and, see, I have brought your night-clothes. I promised to use no needless severity; and if you continue to behave, you shall have no reason to complain of me. Let me help you to eat your supper, for this night you must be contented with simple bread and milk." And the first meal that poor Chirsty eat after returning to her native Britain, was doled out to her by spoonfuls from a porringer by the long fingers of her dwarfish keeper, who after making down her bed, assisted her into it, and then left her for the night. And a strange night it was to her. Fatigue brought sleep upon her it is true, but there was no refreshment in it, for it was full of wild visions, and she started from time to time, and awaked to have her mind brought back to the full conviction of her distressing situation by the maniac laughter or howlings that broke at intervals upon the stillness around her. The only support she had in circumstances so trying was derived from religious meditations and aspirations, together with the hope which never forsook her, that her affectionate uncle might next day visit and relieve her. FRESH LIGHT UPON THE SUBJECT. Grant.--Stop for one moment, Clifford, till we ring for fresh candles, or we shall be in darkness before you have uttered five sentences more. Dominie.--Stay, sir, I'll run to the kitchen for them myself. Preserve me! the less time we keep Mr. Clifford's poor lassie in such misery the better. Mr. Macpherson soon returned with the new lights, set them down on the table, and drawing in his chair, put his elbows upon his knees, placed his cheeks firmly in the palms of his hands, and sat with his eyes eagerly fixed upon Clifford's countenance, with the most ludicrous expression of earnestness. Clifford resumed as follows. LEGEND OF CHIRSTY ROSS--Continued. The morning's dawn brought back the returning footstep of Sarah. She brought with her Chirsty's travelling-box with most of the things it contained. "See," said she, as she set down the box, "I have kept my word. So long as you behave, you shall find me disposed to treat you well. I know that you have been quiet all night, and, therefore, we shall try you for to-day with your hands unmuffled. But mind!" added the old woman with a fearful expression of eye, "if you should change for the worse, there are worse punishments for you than this leathern glove." "I thank you," said Chirsty meekly; "I think you will have no occasion to resort to any such. I hope my uncle will be here to-day, and that a few moments of conversation with him will satisfy him that you may be released from any further trouble with me." "Your uncle!" cried Sarah, with an uncouth laugh. "But we shall see. Meanwhile, here comes water for you, and, by and by, you shall have breakfast." A little black-looking sharp-eyed girl now entered with a pitcher, basins, and towels. Sarah stood by to watch how her charge conducted herself, and, when the toilet was completed, the bed was made up, and the things removed, and soon afterwards breakfast was brought her, together with a common fir chair and a small table, and when she had finished her meal, she was again left to her own solitary meditations. No sooner was all quiet, than Chirsty arose for the purpose of looking out of the window, that she might try at least to gain some knowledge of her position. She discovered that the walls of the building were extremely thick, that the window was powerfully barred with iron, and that a wooden shade projected over it from above, so as entirely to shut out any direct view outwards. By placing the chair near the window, however, and standing upon it, she commanded a limited view downwards between the sole and the lower edge of the wooden projection, and from this she was enabled to satisfy herself that her chamber was on one side of a narrow square court, for she saw the lower part of the buildings that inclosed the three other sides of it. Guessing from the windows that came within her view below, the court was surrounded with cells similar to her own. The startling fact now arose in her mind, that she had thus in one minute made herself as much acquainted with all the objects on which she could bring her eyes to bear from this her place of confinement, as she could do were she to occupy it for half a century. There was something chilling in the reflection, and her soul naturally began to pant in a tenfold degree for liberty. But that day passed away, and the next, and the next, and no kind uncle came to relieve her. "Is there no message from my uncle?" said she at last, as Sarah came to her one morning. "None!" said the old woman, somewhat more gruffly than usual. "I would fain write a letter to him," said Chirsty. "I see no use in that," said Sarah quitting the cell hastily, as if to avoid further question. She did not see the old woman again for several days. Nancy, the little girl already mentioned, attended on her at the usual hours. In vain she tried to prevail on her to procure her writing materials. Her answer was, that she had no means of doing so. She asked for books or work, but the girl's answer was the same. At length old Sarah appeared again. "Any intelligence from my uncle, good Sarah?" said Chirsty. "None!" replied her keeper, in the same tone she had used before. "Then, I beseech you, give me the means of communicating with him by letter," said she earnestly. "Tush, I tell you it would be of no use," replied Sarah. "Nay, give me but pen, ink, and paper, and let me try," said Chirsty. "I am sure he would never allow me to be one moment here, if he could only see and converse with me. Oh! if I could but see him for five minutes, this harassing captivity would be at an end." "Well, then!" said Sarah, after a silence of some moments, during which she appeared to be weighing circumstances in her mind. "Well, then, you shall see un. But see how you behave! Follow me, then, and I shall bring you to your uncle." "Oh, thank you, thank you! a thousand and a thousand times!" cried Chirsty, almost embracing the old woman in the height of her joy. "Depend upon it, I shall satisfy you as to my behaviour." Sarah now opened the door of the cell, and Chirsty followed her. Even the small additional motion of her limbs which she now enjoyed, was luxury to her after the narrow bounds to which she had been confined. The old woman led her along the passage for a considerable way, down one flight of steps, along another passage, to the very end of it, and there she stopped opposite a door, secured by little more than the ordinary fastenings used to any private chamber. Sarah opened it and desired Chirsty to enter. The light of heaven was permitted to pass fully in at the window, and she rushed forward to meet her uncle's embrace. But ere she had gone two steps into the room, her eyes caught a spectacle that effectually arrested her. "Merciful Providence, my poor uncle!" she faintly cried; and, tottering towards a pallet-bed that was near to her, she sank down on the side of it, and gazed with grief and with horror on the miserable object before her. Seated in a wooden elbow chair, she did indeed behold her uncle; but he was there as a mere piece of animated clay. His hair, which always used to be so nicely trimmed and powdered, now hung in long white untamed locks over a countenance so yellow and emaciated as to be absolutely fearful to look upon. Part of it fell over the eyes, which were seen within it like two bits of yellow glass, motionless and void of all speculation. The under jaw hung forward, and the tongue lolled out, as if all muscular power was lost. An old Indian dressing-gown, which Chirsty remembered to have been his pride, as having been presented to him by a great rajah, and as being made of the most valuable stuff that Cashmere could produce, but now begrimed by every species of filth, covered his person. A broad band of girth was passed around his breast under his arms, and attached to the back of his chair, to prevent his weakness or his involuntary motions from precipitating him on the floor. His feet were both occupied in drumming upon the ground, and his hands were extended before him, with the fingers continually crawling like reptiles on his knees, whilst he was ceaselessly emitting a low muttering whine, that never moulded itself into words. The very first glance she had of him convinced Chirsty that her poor uncle was in the last stage of confirmed and hopeless idiocy. "What would a letter have done, think ye, to such a clod as that 'ere?" demanded the unfeeling wretch Sarah, "or what will you make of un, now you have seen un?" "My poor unhappy uncle!" said Chirsty, starting from her seat and going fondly towards him, and weeping over him; "how sadly indeed hast thou been changed! When, alas! did this awful affliction fall upon him? But why has he been removed from his own comfortable home to such a place as this?" "Such a place as this, quotha!" cried Sarah. "Why, what sort of a place would ye have un in? There is not a more comfortabler room in the whole house. And see, if I didn't bring down that 'ere old wardrobe, that we might have summat to hold un's things in; though I must say," added she in an undertone, "that he hasn't much left now that's worth the caring for." "But why has he been removed to such an establishment as this?" said Chirsty. "Surely, surely, his malady, helpless and unoffending as it has rendered him, could have given no disturbance in his own house, why then has he been torn from it? and how could his wife have agreed to treatment so cruel and so unnecessary?" "His wife!" exclaimed Sarah with a laugh. "It was his wife who sent un here; and surely his wife has the most natral right to judge what's best for un." "Horrible!" exclaimed Chirsty, "his wife! There must be some horrible villainy under all this." "What!" exclaimed Sarah. "What is there horrible in a gay woman like her ridding her house of such a filthy slavering mummy as this? He would be a pretty ornament, truly, to grace some of the rich Mrs. Ross's splendid routes, as I now and then see the papers call them. Besides, she pays well for his board here, and it is our interest not to let un die." "Rich!" exclaimed Chirsty indignantly. "Her riches are my uncle's riches; and if one spark of Christian feeling yet remained in her bosom, she ought to have employed them in relieving, so far as they could relieve, this most heavy affliction of a just and wise Providence." "It's not for me to stand argufying with you here, Miss," said Sarah, in a tone of displeasure that led Chirsty to fear a coming storm. "Come, you see you have gotten all the good out of un you can; so you may as well leave un, and go quietly back to your cell." "For the love of your Redeemer, and as you hope for mercy!" cried Chirsty, throwing herself on her knees before her keeper, "force me not to quit my uncle! To him I owe more than the duty of a child to a parent. Yield but to me the charitable boon of allowing me to watch by him, and to attend to him day and night, and you will render me so happy that I shall cheerfully and voluntarily submit to my present cruel confinement, without once inquiring by whose order it comes, or ever seeking to establish how unnecessarily it has been inflicted upon me. Oh! grant me but this, and may blessings be showered down upon you." "I must think about it," gruffly replied Sarah. "In the meantime, you must back to your cell for this day at least. So bid un good-by for this bout. We shall see how you behave, and we shall talk more of the matter to-morrow." Chirsty rose from her knees; and seeing that it was only through submissive obedience that she could hope to obtain what she so ardently wished, she went to her uncle, and taking up his unconscious hand, she kissed it, watered it with her tears, and then slowly left the apartment, and returned to her cell, where she was locked up as before. She was no sooner left to herself, than so many circumstances and reflections occurred to her mind, that it had enough of occupation. She now remembered that after having had regular letters from her uncle for a considerable time, they had all at once ceased. But as the irregularity of Indian correspondence was even more common in those days than it is now, she had regretted this as arising from unfortunate accident, without being very much surprised at it. But much as she had had reason to believe that her aunt was a heartless selfish woman, she never could have imagined that she could have been guilty of conduct so unfeeling towards the unhappy man from whose affection she now derived all that wealth which it appeared she was spending so gaily. As to herself, a moment's thought was enough to convince her that she owed her present confinement more to the malice than to the care of her aunt. She remembered that the only communication from India that contained the intimation that she was about to return to Britain, as well as the name of the ship in which she was to sail, also conveyed the full assurance of the perfect restoration of her mind from its temporary malady. The person who knew to what ship to send for her on her arrival, therefore, must necessarily have known that she required no such treatment as that to which she had been so wickedly subjected. Villainy of the darkest dye, therefore, had been at work against her; and where or how it might end she trembled to think. But the thought of her poor uncle's melancholy situation banished every other consideration from her mind; and all her thoughts and wishes were now concentrated in the desire she felt to stay by him, and to watch over him to the last--the very idea of such a self-devotion being balm to her lacerated heart, as affording her the luxury of indulging that deep gratitude with which his unvarying kindness towards her had always filled her, and which she never hoped to have had any opportunity of repaying. She failed not, therefore, to employ all her meekness and all her eloquence to persuade Sarah to grant her request; and as the gentle drop by frequent repetition will at last wear through the hardest flint, so by repeated appeals to the best of the few feelings which that callous-hearted creature possessed, she at last succeeded in obtaining a limited permission to visit her uncle, which was extended by degrees so far, that she ultimately came to be allowed to go to his chamber in the morning, and to remain with him till he was laid to rest at night, when she was removed for the purpose of being locked up in her own cell. In this employment Chirsty forgot her confinement altogether, and weeks, months, nay even years rolled away with no other occupation but that and her devotions. There were times when she even flattered herself that the unremitting attention which she paid to him was not without some material advantage to his general state. She even thought she saw some amendment in a seeming approach to a certain degree of consciousness. Words, though altogether incoherent and unconnected, would now and then break from him, as if he was following out and giving utterance to some musing dream; and on such occasions she would hang over him with anxious fondness and intense interest, with the hope of catching their meaning. Then she could distinctly perceive that at such times his glassy eyes, which were usually directed upon vacancy, would fix themselves upon her, assume a strange and unwonted animation, as if the dormant spirit had arisen for a moment and come to the windows of its earthly house, to look out upon her,--but alas! when she turned slowly away to try its powers, there was no corresponding motion of the head to maintain the proper direction and level of the eyes towards their object, and she would weep at the cruel failure of her hopes that followed. It did happen, however, that one day whilst she was sitting by her uncle, earnestly engaged in trying such experiments as these, with the sunshine strong upon her face, his lack-lustre eyes being fixed in her direction, they seemed slowly to gather a spark of the fire of intelligence, which went on gradually increasing like the light of dawn, till suddenly they received such an animating illumination as this earth does when the blessed orb of day bursts from behind a cloud; and as all nature then rejoices under the warm influence of his rays, so was the fond heart of his niece gladdened when, as she moved her face slowly from its position, and to this side and to that, the eyes of the nabob followed all her motions with a growing expression, that speedily began to spread itself with a faint glow over his hitherto frozen features. The lolling tongue retreated within the orifice of the mouth, the under jaw was drawn up, and the teeth were pressed together as if with the increasing earnestness of the gaze. His niece, with more than that degree of intensity of absorption of attention with which an alchemist might be supposed to have watched for the projection of the golden harvest of his hopes, seized a hand of her uncle in each of hers, and sat poring into his eyes, and over every feature of his face in breathless expectation. "Chirsty Ross," said he at length, slowly and distinctly, and in a manner that left no doubt that the words were not accidental. "My dear, dear uncle, you know me then at last!" cried the happy girl, warmly embracing him, and sobbing upon his bosom. "Thank God! thank God that you know me!" "Chirsty," said the nabob again, "why did you not write to me sooner? Why was you silent for a whole winter? I have been rash, perhaps. But what is done cannot be undone, and we must e'en make the best of it now. Yet, if you had only but written to me, Chirsty, my love, things might have been different." "Oh, this is too heart-rending!" cried his niece, yielding to an ungovernable paroxysm of grief. "How could you forget to write to me, Chirsty?" continued her uncle. "The woman, to be sure, is not so bad a woman after all; but you and I were so happy here alone together. But I have been a fool, Chirsty; yet she is your aunt, and my wife, so we must e'en submit, and make the best of it." "Gracious Providence, support me in this trying hour!" cried Chirsty fervently. "What!" cried the nabob, in a voice louder than she could have supposed his exhausted state could have admitted of. "What! is the ship to sail for Calcutta so soon? May the God of all goodness be with you then, Chirsty, my love! Keep up your spirits, my sweet girl, you will come home to me soon with a husband and pagodas in plenty. But forget not to write often to me. Your failing in that has already worked evil enough to us both." "Oh, my dear, dear uncle!" cried Chirsty, quite overpowered by her feelings, and sobbing audibly. "Nay, cry not so bitterly, my dear child," said the nabob. "Trust me, we shall, meet again. And if we should not meet again here--if it should please God to remove me from this world ere you return, our sound Christian hope assures us, that we shall meet in another and a better. But, hold!" cried he with a more than natural energy, that seemed to be produced by some sudden and great organic change in his system. "The anchor is up--quick, aboard, aboard! God for ever bless and guard you, my love! my Chirsty!--farewell! Ha! the gallant ship, see how her sails swell with the breeze!--she goes merrily. But--but--how comes this sudden darkness over me? She is gone!--all is gone!--gone!--go--o--oh!" and his words terminated in a long deep groan. Chirsty hastily dried up her tears, and anxiously scanned her uncle's face. His spirit had once more retreated from his glassy eyes--his face had again become deadly pale--his hands were cold, and their pulses had ceased. She shrieked aloud until help came, but it was too late--her uncle was dead. Chirsty was no sooner made certain that all was over with her poor uncle than her nervous feelings, which had been screwed up to the racking pitch by this trying scene, gave way, and she fell in a swoon, that terminated in a repetition of that feverish attack which she had had in India, upon which delirium supervened; and when, after a period of nearly three weeks, she was again sensible of the return of reason, she found herself lying in bed with her hands muffled, as they had been the first night she had slept in the asylum. She awaked from a long, tranquil, and refreshing sleep; and little Nancy, who was seated by her bedside, immediately ran off for Sarah, who came directly. "Aye," said that hideous creature, after surveying her countenance attentively, "she seems quiet enough now. The fit has gone off for this bout." "I have been very ill," said Chirsty faintly, "but now, thank God, I am better." "You have given me trouble enough i'facks," said Sarah. "But here is something that the doctor ordered you to drink; take this, and try to sleep again." Chirsty readily swallowed what was given to her, fell asleep, and was soon well enough to quit her bed, and to be restored to that degree of freedom of person within her cell that she had enjoyed before the discovery that her uncle was under the same roof with herself. She was even allowed to go down once a day, for an hour, attended by Sarah, to breathe the open air, and to walk backwards and forwards in the narrow well of a court that was formed by that wing of the building which contained her cell. But this indulgence did little to relieve the insufferable tedium that seized upon her, now that the only object capable of interesting her had been removed. Her mind now recurred with augmented force to all the horrors of her iniquitous confinement. She resolved to try whether she could not move the compassion of her female Cerberus. "Now that my uncle is gone," said she one day calmly to Sarah, "my confinement becomes so much more cruel and unnecessary, that I am sure you must feel for me. You have now known enough of me during the long period I have been under your care to be sufficiently aware that there never were any grounds for placing me in an asylum of this kind. If, then, I am shut up here for no other cause than that I may not give offence to Mrs. Ross by crossing her path, I am quite willing to give any security that may be asked of me that I will go down directly to live with my friends in Ross-shire, and that she shall never see or be troubled with me more." "What!" exclaimed the wretch who listened to her; "what! and lose the good board which that worthy woman, your aunt, pays for you? No, no! Enough that we have already lost that which she paid for that mummy of a husband of hers. Yet, after all, he lived longer than one might have thought un like to have done. But you--an we but take care of you--you may long be a sure annual rent to us!" "Can nothing move you?" said Chirsty, with a despairing look. "No," said the wretch, with an iron grin. "I am not to be flattered from my trust. But what said you? No grounds for placing you here, quotha! Was it not but the other day that, strong as I am, it took all my power to hold ye down. Ha! ha! ha! The surest sign of madness is the belief that you are not mad." "Then must my hope be in the Lord alone," said Chirsty, in a desponding tone. "But oh! if you would have me live, let me have books or work, or writing or drawing materials, or this painfully irksome confinement must soon kill me." "No, no," said Sarah, shaking her head, "no, no. Writing or drawing materials might be used to send tales out beyond these walls, and books might be used as paper--aye, and work might answer the same end. Therefore content yourself, content yourself, child. I'll do all for you that such a feeling heart as mine can do for a poor fellow-creetur robbed of reason, as you have been. But I must fulfil the duty I am paid for." It happened that the very next day after this, as Chirsty sat with her eyes cast down on the floor of her cell, some small glittering body attracted her notice, and on stooping to pick it up, to her great joy she discovered that it was a needle, which had probably dropped from the sleeve of little Nancy, who usually waited on her. She secured the treasure about her person, as of infinite value, and the possession of it gave rise to a train of reflection that ended in the formation of a scheme for ultimately producing her liberation, which henceforward engrossed all her attention. Provided as she had thus so fortunately been with a needle, she was yet destitute of thread. But her necessity instantly made her think of using her long black hair, with which she resolved immediately to undertake the laborious task of embroidering the outline of her melancholy story on a cambric handkerchief, with the hope that some means might occur to her of thereby communicating the place of her confinement to her friends in Scotland. Eagerly did she sit down to begin the task, but she wept when she discovered, what she had not hitherto been aware of, that the first two or three hairs which she pulled were of a white as pure as that of the handkerchief which was to be the field of her work. Her miseries, however, had not as yet done all the work of age upon her raven tresses; for enough still remained of a silken and glossy jet to have embroidered a whole volume. Such were her feelings at the time, however, that, dreading the change that might yet take place she knew not how quickly, she rent forth such a quantity of the precious material as might, at least, secure the completion of her purpose, and having carefully secreted it, she went to work with an eagerness that seemed to promise to lend her a new existence; and, indeed, the occupation and the hope it yielded her kept her up under all her afflictions for the months and months that elapsed ere she stealthily brought her work to a conclusion. And after it was finished her heart sank within her, for occupation was at an end, and now her dread arose that the work would be fruitless; for where was the hope, in her circumstances, that she might ever find a messenger fit to be entrusted with such a charge. Whilst employed in the work her mind was tranquillised. But now it was thrown into a state of continued nervous excitement, which could not but have a tendency to wear it out. It did happen that, in her way down by the various passages and stairs that led to the little court whither she was daily summoned for exercise, she sometimes, though very rarely, met with strangers passing upwards to visit some unfortunate friend or relative. With none of these dared she to have communicated verbally; and if she had so dared, a word from her stern keeper to strangers in such a place would have turned the most sober expression of perfect sanity into the semblance of the mere utterance of hopeless madness. But if she could in any way manage to put her embroidered history into feeling and charitable hands, she trusted that the curiosity at least of the individual might save it from being either exposed or destroyed, and if so, hope might be interwoven with its living threads. Each time that her cell was opened, therefore, to allow her to descend to the little court her heart beat high. But, alas! day after day, and week after week, passed away, and no one came at the fortunate minute. At length, as she was one day descending one of the flights of stairs, with Sarah close behind her, she met with an old gentleman having a particular lameness in one leg, who was limping up with a crutch. He stood aside to allow her to pass, and the pity, not unmingled with admiration, that seemed to animate his face as he earnestly looked upon her, made her almost accuse herself of folly for not having boldly risked the venture of putting the handkerchief into his hands. But a little thought told her that, if she had done so, all her labour and all her hopes would have been utterly wrecked, for she remembered that the keen eyes of Sarah had been close at her elbow, and detection would have been certain. Several other individuals passed her at different times, but the countenance of none of them gave her sufficient confidence to trust them, even if an opportunity had been afforded her, and every day her nervous excitement and irritability grew more and more distressing. It happened one day, however, that as she was moving along a passage, she heard and recognised the particular stump of the lame gentleman whom she had formerly met. She could not be mistaken, and it was then entering on the lowest step of a flight, down which she was about to turn. She was then a pace or two ahead of Sarah, and contriving to lengthen her stride as she approached the turn at the stairs, she passed a keeper who was hurrying on to open the various locks of a cell which the stranger he was conducting was about to visit. Thus it was that, by fortunate accident, she was brought alone and unseen into contact with the gentleman for a few brief but precious moments. Nerved up by the importance of the act, she expanded her handkerchief before him, to show what it contained, put it into his hand, and with an imploring look that spoke volumes, she signed to him to conceal it, and as she passed him by she quickly whispered him,-- "Hide it now?--read it at home--and, oh! for mercy's sake, act upon it." Taken thus by surprise, the stranger held it for a moment in his hand, and turned to look after her who gave it him. Sarah appeared whilst he was still standing thus. Chirsty stood on the lowest step, and looked up to him in breathless and motionless dread. "What stand ye there for?" cried Sarah roughly to her, as she was descending. The stranger seemed to recover his self-possession. He quietly returned the salutation which Sarah gave him, and wiping his face with the handkerchief, as if it had been his own pulled forth for that purpose, he thrust it deep into his bosom, and began again to climb the steps. Chirsty, overpowered by her feelings, leaned for a moment against the wall. "What's the matter with ye?" cried Sarah impatiently. "Nothing, nothing, good Sarah!" said Chirsty, "only a sudden qualm of sickness, but it has gone off now;" and so saying, she pursued her way with tottering steps. If Chirsty was subjected to anxious excitement before she had thus disposed of her broidered history, how much greater were her nervous agitations, her eternal tossings between hope and fear, from the moment she had thus committed it to the stranger? Had he betrayed her? nay, if he had, she must have heard of it from Sarah, or gathered it from the harsher treatment with which she must have been visited. He must have been so far her friend. But, admitting all this, whether he would have charity enough to act upon his knowledge of the facts it contained, or whether he would treat it as the mere pseudo-rational statement of a maniac, were matters of doubt that agonised her by night as well as by day. She slept not,--she ate not, and her brain grew lighter and lighter every day. She became sensible of this. A most unconquerable dread came upon her, that even admitting that the stranger was doing all he could to inform her friends of her unhappy situation, her senses would be undermined before they could come to her relief, and, as time wore on, and hope grew fainter and duller, she began to yield herself up to despair, which gradually threw its damp and suffocating clouds over her soul. Whilst she was in this gloomy state, she happened one day to think of the needle, which she had now so much reason to fear had been but uselessly employed; and the horrible idea crossed her mind, that even such a small instrument as it might readily enough produce death, and that thus there was yet another and a more certain way in which it might be made to effect her deliverance from her present imprisonment. She immediately drew it forth from the skirt of her gown, where she had concealed it. She looked at it for some moments with a steady but agitated gaze; and then, earnestly imploring Heaven for aid in the fearful struggle she was undergoing, she started up, with a resolution acquired from above, and threw it from the window of her cell, that such wicked thoughts of self-destruction might never again be produced by it; and then, on her knees, she poured out her humble and submissive aspirations of thanks. And now despondency gave way to resolution, and she at length determined to take the first opportunity of making a desperate attempt to effect her escape. But to produce even a hope of success, she saw that it would be necessary to use much preliminary artifice. It was the more easy for her to employ this effectually, that hope had hitherto made her behaviour so mild and so submissive, that all suspicion on the part of her Argus-eyed keeper had been for a long time put to rest. Recollecting what Sarah had said to her as to the important source of revenue which hung on the preservation of her life, she began by complaining of that for which she had, indeed, no inconsiderable grounds of truth, that her health was suffering deeply from want of pure air and exercise. This was touching Sarah in the very point where she was most assailable. She of herself proposed to extend Chirsty's walk to a garden belonging to the place, to the existence of which she had more than once heard her refer. Next day, accordingly, she was taken from her cell, and conducted by Sarah and Nancy down through the same passages, and by the same flights of stairs with which she was already so familiar; but instead of being led into the small court which had hitherto been the utmost extent to which freedom had been permitted her, she was ushered into a large and high-walled orchard or garden, quite umbrageous with fruit-trees, and thickly intermixed with shrubs. Who can fancy, with any approach to the reality, the delight which Chirsty felt whilst wandering among the blossoming shades of this, to her absolutely, celestial spot, after the years of confinement which she had undergone? She leaped--she skipped--she threw her arms about, and laughed as if she had really been the poor unsettled maniac who might have required the restraint she had been so long kept under. She poured out her thanks to Sarah with strange volubility; and as she was guilty of no excess that could alarm her keeper, she was not only readily permitted to remain there for a considerable time under her watchful eye, but she was returned to her cell with a promise that she should be permitted to revisit the garden daily. The effect of this leniency and indulgence was a renovated state of health, perfectly wonderful in itself, and highly gratifying to Sarah. But although the spirits of the patient rose from the blessed influence of a more frequent intercourse with the sun and the sky, her anxious mind was still deeply possessed with the sad conviction that every day made the hope of help from her friends in Scotland less and less probable. Her determination to attempt an escape, therefore, strengthened with the improvement and increase of her physical energies. She never made the round of the garden without scanning every part of its inclosure with scrupulous care. In the course of this daily examination, she one day discovered that a half-witted lad, employed in nailing up the fruit trees, had carelessly left his light hand-ladder leaning against the wall in a corner, where it was in a certain degree hid by a buttress, and as she saw it in the same spot the next day, she became satisfied that it was for the present unwanted and forgotten. The very thought of this as a means for getting over the wall, brought her ingenuity into play; and as she at once saw that any attempt at escape in broad daylight must necessarily be unsuccessful, she began to work upon her keeper to procure a change of the mid-day hour of airing to that of evening. As the garden was used at all times of the day as a place of exercise for the less violent patients, she occasionally encountered them during her walks. She therefore pretended to be seized with an unconquerable alarm at their uncouth appearance, and she declared that it was impossible for her longer to avail herself of the privilege which she enjoyed. "I feel all your kindness to me, unfortunate creature that I am," said she, in a tone of despondency, to Sarah one day, when she came as usual to take her out. "But I cannot bear to have my path crossed by those melancholy objects; and, since it is Heaven's will that I am so condemned to misery in this world, the sooner I am relieved by death, and dismissed to a happier the better." "No, no," said Sarah, who was fully alive to the important improvement of Chirsty's health from the change of system already pursued with her. "We must not let ye die,--we can't afford that,--so walk out you shall. And, since you are frightened by the sight of them 'ere creeturs, we shall walk in the cool of the evening, when they are all locked up." "Thank you, thank you, Sarah," said Chirsty, overjoyed at the success of this first part of her scheme. Anxiously did Chirsty look every evening as she returned to the garden to ascertain whether the ladder was still in its place, for she was obliged to allow one or two nights to pass that she might use certain management with Sarah to ensure something like a probability of success. Under pretence of giving greater exercise to her limbs, she began to jump and dance with Nancy. Some time afterwards she proposed to play a game of hide and seek with her. These sports were renewed for several evenings, so that Sarah was not only lulled into perfect security, but, hard as she was by nature, she was even so much amused by the merriment of the little girl, who was her niece, that Chirsty easily contrived that each successive evening should prolong their sports, until she one night succeeded in remaining in the garden till twilight had almost become darkness. Then it was that she wound up all her energies to make her attempt. "Well, well," said she carelessly, "I am almost tired now, Nancy; but come, I will give you one chance more;" and off she went by way of hiding again among the bushes. But no sooner was she out of sight, than, forcing her way through the thicket, she darted down a long alley with the speed of a hare, mounted the ladder to the top of the wall, drew it up after her, and letting it down on the other side, she was beyond the hated precincts of the asylum before Sarah or the little Nancy had begun to suspect that she was gone. Already did her hopes bound over all intermediate obstacles, and transport her in imagination to her father's humble dwelling at Tain. Finding herself in a lane, with the garden wall on one hand, and another equally high on the opposite side, she sprang forward without knowing whither she went. Loud screams and shouts came from within the garden. On she ran wildly until she was terror-struck for a moment, and arrested by hearing cries of alarm, and beholding the flaring of lights in the very direction in which she was running. The loud baying of the great dog also reached her ears from the same quarter. Winged by fear, she was thus forced to double back, and bethinking her of the ladder, she rapidly retraced her steps to the spot where she had left it. Taking it hastily down from the garden wall, she dragged it across the lane with the intention of applying it to that on the other side. Whilst her trembling hands were in the act of doing this, the harsh iron screams of Sarah came all of a sudden loudly up the lane from the opposite direction to that in which Chirsty had first attempted to fly. A postern-door of the garden had given the old woman egress at about fifty yards below. Dreadful was now the nervous agitation of poor Chirsty. Her utmost strength was necessary to rear the ladder, light as it was, against the wall. She did succeed, however. Her enraged and baffled keeper was toiling up to her, with her wide mouth uttering shrieks and imprecations that might have well been called infernal. Chirsty climbed the ladder with a palsy in all her joints. She was already on the top of the wall,--one moment more would have enabled her to pull the ladder up beyond the reach of the infuriated dwarf, and she had succeeded in raising it a considerable way from the ground, when the uncouth monster reached the spot, and clutching at the lower end of it with her long hands, she with one powerful jerk, not only dragged it down, but she so destroyed the equilibrium of the unfortunate fugitive, that she fell from the top of the wall into the lane, where the hideous countenance and demoniac eyes of Sarah frowned and glared over her, and the horrible laugh of triumph, and the blasphemous denunciations of vengeance and punishment which the monster uttered, rang in her ears ere she was borne off senseless to the asylum. You are doubtless desirous to know something of the history of poor Charles Græme, who, as you may remember, left India for the purpose of following Chirsty Ross to England? I shall shortly tell you, that on reaching Britain, he made ineffectual inquiries for her at her uncle's residence. Mrs. Ross denied having ever seen or heard of her. He did find out her Indian maid; but from the little that she told him, he could make out no clue to lead to the discovery of her mistress. And after many ineffectual attempts, repeatedly made for months, he at length yielded to the advice of his friends, and returned to India, where he vainly endeavoured to eradicate the sorrow of his heart by fresh and intense occupation. After the lapse of a good many years, accident led a gentleman to visit a noble friend of his, who was proprietor of a fine estate and residence in Ross-shire. The roads thereabouts were then so bad for wheeled carriages, that, tired of the slowness of his progress and of the jolting of his vehicle, he left it at an inn to come after him at its own rate by a somewhat circuitous route, and mounting his servant's horse, he set off unattended. Following the directions he received from the people of the house, he took what was called the shortest way, hoping that he might yet save his distance so far as to reach his friend's house to a late dinner. Many was the long Scottish mile of ground which he travelled over, however; and still as he interrogated the peasants whom he met with, he found that the way before him seemed rather to be lengthening than diminishing. His horse began to manifest great symptoms of fatigue, and as the night was settling down very fast, he was glad to meet with a man who pointed out to him a track leading by the sea-shore, which, as he assured him, would save him several miles of distance. At the same time he told him, that he would require to push on smartly, so as to reach a certain ford at the mouth of a river, before the flowing tide should render it quite impracticable. Stimulated by this information, and being, moreover, impatient to get to his journey's end, he put spurs to his horse and galloped on as fast as the tired animal could go. He had not proceeded very far, when a vivid flash of forked lightning blazed amid the obscurity that brooded over the sea, and a tremendous peal of thunder rent the air. The waves, which were gradually rising upon tho beach, seemed every moment to swell more proudly, and to toss their snowy crests higher, and suddenly a deluge of rain began to be poured from the gathered clouds. The somewhat delicate traveller wished himself again within his old box of a carriage in defiance of its jolting; but now, both in mercy to himself and to the animal he rode, he was compelled to force the poor creature on to an accelerated pace, that they might the sooner reach some place of shelter. As if fully aware of the necessity of exertion, his horse bore him with tolerable rapidity for two or three miles amidst the lightning and rain and the thunder that at times deafened the sound of the advancing waves, till, as the darkness was just about to become complete, he dimly descried the huge mass of an ancient building rising before him from a low peninsula; and, on further investigation, he discovered that he had reached the river of which the peasant had spoken. A very cursory examination only was necessary to assure him that the stream was already so swollen by the rain and the tide as to take away all hope of his being able to ford. The river was a raging torrent, and the roar of its conflict with the swelling tide, was a terrific addition to the horrors of the storm. The gentleman had no alternative left, therefore, but to look for hospitality in the adjoining building. Having dismounted then, he led his horse in at a gateway, and, having discovered a dilapidated outhouse, with a half entire roof, he contrived to fasten the animal by the bridle to a rusty iron hook that projected out of the wall. He then made his way across a court-yard so covered with tall docks and nettles as very much to discourage any hope which he might have previously entertained of finding inhabitants within the edifice; but, as he groped his way towards the great door of the huge pile, he was cheered by beholding a light that glimmered through the unglazed and broken casements of what appeared to be a large apartment about two stories up, whence he distinctly heard the singing of a woman's voice. Somewhat encouraged by this circumstance, and guided by the faint gleam, he tried the ponderous old oaken door, but he found that it was firmly secured within. He was about to apply his hand to a large rusty iron knocker that hung upon it, when his attention was arrested by a wild laugh which echoed through the apartments above, died away, and was again more than once repeated with strange, sudden, and incomprehensible changes. Some of those superstitious feelings of which his infancy had largely partaken for a moment seized upon him, and he doubted whether the building was not tenanted by beings with whom those of this world could not dare to have intercourse. But a little thought, and a little more attention to the voice, soon reassured him against anything supernatural, and he then began to question himself whether he might not be about to rouse some body of lawless banditti or smugglers who might have taken possession of that which was evidently a ruined castle, as a place for their retreat or rendezvous. Was it prudent to proceed? But he was a man who never feared danger in youth; and, now that youth was long past with him, certain bitter disappointments he had met with in early life, and the consequent sorrow which his heart had ever since endured, rendered him now much too careless about mere existence ever to allow any anxiety regarding that to influence his conduct, even if the deluge of rain which was then falling had not been enough to stimulate the faintest heart to the bold determination of making good an entrance at all hazards. Raising the knocker, therefore, he made a furious appeal to those within. But whether it was that the roar of the thunder, the rumbling of the river, the booming of the waves, and the continued plash of the rain, combined to drown his efforts, or to render the inmates deaf to his summons, he found it necessary to repeat his loud larum several times ere his ear caught the sound of a step descending the stair from above. The stair was included in one of those curious thin round towers which are so frequently seen rising from the side of the doorway of these old Scottish castles, and a small window about half a story up seemed to have been placed there to enable the appearance of all applicants for entrance to be well reconnoitred before admission should be granted to them, whilst a small round arrow or musket hole on a level with their heads, enabled them to be easily and successfully assailed from below, if they were likely to be at all troublesome. A flaring light streamed suddenly out from the small window above, and threw a partial and fitful gleam over a part of the dripping weeds of the wet court-yard. It proceeded from a lighted torch of bog-fir, and the stranger's attention was instantly arrested by the apparition that brandished it aloft with a bare extended arm. It was a woman, whose countenance, though wasted, and tarnished, and rendered wiry, as it were, by exposure to weather, yet exhibited features of the noblest character, so that even a momentary glance at them and the dark eyes that flashed from them with a wild expression, as the torch which she held forth threw back its flickering light upon them, convinced the stranger that they must have been once beautiful. "Who comes at this unseasonable hour to these my castle gates?" demanded the woman, in a haughty tone. "A single traveller overtaken by night and by this pelting rain," replied the stranger, "from which, with your kind permission, he would fain find a temporary shelter." "Aha!" exclaimed the woman again, with a curious expression of extreme and cunning caution, "dost think that these gates of mine ever turn upon their hinges to admit any guests but those who come in their gilt coaches,--aye, and with their running footmen and out-riders too?" "I doubt not what you say," replied the stranger; "but I am at this moment acting the part of my own out-rider; I left my carriage to go by another road, whilst I came on this way on horseback. Pray, good madam, send down one of your people, and his inspection of my horse, which I have used the freedom to tie up in your stable, will no doubt satisfy you." "My people! ha! ha! ha!" exclaimed she laughing wildly, "you look to be a gentleman, though, Heaven knows, looks are never to be trusted in this deceitful world. But I will see you nearer," and having disappeared from the window, he heard her step descending the lower flight of the stair. After a few moments of a pause, the heavy bolts were withdrawn, and the door was slowly opened to about one-third of its extent. Although prepared to behold something rather extraordinary, the gentleman was absolutely startled by the appearance of the woman who now stood before him. He had already seen her countenance, but now he could perceive that her hair was exceedingly long and untamed, and whilst the greater part of it was white or grizzled, as if from premature failure, it still contained what, if properly dressed, might have been called tresses of the most beautiful glossy black, and the strange effect of this unnatural intermixture of the livery of youth and of age, was heightened by the wild combination of such fantastical wreaths of heather and sea-weed, mingled with, sea-birds' feathers, as insanity is usually so fond of adopting by way of finery. Her arms were bare to the shoulders, and her bust was but imperfectly covered by a coarse canvas shirt. A red flannel petticoat that descended to her knees, and which was confined at the waist by a broad leathern belt, was the only other piece of drapery that she wore. She stood before the stranger exhibiting the wrecks of a form of the most exquisite mould, and her whole appearance betraying the fact, that whatever the soul that animated it might have once been, its reason was now obscured by the darkness arising from confirmed derangement. "Enter my castle, sweet sir!" said the maniac in a gentle and subdued voice, and at the same time courtseying with a grace which might have better befitted the attire of a court than that which she wore. "Enter my castle, and I will speedily usher you up to the grand banqueting-room. But stay," added she, with a sudden and wild change of manner, after he had obeyed her invitation, "I must make my gates secure against the wretches, they might find me out even here. Bolt! bolt! bolt! there my brave bolts," she continued, changing her speech into a chant, as if addressing them in incantation,-- "Keep your wards, Be faithful guards,-- And you, master-key, Great warden shall be; To defend me from force and from traitorie." "Come along, sir," continued she, again changing to a wild mood; "this way--I have a pride and a pleasure in personally attending on so distinguished a guest, as your whole appearance and manners declare you to be." The gentleman followed his conductress up the half-ruined screw stair, which here and there exhibited fearful chasms, from the entire absence of two or three successive steps, over which she skipped without the least hesitation, whilst he was obliged to thrust his nails into the crevices of the wall to hoist himself over the difficulty. But after he had ascended two flights, he came to a landing-place where there was a doorway entering into that large hall, from which he had first heard the voice of the maniac. Into this she led the way, and as he was about to follow her, you may imagine his astonishment when I tell you he discovered that the whole flooring was gone except the bare oaken beams, and the apartments below being in the same state, his eyes stretched uninterruptedly downwards till vision was lost in the impenetrable darkness of the dungeons below. But his conductress hesitated not a moment, and went onwards from beam to beam, with as much indifference as she would have walked across a paved court, until she gained the great hearth, which, with a small portion of the planking in its vicinity, was still entire, and where a fire of wood was burning under the huge projecting chimney. "Come, sir," said the maniac, smiling courteously, "never mind your wet boots; don't stand upon ceremony, I pray you, your long ride and the state of the weather are sufficient apologies. Here is a seat by the fire for you." She then busied herself in placing an old rotten-looking chair, which appeared to have once had a back, and which seemed to have belonged to the castle in its better days, whilst she seated herself on an opposite stool, and began to arrange her head-gear, to run her taper fingers, with, nails on them like eagle's talons, through her long hair, and to twist it round into certain curls that had now probably become natural from the art and care which had once been bestowed upon them. Meanwhile, the stranger, after bracing up his nerves and steadying his head, and balancing his person, with some difficulty and hazard accomplished the perilous passage. "You must be hungry, sir, after your ride," said the maniac, in the same mild tone. "I was about to sup when you came in. Perhaps you will have no objections to join me." And then suddenly changing in her tone, and bursting into an uncouth laugh, as she looked into a pot that hung simmering over the fire--"Ha!--ha!--ha!--hah!--see!--the water has boiled well. The lightning has helped to do that for me. I am the favoured one! The very elements are my cooks! Hah! did you see where it came again? flash--zigzag--zigzag. Now 'tis time to mix the pudding," and, thrusting her hand into a large square hole in the wall, she dragged out, first a bag of oatmeal, and then a small wooden vessel full of salt, and with an earnestness which for the time absorbed her attention from everything else, she proceeded to put the ingredients into the pot, and to stir them about with a large wooden spoon. "Now for my silver dish!" said she again, as she pulled forth a pewter basin from the same recess in the wall. "Well is it for me that my gates are watched and warded, else would robbers soon carry off this rare treasure of my castle. See here now--ha! ha! ha! let us begin the feast." And as she said so, she filled the pewter basin from the pot, by means of the wooden spoon, and set it between them on an old box turned upside down, and drawing forth a couple of pewter spoons from her curious cupboard, she handed one to the stranger. "Hah!" said she sternly, as she broke into a more violent state of excitement than she had hitherto exhibited, "do you see that mark?" And as she said this, she drew with her forefinger a line of division across the surface of the mess that stood between them--"That's your half and this is mine: so take care what you do, for I'll have no foul play--men can cheat!--but I'm hungry, and I must have my food; so see to it that you eat no more than what is your own." The mind of the traveller was too much filled with this strange and distressing scene to admit of his appetite leading him to infringe on the rule thus prescribed to him, even if the food itself had been much more inviting than it really was; on the contrary, he had hardly eat a third part of his way up to the boundary line, when he found that his hostess had scrupulously given it a straight edge upon her side. "Come!" said she, in an angry tone of voice, quite different from any she had hitherto used; "eat up your share! do you think I want it? Come, there is no poison in it. Come! come!" "I do, I do," said the gentleman, pretending to eat; and every now and then contriving to throw unobserved a large spoonful down between the beams; until, partly by eating, and partly by this occasional manoeuvre, he at last succeeded in emptying the dish. "Now, sir!" said the maniac, resuming all the quiet and decorous demeanour of a well-bred woman, "a little gentle exercise after supper conduces to good repose. I shall be happy to give you my hand for a minuet." Pushing back the seats they had occupied, she seized the stranger's hand, and took her position beside him on the hearth. He offered no opposition to her proposal; and she immediately began to sing with great brilliancy and effect that minuet so well known to our grandsires and grandmothers under the name of the Minuet de la Cour. Following the example of his entertainer, the gentleman was obliged to make his preliminary bows corresponding to her preliminary courtesies; and had any eye looked upon the couple as they were thus employed, it might have been naturally enough supposed that he danced with some handsome lady of quality disguised in a fancy dress, so perfectly did the grace of her attitudes assimilate themselves to the various movements of the minuet. But the gentleman had not altogether calculated the nature of his present undertaking. The spot of terra firma on which the dance commenced was by no means large enough for the extent of one-tenth part of the figure of the minuet; and a less bold man than he would have felt anything but tranquillity of mind, when his insane partner, giving him her hand, glided with him over the beams, amidst the half light that proceeded from the decaying embers, like some spirit from the other world. But if this was alarming, what were his feelings, when, after the slow part of the minuet was over, she began to carol the sprightly gavot which follows it, with a clear voice, that made the lofty vaulted roof ring again, whilst she darted off and called to him to follow. So, indeed, he found himself compelled to do; but whilst he, at the risk of his life, contented himself with keeping up something like a semblance of the figure, he was astonished and appalled to see his partner go through the whole dance with all that activity which might have been exhibited on a common floor by the ablest professional dancer. Though he felt not for himself, his hair actually stood on end as he looked with trembling on her, whom he expected every moment to see disappear from his eyes into that abyss of darkness that lay below; and great was his relief from anxiety when the dance was at last terminated on the hearthstone where it began. "And now, gentle sir," said the maniac, "you are doubtless well prepared for your night's repose after this healthful exercise. Let me see that your sleeping apartment is ready." Had the roaring elements without permitted the stranger to have again ventured abroad, he saw that he could not have possessed himself of the keys of the outer door without the employment of force, which his feeling heart never could have allowed him to have attempted. He therefore sat patiently waiting until his hostess crossed the beams, and went into a small stone closet opening in the wall, whence she speedily returned, and lifting a lighted brand of bog-fir from the fire, she presented it to him with the same air as if she had been putting a silver candlestick, with a wax candle in it, into his hand; and taking up another for herself, she, with all the delicacy of the most refined lady, wished him a good night, and retired into a room on the other side of the hall similar to that which she had indicated to him. Before retreating to his dormitory, the gentleman took the precaution to rake the fire together, and to add to it one or two pieces of wood, which were piled up in the chimney near it, so as to keep up a certain degree of light in the place. He then moved across the beams to the stone closet, where he found a heap of ferns nicely spread over heather, and putting his cloak on, which had by this time become tolerably dry, he lay quietly down to try to procure a little repose. He had not lain long until he was awakened by several rats running over him, and on looking out at the open door which gave him a view into the large apartment, he beheld swarms of these creatures gambolling about on the beams. Whilst he was lying watching their motions, he was surprised to perceive his hostess crawling silently forth on hands and knees from the small place she had occupied. Suddenly she sprang upon the rats with all the agility of a cat, flew after them hither and thither, with wild and frantic yells, leaping at the walls in such a manner that she absolutely seemed to scramble up a portion of their height in the eagerness of her pursuit. The chase lasted until all the rats had disappeared, but ere it terminated, several of them had fallen victims to her wonderful expertness in capturing them. Proceeding then to the hearth, she seated herself on the stool by the fire, in a state of great excitement, and inserting her long nails into them, she stripped off their skins one after the other with inconceivable expedition, and as she did so, she rose up from time to time and suspended the bleeding reptiles on tenter-hooks on one side of the chimney among many others which the stranger had not till then observed, whilst she attached their skins to a similar set of hooks on the other side of the fire, amongst a corresponding number of trophies of the same kind. "This is for my winter beef," said she in a wild soliloquy, "and this is for my winter cloak!" This she repeated as every new occasion required, till all were stowed away. After which the furious fit seemed to subside; and soon afterwards she retired to her bed, where she lay so quiet as to give no more disturbance to her stranger guest, till both were roused by the early dawn. The morning was a smiling one, and as if she had partaken of its peaceful nature, she was again in one of her gentle lady-like humours. "Will you walk, sweet sir?" said she to her guest, with a profound courtesy. "Will you walk forth to see the morning sun kissing the opening flowers and drinking up the dewdrops from their lips? This way," continued she, as she ushered him down the broken stair, and silently opened the locks and bolts of the outer door. "I thank you most sincerely for your hospitality, Madam," said the traveller to her whilst she was carefully locking the door behind her. "I must now bid you farewell. I see my horse has had the good sense to break out from his stable during the night to feed on yonder rich bank of grass, so that he must be well enough refreshed by this time to be able to finish my journey." "What," exclaimed the maniac with a sudden transition to her highest pitch of excitement, and with great rapidity of utterance, "are you going to leave me too? Did you not come to this my castle to woo me for your bride? And are you going to leave me too? But I forget, I forget," continued she, sinking into a low thoughtful tone of feeling, whilst tears came rushing to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. "I must not forget that I am pledged in my own mind. There was but one that ever truly loved me, and him I lost by being true to a base deceiver." "What said you?" exclaimed the stranger with intense interest. "I say that men are deceivers!" cried she with her wildest tone and gesture; and then becoming gradually calm, she went on singing with great pathos,-- "Sigh no more ladies, Ladies sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever, Men were deceivers ever, One foot on sea and one on shore---- Yes! yes! on sea!--how many vows did that false man of the sea utter! and how cruelly did he break them on shore!" "What do I hear?" exclaimed the gentleman. "The very song! the very song we so often sang in duet together at Calcutta!" "Calcutta!" cried the maniac, earnestly seizing his wrist, and in a tone of deep feeling; "yes, I sang that song often at Calcutta with one who tenderly loved me. How often do I think on that!" "Merciful powers!" cried the stranger, as he suddenly observed a small Indian wrought ring on the little finger of that hand by which she had for a moment held his; "by all that is wonderful, it is the ring! the very ring! Let me see that ring!" "No!" said the maniac, in a high, haughty, and determined manner; "it shall never be touched by you nor any one else. He gave it to me--I have worn it--I have preserved it through all my miserable sufferings, and it shall go with me," added she, fervently kissing it; "it shall go with me to my cold cold grave." "Stop, stop!" cried the gentleman, as she was turning away from him; "avoid me not! I am he who gave it you!" "You!" cried she, stopping suddenly in her retreat, drawing herself up to her full height, and looking back upon him with an air of the most sovereign contempt; "you Charles Græme!--Ha! ha! ha! ha!--you Charles Græme!--His face was fair, and with the expression of an angel; yours is sallow, withered, and wrinkled, like that of a baboon--his hair was lovely as the beams of the morning sun; yours is white, as the eternal snow of the Himala--his form was like that of the Grecian Apollo; yours is like that of winter. Go, traitorous man! I have had enough of falsehood! Come not near me! Chirsty Ross will wed no one now but Charles Græme or the grave!" In an instant she darted from his sight, before he was aware of her intention, and she disappeared among the ruins. In the wildest state of agitation he rushed after her. He thought he heard a faint shriek, but he vainly sought her with unremitting solicitude for some hours. Believing at length that she must have got into the interior of the building by some secret passage known only to herself, he unwillingly gave up his search, and the sea having now ebbed, and the flood in the river having somewhat subsided, he mounted his horse, with some difficulty crossed the ford, and, oppressed with sorrowful thoughts, he slowly made his way to the castle of his noble friend, to whom he confided his sad tale. From him he learned much that was new to him. A cambric handkerchief, embroidered with Chirsty's story, had found its way to her friends, who, after many difficulties, succeeded in rescuing her from her confinement. But alas! they found her not till her sufferings had rendered her a confirmed maniac. For a time she felt soothed by the kindness shown her by her afflicted parents; and during the short time they lived, she amused herself by wandering harmlessly about the scenes of her childhood. But when her father and mother were both dead, and all her other relatives being likewise gone or removed, she abandoned her home and took up her abode in the ruinous building, of which she was for the most part left in undisturbed possession. Such was the melancholy outline of her history. But Charles Græme was too feelingly alive to her unhappy situation to delay one moment in attempting to find her, that he might spend the remainder of his life in watching over and protecting her. Next day, therefore, assisted by his friend's people, he made his way into the ruins, and sought every part of them. But he sought in vain. Everything remained as when he had left them on the previous morning, and although the door was locked, the bolts on the inside were not fastened, showing that the wretched inhabitant had not returned. But the mystery was cleared up towards mid-day by a fisherman, who, as he was landing from his boat, found her lifeless body on the sands, where it had been left by the receding tide. The supposition was that she had been drowned in attempting to ford the swollen river, immediately after the scene of her parting with Charles Græme. COMPLIMENTARY CRITICISM. Dominie.--'Pon my word, Mr. Clifford, you have given us good measure indeed; and of ane excellent faybric, too. As I shall answer, we are well on with the small hours. Grant (pulling out his watch)--Is it possible? I declare I thought that it had been only about ten o'clock. Why, it is a good hour and a half after midnight. Clifford.--I was resolved to reel you out a good long line while I was about it. I thought that it was but fair to give Mr. Macpherson an opportunity of being even with me, by enjoying as good a slumber as I had last night, but his politeness was proof against the soporific influence of my tale. Dominie.--Your tale would have been as good as an umberella against all the drowsy drops that ever were shaken from the bough of Morpheus himself. Author.--Perhaps it might; but now that the umbrella is taken down, the dewy balm of the god begins to descend very heavily upon my eyelids. Grant.--Come, then, let us to bed. The next morning's sun found us all later in bed than usual. After breakfast we left the village, and winding down through the forest of tall pines that lies between it and the river, and crossing the ancient bridge, we left the Spey behind us, and climbed the old military mountain road that leads towards Tomantoul. Clifford (stopping and looking back over the valley)--What a grand Highland prospect! Grant.--How proudly the grim old castle domineers over the extended forests, and the country of which it is the lord paramount! Let us sit down on this green bank of velvet grass, and enjoy the view. See how happily that single touch of bright light falls on the Cumin's tower. Clifford.--Well thought off. Talking of the Cumins, we must not allow you to leave us, Mr. Macpherson, without telling us the story of Gibbon More, to which you alluded at Castle Grant. Dominie.--I must tell it to you now then, gentlemen; for I grieve to say that I must part from you at the top of the hill a little way farther on. So, if you have a mind to sit down and enjoy this refreshing breeze for a little time, I shall give you the legend in as few words as I can. LEGEND OF GIBBON MORE CUMIN AND HIS DAUGHTER BIGLA. If you will be pleased to remember, gentlemen, I already told you, that previous to the fourteenth century the whole of Strathspey was subjeck to that great clan or nation the Cumins. It was about that period, as I informed you, that the Grants, from Glen Urquhart, were, by royal favour, enabled to possess themselves of Freuchie,--a place of strength, so called from a certain heathery hillock near to which it stood. The Cumin's tower was probably part of that original building which, in the course of generations, has grown up into that great baronial pile which we now behold yonder. It is natural to imagine that the Cumins could not possibly regard this alienation of the property of their clan without its begetting their hatred against those who benefited by it, though they dared not always to show it by open deeds of violence. Their submission, however, was by no means owing to their weakness, for, notwithstanding that the Grants thus got a footing in this country, so powerful did the Cumins continue for a while, that many were the strangers that came from other clans to reside among them for protection, as was not uncommon in that olden time of trouble; these fugitives changed their own names for that of the people among whom they had thus found a safe retreat. But they were never admitted to a full participation in all the rights of the clan Cuminich, without submitting to undergo a very odd sort of an irreverential baptism, altogether worthy of the iron age in which it was practeesed. Gilbert Cumin, Lord of Glenchearnich, as that country, watered by the river Dulnan, was denominated, was usually called Gibbon More, from his enormous size and strength. His chief residence was at Kincherdie, on the north-western bank of the Spey, on the brink of the river, just where there is now a ferry across to Gartenmore, the vurra place, sir, where, as you have recorded in your book of "The Floods," the worthy Mrs. Cameron made her miraculous voyage upon a brander. The old chronicler tells us, that the house stood on a green moat, fenced by a ditch, the vestiges of which are yet to be seen. A current tradition beareth, that at night a salmon net was cast into the pool below the wall of the house, and a small rope tied to the net, and brought in at the window, had a bell hung at it, which rung when a salmon came in and shook the net, so that the beast was quickly transferred from the river to the pot. What think ye of that, Mr. Clifford? Clifford.--Very ingenious! but foul poaching. Well, whilst Gibbon More Cumin flourished, the ceremony of Cumin-making was always performed by his own hands. At the door of his castle there stood a huge stone, which I have often myself seen when I was a boy, and which, for ought I know, may be still in existence. It was hollowed out in the middle like an ancient baptismal font, and, indeed, it is by no means unlikely that it had been originally formed as such. Be this as it may, however, Gibbon More had it always filled with water for the refreshment of his fowls. But, besides its uniform devotion to the truly ignoble purposes of his poultry, it was also employed by him in the unseemly rites to which I have referred. When any of the strangers of whom I have spoken had a desire to be metamorphosed into a Cumin, he was brought incontinently to Kincherdie. There the gigantic Lord of Glenchearnich, with the observance of very great and decorous form, lifted him up, and having slowly and solemnly reversed the natural perpendicular position of the poor sinner, he held him up by the heels, as Thetis did her infant boy Achilles, and having dipped his head three times amid the pollutory potation, as I may call the hen's water that filled the hollow stone, he set him, gasping and gaunting, upright on his legs again, telling him, in a stately tone, henceforward to live and do like a Cumin as he now was. But, notwithstanding this cantrip of Gibbon More's, there was a marked distinction still preserved between those who were Cumins by blood and those who were thus manufactured by him by virtue of the chuckies' water, for these children of adoption and their descendants had always the degrading addition given to them of Cuminich clach-nan-cearc, or Cumins of the hen-trough. It happened, about the time I am speaking of, that young Sir John Grant, son and heir of Sir Patrick Grant of Stratherrock, now the Laird of Freuchie, did one evening thus hold converse with a curious misformed waggish boy, who had no father, and who went by the familiar name of Archy Abhach, or Archy the Dwarf. Kicked and cuffed as the youth had been about the castle, Sir John had taken compassion on him, and had made him his page; and the boy's gratitude and attachment were consequently great. "Why look ye so sad, sir?" demanded the boy, gently approaching his master, as he sat one evening on the battlement of the bartizan, looking towards the setting sun, with his head resting on the basket-hilt of his claymore, and his legs swinging about, as if he cared not whether he should swing himself over the wall or not. "Can poor Archy do nothing to rid thee of thy melancholy mood?" "Nay, boy," said the knight, kindly taking his hand, "I doubt thy powers can scarcely reach my malady." "As yet thou knowest not the extent of my powers," said the boy gravely, "nor can I show thee my remedy till thou makest me to know thy disease. Yet, methinks, my skill is such that I might dare shrewdly to guess at it. Hast thou not ta'en a heart-wound from a pair of bright eyes?" "So far I must needs say, that, judging from this first effort of thine, thy skill in divining is not to be questioned," said the knight. "I will adventure further then, and say, that the slanting beams of yonder declining sun are now gilding the casement of thy lady-love," said the boy Archy. "O Archy, Archy!" cried the knight, giving full way to his feelings, "I have never enjoyed a moment's peace since I beheld her at Whitsuntide at the church of Inverallan. She is an angel." "Granting that she be so," said the boy, "for such they tell me must, reason or none, be yielded to all lovers--yea though the fair cause of their madness should be little less than a devil--granting, I say, that she be an angel, surely that should be no reason why thou shouldst thus mope and pine, Sir Knight." "Thou forgettest, boy, that the hatred naturally born between a Cumin and a Grant forbids all hope on my part," said Sir John despondingly. "Methinks I could bring thee an instance where this hatred hath been exchanged for love," said the boy. "Where? when? with whom?" cried the knight eagerly. "Here--now--and with Sir John Grant towards Matilda or Bigla Cumin, as she is called in the country here, daughter and heiress of the big Lord of Glenchearnich," replied the boy laughing. "Pshaw!" cried the knight, with a disappointed air. "Nay, dear master," said the boy; "and if thou hast been able to get over this natural-born antipathy, why may not Bigla Cumin have been equally blessed by Heaven?" "Ah!" cried the knight again, "would it might be so!" "Wilt thou but give me leave to go to try what may be done?" demanded the boy. "Be assured I shall be better than most mediciners, for if I do no good, I shall take especial care to do no harm." "Kind boy, thou mayest e'en do thy best," said the knight. "I well know thy zeal for thy master's good; but were thy powers somewhat more equal to thy zeal, I should count more on the success of thine efforts." "Such as my poor powers may be, they shall be used to the utmost in thy service, Sir Knight," said the boy. "Good night, then, so please thee; and farewell, it may be for some time, for I go on mine errand by to-morrow's dawn, and the better I prosper, the longer, perchance, may be mine absence." "Go, and may the Blessed Virgin guide thee and give thee luck," said the knight. "But see, boy, that thou bringest thine own person into no peril." "Trust me for that," said Archy, as he disappeared from the bartizan. The sun of next morning had scarcely well risen, and Gibbon More had just issued from his door to take a look at its face, that he might judge of the coming weather, when he descried an ill-formed dwarfish youth approaching, whose countenance, though ill-favoured, had a certain prepossessing expression in it. "Whence comest thou, little man?" demanded the Lord of Glenchearnich. "I come from the east," said the boy readily; "my name is Archy--other name have I none--and I would fain be a Cumin." "Ha! ha! ha!--a Cumin, wouldst thou?" said Gibbon laughing. "By St. Mary, but our clan will be invincible when it shall be strengthened by such a powerful graff as thou! Tell me, what wouldst thou be good for, boy?" "I could draw a bow at a pinch," said the boy. "But I must needs confess that I were better for the service of some gentle lady's bower. I'd willingly be thy fair daughter the Lady Matilda's page; and I'd serve her right faithfully." "If Bigla should fancy thy ugly face, I care not if she should have thee," said Gibbon More, "for though thy countenance be homely, it would seem to be honest." "Make me a Cumin, and the lady shall have no cause to complain of me," replied the boy. "Thou shalt have thy wish then, boy, without further delay," said Gibbon More; and he straightway lifted up the youth, and, with more than ordinary gentleness, he performed the ceremony of the threefold ablution on him. Archy Abhach, now converted into Archy Cumin, was speedily installed in his new office as page to the Lady Bigla, and, in his very first interview, he contrived to establish himself very firmly in the good graces of his fair mistress. But what might have been considered more wonderful, he made a no less favourable impression upon her handmaiden, a matter which jealousy might have rendered more difficult with any attendant of a less amiable disposition than the attached Agnes possessed. "There is something more than usually interesting about that poor friendless boy," said the lady to Agnes, after her new page had been dismissed from her presence for a short time. "A most interesting youth, notwithstanding the niggardly way in which dame Nature seems to have treated him," said Agnes archly; "but as to his being friendless, I shrewdly suspect that he is a rogue for making that pretence." "What mean you, Agnes?" demanded Bigla. "I mean that the varlet had no need to have come to Kincherdie to look for protection, seeing that he hath long been the favourite of one of the bravest young knights in all the country round," said Agnes. "Of whom do you speak?" demanded Bigla. "Of a certain Sir John Grant, son and heir of old Sir Patrick Grant of Freuchie," replied Agnes, with an air of mock gravity; "but, perhaps, you have never seen nor heard of the man." "O Agnes!" cried Bigla, energetically clasping her hands, and throwing down her eyes and blushing deeply. "You have heard of him, then, lady?" said Agnes. "A truce to your raillery," said Bigla seriously, "and tell me quickly all you know or guess of this matter." "Why, all I know of the matter is simply this," said Agnes, in the same tone, "last Whitsuntide the Lady Bigla Cumin saw, for the first time, the handsome young knight, Sir John Grant of Freuchie, at the church of Inverallan. The knight, with becoming gallantry, stepped gracefully forward and lifted the lady to her saddle, sighing deeply as he resigned the precious load to her prancing palfrey. The lady's bower damsel, the quick-sighted Agnes Cumin, soon perceived that the said knight and lady had made a mutual impression on each other. With her wonted acuteness and ingenuity, the said damsel soon extracted the truth from the said lady; and seeing that a misformed imp of a page, then in attendance on the said knight, hath now, without any apparent cause, left so good a master in order to undergo the ceremony of being baptized as a Cumin in the nauseous hen-trough, the said acute damsel ventures readily to pronounce that the flame burns as brightly and warmly at Freuchie as it does in my lady's bower at Kincherdie--that is all." "But what can Sir John Grant mean by all this?" demanded Bigla, blushing more deeply than ever. "To seek and secure an interview to be sure," replied Agnes; "but I shall soon know what he would be at," continued she. "I shall soon be at the bottom of it all." Without giving the Lady Bigla time to reply, the prompt and decided Agnes hurried away to hold converse with the page. Meeting, as they did, like two sharp flints, they were not long in striking fire enough to throw light upon the matter. Having mutually made one another fully aware of the position of affairs on both sides, they, without further hesitation, proceeded, like two able plenipotentiaries, to arrange plans for the future; and it was finally agreed between them, without further ceremony, that the high contracting parties should meet in person, on the ensuing evening, in the bourtree bower, at the lower end of the garden, beyond the rampart, and the page was forthwith despatched on a secret mission to the knight to inform him immediately of this so happy an arrangement. "Blessed Virgin, what hast thou done, Agnes!" cried Bigla Cumin, ere she had well heard her maid to an end; and hiding her crimsoned face with both her hands, "What will Sir John Grant think of me?" "He will call you an angel, as Archy tells me he has already done," said Agnes coolly. "Nay, nay, but this must not be!" said Bigla, starting from her chair. "Run, Agnes, and stop the boy from going on this most foolish and imprudent errand." "Stop him," said Agnes. "You might as well ask me to stop Black Peter's arrow after it has left his bowstring. The boy is half way to Freuchie by this time. He knows too well how warmly his news will be received to allow the grass to grow at his heels." "What will my father say to this strange arrangement, if it should come to his knowledge?" cried Bigla, "to meet as a lover the son of the head of the very house with which we have ever held so great enmity." "In the first place, your father, good man, must know nothing about this meeting," said Agnes. "It concerns him not; secondly, if there hath been ill blood for so long between the two clans, the sooner peace and friendship is re-established the better, especially after two of the principal persons have met together in a Christian church, as you and Sir John have done." "Agnes, Agnes!" cried the lady, with emotions of vexation not altogether unmingled, it must be confessed, with certain tinglings of a more agreeable nature, "Agnes, Agnes! thy precipitation in this matter hath brought me into a most distressing state of perplexity. I know not what to do." But before the morning's sun had well risen, the page appeared in the lady's presence, with a perfumed billet, sealed with a flame-coloured silk ribbon, and filled with such professions of love on the part of Sir John Grant, as brought tenfold blushes into the lovely face of Bigla; and so touched her young heart as to leave her without a chance of withstanding the powerful arguments of her handmaiden Agnes, backed up as they were by the warm descriptions of his master's sufferings, and the earnest solicitations for her compassion on him, which were so eloquently urged by the clever page. The result was, that, attended by Agnes, she did go tremblingly to the trysting place at the appointed hour--listened with a pleasure she had never felt before to all the knight's fervent vows; and both were made so happy by their mutual confessions, that the prudential suggestions of Agnes and Archy were repeatedly required ere the tender separation could be effected. So well, however, was that and several other interviews of a similar nature planned and brought about by the two able auxiliaries, that for a long time the easy Gibbon More had no suspicion that anything of the sort was going on. But at length it did happen, that as Sir John Grant was returning from one of these meeting, he was rather unluckily encountered, not far from the house of Kincherdie, by Hector, the confidential servant of Gibbon More. The man's suspicions were so awakened by the circumstance of the knight being on foot, that he scrupled not to follow him at a distance, until he saw him join an attendant who held a couple of horses in a grove about a mile off. Full of his discovery, Hector went directly to Gibbon More; and there is no saying what the consequences might have been had not the Lord of Glenchearnich been a person of a temperament almost miraculously apathetical. So wonderful was his disposition in this respect, indeed, that it was only after his patience had been assailed and battered, as it were, by repeated and most provoking attacks, that he ever could be excited at all. But then, indeed, when he was once roused, he became on the sudden like a raging lion, and his enormous strength and fearless courage being brought tremendously into action by his fury, the effects were quite terrific. "So you think, Hector, that the young Stratherrock stripling has been here to look after Bigla," said Gibbon, after hearing his man's story to an end. "Hum,--ha! I did perceive that the maiden caught his eye at the church of Inverallan on Whitsuntide. Ha, ha, ha!--to think of a Grant being mated with her is too ridiculous. But, for all that, I cannot blame the boy for bowing before the shrine of my daughter's beauty. I'll warrant the young goose came over here to try to get another peep, were it only of her robe as it might chance to sweep by her casement. Wiser folks than he have done as foolish things; I've done as much myself in my youth. But Bigla can know nought of this, so there is no harm done." Whether Hector's renewed cautions did or did not succeed in making his master think something more of this matter than he was thus at first disposed to do, I cannot say; but certain it is, that the Lord of Glenchearnich was somewhat suddenly seized with the resolution of going some weeks earlier than he was wont, to spend the summer months on his hill-grazing property of Delnahaitnich, near the source of the river Dulnan. This was a most untoward event for the lovers, not only because the distance between them was thus immensely increased, but because Gibbon More's residence there was a small cottage, which might be called little better than a mere shealing, [5] in or about which it would be next to impossible for them to meet without observation. And accordingly after this move was made, some weeks were vainly expended in fruitless attempts on the part of Archy Abhach to procure for his master Sir John, even the gratification of such a distant view of the Lady Bigla's robe as her father described in his conversation with Hector. Yet Sir John often hovered about the place, and lay for many a night wrapped up in his plaid among the heather of the neighbouring forest with no other shelter but a projecting rock and the thick foliage of the firs that grew over it. Archy Abhach was almost as much disappointed as Sir John himself at being so baulked. His ingenuity was put to the very rack, but all without effect; because it somehow or other happened that Gibbon More never went from home, and so his daughter was never left for one moment out of his sight. The knight had thus no comfort but in the frequent letters and messages which Archy contrived to carry between the lovers, and which they were fain to employ for want of those more interesting interviews, of which they were now altogether deprived. It happened that Archy Abhach was one night sent with one of those letters towards the place where his master Sir John Grant was lying hid in the upper part of the forest of Dulnan, which then spread much higher over the hills than it now does. The moon was not yet risen, and the dense foliage overhead very much increased the darkness and the difficulty of his way. As he was scrambling along past the narrow mouth of a small ravine that opened on the course of the stream he was following, he came suddenly upon two men who were seated beside the dying embers of a fire which they seemed to have used for some purpose of rude and hasty cookery. Curiosity led him involuntarily to stop for a moment to observe them; but becoming instantly aware of his imprudence in doing so, he moved quickly away, and began to run as hard as he could. But the consequences which he dreaded were already incurred, and he had not gone many paces when he heard footsteps hurrying after him. He fled as fast as his legs could carry him, but the darkness was such that he tripped and fell, and his neck was instantly in the grasp of a powerful hand. "I have him fast," said a rough voice in Gaelic; "it is but a very small boy after all. Shall I whittle his craig with my skian-dhu?" "Not for thy life," replied another voice in the same language. "Bring him along with thee, that we may see what he is. Why wouldst thou hurt the creature till we know something more about him?" The man who had seized Archy now threw him over his shoulder as he would have done a dead hare, and groped his way back with him to the ravine, where a blaze being produced by a dry bush of heather, the boy was set down between them for examination. Archy on his part was not slow in using his eyes also, and in a much less time than I can tell it to you, he ran them over the bulky rough figure of the individual who had seized him, and then as hastily surveyed the compact well put-together active-looking person, and intelligent countenance of the other, who seemed in every respect to be the superior. This last was by no means strange to him, and, to the surprise of the man himself, he immediately addressed him by his name. "Corrie MacDonald!" said he, "sure I am that thou wilt never hurt any man belonging to Sir Patrick Grant of Stratherrock." But I must now tell you that this same Corrie MacDonald was a certain hero who flourished in those days in Lochaber, and who made himself dreaded all through Moray-land and its neighbouring districts by the periodical visits of plunder which he paid to them. Amongst other tracts of country, Strathspey and its tributary valleys were wont to be a prominent object of his attention. He had always a large band of followers at his command, who were equally expert in driving away herds of cattle, and brave in beating off the owners when they pursued with the hope of recovering them. Corrie was a reaver of no ordinary character; for, robber though he was, he had a natural fund of liberality and generosity about him; and he had so great a stock of native humour in him, that he was ever ready to indulge his waggish disposition at any expense; and no predatory expedition had ever half so great a relish for him, as that in which he could contrive to mix up a bit of a frolic. Many a cow and ox had Corrie MacDonald carried away from the extensive possessions of the Lord of Glenchearnich. But these trifling depredations never disturbed the good temper or overcame the patience of that most extraordinary man, the effect of whose unparalleled forbearance was to awaken in the inquiring mind of Corrie MacDonald a certain philosophic curiosity to ascertain by experiment to what extent it was capable of being stretched; and he had long panted for a favourable opportunity of bringing this investigation to a fair trial. "Corrie MacDonald," cried Archy Abhach, in a whining tone, "sure I am that thou who hast never had quarrel with Sir Patrick Grant of Stratherrock wilt never hurt any man belonging to him." "Thou art right," replied Corrie. "Not only shall I respect the safety of every man belonging to Sir Patrick Grant, but I will even respect thee, who art but a mannikin, if thou canst prove thyself to be his. I have had peaceable passage to and fro through his grounds on Loch Ness side for too many years to do otherwise." "Then look ye here," said Archy, plucking from his bosom the letter of which he was the bearer, and straightway showing the address, which was--To the honourable and gallant knight. Sir John Grant of Freuchie, these, with speed. "That is all well," said Corrie. "But methinks, mannikin, that this is anything but the road to Freuchie, if I know aught of this country side." "My master is up in the forest, a little bit above this, waiting for my tidings," said Archy. "Aha!" cried Corrie, relaxing his features into a smile, "some love adventure, I warrant me. Awell! I am the last man to put hindrance in the way of any such matter, especially where Sir John Grant is concerned. Nay, I would willingly go a good way out of my road to help him on." "Sayest thou so, Corrie MacDonald!" cried the urchin. "Then could I tell thee how thou mightest lend my master thy most effectual aid, and yet keep thine own road still, and that to thine own most abundant profit." "How may that be, my small man?" demanded Corrie. "If thou canst make thy plans clear to my conviction, thou shalt find me ready, zealous, prompt, and decisive." "Thou knowest Gibbon More Cumin, lord of these broad lands of Glenchearnich," said Archy. "Know him?" said Corrie with a grin. "Well do I that." "He is living here hard by at Delnahaitnich," continued the page. "He keeps home so close, that no one can even have a sight of his daughter, far less have speech of her. Couldst thou not carry away his cattle from the forest here, so as to furnish him with a reasonably rational object for travelling for a season?" "By Saint Comb, but thou hast a wit larger than the tiny proportions of thy body might teach one to look for!" said Corrie. "The notion is excellent. I have long wished to work that lump of dough into a ferment. And, by Saint Mary, as the creach will be carried off from under his very nose, I shall stir up his temper now, if it is to be stirred up at all by mortal man. So speed to thy master, and keep him advised to watch his time; and if I don't by and by clear the way for him, by giving Gibbon More and his people a chase of a day or two through the hills after me and my men, I shall wonder of it." "Master, master," cried Gibbon More's man Hector, as he came running in to him next morning quite out of breath, "Corrie MacDonald has been in the forest last night, and he has carried away every stot he could find on this part of your lands." "Has the rascal taken the cows too?" demanded Gibbon coolly. "No--sure enough--he has not taken a single cow," replied Hector, "I counted the cow-beasts myself, and they are all safe." "There was some civility in that, however," said Gibbon laughing. "The fellow is a thief of some consideration; for if he hath left us the cows, thou knowest, Hector, that we shall have plenty of stot beasts by and by." "Ou aye, surely, sir," said Hector as he retired, very much disappointed by the manner in which his intelligence had been received. Corrie was not without his spies; and the oxen were hardly well so far over the hill, on their way to Lochaber, as to be fairly considered beyond all reach of recovery, when he returned with some of his people to prowl about Delnahaitnich. There he soon learned from Archy Abhach the manner and speech with which Gibbon More had received the news of his loss. "I'll try him again," said Corrie. "The fellow must be the dullest stirk that ever was calved." "The cows are all gone now, master!" cried the same ill-omened messenger, as he entered Gibbon More's apartment next morning before he was out of bed. "A plague upon the plundering thief," cried Gibbon More, "has he taken the young beasts too?" "No!" said the man, who was much disappointed to find that this, his second piece of bad news, was just as unsuccessful in rousing his master's ire as his first had been. "He has not ta'en a single young beast, but, on my conscience, I'm thinking he has ta'en enough." "The villain robs by rule, I see," said Gibbon; "but since the young beasts are safe, Hector, we shall have plenty of both cows and stots again, anon, you know." Corrie MacDonald, who was curious to find out how this second loss was to affect Gibbon, was absolutely piqued beyond endurance when he heard of the quiet manner in which he had taken it. Withdrawing a handful of his people from the large body of them who were then in charge of the second prey he had taken, he lay in ambush for a third night. "We're altogether harried now then!" cried Hector, as he appeared the third morning with a face like a ghost. "Every young beast upon the place is gone." "What!" cried Gibbon More, starting up to hurry on his clothes in a state of the fiercest excitement, "does the caitiff make a butt of me? I can bear to lose my bestial, but to be played on thus by a thieving scoundrel is more than man's patience can suffer. I'll teach these ruffians to crack their jokes upon me! Where is my two-handed sword?" "Father, father! dear father, where are ye running to?" cried his daughter Bigla, as she met him raging out at the door like a roaring lion. "Where are you running without your bonnet?" "I have no time to speak now," replied the infuriated Gibbon. "I'll tell you all about it when I come back." "I fear he has gone on some rash and dangerous enterprise," said Bigla, "run, run, Hector, and gather the people, and be after him with help as fast as you may." Hector was not slow; but he must have been active indeed, if he could have caught Gibbon More at the pace he was going. He rushed up the steep hill in front of his dwelling, and was soon out of sight. Gibbon had no sooner reached the summit, than, throwing his eyes abroad, he espied his young cattle feeding on the south side of the hill called the Geal-charn, or the Hoary Hill; and from the smoke which he observed curling up from a ravine at a short distance from the spot where the animals were scattered about, he at once conjectured that the robbers had chosen that concealment as a fit place for cooking their morning meal. He was right in this supposition; for, judging from his former apathy, Corrie MacDonald had not quite calculated that this third act of depredation would lead to so speedy a pursuit. "What a pity it is that Gibbon More Cumin has no more beasts left in Delnahaitnich," said Corrie MacDonald to his people, with an ironical laugh, as they sat in a circle round the fire, devouring one of the young beasts they had killed. "We need not come back here for a while, till he sends up some more stock from Kincherdie," said one of his men. "We have done not that much amiss in these three turns," said another. "I'm thinking we may be content to free him of blackmail for a season." "By the beard of St. Barnabas, but we'll come back again and again, until we drive away every beast the cowardly loon has between this and Spey," said Corrie. "What should we do with such a lump of butter, but keep melting at it as long as it will run." "Surely, surely," replied several of them. "It will make our broth all the fatter," said Corrie, laughing again. "Villains, do ye dare to laugh at me at the very moment when you are feeding at my cost?" cried Gibbon More, rushing suddenly and unexpectedly among them, like a raging wolf into a flock of penned sheep. "I'll teach you to make a fool of me." The immense blade of his two-handed sword gleamed like a meteor in the air, flashed in the sun, and shed lightnings into their terrified eyes. Each of them tried to scramble to his feet as he best could; and one or two were shorn of their heads ere they could rise from the ground. Bonnets with heads in them fell to right and left, as I have seen ripe apples scattered from their parent bough by a violent gust of wind, or by the inroad of some thieving schoolboy. No one thought of anything else but flight; and the actions of all were as quick as their thoughts. But Gibbon More's enormous double-edged weapon was quicker in the repetition of its sweeping cuts than even thought itself. On he went, slashing right and left after them as they fled, till he had strewed the ravine and the hill-side with about a dozen of their carcases, and then, breathless and overcome with rage, haste, and toil, he sat himself down to rest on the heather. The remainder of the robbers were thus allowed to escape; and as he did not know the boasting Corrie MacDonald personally, that hero contrived to get safe away among the rest, and went home to Lochaber, somewhat less disposed to try experiments on the temper of Gibbon More Cumin, than he had declared himself to be before this his terrible and unlooked for onslaught. Gibbon More's people, with Hector at their head, arrived too late to share with him in the glory of his victory. But they were useful in burying the slain. A few tumuli, which are still to be seen raising their green heads among the heather on the southern declivity of the Geal-charn, were thrown up by them over the dead bodies; and they then had the satisfaction of driving home their master's young cattle in safety to their native pasture, where the animals afterwards grew to be cows and oxen, entirely free from any further alarm from Corrie MacDonald. I need not say that the sharp-witted page took good care that his master should profit by the temporary absence of Gibbon More. Sir John Grant was at the cottage immediately after the Lord of Glenchearnich had left it. But the knight had little advantage after all from an adventure which had cost Corrie MacDonald so dear. He had indeed the satisfaction of again beholding and conversing with Bigla; but, filled as she was at the time with alarm and anxiety about her father's safety, she could talk about or listen to no other subject. The time of the Lord of Glenchearnich's absence fled like a short dream. His anticipated travel of a few days had, by his own extraordinary activity and courage, been reduced to a few short hours, and the wary and watchful page had barely time to warn his master away, ere Gibbon More's voice was heard calling to his people, as he returned to the house begrimed with the blood and soil of his recent conflict. But Sir John's more frequent opportunities of meeting with Bigla were soon afterwards again happily renewed by the return of Gibbon More to Kincherdie; and, by the ingenuity of the page, these stolen interviews passed over undiscovered even by the lynx-eyed Hector, whose energies were by this time somewhat diverted from their wonted watchfulness, by a certain newborn affection which had recently possessed his bosom for the fair maid Agnes. It happened on one occasion that Gibbon More chanced to go to a fair or market at Inverness. The streets were crowded with people, as well as with horses, cows, and oxen of all sorts. There might have been observed the eagle-winged bonnet of the chief, followed by his tail of clansmen and dependants; and chieftains were seen promiscuously mingled with cattle-boys, gillies, and serfs of every degree and denomination, thronging the public way. Many were the friendly salutations, and many the flashes of hostile defiance that passed among the various personages who, coming from distant parts of the country, chanced on that day to meet each other. Often was the authority of the provost, the bailies, the sheriff, and other officials called into operation to quell embryo quarrels, and sometimes it was all that the united forces of these public functionaries could do to keep the restless and bloodthirsty dirks and claymores in their sheaths. Rarely did the mantled and well-wimpled damsels venture forth amidst the complication of dangers that were to be encountered at every step from the prevalence of those quarrels, as well as from the horns of the cattle and the heels of the horses. They contented themselves with saluting their friends from their open lattices; and many were the warm though distant acknowledgments that took place between the young and the fair ladies, who, whilst they were ostensibly occupied in gazing at the marvels in the street,--at the jesters and mummers who jingled their bells, or grinned with their painted faces, and trolled their rude and threadbare rhymes to ditties as unpolished, the pretty creatures were in reality altogether overlooking these vulgar absurdities, and were holding interesting conversations by signals, only known to themselves, with their handsome Highland lovers in the street. Bigla Cumin was an heiress of consequence, but she was moreover very beautiful, so that many were the eyes that sought her as she sat at a lofty balcony in the house of a burgher friend of her father's, and not a few were those who endeavoured, and endeavoured in vain, to obtain one glance of recognition from her. I do not mean to say, however, that the lass was haughty, but she bore herself with the modesty befitting her years and her sex. There was but one on whom she did vouchsafe to look with an eye of yespecial favour, and that was Sir John Grant. Her heart beat in double time when he and his father, Sir Patrick the Lord of Stratherrock, passed by in their gay red and green tartan, which, except in its broad blue lysts and in its want of those pure white sprainges which enliven that of the Cumin, had so general a resemblance to it, that at a little distance they might have been easily mistaken for each other. When the rays from her bright eyes shot across the street in a condescending smile in return for the more than merely courteous reverence which he made to her, their sunshine was concentrated, if I may so express myself, as if it had been met by the burning glasses of that most wonderful man Archimedes, and it was returned to her in one melting focus of adoration. "Angel that she is!" said Sir John to his father. "She is an angel, indeed, boy!" replied the elder knight; "and, moreover, there be angels enow in her father's coffers, not to mention those broad acres of his which would give to the Grants so pretty a little principality in Strathspey. Stick to her, boy! She is well worth the winning." "Would I could but have an interview with her, freed from all chance of interruption from her old father!" said Sir John in a tone of vexation. "Trust to me, dear master," said Archy Abhach in a whisper, as at that moment he plucked the knight's sleeve. "Watch well thy time! I have seen some one in the town here to-day who will be right willing to lend thee a helping hand." Gibbon More was not wont to go without the following of a chieftain on such occasions as this; and he generally bore his portly person over the crown of the causeway with a dignity which, when at home, he laid aside with his best bonnet, doublet, and plaid. The recognition between him and his new neighbour, as he called him, was remarkably warm and friendly on the part of Sir Patrick Grant, and very stately and condescending on his own side. His eyes were offended at the sight of the two Grants and their followers, and he sought relief from them in looking at a beautiful black palfrey which a West Highland gilly was leading down the street. The prancing, the caracoling, and the menage of the animal showed that it had been bred of the gentlest Arabian blood in some far away English pasture. "Ho!" cried Gibbon, stopping the man. "Who is the owner of that beautiful creature?" "I am the owner, sir," replied a sharp-eyed little man, right well accoutred both as to his arms and garb, but having no remarkable signs of any great rank about him. "Are you for parting with the pretty creature?" inquired Gibbon More. "I should not care much to part with him to a good customer," replied the other. "Is he young, gentle, sound, and sure-footed?" demanded Gibbon. "I'll answer all your questions by and by," replied the West Highlander, "if you will only do me the favour to satisfy me as to one point." "What is that?" asked Gibbon More. "Will you tell me what part of the country you come from?" "From Strathspey, to be sure," replied Gibbon. "I guessed as much," said the other. "I see, moreover, from the set of your tartan that you are a Cumin, and by your attire, bearing, and following, I can guess that you are a gentleman of some note. Do you happen to know Gibbon More Cumin of your country?" "Know Gibbon More Cumin!" cried he, laughing good humouredly; "if I know anyone, I should know him, seeing that he always lives in the house with me, and that we never eat a meal asunder. I love him better than a brother. But not to keep you any longer in doubt--I am Gibbon More Cumin!" "I am truly glad to see you," said the West Highlander, seizing his hand and shaking it heartily. "You are the man, of all others alive, to whom I am most obliged." "Ha, friend!" replied Gibbon, looking hard and seriously at him, "I cannot say that I recollect having ever seen you before; how then have I happened so to have obliged you?" "Well!" said the other, "if you cannot remember that you ever saw me before, the greater was your kindness to me--unsight unseen, as we say. It is not every man that keeps such an easy reckoning as you do of the benefits for which his friends are indebted to him." "But what benefit have you had from me?" demanded Gibbon. "I'll tell you that," said the West Highlander. "I'll tell you that in a moment. You see, I have no less than three strapping lasses of daughters. I have married all the three, and to each one of them I gave a tocher which you provided." "Tut!" cried Gibbon laughing, "the man is demented. When did I ever give a tocher to daughter of yours? By St. Mungo, I have a strapping lass of a daughter of my own to portion. I have little ado therefore to portion those of other people." "What I say is nevertheless true," replied the other. "And so sensible am I of the obligations I owe to you, that by way of a small return, and to show my gratitude, I must ask of you, as a favour, to accept of this horse of mine as a present for your daughter; and if you will go to the inn with me, I shall be happy to give you a pint of French Claret, if such be to be had in the town, to drink good luck to the young lady and her new palfrey." "As I am a Cumin you are an honest fellow!" cried Gibbon More, shaking him again heartily by the hand. "But I prythee explain--I cannot accept either your present or your wine till you tell me who you are, and until you expound your riddle to me." "I am not sure how far I am safe to do that," said the other archly, "especially here, on the High Street of Inverness; and you standing there with so many pretty men at your back." "If I have done you kindnesses heretofore," said Gibbon, "what fear can you have of me now, stand where I will, or let me be backed as I may?" "Why, then, you see," said the other, with a certain degree of comical hesitation, "I must confess that I did, on one occasion, presume somewhat too far on your liberality, and in your anger you gave me such a fright, that I am not sure that I have just altogether got the better of it yet." "Ha! ha! ha! why, you give me more riddles every time you open your mouth," replied Gibbon. "When did I ever give you a fright?" "Ou! troth sudden and terrible was the fright you gave me!" said the man, "and surely after tochering of three daughters, each of them with twelve beautiful milch cows and a bull, all of which came from your pastures, I should have been contented. But I'm thinking that if I was a small thing over greedy, the fright I got from Gibbon More's two-handed sword, as it flashed behind me on the Geal Charn, was enough to put all greed out of my head, so far at least as he was concerned." "Hoo!" exclaimed Gibbon with a long whistle, "ha! ha! ha! Corrie MacDonald! as I am a Cumin, you are a most merry conditioned rogue as ever I met with! Your hand again! I accept your handsome present, and I will go drink your pot of wine with you, with all my heart, to my daughter's health, and to a better acquaintance between you and me. Ha! ha! ha! By St. Mary, but I am sorry now that I killed your men and so grievously frightened yourself. But, though the poor fellows are past all hope of recovery now, I am resolved that your dread of me shall be drowned in your own flagon. Lead on then, my brave fellow, to your hostel." Gibbon More had too much enjoyment in this unexpected meeting and merry-making to allow it to terminate very soon; but Bigla Cumin was in some degree recompensed for the tedious time she had to tarry for her father by the long interview which she enjoyed with Sir John Grant, as well as by the sight of the beautiful prancing palfrey, which was led out for her to ride home upon. It was not very long after this occurrence that poor Gibbon More Cumin was seized with a sudden malady, of which he died after a few days' illness, and he was carried by his friends and dependants to be laid to sleep in the tomb of his fathers. Jealous of the Grants even in his dying moments, he left Bigla, his orphan daughter and heiress, under the guardianship of some of the chieftains of his own clan, with earnest injunctions above all things to "keep her out of the fremyt [6] hands of Freuchie." There was no one more anxious to fulfil this dying order of Gibbon's than one of the Cumins, who at that time possessed Logie, which, in later times, became the patrimonial property of that more recent branch whence proceeded the worthy family which is now so designated. This gentleman had been for some time one of Bigla's suitors; and his pretensions had been always favourably looked upon by her father. The days of mourning for the old man were not yet expired, when Logie came to Kincherdie, gaily apparelled, and well appointed and attended, and urging the authority of a father's dying wish, he signified to Bigla his desire of taking her with him on the ensuing day to his residence on the banks of the river Findhorn, where, as his guest, and under the protection of his aged mother, she should find a safe and comfortable asylum. Though satisfied that there was more of the warmth of the lover in the language in which this invitation was conveyed, than altogether befitted the character of a guardian, yet the young maiden, in her present lonely state, could not well find any reasonable excuse for refusal, and accordingly she was compelled, however unwillingly, to accept his offer, and she issued orders to her people to prepare for the journey. The prospect of so soon leaving that home where she had spent her whole life under the fostering care of her doting father, filled her heart with a double portion of sorrow; and after artlessly communicating her feelings to Logie and his friends, she craved their pardon, entreated them to entertain one another, and to make themselves at home, and then she sought the retirement of her chamber, where she spent the remainder of the day, and the greater part of the evening, in giving way to that affliction which had more than one exciting cause. "My dear mistress," said her faithful maid Agnes Cumin, breaking in upon her as she sat in silent abstraction, with her moist cheek resting upon her hand, "why should you cry your eyes out thus? The night is soft and balmy, a little fresh air would do you good. Do let me throw this plaid over you, and be persuaded to step out a little, were it only as far beyond the walls as the bourtree bower at the lower end of the garden." "I cannot, my good Aggy," replied Bigla, with a fresh flood of tears; "in sooth I have no heart." "Come! be persuaded to try the air," said Agnes. "Who knows what sighs and tears may be at this moment idly fanning the leaves and watering the rosebuds of your own bonny bower." "What say you?" cried Bigla, starting up with a suddenly acquired energy. "What say you, Aggy? is he in the arbour?" "Hush, my lady!" said the cautious girl, "he is there; and from his tears and sighs I should judge that his heart is well attuned to thine at this moment." "Let me fly to him!" exclaimed Bigla, "the moments are most precious;" and throwing her plaid hastily around her, she stole out beyond the barbican; and, having reached the garden, she ran on tiptoe to the simple elder-bush bower at the farther end of it, leaving Archy Abhach to keep watch against intrusion. The scene between Bigla and her lover was tender and melting. For a time they did little else than weep and sigh together. "Aggy tells me that you go with Logie to-morrow," said Sir John at last. "How could you suffer yourself to be persuaded to agree to any such arrangement?" "It was with no good will that I did so," replied Bigla; "but as Logie was armed with my dear departed father's delegated authority, and as his proposal was backed by a parent's dying wish, I could not withstand his request." "Holy Mother, then art thou lost to me for ever!" cried Sir John passionately. "Canst thou thus coolly resolve, even for such a cause, to throw thyself into the very jaws of those from whom I can never hope to reclaim thee but by force of arms!" "Force of arms!" said Bigla. "I question much whether any force of arms from the Grants could prevail against the men of my clan, who will have the keeping of me. But fear not, for the time is not far distant when the law will give me guidance of mine own affairs; then mayest thou reclaim me from myself with full assurance of a ready compliance on my part." "But what if these clansmen of thine should basely coerce thee to a hated union with one of themselves?--with Logie, for instance, who is old enough to be thy father!" "I have no such fears," replied Bigla. "By the rood, but I have!" cried Sir John hurriedly. "You forget the old saying,--Whilst there are leaves in the forest there--a--a--a"---- "Nay," said Bigla playfully, "do finish your proverb, Sir Knight. Whilst there are leaves in the forest there will be guile in a Cumin. Did your worship mean that as a compliment to me, or do you forget that I, too, am a Cumin?" "Nay, nay, nay! my dearest Bigla, you are truth itself," replied Sir John eagerly. "Pardon me, my love, for quoting this old saw; but, seriously, you are too valuable, too tempting a prize to be risked in any hands but--but--but"---- "But yours, as I presume thou wouldst say, good Sir Knight," replied Bigla, interrupting him in the same playful tone. "Thou hast said it, angel of my life!" exclaimed Sir John, rapturously kissing her hand. "I can and will resign thee to no one! Thou art my pledged, mine affianced bride!" "I am, I am, indeed I am," said Bigla tenderly. "Then why shouldst thou put our mutual happiness to peril?" cried Sir John. "Why not secure it by flying with me this moment? My horses and people are within a whistle of where we now are, and in half an hour's riding or so we shall be safe within the walls of Castle Grant." "No, no, no!" replied she, "a stolen marriage would neither be for the credit of Sir John Grant nor for that of Bigla Cumin. Besides, I should be but a poor offering at Castle Grant were my broad lands not well buckled to my back." "I care not for thy lands," said Sir John, "'tis thyself I would wed, and not thine estates. And if that be all, let us to horse forthwith. Better for me to secure thy precious self, though with the chance of losing thy lands, than lose thee in trying to save thy lands." "'Tis gallantly resolved of thee, Sir John," said Bigla; "but I cannot allow thy chivalrous ardour to do us both so serious an injury. All I ask of thee, then, is to trust everything to my discretion and resolution, and, depend upon it, thou hast nothing to fear." The parting between the two lovers was tender and prolonged, and it was only at length finally effected by the interference of Agnes and the page, who came running to tell them that the revellers in the hall were breaking up. And what he told them was true, for Bigla found that she required the exertion of some degree of ingenuity to effect her retreat to her chamber unnoticed. An early hour of the next day beheld the cavalcade, formed by the united trains of Bigla Cumin and her kinsman the Laird of Logie, winding away from her paternal mansion, amidst the mingled lamentations and benedictions of her people. Bigla was mounted on her favourite palfrey, the beautiful and fleet courser of Arabian blood which was presented to her by Corrie MacDonald. Her maid Agnes rode by her side on an animal of mettle little short of that which carried her mistress. Logie and his friends, all well armed, surrounded both in a sort of irregular phalanx, which Bigla could not help thinking had more the appearance of a guard to prevent the escape of a prisoner, than that which might do her honour or give her protection. Her own followers were but few, and they were mixed up with those of the Laird of Logie. In the midst of them was the faithful page Archy, to whose care was committed the charge of a small iron-bound oaken chest, which contained her family charters and other important documents. This Logie had especially insisted that she should carry with her, in order to secure its safety. The strange misformed urchin sat like an ape, mounted on a very remarkable milk-white steed, of noble courage and beautiful proportions, and whose action was in no degree inferior to his beauty. As this fine animal had been accustomed to carry Gibbon More himself for some years before his death, it was not wonderful that Bigla should have ridden up to caress him ere the march began, and whilst she did so she contrived to give some secret orders to the rider, which did not appear to have been poured into a deaf ear. The sun was nearly in the meridian before the party reached that point on the edge of the high plain, immediately over the double valley of the rivers Findhorn and Divie. There, as you know, a grand and extensive view of these romantic twin glens is to be enjoyed, together with the broad, rich, and beautiful vale that is formed by their union, with the majestic combined stream winding away through it, between its rocky, irregular, and wooded banks, till it is lost amidst the vast extent of forest stretching widely along both sides of it, as it proceeds on its course towards the fertile plains of the low country of Moray, and its distant firth, the whole being bounded by the blue mountains of the north. Bigla had seen this glorious prospect more than once before, but she was an enthusiastic lover of nature, and, consequently, she was not sorry when she heard the Laird of Logie propose that they should alight for a few moments to rest themselves, and that they might enjoy it, at greater leisure, and with more ease to themselves. Logie did not make this proposal without private reasons of his own. Having contrived to seat himself apart with Bigla, he began to urge his passion with an energy which he had never ventured to employ before, and after using every argument that he thought might be most likely to prevail on her to yield to his suit, he seated her again on her palfrey, and as he rode down the wooded steeps by her side, he continued to press her eagerly on the same subject, without taking the trouble to use the delicacy of speaking in a tone which might have rendered their conversation private from those with whom they travelled. "If you will only consent to be mine, fair Bigla," said he, "I will make you mistress of as much of the bonny land of Moray as your bright eyes can reach over." "I knew not that thy patrimony had been so ample," said Bigla coldly. "Put your fate and mine upon the peril of this condition then," said Logie eagerly. "I trow I might safely do so, were I to bar all trick," replied Bigla. "Nay, then, thou art pledged to stand to the bargain," said Logie. "I am pledged to nothing," replied Bigla haughtily. "Ha, look there now, gentlemen!" cried Logie. "My fair ward and kinswoman Bigla Cumin here hath pledged her own pretty person to me, on condition that I shall make her mistress of as much of bonny Moray-land as her beauteous eyes can reach over. Now, how say you? Let her cast her eyes forward, and you will all bear me witness, my friends, that she can now see nothing of which I am not the undoubted owner." By this time, you must know the cavalcade had descended from the high grounds through the winding hollows of the steep wooded braes, till all the distant and more extended part of the landscape was lost by the rise of the opposite high grounds, and certainly from the umbrageous recess where they now stood, nothing was to be seen before them but the lands of Logie. "The joke is very well," said Bigla, not a little piqued, and reddening considerably at the liberty which had been thus taken with her before the men-at-arms who followed them; "but though Moray-land was all thine own from Ness to Spey, I would not have thee if thou wouldst lay it all at my feet." "Talk not so proudly, mistress!" said Logie, very much nettled. "There are many maidens more than thy marrows, who would be happy to mate with me, though I had nothing but this good claymore for my portion." "I doubt it not," replied Bigla; "but as I am not one of these, it may be as well perhaps that we talk not again on any such subject." "A little less haughtiness would have better become thee," said Logie. "You forget that you are not now on Dulnan side; and, moreover, you forget that I am your guardian." "Nay, it is you who forget that you are my guardian," replied Bigla. "I do feel, indeed, that I can never forget that thou art so; and, moreover, that there is a cruel difference between an unfeeling guardian and a fond father." "I am armed with thy father's authority," said Logie hastily; "and I will exert it." "By basely taking advantage of it to proffer thine own vile suit," said Bigla. "To see, at least, that Freuchie's son proffers no more suit to thee," replied Logie. "If he took leave of thee last night beyond the barbican, I trow it shall be his last leave-taking of thee." "Last night!" said Bigla with surprise. "Aye, last night," said Logie bitterly. "Dost think I have not found out your secret meeting? Had I caught the caitiff his blood should have paid for his impudence." "'Tis well to boast now, fair sir!" said Bigla, "now that thou hast no chance of any such encounter. Oh, would I were on my bonny Dulnan side again! but I trust that my foot shall soon be on its flowery turf." "That shall be when thou hast my permission," said Logie, allowing his passion to get the better of him. "What! am I so in restraint then?" said Bigla taking a scarf from her neck, and waving it behind her head in such a way, that it was hardly perceived to be a signal by any one but Archy Abhach. He no sooner observed it, however, than he began to rein his steed backwards, until he fell behind the line of march. "Aye, bold girl, thou shalt obey me ere long as thy husband as well as thy guardian!" continued Logie. "Sayest thou so?" said Bigla, putting on her Arabian to a gentle canter over the meadow towards the ford of the Divie, whither they were then going, so as to rid herself in some degree of the throng by which she had been surrounded. Then turning in her saddle, she shouted aloud--"Ride, Archy, for thy life, man! Ride! ride! Men of Glenchearnich, follow your mistress. Come, Aggy, spur with me, and may Saint Mary be our guide!" And with these words she and her maid boldly dashed their steeds, breast deep, into the ford, and quickly stemmed the stream of the Divie, whilst the well-tutored Archy Abhach wheeled his horse suddenly round at her word, and, drawing his dirk, he pricked his milk-white sides till the red blood spurted from them, and the noble animal darted off, with his flea-bite of a burden, towards those wooded braes, down which they had so recently come. The Laird of Logie and his followers stood for some moments astounded on the mead, before they could determine what to do. On the one hand fled the lady; and on the other hand the charters of her lands, her bonds, and her wadsets were already winging their way upwards through the woods; and the question was, which of the two objects of pursuit was the most important. Even after he had gathered his scattered recollection, Logie stood in doubt for a time. At length, seeing that Bigla Cumin had taken the direction of the house of Logie, so that he was still left, as he reckoned, between her and her own country, he quickly made his selection. "After that miscreated devil on the white horse!" cried he. "Take the caitiff and the kist he carries!--take him dead or alive!--but, at all hazards take the kist!" Off went the laird and his people helter-skelter after Archy Abhach, whilst the followers of Bigla Cumin were left at liberty to become her followers indeed. The waters of the Divie frothed and foamed again as they dashed through after her. I need not tell you, gentlemen, who know the carte de pays so well, that although Bigla rode off at first in the very direction in which the laird had wished her to go, I mean towards his own house, she had no sooner forced her way up the steep narrow path leading from the ford, than she found herself in a position where she had it in her power to choose between two ways--one stretching straight onwards towards the house of Logie, and the other leading directly back over the hills to the eastward of the Divie towards her own country, by a route different from that which she had travelled in the morning. There she stood for some moments on a conspicuous point overlooking the valley. But you may easily guess that she stopped not from any doubt that possessed her as to which of the two ways she should take--she only waited till her panting followers had clustered around her; for they had no sooner gathered than she waved her scarf again, and, amidst the shouts of her men-at-arms, she turned her horse's head to the hill, and began to breast it most vigorously. Logie beheld her manoeuvre, and it shook his purpose for an instant. He gave hurried and contradictory orders, which only had the effect of slackening the pursuit after the urchin page, and Bigla had the satisfaction of seeing that faithful creature shooting far up among the bowery braes ere any final decision had been taken by the laird. At length, a small plump of horsemen were sent off towards the ford to pursue Bigla, whilst the remainder, with Logie at their head, renewed their chase after Archy Abhach and his precious casket. "Who is he, think you, that rides hither with so much haste from the pass of Craig-Bey?" demanded Sir John Grant of the man-at-arms on watch, as he stalked along the bartizan of his castle to take a look over the country, about the time that the sun was hastening downwards to hide himself below the western horizon. "If mortal man it be who looks so like a speck on the saddle, he either rides with hot news to spur him on, or he has some enemy after him," replied the man. "By'r lady, but you have guessed right well," said Sir John; "for see! there comes a straggling line of some dozen of horsemen rattling like thunder through the pass." "Methinks that the elf who flies bears some strange burden behind him," said the man-at-arms. "He doth so, indeed," said Sir John. "Some common thief, I'll warrant me, who hath carried away a booty from some usurious burgher of Forres," said the man-at-arms. "Be he what he may, his white horse is no carrion," said Sir John. "How the noble animal devours the ground!" "He is as like old Gibbon More's favourite horse as one egg is to another," said the man-at-arms as he drew nearer. "Gibbon More's, saidst thou?" exclaimed Sir John; "and, by all that is good, he that rides is like my faithful page; but see, he turns this way. Let's to the barbican," and, taking three steps down the narrow stair at each stride, he was at the barbican in a few moments. "What, ho!" cried Sir John, as the horse came galloping up to the gate. "What, ho! Archy Abhach, is it you? What news of thy mistress?" "I have neither time nor breath to speak of her at present," cried Archy, leaping from his horse, and hastily unbuckling the little charter-chest from behind the saddle of his reeking horse; "but here--catch!--there you have her charters and titles, being that which I reckon some of the people who are after me would think the best part of herself. There, catch, I say!" and with that, he threw the precious box clean over the top of the wall. "Soh!" continued Archy, taking a long breath--"I have done my lady's bidding like a true Cumin, and now I must draw to defend mine own head, like a true Grant, for the knaves will be upon me." "Thou shalt not long lack help, my brave little fellow!" cried Sir John, and in a moment, a party of armed Grants came crowding out from the gate at the heels of their young chief. And, as Archy's pursuers came up one by one, they collected into a knot on the top of the heathery hillock, and then filed off without ever daring to come within bowshot of the walls. "Now, tell me what has befallen the Lady Bigla?" cried Sir John Grant, impatiently addressing the page. The faithful Archy Abhach gave him a brief outline of all he knew. "To horse! to horse!" cried Sir John, hardly waiting till he had finished. "Holy St. Mary! she may be lost if we tarry." A very few minutes only were expended ere Sir John and his troop were mounted and away. They galloped after the retiring Cumins, but they could see nothing of them anywhere. He had got to the side of the hill of Craig-Bey, and was stretching his eyes in all directions, when the distant clash of conflict came up through the woods that sloped away into the glen to the right. Sir John gave the spur to his horse, and dashed down through the thicket, calling to his men to follow him. In a grassy holm, by the side of a small stream, he found Bigla Cumin surrounded by her faithful but small band of followers, who were bravely defending her against a superior body of assailants. His sudden appearance immediately dispersed her enemies, and, overpowered by the fatigue occasioned by her long wearisome and rapid flight, as well as by the alarm which she had endured, she slipped from her palfrey, and sank exhausted on the ground. Sir John Grant was soon on his knees beside her, to support her weakness, and to calm her agitation. She had owed her escape, in the first place, to the swiftness and endurance of her favourite Arabian blooded palfrey, together with her own wonderful hardihood as a horsewoman, which, much surpassing that of the Lady Juliana Berners herself, had carried her over mountain and moss, through bog and stream, in a manner altogether inconceivable; and, secondly, to the appearance of Sir John Grant, just as she had been attacked by a quickly formed ambush of the retreating Cumins, whose onset had given time to those who pursued her to come up, by which means she and her people being hemmed in on all sides would have been speedily overcome. Ere the evening closed in, Bigla Cumin found herself safely housed within the walls of Castle Grant; and the very next day the priest's blessing gave to Sir John Grant her fair hand, and with it her fair lands too. VELVET CUSHIONS. Clifford.--Well done, Bigla Cumin! If ever I marry, I am resolved to have a fearless wife who can gallop across a country. But hey!--(stretching himself as we arose to proceed)--I protest I am quite stiff. Confound your green velvety grass! commend me rather to your velvet cushion of Genoa. Your story was too long, Mr. Macpherson, and by far too interesting for a breezy hill-side and a dewy bank like this. Dominie.--It will grieve me sore, Mr. Clifford, if you should in any way suffer from my prolixity. Clifford.--Tut, man, I'd sit in a snow-wreath, or on a glacier, to listen to you. But, hark ye! what was that you muttered, before you began your story, about leaving us? Dominie.--Really I cannot speak it without vurra great pain, Mr. Clifford; but my path disparts from your road a little way on here. I have to wend my way through the whole extent of these wild forests, which you see below us there, stretching across the intermediate country between us and the misty Cairngorums yonder. I am journeying to visit a brother of mine, who, as the elegant author of Douglas hath it, "Feeds his flocks, A frugal swain," on the slopes of the mountains beyond. Clifford.--Nay, nay, we cannot part with you so. Had it been a lady, indeed, that you were going to visit, I should not have said a word. But for a brother merely. Dominie (with the tear swelling in his eye).--Pardon me, Mr. Clifford, pardon me; but I have an affection for my brother which few can estimate. We were twin bairns. Ewan and I alone remain of all our family. I make a yearly journey to visit him. Clifford.--I venerate you for your feelings, and I sympathise with them from the bottom of my heart. But if I may make a guess at the geography of the country before us, I should conceive that if we could persuade you to go with us to Tomantoul to-day, your walk from thence to your brother's to-morrow would be but short. Dominie (hesitating).--Hu--um!--that may be, sir. I am sure I am vurra happy in your company; but, may I ask gentlemen, what your plans are? Clifford.--We tie ourselves to no plans. For aught we know we may be in Switzerland or Sweden before this day month. But, at present, we propose to proceed up the Glen of the Aven to-morrow, on our way to Loch Aven. Dominie.--It is a wild place, and the way is not easy to find. Author.--Wild enough, indeed. I once wandered all round it; but I never approached it by its own glen. Dominie.--I would have fain gone with you as your guide, for well do I know every mountain, moss, rock, and well by the way. But I cannot mistrust my brother, who is expeckin' me about this time. Albeit, as I cannot go all the way myself with you, I would fain, before I quit you, put you into the hands of one who is well acquainted with all the mountain tracks and passes, that there may be no risk of your losing yourselves amidst those savage Alpine solitudes. Clifford.--Ah! that would be kind of you indeed. Grant.--Had you not better consent to spend this night with us at Tomantoul, then, Mr. Macpherson. Dominie.--I was just thinking in my own mind that I behooved so to do. I can then see you as far up Strathdaun to-morrow as Gaulrig, where old Willox the Wizard lives, and there---- Clifford.--What! a wizard, said you? You don't mean to put us under the guidance of Satan, I hope. That would indeed be sending us to the---- Dominie.--No, no, Mr. Clifford; but there is a friend of mine, who lives near to old Willox, one Archy Stewart, a retired sergeant, who will be just the man for your purpose, if we can find him at home. He knows every inch of the mountains, and, moreover, he is as full of old stories as an egg is full of meat. Clifford.--The very man for us. But what can you tell us of old Willox the Wizard? I hope we shall see him. Author.--I have often heard of him. His name is MacGregor, is it not? I should like much to see him. Dominie.--You will be sure to see him if you call at Gaulrig, for, as he is now above ninety, he is too old to leave home. He is worth the seeing too; for although, as I need not tell you, gentlemen, he never possessed any supernatural power, yet his cleverness must have been great to have enabled him to make the whole country, far and near, believe, even in these more enlightened days, that he can divine secrets and work wonders by means of his two charmed instruments--the mermaid's stone and the enchanted bridal of the water-kelpie. Clifford.--How the deuce did he get hold of such articles? and what sort of things are they? Dominie.--You will easily persuade him to show them to you; and it will be better for me to leave him to tell his own story about them. But, as I have now made up my mind to go on with you to Tomantoul, gentlemen, I can tell you a short anecdote or two of him as we journey on our way, which will show you that all his fame as a warlock really rested on his own natural acuteness. Clifford.--I could have guessed as much, methinks, without being any great conjuror myself. But let us have your anecdotes, if you please. Dominie.--I had much information about Willox from the Rev. John Grant, late Minister of Duthel, who was acquainted with him for many years. For, notwithstanding the warlock's reputation for the possession of uncanny qualities, he was uniformly consorted with and treated as a gentleman by all the gentry of this Highland country. My old and worthy, and kind and benevolent friend, Mr. Grant, was a man of too much wisdom as well as learning to believe in the supernatural powers of Willox, or any such pretender. Mr. Grant, indeed, was a man of vurra enlarged mind and sound judgment, a deep divine, a classical scholar, such as is seldom to be met with in our poor country of Scotland, an admirable critic, and an elegant poet; and although what I may be stating regarding him has little to do with what I am going to tell you about Willox, yet, as you may have a chance to hear more of Mr. Grant from my friend Sergeant Archy Stewart when you come to make his acquaintance, I may be allowed to complete my sketch of this remarkable man by saying that, whilst he was pious and regular in his duties, as became a clergyman, he was, nevertheless, cheerful and convivial, and extremely fond of a bit of humour; and, moreover, as he was often called upon to give his opinion pretty strongly in argument, he was equally ready to back it up at any time by his courage and bodily vigour against the brute force or the insults of his opponents, in days, now happily gone by, when even the sacred character of a minister of the gospel did not always proteck his person from injury. To enable him to defend himself the more effectually in such chance encounters, nature had given to him a stout and athletic frame and a nervous arm, in addition to which he did himself furnish the hand of that arm with a great hazel stick, which he facetiously called his Ruling Elder, and so armed, no man nor set of men in the whole country side could make him show his back. He was a capital preacher; but many doubted whether his sermons or his cudgel wrought the most reformation in his neighbourhood. It was observed that Mr. Grant was always peculiarly unfortunate in losing his cattle. Not a year passed that some of them did not die of a strange and unaccountable disease which quite baffled the skill of all the farriers and cow-leeches in the district. But on one occasion the mortality was so great as seriously to threaten the utter extermination of his stock. As this calamity seemed to affect none of his neighbours, and to fall upon him alone, it was not unnatural for his superstitious servants to say that his cattle were bewitched. In their opinion nobody but Willox could cure such an evil. "If you don't send for Willox, sir, you'll lose every nout beast in your aught," said the minister's hind. "Saunders," replied the minister, "although I have no faith in any such wicked and abominable superstitions as would gift Mr. MacGregor with superhuman powers, I am willing enough to give him credit for more than ordinary shrewdness and sagacity as a mere man. You may, therefore, send for him with my compliments, as I believe that he is more likely than any one to discover the natural cause of these my losses." Willox came accordingly; and after the usual salutations he took the parson aside. "Between you and me, Mr. Grant," said he, "there is no use in my making any pretence of witchcraft. But you know we may find out the cause of the death of your cattle for all that. Your losses, I think, always happen at or about this particular season of the year?" "They do," replied the parson. "Come, then, let you and me take a quiet walk together over your farm." Mr. Grant and Willox patiently perambulated the farm, and especially the cattle-pastures for some hours together, Willox all the while throwing his sharp eyes around him in every direction, until they came to a hollow place where the warlock suddenly stopped. "Here is the cause of the evil," said Willox, at once pointing to a certain plant which grew there, and nowhere else in the neighbourhood. "If you will only take care that your man Saunders never allows your cattle to get into this hollow until the flower of that plant is withered and gone, you will find that you will never again lose a single beast in the same way." I need not tell you, gentlemen, that Mr. Grant took care that the warlock's advice was strictly followed; and the result was perfectly satisfactory. Clifford.--A most invaluable wizard! I wonder whether one might hold a consultation with him on the mysteries of fly-fishing. Grant.--I have no doubt he could advise you well. Clifford.--Nay, it was not for myself that I was asking. I manage to do well enough by means of mine own conjuring rod; but to you and my friend there some little aid of magic might be useful, seeing you can make so little of it by your own simple skill. But come, Mr. Macpherson, what more of old Willox? Dominie.--A great alarm was created at Castle Grant, in consequence of a strange madness that frequently seized upon the cattle at pasture in the grounds. At such times they were observed furiously running in all directions, with the tips of their noses and tails in the air, and bursting over all the fences. The easiest solution of this phenomenon was to say that they were bewitched; and all the servants about the castle, especially those who had the broken fences to mend, believed that it was the true one. Even Sir James Grant, worthy man, when brought out to judge for himself, could not deny the grounds at least of this general opinion. To satisfy those who held it, he allowed the aid of Willox to be called in. "Some trick has been played here," said the warlock, after inquiring into all the particulars, and minutely examining those parts of the pastures where the animals were in the habit of lying most frequently. "Some wicked person has thrown some disagreeable odour among the beasts." The probability of this was doubted by every one present. Nay, every one declared that such a thing was impossible. "Well," said Willox, "I know that what I say is true; and I'll soon convince you all that it is possible. Drive the cattle into the fold." The cattle were folded accordingly, and Willox walked into the very midst of them. There he took certain ingredients from his pocket, and putting them on a small bundle of tow, he prepared to strike fire with a flint and steel. "Now, gentlemen," said he, "I advise all of you who have any regard for your own safety to look sharp to it." The fire was struck, the tow was kindled, a most offensive stench arose, and no sooner had the cattle winded the fumes of it, than they darted off in twenty different directions, as if the burning tow had been the fuse that discharged them from some vast bomb-shell. The poles and other barriers of the fold were shivered and levelled in a moment as if such an inclosure had never existed. Down went the astonished spectators one by one in detail, as they chanced to come into the diverging lines of flight of the scattering herd. Smack, crash, and rumble went the nearer fences, as the several flying animals went through or over them, like cannon-shot; and by the time the poor wounded, maimed, and crippled people had gathered themselves to their legs, such of them, I mean, as had legs left to stand upon, they beheld, to their utter dismay, the cattle scouring the distant country in all directions. I need hardly add, that a little further investigation enabled Willox, without the aid of witchcraft, not only to satisfy every one that his first suspicions had been well founded, but also to prove that they had been so by discovering the offender. Grant.--Depend upon it, this warlock must be no ordinary man. Dominie.--I have another anecdote of him. A certain farmhouse in Strathspey was said to be haunted. Stones and dust and rubbish were thrown into the middle of the family apartment, and no one could discover whence or from what hand they came. Mr. John Grant, the minister of the parish, was sent for to lay the ghost; and to the great comfort of those to whom the house belonged, he came accompanied by Willox. "While I am engaged in going through the evening family worship," said the parson to Willox, "do you keep your eyes on the alert, and try to ascertain whence the missiles appear to come." The minister began the duties of the evening. A psalm was sung. During the time the people present were singing it, the volleys were discontinued; but the moment the psalm was ended, the discharges again commenced. "We had better sing another psalm," whispered Willox to the parson. Mr. Grant immediately gave out some verses accordingly. The disturbance ceased as before; but they were no sooner concluded, than it began again with redoubled fury. The sharp eyes of Willox shot like lightning into every part of the chamber. In an instant they were arrested by one of those great clumsy wooden partitions so common in our Highland farmers' humble dwellings, which, being boarded on both sides, rise up a certain height only towards the bare rafters above, leaving the vast vacuity below the roof undivided from end to end of the building. Willox gave a preconcerted sign to the parson. "My friends," said Mr. Grant, "I insist that the boxing of that partition be immediately opened up." His orders were obeyed, and no sooner were the boards removed than the ghost was discovered. A little black Highland herd lassie sat cowering within, her face filled with dread of the punishment that awaited her. The creature had managed from time to time to creep in there by lifting up a loose plank, and from that concealment she had contrived to throw her missiles over the open top of the partition into the apartment, all which she had done to revenge herself against the family for having been whipped for some piece of negligence of which she had been guilty. The parson had no sooner learned these particulars, than he pounced upon the trembling culprit, like a great mastiff on a mouse, and dragging her forth, he, without the least delay or ceremony, gave her, to use his own phrase, a good skegging. Clifford.--Had Mr. Grant and Willox been sent for, the celebrated ghost of Cock Lane would have had but a short reign of it. Dominie.--I have but one story more of Willox to plague you with. William Stuart, a farmer in Brae Moray, was led, by his father's persuasion, and very much against his own inclination, to marry a woman whom he could not like, all because she possessed a certain tocher. He went to his marriage like a condemned thief to the gallows, and from the very first moment he treated his wife as an alien. A certain worthy lady in the neighbourhood, who felt interested in Mrs. Stuart, firmly believed that her husband's dislike to her was occasioned by witchcraft. She accordingly sent for Willox, and entreated him to exercise his skill in the poor woman's behalf, and the warlock undertook to do all in his power for her. Having contrived to pay a visit at Stuart's house, when he knew that he should find him at home, he accepted his invitation to stay to dine with him, and after they had had a cheerful glass together, Willox ventured to begin his attempt by drinking Mrs. Stuart's health. "You are the only man, Stuart, that does not admire your wife," said Willox, in a half jocular tone. "May be so," said Stuart dryly. "If you were not bewitched, as my skill tells me that you are, you would find more happiness at your own fireside than you do," continued Willox. "Maybe I am bewitched," said Stuart, from the mere desire of being civil. "I tell you I know you are," said Willox, "and if you will allow me I shall soon show you the people who have bewitched you." "Ha! ha! I should like to see them," said Stuart with a forced laugh; "but if you do show them to me, you are even a greater conjuror than I take you to be." Willox, with great solemnity, now took forth the mermaid's stone from his pocket. It was semi-transparent, circular, and convex, like an ordinary lens, and it filled the palm of his hand. Placing the back of his hand on the table, and keeping the stone in the hollow of it, he solemnly addressed Stuart. "If you would know those who bewitch you," said he, "look downwards through the mermaid's stone." "I see nothing," said Stuart, following his direction. "Do you see nothing now?" demanded Willox. "Yes," replied Stuart, "I see something like a red spot." "Look again, do you see nothing more now?" demanded Willox. "Yes," said Stuart again, "I see something like a black spot, a little way from the red spot." "Listen, then!" said Willox. "These are the heads of a red-haired lass and a black-haired lass, and it is they who bewitch you from your lawful wife." "If you are not a great warlock, you are at least a great rascal," cried Stuart, losing all temper; "but by the great oath, I'll soon know which you are." And saying so, he suddenly seized on the wizard's hand before he was aware, and turning it up, he extracted two pins from between the fingers, the head of one of which had been dipped in red wax, and the head of the other in black wax. "You scoundrel," said Stuart, preparing to assault him, "you have been unjustifiably prying into my secrets, but I'll teach you to use greater discretion in future." "Approach me at your peril!" cried Willox, stepping back towards the door, and brandishing a dagger which he drew from his bosom. "I have done or said nothing but what is friendly to you, and if you have the folly to attempt anything of a different nature towards me, you must take the consequences," and so saying he immediately took himself off. So ended the Dominie. Our walk to-day had little beauty in it, except in its distant prospects, which, when we looked over the vast extent of fir forests towards the Cairngorum group of mountains, were always grand. The scenery of the Aven indeed, and especially at the spot where we crossed it, delighted us all. The fragment of the ruined bridge of Campdale still stood, a sad monument of the ravages of the fearful flood of August, 1829; but the stream now sparkled away along its customary channel like liquid crystal. Clifford (stopping mechanically to put his fishing-rod together).--It is certainly the clearest stream I ever beheld. Yet shall I try my skill to extract some trouts from it for dinner. Grant (as we ascended the path that led us up from the deep glen of the Aven where we left Clifford fishing).--Anything to be seen at Tomantoul? Author.--Nothing that I have ever been able to discover. The sight is one of the dreariest I know,--a high, wide, bare, and uninteresting moor, quite raised, as you see, above all the beauties of the river, which are buried from it in the profound of the neighbouring valley; nor has the village itself any very great redeeming charm about it. Grant.--How comes it that all the cottages and walls are built of sandstone in the very heart of this primitive country? Author.--You may well be surprised, but you will perhaps be still more astonished to learn that the place stands on a great detached isolated field of the floetz strata, four miles in length by one in breadth, which has been raised up on the very bosom of the primitive granite. Grant.--A curious geological fact. Author.--It is a fact which I learned when I was here formerly from a very intelligent gentleman who is the clergyman here, to whom I was also indebted for much valuable information during my inquiries about the great flood. I shall be happy to introduce you to him. Grant.--I believe similar instances occur elsewhere in this part of Scotland. Author.--Yes, at Kildrummie Castle, in the Glen of Dollas, and also near the borders of the primitive in the vale of Pluscardine. Dominie.--To what strange changes has this earth of ours been subjeckit! Grant.--Tell me, I pray you, what nice looking house is this? Author.--It is the residence of the clergyman; perhaps you would like to call on him now, while our friend here goes on to the inn with our man to secure beds and entertainment for us all. Grant assented, and, entering the manse accordingly, we remained talking very agreeably there, until the whistling of Clifford, as he marched up the street with his rod in his hand, and his fishing pannier on his back, made us suddenly terminate our interesting colloquy, in order to run after him. As we got into the inn we found him in the act of admiring his trouts, which filled a large trencher. Clifford.--See what noble fellows! There is one of three pounds and a half if he is an ounce. I hooked him in the pool above the broken bridge, and I called to you as you were going up the hill to come back and witness the sport he yielded; but you were too intent on your own conversation to hear me, and so you lost it all. What were you talking about? Grant.--Geology. Clifford.--Geology!--fiddlesticks. By all that is good, you deserve to dine upon fossil fishes. Author (to the landlady).--Well, ma'am, I hope you can give us something good for dinner. Landlady.--We shall see, sir; we'll do the best we can. Author.--You will at least be able to give us an omelet, after the instructions I gave you when I was last in your house. Landlady.--That I can; I made one for the Duke when he was up here at the fowling, and he said that it was just famous. Clifford.--Can you give us any soup? Landlady.--Na, sir; I'm dootin' that I hae na time for that. Clifford.--Pooh! If you will give me a large smooth white pebble, such as is called by my geological friends here quartz, but which you know better, I believe, by the name of a chucky-stane, I'll make some capital soup out of it in a very few minutes. Landlady.--Odd, sir, I'm thinkin' ye'll be clever an ye can do that. Clifford.--Be quick, then, and fetch me such a stone as I have described. Remember it must be quite clean, and large enough to make soup for four gentlemen,--and recollect that we are very hungry. Landlady (entering with a stone in one hand).--There it is. It's quite clean, for I washed it wi' my ain hands. Clifford.--So, that is all right. Now, fetch me a pan with clean water in it. Oh, you have it there, I see. Well, put in the stone, and put the pan on the fire. Now, you see, my good woman, I am a pupil of old Willox the Warlock, therefore you need not be astonished at anything I do. Go get me a spoon to taste the soup with. (Whilst her back is turned, slyly dropping a cake or two of portable soup into the pot.) Aye, now, let me see; taste it yourself. It already begins to have some flavour. Landlady (astonished).--Have a care o' huz a', so it has! Clifford (stirring it).--But, stay a moment; taste it now! Landlady (taking a spoonful of it).--Keep me, that is just awthegither maygics indeed! Clifford (tasting it).--Oh, it will do now. Bring me an iron spoon to take out the stone with. Now, here take it away, dry it well, and lock it carefully up in your larder; for, you perceive, that it is but very little wasted, and, consequently, it will make some good tureens of soup yet; and though such stones are plenty enough, yet you know it is always good housewifery to be economical. Landlady (taking away the stone).--That's true, indeed, sir. Grant (after we had dined).--Well, thanks to Clifford's chucky-stone soup, his delicious fritto of trout, our landlady's excellent mutton-chops, and your omelet, we have dined like princes. Clifford.--I am now hungry for nothing but a narrative. Come, Mr. Macpherson, as we are to lose you to-morrow, I must remind you that you are still in my book for some story about Old Stachcan, the man with the pistol, I mean, whose portrait we saw at Castle Grant. Pray do not hesitate to clear off your score. Dominie.--I need not say, Mr. Clifford, that since you and your friends here are so good as to accept of such poor coin as my bit stories, in return for all the kindness and condescension which I have received from you, it is well my part to pay it readily, and without a grudge. But what I had to tell you about Old Stachcan was more an account of the man than any very parteeklar story about him. Now, as you will pass by the very bit where he lay concealed, I would rather leave it to my friend Sergeant Archy Stewart, who knows more about him than I do, to give you his history on the spot. Grant.--Well, since that is the case, Mr. Macpherson, I shall undertake to tell a story for you. And instead of that which you were to tell us about one Grant, I shall give you a legend which I have heard of two lairds of that name. Clifford.--Provided you do not on that account make your story twice as long as Mr. Macpherson's would have been, I for one am contented. Grant.--If I should do so, you have your resource, Clifford, you may go to sleep, you know; and if you do, I shall perhaps have the pleasure of singing, in the words of Scott's Water Sprite,-- "Good luck to your fishing." Clifford.--No more of that, an thou lovest me, Hal. LEGEND OF THE RIVAL LAIRDS OF STRATHSPEY. Some time previous to the Reformation a venerable priest, of the name of Innes, lived at Easter Duthel, in Strathspey, and superintended the spiritual concerns of the people of the surrounding district. He was a benevolent old man, whose heart was devoted to the duties of his sacred office, and to those deeds of Christian benevolence which he inculcated upon his flock by example as well as by precept. The only other occupation which the good man had was the watching over the nurture and education of his orphan niece, Helen Dunbar, who had been early left to his care by the death of her mother, his only and much beloved sister. Helen was a beautiful young creature. Her features were of the most perfect regularity of form and arrangement, her complexion was the fairest imaginable, the lustre of her dark eyes was softened by their long eyelashes, and her jet-black hair fell in rich abundance over her person, which was in every respect most exquisitely and symmetrically moulded. But what was better than all this, she was as good as she was beautiful. Her whole time and thoughts were occupied in finding out objects for her uncle's benevolence, and, like his ministering angel, she was ever ready to fly to the cottage of the poor, or the bedside of the sick, to bear thither such comfort or consolation as he had to impart, when the infirmities incidental to his declining years rendered it impossible for him to bestow them in person. When he was able to go upon his own errands of charity he never failed to do so; and on such occasions it was a pleasing sight,--a sight that might have furnished a fine subject for a painter--to have beheld her acting as the crutch of his old age, and the ready auxiliary of all his beneficent actions. You may easily believe that so amiable a pair as Priest Innes and his niece could not fail to secure the love and admiration of every one who knew them. When they appeared in church, the grey hairs, and the thin, pale, spiritual countenance of the old priest, were looked up to by his flock with reverential awe, as if he had been some being who was only lent to them for a brief season from another and a better world, and who might every moment be called on to return thither. But whilst there was enough of heaven in the young and healthful face and form of Helen Dunbar, she was regarded by all with an affectionate attachment which savoured more of the kind and kindred feelings of humanity, and the good folks were thus satisfied through the niece that the uncle was allied to the earth. Fathers and mothers regarded her and loved her as a daughter, young maidens looked upon her with the warmest sisterly affection, and the youths of the district, with whom modesty naturally made her less familiar, beheld her with that respectful adoration which was due to so angelic a creature. I speak, of course, of those of humbler rank; for there were many among the young knights and lairds of the neighbourhood who would have willingly robbed the old man of his treasure by carrying her home as a bride. Of this latter class there were two, who, as they were the most remarked of the admirers of Helen Dunbar, were also believed to be the most formidable rivals to each other. These were Lewis Grant, the young laird of Auchernach, and John Dhu Grant of Knockando. The first of these was a tall, handsome, fair-faced young man, universally believed to be open, brave, generous, and warm-hearted. He had the art of making himself beloved by all who knew him, and people thought that he had no fault in life but a certain degree of hastiness of temper, which, as folks said, might flash out violently upon particular occasions, and yet would pass away as harmlessly as a blaze of summer lightning, leaving everything peaceful behind it after it was gone. The other was a dark swart man, properly conducted, and calm and cold looking, whom it somehow happened that nobody knew sufficiently either to like or to dislike. Both of these gentlemen were observed to be very assiduous in their attentions to Helen Dunbar upon all occasions where they were seen in her company. But the talk of the country was, that if either of them met with encouragement at all, Lewis of Auchernach was rather the happier man. As the fact, if it was a fact, could have been known to himself and the lady alone, this suspicion probably arose partly from the circumstance that Auchernach was the general favourite, and partly because his place of residence was nearer to the parsonage of Easter Duthel by some fifteen or twenty miles or so than that of his rival. But I, who as a narrator of their story am entitled to arrogate to myself a perfect knowledge of all their secrets, and in virtue of such my office, to be present at, and to describe scenes witnessed by no eyes but those of the actors themselves, I will venture to assure you, upon my own authority, that public opinion, however rarely it may be correct, was in this instance the true one, and that Lewis Grant of Auchernach had really for some time been the favoured lover of the fair Helen Dunbar; that they had already plighted troth to each other, and, moreover, that their mutual love was neither unknown nor disapproved of by the lady's venerable uncle. You will easily guess, from what I have already told you of the good priest of Easter Duthel, that he was not one of those sour sons of the church who think that it is their duty to keep as much aloof from their flocks as they possibly can, and who would consider it as quite unclerical to appear capable of participating in their harmless amusements, who think it better to allow rustic enjoyment to run into what riot and excess it may, than to hallow and temper it by the sacredness of their presence. Priest Innes and his niece were always invited and expected to be present at all merry-makings; and the consequence was, that he kept many such scenes within the bounds of innocence and propriety, which might have otherwise gone very much beyond their limits. A word from their pastor indeed was at any time sufficient to bring the liveliest and most exciting revel to a decent close. It happened that a joyous meeting of this sort occurred one night at the mill of Duthel, occasioned by the marriage of the miller's daughter. As the miller was a wealthy man and well known by all ranks, and the bridegroom was highly respectable, the assemblage was graced by many of the lairds and better sort of people along the banks of the Spey; and, amongst others, both Auchernach and Knockando were there. The matrimonial rite was performed by the good Priest Innes with all due ceremonial. But when the company adjourned to the long granary, where the sports of the evening were to be held, and when the harps and the bagpipes began alternately to give animation and joy to the scene, he did not consider that the jocund dance or the merriment that ensued brought with it any just or reasonable argument for his departure. On the contrary, seated in the chair of honour, his venerable and benignant countenance was lighted up with smiles of pleasure from the inward gratification he felt in beholding the chastened happiness of all around him. His niece, Helen Dunbar, sat in a chair by the old man's side, that is to say, she sat there during such intervals as she was allowed to rest from the joyous exercise in which all were participating. These indeed were few and short, because she was of all others the partner most sought after. She danced often with Auchernach, and not unfrequently with Knockando; and from that desire, natural enough to maidens, to veil the true object of her affections from prying eyes around her, she was, if possible, even more gracious that night in her manner and conversation to the latter than she was to the former. The cold dark countenance of John Dhu Grant was flushed and animated more than it had ever been before, by the seeming preference which was thus shown to him. Presuming upon that which his passion magnified, he persecuted Helen with attentions which she now began to see the necessity of repressing. She could not well do this without throwing more of her favour into the scale of him whom Knockando so well knew to be his rival. This alteration on her part inwardly galled and irritated the disappointed man beyond what his habitual self-command allowed his countenance to express. Lewis Grant of Auchernach, on the other hand, satisfied with his own secret convictions, went on joyfully through the mazes of the dance, perfectly heedless of all those minor changes on the face or manner of Helen which had so touched John Dhu, whose equanimity was not the better preserved because he perceived how little that of his rival was affected. "These weddings are mighty merry things, Auchernach," observed Knockando with seeming coolness, as they accidentally stepped aside together at the same moment to take a cup of refreshment. "When or where can we expect mirth, Knockando, if we find it not on a wedding-night?" said Auchernach, after courteously pledging to his health. "The happy union of two devoted young hearts, as yet unscathed by the blasts of adversity, smiling hope dancing before them, gilding with sunshine all the brighter prospects of life, whilst her friendly hand throws a roseate veil over all its drearier and darker changes." "Thou speakest so warmly that methinks thou wouldst fain be a bridegroom thyself, Auchernach," said Knockando. "So very fain would I so be, Knockando, that I care not if this were my wedding-night," replied Auchernach with great animation. "Ha! ha! ha! art thou indeed so desirous to barter thy sweet liberty?" said Knockando. "Well, then, I suppose that I may look for a spice of thine envy now, should I perchance submit to my fate, and yield to those blandishments which have been so skilfully used to catch me." "I envy no one," said Auchernach carelessly, "and sooth to say, very far indeed should I be from envying thee, Knockando; trust me, no one would dance more heartily at thy wedding than I should." "Since thou art so fond of dancing at weddings, depend on't thou shalt not lack an invitation to mine.," said Knockando; "nay, out of my great friendship for thee, I have half a mind to sacrifice myself and to hasten my fate, were it only to indulge thy frolicsome propensities." "Kindly said of thee, truly," replied Auchernach, laughing good humouredly, "then sudden and sweet be thy fate, say I." "If I mistake not greatly, my fate is in mine own hand," continued Knockando, throwing a significant glance across the room towards the place where Helen Dunbar was then sitting beside her uncle. "What!" exclaimed Auchernach in amazement, hardly daring to trust himself with the understanding of what seemed thus to be hinted at by his rival. "Thou see'st how her eyes do continually rest upon me as if I were her loadstar," continued Knockando. "Her solicitation could not be more eloquently expressed by a thousand words." "Whose eyes? whose solicitation?" cried the astonished Auchernach, his countenance kindling up with an ire which it was impossible for him to conceal. "Whose eyes? whose solicitation?" repeated Knockando. "Those love-encumbered and pity-seeking eyes yonder, which are now darting glances of entreaty towards me from beneath the dark-arched eyebrows of the beauteous Helen Dunbar. The girl loves me to distraction; and if no other motive could move me, feelings of compassion would of themselves urge me to show some mercy towards her, and to make her my wife." "Villain!" cried Auchernach, at once losing all command of himself, "thou art a base traducer, and a lying knave to boot!" The previous part of this dialogue had been overheard by no one; but these last words were thundered forth by Auchernach in a voice so loud that they shook the whole room, stopped music, dance and all, and attracted every eye towards the speaker, just in time to see him fell Knockando to the ground by a single blow. The confusion that ensued was great. Knockando was raised from the floor by some of his dependants who chanced to be present. Dirks might have been drawn and blood might have flowed, had not the good priest immediately hastened, with what speed his tottering steps enabled him to exert, to interpose his sacred person, and to use his pious influence to allay the growing storm. By his authority he now put an abrupt termination to the festivities of the evening. Ashamed of his violence, Auchernach came forward to entreat a hearing from the priest, and at the same time to offer that support to his feeble frame in his homeward walk which, in conjunction with his niece, he was not unfrequently allowed to yield him, and of which the agitated and trembling Helen Dunbar had hardly strength at that moment to contribute her share. But he was shocked and mortified to find himself rebuffed, and his proffered services refused in a manner at once resolute and dignified. "No!" said the priest, waving him away, "until thou shalt humble thyself, and make thy peace with Knockando, thou canst have no converse with me; and to prevent the chance of his suffering further insult or injury from thine intemperance, he shall be my guest for to-night. Give me thine arm, Knockando." "Old man! look that thou dost not pay dear for thy favour to that new guest of thine!" cried Auchernach aloud, and gnashing his teeth in the vexation and bitterness of his heart. "What! dost thou threaten?" said Knockando coldly, as he left the place. "This way, reverend sir, lean on me, I pray thee." "Villain! villain!" muttered Auchernach, striking his breast with a fury which now knew no bounds, and, rushing out like a madman, he hurried homewards to spend a sleepless and agitated night. The miller's guests departed to their several abodes, wondering at Auchernach's strange and unaccountable conduct, talking much of it, and no one blaming him the less that his furious and apparently uncalled for violence had so rudely and so provokingly put an end to their evening's merriment. John Dhu Grant was hospitably entertained and lodged by the priest; but Helen Dunbar allowed him to mount his horse next day, to ride home to Knockando, without ever permitting him to be once gladdened by the sunshine of her countenance. As she had wept all that night, so she sat all the ensuing morning in her chamber, brooding over the distressing scene of the previous evening, and anxiously listening for the footsteps of Auchernach, in the hope that he might come to give her some explanation of the cause of the strange ungovernable fury to which he had given way. But he came not. "I had hoped to have seen our friend Auchernach here in tears and repentance," said Priest Innes mildly to his niece, when they at last met: "I fear he hath hardly yet come to a due sense of his error." Helen was silent and sorrowful. She still trusted, however, that he might yet come. Her ears were continually fancying that she heard his well-known step and voice, and they were as perpetually deceived. The whole day and the whole evening passed away, and still he came not. With a sad heart she accompanied her uncle to his chamber, to go through those religious duties with him in which they never failed to join before they separated for the night. Her voice trembled as she uttered her responses to the prayers of the priest, and the old man, participating in her feelings, and fully sympathising with her, was little less affected. But her self-command altogether forsook her, when, after the prescribed formula of service was at an end, her uncle again kneeled down reverently on the cushion by his bed-side, and prayed fervently for her and for her future happiness, and that the Almighty protection might be extended over her when it should please Heaven to remove him from this earthly scene. And when, as connected with this dearest object of his heart, he put up earnest petitions for him who was already destined to be her husband and protector, she hid her face on the bed, and sobbed aloud. He besought his Creator so to deal graciously with the erring youth, as to make him deeply sensible of the wickedness of so readily yielding, as he had recently done, to the violence of passion; and he implored the Divine Being to render his repentance sincere and enduring, so that he might never again be led to sin in the same way. "I forgive him already!" said the good man, as he gave his niece his parting embrace; "I forgive him, and so will you, Helen. And if I have been too hasty in judging him, as in mine erring nature I may have been, may God forgive me! Bless thee, my child! and may the holy Virgin and her angels hover over thy pillow! Good night!" Helen's tears prevented her from speaking, and after partially composing herself, she arranged the simple uncanopied and uncurtained couch which her uncle used, in obedience to his rigid rule, smoothed his pillow, placed a carved ebony crucifix, with an ivory figure of the Redeemer attached to it, on the little oaken table that stood by his bed-side, and after trimming his night-lamp, she set it before the little image, and having laid his breviary and his beads beside it, she placed the cushion so that he might the more easily perform those religious rites which his duty prescribed to him, and which he regularly and strictly attended to at certain watches of the night, and having done these little offices, she again tenderly embraced him, and retired to her own chamber. The good priest's mind was so filled with distress about Auchernach, that he could not close an eye. For several hours he lay turning over and over in his thoughts those prospects which his niece had before her from such a marriage--a marriage the contemplation of which had so recently laid every anxiety of his heart regarding her most satisfactorily to rest, all of which were now again awakened afresh by the unfavourable view which last night's experience had given him of her future husband. In vain he tried to court slumber. At last when nearly worn out with watching, he arose and kneeled before the emblems of his faith, to perform his midnight orisons. When these were concluded, he took up the crucifix with veneration, reverently kissed the image of our suffering Saviour, and, laying himself again down in bed, he covered himself with the clothes, and, placing the crucifix lengthwise upon his bosom, he committed himself in thought to the protection of his patron-saint, and composed himself confidently to rest, under the conviction that he should now be certain of enjoying sweet slumber. And the good man was not mistaken. Sleep immediately weighed down his eyelids, and his senses were soon, steeped in the deepest and most perfect oblivion. If you will only fancy to yourselves his venerable and placid countenance, pale as the sheet which partially shrouded his chin, and rendered yet paler by its contrast with the black cap which he wore, his motionless form disposed underneath the bed-clothes, with the crucifix lying along over it, you will be ready to admit that his whole appearance might have well suggested the idea of a saint. But the devil was that night abroad. The priest's habitation was humble, and, though partly consisting of two low stories, the roof was composed of a simple wattle, covered with heather thatch. His chamber was above, and away from those of the other inmates, at one end, where a lower shed was attached to the back of the building. Suppose yourselves, for a moment, invisible spectators of a scene which was alone looked down upon by that eye which sees all things. Listen to that strange deafened sound above, as if some one was crawling over the outside of the roof. What noise is that as of a cutting and plucking up of the heather? Ha! did you see that dirk-blade glisten through the frail work of the wattle?--again, and again, it comes! It rapidly cuts its way in a large circle through the half rotten material of which the roof is composed. The fingers of a hand now appear under it, as if to prevent the piece which is about to be detached from falling downwards, and alarming the sleeper. He hears not the noise, for he sweetly dreams that as he prays on his knees, the clouds are opened, and the beautified countenance of his patron-saint smiles upon him from the skies, and beckons to him to throw off his mortality, and to join him in the heavens. He awakes with the effort which he makes to obey him; and, immediately over his bed he indistinctly beholds, by the feeble light of his night lamp, the stern and remorseless features of a man,--the eyes glaring fearfully upon him. He is paralysed by the sight: and, ere he can move, nay, ere he can utter one shriek of alarm, the murderer drops upon his bed, and, crouched across him, he, with his left hand, lays bare the emaciated throat of the old priest, and with his right he strikes his dirk blade through it, till it pierces the very pillow underneath. No sigh escapes from the murdered man. If groan there be at all, it comes growling from the ferocious heart of the fiend who does the atrocious deed; who, as he sits for a moment to satisfy himself that his victim is really dead, shudders to look upon his own bloody work. To shut it out from his eyes, even for the instant, he replaces the bed-clothes over the chin, and, adjusting the crucifix as he found it, he makes a precipitate retreat through the orifice in the roof by which he entered. If you have well pictured to yourselves the particulars of this most revolting murder, you will be the better able to imagine the scene that took place next morning when, at the hour at which she usually went to awake her uncle, to receive his kiss and his blessing, to inquire how he had passed the night, and to administer to his little wants, his affectionate niece softly entered the apartment of the good Priest Innes. Her eyes were naturally directed at once to the bed, so that the hole in the roof above escaped her notice. "How tranquilly he sleeps!" whispered she; "I almost grudge to awaken him to the recollection of that distressing event of the evening before last, which so disturbed him, and which hath ever since so tortured me. I see, from the crucifix being laid on his bosom, that the earlier part of his night hath not been passed with the same composure as he now enjoys. But it is late, and he may chide me if I allow him longer to slumber. Uncle! dear uncle! it is time for you to be up. Ha! still he answereth not! can he be unwell?" Snatching up the crucifix with one hand, and gently removing the bed-clothes from her uncle's chin with the other, the harrowing spectacle that presented itself told her the fatal truth. She stood for one moment petrified by the sight, uttered one piercing shriek that penetrated into every part of the humble dwelling, and then she fell backwards on the floor in a swoon, where the old woman, Janet, who waited on her, and James, the priest's man, both of whom came running to her aid at the same moment, found her lying, with the crucifix firmly and spasmodically embraced over her bosom. You all know how fast ill tidings travel. The particulars of this horrible transaction, multiplied and magnified, quickly spread far and wide, and the whole neighbourhood was instantly in a ferment. The lamentations for their priest; their father and their friend, were loud and heartfelt, and the execrations which were poured out on his murderer were deep, and were mingled with unceasing cries of vengeance. But, on whom were they to be avenged? Who was the person most likely to have committed so foul a deed?--a murder in every respect so unprovoked, and so perfectly without any apparent object, committed on an innocent and pious man, who could never have been supposed to have had an enemy! It could have been the work of no common robber, for the few small articles of value which the priest's chamber contained were left untouched. The outrageous conduct of Lewis Grant of Auchernach on the evening of the previous night, at the wedding at the miller's--conduct which had already been talked of and discussed with no inconsiderable degree of reprobation by every one who had seen or heard of it, now came fresh into the minds of all. The vengeful threat which he seemed to have directed against the innocent and pious Priest Innes, in return for his calm and fatherly rebuke, was now remembered by every one. The very words had been treasured up by many of them, and were repeated from mouth to mouth--"Old man! look that thou dost not pay dear for thy favour to that new guest of thine!" Uttered as they had been with the gnashing teeth of frantic passion, and with rage and revenge flashing from his eyes, they were too plain to be mistaken. High in favour as Auchernach was well known to have been with the pure inhabitants of the priest's dwelling, his violence was very easily explained by the jealousy which it was natural to suppose must have been excited in him by the visible preference which had been that evening given by Priest Innes to his rival, John Dhu of Knockando, a circumstance to which his threat had so distinctly pointed. The grounds of suspicion against him, therefore, were too evident--too damning to be for one moment doubted; and he who, two short days before, had been respected and beloved by all who knew him, was at once condemned by every one as a cool, deliberate, sacrilegious murderer. A hue and cry was immediately raised for his apprehension, and off ran the whole population, young and old, and of both sexes, to secure, or to witness his capture, leaving no one to attend to the afflicted Helen Dunbar but her old woman Janet. But strange as it may seem, after the people had been gone for some considerable time in hot search of the felon, Lewis Grant himself rode slowly up to the priest's house. For some reason which he best knew, he came by a road quite different from that which should have brought him directly from Auchernach. He seemed gloomy and thoughtful--his head hung down--and as he walked his horse up to the stable and dismounted, as he was often wont to do, to put the beast with his own hand into the stall with which it was sufficiently familiar, his eyes glanced furtively in all directions from under the broad bonnet that shaded his brow. Having disposed of the animal, he shut the stable door, and, with a downcast look and chastened step, very much unlike that which had usually carried him over the same fragment of ground, and with a sigh that almost amounted to a groan, he presented himself at the little portal of the house. With a hesitating hand he lifted the latch, and with his limbs trembling beneath him, he moved softly along the passage that led to the priest's parlour. He halted for a moment irresolutely at the door of that little chamber where he had passed so many happy days and hours. At last he summoned up courage enough to open it, and he stood on its threshold with his eyes thrown upon the ground. Silence prevailed within, till it was broken by a deep convulsive sob. He looked up, and he beheld old Janet, with her back towards him, kneeling beside a low couch placed against the opposite wall; and upon its pillow, and stretched out at length upon it in a state which left him in doubt whether she was dying, or already dead, lay the grief-worn countenance and the form of Helen Dunbar. He was struck dumb by this spectacle. He stood amazed, with the blood running cold to his heart. But recollection soon returned to him--his whole frame shook with the agitation of his feelings, and, clasping his hands in an agony, he rushed forward and threw himself on his knees before the couch. The humble domestic was terrified to behold him, and started aloof at the very sight of him. "Helen!--my life!--my love!" cried he in a frantic tone; "can I--can I, wretch that I am--can I, murderer that I am!--can I have brought death upon my beloved! Oh, answer me!--gaze not thus silently upon me with that fearful look! Am I then become in thy sight so accursed? Oh, mercy!--mercy!--look not so upon me!" He tried to take her hand. His very attempt to do so seemed instantaneously to rouse her from the stupor in which she had hitherto lain. She recoiled from him back to the wall as if a serpent had stung her, whilst her fixed eyes stared, and her lips moved without sound, as if she could find no utterance for the horrors that possessed her. "Is there no mercy for me?" cried Auchernach again. "Hast thou doomed me to destruction? Am I to be spurned by thee as I was by thine uncle Priest Innes?" A prolonged and piercing shriek was all the reply that his frantic appeal received from Helen Dunbar. It was echoed by her old attendant, and mingled with loud cries for help. Steps were heard pattering fast without--Auchernach started up to his feet. The steps came hurrying along the passage--several men burst into the chamber--they stood for a moment in mute astonishment. Then it was that Helen Dunbar seemed to regain all her dormant energies. She sprang from the couch--retreated from Auchernach--and gazing fearfully at him, with, her head and body drawn back, she pointed wildly towards him, with both her outstretched arms and hands--and whilst every nerve was convulsed by the torture which her soul was enduring, she at last found words to speak. "Seize him! Seize the murderer of mine uncle!" she cried in a voice which rang shrilly and terribly in the ears of all who heard her; and altogether exhausted by this extraordinary effort, she would have fallen forward senseless on the floor, had she not been caught by some of the bystanders, who carried her in a swoon to the couch from which she had so recently risen. Auchernach stood fixed and frozen, as if her words had suddenly converted him into a pillar of ice. He was immediately laid hold of by some of the men, who hastily bound him, and he submitted to be led away, as if utterly unaware of what had befallen him. His horse was taken from the stable; he was lifted powerless into the saddle, and strapped firmly to the animal's back. The crowd of people who had collected, some on horseback, and some on foot, looked upon him with horror, mingled with awe. But no one uttered a word, either of pity or of condemnation. He sat erect, it is true, but it was with all the rigidity of a stiffened corpse, for not a feature nor a muscle exhibited the smallest sign of consciousness. That night found him, after a wearisome journey, of the scenes or events of which he had no knowledge, chained, on a heap of straw, on the floor of one of the deepest dungeon-vaults in the Priory of Pluscarden. The simple and unpretending funeral of the good Priest Innes had a larger following than that of any person who had been buried from that district for many years, and the silent sorrow which was exhibited by all who beheld it, was not only more sincere, but it was likewise far more eloquent than those louder lamentations, and those otherwise more obtrusive expressions of woe which had arisen around the bier of many a departed knight and laird of Strathspey. His corpse was carried the same road as they had taken the wretched man who stood charged with his murder. It was met at some distance from the Priory by its monks and their superior, who accompanied the procession, chanting hymns before the coffin, till it was carried into the church. There the services were performed for the dead, and he was laid to rest in his last narrow house, within the cemetery of that religious establishment, where the requiem masses that were sung for his soul went faintly, and with anything but consolation, to the ears of the wretched Auchernach in his subterranean prison. Most of the gentry of the neighbouring country were present at these obsequies, and John Dhu Grant was there amongst others. It was especially remarked, that although his house of Knockando lay directly in the way between Easter Duthel and the Priory, and about equidistant from the two places, his desire to show respect to the memory of the deceased was so great that he appeared at the priest's house early on the morning of the funeral, and rode with the procession all the way to the place of interment. He, moreover, took a very prominent part in the whole ceremonial. From these pregnant signs the good people naturally argued that there had been a gross mistake in the belief that had hitherto so currently prevailed as to which of the rival lairds had been really most favoured by Helen Dunbar and her uncle; and the wiser gossips now shook their heads, and looked forward to the time when John Dhu Grant would probably dry up the orphan's tears, and establish her in the arm-chair at the comfortable fireside of Knockando. The laird himself never did nor said anything which might have contradicted any such supposition; on the contrary, he always spoke and acted as if it was tolerably well-founded. A good many days passed away after the loss of her uncle, before the tide of Helen's grief had gushed from her eyes in sufficient abundance to afford any relief to her deep affliction. Many were the kind hearts that came to condole with her, but some of her more intimate friends of her own sex only had as yet been admitted to her presence to share her sorrows. John Dhu Grant had made repeated journeys to call at the house, but his urgent entreaties for admission had been always met by courteous refusals. He came at length one day, and as he stated that he was the bearer of an especial message from the Lord Prior of Pluscarden, Helen could no longer decline giving him an audience. She received him, however, not only in the presence of old Janet, whose long services in the priest's house had given her most of the privileges and indulgences of an old friend, but also in that of an elderly matron, who had kindly agreed to spend some time with her to cheer her loneliness. You will not be surprised when I tell you that Helen was deeply affected and much agitated when the laird entered. After she was somewhat composed, and the first preliminary civilities were interchanged,-- "I come, lady, from the Lord Prior of Pluscarden," said Knockando, "and I am the bearer of a message to know, with all due respect and godly greeting, on his part, whether thou art as yet sufficiently restored to be able to undertake a journey to the Priory, that thou mayest give evidence against him who now lieth in a dungeon there, charged with the crime of the most sacrilegious murder of thine uncle, Priest Innes?" "I beseech thee, sir," said Helen, much affected, and with a trembling and scarcely audible voice, "I beseech thee to tell the reverend father, that I do, with all humility, abide his command, and that when he shall see fit to demand my presence, I shall be ready to obey." "I doubt not that thou art by this time most eager to see vengeance fall speedily upon the foul murderer," said Knockando. "Alas! no vengeance can restore him to me whom I have lost," said Helen, bursting into a flood of tears. "But his blood crieth out for vengeance, and it lieth with thee to see it done upon the murderer," said Knockando. "When the Lord Prior calleth for me, I shall speak the truth, and let vengeance rest with that Almighty Being who alone beheld the cruel deed!" said Helen, throwing her eyes upwards as if secretly appealing to Heaven. "As for me, I can but weep for him that is gone, and pray to have that Christian feeling supplied to me which may enable me to forgive even--to forgive even his murderer." "Forgive his murderer!" cried Knockando, with a strange and wild expression. "Canst thou indeed think that thou mayest yet ever be brought to forgive him? But no! no! no!" continued he calmly, and with his usual cold manner and unmoved countenance, "it cannot surely be that thou couldst ever bring thyself to save the monster who could allow one passing word of just reproof to wipe out so many years of kind and hospitable intercourse, and who could revenge it by so barbarous and unheard of a murder." "I said forgive, not save," replied Helen, in a half choked voice. "The laws of God and of man alike require that the murderer should die; and I shall never flinch from the dreadful but imperious duty which now devolves upon me, to see that justice is done upon the guilty person. But our blessed Saviour hath taught me to forgive even him; and ere he be called on to expiate his crime on earth, may the Holy Virgin yield me strength to pray sincerely for his repentance, so that his unhappy soul may be assoilzied from an eternity of torment." "What!" cried Knockando, with a recurrence of that wildness of expression which he had already exhibited, "canst thou even contemplate so much as this regarding a wretch, who, lighting down like some nocturnal fiend upon the sacred person of thine uncle, and, reckless of the emblem of Christ which lay upon his bosom"---- "Ha!" exclaimed Helen, suddenly moved as the horrors of the spectacle she had witnessed were thus so rashly and so rudely recalled to her recollection by this ill-timed speech. "What saidst thou?" "Nay," continued Knockando, "I wonder not that thou shouldst start thus, as I stir up thy remembrance of the bloody and most inhuman act. Methinks thou wilt hardly now deny me that the man who could put aside the holy image of Christ, that he might plunge his dirk into the innocent throat of his sacred servant, must not only die the death of a felon, but that he can never hope for mercy from Him whose blessed emblem he hath outraged." "Give me air! give me air!" cried Helen faintly, as she motioned to her companions to open the lattice; and then falling back into the couch, she covered her face with both her hands, and was seized with a long hysterical fit of laughter, followed by a convulsive shudder, from which she was relieved by a deluge of tears. "This is no scene for a stranger to witness," said the lady who sat with her, "nor is the subject which thou hast chosen to dwell on so circumstantially by any means suited to the weak state of this poor sufferer. I must entreat of thee to withdraw." "Madam," said Knockando coolly, "I am no stranger. I am here as the messenger of the Lord Prior, and as the friend of the deceased. As that friend to whom the good Priest Innes did manifest his last most open act of confidence. I am here, as it were, by his posthumous authority, as the avenger of his foul murder, and as the protector of his desolate orphan niece; so that hardly even might the orders of the lady herself induce me to quit this apartment whilst my duty may tell me that I ought to remain." "Thine arm, Janet," said Helen feebly; and, with the old woman's support, she slowly arose and moved towards the door. "Stay, stay, I beseech thee, my beloved Helen!" cried Knockando, eagerly rising to follow her. "Stay, I entreat thee, or say at least when I may return to offer thee my protection, that legitimate protection which thine uncle authorised me to yield thee, that substantial protection which can alone be supplied by him who hath the rights and the affection of a husband." "A husband!" cried Helen, turning suddenly round and gazing wildly at him,--"Husband!" and being again seized with the same involuntary laugh, she was hurried away up stairs to her chamber by the women. Knockando then slowly left the apartment, called for his horse, and departed. Helen Dunbar kept her bed all next day, and no one was admitted to her chamber but the lady I have mentioned, and her old and faithful Janet. With these she had long, deep, and private talk regarding all that had passed the previous day. On the ensuing morning the Laird of Knockando again came to the house. Janet was immediately despatched to refuse him admittance. He now came, he said, with a letter from the Lord Prior of Pluscarden, which he trusted would be a passport for him to the lady's presence. Leaving him below, Janet carried it up stairs to her mistress. It was tied with a piece of black silk ribbon, but it had no seal. It ran in these terms:-- "To Helen Dunbar, these,--It being our will and pleasure that the vengeance with the which it doth behoove us to visit Lewis Grant of Auchernach, the murderer of thine uncle, Priest Innes, shall no longer tarry, but descend quickly upon his guilty head, so that the air of our sacred precincts may cease to be poisoned by the foul breath of his life, we do now, by these presents, call upon thee to appear before us here on Tuesday next at noon, to give thy testimony against him. And as the way hither is long and lonely, we do further give thee our fatherly advice to avail thyself of the kind offer about to be made thee by the bearer of this, our friend, that worthy gentleman, John Grant of Knockando, who promises to shorten thy travel by lodging thee in his house on the previous night, and to guard thee hither. And so we greet thee with our holy blessing. "Duncanus Prior. Plus." Helen was much agitated by the perusal of this letter, but after a little consultation, her friend took it upon herself to go down to tell Knockando that the Prior's summons should be obeyed; but that the laird's offer of protection and hospitality were with all civility declined. After much vain solicitation on his part, Knockando left the house with great unwillingness. He had not been gone an hour when the tramping of a horse again sounded in their ears. "Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Janet, as she looked from the lattice to ascertain who this new visitor might be. "As I hope to be saved, it is the lay brother who rides on the Lord Prior's errands. What can he want, I wonder?" Janet hastened down, and soon returned. "He came the short way over the hills with it," said Janet, putting another letter into Helen's hands. It bore the large seal of the priory over the black silk ribbon by which it was bound. "What can this mean?" said Helen, as with trembling hands she applied the shears to divide the ribbon. "Again a letter from the Lord Prior! But, as I live, in a very different, fairer, and more clerk-like hand, and, methinks, in better terms." "To our much afflicted and much beloved daughter Helen Dunbar--these: "Deeply do we and all our brethren grieve for thy cruel affliction. By ourselves, or our sub-prior, we should have ere this visited thee with heavenly comfort, had not weighty affairs hindered. But deem not thyself desolate; for we do hold that our brother, thy much beloved and greatly lamented uncle, the umquhile Priest Innes (whom God assoilzie!) hath left thee to our guardianship, and, as a daughter of the Church, thou shalt be watched with our especial care. We have made it known to all, that, but further delay, we shall, God willing, proceed on Wednesday next, after the hour of tierce, to look earnestly into the mysterious case of the good priest's wicked and sacrilegious slaughter. We beseech thee, therefore, to do thy best, to render thyself at the priory on the forecoming day, that, assured of the best hospitality that we can provide for thee, thou mayest rest and prepare thee for the trial of the following morrow. Till then we commend thee to the care of God, the blessed Virgin, and Holy Saint Andrew; and with this, our consolatory benediction, we bid thee farewell. "Duncanus, "Monach. Ordinis, Vallis Caulium, Plus. Prior." "Haste thee, good Janet," said Helen Dunbar, after she had read the prior's letter; "haste thee, and see that the honest lay-brother and his beast be well looked to for this night." Left to themselves, the ladies compared and canvassed the two letters, one of which was so evidently a forgery. They had little difficulty in determining which was the true one. After some consultation, Helen proceeded to pen a proper answer to that which she had last received; and having sent orders to old James to get his steed ready, she despatched him with it forthwith by that short route over the hills which the lay-brother had taken to bring the prior's letter to her. And a few lines of reply, which James brought her next day from the reverend father himself, assured her of the safe delivery of her communication. During the interval which elapsed before the day on which she was to set out for Pluscarden, the Laird of Knockando made two more ineffectual attempts to gain admittance to Helen, and on both of these occasions he sent her urgent messages to come to his house on her way, and to allow him to be her escort on the journey. To these courteous but resolute refusals were given by the matron, who was then her companion, and on both occasions Knockando left the house with a degree of disappointment and mortification which he could not altogether conceal. The day fixed for her journey at last arrived. Aware of the stern necessity that existed of arming herself with fortitude to undergo all that she had to encounter, she kneeled down, and fervently prayed to God and to the Virgin to aid and to support her. She arose with the conscious conviction that her prayers had been heard, and she met her friend with a quiet and composed countenance. As that lady and Janet were to be the companions of her journey, she calmly issued her directions for getting ready the animals which were destined to carry them. The table was already spread for their morning's meal, when suddenly a loud trampling of horses was heard, and ere they were aware, they saw through the casements that the house was surrounded by about a dozen of mounted men-at-arms. Before they had time to recover from their astonishment, their leader threw himself from his saddle, and entered the house and the apartment. "Knockando!" cried the ladies in astonishment and alarm. "Fear nothing," said John Dhu Grant, advancing and bowing with his usual imperturbable manner. "I have merely ridden up hither with a handful of brave fellows to guard thee. Ha!--what's this?" continued he, surveying the ample table which was liberally spread with trenchers, flagons, and drinking cups, and provisions of all kinds much beyond what the moderate wants of the two ladies could have required. "It was kind, indeed, to be thus hospitably prepared for our coming. But think not, I pray thee, of my fellows without there, for their hound-like stomachs are already provisioned for the day's toil. As for myself, indeed, I shall make bold to benefit by thy kindness to me, for I rarely eat at so early an hour as my spearmen do." "John Grant of Knockando," said Helen Dunbar, drawing herself up with an effort to summon all her resolution, and speaking with great determination, "I lack not thine aid, and I reject it as insulting to me! And touching my hospitality, I tell thee that it is to be given solely to such as it may please me to bestow it upon--not taken, as thou wouldst have it, by a masterful hand. That board was never spread for thee, and thou shalt never partake of it with my good will!" "These are strong and hard words, lady," said Knockando, coolly seating himself; "they are hard, yea, and sharp too--harder and sharper, methinks, than anything that I have unconsciously done to offend thee may well have merited. Hadst thou not better unsay them? if not with thy lips, at least by silently seating thyself here beside me, to do me the honours of the table." "Again I tell thee, that table was never spread for thee!" said Helen firmly. "Begone, then! and leave, it untouched for me, and for such other guests as I may judge to be most fit to seat themselves there." "Tush, tush, lady!" said Knockando frigidly. "The good old Priest Innes never meant that this table should be spread for thee without my sitting at it with thee. That very last night we passed together, the worthy man told me that he should leave thee to me as a legacy together with all his little means. So, lady, I have e'en come to claim thee, and I have brought these rough but staunch spearmen with me, that we may guard thee safely to Knockando as we would a treasure. There a priest waits to make thee even yet more securely mine own. After which we shall ride together, if it shall so please, thee, to Pluscarden, that we may draw down the blessing of holy mother Church upon our union, by seeing condign punishment swiftly done on the murderer who now lieth there. Come, lady! break thy fast, I pray thee, with what haste thou mayest, for thy palfrey waits by this time. Ha! what stir is that among my people?" "Thanks! thanks to Heaven, they come at last!" cried Helen, clasping her hands together with fervour. "Who comes?" said Knockando, turning to the lattice, and growing deadly pale as he looked out. "What! the sub-prior of Pluscarden!--ha! and the bailie too with him, and a strong force of mounted men-at-arms! What means all this?" The small plump of men who had come with Knockando were smothered up, as it were, by the long train of horsemen who now filed up and crowded the confined space formed by the modest front of the priest's manse, and the humble out-buildings which were attached to it at right angles. The heads of the houses of Cistertian monks, of which the brethren of Vallis Caulium were but a sect, seldom travelled in later times without all those external emblems of religious pomp which their rules allowed them. Upon the present occasion, the sub-prior and his palfrey were both arrayed in all the trappings to which his official dignity entitled him. Before him appeared a monk bearing a tall and splendidly gilded crucifix, that glittered in the morning sun, and some dozen of the brotherhood came riding after him, two and two, with their white cassocks and their scapularies covered by the black gowns in which they usually went abroad. These carried banners, charged with the arms of the Priory--the figure of Saint Andrew their patron saint--and various other devices. And a strong body of men-at-arms, who, as belonging to the regality attached to the Priory, owed service to it as vassals, preceded and followed the procession, under the orders of the seneschal or bailie. A monk dismounted to hold the stirrup of the sub-prior as he alighted at the door, and singing a cross in the air, the holy father forthwith entered. "The blessing of Saint Andrew be upon this house!" said he, as he stepped over the threshold. "Benedicite, my child of sorrow!" continued he, as he entered the apartment. "Soh!--the Laird of Knockando here! I thought as much. How earnest thou, false and lying knave, to use the sacred name, and to forge the sign-manual of our most reverend Lord Prior, to further thine own vile frauds against this innocent daughter of the church? Surrender thyself forthwith into the hands of this our bailie, that he may take thee prisoner to Pluscarden, where thy delicts may be duly dealt with." "What ho, there, men-at-arms!" cried the bailie aloud. In an instant the followers of Knockando were disarmed, and the apartment being filled with the men-at-arms belonging to the Church, Knockando was made prisoner, led out, and bound upon his horse. "It was well, daughter, that the blessed Virgin gave thee wit to discover and to foil the base tricks of this false man," said the sub-prior. "Nay, reverend father, but rather let me say, thanks be to the Virgin, and to thy timely succour," replied Helen. "One moment later, and my fate had been sealed. But will it please thee to partake of our humble Highland fare? and whilst thou dost condescend to taste of the poor refreshment we have ventured to provide for thee, we women, as beseems us, will withdraw." "Nay, nay, fair daughter!" replied the sub-prior, "thou shalt by no means depart. Were it a meal, indeed, we might see fit rigidly to insist upon our rule. But we shall but taste thy viands, and put our lips to thy wine-cup for mere courtesy's sake. Therefore disturb thyself not. Marry, as we broke our fast scarcely two hours since before leaving Inverallan, where we sojourned last night, we can have but small appetite now. Yet thy board looketh well, and this upland air of thine, in truth, is sharp and stimulating; and, moreover, we should never refuse to partake--moderately I mean--of the blessings which are furnished to us by a bountiful Providence, yea, even when they are set forth on a table spread, as thine may be said to be, in the wilderness." Saying so, the good sub-prior seated himself, and set an example to the rest by cutting off and placing on his own trencher the leg and wing of a large turkey, relished it with some reasonably large slices of bacon, and filled himself a cup of wine from a flagon on the table, adding as much of nature's fluid to it as might, with due safety to his conscience, enable him to call it wine and water. The rest of the holy fraternity were not slack in imitating their superior; and after he had thus shown how much the deeds of the Church were better than its promises, by doing much more justice to the provisions than his preface had led his entertainer to hope for, Helen and her companions were mounted on their palfreys, and the sub-prior, and his monks and their escort, having got into their saddles, the prisoner was sent on before them well guarded, and they proceeded on their way. The sight of the Priory of Pluscarden, as its picturesque ruins now prove, was like that of all the monasteries of the same order, beautifully retired, lying at the foot of the hills that abruptly bound the northern side of its broad valley. It was surrounded by a square inclosure of many acres, fenced in by a thick and high wall of masonry, the remains of which are still visible. As the day was departing, the setting sun that shed its light athwart the motionless foliage of those woods that hung on the face of the hills behind the Priory, and gilded the proud pinnacles of the building, which arose from the tall grove in the middle of the large area I have described, threw a last ray of illumination on the glittering crucifix as the long dark line of the procession wound under the deep arch of the outer gate, and as it threaded its way among the small gardens into which the area was parcelled out for the several members of the fraternity. By the kind and hospitable care of the Lord Prior the ladies were soon safely and comfortably lodged in one of the detached buildings on the outside of the wall inclosing the precincts of the Priory, whilst the Laird of Knockando was thrown, a solitary prisoner, into one of the subterranean dungeon vaults within. Helen Dunbar was that night blessed with sweet and refreshing rest after the fatiguing journey of the previous day. As her gentle spirit began to return to her towards morning from that world of unconsciousness where it had been laid by the profoundness of her sleep, pleasing visions floated over her pillow. The saint-like figure of her venerable uncle, surrounded by a resplendent glory, hovered over her, and smiled upon her from above. Saint Andrew then appeared beside him, and bore him slowly upwards, till both gradually melted from her sight amidst a flood of light in the upper regions of the sky. She awaked in a transport of delight to which her bosom had been for some time a stranger. She arose and attired herself in the sad and simple habit of mourning which she wore, and she threw herself on her knees to ask again for aid from above in the trying circumstances in which she was placed; and then, halving partaken of the refreshment which was liberally provided for her and her companions by the hospitable orders of the prior, she sat patiently waiting for the moment when she should be summoned to attend the chapter. The brethren of the Priory had no sooner performed the tierce, as those services were called which took place at nine o'clock in the morning, than the convent bell rang to call the chapter to assemble. The chapter-house in which this convocation took place was a beautiful Gothic apartment, of about thirty feet in diameter, lighted by four large windows, and having its groined roof supported by a single pillar. Arranged on one side were the seats of the members of the holy tribunal. That of the Lord Bishop of the diocese, who had come from his palace at Elgin on purpose to preside over the investigation which was about to take place, was a high Gothic chair raised on several steps. Arrayed in his gorgeous episcopal robes, he sat silent and motionless, as if oppressed with the painful subject of the inquiry in which he was to be engaged. On the steps where his feet rested, two handsome boys of his choir were seated, one of whom held his mitre and the other his crosier. On his right sat the Prior, and on his left the Sub-Prior of Pluscarden, attired in their full canonicals, and the other chairs on both sides were filled with those dignitaries and brethren who were members of the chapter. The area of the place was crowded by the monks in their flowing white draperies, together with the lay brothers in their attire, the extreme interest of the case having prevented every one from being absent who was not in the sick-list of the infirmary, or occupied with duties from which they dared not to absent themselves. A deep silence prevailed. At last the sound of arms was heard echoing through the lofty aisles of the adjacent church, and a body of spearmen, retainers of the monastery, headed by the seneschal, entered, guarding in two prisoners. One of these was the wretched Laird of Auchernach, who appeared with his arms loaded with heavy chains. The captivity which his body had endured in his dungeon, and the mental agony which he had undergone, had manifestly done sad havoc upon him. He took up the position assigned to him by the seneschal with a subdued yet indifferent air, as if the stream of his life had been poisoned, and that he cared not how soon he should now be called upon to pour out its last bitter dregs. The black visage of the Laird of Knockando, who was the other prisoner, seemed also to have undergone a considerable change since the morning of the preceding day. It was haggard, and his eyes were bloodshot, as if he had had but little repose during the night. There was a certain expression of mental uneasiness about it, which his habitual air of cold and motionless placidity could not altogether conceal. The two prisoners were placed near to each other in a position a little to one side, and at some distance in front of the tribunal that was about to investigate their respective cases. "John Grant of Knockando," said the Bishop, whilst a subdued hush ran round among the spectators, "thou hast been brought hither as a prisoner, charged upon very undoubted evidence of having most feloniously forged the sign-manual of the reverend superior of this holy priory, and this for the base purpose of wickedly circumventing an innocent orphan maiden, whom, for her pious uncle's sake, we have been pleased to take under the especial protection of our holy mother Church. But as thy delict is one with which we as churchmen may deal in our own good time, we shall for the present postpone and continue thy case, and proceed straightway to our inquiry into the graver, and deeper charge touching that crime of a deeper dye, to wit, the most sacrilegious murder of our pious brother the Priest Innes, of the which he who now stands on thy left hand is accused,--I mean thee, Lewis Grant of Auchernach. But as thou, John Grant of Knockando, wert present at the last interview which the murdered man had with his suspected murderer only the night before, where that unjust cause of offence would seem to have been taken which whetted the cruel blade of the assassin for its purpose, we would first hear what evidence thou hast to give upon the matter." "My Lord Bishop, and you most Reverend Fathers," said Knockando, his eye having brightened up as the speaker had proceeded, and who had by this time regained all his wonted coolness and self-possession, "I now stand before this holy tribunal under circumstances the most distressing that can well oppress a human being. I shall at present pass entirely by those charges which have been made against myself; and regarding which I trust I shall afterwards have little difficulty in giving ample satisfaction to my venerable accusers. I shall pass these charges by, I say, because I could not, if I were willing, find room in my mind for anything touching myself, filled, as it at this moment is, with the awful and heavy charge made against the unhappy man who now stands beside me,--him whom I once called my friend, and for whom, in the weakness of my nature, and in despite of the unjust outrage which he did me on a recent occasion, I still cannot help being agitated by the same friendly anxiety with which I was ever moved on his account. Such being my feelings, I am sure that no one who now heareth me but must pity me, compelled as I thus am to bear an unwilling testimony the which, I am aware, must grievously tend towards fixing on him the guilt of one of the most unnatural, cruel, and deliberate murders that ever fouled the page of the history of man, and that done, too, on the sacred person of a servant of God, with whom the murderer had for long companied in habits of the strictest intimacy, and in whose hospitalities he had so long and so often shared. But my duty to mankind,--my duty to this venerable tribunal,--and my duty to Heaven, all combine to compel me to speak out the truth, which I shall now do as briefly as I can. "It is already well known, most Reverend Fathers, that a merry meeting took place at the mill of Duthel on the occasion of the marriage of the miller's daughter. There all who were present can bear testimony, that Lewis Grant of Auchernach did, without any cause of provocation on my part--though it may perhaps be well enough urged in his exculpation, that the violence he did me arose from jealousy because Helen Dunbar took greater pleasure in my converse than in his--yet certain it is that then and there he did most grievously assault me at unawares. The good Priest Innes, who was my most especial friend, and who is now, alas! so much lamented by me, bestowed a quiet word of reproof on the enraged Auchernach, such as a pastor or a father might have well given upon such an occasion. But instead of taking his rebuke with that humble submission with the which it doth alway become a layman to receive the admonitions of the Church, Auchernach in the ears of all uttered fearful denunciations against the good old man as he was in the act of leaving the place, leaning, as he was often compelled by his infirmities to do, upon the stay of this arm of mine. It sorely wounds my heart to be thus forced to repeat the very words which he used, seeing that they are of themselves enow to condemn him; but if I should fail of so doing, there is not a person of any age or sex who was present that night who could not repeat them. They were these,--'Old man! look that thou dost not pay dear for thy favour to that new guest of thine!' Thus carrying his bitter and most unjust rage from me to the good priest, who was about to show me that hospitality which, for that night at least, had been denied to himself. He could have made no successful attempt against the good man that night, for I was in the house to act, under Heaven, as his shield from all harm. But the very next night, when I was no longer there--would I had!--to defend him, the murderer comes, and"---- "Thou hast now gone as far as thy knowledge as an eye or ear-witness may bear thee, Knockando," said the Bishop. "When the subject of thy testimony hath been taken down, our brother the sub-prior may go forth to bring in the lady who is our next evidence." In obedience to the Bishop's order, the sub-prior withdrew, and soon afterwards returned, ushering in Helen Dunbar. As she entered, she was so overcome by the feelings naturally excited by her situation, at well as by the solemn and impressive spectacle before her, that she did not very well know how she found herself seated in the chair that was placed for her a little to one side, and at such an angle to those of the members of the chapter, so as to permit a full stream of light to fall upon her from a window. Her eyes were thrown on the ground, and she put up a secret aspiration for aid from Heaven during the interval of silence which the judges charitably allowed to give her time to compose herself. "Helen Dunbar!" said the Bishop, at length slowly addressing her in a deep-toned voice, but with an encouraging manner; "thou already knowest but too well, and to thine unutterable grief and affliction, that thy uncle, Priest Innes, a godly, and now, it is to be hoped, a sainted son of the Church, was, upon the night of the twenty-ninth day of the last month, most cruelly and barbarously murdered, by some one at present unknown. What canst thou say touching that strong suspicion which doth attach to the prisoner, Lewis Grant of Auchernach, who now standeth yonder?" "My lord," said Helen Dunbar, looking fearfully round, whilst every fibre of her frame seemed to quiver with agitation, as she caught her first view of the wasted form and countenance of the unfortunate prisoner, and met his eye, which was now filled with a flitting fire of anxiety which it had not before exhibited. But she seemed yet more affected by the glance of the Laird of Knockando, who stood beside him. It quite overcame her for some moments. "My lord!--my lord! I--I"---- "Take thine own time, daughter!" said the Bishop cheerily; "and begin, if it so pleaseth thee, with thy recollection of what befell at the wedding at the mill of Duthel. The prisoner Auchernach did then and there strike down John Grant of Knockando without cause of provocation, did he not?" "My lord, he did strike down Knockando," said Helen; "but as I chanced to watch them standing for some time, as if in talk together, I observed their looks; and, were I to judge from what I saw, I should hold that John Grant of Knockando had by his words so chafed Auchernach, and worked upon his dormant ire, as to fret it into the sudden outburst of that flame, the which blazed forth so openly to the senses of all who were then present." "Was he not rebuked by the good priest, thine uncle, for the outrage of which he was then guilty?" demanded the Bishop. "He was, my lord," replied Helen; "and in a sterner tone than he had ever heard the priest use before. But ere mine uncle went to bed, on the evening of that very night in which he was murdered, these ears did privately hear him express a doubt whether he might not have been too hasty in judging him, and he then uttered a fervent ejaculation to Heaven for pardon if he had so erred." "Heard ye no threat from the lips of Auchernach against thine uncle?" demanded the Bishop. "I did hear words which in mine agitation at the time I could not well interpret," said Helen. "After the murder of mine uncle, I did, in my distraction, recall and connect these words with the cruel deed which had so swiftly followed them. But certain circumstances did afterwards occur to satisfy me that the words,--'Old man! look that thou dost not pay dear for thy favour to that new guest of thine!' were meant by Auchernach as a friendly warning, and not as a threat." "Against whom then dost thou believe that Auchernach's friendly warning was given? if so thou judgest it to be," said the Bishop. "Against him who now standeth beside the accused," said Helen Dunbar; and rising from her chair as she said so, she turned round, and drawing herself up to her full height, she regarded the individual she was addressing with a firm and resolute look, and added in a clear, distinct, and solemn voice,--"The warning of Auchernach was kindly meant, and would to the holy saints that it had been taken as it was intended! The warning of Auchernach was meant to guard against the false arts of John Dhu Grant of Knockando there, whom I do here fearlessly accuse as the real murderer of mine uncle!" The murmurs of astonishment which ran through the assemblage at this most unlooked for accusation may easily be imagined, as well as the change that took place on the respective countenances of the two prisoners. "My guardian angel!" cried Auchernach, clasping his hands fervently, and looking tenderly and gratefully towards Helen, his face suddenly flushed with joy. "Some deep conspiracy against me," murmured Knockando, his countenance changing alternately from the deadly white of guilty fear to the black expression of fiend-like ferocity. "A deep compact between the murderer and his paramour! Where can the veriest shadow of proof be found against my perfect innocence of this foul deed?" "Let the sacred dignity of our tribunal be respected!" said the Bishop sternly; "and let all such unseemly interruptions cease. Proceed maiden! proceed to offer to us the testimony on which thou art bold enough to make so strange and so determined an accusation." "My lord," said Helen, still standing, and betraying deep agitation, as in her modest and respectful address to the Bishop she recalled the appalling circumstances; "I was the first person who entered mine uncle's apartment on the morning which followed the fatal night of his murder. When I did approach me to the bed I fancied that he slept; for, as was not uncommon with him, he lay with the blessed crucifix over his bosom. I lifted the holy emblem in my left hand, whilst with my right I did remove the bed-clothes from his chin--when--when--when beholding, as I did, the bloody work which had been done upon him, I fell backwards on the floor in a swoon, and so firmly did I grasp the crucifix to my bosom in mine unconscious agony, that those who came to mine aid, called thither by my scream, found it so placed, and it was carried with me to mine own apartment, and I so found it when my senses were restored to me. That the crucifix had ever lain that night upon mine uncle's breast at all, therefore, could have been known only to myself alone; and to him who, during that fatal night, removed it from his bosom for the purpose of doing the murder on him, and who replaced it there after he had wrought the cruel deed." "But how can this touch the Laird of Knockando?" demanded the Bishop earnestly. "My lord," said Helen, "some days after the murder, the Laird of Knockando did force himself into my presence, under the false pretence of bearing a message from the reverend lord prior. His object seemed to be to whet my vengeance against the person who then lay accused of the murder of mine uncle. It was then that, in the presence of my friend and my servant, who are both now within the call of this tribunal, prepared to support this my testimony, then it was, I say, that he used expressions, the which were, for greater security, taken down after he was gone,--'The wretch,' said he, 'The wretch who, lighting down like some nocturnal fiend upon the sacred person of thine uncle, and, reckless of the holy emblem of Christ which lay upon his bosom, could put it aside, that he might plunge his dirk into the innocent throat of his sacred servant, must not only die the death of a felon, but he can never hope for mercy from Him whose blessed emblem he hath outraged.' None but the murderer could have so circumstantially described this most barbarous deed. John Dhu Grant of Knockando did so describe it. Therefore is John Dhu Grant of Knockando the murderer! On his head the blood of my murdered uncle doth loudly call for that justice which it doth behoove man to do upon it. And may He that died for us all, grant that mercy hereafter to his guilty soul which his own relentless sentence would have denied to another." As Helen Dunbar finished speaking, she fell back into her chair, exhausted by her exertion to fulfil that duty which she had wound up her mind to discharge. The murderer gasped for breath as if he was undergoing suffocation; and his eyes started from their sockets with the terrors which now overwhelmed him. The murmurs which burst from those who were present being checked by the seneschal of the court, the Bishop ordered Helen's servants, James and Janet, and also her friend, to be all three severally called. Each of them were examined. The members of the chapter conferred together for a few minutes apart; and after they had resumed their seats on the tribunal, a death-like silence prevailed, and the Bishop putting on his mitre, and leaning on his crosier, began thus to speak:-- "After the full and patient probing which we have given to this most mysterious case, it must be clear to all men who do now hear us, that this holy tribunal hath before it, as its bounden duty, to dismiss Lewis Grant of Auchernach, discharging him as free from all taint or suspicion of any participation whatsoever in the foul and barbarous murder of our pious brother, Priest Innes. And as it is beyond our power to shut our eyes to the miraculous proof which the Almighty in his wisdom hath caused the very murderer himself to bear towards his own proper condemnation, we have no choice left but to direct our bailie, the which we now hereby do, forthwith to return John Dhu Grant of Knockando to the dungeon whence he was taken, thence to remove him by to-morrow's earliest sun, and to convey him, under a strong guard of our men-at-arms, to Elgin, there to be delivered into the hands of the king's sheriff, that he may take measures to see that the prisoner be submitted to the knowledge of an assize, to be by it clenged or fouled of the crime laid to his charge, as the evidence laid before it may determine. This we do without all prejudice to our own claims to the full right of pit and gallows which belongeth to us; but because this crime of murder, when not fresh and redhanded, being to be considered as more especially one of the pleas of the Crown, we do think it more seemly to leave it to the judges of the King's Grace to execute justice upon the murderer." The Laird of Knockando's countenance was all this time working like that of a fiend, especially whilst the Bishop was delivering this appalling judgment against him. He had no sooner heard it to an end, than, putting his hand into his bosom, he plucked forth a concealed dirk--that very weapon with which he had murdered the good Priest Innes. He raised it aloft. Helen saw it glancing in the air, and uttered a piercing shriek that rang in the groined roof of the chapter-house. It saved her lover; for, as Knockando brought it down, aimed with a desperate plunge at the heart of his rival, his intended victim threw his body back, and so he most wonderfully escaped from its fatal blade. But it fell not innocuous--it cleft the very skull of a wretched lay-brother, who sat with his tablets below noting down the minutes of the procedure, and the man dropped lifeless upon the pavement. The perpetrator of this second murder was seized and pinioned, and, being instantly tried red-handed as he was--his guilt was established--he was carried out for shrift--confessed that his first crime was done for the wicked purpose of revenging himself against Auchernach by fixing upon him the guilt of the murder. After which the convent-bell tolled dismally. A long procession of monks chanting a hymn, followed by the criminal and the bourreau, guarded by the seneschal and his men-at-arms was seen winding from the gate of the Priory, and after a few short moments of prayer, he was forthwith executed, without further mercy, on the gallow-hill. I need not tell you that the Laird of Auchernach performed the part of protector to Helen Dunbar during her homeward journey, and that so soon as the days of mourning for her murdered uncle were fulfilled, he received from her the right to act as her protector throughout the longer journey of life. And if he had ever been supposed to be apt, when provoked on certain occasions, to yield too hastily to that indignation which chanced to be excited within him, the recollection of the terrible events which I have narrated to you had the effect of arming him ever afterwards with a degree of control over himself which few men since his time have been known to possess. THE END. NOTES [1] Cabar Fiadh, the head of the wild deer, the crest of the clan MacKenzie. [2] Fern. [3] Good people, the propitiatory name usually given by the superstitious peasants to the fairies. [4] Strength. [5] A dwelling only occupied in summer whilst feeding the cattle on the highest hill-grazings. The same word as the Swiss chalet. [6] Strange. 
60279	----	PELE AND HIIAKA A Myth From Hawaii By NATHANIEL B. EMERSON, A. M., M. D. HONOLULU, HAWAII Author of The Long Voyages of the Ancient Hawaiians, and of Unwritten Literature of Hawaii, Translator of David Malo's Hawaiian Antiquities PRINTED BY Honolulu Star-Bulletin Limited 1915 TO HER MAJESTY LILIUOKALANI AND HER BELOVED HAWAIIAN PEOPLE PREFACE The story of Pele and her sister Hiiaka stands at the fountain-head of Hawaiian myth and is the matrix from which the unwritten literature of Hawaii drew its life-blood. The material for the elaboration of this story has, in part, been found in serial contributions to the Hawaiian newspapers during the last few decades; in part, gathered by interviews with the men and women of the older regime, in whose memory it has been stored and, again, in part, it has been supplied by papers solicited from intelligent Hawaiians. The information contained in the notes has been extracted by viva voce appeal to Hawaiians themselves. These last two sources of information will soon be no longer available. Merely as a story, this myth of Pele and her kindred may be deemed to have no compelling merit that should attract one to its reading. The cycle of world-myth already gathered from the rising to the setting of the sun, from the north pole to the south pole, is quite vast enough, and far in excess of the power of any one scholar to master and digest. It contains enough pretty stories, in all conscience, to satisfy the demands of the whole raft of storiologists and penny-a-liners, ever on the alert to cram the public with new sensations, without making it necessary to levy upon Hawaii for her little contribution. It is not from a disposition to pander to any such appetite that the writer has drudged through many long years in collecting and giving literary shape to the material herein presented. The people who settled the Hawaiian group of islands are recognized as having occupied a unique station, one so far removed from the center and vortex of Polynesian activity as to enable them to cast a highly important side-light on many of the problems yet unsolved, that are of interest to ethnologists and philologists and that still enshroud the Polynesian race. Hawaii rejoiced in a Kamehameha, who, with a strong hand, welded its discordant political elements into one body and made of it a nation. But it was denied a Homer capable of voicing its greatest epic in one song. The myth of the volcanic queen, like every other important Hawaiian myth, has been handled by many poets and raconteurs, each from his own point of view, influenced, no doubt, by local environment; but there never stood forth one singer with the supreme power to symphonize the jarring notes and combine them into one concordant whole. This fact is a tribute to the independent attitude of Hawaii's geographical units as well as to its scattered minstrelsy. This book does not offer itself as a complete history of Pele; it does not even assume to present all the oli, mele, and pule that deal with the great name of Pele. There were important events in her life that will receive but incidental mention. Of such is the story of Pele's relations with the swine-god Kama-pua'a. As indicated in the title, the author confines his attention almost wholly to the story of Pele's relations with Prince Lohiau of Haena, in which the girl Hiiaka became involved as an accessory. It was inevitable that such a myth as that of Pele should draw to it and, like an ocean-reef, become the stranding ground of a great mass of flotsam and jetsam poetry and story. Especially was this true of those passional fragments of Hawaiian mele and oli, which, without this, would not easily have found a concrete object to which they might attach themselves. It matters not whether the poet-philosopher, deep pondering on the hot things of love, hit upon Pele as the most striking and appropriate character to serve his purpose and to wear his garment of passionate song and story, or, whether his mind, working more objectively, took Nature's suggestion and came to realize that, in the wild play of the volcanic forces, he had exemplified before him a mighty parable of tempestuous love. Certain it is that the volcano was antecedent to the poet and his musings, and it seems more reasonable to suppose that from it came the first suggestion and that his mind, as by a flash of inspiration, began its subjective work as the result of what he saw going on before his eyes. The Hawaiian to whose memory was committed the keeping of an old time mele regarded it as a sacred trust, to be transmitted in its integrity; and he was inclined to look upon every different and contradictory version of that mele as, in a sense, an infringement of his preserve, a desecration of that sacred thing which had been entrusted to him. It resulted from this that such a thing as a company of haku-mele (poets or song-makers) conferring together for the purpose of settling upon one authoritative version of a historic mele was an impossibility. It is a misfortune when the myth-cycle of any people or country is invaded for exploitation by that class of writers whose sole object is to pander, or cater--to use a softer term--to the public taste for novelty and sensation, before that cycle has been canvassed and reported upon by students who approach it in a truthful yet sympathetic spirit. In other words: plain exposition should come before sensational exploitation. To reverse the order would be as undesirable as to have Münchausen gain the ear of the public before Mungo Park, Livingston, Stanley, Cook, or Vancouver had blazed the way and taken their observations. Fortunately for Hawaii, the spirit of the times has set its face like a flint against this sort of sensation-mongering, and if a Münchausen were now to claim the public ear he would have the searchlight of scientific investigation turned upon him as pitilessly as it was done in the case of an alleged claim to the discovery of the north pole. It is a satisfaction to the author, after having accomplished his pioneer work of opening up a new domain, to bid the public enter in and enjoy the delicious lehua parks once claimed by the girl Hiiaka as her own; and he can assure them that there yet remain many coverts that are full of charm which are to this day unravaged by the fires of Pele. Thanks, many thanks, are due from the author--and from us all--to the men and women of Hawaiian birth whose tenacious memories have served as the custodians of the material herein set forth, but who have ungrudgingly made us welcome to these remainder biscuits of mythological song and story, which, but for them, would have been swallowed up in the grave, unvoiced and unrecorded. N. B. EMERSON. INTRODUCTION According to Hawaiian myth, Pele, the volcanic fire-queen and the chief architect of the Hawaiian group, was a foreigner, born in the mystical land of Kuai-he-lani, a land not rooted and anchored to one spot, but that floated free like the Fata Morgana, and that showed itself at times to the eyes of mystics, poets and seers, a garden land, clad with the living glory of trees and habitations--a vision to warm the imagination. The region was known as Kahiki (Kukulu o Kahiki), a name that connotes Java and that is associated with the Asiatic cradle of the Polynesian race. Pele's mother was Haumea, a name that crops up as an ancestor in the hoary antiquity of the Hawaiian people, and she was reputed to be the daughter of Kane-hoa-lani. Pele was ambitious from childhood and from the earliest age made it her practice to stick close to her mother's fireplace in company with the fire-keeper Lono-makua, ever watchful of his actions, studious of his methods--an apprenticeship well fitted to serve her in good stead such time as she was to become Hawaii's volcanic fire-queen. This conduct drew upon Pele the suspicion and illwill of her elder sister Na-maka-o-ka-ha'i, a sea-goddess, who, fathoming the latent ambition of Pele, could not fail to perceive that its attainment would result in great commotion and disturbance in their home-land. Her fears and prognostications proved true. Namaka, returning from one of her expeditions across the sea, found that Pele, taking advantage of her absence, had erupted a fiery deluge and smothered a portion of the home-land with aä. It would have gone hard with Pele; but mother Haumea bade her take refuge in the fold (pola) of Ka-moho-alii's malo. Now this elder brother of Pele was a deity of great power and authority, a terrible character, hedged about with tabus that restricted and made difficult the approach of his enemies. Such a refuge could only be temporary, and safety was to be assured only by Pele's removal from her home in the South land, and that meant flight. It was accomplished in the famed mythical canoe Honua-i-a-kea. The company was a distinguished one, including such godlike beings as Ka-moho-alii, Kane-apua, Kane-milo-hai and many other relations of Pele, the youngest, but not the least important, of whom was the girl Hiiaka, destined to be the heroine of the story here unfolded and of whom it was said that she was born into the world as a clot of blood out of the posterior fontanelle (nunoi) of her mother Haumea, the other sisters having been delivered through the natural passage. The sailing course taken by Pele's company brought them to some point northwest of Hawaii, along that line of islets, reefs, and shoals which tail off from Hawaii as does the train of a comet from its nucleus. At Moku-papápa Pele located her brother Kane-milo-hai, as if to hold the place for her or to build it up into fitness for human residence, for it was little more than a reef. Her next stop was at the little rock of Nihoa that lifts its head some eight hundred feet above the ocean. Here she made trial with the divining rod Paoa, but the result being unfavorable, she passed on to the insignificant islet of Lehua which clings like a limpet to the flank of Niihau. In spite of its smallness and unfitness for residence, Pele was moved to crown the rock with a wreath of kau-no'a, while Hiiaka contributed a chaplet of lehua which she took from her own neck, thus christening it for all time. The poet details the itinerary of the voyage in the following graphic lines: KE KAAO A PELE I HAAWI IA KA-MOHO-ALII I KA HAALELE ANA IA KAHIKI Ku makou e hele me ku'u mau poki'i aloha, Ka aina a makou i ike ole ai malalo aku nei, A'e makou me ku'u poki'i, kau i ka wa'a; No'iau ka hoe a Ka-moho-alii; A'ea'e, kau i ka nalu-- He nalu haki kakala, He nalu e imi ana i ka aina e hiki aku ai. O Nihoa ka aina a makou i pae mua aku ai: Lele a'e nei makou, kau i uka o Nihoa. O ka hana no a ko'u poki'i, a Kane-apua, O ka hooili i ka ihu o ka wa'a a nou i ke kai: Waiho anei o Ka-moho-alii ia Kane-apua i uka o Nihoa. No'iau ka hoe a Ka-moho-alii A pae i ka aina i kapa ia o Lehua. TRANSLATION PELE'S ACCOUNT TO KA-MOHO-ALII OF THE DEPARTURE FROM KAHIKI We stood to sail with my kindred beloved To an unknown land below the horizon; We boarded--my kinsmen and I--our craft, Our pilot well skilled, Ka-moho-alii. Our craft o'ermounted and mastered the waves; The sea was rough and choppy, but the waves Bore us surely on to our destined shore-- The rock Nihoa, the first land we touched; Gladly we landed and climbed up its cliffs. Fault of the youngster, Kane-apua, He loaded the bow till it ducked in the waves; Ka-moho-alii marooned the lad, Left the boy on the islet Nihoa And, pilot well skilled, he sailed away Till we found the land we christened Lehua. When they had crowned the desolate rock with song and wreath, Ka-moho-alii would have steered for Niihau, but Pele, in a spasm of tenderness that smiles like an oasis in her life, exclaimed, "How I pity our little brother who journeyed with us till now!" At this Ka-moho-alii turned the prow of the canoe in the direction of Nihoa and they rescued Kane-apua from his seagirt prison. Let the poet tell the story: Hui [1] iho nei ka wa'a a Ka-moho-alii E kii ana i ko lakou pokii, ia Kane-apua, i Nihoa. Pili aku nei ka wa'a o Ka-moho-alii i uka nei o Nihoa, Kahea aku nei i ko lakou pokii, ia Kane-apua, E kau aku ma ka pola o ka wa'a. Hui iho nei ka ihu o ka wa'a o Ka-moho-alii-- He wa'a e holo ana i Niihau, Kau aku nei o Ka-moho-alii i ka laau, he paoa, [2] E imi ana i ko lakou aina e noho ai, o Kauai: Aole na'e i loa'a. Kau mai la o Ka-moho-alii i ka laau, he paoa; O Ahu [3] ka aina. Ia ka ana iho nei o lakou i Alia-pa'akai, Aole na'e he aina. TRANSLATION Ka-moho-alii turned his canoe To rescue lad Kane from Nihoa. Anon the craft lies off Nihoa's coast; They shout to the lad, to Kane-apua, Come aboard, rest with us on the pola. [4] Ka-moho-alii turns now his prow, He will steer for the fertile Niihau. He sets out the wizard staff Paoa, To test if Kauai's to be their home; But they found it not there. Once more the captain sails on with the rod, To try if Oahu's the wished for land: They thrust in the staff at Salt Lake Crater, But that proved not the land of their promise. Arrived at Oahu, Ka-moho-alii, who still had Pele in his keeping, left the canoe in charge of Holoholo-kai and, with the rest of the party, continued the journey by land. The witchery of the Paoa was appealed to from time to time, as at Alia-pa'akai, Puowaena (Punchbowl Hill), Leahi (Diamond Head), and lastly at Makapu'u Point, but nowhere with a satisfactory response. (The words of Pele in the second verse of the kaao next to be given lead one to infer that she must for a time have entertained the thought that they had found the desired haven at Pele-ula--a small land-division within the limits of the present city of Honolulu.) Let the poet tell the story: Ke ku nei makou e imi kahi e noho ai A loa'a ma Pele-ula: O Kapo-ula-kina'u ka wahine; A loa'a i ka lae kapu o Maka-pu'u. Ilaila pau ke kuleana; Imi ia Kane-hoa-lani, A loa'a i ka lae o Maka-hana-loa.-- He loa ka uka o Puna: Elua kaua i ke kapa hookahi. Akahi au a ike--haupu mau, walohia wale: E Kane-hoa-lani, e-e! E Kane-hoa-lani, e-e! Aloha kaua! Kau ka hokú hookahi, hele i ke ala loa! Aloha kama kuku kapa a ka wahine! He wahine lohiau, naná i ka makani; He makani lohiau, haupu mai oloko! TRANSLATION We went to seek for a biding place, And found it, we thought, in Pele-ula-- Dame Kapo--she of the red-pied robe-- Found it in the sacred cape, Maka-pu'u; The limit that of our journey by land. We looked then for Kane-hoa-lani And found him at Maka-hana-loa. Far away are the uplands of Puna; One girdle still serves for you and for me. Never till now such yearning, such sadness! Where art thou, Kane-hoa-lani? O Father Kane, where art thou? Hail to thee, O Father, and hail to me! When rose the pilot-star we sailed away. Hail, girl who beats out tapa for women-- The home-coming wife who watches the wind, The haunting wind that searches the house! The survey of Oahu completed, and Ka-moho-alii having resumed command of the canoe, Pele uttered her farewell and they voyaged on to the cluster of islands of which Maui is the center: Aloha, Oahu, e-e! E huli ana makou i ka aina mamua aku, Kahi a makou e noho ai. TRANSLATION Farewell to thee, Oahu! We press on to lands beyond, In search of a homing place. Repeated trial with the divining rod, Paoa, made on the western part of Maui as well as on the adjoining islands of Molokai and Lanai proving unsatisfactory, Pele moved on to the exploration of the noble form of Hale-a-ka-la that domes East Maui, with fine hope and promise of success. But here again she was dissatisfied with the result. She had not yet delivered herself from the necessity of protection by her kinsman, Ka-moho-alii: "One girdle yet serves for you and for me," was the note that still rang out as a confession of dependence, in her song. While Pele was engaged in her operations in the crater of Hale-a-ka-la, her inveterate enemy Na-maka-o-ka-ha'i, who had trailed her all the way from Kahiki with the persistency of a sea-wolf, appeared in the offing, accompanied by a sea-dragon named Ha-ui. The story relates that, as Na-maka-o-ka-ha'i passed the sand-spit of Moku-papápa, Kane-milo-hai, who, it will be remembered, had been left there in charge as the agent of Pele, hailed her with the question: "Where are you going so fast?" "To destroy my enemy, to destroy Pele," was her answer. "Return to Kahiki, lest you yourself be destroyed," was the advice of Kane-milo-hai. Pele, accepting the gage thrown down by Na-maka-o-ka-ha'i, with the reluctant consent of her guardian Ka-moho-alii, went into battle single-handed. The contest was terrific. The sea-monster, aided by her dragon consort, was seemingly victorious. Dismembered parts of Pele's body were cast up at Kahiki-nui, where they are still pointed out as the bones of Pele (na iwi o Pele.) (She was only bruised). Ka-moho-alii was dismayed thinking Pele to have been destroyed;--but, looking across the Ale-nui-haha channel, he saw the spirit-form of Pele flaming in the heavens above the summits of Mauna-loa and Mauna-kea. As for Na-maka-o-ka-ha'i, she retired from the battle exultant, thinking that her enemy Pele was done for: but when she reported her victory to Kane-milo-hai, that friend of Pele pointed to the spirit body of Pele glowing in the heavens as proof that she was mistaken. Namaka was enraged at the sight and would have turned back to renew the conflict, but Kane-milo-hai dissuaded her from this foolhardy undertaking, saying, "She is invincible; she has become a spirit." The search for a home-site still went on. Even Hale-a-ka-la was not found to be acceptable to Pele's fastidious taste. According to one account it proved to be so large that Pele found herself unable to keep it warm. Pele, a goddess now, accordingly bade adieu to Maui and its clustering isles and moved on to Hawaii. HE KAAO NA PELE, I HAALELE AI IA MAUI Aloha o Maui, aloha, e! Aloha o Moloka'i, aloha, e! Aloha o Lana'i, aloha, e! Aloha o Kaho'olawe, aloha, e! Ku makou e hele, e! O Hawaii ka ka aina A makou e noho ai a mau loa aku; Ke ala ho'i a makou i hiki mai ai, He ala paoa ole ko Ka-moho-alii, Ko Pele, ko Kane-milo-hai, ko Kane-apua, Ko Hiiaka--ka no'iau--i ka poli o Pele, I hiki mai ai. TRANSLATION PELE'S FAREWELL TO MAUI Farewell to thee, Maui, farewell! Farewell to thee, Moloka'i, farewell! Farewell to thee, Lana'i, farewell! Farewell to thee, Kaho'olawe, farewell! We stand all girded for travel: Hawaii, it seems, is the land On which we shall dwell evermore. The route by which we came hither Touched lands not the choice of Paoa;-- 'Twas the route of Ka-moho-alii, Of Pele and Kane-milo-hai, Route traveled by Kane-apua, and by Hiiaka, the wise, the darling of Pele. Pele and her company landed on Hawaii at Pua-kó, a desolate spot between Kawaihae and Kailua. Thence they journeyed inland until they came to a place which they named Moku-aweo-weo--not the site of the present crater of that name, but--situated where yawns the vast caldera of Kilauea. It was at the suggestion of Ku-moku-halii and Keawe-nui-kau of Hilo that the name was conferred. They also gave the name Mauna-loa to the mountain mass that faced them on the west, "because," said they, "our journey was long." Night fell and they slept. In the morning, when the elepaio uttered its note, they rose and used the Paoa staff. The omens were favorable, and Pele decided that this was the place for her to establish a permanent home. The people immediately began to set out many plants valuable for food; among them a variety of kalo called aweü, well suited for upland growth; the ulu (bread-fruit); the maiä (banana); the pala-á (an edible fern); the awa (Piper methysticum) and other useful plants. The land on the Hilo side of Kilauea, being in the rain belt, is fertile and well fitted for tillage. The statement, however, that Kilauea, or its vicinity, became the place of settlement for any considerable number of people cannot be taken literally. The climatic conditions about Kilauea are too harsh and untropical to allow either the people or the food plants of Polynesia to feel at home in it. The probability is that instead of being gathered about Kilauea, they made their homes in the fat lands of lower Puna or Hilo. Pele, on her human side at least, was dependent for support and physical comfort upon the fruits of the earth and the climatic conditions that made up her environment. Yet with all this, in the narrative that follows her relations to humanity are of that exceptional character that straddle, as it were, that border line which separates the human from the superhuman, but for the most part occupy the region to the other side of that line, the region into which if men and women of this work-a-day world pass they find themselves uncertain whether the beings with whom they converse are bodied like themselves or made up of some insubstantial essence and liable to dissolve and vanish at the touch. CHAPTER I PELE IN THE BOSOM OF HER FAMILY Once, when Pele was living in the pit of Kilauea, she roused up from her couch on the rough hearth-plate and said to her sisters, "Let us make an excursion to the ocean and enjoy ourselves, open the opihi shells and sea-urchins, hunt for small squid and gather sea-moss." To this all joyfully assented, saying, "Yes, let us go." The sisters formed quite a procession as they tramped the narrow downhill path until they came to the hill Pu'u-Pahoehoe--a place in the lower lands of Puna. Pele herself did not visibly accompany them on this journey; that was not according to her custom: she had other ways and means of travel than to plod along a dusty road. When, however, the party arrived at the rendezvous, there, sure enough, they found Pele awaiting them, ready for the business in hand. In the midst of their pleasurings Pele caught sight of Hopoe and Haena as they were indulging in an al fresco dance and having a good time by the Puna sea. She was greatly pleased and, turning to her sisters, said, "Come, haven't you also got some dance that you can show off in return for this entertainment by Hopoe and her companion?" They all hung their heads and said, "We have no hula." Hiiaka, the youngest, had stayed behind to gather lehua flowers, and when she came along laden with wreaths, Pele said to her, jestingly, "I've just been proposing to your sisters here to dance a hula in response to that of Hopoe and her fellow, but they decline, saying they have not the art. I suppose it's of no use to ask you, you are so small; but, perhaps, you've got a bit of a song." "Yes, I have a song," Hiiaka answered, to the surprise of all. "Let us have it, then; go on!" said Pele. Then the little girl, having first decorated all of her sisters with the wreaths, beginning with Pele, sang as follows: Ke ha'a la Puna i ka makani; Ha'a ka ulu hala i Keaau; Ha'a Haena me Hopoe; Ha'a ka wahine, Ami i kai o Nana-huki, la-- Hula le'a wale, I kai o Nana-huki, e-e! TRANSLATION Puna's a-dance in the breeze, The hala groves of Keaau shaken: Haena and Hopoe are swaying; The thighs of the dancing nymph Quiver and sway, down at Nana-huki-- A dance most sightly and pleasing, Down by the sea Nana-huki. Pele was delighted. "Is that all you have?" she asked. "I have something more," said the girl. "Let us hear it then." Hiiaka put even more spirit into the song as she complied: O Puna kai kuwá i ka hala; Pae ka leo o ke kai; Ke lu, la, i na pua lehua. Nana i kai o Hopoe, Ka wahine ami i kai O Nana-huki, la; Hula le'a wale, I kai o Nana-huki, e-e. TRANSLATION The voice of Puna's sea resounds Through the echoing hala groves; The lehua trees cast their bloom. Look at the dancing girl Hopoe; Her graceful hips swing to and fro, A-dance on the beach Nana-huki: A dance that is full of delight, Down by the sea Nana-huki. At the conclusion of this innocent performance--the earliest mention of the hula that has reached us--Hiiaka went to stay with her friend Hopoe, a person whose charm of character had fascinated the imagination of the susceptible girl and who had already become her dearest intimate, her inspiring mentor in those sister arts, song, poesy and the dance. Pele herself remained with her sister Hiiaka-i-ka-pua-enaena (Hiiaka-of-the-fire-bloom), and presently she lay down to sleep in a cave on a smooth plate of pahoehoe. Before she slept she gave her sister this command: "Listen to me. I am lying down to sleep; when the others return from fishing, eat of the fish, but don't dare to wake me. Let me sleep on until I wake of myself. If one of you wakes me it will be the death of you all. If you must needs wake me, however, call my little sister and let her be the one to rouse me; or, if not her, let it be my brother Ke-o-wahi-maka-o-ka-ua--one of these two." When Ke-o-wahi-maka-o-ka-ua, who was so closely related to Pele that she called him brother, had received this command and had seen her lapse into profound sleep he went and reported the matter to Hiiaka, retailing all that Pele had said. "Strange that this havoc-producer should sleep in this way, and no bed-fellow!" said Hiiaka to herself. "Here are all the other Hiiakas, all of equal rank and merit! Perhaps it was because my dancing pleased her that she wishes me to be the one to rouse her." The cavern in the hill Pahoehoe in which Pele lay and slept, wrapped in her robe (kapa-ahu), remains to this day. In her sleep Pele heard the far-off beating of hula drums, and her spirit-body pursued the sound. At first it seemed to come from some point far out to sea; but as she followed, it shifted, moving to the north, till it seemed to be off the beach of Waiakea, in Hilo; thence it moved till it was opposite Lau-pahoehoe. Still evading her pursuit, the sound retreated till it came from the boisterous ocean that beats against the shaggy cliffs of Hamakua. Still going north, it seemed presently to have reached the mid channel of Ale-nui-haha that tosses between Hawaii and Maui. "If you are from my far-off home-land Kahiki, I will follow you thither, but I will come up with you," said Pele. To her detective ear, as she flitted across the heaving waters of Ale-nui-haha, the pulsing of the drums now located itself at the famous hill Kauwiki, in Hana; but, on reaching that place, the music had passed on to the west and sounded from the cliffs of Ka-haku-loa. The fugitive music led her next across another channel, until in her flight she had traversed the length of Moloka'i and had come to the western point of that island, Lae-o-ka-laau. Thence she flew to cape Maka-pu'u, on Oahu, and so on, until, after crossing that island, she reached cape Kaena, whose finger-point reaches out towards Kaua'i. In that desolate spot dwelt an aged creature of myth, Pohaku-o-Kaua'i by name, the personal representative of that rock whose body-form the hero Mawi had jerked from its ocean bed ages before, in his futile attempt to draw together the two islands Kaua'i and Oahu and unite them into one mass. Pele, arguing from her exasperation, said, "It must be my old grandfather Pohaku-o-Kaua'i who is playing this trick with the music. If it's he that's leading me this chase, I'll kill him." The old fellow saw her approach and, hailing her from a distance, greeted her most heartily. Her answer was in a surly mood: "Come here! I'm going to kill you to-day. So it's you that's been fooling me with deceitful music, leading me a wearisome chase." "Not I, I've not done this. There they are, out to sea; you can hear for yourself." And, sure enough, on listening, one could hear the throbbing of the music in the offing. Pele acknowledged her mistake and continued her pursuit, with the parting assurance to the old soul that if he had been the guilty one, it would have been his last day of life. The real authors of this illusive musical performance were two little creatures named Kani-ka-wí and Kani-ka-wá, the former a sprite that was embodied in the nose-flute, the latter in the hokeo, a kind of whistle, both of them used as accompaniments to the hula. Their sly purpose was to lure Pele to a place where the hula was being performed. Pele now plunged into the water--from this point at least she swam--and, guided by the call of the music, directed her course to the little village of Haena that perched like a gull on the cape of the same name, at the northernmost point of the island of Kaua'i. It was but a few steps to the hall of the hula--the halau--where throbbed the hula drums and where was a concourse of people gathered from the whole island. CHAPTER II PELE MEETS AND FASCINATES LOHIAU As Pele drew near to the rustic hall where the hula was in full blast, the people in the outskirts of the assembly turned to look in wonder and admiration at the beauty and charm of the stranger who had appeared so unexpectedly and whose person exhaled such a fragrance, as if she had been clad with sweet-scented garlands of maile, lehua and hala. One and all declared her to be the most beautiful woman they had ever looked upon. Where was she from? Surely not from Kaua'i. Such loveliness could not have remained hidden in any nook or corner of the island, they declared. Instinctively the wondering multitude parted and offered a lane for her to pass through and enter the halau, thus granting to Pele a full view of the musicians and performers of the hula, and, sitting in their midst, Lohiau,--as yet seemingly unconscious of her presence,--on his either hand a fellow drummer; while, flanking these to right and left, sat players with a joint of bamboo in either hand (the kaekeeke). But drummer and kaekeeke-player, musicians and actors--aye, the whole audience--became petrified and silent at the sight of Pele, as she advanced step by step, her eyes fixed on Lohiau. Then, with intensified look, as if summoning to her aid the godlike gifts that were hers as the mistress of Kilauea, she reached out her hand and, in a clear tone, with a mastery that held the listeners spell-bound, she chanted: Lu'ulu'u Hanalei i ka ua nui, Kaumaha i ka noe o Alaka'i, I ka hele ua o Manu'a-kepa; Uoi ku i ka loa o Ko'i-alana, I ka alaka'i 'a a ka malihini, e! Mai hina, mai hina au, Mai palaha ia o-e. Imi wale ana au o kahi o ke ola, O ke ola nei, e-e! TRANSLATION Tight-pressed is Hanalei's throng, A tree bent down by heavy rain, Weighted with drops from the clouds, When rain columns sweep through Manu'a-kepa, This throng that has lured on the stranger, Nigh to downfall, to downfall, was I, Laid flat by your trick--aye yours! My quest was for comfort and life, Just for comfort and life! The silence became oppressive. In the stillness that followed the song expectant eyes were focused upon Prince Lohiau, awaiting his reply to the address of the stranger who stood in their midst. No one knew who she was; no one imagined her to be Pele. That she was a person of distinction and rank was evident enough, one whom it was the duty and rare privilege of their chief to receive and entertain. Presently there was wrinkling of foreheads, an exchange of glances, prompting winks and nods, inclinations of the head, a turning of the eyes--though not a word was spoken--; for his friends thought thus to rouse Lohiau from his daze and to prompt him to the dutiful rites of hospitality and gallantry. Paoa, his intimate friend, sitting at Lohiau's right hand, with a drum between his knees, even ventured to nudge him in the side. The silence was broken by Pele: Kalakú Hilo i ka ua nui; Kapu ke nu, ke i, I ka puá o ka leo, I ka hamahamau--hamau kakou-- I ka hawanawana; I ke kunou maka; I ka awihi maka; I ka alawa iki. Eia ho'i au, kou hoa, Kou hoa, ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION Bristling, frumpy, sits Hilo, Drenched by the pouring rain, Forbidden to murmur, Or put forth a sound, Or make utt'rance by speech: Must all remain breathless, Nor heave an audible sigh, Withholding the nod, the wink, And the glance to one side. I pray you behold me now:-- Here stand I, your guest, Your companion, your mate! Lohiau, once roused from his ecstacy, rose to the occasion and with the utmost gallantry and politeness invited Pele to sit with him and partake of the hospitalities of the halau. When Pele had seated herself on the mat-piled dais, Lohiau, following the etiquette of the country, asked whence she came. "I am of Kaua'i," she answered. "There is no woman of Kaua'i your equal in beauty," said Lohiau. "I am the chief and I know, for I visit every part of the whole island." "You have doubtless traveled about the whole island," answered Pele; "yet there remain places you are not acquainted with; and that is where I come from." "No, no! you are not of Kaua'i. Where are you from?" Because of his importunity, Pele answered him, "I am from Puna, from the land of the sunrise; from Ha'eha'e, the eastern gate of the sun." Lohiau bade that they spread the tables for a feast, and he invited Pele to sit with him and partake of the food. But Pele refused food, saying, "I have eaten." "How can that be?" said he, "seeing you have but now come from a long journey? You had better sit down and eat." Pele sat with him, but she persistently declined all his offers of food, "I am not hungry." Lohiau sat at the feast, but he could not eat; his mind was disturbed; his eyes were upon the woman at his side. When they rose from the table he led her, not unwilling, to his house, and he lay down upon a couch by her side. But she would favor him only with kisses. In his growing passion for her he forgot his need of food, his fondness for the hula, the obligations that rested upon him as a host: all these were driven from his head. All that night and the following day, and another night, and for three days and three nights, he lay at her side, struggling with her, striving to overcome her resistance. But she would grant him only kisses. And, on the third night, as it came towards morning, Pele said to Lohiau, "I am about to return to my place, to Puna, the land of the sunrise. You shall stay here. I will prepare a habitation for us, and, when all is ready I will send and fetch you to myself. If it is a man who comes, you must not go with him; but, if a woman, you are to go with the woman. Then, for five days and five nights you and I will take our fill of pleasure. After that you will be free to go with another woman." In his madness, Lohiau put forth his best efforts to overcome Pele's resistance, but she would not permit him. "When we meet on Hawaii you shall enjoy me to your fill," said she. He struggled with her, but she foiled him and bit him in the hand to the quick; and he grasped the wound with the other hand to staunch the pain. And he, in turn, in the fierceness of his passion, planted his teeth in her body. At this, Pele fluttered forth from the house, plunged into the ocean and--was gone. CHAPTER III LOHIAU COMES TO HIMSELF--HIS DEATH--THE THREAT OF PAOA When Lohiau came to himself, as from a dream, he looked for the woman who had lain at his side, but her place was vacant and cold. He went out into the open air, but she was nowhere to be found, and he turned back into the empty house. Lohiau's stay with Pele in the sleeping house had prolonged itself beyond all reason and his friends became concerned about him; and as night after night and day after day passed and they neither saw nor heard anything of him, their concern grew into alarm. Yet no one dared enter the house. Lohiau's sister, however, made it her business to investigate. Opening the door of the house, she entered, and, lo, there hung the body of her brother, suspended from a rafter, his malo about his neck. Life had been gone for many hours and the body was cold. Her screams brought to her aid a group of Lohiau's friends who at once lifted their voices in unison with hers, bewailing their chief's death and denouncing the woman who had been with him as the guilty cause. Paoa was the most outspoken in his imprecations. Stripping off his malo, he stood forth in the garb of nature and declared he would not resume his loin cloth until he had sought out the woman and humiliated her by the grossest of insults. "I will not gird my loins with a malo until I have kindled a fire in Pele's face, pounded her face as one pounds a taro, consumed her very eyes." This was the savage oath with which Paoa pledged his determination to avenge the death of his friend, his chief, Lohiau. With universal wailing, amid the waving of kahilis, with tender care and the observance of all due rites, his people anointed the dear body of their chief with perfumed oil, wrapped it in scented robes of choicest tapa, and laid it to rest in the sepulcher. The favorite dog of Lohiau, who was greatly attached to his master, took his station at the grave and would not be persuaded to leave. Poha-kau, a cousin of Pele,--himself a kupua and possessed of superhuman powers,--having journeyed from Hawaii to Haena, found the faithful creature keeping his lonely vigil at the grave and he brought the dog with him to Pele. "Your man is dead; Lohiau is dead," said he. "But this animal--do you recognize him?--I found watching by the grave in Haena." "Yes, that is the dog I saw with Lohiau," answered Pele; and she hid the dog away in her secret place. CHAPTER IV PELE AWAKES FROM HER SLEEP While the scene we have described was being enacted on Kaua'i, the spirit of Pele, returning from its long flight, hovered over the sleeping body at Lau-pahoehoe. Above it waved the kahilis, about it were gathered the sisters and other relatives, quietly sobbing. Though it was many days since Pele had lain down to sleep, and though they feared the consequences if she continued thus, they dared not disturb her. When that was proposed, the sister in charge objected. "If it must be done, we shall have to send for Hiiaka the beloved." Some of them suggested that Pele must be dead, she had remained so long without motion. But Hiiaka-of-the-lightning-flash scouted the idea: "How can that be? The body shows no signs of decay." The girl Hiiaka saw the messenger that had been despatched to fetch her, while as yet she was in the dim distance,--it was her nurse, Paú-o-pala'e,--and there came to her a premonition of what it all meant, a vision, a picture, of the trouble that was to come; yet, overmastering her, was a feeling of affection and loyalty for her elder sister. Standing outside the house, that she might better watch the approach of Paú-o-pala'e and be on hand to greet her, she voiced her vision in song: A ka lae ohi'a i Papa-lau-ahi, I ka imu lei lehua o Kua-o-ka-la-- Lehua maka-nou i ke ahi-- A wela e-e, wela la! Wela i ke ahi au, A ka Wahine mai ka Lua, e-e! TRANSLATION From the forest-tongue at Papa-lau-ahi To the garlands heaped at Back-o'-the-sun, The beauteous lehuas are wilted, Scorched, burnt up, aye burnt, Consumed by the fire of the Woman-- The fire that flows from the Pit. As the messenger, in the vibrating sunlight, thridded her way among the tree clumps and lava-knobs, which now concealed her and now brought her into full view, Hiiaka, with gaze intent to gain such snap-shots of her as these obstructions did not forbid, continued her song: No ka Lua paha ia makani, o ka Pu'u-lena, Ke halihali i ke ala laau, Honi u ai ke kini i kai o Haena-- Haena aloha! Ke kau nei ka haili moe; Kau ka haili moe i ke ahiahi: He hele ko kakahiaka: Mana'o hele paha au e-e. Homai ka ihu a hele a'e au; Aloha oe a noho iho, e-e! TRANSLATION From the Pit, doubtless, breathes Pu'u-lena, With its waft of woodland perfume-- A perfume drunk in with rapture On the beach of belovéd Haena. There wafts to me this premonition, This vision and dream of the night: I must be gone in the morning: I foresee I must travel to-morrow. A farewell kiss ere I journey; Farewell, alas, to thee who remainest! Her hostess, Hopoe, would not take the song or the farewell of Hiiaka seriously. "You are simply joking," she said, "letting your gloomy imagination run away with you. Who in the world is driving you away, as if you had worn out your welcome?" The messenger, Paú-o-pala'e, when she had saluted Hiiaka, said, "I come from your sisters. They want to see you." Arrived at Lau-pahoehoe, [5] Hiiaka found her sisters in great consternation, fearing for the life of Pele if she were allowed to continue her long sleep. Her spirit, it is true, had come back to her body; but it was merely hovering about and had not entered and taken possession, so that there were no signs of animation or life. It seemed to be waiting for the voice of Hiiaka, the belovéd, to summon it back and to make it resume consciousness. Hiiaka demanded to know the cause of the wailing. "We are lamenting our sister, the head of the family. You can see for yourself; she is dead." After carefully examining the body of Pele, Hiiaka stoutly declared, "She is not dead. That is evident from the absence of corruption." Then, sitting close to Pele's feet, she sang: O hookó ia aku oe O ka hana ana a ke akua: I kai o Maka-wai Ke kiké la ka pohaku: Wáhi kai a ke 'kua-- He akua, he kanáka; He kanáka no, e-e! TRANSLATION Content you now with your god-work: Down by the sea at Maka-wai The rocks have smitten together; The sea has opened a channel. Goddess you were, now human, Return to your human clay! Pele slept on and gave no sign of waking. Hiiaka then chanted this serenade: E ala, e ala, e ala! E ala, e Hi-ka-po-kuakini! E ala, e Hi-ka-po-kuamáno! E ala, e ke Akua, e ke Alo! E ala, e ka Uwila nui, Maka ehá i ka lani, la! E ala, e, e ala! TRANSLATION Awake now, awake, awake! Wake, Goddess of multiple god-power! Wake, Goddess of essence most godlike! Wake, Queen of the lightning shaft, The piercing fourth eye of heaven! Awake; I pray thee awake! The effect was magical: Pele's bosom heaved; breath entered her lungs; a fresh color came to her face, and spread to the tips of her ears. She sighed, stretched herself and sat up: she was herself again. CHAPTER V PELE MAKES A PROPOSITION TO HER SISTERS That same day Pele and the other sisters returned to Kilauea, while Hiiaka went back to resume her visit with Hopoe, each party reaching its destination at about the same time. Early the next morning Pele called to her sister Hiiaka-i-ka-ale-i (Hiiaka-of-the-choppy-sea) and said, "I want you to go on an errand for me." "No doubt I shall agree to go when you have told me what it is," was the answer of the young woman. "You are to journey to Kaua'i and escort hither our lover--yours and mine. While on the way you are not to lie with him; you are not to touch noses with him; you are not to fondle him or snuggle close to him. If you do any such thing I will kill both of you. After your return, for five days and five nights, I will have him to myself, and after that he shall be your lover." On hearing this, the young woman hung her head and wept. Pele then made the same proposal to each of the other sisters in turn. Not one of them would consent to undertake the mission. They knew full well the perils of the undertaking: the way was beset with swarms of demons and dragons, with beings possessed with powers of enchantment; and Pele did not offer to endow them with the power that would safeguard them on their journey. Pele, finding herself foiled on this tack, as a diversion, said, "Let us refresh ourselves and have some luau." The sisters immediately set to work, and, when they had made up the bundles of delicate taro leaves and were about to lay them upon the fire, Pele called to Paú-o-pala'e and bade her go straightway to Haena and fetch Hiiaka, "And you are to be back here by the time the luau is cooked." Now the girl, whose full name was Hiiaka-i-ka-poli-o-Pele, was the youngest of the sisters, and, by reason of her loveliness and accommodating disposition, she was Pele's favorite. She was, moreover, gifted with a quick intuition and a clairvoyant perception of distant happenings and coming events. At the time of the conversation between Pele and the seven sisters, Hiiaka was sporting in the ocean with her surf-board in the company of Hopoe. While thus engaged, the whole matter of the proposed journey to Haena came to her as in a vision. In the midst of her surfing she turned to Hopoe and said, "I perceive that I am about to undertake a long journey; and during my absence you will remain here in Puna waiting my return." "No! What puts such a notion into your head?" said Hopoe. "Yes, I must go," insisted Hiiaka. Then they mounted a roller, and, as their boards touched the beach, there stood the messenger of Pele; and this was the message: "Gird on your paú and come with me to Kilauea. Your sister commands it." As the two jogged on their uphill way, an impulse seized Hiiaka, and she gave voice to a premonition, a shadow of coming trouble, as it were, and, standing in the road at Mokau-lele, she sang: He uä kui lehua ko Pana-ewa; He uä ma kai kui hala ko Puna, e! Aloha e, aloha wale Koloa, e-e! Na mau'u i moe o Malei. TRANSLATION Pana-ewa's rain beats down the lehuas, A rain by the sea smites the halas of Puna. My love, my pity go out to Koloa;-- Her fare, wilted herbs at Malei. Hiiaka--true poet that she was, and alive to every colorable aspect of nature--as she trudged on her way, came upon a sight that touched her imagination; two birds were sipping together in loving content of the water that had collected in the crotch of a tree, in which also was growing an awa plant.--Such nature-planted awa was famed as being the most toxic of any produced in Puna.--Her poetic mind found in the incident something that was in harmony with her own mood, and she wove it into a song: O ka manu múkimukí, Ale lehua a ka manu, O ka awa ili lena I ka uka o Ka-li'u; O ka manu ha'iha'i lau awa o Puna:-- Aia i ka laau ka awa ona o Puna, O Puna, ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION O bird that sips with delight the nectar-bloom of lehua, Tasting the yellow-barked awa That climbs in Ka-liu's uplands; O bird that brews from this leafage Puna's bitter-sweet awa draught;-- Puna's potentest awa grows Aloft in the crotch of a tree;-- Most potent this awa of Puna! CHAPTER VI HIIAKA CONSENTS TO PELE'S PROPOSITION Hiiaka arrived at the Pit in good time to partake with the others of the frugal feast ordered by Pele. At its conclusion, Pele turned to the girl Hiiaka and put the question in her blunt way, "Will you be my messenger to fetch our lover--yours and mine--from Kaua'i? Your sisters here"--she glanced severely about the group--"have refused to go. Will you do this for me?" The little maid, true to her sense of loyalty to the woman who was her older sister, the head of the family, and her alii, to the surprise and dismay of her other sisters, answered, "Yes, I will go and bring the man." It was a shock to their sense of fitness that one so young should be sent on an errand of such danger and magnitude; but more, it was a reproof that slapped them in the face to have this little chit accept without hesitation a commission which they had shrunk from through lack of courage. But they dared not say a word; they could but scowl and roll the eye and shrug the shoulder. "When you have brought our lover here," continued Pele, "for five nights and five days he shall be mine; after that, the tabu shall be off and he shall be yours. But, while on the way, you must not kiss him, nor fondle him, nor touch him. If you do it will be the death of you both." In spite of the gestured remonstrances of the group, Hiiaka, in utter self-forgetfulness and diplomatic inexperience, agreed to Pele's proposition, and she framed her assent in a form of speech that had in it the flavor of a sacrament: Kukulu ka makia a ka huaka'i hele moe ipo: Ku au, hele, noho oe. E noho ana na lehua lulu'u, Ku'u moku lehua i uka o Ka-li'u, e. Li'uli'u wale ka hele ana O ka huaka'i moe ipo. Aloha mai ka ipo-- O Lohiau ipo, i Haena. TRANSLATION Firm plant the pillar, seal of our love-pact; Here stand I, begirt for this love-quest; You shall abide, and with you my groves-- Lehua and hala--heavy with bloom. The journey is long and toilsome the task To bring our fine lover to bed. Mark! a love-hail--from beloved Lohiau! Beloved Lohiau of Haena! (I am impelled by my admiration for this beautiful song to give another version of it:) Ku kila ke kaunu moe ipo; Ku au, hele, noho oe, a no-ho, A noho ana i na lehua o Lu-lu'u, O ka pae hala, moku lehua, i uka o Ka-li'u. Li'u-li'u ho'i, li'u-li'u wale Ka hele ana o ka huaka'i moe ipo. Aloha mai ka ipo, O Lohiau ipo, e! TRANSLATION Fixed my intent for the lover-quest: Here I stand to depart; you remain, And with you my bloom-clad lehuas, And the palm-groves that wave in Ka-li'u. Long, wearisome long, shall the journey be To find and to bring our lover-- That dearest of lovers, Lohiau! Hiiaka would sleep on it. Her start was to be in the morning. The next day, while Hiiaka was climbing the long ascent up the crater-pali, her sisters, anxious and appreciating the danger of the undertaking, were quietly weeping outside the cave; but they dared not utter a word that might come to the ears of Pele. They began, however, to beckon and signal to Hiiaka to return. She saw them and turned back, uttering the following plaint: E ku ana au e hele; E lau ka maka o ua nei ino; E ka po'e ino, o lakou nei, e: E mana ana, ka, ia'u e hele; E hele no au, e-e! TRANSLATION While I stand ready for travel, You bad lot! 'Tis you that I mean! This weight of travel you'd lay on me; These bad ones sit with impudent stare: And so it is I that must go! The opposition of the sisters was based largely on Hiiaka's youth and inexperience. The girl did not understand nor give them credit for this generous regard for herself; she saw only their disobedience and disloyalty to Pele's command. Pele, impatient at her vacillation, broke out on her savagely: "Here you are again! Be off on your journey! You shall find no food here, no meat, no raiment, no roof, no sisterly greeting, nothing, until you return with the man. It would have been useless to dispatch these homely women on this errand; it seems equally useless to send a beautiful girl like you." To this outburst Hiiaka retorted: Ke hanai a'e la ka ua [6] i ka lani: Maka'u au i ka ua awa i ka uka o Kiloi. Iná [7] ia ia la, he loiloi [8], e-- I loiloi no oe elua [9] oiwi-- Loiloi iho la, e-e! TRANSLATION The rain doth replenish the heavens; I dread the fierce rain of upland Kiloí. Behold now this one, the fault-finder! You, in two shapes, are hard to please-- Aye, in either shape, hard to please! "I am not grumbling or finding fault with you (loiloi): it was simply because you turned back that I spoke to you. Do you call that reproaching you?" Hiiaka, though a novice in diplomacy, as shown by her instant and unconditional acceptance of Pele's proposition, having once got her second breath, now exacted of Pele a condition that proved her to be, under the discipline of experience, an apt pupil in the delicate art of diplomacy. "I am going to bring our lover, while you remain at home. If during my absence you go forth on one of your raids, you are welcome to ravage and consume the lands that are common to us both; but, see to it that you do not consume my forests of lehua. And, again, if the fit does come upon you and you must ravage and destroy, look to it that you harm not my friend Hopoe." Pele readily agreed to Hiiaka's reasonable demand, thinking thus to hasten her departure. To the inexperienced girl the terms of the agreement seemed now complete and satisfactory, and, in the first blush of her gratification, Hiiaka gave expression to her pleasure: Ke kau aloha wale mai la ka ua, e-e; Ka mauna o ka haliü kua, a-a. I ku au a aloha oe, ka Lua, e-e! Aloha ia oe, e-e! TRANSLATION Kindly falls the rain from heaven; Now may I turn my back and travel: Travel-girt, I bid farewell to the Pit; Here's a farewell greeting to thee. Even now Hiiaka made an ineffectual start. Some voice of human instinct whispered that something was wanting, and she again faced her sister with a request so reasonable that it could not be denied: Ke ku nei au e hele: Hele au a ke ala, Mihi mai e-e: Mana'o, ho'i mai no au, Ia oe la, ia o-e. La'i pohu mai la Lalo o ka Lua, e: I elua mai la, pono au. Olelo I ke aka, Ka hele ho'okahi, e; Mamina ka leo-- He leo wale no, e-e! TRANSLATION My foot still shod for travel,-- I made a misstart on my journey; I've come to repair my neglect. A need, a request, brings me back, To plead in thy presence once more: Joy springs up within; There's calm in the Pit. Give me but a travel-mate: That would content me. Who travels alone has For speech-mate his shadow. Futile is speech, with No answering voice-- Empty words, only a voice. (The exigencies of the narrative have induced me, in the above song, to couple together two mele which the story-tellers have given us as belonging to two separate incidents in Hiiaka's fence with Pele.) "Your request is reasonable," said Pele; "to travel alone is indeed to converse with one's shadow. You shall have a companion." Pele designated a good-natured waiting woman as her attendant, who had the poetical name of Paú-o-pala'e (or Paú-o-palaá). This faithful creature heartily accepted the trust, that of kahu--a servant with the pseudo responsibility of a guardian--and, having expressed her fealty to her new mistress, she at once took her station. Thus everything seemed arranged for a start on the eventful journey. The terms and conditions of Hiiaka's going were not even yet to the satisfaction of her watchful sisters and relatives. One matter of vital importance had been omitted from the outfit: Pele had not bestowed upon Hiiaka the mana, power and authority, to overcome and subdue all the foes that would surely rise up to oppose and defeat her. With wild gestures they signalled to Hiiaka once more to return. Hiiaka's answering song, though pointed with blame, gives proof that her own intuitions were not entirely at fault: A ka luna, i Pu'u-onioni, Noho ke anaina a ke 'Kua. Kilohi a' ku'u maka ilalo, I ka ulu o Wahine-kapu: He o'ioina Kilauea, He noho-ana o Papa-lau-ahi, e. Ke lau-ahi mai la o Pele ia kai o Puna: Ua one-á, oke-á, kai o Maláma, e. E málama i ka iki kanaka, I ka nu'a kanáka; O kakou no keia ho-akua-- Akua Mo'o-lau, e! O Mo'o-lau ke ala, e! TRANSLATION From the crest of Tremble [10] Hill I look on the concourse of gods, At ease on the gossip-ground, The seat of Wahine-kapu, Rest-station to Kilauea, Its pavement of lava-plate: Such plates Pele spreads in Puna-- Hot shards, gray sands at Maláma. Succor and life for small and great! Be it ours to play the god; our way Beset by demons four hundred! The communication between Hiiaka and her sisters had, on their part, been carried on mostly by means of gesture and sign-language. But on this return of Hiiaka the whole family of brothers and sisters were so moved at the thought of the danger to Hiiaka that they spoke out at last and frankly advised Hiiaka to go before Pele and demand of her the gift of spiritual power, mana, that she might be able to meet her enemies on equal terms at least, so that she need not feel powerless in their presence. But nothing came of this move at the time, for at this moment out came Pele from her cave, and, seeing Hiiaka standing with the others, she addressed her sharply and said: "What! You still here? Why are you not on the way to fetch our man?" Face to face with Pele, Hiiaka's courage oozed away and she promised to make another start in the morning. When on this new start she had come near the top of the ascent, she turned about and sang: Punohunohu i ka lani Ka uahi o ka lua; He la'i ilalo o Kilauea; Maniania 'luna o Wahine-kapu. I kapu, la, i ke aha ka leo, e? TRANSLATION The pit-smoke blankets the heavens; Clear is the air in Kilauea, Tranquil Wahine-kapu's plain-- The Woman, why silent her voice? Hiiaka now made common cause with the group of sisters and relatives who were bent on securing for her justice and fair treatment. Among them, taking council together, sat Ka-moho-alii, Kane-milo-hai, Kapo and Pohakau [11]. By this action Hiiaka took a new attitude: while not coming out in open defiance to her sister, she virtually declared her determination no longer to be domineered over by Pele. In the council that took place it was determined that Ka-moho-alii, who stood high in Pele's regards and whose authority was second only to hers, was the proper one to approach Pele in the matter of conferring upon Hiiaka the necessary mana. When, therefore, Pele put to Hiiaka the question why she had returned, why she was not on her journey, Ka-moho-alii spoke up and said, "It is because of fear she has returned. She sees danger by the way. You have not given her the mana to protect her from the dragons and monsters that infest the road. O Mo'o-lau ke ala, e: The way is beset by dragons four hundred." "Ah, that is the trouble?" said Pele. Then she called upon the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, Wind, Rain, Thunder, Lightning--all the heavenly powers--to aid and safeguard Hiiaka and she authorized her to exercise the powers of these heavenly beings. The gods, thereupon, ratified this act of Pele; and at last the way was made clear for Hiiaka's departure. CHAPTER VII HIIAKA STARTS ON HER JOURNEY The refusal of her sisters to undertake the mission to fetch Lohiau had angered Hiiaka. Her intrepid fealty to Pele, their oldest sister and their alii, laughed to scorn the perils of the journey. She could not and, for a time, would not bring herself to understand their prudential attitude. Pele was their alii, and it was rank disloyalty in them to shirk any danger or to decline any command Pele might think fit to impose. In judging the conduct of her sisters, it did not at first enter the head of Hiiaka that motives of sound worldly prudence justified them in declining for themselves an errand full of danger, or in putting obstacles in the way of her going on the same errand: she saw in it only a failure to rise to the level of her own loyalty. The situation, then, was heavily charged with estrangement, and when the woman in Hiiaka could not refrain from one more farewell, the color and tone of voice and song had in them the snap of electricity: Ke ku nei au e hele, a noho oe; A noho ana na Wahine o Lu-lu'u E ka pae [12] moku lehua I uka o Ka-li'u, la. Li'uli'u wale ka hele ana O ka huaka'i moe ipo. Aloha mai ka ipo, O Lohiau ipo, e-e! TRANSLATION Here stand I begirt for travel; You must tarry at home, and these ... These ... women ... who sit downcast. Oh, care for my parks of lehua-- How they bloom in upland Ka-li'u! Long is the way and many the day Before you shall come to the bed of love, But, hark! the call of the lover, The voice of the lover, Lohiau! At the utterance of this name Pele brightened and called to Hiiaka, "Yes, that is the name of our man. I purposely kept it back until you should have reached the water-shed (kaupaku [13] o ka hale o kaua, literally the ridgepole) of our house, intending then to reveal it to you; but you have divined the man's name. Go on your journey. Nothing shall avail to block your road. Yours is the power of woman; the power of man is nothing to that." On reaching the plateau of Wahine-kapu Hiiaka received a spiritual message telling her that Lohiau--the object of her errand--was dead. She at once turned towards Pele and commemorated the fact in song: I Akani-hia, I Akani-kolea, I Pu'u-wa'a-hia, I Pu'u-manawa-le'a, I Pu'u-aloha, la: He mea e ke aloha o ke kane, e. Ke haale iho nei au e hanini, e; E uwé au, e! TRANSLATION Let us sound it aloud-- Far as the plover's flight; With full breath shout it, And with a full heart, Big with affection. Ah, wondrous the love for a man! The feelings that strive, As these tears, to rush out-- I can not repress them! Pele did not know this name-song of Lohiau until she heard it recited by Hiiaka. This it was that led Hiiaka to come back within easy hearing distance: Ke uwá ia mai la e ka ua; Ke kahe ia mai la e ka wai: Na lehua i Wai-a'ama, la, lilo, Lilo a'u opala lehua I kai o Pi'i-honua, la; Mai Po'i-honua no a Pi'i-lani. TRANSLATION It sobs in the rain; It moans in the rushing tide. Gone is my grove of lehuas-- My rubbish grove, that stood By the pilfering waters--flown, He has flown, like its smoke, to heaven. 'Tis there I must seek him! "How absurd of you," said Pele; "you were not sent on an expedition to heaven, but to bring a man who is here on earth. If you fly up to heaven, you will pass him by and leave him here below." Hiiaka and her faithful companion--Pau-o-pala'e--had gotten well away from the vast pit of Kilauea, with its fringe of steam-cracks and fumaroles that radiate from it like the stays of a spider-web, and they were nearing the borders of Pana-ewa, when Hiiaka's quick ear caught the sound of a squealing pig. Her ready intuition furnished the right interpretation to this seemingly insignificant occurrence: A loko au o Pana-ewa, Halawai me ka pua'a A Wahine-oma'o, Me ku'u maka lehua i uka. Me ka Malu-ko'i [14] i ka nahele, E uwé ana i ka laau. Alalá ka pua'a a ka wahine-- He pua'a kanaenae, He kanaenae mohai ola-- E ola ia Pele, I ka Wahine o ka Lua, e-e! TRANSLATION In the heart of Pana-ewa-- Lehuas were heavy with bud, The dim aisles solemn with shadow-- I met with a suckling pig, The pet of Wahine-oma'o, A wailing voice in the wilderness: 'Twas the creature wail of the thing, Foredoomed as an offering, this Wailing thing was a sacrifice, An appeal to Pele for life, To the Woman who dwells in the Pit. At this moment a young woman of attractive person appeared on the scene and, prostrating herself to the earth, said, "O, Pele, behold my offering, which I bring to thee in fulfillment of the pledge made by my parents, that I should first seek thee, O Pele, before I come to my marriage bed. Accept this suckling which I offer to thee, O Pele." "I am not the one you are seeking: I am not Pele," said Hiiaka. "Pele is over yonder in the Pit." The woman was persistent and begged that Hiiaka would not despise her offering. After undeceiving her, Hiiaka carefully instructed her, lest she make some fatal mistake in her approach to the jealous goddess: "When you come to the Pit you must be careful in your approach to Pele. The least departure from the etiquette she demands would be the cause of your death. Do not imagine that the fine large woman sitting at the door is Pele, nor that any one of the women seated within is she. You must pay no attention to these. Look for the figure of a wrinkled old woman lying bundled up on the hearth: that is Pele: make the offering to no one else but to her." "Alas for me," said Wahine-oma'o. "You will be gone a long way from this place by the time I shall return to seek you. I shall not be able to find you." "You will find us here," replied Hiiaka assuringly. Hiiaka used her power to bring the woman at once to her destination. Following the instructions given her, Wahine-oma'o was quickly transported into the presence of Pele and, having made her offering in due form, was about to retire, when Pele called her back and said, "Did you not meet some women going from here as you came this way?" "I met some women," she answered. "Make haste and come up with them," said Pele. "The younger woman is very dear to me. Attach yourself to her as a friend." "That I will do," said Wahine-oma'o. Then, moved by an impulse that came to her (the work, it is said, of Hiiaka), she said to Pele, "I had imagined you to be a beautiful woman, Pele. But, lo, you are old and wrinkled; and your eyes are red and watery." Thus saying, Wahine-oma'o took her departure and almost immediately found herself again with Hiiaka. "You have made quick time," Hiiaka said. "How did you get on?" "I followed your instructions and presented my offering to the woman who was lying on the hearth. She asked me if I had met you, and when I said yes, she told me to look after you as a friend." "Is that all?" "She also told me to watch you, to observe how you behaved towards the man--whether you kissed him or had any dalliance with him." "And did you say anything to Pele?" "U-m, I bantered her about her looks; told her she was a very ill-favored woman, while the women attending her were very handsome." Hiiaka laughed at this naive account. Night shut down upon them at Kuolo, a place just on the border of Pana-ewa. Paú-o-pala'e proposed that they should seek a resting place for the night with the people of the hamlet. Hiiaka would not hear to it: "Travelers should sleep in the open, in the road; in that way they can rise and resume their journey with no delay." (O ka po'e hele he pono ia lakou e moe i ke alanui, i ala no a hele no.) CHAPTER VIII THE GIRL PA-PULEHU--THE FEAST In the morning while it was still dark, they roused and started afresh. Their way led through lehua groves of the most luxuriant growth, the bloom of which crimsons the landscape to this day, exuding a honey that is most attractive to the birds of heaven. The cool still air wafted to their ears the hum of voices which was soon explained when they came upon a bevy of girls who were busily plucking the bright flowers to string into wreaths and garlands, in anticipation of some entertainment. This rural scene made an appeal to the poet in Hiiaka which she could not resist: A Wai-akea, i ka Hilo-hana-kahi, Ala i ka wa po iki, I ka lehua lei o Hilo, o Hi-lo; E pauku ana no ka hala me ka lehua. Maikai Hilo, o Hilo-hana-kahi! TRANSLATION At Wai-akea, in Hilo-- The Hilo of Hana-kahi-- They rise in the early morning To weave fresh wreaths of lehua, Inbeading its bloom with hala-- Gay Hilo of Hana-kahi! At sight of Hiiaka's party, the lively flower-girls made a rush, as if to capture and appropriate their friendly acquaintance for individual possession. The most vivacious and forward of the whole party was Pa-pulehu, their leader, a buxom young woman, of good family, who at once took possession of Hiiaka for herself, crowned and bedecked her with wreaths and garlands, with many expressions of enthusiastic admiration: "This is my friend!--What a beauty!--How the scarlet lehua becomes her!--Just look, girls!--And now you are to come and be my guest.--The feast is set for this very day.--But you are all welcome." The unrestrained gush of the young woman's rattling talk was quite in contrast to the selected words of Hiiaka. Now Pa-pulehu was of a large and important family, embracing numerous friends and relations, and, having ample means, her hospitalities were unstinted. The report spread quickly, "Pa-pulehu has a distinguished guest come to visit her. There is to be a feast this afternoon. All are invited." The tables were spread with a great variety of fish, meats, fruits and vegetables. The parents and guardians of the girl, nevertheless, came to her and inquired, "What is there that this young woman, your friend, would specially like to eat?" Paú-o-pala'e took it upon her to answer, that the one thing that would be most acceptable to Hiiaka would be a dish of luau. Thereupon a large quantity of young and delicate taro leaves were prepared for the table. When they were gathered at the tables, Hiiaka sitting in the place of honor, Paú-o-pala'e, at her request, bade all the people incline their heads and close their eyes. Then Hiiaka called upon her allies, the Sun, the Moon, the Stars, the elements and all the gods to come to the feast and partake; and when the prayer was ended and they opened their eyes--lo, the tables spread for Hiiaka were empty! Hiiaka had not been seen to take into her hands any of the food that was spread before her. It had vanished away as a drop of water evaporates in the heat of the sun. The feast being concluded, Hiiaka rose, bade good bye to the people and resumed her journey, taking with her Pa-pulehu. This girl Pa-pulehu was of genuine flesh and blood, with no blend of divine ichor in her veins, such as enriched the blood of Hiiaka; nor had she, like Wahine-oma'o and Paú-o-pala'e, been strengthened and made more resistant to spiritual and physical foes--a privilege granted to those who had enjoyed a close approach to Pele as attendants and worshippers. This weakness in her nature had its influence in determining the fate to which her history now quickly leads. Their journey still lay through Puna. They were at Kalalau, not far from Haena (at the place where, centuries afterwards, Kamehameha was struck with that well-nigh fatal blow by an outraged fisherman). Some fishermen were hauling in their nets full of fish. The sight was too much for Pa-pulehu. "I hunger for fish," she exclaimed. "These fish belong to my father. Oh, if I only were at home! how I would eat until I was satisfied!" Hiiaka thought it best to indulge the appetite of this novice in her service. From a little knoll overlooking the ocean, she descried the canoe of a fisherman named Pahulu floating in the offing, but already well stocked with fish. Hiiaka used her power and drove away the school of fish that would have come to his net. The man himself was so intent on his work that he had no eyes for what was passing on shore; but his assistant exclaimed, "Look at the beautiful woman standing on the shore and watching us!" "I must keep my eyes on my nets," the fisherman replied. Thereupon Hiiaka attracted his attention with a song: Nani ku a ka Hilo pali-ku! O ka au-hula ana o Ka-lalau, O ka au alana loa i kai, e! Ho mai he i'a, na ka pehu o uka, ea. TRANSLATION A standing wonder, Hilo cliffs! How daring this Ka-lalau swimming, Far out to sea on a floating plank! Pray grant us, O man, of your fish-- Fish for the herb-swollen rustic. This brought the two fishermen ashore who thereupon willingly parted with some of their fish to Hiiaka, coupling the gift, however, with a proposition insulting to the honor of the two women. The fishermen, imagining they had the two women under their power, were soon after seen lying in the open embracing two figures of stone which they, in their insane infatuation, fancied were the two women, thus exposing themselves to the jeers and derision of their fellows. Pa-pulehu cooked and ate the fish, but her manner of eating was lacking in due punctilio, in that she did not dispose properly of the unconsumed parts--the tails, fins, bones and scales--of the fish. She should have burned or buried them; instead she left them lying about in a slovenly way. This neglect was highly offensive to Pele and caused her to withdraw from Pa-pulehu the protection she otherwise would have given her. CHAPTER IX HIIAKA CHOOSES THE ROUTE THROUGH PANA-EWA Two routes offered themselves for Hiiaka's choice, a makai road, circuitous but safe, the one ordinarily pursued by travelers; the other direct but bristling with danger, because it traversed the territory of the redoubtable witch-mo'o, Pana-ewa. Hiiaka had deigned to appeal to the girl Pa-pulehu, she being a kamaaina [15], as if for information. When Hiiaka announced her determination to take the short road, the one of danger that struck through the heart of Pana-ewa, Pa-pulehu drew back in dismay and expostulated: "That is not a fit road for us, or for any but a band of warriors. If we go that way we shall be killed." She broke forth with lamentations, bewailing her coming fate and the desolation that was about to visit her family. As they advanced Wahine-oma'o descried a gray scare-crow object motionless in the road ahead of them. She thought it to be the blasted stump of a kukui tree. Hiiaka recognized its true character, the witch-form taken as a disguise by a mo'o. It was a scout sent out by Pana-ewa; in real character a hag, but slimed with a gray excrement to give it closer resemblance to a mouldering tree-stump. The deceiving art of magic did not avail against Hiiaka. She rushed forward to give the death stroke to the foul thing, which at once groveled in the dirt in its true form. Night overtook them in a dense forest. While the others lay and slept, Hiiaka reconnoitered the situation. The repose of the wilderness was unbroken save for the restless flitting of a solitary bird that peered at Hiiaka obtrusively. It was a spy in the employ of Pana-ewa and its actions roused the lively suspicions of Hiiaka, eliciting from her an appropriate incantation: Ka wai mukiki ale lehua a ka manu, Ka awa ili lena i ka uka o Ka-li'u, Ka manu aha'i lau awa o Puna: Aia i ka laau ka awa o Puna. Mapu mai kona aloha ia'u-- Hoolaau mai ana ia'u e moe. E moe no au, e-e! TRANSLATION O honey-dew sipped by the bird, Distilled from the fragrant lehua; O yellow-barked awa that twines In the upper lands of Ka-li'u; O bird that brews from this leafage Puna's bitter-sweet awa draught;-- Puna's potentest awa grows Aloft in the crotch of the trees. It wafts the seduction to sleep, That I lock my senses in sleep! It was a subtle temptation that suggested the awa cup as a relief for her troubles. Hiiaka had need that all her faculties should give her their best service. For her to have slept at this time would have been fatal. Her song well expressed it: E nihi ka hele i ka uka o Puna; Mai ako i ka pua, O lilo i ke ala o ka hewahewa. Ua huná ia ke kino i ka pohaku, O ka pua na'e ke ahu nei i ke alanui-- Alanui hele o ka unu kupukupu, e-e;-- Ka ulí-a! A kaunu no anei oe o ke aloha la? Hele a'e a komo i ka hale o Pele; Ua huahua'i i Kahiki; lapa uila, Pele e, hua'i'na ho'i! TRANSLATION Heed well your way in upland Puna; Pluck never a single flower; Lest you stray from the path. The shape lies hid neath a stone, The path is one carpet of flowers, The blocks of stumbling overgrown. Quick follows the downfall! Is there a compact between us of love? Fly, voice, assail the ear of Pele! Erupt, Kahiki, with lightning flash! Now, Pele, burst forth in thy might! Pana-ewa entrusted the work of reconnaissance and scouting for information to two of his creatures named Ke-anini and Ihi-kalo, while he lay down and slept. Having done their work, the two scouts waked the drowsy monster in the middle of the night with the information that four human beings, women, had entered his domain and were coming towards him. "Where are they?" he asked. "Out in this direction (pointing), and they are moving this way." "Well, this day of fasting has gone by. What a pity, however, that the poi in my calabash has turned sour, but the taro is sweet. Eye-balls! what juicy, delicious morsels! The day of privation turns out to be a day of feasting." Thus muttered the cannibal monster, gloating like Polyphemus in his cave at the prospect of a feast. Hiiaka kept her own courage at the fine point of seeming indifference, she also inspired her companions with the same feeling by the calm confidence displayed in her singing: Pau ke aho i ke kahawai lau o Hilo: He lau ka pu'u, he mano ka iho'na; He mano na kahawai o Kula'i-po; He wai Honoli'i, he pali o Kama-e'e, He pali no Koolau ka Hilo-pali-ku; He pali Wailuku, he one ke hele ia; He one e ke'ehia la i Wai-olama. He aka ka wi a ka wai i Pana-ewa-- O Pana-ewa nui, moku-lehua, Ohi'a kupu hao'eo'e i ka ua, Lehua ula i ka wi' ia e ka manu. A ua po, e, po Puna, po Hilo I ka uahi o ku'u aina. By Pana-ewa.-- "Ola ia kini! ke a mai la ke ahi, e-e!" TRANSLATION One's strength is exhausted, climbing, climbing The countless valleys and ridges of Hilo,-- The streams without number of Ku-la'i-po, The mighty water of Hono-li'i, The precipice walls of Kama-e'e, And the pali of Ko'olau: Such a land is Hilo-pali-ku. The banks of Wailuku are walls; The road to its crossing but sand; Sandy the way at Wai-o-lama. How cheery the purl of these waters!-- Great Pana-ewa--her parks of lehua, Scraggy in growth yet scarlet a-top, Its nectar wrung out by the birds! Black night covers Puna and Hilo, A pall from the smoke of my home land! (By Pana-ewa). "Here's food for me and mine! Behold the blaze of the ovens!" (The last two lines are said to be the utterance of Pana-ewa who feigned to regard the fires as those of his own people, who, in anticipation of an easy victory, had made ready their ovens to receive the bodies of Hiiaka and her party.) Hiiaka bravely answered Pana-ewa: O Pana-ewa, ohi'a loloa, Ohi'a uliuli i ka uä, I moku pewa ia E ka laau o kepakepa, A ka uka i Haili la. Ilihia, ilihia i ka leo-- He leo wale no, e! TRANSLATION Pana-ewa, a tall ohi'a, The fruit red-ripe in the rain, Is vilely slashed with the stick Of the mountaineer. It stands in upland Haili: Terrific--the voice is terrific; Yet it's merely a voice! "The voice was threatening only because my servants reported that some people were trespassing. That set my tongue agoing about poi - - - and - taro. - - - After all it's a question of strength. Your valor it is that must win for you a passage through this land of mine." This was Pana-ewa's ultimatum. Hiiaka accepted the defiance of Pana-ewa by chanting a solemn kahoahoa, which was at once a confident prediction of victory and an appeal to the gods: Kua loloa Keäau i ka nahele hala; Kua huluhulu Pana-ewa i ka laau; Inoino ka maha, ka ohi'a o La'a, e; Ku kepakepa ka maha o ka laau, U-á po'ohina i ka wela a ke Akua; U-a-uahi Puna o ka oloka'a pohaku ia, I ka huná pa'a ia e ka Wahine. Nanahu ahi ka ka papa o Olueä; Momoku ahi Puna, hala i Apua; Ulu-á ka nahele me ka laau; Ka ke kahiko ia o Papa-lau-ahi. Ele-i [16] kahiko, e Ku-lili-kaua; Ka ia, [17] hea [18] hala o Ka-li'u; E ne [19] ka La, ka malama; Onakaka ka piko [20] o Hilo i ke one, I hu-lá [21] ia aku la e, hulihia i kai. Ua wawahia, ua nahahá, Ua he-helelei ka papa i Pua-le'i, e! TRANSLATION Long is the reach of Keäau's palms; Bristly-backed Pana-ewa's woodlands; Spoiled are the restful groves of La'a; Ragged and patchy the tree-clumps-- Gray their heads from the ravage of fire. A blanket of smoke covers Puna-- All paved with the dump from Her stone-yard. The Goddess' fire bites Olu-eä-- One cinder-heap clean to Apua; Food for Her oven are wildwood and brush-- The finish that to Lau-ahi's glory: Her robe now is changed to jetty black, At the onset of Ku-lili-kaua, Ka-liu's palms plucked root and branch. The Sun and the Moon are blotted out; Hilo is shaken to its foundation, Its lands upheaved, despoiled to the sea, Shattered, fissured, powdered, reduced; Its plain is ashes and dust! The battle that ensued when Pana-ewa sent to the attack his nondescript pack of mo'o, dragonlike anthropoids, the spawn of witchcraft, inflamed with the spite of demons, was hideous and uncanny. Tooth and claw ran amuck. Flesh was torn, limbs rent apart, blood ran like water. If it had been only a battle with enemies in the open Hiiaka would have made short work of the job. Her foes lay ambushed in every wood and brake and assumed every imaginable disguise. A withered bush, a bunch of grass, a moss-grown stone, any, the most innocent object in nature, might prove to be an assailant ready to spit venom or tear with hook and talon. Hiiaka had need of every grain of wit and every spark of courage in her nature. Nothing could withstand her onset and the billows of attack against her person were broken as by a solid rock. Some described her as wielding a flaming battle-ax and hurling missiles of burning sulphur. They might well be deceived. The quickness of her every motion was a counterfeit of the riving blade or blazing fire-ball. Some assert that, in her frenzy, she tore with her teeth and even devoured the reeking flesh until her stomach rose in rebellion. Such a notion seems incompatible with the violence of her disgust for the reptilian blood that besmeared her from sole to crown. Paú-o-pala'e, using her magical paú as a besom of destruction, was transformed into a veritable Bellona; and Wahine-oma'o displayed the courage of an amazon. These both escaped serious injury. The unhappy fate of Pa-pulehu realized that girl's premonition. She fell into the hands of the enemy and, as if to fulfill the prediction of Pele, became "food for the gods of Pana-ewa." As Hiiaka glanced heavenward, she saw the zenith filled with cloud-forms--Kane, Kanaloa, Ka-moho-alii, Poha-kau and others, encouraging her with their looks. The sight, while it cheered, wrung from her a fervent prayer: Kela pae opua i ka lani, e, Ke ka'i a'e la mauka o Poha-kau. He kaukau, aloha keia ia oe, Ia oe no, e-e-e! TRANSLATION Yon group of god-forms, that float And sail with the clouds heaven-high, Mustered and led by Poha-kau; This prayer is a love-call to you! "Our sister is in trouble," said Ka-moho-alii, "let us go to her assistance!" Such was the call of Ka-moho-alii when he saw his little friend and quondam protegé Hiiaka in trouble, and theirs were the god-forms that sailed through the sky to reinforce her. CHAPTER X HIIAKA'S BATTLE WITH PANA-EWA The bird-spies sent out by Pana-ewa brought back contradictory reports. The first pair reported that Hiiaka was being worsted. Soon after another pair, garbling the facts, said "Our people are lying down, but they are still alert and keep their eyes open. As for Hiiaka, she has fallen into a deep sleep." The situation was far from satisfactory and Pana-ewa despatched another pair of birds to reconnoitre and report. It was not yet morning and the night was dark; and they accordingly took the form of kukui [22] trees, thinking thus to illuminate the scene of operations. The intelligence they brought was confounding: "Our people," they said, "are all dead, save those who have the form of kukui trees. Hiiaka lies quietly sleeping in the road." This account, though strictly in accord with the facts, was so disconcerting to Pana-ewa that he burst forth in a rage, "Slaves, liars! you're deceiving me. I'll wring your necks!" and he reached out to execute his threat. The birds eluded him and found safety in flight. Pana-ewa now saw that it was necessary to take the field in person at the head of his regular forces, composed of the Namú and Nawá. The disguise he chose for himself was that of an ohia-lehua tree. No sooner had he taken that form than he found himself unable to move hand or foot. A parasitic network of i-e-i-e embraced his body and a multitude of aërial roots anchored him to the spot. It was the craft of the sleeping girl that had done this. He had to content himself with the unwarlike guise of the kukui tree. While Hiiaka slept, her faithful servitor Paú-o-pala'e kept open eye and detective ear to what was going on in the star-lit forest about them. At the first glimmering of dawn her keen sense felt rather than heard a murmurous rustle that broke the stillness and a movement, as if the forest itself were advancing and closing in upon them. This oncoming of the enemy was in such contrast to the onset of the yelping pack on the previous day as to be most impressive. The sound that touched her keen sense was not the joyous twitter and stir of nature preparing to greet a new day; it was rather the distant mutter of the storm, soon to be heard as the growl of the tempest, or the roar and snarl of an enraged menagerie of wild beasts. The woman felt her responsibility and, with the double intent of summoning to their aid the friendly gods and of waking Hiiaka, she lifted a solemn prayer: Kuli'a, e Uli, [23] ka pule kala ma ola; Kuli'a imua, i ke kahuna; [24] Kuli'a i ke Alohi-lani. [25] E úi aku ana au I kupua oluna nei, e? Owai kupua oluna nei, e? O Ilio-uli [26] o ka lani; O Ilio-ehu, [27] o Ilio-mea, [28] o ka lani; O Ku-ke-ao-iki, [29] o Ku-ke-ao-poko, [30] O Ku-ke-ao-loa [31] o ka lani; O Ku-ke-ao-awihiwihi [32] ula o ka lani; Ua ka ua, kahi wai, a na hoalii; [33] O nei ka pali ma Ko-wawá; [34] O Kupina'e, [35] o Ku-wawá; O Ku-haili-moe; [36] O Ha'iha'i-lau-ahea; [37] O Mau-a-ke-alii-hea; [38] Kánaka [39] loloa o ka mauna-- O Ku-pulupulu [40] i ka nahele, O na Akua mai ka wao kele; O Kuli-pe'e-nui [41] ai ahua; O Kiké-alana; [42] O Ka-uahi-noe-lehua; O ke Kahuna i ka puoko [43] o ke ahi; O I'imi, [44] o Lalama. [45] Ku'i ke ahi, ka hekili; Nei ke ola'i; Olapa ka uila. Lohe o Kane-hekili; [46] Ikiiki ka maláma ia Ka-ulua. [47] Elua wahine i hele i ka hikina a ka La-- O Kumu-kahi, [48] laua o Ha'eha'e: [49] Ha'eha'e ka moe O Kapo-ula-kina'u, [50] he alii; E ho'i, e komo i kou hale, O Ke-alohi-lani; E auau i kou ki'owai kapu, O Ponaha-ke-one; E inu i kou puawa hiwa, Awa papa [51] a ke Akua, I kanaenae no Moe-ha-úna-iki, [52] e; Hele a'e a komo I ka hale o Pele. Ua huahua'i Kahiki, lapa uwila: Pele e, hua'i'na ho'i! Hua'i'na a'e ana Ka mana o ko'u Akua iwaho la, e! O kukulu ka pahu [53] kapu a ka leo; Ho'okikí [54] kanawai; He kua [55] á kanawai; He kai oki'a [56] kanawai; He ala muku [57] no Kane me Kanaloa; He ki [58] ho'iho'i kanawai, No Pele, no ko'u Akua la, e! TRANSLATION Stand in the breach, O Uli; Give heed to this plea for life; To the front at the call of thy priest; Come in the splendor of heaven! I entreat these powers on high. And who are these beings of might? Ye somber Clouds that rampart the sky; Ye warm Clouds and ye that gleam ruddy; Ye Clouds that guard heaven's border; Ye Clouds that mottle the heavenly vault; Ye Clouds that embank the horizon; Ye cloud-piles aglow in the sunlight. Descend, O Rain; O Water, pour-- Torrential rush of the princes! Rent be the wall of the crater; Let its groans reëcho and fly! Come, Ku who fashions the landscape; She who crushes the leaves of aheä; Goddess who guards the outer flame-tip; Ye tall ones who dwell in the forest; Ku, the hirsute god of the wilds; With his fellows who carve the canoe; Come bent-kneed terrace-consumer, With crash and groan of lava-plate; And reeking smoke that glooms the forest. Come, Lord of the ruddy flame; Fire-tongues that search and spread; Fire-shafts that smite and crash. Let earthquake groan and lightning flash. Kane the god of lightning shall hear And warm this frigid month Ulua. Two women go to the Sun's east gate To rouse goddess Kapo from sleep-- She of the black-spotted red robe. O Kapo, reënter your Sun-temple And bathe in your sacred water-pool-- Round as a gourd, scooped in the sand; Drink from your black polished awa cup Dark awa that's offered to the gods, To placate the goddess of gentle snore; Then enter the house of Pele. Pele once burst forth at Kahiki; Once again, O Pele, break forth; Display thy power, my God, to the world; Let thy voice sound out like a drum; Reütter the law of thy burning back; That thy dwelling is sacred, apart; That Kane and Loa have limits; That fixed and firm are Pele's laws! For Pele, great Pele, is my God! The sisters, uncles, aunts and other kindred of Hiiaka heard this prayer of Paú-o-pala'e distinctly enough, and so did Pele; and when they saw that she appeared indifferent and made no move, they muttered among themselves. Then Ku-ili-kaua, a man of war and a leader in battle, spoke up and, addressing Ka-moho-alii, said "Why is it that she does not send warriors to the assistance of her sister? The girl has fought most bravely all day and is worn out; and there she lies fast asleep." Ka-moho-alii thereupon bade Kilioe-i-ka-pua and Olu-wale-i-malo, two handsome lads who were very dear to Pele (mau keiki punahele a Pele)--her sons in fact--to go in to Pele and ask her sanction to their going to the aid of Hiiaka. When these two boys came into Pele's presence they found her poking the fire with a stick (hoelo kapuahi). With a fine show of confidence, they at once went and seated themselves in Pele's lap, one on her right thigh and one on her left. Pele's looks softened as she contemplated them, tears gathered in her eyes and she said, "What is the thought in the heart? Speak." (Heaha ka hua i ka umauma? Ha'i'na.) "Your commands." (O ka leo, [59] literally, the voice.) At this Pele stood up and, leaving her own home-hearth, went over and took her station in the fire-pit of Hale-ma'u-ma'u. Then, pointing to the east, she said: O ka leo o ke kanáka hookahi, mailuna mai; Mailoko mai o ka leo o ka manu. [60] O huli kai-nu'u [61] a Kane; E wehe ka lani, hamama ka honua; O wela Kahiki-ku me Kahiki-moe; Ala mai o Ka-moho-alii E moe ana iloko o ke ao polohiwa. E Ku e, e ho'i ka amama [62] i ka lani; E Ku e, e ho'i ke ola ia Hiiaka-i-ka-poli-o-Pele, A ola loa no, a-a! It was such a voice of utterance as this (leo) that the two boys who went in before Pele desired. These two messenger-boys, by the way, are, in another account, spoken of as birds. The purpose of Kane in sending out this leo seems to have been to rouse into activity the earth-strata, na papa honua. TRANSLATION The voice from above of a man supreme Flies east, flies west, in the cry of a bird: Curl over, thou yeasty billow of Kane! Be rent, O Heaven, and quake, O Earth! Kahiki's pillars, flame ye and burn! Ka-moho-alii doth wake and rise From his couch on banks of purple cloud. To heaven return with thy tabu, O Ku! Salvation, O Ku, for Hi'iaka-- Hi'iaka the darling of Pele! Immortal life to her! At this the gods of war sprang into array, as if unleashed by the words of Pele. At their head marched Ku-lili-ai-kaua, a veteran who had followed Pele in her voyage from Kahiki. With him, went Ke-ka-ko'i, a guide (hookele) well acquainted with the forest trails. In the van strode three weird figures (Ka-maiau, Ka-hinihini and Mápu) bearing conchs, to which they ever and anon applied their lips and sent forth resounding blasts. But even more thrilling and inspiring than the horns of Triton was the voice of these gods of war as they chanted their war-song: MELE KA'I KAUA Hulihia ka mauna, wela i ke ahi; Wela mo'a-nopu ka uka o Kui-hanalei, [63] I ke a pohaku Pu'u-lena [64] e lele mai iuka. O Ke-ka-ko'i [65] ka hookele mai ka Lua; O Ka-maiau [66] kani pololei, kani le'ale'a; O ka Hinihini [67] kani kua mauna; O ka Mápu [68] leo nui, kani kóhakohá; O hulihia i ka ale ula, [69] i ka ale lani, [70] I ka pu-ko'a, [71] i ka a'aka [72]-- I ke ahu a Lono [73] e! E lono anei, e hookuli? E hookuli i ka uwalo, e! Eü, e hele no e! Hé-he-hé-e-e! TRANSLATION The Mount is convulsed, it belches flame; Fire-scorched is upland Kui-hanalei-- A hail of stones shot out with sulphur-blasts. Ka-ko'i guides the warrior-van; The rousing peals of pearly conch And thrilling notes of woodland shells Stir every heart with tuneful cheer. Heaven's blue is turmoiled with fire-clouds-- Boiling fountains of flame and cinder-- Such the form we give to our message: Will he heed it, or turn a deaf ear? Ah, you see, he scorns our entreaty. Be valiant! now forward to battle! Hé-he-hé-e-e! Thus chanting their battle-mele (mele ka'i kaua), these gods of an old-time mythology marched, or flew, with resolute purpose to their task of rescuing Hiiaka and her little band and of ridding the land, at one and the same stroke, of their old entrenched foe, Pana-ewa. Heaven and earth stirred at their onset. The visible signs of their array were manifest in columns of seething fire-shot clouds that hovered like vultures over the advancing army. Arrived at striking distance, they let loose their lightning-bolts and sounded their thunder-gongs. Earth and heaven at once became turmoiled in one confused whirl of warring elements. The warriors of Pana-ewa, who--in imitation of their chief--had for the most part taken the guise of trees and other natural objects, found themselves from the first fettered and embarrassed by a tangle of parasitic vines, so that their thrusts against Hiiaka were of little avail. Now comes the onset of the Pele gods in the tempest-forms of hurricane, lightning, hail, and watery cloud-bursts that opened heaven's flood-gates. Against these elemental forces the dryad-forms of Pana-ewa's host could not stand for a moment. Their tree-shapes were riven and torn limb from limb, engulfed in a swirling tide that swept them down to the ocean and far out to sea. Two staunch fighters remained, Kiha, who had chosen to retain the honest dragon-form; and Pua'a-loa, a creature, like Kama-pua'a, in the demi-shape of a boar, whom Pana-ewa, at the scent of disaster, had thrust into the confinement of a secret cave. This manner of retreat saved the twain from the immediate disaster by flood but not from the vengeance of Pele's army. Detected in their lairs, they were slain and their petrified bodies are pointed out to this day in verification of this story. The fate of Pana-ewa himself was most tragical. He no sooner had taken the form of a kukui tree than he found himself overlaid and entangled with meshes of parasitic growth; he could neither fight nor fly. The spot on which he stood sank and became a swamp, a lake, a sink; the foundations on which its bottom rested were broken up and fell away. Pana-ewa, swallowed up in the gulf, was swept out to sea and perished in the waves. Kane-lu-honua had broken up the underlying strata and made of the place a bottomless sink. (A reef is pointed out in the ocean opposite Papa'i which is the remains of the body of the mo'o Pana-ewa.) The part taken by Hiiaka in this last act of her deliverance was hardly more than that of a spectator. She had but to look on and witness the accomplishment of her own salvation. Having been roused from the refreshment of sleep by the long-drawn recitative of Paú-o-pala'e's prayer-mele (see pp. 37-40), she did her best to cheer her two companions with assurances of coming deliverance and, gathering her little brood about her, after the manner of a mother-hen, figuratively, bade them cling to her, nestle under her wings, lest they should be swept away in the flood of waters that soon began to surge about them--a flood which carried far out to sea the debris of battle--as already described. The victory for Hiiaka was complete. Hawaii for once, and for all time, was rid of that pestilential, man-eating, mo'o band headed by Pana-ewa who, from the time of Pele's coming, had remained entrenched in the beautiful forest-land that still bears the name--Pana-ewa. CHAPTER XI HIIAKA HAS VARIOUS ADVENTURES--THE SHARK MAKAU-KIU At one stroke, the benign action of the heavenly powers had freed a fair land from a pestilential mo'o band, disinfected it of the last shred and fragment of their carcases and ushered in a reign of peace in the wooded parks and tangled forests of Pana-ewa. Hiiaka could afford to celebrate her victory by recuperating her powers in well-earned repose. While she thus lay in profound sleep on the purified battle-field, her two companions busied themselves in preparing such simple refreshment as the wilderness afforded. The piece de resistance of this dinner of herbs was luau, the favorite food of the Pele family. When the women had finished the task of collecting, sorting, making into bundles and cooking the delicate leaves of kalo, Hiiaka still slept. Paú-o-pala'e thereupon took her station at the feet of her mistress and chanted the dinner-call in the form of a gentle serenade: E ala, e ala, e! E ala, e Hika'a-lani; E ala, e Ke-ho'oilo-ua-i-ka-lani; E ala, e Ho'omaú, Wahine a Makali'i, la! E ala, e! TRANSLATION O Daughter of heaven, Awake, awake! Hiiaka, awake! Sender of winter rain, Guardian of womanly rites, Spouse of God Maka-li'i, Awake thee, awake! "The luau must be burnt to a crisp," Hiiaka said as she sat up. As Hiiaka and her companions again wended their way through the forest, it was evident that its innocent creatures had unjustly suffered in company with their guilty invaders and time had not yet sufficed for the exercise of that miracle of tropic repair which quickly heals and covers the damage done by a tempest. Broken limbs, fallen trees and twisted vines still blocked the narrow trails, while here and there an uprooted forest giant, in unseemly fashion, obtruded a Medusa-head of tawny roots in place of its comely coronal of leaves. In their journey they came at length to a place, Maka'u-kiu, where the road seemingly ended abruptly in a precipice with the ocean dashing wildly at its base. The alternative open to their choice was, to seek out some round-about inland way, or to take the shorter route and swim the ocean-made gap. The two women, Wahine-oma'o taking the lead, proposed, as a diversion, to swim the ocean and thus avoid a long and wearisome detour. Hiiaka strenuously vetoed the proposition; but the two women, not yet trained to subordinate their will and judgment to the decision of the leader, persisted. Hiiaka, thereupon, took a stem of the ti plant and, peeling off its rusty bark, left it white and easily visible. "I will throw this stick into the water," said she, "and if it disappears we will not make of this an au-hula-ana; [74] but if it remains in sight, then we will swim across this wild piece of water." It seemed to Hiiaka that her companions displayed a masculine stubbornness and unreasonableness, a criticism which she uttered in her chanting way: Au ma ka hula-ana! Kai-ko'o ka pali! Pihapiha o Eleele, Ke kai o Maka'u-kiu! Aole au e hopo i ka loa O Hono-kane-iki. I Kane, la, olua; I wahine, la, wau, e! TRANSLATION To swim this tossing sea, While waves are lashing the cliff And the ocean rages high, At Eleele, the haunt of the shark! I balk not the length of the road By Hono-kane-iki. Be you two stubborn as men! Let me be guideful as woman. Hiiaka then threw the peeled stick into the ocean and in a moment it was snatched out of sight. "There! If we were to swim we would be seized and eaten by Maka'u-kiu." "When you tossed the stick into the ocean, the sea-moss covered and concealed it, and you thought it was the work of a shark," was the reply of Wahine-oma'o. Again they made ready to plunge into the sea. Hiiaka threw another stick and that too was instantly swallowed; whereupon she chanted again: Hookukú ka au-hula-ana o ka pali! Ke pu'e 'a la e ke kai a nalo ka auki; He i'a ko lalo, he i'a, o Maka'u-kiu-- Maka'u-kiu, ho'i, e! TRANSLATION Have done with this fool-hardy swim! The ocean just gulps down the stick! A monster fish dwells in the depth-- That monster shark, Maka'u-kiu; Aye, the shark-god Maka'u-kiu! The women were not yet convinced and still persisted, a stubbornness that drew from Hiiaka another remonstrance: Me he uahi máhu, la, Ko lalo o Kaka-auki, I Maka'u-kiu. He kiu, he alele aloha, Eia i o'u nei, e! TRANSLATION A seething whirl of ocean-mist Marks the place where I cast the stick: 'Tis the work of the lurking shark. Your loving guard, your faithful spy-- That is my service to you! At these words the huge form of the shark rose to the surface, and the women, convinced at last, leaped out of the water and abandoned their purpose. Hiiaka now gave battle to the shark and that was the end of one more power of evil. CHAPTER XII THE ROUT OF THE MAHIKI The location of the adventure with the shark-god Maka'u-kiu [75] was at the mouth of Wai-pi'o valley, a region where Hawaii's storm-coast forms an impassable rampart, save as it is cut by this and its twin valley, Wai-manu. These valleys take head in a wild forest region, the home of mist, rain and swamp. Adjoining this and part of the same watershed is the region known as Mahiki-waena, a land which the convenience of traffic required should be open to travel. It was the haunt of a ferocious horde of mo'o called mahiki [76] from their power to leap and spring like grass-hoppers. When Hiiaka proposed to pass through this region in the ordinary course of travel, the head of the Mahiki insolently denied her the right of way, suggesting as an alternative the boisterous sea-route around the northern shoulder of Hawaii. Hiiaka's blood was up. The victory over the hosts of Pana-ewa and the more recent destruction of Maka'u-kiu had fired her courage. She resolved once for all to make an end of this arrogant nuisance and to rid the island of the whole pestilential brood of imps and mo'o. Standing on a height that overlooked Wai-pi'o, she chanted a mele which is at once descriptive of the scene before her and at the same time expressive of her determination: MELE UHAU A luna au o Wai-pi'o, Kilohi aku k'uu maka ilalo; Hele ho'i ke ala makai o Maka'u-kiu; Hele ho'i ke ala mauka o Ka-pu-o'a-- Pihapiha, he'e i ka welowelo, I ka pu'u Kolea, i ka ino, e-- Ino Mahiki: Ua ike ka ho'i au, he ino Mahiki, He ino, he ino loa no, e! TRANSLATION As I journeyed above Wai-pi'o Mine eyes drank in that valley-- The whole long march as far as from The sea-fight at Maka'u-kiu Till the trail climbs Ka-pu-o'a. There soggy the road and glairy, And there do flaunt and flourish, On Plover Mount, the cursed Mahiki. For I am convinced that that crew Are bad, as bad as bad can be! Hiiaka's march to encounter the Mahiki was interrupted for a short time by an incident that only served to clinch her resolution. An agonizing cry of distress assailed her ear. It came from a dismantled heap of human flesh, the remains of two men who had been most brutally handled--by these same Mahiki, perhaps--their leg and arm-bones plucked out and they left to welter in their misery. It was seemingly the cruel infliction of the Mahiki. The cry of the two wretches could not be disregarded: E Hiiaka-i-ka-poli-o-Pele, e, E ki'i mai oe ia maua; E ka hookuli i ka ualo, e! Ka opu aloha ole, e-e! TRANSLATION O Hiiaka-of-Pele's-heart, Come thou and assist us. Turn not a deaf ear to our cry! Be not of hard and unfeeling heart! Hiiaka, with a skill that did credit to her surgery, splinted the maimed limbs, inserting stems from her favorite ti plant to take the place of the long bones that had been removed. She left them seated in comfort at the roadside at Pololú. The Mahiki, on seeing Hiiaka advance into their territory, threw up the dirt and dust in their front, to express their contempt for such an insignificant body of trespassers. Hiiaka, paying no attention to their insolence, pressed on. Her purpose was to strike directly at Mo'o-lau, the leader of the horde, to whom she addressed this incantation: A loko au o Mahiki, Halawai me ke Akua okioki po'o. Okioki ino, la, i kona po'o; Kahihi a'e la i kona naau; Hoale mai ana i kona koko i o'u nei. E Lau e, Lau e-e! No'u ke ala, i hele aku ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION I enter the land of Mahiki; I counter the head-hunting witch. See me pluck the head from her body; See me tear out her very heart, Till her blood surges round me in waves-- Blood of the monster that's legion. Mine is the common right of way: The traveler's right to the road! At dark Hiiaka camped in the road and during the night a female ku-pua named Lau-mihi, whom the Mahiki chief had sent as a spy to watch Hiiaka, was seen standing on a high place to one side of them. Hiiaka at once flew at her and put an end to her. Now began a fierce battle between Hiiaka and the Mahiki dragon and his forces. They fought till both sides were exhausted and then, as if by mutual consent, stopped to rest. Hiiaka perceived that the battle was to be even more fiercely contested than that at Pana-ewa. She bade Paú-o-pala'e to take good care that no ill came to Wahine-oma'o. Looking up into the heavens, Hiiaka saw her relatives and friends Poha-kau, Ka-moho-alii, Kane-milo-hai, and a large concourse of other gods, including Kane, Kanaloa, Ku and Lono, watching her, evidently greatly interested in her performances. They assured her of their protection. At this Hiiaka was much encouraged and gave utterance to her feelings in this kanaenae: A Moolau, i ka pua o ka uhiuhi, Helele'i mai ana ka pua o Ko'o-ko'o-lau. Lohi'a e na mo'o liilii-- Na mo'o liilii ke ala E kolo i ke kula, E iho i kai o Kawaihae, la. Hea a'e la ka mo'o liilii: E hakaká kaua; paio olua auane'i. He 'kau Mo'o-lau, o Mo'o-lau akua, e! TRANSLATION In the wilds of Mo'o-lau, The uhiuhi's time for bloom-- The petals fall of Koolau's flower: The little dragons have found the way By which they can crawl to the plain, Go down to the sea at Kawaihae. The little demons now announce That you and I shall battle wage: We two, indeed, must fight, they say-- A god is Mo'o-lau, a host of gods! At this the great dragon Mo'o-lau bestirred himself. His attack was direct, but he divided his host into two columns so as to envelope Hiiaka and attack her on each flank. Hiiaka saw them approaching through the jungle and chanted the following rallying song: Mele Ho'-uluulu A Mo'o-lau, i ka pua o ka uhiuhi, Pala luhi ehu iho la Ka pua o ke kauno'a i ka la; Na hale ohai i Kekaha, o Wa'a-kiu;-- E kiu, e kiu ia auane'i kou ahiahi; E maka'i ia olua auane'i. He akua Mo'o-lau, o Mo'o-lau akua, e! TRANSLATION In the jungle of Mo'o-lau, The uhi-uhi's season of bloom; The flower of the rootless kau-no'a Is wilted and bent in the sun; My bower in Kekaha's invaded: Some creature is playing the spy. I, in turn,--be warned--will spy out Your quiet and rest of an evening: This to you, you, god Mo'o-lau! Pele, perceiving that the crisis of the conflict had now come, called upon all the male and female relatives of Hiiaka (hoaiku) to go to her assistance; "Go and help your sister Hiiaka. There she is fighting desperately with Mo'o-lau--fighting and resting, fighting and resting, well nigh exhausted. Go and help her; all of you go. It's a fight against Mo'o-lau." When the battalion of gods moved against the mo'o, it was a rout and a slaughter. Then the cry arose: "No fight has been made against the Mahiki dragon; he yet survives." Thereupon they turned their attack against that old dragon and his guards. Hiiaka then celebrated the double victory in this paean: Kaiko'o Pu'u-moe-awa, wawá ka laau; Nei o Pu'u-owai ma, e: Nahá ka welowelo; he'e na'e ho'i, e! E Pu'u-owai ma, e, ke holo la! E Miki-aloalo, e, nawai ka make? Ke i-o nei, e! TRANSLATION A roar as of surf on the hill Moe-awa: The tumult resounds through the forest: Pu'u-owai and his band lead the rout, Your battallions are torn into tatters-- You are running, Captain Owai! And you, Captain Spry, whose the defeat? The answer is made by the shouting! Hiiaka's chief weapon of attack seems to have been her magical paú. With this as a besom she beat them down as a husbandman might beat down a swarm of locusts. The Mahiki and the Mo'o-lau had ceased to exist as organized bodies. But from the rout and slaughter of the armies many individuals had escaped with their lives, and these had hid themselves away in caves and secret places, some of them even, presuming apparently upon their power of disguise, had taken refuge in the remote scattered habitations of the people. Such an inference seems to be justified by the language of the mele now to be given: Note.--The gods that came to the assistance of Hiiaka such times as circumstances pinched her and whose spiritual power at all times reënforced her feeble humanity were limited in their dominion to certain vaguely defined provinces and departments. Thus, if there was any sea-fighting to be done, it fell to the shark-god, the Admiral Ka-moho-alii, to take charge of it. On the other hand, the conduct of a battle on terra firma would be under the generalship of Kane-milo-hai; while to Kana-loa belonged the marshalling of the celestial hosts, the moon and the stars. But the orb of day, the Sun, belonged to Lono. Hence, if the fighting was during the hours of daylight, Lono would logically assume the command. The rule of the great god Ku was also exercised principally by day. It was he who arranged the calendar and settled the order of the seasons, the days and the nights. The subdivisions and departmental complications under these general divisions were numerous. Lilo i Puna, lilo i Puna, Lilo i Puna, i ke au a ka hewahewa; Popo'i aku ka i na hale: Ua piha na hale i ke 'kua-- O Kini Akua o Wai-mea, O ka Lehu Akua o Maná. Kini wale Wai-mea I ka pihe o ke 'kua o Uli, e. Po wale Mahiki; A ia Mahiki ke uwá la no, e! TRANSLATION Scattered through Puna, scattered through Puna, Is the rout of the vagrant imps: They swarm in the dwellings of men; The houses are lousy with demons-- Wai-mea's myriads of godlings, Thy four hundred thousand, Maná. Wai-mea thrills with the snarl of witch-gods: Night's shadows brood over Mahiki; The uproar keeps on in Mahiki. CHAPTER XIII HIIAKA LOOPS BACK IN HER JOURNEY Hiiaka, having thus far, as it would seem, journeyed along the western coast of Hawaii, now loops back in her course and travels in the direction of Hilo by the way of Hamakua, for the seeming purpose of completing her work of extermination. Like a wise general, she would leave no enemies in her rear. When they came into the neighborhood of Wahine-oma'o's home, that girl spoke up and said, "I think we had better take another road. If we keep to this one, which passes by my door, my parents, who will be watching for me, will see me and will want me to remain with them." This she said by reason of her great desire to continue in Hiiaka's company. True enough, when they caught sight of her old home, there sat her mother Puna-hoa and her father Kai-pala-oa. "There they sit," said the girl. "If they recognize me they will want to keep me." Hiiaka bade Wahine-oma'o fall in behind her, hunch her shoulders, bend forward her head and walk with short infirm steps in imitation of an old woman. Hiiaka, on coming close to the old people, using the language of song, asked directions as to the road: E Puna-hoa i Kai-pala-oa, I na maka o Nana-kilo ma E nonoho mai la, e. Auhea ka ala, e? TRANSLATION O Puna-hoa and Kai-pala-oa, You with the clear-scanning eyes, Sitting at rest before me, Point me out now the road. "The road is plain enough; you are taking the right way.... We are looking at that young woman of your party--she has such a strong resemblance to our missing daughter, save her way of shuffling and holding her head." On reaching the outskirts of the village of Hilo, Hiiaka found a rickety foot-bridge, consisting of a single narrow and wobbly plank, liable to turn at every step and precipitate the passenger into the tumbling waters below--and this was the only passage across the rocky chasm of the Wai-luku [77] river. This precarious crossing was the work of two sorcerers, degenerate nondescripts, who had the audacity to levy toll for the use of their bridge, in default of which the traveler suddenly found himself precipitated into the raging water. By virtue of their necromantic powers, they had the presumption to claim spiritual kinship with Hiiaka, a bond the woman could not absolutely repudiate. "Here comes our mo'o-puna," [78] called out Pili-a-mo'o to his companion. "Well, what of it? She will have to pay her fare the same as anyone else," replied Noho-a-mo'o. "Only on that condition shall she cross by our bridge." On Hiiaka's attempting to cross without paying toll, the two sorcerers would, following their own practice, have disarranged the treacherous plank and precipitated her and her party into the raging stream. "Well said," Noho-a-mo'o replied; "provided she will consent to it." Hiiaka now called to them in the language of song: Kahuli-huli, [79] e-e, Ka papa o Wai-luku! Kahuli o Apua, Ha'a mai o Mau-kele: He ole ke kaha kuai ai, e-e! Homai ka ai, Homai ho'i ka ai, e-e! I ai'na aku ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION Cranky, cranky the bridge, Bridge across the Wai-luku! Upset is Apua; Maukele declares that The barter of food is naught. Give us then of your food; Give us something to eat; Let us partake of your meat. To this unusual demand they replied, "Indeed, do you imagine we will do any such thing as that? It is not for us to give to you; you must give us the fare before you cross on our bridge. We don't give away things for nothing." Hiiaka replied by repeating her request in nearly the same words: Ka-huli-huli, e-e, Ka papa o Wai-luku. He ole ke kaha kuai i'a, e! Ho-mai ka i'a; Ho-mai ana, ho'i, ka i'a, I ai'na aku, ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION Unstable the bridge, Bridge that spans the Wai-luku. This barter of fish is a fraud. Give us of your fish; Grant us kindly some meat; Give us something to eat. Hiiaka repeated her demands in varying form with no other effect than to make the toll-keepers more stubborn in their ridiculous demands. Not even when Hiiaka, as if to cap the climax of their absurdity, ended her demand with this ironical request: Ho-mai, ho'i, ka wai, e; I inu ia aku, ho'i, e!! TRANSLATION Give us of this water, Give us water to drink! Hiiaka now openly denounced the two sorcerers as being simply mo'o in disguise, entirely wanting in those generous feelings that belong to godhood. "These creatures are simply mo'o. If I attack them, they will run for their lives." The people, failing to recognize Hiiaka as their deliverer, spiritless from long habituation to the fraudulent dominion of these imposters, fearful also of their vengeance, stoutly opposed Hiiaka, affirming that Pili-a-mo'o and Noho-a-mo'o were gods in reality, having great power and capable of doing many wonderful things. They declared their readiness to back their opinion with their property, yes, with their lives. They were at length persuaded, however, to accept as decisive the test proposed by Hiiaka, namely, that, if they fled when attacked, they should cease to be regarded as gods and should be dealt with as imposters. True to Hiiaka's prediction, the mo'o, in abject fear, turned and fled for their lives at her first threatening move and she now called upon the people to pursue and destroy them: Kaumaha ka aï o Hilo i ka lehua Mai ka Nuku-o-ka-manu [80] a Puna-hoa, e. Hoa ia iho la kau kanáka, I pa'a, o pahe'e auane'i; Hina i ka Lua-kanáka. He kanáka! He mau akua, e! TRANSLATION The neck of Hilo is heavy, Weighted with wreaths of lehua From Bird-beak clean down to the feet. Catch and bind these robbers of men; Bind them fast, lest they slip through your hands And escape to the robber-pit-- These mortals, who call themselves gods! The meaning of the figure in the first two verses, though obscure, seems to be that Hilo, so rich in natural beauty, is by that very fact robbed of the energy to defend herself and cast off the incubus that oppresses her. As the creatures fled from Hiiaka's pursuit, their human disguise fell from them and their real character as mo'o was evident. "We've committed a great blunder," said Pili-a-mo'o to his mate. "It looks as if she meant to kill us. Let us apologize for our mistake and conciliate her with fair words." Noho-a-mo'o agreed to this and, turning to Hiiaka, made this wheedling speech: Kupu maikai a'e la Ka wahine o ka Lua; Uä ia iho la e ka ua, A kilinahe ka maka o ka lehua ma-uka. Ma-uka oe e hele ai, Ma ka hoauau wai. E waiho ke ala no maua, No na kupuna, e. TRANSLATION She has grown a fine figure, Our girl from the Fire-pit. The plentiful rain has made bright This bud of upland lehua. Pray choose your road farther inland; That way will offer good fordage-- This road leave to your ancient kin. Hiiaka spared not, but pursued them to their cavernous rock-heaps in which they thought to hide themselves, and, having seized them, rent them asunder jaw from jaw. Thus did Hiiaka add one more to the score of her victories in the extermination of the mo'o. CHAPTER XIV HIIAKA MEETS MOTHER-GRUNDY It was at this point of the journey that Hiiaka lost the attendance of her sympathetic companion and faithful servant, Paú-o-pala'e. She was persuaded to unite her fortunes with those of a man from Kohala named Pa-ki'i; and we must leave unanswered the question, how she finally settled with Pele this apparent desertion of the trust with which she had been charged, that of acting as aide, kahu, to Hiiaka. Wahine-oma'o now remains as the sole companion of Hiiaka in her future adventures. On resuming the journey they came before long to the broad stream of Honoli'i, which was swimming deep and, in the lack of other means of crossing, they bundled their clothes, held them above their heads with one hand and easily made the opposite shore by swimming with the aid of the other hand. At the sight of this performance, the ghost-god, Hina-hina-ku-i-ka-pali and her companion, in a spirit of pure fault-finding and Mother-Grundyism, exclaimed: Popó ke kapa o ka wahine, Au kohana wai, hoauau wai o Honoli'i. E kapu oe, he mau alii; He mau alii no, o Hina-hina-ku-i-ka-pali. TRANSLATION The women bundle their garments And, naked, they swim the stream, The water of Hono-li'i-- An action quite unseemly: 'Tis a slur on your noble rank, I too am a chief, my name Hina-hina-gem-of-the-cliff. "For shame!" said Hiiaka. "These ghost-gods have been spying on our nakedness, and now they make sport of us." A great fear came upon the ghosts, that the dread goddess would seize them and pinch out their atomy spark of existence. In their terror, they flew home and, perched on the shoulders of their mother, besought her to interpose in their behalf and appease Hiiaka by a suitable offering of luau. "There burns a fire," said Wahine-oma'o, as they drew near the house. "The fire of the ovens built by the ghosts," Hiiaka answered. "They have saved themselves from death." By the time they reached the house the luau was done to a turn and the tables were spread. Wahine-oma'o made an oblation to the gods and then ate of the viands. Hiiaka did not partake of the food. Hiiaka now spent several days at Hono-kane, in Kohala, anxiously awaiting the departure of some canoe, by which she might pass over to the island of Maui. While thus absorbed, in a sentimental mood, looking one day across the ocean at the misty outline of the distant land, she saw a man of remarkable appearance strike out from one headland of the bay to swim to the opposite point. Her admiration for his physical beauty and his daring performance drew from her a song: I i au, e au ma kai o ka hula ana. Kai-ko'o a'e la lalo o ka pali; Pího-pihó a'e; lele ke kai o Maka'u-kiu; Au hopohopo ana i ka loa o Hono-kane-iki. I kane oe a i wahine au. TRANSLATION My heart beats high at your venture-- To buffet the raging sea! Wild heave the waves 'neath the cliff-wall. To be whelmed by Ocean's might-- The ocean of Maka'u-kiu! My heart forgets to beat at sight Of your rashness, Hono-kane! Would you were the man, the woman I! Hono-kane heard, of course, the words that were uttered in his praise and, being a man of chivalrous instincts as well as of honor, he invited Hiiaka and Wahine-oma'o to enjoy the hospitalities of his home. As they sat at a feast spread in her honor, Hiiaka, as was her wont, bowed her head in prayer with closed eyes, and the others did likewise and when they opened their eyes and looked, the portion that had been set before Hiiaka was gone, spirited away. In the evening it was announced that a canoe was to sail in the early morning on a voyage to Maui, whereupon Hiiaka secured the promise of a passage for herself and Wahine-oma'o. CHAPTER XV THE VOYAGE TO MAUI Hiiaka's voyage across the Ale-nui-haha channel, considered merely as a sea adventure, was a tame experience. There was no storm, no boistrous weather, sea as calm as a mill-pond, nothing to fillip the imagination with a sense of excitement or danger; yet it was far from being an agreeable experience to the young woman who was now having her first hand-to-hand tussle with the world. They had spent the night at the house of one Pi'i-ke-a-nui. In the early morning their host and a younger man--apparently his son--named Pi'i-ke-a-iki, made ready their canoe to sail for Maui. Hiiaka, assuming that passage would be granted both of them, in accordance with a promise made the previous day, stood ready against the hour of departure. At the last moment, the younger man, having assisted Wahine-oma'o to her seat in the bow next to himself, called to his elder, "Pi'i-ke-a-nui, why don't you show your passenger to her seat, the one next you?" "I won't do it," Pi'i-ke-a-nui answered groutily. "I find that the canoe will be overloaded if we take passengers aboard and all our landlord's freight will get wet." The real reason for this volte-face on the part of the old sailor was that he had made an unseemly proposition to Hiiaka the night before and she had repelled him. Wahine-oma'o, thereupon, left her seat and the canoe started without them. It was not more than fairly underway, however, when a violent sea struck the craft and swamped it, and all the loose freight was floating about in the ocean. "There, you see! We'd 'ave had better luck with the women aboard." Such was the exclamation of Pi'i-ke-a-iki. It did not take long to convince the old man Pi'i-ke-a-nui, who was captain of the canoe, that he had invited this disaster on himself, the agent of which, as he rightly suspected, was none other than the distinguished-looking young woman who now stood on the beach watching him in his predicament with unperturbed countenance. The two men floated their canoe, collected their baggage and came ashore. When they had got the stuff dry and stowed in the waist of the craft, they escorted the women aboard, seating Wahine-oma'o, as directed by the captain, in the bow near Pi'i-ke-a-iki and Hiiaka in the after part, within arm's length of Pi'i-ke-a-nui, and they put to sea. The canoe was a small affair, unprovided with that central platform, the pola, that might serve as the cabin or quarter deck, on which the passengers could stretch themselves for comfort. In her weariness, Hiiaka, with her head toward the bow, reclined her body against the top rail of the canoe, thus eking out the insufficiency of the narrow thwart that was her seat; and she fell asleep, or rather, entered that border-land of Nod, in which the central watchman has not yet given over control of the muscular system and the ear still maintains its aerial reconnoissance. The wind, meanwhile, as it caromed aft from the triangular sail of mat, coquetted with her tropical apparel and made paú and kihei shake like summer leaves. The steersman, in whom that precious factor, a chivalrous regard for woman, was even of less value than is common to the savage breast, in the pursuit of a fixed purpose, began to direct amorous glances at the prostrate form before him and to the neglect of his own proper duties. Presently he left his steering and stole up to Hiiaka with privy paw outstretched. Hiiaka roused from her half-dreamy state on the instant, and the man sprang back and resumed his paddle. Hiiaka, with the utmost coolness, expressed in song her remonstrance and sarcastic rebuke for this exhibition of inhospitable rudeness: A Hono-ma-ele au, i Hono-ka-lani, Ike au i ka ua o ko'u aina, E halulu ana, me he kanaka la-- Ka ua ku a-o-a i kai. Haki kaupaku o ka hale i ka ino, e! Ino Ko'o-lau, ino Ko'o-lau, e-e! TRANSLATION With pillowed neck I lay, face to heaven: The rain, I found, beat on my bed; Came a tremor, like tread of a man-- The slap of a rain-squall at sea; Within, the roof-tree broken down, My house exposed to the storm, My garden of herbs laid waste! The young man added his protest: "Yes, his whole conduct is, indeed, shameful, scandalous. He hasn't the decency to wait till he gets ashore." In the midst of this unpleasantness it was a comfort to hear the strong cheerful voice of her former companion Paú-o-pala'e calling to her across the stretch of waters. It will be remembered that their roads had parted company sometime before Hiiaka had left the big island. The separation had made no change, however, in their mutual affection: O hele ana oe, e ka noe, e ka awa, E na ki a Wahine-kapu, E ka ua lele a'e maluna O Ka-la-hiki-ola, la: O hele ana, e! TRANSLATION Like a cloud you fleet by, On the wings of the storm-- Vision of womanly tabu-- Of the rain-clouds that sweep O'er the Hill-of-good-luck: May you speed on your way! Hiiaka replied to her kahu's mele in these words: A noho ana, E na hoaiku, E na hoa haele, I uka o Ka-li'u-la, I Moe-awakea. TRANSLATION Kinsmen, allies, travel-mates, You rest in upland Ka-li'u; There taste you midday repose. Perhaps it was that Hiiaka failed to manifest in her carriage and department the dignity and tabu that hedges in an alii or an akua; perhaps the rough hearted Pi'i-ke-a-nui, sailor-fashion, deemed himself outside the realm of honor which rules on land. However that might be, as Hiiaka lay decently covered against the cold wind that drew down the flank of Hale-a-ka-la, this rude fellow, regardless of every punctilio, stole up to Hiiaka and repeated his former attempt. Hiiaka caught his hand in mid air and administered this rebuke: O Ka-uwiki, mauna ki'eki'e, Huki a'e la a pa i ka lani: He po'o-hiwi no kai halulu; Au ana Moku-hano i ke kai-- He maka no Hana, O maka kilo i'a. O kou maka kunou, a, Ua hopu-hia. TRANSLATION Ka-uwiki, famous in story, While buffeting ocean's blows, Aspires to commerce with heaven. Moku-hano's palms, that float Like a boat in the water, Are watchful eyes to Hana, Alert for the passing school: Your wanton vagrant eye Is caught in the very act. The canoe grated on the shingly beach. The two young women, rejoiced to be free at last from the enforced proximity of ship-board, sprang ashore and with speedy steps put a distance between themselves and the canoe-house. "That's right," called out the steersman. "Make haste to find a bath. We'll join you in a short time." CHAPTER XVI KAPO-ULA-KINA'U, A RELATIVE OF HIIAKA--THE MAIMED GIRL MANA-MANA-IA-KALU-EA The canoe-men, having used their utmost expedition in landing the freight and hauling up the canoe and getting it under cover, hastened to meet the two women at the rendezvous they had suggested. But they were nowhere to be found. They had disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed them up. When Pi'i-ke-a-nui asked the people of the village as to the whereabouts of the two young women who had just now landed as passengers from the canoe, they one and all denied having set eyes upon them. Hiiaka had planned a visit with her sister Kapo; but, on reaching Wailuku, the house was empty; Kapo and her husband Pua-nui had but just started to make a ceremonious call on Ole-pau, a famous chief of the district. The receding figure of Kapo was already hazy in the distance, so that it seemed more than doubtful if the words of Hiiaka's message reached the ears for which they were intended: He ahui hala [81] ko Kapo-ula-kina'u, [82] Ko ka pili kaumaha; I ka pili a hala, la, ha-la! Hala olua, aohe makamaka o ka hale E kipa aku ai la ho'i i ko hale, I kou hale, e-e! TRANSLATION The clustered hala is Kapo's shield, An omen portending disaster. The traveler came in your absence; Both of you gone, no one at home-- No lodge for the traveler within, No hospitality within! Here is another version of this mele by Hiiaka (furnished by Pelei-oholani). As the version previously given is confessedly imperfect, in part conjectural, there having been several hiatuses in the text, I think it well to give an authorized version, though very different: He ahui hala na ka makani: [83] Hala ka ua, [84] noho i na pali, e-- I ka pali aku i Pua-lehei, [85] e. Loli iho la, pulu elo i ka ua, e. Aohe makamaka e kipa aku ai I kou hale, e; E noho ana i ke kai o Kapeku; E hoolono i ka uwalo, e! TRANSLATION A hala bunch, snatched by the wind That blows from the medicine man, Pushing the rain to Pua-lehei: Cold is the traveler and soaking wet, No friend to give welcome and cheer; House empty--gone to the seashore; No one to heed my entreaty. As Hiiaka passed along the cliff that overlooks the wave-swept beach at Hono-lua, a pitiful sight met her eye, the figure of a woman crippled from birth--without hands. Yet, in spite of her maimed condition, the brave spirit busied herself gathering shell-fish; and when a tumbling wave rolled across the beach she made herself a partner in its sport and gleefully retreated, skipping and dancing to the words of a song: Aloha wale ka i'a lamalama o ku'u aina, la, Ka i'a kahiko pu no me ka wahine. Lilo ke hoa, ko'eko'e ka po; Akahi kona la o aloha mai, e-e! Aloha Kona, ku'u aina i ka pohu, e-e! TRANSLATION How dear the torch-caught fish of my home-land, The fish embraced by the women folk! Gone one's companion, chill grows the night: Love cheered for a day, then flew away.-- Oh Kona, thou land of peace and of calm! Search for the hidden meaning of this oli has brought out a marvellous diversity of opinion. The chief difficulty lies in the interpretation of the second verse: Ka i'a kahiko pu no me ka wahine, and centers in the expression kahiko pu. One able critic finds in it an allusion to the coöperation of women with the men in the work of fishing. Kahiko is a word of dignity meaning finely apparelled. The addition of the preposition pu amplifies it and gives it almost the meaning of wrapped together. It seems probable also that the word i'a, literally fish, is to be taken in an esoteric sense as a euphemism for man. Putting this interpretation upon it, the meaning of the expression kahiko pu becomes clear as being wrapped together, as in the sexual embrace. Wahine-oma'o was greatly fascinated by the pathos and romance of the situation and declared she would like to have her for an aikane, an intimate friend. Hiiaka replied, "Maimed folk seem to be very numerous in these parts." The maimed girl kept up her fishing, her light-hearted dancing and singing: Ua ino Hono-kohau; he Ulu-au nui ka makani; Ke ha'iha'i la i ka lau o ka awa. La'i pono ai ke kai o Hono-lua, E hele ka wahine i ke kapa kahakai, Ku'i-ku'i ana i ka opihi, Wa'u-wa'u ana i kana limu, O Mana-mana-ia-kaluea, Ka wahine ua make, e-e! TRANSLATION Rough weather at Hono-kohau; The Ulu-au blows a gale; It snaps off the leaves of the awa, But the sea lies calm at Hono-lua And the woman can fish along shore, Pounding her shell-fish, rubbing her moss-- This maiméd girl Kalu-é-a, The girl that is dead. As the wild thing ran from the dash of an incoming wave, by some chance the gourd that held her fish slipped from her and the retreating water carried it beyond her reach, a loss that she lightly touched in her song: Ha'a ka lau o ka i'a; Ha'a ka lima i ke po'i; Ha'a ke olohe [86] i ke awakea: Kina'i aku la i ke kai, la. Lilo ka i'a, lilo ka i'a I ka welelau o ku'u lima, A lilo, e-e! TRANSLATION My fish are adance on the waves: My hand just danced from the basket: The skilled[86] one dances at noontide And deafens the roar of ocean. Gone are my fish, lost out of hand, Snatched clean away from my hand-stumps; They are gone, gone, gone from my hand! There was a shark lurking in the ocean and when Mana-mana-ia-kalu-ea saw it she uttered a little song: O ka i'a iki maka inoino, Ihu me'ume'u o ka moana; Ke a'u lele 'ku o kai, I ka puo'a o kai uli, e. Auwé, pau au i ka manó nui, e!! TRANSLATION Little fish with wicked eye; Snub-nosed fish that swims the deep; Sworded fish that darts and stabs Among the blue sea coral-groves-- Alas, the shark has done for me, The mighty shark, mine enemy! Wahine-oma'o could not repress her admiration for the girl and her desire to have her as an aikane (an intimate friend); and she was full of regret that their presence on the cliff had driven away the fish and interfered with the girl's occupation. "The figure you see dancing down there is not a human body; it is only a spirit," said Hiiaka. "What!" "Yes, only a spirit, and I'll prove it in this way," she plucked a hala drupe from a wreath about her neck;--"I'll throw this down to her; and if she flies away, it will prove she is a spirit; but, if she does not disappear, it will prove her to be a human body." Hiiaka threw the hala, and the moment the poor soul saw it fall in front of her she vanished out of sight. But in a short time she reappeared and, seizing the hala with her fingerless hand-stumps, she pressed it to her nose with an extravagant display of fondness and, looking up to Hiiaka, she chanted: No luna ka hala, e; Onini pua i'a i ke kai. No Pana-ewa ka hala e; No Puna ka wahine-- No ka Lua, e-e! TRANSLATION The hala, tossed down from the cliff, Ruffs the sea like a school of sprats: The hala's from Pana-ewa, The Woman's homeland is Puna-- That wonderful Pit of Puna! The loss of her fish still weighed upon the mind of Mana-mana-ia-kaluea. Sitting down on a convenient rock, she mourned aloud: Aloha wale ka pali o Pi-na-na'i, Ka lae iliili ma-kai o Hono-manú, e! He u ko'u, he minamina, e-e, I ka lilo ka i'a i ka poho o ka lima-- A lilo, e-e! TRANSLATION How dear the cliff of Pi-na-na'i, And the pebbly cape at Hono-manú!-- How I mourn for the loss of my fish! They were swept from the reach of my hand; They are gone, forever gone! Mana-mana-ia-kalu-ea, sitting on the rock, wrapped in her own little garment of trouble, seemed for the moment quite oblivious to the presence of Hiiaka, who was intently watching her. Suddenly she looked up and, with brightening eye, exclaimed, "I know where you are from:" A Pu'u-lena, i Wahine-kapu i pua, e, A ilalo o Hale-ma'u-ma'u, e: Nolaila, e; nolaila paha, e! TRANSLATION The land of Wahine-kapu, The land of the Pu'u-lena, Exhaled from the depths of the Pit-- The fire-pit Hale-ma'u-ma'u-- It comes to me: that is your home! Hiiaka had conceived a strong prejudice against the girl almost from the first, but now she softened and, turning to Wahine-oma'o, said, "If you really want this girl for an aikane, I think it can be managed. The only trouble will be to hold her after she is caught." Hiiaka, using her magical power, caught the spirit of Mana-mana-ia-kalu-ea and, in the lack of a more suitable receptacle, they wrapped it carefully in the free end of Wahine-oma'o's loin-cloth and went on their way, traveling towards Wailuku. CHAPTER XVII HIIAKA RESTORES TO LIFE MANA-MANA-IA-KALU-EA As they drew near Wailuku, they crossed a sandy plain dotted with tumuli. At once the captive spirit of Mana-mana-ia-kalu-ea became restless, as if eager to be free. "We are nearing the place where rests its body," explained Hiiaka. Wahine-oma'o by soft words and gentle touch did her best to soothe the perturbed thing. It might almost be said that the captive spirit of Mana-mana-ia-kalu-ea was the guide (acting like the magnetic needle to point the way) to the home where the as-yet uncorrupted body of the girl still lay, mourned over by her parents. It was with much prayer and the use of persuasive force that Hiiaka compelled the seemingly reluctant spirit to reenter its bodily tenement and to take up its abode there. As it passed from its point of entrance at the toe up into the chest its progress was marked by a kindling warmth that gave the assurance that the spirit was resuming its empiry over the whole body. The first request made by the girl, on regaining full consciousness, was that her parents would prepare a feast as a thank-offering to Hiiaka, her physician, her deliverer. The special articles on which she was most insistent were luau and baked aoaoa. [87] When it came to the final dressing of the luau for the table, namely the stripping off of the outer leafy covering from the scalding hot mass within--an operation which the girl insisted on doing with her own newly restored hands--Hiiaka watched her critically; for the proper etiquette of the function was most punctilious. But Hiiaka could find no fault with her technique: there was no slip, no solecism, no blowing on her fingers to relieve the scalding heat, as she stripped off the wrappings of the bundles. When the feast was set and all were gathered about the tables, at Hiiaka's command all bowed their heads with closed eyes and she offered up her prayer to the gods of heaven. At the conclusion of her prayer, when they looked, lo, the portion of the feast set apart for the gods had vanished without leaving a trace behind. On this occasion Hiiaka was seen to eat of the food that was provided for her. [88] The line of travel now chosen by Hiiaka was that along the northern or Koolau side of the island of Maui and led them at first through a barren stretch of country called a kaha, the food-supply of which came from a distance. It was here that Wahine-oma'o began to complain bitterly of hunger and exhaustion from the lack of food, and she besought Hiiaka to intercede with the people of a neighboring fishing village to give them something to eat. "How is this, that you are a-hungered so soon after the feast of which you have partaken? This is a kaha," said Hiiaka, "and you must know that food does not grow in this place. They have only fish from the sea. Nevertheless, I will venture the request." This she did in the language of song: Ke kahulihuli a ka papa o Wailuku; He ole ke kaha kuai ai, e: Ho-mai he ai; Ho-mai ana ua ai, e! TRANSLATION As trembles the plank at Wailuku (So trembles the fate of the king): There's no market where to buy meat; Give the stranger, then, something to eat: Give us, I pray, of your meat. Some of the people derided them, saying, "Mahaoi!"--what impudence! Others, with kindness in their tones, explained, "This is a barren place; and all of our food comes from a great distance." The churlish ones, however, kept up their taunts: "You won't get any food in this place. Go up there;" and they pointed in the direction of Iao valley, where was the residence of King Ole-pau. During the whole of the day, while tramping through this region, Hiiaka had observed from time to time a ghostly object flitting across the plain within hearing distance and in a direction parallel to their course. Though this spirit was not visible to ordinary mortal eye, Hiiaka recognized it as the second soul of Ole-pau, the very chief to whom the people of the fishing village had bid her make her appeal for food. Hiiaka, putting two and two together, very naturally came to the conclusion that this vagrant kino wailua was, in the last resort, responsible for this denial of hospitality to herself and her companion. Acting on this conclusion, Hiiaka made a captive of the vagrant soul and determined to hold it as a hostage for the satisfaction of her reasonable demands. On coming within speaking distance of the house where lived the woman Wai-hinano, who ostentatiously played the part of kahu and chief adviser to Ole-pau, Hiiaka made known her wish, concluding her appeal with ominous threats against the life of the king, in case her demands were not met: E Wai-hinanano, wahine a ka po'ipo'i, [89] e, Ua make ke alii, [90] ka mea nona nei moku. He pua'a kau [91] ka uku no Moloka'i; He ilio lohelohe [92] Lana'i; A pale ka A-a ka Kanaloa; [93] He puo'a kai Molokini: Huli ka ele [94] o na Hono; Haki kepakepa na moku; Pa'iauma [95] ka aina; Uwé kamali'i, uwé ka hanehane-- Ke uwé la i ka pili, [96] I ke kula o Ka-ma'o-ma'o; [97] Ka'a kumakena o Maui, e! Ia wai Maui? TRANSLATION O Waihinano, thou soul-grabber, Dead is the king of this island; Moloka'i shall offer a boar; Lana'i's a half-baked dog; Kanaloa fends off the A-a; Molokini buffets the waves. The ship of state turns turtle: What wailing and beating of breast! Wild anguish of child and of ghost O'er the sandy plain of Kama'o. The districts are frenzied with grief-- Tearing of hair and breaking of teeth-- One wail that lifts to heaven. Who shall be heir to this Maui land? To this the sorceress, Waihinano, answered pertly: Ia Ole-pau, ia ka Lani, ke Alii, Ka-uhi-lono-honua; O Ka-uhi-kapu ia a Kama, A Kama-lala-walu: O ke alii kahiko i hanau ia ai a Kiha-- O Ka-ula-hea nui o ka Lani: Iaia Maui. TRANSLATION To Ole-pau, the heavenly, the King, In line from deep-rooted Kauhi-- Sacred Kauhi of Kama was he-- Kama, the sire of eight branches-- Of the ancient stock of Kiha, And Ka-ula-hea, the great king: Maui belongs to him. To this Hiiaka retorted: Ua make ia: Ke ha'i mai nei na Wahine I ka Hikina La ma Puna, O na Wahine i ka La o Ha'eha'e, O na Wahine i ka La o Ku-ki'i, Ako lehua o Kua-o-ka-la, Walea wai o ka Milo-holu, Kui pua lei o Ma-li'o-- O Pele-honua-mea i ka Lua; O Hiiaka i ka alawa maka o Wakea: Ke i mai nei Haumea, He kalawa ka ma'i a puni: Ua make! TRANSLATION The sentence of death is affirmed By the women--the gods--who tend On the rising Sun of Puna, Are Sun-guards at Ha'e-ha'e, Pluck lehua-bloom at Kuki'i, Rejoice in the stream Milo-holu String the flower-wreaths of Mali'o-- Confirmed by Pele, God of the Pit-- Once heir to the sacred South-land, And by Hiiaka, her shadow, Gleam shot from the eye of Wakea. Thus saith the goddess Haumea: Great torment, fever and swelling Shall scorch and rack him to death! The woman Wai-hinano replied to Hiiaka with great spirit and temper: Aole e make ku'u alii ia oe: Ke hoole mai nei na 'kua wahine o ia nei, O Ha-pu'u, [98] laua o Ka-lei-hau-ola,[98] O na 'kua nana i lapu Hawaii a puni: Oia ho'i ka i a ke Akua: Ke hoole mai nei, aole e make! TRANSLATION My king shall not die by your arts: His witch-gods deny you the power-- Ha-pu'u and Ka-lei-hau-ola;-- They peopled Hawaii with ghosts: The voice of the gods, the king's gods, Declares that he shall not die! The situation was peculiar: while Ka-ula-hea (in the narrative sometimes called Ole-pau) lay asleep, his second soul, kino wailua, deserting its post of duty as life-guard over the bodily tenement, had stolen away in pursuit of its own pleasures. It was this very kino wailua that Hiiaka had seen flanking her own route, as it flitted through the fields, and which she had caught and now held fast in her hand like a fluttering moth, a hostage answerable for his misbehaviour and disregard of the rites of hospitality. Its possession gave Hiiaka complete power over the life of the king. It was no empty vaunt when Hiiaka again declared in song: Aohe kala i make ai; Ua pu-á ia na iwi; Ua akua [99] ka ai a ka ilo! TRANSLATION King death has gripped him ere this; His bones already are bundled; The worms--they batten like gods! While Wai-hinano was listening to these awful words of Hiiaka she was dumbfounded by the tidings that Ka-ula-hea had waked from seemingly peaceful sleep in great perturbation, and that he had been seized with the most alarming and distressful symptoms. In her distraction and rage she still maintained a defiant attitude: Aohe make ku'u alii ia oe! Ke hoole mai nei na akua kane o ia nei, O Ke-olo-ewa [100] nui a Kama-ua, [101] He mana, he úi-úi, a-á, He ana leo no ke Alii, E ai ana i ka pua'a o Ulu-nui, [102] I ka lalá Me-ha'i-kana, [103] Hoole o Uli, akua o ia nei, E hoole mai ana, aohe e make! TRANSLATION My lord shall succumb not to you! The gods of the King affirm it-- Olo-ewa, son of the Rain-god, Gifted with power and with counsel, His voice rings out clear for the King: He shall eat the fat of the swine, Pluck the fruit of the bread-tree: Uli, A god ever true to the king, Declares that he shall not die. After each incantation that Hiiaka had uttered against Ka-ula-hea that king's disorder had flared up in more alarming proportions, and he cried out in agony and despair. But it was equally true that just as often as Wai-hinano had uttered her assurances that his trouble was but a trivial indisposition and that the male and female deities--above named--stood on his side and would not let him die, his courage had revived, he had felt a wave of healing influence pass through him and relief had come. In explanation of this see-saw of hope and despair, sickness and relief, let it be stated that the two goddesses Ha-pu'u and Ka-lei-hau-ola and the two male deities Ke-olo-ewa and Kama-ua, to whom Wai-hinano had appealed by name as staunch friends of Ka-ula-hea, were, in fact, allies, or, more properly speaking, partizans of Pele and, therefore, subject to the call of Hiiaka. The kahuna Kaua-kahi-ma-hiku-lani who had charge of the case of Ka-ula-hea derived his power as a kahuna from these very same gods; but he well knew that if there was a conflict of interests the commands of Hiiaka would have to be carried out. As for the gods and goddesses above named, they, of course, knew their own position and that, as between Ka-ula-hea and Hiiaka, their service must be rendered to the latter. Willing enough they were, however, in return for the offerings laid on their altars, to feed the hopes of the sick man by temporary relief of his sharpest agonies. As if this tangle of motives were not enough, the affair was yet further complicated by the appearance of Kapo--sister, or aunt of Hiiaka--on the scene, who came not only as an interested spectator but as a friend of king Ka-ula-hea. Her power to intervene was, of course, handicapped by the same limitations that touched the other gods and goddesses. She had the good sense to retire from the scene before things came to a critical pass. Meanwhile messengers are flying about, seeking or bringing assurance of relief and restoration to health to the king. Hiiaka saw that the time had come for decisive action. She went close up to the great stone Paha-lele that still lies in the road near Wai-he'e and, before smiting against the rock the soul she held captive in her hand, she uttered the following kau: E Kaua-kahi-ma-hiku-lani ma, e, A pala ka hala haalei ma ke kaha o Maka-o-kú; Haawi pauku oko'a me ko ha'i kini. He aloha ole no o Kaua-kahi-ma-hiku-lani ma I ka anaaná ia Ole-pau, e. Lapu Ole-pau, e: Ua akua ka ai a ka ilo! She pauses for a moment, then continues: Anu Wai-he'e i ka makani Kili-o'opu; He i'a iki mai ke kele honua [104] o Wailuku, Mai ke kila o Pa-ha'a-lele la, e. Ha'alele ke ea o Ole-pau; Ua pokaka'a ka uhane, Ua kaalo ia Milu. TRANSLATION O Kau-akahi-ma-hiku-lani, You cast away the wilted fruit, And with it the fortunes of many: 'Twas an act of unlove, that of yours-- To hurl this prayer-shaft at Ole-pau: He'll become but a houseless ghost; The maggots shall batten like gods. Waihe'e crouches in the cold blast Of the raging Kili-o'opu. This atom soul I plucked from the grave, From a fastness desolate now: The spirit flits from Ole-pau, Goes down the steep to destruction, To the somber caverns of Milu. With this she dashed the captive soul against the rock, and that was the end of Ka-ula-hea. There was something in the manner of Hiiaka as she called the name of the kahuna Kau-akahi that chilled the courage of the group of sorcery gods. They saw that their game was played out, and they sneaked away and hid themselves. CHAPTER XVIII HIIAKA EMPLOYS THE ART OF MAGIC AS A MEANS OF DISGUISING HERSELF--SHE VOYAGES TO MOLOKA'I--MEETS THE MO'O KIKI-PUA "Let us make haste to leave this place," said Hiiaka. This was because she foresaw that she would be importuned to use her power to restore the dead king to life. When these akuas, these spirits of necromancy, became convinced that they had been worsted in the fight and that the king was dead beyond all hope of recovery from them, they instructed the kahuna Kaua-kahi-ma-hiku-lani to desist from his useless incantations and to dispatch all his people in search of Hiiaka as the only one capable of reviving the king's life. While toiling up the ascent of the hill Pulehu, the two women saw in the distance a great multitude of people pursuing them. Wahine-oma'o, in alarm, exclaimed, "What in the world shall we do!" At once Hiiaka by the power of enchantment changed Wahine-oma'o into the shape of a little girl leading a dog, while she herself assumed the form of a bent old woman hobbling along with the aid of a stick; and as the multitude drew near they sat down by the wayside as if to rest. The people in pursuit had seen and recognized Hiiaka and felt sure of soon overtaking her. But, on coming to the place, they found only a decrepit woman and a child leading a dog. They were taken aback and asked, "Where are the two young women who were traveling this way? Have you not seen them?" "We have seen nothing of them," was the answer. When the people reported to the kahuna that they had found only an old woman and a girl with a dog in tow, he saw through the trick at once and exclaimed, "Those are the very persons I want. Go and bring them." The messengers of the kahuna next came up with Hiiaka and her companion at a place called Ka-lau-la'ola'o. There they found two girls of tender age busily employed in gathering lehua flowers and stringing them into wreaths; and, as before, they denied all sight and knowledge of the persons inquired for. The kahuna recognized that his people had again been victimized and, upbraiding them for their lack of detective insight, ordered them to renew the pursuit. Once more, at Kapua, in Ka-ana-pali, did Hiiaka find it necessary to resort to the arts of magic in order to escape from her pursuers. When the scouts of the kahuna arrived at the place they found a household of busy women--a wrinkled matronly figure was braiding a mat, while her companion, just returned from the ocean, was laying a fire to broil a fish for the evening meal. Not until they had gone some distance from the place did it occur to their sharpening wits that the house had looked spick-and-span new, and that they had seen no man about the place. Yes--they had been fooled again by the wonderful art of the girl Hiiaka. Hiiaka was rejoiced to find a canoe on the point of sailing to Moloka'i and the sailors gladly consented to give her a passage. The people of Kapua were greatly taken with the beauty and charm of Hiiaka and proposed, in all seriousness, that she should remain and become one of them. When they found that she was insistent to continue her journey at once, they one and all warned her not to attempt the windward side of Moloka'i, declaring its coast to be precipitous and impassable, besides being infested by a band of man-killing mo'o. Hiiaka had no sooner set foot on Molokai's beach than her ears were assailed with complaints against those lawless beings, the mo'o. Two women, pallid and wasted with starvation, sat in the open field moaning and bewailing their estate. At sight of Hiiaka, as if recognizing their knight errant, they broke out into loud lamentations. The mo'o had robbed them of their husbands, and with them had gone their means of support and their very desire for food. Hiiaka, as if recognizing their claim upon her knight-errantry, with heartfelt sympathy for their miserable condition, opened her mouth in song: Kui na ohi'a hele i ke kaha, e; Lei hele i ke kaha o Ka-pala-ili-ahi-- Mau akua noho i ka la'i, e-e; Ua hele wale a lei-ó-a ke kino, e-e! TRANSLATION Provide you wreaths of ohi'a To gladden the heart of travel: You'll bring joy to these barren wastes Of Ka-pala-ili-ohi.-- These creatures, sublime in their misery, Sit shelterless, wasted, forlorn. At this the women spoke up and said: "Our bodies are wasted only from our passionate love for our husbands. When they were taken from us we refused food." Hiiaka was indignant at such folly and left them to their fate. Their way still continued for some distance through a barren region and Hiiaka again alluded in song to the barrenness of the land and the misery of the women who suffered their bodies to waste away: Kui na apiki lei hele O Ka-maló, e: Akua heahea i ke kaha o Iloli. He iloli aloha; He wi ka ke kino, e-e! TRANSLATION Provide you a bundle of wreaths, When the heart is ashes within. The witches were ready with babble In the barren land of Iloli:-- Their's merely a passion hysteric, That shrivels the body like famine. The good people of Halawa valley, where Hiiaka found herself well received, made earnest protest against the madness of her determination to make her way along the precipitous coast wall that formed Moloka'i's windward rampart. The route, they said, was impassable. Its overhanging cliffs, where nested the tropic-bird and the ua'u, dropped the plummet straight into the boiling ocean. Equally to be dreaded was a nest of demonlike creatures, mo'o, that infested the region and had their headquarters at Kiki-pua, which gave name to the chief mo'o. Kiki-pua, being of the female sex, generally chose the form of a woman as a disguise to her character which combined the fierceness and blood-thirstiness of the serpent with the shifty resources of witchcraft, thus enabling her to assume a great variety of physical shapes, as suited her purpose. This last fact, had it stood by itself, would have decided Hiiaka's choice; for her journey, considered as a pilgrimage, had as an important side-purpose the extermination root-and-branch, of the whole cursed tribe of mo'o from one end of the land to the other. (This Kiki-pua band of mo'o had included Haka-a'ano, the husband of Kiki-pua, also Papala-ua and her husband Oloku'i. [105] Kiki-pua had stolen away and taken to herself Oloku'i, the husband of Papala-ua, thus creating a bitter feud which broke up the solidarity of the band.) The way chosen by Hiiaka led along the precipitous face of the mountain by a trail that offered at the best only a precarious foothold or clutch for the hand. At one place a clean break opened sheer and straight into the boiling sea. As they contemplated this impasse, a plank, narrow and tenuous, seemed to bridge the abyss. Wahine-oma'o, rejoicing at the way thus offered, promptly essayed to set foot upon it, thinking thus to make the passage. Hiiaka held her back, and on the instant the bridgelike structure vanished. It was the tongue of the mo'o thrust out in imitation of a plank, a device to lure Hiiaka and her companion to their destruction. Hiiaka, not to be outdone as a wonder-worker, spanned the abyss by stretching across it her own magical pa-ú, and over this, as on a bridge, she and Wahine-oma'o passed in security. The mo'o, Kiki-pua, took flight and hid among the cavernous rocks. But that did not avail for safety. Hiiaka gave chase and, having caught her, put an end to the life of the miserable creature. Thus did Hiiaka take another step towards ridding the land of the mo'o. CHAPTER XIX HIIAKA FINDS A RELATIVE IN MAKA-PU'U--KO'OLAU WEATHER--MALEI Hiiaka's adventurous tour of Moloka'i ended at Kauna-ka-kai, from which place she found no difficulty in obtaining the offer of transportation to Oahu. The real embarrassment lay in the super-gallantry of the two sailors who manned the canoe. When the two men looked upon Hiiaka and Wahine-oma'o, they were so taken with admiration for their beauty and attractiveness, that they sneaked out of a previous engagement to take their own wives along with them, trumping up some shuffling excuse about the canoe being overladen. Arriving at the desolate landing near the wild promontory of Maka-pu'u, it was only by a piece of well-timed duplicity that Hiiaka and her companion managed to shake off the sailors and relieve themselves from their excessive attentions. While in mid channel, in sight of Ulu-ma-wao, a promontory whose name was the same as a near relative of the Pele family, Hiiaka poured out this reminiscence in song: Ku'u kane i ka pali kauhuhu, Kahi o Maka-pu'u [106] huki i ka lani Ka Lae o Ka-laau, [107] Kela pali makua-ole [108] olaila:-- Anu ka ua i ka pali o Ulu-ma-wao, [109] e; E mao wale ana i ka lani kela pali: Ku'i, ha-ina i ke kai. I ke kai ho'i ke Akua, A pololi a moe au, e-e! Ku'u la pololi, a ola i kou aloha: Ina'i pu me ka waimaka, e-e! A e u'wé kaua, e-e! TRANSLATION O fellow mine on the stair-like cliff, Where Maka-pu'u climbs to the sky, Companioned by Cape-of-the-woods, That fatherless bluff over yonder: Cold cheer the rain on Ulu-ma-wao; That lone steep faints away in the sky, While Ocean pounds and breaks at its base-- The sea is the home of the gods. I lay in a swoon from hunger What time I awoke from love's dream, Love, salt with the brine of our tears. Let us mingle our tears. It was a question with Hiiaka whether to follow the Koolau or the Kona side of the island. The consideration that turned the scale in favor of the Koolau route was that thus she would have sight of a large number of aunts and uncles, members of the Pele family, whose ghosts still clung to the dead volcanic cones and headlands which stood as relics of their bygone activities, and where they eked out a miserable existence. The region was thickly strewn with these skeleton forms. Hiiaka first addressed herself to Maka-pu'u: Noho ana Maka-pu'u i ka lae, He wahine a ke Akua Pololi:-- Pololi, ai-ole, make i ka pololi, e-e! TRANSLATION Maka-pu'u dwells at the Cape, Wife to the god of Starvation-- Hunger and death from starvation. To this Maka-pu'u answered: "We love the place, the watch-tower, from which we can see the canoes, with their jibing triangular sails, sailing back and forth between here and Moloka'i." To this she added a little chanty: E Maka-pu'u nui, kua ke au e! Na mauü moe o Malei, e-e, I ai na maua, i ai na maua, e-e! TRANSLATION Oh Maka-pu'u, the famous, Back pelted by wind and by tide! Oh the withered herbs of Malei! Oh give us some food for us both. To Malei Hiiaka addressed the following condolence: Owau e hele i na lae ino o Koolau, I na lae maka-kai o Moe-au; E hele ka wahine au-hula ana o ka pali, Naná uhu ka'i o Maka-pu'u-- He i'a ai na Malei, na ka wahine E noho ana i ka ulu o ka makani. I Koolau ke ola, i ka huaka'i malihini, Kanaenae i ka we-uwe'u, Ola i ka pua o ka mauu. E Malei e, e uwé kaua; A e Malei e, aloha-ino no, e. TRANSLATION I walk your stormy capes, Koolau, The wave-beaten capes of Moe-au, Watch-towers, where the women who brave the sea May see the uhu coursing by-- Meat for the woman who faces the gale, Sea-food for the woman Malei; For her living comes from Koolau, From the pilgrim bands that pass her way; Yet we bless the herbs of the field, Whose bud and flower is meat for Malei: We pity and weep for Malei. Note.--Malei was, I am told, a female kupua who assumed various bodily forms. Offerings were necessary, not for her physical but for her spiritual sustenance. The burnt offering was not merely pleasing for its sweet smelling savour, it was an aliment necessary to the creature's continued existence. For the same or a parallel reason, songs of praise and adulation (kanaenae) were equally acceptable and equally efficacious. Cut off the flowers of speech as well as the offerings of its worshippers, and a kupua would soon dwindle into nothingness. "You are quite right," answered Malei: "the only food to be had in this desolate spot is the herbage that grows hereabouts; and for clothing we have to put up with such clouts as are tossed us by travelers. When the wind blows one has but to open his mouth to get his belly full. That has been our plight since your sister left us two old people here. Cultivate this plain, you say; plant it with sweet potatoes; see the leaves cover the hills; then make an oven and so relieve your hunger. Impossible." As they traveled on Maka-pu'u and its neighbor hills passed out of sight. Arriving at Ka-ala-pueo, they caught view of the desolate hill Pohaku-loa, faint, famished, forlorn. The sight of it drew from Hiiaka this chanting utterance: Puanaiea ke kanáka, Ke hele i ka li'u-la, I Koholá-pehu, i ke kaha o Hawí, e. Wi, ai ole, make i ka i'a ole, e. TRANSLATION Man faints if he travels till night-fall In the outer wilds of Kohala, In the barren lands of Hawi-- It's famine, privation of bread, of meat! "It is indeed a barren land. Fish is the only food it produces. Our vegetables come from Wai-manalo. When the people of that district bring down bundles of food we barter for it our fish. When we have guests, however, we try to set vegetable food before them." To speak again of the kupua Malei, a few years ago, as I am told, a Hawaiian woman on entering a certain cave in the region of Wai-manalo, found herself confronted with a stone figure, from which glowed like burning coals a group of eight flaming eyes, being set in deep sockets in the stone. This rare object was soon recognized as the bodily dwelling of the kupua Malei. This little monolith at a later time came into the possession of Mr. John Cummins of Wai-manalo. CHAPTER XX HIIAKA EXPERIENCES KOOLAU WEATHER Hiiaka found many things to try her patience and ruffle her temper in Pali-Koolau: Squalls, heavy with rain-drops picked up by the wind in its passage across the broad Pacific, slatted against her and mired the path; but worse than any freak of the weather were her encounters with that outlaw thing, the mo'o; not the bold robber creature of Hawaii which took to the wilds, as if in recognition of its own outlawry, but that meaner skulk, whose degenerate spirit had parted with its last atom of virtuous courage and clung to human society only as a vampire, unwilling to forego its parasitic hold on humanity. It was in the mood and spirit begotten of such experiences that she sang: Ino Koolau, e, ino Koolau! Ai kena i ka ua o Koolau: Ke ua mai la i Ma-elieli, Ke hoowa'awa'a mai la i Heeia, Ke kupá la ka ua i ke kai. Ha'a hula le'a ka ua I Ahui-manu, ka ua hooni, Hoonaue i ka pu'u ko'a, Ka ua poai-hale [110] o Kaha-lu'u. Lu'u-lu'u e, lu'u-lu'u iho nei au I ka puolo waimaka o ka onohi-- Ke kulu iho nei, e. TRANSLATION Vile, vile is this Koolau weather: One soaks in the rain till he's full. The rain, it pours at Ma-eli-eli; It gutters the land at He-eia; It lashes the sea with a whip. The rain, it dances in glee At Ahui-manu, moving And piling the coral in heaps, Shifting from side to side of the house, This whisking rain of Kaha-lu'u. Heavy and sad, alas, am I, Mine eyes, a bundle of tears, Are full to o'erflowing. As they approached Kua-loa, the huge mo'o-dragon, Moko-li'i, reared himself up and, pluming and vaunting himself, sought to terrify them and prevent their passage. Hiiaka did not flinch in her attack. When she had killed the monster, she set up his flukes as a landmark which now forms the rock known to this day as Moko-li'i. The body of the dragon she disposed in such a way that it helped form the road-bed of the traveled highway. After this achievement she vented her feelings in an exultant song: Ki'e-ki'e Kane-hoa-lani Au Moko-li'i [111] i ke kai, I keiki, i Makahiapo na Koolau: Lau Koolau, kena wale i ka ino; He ino loa no, e! TRANSLATION Kane-hoa lifts to the sky; Moko-li'i swims in the ocean-- The first-born child of Koolau-- A legion of fiends is Koolau, Eager for mischief, subtle of trick. Coming to where the deep and narrow gorge of Ka-liu-wa'a valley opens out, Hiiaka discerned the nature-carved lineaments of her ancestor Kauhi ke-i-maka-o-ka-lani, as he was epitheted, a rocky form set in the pali, but veiled to ordinary sight by a fringe of ti and kukui. Its eye-sockets, moist with the dripping dew of heaven, gleamed upon her with a wondrous longing, which she answered in song: O Kauhi ke i-maka [112] o ka lani, O ka pali keke'e o halawa-lawa, [113] O kuahiwi mauna pali poko, ke he'e ia, E like la me Ka-liu-wa'a, Ka pali ololo-é [114] o Puna i Hilo; O ka hala o Manu'u-ke-eu, [115] E kui, e lei au: O Kauhi, ka halu'a-pua, [116] maka á-lani-- O ka maka o ke akua, I ka maka o Pe'ape'a. [117] Uluulu ka manu i kona hulu; Ke lele kaha ia lupe la; Lawe ka ua, lawe ka makani, A lawe ke ka-úpu [118] hulu manu, Kele-kele i o akua la, e ke Akua. He akua ia la, aohe ike mai: O kana luahi [119] nui no ka maka, Ke ala nei;--E ala; E ala, e ala mai ana, e! E ala e, Hi-ka'a-lani! [120] E ala, e, ka Hooilo ua i ka lani! E ala e, Maú, [121] wahine a Maka-li'i; E ala, e! TRANSLATION Kauhi, thou watch-tower of heaven, Ensconced in the zigzag fluted wall-- Slipp'ry to climb as Ka-liu-wa'a, Or the straggling Puna-Hilo hills.-- Ah, the drupes of Manu'u-ke-eu! Let me string, let me wear them! Thy body lies smothered in ferns; Thine eye shines on high like a star, Or jeweled eye of bat, Pe'a-pe'a. As a bird, now ruffle your plumage-- How sways the kite in the wind! On balanced wing, then swing and float, Warding off rain, warding off wind, Like a sea-gull, clad in feathery mail, Course about on the wings of a god. He's surely a god; yet hears he not; Fierceness gleams from his eye. Now he looks, now turns--and to me! Awake, thou explorer of heaven! Awake, thou sender of Winter's rain! The spouse, Ma-ú, of Winter is night; The time of arising has come! This kupua, Kauhi, termed the watch-tower of heaven, having come from Kahiki in the train of Pele's followers, and having been stationed in this cliff, had got no further in his travels than Oahu. He bemoaned his fate as that of a malihini god, a stranger to the rest of the group. On being roused by this prayer-song of Hiiaka, as he gazed upon the beautiful goddess, a divine ambition stirred within him--to journey with her, enjoy her society, and make acquaintance with the land to which he was still a stranger. With this purpose in mind, at the conclusion of her address, he chanted this response: O Pele la ko'u akua: Miha ka lani, miha ka honua: Awa i-ku, [122] awa i-lani,[122] keia awa, Ka awa nei o Hiiaka, I ku ai, ku i Mauli-ola; [123] I Mauli-ola he awa kaulu-ola, [124] e, No na Wahine,--e kapu-kapu-kai [125] ka awa, E Pele honua-mea! E kala, e Haumea [126] wahine; O ka Wahine i Kilauea, Nana i ai [127] a hohonu ka Lua; O Ma-ú, [128] wahine a Maka-li'i; O Lua-wahine [129] ka lani; O Kukuena; [130] o na wahine I ka inu hana awa; Kanaenae a ke akua malihini, [131] e! Hele ho'i ke ala mauka o Ka-ú Hele ho'i ke ala makai o Puna, I Ka-ma'a-ma'a, [132] i ka puale'i, [133] E loa'a ka awa i Apua; [134] Ka pi'i'na i Ku-ka-la-ula; [135] Hoopuka aku la i kai o Pu'u-lena-- [136] Aina a ke Akua [137] i noho ai.-- Kanaenae a ke 'kua malihini. TRANSLATION Pele, indeed, is my god. Calm be the heavens, peaceful the earth: Here's awa fresh-torn from the ground, Awa that's been lifted to heaven, An off'ring for goddess Hiiaka, A growth of the kingdom Mauli-ola, Awa that makes for health and peace; Its woman-ban cleared by aspersion. Pele, O Pele of the sacred land, And thou, O Mother Haumea; Thou Woman of Kilauea, Fire-goddess who dug the Pit deep; Niece to Ma-ú, Maka-li'i's wife; Own child of heavenly Haumea; And thou Kukuena, that rules In the rite of toothing the awa-- A brew that is fit for the gods-- Love-offering this of the stranger god, Denied, alas, the road through upland Ka-ú and the lowlands of Puna, To Ka-ma'a and the bird-limed tree-- Sure route to the potent root of Apua-- The up-road to Ku-ka-la-ula, Thence leading to Sulphur-hill: Land where the gods did once dwell! A laud this, voiced by the stranger god. At the conclusion of this kanaenae Kauhi said to Hiiaka, "If you are the woman that consumes the forests of Puna, when you travel I will go with you." ("Ina ooe ka wahine ai laau o Puna, ooe hele, oau hele.") Hiiaka did not wish to offend the aggrieved deity; at the same time she could not consent to his proposition. In this dilemma she did her best to soothe his feelings and reconcile him to his lot: Ku'u Akua i ka hale hau, Hale kanáka ole, E noho i ke kai o Ma'a-kua, Alae ia e ke ki ohuohu, e! Pene'i wale no ka iki Akua. Auwe, ku'u Akua, e! TRANSLATION My god of the chilly mansion,-- A house without human tenant,-- Abide yet the blasts of the sea, The slap of the broad leafy ti. Such the advice of a lesser god: My tender farewell this to Thee. Kauhi was indignant at this evasive dismissal of his entreaty. The thought that Hiiaka should countenance his perpetual imprisonment in the bleak cliff filled him with rage. With a mighty effort he lifted himself and tore away the covering of tree-roots, earth and rocks that embraced him until he came to a crouching position. That was the limit of his power: he could do no more. A stony form in the mountain wall of Kahana, resembling the shape of a man on all-fours, remains to vouch for the truth of this legend. CHAPTER XXI [138] HIIAKA DESCRIBES THE SCENE BEFORE HER Hiiaka constantly showed a lively interest in the important features of the landscape, often addressing them as if they had been sentient beings. At Kai-papa'u, looking out upon cape Lani-loa, she greeted it as if it had been an old friend of the family: Lele Lani-loa; ua malie; Ke hoe a'e la ka Moa'e, Ahu kai i na pali; Kaiko'o lalo, e. Ua pi'i kai i uka, e. TRANSLATION Fly, Lani-loa, fly in the calm. At the moaning of Moa'e, [139] Mist veils the mountain walls. The breakers roll ever below, While Ocean climbs to the hills. They passed through the lands of Laie, Malae-kahana and Keana and at Kahipa they saw the crouching figures of Punahe'e-lapa and Pahi-pahi-alua, who stole away into the shelter of the pandanus groves without deigning to give them any salutation. At this show of disrespect, Hiiaka called out: Komo i ka nahele ulu hinalo, Nahele hala o Po'o-kaha-lulu; Oia nahele hala makai o Kahuku. Heaha la ho'i ka hala [140] I kapu ai o ka leo, e? I Hookuli ai oe i ka uwalo, e? E uwalo aku ana au; Maloko mai oe, e! TRANSLATION We enter the fragrant groves, Hala groves whose heads make a calm, Wild growths by the sea of Kahuku, But what, indeed, are your halas? Shall their murmur forbid you speech? Make you dumb to my salutation? I make this kindly entreaty To you who sit in the grove. They crossed the Waimea stream on the sand-bar, which in ordinary weather dams its mouth and, climbing the rocky bluff Kehu-o-hapu'u, had a fine view of the ocean surges tossing up their white spray as they ceaselessly beat against the near-by elevated reef-fringe that parapets this coast, as well as of the Ka-ala mountains, blue in the distance. (This bluff of Kehu-o-hapu'u until within a few years was the site of a little heiau, the resort of fishermen; and in it stood a rude stone figure of the fish-god Ku-ula. From the non-mention of this interesting object, we have to argue either that the discovery and worship of this idol was of later date than the times of Hiiaka or that she ignored it.) Hiiaka, casting her eye about for objects of interest, was attracted by the odd appearance of the lily-like water-plant uki, the detached floating clumps of which looked as if they had been fire-smitten: Ke ai'na mai la e ka wai Ka maha uki o Ihu-koko; Ke puhi ia la e ka makani. Hako'i ka ua, ka wai iluna: Ke kina'i ia ho'i ka iwi o ka wai a éha. E há i ka leo--he leo wale no. TRANSLATION The lily tufts of Ihu-koko Are gnawed away by the water And thrashed about by the wind. Beat down by the rain from heaven, The wave-ribs are flattened out. Hushed be the voice--merely the voice. From the same vantage-ground--that of Kehu-o-hapu'u--Hiiaka not only saw the dash of the ocean against the buttresses of the near-by coast, her ears also were filled with a murmurous ocean-roar that gave to the air a tremor like that of a deep organ-tone: O Wai-alua, kai leo nui: Ua lono ka uka o Lihu'e; Ke wa la Wahi-awá, e. Kuli wale, kuli wale i ka leo; He leo no ke kai, e. TRANSLATION Wai-alua, land of the sounding sea, With audience in upland Lihu'e-- A voice that reaches Wahi-awá: Our ears are stunned by this voice-- The voice, I say, of old Ocean! The landscape still held her, and she continued: O Wai-alua, la'i ehá, e! Ehá ka malino lalo o Wai-alua. TRANSLATION Wai-alua has a fourfold calm, That enfolds and broods o'er the land. "Let us move on," said Hiiaka to her companion, "there's a pang next my heart. Had I meat in my hand, we'd trudge to a water-spring and so be refreshed until we came to the house of a friend. Let us move." From the plain near Lau-hulu Hiiaka took a fresh view of Mount Ka-ala and, in a tone of bantering apology, said, "Forget me not, O Ka-ala. Perhaps you complain that I have not chanted your praises:" O Ka-ala, kuahiwi mauna kehau, Ke opú mai la, la, i Ka-maóha; Poluea [141] iho la ilalo o Hale-auau; Ke kini ke kehau anu o Ka-lena. Akahi no ka nele o ka la pomaikai: Aohe moe-wa'a [142] o ka po nei-- Ka moe-wa'a, e! TRANSLATION Ka-ala, dewy and forest-clad, Bellies the plain at Ma-óha, As it slopes to the land below. The cool dew-fall comforts Ka-lena: First pinch this of want mid good luck-- No dream of canoe-voyage last night, No dream of disaster at sea. The story of Cape Ka-ena, that finger-like thrusts itself out into the ocean from the western extremity of Oahu, touches Hawaiian mythology at many points: Its mountain eminence was a leina uhane, jumping-off place, where the spirits of the deceased took their flying leap into ghost-land. Here it was that the demigod Mawi had his pou sto when he made the supreme effort of his life to align and unite the scattered group of islands; and here can still be seen Pohaku o Kauai, the one fragment of terra firma his hook could wrench from its base. Here, too, it was that Pele stood when she chaffed the old demi-god for having lured her on, as she supposed, with drum and fife to the pursuit of Lohiau; and now her sister Hiiaka stands in the same place. The subject was well worthy Hiiaka's muse: Lele ana o Ka-ena Me he manu la i ka malie; Me he kaha na ka uwa'u [143] la Na pali o Nene-le'a; [144] Me he upa'i na ke koa'e [145] la Ka ale iwaho o Ka-ieie; [146] Me he kanáka hoonu'u la i ka malie Ka papa kea i ke alo o ka alá; Ua ku'i 'a e ke kai, A uli, a nono, a ula Ka maka o ka alá, E no-noho ana i ke kai o Ka-peku. [147] Ka-peku ka leo o ke kai-- O Hoo-ilo [148] ka malama.-- Ke ku mai la ka pauli i kai, Ka hoailona kai o ka aina: A'e kai o Ka-hulu-manu; [149] Kai a moana ka aina. Ahu wale ka pae ki'i, Ka pae newe-newe, Ka pae ma nu'u a Kana-loa:-- A he hoa, a oia. Hoohaehae [150] ana ka Lae-o-ka-laau, [151] I kihe [152] ia e ke kai o Wawalu, [153] Na owaewae [154] pali o Unu-lau Inu aku i ka wai o Kohe-iki i ka pali-- I ka pali ka wai, Kau pu me ka laau. Hoole ke kupa, huná i ka wai. [155] Ehá ka muli-wai, wai [156] o Ka-ena. Ena iho la e ka la o ka Maka-li'i; O-i'o mai ana ke a me he kanaka koa la, Maalo ana i ku'u maka; Me he hauka'i la o ia kalana pali, Kuamo'o loa, pali o Lei-honua. Hiki iho nei no ka hauoli I ka hiki'na mai a nei makani. Heaha la ka'u makana i ku'u hilahila? O ka'u wale iho la no ia, o ka leo, e! TRANSLATION Ka-ena Point flies on its way Like a sea-bird in fair weather; Like the wings of a swooping gull Are the cliffs of Nene-le'a; Like the lash of the bosen's wings Is the curl of the breaking wave In the channel of Ië-ië. The gray sand that borders the lava Drinks the waves like a thirsting man; And purple and pink and red Are the eye-spots of the bazalt That gleam in the sea of Ka-peku. The sea gives a querulous tone-- The season is that of Ho-ilo. A cloud-pall shadows the ocean, Sure sign of a turbulent sea, Of a tide that will deluge the land, Like the Flood of Ka-hulu-manu. The god-forms stand in due order, Forms that are swollen to bursting, The group on Kana-loa's altar:-- Friends, allies, I reckon them all. Cape-of-the-Woods entices us on, Besprayed by the sea of Wawalu, Forefront Unulau's gullied cliffs. I drink of the water distilled By the dripping pali walls, Led forth in a hollowed log. The rustic denies it and hides it: Four water-streams has Ka-ena; And the summer sun is ardent. The blocks of stone, like warriors, Move in procession before me-- Pilgrims that march along the crest Of the steep ridge Lei-honua. Ah, a new joy now do I find: It comes with the breath of this wind! And what is my gift in return? To my shame, it's only my voice. The rocks and huge bowlders that dotted the barren waste of Ka-ena seemed to the travelers to glow and vibrate as if they were about to melt under the heat of the sun, a phenomenon that stirred the imagination of Hiiaka to song: Liu'a ke kaha o Ka-ena, wela i ka La; Ai'na iho la ka pohaku a mo'a wela; Kahuli oni'o, holo ana i ka malie; Ha'aha'a ka puka one, ki'eki'e ke ko'a, I ka hapai ia e ka makani, ka Malua: O'u hoa ia i ke Koolau, e. A pa Koolau, hoolale kula hulu; Kahea ke keiki i ka wa'a, 'E holo, oi malie ke kaha o Nene-le'a; Aohe halawai me ka ino i ka makani; Ka pipi lua o ka ale i ka ihu o ka wa'a. He wa'awa'a [157] ka makani, he naaupo; Ke kai ku'i-ké, koke nalo ka pohaku! Ke kupa hoolono kai, o Pohaku-o-Kaua'i, [158] e, A noho ana o Pohaku o Kaua'i i kai, e! TRANSLATION Ka-ena, salty and barren, Now throbs with the blaze of the sun; The rocks are consumed by the heat, Dappled and changed in their color: The sand-holes sink, the coral forms heaps, Urged by the breath of Malua-- That fellow of mine from Koolau: When blows Koolau, then bristles the plain. Then calls the lad to the sailor, Speed on while calm is Nene-le'a; Such time you'll meet with good weather; The lap of the sea 'gainst the bow-- A most thoughtless, good-natured, wind, that. When choppy the sea, hid are the rocks! A man of the sea art thou, well versed In its signs of storm and of calm, O Rock, thou Rock of Kaua'i! CHAPTER XXII HIIAKA ADDRESSES POHAKU-O-KAUA'I--THE TWO WOMEN RIG UP A CANOE--SHE SALUTES KAENA--SALUTE TO HAUPU--SEES LOHIAU'S SPIRIT FORM Hiiaka had large acquaintance with the natural features of every landscape, and if those features were of volcanic origin she might claim them as kindred through her own relationship with Pele. It was hers to find friendship, if not sermons, in stones. This Pohaku-o-Kaua'i, to whom Hiiaka now addressed herself, though in outward form an unshapen bowlder, as we see it today,--the very one that Mawi drew from its ocean-bed with his magic hook Mana-ia-ka-lani--was in truth a sentient being, alive to all the honor-claims of kinship. To him, in her need, Hiiaka addressed herself: E Pohaku o Kaua'i i kai, e, A po Ka-ena i na pali, I wa'a no maua E ike aku ai i ka maka o ke hoa, O Lohiau ipo, e! TRANSLATION O sea-planted Rock of Kaua'i, Night shadows the cliffs of Ka-ena: A canoe for me and my fellow; We would look on the face of our friend, Lohiau the dearly beloved. "I have no canoe," said Pohaku-o-Kaua'i. "The one I had was wrecked in a storm while on a fishing trip. One huge wave came aboard and split her from end to end. We had to swim for it. But surely, such a beautiful woman as you will have no trouble in finding a canoe. There must be no lack of canoes making the trip to Kaua'i." "In the lack of a canoe, let us have a plank, such as I see you are there using for a shelf." "If that will serve you, you are welcome," said the old man. "We shall also need an outrigger-float for our craft," Hiiaka remarked. "An ama (outrigger-float) is a thing I lack," he answered. "You must have some block of wili-wili--such as that one, for instance, which you use to hold your fishhooks," Hiiaka urged. The old man was able to meet their demands. The two women then set their wits to work and finally succeeded in lashing the parts together in such fashion as to make something that would serve as a canoe. Hiiaka, as the one in command, sat astern and Wahine-oma'o in the bow. As they sailed away Hiiaka saluted Cape Ka-ena in these words: Holo Ka-ena, la, Me he wa'a kaukahi la i ka malie;-- Ka lau hoe, lau hoe o Kua-o-ka-la; [159] Ke kowelowelo [160] la o Lehua, e; O Lehua ho'i, e! TRANSLATION Ka-ena speeds along A single canoe in the calm; The four hundred rays that dart from The Back of the Sun sink down In the sea at Lehua, The western waves of Lehua. When well out in the channel of Kaieie the sight of the famous Hill of Haupu, that now appeared to lift its head like a water-fowl stemming the tide, was an inspiration to song. Mingled with the pleasure, however, was the chagrin and indignation that came from knowing that at that very moment her own lehua preserves in Kona were suffering ravage from fire by the act of Pele: O Haupu, [161] mauna ki'e-ki'e, Huki a'e la, pa i ka lani; Waha [162] keiki ma ke kua; Hi'i Ke-olewa [163] ma ke alo; Au ana Ni'ihau i ke kai. Pau a'u lehua i ka manu, e, Pau, e, o a'u lehua, ho'i, e! TRANSLATION Famed Haupu, the mighty hill, Lifts head till she touches heaven; On her back strapped a suckling child, While she fondles a fleecy cloud, And Niihau swims the ocean tide. Oh, my lehuas! spoiled by the birds! Alas, my lehuas, alas! "What a notion!" Wahine-oma'o exclaimed. "Who in the world is meddling with your lehuas?" While they were sailing along the precipitous coast of Ka-lalau, set in the windward wall of the island, Hiiaka saw standing at the mouth of a cave high up on the precipice, the spirit form of one who was no other than Lohiau, and again she was moved to song: A Ka-lalau, a Ke-é, A ka pali au i Haena, E peahi mai ana ka lawakua [164] ia'u la; Peahi, e peahi mai ana ka lawakua ia'u. Owau keia, o ka maka o ke aloha, la, O ke aloha, ho'i, e! TRANSLATION Off the coast of Lalau, off Ke-é, When nigh the cliffs of Haena, The loved one beckons, he beckons, The loved one beckons to me. I am the one--the eye-scout of love: Love, indeed, is my errand, aye love! The ghost-form of Lohiau still continued to show itself as they sailed; and when it signalled a recognition of Hiiaka by beckoning to her, she could but answer it: Ua pu'e ia e ke one ka lehua o uka; Ua ho-á iki ka ula i ka papa; Ua huná i ke kino i ka pohaku; O ka pua na'e, ke ahu nei i ke ala-- Alanui hele o Ka-unu-kupukupu; [165] Hele li'u-lá [166] o ka poha-kau, [167] e; Kaulia [168] a ka poha-kau he kilohana [169] ia; He maka'ika'i ia no Ka-hua-nui; [170] He kahiko ia no ka wai o kaunu, [171] e. A kaunu anei, o ke aloha ia? A ia'u la, éha oe! TRANSLATION The upland lehua is clinker-heaped; Wee flame-buds crop up on the plain; The tree-trunk is hidden with rocks, Yet its flowers encarpet the path: The road this that leads to desire-- One's travel stays not at twilight, Nor to ease one's back of its load. My journey's to Ka-hua-nui; She is the goal of my passion. If love be the targe of thy aim, And I that targe, ruin awaits thee! CHAPTER XXIII THE LAME FISHERMAN--HIS EPIC RECITAL CELEBRATING PELE On arriving at Haena, Hiiaka did not go at once to Lohiau's place but to the house of Malae-ha'a-koa, a man of chiefish rank, and one who had the reputation of being a seer. He was lame and unable to walk. For this reason his wife, Wailua-nui-a-hoano, had carried him down to the seashore and, leaving him there to his fishing, had gone home to her work of tapa-making. She was busily wielding the tapa club in the hale kuku kapa while Hiiaka stood outside the enclosure and sang: Kunihi ka mauna i ka la'i, e, O Wai-aleale, la, i Wai-lua; Huki iluna ka popo ua o Ka-wai-kini; Alai ia a'e la e Nounou, Nalo ka Ipu-ha'a, Ka laula ma uka o Ka-pa'a, e. I pa'a i ka leo, he ole e hea mai. E hea mai ka leo, e! TRANSLATION The mountain turns the cold shoulder, Facing away from Wai-lua, Albeit in time of fair weather. Wai-kini flaunts, toplofty, its rain-cap; And the view is cut off by Nounou, Thus Humility Hill is not seen, Nor Ka-pa'a's broad upland plain. You seal your lips and are voiceless: Best to open your mouth and speak. The woman Wai-lua-nui-a-hoano received in silence this sharp reproof of her haughty and inhospitable conduct, couched, though it was, in the veiled language of symbol. Her eyes left the work in hand and followed Hiiaka and Wahine-oma'o as they turned and faced the path that climbed the pali wall. Malae-ha'a-koa, lame, guileless, innocent of all transgression, meanwhile, sat and fished. He had cast afresh his triple-hooked line, blown from his mouth into the water the comminuted fragments of the shrimps whose bodies baited his hooks and, as he waited for a bite he chanted a song (to the god of good luck) that reached Hiiaka's ear: Pa mai ka makani o ka lele wa'a, e: Makani kai ehu lalo o ka pali o Ki-pú. I malenalena i Wai-niha i ka'u makau: He i'a, he i'a na ka lawaia, na Malae-ha'a-koa, e! TRANSLATION A wind-squall drives the canoes in flight, Dashing the spray 'gainst the cliff of Kipú. Peace, waves, for my hook at Wai-niha: Come, fish, to the hook of the fisher, The hook of Malae-ha'a-koa! Hiiaka's answer to this was a song: O Malae-ha'a-koa, lawaia o ka pali, Keiki lawaia oe a Wai-niha, Mo'opuna oe a Ka-nea-lani, Lawaia ku pali o Haena; Au umauma o ke ala haki; He i'a na ka lawaia, Na Malae-ha'a-koa, e. TRANSLATION I hail thee, Malae-ha'a-koa, Thou fisherman of the cliffs. As a youth you fished at Wai-niha; Grandson thou to Ka-noa-lani, Fishing now 'neath the bluffs of Haena, Sometime breasting the steep mountain ladder. Send fish, O Heaven, to this fisherman; Send fish to Malae-ha'a-koa. As if obedient to the charm of Hiiaka's incantation, the breeze sank to a whisper and the ruffled surface of the ocean took on a calm that brought fish to the fisherman's hooks. Malae-ha'a-koa looked up from his work and, though he did not recognize Hiiaka, he had an intuitive sense that it was her power that had quieted the elements and, with a shrewd insight, he divined that she was of the Pele family. "It is you then that has made this day one of calm;" and he continued his address in song: Ooe ia, e ka wahine ai laau o Puna, E ka lalá i ka ulu [172] o Wahine-kapu, e; He i'a, he i'a na ka lawaia, Na na Akua wahine o Puna, e. TRANSLATION Thou art she, O tree-eater of Puna, O branch of Wahine-kapu's bread-tree. Swarm, fish, to the fisherman's hook-- Fish for the godlike woman of Puna. Malae-ha'a-koa felt a genial thrill pervading his system; new vigor came to him; he found himself able to stand on his feet and walk. Some new and wonderful power had come into his life. In the first flush of his ecstacy, he gathered up his fishing tackle, thrust the hooks and lines into his basket and walked triumphantly home on his own feet. Without a word to his wife, he began to tear down a portion of the fence that enclosed the house-lot. "What are you about?" exclaimed his wife; "tearing down our fence!... But what has happened to you? Here you are for the first time in many years able to walk on your feet!" The man made no immediate reply, but kept on with his work. When she repeated her questionings and expressions of wonder, he quietly asked, "Have you not seen two women about the place?" "There were two women who came this way," she answered thoughtfully. "Would you think it! They were divine beings," he exclaimed in a tone of conviction. "We must spread for them a feast. You had better prepare some luau." Malae-ha'a-koa himself, alii as he was, with his own hands set about dressing and preparing a dog for the oven. This was his own token of service. At his command his people brought the material for an abundant feast. Hiiaka saw from a distance the smoke of Malae-ha'a-koa's imu and recognized the bustle preparatory to a feast, she exclaimed to her companion, "The lame man has saved the day." When the repast was nearing its end and the people had well eaten, Malae-ha'a-koa and his wife stood forth and led in the performance of a sacred dance, accompanying their rhythmic motions with a long mele that recited the deeds, the events, the mysteries that had marked Pele's reign since the establishment of her dominion in Hawaii: O kaua a Pele i haká i Kahiki, I hakaká ai me Na-maka-o-ka-ha'i. [173] Mahuka mai Pele i Hawaii; Mahuka Pele i ona onohi, I na lapa uwila, E lapa i na mahina, la! Elieli, kau mai! [174] He kai moe nei no Pele, No ke Akua; He kai hoolale i na moku. Ha'i aku kai i Hana-kahi, [175] I ke one o Wai-olama [176] iluna. Ako ia ka hale [177] a ke Akua; Ke amo 'a la ke ko'i [178] Ke Akua la i uka. Haki nu'anu'a mai ka nalu mai Kahiki; Popo'i aku i ke alo o Kilauea, Ke kai huli i ke alo o Papa-lau-ahi. Kanáka hea i ke ála-- Kou pua'a-kanu, [179] Wahine kui lehua Ka uka i Ola'a, ku'u moku lehua I ke alo o Heeia, o Kukuena [180] wahine. Komo i ka lauwili [181] na hoalii I ka nahele o Puna-- A'e, a'e a noho. Eia makou, kou lau kaula, la! Elieli, kau mai! He kai ehu ko Kohala-loa, Kai apa'apa'a [182] ko ka pali i uka; He kai kiei pali ko Kupehau, Kai pi'i hala o ka aina: Ke popo'i aku la i kai o Maui Ke kai a ka Wahine ali'i, O ke kai kui lehua a Pele, A ko'u akua la, e! Elieli, kau mai! Hiiaka was so greatly impressed with this mele that she commanded Wahine-oma'o to restrain herself and observe the dignity of the occasion by eating more quietly. The young woman, thereupon, moderated her gusto and concluded her repast with less smacking of the lips; and the singers proceeded: E oe mauna i ka ohu ka pali, Kahá ka leo o ka ohi'a, uwé: Ike au i ke ahi ai alá, Ka luahine moe naná [183] A pápa enaena, wai hau, a wa'a kauhí. [184] Ilaila Pepe mua, Pepe waena, [185] O Pepe ka muimui-- [186] O kihele ia ulu, [187] ka maka hakaikea O Niheu [188] Kalohe, ka maka kahá la. Elieli, kau mai! A Moloka'i nui a Hina, [189] A Kaunu-ohua [190] he pali, A kukui o Haupu. [191] Haupu ke akua li'ili'i; Puka mai Pele, ke Akua nui, Me Haumea, me Hiiaka, Me Kukuena, me Okaoka: [192] O ke a ke ahi iki, e a! He onohi no Pele, Ka oaka o ka lani la, e! Elieli, kau mai! A Nana'i [193] Ka-ula-hea, [194] A Mauna-lei kui ka lei. Lei Pele i ka i-e-i-e, la; Wai hinu po'o o Hiiaka; Holapu ili o Haumea. Ua ono o Pele i kana i'a, O ka honu o Poli-hua-- [195] Honu iki, a-ï no'uno'u, Kua papa'i o ka moana; Ka eä nui, kua wawaka. Hoolike i ka ai na Pele, I na oaoaka oaka i ka lani, la! Elieli, kau mai! A Kaua'i, i ke olewa iluna, A ka pua lana i kai o Wai-lua, Naná mai Pele ilaila: E waiho aku ana o Ahu. Aloha i ka wai li'u [196] o ka aina: E ála mai ana Mokihana, Wai auau o Hiiaka. Hoopa'apa'a [197] Pele ilaila; Aohe kahu e ulu [198] ai. Keehi aku Pele i ka ale kua loloa: He onohi no Pele, Ka oaka o ka Lani, la. Elieli, kau mai! Holo mai Pele mai ka Hikina, A kau ka wa'a i Mo'o-kini; [199] Noho ka ua i Kumalae; Ho'okú Pele ma i ke ki'i; Noho i ke ki'i a Pele ma, A ka puá o Ko'i. [200] Kanaenae Pele ma ilaila; Ka'i a huaka'i mai Pele A ka lae i Lele-iwi; [201] Honi i ke ala o ka hala, O ka lehua o Mokau-lele; [202] Oia ka Pele a kui la. He kunana hale ka Pu'u-lena, He hale moe o Papa-lau-ahi, He halau no Kilauea. Elieli, kau mai! Haule mai Pele mai Kahiki mai; O ka hekili, o ke ola'i, o ka ua loku, O ka ua páka o Ha'i-ha'i-lau-mea-iku O na wahine i ka wao o Mau-kele, la. Ho mai ana Pele li'u la, e; Au miki, au huki ka ale kua loloa; Nu'anu'a ka moana i ka lili [203] o Pele: O ke 'Kua nui ke ku'i la iluna o ka lani; Wahi'a ka papa ku, ka papa i ao'a, Ka papa a Kane ma i he'e ai i Maui.-- Ka Haili-opua, [204] ke 'Kua o ka La. A Wai-a-kahala-loa [205] i akea. Elieli, kau mai! O Wa'a [206] ka i naná i ka auwa'a lawaia Ku kapa kai, e Kohala, O ke 'Kua lapu, e Pu'u-loa, Ke uwalo la i ka mea hele; Ke Akua kui lehua o Kua-o-ka-la, Kui mai ana i Maka-noni; Ka la pu'u, la helu o pua [207] la'a; Ka la aku ho'i, e Kahuoi, i ka uka anu. E olohe Ko'e-ula, [208] e mauna mai ana Ka hikina o ka La o Kumu-kahi ma. E haliko a'e ana ka a'ama, [209] lele hihe'e; O Kohala ke kaula'i 'na la, E ka la pumehana ole o ka po; O ka la pe' [210] ai, o ke ao kau aku iluna I ka malama, la. Elieli, kau mai! He make no Aua'a-hea, i kalua ia I ka pua'a aohe ihi [211] ka lau ahea-- Ka ipu kaumaha a ke Akua, Ka mamala kapu a na hoali'i. Ku'i i ka lani ka hekili; O ka ua loku o Ka-ula-hea; [212] O ka oka'i nu'u o ke ao, O Ka-o-mea-lani [213] e ua la: Aha o ka hala ia. Líli ke Akua: Akahi Pele a hokahoka; [214] Akahi Pele la a ne'ene'e; [215] Akahi Pele la a ai pau; [216] I pau i kou hoa, i oni i ke a; I pahoehoe, [217] ai oe i ka mauna. Auhea pahoehoe la? Noho iho la ka lau kaula E ka pau [218] hale o ke Akua-- E Kane-ula-a-Pele, [219] o Ku-ihi-malanai-akea, [220] He hoalii na Pele, he noho ana ai [221] laau, Na wahine pule mana, nána i papawalu. [222] Elieli, kau mai! Kiope, [223] kiope mai ana ke ahi a kánaka Ilalo o Kilauea, a i ku mau-mau wá; [224] A ikuwá mai ana ka pihe a ke akua Iluna, i ka pali o Mauli; [225] O ka huawai maka [226] i ane'i, O kánaka nana i huli-pueo[226] ka wai. Pu oe i kau laau me kou makaainana; [227] Hopu au i ka'u laau, hahau [228] i ke Akua. Ku'u'a [229] a'e Pele lapu'u'na [230] Pele; Waiho ana ilalo, lapu'u ka moe, A kau la ilalo la pahoehoe ai oe. Auwe! pahoehoe la, e holo e ka wa'a; E ka'a ka mauna. Ola Hiiaka i ka poli o Pele. Ho'i aku e, ho'i aku iluna i ka maláma. A'ama pi'i a'e iluna i Kauwiki; [231] Iho mai a'ama i ke aka o kánaka; Ho'oili [232] a'ama, ku i ka laau; Lawe'a a'ama, hao'na i ka eke; Kaohi paiea [233] i ka pola o ka malo; Ku ana paiea ilo' ka unuunu; Lei ana paiea i ka hua limu-kala; Kau ana paiea iluna i ka alá; Maunu [234] paiea, ha'alele i ka eke. Nie [235] au, Moala, ehia inu awa? Ehá: o Eä, [236] o Honu, [237] o Kukuau, [238] o Hinalea, [239] O ka apu-hihi, [240] o ka hihi-wai; [241] Ei' a'e loli-pua, [242] ei' a'e loli-koko; Ei' a'e loli-ka'e, ei' a'e Leleä. [243] O Leleä makua, makua o Kahi-kona, [244] Nána i hanu, kaha ka ua koko: Ha'i'na a'e ana ka mana O ke Akua iwaho la, i líli. Elieli, kau mai! Pelei-oho-lani informs me that the following verses are found in another version of this mele immediately following verse 183: O kukulu ka pahu a ka leo hokiki [245] kanawai, He kua [246] a, he kai [247] oki'a, he ala [248] muku. TRANSLATION Let the drum, tho torn, snarl out the law Of the burning back, deep ocean's gulf, And God's short bridge to heaven by the bow. Ua lilí ka lani me ka ua; Ua o'oki ka lani, poele ka honua I ka hanau ana o na hoali'i: Hanau ke kaikamahine ho'onout [249] o ka lani; Hemo mai he keiki kane; Oili ka ua koko iluna. Hanau o Kuwalu [250] me kana kane, O Ku-ihi-malanai-akea: A ai, e Pele, i kou aina-- Ai'na ka ohi'a, ka ulu hala i kai o Lele-iwi. He moku Pana-ewa, he oka wale Ka-ú; He pu'u o Pele nui. Kahi, e Pele, i kou aina, hoolewa ke au. Elieli, kau mai! Ku i Wai-lua ka pou hale a ka ipo; Hoolono i ka uwalo, ka wawa nui O Ulupo [251] ma oli nei; aohe uwalo mai, e. Aloha ino o Ikuwá [252] ma oli nei. Ke lele la ka eká mua, [253] Ka ino a ka makani. Ukiuki, kolo e, Kau-lana, Ka ua lele aku a lele mai: Lele a Puhi-lala, lele a kau-lana-- Ka hoaka, [254] e Hiiaka, e! Nowai ke kanaenae? No ka ohana a Haumea ke kanaenae. Ku'u 'a e Kane ke ko'a: I ka ia nei manawa ia. No Pele, no Hiiaka no ka honua, Ka honua ne'i, ka honua lewa, Ka lani iluna. O Ana-ku, [255] ku ka aha iloko: O Haamo [256] he ala i hei a'e ia, He pahu [257] i kula'i 'na, he pa i a'e ia; He kahua i hele ia, he luana mau'u; He kaunana ko, okana piko; He hola moena, he lawe'na ipukai; He ukuhi'na wai, he kaumaha ai: He hainá no ka hale, e. Noa, noa ia hale--ua a'e 'a, Ua komohia no wai-honua. Ku ana o halau [258] ololo, Ka hale o Pele i noho ai. Maka'ika'i mai Kini o ke Akua. Ho'i aku e, ho'i aku iwaho 'na! He kahuna pule ole, he li'i pule ole! Mai komo wale mai i ka hale o Pele, O ko'u Akua, la! Elieli, kau mai! E kau ana kiko [259] i ke alia kiko; Hele a mo'a [260] kiko akahi nei au; Kaele pu'epu'e, [261] ne'ine'i; [262] Ka-ele pa-kiko-kiko. [263] Ua noa ka aina; e kapu keiki; E kapu ke nui; e kahe na wai; E ka haki ana, ku ka opeope; O Kulipe'e noho i ka Lua; A lele, e, na hoalii o Ku-wawá; O Ku-haili-moe, o ka naele o Hawaii. Akahi nei au a ho'i aku nei mai ou aku la, A lele pakohana mai. Elieli, kau mai! TRANSLATION Of Pele, her warfare in Kahiki With her sister Na-maka-o-ka-ha'i; Of her flight to the land of Hawaii, A flight like the eye-shot of dawn, A flight like the lightning's flash, That rivals the full of the moon! Wonder and awe possess me! For Pele the ocean sleeps afar, For Pele the godlike one! A surge now cradles the islands And breaks on the land Hana-kahi, O'erflooding the sands of Wai-o-lama. God's temple is roofed with the fingers, And the thumb is lifted in earnest prayer By the concourse met in the uplands. High piles the surf that sweeps from Kahiki; It breaks at the foot of Kilauea; Is driven back by the hot lava plates. Now calls from the wayside a human voice; Your suitor, Goddess who rifled the bloom From my Ola'an park of lehua That smile in the lap of Heeia And the wreath-goddess Kukuena. What a bestial and nondescript mix-up Embroiled our chief in the thickets of Puna! What a passionate mounting! what a stay! Small show of regard for your fellow peers! Wonder and awe possess me! Wild the sea-mist at Kohala-loa, Sea roughed by the breeze from the upper hills, Sea that peeps o'er the cliffs of Kupehau, Invading the groves of pandamus; It reaches the lowlands of Maui-- The sea of this Goddess, this Queen. The lehuas are twisted like garlands At the touch of this sea of god Pele; For Pele, indeed, is my god. Wonder and awe possess me! Thou mountain wall all swathed in mist, Now groans the mountain-apple tree; I see a fire of blazing rocks; I see an aged dame, who snores On lava plate, now hot, now cold; Now 'tis canoe in shape, well propped, A chock 'neath bow, midships, astern; Needs bail the waist where drains the bilge, Else salt will crust like staring eye-- Gray roving eye of lawless Niheu. Wonder and awe possess me! On famed Moloka'i of Hina, At the pali of Unu-ohua. Where burn the lamps of Haupu, Assemble the throng of little gods. Then comes forth Pele, a great god, Haumea and Hiiaka, And Kukuena and Okaoka: If the small fire burns, let it burn! 'Tis the beaming of Pele's eye, The flashing of heavenly fire. Wonder and awe possess me! Now to Nana'i of Ka-ula-hea; At Mauna-lei Pele plaits her a wreath; She plaits it of í-e-íe; Hiiaka pelts head with ginger cone; Haumea anoints her body; And Pele eats with zest the flesh From the turtle of Poli-hua-- A young thing, short in the neck, Backed like a crab from the sea, Like a sea-turtle plated and patterned-- Turned into meat for Pele, Food for the heavenly flame. Wonder and awe possess me! From the ether above Kaua'i To the blossoms afloat at Wailua Ranges the flight of Pele's gaze. She sees Oahu floating afar; Feels thirst for the wat'ry mirage; Inhales the scent of mokihana-- The bath-water of Hiiaka. She once had a contest there; She had no tenant to guard the place. Pele spurns with her feet the long waves; They give back a flash like her eye, A flash that's repeated on high. Wonder and awe possess me! When Pele came voyaging from the east And landed at Mo'o-kini-- The rain poured down at Ku-malae-- Her people set up an image, And there they made their abode, With the workmen who carve the canoe; And they offered prayers and gave thanks. Then Pele led them in journey To the cape of Lele-iwi, Where they breathed the incense of hala. With Mokau-lele's rich lehua Goddess Pele weaved her a wreath. They built a village at Pu'u-lena, Her bedroom at Papa-lau-ahi, A mighty hall at Kilauea. Wonder and awe possess me! When Pele fell through from Kahiki Bitter the rain, lightning and quaking-- The big-dropped rain that shatters the leaves Of the women folk in Mau-kele's wilds. Pele came in the dusk of the night, With toss and sway of the long-backed waves. The ocean heaved at Pele's rush; The great god thundered in heaven; The strata of earth were uptorn; The reef-plates broken, crushed; and rent Was the surf-plank of Kane at Maui. What a piling of portents by the Sun-god Over the Green Lake Ka-hala-loa! Wonder and awe possess me! It was Wa'a gazed on the fishing fleet, His watch-tower the cliffs of Kohala; While the witch-ruler, O Pu'u-loa, Entreated the wayfaring one, And the goddess who gilds the lehua Set aglow Maka-noni's sunlit verge. One day for gath'ring and choosing The flowers devoted to worship, The next day in upland frosty Huoï. The earth-creatures glimmer and glow While the eastern sun tops Kumu-kahi. Sidewise the black crab springs from his hole And Kohala spreads out 'neath the orb That fails to give warmth to the night, And the Sun hangs low in the sky, And the clouds, they canopy heaven. Wonder and awe possess me! Aua'a-hea meets death, spite of Steam-bath,--a boar unpurged of bristles-- And poultice hot of aheahea, An herb that serves as a dish for the gods, A tidbit for the king's table. Thunder resounds in the heavens; rain falls, Bitter as tears of Ka-ula-hea; Clouds, torn and ragged, fill the sky, A piled-up ominous cloud-pillar, A fabric reared by heaven's rain-god-- A collect of evils was that. The gods were aghast at the scandal: For once Pele found herself duped; For once Pele shifted in bed; For once Pele drank to the dregs-- The cup was the brew of her consort; Her bed the spikes of a-ä. Stone-armored, passion had slaked. Where then was her armor of stone? The prophets, in congress assembled, Consult on the rape of the goddess-- Red-headed Kane, Ku of the Trade-wind, Compeers of Pele, consumers of trees, The women of eight-fold incantations. Wonder and awe possess me! They stamp out the fire in the Pit; "Stand shoulder to shoulder," their cry; "Shoulder to shoulder," echoes the throng On the heights of Mauli-ola,-- Where the green leaf distills the water Men search for like hov'ring owls. Chew thou the herb with thy friend, I will offer mine to my god. The fault of Pele's condoned; She lifts herself from her huddle in bed-- A couch far down in the Pit-- It now becomes plates of smooth lava, How like the flight of a swift canoe Is the flow of the pahoehoe, As the mountain melts and rolls away! Hiiaka, the darling of Pele, Then soars aloft to the realms of light, As the crab climbs up Kau-wiki-- The crab retreats from man's shadow-- And when these black ones huddle together They are easily clubbed with a stick; Their bodies then are thrust in the bag. As the gray crab tugs at the malo's fold; As he stands mid the heaped-up coral, While round him wave the pods of rough moss, Or he rests on the flat coral plate; As, ta'en from the bag, he's chewed into bait, So men spit forth their bitter words. How many guests at awa, Sir Crab? Four gods, is the answer returned, Tortoise, and Turtle, and Kukuau, And Hinalea, and with them are Apu-hihi and Hihi-wai, along with Loli-pua and Loli-koko, And Loli-ka'e and Lele-á. Lele-a-makua fathered The fisherman's god, Kahi-kona. When he breathed, red as blood poured the rain, A sign of the power and wrath of the god. Wonder and awe possess me! The heavens were turmoiled with rain clouds, The firmament sealed, earth black as midnight, At the birth of the princely ones: The heaven-urging princess was born; Then came forth a man-child, a prince, And the blood-red rain poured down. Then was born Ku-walu and her lord, Mala-nai, the far-breathing Trade-wind; And thou, O Pele, then ate of thy land, Consuming the groves of ohi'a And Lele-iwi's palms by the sea. Pana-ewa still was a park; Ka-ú was made a cinder-patch; By her might Pele threw up a mountain. Overwhelm your lands, O Pele; Let your fire-streams flow! Wonder and awe possess me! Her lover's house-post stands in Wai-lua; There Pele hears a call that appeals; 'Tis a song voiced by Ulu-pó. She utters no word to answer This pleading babel of voices, Now comes the first thrill to virgin flesh; Impatient, the princeling crawls on his knees; There's plenteous downfall of tears, as when Rain-columns fall, or men leap and dive, Head-first, feet-first, into the flood. These symbols will tell the tale, Hiiaka. For whom do I make this offering of song? For the ancient stock of Haumea. God Kane planted the coral reefs; A work that done in Pele's time; For Pele, for Hiiaka the land-- This solid ground that swings and floats Beneath the o'erhanging arch of heaven. At Ana-kú once met the gods; the road Thither lay through Ha-ámo;--but now, Its drum is dismantled, its fence o'erleaped; The terrace trampled, a litter of straw, Champed sugar-cane, heaped odds and ends; A spread for mats; a clutter of dishes; There's dipping of water, serving of food.-- What a desecration of the house! The house is degraded and trodden; Its tabu place entered, deflowered-- Now stands a hall of common resort Where once stood the house of Pele. Now come the Pigmy Gods on a visit. Be off! be gone from the place! A prayerless priest, a prayerless king is yours: Enter not prayerless the house of Pele. For Pele, I swear it, is my god! Wonder and awe possess me! The tabu flags fluttered in place, just now; And now, the flags are removed by you. Men parcel the hills in the taro patch; They parcel the clumps in the taro ditch: The land goes free, the children secure; Unvexed be the people; the waters run free; Food-bundles shall bulk in the patch; Kuli-pe'e shall keep to the Pit; The princes of clamor shall fly away. Give place to Ku, the smoother of lands, The planter of forest and field. I go in peace from your presence forth; I came to you in my nakedness. Wonder and awe possess me! CHAPTER XXIV HIIAKA LEARNS OF THE DEATH OF LOHIAU With a nice feeling of etiquette, Hiiaka's hosts allowed the day of her arrival to pass with no inquiry as to the purpose of her visit. But on the morning of the morrow Malae-ha'a-koa asked the question that put himself in sympathetic touch with his guests. "I have come to escort Lohiau as a lover to the bed of Pele," said Hiiaka. "Lohiau has been dead many days," they both exclaimed. "He took his own life out of a passionate infatuation for one of the Hono-pú [264] women." "Let that be as it may," Hiiaka answered; "I will go and see for myself." Now Kahua-nui, the sister of Lohiau, had laid his body to rest in a sepulcher close to her own residence; but on examination the place was found to be empty. It was evident that the body had been spirited away. Hiiaka, turning her gaze to the mountain, discerned a ghostly form standing at the mouth of a cave. It was the ghost of Lohiau. In an effort to soothe and attract him, Hiiaka, with arms extended and face uplifted, in passionate utterance gave vent to her emotions: Ku'u kane i ka pali o Haena, Mai na aina pali a pau loa, Mai Hoolulu no a Poli-hale la; Ku'u kane ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION At last, my dear man, at last, On this rugged cliff of Haena! I have searched the whole mountain side, From Ho'o-lulu's booming fall To Poli-hale's buttressed flank. I have found thee at last, my man! Again she scanned the lineaments of the shadowy form if she might find there the picture her mind had imaged. At second view, the ghostly unreality of the tenuous image so greatly shocked her imagination by its contrast to her ideal of a true flesh-and-blood lover, that she amended her first utterance: Aole a'e nei ke kane, He hoa pili no ke ahiahi, He hoa kaunu no ke aumoe, No ka waena po loloa O ke hooilo, la: Ku'u kane ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION This, surely, is not the lover To cling to one in the twilight, To fondle in the midnight watch Of a long, long, wint'ry night. Where, oh where art thou, my man? A creepy thrill came over Hiiaka as she saw the bloodless lips open and heard these answering words from the mouth of the weird object that stood on the pali wall: Ku'u wahine, e-e! Hoohewahewa oe ia'u, la. Eia au la i Ka-lalau, e-e; I ka pali au o Hoo-lulu, la; Ku'u wahine ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION Alas, my woman, alas! You wail in soul-recognition. I was yonder at Ka-lalau, Or some time perched at Ho'o-lulu. Surely thou art the woman, thou! With the desire to soothe the bewildered soul Hiiaka again spoke: Ku'u kane i ka makani Kilihau, [265] Kili-opu, [266] Ke pu'e [267] ka wai o ka mauna; He mauna pali no Ka-lalau A maua e hele ai-- Me oe, me ke kane la, ku'u kane, Ku'u kane o ka wa po wale, O ku'u wa iluna o ke alo la-- Ku'u kane ho-i, e! TRANSLATION My man of the wind-driven mist, Or rain that plunges clean as a diver, What time the mountain stream runs cold Adown the steps at Ka-lalau-- Where we shall ere long climb together, With you, my friend, with you, Companion of the pitchy night, When heavenward turns my face-- Thou art, indeed, my man. A moment's pause and she resumed: E ku'u kane, e-e, He leo e wale ho'i kou, He leo no ka hanehane, [268] No ka pololei [269] kani kau mauna o uka la; Ku'u kane ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION Alas, my man, alas! How altered is your voice, Changed to the trilling note Of the plaintive Pololei That trills on the mountain ridge: Yet thou art, indeed, my man! Kahua-nui was greatly moved when she heard the words of Hiiaka and said, with emotion, "It is evident you loved my brother, that handsome fellow--dead! If only the woman had been like you! What a pity that he should have wasted himself on such a good-for-nothing!" "Tell me, pray, where did you lay your brother's body?" asked Hiiaka. "Yonder," said she, pointing to a grass house. "Lima-loa, who hails from Kauna-lewa, in Mana, bound on the thatch. That job completed, he went away with all the men of the place to bewail him. We two women alone remain to keep watch over him. There he lies and we stand guard over his sepulcher." Then Hiiaka, girding herself with her divine attributes as a goddess of Kilauea--the power which, on occasion, availed to flood the plains of Puna with sounding plates of pahoehoe, or to heap up the rugged aä at Maukele--reached into the sepulcher in search of Lohiau's body. But it was not there. It had been stolen away by the two mo'o-witches (Kilioe and Ka-lana-mai-nu'u) and lodged in a cave high up in the inaccessible mountain side. The emotions of Hiiaka at this turn of events found expression in song: A Lima-loa [270] i ke kaha O Kauna-lewa ho'i e-e: Ako Mana i ka hale ohai-- Aina ko hele la, e-e,-- Hoopunipuni i ka malihini: Puni ho'i au, e-e! TRANSLATION The deed this of Lima-loa, That wonder-monger who works In the barren land of Maná; Who roofs Maná with ohai-- One there munches cane as he plods. His to deceive the stranger; I'm the victim of his deceit! Hiiaka, at the mention of Lima-loa and the part he had taken in constructing the house that served as a sepulcher for Lohiau, jumped to the conclusion that he had been the body-snatcher of Lohiau. Kahuanui strongly dissented from this view. "There can be no doubt," said she, "that my brother's body lies in that sepulcher at this very moment. That is the reason for my keeping guard over the place. But why stand we here? Let us go to my home." As Hiiaka went with her she again had sight of the ghost-form of Lohiau standing in the door of the cavern, and she addressed to him this mele: Ako nanani maka i Wawae-nohu, [271] e-e; Me he nanai hale la Ka-ula i ke kai; Ke amo a'e la i ka lima o Kaunu-lau, e-e; Ke hoa la i ke kua o Lei-no-ai-- He ai aloha na olua, e-e! TRANSLATION His airy phantoms queer the eye At Wawae-nohu, and yon islet Ka-ula, like a lanai, looms at sea; While lifts the hand of Kauna-la'a To smite the back of Lei-no-ai: The sight enchants you twain. Hiiaka paused for a moment and then continued in a reflective mood: O Ka-ula nui ka i akaka, Ua po Ka-halau-a-ola [272] i ka noe; O ka manu na'e ke lele nei Kai luna o Wa'a-hila, la; Ke noho la i Lei-no-ai: He ai aloha keia ia oe la, e-e! TRANSLATION Famous Ka-ula looms crystal clear; Misty and dark the Temple of Health: Yet the birds keep flying around And about the hill Wa'a-hila. They settle at Lei-no-ai, A sight most pleasing to you. Hiiaka now perceived two female figures squatted at the entrance of the cavern, which they had carefully blocked and were guarding. These were the creatures that had stolen away the body of Lohiau. She at once raised her voice and addressed them with this threatening language: E Aka, e Kilioe-i-ka-pua, e-e! Na wahine kapa ole e nene'e wale nei I ka hapapa ku'i opihi, O ka luna i Hala-aniani, [273] la; Na wahine kapa ole. TRANSLATION Ah!--Aka, and you Kilioë, Dowered with flowerlike beauty, You women with naked bodies, Who sometime flit o'er the reef-plates, Now squat over Hala-aniani! You shameless, you naked ones! The magic of these words worked their death-purpose. The way to the sepulchral cave was now unobstructed. As they came, however, to the base of the cliff, they found that the ladder had been removed--the mischievous work of the witches. Wahine-oma'o was aghast. "There is no ladder for us to climb up by," said the woman. "Turn your face to the cliff," was Hiiaka's answer. The girl did so and used her best efforts to climb the mountain wall. The day was far spent and darkness would soon come on. Thereupon Hiiaka invoked the Sun, bidding it stand still at the mouth of the river Hea: E Kini, e hiki i Kauai, i kou aina; O koa maka-iwa [274] o Halawa, [275] Paia Kona i ou kino, Akua nui o Hiiaka, la. Hiki e, pi'i e, iho e! E kau i ka muli o Hea; [276] Kau malie oe, e ka La! TRANSLATION Come to your land to Kauai, ye hosts! Ye warrior-gods, keen eyes of pearl! Put forth your strength, O Kona-- The mighty goddess Hiiaka! I bid you rise, climb, and descend! Now stay your flight, O Day! Stand still, O Sun, o'er Hea's water! CHAPTER XXV HIIAKA UTTERS MANY PRAYERS TO RESTORE LOHIAU TO LIFE Before proceeding to her task Hiiaka instructed Malae ha'a-koa to call in the guards stationed at Lohiau's sepulcher and to keep the hula going for the next ten days as an attraction to draw off the people from playing the spy on her performances. Hiiaka and her companion conquered the impossible and scaled the mountain wall as if their feet had the clinging property of the fly. Lohiau's ghost would have escaped, but with birdlike quickness she caught it. At her command Wahine-oma'o gathered certain aromatic and fragrant herbs of the wilderness, and having made a fire, they bruised and warmed the samples and spread them upon a sheet of leaves. While Wahine-oma'o kept fast hold of the feet, Hiiaka forced the soul-particle to pass in through one of the eye-sockets. It went as far as the cavity of the chest, then turned back and strove to escape. Hiiaka guarded the ways of exit and with skillful manipulations compelled it to go on. Reaching the loins, it balked again; but Hiiaka's art conquered its resistance and the human particle extended its journey to the feet. There was a twitching of these parts; the hands began to move, the eye-lids to quiver; breath once more entered the body. They lifted and laid it on the blanket of aromatics and restoratives, swathing it from head to foot. Hiiaka set a calabash of water before her and, addressing Wahine-oma'o, said, "Listen to my prayer. If it is correct and faultless, our man will live; but if it is wrong or imperfect, he will die." "He will not survive," replied Wahine-oma'o gloomily. Kuli ke kahuna i-mua Ia ku'i, nei, anapu, iluna, ilalo O Hana-ia-ka-malama, [277] o Mai-u'u, [278] o Ma-a'a,[278] O Nahinahi-ana, [279] awihi, kau Kanaloa-- He akua, ua lele i ka lani, Me Kuhulu ma [280]--o ka hanau a Kane, [281] A na Wahine: [282]--o na Wahine i ka pa'i-pa'i: [283] O Pa'i-kua, [284] o Pa'i-alo, [285] o Pa'i-kau-hale; [286] O loiele ka aha, [287] o lele wale [288] ka pule, A pa ia'u, pa ia oe; [289] Halulu i ka manawa, he upe, He waimaka--he waimaka aloha, e-e! I e-e, holo ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION Stand to the fore, O Priest; shrink not Tho thunder's growl and lightning's flash Fill heaven's vault above, below. Come Mistress of tabus; come ye who string leis, And the Goddess who mixes the dyes. Kanaloa, alert, soars aloft, With hairy Ku,--the offspring of Kane-- And the Women who cheer with a touch, On the back, the chest, or knock at the door; Lest the charm depart, the prayer go wrong, With damage to me and damage to you-- A pain in the head, a drooling nose, A shedding of tears--of love and regret. Now let the prayer speed on its way! "How was my prayer?" asked Hiiaka, turning to Wahine-oma'o. "It was a good prayer," she replied. "Its only fault was that it sped on too quickly and came to an end too soon." "In its haste to obtain recovery, no doubt," said Hiiaka. "Perhaps so," the woman replied. "Listen now to this prayer," Hiiaka said. "If it is a good prayer our man will recover:" A luna i Wahine-kapu, [290] A Kilauea i ka Lua; A lele, e, na Hoalii, [291] O Ku-wa'a, [292] o Ku-haili-moe, [293] O ka naele [294] o Hawaii. E hi'i kapu o Kanaloa, O Kui-kui, [295] o Koli-koli, [296] O Kaha-ula, [297] o ka oaka kapa ulaula, Kapa eleele, o Kapa-ahu, o Lono-makua, [298] O ke oahi maka a ka Ua la, e-e! I e, holo e-e! TRANSLATION Ho, comrades from the sacred plateau! Ho, comrades from the burning gulf! Hither fly with art and cunning: Ku, who fells and guides the war-boat; Ku, who pilots us through dream-land; All ye Gods of broad Hawaii; Kanaloa, guard well your tabus; Candle-maker, Candle-snuffer; Goddess, too, of passion's visions; Lightning red all heaven filling-- Pitchy darkness turned to brightness-- Lono, come, thou god of all fire; Come, too, thou piercing Eye of Rain: Speed, speed my prayer upon its quest! "How is my prayer?" said Hiiaka, turning to her companion. The answer was the same as before. Hiiaka devotes herself to gentle ministrations of healing; but without intermitting the chanting of prayer-songs, the burden of whose petition is that the Spirit of Health shall prevail in Lohiau and restore him completely. After again sprinkling the body with water from the calabash, she breaks forth: Ia ho'uluulu ia mai au, E Kane-kapolei [299] imua e-e; Ia ulu Kini o ke Akua, la; Ulu mai o Kane, o Kanaloa-- O Hiiaka, kaula mana ia, e-e, Nana i ho'uluulu i na ma'i-- A a'e, a ulu, a noho i kou kuahu. Eia ka wai la, he Wai Ola, e-e! E ola, ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION Come, enter, possess and inspire me; Thou first, God of the flowery wild; Ye roving sprites of the wildwood; And master gods, Kane and Loa;-- Hiiaka, who calls you, lacks not In power to heal and inspire-- Pray enter, and heal, and abide In this one, your patron and guard. Here is water, the Water of Life. Give us this Life! As in archery the character of the arrow, the skill of the archer, and the caprice of the air-currents that blow athwart the course of the arrow's flight may severally or collectively make or mar success, so likewise with the kahuna and his praying, success or failure were spelled by the quality of his prayer-shaft, by the manner of his utterance of it, and lastly, by the physical and moral state of the atmosphere as to the existence or absence of noise and disturbance. It was not, then, through a mere silly curiosity or pride of utterance that Hiiaka appealed to her attendant to learn what she thought of her prayer. Nor was it a vain and meaningless compliment when the latter declared the prayer to be good, the conditions favorable. At the same time she could not repress the criticism that from her emotional stand-point of view, the prayer seemed short. Again Hiiaka sprinkled the body with water from the calabash while she uttered this prayer-song: Eia ana au, e Laká, [300] Kane a Ha'i-wahine [301]-- Ha'i pua o ka nahelehele, Haki hana maile o ka wao, Houluulu lei, ho'i, o Laká; O Hiiaka, kaula mana ia, e-e, Nana i ho'ouluulu na ma'i. A a'e, a ulu, a noho i kou kahu: Eia ka Wai la; he Wai Ola, e-e! E ola, ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION Here stand I in stress, Laká, Thou husband of Haina-kolo. What flowers have I plucked in the wild, What maile stripped in the forest, To twine into wreaths for Laká: Thus toiled the seer Hiiaka; And her's was the magic of cure. But come thou, mount, enter, possess; Give life to thy servant and priest. Here's water, the Water of Life! Grant life! The work of completely restoring Lohiau by the necromancies of the kahuna, like a process of nature, required the ripening hand of time. The utterance of prayer must be unremitting. CHAPTER XXVI HIIAKA CONTINUES HER PRAYERS While Hiiaka in her ministrations did not omit anything that might aid and expedite Lohiau's physical recovery, her chief reliance was in the spiritual aid of the gods; for which purpose prayer followed prayer like the pictures in a moving show: HE MELE KUNIKUNI NO LOHIAU Kulia, e Uli, [302] Ka pule kanana ola i mua o ke kahuna: Kaulia i ke Alohi-lani; [303] Kulia i Kupukupu o-luna nei. Owai Kupukupu? [304] O Ilio uli, [305] o Ilio mea, [306] O Ku-ke-ao-iki; [307] O Ku-ke-ao-loa; [308] O Ku-ke-ao-poko; [309] O Ku-ke-ao-apihapiha [310] o ka lani; O ke Kanáka [311] o ka mauna; O na hoa o ka ulu [312] laau; E ku ai, e hina [313] ka omaka [314] e pule. Ua kana: [315] kahe ka wai, [316] e Ka-hoalii; [317] Moku i ka piko, [318] e. O imi, imi, o nalowale, i loa'a e-- Loa'a kau hala, uku i ka oiwi. No ke aloha i kono, haele maua; I ike aku au i ka uwé ana iho, e. Eli-eli kapu, eli-eli noa. Ua noa-a! TRANSLATION Attend, o Uli: a prayer this for life, Poured forth in the house of the priest. Let it touch the hearts of the shining band, The princes who rule in the heavenly courts. Who is this healer named Kupukupu? His are the soot-black swine, the yellow dog; The tiny cloud-bud and the cloud full-blown; The cloud quick with rain, and the sky That is mottled and checkered with clouds; The tall Man, the Lord of the Mountain; His fellows who rest in the tree-shade-- Bent-kneed, they pray in their forest-temple. Suffice it: here's flowing bowl, Hoalii. Seek the God; stay not till you find him. If at fault, an offering this for your flesh. The twain of us came at the call of love, That my tears might pour with the others. Profound the tabu; profound be the peace! It is peace! Prayer followed on the heels of prayer: Kulia, e Uli, [319] ka pule kanaenae ola; Kulia i ke Alohi-lani. Uï 'a kupua o luna nei: Owai kupua o luna nei? O Ilio-uli [320] oka lani; O Ilio-mea, [321] o Ilio-ehu; [322] O Ku-ke-ao-iki; [323] O Ku-ke-ao-loa; [324] O Ku-ke-ao-poko; [325] O Ku-ke-ao-awihiwihi-ula [326] o ka lani; O Kánaka [327] o ka mauna, Na Hoa [328] hele o ka ulu-laau; Na Keo-lani, [329] i ku ai, e Laka; O Maka'a-pule. [330] Kahe ka wai o na Hoalii; Nei wale ka pili moku; Wawa, kupina'i, kuwawa o Ku-haili-moe; [331] O Ha'iha'i-lau-ahea; [332] O na Wahine [333] i kapa ku, i kapa eleele-- Na ke aloha i kono e hele; Hele mai la au, o Hiiaka, I ke aloha a ka hanau: Hanau ke ola; A ola, a ola, e-e! This mele-pule, though closely resembling, in many parts identical with, that on page 144 seems worth reproducing here. TRANSLATION Speed, O Uli, this prayer for health; Give it wings to the heavenly courts. The question is asked the shining band: Who are the spirits of power up here? The azure Cloud-god that floats on high; God Ku of the Cumulus cloud-bank; Ku of the Mackerel-patchéd sky; Ku of the Cloud that roofs the horizon; Ku, the Cloud-god sailing apart; And Ku, the Cloud-god, ruddy and ragged; The Heroes, too, who dwell in the mountains, Our Comrades they, who range the forest; Women-gods of the ether who heal-- Powers that hold with thee, God Laká: He gives men the rich-ripe mountain-apple. The Gods pour out their healing water; The bunchy thatch-grass waves in awe; God Echo whose voices rumble afar; And the Landscapist Ku and the Princess Who plucked and ate the fateful ulei. The women who sit in the outskirts, All clad in robes of funeral black-- Great love has prompted their coming. I Hiiaka, the shadow, have come, From love to my birth-mate, my sister. Be this, then, the birth-place of life! Oh for life! for life! give us life! "How is it with you, O Lohiau?" inquired Hiiaka. "Continue to kneel at the shrine. Prostrate yourself at the lake of our mistress," answered Lohiau. Thereupon, Hiiaka, greatly encouraged, resumed her praying and chanted in a clear tone: A ka luna i Kilauea, A Wahine-kapu i ka Lua; Kapu na papa elima o ka Lua; Kapu Kilauea i ke ahi a ka Wahine-- Kapu ia Ka-moho-alii, he alii hanau kapu. E ho'i au e ike me ku'u haku. Ke haku'iku'i mai nei ka lani; Owaowá ka honua; Ua moe kánaka kai o ka honua; Ua ala kukui a Kane. Kane-po, hooulu mai; He hiamoe kapu kou hoala ana. E ala e, Kahiki-ku; E ala e, Kahiki-moe; E ala ho'i au, ua hiki mai oe; Ua ala ka lani, ua ala ka honua; Ua ala ka uka, ua ala ke kai. Akahi la o ke aloha i hiki mai ai; Ke ho'onaue nei, naue ku'u houpo. I ka houpo ka lele hewa a Kane; Ilaila ke kia'i ho'iho'i aina. Ala a moe i ke ka'i o ko haku; Ala mai no, e! Eia au o Hiiaka. Ala mai, ho'i! (I e! Holoe!) TRANSLATION On the heights about Kilauea; With the sacred dame in the Pit -- Five tabu strata has Kilauea; Tabu's the Pit through the Goddess' fire; Tabu hedges round Moho-alii-- A tabu god was he from his birth. To these will I go with my lord. The heavens above are in turmoil; The earth beneath is riven; The Sea-powers of earth are sleeping; The Torch of Kane has risen: O God of the Night, inspire me! Thy sleep needs a sacred waking. Awake, O Kahiki-ku! Awake, O Kahiki-moe! I, too, will awake at thy coming. The heavens are awake, and the earth Is astir from mountain to sea. To-day comes the first pang of love; My heart, my heart, how wildly it moves! My breast is torn, torn by God Kane. In the breast lurks the mischief of Kane-- The heart is the fortress of Honor's guard. Awake! repose in thy sovereign's care. I pray thee awake! Here am I, Hiiaka. Awake, I beg and entreat thee! Let my prayer speed its way! To the grist of prayers which Hiiaka, with chanting tone, had already brought to the prayer-mill of the gods, she now added, or--following the figure employed by the Hawaiian narrator--laid on the altar of the gods [334] (uhau) the following; her mental attitude being that of one who was angling--again to borrow the Hawaiian figure--literally, fishing (paeaea) [335] for a favor, a benefit: Ke hooulu au, e Kane-kapolei, i mua, I o ulu Kini o ke Akua; Ulu mai o Kane, o Kanaloa. O Hiiaka au la, o ke kaula, a ke kahuna, Nana i hana, nana i hooulu; A hooulu au i ke ola, a he ola no; He ola ho'i kou, e Lohiau-ipo i Haena; A ola ho'i, he ola; He ola nui, he ola iki; He ola a kulia i ka nu'u; A ola oe, e Lohiau-ipo. I e! holo e! TRANSLATION To the temple, its healing rite, I summon you, Kane-kapoléi; Pray gather, ye Wilderness Host; Come Kane, and come Kanaloa; Hiiaka, prophet and priest, am I: It is mine to inspire, to perform: I have striven for life and life came-- Your life, Lohiau of Haena-- Aye, life, life indeed; Life in its fullness, life in detail; Life to stand at the temple shrine: Such life be yours, beloved Lohiau! Urge on; let the cure work! Hiiaka chanted also another prayer: E Lono, e Lono, e Lono-ku-lani, E Lono noho i ka wai, O houlu oe, o inana oe; Hoinana i ke ola; Ho'opu'epu'e ana oe i ka wai, I ka Wai, ka Wai Ola a Kane, Ka Wai Ola a Kanaloa, I ka Hikina, i ke Komohana-- I wai hua, i wai lani! I e, holo e! TRANSLATION O Lono, Lono, God Lono on high, Lono, whose realm is the watery vast-- Inspirer, promoter, art thou; Give aid to this work of perfect cure; Thou givest life's magic to water, The living water, Water of Kane, The living Water of Kanaloa, Which flows in the east, flows in the west, In the bubbling fount, in heaven's rain. Speed now, urge on the cure! Prayer quickly followed prayer, like the moving pictures in a shifting scene: Eia ana au, e Laká, [336] Kane a Ha'i-wahine; Ha'i pua o ka nahelehele, Ha'i hana maile o ka wao, Houluulu lei ho'i o Laká; O Hiiaka kaula mana ia, e; Nana i ho'uluulu na ma'i; A a'e, a ulu, a noho i kou kahu. Eia ka wai la, he Wai ola, e! E ola, ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION Here stand I in stress, Laká, Thou husband of Ha'inakolo; What flowers have I plucked in the wild, What maile stripped in the forest, To twine into wreaths for Laká! Thus toiled the seer Hiiaka; For hers was the magic of cure. But come thou, mount, enter, possess; Give life to thy servant and priest. Here's water, the Water of Life! Grant life in abundance, life! The conclusion of this prayer saw Lohiau quite restored to consciousness, but in a state of utter bewilderment as to his surroundings. He found himself most unaccountably in a small rocky chamber with two women who were utter strangers in attendance on him. Before him, as he looked out, hung the apron of a mountain precipice, while in the distance and far below tossed the ocean, a familiar sight that called him back to earth at once, stirring pleasant fancies in his mind and waking in him a yearning for the sea. CHAPTER XXVII THEY DESCEND FROM THE CLIFF BY RAINBOW BRIDGES--LOHIAU, RESTORED, GOES A-SURFING Hiiaka's work of healing was now accomplished. She had seen the cold and withered form gain fullness, warmth and color; been cheered by the oö-a-moa, the crowing sigh that came with the inrush of air to the lungs--and now he stood before her in physical perfection. The question--asked by Wahine-oma'o--how they were to climb down from their inaccessible position was answered by the sudden appearance of three rainbows that arched themselves conveniently at their feet, and on these, as on ladders, they climbed from the dizzy height to the sleeping village below. Under the priestly guidance of Hiiaka, they all now resorted to the ocean and with the aid of its waters performed the rite of cleansing from the ceremonial defilement that came from the touch of a corpse. With this cleansing each one of them seemed to have a new birth of physical perfection. As they came up out of the water their bodies seemed actually to glow with a fresh and radiant beauty. The touch of salt water woke in Lohiau a longing he could not resist. He took his surf-board and, with face to the incoming rollers, made for the open sea. The place was one where he had often sported before, prescriptive custom having in fact set it apart for the exclusive use of the chiefs. The "fish"--as the Hawaiians called the Milky way--was already declining in the west and beginning to pale at the approach of a new day, and Lohiau still rode the waves. That same night Kahua-nui, Lohiau's sister, woke from her sleep with a start. She went out of doors and, lifting her eyes to the mountain wall, saw a light gleaming in the cave where lay her brother's body. She rubbed her eyes to remove the cobwebs of sleep--yes, there it was, a quivering light, set like an eye in the socket of the mountain wall, and figures moving about. She rushed back into the house where slept her husband and stirred him with her foot. "What are you about!" demanded the man. "Do you want to kill me?" "Get up; there's a fire burning in the cave, up the mountain. Come!" "What crazy fit possesses you," muttered the man as he went out. "To knock my wind out with such a kick!--and there's no fire up there, merely a star sinking in the west. That's all there was to it. Go to bed!" The woman was silenced but not convinced. Her sleep continued to be broken. She fancied that she heard a human voice calling to her; yet, on listening, she could distinguish only the moaning of the surf. In her restlessness she wandered forth again and stood in the cool vault of night. The endless monotone of the ocean filled her ears, but it told her nothing new. She sought her bed again and turned her face to the mat in a resolute effort to sleep. She dozed, but the subtle goddess evaded her. Thoughts of her brother floated through her mind, and the booming of the surf now seemed to assume a more intimate tone and by some witchery of the imagination led her out under the winking stars, closer to old Ocean's moan, and made her think: how Lohiau did delight in the surf; what pleasure he took in riding the billows! Thus she murmured to herself. At that moment her straining vision detected an object moving with the waves. "Some man surfing in our tabu waters--yet how can that be? Have not all the men of the village gone over to Niihau? Paoa urged them to go." She moved along the beach. By this time it was dawn. "There comes a woman," said Wahine-oma'o. "His sister, Kahua-nui," Hiiaka remarked quietly. Wahine-oma'o called to her by name and went forward to meet her. "Ah, it is you two women," Kahua-nui exclaimed. "Where's your husband?" Wahine-oma'o asked. "Asleep in the house." "Go and call him; tell him to take his canoe and go over to Niihau and bring Paoa," said Wahine-oma'o. "Lohiau is alive and well. Look, there he comes on the surf-board." In a tumult of joy the woman ran to the house and shouted the tidings to her husband. Nakoa-ola, girding his malo about him as he came out of the door, made all speed for the halau; shoved the canoe down the slope of the beach; looked to the lashings of the outrigger; saw that the paddles, bailer and what not were in place; stepped the mast; arranged the sail and the sheet; then, with a final push, he leaped in astern and set his course for Niihau. The story of Lohiau's miraculous return to life spread like wild fire until the whole population of the little island of Niihau was buzzing with the wonder. Paoa, in his haste and excitement, neglected the ordinary civilities and failed to invite his visitor to "come in and eat." They took canoe on the instant and were the first to arrive at Haena. At sight of Lohiau, whom they found quiet and thoughtful, surrounded by a houseful of people, in conversation with his sister and two women who were strangers, they set up a wailing cry of joy that was chorused by the whole company. The great raft of attendants, men and women, round-eyed with wonder, reached Haena in successive arrivals later in the day. First came those who eagerly credited the report of Lohiau's resurrection; scattering along after them, strangers and those who were in any degree skeptical of this great mystery. Each hour saw a bunch of new arrivals, not from Niihau alone but from all parts of Kauai. When Kahua-nui and her husband had first wept over Lohiau, embracing and kissing him, uttering their welcome in joyous cries of wailing, they turned to the two women, the strangers, for Lohiau bade them extend their welcome to "these two women who have brought me to life again." "Where are they from?" Kahua-nui asked. "I know not; I only know they have given me life." "It was worth while for my brother to have died to secure two such beautiful women as you," said Kahua-nui as she faced Hiiaka. "The other one is more beautiful than we are," Hiiaka answered. "Where is she?" "Toward the Sunrise," Hiiaka answered. "What is the name of the country?" queried Kahua-nui. "Hawaii." "Who is the woman?" persisted Kahua-nui. "Her name is Pele." "I know her." Kahua-nui spoke with lower tone. "She it was who sent us to fetch Lohiau. We found him dead. I worked according to my ability--you see, our man is alive again." CHAPTER XXVIII THE GODS COME TO LOHIAU'S FEAST Under the direction of Kahua-nui--the woman to whom belonged the executive mind--proclamation was made throughout the land, in the name of Lohiau, commanding all the people to collect the necessary food and material in preparation for a great feast, that they might celebrate properly Lohiau's return to life. It was to be an occasion of unparalleled interest and importance: a chief, famed for his manly beauty and popular talents, rescued from the grave; the magician who had accomplished this marvel, a woman of surpassing beauty; an old-time feast, with its lavish profusion; the hula, with its lyric and epic thrills: a combination of attractions that appealed to every taste, whether of sage, epicure, frivolous dilettante or dull-witted peasant, it was sure to be the event of a lifetime. All were invited and all came. The halau in which the people assembled was a temple of Flora, or rather of her Polynesian sister Láka. At the request of Hiiaka, whose every wish was law, one half of the hall was screened off by a rustic partition as a special feasting hall for the gods. "My relatives," said Hiiaka, "are numerous." In this part of the halau were laid the sacrificial viands for the supply of an immense host. Having commanded silence, Hiaaka, after the manner of prayer, invited the attendance of the gods. A hush fell upon the assembly; the air was stirred by the fanning of many wings. No speech, no human voice, only the gentle clash of wooden dishes, the rustle of leaves, the gurgle of deep potations and the subdued sounds of gustation came from the place into which no human foot or eye dared intrude. At the conclusion of the affair, when Hiiaka, in priestly fashion, had pronounced the absolving word noa and the stewards were again at liberty to enter the precinct where the immortals had just now celebrated their symposium, it seemed, at first glance, as if nothing had been touched. The leafy bundles of fish and fowl and meat remained unopened, but they proved to be empty; the coconuts, unbroken, were yet devoid of meat; the bananas were found to be but hollow skins. The substance, the essence, had been filched away by some inscrutable power. This was the ai inoino--consumption to the last morsel--practiced by the gods. It was a solemn affair, after all, this parting feast, at which, in spite of the babel of voices, weighty affairs had to be settled. Malae-ha'a-koa published the fact that the beautiful woman who sat in their mist was Hiiaka, the sister of Pele; that her art had captured the unhappy flitting ghost of Lohiau, restored it to its renovated and matchless form and that, in fulfillment of her errand, she was about to lead him away with her to be the bed-mate of the goddess who ruled the volcano. Paoa--he whose tempestuous nature had not long ago sworn vengeance against the author of Lohiau's taking-off--now spoke up and declared his purpose to go with his master on this his new and strange adventure. Lohiau restrained him. "I go with these two women. If I die--so be it--'twere a glorious end,--with these two who rescued me from the grave and brought me back to the delights of your society. If I live and make my abode on Hawaii, it will be for you to come and share the blessings of my new home." Then, addressing himself specially to Paoa, "You will remain here, as my deputy, ruling over the land. If my adventure fares well, I will come and fetch you--if ... ill, your coming would not advantage.... You shall stay here." CHAPTER XXIX HIIAKA'S ADDRESS TO CAPE KAENA The mountains were still in shadow, but the star of morning was on high and rosy fingers in the east heralded the approach of day, taming the flare of the torches and making them almost a superfluity as the canoe--with Hiiaka occupying the pola, Lohiau in the stern holding the steersman's paddle and Wahine-oma'o ensconced in the bow--curvetted to the waves and shot out into the blue sea. One paddle-stroke and the craft had cleared the land, another and it had traversed the heaving channel of Ië-ië-waena, another and it was beached on the sands of Mokuleia. At this point Hiiaka parted from her two companions, directing them to call for her with the canoe at a designated place. Hiiaka's first care was to pay her respects to the aged one, her ancestor, Pohaku-o-Kaua'i; after that to her ancestral divinity Kaena, a name in modern times bestowed on the western cape of Oahu. She turned this point and passed into the sweltering lea where the sun poured its merciless heat and, as she climbed the slope of the Waianae mountain, looking back on the route just accomplished, according to her custom, she uttered her comments in song: Kunihi Kaena, holo i ka malie; Wela i ka La ke alo o ka pali; Auamo mai i ka La o Kilauea; Ikiiki i ka La na Ke-awa-ula, Ola i ka makani Kai-a-ulu Koholá-lele-- He makani ia no lalo. Haöa ka La i na Makua; Lili ka La i Ohiki-lolo; Ha'a-hula le'a ke La i ke kula, Ka Ha'a ana o ka La i Makáha; Oï ka niho o ka La i Ku-manomano; Ola Ka-maile i ka huna na niho; Mo'a wela ke kula o Walió; Ola Kua-iwa i ka malama po; Ola Waianae i ka makani Kai-a-ulu, [337] Ke hoá aku la i ka lau o ka niu. Uwé o Kane-pu-niu [338] i ka wela o ka La; Alaila ku'u ka luhi, ka malo'elo'e, Auau aku i ka wai i Lua-lua-lei. Aheahe Kona, [339] Aheahe Koolau-wahine, [340] Ahe no i ka lau o ka ilima. Wela, wela i ka La ka pili i ka umauma, I Pu'u-li'ili'i, i Kalawalawa, i Pahe-lona, A ka pi'i'na i Wai-ko-ne-né-ne; Hoomaha aku i Ka-moa-ula; A ka luna i Poha-kea Ku au, nana i kai o Hilo: Ke ho'omoe a'e la i ke kehau O a'u hale lehua i kai o Puna, O a'u hale lehua i kai o Ku-ki'i. TRANSLATION Kaena's profile fleets through the calm, With flanks ablaze in the sunlight-- A furnace-heat like Kilauea; Ke-awa-ula swelters in heat; Koholá-lele revives in the breeze, That breath from the sea, Kai-a-ulu. Fierce glows the sun of Makua; How it quivers at Ohiki-lele-- 'Tis the Sun-god's dance o'er the plain, A riot of dance at Makaha. The sun-tooth is sharp at Kumano; Life comes again to Maile ridge, When the Sun-god ensheaths his fang. The plain Walió is sunburned and scorched; Kua-iwa revives with the nightfall; Waianae is consoled by the breeze Kai-a-ulu and waves its coco fronds; Kane-pu-niu's fearful of sunstroke; [341] A truce, now, to toil and fatigue: We plunge in the Lua-lei water And feel the kind breeze of Kona, The cooling breath of the goddess, As it stirs the leaves of ilima. The radiant heat scorches the breast While I sidle and slip and climb Up one steep hill then another; Thus gain I at last Moa-ula, The summit of Poha-kea. There stand I and gaze oversea To Hilo, where lie my dewy-cool Forest preserves of lehua That reach to the sea in Puna-- My lehuas that enroof Kuki'i. According to another account,--less mythical--Hiiaka, on her departure from Haena, packed off Wahine-oma'o and Lohiau in the canoe, while she herself started on afoot. Before proceeding on her way she turned herself about and, as was her wont, made a farewell address to the precipitous cliffs of Ka-lalau and to the deity therein enshrined: O Ka-lalau, pali a'ala ho'i, e, Ke ako ia a'e la e ka wahine; A'ala ka pali i ka laua'e [342] e I Hono-pú, Wai-aloha. Aloha oe la, e-e! TRANSLATION Your verdant mountain walls, Lalau-- Where the nymphs pluck harvest of wreaths-- Fragrant with breath of lau-a'e, Fed by love's waters at Hono-pú; My farewell love goes forth to you. Hiiaka now left behind her the wild and precipitous region of Kalalau and, passing through Miloli'i, came into Mana, a region famous for its heat, its sand-hills, and its tantalizing mirage. Mana was also the haunt of a swarm of little beings, elfs, brownies and what not, to whom Hiiaka courteously offered her salutations: O Maná, aina a ke Akua, [343] e-e, Aina a ke Akua i ka li'u; O ka pa'a kolo hele i o, e-e! E ho'i mai ana ka oe [344] i o'u nei, e-e. TRANSLATION Maná, thou land of the godling host, Thou land of that wonder--mirage; Swarming with creatures that creep and crawl! . . . . . . But you're coming to take me hence! According to this version of the narrative, which is the preferable one, Hiiaka now took passage in the canoe and from Maná the reunited party sailed away for Oahu. By this happy reunion the otherwise dissevered narrative is brought into harmony and conflicting versions no longer pull away from each other like two ill-trained steers. The voyage was not without enlivening incident. When the canoe had reached a point where the surges began to roll in the direction of Oahu Hiiaka saw two monster sharks disporting themselves in the waves whom she recognized as relatives on the side of her paternal grand-father, their names being Kua and Kahole-a-Kane. This was her second encounter with these sea-monsters; the first was on her recent voyage to Kauai, an encounter which had threatened serious results, if not disaster, to Hiiaka's expedition. As the story goes, when Kua and Kahole had become aware that Hiiaka's going was for the purpose of bringing Lohiau to the bed of Pele, they were moved to great disapproval of her enterprise: "A mere man," said they. "The idea of mating him with Pele is atrocious: and he is a dead man at that." After taking counsel with the sea-goddess Moana-nui-ka-lehua, who had her boudoir in the deep waters of Iëië-waena, with her aid they raised a commotion in the sea and Hiiaka barely escaped being swamped by a mighty water-spout. For her part Hiiaka was quite ready to overlook this rough play of her old kinsfolk and to do the agreeable with them and she accordingly addressed them kindly: "How lucky for me is this meeting again with you out here in the ocean! It will enable me to relieve my hardships by a smack of real comfort." The two sea-monsters felt unable to respond to Hiiaka's advances in a like spirit with her's. Their consciences pleaded guilty. "Look here," said Kua to his fellow, "this is our grandchild." "Yes," his companion replied, "and she will put us to death. We'd better hide ourselves, you in your patch of surf, I in mine." "That sort of a ruse won't avail us in the least," objected Kua. "What then? Where shall we flee for safety?" "To the mountains back of Waianae, to be sure," asserted Kua. This suggestion meeting with the approval of his companion, they hastened to land and, having divested themselves of their shark-bodies and resumed human form, they made for the mountains and hid themselves in the palaá fern. Hiiaka was greatly disappointed that these two old people should have so utterly misconceived her attitude of mind toward them as to rob her of their interesting company. She expressed her observations in song: A makani Kai-a-ulu lalo o Waianae, E wehe aku ana i ka lau o ka niu. Ha'i ka nalu o Kua a ala i ka po; I hiki aku, i moe aku iuka ka luhi o ke kai: Moe no a huli ke alo [345] i ka paia. Hiki ka alele a kou ipo A koena lau ka ula, [346] e: He ula aloha, e!-- Makani pahele-hala [347] o Kamaile-húna, Ke wahi mai la e nahá lalo o Malamalama-iki. Ike'a Wai-lua [348]--ke kino o ka laau, [349] Pau pu no me ke kino o ka Lehua [350] wehe'a: Wehe'a iho nei loko o ka moe, Malamalama oko'a no olalo me he ahi lele la! He'e, e-e! TRANSLATION A cat'spaw ruffles the Waianae sea, Lifting the fronds of the coco-palm; The waves of Kua rise betime And haste to repose neath the cliff, To sleep secure with face to the wall. Then comes my herald of peace, with Its ear-tingling[346] message of love, Offering bounty and pardon as free As the wind that shakes the hala tree. Drawn is the bolt and open the door Of the secret chamber under the sea, Revealing the tricks of the merfolk twain, Their bodies dead as the corpse of King Log, And with them that of the Mermaid Queen; For a ray has pierced to their resting place, As a lightning flash illumines the deep. You're caught, my fellows, you're caught! Neither Kua nor Kahole-a-Kane were relieved of their guilty fears by Hiiaka's soft words. They continued their flight along the same path which was soon afterwards followed by Hiiaka in her climb to Poha-kea. The only penalty inflicted by Hiiaka, when at last she came up with them and found them penitent, cowering in the brush, was their retirement from the ocean: not a light stroke, however, being almost the equivalent of taking away a mariner's commission, thus separating him from his chosen element, his native air. CHAPTER XXX WHAT HIIAKA SAW FROM THE HEIGHT OF POHA-KEA To return now to Hiiaka, who, after a hot climb, is standing on the summit of Poha-kea; she is gazing with rapt and clear vision far away in the direction of her own home-land, her moku lehua, in Puna. Her eyes, under the inspiration of the moment, disregard the ocean foreground, on whose gently heaving bosom might be seen the canoe that holds Lohiau and Wahine-oma'o snailing along to its appointed rendezvous. Her mind is busy interpreting the unusual signs written in the heavens: a swelling mountainous mass of flame-shot clouds, boiling up from some hidden source. It spells ruin and desolation--her own forest-parks blasted and fire-smitten; but, saddest and most heart-rending of all is the thought that her own Hopoe, the beautiful, the accomplished, the generous, the darling of her heart--Hopoe has been swallowed up in the rack. Hopoe, whose accepted emblem and favorite poetical metamorphosis was a tall lehua tree in full blossom, is now a scarred rock teetotumed back and forth by the tides and waves of the ocean. This thought, however much she would put it aside, remained to fester in her heart. (We omit at this point a considerable number of mele which are ascribed to Hiiaka and declared to have been sung by her while occupying this mountain perch at Poha-kea. Application to them of the rule that requires conformity to a reasonable standard of relevancy to the main purpose of the narrative results in their exclusion.) The song next given--by some dubbed a pule, because of its serious purpose, no doubt--seems to be entitled to admission to the narrative: Aluna au a Poha-kea, Ku au, nana ia Puna: Po Puna i ka ua awaawa; Pohina Puna i ka ua noenoe; Hele ke a i kai o ka La-hiku o a'u lehua, O a'u lehua i aina [351] ka manu; I lahui [352] ai a kapu. Aia la, ke huki'a [353] la i kai o Nana-huki-- Hula le'a wale i kai o Nana-huki, e! TRANSLATION On the heights of Poha-kea I stand and look forth on Puna: Puna, pelted with bitter rain, Veiled with a downpour black as night! Gone, gone are my forests, lehuas Whose bloom once gave the birds nectar! Yet they were insured with a promise! Look, how the fire-fiends flit to and fro! A merry dance for them to the sea, Down to the sea at Nana-huki! Hiiaka now pays attention to the doings of the people on the canoe in the offing. It is necessary to explain that, on landing at Mokuleia, she had ordered her two companions to continue their voyage and meet her on the other side of Cape Kaena whose pointed beak lay close at hand. Lohiau, nothing loath--a pretty woman was company enough for him--turned the prow of the canoe seaward and resumed his paddle. After passing the cape, the ocean calmed, making the work of steering much less arduous. Now it was that Lohiau, feeling the warm blood of young manhood swell the cockles of his heart and finding opportunity at hand, made ardent love to his attractive voyage-companion. He pressed nose and lip against her's and used every argument to bring her to accept his point of view. Wahine-oma'o had a mind of her own and though not at all averse to love and its doings and though very much drawn to this lover in particular, she decidedly objected to compromising her relations with Hiiaka, but above all, with the dread mistress of the Volcano, with whom she must ere long make reckoning. Like Pele, Wahine-oma'o permitted the kisses of Lohiau for a time, but, knowing that passion grows by what it feeds on, she presently cut short his rations and told him to behave himself, enforcing her denial with the unanswerable argument that she was well persuaded that they would be seen by Hiiaka. It was even so. It was worse. Hiiaka did not content herself with throwing temptation before Lohiau, as one might place raw meat before a hungry dog; by some witchery of psychologic power she stirred him up to do and dare, yet at the same time she impelled Wahine-oma'o to accept, but only a certain degree, for she carefully set bounds to their conduct. And this, be it understood, is but the opening act of a campaign in which Hiiaka resolves to avenge herself on Pele. When at length Hiiaka centered her attention on the actions of the people in the canoe, it needed but a glance to tell her that the contagium planted in the soil of Lohiau's mind had worked to a charm. Her own description--though in figures that seem high-wrought and foreign to our imaginations--had better tell the tale: Aluna au o Poha-kea, Wehe ka ilio [354] i kona kapa; Hanai alualu [355] i ke kula o Miki-kala, [356] I ke kula o Puha-maló[356] Hakaká, kipikipi o Kai-a-ulu [357] me ke kanáka; Ua ku'i-ku'i wale a ha'ina [358] na ihu; Ua ka i ka u me ka waimaka, I ke kula o Lualua-lei, [359] e! Ku'u lei aloha no olua no, e! TRANSLATION I stand ahigh on Poha-kea; The dog of storm strips off his robe; A zephyr fans yon heated plain of Miki-kala and Puha-maló:-- Wild strife 'tween the man and the Sea breeze: I see noses flattened, broken, Fountains become of water and tears! This my garland of love to you two! Hiiaka's voice had the precious quality of carrying her words and making them audible to a great distance, when she so willed. Her song, therefore, did not, on this occasion, waste itself in the wilderness of space. The caution it imposed had its effect. Lohiau and Wahine-oma'o calmed their passionate contentions and proceeded discreetly on their way. Having passed Kalae-loa, [360] their canoe swung into that inverted arc of Oahu's coastline, in the middle of which glisten, like two parted rows of white teeth, the coral bluffs that were the only guard at the mouth of Pearl Lochs. Before descending from her vantage ground on Pohakea, Hiiaka indulged her fancy in a song that was of a different strain. Looking towards Hilo, she describes the rivers, swollen by heavy rains, rushing impetuously along in bounding torrents, while men and women leap into the wild current and are lifted on its billows as by the ocean waves: A makani Kua-mú [361] lehua ko uka; Ke ho'o-wa'a-wa'a a'e la E uä i Hana-kahi, [362] e-e: Ke uä la, uä mai la Hilo A moku kahawai, piha akú la Na hale Lehua [363] a ke kai, e-e! TRANSLATION Kua-mú pays toll to the forests-- Cloud-columns that veer and sway, Freighted with rain for Hilo, The Hilo of Hana-kahi. The channels are full to the brim-- A tide that will flood ocean's caverns, The home of the mermaid Lehua. After a moment's pause she resumed, though in quite a different strain: Aia no ke 'kua la i uka; Ke hoá la i ka papa a enaena, A pulelo [364] mai ka ohi'a o ka lua; Maewa [365] ke po'o, pu'u, newa i ka makani, I ka hoonaue ia e ka awaawa, e-e! TRANSLATION The god is at work in the hills; She has fired the plain oven-hot; The forest-fringe of the pit is aflame;-- Fire-tongues, fire-globes, that sway in the wind-- The fierce bitter breath of the Goddess! As the canoe drew near to the appointed rendezvous at Pu'u-loa, Hiiaka lifted her voice in a chanting song addressed to Lohiau and Wahine-oma'o: Ku'u aikane i ke awa lau [366] o Pu'uloa, Mai ke kula o Pe'e-kaua, [367] ke noho oe, E noho kaua e kui, e lei i ka pua o ke kauno'a, [368] I ka pua o ke akuli-kuli, [369] o ka wili-wili; [370] O ka iho'na o Kau-pe'e i Kane-hili, [371] Ua hili [372] au; akahi no ka hili o ka la pomaika'i; Aohe mo-ewa'a [373] o ka po, e moe la nei. E Lohiau ipo, e Wahine-oma'o, Hoe 'a mai ka wa'a i a'e aku au. TRANSLATION We meet at Ewa's leaf-shaped lagoon, friends; Let us sit, if you will, on this lea And bedeck us with wreaths of Kauno'a, Of akuli-kuli and wili-wili. My soul went astray in this solitude; It lost the track for once, in spite of luck, As I came down the road to Kau-pe'a. No nightmare dream was that which tricked my soul. This way, dear friends; turn the canoe this way; Paddle hither and let me embark. Hiiaka again in command, the tiger in Lohiau's nature slunk away into its kennel, allowing his energies to spend themselves in useful work. Under his vigorous paddle the little craft once more moved like a thing of life and long before night found itself off the harbor of Kou, the name then applied to what we now call Honolulu. CHAPTER XXXI HIIAKA VISITS PELE-ULA AT KOU--THE HULA KILU At the entrance to this land-locked harbor of Kou a pretty sight met their eyes: a moving picture of men and women in the various attitudes of lying, kneeling or standing on boards, riding the waves that chased each other toward the sandy beach. The scene made such an appeal to Hiiaka's imagination that she opened her heart in song: Ke iho la ka makani Halihali pua o Nu'uanu, e-e; Aia i kai na lehua. Ke naná la o Hilo; Ke ka ia ho'i ka aukai, e-e; Na lehua i ka wai o Hilo, O Hilo ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION Down rushes the wind and sweeps along The blossoms of Nu'uanu: Afloat in the sea are the flowers-- A scene that takes one to Hilo, Whose tide lines them up as a lei; For bloom of lehua to drift Far at sea is a Hilo mark. When, after this battery of compliment, they came close up to the princess Pele-ula--who, as will be seen, was a power in the land--having exchanged still further compliments, Hiiaka invited her to come aboard. Pele-ula, very naturally, declined this kind offer, but with a fine show of hospitality in her turn begged that they would honor her by being her guests during their stay in the place, assuring them of hospitable entertainment and such pleasures as her court could offer. Under her piloting, accordingly, they made their way by paddle across the beautiful land-locked harbor of Kou and, entering the Nu'uanu stream--in those days much broader, sweeter and deeper than now--turned into its eastern branch and erelong found themselves at the landing from which a path led up to Pele-ula's residence. Imagine the fairy scene, if you will;--a canoe-load of smiling nereids piloted by a mermaid princess swimming on ahead, with a merry convoy of mermaiden and mermen following in the wake. A word in regard to this little land, now lying close to the heart of Honolulu itself, which still bears the same name as its old-time mistress, Pele-ula. To the kamaaina the sturdy samang tree, whose vigorous bole parts the traffic of Vineyard Street just before its junction with the highway of Nu'uanu has long been a familiar object. This fine tree has a history of its own and can claim the respectable age of not less than forty years. The land about it has borne the classic name of Pele-ula for a period of centuries that hark back to the antiquity of Hawaiian tradition. The sightseer of to-day who views the region from the macadamized roadway, some ten feet above the level of the surrounding land, must not judge of its former attractiveness and fitness as a place of residence by its present insalubrity--now shut in by embankments, overhung by dank and shadowy trees, its once-pure stream either diverted for economic purposes or cluttered and defiled with the debris of civilization. A study of the region, on the inner--mauka--border of which lies Pele-ula, will easily convince the observer that within a short geologic period the wash of silt and mud from higher levels has filled in and converted what must have been at one time a clear salt-water basin into the swampy flats that not long ago met the eye. Now, of course, this whole alluvial basin has been still further filled in and artificially overlaid with a more-or-less solid crust of earth and rock to meet the demands of Honolulu's ever expanding growth. To return to our narrative: to this hamlet of Pele-ula, such as it was in the days of Arcadian sweetness--if not of light--Hiiaka and her select company now enter as the honored guests of a woman distinguished alike for her beauty, her spiritual subtility and insight--she was a makaula--and for her devotion to pleasure. One of her chief diversions, naturally enough, was the hula, especially that form of the dance which was used in connection with that risqué entertainment, the kilu. [374] By evening, when the travelers had washed away the encrusting salt, warmed and dried their apparel at an outdoor fire, filled nature's vacuum at the generous table of their hostess, while they were sitting in the short gloaming of the tropics, enjoying the delicious content that waits on rest after toil, Pele-ula interrupted the silence: "The people will have assembled in the hall by this time. Shall we move in that direction?" Her glance was first at Hiiaka as the leader of the party; her gaze rested on Lohiau. "Let the resident guests be the first. When they are settled in their places it will be time enough for us to come in," was the reply of Hiiaka. "As you please," nodded Pele-ula. Wahine-oma'o rose to her feet as Pele-ula was departing. At this move Hiiaka said, "When you reach the hall go and take a seat by your man friend." She meant Lohiau. Thereupon she gave vent to this enigmatical utterance: Po Puna [375] i ka uwahi ku'i maka lehua [376]; Na wahine kihei-hei [377] paü heihei [378] o uka E noho ana ka papa lohi o Mau-kele, [379] Ha'a [380] ho'i ka papa e; ha'a ho'i ka papa, Ke kahuli [381] nei, e-e! TRANSLATION Puna's day is turned into night; Smoke blasts the buds of lehua; The nymphs, in fringed woodland paü, Sit the glare lava-plates of Mau-kele: Unstable, the lava-plates rock, They tilt and upset. She turns to Lohiau and says, "You had better be going to the hall. When you go in take a seat by your friend." This advice is puzzling: the friend must have been Wahine-oma'o and it was customary for men and women to sit apart. Then she resumed her song: Mai Puna [382] au, e-e, mai Puna: Ke ha'a la ka lau o ka lima, [383] e-e; O ke oho o ka niu e loha [384] ana i kai, e-e! TRANSLATION I come from the land of Puna-- A partner I in a triple love. Ah, look! his fingers are passion-clutched! Like fronds of the palm, they shall wilt. As she sauntered on her way to the dance-hall she concluded her song: Mai Puna au, e, mai Puna au, Mai uka au o Wahine-kapu; [385] Mai O'olu-eä, [386] i ke ahi [387] a Laka, la. Mai Puna au, e-e! TRANSLATION Bethink you, I come from Puna-- In the power of a triple love. Girt with the might of Wahine-kapu: Beware the baleful fires of Laka: Remember, I come from Puna. The inner meaning and intent of this highly wrought figurative and allegorical language, which Hiiaka, according to her custom, utters at detached intervals in the form of song, does not lie on the surface, and is furthermore obscured by an untranslatable punning use of the word Puna. To explain the motive of this song, Hiiaka perceives that Pele-ula and Lohiau, who had once upon a time been lovers, are mutually drawn to each other by a rekindling of the old flame. In the case of Pele-ula the motive of ambition to match her own spiritual power as a makaula--seer--with that of the young woman who comes to her as the plenipotential ambassador of Pele is even stronger than the physical passion. In the kilu now to be performed she sees her opportunity. She will use it for all it is worth, not only that she may taste once more the delights offered by this coxcomb, but that she may pluck from the hand of this audacious creature of Pele's endowment a wreath for her own wearing. As to Lohiau, that plastic thing, his character, is as clay in the hands of the potter, under Pele-ula's manipulation. He is all for pleasure. Honor, constancy, ordinary prudence, are not in his purview. Hiiaka's immediate presence suffices to restrain and guide him; in her absence, his passion, a rudderless bark, is the sport of every wind that blows. Hiiaka, on arriving at the halau, sat by herself. Lohiau, as she observed, was sitting with Wahine-oma'o and Waikiki. Pele-ula, who was sitting alone on her side of the hall, now showed her hand by sending one of her men, named A'ala, to invite Lohiau to come over and sit with her. At this Hiiaka spoke up: "I will sit by you." "So be it, then," answered Pele-ula. At the same time she muttered to herself, "But she wasn't invited." A'ala, who caught the aside of his mistress, also put in, "It's Lohiau whom she invites." At this Hiiaka bravely laid down the rule, which was the accepted one, that the men and the women should sit on opposite sides of the halau; averring that any other disposition would be sure to breed trouble. Pele-ula could not but agree to this and accordingly, Wahine-oma'o and Waikiki, leaving their seats by Lohiau, came over and sat with Hiiaka and Pele-ula. When the presiding officer of the game--the la anoano [388]--had called the assembly to order with the well known cry "pu-heo-heo" and it came to the placing of the pahu kilu--short pyramidal blocks of wood--before each one of the players, who sat in two rows facing each other and separated by a considerable interval, Hiiaka objected to the way in which they were placed. A sharp discussion then arose between Pele-ula and Hiiaka, but the younger woman carried the day and won her point. Lohiau had a great and well-deserved reputation as a skilful champion in the game of kilu. When, therefore, it came his turn to hurl the kilu [389] and send it spinning across the mat with an aim that would make it strike the pahu, which was its target, everybody looked for great things and it was openly predicted that he would win every point. Lohiau preluded his play with a song: Ke hele la ka au-hula ana [390] o Ka-lalau; Ke po'i la ke kai o Milo-li'i; Ka laau [391] ku'i o Makua-iki: Lawe i ka haka la, lilo! Makua, keiki i ka poli e, i ka poli. I ka poli no ka hoa a hele; Kalakala i ke kua ka opeope aloha. Auwe ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION I venture the cliffs of Ka-lalau; The wild waves dash at the base-- The breakers of Milo-li'i-- Scaling the ladder that climbs Makua. The ladder, alas, the ladder is gone! The child in my heart has grown a man. My heart found room for this travel-mate; But now!--I strip from my back That emblem--that burden--of love! Alas for emblem and love! The "child in the heart that has grown to be a man" is Lohiau's old love for Pele-ula, which now wakes up into new life at the sight of his old flame. The old love has, however, in a sense become a burden. It stands in the way of the new-born affection that has sprung up in his heart for Hiiaka. It was after the chanting of this mele that Lohiau threw his kilu. But, to the consternation of the audience and his own bewilderment, his play was a miss. His aim had been true, his hand steady, the whirling kilu had gone straight on its way as if sure of the mark, then, to the utter amazement of all experts, like the needle of the compass influenced by some hidden magnet, it had swerved and gone wild. Hiiaka, from the other side of the hall, now took her turn at the kilu, with a prelude of song: A makani pua ia lalo, [392] Moe ko'a ka huhu, aia iloko ho'i, e-e. Ho'i a ka lili a ka pua o ka wao, Noho ilaila ka hihi, ka pa'a A ka manawa [393] ho'i e-e. TRANSLATION A gust of wind from the west Lays bare the jagged reef: Pride makes its lair in the wilds, Mid tangle of vine and tree: So anger abides in the brain. In this song Hiiaka exposes the unworthy plot that was simmering in Lohiau's mind, whom she typifies by a gust of wind blowing from the west, the general direction of Kauai. At the first throw the kilu hit the wooden block and then, as if not content with its accomplishment, after caroming off, returned like a bee to its blossom, and this action it repeated until it had scored not one but three points. There was the thrill of triumph in Hiiaka's tone as she sang again: O ku'u manawa na'e ka i hei i ka moe; Ooë na'e ka'u e lawe la; lilo, Lilo oe la e, auwe! TRANSLATION Aha, my will has snared the bird, And you are my captive, yes you: Your purpose is foiled, ah, foiled! With another prelude of song, Lohiau offered himself for another trial, kilu in hand: A makani pahele--hala kou Maile-húna; Ke wáhi mai la Malama-iki; Nohá Wai-lua, [394] pau ka pua. Pau no me ke kino o Kalehua-wehe, [395] e-e. TRANSLATION The volant breath of the maile Has the strength of the fruiter's crook; It opens a trail in the jungle. Wai-lua breaks bar; the small fry are out, The complots, too, of Lehua-wehe. This attempt was a failure like those that had gone before. Lohiau, thereupon, sought relief for his artistic disappointment in song: Wehe'a iho nei loko o ka moe; Malamalama no me he ahi lele la, No lalo, e; auwé ho'i au, e! TRANSLATION Failed, failed in my choicest ambition!-- Heralded, like a shooting star!-- Fallen, fallen, alas and alas! The game has by this time resolved itself into a contest of wits as well as of skill, and the two chief antagonists are--strange to relate--Lohiau, the man who was called back from the grave and the woman to whom he owes his life, Hiiaka. As a prelude to her next play Hiiaka gave this song: I uka kaua i Moe-awakea, [396] I ka nahele o Ka-li'u, la. Auwé ho'i, e-e! TRANSLATION You shall bed with me in open day In the twilight groves of Ka-li'u-- Woe is me! I've uttered it now! Hiiaka's play this time as before was a marvellous show of skill. The kilu seemed possessed with an instinct of attraction for the block that stood as her target. Like a bee that has found a rich honey-flower it returned again and yet again, as if to drain the last particle of sweetness. Before venturing on his last play, Lohiau discarded the kilu he had been using and chose another, thinking thus to change his luck. He also changed the style of his song, adopting the more sensuous form called ami honua, [397] or ku'u pau: Ke lei mai la Ka-ula i ke kai, e; Ka malamalama o Niihau i ka malie. A malama ke kaao o kou aloha-- Kou aloha ho'i, e-e! In the first line of this little song, Lohiau, skilfully playing on the name Pele-ula, which he turns into Ka-ula, under the figure of the ocean tossing about that little island, banters the woman for her display of passion. In the second line, using a similar word-play, by which he turns his own name into Niihau, he contrasts the calm of the latter island with the agitation of the former. TRANSLATION Ka-ula's enwreathed by the ocean; Niihau looms clear in the calm: And clear is the tide of your love, The marvelous tide of your love! Pele-ula, in her surprise at the untimeliness of Lohiau's performance, as well as in her deep concern at his continued failure, expostulated with him: "You have but one more play; why then do you anticipate by indulging in the ami? Perhaps if you were to address your song to my father, Ka-manu-wai, who is a skilled performer--who knows but what you might hit the target for once?" "Is it likely," Lohiau replied, "is it likely that I shall hit this time, having missed so many shots before?" Thereupon the man completed his song: O Puna, nahele ulu hala o Kalukalu, [398] Wawalu ili a mohole [399] na'ena'e. Pehi ala laua'e[398] o Na-pali, [400] Ho'olu'e iho la i ke kai; Kina'i aku la ka eha, e. TRANSLATION In Puna's famed thickets of hala One's body is torn--a network of marks. Climbing the walls of Na-pali, the scent Of lau-a'e pelts the sense; then fall The petals sweet, to drown their pain In the ocean that rages below. The kilu spins on its way--it must hit--no, fate is too strong for it and turns it from the mark. Lohiau's song is an admission of painful discomfiture: O ka eha a ke aloha ke lalawe nei, Eia la iloko, i ku'u manawa. Ka eha e! auwe ho'i e! TRANSLATION The smart of love o'erwhelms me; It rages in heart and mind-- This hurt, ah, this hurt! That Lohiau of all men standing on Hawaiian soil should fail utterly in a game of kilu was incredible--the man whose art availed to hit a grass-top teetering in the breeze, to crush the nimble ant speeding on his way, to swat the buzzing fly flitting through the air! The audience was dumbfounded. In the failure to find excuse sufficient for the occasion, it took refuge in silence. It only remains for Hiiaka to pluck the fruit which her skill has put within reach of her hand. Her complete victory has become a foregone conclusion. Of that there can be no question. It is, however, a question of great interest to the spectator how she will use her victory, in what terms she will celebrate her triumph over the woman and the recreant man who have combined their wits against hers. The answer to this question is to be found in the song with which she preludes her last play: Mehameha, kanaka-ole, ka ho'i O Pu'u o Moe-awa, [401] e-e! Ko ke auhe'e i ka aina kanaka-ole! TRANSLATION Aye, lonely, man-empty, indeed; Cold the couch and bitter the dreams From which has been exiled the man! This ironical thrust is pointed at Pele-ula, who is to see her fond hopes of a renewed liaison with her old paramour blasted by this plucking of the fruit under her very eyes. And yet again, when Hiiaka has made the final shot that fulfills the promise of victory to her, still relentlessly wielding the sharp blade of irony, she gives it an extra twist in the wound that must have made Pele-ula wince: A kulou anei, e uwé ana-- E uwé no anei, he keiki makua-ole? Aohe makua; uwé ho'i e! TRANSLATION Will the orphan now hang his head And weep like a motherless child? His mother is dead; let him weep! This two-edged blade cuts both lovers at one stroke--the youth in its ironical allusion to tears, the woman in the sly suggestion of motherhood, she being in fact old enough to hold that relation to the young man. The forfeit paid by Lohiau after his defeat was a dance, which he did with inimitable grace and aplomb to the accompaniment of a spirited song, his costume being the customary paü of the hula: Ku'u hoa i ka ili hau o Maná, I kula'i 'na e ka wai o Hina; Hina ke oho o ka hala, Ka oka'i pua o ka hinalo i ka wai, e. Eia oe; he waiwai nui kau, Ka ke aloha, ina i ona Ka mana'o mai e: eia oe e. TRANSLATION Yoke-fellow in toil at Maná, I'm swept off my feet in this flood: The leaves of the twisted hala, The sheath of its perfumy bloom-- All torn by the rage of the stream: You alone remain to me now-- Your love, if that is yet mine, If your heart remains with me still. Warming to his work, Lohiau continued: Ku'u hoa i ke kawelu oho o Malai-lua, I ho'o-holu ia, ho'opi'o ia e ka makani, Naue ke oho o ka hala, Maewa i ke kai o Po'o-ku e, eia oe; He ku oe na'u, e ke aloha: Ina oe mawaho e, eia oe. TRANSLATION Mate mine through grassy meads, awave, Wind-swept and tossed by breeze or storm, Or when the leaves of screwy palm Are smitten with brine from the sea, Thou idol enshrined in my heart, Though apart, thou art empress within. Still protesting his love for Hiiaka and deploring his separation from her, Lohiau continues: A ka lihi au i ka hala o Hanalei; [402] Lei au i ka hala [403] o Po'oku e, eia oe. He ku oe na'u, e ke aloha; Ina oe maloko e, eia oe. TRANSLATION I neighbor the land of the wreath, My luck, to pine for a palm-crown. Oh, wouldst thou but twine the wreath, love, Admit to the shrine of thy heart. Lohiau, warming to his work, strutted and capered about like a capercailzie cock before his mistresses, lashing his passion--after the manner of a flagellant--with words of wild hyperbole; but ever approaching nearer and nearer to where sat the two women about whom revolved his thoughts. As to which one of them it was that he singled out as the center of his orbit for the time, that is to be deduced from a study of his song: Aloha wale ka nikiniki, Ke kanaenae pua o Maile-huna; E a'e ia ana ia Kapa'a, I ke kahuli a ke kalukalu: Honi u i ke ala o ka hinalo, e: Pe wale ia uä--uä, e! E lei au-- Lei ho'i au i ke kanáka, i ka mea aloha, I ka mea i ho'opulapula hou O ka moe, e: eia au. TRANSLATION How precious the fillet that binds Love's token of bloom with maile; Climbing the wilds above Ka-pa'a, To watch the surge of waving grass, Make deep inspire of hala bloom Beat down by pelting rain,--pour on! I'd wreath my life with human love, Plant once again the tender flower That blooms in the kingdom of dreams. That is my dream, and here am I. The audience, moved by Lohiau's ardor, went into riotous applause. Hiiaka could not but admire the pathetic artistry of Lohiau, yet she remained the mistress of her emotions. Pele-ula, in contrast, became visibly more excited at Lohiau's close approach. Turning to the younger woman, she said, "do you respond to this man's appeals?" "What is it you mean?" quietly asked Hiiaka. "Can it be that you are not stirred by his protestations? Put your hand on my bosom," said Pele-ula, "and feel the throbbing of my heart." Hiiaka convinced herself of the truth of the assertion and, in turn, said, "Do you also lay your hand here and judge of my temper." "You are as cool as a ti leaf," exclaimed Pele-ula, "while I am as hot as a bundle of luau." This interchange of attentions between the two women did not escape Lohiau. It inflamed him to another passage of song: Moe e no Wai-alua ke Koolau, Ka hikina mai a Ka-lawa-kua; Lele aoa i ka Mikioi; Uwé aloha i ka Pu'u-kolu. Aloha Wai-olohia ke Kohóla-lele, e He lele pa-iki kau, kau ka manao-- Ka ke aloha kamali'i-- He lalau, e; eia oe! TRANSLATION Two rivers that chafe their banks-- A mad rush to enter the sea-- By the tempest whipped into foam; They roar and bark like hounds: Two souls that pine with love,-- A yearning for passion's plunge-- Their touch child's play, as they kiss:-- Ah, mine the master's lunge! From his very nature Lohiau was not qualified to reckon with the supernatural side of Hiiaka. His appeals had been on the plain of human passion--such appeals as would have subdued and won the heart of an ordinary woman. Still acting under these limitations, Lohiau aimed and shot the arrow that emptied his quiver of song: O Haupu, mauna kilohana, I ko'e ia e Hula-ia a oki: Oki laula ka uka o Puna, Lulumi i ka pua hau o Malu-aka. Ho'i kao'o i ka wai olohia; Kinakina'i e eha ka pua o ka hala, la. Hala ke aloha, hoomanao iaia i akea, I ka'awale ho'i kau oni'na-- Oni'na mau ho'i, e: eia oe. TRANSLATION Thou mount of enchantment. Haupu, By the dancers greatly beset.-- The whole face of Puna o'errun, Where clusters the bloom of the hau-- I, back-lame and sore in defeat, Shall master the smart of my wrong. The love-bird has flown into space. Away from this wriggle and squirm. You may twist, you may turn, you are here! Lohiau had broken with Pele-ula; his last hope and appeal was to Hiiaka. He stood before her waiting her fateful decision. Will she consent to turn the canoe-prow and fly back to Kaua'i with him? He had won the woman's heart in her, but not the deity that controlled her nature. The chain that bound her to the Woman of the Pit was too strong to be broken by any mere human appeal. Lohiau had failed in his play with the kilu; he now saw that he had also failed in his attempt to play with this human heart. The game was up; he sat down. When Lohiau had retired in defeat, it became the turn of Wahine-oma'o to entertain the company--Wahine-oma'o, faithful, rustic soul, that she was, whose only acquaintance with this fine art was what she had picked up from seeing the performances of her mistress and master. Her wits did not desert her and were equal to the occasion: best of all, she had the wit to recognize her own limitations. Instead of pitching her song to some far-fetched hyperbole, she travestied the whole performance in a wholesome bit of nonsense that drifts down to us across the centuries as a most delicious take-off: O ku, o ka o Wahine-oma'o. Wahine ia Lohiau-ipo! TRANSLATION The flim and the flam Of the Woman-in-green, Handmaid to the man Who loveth the Queen. If Wahine-oma'o had, of set purpose, planned an ironical take off of the hula kilu, or rather of Lohiau's manner of acting, she could hardly have bettered her performance. Her dancing was a grotesque ambling and mincing from one side of the theater to the other. The unaffected good humor of the girl robbed the arrow of her wit of all venom while detracting not one whit from its effectiveness. Towards morning the audience made clamorous demands that Hiiaka, the woman whom their suffrage had declared to be the most beautiful that had ever stood before them, should present herself before them once again. Hiiaka willingly responded to this encore: Ku'u kane i ka makani hau alia O Maka-huna i Hua-wá, e: Wa iho la; ke wa wale mai la no Kaua hilahila moe awa-kea Iluna o ka laau. Ho'olaau mai ana ke ki'i, Kaunu mai ana ia'u ka moe-- E moe ho'i, e! TRANSLATION Hot breath from the sea-sand waste-- Love hid from day in a thicket of hau-- For shame, my man, such clamor and haste! The eye of day is open just now. Make love, aperch, a bird in a tree! You clamor for bed in the open: To bed with yourself!--to bed! CHAPTER XXXII HIIAKA EXTRICATES HER CHARGE FROM THE DANGEROUS FASCINATIONS OF THE KILU [404] Hiiaka, having--by her marvellous skill--extricated her charge from the toils of the enchantress, turned a deaf ear to Pele-ula's urgent persuasions to abide yet longer and taste more deeply the sweets of her hospitality. Her determination arrived at, she wasted no time in leave-taking but made all haste to put a safe distance between the poor moth and the flame that was the focus of his enchantment. Their route lay eastward across the dusty, wind-swept, plain of Kula-o-kahu'a--destined in the coming years to be the field of many a daring feat of arms;--then through the wild region of Ka-imu-ki, thickset with bowlders--a region at one time chosen by the dwarf Menehune as a sort of stronghold where they could safely plant their famous ti ovens and be unmolested by the nocturnal depredations of the swinish Kama-pua'a. Hiiaka saw nothing or took no notice of these little rock-dwellers. Her gaze was fixed upon the ocean beyond, whose waves and tides they must stem before they reached and passed Moloka'i and Maui, shadowy forms that loomed in the horizon between her and her goal. Hiiaka, standing on the flank of Leahi and exercising a power of vision more wonderful than that granted by the telescope, had sight of a wild commotion on her beloved Hawaii. In the cloud-films that embroidered the horizon she saw fresh proof of her sister's unmindfulness of the most solemn pledges. It was not her fashion to smother her emotions with silence: Ke ahi maka-pa [405] i ka la, e; O-wela kai ho'i o Puna; Malamalama kai o Kuki'i la. Ku ki'i a ka po i Ha'eha'e, Ka ulu ohi'a i Nana-wale. A nana aku nei, he mea aha ia? A nana aku nei, he mea lilo ia. TRANSLATION The fire-split rocks bombard the sun; The fires roll on to the Puna sea; There's brightness like day at Kuki'i; Ghosts of night at the eastern gate, And gaunt the forms that jag the sky-- The skeleton woods that loom on high. The meaning of this wild vision? The meaning is desolation. At Kuliouou, which they reached after passing through Wai-alae, Wai-lupe and Niu, they came upon some women who were catching small fish and crabs in the pools and shallow water along the shore and, to satisfy their hunger or, perhaps, to test their disposition, Hiiaka begged the women to grant her a portion of their catch to satisfy their need. The answer was a surly refusal, coupled with the remark that Hiiaka would better do her own fishing. As the sister and representative of the proud god Pele, Hiiaka could not permit the insult to go unpunished. Her reply was the utterance of this fateful incantation: He makani holo uhá [406] Ko Ka-ele-kei a Pau-kua. [407] Pau wale ke aho i ka noi ana, O ka loa ho'i, e! TRANSLATION Here's a blast shall posset the blood, As the chant of kahuna the back. Our patience exhausts with delay; We're famished from the length of the way. The magic words operated quickly. As Hiiaka turned to depart, the unfortunate fishing women fainted and died. After this outburst of retribution, Hiiaka turned aside to address in words of consolation and compliment two forlorn mythical creatures whom she recognized as kindred. They were creations of Pele, Ihihi-lau-akea, manifest to us to-day as a lifeless cinder-cone, and Nono-ula, as a clear spring of water welling out of the mountain. It was a nice point in Hiiaka's character that she was always ready, with punctilious etiquette, to show courtesy to whom courtesy was due. Fortunately for Hiiaka, her lofty perch afforded a wide-embracing view that included the shadowy forms of Maui and the lesser islands that nested with it. Not the smallest pirogue could steal away from the strip of rocky beach at her feet without her observation. At this moment she caught sight of two sailor-men in the act of launching a trim canoe into the troubled waters of the Hanauma cove, and she made haste, accordingly, to come to them, on the chance of securing a passage, if so be that they were voyaging in the desired direction. Their destination proving to be Moloka'i, Hiiaka begged the men to receive herself and party as passengers. Nothing loath, they gave their consent. "But," said one of them, "your party by itself is quite large enough to fill the canoe." His companion, with better show of cheer in his speech, spoke up and said, "It's but common luck to be swamped in this rough channel. To avoid it needs only skill. Even if the craft swamps, these people need not drown; we can swim for it, and we shall all fare alike. We'll take you with us. Come aboard." Aboard they went. The voyage to Moloka'i proved uneventful. They landed at Iloli, a barren place that offered no provision to stay their hunger. When Hiiaka, therefore, learned that these same canoe-men were bound for the neighboring island of Maui, she wisely concluded to continue the voyage with them. On landing in Kohala, Hiiaka took the road that led up through the thickly wooded wilderness of Mahiki, the region that had been the scene, now some months gone, of the most strenuous chapter in her warfare to rid Hawaii of the mo'o--that pestilent brood of winged and crawling monsters great and small that once infested her wilds and that have continued almost to the present day to infest the imagination of the Hawaiian people. On coming to the eminence called Pu'u O'ioina,--a name signifying a resting place--being now in the heart of the damp forest of Moe-awa, they found the trail so deep with mire that the two women drew up their paü and tucked them about their waists. At sight of this action, Lohiau indulged himself in some frivolous jesting remarks which called out a sharp rebuke from Hiiaka. As they cleared the deep woods, there burst upon them a view of the Hamakua coast-wall here and there dotted with clumps of puhala and fern, at intervals hung with the white ribbons of waterfalls hastening to join the great ocean. As Hiiaka gazed upon the scene, she uttered her thoughts in song: (In literature, as in other matters, the missing sheep always makes a strong appeal to the imagination. Urged by this motive, I have searched high and low for this mele, the utterance of Hiiaka under unique conditions; but all my efforts have been unavailing.) When they had passed through the lands of Kukia-lau-ania and Maka-hana-loa and were overlooking the town of Hilo, Hiiaka was better able to judge of the havoc which the fires of Pele had wrought in her Puna domains. The land was desolated, but, worst of all, the life of her dearest friend Hopoe had been sacrificed on the altar of jealousy. In her indignation, Hiiaka swore vengeance on her sister Pele. "I have scrupulously observed the compact solemnly entered into between us, and this is the way she repays me for all my labor! Our agreement is off: I am free to treat him--as my lover, if I so please. But it shall not be here and now. I will wait till the right occasion offers, till her own eyes shall witness her discomfiture." After this outburst, her thoughts fashioned themselves in song: Aia la, lele-iwi [408] o Maka-hana-loa! [409] Oni ana ka lae Ohi'a, [410] Ka lae apane, [411] mauka o ka lae Manienie, [412] I uka o Ke-ahi-a-Laka: [413] Oni ana ka lae, a me he kanaka la Ka leo o ka pohaku i Kilauea. Ha'i Kilauea, pau kekahi aoao o ka mahu nui, Mahu-nui-akea. E li'u mai ana ke ahi a ka pohaku. No Puna au, no ka hikina a ka la i Ha'eha'e. [414] TRANSLATION See the cape that's a funeral pyre; The tongue of ohi'a's grief-smitten. Beyond, at peace, lies Manië; Above rage the fires of Laka. The cape is passion-moved; how human The groan of rocks in the fire-pit! That cauldron of vapor and smoke-- One side-wall has broken away-- That covers the earth and the sky: Out pours a deluge of rock a-flame. My home-land is Puna, sworn guard At the eastern gate of the Sun. Hiiaka now entered the woodlands of Pana-ewa, a region greatly celebrated in song, which must have brought home to her mind vivid memories of that first sharp encounter with her dragon foe. From there on the way led through Ola'a; and when they reached Ka-ho'o-kú Hiiaka bade the women, Wahine-oma'o and Paü-o-pala'e, go on ahead. (A mystery hangs about this woman Paü-o-pala'e which I have not been able to clear up. She withdrew from the expedition, for reasons of her own, before Hiiaka took canoe for Maui; yet here we find her, without explanation, resuming her old place as attendant on the young woman who had been committed to her charge. The effort, which has been made, to associate her in some mystical fashion with the paü, short skirt, worn by Hiiaka, only deepens the mystery, so far as my understanding of the affair is concerned.) Obedient to the instructions of their mistress, the faithful women, Wahine-oma'o and Pau-o-pala'e, presented themselves before Pele at the crater of Kilauea. "Where is my sister? where is Hiiaka?" demanded the jealous goddess. No explanation would suffice. Pele persisted in regarding them as deserters and, at her command, they were put to death. CHAPTER XXXIII HIIAKA ALONE WITH LOHIAU It has come at last, the situation to which the logic of events has for many days pointed the finger of a relentless fate. For the first time Hiiaka finds herself alone with Lohiau. The history of her life during the past two months seems but a prologue to the drama, the opening scene of which is about to be enacted in the dressing room, as we must call it. For Hiiaka, having gathered a lapful of that passion-bloom, the scarlet lehua, and having plaited three wreaths, with a smile on her face, hangs two of the wreaths about the neck of Lohiau, using the third for her own adornment. They are sitting on the sacred terrace of Ka-hoa-lii, at the very brink of the caldera, in full view of the whole court, including the sisters of Hiiaka who gather with Pele in the Pit. "Draw nearer," she says to Lohiau, "that I may tie the knot and make the fillet fast about your neck." And while her fingers work with pliant art, her lips quiver with emotion in song: O Hiiaka ka wahine, Ke apo la i ka pua; Ke kui la, ke uö la i ka manai. Ehá ka lei, ka apana lehua lei A ka wahine la, ku'u wahine, Ku'u wahine o ka ehu makani o lalo. Lulumi aku la ka i kai o Hilo-one: No Hilo ke aloha--aloha wale ka lei, e! TRANSLATION 'Twas maid Hiiaka plucked the bloom; This wreath her very hands did weave; Her needle 'twas that pierced each flower; Her's the fillet that bound them in one. Four strands of lehua make the lei-- The wreath bound on by this maid-- Maid who once basked in the calm down there: Her heart harks back to Hilo-one; Wreath and heart are for Hilo-one. The wreath is placed, the song is sung, yet Hiiaka's arm still clasps Lohiau's neck. Her lithesome form inclines to him. With a sudden motion, Hiiaka throws her arms about Lohiau and draws him to herself. Face to face, lip touches lip, nose presses nose. The women of Pele's court, chokefull of curiosity and spilling over with suspicion, watchful as a cat of every move, on the instant raise their voices in one Mother-Grundy chorus: "Oh, look! Hiiaka kisses Lohiau! She kisses your lover, Lohiau!" The excitement rises to fever heat. Pele is the coolest of the lot. At the first outcry--"they kiss"--Pele remarks with seeming indifference, "The nose was made for kissing." [415] (The Hawaiian kiss was a flattening of nose against nose). But when Hiiaka and Lohiau sink to the earth wrapped in each other's arms, and the women of Pele's court raise the cry, "For shame! they kiss; they embrace!" At this announcement, the face of Pele hardens and her voice rings out with the command: "Ply him with fire." From Pele's viewpoint, the man, her lover, Lohiau was the sinner. The role played by the woman, her sister, Hiiaka--the one who had, in fact, deliberately planned this offensive exhibition of insubordination and rebellion--was either not recognized by Pele or passed by as a matter of temporary indifference. Hiiaka's justification in motives of revenge found no place in her reasoning. When the servants of Pele--among them the sisters of Hiiaka--found themselves under the cruel necessity of executing the edict, they put on their robes of fire and went forth, but reluctantly. In their hearts they rebelled, and, one and all, they agreed that, if, at close view, they found him to be the supremely handsome mortal that fame had reported him to be, they would use every effort to spare him. On coming to the place, their admiration passed all bounds. They could not believe their eyes. They had never seen a manly form of such beauty and grace. With one voice they exclaimed: Mahina ke alo, Pali ke kua. Ke ku a ke kanáka maikai, E ku nei i ke ahu' a Ka-hoa-lii. TRANSLATION Front, bright as the moon. Back, straight as a mountain wall: So stands the handsome man, This man on thy terrace, Hoa-lii. Pele's fire-brigade went through the form of obeying their orders. They dared not do otherwise. Acting, however, on their preconcerted plan, they contented themselves with casting a few cinders on the reclining form of Lohiau and, then, shamefaced, they ran away--an action that had the appearance of reproof rather than of punishment. The effect on the mind of Hiiaka, whose insight into the character of Pele was deeper than that of Lohiau, was far different from that of mere admonition or reproof. She recognized in the falling cinders a threat of the direst import and at once braced herself to the task of averting the coming storm and of disarming the thundercloud that was threatening her lover. "Have you not some prayer to offer?" she said to Lohiau. "Yes," he answered, and at her request he uttered the following: Ua wela Pu'u-lena i ke ahi; Ua wela ka mauna ou, e Kahuna. Uwé au, puni 'a i ke awa; Kilohi aku au o ka mauna o ka Lua, E haoa mai ana ke a; Ka laau e ho'o-laau-- Ho'o-laau mai ana ke ki'i, Ke moe, i o'u nei. Ia loaa ka hala, ka lili, kaua, paio; Paio olua, e. TRANSLATION Pu'u-lena breathes a furnace blast; Your mount, Kahuna, is a-blaze; I choke in its sulphurous reek. I see the mountain belching flame-- A fiery tree to heaven upspringing; Its deadly shade invades my stony couch. Is there fault, blame, strife, or reproach; Let the strife be between you two. To this proposal of her chivalric companion, who would throw upon the woman the whole burden of fault, punishment, and strife, Hiiaka made answer in this address to Pele: Puka mai ka Wahine mai loko mai o ka Lua, Mai loko mai o Muliwai o ka Lena, [416] Mai ka moku [417] po'o a Kane. E noho ana o Kane-lau-apua [418] i ke one lau a Kane; Ninau mai uka, "Nowai he wa'a?" [419] No ka hoa-paio o Ai-moku [420] wahine: Ninau a'e i kona mau kaikaina; A lele e na hoali'i-- Ka owaka o ka lani, Ka uwila nui, maka ehá i ka lani. Lele mai a huli, popo'i i ka honua; O ke kai uli, o ke kai kea; O ke ala-kai a Pele i hele ai. E hele ana e kini [421] maka o ka La o Hu'e-ehu'e, E nana ana ia luna o Hualalai; Aloha mai ka makani o Kaú. Heaha la ka paú [422] o ka wahine? He palai, he lau-i, ka paú hoohepa o ka wahine, e Kini, e. Ha'aha'a iluna ke kihi [423] o ka Mahina; Pau wale ke aho i ke Akua lehe-oi; [424] Maka'u wale au i ke Akua lehe-ama. [425] Eli-eli kapu, eli-eli noa! Ua noa ka aina i ka puké [426] iki, i ka puké nui, I ka hakina ai, i ka hakina i'a,-- I kou hakina ai ia Kuli-pe'e i ka Lua, la. Eli-eli, kau mai! Ma ka holo uka, ma ka holo kai. Eli-eli kapu, eli-eli noa! Ua noa ka aina a ke Akua! TRANSLATION The Woman comes forth from the Pit, Forth from the river with yellow tide, From the fissured head of Kane, Kane-apua, the cheater of death, Presides o'er his much-thronged sandy plain: The mountains re-echo the question, "Gainst whom do they launch the canoe?" Against her foes, the land-grabber's. To her sisters she puts a question, Up spring the high-born, the princes-- What splendor flashes in heaven! The fourth eye of heaven, its flaming bolt. With swell of wave and break of surf a-land Was her flight o'er the blue sea, the gray sea-- The voyage Pele made from Kahiki. From his western gate fly the Sun-darts, Their points trained up at Hualalai-- The wind from Kaú breathes a blessing. Pray tell me, what skirts wear the women? Their skirts are fern and leaf of the ti Bound bias about the hips, O Kini; One horn of the sickle moon hangs low; My patience faints at her knife-like lips And I fear the Goddess's yawning mouth. Deep, deep is the tabu, deep be the peace! The land is fed by each hill, small or big, By each scrap of bread [427] and of meat-- Food that is ravaged by Kuli-pe'e. Plant deep the foundations of peace, A peace that runs through upland and lowland. Deep, deep the tabu, deep be the peace! Peace fall on the land of the Goddess! CHAPTER XXXIV PELE'S BRIGADE IS SENT TO THE ATTACK OF LOHIAU Pele broke forth in great rage when her people slunk back, their errand not half accomplished. "Ingrates, I know you. Out of pity for that handsome fellow, you have just made a pretense and thrown a few cinders at his feet. Go back and finish your work. Go!" Hiiaka, on witnessing the second charge of the fire-brigade, again broke forth in song: Hulihia Kilauea, po i ka uahi; Nalowale i ke awa [428] ka uka o ka Lua. Moana Heëia--la kapu i ke Akua! Haki palala-hiwa ke alo o ka pohaku; Ai'na makai a'ahu, koe ka oka-- Koe mauka o ka Lae Ohi'a. Haki'na ka hala, apana ka pohaku; Kiké ka alá; uwé ka mamane-- Ka leo o ka laau waimaka nui, O ka wai o ia kino á pohaku, Kanaka like Kau-huhu ke oko o ke ahi; Ho'onu'u Puna[375] i ka mahu o ka Wahine. Kahá ka lehua i ka uka o Ka-li'u; Makua ke ahi i ka nahelehele-- Ke á li'u-la o Apua. E ha'a mai ana i ku'u maka Ka ponaha lehua mauka o Ka-ho'i-kú; Puni'a i ke awa ka uka o Nahunahu: Kiná Puna, e poá i ke Akua. Ua kaulu-wela ka uka o Olueä; Ua haohia e ke ahi, ku ka halelo. [429] Moku kahawai, niho'a ka pali; Ua umu pa-enaena ke alo o ka pohaku. O Ihi-lani, [430] o Ihi-awaawa, [431] Hekili ke'eke'e, ka uila pohaku; Puoho, lele i-luna, ka alá kani oleolé, Kani au-moe, kani ku-wá, kani helele'i; Owé, nakeke i ka lani, nehe i ka honua; Ku'u pali kuhoho holo walawala i-luna, i-lalo; Ka iho'na o ka pali uhi'a e ka noe; Pa'a i ka ohu na kikepa lehua a ka Wahine; Ho'o-maka'u ka uka--he ahi ko ka Lua. Ke ho'o-malana a'e la e ua na opua; Ne'ene'e i kai o Papa-lau-ahi. Lapalapa ka waha o ke Akua lapu; Hukihuki [432] ka lae ohi'a o Kai-mú, E hahai aku ana i-mua, i-hope. Hopo aku, hopo mai; Hopo aku au o ka ua liilii noe lehua i ka papa. O Pua'a-kanu [433] oheohe, me he kanáka oa [434] la i ka La; Ke'a ka maha lehua i kai o Ka-pili nei: I pili aku ho'i maua o haele, [435] E pi'i i ka uka, e kui, e lei i ka lei, Ka lehua o ka ua nahuhu--(nahunahu) Nahu'a e ke ahi--uli ke a-- Mahole ka papa, manihole i ka ai ia e ke Akua: Ai kolohe ka Wahine ia Puna, Ho'o-pohaku i ka Lae Ohi'a. Ka uahi o ka mahu ha'a-lele'a i uka; Ka hala, ka lehua, lu ia i kai. Ha'aha'a Puna, ki'eki'e Kilauea: Ko Puna kuahiwi mau no ke ahi. O Puna, aina aloha! Aloha-ino Puna, e moe'a nei, Ka aina i ka ulu o ka makani! The language of this mele is marked by a certain mannerism that can hardly be described as either parallelism or as antithesis, though it approaches now one and now the other. It is as if each picture could not be accomplished save by representing its grouping from more than one point of view. TRANSLATION Kilauea breaks forth: smoke blurs the day; A bitter rain blots out one half the Pit; Heëia is whelmed by a tidal wave;-- Dread day of the fiery Goddess! The face of the cliff is splintered away; The lowlands are littered with fragments; Her besom spares other land, not the park. The screw-palms are rent, the rock-plates shattered; The bowlders grind, the mamanes groan; I hear the pitiful sob of the trees. The tree-gods weep at their change into stone. Man, like the roof-pole, strangles in smoke; Puna chokes with the steam of the Woman; How groan the lehuas of Ka-li'u! A quivering flame enwraps Apua. Mine eyes are blinded at the sight Of the forest-circle of Ho'o-kú; Nahunahu is swallowed up in the rack. Puna, how scarred! by the Goddess ravaged! Olueä's uplands quiver with heat-- What ravage! its rocky strata uptorn; Deep-gullied the canyons, toothed are the cliffs; Like an oven glows the face of the rocks. Now Heaven hurls her forked bolts And bitter thunder-bombs; rocks burst and fly. A crash of splintered echoes breaks the night, Shatters the heavens and rends the earth. My towering cliff is shook like a reed; The trail adown the cliff is wreathed in steam; Mist veils the ragged spurs of lehua-- A reign of terror! flames leap from the Pit; The storm-clouds spread their wings for rain; They rush in column over the plain. The mouth of the demon vomits flame-- A besom-stroke to wooded Kai-mú. Destruction follows before and behind; What terror smites a-far and a-near! A brooding horror wraps my soul As the fine rain covers the plain. A spectacle this for the eye of Day! An offering's laid--a pig? a man! Deem'st it a crime to snuggle close in travel? That we gathered flowers in the woods? That we strung them and plaited wreaths? That we hung them about our necks?-- Red blossoms that sting us like fire-- A fire that burns with a devilish flame, Till the blistered skin hangs in rags: And this--is the work of the God! The faithless Woman! Puna sacked! The Park of Lehua all turned to rock! The column of rock moves ever on; Lehuas and palms melt away, As the fire sweeps down to the sea. For Puna's below and Pele above, And Puna's mountain is ever aflame. Oh Puna, land close to my heart! Land ever fore-front to the storm! I weep for thy sorrowful plight! "Cowed, and by a boy!" said Pele as her servants, with shame in their faces, slunk away from their unfinished task. "This is no job for women," she continued. "These girls can't stand up before a man--not if he has a smooth face and a shapely leg." As she spoke the fire-lake in Hale-ma'u-ma'u took on a ruddier hue, lifted in its cauldron and began to boil furiously, spouting up a score of red fountains. "Men, gods, take these fires and pour them upon the man," said Pele, addressing Lono-makua, Ku-pulupulu, Ku-moku-halii, Ku-ala-na-wao, Kupa-ai-ke'e, Ka-poha-kau, Ka-moho-alii, Kane-milo-hai and many others. The gods well knew on what perilous ground they stood, with whom they had to deal, the fierceness of Pele's wrath when it was stirred; yet, in their hatred of a great wrong, they moved with one purpose to push back the fires that were threatening Lohiau. With their immortal hands they flung away the embers and masses of flame until the heavens were filled with meteor-fragments. Pele's wrath rose to a mighty heat at this act of mutiny and disloyalty and she cursed the whole assembly. "Go," said she, "back to Huli-nu'u whence you came. Let the land on which you stand remain barren and yield no harvest nor any food for mortal or for immortal." Now Pele was one of the chief gods on earth. The land was hers. Did she not make it? Her authority extended also to heaven. Did not her flames mount to the zenith? All the gods, even the great gods Ku, Kane, Kanaloa and Lono, depended on her for certain things. When she voyaged from Kahiki to the new land of Hawaii they were constrained to follow her. Not because of any command she laid upon them did they do this, but because such was their inclination. Where Pele was there was food, wealth, the things they had need of. They followed as a dog tags after its master. The threat made by Pele was, then, no idle breath. It was a thing of terrible moment--to be stripped of their fat offices and banished to a far-off barren land, a terrible sentence. Some of the gods gave in at once and made their peace with the terrible goddess. Of those who stood firm in their opposition were Ku-moku-hali'i, Ku pulu-pulu, Ku-ala-na-wao, Kupa-ai-ke'e and Ku-mauna. [436] Condemned to banishment, they were indeed in a sorry plight. They found themselves on the instant deprived of their jobs and of their power. Food they had not, nor the means of obtaining it; these were in the possession of Kane and Kanaloa. The ocean was not free to them; it was controlled by Ka-moho-alii. In their extremity they became vagabonds and took to the art of canoe-making. Thus were they enabled to fly to other lands. New dispositions having been made and fresh stratagems set on foot, Pele turned loose another deluge of fire, Lono-makua consenting to manage the operation. The fire burst into view at Keaau, from which place it backed up into the region of Ola'a and there divided into two streams, one of which continued on the Hilo side, while the other followed a course farther towards Kau. Lohiau, thus surrounded, would find himself obliged to face Pele's wrath without the possibility of retreat. Hiiaka, not fearing for herself but seeing the danger in which her lover was placed, bade him pray; and this was the prayer he offered: Popo'i, haki kaiko'o ka lua; Haki ku, Haki kakala, ka ino, Popo'i aku i o'ü o lehua, I Kani-a-hiku, [437] wahine [438] ai lehua, A ka unu [439] kupukupu, a eha ka pohaku I ka uwalu a ke ahi, I ke kaunu a ka Pu'u-lena: [440] Huli ka moku, nakeke ka aina; Kuhala-kai, [441] kuhulukú [442] ka mauna; Pehu ka leo i Pu'ukú-akahi; [443] Hano ka leo i Pu'uku-alua;[443] Aheahe ana i Mauna Kua-loi [444]-- I kauhale a ke Akua. I ke ahu a Ka-hoa-lii. [445] Kahá ka leo o ka ohi'a; Uwé ka leo o ke kai; Huli ke alo o Papa-lau-ahi. Kai ho'onaue hala ko Keaäu; Kai lu lehua ko Pana-ewa; Ke popo'i a'e la i ke ahu a Lono, e. E lono ana no anei? He ho'okuli; He kuli ia nei, he lono ole. TRANSLATION A storm and wild surf in the Pit, The fire-waves dashing and breaking; Spume splashes the buds of lehua-- The bird-choir--O consumer of trees, O'erthrowing the fishermen's altar; The rocks melt away in thy flame; Fierce rages the Pu'u-lena; The island quakes with thy tremor; A flood of rain on the lowland, A wintry chill on the highland. A boom, as of thunder, from this cliff; A faint distant moaning from that cliff; A whispered sigh from yonder hill,-- Home of the gods, inviolate, Shrine of the God Hoalii. Now groans the soul of the tree a-flame; Now moans the heart of the restless sea. Uptorn are the ancient fire-plates. The Kea-au sea uproots the palms; Pana-ewa's sea scatters the bloom; It beats at the altar of Lono. Does she lend her heart to my cry? Deaf--her ears are deaf to my prayer. Let us picture to ourselves the scene of the story that now has the stage--a waterless, wind-swept, plain of volcanic slag and sand, sparsely clad with a hardy growth whose foliage betrays the influence of an environment that is at times almost Alpine in its austerity. Above the horizon-line swell the broad-based shapes of Mauna-kea, Mauna-loa and Hualalai. In the immediate foreground, overlooking the caldera--where are Pele's headquarters--we see two figures, standing, crouching, or reclining, the lovers whose stolen bliss has furnished Pele with the pretext for her fiery discipline. Measured by the forces in opposition to them, their human forms shrink into insignificance. Measured by the boldness of their words and actions, one has to admit the power of the human will to meet the hardest shocks of fortune. Listen to the swelling words of Lohiau as Pele's encircling fires draw nearer: Hulihia ka mauna, wela i ke ahi; Wela nopu i ka uka o Kui-hana-lei; Ke á pohaku; pu'u lele mai i uka o Ke-ka-ko'i-- Ke-ka-ko'i ka ho'okela mai ka Lua. O ka maiau [446] pololei kani le'ale'a; O ka hinihini kani kua mauna; O ka mapu leo nui, kani kóhakohá; O kanáka loloa [447] o ka mauna, O Ku-pulupulu i ka nahele; O na 'kua mai ka wao kele; O Kuli-pe'e-nui [448] ai-ahua; O Kiké alawa o Pi'i-kea; [449] O ka uahi Pohina i uka; O ka uahi mapu-kea i kai; O ka uahi noe lehua, e; O ke awa nui, i ka mauna; O ke po'o o ke ahi, i ka nahele; O ka ai'na a Pele ma, i uka; Ua ku ke oka, aia i kai. Pau a'e la ka maha laau-- Ka maha ohi'a loloa o Kali'u, A ka luna i Pohaku-o-kapu. Kapu mai la Puna, ua kulepe i ke ahi; Ua puni haiki Kilauea. Ua ha ka lama i ka luna i Moku-aweoweo; Ua ha ka uka i Ke-ahi-a-Laka; Ai'na a'e la o Moe-awakea i Ku-ka-la-ula, A ka luna, i Pohaku-holo-na'e. Ku au, kilohi, nana ilaila e maliu mai: O ku'u ike wale aku ia Maukele, I ka papa lohi o Apua-- He la lili'u, e nopu, e wela ka wawae. Pau ke a, kahuli ha'a ka pahoehoe, A pau na niu o kula i Kapoho. Holo ke ahi mahao'o [450] o Kua-uli; Pau Oma'o-lala i ke ahi: I hi'a no a á pulupulu i ka lau laau. Kuni'a ka lani, haule ka ua loku; Ka'a mai ka pouli, wili ka puahiohio; Ka ua koko, ke owé la i ka lani. Eia Pele mai ka Mauna, mai ka luna i Kilauea. Mai O'olueä, mai Papa-lau-ahi a hiki Maláma. Mahina ka uka o Ka-li'u; Enaena Puna i ka ai'na e ke 'Kua wahine. Kahuli Kilauea me he ama [451] wa'a la; Pouli, kikaha ke Akua o ka Po; Liolio i Wawau ke Akua o ka uka; Niho'a ka pali, kala-lua i uka; Koeä a mania, kikaha koa'e; Lele pauma ka hulu maewaewa. A'ea'e na akua i ka uka; Noho Pele i ke ahiü; Kani-ké ilalo o ka Lua. Kahuli Kilauea, lana me he wa'a [452] la; Kuni'a a'e la Puna, mo'a wela ke one-- Mo'a wela paha Puna, e! Wela i ke ahi au, a ka Wahine. TRANSLATION The Mount is convulsed; the surging fire Sweeps o'er the height of Kui-hana-lei; The rocks ablaze; the hillocks explode Far out by Ax-quarry, aye, and beyond, Where gleefully chirped the pololei, And the grasshopper trilled on the mountain A resonant intermittent cry. Now comes the tall man of the mount, Ku-pulupulu, the Lord of the Woods. In his train swarm the pigmy gods of the wilds, The knock-kneed monster Kuli-pe'e-- That subterraneous eater of towns-- And watchful Pi'i-kea, the Roach god. A blinding smoke blurs the hinter-land; A milk-white cloud obscures the lowland, Enshrouding the groves of lehua. The smoke-rack bulks huge in the upland;-- The fire has its head in the Mount, And thence the Pele gang start on a raid. The ash of their ravage reaches the sea: She's made a fell sweep of forest and grove Clean down to Pohaku-o-kapu. Now, tabu is Puna, forbidden to man: The fire-tongues dart and hedge it about. A torch buds out from Moku-aweö, To answer the beacon flung by Laka. Now she's eaten her way from sleepy noon Till when the windy mountain ridge Buds with the rosy petals of dawn. Here stand I to wait her relenting: I see naught but desolate Puna And the quivering plain of Apua: All about is flame--the rock-plain rent; The coco-palms that tufted the plain Are gone, all gone, clean down to Ka-poho. On rushes the dragon with flaming mouth, Eating its way to Oma'o-lala. For tinder it has the hair of the fern. A ghastly rain blots out the sky; The sooty birds of storm whirl through the vault; Heaven groans, adrip, as with dragon-blood. Here Pele comes from her fortress, her Mount, Deserting her resting place, her hearth-- A wild raid down to Malama. Kali'u's highlands shine like the moon; All Puna glows at the Goddess' coming. The crater's upset; the ama flies up; The God of night plods about in the dark; The Upland God makes a dash for Vavau. The pali are notched like teeth, dissevered, Their front clean shaven, where sailed the bosen,-- White breast of down--on outstretched wings. The gods ascend to the highlands; The goddess Pele tears in a frenzy; She raves and beats about in the Pit: Its crumbled walls float like boats in the gulf: An ash-heap is Puna, melted its sand-- Crisp-done by thy fire, Thine, O Woman! When Hiiaka recognized the desperate strait of her friend and lover she urged him to betake himself again to prayer. "Prayer may serve in time of health; it's of no avail in the day of death," was his answer. It was not now a band of women with firebrands, but a phalanx of fire that closed in upon Lohiau. The whole land seemed to him to be a-flame. The pictures that flit through his disturbed mind are hinted at in the song he utters. The pangs of dissolution seem to have stirred his deeper nature and to have given him a thoughtfulness and power of expression that were lacking in the heyday of his lifetime. Hiiaka called on him for prayer and this was his response: Pau Puna, ua koele ka papa; Ua noe ke kuahiwi, ka mauna o ka Lua; Ua awa mai ka luna o Uwé-kahuna-- Ka ohu kolo mai i uka, Ka ohu kolo mai i kai. Ke aá la Puna i ka uka o Na'ena'e; [453] O ka lama kau oni'oni'o, [454] O na wahine i ke anaina, I ka piha a ka naoa o mua nei. Oia ho'i ke kukulu [455] a mua; Oia ho'i ke kukulu awa; O kai awa i ka haki pali, O kai a Pele i popo'i i Kahiki-- Popo'i i ke alo o Kilauea; O kai a Ka-hulu-manu: [456] Opiopi [457] kai a ka Makali'i; Ku'uku'u kai a ka pohaku, Ke ahi a ka noho [458] uka, Kukuni i ke kua [459] o ka makani. Wela ka ulu [460] o ka La i Puna, e; Kiná Puna i ka ai'na e ke Akua, e. He akua [461] ke hoa, e; Ke kuhi la iaia he kanáka-- He akua ke hoa, e! TRANSLATION Puna is ravaged, its levels fire-baked; Fog blots out the forest-heights of the Pit; Uwé-kahuna's plain is bitter cold-- A mist that creeps up from the sea, A mist that creeps down from the mount; Puna's dim distant hills are burning-- A glancing of torches--rainbow colors-- The whole assembly of women. In pity and love they stand before us; They form the first line of battle And they make up the second line. The raging waves engulf the steep coast-- The sea Pele turmoiled at Kahiki, That surged at the base of Kilauea-- The bird-killing flood Ka-hulu-manu. Makali'i's waves were like folds in a mat; A smiting of rock against rock Is the awful surge of the Pele folk. The wind-blast enflames their dry tinder. The face of the Sun is hot in Puna. I companioned, it seems, with a god; I had thought her to be very woman. Lo and behold, she's a devil! Apropos of the meaning of na'ena'e I will quote the words of a Hawaiian song by way of illustration: Makalii lua ka La ia Ka-wai-hoa, [462] Anoano i ka luna o Hoaka-lei: [463] Lei manu i ka hana a ke kiü; [464] Luli ke po'o, éha i ka La o Maka-lii, Hoiloli lua i na ulu hua i ka hapapa. TRANSLATION Wondrous small looks the Sun o'er Waihoa, How lonesome above Hoaka-lei! Birds crown the hill to escape from the Kiü; Men turn the head from the Sun's winter heat And scorn the loaves of the bread-fruit tree. In answer to these words of Lohiau Pele muttered gruffly, "God! Did you take me to be a human being? That's what is the matter with you, and your clatter is merely a wail at the prospect of death." Under the torture of the encircling fires Lohiau again babbles forth an utterance in which the hallucinations of delirium seem to be floating before him: Wela ka hoku, ka Maláma: Ua wela Makali'i, Kaelo ia Ka-ulua; [465] Kai ehu ka moku, papápa ka aina; Ha'aha'a [466] ka lani; kaiko'o ka Mauna, Ha ka moana; popo'i Kilauea. Ale noho ana Papa-lau-ahi; O mai Pele i ona kino-- Hekikili ka ua mai ka lani; Nei ke ola'i; ha ka pohakahi a ka Ikuwá; Ku mai Puna ki'eki'e; Ha'aha'a ka ulu a ka opua, Pua ehu mai la uka o Ke-ahi-a-Laka; Pau mahana i kahi Wai-welawela [467] o ka Lua, e; Iki'ki i ka uwahi lehua; Paku'i ka uwahi Kanáka. Pua'i hanu, eä ole i ke po'i a ke ahi. E Hiiaka e, i wai maka e uwé mai! TRANSLATION The stars are on fire, and the moon; Cold winter is turned to hot summer; The island is girdled with storm; The land is scoured and swept barren; The heavens sag low--high surf in the Pit-- There's toss of a stormy ocean, Wild surging in Kilauea; Fire-billows cover the rocky plain, For Pele erupts her very self. A flood of rain follows lightning-bolt; Earth quakes with groaning and tossing, Answered with shouts from the Echo god. Once Puna was lifted to heaven; Now the cloud of dark omen hangs low. White bellies the cloud over Laka's hearth; Wai-wela-wela supplies a warm skirt. I choke in this smoke of lehua-- How pungent the smell of burnt man! I strangle, my breath is cut off-- Ugh! what a stifling blanket of fire! Your tears, Hiiaka, your tears! CHAPTER XXXV THE DEATH OF LOHIAU Lohiau, in his last agony, wandered in mind and babbled of many things. To his credit, be it said that his thoughts were not wholly centered on himself. There was a margin of regard for others, as when he sang in these words: Aloha na hale o makou i makamaka ole, Ke ala hele mauka o Huli-wale la, e. Huli wale; ke huli wale a'e nei no, I ka makana ole, i ka mohai ole e ike aku ai, E kanaenae aku ai la ho'i, ia oe, ia oe! TRANSLATION My love to the homes made desolate, On the road which makes this turning. I turn away with an empty hand, Lacking an offering fit to make peace, To soften thy heart and appease thee-- To soften thy heart and content thee. At the last flicker of life, when the rocky encasement had well nigh completed the envelopment of his body, Hiiaka, daring the barrier of fire that had come between them, sprang to his side and, with the last kiss, whispered into his ear, "Go not on the side whence the wind blows; pass to leeward, on the day of our meeting." (Mai hele i ka makani; hele i ka pohu, ma ka la a kaua e halawai ai.) By this cryptic expression, Hiiaka meant to put Lohiau on his guard against enemies that lay in wait for him. If he went to the windward he might reveal himself to them by his flair. She also embodied her warning in song: Aloha ko'u hoa i ka ua pua-kukui, Kui lehua o Moe-awakea, Lei pua o Ka-la-hui-pua, Kae'e lehua o Pu'u-lena, la, mauka: Mauka oe e hele ai, Ma ka ulu o ka makani; O moe'a oe e ka á Pu'u-lena la-- Make, make loa o oe! TRANSLATION My love to thee, mate of the sifting rain, Such time as we strung the lehua, In the snatches of noonday rest, On the days when we dreamed of reunion; And this was done in the uplands. In the uplands you shall safely journey; Safe in the hush and lee of the wind; Lest the blasts of Pu'u-lena shall smite And sweep you away to an endless doom. A swarm of emotions buzzed in the chambers of Hiiaka's mind, of love, of self-destruction, of revenge. In an agony of indecision she strode this way and that, wringing her hands and wailing in a strictly human fashion. The master passion came to the front and had sway: she would find Lohiau, and with him renew the bond of friendliness which had grown up in the midst of the innocent joys and toils of travel shared by them in common. An access of divine power came to her. She immediately began to tear up the strata of the earth. As she broke through the first stratum and the second, she saw nothing. She tore her way with renewed energy: rock smote against rock and the air was full of flying debris. After passing the third stratum, she came upon a ghastly sight--the god of suicide, suspended by the neck, his tongue protruding from his mouth. It was a solemn lesson. After passing the fourth stratum she came upon the stratum of Wakea, and here she found the inanimate bodies of her former companions of travel, the faithful Wahine-oma'o and Paú-o-pala'e. She restored them to life and animation, bidding them return to the beautiful world of sunshine and fresh air. She came at last to the tenth stratum with full purpose to break up this also and thus open the flood-gates of the great deep and submerge Pele and her whole domain in a flood of waters. That, indeed, would have been the ruin of all things. At this moment there came to Hiiaka the clear penetrating tone of a familiar voice. It was the voice of her fast friend and traveling companion, Wahine-oma'o, who had but recently left her and who, now, under the inspiration of the great god Kane, had come to dissuade Hiiaka from her purpose. For the execution of that purpose meant a universe in confusion. It was time, then, for Kane to interfere. He did this by putting into the mouth of her dearest friend on earth an appeal to which Hiiaka could not but listen and, listening, heed: A po Kaena i ka ehu o ke kai; Ki-pú iho la i ka lau o ke ahi; Pala e'ehu i ka La ka ulu o Poloa, e! Po wale, ho'i; e ho'o-po mai ana ka oe ia'u, I ka hoa o ka ua, o ke anu, o ke ko'eko'e! Auhea anei oe? Ho'i mai kaua; He au Ko'olau [468] aku ia. TRANSLATION Kaena is darkened with sea-mist; Eruptions burst up mid lakes of flame; Scorched and gray are Po-loa's bread-fruits. Now, as a climax, down shuts the night. You purpose to blind with darkness The woman who went as your fellow Through rain and storm and piercing cold. List now, my friend: return with me-- We've had a spell of nasty weather! For Hiiaka to give ear to the pleading voice of her friend, the woman who had shared with her the shock of battle and the hardships of travel from Hawaii to Kaua'i and back again, was to run the risk of being persuaded. "Come with me," said Wahine-oma'o; "let us return to our mistress." "I must first seek and find Lohiau," answered Hiiaka. "Better for us first to go before Pele. She will send and bring Lohiau." Thus pleaded the woman Wahine-oma'o. Hiiaka turned from the work of destruction and, hand in hand, they made their way back into the light and wholesome air of the upper world. The sisters--those who bore the name Hiiaka--received her cordially enough. They prattled of many things; buzzed her with questions about her travels of long ago--as it now seemed to Hiiaka. It was not in their heart to stir the embers of painful issues. No more was it in their heart to fathom the little Hiiaka of yesterday, the full-statured woman of to-day. Beyond the exchange of becoming salutations, Hiiaka's mouth was sealed. Until Pele should see fit to lend ear and heart to her speech not a word would she utter regarding her journey. But Pele lay on her hearth silent, sullen--no gesture, no look of recognition. The kino wailua, or spirit from Lohiau, in the meantime, after having in vain tried to solace itself with the companionship of the forest song-birds and having found that resource empty of human comfort, fluttered across the desolate waste of ocean like a tired sea-bird back to his old home and there appeared to his aikane Paoa in a vision at night. "Come and fetch me," he said (meaning, of course, his body). "You will find me lying asleep at Kilauea." Paoa started up in a fright. "What does this mean?" he said to himself. "That Lohiau is in trouble?" When he had lain down again the same vision repeated itself. This time the command was imperative: "Come and rescue me; here I am in the land of non-recognition." [469] Now Paoa roused himself, assured that Lohiau's sleep was that of death, but not knowing that he was, for the second time, the victim of Pele's wrath. He said nothing to anyone but made all his preparations for departure in secret, reasoning that Kahua-nui, the sister of Lohiau, would not credit his story and would consequently interfere with his plans. He entered his canoe and, pressing the water with his paddle, his craft made a wonderful run towards Hawaii. It was necessary for him only to dip his paddle in the brine at intervals and to direct the course. The canoe seemed almost to move of itself. That same morning he arrived at Waipio. To his astonishment, there, in a boat-shed on the beach lay the canoe which he recognized as that of his friend Lohiau. The people of the district had been wondering whose it was and how it had come there. Paoa found many things that were new and strange to him in this big raw island of Hawaii. Not the least of these was the land on which he trod, in places a rocky shell covering the earth like the plates on the back of the turtle, or, it might be, a tumble of jagged rocks--the so-called aä--a terrain quite new to his experience. It seemed as if the world-maker had not completed his work. Of the route to Kilauea he was quite ignorant, but he was led. There flitted before him a shadow, a wraith, a shape and he followed it. At times he thought he could recognize the form of Lohiau and, at night or in the deep shadows of the forest, he seemed to be looking into the face of his friend. When night came he lay down in a sheltered place and slept. In the early morning, while darkness yet brooded over the land, he was roused by the appearance of a light. His first thought was that day had stolen upon him: but no, it was the kino wailua of his friend that had come to awaken him and lead him on the last stage of his journey. CHAPTER XXXVI PAOA SEEKS OUT THE BODY OF HIS DEAD FRIEND LOHIAU Under the lead of his spiritual guide, Paoa arrived that day at Kilauea and, standing at the brink of the great caldera, he saw the figure of Lohiau beckoning to him as it stood on a heap of volcanic debris. The wraith dissolved into nothingness as he approached the spot; but there lay a figure in stone having the semblance of a man. It was more an act of divination than the exercise of ordinary judgment that told him this was the body of Lohiau. "I thought you had summoned me to take home your living body, my friend!" was his exclamation. His voice was broken with emotion as he poured out his lament: Mau a'alina oe mauka o Ka-la-ke-ahi; Ma Puna ka huli mai ana; Ka ua a Makali'i, Ke ua la i Laau, I Kaú, i Ka-hihi, i Ka-pe'a, I ke wao a ke akua. Eia ho'i au la, o ka Maka-o-ke-ahi; Aole ho'i na la o ka Lawa-kua, Ke Koolau la, e, aloha! Aloha ku'u hoa i ka ua anu lipoa, Hu'ihu'i, ko'eko'e, kaoü: He ahi ke kapa o kaua e mehana ai, E lala ai kaua i Oma'o-lala; I pili wale, i ha'alele la, e. Ha'alele i Wailua na hoa aloha-- O Puna, aina aloha, O Puna, i Kaua'i. TRANSLATION Thou bundle of scars from a fiery day, 'Twas at Puna our journey began, With a dash of rain in the summer; Rain again when we entered the woods, Rain, too, in Kaú, in the jungle, In the forest-haunts of the gods, Rain at each crossing of road and path:-- Here stand I, with fire in my eye: Our days of communion are gone; You've bidden adieu to Ko'olau: Hail now to my mate of the gloomy rain-- When wet and cold and chilled to the bone, Our garment of warmth the blazing hearth; Then basked we at Oma'o-lala, Haunting the place, then tearing away. E'en so you tore away from your friends, Those friends of Wailua, of Puna-- That dear land of Puna, Kaua'i! (Here is another version of the eloquent prayer of Paoa; furnished by Poepoe, who obtained it from Rev. Pa'aluhi): O mau a'alina oe, O mau kakala ke ahi. Ma Puna ka hiki'na mai A ka ua makali'i, Ka ua a'ala ai laau, I ka hiki, i ka pa'a, I ke ahu a ke Akua. Eia ho'i au, la. O ka maka o ke ahi; Aole ho'i na la, O ka lawakua [470] a ke Koolau. E, aloha o'u hoa, I ka ua a ka lipoa, [471] Lihau anu, ko'eko'e, ka-o-ú-- He ahi ke kapa e mehana ai, E lála [472] ai kaua i Oma'o-lala. [473] I pili wale, i ha'alele la, e. Ha'alele i Puna na hoaloha, e, Ka aina i ka houpu a Kane [474] He aikane ka mea aloha, e He-e! TRANSLATION You've encased him tight in a lava shell, Scorched him with tongues of flame. Puna, the place of thy landing, First impact of winter rain-- Sweet rain, feeding the perfume, Drunk by vine and firm-rooted tree-- The wilderness-robe of the gods. Here am I, too, eye-flash of flame; As for them, no friends they of mine: Companions mine of the stormy coast, My love goes forth to my toil-mate Of the mist, cold rain and driving storm; A blazing hearth our garment then, And to bask in the sun at Oma'o-lála. Those seeming friends, they went with us, And then, they left us in Puna-- Land dear to the heart of Kane: Who eats of your soul is your true friend. Woe is me, woe is me! Hiiaka, not yet come back from her adventures in the underworld, heard this lament of Paoa and wondered at his performance--that he, a handsome man, should be standing out in the open with not even a malo about his loins to hide his nakedness, "I wonder what is his name," she said aloud. Paoa, intent on supersensual things, heard the wondering words of Hiiaka and responded to them: Hulihia ke au, pe'a ilalo i Akea; Hulihia ka mole o ka honua; Hulihia ka ale ula, ka ale lani, I ka puko'a, ka a'aka, [475] ke ahua, Ka ale po'i, e, i ka moku. Nawele ke ahi, e, a i Kahiki; Nawele ka maka o Hina-ulu-ohi'a. [476] Wela ka lani, kau kahaeä; [477] Wahi'a ka lani, uli-pa'a ka lani; Eleele ka lau o Ka-hoa-li'i; Ka pohaku kuku'i o ka Ho'oilo; Nahá mai Ku-lani-ha-ko'i; [478] Ke ha'a-lokuloku nei ka ua; Ke nei nei ke ola'i; Ke ikuwá mai la i uka. Ke o'oki la i ka piko o ka hale, A mo' ka piko i Eleuä, [479] i Eleaö: Ka wai e ha'a Kula-manu, [480] Ka nahele o Ke-hua, I loa i ke kula o Ho'o-kula-manu. E Pele, e wahi'a [481] ka lani; E Pele e, ka wahine ai laau o Puna, Ke ai holoholo la i ka papa o Hopoe; Pau a'e la Ku-lili-ka-ua [482] Ka nahele makai o Keäau, A ka mahu a ka Wahine, Ka uahi keä i uka, Ke ai la i Pohaku-loa, [483] I ke ala a Lau-ahea; [484] He wawaka ka huila o ka lani. E Ku-kuena [485] e, na'u ho'i e noho Ka la puka i Ha'eha'e. O ka luna o Uwé-kahuna; O ka uwahi hauna-laau; O ke po'o ku i ka pohaku; O ka alá kani koele; A ka nakolo i ka nei. Ma'alili ole ai ua 'kua ai i ke a; Nakeke ka niho o Pele i Kilauea; Pohaku wai ku kihikihi, [486] Ku hiwa ai i ka maka o ka pohaku-- Pohaku ai-wawae o Malama; Hopo aku ka haka'i hele i ka la. Pi'i a ka wai i uka, Moana ai wai a ka Olohe; [487] Kawa lele ai Kilauea; Hohonu ai ka lua i uka, Kapuahi ku-ku-ku. Nau ke ku'i o ke Akua; Holo ka paku'i, lahe'a i na moku. Nou ka lili, no ke Akua: Lili'a i uka, lili'a i kai-- O ka lili kepa i o kipi-kipi. O haele a Mauna Pu'u-kuolo A ka ehu o lalo Paú mahana ai ka Wai-welawela. E Ku e, ke'ehia, ke'ehia ka pae opua; Hina ololo i Ulu-nui: Hina aku la, palala ke ao-- He ao omea a Ulu-lani. Ke wela nei ka La; Ke kau nei ka malu hekili iluna: Ku'i, naue ka leo o ka opua, e-- Opua ai laau la; A ka luna i Moku-aweo-weo Hua'i Pele i ona kino; Lawe ka ua la, lawe ke kaupu e: Opiopi kai a ke Akua; Kuahiwi haoä [488] i Kaú i waena. Ho'po mai la Puna i ka uwahi a ke Akua; Poá ino no ka pua e lu ia nei. Pau ku'u kino lehua a i kai o Puna: Hao'e Puna, koele ka papa; O ka uwahi na'e ke ike'a nei. Kai-ko'o ka lua, kahuli ko'o ka lani Ke Akua ai lehua o Puna, Nana i ai iho la Hawaii kua uli: Wahi'a ka lani; ne'e Hiiaka-i-ka-ale-i; [489] Ne'e Hiiaka-i-ka-ale-moe; O Hiiaka-pa'i-kauhale; Hiiaka-i-ka-pua-enaena; [490] Hiiaka-i-ka-pua-lau-i; O Hiiaka-noho-lae; [491] Hiiaka-wawahi-lani; Hiiaka-i-ka-poli-o-Pele, Halanalana waimaka e hanini nei; Wela mai ka maka o ka ulu o Ho'olono, e. Ho'olono au o Ho'olei'a. O Ho'olei'a au; o Kalei (au) a Paoa; O Paoa au la, i lono oe. TRANSLATION The world is convulsed: the earth-plates sink To the nether domain of Wakea; Earth's rooted foundations are broken; Flame-billows lift their heads to the sky; The ocean-caves and reefs, the peopled land And the circle of island coast Are whelmed in one common disaster: The gleam of it reaches Kahiki:-- Such blush encircles the pale apple's eye. Heaven's blotted out, the whole sky darkened; Hoali'i's cliffs are shadowed with gloom. Now bellows the thunder of Winter; Ku-lani-ha-ko'i's banks are broken; Down pours a pitiless deluge of rain; There's rumble and groan of the earthquake, The reverberant roar of thunder, The roof-stripping swoop of the tempest. Tearing the thatch over Ele-uä, Tearing the thatch over Ele-ao. The freshet makes home for the water-fowl, Flooding the thickets at Kehau, The wide-spread waters of Kula-manu. O Pele, fold back the curtains of heaven; Thou Woman, consumer of Puna woods, Swift thy foray in Hopoe's fields: The land of contending rains is wiped out, And the lands that border Keäau. Up springs the steam from her caldron, A white cloudy mountain of smoke: She's consuming the bowlders of Long-rock, The treacherous paths of Lau-ahea. A flash of lightning rends the sky! O Ku-kuena, 'tis for you to dwell In the flaming Eastern Gate of the Sun. The plateau of Uwé-kahuna Breathes the reek of burning woods; There's pelting of heads with falling stones And loud the clang of the smitten plain, Confused with the groan of the earthquake. Yet this cools not the rock-eater's rage: The Goddess grinds her teeth in the Pit. Lo, tilted rock-plates melt like snow-- Black faces that shine like a mirror-- Sharp edges that bite the foot of a man, The traveler's dread in the glare of the sun. [492] The fire-flood swells in the upland-- A robber-flood--it dries up the streams. Here's cliff for god's jumping, when wild their sport; Deep the basin below, and boiling hot. The Goddess gnashes her teeth and the reek Of her breath flies to the farthest shore. Thine was the fault, O Goddess, thine, a Jealous passion at all times and places-- The snap and spring of a surly dog. Let your gnashing range to its limit, Till it reaches the fringe of your skirt, Your hot paü at Wai-welawela. Trample down, O Ku, these ominous clouds; Let them sag and fall at Ulu-nui. They flatten, they break; look, they spread. White loom, now, the clouds of Ulu-lani; Fierce blazes the Sun, and Thunder Unrolls his black curtains on high. Then bellows his voice from the cloud-- The ominous cloud that swallows the trees. From the crest of Moku-aweö Pele pours out her body, her self-- A turmoil of rain and of sea-fowl. Now boils the lake of the Goddess: In Ka-ú an oasis-park remains; Her smoke covers Puna with night. What a robbery this, to crush the flowers! My bodily self, my lehuas, gone! My precious lehuas, clean down to Puna! And Puna--the land is trenched and seared! The smoke that o'erhangs it, that I can see. High surf in the Pit, turmoiling the sky-- The god who ate Puna's Lehuas, She 'twas laid waste green-robed Hawaii. The heavens--let them rend, Hiiaka! Plunge you in the wild tossing sea; And you, who delight in the calm sea; Hiiaka, thou thatcher of towns, Hiiaka, soul of the flame-bud; Hiiaka, emblemed in ti-bud; Hiiaka, who dwells on the headland; Hiiaka, who parts heaven's curtains; Hiiaka--of Pele's own heart! These tears well from eyes hot with weeping, The eyes of this scion, this herald: I proclaim that he's outcast and exiled. 'Tis I, Paoä announce this: He speaks what is ment for your ear! CHAPTER XXXVII PAOA COMES BEFORE PELE The eminence of Akani-kolea stood near at hand and offered Paoa a vantage ground for better contemplation of the mysterious earth-pit, and when the first tide of emotion had swept by thither he repaired. Looking down into the desolate abyss, his gaze centered on a group of human figures, beautiful women, seated on the vast plates of pahoehoe that made the floor of the caldera. He saw but four of them, Pele herself not being visible. He had no clue as to their identity and was only impressed as by the sight of beautiful women who were to him as goddesses. The grandeur and strangeness of the scene moved him to song: Hulihia ka Mauna, Wela i ke ahi a ka Wahine; Wela na ohi'a o Kulili i ka ua; Wela, a nopu ke ahi o ka Lua. Ai kamumu, nakeke ka pahoehoe; Wela, a iluna o Hale-ma'uma'u; Malu ka pali o Ka-au-eä. Auwe, e Hiiaka-i-ka-poli-o-Pele, e, E ola, e, e ola Lohiau-ipo, I ka pali o Keé, i Haena, e! TRANSLATION Destruction and turmoil in the Pit: The fires of the Woman have done it-- Consuming the forests of Ku-lili-- Fires that boil from the depths of the Pit, Shaking the stone-plates till they rattle. It's furnace-hot in that House-of-fern, But there's shelter at Ka-au-eä. Oh Hiiaka of Pele's heart, Life to thee, and life to dear Lohiau-- Soul plucked by thee from death at Keé, Death in the cliff Keé, at Haena. Pele, in the retirement of her gloomy cavern, was quite out of the range of Paoa's eye-shot, but his voice rang in her ears distinctly. "What a handsome man is that standing on the edge of the cliff at Akani-kolea!" exclaimed Pele's women, unable to repress their admiration. "Call to him and invite him to come down here where we can talk together," said Pele. "Way up there on the pali wall--that's no place for us to talk and become acquainted with each other. Tell him to come down here and we'll discuss matters great and small, look upon the large stem and the small stem; see one another face to face; learn each other's heart's desire." [493] For all her fine words. Pele did not at once come forward and meet her visitor face to face. She lay unrecognized in her stygian boudoir, to all appearance a withered hag. Paoa, well versed in the wiles of Woman, adept in the logomachies and etiquettes of court-life, was quite put to his trumps and found it necessary to summon all his diplomacy and exercise all his power of self-command in dealing with the shrewd and attractive women that surrounded him. It was evident to the watchful eye of our heroine--Hiiaka--that he was dangerously attracted by the voluptuous beauty of her sister, Hiiaka-of-the-waves. In the persistent silence of Pele, upon her fell the leading part of the conversation with Paoa: "What might be the purpose of your pilgrimage?" she asked. "I come in answer to the call of my friend, Lohiau." "But Lohiau is dead," chorused the women. "Yes, dead! And what was the cause of his death?" "He kissed Hiiaka," the woman answered. "Ah! but who killed him?" "Pele." Her voice sank to a whisper, and the name she uttered was to be made out, or guessed at, rather by a study of the protruding lips and the sympathetic arching of the brow than by any sound emitted. Her eyes also made a half-turn in the direction of Pele's cave. "He came to Hawaii in the expectation that Pele would be his life." Paoa spoke with thoughtful deliberation. "How came it about that she should cause his death?" ... After a moment's pause, he continued: "He tasted death once at Haena and, now, again, here, on this barren ... a second death, and through the wrath of Pele!" Pele roused herself at this and spoke up: "What is that you say? that Lohiau died at Haena?" "Yes, he tasted of death there," Paoa answered firmly. "How, then, did he become alive again?" asked Pele sharply. "Hiiaka, she treated him, and by her gracious skill and power brought his soul and body together again. That done, they sailed away for Hawaii." The eyes of Pele were literally, as well as metaphorically, opened. She turned herself about and, in a lowered voice, with a show of astonishment, for the first time, addressed Hiiaka: "Is this true, that you worked over Lohiau and restored him to life?" "It is true, and it is also true that, not until you had put to death Hopoe, did I bestow any dalliance or caress of love upon Lohiau." Hiiaka's expression as she faced Pele was such as might have sat upon the countenance of a judge passing sentence on a confessed criminal at the bar. Pele sat impenetrable, sphinxlike, deep in her own labyrinthine philosophy of the obligations due to a social autocrat and a goddess. Paoa broke the silence: "Shall not Lohiau, then, live again?" "Go back to Haena," said Pele, "and when you hear that Lohiau lives again, then will be the time for you to come and take him home." "That would be well, then," said Paoa. A spell of confusion, of enchantment, seemed now to fall upon the man whilom so boastful. "But where is Pele?" he asked, looking from face to face. "That is Pele," said the goddess, pointing to her sister Wave (Hiiaka-i-ka-ale-i). "I have a sign by which I may know Pele; let me apply the test to these women," said Paoa. The company could but agree to this; whereupon, beginning with Wave, he took each one of them in turn by the hand, carrying it to his cheek, the better to test its warmth, holding the hollow to his ear to catch any murmur that might reverberate from it. Each hand he found to be only of natural heat. Turning, then, to Pele herself, he proposed to inspect her hand. At this the goddess drew back. "If none of these beautiful women is Pele, how can you think that a wrinkled old woman like me is the divine and beautiful Pele?" Paoa insisted and Pele had to consent. He reached out and took her hand and, on the instant, dropped it; it was burning hot. "This is Pele!" he exclaimed. Paoa stood in awed silence before the goddess. Resentment and thoughts of revenge, like evil birds, had taken flight. At Pele's command, the women led him away to take refreshment in the sacred dining hall of Mauli-ola. Before seating himself, Paoa uttered this memorable pule, a mele that has drifted down to us from the wa po: Hulihia ke au, ka papa honua o kona moku; Hulihia, kulia mai ka moku o Kahiki-- Aina no Kahiki i ka la kahi, Aina ho'owali'a e Haumea: Ho-omoe aku la Kahiki-ku, Kulapa mai ka ulu wela, o mai ke ahi. Keehi aku la no e nalo [494] kapua'i, e-- Kapua'i akua no Pele. Ke ke'ekeehi wale la no i ka lani; Haule, u'ina i Polapola; Noho i ka lau ha'a o ka moku. Hina Kukulu o Kahiki; Hina ka omuku i ka makani; Hina ka pae opua ki'i ke ao; Hina ka onohi ula [495] i ka lani; Kanewenewe opua i ke kai. Eä mai ana ma Nihoa, Ma ka mole mai o Lehua, Mai Kaua'i nui a Oahu, a Moloka'i, Lana'i a Kanaloa, mai Maui a Hawaii, Ka Wahine--o Pele--i hi'a i kana ahi A á pulupulu, kukuni, wela ka lani: He uwila ku'i no ka honua; Hekili pa'apa'ina i ke ao; Pohaku puoho, lele iluna; Opa'ipa'i wale ka Mauna; Pipili ka lani, pa'a iä moku. Nalo Hawaii i ka uahi a ka Wahine, I ka lili a ke Akua. Oliliku ka ua mai ka lani; Lili ana ho'i i kana ahi; Lili ana ho'i Pele Hama-hamau ka leo, mai pane! Eia Pele, ko'u Akua! Ke lauwili nei ka makani; Hoanoano mai ana na eho lapa uwila; Hekili wawahi ka lani; Ku loloku ka ua i uka; Ku'i ka hekili, nei ke ola'i; Lele kapu i kai. [496] Hiki lele ai i lalo o Kane-lu-honua. O Kane-pua-hiöhiö, wili,-- Wili ia i uka, wili ia i kai; Wili ia i luna, wili ia i lalo; Wili ia i ka uä, I ka hoöle akua, hoöle mana-- [497] Ka ho'o-malau, [498] e, ka ho'o-maloka; [499] Ke A-papa-nu'u, [500] ke A-papa-lani. [501] O Mano-ka-lani-po, [502] o ke aka lei-hulu-- Hulu o manu kiü, o manu ahiahi; O manu aha'i lono:-- Ha'ina a'e ana ka mana o ko'u Akua Iwaho nei la, e; ha'ina ho'i! Kukulu ka pahu kapu a ka leo: [503] He ala [504] hele, he ala muku, No Kane, laua o Kanaloa; He ki [505] ho'iho'i kanawai; He kai [506] oki'a kanawai; He kua [507] a kanawai -- No Pele, no ko'u Akua, la! TRANSLATION There's turmoil and heaving of strata In the land She claimed for her own. Kahiki was land at the dawn of time, A land by Haumea mixed and tempered; Then She spread out Kahiki-ku; She kindled her fires; the flames leapt high. The Goddess covers her footprints-- The foot-marks of Goddess Pele-- She treads the path of the heavens; Swoops down and lands at Polapola. She dwells in the level island plain. Down fall the pillars of Kakihi; The wind topples over the ruins; Down tumble the sun-kissing clouds; Down sinks the blood-red eye of Heaven And big-bellied clouds that loom at sea. Pele heaves in sight at Nihoa-- That limpet stuck to Lehua's base. From famed Kaua'i to Oahu; Thence on to Mother Hina's isle; To Lana'i of Kanaloa; To Mani and, last, to Hawaii: This the route of the Woman--Pele. Then she rubs her fire-sticks to a blaze: Up flames her touchwood, kindling the heavens. Earth sees the flash of lightning, hears the boom Of thunder echoed by mountain walls-- Rocks flung in space bombard the day, Shaking the mountain to its base. The firmament sags, clings to the earth; Hawaii is lost in Her smoke, At the passion-heat of the Goddess. Down clatters the rain from the sky-- A damper this to the Goddess' fires; It rouses the wrath of Pele. Keep silence! retort not! never a word! 'Tis the voice of Pele; she's my God. The wind veers; there's far-off corruscation; The thunder wrenches heaven's gates; A sobbing of rain in the mountains, The crash of thunder and earthquake; Old tabus take flight to the ocean. Now starts up the Earth-shaker Kane, And Kane, the whirl-wind-breeder-- A tempest-whirl, o'er mountain and sea; A tempest-whirl, in heaven and on earth; A tempest-whirl, sodden with rain, The atheist and the skeptic, The scorner and unbeliever-- Powers of the under-world and the air.-- The hero Mano-ka-lani-pó, His emblem a feathery wreath-- Plume from the bird that spies and tattles, From the bird that makes proclamation, Declaring the might, the power, of my God; Out here, in the open, declare it. Proclaim the edict of silence-- A short way, a true way, this way Of Kane, of Kanaloa-- Compact this and bind in one bundle; Let Ocean then swallow the rest. A jealous flame is Pele's back: That is the law of Pele, of my God! This pule, which I have heard spoken of as ka pule kanawai--from the use of the word kanawai in the last part of the mele, dates back, it is said, to the time of Paao, the priest and chief who came to Hawaii from Samoa in the remote ages. Paoa's argument--if he can be said to have had any--seems to be that Pele should cast away, throw into the ocean, the lumber of old laws and tabus and start afresh. Before leaving the subject--the consideration of the mele--I must mention, apropos of the expression pahu kapu a ka leo, in verse 54, an incident related to me by a Hawaiian friend (J. M. P.). He says that when he was a boy, his mother, when a thunder-storm arose, would often say to him, "keep silence! that's Kane-hekili." In Kahuku, island of Oahu, at a place not far from the sugar-mill, is a cave, known as Keana. In former times this cave was the home where lived a mother and her two sons. One day, having occasion to journey to a distance, she left them with this injunction, "If during my absence you hear the sound of thunder, keep still, make no disturbance, don't utter a word. If you do it will be your death." During her absence, there sprang up a violent storm of thunder and lightning, and the young lads made an outcry of alarm. Thereupon a thunderbolt struck them dead, turning their bodies into stone. Two pillar-shaped stones standing at the mouth of the cave are to this day pointed out in confirmation of the truth of the legend. As Paoa concluded his prayer-song the eyes of the whole company were turned upon him, and on the lips of them all was the question, "Was she then your God?" "She is my God," he answered, "and my ancestors from the earliest times have worshipped her." ... Then, turning his eyes about him, as if to survey the land, he continued, "If this were my land, as is Kaua'i, there would be no lack of good and wholesome food-provision, and that of all kinds. Things are different here ... I am a stranger in this land." On hearing these words, which had in them the sting of truth, for poison had been mixed with some of the food, the women stealthily hid away certain dishes and substituted for them others. At the conclusion of the repast the women who had been in attendance brought him a girdle delicately embroidered with fibers from the coconut that he might be suitably appareled for his interview with the woman Pele. "You will find," they said, "that Pele is in reality a woman of wonderful beauty.... In order to win her, however, you will need to use all your arts of fascination ... and your caution as well. Make hot love to her, but, look out! don't let your fancy lead you to smile upon any other beauty." Pele at first kept Paoa at a distance and, with deep subtlety, said to him, "Here are beautiful women--women more beautiful than I--take one of them." Paoa, well schooled in courtly etiquette and logomachy, was not tripped up by any such snare as Pele laid for him. He stood his ground and faced the god as an equal. As Pele contemplated Paoa it dawned upon her that here stood a man, a being of gracious power, one who combined in himself qualities--attractions--she had never before seen materially embodied in the human form. The woman in Pele laid aside the god--the akua--and came to the front. All thought of bantering talk and word-play slunk away: her whole being was sobered and lifted up. The change in her outward, physical appearance kept pace with the inward: the rough armor that had beset her like the prongs of horned coral, both without and within, melted and dropped away; the haglike wrinkles ceased to furrow her profile. Her whole physical being took on the type of womanly perfection. And what of Paoa, the man who had come with heart full of bitterness, determined on revenge? He was conquered, overwhelmed. Their meeting was that of lovers, who stood abashed in each other's presence. Pele's beauty and charm were like that of a young bride coming to the nuptial couch.... The dalliance and love-making of Pele and Paoa was a honeymoon that continued for three days and three nights. By virtue of this mysterious union with the goddess, Paoa acquitted himself of a ceremonial duty, as it were, and thus gained Pele's dispensation from further obligations to her bed and the liberty of exercising free choice among all the beautiful women that thronged Pele's court. It was there he made his abode until the time for his return to his own Kaua'i. CHAPTER XXXVIII HIIAKA AND LOHIAU ... A REUNION Hiiaka's sense of outrage touched every fiber of her being and stirred such indignation against her sister that she could not again take her former place as a member of Pele's court. Hawaii was the largest island of the group, but it was not large enough to hold herself and Pele. Of all the islands Kaua'i was the one most remote from the scene of her troubles; it was also the land which Lohiau had claimed as his own--and his was a name that called up only the most tender emotions. To Kaua'i would she go. The company of those who shared her feelings and whose personal attachment to her was sufficient to lead them with herself in a venture of new fortunes was not large. It included, of course, her two staunch attendants, Pau-o-pala'e and Wahine-oma'o and, strangely enough, a considerable quota of the sisters who shared with her the name Hiiaka (qualified though it was in each case by some additional distinguishing epithet). Towards Kaua'i, then, did they set their faces or, more literally, turn the prow of their canoe. Many unforeseen things, however, were to happen before the God of Destiny would permit her to gain her destination. Other strands stood ready to be interwoven with the purposeful threads Hiiaka was braiding into her life. In the ancient regime of Hawaii, the halau, as the home and school of the hula, stood for very much and for many things. It served, after a fashion, as a social exchange or clearing house for the whole nation; the resort of every wandering minstrel, bohemian soul or beau esprit whose oestrus kept him in travel; the rallying point of souls dislocated from an old and not yet accommodated to a new environment; a place where the anxious and discouraged, despairing of a new outlook, or seeking balm for bruised hearts, might quaff healing nepenthe. It is not to be wondered at, then, that Hiaaka, not yet healed of her bruises, on reaching Oahu and finding herself in the peaceful haven of Kou, should turn her steps to the home of that hospitable siren and patroness of the hula Pele-ula, as to a sanitarium or hospital whose resources would avail for the assuagement of her troubles. It was almost an article of Pele-ula's creed that in the pleasures and distractions of the hula was to be found a panacea for all the wounds of the spirit; and Pele-ula, as if taking her cue from the lady of the Venusberg, offered her consolations generously to every comfort-needing soul that fared her way. Hiiaka stepped into the life at Pele-ula's court as if she had been absent from it for only a day. Madame Pele-ula, good sport that she was, bore no grudge against the woman who had outplayed her at every turn, and would do it again. She received Hiiaka with open arms. As to entertainment, the play was the thing and that, fortunately, was already appointed for the same evening. It was the same old performance, the hula kilu, with but slight change in the actors and with full opportunity for Hiiaka to display her marvelous skill in hurling the kilu. It was Hiiaka's play and she, following the custom of the game, was caroling--in sober strain--a song of her own; when, to her astonishment, a voice from the crowd struck in and carried the song to completion in the very words that would have been her's. Hiiaka stood and listened. The voice had a familiar ring; the song was not yet in the possession of the public, being known only to a few of her own household, among whom was to be reckoned Lohiau. There was no avoiding the conclusion: it was Lohiau. It remains to tell the miracle of Lohiau's reappearance among men in living form and at this time. While the body of Lohiau lay entombed in its stony shroud, his restless spirit fluttered away and sought consolation in the companionship of the song-birds that ranged the forests of Hawaii. When the magician La'a, who lived in Kahiki, contemplated the degraded condition of Lohiau, alienated from all the springs of human affection, living as a wild thing in the desert, he determined on his rescue and despatched Kolea (plover), one of his ancestral kupuas, to fetch him. The mission of Kolea was not a success. The voice, the manner, the arguments of the bird made no appeal to Lohiau; they were, in fact, distasteful to him and rather increased his devotion to his other bird-friends. "Well, Kolea, what sort of a place is Kahiki?" asked Lohiau. "A most charming place," he answered, nodding his head and uttering his call, "Ko-lé-a, Ko-lé-a." Lohiau was disgusted with his performances and would have nothing more to do with Kolea. When Kolea returned and reported his failure to La'a, that magician sent another bird on the same errand, one of more seductive ways, Ulili. There was something in the voice and manner of Ulili that touched the fancy and won the heart of Lohiau at once and he began to follow him. Ulili skilfully lured him on and at last brought him to Kahiki and delivered him over to his master. La'a ministered to the soul of Lohiau with such tenderness and skill that he became reconciled once more to human ways. But the soul of Lohiau still remained an unhoused ghost, and at times ranged afar in its restless excursions. Now it happened that at the very time when these events were taking place Kane-milo-hai, an elder brother of Pele, was voyaging from Kahiki to Hawaii. His canoe was of that mystical pattern, the leho (cowry) in which Mawi had sailed. While in the middle of the Iëië-waho channel he caught sight of the distracted spirit of Lohiau fluttering like a Mother Carey's chicken over the expanse of waters. The poor ghost, as if desirous of companionship, drew nigh and presently came so near that Kane-milo-hai captured it and, having ensconced it in his ipu-holoho-lona, [508] he sailed on his way. Reaching Hawaii and coming to the desolate scene of Lohiau's tragedy, he recognized a charred heap as the former bodily residence of the shivering ghost in his keeping. He broke the stony form into many pieces and then, by the magical power that was his, out of these fragments he reconstructed the body of Lohiau, imparting to it its original form and lineaments. Into this body Kane-milo-hai now introduced the soul and Lohiau lived again. The tide of new life surging in the veins of Lohiau stirred in him emotions that found utterance in song: I ola no au i ku'u kino wailua, I a'e'a mai e ke 'lii o Kahiki, Ke 'lii nana i a'e ke kai uli, Kai eleele, kai melemele, Kai popolo-hua mea a Kane; I ka wa i po'i ai ke Kai-a-ka-hina-lii-- Kai mu, kai lewa. Ho'opua ke ao ia Lohiau; O Lohiau--i lono oukou. Ola e; ola la; ua ola Lohiau, e! O Lohiau, ho'i, e! TRANSLATION I lived, but 'twas only my soul; Then came Kahiki's King and took me-- The King who sails this purple and blue, An ocean, now black, now amber, The dark mottled sea of Kane, The sea that whelmed those monarchs of old, A sea that is ghostly, foreign, strange. Lohiau flowers anew in the sunlight; It is I, Lohiau! Do you hear it? New life has come to Lohiau! To Lohiau, aye, to Lohiau! Having come to himself, Lohiau sought his own. His chancing at Kou and his appearance at the halau in which Pele-ula was holding her kilu performance, and on the very evening of Hiiaka's arrival, was an arrangement of converging lines that reflected great credit on the god of Destiny. Lohiau arrived at the kilu hall just in time to witness the opening of the game. Having seated himself quietly in the outskirts of the assembly, he begged a neighbor to permit him, as a favor, to conceal himself under the ample width of his kihei, exacting of him also the promise not to betray his retreat. Thus hidden, he could see without being seen. The sight of Hiiaka, the words of her song--he had heard them a score of times before--stirred within him a thousand memories. Without conscious effort of will, the words of his response sprang from his heart almost with the spontaneity of an antiphonal echo. Let us bring together the two cotyledons of this song: O ka wai mukiki a'ala lehua o ka manu, O ka awa ili lena i ka uka o Ka-li'u, O ka manu aha'i kau-laau o Puna:-- Aia i ka laau ka awa o Puna. Mapu wale mai ana no ia'u kona aloha, Hoolana mai ana ia'u, e moe, e; A e moe no, e-e-e. And now comes the unexpected antiphone by Lohiau: O Puna, lehua ula i ka papa; I ula i ka papa ka lehua o Puna: Ke kui ia mai la e na wahine o ka Lua: Mai ka Lua a'u i hele mai nei, mai Kilauea. Aloha Kilauea, ka aina a ke aloha. TRANSLATION Nectar for gods, honeyed lehua; Food for the birds, bloom of lehua; Pang of love, the yellow-barked awa, Quaffed by the dryads in Puna's wilds; Bitter the sweet of Puna's tree-awa. His love wafts hither to me from dreamland-- The cry of the soul for love's fond touch; And who would forbid the soul's demand! Antiphone Puna's plain takes the color of scarlet-- Red as heart's blood the bloom of lehua. The nymphs of the Pit string hearts in a wreath: Oh the pangs of the Pit, Kilauea! Still turns my heart to Kilauea. We must leave to the imagination of the reader the scene that occurred when Lohiau, the man twice called back from the dead, leaves his hiding place and comes into Hiiaka's encircling arms lovingly extended to him. This was accomplished the reunion of Hiiaka and Lohiau, and thus it came to pass that these two human streams of characters so different, in defiance of powerful influences that had long held them apart, were, at length, turned into one channel--that of the man, not wholly earthly, but leavened with the possibility of vast spiritual attainment under the tonic discipline of affliction; that of the woman, self-reliant, resourceful, yet acutely in need of affection; human and practical, yet feeling after the divine, conscious of daily commerce with the skies; and, yet, in spite of all, in bondage to that universal law which gives to the smaller and weaker body the power to introduce a perturbation into the orbit of the greater and to pull it away from its proper trajectory. The old order has passed away, the order in which the will of Pele has ruled almost supreme, regardless of the younger, the human, race which is fast peopling the land that was hers in the making. Hitherto, surrounded by a cohort of willing servants ready at all times to sacrifice themselves to her caprice,--behold, a new spirit has leavened the whole mass, a spirit of dissent from the supreme selfishness of the Vulcan goddess, and the foremost dissident of them all is the obedient little sister who was first in her devotion to Pele, the warm-hearted girl whom we still love to call Hiiaka-i-ka-poli-o-Pele. THE END NOTES [1] Hui, an elided form of huli, the l being dropped. [2] Paoa. One Hawaiian says this should be pahoa. (Paulo Hokii.) The Paoa mentioned in verse eight was a divining rod used to determine the suitability of any spot for Pele's excavations. The land must be proof against the entrance of sea water. It also served as a spade in excavating for a volcanic crater. When a suitable place was finally discovered on Hawaii, the Paoa staff was planted in Panaewa and became a living tree, multiplying itself until it was a forest. The writer's informant says that it is a tree known to the present generation of men. "I have seen sticks cut from it," said he, "but not the living tree itself." [3] O Ahu. The particle o is not yet joined to its substantive, as in Oahu, the form we now have. [4] Pola, the raised platform in the waist of the canoe, a place of honor. [5] This Laupahoehoe is to be distinguished from that in Hilo. [6] Ua, rain. It is suggested this may refer--sarcastically--to the watery secretion in Pele's eyes, as found in old people. [7] Ina, here means consider. [8] Loiloi. If a chief was not pleased or satisfied with a gift, loiloi would express his state of mind. [9] Elua oiwi, literally, two shapes. Pele had many metamorphoses. [10] The wavering of indecision. [11] This Pohakau was the friend, previously mentioned, who had brought to Pele the faithful dog that lay fasting and mourning at Lohiau's grave. Pohakau remained at Pele's court; the dog Pele hid away in her own secret place. [12] One critic says it should be po'e. [13] Kaupaku o ka hale o kaua. A hidden reference to sexual intercourse. [14] Malu-ko'i, dark and gloomy. [15] Kamaaina, a resident, one acquainted with the land. [16] Ele-i. One Hawaiian says this rare word means blue-black, shiny black (J. W. P.); another says it means rich, choice, select (T. J. P.) [17] Ka, to remove, clean up entirely, as in bailing a canoe. [18] Hea, destroyed, flattened out. [19] Ne, an elided poetical form of nele, meaning gone, blotted out. [20] Piko, the navel. The belly, or piko, of a fish was the choicest part. "I ka piko no oe, lihaliha." Eat of the belly and you shall be satiated. (Old saying.) [21] Hu-la. (Notice the accent to distinguish it from hula.) To dig up, as a stone out of the ground. [22] Kukui, the tree whose nuts furnished torches. [23] Uli, an elder sister of Pele, a character much appealed to by sorcerers. [24] Kahuna, in this case probably Hiiaka. [25] Alohi-lani, literally, the brightness of heaven; a term applied to the residence or heavenly court of both Uli and Kapo. In verses 36 and 37 it is distinctly mentioned as the abode of Kapo-ula-kina'u: "E ho'i, e komo i kou hale, O Ke-alohi-lani." [26] Ilio-uli, literally, a dog of dark blue-black color. The primitive Aryans, according to Max Müller, poetically applied the term "sheep" to the fleecy white clouds that float in the sky. The Hawaiian poet, in the lack of a nobler animal, spoke of the clouds as ilio, dogs. With this homely term, however, he coupled--by way of distinction--some ennobling adjective. [27] Ilio-ehu, literally, a white dog. [28] Ilio-mea, literally, a dog--cloud--of a warm pinkish hue. [29] Ku-ke-ao-iki, Ao-iki, small clouds that stand ranged about the horizon. [30] Ao-poko, a short cloud, in contrast with ao-loa.--J. H. [31] Ao-loa, long clouds--stratus?--such as are seen along the horizon. [32] Ao-awihiwihi-ula, a cloud-pile having a pinkish, or ruddy, tint. [33] Hoalii, the relatives of Hiiaka. [34] Ko-wawa, a notched pali that formed part of the wall enclosing the caldera of Kilauea--on its Kau side. [35] Kupina'e, echo, hero personified and endowed with the attributes of a superhuman being. [36] Ku-haili-moe, one of the forms, or characters, of god Ku, representing him as a smoother and beautifier of the landscape. [37] Ha'iha'i-lau-ahea, a goddess who had to do with the flame of fire. Her share in the care of a fire, or, perhaps, of Pele's peculiar fire, seems to have been confined to the base of the flame. [38] Mau-a-ke-alii-hea, a being who had special charge of the flame-tip. [39] Kanaka loloa o ka mauna, this included Ku-pulupulu and his fellows. [40] Ku-pulupulu, described as a hairy being, the chief god of canoe-makers, who had his residence in the wildwoods. [41] Kuli-pe'e-nui. This much-used term is the embodiment in a word of the wild, lumbering, progress of a lava-flow, or lava-tongue. Translating the figure into words, my imagination pictures a huge, shapeless monster, hideous as Caliban drunk, wallowing, sprawling, stumbling along on swollen disjointed knees--a picture of uncouth desolation. [42] Kike-alana, the formulation in a word of the rending and crashing sounds--rock smiting rock--made by a lava-flow. [43] Kahuna i ka, puoko o ke ahi. The word Kahuna is used here where the word akua or kupua would seem to have served the purpose of the meaning, which, as I take it, is the spirit, or genius, of flame. [44] I'imi, derived seemingly from imi, to seek. [45] Lalama, derived seemingly from lala, a branch; or possibly, from lama, a flambeau. [46] Kane-hekili. Thunder is always spoken of as under the control of god Kane. [47] Ka-ulua, the name of one of the months in the cool season of the year; one can not say positively which month is intended, for the reason that the nomenclature varied greatly in the different islands, and varied even on the same island. [48] Kumu-kahi, the name of a hill in Puna on the easternmost cape of Hawaii; also the name of a monolith once set up there; in this connection the name of the female kupua who acted as keeper of the Sun's eastern gate. This name is almost always coupled with that of ... [49] Ha'eha'e, of whom the same account can be given as above. [50] Kapo-ula-Kina'u, one of the family. The epithet ula-kina'u is used in allusion to the fact that her attire, red in color, is picked out with black spots. The name Kapo alone is the one by which she is usually known. [51] The awa papa had a small root, but it was of superior quality. [52] Moe-ha-una-iki, literally, the sleep with a gentle snore--such sleep as follows the use of awa. The poet personifies this sleep. To such lengths does the Hawaiian poetic imagination go. [53] Pahu kapu a ka leo. One--who ought to know--tells me this means the ear; as if the ear were the drum on which the voice played. [54] Ho'okiki kanawai, to enforce, to carry out the law. [55] He kua a kanawai. It was said of Pele that her back was hot like fire, and that a bundle of taro leaves laid thereon was cooked and turned into luau. It was an offense punishable by death for any one to stand at her back or to approach her by that way. [56] He kai oki'a kanawai, literally, an ocean that separates. Exclusiveness, to live apart, was the rule of Pele's life. This principle is enforced with further illustration in the next line:-- [57] He ala muku no Kane me Kanaloa. Even to the great gods Kane and Kanaloa the path of approach to Pele was cut off by the edict, thus far shalt thou come and no further. [58] He ki ho'iho'i kanawai. The ki is said, to my surprise, to be the thong with which a door was made fast, ho'iho'i, in the olden times of Hawaii. I cannot but look upon this statement with some suspicion. [59] Leo, the voice; articulate speech. Leo o ka kanaka hookahi. This one supreme man was Kane. The poet evidently had in mind the myth which is embodied in a certain Kumu-lipo, or song of creation: Kane, the supreme one, looking from heaven, saw Chaos, or the god of Chaos, Kumu-lipo, spread out below and he called to him to send his voice--leo--to the east, to the west, to the north and to the south. Kumu-lipo, thus roused from inaction, despatched the bird Halulu, who flew and carried the message to the east, to the west, to the north and to the south. [60] Ka manu, the bird Halulu, above mentioned. [61] Kai-nu'u a Kane. This expression is an allusion to god Kane's surf-riding, which is often mentioned in Hawaiian mythology. Huli refers to the curling or bending over of the breaker's crest; Nu'u to the blanket of white and yeasty water that follows as the wake of the tumbling wave. The Hawaiians who are best informed in these matters have only vague ideas on the whole subject. [62] Amama, a word frequently used at the end of a prayer in connection with the word noa (free), as in the expression amama, ua noa. The evident meaning is it (the tabu) is lifted, it is free. I conjecture that the word amama is derived from, or related to, the word mama, light, in the sense of levitation. [63] Kui-hanalei, a region in Puna, not far from the caldera of Kilauea, said to be covered now with pahoehoe and aa. [64] Pu'u-lena, a wind that blows in the region of the volcano. [65] Ke-ka-ko'i (literally, the ax-maker), the name of the guide and path-finder to the company. [66] Ka-maiau, their trumpeter who carried a conch. [67] Hinihini, a poetical name for a land-shell, probably one of the genus Achatinella, which was popularly believed to give a shrill piping note. [68] Mapu, one of the trumpeters. [69] Ale ula, a cloud of steam and smoke, such as accompanied an eruption. [70] Ale lani, the patches of blue sky between masses of clouds. [71] Pu-ko'a, a column of steam and smoke bursting up from a volcanic eruption. [72] A'aka, a column of lapillae, accompanied by hot vapor and smoke, such as jet up from a volcanic crater or fissure. [73] Lono, a message; to hear a message, i.e., to receive it. The expression ahu a lono is at first a little puzzling. It means the visible bulk, or sign, of the message. [74] Au-hula-ana. This is the term applied to such a break in a seaside trail as is above described. The word hula indicates the billowy toss of the ocean or of the swimmer's body while making the passage. The term, following Hawaiian usage, is employed either as a noun or as a verb. [75] Maka'u-kiu, afeared-o-a-spy. [76] Ma-hi-ki (mahiti, mawhiti), to leap, to skip, to spring up suddenly. The Maori Comp. Dict. E. Tregear. [77] Wai-luku, water of destruction. [78] Mo'o-puna, a grandchild, nephew or niece. [79] Kahuli-huli. Kahuli, or its intensive, kahuli-huli, primarily means to upset, to overturn. A secondary meaning, much employed in the argot of hula folk, is to hand over, to pass this way; as when one guest at table might say to a neighbor, "hand me the salt (if you please)." [80] Nuku-o-ka-manu, literally, the beak of the bird; said to be a cape in the neighborhood of Hilo. [81] Hala. The fruit of the hala was so often worn in the form of a wreath by Kapo that it came to be looked upon almost as her emblem. To ordinary mortals this practice savored of bad luck. If a fisherman traveling on his way to the ocean were to meet a person wearing a lei of this description he would feel compelled to turn back and give over his excursion for that day. In this instance Kapo was on her way to visit a sick man--a bad omen for him. [82] Kapo-ula-kina'u. This was the full name of Kapo, who was one of the goddesses of the kahunas who practiced anaana (po'e kahuna anaana). Ula-kina'u is a term applied to a feather cloak or cape made of yellow feathers which had in them black spots. [83] Makani. The reference is to the halitus, spirit, or influence that was supposed to rest upon and take possession of one obsessed, even as the tongues of fire rested upon the multitude in Pentecostal times. Kapo herself had this power. [84] Ua, literally, rain, is by a much employed figure of speech used to mean the guests or people of a house. Thus, if one sees a great number of guests arriving to share the hospitality of a house, he might say, "kuaua ua nui ho'i keia e hele mai nei." [85] Pua-lehei, a pali mauka of Wai-he'e. [86] Olohe, an expert in the hula. [87] Aoaoa, an imitative word, meaning dog. [88] The most acceptable bonne bouche that could be offered to Pele, or to Hiiaka, by way of refreshment, was the tender leaf of the taro plant. We of this day and generation eat it when cooked under the name of lu-au. In the old old times, when the gods walked on the earth, it was acceptable in the raw state under the name of paha; but, when cooked, it was called pe'u. The word luau seems to be modern. [89] Po'ipo'i. Po'i uhane, soul catching, was one of the tricks of Hawaiian black art and sorcery. [90] There seems to be a disagreement in the different versions as to who is the king with whom Hiiaka is now contending, whether Ole-pau or Ka-ula-hea. For historical reasons I deem it to be Ole-pau, unless, indeed, the two names represent the same person. [91] Kau, offered, literally put upon the altar. [92] Lohelohe. By some inadvertence, this word was wrongly written as kohekohe, and I was cudgelling my wits and searching heaven and earth, and all the dictionaries, to learn the meaning of this artifact, this false thing. After having vainly inquired of more than a score of Hawaiians, one man, wiser than the rest, suggested that it should be lohelohe, not kohekohe, meaning underdone, or half-baked dog. The word-fit was perfect; the puzzle was solved. [93] Kanaloa, a name given to Kaho'olawe, the island that faces East Maui, lying opposite to Lahaina, and acts as a sort of buffer against the blasts of the south wind, allusion to which is made, as I believe, in the word A-a, in the same line. [94] Ele. Some critics claim that ka and ele properly form one word (kaele), meaning overturned. The grammatical construction of the sentence forbids this claim, and favors the interpretation I have given it. The figure is that of a canoe whose black body has turned turtle. [95] Pa'iauma. This is a word that has presented some difficulties in the discovery of its meaning. The reference, I believe, is to breast-beating practiced by persons distracted with grief. Uma, the final part of the word, I take to be the shortened form of umauma, the bosom. [96] Pili, to meet, the point or line of meeting, the boundaries of a land, therefore, the whole land. [97] Ka-ma'o-ma'o, the name given to the sandy plain between Kahului and Wailuku, Maui. [98] Female deities of necromancy. [99] Akua, literally, a god, or godlike, i.e., in an awe-inspiring manner. [100] Ke-olo-ewa, an akua ki'i, i.e., a god of whom an image was fashioned. Some form of cloud was recognized as his body (Ke-ao-lewa(?)). One of his functions was rain-producing. Farmers prayed to him: "Send rain to my field; never mind the others." S. Percy Smith of New Zealand (in a letter to Professor W. D. Alexander) says that in Maori legend Te Orokewa, also called Poporokewa, was one of the male apa, guardians and messengers of Io, the supreme god who presided over the 8th heaven. According to Hawaiian tradition Ke-olo-ewa was, as Fornander has it, the second son of Kamauaua, a superior chief, or king of Moloka'i, and succeeded his father in the kingship of that island. His brother, Kau-pe'e-pe'e-nui-kauila, it was who stole away Hina, the beautiful wife of Haka-lani-leo of Hilo, and secreted her on the famous promontory of Haupu on Moloka'i. For the story of this interesting tradition see Fornander's "The Polynesian Race," Vol. II, p. 31. After death he became deified and was prayed to as a rain god. [101] Kama-ua, literally, the son of rain. [102] Ulu-nui, meaning the crop-giver. This was the name of a king, or chief of Makawao, Maui, under whom agriculture greatly flourished. [103] Me-ha'i-kana, the goddess of the bread-fruit tree; said to be one with Papa. [104] Kele honua, an instance of a noun placed after its adjective. The meaning of kele honua, literally, the miry soil, a deep taro patch. [105] Oloku'i, a high bluff that overlooks Pele-kunu and Wailau, valleys on Moloka'i. [106] Maka-pu'u, a headland at the eastern extremity of Oahu, on which a lighthouse of the first class has been established within three years. [107] Lae o Ka-laau, the south-western cape of Moloka'i, on which is a lighthouse of the first class. [108] Makua-ole, literally, fatherless or parentless; seemingly a reference to the lonely inhospitable character of the place. [109] Ulu-ma-wao, a hill in the same region as Maka-pu'u point. The name is said to mean a place having a very thin soil. [110] Ua poai-hale, a rain that whisked about on all sides of a house. [111] Moko-li'i (little snake), compound of moko, archaic form of mo'o, and li'i. [112] I-maka, a watch-tower. (This is a new word, not in the dictionary.) [113] Ha-lawa-lawa, zigzag. [114] Ololo-e, out of line; out of order; irregular. See ololo, in Andrews' Hawaiian Dictionary. Keke'e, halawalawa and ololo-e have the same generic meaning. [115] Manu'u-ke-eu, the name of a mythical hala tree that once grew in Puna. The seed was brought from Kahiki by Ka-moho-alii, when he came from that land with Pele and others. They ate the drupe of it with salt and sugar-cane, and then Ka-moho-alii planted the seed. The tree that grew up was, of course, a kupua. [116] Halu'a-pua, flower-bedecked; compound of halu'a (covered), and pua (a flower). [117] Pe'ape'a, a bat; a creature regarded as a kupua. [118] Ka-upu, some sort of a sea-gull. [119] Lu-ahi, the object of a person's wrath or indignation. [120] Hika'a-lani, facing heaven; looking up to heaven. This was the name given later to a beautiful princess on Oahu. [121] Ma-u, literally, damp; the name of the wife of Maka-li'i, as here indicated. Maka-li'i, here used as the name of a deity, is also, 1. the name of the Pleiades; 2. the name of the month in which that constellation rises at the time of sunset; 3. the name sometimes applied to the six summer months collectively. The visible sign of Maka-li'i, as a deity or kupua, was a rain-cloud. [122] Awa i-ku, awa i-lani. A clear understanding of these words calls for a reference to the customs, that had almost the dignity of a rite, that were observed in the handling of awa for purposes of worship, or as an offering to the gods. This began with the very digging of the awa root. He who did this had first to purify himself by a bath in the ocean, followed by an ablution in fresh water and completing the lustration with an aspersion of water containing turmeric, administered by a priest. Then, having arrayed himself in a clean malo, he knelt with both knees upon the ground and tore the root from its bed. Now, rising to his feet, he lifted the awa root to heaven, and by this act the awa was dignified and was called awa i-ku. The utterance (by the priest?) of the kanaenae, or prayer of consecration and eulogy, still further enhanced this dignity and set it apart as a special sacrifice to some god, or to the gods of some class. Awa thus consecrated was known as awa i-lani. [123] Mauli-ola, the God of Health; also the name of a place. The same name was applied also to the breath of life, and to the kahuna's power of healing. In the Maori tongue the word mauri means life, the seat of life. In Samoan mauli means heart; in Hawaiian it means to faint. "Sneeze, living heart" ("Tihe, mauri ora"), says the New Zealand mother to her infant when it utters a sneeze. The Hawaiian mother makes the same ejaculation. [124] Ka-ulu-ola. I can throw no light on this phrase further than is to be obtained in the above note. [125] Kapu-kapu-kai. Awa was forbidden to women. Under certain circumstances, however, it was set before them. In such a case the tabu was first removed by sprinkling the root with sea water (kapu-kai). [126] Haumea, the mother of Pele. [127] Ai. In another version, instead of ai, I find eli or elieli used. [128] Ma-u, the sister of Haumea, therefore aunt to Pele, also the wife of Maka-li'i. [129] Lua-wahine, (lua-hine?), said to be an incarnation, or more properly, perhaps, a spiritual form (kino-lau) of Haumea. [130] Kukuena, the goddess, au-makua, who presided over the ceremony of preparing awa for drinking; said to be an elder sister of Pele. [131] Akua malihini, an epithet applied to himself by Kauhi, because, as previously stated, he had since his arrival from Kahiki been obliged to remain fixed in his station in the cliff and had thus been denied acquaintance with the other islands, especially the big island of Hawaii. [132] Ka-ma'a-ma'a, a land in Puna. [133] Pua-le'i. Bird-hunters often stripped off the lower branches from a selected lehua tree that was in full flower and then limed it to ensnare the birds that were attracted to its rich clusters. Such a tree was termed pua-le'i. [134] Apua, a place in Puna. [135] Ku-ka-la-ula, a place on the road that ascends from Puna to Kilauea. The same term was applied to the ruddy glow that appears on a mountain horizon just before sunrise. [136] Pu'u-lena, said to be the name of a hill near Kilauea-iki. It is now commonly employed as the name of a wind, as in the old saying: "Ua hala ka Pu'u-lena, aia i Hilo." [137] Akua. That was Pele herself. "Aina a ke Akua i noho ai" has passed into a saying. [138] I have purposely weeded out from the narrative, as popularly told, several incidents that have but little interest and no seeming pertinence to the real purpose of the story. [139] Moa'e, the trade wind. [140] There seems to lurk a play in this word hala. It stood not only for the pandanus tree; it also meant a fault, a sin. [141] Poluea, ordinary meaning, to be nauseated; here it means to slope down. [142] Moe-wa'a, literally, a canoe-dream. To dream of a canoe-voyage was considered an omen of very bad luck. [143] Uwa'u, a sea-bird, a gull. [144] Nene-le'a, a place near Ka-ena point, close to Pohaku o Kaua'i. [145] Koa'e, the tropic-bird, or bosen-bird. [146] Ka-ieie, the channel between Oahu and Kauai. [147] Ka-peku. The word kapeku, at the beginning of verse 13, means, I am told, querulous. [148] Ho'o-ilo, or Ho-ilo, the cool or rainy season of the year, covering six months according to the Hawaiians. There was no such month (mahina) as Ho'o-ilo, or Ho-ilo. [149] Ka-hulu-manu. The kai o Ka-hulu-manu is, as reported to me by a well-informed Hawaiian, a flood that submerged the land in mythological times, distinct from Kai-a-ka-hina-alii. [150] Hoohaehae, to chase, to irritate, to tease. [151] Lae-o-ka-laau, (literally, Cape of the Trees), the south-western cape of Moloka'i, on which the United States have established a first-class lighthouse. [152] Kihe, to sneeze; to spatter; to wet with spray. [153] Wawalu, a cove. [154] Owaewae, gullied. This is an instance of the adjective being placed before its noun. [155] Huna i ka wai. The people of the region concealed the holes where water dripped, as it was very scarce. [156] Muli-wai, literally a river, a poetical exaggeration. [157] Wa'a-wa'a, simple-minded; unsophisticated; "green;" the name of two youths mentioned in tradition, one of whom committed blunder after blunder from his soft-hearted stupidity. [158] Pohaku o Kaua'i. The most audacious terrestrial undertaking of the demigod Mawi was his attempt to rearrange the islands of the group and assemble them into one solid mass. Having chosen his station at Kaena Point, the western extremity of Oahu, from which the island of Kaua'i is clearly visible on a bright day, he cast his wonderful hook, Mana-ia-ka-lani, far out into the ocean that it might engage itself in the foundations of Kaua'i. When he felt that it had taken a good hold, he gave a mighty tug at the line. A huge bowlder, the Pohaku o Kaua'i, fell at his feet. The mystic hook, having freed itself from its entanglement, dropped into Palolo Valley and hollowed out the crater, that is its grave. This failure to move the whole mass of the island argues no engineering miscalculation on Mawi's part. It was due to the underhand working of spiritual forces. Had Mawi been more politic, more observant of spiritual etiquette, more diplomatic in his dealings with the heavenly powers, his ambitious plans would, no doubt, have met with better success. [159] Kua-o-ka-La (the back of the sun), a personification and deification of that orb. [160] Kowelowelo, to sink into; to be submerged. [161] Haupu, a famous hill on Kauai, visible from Oahu. When it was capped with a cloud, Hawaiians said, "Ua kau mai ka pua'a i Haupu; e ua ana." If that occurred in the rainy season, they said it was about to clear. [162] Waha, the same as haawe, i.e., a load for the back. In this case it was a bank of mist or clouds. [163] Ke-olewa, a hill, smaller than Haupu, on the side towards Kipu-kai. The word also applied to the floating clouds about the mountain. [164] Lawa-kua, a precious object bound to the back; applied, therefore, to a child, a dear friend and the like; the local name applied to a wind at Ka-lalau. [165] Ka-unu-kupukupu, a land in Puna. The intrinsic meaning of the phrase is an increasing, overmastering, passion ka-unu, a passion; kupukupu, to grow up, to increase. [166] Li'u-la, twilight. [167] Poha-kau, a resting place where the burden-carrier leaned back and relieved his shoulders of their burden for a time. [168] Kaulia, old form of kauia (kau ia). It connotes the removing from the back the haawe, preliminary to a long rest. [169] Kilohana, here means a comfort, a relief. [170] Ka-hua-nui, the elder sister of Lohiau. [171] Kau-nu, desire, passion. Wai o kau-nu, lit., the water of love--"the warm effects." [172] Ulu o Wahine-Kapu. Wahine-kapu was the name given to the plateau over which Kaneohoalii presided, a very tabu place. As to the bread-fruit tree Ulu, I have been able to learn nothing; this is the first mention of it I have met with. [173] Na-maka-o-ka-ha'i, an elder sister of Pele, with whom she had trouble over the question of tabus, rights and privileges, involving the right to dominion over the volcanic fires. Pele was not only a stickler for her own rights and privileges but ambitious for their extension. The result was she had to flee for her life. (For the story of this trouble see p. V of the introduction.) [174] Elieli, kau mai! A solemn expression often found at the end of a prayer. Hawaiians are unable to give an exact account of its meaning. The phrase kau mai by itself means overshadow me, sit upon me, possess me. [175] Hana-kahi, an appelation applied to Hilo derived from the name of an ancient king. [176] Wai-o-lama, the name applied to the eastern section of Hilo town, including the sand-beach and the river there located. [177] Ako ia ka hale. The hands elevated and the fingers brought together in the form of an inverted V were, I am informed, an accepted symbol that might be used in place of a heiau at a time when distress or emergency made impossible the erection of such a structure. David Malo narrates a similar incident as occurring in the mythical story of Wakea at a time when he was in peril and beset by his enemies. [178] Ko'i ke Akua. There is a division of opinion as to the meaning of this passage. Some, including J. W. P., think it may be the shortened, poetical form of ko'iko'i, heavy, referring to the timber used in building a temple for the deity. Others take the view that the word ko'i should be given its face-value. I see in it a possible reference to pahoehoe, the plates of which, in their hot and nascent state, are capable of felling a forest as effectively as a ko'i. One expounder (Pelei-oho-lani) finds in this word ko'i a reference to a symbolical lifting of the thumb of the left hand as a sign of prayer. The arguments on the one side and on the other are not quite convincing. [179] Kou pua'a kanu. Pua'a-kanu is the name of a place in Puna, said to be the spot where Pele had her sexual encounter with Kama-pua'a, the swine-god. I look upon it as meaning the encounter itself. [180] Kukuena wahine, an elder sister of Pele. (Some one says the first born of the Pele family. This assertion is not verified by other authorities.) She had charge of the making and distribution of the leis and of the ceremonies connected with formal awa-drinking. She was, in short, a sort of lady of the bedchamber to Pele. [181] Lauwili, literally, an entanglement. It refers to the lustful attack made by Kama-pua'a on Pele, an attack to which she gave seeming acquiescence. [182] Apa'apa'a, the name of a violent wind, here used adjectively. [183] Luahine moe nana, Pele, who is depicted as an old woman huddled up on a lava plate. The snoring must refer to the sounds made by the lava while in action. [184] Wa'a kauhi, an unrigged canoe, without iako or ama. [185] Pepe mua, Pepe waena. This a detail in the development of the figure in which flowing lava is compared to a canoe. The pepe is a chock such as is put under the canoe when it is at rest on land. Mua, waena and muimui mean respectively at the bow, amidships and astern. [186] Muimui, an elided form of mulimuli, the hindmost. [187] Kihele ia ulu. Kihele, to bail out; ulu--the belly of the canoe, its swell amidships, the place where the bilge would settle. The implication is that, if the water is not bailed out, the incrusted salt will form a spot like the staring eye of Niheu. [188] Niheu, a mythological hero who is always spoken of as kalohe, mischievous, because of his restlessness and stirring energy. His mother, Hina, had been abducted by a pirate chief who lived on the high bluff of Haupu, on Moloka'i. Niheu and his brother Kana, whose body was a rope of immense length, went to their mother's rescue, in which they succeeded, after many adventures. The eyes of Niheu were a marked feature in his appearance, being described as large and searching. [189] Hina, the goddess with whom Wakea consorted after he had divorced his wife Papa by spitting in her face. Hina became the mother of the island of Moloka'i. From such a distinguished parentage arose the proverbial saying "Moloka'i nui a Hina." [190] Kaunu-ohua, a hill on Moloka'i between Halawa valley and Puko'o, where is said to repose the body of Pele. [191] Haupu, a hill on Moloka'i. [192] Okaoka, said to be the flame-body of Pele, or the small stones, iliili, that entered into the composition of her body. [193] Nana'i, an archaic form of Lana'i. [194] Ka-ula-hea, a goddess with whom Wakea consorted after his divorce of Papa. The name also of a historic king of Lana'i, as well as of a kaula--prophet--attached to the disreputable set of gods that infested Lana'i at one time. [195] Poli-hua, a sandy cape on Lana'i famous for its sea-turtles. [196] Wai-li'u, full form, wai-li'u-la, mirage. [197] Hoopa'apa'a Pele ilaila. Pele had planted a spring at this place, near Wai-lua, Kaua'i. Kama-pua'a, in company with two dragon-goddesses, Ka-la-mai-nu'u and Kilioe, who will find mention later in the story, took possession and moved the spring to another spot. When Pele came that way again, after a wordy contention with the two dragons, she slew them. [198] Ulu, to guard, to farm, to protect. The kahu was the one who offered the sacrifices and prayers that were necessary to the maintenance of power and life in an artificial divinity, such as many of the Hawaiian deities were. [199] Mo'o-kini, literally, the multitude (40,000) of dragons; the name of a heiau in Puna. There is also a heiau in Kohala called by the same name. [200] Ko'i, said to be a kupua who had to do with carving and finishing the canoe. Pua seems to be epithet applied to the group of workmen who assisted him. [201] Lele-iwi, a cape on the Puna side of Hilo bay. [202] Mokau-lele, the name of a little land in Hilo situated near the point where the eruption of 1881-1882 came to a stand-still. [203] Lili. This word, accented on the final syllable, means to rush, to move with one fixed purpose in view. It is to be distinguished from lili, having the accent on the penult, and meaning to be angry, jealous, alienated. (My authority is J. M. Poepoe). The word is not given by Andrews in his Dictionary. [204] Haili-opua, the name of a deity. It means the piling-up of cloud-portents. [205] Wai-a-kahala-loa, the Green lake, in Puna. This was, no doubt, much larger and of more importance in ancient times than it is now. [206] Wa'a, the name of a kaula, soothsayer, who observed the omens in the heavens and instructed the fishermen. He had his station on or near the hill Maka-noni, in Puna. [207] In one text this is Pu-ala'a, said to be a place in Puna. I have amended it to make better sense. [208] Ko'e-ula, a family of Kupua, superhuman creatures, who had power over men's lives. They were, in truth, some kind of mud-worms, or glow-worms. They came out from their subterranean retreats to see Pele. [209] A'ama, an edible black crab whose shell has a highly decorative pattern. It is said to have been used as a special, or sacred food by certain priests. [210] Pe'ai, a contracted form from pe'e, to hide. In this case, the meaning seems to be to hang low in the heavens. [211] Ihi, another form for uhi, to cover, or covered. The ahea, or aheahea is a common plant that was cooked and eaten like luau. It was also used as a poultice, after heating. [212] Ka-ula-hea. See note 22. [213] Ka-o-mea-lani, a god of rain. He indicated his presence by piling up volumes of white clouds. [214] Hokahoka, disappointed, fooled, deceived; said of Pele in view of her painful experience with Kama-pua'a. [215] Ne'ene'e, to shift about, as Pele had to do because her back was pierced to the bone by the sharp points of a-a on which she lay during her affair with Kama-pua'a. The point of the irony is to be found in the fact that she was as a rule indifferent to the roughness of the bed on which she lay. Yet she was accustomed--so the story goes--to choose pahoehoe as a bed. [216] Ai pau, literally, to eat the whole; and for the first time. [217] Pahoehoe. The mention of pahoehoe in this and in the following line has reference to a saying, or belief, which asserted that Pele was covered with an armor of pahoehoe. It is as if the poet sought to banter her on this popular notion. [218] Pau hale, literally, the destruction of the house, meaning, of course, the deflowering of Pele. [219] Kane-ula-a-Pele, literally, the red man of Pele, meaning Ka-moho-alii, a brother of Pele. He is described as having a ruddy complexion and reddish hair. He presided over the council of the Pele gods. [220] Ku-ihi-malanai-akea, one of the forms or attributes of god Ku, the Trade-wind. The word Malanai by itself is often used in modern Hawaiian poetry to signify the same thing. N.B.--The occurrence of the preposition e in verse 147 illustrates the somewhat vague and, at times illogical, use of prepositions in Hawaiian poetry. If I read this passage correctly, Kane-ula-a-Pele and Ku-ihi-malanai-akea are in apposition with hoalii, the subject of the verb noho; and, that being the case, instead of the preposition e we should have the particle o standing before Kane-... as we find it before Ku-.... The explanation of this anomaly, it seems to me, is to be found in the demand of the Hawaiian ear for tone-color, at any cost, even at the expense of grammar. [221] He noho ana ai laau, a session of the gods in which they partook in common of some laau, medicine, or spiritual corrective, as a sign of mutual amity, even as the North American Indians smoked the peace-pipe in token of friendly relation between the participants. This laau is said to have been none other than the tender buds of the a'ali'i, which was chewed by the members of the assembly and was deemed to be not merely a symbol but an active agent in the production of amity and a good understanding. [222] Papa-walu, literally, eightfold. The wahine are the Hiiaka sisters, seven in number. The inclusion of Kukuena fills the number to eight. N.B.--It should be noted that during the time of Pele's disqualification, or retirement, or disgrace, Hiiaka-i-ka-poli-o-Pele would be the one to control the affairs of the Pele family. [223] Kiope, to scatter, said of a fire, in order to extinguish it. [224] Ku mau-mau wa. The literal meaning is, stand in order, or, as I have put it, stand shoulder to shoulder. It corresponded to and served the purpose of a sailor's chantey, and was employed in the ancient times to Hawaiian history to give spirit and precision to the work of the men straining at the hauling line of a canoe-log. The koa tree has been felled and rudely fashioned; a strong line is made fast to one end of it, and the men, having ranged themselves along, rope in hand, their chief, sometimes standing on the log itself, gives the signal for them to be ready for a start by uttering the inspiring cry "I ku mau-mau wa!" "I ku mau wa," answer the men, and with a mighty pull the huge log starts on its way to its ocean-home. [225] Mauli, contracted form of Mauli-ola; the name of a kupua, a deity, who had to do with health, after some ideal fashion, a sort of Hygeia; also the name of that kupua's mystical abode. The name Mauli, or Mauli-ola, was also given, as I learn, to the site of the present Kilauea Volcano House. [226] Hua-wai maka, literally, an unripe water-gourd. In this place it means a small collection of dew or rain-water, a water-hole, a thing much sought after by men, even as the owl--as remarks the poet in the next verse--searches after it. Whether the poet is correct in his assertion about the owl, is more than I can say. [227] Pu oe i kau laau me kou makaainana. Kou makaainana is, undoubtedly, Pele. The reference is to the practice spoken of in note 48. [228] Hahau i ke Akua, offer to the god. [229] Ku'u ia a'e Pele. (In the text the ia is shortened to a). The meaning seems to be that Pele is exonerated from blame. That would not, however, alter the facts and render back to Pele the sacredness that belonged to her uncontaminated body. [230] Lapu'u 'na Pele. This seems to have a double meaning, referring at once to the dismissal of hard feelings against Pele and to her rising up from her customary attitude in repose, that with her head crouched forward and her legs drawn up towards the body. [231] Kauwiki, a hill in Hana, Maui, famous in history. [232] Ho'oili, to come together in a bunch, said of fish. This is an unusual use of the word, though an old Hawaiian (J. T. P.) tells me his mother used it in this way. It refers not to the swarming of fish, but their bunching together when driven. [233] Paiea, a species of crab that resembles the a'ama. The background color of the paiea is black; this is strewn with spots and markings of dark red, producing a highly artistic effect. The specimen I examined was found in the Honolulu fish market and came from Kona, Hawaii. In spite of mutilation, it still retained a formidable claw. [234] Maunu paiea. The Hawaiian fisherman often prepared his bait by chewing it fine, after which he blew it into the water to attract the fish. The poet finds a parallel between this action of the fisherman and the discharge of venomous words by an angered person. [235] Nie, an elided form of niele, to question. [236] Ea, the sea-turtle. [237] Honu, the land-turtle. [238] Kukuau, a hairy, spotted crab, said to be poisonous. [239] Hinalea, a name applied to fish of several different species, among which one that is rare is the Hinalea akilolo (Macropharyngodon geoffroy, Quoy and Gaimard). Another less rare, though beautiful, species is the Hinalea i'iwi (Gomphosus tricolor, Quoy and Gaimard). [240] Apuhihi. [241] Hihi-wai, a bivalve shell that is found clinging to rocks or reeds in fresh or brackish water streams. Its dorsum is jetty black, its front white, shading into yellow. [242] Loli-pua, loli-koko and loli-ka'e, different species of holothuriae, or sea-slugs, some of which are esteemed as food by the Hawaiians. They were, nevertheless, looked upon as kupua. [243] Lelea, a marine creature that is said to be slimy and adheres to the rocks. [244] Kahi-kona, said to be a god of the fishermen. [245] Leo hokiki, an imperfect tone caused by a torn drumhead. [246] Kua a. The penalty of approaching Pele from behind was death: she is said to have had a consuming back. [247] Kai oki'a, an engulfing abyss. [248] Ala muku, the rainbow. (For further comments on these difficult passages, see notes 11, 12, and 13, on page 114.) [249] Ho'o-nou o ka lani. This must be Pele. The word ho-onou is used of a person striving to accomplish some physical task, as of a woman straining in labor. [250] Ku-walu, literally, eighth in order of succession. [251] Ulu-po, said to be the name of a heiau at Kailua, Oahu. [252] Iku-wa, the name of a month in the Hawaiian year, corresponding, according to one account, pretty closely to October; according to another nomenclature it corresponds pretty nearly to our April. The name etymologically connoted thunder and reverberations. [253] Eka mua, literally, the first blast of a storm; here used figuratively to mean the first sexual ecstacy. [254] Hoaka, a setting forth in figures. (Hoakaka). [255] Ana-ku, the name of a cave situated somewhere in the caldera of Kilauea, a place of assembly for the gods. Its use here is evidently for a highly figurative purpose, and has, of course, to do with Pele and her affair with Kama-pua'a. [256] Ha-amo, the name of the road to Ana-ku. (Peleioholani). [257] Pahu. It is doubtful whether this means a drum or a post. In either case, in the smash-up of the one or the overthrow of the other, the figure evidently is designed to set forth the confusion caused by the catastrophe--Pele's debauchment. The other figures that follow have the same purpose. [258] Halau ololo, literally, a long shed or canoe-house, meaning a place of common assembly for people. The figure is applied to Pele and is intended to declare that, through her affair with Kama-pua'a she had degraded herself and robbed her body of its tabu, its sanctity. [259] Kiko, a mark to indicate a tabu. Two ti leaves placed crosswise, and held in place by a pebble, would constitute a kiko. [260] Mo'a, literally, cooked; meaning that the tabu has expired, been abrogated. [261] Pu'e-pu'e, the hills of taro. Kaele means the division or apportioning of them. [262] Ne'ine'i, the more scattered, smaller, hills of taro, those that are nearer the bank. [263] Pakikokiko, the scattered taro plants that grow in the water-course. [264] These Honopu women, two in number, were mo'o, witches, related to Kilioe, a famous witch-mo'o of Hawaii, and their names were Kili-oe-i-ka-pua and Ka-lana-mai-nu'u. [265] Kili-hau, the name given to a local wind accompanied by a fine rain. [266] Kili-opu, a name descriptive of a wind and rain-shafts that, plunging into the water, made as little splash as a skillful diver. [267] Pu'e. This word is here used in an unusual sense to mean cold. [268] Hanehane, the shrill, seemingly far-off, wailing of a ghost; ghostly. [269] Pololei, an archaic name applied to the land shell, now known as pupu-kanioi. This was supposed to utter a delicate trilling cry similar to that of the cricket. [270] Lima-loa, the god Mirage. [271] Wawae-nohu, the name given to a red cloud seen at sunset in the west from Mana, Kauai. [272] Ka-halau-a-ola, literally, the hall of health. The more commonly used appellation Mauli-ola, was both the name of a deity and of a mystical place. One may infer from their use that Halau-a-ola meant rather a sort of house-of-refuge, a place of security from the attack of an enemy, while Mauli-ola had in view a mystical, beatific, condition. The former is illustrated in the line describing Kama-pua'a's escape from Pele's onslaught: Noho ana Kama-pua'a i ka Halau-a-ola. Kama-pua'a finds refuge in the hall of life. [273] Hala-aniani, a small lake of fresh water in a cave at Haena, in which the writer has bathed. [274] Koa maka-iwa, idols with eyes of mother o' pearl. To this class belonged Ku-kaili-moku, the famous war god of Kamehameha. [275] Halawa, the largest valley on Moloka'i, a stronghold of priestcraft and sorcery. "Ua o'o na pule o Moloka'i," the incantations of Moloka'i are ripe, became a proverbial expression. [276] Hea, a stream near Haena. [277] Hana-ia-ka-malama, a benevolent goddess who presided over the tabus that were the birthright of certain chiefs. The rules and observances that etiquette prescribed in the life and conduct of such a chief were intricate and burdensome to the last degree. It was, for instance, required that an infant who inherited this sort of a tabu must not be placed in such a position that the sun's rays could shine on its vertex. [278] Mai-u'u, Ma-a'a, two goddesses (of the wilderness) whose function it was to string or twine leis and wreaths for the decoration of the superior gods. All the gods here mentioned were sometimes grouped under the appellation Akua o ka wa po--gods of the night-time--the fact being, however, that they worked as much by day as by night. [279] Nahinahi-ana, another name for the goddess Hina-ulu-ohi'a, under which appelation her function was to make the dyes used in coloring and printing the tapas. [280] Kuhulu ma. The particle-affix ma indicates that this name, or cognomen rather, comprises a group--in this case a family group--of deities. Under the family cognomen Ku were ranged a large and important group of deities, to whom were given individual appelations appropriate to their functions. Thus, Ku-huluhulu and Ku-ka-ohi'a-laka were deities worshipped by the canoe-makers. Ku-hulu and his set (ma) exercised a function akin to that of the water-carrier. They had charge of the fabled, life-giving water of Kane, Wai a Kane, and served it out according to the needs of men. [281] Hanau a Kane, offspring of Kane. This appellation is intended, apparently, to cover the whole list of names already mentioned and, perhaps, some to be mentioned later in the mele. [282] Wahine. Who these women, goddesses, were is brought out in what follows. [283] Na Wahine i ka pa'ipa'i, literally, the women who clapped, or applauded; but more closely specified as: [284] Pa'i-kua, the goddess who slapped the back, as was done in the hula. [285] Pa'i-alo, the goddess who slapped the chest, as was also done in the hula. [286] Pa'i-kauhale, she who knocked at the doors of the village, i.e., who roused the people generally. [287] Aha, the charm of a pule, its ceremonial correctness, its power as an incantation. [288] Lele wale, to get off the track; to go astray; to fail to hit the point. [289] A pa ia'u, pa ia oe, with results disastrous to me and to you. [290] Wahine-kapu, a bluff in the north-western wall that surrounds the caldera of Kilauea, the tabu residence of god Ka-moho-alii, a brother of Pele. [291] Hoali'i (Hoa, companion and alii, chief); a fellow chief. [292] Ku-wa'a, a god who presided at the hauling of a canoe-log. The shout raised on such an occasion, though it sounds almost like a repetition of this god's name, being "ku maumau wa," had a different origin. [293] Ku-haili-moe, one of the Ku gods, whose function it was to induce or preside over dreams at night. [294] Naele o Hawaii, probably meaning the whole broad area of Hawaii. One view would make it refer specially to the swampy lands. [295] Kui-kui, an archaic form of the word kukui; here meaning both the candle made from the kukui nut and the god who had the same under his special charge. [296] Koli-koli, the god who presided over the snuffling of the kukui nut candles. These were made by stringing the roasted nuts on a coconut leaf-rib. [297] Kaha-ula, the goddess who presided over erotic dreams. [298] Lono-makua, a god one of whose functions was to act as guardian of fire. When Pele and Kama-pua'a fought together and Kama-pua'a had succeeded in extinguishing the fires of Kilauea, Pele, in dismay, appealed to Lono-makua, saying, "There is no fire left." Lono-makua calmly pointed to his armpit and said, "Here is the fire, in these fire-sticks," (aunaki and aulima). The armpit was his place for carrying these sticks. When the Hawaiians first saw a White man with a lighted pipe in his mouth, smoke issuing therefrom, they said, "Surely, this is the great god Lono-makua; he breathes out fire." [299] Kane-kapolei, god of flowers and shrubs. [300] Laka, a god, or demi-god of various functions, such as fishing, agriculture, and house-building. Malo mentions Ku-ka-ohi'a-Laka as a god invoked by canoe-makers. Laka is evidently derived from the name Rata, which in Tahiti, Raro-tonga and New Zealand is the name of the ohi'a tree. Laka is to be distinguished from Laka, the goddess of the hula. [301] Haina-kolo, the same as Ha'i-wahine, the name used in the Hawaiian text. Ha'ina-kolo is a name that spells tragedy. She was a princess of Hawaii who married a mythical being, Ke-anini-ula-o-ka-lani and went with him to his home in the South. Being deserted by her husband, after the birth of her child she started to swim home to Hawaii. Arriving in a famished condition in Kohala, she ate of some ulei berries without first making an offering to the gods. For this offense she was afflicted with insanity, and being distraught, she wandered in the wilderness until her repentant husband sent for her and restored her by his returning love. [302] Uli, the chief aumakua of sorcery, but at the same time having power as a healer if she would but exercise it. [303] Alohi-lani (literally, the shining heavenly ones); the notions that prevail as to its precise meaning in this place are vague. [304] Kupukupu, a benevolent deity who healed diseases and who caused vegetation to flourish. [305] Uli. In this connection the word means black. Ilio is a cloud. [306] Mea, yellow. Ilio mea, a yellow cloud. [307] Ku-ke-ao-iki, a form of the god Ku, a small cloud--hand-size--that grew and grew until it became ominous and seemed to fill the heavens. [308] Ku-ke-ao-loa, a cloud-omen grown to full size. [309] Ku-ke-ao-poko, said to be a cloud that quickly dissolved itself in rain. [310] Ku-ke-ao-apihapiha, a sky full of small clouds, probably the same as our "mackerel sky." All these different kinds of clouds are forms in which Ku showed himself. [311] Kanaka o ka mauna. This undoubtedly means Ku-pulupulu, a god of the canoe-makers. He seems to have had much influence over the lawless Kini Akua. He it was who contracted for the building of a canoe for the hero Laka. [312] Ulu laau, another form of ulu; a shady place. [313] Hina, to sit or kneel for prayer. [314] Omaka, a quiet, silent, place in the wilderness suitable for prayer. [315] Kana, another form of kena, enough. [316] Wai, the awa cup. [317] Ka-hoalii, one of the gods who came with Pele from Kahiki. [318] Piko. The operation of trimming the thatch over the door of a house was a ceremonious operation and was termed oki ka piko. No one would think of sitting in the doorway or of standing on the door sill; it was sacred to Ka-hoalii (mentioned in the 14th line.) [319] Uli, the arch-goddess of sorcery and anaana (praying to death). It seems to be implied that she has healing power as well as power to kill. Or, it may be, she is invoked, retained, to keep her from enlisting on the side of the opposition. [320] Ilio-uli o ka lani, the slaty-blue clouds, here appealed to as kupua, beings possessed of power for good or ill. [321] Ilio-mea, a white cloud (cumulus). [322] Ilio-ehu, a cloud having a ruddy tint from the light of the sun. [323] Ku-ke-ao-iki, clouds broken up into small fragments, like our mackerel sky. [324] Ku-ke-ao-loa, the long stratus clouds, here represented as an embodiment of Ku. [325] Ku-ke-ao-poko, a small compact cloud standing detached from its fellows. [326] Ku-ke-ao-awihiwihi-ula, a ruddy cloud, ragged at its border. [327] Kanaka o ka mauna, probably the Kini Akua, the host of elfins, kobolds and brownies--godlings--that peopled the wilderness. [328] Hoa hele o ka ulu-laau, an apposition clause that explains the previous appellations. [329] Na Keo-lani, goddesses of healing. [330] Maka'a-pule, a term applied to an ohi'a fruit (mountain apple) when so ripe that its seed rattled within the drupe. It was then in the finest condition for eating. [331] Ku-haili-moe, the same god as Ku-haili-moku, who bedecked the land with greenery, a god also worshipped by the canoe-makers. [332] Ha'iha'i-lau-ahea, said to be the same as Ha'ina-kolo. [333] Wahine i kapa ku, the woman who stood in the outskirts of the assembly. [334] Uhau, to lay down or offer a prayer, as, e.g., uhau i ka pule. The offering of the prayer is considered as a physical act, the same as laying down a pig or a fish on the altar of the god. [335] Paeaea, a fishing rod; the act of fishing. Hiiaka is represented as fishing for a favor. [336] Laka, a god, or demi-god, of various functions, including fishing, agriculture and a participation in house-building. He was also one of the gods invoked by canoe-builders. The name is evidently the same as Rata, the appellation, in Tahiti, Raro-tonga and New Zealand, of the lehua (Metrosideros lutea). N.B. This Laka is to be carefully distinguished from the female Laka, the goddess and patron of the hula as well as necromancy. [337] Kai-a-ulu, a sea-breeze that comforted Waianae. [338] Kane-pu-niu, a form of god Kane, now an uncarved bowlder; here used in a tropical sense to mean the head. The Hawaiians, impelled by the same vein of humor as ourselves, often spoke of the human head as a coconut (pu-niu). [339] Kona, here used as a local name for the sea-breeze. [340] Koolau-wahine, a wind, stronger, but from the same direction as the Kona. [341] The author begs to remark that sunstroke is unknown in all Hawaii. [342] Lau-a'e, a fragrant plant that grows in the woods of Kauai. [343] Akua. The word akua was used not alone to designate the gods, it was also applied to any superhuman or supernatural being. The reference here is to the little creatures that swarmed in the land. [344] Oe. This last line is evidently addressed to her traveling companion, Wahine-oma'o, whom she descried in the canoe in the offing. [345] Huli ke alo i ka paia. To sleep with one's face turned to the wall was reckoned to indicate a high degree of confidence in one's safety. [346] Ula, a tingling in the ears. Tinnitus aurium, a tingling in the ears, or any similar symptom in that organ was regarded as a sure sign that some person was making a communication from a distance. This superstition, or sentiment, in regard to tinnitus aurium was not peculiar to the Polynesian. In Der Trompeter von Säckingen I find the following: Laut das Ohr klingt, als ein Zeichen, Dass die Heimath sein gedenket,-- [347] Pahele-hala, literally, shaking the hala (pandanus tree). Hala also meant fault or sin. The figure is to be taken to mean a shaking of sins, in other words, a casting of them away, a disregarding of them. [348] Wai-lua, an abyss in the water. The reference is, of course, to the shark-gods. [349] Laau, wooden. The reference is to the shark-bodies of the two monsters which became dead, wooden, when discarded by them on their coming out of the ocean and resuming ordinary human form. [350] Lehua. The full name is Moana-nui-ka-lehua, a goddess (mermaid) whose domain was in the abyss of the Ieie-waena channel. For further details see remarks in the text. [351] Aina, to furnish food. [352] Lahui, wholly, entirely. [353] Huki, to fetch a wide course; to deviate from a direct course. [354] Ilio, dog. It is explained that the meaning covered by this figure is a storm-cloud and that the stripping off of its garment, wehe ... i kona kapa, meant its break up into the fleecy white clouds of fair weather. It seems that if the head of this cloud-dog pointed to the west it meant rain, if to the east, fair weather. [355] Hanai alualu, to fan with a gentle breeze. Alu-alu is another form for oluolu. [356] Miki-kala and Puha-malo, names of places along the coast of Oahu in the region under observation. [357] Kai-a-ulu, a wind felt on the leeward side of Oahu. [358] Ha'ina na ihu. Ha'i, to break or be broken. The Hawaiian kiss was a flattening of nose against nose. The breaking of noses, as here, therefore, means excessive kissing. [359] Lualua-lei, the name of a plain in this region. [360] Barber's Point. [361] Kua-mú, said to be the name of a wind, the blowing of which caused heavy rain in the woods back of Hilo. [362] Hana-kahi, an ancient king of Hilo, frequently mentioned in poetry, whose name is used to designate the district. [363] Hale Lehua, an evident allusion to the goddess, or mermaid, Moana-nui-ka-Lehua. She was a relative of Pele and had her habitation in the ocean caverns of Ie-ie-waena, the channel between Oahu and Kauai. Her story belongs to the time when the sun-hero Mawi was performing his wonderful exploits. (See account given on p. 104.) [364] Pulelo, a word descriptive of the tremor of the flames that wrapped the trees. [365] Maewa, to fork, or branch, said of the flames. [366] Awa lau, leaf-shaped lagoon; a highly appropriate epithet, when applied to that system of lochs, channels and estuaries that form the famous "Pearl Lochs," as any one acquainted with the place will admit. [367] Pe'e-kaua, the name applied to a portion of the plain west of Pu'u-loa. [368] Kau-no'a, a parasitic plant (Cassytha filiformis) consisting of wiry stems that cling to other plants by means of small protuberances or suckers. [369] Akuli-kuli, a low, vine-like plant, said to have fleshy leaves and minute flowers. [370] Wili-wili (Erythrina monosperma), a tree having light, corky wood, much used in making the outrigger floats for canoes. Its flowers, of a ruddy flame-color, make a splendid decoration. [371] Kane-hili, a name applied to a part of the plain west of Pu'u-loa[Pu'uloa?]. Notice the repetition of the word hili in the next verse. Hili means astray, or distressed. [372] Hili, to go astray, to lose one's way. Assonance by word-repetition was a favorite device of Hawaiian poetry. The Hawaiian poet did not use rhyme. [373] Mo-ewa'a, literally a canoe-dream. To dream of a canoe was an omen of ill luck. It was also unlucky to dream of having gained some valued possession and then wake to the disappointing reality. [374] Wa'a-hila is said to have been the name of a favorite hula of Pele-ula; so called after a princess who, with her brother Ka-manu-wai, excelled in the performance of this dance. Her name has been perpetuated in an old saying that has come down to us: Ka ua Wa'a-hila o Nu'uanu. This is a gentle rain that extends only as far down Nu'uanu valley as to Wyllie or Judd street. [375] Po Puna. Puna, as the home-center of volcanic action, knew what it was to be darkened by a volcanic eruption. Puna here stands for Hiiaka and her companion whose home it was. The night that overshadows Puna represents allegorically the intriguing designs of Pele-ula. [376] Maka lehua. The lehua buds stand for the harmony, kindly affection and love that up to this time had existed between Lohiau and the two women escorting him. Pele-ula is the smoke that blights the lehua buds. [377] Kihei-hei, frequentative form of kihei, to wear. [378] Paü heihei. The pau heihei was a fringe of vegetable ribbons strung together and worn about the loins, thus serving as the conventional shield of modesty among the people of the olden time. The modifying expression, o uka, implies that the use of this particular form of pau was rather a sign of rusticity. [379] Papa lohi o Mau-kele, glistening lava plates of Mau-kele. Mau-kele was a land in Puna. The implication is that these women, Pele-ula, Waikiki and the rest of them are plotting to steal away the affections of Lohiau. [380] Ha'a ho'i ka papa, the lava plates rock: that is the plot is a shaky fabrication and will.... [381] Kahuli, topple over. [382] Puna. There is a punning double entendre involved in the use of this word here. A puna-lua was one who shared with another the sexual favors of a third party. The implication is that Hiiaka and Wahine-oma'o stood thus towards Lohiau. See also note (a). [383] Lau o ka lima, leaves of the hand. The spasmodic working (ha'a) of the fingers was deemed to be a sign of lustful passion. It is here attributed to Lohiau. [384] Loha, to droop, to be fooled; here to be understood in the latter sense of Pele-ula. [385] Wahine-kapu, one of the female deities of the Pele family who had her seat on an eminence at the brink of the caldera of Kilauea which was reverenced as a tabu place. [386] Mai O'olu-eä. O'olu-ea, as a place-name calls for a preposition in mai. O'olu-ea, however, contains within it a verb, olu, to be easy, comfortable, and as a verb olu decides the mai to be an adverb of prohibition. In this meaning the caution is addressed to Lohiau. [387] Ahi-a-Laka, a land in Puna. The double sense, in which it is here used, gives it a reference to the fires of passion. [388] La anoano, literally, quiet day. [389] The kilu, which gave name to the sport, was an egg-shaped dish made by cutting a coconut or small gourd from end to end and somewhat obliquely so that one end was a little higher than the other. [390] Au-hula-ana. When the road along a steep coast is cut off by a precipice with the ocean tossing at its base, the traveler will often prefer to swim rather than make a wide inland detour. Such a place or such an adventure is called an au-hula or au-hula-ana. [391] Laau ku'i, literally, spliced sticks; a ladder, or some contrivance of the sort to aid the traveler in climbing a pali. [392] Lalo, below, to leeward; therefore to the west, meaning Lohiau, who came from the leeward island of Kauai. [393] Manawa, the fontanelles; the heart and affections. [394] Wai-lua, a river on Kauai. [395] Lehua-wehe, a land in Honolulu; here meaning Pele-ula herself. [396] Moe-awakea, a hill in Puna; here used for its etymological signification--literally, to sleep at noontime--which is brought out in the translation. [397] The ami was a vigorous action of the body, often employed by dancers. Its chief feature was a rotation of the pelvis in circles of elipses. Though sometimes used with amorous intent, it was not necessarily an attempt to portray sexual attitudes. The ami honua, or ami ku'u pau, was an exaggerated action of the same description. [398] Kalukalu, a place in Puna which supported extensive forests of hala (pandanus), a tree whose sword-shaped leaves were edged with fierce thorns. In contrast with the smart they produced the poet adduces the delights of the wilds in his own island of Kauai, instancing the laua'e, a fragrant vine that abounds in its mountains. [399] Mohole, an unusual form for pohole, to be lacerated, but not quite so strong. [400] Na-pali (the cliffs), a name given to the precipitous side of Kauai, where is the wild valley of Ka-lalau. [401] Pu'u o Moe-awa. The full form is Moe-awakea (noonday sleep), the name of a hill in Puna. By omitting kea, the word awakea (noon) comes to mean bitter, thus imparting to the meaning a cutting irony. Cf. note (a), page 176. [402] Hana-lei, literally, to make a wreath; a valley on Kauai. [403] Hala. It was ill luck to wear a wreath of the hala drupe. [404] According to one version of this story, Hiiaka made free use of her powers of enchantment in withdrawing from the presence of Pele-ula. At the proper psychological moment, with the wreath of victory crowning her brow, while Pele-ula was vainly intent on an effort to turn the tide of her own defeat and gain the shadow of a recognition as mistress of the game of Kilu, Hiiaka, with a significant gesture to her companions, spat upon the ground and, her example having been imitated by Wahine-oma'o and Lohiau, their physical bodies were at once transported to a distance while their places continued to be occupied by unsubstantial forms that had all the semblance of reality. [405] Maka-pa, an expression used of stones that burst when placed in the fire. [406] Makani holo ulá. The allusion is to a cold wind that chills the naked legs of the fisher-folk. [407] Pau-kua, a place-name, meaning consumed in the back--a clear reference to the fact that the kahuna's black art very frequently made its fatal ravages by attacking first the back. [408] Lele-iwi, the name of a cape that marked the coast of Puna. The word also has a meaning of its own, to express which seems to be the purpose of its use here. It connotes a grave-yard, a scaffold, one, perhaps, on which the body (literally the bones) of a human sacrifice are left exposed. [409] Maka-hana-loa, the name of another cape, also on the Hilo-Puna coast. [410] Lae Ohi'a, literally, ohi'a cape, meaning a forest growth that stretched out like a tongue. [411] Apane, a species of lehua that has red flowers, much fed upon by the birds. (In the original newspaper-text the word was pane, evidently a mistake. There are, regretably, many such mistakes in the original text.) [412] Manienie, smooth, meadow-like, a name given in modern times to the Bermuda grass--"fine grass"--said to have been imported by Vancouver, now extensively seen in Hawaiian lawns. [413] Ke-ahi-a-Laka, literally, the fire of Laka, the name of a land. [414] Ha'eha'e, the eastern Sun-gate, applicable to Puna as the easternmost district of Hawaii and of the whole group. In claiming Puna as hers--i.e., as her home-land--Hiiaka seems to have set up a claim to be the guardian of the Sun's rising, and therefore, by implication of Pele. [415] "I hana ia ka ihu i mea honi." [416] Muliwai o Lena. There is a stream of this name in Waianae, it is said. Lena is also said to be the name of a place in Kahiki. The word lena, yellow, strongly suggests the thought of sulphur. [417] Moku po'o a Kane, literally, the fissured head of Kane. The first land formed by Kane. [418] Kane-lau-apua, the same as Kane-apua. One of the numerous avatars or characters of Kane. He appeared in Kahiki--Kukulu o Kahiki--and gained a reputation as a benevolent deity, whose benign function--shared by Kane-milo-hai--was to pluck from the jaws of death those who lay at the last gasp (mauli-awa), or whose vital spark was at the last flicker (pua-aneane). He healed the palsied, the helpless and hopeless, those who were beyond the reach of human aid. On one occasion he restored himself to perfect health and soundness by the exercise of his own will; hence his name, Kane-apua. On another occasion he illustrated his power by restoring to life some okuhekuhe which the fisherman had already scaled and laid upon the fire. The motive for this act seems to have been that this fish was a form in which he sometimes appeared. The story of his adventure with Kane-lelei-aka is worthy of mention. At one time while standing on a headland that reached out into the ocean like the prow of a ship, his eye caught a gleam from something moving swiftly through the water. He saw it repeatedly passing and repassing and wondered what it was. It was the shadowy form of Kane-lelei-aka, but he knew it not. He scanned the surrounding mountains and cliffs, if perchance he might get sight of the body, bird, or spirit that produced this reflection. He discovered nothing. In pursuit of his quest, he started to go to Kukulu-o-Kahiki. On the way he met his relative Kane-milo-hai, out in mid ocean. "Are you from Kanaloa?" asked Kane-milo-hai. That meant are you from Lana'i, Kanaloa being the name formerly given to that little island. "Aye, I am from Kanaloa and in pursuit of a strange shadowy thing that flits through the ocean and evades me." "You don't seem to recognize that it is only a shadow, a reflection. The real body is in the heavens. What you are pursuing is but the other intangible body, which is represented by the body of Kane-mano. He is speeding to reach his home in Ohe-ana" (a cave in the deep sea, in the Kai-popolohua-a-Kane). "How then shall I overtake him?" asked Kane-pua. "You will never succeed this way. You are no better off than a kolea (plover) that nods, moving its head up and down (kunou). Your only way is to return with me and start from the bread-fruit tree of Lei-walo (Ka ulu o Lei-walo). You must make your start with a flying leap from the topmost branch of that tree. In that way you can come up to him and catch him." The rest of the story: how he followed the advice given him by Kane-milo-hai and succeeded is too long for insertion here. [419] Nowai he wa'a? To speak of a lava flow as a wa'a, a canoe, is a familiar trope in Hawaiian mele. (See U. L. of H., p. 194). The canoe in this case is the eruption of fire sent against Lohiau, the hoapaio, against whom it is launched, Lohiau and Hiiaka. [420] Aimoku wahine. An aimoku is one who eats up the land, a conqueror, a literal description of Pele. [421] Kini maka o ka la. In the original text from which this is taken the form is Kini-maka, offering the presumption that it is intended as a proper name. Kini-maka was a malevolent kupua, demigod, against whom, it is charged that she was given to scooping out and eating the eyes of men and her fellow gods. Her name was then called Walewale-o-Ku. Kane, it is said, took her in hand and weaned her from her bad practice; after which she was called Kini-maka, Forty-thousand-eyes. The phrase o ka la affixed to her name discountenances the idea that she is the one here intended. It becomes evident that the whole expression means rather the many eyes of the Sun, i.e., the many rays that dart from the Sun; and this is the way I construe it. [422] Pau o ka wahine? The question as to the kind of pau, skirt, worn by the women--those of Pele's fire-brigade, as I have termed them--is pertinent, from the fact that the answer will throw light on their mood and the character of their errand, whether peaceful, warlike, etc. The answer given in the text (line 20 of the translation) is Their skirts were fern and leaf of the ti. A pau of fern was said to be hanohano, dignified. Ua kapa ia ka palai he palai alii; o ka la-i, ua kapa ia he mea kala (the pau of fern was worn by chiefs; the pau of ti leaf was a sign of propitiation.) A woman wore a ti leaf during her period of monthly infirmity. The whole subject will bear further investigation. [423] Kihi o ka Mahina, the horn of the Moon. The manner of fastening the pau, knotting or tucking it in at each hip, gave it a crescent shape, with an angle at each hip. This seems to have suggested to the poet a comparison with the horns of the young Moon. [424] Akua lehe-oi, an undoubted reference to Pele,--the sharp devouring edge, lip, of her lava-flow. [425] Akua lehe-ama. This also must refer to Pele--her gaping lips. [426] Puke, this archaic form of pu'e, a hill of potatoes, yams and the like. [427] The Hawaiians had no such thing as bread. The Hawaiian word ai, in line 20 of the original, means vegetable food. The necessities of the case seem to justify the use of the word bread in the translation. The reader will pardon the anachronism. [428] Awa. The full expression would probably be ua awa, bitter rain, i.e., bad weather. [429] Halelo, rough, jagged like aa. The following quotation is given: Ku ke a, ka halelo o Kaupo, I ho'okipa i ka hale o ka lauwili: E-lau-wili. He lau-wili ka makani, he Kaua-ula. TRANSLATION How jagged stand the rocks of Kaupo, That once held the house of the shiftless! [430] Ihi-lani, literally, the splendor of heaven; said to be a god of lightning, also the name of a hill. [431] Ihi-awaawa, said to be the name of a god of lightning, as well as the name of a hill. [432] Huki-huki, literally, to pull, to haul with a succession of jerks. The action here figured is eminently descriptive of the manner of advance of a lava-flow. It is not with the uniform movement of a body of water. It shoots out a tongue of molten stuff here and there; and as this cools, or is for cause arrested, a similar process takes place at some other point. This movement bears a striking resemblance to the action of a body of skirmishers advancing under fire. Its progress is by fits and starts. [433] Pua'a-kanu. In spite of the fact that this is claimed by Hawaiians to be a place-name, I must see in it an allusion to a swine, devoted to sacrifice, connoting Lohiau himself. [434] Oa, a poetical contraction for loa, long. [435] Haele. By a figure of speech--metonymy--the word haele, meaning to travel, is used to signify a fellow traveler, the companion, of course, is Hiiaka herself. [436] Ku-mauna, a rain-god of great local fame and power; now represented by a monolithic bowlder about thirty feet high, partly overgrown with ferns and moss, situated in the lower edge of the forest-belt, that lies to the south and Kau of Mauna-loa, deserves more than passing mention. The region in which this rock is situated is declared by vulcanologists to have been one vast caldera and must have been the scene of tremendous disturbances. Up to the present time the Hawaiians have continued to hold Ku-mauna in great reverence mingled with fear. The following modern instance isnot only a true story, and interesting, but also furnishes an illustration of the attitude of mind of the Hawaiian people generally,--or many of them--towards their old gods. During a period of severe drought in the district of Kau, Hawaii, a gentleman named S----, while hunting in the neighborhood of the rock that bears the name Ku-mauna, took occasion to go out of his way and visit the rock. Standing before the rocky mass and calling it by name, he used towards it insulting and taunting epithets, professing to hold it responsible for the drought that was distressing the land. He concluded his tirade by discharging his rifle point blank against the face of the rock, resulting in the detachment of a considerable fragment. The vaqueros in the employ of Mr. S.----, who were assisting in the hunt, horrified at the sacreligious act, at once put spurs to their horses and made off, predicting the direst consequences from the rash act of Mr. S----. Now for the denouement: Within about ten days of this occurrence, the valley, on one side of which Mr. S---- had his residence, was visited by a violent rain-storm--such as would in popular speech be termed a cloud-burst. There was a mighty freshet, the waters of which reached so high as to flood his garden and threaten the safety of his house, which he saved only by the most strenuous exertions. The land which had been his garden was almost entirely washed away and in its place was deposited a pell-mell of stones. Needless to say, that, by the natives, this incident was and is regarded to this day as conclusive evidence of the divine power of Ku-mauna and of his wrath at the audacious person who insulted him. Special significance is attached to the fact that as part of Ku-mauna's reprisal the place that had been a garden was turned into a field of rocks. The only wonder is that Mr. S---- got off with so light a punishment. [437] Kani-a-hiku, a place-name--that of a village in the remote valley of Wai-manu--here used, apparently, for its meaning. To analyze its meaning, Kani = a sound, a voice, probably a bird-song; Hiku, a celebrated kupua, the mother of the famous mythical hero Mawi. It is said that when the wind, locally known as the Kapae, but more commonly named the Ho'olua--the same as our trade-wind--blew gently from the ocean, the listening ears of Kani-a-hiku heard, in the distance, the sound of hula drums and other rude instruments mingling with the voices of men chanting the songs of the hula. This seems to be the kani referred to. [438] Wahine ai lehua, Pele. Who else would it be? [439] Unu kupukupu (also written, it is said, haunu kupukupu), a hummock or natural rock-pile, such as would be selected by fishermen, with the addition, perhaps, of a few stones, as an altar on which to lay their offering and before which to utter their prayers. Kupukupu indicates the efficacy of such an altar as a luck-bringer. [440] Pu'u-lena, a wind felt at Kilauea that blew from Puna. The word lena, yellow, suggests the sulphurous fumes that must have added to it their taint at such time as the wind passed over the volcanic pit. [441] Ku-hala-kai, a plentiful fall of rain. [442] Ku-hulu-ku, a chilling of the atmosphere. [443] Pu'uku-akahi, Pu'uku-alua, names applied to hills on one or the other side of the fire-pit, whence seem to come those sonorous puffing or blowing sounds that accompany the surging of the fires. [444] Kua-loi. This is probably shortened from the full form Kua-loiloi. The reference is to a law, or custom, which forbade any one to approach Pele from behind, or to stand behind her. He kua loiloi ko Pele, the meaning of which is, Pele has a fastidious back. [445] Ka-hoa-lii, literally, companion of kings; the shark-god, a relation of Pele, who occupied a section of the plateau on the northwestern side of the caldera, a place so sacred that the smoke and flames of the volcano were not permitted to trespass there. [446] Maiau pololei, land shells found on trees, generally called pupu-kanioi. [447] Kanaka loloa, Ku-pulupulu, one of the gods of the canoe-makers; here spoken of as a tall man in contradistinction, perhaps, to the dwarfish Kini-akua, who were his followers. [448] Kuli-pe'e-nui, a deity, or an idealization, of a lava flow. The feature that seems to be emphasized is the stumbling, crawling, motion, which as seen in a flow, may be compared to the awkward, ataxic movement of one whose knees are dislocated and leg-bones broken. [449] Pi'i-kea, the god of the roaches, who is described as given to making certain tapping motions with his head which, I believe, are practiced by the roach at the present time. [450] Mahao'o, an epithet applied to a dog that shows a patch of yellow hairs on each side of his face. It has somewhat the force of our expression, breathing out flames. [451] Ama wa'a. The commotion in Kilauea is here compared to the upsetting of the canoe's outrigger (ama). When an outriggered canoe capsizes the outrigger, ama, as a rule, lifts out of the water. [452] Wa'a. The reference seems to be to the masses of solid lava that, not infrequently may be seen to break off from the wall of the fire-pit and float away on the surface of the molten lake, even as an iceberg floats in the ocean. [453] Na'ena'e, said of an object that looks small from a distance. The use of the particle emphatic o, placed before this word, implies that it performs the office of a proper name, here a place-name. Such a use of the particle emphatic before a noun not a proper name indicates that the word is used as an abstract term. [454] Lama kau oni'oni'o. When two strings of kukui nuts are bound together to form one torch, the light given by it is said to be of varying colors. The word oni'oni'o alludes to this fact. [455] Kukulu a awa, said of those in the rear of the company that came against Lohiau. I cannot learn that this is a military term. [456] Kai-a-ka-hulu-manu, literally, the sea of the bird feathers. Some claim this as being the same as the Kai-a-ka-hinali'i; others, and I think rightly, claim that it was a distinct flood that occurred at a later period and that destroyed all birds and flying things. [457] Opiopi. The waves of the sea in the season of Makali'i are compared to the wrinkles in a mat, the contrast with those of the Kai-a-ka-hulu-manu, and the kai a ka pohaku. [458] Noho, a seat, or to sit. Here used for the people there living. [459] Kua o ka makani (literally, at the back of the wind). Koolau, the windward side of an island, was its kua, back. The whole line contains an ingenious reference to the manner of fire-lighting. When the smouldering spark from the fire-sticks has been received on a bunch of dry grass, it is waved to and fro to make it ignite. To the old-fashioned Hawaiian familiar with this manner of fire-making this figure is full of meaning. [460] Ulu o ka La, the figure of the Sun as it touched the horizon, or its glare. [461] Akua, literally, a god. This is a generic term and includes beings that we would call heroes, as well as devils and demons. [462] Ka-wai-hoa, the southern point of Niihau. [463] Hoaka-lei, a hill on Niihau. [464] Kiu, the name of a wind. [465] Makalii, Kaelo and Ka-ulua are cold months. Lohiau found them hot enough. [466] Ha'aha'a, literally, hanging low. I am reminded of an old song uttered, it is said, by a hero from the top of Kauwiki hill, in Hana, Maui: "Aina ua, lani ha'aha'a." Land of rain, where the heavens hang (ever) low. [467] Wai-wela-wela, a hot lake in lower Puna. [468] Ko'olau, a term applied generally to the windward side of an island, which was, of course, the stormy side. The expression au Ko'olau, or Ko'olau weather, is one of great significance. [469] E ki'i mai oe ia'u; eia au la i ke au a ka hewahewa. [470] Lawakua, an intimate companion, a friend. [471] Ua a ka lipoa, a fine, cold rain; a Scotch mist. [472] Lala, to bask in the sunlight. [473] Oma'o-lala, a place in upper Ola'a, named from the bird oma'o. [474] Aina i ka houpu a Kane, a proverbial expression applied to Puna, signifying the affection in which Puna was held. [475] A'aka, an ocean cave (definition not given in the dictionary). [476] Nawele ka maka o Hina-ulu-ohi'a. By metonymy, a figure of speech for which the Hawaiian poets showed great fondness, the name of the goddess, or superior being, Hina-ulu-ohi'a, is here used instead of the fruit which seems to have been her emblem. This fruit, the ohi'a puakea, is a variety of the ohi'a ai, or mountain apple, as it is commonly called. The common variety is of a deep red color shading into purple; but this variety, departing from the usual rule, is of a pale lemon color. This pale variety shows a faint pink or reddish ring about the maka, or eye where the flower was implanted. The poet's fancy evidently makes a comparison between this delicate aureole and the dim glow by which the volcanic fire made itself perceived in its periphery at Kahiki. [477] Kahaea, a pile of white cumulus clouds, or a single large cloud, which was regarded by weather prophets, soothsayers and diviners as a significant portent. [478] Ku-lani-ha-ko'i. The old Hawaiians imagined that somewhere in the heavens was an immense reservoir of water, and that a heavy downpour of rain was due to the breaking of its banks. When the clouds of storm and rain gathered thick and black, they saw in this phenomenon a confirmation of their belief, which gained double assurance when the clouds discharged their watery contents. [479] Eleua ... Eleao. When a Hawaiian house had a door at each end, the door at one end was named Ele-ua, that at the other end Ele-ao. [480] Kula-manu. A plain or tract of land that was flooded in wet weather and thus converted for a time into a resort for water-fowl, was termed a kula-manu or bird plain. [481] Wahi'a ka lani. This passive form of the verb has here the force of entreaty almost equivalent to the imperative. The opening here spoken of was the parting and drawing aside of the dark clouds that shut in the heavens, an opening that would be equivalent to the restoration of peace and good will. [482] Ku-lili-ka-ua, the name applied to a grove of pandanus in Puna. [483] Pohaku-loa, the name of a rocky ledge or cliff in Puna. [484] Lau-ahea. This was a deceitful voice, a vocal Will-o'-the-wisp, that was sometimes heard by travelers and that enticed them into the wilderness or thicket there to be entrapped in some lua meke or fathomless pit. [485] Kuku-ena, a sister of Pele who, like Kahili-opua, was a physician and of a benevolent disposition. She was wont to act as the guide to travelers who had their way in the mazes of a wilderness. So soon, however, as the traveler had come clear into a clear place and was able to orient himself, she modestly disappeared. [486] Ku kihikihi, to stand cornerwise or edgewise. In the ebullition that stirs the mass of a lava lake at seemingly rhythmical intervals the congealed crust that has formed on the surface is seen to break up, become tilted on edge, and then be sucked down into the depths by the vortex of the lava-pit. The allusion here is to the tilting of the plate on edge in this wonderful phenomenon. [487] Olohe. This is explained and described as meaning a spectral appearance of human figures and of objects animate and inanimate moving about in the firmament. The description given of it almost leads one to think it a mirage or fata morgana. [488] Kuahiwi haoa, a term applied in Kau to a forest-clump which a devastating lava flow has spared, after having laid waste the country on all sides of it. [489] Hiiaka-i-ka-ale-i, Hiiaka of the bounding billow. The number of the sisters in whose names that of Hiiaka formed a part was considerable, as may be inferred from the fact that the names here mentioned do not include the whole list of them. [490] Hiiaka-i-ka-pua-enaena, Hiiaka of the burning flower. Her emblem was the little budlike pea-blossom flame. This name is sometimes given as Hiiaka-i-ka-pua-aneane, a more delicate but less striking epithet. [491] Hiiaka-noho-lae, Hiiaka who dwells on the cape. She was recognized by a trickle of blood on the forehead. [492] O ka la ko luna. O ka pahoehoe ko lalo. The sun overhead. The lava below. [493] Aohe o kahi nana oluna o ka pali. Iho mai a lalo nei; ike i ke au nui me ke au iki, he alo a he alo; nana i ka makemake. The exact meaning of ke au iki and ke au nui is not clear. [494] Keehi ... e nalo kapua'i. I am informed that Hawaiians, in order to conceal their goings, would erase their footprints by blurring them with their feet. [495] Onohi ula i ka lani, a fragment of a rainbow. [496] Lele kapu i kai. This may be put,--the old order has passed. [497] Hoole akua, hoole mana. (To deny God, to deny supernatural power). It thus appears that the old Hawaiians were not unacquainted with those phases of skepticism that have flourished in all philosophic times. [498] Ho'o-malau, to treat one's religious duties, or solemn things, with scorn. [499] Ho'o-maloka, to be neglectful of one's religious duties, or of solemn things. In old times, how often did the writer hear the term ho'o-maloka applied as a stigma to those who persistently neglected and showed indifference to the services and ordinances of the church. [500] Apapa-nu'u, the under-world and its spiritual powers. [501] Apapa-lani, the heavens and their spiritual powers. [502] Mano-ka-lani-po. This distinguished name was borne by that one of Kaua'i's kings who preceded its last independent monarch, Ka-umu-alii, by fourteen generations, which would bring his reign in the first half of the fifteenth century. He has the honor, unique among Hawaiian kings, of having his name affixed as a sobriquet to the island that was his kingdom. Whether the use of his name in this connection, apparently as a god, is to be regarded as antedating its occurrence in the Ulu genealogy (given by Fornander. See The Polynesian Race; vol. I, p. 195.), or whether, on the other hand, it is to be considered as an apotheosis of a name justly held in veneration, we cannot decide. [503] Pahu-kapu a ka leo. The best-informed and most thoughtful among the Hawaiian authorities have poorly defined and contradictory notions as to the meaning of this term. Its literal meaning may be given as sacred (or tabu) pillar. Mr. Tregear, in his incomparable Maori Comparative Dictionary, gives one meaning of the word to be sanctuary. One thoughtful Hawaiian defines it as a pillar, such as Pele set up, due regard for which demanded silence. Another, equally well informed, defines it as an edict, or canon. To the writer it seems more logical and safer to adopt the material view regarding this phrase. [504] Ala hele ... ala muku, (literally, a short path or road). This ala hele ... ala muku was probably the rainbow. It is said in Hawaiian story that when Hiiaka came down from the cave where she found the body of Lohiau she used a rainbow as her way of descent. In an old mele occurs this line: O ke anuenue ke ala o Kaha'i. The rainbow was the path of Kaha'i. [505] Ki ho'iho'i. Hawaiian authorities differ as to the meaning of this phrase. After much cogitation and search, I concluded that the word ki has the same root-meaning as i, to utter. (I find myself supported in such an interpretation by no less an authority than Edward Tregear. Maori Comparative Dictionary.) [506] Kai oki'a. Hawaiian authorities are quite at sea as to the meaning of these words. I think it means that the ocean is a gulf that swallows up and destroys. A very stringent tabu, says one, that regulated the diet, cutting off bananas and the like. [507] Kua a. Pele is said to have had a back that was so hot that any fabric laid upon it was reduced to ashes. It was also said to be tabu for any one to approach Pele from behind. [508] A calabash, often covered with a net, used by a fisherman to hold his spare hooks and lines and, by the traveler, his belongings. 
56597	----	THE LEGENDS AND MYTHS OF HAWAII. THE FABLES AND FOLK-LORE OF A STRANGE PEOPLE. BY HIS HAWAIIAN MAJESTY KALAKAUA. EDITED AND WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY HON. R. M. DAGGETT, Late United States Minister to the Hawaiian Islands. New York: CHARLES L. WEBSTER & COMPANY. 1888. PREFACE. For material in the compilation of many of the legends embraced in this volume obligation is acknowledged to H. R. H. Liliuokalani; General John Owen Dominis; His Excellency Walter M. Gibson; Professor W. D. Alexander; Mrs. E. Beckley, Government Librarian; Mr. W. James Smith, Secretary of the National Board of Education; and especially to Hon. Abram Fornander, the learned author of "An Account of the Polynesian Race, its Origin and Migrations." The legends, in the order of their publication, beginning with the first and ending with "The Destruction of the Temples," may be regarded, so far as they refer to the prominent political events with which they are associated, as in a measure historic. Those following have been selected as the most striking and characteristic of what remains of the fabulous folk-lore of the Hawaiian group. CONTENTS. PAGE Preface. 5 Hawaiian Legends: Introduction. 9-65 Hina, the Helen of Hawaii. 67-94 The Royal Hunchback. 95-113 The Triple Marriage of Laa-mai-kahiki. 115-135 The Apotheosis of Pele. 137-154 Hua, King of Hana. 155-173 The Iron Knife. 175-205 The Sacred Spear-Point. 207-225 Kelea, the Surf-Rider of Maui. 227-246 Umi, the Peasant Prince of Hawaii. 247-315 Lono and Kaikilani. 317-331 The Adventures of Iwikauikaua. 333-349 The Prophecies of Keaulumoku. 351-367 The Cannibals of Halemanu. 369-380 Kaiana, the Last of the Hawaiian Knights. 381-408 Kaala, the Flower of Lanai. 409-427 The Destruction of the Temples. 429-446 The Tomb of Puupehe. 447-452 The Story of Laieikawai. 453-480 Lohiau, the Lover of a Goddess. 481-497 Kahavari, Chief of Puna. 499-507 Kahalaopuna, the Princess of Manoa. 509-522 Appendix. 523-530 THE LEGENDS AND MYTHS OF HAWAII. HAWAIIAN LEGENDS: INTRODUCTION. Physical Characteristics of the Hawaiian Islands--Historic Outlines--The Tabu--Ancient Religion--Ancient Government--Ancient Arts, Habits and Customs--The Hawaii of To-day. GENERAL RETROSPECT. The legends following are of a group of sunny islands lying almost midway between Asia and America--a cluster of volcanic craters and coral-reefs, where the mountains are mantled in perpetual green and look down upon valleys of eternal spring; where for two-thirds of the year the trade-winds, sweeping down from the northwest coast of America and softened in their passage southward, dally with the stately cocoas and spreading palms, and mingle their cooling breath with the ever-living fragrance of fruit and blossom. Deeply embosomed in the silent wastes of the broad Pacific, with no habitable land nearer than two thousand miles, these islands greet the eye of the approaching mariner like a shadowy paradise, suddenly lifted from the blue depths by the malicious spirits of the world of waters, either to lure him to his destruction or disappear as he drops his anchor by the enchanted shore. The legends are of a little archipelago which was unknown to the civilized world until the closing years of the last century, and of a people who for many centuries exchanged no word or product with the rest of mankind; who had lost all knowledge, save the little retained by the dreamiest of legends, of the great world beyond their island home; whose origin may be traced to the ancient Cushites of Arabia, and whose legends repeat the story of the Jewish genesis; who developed and passed through an age of chivalry somewhat more barbarous, perhaps, but scarcely less affluent in deeds of enterprise and valor than that which characterized the contemporaneous races of the continental world; whose chiefs and priests claimed kinship with the gods, and step by step told back their lineage not only to him who rode the floods, but to the sinning pair whose re-entrance to the forfeited joys of Paradise was prevented by the large, white bird of Kane; who fought without shields and went to their death without fear; whose implements of war and industry were of wood, stone and bone, yet who erected great temples to their gods, and constructed barges and canoes which they navigated by the stars; who peopled the elements with spirits, reverenced the priesthood, bowed to the revelations of their prophets, and submitted without complaint to the oppressions of the tabu; who observed the rite of circumcision, built places of refuge after the manner of the ancient Israelites, and held sacred the religious legends of the priests and chronological meles of the chiefs. As the mind reverts to the past of the Hawaiian group, and dwells for a moment upon the shadowy history of its people, mighty forms rise and disappear--men of the stature of eight or nine feet, crowned with helmets of feathers and bearing spears thirty feet in length. Such men were Kiha, and Liloa, and Umi, and Lono, all kings of Hawaii during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; and little less in bulk and none the less in valor was the great Kamehameha, who conquered and consolidated the several islands under one government, and died as late as 1819. And beside Umi, whose life was a romance, stands his humble friend Maukaleoleo, who, with his feet upon the ground, could reach the cocoanuts of standing trees; and back of him in the past is seen Kana, the son of Hina, whose height was measured by paces. And, glancing still farther backward through the centuries, we behold adventurous chiefs, in barges and double canoes a hundred feet in length, making the journey between the Hawaiian and more southern groups, guided only by the sun and stars. Later we see battles, with dusky thousands in line. The warriors are naked to the loins, and are armed with spears, slings, clubs, battle-axes, javelins and knives of wood or ivory. They have neither bows nor shields. They either catch with their hands or ward with their own the weapons that are thrown. Their chiefs, towering above them in stature, have thrown off their gaudy feather cloaks and helmets, and, with spear and stone halberd, are at the front of battle. The opposing forces are so disposed as to present a right and left wing and centre, the king or principal chief commanding the latter in person. In the rear of each hostile line are a large number of women with calabashes of food and water with which to refresh their battling fathers, husbands and brothers. While the battle rages their wails, cries and prayers are incessant, and when defeat menaces their friends they here and there take part in the combat. The augurs have been consulted, sacrifices and promises to the gods have been made, and, as the warring lines approach, the war-gods of the opposing chiefs, newly decorated and attended by long-haired priests, are borne to the front. War-cries and shouts of defiance follow. The priests retire, and the slingers open the battle. Spears are thrown, and soon the struggle is hand-to-hand all over the field. They fight in groups and squads around their chiefs and leaders, who range the field in search of enemies worthy of their weapons. No quarter is given or expected. The first prisoners taken are reserved as offerings to the gods, and are regarded as the most precious of sacrifices. Finally the leading chief of one of the opposing armies falls. A desperate struggle over his body ensues, and his dispirited followers begin to give ground and are soon in retreat. Some escape to a stronghold in the neighboring mountains, and a few, perhaps, to a temple of refuge; but the most of them are overtaken and slain. The prisoners who are spared become the slaves of their captors, and the victory is celebrated with feasting and bountiful sacrifices to the gods. This is a representative battle of the past, either for the supremacy of rival chiefs or in repelling invasion from a neighboring island. But here and there we catch glimpses of actual conflicts indicative of the warlike spirit and chivalry of the early Hawaiians. Far back in the past we see the beautiful Hina abducted from her Hawaiian husband by a prince of Molokai, and kept a prisoner in the fortress of Haupu until her sons grow to manhood, when she is rescued at the end of an assault which leaves the last of her defenders dead. Later we see the eight hundred helmeted chiefs of the king of Hawaii, all of noble blood, hurling themselves to destruction against the spears of the armies of Maui on the plains of Wailuku. And then, less than a generation after, Kamehameha is seen in the last battle of the conquest, when, at the head of sixteen thousand warriors, he sweeps the Oahuan army over the precipice of Nuuanu and becomes the master of the archipelago. Finally we behold Kekuaokalani, the last defender in arms of the Hawaiian gods and temples, trampling upon the edict of the king against the worship of his fathers, and dying, with his faithful wife Manono, on the field of Kuamoo. In the midst of these scenes of blood the eye rests with relief upon numerous episodes of love, friendship and self-sacrifice touching with a softening color the ruddy canvas of the past. We see Kanipahu, the exiled king of Hawaii, delving like a common laborer on a neighboring island, and refusing to accept anew the sceptre in his old age because his back had become crooked with toil and he could no longer look over the heads of his subjects as became a Hawaiian king. We see Umi, a rustic youth of royal mien and mighty proportions, boldly leap the palace-walls of the great Liloa, push aside the spears of the guards, enter the royal mansion, seat himself in the lap of the king, and through the exhibition of a forgotten token of love receive instant recognition as his son. And now Lono, the royal great-grandson of Umi, rises before us, and we see him lured from self-exile by the voice of his queen, reaching him in secret from without the walls of the sovereign court of Oahu, to return to Hawaii and triumph over his enemies. These and many other romantic incidents present themselves in connection with the early Hawaiian kings and princes, and are offered in the succeeding pages with every detail of interest afforded by available tradition. PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS. A few general remarks concerning the physical characteristics of the Hawaiian Islands would seem to be appropriate in presenting a collection of legends dealing alike with the history and folk-lore of their people. The islands occupy a place in a great waste of the Pacific between the nineteenth and twenty-third degrees of north latitude, and the one hundred and fifty-fourth and one hundred and sixty-first degrees of longitude west from Greenwich. They are two thousand one hundred miles southwest from San Francisco, and about the same distance from Tahiti. The group consists of ten islands, including two that are little more than barren rocks. The farthest are about three hundred miles from each other, measuring from their extreme boundaries, and their aggregate area is a little more than six thousand one hundred square miles. Of the eight principal islands all are habitable, although the small islands of Niihau and Kahoolawe are used almost exclusively as cattle-ranges. The most of the shores of the several islands are fringed with coral, but their origin seems to be indisputably shown in the numerous craters of extinct volcanoes scattered throughout the group, and in the mighty fires still blazing from the mountain-heights of Hawaii. By far the larger part of the area of the islands is mountainous; but from the interior elevations, some of them reaching altitudes of from ten to fourteen thousand feet, flow many small streams of sweet water, widening into fertile valleys as they reach the coast, while here and there between them alluvial plateaus have been left by the upland wash. With rare exceptions the mountain-sides are covered with vegetation, some of sturdy growth, capable of being wrought into building materials and canoes, while lower down the ohia, the palm, the banana, and the bread-fruit stand clothed in perpetual green, with groves of stately cocoas between them and the sea. Once the fragrant sandal-wood was abundant in the mountains, but it became an article of commerce with the natives in their early intercourse with the white races, and is now rarely seen. Once the valleys and plateaus were covered with growing taro and potatoes; now the cane and rice of the foreigner have usurped the places of both, and in the few shaded spots that have been left him the forgiving and revengeless Hawaiian sadly chants his wild songs of the past. Neither within the memory of men nor the reach of their legends, which extend back more than a thousand years, has there been an active volcano in the group beyond the large island of Hawaii, which embraces two-thirds of the solid area of the archipelago. The mighty crater of Haleakala, more than thirty miles in circumference, on the island of Maui, has slept in peace among the clouds for ages, and hundreds of lesser and lower craters, many of them covered with vegetation, are found scattered among the mountains and foot-hills of the group; but their fires have long been extinct, and the scoria and ashes buried at their bases tell the story of their activity far back in the past. It must have been a sight too grand for human eyes to witness when all these dead volcanic peaks, aglow with sulphurous flames, lit up the moonless midnights of the eight Hawaiian seas with their combined bombardment of the heavens! On the island of Hawaii alone have the fires of nature remained unextinguished. At intervals during the past thousand years or more have Mauna Kea, Mauna Hualalai and Mauna Loa sent their devastating streams of lava to the sea, and to-day the awful, restless and ever-burning caldron of Kilauea, nearly a mile in circumference, is the grandest conflagration that lights up the earth. Within its lurid depths, in fiery grottoes and chambers of burning crystal, dwell Pele and her companions, and offerings are still thrown to them by superstitious natives. Do they yet believe in these deities after more than sixty years of Christian teaching? after their temples have been leveled and their gods have been destroyed? after their tabus have been broken and their priesthood has been dethroned and dishonored? The only answer is, "The offerings are still made." Although the channel and ocean coasts of the islands are generally bold, rocky and precipitous, there are numerous bays and indentations partially sheltered by reefs and headlands, and many stretches of smooth and yellow beach, where the waves, touched by the kona, or the trade-wind's breath, chase each other high up among the cocoa's roots and branches of the humble hau-tree clinging to the sands. The harbor of Honolulu, on the island of Oahu, is the only one, however, where passengers and freights of ocean crafts may be received or landed without the aid of lighters. The most of the useful and ornamental growths of the tropics now flourish on the islands. The indigenous plants, however, are confined to the banana, plantain, cocoanut, breadfruit, ohia, sugar-cane, arrow-root, yam, sweet potato, taro, strawberry, raspberry and ohelo. The lime, orange, mango, tamarind, papaia, guava, and every other edible product, aside from those named as indigenous, are importations of the past century. The only domestic animals of the ancient Hawaiians were dogs, swine and fowls, and the most formidable four-legged creatures found in their fields and forests were mice and lizards. Wild geese, including a species peculiar to the islands, ducks, snipe and plover were abundant in their seasons, but seem to have been sparely eaten; and owls, bats, and a few varieties of birds of simple song and not over-brilliant plumage made up about the sum total of animal life on the islands a hundred years ago. But the native could well afford to be content with this limited provision, since it did not include snakes, mosquitoes, centipedes, tarantulas, or scorpions. To what processes of creation or isolation do the Hawaiian Islands owe their existence? Were they raised from the depths of the ocean by volcanic action, as plainly suggested by their formation? or are they a part of a great sunken continent which speculation, sustained by misty tradition, claims once occupied the Polynesian seas? Hawaiian meles mention islands no longer to be found, and the facility with which communication was maintained between the Hawaiian and more southern groups previous to the twelfth century renders plausible the assumption that this intercourse was abruptly terminated six or seven centuries ago by the disappearance of a number of intervening atolls or islands which had served as guides to early Polynesian navigators. The gigantic ruins of temples and other structures found on Easter and one or two other islands of the equatorial Pacific are almost unanswerable arguments in favor of the theory of a sunken Polynesian continent; but the question will probably never be removed beyond the field of surmise. HISTORIC OUTLINES. The source and early history of the Hawaiian people, and, in fact, of the Polynesian race, of which they are a part, are involved in doubt. They have generally been regarded as an offshoot of the great Malayan family; but more recent as well as more thorough investigation, particularly by Judge Fornander, the learned and conscientious historian, with reasonable conclusiveness shows the Polynesian and Malayan races to be of distinct and widely different origin. Accepting this conclusion, we trace the strictly Polynesian tribes to an Aryan beginning, somewhere in Asia Minor or Arabia. There, in the remote past, it is assumed, they were brought in close contact with early Cushite and Chaldeo-Arabian civilizations. Subsequently drifting into India, they to some extent amalgamated with the Dravidian races, and, following the channels of the great Chaldean commerce of that period, at length found a home in the Asiatic archipelago from Sumatra to Luzon and Timor. The exact time of their settlement on the large coast islands of southern Asia cannot be definitely determined, but their legends and genealogies leave little room to doubt that it was contemporaneous with the Malay and Hindoo invasions of Sumatra, Java, and other islands of the archipelago, during the first and second centuries of the Christian era, that the Polynesians were pushed out--not at once in a body, but by families and communities covering a period of years--to the smaller and more remote islands of the Pacific. Their first general rendezvous was in the Fiji group, where they left their impress upon the native Papuans. Expelled from, or voluntarily leaving, the Fijis, after a sojourn there of several generations, the Polynesians scattered over the Pacific, occupying by stages the several groups of islands where they are now found. Moving by the way of the Samoan and Society Islands, the migratory wave did not reach the Hawaiian group until about the middle of the sixth century. Nanaula, a distinguished chief, was the first to arrive from the southern islands. It is not known whether he discovered the group by being blown northward by adverse winds, or in deliberately adventuring far out upon the ocean in search of new lands. In either event, he brought with him his gods, priests, prophets and astrologers, and a considerable body of followers and retainers. He was also provided with dogs, swine and fowls, and the seeds and germs of useful plants for propagation. It is probable that he found the group without human inhabitants. During that period--probably during the life of Nanaula--other chiefs of less importance arrived with their families and followers either from Tahiti or Samoa. They came in barges and large double canoes capable of accommodating from fifty to one hundred persons each. They brought with them not only their priests and gods, but the earliest of Polynesian traditions. It is thought that none of the pioneers of the time of Nanaula ever returned to the southern islands, nor did others immediately follow the first migratory wave that peopled the Hawaiian group. For thirteen or fourteen generations the first occupants of the Hawaiian Islands lived sequestered from the rest of the world, multiplying and spreading throughout the group. They erected temples to their gods, maintained their ancient religion, and yielded obedience to their chiefs. The traditions of the period are so meagre as to leave the impression that it was one of uninterrupted peace, little having been preserved beyond the genealogies of the governing chiefs. But late in the tenth or early in the beginning of the eleventh century the Hawaiians were aroused from their dream of more than four centuries by the arrival of a party of adventurers from the southern islands, probably from the Society group. It was under the leadership of Nanamaoa. He was a warlike chief, and succeeded in establishing his family in power on Hawaii, Maui and Oahu. But stronger leaders were soon to follow from the south. Among the first was the high-priest Paao, from Samoa. He arrived during the reign of Kapawa, the grandson of Nanamaoa, or immediately after his death. The people were in an unsettled condition politically, and Paao, grasping the situation, either sent or returned in person to Samoa for Pili, a distinguished chief of that island. Arriving with a large following, Pili assumed the sovereignty of the island of Hawaii and founded a new dynasty. Paao became his high-priest, and somewhat disturbed the religious practices of the people by the introduction of new rites and two or three new gods. However, his religion did not seem to differ greatly from that of the native priests, and from him the last of the priesthood, seven hundred years after, claimed lineage and right of place. The intercourse thus established between the Hawaiian and southern groups by Nanamaoa, Paao and Pili continued for about one hundred and fifty years, or until the middle or close of the twelfth century. During that period several other warlike families from the south established themselves in the partial or complete sovereignty of Oahu, Maui and Kauai, and expeditions were frequent between the group and other distant islands of Polynesia. It was a season of unusual activity, and the legends of the time are filled with stories of love, conquest and perilous voyages to and from the southern islands. In that age, when distant voyages were frequent, the Polynesians were bold and intelligent navigators. In addition to large double canoes capable of withstanding the severest weather, they possessed capacious barges, with planks corded and calked upon strong frames. They were decked over and carried ample sail. Their navigators had some knowledge of the stars; knew the prominent planets and gave them names; were acquainted with the limits of the ecliptic and situation of the equator. With these helps, and keenly watchful of the winds and currents, of ocean drifts and flights of birds, they seldom failed to reach their destination, however distant. Near the close of the twelfth century all communication between the Hawaiian and southern groups suddenly ceased. Tradition offers no explanation of the cause, and conjecture can find no better reason for it than the possible disappearance at that time of a number of island landmarks which had theretofore served as guides to the mariner. The beginning of this period of isolation found the entire group, with the exception, perhaps, of Molokai and a portion of Oahu, in the possession of the southern chiefs or their descendants. It has been observed that the first discovery and occupation of the islands by Polynesians from the Society and Samoan groups occurred in the sixth century, and that more than four hundred years later a second migratory tide from the same and possibly other southern islands reached the coasts of Hawaii, continuing for more than a century and a half, and completely changing the political, and to some extent the social, condition of the people. Although nearly five centuries elapsed between the first and second migratory influxes from the south, during which the inhabitants of the group held no communication with the rest of the world, it is a curious fact that the Pili, Paumakua, and other chiefly families of the second influx traced back their lineage to the ancestors of the chiefs of the first migration, and made good their claim to the relationship by the recital of legends and genealogies common to both. At the close of the second migratory period, which concluded their intercourse with the world beyond them for more than six hundred years, or from A.D. 1175 to 1778, the people of the group had very generally transferred their allegiance to the newly-arrived chiefs. The notable exceptions were the Maweke and Kamauaua families of Oahu and Molokai, both of the ancient Nanaula line. Although they were gradually crowded from their possessions by their more energetic invaders, the high descent of the prominent native chiefs was recognized, and by intermarriage their blood was allowed to mingle with the royal currents which have flowed down the centuries since they ceased to rule. A mere outline of the political history of the islands from the twelfth century to the nineteenth is all that will be given here. The legends following will supply much that will be omitted to avoid repetition. Until the final conquest of the group by Kamehameha I. at the close of the last century, the five principal islands of the archipelago--Hawaii, Maui, Oahu, Kauai and Molokai--were each governed, as a rule, by one or more independent chiefs. The smaller islands of Lanai and Kahoolawe were usually subject to Maui, while Niihau always shared the political fate of Kauai. On each island, however, were descendants of distinguished ancient chiefs and heroes, who were recognized as of superior or royal blood, and with them originated the supreme chiefs, kings, or mois of the several islands, whose lines continued in authority, with interruptions of insurrection and royal feuds, until the consolidation of the group by Kamehameha. No one was recognized as a tabu chief unless his genealogical record showed him to be of noble blood, and intermarriage between the ruling families, as well as between the lesser chiefs of the several islands, in time united the entire aristocracy of the group by ties of blood, and gave to all of royal strain a common and distinguished ancestry. The nobility and hereditary priesthood claimed to be of a stock different from that of the common people, and their superior stature and intelligence seemed to favor the assumption. To keep pure the blood of the chiefly classes, far back in the past a college of heraldry was established, before which all chiefs were required to recite their genealogies and make good their claims to noble descent. The legends of the group abound in stories of romantic and sanguinary internal conflicts, and political and predatory wars between the islands; but down to the time of Kamehameha but a single attempt had been made to subjugate the entire archipelago. This bold scheme was entertained by a king of the island of Hawaii who reigned during the latter part of the thirteenth century. He succeeded in overrunning Maui, Oahu and Molokai, but was defeated and taken prisoner on Kauai. Without further reference to the intervening years from the twelfth century to the eighteenth--a long period of wars, festivals, tournaments, and royal and priestly pageantry--we will now glance at the condition of the islands at the time of their discovery by Captain Cook, a little more than a century ago. It was estimated that the islands then contained a population of four hundred thousand souls. This estimate has been considered large. But when it is noted that fifteen years later there were between thirty and forty thousand warriors under arms in the group at the same time, with large reserves ready for service, the conclusion is irresistible that the population could scarcely have been less. Kamehameha invaded Oahu with sixteen thousand warriors, principally drawn from the island of Hawaii. He was opposed by eight or ten thousand spears, while as many more awaited his arrival on Kauai. According to the figures of the Rev. Mr. Ellis, who travelled around the island of Hawaii in 1821 and numbered the dwellings and congregations addressed by him in the several coast districts through which he passed, the number of people on that island alone could not have been less than one hundred and fifteen thousand. At the time of the arrival of Captain Cook, Kalaniopuu, of the ancient line of Pili, was king of the large island of Hawaii, and also maintained possession of a portion of the island of Maui. Kahekili, "the thunderer," as his name implied, was moi of Maui, and the principal wife of Kalaniopuu was his sister. Kahahana, who was also related to Kahekili, was the king of Oahu and claimed possession of Molokai and Lanai. Kamakahelei was the nominal queen of Kauai and Niihau, and her husband was a younger brother to Kahekili, while she was related to the royal family of Hawaii. Thus, it will be seen, the reigning families of the several islands of the group were all related to each other, as well by marriage as by blood. So had it been for many generations. But their wars with each other were none the less vindictive because of their kinship, or attended with less of barbarity in their hours of triumph. At that time Kahekili was plotting for the downfall of Kahahana and the seizure of Oahu and Molokai, and the queen of Kauai was disposed to assist him in these enterprises. The occupation of the Hana district of Maui by the kings of Hawaii had been the cause of many stubborn conflicts between the chivalry of the two islands, and when Captain Cook first landed on Hawaii he found the king of that island absent on another warlike expedition to Maui, intent upon avenging his defeat of two years before, when his famous brigade of eight hundred nobles was hewn in pieces. Connected with the court of Kalaniopuu at that time was a silent and taciturn chief, who had thus far attracted but little attention as a military leader. He was a man of gigantic mould, and his courage and prowess in arms were undoubted; yet he seldom smiled or engaged in the manly sports so attractive to others, and his friends were the few who discerned in him a slumbering greatness which subsequently gave him a name and fame second to no other in Hawaiian history. He was the reputed and accepted son of Keoua, the half-brother of Kalaniopuu, although it was believed by many that his real father was Kahekili, moi of Maui. But, however this may have been, he was of royal blood, and was destined to become not only the king of Hawaii, but the conqueror and sovereign of the group. This chief was Kamehameha. Such, in brief, was the political condition of the islands when Captain Cook arrived. He was an officer in the English navy, and, with the war-ships Resolution and Discovery, was on a voyage in search of a northwest passage eastward from Behring's Straits. Leaving the Society group in December, 1777, on the 18th of the following month he sighted Oahu and Kauai. Landing on the latter island and Niihau, he was received as a god by the natives, and his ships were provided with everything they required. Without then visiting the other islands of the group, he left for the northwest coast of America on the 2d of February, 1778, and in November of that year returned to the islands, first sighting the shores of Molokai and Maui. Communicating with the wondering natives of the latter island, he sailed around the coasts of Hawaii, and on the 17th of January dropped his anchors in Kealakeakua Bay. He was hailed as a reincarnation of their god Lono by the people, and the priests conducted him to their temples and accorded him divine honors. Returning from his campaign in Maui, the king visited and treated him as a god, and his ships were bountifully supplied with pigs, fowls, vegetables and fruits. The ships left the bay on the 4th of February, but, meeting with a storm, returned on the 8th for repairs. Petty bickerings soon after occurred between the natives and white sailors, and on the 13th one of the ships' boats was stolen by a chief and broken up for its nails and other iron fastenings. Cook demanded its restoration, and, while endeavoring to take the king on board the Resolution as a prisoner, was set upon by the natives and slain. Fire was opened by the ships, and many natives, including four or five chiefs, were killed. The body of Cook was borne off by the natives, but the most of the bones were subsequently returned at the request of Captain King, and the vessels soon after left the island. If Captain Cook was not the first of European navigators to discover the Hawaiian Islands, he was at least the first to chart and make their existence known to the world. It has been pretty satisfactorily established that Juan Gaetano, the captain of a Spanish galleon sailing from the Mexican coast to the Spice Islands, discovered the group as early as 1555. But he did not make his discovery known at the time, and the existence of an old manuscript chart in the archives of the Spanish government is all that remains to attest his claim to it. Native traditions mention the landing of small parties of white men on two or three occasions during the latter part of the sixteenth century; but if the faces and ships of other races were seen by the Hawaiians in the time of Gaetano, their descendants had certainly lost all knowledge of both two hundred or more years later, for Cook was welcomed as a supernatural being by the awe-stricken islanders, and his ships were described by them as floating islands. A simple iron nail was to them a priceless jewel, and every act and word betrayed an utter ignorance of everything pertaining to the white races. Kalaniopuu, the king of Hawaii, died in 1782, and Kamehameha, through the assistance of three or four prominent chiefs, succeeded, after a struggle of more than ten years, in securing to himself the supreme authority over that island. This done, encouraged by the prophets, assisted by his chiefs, and sustained by an unwavering faith in his destiny, he conquered Maui, Oahu, Kauai and their dependencies, and in 1795 was recognized as the sole master of the group. Although of royal stock, the strain of Kamehameha from the old line of kings was less direct than that of his cousin, Kiwalao, from whom he wrested the Hawaiian sceptre; but his military genius rallied around him the warlike chiefs who were dissatisfied with the division of lands by the son and successor of Kalaniopuu, and in the end his triumph was complete. To farther ennoble his succession he married the daughter of his royal cousin, and thus gave to his children an undoubted lineage of supreme dignity. The existence of the Hawaiian Islands became generally known to the world soon after the final departure of the Resolution and Discovery, but it was not until 1786 that vessels began to visit the group. The first to arrive after the death of Captain Cook were the English ships King George and Queen Charlotte, and the same year a French exploring squadron touched at Maui. In 1787 several trading vessels visited the group, and the natives began to barter provisions and sandal-wood for fire-arms and other weapons of metal. In 1792, and again in 1793, Captain Vancouver, of an English exploring squadron, touched and remained for some time at the islands. He landed sheep, goats and horned cattle, and distributed a quantity of fruit and garden seeds. His memory is gratefully cherished by the natives, for his mission was one of peace and broad benevolence. Thenceforward trading-vessels in considerable numbers visited the group, and during the concluding wars of Kamehameha the rival chiefs had secured the assistance of small parties of white men, and to some extent had learned the use of muskets and small cannon, readily purchased and paid for in sandal-wood, which was then quite abundant on most of the timbered mountains of the islands. The harbor of Honolulu was first discovered and entered by two American vessels in 1794, and it soon became a favorite resort for the war, trading and whaling vessels of all nations. In the midst of these new and trying conditions Kamehameha managed the affairs of his kingdom with distinguished prudence and sagacity. He admonished his people to endure with patience the aggressions of the whites, and to retain, as far as possible, their simple habits. With his little empire united and peaceful, Kamehameha died on the 8th of May, 1819, at the age of about eighty; and his bones were so secretly disposed of that they have not yet been found. Liholiho, the elder of his sons by Keopuolani, the daughter of his cousin Kiwalao, succeeded his warlike father with the title of Kamehameha II. Some knowledge of the Christian religion had reached the natives through their white visitors, but the old chief died in the faith of his fathers. The death of Kamehameha was immediately followed by an event for which history affords no parallel. In October, 1819--six months before the first Christian missionaries arrived on the islands--Liholiho, under the inspiration of Kaahumanu, one of the widows of his father, suddenly, and in the presence of a large concourse of horrified natives, broke the most sacred of the tabus of his religion by partaking of food from vessels from which women were feasting, and the same day decreed the destruction of every temple and idol in the kingdom. He was sustained by the high-priest Hewahewa, who was the first to apply the torch; and within a few weeks idols, temples, altars, and a priesthood which had held prince and subject in awe for centuries were swept away, leaving the people absolutely without a religion. But all did not peacefully submit to this royal edict against their gods. In the twilight of that misty period looms up a grand defender of the faith of Keawe and Umi and the altars of the Hawaiian gods. This champion was Kekuaokalani, a nephew, perhaps a son, of the first Kamehameha, and a cousin, perhaps a half-brother, of Liholiho. In his veins coursed the royal blood of Hawaii, and his bearing was that of a king. He was above six and one-half feet in height, with limbs well proportioned and features strikingly handsome and commanding. He was of the priesthood, and, through the bestowal of some tabu or prerogative, claimed to be second in authority to Hewahewa, who traced his lineage back to Paao, the high-priest of Pili. His wife, Manono, was scarcely less distinguished for her courage, beauty and chiefly strain. The apostasy of Hewahewa left Kekuaokalani at the head of the priesthood--at least so he seems to have assumed--and the royal order to demolish the temples was answered by him with an appeal to the people to arm and join him in defence of their gods. He raised the standard of revolt on the island of Hawaii, and was soon at the head of a considerable army. A large force was sent against him, and every effort was made to induce him to lay down his arms. But he scorned all terms, refused all concessions. A battle was fought at Kuamoo, at first favorable to the defenders of the gods; but the fire-arms of the whites in the service of the king turned the tide of war against them, and they were defeated and scattered. Kekuaokalani was killed on the field, and Manono, his brave and faithful wife, fighting by his side, fell dead upon the body of her husband with a musket-ball through her temples. A rude monument of stones still marks the spot where they fell; and it is told in whispers that the kona, passing through the shrouding vines, attunes them to saddest tones of lamentation over the last defenders in arms of the Hawaiian gods. Four or five months before the death of Kekuaokalani, Kalaimoku, the prime minister of Liholiho, and his brother Boki, were baptized under the formula of the Roman Catholic Church by the chaplain of a French corvette on a passing visit to the islands. They scarcely knew the meaning of the ceremony, and it is safe to say that, at the time of the destruction of their temples and the repudiation of their gods, the Hawaiian people knew little or nothing of any other religion. The abolition of the tabu, which had made them slaves to their chiefs and priests, and held their fathers in bondage for centuries, was hailed with so great a joy by the native masses that they did not hesitate when called upon to consign the priesthood and their gods to the grave of the tabu. On the 30th of March, 1820--some months after this strange religious revolution--the first party of Christian missionaries arrived at the islands from Massachusetts. They were well received. They found a people without a religion, and their work was easy. Other missionary parties followed from time to time, and found the field alike profitable to the cause in which they labored and to themselves individually. They acquired substantial possessions in their new home, controlled the government for the fifty or more years following, and their children are to-day among the most prosperous residents of the group. This is not said with a view to undervalue the services of the early missionaries to Hawaii, but to show that all missionary fields have not been financially unfruitful to zealous and provident workers. And now let it be remarked with emphasis that the value of missionary labors in the Hawaiian group should not be measured by the small number of natives who to-day may be called Christians, but rather by the counsel and assistance of these thrifty religious teachers in securing and maintaining the independence of the islands, and by degrees establishing a mild and beneficent constitutional government, under which taxation is as light and life and property are as secure as in any other part of the civilized world. They were politicians as well as religious instructors, and practical examples of the value of Christian discipline when prudently applied to the acquisition of the needful and inviting things of life, and the establishment of a civil system capable of protecting the possessor in his acquired rights. In 1824 Liholiho and his queen died while on a visit to England, and their remains were sent back to the islands in an English man-of war. Kauikeaouli, a youth of ten years, and brother of the deceased king, was accepted as the rightful heir to the throne under the title of Kamehameha III., and Kaahumanu, one of the wives of Kamehameha I., acted as regent and prime minister. In 1827, and ten years later, Roman Catholic missionaries arrived, and were sent away by order of the government; but in 1839 the priests of that denomination were finally landed under the guns of a French frigate and allowed to remain. Meantime churches, schools and printing-presses had been established, the Hawaiian had become a written language, and the laws and decrees of the government were promulgated in printed form. In 1840 the first written constitution was given to the people, guaranteeing to them a representative government. In February, 1843, Lord Paulet, of the English navy, took formal possession of the islands, but in the July following their sovereignty was restored through the action of Admiral Thomas. In November of the same year France and England mutually agreed to refrain from seizure or occupation of the islands, or any portion of them, and the United States, while declining to become a party to the agreement, promptly acknowledged the independence of the group. Kamehameha III. died in 1854 and was succeeded by Kamehameha IV. The latter reigned until 1863, when he died and was succeeded by Prince Lot, with the title of Kamehameha V. In 1864 Lot abrogated the constitution of 1840 and granted a new one. He reigned until 1872, and died without naming a successor, and the Legislative Assembly elected Lunalilo to the throne. He was of the Kamehameha family, and with his death, in 1873, the Kamehameha dynasty came to an end. He, too, failed to designate a successor, and as but two of the accepted descendants of the first Kamehameha remained--one a sister of Kamehameha V. and the other a female cousin of that sovereign--David Kalakaua was elected to the throne by the Legislative Assembly in 1874, receiving all but five votes of that body, which were cast for the queen-dowager Emma, widow of Kamehameha IV. Provision having been made for the event by a previous Legislative Assembly, King Kalakaua, with his queen, Kapiolani, was formally crowned on the 12th of February, 1883, in the presence of the representatives of many of the nations of the Old World and the New. Since the coronation the last of the Kamehamehas has passed away, including the queen-dowager Emma, and King Kalakaua remains the most direct representative in the kingdom of the ancient sovereigns of Hawaii. He draws his strain from Liloa through the great I family of Hawaii, who joined their fortunes with the first Kamehameha in the conquest of the group. His queen, Kapiolani, is a granddaughter of the last independent sovereign of Kauai, and is thus allied in blood with the early rulers of the group. She is childless, and the Princess Liliuokalani, the elder of the two sisters of the king, has been named as his successor. She is the wife of His Excellency John O. Dominis, an American by birth and present governor of the islands of Oahu and Maui. The only direct heir in the families of the king and his two sisters is the Princess Kaiulani, daughter of the Princess Likelike, [1] wife of Mr. Cleghorn, a merchant of Honolulu. Following is a list of the sovereigns of Hawaii, with the dates and durations of their several governments, from the eleventh to the nineteenth century. It embraces only the rulers of the island of Hawaii, who eventually became the masters of the group. Until the reign of Kalaniopuu, which began in 1754, the dates are merely approximate: Pilikaeae, from A.D. 1095 to 1120 Kukohau, ,, 1120 to 1145 Kaniuhi, ,, 1145 to 1170 Kanipahu, ,, 1170 to 1195 Kalapana (including the usurpation of Kamaiole), ,, 1195 to 1220 Kahaimoelea, ,, 1220 to 1260 Kalaunuiohua, ,, 1260 to 1300 Kuaiwa, ,, 1300 to 1340 Kahoukapu, ,, 1340 to 1380 Kauholanuimahu, ,, 1380 to 1415 Kiha, ,, 1415 to 1455 Liloa, ,, 1455 to 1485 Hakau, ,, 1485 to 1490 Umi, ,, 1490 to 1525 Kealiiokaloa, ,, 1525 to 1535 Keawenui, ,, 1535 to 1565 Kaikilani and Lonoikamakahiki, ,, 1565 to 1595 Keakealanikane, ,, 1595 to 1625 Keakamahana, ,, 1625 to 1655 Keakealaniwahine, ,, 1655 to 1685 Keawe and sister, ,, 1685 to 1720 Alapanui, ,, 1720 to 1754 Kalaniopuu, ,, 1754 to 1782 Kamehameha I, ,, 1782 to 1819 Kamehameha II.--Liholiho, ,, 1819 to 1824 Kaahumanu regency, ,, 1824 to 1833 Kamehameha III.--Kauikeaouli, ,, 1833 to 1854 Kamehameha IV, ,, 1854 to 1863 Kamehameha V.--Lot, ,, 1863 to 1872 Lunalilo, ,, 1872 to 1873 Kalakaua, ,, 1874 to ---- Having thus briefly sketched the outlines of the prominent political events of the islands, the ancient religion of the Hawaiians will next be referred to; and as the tabu was no less a religious than a secular prerogative, it may properly be considered in connection with the priesthood. A knowledge of the power, scope and sanctity of the tabu is essential to a proper understanding of the relations existing in the past between the people and their political and religious rulers, and this great governing force will now claim our attention. THE TABU. Strictly speaking, the ancient tabu, or kapu, was a prerogative adhering exclusively to political and ecclesiastical rank. It was a command either to do or not to do, and the meaning of it was, "Obey or die." It was common to the Polynesian tribes, and was a protection to the lives, property and dignity of the priesthood and nobility. The religious tabus were well understood by the people, as were also the personal or perpetual tabus of the ruling families; but the incidental tabus were oppressive, irksome and dangerous to the masses, as they were liable to be thoughtlessly violated, and death was the usual penalty. Everything pertaining to the priesthood and temples was sacred, or tabu, and pigs designed for sacrifice, and running at large with the temple mark upon them, could not be molested. It was a violation of perpetual tabu to cross the shadow of the king, to stand in his presence without permission, or to approach him except upon the knees. This did not apply to the higher grades of chiefs, who themselves possessed tabu rights. Favorite paths, springs, streams and bathing-places were at intervals tabued to the exclusive use of the kings and temples, and squid, turtle, and two or three species of birds could be eaten only by the priests and tabu nobility. Yellow was the tabu color of royalty, and red of the priesthood, and mantles of the feathers of the oo and mamo could be worn only by kings and princes. Feather capes of mingled red and yellow distinguished the lesser nobility. Women were tabued from eating plantains, bananas, and cocoanuts; also the flesh of swine and certain fish, among them the kumu, moano, ulua, honu, ea, hahalua and naia; and men and women were allowed under no circumstances to partake of food together. Hence, when Liholiho, in 1819, openly violated this fundamental tabu by eating with his queen, he defied the gods of his fathers and struck at the very foundation of the religious faith of his people. The general tabus declared by the supreme chief or king were proclaimed by heralds, while the puloulou--a staff surmounted by a crown of white or black kapa--placed at the entrance of temples, royal residences and the mansions of tabu chiefs, or beside springs, groves, paths, or bathing-places, was a standing notification against trespass. General tabus were declared either to propitiate the gods or in celebration of important events. They were either common or strict, and frequently embraced an entire district and continued from one to ten days. During the continuance of a common tabu the masses were merely required to abstain from their usual occupations and attend the services at the heiaus, or temples; but during a strict tabu every fire and every light was extinguished, no canoe was shoved from the shore, no bathing was permitted, the pigs and fowls were muzzled or placed under calabashes that they might utter no noise, the people conversed in whispers, and the priests and their assistants were alone allowed to be seen without their places of abode. It was a season of deathly silence, and was thought to be especially grateful to the gods. Some of the royal tabus, centuries back in the past, were frivolous and despotic, such as regulating the wearing of beards and compelling all sails to be lowered on passing certain coast points; but, however capricious or oppressive, the tabu was seldom violated, and its maintenance was deemed a necessary protection to the governing classes. ANCIENT HAWAIIAN RELIGION. The ancient religion of the Hawaiians, of which the tabu formed an essential feature, was a theocracy of curious structure. It was a system of idolatrous forms and sacrifices engrafted without consistency upon the Jewish story of the creation, the fall of man, the revolt of Lucifer, the Deluge, and the repopulation of the earth. The legends of the Hawaiians were preserved with marvellous integrity. Their historians were the priests, who at intervals met in council and recited and compared their genealogical meles, in order that nothing might be either changed or lost. How did the Hawaiian priesthood become possessed of the story of the Hebrew genesis? It was old to them when the Resolution and Discovery dropped their anchors in Kealakeakua Bay; old to them when one or more chance parties of Spanish sailors in the sixteenth century may have looked in upon them for a moment while on their way to the Spice Islands; and it was probably old to them when the Hawaiians found their present home in the sixth century, and when the Polynesians left the coast of Asia four hundred years earlier. One theory is that the story was acquired through Israelitish contact with the ancestors of the Polynesians while the latter were drifting eastward from the land of their nativity. But the more reasonable assumption seems to be that the Hawaiian theogony, so strangely perpetuated, is an independent and perhaps original version of a series of creation legends common in the remote past to the Cushite, Semite and Aryan tribes, and was handed down quite as accurately as the Jewish version before it became fixed in written characters. In fact, in some respects the Hawaiian seems to be more complete than the Jewish version. From the beginning, according to Hawaiian story, a trinity of gods existed, who were the sole and all-pervading intelligences of chaos, or night--a condition represented by the Hawaiian word Po. These gods were: Kane, the originator; Ku, the architect and builder; and Lono, the executor and director of the elements. By the united will of Hikapoloa, or the trinity, light was brought into chaos. They next created the heavens, three in number, as their dwelling-places, and then the earth, sun, moon and stars. From their spittle they next created a host of angels to minister to their wants. Finally, man was created. His body was formed of red earth mingled with the spittle of Kane, and his head of whitish clay brought by Lono from the four quarters of the earth. The meaning of Adam is red, and it will be remarked that the Hawaiian Adam was made of earth of that color. He was made in the image of Kane, who breathed into his nostrils, and he became alive. Afterwards, from one of his ribs, taken from his side while he slept, a woman was created. The man was called Kumu-honua, and the woman Ke-ola-ku-honua. The newly-created pair were placed in a beautiful paradise called Paliuli. Three rivers of "the waters of life" ran through it, on the banks of which grew every inviting fruit, including the "tabued bread-fruit tree" and "sacred apple-tree," with which are connected the fall and expulsion of the man and woman from their earthly paradise. The three rivers had their source in a beautiful lake, fed by "the living waters of Kane." The waters were filled with fish which fire could not destroy, and on being sprinkled with them the dead were restored to life. Legends relate instances in which these waters were procured, through the favor of the gods, for the restoration to life of distinguished mortals. As a specimen of the chants perpetuating these traditions and embellishing the plainer prose recitals, the following extract relating to the creation is given: "Kane of the great Night, Ku and Lono of the great Night, Hika-po-loa the king. The tabued Night that is set apart, The poisonous Night, The barren, desolate Night, The continual darkness of midnight, The Night, the reviler. O Kane, O Ku-ka-pao, And great Lono dwelling in the water, Brought forth are Heaven and Earth, Quickened, increased, moving, Raised up into Continents. Kane, Lord of Night, Lord the Father, Ku-ka-pao, in the hot heavens, Great Lono with the flashing eyes, Lightning-like has the Lord Established in truth, O Kane, master-worker; The Lord creator of mankind: Start, work, bring forth the chief Kumu-honua, And Ola-ku-honua, the woman; Dwelling together are they two. Dwelling in marriage (is she) with the husband, the brother." Among the angels created was Kanaloa, the Hawaiian Lucifer, who incited a rebellion in heaven, with the results, strangely enough, related in immortal song by Milton. When man was created, Kanaloa demanded his adoration. This was refused by Kane, as angels and man were alike the creations of Deity, whereupon Kanaloa ambitiously resolved to create a man of his own who would worship him. Kane allowed him to proceed with his seditious work. He made a man in the exact image of Kumu-honua, but could not give it life. He breathed into its nostrils, but it would not rise; he called to it, but it would not speak. This exasperated him, and he determined to destroy the man made by the gods. He therefore crept into Paliuli in the form of a moo, or lizard, and, through some deception not definitely stated by tradition, Kumu-honua and his mate committed some offence for which they were driven from paradise by the "large, white bird of Kane." Kumu-honua had three sons, the second of whom was slain by the first. The name of the Hawaiian Cain is Laka. Ka Pili was the youngest son, and thirteen generations are named between him and the Deluge, whereas the Hebrew version records but ten on the corresponding line of Seth. The Hawaiian Noah is called Nuu. At the command of the gods he constructed an ark, and entered it with his wife and three sons, and a male and female of every breathing thing. The waters came and covered the earth. When they subsided the gods entered the ark, which was resting on a mountain overlooking a beautiful valley, and commanded Nuu to go forth with all of life that the ark contained. In gratitude for his deliverance Nuu offered a sacrifice to the moon, mistaking it for Kane. Descending on a rainbow, that deity reproved his thoughtlessness, but left the bow as a perpetual token of his forgiveness. Continuing the genealogical record, ten generations are given between Nuu and Ku Pule, who "removed to a southern country," taking with him as a wife his slave-woman Ahu. So was it with Abraham. Ku Pule established the practice of circumcision, and was the grandfather of Kini-lau-a-mano, whose twelve children became the founders of twelve tribes, from one of which--the Menehune--the Hawaiians are made to descend. A story similar to that of Joseph is also given, and mention is made of the subsequent return of the Menehune people to the land set apart for their occupation by Kane. Two brothers led them over deserts and through waters, and after many tribulations they reached their destination. This would seem to imply that the Menehune people were one of the tribes of Israel; yet it is more probable that they had their origin in some one of the other twelveships into which the early Asiatic tribes were in many instances divided, and that the stories of Joseph and the Exodus became a part of their folk-lore through contact with other races. The genealogical line from the Hawaiian Adam to the grandson of Ku Pule--that is, until the time of Jacob--has been brought down through three distinct traditional channels. The agreement of the several versions is remarkable, but the one brought to the islands by the high-priest Paao in the eleventh century, and retained by his ecclesiastical successors, is regarded as the most authentic. It was an heirloom of the priesthood, and was never communicated beyond the walls of the temples. With the settlement of the Menehune people in the land set apart for them by Kane, the Hawaiian legends cease to remind us of the later history of the Hebrews. There the similarity of historic incident abruptly ends, and, with an uncertain stride of twelve or thirteen generations, the chiefly line is brought down to Wakea and his wife Papa, mythical rulers of superhuman attributes, who must have existed before the Polynesians left the Asiatic coast, although in some legends they are connected not only with the first settlement of the Hawaiian archipelago, but with the creation of its islands. A few of the many legends relating to the creation and first settlement of the islands will be noted. One of them in substance is that Hawaii-loa, a distinguished chief, and fourth in generation from Kini-lau-a-mano, sailed westward, and, guided by the Pleiades, discovered the Hawaiian group. He gave to the largest island his own name, and to the others the names of his children. Another tradition refers to Papa, the wife of Wakea, as a tabued descendant of Hawaii-loa, and superior in caste to her husband. Mutual jealousies embittered their lives and led to strange events. Wakea found favor with the beautiful Hina, and the island of Molokai was born of their embrace. In retaliation Papa smiled upon the warrior Lua, and the fruit of their meeting was the fair island of Oahu. Hence the old names of Molokai-Hina and Oahu-a-Lua. Quite as fanciful a legend relates that an immense bird laid an egg on the waters of the ocean. It was hatched by the warm winds of the tropics, and the Hawaiian group came into being. Shortly after a man and woman, with a pair each of dogs, hogs and fowls, came in a canoe from Kahiki, landed on the eastern coast of Hawaii, and became the progenitors of the Hawaiian people. Fifty-six generations are mentioned from Wakea to the present ruling family. The legends of the twenty-nine generations covering the period between Wakea and Maweke--which brings the record down to the eleventh century, when the second migratory influx from the southern islands occurred--abound in wars, rebellions and popular movements, in which giants, demi-gods, and even the gods themselves took part; and it was doubtless during that period that the idolatrous forms and practices of the Hawaiian religion, as it existed a century ago, were engrafted upon an older and simpler creed confined to the worship of the godhead. When the high-priest Paao arrived with Pili he introduced some new gods while recognizing the old, strengthened and enlarged the scope of the tabu, and established an hereditary priesthood independent of, and second only in authority to, the supreme political head. Different grades of priests also came into existence, such as seers, prophets, astrologers and kahunas of various function, including the power of healing and destroying. In fact, the priesthood embraced ten distinct grades or colleges, each possessing and exercising powers peculiar to it, and the mastery of all of them was one of the qualifications of the high-priesthood. The tutelar deity of the entire body was Uli. The form of the heiau, or temple, was changed by Paao and his successors, and the masses mingled less freely in the ceremonies of sacrifice and other forms of worship. The high-priesthood became more mysterious and exclusive, and assumed prerogatives above the reach of royalty. The old Hawaiian trinity--Kane, Ku and Lono--remained the supreme gods of the pantheon, but Kanaloa, the spirit of evil, was accorded beneficent attributes and exalted among them. The regions of Po, or death, were presided over by Milu, a wicked king who once ruled on earth, while the spirits of favorite chiefs were conveyed by the divine messenger Kuahairo to the presence of Kaono-hio-kala, whose beatific abode was somewhere in the heavens. Another belief was that the ruler of Po was Manua, and that Milu did not follow Akea, the first king of Hawaii, to that place, but dwelt in a region far westward and beneath the sea. Although significant of darkness, Po was not without light. Like Tartarus, it could be visited by favored mortals, and the dead were sometimes brought back from it to earth. Pele, the dreadful goddess of the volcanoes, with her malignant relatives, was added to the Hawaiian deities during the second influx from the south, and temples were erected to her worship all over the volcanic districts of Hawaii. At that period were also introduced Laamaomao, the god of the winds, the poison goddesses Kalaipahoa and Kapo, and many other deities. But the worship of the Hawaiians was not confined to Kane, Ku, Lono and Pele. Heiaus were erected to the war-gods of the kings, and great sacrifices were frequently made to them, generally of human beings, preceding, during, and following campaigns and battles. Humbler temples were also maintained to fish, shark, lizard and other gods, where sacrifices of fish and fruits were offered. To the superstitious masses the land abounded in gnomes and fairies, and the waters in nymphs and monsters, whose caprices are themes of a bountiful store of folk-lore. With almost every stream, gorge and headland is connected some supernatural story, and the bards and musicians of old earned an easy support by keeping alive these legends of the people. To some supernatural powers were given, and malignant and beneficent spirits assumed human forms and flitted among the palms in the guise of birds. The people made their own household gods, and destroyed them when they failed to contribute to their success. For example, at Ninole, on the southeast coast of Hawaii, is a small beach called Kaloa, the stones of which, it was thought, propagated by contact with each other. From the large stones the people made gods to preside over their games. When a stone was selected for a god it was taken to the heiau, where certain ceremonies were performed over it. It was then dressed and taken to witness some game or pastime. If the owner was successful it was accepted as a god; if unsuccessful more than once or twice, it was thrown away or wrought into an axe or adze. Sometimes a stone of each sex was selected, wrapped in kapa, and laid away. In time a small pebble was found with them. It increased in size, and was finally taken to the heiau and formally made into a god. Such is the story that is still told. The people believed that the spirits of the departed continued to hover around their earthly homes, and the shades of their ancestors were appealed to in prayer. The owl and a bird called the alae were regarded as gods, and scores of other deities, controlling the elements or presiding over the several industries and amusements of the masses, were recognized and placated with sacrifices when in unfavorable moods. They had a god of the winds, of the husbandman, the warrior, the canoe-maker, the hula dancer, the distiller, the orator, the doctor and the sorcerer, and many gods of the sailor and the fisherman. The services of the high-priest did not extend to these popular deities on any of the islands of the group. The heiaus over which he presided were dedicated either to the higher gods of the pantheon or to the war-god of the king or supreme chief. He was next to the king in authority, and always of distinguished blood. Surrounded by seers, prophets and assistants, and claiming to hold direct intercourse with the gods, he was consulted on all matters of state consequence, and the auguries of the temple were always accepted with respect and confidence. The high-priest sometimes had charge of the war-god of the king, and in such cases went with it to the field of battle. Hua, one of the ancient kings of Maui, defied the priesthood and slew his high-priest. As a warning to ruling chiefs, the story of the consequences of Hua's madness has come down with great conciseness through the chroniclers of the priesthood. Hua's kingdom became a desolation. Wherever he traveled all vegetation perished, and he finally died of famine on Hawaii, and his bones were left to whiten in the sun. There were several classes of priests, or kahunas, beside those who were connected with the temples. They were seers, doctors and dealers in enchantment, and subsisted by preying upon the people through their superstitions. All physical illness was attributed either to the anger of the gods, witchcraft, or the prayers of a malignant kahuna. The afflicted person usually sent for a kahuna, whose first business was to discover the cause of the malady through incantation. This ascertained, an effort was made to counteract the spells or prayers which were wearing away the life of the patient, and sometimes with so great success that the affliction was transferred to the party whose malice had invoked it. The belief that one person might be prayed to death by another was universal with the ancient Hawaiians, and not a few of the race would turn pale to-day if told that one of priestly strain was earnestly praying for his death. In praying a person to death it was essential that the kahuna should possess something closely connected with the person of the victim--a lock of his hair, a tooth, a nail-paring, or a small quantity of his spittle, for example; hence the office of spittoon-bearer to the ancient kings was entrusted only to chiefs of some rank, who might be expected to guard with care the royal expectoration. The belief was general that the spirits of the dead might be seen and conversed with by the kilos, or sorcerers, and the spirits of the living, it was claimed, were sometimes invoked from their slumbering tabernacles by priests of exceptional sanctity. The spirit of the dead was called unihipili, while the disembodied and visible spirit of a living person was known as kahoaka. Of all the deities Pele was held in greatest dread on the island of Hawaii, where volcanic irruptions were frequent. With her five brothers and eight sisters--all representing different elemental forces--she dwelt in state in the fiery abysses of the volcanoes, moving from one to another at her pleasure, and visiting with inundations of lava such districts as neglected to cast into the craters proper offerings of meats and fruits, or angered her in other respects. One of her forms was that of a beautiful woman, in which she sometimes sought human society, and numerous legends of her affairs of love have been preserved. She was regarded as the special friend of Kamehameha I., and the suffocation of a portion of the army of Keoua, near the crater of Kilauea, in 1791, was credited directly to her. The last public recognition of the powers of Pele occurred as late as 1882 on the island of Hawaii. The village of Hilo was threatened. A broad stream of lava from Mauna Loa, after a devastating journey of twenty-five miles or more, reached a point in its downward course within a mile or two of the bay of Hilo. Its movement was slow, like that of all lava-streams some distance from their source, but its steadily approaching line of fire rendered it almost certain that the village, and perhaps the harbor, of Hilo would be destroyed within a very few days. Trenches were digged, walls were raised, and prayers were offered, but all to no purpose. Downward moved the awful avalanche of fire. Ruth, a surviving sister of the fourth and fifth Kamehamehas, was then living in Honolulu. She was a proud, stern old chiefess, who thought too little of the whites to attempt to acquire their language. The danger threatening Hilo was reported to her. "I will save the fish-ponds of Hilo," said the old chiefess. "Pele will not refuse to listen to the prayer of a Kamehameha." She chartered a steamer, left Honolulu for Hilo with a large number of attendants, and the next day stood facing the still moving flow of lava. Ascending an elevation immediately back of the village, she caused to be erected there a rude altar, before which she made her supplications to Pele, with offerings fed to the front of the advancing lava. This done, she descended the hill with confidence and returned to Honolulu. The stream of fire ceased to move, and to-day its glistening front stands like a wall around Hilo. "A remarkable coincidence," explained the whites. "The work of Pele," whispered the natives, although the last of the temples of that goddess had been destroyed sixty years before. Without discussing the cause--a natural one beyond a doubt--it may be remarked that the result has been something of a renewal with the natives of faith in the discarded gods of their fathers. All of the minor gods of the Hawaiians seem to have been independent and self-controlling. It is not claimed that they derived their powers from, were directed by, or were responsible to the supreme godhead. Hence the mythology of the Polynesians, strong though it be in individual powers and personations of the forces and achievements of nature, presents itself to us in a fragmentary form, like an incongruous patchwork of two or more half-developed or half-forgotten religious systems. One of the most noted of the independent deities of the group was Kalaipahoa, the poison-goddess of Molokai. Some centuries back she came to the islands, with two or three of her sisters, from an unknown land, and left her mark in many localities. She entered a grove of trees on the island of Molokai, and left in them a poison so intense that birds fell dead in flying over their branches. The king of the island was advised by his high-priest to have a god hewn from one of the poisoned trees. Hundreds of his subjects perished in the undertaking, but the image was finally finished and presented to the king, wrapped in many folds of kapa. It came down the generations an object of fear, and was finally seized by the first Kamehameha, and at his death divided among his principal chiefs. Kuula was the principal god of the fishermen on all the islands of the group. Rude temples were erected to him on the shores of favorite fishing-grounds, and the first fish of every catch was his due. His wife was Hina, and she was appealed to when her husband withheld his favors. Laeapua and Kaneapua were gods worshipped by the fishermen of Lanai, and other fish-gods were elsewhere recognized. There were a number of shark and lizard gods. They were powerful and malignant, and greatly feared by the classes who frequented the sea. Heiaus were erected to them on promontories overlooking the ocean, and the offerings to them of fish and fruits were always liberal. They assumed the forms of gigantic sharks and lizards, and not unfrequently lashed the waters into fury and destroyed canoes. Moaalii was the great shark-god of Molokai and Oahu. Apukohai and Uhumakaikai were the evil gods infesting the waters of Kauai. Lonoakihi was the eel-god of all the islands, and Ukanipo was the shark-god of Hawaii. Among the celebrated war-gods of the kings of the group was that of Kamehameha I. It was called Kaili, or Ku-kaili-moku, and accompanied the great chief in all of his important battles. It had been the war-god of the Hawaiian kings for many generations, and was given in charge of Kamehameha by his royal uncle, Kalauiopuu. It was a small wooden image, roughly carved, and adorned with a head-dress of yellow feathers. It is said that at times, in the heat of battle, it uttered cries which were heard above the clash of arms. It is not known what became of the image after the death of Kamehameha. The public heiaus, or temples, of the Hawaiians were usually walled enclosures of from one to five acres, and generally irregular in form. The walls were frequently ten feet in thickness and twenty feet in height, and the material used, was unhewn stone, without mortar or cement. They narrowed slightly from the base upward, and were sometimes capped with hewn slabs of coral or other rock not too firm in texture to be worked with tools of stone. Within this enclosure was an inner stone or wooden temple of small dimensions, called the luakina, or house of sacrifice, and in front of the entrance to it stood the lele, or altar, consisting of a raised platform of stone. The inner temple was sacred to the priests. Within it stood the anu, a small wicker enclosure, from which issued the oracles of the kaulas, or prophets, and around the walls were ranged charms and gods of especial sanctity. Beside the entrance to this sacred apartment were images of the principal gods, and the outer and inner walls were surmounted by lines of stone and wooden idols. The enclosure contained other buildings for the accommodation of the high-priest and his assistants; also a house for the governing chief or king, some distance removed from the domiciles of the priest. It was used temporarily by him when on a visit of consultation to the temple, or as a place of refuge in a time of danger. On each side of the entrance to the outer enclosure was a tabu staff, or elevated cross, and near it was a small walled structure in which were slain the victims for the altar. When an augury was required by the king he frequently visited the heiau in person and propounded his questions to the kaulas. If the answers from the anu were vague and unsatisfactory, other methods of divination were resorted to, such as the opening of pigs and fowls, the shapes of the clouds, the flights of birds, etc. After prayers by the priest the animals were killed, and auguries were gathered from the manner in which they expired, the appearance of the intestines--which were supposed to be the seat of thought--and other signs. Sometimes the spleens of swine were removed, if auguries of war were required, and held above the heads of the priests while prayers were offered. Before engaging in war or any other important enterprise attended by doubt or danger, human and other sacrifices were made, of which there were fifteen different kinds, and the first prisoners taken in battle were reserved for the altar. The priests named the number of men required for sacrifice, and the king provided them, sometimes from prisoners and malefactors, and sometimes from promiscuous drafts along the highways. The victims were slain with clubs without the temple walls, and their bodies, with other offerings, were laid upon the altar to decay. When the king or other high chief made a special offering of an enemy, the left eye of the victim, after the body had been brought to the altar, was removed and handed to him by the officiating priest. After making a semblance of eating it the chief tossed it upon the altar. During the construction of heiaus human sacrifices were usually offered as the work progressed, and when completed they were dedicated with great pomp and solemnity, and the altars were sometimes heaped with human bodies. In dedicating ordinary temples the kaiopokeo prayer was employed; but in consecrating heiaus of the first class the kuawili invocation was recited, a prayer continuing from sunrise to sunset. Oil and holy water were sprinkled upon the altars and sacred vessels, and the services were under the direction of the high-priest, and generally in the presence of the governing chief. The ordinary services in the temples consisted of offerings of fruits and meats, and of chants, prayers and responses, in which the people sometimes joined. Women did not participate in the ceremonies of the temples, but the exclusion found ample compensation in their exemption from sacrifice when human bodies were required. Temples of refuge, called puhonuas, were maintained on Hawaii, and possibly on Lanai and Oahu in the remote past; but concerning the latter there is some doubt. One of the puhonuas on Hawaii was at Honaunau, near the sacred burial-place of Hale-o-Keawe, and the other at Waipio, connected with the great heiau of Paa-kalani. Their gates were always open, and priests guarded their entrances. Any one who entered their enclosures for protection, whether chief or slave, whether escaping criminal or warrior in retreat, was safe from molestation, even though the king pursued. These places of refuge, with the right of circumcision, which existed until after the death of the first Kamehameha, suggest a Polynesian contact with the descendants of Abraham far back in the past, if not a kinship with one of the scattered tribes of Israel. In further evidence of the wanderings of the early Polynesians in western and southern Asia, and of their intercourse with the continental races, it may be mentioned that a disposition toward phallic worship, attested by tradition and existing symbols, followed them far out into the Pacific; and that connected with their story of the creation, so closely resembling the Hebrew version, is the Buddhist claim of previous creations which either ran their course or were destroyed by an offended godhead. Nor is Hawaiian tradition content with the mere advancement of the theory of successive creations. It makes specific reference to a creation next preceding that of their Ku-mu-honua, or Adam, and gives the names of the man and woman created and destroyed. They were Wela-ahi-lani and Owe. It has been mentioned that the birds pueo and alae were sacred and sometimes worshipped. Among the sacred fish were the aku and opelu. How they became so is told in a legend relating to the high-priest Paao, who migrated to the islands in the eleventh century and induced Pili to follow him. Before visiting Hawaii, Paao lived near his brother, probably on the island of Samoa. Both were priests and well skilled in sorcery and divination. The name of the brother was Lonopele. Both were affluent and greatly respected. Lonopele's lands were near the sea and produced the choicest varieties of fruits. One season, when the fruits were ripening, Lonopele discovered that some one was surreptitiously gathering them in the night-time, and accused one of the sons of Paao of stealing them. Indignant at the charge, and discerning no better way of disproving it, Paao killed and opened his son, and showed his brother that there was no fruit in the stomach of the boy. Grieved at the death of his son, and holding his brother accountable for it, Paao concluded to emigrate to some other land, and built strong canoes for that purpose. About the time they were completed a son of Lonopele chanced to be in the neighborhood, and Paao, remembering the death of his own son, ordered the boy to be killed. He was missed, and search was made for him, and his body was finally found near Paao's canoes. Lonopele charged his brother with the murder. Paao did not deny it, and Lonopele ordered him to leave the island. To avoid further trouble Paao set sail at once with a party consisting of thirty-eight persons. One tradition says Pili was of the party; but he must have left Samoa some years later, as Paao sent or went for him after reaching Hawaii. As the canoes were moving from the shore several prophets, standing on the cliffs above, expressed a desire to join the party. "Very well," was the answer of Paao; "if you are prophets, as you say, leap from the cliffs and I will take you aboard." Several leaped into the sea and were dashed against the rocks and drowned. Finally Makuakaumana, a prophet of genuine inspiration, who was to have accompanied the expedition, reached the shore and discovered the canoes of Paao far out on the ocean. Raising his voice, he hailed Paao and asked that a canoe might be sent back for him. "Not so," returned the priest in a loud voice, which the favoring winds bore to the belated prophet. "To return would be an omen of evil. There is room for you, but if you would go with us you must fly to our canoes." And, flying, the prophet reached the canoes in safety. Observing the canoes of Paao as they were disappearing in the distance, Lonopele sent a violent storm to destroy them; but the strong fish Aku assisted in propelling the canoes against the storm, and the mighty fish Opelu swam around them and broke the waves with his body. The malignant brother then sent the great bird Kihahakaiwainapali to vomit over the canoes and sink them; but they were hastily covered with mats, and thus escaped destruction. After a long voyage Paao landed in Puna, on the coast of Hawaii. Thenceforth the aku and opelu were held sacred by Paao and his descendants. Following is a list of the supreme and principal elemental, industrial and tutelar deities of the Hawaiian group: The Godhead. Kane, the organizer. Ku, the architect and builder. Lono, the executor. Kanaloa, the Lucifer, or fallen angel. Rulers in the realms of Po, or death. Akea, the first Hawaiian king, who, after life, founded the island-kingdom of Kapapahaunaumoku, in the realms of Po, or death. Milu, the successor of Akea, or who, according to another belief, accompanied Akea to Po, and became the perpetual ruler of a kingdom on its western confines. Manua, referred to in some legends as the supreme sovereign of Po. With him abide the spirits of distinguished chiefs and priests, who wander among beautiful streams and groves of kou trees, and subsist upon lizards and butterflies. Minor Celestial Deities. Kaonohiokala (the eyeball of the sun), a celestial god, with an abode somewhere in the heavens, and to whose presence the departed spirits of chiefs were conducted. Kuahairo, the messenger who conducted the souls of distinguished chiefs to Kaonohiokala. Olopue, a god of Maui, who bore the spirits of noted chiefs to the celestial paradise. Kamehameha sought to secure possession of a very sacred image of this god, inherited by Kahekili, moi of Maui. The Volcanic Deities. Pele, the ruling goddess of the volcanoes, with her sisters, Hiiaka-wawahi-lani, the heaven-rending cloud-holder; Makoie-nawahi-waa, the fire-eyed canoe-breaker; Hiiaka-noho-lani, the heaven-dwelling cloud-holder; Hiiaka-kaalawa-maka, the quick-glancing cloud-holder; Hiiaka-hoi-ke-poli-a-pele, the cloud-holder kissing the bosom of Pele; Hiiaka-ka-pu-enaena, the red-hot mountain lifting clouds; Hiiaka-kaleiia, the wreath encircled cloud-holder; Hiiaka-opio, the young cloud-holder; and their brothers, Kamo-hoalii, or King Moho, the king of vapor or steam; Kapohoikahiola, god of explosions; Keuakepo, god of the night-rain, or rain of fire; Kane-kahili, the husband of thunder, or thundering god; Keoahi-kamakaua, the fire-thrusting child of war. [The last two were hunchbacks.] Akuapaao, the war-god of Paao, taken from the temple of Manini by Umi. Ku-kaili-moku, the war-god of Kamehameha I., bequeathed to him by Kalaniopuu. Deities of the Elements. Laamaomao, god of the winds, the Hawaiian �olus, whose home was on Molokai. Hinakuluiau, a goddess of the rain. Hinakealii and Hookuipaele, sisters of Hinakuluiau. Mooaleo, a powerful gnome of Lanai, conquered by Kaululaau, a prince of Maui. Kuula, a god of the fishermen. Hina, wife of Kuula. Laeapua and Kaneapua, gods of the fishermen of Lanai. Hinahele and her daughter Aiaiakuula, goddesses of the fishermen of Hawaii. Ukanipo, the great shark-god of Hawaii. Moaalii, the principal shark-god of Molokai and Oahu. Lonoakiki, the great eel-god of all the group. Apukohai and Uhumakaikai, evil shark or fish-gods of Kauai. Gods of the Arts and Industries. Akua-ula, the god of inspiration. Haulili, a god of speech, special to Kauai. Koleamoku, the deified chief who first learned the use of herbs and the art of healing from the gods. He was a patron of the kahunas. Olonopuha and Makanuiailone, deified disciples of Koleamoku. Kaanahua, the second son of the high-priest Luahoomoe, and Kukaoo, gods of the husbandman. Lakakane, god of the hula and similar sports. Mokualii, god of the canoe-makers. Hai, god of kapa making. Ulaulakeahi, god of distillation. Kalaipahoa, a goddess who entered and poisoned trees. Kapo and Pua, sisters of Kalaipahoa, with like functions. Kama, a powerful tutelar god of all the islands. Laauli, the god who made inviolable laws. Kuahana, the god who killed men wantonly. Leleioio, the god who inflicted bodily pain. Lelehookaahaa, wife of Leleioio. Lie, a goddess of the mountains, who braided leis. Maikahulipu, the god who assisted in righting upset canoes. Pohakaa, a god living in precipitous places, and who rolled down stones, to the fright and injury of passers. Keoloewa, a god worshipped in the heiaus of Maui. Kiha, a goddess of Maui, held in great reverence. Uli, the god of the sorcerers. Pekuku, a powerful god of Hawaii. Lonoikeaualii, a god worshipped in the heiaus of Oahu. Kauakahi, a god of Maui and Molokai. Hiaka, a mountain god of Kauai. Kapo and Kapua, and several others, messengers of the gods. Ouli, the god appealed to by the kahunas in praying people to death. Maliu, any deified deceased chief. Akua noho, gods possessing the spirits of departed mortals, of which there were many. Kiha-wahine and Kalo, noted deities of the class of akua-noho. Mahulu, a name common to three gods in the temples of Lono. Manu, the names of two gods at the outer gates of heiaus dedicated to Lono. Puea, the god worshipped in the darkness. Kaluanuunohonionio, one of the principal gods of the luakina, or sacrificial house of the temple. Kanenuiakea, a general name for a class of thirteen gods connected with the larger heiaus. ANCIENT HAWAIIAN GOVERNMENT. Previous to the eleventh century the several habitable islands of the Hawaiian group were governed by one or more independent chiefs, as already stated. After the migratory influx of that period, however, and the settlement on the islands of a number of warlike southern chiefs and their followers, the independent chiefs began to unite for mutual protection. This involved the necessity of a supreme head, which was usually found in the chief conceded to be the most powerful; and thus alii-nuis, mois and kings sprang into existence. So far as tradition extends, however, certain lines, such as the Maweke, Pili and Paumakua families, were always considered to be of supreme blood. They came to the islands as chiefs of distinguished lineage, and so remained. Gradually the powers of the mois and ruling chiefs were enlarged, until at length they claimed almost everything. Then the chiefs held their possessions in fief to the moi, and forfeited them by rebellion. In time the king became absolute master of the most of the soil over which he ruled, and assumed tabu rights which rendered his person sacred and his prerogatives more secure. All he acquired by conquest was his, and by partitioning the lands among his titled friends he secured the support necessary to his maintenance in power. Certain lands were inalienable both in chiefly families and the priesthood; they were made so by early sovereign decrees, which continued to be respected; but with each succeeding king important land changes usually occurred. Although the king maintained fish-ponds and cultivated lands of his own, he was largely supported by his subject chiefs. They were expected to contribute to him whatever was demanded either of food, raiment, houses, canoes, weapons or labor, and in turn they took such portions of the products of their tenants as their necessities required. The ili was the smallest political division; next above it was the ahapuaa, which paid a nominal or special tax of one hog monthly to the king; next the okana, embracing several ahapuaas; and finally the moku, or district, or island. The laboring classes possessed no realty of their own, nor could they anywhere escape the claim or jurisdiction of a chief or landlord. They owed military and other personal service to their respective chiefs, and the chiefs owed theirs to the king. If required, all were expected to respond to a call to the field, fully armed and prepared for battle. Caste rules of dress, ornamentation and social forms were rigidly enforced. The entire people were divided into four general classes: first, the alii, or chiefly families, of various grades and prerogatives; second, the kahunas, embracing priests, prophets, doctors, diviners and astrologers; third, the kanaka-wale, or free private citizens; and, fourth, the kauwa-maoli, or slaves, either captured in war or born of slave parents. The laws were few and simple, and the most of them referred to the rights and prerogatives of the king, priesthood and nobility. Property disputes of the masses were settled by their chiefs, and other grievances were in most instances left to private redress, which frequently and very naturally resulted in prolonged and fatal family feuds, in the end requiring chiefly and sometimes royal intervention. This, in brief and very general terms, was the prevailing character of the government and land tenure throughout the several islands of the group until after the death of Kamehameha I. in 1819, and the relinquishment by the crown of its ancient and sovereign rights in the soil. The leading chiefs and high-priesthood claimed a lineage distinct from that of the masses, and traced their ancestry back to Kumuhonua, the Polynesian Adam. The iku-pau, a sacred class of the supreme priesthood, assumed to be the direct descendants from the godhead, while the iku-nuu were a collateral branch of the sacred and royal strain, and possessed only temporal powers. It was thus that one of the families of the Hawaiian priesthood, in charge of the verbal genealogical records, exalted itself in sanctity above the political rulers. Proud of their lineage, to guard against imposture and keep their blood uncorrupted, the chiefs allowed their claims to family distinction to be passed upon by a college of heraldry, established by an early moi of Maui. Reciting their genealogies before the college, composed of aliis of accepted rank, and receiving the recognition of the council, chiefs were then regarded as members of the grade of aha-alii, or chiefs of admitted and irrevocable rank. The chiefs inherited their titles and tabu privileges quite as frequently through the rank of one parent as of the other. As Hawaiian women of distinction usually had more than one husband, and the chiefs were seldom content with a single wife, the difficulty of determining the rights and ranks of their children was by no means easy; but the averment of the mother was generally accepted as conclusive and sufficient evidence in that regard. For political purposes marriage alliances were common between the royal and chiefly families of the several islands, and thus in time the superior nobility of the entire group became connected by ties of blood. The political or principal wife of a king or distinguished chief was usually of a rank equal to that of her husband, and their marriage was proclaimed by heralds and celebrated with befitting ceremonies. Other wives were taken by simple agreement, and without ceremony or public announcement. Very much in the same manner the masses entered into their marriage unions. With the latter, however, polygamy was not common. When husband and wife separated, as they frequently did, each was at liberty to select another partner. The political wife of a chief was called wahine-hoao; the others, haia-wahine, or concubine. In the royal families, to subserve purposes of state, father and daughter, brother and sister, and uncle and niece frequently united as man and wife. The children of such unions were esteemed of the highest rank, and, strange to say, no mental or physical deterioration seemed to result from these incestuous relations, for all through the past the mois and nobles of the group were noted for their gigantic proportions. There were five or more grades of chiefs connected with the royal lines. First in order, and the most sacred, was the alii-niaupio (the offspring of a prince with his own sister); next, the alii-pio (the offspring of a prince with his own niece); next, the alii-naha (the offspring of a prince or king with his own daughter); next, the alii-wohi (the offspring of either of the foregoing with another chiefly branch); and next, the lo-alii (chiefs of royal blood). Any of these might be either male or female. To these grades of chiefs distinct personal tabus or prerogatives were attached, such as the tabu-moe, tabu-wela, tabu-hoano and tabu-wohi. These tabus could be given or bequeathed to others by their possessors, but could not be multiplied by transmission. The meles, or ancestral chants of a family, passed in succession to the legal representatives, and became exclusively theirs; but the government, tabus and household gods of the king were subject to his disposal as he willed, either at his death or before it. The child of a tabu chief, born of a mother of lower rank, could not, according to custom, assume the tabu privileges of his father, although in some instances in the past they were made to inure to such offspring, notably in the case of Umi, King of Hawaii. Before an alii-niaupio, clothed with the supreme function of the tabu-moe, all, with the exception of tabu chiefs, were compelled to prostrate themselves. When he appeared or was approached his rank was announced by an attendant, and all not exempt from the homage were required to drop with their faces to the earth. The exemptions were the alii-pio, the alii-naha, the alii-wohi and the lo-alii. They, and they alone, were permitted to stand in the presence of a niaupio chief. An alii-pio was also a sacred chief, so much so that he conversed with others only in the night-time, and on chiefesses of that rank the sun was not allowed to shine. The kings lived in affluence in large mansions of wood or stone, in the midst of walled grounds adorned with fruit and shade trees and other attractive forms of vegetation. The grounds also contained many other smaller buildings for the accommodation of guests, retainers, attendants, servants and guards. They were attended by their high-priests, civil and military advisers, and a retinue of favorite chiefs, and spent their time, when not employed in war or affairs of state, in indolent and dignified repose. The personal attendants of an ancient Hawaiian king were all of noble blood, and each had his specified duty. They were known as kahu-alii, or guardians of the person of the king. They consisted of the iwikuamoo, or rubber of the person; the ipukuha, or spittoon-bearer; the paakahili, or kahili-bearer; the kiaipoo, or sleep-watcher; and the aipuupuu, or steward. Other inferior chiefs, called puuku, with messengers, spies, executioners, prophets, astrologers, poets, historians, musicians and dancers, were among his retainers. Connected with the palace was an apartment used as a heiau, or chapel, which was sometimes in charge of the high-priest. During festival seasons brilliant feasts, tournaments and hula and musical entertainments were given in the royal grounds, and the court was splendid in displays of flowers, feathers and other gaudy trappings. The king not unfrequently took part in the manly games and exercises of the chiefs, and sometimes complimented the hula dancers and musicians by joining in their performances. To render the kings and higher nobility still more exclusive, they had a court language which was understood only by themselves, and which was changed in part from time to time as its expressions found interpretation beyond the royal circle. Some portions of this court language have been preserved. ARTS, HABITS AND CUSTOMS. All implements of war or industry known to the early Hawaiians were made either of wood, stone, or bone, as the islands are destitute of metals; but with these rude helps they laid up hewn-stone walls, felled trees, made canoes and barges, manufactured cloths and cordage, fashioned weapons, constructed dwellings and temples, roads and fish-ponds, and tilled the soil. They had axes, adzes and hammers of stone, spades of wood, knives of flint and ivory, needles of thorn and bone, and spears and daggers of hardened wood. They wove mats for sails and other purposes, and from the inner bark of the paper mulberry-tree beat out a fine, thin cloth called kapa, which they ornamented with colors and figures. Their food was the flesh of swine, dogs and fowls; fish, and almost everything living in the sea; taro, sweet potatoes and yams, and fruits, berries and edible sea-weed of various kinds. Poi, the favorite food of all classes, was a slightly fermented paste made of cooked and pounded taro, a large bulbous root, in taste resembling an Indian turnip. They made a stupefying beverage by chewing the awa root, and from the sweet root of the ti plant fermented an intoxicating drink. The soft parts of the sugar-cane were eaten, but, with the exception of the manufacture of a beer called uiuia, no other use seems to have been made of it. Their food, wrapped in ti leaves, was usually cooked in heated and covered pits in the earth. Their household vessels were shells, gourd calabashes of various shapes and sizes, and platters and other containers made of wood. The dress of the ancient Hawaiian was scant, simple and cool. The principal, and generally the only, garment of the male was the maro, a narrow cloth fastened around the loins. To this was sometimes added, among the masses, a kihei, or cloth thrown loosely over the shoulders. The females wore a pau, or skirt of invariably five thicknesses of kapa, fastened around the waist and extending to the knees. When the weather was cool a short mantle was sometimes added. Ordinarily the heads of both sexes were without coverings, and in rare instances they wore kamaas, or sandals of ti or pandanus leaves. With the maro, which was common to the males of all ranks, the king on state occasions wore the royal mamo, a mantle reaching to the ankles, and made of the yellow feathers of a little sea-bird called the mamo. When it is mentioned that but a single yellow feather is found under each wing of the mamo, and that tens of thousands, perhaps, entered into the fabrication of a single mantle, some idea of the value of such a garment may be gathered. A few of these royal cloaks are still in existence, one of which was worn by King Kalakaua during the ceremonies of his late coronation. Pure yellow was the royal color. The shorter capes or mantles of the chiefs were of yellow feathers mixed with red. The color of the priests and gods was red. The ornaments of the nobility consisted of head-dresses of feathers, palaoas, or charms of bone suspended from the neck, and necklaces and bracelets of shells, teeth and other materials. Many of them were tattooed on the face, thighs and breast, but the practice was not universal. Flowers were in general use as ornaments, and at feasts, festivals and other gatherings garlands of fragrant leaves and blossoms crowned the heads and encircled the necks of all. This is among the beautiful customs still retained by the Hawaiians. The dwellings of the masses were constructed of upright posts planted in the ground, with cross-beams and rafters, and roofs and sides of woven twigs and branches thatched with leaves. The houses of the nobility were larger, stronger and more pretentious, and were frequently surrounded by broad verandas. It was a custom to locate dwellings so that the main entrance would face the east, the home of Kane. The opposite entrance looked toward Kahiki, the land from which Wakea came. The homes of well-conditioned Hawaiians consisted of no less than six separate dwellings or apartments: 1st, the heiau, or idol-house; 2d, the mua, or eating-house of the males, which females were not allowed to enter; 3d, the hale-noa, or house of the women, which men could not enter; 4th, the hale-aina, or eating-house of the wife; 5th, the kua, or wife's working-house; and 6th, the hale-pea, or retiring-house or nursery of the wife. The poorer classes followed these regulations so far as their means would admit, but screens usually took the place of separate dwellings or definite apartments. When war was declared or invasion threatened, messengers, called lunapais, were despatched by the king to his subject chiefs, who promptly responded in warriors, canoes, or whatever else was demanded. A regular line-of-battle consisted of a centre and right and left wings, and marked military genius was sometimes displayed in the handling of armies. Sea-battles, where hundreds, sometimes thousands, of war-canoes met in hostile shock, were common, and usually resulted in great loss of life. Truces and terms of peace were ordinarily respected, but few prisoners were spared except for sacrifice. The weapons of the islanders were spears about twenty feet in length, javelins, war-clubs, stone axes, rude halberds, knives, daggers and slings. The slings were made either of cocoa fibre or human hair. The stones thrown were sometimes a pound or more in weight, and were delivered with great force and accuracy. The spears were sometimes thrown, while the javelins were reserved for closer encounter. Shields were unknown. Hostile missiles were either dodged, caught in the hands, or dexterously warded. The chiefs frequently wore feather helmets in battle, but the person was without protection. The athletic sports and games of the people were numerous. The muscular pastimes consisted in part of contests in running, jumping, boxing, wrestling, swimming, diving, canoe-racing and surf-riding. Rolling round stone disks and throwing darts along a prepared channel was a favorite sport; but the most exciting was the holua contest, in which two or more might engage. On long, light and narrow sledges the contestants, lying prone, dashed down long and steep declivities, the victory being with the one who first reached the bottom. The goddess Pele enjoyed the game, and frequently engaged in it. But she was a dangerous contestant. On being beaten by Kahavari, a chief of Puna, she drove him from the district with a stream of lava. Sham battles and spear and stone throwing were also popular exercises. Among the in-door games were konane, kilu, puhenehene, punipiki, and hiua. Konane resembled the English game of draughts. Puhenehene consisted of the adroit hiding by one of the players of a small object under one of several mats in the midst of the party of contestants, and the designation of its place of concealment by the others. Kilu was a game somewhat similar, accompanied by singing. Punipiki was something like the game of "fox and geese," and hiua was played on a board with four squares. These were the most ancient of Hawaiian household games. The musical instruments of the islanders were few and simple. They consisted of pahus, or drums, of various sizes; the ohe, a bamboo flute; the hokio, a rude clarionet; a nasal flageolet, and a reed instrument played by the aid of the voice. To these were added, on special occasions, castanets and dry gourds containing pebbles, which were used to mark the time of chants and other music. They had many varieties of dances, or hulas, all of which were more or less graceful, and a few of which were coarse and licentious. Bands of hula dancers, male and female, were among the retainers of the mois and prominent chiefs, and their services were required on every festive occasion. The mourning customs of the people were peculiar. For days they wailed and feasted together over a dead relative or friend, frequently knocking out one or more teeth, shaving portions of their heads and beards, and tearing their flesh and clothes. But their wildest displays of grief were on the death of their kings and governing chiefs. During a royal mourning season, which sometimes continued for weeks, the people indulged in an unrestrained saturnalia of recklessness and license. Every law was openly violated, every conceivable crime committed. The excuse was--and the authorities were compelled to accept it--that grief had temporarily unseated the popular reason, and they were not responsible for their misdemeanors. The masses buried their dead or deposited the bodies in caves, but the bones of the kings were otherwise disposed of. There were royal burial-places--one at Honaunau, on the island of Hawaii, and another, called Iao, on Maui--and the tombs of many of the ancient mois and ruling chiefs were in one or the other of those sacred spots; but they probably contained but few royal bones. In the fear that the bones of the mois and distinguished chiefs might fall into the hands of their enemies and be used for fish-hooks, arrow-points for shooting mice, and other debasing purposes, they were usually destroyed or hidden. Some were weighted and thrown into the sea, and others, after the flesh had been removed from them and burned, were secreted in mountain caves. The hearts of the kings of the island of Hawaii were frequently thrown into the crater of Kilauea as an offering to Pele. The bones of the first Kamehameha were so well secreted in some cave in Kona that they have not yet been found, and the bones of Kualii, a celebrated Oahuan king of the seventeenth century, were reduced to powder, mingled with poi, and at the funeral feast fed to a hundred unsuspecting chiefs. The ancient Hawaiians divided the year into twelve months of thirty days each. The days of the month were named, not numbered. As this gave but three hundred and sixty days to their year, they added and gave to their god Lono in feasting and festivity the number of days required to complete the sidereal year, which was regulated by the rising of the Pleiades. The new year began with the winter solstice. They also reckoned by lunar months in the regulation of their monthly feasts. The year was divided into two seasons--the rainy and the dry--and the day into three general parts, morning, noon and night. The first, middle and after parts of the night were also designated. As elsewhere mentioned, they had names for the five principal planets, which they called "the wandering stars," and for a number of heavenly groups and constellations. It was this knowledge of the heavens that enabled them to navigate the ocean in their frail canoes. In counting, the Hawaiians reckoned by fours and their multiples. Their highest expressed number was four hundred thousand. More than that was indefinite. After what has been written it would seem scarcely necessary to mention that the Hawaiians were not cannibals. Their legends refer to two or three instances of cannibalism on the islands, but the man-eaters were natives of some other group and did not long survive. THE HAWAII OF TO-DAY. With this somewhat extended reference to the past of the Hawaiian Islands and their people, it is deemed that a brief allusion to their present political, social, industrial and commercial condition will not be out of place. The legends presented leave the simple but warlike islanders standing naked but not ashamed in the light of civilization suddenly flashed upon them from across the seas. In the darkness behind them are legends and spears; in the light before them are history and law. Let us see what the years since have done for them. The Hawaiian government of to-day is a mild constitutional monarchy, the ruling family claiming descent from the most ancient and respected of the chiefly blood of Hawaii. The departments of the government are legislative, executive and judicial. The Legislative Assembly, which meets every two years, consists of representatives chosen by the people, nobles named by the sovereign, and crown ministers. They act in a single body, choosing their presiding officer by ballot, and their proceedings are held jointly in the English and Hawaiian languages, and in both are their laws and proceedings published. As the elective franchise is confined to native and naturalized citizens, the most of the representatives chosen by the people are natives, all of whom are more or less educated, and many of whom are graceful and eloquent debaters. White representatives of accepted sympathy with the natives are occasionally elected, and a majority of the nobles and ministers are white men. The English common law is the basis of their statutes, and their civil and criminal codes are not unlike our own. The Legislature fixes tax, excise and customs charges, and provides by appropriation for all public expenditure. The representatives are paid small salaries, and the Legislature is formally convened and prorogued by the king in person. Although the present sovereign was elected by the Legislature, for the reason heretofore mentioned, the naming of a successor is left to the occupant of the throne. The king is provided at public expense with a palace and royal guard, and appropriations of money amounting to perhaps forty thousand dollars yearly. He has also some additional income from what are known as crown lands. The two sisters of the king and the daughter of one of them receive from the treasury an aggregate of fifteen thousand five hundred dollars yearly. The king entertains liberally, is generous with his friends and attendants, and probably finds his income no more than sufficient to meet his wants from year to year. His advisers are four Ministers of State and a Privy Council. The Ministry is composed of a Minister of Foreign Affairs, who ranks as premier, Minister of Finance, Minister of Interior, and Attorney-General. The Privy Council is composed of thirty or forty leading citizens appointed by the Crown. In certain matters they have original and exclusive powers. They are convened in council from time to time, but receive no compensation. The most of the Privy Councillors are white men, and embrace almost every nationality. The majority of the ministers of state are usually white men of ability, and their salaries are six thousand dollars per annum each. The judiciary is composed of a Supreme Court of three members, one of whom is chief-justice and chancellor, Circuit Courts holden in different districts, and minor magistrates' courts in localities where they are required. The Supreme and Circuit judges are all white men, and but few magistrates are natives. The salaries of the superior judges are respectable, and the most of them are men of ability. The laws, as a rule, are intelligently administered and promptly executed, and life and property are amply protected. Public schools are numerous throughout the islands, and are largely attended by native children. A considerable proportion of the adult natives are able to read and write their own language, and a number of native newspapers and periodicals are sustained. The English press of Honolulu--the only point of publication--is respectable in ability and enterprise. Leprosy was brought to the islands by the Chinese about forty years ago, and has become a dangerous and loathsome scourge. Lepers are seldom encountered, however, as they are removed, whenever discovered, to the island of Molokai, where they are humanely cared for by the government. It is a cureless but painless affliction, and is doubtless contagious under certain conditions. Nine-tenths or more of the lepers are either natives or Chinese, and the whole number amounts to perhaps twelve hundred. It is not thought that the malady is increasing, and it is hoped that a careful segregation of the afflicted will in time eradicate the disease from the group. The commerce of the islands is largely in the hands of foreigners, and the sugar plantations are almost exclusively under their control. There are but few native merchants, the large dealers being Americans, Germans, English and French, while the smaller traders are generally Portuguese and Chinese. There are native lawyers, clerks, mechanics, magistrates and police-men; but the most of the race who are compelled to labor for their support find employment as farm and plantation laborers, stevedores, sailors, coachmen, boatmen, fishermen, gardeners, fruit-pedlars, waiters, soldiers and house-servants, in all of which capacities they are generally industrious, cheerful and honest. The products of the islands for export are sugar, molasses, rice, bananas, fungus, hides and wool, of an aggregate approximate value of eight million dollars annually. The principal product, however, is sugar, amounting to perhaps one hundred thousand tons yearly. Nine-tenths of the exports of the group find a market in the United States, and four-fifths or more of the imports in value are from the great Republic. The receipts and expenditures of the government are a little less than one million five hundred thousand dollars annually, derived principally from customs duties and direct taxation. The population of the islands is a little more than eighty thousand, of which about forty-five thousand are natives. The Americans, English, Germans, Norwegians and French number perhaps ten thousand, and Chinese, Japanese and Portuguese from the Azores constitute the most of the remainder. The postal facilities of the islands are ample and reliable. Inter-island steamers, of which there are many, convey the mails throughout the group at regular intervals, and the San Franciscan and Australian steamers afford a punctual and trustworthy service with the rest of the world. The islands have a postal money-order system reaching within and beyond their boundaries, and are connected with the Universal Postal Union. Over twenty thousand of the inhabitants of the group are centred in Honolulu, the capital of the kingdom, and its beautiful and dreamy suburb of Waikiki. The business portions of the city, with their macadamized and lighted streets, and blocks of brick and stone buildings, have a thrifty and permanent appearance, while the eastern suburbs, approaching the hills with a gentle ascent, abound in charming residences embowered in palms. Small mountain streams run through the city and afford an abundant supply of sweet water, which is further augmented by a number of flowing artesian wells. With a temperature ranging from seventy to ninety degrees, Honolulu, with its substantial churches and public buildings, its air of affluence and dreamy quiet, is a delightful place of residence to those who enjoy the heat and languor of the tropics. In the midst of these evidences of prosperity and advancement it is but too apparent that the natives are steadily decreasing in numbers and gradually losing their hold upon the fair land of their fathers. Within a century they have dwindled from four hundred thousand healthy and happy children of nature, without care and without want, to a little more than a tenth of that number of landless, hopeless victims to the greed and vices of civilization. They are slowly sinking under the restraints and burdens of their surroundings, and will in time succumb to social and political conditions foreign to their natures and poisonous to their blood. Year by year their footprints will grow more dim along the sands of their reef-sheltered shores, and fainter and fainter will come their simple songs from the shadows of the palms, until finally their voices will be heard no more for ever. And then, if not before--and no human effort can shape it otherwise--the Hawaiian Islands, with the echoes of their songs and the sweets of their green fields, will pass into the political, as they are now firmly within the commercial, system of the great American Republic. February, 1887. HINA, THE HELEN OF HAWAII. CHARACTERS. Hakalanileo, a chief of Hawaii. Hina, wife of Hakalanileo. Uli, a sorceress, mother of Hina. Niheu and Kana, sons of Hina. Kamauaua, King of Molokai. Keoloewa and Kaupeepee, sons of Kamauaua. Nuakea, wife of Keoloewa. Moi, brother of Nuakea. HINA, THE HELEN OF HAWAII. A STORY OF HAWAIIAN CHIVALRY IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY. I. The story of the Iliad is a dramatic record of the love and hate, wrong and revenge, courage and custom, passion and superstition, of mythical Greece, and embraces in a single brilliant recital events which the historic bards of other lands, lacking the genius of Homer, have sent down the centuries in fragments. Human nature has been substantially the same in all ages, differing only in the ardor of its passions and appetites, as affected by the zone of its habitat and its peculiar physical surroundings. Hence almost every nation, barbarous and civilized, has had its Helen and its Troy, its Paris and its Agamemnon, its Hector and its demi-gods; and Hawaii is not an exception. The wrath of no dusky Achilles is made the thesis of the story of the Hawaiian abduction, but in other respects the Greek and Polynesian legends closely resemble each other in their general outlines. The story of Hina, the Hawaiian Helen, and Kaupeepee, the Paris of the legend, takes us back to the twelfth century, near the close of the second and final era of migration from Tahiti, Samoa, and perhaps other islands of Polynesia--a period which added very considerably to the population of the group, and gave to it many new chiefs, a number of new customs, and a few new gods. That the tale may be better understood by the reader who may not be conversant with the legendary history of the Hawaiian Islands, it will be necessary to refer briefly to the political and social condition of the group at that time. Notwithstanding the many sharply drawn and wonderfully-preserved historic legends of the Hawaiians, the early settlement of the little archipelago is shrouded in mystery. The best testimony, however, warrants the assumption that the islands were first discovered and occupied by a people who had drifted from southern Asia to the islands of the Pacific in the first or second century of the Christian era, and, by migratory stages from the Fijis to Samoa and thence to Tahiti, had reached the Hawaiian group in about A.D. 550. The first discovery was doubtless the result of accident; but those who made it were able to find their way back to the place from which they started--either Tahiti or Samoa--and in due time return with augmented numbers, bearing with them to their new home pigs, fowls, dogs, and the seeds of such fruits and vegetables as they had found to be wanting there. The little colony grew and prospered, and for nearly five hundred years had no communication with, or knowledge of, the world beyond. At the end of that time their geographical traditions had grown so faint that they spoke only of Kahiki, a place very far away, from which their ancestors came. First landing on the large island of Hawaii, they had spread over the eight habitable divisions of the group. The people were ruled by district chiefs, in fief to a supreme head on some of the islands, and on others independent, and the lines dividing the masses from the nobility were less strictly drawn than during the centuries succeeding. Wars were frequent between neighboring chiefs, and popular increase was slow; but the tabus of the chiefs and priests were not oppressive, and the people claimed and exercised a degree of personal independence unknown to them after the eleventh century. In about A.D. 1025, or perhaps a little earlier, the people of the group were suddenly aroused from their long dream of six centuries by the arrival of a large party of adventurers from Tahiti. Their chief was Nanamaoa. Their language resembled that of the Hawaiians, and their customs and religions were not greatly at variance. They were therefore received with kindness, and in a few years their influence began to be felt throughout the group. They landed at Kohala, Hawaii, and Nanamaoa soon succeeded in establishing himself there as an influential chief. His sons secured possessions on Maui and Oahu, and on the latter island one of them--Nanakaoko--instituted the sacred place called Kukaniloko, in the district of Ewa, where it was the desire of future chiefs that their sons should be born. Even Kamehameha I., as late as 1797, sought to remove his queen thither before the birth of Liholiho, but the illness of the royal mother prevented. This became the sacred birth-place of princes, as Iao, in Wailuku valley, on the island of Maui, became their tabu spot of interment. It was at Kukaniloko that Kapawa, the son of Nanakaoko, was born. His principal seat of power was probably on Hawaii, although he retained possessions on Maui and Oahu. It was during his life that the celebrated chief and priest Paao made his appearance in the group. He came from one of the southern islands with a small party, bringing with him new gods and new modes of worship, and to him the subsequent high-priests of Hawaii traced their sacerdotal line, even down to Hevaheva, who in 1819 was the first to apply the torch to the temples in which his ancestors had so long worshipped. Paao was a statesman and warrior as well as a priest, but he preferred spiritual to temporal authority; and when Kapawa died and was buried at Iao, leaving his possessions without a competent ruler and his subjects in a state bordering upon anarchy, Paao did not assume the chieftaincy, as he manifestly might have done, but despatched messengers--if, indeed, he did not go himself--to the land of his birth, to invite to Hawaii a chief capable of restoring order. Such a leader was found in Pilikaekae, of Samoa, who migrated to Hawaii with a goodly number of retainers, and was promptly established in the vacant sovereignty, while Paao continued in the position of high-priest. Pili extended his authority over the six districts of Hawaii; but beyond Kohala and the northern part of the island the recognition of his sovereignty was merely nominal, and internal wars and revolts were frequent. The next arrivals of note from the southern islands were the two Paumakua families, one of which settled in Oahu and Kauai and the other in Hawaii and Maui. Whether, as averred by conflicting traditions, they arrived contemporaneously or two or three generations apart, is a question in nowise pertinent to our story. The legend is connected with the Hawaii branch alone, and the order of their coming need not, therefore, be here discussed. The Paumakua family, which became so influential in Hawaii and Maui, arrived during the early part of the reign of Pili, in about A.D. 1090. A large party accompanied the family, and they brought with them their gods, priests, astrologers and prophets. They first landed and secured possessions in Maui; but the sons and other relatives of Paumakua were brave and ambitious, and soon by conquest and marriage secured an almost sovereign footing both in Maui and Hawaii. One of the nephews of Paumakua, Hakalanileo, who was the son of Kuheailani, as an entering wedge to further acquisitions became in some manner possessed of a strip of land along the coast in the district of Hilo, Hawaii. It was a large estate, and the owner availed himself of every opportunity to extend its boundaries and increase the number of his dependents. His wife was the beautiful Hina of Hawaiian song and daughter of the seeress Uli, who had migrated from Tahiti with some one of the several expeditions of that period--possibly with the Paumakua family, although tradition does not so state. At that time Kamauaua, a powerful chief of the ancient native line of Nanaula, held sway over the island of Molokai. He proudly traced back his ancestry to the first migration in the sixth century, and regarded with aversion and well-founded alarm the new migratory tide which for years past had been casting upon the shores of the islands a flood of alien adventurers, whose warlike and aggressive chiefs were steadily possessing themselves of the fairest portions of the group. He had sought to form a league of native chiefs against these dangerous encroachments; but the wily invaders, with new gods to awe the masses and new customs and new traditions to charm the native nobility, had, through intermarriage and strategy rather than force, become the virtual rulers of Hawaii, Maui, Oahu, and Kauai, and he had abandoned all hope of seeing them supplanted. Molokai alone remained exclusively under native control, and its resolute old chief had from their infancy instilled into his sons a hatred of the southern spoilers and a resolution to resist their aggressions to the bitter end. The eldest of the sons of Kamauaua was Kaupeepee. He was a warlike youth, well skilled in arms and mighty in strength and courage, and so profound was his detestation of the alien chiefs that he resolved to devote his life to such warfare as he might be able to make upon them and their subjects. With this view he relinquished his right of succession to his first brother, Keoloewa, and, gathering around him a band of warriors partaking of his desperation and courage, established a stronghold on the promontory of Haupu, on the north side of the island, between Pelekunu and Waikolo. At that point, and for some miles on each side of it, the mountains hug the ocean so closely as to leave nothing between them and the surf-beaten shores but a succession of steep, narrow and rugged promontories jutting out into the sea, and separated from each other by gorge-like and gloomy little valleys gashing the hills and, like dragons, for ever swallowing and ejecting the waves that venture too near their rocky jaws. One of the most rugged of these promontories was Haupu. It was a natural fortress, precipitously fronting the sea with a height of five hundred feet or more, and flanked on the right and left by almost perpendicular declivities rising from narrow gulches choked with vegetation and sweetening the sea with rivulets of fresh water dashing down from the mountains seamed by their sources. It was connected with the range of mountains back of it by a narrow and rising ridge, which at a point something less than a mile inland, where opposite branches of the two flanking gulches approached each other closely, was contracted to a neck of not more than fifty paces in width. The summit of the point abutting the ocean was a comparatively level plateau, or rather series of three connecting terraces, embracing in all an area of nearly a hundred acres. Surrounded on three sides by almost perpendicular walls, and accessible on the fourth only by a narrow and easily-defended ridge extending to the mountains, little engineering skill was required to render the place well-nigh impregnable. Setting himself earnestly to the task, Kaupeepee soon transformed the promontory of Haupu into one of the strongest fortresses in all the group. He surrounded the plateau with massive stone walls overlooking the declivities, and across the narrow neck leading to the mountains raised a rocky barrier ten feet in thickness and twenty feet in height, around which aggression from without was rendered impracticable by the excavation of precipices leading to, and in vertical line with, the ends of the wall. Instead of a gate, a subterranean passage-way led under the wall, the inside entrance being covered in times of danger with a huge flat stone resting on rollers. Although the passage was rough and in unfavorable weather attended with danger, canoes could enter the mouths of both gulches and be hauled up beyond the reach of the waves, and beyond the reach of enemies as well; for above the entrances, and completely commanding them, frowned the broad battlements of Haupu, from which might be hurled hundreds of tons of rocks and other destructive missiles. With ingenuity and great labor narrow foot-paths were cut leading from the middle terrace to both gulches, some distance above their openings, and affording a means of entering and leaving the fortress by water. These paths connected with the terrace through narrow passage-ways under the walls, and a single arm could defend them against a host. Within the walls buildings were erected capable of accommodating in an emergency two or three thousand warriors, and on the lower terrace, occupied by Kaupeepee and his household, including his confidential friends and captains, a small heiau overlooked the sea, with a priest and two or three assistants in charge. Mountain-paths led from the fortress to Kalaupapa and other productive parts of the island; and as fish could be taken in abundance, and Kaupeepee and many of his followers controlled taro and other lands in the valleys beyond, it was seldom that the stronghold was short of food, even when foraging expeditions to the neighboring islands failed. The services of the courageous alone were accepted by Kaupeepee, and it was a wild and daring warfare that the little band waged for years against the alien chiefs and their subjects. They could put afloat a hundred war-canoes, and their operations, although usually confined to Oahu, Maui, and Hawaii, sometimes in a spirit of bravado extended to Kauai. Leaving their retreat, they hovered near the coast selected for pillage until after dark, and then landed and mercilessly used the torch and spear. This part of their work was quickly done, when they filled their canoes with the choicest plunder they could find or of which they were most in need, and before daylight made sail for Haupu. Women were sometimes the booty coveted by the buccaneers, and during their raids many a screaming beauty was seized and borne to their stronghold on Molokai, where in most instances she was so kindly treated that she soon lost all desire to be liberated. Occasionally they were followed, if the winds were unfavorable to their retreat, by hastily-equipped fleets of canoes. If they allowed themselves to be overtaken it was for the amusement of driving back their pursuers; but as a rule they escaped without pursuit or punishment, leaving their victims in ignorance alike of the source and motive of the assault. A prominent chief of Oahu, whose territory had been ravaged by Kaupeepee, traced the retiring fleet of the plunderers to the coast of Molokai, when it suddenly disappeared. He landed and paid his respects to the venerable Kamauaua, then at Kalaupapa, and craved his assistance in discovering and punishing the spoilers, who must have found shelter somewhere on the island. The old chief smiled grimly as he replied: "It is not necessary to search for your enemies. You will find them at Haupu, near the ocean. They are probably waiting for you. They do not disturb me or my people. If they have wronged you, land and punish them. You have my permission." The Oahu chief offered his thanks and departed. He made a partial reconnoissance of Haupu, ascertained that it was defended by but a few hundred warriors, and shortly after returned with a large fleet of canoes to capture and retain possession of the place. Arriving off the entrance to the gulches, and discovering a number of war-canoes drawn up on their steep banks, he opened the campaign by ordering their seizure. Sixty canoes filled with warriors rode the surf into the gulches, where they were met by avalanches of rocks from the walls of the fortress, which dashed the most of them in pieces. The chief was startled and horrified, and, believing the gods were raining rocks down upon his fleet, he rescued such of his warriors as were able to reach him from the wrecked canoes, and hastily departed for Oahu, not again to return. It is said that Kamauaua watched this assault upon Haupu from the hills back of the fortress, and, in token of his pleasure at the result, sent to Kaupeepee a feather cloak, and gave him the privilege of taking fish for his warriors from one of the largest of the royal ponds on the island. He also quietly presented him with a barge, than which there were few larger in the group. It would accommodate more than a hundred warriors and their equipments, and was intended for long and rough voyages. These barges were constructed of planks strongly corded together over a frame, and calked and pitched. They were sometimes ten or more feet in width, and were partially or wholly decked over, with a depth of hold of six or eight feet. It was in vessels of this class, and in large double canoes of equal or greater burden, that distant voyages were made to and from the Hawaiian Islands during the migratory periods of the past, while the single and double canoes of smaller dimensions, hollowed from the trunks of single trees, were used in warfare, fishing, and in general inter-island communication. After the final suspension of intercourse, in the twelfth century, between the Hawaiian and Society Islands--the possible result of the disappearance of a guiding line of small islands and atolls dotting the ocean at intervals between the two groups--the barges referred to gradually went out of use with the abandonment of voyages to distant lands, and were almost unknown to the Hawaiians as early as one or two centuries ago. Their spread of sail was very considerable, but oars were also used, and the mariner shaped his course by the sun and stars, and was guided to land by the flights of birds, drifting wood, and currents of which he knew the direction. Some of the double canoes with which the barges were supplanted were scarcely less capacious and seaworthy than the barges themselves. They were hollowed from the trunks of gigantic pines that had drifted to the islands from the northern coast of America, and when one was found years sometimes elapsed before wind and current provided a proper mate. One of the single-trunk double canoes of Kamehameha I. was one hundred and eight feet in length, and both single and double canoes of from fifty to eighty feet in length were quite common during his reign, when the native forests abounded in growths much larger than can now be found. But the native trees never furnished bodies for the larger sizes of canoes. They were the gifts of the waves, and were not unfrequently credited to the favor of the gods. Kaupeepee was delighted with the present of the barge. It gave him one of the largest vessels in all the eight Hawaiian seas, and rendered him especially formidable in sea-encounters. He painted the sails red and the hull to the water-line, and from the masthead flung a saucy pennon to the breeze, surmounted by a kahili, which might have been mistaken for Von Tromp's broom had it been seen a few centuries later in northern seas. He provided a large crew of oarsmen, and made a more secure landing for it in one of the openings near the fortress. With this substantial addition to his fleet Kaupeepee enlarged the scope of his depredations, and his red sails were known and feared on the neighboring coasts of Oahu and Maui. Haupu was filled with the spoil of his expeditions, and the return of a successful raiding party was usually celebrated with a season of feasting, singing, dancing, and other boisterous merriment. Nor were the gods forgotten. Frequent festivals were given to Kane, Ku, and Lono; and Moaalii, the shark-god of Molokai--the god of the fisherman and mariner--was always the earliest to be remembered. A huge image of this deity overlooked the ocean from the north wall of the heiau of Haupu, and leis of fresh flowers adorned its shoulders whenever a dangerous expedition departed or returned. On one occasion this god had guided Kaupeepee to Haupu during a dark and rainy night, and on another had capsized a number of Oahuan war-canoes that had adroitly separated him from his fleet in Pailolo channel. At that period the islands were generally ruled by virtually independent district chiefs. They recognized a supreme head, or alii-nui, but were absolute lords of their several territories, and wars between them were frequent; but they were wars of plunder rather than of conquest, and sometimes continued in a desultory way until both parties were impoverished, when their chiefs and priests met and arranged terms of peace. But Kaupeepee was inspired by a motive higher than that of mere plunder. He hated the southern chiefs and their successors, and his assaults were confined exclusively to the territories over which they ruled. His sole aim was to inflict injury upon them, and the spoils of his expeditions were distributed among his followers. Brave, generous and sagacious, he was almost worshipped by his people, and treason, with them, was a thing unthought of. It was indeed a wild and reckless life that Kaupeepee and his daring associates led; but it lacked neither excitement abroad nor amusement at home. On the upper terrace a kahua channel had been cut, along which they rolled the maika and threw the blunted dart. They played konane, puhenehene, and punipeki, and at surf-riding possessed experts of both sexes who might have travelled far without finding their equals. The people of the island were friendly with the dashing buccaneers, and the fairest damsels became their wives, some of them living with their husbands at Haupu, and others with their relatives in the valleys. II. We will now return to Hina--or Hooho, as she was sometimes called--the beautiful wife of Hakalanileo, nephew of Paumakua, of Hawaii. Hakalanileo had acquired his possessions in Hilo partly through the influence of his own family, and partly through his marriage with the sister of a consequential district chief. Later in life he had seen and become enamored of Hina, the daughter of Uli, and prevailed upon her to become his wife. The marriage was not acceptable to Uli. The position and family connections of Hakalanileo were sufficiently inviting, but Uli, who dealt in sorcery and magic, saw disaster in the proposed union and advised her daughter against it. After much persuasion, however, her consent was obtained; but she gave it with this injunction: "Since you will have it so, take her, Hakalanileo; but guard her well, for I can see that some day the winds will snatch her from you, and you will behold her not again for many years." "Be it even as you say," replied Hakalanileo, "I will take the hazard. We do not well to reject a treasure because, perchance, it may be stolen. Hina shall be my wife." And thus it was that Hina became the wife of the nephew of Paumakua--Hina, the most beautiful maiden in all Hawaii; Hina, whose eyes were like stars, and whose hair fell in waves below the fringes of her pau; Hina, whose name has come down to us through the centuries garlanded with song. And for years she lived happily with Hakalanileo, who loved her above all others--lived with him until she became the mother of two sons, Kana and Niheu; and then the winds snatched her away from her husband, just as Uli had predicted six years before. But the winds that bore her hence filled the sails of the great barge of Kaupeepee. The chief of Haupu had heard of her great beauty, and resolved to see with his own eyes what the bards had exalted in song. Travelling overland from Puna in disguise, he reached her home in Hilo, and saw that the poets had done her no more than justice. She was beautiful indeed, and the wife of one to whose blood he had vowed undying enmity. Returning to Puna, where his barge lay in waiting for him, he hovered around the coast of Hilo for some days, watching for an opportunity to seize the woman whose charms had enraptured him. At last it came. After sunset, when the moon was shining, Hina repaired to the beach with her women to bathe. A signal was given--it is thought by the first wife of Hakalanileo--and not long after a light but heavily-manned canoe dashed through the surf and shot in among the bathers. The women screamed and started for the shore. Suddenly a man leaped from the canoe into the water. There was a brief struggle, a stifled scream, a sharp word of command, and a moment later Kaupeepee was again in the canoe with the nude and frantic Hina in his arms. The boatmen knew their business--knew the necessity of quick work--and without a word the canoe was turned and driven through the surf like an arrow. The barge, with a man at every oar and the sails ready to hoist, was lying a short distance out at sea. A speck of light guided the boatmen, and the barge was soon reached. All were hastily transferred to it. The sails were spread, the men bent to their oars, the canoe was taken in tow; and, while the alarm-drum was sounding and fires were appearing on shore, Hina, wrapped in folds of soft kapa, sat sobbing in one of the apartments of the barge, and was being swiftly borne by wind and oar toward the fortress of Haupu. The return to Haupu occupied a little more than two days. During that time Hina had mourned continually and partaken of no food. Kaupeepee had treated her with respect and kindness; but she was bewildered with the shock of her abduction, and begged to be either killed or returned to her children. The party landed a little before daylight. The sea was rough, but the moon shone brightly, and the passage into the mouth of one of the gulches was made without accident. In the arms of Kaupeepee Hina was borne up the rock-hewn path to the fortress, and placed in apartments on the lower terrace provided with every comfort and luxury known to the nobility of the islands at that period. They had been especially prepared for her reception, and women were in attendance to wait upon her and see that she wanted for nothing, except her liberty. The large private room of the three communicating apartments--the one designed for her personal occupation--was a model of barbaric taste and comfort, and to its adornment many of the exposed districts of Oahu and Maui had unwillingly contributed. Its walls were tapestried with finely-woven and brilliantly-colored mattings, dropping from festoons of shells and underlapping a carpet of hardier material covering the level ground-floor. The beams of the ceiling were also studded with shells and gaudily stained. On one side of the room was a slightly-raised platform, thickly strewn with dry sea-grass and covered with many folds of kapa. This was the kapa-moe, or sleeping-couch. Opposite was a kapa-covered lounge extending along the entire side of the room. In the middle of the apartment were spread several thicknesses of mats, which served alike for eating and lounging purposes. Light was admitted through two small openings immediately under the eaves, and from the door when its heavy curtains were looped aside. On a row of shelves in a corner of the room were carved calabashes and other curious drinking-vessels, as well as numerous ornaments of shells, ivory and feathers; and in huge calabashes under them were stores of female attire of every description then in use. In fact, nothing seemed to be wanting, and, in spite of her grief, Hina could scarcely repress a feeling of delight as she was shown into the apartment and the kukui torches displayed its luxurious appointments. Declining food, Hina dismissed her attendants, and, throwing herself on the kapa-moe, was soon folded in the soft mantle of sleep and carried back in dreams to the home from which she had been ravished. The room was dark, and she slept for many hours. Awaking, she could not for a moment recollect where she was; but gradually the events of the preceding three days came to her, and she appreciated that she was a prisoner in the hands of Kaupeepee, of whose name and exploits she was not ignorant, and that repining would secure her neither liberation nor kind treatment. Therefore, with a sagacity to be expected of the daughter of Uli, and not without a certain feeling of pride as she reflected that her beauty had inspired Kaupeepee to abduct her, she admitted her attendants, attired herself becomingly, partook heartily of a breakfast of fish, poi, potatoes and fruits, and then sent word to Kaupeepee that she would be pleased to see him. Kaupeepee expected a storm of tears and reproaches as he entered the room, but was agreeably disappointed. Hina rose, bowed, and waited for him to speak. "What can I do for you?" inquired Kaupeepee in a kindly tone, while a just perceptible smile of triumph swept across his handsome face. "Liberate me," replied Hina promptly. "You are free to go anywhere within the walls of Haupu," returned Kaupeepee, moving his arms around as if they embraced the whole world. "Return me to my children," said Hina; and at thought of them her eyes flashed with earnestness. "Impossible!" was the firm reply. "Then kill me!" exclaimed Hina. "Did you ever see me before I had the pleasure of embracing you in the water on the coast of Hilo?" inquired the chief, evasively. "No," replied Hina, curtly. "Well, I saw you before that time," continued Kaupeepee--"saw you in your house; saw you among the palms; saw you by the waters. I made a journey overland from Puna to see you--to see the wife of my enemy, the most beautiful woman in Hawaii." Hina was but a woman, and of a race and time when the promptings of the heart were not fettered by rigid rules of propriety. Kaupeepee was the handsome and distinguished son of a king, and his words of praise were not unpleasant to her. She therefore bent her eyes to the floor and remained silent while he added: "Hina would think little of the man who would risk his life to possess himself of such a woman, and then kill or cast her off as not worth the keeping. You are like no other woman; I am like no other man. Such companionship has the approval of the gods, and you will leave Haupu only when its walls shall have been battered down and Kaupeepee lies dead among the ruins!" To this terrible declaration Hina could offer no reply. The fierceness of this prince of the old line of Nanaula, this enemy of her people, this scourge of the southern chiefs, alike charmed and frightened her, and with her hands to her face she sank upon the lounge of kapa beside which she had been standing. The chief regarded her for a moment, perhaps with a feeling of pity; then, placing his hand upon her shoulder, he softly said: "You will not be unhappy in Haupu." "Will the bird sing that is covered with a calabash?" replied Hina, raising her eyes. "I am your prisoner." "Not more my prisoner than I am yours," rejoined the chief, gallantly. "Therefore, as fellow-prisoners, let us make the best of walls that shut out no sunshine, and of gates that are a bar only against intrusion." "How brave, and yet how gentle!" mused Hina, as Kaupeepee, feeling that he had said enough, turned and left the room. "How strangely pleasant are his words and voice! No one ever spoke so to me before. I could have listened longer." After that Hina harkened for the footsteps of Kaupeepee, and lived to forget that she was a prisoner in the fortress of Haupu. His love gently wooed her thoughts from the past and made sweet the bondage which he shared with her. III. The sudden disappearance of Hina created a profound excitement among the people of that part of the coast of Hilo from which she had been abducted. The women who had been permitted to escape ran screaming to the house of Hakalanileo with their tale of woe, and soon for miles around the country was in arms. When questioned, all they could tell was that a canoe filled with armed men suddenly dashed through the surf, and their mistress was seized and borne out to sea. This was all they knew. Canoes were suddenly equipped and sent in pursuit, but they returned before morning with the report that nothing had been seen of the abductors. Messengers were despatched to the coast settlements of Hamakua, Hilo and Puna, but they brought no intelligence of the missing woman. Uli was consulted, but her divinations failed, for the reason, as she informed the unhappy husband, that the powers that had warned her against the marriage of her daughter and foreshadowed the result could not be prevailed upon to impart any information that would interfere with the fulfilment of the prophecy. Uli, therefore, sat down in gloom to await the developments of time, and Hakalanileo started on a systematic search through the group for his lost wife. After visiting every district and almost every village on Hawaii, he proceeded with a small party of attendants to Maui, and thence to Molokai, Oahu, Kauai and Niihau, and back to Lanai and Kahoolawe; but no trace of Hina could be discovered. He was well received by the various chiefs, and assistance was freely offered and sometimes accepted; but all search was in vain, and he returned disheartened to Hawaii after an absence of more than two years. But his first search was not his last. During the fifteen years that followed he made frequent voyages to the different islands on the same errand, and always with the same result. He offered sacrifices in the temples, made pledges to the gods, and consulted every kaula of note of whom he had knowledge; but his offerings and promises failed to secure the assistance of the unseen powers, and the kilos and astrologers could gather nothing of importance to him from their observations. Meantime Kana and Niheu, the sons of Hina, grew to manhood and prepared to continue the search for their mother, which Hakalanileo had at last abandoned as hopeless. Again and again had their grandmother told them the story of the abduction of Hina, and as often had they vowed to devote their lives to a solution of the mystery of her fate. It was vouchsafed to Uli to see that her daughter lived, but beyond that her charms and incantations were fruitless. But when the beards of her grandsons began to grow she felt that the time was approaching when Hina's hiding-place would be discovered, and she inspired them to become proficient in the use of arms and the arts of war. And to their assistance she brought the instruction of supernatural powers. Niheu became endowed not only with great personal strength and courage, but with unerring instincts of strategy and all the accomplishments of a successful military leader. To Kana were given powers of a different nature. He could contract his body to the compass of an insect, and expand or extend it almost indefinitely; but he was permitted to do neither except in cases of imminent personal peril, as the faculty was rarely imparted to mortals, and in this instance was accorded by Kanaloa without the knowledge of the powers to which that deity was subject. Finally, after a season of long and patient inquiry, it was developed to Uli that her daughter was secreted in the fortress of Haupu and could be recovered only by force, as she had long been the wife of Kaupeepee and would not be surrendered peacefully. Hakalanileo regarded the development with distrust; for while at Kalaupapa, on the island of Molokai, less than three years before, word was brought to him from Kaupeepee, offering to open the fortress of Haupu to his inspection. Hence, when his sons set about raising a large force to attack that stronghold, he gave them every assistance in his power, but declined to accompany the expedition. Before noting with greater detail the warlike preparations of Hina's sons, let us refer briefly to the changes which the years leading them to manhood had brought to others connected with the events of this legend. Hina had been a not unhappy captive at Haupu for nearly seventeen years, during which Kaupeepee had continued his desultory assaults upon the usurping chiefs of the neighboring islands. His name had become known throughout the entire group, and several combined attacks upon Haupu had been repulsed--the last by land, led by a distinguished Maui chief, with a slaughter so great that the adjoining gulches were choked with the slain. The venerable Kamauaua had passed away, leaving the government of Molokai to his son, Keoloewa, who had married Nuakea, daughter of the powerful chief, Keaunui, of Oahu, and sister of Lakona, of the strain of Maweke. Moi, another of Nuakea's brothers, had joined Kaupeepee at Haupu, and became not only his steadfast friend and adviser, but his kaula, or prophet, as well. Paumakua had died at a very old age, and was buried at Iao, leaving his titles, meles and possessions to his son, Haho; but the change did not seem to affect the holdings of Hakalanileo in Hilo, although it brought to his sons some support in their subsequent war with Kaupeepee. Haho was a haughty but warlike chief, and refused to recognize the titles of many of the native nobles; and, to permanently degrade them, he founded the Aha-alii, or college of chiefs, which embraced the blue-blooded of the entire group, and remained in vogue as late as the beginning of the present century. To be recognized by this college of heraldry, it was necessary for every chief to name his descent from an ancestor of unquestioned nobility; and when his rank was thus formally established, no circumstance of war or peace could deprive him of it. There were gradations of rank and tabu within the Aha-alii, and all received the respect to which their rank entitled them, without regard to their worldly condition. No chief could claim a higher grade than the source from which he sprang; nor could he achieve it, although through marriage with a chiefess of higher rank he might advance his children to the grade of the mother. The Aha-alii had a language which was not understood by the common people, and which was changed whenever it became known to the makaainana, and it was their right on all occasions to wear the insignia of their rank, the feather wreath (lei-hulu), the feather cape (aha-ula), and the ivory clasp (palaoa); and their canoes might be painted red and bear a pennon. The royal color was yellow. Although Kaupeepee was of the undoubted blood of Nanaula, and would not have been denied admission to the Aha-alii, he treated with contempt the institution of nobility founded by Haho, declaring that the blood of the founder himself was ennobled only through the thefts of his low-born grandfather. This was doubtless correct; but Kaupeepee's hatred of the southern invaders would not allow him to be just, even to their ancestors. Such was the condition of affairs when the sons of Hina began to prepare for their expedition against Haupu. They sent emissaries to Oahu and Maui, and were promised substantial co-operation by the leading chiefs of those islands, the most of whom had suffered from the raids of the scourge of Molokai. They collected a mighty fleet of canoes and a force of six thousand warriors. As many more were promised from Oahu and Maui, which, were Keoloewa's permission obtained, would be landed at Molokai to operate in conjunction with the army from Hawaii. As an attack on Haupu from the sea side was not considered practicable, even with the overwhelming force that was being organized against it, messengers were despatched to Molokai to prevail upon Keoloewa to permit a portion of the united armies to land on the south side of the island and assault the fortress from the mountain. His sympathies were with his brother, and he hesitated; but when he learned of the formidable force organizing for the reduction of Haupu, he appreciated that he was unable to successfully oppose the movement, and, with the assurance that his subjects would be neither disturbed nor despoiled of their property during the conflict, and that the invading armies would be withdrawn from the island at the end of the campaign against Haupu, he consented to the landing. Had he known the real motive of the assault he would have advised his brother to surrender his fair prisoner and save both from possible ruin; but, conceiving that Kaupeepee's depredations had become unendurable, and that the chiefs of the great islands had at length united to crush him, for his own safety he felt compelled to leave him to his fate. This resolution accorded with the advice of Kaupeepee. Many days before his faithful kaula had told him of the approaching invasion, of the combination of chiefs against him, and the doubtful result of the struggle; and before the messengers reached his brother he had gone to and advised him to offer no opposition to the landing of his enemies on the island. "Opposition would be useless," argued Kaupeepee, "for my enemies are coming in great force. I have slain them and blasted their lands, and single-handed will meet the consequences. Do not embroil yourself with me, but save to our blood the possessions of our fathers." "Perhaps you are right," said Keoloewa; "but why not abandon Haupu and save yourself, if you are not able to hold it?" "Never!" exclaimed Kaupeepee. "For more than twenty years its walls have stood between me and my enemies, and I will not desert them now. I have a thousand brave men who will triumph or die with me. Should Haupu be taken, go and count the corpses around its walls, and you will not blush to see how a son of Kamauaua died!" "So let the will of the gods be done!" replied the brother. "But we may not meet again." "True," returned Kaupeepee, with a strange smile--"true, my good brother, for my sepulchre at Haupu needs ornamenting before the mourners come." "In my name take anything required for your defence," said Keoloewa, still holding the hand of his brother, as if reluctant to part with him; "my heart, if not my arm, will be with you!" "We shall be well prepared," were the words of Kaupeepee at parting; and before he reached the top of the pali on his return to Haupu, the messengers from Hawaii landed at Kalaupapa. With this concession from Keoloewa the arrangements for the campaign were speedily made. The main body of the united forces was to concentrate at Kaunakakai, on the north side of the island, and move under the supreme leadership of Niheu, while a large detachment, embracing the best seamen of the several quotas, was to blockade the sea-entrances to Haupu, destroy the canoes of the fortress to prevent escape or succor, and co-operate generally with the land forces. This dangerous service was entrusted to the command of Kana. At the appointed time the Hawaiian army set sail for Molokai in a fleet of over twelve hundred canoes, many of them double, and carrying a large supply of provisions. The assistance of the gods had been invoked with many sacrifices, and the omens had been favorable. In one of the large double canoes was Uli. Her form was bent with age, and her hair, white as foam, covered her shoulders like a mantle. In youth she was noted for her stateliness and beauty; but age and care had destroyed all traces of her early comeliness, and her wrinkled face, and black eyes glistening through the rifts of her long, white hair, gave her the appearance of one who dealt with things to be feared. She was surrounded with charms and images, and before her, on a stone-bordered hearth of earth, burned a continual fire, into which she at intervals threw gums and oily mixtures, emitting clouds of incense. Her canoe followed that of the sons of Hina, with their priest and war-god, and red pennon at the masthead; and as the fleet swept out into the ocean, with thousands of oars in the waves and thousands of spears in the air, Uli rose to her feet and began a wild war-chant, which was taken up by the following hosts and borne far over the waters. The day following a number of expeditions left various openings on the coasts of Oahu and Maui--none of them approaching the Hawaiian army in strength, but together adding an aggregate of nine hundred canoes of all sizes and about four thousand warriors to the invading force. All of them reached the landing at Kaunakakai on the day appointed for their arrival, and Niheu found himself in command of ten thousand warriors and over two thousand canoes. No such number of spears was ever before seen massed on Molokai; but the people had been assured that they would not be injured either in person or property so long as they remained peaceful, and the terms of the agreement with Keoloewa were faithfully observed. Among the invaders the people found many friends and relatives, for intercourse between the islands at that time was free and frequent; and although their sympathies were with Kaupeepee, they soon came to regard the projected capture of Haupu as a great game of konane, played by agreement between two champions, during which the spectators were to remain silent and make no suggestions. The tents of the chiefs, around which were encamped their respective followers, extended along the shore for more than two miles, while the beach for a greater distance was fringed with canoes, many of the larger painted red and bearing gaudy pennons of stout kapa. As plundering had been forbidden, provisions of dried fish, potatoes, cocoanuts, taro, and live pigs and fowls had been brought in considerable quantities in extra canoes; but as the duration of the campaign could only be surmised, rolls of kapa and matting, shell wreaths, ivory, feather capes, calabashes, mechanical tools, ornaments, and extra arms were also brought, to be fairly exchanged from time to time for such supplies as might be wanted. IV. Everything being in readiness for an advance upon the stronghold of Kaupeepee, a war-council of the assembled chiefs was called. Among them were several who were well informed concerning the approaches to Haupu, and the main features of the campaign were arranged without discussion. Signals and other means of communication between the two divisions having been agreed upon, the next morning a detachment of two thousand men, occupying five hundred canoes, under the command of Kana, moved around the island to blockade the entrances to Haupu, and immediately after the main army, leaving a strong reserve to guard the canoes and look after supplies, broke camp and took up its line of march across the island to the mountains back of the fortress. The trails were rough, but at sunrise the next morning the land division, stretched along the summit of the hills two miles back of Haupu, looked down and saw the fleet of Kana drawn like a broad, black line around the ocean entrances to the doomed stronghold. Meantime Kaupeepee had not been idle. Every movement of the enemy had been watched; and when word came to him that the shores of Kaunakakai were so crowded with warriors that the number could not be told, he grimly answered: "Then will our spears be less likely to miss!" The walls of the fortress had been strengthened and replenished with missiles; large quantities of provisions had been secured, and sheds of ample space were finally erected for the collection of rain-water, should communication be interrupted with the streams in the gulches below. Before the enemy had reached positions completely cutting off retreat from the fortress, Kaupeepee had called his warriors together and thus addressed them: "Warriors and friends!--for all, indeed, are warriors and friends in Haupu!--for years you have shared in the dangers of Kaupeepee and have never disobeyed him. Listen now to his words, and heed them well. A mighty army is about to surround Haupu by land and sea. It already blackens the shores of Kaunakakai, and will soon be thundering at our gates. The fight will be long and desperate, and may end in defeat and death to the most or all of us. I cannot order, cannot even ask you to face such peril for my sake. The gates are open. Let all leave with my good-will whose lives are precious to them. Let your acts answer at once, for the enemy is approaching and no time can be lost!" For a moment not a warrior of the thousand present moved. All stood staring at their chief and wondering that he should doubt. Then a confused hum of voices, rising louder and louder, swelled into a united shout of "Close the gates!" and Kaupeepee was answered. And a braver answer was never given than that which came from the stout hearts and unblanched lips of the thousand fearless defenders of Haupu. The gates were closed, with not a single warrior missing, and the fortress was soon environed with its enemies. Halting his army on the summit of the mountains overlooking Haupu, Niheu despatched a messenger to the fortress with a signal of peace, to ascertain with certainty whether Hina was a prisoner there, and, if so, to demand the surrender of the captive. The messenger returned in safety, bearing this message from Kaupeepee: "Hina is within the walls of Haupu. Come with arms in your hands and take her!" Communication was established with the fleet in front of Haupu, and Kana was advised to enter the gulches in force the next morning, destroy the canoes of the fortress, and maintain a footing there, if possible, while a strong division of the land forces would move down and draw attention to the rear defences by taking a position within attacking distance. In pursuance of this plan, early next morning Niheu despatched a formidable force down the mountain in the rear of Haupu, with orders to menace but not to assault the defences. Arriving near the walls, a little skirmishing ensued, when the detachment took a position beyond the reach of the slingers, and began the construction of a stone wall across the ridge. Meantime Kana's fleet of canoes, which had been hovering nearer and nearer the walls of Haupu since daylight, with a wild battle-cry from the warriors crowding them suddenly dashed through the surf, and partially succeeded in effecting a landing in one of the gulches flanking the fortress. So rapid had been the movement, and so thoroughly had the attention of the besieged been engrossed with the diversion from the mountains, that a division of the assaulting party managed to reach the canoes of the fortress, and another to secure a lodgment among the rocks on the opposite side of the gulch, before meeting with serious opposition. The score or two of warriors left to guard the canoes of the fortress were quickly overpowered and slaughtered, and then the work of destruction began. With loose rocks and heavy stone hammers the canoes were being hastily broken in pieces, including the great war-barge of Kaupeepee, when from the walls above the destroyers was precipitated a bewildering and murderous avalanche of rocks of all sizes and heavy sections of tree-trunks. As the missiles rolled and bounded down the steep declivity, sweeping it at almost the same moment for two hundred yards or more in length, the ground trembled as with an earthquake, and the gorge was filled with a dense cloud of dust. The thunder of the avalanche ceased, and in the awful silence that succeeded Kaupeepee, at the head of two hundred warriors, dashed down the narrow path leading from the middle terrace to finish the dreadful work with spear, knife and battle-axe. The sight was appalling, even to the chief of Haupu. The gulch was choked with the bodies of the dying and the dead. Panic-stricken, those posted on the opposite hillside had abandoned their only place of safety, and perished in large numbers in attempting to reach their canoes. The few left alive and able to retreat were wildly struggling to escape seaward from the gulch in such canoes of their wrecked fleet as would still float, or by plunging desperately into the surf. With exultant shouts Kaupeepee and his warriors sprang over their dead and dying enemies and swept down upon the unarmed and escaping remnant of the invaders. Although a considerable reserve of canoes came to their rescue from without, protected from assault from above by the presence of Kaupeepee and his party, the most of the fugitives would have been cut off but for the extraordinary efforts of Kana, who led the attacking party, but miraculously escaped unhurt. In the surf, in the deep entrance to the gulch, everywhere he moved around with his head and shoulders above the water. He assisted the canoes through the breakers, rescued exhausted and drowning swimmers, and from the bottom of the ocean reached down and gathered huge rocks, which he hurled at intervals at Kaupeepee's warriors to keep them in check. These wonderful exploits awed the attacking party, and greater still was their astonishment when they saw the strange being finally walk through the deep waters, erect and with his head and breast exposed, and step into a canoe quite half a mile from the shore. Turning to his warriors, with these words Kaupeepee answered their looks of inquiry: "He is Kana. I have heard of him. I am glad he escaped." Kana returned with his shattered fleet and still worsely shattered army to Kaunakakai. As the most of his canoes had been destroyed, Kaupeepee was unable to follow the retreating enemy to sea, but, hearing the shouts of conflict above, at once mounted with his warriors to the fortress, to assist in repelling an attack on the rear wall which had been hastily begun to save, if possible, the sea party from destruction. With Kaupeepee at the front the assault was quickly repulsed, the enemy retiring in confusion behind the lines of defence from which the advance had been made. The wounded in the gulch were despatched, six of the least injured being reserved for sacrifice, and the night following the fortress of Haupu was ablaze with savage joy. As the first-fruits of the victories of the day, the six wounded prisoners were slain with clubs and laid upon the altar of the heiau as offerings to the gods, and chants of defiance were sent through the night air to the discomfited enemy beyond the walls. These disasters did not dishearten Niheu. The canoes of the fortress had been destroyed, and that was something of a compensation for the loss of nearly two thousand of his best warriors and a considerable part of his fleet. Plans for further assaults from the sea were abandoned, and a regular siege, with a final entrance by the rear wall, was suggested and in the end agreed to by the chiefs in council. Lines of pickets were accordingly stationed along the summits of the mountains flanking the fortress, in order to prevent the entrance into it of reinforcements or supplies, and the main body of the attacking force was moved down and placed in positions within slinging distance of the rear wall. This was not done without loss, for the wall was manned with expert slingers; but in less than a week the besiegers had advanced their main line of wooden defences within a hundred paces of the rear bulwark of the fortress and were daily gaining ground. This movable line of assault and defence was a device as ingenious as it was effective. Timbers twenty feet in length, or corresponding with the height of the wall, were firmly corded together side by side until they stretched across the narrow summit leading to the fortress. To the top of each fourth or fifth timber was lashed a movable brace thirty feet in length, and then the wooden wall was raised into the air nearly erect, and securely held in that position by its line of supporting braces. It was a formidable-looking structure. Against it the missiles of the besieged fell harmless, and behind it the besiegers worked in safety. Section by section and foot by foot this moving line of timber was advanced, until the warriors on the wall could almost touch it with their spears. Several desperate sorties, to destroy or prostrate it, had been made, but nothing beyond the cutting of a few of the lower fastenings had been achieved; and the defenders of Haupu, with tightened grasp of their weapons, grimly awaited the final assault, which they felt would not long be delayed. Day after day, night after night, they watched; but the wooden wall did not move, and they could only guess at what was going on behind it. Finally a night of inky darkness came--a night "as dark as the farthest confines of Po"--bringing with it a storm of wind and rain. In the midst of the storm the wooden wall began to move, but so noiselessly that the advance was not perceived by the fortress sentinels. Midnight came and went; the storm continued, and nearer and nearer to the wall of stone was crowded the wall of timber. Just as coming day began to streak the east the bases of the two walls came together, the backward inclination of both leaving them a few feet apart at their tops. Hundreds of men then laid hold of the braces, and in a moment the wooden wall was shoved over and stayed against the other. The alarm was given within, and warriors from all parts of the enclosure sprang toward the menaced wall. But the movement of their enemies was not less prompt. Up the braces they swarmed in such numbers that the few who had succeeded in reaching the top of the wall from within were hurled from it, and after them poured a cataract of spears against which the opposing force was powerless. The huge stone was rolled back, the gate was opened, and soon the upper terrace was cleared and five thousand warriors, led by Niheu in person, were sweeping down to complete their work of slaughter. But their victory was not to be cheaply purchased. They had slain two or three hundred on the wall and around the gate, but thrice as many more, under the desperate leadership of Kaupeepee, were stretched like a wall across the middle terrace, with a resolution to contest every pace of the ground with their lives. They might have escaped, perhaps, down the paths leading from that terrace to the gulches; but they preferred to die, as they had for years lived, in defence of Haupu. Down the terrace swept the victorious horde in the gray dawn of the morning. Niheu vainly tried to hold his warriors in check, for he knew the main body of the fortress force was still before him, and would have advanced with prudence; but the voices of the leaders were drowned in the battle-shouts of the surging throng, which in a few minutes struck Kaupeepee's wall of spears and battle-axes, and rolled back like a storm-wave broken against the front of Haupu. But the check was only momentary, for immediately behind the shattered column was a forest of advancing spears, and with a wild tumult of shouts and clashing weapons the entire force was precipitated upon Kaupeepee's thin but resolute lines of defence. The slaughter was frightful; but the unequal conflict could have but one result. Kaupeepee and the fifty or less of his followers left standing were crowded, fighting step by step, into the lower terrace, and thence to the heiau, and finally to the temple as a last place of defence. There the struggle was brief. The roof of the temple was fired, and as Kaupeepee and the last of his devoted band sprang from the blazing building to die at the throats of their enemies they were struck down with their javelins in the air. A spear penetrated the breast of Kaupeepee. As a last act he poised his ihe to hurl at a helmeted chief who had just struggled to the front. The chief was Niheu. By his dress or face, which bore a resemblance to the features of Hina, Kaupeepee must have recognized him. He looked, but his arm did not move. "Not for your sake, but for hers!" exclaimed the dying warrior, dropping his weapon to the earth and falling lifeless beside it. Not one of the defenders of Haupu escaped, but more than one-half of Niheu's army perished in the various assaults upon the fortress. Hina was found uninjured, and, while there was great joy to her in the embrace of her sons and aged mother, she wept over the death of Kaupeepee, who with his love had made light her long imprisonment. The body of Kaupeepee was given to Keoloewa for interment, as were also the remains of Moi, who was among the last to fall. The walls of Haupu were levelled, never to be raised again, and Hina returned to her husband in Hilo, after a separation of nearly eighteen years, thus bringing to a close one of the most romantic legends of early Hawaiian chivalry. THE ROYAL HUNCHBACK. CHARACTERS. Kanipahu, king of Hawaii. Kalapana, son of Kanipahu. Kamaiole, a usurper of the throne, chief of Kau. Iola, sister of Kamaiole. Makea, daughter of Iola. Waikuku, a military chief, abductor of Iola. Nanoa, a chief in the royal household. THE ROYAL HUNCHBACK. THE LEGEND OF KANIPAHU, THE GRANDSON OF PILI. I. About the period of A.D. 1160 Kanipahu was the nominal sovereign of the island of Hawaii. He was the grandson of Pili, who near the close of the previous century came from Samoa, at the solicitation of the high-priest Paao, to assume the moiship left vacant by the death of Kapawa, whose grandfather was probably the first of the southern chiefs who came to the Hawaiian group during the important migratory movements of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Although the sovereignty of the entire island was claimed by the Pili family, disturbances were frequent in the time of Kanipahu, and a few of the native chiefs of the old stock of Nanaula, which held sway in the group for nearly six centuries, refused to yield allegiance to the new dynasty. To strengthen his power and placate the native chiefs and people, Kanipahu took to wife Hualani, the fifth in descent from Maweke, of the Nanaula line, and subsequently Alaikaua, who was probably of the same native strain. The makaainana, or common people, however, seem to have been better satisfied with their new rulers than were their former chiefs who had been supplanted in authority, and it was therefore with difficulty that they could be aroused to a resistance to political conditions which imposed upon them no hardships which they had not borne under their old rulers, and no responsibilities with which they were not already familiar. And, besides, the new-comers from the south had introduced new laws, new customs and new products of the soil, as well as new gods and new forms of worship. They had brought with them the kaeke, or sacred drum, and puloulou, or inviolable tabu staff, crowned with balls of white or black kapa. They had also instituted the title of moi, or supreme sovereign, whereas the several islands before had been ruled by scores of independent chiefs, each claiming and holding as large a district as he was able to defend. They had established the Aha-alii, or college of chiefs, through which the rank of every noble might find recognition, and be perpetuated in his family. They had constructed grander heiaus, or temples, and shut the populace from the observance of many of their religious ceremonies. The tabus of the chiefs and priests had been enlarged and rendered more strict, and the priesthood had become more powerful and independent. The persons of the mois and high chiefs had become more sacred, and they exercised their functions with increased display and ostentation. These additional exactions on the part of the new rulers, however, were partially if not wholly compensated for to the laboring masses by the protection brought to them through the political change against the oppressions of their petty chiefs and land-owners; and it is therefore probable that, on the whole, their social and industrial condition was quite as tolerable under the new as under the old or native régime. Kanipahu resided principally in Kohala, where his grandfather had taken up his abode, and constructed mansions consistent with his sovereign state. And it was there that the high-priest Paao, who brought Pili to the group, established himself and family, after first landing in Puna and erecting to his god the temple of Wahaula, the ruins of which are still seen near the village of Kahawalea. After the arrival of Pili it is probable that Paao removed with him to the more populous district of Kohala, and there remained as his high-priest and adviser. At Puuepa he erected the large heiau of Mookini, the stones for which were passed from hand-to-hand from Niulii, a distance of nine miles--a circumstance indicating the presence of a large population on Hawaii at that time. As it was one of the largest temples in the group--its walls, enclosing an irregular parallelogram, having an aggregate length of 817 feet, with a height of 20 feet, and a breadth of 8 feet at the top--a vast amount of labor must have been required to transport the material over so long and rough a road, with no appliance more effective than human muscle. But the walls are so well built that they are standing to-day, and from a secret crypt in the wall of the south side of the heiau were taken but a few years ago, and are still preserved, two finely-polished stone disks of a diameter of eight or ten inches, which it is not improbable were the two strange idols which tradition says Paao brought with him over the great waters from Upolu, and which were hidden by some faithful kahu or servant of the heiau when the ancient worship of the people was abolished by the second Kamehameha in 1819. Kanipahu was a just and considerate sovereign, and sought by every peaceful means to harmonize the conflicting interests of the chiefs and strengthen and consolidate his power. To this end, as already stated, he allied himself by marriage to the Nanaula line of chiefs, and attached to his person and household a number of prominent nobles of native lineage. The result was that for some years he ruled in peace, and race jealousies were gradually wearing away, when a circumstance occurred which suddenly terminated the reign of Kanipahu and drove him into exile. It was a sultry afternoon, near the time of the annual feast of Lono, perhaps in 1172, that Kanipahu, after having despatched the business of the day, was reclining on a couch of mats in the cool shade of a palm-grove within the walled enclosure of the palace grounds--if, indeed, two large wooden and thatched buildings, each a hundred or more feet in length by forty in breadth, with eight or ten smaller houses among the banana growths in the rear, may be called a palace. The grounds were thickly studded with shade and fruit trees, embracing almost every variety of value found on the island. Here and there were shaded walks and vine-wreathed nooks in which rude seats had been constructed; and as the sentinels lounged lazily at the entrance, and the kahus of the king languidly administered to his wants, the scene was a picture of royal power and barbaric comfort peculiar to the Polynesian islands, but scarcely less imposing than the forms and architectural environments of the jarls and princes of northern and central Europe at that period. Each of the personal attendants of the king was of the lesser nobility, and his office was one of honor. Over the head of the drowsing sovereign the paakahili, or kahili-bearer, at brief intervals waved his tuft of painted plumes, while at a respectful distance stood the spittoon-bearer (ipakuha) and head steward (aipuupuu). The king was suddenly aroused by a tumult at the outer gate. There was a sound of angry voices mingled with a clashing of spears, and immediately after a tall chief, clad in maro, feather cape and helmet, and bearing a stout ihe, or javelin, strode toward the royal mansion, followed by a number of excited chiefs and their retainers. Reaching the palace, the chief turned and faced his clamoring pursuers with a look of defiance. To shed blood there was an offence which no one was bold or reckless enough to commit, and, after one of the number had first been despatched to the king to ascertain his pleasure, the entire party of chiefs repaired to the royal presence, leaving their weapons behind in the hands of the guards who had hurried toward the scene of disturbance. Bowing low before the king, who had risen to a sitting posture on his couch, the chiefs waited for him to break the silence. Slowly scanning his auditors, all but one of whom he knew and trusted, Kanipahu finally fixed his eyes upon the face of the stranger and quietly said: "Your face is strange to me. Who are you, and what brings you here?" "Great chief, I am Kamaiole, a chief of Kau," was the reply, "and I came to Kohala in search of my sister, Iola, who was stolen and brought here about the close of the last season of rain." "Have you found her?" inquired the king. "I have found her," replied Kamaiole, bowing his head. "Who took your sister away from Kau?" resumed the king. "That man," said Kamaiole, pointing to one of the chiefs present; "at least, so I presume, since he was seen in Kau about the time of her disappearance, and I found her in his possession here." The chief designated was a large and well-favored young man, with a palm-tree tattooed upon each of his muscular thighs, and wearing a number of gaudy ornaments around his neck. He was an alii koa, or military chief, without possessions and in the service of the king, to whom he was distantly related. Turning toward him, Kanipahu said: "Speak, Waikuku, and answer the words of the chief of Kau." Glancing savagely at Kamaiole, Waikuku bowed to the king and replied: "It is true that Iola came with me from Kau, where I went to visit the brother of my mother; but she came willingly, although I admit without the consent of Kamaiole." "Waikuku is of the blood of noble chiefs," said the king in a tone of conciliation; "why not permit your sister, since it is her will, to remain with him in peace?" "She may remain," was Kamaiole's grim reply. "And well may she remain!" exclaimed Waikuku bitterly. "Iola is dead! To-day, even a few breaths past, her brutal brother found and with his own hand killed her!" "Killed her?" repeated the king. "Yes, killed her," continued Waikuku; "and but that her cowardly murderer sought the protection of the royal enclosure, my spear would have tasted his blood!" "Speak, and give good reason for this murder of the wife of Waikuku," said the king, sternly addressing Kamaiole, "or, by great Lono! I will downward command your face!" When a prisoner of war or malefactor was brought before an ancient Hawaiian king, if his order was "Downward the face!" the prisoner was taken away and slain at once by one of the royal executioners; but if it was "Upward the face!" his life was spared, either for complete pardon, slavery or sacrifice to the gods. Giving little regard to the threat of the king, but burning with wrath at the insulting language of Waikuku, Kamaiole proudly answered: "I am of the aha-alii of Hawaii. My war-canoes are red, and pennons float at their mast-tips. The blood of Nanaula is in my veins, and my ancestors were of the alii-nui--were kings here generations before Pili landed at Kohala or the Paumakuas blasted the shores of Hilo. With a rank befitting it was my purpose to mate my sister. But she secretly became the wife of a marauding puuku--possibly by force, probably by the charm of lies and the glitter of shells--and I followed and slew her, that her blood and mine might not be degraded by being mingled with that of Waikuku!" "Puuku!" hissed Waikuku, enraged at the low rank contemptuously given him by Kamaiole, and making a hostile menace toward the speaker. Kamaiole regarded Waikuku for a moment with a look of disdain, and then continued: "The occupation of this Waikuku--this woman-stealer--is that of war, I have been informed. He boasted that his spear would have tasted the blood of Kamaiole had he not sought the protection of the royal grounds. I came here through no fear of his arm or the spears of his friends, but to explain to the king why I had shed blood within sight of the royal hale. But since he talks so bravely of blood and spears, I challenge him to make good his words with me beyond the palace walls. The matter is solely between us. I am prepared to answer to him in words of combat for what I have done to-day. Or if, as I suspect, he lacks the courage to give his warlike training a test so public, I will ward a spear with such of his friends, one by one, as may feel disposed to make his grievance theirs." The chiefs looked at each other in amazement at the broad challenge of Kamaiole, and the king seemed to be scarcely less astounded. But the proposal could not be deemed either unfair or unusual, since, according to the usage of the time, Kamaiole was answerable to Waikuku for the death of Iola. The stinging remarks of the dauntless Kau chief left to Waikuku no pretext or excuse for declining the challenge, and the king somewhat reluctantly consented to a settlement of the matter by the arbitrament of single combat, with such weapons as might be mutually agreed upon. Among the members of the royal household who witnessed this remarkable interview with the king was a chief of the old native line called Nanoa. Admiring the cool courage of Kamaiole, and feeling for him something of a sympathy of lineage, he proffered to stand his friend and adviser in the forthcoming encounter; and the arrangements finally made were that the hostile parties were to meet just at sunset in a grove immediately back of the palace enclosure. They were to be armed each with two spears and a javelin. The spears were first to be used when the combatants approached within twenty paces of each other. These being thrown without ending the battle, the parties were to advance to close encounter with their javelins, with the discretion of either throwing or retaining them in hand. No other weapons were to be used, and the conditions of the meeting were such that the king, who proposed to be present, did not deem it probable that there would be loss of life, especially as he had resolved to put an end to the combat with the first wound received by either. Promptly at the time appointed the principals were on the ground. The attendants of Kamaiole were nowhere to be seen. By his orders they had quietly left the village two hours before, and the only friend at his side was Nanoa. He had thrown aside his cloak and helmet, and stood stern and motionless at the place assigned him, with a spear in his right hand, and another, with a javelin, at his feet. With limbs and shoulders bare, and beard and hair black as midnight veiling his neck, Kamaiole leaned upon his spear a picture of barbaric strength and courage. Thirty paces in front of Kamaiole stood Waikuku, similarly armed and clad, but less calm than his adversary. Around him were a score or more of high chiefs, some rallying and others advising him; but he remained gloomily silent, nervously awaiting the arrival of the king and the word for action. In a few minutes Kanipahu, accompanied by a number of armed attendants, arrived and took a seat prepared for him at a point about equally distant from the two combatants. It being announced that everything was in readiness, the king signaled the word to be given, and the hostile chiefs, advancing five paces each, were in a moment balancing their long spears for flight. The spear of Waikuku first shot through the air in a line direct for his adversary's breast; but the latter adroitly turned it from its course with a touch from his own weapon, which he in turn launched at Waikuku without effect. The second spears were thrown to the injury of neither, when they grasped their javelins and slowly and warily began to advance. It was an exciting moment. As each had gripped his weapon with both hands, it was apparent that neither ihe would be thrown, and a hand-to-hand struggle was inevitable. The king drew nearer to obtain a better view of the closing conflict, and the spectators eagerly watched every movement of the advancing chiefs. Approaching within striking distance--the javelins being about six feet in length--a few feints were made, and Waikuku ventured a desperate thrust at the breast of his opponent. The movement was evidently expected, perhaps invited, for like a flash the point of the ihe was thrown into the air, and the next moment Waikuku received a thrust through the side. He fell, javelin in hand, and Kamaiole was lifting his weapon to strike his prostrate enemy to the heart when "Stop!" came the command of the king. Heedless of the royal order, or too greatly excited to be able to restrain his hand, Kamaiole savagely drove his javelin into the breast of Waikuku, inflicting a death-wound. "Downward the face!" thundered the king, exasperated at Kamaiole's apparent defiance of his order. The chiefs began to move forward to seize or slay the offender. Knowing that his death had been decreed, Kamaiole recklessly poised his ihe, red with the life-blood of Waikuku, and with a wild cry of "Yes, downward the face!" hurled it at the heart of Kanipahu. With exclamations of rage and horror the spectators sprang toward Kamaiole, the most of them dropping their unwieldy spears and grasping their pahoas, or daggers of ivory or hardened wood, as they advanced. For an instant Kamaiole hesitated whether to defend himself to the death with the javelin of the dying chief, or take the almost equally desperate chances of escape by breaking through the lines of his encircling enemies. He chose the latter, and, grasping the javelin, started toward the king, with the view of drawing his assailants in that direction. This object being accomplished, he suddenly turned to the right, and charged and made an opening through the throng at a point that seemed to be the weakest. As he flew past the yielding line he miraculously escaped the spear and knife thrusts aimed at him, and succeeded in putting himself beyond the reach of spear and sling before real pursuit was made. The javelin hurled at the king was received in the shoulder of a faithful attendant who had opportunely thrown himself in front of his royal master; and so rapid and confusing were the movements following that Kanipahu had scarcely recovered from his consternation at the bold assault upon his life before he learned that Kamaiole had escaped. Giving orders for a vigorous pursuit of the fugitive, the king walked to the body of Waikuku, and, discovering that life was extinct, directed its respectful removal, and then proceeded sadly to the royal mansion. Kamaiole was not overtaken. He was strong and fleet of foot, and, as darkness soon intervened in his favor, he was able to elude his pursuers. He reached the coast in safety, and, boarding a canoe awaiting him in charge of his attendants, set sail for Kau. This provision for a hasty flight from Kohala renders it certain that Kamaiole meditated desperate work on landing there, and the relation of his subsequent exploits has shown how successfully he performed it. II. Kamaiole supposed he had killed his sister, and Waikuku, who had seen her just before his unfortunate encounter, thought she had but a few minutes to live; but the wounds inflicted did not prove fatal, and Iola finally recovered and became the mother of a daughter to her dead husband. Tradition attributes her recovery to the especial prayers of the high-priest, but careful nursing and a good constitution were probably the saving means, assisted by the fortunate escape of the vital organs from serious injury. Returning to Kau, Kamaiole began to prepare for war at once, not doubting that Kanipahu, defied and assaulted at the very gates of the royal mansion, would feel it his duty to bring him to submission. Sending emissaries through the several districts, he appealed to the native chiefs and people to join him in a revolt against Kanipahu, for the purpose of transferring the sovereignty of the island to a ruler of the old Nanaula line, and restoring to them the simple worship of their fathers and the possessions of which they had been despoiled by the southern invaders. The appeal was not without effect. Substantial aid was promised in Kona, Kau, Puna and Hilo, and in less than three months Kamaiole found himself at the head of an army large enough not only to protect him at Kau, which was doubtless the original purpose of the movement, but to carry the war into Kohala and effect a general revolution. Whatever may have been the plans of Kanipahu concerning the rebellious Kau chief, he certainly seemed to be in no haste to put them in execution, for when Kamaiole arrived in Kohala at the head of his forces he was but feebly opposed. Tradition fails to account for the apathy of Kanipahu in the face of the supreme danger confronting him. All we are told is that, finding it impossible to raise an army strong enough to suppress the formidable revolt, he left his sons with a trusted friend in the valley of Waimanu, in the district of Hamakua, and sought refuge for himself on the island of Molokai. Iola, fearing to meet her brother, or that he might learn that she still lived, also found an asylum with the young sons of Kanipahu in the secluded valley of Waimanu. Thus Kamaiole assumed the sovereignty of Hawaii almost without opposition, and Kanipahu lived quietly and unknown at Kalae, on the small island of Molokai. He dressed and comported himself as a simple commoner, performing his own work, bearing his own burdens, and accepting all the hardships to which the poor and untitled were subject. He won the love of his neighbors for his kindness, and on two occasions took up arms to assist them in repelling plundering raids from Maui; and so well did he use his weapons that his humble friends were astonished, and thought he must have been trained in the arts of war, even if he was not of chiefly blood. It is well known that the chiefs, as a class, were physically larger than the masses, so much so that they claimed, and still claim, a descent distinct from that of the common people. Kanipahu was nearer seven than six feet in height, and his size was suggestive of rank; but he habitually stooped his head and shoulders, that his height might be subject to less remark, and labored more industriously than any of his neighbors in order to convince them that he was reared to toil. And in the end, as the years came and went, toil became a comfort to him, for it occupied his thoughts and gave him dreamless and refreshing slumber. Let us now pass over a period of eighteen years from the accession of Kamaiole to the sovereignty of Hawaii. Kanipahu was still a laborer on the island of Molokai, and his sons had grown to manhood in the secluded valley of Waimanu, their rank and family ties known only to a few who could be trusted. One of these sons was Kalapana, and he had married Makea, the daughter of Iola. Her father was the dead Waikuku, and her uncle was Kamaiole, the moi of Hawaii. Kamaiole's reign had been eighteen years of almost continual domestic turmoil and popular dissatisfaction. He was cruel, selfish and arrogant; but he was also a cool and sagacious soldier, and his craft and courage had thus far enabled him to thwart the organization of discontent and enforce obedience to his authority. He had even succeeded in securing the allegiance of every prominent chief in the six districts of Hawaii--a political condition such as had never before been achieved by any of his predecessors. Wide-spread changes in feudatory tenures were the principal causes of internal trouble. Under the Pili dynasty the land boundaries of the native chiefs had been greatly shifted and narrowed to make room for the chiefs of the new régime. In attempting to restore the old feudal boundaries as far as possible, and adjust the new, Kamaiole had not only stirred up bitter strifes among the nobles, but had unwittingly disturbed the vassalage of the masses and thereby rendered all classes restless and distrustful. Finally the discontent became so general among the makaainana that they appealed to the head of the Paao family, the high-priest of the kingdom, for advice and assistance. They declared that they would no longer submit to the tyranny of Kamaiole and the exactions of his favored chiefs, and demanded a new ruler. Tradition ascribes this movement almost wholly to the laboring people, but it is more than probable that the priesthood took an early if not the initiatory part in it, since the high-priest seems to have known that Kanipahu was still living, and at once despatched a messenger to Molokai, informing the exiled king that the people were ripe for rebellion, and advising him to repair to Hawaii at once and place himself at the head of the discontented thousands who would rejoice at his coming. Fearful of treachery, Kanipahu declined to make any promises to the messenger, and, in disguise, the high-priest himself proceeded to Kalae and urged the old chief to return and reassert his authority on Hawaii. Kanipahu was profoundly moved at the words of the high-priest, and no longer doubted the sincerity and good faith of the tempting offer; but he declined to accept it, and, when urged for the reasons, rose sadly to his feet and said: "Look at these hands, hardened and crooked with toil; look at this face, begrimed and wrinkled with exposure to the sun and rain; behold my bent head, and the unsightly hump that old age and stooping labor have placed upon my shoulders! Is this the figure of a king? No! The oo better becomes the hand of Kanipahu now than the staff of sovereignty. Here have I contentedly dwelt for many years, and here it is my will to peacefully die." "Then are we without hope," replied the priest, in a tone of unfeigned sadness. "No, not without hope," returned Kanipahu. "My sons are in the valley of Waimanu. I have heard from them many times. They are worthy of their blood. Seek out Kalapana. He is brave, manly, sagacious. Tell him that upon his shoulders Kanipahu, his father, places the burden of the war against Kamaiole, and in advance bequeaths to him all his valor may win, even the sovereignty of Hawaii." "You are right, great chief!" said the priest. "We are not without hope. Kalapana shall answer for his father, and from every heiau in Hawaii shall prayers be spoken for his success." The priest received the directions necessary to enable him to communicate with the sons of Kanipahu, and secretly returned to Hawaii to fan the smouldering fires of rebellion and prepare for the coming struggle. Although the high-priesthood had become too firmly established in the Paao family to be changed by Kamaiole, he could not disguise his dislike for the innovations made by the southern line upon the simpler worship of his fathers, and neither confidence nor cordiality existed between the political and religious authorities. The rebellion against Kamaiole was therefore secretly but earnestly assisted by the entire priesthood, and when Kalapana raised the standard of revolt the people flocked to his support by thousands. The rebellion was organized with extraordinary rapidity, and when Kalapana suddenly made his appearance in Kohala at the head of a large army, Kamaiole was in no condition to meet him. He hurriedly despatched his lunapais, or war-messengers, to the chiefs of Kohala, Kona, Hamakua and Hilo, commanding their prompt assistance, and summoned the priests and diviners of the heiau of Mookini to make unusual sacrifices to the gods and to bring him at once the auguries of the uprising. But the chiefs responded with no alacrity to his call, and the diviners informed him that triumph to his arms was possible only in Kona. Kamaiole therefore abandoned Kohala, and, with such force as he was able to assemble, fell back into North Kona, where the quotas of warriors from the neighboring districts were ordered to join him. Amidst great popular enthusiasm Kalapana marched into Northern Kohala without opposition, and took possession of the royal mansion from which his father had been driven into exile eighteen years before. Kanipahu had not overestimated the capacity of his son. By instinct he was a soldier, and from the moment that he appeared at the head of his army the chiefs who had been rallied to his support by the priesthood saw that the quiet and dreamy recluse of Waimanu was made to command; and their enthusiasm in his cause, which was soon shared by the people, made easy his way to victory. Learning that Kamaiole had fallen back into Kona, Kalapana resolved to follow him without delay, and, if possible, bring him to battle before reinforcements could reach him from the south. The auguries were more than favorable. They were not even ambiguous. They expressly declared that Kamaiole would be killed in Kona. It was, therefore, with confidence and enthusiasm that Kalapana and his steadily increasing army started on their march for the adjoining district of Kona. Meantime Kamaiole was not inactive. He had succeeded in gathering a force of eight thousand men, and, learning that Kalapana was advancing from Kohala, resolved to give him battle at a place called Anaehoomalu, not far from the northern line of Kona. The point was selected for its strategical advantages, and there Kamaiole, doubtful of the result--for he could see that the tide had set in against him--determined to end the struggle. There was but a two days' march between the hostile camps, and Kalapana pushed forward with cautious haste. The priests and kaulas had promised him success, and the most influential chiefs of Hamakua and Kohala were at his side. He had brought with him from Waimanu, where it had been secreted for eighteen years, the war-god of Pili, which had been redecorated, and was borne in front of him in charge of the high-priest. And with him, to share his fate, went his young wife, Makea, to care for him if wounded, to fight by his side, perhaps, should the tide of battle turn against him; for at that time, and later, the more courageous of the wives and daughters of the chiefs not unfrequently, in emergencies, took an active part in the field. On the morning of the third day after Kalapana's departure from Kohala the two armies confronted each other, and Kalapana immediately organized his forces for battle. Kamaiole saw that he was outnumbered, and resolved to await the attack behind his defences. In the face of the great odds against him in numbers he was by no means hopeful; and, besides, the auguries were unsatisfactory, and three times the night before he had heard the scream of the alae, the bird of evil omen. But no feeling of fear affected him. Filled with gloomy courage, he cheered his warriors with promises of victory, and, armed with a javelin and heavy laau-palau, or rude halberd, placed himself at the most exposed point of his defences and awaited the attack. The battle opened, and with a wild rush a heavy division of Kalapana's forces, armed with spears, clubs, and stone axes, was hurled against the rough stone wall, four or five feet in height, behind which the enemy found partial protection. The wall was leveled in places, and desperate hand-to-hand conflicts followed, but the assault was finally repulsed. Rallied and reinforced, a second charge was made, but with no better success. The loss of life was great, and the result began to look doubtful. But Kalapana was not discouraged by these costly failures. Withdrawing and strengthening the attacking division, and announcing that he would lead the next assault in person, he ordered an attack in the rear of the enemy by his entire reserve. This involved a rapid march of two or three miles, and the passage of a deep ravine which Kamaiole relied upon as a complete defence of his right flank. While this movement was being executed Kalapana kept the enemy employed with heavy lines of skirmishers and frequent menaces of more decided assault. For more than an hour this desultory fighting continued, Kalapana impatiently watching for the appearance of his flanking column on the hill above the enemy. At length he discovered the first of its advancing spears, and a few minutes later the entire body came into view and began to pour down the slope. The final assault in front was then ordered, Kalapana taking command in person. The sudden attack in the rear carried consternation to Kamaiole's warriors; but their undaunted leader coolly and resolutely prepared for the worst. Hastily taking from the front defences such spears as could be spared, he summoned the entire reserve, and with the united force sprang like a lion to meet the attack from the hill. It came like an avalanche and could not be stayed. The struggle was desperate. As his warriors fell on every side of him, Kamaiole moved like a tower of destruction through the conflict. He seemed to bear a charmed life, and men fell like grass before the sweep of his laau-palau. Suddenly an old man of large mould, with head bent and long, white hair and beard sweeping his breast and stooping shoulders, stepped in front of Kamaiole, and with a heavy spear-pointed club calmly but dexterously warded a blow of the terrible laau-palau aimed at his head, and, answering quick as thought, felled the royal warrior to the earth like a forest tree. Around and over the body of the fallen chief a desperate struggle ensued. But it was of short duration. Under the command of Kalapana the front defences had been carried, and such of the royal army as had escaped slaughter were soon wildly leaping over the walls and retreating in confusion in all directions. Pressing toward the rear at the head of his victorious warriors, Kalapana was attracted to the fierce hand-to-hand conflict taking place over the body of Kamaiole. Without stopping to inquire the cause, he promptly plunged into the thickest of the combat, backed by a few resolute followers, and speedily relieved the old white-haired warrior from a struggle which was taxing his strength to the utmost. This was the last stand made by the enemy in a body; what remained of the battle was a merciless massacre of the wounded, and the capture and retention alive of a few prisoners for sacrifice. Resting for a moment and taking a survey of the field, Kalapana's eyes fell upon the old warrior. With one foot upon the breast of Kamaiole, he was leaning upon his war-club and scanning the face of Kalapana. His ponderous weapon still dripped with gore, and his wrinkled face was splashed with the blood of his enemies. "Where is Kamaiole?" suddenly inquired Kalapana, grasping his weapon, as if his work of death had not yet been finished. "Where is Kamaiole?" he repeated to those around him. "Who has seen him?" "Here is Kamaiole," replied the old warrior, pointing with bloody finger to the face of the dying king. Kalapana abruptly turned, and for a moment gazed in silence upon the face of his fallen enemy. Although wounded to the death, Kamaiole was still living, and his eyes showed that he was conscious of what was transpiring around him. "By whose hand did he fall?" inquired Kalapana. "By mine," briefly answered the old man. "And who are you?" continued Kalapana, with something of a feeling of awe, "who have thus come unsummoned, in the guise of a god from our sacred temples, to strike for the son of Kanipahu?" The old man slowly raised his head, and, brushing back the white hairs from his face, was about to speak, when the high-priest, with kahus bearing the war-god of Kalapana, approached to greet his victorious chief. Recognizing the venerable warrior, the astounded high-priest dropped on his knees before him, exclaiming, "Kanipahu! Kanipahu!" Almost in a dream, Kalapana, making himself known, embraced his father, whom he had not seen for eighteen years, and then respectfully chided him for coming secretly from Molokai and joining the army as a common warrior, when his rank and abilities entitled him to supreme command. The old chief smiled sadly as he replied: "The purpose of my coming has been accomplished. With my own hand I have answered in blood to the treachery of Kamaiole, and paid him for the hump he has placed upon my shoulders. I shall return to Molokai, and there the old hunchback will spend his few remaining days in peace." These words were heard and doubtless understood by Kamaiole, for he closed his eyes, and a smile of defiance played for a moment about his lips. Just then Makea joined her husband, and was overjoyed to find him victorious and unhurt. With the first lull of battle she had started in search of him with a calabash of water, and to reach him had been compelled to pick her way through ghastly heaps of dead. At the sound of her voice, sweetly replacing the din of battle, Kamaiole opened his eyes and fixed his gaze upon her face. Finally his lips moved as if he would speak. Instinctively she approached the dying chief, and, kneeling, poured into his open mouth a few swallows of water. Kalapana turned and smiled at Makea's humanity, unusual on barbarous battle-fields. A grateful look came into the eyes of Kamaiole, and with a questioning glance he faintly syllabled "Iola!" the name of his sister, and the mother of Makea, whom she closely resembled. Kalapana caught the word, and, understanding its meaning, in a tone not far from kind replied: "No, not Iola, your sister, whom you failed to kill, but Makea, her daughter, who is Kalapana's wife." Kamaiole convulsively raised his head and arms--whether in a spirit of rage or conciliation will never be known--and then dropped back dead. The remainder of the story may be briefly told. In disregard of all persuasion, Kanipahu returned at once to Molokai, where he lived and died in obscurity, earning his own living and assuming no rank. Kalapana was anointed king of Hawaii on his return to Kohala, and a hundred prisoners were sacrificed to the gods at Mookini. His reign was conciliatory and peaceful, and with Makea, whose full name was Makeamalamaihanae, he became the ancestor of Kamehameha the Great. THE TRIPLE MARRIAGE OF LAA-MAI-KAHIKI. CHARACTERS. Mulielealii, chief of western Oahu. Kumuhonua, Olopana, and Moikeha, sons of Mulielealii. Laa-mai-kahiki, adopted son of Moikeha. Luukia, wife of Olopana. Laamaomao, god of the winds. Mookini, a high-priest. Kamahualele, an astrologer and poet. Puna, the principal chief of Kauai. Hooipo, daughter of Puna. Kila, son of Moikeha and Hooipo. Hoakanui, Waolena, Mano, the three brides of Laa. Ahukini-a-Laa, Kukona-a-Laa, and Lauli-a-Laa, the three children of Laa. THE TRIPLE MARRIAGE OF LAA-MAI-KAHIKI. THE LEGENDS OF MOIKEHA AND THE ARGONAUTS OF THE ELEVENTH AND TWELFTH CENTURIES. I. Tradition abounds in bold outlines, here and there interspersed with curious details, of the many prominent expeditions to the Hawaiian Islands, from the beginning of the eleventh to the latter part of the twelfth centuries, of adventurous Tahitian, Samoan and Georgian chiefs. Learning of the existence and approximate location of the group, and perhaps guided to an extent by intervening islands and atolls that have since disappeared, they came with large fleets of barges and double canoes, bearing their families and attendants, their priests, astrologers and musicians, and by degrees possessed themselves or their immediate descendants with the fairest portions of the little archipelago. For a century or more bitter feuds and frequent wars followed; but in the end the invaders and the invaded, both of the same Polynesian race, became assimilated through concession, intermarriage and fundamental identity of religious cult, and thenceforth in a united and homogeneous stream flowed down the years. The genealogies of the prominent chiefs and priests were alone preserved; and while, in after-generations, some of them traced their lines of rank to the native stock of Nanaula, and others to the chiefs of the second migratory influx from the south, the ruling families of the entire group had become so united in blood by intermarriage that it was difficult to find a chief of distinction who could not trace his lineage back to both. But during the migratory period referred to, especially marked by the coming of Nanamaoa, Pili, Paao and the Oahu and Maui Paumakuas, the Hawaiian group was not the only scene of foreign adventure among the central islands of the Pacific. The native chiefs of Hawaii, whose ancestors had reached the group more than five hundred years before, were quite as adventurous and skilled in navigation as their southern invaders; and thus while the latter, continually augmented in numbers by fresh arrivals, were steadily possessing themselves of the lands and governing forces of the Hawaiian Islands, a few resolute chiefs of the old line, either in a spirit of retaliation or because the way had been pointed out, boldly spread their sails for the abandoned homes of their aggressors, and by conquest or other means acquired lands and influence in the distant islands of the south. The mooolelo about to be related embraces the romantic story of one of these expeditions of native Hawaiian chiefs to the southern islands, and presents an interesting picture of the manners, customs and aspirations of the mid-Pacific Argonauts of that period. Somewhere about the year A.D. 1040 Maweke, a native chief of the line of Nanaula--the first of the family that is brought prominently to view in the chronology of the second influx--was the alii-nui, or nominal sovereign, of the island of Oahu. He had three sons--Mulielealii, Keaunui and Kalehenui. On the death of Maweke, the eldest son, Mulielealii, acceded to the title of alii-nui, occupying the western side of the island. Kalehenui was given possessions at Koolau, and Keaunui was established in the district of Ewa. The latter became the ancestor of a line of powerful chiefs in that district, and is credited with having cut or opened the navigable channel near the Puuloa salt-works, by which the estuary now known as Pearl River, not far from Honolulu, was rendered accessible to navigation. No further reference need here be made to this branch of the family beyond the remark that Keaunui became the father of Lakona, and also of Nuakea, the wife of Keoloewa, King of Molokai, and of the prophet Moi, who fell with Kaupeepee in defence of the fortress of Haupu, as related in the legend of "Hina, the Helen of Hawaii." Mulielealii had three sons--Kumuhonua, Olopana and Moikeha--and one daughter, named Hainakolo. As the eldest son and successor of his father, Kumuhonua in time acceded to the patrimonial estates and titles; but the younger brothers, not content, as they grew to manhood, with the small allotments which must necessarily have been accorded them, concluded to seek for ampler and more inviting possessions elsewhere. The Paumakua family occupied a large part of the eastern side of the island, and, although they were of the stock of the second influx, their relations with the native chiefs and people seem to have been peaceful and satisfactory. Paumakua, who first appeared in native annals two generations before the time of Olopana and his brothers, either as an immigrant from one of the southern islands or the son or grandson of a chief of recent arrival, was one of the most restless and dashing of the prominent leaders of that period. The legends of the time glow with stories of his marvellous exploits and adventures in foreign lands, and the friendly feeling entertained for his immediate successors was doubtless due in a great measure to the respect established for them through his rank and prowess. It is claimed by tradition that Paumakua visited all the foreign lands then known to the Hawaiians, and brought back with him many things that were strange. From one of his voyages he returned with two white priests, Keakea and Maliu, from whom several ecclesiastical families subsequently claimed descent and authority. At another time he brought back Malela, a noted prophet and sorcerer, and three other persons of a strange race, one of whom was a woman. Tradition somewhat minutely describes them as "foreigners of large stature, bright, staring, roguish eyes, and reddish faces." As the voyages of this adventurous chief were sometimes of many months' duration, and he is said to have prosecuted his researches in almost every direction, it is not impossible that the foreigners with "roguish eyes and reddish faces" were aborigines of North America. But, leaving this to conjecture, tradition permits no doubt that Paumakua was a skilful and fearless explorer, and through his enterprise acquired renown for himself and respect for his descendants, one of whom is about to be presented to the reader. As already stated, the younger sons of Mulielealii, Olopana and Moikeha, not content with their prospects in Oahu, resolved to seek fame and fortune elsewhere. Both were unmarried, but, through some circumstance or for some purpose not mentioned by tradition, Moikeha had adopted a young son of Ahukai, the great-grandson and successor of Paumakua. The name of the boy was Laa, or Laa-mai-kahiki, to which it was subsequently extended. The child-chief could not have been without political prospects, for he is referred to in the chants as "Chief of Kapaahu and Lord of Nualaka." Although the custom was common then, as now, among Hawaiians of every rank and condition, of exchanging and adopting children, the adoption of so promising a scion of the Paumakua line by a grandson of Maweke must have been the result of some extraordinary compact, all reference to which has disappeared from tradition. Taking leave of their relatives on Oahu, Olopana and Moikeha, with a considerable number of attendants, embarked for the island of Hawaii, and established themselves at once in the beautiful valley of Waipio, in the district of Hamakua. What chief, if any, they found in possession there is not stated; but it was not long before the valley was ruled by Olopana, with Moikeha as his principal captain and adviser. The young chief Laa accompanied his foster-father to Waipio, and there Moikeha began to instruct him in the manly accomplishments for which in after-years he became distinguished. To strengthen his rule and protect himself against the encroachments of neighboring chiefs, Olopana married Luukia, granddaughter of Hikapaloa, chief of Kohala, and a descendant of the ancient line of Nanaula, to which Olopana himself belonged by lineage still more direct. He urged his brother to follow his example and connect himself by marriage with some one of the ruling families of Hamakua. Such an alliance could have been readily made by Moikeha, for his strain was undoubted, and in manly beauty and courtly graces he had scarcely a peer in all the group; but he declared that he had a wife in his spear and an heir in Laa, and would not create a jealousy in the family by adding to either. But the brothers did not remain long in Waipio. A terrible hurricane, followed by storms and floods, completely devastated the valley, compelling the inhabitants to abandon their homes and seek refuge elsewhere. Moikeha had never been satisfied with Waipio, and in the midst of the ruin around them found little difficulty in persuading his brother to make a bold push for the misty and far-off land of Kahiki. Preparations for the journey were immediately made, and in five large double canoes the brothers, with Laa and a considerable body of attendants, set sail for the islands of the south. They knew the general direction, and the sun and stars guided them in their course. A prosperous wind wafted them to the Society group, and they finally landed on the island of Raiatea, and forcibly took, or in some other manner secured, possession of the district of Moaula. Olopana was accepted as sovereign of the district, and soon became a ruler of opulence and distinction. Moikeha, still his chief adviser, built a sumptuous residence and heiau for himself, called Lanikeha, or "the heavenly resting-place," and became noted for his hospitality. For some time--perhaps for four or five years--the brothers dwelt together in harmony, and then misunderstanding and trouble came between them--it need scarcely be said, through a woman--which drove Moikeha again to the sea and separated them for ever. A meddlesome native chief named Mua, who was jealous of the popularity of Moikeha and desirous of supplanting him in the favor of Olopana, called the attention of Luukia on several occasions to Moikeha's affluent style of living, and intimated that his purpose was to thereby secure the friendship of influential chiefs, and in the end wrest the sovereignty of the district from his brother. Alarmed at last, she bore the tale to her husband, and at length succeeded in arousing his suspicions. A coldness toward Moikeha very naturally followed. Olopana could not help but note his brother's increasing popularity, and one day took occasion to rebuke him for his extravagance and love of display, suggesting, at the same time, that a more modest style of living would comport better with his position. Moikeha, who had never harbored a thought that was not loyal to his brother, was profoundly grieved at these words of suspicion, and resolved to leave Raiatea at once and return to the Hawaiian Islands. Feeling that he had gone too far in thus indirectly accusing his brother of meditated treachery, Olopana endeavored to persuade him to remain; but Moikeha's resolution could not be shaken, and he set about preparing at once for his return to the Hawaiian group. The number of canoes manned and provisioned for the voyage is not stated; but tradition avers that the fleet was equipped under the superintendence of Moikeha's famous prophet and astrologer, Kamahualele; and, with the priest Mookini, Laamaomao, the director of the winds, and a large party of chiefs and retainers, the expedition set sail for Hawaii, the young chief Laa being left behind with Olopana. It was one of the most imposing fleets that had ever sailed out of the harbor of Opoa. The large double canoe bearing Moikeha and his priests, gods, astrologer, principal navigator, wind director and personal attendants, was the same in which he had sailed for Kahiki. The kaulua was nearly a hundred feet in length, and afforded ample accommodations for the forty or more persons assigned to it. It was painted red, and at the masthead floated the pennon of a Polynesian alii. Moikeha embarked with a number of distinguished companions, but the most noted was Laamaomao--a name signifying, perhaps, the sacred bluish green or wind clouds. He was the director of the winds, which were stored in his ipu, or calabash, and went forth at his bidding. He bore a close resemblance to the �olus of the Greeks. After accompanying Moikeha to the Hawaiian Islands he took up his abode near a place called Hale-a-Lono, a well-known eminence of Kaluakoi, on the island of Molokai, and was subsequently deified and worshipped as an aumakua, or god of the winds. With musicians and drummers to enliven the spirits of the voyagers, and favoring winds from the ipu of Laamaomao, the journey seems to have been prosperous, and no incident of note occurred until the island of Hawaii was sighted. As the green hills of Kau came to view songs and shouts of joy went up from the canoes. A voyage of over twenty-five hundred miles in open boats had tested the patience of the party, and land at last was a joyous sight to them all. Many leaped into the water and swam beside the canoes. Mookini, the high-priest, burned incense before the gods, at the same time addressing them a prayer of thanksgiving, and Kamahualele, the astrologer and poet, recited an inspiring chant in further celebration of the occasion. The chant has been preserved by tradition. Some of the early poetic accounts of the first appearance of the islands of Hawaii above the surface of the ocean mention Hawaii, the largest of the group, as suddenly rising from the great deep and becoming a part of a row or cluster of islands "stretching to the farthest ends of Kahiki," from which it is conjectured that, centuries back in the past, islands now no longer existing marked the way at intervals between the Society and Hawaiian groups. The other islands of the Hawaiian cluster are referred to as natural births, their parents being demi-gods or distinguished chiefs. Thus, in the language of an old chant: "Rising up is Hawaii-nui-akea! Rising up out of the night (Po)! Appeared has the island, the land, The string of islands of Nuuamea, The cluster of islands stretching to the farthest ends of Kahiki. To Kuluwaiea of Haumea, the husband, To Hina-nui-a-lana, the wife, Was born Molokai, a god, a priest, The first morning light from Nuuamea. Up stands Akuhinialaa, The chief from the foreign land; From the gills of the fish From the overwhelming billows of Halehale-kalani, Born is Oahu, the wohi, The wohi of Akuhinialaa, And of Laamealaakona the wife." Kamahualele began by repeating an ancient story of the origin of the several islands of the group, and concluded his chant with these hopeful words: "O Haumea Manukahikele. O Moikeha, the chief who is to reside, My chief will reside on Hawaii--a! Life, life, O buoyant life! Live shall the chief and priest, Live shall the seer and the slave, Dwell on Hawaii and be at rest, And attain old age on Kauai. O Kauai is the island--a! O Moikeha is the chief!" Thus sang the poet, with his face toward the verdant slopes of Kau, while the canoes of the fleet gathered around him, that all might hear the words of one who read the fate of mortals in the stars. II. The prediction of Kamahualele, inspired by a sudden view of the coast of Hawaii, was verified. A landing was made in the district of Kau, the most southerly point of the island. There securing supplies of provisions and water, the next landing was effected at Cape Kumukahi, in the district of Puna; but a recent eruption from the crater of Kilauea, or a subterranean channel connected with it, had devastated a wide strip of country near the coast, and after a brief stay sail was made for Kohala. Landing in that district, Moikeha and his party were well received by Kaniuhi, the alii-nui and grandson of Pili, and permission to offer sacrifices in behalf of the expedition in the great heiau of Mookini was accorded the high-priest of Moikeha, whose name, by singular coincidence, was identical with that of the temple, erected by the high-priest Paao more than two generations before. Leaving Kohala, Moikeha next touched at Hanuaula, on the island of Maui; but, without stopping to exchange courtesies with Haho, the noted moi of that division of the island, he sailed immediately for Oahu. His purpose was to visit his royal father, Mulielealii, whose residence was at Ewa; but his priest and seer so strongly protested against the visit, declaring it to be contrary to the will of the gods, that he directed his course around the northern side of the island, touching at Makapuu and Makaaoa, and then sailing directly for the island of Kauai. On the evening of the second day after leaving Oahu, Moikeha anchored his canoes in a roadstead not far from Kapaa, Kauai, where Puna, the governing alii of the island, held his court, surrounded by the chiefs of his family and a large number of retainers. Puna was one of the most popular rulers in the group, and, strict as he may have been in the exercise of his prerogatives, was always merciful in dealing with offences thoughtlessly or ignorantly committed. He would pardon the humble laborer who might inadvertently cross his shadow or violate a tabu, but never the chief who deliberately trespassed upon his privileges or withheld a courtesy due to his rank. His disposition was naturally warlike, but as the condition of the island was peaceful, and military force was seldom required except in repelling occasional plundering raids from the other islands, he kept alive the martial spirit of his chiefs and subjects by frequent sham fights, marine drills, and the encouragement of athletic games and friendly contests at arms, in which he himself sometimes took part. Feasting and dancing usually followed these warlike pastimes, and the result was that the court of Puna became somewhat noted for the chivalry of its chiefs and the splendor of its entertainments. Puna had but one child, a daughter named Hooipo. Tradition describes her as having been, like the most of royal daughters painted by the poets, a very comely maiden. She was therefore the pride and glory of the court, and as she grew to a marriageable age her favor was sought by a number of aspiring chiefs whose rank entitled them to consideration; but, flattered by the contest for her smiles, and naturally vain of a face which the unruffled waters told her was attractive, she evinced no haste in making choice of a husband. This tardiness or indecision was but very gently rebuked by Puna. Although one tradition gives him two daughters, Hooipo was doubtless his only child, and he was therefore indisposed to hasten an event which would probably lead to their separation. But, as time passed, the suitors of the young chiefess became so persistent, and the rivalry for her assumed so bitter and warlike an aspect, that Puna deemed it prudent for her to restore harmony among the rivals by making a choice at once. But for no one of them did she seem to entertain a decided preference, and therefore suggested that, since a choice must be made, she was willing to leave it to the arbitrament of such manly contest between the rivals as might comport with their dignity and the character of the prize at stake. Puna eagerly accepted the suggestion, as it opened the way to a selection without incurring the enmity of all but the one chosen. But what should be the nature of the contest? Each of the rival chiefs was probably noted for his skill in some especial accomplishment, and the difficulty was in naming a trial that would seem to be just to all. Unable to decide the matter himself, Puna appealed to the high-priest, and the next day announced that his palaoa--a talisman consisting of a whale's tooth, carved and sanctified--would be sent by a trusty messenger to the little island of Kaula; that four days thereafter the rival chiefs should, each in his own canoe, start at the same time and place from Kauai, and the one who returned with the palaoa, which the messenger would be instructed to give to the first of the contesting chiefs to land and claim it on the rocks of Kaula, should be the husband of Hooipo, and the others must remain his friends. The size of the canoes was left to the discretion of the several contestants, but as no more than four assistants would be allowed to each, very large canoes, of course, would not be used. Any means of speed might be employed, including oars, paddles and sails. The contest was admitted to be as fair as any that could be devised, and the rival chiefs declared themselves satisfied with it, and began to prepare for the race by securing suitable canoes and skilful and stalwart assistants. It promised to be an exciting contest, and the whole of Kapaa was on tiptoe to witness the start. After a few days of preparation the messenger of Puna was despatched with the palaoa to Kaula, with instructions to place it in the hands of the first of the contesting chiefs to claim it on that island. The messenger had been gone two days, and had probably reached his destination, as the distance to be travelled was but little more than a hundred miles, and the rival chiefs had everything in readiness to bend their sails for Kaula, when Moikeha, as already stated, anchored his fleet in the evening off Kapaa. Early next morning, with his double canoe flying the standard of his rank and otherwise becomingly dressed, Moikeha went ashore, where he was cordially received by the chiefs of the district, and in due time escorted to the sovereign mansion and presented to Puna. Without referring to his family connections, he simply announced that he was a chief from the distant land of Kahiki, and was traveling through the Hawaiian group on a tour of observation and pleasure. He wore a maro fringed with shells, a kihei or mantle of finely-woven and decorated cloth, and on his head a lei-alii of brilliant feathers, while from his neck was suspended by a cord of plaited hair a curious ornament of mother-of-pearl set in ivory. He was a handsome representative of savage manhood, and his bearing was dignified, correct and courtly. During his audience with Puna, Moikeha met Hooipo--most likely by accident, but he was so charmed by her bright eyes that he did not leave the mansion until he found occasion to exchange a few pleasant words with her. They seemed to be mutually pleased with each other, and Moikeha accepted the invitation of the chief to consider himself his guest until the next day, at the same time allowing him to send fresh provisions to his people, whose canoes had been drawn up on the beach. A brilliant entertainment of feasting, music and dancing in honor of the distinguished stranger followed in the evening, during which Moikeha was favored with the companionship of Hooipo, and learned of the contest about to take place between the rival chiefs of Kauai to determine to whom she should be given in marriage. Hilarity and feasting were the order of the next day and evening, for on the morning following the contesting chiefs were to start for Kaula under the eye of Puna. Their well-equipped canoes were on the beach, and their crews, drilled to work sail and oar together, were in readiness. Morning came, and with it a large concourse of people to witness the departure of the chiefs. The canoes and their attending crews were examined, and many wagers laid on the result of the race. Finally the contesting chiefs made their appearance, followed shortly after by Puna and the most of his household, including Hooipo, who was conveyed to the beach in a manele borne on the shoulders of four stout attendants. She was attired in an embroidered pau--a short skirt of five thicknesses of thin kapa cloth reaching to the knees--and a cape or short mantle trimmed with feathers. Her hair was braided in a single strand at the back; her head and neck were adorned with leis of flowers and feathers, and her limbs were ornamented with circlets of shells and tinted seeds. Everything being in readiness, the contending chiefs, eight in number, appeared before the alii-nui, and, bowing low, proceeded in turn to recite their kuauhaus, or genealogies, as they had been called upon to do, to show in a formal manner that all their strains were noble. As each concluded he again bowed, giving Hooipo a smile and look of confidence, and stepped back to await the signal of departure. The last of them had given his pedigree, the terms of the contest had again been announced in form by a herald, and Puna was about to order the simultaneous launching of the canoes, when Moikeha, whose presence had not before been observed by the chiefs, suddenly presented himself before the alii-nui, and, bowing first to him and then courteously to the chiefs, said: "Great chief, as this trial seems to be free to all of noble blood, I accept the terms, and ask permission to present myself as a contestant for the prize." The chiefs exchanged glances of surprise, and a pleased expression lighted up the face of Hooipo, who until that moment had manifested but little interest in what was transpiring around her. Puna hesitated a moment, and then graciously replied: "Noble stranger, if your rank is level with the conditions, and the chiefs now ready for departure urge no objection, my consent will not be withheld." A hurried consultation among the chiefs showed that some of them objected; but as the stranger, with no knowledge of the coast and apparently no canoe or crew in readiness, did not seem to be a competitor to be feared, it was finally agreed that, should he be able to establish his rank, which a few of them doubted, he might be admitted to the contest. This resolution having been communicated, Moikeha gracefully bowed his thanks, and then began to recite his genealogy. Curious to learn the strain of the courtly stranger, the chiefs pressed around him, eagerly listening to every word. He began with Wakea, away back in the past, when his ancestors were residents of other lands referred to in Hawaiian story. Giving the record of thirteen generations, he brought the connection down to Nanamaoa, the pioneer of the first migratory influx to the Hawaiian group seven hundred years before. Thence, generation by generation, naming father, mother and heir, he traced down a line of sixteen successors to Maweke. Pausing a moment, while a look of surprise and wonder was exchanged by the listening chiefs, Moikeha continued: "Maweke the husband, "Naiolaukea the wife; "Mulielealii the husband, "Wehelani the wife; "Moikeha the husband, "Hooipo the wife." Applause followed this announcement by the stranger that he was the son of Mulielealii, the alii-nui of Oahu, and the jesting and good-natured manner in which he concluded the kuauhau by predicting his success in the coming contest, and marriage with Hooipo, made him no enemies among the competing chiefs. Hooipo was now sure that she could make a choice without the trouble and excitement of a race to Kaula; but the canoes were ready, and all she could do was to hope and pray that Moikeha would bring back the palaoa. But what were Moikeha's preparations for the race? When asked by Puna, he pointed to a small canoe with an outrigger drawn up on the beach, and a single long-haired man of strange aspect standing motionless beside it with a paddle in his hand. Puna shook his head doubtingly, and Hooipo looked disappointed. Others who noted the stranger's slim preparations for the race imagined that he was treating the contest as a jest; but he announced himself in readiness, and the signal for departure was given. The chiefs sprang toward the beach, and in a few minutes had launched their canoes and passed through the heavy surf, when with strong and steady pulling the race began in earnest for the open sea. Moikeha alone seemed to be in no haste. He took formal leave of Puna, and, noting Hooipo's look of impatience, smilingly said to her as he turned toward the beach: "I will bring back the palaoa!" The assurance contented her. The other canoes were beyond the surf, but she believed him and was happy. Satisfying himself that the sail was ready for use and everything required for the voyage aboard, Moikeha and his assistant shoved their canoe into the water, and with a few vigorous strokes of their paddles dashed through the surf. The passage was so adroitly made as to attract the attention of the many who witnessed it from the shore. For a few minutes the canoe remained almost motionless, except as it was tossed from wave to wave. Then the sail was spread. This movement was unaccountable to those on shore, for the little wind stirring was directly from the west, to which point the canoe was bearing for an offing to round the southern capes of the island. But if the witnesses were surprised at the spreading of a sail under such circumstances, they were little less than astounded when they saw the sail fill with wind and the canoe suddenly speed out to sea as if driven by a hurricane. Moikeha's long-haired companion was Laamaomao, god of the winds, who had accompanied him from Raiatea. Behind the sail sat the friendly deity, from whose exhaustless ipu of imprisoned winds a gale was sent forth which carried the canoe to Kaula before daylight the next morning. Effecting a landing soon after sunrise, Puna's messenger was found, and at once delivered to Moikeha the palaoa, which he had been instructed to surrender to the chief first demanding it. Content in the possession of the talisman, Moikeha and his companion remained on the island for refreshment until past midday, and then started on their return to Kauai, favored by the same winds that had borne them to Kaula, but proceeding with less haste. Toward night the eight other chiefs landed within a few hours of each other, and great was their astonishment on learning that the palaoa had been delivered to a chief claiming it early that morning. "He must have had wings," said one of them. "He was surely helped by the gods," suggested another, who had been the first to land after Moikeha. "But for that the palaoa would have been mine, as you all know. But who can struggle with the gods? Let us not incur their anger by complaint." As it was easy for the others to reconcile themselves to Moikeha's success, good-humor was soon restored, and the next morning, in company with the messenger, they all re-embarked for Kauai. On the evening of the same day Moikeha landed at Kapaa, and hastened to place in the hands of Puna the talisman which made him the husband of Hooipo. Now assured of the rank of the victor, Puna was gratified at his success, and Hooipo made no disguise of her joy. Tradition says she fell in love with the handsome stranger on first beholding him; but be that as it may, when he returned from Kaula with the palaoa she was frank enough to confess that his success had made her happy. In the course of a few days all of the defeated chiefs returned to Kapaa, and Moikeha invited them to a feast, over which they forgot their rivalry and renewed the pledges of friendship embraced in the terms and made a condition of the contest. They sought by many ingenious ways to draw from Moikeha the secret of his success; but he failed to enlighten them, and they were compelled to content themselves with the belief that he had been assisted by some supernatural power, possibly by Apukohai, the great fish-god of Kauai, who sometimes seized canoes and bore them onward with almost incredible velocity. In due time Hooipo became the wife of Moikeha, who, on the death of Puna, succeeded him as the alii-nui of Kauai, where he remained to the end of his life. He was blessed with a number of sons, through one of whom, it may be mentioned, the sovereignty of the island was continued in the family after Moikeha was laid under the black kapa. III. Tradition next refers to Moikeha about twenty-five years after his marriage with Hooipo. The death of Puna had left him the sovereignty of Kauai, and his principal residence was at Waialua. He had seven sons, and his court, like that of his predecessor, was noted for the distinguished chiefs, priests, prophets and poets connected with it. As the life of Moikeha was drawing to a close a strong desire possessed him to see once more his foster-son Laa, whom, on his departure from Raiatea, he had left with his brother Olopana, whose presumptive heir and successor the young chief had become. In preparation for a journey thither he ordered a number of large double canoes to be repaired and put in order for the open sea, and had some time before despatched a large party of hunters to the cliffs along the coast for the feathers of the mamo, from which to fabricate a royal mantle for the ward of his youth. As but a single small yellow feather of the kind used in a royal mantle is found under each wing of the mamo, the task of securing the many thousands required was by no means a brief or easy service; but in time the feathers were gathered and the cloak was completed. As the choicest feathers alone were used, the garment was one of the most brilliant and elaborate ever made on Kauai, and represented the labor of a hundred persons for a year. But when everything was in readiness for his departure for the south, Moikeha concluded that he was too old and feeble to undertake the voyage. In this conclusion he was sustained by the auguries of the prophets and the persuasion of his sons. His third son was Kila. He was distinguished for his capacity and courage, and especially for his skill as a navigator, and it was finally decided that he should make the journey to Raiatea as the messenger of Moikeha, and invite Laa to revisit the Hawaiian group, assuring him of the feeble health of his foster-father and of his anxiety to embrace him before death separated them for ever. Kila was delighted with the mission. For several years intercourse between the Hawaiian and southern groups had been almost completely suspended, but from boyhood his dreams had been of visits to the far-off and misty shores of Kahiki, of which he had heard Moikeha speak; and now that an opportunity was presented for gratifying his appetite for adventure in unknown seas, his joy was boundless, and so vigorously did he push the work of preparation that in a few days the canoes were equipped and provisioned for the voyage. The provisions consisted, in long voyages of that period, of dried fish, dried bananas and plantains, cocoanuts, yams and potatoes, with poi and paiai, fresh fruits and cooked fowls and pigs, for early consumption. Large calabashes of fresh water were also provided, but frequent baths largely diminished the craving for that necessity. Sacrifices were offered, the auguries were pronounced favorable, and the fleet of double canoes set sail for the south. Kila was accompanied by three of his brothers, and, more important still, by the venerable Kamahualele, the friend and astrologer of Moikeha, who had borne him company from Raiatea more than a quarter of a century before, and chanted his inspired visions of the future off the coast of Kau. He went as Kila's chief navigator and especial counsellor. The fleet passed through the group and took its final departure from the most southern point of the island of Hawaii. Wind and weather were both favorable, and without a mishap of consequence the expedition arrived in due time at Raiatea, first touching for guidance at some of the other islands of the southern group. Kila landed at Opoa through the sacred entrance of Avamoa. His flag and state were recognized by Olopana, who was still living, and the sons of Moikeha and their personal attendants were ceremoniously conducted to the royal mansion, where Kila made known the purpose of his visit. Olopana was greatly interested in the story of Moikeha's successful establishment on Kauai, but refrained from referring to the circumstances which led to their separation many years before. He was also informed of the death of his father, Mulielealii, and the succession of his brother Kumuhonua to the rank and authority of alii-nui of Oahu. With the affectionate greetings of Moikeha, Kila presented to Laa the brilliant mamo, or royal mantle, of which he was made the bearer, and expressed the hope that he would comfort the few remaining days of his foster-father by returning with him on a visit to Kauai. Olopana strongly objected to the proposed journey, urging his advanced years and the probability of his early death; but when assured by Laa of his speedy return he reluctantly consented, and after a round of hospitable feasts and entertainments, in his own double canoes, and attended by his priest, astrologer, master of ceremonies, musicians, and a number of knightly and noble friends, Laa accompanied Kila and his party back to Hawaii. The voyage was made in good time, and as the combined fleet, with canoes of royal yellow and pennons flying, coursed through the group to Kauai, stopping at several points to exchange courtesies with the ruling chiefs, it attracted unusual attention; and when Laa landed at Waialua, on the island of Oahu, to greet his relatives, and the people learned that the son of Ahukai had returned from the distant land of Kahiki rich in honors and possessions, they strewed his path with flowers and welcomed him as if he were a god. Proceeding to Kauai, after a brief stay at Waialua, Laa was affectionately received by Moikeha, his foster-father, who had left him a child in Kahiki, and for a month or more the Kauaian court blazed nightly with feasts and festivals given in his honor. Returning to Oahu, Laa took up his residence for a time at Kualoa. A large mansion was constructed for him, with ample accommodations for his friends and retainers, and the chiefs of the island esteemed it an honor to share his friendship and accept his hospitality. There was no jealousy of Laa, for it was known that he would soon return to Raiatea, there to permanently remain as the heir and successor of Olopana. In his veins ran the noblest blood of Oahu. He was the son of the great-grandson of the great Paumakua in direct and unchallenged descent, and the adopted heir of the grandson of Maweke, the proud descendant of the Nanaula dynasty of kings. It was not deemed well that the line of Paumakua, through so distinguished a representative as Laa, should be perpetuated solely on a foreign soil. From a suggestion the matter came to be seriously discussed by the leading chiefs, and finally Laa was approached on the subject. Being a young man, the patriotic proposal of the chiefs very naturally accorded with his tastes, and, without great persuasion, he expressed a willingness to comply with what seemed to be a general request. But the approval of Laa did not quite settle the delicate question, as the chiefs at once observed on casting around for a suitable wife for so desirable a husband. The most of them had daughters or sisters of eligible rank and age. But which one of them should they select? Whose family should be so honored? They were willing to leave the choice to Laa, but, sagaciously anticipating the result, he declined to make the selection. As usual in momentous cases of doubt, the high-priest was consulted, and the matter was settled in a manner quite satisfactory to Laa. It was agreed that he should marry three wives, all on the same day, and the maidens selected were Hoakanui, daughter of Lonokaehu, of Kualoa; Waolena, daughter of a chief of Kaalaea; and Mano, daughter of a chief of Kaneohe. All were noted for their beauty and distinguished blood. The three brides were brought to the mansion of Laa, at Kualoa, on the day fixed for the triple marriage, and the event was celebrated with splendor and enthusiasm. The hoao, or marriage agreement, was made public by a herald, as was then the custom among the nobility; the brides, attired becomingly and decked with garlands, were delivered in form to the bride-groom, and in the evening a feast was served on the grounds to more than a thousand guests, with hula, mele, and other festive accompaniments, including mele-inoas, or songs of personal application to the new wives and their husband. This triple marriage is one of the most thoroughly-established incidents of remote Hawaiian tradition. After his marriage Laa remained a year at Kualoa, and then began to prepare for his return to Raiatea. He looked forward to his departure with mingled feelings of regret and satisfaction, for his brief married life had been singularly as well as most bountifully blessed. On the same day he had been presented with a son by each of his three wives, and an ancient chant thus refers to the event: "O Ahukai, O Laa-a, O Laa, O Laa from Kahiki, the chief; O Ahukini-a-Laa, O Kukona-a-Laa, O Lauli-a-Laa, the father The triple canoe of Laa-mai-kahiki, The sacred first-born children of Laa, Who were born on the same one day." Moikeha died soon after, and Laa bade farewell to the Hawaiian Islands and returned to Raiatea just in time to receive the dying blessing of Olopana. As he had promised, he left his three wives and their sons in Oahu, where they were well cared for. The names of the children, as mentioned in the chant quoted, were Ahukini-a-Laa, Kukona-a-Laa, and Lauli-a-Laa, from whom it was in after-generations the pride and glory of the governing families of Oahu and Kauai to trace their lineage. From Ahukini-a-Laa Queen Kapiolani, wife of Kalakaua, the present sovereign of the islands, is recorded in descent through a line of Kauaian chiefs and kings. Kila, after his return from Raiatea, established himself in the valley of Waipio, on the island of Hawaii, and became prosperous in the possessions abandoned by his uncle Olopana a generation before. He was the ancestor of several prominent Hawaiian families, who traced their descent to him as late as during the reign of Kamehameha I. With the return of Laa to Raiatea all communication between the Hawaiian and southern groups seems to have abruptly terminated, and for a period of about six hundred years, or until the arrival of Captain Cook in 1778, the Hawaiians learned nothing of the great world beyond their little archipelago, and knew that lands existed elsewhere only through the mysterious mooolelos of their priests, and a folk-lore consisting of broken chains of fables and tales of the past in which the supernatural had finally become the dominant feature. THE APOTHEOSIS OF PELE. CHARACTERS. Pele, goddess of the volcanoes. Moho, Kamakaua and Kanehekili, brothers of Pele. Kalana, a chief from the southern islands. Kamaunui, wife of Kalana. Hina, daughter of Kalana and Kamaunui. Olopana, chief of Oahu and husband of Hina. Kahikiula, brother of Olopana. Kamapuaa, the monster son of Hina. THE APOTHEOSIS OF PELE. THE ADVENTURES OF THE GODDESS WITH KAMAPUAA. I. In the pantheon of ancient Hawaiian worship--or, rather, of the worship of the group from the twelfth century to the nineteenth--the deity most feared and respected, especially on the island of Hawaii, was the goddess Pele. She was the queen of fire and goddess of volcanoes, and her favorite residence was the vast and ever-seething crater of Kilauea, beneath whose molten flood, in halls of burning adamant and grottoes of fire, she consumed the offerings of her worshippers and devised destruction to those who long neglected her or failed to respect her prerogatives. Her assistants and companions, as related by tradition, were her five brothers and eight sisters, all of them clothed with especial functions, and all but little less merciless and exacting than Pele herself. The first in authority under Pele was Moho, king of steam. The others were charged, respectively, with the duties of creating explosions, thunders and rains of fire, moving and keeping the clouds in place, breaking canoes, fighting with spears of flame, hurling red-hot masses of lava, and doing whatever else the goddess commanded. As the family claimed tribute of the entire island of Hawaii, to receive it they frequently visited the active and extinct craters of other districts, and earthquakes heralded their departure from Kilauea. The temples of Pele were numerous, particularly in the neighborhood of old lava-flows, and their priests were always well sustained. The crater of Kilauea was especially sacred to the goddess, and the earth around it could not be safely disturbed. An offering was first made of a part of everything eaten there, and fruits, pigs, fowls, fish, and sometimes human beings, were thrown into the crater to appease the wrath of the goddess and avert a threatened overflow. The Pele family was neither connected with, nor controlled by, the supreme gods of Hawaiian worship, nor was it a part either of the ancient or later theocracy of the group, as brought down by the priesthood of Hika-paloa, the godhead and trinity of original creation. It was an indigenous and independent development of the twelfth century, until which period the family was unknown on Hawaii; and the strong hold it secured and for centuries maintained in the native heart was due partly to a popular faith in, and worship of, the spirits of departed chiefs and ancestors, and partly to the continued and ever-visible evidences of the power and malignity of the volcanic deities. And so, indeed, was it with the many other deities of Hawaiian adoration. While Kane was deemed the creator and undoubted superior of them all, they were seldom restrained in the exercise of their several functions, and individual appeals to them through their priests were necessary to secure their favor or placate their wrath. With this brief reference to the worship and attributes of the terrible goddess and her family, the story of their mortal lives will now be told, and a plain relation given of the strange events which led to their apotheosis. Every tradition refers to them as deities at the time of their arrival at Hawaii and occupation of Kilauea, and all abound in marvellous tales of their exploits, the most wonderful being connected with the Oahuan warrior Kamapuaa, one of the lovers of Pele, who was transformed by the bards into a supernatural monster--a being half-man and half-hog--with powers almost equal to those of Pele herself. A careful analysis, however, of the various mooolelos of Pele and her family renders it plain that they came to the group as simple human beings, and as human beings lived and died, as did also Kamapuaa, and that superstition subsequently elevated their mortal deeds to the realms of supernatural achievement. The Pele family came to Hawaii during the reign of Kamiole, the usurper, from one of the southern islands--probably Samoa--in about the year A.D. 1175. It was of chiefly blood, and also of priestly lineage, and, to escape the penalties of defeat, had, at the close of a long and disastrous war, fled northward and found a home on Hawaii. The head of the family had fallen in battle, and Moho, the eldest of the sons, assumed the direction of what remained of the once powerful household. The fugitives first landed at Honuapo, in the district of Kau, but, finding no lands there available, coasted along to the southern shores of Puna, and finally located in the valleys back of Keauhou, among the foothills of Mauna Loa, including the crater of Kilauea. A few miles to the westward an overflow had reached the sea the year before, and as the volcano was still active, and earthquakes were of frequent occurrence in the neighborhood, the valleys had been deserted, and the new-comers who boldly settled there were soon spoken of as being under the especial protection of the gods, since they seemed to fear neither earthquakes nor threatened inundations of fire. Under the circumstances almost everything they did was credited to supernatural agencies, and it was not long before Pele, Moho and Kamakaua--the three most influential members of the little community--were regarded as kahunas of unusual sanctity and power. The Pele family proper consisted, at that time, of Pele, her two brothers, Moho and Kamakaua, and a younger sister named Ulolu, who was after her apotheosis known as Hiiaka-ika-pali-opele. With them, however, were a number of relatives--principally females, whose protectors had perished in the struggle preceding their departure from Samoa--and about thirty attendants. The brothers were large, stalwart men, who had distinguished themselves in arms in their native land, and their attendants were warriors of tried courage and capacity. From these companions and assistants were created the three additional brothers and seven sisters of Pele mentioned in the meles of the bards. One of the former--Kanehekili--is said to have been a hunchback, as was also Kamakaua, but the fighting qualities of neither seem to have been impaired by the deformity. Pele was as courageous as she was personally attractive. She had taken an active part in the wars of her father, and with her own hand had slain a chief who attempted to abduct her. Her brothers were devoted to her, and her bright eyes and queenly presence commanded the respect and homage of all who approached her. And now, cultivating their lands in the valleys back of Keauhou, and living contentedly and without fear of molestation, we will leave the little colony for a time and refer to another important character in the story we are telling--Kamapuaa, the traditional monster of Oahu, whose deeds so aggrandize the folk-lore of that island. In some meles he is depicted as a hog with a human head, and in others as a being with a human form and head of a hog; but in all he is described as a monster of prodigious bulk and malicious and predatory propensities. II. Glancing back a half-century or more before the landing of the Pele family in Puna, we note the arrival in the group of a number of independent parties of immigrants or adventurers from the southern islands. Among them were the chiefs Kalana and Huma. They came with considerable of a following, including the beautiful Kamaunui and a few of her relatives. The party landed on the island of Maui, and, after some wandering and change of locations, finally settled in Waihee, a spot noted for its beauty and natural advantages. Huma loved the fair Kamaunui. He had whispered soft words to her on their long journey from Kahiki, and fed her with the choicest food to be found among the stores of his great double canoe; but she loved Kalana better, and, when she became his wife, Huma abruptly left Waihee, returning, it is supposed, to his native land. The only child of this marriage was Hina, who on reaching womanhood became the wife of Olopana, a chief of the island of Oahu. Although of the same name, he was in nowise related to the Olopana who was the brother of Moikeha and grandson of Maweke. This chief had arrived from the south a few years before his marriage with Hina, and, with his younger brother, Kahikiula, settled in Koolau, or on the Koolau side of the island of Oahu, where he had acquired very considerable possessions. By what chance he met Hina, or through what influence he won her, tradition does not mention, but as his wife she went with him to Oahu, and there remained. Hina was fair, and Kahikiula, unlike his brother, was young and handsome. They were happy in the society of each other, and were therefore much together. She went with him to the hills for wild fruits and berries, and he followed her to the sea-shore to gather shells and limpets. The jealousy of Olopana was at last aroused, and when Hina presented him with a son he charged Kahikiula with its paternity and refused to accept the child as his own. This estranged the brothers and made the lot of Hina miserable. From its birth Olopana disliked the child, and in his resentment named it Kamapuaa, signifying a hog-child, or child of a hog. As the infant showed no marked physical characteristics of that animal, it is probable that Olopana fastened upon it the graceless appellation in a spirit of retaliation. But, whatever may have prompted its bestowal, the child certainly bore the name through life, thus giving to the bards who chanted the story of his acts the cue and pretext for shaping him into the monster depicted by tradition. Having no love for Kamapuaa, Olopana took little interest in his growth from year to year to the mighty manhood which he finally attained, and which excited the admiration of all others. The more Kamapuaa was praised the greater dislike did Olopana feel for him, and at length the presence of the young giant became so obnoxious to him that he ordered him, under penalty of death, to leave the district. Failing to understand the cause of this unnatural hatred, the anger of Kamapuaa was at last aroused, and he strode away from the home of his youth with his heart filled with bitterness and vows of vengeance. As he left, Kahikiula presented him with a long and finely-finished spear tipped with bone, and his mother threw over his broad shoulders the feather cape of a chief, and hung around his neck a palaoa, or talisman carved from the tooth of some great animal of the sea. Kamapuaa knew of a large cavern in the hills some miles distant from Koolau, the name by which will be designated the place of his birth, and thither he repaired and took up his residence. He led a wild, predatory life, and was soon joined by others as reckless as himself, until the party numbered fifty or sixty in all. Made bolder by this following, Kamapuaa began to harass the estates of Olopana. He stole his pigs, fowls and fruits, and whatever else his little band required, and delighted in breaking his nets, cutting adrift his canoes and robbing his fish-ponds. In a spirit of youthful bravado he had his body, from his loins upward, tattooed in black, shaved his head and beard to the resemblance of bristles, and hung from his shoulders a short mantle of tanned hog-skin, the hair being left to be worn on the outer side. In this guise his name did not seem to be altogether inappropriate, and he was pleased at the terror his appearance inspired. Becoming still bolder, Kamapuaa resolved to inaugurate a more vigorous warfare upon Olopana, and began to cut down his cocoanut-trees and destroy his growing crops. This brought the matter to a crisis, as such acts were always regarded as a declaration of war. The depredations of Kamapuaa were invariably committed at night, and it was some time before the real aggressors were discovered. Koolau was filled with stories of the marauding exploits of a lawless band, led by a monster half-man and half-hog, and the kahunas were called upon to ascertain the character of the spoilers, and, if found to be supernatural, placate them with sacrifices. While the kilos were plying their arts the mystery was suddenly solved in a more practical manner. Detected one night in destroying the walls of one of Olopana's fish-ponds, Kamapuaa and a number of his party were secretly followed to their hiding-place in the hills. This information was brought to Olopana, and he promptly equipped a small force of warriors to follow and capture or destroy the plundering band, which, he was enraged beyond all measure in learning, was under the leadership of his outcast son or nephew, Kamapuaa. But the task of capturing or destroying Kamapuaa and his band was by no means an easy one. Of the party first sent to attack them in their mountain stronghold all were killed with the exception of a single warrior, and he was allowed to return to tell the tale of the slaughter and take to Olopana the defiance of Kamapuaa. This satisfied the chief that Kamapuaa's purpose was rebellion as well as pillage, and a force of six hundred warriors was organized and sent against the outlaws. This forced Kamapuaa to change his tactics, and, leaving their retreat, in which they might have been surrounded and brought to submission by famine, the rebels retired farther back into the mountains, where they for months defied the whole force of Olopana. Frequent skirmishes occurred and many lives were lost, but every attempt to surround and capture the desperate band was frustrated by the dash and sagacity of their leader. Once, when closely pursued and pressed against the verge of a narrow gorge, the rebels crossed the chasm and escaped to the other side by some means unknown to their pursuers, and the story was told and believed that Kamapuaa, taking the form of a gigantic hog, had spanned the gorge and given his followers speedy passage over his back to the other side, when he leaped across at a single bound and escaped with them. The spot marking this marvellous achievement is still pointed out at Hauula, and the tracks of the monster in the solid rock are shown. It is difficult to say just how long this desultory fighting continued, but in the end the rebels were surrounded and nearly destroyed, and Kamapuaa was captured unhurt and delivered over to Olopana, to the great joy and relief of the people of Koolau. Olopana had erected a heiau at Kaneohe, where Lonoaohi officiated as high-priest, and thither he resolved to take his rebellious son or nephew, and offer him as a sacrifice to the gods. Hina pleaded for the life of Kamapuaa, but Olopana could not be moved. Satisfied that he would listen to no appeals for mercy, she determined to save her son, even at the sacrifice of her husband, and to that end secured the assistance of the high-priest, through whose treachery to Olopana the life of Kamapuaa was saved. On the day fixed for the sacrifice Kamapuaa, carefully bound and strongly guarded, was taken to the heiau, followed by Olopana, who was anxious to witness the ghastly ceremonies, and with his own eyes see that his troublesome enemy was duly slain and his body laid upon the altar. In offering human sacrifices the victim was taken without the walls of the heiau and slain with clubs by the assistants of the high-priest. The body was then brought in and placed upon the altar in front of the entrance to the inner court, or sanctuary, when the left eye was removed by the officiating priest, and handed, if he was present, to the chief who had ordered the sacrifice. This being done, the offering was then ceremoniously made, and the body was left upon the altar for the elements to deal with. Standing, with three or four attendants, at the door of his tabued retreat, within forty or fifty paces of the altar, Olopana saw his victim preliminarily led to the place of sacrifice, and a few minutes after motioned for the ceremonies to begin. Kamapuaa was taken without the walls of the temple to be slain. He was in charge of three assistant priests, one of them leading him by a stout cord around his neck, another keeping closely behind him, and the third walking silently at his side with the club of execution in his hand. Passing beyond the outer wall, the party entered a small walled enclosure adjoining, and the executioner raised his club and brought it down upon the head of his victim. Kamapuaa smiled, but did not move. Twice, thrice with mighty sweep the club descended upon the head of Kamapuaa, but scarcely bent the bristly hairs upon his crown. With a semblance of wonder the executioner, whose tender blows would have scarcely maimed a mouse, dropped his club and said: "Three times have I tried and failed to slay him! The gods refuse the sacrifice!" "It is so, it is so, it is so!" chimed his companions. "The gods indeed refuse the sacrifice! We have seen it!" Therefore, instead of slaying Kamapuaa, the assistants, as they had been secretly instructed to do by the high-priest, removed the cords from his limbs, smeared his hair, face and body with the fresh blood of a fowl, and on their shoulders bore him back and placed him upon the altar as if dead. The high-priest approached the apparently lifeless body, and bent for a moment over the face, as if to remove the left eye; then placing on a wooden tray the eye of a large hog, which had been procured for that purpose, he sent an assistant with it to Olopana, at the same time retiring within the inner court, and leaving by the side of Kamapuaa, and near his right hand, as if by accident, the sharp ivory pahoa, or dagger, with which he had, to all appearance, been operating. Giving but a single glance at the eye presented to him by the assistant of the high-priest, Olopana passed it to an attendant without the customary semblance of eating it, and approached the altar alone. Kamapuaa did not breathe. His face was streaked with blood, his eyelids were closed, and not a single muscle moved to indicate life. Olopana looked at the hated face for a moment, and then turned to leave the heiau, not caring to witness the ceremonies of the formal offering. As he did so Kamapuaa clutched the dagger beside his hand, and, springing from the altar, drove the blade into the back of Olopana. Again and again he applied the weapon until the chief, with a groan of anguish, fell dead at the feet of his slayer. Horrified at what they beheld, the attendants of Olopana sprang toward their fallen chief. But their movements, whatever their import, did not disturb Kamapuaa. He had been accustomed to meeting and accepting odds in battle, and when he had secured possession of the ihe and huge axe of stone conveniently placed for his use behind the altar, he boldly approached and invited an encounter. But the challenge was not accepted. The attendants of the chief did not ordinarily lack courage, but they were unnerved at the sight of a victim, slain, mutilated and laid upon the altar by the priest, coming to life and springing to his feet full-armed before his enemies. Appearing upon the scene, the high-priest expressed great surprise and horror at what had occurred, and his assistants wildly clamored at the sacrilege; but no hand was laid upon Kamapuaa, and the friends of Olopana finally left the heiau, taking his body with them. This tragedy in the heiau of Kawaewae created a profound excitement in the district. Had Kamapuaa been at all popular with the masses the death of Olopana at his hands would have occasioned but little indignation; but as many beside the dead chief had suffered through his plundering visitations, and hundreds of lives had been sacrificed in his pursuit and final capture, the people rose almost in a body to hunt him down and destroy him. Hina attempted to save her son from the wrath of his enemies, but her influence was insufficient to protect him, and he again sought refuge in the mountains; but his following was small, and he finally crossed the island, and, with a party of forty or fifty reckless and adventurous spirits, set sail for the windward islands in a fleet of eight or ten canoes which he in some manner obtained from the people of Ewa. III. More than one tradition avers that Kamapuaa traveled to foreign lands after leaving Oahu, even to the lands where the sky and sea were supposed to meet; but he made no such journey at that time. He spent some months in sight-seeing among the islands southeast of Oahu, and pretty nearly circumnavigated them all. Sometimes, for the lack of better occupation, he and his companions engaged in the petty wars of the districts visited by them; but they generally led a roving, careless life, maintaining peaceful relations with all, and plundering only when every other means of securing supplies failed. And thus they journeyed from island to island until they reached Hawaii. Kamiole, the usurper, had but just been defeated and slain by Kalapana, the son of Kanipahu, the hunchback, and Kohala, where Kamapuaa first landed, was still suffering from the effects of the war. He therefore proceeded southward along the coast, touching at several points in Kona; then rounding the southern cape of the island, he sailed along the shores of Kau to Honuapo, where he landed and spent several weeks. It was while he was there that Kamapuaa first learned of the Pele family in the adjoining district of Puna, and became acquainted with the many stories of enchantment and sorcery connected with the little colony. Pele was described to him as a woman of unusual personal beauty, and the lands occupied by the family and its retainers were said to be secure against lava inundations from Kilauea through the especial favor and protection of the gods. These strange stories interested Kamapuaa, and he resolved to satisfy himself of their truth by visiting the mysterious colony. He accordingly set sail with his companions for Puna, and, landing at Keauhou, took up his abode near the sea-shore, not far from the lands occupied by Pele and her relatives. As the colonists seemed to pay but little attention to the new-comers, at the expiration of three or four days Kamapuaa concluded to open a way to an acquaintance with them by visiting their settlement in person, and with a few of his companions appeared one morning before the comfortable hale of Pele and her family. Moho received the strangers courteously, inquired the purpose of their visit to Keauhou and from what part of the country they came, and hospitably invited them to a breakfast of meat, potatoes, poi and fruits. The invitation was not declined, and during the repast Moho learned from Kamapuaa that he was the chief of the party, and that the visit of himself and companions to Puna had no especial object beyond that of observation and pleasure. The tattooed body and bristly hair and beard of Kamapuaa imparted to his otherwise handsome person a strangely ferocious and forbidding appearance, and at the mention of his name and place of nativity Moho at once recognized in him, from report, the monster of Oahu, who had ravaged the estates of Olopana and finally assassinated that chief in the heiau of Kawaewae. His presence, therefore, in that part of Puna, was considerably less welcome than the words of Moho implied; but no act of the latter indicated a suspicion that the ulterior purposes of his visitors were possibly otherwise than peaceful, and when they took their departure for the beach it was with mutual assurances of friendship. But Kamapuaa did not take his leave that morning until he saw Pele. He found a pretext for prolonging his visit until she finally appeared, and when Moho made them known to each other Kamapuaa comported himself with a grace and gallantry never before observed in him by his companions. He admitted to himself that the reports of Pele's beauty had not been exaggerated, and wondered how it happened that she had remained for years unmarried. The thought then came to Kamapuaa--perhaps not for the first time--that he would marry Pele himself and settle permanently in Puna. The idea of marriage had seldom occurred to him, but after he saw Pele he could think of little else. He greatly admired her appearance, and could see no reason why she should not be equally well pleased with his. No mirror, save the uncertain reflection of the waters, had ever shown him his hideously-tattooed face and bristly hair and beard, and the hog-skin still worn over his stained shoulders was regarded by him as a manly and warlike covering, well calculated to impress with favor a woman of Pele's courage and accomplishments. But Kamapuaa did not urge his suit at once. He visited Moho almost every day for half a month or more, and endeavored to render himself agreeable to Pele by sending her baskets of choice wild fruits, fish from the sea which women were allowed to eat, and strings of beautiful and curious shells gathered from the shores and caverns of the coast. He saw her occasionally, and observed that she avoided him; but he attributed her seeming repugnance to him to a coyishness common to her sex, and drew from it no augury unfavorable to his suit. The companions of Kamapuaa soon discovered the attraction that was keeping him so long in the neighborhood of Keauhou, where food was becoming the reverse of abundant, and urged him to return to Honuapo; but he silenced their clamors with promises of good lands and lives of ease in the valleys back of them, and they hopefully struggled on with their unsatisfactory fare. Kamapuaa finally made a proposal of marriage to Pele; but she refused to entertain it, and was promptly and heartily sustained by her brothers. But a simple refusal did not satisfy Kamapuaa. He urged that his blood was noble, and that the proposed union was in every way fitting and proper, and would prove mutually beneficial. Enraged at his presumption and persistency, Pele boldly expressed her contempt for him and aversion to his presence. In return Kamapuaa threatened to seize her by force and desolate the colony. Tradition asserts that she thereupon defied his power, and denounced him to his face as "a hog and the son of a hog." But, whatever may have been the precise language used on the occasion by Pele, it was sufficiently definite and insulting not only to destroy the last hope of Kamapuaa, but to arouse in his heart the bitterest feelings of revenge, and he retired in wrath to the beach to plan and speedily execute a terrible scheme of retaliation. Without referring to his final interview with Pele and her brothers, Kamapuaa informed his companions that he was at last ready to move--not to Honuapo, however, but to the cultivated valleys immediately back of them, occupied by a family of foreign interlopers and their adherents, who recognized the authority neither of Kalapana nor the governing chief of Puna, and might therefore be dispossessed without incurring the reproach or hostility of any power competent to punish. The project pleased them, but they doubted their ability to drive from their lands so large a number, the most of whom were doubtless skilled in the use of arms. But Kamapuaa promised to make the way clear to an easy victory. He said he had carefully noted the number of the settlers, and observed the places where the most of them lodged. His plan was to suddenly fall upon them in the night and massacre all the male adherents of the family. This done, they would be masters of the situation, and able to treat on their own terms with the few who remained. It was proposed to include the governing family in the slaughter, but Kamapuaa opposed the suggestion, declaring that one of the brothers of Pele was a priest of great sanctity, whose death by violence would kindle the wrath of the gods; and his counsel prevailed. Several days elapsed without any movement being made. Kamapuaa was waiting, not only for a relaxation of the vigilance which his incautious threats may have inspired, but for the dark of the waning moon. Finally the blow was struck. Under the favoring cover of darkness Kamapuaa and his companions left the beach and secreted themselves near the scattered huts of the settlers, and at a signal, some time past midnight, rose and massacred every man within reach of their weapons. But few escaped. The screams of the women, who had been spared, rang through the valleys as they fled toward the mansion of Pele and her brothers for protection, and the band of murderers returned satisfied to the beach. It was the purpose of Kamapuaa to surround the home of the surviving family the next day, and capture Pele by force, as he had threatened, or otherwise bring her and her haughty relatives to terms. But, after what had occurred, Moho readily understood the plans of the assassins, and early next morning abandoned the family cluster of houses, which could not be successfully defended, and sought refuge in a cavern in the hills, about three miles up the valley, accompanied by the entire family and the few others who had escaped the massacre of the night before. There was water in the cavern, and as the fugitives took with them a considerable quantity of provisions, and the opening to the retreat was small and easily defended, they hoped to be able, even if discovered and besieged, to protect themselves until the arrival of relief or the abandonment of the siege as hopeless by their enemies. The cavern was of volcanic formation and had never been fully explored. It embraced a number of large connecting chambers, with ragged avenues leading back into and up the hill. The only light came through the front entrance, into which, from the inside, were hastily rolled heavy boulders of lava, found here and there detached, leaving openings through which spears and javelins could be thrust. A tiny rivulet of water trickled in somewhere from the darkness, and, after filling a shallow basin in the floor of one of the chambers, ran out through the opening. As air came in from the back of the cavern, it must have been connected with the surface through some one or more of the dark avenues referred to; but not a glimmer of light, so far as the occupants had been able to penetrate the depths, indicated the possibility of an escape in that direction should the cavern be rendered untenable by assault. The party numbered, in all, seven men and eighteen women and children, and they had taken to their retreat a goodly supply of arms and provisions enough to sustain them for some weeks. Thus prepared they gloomily awaited their fate. But they had fled to the hills not a moment too soon, for early in the day Kamapuaa and his companions appeared and surrounded the deserted habitations of the family. Discovering that his victims had escaped, Kamapuaa promptly divided his followers into small parties, and despatched them to the hills in search of the fugitives or of traces of their flight. He also joined in the search, but went unattended. In the course of the day all returned to the deserted huts, where they had taken up their quarters, and reported that no traces of the missing colonists had been discovered, and the general opinion was that they had escaped across the mountains. Kamapuaa waited until all the rest had told the stories of their fruitless wanderings, when he announced that he had found what they had lacked the sagacity to discover. He informed them that the fugitives were secreted in a cavern some distance up one of the valleys, where they could be surrounded and captured without difficulty; but he did not mention that he had made the discovery by shrewdly following a dog into the hills, and watching the animal until it stopped in front of the entrance to the cavern. He was willing that his companions should believe that his success was due to some inspiration or prescience of his own. A guard was immediately detailed to watch the cavern and see that no one escaped, and the next day the place was surrounded and formally besieged. Following these preparations, visible to Moho and his handful of warriors, Kamapuaa approached the entrance sufficiently near to be heard within, and demanded the surrender of the party, promising that the lives of all would be spared. The demand was refused with words of insult and defiance, and Kamapuaa ordered an assault upon the entrance. Several attempts were made to force the protecting rocks from the opening, but their interstices bristled with spear-points, and, after a number of the assailants had been wounded, that plan of attack was abandoned as impracticable. A large quantity of dry wood, leaves and grass was then heaped in front of the entrance and fired, in the hope of suffocating the inmates with the heat and smoke of the conflagration; but the draught of air through the cavern kept the smoke from entering, and, although the heat for a time became oppressive immediately around the opening, the connecting chambers were but slightly affected by it. The fire was allowed to die out, and Kamapuaa, on too closely approaching the entrance to note its effects, was made keenly aware of the failure of the project by receiving a sharp spear-thrust in the arm. As fire and assault had proved unavailing, and a long siege did not accord with his purposes, Kamapuaa next endeavored to effect a breach through the top of the cavern in the rear of the entrance. As this necessitated the removal of an overlying mass of ten or fifteen feet of soil and rocks, the undertaking involved a very considerable amount of hard labor. But the plan met with general favor, and, with oos and other implements obtained from the valleys below, the besiegers entered upon the task of excavating through into the cavern. For several days the work progressed almost uninterruptedly, and a large pit had been lowered to a depth of eight or ten feet, when the earth began to tremble violently, and a few minutes after the air was filled with sulphurous smoke and ashes. But this was not the most appalling sight beheld by Kamapuaa and his companions. Looking up the valley, which at that point was little more than a narrow gorge, they saw a flood of lava, full a hundred feet in width, bursting from the hillside and pouring down the ravine, its high-advancing crest aflame with burning timber, and sweeping before it a thundering avalanche of half-molten boulders. With exclamations of dismay they started in full flight down the valley, closely followed by the devouring flood. On, on they sped, past the deserted huts of their victims, past the sandy foothills, past the cocoa-trees that fringed the beach. Turning at the water's edge, they beheld the awful stream spreading its mantle of death over the broadening valley, and speeding to the sea in broken volumes. Leaping into their canoes, they plunged through the surf and paddled out to sea. Setting sail for Honuapo, Kamapuaa saw, as they left the coast, that the upper part of the valley from which they had fled was filled with lava, and knew that the cavern in which Pele and her companions had sought refuge from his wrath had been deeply buried by the flood. When the news of the eruption reached Honuapo, the people, who had heard so many strange stories of Pele and her family, did not believe that they had perished. On the contrary, they declared that the eruption had been invoked by Pele to drive Kamapuaa from the district, and that if she had permitted her lands to be destroyed it was with the view of taking up her residence in the crater of Kilauea. This opinion soon crystalized into a belief which spread throughout the island of Hawaii, and another generation saw temples erected to Pele, the goddess of fire, and priests sanctified to her service. All but three of her brothers and sisters were the creations of her early priests, and their attributes gradually grew and took form as they floated down the stream of tradition. Many adventures are related of Kamapuaa after his flight from Keauhou, but the most or all of them are the dreams of the poets of after-generations; and further reference here to this most striking of the early heroes of the group may be properly concluded with the remark that, shortly after his experiences with the Pele family, he immigrated with a considerable following to one of the southern islands, where he married, distinguished himself in arms, and finally died without revisiting the Hawaiian archipelago. HUA, KING OF HANA. CHARACTERS. Hua, king of Hana, Maui. Luuana, a priest of the king's household. Luahoomoe, the supreme high-priest. Kaakakai and Kaanahua, sons of Luahoomoe. Oluolu, wife of Kaakakai. Kaakoa, and Mamulu, his wife, friends of Oluolu. Naula-a-Maihea, a high-priest of Oahu. HUA, KING OF HANA. THE LEGEND OF THE GREAT FAMINE OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY. I. With the reign of Hua, an ancient king of Hana, or eastern Maui, is connected a legendary recital of one of the most terrible visitations of the wrath of the gods anywhere brought down by Hawaiian tradition. It is more than probable that the extent of the calamities following Hua's defiant and barbarous treatment of his high-priest and prophet was greatly colored and exaggerated in turn by the pious historians who received and passed the moooelo down the centuries; but the details of the story have been preserved with harrowing conciseness, and for more than six hundred years were recited as a solemn warning against wanton trespass upon the prerogatives of the priesthood or disregard of the power and sanctity of the gods. In some of the genealogies Hua is represented as having been the great-grandfather of Paumakua, of Maui. This record, if accepted, would remove him altogether from the Hawaiian group, since Paumakua himself was undoubtedly an immigrant from Tahiti or some other of the southern islands. As he was contemporaneous with the distinguished priest and prophet Naula, who is said to have accompanied Laa-mai-kahiki from Raiatea, he must have appeared two or three generations later than Paumakua, and probably belonged to a collateral branch of the great Hua family from which Paumakua drew his strain. It may therefore be assumed that as early as A.D. 1170 Hua was the alii-nui, or virtual sovereign, of eastern Maui. He is referred to as the king of Maui, but it is hardly probable that his sway extended over the western division of the island, as it was not until the reign of Piilani, nearly three centuries later, that the people of Maui became finally united under one government. Previous to that time, except at intervals of temporary conquest or occupation, eastern and western Maui were ruled by distinct and frequently hostile lines of kings. Hence the sovereignty of Hua could scarcely have reached beyond the districts of Koolau, Hana, Kipahulu and Kaupo, while the remainder of the island must have recognized the authority either of Palena, the grandson of Paumakua, or of Hanalaa, the distinguished son and successor of Palena, since the later mois of Maui traced their genealogies uninterruptedly through this branch of the Paumakua family. But, from whatever source Hua may have derived his rank and authority, he was a reckless, independent and warlike chief. Having access to the largest and finest timber in the group, his war-canoes were abundant and formidable, and when not engaged in harassing his neighboring frontiers he was employed in plundering expeditions to the coasts of Hawaii and Molokai. Tradition makes him the aggressor in the earliest remembered war between Maui and Hawaii. Although the name of the war (Kanuioohio) has been preserved, it probably did not reach beyond the limit of a powerful marauding excursion to the coast of Hilo, Hawaii, resulting in the defeat of the chiefs of that district by Hua, but in nothing more than a temporary seizure and occupation of their lands; for at that time Kanipahu was the moi of Hawaii, and would scarcely have permitted a permanent hostile lodgment in Hilo, whose chiefs acknowledged his suzerainty and were therefore entitled to his protection. The high-priest of Hua was Luahoomoe. He claimed to be an iku-pau--that is, a direct descendant from Kane--and as such was strict in claiming respect for his person and sacred prerogatives. He did not approve of many of Hua's marauding acts, advising him instead to lead his people in happier and more peaceful pursuits, and not provoke either the retaliation of his enemies or the anger of the gods. This opposition to his aggressive methods exasperated Hua, and a feeling of suspicion and ill-will gradually grew up between him and the priesthood. He began to attribute his occasional failures in arms to deliberately-neglected prayers and sacrifices by Luahoomoe, and on one occasion, after having returned from an unsuccessful expedition to Molokai, he placed his tabu on a spring of water set apart for the use of the heiau, and on another wantonly speared a puaa-hiwa, or black tabued hog, sacred to sacrifice. When expostulated with for thus inviting the wrath of the gods, he threatened the high-priest with similar treatment. Hua resided principally at Hana, where he constructed one of the largest royal mansions in the group, and all the leisure spared from his warlike pastimes was given to revelry. He had a hundred hula dancers, exclusive of musicians and drummers, and his monthly feasts were prolonged into days and nights of debauchery and unbridled license. Drunk with awa, an intoxicating drink made from a plant of that name, he kept the whole of Hana in an uproar during his frequent seasons of pleasure, and the attractive wives and daughters of his subjects were not unfrequently seized and given to his favorite companions. The annual festival of Lono was approaching--an event marking the winter solstice, and which was always celebrated impressively on every island of the group. It was an occasion not only for manifesting respect for the nearest and most popular deity of the godhead, but for celebrating, as well, the ending of the old year and the beginning of the new. The ancient Hawaiians divided the year into twelve months of thirty days each. Each month and day of the month was named. They had two modes of measuring time--the lunar and sidereal. The lunar month began on the first day that the new moon appeared in the west, and regulated their monthly feasts and tabu days. Their sidereal month of thirty days marked one of the twelve divisions of the year; but as their two seasons of the year--the Hooilo (rainy) and Kau (dry)--were measured by the Pleiades, and their twelve months of thirty days each did not complete the sidereal year, they intercalated five days at the end of the year measured by months, in order to square that method of reckoning with the movements of the stars. This annual intercalation was made about the 20th of their month of Welehu (December), at the expiration of which the first day of the first month (Makalii) of the new year commenced. This was their Makahiki, or new-year day. The five intercalated days were a season of tabu, and dedicated to a grand yearly festival to Lono. In preparation for this festival Hua had called for unusually large contributions from the people, and, in anticipation of another hostile expedition to Hawaii, had ordered quotas of warriors, canoes and provisions from his subject chiefs, to be reported at Hana immediately after the beginning of the new year. These exactions caused very general dissatisfaction, and the priesthood assisted in promoting rather than allaying the popular discontent. All this was reported to Hua, and he resolved to liberate himself at once and for the future from what he conceived to be an officious and unwarranted intermeddling of the priesthood with the affairs of state, by deposing or taking the life of Luahoomoe. In this desperate resolution he was sustained by Luuana, a priest who had charge of the heiau or chapel of the royal mansion, and who expected to succeed Luahoomoe as high-priest. Hua sought in every way for a pretext for deposing or slaying Luahoomoe; but the priest was old in years, exemplary in his conduct, and moved among the people without reproach. Finally, at the instigation of Luuana, who assumed that the advice was a divine inspiration, Hua created a bungling and absurd pretence for an assault upon Luahoomoe. The dishonesty of the scheme was exposed, but it resulted, nevertheless, in the death of the unoffending priest. As tradition tells the story, Hua found occasion in a public manner to order some uwau, or uau, to be brought to him from the mountains. The uau is a water bird, and seldom found in the uplands. As neither its flesh for eating nor its feathers for decorating could have reasonably been required, the object of despatching snarers in quest of it must have been a subject of comment; but kings then, as later, did not always deign to give reasons for their acts, and preparations were at once made by the household servants and retainers of the king to proceed upon the hunt. "Be careful that the birds come from the mountains," said Hua, addressing the trusted hoalii in charge of the hunting party--"only from the mountains," he repeated; "I will have none from the sea." "But can they be found in the mountains?" ventured the hoalii, looking inquiringly toward Luahoomoe, who was standing near and watching a flight of birds which seemed to be strangely confused and ominous of evil. "Do you inquire of me?" said the priest, after a pause, and finding that the king did not answer. "I inquire of any one who thinks he knows," returned the hoalii. "Then the birds you seek will not be found in the mountains at this season of the year," returned the priest, "and you must set your snares by the sea-shore." "Is it so that you would attempt to countermand my orders?" exclaimed Hua, in apparent anger. "I order my servants to go to the mountains for the uau, and you tell them to set their snares by the sea-shore!" "I humbly ask the king to remember that I have given no orders," calmly replied the priest. "But you have dared to interfere with mine!" retorted the king. "Now listen. My men shall go to the mountains in search of the birds I require. If they find them there I will have you slain as a false prophet and misleader of the people!" With this savage threat the king walked away with his hoalii, while the priest stood in silence with his face bowed to the earth. He knew the import of Hua's words. They meant death to him and the destruction of his family. The bloody purpose of the king had been told to him at the sacrificial altar, had been seen by him in the clouds, had been whispered to him from the anu of the sanctuary. "Since the gods so will it, I must submit to the sacrifice," was the pious resolution of the priest; "but woe to the hand that strikes, to the eyes that witness the blow, to the land that drinks the blood of the son of Laamakua!" Luahoomoe had two sons, Kaakakai and Kaanahua. Both were connected with the priesthood, and Kaakakai had been instructed in all the mysteries of the order in anticipation of his succession, on the death of his father, to the position of high-priest. They were young men of intelligence, and their lives had been blameless. Knowing that they would not be spared, Luahoomoe advised them to leave Hana at once and secrete themselves in the mountains, and suggested Hanaula, an elevated spur of the mighty crater of Haleakala, as the place where they would be most likely to escape observation. But a few weeks before Kaakakai had become the husband of the beautiful Oluolu, the daughter of a distinguished chief who had lost his life in Hua's first expedition against Hilo. Twice had she sought the heiau for protection against the emissaries of Hua, who had been ordered to seize and bring her to the royal mansion, and in both instances Luahoomoe had given her the shelter of the sacred enclosure. It was there that Kaakakai first met her, and, charmed no less by her beauty than her abhorrence of the lascivious intents of the king, he soon persuaded her to become his wife. But, even as his wife, Kaakakai did not deem her secure from the evil designs of the king, and had found an asylum for her in the humble home of a distant relative in a secluded valley four or five miles back of Hana, where he frequently visited her and cheered her with assurances of his love. As the danger was imminent, Luahoomoe urged his sons to leave Hana without delay, promising Kaakakai that he would visit Oluolu the next day, and apprise her of her husband's flight and the place to which he had fled for concealment. But the old priest did not live to fulfil his promise, and Oluolu was left in ignorance of the fate of her husband. Early next morning the bird-hunters returned, bringing with them a large number of birds, including the uau and ulili, all of which, they averred, had been caught in the mountains, when in reality they had been snared on the sea-shore. Hua summoned the high-priest, and, pointing to the birds, said: "All these birds were snared in the mountains. You are therefore condemned to die as a false prophet who has been abandoned by his gods, and a deceiver of the people, who are entitled to the protection of their king." Taking one of the birds in his hand, the priest calmly replied: "These birds did not come from the mountains; they are rank with the odor of the sea." But the hoalii of the king steadfastly maintained that the birds had been snared in the mountains, and Hua declared the assurance of the hunters to be sufficient to outweigh the flimsy testimony of the priest. Luahoomoe saw that he was doomed, and that the hunters had been schooled to sustain the lying assertion of the hoalii; yet he resolved to disconcert them all and make good his position, no matter what might be the result. He therefore asked permission to open a few of the birds, and the king sullenly granted it. "Select them yourself," said the priest to the hoalii, and the latter took from the heap and handed to him three birds. The priest opened them, and the crops of all were found to be filled with small fish and bits of sea-weed. "Behold my witness!" exclaimed the priest, pointing to the eviscerated birds, and turning toward the hoalii with a look of triumph. Confounded and enraged at the development, Hua seized a javelin, and without a word savagely drove it into the breast of Luahoomoe, killing him on the spot. A shudder ran through the witnesses as the venerable victim fell to the earth, for violence to a high-priest was a crime almost beyond comprehension; but the king coolly handed the bloody weapon to an attendant, and, with a remorseless glance at the dying priest, leisurely walked away. Sending for Luuana, he immediately elevated him to the dignity of high-priest, and ordered the body of Luahoomoe to be laid upon the altar of the heiau. The house of the dead priest was then burned, in accordance with ancient custom, and the king's executioners were despatched with attendants in search of the sons of Luahoomoe. Proud of his newly-acquired honors, Luuana made preparations for extensive sacrifices, and then proceeded to the heiau with the body of Luahoomoe. As he approached the gate of the outer enclosure, the tall pea, or wooden cross indicative of the sanctity of the place, fell to the ground, and on reaching the inner court the earth began to quake, groans issued from the carved images of the gods, and the altar sank into the earth, leaving an opening from which issued fire and smoke. The attendants dropped the body of the priest and fled from the heiau in dismay, followed by the no less frightened Luuana. The priests of the temple, who knew nothing of the death of Luahoomoe until they beheld his body about to be offered in sacrifice, stood for a moment awe-stricken at what was transpiring around them. They had been taught that the heiau was the only place of safety for them in a time of danger, and after the flight of Luuana and his attendants they tenderly conveyed the body of the high-priest to a hut within the enclosure to prepare it for burial. Luuana repaired in haste to the halealii to report to the king what had occurred at the heiau. But his story excited but little surprise in Hua, for events quite as overwhelming were occurring all around them. The earth was affected with a slight but continuous tremor; a hot and almost suffocating wind had set in from the southward; strange murmurs were heard in the air; the skies were crimson, and drops of blood fell from the clouds; and finally reports came from all parts of Hana that the streams, wells and springs were no longer yielding water, and a general flight of the people to the mountains had commenced. Such chiefs as could be found were hastily called together in council. Hua was completely subdued, and admitted that he had angered the gods by killing Luahoomoe. But what was to be done? Perhaps the sons of the martyred priest might be appealed to. But where were they? No one knew. It was suggested that a hundred human sacrifices be offered, but Luuana declined to appear again at the heiau, and resigned his office of high-priest. Another was appointed, and the sacrifices were ceremoniously offered. The mu had no difficulty in obtaining victims, for the people were desperate and offered themselves by scores. But the drought continued, and the general suffering increased from day to day. All other signs of the displeasure of the gods had passed away. Other sacrifices were offered in great profusion, and an imu-loa was constructed, where human bodies were baked and in that form presented to the gods. But the springs and streams, remained dry, and the clouds dropped no rain. The gods were redecorated, and the erection of a new heiau was commenced, but the people remaining in the district were too few and too weak to complete it; and a strict tabu was declared for a season of ten days, but the people were too desperate to observe it, and no attempt was made to punish those who disregarded it. Many drowned themselves, insane from thirst, and such as could procure the poisonous mixture died from the effects of koheoheo administered by their own hands. The drought extended to the mountains, and the people fled beyond; but wherever they went the streams became dry and the rains ceased. The pestilence became known in western Maui, and the famishing refugees were driven back in attempting to enter that district. After vainly attempting to stay the dreadful scourge, and seeing his kingdom nearly depopulated, Hua secretly embarked with a few of his attendants for Hawaii. He landed in the district of Kona; but the drought followed him. Wherever he went the fresh waters sank into the earth and the clouds yielded no rain. And so he journeyed on from place to place, carrying famine and misery with him, until in the course of his wanderings, occupying more than three years, he rendered almost one-half of the island of Hawaii a desolation. Finally he died, as the gods had decreed, of thirst and starvation--one legend says in a temple of Kohala--and his bones were left to dry in the sun; and the saying of "rattling are the bones of Hua in the sun," or "dry are the bones of Hua in the sun," has come down to the present as a significant reference to the fate of one high in power who defied the gods and persecuted the priesthood. But rainless skies and drought did not mark alone the footsteps of Hua and his attendants. Wherever the despairing people of the district went the same affliction followed. Some of them sailed to Hawaii, others to Molokai and Oahu, and a few to Kauai; but nowhere could they find relief. Everywhere the drought kept pace with them, and famine and suffering were the result throughout the entire group. The diviners had discovered the cause of the scourge, but neither prayers nor sacrifices could avert or ameliorate it. And so it continued for nearly three and a half years. II. During all the long years of famine and death what had befallen Oluolu, the young wife of Kaakakai, left in the secluded valley back of Hana? She saw the blight that suddenly fell upon the land; saw the springs and streams go dry around her humble home; saw the leaves of the banana wither and the grass turn yellow in the valley; saw famishing men, women and children madly searching for water, and tearing down cocoanuts for the little milk they afforded; and then by degrees she learned of all that had transpired and was still transpiring in Hana, including the sad story of the death of Luahoomoe and the flight of Kaakakai. But whither had he fled? No one could tell her; but, wherever he might be, she knew that, if alive, he would some day return to her, and therefore struggled on as best she could to live. Her home was with Kaakao, whose wife was Mamulu. They had been blessed with three sons, all of whom had perished in Hua's useless wars, and now in their old age they were occupying a little kuleana, so far up the narrow valley winding into the hills that no land for cultivation was found above them. They had small patches of taro and potatoes, a score or two of cocoanut-trees of old growth, and plantains and bananas enough for their use. In the hills back of them were ohias and other wild fruits, and, with pigs and fowls in abundance, there was never any lack of food in the house of Kaakao. But when the drought came, accompanied by the scorching south wind, Kaakao shared the fate of his neighbors. His pigs and fowls scattered in search of water, and did not return. The ripening plantains and bananas, together with a few bulbs of taro, were hastily gathered, and the food supply stored in the house was adequate to the wants of the occupants for some weeks to come; but fresh water was nowhere to be found, and the cocoanuts were stripped from the trees and laid away to meet, as far as possible, the terrible emergency. Thus passed nearly half a month, during which time harrowing reports from the valleys below reached the kuleana through parties vainly searching everywhere among the hills for water. Then Kaakao saw that his supply of cocoanut-milk was nearly exhausted, and resolved to visit the sea-shore, where he knew of a spring in times past dripping from the rocks almost on a level with the waves. "Surely," he thought, "that spring cannot be dry, with all the water around it." And, swinging two water-calabashes over his shoulders, he started for the sea-shore. But he never returned. In passing to the coast he was seized, among others, and offered as a sacrifice in the heiau. For two days his return was awaited at the kuleana. Then Mamulu solemnly said: "Kaakao is dead. We have no more water and but little food. Why suffer longer? Let us drink koheoheo and die." "Not to-day, my good friend Mamulu," replied Oluolu, soothingly. "We will talk of it to-morrow. Last night in my dreams a whisper told me not to despair. Let us wait." The next morning Oluolu rose at daylight. The last of the cocoanut-milk was gone, and the mouths of both were dry and feverish. There was a strangely cheerful light in Oluolu's eyes as she bent over the suffering but patient Mamulu, and, holding up a calabash, said: "I shall soon return with this filled with water!--think of it, Mamulu!--filled with pure, fresh water!" "Poor child!" replied Mamulu, not doubting that her mind was wandering. "But where will you go for it?" "Only a short walk--right up the valley!" returned Oluolu. "You know the little cavern among the rocks. The mouth is almost closed, but I can find it. The water is in the back part of the ana. It is running water, but it disappears in the darkness. Perhaps it comes from Po; but no matter--it is sweet and good. Luahoomoe came to me last night, with his long, white hair smeared with blood, and told me he had sent the water there. It is for us alone. If others know of it or taste it, it will disappear. So we must be careful, Mamulu, very careful." Leaving the woman almost in a daze at the words thus spoken in rapid and excited sentences, Oluolu left the hut and started up the narrow valley. A walk of three or four minutes brought her to the entrance of an abrupt and chasm-like ravine gashing the hills on the right. To its almost precipitous sides clung overhanging masses of ragged volcanic rock, from the crevices of which a sturdy vegetation had taken root, and in time past gloomily shaded the narrow channel; but the interlacing branches of the trees were almost leafless, and all around were seen the footprints of death and desolation. Not a breath of wind cooled the sultry air, and no sound of living creature broke the silence of the heated hills. The mouth of the ravine was partially choked with huge boulders washed down by the freshets of centuries, and the ground was strewn with dead leaves and broken branches. Casting her eyes around in every direction, to be sure that she was not observed, Oluolu quickly found a way over the boulders and ascended the ravine. Proceeding upward thirty or forty yards, and climbing a rocky bench, over which in seasons of rain had poured a little cascade, she stopped in front of an overhanging mass of vitreous rock, and the next moment disappeared in a stooping posture through a low opening almost concealed by decrepitations from above. The opening led to a cavern forty or fifty feet in depth, with an irregular width almost as great. The floor descended from the entrance, and was smooth and apparently water-worn. Two or three steps forward enabled her to stand upright; but all beyond was darkness, and for a moment she remained undecided which way to proceed. She heard a sound like that of a bare and cautious footstep on the smooth floor. She was startled, but suffering had made her desperate, and she listened again. The same sound continued, but it was mellowed into the soft murmur of waters somewhere back in the darkness, and with a swelling heart she groped her way toward the silvery voice, sweeter to her than the strains of the ohe or the songs of birds. Closer and closer she approached, every step making more distinct the joyful music, until at last she felt the spatter of cool water upon her bare feet. Stretching out her hand, it came in contact with a little stream gushing from the back wall of the cavern, and instantly disappearing where it fell upon a layer of loose gravel washed down from the entrance. She hastily drank from her palm, and found that the water was cool and sweet. Then she held the mouth of the calabash under the stream, and, after wetting her head and drinking until prudence counseled her to stop, refilled the vessel, cautiously emerged from the opening, and hastened back to the hut. Hesitating without the door, to satisfy herself that no one had arrived during her absence, Oluolu noiselessly entered, and, stealing to the kapa-moe upon which Mamulu was half-deliriously dreaming, poured a quantity of water upon her head, and, as she opened her eyes with a bewildered stare, dropped a swallow into her parched and open mouth. Half-rising, Mamulu dreamily felt of her dripping hair, and then stared vacantly at Oluolu, who stood smilingly beside her with the calabash in her hand. In a moment she recalled all that had occurred before she dropped into the troubled sleep from which she had been so strangely aroused. "Then it is not a dream!" she murmured, clasping her wasted hands upon her breast. "The gods have sent us water!" And she reached for the calabash. "No," said Oluolu kindly, withdrawing the vessel. "We have plenty, but you are weak and would drink too much. Now lie down, with this roll of kapa under your head, and while I am giving you a swallow at a time I will tell you all about the water and how I found it." And so, slowly feeding Mamulu with the precious fluid, and at the same time bathing her head and throat, Oluolu related to her everything that had occurred. "But will the stream continue?" anxiously inquired Mamulu. "Would it not be well to fill all the calabashes in the house, and all we can procure, and so keep them, that we may not be left without water should the stream disappear?" "I think it would not be well to anger the gods by doubting them," replied Oluolu. "The water was sent, not to prolong our sufferings, but to save our lives; and I am sure it will continue so long as we guard the secret and allow no others to use it." Oluolu's faith was rewarded. Without any diminution in volume the little stream continued to flow and sink in the darkness of the cavern until the wrath of the gods was appeased and the rains finally came again. But Oluolu and her companion could not subsist on water alone. The parched earth produced no food; but they did not despair. Every day they cautiously watered a little patch of mountain taro in the ravine above the cavern, and at intervals of four or five days went to the sea-shore and returned with fish, crabs, limpets and edible sea-weed. And so they managed to live without suffering, while the valleys became almost depopulated, and all others in Hana were stricken with famine. They seldom saw a human face in their journeys to and from the sea, and never in the valley where they lived, and the few they met avoided them, fearful, no doubt, that the miserable means of subsistence to which they resorted might become known to others. III. It was near the end of the terrible scourge that the district of Ewa, on the island of Oahu, became its victim. It followed the appearance there of a Hana chief and a few of his retainers, who had been driven from Molokai. At that time there lived at Waimalu, in the district of Ewa, the celebrated priest and prophet Naula-a-Maihea. No one in the Hawaiian priesthood of the past was ever more feared or respected. It was thought by some that he had visited the shadowy realms of Milu, and from Paliuli had brought back the waters of life. He must have been well on in years, for, as already mentioned, he is credited with having been the priest of Laa-mai-kahiki on the romantic journey of that prince from the southern islands. In evidence of the great sanctity of Naula, tradition relates that his canoe was upset during a journey from Waianae, Oahu, to Kauai. He was swallowed by a whale, in whose stomach he remained without inconvenience until the monster crossed the channel and vomited him up alive on the beach at Waialua, Kauai, the precise place of his destination. At another time, when crossing to Hawaii, and beset with adverse winds, two huge black sharks, sent by Mooalii, the shark-god of Molokai, towed him to Kohala so swiftly that the sea-birds could scarcely keep him company. He built a heiau at Waimalu, the foundations of which may still be traced, and in the inner temple of the enclosure it is asserted that Lono conversed with him freely; and at his bidding the spirits of the living (kahaoka) as well as the shades of the dead (unihipili) made their appearance; for it was believed by the ancient Hawaiians that the spirits or souls of the living sometimes separated themselves from the body during slumber or while in a condition of trance, and became visible in distant places to priests of especial sanctity. Consulting with the gods, Naula discovered the cause of the drought, and, becoming alarmed at the threatened destruction of the entire population of the group, undertook to stay the ravages of the spreading scourge. With a vision enlarged and intensified by sacrifice and prayer, he ascended the highest peak of the Waianae Mountains. Far as the eye could reach the skies were cloudless. He first looked toward Kaala, but discerned no sign of rain around its wooded summits. He turned toward Kauai, but not a cloud could be seen above the mountains of that island. Cloudless, also, were the mountains of Molokai. Finally, casting his eyes in the direction of Maui, he saw a small, dark spot like a rain-cloud hanging above the peak of Hanaula. "It may disappear," he thought; "I will wait." Midday came. He looked again, and the spot was still there. The sun grew red in the west. Again he looked and found that the cloud had neither disappeared nor moved. "Surely the sons of Luahoomoe are there," he said to himself. "I will go to them; they will listen to me, and the waters will come again." Naula descended from the mountain, and the same night embarked alone in a canoe for Maui. He spread no sail, used no paddle, but all night his waa skimmed the waves with the speed of the wind, and at sunrise the next morning he landed at Makena, above which, a few miles inland, towered the peak of Hanaula, with the dark spot still hanging over it. There, indeed, were the sons of Luahoomoe. Nurtured by the rains that had fallen alone on the peak of Hanaula, there they had remained unseen for three and a half years, waiting for the wrath of the gods to be appeased and for a summons to descend. A strange light accompanied the canoe of Naula in the darkness. From their elevated retreat they noted it far out upon the ocean, and watched it growing brighter as it approached, until it went out on the beach at Makena. They knew it to be the signal of their deliverance, and hastened down the mountain to meet the messenger of the gods. One account says they met Naula at Kula; but the meeting occurred not far from the Makena landing, where the priest, inspired with a knowledge of their coming, awaited their arrival. As they approached, the venerable kahuna, his white hair and beard falling to his waist and a tabu staff in his hand, advanced to meet them. They bowed respectfully, and, returning the salutation, Naula said: "I know you to be the sons of Luahoomoe, whose death by the hands of Hua, King of Hana, has been avenged by the gods upon the people of all the islands of Hawaii. The earth is still parched, and thousands are seeking in vain for food and water. Hua is dead; his bones lie unburied in the sun. Scattered or dead are the people of Hana; their lands are yellow, and their springs and streams yield nothing but dust and ashes. Great was the crime of Hua, and great has been the punishment. I am Naula-a-Maihea, the high-priest of Oahu, and have come to ask, with you, that the gods may be merciful and no longer scourge the people." At the mention of his name the sons of Luahoomoe bowed low before the aged prophet of whose sanctity report had years before apprised them, and then Kaakakai replied: "Great priest, willingly will we add our voices to your supplication to the gods, whose vengeance has indeed been terrible. But since our retreat was revealed to you and nothing seems to be hidden from your understanding, let me ask if you know aught of the fate of Oluolu. She was my wife, and I left her in a little valley in the mountains back of Hana. I loved her greatly, and am grieved with the fear that she is dead." Without replying the priest seated himself upon the ground, and, unbinding the kihei from his shoulders, threw it over his head, shutting the light from his face. While one hand pressed the mantle closely to his breast, the other held to his forehead what seemed to be a talisman of stone suspended by a short cord from his neck. He remained motionless in that position for some minutes; then throwing off the kihei and rising to his feet, he turned to Kaakakai and said: "I was not wrong in my thought. The presence here of the sons of Luahoomoe has sanctified the spot to communion with the spirits of the air. Oluolu, alone with a woman much her elder, still lives where you left her and hopefully awaits the coming of Kaakakai--for such I now know to be your name. The spirit of Luahoomoe has nourished and protected her." "Great Naula, most favored of the gods!" exclaimed Kaakakai, grasping the hand of the priest. "You have made my heart glad! Now ask of me what you will!" On the very spot from which the priest had risen they proceeded to erect a rude altar of stones. When it was completed Naula brought from his canoe a combined image of the godhead--the Oie of the early priesthood--and a small enclosed calabash of holy water--ka-wai-kapu-a-Kane. Removing the kapa covering, the image was placed beside the altar, and while the priest recited the solemn kaiokopeo, or prayer of consecration, Kaakakai intoned the invocation and continued at intervals to sprinkle the altar with holy water. The dedication ceremonies were at length concluded; but what was there to offer as a sacrifice? The hills were bare and parched. Far as the eye could reach the lands were deserted, and no living thing beside themselves was visible. Suddenly there appeared among the leafless shrubbery near them a large black hog sacred to sacrifice. The brothers exchanged looks of wonder, but the priest did not seem to be greatly surprised. The animal was immediately seized, killed and placed upon the altar, and sacrificial prayers were devoutly offered. In the midst of these services a wind set in from the south. Black clouds began to gather, from which the answering voice of thunder came, and then a gentle rain began to fall upon the sere and hungry earth. Raising his face into the baptism, Naula with emotion exclaimed: "The sacrifice is accepted! The gods are merciful, and the people are saved!" And the rains continued, not there alone but all over the islands, until the grass grew green again and the banana put forth its shoots. Everywhere the rejoicing was great. The people returned to their deserted lands, and the valleys of Hana, even, blossomed as before. But Hua and his family had perished from the earth, and a new dynasty came into being to claim the sovereignty of eastern Maui. The sons of the martyred Luahoomoe returned at once to Hana, and in the arms of Kaakakai the brave and faithful Oluolu recited the story of her sufferings and deliverance. With largely-augmented possessions Kaakakai became the high-priest under the new régime, and for generations his descendants continued to be among the most influential of the families of eastern Maui. Kaanahua became the god of the husbandman. The political events immediately following the death of Hua are but vaguely referred to by tradition, and the few particulars known doubtless owe their preservation to the care taken by the priesthood--to which class the historians of the past usually belonged--to bring down, with all its terrible details, the fate of Hua, as a warning to succeeding sovereigns who might be disposed to trespass upon the sacred domain of the spiritual rulers who, in a measure, divided the allegiance of their subjects. THE IRON KNIFE. CHARACTERS. Kalaunuiohua, king of Hawaii. Kamaluohua, king of Maui. Huapouleilei, alii-nui of Oahu. Kahokuohua, king of Molokai. Kukona, king of Kauai. Kaheka, queen of Hawaii. Kuaiwa, son of the king of Hawaii. Kapapa, daughter of the king of Hawaii. Waahia, a renowned prophetess. Kualu, adopted son of Waahia. Wakalana, an influential chief of Maui. Kaluiki-a-Manu, Hakoa and Hika, males, Neleike and Malaea, females, shipwrecked foreigners. Manokalanipo, son of the king of Kauai. THE IRON KNIFE. A LEGEND OF THE FIRST WAR FOR THE CONQUEST OF THE GROUP. I. Two or three attempts to consolidate under one general government the several islands of the Hawaiian group were made by ambitious and war-like chiefs previous to the final accomplishment of the project, at the close of the last century, by Kamehameha I.; but all these early schemes of conquest and aggrandizement proved unsuccessful, and were especially unfortunate in affording excuses for retaliatory raids and invasions, sometimes extending, with more or less persistency and bitterness, to generations thereafter. The most disastrous of these ambitious ventures was the first, and connected with it were a number of strange and dramatic incidents, giving to the story of the enterprise something more than a historic interest. It occurred in about A.D. 1260, and the bold warrior who attempted it was Kalaunuiohua, king of the island of Hawaii. He was the grandson of Kalapana, who reconquered the kingdom from Kamaiole, the usurper, as related in the story of "The Royal Hunchback." At that time Kamaluohua, the seventh in descent from Paumakua, was the moi of Maui, or rather of the western and greater part of the island. Huapouleilei, the eighth in line from Maweke, was the alii-nui of Oahu, his possessions embracing the districts of Ewa, Waianae and Waialua, while the Koolau and Kona divisions were ruled, respectively, by Moku-a-Loe and Kahuoi. The moi of Molokai was Kahokuohua, the fourth in descent in the old Nanaula line from Keoloewa, the brother of Kaupeepee, the abductor of Hina and desperate defender of the fortress of Haupu, as told in the legend of "Hina, the Hawaiian Helen." Kukona was the sovereign of Kauai. He was the great-grandson of Ahukini-a-Laa, one of the three sons of the three wives of Laa-mai-kahiki, as mentioned in the story of "The Triple Marriage of Laa-mai-kahiki." The contemporary rulers of the several islands are thus referred to for the reason that they all appear as prominent actors in the several legends from which have been gathered the historic features of the story about to be related, and also for the purpose of keeping partially in view the conspicuous and succeeding representatives of the sovereign families of the group. Kalaunuiohua--or, as he will be called hereafter, Kalaunui--inherited something of the military spirit of his warlike grandfather, and is referred to by tradition as an ambitious and aggressive sovereign, courageous in enterprise, but lacking in judgment and discretion. This estimate of his character is abundantly sustained by the record of his acts. Waipio had been made the focus of sovereign authority by Kahaimoelea, the royal father of Kalaunui, and continued to be the most attractive and consequential point in the kingdom. The royal grounds and edifices had been enlarged and improved from time to time, until barbaric taste and skill seemed to be able to add nothing more to their grandeur or beauty. Not far from the royal mansion was the great heiau of Pakaalani, partially built by Kalapana, and completed by his successor. Its tabus were the most sacred on Hawaii, and a descendant of Paao officiated there as high-priest. It was connected with the palace enclosure by a sacred stone pavement, which it was death for any but royal and privileged feet to touch, and on its walls were over a hundred gods. Kalaunui was proud of his ancestry, which carried back his lineage both to Pili and Maweke, and united in his veins the foremost blood of the pioneers of the fifth and eleventh centuries. He had two children--a son named Kuaiwa, and a daughter, Kapapa, whose full name was Kapapalimulimu. At the time of which we are writing she was fifteen, and her brother was three or four years older. Both had been carefully reared. The son had been instructed in all the manly accomplishments of the time, and from her infancy the daughter had been guarded with the most jealous watchfulness. She had grown almost to womanhood without betrothal, for the reason that a husband suited to her rank and personally deserving of her beauty could with difficulty be found in the kingdom. Among the number of the king's retainers of various grades of rank--beginning with the wohi, or chief counsellor of royal blood next to the throne, and ending with the kahu-alii and puuku, or personal and other attendants at the palace--was the young chief Kualu. He was large, muscular and handsome, with a bearing indicative of good blood, and through his courage and capacity at arms had been raised to the military position of pukaua, or captain, and placed in charge of the palace guard--an office which gave him, if he did not before possess it, the privilege of an aialo, or the right to eat food in the presence of the king. Kualu was a chief without possessions. His grandfather, a chief of the old line of Nanaula, had been killed in the battle which restored Kalapana to the throne of his fathers, and on the sudden death of his father, twenty years before, he had been adopted by Waahia, a kaula, or prophetess, renowned in tradition for her foresight and influence. He was recognized by the Aha-alii, or college of chiefs of established lineage, as of noble blood, but belonged to that class of chiefs who, lacking the influence of family and estates, were compelled to rely upon their own efforts for advancement. Although it is claimed that Waahia was of chiefly lineage, nothing is positively known, even of her parents. She first appeared in Waipio more than a generation before, and, through an almost undeviating verification of her prophecies, in time became noted and feared by the people, not only as a favored devotee of Uli, the god of the sorcerers, but as a medium through whom the unipihili, or spirits of the dead, communicated. She lived alone in a hut in a retired part of the valley of Waipio, and it is said that a large pueo, or owl, which, with the white alae, was sacred and sometimes worshipped, came nightly and perched upon the roof of her lonely habitation. Of course a kaula of her sanctity wanted for nothing. The people were only too happy to leave at her door anything of which she might stand in need, and the best of everything in the valley came unbidden to her board. Of her abundance she gave to the needy, and, while she seldom spoke to any one, her looks and acts were kind to all. The priesthood recognized her power, and the king and chiefs consulted her in matters of moment when the kilos of the temple were in doubt. She had reared Kualu with the greatest care, and saw him grow to a manhood of which she was proud. She loved him as if he had been her own child, and he repaid her affection by heeding her advice in all things, and by kindness comforting her declining years. She had schooled him in a lore which but few possessed, and the most skilful had instructed him in the martial and courtly accomplishments consistent with his chiefly rank. At the age of twenty he became attached to the household of the king, and in time was advanced, as already stated, to the high grade of captain of the palace guard. Although his abilities had commended him to advancement, his early favor with the king was doubtless due to some extent to the influence of his foster-mother. Kualu's intimate connection with the royal household brought him into frequent companionship with Kuaiwa and his sister, and as the latter grew to womanhood a romantic attachment sprang up between her and the handsome captain of the guard. It was romantic only because it was to every appearance hopeless, for there was a wide gulf between Kualu and the daughter of the proudest moi in all the group, and for whom there seemed to be no fitting mate. The home of Kualu was within the palace enclosure; yet he frequently visited Waahia in her lonely retreat, to cheer her with words of affection and see that she wanted for nothing. It was during one of these visits, not long before the beginning of the leading events of this legend, that the kaula abruptly said to him: "Kualu, I can see that you are thinking much of Kapapa." "We sometimes meet," replied Kualu, evasively. "It is not well for you to try to gather berries from the clouds," returned the kaula, kindly. "A niapio of the highest rank alone can reach that fruit." "The flying spear brings down what the hand cannot reach," was Kualu's significant answer. Waahia smiled at the dauntless spirit of her ward, and after a long pause, during which she sat thoughtfully, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, said: "Your hopes are bold, but the gods are great. Come to me to-morrow." The next day Kualu was made joyful by the words of Waahia. She told him that she had been given a view of something of his future, and that the auguries promised so much that she could not discourage even the most audacious of his aspirations; but that coming events affecting his life were so mingled with wars, and strange faces of a race she had never seen except in dreams, that she could then advise no definite course of action. With these vague words of encouragement Kualu returned to the palace, and authoritatively learned, what had for some time been rumored, that preparations were to be speedily made for an invasion of Maui, and possibly of the other islands of the group. Having brought all the districts of Hawaii under his control, Kalaunui entertained the ambitious design of uniting the several islands of the archipelago under one government. In this grand scheme of conquest and consolidation he was sustained by the leading chiefs of Hawaii, hungering for foreign possessions, and large quotas of canoes and warriors were promised. A general plan of action having been adopted, a fleet of two thousand canoes of all sizes and an army of twelve thousand warriors were speedily collected. Sacrifices were made at the great temple of Pakaalani; the favor of the gods was invoked, and the auguries were satisfactory. The king was to lead the expedition in person, and the chivalry of the kingdom rallied to his support. His double canoe, nearly forty paces in length, was gorgeous in royal colors and trappings, and more than a hundred others bore at their mast-heads the ensigns of distinguished chiefs. No such warlike display had been seen by the generation witnessing it, and the confidence and enthusiasm of the king and his commanding officers were fully shared by the people. Leaving the government in the hands of his young son Kuaiwa, with Kaheka, the queen-mother, as principal adviser, Kalaunui ordered the warriors to their canoes, and with his aids and personal attendants repaired to the beach to superintend the departure of the expedition in person. In charge of his high-priest, his newly-decorated war-god had been taken aboard, and the king was about to follow, when Waahia, whose foster-son was one of the leaders in the enterprise, approached the royal kaulua. She was clad in a pau and short mantle, and her long, white hair fell below her shoulders. Her form was bent, and she carried a staff for support. At the sight of the venerable figure, familiar to every one in Waipio, the king turned and said: "I am glad you are here. Encouragement comes from the temple. What says Waahia?" "Good in the beginning! bad in the end!" was the blunt response of the prophetess. "I am instructed by your cheering assurances," adroitly returned the king, observing that her words had been overheard. "The true meaning is that it would be bad to abruptly end a good beginning." Saying which, with something of a scowl he hastily stepped into his kaulua and gave the signal for departure. Without replying, Waahia, fully believing that disaster would overtake the expedition in the end, and anxious to be near Kualu when it came, entered one of the many canoes set apart for the women and other camp-followers of the invading army, and with the fleet set sail for Maui. II. While the Hawaiian army, cheered by chants of battle and beating of war-drums, is buffeting the waves on its way to Maui, let us glance again at the moi of that island and the political condition of his possessions. While Kamaluohua was the nominal sovereign of the island, the extreme eastern portion of it continued to be governed by independent chiefs. The principal chief of the windward side was Wakalana, whose residence was at Wailuku. He was a cousin of the moi, and their relations were exceedingly friendly. Two years before a remarkable event had occurred at Wailuku. It was the second appearance in the group of a vessel bearing people of a strange race, described by tradition as "white, with bright, shining eyes." Mention is made of other white people who were brought to the islands on one or more occasions by the argonauts of earlier generations, notably by Paumakua, of Oahu, who near the close of the eleventh century returned from one of his exploring voyages with three white persons of an unknown race; but this was the second time that a vessel of a people other than Polynesian had been seen in Hawaiian waters. The first made a landing near Makapu Point, on the island of Oahu, more than a hundred years before. Tradition has preserved the name of the vessel (Ulupana) and of the captain (Mololano) and his wife (Malaea); but as it is not mentioned that they remained in the country, it is probable that they soon re-embarked. The second arrival is more distinctly marked by tradition. It was a Japanese vessel that had been dismantled by a typhoon, driven toward the North American coast until it encountered the northwest trade-winds, and then helplessly blown southward to the coast of Maui. It was late in the afternoon that word had been brought to Wakalana that a strange vessel was approaching the coast. As it was high out of water and drifting broadside before the wind, it appeared to be of great size, and little disposition was shown by the people to go out in their canoes to meet the mysterious monster. Wakalana hastened to the beach, and, after watching the vessel intently for some time, saw that it was drifting slowly toward the rocky coast to the westward. Seaman enough to know that certain destruction awaited it in that direction, Wakalana hastily manned a stout canoe and started out to sea in pursuit. The waters were rough and his progress was slow, but he succeeded in reaching the vessel a few minutes after it struck the cliffs and was dashed in pieces. Seizing whatever they could find to assist them in floating, those on board leaped into the sea. It was hazardous to approach the wreck too nearly, but Wakalana succeeded in rescuing from the waves and returning to Wailuku with five persons, but not before he saw the last fragment of the wreck disappear in the abyss of raging waters. There is nothing in the names preserved, either of the vessel or its rescued passengers, to indicate their nationality. The name of the vessel is given as Mamala, which in the Hawaiian might mean a wreck or fragment. The name of the captain was Kaluikia-Manu; the four others were called Neleike, Malaea, Haakoa and Hika--all names of Hawaiian construction. Two of them--Neleike and Malaea--were women, the former being the sister of the captain. They landed almost without clothing, and the only novelties upon their persons were the rings and bracelets of the women, and a sword in the belt of the captain, with which he had thoughtlessly leaped into the sea from the sinking vessel. They were half-famished and weak, and by gestures expressed their gratitude to Wakalana for his gallantry in rescuing them, and asked for food and water. Both were provided in abundance, and two houses were set apart for their occupation. They attracted great attention, and people came from all parts of the island to see the white strangers. It was noted with astonishment by the natives that these men and women ate from the same vessels, and that nothing was especially tabu to either sex; but Wakalana explained that their gods doubtless permitted such freedom, and they should therefore not be rebuked for their apparent disregard of Hawaiian custom. The comfort of the strangers was made the especial care of Wakalana, and they soon became not only reconciled but apparently content with their situation. But the kindness of the chief, however commendable, was not altogether unselfish. He was charmed with the bright eyes and fair face of Neleike, the sister of the captain. He found a pleasure that was new to him in teaching her to speak his language, and almost the first use she made of oia was to say "yes" with it when he asked her to become his wife. Her marriage was followed by that of Malaea to a native chief, and of her brother and his two male companions to native women of good family. And here, as well as anywhere, it may be mentioned that, through her son Alooia, Neleike became the progenitor of a family which for generations showed the marks of her blood, and that the descendants of the others were plentiful thereafter, not only on Maui but in the neighborhood of Waimalo, on the island of Oahu. The object of the rescued Japanese which attracted most attention was the sword accidentally preserved by the captain. No such terrible knife had ever before been seen or dreamed of by the natives. They had pahoas, or daggers of wood or ivory, and knives of sharply broken flint and sharks' teeth; they had stone adzes, axes, hatchets and hammers, with which they could fell trees, hollow canoes from tree-trunks, build houses, manufacture implements of war and industry, and hew stone of softer composition; they had spears and javelins with points of seasoned wood hard enough to splinter a bone; but iron and other metals had for ages been practically unknown to their race, and the long, sharp sword of the captain, harder than bone or seasoned wood, and from its polished surface throwing defiantly back the bright rays of the sun, engaged their ceaseless wonder and admiration. As an ornament they regarded it with longing, and when they learned that it was a weapon of war they felt that the arm that wielded it in battle must be unconquerable. The captain did not see fit to disabuse the minds of the superstitious natives in their disposition to attribute a power of almost unlimited slaughter to the simple weapon. On the contrary, he rarely exhibited it except to distinguished chiefs, and in a few months it began to be mentioned as a sacred gift of the gods and pledge of victory to him who possessed it. Nor was the knowledge of the existence of a talisman so wonderful long confined to the windward side of Maui. The fame of the terrible weapon spread from Hana to Kaanapali, and thence to the other islands of the group; and if but few of the many who came to learn the truth of the report were favored with a view of the sword, all saw, at least, the strange people who were pointed out as the bearers of it from an unknown land, and the story of its powers was readily accepted. But he who possessed it did not come as a conqueror, and, as he showed no disposition to use it offensively, the weapon ceased to be regarded with alarm. And now we will return to Kalaunui and his army of conquest, last seen on their way to Maui in a fleet of two thousand canoes. Sailing to the western division of the island, which was reached in two days, Kalaunui effected a landing of his army at Lahaina. Kamaluohua, the moi of the island, had learned of the projected invasion some days before, and made every preparation possible to meet and repel it. Lunapais, or war-messengers, had been despatched to the several district chiefs, and an army of seven or eight thousand warriors of all arms had been hastily collected. Wakalana had gone to the general defence with a force of eight hundred men, including Kaluiki, the Japanese captain, upon whose presence great reliance was placed by the warriors of Wailuku, if not by Wakalana himself. Unable to land at Lahaina, which was in possession of the enemy, Kamaluohua marched his forces across the mountains, and a sanguinary battle was fought in the neighborhood of the village. But the Mauians, greatly outnumbered, were defeated and driven back to the hills, and their king was taken prisoner. Throughout the battle Kualu was especially conspicuous for his might and courage. Armed with a huge stone axe, everything human seemed to fall before him, and where he led the bravest alone followed, for he sought the very heart of danger. The conflict was drawing to a close. The moi, gallantly fighting, had been taken prisoner, and his decimated battalions were steadily giving way, when Kualu encountered a body of two or three hundred men resolutely defending themselves behind a low stone wall. Several ineffectual attempts to dislodge them had been made, and they were sending forth shouts of victory and defiance. Something had inspired them with unusual courage and confidence. Did Kualu divine what it was? Perhaps he did, for, hastily rallying to his support a force of sturdy warriors, he fought his way over the wall, and a determined hand-to-hand struggle followed. Meantime a flanking party of spearsmen had made a circuit around the wall and were menacing its defenders in the rear. Observing the peril of the situation, and that an effort was being made to cut off their retreat to the hills, the Mauians began to fall back. As they did so Kualu was seen to dash forward and precipitate himself, almost unsupported, upon a score or two of warriors who had apparently rallied to the assistance of some chief in distress. Regardless of danger, he hewed his way through the battling throng until he stood face to face with Kaluiki, the white captain, in whose hand was the shining blade which had so nerved the arms of the warriors of Wailuku. With a blow of his battle-axe he struck the sword from the upraised hand of the strange warrior. As it fell to the earth he placed his foot upon it, and yielded no ground until the tide of battle swept around and past him, forcing to retreat the last to present a hostile front of the army of the captive king of Maui. Left alone for a moment by the wild pursuit of the flying enemy, Kualu hurriedly stooped and thrust the sword into the earth, pressing it downward until the hilt was covered; then, placing a large rock upon the spot, he left the field, numbering, as he went, his paces to the wall behind which the Mauians had sought protection. The victory was complete. The moi was a prisoner, and such of his army as had not escaped to the hills lay dead on the field. The country was given over to pillage, and at sunset twenty prisoners were slain and sacrificed in a heiau near the village. The sacrifices were made to his war-god, and Kalaunui witnessed the solemn ceremonies of the offering. The night was spent in the wildest revelry by the victorious warriors, in the midst of which Kualu sought his foster-mother, who, with the women and non-combatants of the invading army, was encamped near the canoes on the beach. He hastily recited to her the events of the day, and concluded with the information that he had captured the long, bright knife of the strange chief of Wailuku, and, believing it to be of great value, had hidden it in the earth. At this intelligence the eyes of Waahia flashed with satisfaction. "You have done well," said the kaula, rising to her feet. "I have seen that long knife in my dreams. It will have much to do with your future. But it will be unsafe in your possession. Give it to me. Give it to me at once," she repeated, "for should Kalaunui by any chance learn that it was taken in battle, he will claim it." "But I am sure no one saw me hide it," replied Kualu. "You talk like a boy," returned Waahia. "You must be sure of nothing of which there is a possibility of doubt. But no matter. It is not too dark to find the spot to-night. Let us go to it at once." Excited by her words, Kualu now became no less anxious than the kaula that the sword should be placed in her keeping, and in an indirect way, to avoid observation, they repaired to the battle-field. Their only light was that of the stars, and after reaching the wall it was some time before Kualu was able to identify the exact place to which he had extended the line of his hasty measurement. The ground was strewn with the naked bodies of the slain, and occasional groans came from a few whose struggles with death were not quite over. But no emotion, either of dread or pity, disturbed the visitors. Satisfied at length that he had found the desired place in the wall, Kualu took a careful bearing, and then stepped briskly toward the north, closely followed by Waahia. Measuring a hundred paces or more, he suddenly stopped, and with alarm discovered what seemed to be the form of a man crouching beside the rock marking the spot where the sword had been buried. Grasping his pahoa--the only weapon he had brought with him--Kualu sprang forward and placed his hand upon the object. It was cold and motionless; and the young warrior smiled as the thought came to him that some one of the many who had fallen under his axe that day had possibly crawled to the spot to guard his treasure in death. He lifted the body aside, removed the stone, and the next moment pulled from the earth and handed to Waahia the iron blade. She grasped it eagerly, and, with a hasty glance at its bright blade glistening in the starlight, wrapped it securely in a piece of kapa and placed it under her mantle. Without attracting especial notice they returned to the beach. When importuned by Kualu to tell him something definite of his future, Waahia revealed to him much that would happen; but all had not yet been given to her, and she admonished him to keep his lips closed and patiently await the development of the will of the gods. "I can see victories to come," said the kaula, "but in the end defeat and disaster." "But if disaster is to come to us in the end," suggested Kualu, "why should it not mean defeat and death to me?" "I can give no reason why it should not; but the gods seldom explain their acts to mortals, and I am content in seeing your star shining above the ruin of Kalaunui." So spoke the kaula, and, cheered by her words, Kualu sought his tent of mats, and on a hard couch of kapa dreamed of a long, bright knife, and of battles in which he hewed down armies with it. Taking his royal captive with him, the second day after the battle Kalaunui set sail with his army for the island of Molokai, of which Kahokuohua was the alii-nui, or governing chief. No force adequate to cope with the invading army could be rallied; but the chivalrous descendant of the ancient kings of Hawaii was not a ruler to allow his subjects to be plundered without resistance, and, hastily gathering an army of four or five thousand warriors, he gave the invaders battle at Kalaupapa. But he was defeated and taken prisoner, and after ravaging the country for miles around, and destroying every captured canoe of which he could make no use, Kalaunui sailed for the conquest of Oahu with the two royal captives in his train. Waahia still accompanied the expedition. But the iron knife was not with her. The king had from some source learned that its glitter had been seen on the battle-field at Lahaina, and she had hidden it in a cleft of the black rocks of the pali encircling Kalaupapa. As already stated, Oahu was at that time governed by a number of practically independent chiefs. The most powerful of these, and possibly recognized alii-nui of the island, was Huapouleilei, chief of the Ewa and Waianae districts, to which division Kalaunui directed his fleet. Landing his forces at Waianae, a sanguinary battle was fought near that place, resulting in the defeat of the Oahuans and the capture of Huapouleilei. Elated with his successes, and deeming himself invincible, Kalaunui next prepared for a descent upon Kauai and the conquest of the entire group. But his plans for so formidable an undertaking were faulty. He took no steps to consolidate his conquests or maintain possession of the lands subdued by his arms. He left behind him no friend or stronghold on the conquered islands, blindly trusting, no doubt, that in the persons of his royal prisoners he retained, for the time being, a sufficiently firm hold upon their lands and subjects. Before embarking for Kauai elaborate sacrifices were offered, and every device known to the priesthood was exhausted to secure a continuance of the favor of the gods. The moi of that island was Kukona, the fourth in descent from the great Laa-mai-kahiki. Kalaunui recognized that the defensive resources of Kauai were not to be despised, but he as greatly underrated the military abilities of Kukona as he overrated his own, and therefore did not doubt the result. Waahia saw disaster approaching, but knew that Kalaunui would not listen to her voice of warning, and therefore remained silent when the kilos, anxious to please the king, shaped their inauspicious auguries into promises of victory. Her greatest solicitude was for Kualu. He had been entrusted with an important command, and could find no honorable pretext for declining to accept the hazard of the final struggle on Kauai. Waahia, therefore, did not advise him to remain, for she had seen his star shining above the clouds of defeat. She had sought frequent and earnest counsel of the mysterious intelligences of the earth and air. She had seen their answers in the smoke of burning incense, and within the circle of blood at midnight, when the moon was dark, had heard their whispers. Hence it was with confidence that she said to Kualu, on the evening before the departure of the fleet for Kauai: "Yes, you must go. I can be of no service to you where the air will be filled with spears and the canoes will be painted red with blood. I will return to Hawaii. You will be defeated. Kukona is a brave and skilful warrior, and the army of Kalaunui. will be rent in pieces and thrown into the sea. The slaughter will be great, but circumstances will open a way and you will escape." "And should I escape, where will I find you?" inquired Kualu. "Among the owls in the old hut in Waipio," replied the kaula. "And the long knife?" "The long knife is where I alone can find it," answered Waahia. "Leave the secret to me; it will be of service to us yet." Early next morning the army of Kalaunui set sail for Kauai, and with it, as prisoners, the mois of Maui and Molokai and the alii-nui of Oahu. At the same time Waahia embarked for Hawaii, taking with her the war-god of the king. Traditions differ concerning the circumstances under which the god was delivered to the prophetess. One asserts that she refused to hold her peace or leave the expedition without it; another that the king, annoyed by her ill-omened words and presence, purchased her departure with it; and a third that it was given to her in deference to her declaration that, if taken to Kauai, it would not return except at the head of a conquering army that would make a tributary kingdom of Hawaii. Certain it is, however, that Waahia returned to Hawaii from Oahu with the war-god of the king. It was the sacred Akuapaao, or war-god of Paao, and was held in great reverence by the priesthood. Borne over the waters by unseen forces, the canoe of Waahia was stranded on the beach at Koholalele, on the island of Hawaii. Not far off was the old heiau of Manini, and thither the god was conveyed, and placed in the custody of the high-priest of the temple, with the injunction that it was never to be removed from the inner court, or sanctuary, unless the kingdom was in peril. Six generations after it was taken from the heiau by the giant Maukaleoleo, and carried at the head of the victorious army of Umi, as mentioned in the legend of "Umi, the Peasant Prince of Hawaii." Five hundred canoes had been added to the fleet of Kalaunui, and the imposing squadron seemed to stretch half across the wide channel separating the two islands. A landing was made at Koloa, and the entire army disembarked without opposition. The district seemed to be deserted, and not a hostile spear was visible. And so continued the peaceful aspect until daylight the next morning, when Kukona, supported by every prominent chief of Kauai, suddenly precipitated upon the invaders from the surrounding hills an army of ten thousand warriors. Nor this alone. Along the westward coast was seen approaching a fleet of nearly a thousand war-canoes, with the manifest design of capturing or destroying the canoes of the Hawaiians and cutting off their retreat by sea. Hastily forming his lines to meet the avalanche from the hills, Kalaunui despatched Kualu to the beach with a force of three thousand warriors to protect the canoes. The attacks by land and sea were almost simultaneous, and the battle was one of the most stubborn and sanguinary ever fought in the group. As predicted by Waahia, the air was filled with spears and the canoes were painted red with blood. Standing in the water to their hips, Kualu and his warriors met their enemies as they attempted to land, and a struggle of the wildest description followed. Canoes were upset; men were hauled into them and killed, and out of them and drowned, and for a distance of three or four hundred yards in the surf along the beach raged a desperate conflict, dreadful even to savage eyes. In their fury they fought in, above and under the water, and hundreds fiercely grappled and without a wound sank to their deaths together. Neither would yield, and in the end resistance ceased, and Kualu saw the beach strewn with dead, a thousand tenantless canoes idly playing with the surf, and less than as many hundreds of warriors left as he had led thousands into the fight. He had saved the fleet, but the sacrifice of life had been terrible. Despatching a messenger to the king, and speedily reorganizing the remnant of his force, Kualu was about to leave the beach for service where he might most be needed, when he discovered, with horror, that the Hawaiian army had been defeated, and in scattered fragments was seeking flight in all directions. Harassed by pursuit, a thousand or more were fighting and struggling to reach the beach. Satisfied that the battle was lost, to facilitate the escape of the fugitives Kualu ordered a large number of canoes to be hastily equipped and launched, and then started back to assist in covering the retreat. But his men refused to follow him. Knowing the danger of delay, all but a few of them leaped into canoes and paddled out to sea. As he could do nothing more, he selected a canoe suitable to the four persons who were to occupy it, and with his three remaining companions passed through the surf and headed for Oahu. Kualu did not escape a moment too soon. He had scarcely stemmed the surf before the fugitives, abandoning all defence, made a precipitate dash for the canoes, closely followed by their pursuers. In their haste they shoved out in canoes some of which were overburdened and others but half-manned. A number of the former foundered in the surf, and such of the latter as succeeded in passing the breakers were overtaken by the canoes sent in pursuit. Nor did but few escape of the two or three hundred who preceded Kualu in his flight. Some of them embarked in double canoes which they were unable to manage, and others were either without sails or short of paddles. The result was that less than a hundred of the fugitives escaped capture, and of that number probably not more than twenty or thirty succeeded in reaching the other islands of the group, for the sea was rough and but few of them were skilled in navigation. Among these were Kualu and his companions. Almost from the beginning the sudden attack of Kukona from the hills had been a slaughter. The withdrawal of three thousand spears for the protection of his canoes had weakened the lines of Kalaunui at an exposed point, and, breaking through them, the Kauaians so vigorously followed up the advantage that no effort could save the Hawaiians from defeat. They fought bravely and with desperation; but the breaking of their lines had left them without any definite plan of action, and defeat was inevitable. Kalaunui's courage was conspicuous, but after an hour's hopeless struggle he saw his brave battalions melting to the earth and giving way at all points. Recognizing that the battle was lost, and that what was left of his army would soon be in wild retreat, he attempted to cut his way through to the beach, but was intercepted and taken prisoner. Learning his rank, he was taken by his captors to Kukona, and a few minutes later the royal chiefs of Maui, Molokai and Oahu, with their arms corded behind their backs, appeared on the scene. Deserted by their guards, they had been found in a hut not far from the beach and brought to the victorious moi. It was a historic group, that meeting on the battle-field of Koloa of the five principal sovereigns of the archipelago. Had Kukona been ambitious the means were at his command to become the supreme head of the island group; but he thought only of the future peace of Kauai, and promptly dismissed from his mind all dreams of broader fields of empire, well knowing that, were he able to seize the mastery of the group, he could not hope to long maintain it. Not a word of jeering or of triumph passed between Kalaunui and the captive chiefs as they stood before Kukona, for the aha alii of the period--the chiefs of accepted rank--commanded the respect, not only of the untitled, but of each other, even in bondage and in death. Kukona had met the alii-nui of Oahu in his own dominions some years before, and recognized him at once, but the kings of Maui and Molokai were strangers to him. Being informed of their rank and the circumstances of their captivity, he ordered them to be liberated at once, and with his own hands removed the cords from the arms of his royal friend from Oahu. The rescued princes were at once returned with befitting escorts to their own possessions, but Kalaunui was retained as a prisoner of war. But few of the invading army escaped. The victory was celebrated with elaborate sacrifices and general rejoicing throughout the island. The captured arms and canoes were divided among the assisting chiefs, and peace reigned again on Kauai. Kukona had secured the lasting friendship of the chiefs of Oahu, Maui and Molokai, and therefore did not fear the retaliation of Hawaii. But, as a guarantee of peace, he kept Kalaunui a prisoner, rightly surmising that, if the ruling powers of Hawaii really valued the life of the captive king, they would not imperil it by attempting his release by force, and if they did not greatly value it he would be left to his fate or the chances of peaceful negotiation. III. Escaping from Koloa, Kualu and his companions made sail for Hawaii, stopping for supplies at such intermediate points as they deemed safe on the coasts of Oahu, Molokai and Maui, and on the evening of the sixth day arrived at Waipio. They were the first to bring to Hawaii the news of the defeat of Kalaunui on Kauai, and when the people learned that the army had been destroyed the land was filled with wailing. Appearing at once before Kaheka and her son, Kualu recited to them the story of the dreadful battle, but was unable to tell them definitely of the fate of Kalaunui. The grief of the queen was great, and found strange and unreasonable expression in charging Kualu with cowardice and ordering him from the palace. In vain he protested against the ungenerous treatment. She had never liked him, especially since discovering that he had secured something more than the good-will of Kapapa, and it seemed monstrous to her that he should have survived Kalaunui and the scores of gallant chiefs who fell with him. She cruelly intimated that it was more than probable that, with the force sent to protect the fleet, he had embarked in the canoes without striking a blow, thus treacherously depriving the defeated army of its sole means of escape. Had these monstrous charges been made by a man Kualu would have answered them with blows; but, as they were the foolish and inconsiderate ravings of a woman, without venturing further reply he took his leave, and with a heart filled with stifled rage and anguish strode from the palace. Proceeding up the valley, Kualu entered the hut of Waahia. He found the kaula alone, as usual. She knew he was coming, but was none the less rejoiced to meet him. With a word or two of greeting he sat down in silence. The cruel words of Kaheka still stuck like thorns in his throat. Waahia regarded him intently for a time, and then said: "I know it all. Kalaunui's army has been destroyed. You escaped in a canoe with three others." "And Kalaunui?" questioned Kualu, not a little amazed at the correctness of her information. "Is a prisoner," replied the kaula. "Thank the gods for that!" exclaimed the chief vehemently. "He must be liberated, for he can tell her that in escaping I acted neither with cowardice nor treachery!" "Tell whom?" inquired the kaula. "Kaheka," answered Kualu. "She charges me with cowardice and desertion." "Then Kaheka accuses you of what I know to be false!" said Waahia. "Yes," returned the chief; "but the witnesses to my fidelity are few and humble, and the words of the king can alone relieve me in the eyes of the aha alii of the disgrace with which the charges of Kaheka will cover me." "True," replied the kaula, encouragingly; "but the disgrace will not be lasting, for the king will return to do you justice." "When will he return?" eagerly inquired the chief. "I cannot tell," answered Waahia; "but I know that his rule is not yet at an end in Hawaii, and you must be patient." And Kualu promised to be patient, and for a few days bore the neglect and frowns of his former friends, and the sneers and covert insults of his enemies. But when the heartless accusations of Kaheka, passing from tongue to tongue with the news of the dreadful slaughter, became generally known, and almost as generally believed, notwithstanding the statements of his three companions to the contrary, Kualu's indignation could no longer be restrained, and he challenged to combat and slew on the spot a chief who, in the presence of a party of friends, repeated the charges to his face. Great excitement followed, and in his desperation and wrath Kualu invited the friends of his fallen defamer, one and all, to test his courage then or thereafter. As the life of Kualu was now in constant and undoubted peril, Waahia advised him to leave Hawaii for a time, and together they set sail for Molokai, and took up their residence at Kalaupapa. But before leaving Waipio the kaula called upon the high-priest, by whom she was held in great respect, and told him where she might be found on Molokai, should her services be required. "And they will be required," said Waahia, significantly. "Kalaunui is not dead, and when you shall have failed in all your efforts to liberate him, tell Kaheka to think better of Kualu and send for me." "How know you that Kalaunui still lives?" inquired the priest. "Should the high-priest of Pakaalani ask me that question?" replied Waahia. "Where are his seers? Where are the kilos of the temple, who in the heavens saw victory for Kalaunui where I beheld defeat? Have they not been consulted?" "All do not see with the eyes of Waahia," returned the priest, evasively. Flattered by this recognition of her superiority, the kaula said, as she turned to depart: "You will know more to-morrow!" And an hour after, accompanied by Kualu, she left Waipio for Molokai. The priest was not deceived by Waahia, for the day after authentic intelligence was received from Maui to the effect that Kalaunui's campaign had been a failure in Kauai, and the king was a prisoner in the hands of Kukona. The leading chiefs were called together in council, and several projects for the liberation of the king were advanced and discussed. Kaheka was in favor of raising a powerful army at once, and bringing her royal husband back by force; but when it was considered by cooler heads that Kukona was undoubtedly well prepared for war, and had secured the friendship, and in an emergency could command the support, of the chiefs of Maui, Oahu and Molokai, the suggestion was dismissed as dangerous and impracticable. Under the circumstances it was finally resolved to attempt the liberation of Kalaunui through negotiation; and to this end messengers were despatched to Kauai with offers of a large number of canoes, spears and other war materials in exchange for the royal prisoner. But the surrender of Kalaunui's fleet, and the capture of thousands of spears and other arms, had given Kukona a great abundance of both, and he declined the offer. Failing in this, after a lapse of some months messengers were again sent to Kukona with a proffer of twenty full-sized mamos, or royal feather cloaks, a canoe-load of ivory and whalebone, and a thousand stone lipis, or axes, of a superior kind peculiar to Hawaii. The messengers were courteously received and listened to, but the offer was not accepted. War was again urged by Kaheka, but the chiefs refused to embark in an undertaking so hazardous, and without their support she could do nothing. And so for more than two years Kalaunui remained in captivity, when a third attempt to ransom him was made. Kaheka despatched to Kauai two ambassadors of high rank, offering her daughter Kapapa in marriage either to Kukona or his son, Manokalanipo, and promising perpetual peace between the islands. This offer was also declined, and Kukona refused to name to the ambassadors the terms upon which he would treat for the liberation of their king. It now became a question either of war or the abandonment of Kalaunui to his fate. In this dilemma the priests and kaulas were consulted, but their predictions were vague and their counsels unsatisfactory. Remembering the words of Waahia, the high-priest sought the presence of Kaheka, and advised her to send for the old prophetess, who was living with her foster-son at Kalaupapa. This, after some persuasion, she consented to do, and, despatching a chief of high rank to Molokai, with the admission that she had accused Kualu unjustly, the kaula was induced to return with the messenger to Waipio. But Kualu did not accompany her. She was suspicious of Kaheka, and advised him to remain at Kalaupapa. Arriving at Waipio, the kaula, feeling that the game was now in her own hands, informed the high-priest that she would communicate with the leading chiefs of the kingdom convened in council. The chiefs were accordingly assembled, and Waahia appeared before them. Kaheka was present, as the kaula desired. With a staff in her hand, capped with the head of an owl, and her long, white hair falling to her waist, there was something weird and awe-inspiring in the appearance of the venerable prophetess as she entered the council-room and bowed low before Kaheka and the assembled chiefs. It was not her privilege to break the silence without permission, and when it had been formally accorded she raised her eyes, and, without especially addressing any one, said: "Why have I been sent for?" No one could answer, not even Kaheka. At length an old chief, after conferring with those around him, replied: "You have been sent for on the word of the high-priest, and with the hope that you might be able to point out a way for the return of Kalaunui to Hawaii. Can you do so?" "I can speak of no way," answered the kaula. "Then you can do nothing?" returned the chief. "My words were that I could speak of no way, nor can I," said the kaula; "yet, keeping my own counsel, I might possibly be able to accomplish what you all desire." "And will you undertake to do so?" inquired Kaheka. "Yes, on one condition," was the prompt reply. "Well, what do you ask for attempting to save the life of your king?" returned the queen, in a tone of rebuke. Waahia did not like the spirit of the inquiry, and a scowl darkened her wrinkled face as she replied: "I might ask that, if the gods willed that I should fail, Kaheka would not charge me with treachery!" This reference to the treatment of Kualu created a feeling of uneasiness among the chiefs; but, without inviting remark or explanation, the kaula continued: "What I require is a pledge from every chief here that, should I succeed in liberating Kalaunui, the terms of the release, whatever they may be, will be complied with." The chiefs hesitated, as it was not impossible that the sovereignty of the island might be offered to Kukona by the prophetess, and they could not pledge themselves to a sacrifice involving their own ruin. Waahia relieved their apprehensions, however, by assuring them that the pledge would not be considered binding if the terms affected either the sovereignty of the island or the lives, possessions or prerogatives of its chiefs. With this assurance the members of the council, after briefly discussing the possibilities of the obligation, consented to accept it. Thereupon the pledge was carefully repeated thrice by the chiefs, and each in turn solemnly invoked upon himself, should he fail to keep and observe it in its fulness, the wrath of Hikapoloa, the divine trinity, and the swift and especial vengeance of Kuahana, the slayer of men. "Are you satisfied now?" inquired Kaheka. "I am satisfied," replied the kaula. "Do you require assistance?" This inquiry came from more than one. "Only of the gods!" was the impressive answer of Waahia, as she left the council and slowly wended her way up the valley. All night long strange lights flashed at intervals through the weather-rent openings in the kaula's hut. Shadowy forms were seen to move noiselessly around it; owls came and went as the lights vanished and reappeared; and, just as the sun began to paint the east, Waahia proceeded to the beach, and with a single sturdy assistant of supernatural aspect embarked in a canoe which seemed to be equipped and provisioned for a long voyage. This was the ghostly narration of two or three of the nearest neighbors of the prophetess, and the truth of the story was not doubted, even when it reached the palace. Doubtless the plain facts were that Waahia spent the most of the night in preparing for the voyage, and set sail early in the morning with an assistant known to be trustworthy and familiar with the sea. Waahia proceeded very leisurely to Kauai. The annual feast of Lono was approaching, and as she desired to arrive there during the festival, which would not be for some days, she spent the intervening time in visiting many sacred spots and noted temples on Maui, Oahu, Molokai and Lanai. Perhaps to commune with the honored dead, she made a pilgrimage to the sacred valley of Iao, on the island of Maui, where were buried many of the distinguished kings and chiefs of the group. She stopped at Kalaupapa, on Molokai, to confer with Kualu, and while there paid a visit to the home, near Kaluakoi, of Laamaomao, the wind-god, who came from the south with Moikeha more than a century before; and in the same valley visited the dreaded spot where, in the reign of Kamauaua, the father of Kaupeepee, the abductor of Hina, near the close of the eleventh century, sprang up in a night the poisoned grove of Kalaipahoa, or, according to another tradition, where that goddess, belonging to a family of southern deities, visited the group with two of her sisters, and entered and poisoned a small grove of trees of natural growth. From one of these poisonous trees the famous idol of Kalaipahoa was made. So poisonous was the wood that many died in cutting down the tree and carving the image, for all perished whose flesh was touched by the chips; but the workmen finally covered their bodies with kapa, including masks for their faces and wraps for their hands, and thus succeeded in completing the dangerous task without farther loss of life. But a single image was made. It remained with the ruling family of Molokai until the subjugation of the group by Kamehameha I., when it came into his possession, and at his death, in 1819, was divided among a few of the principal chiefs. Two fragments of the image, it is said, are still preserved, but they are carefully guarded and never exhibited to eyes sceptical or profane. Long before Waahia visited the spot the last vestige of the grove had disappeared, but for many acres around where the terrible trees once stood the earth was black and bare. Within the dreaded area no living thing was seen, and birds fell dead in flying over it. But the kaula entered it and returned unharmed, to the amazement of more than one witness. Waahia next visited the heiau of Kaumolu, which was then a puhonua, or place of refuge, and in another temple near the coast offered sacrifices to the shark-god Mooalii. By reputation she was generally known to the priesthood of the group, and was nowhere regarded as an intruder in places sacred to worship. Stopping at Ewa, on the island of Oahu, she saw for the first time the hallowed enclosure of Kukaniloko, the creation of Nanakaoko, son of Nanamaoa, the earliest arrival from the south of the migratory stream of the eleventh century. Chiefs born there were endowed with especial prerogatives and distinctions, and the beating of a sacred drum called hawea gave notice without of the birth of a tabu chief. IV. The winter solstice, which marked the end of the Hawaiian year, was at hand, to be followed by the usual five days' feast of Lono, and Waahia so timed her voyage as to arrive on Kauai the day before the festival began. She quietly landed at Koloa, and as far as possible avoided observation by taking up her residence in a small hut secured by her companion well back in the neighboring hills. These annual festivals of Lono were seasons of universal merriment and rejoicing. The god was crowned and ornamented with leis of flowers and feathers, and unstinted offerings of pigs, fowls and fruits were laid upon the altars of the temples consecrated to his worship. Chiefs and people alike gave themselves unreservedly over to feasting, dancing, singing and the indulgence of almost every appetite and caprice, and the Saturnalias of the old Romans gave to the masses scarcely more license than the festivals of Lono. Every instrument of music known to the people--and they possessed but four or five of the simplest kinds--was brought into requisition, and for five days there was almost an uninterrupted tumult of revelry. Lakakane, the hula god, was decorated and brought out, and every variety of the dance was given--some of them to the time of vocal recitations and others to the noisier accompaniment of pipes, drums and rattling calabashes. In the midst of these enjoyments long-bearded bards appeared before the king and distinguished chiefs, and while some of them recited wild historic tales of the past, others chanted the mele-inoas and sang of the personal exploits of their titled listeners. Awa and other intoxicating drinks were freely indulged in by those who craved them, and the festivals were usually followed by a week or more of general languor and worthlessness. It was the third day of the festival at Koloa. The gates of the enclosure had been thrown open, and thousands of people thronged around the royal mansion in a grove near which large quantities of refreshments were spread on the ground in huge wooden trays and calabashes. The feast was free to all, and Kukona lounged on a pile of kapa in the deep shade of the trees in front of the palace, happy in witnessing the enjoyment of his subjects. Around him were standing a number of chiefs of high rank. A kahili of bright feathers was occasionally and unobtrusively waved above his head by the paakahili, and the iwikuamoo, aipuupuu and other of his personal attendants, all of the lesser nobility, stood in readiness to respond to his slightest wishes. A guard of inferior chiefs kept the crowd from pressing too closely the distinguished group, but from time to time, as permission was granted, select bands of dancers and musicians and chanters of ability were allowed to approach and entertain the royal party with specimens of their skill and erudition. A company of dancers had just retired, when Waahia, with a staff in her hand, and wearing a short mantle, indicating that she claimed privileges of dress which were not accorded to women generally, asked permission to be admitted to the presence of the king. Her strange appearance excited the curiosity of Kukona, and she was allowed to approach. Kneeling and touching her forehead to the ground, she rose and asked if it was the pleasure of the king to hear her. As these ceremonies, due to supreme authority, were usually waived on such occasions, it was surmised that the woman must be a stranger in Kauai. She was told to speak. A moooelo, or historic chant, was expected; but in a full, sharp voice she chanted these words: "O the long knife of the stranger, Of the stranger from other lands, Of the stranger with sparkling eyes, Of the stranger with a white face! O long knife of Lono, the gift of Lono; It flashes like fire in the sun; Its edge is sharper than stone, Sharper than the hard stone of Hualalai; The spear touches it and breaks, The strong warrior sees it and dies! Where is the long knife of the stranger? Where is the sacred gift of Lono? It came to Wailuku and is lost, It was seen at Lahaina and cannot be found. He is more than a chief who finds it, He is a chief of chiefs who possesses it. Maui cannot spoil his fields, Hawaii cannot break his nets; His canoes are safe from Kauai; The chiefs of Oahu will not oppose him, The chiefs of Molokai will bend at his feet. O long knife of the stranger, O bright knife of Lono! Who has seen it? Who has found it? Has it been hidden away in the earth? Has the great sea swallowed it? Does the kilo see it among the stars? Can the kaula find it in the bowels of the black hog? Will a voice from the anu answer? Will the priests of Lono speak? The kilo is silent, the kaula is dumb. O long knife of the stranger, O bright knife of Lono, It is lost, it is lost, it is lost!" At the conclusion of the chant, which was listened to with attention, the kaula bowed and disappeared in the crowd. Kukona had heard of the long knife, and Waahia's description of its powers interested him greatly. He despatched a messenger to the high-priest, ordering that the diviners at once be put to the task of discovering the hiding-place of the sacred weapon. On the following afternoon Waahia appeared before the king and his chiefs, and with the same ceremonies repeated her chant of the day before. The high-priest was summoned, and informed the king that his diviners had as yet discovered no trace of the long knife. The third day Waahia appeared and repeated her chant before the king, and silently withdrew, as before. Again the high-priest was summoned, but was able to offer no assurance that the long knife would be found by the kahunas. They had resorted to every means of inspiration and magic known to them, but could discover no clue to the mystery. "Who is this woman who for three successive days has told us of the lost knife?" inquired Kukona, addressing the chiefs surrounding him. No one seemed to be able to answer. Finally the master of ceremonies stepped forward and replied: "The woman, I think, is Waahia, the noted prophetess of Hawaii. I saw her fifteen years ago in Waipio, and am quite sure that I remember her face." The name, if not the face, of the distinguished seeress was known to the king and many others present, and the high-priest, anxious to explain the failure of his magicians, bowed and said: "The master of ceremonies has doubtless spoken truly. The woman must be Waahia. Her powers are great, and a secret in her keeping is beyond the reach of the kaulas." Accepting this explanation of the high-priest, Kukona ordered the prophetess to be found and respectfully conducted to the royal mansion; but after a fruitless search of two days it was reported that she had probably left the valley, and therefore could not be found. Irritated at what seemed to be the inefficiency or neglect of his kaulas and chiefs, Kukona was about to attach a death-penalty to further failure when Waahia suddenly entered the royal enclosure and approached the palace. Her appearance was most welcome to the attending chiefs, and she was ushered at once into the presence of the king. So delighted was Kukona at the unexpected visit that he rose unconsciously to his feet and greeted the prophetess. This breach of courtly form amazed the attendants of the king, and suggested to them that the strange visitor must be of supreme rank; but before any explanation could be gathered they were ordered to retire, even to the paakahili, and Kukona was left alone with the kaula. The king motioned his visitor to a lounge of kapa, for she seemed to be old and feeble, and he had a favor to ask. Seating herself, as requested, the king approached, and, in a voice that could not well be overheard, said: "Are you Waahia, the prophetess of Hawaii?" "I am Waahia," answered the kaula. "You have chanted of the long knife of the stranger, of the bright knife of Lono, of the lost knife of Wailuku," resumed Kukona. "Our diviners can give me no information concerning it." Waahia smiled significantly, but made no reply, and the king continued: "They say you have tabued the secret, and others, therefore, cannot share it. Is it so?" "Perhaps," was the brief reply. "Then you can find the sacred knife?" eagerly suggested Kukona. "I can find it," was the kaula's emphatic answer. "Then find and bring it to Kukona, and for the service claim what you will," was the prompt proposal of the king. With the way thus broadly opened, Waahia announced that the price of the knife must be the liberation of Kalaunui, and was astonished at the promptness with which the terms were accepted. It was manifest to Waahia that he either placed a very high value upon the talisman, or had kept his royal prisoner about as long as he cared to detain him or the peace of his kingdom required. In either event his unhesitating acceptance of the main consideration warranted Waahia in at once naming one or two other conditions, which were just as promptly agreed to by the king. One of these conditions was that Kalaunui should agree, as the only consideration for his release to be known to him, that his daughter Kapapa should be given in marriage to the chief Kualu, not only as a fitting union, but as a measure of atonement for the unjust and disgraceful charges made against that worthy young chief by Kaheka, and that Kukona and Kalaunui should mutually pledge themselves to the fulfilment of the compact. The other condition was that, on the delivery of the knife to Kukona, he was to release the captive king at once, and return him to Hawaii in company with three high chiefs of Kauai, who were to remain in Waipio until after the consummation of the marriage of Kapapa and Kualu. Kalaunui was communicated with. For nearly three years he had been confined and closely but respectfully guarded within a square of high stone walls enclosing a single hut. Utterly unable to account for Kukona's interest in Kualu, he nevertheless accepted the terms submitted to him for his release, and Waahia started at once for Kalaupapa, promising to be back within six days. For the voyage she accepted a canoe larger and more commodious than her own, and the services of five additional rowers. Arriving at Kalaupapa on the morning of the third day from Koloa, Waahia startled Kualu by informing him that Kalaunui was about to be released, and that in twelve days he must return without further notice to Waipio, where he would be relieved of all disgrace by the king, and become the husband of Kapapa. Coming from Waahia, he believed the words as if they had been flashed from the heavens, and asked for no confirmation as the kaula abruptly left him and proceeded alone toward the hills. A few hours later Waahia re-embarked for Kauai, taking with her, securely wrapped in a number of kapa folds, the sword of Kaluiki. She reached Koloa within the time promised, and, proceeding to the palace, delivered to the king, in person and alone, the glittering blade which rumor had clothed with extraordinary sanctity and power. Kalaunui renewed his pledge to Kukona, and the next morning embarked for Hawaii in a large double canoe, accompanied by three of the leading chiefs of Kauai and their attendants. Stepping into the kaulua as it was about to be shoved into the surf, Kalaunui caught sight of Waahia, for the first time for years, as she stood leaning upon her staff near the water. Kualu's part in the agreement with Kukona was explained at once by Waahia's presence in Koloa; but what was Kualu to Kukona? and, if nothing, what influences had the kaula been able to bring to effect his release upon such conditions? No matter. Kalaunui was too happy in his liberation to quarrel with the means through which it had been secured, and he turned with a look of gratitude toward the prophetess as the canoe shot out into the breakers. The return of their captive king was joyously celebrated by the people of Hawaii, and a few days after Kapapa became the willing wife of Kualu. The union was distasteful to Kaheka, but she was powerless to prevent it. The agreement was faithfully fulfilled by Kalaunui, and he spent the remainder of his days in peace, leaving the kingdom to his only son, Kuaiwa, between whom and Kualu a lasting friendship was established. Kualu, with Kapapa, became the head of an influential family, one of his direct descendants having been the wife of Makaoku, a son of Kiha and brother of Liloa, one of the most noted of the kings of Hawaii. The sword of Kaluiki, the ransom of a king, remained for some generations with the descendants of Kukona; but what became of it in the end tradition fails to tell. THE SACRED SPEAR-POINT. CHARACTERS. Kakae and Kakaalaneo, joint mois of Maui. Kahekili, son of Kakae. Kaululaau, son of Kakaalaneo. Waolani, a high-priest of Maui. Kalona-iki, king of Oahu. Laiea-a-Ewa, sister of the queen of Oahu. Kamakaua, a companion of Kaululaau. Kauholanui-mahu, king of Hawaii. Neula, queen of Hawaii. Noakua, a chief of Kohala, Hawaii. Pele, goddess of Kilauea. Keuakepo, brother of Pele. Mooaleo, a gnome-god of Molokai. Pueoalii, a winged demon of Oahu. THE SACRED SPEAR-POINT. THE ADVENTURES OF KAULULAAU, PRINCE OF MAUI. I. Kaululaau was one of the sons of Kakaalaneo, brother of, and joint ruler with, Kakae in the government of Maui. The latter was the legitimate heir to the moiship, but, as he was weak-minded, Kakaalaneo ruled jointly with him and was the real sovereign of the little kingdom. The court of the brothers was at Lele (now Lahaina), and was one of the most distinguished in the group. The mother of Kaululaau was Kanikaniaula, of the family of Kamauaua, king of Molokai, through his son Haili, who was the brother or half-brother of Keoloewa and Kaupeepee. The latter, it will be remembered, was the abductor of the celebrated Hina, of Hawaii, and the family was of the old strain of Maweke. Kaululaau was probably born somewhere between the years 1390 and 1400. He had a half-sister, whose name was Wao, and a half-brother, Kaihiwalua, who was the father of Luaia, who became the husband of a daughter of Piliwale, moi of Oahu, and brother of Lo-Lale. He doubtless had other brothers and sisters, since his father was blessed with two or more wives, but the legends fail to refer to them. Kahekili, son of Kakae, and who became his successor in the moiship, was of near the age of his cousin, Kaululaau, and the two princes grew to manhood together. They were instructed by the same teachers, schooled in the same arts and chiefly accomplishments, and chanted the same genealogical meles. Yet in disposition and personal appearance they were widely different. From his youth Kahekili was staid, sober and thoughtful. Bred to the knowledge that he would succeed his father as moi of the island, he began early in life to prepare himself for the proper exercise of supreme authority, and at the age of twenty was noted for his intelligence, dignity and royal bearing. He had been told by a prophet that one of his name would be the last independent king of Maui, and the information rendered him solicitous for his future and drove many a smile from his lips. Yet, with all his austerity and circumspection, he was kind-hearted and affectionate, and his pastimes were such as comported with his dignity. In height he was somewhat below the chiefly medium, and his features were rugged and of a Papuan cast; but all knew that he was royal in heart and thought, and the respect due to him was not withheld. Kaululaau was unlike his royal cousin in almost every respect. He was noted alike for his intelligence, his manly beauty and his rollicking spirit of mischief and merriment. He did not covet the sceptre. He thought more of a wild debauch, with music, dancing and a calabash of awa, than the right to command "downward" or "upward the face"; and since Kahekili was the designated successor of his father, he claimed the right, as a favored and tabu subject of the realm, to enjoy himself in such manner as best accorded with his tastes. As he could not make laws, he found a pleasure in breaking them. He was neither wantonly cruel nor malignant, but recklessly wild and mischievous, and neither the reproofs of his father nor the mild persuasions of his cousin were sufficient to restrain him. His bantering reply to the latter was: "When you become king I will act with more propriety. Two mois can afford one wild prince." He had a congenial following of companions and retainers, who assisted him in his schemes of mischief. With feasting and hula dancing he would keep the village in an uproar for a dozen consecutive nights. He would send canoes adrift, open the gates of fish-ponds, remove the supports of houses, and paint swine black to deceive the sacrificial priests. He devised an instrument to imitate the death-warning notes of the alae, and frightened people by sounding it near their doors; and to others he caused information to be conveyed that they were being prayed to death. Notwithstanding these misdemeanors, Kaululaau was popular with the people, since the chiefs or members of the royal household were usually the victims of his mischievous freaks. He was encouraged in his disposition to qualify himself for the priesthood, under the instruction of the eminent high-priest and prophet, Waolani, and had made substantial advances in the calling, when he was banished to the island of Lanai by his royal father for an offence which could neither be overlooked nor forgiven. At that time Lanai was infested with a number of gnomes, monsters and evil spirits, among them the gigantic moo, Mooaleo. They ravaged fields, uprooted cocoanut-trees, destroyed the walls of fish-ponds, and otherwise frightened and discomfited the inhabitants of the island. That his residence there might be made endurable, Kaululaau was instructed by the kaulas and sorcerers of the court in many charms, spells, prayers and incantations with which to resist the powers of the supernatural monsters. When informed of these exorcising agencies by Kaululaau, his friend, the venerable high-priest, Waolani, told him that they would avail him nothing against the more powerful and malignant of the demons of Lanai. Disheartened at the declaration, Kaululaau was about to leave the heiau to embark for Lanai, when Waolani, after some hesitation, stayed his departure, and, entering the inner temple, soon returned with a small roll of kapa in his hand. Slowly uncording and removing many folds of cloth, an ivory spear-point a span in length was finally brought to view. Holding it before the prince, he said: "Take this. It will serve you in any way you may require. Its powers are greater than those of any god inhabiting the earth. It has been dipped in the waters of Po, and many generations ago was left by Lono upon one of his altars for the protection of a temple menaced by a mighty fish-god who found a retreat beneath it in a great cavern connected with the sea. Draw a line with it and nothing can pass the mark. Affix it to a spear and throw it, and it will reach the object, no matter how far distant. Much more will it do, but let what I have said suffice." The prince eagerly reached to possess the treasure, but the priest withdrew it and continued: "I give it to you on condition that it pass from you to no other hands than mine, and that if I am no longer living when you return to Maui--as you some day will--you will secretly deposit it with my bones. Swear to this in the name of Lono." Kaululaau solemnly pronounced the required oath. The priest then handed him the talisman, wrapped in the kapa from which it had been taken, and he left the temple, and immediately embarked with a number of his attendants for Lanai. Reaching Lanai, he established his household on the south side of the island. Learning his name and rank, the people treated him with great respect--for Lanai was then a dependency of Maui--assisted in the construction of the houses necessary for his accommodation, and provided him with fish, poi, fruits and potatoes in great abundance. In return for this devotion he set about ridding the island of the supernatural pests with which it had been for years afflicted. In the legend of "Kelea, the Surf-rider of Maui," will be found some reference to the battles of Kaululaau with the evil spirits and monsters of Lanai. His most stubborn conflict was with the gnome god Mooaleo. He imprisoned the demon within the earth by drawing a line around him with the sacred spear-point, and subsequently released and drove him into the sea. More than a year was spent by Kaululaau in quieting and expelling from the island the malicious monsters that troubled it, but he succeeded in the end in completely relieving the people from their vexatious visitations. This added immeasurably to his popularity, and the choicest of the products of land and sea were laid at his feet. His triumph over the demons of Lanai was soon known on the other islands of the group, and when it reached the ears of Kakaalaneo he despatched a messenger to his son, offering his forgiveness and recalling him from exile. The service he had rendered was important, and his royal father was anxious to recognize it by restoring him to favor. But Kaululaau showed no haste in availing himself of his father's magnanimity. Far from the restraints of the court, he had become attached to the independent life he had found in exile, and could think of no comforts or enjoyments unattainable on Lanai. The women there were as handsome as elsewhere, the bananas were as sweet, the cocoanuts were as large, the awa was as stimulating, and the fisheries were as varied and abundant in product. He had congenial companionship, and bands of musicians and dancers at his call. The best of the earth and the love of the people were his, and the apapani sang in the grove that shaded his door. What more could he ask, what more expect should he return to Maui? His exile had ceased to be a punishment, and his father's message of recall was scarcely deemed a favor. However, Kaululaau returned a respectful answer by his father's messenger, thanking Kakaalaneo for his clemency, and announcing that he would return to Maui some time in the near future, after having visited some of the other islands of the group; and three months later he began to prepare for a trip to Hawaii. He procured a large double canoe, which he painted a royal yellow, and had fabricated a number of cloaks and capes of the feathers of the oo and mamo. At the prow of his canoe he mounted a carved image of Lono, and at the top of one of the masts a place was reserved for the proud tabu standard of an aha alii. This done, with a proper retinue he set sail for Hawaii. II. On his visit to Hawaii, Kaululaau was accompanied by a number of companions of his own disposition and temperament. Among them was Kamakaua, a young Maui chief, who had followed him into exile and was thoroughly devoted to his interests. He was brave, courtly and intelligent, and in personal appearance somewhat resembled the prince. The crew and most of the attendants of the prince had been selected by Kamakaua, including the chief navigator and astrologer; and however competent they may have been in their respective stations, it was discovered during the voyage that they were no less efficient as musicians and dancers. Hence there was no lack of amusement as the huge double canoe breasted the waves of Alenuihaha Channel, and on the morning of the third day stood off the village of Waipio, in the district of Hamakua, Hawaii. At that time Kauholanui-mahu, father of the noted Kiha, was king of Hawaii. His wife was Neula, a chiefess of Maui, who had inherited very considerable possessions in the neighborhood of Honuaula, on that island. As the climate of the locality was salubrious, and the neighboring waters abounded abundantly in fish, the royal couple made frequent and sometimes lengthy visits thither. These visits were usually made without the knowledge of Kakaalaneo, and the unexplained attachment of the Hawaiian king to the comparatively small inheritance of his wife on a neighboring island began to be regarded with suspicion, and had become a theme for speculation and inquiry at the court of Lahaina. At the time of the visit of Kaululaau to Waipio, Kauholanui had been absent for some months on Maui, leaving Neula in charge of the government of Hawaii. Attributing the absence of the king to deliberate neglect, Neula had become greatly dissatisfied, and whispers of coming trouble were rife throughout the island. All this was doubtless known to Kaululaau, and, as the royal residence was at Waipio, it was upon the beach below it that he landed with his party and drew up his double canoe. The presence and state of the strangers were soon heralded to the queen, and she promptly despatched messengers, courteously inviting the prince and his personal retainers to become her guests at the royal hale, at the same time giving orders for the accommodation of the humbler of his attendants and followers, as was the hospitable custom of the time. Accepting the invitation, Kaululaau and four of his chiefly companions were provided with quarters within the palace enclosure, and their food was served from the royal table. In the afternoon Kaululaau was accorded an audience with the queen, during which he presented his friends, including Kamakaua. The prince whiled away nearly a month at Waipio, and many formal entertainments were given in his honor. Neula was unusually agreeable, and was soon on terms of friendly intimacy both with the prince and Kamakaua. This was exactly what Kaululaau desired, since it enabled him to devise and assist in the execution of a scheme for bringing the king back from Maui and keeping him thereafter within his own kingdom. Under the instructions of Kaululaau, Kamakaua assumed to be greatly smitten with the charms of the queen. As she was a comely woman, and somewhat vain of her personal appearance, the conquest of the handsome chief gratified her; but his attentions developed the fact that he had a rival in Noakua, a chief of Kohala. This discovery simplified the plans of the prince, and relieved Kamakaua of a dangerous duty in the end. In pressing his suit he found a pretext for informing the queen that the continued absence of the king was due to the fact that he had taken another wife, with whom he was living at Honuaula, and that he had ceased to care either for his kingdom or his family. While Kamakaua was pouring this poison into the ears of Neula, Kaululaau, who had made the acquaintance of Noakua, was planting in the mind of that chief the seeds of sedition. He flattered him with the opinion that he was made to rule, and by degrees developed to him a plan through which, with the favor of the queen, he could seize the government, unite the principal chiefs in his support, and prevent Kauholanui from returning to Hawaii. The ambition of Noakua, and anger of the queen at the presumed neglect and infidelity of her husband, soon harmonized them in a plot against the absent king. Preparations for the revolt began to be observed, when Kaululaau, not wishing to be openly identified with the dangerous movement, quietly embarked with his party for Hilo, where he remained to watch the progress of the struggle which he had been instrumental in originating. The prince had been in Hilo but a few days when a lunapai arrived from Waipio, summoning the chief of the district to repair thither with eight hundred warriors, and announcing the assumption of the sovereignty of the island by Neula. Similar notifications were sent to the chiefs of the other districts of the kingdom, and soon all was excitement from Kau to Kohala. Hearing of the revolt, Kauholanui, who had been engaged in constructing a fish-pond at Keoneoio, in the neighborhood of Honuaula, left Maui at once with less than a hundred spears, and, landing in Kona, whose chief could be relied upon, he started overland for Waipio. The revolution was unpopular, and with great unanimity the chiefs and people rallied to the standard of the king. The struggle was brief. A battle was fought near Waimea, resulting in the defeat of the rebel army and the death of Noakua. This ended the revolt. As a punishment to Neula the king took another wife. But the object of Kaululaau was accomplished, for Kauholanui never again visited Maui, although the queen spent much of her time thereafter at Honuaula, where her favorite guest and friend was Kamakaua. Leaving Hilo, Kaululaau and his party leisurely drifted along the coasts of Puna until they reached the borders of Kau, when they landed at Keauhou to spend a few days in fishing and surf-riding. Weary of the sport, Kaululaau left the bathers in the surf, one afternoon, and threw himself under the shade of a hala tree near the shore. Watching the clouds and the sea-birds circling in the heavens above him, he fell asleep, and when he awoke his eyes fell upon a beautiful woman sitting upon a rock not more than a hundred paces distant, and silently watching the swimmers as they came riding in on the crests of the rollers. Her skirts were a pau spangled with crystals, and over her shoulders hung a short mantle of the colors of a rainbow. Her long hair was held back by a lei of flowers, and her wrists and ankles were adorned with circlets of tiny shells of pink and white. The appearance of the woman dazzled him, and after gazing for some time, and rubbing his eyes to be sure that he was not dreaming, he rose to his feet and approached the radiant being. Advancing within four or five paces of the woman, apparently unobserved, he stopped, and with a cough attracted her attention. Turning her face toward him, he greeted her courteously, and requested permission to approach nearer and converse with her. Her appearance indicated that she was a person of rank, and he did not feel like trespassing uninvited upon her privacy. She did not deign to make any reply to his request, but, after scanning him from head to foot, turned her face toward the sea again with a contemptuous toss of the head. He hesitated for a moment, and then turned and strode rapidly down to the beach, where his double canoe had been safely drawn up on the sands. "In the guise of a bather," thought the prince, "she evidently mistakes me for a servant. I will approach her in the garb to which my rank entitles me, and see what effect that will have." Entering the canoe, he girded his loins with a gaudy maro, hung round his neck a palaoa, and threw over his shoulders a royal mantle of yellow feathers. Then, crowning his head with a brilliant feather helmet, he selected a spear of the length of six paces and stepped from the canoe. As he did so he stumbled. "This means that I have forgotten or omitted something of importance," said the prince to himself, stopping and in detail scanning his equipments. At that moment a lizard ran across his path and entered a hole in the earth. This brought to mind his battle with the gigantic gnome on Lanai, and with a smile he re-entered the canoe. Taking from a calabash, where it had been for months secreted, the charmed spear-point of Lono, he affixed it firmly to the point of a javelin, and, thus equipped, again sought the presence of the fascinating being by whom he had been repulsed. Advancing as before, he once more craved permission to approach near enough to drink in the beauty of her eyes. But she seemed to be in no mood to consent. Scanning him in his changed apparel, with an air of indifference she said: "You need not have taken the trouble to bedeck yourself with royal feathers. I knew you before, as I know you now, to be Kaululaau, son of Kakaalaneo, moi of Maui. I do not desire your company." "Since you know who I am, I must claim the right to insist upon my request, unless you can show, indeed, that you are of equal or better rank." Saying this, the prince took a step forward. "Then come," replied the woman, "since you are rude enough to attempt it. Sit at my feet and tell me of your love, and I will search the caves for squid and beat the kapa for you." The prince advanced joyfully, and was about to seat himself at the feet of the lovely being, when with a cry of pain he sprang back. The rock he had touched was as hot as if it had just been thrown from the crater of a volcano. "Come," said the woman tauntingly; "do you not see that I am waiting for you?" Again the prince advanced, but the earth for two or three paces around her was glimmering with heat, and he hastily withdrew to where the ground and rocks were cool. He was now satisfied that he was dealing with some one wielding supernatural powers, and resolved to test the efficacy of the charmed point of his javelin. "Why do you not come?" continued the woman in a tone of mingled defiance and reproach. "Because the earth where you are sitting is too warm for my feet," replied the prince, innocently. "Come where I am standing, and I will sit beside you." And with the point of his javelin he marked upon the ground the boundaries of a space around him. "Retire some paces, and I will do so," replied the woman, confidently. The prince withdrew, as requested, and she quietly removed to the spot where he had been standing. "Now come," said the woman, reseating herself; "perhaps you will find it cooler here." "I hope so," returned the prince, as he began cautiously to advance. He crossed the line marked by the point of his javelin, and felt no heat. He took three more steps forward, and the earth was still cool. Another step, which brought him within two paces of the enchantress, convinced him that her powers were impotent within the boundaries of the line he had drawn, and with a sudden leap forward he caught her in his arms. Astounded at the failure of her powers, and humiliated at her defeat, the woman struggled to free herself from the embrace of the prince; but within the charmed circle she possessed but the strength of a simple woman, and was compelled to yield to the supreme indignities of superior force. Exasperated beyond measure, she at length succeeded in eluding his grasp and springing beyond the fatal line. The prince followed, but she was now herself, and he could neither overtake nor restrain her. Retreating some distance up the hill, she suddenly stopped and awaited his approach. She permitted him to advance within forty or fifty paces of her, when in the space of a breath she abandoned her captivating disguise and stood forth in the form of Pele, the dreadful goddess of Kilauea. Her eyes were bright as the midday sun, and her hair was like a flame of fire. The prince stopped in dismay. The goddess raised her hand, and at her feet burst forth a stream of molten lava, rolling fiercely down upon the prince, as if to engulf him. He started to escape by flight, but the stream widened and increased in speed as it followed. Fearful that it would overtake him before he could reach the sea, he thought of his javelin, and with the point hastily drew a line in front of the advancing flood. Continuing his flight and looking back, he discovered, to his great relief, that the stream had stopped abruptly at the line he had drawn, and could not pass it. Passing into a ravine, the angry flow sought to reach the sea through its channel, and thus cut off the retreat of the prince; but he crossed the depression, marking a line as he went, and the fiery avalanche was stayed at the limit. Observing that she was thwarted by some power whose element seemed to be of the earth, Pele summoned her brother Keuakepo from Kilauea, and a shower of fire and ashes descended upon Kaululaau and his companions. Leaping into the sea to avoid the fire, they dragged the double canoe from its moorings, and, swimming and pushing it through the breakers, escaped from the coast with but little injury. III. Having embroiled himself with the divine and political powers of Hawaii, Kaululaau rounded the southern point of La Lae and set sail for Molokai. He spent a month on that island with the royal relatives of his mother, by whom he was appropriately received and entertained. He visited the home of Laamaomao, the wind-god, the poisoned grove of Kalaipahoa, and the demolished fortress on the promontory of Haupu, where the gallant Kaupeepee, of whose blood he was, met his dramatic death. He then set sail for Oahu. The island of Oahu was at that period one of the most prosperous in the group. It was under the government of Kalona-iki, one of the two sons of Mailikukahi, who during his reign had instituted a code of laws giving better protection to the poor, making theft punishable with death, and claiming as the wards of the government the first-born male children of all families, without regard to rank or condition. Kalona continued the peaceful and intelligent policy of his father, and his court was noted alike for the brilliancy of its chiefs and the beauty of its women. His principal place of residence was Waikiki, although he had sumptuous temporary resorts at Ewa and Waialua. Kaululaau first touched at Waialua, but, learning that the king was at Waikiki, he ordered his canoe to proceed around to the south side of the island in charge of his chief navigator, while he and Kamakaua concluded to make the journey overland. Dispensing with all insignia of rank, and habited like simple commoners, the prince and his companion started unattended for Waikiki. Both were armed with javelins, but the one borne by Kaululaau was tipped with the charmed point of Lono. Proceeding along the foot of the Kaala range of mountains, in the afternoon they sat down to rest in the shade of a hala tree. In a ravine below them five or six men were working, and scattered along its banks were a number of huts. Soon a tumult of screams reached them, and men, women and children were seen running hither and thither in a state of great excitement. The travelers sprang to their feet, and as they did so a gigantic bird swept immediately over their heads and winged its way toward the hills. It passed so closely that the branches of the hala tree were swayed by the motion of its mighty pinions, and its outspread wings seemed to measure scarcely less than twenty long steps from tip to tip. While watching the monster with amazement, a woman approached, and to the questions of the prince replied, between wails of anguish, that the great bird--the Pueoalii, as she called it--had just killed her only child in front of her hut, with a stab to the heart resembling the cut of a knife. She hurriedly gave the additional information that for many years past the same bird had at intervals visited different districts of the island, killing children, pigs and fowls, and that the priests had declared it to be a pueo, or owl, sacred to the gods, and which could not, therefore, be molested with safety, even if harm to it were possible from human hands. Better learned in the inspiration and purposes of such visitations--since he had been instructed by the eminent high-priest Waolani--and having had many conflicts with malignant spirits, he doubted that the monster he had just seen was of the sacred pueo family, and requested that he be shown the dead child. Proceeding to the hut and inspecting the wound, he observed that the fatal cut was upward, and not downward, as it would have been had it been made by the beak of an owl. This confirmed him in the correctness of his first impression, and, requesting Kamakaua to follow him, he started toward the hills in the direction taken by the bird. They could still see it in the distance, like a dark cloud against the mountain. After following it for some time the bird swooped down to commit some fresh depredation, and then rose and alighted upon a rocky ridge with precipitous face sweeping down from the main summit of Kaala. "Why go farther?" said Kamakaua. "We cannot reach the bird, and, if we could, our spears would be like straws to such a monster." As if by a strong hand, the javelin in the grasp of the prince forcibly turned and pointed toward the bird. Smiling at the augury, Kaululaau replied: "Look you carefully back and see if we are followed." Kamakaua turned his face in compliance, and as he did so the prince poised his javelin and hurled it in the direction of the bird. In twenty paces the point did not droop; in forty it did not fall to the ground; in a hundred a new energy seized it, and like a flash of light it sped out of sight. A moment later the prince saw the bird sink and disappear. "I can see no one," said Kamakaua, after carefully scanning the ground over which they had passed. "Nor can I now see the bird," he continued, looking toward the ridge. "Where can it be?" "At the foot of the cliff," replied the prince, "with the point of my javelin in his heart." Having been with the prince on Molokai, Kamakaua received the strange information without question or great wonder, and, hastening to the base of the precipice, they found the monster dead, with the javelin buried in its breast. Removing the weapon, they cut off the head and one of the feet of the bird, pulled from its wings four of the longest feathers, and with them returned to the hala tree under which they had found shelter from the sun. The burden taxed their strength to the utmost. The weight of the head, which was borne by the prince, was scarcely less than that of his own body, while the feathers were seven paces in length, and the claws two paces between their extreme points. Great excitement followed the spreading of the news that Pueoalii had been killed by strangers. The sufferers through its visitations were disposed to commend the act, and others condemned it as an insult to the gods, which would probably bring broadcast calamity upon the whole island. To placate the anger of the gods it was proposed to sacrifice the strangers at the nearest heiau, and, respectfully wrapping the head of the bird in kapa, Kaululaau and his companion were conducted with their trophies to the sacred temple of Kukaniloko, which was not far distant. They were accompanied by a crowd which constantly swelled in numbers as they proceeded, and on arriving at the heiau they were surrounded by four or five hundred men and women, many of them armed and clamoring for their blood. Kaululaau was in nowise alarmed, but rather enjoyed the situation. The high-priest of the temple appeared and the matter was laid before him. Looking at the foot and mighty feathers of the bird, he turned to the strangers and said: "You have slain a creature sacred to the gods, and my thought is that you should be sacrificed to avert their wrath." "Be careful in your judgment, priest," replied the prince. "How know you that the bird was sacred?" "For years it has been so regarded," returned the priest. "How know you that it was not?" "Does it become the high-priest of Kukaniloko to ask such a question?" said the prince. "But I will reply to it when you answer this: With the javelin now in my hand I killed the bird at a distance farther than from where we stand to yonder hills. Could it have been done by human hand without the especial favor of the gods. If not, then how have the gods been angered?" The priest was confounded, and when the prince proposed to submit the question of his guilt to the king, the suggestion was accepted. It now being near nightfall, Kaululaau and his companion were removed within the enclosure of the temple for safe-keeping, and, knowing that they would be deprived of their weapons, the prince removed the charmed point from his javelin and secreted it in the folds of his maro. Early next morning the high-priest and his two prisoners, who were kept under no marked restraint, accompanied by a large concourse of people carrying the head, foot and feathers of Pueoalii, started for Waikiki. Every one seemed to know that the great bird had been killed, and many stood by the wayside to see the feathers that had been torn from its wings, and catch a glimpse of its destroyer. Near the middle of the day the great gathering arrived at Waikiki. As many carried spears, it resembled an army in its march, and messengers were despatched by the king to ascertain its meaning. Halting near the shores of the harbor, and not far from the royal mansion, to report the arrival of the prisoners and learn the pleasure of the king, the prince observed his double canoe drawn up on the beach, and requested permission to approach it, that he might secure the counsel of his master, Kaululaau, son of the moi of Maui. The favor could not well be denied, and, under guard of two inferior priests of Kukaniloko, the prince was conducted to the canoe. As but three or four of the crew were present, and their attention was wholly absorbed in the gathering around the royal hale, the prince stepped, unobserved by them, into the canoe, and passed quickly into his private quarters--a close wicker-work apartment eight or ten feet in length by the breadth of both canoes, and with a height of six feet or more from their bottoms to the top screen. Hurriedly investing himself with his regalia of rank, including helmet, feather mantle and spear, he stepped into view and sounded a blast upon a shell. Soon a number of his attendants made their appearance, and, with such following as befitted a prince, he started for the royal mansion. The guards who escorted him to the canoe did not recognize him as he left it, and after passing the crowd surrounding the palace his name and rank were announced to the king. He was promptly met and courteously welcomed at the door by Kalona, and informed that messengers of greeting and invitation would have been despatched to him had his presence at Waikiki been known. Kaululaau then apprised the king that he had but just arrived overland from Waialua, while his double canoe had been sent around to meet him at Waikiki, and that it was his purpose to spend some days on Oahu. The hospitalities of the royal hale were then tendered and accepted, after which the king explained to his distinguished guest the cause of the large gathering around the palace, and invited him to an inspection of the head, feathers and claws of the mighty Pueoalii, and to listen to the story of the slayer of the sacred bird, should he deem it of sufficient interest. Kaululaau accompanied the king to a large dancing pavilion within the royal enclosure, to which had been conveyed the severed parts of the gigantic bird. After the claws and feathers had been examined with awe and amazement, the king ordered the slayer of the bird to be brought before him. The high-priest of Kukaniloko bowed and turned to execute the order, when the guards placed over the prince came from the beach with the information that their prisoner had escaped. The priest was savage in his disappointment. "Either find him or take his place upon the altar!" he hissed to the unfortunate guards, and then led Kamakaua before the king, with the explanation that the other prisoner had managed to elude the vigilance of his guards, but would doubtless soon be found. Kamakaua discovered the prince at the side of the king, and could hardly restrain a smile. When questioned he denied that he killed the great bird, but admitted that he assisted in removing the head, feathers and one of the feet. "This is trifling," said the king, turning to the priest with a scowl. "Where is the other prisoner?" "He is here, great king!" exclaimed Kaululaau, bowing before Kalona, to the astonishment but great relief of the priest. "Favored by the gods, I slew the malignant monster your priests call by the sacred name of Pueoalii. Their skill should have instructed them differently. Will the king favor me by ordering the kapa covering to be removed from the head?" The order was given, and the uncovered head was raised beak upward before the king. In a moment it was observed that the head was not of a pueo, or owl; nor did it bear resemblance in form to that of any bird known. It was narrow between the eyes, which in color were those of a shark, and its long and pointed beak, both of the upper and under jaws, turned sharply upward. "It is not a pueo!" was the general exclamation. "Are you satisfied, priest?" inquired the prince. "I think it is not a pueo," responded the priest, reluctantly. "You think it is not a pueo!" exclaimed the king, indignantly. "Do you not know it? What pueo ever had such eyes and such a beak?" The priest hung his head in confusion, and the prince, having completely discomfited him, now came kindly to his relief by remarking: "The mistake might well have been made, for on the wing and at a distance the bird much resembled a pueo." "You are kind to say so, prince," said the king; "but the priests and kaulas have been greatly at fault. For years the bird has preyed upon the people, and no one has dared to molest it. Since you killed it, knowing that it was not sacred, perhaps you may be able to tell me something of its unnatural birth and appetites." Thus appealed to, Kaululaau modestly replied: "If I may rely upon what seemed to be a dream last night, the bird was possessed by the spirit of Hilo-a-Lakapu, one of the chiefs of Hawaii who invaded Oahu during the reign of your royal father. He was slain at Waimano, and his head was placed upon a pole near Honouliuli for the birds to feed upon. He was of akua blood, and through a bird-god relative his spirit was given possession of the monster which the gods enabled me to slay." The spirit of Hilo had been brought in with the head of the dead bird, and with the utterance of these words by the prince the eyes rolled, the ponderous jaws opened and closed, and with a noise like the scream of an alae the malignant spirit took its departure. The truth of the dream of Kaululaau thus being verified, the king publicly thanked him for ridding the island of the monstrous scourge, and ordered especial honors to be paid him by all classes so long as it might be his pleasure to remain in the kingdom. In return the prince presented to the king the head, claws and feathers of the bird, the latter to be made into a mammoth kahili, and then made Kamakaua known to him, together with such other chiefs in his train as were entitled to royal recognition. Kaululaau became at once the hero of the court as well as the idol of the people. He remained more than a month on Oahu, enjoying the unstinted hospitality of the king and his district chiefs. He was a favorite with the fairest women of the court; but he gave his heart to the beautiful Laiea-a-Ewa, sister of the wife of Kalona, and with her returned to Maui. Landing at Lahaina after his long absence, he was joyfully welcomed home by his royal father, who had heard of his adventures and fully forgiven the faults of his youth. With grief he learned that his friend the high-priest, Waolani, had died some months before. Remembering his oath, he found the burial place of the priest, and with his remains secretly deposited the sacred spear-point of Lono, which had served him so effectively. He devoutly kissed the relic before he hid it for ever from view, and afterwards knelt and thanked Lono and the priest for its use. Lands were given him in Kauaula, where he resided until the end of his days. Laiea was his only wife, and they were blessed with six children, whose names alone are mentioned by tradition. KELEA, THE SURF-RIDER OF MAUI. CHARACTERS. Kawao, king of Maui. Kelea, sister of Kawao. Piliwale, alii-nui of Oahu. Paakanilea, wife of Piliwale. Lo-Lale, brother of Piliwale. Kalamakua, a chief of Ewa, cousin of Lo-Lale. KELEA, THE SURF-RIDER OF MAUI. THE LEGEND OF LO-LALE, THE ECCENTRIC PRINCE OF OAHU. I. Kelea, of whom in the past the bards of Oahu and Maui loved to sing, was the beautiful but capricious sister of Kawao, king of Maui, who in about A.D. 1445, at the age of twenty-five, succeeded to the sovereignty of that island. Their royal father was Kahekili I., the son of Kakae, who, with his brother, Kakaalaneo, was the joint ruler of the little realm from about 1380 to 1415. Kakae was the rightful heir to the moiship, and, as such, his son Kahekili succeeded him; but as an accident in his youth had somewhat impaired his mental faculties, Kakaalaneo became, through the expressed will of the dying Kamaloohua, the joint ruler and virtual sovereign of the kingdom. He had sons and daughters of his own; but he loved his weak-minded brother, and respected the line of legitimate succession, and when the black kapa covered him, Kahekili became king of Maui and Lanai; for during that period the latter island was under the protection of the mois of Maui, while Molokai still maintained its independence. Kakaalaneo was noted for his business energy and strict sense of justice. The court of the brothers was established at Lahaina--then known as Lele--and was one of the most respected in all the group. It was Kakaalaneo who introduced the bread-fruit there from Hawaii, and won the love of the people by continuous acts of mercy and benevolence. For some disrespect shown to his royal brother, whose mental weakness doubtless subjected him to unkind remarks, he banished his son Kaululaau to Lanai, which island, tradition avers, was at that time infested by powerful and malignant spirits. They killed pigs and fowls, uprooted cocoanut-trees and blighted taro patches, and a gigantic and mischievous gnome amused himself by gliding like a huge mole under the huts of his victims and almost upsetting them. The priests tried in vain to quiet these malicious spirits. No sooner were they exorcised away from one locality than they appeared in another, and if they gave the taro patches a rest it was only to tear the unripe bananas from their stems, or rend the walls and embankments of artificial ponds, that their stores of fishes might escape to the sea. Aware of these grievances, Kaululaau took with him to Lanai a talisman of rare powers. It was the gift of his friend, the high-priest of his father, and consisted of a spear-point that had been dipped in the waters of Po, the land of death, and many generations before left by Lono on one of his altars. Crowning a long spear with this sacred point, Kaululaau attacked the disturbing spirits, and in a short time succeeded either in bringing them to submission or driving them from the island. The gnome Mooaleo was the most difficult to vanquish. It avoided the prince, and for some time managed to keep beyond the influence of the charmed spear-point; but the monster was finally caught within the boundaries of a circular line scratched with the talisman upon the surface of the earth beneath which it was burrowing, and thereby brought to terms. It could not pass the line, no matter how far below the surface it essayed to do so. Heaving the earth in its strength and wrath, it chafed against the charmed restraint that held it captive, and finally plunged downward within the vertical walls of its prison. But there was no path of escape in that direction. It soon encountered a lake of fire, and was compelled to return to the surface, where it humbled itself before the prince, and promised, if liberated, to quit the island for ever. Kaululaau obliterated sixty paces of the line of imprisonment, to enable Mooaleo to pass to the sea, into which the hideous being plunged and disappeared, never to be seen again in Lanai. In consideration of the great service of the exiled prince in restoring quiet and security to the island, his father permitted him to return to Maui, where he connected himself with the priesthood, and became noted for his supernatural powers. The charmed spear-point is referred to in later legends, and is thought to be still secreted with the bones of a high-priest in a mountain cave on the island of Maui, not far from the sacred burial-place of Iao. But we have been straying two generations back of our story. The legendary accounts of the ruling families of the principal islands of the group are so threaded with romantic or fabulous incidents that, in referring to any of the prominent actors in the past, it is difficult to restrain the pen in its willingness to wander into the enchanted by-ways in which the meles of the period abound. Having alluded to the immediate ancestors of Kelea, the sister of the young moi of Maui, we will now resume the thread of our legend by referring somewhat more particularly to the princess herself. Brought up in the royal court at Lahaina, with a brother only to divide the affections of her father, Kelea was humored, petted and spoiled as a child, and courted and flattered beyond measure as she grew to womanhood. The meles describe her as a maiden of uncommon beauty; but she was wayward, volatile and capricious, as might have been expected of one so schooled and favored, and no consideration of policy or persuasion of passion could move her to accept any one of the many high chiefs who sought her in marriage. She loved the water--possibly because she could see her fair face mirrored in it--and became the most graceful and daring surf-swimmer in the kingdom. Frequently, when the waters of Auau Channel surged wildly under the breath of the south wind, or kona, Kelea, laughing at the fears of her brother, would plunge into the sea with her onini, or surf-board, and so audaciously ride the waves that those who watched and applauded her were half-inclined to believe that she was the friend of some water-god, and could not be drowned. No sport was to her so enticing as a battle with the waves, and when her brother spoke to her of marriage she gaily answered that the surf-board was her husband, and she would never embrace any other. The brother frowned at the answer, for he had hoped, by uniting his sister to the principal chief of Hana, to more thoroughly incorporate in his kingdom that portion of the island, then ruled by independent chiefs; but by other means during his reign, it may be remarked, the union of the two divisions was effected. "Do not frown, Kawao," said Kelea, coaxingly; "a smile better becomes your handsome face. I may marry some day, just to please you; but remember what the voice said in the anu at the last feast of Lono." "Yes, I remember," replied Kawao; "but I have sometimes believed that when the kilo declared that in riding the surf Kelea would find a husband, he was simply repeating an augury imparted to him by Kelea herself." "You will anger the gods by speaking so lightly of their words," returned Kelea, reproachfully; and Kawao smiled as the princess took her leave with a dignity quite unusual with her. Kawao loved his sister and was proud of her beauty; and while he was anxious to see her suitably married, and felt no little annoyance at the importunities of her suitors, he nevertheless recognized her right, as the daughter of a king, to a voice in the selection of a husband. But the voice from the anu was prophetic, whatever may have inspired it; for while Kelea continued to ride the waves at Lahaina, a husband, of the family of Kalona-iki, of Oahu, was in search of her, and to that island we now request the reader to follow us. There lived at that time at Lihue, in the district of Ewa, on the island of Oahu, a chief named Lo-Lale, son of Kalona-iki, and brother of Piliwale, the alii-nui, or nominal sovereign, of the island, whose court was established at Waialua. Kalona-iki had married Kikinui, and thus infused into the royal family the native and aristocratic blood of Maweke, of the ancient line of Nanaula. Lo-Lale was an amiable and handsome prince, but for some cause had reached the age of thirty-five without marrying. The reason was traced to the death by drowning, some years before, of a chiefess of great beauty whom he was about to marry, and to whom he was greatly attached. As he was of a gentle and poetic nature, his disinclination to marriage may not be unreasonably attributed to that event, especially when supported by the relation that thereafter he abhorred the sea, and was content to remain at Lihue, beyond the sound of its ceaseless surges. Piliwale had passed his fiftieth year, and, having but two daughters and no son, was more than ever desirous that his brother should marry, that the family authority might be strengthened and the line of Kalona perpetuated. And the friendly neighboring chiefs were equally anxious that Lo-Lale should become the head of a family, and, to inspire him with a disposition to marry, described with enthusiasm the beauty of many maidens of distinguished rank whom they had met on the other islands of the group. To these importunities Lo-Lale finally yielded; and as a suitable wife for so high a chief could not be found on Oahu, or, at least, one who would be personally acceptable to him, it was necessary to seek for her among the royal families of the other islands. Accordingly, a large koa canoe was fitted out at Waialua, and with trusty messengers of rank despatched to the windward islands in search of a wife for Lo-Lale. The messengers were instructed to quietly visit the several royal courts, and report upon the beauty, rank and eligibility of such marriageable chiefesses of distinguished families as they might be able to discover. Among the chiefs selected for the delicate mission, and the one upon whose judgment the most reliance was placed, was Lo-Lale's cousin, Kalamakua, a noble of high rank, whose lands were on the coast of the Ewa district. He was bold, dashing and adventurous, and readily consented to assist in finding a wife for his royal and romantic relative. Lo-Lale was at Waialua when the messengers embarked. He took an encouraging interest in the expedition, and when banteringly asked by his cousin if age would be any objection in a bride of unexceptionable birth, replied that he had promised to take a wife solely to please his royal brother, and any age under eighty would answer. But he did not mean it. "Not so," replied Piliwale, more than half in earnest. "I will not become the uncle of a family of monsters. The bride must be as worthy in person as in blood." "Do you hear, Kalamakua?" said Lo-Lale, addressing his cousin, who was standing beside the canoe, ready for departure; "do you hear the words of Piliwale? She must be not only young but beautiful. If you bring or give promise to any other, she shall not live at Lihue!" "Do not fear," replied the cousin, gaily. "Whomsoever she may be, we will keep her in the family; for if you refuse her, or she you, I will marry her myself!" "Fairly spoken!" exclaimed the king; "and I will see that he keeps his promise, Lo-Lale." Although the object of the voyage was known to but few, hundreds gathered at the beach to witness the departure, for the canoe was decorated, and the embarking chiefs appeared in feather capes and other ornaments of their rank. Turning to the high-priest, who was present, Piliwale asked him if he had observed the auguries. "I have," replied the priest. "They are more than favorable." Then turning his face northward, he continued: "There is peace in the clouds, and the listless winging of yonder bird betokens favoring winds." Amid a chorus of alohas! the canoe dashed through the breakers and out into the open sea, holding a course in the direction of Molokai. Reaching that island early the next day, the party landed at Kalaupapa. The alii-nui received them well, but inquiry led to nothing satisfactory, and, proceeding around the island, the party next landed on Lanai. It is probable that they were driven there by unfavorable winds, as Lanai was a dependency of Maui at that time, and none but subject chiefs resided on the island. However, they remained there but one day, and the next proceeded to Hana, Maui, with the intention of crossing over to Hawaii and visiting the court of Kiha at Waipio. Inquiring for the moi, they learned that Kawao had removed his court from Lahaina, for the season, to Hamakuapoko, to enjoy the cool breezes of that locality and indulge in the pleasures of surf-bathing. They were further informed that a large number of chiefs had accompanied the moi to that attractive resort, and that Kelea, sister of the king, and the most beautiful woman on the island as well as the most daring and accomplished surf-swimmer, was also there as one of the greatest ornaments of the court. This was agreeable information, and the party re-embarked and arrived the next morning off Hamakuapoko, just as the fair Kelea and her attendants had gone down to the beach to indulge in a buffet with the surf. Swimming out beyond the breakers, and oblivious of everything but her own enjoyment, Kelea suddenly found herself within a few yards of the canoe of the Oahuan chiefs. Presuming that it contained her own people, she swam still closer, when she discovered, to her amazement, that all the faces in the canoe were strange to her. Perceiving her embarrassment, Kalamakua rose to his feet, and, addressing her in a courtly and respectful manner, invited her to a seat in the canoe, offering to ride the surf with it to the beach--an exciting and sometimes dangerous sport, in which great skill and coolness are required. The language of the chief was so gentle and suggestive of the manners of the court that the invitation was accepted, and the canoe mounted one of the great waves successively following two of lighter bulk and force, and was adroitly and safely beached. The achievement was greeted with applause on the shore, and when the proposal was made to repeat the performance Kelea willingly retained her seat. Again the canoe successfully rode the breakers ashore, and then, through her attendants, Kalamakua discovered that the fair and dashing swimmer was none other than Kelea, the sister of the moi of Maui. With increased respect Kalamakua again invited his distinguished guest to join in the pleasure and excitement of a third ride over the breakers. She consented, and the canoe was once more pulled out beyond the surf, where it remained for a moment, awaiting a high, combing roller on which to be borne to the landing. One passed and was missed, and before another came a squall, or what was called a mumuku, suddenly struck the canoe, rendering it utterly unmanageable and driving it out upon the broad ocean. When the canoe started Kelea would have leaped into the sea had she not been restrained; but Kalamakua spoke so kindly to her--assuring her that they would safely ride out the storm and return to Hamakuapoko--that she became calmer, and consented to curl down beside him in the boat to escape the fury of the winds. Her shapely limbs and shoulders were bare, and her hair, braided and bound loosely back, was still wet, and grew chilling in the wind where it fell. Kalamakua took from a covered calabash a handsome kihei, or mantle, and wrapped it around her shoulders, and then seated her in the shelter of his own burly form. She smiled her thanks for these delicate attentions, and the chief was compelled to admit to himself that the reports of her great beauty had not been exaggerated. He could recall no maiden on Oahu who was her equal in grace and comeliness, and felt that, could she be secured for his eccentric cousin, his search would be at an end. He even grew indignant at the thought that she might not prove acceptable, but smiled the next moment at his promise to marry the girl himself should she be refused by his cousin. But the fierce mumuku afforded him but little time to indulge such dreams. The sea surged in fury, and like a cockleshell the canoe was tossed from one huge wave to another. The spray was almost blinding, and, while Kalamakua kept the little craft squarely before the wind as a measure of first importance, his companions were earnestly employed in alternately baling and trimming as emergency suggested. On, on sped the canoe, farther and farther out into the open sea, tossed like a feather by the crested waves and pelted by the driving spray. The scene was fearful. The southern skies had grown black with wrath, and long streamers sent from the clouds shot northward as if to surround and cut off the retreat of the flying craft. All crouched in the bottom of the boat, intent only on keeping it before the wind and preventing it from filling. A frailer craft would have been stove to pieces; but it was hewn from the trunk of a sound koa tree, and gallantly rode out the storm. But when the wind ceased and the skies cleared, late in the afternoon, the canoe was far out at sea and beyond the sight of land. It was turned and headed back; but as there was no wind to assist the paddles, and the waters were still rough and restless, slow progress toward land was made; and when the sun went down Kalamakua was undecided which way to proceed, as he was not certain that the storm had not carried them so far from the coast of Maui that some point on Molokai or Oahu might be more speedily and safely reached than the place from which they started. Their supply of poi had been lost during the gale by the breaking of the vessel containing it; but they had still left a small quantity of dried fish, raw potatoes and bananas, and a calabash of water, and ate their evening meal as cheerfully as if their supplies were exhaustless and the green hills of Waialua smiled upon them in the distance. Such was the Hawaiian of the past; such is the Hawaiian of to-day. His joys and griefs are centred in the present, and he broods but little over the past, and borrows no trouble from the future. The stars came out, and a light wind began to steal down upon them from the northwest. It was quite chilly, and felt like the breath of the returning trade-winds, which start from the frozen shores of northwestern America, and gradually grow warmer as they sweep down through the tropic seas. These winds, continuing, with intervals of cessation, eight or nine months in the year, are what give life, beauty and an endurable climate to the Hawaiian group. As the breeze freshened sails were raised, and then the course to be taken remained to be determined. Kalamakua expressed his doubts to Kelea, as if inviting a suggestion from her; but she was unable to offer any advice, declaring that she had not noticed the course of the wind that had driven them so far out upon the ocean. "And I am equally in doubt," said the chief. "We may have been blown farther toward the rising of the sun than the headlands of Hana. If so, the course we are now sailing would take us to Hawaii, if not, indeed, beyond, while in following the evening star we might even pass Oahu. I therefore suggest a course between these two directions, which will certainly bring us to land some time to-morrow." "Then, since we are all in doubt," replied Kelea, "and the winds are blowing landward, why not trust to the gods and follow them?" "Your words are an inspiration," returned the chief, delighted that she had suggested a course that would enable him to make Oahu direct; for, as may be suspected, he was an accomplished navigator, and was really in little or no doubt concerning the direction of the several islands mentioned. "You have spoken wisely," he continued, as if yielding entirely to her judgment; "we will follow the winds that are now cooling the shores of Hamakuapoko." Thus adroitly was Kelea made a consenting party to her own abduction. Kalamakua took the helm, slightly changing the course of the canoe, and his companions made themselves comfortable for the evening. Their wet rolls of kapa had been dried during the afternoon, and there was room enough to spare to arrange a couch for Kelea in the bottom of the boat. But she was too much excited over the strange events of the day to sleep, or even attempt to rest, and therefore sat near Kalamakua in the stern of the canoe until past midnight, watching the stars and listening to the story, with which he knew she must sooner or later become acquainted, of his romantic expedition in search of a wife for his cousin. It is needless to say that Kalea was surprised and interested in the relation; and when Kalamakua referred to the high rank of his cousin, to his handsome person and large estates at Lihue, and begged her to regard with favor the proposal of marriage which he then made to her in behalf of Lo-Lale, she frankly replied that, if her royal brother did not object, she would give the proffer consideration. As Kalamakua had concluded not to take the hazard of securing the consent of her brother, who doubtless had some other matrimonial project in view for her, he construed her answer into a modestly expressed willingness to become the wife of Lo-Lale, and the more resolutely bent his course toward Oahu. He watched the Pleiades--the great guide of the early Polynesian navigators--as they swept up into the heavens, and, bearing still farther to the northward to escape Molokai, announced that he would keep the steering-oar for the night, and advised his companions, now that the breeze was steady and the sea smoother, to betake themselves to rest. And Kelea at last curled down upon her couch of kapa, and Kalamakua was left alone with his thoughts to watch the wind and stars. Although a long and steady run had been made during the night, no land was visible the next morning. Kelea scanned the horizon uneasily, and, without speaking, looked at Kalamakua for an explanation. "Before the sun goes down we shall see land," said the chief. "What land?" inquired Kelea. "Oahu," was the reply, but the chief was not greeted with the look of surprise expected. "I am not disappointed," returned the princess, quite indifferently. "You seem to have been sailing by the wandering stars last night, for before daylight I looked up and saw by Kao that your course was directly toward the place of sunset." Five of the planets--Mercury, Mars, Venus, Jupiter and Saturn--were known to the ancient Hawaiians, and designated as na hoku aea, or wandering stars. The fixed stars were also grouped by them into constellations, and Kao was their name for Antares. With a look of genuine surprise Kalamakua replied: "I did not know before that so correct a knowledge of navigation was among the many accomplishments of the sister of Kawao." "It required no great knowledge of the skies to discover last night that we were not bearing southward, and needs still less now to observe that we are sailing directly west," Kelea quietly remarked. "I will not attempt to deceive one who seems to be able to instruct me in journeying over the blue waters," said Kalamakua, politely. "Your judgment is correct. We are sailing nearly westward, and the first land sighted will probably be the headlands of Kaawa." "You have acted treacherously," resumed the princess, after a pause, as if suddenly struck with the propriety of protesting against the abduction. "Possibly," was the brief reply. "Yes," she continued, after another pause, "you have acted treacherously, and my brother will make war upon Oahu unless I am immediately returned to Hamakuapoko." "He will find work for his spears," was the irritating response. "Is it a habit with the chiefs of Oahu to steal their wives?" inquired Kelea, tauntingly. "No," Kalamakua promptly replied; "but I would not eat from the same calabash with the chief who would throw back into the face of the generous winds the gift of the rarest flower that ever blossomed on Hawaiian soil!" The pretty compliment of the chief moved Kelea to silence; yet he observed that there was a sparkle of pleasure in her eyes, and that the novelty and romance of the situation were not altogether distasteful to her. Land was sighted late in the afternoon. It was Kaoio Point, on the western side of Oahu. Rounding it, they landed at Mahana, where they procured food and water and passed the night, and the next day had an easy voyage to Waialua. Landing, Kalamakua at once communicated with Piliwale, giving the high rank of Kelea, as well as the strange circumstances under which she had been brought to Waialua. Queen Paakanilea promptly despatched attendants to the beach with appropriate apparel, and in due time the distinguished visitor was received at the royal mansion in a manner consistent with her rank. The next day a message brought Lo-Lale from Lihue. He was dressed in his richest trappings, and brought with him, as an offering to Kelea, a rare necklace of shells and curiously-carved mother-of-pearl. He was conducted to the princess by Kalamakua. They seemed to be mutually pleased with each other. In fact, Lo-Lale was completely charmed by the fair stranger, and in his enthusiasm offered to divide his estates with his cousin as an evidence of his gratitude. Kalamakua had himself become very much interested in Kelea, and secretly hoped that his cousin might find something in her blood or bearing to object to, in which case he felt that she might be induced to regard his own suit with favor; but Lo-Lale declared her to be a model of perfection, and wooed her with so much earnestness that she finally consented to become his wife without waiting to hear from her brother. Her rank was quite equal to that of Lo-Lale, and the king was so greatly pleased with the union that he added considerably to the estates of his brother at Lihue, and the nuptials were celebrated with games, feasting, dancing and the commencement of a new heiau near Waialua, which was in time completed and dedicated to Lono, with a large image of Laamaomao, the Hawaiian �olus, at the inner entrance, in poetic commemoration of the winds that drove Kelea away from the coast of Maui. At the conclusion of the festivities at Waialua, Kelea was borne all the way to Lihue in a richly-mounted manele, or native palanquin with four bearers. There were three hundred attendants in her train, exclusive of thirty-six chiefs as a guard of honor, wearing feather capes and helmets, and armed with javelins festooned with leis of flowers and tinted feathers. It was a right royal procession, and its entrance into Lihue was the beginning of another round of festivities continuing for many days. Portions of the mele recited by Lo-Lale in welcome of his wife to Lihue are still remembered and repeated, and the occasion was a popular theme of song and comment for a generation or more among the people of that district. And thus Kelea, the beautiful sister of the moi of Maui, became the wife of Lo-Lale, brother of Piliwale, king of Oahu. II. It is now in order to return to Hamakuapoko, to note what transpired there on the sudden disappearance of Kelea before the strong breath of the mumuku. The king was profoundly grieved, and summoned the attendants of his sister to learn the particulars of the misfortune. To all of them it was manifest that the canoe had been blown out to sea in spite of the efforts of its occupants, and, as the gale continued to increase in violence during the day, it was feared that the entire party had perished. As to the strangers, no one seemed to know anything of them or of the island from which they came. They did not seem to belong to the makaainana, or common people, and one of them, it was believed from his bearing, was a high chief. This was all the information the wailing attendants were able to give. One man, who had noticed the canoe as it came and went through the surf, thought it was from Hawaii, while another was equally certain that it was from Oahu; but as the general structure of canoes on the several islands of the group differed but little, their descriptions of the craft furnished no real clue to the mystery. With the cessation of the storm, late in the afternoon, came a hope to Kawao that the missing canoe had safely ridden out the gale, and would seek the nearest land favored by the changing winds. He therefore summoned the high-priest, and instructed him to put his diviners and magicians to the task of discovering what had become of the princess Kelea. Pigs and fowls were slain, prayers were said in the heiau, and late in the evening information came through supernatural agencies that Kelea was still living. But this was not satisfactory to the king. He demanded something more specific, and a kaula of great sanctity was prepared and placed in the anu, a wicker enclosure within the inner court, and in due time, in answer to the questions of the high-priest, announced that the canoe containing the princess was sailing in safety toward Oahu. The words of the kaula were repeated to the king, and the next day he despatched a well-manned canoe, in charge of one of his plumed halumanus, or military aids, to find and bring back the lost Kelea. Owing to unfavorable winds or bad management the canoe did not reach Makapuu Point, Oahu, until the fourth day. Proceeding along the northeastern coast of the island, and landing wherever practicable to make inquiries, the easy-going messenger did not arrive at Waialua until two days after the departure of Kelea for Lihue. Learning that the princess had become the wife of Lo-Lale, the disappointed halumanu did not deem it necessary to communicate with her, but briefly paid his respects to the king, to whom he made known the nature of his errand to Oahu, and his resolution to return at once to Maui and acquaint his royal master with the result of his mission. Appreciating that, in his anxiety to see his brother properly mated, he had countenanced a proceeding sufficiently discourteous to the moi of Maui to warrant a hostile response, Piliwale treated the halumanu with marked kindness and consideration, and insisted upon sending an escort with him back to Maui, including the bearer of a friendly explanatory message from himself to Kawao. For this delicate service no one could be found so competent as the courtly Kalamakua, who was well versed in the genealogy of the Kalona family, and would be able to satisfactorily, if not quite truthfully, explain why it was that the canoe containing the princess, when driven out to sea, was headed for Oahu instead of Maui when the storm abated. Kalamakua was accordingly despatched on the mission. Being a much better sailor than the halumanu, he found no difficulty either in parting company with him off the coast of eastern Maui or in reaching Hamakuapoko three or four hours in advance of the party he was courteously escorting thither. This enabled the wily Oahuan to secure an audience with the king, and deliver his message and explanation in full, before the halumanu could land and give his version of the story. Kalamakua's explanation of the impossibility, after the storm, of reaching in safety any land other than Oahu or Molokai, seemed to be satisfactory; and when he dwelt upon the well-known high rank of Lo-Lale, as recognized by the aha-alii, and referred to his manly bearing, his amiable disposition and the amplitude of his estates, Kawao answered sadly: "Then so let it be. It is perhaps the will of the gods. I would have had it otherwise; but be to Kelea and her husband, and to my royal brother the king of Oahu, my messenger of peace." Thanking the moi for his kindly words, Kalamakua took his leave. As he was about to re-embark in the afternoon for Oahu, the discomfited halumanu, having but just then landed, passed him on the beach. Knowing that he had been outwitted, in his wrath he reached for the handle of his knife. But he did not draw it. Kalamakua stopped and promptly answered the challenge; but the halumanu passed on, and with a smile he stepped into his canoe, and a few minutes later was on his way to Oahu with Kawao's welcome messages of peace. As the years came and went in their quiet home at Lihue, Lo-Lale lost none of his affection for Kelea. No wars distracted the group. Liloa, the son of Kiha and father of Umi, had become the peaceful sovereign of Hawaii; Kahakuma, the ancestor of some of the most distinguished families of the islands, held gentle and intelligent sway in Kauai; Kawao still ruled in Maui, and Piliwale in Oahu. To gratify his wife, Lo-Lale surrounded her with every comfort. The choicest fruits of the island were at her command, and every day fresh fish and other delicacies of the sea were brought to her from the neighboring coasts. In short, everything not tabu to the sex was provided without stint. Summer-houses were constructed for her in the cool recesses of the Waianae Mountains, and a manele, with relays of stout bearers, was always at her service for the briefest journeys. The people of the district were proud of her rank and beauty, and at seasons of hookupu, or gift-making, she was fairly deluged with rare and valuable offerings. Yet, with all this affluence of comfort and affection, Kelea became more and more restless and unhappy. Nor did the presence of her children, of whom she had three, seem to render her more contented. She longed for the sea; for the bounding surf which had been the sport of her girlhood; for the white-maned steeds of ocean, which she had so often mounted and fearlessly ridden to the shore; for the thunder of the breakers against the cliffs; for the murmur of the reef-bound wavelets timidly crawling up the beach to kiss and cool her feet; and the more she yearned for her old-time pleasures, the greater became her dissatisfaction with the tamer life and surroundings of Lihue. Knowing her love for the sea, Lo-Lale made occasional excursions with her to the coast, frequently remaining there for days together. Sometimes they visited the east and sometimes the south side of the island; but the place which seemed to please her above all others was Ewa, where Kalamakua made his home. He, too, loved the sea, and during her visits there afforded her every opportunity to indulge her passion for it. Together they had charming sails around the Puuloa (Pearl River) lagoon, and gallant rides over the surf at the entrance. There, and there only, did she seem to recover her spirits; there only did she seem to be happy. This did not escape the notice of Lo-Lale, and a great grief filled his heart as he sometimes thought, in noting her brightened look in the presence of Kalamakua, that it was less the charms of the surf than of his cousin's handsome face that made the waters of Ewa so attractive to Kelea. Life at Lihue finally became so irksome to her, and even the continued kindness of Lo-Lale so unwelcome, that she announced her determination to leave the home of her husband for ever. This resolution was not altogether unexpected by Lo-Lale, for he had not been blind to her growing restlessness and was prepared for the worst; and as the prerogatives of her high rank gave her the undoubted privilege of separation if she desired it, he reluctantly consented to the divorcement. When asked where it was her purpose to go, she answered: "Probably to Maui, to rejoin my brother." "More probably not beyond Ewa," was Lo-Lale's significant reply. "But, no matter where you may go," he continued, with dignity, "take your departure from Lihue in a manner consistent with your rank. You were received here as became the sister of a king and the wife of the son of Kalona-iki. So would I have you depart. I reproach you with nothing, myself with nothing; therefore let us part in peace." "We part in peace," was Kelea's only answer, and the next morning she quietly took her departure with four or five attendants. A chant expressive of Lo-Lale's grief at the separation was long after recited, but these lines are all of it that have been preserved: "Farewell, my partner on the lowland plains, On the waters of Pohakeo, Above Kanehoa, On the dark mountain spur of Mauna-una! O Lihue, she is gone! Sniff the sweet scent of the grass, The sweet scent of the wild vines That are twisted by Waikoloa, By the winds of Waiopua, My flower! As if a mote were in my eye, The pupil of my eye is troubled; Dimness covers my eyes. Woe is me!" Leaving Lihue, Kelea descended to Ewa, and, skirting the head of the lagoon by way of Halawa, on the afternoon of the second day arrived at the entrance, immediately opposite Puualoa. There she found a large number of nobles and retainers of Kalamakua, the high chief of the district, amusing themselves in the surf. As she had not seen the salt water for some months, Kelea could not resist the temptation to indulge in her old pastime, and, borrowing a surf-board from one of the bathers, plunged into the sea, and soon joined the party of surf-riders beyond the breakers. Soon a huge roller made its appearance, and all mounted it and started for the shore. The race was exciting, for the most expert swimmers in the district were among the contestants; but in grace, daring and skill Kelea very plainly excelled them all, and was loudly cheered as she touched the shore. Kalamakua was reposing in the shade, not far away, and, hearing the tumult of voices, inquired the cause. He was told that a beautiful woman from Lihue had beaten all the chiefs at surf-riding, and the people could not restrain their enthusiasm. Satisfied that there was but one Lihue woman who could perform such a feat, and that she must be Kelea, the wife of his cousin Lo-Lale, he proceeded to the beach just as a second trial had resulted in a triumph to the fair contestant quite as emphatic as the first. As she touched the shore Kalamakua threw his kihei (mantle) over her shoulders and respectfully greeted her. Kelea then informed him that she had formally separated from her husband and was about to embark for Maui. "If that is the case," said Kalamakua, gently taking her by the arm, as if to restrain her, "you will go no farther than Ewa. When I went in search of a wife for Lo-Lale, I promised that if he objected to the woman I brought or recommended, or she to him, I would take her myself, if she so willed. You have objected to him. Is Kalamakua better to your liking?" "I will remain at Ewa," was the satisfactory answer. "Yes, and you should have gone there instead of to Lihue, when you landed at Waialua years ago," continued Kalamakua, earnestly. "My thought is the same," was Kelea's frank avowal; and she beckoned to her attendants, and told Kalamakua that she was ready to follow him. Did he expect her at the beach that morning? Tradition offers no direct answer to the question, but significantly mentions that Kalamakua spent one or two days at Lihue not long before, that houses were in readiness for her at Ewa, and that she was borne thither on a manele, escorted by the principal chiefs and nobles of the district. Learning, not long after, that Kelea had become the wife of Kalamakua, the gentle-hearted Lo-Lale sent to her a present of fruits and a message of peace and forgiveness; but it was his request that they might never meet again, and he spent the remainder of his days in Lihue, caring for the welfare of his people and dreaming in the shadows of the hills of Kaala. But little more need here be told. Kelea and Kalamakua lived happily together, and were blessed with a daughter, Laielohelohe, who inherited her mother's beauty, and became the wife of her cousin Piilani, son and successor of Kawao, moi of Maui; but it was not until after the betrothal of the cousins, which was agreed to in their childhood, that Kawao fully forgave his volatile sister for marrying a prince of Oahu without his consent. Piikea, one of the daughters of Piilani and Laielohelohe, became in after-time the wife of the great Umi, of Hawaii, and through her great-grandson, I, the ancestress of Kalakaua, the present sovereign of the group. Lono-a-Pii, another of their children, succeeded his father as moi of Maui. As a further example of the manner in which the blood of the reigning families of the several islands of the group was commingled in the early periods of their history, it may be mentioned that Kaholi, a son of Lo-Lale and Kelea, was united in marriage to Kohipa, one of the two daughters of Piliwale; while the other, Kukaniloko, who followed her father as sovereign of Oahu, became the wife of Luaia, grandson of Kakaalaneo, the joint ruler of Maui during the reign of the unfortunate Kakae. UMI, THE PEASANT PRINCE OF HAWAII. CHARACTERS. Kiha, king of Hawaii. Ika, chief of a band of demi-demons. Puapua-lenalena, a demon dog. Liloa, afterwards king of Hawaii. Pinea, wife of Liloa. Hakau, son and successor of Liloa. Kapukini, daughter of Liloa. Akahia-kuleana, a peasant girl loved by Liloa. Umi, son of Akahia-kuleana. Maakao, husband of Akahia-kuleana. Kukulani, wife of Hakau. Kulamea, the betrothed of Umi. Maukaleoleo, the giant friend of Umi. Laeanui, the high-priest of Hawaii. Kaoleioko, a warrior-priest. Nuna and Kalohe, priests of Waipio. Omaukamau, brother of Kulamea, and Piimaiwaa, lieutenants of Umi. UMI, THE PEASANT PRINCE OF HAWAII. THE HISTORIC LEGENDS OF LILOA, HAKAU, AND THE "KIHA-PU." I. Nowhere on the island of Hawaii do the palms grow taller than in the valleys of Waipio, and nowhere is the foliage greener, for every month in the year they are refreshed with rains, and almost hourly cooled in the shadows of passing clouds. And sweet are the waters that sing through the valleys of Waipio. They are fed by the tears of the trade-winds gathered in the shaded gorges of the mountains where they find their source, and are speeded to the ocean by hurrying and impatient cascades through black channels fretted with bowlders and fringed with everlasting green. Tradition says the waters of Waipio, after their first descent from the hills, at one time crawled quite sluggishly to the sea; but a great fish--larger than the island of Kaula--whose home was in the depths off the coast of Hamakua, required more fresh water than was furnished by the principal stream of the valley, and Kane, who was friendly with the monster, increased the volume of the little river by creating new springs at its sources, and accelerating the flow by raising the bed in places and providing additional riffles and cascades. The great fish no longer frequents that part of the coast of Hamakua, but the cascades and riffles remain, with the broad finger-marks of Kane upon the rocks hurled into the gorge to create them. Although but thinly populated now, Waipio was for many generations in the past a place of great political and social importance, and the tabus of its great temple were the most sacred in all Hawaii. For two hundred years or more it was the residence of the kings of that island, and was the scene of royal pageants, priestly power and knightly adventure, as well as of many sanguinary battles. Waipio valley was first occupied as a royal residence by Kahaimoelea, near the middle or close of the thirteenth century, and so continued until after the death of Liloa, about the end of the fifteenth century. For some reason not clearly stated the successor of Liloa removed his court from Waipio to the opposite coast of the island. Although the glory of the old capital departed with its abandonment as the royal residence, the tabus of its great temple of Paakalani continued to command supreme respect until as late as 1791, when the heiau was destroyed, with all its sacred symbols and royal associations, by the confederated forces of Maui and Kauai in their war with Kamehameha I. Although the story about to be related opens in the reign of Liloa, which closed with his death in about 1485, it is pertinent to refer, as briefly as the strange circumstances of the time will permit, to the father of that sovereign--the great Kiha--concerning whose career many curious traditions survive. The reign of Kiha was long and peaceful. He was endowed not only with marked abilities as a ruler, but with unusual physical strength and skill in the use of arms. In addition to these natural advantages and accomplishments, which gave him the respect and fear of his subjects, it was popularly believed that he possessed supernatural resources, and could call to his aid, in an emergency, weird forces in opposition to which mere human endeavor would be weak and fruitless. Under the circumstances, it is not strange that the chiefs of the neighboring islands deemed it prudent to court his friendship, and that no great wars distracted the kingdom during his reign. Among the means at the command of Kiha for summoning to his assistance the invisible forces subject to his call, the most potential was a curious war-trumpet, the notes of which, when blown by Kiha, could be heard a distance of ten miles, even from Waipio to Waimea. According to the character of the blast, its voice was either a summons to unseen powers, a rallying-cry to the people, or a dreadful challenge to battle. This trumpet was a large sea-shell. It was a native of foreign waters, and another like it could not be found in the Hawaiian group. It was ornamented with rows of the teeth of distinguished chiefs slain in battle, and could be so blown as to bring forth the dying groans or battle cries of all of them in dreadful diapason. Many legends are related of the manner in which Kiha became possessed of this marvellous shell, but the most probable explanation is that it was brought from some one of the Samoan or Society Islands three or four centuries before, and had been retained in the reigning family of Hawaii as a charm against certain evils. In the hands of the crafty Kiha, however, it developed new powers and became an object of awe in the royal household. Whatever may have been the beneficent or diabolic virtues of this shell-clarion of Kiha--of the Kiha-pu, as it is called--its existence, at least, was a reality, since it is to-day one of the attractions of the Royal Hawaiian Museum of Honolulu, brought down by the Kamehameha branch of the Kiha line. When vigorously blown it still responds in sonorous voice, suggestive of the roar of breakers around the jutting cliffs of Hamakua; but Lono no longer heeds the mandate of its call, and brown-armed warriors come no more at its bidding. Of the many strange stories still retained of the Kiha-pu, one is here given, nearly in the language in which it has come down in Hawaiian chant and song. a story of the kiha-pu. For a period of eight years, during the reign of Kiha, the Kiha-pu was missing from the cabinet of royal charms and treasures. A new temple was to be dedicated to Lono, not far from Waipio, and feathers of the mamo, oo and other birds were required to weave into royal mantles and redecorate Kaili and other gods of the king's household. But one of the Kahu alii, constituting the five classes of guardians of the royal person, was permitted to touch the Kiha-pu, nor did any other know of its depository in the king's chamber. His name was Hiolo. He was the son of a distinguished chief, and his office was that of ipukuha, or spittoon-bearer--a position of peculiar responsibility, which could be filled only by persons of noble blood and undoubted attachment to their sovereign. Desirous of hastily assembling and despatching to the neighboring sea-shores and mountains a large party of feather-hunters, the king, reclining in the shade of the palms in front of the royal mansion, commanded Hiolo to bring to him the Kiha-pu, that he might with a single blast summon his subjects throughout the valleys of Waipio. Hiolo proceeded to the chamber of the king, and a few minutes after returned pale and speechless, and threw himself at the feet of Kiha, tearing his hair, lacerating his flesh with his nails, and exhibiting other evidences of extreme agony and desperation. Nothing ever startled a sovereign of the line of Pili. Under all circumstances he acted with apparent deliberation. It was a natural trait, strengthened by example and education. Kiha calmly regarded his ipukuha for a moment, and then said: "What spirit of evil possesses you? Rise, Hiolo, and speak!" Hiolo rose to his feet, and, with a look of despair, exclaimed: "It is no fault of mine; but tear out the tongue that tells you the Kiha-pu is gone!" Without replying, the king, with a terrible scowl upon his face, rose and strode into his chamber. Parting the curtains of kapa which secluded the back portion of the apartment, he stepped to an elaborately carved and ornamented ipu, a container shaped and hollowed from the trunk of a koa tree. He found the vessel open, and beside it on the matted floor the several folds of kapa in which the Kiha-pu had been wrapped; but instead of the sacred trumpet he discovered at the bottom of the ipu a hideously-carved head and face of stone. The shell had been adroitly abstracted, but the image that had been left in its place saved the life of Hiolo, for by it Kiha discerned that the theft and substitution had been achieved through supernatural agencies. The loss of the Kiha-pu was a great grief to the king. But he did not deem it prudent to admit that he no longer possessed the sacred talisman, and therefore announced to Hiolo that the trumpet had been found. Under the pretence that it had been carelessly misplaced by Hiolo, Kiha declared that he would be its sole guardian thereafter. There was great joy at the court when it was learned from the lips of the king that the Kiha-pu had been found; yet it was observed that it was not used to summon the feather-hunters, and after the sun went down that evening many thought they faintly heard the music of its voice coming in from the sea. And the king detected the familiar sound, and, fearful that others might hear it as well, called together his poets and hula dancers, and permitted their boisterous merriment far into the night. Early in the evening, while the palace grounds were a scene of revelry, the king repaired alone to the great temple of Paakalani, not far from the royal mansion, to consult with the high-priest and put in motion the weird forces of the heiau for the recovery of the Kiha-pu. He took with him the image left in the ipu, as a possible means of assistance, and enjoined a solemn secrecy upon every kahuna taken into the confidence of the high-priest. The most noted kilos, seers and prophets of the temple were ordered to apply their arts, and a kaula, inspired by incantation, was questioned from within the anu of the inner sanctuary. The clouds were noted, the flights of birds observed, and the dreams of drugged priests interpreted, but nothing satisfactory was developed. Prayers were offered to the gods, sacrifices were laid upon the altar, and the vitals of freshly-slain pigs and fowls were carefully examined; but the only information obtained was that the Kiha-pu had been stolen by the chief of a band of demi-demons, or human beings controlled by evil spirits; that it was no longer on the island of Hawaii, but somewhere on the ocean beyond the eight Hawaiian seas; that it would one day be recovered by a being without hands and wearing neither mantle nor maro, but not until a cocoa-tree, planted in the next full of the moon, should yield its first fruit, to be eaten by the king. So far as concerned the theft of the Kiha-pu, the seers of the temple had spoken correctly. For some months a dense forest in the mountains back of Waipio, interspersed with marshes and patches of rank undergrowth, had been inhabited by a small band of wild-looking men, who boldly helped themselves to the pigs, fowls and fruits of the neighboring farmers, and held noisy festivals almost nightly within the gloomy recesses of their mountain retreat. They were said to be only half-human, and capable of assuming other than their natural forms. They had occasionally visited Waipio in parties of from two to five, and entertained the people by telling fortunes and exhibiting strange feats of posturing and legerdemain. In the guise of an old woman the chief of the band had entered the royal mansion and stolen the Kiha-pu, leaving in its place the hideous stone image mentioned; then, as if the object of their stay near Waipio had been attained, the entire band embarked the evening of the next day in stolen canoes for Kauai. When safely off the coast of Hamakua the demon-chief had defiantly wound a blast from the Kiha-pu, which the king had sought to drown in the tumult of the hula. Kiha departed gloomily from the temple. The loss of the sacred trumpet afflicted him sorely. It had long been an heirloom in the royal family of Hawaii, and its powers had been increased during his reign. In obedience to the revelation of a kaula of great sanctity, he had secretly deposited it in a cave near the summit of Mauna Kea and retired to a valley below. Near the middle of the following night a sound unearthly and terrible came echoing down the mountain-side, followed by a hurricane which uprooted trees and tore great rocks from their fastenings and hurled them into the gorges below. The earth trembled as if a volcano was about to burst forth, and a ruddy light hung about the summit. The sound ceased, the wind fell to a whisper, and Kiha rose to his feet in the darkness and said: "It is well. The great Lono has kept faith. He has blown the sacred trumpet, and henceforth it will have the voice of a god!" The next morning he repaired to the cave, and found the shell, not where he had left it, but on the top of a huge rock with which the entrance had been for ever closed. He raised the trumpet to his lips, and such sound as his heart desired came forth at the bidding of his breath. He breathed a simple call to his subjects, and it was heard the distance of a day's journey. He gave a battle-blast, and his ears were stunned with the mingled cries and groans of conflict. He ventured an appeal to the unseen, and to a weird music around him rose gnomes, fairies and grinning monsters. He returned elated to the palace, and more and more, as its strange voices were heard, did the Kiha-pu become an object of awe and wonder. Although he took every possible precaution to keep from the people all knowledge of the loss of the Kiha-pu, the king had little faith in the assurances of the seers of the great temple that it would in time be recovered. The conditions of its recovery were too vague, distant and unsatisfactory to be entitled to serious consideration. However, within a few days, with his own hands he planted a cocoa-tree near the door of his chamber, and had a strong fence placed around it. He visited the spot daily and saw that the ground was kept moist, and in due time a healthy shoot came forth to reward his watchfulness. The members of the royal household wondered at the interest taken by the king in a simple cocoa sprout; but when it was intimated that he was making a new experiment in planting, his care of the little tree ceased to attract remark. And now, while the king is anxiously watching the growth of his cocoa-tree, and carefully guarding it from accident and blight, let us follow the travels of the Kiha-pu. Instead of sailing for Kauai through the island channels, the band of demi-demons took a northwest course, intending to reach their destination without touching at any intermediate point. The powers of the Kiha-pu were known to them, and their chief amused himself and his graceless companions by testing its virtues. When off the coast of Maui a blast of the trumpet brought near Ukanipo, a terrible shark-god, sent by Kuula, the powerful but exacting god of the fishermen of that island. On a jutting headland could be seen a heiau dedicated to him and his wife, Hina. Hundreds of sharks followed in the train of Ukanipo. They surrounded the canoes and lashed the sea into foam. Separating, they formed a great circle around the little fleet, and, swiftly approaching, drove a school of flying-fish across the canoes, many striking the sails and falling into the open boats and thus providing an opportune supply of favorite food. Sighting Molokai, they thought of landing to replenish their water-calabashes; but as the coast was rugged and the wind unfavorable, a blast of the trumpet was blown to Kuluiau, the goddess of rain. Instantly there was a commotion in the heavens. Black clouds began to gather around them, and they had barely time to arrange their kapa sheds and funnels before the rain poured down in torrents and filled their calabashes to overflowing. Believing the Kiha-pu would bring them anything they desired, and returning thanks for nothing received, when off the northern coast of Molokai, near Kaulapapa, they sounded a call to Laamaomao, god of the winds, who since the days of Moikeha, more than two centuries before, had occupied a cave on that island. Enraged at an appeal for favoring winds from such a source, Laamaomao opened the mouth of the ipu in which he kept the winds imprisoned, and turned it toward the sea. A few minutes after a hot, fierce hurricane struck the canoes of the miscreants, upsetting two of them and tearing their sails in tatters. The chief had sufficient presence of mind to call through the trumpet for Maikahulipu, the god who assists in righting upset canoes, and the foundered boats were soon restored to their proper positions and partially freed from water. But there was no abatement in the violence of the wind. For more than a day and a night the canoes were driven before it almost with the speed of a shark, until finally their drenched and wearied occupants heard before them through the darkness the sound of breakers against a rock-bound shore. The danger was imminent, for paddles were useless. Raising the trumpet to his lips, the chief called for Uhumakaikai, a powerful fish-god. No response came, and the cliffs frowned before him as he hastily trumpeted for Apukohai, another fish-god of Kauai, whose acts were usually cruel and malicious. The spray of shattered waves against the rocks began to wet the canoes, when they were seized by a force unseen, drawn away from the cliffs, swept around a northward point, and flung by the waves upon a sandy beach not far from Koloa. Thus escaping with their lives, the party traveled overland and joined a band of congenial spirits in the mountains back of Waimea, where they remained until they were driven from the island for their misdemeanors. Leaving Kauai, they crossed the channel, and, after moving from place to place for some years, finally took up their abode in a secluded spot near Waolani, on the island of Oahu. In the possession of the Kiha-pu, Ika, the chief of the band, who claimed it as his individual property, became cruel and dictatorial to his companions. He esteemed himself little less than a god, and demanded a full half of all the earnings and pilferings of his associates. As the Kiha-pu was the cause of this exaction, one of the friends of Ika, not daring to destroy or purloin the shell, resolved to despoil it of its magic powers. To this end, with great offerings of pigs and fowls, he consulted a priest of Lono at Waianae, and was told that a tabu mark, placed somewhere on the shell with the approval of Lono, would accomplish what was desired. As the priest alone could place the mark upon the shell, he consented to visit Waolani, and remain in the neighborhood until the trumpet could be brought to him. Everything having been arranged, one evening Ika, without great persuasion, was made drunk with awa, when the shell was stolen and conveyed to the priest, who, with a point of flint, hastily scratched near the outer rim a pea mark, or tabu cross, meantime burning incense and chanting a low prayer to Lono. "Can its powers be restored?" inquired the friend of Ika, as the tabued trumpet was returned to him. "Not while the tabu mark remains," replied the priest; "not until--but no matter; its magic voices are silent now." Before Ika awoke from his drunken stupor the Kiha-pu had been restored to its usual place of deposit. The next morning Ika partook of more awa, threw over his shoulders a cape of red--a color sacred to the gods--suspended the Kiha-pu from his neck with a cord of human hair, and went proudly forth to receive the homage of his companions. But they refused to accord him the honors to which he imagined he was entitled, and in his wrath he raised the trumpet to his lips to blast them with a proclamation of his superiority. A natural and monotonous sound issued from the shell. He regarded it for a moment with amazement, then replaced it to his lips and poured his breath into it with the full force of his lungs; but its many voices were silent; its thunder-tones had been hushed. He hastily re-entered his hut to escape the comments of his companions, and discovered, after repeated trials, that the Kiha-pu had lost its magic powers, and in his hands was nothing more than a simple shell. Not doubting that it had been deprived of its virtues through supernatural agencies, Ika visited a renowned kilo, or wizard, living near Waialua, taking with him the Kiha-pu, which was enclosed in a pouch of kapa, that it might not be observed. The age of the kilo was a hundred and twenty-four years, and he was totally blind, subsisting upon the bounty of those who sought his counsel. Finding his hut after some difficulty, Ika presented him with a roll of kapa which he had brought with him from Waolani, and a pig which he had stolen in the valley below, and implored him to ascertain, if possible, the cause of the disenchantment of the Kiha-pu. Taking the trumpet from Ika, the kilo passed his wrinkled hands over it for some minutes, and then retired with it behind a screen of mats, leaving his visitor under the eye of an old crone, who had admitted him without a word and seated herself beside the opening. It was a long time before the kilo reappeared, and it was then to inform Ika that little could be learned concerning the Kiha-pu. He had employed every means known to his art, and finally appealed to Uli, the supreme god of sorcery, when the reluctant answer came that the Kiha-pu had been silenced by a power greater than his. "I dare not inquire further," said the kilo, returning the trumpet. "Will its voices ever return to it? Will your cowardice allow you to answer that question?" inquired Ika, in a sneering tone. "Yes," replied the kilo, with an effort restraining his wrath and speaking calmly--"yes; its voices will be heard again in Hawaii, among the hills that have sent back their echoes." Ika would have questioned the kilo farther, but the old woman rose and pointed toward the door, and with a look of disappointment he replaced the shell in its pouch of kapa and sullenly left the hut. Returning to Waolani, Ika abandoned his lofty pretensions and mingled again with his companions on terms of comparative equality. This restored him to their friendship, and, remembering the words of the kilo, he prevailed upon a majority of them to accompany him to Hawaii. Stealing boats at Waikiki, the party set sail for Hawaii, and the fourth day landed at Kawaihae, in the district of Kohala. There they abandoned their canoes, or exchanged them for food, and in parties of four or five proceeded across the island by way of Waimea, and soon after took possession of their old quarters in the mountains back of Waipio, after an absence of eight years. In all these years what had become of the cocoa-tree planted by Kiha, with the coming of the first-fruits of which the magic trumpet was to be restored by a being without hands and wearing neither mantle nor maro? For seven years he had watched and nurtured its growth, staying it against wind and storm, and guarding its every leaf and stem. It was a vigorous and shapely tree, and its leaves were above the touch of a battle-spear in the hands of the king. But no signs of fruit appeared, and the heart of Kiha was troubled with the thought that the tree might be barren, and that the gods had mocked him. The seventh year of its growth had come and was going, when one morning he descried among its branches three young cocoanuts, scarcely less in size than his clenched fist. He thought it strange that he had not seen them before, and then wondered that he had seen them at all, for they were closely hidden among the leaves. But there they were, to his great joy, and he watched them day by day until they attained an age and size at which they might be eaten. He then sent for the high-priest, and, pointing to the fruit, said: "Behold the fruit of the tree planted by the hands of Kiha. At the rising of the sun to-morrow I shall eat of it. Will the gods fulfil their promise?" "O chief!" replied the priest, "I do not see the means; but you planted the tree; the fruit is fit for food; eat of it to-morrow, if you will. The gods are all-powerful!" At daylight the next morning the fruit was taken from the tree, and the king drank the milk of the three cocoanuts, and ate of the meat of all, first giving thanks to the gods. He then threw himself upon his kapa-moe until the sun was well up in the heavens, when he rose and went forth to meet his chief adviser, as was his daily custom, and learn from his spies and other confidential officers what of importance had transpired since the day before. The only information that seemed to interest him was that a lawless band of strange men--apparently the same who infested the neighborhood some years before--had reoccupied the marshy forest in the mountains back of Waipio, and would doubtless become a scourge to the planters in the upper part of the valley. "It was through such a band that I was robbed of the Kiha-pu," thought the king. "It may be that the very same have returned and brought back with them the sacred trumpet. The ways of the gods are mysterious." Communicating the thought to no one, Kiha despatched a discreet messenger to reconnoitre the camp of the marauders, and in the afternoon secretly visited the temple of Paakalani, where he learned through the kaulas that the Kiha-pu was somewhere on the island of Hawaii. The sun was sinking in the west when the messenger returned, with the information that the chief of the demon band was Ika, who, with many of his followers, had been seen in and around Waipio many years before. These tidings had scarcely reached the ears of the king when a tumult was discovered at the main gate of the palace enclosure, and a few minutes after an old man, with his arms bound behind his back, and followed by a strange-looking dog, was being dragged by a crowd of officers and others toward the royal mansion, in front of which Kiha was sitting, surrounded by a number of distinguished chiefs and titled retainers. The man was well advanced in years, and was clad in a maro and kihei, or short mantle of kapa, while from his neck was suspended an ivory charm rudely carved into the form of a dog's foot. He was above the average height, and around his stooped shoulders hung a tangled mass of grizzled hair. His beard was unshorn, and from beneath his shaggy brows peered a pair of small and malignant-looking eyes. He glowered savagely at his captors, and resented anything that seemed like unnecessary force in urging him along. The dog was a large, misshapen brute, with human-looking ears and a bluish coat of bristling hair. It had a long, swinish tail, and one of its eyes was white and the other green. The animal followed closely and sullenly at its master's heels, uttering an occasional low growl when too roughly jostled by the crowd. When within a hundred paces of the mansion the officers halted with their prisoner, and an attendant was despatched by the king to ascertain the cause of the excitement. Learning that the officers were desirous of bringing before him a man suspected of pilfering from the royal estates, the king consented to listen to the accusation in person, and ordered the prisoner to appear in his presence. Approaching, the old man prostrated himself at the feet of Kiha, and the dog, giving voice to a dismal howl, crouched upon the earth, laid his nose between his paws, and bent his green eye upon the king. Kiha regarded both for a moment with an amused expression; but there was something demoniac in the appearance of the dog, and after catching a glimpse of it he could scarcely remove his gaze from the green eye that glared upon him. Commanding one of the officers to speak for himself and the rest, that the matter might be briefly determined, the king was informed that the prisoner was a native of the island of Kauai, and some months before had landed with his dog in the district of Kau; that he was an awa thief and had trained his fiendish-looking dog to do his pilfering; that the animal possessed the intelligence of a kahuna and the instincts of a demon, and could almost steal the mantle from a man's shoulders without detection; that the prisoner had been driven for his thefts from Kau to Kona, and thence to Hamakua; that he had been living for some months past at Kikaha, where his dog, Puapua-lenalena, as he was called, had become noted for his thefts; that awa had been missed by the luna of one of the king's estates in the upper part of the valley; that the night before a watch had been placed, and the demon dog had been detected in the act of leaving the royal plantation with a quantity of awa in his mouth; that the animal had been followed to the hut of his master, who was found asleep under the influence of awa, which the dog had doubtless ground with his teeth into an intoxicating drink, since on being aroused the man denied that he had either stolen or chewed it; and, finally, after some resistance, the prisoner had been brought to Waipio, followed by his dog, and was now before the king for examination and sentence. After the officer had concluded his account of the misdemeanors of the prisoner, by permission of the king the old man rose to his feet, and was about to speak in his own defence when Kiha, turning his gaze with an effort from the green eye of the dog, abruptly inquired: "What manner of animal is this, and how came he in your possession?" "O king!" replied the prisoner, "the dog was given to me by my uncle, a distinguished kaula of Kauai, and it is believed that he was cast up from the sea." "Enough!" exclaimed the king, with a gesture of impatience. "Take them both to the temple of Paakalani," he continued, addressing a chief with a yellow cape and helmet, "and there await my coming." The prisoner and his green-eyed companion were removed to the temple, and in the dusk of the evening Kiha proceeded thither alone. Entering the royal retreat with which the heiau enclosure was provided, he sent for the high-priest, and soon after for the prisoner and his dog. They were conducted to the apartment, and the door was closed, a kukui torch held at another opening throwing a glare of light into the room. The king sat for a few breaths in silence, while the priest was scanning the prisoner and his strange companion. Finally, pointing to the dog, Kiha turned to the priest and said: "A wonderful animal--a being without hands, and wearing neither mantle nor maro!" "True," returned the priest, recalling the promise of the gods; "and should he be the messenger, his services must not be slighted." "Listen," said the king, addressing the prisoner. "I have faith that this animal can do me a service. In a marshy forest in the mountains back of Waipio a band of conjuring outlaws have lately found a retreat. A magic shell of great power, stolen from me many years ago, is now in the possession of some one of them--probably of Ika, their chief. Can you prompt this animal to recover the Kiha-pu?" "Perhaps," replied the prisoner. "Then do so," returned the king, "and I will not only give you the life you have forfeited, but will see that you are provided henceforth with all the awa you have an appetite to consume." With these words of the king the dog rose to his feet, uttered a growling sound which seemed to be half-human, and approached the door. "No instructions are required," said the old man; "he understands, and is ready to start upon his errand." "Then send him forth at once," returned the king; "the night is dark and will favor him." The door was opened, and like a flash the dog sprang from the room, leaped the closed gate of the outer wall, and in the darkness dashed up the valley toward the mountains. "I will await his return here," said the king, looking inquiringly toward the prisoner. "He will be back a little beyond the middle of the night," replied the old man. "With the Kiha-pu?" inquired the king. "Either with or without it," was the answer. Leaving the prisoner in the custody of the high-priest and his attendants, Kiha walked out into the starlight. His face was feverish, and the kiss of the trade-winds was cool. The heiau of Paakalani was a puhonua, or sacred place of refuge--one of the two on the island of Hawaii--and he wondered whether, under any circumstances, he could properly demand the life of the prisoner were he to claim the protection of the temple. Had he voluntarily sought refuge in the puhonua, there would have been no doubt; but as he was forcibly taken there by royal order, his right to exemption from seizure was a question of doubt. Dismissing the subject with the reflection that the life or death of the prisoner was of little consequence, Kiha strolled toward the inner temple and reverently bowed before an image of Lono near the entrance. Remains of recent sacrifices still smelt rank upon the altar, and scores of gods of almost every grade and function looked grimly down upon him from the walls. Dim lights were seen in some of the quarters of the priests constructed against the outer wall of the enclosure, and a torch was burning at the main entrance. As the evening wore on the silence of the heiau was broken only by the hooting of the sacred owls from the walls of the inner temple, and Kiha threw himself at the foot of a pepper-tree, and was soon wafted out into the boundless sea of dreams. After leaping the gate of the heiau the dog started up the valley with the speed of the wind. As he swept past the thatched huts in his course, those who caught sight of him for an instant were sure that they beheld a demon, and the dogs that pursued speedily returned, to crouch whiningly behind their masters. Reaching the upper end of the valley, the dog followed an ascending trail through a steep ravine coming down from the northward, and in a short time, considering the distance traveled, stood snuffing the air at the verge of the forest within which the outlaws had found a temporary refuge. Distant lights were seen flickering through occasional openings among the trees and tangled undergrowth, and at intervals strange voices, as if of song and merriment, were heard. For some time the dog remained motionless, and then stealthily crept into the forest. What form he assumed, how he learned of the hiding-place of the Kiha-pu, and through what means he escaped discovery, are details which tradition has left to conjecture. It is told only that he succeeded in finding in the unguarded hut of Ika, seizing in his mouth, and escaping undiscovered from the forest with, the sacred trumpet. So adroitly had the theft been committed that it seemed that the dog would surely escape without detection; but in plunging down the steep ravine through which he had finally ascended to the forest, he dropped the Kiha-pu, breaking from the rim a piece embracing the small pea or tabu mark of silence placed upon it by the kaula of Waianae. In an instant the liberated voices of the trumpet poured forth in a blast which echoed through the hills and started the night-birds to screaming. The sound was heard by the reveling demi-demons of the forest, and, ascertaining that the shell had been stolen, they poured down the mountain-side in pursuit of the plunderer. Their speed was something more than human, and the darkness did not seem to impede their steps. From time to time the voice of the trumpet came back to them; but it grew fainter and fainter in the distance, until they finally abandoned the chase as hopeless, Ika himself suggesting that the Kiha-pu, with its voices in some manner restored to it, had taken wings and escaped. The king slept under the pepper-tree until past the middle of the night, when the hooting of an owl almost at his ear awoke him, and he rose and re-entered the royal retreat, where he found the high-priest with a number of his attendants, and the prisoner intently listening at the half-open door. Kiha was about to inquire the time of the night--for he had neglected to look at the stars before entering--when a noise was heard at the outer gate. The prisoner stepped forward and threw back the door, and the next moment the dog sprang into the room, laid the Kiha-pu at the feet of the king, and then dropped dead beside it. The overjoyed king raised and placed the trumpet to his lips, and with a swelling heart roused the people of Waipio with a blast such as they had not heard for more than eight years. Liberating the prisoner, who was grief-stricken at the death of his dog, Kiha ordered that he henceforth be fed from the royal table. Winding another blast upon the trumpet, the king returned to the palace, around which were congregated hundreds of excited people. Among them were chiefs in yellow capes and helmets, and warriors armed with spear and battle-axe. Summoning his alii-koa, or principal military leader, a brief council was held, followed by the sending forth of the plumed aids of the king, and the speedy concentration within the palace grounds of a picked body of three or four hundred warriors armed with short javelins and knives for close encounter. The little army moved rapidly but noiselessly up the valley, and at early daylight surrounded and attacked the camp of the demon band. A desperate hand-to-hand conflict ensued; but the miscreants were overpowered, and all slain with the exception of Ika and two others, who were reserved alive for the altar. On the evening following, in the midst of great rejoicing, the Kiha-pu was rededicated to Lono, and Ika and his companions were slain without the walls and sacrificed, with a host of other offerings, in the temple of Paakalani. II. The reign of Liloa was as peaceful as that of Kiha, his distinguished father. He did not lack ability, either as a civil or military leader, however his pleasant and mirthful ways may have impressed to the contrary. He was fond of good living, fine apparel and comely women; yet he held the sceptre firmly, and was prompt to punish wrong-doing in his chiefs or infringement of any of his prerogatives. Nevertheless, his heart was kind, and he frequently forgave the humble who had crossed his shadow, and the thoughtless who had violated the spirit of a royal tabu. As he was distracted neither by domestic disturbance nor wars with neighboring kings, Liloa made frequent visits to the several districts of the island, sometimes with an imposing retinue of chiefs and retainers, but quite as often with no more than two or three trusty attendants. Sometimes he traveled incognito, visiting suspected district chiefs to observe their methods of government, and, when occasion for rebuke occurred, to their great confusion making himself known to them. Near the close of the year 1460, before the annual festival of Lono, which inaugurated the beginning of a new year, Liloa went with a large and brilliant party, in gaily-decked double canoes carrying the royal colors, from Waipio to Koholalele, in Hamakua, to assist in the reconsecration of the old temple of Manini, the restoration and enlargement of which had just been completed. He took with him his high-priest, Laeanui, a band of musicians and dancers, and his chief navigator and astrologer, and the heiau was consecrated with unusual display. Laeanui recited the kuawili--the long prayer of consecration--and twenty-four human victims were laid upon the altar. Ordering the party to return in the double canoes without him, Liloa resolved to make the journey overland to Waipio with a single attendant; and it is quite probable that it was something more than accident that prompted the royal traveler to deviate from the shortest path to Waipio, and tarry for some hours in a pleasant grove of palms near Kealakaha, where dwelt with her old father one of the most beautiful maidens in all Hamakua. The name of the girl was Akahia-kuleana. She was tall and slender, and her dark hair, which rippled down in wavelets, shrouded her bare shoulders like a veil. Her eyes were soft, and her voice was like the music of a mountain rivulet, and when her bosom was bedecked with leis of fragrant blossoms it seemed that they must have grown there, so much did she appear to be a part of them. Although in humble life, Akahia was really of royal blood, since six generations back her paternal ancestor was Kalahuamoku, a half-brother to Kalapana, from whom Liloa drew his strain. She knew the rank of her royal visitor, and felt honored that he should praise her beauty; and when he kissed her lips at parting he left with her his maro and the ivory clasp of his necklace, at the same time whispering words in her ear which in a generation later transferred the sceptre of Hawaii from the direct line to humbler but worthier hands. Before the trade-winds came and went again the gentle Akahia, unwedded, became a mother. At first her father frowned upon the child; but it was a strong and healthy boy, who looked as if he might some day wield with uncommon vigor a laau-palau if not a battle-axe, and he soon became reconciled to the presence of the little intruder. In those days, it is proper to mention, such events occasioned but little comment, and entailed upon the mother neither social ostracism nor especial reproach. The child was named Umi, and, to give it a stronger protector than herself, Akahia became the wife of her cousin Maakao, a strong, rough man, who had always shown great affection for her, and who felt honored in becoming the husband of one who might have taken her choice among many. The father of Akahia cultivated a kalo patch larger than his necessities really required, and was abundantly supplied with pigs, poultry, yams, bananas, cocoanuts and breadfruit, which he was at all times enabled to exchange for fish, crabs, limpets and other products of the sea. All land titles at that time vested either in the sovereign or the chiefs subject to him, and the producer was frequently required to return to his landlord a full third or half of all his labor yielded. Sometimes the land-owner was more liberal with his tenants; but quite as often he took to the extent of his need or greed, with no one to challenge the injustice of his demands. But the bit of land occupied by the father of Akahia was part of a large tract reserved for the benefit of the king, and because of the alii blood with which he was credited, but of which he made no boast, the rent he returned was merely nominal. When Umi was about ten years of age the father of Akahia died, leaving his little estate to his daughter. She had two brothers living, both older than herself. But the cultivation of the soil was not congenial to them, and, as there had been no wars of moment in Hawaii for nearly two generations, one of them, who had been a dreamer from his youth, had been inducted into the service of the gods by the high-priest Laeanui, to whom Liloa had given in perpetuity the possession of Kekaha, in the district of Kona, and was otherwise influential; while the second brother, on reaching manhood, had gone with spear and sling to Maui, and risen to distinction in the military service of the moi of that island. So Akahia and her husband continued to occupy unmolested the old plantation. But the agents who collected the revenues of the king were less liberal with Maakao than they had been with the father of his wife, and he was compelled to make the same rent returns as other royal tenants. Nor this alone. A portion of their land had been given to another, embracing a little grove of hawane or cocoa-trees, some of which, it was averred, had been planted by the stewards of Pili nearly four centuries before, and their depleted stocks of pigs and fowls ceased to be the envy of their neighbors. This harsh dealing with Akahia and her husband, it is needless to say, was done without the knowledge of the king; but they feared to complain, lest they might be despoiled of the little left them, and deemed it prudent to suffer in silence rather than arouse the wrath of an agent of whose powers they knew not the extent. There were other little mouths to feed besides Umi's, and, as the years came and went with their scant harvests, Maakao became more and more discontented; but, with a hope in her heart of which Maakao knew nothing, Akahia toiled on without complaint. Year by year she saw Umi developing into manhood, and noted that in thought, habit and bearing he was different from others. Umi loved his mother and was not unkind to Maakao; but he spent much of his time by the sea-shore where the great waves thundered against the cliffs, and in the hills where, among the ohia and sandal trees, the trade-winds whispered to him of the unknown. He would climb to the crown of the tallest cocoa-tree because there was danger in it, and buffet the fiercest waves in his frail canoe; but neither threat nor persuasion could ever induce him to delve in the slime of the kalo patch or plant a row of yams. He would bring fish from the sea and fruits from the mountains, but could not be prevailed upon to till the soil. He fashioned spears of cunning workmanship, and from the teeth of sharks made knives of double edge, but to the implements of husbandry he gave but little note. At the age of sixteen Umi had reached almost the proportions of a man. His limbs were strong, his features manly and handsome, his eyes clear and full of expression, and in athletic sports and the use of arms he had no equal among his companions. His habits brought around him but few friends, yet his kindness to all left no pretext for enmity; and while some said he absented himself from home in a spirit of idleness, others shook their heads and ventured the opinion that he visited the recesses of the wooded hills alone to converse with the kini-akua and learn wisdom from the gods. And his strange conduct, it may well be imagined, was made the subject of frequent discussion in the neighborhood, for Maakao complained continually of his idleness, and but for the intercessions of the mother, who alone was able to account for his peculiarities, would have closed his doors against him. But Umi had a few friends to extol his goodness and defend him against unkind insinuation, and among them were Piimaiwaa and Omaukamau, youths of about his own age, and Kulamea, the younger and only sister of the latter. From childhood these friends had been his frequent companions, and as he grew to manhood, strong-limbed, resolute and gentle, they learned to regard him with a love prepared for any sacrifice. Kulamea was a bright-eyed, dusky little fairy, who often accompanied Umi and her brother in their rambles. They petted her until she became an exacting little tyrant, and then Umi, at her command, made toys for her, climbed the tallest cocoa-trees, and scaled the steepest cliffs in search of flowers and berries that she liked; and, in return for these kindnesses, what, at the age of fifteen, could Kulamea do but love almost to idolatry the brave and gentle companion who had developed into a splendid manhood? And what could Umi do at twenty but return in kind the devotion of one now ripening into a charming womanhood, whose childish friendship was the brightest sunshine that had ever flecked the landscape of his dreamy life? With a feeling of uneasiness Akahia watched Umi's growing love for Kulamea, and when at twenty he would have married her, much to the gratification of Maakao, she kindly but firmly said to her son: "Be not in haste to fetter your free limbs. Be patient, as I have been for twenty years. Kulamea is worthy--but wait." "Why wait?" exclaimed Maakao, suddenly appearing. He had been listening without the door. "Why should he wait?" he continued; "he has all his life been idle, and it is time that he should have a house of his own." "You have spoken well!" replied Umi, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking scornfully down upon the husband of his mother--"you have spoken well, Maakao! It is time, indeed, that I stopped this dreaming! I will never eat food again under your roof. Now get you to your kalo patch; you will find occupation there befitting you! I will seek other means of living!" With these scornful words Umi strode haughtily from the house. Enraged at the insult, Maakao seized a laau-palau, or large kalo-knife, and sprang after him. Umi turned and reached for his pahoa. Maakao raised his weapon to strike, but it dropped to the earth as if a paralysis had seized his arm as Akahia sprang before him, exclaiming: "Do not dare to strike! He is not your son; he is your chief! Down on your knees before him!" To the dismay of Maakao and profound astonishment of Umi, Akahia then revealed the secret of Umi's birth, and, taking from their hiding-place the keepsakes left with her by Liloa, said, as she handed them to her son: "Your father is king of Hawaii. Go to him in person and place these mementoes before him. Tell him Akahia-kuleana returns them to him by the hands of his and her son, who is worthy of him, and he will own you to be the child of his love. He is noble and will hold sacred his royal pledge. This should have been done long ago, but I could not bring my heart to part with you. Go, and may the gods be your protection and your guide!" The strange revelation was soon known throughout the neighborhood, and Umi prepared for his journey to Waipio. How should he appear before Liloa, whose will was law and whose frown was death? In what guise should he seek the presence of his royal father? "As an alii-kapu!" answered Akahia, proudly. Then from an ipu she brought forth a plumed helmet and cape of the feathers of the oo, which she had secretly fabricated with her own hands, and placed them upon the head and shoulders of her son. To Kulamea alone was the news of what had befallen Umi unwelcome. She would have been more than content to share with him the common lot; but now that he was about to be recognized as the son of the great Liloa, she felt that they were soon to part for ever. Other alliances would be found for him, and he would forget the humble playmate of his youth, who loved him, not because his father was a king, but because they had grown up together and neither of them could help it. So when, two days after, Umi started overland for Waipio, accompanied by his two trusty friends, Piimaiwaa and Omaukamau, Kulamea secreted herself to avoid the agony of a parting farewell from Umi; but he found her, nevertheless, and made her happy by kissing and telling her that, whatever might be his future, she should share it; and she believed him, for he had never deceived her. Umi and his companions arrived in Waipio valley at nightfall. There they remained during the night, and the next morning crossed the little stream of Wailoa, near which was the royal mansion. There Umi left his companions and proceeded alone to the palace enclosure. His head was adorned with a helmet surmounted with white and scarlet plumes, and from his broad shoulders hung a cape of yellow feathers, such as an alii alone was permitted to wear, while around his loins was fastened the maro left with Akahia by the king, and the ivory clasp ornamented a necklace of rare and beautiful shells. In his hand he bore an ihe, or javelin, of unusual weight and exquisite finish, and many eyes followed him as he approached the palace; for, although a stranger, it was manifest from his dress and bearing that he did not belong to the makaainana, or common people. His mother had instructed him to seek the presence of the king in the most direct manner that occasion presented, and without asking the permission or assistance of any one, fearing, no doubt, that, to gain admission to the royal hale, he might exhibit and in some manner lose possession of the sole evidences of his paternity, and thus receive the punishment of an impostor. He therefore passed by, without seeking to enter, the gate of the enclosure, around which were lounging a score or more of sentinels and retainers, and, proceeding to the rear of the mansion, leaped over the high wall immediately back and within a hundred paces of the private apartments of the king. Having thus violated a rule of royal etiquette, the penalty of which was death, unless mitigated by satisfactory explanation, Umi grasped his ihe firmly, determined, should he be opposed, to fight his way to the royal presence. It was a desperate resolution, but he had faith in himself, and was without fear. His movements had been watched as he passed the gate of the enclosure without a word, and as he sprang over the wall he found a number of uplifted spears between him and the entrances to the mansion. Nerving himself for the worst, he strode past the interposing weapons, strongly hurling their points aside when too closely presented, and in a moment stood at the back entrance of the palace, through which no one but of the royal household was permitted to enter. This audacity saved him from more determined opposition, since it seemed incredible that any one not possessing the confidence of the king would take such double hazard of his life. Stepping within the entrance, Umi turned, and, with a half-amused smile at the baffled guard now clamoring around the door, struck the handle of his javelin firmly into the ground, and walked unarmed into the presence of the king. As Umi entered unannounced, the king had just finished his morning repast, and was lounging on a couch of many folds of kapa, unattended except by his spittoon-bearer and two half-grown boys with kahilis. Astounded at the intrusion, the king rose to a sitting posture, and, with a frown upon his face, was about to speak, when Umi stepped to the couch and boldly seated himself in the lap of Liloa. Although past sixty, the king still retained a goodly share of his earlier vigor, and, throwing Umi from his knees, angrily exclaimed: "Audacious slave! how dare you!" Umi rose to his feet, and, standing proudly before the king with folded arms, replied: "The son of Liloa dare do anything!" For a moment the king did not speak. He looked into the face of the undaunted young stranger, and noted that it was noble; and then his thoughts went back to Kealakaha, and to the fair young girl of better than common blood whom he had met there many years before while journeying to Waipio after consecrating the temple of Manini, and finally, almost as in a dream, to the pledge he had given and the tokens he had left with her. When all this came back to him he cast his eyes over the comely youth, and beheld his maro around the loins of Umi, and the ivory clasp of his necklace upon his breast. He could scarcely doubt, yet, as if he had recollected nothing, seen nothing, he calmly but kindly said: "Young man, you claim to be my son. If so, tell me of your mother, and of the errand that brings you here." Umi bowed and answered: "My mother, O king, is Akahia-kuleana, of Kealakaha, and my years were twenty at the last ripening of the ohias. For the first time, four days ago, she told me I was the son of the king of Hawaii, and to take to him this maro and this ivory clasp, and he would not disown me. You are Liloa, the honored sovereign of Hawaii. I am Umi, the humble son of Akahia-kuleana. From the hands of my mother I have brought to you this maro and this ornament of bone. If I am your son, seat me beside you on the kapa; if not, order my body to the heiau as a sacrifice to the gods." There was a struggle in the breast of the king, and his eyes were bent upon the bold youth with an expression of pride and tenderness as he said: "How did you gain admission here alone and unannounced?" "By leaping over the wall of the pahale and beating down the spears of your guards," replied Umi modestly. "It was a dangerous undertaking," suggested the king, feigning a frown which wrinkled into a smile upon his lips; "had you no fear?" "I am still young and have not yet learned to fear," returned Umi, with an air of self-reproach. "Such words could come alone from a heart ennobled by the blood of Pilikaeae! You are indeed the son of Liloa!" exclaimed the king, with emotion, stretching forth his hand and seating Umi beside him. "Not these tokens alone but your face and bearing show it." And he put his arms around the neck of his son and kissed him, and ordered a repast, which they ate together, while Umi related to his royal father the simple events of his humble life. As the strange entrance of Umi into the royal mansion had attracted much attention, many of the privileged retainers and officers of the court soon gathered in and around the palace; and the rank and possible purposes of the visitor were undergoing an earnest discussion--especially after it was learned that he was breakfasting with the king--when Hakau, the only recognized son of Liloa and heir-presumptive to the throne, suddenly appeared and sought the presence of his royal father. There was a dark scowl on the face of Hakau on entering the room and observing a stranger in close conversation with the king and eating from the same vessels, nor did it disappear when Liloa presented Umi to him as his own son and Hakau's half-brother. Umi rose and frankly offered his brother the hand of friendship and affection; but the grasp and recognition of Hakau were cold, and when he was invited to sit down and partake of meat with his newly-found brother he excused himself with the falsehood that he had just risen from his morning meal. After a few words with the king, during which he closely scrutinized Umi's handsome face and manly form, Hakau withdrew, leaving no token in word or look of any feeling of joy at the meeting. Although the kings of the Hawaiian group at that time usually had from two to six wives--either marriages of the heart or alliances with the families of neighboring kings to strengthen their dynasties--tradition has given to Liloa but one recognized wife. She was Pinea, a Maui chiefess of family distinction, who gave to Liloa a son and one daughter--Hakau and Kapukini. Hakau had reached his thirtieth year and had married the daughter of the chief and high-priest Pae. They had one child, a daughter, who had been given the name of her grandmother, Pinea. Kapukini had not quite reached womanhood, and was the idol of the court. Hakau was a large, well-visaged man, but was haughty, selfish and cruel. Having been, until the sudden appearance of Umi at the court, the only recognized son of Liloa, his caprices had been humored until his heartlessness and tyranny had become almost a by-word in Hamakua. But the truth seems to be that he was naturally vicious and barbarous, and tradition speaks of no greater tyrant among all the rulers of Hawaii. Heedless of the rights of property, without return he took from others whatever he coveted, and in an insanity of pride and criminal envy caused to be secretly slain or disfigured such as were reputed to surpass him in personal beauty. Without giving note or credence to the many tales of barbarism with which tradition has connected his name, it is doubtless true that his cruelty and contempt for the rights of his subjects rendered him an unfit successor of the gentle and sagacious Liloa, under whose reign the humblest were protected, and peace and prosperity prevailed throughout the six districts of the island. No further explanation of Hakau's freezing reception of Umi is required. He was envious of his handsome face and noble bearing, and hated him because of the love with which his father manifestly regarded him. But Hakau's feelings in the matter were not consulted, and the day following Umi was conducted to the temple of Paakalani in great pomp, where, to the solemn music of chant and sacred drum, the officiating priest with the newly-found son of the king went through the form of oki-ka-piko--a ceremony attending the birth of the children of royalty--and Umi was formally and publicly recognized as his son by the king of Hawaii. Hakau was compelled, with great bitterness of heart, to witness this ceremony, but was too discreet to openly manifest his displeasure. Returning to the palace, Umi was formally presented to the royal household, and heralds proclaimed his rank and investiture of the tabus to which he was entitled. Although the mother of Hakau, Pinea received him kindly, and Kapukini was more than delighted with her new and handsome brother. She clung to his hand, and artlessly declared that Hakau was cross with her and that she had prayed to the gods to send her another brother, just such a one as Umi, and they had done so. Soon after a great feast was given by the king in honor of the new heir, and all the leading chiefs in the kingdom were invited to come and pay their respects to him. Twelve hundred chiefs were present, and the feasting and rejoicing continued for three days, interspersed with games and athletic sports, in which Umi shone with great splendor. In feats of strength and the skilful handling of arms he had few equals in all that great and distinguished gathering, and in conversations with the old he exhibited so much wisdom and prudence of speech that they wondered who had been his tutors; and when they learned that he had been taught by no one and that the greater part of his young life had been passed in solitude, some of them thought the gods must have instructed him, and all admitted that he was a worthy son of Liloa and an honor to the royal line. Umi was thus firmly established at the court of his royal father, and adequate revenues were set apart for his proper maintenance and that of a retinue befitting his high rank. His friends Piimaiwaa and Omaukamau, who were overjoyed at his good fortune, entered his service as his personal and confidential friends, and thenceforth became identified with his career, always appearing as the most faithful and self-sacrificing of his adherents. In a week after his arrival at Waipio, Umi sent Omaukamau back to their old home with news of his recognition by the king. He also bore an order enlarging the area of Maakao and Akahia's possessions, and relieving them from rent and all other tenant charges. Nor did he forget Kulamea. He sent her a little present in token of his love, and word that, although it could not safely be so then, some day in the future she should be nearer to him, even though he might become the king of Hawaii. The token was dear to her, and dearer still his words, for she knew the heart of Umi and did not doubt; and thenceforth she lived and patiently waited for him, keeping her own secret, and firmly saying "no" to the many who sought her in marriage. Umi's affability and intelligence soon made him a great favorite at the court and steadily endeared him to his father. But in proportion as he grew in the favor of others Hakau's hatred for him increased, and but for the fear of his father would have manifested itself in open hostility; but Liloa, who was growing old and feeble through a cureless malady, had not yet designated his successor, and Hakau deemed it prudent to make no outward showing of the intense envy and dislike of his brother which he was secretly nursing, and which he resolved should be gratified when the reins of government passed into his hands. In a little less than two years after the recognition of Umi the black kapa covered Liloa. When he felt the end approaching he called his two sons before him, and publicly gave the charge of the government and title of moi to Hakau, and the custody of the gods and temples to Umi. "You are to be the ruler of Hawaii," he said to Hakau, "and Umi is to be your counselor." There was grief all over the kingdom when the death of Liloa became known, for he was greatly beloved; and, that his bones might never be desecrated, the high-priest Pae, whose daughter Hakau had married, secretly conveyed them to the Kona coast, and consigned them to the deep waters off Kekaha. This was in accordance with the custom of the time--in fact, with the custom of earlier and later years, for the resting-place of the bones of Kamehameha I., who died in 1819, is unknown. A story survives that the remains of this eminent chief were entombed in the sea, but the more popular belief is that they were secretly conveyed to a cave or other place prepared for them in the hills back of Kailua, on the island of Hawaii, and there hidden for ever from mortal gaze. In connection with this belief it is stated that just before daylight on the morning following the night of the death of Kamehameha, one of his nearest friends, while the guard had been removed to afford the opportunity, took the bones of his beloved chief upon his shoulders, and, alone and unseen, conveyed them to their secret sepulchre. Returning, he encountered two natives who were preparing for the labors of the day. Fearing that he had been followed, he inquired whether they had observed any one passing toward the hills that morning. They declared that they had seen no one. Had they answered differently he would have slain them both on the spot, that their secret might have died with them. The name of this chief was Hoolulu. He has been dead for many years; and although he left children, to one of whom the secret may have been imparted, in accordance with native custom in such matters, it is now believed that all knowledge of the depository of the remains of the first Kamehameha is lost. In 1853, when the necessity of hiding the bones of distinguished chiefs was no longer recognized, Kamehameha III. visited Kailua and almost prevailed upon Hoolulu to point out the spot. They even started toward the hills for that purpose, but, as quite a number of persons were observed to be following, Hoolulu declined to proceed, and could never after be induced to divulge anything. So fearful were the ancient chiefs of Hawaii that some indignity might be offered to their remains after death--for instance, that charmed fish-hooks or arrow-points for shooting mice might be made from their bones--that they were invariably hidden by their surviving friends, sometimes in the depths of the ocean, and quite as frequently, perhaps, in the dark recesses of volcanic caverns, with which the islands abound. Immediately after Kamehameha I. had breathed his last his friend Kalaimoku assembled the principal chiefs around the body to consider what should be done with it. In his great admiration for the dead chief one of them solemnly said: "This is my thought: we will eat him raw!" But the body was left to Liholiho, son and successor of the dead king who, with his queen, Kamamalu, died while on a visit to England in 1824. The bones of no Hawaiian chief were ever more securely hidden than were those of the distinguished alii-nui Kualii, who ruled with a strong arm the turbulent factions of the island of Oahu some two centuries back. After the flesh had been stripped from the bones they were given in charge of a trusty friend to be secreted, and most effectually did he accomplish the delicate task assigned him. He had them pulverized to a fine powder, which he mixed with the poi to be served at the funeral feast to be given to the principal chiefs the day following. At the close of the repast, when asked if he had secreted the bones of the dead chief to his satisfaction, he grimly replied: "Hidden, indeed, are the bones of Kualii! They have been deposited in a hundred living sepulchres. You have eaten them!" But we are wandering somewhat from our story. The day after the death of Liloa, Hakau was ceremoniously invested with supreme authority, while the high-priest Laeanui gave formal recognition to Umi as guardian of the gods and temples. Both events were celebrated with display and sacrifice; but it is said that the scream of the alae, a sacred bird of evil omen, was heard around the palace all through the night that Hakau first slept there as king, and that as Umi entered the temple of Paakalani to assume the guardianship of the gods the head of the great image of Lono, near the door of the inner temple, nodded approvingly. Independently of Umi's position as prime minister or royal adviser, his authority as guardian of the gods and temples was second only to that of the king, and Hakau chafed under a bequest that had clothed his brother with a power little less than his own and placed him so near the throne. The consequence was that he seldom invited him to his councils, and secretly sought to cast discredit upon his acts as the nominal head of the priesthood. But Umi bore himself so nobly that Hakau's venom brought no poison to him, and the petty persecutions to which he was subjected not only failed to injure him, but actually added to his popularity with those who had felt the barbarity of his brother, whose first acts on coming to power were to dismiss, disrate and impoverish many of the old and faithful servants and counselors of his father, and surround himself with a party of unscrupulous retainers as cruel and treacherous as himself. Enraged that his secret and cowardly slanders of Umi failed to bring him into disrespect, Hakau's hostility began to assume a more open and brutal form. He publicly reviled his brother for his low birth, and assumed not only that Liloa was not his father, but that his mother was a woman without any distinction of blood. Unable to bear these taunts, and not deeming it prudent to precipitate an open rupture with his brother, Umi quietly left Waipio with his two friends Piimaiwaa and Omaukamau, and, traveling through Hamakua without stopping at Kealakaha, where dwelt his mother and Kulamea, proceeded at once to Waipunalei, near Laupahoehoe, in the district of Hilo, where he concluded to remain for a time and await the development of events. To support themselves Umi and his two friends devoted a portion of their time to fishing, bird-catching and the making of canoes, spears and other weapons; and although the rank of Umi was studiously concealed, his intelligence, skilful use of arms and general bearing could not fail to attract attention and excite the curiosity of his humble associates. Not unfrequently strangers would prostrate themselves before him, so profoundly were they impressed with his appearance, but he declined to accept their homage and smilingly assured them that he was born and reared, like themselves, in humble life. As a further precaution against recognition, he carefully avoided the prominent chiefs of the district, deeming it probable that some of them had seen him in Waipio, or even witnessed the ceremonies attending his acceptance as the son of Liloa. III. It was not destined that Umi should remain long unknown among the hills of Hilo. His sudden disappearance and continued absence from the court had excited apprehensions of foul dealing, and Hakau himself, who had thus far failed in his efforts to discover the retreat of Umi, began to fear that he was somewhere secretly planning a deep scheme of retaliation. But Umi had as yet marked out for himself no definite plan of action. He smarted under the persecutions of Hakau, and did not doubt that, sooner or later, he would triumph over them and be restored to the rights and privileges bequeathed to him by his royal father; but exactly when and how all this was to be accomplished were problems which he expected the future to assist him in solving. And he was not disappointed. The future for which he had patiently waited was near at hand, and he was about to become the central figure of a struggle which would test to their utmost his courage and ability. One day, while strolling alone in the hills back of Waipunalei, there suddenly appeared before him a man of stupendous proportions. Umi regarded the object for a moment with amazement, and was about to speak when the monster dropped on his knees before him. In that position he was a head and shoulders above Umi, and the spear in his hand was of the measure in length of ten full steps. Although more than eleven feet in height, he was well proportioned, and the expression of his face was intelligent and gentle. He was young in years, yet his hair fell to his shoulders and was streaked with gray. "Who are you, and why do you kneel to me?" said Umi, looking up into the face of the giant with a feeling of awe. "If I had your limbs I would kneel alone to the gods." "I am Maukaleoleo, of Kona, and the most unfortunate of men," replied the monster in a ponderous but not unpleasant tone. "My mother was Nuuheli; but she is now dead, and, having grown to the height of the trees, I live in the mountains among them, for men seem to fear and hate me, and women and children scream with fright at my approach." "And who was your father?" inquired Umi, kindly. "As he died when I was young," returned the giant, "and that was more than thirty years ago, I know not, except that his name was Mano, and that he claimed lineage from Kahaukapu, the grandfather of the great Liloa, whose unworthy son now rules in Hawaii." "Hist!" exclaimed Umi, reaching up and placing his hand gently upon the shoulder of the monster. "There is death in such words, even to a man of Maukaleoleo's girth. The trees are listeners as well as myself." "The trees will say nothing," was the reply, "for they often hear such words of Hakau. But why should I fear death? I was not born to be slain for speaking the truth. Listen, and then tell me why Maukaleoleo should fear anything that is human. When a boy a stranger met me one day on the cliffs overlooking the sea, where I was searching for the feathers of the oo. He was mighty in stature, and in fear I fell upon the ground and hid my face. He called me by name, and I looked up and saw that he held in his hand a small fish of the color of the skies at sunset. Handing the fish to me, he said: 'Eat this, and to see your face all men will look toward the stars.' I knew he was a god--Kanaloa, perhaps--and I feared to refuse. So I took the fish and ate it, and the stranger stepped over the cliffs with a smile on his face and disappeared. The fish was pleasant to the taste, and I could have eaten more. A strange sense of increasing strength seized me, and on my way home I lifted large rocks and felt that I could uproot trees. I said nothing to my mother of what had happened, but the next morning she looked at me with fright and wonder, for during the night I had grown an arm's length in height. Except upon my hands and knees I could no longer enter the door of the house where I was born, and everything with which I was familiar had a dwarfed and unnatural look. I was ashamed to meet my old associates, and only ventured from the house when it was too dark for me to be plainly seen. Larger and larger I grew, until at the age of fifteen I reached my present proportions, when my mother died, and I made my home in the mountains, where I have since spent the most of my time. What should one so treated by the gods fear from man?" And Maukaleoleo rose to his feet, towering like a cocoa-tree above his companion. "A strange story, indeed! But if the trees, which are speechless, do not betray you, why should not I?" said Umi, curious to learn something farther of the strange being in whose veins possibly coursed the blood of kings. "Because," answered the giant, slowly, "you are Umi, the son of Liloa, and Hakau is your enemy!" Umi listened to these words in amazement, and then frankly said: "You are right. I am Umi, the son of Liloa, and Hakau is not my friend. And now that you know so much, you cannot but also know that it is prudent for me to remain at present unknown. Let me ask in return that you will not betray me." "I know all, and you may fear nothing," said Maukaleoleo. "Before the moon grows large again I shall be with you, spear in hand, on your way to Waipio. Meantime you may lose sight of me, but I shall be near you when my arm is needed. You have powerful friends. Be guided by them, and all will be well." Umi held up his hand, and Maukaleoleo folded it in his mighty palm as he dropped upon his knees and exclaimed: "Umi, son of Liloa! here in the hills, among the listening leaves, let Maukaleoleo be the first to hail you moi of Hawaii!" Before Umi could rebuke the untimely utterance Maukaleoleo rose to his feet and with a low bow disappeared among the trees. With whatever feeling of fear the makaainana, or laboring classes, of Waipunalei may have regarded Maukaleoleo, as he occasionally appeared among them like a moving tower, he was not without friends. He was well known to the priests and kaulas of the district, who believed that his huge proportions were due to the special act of some god, and was always a welcome visitor at the home of Kaoleioku, a high-priest of great influence both in Hilo and Hamakua. It is therefore probable that this meeting with Umi was not entirely accidental, for the day following Kaoleioku despatched a messenger to Umi, who was found not without some difficulty, inviting him to a conference in a secluded spot near the head of a neighboring valley. The object of the meeting was not stated, and Umi's first thought was that the emissaries of his brother were seeking to lure him to his death; but no danger ever appalled him, and, seizing his javelin and thrusting a pahoa into his girdle, he followed the messenger. A brisk walk of an hour brought them to a small grass hut partially hidden among the trees and undergrowth of an almost dry ravine abruptly jutting into the valley. At that point the valley was too narrow to admit of cultivation, although a broken stone wall across the mouth of the ravine showed that at one time three or four uneven acres behind it had been tilled. The grass grew rank within the enclosure, and, in addition to several varieties of forest trees that had taken root since the ground had last been disturbed, a half-dozen or more cocoa-trees lifted their heads above the surrounding foliage, and the broad leaves of as many banana-stalks swayed lazily in the wind. It was a lonesome-looking spot, and no sign of life in or around the hut was visible as the messenger stopped at a gap in the crumbling wall and awaited the approach of Umi. The chirp of the crickets in the grass seemed to be a note of warning, and the whistle of a solitary bird hidden among the leaves sounded like a scream to Umi in that deserted and otherwise silent nook; but he grasped his ihe firmly and beckoned the messenger to proceed. As he stepped over the broken wall he caught a glimpse of the ponderous form of Maukaleoleo through the branches of a sandal-tree on the side of the hill overlooking the hut. Under the eye of that mighty and friendly sentinel Umi dismissed all thought of treachery or danger. Reaching the door of the hut, he was met by the high-priest Kaoleioku, who promptly extended his hand and invited him to enter, while the messenger withdrew from the enclosure and took a position where he commanded a view of the valley above and below the mouth of the ravine. There was no furniture in the hut beyond two or three rickety shelves, and on one side a raised platform of earth, which, with a kapa covering, might have been used either as a bed or seat. On entering the priest requested Umi to be seated, and then bowed low and said: "I cannot doubt that I am standing before Umi, son of Liloa, and guardian of our sacred temples and our fathers' gods." To these words the priest silently awaited an answer. Umi did not reply at once; but after giving the face of the priest a searching glance, and recalling his meeting with Maukaleoleo the day before, and the vision through the branches of the sandal-tree, he frankly answered: "I cannot deny it." "No; you cannot, indeed!" returned the priest, fervently; "for so have the clouds told me, and so has it been whispered in my dreams. Word has come to me from Waipio that Hakau knows you are in Waipunalei, and his emissaries are already here with orders to assassinate you." "Then further disguise would be useless, further delay cowardly!" exclaimed Umi, rising from his seat and grasping his ihe. "His cruelty forces me at last to strike! The time for action has come, and, spear in hand, as befits a son of Liloa, I will face the royal murderer in Waipio, and the black kapa shall be his or mine!" "Spoken like a king and a son of a king!" returned the priest with enthusiasm, grasping Umi by the hand. "But you will not go alone. Come to me with your friends to-morrow--if possible to-night. Under my roof you will be safe, and there we will gather the spears that will make your journey to Waipio a triumphal march." "Thanks are the only payment I can now make to your friendship," said Umi, in turn pressing the hand of the priest. "You may expect me and a few of my friends before another rising of the sun." With a few hasty words of explanation Umi left the hut with his heart on fire, and the priest watched him with a smile until he passed the broken wall. There he was rejoined by the messenger, who silently preceded him down the valley. As he started to return Umi looked toward the sandal-tree above the hut. Maukaleoleo was no longer there, but he frequently discerned a mighty form moving down the valley along the wooded hillside, and knew that his great friend was not far away. The northeastern coast of the island of Hawaii presents an almost continuous succession of valleys, with intervening uplands rising gently for a few miles, and then more abruptly toward the snows of Mauna Kea and the clouds. The rains are abundant on that side of the island, and the fertile plateau, boldly fronting the sea with a line of cliffs from fifty to a hundred feet in height, is scored at intervals of one or two miles with deep and almost impassable gulches, whose waters reach the ocean either through rocky channels worn to the level of the waves, or in cascades leaping from the cliffs and streaking the coast from Hilo to Waipio with lines which seem to be of molten silver from the great crucible of Kilauea. In the time of Liloa, and later, this plateau was thickly populated, and, requiring no irrigation, was cultivated from the sea upward to the line of frost. A few kalo patches are still seen, and bananas grow, as of old, in secluded spots and along the banks of the ravines; but the broad acres are green with cane, and the whistle of the sugar-mill is heard above the roar of the surf that beats against the rock-bound front of Hamakua. In the first of these valleys south of Waipunalei was the estate of the high-priest Kaoleioku, which was thickly dotted with the huts of his tenants, and embraced some of the finest banana, cocoa and breadfruit groves in the district. For the accommodation of himself and family were two large mansions, constructed of heavy timbers and surrounded by a substantial stone wall. The priest was learned and hospitable, and his influence was second in the district only to that of the alii-okane. Anticipating the arrival of Umi and his friends during the night, the priest had placed a watchman at the gate on retiring, with instructions to wake him should any one unknown to the sentinel apply for admission before morning. But Kaoleioku could not sleep, for his mind was filled with the shadows of coming events. He had discovered a son of Liloa, the rightful guardian of the temples and his gods, secreted among the makaainani to escape the persecutions of his tyrannical and heartless brother; and as a reconciliation between them did not seem to be possible, he had resolved to urge Umi into open revolt at once, and to assist him to the full extent of his power in organizing a force to contest with Hakau the right to the sovereignty of Hawaii. This he was moved to do, not more because Hakau was a tyrant, than that he had sought to degrade the priesthood, of which Umi was the nominal head, and in the dedication of a temple in Waimea had sacrilegiously usurped the powers and privileges of the high-priest. Should the revolt prove unsuccessful, his life, he well knew, would be one of the forfeits of the failure; but the priest was a courageous man, and did not hesitate to accept the hazard of the perilous undertaking. Although reared in the priesthood, he could wield a spear with the best, and when in arms his fifty years sat lightly upon him. With his mind filled with the details of the dangerous labors before him, the priest tossed restlessly upon his couch of kapa until past midnight, when he rose and strolled out among the palms. Wearied with walking, he stretched himself upon the grass, and, fanned by the trade-winds and soothed by the stars which seemed to smile upon him through the branches of the trees, he followed his troubled thoughts into the land of dreams; and there a voice said to him thrice: "Let the spears of Hakau be sent beyond the call of the Kiha-pu, and the victory of Umi will be bloodless!" A voice beside the sleeper awoke him, and he was informed by the watchman that a considerable number of strangers were at the gate and desired admission. The priest rose to his feet, and, with the mysterious words of the dream still ringing in his ears, proceeded to the gate, where the tall form of Umi loomed up in the darkness. Giving him his hand with a warm word of welcome, the priest was about to conduct him within when he was startled at the sudden appearance at the gate of a party of armed and resolute-looking men--how many he was unable to distinguish. The priest was about to speak when Umi laid his hand upon his shoulder and said in a low voice: "All trusty friends." "Then all are welcome," replied the priest, and, giving an order to the watchman, he stepped aside with Umi, when two hundred warriors, appareled for battle, silently filed in double rank through the opening, following Omaukamau and Piimaiwaa to quarters evidently prepared for a much greater number. "Truly, a good beginning!" exclaimed the priest, with enthusiasm, as the last of the little army passed the gate. "A few that my good friends have been sounding since yesterday," said Umi, modestly. "They do not know me yet as Umi, but are inspired with a hatred for Hakau. The number could have been greatly increased, but I feared your ability to accommodate more without warning." "It was thoughtful; but ten times their number can be secreted within these walls. But come," continued the priest, taking the arm of Umi and proceeding toward the larger mansion; "there is red in the east, and you must have rest and sleep. When you awake I will give you a dream to interpret. It relates to the business before us." "Tell me of the dream before I sleep, good Kaoleioku," urged Umi, pleasantly, "and perhaps some god may whisper an answer to it in my slumbers." "Well thought," replied the priest; and he related his dream to Umi as he conducted him to a room in the large hale and pointed to a pile of soft kapa on a low platform. The priest bowed and retired, and Umi, who had rested but little for three days, threw himself upon the kapa-moe and slept soundly until the sun was high in the heavens. The young chief awoke greatly refreshed, and, after his morning bath, sought the presence of the priest, who since daylight had been busily engaged in despatching messengers to his friends in various parts of the district, and even to Puna and Hamakua, and arranging for supplies of arms, provisions and other warlike stores. Against the walls of the enclosure a number of long sheds had been hastily constructed, under which, screened from observation from without, men were repointing spears and ihes, and repairing slings, daggers and other weapons. In fact, the enclosure began to assume the appearance of a military camp rather than the peaceful habitation of a priest; and as Umi looked around him he appreciated for the first time that a step had been taken which could not be retraced, and that the lives of himself and many of his friends could be saved alone by destroying Hakau, in whose heart lived no feeling of mercy. But, as the conflict had been forced upon him, he accepted it without fear or regret, and his courage would not permit him to doubt the result. Umi greeted and thanked the priest for the warlike preparations visible on all sides, and over their morning meal together were discussed the resources and details of the coming struggle. It was not believed that a sufficient force could be rallied in the district to make head against the battalions of the king in open fight, for news of the ripening rebellion was spreading in the neighborhood and would soon reach Waipio. "What we lack in spears must be made up in cunning," said the priest, confidently. "The gods are with us, and the means of victory will be pointed out." "Perhaps," replied Umi, thoughtfully; "but sometimes the direction is vague and we are apt to mistake it. Olopana failed to interpret correctly the will of Kane, as sent to him through his high-priest, and was driven by the floods from Waipio, and compelled to return to Kahiki, the land of his fathers." "True," returned the priest, not a little astonished at Umi's knowledge of the ancient chiefs of Hawaii, "and we must not fall into the same error. The gods, perhaps, have already spoken. 'Let the spears of Hakau be sent beyond the call of the Kiha-pu,' are the words that have come to me, but I can find no interpretation of them. We must make sacrifice at once, and consult the kaulas." "That would be well," said Umi; "yet it may be that a hint of their meaning, if nothing more, has been sent to me. I slept with the words this morning, you will remember, and now I recall that a whisper advised that we should take to our counsel Nunu and Kakohe, of Waipio." "You have made the way clear!" exclaimed the priest, earnestly. "I know the men well. They are priests of influence and large learning. They were the advisers of Liloa, and are now the enemies of Hakau." "The same," said Umi; "I have met them both." "Then will we despatch a discreet messenger for them at once," returned the priest, rising abruptly. "Every moment is precious, and their counsel may be the voice of the gods." And now, while the messenger is on his way to Waipio, it may be in place to make some further mention of the two priests in search of whom he was sent, as they contributed in no small measure to Umi's final success, and were thereafter rated among his confidential counsellors. Nunu and Kakohe were chiefs of distinction and belonged to the priesthood. They were both learned in the lore of the gods and the traditions of the people, and were so highly esteemed by Liloa that he frequently invited them to the royal mansion, and late in life spent one or more evenings with them in each month, when he listened to recitals of the traditions of his fathers, and mistier lines of demi-gods and heroes stretching backward in unbroken thread to the morning of creation. They were among the few who could recite the sacred genealogical mele of Kumuhonua, the Hawaiian Adam, and he loved to listen to the naming of the generations from the first man to Nuu, of the great flood, and thence to Wakea, and downward still nearly sixty generations to himself. Some differences existing between the genealogies of Hawaii and Maui, Liloa had sent them to the latter island to confer with its priests and historians, with the view of reconciling their disagreements. Their mission was successful, and what is known as the Ulu genealogy was the result of the learned conference. These were among the friends of Liloa who, for the sake of the father and the honor of the royal line, had patiently and earnestly sought to divert Hakau from his barbarous practices. But he had scorned their kind offices, made light of their learning, and finally denied them admission to the palace. He hoped by his cruelty to drive them from Waipio; but in the prophetic flames they had read their future, and from within the sacred anu of the temple voices had come to them enjoining patience; so they sat down and waited. Arriving at Waipio, the messenger of Kaoleioku had but little difficulty in finding the two priests of whom he was in search. It was some hours after nightfall, but on inquiry he was directed to their humble dwelling on the south side of the stream, and soon stood at their door. It was dark within, and on making his presence known two men appeared at the opening. The messenger saluted them politely, and, observing but a single person, they cautiously stepped from the door and inquired of the visitor his business with them. By their garb and bearing he knew them to be priests, but that was not enough; he could afford to make no mistake, so he dissembled and said: "I have probably been misinformed; this is not the house of Monana, the fisherman?" "My friend," said Nunu, "your words do not mislead us. Whether for good or evil I know not, but you are in search of Kakohe and Nunu, and they are here. If you have business with them, speak; there are no listeners." The messenger answered by unfolding from a piece of kapa an ivory talisman carved from a whale's tooth, which he handed to Nunu, with a request that he would examine it. Stepping to a fire still smouldering near the oven of the hut, the priest threw upon it a handful of dry bark, which in a moment burst into a flame and enabled him to inspect the palaoa. Returning and addressing a few words to his companion, the priest said to the messenger: "You are from Kaoleioku, of Waipunalei." "I am from Kaoleioku, of Waipunalei," repeated the messenger, bowing. "How long since?" inquired the priest. "Late this morning," was the answer. "You must have traveled swiftly, for the paths are rough and the distance is a long day's journey," suggested the priest, cautiously. "My feet have known no rest," was the brief reply. "What news bring you of Kaoleioku?" "None." "Then why are you here with this palaoa?" "Because so commanded by Kaoleioku." "There are rumors of coming troubles on the borders of Hamakua. Has Kaoleioku sent you to tell us of them?" "I am here to say nothing of Kaoleioku, but to say for him, and to say only, that he prays that Nunu and Kakohe will meet him under his own roof at Waipunalei without delay." "And nothing more?" "Nothing more." "You are discreet." "I am simply the bearer of a message; and now that I have delivered it, I am waiting for such answer as you may desire to send back with me to Kaoleioku." "When will you return?" "To-night." "Then tell Kaoleioku that his friends Nunu and Kakohe will be with him by this time to-morrow. Now come," continued the priest, "there is meat in the mua, and you must eat, for there is a wearying journey before you." The messenger was led into an adjoining hut, where meat and poi were set before him, and half an hour after he was scaling the hills east of the valley of Waipio. Although the messenger was silent, the priests felt assured that there was a gathering of spears in the neighborhood of Waipunalei, and that Kaoleioku was secretly inciting a revolt. They knew that Umi was somewhere among the hills of Hilo, and felt strong in hoping that at the proper time he would be found at the head of the movement. Hakau had very much underrated the power of the priesthood, and did not discover until too late that in seeking to persecute and degrade Umi, who had been given charge of the gods and temples by Liloa, he had provoked the hostility of a class which at that period of Hawaiian history no sovereign could safely defy. If the tabus of the moi were sacred, those of the high-priests were none the less inviolable, and the strongest chiefs in the group were those who held in greatest respect and enjoyed the largest friendship of the priesthood. Like the temporal rulers, the priests inherited their functions, and were as jealous of their prerogatives as royalty itself. It was through them that the civil as well as the religious traditions of the people had been brought down and perpetuated, and through their prayers and sacrifices only that the gods could be persuaded to accord success to important undertakings. In the veins of some of the priests ran royal blood, and from time to time they left their heiaus and became distinguished as warriors; but under no circumstances did they ever relinquish their sacred rights. They not unfrequently possessed large landed estates, the title to which remained inalienably in the family. Such, for example, was the Kekaha estate, in the district of Kona, Hawaii, which was the gift of Liloa to Laeanui, and which remained with the descendants of that eminent high-priest until the days of Kamehameha I. Such a warrior-priest of goodly possessions was Kaoleioku, of Waipunalei. He was the high-priest of the temple of Manini, at Koholalele, which was consecrated, as before related, in the time of Liloa. Although for some years he had seldom officiated, except on important occasions--preferring the quieter life of his estate at Waipunalei--he was greatly respected by the people of the district, and his influence proved a tower of strength to Umi. IV. True to the answer returned to Kaoleioku by his messenger, Nunu and Kakohe reached Waipunalei the following night; and when they saw the warlike preparations, and learned that Umi was present and that the acclaim of revolt was to be raised in his name, they wept for joy. It was past midnight, and their limbs were weary, but they could not sleep. At their request the door of Umi's room was pointed out to them, and they went and sat down beside it. For an hour or more they did not speak. Then, when all was still within the walls, in a low tone they began the legendary chant of the kings of Hawaii. As they proceeded with a record which few on the island beside themselves could correctly repeat, their voices rose with their enthusiasm, and in a few minutes hundreds of half-naked men crept from their barrack lodgings and stood listening to the metric sentences of the learned historians. As they reached the name of Kiha, Umi stepped without the door. The priests recognized him and rose to their feet. Then, continuing the mele, they chanted the name of Kiha, of Liloa, of Hakau, and finally of Umi, represented as having wrested the sceptre from his unworthy brother, who was hated by his subjects and abandoned by the gods. With this they dropped on their knees before him and boldly saluted him as moi of Hawaii. This acquainted many of the warriors present for the first time of Umi's rank, and the wildest enthusiasm seized them. They asked to be led at once to Waipio, and were only quieted when Kaoleioku appeared and assured them that their patriotic wishes would soon be gratified. At first Kaoleioku deemed this early development of the purposes of the movement untimely, if not, indeed, unfortunate. Many preparations remained to be made. It had been a suggestion of Umi that a part of the rebel forces should be sent to Waipio by water; but the canoes necessary for the expedition had not been secured, and not more than a thousand warriors had reported. Secrecy could no longer be maintained, and immediate and open action appeared to be now unavoidable. Yet it was through Nunu and Kakohe that his plans had been thwarted, and while he felt annoyed at what they had done, he retired, hoping they had acted advisedly in the matter. The conduct of the priests was explained and approved the next morning. They urged immediate action. Hakau was not prepared for a sudden attack. For many years there had been no wars of consequence, and such of his supporters as the king could hastily summon to his assistance would be improperly armed and without discipline. Their advice was for Umi to raise the standard of revolt at once. This news they would take to Waipio, with the further information that, although preparing for rebellion, Umi would not be strong enough to act for some time. Alarmed, Hakau would consult the high-priest Laeanui, who, notwithstanding their relations, was secretly his enemy, and a plan could be devised to induce the king to send his household guards and immediate followers to the mountains on some religious errand, when Umi, apprised of the situation by fires kindled at intervals on the hill-tops between Waipio and Waipunalei, could swoop down with a few hundred resolute warriors and seize the king and the capital, and thus with a bold stroke achieve a bloodless triumph. When the priests had developed this plan of action Kaoleioku rose to his feet and exclaimed with excitement: "The gods have instructed you!" "You have spoken truly; the gods have indeed instructed our friends!" said Umi, impressively; "for was it not said in your dreams that the victory would be bloodless if the spears of Hakau were sent beyond the call of the Kiha-pu?" "The meaning is now plain," returned the priest, reverentially. "The gods are with us, and we will be directed by them." All the details were then carefully arranged, and the two priests returned to Waipio. It was soon rumored that they brought news of Umi, and Hakau sent for them, as had been expected. Fear had somewhat humbled him, and he greeted them with what seemed to be the greatest friendship and cordiality. He even chided them for absenting themselves so long from the royal mansion, where their visits, he assured them, would always be welcome. They assumed to be greatly gratified at his protestations of good-will, but secretly despised him for his shallow hypocrisy. When questioned by the king the priests frankly informed him that they had left Umi and Kaoleioku together no longer than the day before, and advised him to lose no time in despatching to the mountains all the men he could summon, to gather fresh feathers of rare birds with which to redecorate his god of war. Hakau was startled by this advice, for the ceremony of kauilaakua was never performed except in times of war or other imminent peril. "What!" he exclaimed, with assumed astonishment, "shall this be done because Umi lives, and you have seen him with the high-priest of Manini?" "No; not because Umi lives," replied Nunu quietly, "but because he is preparing for rebellion." "Rebellion!" repeated Hakau, angrily. "Does he expect to be able to maintain himself in Hilo?" "His aims reach beyond Hilo," ventured the priest. "To Puna?" "Beyond Puna." "To Kau?" "Beyond Kau." "Then he must aim at the whole island," exclaimed Hakau, savagely. "At the whole island," repeated the priest, maliciously. "He shall have land enough to bury him, and no more!" hissed the king. "But you are croakers, both of you. Before considering your advice I shall consult Laeanui and the seers of Paakalani, and hear what the gods say of this wide-spread conspiracy, as your fears and cowardice tell the story." Hakau abruptly dismissed the priests, and despatched a messenger for the high-priest Laeanui, but it was late in the afternoon before he could be found. He was old and venerable in appearance, and his hair, white as the snows of Mauna Kea, fell to his knees, covering his shoulders like a veil. They had met but rarely since the death of Liloa, for the old priest seldom left the temple grounds, and Hakau as seldom visited them; and as the bearded and white-haired prophet entered the royal mansion, all bent respectfully before him, and a feeling of awe crept over the king as the priest stood silently and with folded arms before him. "My greeting to you, venerable servant of the gods!" said the king. The priest bowed, but remained silent, and Hakau resumed abruptly: "I have learned that Umi and a priest named Kaoleioku are plotting treason together in Hilo, near the borders of Hamakua. What know you of Kaoleioku?" "A man to be feared if he is in earnest," replied the priest curtly. "Have auguries of the movement been invoked?" inquired the king. With a gesture the priest replied in the negative. "And why not?" continued Hakau, impetuously. "What are priests and temples for, if not to guard the kingdom against coming dangers?" "If it so please them, the gods answer when they are asked through sacrifice," replied the priest; and then, with rising anger, he continued: "Your father respected the gods, and came to the temple when he would consult them, and his son must do the same." "Well, then," said Hakau, discovering that the priest neither loved nor feared him, "I will be at the temple to-night, some time after sunset, and have you there the best of your diviners." "I shall await your coming," replied Laeanui, briefly, as he bowed low and retired. "Although he gave me his daughter," muttered Hakau, as Laeanui left the room, "he has no love for me, and I as little for him. But no matter; I must not quarrel with him now. Wait until I have dealt with Umi and his confederates, and then--" But he did not finish the sentence, for he suddenly recollected that the high-priesthood was an inherited position, like his own, and its bestowal was not a royal prerogative. There were bloody means of creating vacancies, however, and these flashed through the wicked brain of Hakau. The night that followed was dark, with a steady wind from the northwest and occasional showers. It was some time after sunset before the king entered the outer gate of the heiau of Paakalani. He was accompanied by four attendants, two of whom bore a muzzled pig and two fowls; the others were trusty friends. A kukui torch was kept burning in front of the house of the high-priest, another between the altar and inner court, and a third near the entrance of the royal retreat, with which that heiau, like many others, was provided. Toward the latter Hakau and his party proceeded, and were soon joined by Laeanui and a number of officiating priests and kilos. Entering the royal hale, a few words passed between the king and Laeanui, when the attendants of Hakau were relieved of their burdens and sent without the enclosure. The kaika, or large sacrificial drum, was then sounded with three measured strokes, and in a few minutes six officiating priests, three of them with knives in their hands and the others bearing torches, made their appearance. To them the pig and fowls were entrusted, and, preceded by the torch-bearers, the king and high-priest, followed by the attendants of the temple, with measured pace moved toward the altar. Reaching the place of sacrifice, the high-priest uttered a prayer to the godhead, and separate supplications to Kane, Ku and Lono, intoned by the assisting priests, when the fowls were decapitated and their headless bodies placed upon the altar. The priest watched them until they were motionless, and then opened them and carefully examined the heart, liver and entrails of each. The king glanced anxiously at the priest, but the latter made no response. The pig was then ordered to be slain. The throat of the animal was cut and its bleeding body was also placed upon the altar. The flow of the blood was scrupulously noted, and, after the respirations had been counted and the animal ceased to breathe, the body was hastily opened. The spleen was removed and held above the head of the priest while another prayer was spoken, and then the other organs were separately examined. Completing the inspection, Laeanui stepped back from the altar. "Well," said the king, impatiently, "what say the gods?" "The gods are angry, and the portents are evil," replied the priest. "Then promise them a hundred human sacrifices," exclaimed Hakau. "If their favor is to be purchased with blood, I will drown the heiau with an ocean of it. But," he continued, "I am not satisfied with these auguries. Let me hear from the anu." Immediately behind the altar was the entrance to the inner court of the temple. Within, and about three paces back from the door, which was covered with a wide breadth of kapa, was placed the anu, a wicker enclosure four or five feet in diameter, in which stood the oracle. On each side of the entrance were carved images of Kane, Ku, Lono and other Hawaiian deities, while at intervals of three or four feet along the walls a score or more of gods of lesser potency stood guard above the sacred spot. To the last request of Hakau the priest replied: "The king shall hear from the anu." The lights were then extinguished, and all except the king and high-priest retired some distance from the altar, that no whisper of the oracle might reach them. Hakau was nervous as he stepped with the priest in front of the entrance to the inner temple. A prayer was uttered by the priest; the kapa screen was drawn aside by hands unseen, and the king stood looking into the intense darkness of the sanctum sanctorum of the temple. "Speak!" said the priest, withdrawing behind the altar, and leaving the king alone before the anu. "Speak!" repeated a hollow voice from within the sacred enclosure. For some minutes Hakau remained awed and silent; then, in a voice which scarcely seemed to be his own, he said: "Great power, I hear that dangers threaten." "Dangers threaten!" came like an echo from within. "How may they be averted?" inquired the king. For a time there was no answer. Finally a voice from the anu replied: "Do homage to Kane; make glad the war-god of Liloa!" "So do I promise," answered the king; "but will that give me victory?" "Victory!" was repeated from the anu. Elated at what he had heard, Hakau continued: "Now tell me, mighty spirit, whether Umi--" "Nothing more!" interrupted the voice from within, as the kapa suddenly dropped before the entrance. "Well, thanks for so much," said Hakau, turning and joining the priest at the altar, and repeating to him, with some favorable additions, the words that he had heard. Darkness hid the smile upon the lips of Laeanui. "The day after to-morrow we will hold here a festival to Kane, and the altar shall be heaped with offerings," said the king. "To-morrow I will send my people to the mountains to gather feathers of sacred and royal colors, and Kaili, the neglected war-god of Liloa, shall be made glorious in new plumage and glad with abundant sacrifice." "It is well," replied the priest. "Now let the conspirators marshal their spears!" continued Hakau, confidently, "and we will make short work of them. They cannot be punished in the hills of Hilo. With a showing of weakness we will lure them to Waipio, and not one of them shall escape. We will cut off their retreat, and close in their faces the gates of the puhonui!" As already mentioned, of the two puhonuis, or places of refuge, on Hawaii at that time, one was an adjunct of the heiau of Paakalani, at Waipio. In times of war their gates, with white flags to mark them, were always open, and those who succeeded in passing into the enclosure were safe from assault, even though pursued by the king himself. This savage proposal to close the gates of the puhonui was promptly resented by Laeanui. He would as soon have thought of tumbling the gods from their pedestals and consigning them to the flames. "You suggest what is impossible," said the priest. "Since the days of Wakea the puhonui has been sacred. Its gates cannot be closed to the defenceless, and the gods have said that he who shuts them against the weak shall seek in vain their shelter from the arm of the strong." "Well, then, keep them open!" retorted the king, sharply. "They will run swiftly who enter them!" Torches were relighted, and the king and his attendants left the heiau. They had not passed beyond the outer wall before Nunu emerged from the inner court. His was the voice that had answered the king from the anu. Thus in the temple of Paakalani was shaped the destruction of Hakau, and the priests whom he had insulted and defied opened broadly and surely the way to his death. The next morning an unusual commotion was observed in and around the royal mansion, and as party after party left the inclosure--some proceeding toward the sea-coast, and others up the valley and into the mountains beyond--the villagers wondered at the proceeding, and predicted that a strict tabu would soon follow, whatever might be the occasion. But when they learned that the war-god was to be redecorated, and an imposing religious festival was to follow the day after, they knew that trouble of some kind was anticipated by the king, and soon found a correct explanation of the movement in the rumors which they, too, had heard concerning Umi and his friends in Hilo and eastern Hamakua. The possibility of an uprising against Hakau gave them no uneasiness, however, for his cruelties had secured for him their hatred, while the name of Umi was to all classes a synonym of strength and gentleness. The king was not indifferent to the danger with which he was about to be confronted, and promptly despatched lunapais to the district chiefs of Kohala, Kona, and Hamakua, ordering them to report without delay at Waipio with two thousand warriors each, while the governor of Hilo was commanded by a special lunapai to march at once with a body of warriors to Waipunalei, with the view of precipitating the movement of Umi upon Waipio, where, it was not doubted, he would be overwhelmed and crushed. All these were proper precautions, but they were taken too late; for at the time the feather-hunters and lunapais were leaving on their respective missions, Umi, at the head of over two thousand well-armed and resolute warriors, had reached a point within a two hours' march of Waipio, and was awaiting a signal to swoop down upon the valley. And now let us return to Waipunalei, and note what had been occurring there during the preceding forty-eight hours. As soon as the priests left for Waipio, two days before, trusty and intelligent sentinels followed and took their respective stations, designated by Maukaleoleo, on the summits of seven different hill-tops discernible from each other from Waipunalei to Waipio. The first, coming eastward from Waipio, was three miles, perhaps, from the temple of Paakalani; the last was a rocky pinnacle about four miles from Waipunalei. This was the station of Maukaleoleo. The sentinels were instructed to gather large heaps of dry grass and bark; to keep small fires smouldering and ready for use; to vigilantly watch the peaks in the direction of Waipio; to apply the torch the instant a signal-fire was seen, and keep the pile burning until it was plainly answered by the next station toward Waipunalei. All that day and through the following night armed men were arriving at the rendezvous at Kaoleioku's, until something more than two thousand warriors had reported, and every spare moment of the next day was devoted to forming them into companies and battalions, giving them leaders and preparing them for a rapid march. Many of the warriors were accompanied by their wives, daughters or sisters; for in those days, and later, women not unfrequently followed their fathers, brothers and husbands to battle, generally keeping in the rear to furnish them with food and water, but sometimes, in a close and desperate conflict, mingling bravely in the fight. In such cases they gave and received blows, and expected and were accorded no consideration because of their sex. Instances are given in Hawaiian tradition of the tide of battle being turned, on more than one occasion, by desperate women transformed from camp-followers into warriors; and as late as 1819 we behold Manona, wife of Kekuokalani, the last sturdy champion of the gods of his fathers, falling lifeless in battle upon the body of her dead husband at Kuamoo, while Kaahumanu and Kalakau, widows of the great Kamehameha, commanded the fleet of canoes operating with the land forces under Kalaimoku. After the visit of the priests from Waipio the purpose of the revolt was no longer disguised, and whenever Umi made his appearance among the assembled and assembling warriors he was greeted with the wildest enthusiasm. His romantic history was known to them, and had been made the theme of song. His many triumphs at the festival given by Liloa in honor of his formal recognition were recited by those who had witnessed them, and his grand proportions and noble bearing stamped him as of chiefly blood; and when his friends Piimaiwaa and Omaukamau spoke of the great learning displayed by him when questioned by the priests, and intimated that he had been instructed by the gods and was under their care, every doubt of success vanished, and the order for an advance upon Waipio was awaited with impatience. Maukaleoleo mysteriously came and went, but always at night, and seldom remaining longer than a few minutes. He was known to all within the enclosure, and allowed to pass unchallenged, as he could be mistaken for no one else. As he strode through the gateway, bearing a spear scarcely less than thirty feet in length, the sentinels regarded him with awe; and when they saw him converse with Umi and then silently depart, they shook their heads and said, "Perhaps he is Lono!" The temple of Manini, dedicated by Liloa just before his meeting with the mother of Umi, and of which Kaoleioku was the high-priest, was a reconstruction and enlargement of an old heiau which was in existence certainly as early as the time of the warlike Kalaunuiohua, who reigned between the years 1260 and 1300. With a large army and proportionate fleet of canoes he invaded Maui, Molokai and Oahu, and, taking their captured sovereigns with him, made a descent upon Kauai. But his triumphs ended there. After an obstinate battle he was defeated and taken prisoner, but was subsequently released and permitted to return to his own kingdom. It was during the reign of this sovereign that the prophetess Waahia lived. She accompanied him in his expeditions as far as Oahu, but refused to proceed with him to Kauai. She declared that the gods would bring calamity upon him if he invaded that island, and sought to persuade him to consolidate his conquests and return to Hawaii. But the warrior-king cared but little for priests or temples, and was in the habit of destroying both when they failed to subserve his purposes. Enraged at the unfavorable auguries of Waahia, and fearful that they might come to the ears of and demoralize his warriors, the king induced her to return to Hawaii. One tradition says she voluntarily abandoned Kalaunuiohua, while another relates that she consented to return only on condition that the war-god of the king be sent back with her. This god had been in the reigning family of Hawaii since the days of Paao, and had been sanctified by that father of the priesthood. To distinguish it from other war-gods it was known as Akuapaao, and was held in great veneration. When asked for an explanation of the strange request, the prophetess boldly declared that, if the god was taken to Kauai, it would never return except at the head of a conquering army that would make of Hawaii a tributary kingdom. "Then take it with you!" exclaimed the king, savagely, "and if I return to Hawaii alive I will burn you both together!" "You will burn neither," said Waahia. "When you return to Hawaii you will think better of the gods and their servants; and in generations to come, when angry spears shall be crossed in the hale of the kings of Hawaii, the hand will be stronger that places the fresh lei upon the shoulders of Akuapaao." The prophetess prepared to embark. The god, wrapped in a fold of kapa, so that it might not be recognized, was brought to the beach and delivered to the departing seeress. The canoe, which was large enough to accommodate thirty persons, was shoved into the surf. It was provided with food and a calabash of water. Declining all assistance or companionship in her journey, Waahia stepped into the canoe with the image in her arms, and, after carefully depositing it in the bow of the boat, returned and seated herself near the stern. Half a dozen men were waiting for the word to launch the canoe from the sands upon which the stern was lightly resting. But the seeress raised no sail, touched no oar. For some minutes she sat, silent and motionless, with bent head and clasped hands, as if in prayer, while hundreds of curious eyes watched her in amazement, wondering what would become of her, even should the unmanned craft be successful in passing the breakers. Then she slowly rose to her feet, and the canoe began to glide toward the reef. Faster and faster it moved, until, mounting a retreating wave, it was borne swiftly out into the calmer waters; then, slightly turning in its course, it dashed southward with the speed of the wind, and was soon lost to the view of the awe-stricken beholders. Waahia looked beneath the waves and smiled, for Ukanipo, the shark-god, with scores of assistants, was bearing her onward; and then from his ipu Laamaomao, the Hawaiian �olus, let loose the imprisoned winds, and refreshing zephyrs cooled the face of the prophetess and accelerated the speed of the canoe, until it seemed to leap from wave to wave; and great sea-birds screamed with fright as it dashed past and awoke them from their billowy slumbers, leaving behind it a long trail of troubled waters. Passing to the southward of the intervening islands, the canoe was borne with undiminished speed through the channel of Alenuihaha to the northeastern coast of Hawaii, and before sunset was beached at Koholalele. The prophetess knew the meaning of this. Near by was the old heiau of Manini, and thither, as she felt instructed, was taken and deposited the war-god Akuapaao, with the solemn injunction to the high-priest in charge that it was never to be removed from the inner court unless the life of the moi was in peril or the kingdom was invaded by a foreign foe. The old heiau had given place to a more imposing structure during the reign of Liloa. Its outer walls had been enlarged, raised and repaired, and its inner belongings improved and redecorated; but its sacred relics had not been disturbed, and its many gods remained where they had been for generations. Among the most sacred idols of the temple, even after the death of Liloa, was the Akuapaao. Its name indicated alike its age and sanctity; and while the legends connected with it had become vague and distorted in their transmission through a long line of priests, the prophecy of Waahia still clung to it, and it was especially reverenced by the few to whom was entrusted the secret of its functions. Hakau had learned of this god from his royal father, and the same morning that his retainers were sent to the hills for feathers two priests were despatched to Koholalele, with orders to bring to Waipio, in the king's name and without delay, the war-god Akuapaao. Should the priests of the temple refuse to surrender the idol, then the messengers were instructed to call upon the district chiefs for assistance, and take it by force, no matter at what cost of life. But the king was too late, for at early daylight of the morning of the day before his messengers left Waipio, Maukaleoleo strode into the rebel headquarters with the Akuapaao in his arms. Kaoleioku had, of course, instructed the giant where and how to secure the image, for in years past he had been its custodian, and his orders continued to be obeyed by the priests of Manini. The idol, completely wrapped in kapa, was deposited in the private heiau of the high-priest, and Maukaleoleo left the enclosure as quietly as he had entered it a few minutes before. The sentinels wondered, as usual, but bowed in silence as he came and went. The priest rose with the sun, and learned that Maukaleoleo had already been a visitor that morning. He hastened to the heiau, and there found the Akuapaao. He was overjoyed. He removed the kapa covering from the idol, placed it upon a pedestal between the images of Ku and Lono, and then found Umi and brought him to the heiau. Entering, Kaoleioku closed the door and pointed to the Akuapaao. Umi bowed reverently before it. "Listen, O Umi!" said the priest; "listen, O son of Liloa! Behold the war-god of your fathers! It was sanctified by the touch of Paao, and for generations, in the inner chamber of Manini, has awaited your coming. From Waahia, the prophetess, have come down, through the chief priests of the heiau, these words: 'When angry spears shall be crossed in the hale of the kings of Hawaii, the hand will be the stronger that places the fresh lei upon the shoulders of Akuapaao.' The spears are about to be crossed; the god is here; let yours be the hand, and not Hakau's, to place the lei-ai upon the shoulders of Akuapaao!" The words of the prophecy came to Umi as a dream. Overwhelmed with their significance, he fell upon his knees and exclaimed: "God of my fathers! be you my guide until I prove unworthy of your protection!" "Your realm is yet small," said the priest, "and is enclosed within these walls. Let us pay respect to the gods, that its boundaries may be enlarged." Thereupon a strict tabu was ordered to all within the walls, to begin at midday and continue until the setting of the sun. The time was brief, but events were pressing, and it could not safely be extended. The tabu, or kapu, as it is sometimes written, was strictly a prerogative of the high chiefs and priests of olden Hawaii. There were fixed tabus of custom, and declared tabus of limited duration by the temporal and spiritual rulers. The penalty for the violation of all tabus was death. It was tabu of custom for men and women to eat together, or for women to eat of the flesh of swine, fowls, turtle and many kinds of fish. Everything belonging to the kings, priests and temples was tabu, or sacred, and springs, paths, fishing-grounds, water-courses, etc., were frequently thus kept from the use of the people. Declared general tabus, for the propitiation of the gods or the amelioration of a public evil, were either strict or common, according to the emergency. During the time of a common tabu the people were required to abstain from their usual avocations and attend at the heiau, where morning and evening prayers were offered. A strict tabu was more sacred. While it continued--generally one or two days--all, with the exception of the alii-nui and priests, were compelled to remain within doors. Every fire and every light was extinguished; no canoe was launched; all noises ceased; the pigs and dogs were muzzled, and fowls were placed under calabashes. These tabus were proclaimed by heralds, and their wanton violation was an unpardonable offence. In preparation for the tabu to be declared by Umi, flowers and feathers were brought, and leis of both were woven. Everything being in readiness, heralds proclaimed the tabu and its duration, with the further announcement that the occasion was the arrival of the mighty war-god Akuapaao and its coming decoration by Umi. As the sun touched the mark of meridian, the gates of the enclosure were barred and guarded by the religious attendants of the priest; the fires were everywhere extinguished; the few animals within the walls were either muzzled or hidden; men, women and children suddenly disappeared within their dwellings or quarters, and mats were hung at the openings; Umi and the priest retired alone to the heiau and closed the door, and silence, disturbed only by low whispers and the muffled footfalls of the watching priests, reigned over the twenty-five hundred persons gathered within the enclosure. In the heiau, or apartment of the gods, to which Umi and the high-priest retired, were a number of images and sacred relics. Near the centre of the room was a small altar, upon which had been deposited the leis provided for the decoration of Akuapaao. They sat down beside it, and for an hour or more nothing was heard but the whispered prayers of the priest, addressed in turn to the several gods before him. Then, rising and leading Umi by the hand to the Akuapaao, in a low voice he formally presented him to the god as the son of Liloa and rightful ruler of the Hawaiian people. Another prayer was uttered, and then Umi, with the words, "Accept this, O Akuapaao, with the homage of Umi!" proceeded reverently to place around the head and neck of the image a number of fragrant leis of flowers and wreaths of brilliant feathers. The priest watched the act intently. As the last wreath of feathers, resembling a crown in appearance--the lei-hula-alii--was placed upon the head of the image, a sunbeam flashed through what seemed to be a small rent in the thatched roof, and for a moment haloed the heads of Umi and the god. The priest read the answer and smiled. He felt as assured of the favor of the gods as if it had been pledged in a voice of thunder, and Umi bent low in acknowledgment of the joyful revelation. The sun dropped behind the hills; twilight turned to bronze the gold of the valleys, and the tabu was at an end. It was proclaimed that the auguries were highly favorable, and the silence of the tabu was broken by wild strains of music and shouts of rejoicing. V. As darkness settled upon the camp of the insurgents Umi felt that the hour for action was closely at hand. He therefore gave orders that preparations for instant departure be maintained throughout the night. The moon was waning, with a promise of rising some time before morning, and the night set in dark and cloudy, with occasional showers. About two hours before midnight Maukaleoleo suddenly and silently strode past the sentinels. Seeking Umi, he found him in council with his friends Omaukamau, Piimaiwaa and the high-priest. They were arranging the order of march by the four narrow paths at that time leading to Waipio. The giant stooped low and looked in upon the council through the doorway. He could scarcely distinguish the faces within by the light of the flambeau kept burning near the entrance. He did not attempt to enter, but stood silent and motionless, with his hands upon his knees, peering into the room as if to attract attention. Umi smiled as he recognized the huge object, and stepped to the door. The giant rose until his head was above the ridge-pole, and then bowed like the bending of a tree before the wind. "Well, my good friend," said Umi, "after thanking you for your last night's work, let me ask what word you bring." "None," replied the giant. "There is no light yet, but I am impressed that it will be seen before morning." "And so am I, good Maukaleoleo," returned the chief, "and your signal will find us prepared." "That is what I came to learn," answered the giant, bowing and turning to depart. "But do not mistake for a signal the rising moon, which will soon set its torch upon the hill-tops," suggested Umi, pleasantly. "Unless the moon should rise in the west, which it has not done since the days of Maui, the mistake would scarcely be possible," replied Maukaleoleo, with a smile upon his great face, and then, with a few long strides, disappearing in the darkness. It must have been at about the time of this interview that Hakau was leaving the heiau at Waipio, after having invoked the auguries of sacrifice and listened to the voice of Nunu from the darkness of the inner temple. The king had scarcely passed the gate of the temple leading to the sacred pavement of Liloa, which connected the heiau with the royal mansion, and which privileged feet alone could tread, when Nunu, after exchanging a few words with the high-priest, also left the enclosure, but neither over the sacred pavement nor toward the palace. Taking a path which did not seem to be new to him, from the facility with which he traveled it by the light of the stars, he crossed the valley and mounted the high ridge of hills enclosing it on the southeast. Ascending the ridge for some distance, and until the lights of the valley could no longer be seen, he proceeded slowly upward, at intervals striking together two stones and listening for a response. At length it came, like an echo of his own signal, and a few minutes' walk brought him to a large heap of dry leaves and limbs, from behind which Kakohe rose and greeted him. "Fire it at once!" said Nunu. "I will explain all when the signal is answered." Behind a rock, a few paces away, a small fire was smouldering. Kakohe sprang and seized a burning brand, which he applied to the heap, and in a moment the red flames reached heavenward, throwing a lurid light upon the surrounding hills. With their backs to the fire the two priests looked anxiously toward the south and east, and in a few minutes far in the distance gleamed an answering flame. Satisfied that their signal had been seen and responded to, they permitted the fire to die out, and then returned to the valley to await the important events of the morrow. Leaving the rendezvous of the rebels, Maukaleoleo slowly returned to his station, for even his mighty limbs at times grew weary, and the path leading up the mountain was obscure and narrow. Reaching the summit, he examined a small fire hidden among the rocks, and was about to stretch himself upon the ground, with his face turned eastward, when he discerned a strange, star-like speck upon the horizon. For a moment it paled, and then grew brighter and brighter. He stepped to a tree near a huge pile of combustibles, and, glancing along a horizontal limb that had been previously trimmed for the purpose, discovered that it pointed directly toward the light. All doubt at once disappeared. He knew it was the signal. Springing for a brand, the heap was lighted, and by its wild glare in the darkness Maukaleoleo rapidly descended to the valley. His fatigue had vanished, for the signal of Hakau's death had been lighted by his own hands, and his great heart was in arms. The signal was at once discerned by the watchmen at Umi's quarters, and in a few minutes all was quiet commotion within the walls. Torches were lighted, armed warriors sprang with alacrity into line, and half an hour after Umi, in feather mantle and helmet plumed with royal colors, and preceded by the war-god Akuapaao, borne upon a manele, or palanquin, resting upon the shoulders of kahunas, with Kaoleioku as high-priest, marched out of the enclosure, followed by two thousand well-armed and devoted supporters. His address to his warriors was brief. "The moments are precious," said Umi, "and must not be wasted in words. Let our spears speak, and at sunset to-morrow we will eat meat in peace in Waipio!" As a measure of precaution, in case of disaster, a force sufficient to hold the premises of the high-priest was left within the walls. The advancing army was formed into three divisions, the right commanded by Omaukamau and the left by Piimaiwaa, while Umi remained with the centre. Their orders were to move rapidly, but as quietly as possible, by three different routes, and form a junction at their intersection with the alanui, or great path, leading from the coast to the inland village of Waimea. This junction it was expected the left division, traveling a difficult mountain-path, would be able to reach two or three hours after sunrise. It was, perhaps, an hour short of midnight when the last of the little army left the enclosure, followed by two or three hundred women bearing food, water, extra weapons and a variety of camp necessaries. The warriors were full of enthusiasm, and when Maukaleoleo stepped in among them from the mountains like a protecting deity their shouts could scarcely be restrained. His appearance was most welcome to Umi, who thanked him warmly for what he had done, and expressed a desire that he would remain near him during the march, as his familiarity with the mountains and their paths would render his advice valuable. "But I see another mighty friend has opportunely reported," said Umi, pleasantly, as he pointed toward the east. "As the moon is about to look over the hills, the torches may soon be extinguished, for the paths will be plainer without them." The divisions separated, and, dispensing with their torches, soon swarmed the several paths leading to Waipio. Each division was preceded some distance in its march by a party of scouts, with instructions to let no one pass to their front, lest he might be a messenger of warning. The paths were rough and in places almost choked with undergrowth, and the advance was exceedingly laborious; but no word of complaint was heard, and about the middle of the forenoon the left division, and the last to arrive, reached the Waimea trail at a point leaving the entire force but a short march to Waipio. A brief halt was ordered, and the food and water brought by the women were served to their relatives, and to others if any remained. Taking no thought of himself, Umi advised his attendants to eat if they could find food, declaring that he required nothing, and then threw himself under the shade of a tree for a few minutes of much-needed rest. A cool breeze fanned his heated face, on which the beard had as yet grown but lightly, and his heavy eyelids closed, dropping him gently into the land of shadows, where he bathed in cool waters and partook of food that was delicious--more delicious, it seemed, because it was served by Kulamea. Something awoke him--he scarcely knew what--and his eyes caught the form of a woman as it vanished behind the tree under which he was lying. He smiled, and, partially rising, discovered on the ground beside him a calabash of poi, reduced with water to the consistency of thick gruel. His mouth and throat were parched, and, without stopping to learn who had provided it, he raised the vessel to his lips and drained it to the bottom. It was a goodly draught, and refreshed him greatly. Holding the empty calabash in his hand, he began to examine it, at first carelessly, and then with greater interest, for it was not a common vessel. Nor was it the first time that he had seen it. It was the calabash he had carved with images of birds and flowers for Kulamea before he went to Waipio to become the son of a king. He beckoned to Maukaleoleo, who was leaning against a tree a few paces distant, with his head among the branches. The giant smiled as he approached, as if divining the question Umi was about to ask. "Did you see the person who left this calabash?" inquired Umi, exhibiting the vessel. "I saw her," replied the giant. "Then it was left by a woman?" "By a woman." "Did you observe her?" "As closely as I ever observe any woman." "What was her appearance?" "Ordinary men would describe her, I presume, as being young, graceful and attractive." "And you?" "I would call her a plaything, as I would any other woman whose head did not touch my beard." "True," said Umi, smiling as his fancy pictured a becoming mate for the giant; "you can know but little of women. But would you recognize the plaything who left this calabash, were you to see her again?" The giant intimated that he would probably recognize her. "Then seek among the women of the camp, and, if found, say to her for Umi that if she prizes the calabash he will return it to her, if she will claim it after the sun sets to-day and show that she is the rightful owner." Maukaleoleo bowed and departed on his errand, and Umi hung the calabash at his girdle. Another advance was ordered, and in an hour or less the little army lay hidden along the brow of the ragged hills overlooking the valley of Waipio on the south and east and extending to the sea. A fleet messenger was despatched over the hills to a waterfall, the sound of which could be heard dropping into the valley from a great height in an unbroken cataract. He returned, bringing with him a strangely-marked piece of kapa which he had found suspended from a limb near the verge of the fall. It was the final signal of Nunu, and implied that the king's attendants had been sent to the mountains and sea-shore, and the palace was defenceless. Preparations were made for an immediate descent into the valley. As the paths leading down were tortuous and narrow, the warriors were ordered to break ranks and make the descent as rapidly and as best they could, and promptly re-form on reaching the valley. The word was given, and the advance began. First the summit bristled with spears, then down the hillsides swept a swarm of armed men. In their rapid descent they seemed to be hopelessly scattered, but they re-formed on reaching the valley, and in good order advanced toward the little stream, across which was the royal mansion, and not far from it the temple of Paakalani. The wildest excitement prevailed in the village. Some seized their arms, and others ran toward the hills, but no opposition was offered. At the head of the little army marched Umi, himself almost a giant, and by his side the mighty Maukaleoleo, naked but for the maro about his loins, and bearing a ponderous spear, the ivory point of which could be seen above the tree-tops. Plunging into and crossing the stream, detachments were despatched at a running pace to surround the royal enclosure and cut off all escape, especially to the puhonui, while with the main force Umi advanced to the great gate of the outer wall, which had been hastily closed and fastened, and demanded admission. No reply being made, although a confusion of voices could be heard from within Umi was about to order up a force to beat down the gate when Maukaleoleo leaned his spear against the wall, and, laying hold of a rock which no two other men could lift, hurled it against the gate, and it was torn from its fastenings as if struck by a missile from Kilauea. He then seized the broken obstruction and flung it from the entrance as if it had been a screen of matting, and Umi and his followers poured into the enclosure. Driving before them a score or two of hastily-armed attendants of the king, they raised a wild battle-shout and rushed toward the palace. So secret had been the movement of the insurgents, and so rapid was their advance after reaching the valley, that Hakau was not made aware of their presence until they began to cross the stream near the royal mansion. The first information bewildered him. Recovering, he ordered the gates to be closed and barred, and every one to arm within the grounds. A messenger was sent to mount the walls and report the probable number of the assailants; but the most of them were in the stream at the moment of observation, and the king was relieved with the assurance that the force did not number more than one or two hundred. "Then we can beat them off until assistance comes," said Hakau, confidently. "Hold the gates with your lives!" he shouted; then, hastily entering the mua, he took from the ipu in which it was deposited the Kiha-pu, the sacred war-trumpet of the Hawaiian kings, and sprang to the front of the palace. He placed the shell to his lips to sound a blast of alarm, which with the breath of Liloa was wont to swell throughout a radius of ten or twelve miles. Filling his lungs for a mighty effort, which he doubted not would bring to his assistance the villagers and feather-hunters despatched to the hills, he wound a blast through the shell. But no such voice ever issued before from the mysterious chambers of the Kiha-pu. Instead of a note of alarm swelling over the hills in wild and warlike cadence, they gave forth a dreadful discord of torture-wrung screams and groans, horrifying all within the walls, but scarcely audible beyond them. Hakau dropped the shell to the earth as if his lips had been burned with its kiss, and with a feeling of desperation seized a javelin and grimly awaited the onset at the gate. His suspense was brief. The gate went down with a crash; and when he saw his handful of defenders retire before the incoming flood of warriors led by Umi, Hakau retreated to the mua with three or four of his attendants, where he resolved to defend himself to the death. The door of the mua was scarcely barred before Umi reached it. A hundred warriors pressed forward, but he waved them back. He looked at Maukaleoleo, and the next moment the door was a mass of splinters. Umi resolutely stepped within, Kaoleioku, the warrior-priest, at his side. As he entered, with a hiss Hakau made a thrust at him with his javelin. Umi caught and wrenched the weapon from his grasp, and was about to strike when Kaoleioku stayed every uplifted hand by exclaiming: "Hold! Let this be a sacrifice, and not a murder! In the name of the gods I slay him!" With these words the high-priest drove his ihe through the heart of Hakau, and he fell dying at the feet of Umi. Hakau strove to speak, but his words were bitter and choked him. "Bear him with respect to a couch," said Umi. "He is the son of a king, and so let him die." His orders were obeyed, and Hakau, the tyrant king of Hawaii, breathed his last as Umi turned and left the mua. The palace was now in the possession of Umi, with its gods, its sacred emblems, its royal regalia and all the paraphernalia of supreme authority; but he appreciated that much remained to be done, and that, too, without delay. The feather-hunters would soon return from the hills and sea-shore; but they could be dealt with in detail as they arrived in small parties, and were, therefore, not greatly to be feared. The distant chiefs summoned by the lunapais of the dead king were the principal cause of anxiety. Some time during the next day they would begin to arrive with their quotas of warriors, and Umi was not quite confident that they would accept the situation peacefully. To be prepared for any emergency, he ordered his entire force to quarters within the palace grounds, despatched parties to procure supplies of food, received the allegiance of the attendants and guards found in and around the royal mansion, and sent out heralds to proclaim the death of Hakau by the will of the gods, and the assumption of sovereign authority by Umi, the son of Liloa. The Kiha-pu was discovered near the door, where it had been dropped by Hakau. No one dared to touch it. It was recognized by a chief who had seen it before, and who guarded it until Umi appeared. The chief pointed to the sacred shell, and with an exclamation of joy Umi raised it to his lips and sounded a vigorous blast, which swept over the valleys and echoed through the hills with its old-time voice of thunder. All within the walls were startled. Kaoleioku approached, and Umi raised the shell and repeated the sonorous blast. "It is not the breath of Umi," said the priest, impressively; "it is the voice of the gods proclaiming their approval of the work of this day!" The body of Hakau was removed to a small structure within the enclosure, where it was given in charge of his wife and mother, Kukukalani and Pinea, and their attendants, to be prepared for burial. And Kapukini, the sister of Hakau and half-sister of Umi, mourned with them; but her grief was not great, for Hakau had been unkind even to her. Before nightfall the feather-hunters began to come in; but the situation was made known to them on reaching the valley, and such of them as were not deterred by fear proceeded to the palace and gave their adherence to Umi, thus relieving him of some slight cause of apprehension, and considerably augmenting the strength of his little army. Umi's promise to his warriors was made good, for that night they ate their meat in peace within the palace-walls at Waipio. All needed rest, but not one of them more than Umi himself. The night was dark, but the air was cool without, and after his evening meal Umi strolled out and threw himself down on a fold of kapa under the palms in front of the mansion. He was soon joined by Kaoleioku, his trusty lieutenants Omaukamau and Piimaiwaa, and several chiefs of distinction. The events of the day were being discussed, and the possibilities of the morrow, when Maukaleoleo loomed up in the darkness like the shadow of a palm, and requested permission to approach the group. It was granted, of course, for the giant had proven himself to be one of the stanchest and most valuable of Umi's friends. But he was not alone. Behind him, and almost hidden by his burly form, walked Kulamea. She wore a pau of five folds, and over her shoulders a light kihei of ornamented kapa. Her black hair fell below her waist, and a woven band of blossoms encircled her head. "By your instruction," said the giant, bowing before Umi, "I sought out the woman who left with you beyond the hills to-day a curiously-carved calabash, and acquainted her with your wish that she should come to you and claim it. But she feared to do so, because you are now the king of Hawaii." "Were I the king of the eight Hawaiian seas she should not fear," replied Umi. "Seek and say to her--" "Let Umi speak the words himself," interrupted the giant; saying which, he advanced a few paces into a better light, and, stepping aside, Kulamea stood revealed before the group. "Kulamea!" exclaimed Umi, rising. "Kulamea!" repeated Omaukamau, in astonishment, for he did not know before that his sister was in Waipio. "What evil spirit prompted you to venture here at such a time as this?" "Do not chide her, Omaukamau," said Umi, placing his hand tenderly upon the shoulder of the fair playmate of his youth. "The triumph of to-day is as much to her as it is to her brave brother, and no one could be more welcome." Omaukamau was silent, and Kulamea sank on her knees before Umi. He raised her to her feet and kissed her; then, taking from his girdle and placing in her hands the calabash she had come to claim, he said: "In the presence of all here Umi returns this calabash to Kulamea, his wife!" Then, leading her to her brother, he continued: "Give her attendants, and see that she is provided with all else that befits her station." Omaukamau kissed his sister, and led her into the mansion. During this scene Maukaleoleo stood looking down upon the group with folded arms and an amused expression upon his face. "Perhaps I should have asked your consent," said Umi, smiling and looking up into the face of the giant. "Umi is now in a condition to take from his subjects without asking," pertinently replied the monster; "but in this instance there seems to be no other claimant, and the title is unquestioned." "And have I your approval as well?" inquired Umi, more seriously, addressing Kaoleioku. "Better than mine," replied the priest, warmly: "you have the approval of the gods; for in fulfilling your pledge to a simple and confiding woman you have kept faith with them." The rest of the prominent events leading to, and connected with, the accession of Umi to the moiship of Hawaii, will be very briefly referred to. As the district chiefs and their warriors arrived at Waipio in response to the call of the dead king, they accepted the changed conditions without protest, and promptly tendered their allegiance to Umi. The second day after his death Hakau's remains were quietly and without display taken to the hills and entombed, and the day following Umi was publicly anointed king of Hawaii in the presence of nearly ten thousand warriors. The games and festivities of the occasion continued for ten days. The Akuapaao was placed in the temple of Paakalani, and at the death of the venerable Laeanui, which occurred shortly after, Kaoleioku, who was of the family of Paao, was created high priest. Omaukamau and Piimaiwaa became the confidential advisers of Umi, as well as his favorite military captains, and Maukaleoleo served in his many campaigns, his strength and prowess furnishing subjects for numerous strange stories still living in Hawaiian tradition. LONO AND KAIKILANI. CHARACTERS. Keawenui, king of Hawaii. Kanaloa-kuaana, Lonoikamakahiki and Pupuakea sons of Keawenui by different mothers. Kukailani, nephew of Keawenui. Kaikilani, daughter of Kukailani. Kakuhihewa, king of Oahu. Lanahuimihaku, a chief of Oahu. Ohaikawiliula, a chiefess of Kauai. Heakekoa, a man of Molokai. Kaikinane, a woman of Molokai. LONO AND KAIKILANI. A ROMANTIC EPISODE IN THE ROYAL ANNALS. I. What a hustling and barbaric little world in themselves were the eight habitable islands of the Hawaiian archipelago before the white man came to rouse the simple but warlike islanders from the dream they had for centuries been living! Up to that time their national life had been a long romance, abundant in strife and deeds of chivalry, and scarcely less bountiful in episodes of love, friendship and self-sacrifice. Situated in mid-ocean, their knowledge of the great world, of which their island dots on the bosom of the Pacific formed but an infinitesimal portion, did not reach beyond a misty Kahiki, from which their fathers came some centuries before, and the bare names of other lands marking the migratory course of their ancestors thither. The Hawaiians were barbarous, certainly, since they slew their prisoners of war, and to their gods made sacrifice of their enemies; since no tie of consanguinity save that of mother and son was a bar to wedlock; since murder was scarcely a crime, and the will of the alii-nui on every island was the supreme law; since the masses were in physical bondage to their chiefs and in mental slavery to the priesthood. Yet, with all this, they were a brave, hospitable and unselfish people. The kings of the islands of Hawaii, Maui, Oahu and Kauai were in almost continual warfare with each other until brought under one government by Kamehameha I.; but the fear of foreign invasion never disturbed them, and the people, who feared their gods, reverenced their rulers and possessed an easy and unfailing means of sustenance and personal comfort, were content with a condition which had been theirs for generations and was hopeless of amelioration; for the high chiefs in authority claimed a lineage distinct from that of the masses, and between them frowned a gulf socially and politically impassable. The Hawaiians were never cannibals. The most conspicuous of their barbarisms was the sacrifice of human beings to their gods; but did not the temples of early Gaul and Saxon flow with the blood of men? and did not one of the fathers of Israel sharpen his knife to slay the body of his son upon the altar of the God of Abraham? They knew but little of the arts as we know them now, and the useful and precious metals were all unknown to them; yet they made highways over the precipices, reared massive walls of stone around their temples, carried effective weapons into battle, and constructed capacious single and double canoes and barges, which they navigated by the light of the stars. They had no language either of letters or symbolism, but so accurately were their legends preserved and transmitted that the great chiefs were able to trace their ancestry back, generation by generation, to something like a kinship with the children of Jacob, and even beyond in the same manner to Noah, and thence to Adam. What wonder, then, that under their old kings the islands of Hawaii should have been the home of romance, and that the south wind should have sighed in numbers through the caves of Kona? And now, borne by the soft breath of the tropics, let us be wafted to the island of Hawaii, and backward over a misty bridge of historic meles to the reign of Kealiiokoloa, a son of Umi and grandson of the famed Liloa. It was during his brief reign--extending, perhaps, from 1520 to 1530--that for a second time a white face was seen by the Hawaiians. A Spanish vessel from the Moluccas was driven upon the reefs of Keei, in the district of Kona, and completely destroyed. But two persons were saved from the wreck--the captain and his sister. They were first thought to be gods by the simple islanders; but as their first request was for food, which they ate with avidity, and their next for rest, which seemed to be as necessary to them as to other mortals, they were soon relieved of their celestial attributes and conducted to the king, who received them graciously and took them under his protection. The captain--named by the natives Kukanaloa--wedded a dusky maiden of good family, and the sister became the wife of a chief in whose veins ran royal blood. On the death of Kealiiokoloa his younger brother, Keawenui, assumed the sceptre in defiance of the right of Kukailani, his nephew and son of the dead king, who was too young to assert his authority. This he was the better enabled to do in consequence of the sudden death of the king, possibly by poison, before his successor had been formally named. Keawenui's usurpation, however, was resisted by the leading chiefs of the island, who refused to recognize his authority and rose in arms against him. But he inherited something of the martial prowess of his father, Umi, and, meeting the revolted chiefs before they had time to properly organize their forces, destroyed them in detail, and thereafter reigned in peace. Nor could it well have been otherwise, for the bones of the rebellious chiefs of Kohala, Hamakua, Hilo, Puna, Kau and Kona were among the trophies of his household, and Kukailani, lacking ambition, was content with the lot of idleness and luxury which the crafty uncle placed at his command. And thus, while Keawenui continued in the moiship of Hawaii, Kukailani, the rightful ruler, grew to manhood around the court of his uncle. In due time the prince married, and among the children born to him was Kaikilani, the heroine of this little story. At the age of fifteen she was the most lovely of the maidens of Hawaii. Her face was fairer than any other in Hilo, to which place Keawenui had removed his court; and that is saying much, for the king was noted for his gallantries, and the handsomest women in the kingdom were among his retainers. If her complexion was a shade lighter than that of others, it was because of the Castilian blood that had come to her through her grandmother, the sister of Kukanaloa, and brighter eyes than hers never peered through the lattices of the Guadalquivir. Kaikilani became the wife of the king's eldest son, Kanaloa-kuaana, and, in further atonement of the wrong he had done her father, on his death-bed Keawenui formally conferred upon her the moiship of Hawaii. Among the other sons left by Keawenui at his death was Lono. His full name was Lonoikamakahiki. His mother was Haokalani, in whose veins ran the best blood of Oahu. Early in life Lono exhibited remarkable intelligence, and as he grew to manhood, after the death of his father, in athletic and warlike exercises and other manly accomplishments he had not a peer in all Hawaii. So greatly was he admired by the people, and so manifestly was he born to rule, that his brother, the husband and adviser of the queen, recommended that he be elevated to the moiship, in equal power and dignity with Kaikilani. What followed could have occurred only in Hawaii. A day was appointed for a public trial of Lono's abilities before the assembled chiefs of the kingdom. Although but twenty-three years of age, his knowledge of warfare, of government, of the unwritten laws of the island and the prerogatives of the tabu was found to be complete; and Kawaamaukele, the venerable high-priest of Hilo, whose white hairs swept his knees, and who had foretold Lono's future when a boy, bore testimony to his thorough mastery of the legendary annals of the people and his zeal in the worship of the gods. So much for his mental acquirements. To test his physical accomplishments the chiefs most noted for their skill, strength and endurance were summoned from all parts of the kingdom. It was a tournament in which one man threw down the glove to every chief in Hawaii. The various contests continued for ten consecutive days, in the presence of thousands of people, and between the many trials of strength and skill were interspersed feasting, music and dancing. The scene was brilliant. More than a hundred distinguished chiefs, in yellow mantles and helmets, presented themselves to test the prowess of Lono in exercises in which they individually excelled. But the mighty grandson of Umi vanquished them all. He outran the fleetest, as well on the plain as in bringing a ball of snow from the top of Mauna Kea. On a level he leaped the length of two long war-spears, and in uli-maita, holua and other athletic games he found no rival. In a canoe contest he distanced twelve competitors, and then plunged into the sea with a pahoa in his hand, and slew and brought to the surface the body of a large shark. He caught in his hands twenty spears hurled at him in rapid succession by as many strong arms, and in the moku-moku, or wrestling contests, he broke the limbs of three of his adversaries. Among the witnesses of these contests was the still young and comely Kaikilani. It is true that she had frequently met the young hero, and regarded him with such favor as she might the brother of her husband; but now, at the end of his victories, he appeared to her almost as a god, with whom it would be an honor to share the sovereignty of the kingdom; and when, amidst the plaudits of thousands, she threw the royal mamo over his shoulders with her own hands, and in doing so kissed his cheek, her husband saw that she loved Lono better than she had ever loved him. "The gods have decreed it," said Kanaloa, in sorrow, but with no feeling of bitterness, "and so shall it be!" He consulted with the chiefs and high-priest, and at the conclusion of a feast the same evening, given in honor of Lono, he took his brother by the hand and led him to the apartment of the queen. As they entered, Kaikilani rose from a soft couch of kapa, and waited to hear the purpose of their visit; for it was near the middle of the night, and but a single kukui torch was burning in front of the door. The heart of Kanaloa fluttered in his throat, but he finally said, with apparent calmness: "My good Kaikilani, what I am about to say is in sorrow to myself and in affection for you. Of all the sons of our father, Lono seems most to have the favor of the gods. Is it strange, then, that he should have yours as well? It is therefore deemed best by the gods, the chiefs and myself that you accept Lono as your husband, and share with him henceforth the government of Hawaii. Is it your will that this be done?" Kaikilani was almost dazed with the abrupt announcement; but she understood its full meaning, and, after gazing for a moment into the face of Lono and reading no objection there, she found the courage to answer: "Since it is the will of the gods, it is also mine." "So shall it be made known by the heralds," said Kanaloa, bowing to hide his grief, and leaving Lono and the queen together. Thus it was that Lono, of whom tradition relates so many romantic stories, became the moi of Hawaii and the husband of the most attractive woman of her time, Queen Kaikilani. II. Peace and prosperity followed the elevation of Lono to the throne of Hawaii. His fame as an able and sagacious ruler soon spread to the other islands of the group, and his court as well as his person commanded the highest respect of his subjects. Weary of inaction, and having no desire to embroil the kingdom in a foreign war, he at length concluded to visit some of the neighboring islands with his queen, and particularly Kauai, which he had once seen when a boy. Leaving the government in charge of his brother Kanaloa, Lono embarked on his journey of pleasure with a number of large double canoes and a brilliant retinue. He took with him poloulous, kahilis and other emblems of state, and the hokeo, or large calabash, containing the bones of the six rebellious chiefs slain by his royal father at the beginning of his reign. The double canoe provided for Kaikilani and her personal attendants was fitted out in a manner becoming the rank of its royal occupant. It was eighty feet in length, and the two together were seven feet in width. Midway between stem and stern a continuous flooring covered both canoes, which was enclosed to a height of six feet, thus providing the queen with a room seven feet broad and twenty feet in length. The apartment was abundantly supplied with cloths and mats of brilliant colors, and the walls were decorated with festoons of shells and leis of flowers and feathers. In front of the entrance stood two kahilis, and behind a kapa screen was a carved image of Ku, surrounded by a number of charms and sacred relics. The canoes were brightly painted in alternate lines of black and yellow, while above their ornamented prows towered the carved and feathered forms of two gigantic birds with human heads. Forty oarsmen comprised the crew, and sails of mats were ready to lift into every favoring breeze. The double canoe of the king was smaller and less elaborately ornamented; and as it moved out of the harbor of Hilo, bearing the royal ensign and followed by the sumptuous barge of the queen and the humbler crafts of servants and retainers, the shores were lined with people, and hundred in canoes paddled after them to give them their parting alohas beyond the reef. The auguries had not been favorable. So said the high-priest, and so had the people whispered to each other. But, after preparing for the journey, Lono could not be persuaded to relinquish it. It was therefore with misgivings that he was seen to depart; and for many days thereafter sacrifices were offered for him in the temples, and a strict tabu was ordered for a period of three days, during which time no labor was performed and a solemn silence prevailed over all the land embraced in the dread edict. Swine were confined, fires were extinguished, dogs were muzzled, fowls were hidden under calabashes, and the priests alone were seen and heard, and they but sparingly. Such was the strict tabu for the propitiation of the gods in case of emergency or peril, and death was the certain penalty of its violation. The weather was fair, and the royal party first stopped at Lahaina. It had been Lono's purpose to spend a week or more at the court of Kamalalawalu, but the moi was absent at the time, and the squadron left Maui the next day for Oahu. A fair wind wafted the party through Pailolo channel to the western point of Molokai. The sky was clear, and Lono began to discern the tops of the mountains of eastern Oahu, when one of his nephews threw his spear into and wounded a large shark which for some time had been slowly moving around the bows of the canoe. In an instant the weapon was thrown back with a violence which drove the point through the rim of the boat. Blood tinged the waves, but the shark disappeared. Before Lono could recover from his astonishment a furious wind rose from the south and west, and the fleet was driven around to the north side of Molokai, and finally succeeded in effecting a landing at Kalaupapa. Two of the canoes were destroyed during the gale, and the thoughtless young chief who cast the spear was washed into the sea and devoured by a school of black sharks before assistance could reach him. Landing with his party, Lono learned from a priest the cause of the disaster that had overtaken him. It was the god Moaalii, who had taken his characteristic form of a shark and was guiding the fleet to Oahu, that had been wounded by Lono's nephew. The weather continued boisterous for some days, and Lono and his party became the guests of the chiefs of Kalaupapa. It was not a very inviting spot, and to beguile the time Lono and Kaikilani amused themselves with the game of konane, played upon a checkered board and closely resembling the game of draughts. One day, when thus occupied in the shade of a palm near the foot of an abrupt hill, Lono heard a voice above them. He gave but little attention to it until the name of Kaikilani was pronounced. He listened without raising his head, and soon heard the voice repeat: "Ho, Kaikilani! Your lover, Heakekoa, is waiting for you!" Lono looked up, but could see no one above them. He inquired the meaning of such words addressed to the wife of the moi of Hawaii; but the queen, seemingly confused, was either unable or unwilling to offer any explanation. Enraged at what he hastily conceived to be an evidence of her infidelity, Lono seized the konane board and struck her senseless and bleeding to the earth. Without waiting to learn the result of his barbarous blow, Lono strode to the beach, and, ordering his canoe launched, set sail at once for Oahu, without leaving any orders for the remainder of the fleet. As he shoved from the shore Kaikilani approached, and, holding out her blood-stained hands, pitifully implored him to remain or take her with him; but he waved her back in anger and resolutely put out to sea. She watched the canoe of her impetuous husband until it became a speck in the distance, and then with a despairing moan sank senseless upon the sands. Kaikilani was tenderly borne to her domicile by her attendants, and for nine days struggled with a fever which threatened her life. During all that time she tasted neither fish nor poi, but in her delirium appealed continually to Lono, declaring that no one had called to her from the cliffs. On the tenth day her mind was clear and she partook of food, and then on her hands and knees a young woman crawled to the side of her kapa-moe, and, having permission to speak, said: "O queen, I am the innocent cause of your misery, and my heart breaks for you. I am the daughter of the chief Keeokane, and he has sent me to you. Heakekoa loves me, and it was my name, Kaikinane, that he called from the cliffs, and not yours. It is better that confusion should come to me than shame and grief to the queen of Hawaii." Kaikilani admonished her attendants to remember the words of the girl, that they might be able, if necessary, to repeat them to Lono, and then dismissed her with presents and a promise to speak kindly of her to her father, who was greatly annoyed at the distress which the indiscretion of his daughter had brought to their distinguished guest. As soon as she had sufficiently recovered, Kaikilani, not knowing what had become of her husband, sorrowfully returned to Hawaii in the hope of finding him there and explaining away the cause of his anger. But the news of Lono's assault upon her and his sudden departure from Molokai had preceded her, probably through the return of some of the canoes of the fleet, and when she arrived at Kohala she found the kingdom in a state of rebellion. With the avowed intent of slaying Lono, should he return to Hawaii, Kanaloa had assumed the regency, supported by the principal chiefs of the island, the relatives of the queen, and all the brothers of Lono with the exception of Pupuakea, a stalwart and warlike son of Keawenui by an humble mother unnamed in the royal annals, and who had large possessions in the district of Kau. But Kaikilani still loved her hot-headed but instinctively generous husband, and refused to give countenance to the revolt raised in her behalf. She therefore hastily left Kohala at night, and, so sailing as to escape the observation of the rebels, suddenly appeared off the coast of Kau and placed herself in communication with Pupuakea, the only chief of note that still adhered to the fortunes of Lono. He had succeeded in rallying to the support of his cause a very considerable force, but he knew that it would avail him little against the united armies of the opposition, and after a full consideration of the situation it was decided that Pupuakea should remain on the defensive until the return of Lono, of whom Kaikilani resolved to go at once in search. With this understanding Kaikilani, inspired by the hope of winning back her husband's love, after a few preparations started on her errand; but not before she had made sacrifices to the gods and implored their assistance, and Pupuakea brought word to her from the temple that the auguries of her journey showed a line of dark clouds ending in sunshine. But what cared she for clouds, if the sunshine of Lono's presence was to come at last? But where was Lono? Perhaps in the bottom of the sea; but, if alive, she resolved to find him, even though the search took her through all the group to the barren rocks of Kaula. Rounding the capes of Kau and sailing nearly northward, Kaikilani first stopped at Lahaina; but a week spent there convinced her that Lono was not on the island of Maui. The moi treated her with great respect and kindness, and offered to assist in the search for her husband on the other islands; but she declined his services, and next visited Lanai. Causing a thorough search to be made of that island, and despatching a party to the windy wastes of Kahoolawe, the queen proceeded to Molokai, to assure herself that Lono had not returned to Kalaupapa, and then set sail for Oahu. She first landed at Waikiki, on that island, but, learning that the king had established his court at Kailua, departed for that place the next day, and reached it without difficulty, for the captain of her crew was the distinguished old navigator, Kukupea, who for a wager, in the reign of Keawenui, had made the direct passage in a canoe between the Hawaiian bay of Kealakeakua and the island of Niihau without sighting intermediate land. III. Leaving Kaikilani entering the bay of Kailua, it will be in order to briefly refer to the adventures of Lono after his sudden departure from Kalaupapa. Half-crazed at what had occurred, to divert his thoughts from his cruelty he seized a paddle, and vigorously used it hour after hour until he was compelled to cease through exhaustion. The wind was fair, but, inspired by his example, twenty others plied the paddle ceaselessly in turns of ten, and in a few hours the royal canoe was hauled up on the beach of Kailua, on the northwestern coast of Oahu, where, as before stated, Kakuhihewa, the moi of the island, had temporarily established his court. As Lono approached the shore his state attracted attention. A chief and priest, who had at one time been in the service of Lono's father, recognized the sail and insignia of the craft, and informed the king that it must be that some one nearly connected with the royal family of Hawaii had come to visit him. This secured to Lono a cordial and royal welcome. Houses were set apart for his accommodation, and food in abundance was provided for him and his attendants. Although he scrupulously concealed his name and rank, and in that respect enjoined the closest secrecy upon his attendants under penalty of death, his commanding presence and personal equipment rendered it apparent that he was either one of the sons of Keawenui or a chief of the highest rank below the throne. Pleading fatigue, and courteously desiring to be left to himself until the day following, Lono partook of his evening meal, sent from the table of the king, alone and in silence, and at an early hour retired to rest. But the heat was oppressive, and thoughts of Kaikilani disturbed his slumbers, and near midnight he strolled down to his canoe on the beach to catch the cool breeze of the sea. While there another double canoe arrived from Kauai, having on board a high chiefess, who was on her way to Hawaii and had touched at Kailua for fresh water. To pass the time Lono engaged in conversation with the fair stranger, and so interested her that she repeated to him twice a new mele that had just been composed in honor of her name--Ohaikawiliula--and which was known only to a few of the highest chiefs of Kauai. Portions of the celebrated chant are still retained by old Hawaiians. The mele diverted his mind from bitter thoughts, and when he returned to his couch he enjoyed a refreshing sleep. At daylight the next morning the king, without disturbing his royal guest, repaired to the sea-shore for his customary bath just as the Kauai chiefess was preparing to depart. Making himself known to her, she recited to him until he was able to repeat the new mele, and then made sail for Hawaii. As she had arrived after midnight, and the mele was new, the king was pleased at the thought of being able to surprise Lono by reciting it to him; but his amazement was great and his discomfiture complete when, on meeting his guest after breakfast and bantering him to repeat the latest Kauaian mele, Lono recited in full the poem he had so quickly and correctly committed to memory the night before. This incident is related by tradition in evidence of Lono's mental capacity. Notwithstanding the mystery which surrounded him at the court of Oahu, Lono soon became a great favorite there. No one could throw a spear so far or so accurately, and in all games and exercises of strength or skill he found no equal. He was generous and fearless, and in his pastimes reckless of his life. Although he was beset with their smiles and blandishments, women seemed to have no charm for him, and he politely but firmly declined to avail himself of that feature of early Hawaiian hospitality which held a host to be remiss in courtesy if he failed to provide his guest with female companionship. He preferred the sturdier contests of men, and introduced to the Oahuans a number of new games of skill and muscle. While the most of the chiefs were generous admirers of the accomplishments of their unknown visitor, a few were jealous of his popularity, among them the grand counselor of the king, Lanahuimihaku, who on one occasion sneeringly referred to him as "a nameless chief." To this taunt Lono, towering above his traducer with a menace of death in his face, replied that he would flay him alive if he ever met him beyond the protection of his king; and then he brought from his canoe the great calabash of bones, and, exhibiting the trophies of his father's prowess, chanted the names of the slain. This apprised them all that he was indeed a son of Keawenui, but which one they did not know. But Lono's stay in Kailua was drawing to a close, for one day, while he was playing konane with the king within the enclosure of the palace grounds, Kaikilani's canoe was being drawn up on the beach below. She saw, to her great joy, the canoe of her husband, and ascertained where he might be found. Proceeding alone toward the royal mansion, with a fluttering heart she approached the enclosure, and through an opening in the wall discerned the stalwart form of Lono. Stepping aside to avoid his gaze, she began to chant his mele inoa--the song of his own name. He was startled at hearing his name mentioned in a place where he supposed it to be unknown. He raised his head and listened, and, as the words of the mele floated to him, he recognized the voice of Kaikilani. Rising to his feet, with dignity he now addressed the king: "My royal brother, disguise is no longer necessary or fitting. I am Lonoikamakahiki, son of Keawenui and moi of Hawaii, and the gods have sent to me Kaikilani, my wife. It is her voice that we now hear." Then, turning and approaching the wall behind which Kaikilani was standing, Lono began to chant her name, coupled with words of tenderness and reconciliation; then, springing over the obstruction, he clasped his faithful wife in his arms, and the past was forgiven and forgotten. The rank of his guests now being known, Kakuhihewa was anxious to give them a befitting recognition; but, learning of the revolt in Hawaii and the peril of Pupuakea, Lono embarked for his kingdom at once. Reaching and passing Kohala, where he learned the rebels were in force, he landed at Kealakeakua, and immediately despatched a messenger to Pupuakea, in Kau, with information of his arrival in Puna. The brother responded promptly, and, leading his forces over a mountain path to avoid the coast villages, joined Lono at Puuanahulu. Meantime, Lono's name had brought thousands to his standard, and on the arrival of Pupuakea he boldly attacked and defeated the insurgents at Wailea. They were followed and again defeated at Kaunooa. Reinforcements reaching the rebels from Kohala, two other battles were fought in rapid succession, both resulting in their defeat. In these engagements two of Lono's brothers were slain, and the body of one of them was offered as a sacrifice at the heiau of Puukohola. The last of the rebels were defeated at Pololu, and the island returned to its allegiance to Lono and Kaikilani. Kanaloa-kuaana, who originated the revolt, also submitted, and was forgiven and restored to favor through the intercession of the queen. The legends relate many subsequent romantic adventures of Lono; but he and Kaikilani both lived to good old ages, and when they died were succeeded in the sovereignty of Hawaii by lineal blood. THE ADVENTURES OF IWIKAUIKAUA. CHARACTERS. Kaikalani, queen of Hawaii. Makakaualii, brother of Kaikilani. Iwikauikaua, son of Makakaualii. Kanaloa-kuaana and Kanaloa-kakulehu, princes of Hawaii. Kealiiokalani, daughter of Kaikilani. Keakealanikane, son of Kanaloa-kuaana. Keakamahana, daughter of Kealiiokalani. Kaihikapu, king of southern Oahu. Kauakahi, daughter of Kaihikapu. Kauhiakama, moi of Maui. Kapukini, queen of Maui and sister of Iwikauikaua. Mahia, chief of Kahakuloa, Maui. THE ADVENTURES OF IWIKAUIKAUA. A STORY OF ROYAL KNIGHT-ERRANTRY IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. I. One of the most interesting characters distinctly observed among the misty forms and dimly outlined events of the remaining Hawaiian traditions of the sixteenth century is Iwikauikaua. In him the knight-errantry of the period found a distinguished exponent and representative, and his deeds add a bold tint to the glow of romance and chivalry lighting up the life and reign of the great Lono, and lend a lustre to the names and events with which they are associated. Of royal lineage, but without estates or following beyond his personal attendants, he sought his fortune with spear and battle-axe, and in the end became the husband of a queen and one of the ancestors of a long line of kings. As he was the nephew of Queen Kaikilani--whose reign in Hawaii, including that of her husband, Lono, embraced, it may be presumed, the period between the years A.D. 1565 and 1595--and was a stout friend and supporter of the ruling family, a proper understanding of the rank, position and aspirations of Iwikauikaua necessitates a brief reference to the strange political events which surrounded his youth and conspired to shape his romantic career. When Kealiiokoloa, the son of Umi, suddenly died, in about A.D. 1535, after a reign of perhaps not more than ten years, he left as his heir a young son named Kukailani. His right to the throne was unquestioned, but, as he had not been formally designated by his father as his successor, Keawenui, the younger brother of the dead king, assumed the sceptre, and maintained his claim to it by meeting in battle and slaying the six principal chiefs of the island who rebelled against the usurpation. Kukailani seems to have possessed but little force or spirit, and was content during his life with such maintenance as his uncle was willing to provide. In due time he married, and became the father of Kaikilani and Makakaualii. The former became the wife of Kanaloa-kuaana, the eldest son of Keawenui, and subsequently the wife of his brother Lono, as related in the legend of "Lono and Kaikilani." As if desirous of atoning for the injustice done to his nephew, Kukailani, on his death-bed Keawenui named as his successor Kaikilani, daughter of the deposed prince, and wife of Kanaloa-kuaana, his own son. Why Keawenui restored the sceptre to his brother's family through Kaikilani instead of her brother, Makakaualii, finds ready explanation in the fact that Kaikilani was the wife of his eldest son, through which union both families would thereafter share in the sovereignty. Makakaualii, whose claims to the moiship were thus overlooked or disregarded by Keawenui, was the father of our hero, Iwikauikaua. But, if wrong was done in the matter, it was never openly resented by either father or son, and Iwikauikaua always remained the steadfast friend of his royal aunt, Kaikilani. The position of Kukailani, on the death of his father, was such as could have been patiently borne only by one entirely destitute of ambition. Custom would have accorded him ample estates and a following consistent with his rank; but his crafty uncle did not deem it prudent to tempt him to rebellion by according him even the powers of a district chief. It was safer for him to remain at court, living upon the bounty and under the watchful eye of Keawenui. He was doubtless a high officer of the royal household, retaining the tabus and meles of his family, and receiving the respect due to his rank; but no lands were set apart for him, and he had no retainers beyond his personal attendants. But Kukailani seemed to be content with his situation, and so utterly indifferent to the rights of his family that it does not appear that he ever demanded a more befitting recognition of the claims of the children born to him. Hence, like their father, Makakaualii and Kaikilani were compelled to live upon the bounty of the king until the latter was chosen to the succession. And this was also the inheritance of Iwikauikaua, the son of Makakaualii. He was a landless chief of royal blood, and circumstances indicate that he was quite a youth when Keawenui died and Kaikilani assumed the sceptre. He grew to manhood around the court of his royal aunt, and was among the many who rejoiced when Lono became her husband and, with her, the joint ruler of Hawaii. In person he was handsome and imposing, and his accomplishments befitted his rank. Through Kaikilani the moiship had been restored to the Kealiiokoloa branch of the royal family, but the previous usurpation had left him without estates, and less near than was his due to the throne, and he chafed under his hard fortune and resolved to retrieve it--not by rebellion or trespass upon the rights of others, but through the channels of bold and legitimate endeavor. When a boy a kaula told him that he would die either a king or the husband of a queen, and he never forgot the prophecy. In fact, it seems to have taken possession of him and to have become the guiding star of his early life. Iwikauikaua makes his first appearance as a striking and consequential figure of Hawaiian tradition in the midst of the revolt of Kanaloa-kuaana and other chiefs of Hawaii against Lono. The revolt was organized during the absence of Lono and Kaikilani on a friendly visit to the other islands of the group, and embraced nearly every prominent chief in the kingdom. They had resolved to kill Lono should he return to the island, and the conspiracy seemed to be as formidable as time and determination could make it. With a single exception, all the brothers of Lono were arrayed against him, and his cause was considered almost hopeless. The rebellion had its origin, avowedly, in a report that Lono had in a fit of jealousy killed Kaikilani on the island of Molokai; but other motives must have existed, for the return of Kaikilani with her husband to Hawaii did not put an end to the uprising, but rather stimulated the conspirators in their resolution to wrest the sovereignty of the island from Lono at all hazards. The only brother of Lono who refused to join in the conspiracy was Pupuakea. He was the sturdy and warlike son of Keawenui by a mother whose name is not mentioned by tradition, and was endowed with lands in the district of Kau. Removing in early manhood to his estates in that district, he seldom visited the court and took no part in its bickerings. As his mother was doubtless of an humble family, he was not considered the equal in rank of the other sons of Keawenui, and therefore preferred to reside where he would not be continually reminded of his inferiority. When the revolt against Lono was organized he was invited by Kanaloa-kuaana to give it his support; but no promises of lands were made to him, as to other distinguished chiefs, nor was he deemed to be of sufficient consequence to entitle him to a voice in the councils of the rebels. This slight of Pupuakea led to the defeat and ruin of the conspirators. The chief of whom they thought so little had developed into a leader of influence and ability in his distant home, and it was around him that was gathered the nucleus of the force which in the end gave victory to Lono. When Kaikilani returned alone from Molokai, and found the kingdom on the verge of revolution, she secretly consulted with Pupuakea, as almost the only chief of consequence to be relied upon; and when she next returned with Lono, Pupuakea was at the head of a force large enough to overawe the rebels of Kau, but too small to venture beyond that district without support. The main rebel army was concentrated in the district of Kohala, which Lono avoided on his return from Oahu, landing at Kealakeakua, on the coast of Kona. It was early in the morning when the canoes of Lono, bearing a small party of attendants, were drawn up on the beach. No one was there to oppose him: but the rebels were in possession of all the machinery of the government, as well as five of the six divisions of the island, and the outlook would have been gloomy to any one less resolute and daring than Lono. He had less than a hundred followers, and, taking from his canoe the hokeo, or calabash, containing the bones of the six rebellious district chiefs slain by his father, placed it within a sanctuary of mats on the beach, and beside it raised the royal standard and kahilis. This done, he summoned the people to arms, started a courier to Pupuakea, and despatched lunapais to the neighboring chiefs, commanding them to march to his assistance at once. But the people were timid. The revolt was not popular, but the cause of Lono seemed to be hopeless, and the masses hesitated. The hesitation was brief, however. Late in the afternoon a force of five or six hundred warriors was observed approaching from the northward. Lono hastily prepared for the best defence possible, and for retreat to his canoes should he be unable to hold his ground. Nearer and nearer came the threatening column. It was finally halted within two hundred paces of Lono's position, when from the front rank emerged a tall young chief in feather cape and helmet. At the end of his spear was displayed a large ti leaf as a token of peace. Accompanied by two aids bearing weapons similarly bedecked, he boldly strode past the lines of Lono and asked for the king. He was conducted to his presence, and, observing Kaikilani beside her husband, was about to kneel when Lono stepped forward and grasped him by the hand, exclaiming: "Welcome, Iwikauikaua, for I know you come as a friend!" "Yes, I come as a friend," replied the chief, "and have with me a few brave warriors, whose services I now tender." "But are you not afraid to be the friend of Lono at such a time as this?" inquired the king, glancing admiringly at the bold front of the young chief. "The whole island seems to be in arms against me." Lono knew he was exaggerating the danger, but desired to learn the worst. "No, not the whole island," promptly replied the chief. "Pupuakea will soon join us with three thousand spears or more, and it will not be long that Lono will lack warriors." "You are right," returned the king, hopefully; "we will find spears and axes enough in the end to clear a way to Kohala." Kaikilani joined Lono in thanking her nephew for his timely assistance, and Iwikauikaua retired to find quarters for his followers and arouse others to the defence of the king. The appearance of the young chief with his few hundreds of warriors was indeed most opportune. It inspired the people with confidence in the success of Lono, and they began to rally to his support in large numbers; and, observing that the tide was turning in his favor, the neighboring chiefs came to his assistance with their followers, thus swelling his force within three days to as many thousands of warriors of all arms. Hastily organizing his little army, Lono boldly pushed on toward Kohala, steadily recruiting his ranks as he moved, and at Puuanahulu was joined by Pupuakea with nearly three thousand additional spears from Kau. Thus enabled to operate on the offensive, he attacked and defeated the rebel army at Wailea, and again at Puako, or at some point not far north of that place. After the second engagement the rebels retreated northward, and, receiving reinforcements from Kohala, made another stand at Puupa, where they were again defeated, but through some mishap Iwikauikaua was taken prisoner. They then fell back to Puukohola, near which place a large heiau was maintained at that time. There Kanaloa-kakulehu, one of the brothers of Lono, resolved to sacrifice the distinguished prisoner. Iwikauikaua received the announcement stoically. He was conducted to the altar within the heiau. The assistants were in readiness to take him beyond the walls for execution, and the priests were in attendance to offer the sacrifice in due form to Kanaloa-kakulehu's god of war. Ascending the steps of the altar, the young chief turned to the high-priest and said: "I am ready, but it is not the will of the gods that I should be offered." "What know you of the will of the gods?" answered the priest, sternly. "And what know you," returned the chief, "since you have not inquired?" Such questioning was not common at the altar, and for a moment the priest was disconcerted. Finally he said: "You say it is not the will of the gods. Make it so appear, and your life shall be spared; but if you fail your right eye shall see the left in my hand, and you will be slain with torture." "So let it be!" exclaimed the chief; and, lifting his face upward, he addressed an audible prayer to Ku, Uli and Kama. As he proceeded with the solemn invocation not an unfavorable omen appeared. The winds died away and the birds in the neighboring trees remained silent. Concluding the prayer, he folded his arms and stepped down from the altar. By an unseen hand the cords that bound his limbs had been cut, and he approached the high-priest and bowed before him. This manifestation of the will of the gods could not be mistaken, and Iwikauikaua was conducted to a hut within the heiau, where he was advised to remain until he could leave the place in safety. No hostile hand could be laid upon him within the walls of the temple. There he was under the protection of the high-priest, and beyond the reach of the highest temporal authority. But Iwikauikaua did not long require the protection of the heiau. At daylight the next morning Lono attacked the rebels at Puukohola, and after an obstinate battle defeated them, taking prisoner his brother Kanaloa-kakulehu, whom he promptly ordered to be sacrificed at the heiau. As he was brought to the altar for that purpose, his last moments were embittered by the farewell which Iwikauikaua waved to him with simulated grief as he left the enclosure to join the victorious army. Although Lono had directed the sacrifice of his brother in retaliation for the supposed death of Iwikauikaua, he did not countermand the order, as he might have done in time, when he found the latter had miraculously escaped. Several other battles were fought, in all of which Iwikauikaua took a distinguished part, and the island returned to its allegiance to Lono and Kaikilani. The services of Papuakea were rewarded with such additional lands of deceased rebel chiefs as he chose to accept, and Iwikauikaua was offered possessions either in Kona or Hamakua, or a military charge in the royal household. But in the end he decided to accept neither. They presented to him no opportunity for such advancement as the gods had promised, and which now, since their manifestation in his favor at Puukohola, seemed to be almost assured to him. He had fixed his eye upon his pretty cousin Kealiiokalani, the daughter of Kaikilani. She stood close to the throne, and evinced a decided partiality for the dashing young chief. The gossip of the court was that the princess loved Iwikauikaua and would be more than content to become his wife. But royal marriages in all ages and in every clime have been less a suggestion of hearts than of state considerations; and so it was in this instance. Unknown to all but himself, it was the fair face of the princess that had prompted him to espouse the cause of Lono when it seemed to be almost hopeless, and his services certainly entitled him to almost any reward; but Keakealanikane, the son of Kaikilani by her first husband, Kanaloa-kuaana, had been named as successor to the moiship, and Kealiiokalani was selected to become his wife. Such marriages of close kinship were not uncommon among the chiefly families of ancient Hawaii, and the children born to them were accorded the very highest rank. This arrangement for the succession left Iwikauikaua little to hope for on Hawaii, and he determined to seek his fortune among the other islands of the group. Tempting inducements were held out to him to remain, but he declined them all. To the princess alone he whispered that her betrothal to Keakealanikane had rendered his departure advisable, and she grieved that circumstances had decreed their separation. Ambition doubtless first attracted him to his fair cousin; but her nature was gentle and loving, and he finally regarded her with a sincere and romantic attachment, which she seems to have fully reciprocated. II. In a large double canoe, painted red, and at its masthead flying the pennon of an aha-alii, Iwikauikaua, with a score or more of attendants, set sail from Kohala in quest of adventure. Passing Maui, he spent some time in visiting the small island of Lanai, where he was entertained in a princely manner by the leading chiefs. Proceeding thence to Molokai, he remained a week or more in the neighborhood of Kalaupapa, and then sailed for Oahu. He landed at Waikiki, on that island, and was well received by Kaihikapu, one of the three principal chiefs of Oahu. His father was the noted Kakuhihewa, who had entertained Lono during his voluntary exile, and who at his death, a short time before, had divided the island among his three oldest sons, leaving the dignity of moi to Kanekapu. Harmony existed among the brothers, and all of them followed the example of their father in maintaining attractive petty courts and imposing establishments. The moi retained possession of the royal mansion at Kailua, which was two hundred and forty feet in length and ninety in breadth, and adorned with all the taste and skill of the period. Kaihikapu had a princely mansion at Ewa, but his court was at Waikiki at the time of the arrival of Iwikauikaua. The young chief, whose rank was at once recognized, was provided with quarters for himself and attendants near the court, and soon became a favorite with the nobility. The part he had taken in the battles of Lono, together with his miraculous escape at the temple of Puukohola, became the talk of the court, and he was treated as a hero. In the pleasure of the courts of Oahu, Iwikauikaua spent a number of years on the island, and finally became the husband of Kauakahi, daughter of Kaihikapu. It was not a love-match, at least so far as Iwikauikaua was concerned, for after his marriage he squandered the most of his time for some years in roaming from district to district and giving little heed to the future. At length he began to crave a more active life, and was about to seek it on some other island when the noted war of the Kawelos, of Kauai, gave employment to his spear. Kawelo had been driven from Kauai by his cousin, and, finding refuge in Oahu, had been given lands in the Waianae Mountains by Kaihikapu. Instead of settling there in peace, he began to construct canoes and prepare for a return to Kauai with a force sufficient to maintain himself on that island. Kaihikapu was finally induced to assist him, and so substantially that he invaded Kauai, deposed and killed his cousin, and assumed the moiship. Iwikauikaua took part in the expedition, but became disgusted with the jealousies of the Kauai chiefs and returned to Oahu at the close of the war, without attempting to avail himself of the opportunities afforded by the rebellion. His marriage with Kauakahi promised him no advancement. His hair began to be tinged with gray, and the future presented to him no sign of the fulfilment of the prophecy of his youth. He consulted the kaulas, but they gave him no satisfaction. One of them told him, however, that his fortunes lay to the windward, and he provisioned a double canoe, and, with a competent crew and a few retainers, set sail in that direction without taking leave of any one. He stopped for a few days on Molokai, and a kaula there advised him to go to Maui. He accordingly set sail for that island, where resided two of his sisters, whom he had not seen for many years. One of them, Kapukini, was the wife of Kauhiakama, the moi of Maui; and the other, Pueopokii, of Kaaoao, a prominent chief of Kaupo. He landed at Lahaina, and made himself known to Kapukini. Their greeting was affectionate, and they had much to relate of their past lives. She was the only wife of Kauhiakama, and he was astounded to hear that the aged moi had started two days before with a hostile army for Oahu. The object of the invasion was not clear, but Iwikauikaua felt satisfied that it would end disastrously, and impatiently awaited the result. The only son of Kapukini had reached his manhood, and Iwikauikaua advised his sister to prepare for his installation as moi, expressing the opinion that Kauhiakama would never return. His surmises proved to be correct. Within ten days a mere handful of the force with which the moi had embarked for Oahu returned, bringing news of the defeat and death of Kauhiakama. The moi had landed at Waikiki, where he was met and defeated by the united chiefs of Oahu. He was slain during the battle, and his body was taken to the heiau of Apuakehau, where it was treated with unusual indignity--so unusual, in fact, that Kahekili, the moi of Maui, many generations after remembered the act, and retaliated in kind upon the chiefs captured by him in his conquest of Oahu. Kauhiakama had always been a rash and visionary leader, and his tragical end did not surprise Iwikauikaua. It was on his report that his warlike father, Kamalalawalu, had invaded Hawaii, and met defeat and death at the hands of Lono, and with equal thoughtlessness he had thrown a small invading force into the most thickly populated district of Oahu, and led it to slaughter. But, whatever may have been the weaknesses of Kauhiakama, a lack of courage was certainly not one of them, and the news of his death, together with that of the indignity visited upon his remains, created a wild excitement among the chiefs of Maui. His son was installed as moi without opposition, and a general demand for revenge went up from the whole island. Large quotas of warriors were offered from every district, and the young moi was implored to baptize the beginning of his reign with the best blood of Oahu. But Iwikauikaua advised the excited chiefs to act with discretion. No one more than himself felt like avenging the death of Kauhiakama, who was the husband of his sister; "but," he said to them, "the chiefs of Oahu are united, and a war upon one of them means a conflict with the whole island. Their spears are as long and as many as ours, and their knives are as sharp; therefore let not the chiefs of Maui be hasty." Many of the chiefs agreed with Iwikauikaua that an invasion of Oahu in revenge for the death of their moi would not be advisable, and the newly-anointed king was of the same opinion; but others, especially those who had lost friends or relatives in the late expedition, clamored for war, and not a few of them intimated that the advice of Iwikauikaua was inspired either by friendship for the Oahuans or personal cowardice. These insinuations reached the ear of Iwikauikaua, and the manner in which he repelled them was bold and effective. Three hundred chiefs of the higher grades had gathered to take part in the installation of the new moi, and such of them as were entitled to a voice in the national councils were assembled to discuss the project of war and such other matters as they might be requested to consider. As a near relative of the royal family, Iwikauikaua had been invited to participate in the deliberations, but he had modestly refrained from urging his opinions, and had thus far spoken only when directly appealed to. Several remarks of a sneering character had been dropped within his hearing, and finally a chief from Wailuku, glancing insultingly toward him, declared that the chiefs of Maui were "not afraid to use their spears." Iwikauikaua could no longer bear these taunts in silence. With a dark scowl upon his handsome face, he rose to his feet and impetuously replied: "Nor am I afraid to use mine, either in defence of the moi of Maui or in challenge to any chief here who presumes to doubt my courage! I scorn to defend myself with words! Without these walls, with spear and battle-axe, I am prepared to answer one and all!" Several chiefs sprang to their feet, as if to accept the bold challenge, and confusion for a time prevailed; but order was restored when Mahia, the venerable chief of Kahakuloa, rose and, commanding silence, said: "Chiefs of Maui, hear my words and be calm. We have invited Iwikauikaua to advise with us, and by insulting him we degrade ourselves. He is high in rank and distinguished for his courage. He was the friend of the great Lono, of Hawaii, and a leader in his battles. He is the brother of Kapukini, and our respect is his due. Some of you have spoken words which seem to hold his valor lightly, and he has answered, as I would have answered had the complaint been mine, by inviting you to test the courage you doubt with spear and battle-axe. No other answer could have been made by a brave man, and we should respect the nobility that prompted it. We should say to Iwikauikaua, whose body is scarred with the teeth of many battles: 'We have spoken hastily; let us now be friends!'" The effects of the eloquent words of the old warrior were magical. Those who had offended made prompt retraction, and looks and expressions of courtesy and kindness came to Iwikauikaua from all parts of the council. By reputation he was known to many of the older chiefs, and when they recounted to the younger his chivalrous services in the wars of Hawaii he was overwhelmed with manifestations of respect and kindly feeling. The demand for an invasion of Oahu with a large force steadily abated with discussion and a better understanding of the danger and uncertainty of the project, and was entirely abandoned with the sudden appearance of a fleet of hostile canoes off the coast of Honuaula. It was a strong predatory expedition from Hawaii. Several villages had been plundered on the southern coast, and Wailuku was now threatened. Lono, the warlike king of Hawaii, had been dead for some years, and under the reign of Keakealanikane several of the more powerful of the district chiefs had assumed an attitude of comparative independence. The most noted of these were the I family, of Hilo, and the Mahi chiefs, of Kohala. Each could muster some thousands of warriors, and occasional plundering or retaliatory expeditions were undertaken to the other islands without the knowledge or countenance of the sovereign authority. The fleet discovered off the coast of Honuaula, and reported by runners to the moi, was from Kohala and under the command of one of the Mahi chiefs in person. As the young moi was unused to war, Iwikauikaua offered his services, and with fifty chiefs and two thousand warriors crossed the mountains and drove the plunderers from the coast. As it was surmised that other expeditions of a similar or more aggressive character might follow, the chiefs found employment for some time in repairing canoes, establishing signals, and placing their coast settlements in better conditions of defence. Returning to Lahaina, Iwikauikaua learned from a Hilo chief on a visit to relatives in Kauaula that Keakealanikane, king of Hawaii, had recently died, and that Kealiiokalani, his wife, could not long survive a cancerous ailment of the stomach with which she was afflicted. The mention of the name of that princess brought back a flood of tender and romantic memories, and Iwikauikaua resolved to revisit his native island. He was begged by the young moi to remain as his mahana and chief counsellor, a position to which his rank entitled him; but he seemed to hear the voice of the dying princess calling to him from Hawaii, and with becoming state set sail at once for Hilo, where the royal court had been temporarily established. It was past midnight of the second day of his departure from Lahaina when Iwikauikaua reached Hilo. He landed quietly, making himself known to no one. He found the place still in mourning for the deceased moi, and learned that Keakamahana, the elder of the two daughters and only children of Kealiiokalani, had been formally installed as moi, or queen, the day before, with the royal mother as chief adviser or premier. Early next morning Iwikauikaua, clad in a feather cape and other insignia of rank, and accompanied by a number of attendants, proceeded to the royal mansion. Being a chief of unquestioned rank, he was admitted to the pahale, but, on applying for an audience with the queen or her first counsellor, was told that the former was still in mourning and could not be seen, and the latter was too ill to receive visitors; but a proffer was made to carry any message he desired to either. "Then take to Kealiiokalani the words that her cousin, Iwikauikaua, is at her door," said the chief. At the mention of his name the kahu in attendance, a venerable chief, regarded the visitor for a moment with amazement. He had fought by his side in the wars of Lono, and in his face recognized the dashing young chief who a generation before had been saved by the gods from sacrifice at Puukohola. "Iwikauikaua, indeed!" exclaimed the kahu, with emotion. "I know you well. Years ago our spears drank blood together, from the shores of Kona to the high lands of Pololu!" Iwikauikaua was pleased at the recognition, and, after exchanging a few pleasant words with the old kahu, the latter conveyed his brief message to Kealiiokalani. She was in her own apartment at the time, reclining on a soft couch of kapa, and surrounded by a group of silent and sad-eyed attendants. Near her sat Keakamahana, the fair young moi, who was doing all that affection could suggest to soothe and strengthen her suffering mother. Prayers had been said, offerings to the gods had been made, and renowned kahunas had resorted to the most potent herbs, charms and incantations known to them in behalf of the royal sufferer. But nothing could stay the dreadful malady that was eating away her life, and all hope of her recovery had been abandoned. The cancerous gnawing was declared by the priests to be the work of an evil spirit, which prayer and sacrifice could not dislodge. The kahu delivered the message of Iwikauikaua with some hesitation, for the condition of the patient had become more critical since the death of her husband. But when she heard the name of the visitor, and learned that he was without, her eyes assumed something of the brightness of her girlhood, and she ordered him to be admitted at once. As Iwikauikaua entered he was silently conducted to the couch of Kealiiokalani. For a moment he gazed at her wan face; for a moment she glanced at the gray hairs which the years had brought to him since he said farewell to her in Kohala. He knelt beside the couch. He took her hand and held it to his heart, and the silence that followed best interpreted the thoughts of both. Rising, and learning to his embarrassment that the young woman whom he had scarcely noticed was Keakamahana, daughter of Kealiiokalani and queen of Hawaii, Iwikauikaua knelt respectfully before her, and gallantly kissed the hand with which she gave him welcome. A low order was given to an attendant by the mother, and in a moment she was alone with the queen and Iwikauikaua. Casting her eyes around and observing no others present, she beckoned them closer, and in broken sentences said: "The black kapa will soon cover me. Listen, Iwikauikaua! Early in life it was in our hearts to be the husband and wife of each other. It was the fault of neither that we were denied that hope. It was not my fault that you left Hawaii. It was not your fault that I grieved when you went to other lands. But you have returned at last. The gods have directed you back to Hawaii. They will give to me in death what they refused to my youth. In Keakamahana I will be your wife!" She paused for a moment, her listeners bending over her in silence, and then continued: "Take him as your husband, Keakamahana. He is the gift of your mother. He is brave and noble, and you will need his counsel when I am gone." Overcome by these words of affection, the chief knelt beside the couch, and the eyes of Keakamahana were filled with tears. "Do you promise?" inquired the mother. "I promise," replied the queen, giving her hand to the kneeling chief. "I promise," repeated Iwikauikaua, as he clasped and kissed the proffered pledge. "I am content," returned the sufferer, as a smile of happiness lighted up her face. The attendants were recalled, wondering what had occurred, and Iwikauikaua, almost bewildered, took his leave. Tradition plainly recites the brief remainder of the career of this distinguished chief. Kealiiokalani died a few days after the strange betrothal just noted, and Iwikauikaua became the husband of Queen Keakamahana, thus romantically fulfilling the aspiration and prophecy of his youth. Their daughter, Keakealani, succeeded her mother as queen of Hawaii, and one of her husbands was the son of Iwikauikaua by the wife left by him in Oahu. With this adventurous and erratic chief originated, it is claimed, the custom of burning kukui torches by daylight on state occasions, especially in connection with the obsequies of persons of royal lineage; and it was within the present generation that the exclusive right to the ceremonial was contested by the two royal families claiming the prerogative through descent from Iwikauikaua. Certain customs, like chants and meles, are matters of inheritance, and remain exclusively in the families with which they originate. THE PROPHECIES OF KEAULUMOKU. CHARACTERS. Kahekili, moi of Maui. Kalaniopuu, king of Hawaii. Namahana, widow of Kamehamehanui. Keeaumoku, a royal chief of Hawaii. Kahanana, a warrior of Waihee. Mahihelelima, governor of Hana, Maui. Kaahumanu, daughter of Keeaumoku. Kameeiamoku and Kamanawa, brothers of Keeaumoku. Kiwalao, son of Kalaniopuu. Keaulumoku, the poet-prophet of Hawaii. Kamehameha I., the conqueror of the group. Keoua, half-brother of Kiwalao. Keawemauhili, a royal chief of Hawaii. THE PROPHECIES OF KEAULUMOKU. THE CAREER OF KEEAUMOKU, THE PRINCE-SLAYER AND KING-MAKER. I. The days had just begun to lengthen after the summer solstice of 1765 when a great grief fell upon the royal court of the island of Maui. Kamehamehanui, the king, had died very suddenly at Wailuku, which had been his favorite place of residence, and his brother and successor, Kahekili, had removed his court to Lahaina. The bones of the dead king had been carefully secreted, the customary mourning excesses had been indulged in, and many new apportionments of lands had been made in accordance with the bequests of the deceased moi and the will of his successor. Kamehamehanui was an amiable sovereign, but his reign was not as successful as that of his father, Kekaulike. His right to the sceptre had been contested by his brother, Kauhia, and he was secured in it only through the efforts of Alapainui, the king of Hawaii. Subsequently Kalaniopuu, the successor of Alapainui, wrested from him the district of Hana and the celebrated fortress of Kauwiki, and retained possession of both at the time of Kamehamehanui's death. The lands of the district might have been recaptured, perhaps, but the fortress commanding them was well-nigh impregnable, and Hana remained a dependency of Hawaii. Kamehamehanui's political wife was his half-sister Namahana, with whom he had two children; but as both of them died in their infancy, his brother, Kahekili, succeeded him as moi of the island by common consent. After the death of his brother, Kahekili at once removed his court to Lahaina, where the customary period of mourning was concluded. It was while the members of the royal family were still in mourning at Lahaina that a distinguished stranger suddenly landed, with a number of personal attendants, and presented himself at court. His double canoe bore the ensign of an alii, and his garb and bearing showed him to be of the higher nobility. His age was perhaps thirty years, although he looked somewhat older. He was over six feet in height, and well proportioned. His face was handsome, and his hair and beard were closely cropped. He was clad in a maro and short feather mantle, and around his head was bound a single fold of yellow kapa. By a cord of hair was suspended from his neck a palaoa, or carved whale's tooth, and his left wrist was ornamented with a bracelet of curious shells. He was courageous, courtly, and in his best moods agreeable and captivating, and was a splendid representative of the rude chivalry of his time. As he stepped ashore and proceeded to the royal mansion, way was respectfully made for him, even as a stranger of distinguished bearing, and his name secured him admission at once to the presence of Kahekili, who welcomed him to Lahaina, and set apart ample accommodations for himself and lodgings for his attendants. Who was this stranger? He was no common chief who would have thus presumed to present himself at the court of the moi of Maui and expect the courtesy of royal entertainment. Two generations before Lonoikahaupu, who had peacefully inherited the sovereignty of the western side of the island of Kauai, while the noted Kualii, of Oahu, retained possession of the remainder, paid a royal visit of state to the windward islands of the group. His blood was of the best in the archipelago, and his equipment and retinue were brilliant and imposing. He embarked with a number of large double canoes, the royal kaulua being over eighty feet in length, and was attended by a company of skilled musicians and dancers. He also took with him his chief navigator, priest and astrologer, and a corps of personal attendants in keeping with his rank. In turn he visited Oahu, Maui and Molokai, where he was entertained with distinguished honors, and then set sail for Hawaii, of which Keawe was then king. Touching at Hilo, he found that the royal court had been temporarily established in Kau, and thither he proceeded, to pay his respects to Keawe and his beautiful but volatile wife and half-sister, Kalani-kauleleiaiwi. He was becomingly received and entertained by the royal couple, and spent some weeks in the enjoyment of the festivities arranged for his amusement. The result was that the queen became enamored of the handsome Kauaian king, who was duly recognized at once as one of her husbands. From this union a son was born, who was named Keawepoepoe, when the father returned to Kauai and there remained. This son grew to manhood, and by marriage with Kumaiku, of the royal line of Maui, became the father of the three distinguished chiefs who, with Keawe-a-Heulu, were the leading captains of Kamehameha in the conquest of the group at the close of the eighteenth century. One of these sons of Keawepoepoe was Keeaumoku, the Warwick of his time, the slayer and maker of kings. Keeaumoku's first effort in king-making occurred in 1754. On the death, in that year, of his uncle Alapainui, and the succession of his cousin Keaweopala to the Hawaiian throne, he became dissatisfied with his allotment of lands and raised the standard of revolt in Kekaha. Defeated, he fled in his canoes to Kau, where Kalaniopuu had for some years maintained himself in independence of Alapainui. Joining their forces, they marched northward, defeated and slew Keaweopala in Kona, and Kalaniopuu, who was the grandson of Keawe and had a valid claim to the sovereignty, was proclaimed moi of Hawaii. It is probable that Keeaumoku's services were substantially rewarded by Kalaniopuu; but in his early years he was turbulent and hot-tempered, and in 1765 he found a pretext for hurling defiance at the king and fortifying himself in the northern part of Kohala. Kalaniopuu promptly placed himself at the head of an adequate force, took the fort by assault, and crushed the rebellion with a single blow. But Keeaumoku escaped over the pali alone, reached the beach, secured a canoe and paddled out to sea. Night coming on and the skies being clouded, he lost his way and nearly perished through thirst and hunger; but he finally reached Lanai, where he found friends, and not long after sailed for Maui in a well-equipped double canoe and a respectable retinue of attendants. He landed at Lahaina, and the reader need not be told that the distinguished stranger who so suddenly presented himself at the court of Kahekili, as already mentioned, was Keeaumoku. The occupation of the district of Hana by the king of Hawaii was a source of irritation to Kahekili, and he welcomed Keeaumoku, not more as an enemy of Kalaniopuu than as a chief who might be useful to him in the war which he then meditated for the recovery of the captured territory. But Keeaumoku was not content to subsist upon the favor of Kahekili. In his veins ran the blood of kings, and his pride rebelled against a life of dependence, however attractive it might be made for him. But he was without available lands or revenues, for his rebellion against Kalaniopuu had deprived him of both, notwithstanding his inalienable landed rights in South Kona, and he began to cast about for the means of raising himself again to the dignity of a landed chief. His eyes soon fell upon the comely Namahana, widow of Kamehamehanui. To her belonged the fair and fertile lands of Waihee. But she was the inheritance of Kahekili, whose purpose it was to accept her as a wife at the end of her period of mourning. This must have been known to Keeaumoku, who was thoroughly acquainted with royal customs of his time; yet he paid such court to the sorrowing dowager, and so sweetly mingled his protestations of love with her sighs of grief, that she became his wife without consulting with the moi. Kahekili was naturally enraged at the union, and was about to manifest his displeasure in a manner dangerous to Keeaumoku, when Namahana retired with her new husband to her estates at Waihee. Kahekili's first impulse was to follow and slay them both; but as Namahana was popular with the nobility, and Kahekili had not been in power long enough to be quite sure of the fealty of the chiefs, he discreetly concluded to leave to the future the punishment of the offending couple. Taking up his residence at Waihee, Keeaumoku enlarged and beautified his grounds and buildings, and established a petty court of princely etiquette and appointments. He was fond of display, and soon attracted to Waihee many of the more accomplished young chiefs of the island. The mother and two of the brothers of Namahana attached themselves to the household, and a number of Molokai chiefs, despoiled of their lands by the king of Oahu, became his retainers. He had carefully trained bands of musicians and dancers, and his entertainments were frequent and bountiful. In the midst of this semi-royal gayety and splendor Kahekili quietly crossed the mountains and temporarily established his court at Wailuku, but a few miles from Waihee. He had heard of Keeaumoku's royal style of living, and desired to learn from personal observation whether it was inspired by an innocent love of display or designs more ambitious. As Keeaumoku had rebelled against two successive Hawaiian sovereigns, and boldly seized the widow of a king in the very household of her royal claimant and protector, Kahekili had reason to regard him with suspicion, and a week's stay at Wailuku, during which reserved courtesies had been exchanged between them, convinced him that Keeaumoku was a dangerous subject. But how was he to be dealt with? He had committed no act of treason, and an assault upon him would not be sustained by the chiefs. In this dilemma Kahekili resorted to strategy. He induced Kahanana, a resolute warrior and subordinate land-holder of Waihee, to embroil Keeaumoku in a difficulty with his own people. To this end Kahanana complained--probably without cause--that he had been frequently neglected by the servants of Keeaumoku in the distribution of fish after fortunate catches, and urged his grievance with so good a showing of sincerity that many of his friends stood prepared to espouse his quarrel. This done, he armed himself for battle, and, the following night, killed three of Keeaumoku's laborers. Being attacked in return, he was at once supported by a party of warriors secretly detailed for that purpose by Kahekili, and a general fight resulted, which lasted in a desultory way for three or four days. In the end, however, Keeaumoku and his party were overpowered and compelled to seek safety in flight. Keeaumoku and Namahana, with her mother and two brothers, and a considerable following of chiefs and retainers, escaped over the Eka mountains and embarked for Molokai. But Kahekili was not content with the escape of Keeaumoku from Maui. He resolved to destroy him, and soon after invaded Molokai with a large force. Keeaumoku and his allies met the invaders in war-canoes as they approached the shore. A desperate sea-fight followed, which was continued long into the night by torchlight; but Keeaumoku was again defeated, and with difficulty escaped to Hana with Namahana and her relatives. This placed Keeaumoku beyond the reach of Kahekili, for that district of Maui was still under Hawaiian control; but in escaping from one enemy he was compelled to throw himself upon the mercy of another. He was hospitably received, however, by Mahihelelima, the governor of the district, and was so far forgiven by Kalaniopuu as to be permitted to remain under the protection of the fortress of Kauwiki, where for some time, in the shaded valleys at the base of Haleakala, he found a respite new to his turbulent life. II. In a secluded valley within sight of the fortress of Kauwiki, with a few devoted friends and attendants, Keeaumoku and his family lived unmolested and almost unnoticed for several years. It was a season of peace between Hawaii and Maui, and Keeaumoku spent his days in dreaming of wars to come, and political changes that would place him again in a position more consistent with his rank. He made spears and battle-axes, and laid them away; he constructed canoes and housed them near the neighboring beach. He loved his wife, who was content to share his exile, and when, in 1768, a daughter was born to him, Keeaumoku felt that the gods were smiling upon him once more, and took courage. It is said that the child was born with a yellow feather in her hand--a symbol of royalty--and she was named Kaahumanu and tenderly cared for. In 1775 Kalaniopuu, king of Hawaii, suddenly appeared in the district of Hana with a considerable force, and began to ravage the neighboring lands of Kaupo. Kahekili promptly met and repulsed him, however, and he returned to Hana and abandoned the campaign by re-embarking with his shattered army for Hawaii. Keeaumoku took no part in the brief struggle, and was disappointed that nothing decisive had been accomplished. The death of either of the two sovereigns engaged would have been to him a signal of deliverance. But he was not disheartened. He knew the war would soon be resumed on a grander scale, and found partial contentment in the hope that it would result in changes favorable to his fortunes. Exasperated at his defeat, Kalaniopuu spent nearly two years in preparing for a crushing invasion of Maui. In honor of his war-god, Kaili, he repaired and put in order two heiaus, and instructed his high-priest, Holoae, to maintain continuous religious services, and exert his highest powers to accomplish the defeat and death of Kahekili. He landed with six heavy divisions of warriors on the southern coast of Maui, but was defeated with great slaughter in the neighborhood of Wailuku, and compelled to sue for peace. With him were the two brothers of Keeaumoku, Kameeiamoku and Kamanawa, who attended the young Prince Kiwalao in his visit of conciliation to Kahekili after the battle. Kalaniopuu returned to Hawaii with what remained of his army, and the next year again invaded Maui, and for several months carried on a desultory warfare with Kahekili in the several districts of the island. He was assisted by the governor of Hana, and was able for some time to maintain a foothold in Hamakualoa and elsewhere. Keeaumoku offered his services to neither side, but remained a quiet and almost unobserved spectator of the hostile movements which at intervals convulsed the island, and sometimes swept past the very door of his exile home in Hana. The proper time for him to act had not yet arrived, and years of solitude had schooled him to patience. It was during this campaign that Captain Cook, the celebrated English explorer, arrived off the coast of Maui with the two vessels under his command, exhibiting faces that were new to the natives, and ships which seemed to be the ocean palaces of their gods. This was in November, 1778. In January of that year Cook had touched the group for the first time. He had landed at Kauai and Niihau, and had now returned from the Arctic seas to winter among the Hawaiian Islands. Abandoning the fruitless war, Kalaniopuu returned to Hawaii with his invading army. During the campaign of the year before he had been assisted to the extent of a battalion of warriors by Kahahana, king of Oahu. Among the followers of the Oahuan moi at that time was the celebrated poet and prophet Keaulumoku. He was a native of Naohaku, in the Hamakua district of Hawaii, and was distantly related to Kahekili, being a son of a cousin of Kekaulike, the father of Kahekili. From his youth he was dreamy and psychologic, and spent his time in roaming among the hills, watching the stars and listening to the music of the ocean. Some years before he had become attached to the court of Kahahana, and had followed that sovereign to Maui in 1777. He remained on the island after the return of Kahahana to Oahu, and the year following, when Kalaniopuu again invaded Maui, the poet was found among his household. Although but sixty-two years of age, in appearance Keaulumoku was much older. His eyes were bright, but his form was bent, and his white hair and beard swept his shoulders. When he sang all listened, and his wild utterances were treasured up and repeated as inspirations from the gods. He was known on all the islands of the group, and it was safe for him to travel anywhere. He had been a friend of Keeaumoku, many years before, on Hawaii, and when he learned, during the campaign of 1778, that the unfortunate chief was an exile in Hana and had ceased to be accounted among the leaders of the time, he resolved to visit and console him. Without making his purpose known to any one, Keaulumoku crossed the mountains, and, the third day, stood before his friend in Hana. Their greeting was affectionate, and after eating they sat down and wailed over Keeaumoku's misfortunes. Then Namahana came with stately grace to welcome the old poet, bringing with her Kaahumanu, who was then a bright-eyed child of ten. He kissed the hand of Namahana, advising her to be of good cheer, and, embracing the child and looking into her eyes, told her that his dreams that night should be of her. And so they were, for the next morning he solemnly sang in the shade of the palms that Kaahumanu would be loved by a chief of renown and become the wife of a king. "And what of her father?" inquired Keeaumoku. "Is he to rot with his spears in Hana?" "No," replied the poet, promptly. "The great work of Keeaumoku's life is still before him. He will become the slayer of princes and maker of kings." "One have I already helped to royal honors," returned the chief, doubtingly, "and by his favor I am stifling here in Hana." "Another and a greater is still to follow, in whose service Keeaumoku will die in peace," answered the poet. "Who is the coming hero?" inquired the chief. "You will not mistake him when you meet," was the evasive reply. "And when will that be?" ventured Keeaumoku. No reply being made, the chief continued: "Well, no matter when; I have learned to be patient!" The predictions of the poet extended no farther; but his words cheered the heart of Keeaumoku, and when he left for Lahaina the next day, grateful eyes followed his footsteps far into the mountains. Returning to Hawaii after his unsuccessful campaign of 1778, Kalaniopuu remained for a time in Kona, and after the death of Captain Cook, in February, 1779, removed his court to Kohala, taking with him the poet Keaulumoku. The next year, feeling his end approaching--for he was nearly eighty years of age--Kalaniopuu set his kingdom in order by proclaiming his son Kiwalao as his successor, and naming his nephew, Kamehameha, as the custodian of his war-god. He then put down the rebellion of Imakakaloa in Kau, and, after changing residences two or three times for his health, finally died at Kailikii, in January, 1782. A few months before the death of Kalaniopuu, Kahekili, learning of the failing health of his old opponent, prepared for the recovery of the district of Hana, which had been for nearly forty years under Hawaiian rule. Marching into the district and investing the fortress of Kauwiki, he finally reduced it by cutting off its water-supply, and Eastern Maui again became a part of the dominions of the moi of Maui. This occurred about the time of the death of Kalaniopuu. But what became of Keeaumoku and his family, whose home for years had been among the hills of Hana? Learning of the meditated invasion of the district, and unwilling to trust himself to the mercy of Kahekili, Keeaumoku fled with his family to the almost barren island of Kahoolawe, where he lived in seclusion until after the fall of Kauwiki and death of Kalaniopuu, when he boldly returned to Hawaii, quietly settled on his old and inalienable estates at Kapalilua, in South Kona, and awaited the development of events, which he plainly perceived were rapidly and irresistibly tending toward wide-spread revolution and disorder. For more than fifteen years he had heard the clash of arms only at a distance, and he yearned for the shouts of battle and the music of marching columns. The mourning for Kalaniopuu continued for many weeks, and rumors unsatisfactory to the Kona chiefs were afloat concerning the new moi's proposed division of the lands subject to royal apportionment. Preparations for the burial of the bones of the deceased king were finally completed. In double canoes, one of them bearing the corpse of his royal father, Kiwalao set sail with a large party of chiefs, warriors and retainers for Honaunau. There it was his purpose to deposit the remains in the neighboring burial-place of Hale-a-Keawe, sacred to the ashes of Hawaiian kings, and then proceed with the redivision of such of the lands of the kingdom as were at his disposal. When off Honokua the second day, Keeaumoku came down from Kapalilua and boarded the fleet. His avowed purpose was to wail over the body of Kalaniopuu. His return to Hawaii had become generally known, and Kiwalao regarded with a curiosity not unmixed with suspicion the warring and impetuous chief, who had been first the friend and then the enemy of his father, and who had suddenly emerged at a critical moment full-armed from the obscurity of years. What was the object of Keeaumoku's visit to the mourning fleet? Was he anxious, on the eve of stirring events, to behold the face of the young king, remembering the words of Keaulumoku, "You will know him when you meet"? Perhaps. But, whatever may have been his original purpose in visiting the fleet, when he left, in keeping with the turbulent instincts of his life, his thoughts were aglow with projects of rebellion. Hastening to Kehaha, where his brothers, Kameeiamoku and Kamanawa, with Kamehameha, Kekuhaupio and other chiefs, were in council, Keeaumoku informed them that the destination of Kiwalao was Kailua, which place he would proceed to occupy after depositing the royal remains at Honaunau. This information, he declared, was given to him by one of Kiwalao's attendants. Not doubting the truth of Keeaumoku's story, and believing it to be the purpose of Kiwalao to occupy the entire district of Kona, which embraced lands not subject to royal disposal, the assembled chiefs moved with their followers and occupied quarters in the neighborhood of Honaunau. Keeaumoku now became a leading spirit in the events which rapidly followed. The funeral cortege landed at Honaunau, the remains of the dead king were ceremoniously entombed at Hale-a-Keawe, and Kiwalao ascended a platform, and to the assembled chiefs proclaimed the will of his father. In the divisions of lands that followed the Kona chiefs were not consulted; nor does it appear that they were additionally provided for, and Keeaumoku had little difficulty in persuading them that they had been treated with intended disrespect and hostility. In an interview with Kiwalao, Kamehameha was coolly received, and the disaffected chiefs began to prepare for battle. They selected Kamehameha as their leader, and for some days there was a vigorous mustering of forces on both sides. An attack was finally made by the rebellious chiefs, and a battle of some magnitude ensued. Keeaumoku was again in his element. His voice was heard above the din of battle, and his famished weapons drank their fill of blood. Entangled with his spear, he fell upon the rocky ground. Several warriors rushed upon him. Two of them attacked him with daggers, while a third struck him in the back with a spear, exclaiming, "The spear has pierced the yellow-backed crab!" Kiwalao, not far distant, witnessed the encounter, and called to the assailants of Keeaumoku to secure his palaoa, or ivory neck ornament. The attention of Kamanawa was attracted to the struggle, and he sprang with a few followers to the assistance of his brother, driving back his assailants. At that moment Kiwalao was struck in the temple with a stone, and fell stunned to the ground. Observing the circumstance, Keeaumoku crawled to the fallen king, and, with a knife edged with sharks' teeth, cut his throat. With the death of Kiwalao the rout of his army became general. The victory made Kamehameha master of the districts of Kona, Kohala and Hamakua, while Keoua, the brother of Kiwalao, held possession of Kau and Puna, and Keawemauhili declared himself independent of both in Hilo. Keeaumoku's brilliant part in this first of the battles of the period for the sovereignty of Hawaii established him at once in the favor of Kamehameha, and raised him high in the esteem of the distinguished chiefs whose valor ennobled the closing years of barbaric supremacy in the group. III. War soon occurred between Kamehameha and the independent chiefs of Hilo and Kau, but, as no marked advantages to either side resulted, Kamehameha established his court at Halaula, in Kohala, and occupied himself in improving the condition of his people. During the campaign he had met with some reverses, but Keeaumoku's faith in the final triumph of his great leader remained unshaken through every disaster. He thought he saw in him that captain, greater than Kalaniopuu, of whom the poet dreamed in Hana, and was soon after confirmed in the belief by the definite prophecy of Keaulumoku. Restlessly roaming from place to place, the old singer finally selected a temporary abode near Halaula, shortly after the removal of the court of Kamehameha to that village. There he was frequently visited by Keeaumoku, sometimes accompanied by Kaahumanu, who was budding into an attractive womanhood, and sometimes by Namahana, who regarded him with a reverence due to one whose utterances seemed to be inspired by the gods. Since the death of Kalaniopuu the voice of Keaulumoku had been silent. He mourned over the distracted condition of the island, and sympathized with the people in their enforced warfare with each other. Vainly had he sought to penetrate the mists of desolation and disorder, and catch a glimpse of what was beyond. No light had come to him through the clouds; to his prayers no answering voice had whispered in his dreams. But the curtain was raised for him at last, and, as the shades of the future trooped before him in awful pantomime, in a voice wild as the winds sweeping through the gorge of Nuuanu he chanted the prophetic mele of Hau-i-Kalani. After describing the horrors of the civil war then desolating the island, he concluded by predicting that Kamehameha would triumph over his enemies, and in the end be hailed as the greatest of Hawaiian conquerors. The chant created great enthusiasm among the followers of Kamehameha. Keeaumoku listened to it with rapt attention, and at its conclusion stooped over the old poet and said: "I asked you a question in Hana, which you did not answer then. Is it answered now?" Keaulumoku looked into the face of the chief for a moment as if to collect his thoughts, and then dreamily replied: "It is answered!" "Such was my thought," returned the chief. "I have some rare dainties from the sea. Come and eat with me to-night, and I will ask to be taught the mele you have just chanted." Keaulumoku made no reply, and Keeaumoku walked slowly toward the palace, trying to remember the words of the poet which had so thrilled his listeners. What occurred between Keeaumoku and the old poet during their repast that evening will never be known; but certain it is that henceforth Keeaumoku never doubted the final success of Kamehameha, and when, in the summer of 1785, the latter retired discomfited from an invasion of Hilo, Keeaumoku smiled as he said to his chief: "Thus far you have only skirmished with your enemies; you will win when you fight battles!" In 1784 Keaulumoku died. For months the old poet had lived alone in a hut near Kauhola. He avoided company and seldom spoke to any one. Feeling his end approaching, he one day announced that the evening following he would chant his last mele. Hundreds collected around his hut at the time appointed. They did not enter, but sat down, conversing in whispers, and respectfully waited. An hour passed, and another, but the old singer did not make his appearance. Finally the mat which served as a door was drawn aside, and Keaulumoku's white head and bent form were seen in the opening. Seating himself within view of all, he began to chant a mele in tremulous tones. As he proceeded his voice became louder, and every word was breathlessly listened to. He spoke of the coming conquest of the group by Kamehameha, whom he designated as the son of Kahekili, and also as "the lone one." He also predicted the early extinction of the Kamehameha dynasty, the domination of the white race, the destruction of the temples, and finally the gradual death of the Hawaiian people. Concluding his chant, the old seer raised his hands as if to bless his listeners, and fell back dead. A great wail went up from the people, and they tenderly bore the body of the dead poet to the heiau, where it was accorded the burial rites of a prophet. Much of the last prophecy of Keaulumoku was preserved and repeated, and by conversing with the many who listened to it Keeaumoku managed to secure a satisfactory version of the final song of the dying poet. From the first of Kamehameha's battles Keeaumoku had not doubted the triumph of that chief over all adversaries in the end, and eagerly grasped at every circumstance calculated to strengthen the conviction. So believing, his way seemed to be clear. But what of Kaahumanu, whose promised lover was to be a chief of renown, and whose husband was to be a king? She was an attractive maiden of seventeen, and a few months after the death of Keaulumoku, and while Kamehameha was engaged in peaceful pursuits at Halaula, her father suddenly brought her to court. Fresh, sparkling and graceful, and related to the royal lines of Maui and Hawaii, she attracted the immediate attention of Kamehameha, and he disposed of the claims of her many suitors at once by making her his wife. There was little in the appearance of the great chief to please the eye of a girl of seventeen. His features were rugged and irregular, and he held in contempt the courtly graces which imparted a charm to the intercourse with each other of the nobility of the time. He was already the husband of two recognized wives; but Kaahumanu was ambitious, and, with admiration but no affection for him, she consented to become his wife. Keeaumoku was now persistent in inspiring Kamehameha with the thought of becoming the master of the group. He recited to him the prophetic chants of Keaulumoku, and brought to him the favoring auguries of the kaulas. An unsuccessful attempt to recover the district of Hana in 1786 was followed in 1790 by another invasion of Maui, when Kamehameha completely subjugated the island, and then turned his attention to Keoua, the independent chief of Kau, who had slain the chief of Hilo and assumed the sovereignty of the southern districts of Hawaii. The war with Keoua continued for more than a year, and every effort of Kamehameha to crush this last of his rivals on Hawaii was successfully resisted. For nine years Keoua had maintained himself against the power of Kamehameha, and still remained master of Kau and the most of Puna. Treachery was finally resorted to, and Keoua fell. The old temple of Puukohola had been partially rebuilt, and a noted seer had predicted that its completion would give to Kamehameha the undisputed sovereignty of Hawaii. The temple was hastily finished, and Keoua was invited to a conference with his opponent at Kawaihae, with the view, he was led to believe, of peacefully settling their differences. Nearing the shore of the place of meeting, where he saw and exchanged greetings with Kamehameha, he was about to land when Keeaumoku met him in a canoe and treacherously assassinated him, and his body was taken to the newly-completed temple and sacrificed to the war-god of his betrayer. Keoua was a brave, noble, and magnanimous chief, and the apologists of Kamehameha have not succeeded in relieving him from the odium of Keeaumoku's cowardly act. He was the half-brother of Kiwalao, and his death left Kamehameha the master of Hawaii. Truly, as predicted by the seer, had Keeaumoku become the slayer of princes and the maker of kings. But his work was not yet completed. Kamehameha was the sovereign of Hawaii, but the conquest of the group was still before him. Every circumstance, however, conspired in his favor. Kahekili, the warlike king of Maui and conqueror of Oahu, died in 1794, and a rupture had occurred between his successor and Kaeo, the moi of Kauai. Everything being in readiness, early in 1795 Kamehameha invaded Oahu with a mighty army, defeated and subsequently captured and sacrificed to his war-god King Kalanikupule, and shortly after received the submission of the moi of Kauai--thus becoming the acknowledged master of, and for the first time in their history consolidating under one government, the several islands of the Hawaiian group. The prophecies of Keaulumoku have all been fulfilled. Keeaumoku, the slayer of princes and maker of kings, died peacefully as governor of the windward islands in 1804. Kaahumanu became the wife of a king, and died as chief counsellor of the islands in 1832. The temples of the Hawaiian gods were destroyed immediately after the death of Kamehameha, in 1819, and but a tenth of the number of natives found on the islands at the close of the last century are now left to sing of the achievements of their ancestors, who first made their home in the group when the Roman Empire was falling to pieces under the assaults of Northern barbarism. THE CANNIBALS OF HALEMANU. CHARACTERS. Kalo Aikanaka, or Kokoa, a cannibal chief. Kaaokeewe, or Lotu, a lieutenant of Kokoa. Palua, daughter of Kokoa. Kaholekua, wife of Lotu. Napopo, brother of Kaholekua. THE CANNIBALS OF HALEMANU. A POPULAR LEGEND OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. I. Although barbarous to the extent to which a brave, warm-hearted and hospitable people were capable of becoming, every social, political and religious circumstance preserved by tradition tends to show that at no period of their history did the Polynesians proper--or the Hawaiian branch of the race, at least--practise cannibalism. In their migrations from the southern coasts of Asia to their final homes in the Pacific, stopping, as they did, at various groups of islands in their voluntary or compulsory journeyings, the Polynesians must have been brought in contact with cannibal tribes; but no example ever persuaded them into the habit of eating human flesh, or of regarding the appetite for it with a feeling other than that of aversion and disgust. In offering a human sacrifice it was customary for the officiating priest to remove the left eye of the victim after the lifeless body had been deposited upon the altar, and present it to the chief, who made a semblance of eating it. Even as learned and conscientious an inquirer as Judge Fornander has suggested that this custom was possibly the relic of a cannibal propensity existing among the Polynesian people far back in the past. The assumption is quite as reasonable that the rite was either a simple exhibition of bravado, or the expression of a desire on the part of the chief to thereby more strictly identify himself with the offering in the eyes of the gods. Several traditions have come down the centuries referring to the existence of cannibal tribes or bands at one time or another in the Hawaiian archipelago, particularly on the islands of Oahu and Kauai, and harrowing stories of their exploits are a part of the folk-lore of the group. But in every instance the man-eaters are spoken of as foreigners, who came from a land unknown, maintained local footholds for brief seasons in mountain fastnesses, and in the end were either exterminated or driven from the islands by the people for their barbarous practices. It is difficult to fix, even approximately, the period of the earlier of these occurrences, as they are mentioned in connection with ruling chiefs whose names do not appear in the chronological meles surviving the destruction of the ancient priesthood. Instead of being foreigners, it is not improbable that the cannibals referred to in some of the traditions were the remnants of a race of savages found on one or more of the islands of the group when the first of the Polynesians landed there. This, it may be presumed, was somewhere near the middle of the fifth century of the Christian era. It has generally been assumed by native historians that the ancestors of the Hawaiian people found the entire group uninhabited at the time of their arrival there. The bird, the lizard and the mouse, with an insect life confined to few varieties, were the sole occupants of that ocean paradise, with its beautiful streams, its inviting hills, its sandal forests, its cocoa and ohia groves, its flowering plains, its smiling valleys of everlasting green. But the interval between the fifth century and the eleventh--between the first and second periods of Polynesian arrival--is a broad blank in the legendary annals of Hawaii, and the absence of any record of the circumstance cannot be satisfactorily accepted as evidence that, on arriving at the group from the southern islands, the Polynesians of the fifth century did not find it sparsely occupied by an inferior and less capable people, whom they either affiliated with or destroyed. In some of the meles vague references are made to such a people, and ruins of temples are still pointed out as the work of the Menehunes--a half-mythical race or tribe, either from whom the Hawaiians descended, or with whom they were in some manner connected in the remote past. To whatever period, however, many of these stories of cannibalism may refer, circumstances tend to show that the legends connected with the man-eaters of Halemanu are based upon events of comparatively recent centuries. The natives, who still relate fragments of these legends to those whom curiosity prompts to visit the cannibals' retreat near the northern coast of Oahu, generally refer the adventures described to the early part or middle of the eighteenth century, and a half-caste of intelligence informed the writer that his grandfather had personal knowledge of the cannibal band. Although the sharpness of the details preserved indicates that their beginning could not have been very many generations back, the occupation of Halemanu by Aikanaka and his savage followers could have occurred scarcely later than the latter part of the seventeenth century--probably during the reign of Kualii or his immediate successor, somewhere between the years 1660 and 1695. At that time Oahu was governed by a number of practically independent chiefs, whose nominal head was the governing alii-nui of the line of Kakuhihewa, of whom Kualii was the great-grandson. It will therefore be assumed that it was near the close of the seventeenth century that Kalo Aikanaka, with two or three hundred followers, including women and children, landed at Waialua, on the northern coast of Oahu, and temporarily established himself on the sea-shore not far from that place. Ten years before, more or less, he had arrived with a considerable party at Kauai from one of the southern islands--which one tradition does not mention. The strangers came in double canoes, and, as they were in a starving condition, it was thought that they had been blown thither by adverse winds while journeying to some other islands. They were hospitably received and cared for by the people of Kauai, and for their support were given lands near the foot of the mountains back of Waimea. In complexion they were somewhat darker than the Kauaians, but otherwise did not differ greatly from them either in dress, manners, modes of living or appearance. They knew how to weave mats, construct houses of timber and thatch, make spears and knives, and hollow out canoes of all dimensions. They were familiar with the cocoanut and its uses, and required no instruction in the cultivation of kalo or taro. They were expert fishermen, and handled their weapons with dexterity. Their language, however, was entirely different from that of the Kauaians; but they soon acquired a knowledge of the latter, and in a short time could scarcely be distinguished from the natives of the island. Although known as Kalo Aikanaka by the natives, the real name of the chief of the strangers was Kokoa. The name of his principal lieutenant or adviser, which is given as Kaaokeewe by tradition, was Lotu, or Lotua. Kokoa was of chiefly proportions, and his muscular limbs were tattooed with rude representations of birds, sharks and other fishes. His features were rather of the Papuan cast, but his hair was straight, and the expression of his face was not unpleasant. The appearance of Lotu, on the contrary, was savage and forbidding. His strength was prodigious, and he made but little disguise of his lawless instincts. The wife of Kokoa had died during the passage to Kauai, leaving with him a daughter of marriageable age named Palua. Tradition says she was very beautiful, and wore necklaces and anklets of pearls. Her eyes were bright, her teeth were white, and the ends of her braided hair touched her brown ankles as she walked. Lotu was married, but without children. He did not like them, and more than one, it is said, had been taken from the breast of Kaholekua and strangled. The strangers brought with them two or three gods, and made others after their arrival. They knew nothing of the gods of the Kauaians, and preferred to worship their own. To this the natives did not object; but in the course of time they discovered that their tabu customs, even the most sacred, were not observed by the strangers. Their women were permitted to eat cocoanuts, bananas, and all kinds of flesh and fish, including the varieties of which native females were not allowed to partake. Fearing the wrath of the gods, the chief of the district visited Kokoa and requested him to put a stop to these pernicious practices among his people. He promised to do so, and for a time they ceased; but the offenders soon fell back into their old habit of indiscriminate eating, and the chief again visited Kokoa, prepared to put his previous request into the form of an order. The order was given, but not with the emphasis designed by the chief in making the visit, for he then met Palua for the first time, and found it difficult to speak harshly to the father of such a daughter. In fact, before he left the chief thought it well to leave the matter open for further explanation, and the next day returned to make it, and to ask Kokoa, as well, to give him the beautiful Palua for a wife. Father and daughter both consented, and within a few days Palua accompanied the chief home as his wife. There, at least, it was expected that Palua would respect the tabus she had violated before her coming, and the chief appointed a woman to instruct her thoroughly in the regulations applicable to her changed condition. She promised everything, but secretly complied with no requirement. The chief implored her to obey the mandates of the gods, and sought to screen her acts from the eyes of others; but her misdemeanors became so flagrant that they at last came to the knowledge of the high-priest, and her life was demanded. Her husband would have returned Palua to her father, but the priest declared that her offences had been so wanton and persistent that the gods would be satisfied with nothing short of her death, and she was therefore strangled and thrown into the sea. Learning of the death of his daughter, Kokoa in his rage slew a near kinsman of the chief and made a feast of his body, to the great delight of his followers. They were cannibals, but the fact was not known to their neighbors, as they had thus far restrained their appetites for human flesh, and avoided all mention to others of their propensity for such food. Their relish for it, however, was revived by the feast provided by the wrath of Kokoa, and they were not sorry to leave the lands they had been for some time cultivating back of Waimea, and find a home in the neighboring mountains, where they could indulge their savage tastes without restraint. Locating in a secluded valley in the mountains of Haupu, Kokoa and his people remained there for several years. They cultivated taro and other vegetables, and for their meat depended upon such natives as they were able to capture in out-of-the-way places and drag to their ovens. Suspected of cannibalism, they were finally detected in the act of roasting a victim. Great indignation and excitement followed this discovery, and the chief of the district called for warriors to assist him in exterminating the man-eaters. But Kokoa did not wait for a hostile visit. His spies informed him of what was occurring in the valleys below, and he hastily dropped down to the opposite coast, seized a number of canoes at night, and with his followers immediately set sail for Oahu. The party first landed at Kawailoa; but a Kauaian on a visit to that place recognized one of their canoes as the property of his brother, and was about to appeal to the local chief, when they suddenly re-embarked and coasted around the island to Waialua, where they found a convenient landing and concluded to remain. II. We now come to the final exploits of Kokoa and his clan in Oahu. It is probable that they did not remain long in the immediate neighborhood of Waialua, where the people were numerous and unoccupied lands were scarce. Sending their scouts into the mountains in search of a safe and uninhabited retreat, one of exceptional advantages was found in the range east of Waialua, some eight or ten miles from the coast, and thither they removed. The spot selected has since been known as Halemanu. Before that time it was probably without any particular name. It is a crescent-shaped plateau of two or three hundred acres, completely surrounded by deep and almost precipitous ravines, with the exception of a narrow isthmus, scarcely wide enough for a carriage-way, connecting it with a broad area of timberless table-land stretching downward toward the sea. Nature could scarcely have devised a place better fitted for defence, and Kokoa resolved to permanently locate there. Near the middle of the plateau he erected a temple, with stone walls two hundred feet by sixty, and twenty feet in height. This structure was also designed as a citadel, to be used in emergencies. About fifty paces from the temple was the hale of the chief--a stone building of the dimensions of perhaps fifty feet by forty. It was divided into three rooms by wicker partitions, and roofed with stout poles and thatch. Between this building and the temple was a large excavated oven, with a capacity for roasting four or five human bodies at the same time, and a few paces to the westward was the great carving-platter of Kokoa. This was a slightly basin-shaped stone rising a foot or more above the surface, and having a superfice of perhaps six by four feet. A little hewing here and there transformed it into a convenient carving-table, from which hundreds of human bodies were apportioned to his followers by Kokoa, who reserved for himself the hearts and livers, as delicacies to which his rank entitled him. The lines of the buildings described may still be traced among the tall grass, and the oily-appearing surface of the carving-table, known as "Kalo's ipukai" bears testimony to this day to the use made of it by the cannibals of Halemanu. The platter is now almost level with the surface of the ground, and its rim has been chipped down by relic-hunters, but time and the spoliations of the curious have not materially changed its shape. Having provided the plateau with these conveniences and the huts necessary to accommodate his people, Kokoa next put the place in a condition for defence by cutting the tops of the exposed slopes leading to it into perpendicular declivities, and erecting a strong building covering the width and almost entire length of the narrow back-bone connecting it with the plain below. There was then no means of reaching the plateau except by a path zigzagging down the upper side to the timbered gulches beyond, or by the trail passing directly through the building occupying the apex of the isthmus. Of this entrance Lotu, the savage lieutenant of Kokoa, was made the custodian. And there he sat in all weather, watching for passers, the most of whom, if acceptable, he found a pretext for slaying and sending to the great oven of his companions. His almost sleepless watchfulness was due less to a disposition to serve others than to his merciless instincts, which found gratification in blood-letting and torture. Tradition says there was a hideous humor in the manner in which he dealt with many of his victims. In allowing them to pass he inquired the objects of their visits either to the plateau or the gulches beyond. They informed him, perhaps, that they were in quest of hala leaves, of poles for huts, of wood for surf-boards, of small trees for spears, or of flints for cutting implements, as the case may have been. When they returned he examined their burdens closely, and if aught was found beyond the thing of which they were specifically in search--even though so trifling an object as a walking-staff, or a twig or flower gathered by the way--he denounced them as thieves and liars, and slew them on the spot. In this manner many hundreds of people were slain and eaten; but as no one ever returned to tell the story of what was transpiring at Halemanu, the cannibals remained for some time undisturbed. But if their real character was not known, their isolation and strange conduct gradually gained for them the reputation of being an evil-minded and dangerous community, and visitors became so scarce at length that Lotu found it necessary to drop down into the valleys occasionally in search of victims. Nor were these expeditions, which demanded great caution, always successful; and when they failed, Lotu sometimes secretly killed and sent to the oven one of his own people, with faces mutilated beyond recognition. Among these were all of his own relatives and two of the three brothers of his wife. To escape the fate of the others, the surviving brother, whose name was Napopo, fled to Kauai. In physical strength Napopo was scarcely less formidable than Lotu; but he was young in years, and lacked both skill and confidence in his powers. To supply these deficiencies, and prepare himself for a successful encounter with Lotu, which he resolved to undertake in revenge for the death of his brothers, he sought the most expert wrestlers and boxers on Kauai, and learned from them the secrets of their prowess. He trained himself in running, swimming, leaping, climbing, and lifting and casting great rocks, until his muscles became like hard wood, and his equal in strength and agility could with difficulty be found on all the island. And he skilled himself, also, in the use of arms. He learned to catch and parry flying spears, and hurl them with incredible force and precision. From the sling he could throw a stone larger than a cocoanut, and the battle-axe he readily wielded with one hand few men were able to swing with two. Having thus accomplished himself, and still distrustful of his powers, he made the offer of a canoe nine paces in length to any one who in a trial should prove to be his master either in feats of strength or the handling of warlike weapons. Many contested for the prize, but Napopo found a superior in no one. During the contests a strong man, with large jaws and a thick neck, came forward and challenged Napopo to compete with him in lifting heavy burdens with the teeth. The bystanders were amused at the proposal, and Napopo was compelled by their remarks and laughter to accept it, although he regarded it as frivolous. Fastening around his middle a girdle of cords, he cast himself on the ground and said to the man: "Now with your teeth lift me to the level of your breast." Stooping and seizing the girdle in his teeth, the man with a great effort lifted Napopo to the height demanded. The other was then girded in the same manner. He seemed to be confident of victory, and said to Napopo, as he threw himself at his feet: "You will do well if you raise me to the level of your knees." Napopo made no reply, but bent and gathered the girdle well between his teeth, and raised the body to the height of his loins. "Higher!" exclaimed the man, thinking the strength of his antagonist was even then taxed to its utmost; "my body is scarcely free from the ground!" He had scarcely uttered these words before Napopo rose erect, and with a quick motion threw him completely over his head. Bruised and half-stunned by the fall, the man struggled to his feet, and, with a look of wonder at Napopo, hurriedly left the place to escape the jeers of the shouting witnesses of his defeat. Now confident of his strength and satisfied with his skill, Napopo returned to Oahu in the canoe which so many had failed to win. Landing at Waialua, he by some means learned that his sister, Kaholekua, the wife of Lotu, had been killed by her husband. Arming himself with a spear and knife of sharks' teeth, Napopo proceeded to Halemanu. Arriving at the house barring the entrance to the stronghold, he was met at the door by Lotu. Their recognition was cold. The eyes of Lotu gleamed with satisfaction. No longer intimidated, as in the past, Napopo paid back the look with a bearing of defiance. "Leave your spear and enter," said Lotu, curtly. Napopo leaned his spear against the house and stepped within, observing, as he did so, that Lotu in his movements kept within reach of an axe and javelin lying near the door. "Where is Kaholekua?" inquired Napopo. "There," replied Lotu, sullenly, pointing toward a curtain of mats stretched across a corner of the room. Without a word Napopo stepped to the curtain and drew it aside. He expected to find his sister dead, if at all, but she was still living, although lying insensible from wounds which seemed to be mortal. With a heart swelling with rage and anguish, he closed the curtain and returned to the door. He could not trust himself to speak, and therefore silently stepped without, in the hope that Lotu would leave his weapons and follow him. To this end he stood for a few minutes near the entrance, as if overwhelmed with grief, when Lotu cautiously approached the door. Advancing a step farther, Napopo suddenly turned and seized him before he could reach his weapons, and a desperate bare-handed struggle followed. Both were giants, and the conflict was ferocious and deadly. From one side to the other of the narrow isthmus they battled, biting, tearing, pulling, breaking, with no decided advantage to either; but the endurance of Napopo was greater than that of his older antagonist, and in the end he was able to inflict injury without receiving dangerous punishment in return. Both of them were covered with blood, and their maros had been rent away in the struggle, leaving them perfectly nude. Although Napopo had in a measure overpowered his mighty adversary, he found it difficult to kill him with his naked hands. He could tear and disfigure his flesh, but was unable to strangle him or break his spine. He therefore resolved to drag him to the verge of the precipice, and hurl him over it into the rocky abyss below. Struggling and fighting, the edge of the gulf was reached, when Lotu suddenly fastened his arms around his antagonist, and with a howl of desperation plunged over the brink. Dropping downward to destruction together, Lotu's head was caught in the fork of a tree near the bottom of the declivity and torn from the body, and Napopo, clasped in the embrace of the lifeless but rigid trunk, fell dead and mangled among the rocks of the ravine still farther down. Recovering her consciousness during the battle, Kaholekua dragged herself from the house just in time to witness the descent of the desperate combatants over the precipice. Approaching the verge, she uttered a feeble wail of anguish and plunged headlong down the declivity, her mangled remains lodging within a few paces of those of her husband and brother. The conclusion of these tragical scenes was observed by a party from the plateau above--one tradition says by Kokoa himself. However this may be, the cannibal chief concluded that Halemanu was no longer a desirable retreat, and a few days after crossed the mountains to Waianae with his remaining followers, and soon thereafter set sail with them for other lands. What became of the party is not known; but with their departure ends the latest and most vivid of the several legends of cannibalism in the Hawaiian archipelago. KAIANA, THE LAST OF THE HAWAIIAN KNIGHTS. CHARACTERS. Kalaniopuu, king of Hawaii. Kolale, wife of Kalaniopuu. Kiwalao, son of Kalaniopuu, and his successor. Liliha, wife of Kiwalao. Keopuolani, daughter of Kiwalao. Keoua, half-brother of Kiwalao. Keawemauhili, uncle of Kiwalao. Kamehameha I., successor of Kiwalao. Keeaumoku, Kameeiamoku and Kamanawa, brothers and chiefs of Hawaii. Kaahumanu, one of the wives of Kamehameha I. Kahekili, king of Maui. Kalanikupule, king of Oahu, son of Kahekili. Kaeo, king of Kauai. Kamakahelei, queen of Kauai. Imakakaloa, chief of Puna. Kalaimoku, a distinguished chief. Kakuhaupio, a counsellor of Kamehameha I. Kaiana, one of the captains of Kamehameha I. Kepupuohi, wife of Kaiana. Nahiolea, brother of Kaiana. KAIANA, THE LAST OF THE HAWAIIAN KNIGHTS. KAMEHAMEHA, KAAHUMANU, CAPTAIN COOK, AND THE FINAL CONQUEST. I. Among the distinguished Hawaiian chiefs connected with the final conquest and consolidation of the group by Kamehameha the Great, and standing in the gray dawn of the close of the eighteenth century, when the islands were rediscovered by Captain Cook and tradition began to give place to recorded history, was Kaiana-a-Ahaula. He was one of Kamehameha's greatest captains, and the events of his life, which closed with his death in the last battle of the conquest, embrace one of the most interesting periods in Hawaiian history. After giving to the conqueror his best energies for years, and faithfully assisting in cementing the foundations of his greatness, he turned against him on the very eve of final triumph, and perished in attempting to destroy by a single blow the power he had helped to create. What was it that caused Kaiana to turn his spear in hopeless desperation against his victorious chief, to whom the gods and their prophets had promised everything? Had not Pele destroyed his enemies with fire and smoke? and had not Keaulumoku, the inspired bard of Naohaku, chanted the fadeless glory of his triumphs? The war-god of Liloa--the fateful Kaili--led the van of his conquering columns, and Kalaipahoa, the poison god of Molokai, was among the deities of his household. The high-priest Hewahewa, who traced his sacerdotal line back to Paao, was his mediator in the temples, and every voice from the anu was a note of encouragement and promise of victory. The great chiefs of Hawaii were his friends, and his war-canoes cruised almost unopposed throughout the eight Hawaiian seas. Musket and cannon had been added to his weapons of war, and white men had enlisted to some extent in his service. But, with all these advantages and assurances of success, Kaiana suddenly threw defiance in his face and became his open enemy. By some the defection of Kaiana has been attributed to cold-blooded and unprovoked treachery; by others to an assumption by Kaiana that by blood Kamehameha was not entitled to the sovereignty of the group, and that his defeat in Oahu would dispose of his pretensions in that direction, and possibly open to himself a way to supreme power; and by still others to the jealousies of Kamehameha, which rendered the life of Kaiana no longer safe in his service. By these it is claimed that Kamehameha was jealous, not only of the growing military fame of Kaiana, but of a suspected regard of his favorite wife, Kaahumanu, for the handsome and distinguished chief. And this, indeed, as shown by native and other testimony, seems to have been the leading if not sole cause of the estrangement between Kamehameha and his great captain. In the council of chiefs on the island of Molokai, to which Kaiana was not invited, and which he had reason to believe had decreed his death, ambition was the crime which Kamehameha imputed to him, when in truth the real and unmentioned offence was his suspected intimacy with Kaahumanu. And so it will appear that women's eyes in Hawaii, as elsewhere, have in all ages swayed the hearts and nerved the arms of the greatest, and not unfrequently changed the current of vital political events. But, before bringing Kaiana full into the light, it is proper that some reference should be made to the great chief under whose banners he so stubbornly fought, and against whose authority he finally rebelled; and in doing so it will be interesting, perhaps, to glance briefly at certain prominent events connected with the rediscovery of the islands by Captain Cook, the assumption of the sovereign authority of Hawaii by Kamehameha, and the final consolidation of the several islands of the group under one central government. Kamehameha was a man of tremendous physical and intellectual strength. In any land and in any age he would have been a leader. The impress of his mind remains with his crude and vigorous laws, and wherever he stepped is seen an imperishable track. He was so strong of limb that ordinary men were but children in his grasp, and in council the wisest yielded to his judgment. He seems to have been born a man and to have had no boyhood. He was always sedate and thoughtful, and from his earliest years cared for no sport or pastime that was not manly. He had a harsh and rugged face, less given to smiles than frowns, but strongly marked with lines indicative of self-reliance and changeless purpose. He was barbarous, unforgiving and merciless to his enemies, but just, sagacious and considerate in dealing with his subjects. He was more feared and admired than loved and respected; but his strength of arm and force of character well fitted him for the supreme chieftaincy of the group, and he accomplished what no one else could have done in his day. Kamehameha was born at Kohala, Hawaii, in November, 1740. His father was Keoua, half-brother of Kalaniopuu, and nephew of Alapainui, who was at that time king of Hawaii. His mother was Kekuiapoiwa, a granddaughter of Kalanikauleleiaiwi, who was a sister of Keawe, the previous moi of the island. This sister was the mother of Alapainui by a chief of the Mahi family of Kohala. With another husband--Lonoikahaupu, a tabu chief of Kauai--she became the mother of Keawepoepoe, who was the father of Keeaumoku, Kameeiamoku and Kamanawa, who, with Keawe-a-Heulu, were the principal chiefs and supporters of Kamehameha in his conquest of the group. By a Kauai wife Lonoikahaupu became the grandfather of Kaumualii, the last independent sovereign of Kauai, and grandfather of Kapiolani, the present queen of the islands. Keawe, the previous king of Hawaii, had four recognized wives, and two others whose names have not been preserved by tradition. One of them was the mother of Ahaula, who was the father of Kaiana. On the death of Keawe his two elder sons lost their lives in a struggle for the mastery, and Alapainui, the son of the sister of Keawe, and who through his father was chief of Kohala, assumed the moiship, and, after a few battles, peacefully maintained his claim to it. Having secured the sovereignty of the island, he invited to court the elder sons of his two deceased half-brothers, and there maintained them until one of them died and the other rose in rebellion against him. These two sons were Kalaniopuu, who was king of the island at the time of the arrival of Captain Cook in 1778, and Keoua, the father of Kamehameha. The mother of these wards of Alapainui was Kamakaimoku, a chiefess of Oahu. Their fathers having been brothers, and Kamakaimoku being the mother of both, they bore to each other the mixed relationship of half-brother and cousin. She also became the wife of Alapainui, and by him the mother of Manoua, who was the grandmother of Kekuaokalani, the last distinguished champion of idolatry in 1819. To this record of the tangled relationships of the chiefly families of the group at that period may be added the intimations of tradition that Peleioholani, a chief of Kauai, was the actual father of Kalaniopuu, and that Kahekili, the moi of Maui, was the real father of Kamehameha; and in proof of the latter the acts and admissions of Kahekili are cited. But these scandals may very properly be dismissed as the offspring of the hatred and jealousies of later years. Kamehameha was born at Kohala while Alapainui was there with his court, superintending the collection of a mighty fleet for the invasion of Maui. It was a stormy night, and the first sounds that greeted the ears of the infant chief were the howling of the winds and the din of warlike preparations. On the night of its birth the child was stolen from its mother's side and carried away by Naeole, the chief of Halawa, and for some days nothing was heard of it. The father searched and the mother wailed, but the infant could not be found. It was finally discovered, however, and Naeole, instead of being punished for the theft, was allowed to keep possession of the child until it was five years old, when it was taken to the court of Alapainui and there reared as became a prince. Tradition assigns no reason for the theft of the child, or for the retention of it for five years by the kidnapper; but, whatever may have been the reason, it is manifest that Naeole's offence was considered neither flagrant nor unusual. When Kamehameha reached the age of twelve or fourteen years, his father, Keoua, suddenly died, and a suspicion became current that he had been either poisoned or prayed to death through the instrumentality of Alapainui. This suspicion seems to have been shared by Kalaniopuu, and believing, or assuming to believe, that his own life was in danger, he withdrew from the court and attempted to take with him Kamehameha; but in this he was frustrated. A fight occurred at Piopio while the body of Keoua was lying there in state, and Kalaniopuu was driven to his war-canoe, in which he escaped. This act placed him in open revolt against his royal uncle, and he prepared to sustain it. Forces were hastily gathered on both sides, and after a few battles, in which Kalaniopuu was generally unsuccessful, he retired to the district of Kau, and declared himself the independent sovereign of the southern portion of the island. For some reason Alapainui did not disturb his rebellious nephew farther, but spent the two remaining years of his life in Hilo and Waipio, the residence of many of the ancient mois. When Alapainui died he was succeeded by his son Keaweopala. Dissatisfied with his allotment of lands, Keeaumoku, a nephew of the dead king, rebelled against the new moi, but was defeated and compelled to seek safety with Kalaniopuu, whom he found already in the field, intent upon contesting the sovereignty of the island with Keaweopala. The two joined forces, and met and defeated the royal army in Kona. Keaweopala was slain in battle, and Kalaniopuu was declared moi of Hawaii. Young Kamehameha was taken to the court of his royal uncle, and educated in all the princely accomplishments of the period. Although it is probable that Kamehameha took part in some of the earlier wars of Kalaniopuu, he makes his first prominent appearance in tradition as a military leader in about 1775, in a battle on Maui, between Kalaniopuu and Kahekili, the moi of that island, or of the greater portion of it. Kalaniopuu was defeated, but the conduct of Kamehameha was notably cool and sagacious. It is reasonable to believe that he also took part in the disastrous campaign of the following year, when the army of Kalaniopuu was almost annihilated on the lowlands near Wailuku. This battle was one of the most sanguinary spoken of in Hawaiian tradition. Kalaniopuu invaded the island with six heavy divisions of warriors of all arms. The members of the royal family were formed into a life-guard called Keawe, while the nobles entitled to the privilege of eating at the same table with the king composed two distinct brigades, known as Alapa and Piipii. A landing was effected on the southern side of the island. The headquarters of Kahekili were at Wailuku, between which and the coast stretched a slightly elevated sandy plain. The Alapa took the advance, and, without waiting for support, pushed boldly on toward Wailuku. This brigade was the flower of the Hawaiian army. It was composed of eight hundred men, each one of whom was of noble blood. They were all large men of nearly equal stature, and their spears were of equal length. Marching shoulder to shoulder, with feather capes and plumed helmets, tradition describes their advance as a spectacle such as had never before been witnessed. But Kahekili was not appalled at the sight. He permitted them to approach within a mile or more of Wailuku, when he suddenly precipitated upon them a force of four or five thousand spears. The battle was a slaughter. The Alapa refused to yield or retreat, and of the eight hundred helmeted chiefs but two escaped to tell the tale of the slaughter of their comrades. But a single prisoner was taken, and he died of his wounds before he could be despatched in form and offered in sacrifice. It was historic ground. On the sandy plain many battles had before been fought, and near and above it was the sacred burial-place of Iao, where had been deposited the bones of many of the ancestors of the battling chiefs. The next day a general battle was fought on the same ground, and Kalaniopuu was defeated. But he was not crushed. The loss of life had been great on both sides, and a temporary peace was established on the condition that the Hawaiian army should at once be withdrawn from Maui. The suspension of hostilities was secured partly through the instrumentality of the wife of Kalaniopuu, Kalola, who was the full sister of Kahekili. But this peace was of short duration. Scarcely a year elapsed before Kalaniopuu again invaded Maui, where he continued to hold a fortified possession in Hana, and began to ravage its coasts. Without decisive results, the campaign extended into months, Kalaniopuu maintaining a foothold in Hamakualoa, but being unable to extend his conquests greatly beyond it. II. It was during the indecisive campaign just referred to that Captain Cook--having a few months before touched at Kauai and Niihau--returned to the Hawaiian group from the Arctic Ocean, and anchored off the coast of Maui, where he freely communicated with the wondering natives, and exchanged courtesies with Kalaniopuu and his principal chiefs, including Kamehameha. It is now admitted that the Hawaiian group was first discovered by Juan Gaetano, a Spanish navigator, in 1555, while on a voyage from the western coast of Mexico to the Moluccas, or Spice Islands; but the secret was kept from the world, and the first European to touch at the islands, to communicate with the natives and make his discovery known, was Captain Cook. In the hydrographic bureau of the naval department of the Spanish government exists an old manuscript chart pretty correctly locating the group and crediting Gaetano with the discovery. He named the islands Islas de Mesa, or Table Islands. It is probable that he made a landing on one of the islands with a few of his crew, since tradition refers to the sudden appearance of white men at about that period; but if he did land he left no record of the circumstance, and it is not shown that he ever returned to the group, or that any of his countrymen profited by the discovery. It has been claimed that Captain Cook was directed to the islands by an old Spanish chart of which he had in some manner become possessed; but his own evidence, as well as that of his officers, favors the assumption that the rediscovery of the islands by him was accidental. Early in December, 1777, Captain Cook, with the British national ships Resolution and Discovery, left the Society group for the northwest coast of America. On inquiry the natives of Bolabola Island informed him that they knew of no lands north or northwest of them, and it is not probable that he expected to meet with any; but after a voyage of sixteen days he discovered Christmas Island, and on the 18th of January, 1778, sighted Oahu, of the Hawaiian group, and to the northward of it Kauai. He first landed at the latter island, where he was well received by the natives. He was believed to be their god Lono, whose return to the group had been promised, and divine honors were accorded him. His ships were provided with everything they required, and the fairest women of the island, including the daughter of the queen, were sent to greet and welcome him. He next visited Niihau, where he was received in the same hospitable manner, and on the 2d of February, without visiting the other islands of the group, proceeded on his voyage toward Behring's Strait in search of a northwest passage to the Atlantic. The approach of winter putting an end to further explorations in the north, he returned to the islands, and on the 26th of November, 1778, sighted Maui, and the next day his ships were visited by hundreds of natives. The news of his previous visit to Kauai and Niihau had spread throughout the group, and he was treated with the greatest friendship and hospitality. Three days later, when off the northwest coast of Maui, he was ceremoniously visited by Kalaniopuu, and six or eight chiefs, Kamehameha among them, accompanied him almost to Hawaii, when they left in their canoes, which had been taken in tow, and returned to Maui, to the great relief of their friends. Beating around the coasts of Hawaii, it was not until the 17th of January, 1779, that the vessels came to anchor in Kealakeakua Bay, on the western side of the island. They were at once crowded with natives, and the high-priest came aboard, recognized Cook as the god Lono, and threw over his shoulders the sacred mantle of red. In the afternoon Cook went ashore, and in a neighboring temple permitted himself to be publicly and ceremoniously worshipped. Meantime the vessels were abundantly and gratuitously supplied with pigs, poultry, fruits and vegetables, and the officers and crews were treated with the greatest kindness. On the 24th of January Kalaniopuu returned from Maui, and on the 26th paid the ships a formal visit. The visit was returned, and Cook, as before, was received on shore with divine honors, against which he offered no protest. He was placed among the gods in the temple, and sacrifices were offered to him as one of the Hawaiian Trinity. How were the devotion and kindness of the simple natives requited? By eating out the substance of the people, violating the tabus of the priests and trampling upon the edicts of the king. Cook became exacting, dictatorial and greedy, and from his conduct it almost seemed that he began to consider himself in reality the god for whom he was mistaken by the superstitious natives. Under the circumstances, his departure for the leeward islands of the group, on the 4th of February, was regarded with satisfaction by the natives; but the vessels encountered a storm, and on the 11th returned to Kealakeakua Bay for repairs. Their reception was much less jubilant than before, and not a canoe went off to greet their return. However, Kalaniopuu visited the ships the next day, and permitted the natives to resume intercourse with them. But it was plain that the feelings of the people had undergone a change. They found that the white strangers had appetites like themselves, and were just as subject to bodily ills. They also discovered that they were selfish, unjust and overbearing, and were not entitled to the consideration with which they had been treated. Petty bickerings began to occur, and finally a young chief named Palea was knocked down with a paddle by an English sailor while attempting to save his canoe from wanton damage. In retaliation Palea stole a boat from one of the ships. Cook demanded its restoration, but, as it had been hastily broken up for its iron nails and fastenings, Kalaniopuu could not, of course, return it. Thereupon Cook ordered a blockade of the harbor, resulting in the killing of a prominent chief who attempted to enter it, and then landed with an armed boat's crew with the view of seizing and holding the king as security for the return of the missing boat. Kalaniopuu was in the act of peacefully accompanying Cook to one of his vessels in the harbor, and had reached a point not far from the landing, when the brother of the chief who had been killed in attempting to enter the harbor angrily approached to demand an explanation. By this time a large crowd of natives had surrounded the king, and believing, no doubt, that the intentions of the chief were hostile, Cook drew a pistol and fired upon him, and the next moment shot and killed a native who had assaulted him with a stone. He also struck with his sword a chief named Kanaina. The latter seized and held him. Believing Cook to be a god, it was not thought that he could be killed. Struggling to free himself, he must have received a wound from some quarter, for he sank to the earth with a groan. The groan was fatal to him. "He is not a god! he groans!" exclaimed the people, and without hesitation they slew him at once. Fire was immediately opened upon the natives from the boat, and shortly after with cannon from the vessels in the harbor. Consternation seized the people huddled on the beach. Many were killed, and the most of the remainder fled to the hills, taking with them the body of Cook. A party of carpenters and sail-makers, at work some distance away, became involved in the struggle, but the most of them escaped to the ships through the kind offices of friendly chiefs. The bones of the unfortunate captain were stripped of their flesh, as was then the custom, and divided among a few prominent chiefs. Kamehameha, it is said, received the hair. A few days after, in response to the request of Captain King, such of the bones as could be recovered were brought on board the Resolution, by order of Kalaniopuu, and committed to the deep with military honors. The ships then left Kealakeakua Bay, and after touching at Oahu, Kauai and Niihau, finally sailed northward on the 15th of March, leaving behind them a train of evils which a full century of time has failed to eradicate. III. Abandoning his campaign in Maui, Kalaniopuu, who was nearly eighty years of age and quite feeble, removed his court to Kohala after the death of Captain Cook, and subsequently to Waipio, where he remained for some months. Desiring to settle the succession while he lived, he called his high chiefs together and proclaimed his son Kiwalao as his heir and successor in the government and the supervision of the tabus, and Kamehameha as the custodian of his war-god Kaili, to which duty the heiau of Moaula, in Waipio, was formally dedicated after extensive repairs. A temple was also consecrated to the same god in Hilo. Shortly after Imakakaloa, who had raised the standard of revolt in Puna, was captured after a stubborn war and condemned to be sacrificed at the temple of Pakini. In the absence of Kalaniopuu the performance of the ceremonies devolved upon Kiwalao. First in order came the offerings of pigs and fruits, to be followed by the body of the rebel chief; but while Kiwalao was making the first of the offerings, Kamehameha seized the body of the chief, offered it in sacrifice and then dismissed the assembly. As the sacrifice was to the war-god Kaili, of which he was the custodian, Kamehameha doubtless claimed and boldly assumed the right to conduct the ceremonies himself. But the daring act of insubordination created an intense excitement at the royal court, many regarding it as little less than rebellion, and Kalaniopuu advised Kamehameha to retire to Kohala for a season, as he could not answer for his safety in Waipio. He accepted the advice of his uncle, and, taking with him his wife Kalola, his brother Kalaimamahu and the war-god Kaili, removed to his patrimonial estates at Halawa, in Kohala, where he remained until the death of Kalaniopuu, which shortly occurred. Early in 1782 Kalaniopuu died, and his body was brought to Honaunau for interment in the sacred burial-place of Hale-a-Keawe. Fearful that the division of lands which usually followed the installation of a new moi would not be satisfactory, several prominent chiefs, among them Kamehameha, repaired to Honaunau to assist in the interment of the dead king and listen to the proclamation of Kiwalao. After the body had been deposited Kiwalao ascended a platform and informed the assembled chiefs that, by the will of his royal father, the sovereignty of Hawaii had been bequeathed to him, and the custody of the war-god Kaili to Kamehameha. No other chief was mentioned as having been provided for, and profound dissatisfaction followed. At an awa party in the evening Kiwalao declined to drink of the awa prepared by Kamehameha, as custom rendered it proper that he should do. By Kekuhaupio, the aged counsellor of Kamehameha, the bowl was struck from the hand of another to whom it had been passed untasted by Kiwalao, and Kamehameha and his friend abruptly left the house. An open rupture followed the division of lands soon after made, and Kamehameha was forced to take up arms against Kiwalao by the disaffected chiefs. He was made their leader, and around him rallied the chiefs of Kona, Kohala and Hamakua, while Kiwalao was generally sustained by the chiefs of Hilo, Puna and Kau. After hasty preparations on both sides a battle was fought at Hauiki, in which Kiwalao was slain. The royal army was routed, and Keoua, the half-brother of Kiwalao, fled to Kau, where he declared himself king of Hawaii, while Keawemauhili, the uncle of the dead king, who was allowed to escape owing to his extremely high rank, retired to Hilo and set up an independent government of his own. After the death of Kiwalao, Keopuolani, his infant daughter, whose mother had fled with her to Kahekili, moi of Maui, was the only one whom Keawemauhili was willing to recognize, and three distinct factions began to struggle for the mastery of the island. While a desultory warfare was being carried on by the three rival chiefs of Hawaii, during which Kamehameha was steadily growing in strength, a new element of military and naval power made its appearance in the group, and became an important factor in the political changes that speedily followed. In 1786 the first foreign vessels, after the departure of the Resolution and Discovery, touched at the islands, and during the year following American, English, French, Spanish and Portuguese merchant-men in considerable numbers visited the group, and the people began to supply themselves with knives, axes, cloths, beads and other articles of foreign manufacture, and the chiefs with swords, guns, powder and lead and other warlike materials. Payment for these articles was made to some extent in pigs, fowls, fruits and vegetables, but principally in sandal-wood, in which the mountainous districts of the islands abounded, and which found a ready market in China. Many deserting sailors entered the service of the chiefs of Oahu and Hawaii, and to a less extent of the other islands, and became the instructors of the natives in the use of fire-arms; and Kamehameha was especially fortunate in securing the services of Isaac Davis and John Young, who took an active part in the campaigns of the final conquest. Young married into a native family of consequence, and became the grandfather of the late queen-dowager Emma, widow of Kamehameha IV. In 1790 Kamehameha, during a temporary cessation of hostilities on Hawaii, invaded Maui with a large force. To the expedition Keawemauhili had been in some manner induced to contribute a battalion of warriors. In retaliation for this showing of friendship for Kamehameha, Keoua invaded Hilo, defeated and killed Keawemauhili, and assumed the sovereignty of that district. Nor did he stop there. During the absence of Kamehameha he overran the districts of Hamakua and Kohala, and was in the act of possessing himself of the whole island when Kamehameha abruptly left Maui, which he had completely subjugated, and returned to Hawaii. Kaiana had been left to guard the district of Kona during the absence of Kamehameha, and that was the only division left unoccupied by Keoua. Kamehameha landed with his forces at Kawaihae, and Keoua fell back with his army to Paauhau. There and at Koapapa a two days' battle was fought, when Keoua retreated to Hilo, and Kamehameha retired to Waipio to recruit his losses. Stopping for a few days to divide the lands of the district among his chiefs, Keoua started on his return to Kau. His path led by the crater of Kilauea. His army, marching in three divisions, encamped on the mountains, the central division finding quarters not far from the crater. Before morning an eruption occurred, and four hundred warriors were suffocated. This was considered a special visitation of the wrath of Pele, the goddess of the volcano, and she was thereafter deemed to be the friend of Kamehameha. For a year or more continuous efforts to crush the power of Keoua were made by Kamehameha. Kaiana operated against him in Kau, and Keeaumoku in Hilo, but he stubbornly and successfully resisted. Availing himself of this condition of affairs, Kahekili, moi of Maui, assisted by Kaeo, king of Kauai, invaded Hawaii, probably for the purpose of creating a diversion in favor of Keoua, but the combined armies were driven from the island by Kamehameha. Keoua, however, remained unsubdued, and Kamehameha resolved at every sacrifice to crush him, as a preliminary step toward the conquest of the entire group, which at that time he began to meditate. Some time before he had sent the grandmother of Kaahumanu to Kauai to consult the prophets of that island, and word was brought back to him from the renowned Kapoukahi that if he would rebuild the heiau of Puukohola and dedicate it to his war-god, he would become the master of Hawaii. Some work had been done on the temple, and Kamehameha determined to complete it at once. He therefore ordered large relays of people from the surrounding districts to repair to Kawaihae and assist in the building of the heiau. Many thousands responded. With the exception of Keliimaikai, a brother of Kamehameha, who was left uncontaminated for the consecration, every chief took part in the labor, and the temple was soon completed, with sacrifices embracing a large number of human beings as the work progressed. Thus was the temple of Puukohola completed, but, pending its formal consecration, Keawe-a-Heulu and Kamanawa, two of the principal counselors of Kamehameha, were despatched to Kau under a flag of truce, to invite Keoua to visit Kamehameha, with the view of arranging terms of peace. Keoua received the ambassadors kindly, and consented to the conference. His actions show that he suspected the motives of Kamehameha, but he resolutely accepted the hazard of placing himself at the mercy of his enemies. Proceeding in state in a double canoe, Keoua arrived at the landing of Mailekini, in Kawaihae. Observing Kamehameha on the beach, Keoua called to him, and was invited to land. Several canoes were around him, and as he leaped ashore Keeaumoku, from one of them, treacherously drove a spear through his body, killing him at once. An attack was then made upon his attendants, and all but two of them were slain. As this, and many other events noted in this chapter, are briefly referred to in the legend of "The Prophecies of Keaulumoku," it will be sufficient to mention that the body of Keoua was taken to the temple of Puukohola, and there sacrificed to Kaili with ample pomp and ceremony. The possessions of the unfortunate chief passed into the hands of Kamehameha, who at once became the acknowledged sovereign of the entire island. This was in 1792. In Kamehameha's previous campaign against Maui, from which he had been recalled by the successes of Keoua at home, that island, as already stated, had been completely subjugated. At the time of the invasion, Maui, Oahu, Molokai and Lanai were all in the possession of Kahekili, who had taken up his residence in Oahu, leaving his son Kalanikupule in charge of Maui. In a single mighty battle on the plains between East and West Maui, Kamehameha had destroyed the army of Kalanikupule, who had escaped to Oahu and joined his father, while the most of the chiefs of Maui had sought refuge on the other islands. After this victory Kamehameha despatched a messenger to Kahekili, informing him of his intention to invade Oahu, and the old king returned to him this answer: "Tell Kamehameha to return to Hawaii, and when the black kapa covers the body of Kahekili the whole group shall be his." This answer seems to have been hardly honest, however, for, soon after Kamehameha returned to Hawaii, Kahekili entered into a combination with Kaeo, king of Kauai, and made war upon Kamehameha in his own home, with the disastrous results to the confederates already mentioned. In 1794 Kahekili died, leaving Kalanikupule as his successor, and a claimant to the sovereignty of Oahu, Maui, Molokai and Lanai. Kaeo, the younger brother and ally of Kahekili, and who had become the king of Kauai by marrying Queen Kamakahelei, and had shared in the government of Maui after the withdrawal of the forces of Kamehameha, concluded to return temporarily to Kauai after the death of Kahekili. Taking with him a portion of his army, he first touched at Molokai to collect tribute, and then landed on Oahu for further supplies. Although his visit was friendly, he met with opposition from Kalanikupule, and a battle followed, in which Kaeo was slain. The Oahu king was assisted by the seamen of two English vessels lying in the harbor of Honolulu, the Jackal and Prince Leboo. After the victory a feast was given on board the vessels, to which the king and a number of his chiefs were invited. Some of the boats of the vessels, returning from the shore with their crews, grounded on the reef. Perceiving this, Kalanikupule and his chiefs seized the vessels, killing their captains and a number of others. Elated with the possession of these vessels and their armaments, the king resolved to invade Hawaii. Embarking his army in canoes, he took passage in one of the vessels, on board of which had been stored the most of his guns and war materials. The crews of the vessels had been retained to manage them, and Kalanikupule sailed out of the harbor in high glee. But he did not proceed far. After reaching deep water the foreigners sent him and his attendants back to Waikiki in a boat, and then sailed for Hawaii, where they delivered Kalanikupule's war supplies to Kamehameha, who was even then preparing for a descent upon Oahu and the final conquest and consolidation of the group. This was in the latter part of 1794. The amount of war material delivered to Kamehameha was not large, but all of it proved of service to him. IV. With this somewhat extended reference to Kamehameha and the prominent chiefs of his time, which brings the tracings of public events down to the eve of the concluding struggle of the conquest, we will now return to Kaiana, through whose relations with Kamehameha some curious glimpses of the domestic life of the latter are brought to view. We have thus far seen him as a warrior. We will now observe him as a husband, whose peace was disturbed by jealousies, and whose heart, stern in all things else, was not proof against the tender influences of love. At the close of his unsuccessful campaign against the chiefs of Hilo and Kau, in 1785, Kamehameha took up his residence at Kauhola, where he devoted himself for a time to more peaceful pursuits. To stimulate his people to industry he gave his personal attention to agriculture, and the piece of ground cultivated with his own hands is still pointed out. Continuous wars had impoverished his possessions, and he was anxious to restore to productiveness his neglected lands. Up to this time Kamehameha had two recognized wives, Kalola and Peleuli. This Kalola was not the widow of Kalaniopuu, although bearing a similar name. She was a granddaughter of Keawe, king of Hawaii. Peleuli was the daughter of Kamanawa, brother of Keeaumoku, and one of his stanchest supporters. For some months Kamehameha lived quietly at Kauhola. The inspired song of Keaulumoku, who had died the year before, predicting that he would become the sovereign of the group, still rang in his ears, and in the midst of their labors his people were encouraged in the practice of the manly games and pastimes which added to their strength, skill and endurance in war. Sham fights on land and sea, and swimming, diving, wrestling, running and leaping contests, were frequent; and during the annual feast of Lono, beginning with the winter solstice and continuing for five days, a tournament was given which brought to Kauhola the leading chiefs of Hamakua, Kohala and Kona. Among them was the famous Keeaumoku, who had charge of the district of Kona. He was accompanied by his family, of which his daughter, Kaahumanu, was the most attractive feature. Twenty years before Keeaumoku, who was of the royal line, rebelled against Kalaniopuu, and was defeated and forced to find refuge on Maui, whose moi, Kamehamehanui, had died but a few days before, leaving the government to his brother Kahekili. Keeaumoku, whose fortunes were desperate, succeeded in captivating and marrying Namahana, the widow of the deceased king, very much to the chagrin and disappointment of Kahekili, whose claim to the dowager was sustained by the royal custom of the time. A difficulty followed, and Keeaumoku and his wife took up their residence on the northern side of the island. But they were not permitted to remain there in peace. Through the hostility of Kahekili they were driven to Molokai, and thence to the district of Hana, in eastern Maui, which was then held by the king of Hawaii, and there, through the mercy of Kalaniopuu, they were allowed for some years to reside; and there, in 1768, Kaahumanu was born. On the death of Kalaniopuu, in 1782, Keeaumoku returned to Hawaii, and in the war for the succession espoused the cause of Kamehameha and became one of his chief counselors and captains. Kaahumanu was one of the most attractive women of her time, and inherited something of the restless and independent spirit of her warlike father. She was in her eighteenth year when she made her appearance at the court of Kamehameha, during the festival of Lono, in 1785. The wives of Kamehameha were well along in years, Peleuli being the mother of a full-grown son, and Kaahumanu charmed the great chief with her freshness and independence. His warlike soul yielded to the fascination, and to win her smile he took part in the contests of the festival and overcame all competitors. He then proposed to make her his wife. Keeaumoku readily consented, but Kaahumanu could only be won by the promise that her children should become the political heirs of Kamehameha. This promise was given, and Kaahumanu became the wife of Kamehameha. It is probable that he intended to observe the compact at that time, but as Kaahumanu died childless he was in the end left to dispose of the succession through other and more distinguished channels. Kaahumanu became the wife of Kamehameha's heart. He loved her as well as he was capable of loving any woman, and she was the only one whose indiscretions were regarded by him with feelings of jealousy. His other wives were not restricted by him to his sole attentions, and even the blue-blooded Keopuolani, whom he subsequently married, and who became the mother of his heirs to the throne, had a joint husband in Hoapili. But in the affections of Kaahumanu Kamehameha would brook no joint occupant or rival. She doubtless sought to avail herself of the privileges of the times, but Kamehameha objected with a frown which would have meant death to another, and for years their relations were the reverse of harmonious. Kaiana's father was Ahaula, who was the son of Keawe, king of Hawaii, by a mother whose name is now unknown. The mother of Kaiana was Kaupekamoku, a granddaughter of Ahia, of the family of Hilo, from whom the present sovereign of the islands draws his strain. The birthplace of Kaiana is not recorded, but he was probably reared in the neighborhood of Hilo, and thoroughly instructed in all the chiefly accomplishments of the period. He grew to a splendid manhood. He was nearly six and a half feet in height, was well proportioned, and possessed a strikingly handsome face. This is the testimony of Captain Meares, with whom he made a voyage to China in 1787. Kaiana was of high rank and boundless ambition, and in early manhood cast his fortunes with Kahekili, the warlike moi of Maui, to whom he was related. He was among the prominent chiefs who assisted Kahekili in his conquest of Oahu in 1783, and took a distinguished part in the decisive battle of Kaheiki. Kahahana, the unfortunate king of Oahu, escaped to the hills, where he remained secreted for nearly two years, when he was betrayed by the brother of his wife and slain by order of Kahekili. This cruel treatment of Kahahana, together with the rapacity of the invaders, created a revulsion of feeling among the Oahu chiefs, and a wide-spread conspiracy was organized by the father of Kahahana and others against Kahekili and the Maui chiefs to whom had been assigned lands in the several districts of the island. The plan was to rise in concert and kill them all in one night, including Kahekili. But the murderous project miscarried. By some means it became known to Kahekili, and he despatched messengers to the threatened chiefs, warning them of their danger. All but one of them were notified. The messenger failed to reach Hueu, who was at Waialua, and he was killed. But fearfully was his death avenged. Kahekili collected his forces for a war for blood. Men, women and children were butchered without mercy, and the native Oahu chiefs were almost extirpated. So great was the slaughter that one of the Maui chiefs built a house at Lapakea, the walls of which were laid up with the bones of the slain. In this rebellion a number of Kahekili's own chiefs turned against him, among whom were Kaiana and Kaneoneo, the latter being the first husband of Kamakahelei, queen of Kauai. What incited the defection of Kaiana is not known, but he was probably dissatisfied with the lands apportioned to him by Kahekili, and hoped to profit by the restoration of the island to native rule. Kaneoneo was killed, but Kaiana managed to escape to Kauai. Kaneoneo was of the royal line of Kauai, and, as already stated, the first husband of the queen of that island. How he came to be a supporter of Kahekili in his conquest of Oahu, or what prompted his subsequent espousal of the cause of the Oahu chiefs, are matters which tradition has left to conjecture. Kamakahelei's second husband, whom she had selected some years before while her first was living, as was then the custom, was the gallant Kaeo, or Kaeokulani, the younger brother of Kahekili. He was commended to her not more through his princely blood than his many accomplishments and graces of person, and she appears to have been greatly attached to him. She had two daughters with Kaneoneo, both of whom were of marriageable age when she became the wife of Kaeo. She was the granddaughter, it may be mentioned, of Lonoikahaupu, a prince of Kauai, who in his younger years visited Hawaii, was accepted as the temporary husband of Kalani, the sister of Keawe, and through her became the grandfather of Keeaumoku and his two distinguished brothers. The daughters of the queen were Lelemahoalani and Kapuaamohu, the latter of whom, in marriage with Kaumualii, the last independent king of Kauai, became the grandmother of the present queen, Kapiolani. Kaeo took no part in the conquest of Oahu by his brother, but remained at Kauai, assisting the queen in her government, while Kaneoneo found occupation first in aiding and then in opposing Kahekili. Escaping from Oahu after the defeat of the rebellious chiefs and death of Kaneoneo, Kaiana presented himself before the queen of Kauai, who was a distant relative, and Kaeo, who was of closer kinship, and related to them the story of Kahekili's merciless operations on Oahu. He sought to create an active sympathy in favor of the unfortunate Oahuans, but Kaeo was too sagacious to place himself in hostility to his warlike brother, who had extended his sway over all the islands between Kauai and Hawaii. However, Kaiana was kindly received at the court of Kauai, and given lands for his proper maintenance. But he could not remain quiet. While the clash of arms was heard on the other islands, he chafed under the restraints of his exile, and attempted to organize a force of warriors for a descent upon Oahu. Kaeo prevented the departure of the expedition, however, and a mutual feeling of suspicion and antagonism was soon developed between him and his reckless and restless cousin. As the avenues to advancement through the chances of war seemed to be temporarily closed to him, Kaiana donned his best attire, gave entertainments and began vigorously to play the courtier. He first sought to supplant Kaeo in the affections of the queen. Failing in that, he next paid court to her daughter Kapuaamohu. The latter was disposed to regard his suit with favor, but Kaeo, through the pretended advice of a kaula, objected to the alliance, and in a spirit of recklessness Kaiana embarked in the ship Nootka for China late in 1787. That vessel, in the course of trade, touched at Kauai just as the fortunes of Kaiana seemed to be the most desperate, and Captain Meares was easily prevailed upon to permit the handsome Hawaiian to accompany him to the Asiatic coast. Arriving in Canton, Kaiana spent some months in studying the arts of war and mingling with the people of strange races, and in the latter part of 1788 returned in the Iphigenia to Kauai, bringing with him a very considerable supply of muskets, powder, lead and other munitions of war. As the manner in which he secured these supplies is not stated, we are constrained to believe that he must have taken with him to China a quantity of sandal-wood, which was readily marketable in that country. But Kaeo would not permit him to land on Kauai. The clouds had indicated approaching danger the day before, and Kaiana was told that he would be slain and sacrificed if his foot touched the shore. The vessel, therefore, sailed for Hawaii, where Kaiana landed and offered his services to Kamehameha. They were promptly accepted. His supply of arms and knowledge of other lands rendered him a valuable ally at the time, and Kamehameha gave him an important command and took him into his fullest confidence. This was early in 1789, and, in the succeeding wars with Keoua, Kaiana became an active leader, as already mentioned. The knives, hatchets, axes and swords brought by him from China were found to be useful, but the fire-arms were generally of old patterns, and the most of them were soon rendered entirely unserviceable through the inability of the natives to keep them in repair. V. Very soon after her marriage Kaahumanu was detected in flagrant flirtations with certain chiefs whose business brought them to the court of her husband, and Kamehameha set a close watch upon her actions. This led to bitter words between them, and in time it became a matter of gossip that Kamehameha was jealous of his young wife. The arrival of Kaiana added another to the list of Kaahumanu's admirers, and in time another wrinkle to the stern face of her warrior-husband. Kaiana was one of the handsomest chiefs of his day, and Kaahumanu could not disguise her infatuation for him. But, whatever may have been the temptation, he was too discreet to awaken the jealousy of Kamehameha, and was not displeased when he was despatched with an army against Keoua in the distant district of Kau. After the death of Kalaniopuu, in 1782, and the defeat and death of Kiwalao, the widow of the former, whose name was Kalola, left for Maui, taking with her the widow and infant daughter of Kiwalao. Kahekili, brother of Kalola, provided for the family and gave them his protection. After the conquest of Oahu by Kahekili he removed his court to that island, taking with him his sister and her family. In 1785 they returned to Maui with Kalanikupule, the son of Kahekili, who had been appointed viceroy of the island, and there remained, principally at Olowalu, until 1790, when Kalanikupule was driven from Maui by Kamehameha, and they sought refuge at Kalamaula, on the island of Molokai. Seeing his way clear to the conquest of the group, and anxious to ally himself to the superior blood which came through Kalola and Kiwalao, Kamehameha despatched a messenger to Molokai, requesting Kalola not to return to Oahu, but to place herself and family under his protection. Following the messenger to Molokai, and learning that Kalola was ill and not expected to recover, Kamehameha paid her a visit in person, and received the assurance of the dying dowager that, when she passed away, her daughter and granddaughter should be his. The granddaughter was Keopuolani, then a girl of fourteen. She subsequently became the wife of Kamehameha and the mother of the ruling princes of his dynasty. In recognition of her superior rank Kamehameha always approached her on his knees, even after she had become his wife and he the undisputed sovereign of the group. Such was the deference invariably paid to rank at that time and earlier. Kalola did not live but a few days after her meeting with Kamehameha. At her death he manifested his sorrow by knocking out two of his front teeth, and then formally took charge of and removed to Hawaii her daughter and granddaughter, not only as a sacred legacy from Kalola, but as a token of reconciliation and alliance between himself and the elder branch of the Keawe dynasty. Kaahumanu well understood the meaning of this reconciliation, and it was with little pleasure that she welcomed Liliha and her daughter to Hawaii. She knew it was the purpose of Kamehameha to marry Keopuolani as soon as she reached a proper age; but she was childless and could urge no valid objection to the union. The thought of it, however, did not sweeten her temper or quicken her sense of propriety. She became more reckless, and her husband more and more suspicious, until they finally separated, when Kaahumanu returned to her father, where she remained for more than a year, and where, it is said, Kaiana frequently visited her. Of these visits Kamehameha was apprised by Kepupuohi, the wife of Kaiana, of whom tradition makes but spare mention. She was jealous of her husband's attentions to Kaahumanu, and it was through her that Kamehameha became aware of their secret meetings. His spies had overlooked what the jealous eyes of the wife had discovered, and it is intimated that they retaliated in kind upon the recreant couple. Be that as it may, Kamehameha sent for Kaahumanu, and through the offices of Captain Vancouver, whose vessel was at that time anchored in Kealakeakua Bay, a reconciliation was effected between them. But Kamehameha did not forgive Kaiana. His thoughts were bent upon the conquest of Oahu, and he needed his assistance in that important enterprise; but he determined to crush him whenever he could do so without injury to himself. Kaiana felt the coldness of his chief, and had observed unmistakable evidences of his hatred; but he neglected no duty, and resolved that, if an open rupture could not be avoided, Kamehameha should not be in a position to urge a reason for it that would command the respect and approval of his supporting chiefs. Summoning his district chiefs to muster their quotas of canoes and armed men, Kamehameha prepared for the conquest of Oahu and a final struggle for the mastery of the group. It is said that his army numbered sixteen thousand warriors, some of them armed with muskets, and that so great was the number of his canoes that they almost blackened the channels through which they passed. The army embarked from Hawaii early in 1795, and, after touching at Lahaina for refreshments, landed for final preparation on Molokai, the fleet of canoes being distributed for miles along the coast. Kaiana had promptly responded to the call of his chief, and was there with a heavy quota of warriors and canoes. A council of war was called at Kaunakakai to discuss the plans of the campaign, but Kaiana was not invited to participate in its proceedings. His exclusion from the council alarmed Kaiana, and he suspected that he was the principal subject of discussion. He left his quarters, and calling at the house of Namahana, the mother of Kaahumanu, learned from her that the council was discussing some private matter, the nature of which she did not know. He next visited Kalaimoku, after the adjournment of the council, and endeavored to ascertain what had been done, but the answers of the chief were evasive and unsatisfactory. He did not dare to tell Kaiana, who was allied to him in blood, that Kamehameha had charged Kaiana before the council with meditated treason, which implied his death, and that his advisers had prevailed upon him to allow the matter to rest until after the conquest of Oahu. On his way back to Hamiloloa, where his warriors were encamped, Kaiana again passed the house of Namahana. It was past sunset, and he was striding through the dying twilight, his thoughts a tumult of doubt and indignation, when from behind a clump of bushes he heard his name pronounced in a low tone. He stopped and listened, and "Kaiana!" again came to him in a soft voice. Fearful of treachery, he hesitated for a moment, then drew a knife from a scabbard hanging from his neck, and cautiously walked around the screening undergrowth. "Who calls?" inquired Kaiana, observing a crouching figure among the bushes. "Your friend," was the answer; and Kaahumanu rose and stood before him. What passed between them can only be conjectured; but Kaahumanu must have satisfied Kaiana of Kamehameha's hostile purposes concerning him, for when he reached his quarters he promptly informed his brother Nahiolea of the danger awaiting both of them, and apprised him of his resolution to abandon Kamehameha on the passage to Oahu and join forces with Kalanikupule. "The movement is hazardous," explained Kaiana, "but it will enable us, at least, to die like chiefs, with arms in our hands, instead of being slain like dogs." As the several divisions were preparing to embark for Oahu the next morning, Kaiana visited the squadron of canoes set apart for the accommodation of the wives and daughters of Kamehameha and his principal chiefs, and secretly informed his wife of his purpose to join Kalanikupule. She expressed surprise at the announcement, but declined to follow him, declaring that she preferred to cast her fortunes with Kamehameha. "But," she continued, bitterly, "perhaps Kaahumanu would follow you, if asked to do so!" Kaiana made no reply to this cutting suggestion, but waved his wife a hasty farewell, and joined his embarking warriors. The other divisions of the invading army were well out to sea before Kaiana's sails were set, and he found no difficulty in making his way unobserved to Kailua, on the northern side of the island, while Kamehameha landed with the main body of his forces in the neighborhood of Honolulu, his canoes extending along the beach from Waialae to Waikiki. Disembarking his warriors at Kailua, to the number of perhaps fifteen hundred, Kaiana offered his services to Kalanikupule, whose army was rapidly occupying positions in the valleys back of Honolulu. The moi received him with open arms, promising him the sovereignty of Maui should they succeed in destroying Kamehameha; and the united armies, climbing over the Nuuanu and Kalihi passes, confronted the advancing lines of Kamehameha. Learning of the desertion of Kaiana and the warriors under his command, Kamehameha exhibited but little surprise. He did not doubt his ability to defeat the combined armies of his opponents, for the auguries had been favorable and he had faith in his gods; nor did he regret that through his defection Kaiana had at last placed himself in a position to be dealt with as an open enemy. With his war-god Kaili in the van, Kamehameha, at the head of a mighty force, marched up Nuuanu Valley, where, three miles back of Honolulu, behind a stone wall stretching from one hill to the other of the narrowing gorge, was entrenched the main body of the allied armies. And behind the wall stood Kaiana, grim, silent and desperate, with a musket in his hand, awaiting the approach of Kamehameha. Nearer and nearer advanced the attacking column, with shouts that were repaid by yells of defiance from behind the defences. A few volleys of musketry were exchanged by the hundred or more of warriors in possession of fire-arms on each side, but Kaiana took no part in the noisy conflict. He was watching for the approach of one whose life he longed for more than all the rest, and for which he was willing to exchange his own. But he watched in vain. A field-piece, under the direction of John Young, was brought to bear upon the wall, and Kaiana fell with the first shot, mortally wounded. After a few more shots the Hawaiians charged up the hill, their shouts drowning the roar of the breakers against the reef below. Kaiana drew himself up against the wall. His heart had been laid almost bare, and his eyes were growing dim. With an effort he raised his musket, fired it at random in the direction of the storming column, hoping the bullet might by chance find the heart of Kamehameha, and then fell dead. The rout of the Oahuans and their allies was complete. They broke and fled in all directions. Some were driven over the pali, a precipice six or seven hundred feet in height at the head of the valley, and others escaped over the hills. Kalanikupule found refuge for a time in the mountains, but he was finally captured, slain and offered as a sacrifice to Kamehameha's war-god at Waikiki. This was the last battle of the conquest, and the victory gave to Kamehameha the sovereignty of the group, for the king of Kauai, recognizing his power, soon after yielded to him his peaceful allegiance. But it brought to a close the career of one of the most noted of modern Hawaiian chiefs--Kaiana-a-Ahaula--over whose death Kamehameha rejoiced, and Kaahumanu mourned in silence. Her love proved fatal to more than one, but he was the grandest and brightest of all who perished by the sweet poison of her smiles. KAALA, THE FLOWER OF LANAI. CHARACTERS. Kamehameha I., king of Hawaii. Oponui, a chief of Lanai. Kaala, daughter of Oponui. Kalani, mother of Kaala. Kaaialii, a lieutenant of the king. Milou, the bone-breaker. Ua, a friend of Kaala. Papakua, a priest. KAALA, THE FLOWER OF LANAI. A STORY OF THE SPOUTING CAVE OF PALIKAHOLO. I. Beneath one of the boldest of the rocky bluffs against which dash the breakers of Kaumalapau Bay, on the little island of Lanai, is the Puhio-Kaala, or "Spouting Cave of Kaala." The only entrance to it is through the vortex of a whirlpool, which marks the place where, at intervals, the receding waters rise in a column of foam above the surface. Within, the floor of the cave gradually rises from the opening beneath the waters until a landing is reached above the level of the tides, and to the right and left, farther than the eye can penetrate by the dim light struggling through the surging waves, stretch dank and shelly shores, where crabs, polypii, sting-rays and other noisome creatures of the deep find protection against their larger enemies. This cavern was once a favorite resort of Mooalii, the great lizard-god; but as the emissaries of Ukanipo, the shark-god, annoyed him greatly and threatened to imprison him within it by piling a mountain of rocks against the opening, he abandoned it and found a home in a cave near Kaulapapa, in the neighboring island of Molokai, where many rude temples were erected to him by the fishermen. Before the days of Kamehameha I. resolute divers frequently visited the Spouting Cave, and on one occasion fire, enclosed in a small calabash, was taken down through the whirlpool, with the view of making a light and exploring its mysterious chambers; but the fire was scattered and extinguished by an unseen hand, and those who brought it hastily retreated to escape a shower of rocks sent down upon them from the roof of the cavern. The existence of the cave is still known, and the whirlpool and spouting column marking the entrance to it are pointed out; but longer and longer have grown the intervals between the visits of divers to its sunless depths, until the present generation can point to not more than one, perhaps, who has ventured to enter them. Tradition has brought down the outlines of a number of supernatural and romantic stories connected with the Spouting Cave, but the nearest complete and most recent of these mookaaos is the legend of Kaala, the flower of Lanai, which is here given at considerably less length than native narration accords it. It was during an interval of comparative quiet, if not of peace, in the stormy career of Kamehameha I., near the close of the last century, and after the battle of Maunalei, that he went with his court to the island of Lanai for a brief season of recreation. The visit was not made for the purpose of worshipping at the great heiau of Kaunola, which was then half in ruins, or at any of the lesser temples scattered here and there over the little island, and dedicated, in most instances, to fish-gods. He went to Kealia simply to enjoy a few days of rest away from the scenes of his many conflicts, and feast for a time upon the affluent fishing-grounds of that locality. He made the journey with six double canoes, all striped with yellow, and his own bearing the royal ensign. He took with him his war-god, Kaili, and a small army of attendants, consisting of priests, kahunas, kahili and spittoon-bearers, stewards, cooks and other household servants, as well as a retinue of distinguished chiefs with their personal retainers in their own canoes, and a hundred warriors in the capacity of a royal guard. Landing, the victorious chief was received with enthusiasm by the five or six thousand people then inhabiting the island. He took up his residence in the largest of the several cottages provided for him and his personal attendants. Provisions were brought in abundance, and flowers and sweet-scented herbs and vines were contributed without stint. The chief and his titled attendants were garlanded with them. They were strewn in his path, cast at his door and thrown upon his dwelling, until their fragrance seemed to fill all the air. Among the many who brought offerings of flowers was the beautiful Kaala, "the sweet-scented flower of Lanai," as she was called. She was a girl of fifteen, and in grace and beauty had no peer on the island. She was the daughter of Oponui, a chief of one of the lower grades, and her admirers were counted by the hundreds. Of the many who sought her as a wife was Mailou, "the bone-breaker." He was a huge, muscular savage, capable of crushing almost any ordinary man in an angry embrace; and while Kaala hated, feared and took every occasion to avoid him, her father favored his suit, doubtless pleased at the thought of securing in a son-in-law a friend and champion so distinguished for his strength and ferocity. As Kaala scattered flowers before the chief her graceful movements and modesty were noted by Kaaialii, and when he saw her face he was enraptured with its beauty. Although young in years, he was one of Kamehameha's most valued lieutenants, and had distinguished himself in many battles. He was of chiefly blood and bearing, with sinewy limbs and a handsome face, and when he stopped to look into the eyes of Kaala and tell her that she was beautiful, she thought the words, although they had been frequently spoken to her by others, had never sounded so sweetly to her before. He asked her for a simple flower, and she twined a lei for his neck. He asked her for a smile, and she looked up into his face and gave him her heart. They saw each other the next day, and the next, and then Kaaialii went to his chief and said: "I love the beautiful Kaala, daughter of Oponui. Your will is law. Give her to me for a wife." For a moment Kamehameha smiled without speaking, and then replied: "The girl is not mine to give. We must be just. I will send for her father. Come to-morrow." Kaaialii had hoped for a different answer; but neither protest nor further explanation was admissible, and all he could do was to thank the king and retire. A messenger brought Oponui to the presence of Kamehameha. He was received kindly, and told that Kaaialii loved Kaala and desired to make her his wife. The information kindled the wrath of Oponui. He hated Kaaialii, but did not dare to exhibit his animosity before the king. He was in the battle of Maunalei, where he narrowly escaped death at the hands of Kaaialii, after his spear had found the heart of one of his dearest friends, and he felt that he would rather give his daughter to the sharks than to one who had sought his life and slain his friend. But he pretended to regard the proposal with favor, and, in answer to the king, expressed regret that he had promised his daughter to Mailou, the bone-breaker. "However," he continued, "in respect to the interest which it has pleased you, great chief, to take in the matter, I am content that the girl shall fall to the victor in a contest with bare hands between Mailou and Kaaialii." The proposal seemed to be fair, and, not doubting that Kaaialii would promptly accept it, the king gave it his approval, and the contest was fixed for the day following. Oponui received the announcement with satisfaction, not doubting that Mailou would crush Kaaialii in his rugged embrace as easily as he had broken the bones of many an adversary. News of the coming contest spread rapidly, and the next day thousands of persons assembled at Kealia to witness it. Kaala was in an agony of fear. The thought of becoming the wife of the bone-breaker almost distracted her, for it was said that he had had many wives, all of whom had disappeared one after another as he tired of them, and the whisper was that he had crushed and thrown them into the sea. And, besides, she loved Kaaialii, and deemed it scarcely possible that he should be able to meet and successfully combat the prodigious strength and ferocity of one who had never been subdued. As Kaaialii was approaching the spot where the contest was to take place, in the presence of Kamehameha and his court and a large concourse of less distinguished spectators, Kaala sprang from the side of her father, and, seizing the young chief by the hand, exclaimed: "You have indeed slain my people in war, but rescue me from the horrible embrace of the bone-breaker, and I will catch the squid and beat the kapa for you all my days!" With a dark frown upon his face, Oponui tore the girl from her lover before he could reply. Kaaialii followed her with his eyes until she disappeared among the spectators, and then pressed forward through the crowd and stepped within the circle reserved for the combatants. Mailou was already there. He was indeed a muscular brute, with long arms, broad shoulders and mighty limbs tattooed with figures of sharks and birds of prey. He was naked to the loins, and, as Kaaialii approached, his fingers opened and closed, as if impatient to clutch and tear his adversary in pieces. Although less bulky than the bone-breaker, Kaaialii was large and perfectly proportioned, with well-knit muscles and loins and shoulders suggestive of unusual strength. Nude, with the exception of a maro, he was a splendid specimen of vigorous manhood; but, in comparison with those of the bone-breaker, his limbs appeared to be frail and feminine, and a general expression of sympathy for the young chief was observed in the faces of the large assemblage as they turned from him to the sturdy giant he was about to encounter. The contest was to be one of strength, courage, agility and skill combined. Blows with the clenched fist, grappling, strangling, tearing, breaking and every other injury which it was possible to inflict were permitted. In hakoko (wrestling) and moko (boxing) contests certain rules were usually observed, in order that fatal injuries might be avoided; but in the combat between Kaaialii and Mailou no rule or custom was to govern. It was to be a savage struggle to the death. Taunt and boasting are the usual prelude to personal conflicts among the uncivilized; nor was it deemed unworthy the Saxon knight to meet his adversary with insult and bravado. The object was not more to unnerve his opponent than to steel his own courage. With the bone-breaker, however, there was little fear or doubt concerning the result. He knew the measure of his own prodigious strength, and, with a malignant smile that laid bare his shark-like teeth, he glared with satisfaction upon his rival. "Ha! ha!" laughed the bone-breaker, taking a stride toward Kaaialii; "so you are the insane youth who has dared to meet Mailou in combat! Do you know who I am? I am the bone-breaker! In my hands the limbs of men are like tender cane. Come, and with one hand let me strangle you!" "You will need both!" replied Kaaialii. "I know you. You are a breaker of the bones of women, not of men! You speak brave words, but have the heart of a coward. Let the word be given, and if you do not run from me to save your life, as I half-suspect you will, I will put my foot upon your broken neck before you find time to cry for mercy!" Before Mailou could retort the word was given, and with an exclamation of rage he sprang at the throat of Kaaialii. Feigning as if to meet the shock, the latter waited until the hands of Mailou were almost at his throat, when with a quick movement he struck them up, swayed his body to the left, and with his right foot adroitly tripped his over-confident assailant. The momentum of Mailou was so great that he fell headlong to the earth. Springing upon him before he could rise, Kaaialii seized his right arm, and with a vigorous blow of the foot broke the bone below the elbow. Rising and finding his right arm useless, Mailou attempted to grapple his adversary with the left, but a well-delivered blow felled him again to the earth, and Kaaialii broke his left arm as he had broken the right. Regaining his feet, and unable to use either hand, with a wild howl of despair the bone-breaker rushed upon Kaaialii, with the view of dealing him a blow with his bent head; but the young chief again tripped him as he passed, and, seizing him by the hair as he fell, placed his knees against the back of his prostrate foe and broke his spine. This, of course, ended the struggle, and Kaaialii was declared the victor, amidst the plaudits of the spectators and the congratulations of Kamehameha and the court. Breaking from her father, who was grievously disappointed at the unlooked-for result, and who sought to detain her, Kaala sprang through the crowd and threw herself into the arms of Kaaialii. Oponui would have protested, and asked that his daughter might be permitted to visit her mother before becoming the wife of Kaaialii; but the king put an end to his hopes by placing the hand of Kaala in that of the victorious chief, and saying to him: "You have won her nobly. She is now your wife. Take her with you." Although silenced by the voice of the king, and compelled to submit to the conditions of a contest which he had himself proposed, Oponui's hatred of Kaaialii knew no abatement, and all that day and the night following he sat alone by the sea-shore, devising a means by which Kaala and her husband might be separated. He finally settled upon a plan. The morning after her marriage Oponui visited Kaala, as if he had just returned from Mahana, where her mother was supposed to be then living. He greeted her with apparent affection, and was profuse in his expressions of friendship for Kaaialii. He embraced them both, and said: "I now see that you love each other; my prayer is that you may live long and happily together." He then told Kaala that Kalani, her mother, was lying dangerously ill at Mahana, and, believing that she would not recover, desired to see and bless her daughter before she died. Kaala believed the story, for her father wept when he told it, and moaned as if for the dead, and beat his breast; and, with many protestations of love, Kaaialii allowed her to depart with Oponui, with the promise from both of them that she would speedily return to the arms of her husband. With some misgivings, Kaaialii watched her from the top of the hill above Kealia until she descended into the valley of Palawai. There leaving the path that led to Mahana, they journeyed toward the bay of Kaumalapau. Satisfied that her father was for some purpose deceiving her, Kaala protested and was about to return, when he acknowledged that her mother was not ill at Mahana, as he had represented to Kaaialii in order to secure his consent to her departure, but at the sea-shore, where she had gathered crabs, shrimps, limpets and other delicacies, and prepared a feast in celebration of her marriage. Reassured by the plausible story, and half-disposed to pardon the deception admitted by her father, Kaala proceeded with him to the sea-shore. She saw that her mother was not there, and heard no sound but the beating of the waves against the rocks. She looked up into the face of her father for an explanation; but his eyes were cold, and a cruel smile upon his lips told her better than words that she had been betrayed. "Where is my mother?" she inquired; and then bitterly added: "I do not see her fire by the shore. Must we search for her among the sharks?" Oponui no longer sought to disguise his real purpose. "Hear the truth!" he said, with a wild glare in his eyes that whitened the lips of Kaala. "The shark shall be your mate, but he will not harm you. You shall go to his home, but he will not devour you. Down among the gods of the sea I will leave you until Kaaialii, hated by me above all things that breathe, shall have left Lanai, and then I will bring you back to earth!" Terrified at these words, Kaala screamed and sought to fly; but her heartless father seized her by the hand and dragged her along the shore until they reached a bench of the rocky bluff overlooking the opening to the Spouting Cave. Oponui was among the few who had entered the cavern through its gate of circling waters, and he did not for a moment doubt that within its gloomy walls, where he was about to place her, Kaala would remain securely hidden until such time as he might choose to restore her to the light. Standing upon the narrow ledge above the entrance to the cave, marked by alternate whirlpool and receding column, Kaala divined the barbarous purpose of her father, and implored him to give her body to the sharks at once rather than leave her living in the damp and darkness of the Spouting Cave, to be tortured by the slimy and venomous creatures of the sea. Deaf to her entreaties, Oponui watched until the settling column went down into the throat of the whirlpool, when he gathered the frantic and struggling girl in his arms and sprang into the circling abyss. Sinking a fathom or more below the surface, and impelled by a strong current setting toward the mouth of the cave, he soon found and was swept through the entrance, and in a few moments stood upon a rocky beach in the dim twilight of the cavern, with the half-unconscious Kaala clinging to his neck. The only light penetrating the cave was the little refracted through the waters, and every object that was not too dark to be seen looked greenish and ghostly. Crabs, eels, sting-rays and other noisome creatures of the deep were crawling stealthily among the rocks, and the dull thunder of the battling waves was the only sound that could be distinguished. Disengaging her arms, he placed her upon the beach above the reach of the waters, and then sat down beside her to recover his breath and wait for a retreating current to bear him to the surface. Reviving, Kaala looked around her with horror, and piteously implored her father not to leave her in that dreadful place beneath the waters. For some time he made no reply, and then it was to tell her harshly that she might return with him if she would promise to accept the love of the chief of Olowalu, in the valley of Palawai, and allow Kaaialii to see her in the embrace of another. This she refused to do, declaring that she would perish in the cave, or the attempt to leave it, rather than be liberated on such monstrous conditions. "Then here you will remain," said Oponui, savagely, "until I return, or the chief of Olowalu comes to bear you off to his home in Maui!" Then, rising to his feet, he continued hastily, as he noted a turn in the current at the opening: "You cannot escape without assistance. If you attempt it you will be dashed against the rocks and become the food of sharks." With this warning Oponui turned and plunged into the water. Diving and passing with the current through the entrance, he was borne swiftly to the surface and to his full length up into the spouting column; but he coolly precipitated himself into the surrounding waters, and with a few strokes of the arms reached the shore. II. Kaaialii watched the departure of Kaala and her father until they disappeared in the valley of Palawai, and then gloomily returned to his hut. His fears troubled him. He thought of his beautiful Kaala, and his heart ached for her warm embrace. Then he thought of the looks and words of Oponui, and recalled in both a suggestion of deceit. Thus harassed with his thoughts, he spent the day in roaming alone among the hills, and the following night in restless slumber, with dreams of death and torture. The portentous cry of an alae roused him from his kapa-moe before daylight, and until the sun rose he sat watching the stars. Then he climbed the hill overlooking the valley of Palawai to watch for the return of Kaala, and wonder what could have detained her so long. He watched until the sun was well up in the heavens, feeling neither thirst nor hunger, and at length saw a pau fluttering in the wind far down the valley. A woman was rapidly approaching, and his heart beat with joy, for he thought she was Kaala. Nearer and nearer she came, and Kaaialii, still hopeful, ran down to the path to meet her. Her step was light and her air graceful, and it was not until he had opened his arms to receive her that he saw that the girl was not Kaala. She was Ua, the friend of Kaala, and almost her equal in beauty. They had been reared together, and in their love for each other were like sisters. They loved the same flowers, the same wild songs of the birds, the same paths among the hills, and, now that Kaala loved Kaaialii, Ua loved him also. Recognizing Kaaialii as she approached, Ua stopped before him, and bent her eyes to the ground without speaking. "Where is Kaala?" inquired Kaaialii, raising the face of Ua and staring eagerly into it. "Have you seen her? Has any ill come to her? Speak!" "I have not seen her, and know of no ill that has befallen her," replied the girl; "but I have come to tell you that Kaala has not yet reached the hut of Kalani, her mother; and as Oponui, with a dark look in his face, was seen to lead her through the forest of Kumoku, it is feared that she has been betrayed and will not be allowed to return to Kealia." "And that, too, has been my fear since the moment I lost sight of her in the valley of Palawai," said Kaaialii. "I should not have trusted her father, for I knew him to be treacherous and unforgiving. May the wrath of the gods follow him if harm has come to her through his cruelty! But I will find her if she is on the island! The gods have given her to me, and in life or death she shall be mine!" Terrified at the wild looks and words of Kaaialii, Ua clasped her hands in silence. "Hark!" he continued, bending his ear toward the valley. "It seems that I hear her calling for me now!" And with an exclamation of rage and despair Kaaialii started at a swift pace down the path taken by Kaala the day before. As he hurried onward, he saw, at intervals, the footprints of Kaala in the dust, and every imprint seemed to increase his speed. Reaching the point where the Mahana path diverged from the somewhat broader ala of the valley, he followed it for some distance hoping that Ua had been misinformed, and that Kaala had really visited her mother and might be found with her; but when he looked for and failed to find the marks of her feet where in reason they should have been seen had she gone to Mahana with her father, he returned and continued his course down the valley. Suddenly he stopped. The footprints for which he was watching had now disappeared from the Palawai path, and for a moment he stood looking irresolutely around, as if in doubt concerning the direction next to be pursued. In his uncertainty several plans of action presented themselves. One was, to see what information could be gathered from Kaala's mother at Mahana, another to follow the Palawai valley to the sea, and a third to return to Kealia and consult a kaula. While these various suggestions were being rapidly canvassed, and before any conclusion could be reached, the figure of a man was seen approaching from the valley below. Kaaialii secreted himself behind a rock, where he could watch the path without being seen. The man drew nearer and nearer, until at last Kaaialii was enabled to distinguish the features of Oponui, of all men the one whom he most desired to meet. His muscles grew rigid with wrath, and his hot breath burned the rock behind which he was crouching. He buried his fingers in the earth to teach them patience, and clenched his teeth to keep down a struggling exclamation of vengeance. And so he waited until Oponui reached a curve in the path which brought him, in passing, within a few paces of the eyes that were savagely glaring upon him, and the next moment the two men stood facing each other. Startled at the unexpected appearance of Kaaialii, Oponui betrayed his guilt at once by attempting to fly; but, with the cry of "Give me Kaala!" Kaaialii sprang forward and endeavored to seize him by the throat. A momentary struggle followed; but Oponui was scarcely less powerful than his adversary, and, his shoulders being bare, he succeeded in breaking from the grasp of Kaaialii and seeking safety in flight toward Kealia. With a cry of disappointment, Kaaialii started in pursuit. Both were swift of foot, and the race was like that of a hungry shark following his prey. One was inspired by fear and the other with rage, and every muscle of the runners was strained. Leaving the valley path, Oponui struck for Kealia by a shorter course across the hills. He hoped the roughness of the route and his better knowledge of it would give him an advantage; but Kaaialii kept closely at his heels. On they sped, up and down hills, across ravines and along rocky ridges, until they reached Kealia, when Oponui suddenly turned to the left and made a dash for the temple and puhonua not far distant. Kaaialii divined his purpose, and with a last supreme effort sought to thwart it. Gaining ground with every step, he made a desperate grasp at the shoulder of Oponui just as the latter sprang through the entrance and dropped to the earth exhausted within the protecting walls of the puhonua. Kaaialii attempted to follow, but two priests promptly stepped into the portal and refused to allow him to pass. "Stand out of the way, or I will strangle you both!" exclaimed Kaaialii, fiercely, as he threw himself against the guards. "Are you insane?" said another long-haired priest, stepping forward with a tabu staff in his hand. "Do you not know that this is a puhonua, sacred to all who seek its protection? Would you bring down upon yourself the wrath of the gods by shedding blood within its walls?" "If I may not enter, then drive him forth!" replied Kaaialii, pointing toward Oponui, who was lying upon the ground a few paces within, intently regarding the proceedings at the gate. "That cannot be," returned the priest. "Should he will to leave, the way will not be closed to him; otherwise he may remain in safety." "Coward!" cried Kaaialii, addressing Oponui in a taunting tone. "Is it thus that you seek protection from the anger of an unarmed man? A pau would better become you than a maro. You should twine leis and beat kapa with women, and think no more of the business of men. Come without the walls, if your trembling limbs will bear you, and I will serve you as I did your friend, the breaker of women's bones. Come, and I will tear from your throat the tongue that lied to Kaala, and feed it to the dogs!" A malignant smile wrinkled the face of Oponui, as he thought of Kaala in her hiding-place under the sea, but he made no reply. "Do you fear me?" continued Kaaialii. "Then arm yourself with spear and battle-axe, and with bare hands I will meet and strangle you!" Oponui remained silent, and in a paroxysm of rage and disappointment Kaaialii threw himself upon the ground and cursed the tabu that barred him from his enemy. His friends found and bore him to his hut, and Ua, with gentle arts and loving hands, sought to soothe and comfort him. But he would not be consoled. He talked and thought alone of Kaala, and, hastily partaking of food that he might retain his strength, started again in search of her. Pitying his distress, Ua followed him--not closely, but so that she might not lose sight of him altogether. He traveled in every direction, stopping neither for food nor rest. Of every one he met he inquired for Kaala, and called her name in the deep valleys and on the hill-tops. Wandering near the sacred spring at the head of the waters of Kealia, he met a white-haired priest bearing from the fountain a calabash of water for ceremonial use in one of the temples. The priest knew and feared him, for his looks were wild, and humbly offered him water. "I ask not for food or water, old man," said Kaaialii. "You are a priest--perhaps a kaula. Tell me where I can find Kaala, the daughter of Oponui, and I will pile your altars with sacrifices!" "Son of the long spear," replied the priest, "I know you seek the sweet-smelling flower of Palawai. Her father alone knows of her hiding-place. But it is not here in the hills, nor is it in the valleys. Oponui loves and frequents the sea. He hunts for the squid in dark places, and dives for the great fish in deep waters. He knows of cliffs that are hollow, and of caves with entrances below the waves. He goes alone to the rocky shore, and sleeps with the fish-gods, who are his friends. He--" "No more of him!" interrupted the chief, impatiently. "Tell me what has become of Kaala!" "Be patient, and you shall hear," resumed the priest. "In one of the caverns of the sea, known to Oponui and others, has Kaala been hidden. So I see her now. The place is dark and her heart is full of terror. Hasten to her. Be vigilant, and you will find her; but sleep not, or she will be the food of the creatures of the sea." Thanking the priest, Kaaialii started toward the bay of Kaumalapau, followed by the faithful Ua, and did not rest until he stood upon the bluff of Palikaholo, overlooking the sea. Wildly the waves beat against the rocks. Looking around, he could discern no hiding-place along the shore, and the thunder of the breakers and the screams of the sea-gulls were the only sounds to be heard. In despair he raised his voice and wildly exclaimed: "Kaala! O Kaala! where are you? Do you sleep with the fish-gods, and must I seek you in their homes among the sunken shores?" The bluff where he was standing overlooked and was immediately above the Spouting Cave, from the submerged entrance to which a column of water was rising above the surface and breaking into spray. In the mist of the upheaval he thought he saw the shadowy face and form of Kaala, and in the tumult of the rushing waters fancied that he heard her voice calling him to come to her. "Kaala, I come!" he exclaimed, and with a wild leap sprang from the cliff to clasp the misty form of his bride. He sank below the surface, and, as the column disappeared with him and he returned no more, Ua wailed upon the winds a requiem of love and grief in words like these: "Oh! dead is Kaaialii, the young chief of Hawaii, The chief of few years and many battles! His limbs were strong and his heart was gentle; His face was like the sun, and he was without fear. Dead is the slayer of the bone-breaker; Dead is the chief who crushed the bones of Mailou; Dead is the lover of Kaala and the loved of Ua. For his love he plunged into the deep waters; For his love he gave his life. Who is like Kaaialii? Kaala is hidden away, and I am lonely; Kaaialii is dead, and the black kapa is over my heart: Now let the gods take the life of Ua!" With a last look at the spot where Kaaialii had disappeared, Ua hastened to Kealia, and at the feet of Kamehameha told of the rash act of the despairing husband of Kaala. The king was greatly grieved at the story of Ua, for he loved the young chief almost as if he had been his son. "It is useless to search for the body of Kaaialii," he said, "for the sharks have eaten it." Then, turning to one of his chiefs, he continued: "No pile can be raised over his bones. Send for Ualua, the poet, that a chant may be made in praise of Kaaialii." Approaching nearer, Papakua, a priest, requested permission to speak. It was granted, and he said: "Let me hope that my words may be of comfort. I have heard the story of Ua, and cannot believe that the young chief is dead. The spouting waters into which Kaaialii leaped mark the entrance to the cave of Palikaholo. Following downward the current, has he not been drawn into the cavern, where he has found Kaala, and may still be living? Such, at least, is my thought, great chief." "A wild thought, indeed!" replied the king; "yet there is some comfort in it, and we will see how much of truth it may reveal." Preparations were hastily made, and with four of his sturdiest oarsmen Kamehameha started around the shore for the Spouting Cave under the bluff of Palikaholo, preceded by Ua in a canoe with Keawe, her brother. III. When Kaaialii plunged into the sea he had little thought of anything but death. Grasping at the spouting column as he descended, it seemed to sink with him to the surface, and even below it, and in a moment he felt himself being propelled downward and toward the cliff by a strong current. Recklessly yielding to the action of the waters, he soon discerned an opening in the submerged base of the bluff, and without an effort was drawn swiftly into it. The force of the current subsided, and to his surprise his head rose above the surface and he was able to breathe. His feet touched a rocky bottom, and he rose and looked around with a feeling of bewilderment. His first thought was that he was dead and had reached the dark shores of Po, where Milu, prince of death, sits enthroned in a grove of kou trees; but he smote his breast, and by the smart knew that he was living, and had been borne by the waters into a cave beneath the cliff from which he had leaped to grasp the misty form of Kaala. Emerging from the water, Kaaialii found himself standing on the shore of a dimly-lighted cavern. The air was chilly, and slimy objects touched his feet, and others fell splashing into the water from the rocks. He wondered whether it would be possible for him to escape from the gloomy place, and began to watch the movements of the waters near the opening, when a low moan reached his ear. It was the voice of Kaala. She was lying near him in the darkness on the slimy shore. Her limbs were bruised and lacerated with her fruitless attempts to leave the cave, and she no longer possessed the strength to repel the crabs and other loathsome creatures that were drinking her blood and feeding upon her quivering flesh. "It is the wailing of the wind, or perhaps of some demon of the sea who makes this horrible place his home," thought Kaaialii. He feared neither death nor its ministers; yet something like a shudder possessed him as he held his breath and listened, but he heard nothing but the thunder of the breakers against the cavern walls. "Who speaks?" he exclaimed, advancing a pace or two back into the darkness. A feeble moan, almost at his feet, was the response. Stooping and peering intently before him, he distinguished what seemed to be the outlines of a human form. Approaching and bending over it, he caught the murmur of his own name. "It is Kaala! Kaaialii is here!" he cried, as he tenderly folded her in his arms and bore her toward the opening. Seating himself in the dim light, he pushed back the hair from her cold face, and sought to revive her with caresses and words of endearment. She opened her eyes, and, nestling closer to his breast, whispered to the ear that was bent to her lips: "I am dying, but I am happy, for you are here." He sought to encourage her. He told her that he had come to save her; that the gods, who loved her and would not let her die, had told him where to find her; that he would take her to his home in Kohala, and always love her as he loved her then. She made no response. There was a sad smile upon her cold lips. He placed his hand upon her heart, and found that it had ceased to beat. She was dead, but he still held the precious burden in his arms; and hour after hour he sat there on the gloomy shore of the cavern, seeing only the pallid face of Kaala, and feeling only that he was desolate. At length he was aroused by the splashing of water within the cave. He looked up, and Ua, the gentle and unselfish friend of Kaala, stood before him, followed a moment after by Kamehameha. The method of entering and leaving the cave was known to Keawe, and he imparted the information to his sister. Ua first leaped into the whirlpool, and the dauntless Kamehameha did not hesitate in following. As the king approached, Kaaialii rose to his feet and stood sadly before him. He uttered no word, but with bent head pointed to the body of Kaala. "I see," said the king, softly; "the poor girl is dead. She could have no better burial-place. Come, Kaaialii, let us leave it." Kaaialii did not move. It was the first time that he had ever hesitated in obeying the orders of his chief. "What! would you remain here?" said the king. "Would you throw your life away for a girl? There are others as fair. Here is Ua; she shall be your wife, and I will give you the valley of Palawai. Come, let us leave here at once, lest some angry god close the entrance against us!" "Great chief," replied Kaaialii, "you have always been kind and generous to me, and never more so than now. But hear me. My life and strength are gone. Kaala was my life, and she is dead. How can I live without her? You are my chief. You have asked me to leave this place and live. It is the first request of yours that I have ever disobeyed. It shall be the last!" Then seizing a stone, with a swift, strong blow he crushed in brow and brain, and fell dead upon the body of Kaala. A wail of anguish went up from Ua. Kamehameha spoke not, moved not. Long he gazed upon the bodies before him; and his eye was moist and his strong lip quivered as, turning away at last, he said: "He loved her indeed!" Wrapped in kapa, the bodies were laid side by side and left in the cavern; and there to-day may be seen the bones of Kaala, the flower of Lanai, and of Kaaialii, her knightly lover, by such as dare to seek the passage to them through the whirlpool of Palikaholo. Meles of the story of the tragedy were composed and chanted before Kamehameha and his court at Kealia, and since then the cavern has been known as Puhio-kaala, or "Spouting Cave of Kaala." THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TEMPLES. CHARACTERS. Liholiho (Kamehameha II.), king of the Hawaiian Islands. Keopuolani, the queen-mother, Kaahumanu, chief counselor, and Kalakua, widows of Kamehameha I. Kalaimoku, prime minister. Kekuaokalani, the defender of the gods. Manono, wife of Kekuaokalani. Hewahewa, high-priest of Hawaii. Hoapili, guardian of the Princess Nahienaena. Naihe, counselor and orator. Kekuanaoa, treasurer of the king. Kapihe, commander of the national vessels. Laanui, a companion of the king. THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TEMPLES. THE LAST GREAT DEFENDER OF THE HAWAIIAN GODS. I. On the 1st of October, 1819, a fleet of four canoes bearing the royal colors set sail from Kawaihae, in the district of Kohala, on the northwestern coast of Hawaii. The canoes were large and commodious, and were occupied by between sixty and seventy persons, a portion of whom were females. The most of the men were large, muscular and over six feet in height, while the dress and bearing of many of the women indicated that they were of the tabu and chiefly classes. The costumes of a number of those of both sexes who seemed to be of rank were a strange admixture of native and foreign fabric and fashion. American and European manufactures were beginning to find a market in the islands, and the persons of many were adorned with rich cloths, jewelry and other tokens of civilization. Their weapons and utensils were largely of metal, and a squad of ten warriors armed with muskets, in one of the canoes, showed that the white man's methods of warfare had received the early and earnest attention of the Hawaiian chiefs and leaders. The canoe leading the little squadron was double, with covered apartments extending into and across the united decks of both, and the persons occupying it, with the exception of soldiers, sailors and servants, were distinguished alike for their gaudy trappings and a boisterous merriment infusing a feeling of jollity throughout the fleet. In this canoe was Liholiho, who, on the death of his distinguished father, Kamehameha I., something less than five months before, had become sole monarch of the Hawaiian group. In addition to two of his queens, he was accompanied by Kapihe, the commander of the royal vessels; Kekuanaoa, the royal treasurer, and a retinue of chiefly friends and personal attendants. On the 8th of the previous May his royal father had died at Kailua, leaving to Liholiho the kingdom his arms had won, with Kaahumanu as second in authority and guardian of the realm. The morning following the death of his father Liholiho left Kailua for Kohala to avoid defilement, and there remained for ten days, when he returned to Kailua and formally assumed the sceptre. At the end of the season of mourning, for superstitious reasons the young king again left for Kohala, and took up his residence for a time at Kawaihae. Remaining there until the 1st of October, on the advice of Kaahumanu he had started on his return to Kailua. During the brief residence of Liholiho at Kawaihae, Kaahumanu inaugurated a vigorous conspiracy against the priesthood, and resolved to persuade the young king to repudiate the religion and tabus of his fathers. In this scheme she was assisted by Keopuolani, the mother of Liholiho; Kalaimoku, the prime minister, and Hewahewa, the high-priest, who claimed descent from the renowned Paao. In the latter part of the reign of the first Kamehameha the gods and tabus of the priesthood began to lose something of their sanctity in the estimation of the masses. Although the first Christian missionaries to the islands did not arrive until nearly a year after the death of Kamehameha I., many trading and war vessels had touched at Hawaiian ports during the two preceding decades. No very clear idea of the Christian religion had been imparted to the natives by the sailors and traders with whom they had been brought in contact; but it could not have escaped their observation that the foreigner's disregard of the tabu brought with it no punishment, and they very naturally began to question the divinity of a religious code limited in its scope to the Hawaiian people. The results of this growing scepticism were frequent violations of the tabu. To check this seditious tendency summary punishments were inflicted. A woman was put to death for entering the eating apartment of her husband, and Jarvis relates that three men were sacrificed at Kealakeakua, a short time before the death of Kamehameha--one of them for putting on the maro of a chief, another for eating a forbidden article, and the third for leaving a house that was tabu and entering one that was not. Kamehameha had learned something of the religion of the foreigners, but not enough to impress him greatly in its favor; and when questioned concerning it during his last illness he replied that he should die in the faith of his fathers, although he thought it well that his successor should give the subject attention. Different motives influenced the leaders in this conspiracy against the religion and tabus of the group. Kaahumanu, the favorite wife of Kamehameha I., but the mother of none of his children, was bold, ambitious and unscrupulous. Left second in authority under the young king, she chafed at the restraints imposed by the tabu upon her sex. Many of the most palatable foods were denied her by custom, and in her intercourse with foreigners acts of courtesy were chilled and hampered by numerous and irksome tabu interdictions. To enable her to eat and drink of whatever her appetites craved, and to do so in the presence of males, Kaahumanu was prepared to strike at the roots of a religious system which had maintained her ancestors in place and power, even though she had no definite knowledge of the new faith with which she hoped to supplant it. Although the uncle of one of the wives of Liholiho--Kekauonohi-- Kalaimoku was not of distinguished rank. He was a chief of decided ability, however, and had been by degrees advanced under the first Kamehameha, until he became the prime minister of the second. Not being a tabu chief by birth, he was easily persuaded by Kaahumanu to lend his assistance in depriving those of higher rank of their tabu prerogatives, and to this end he and his brother Boki were baptized by the Roman Catholic chaplain of the French corvette L'Uranie shortly after the assumption of the government by Liholiho. This was done while the young king was residing at Kawaihae, and without his knowledge. Keopuolani, the political wife of Kamehameha I., and the mother of Liholiho, Kauikeaouli and Nahienaena, was the daughter of Kiwalao, and of supreme tabu rank. So well was this recognized that her distinguished husband, it is related, always approached her with his face to the earth. She lacked decision of character, however, and her adhesion to the conspiracy against the tabu was doubtless due to the influence over her of the crafty Kaahumanu. Whatever may have been the motives of others, the apostasy of Hewahewa seems to have been the result of conviction. Being the high-priest of Hawaii, he had everything to lose and nothing to profit by the destruction of the religious system of which he was the supreme and honored head. Of an inquiring mind, the little knowledge he had gained of the new creed had convinced him of the inconsistency of his own, and when the time came to strike he acted boldly. His hand was the first to apply the torch to the temples. Had he hesitated the conspiracy would have failed, for the influence of the high-priest with the masses at that time was second only to that of the king. Liholiho was strong only in his attachments. Born in 1797, when the group had been consolidated under one government and further wars were not apprehended, he had not been given that austere and solid training in civil and military life imparted to the princes of the previous generation. He was attracted by the vices rather than the virtues of the foreigners at intervals visiting the islands, and, realizing that his future was secure, had devoted almost exclusively to pleasure the ripening years of his youth. Light-hearted, affectionate and gentle, he had shown so little taste for public affairs at the age of twenty-two that his dying father, in bequeathing to him the sceptre, deemed it prudent to accompany it with the condition that, should he wield it unworthily, the supreme power should devolve upon Kaahumanu. These were the prominent actors in the scheme for the destruction of the priesthood, and this the character of the young king who had been tarrying for some months at Kawaihae, and to whom a message had been sent by Kaahumanu, informing him that, on his return to Kailua, she would openly set the gods at defiance and declare against the tabu. This information did not greatly astonish Liholiho. He knew of the growing hostility to the tabu; had talked with Hewahewa on the subject; had learned that his mother had failed to respect it on late occasions, and had himself seen it violated without harm to the offender. Yet he feared the consequences of an open declaration against the priesthood. He remembered the fate of Hua, whose bones whitened in the sun. He knew that his arrival at Kailua would precipitate the crisis, and compel him either to renounce or defend the gods of his fathers; and after leaving Kawaihae, as we have seen, with a party occupying four canoes, he pursued his way very leisurely toward Kailua, seemingly in no haste to reach his destination. Moving southward, and passing the rocky point immediately north of Puako, sail was shortened in the royal fleet, and the canoes drifted slowly along the coast, taking just wind enough to hold their course. Carousings were heard in the royal quarters. Liholiho appeared, and, waving his hand to a group of men and women forward, a wild hula dance was soon in progress, to the accompaniment of drums and rattling calabashes. The king watched the dancers for some time with a vacant air, and then began to mark the drum-beats with his feet. The emphasis of the movement increased, until, dismissing his dignity, his voice finally rose above the rude music, and he began to dance with an enthusiasm which seemed to be almost frenzied. Others of the royal party joined in the revelry, and for half an hour or more the vessel was the scene of tumultuous merriment. Bottles and calabashes of intoxicating liquors were then passed from one to another of the companions of the king, and the hula was continued, followed by chants, meles and other methods of enjoyment. Drinking was frequent, and the humbler members of the party were sparingly supplied with gin, whiskey and other stimulants. Similar scenes were transpiring in the canoes following, and the debauch was the wildest ever witnessed on any one of the eight Hawaiian seas. "Let us make drunk the water-gods!" exclaimed the king. "Here, Kuula, is a taste for you; and here, Ukanipo, is your share!" And he tossed into the ocean two bottles of liquor. "Let us hope the gods may not be angered by the unusual sacrifice," said Laanui, one of the favorite companions of the king. He spoke seriously, and Liholiho's face wore a troubled expression for a moment as he replied: "Then you have not yet lost faith in the gods, Laanui?" "No," was the prompt answer of Laanui. The king did not continue the conversation. Turning and beckoning to a servant, more liquor was brought, after which the revelry was continued all through the day and far into the night. Meanwhile, so little progress had been made that at noon the next day the fleet was off Kiholo. For another twenty-four hours the feasting, drinking and dancing continued, when the revelers were met by a double canoe sent by Kaahumanu from Kailua in search of the royal party. The messengers of his chief counselor were courteously received by Liholiho, and, hoisting all sail, he was escorted by them to Kailua, where he was warmly welcomed by Kaahumanu and the members of the royal family. Appearances of dissipation were plainly visible in the language and bearing of the king, and Kaahumanu regarded the moment as auspicious for committing him to some flagrant and public act of hostility to the tabu. Both she and Keopuolani, the queen-mother, had been secretly violating it, since the death of Kamehameha I., by eating of foods interdicted to their sex, and to screen themselves from exposure it was necessary that the religious system should be destroyed of which the tabu was the vital force. This could be accomplished only through the united efforts of the king and high-priest. Hewahewa was prepared to do his part as the religious head of the kingdom, but the young king, notwithstanding the pressure that had been brought to bear upon him by Kaahumanu and a few of the leading chiefs of his court, was still undecided. A feast was prepared in honor of the king's return to Kailua. In accordance with native custom, separate tables for the sexes were spread, and a number of foreigners were present as the invited guests of Kaahumanu. During the afternoon Liholiho, in response to well-devised banters, had been induced to drink and smoke with the female members of his family. This was a favorable beginning, and, farther emboldened by his mother, who deliberately ate a banana in his presence and drank the milk of a cocoanut, he declared that he would openly set the tabu at defiance during the approaching feast. It was feared that his courage would fail, and he was not left to himself for a moment until he led the way to the feast. His step was unsteady, and his face wore a troubled expression as he proceeded to the pavilion, accompanied by Kaahumanu, Keopuolani and other members of the royal household. As they separated to take seats at their respective tables, the queen-mother gave Liholiho a look of encouragement, and Kaahumanu said to him in a low tone: "If you have the courage of your father, this will be a great day for Hawaii." The king made no reply, for at that moment his eyes fell upon wooden images of Ku and Lono, on opposite sides of the entrance, and he stepped briskly past them and seated himself at the head of one of the tables. The sight of the idols almost unnerved him, and some of the guests observed that his hand trembled as he raised to his lips and drained a vessel of what seemed to be strong liquor. The guests were all seated. Hewahewa rose, and, glancing at the troubled face of the king, lifted his hands and said with firmness: "One and all, may we eat in peace, and in our hearts give thanks to the one and only god of all." The words of the high-priest restored the sinking courage of the king. He rose from his seat, deliberately walked to one of the tables reserved for the women, and seated himself beside his mother. During the strange proceeding not a word was spoken, not a morsel touched. Some believed him to be intoxicated; others were sure that he was insane. Since the age of Wakea no one had so defied the gods and lived. Many natives rose from the tables, and horror took the place of astonishment when Liholiho, encouraged by his mother, began to freely partake of the food prepared for the women. Interdicted fish, meats and fruits were then brought to the tables of the women by order of the king, who ate from their plates and drank from their vessels. Now satisfied that the king was acting deliberately and with the approval of the most influential dignitaries of the kingdom, including the supreme high-priest, a majority of the chiefs present promptly followed the example of their sovereign, and an indescribable scene ensued. "The tabu is broken! the tabu is broken!" passed from lip to lip, swelling louder and louder as it went, until it reached beyond the pavilion. There it was taken up in shouts by the multitude, and was soon wafted on the winds to the remotest corners of Kona. Feasts were at once provided, and men and women ate together indiscriminately. The tabu foods of palace and temple were voraciously eaten by the masses, and thousands of women for the first time learned the taste of flesh and fruits which had tempted their mothers for centuries. At the conclusion of the royal feast a still greater surprise bewildered the people. "We have made a bold beginning," said Hewahewa to the king, thus adroitly assuming a part of the responsibility; "but the gods and heiaus cannot survive the death of the tabu." "Then let them perish with it!" exclaimed Liholiho, now nerved to desperation at what he had done. "If the gods can punish, we have done too much already to hope for grace. They can but kill, and we will test their powers by inviting the full measure of their wrath." To this resolution the high-priest gave his ready assent, and orders were issued at once for the destruction of the gods and temples throughout the kingdom. Resigning his office, Hewahewa was the first to apply the torch, and in the smoke of burning heiaus, images and other sacred property, beginning on Hawaii and ending at Niihau, suddenly passed away a religious system which for fifteen hundred years or more had shaped the faith, commanded the respect and received the profoundest reverence of the Hawaiian people. No creed was offered by the iconoclasts in lieu of the system destroyed by royal edict, and until the arrival of the first Christian missionaries, in March of the year following, the people of the archipelago were left without a shadow of religious restraint or guidance. II. While the abolition of the tabu system received the universal approval of the masses, the destruction of the gods and temples met with very considerable remonstrance and opposition. It was believed by many that the priesthood might be preserved without the tabu, and that the king had transcended his sovereign power in striking down both at a single blow. Hence many gods were saved from the burning temples, and thousands refused to relinquish the faith in which they had been reared. Deprived of their occupations, the priests denounced the destruction of the heiaus, and it was not long before a formidable conspiracy against the government was organized on Hawaii, under the leadership of Kekuaokalani, a chief of rare accomplishments and a cousin of the king. Defection appeared at the court, and several chiefs of distinction gave their support to the revolutionary movement. However it may be regarded in the light of its results, on the part of Kekuaokalani the rebellion was a brave and conscientious defence of the religion of his fathers. He raised the standard of revolt within a day's march of Kailua, and invited to its support all who condemned the action of Liholiho in decreeing the destruction of the national religion. He scorned all compromises and concessions, and but for the firearms of the whites would doubtless have wrested the sceptre from his royal cousin. It has been asserted that Kekuaokalani was ambitious and availed himself of the discontent created by the anti-religious decrees of Liholiho as a possible means of seizing the reins of government. This assumption is not sustained either by the words or acts of the unfortunate chief. The ambassadors sent to him after the first skirmish of the conflict reported that he declined all terms of peaceful settlement. This, however, was not the case. What he demanded was that Liholiho should withdraw his edicts against the priesthood, permit the rebuilding of the temples, and dismiss Kalaimoku as prime minister and Kaahumanu as chief counselor of the government. These conditions were declined, and the ambassadors returned with the story that they had offered to leave the question of religion entirely with the people, but that Kekuaokalani would have nothing but war. A correct statement of what occurred at the interview would doubtless have weakened the royal cause, and was therefore withheld. After the resignation of Hewahewa as high-priest the position devolved upon Kekuaokalani by right of precedence, and, believing in the sanctity of his gods, as a brave man he could not do less than take up arms in their defence. No characters in Hawaiian history stand forth with a sadder prominence, or add a richer tint to the vanishing chivalry of the race, than Kekuaokalani and his courageous and devoted wife, Manono, the last defenders in arms of the Hawaiian gods. They saw all that the light around them presented, but the only gods known to them were those of their fathers, and they died in a futile effort to protect them. They were brave, noble and conscientious, and the cause in which they perished cannot detract from the grandeur or dim the glory of the sacrifice. In the veins of Kekuaokalani ran the best blood both of Hawaii and Oahu. He was a nephew of Kamehameha I., and his strain was even superior in rank to that of his distinguished uncle. His great-grandmother was Kamakaimoku, a princess of Oahu, who became the wife of Kalaninuiamamao, one of the sons of Keawe, king of Hawaii, and the mother of Kalaniopuu, grandfather of Keopuolani, mother of Liholiho. One of the full sisters of Kalaniopuu was Manona, the grandmother of Kekuaokalani. One of the early wives of Kamehameha I. was Kalola, a chiefess of Hawaii. She subsequently became the wife of Kekuamanoha, a younger brother of Kahekili, king of Maui, and the mother of Manono, wife of Kekuaokalani. As the mother of Manono was a daughter of Kumukoa, one of the sons of Keawe, king of Hawaii, and her father was a prince of Maui, she was not only of high rank, but was related in blood both to her husband and the reigning family. Kekuaokalani is referred to by tradition as one of the most imposing chiefs of his day. He was more than six and a half feet in height, perfect in form, handsome in feature and noble in bearing. Brave, sagacious and magnetic, he possessed the requirements of a successful military leader; but as war had practically ceased with the conquest of the group by Kamehameha I., and he had little taste for the frivolities of the court, where he might have worn out his life in honored idleness, he turned his attention to the priesthood. Beginning at the bottom, with patient application he passed through the intervening degrees until he stood beside the high-priest, fully his equal in learning, and more than his peer in devotion to his calling. He mastered the chronological meles of the higher priesthood and the esoteric lore and secret symbols of the temple, and with the death of Hewahewa it was the universal expectation that the duties of the high-priesthood would devolve upon him. In disposition he was humane, charitable and unselfish, and, appreciating the nobility of his character, his wife worshipped him almost as a god. In return he bestowed upon her the full measure of his affection, and the waters of their lives flowed peacefully on together until the grave engulfed them both. This was the character of the sturdy chief around whom the friends of the dethroned gods of Hawaii began to rally. He counseled peace and submission so long as he could find listeners among the disaffected, but in the end he was forced into the revolt and became the leader of the movement. He was present at the royal feast at Kailua when Liholiho publicly violated the tabu and decreed the destruction of the temples. He saw Hewahewa, the venerable high-priest, who had been to an extent his religious guide and instructor, cast the first brand upon the heiau where they had so often worshipped together and sought the counsels of the gods. At first all this seemed to be a horrible dream, but the burning temples and frantic rejoicings of the populace soon convinced him that it was a bewildering reality, and he threw himself to the earth and prayed that his sight might be blasted, that he might witness no farther the sacrilegious acts of the people. "Liholiho's brain is on fire with strong drink, and he may be urged to do anything," thought Kekuaokalani; "but Hewahewa--it must be that he is insane, and it is my duty to speak with him." He sought and found the high-priest, and learned to his great grief that Hewahewa was not only sound in mind, but was in thorough accord with the king in his determination to destroy the temples and repudiate the priesthood. "And you, a high-priest of the blood of Paao, advise this!" said Kekuaokalani, bitterly. "I advise it," was the calm reply of Hewahewa; "but I am no longer the high-priest of Hawaii; the king has been so notified." "Then here and now do I assume the vacant place," returned Kekuaokalani, promptly. "By whose appointment?" inquired Hewahewa. "By the will of the outraged gods whose temples are turning to ashes around us!" replied Kekuaokalani, with energy. "They will teach me my duty, even should they fail to visit vengeance upon their betrayers!" With these words Kekuaokalani turned and walked away. His heart was filled with anguish, and the shouts of the people drove him almost to despair. Reaching the pavilion, he lifted and placed upon his shoulder the prostrate and mutilated image of Lono that had stood beside the entrance, and with the precious burden strode gloomily and defiantly past the palace and disappeared. For a month or more nothing was heard of Kekuaokalani at the court. Meantime, the work of destruction continued, and the smoke of burning temples rose everywhere throughout the group. At length word reached Kailua that some of the priesthood, sustained by a number of influential chiefs, were inciting a revolt in South Kono. Little attention was paid to the report until it was learned that Kekuaokalani had accepted the leadership of the movement. This alarmed the court, and a council of chiefs was called. Discussion developed the prevailing opinion that the threatened uprising was merely a local disturbance that could be quelled without difficulty, and Liholiho's apprehensions were further relieved by the assurance of one of the chiefs that, with the assistance of forty warriors, he would undertake to bring Kekuaokalani a prisoner to Kailua within three days. "Not with forty times forty!" said Hewahewa, earnestly. Better than any one else he understood and appreciated the lofty courage of Kekuaokalani, and was too generous to listen to its disparagement without protest. "No, not with forty times forty!" he continued. "Without Kekuaokalani the revolt will amount to nothing; with him, it means war." "Then war let it be, since he invites it!" exclaimed Kalaimoku. "But may he not be persuaded to peace?" inquired the king, addressing the question, apparently, to Hewahewa. "Undoubtedly," replied the latter, "if we are prepared to accept his conditions." "What, think you, would be the conditions?" returned the king. "The restoration of the tabu and the rebuilding of the temples," was the deliberate answer of Hewahewa. The king was silent; but before the council dissolved it was understood that a force would be sent against the rebels at once, and for a week or more preparations for the campaign were in progress, under the supervision of Kalaimoku. Everything at length being in readiness, the royal army, numbering, it is presumed, not less than fifteen hundred warriors, some of them bearing firearms, moved southward from Kailua in the direction of Kaawaloa, where had been established the rebel headquarters. Having accepted the leadership of the rebellion, and regarding himself as a champion selected by the gods for their defence, Kekuaokalani vitalized the movement with an energy and enthusiasm which soon brought the people to its support in large numbers, and the winter solstice found him in command of an army large enough to inspire him with a reasonable hope of success. The five intercalated days between the winter solstice and the beginning of the new year had from time immemorial been set apart as a season of tabu, dedicated to festivities in honor of Lono, one of the Hawaiian trinity. In the midst of the general religious demoralization Kekuaokalani devoted to the season its customary observances--the last yearly festival ever authoritatively given to Lono in the group. The movements of the government were regularly and rapidly reported to Kekuaokalani, and when the royal troops left Kailua he was prepared to meet them. Through his efforts a heiau near Kaawaloa had escaped destruction. Thither he repaired, and, offering sacrifices to the gods, prayed that they would manifest their power by giving him victory. He did not await the assault of the royal forces. Leaving Kaawaloa, he attacked and defeated their advance not far north of that place, throwing the entire army into confusion. Satisfied with the success, he returned to Kaawaloa. News of the repulse reaching Kailua, a consultation was called by the king, and Kalaimoku urged the prompt advance of reinforcements by land and sea, and an immediate and overwhelming attack upon the rebels at Kaawaloa, rightly claiming that every day would add to the strength of the insurgents under the inspiration of the slight victory they had achieved. This advice was accepted, and every available force was immediately sent to the front, including a squadron of double canoes under the command of Kaahumanu and Kalakua, one of them carrying a mounted swivel in charge of a foreigner. Uncertain as to the strength of the rebels, and by no means confident of the results of a struggle which had opened in favor of his enemies, Liholiho advised a resort to peaceful negotiations before staking everything on the chances of battle. Hoapili, who stood in the capacity of husband to the queen-mother, and Naihe, hereditary national counselor and orator, were selected as ambassadors to confer with Kekuaokalani, and Keopuolani volunteered to accompany them. Reaching the camp of the insurgents, the ambassadors were graciously received by Kekuaokalani, and used every means to effect an amicable settlement of the difficulties that had brought two hostile armies face to face; but nothing satisfactory could be accomplished. They were not authorized to offer such terms as Kekuaokalani felt that he could consistently accept, inasmuch as they failed to embrace either the restoration of the tabu or the rebuilding of the temples. Naihe offered to leave the question of religion optional with the insurgents. To this proposal Kekuaokalani bitterly replied: "You offer the scales of the fish after you have picked the bones. As they are without temples, where would they worship? As they are without altars, where would they sacrifice? As they are without the tabu, what to them would be sacred and acceptable to the gods?" "Then must we take back the word that Kekuaokalani will have nothing but war?" said Keopuolani, sadly. "No, honored mother of princes," replied Kekuaokalani, in a tone so solemn and impressive that his listeners stood awed in his presence. "Say, rather, that Kekuaokalani, the last high-priest, it may be, of Hawaii, is prepared to die in defence of the gods to whose service he has devoted his life. If they are omnipotent, as he believes them to be, their temples will rise again; if not, he is more than willing to hide his disappointment in the grave!" Naihe was his uncle; Kamakaimoku was the great-grandmother both of Keopuolani and himself, and the king was his cousin. As a condition of peace he demanded the recall of the edicts against the tabu and the temples. As this could not be conceded, the ambassadors appealed to his relationship with themselves and the royal family; but he could not be moved. "We are proud of our blood," he said to Keopuolani, "but who but the gods made kings of our ancestors?" Finding that nothing could be effected, the ambassadors withdrew with tokens of mutual regret, and were safely and respectfully escorted beyond the rebel lines. The reports they allowed to be circulated on their return, that Kekuaokalani had refused to consider any terms of peace, and that they had narrowly escaped with their lives, were inventions employed to mislead and exasperate the royal army. With the departure of the ambassadors Manono sought her husband to learn the results of the conference. The information that no agreement had been reached did not surprise her. For weeks past all the auguries had indicated blood, and the night before the alae had screamed in the palms behind her hut. "Thank the gods for the omen!" said Kekuaokalani. "But the voice of the alae is a presage of evil," suggested Manono. "Only to those who do evil," replied the chief. "The fate of the gods, whose battles we fight, is shaped by themselves." "Have you no fear of the result?" inquired Manono. "I fear nothing," was the reply; "but the thought has sometimes come to me of late that the gods are reserving for Liholiho and his advisers a punishment greater than I may be able to inflict. Should that be so, I am obstructing with spears the path of their vengeance, and will be sacrificed." "The will of the gods be done!" said Manono, devoutly. "But, whatever may be the fate of Kekuaokalani, Manono will share it." "Brave Manono!" exclaimed the husband, with emotion. "If the gods so will it we will die together!" That night Kekuaokalani took up his line of march for Kailua, determined to give battle to the royal forces wherever he might encounter them. He moved near the coast, and the next morning the hostile armies met at Kuamoo. Arranging his forces in order of battle, Kekuaokalani sent to the front a number of newly-decorated gods in the charge of priests, and, in turn addressing the several divisions, conjured them in impassioned language to defend the gods of their fathers. Kalaimoku commanded the royal army in person. The battle opened in favor of the rebels, and with them would have been the victory but for the great superiority of the royalists in firearms. At a critical juncture a battalion of musketeers, some of whom were foreigners, charged the rebel centre, when the division gave way in something of a panic, and soon the entire rebel forces were in retreat. Retiring to the adjacent seaside, under cover of a stone wall they made a successful resistance for some time; but the squadron of double canoes already referred to, under the command of Kaahumanu and Kalakua, enfiladed the position with musketry and a mounted swivel, and the insurgents abandoned the unequal struggle, the most of them scattering and seeking shelter in the neighboring hills. Although wounded early in the action, Kekuaokalani gallantly kept the field. Everywhere was his tall form seen moving throughout the conflict, rallying and cheering his followers, while at his side fought the brave Manono. He finally fell with a musket-ball through his heart. With a wild scream of despair Manono sprang to his assistance, and the next moment a bullet pierced her temple, and she fell dead across the body of her dying husband. Kalaimoku was the first to approach, and gazing long upon the noble features of Kekuaokalani, grand even in death, turned to his followers and said: "Truly, since the days of Keawe a grander Hawaiian has not lived!" Thus died the last great defenders of the Hawaiian gods. They died as nobly as they had lived, and were buried together where they fell on the field of Kuamoo. Small bodies of religious malcontents were subdued at Waimea and one or two other points, but the hopes and struggles of the priesthood virtually ended with the death of Kekuaokalani. THE TOMB OF PUUPEHE. CHARACTERS. Makakehau, a chief of Lanai. Puupehe, daughter of a chief of Maui. THE TOMB OF PUUPEHE. A LEGEND OF THE ISLAND OF LANAI. Sailing along the lee-shore or southwest coast of Lanai, a huge block of red lava, sixty feet in diameter and eighty or more feet in height, is discerned standing out in the sea, and detached from the mainland some fifty or sixty fathoms. The sides are precipitous, offering no possible means of ascent, and against it the waves dash in fury, and in the niches of its storm-worn angles the birds of ocean build their nests. Observed from the overhanging bluff of the neighboring shore, on the summit of the lonely column is seen a small enclosure formed by a low but well-defined stone wall. This is known as "The tomb of Puupehe"--the last resting-place of one of the most beautiful of the daughters of Maui, whose body was buried there by her distracted husband and lover, Makakehau, a warrior of Lanai. How the summit was reached by the lover with his precious burden is a mystery, but the wall is still there to show that the ascent was made in some manner, and tradition assumes that it was through the agency of supernatural forces. Puupehe was the daughter of Uaua, a petty chief of Maui, and Makakehau won her, it is related without detail, as the joint prize of love and war. How this could have occurred it is difficult to imagine, since Lanai was always a dependency of Maui in the past, and no direct wars between the two islands are mentioned by tradition. It may therefore be inferred that she was the spoil of some private predatory expedition, and that the efforts of the young warrior to jealously seclude her from the gaze of men were prompted not more by the infatuations of her beauty than the fear that she might be recaptured. However this may have been, they are described in the Kanikau, or "Lamentation of Puupehe," as mutually captive to each other in the bonds of love. The maiden was a sweet flower of Hawaiian beauty. Her glossy brown and spotless body "shone like the clear sun rising out of Heleakala." Her flowing hair, bound by wreaths of pikaki blossoms, streamed forth as she ran "like the surf-crests scudding before the wind," and the starry eyes of the daughter of Uaua so dazzled the youthful brave that he was called Makakehau, or "Misty Eyes." Fearing that the radiant beauty of his captive might cause her to be coveted by some of the chiefs of the land, he said to her: "We love each other well. Let us go to the clear waters of Kalulu. There we will fish together for the kala and bonita, and there will I spear the turtle. I will hide you, O light of my heart! in the cave of Malauea. Or we will dwell together in the great ravine of Palawai, where we will eat the young of the uwau, and bake them in the ti leaf with the sweet pala root. The ohelo berries of the Kuahiwa will refresh us, and we will drink of the cool waters of Maunalei. I will thatch a hut in the thicket of Kaohai, and we will love on till the stars die." The meles tell of their loves in the Pulou Ravine, where they caught the bright iwi birds and scarlet apapani. How sweet were their joys in the maia groves of Waiakeakua, where the lovers saw naught so beautiful as themselves! But the misty eyes were soon to be made dimmer by weeping, and dimmer till the drowning brine should shut out their light for ever. Makakehau left his love one day in the cave of Malauea, while he went to the mountain to fill the huawai with sweet water. This cavern yawns at the base of the cliff overlooking the rock of Puupehe. The sea surges far within, but there is an inner space or chamber which the expert swimmer can reach, and where Puupehe had often found seclusion, and baked the honu, or sea-turtle, for her absent lover. This was the season for the kona, the terrific storm that comes up from the equator, and hurls the billows of ocean with increased violence against the southern shores of the Hawaiian Islands. Makakehau beheld from the rocky springs of Pulou the vanguard of an approaching kona--scuds of rain and thick mist rushing with a howling wind across the round valley of Palawai. He knew the storm would fill the cave with a wild and sudden rush of waters, and destroy the life of his beautiful Puupehe. Every moment was precious. He flung aside his calabashes of water, and at the top of his speed started down the mountain. With mighty and rapid strides he crossed the great valley, where he met the coming storm in its fury. Over the rim he dashed with an agonized heart, and down the ragged slope of the kula to the shore, which the waves were already lashing in a voice of thunder. The sea was up, indeed! The yeasty foam of surging, wind-rent billows whitened the cliffs, and the tempest chorussed the mad anthem of the battling waves. Oh! where should Misty Eyes seek for his love in the blinding storm? A rushing mountain of sea fills the mouth of the cave of Malauea, and the pent air within hurls back the invading torrent with a stubborn roar, blowing outward great streams of spray. It is a savage war of the elements--a battle of the forces of nature well calculated to thrill with pleasure the hearts of strong men. But a lover looking into the seething gulf of the whirlpool--what would be to him the sublime conflict? what to see amid the boiling brine the upturned face and tender body of the idol of his heart? Others might agonize on the brink, but Misty Eyes sprang into the dreadful caldron and snatched his lifeless love from the jaws of an ocean grave. The next day fishermen heard the lamentation of Makakehau, and the women of the valley came down and wailed over Puupehe. They wrapped her body in bright, new kapa, and covered it with garlands of fragrant nauu. They prepared it for interment, and were about to place it in the burial ground of Manele; but Makakehau prayed that he might be left alone one night more with his lost love, and the request was not refused. When the women returned the morning following they found neither corpse nor wailing lover. At length, looking toward the rock of Puupehe, they discovered Makakehau at work on the lofty apex of the lone sea-tower. The wondering people of the island watched him with amazement from the neighboring cliffs, but, heedless of their observation, he continued his labors. Some sailed around the base of the column in their canoes, but could discover no means of ascent. Every face of the rock was either perpendicular or overhanging. The conviction then became general--since there seemed to be no other possible explanation--that some sympathizing akua, or spirit, had responded to the prayer of Makakehau, and assisted him in reaching the summit of the tower with the body of his dead bride; and in this form has tradition brought down the touching story. Makakehau finished his labors. He laid his love in a grave prepared by his own hands, placed the last stone upon it, and then stretched out his arms and thus wailed for Puupehe: "Where are you, O Puupehe? Are you in the cave of Malauea? Shall I bring you sweet water, The water of the fountain? Shall I bring the uwau, The pala and ohelo? Are you baking the honu? And the red, sweet hala? Shall I pound the kalo of Maui? Shall we dip in the gourd together? The bird and the fish are bitter, And the mountain water is sour. I shall drink it no more; I shall drink with Aipuhi, The great shark of Manele." Ceasing his sad wail, Makakehau gazed for a moment upon the grave where were buried the light and hope of his life, and then leaped from the rock into the boiling surge at its base. His body was crushed in the breakers. The witnesses of the sacrifice secured the mangled remains of the dead lover, and interred them with respect in the kupapau of Manele. This is the story told by the old bards of Lanai of the lonely rock of Puupehe, and the still inaccessible summit, with the marks of a grave upon it, attests with reasonable certainty that: the mele has something of a foundation in fact. THE STORY OF LAIEIKAWAI. CHARACTERS. Laieikawai, the heroine, called also Ka wahine o ka liula, "the lady of the twilight," daughter of a chief of Oahu. Laielohelohe, twin-sister of Laieikawai. Waka, their grandmother, a powerful sorceress. Kapukaihaoa, a priest of Kukaniloko, Oahu. Hulumaniani, a prophet of Kauai. Aiwohikupua, a chief of Wailua, Kauai, of kupua or supernatural birth, and from a foreign country. Moanalihaikawaokele, Aiwohikupua's father and Laukieleula, his mother, both mysterious beings, and inhabitants of the Moon. Kaonohiokala, brother of Aiwohikupua, and a demi-god living in the Sun. Maile-haiwale, Maile-kaluhea, Maile-laulii, Maile-pakaha, and Kahalaomapuana the youngest, sisters of Aiwohikupua. Kekalukaluokewa, king of Kauai after Kauakahialii. Hauailiki, a petty chief of Mana, Kauai. Halaaniani, a petty chief of Puna, Hawaii, and Malio, his sister, a sorceress. Hinaikamalama, a chiefess of Hana, Maui. Poliahu, a goddess of Mauna Kea, Hawaii. Kihanuilulumoku, a gigantic moo, or lizard god. THE STORY OF LAIEIKAWAI. A SUPERNATURAL FOLK-LORE LEGEND OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. PREFATORY. Early in the spring of 1885 a party of six or eight ladies and gentlemen--the writer being of the number--made a carriage circuit of the island of Oahu. Ample preparations for the little journey had been made by the governor of the island, and the marshal of the kingdom acted in the double capacity of guide and escort. A score of attending natives accompanied the party on horseback, and a delightful week or more was consumed in skirting the breezy beaches of Koolau, in dalliance at Waialua, in visiting historic points of interest, and in completing a journey of something less than one hundred miles. Starting from Honolulu, the empty carriages were carefully lowered down the steep, ragged and narrow Pali road leading to the valleys below, and the first evening found us at rest by the beautiful shores of Kaneohe. Entering the district of Koolauloa the next day, and approaching the coast over a broad stretch of grassy meadow but slightly above the level of the ocean, our party was suddenly brought to a halt beside a pool of clear water, nearly round, and perhaps a hundred feet in diameter. The surface of the pool was ten or twelve feet below the level of the surrounding plain, and its even banks of solid rock dropped almost perpendicularly into water of unknown depth. The volume of the pool is affected neither by rain nor drought, and the native belief is that it is fed by springs at the bottom, and has a subterranean drainage to the ocean, some two or three miles distant. This, we learned, was the celebrated pond of Waiapuka, around which so many strange legends have been woven. All of them speak of a cavern somewhere beyond the walls of the pool, and to be reached only by diving into the water and finding the narrow passage leading up into it. While listening to fragments of the story of Laieikawai and of other legends connected with the mysterious cavern, and seriously doubting the existence of the secret chamber so prominently referred to in the early folk-lore of Oahu, an old native, who had joined the party at Kaneohe, quietly and without a word dismounted, divested himself of his upper garments and plunged into the pool. Swimming to the northern wall, he clung for a moment to a slight projection, and then disappeared. It was suggested for the first time that he was in search of the cavern of Laieikawai, and all eyes were turned toward the point where he was last seen above the water. Three or four minutes elapsed, and fears for his safety began to be exchanged, when the salutation of "aloha!" greeted us from the opposite wall, and the next moment a pair of black eyes were seen glistening through a small opening into the cavern, not before observed, about four feet above the surface of the water. The swimmer then returned to the pool by the passage through which he had left it, and we were compelled to admit that the cavern of Laieikawai was a reality, however wild and visionary may have been the stories connected with it. Not a single person present, including the governor, had ever before seen the passage to the cavern attempted, and the natives were overjoyed at what they had witnessed. To the many questions with which he was pressed the old man returned but brief answers on his return, and when importuned to explain the method of his entrance to the cavern, that the secret might not be lost, he pointed significantly to the sea, and declared that there would be found the bodies of those who sought to solve the mystery of the passage and failed. This rediscovery of the entrance to the cavern of Laieikawai created a renewed interest in the legends associated with it, and thenceforth during our journey many of the old stories were rehearsed. The most interesting related to Laieikawai. It is a recklessly fanciful recital, and gives expression to the extravagant conceits of the early Hawaiian bards. Following is presented a condensation of the legend of Laieikawai, as more elaborately told by Haleole.--Editor. I. The father of Laieikawai was Kahauokapaka, chief of the two Koolau districts, comprising the entire windward side of the island of Oahu, and her mother's name was Malaekahana. Soon after their marriage he made a vow that if her children should prove to be girls they were to be put to death, at least until a son should be born to them. In accordance with this savage vow the first four of Malaekahana's children, all being daughters, were slain without mercy. When her time again drew near, by the advice of a priest she sent her husband to the coast to bring her some ohua palemo, a small fish of which she was exceedingly fond. In his absence she was delivered of twin girls, who were named Laieikawai and Laielohelohe. They were surpassingly beautiful children, and, desirous of saving their lives, the mother consigned the first-named to the care of Waka, the child's grandmother, and the other to Kapukaihaoa, a priest of discretion and sanctity. On the return of the husband he was told that the expected child came into the world without life. He knew that a birth in his house had occurred during his absence, for he had heard two distinct claps of thunder. Waka took her foster-child to the cavern which opens into the pond of Waiapuka, and which can be entered only by diving. Laielohelohe was taken by her priestly protector to the sacred enclosure of Kukaniloko, on the western side of the island, and there tenderly cared for. The moment Waka entered the cavern of Waiapuka with Laieikawai a rainbow appeared over the place, and was constantly visible so long as the child remained there. Even when the sun was obscured by clouds the rainbow could be seen. At length the rainbow was observed by the great prophet Hulumaniani on the distant island of Kauai. For twenty days in succession he saw it, and knew its significance. He secured a canoe and fifteen men from Poloula, the chief of Wailua, provided himself with a black pig, white fowl and red fish for sacrifice, and, when the star Sirius rose, set sail for Oahu. Reaching that island, he landed at Waianae, and, guided by the rainbow, in due time arrived at the pool of Waiapuka. Waka had just dived into the cave, and he noticed ripples on the water. During the day Waka started to leave the cavern, but caught a glimpse of the prophet sitting on the bank, and quickly returned, again ruffling the water. The prophet remained by the pool all night, and in the morning saw a rainbow over Kukaniloko. Traveling in that direction, he ascended Mount Kaala, when he saw the rainbow over the island of Molokai. Finding a canoe bound thither, he took passage and landed at Haleolono, near the western shore. In a dream Waka had been directed by Kapukaihaoa to remove Laieikawai to some securer place, and had accordingly taken her to Malelewaa, a secluded spot on the north side of Molokai. Following the rainbow, the prophet arrived in the evening at Waikolu, just below Malelewaa; but that night Waka was again advised in a dream to remove at once to the island of Hawaii and dwell with her ward at Paliuli. They departed at dawn, and at Keawanui met a man getting his canoe ready to sail to Lanai, and engaged passage; but before they could embark Laieikawai accidentally removed the veil which Waka compelled her to wear, and the man was amazed at her beauty. Instead of starting for Lanai, he invited Waka and her ward to remain at his house until he could secure the services of another rower, and then started around the island, proclaiming to every group of people the great beauty of Laieikawai. A great crowd had assembled at Kalaupapa to witness a boxing-match, and there the man extolled the beauty of the girl in the presence of the head chief and the prophet in search of her. Not doubting that the girl described was the one he was in quest of, the prophet proceeded to Kawela and saw the rainbow over Hawanui. That night he arrived at Kaamola, the land adjoining, and went to rest, for he had journeyed far and was weary. Meanwhile Waka, again warned in a dream, obtained a canoe and sailed across the channel to Lanai, landing at Maunalei. Three days of fog and rain followed, and on the fourth the prophet saw the rainbow over Maunalei. It did not remain there, however. Ten days later he discerned something peculiar on the high peak of Haleakala, on the island of Maui. He proceeded thither, but found nothing there but fog and rain. He next journeyed to Kauwiki, a hill near Hana, and there erected a small heiau, or temple, for the worship of his patron deity. After the dedication, seeing nothing on Hawaii, and receiving no inspiration, he remained for some time at Kauwiki. At length, in the early days of the seventh month of the year, he saw faintly with the rising of the sun a rainbow on the windward side of Hawaii. At sunset on the third day of the next month he entered his heiau and prayed fervently, and there appeared before him the wraiths of Waka and Laieikawai. His patron god then informed him that the persons whose shadows he had seen were living in the forest of Puna, in a house thatched with the yellow feathers of the oo. With this information the prophet set sail for Mahukona, on the island of Hawaii. There he prayed in the temple of Pahauna, and was directed to Waipio, where he offered sacrifices in the famous heiau of Paakalana. He proceeded thence to Kaiwilahilahi, near Laupahoehoe, where he remained for some years, unable to obtain any further information of the persons of whom he was in search. II. It was during the sojourn of Hulumaniani, the prophet, at Kaiwilahilahi, that Kauakahialii, king of Kauai, with his queen, Kailikelauokekoa, returned from a wedding tour of the group. A great assemblage of chiefs and commoners had met to welcome them home with music, dancing and other festivities. In relating his adventures the king referred to a meeting with the mysterious princess of Paliuli, whose beauty, he declared, was something more than human. The meeting occurred at Keaau, in Puna. The kahu of the king first met the princess and her companion, and, when requested by him to favor his royal master with a visit, the princess informed him that she might possibly comply with his request the night following. "If I come," she said, "I will give you warning." "Now, listen and heed," she continued. "If you hear the voice of the ao I am not in its notes, and when you hear the caw of the alala I am not in its voice. When the notes of the elepaio are heard I am getting ready to descend. When you hear the song of the apapane I shall have come out of my house. Listen, then, and if you hear the iiwipolena singing I am outside of your house. Come forth and meet me." And so it came to pass. In the kihi, or first watch of the evening, resounded the cry of the ao, in the second watch the caw of the alala, at midnight the chirruping of the elepaio, in the pili of the morning the song of the apapane, and at daybreak the voice of the iiwipolena. Then a shadow fell on the door, "and we were enveloped," said the king, "in a thick fog, and when it cleared away the princess was seen in her glorious beauty, borne on the wings of birds." The name of the divine being, he said, was Laieikawai. Among the chiefs who listened to this story of the king was Aiwohikupua, chief of Wailua, who was of foreign birth. He had made a vow that he would not marry a Hawaiian woman, and, expressing the opinion that the princess described by the king was a daughter of other lands, he resolved to make her his wife. To this end he sought out the late kahu of the king and made him his confidant and chief officer. They talked of little else than Laieikawai. He had a vision of her in a dream, and drank awa successively for many days, in the hope of inspiring a repetition of the vision. He chanted a mele in praise of the unknown princess, renewed his resolution to possess her, and then prepared to go to Hawaii in search of her. He fitted out two double canoes, with sixteen rowers and two steersmen, and, when the augurs and soothsayers declared the omens favorable, on the rising of Sirius he set sail for Hawaii. On his way thither he stopped at many places, and at length arrived in the harbor of Haneoo, in the district of Hana, Maui. A number of surf-riders were amusing themselves on the beach, among them Hinaikamalama, the famous chiefess of Hana. Aiwohikupua was smitten with her charms, and accepted her invitation to join the bathing party in their sports. In turn she became enamored of him, and invited him to visit her house and play konane--a game resembling draughts--with her. When about to begin the game she asked him what he was willing to wager on his success, and he pointed to one of his double canoes. She declined the condition, and proposed, instead, that they should stake their persons. To this he agreed, and, playing, lost the game. To avoid paying the forfeit he declared that he had made a vow to give himself in love to no woman until after he had made the circuit of the island of Hawaii, and admonished her to remain faithful to him while he was absent. The chief and his party left Haneoo, and the next day arrived at Kauhola, in the district of Kohala, Hawaii, where a boxing-match was in progress. Aiwohikupua was challenged to a contest by Ihuanu, the champion of Kohala. The challenge was accepted, and in the struggle Ihuanu was killed. They next landed at Paauhau, in Hamakua, to witness another boxing-match. The local champion was Haunaka. He was invited to a contest with Aiwohikupua, but, learning something of the prowess of the chief, he declined the conflict. They then sailed for Laupahoehoe, where the prophet Hulumaniani was still residing. That evening the prophet was watching the clouds for omens, and discerned in them that a chief's double canoe was approaching, bearing nineteen men. The next morning he saw a mist on the sea, and prepared his black pig, white fowl and bunch of awa. Then followed peals of thunder, and Aiwohikupua's canoes came in sight, with the puloulou insignia of a chief; whereupon the prophet offered sacrifices, and prayed for the chief and himself. Landing, the chief and prophet embraced, and spent the night together, but Aiwohikupua did not disclose the real object of his voyage. They then sailed for Makahanaloa, from which place could be seen the rainbow over Paliuli. They landed at Keaau, where the people were surf-bathing. In the evening Aiwohikupua left his men with the canoes, taking with him only his confidant, the kahu, carrying a rich feather mantle as a present to the lady of Paliuli. After a long and wearisome journey through the thick jungle they heard the crowing of a cock, and soon after came to a clearing, at the farther end of which was the house of Laieikawai, all covered with the choice yellow feathers of the oo. Aiwohikupua was amazed and humiliated. Said he: "I brought my royal feather cloak as a present to her, and behold! it is not equal to the thatch of her house!" Then turning to his kahu, he said: "I will stay here no longer. Let us return." In spite of the remonstrances of his companion, Aiwohikupua returned to Keaau without seeing Laieikawai, and sailed at once for Kauai. They did not stop to visit the prophet at Laulapahoehoe. When off the coast of Hamakua they saw a woman of extraordinary beauty reclining on a cliff by the shore. She was graceful in every movement, and wore a snow-white mantle. They landed and made her acquaintance. Her name was Poliahu, of Mauna Kea. As usual, the chief began to talk to her at once of love. In reply she asked him if he had not sworn by the names of his gods not to marry a woman born on the Hawaiian group, and whether he had not engaged himself to Hinaikamalama, of Hana. She informed him that, like himself, she too was of kupua descent and possessed supernatural powers. She promised to marry him, however, so soon as he could be released from his oath and would return to claim her. She accompanied them as far as Kohala, where she exchanged mantles with the chief in pledge of their betrothal, and then took her departure. Crossing the channel to Maui, the chief put into the harbor of Haneoo, but did not land. Hinaikamalama hailed him from the shore, and demanded the fulfilment of his promise; but he beguiled her by declaring that he had not yet completed the circuit of Hawaii, having sailed only along the windward side of it, and that bad news from home compelled his immediate return to Kauai. She believed him and was pacified. In the middle of the Oahu channel he enjoined secrecy on his crew, and then hastened to Kauai, fully determined to return to Hawaii and secure an audience with the princess of Paliuli. Reaching home, he informed his five sisters of what he had seen at Paliuli, and they agreed to accompany him to Hawaii and assist him in his suit with the beautiful Laieikawai. The next day Aiwohikupua selected a fresh crew of fourteen rowers and two pilots, who, with his sisters and confidential counselor, made a party of twenty-three in all, and set sail for Hawaii. They were detained a month at Honuaula, Maui, by stormy weather, but finally reached Kaelehuluhulu, in the district of Kona, Hawaii. Poliahu saw their canoes there, and was disappointed when they left for Hilo. They arrived at Keaau, in Puna, about the middle of the day, and Aiwohikupua made his arrangements and started inland at once with his five sisters and trusted kahu. At midnight the party reached Paliuli. The chief stationed his eldest sister, Maile-haiwale, at the door of Laieikawai. She sent forth the delicate fragrance of the plant of her name, which awoke Laieikawai. "Waka! Waka!" exclaimed the princess. "Here!" answered Waka. "What wakes you in the night?" "A fragrance, a strange, cool fragrance, which goes to my heart," returned the girl. "It is not a strange fragrance," said Waka. "It is certainly Maile-haiwale, the sweet-scented sister of Aiwohikupua, who has come to ask you to be his wife." "Pshaw! I will not marry him," was the petulant response of Laieikawai. Aiwohikupua heard her refusal, and was so thoroughly disheartened that he proposed to abandon his sisters and return to Keaau, but his trusty kahu intervened and advised another trial. So the next in age, Maile-kaluhea, took a position by the door. Her fragrance was different and more penetrating; but nearly the same exchange of words as before occurred within the house. The chief again proposed to leave, but the kahu insisted on trying the powers of Maile-laulii; but no better success followed. "Try again," said the counselor, "and if they all fail I myself will undertake to persuade her." So Maile-pakaha was sent to the door, but with no better result, and, speaking loudly enough to be heard without, Laieikawai said: "Whoever may come, I will not consent to marry Aiwohikupua." Hearing this, and regarding any further attempt as useless, Aiwohikupua ordered his sisters to remain behind in the woods as a punishment for their failure, and started on his return to the coast. The youngest sister, whose powers had not been tried, called after him and touched his heart. He offered to take her and leave the rest behind, but she would not consent to abandon her sisters. One of them chanted a mele to soften his heart, but he remained obdurate. He proceeded to the coast, the sisters following as best they could, and when they saw him and his attendants seated in the canoes and ready for departure, Maile-kaluhea chanted a touching mele; but he heeded it not and put out to sea. The sisters traveled by land and met Aiwohikupua as he was about to go ashore at Punahoa, but he avoided them by again setting sail. They then traveled overland to Honolii, where their brother had stopped for supplies. They watched during the night, and when Aiwohikupua was about to embark in the morning his sisters drew near, and Kahalaomapuana chanted a pathetic song, and with so great effect that her brother invited her into his canoe, placed her on his knee and wept over her. Ordering his rowers to pull out to sea with his youngest sister, whom he still held in his embrace, she begged him to return for the others, and when he refused she chanted a farewell song, leaped overboard and swam ashore. The sisters then decided to return to Paliuli, scarcely knowing where else to go on the island of Hawaii, where they were strangers. Arriving there, they found shelter in a clump of hala trees near the house of Laieikawai, the doors of which were kept continually closed. Failing to attract the attention of the inmates, the sisters concluded to keep a fire burning at night and to sing by turns--Maile-haiwale the first night, Maile-kaluhea the second, and so on for four nights; but no notice was taken of them. On the fifth night it was the turn of the youngest sister to sing. She lighted the fire, made a musical instrument of a ti leaf and played upon it. She did this in the evening and morning watches for two nights. Laieikawai had never heard the instrument before, and it delighted her. So she sent her kahu, a hunchback, to first spy out the musician, and then bring before her the person who was capable of making such music. Following the kahu, Kahalaomapuana found Laieikawai resting on the wings of birds, with two iiwipolenas perched upon her shoulders. She was kindly received, played before her, and told her of her sisters. Touched by the recital, Laieikawai ordered a house to be built for them, and formally adopted them as her companions and guards. They were fed by birds and lived as in an enchanted bower. On the return to Kauai of Aiwohikupua from his second voyage he had a great feast prepared, and all the guests were made drunk on awa. Under the influence of the liquor Aiwohikupua divulged the secret of his mission to Hawaii, and told all about his unsuccessful efforts in seeking to secure an interview with the princess of Paliuli. Hauailiki, a handsome young chief of Mana, rose to his feet and boasted that he could achieve without difficulty what Aiwohikupua had failed to accomplish; whereupon the latter offered to furnish him with a canoe and men to sail it if he would undertake to make good his boast, and each made a wager of his lands on the result. Hauailiki set sail for Hawaii the next day, and on his arrival at Keaau was greatly admired for his manly beauty. The following morning a dense fog enveloped the place, and when it cleared away he saw seven women sitting by the seaside, one of whom was Laieikawai. To attract her attention Hauailiki for four successive days appeared before her in the surf, performing many difficult feats of swimming and diving, but she gave him no heed. On the fifth day he exhibited his skill in surf-swimming, and won applause from all but Laieikawai. He then showed himself as a surf-swimmer without a board. His skill was then recognized by Laieikawai, and she beckoned him to approach, and threw around his neck a lei lehua, or garland of lehua blossoms. Immediately the fog settled down, and when it cleared Laieikawai and her party had left for Paliuli. Hauailiki and his guide determined to follow the party at once, and, traveling all night, they reached Paliuli in the morning. Approaching the house, they were met by Maile-haiwale, the first sentinel, who ordered them to retire. But they passed her by force, as they did the second, third and fourth guards, until they met Kahalaomapuana near the door of the house, resting on the wings of birds. She ordered them back, threatening that the birds should pick their bones, and they returned in haste to Keaau. Undecided what course to pursue, Hauailiki dreamed of meeting Laieikawai several nights in succession, and at last resolved to visit Paliuli again and without an attendant. Reaching the spot, he approached the house by a back path without encountering the sentinels, and found Kahalaomapuana asleep at the door. He pushed aside the feather curtain, entered the room, and found Laieikawai asleep, resting on the wings of birds. He awoke her, and she ordered him away. He pleaded with her and told her of his dreams, but she insisted upon his departure. Kahalaomapuana then came to the assistance of her mistress, and drove the importunate suitor back to Keaau. Abandoning the undertaking as hopeless, Hauailiki returned to Kauai. Arriving at Wailua, he was welcomed by a large gathering of chiefs, and when he had told his story Aiwohikupua generously forgave him his wager. Rejoiced to learn that his sisters had become the attendants of Laieikawai, Aiwohikupua resolved to revisit Paliuli. He assembled a fleet of twenty double and thirty single canoes, forty peleleus for his attendants, and a triple canoe for himself and counselor, and set sail for Hawaii. Waka knew of the arrival of the fleet at Keaau, and admonished Laieikawai not to visit the coast. The sisters were put on guard, and Kahalaomapuana summoned to their defence their terrible patron god Kihanuilulumoku, a moo, or gigantic lizard. The night following these preparations Aiwohikupua and his guide made their appearance at Paliuli. Five tabu sticks, covered with white kapa, had been set at intervals beyond the house; but the invaders disregarded them and pushed on, until they encountered Maile-haiwale, the first sentinel. She ordered them to retire, and sent a bird to summon the rest of her sisters. The youngest came, borne on the wings of birds, and drove her brother back, telling him that they were no longer sisters of his. Aiwohikupua returned to Keaau, resolved to secure by force what he had been unable to effect by strategy. He therefore sent up to Paliuli a detachment of ten warriors, but they were promptly slain by the lizard god. After waiting for two days he sent another detachment of twenty warriors, with a competent officer, and all of them shared the same fate. He next sent forty men, and still other forties, until eight forties in all had perished. He next despatched his two swift messengers to inquire about the fate of his warriors. They met a bird-catcher above Olaa, who told them of the moo and his dreadful work. Presently they heard the roaring of the wind and the crash of falling trees, and the monster appeared in the path before them. They reassumed their bird forms, however, and escaped by flying. Aiwohikupua then summoned Kalahumoku, the man-eating dog from Kahiki, to kill the moo and bring to him Laieikawai; and with the dog he sent his two bird messengers, to bring him early tidings of the result. As the two monsters met, a column of fog rose and drifted toward the sea. This warned Aiwohikupua that the dog had been defeated. Late in the day the animal returned, badly wounded and with ears and tail missing, and the whole party set sail for Kauai. Arriving home, Aiwohikupua thought of his engagement with the beautiful Poliahu, and began to perform certain expiatory rites to relieve himself of the oath he had taken not to marry a woman of the Hawaiian Islands. He then sent his two bird messengers to Poliahu, to inform her that he was preparing to fulfil his engagement. By mistake the birds flew to Hana. They inquired for the betrothed of the Kauai chief, and were directed to Hinaikamalama. They informed her that three months were to be spent in preparation, and that in the fourth month, in the night of kulu, Aiwohikupua would come to claim his bride. These were the words they had been instructed to speak to Poliahu, but by mistake they were told to another, who joyously replied: "He remembers, then, the game of konane which we played together." On the return of the bird messengers the blunder was discovered, and they were banished from the court. Then the koae, or tropic bird, was sent to Poliahu with the same message with which the others had been entrusted. Aiwohikupua, relieved of his oath, waited until the 24th day of the third month, and then set sail in great state, with forty double and eighty single canoes, and twenty peleleus. On the 11th day of the fourth month he arrived at Kawaihae, and despatched the koae to inform Poliahu, who named Waiulaula as the place for the marriage. To give brilliancy to the ceremony Aiwohikupua dressed his petty chiefs, male and female, in feather cloaks, and many of his female attendants in fine mats. He wore the white mantle given to him by Poliahu, and a red feather helmet. His rowers were clad in fine red kapas. On the platform of the chief's double canoe was raised an anu, covered with yellow cloaks, and above it stood the tabu puloulou. Around this canoe were ten others, carrying musicians skilled in playing the hula drum and other instruments. On the day of kulu the three great mountains were covered with snow, which was the sign promised by Poliahu. On the arrival of Aiwohikupua and his party at Waiulaula they were met by Poliahu, Lilinoe, Waiau and Kahoupokane, the three latter being mountain goddesses. The men suffered from cold but on being apprised of the fact Poliahu and her friends removed their snow mantles, causing the snow on the mountains to retire to its usual limits. Aiwohikupua and Poliahu were then made man and wife. Feasting and music followed, and the happy pair returned together to Kauai, making their residence above Honopuwai. In revenge for their dismissal the banished bird messengers informed Hinaikamalama of the marriage of her betrothed. Angered at his perfidy, she persuaded her parents to make a visit with her to Kauai. There was a gathering of chiefs at Mana, Kauai, to celebrate the nuptials of Hauailiki and Makaweli. The night was spent in games, dancing and other pastimes. A game of kilu was in progress. At midnight Hinaikamalama entered the kilu shed and sat down among the circle of players. Observing her, Hauailiki requested the mea ume (drawer) to tell Aiwohikupua to stop the hula kaeke and take part in the game of kilu, in order to enable him to make her his prize. Accordingly, when Hauailiki won at the game, the mea ume went around the circle and threw the maile wreath over him. The wreath was then removed and placed over the shoulders of Hinaikamalama. She rose to her feet and requested permission to speak. She asked in whose honor the festival was being given, and, on being informed of the occasion, requested Hauailiki to delay the fulfilment of the ume, and then proceeded to tell her story of the faithlessness of Aiwohikupua. The story created a great sensation, and the conduct of Aiwohikupua was universally condemned. Poliahu was enraged and returned to Mauna Kea, and the chief agreed to fulfil his engagement with Hinaikamalama. The night of their marriage Poliahu sent the chill of her snow mantle upon her rival, and she was benumbed with cold. Her teeth chattered, and it was with difficulty that she could be kept from freezing. A second time, when she and Aiwohikupua came together, an intense chill came over her. She was frightened, and inquired the cause. The chief answered: "The cold is sent by your rival. Betake you at once to a fire, that you may not perish." The next day at noon they met, as had been previously arranged. Poliahu put on her sun mantle, and a scorching heat almost consumed her rival. Again they met, but were unable to remain together, and Hinaikamalama unceremoniously left Kauai, without even touching noses with Aiwohikupua. Before she left for Maui, however, a kilu game was arranged at Puuapapai, and Hauailiki, still mindful of his success at Mana, endeavored to secure the fruits of his victory. But Hinaikamalama refused to yield, unless the victor would come to Hana in proper state and formally make her his wife. During the game Poliahu and her companions appeared in glittering robes of snow and chilled the assemblage, and the next morning they returned to Mauna Kea, while Hinaikamalama set sail for Hana. III. The king and queen of Kauai both dying a short time after the events just before recorded, they left the sovereignty of the island to their son, Kekalukaluokewa. They also left in his charge a magical bamboo (ohe) called Kanikawi, and enjoined upon him a promise to seek out and marry Laieikawai, of whom many reports had reached Kauai. The new king ordered an immense fleet of canoes for his trip to Hawaii, and sailed in the month of Mahoemua, or August. At Makahanaloa he saw the rainbow over Keaau, and sailed thither. Waka foresaw his coming and advised Laieikawai to marry him and become the queen of a whole island. After waiting four days Laieikawai and her kahu, the hunchback, went down to Keaau, and watched the king and his two favorite companions sporting in the surf. They knew the king by his not carrying his own surf-board when he landed. She returned to Paliuli and informed Waka that she would accept him for a husband. Waka then arranged that Kekalukaluokewa should go at sunrise the next morning and play in the surf alone; that a dense fog should settle down, under cover of which Laieikawai would join him in the surf; that when the fog raised the two would be seen by all riding in together on the same roller, and then they were to touch noses. A fog would again envelop them, and then birds would bear the pair to Paliuli. She was forbidden to speak to any one after leaving the house. Now, it appears that Halaaniani, a young man of Puna, noted for his debaucheries, had often seen Laieikawai at Keaau, and ardently longed to possess her. Learning that she was about to marry the king of Kauai, he implored his sister, Malio, to exert her magical powers in his behalf. She consented, and by her direction they both went to sleep, and when they awoke related to each other their dreams. She dreamed that she saw a bird building a nest and leaving it in the possession of another, which was a sure omen in favor of Halaaniani. Malio declared that her magic powers would prevail over those of Waka, and gave her brother minute instructions, which he strictly observed, as will appear. They went to the beach and saw Kekalukaluokewa swimming alone in the surf. Soon the fog of Waka settled down on the land. A clap of thunder was heard as Laieikawai reached the surf. A second peal resounded, invoked by Malio. The fog lifted, and three persons instead of two were seen in the surf. This was noted with surprise on shore. When the first roller came the king said, "Let us go ashore," and he rode in on the breaker with Laieikawai, while Halaaniani remained behind. At that moment the king and his companion touched noses. Three times they rode in on the waves, while Halaaniani, as directed by his sister, remained outside among the rollers. The fourth time Laieikawai asked the king why he desired to repeat the sport so often. "Because," said he, "I am not used to the short surf; I prefer to ride on the long rollers." The fifth was to be the last time for the Kauai king and his promised bride. As soon as the two started for the shore Halaaniani seized Laieikawai by the feet and held her back, so that the surf-board slipped from her grasp, and Kekalukaluokewa was borne to the shore without her. She complained of the loss of her surf-board, and it was restored to her. Halaaniani persuaded her to swim farther out to sea with him, telling her not to look back, as he would let her know when they reached his surf. After swimming for some time she remonstrated, but he induced her to continue on with him. At last he told her to look back. "Why," said she, in amazement, "the land is out of sight, and Kumukahi, the sea-god, has come to stir the waves!" "This is the surf of which I told you," he replied; "we will wait and go in on the third roller. Do not in any case let go of your surf-board." Then he prayed to his patron deity, and the breakers began to rise. As the third came thundering on, he exclaimed, "Pae kaua!" and, mounting the roller, they started for the shore. Laieikawai was in the overhanging arch of the wave, and, looking up, saw Halaaniani poised with great skill on the crest. At that moment she began to yield to the seductive fascination of Halaaniani. As they came in, Waka supposed her companion to be Kekalukaluokewa, and she sent down the birds in the fog; and when it cleared away Laieikawai and Halaaniani were occupants of the feather-house at Paliuli, where their union was consummated. Waka wondered why her granddaughter did not come to her that night or the next day, as had been promised, and the day following she went to the house to learn if anything serious had happened. Laieikawai and her husband were sleeping soundly. Waka was enraged, for the man was not the one she had selected. Waking her granddaughter and pointing to the man, she exclaimed, "Who is this?" "Kekalukaluokewa," was the answer. "No," returned Waka; "this is Halaaniani, the brother of Malio!" Angered at the deception, Waka declared that she would deprive Laieikawai of her powers and privileges, and desired never to behold her face again. Abandoning Laieikawai, Waka resolved to assume the charge of her twin-sister, Laielohelohe, and wed her to the king of Kauai. She had been left, it will be remembered, with the priest of Kukaniloko, on the island of Oahu. To this end Waka had a new house erected, and, borrowing a double canoe from Kekalukaluokewa, sailed at once for Oahu. Arriving at Kukaniloko, she offered a pig as a propitiation, and explained her errand to Kapukaihaoa, who approved her plans and delivered Laielohelohe into her charge. After an absence of thirty-three days Waka returned to Keaau with the sister of Laieikawai. At her command the fog gathered, and they were secretly borne by birds to their new house at Paliuli. Within three days she had a consultation with Kekalukaluokewa in relation to his marriage with Laielohelohe. She directed him to build a large kilu shed, and there assemble the people of the district, that the ceremony might be celebrated with becoming pomp. Meanwhile, Halaaniani had seen Laielohelohe, and determined to secure her for himself. With this object he persuaded Laieikawai to go down to Keaau with him for a few days of sea-bathing, leaving her faithful attendants behind. Arriving there, he told her that he was about to visit his sister, Malio, and if he did not return in two days she might consider him dead. On the twelfth day the five sisters went down to Keaau and joined their mistress in wailing over her husband, whom she believed to be dead. Soon after they all had dreams of Halaaniani with another woman, and concluded to cease their mourning and return to Paliuli. Halaaniani visited his sister and induced her to assist him in his designs concerning Laielohelohe. She advised him to watch her for four days, and report his observations. He did so, and reported that her chief occupation was stringing lehua flowers; and he climbed a tree to observe her, while his sister sounded the pulai, or ti-leaf trumpet, five times, and again five times; but Laielohelohe did not take the slightest notice of it. The next morning they went there again, and he climbed a tree with a mass of lehua blossoms, and threw them down before her, while his sister played the hano, a sweet-toned wind instrument. This attracted the attention of Laielohelohe, and, without seeing the musician, she expressed her thanks. The morning following they repeated these manoeuvres three times. Then Laielohelohe spoke and said: "If the musician is a woman, let us touch noses." With this Malio showed herself, and proposed that she should touch noses with her brother first. This angered her, and she ordered both of them to leave. Malio admitted her failure, but promised to resort to supernatural agencies, and win Laielohelohe for her brother on her wedding-day, as had been done with Laieikawai. About this time Waka went down to communicate to Kekalukaluokewa her programme for the marriage ceremonies, fixed for the day following. He was to order the people and his court to assemble at the appointed place, and at noon was to retire to his own house. She would then cover the land with a thick mist, and the singing of birds would be heard; first the quack of the alae and the chirruping of ewaewaiki, on hearing which he would step without the house. Next he would hear the singing of the oo, which would indicate that she was about to send to him Laielohelohe. Then would be heard the notes of the iiwipolena, and his bride would be near him. Lastly, he would hear the singing of the ka'huli, and they would meet apart from the assemblage, when thunder would peal, the earth would quake, and the people would tremble. Then the two would be borne upward by birds, the mist would clear away, and they would be seen resting upon the birds in glory. Laieikawai and the five sisters were anxious to witness the coming display, of which they had heard, and Kahalaomapuana engaged the moo god, Kihanuilulumoku, to convey them thither at the appointed time. Malio assured her brother again that her power would prevail over the efforts of Waka, and the preliminaries of the ceremony began. At noon Kekalukaluokewa, dressed as became the occasion, entered his house, as had been arranged. He heard the singing of birds, came forth in the fog, and awaited the coming of his bride. A clap of thunder followed, when the fog lifted, and Laielohelohe and Halaaniani were seen rising in the air on the wings of birds. Laieikawai and her attendants witnessed the ascension, sitting on the tongue of the great moo. Believing that he had again lost his bride, Kekalukaluokewa sought Waka, to chide her for the failure. "She is not his yet," said Waka, "for she has obeyed my command not to speak to or touch noses with him"; and, to reassure the king, she offered to stake her life that all would yet be well. As they approached the place of assembly Waka again enveloped it in fog, and immediately sent Kekalukaluokewa upward in the air on the wings of birds. When the fog cleared away, Kekalukaluokewa and Laielohelohe were beheld sitting together, upborne by birds, and the multitude shouted, "Hoao na 'lii! e!" ("the chiefs are married!") When Waka heard these acclamations she appeared before the congregation and denounced Laieikawai in the most opprobrious terms. The latter departed in shame and rage, and was carried by the moo, together with the five sisters, to Olaa, where she took up her residence. Halaaniani's misdemeanors finally brought him into great contempt, and he was despised and condemned by all. The Kauai king returned home with his bride, taking with him Waka. On their way they stopped at Oahu to take on board the priest Kapukaihaoa, who became the prime minister of Kauai. IV. The sisters of Aiwohikupua, chagrined at what had befallen their mistress, resolved to send Kahalaomapuana to Kealohilani, in a far-distant land, to bring their brother, Kaonohiokala, to marry Laieikawai, in order that she might triumph over Waka. Accordingly, she started on her voyage, being carried by the gigantic moo god, Kihanuilulumoku. Meantime, Laieikawai and her train made a pleasure trip around Hawaii, first to Kau, then to Kona, and next to Kohala. Becoming discouraged, the old prophet of Kauai had left Kaiwilahilahi, Hawaii, and started for his native island. Touching at Waimea, he saw the well-known rainbow over Kaiopae, a half-hour's journey north of Kawaihae, and followed it to Moolau, and then to Puakea, in Kohala, where he finally met and conversed with Laieikawai. He procured a double canoe for the party, and they sailed together to Laie, Oahu, where he learned the history of Laieikawai. That night his guardian deity informed him in a dream that she was the person he had been seeking for so long, and directed him to take the party to Haena, Kauai. In the morning he offered a pig and fowl before her, and obtained her consent for him to become her guardian. They then sailed for Kauai, and settled at Honopuwaiakua. In one of his subsequent tours the prophet found, on arriving at Wailua, that all the virgin daughters of the petty chiefs and courtiers on Kauai had been collected there, in order that Aiwohikupua might select two new wives to take the places of Poliahu and Hinaikamalama. The prophet spoke so contemptuously of the girls brought there for inspection, and boasted so loudly of the beauty and graces of his adopted daughter, that a quarrel arose and he was thrown into prison. He escaped during the night, however, and it was reported to the chief that he was dead. He had left a banana trunk wrapped in cloth, and it was offered on the altar of the heiau in the place of his body. At the moment when the deception was discovered the prophet made his appearance on the platform of a double canoe at the mouth of the river, with Laieikawai and the five sisters on board. Then Laieikawai stepped upon the platform, surrounded with the insignia of a tabu chief, and the winds ceased, the sea rose, thunders reverberated, lightnings flashed, and the heiau and altar were shaken almost to ruins. The assembled multitude shouted in admiration of the beauty of Laieikawai, and Aiwohikupua, after recovering from the shock of what he had witnessed, sent a herald to demand her in marriage. But the prophet proudly answered that she was not for such as he, and would marry no one of lower rank than the sovereign of an island. They then returned to Honopuwaiakua. We will now return to Kahalaomapuana, who was sent to a far-distant land in search of her brother, in the hope of making him the husband of Laieikawai. For four months the great moo swam with her in his mouth, and they arrived at last at Kealohilani. But the guardian of the place was absent on a visit to the Moon, and they awaited his return for twenty days. On his arrival he was greatly alarmed at the sight of the gigantic reptile, lying with his head in the house and his tail in the sea, and without a word flew to Nuumealani to consult Kaeloikamalama, the powerful kupua, who shut the door of the pea kapu of the Kukulu o Kahiki, where Kaonohiokala was concealed. They returned together, the kupua armed with a laau palau a hundred paces long with which to slay the moo. Just as he was preparing to strike, the moo stirred his tail in the ocean and sent a tremendous breaker rolling inland, and they both started to retreat. At that moment the moo cast out Kahalaomapuana on the neck of her uncle, Kaeloikamalama. He asked her who she was and the object of her visit, which she explained, and also their relationship. Then both embraced her affectionately, for they were brothers of her mother. In furtherance of the purposes of her visit, Kaeloikamalama took his niece with him on a ten days' journey to the place of ascent, where he called upon Lanalananuiaimakua to let down the ladder. Before long a sort of spider's web, branching through the air, descended. He then gave his niece full directions, as follows: "Here is your way to ascend until you see a single house standing in the Moon, in the land of Kahakaekaea, where dwells Moanalihaikawaokele, your father, an old man with long hair and bent head. If he is awake do not approach him, lest he see you first, and you die before you have a chance to speak. Wait until he is asleep on his back; then cautiously approach from the leeward, spring on his breast, grasp him tightly by the beard, and chant the mele in which I will instruct you." Instructing her in the mele, he continued: "Explain to him the object of your visit, and all will be well." She was about to begin the ascent when he imparted this final information: "In ascending, if fine rain falls and you are chilly, fear not; it is caused by your father. Climb on, and, should you smell fragrance, know that it is caused by your mother and that you are approaching the end of your journey. If the sunbeams pierce you and the heat beats upon your head, do not fear. Persevere, and you will enter the shelter of the Moon and be safe in Kahakaekaea." With these instructions she boldly began the ascent. Climbing upward without ceasing, toward evening she encountered fine rain and mist; early next morning she smelt the fragrance of the shrub kiele; at midday she suffered from the heat of the sun, and in the evening entered the cool shade of the Moon, in the land of Kahakaekaea. Observing a large house standing alone, she proceeded to the lee side, and waited until the old man fell asleep on his back. She then grasped his beard and chanted the mele, as instructed by her uncle. He awoke, but she held him where lay his strength, and his struggles were vain. He asked her who she was, and about her relatives, and her answers were satisfactory. She then let go his beard and he took her on his knee and wailed over her. He then inquired the object of her visit, and she related the whole story. He informed her that it was not within his power to grant her request, and that she must apply to her mother, who lived with her son, Kaonohiokala, in a sacred, inaccessible place, and only visited Kahakaekaea once every month. By stratagem she obtained an interview with her mother, Laukieleula, and after great persuasion secured her assistance in advancing the purposes of her visit. The old woman then summoned the bird-god, Haluluikekihiokamalama, to take them up into the pea kapu of the Kukulu o Kahiki. The bird reached down a wing, upon which they both mounted and were carried to Awakea (noon), the god who opens the gate of the Sun, where dwelt Kaonohiokala (the eye-ball of the sun). They found the place shut in by thunder-clouds. They called upon Awakea, who rose with intense heat and dispersed the clouds, disclosing to their view the prince asleep in the very centre of the Sun, where the air was white with heat. He awoke. His eyes were like lightning, and his body gleamed like molten lava. Laukieleula called to him and said: "Your favorite sister is here." He looked up, and then summoned the guardians of the shade to appear and stand before him. This they promptly did, and the heat of the sun was mitigated. His resting-place being thus shaded, he called his sister to him and wailed over her, for they had been separated for a long time. He inquired the object of her visit, and about their sisters, and brother Aiwohikupua, and was interested in all that related to them. Through the advice of his mother he consented to descend and marry Laieikawai, and the signs of his coming, he explained, would be as follows: First, there would be a heavy rain and high surf before he started. Next, there would be strong wind for ten days, followed by thunder without rain; then he would be in Kahakaekaea. When it thundered again twice he would be at Nuumealani, and when it thundered thrice he would be in Kealohilani. There he would lay aside his tabu supernatural form and assume the human shape as a high chief. After this there would be many portents, such as thunder, lightning, rain, fog, rainbows, high seas and mist on the ocean, and in one month thereafter he would appear on the mountain ridge at dawn. When the sun rose a halo would surround him, and in the evening, when the full moon rose in the night of Mahealani, he would appear and marry Laieikawai. After this he would punish the enemies of his sisters and his bride. As a token he gave to his sister for Laieikawai a rainbow-robe. Kahalaomapuana was a month in returning to Kealohilani, where she found the moo in waiting for her. He swam with her across the great waters to Hawaii, but, not finding their friends at Olaa, he hunted all through the islands, like a dog scenting for his master, until he found them at Honopuwaiakua, Kauai. The whole trip occupied eleven months and fourteen days. Kahalaomapuana gave her friends a full history of her extraordinary journey, to the dismay of Laieikawai, who was awed at the thought of her intended husband. The prophet, who knew nothing of the mission of the sister until her return, had predicted the coming of Kaonohiokala a month before; and now he traveled around the island warning the people, and advising Aiwohikupua, in particular, to set up tabu flags all around his place and collect his family within the precinct; but he was repelled with insult. He gave the same advice to Kekalukaluokewa, who obeyed it in spite of the opposition of Waka. Ten days after the return of Kahalaomapuana the portents began to appear in the order already named, and in due time Kaonohiokala appeared, surrounded by a halo. Shouts of acclamation and homage were heard throughout the island, and Laieikawai put on her rainbow robe. In the evening, as the full moon rose, the prince descended from the mountain and came within the circle of the prophet, and they all prostrated themselves before him. He spoke graciously to them, and told Laieikawai that he had come to make good the promise made to her through his sister. Then all shouted, "Amana! ua noa, lele wale aku la!" A rainbow appeared, and on it the prince and his bride were suddenly drawn upward to the moon. A few nights after, as the moon was directly overhead, a rainbow was let down like a ladder, on which they descended. Summoning the prophet, the prince directed him to travel around the island and make proclamation for all to assemble at the end of ten days at Pihanakalani. The five sisters, and afterwards the prophet, were taken up to dwell in the coolness of the moon. One morning the assemblage at Pihanakalani saw the rainbow again let down from the moon, and standing upon it were the prince and his bride, the five sisters and the prophet. Vengeance was executed upon Waka, who was killed by a thunderbolt, and upon Aiwohikupua, who was reduced to poverty and contempt. Laielohelohe and Kekalukaluokewa were retained in favor under Kahalaomapuana, who was designated as the regent of her brother, and the four other sisters were made the governesses of the rest of the islands of the group. The affairs of state being thus summarily settled, Kaonohiokala again departed with his bride up the rainbow beyond the clouds, to dwell in the pea kapu o Kukulu o Kahiki, above the land called Kahakaekaea. V. Kaonohiokala made quarterly visits to his earthly dominions, to see that all went well with their rulers. Laielohelohe had grown more beautiful than her sister, and he became enamored of her. To promote his designs he made Kahalaomapuana joint regent with Mokukelekahiki in Kealohilani, and appointed Kekalukaluokewa to the regency of the entire group. He then requested the regent to make a tour of the islands, leaving Laielohelohe at Pihanakalani. He next applied to her guardian, Kapukaihaoa, and gained his consent to aid in her seduction. After Kaonohiokala had made two more trips to earth in furtherance of this intrigue, Laielohelohe resolved to seek her husband, and set sail, accordingly, for the windward islands. She found him at Honokalani, Maui, engaged in an amour with Hinaikamalama, the Hana chiefess who had abandoned Aiwohikupua. After unavailing efforts to reclaim him she returned to Kauai. Kaonohiokala then renewed his visits, and at last remained a year with the deserted wife. The forsaken Laieikawai appealed to her father-in-law, who directed her to go to the tabu heiau when old Laukieleula was asleep, and consult the bowl of knowledge. It was a wooden bowl, covered with wicker-work, the edge of the lid being decorated with feathers, and with carved images of birds standing on the rim. She was to remove the lid, insert her face in the bowl, and call "Laukapalili!" to give her the knowledge she required. She followed these directions and saw what her husband was doing on earth. His father and mother also looked, and observed for themselves the treachery of their son. Straightway the ladder was let down to the presence of Kaonohiokala. The sky was darkened and filled with uncanny forms, and ghastly voices wailed through the air, "Ua haule ka lani!"--"the heaven has fallen!" Then the three were seen standing together upon the rainbow ladder, and Moanalihaikawaokele proceeded to pronounce judgment on Kaonohiokala. He was never to return to the upper world, and was doomed to become a lapu--a spectre or wandering ghost--and live on butterflies. Kahalaomapuana took his place in the sun. Laieikawai, at her earnest request, was restored to earth to live with her sister, and the government of the group was entrusted to the prophet. Laieikawai had her name changed to Ka wahine o ka liula--"the lady of the twilight"--under which title she was worshipped by certain families after her death. LOHIAU, THE LOVER OF A GODDESS. CHARACTERS. Pele, the goddess of the volcanoes. Hiiaka, one of the sisters of Pele. Hopoe, a friend of Hiiaka. Pauo-palae and Omeo, travelling companions of Hiiaka. Lonoikaonolii, one of the brothers of Pele. Lohiau, a prince of Kauai. Paoa, a chief of Kauai. Milu, king of the regions of death. Kanemilohai, a god from Kahiki. Kalamainu and Kileoa, female demons of Kauai. Olepau, king of Maui. Waihimano, queen of Maui. LOHIAU, THE LOVER OF A GODDESS. THE LEGEND OF HIIAKA, THE IMMORTAL, AND THE PRINCE OF KAUAI. I. Of all the legends of the adventures with mortals of Pele, the dreadful goddess of the volcanoes, the most weird and dramatic is the one relating to her love for Lohiau, a prince of the island of Kauai, whose reign was probably contemporaneous with that of Kealiiokaloa, of Hawaii, during the early part of the sixteenth century. The story is not only a characteristic relic of the recklessly imaginative and highly-colored meles of the early poets, but an instructive reflex as well of the superstitions controlling the popular mind of the Hawaiian group at that period, when the forests abounded in mischievous gnomes and fairies, when the streams were guarded by nymphs and monsters, and when the very air was peopled with the spirits of the departed. But a thin veil then divided the living from the dead, the natural from the supernatural, and mortals were made the sport of the elements and the playthings of the gods. As the mele relates, Pele and her brothers and sisters, to amuse themselves with a taste of mortal enjoyments, one day emerged from their fiery chambers in the crater of Kilauea, and went down to the coast of Puna to bathe, surf-ride, sport in the sands, and gather edible sea-weed, squid, limpets and other delicacies washed by the waves. They assumed human forms for the occasion, and therefore had human appetites. While the others were amusing themselves in various ways--eating, laughing and sporting in the waves in the manner of mortals--Pele, in the guise of an old woman, sought repose and sleep in the shade of a hala tree. Her favorite sister was Hiiaka, her full name being Hiiaka-ika-pali-opele. She was younger than Pele, and frequently occupied the same grotto with her under the burning lake of Kilauea. Hiiaka accompanied her sovereign sister to the shade of the hala tree, and, sitting devotedly beside her, kept her cool with a kahili. Her eyelids growing heavy, Pele instructed Hiiaka to allow her under no circumstances to be disturbed, no matter how long she might sleep, whether for hours or days, and then closed her eyes in slumber. Scarcely had the ears of the sleeper been closed by the fingers of silence before she heard the sound of a drum--distant, but distinct and regular in its beat, as if to the impulse of music. Before leaving the crater she had heard the same sound, but paid little attention to it. Now, however, when hearing it in her dreams, her curiosity was aroused, and, assuming her spiritual form, she resolved to follow it. Leaving her slumbering earthly body under the eye and care of her sister, Pele mounted the air and proceeded in the direction whence the sound seemed to come. From place to place she followed it over the island of Hawaii; but it was always before her, and she could not overtake it. At Upolu it came to her from over the sea, and she followed it to the island of Maui. It was still beyond, and she sped to Molokai; still beyond, and she flew to Oahu; still beyond, and she crossed the channel and listened on the shores of Kauai, where it was more distinct than she had heard it before. Now encouraged, she continued the pursuit until she stood upon the mountain peak of Haupu, when she discovered at last that the sound came from the beach at Kaena. Proceeding thither, and hovering over the place unseen, she observed that the sound she had so long been following was that of a pahu-hula, or hula drum, beaten by Lohiau, the young and comely prince of Kauai, who was noted not only for the splendor of his hula entertainments, participated in by the most beautiful women of the island, but for his personal graces as a dancer and musician. The favorite deity of Lohiau was Lakakane, the god of the hula and similar sports, who in a spirit of mischief had conveyed the sound of the drum to the ears of Pele. The beach was thronged with dancers, musicians and spectators, all enjoying themselves under the shade of the hala and cocoa trees, with the prince as master of ceremonies and the centre of attraction. Assuming the form of a beautiful woman, Pele suddenly appeared before the festive throng. Attaching to her person every imaginable charm of form and feature, her presence was immediately noted; and, a way being opened for her to the prince, he received her most graciously and invited her to a seat near him, where she could best witness the entertainment. Glancing at the beautiful stranger from time to time in the midst of his performances, Lohiau at length became so fascinated that he failed to follow the music, when he yielded the instrument to another and seated himself beside the enchantress. In answer to his inquiry she informed the prince that she was a stranger in Kauai, and had come from the direction of the rising sun. Gazing into her face with a devouring passion, Lohiau smilingly said: "You are most welcome, but I cannot rejoice that you came." "And why, since I do not come as your enemy?" inquired Pele, archly. "Because, until now," returned the prince, "my thought has been that there were beautiful women in Kauai; but in looking at yours I find their faces are plain indeed." "I see you know how to speak flattering words to women," said Pele, casting a languishing look upon the prince. "Not better than I know how to love them," replied Lohiau, with ardor. "Will you be convinced?" "Lohiau is in his own kingdom, and has but to command," answered Pele, with a play of modesty which completed the enthralment of the prince. Thus Pele became the wife of Lohiau. He knew nothing of her or her family, and cared not to inquire. He saw only that she was beautiful above all women, and for a few days they lived so happily together that life seemed to be a dream to him. And Pele loved the prince scarcely less than he loved her; but the time had come for her return to Hawaii, and, pledging him to remain true to her, she left him with protestations of affection and the promise of a speedy return, and on the wings of the wind was wafted back to the shores of Puna, where she had left her sister waiting and watching in the shade of the hala. Lohiau was inconsolable. Every day he thought she would be with him the next, until more than a month passed, when he refused food and died of grief at her absence. The strange death of the prince occasioned much comment, for he was naturally strong and without disease. Some said he had been prayed to death by his enemies, and others that he had been poisoned; but an old kaula, who had seen Pele at Kaena and noted her actions, advised against further inquiry concerning the cause of Lohiau's death, offering as a reason the opinion that the strangely beautiful and unknown woman he had taken as a wife was an immortal, who had become attached to her earthly husband and called his spirit to her. The prince was greatly beloved by his people, and his body, carefully wrapped in many folds of kapa, was kept in state for some time in the royal mansion. It was guarded by the high chiefs of the kingdom, and every night funeral hymns were chanted around it, and meles recited of the deeds of the dead sovereign and his ancestors. Thus lying in state we will leave the remains of Lohiau, and follow Pele back to Hawaii. II. During all the time the spirit of Pele was absent the family kept watch over the body left by her under the hala tree, not daring to disturb it, and were overjoyed when it was at last reanimated, for the fires of the crater of Kilauea had nearly died out from neglect. Pele rose to her feet in the form of the old woman she had left asleep under the care of Hiiaka, and, without at the time mentioning her adventures in Kauai or the cause of her protracted slumber, returned with all but one of the family to Kilauea, and with a breath renewed the dying fires of the crater. Hiiaka asked and received the permission of Pele to remain for a few days at the beach with her much-loved friend Hopoe, a young woman of Puna, who had been left an orphan by an irruption from Kilauea, in which both of her parents had perished. On leaving Kauai it is probable that Pele, notwithstanding her fervent words to the contrary, never expected or particularly desired to see Lohiau again; but he had so endeared himself to her during their brief union that she did not find it easy to forget him, and, after struggling with the feeling for some time, she resolved to send for him. But to whom should she entrust the important mission? One after another she applied to her sisters at the crater, but the way was beset with evil spirits, and they refused to go. In this dilemma Pele sent her favorite brother, Lonoikaonolii, to bring Hiiaka from the beach, well knowing that she would not refuse to undertake the journey, however hazardous. Hiiaka accepted the mission, with the understanding that during her absence her friend Hopoe should be kept under the eye and guardianship of Pele. Arrangements were made for the immediate departure of Hiiaka. Pele conferred upon her some of her own powers, with an injunction to use them discreetly, and for a companion and servant gave her Pauo-palae, a woman of approved sagacity and prudence. With a farewell from her relatives and many an admonition from Pele, Hiiaka took her departure for Kauai, accompanied by Pauo-palae. They traveled as mortals, and were therefore subject to the fatigues and perils of humanity. Proceeding through the forests toward the coast of Hilo, they encountered an old woman, who accosted them politely and expressed a desire to follow them. Her name was Omeo, and she was leading a hog to the volcano as a sacrifice to Pele. No objection being made, she hurried to the crater with her offering, and returned and followed Hiiaka and her companion. Not long after, their journey was impeded by a demon of hideous proportions, who threw himself across their path in a narrow defile and attempted to destroy them. Pele knew their danger, however, and ordered her brothers to protect them with a rain of fire and thunder, which drove the monster to his den in the hills and enabled them to escape. After a little time they were joined by another woman, whose name was Papau. She desired to accompany them, and proceeded a short distance on the way, when they were confronted by a ferocious-looking man who was either insane or under the influence of evil spirits. He lacked either the power or the disposition to molest the party, however, and they passed on unharmed; but Papau screamed with fright and hastily returned to her home, where she was turned into a stone as a punishment for her cowardice. Coming to a small stream crossed by their path, they found the waters dammed by a huge moo, or lizard, lying in the bed. He was more than a hundred paces in length, and his eyes were of the size of great calabashes. He glared at the party viciously and opened his mouth as if to devour them; but Hiiaka tossed into it a stone, which became red-hot when it touched his throat, and, with a roar of pain which made the leaves of the trees tremble, he disappeared down the stream. After many other adventures with monsters and evil spirits, which Hiiaka was able to control and sometimes punish, the party reached the coast at a place called Honoipo, where they found a number of men and women engaged in the sport of surf-riding. As they were about to start for another trial, in a spirit of mischief Hiiaka turned their surf-boards into stone, and they fled in terror from the beach, fearing that some sea-god was preparing to devour them. Observing a fisherman drawing in his line, Hiiaka caused to be fastened to the submerged hook a human head. Raising it to the surface, the man stared at it for a moment with horror, then dropped the line and paddled swiftly away, to the great amusement of Hiiaka and her companions. Embarking in a canoe with two men as assistants, the travelers sailed for the island of Maui, which they reached without delay or accident. Landing at Kaupo, they traveled overland toward Honuaula, near which place, in approaching the palace of the king, whose name was Olepau, and who was lying within at the point of death, Hiiaka observed a human spirit hovering around the outer enclosure. Knowing that it was the half-freed soul or spirit of the moi, she seized and tied it up in a corner of her pau. Passing on with the soul of the king in her keeping, she met the queen, Waihimano, and told her that her husband had just died. But the queen denied that Olepau was dead, for she was a worshipper of two powerful lizard divinities, and the gods had assured her that morning that her husband would recover. Saying no more, Hiiaka and her companions went on their way, and the queen, returning to the palace, found her husband insensible and apparently dead. Trying in vain to restore him, she hastily consulted a kaula, telling him what the strange woman had said to her. The seer by the description recognized at once the sister of Pele, who had come to heal the king, but had been deterred in her errand of mercy by the queen's obstinate assurances of his recovery. He therefore advised that she be followed by a messenger with a spotless pig to be placed as an offering in the path before her, when she perchance might return and restore the king to life. But Hiiaka dropped behind her companions and assumed the form of an old woman, and, as the messenger did not recognize her, he returned with the report that the object of his search could not be found. "Did you meet no one?" inquired the seer. "No one answering the description," replied the messenger. "I saw only an old woman, so infirm as to be scarcely able to walk." "Fool!" exclaimed the kaula. "That old woman was Hiiaka in disguise. Hasten back to her, if you would save the life of your king!" The messenger again started in pursuit of Hiiaka, but the pig was obstinate and troublesome, and his progress was slow. Seizing the struggling animal in his arms, the messenger ran until he came within sight of the women, who were again traveling together, when Hiiaka struck the fold of her pau against a rock, and that instant the king expired. Reaching the coast and embarking with a fisherman, Hiiaka and her companions sailed for Oahu. Landing at Makapuu, they journeyed overland to Kou--now Honolulu--and from Haena made sail for Kauai. Arriving at Kaena, Hiiaka saw the spirit hand of Lohiau beckoning to her from the mouth of a cave among the cliffs. Turning to her companions, she said: "We have failed; the lover of Pele is dead! I see his spirit beckoning from the pali! There it is being held and hidden by the lizard-women, Kilioa and Kalamainu." Instructing her companions to proceed to Puoa, where the body of Lohiau was lying in state, Hiiaka started at once for the pali, for the purpose of giving battle to the female demons and rescuing the spirit of the dead prince. Ascending the cliff and entering the cave, Hiiaka waved her pau, and with angry hisses the demons disappeared. Search was made, and the spirit of Lohiau was found at last in a niche in the rocks, where it had been placed by a moonbeam. Taking it tenderly in her hand, she enclosed it in a fold of her pau, and in an invisible form floated down with it to Puoa. Waiting until after nightfall, Hiiaka entered the chamber of death unseen, and restored the spirit to the body of Lohiau. Recovering his life and consciousness, the prince looked around with amazement. The guards were frightened when he raised his head, and would have fled in alarm had they not been prevented by Hiiaka, who at that instant appeared before them in mortal form. Holding up her hand, as if to command obedience, she said: "Fear nothing, say nothing of this to any one living, and do nothing except as you may be ordered. The prince has returned to life, and may recover if properly cared for. His body is weak and wasted. Let him be secretly and at once removed to the sea-shore. The night is dark, and it may be done without observation." Not doubting that these instructions were from the gods, the guards obeyed them with so much prudence and alacrity that Lohiau was soon comfortably resting in a hut by the sea-shore, with Hiiaka and her companions ministering to his wants. The return of the prince to health and strength was rapid, and in a few days he reappeared among his friends, to their amazement and great joy. In answer to their inquiries he informed them that he owed to the gods his restoration to life. This did not entirely satisfy them, but no further explanation was offered. After celebrating his recovery with feasts and sacrifices to the gods, Lohiau announced to the chiefs of his kingdom that he was about to visit his wife, whose home was on Hawaii, and that he should leave the government of the island in the hands of his friend, the high-chief Paoa, to whom he enjoined the fealty and respect of all during his absence. In a magnificent double canoe, bearing the royal standard and equipped as became the kaulua of an alii-nui, Lohiau set sail for Hawaii, accompanied by Hiiaka and her companions, and taking with him his high-priest, chief navigator, and the customary staff of personal attendants. Touching at Oahu, Hiiaka ascended the Kaala mountains, and saw that her beautiful lehua and hala groves near the beach of Puna, on the distant island of Hawaii, had been destroyed by a lava flow. Impatient at the long absence of Hiiaka, and jealous as well, Pele had in a fit of rage destroyed the beautiful sea-shore retreats of her faithful sister. She scarcely doubted that Hiiaka had dared to love Lohiau, and in her chambers of fire chafed for her return. After bewailing her loss Hiiaka rejoined her companions, and Lohiau embarked for Hawaii. Landing at Kohala, the prince ordered his attendants to remain there until his return, and started overland for Kilauea with Hiiaka and her two female companions. Before reaching the volcano Hiiaka learned something of the jealous rage of Pele, and finally saw from a distant eminence her dear friend Hopoe undergoing the cruel tortures of volcanic fire, near the beach of Puna, which ended in her being turned into stone. Approaching the crater with apprehensions of further displays of Pele's fury, Hiiaka sent Omeo and Pauo-palae in advance to announce to the goddess her return with Lohiau. In her wrath she ordered both of the women to be slain at once, and resolved to treat her lover in the same manner. Aware of this heartless resolution, and unable to avert the execution of it, on their arrival at the verge of the crater Hiiaka threw her arms around the neck of the prince, whom she had learned to love without wrong to her sister, and, telling him of his impending fate, bade him a tender farewell. This scene was witnessed by Pele. Enraged beyond measure, she caused a gulf of molten lava to be opened between Hiiaka and the prince, and then ordered the instant destruction of Lohiau by fire. While the sisters of Pele were ascending the walls of the crater to execute her orders, Lohiau chanted a song to the goddess, avowing his innocence and pleading for mercy; but her rage was rekindled at the sound of his voice, and she turned a deaf ear to his entreaties. Approaching Lohiau, and pitying him, the sisters merely touched the palms of his hands, which turned them into lava, and then retired. Observing this, Pele ordered them to return at once, under the penalty of her displeasure, and consume the body of her lover. Lohiau again appealed to Pele, so piteously that the trees around him wept with grief; but her only answer was an impatient signal to her sisters to resume their work of destruction. In his despair he turned to Hiiaka and implored her intercession, but she answered in agony that she could do nothing. The sisters returned to Lohiau, and reluctantly touched his feet, which became stone; then his knees; then his thighs; then his breast. By the power conferred upon her by Pele, and of which she had not yet been deprived, Hiiaka rendered the body of the prince insensible to pain, and it was therefore without suffering that he felt his joints hardening into stone under the touch of his sympathizing executioners. As the remainder of his body was about to be turned into lava, Hiiaka said to the prince: "Listen! When you die go to the leeward, and I will find you!" The next moment Lohiau was a lifeless pillar of stone. Observing that the cruel work of her sister had been accomplished, and that all that remained of the shapely form of Lohiau was a black mass of lava, Hiiaka caused the earth to be opened at her feet, and started downward at once for the misty realm of Milu to overtake the soul of Lohiau, and, with the consent of the god of death, restore it to its body. Passing downward through each of the five spheres dividing the surface of the earth from the regions of Po, where Milu sits in state in the gloomy groves of death, Hiiaka finally stood in the presence of the august sovereign of the world of spirits. The king of death welcomed her to his dominions, and, in response to her inquiry, informed her that the soul of Lohiau had not yet reached the abode of spirits. Having no desire to return to earth, Hiiaka accepted the invitation of Milu, and, watching and waiting for the soul of Lohiau, remained for a time in the land of spirits. III. The attendants of Lohiau remained in Kohala until they learned of his fate at the hands of Pele, when they returned to Kauai in the royal kaulua, and horrified the friends of the prince by relating to them the story of his death. Enraged and desperate, Paoa, the faithful and sturdy chief to whom Lohiau had confided the government of his kingdom, started at once for Hawaii with a small party of retainers, determined, even at the sacrifice of his life, to denounce the powers that had slain his royal friend. Landing on the coast of Puna, he ascended to the crater of Kilauea, and, standing upon the brink of the seething lake of fire, denounced the cruelty of Pele and defied her power. He contemptuously threw to her offerings unfit for sacrifice, and stigmatized all the volcanic deities as evil spirits who had been driven with Kanaloa from the presence of Kane and the society of the gods. Paoa expected to be destroyed at once, and recklessly courted and awaited death. The brothers and sisters of Pele, with their several agencies of destruction, were momentarily expecting an order from the goddess to consume the audacious mortal in his tracks. Never before had such words of reproach and defiance been uttered by human tongue, and they could not doubt that swift vengeance would be hurled upon the offender. But Pele refused to harm the desperate champion of Lohiau, for circumstances had convinced her of the innocence of Hiiaka and the fidelity of the prince. Therefore, instead of punishing the brave Paoa, Pele and her relatives received him with friendship, gently chided him for his words of insult and defiance, and disarmed his anger by forgiving the offence. Satisfied of the great wrong she had done her faithful sister, and longing for her presence again in the chambers of the crater, Pele restored Pauo-palae and Omeo to life, and, endowing the latter with supernatural powers, sent her down to the regions of the dead to induce Hiiaka to return to earth. Descending through the opening made by Hiiaka, Omeo was stopped at the intervening spheres, owing to the aspects of mortality which she unconsciously retained, and encountered many difficulties in reaching the kingdom of Milu. Arriving there and making known the object of her visit, Omeo was neither assisted nor encouraged in her search for Hiiaka. Milu was not anxious to part with his distinguished guest, and attempted to deceive Omeo by intimating that Hiiaka had returned to earth and was then on a visit to some of the relatives of her family in Kahiki. Omeo was about to return, disappointed, to earth, when she discovered Hiiaka as she was listlessly emerging from a thick grove of trees where she had spent the most of her time since her arrival there in quest of the soul of Lohiau. Their greeting was most friendly, and when Omeo informed her of what had occurred at the volcano since her departure, she consented to leave the land of death and rejoin her relatives at the crater. The brothers and sisters of Hiiaka were overjoyed at her return, and Pele welcomed her with assurances of restored affection. Paoa was still there. He was at once recognized by Hiiaka, and the next day she descended from Kilauea and embarked with him for Kauai in search of the soul of Lohiau. The canoe of Paoa had scarcely left the shores of Puna before a strange craft swept in from the ocean, and was beached at the spot from which Hiiaka and her companion had embarked less than half a day before. It was a huge cowrie shell, dazzling in the brilliancy of its colors, and capable of indefinite expansion. Its masts were of ivory, and its sails were mats of the whiteness of milk. Both seemed to be mere ornaments, however, since the shell moved quite as swiftly through the water without wind as with it. The sole occupant of the little vessel was the god Kanemilohai. He was a relative of the Pele family, and came from Kahiki on a visit to the volcanic deities of Hawaii. Remaining two or three days with Pele, and learning all that had happened to the family since they left Kahiki, the god started for Kauai to extend a greeting to Hiiaka. Proceeding in a direct route, when about midway between the two islands the god caught the soul of Lohiau, which had misunderstood the final directions of Hiiaka and was on its way to Kauai. Not having gone to the land of spirits, it had been searching everywhere for Hiiaka, and had at last taken flight for Kauai, when it was intercepted by Kanemilohai. The god returned to the crater with the captured spirit, and, finding the pillar of stone into which Lohiau had been turned, restored the prince to life. As he recovered his consciousness and opened his eyes he recognized Pele standing before him. Apprehensive of further persecution, he was about to appeal to her again for mercy when she said, in a tone as tender as that in which she had first replied to his welcome on the beach at Kaena: "Fear me no longer. I have been unjust to you as well as to Hiiaka. After what I have done I cannot expect your love. Find Hiiaka and give it to her. She loves you, and knows how to be kind to a mortal." Lohiau would have thanked the goddess, but when he looked again she was gone, and in her place stood Kanemilohai, who told him to take the shell vessel he would find at the beach below, and proceed to Kauai, where he would probably meet Hiiaka and his friend Paoa. Lohiau hesitated, for there was something in the appearance of Kanemilohai that inspired a feeling of awe. "Go, and fear nothing," said the god, who knew the thoughts of the prince. "The shell was not made in the sea or by human hands, but it will bear you safely on your journey, no matter how rough the waves or great its burden." "The coast of Puna is a day's journey in length," said Lohiau. "Where and how will I be able to find the shell?" "Hasten to the shore at Keauhou," returned the god, "and you will see me there." Arriving at the beach designated, the prince was surprised to find Kanemilohai already there; but he found something more to excite his wonder when the god took from a crevice in the rocks, where it had been secreted, a shell no larger than the palm of his hand, and passed it to him with the announcement that it was the barge in which he was to sail for Kauai. Lohiau examined the little toy with something of a feeling of amusement, but more of perplexity, and was about to return it to his strange companion, when the latter instructed him to place the shell in the edge of the waters. The prince obeyed, and instantly found before him the beautiful craft in which the god had made his journey from Kahiki. The power being conferred upon him by the god to contract or extend the proportions of the shell at his will, Lohiau entered the enchanted vessel of pink and pearl, and, directing its course by simply pointing his finger, was swiftly borne out into the ocean. Rounding the southern cape of Hawaii, Lohiau thought of proceeding directly to Kauai; but he pointed too far to the northward, and the next morning sighted Oahu. Passing the headland of Leahi, he turned and entered the harbor of Hou. Landing, he contracted to the dimensions of a limpet, and secreted in a niche in the rocks, his obedient barge, and then proceeded to the village, where, he learned to his great joy, Hiiaka and Paoa were tarrying on a visit. Hou was at that time the scene of great merriment and feasting. It had become the temporary residence of the alii-nui, and high-chiefs, kahunas, adventurers, and noted surf-riders and hula performers had congregated there from all parts of the island. Ascertaining that an entertainment of great magnificence was to be given that evening by a distinguished chiefess in honor of Hiiaka and her companion, Lohiau resolved to be present. Had he made himself known he would have been entitled to the consideration of the highest--would have been, indeed, the guest of the alii-nui, with the right of entrance anywhere; but fancy prompted him to hide his rank and appear in disguise among the revelers. Early in the evening the grounds of the chiefess were lighted with hundreds of torches, and under a broad pavilion, festooned and scented with fragrant vines and flowers, the favored guests, enwreathed and crowned with leaf and blossom, partook without stint of such delicacies as the land and sea produced. After the feast, song and music filled the air, and bands of gaily-decked dancers kept step among the flaring torches, while around the doors of the mansion white-bearded bards chanted wild legends of the past and sang the mele-inoas of the hostess and her distinguished guests. In the midst of this inspiring revelry the guests divided into groups as their several tastes suggested. Some strolled out among the dancers, others listened to the stories of the bards, and one party, including Hiiaka, Paoa and the hostess, entered the mansion to engage in the game of kilu. It was a pastime of which singing or chanting was a part, and the chiefess was noted for her proficiency in the popular amusement. Lohiau entered the grounds at the close of the feast, and stood watching the festivities when the party of kilu players retired to the mansion. He had turned inward the feathers of his mantle of royal yellow, and, with his long hair falling over his face and shoulders, was readily mistaken for a kahuna. Quite a number of persons thronged around the kilu players to witness the game, and Lohiau entered the room without hindrance. Approaching the players, he screened himself behind the kapas of two old chiefs who were so intently regarding the performance that they did not observe him. The game progressed until the kilu fell to Hiiaka, and as she threw it she chanted a song of her own composing, in which the name of Lohiau was mentioned with tenderness. The song ceased, and from behind the spectators came the answering voice of the prince. As he sang he brushed back the hair from his handsome face and turned outward the yellow feathers of his mantle. The throng divided, the singer advanced, and before the players stood Lohiau, the prince of Kauai. He was recognized at once. Hiiaka threw herself into his arms, and the faithful Paoa wept with joy. Informed of the rank of the distinguished visitor, the guests vied with each other in showing him honor, and the festivities were renewed and carried far into the night. Learning the next day of the presence near his court of the sovereign of Kauai, the alii-nui would have entertained him in a manner befitting the high rank of both; but Lohiau was anxious to return to his people, and set sail for Kauai at once in the shell barge of Kanemilohai, expanded to adequate dimensions, taking with him Hiiaka and Paoa. Although Hiiaka soon after returned to Hawaii and effected a complete reconciliation with her sister, while Lohiau lived she spent much of her time in Kauai. Hopoe was restored to life, and Omeo, or Wahineomeo, was given an immortal form for what she had done, and became thereafter the mediator between the volcanic deities. KAHAVARI, CHIEF OF PUNA. CHARACTERS. Pele, goddess of volcanoes. Kahavari, chief of Puna. Ahua, companion of Kahavari. Kapoho and Kaohe, children of Kahavari. KAHAVARI, CHIEF OF PUNA. A STORY OF THE VENGEANCE OF THE GODDESS PELE. Between Cape Kumakahi, the extreme eastern point of the island of Hawaii, and the great lava flow of 1840, which burst forth apparently from a long subterranean channel connecting with the crater of Kilauea, and went down to the sea at Nanawale over villages and groves of palms, is a small historic district which, notwithstanding the repeated volcanic disturbances with which it has been convulsed in the past, the chasms with which it has been rent, and the smoke and ashes that have shut out the light of the sun and driven its people to the protection of their temples, still possesses many fertile nooks and natural attractions. Within a few miles of each other, not far inland, are a number of extinct craters; but the rains are abundant in Puna, and spring is eternal, and the vegetation grows rank above hidden patches of lava, and is constantly stretching and deepening its mantle of green over the vitreous rivers of Kilauea and the lower and lesser volcanic vents clinging to its base like so many cauterized ulcers. The valleys are green in that part of Puna now, and there the banana and the bread-fruit grow, and the ohia and pineapple scent the air. But so has it not always been, for the mango ripens over fields of buried lava, and the palms grow tall from the refilled chasms of dead streams of fire. The depression of Kapoho, now sweet with tropical odors, marks the site of a sunken mountain, and where to-day sleep the quiet waters of a lake once boiled a sea of liquid lava, in a basin broader, perhaps, than the mighty caldron of Kilauea. We are now about to speak of one of the many irruptions which at intervals in the past poured their desolating torrents of fire through the district, alternately loved and hated by Pele, the dreadful goddess of the volcanoes. In connection with it tradition has brought down a tale combining elements of simplicity and grandeur strikingly characteristic of the mythological legends of Polynesia--legends equaling the Norse in audacity, but lacking the motive and connecting causes of the Greek. They are simply legendary epics, beginning in caprice and abruptly ending, in many instances, in grandest tumult. They are like chapters torn from a lost volume--patches of disturbed elements and gigantic forms and energies clandestinely cut from a passing panorama and placed in the foreground of strange and inharmonious conditions. They embrace gods reminding us of Thor, monsters more hideous than Polyphemus, demi-gods mighty as the son of Thetis, and kings with strains reaching back to the loins of gods; but in motive and action they were independent of, and not unfrequently hostile to, each other. No celestial synod shaped their course or moved them to effort, and to no authority higher than their individual wills were they usually responsible. Many of them were created with no reference to the necessity of their being or the maintenance of divine respect or authority, and not a few seem to have been the creations of accident. As an example the demi-god Maui may be mentioned. As told by tradition, his principal abode was Hawaii, although his facilities for visiting the other islands of the group will be considered ample when it is stated that he could step from one to another, even from Oahu to Kauai, a distance of seventy miles. When he bathed--and bathing was one of his greatest delights--his feet trod the deepest basins of the ocean and his hair was moistened with the vapor of the clouds. Neither his creator nor the purpose of his creation is mentioned; but he was blest with a wife with proportions, it is presumed, somewhat in keeping with his own, and as an evidence of their attachment it is related that at one time he reached up and seized the sun, and held it for some hours motionless in the heavens, to enable his industrious spouse to complete the manufacture of a piece of kapa upon which she was engaged. And Kana was another gigantic being of similar proportions. He, too, was partial to Hawaii, and could step from island to island, and frequently stood for his amusement with one foot on Oahu and the other either on Maui or Kauai. Tradition may have confounded these two monsters; but, as Kana was wifeless, we are constrained to regard them as distinct; and, being without the care of a wife, he was enabled to devote his entire attention to himself and the inhabitants of the islands crawling at his feet. Hence, when the king of Kahiki, who was the keeper of the sun, shut its light from the Hawaiians for some trivial offence, Kana waded the ocean to the home of the vindictive monarch, and by threats compelled him to restore the light to the Hawaiian group. This done, he waded back and hung his mantle to dry on Mauna Kea, which was then an active volcano. Another demi-god of the same name is also referred to in some of the early meles of Hawaii. He was the son of Hina, who went with his brother to the rescue of their mother, who had been during their infancy abducted by the son of the king of Molokai. He was endowed by his grandmother, a sorceress from one of the southern islands, with the faculty of so elongating and contracting his person as to be able to pass through the deepest waters with his head at all times above the surface. The shadows of these and other monsters are seen far back in the past; but human beings of gigantic proportions, of natural birth and claiming no connection with the gods, are mentioned in Hawaiian folk-lore as having lived as late as the beginning of the sixteenth century. Thus, during the reign of Umi, king of Hawaii, whose romantic ascent to the throne is the theme of chant and song, and to whom the past and present dynasties of united Hawaii trace their descent, lived the giant Maukaleoleo. He was one of Umi's warriors, and must have been a mighty host in himself. His measure in feet is not recorded, but he stood upon the ground and plucked cocoanuts from the tallest trees, and once, without wetting his loins, strode out into six fathoms of water and saved the life of his chief. As the traditions relating to Umi are quite elaborate and circumstantial, the existence of Maukaleoleo cannot well be doubted, however greatly we may feel disposed to curtail his proportions. But, in groping among these monsters of the Hawaiian past, we have been led somewhat from the story of the irruption in Puna, to which reference has been made. However, as pertinent to it, and to the goddess whose wrath invoked it, it may be mentioned that many centuries ago a family of gods and goddesses came to Hawaii from Tahiti and took possession of the volcanic mountains of that island. The family consisted of five brothers and nine sisters, of which Pele was the principal deity. The others possessed specific powers and functions, such as controlling the fires, smoke, steam, explosions, etc., of the volcanoes under their supervision. Although they frequently dwelt in other volcanoes, their principal and favorite abode was the crater of Kilauea. Almost without exception they were destructive and merciless. Temples were erected to Pele in every district menaced by volcanic disturbance, and offerings of fruits, animals, and sometimes of human beings were laid upon her altars and thrown into the crater to secure her favor or placate her wrath. In the legend of "The Apotheosis of Pele" a more extended reference is made to the goddess and her family. With this knowledge of the power and disposition of Pele, the reader will be prepared for the story of the exhibition of her wrath in Puna, which will now be related nearly in the language of tradition. The event occurred during the reign of Kahoukapu, who from about 1340 to 1380 was the alii-nui, or governing chief, of Hawaii. The chief of the district of Puna was Kahavari, a young noble distinguished for his strength, courage and manly accomplishments. How he came to be chief or governor of Puna is not stated. As his father and sister lived on Oahu, he was probably a native of that island, and may have been advanced to his position through military service rendered the Hawaiian king, since it was customary in those days, as it was at later periods, for young men of martial tastes to seek adventure and employment at arms with the kings and chiefs of neighboring islands. The grass-thatched mansion of the young chief was near Kapoho, where his wife lived with their two children, Paupoulu and Kaohe; and at Kukii, no great distance away, dwelt his old mother, then on a visit to her distinguished son. As his taro lands were large and fertile, and he had fish-ponds on the sea-shore, he entertained with prodigality, and the people of Puna thought there was no chief like him in all Hawaii. It was at the time of the monthly festival of Lono. The day was beautiful. The trade-winds were bending the leaves of the palms and scattering the spray from the breakers chasing each other over the reef. A holua contest had been announced between the stalwart young chief and his favorite friend and companion, Ahua, and a large concourse of men, women and children had assembled at the foot of the hill to witness the exciting pastime. They brought with them drums, ohes, ulilis, rattling gourds and other musical instruments, and while they awaited the coming of the contestants all frolicked as if they were children--frolicked as was their way before the white man came to tell them they were nearly naked, and that life was too serious a thing to be frittered away in enjoyment. They ate ohias, cocoanuts and bananas under the palms, and chewed the pith of sugar-cane. They danced, sang and laughed at the hula and other sports of the children, and grew nervous with enthusiasm when their bards chanted the meles of by-gone years. The game of holua consists in sliding down a sometimes long but always steep hill on a narrow sledge from six to twelve feet in length, called a papa. The light and polished runners, bent upward at the front, are bound quite closely together, with cross-bars for the hands and feet. With a run at the top of the sliding track, slightly smoothed and sometimes strewn with rushes, the rider throws himself face downward on the narrow papa and dashes headlong down the hill. As the sledge is not more than six or eight inches in width, with more than as many feet in length, one of the principal difficulties of the descent is in keeping it under the rider; the other, of course, is in guiding it; but long practice is required to master the subtleties of either. Kahavari was an adept with the papa, and so was Ahua. Rare sport was therefore expected, and the people of the neighborhood assembled almost in a body to witness it. Finally appearing at the foot of the hill, Kahavari and his companion were heartily cheered by their good-natured auditors. Their papas were carried by attendants. The chief smiled upon the assemblage, and as he struck his tall spear into the ground and divested his broad shoulders of the kihei covering them, the wagers of fruit and pigs were three to one that he would reach the bottom first, although Ahua was expert with the papa, and but a month before had beaten the champion of Kau on his own ground. Taking their sledges under their arms, the contestants laughingly mounted the hill with firm, strong strides, neither thinking of resting until the top was gained. Stopping for a moment preparatory to the descent, a comely-looking woman stepped out from behind a clump of undergrowth and bowed before them. Little attention was paid to her until she approached still nearer and boldly challenged Kahavari to contest the holua with her instead of Ahua. Exchanging a smile of amusement with his companion, the chief scanned the lithe and shapely figure of the woman for a moment, and then exclaimed, more in astonishment than in anger: "What! with a woman?" "And why not with a woman, if she is your superior and you lack not the courage?" was the calm rejoinder. "You are bold, woman," returned the chief, with something of a frown. "What know you of the papa?" "Enough to reach the bottom of the hill in front of the chief of Puna," was the prompt and defiant answer. "Is it so, indeed? Then take the papa and we will see!" said Kahavari, with an angry look which did not seem to disturb the woman in the least. At a motion from the chief, Ahua handed his papa to the woman, and the next moment Kahavari, with the strange contestant closely behind him, was dashing down the hill. On, on they went, around and over rocks, at break-neck speed; but for a moment the woman lost her balance, and Kahavari reached the end of the course a dozen paces in advance. Music and shouting followed the victory of the chief, and, scowling upon the exultant multitude, the woman pointed to the hill, silently challenging the victor to another trial. They mounted the hill without a word, and turned for another start. "Stop!" said the woman, while a strange light flashed in her eyes. "Your papa is better than mine. If you would act fairly, let us now exchange!" "Why should I exchange?" replied the chief, hastily. "You are neither my wife nor my sister, and I know you not. Come!" And, presuming the woman was following him, Kahavari made a spring and dashed down the hill on his papa. With this the woman stamped her foot, and a river of burning lava burst from the hill and began to pour down into the valley beneath. Reaching the bottom, Kahavari rose and looked behind him, and to his horror saw a wide and wild torrent of lava rushing down the hillside toward the spot where he was standing; and riding on the crest of the foremost wave was the woman--now no longer disguised, but Pele, the dreadful goddess of Kilauea--with thunder at her feet and lightning playing with her flaming tresses. Seizing his spear, Kahavari, accompanied by Ahua, fled for his life to the small eminence of Puukea. He looked behind, and saw the entire assemblage of spectators engulfed in a sea of fire. With terrible rapidity the valleys began to fill, and he knew that his only hope of escape was in reaching the ocean, for it was manifest that Pele was intent upon his destruction. He fled to his house, and, passing it without stopping, said farewell to his mother, wife and children, and to his favorite hog Aloipuaa. Telling them that Pele was in pursuit of him with a river of fire, and to save themselves, if possible, by escaping to the hills, he left them to their fate. Coming to a chasm, he saw Pele pouring down it to cut off his retreat. He crossed on his spear, pulling his friend over after him. At length, closely pursued, he reached the ocean. His brother, discovering the danger, had just landed from his fishing canoe and gone to look after the safety of his family. Kahavari leaped into the canoe with his companion, and, using his spear for a paddle, was soon beyond the reach of the pursuing lava. Enraged at his escape, Pele ran some distance into the water and hurled after him huge stones, that hissed as they struck the waves, until an east wind sprang up and carried him far out to sea. He first reached the island of Maui, and thence by the way of Lanai found his way to Oahu, where he remained to the end of his days. All of his relatives in Puna perished, with hundreds of others in the neighborhood of Kapoho. But he never ventured back to Puna, the grave of his hopes and his people, for he believed Pele, the unforgiving, would visit the place with another horror if he did. Pele had come down from Kilauea in a pleasant mood to witness the holua contest; but Kahavari angered her unwittingly, and what followed has just been described. KAHALAOPUNA, THE PRINCESS OF MANOA. CHARACTERS. Kahaukani, male, and Kauahuahine, female, children of supernatural birth. Kolowahi, guardian of Kahaukani. Pohakukala, guardian of Kauahuahine. Kahalaopuna, daughter of Kahaukani and Kauahuahine. Kauhi, the betrothed of Kahalaopuna. Keawaawakiihelei and Kumauna, inferior chiefs. Mahana, a young chief. Akaaka, father of Kahaukani and Kauahuahine. Kaea, a sorcerer. Elepaio, a bird-god. KAHALAOPUNA, THE PRINCESS OF MANOA. A LEGEND OF THE VALLEY OF RAINBOW I. Manoa is the most beautiful of all the little valleys leaping abruptly from the mountains back of Honolulu and cooling the streets and byways of the city with their sweet waters. And it is also the most verdant. Gentle rains fall there more frequently than in the valleys on either side of it, and almost every day in the year it is canopied with rainbows. Sometimes it is called, and not inappropriately, the Valley of Rainbows. Why is it that Manoa is thus blessed with rains, thus ornamented with rainbows, thus cradled in everlasting green? Were a reason sought among natural causes, it would doubtless be found in a favoring rent or depression in the summit above the valley, and overlooking the eastern coast of Oahu, where wind and rain are abundant. But tradition furnishes another explanation of the exceptionally kind dealings of the elements with Manoa--not as satisfactory, perhaps, as the one suggested, but very much more poetic. Far back in the past, as the story relates, the projecting spur of Akaaka, above the head of Manoa Valley, was united in marriage with the neighboring promontory of Nalehuaakaaka. A growth of lehua bushes still crowns the spur in perpetual witness of the union. Of this marriage of mountains twin children were born--a boy named Kahaukani, which signified Manoa wind, and a girl called Kauahuahine, which implied Manoa rain. At their birth they were adopted by a chief and chiefess whose names were Kolowahi and Pohakukala. They were brother and sister, and cousins, also, of Akaaka. The brother took charge of the boy, and the sister assumed the custody and care of the girl. Reared apart from each other, and kept in ignorance of their close relationship, through the management of their foster-parents they were brought together at the proper age and married. The fruit of this union was a daughter, who was given the name of Kahalaopuna, and who became the most beautiful woman of her time. Thus it was that the marriage of the Wind (Kahaukani) and Rain (Kauahuahine) of Manoa brought to the valley as an inheritance the rainbows and showers for which it has since been distinguished. To continue the story of the ancient bards of Oahu, Kahalaopuna--or Kaha, as the name will hereafter be written--grew to a surpassingly beautiful womanhood. A house was built for her in a grove of sandal-trees at Kahaiamano, where she lived with a few devoted servants. The house was embowered in vines, and two poloulou, or tabu staves, were kept standing beside the entrance, to indicate that they guarded from intrusion a person of high rank. Her eyes were so bright that their glow penetrated the thatch of her hale, and a luminous glimmer played around its openings. When bathing a roseate halo surrounded her, and a similar light is still visible, it is claimed, whenever her spirit revisits Kahaiamano. In infancy Kaha was betrothed to Kauhi, a young chief of Kailua, whose parents were so sensible of the honor of the proposed union that they always provided her table with poi of their own making and choice fish from the ponds of Kawainui. The acceptance of these favors placed her under obligations to the parents of Kauhi and kept her in continual remembrance of her betrothal. Hence she gave no encouragement to the many chiefs of distinction who sought to obtain glimpses of her beauty and annoyed her with proffers of marriage. The chief to whom she was betrothed was, like herself, of something more than human descent, and she felt herself already bound to him by ties too sacred to be broken. The fame of her beauty spread far and near, and people came from long distances to catch glimpses of her from lands adjoining, as she walked to and from her bathing-pool or strolled in the shelter of the trees surrounding her house. Among those who many times approached her dwelling but failed to see her were Keawaawakiihelei and Kumauna, two inferior chiefs, whose eyes were disfigured by an unnatural distention of the lower lids. In ungenerous revenge, and envious of those who had fared better, they decked themselves with leis of flowers, and, repairing to the bathing-place at Waikiki, boasted that the garlands had been placed around their necks by the beautiful Kaha, with whom they affected the greatest intimacy. Among the bathers at that popular resort was Kauhi. Although the day fixed for his marriage with Kaha was near at hand, he had never seen her--this being one of the conditions of the betrothal. The stories of the two miscreants were repeated until Kauhi at length gave them credence, and in a fit of jealous fury he resolved to kill the beautiful enchantress who had thus trifled with his love. Leaving Waikiki in the morning, he reached Kahaiamano about midday. Breaking from a pandanus-tree a heavy cone of nuts with a short limb attached, he presented himself at the house of Kaha. She had just awoke from a nap, and was about to proceed to her bathing-pond, when she was startled at observing a stranger at her door. He did not speak, but from frequent descriptions she at length recognized him as Kauhi, and with some embarrassment invited him to enter. Declining, and admitting his identity, he requested her to step without, and she unhesitatingly complied. His first intention was to kill her at once; but her supreme loveliness and ready obedience unnerved him for the time, and he proposed that she should first bathe and then accompany him in a ramble through the woods. To this she assented, and while she was absent Kauhi stood by the door, moodily watching the bright light playing above the pond where she was bathing. He was profoundly impressed with her great beauty, and would have given half the years of his life to clasp her in his arms unsullied. The very thought intensified his jealousy; and when his mind reverted to the disgusting objects upon whom he believed she had bestowed her favors, he resolved to show her no mercy, and impatiently awaited her return. Finishing her bath and rejoining him at the door, her beauty was so enrapturing that he was afraid to look at her face, lest he might again falter; it was therefore with his back turned to her that he declined to partake of food before they departed, and motioned her to follow him. His actions were so strange that she said to him, half in alarm: "Are you, indeed, angered with me? Have I in any way displeased you? Speak, that I may know my fault!" "Why, foolish girl, what could you have done to displease me?" replied Kauhi, evasively. "Nothing, I hope," returned Kaha; "yet your look is cold and almost frightens me." "It is my mood to-day, perhaps," answered Kauhi, increasing his pace to give employment to his thoughts; "you will think better of my looks, no doubt, when we are of longer acquaintance." They kept on together, he leading and she following, until they reached a large rock in Aihualama, when he turned abruptly, and, seizing the girl by the arm, said: "You are beautiful--so beautiful that your face almost drives me mad; but you have been false and must die!" Kaha's first thought was that he was making sport with her; but when she looked up into his face and saw that it was stern and smileless, she replied: "If you are resolved upon my death, why did you not kill me at home, so that my bones might be buried by my people? If you think me false, tell me with whom, that I may disabuse your mind of the cruel error possessing it." "Your words are as fair as your face, but neither will deceive me longer!" exclaimed Kauhi; and with a blow on the temple with the cone of hala nuts, which he was still carrying, he laid her dead at his feet. Hastily digging a hole beside the rock, he buried the body and started down the valley toward Waikiki. He had scarcely left before a large owl--a god in that guise, who was related to Kaha and had followed her--unearthed the body, rubbed his head against the bruised temple, and restored the girl to life. Overtaking Kauhi, Kaha sang behind him a lament at his unkindness. Turning in amazement, he observed the owl flying above her head, and recognized the power that had restored her to life. Again ordering Kaha to follow him, they ascended the ridge dividing the valleys of Manoa and Nuuanu. The way was beset with sharp rocks and tangled undergrowth, and when Kaha reached the summit her tender feet were bleeding and her pau was in tatters. Seating herself on a stone to regain her breath, with tears in her eyes she implored Kauhi to tell her whither he was leading her and why he had sought to kill her. His only reply was a blow with the hala cone, which again felled her dead to the earth. Burying the body as before he resumed his way toward Waikiki. Again flying to the rescue of his beautiful and sinless relative, the owl-god scratched away the earth above her and restored her once more to life. Following Kauhi, she again chanted a song of lament behind him, and begged him to be merciful to one who had never wronged him, even in thought. Hearing her voice, he turned, and without answer conducted her across the valley of Nuuanu to the ridge of Waolani, where he killed and buried her as he had done twice before, and the owl-god a third time removed the earth from the body and gave it life. She again overtook her merciless companion, and again pleaded for life and forgiveness for her unknown fault. Instead of softening his heart, the words of Kaha enraged him, and he resolved not to be thwarted in his determination to take her life. Leading her to the head of Kalihi valley, where she was for the fourth time killed, buried and resurrected as before, he next conducted her across plains and steep ravines to Pohakea, on the Ewa slope of the Kaala mountains. He hoped the owl-god would not follow them so far, but, looking around, he discovered him among the branches of an ohia tree not far distant. As Kaha was worn down with fatigue, it required but a slight blow to kill her the fifth time, and when it was dealt to the unresisting girl her body was buried under the roots of a large koa tree, and there left by Kauhi, satisfied that it could not be reached by the owl-god. Repairing to the spot after the departure of Kauhi, the owl put himself to the task of scratching the earth from the body; but his claws became entangled with the roots, which had been left to embarrass his labors, and, after toiling for some time and making little or no progress, he abandoned the undertaking as hopeless, and, reluctantly left the unfortunate girl to her fate, following Kauhi to Waikiki. But there had been another witness to these many deaths and restorations of Kaha. It was a little green bird that had flitted along unobserved either by Kaha or her companion, and had followed them from Kahaiamano, flying from tree to tree and making no noise. Noting with regret that the owl-god had abandoned the body of Kaha, the little bird, which was a cousin to the girl and a supernatural being, flew with haste to the parents of Kaha, and informed them of all that had happened to their daughter. The girl had been missed, but as some of her servants had recognized Kauhi, and had seen her leave the house with him, her absence occasioned no uneasiness; and when the little green bird, whose name was Elepaio, recounted to the parents the story of Kaha's great suffering and many deaths, they found it difficult to believe that Kauhi could have been guilty of such fiendish cruelty to the radiant being who was about to become his wife. They were convinced of Elepaio's sincerity, however, and with great grief prepared to visit the spot and remove the remains of Kaha for more fitting interment. Meantime the spirit of the murdered girl discovered itself to Mahana, a young chief of good address, who was returning from a visit to Waianae. Directed by the apparition, he proceeded to the koa tree, and, removing the earth and roots, discovered the body of Kaha. He recognized the face at once, notwithstanding the blood and earth stains disfiguring its faultless regularity. He had seen and become enraptured with its beauty at Kahaiamano, and on one occasion, which lived in his memory like a beautiful dream, he had been emboldened by his love to approach sufficiently near to exchange modest words and glances with it. Gently removing the body from the shallow pit in which it had been buried, Mahana found to his great joy that it was still warm. Wrapping it in his kihei, or shoulder scarf, and covering it with maile ferns and ginger, he tenderly bore it in his arms to his home at Kamoiliili. As he walked he chanted his love and scarcely felt his burden. Reaching home, he laid the body upon a kapa-moe, and earnestly implored his elder brother to restore it to life, he being a kahuna and having skill in such matters. Examining the body and finding that he could do nothing unaided, the brother called upon their two spirit-sisters for assistance, and through their instrumentality the soul of Kaha was once more restored to its beautiful tenement. But it was some time before she fully recovered from the effects of her cruel treatment--some time, in fact, before she was able to walk without support. In her convalescence Mahana was her considerate and constant companion, and found no greater pleasure than in providing her with the delicacies to which she had been accustomed. She was greatly benefited by the waters of the underground cave of Mauoki, to which she was frequently and secretly taken, and under the watchful care of Mahana she was at length restored to health. II. With her recovery, in the home of her new friends at Kamoiliili, Kaha was introduced to a life that was new to her; but it was by no means an unpleasant change from the restraints of her listless and more sumptuous past behind the protecting shadows of her puloulous, where she was jealously watched, and where rank closed her doors to congenial companionship. She repaired to an unfrequented beach, and, unobserved, played with the shifting sands and sang to the waves, and at night went with Mahana to the reef with torch and spear in search of fish and squid. Knowing that her restoration to life could not be long kept from her relatives, Mahana told her that his love for her was great, and asked her to become his wife. "I shall never love any one better than Mahana," replied Kaha; "but from infancy I have been betrothed to Kauhi; my parents, the Wind and Rain of Manoa, have promised that I shall be his wife, and while he lives I can be the wife of no other." The argument that Kauhi had forfeited all right to her by his cruelties failed to shake her resolution, and the brother of Mahana advised him to in some manner compass the death of Kauhi. To this end they apprised the parents of Kaha of her restoration to life, and conspired with them to keep secret the information for a time. This they were the more disposed to do because of their uncertainty concerning what Kauhi might again attempt should he find the girl alive. In pursuance of the plan adopted, Mahana learned from Kaha all the songs she had chanted to mollify the wrath of Kauhi while she was following him through the mountains, and then sought the kilu houses of the king and chiefs in the hope of encountering his rival. It was not long before they met, under just such circumstances as Mahana desired. He discovered Kauhi engaged with others in the game of kilu, and joined the party as a player. The kilu passed from the hand of Kauhi to Mahana, who, on receiving it, began to chant the first of Kaha's songs. Surprised and embarrassed, Kauhi, in violation of the rules of the game, stopped the player to inquire where he had learned the words of the song he was singing. The answer was that he had learned them from Kaha, the noted beauty of Manoa, who was a friend of his sister, and was then visiting them at their home. Knowing that she had been deserted by the owl-god, and feeling assured that Kaha was no longer living, Kauhi denounced as a falsehood the explanation of the player. Bitter words followed, and but for the interference of friends there would have been bloodshed. They met the next day at the kilu house, and in the evening following, when similar scenes occurred between Mahana and his rival, Kauhi became so enraged at length that he admitted that he had killed the beautiful Kaha of Manoa, and declared the Kaha of Mahana to be an impostor, who had heard of the death of the real Kaha and audaciously assumed her name and rank. He then challenged Mahana to produce the woman claiming to be Kaha, agreeing to forfeit his life should she prove in flesh and blood to be the one whom he knew to be dead, and subjecting Mahana to a like penalty in the event of the claimant proving to be other than the person he represented her to be. It had been the purpose of Mahana to provoke his rival to a combat with weapons, but the challenge of Kauhi presented itself as a more satisfactory means of accomplishing the object of his aim, and he promptly accepted it; and, that both might be more firmly bound to its conditions, they were repeated and formally ratified in the presence of the king and principal chiefs of the district. The day fixed for the strange trial arrived. It was to be in the presence of the king and a number of distinguished chiefs, and Akaaka, the grandfather of Kaha, had been selected as one of the judges. Imus had been erected near the sea-shore by the respective friends of the contestants, in which to roast alive the vanquished chief, and dry wood for the heating was piled beside them. Fearing that the spirit of the murdered girl might be able to assume a living appearance, and thus impose upon the judges, Kauhi had consulted the priests and sorcerers of his family, and was advised by Kaea to have the large and tender leaves of the ape plant spread upon the ground where Kaha and her attendants before the tribunal were to be seated. "When she enters," said the kaula, "watch her closely. If she is of flesh her weight will rend the leaves; if she is merely a spirit the leaves where she walks and sits will not be torn." On her way to Waikiki, the place designated for the trial, Kaha was accompanied by her parents, friends and servants, and also by the two spirit-sisters of Mahana, who had assumed human forms in order to be better able to advise and assist her, if occasion required. They informed her of Kaea's proposed test with ape leaves, and advised her to quietly tear and rend them as far as possible for some distance around her, in order that the spirit-friends beside her, who would be unable to do as much for themselves, might thereby escape detection. If discovered, they would be exposed to the risk of being killed by the poe-poi-uhane, or spirit-catchers. Arriving at Waikiki, Kaha and her companions repaired to the large enclosure in which the trial was to take place. The king, chiefs, judges and advisers of Kauhi were already there, and thousands of spectators were assembled in the grounds adjoining. The ape leaves had been spread, by the consent of the king, as advised by Kaea, and Kaha entered with her friends and advanced to the place reserved for them. Not far from her stood Kauhi. As he bent forward in anxiety and looked into her star-like eyes, with a sinking heart he saw that their reproachful gleam was human, and knew that he had lost the wager of his life. Observing her instructions, Kaha took pains to quietly rend and rumple the ape leaves under and around her. So far as she was concerned, the test was satisfactory. The evidence of the leaves torn by her feet could not be questioned. Kaea was therefore compelled to admit that Kaha was a being of flesh and bone; but in his disappointment he declared that he saw and felt the presence of spirits in some manner connected with her, and would detect and punish them. Irritated at the malice of the kaula, Akaaka advised him to look for the faces of the spirits in an open calabash of water. Eagerly grasping at the suggestion, Kaea ordered a vessel of clear water to be brought in, and incautiously bent his eyes over it. He saw only the reflection of his own face. Akaaka also caught a glimpse of it, and, knowing it to be the spirit of the seer, he seized and crushed it between his palms, and Kaea fell dead to the earth beside the calabash into which he had been peering. Akaaka then turned and embraced Kaha, acknowledging that she was his granddaughter, and that her purity and obedience rendered her worthy of the love of the bold upland of Akaaka, and of her parents, the Wind and Rain of Manoa. The curiosity of the king was aroused, and he demanded an explanation of the strange proceedings he had just witnessed. Kaha told her simple story, and Kauhi, on being interrogated, could deny no part of it. As an excuse for his barbarous conduct, however, he repeated, and attributed his jealous rage to, the boastful assertions of Kumauna and Keawaawakiihelei. The slanderers were sent for at once, and, on being confronted by Kaha, admitted that they had never seen her before, and that they had boasted of their intimacy with her to make others envious of their good fortune. "Well," replied the king, after listening to the confessions of the miscreants, "as your efforts in exciting the envy of others have brought terrible suffering to an innocent girl, I now promise you something of which no one, I think, will envy you. You will be baked alive with Kauhi! If you have friends among the gods, pray to them that the imus may be hot and your sufferings short!" The imus were ordered to be heated at once, and Kauhi and the two calumniators were thrown into them alive and roasted. The first went to his death bravely, chanting a song of defiance as he proceeded to the place of execution, but the others vainly struggled and sought to escape. The retainers of Kauhi were so disgusted with his cruelty to Kaha that they transferred their allegiance to her, and the lands and fishing rights that had been his were given to Mahana at once. "And how do you intend to reward the young chief who hazarded his life for you?" inquired the king, pleasantly addressing Kaha as he rose to depart. "With my own, O king!" replied the girl, advancing to Mahana and laying her head upon his breast. "So shall it be, indeed," returned the king. "I have said it, and you are now the wife of Mahana." In his gratitude the happy young chief threw himself at the feet of the king and said: "I am your slave, great king! Demand of me some great service or sacrifice, that you may know that I am grateful!" "Even as you desire," returned the king, "I will put you to a task that will tax to the utmost your patience." "I listen, O king!" said Mahana, resolutely. "The sacrifice I ask," resumed the king, with a merry twinkle in his eye, "is that for full three days from this time you embrace not your bride." "A sacrifice, indeed!" exclaimed Mahana, catching the kindly humor of the request, and slyly glancing at the downcast face of Kaha. "It is--" "Too great, I see, for one whose beard is not yet fully grown," interrupted the king. "Well, I withdraw the request. The girl is yours; take her with you without conditions!" Here the story of the trials of Kaha should end; but it does not. Some time during the night following the death of Kauhi a tidal wave, sent by a powerful shark-god, swept over and destroyed the imus in which the condemned men had been roasted, and their bones were carried into the sea. Through the power of their family gods Kumauna and Keawaawakiihelei were transformed into two peaks in the mountains back of Manoa Valley while Kauhi, who was distantly related to the shark-god, was turned into a shark. For two years Kaha and her husband lived happily together, surrounded by many friends and enjoying every comfort. Her grandfather, Akaaka, visited her frequently, and, knowing of Kauhi's transformation and vindictive disposition, admonished her to avoid the sea. For two years she heeded the warning; but one day, when her husband was absent and her mother was asleep, she ventured with one of her women to the beach to witness the sports of the bathers and surf-riders. As no harm came to the swimmers, and the water was inviting, she finally borrowed a surf-board, and, throwing herself joyfully into the waves, was carried beyond the reef. This was the opportunity for which Kauhi had long waited. Seizing Kaha, and biting her body in twain, he swam around with the head and shoulders exposed above the water, that the bathers might note his triumph. The spirit of Kaha at once returned to the sleeping mother and informed her of what had befallen her daughter. Waking and missing Kaha, the mother gave the alarm, and with others immediately proceeded to the beach. The bathers, who had fled from the water on witnessing the fate of Kaha, confirmed the words of the spirit, and canoes were launched in pursuit of the shark, still exhibiting his bloody trophy beyond the reef. Swimming with the body of Kaha just far enough below the surface to be visible to the occupants of the canoes, the monster was followed to Waianae, where in shallow waters he was seen, with other sharks, to completely devour the remains. This rendered her restoration to life impossible, and the pursuing party returned sadly to Waikiki. With the final death of Kaha her parents relinquished their human lives and retired to Manoa Valley. The father is known as Manoa Wind, and his visible form is a small grove of hau trees below Kahaiamano. The mother is recognized as Manoa Rain, and is often met with in the vicinity of the former home of her beloved and beautiful daughter. The grandparents of Kaha also abandoned their human forms, Akaaka resuming his personation of the mountain spur bearing his name, and his august companion nestling upon his brow in the shape of a thicket of lehua bushes. And there, among the clouds, they still look down upon Kahaiamano and the fair valley of Manoa, and smile at the rains of Kauahuahine, which day by day renew their beauty, and keep green with ferns and sweet with flowers the earthly home of Kahalaopuna. APPENDIX. HAWAIIAN LEGENDS: GLOSSARY. EXPLANATORY NOTE. The Hawaiian alphabet proper contains but twelve letters, five vowels and seven consonants, namely: A, E, I, O, U, H, K, L, M, N, P, W. To these are sometimes added R, T and B. No appreciable distinction, however, is observed between the sounds of R and L, T and K, and B and P. The almost invariable sound of A is as pronounced in father; of E as in they; of I as in marine; of O as in mole; of U as in mute. The only general deviation is in giving the vowels long and short sounds. W takes the sound of V in most cases. Every word and every syllable of the language ends in a vowel, and no two consonants occur without a vowel sound between them. The accent of nine-tenths of the words in the language is on the penultimate. The indefinite article is he; the definite article ka or ke; the plural takes the prefix of na. The "O" beginning the metrical lines of chants and meles is not always employed as an interjection. It is used chiefly as a prefix to personal nouns and pronouns in the nominative case. A. Aa, the root of any vegetation. Ae, the affirmative; yes. Ao, light. Aaakoko, a vein or artery. Auwina la, afternoon. Akane, an intimate friend. Aole, the negative; no. Ai, food of any kind. Auhau, any tax due to a chief. Au, a current; the gale. Auwae, the chin. Aumoe, midnight. Aouli, the sky. Aumakua, the spirit of a deceased ancestor. Ailo, chiefs permitted to eat with the king. Ahiahi, evening. Aha-alii, chiefs of accepted and irrevocable rank. Aha, a sacred tabu prayer, during which any noise was death. Ahi, fire. Ahinahina, the color of gray. Aka, a shadow. Akua, a spirit or god. Akepaa, the liver. Akemama, the lungs. Aku, a mythical bird, sacred to the high priesthood. Ala, a path, road or way. Ala-nui, a great path. Alaula, the red path; the dawn. Aho, a breath. Aha-ula, a feather cape worn by chiefs. Alae, a sacred bird. Alii-koa, a military leader; a general. Aloha, love; love to you; a greeting or salutation. Alii, a chief. Alii-nui, a great or principal chief. Alii-niaupio, Alii-pio, Alii-naha, Alii-wohi and Lo-alii, different grades of chiefs. Anu, a receptacle in the inner temple from which issued the oracles. Anaana, the process of praying another to death. Anuenue, a rainbow. Ana, a cave or cavern. Apapani, a little song-bird. Awa, a plant; an intoxicating drink made of awa; a harbor. Awakea, noon. E. Ea, breath; air; a fish tabu to women. Eleele, black, or dark blue. Eha, pain. I. Ia, general name for fish. Ie, a vine for decorating idols. Iu, a sacred or tabued place. Ihe, a javelin used in war. Io, the human flesh. Ihimanu, a fish tabu to women. Ihu, the nose. Iku-nuu, of the royal strain. Iku-pau, of the priestly or sacred strain. Ili, the smallest division of land; the bark; the skin. Imu, an oven for cooking. Ilio, a dog; a stingy person. Imu-loa, an oven for baking men. Ipu, a calabash; a vessel; a container. Iliahi, sandal-wood. Iwi, a small bird with yellow feathers; the bone. O. O, a fork, or pointed implement used in eating. Oo, a bird with yellow feathers, used in making royal mantles. Oa, the rafters of a house. Oi-e, a name for the godhead. Oala, a club thrown in battle. Ohia, a native apple-tree; the fruit of the ohia. Ohia-apane, a species of ohia wood used in making idols. Oho, hair. Ohu, fog. Oho-kui, a bushy wig sometimes worn in battle. Ola, life. Omaomao, green. One, sand. Onionio, striped. Olai, an earthquake. Onini, a surf-board. Omo, a narrow stone adze. Oma, a space between two armies where sacrifices were made; the prime minister, or first officer under the king. Opelu, a fish sacred to the priesthood. Opu, the stomach. Owili, a surf-board made of wiliwili wood. U. Ua, a sea-bird; rain. Uau, a large marine bird. Uala, a potato. Uila, lightning. Uha, the thigh. Uhi, a yam. Ulu, the bread-fruit. Ukeke, an ancient pulsatile musical instrument. Ulili, a bamboo flute. Uliuia, a beer made of cane-juice or the ti root. Ulu-maika, a game of rolling round stone disks. Ulaula, red; the sacred color. Uliuli, blue. Ulunu, a pillow or head-rest. Unauna, a tabu mark. Unihipili, the spirit of a deceased person. Umiumi, the beard or whiskers. H. Hanai, a foster-child. Haiao, a day sacrifice. Haole, a foreigner. Hanuhanu, an ancient pastime. Hala, the pandanus-tree. Hakaolelo, a chief's spy; informer; reporter of events. Haa, a singing dance. Haipo, a night sacrifice. Haku, a lord; a master. Hakoko, wrestling, with a variety of holds. Hailima, the elbow. Hanauna, a relative. Hale, a house or dwelling. Hale-alii, the house of the chief; the royal mansion. Hale-lole, a tent or cloth house. Hale-koa, a fort or house of war. Hale-lua, a grave or sepulchre. Haili, a ghost; a name for a temple. Hawane, the cocoa palm. Hau, a lascivious dance, or hula. Hekili, thunder. Heenalu, surf-riding. Heihei, foot-racing; a large drum. Heie, the servant of a seer who reported his prophecies. Heiau, a temple or place of worship. Hikiee-moe, the stand for a bed. Hia, fire made by friction. Hika-po-loa, a name for the godhead. Hiua, a game played on a board with four squares. Hiiaka, a general name for volcanic deities. Hikini, sunrise; the east. Hili, a dye, made of barks, for coloring kapa. Hoa, a companion. Hoalii, a companion of the chief. Hoku, a star. Hoku-paa, the north star. Hoku-hele, a planet or "wandering star." Hoku-lele, a meteor. Hoku-welowelo, a comet. Honua, the earth. Holua, the pastime of sliding down precipitous hills on sledges. Hoao, the ancient marriage contract among the chiefs. Hoalauna, a friendly companion. Hoe, a paddle. Hoeuli, a rudder or steering-oar. Hoewaa, an oarsman. Hooilo, the rainy season. Hookama, an adopted child. Hokio, a musical instrument. Honu, a turtle. Hookupu, gifts to chiefs by their subjects. Hoopalau, a single combat in battle. Hua, an egg. Hue, a water-calabash or container. Hula, a dance, of which there were many varieties. Hulu, a feather. Hulumanu, aids of a chief or king wearing plumes. K. Kaai, a girdle put around the loins of a god by a chief. Kao, the star Antares. Kaunoa, a pointed, poisonous shell, making a dangerous wound. Kapu, or Tabu, a command, or interdict, of which there were several kinds; a prerogative pertaining to chiefs, priests and temples. Kane, a husband; the name of one of the godhead. Kauwa, a servant. Kai, the sea. Kaa-i, the neck. Kanaka, a man; a male. Kanaka-wale, a private citizen. Kanaka-maoli, an actual slave. Kaikamahine, a girl or daughter. Kaiki-kane, a male child. Kaikunane, a brother. Kaikuahine, a sister. Kaliko, spotted. Kaioloa, the ceremony of putting a maro on a god by the women of a chief. Kaumaha, a sacrifice to the gods. Kaumihau, a tabu by the high-priest, when a hog was baked, and men were temporarily separated from their wives. Kakuai, an offering to the gods at daily meals, generally of bananas. Kahoaka, the spirit of a living person, claimed to be visible to certain classes of priests. Kamakini, a tabu worship for the chief alone. Kaula, a prophet. Kaula-wahine, a prophetess. Kao, a tradition; a dart or javelin. Kaua, war; a battle; an army marching to battle. Kaualau, a plantain. Kakaka, a bow for shooting arrows, not used in war. Kaukaualii, inferior chiefs with titled fathers and untitled mothers. Kanikau, a funeral dirge; a mournful song. Kapa, a native cloth. Kalo, or Taro, a bulbous root from which poi is made. Kahili, a standard of feathers; an emblem of high rank. Kani, music. Kahuna, a priest, doctor or sorcerer. Kahu, a nurse or guardian of a child. Kahu-alii, chiefs of the lesser nobility acting as personal attendants to the king. Kapua, a wizard. Kaike, a large sacrificial drum. Kamaa, sandals. Kapuna, a grandparent. Kapuna-kah'ko, ancestors. Kau, the dry season. Keiki, a child. Keena, a room or apartment. Keokeo, white. Kekuielua, a war implement. Kino, the body. Kilo, a prophet. Kihi, the native sweet potato. Kilu, an indoor game of amusement. Kihei, a cloth worn over the shoulders. Konane, a game resembling draughts. Koa, coral; a species of wood; a warrior. Koilipi, an axe for cutting stone. Ko, sugar-cane. Koelo, a garden of a chief, cultivated by his people. Koheoheo, a poisonous mixture producing speedy death. Koipohaku, a stone axe. Koloa, a duck. Kona, a south wind; the south side of an island. Koolau, a windward district or division. Kua, the back of a person. Kuli, the knee. Kuekue, the heel. Kumu, a fish tabu to women. Kuoha, a prayer to incite sexual love in another. Kupua, a sorcerer. Kuai, a war implement. Kuleana, a small landed possession within the boundaries of an estate belonging to another. Kupee, a string of shells; a bracelet; an ornament. Kuahive, high lands. Kumu, a teacher. Kuahana, a war messenger despatched when a general call to arms was made. Kukui, a light; a torch made from the nuts of the kukui tree. L. Laau, a tree; wood. Lau, a leaf. Lala, a limb. Lae, the forehead. La, the sun. Lani, the heavens. Laau-palau, a knife used in husbandry, sometimes in war. Lanahu, coals. Lanai, a veranda, or house with open sides. Lehelehe, the lips. Lenalena, yellow, the royal color. Lei, a wreath of flowers or feathers. Lepa, a flag or ensign. Lehua, an aromatic shrub. Liliha, the fat of hogs. Loko, a lake or pond. Lima, the hand. Lou, a hook; a fish-hook. Loulu, a cocoanut. Luawai, a well. Luakina, the house of sacrifice in a temple. Luau, a feast. Lua, an ancient practice of killing by breaking bones. Luna, an overseer. Lunapai, a war messenger of a king or chief. M. Maa, a sling for throwing stones. Mahu, steam. Maiuu, the finger-nails. Mahioli, a feather helmet worn by chiefs. Maili, a fragrant and greatly esteemed plant. Mauka, toward the hills or mountains. Malama, a month; a purveyor in traveling. Mapuna, a spring. Maka, the eye. Manamana-lima, a finger. Manamana-wawae, a toe. Manu, general name for birds. Makuakane, a father or uncle. Makuahine, a mother or aunt. Mahini, the moon. Mahini-hou, the new moon. Mahini-peopeo, the full moon. Makani, the wind. Makani-ino, a storm. Makalii, the beginning of the Hawaiian new year. Maliu, a deified deceased chief. Maia, a general name for plantains and bananas, tabu to women. Malaolao, evening twilight. Mano, the shark; every species was tabu to women. Makaainani, the common people. Maro, a cloth worn around the loins of males. Mamo, a bird; a royal feather mantle; descendants. Manele, a palanquin for chiefs, with four bearers. Mahele, circumcision. Mahana, chiefs near the throne. Mele, an historical chant or song. Mele-inoa, a personal chant or song. Moa, a fowl. Moo, a lizard. Maikai, toward the sea. Mooolelo, a narrative of past events. Mookaao, an historical legend. Moko, boxing. Moko-moko, a boxer. Momi, a pearl. Moae, the trade winds. Moi, a king, or principal chief. Mu, the person who procured men for sacrifice. Muliwai, a stream, or river. Mumuku, a violent gust of wind. N. Naua, a pedigree. Nene, a goose. Niu, the cocoanut tree and fruit. Ninalo, the fruit of the hala tree. Noho, a seat. P. Pa, a dish or platter; a fence or wall. Pau, a short skirt worn by women; completed, finished. Pahale, a lawn or other enclosure. Pahu, a general name for a drum. Papa, a board; a sledge used in the pastime of holua. Papalina, the cheek. Paliuli, paradise. Pahi, general term for a knife or cutting instrument. Pakiko, an ancient war implement. Palala, any tax paid to a chief. Panalaau, a distant possession of lands. Papapaina, a table of any kind. Pahoa, a dagger, generally of wood. Palaoa, a carved ivory talisman worn around the neck by chiefs. Pali, a precipice. Paiai, pounded taro for making poi. Pahoehoe, lava. Pawa, a garden; a small cultivated field. Pea, an elevated cross before a heiau, signifying sacred. Peleleu, a large double war canoe. Pepeiao, the ear. Pipi, an oyster; clam; shell-fish. Poi, the paste of taro. Po'i, a cover or lid. Poo, the head. Poohiwi, the shoulder. Poni, purple. Pokahu, a stone. Pouli ka la, an eclipse. Po, night; darkness; the realms of death; chaos. Pola, a raised platform over double canoes. Pololu, a long war spear. Pua, a flower. Puka, a door. Puuwai, the heart. Puaa, a hog. Puaa-keiki, a pig. Puahiohio, a whirlwind. Puhenehene, an indoor pastime. Punipeki, a child's game. Pueo, an owl. Puana, a leader in meles; a starter of words. Pukaua, an officer in the army; a captain; a champion. Pule, a prayer. Pulelelua, a butterfly. Punahele, a friend or companion. Puloulou, a tabu staff, crowned with balls of kapa. Puuku, inferior chiefs, personal attendants of the king. W. Waa, a general name for canoe. Wai, a general name for water. Waiali, the platform from which chiefs addressed the people. Wahine, a woman; females generally. Wahi-moe, a bed. Wahie, wood for burning. Wanaao, the dawn. Wawae, a leg or foot. Waipuilani, a waterspout. Wauti, the inner bark of a tree from which cloth is made. Wahine-hoao, the real wife. Wili, lightning. Wiliwili, a light wood from which surf-boards were made. CARDINAL NUMBERS. One, Akahi. Two, Alua. Three, Akolu. Four, Aha. Five, Alima. Six, Aono. Seven, Ahiku. Eight, Awalu. Nine, Aiwa. Ten, Umi. Eleven, Umikumamakahi. Twelve, Umikumamalua. Thirteen, Umikumamakolu. Fourteen, Umikumamaha. Fifteen, Umikumamalima. Sixteen, Umikumamaono. Seventeen, Umikumamahiku. Eighteen, Umikumamawalu. Nineteen, Umikumamaiwa. Twenty, Iwakalua. Twenty-one, Iwakaluakumamakahi. Twenty-two, Iwakaluakumamalua. Twenty-three, Iwakaluakumamakolo. Twenty-four, Iwakaluakumamaha. Twenty-five, Iwakaluakumamalima. Twenty-six, Iwakaluakumamaono. Twenty-seven, Iwakaluakumamahiku. Twenty-eight, Iwakaluakumamawalu. Twenty-nine, Iwakaluakumamaiwa. Thirty, Kanakolu. Forty, Kanaha. Fifty, Kanalima. Sixty, Kanaono. Seventy, Kanahiku. Eighty, Kanawalu. Ninety, Kanaiwa. One hundred, Hookahi haneri (modern). One thousand, Hookahi tausani (modern). NAMES OF THE MONTHS. January, Makalii. February, Kaelo. March, Kaulua. April, Nana. May, Welo. June, Ikiiki. July, Kaaona. August, Hinaieleele. September, Hilinehu. October, Hilinama. November, Ikuwa. December, Welehu. NAMES OF THE DAYS OF THE MONTH. 1st, Hilo. 2d, Hoaka. 3d, Kukahi. 4th, Kulua. 5th, Kukolo. 6th, Kupau. 7th, Olekukahi. 8th, Olekulua. 9th, Olekukolu. 10th, Olekupau. 11th, Huna. 12th, Mohalu. 13th, Hua. 14th, Akua. 15th, Hoku. 16th, Mahealani. 17th, Kulu. 18th, Laaukukahi. 19th, Laaukulua. 20th, Laaupau. 21st, Olekukahi. 22d, Olekulua. 23d, Olepau. 24th, Kaloakukahi. 25th, Kaloakulua. 26th, Kaloapau. 27th, Kane. 28th, Lono. 29th, Mauli. 30th, Muku. NOTE [1] The Princess Likelike died February 2, 1887. 
60165	----	in this book was transcribed in MusicXML by Linda Cantoni. NAVAHO LEGENDS COLLECTED AND TRANSLATED BY WASHINGTON MATTHEWS M.D., LL.D. MAJOR U.S. ARMY, EX-PRESIDENT OF THE AMERICAN FOLK-LORE SOCIETY, ETC. WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES, ILLUSTRATIONS, TEXTS INTERLINEAR TRANSLATIONS, AND MELODIES BOSTON AND NEW YORK Published for The American Folk-Lore Society by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY LONDON: DAVID NUTT, 270, 271 STRAND LEIPZIG: OTTO HARRASSOWITZ, QUERSTRASSE, 14 1897 Five hundred copies printed, of which this is No. 199 Copyright, 1897, BY THE AMERICAN FOLK-LORE SOCIETY. All rights reserved. The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A. Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company. CONTENTS. PAGE Introduction 1 LEGENDS. The Navaho Origin Legend. I. The Story of the Emergence 63 II. Early Events in the Fifth World 76 III. The War Gods 104 IV. Growth of the Navaho Nation 135 Nati'nesthani 160 The Great Shell of Kintyél 195 Notes 209 Bibliographic Notes 276 Melodies 279 ILLUSTRATIONS. PLATE PAGE I. Navaho Gods as represented in the dry-paintings Frontispiece II. San Francisco Mountain, Arizona 63 III. Distant view of San Mateo Mountain, New Mexico 76 IV. Nayénezgani 104 V. El Cabezon 114 VI. Lava flow in the valley of the San José, New Mexico 118 VII. To`badzistsíni 134 FIGURE 1. Manuelito (portrait) 3 2. Mariano (portrait) 4 3. Jake the Silversmith (portrait) 5 4. Tánapa (portrait) 6 5. Hádapa (portrait) 7 6. Navaho man (portrait) 9 7. Navaho man (portrait) 10 8. Navaho skull, flattened at occiput 11 9. Navaho baby-case or cradle 12 10. Conical lodge with storm-door 13 11. Hut of logs 14 12. Hut built partly of stone 15 13. Summer houses 16 14. Medicine-lodge 16 15. Sudatory 17 16. Sacred basket 18 17. Sacred basket 19 18. Silver ornaments 20 19. Woman spinning 21 20. Ordinary loom 23 21. Loom for weaving diagonal cloth 25 22. The White House 36 23. Talking kethawn 39 24. Circle kethawn 40 25. Kethawns (sacrificial sticks and cigarettes) in basket 43 26. Mask of yucca 46 27. Mask of Hastséyalti 47 28. Mask of yébaad or goddess 48 29. Picture of silnéole, a dry-painting of the night chant 49 30. Alíli or show ("dance") of the nahikáï 52 31. Hatáli Natlói (portrait) 57 32. The shaman Hatáli Nez (Tall Chanter) (portrait) 59 33. Trail of Estsánatlehi (diagram) 148 34. Trail of turkey approaching his master (diagram) 171 35. Trail of man and turkey (diagram) 173 36. Ruin in the Chaco Canyon, probably Kintyél 195 37. Circle of branches of the rite of the mountain chant 206 38. Natural bridge, near Fort Defiance, Arizona 227 39. Yucca baccata 228 40. Drumstick made of yucca leaves 229 41. Diagram of bow-symbol on left leg of the personator of Nayénezgani 253 42. Diagram of queue-symbol on left leg of the personator of To`badzistsíni 253 Map of the Navaho country 1 NAVAHO LEGENDS. INTRODUCTION. PREFATORY REMARKS. 1. The legends contained in this book are those of the Navaho[1] Indians, a tribe living in the southwestern portion of the United States; mostly in the Territories of New Mexico and Arizona, but partly in the States of Colorado and Utah. A definite reservation of over 12,000 square miles has been set apart for them; but in every direction, beyond the borders of this reservation, isolated families and small bands may be found dwelling, either temporarily or permanently, in localities where there are springs, streams, pools, or artificial reservoirs of water. Some have taken up homesteads--or have otherwise acquired a legal title to lands beyond the borders of the reservation; others are merely squatters. A brief description of these Indians--their arts, religion, ceremonies, etc.--is included in this introduction, in the belief that, if the reader possesses some knowledge of the Navaho before he begins to read the tales, he may have a better understanding of the latter. But much more information, of interest to the ethnographer, will be found in notes. Some items in the introduction could not properly have appeared in the notes, as there was nothing in the tales to suggest them. Other items might perhaps as well have been transferred to the notes; the decision to put them in the introduction was often arbitrary. 2. Title of Book.--In selecting a title for this book, the word Legends was chosen, rather than Myths, for the reason that the tales contained herein, though mostly mythical, are not altogether such. In the Origin Legend, the last chapter, "The Growth of the Navaho Nation," is in part traditional or historical, and it is even approximately correct in many of its dates, as has been shown by Frederick Webb Hodge in his paper on the "Early Navaho and Apache."[301] HOME OF THE NAVAHOES. 3. The land which the Navahoes occupy is arid, though not an absolute desert. The precipitation at an altitude of 7,000 feet amounts on an average to only 14.10 inches during the year (at lower altitudes it is less, at higher altitudes greater), and this is generally confined to two short seasons of moisture separated from one another by months of absolute drought, which, except in specially favored localities, would destroy any of our ordinary field-crops. But there are small spots, far apart, where irrigation can be practised, and there are other places, apparently deserts, which no white man would think of cultivating, but where Indians raise meagre crops of corn, squashes, and melons. 4. Soil.--He who stands on the brow of the mesa at the Indian pueblo of Walpi, in Arizona, may unravel one secret of Indian agriculture in the arid region, and learn why ancient ruins may be found in the most desolate parts. Six hundred feet below him stretches a sandy plain which at most seasons of the year seems almost an absolute desert; yet in summer it is green with rows of dwarf corn. Little rain falls on it and there is no irrigation; yet the corn grows and furnishes a return which repays an Indian, at least, for his labor. Through the plain runs a gully which at certain seasons drains the water from a high table-land beyond. The water does not all flow off, but in part settles under the sandy surface, and keeps the subsoil moist throughout the year. By planting deep, the Indian farmers reach this moist subsoil, and place their seeds where the long drought cannot destroy them. On the side of the mesa, peach-trees flourish, with hidden moisture that comes out between the rocky strata at the mesa's edge. Localities similar to those described are found in the Navaho land, and similarly used by the Navaho for farms and peach orchards. The myths make frequent allusions to such farms or gardens. 5. A few fields have recently been made by white men in the high meadows of the Zuñi Mountains at altitudes above 8,000 feet, where potatoes, oats, barley, and garden vegetables are raised without irrigation; but farming at such altitudes was never tried by the Navahoes, and they knew nothing of cultivating the crops named above. Beside their aboriginal crops, they have for a long time raised a little wheat. Potatoes grow wild in the Navaho country. 6. Mines.--Fortunately for the Navahoes, no mines of precious metals have yet been discovered on their reservation; although for years past rumors of such discoveries have from time to time been circulated, and unwelcome prospectors have frequently invaded their territory. For many years previous to 1892 the principal attraction lay in the Carrizo Mountains.[2] A legend of a mine called the Lost Adam, and of miners murdered in these mountains, had circulated long through Colorado mining camps. Troubles between intruders and Indians became so frequent and threatening in this region that General McCook, then commanding the Department of Arizona, which included the Navaho reservation, determined to make an expedition and settle, if possible, the question of the existence of valuable mines in the Carrizo Mountains. A commission, consisting of Gen. A. McD. McCook, U.S.A., ex-Gov. John L. Barstow of Vermont, and Prof. J. G. Allyn of New Mexico, was appointed. The commission entered the mountains with a mounted escort in May, 1892, and invited prospectors who had previously visited the region to come and show where the mineral lay. They came, and then it appeared they had staked off various claims and given them felicitous names such as the western miners know how to coin,--the "Lucky Bill," the "Boggy Snoggy," etc. Specimen ores were collected from every point where they were seen, and submitted to careful expert examination; but all proved worthless. Some fine gold has been found in the sands of the San Juan River,[3] within the Navaho reservation; but it has not been found profitable to work for it. 7. Surface--Forests.--The surface of the country over which the Navahoes are scattered varies in altitude from 4,000 feet, or less, in the valley of the Colorado, to over 11,000 feet in the high peaks of Tsisnadzi'ni,[52] San Mateo,[54] San Francisco,[56] and the San Juan[58] range, which traditionally border their land. In the central and more thickly inhabited portion the highest eminence is in the Tuincha Mountains, 9,575 feet. The average altitude is about 6,000 feet. The country consists mostly of great plains and of plateaux or mesas. While the lower levels, except in the bottom-lands of the constantly flowing rivers, are destitute of trees, the mesas, at altitudes of from 6,000 to 7,000 feet, are well covered with low forests of piñon (Pinus edulis), red cedar (Juniperus virginianus) and juniper (Juniperus occidentalis). At altitudes of 7,000 feet white pine (Pinus ponderosa) is sparingly found; but at altitudes of 8,000 feet or more it grows abundantly and attains a good size. Spruce (Pseudotsuga taxifolia) is found in shaded valleys, and on northern hill-slopes above 7,000 feet, but it does not form an important part of the forest. It is an essential element in certain rites. Cottonwood (Populus monolifera and P. wislizenii), aspen (Populus tremuloides), oak (Quercus gambellii), oak-bark juniper (Juniperus pachyphloea), and other trees grow less abundantly. 8. Pasturage--Flocks and Herds.--While the Navaho Indians cultivate the soil, it is evident, from what has been said, that they do not do so to any great extent. Their crops furnish but a small part of their subsistence. But their sterile country is fairly well adapted to the raising of sheep and goats. These form their chief food supply, and the former their principal source of wealth. With the money received for their wool they purchase flour and other provisions from the white traders, as well as various articles of luxury and utility. They possess many ponies and ride a great deal. They raise a few neat cattle. 9. As domesticated sheep and goats were unknown in America previous to the discovery by Columbus, and were unknown in New Mexico previous to the expedition of Coronado in A.D. 1540, it follows that the Navahoes have not been shepherds for many centuries. It would appear from their legends that it is not many years since they have become a prosperous and wealthy people (and such they now are, for savages); that in old days they were even poor hunters; and that they lived largely on the seeds of wild plants and on small animals that they caught in fall-traps. How meagrely they were dressed and equipped the legends also tell us. (See pars. 382, 384, 391.) POPULATION. 10. No exact census of the tribe has ever been taken, and it would not now be an easy task to take one, because the Navahoes are scattered so widely and over such a wild and rugged territory. Their low huts, built in tangled cedar-woods or in regions of scattered rocks, are often so obscurely hidden that one may ride through a cluster of a dozen inhabited houses thinking there is not an Indian within ten miles of him. When the Navahoes were held in captivity at Fort Sumner, New Mexico, from 1863 to 1867, they depended for subsistence mostly on rations supplied by the United States, and then these captives, at least, could be accurately counted. There were in 1867 7,300 in captivity.[298] Owing to desertions on the one hand, and additional surrenders on the other, the numbers varied from time to time. 11. But while the majority of the tribe were prisoners of war, it is well known that all were not captured during General Carson's invasion in 1863, but that many still roamed at large while their brethren were prisoners. The count of the prisoners, therefore, does not show the strength of the tribe. 12. Perhaps the most accurate census ever taken was that of 1869. "In November of 1869 a count was made of the tribe, in order to distribute among them 30,000 head of sheep and 2,000 goats. Due notice was given months before, and the tribe was present. The Indians were all put in a large corral, and counted as they went in. A few herders, holding the small herds that they had then bunched on the surrounding hills, were not in the corral. The result of this count showed that there were less than 9,000 Navahoes all told, making a fair allowance for all who had failed to come in. At that time everything favored getting a full count; rations were issued to them every four days; they had but little stock, and, in addition to the issue of the sheep and goats, there were also two years' annuities to be given out. The season of the year was favorable, the weather fine, and they were all anxious to get the sheep and goats and annuities."[268] 13. In 1890 a count of these Indians was made as a part of the Eleventh Census of the United States.[297] Before the count was begun, the writer was informed by one of the enumerators that the plan to be employed was this: The Navaho country was to be divided into a number of districts, and a special enumerator was to be sent to each district at the same time to visit each hut and take the number of each family. Whether this method was carried out, the report of the Eleventh Census does not tell us. But this plan, while probably the best that could be employed at the time with the means allotted, was very imperfect and admitted of numerous sources of error, of which two may be specified. Many huts might easily be passed unnoticed, for reasons already given, and this would make the enumeration too low. Many families might easily have been counted in more than one district, for the Navaho frequently shifts his abode, and this would make the count too high. The result of this enumeration was to give the tribe a population of 17,204 for that year. White men, living in the Navaho country at the time, generally considered the estimate excessive. If the count of 1869 be approximately correct, that of 1890 is probably not. It is not reasonable to suppose that by natural increase alone--and no other source of increment is known--the tribe should have nearly doubled in twenty-one years. It would require birth-rates much higher and death-rates much lower than those commonly found in Indian tribes to double the population in that time. The Indian mother is not prolific. 14. The Navahoes say that during their captivity they had much sickness and diminished in numbers; but nothing has been found in official reports to corroborate such statements. All who have any intimate knowledge of the Navahoes agree that they have increased rapidly since they were restored to their ancient homes in 1869. During nearly fifteen years that the author has had opportunity to observe them, he has noticed no marked signs of physical degeneration among them. Their general health and their power of resisting disease appeared about as good in 1894 as in 1880. Consumption and scrofula, those greatest enemies of our reservation Indians, have not yet begun to trouble the Navahoes. The change from the rude hut to the close stone house, which is rapidly going on among this people, is likely to affect their health in the future, and probably not for the better. Fortunately for them they have little fancy for stoves, but prefer open fireplaces such as the Pueblos and Mexicans use. In the year 1888, while the writer was absent from New Mexico, they had an epidemic of throat disease, the precise character of which has not been ascertained. They say that about 800 people died that winter. During the winter of 1894-95 they suffered from scarcity of food,--an unusual experience for them, and the government had to assist them. An increased mortality ensued, which undoubtedly would have been much greater had it not been for the prompt action of their agent, Maj. Constant Williams, U.S.A., in securing supplies for them. RACIAL AFFINITY--APPEARANCE. 15. The Navahoes are usually regarded by ethnologists as being, by blood as well as by language, of the Dèné or Athapascan stock, and such, probably, they are in the main. But their Origin Legend represents them as a very mixed race, containing elements of Zuñian and other Pueblo stocks, of Shoshonian and Yuman, and the appearance of the people seems to corroborate the legend. There is no such thing as a general or prevailing Navaho type. The people vary much in feature and stature. Every variety of Indian face and form may be seen among them,--tall men with aquiline noses and prominent features, such as we find among the Crows and Dakotas; dwarfish men with subdued features, such as we see among the Pueblos of New Mexico and Arizona, and every intermediate variety. 16. The countenances of the Navahoes are, as a rule, intelligent and expressive; some are stern and angry, some pleasant and smiling, others calm and thoughtful; but seldom are any seen that are dull and stupid. These characteristics are to be noted among the women as well as among the men. The social position of the Navaho women is one of great independence; much of the wealth of the nation belongs to them; they are the managers of their own property, the owners of their own children, and their freedom lends character to their physiognomies. PORTRAITS. 17. Fig. 1 is a picture of Manuelito, who for many years was the most influential chief among the Navahoes. Latterly he lost much of his influence in consequence of his intemperate habits, though he was regarded as a sage counsellor till the time of his death, which occurred in 1893. When he was gone, an old Indian, announcing his death to the writer, said: "We are now a people without eyes, without ears, without a mind." Fig. 2 represents another chief of much influence named Mariano, who also became addicted to drink in his old age and died in 1893. Fig. 3 shows a very intelligent and trustworthy Indian, a silversmith, known as Jake among the whites, but called by the Navahoes Náltsos Nigéhani, or Paper-carrier, because in his youth he was employed as a mail-carrier between Forts Wingate and Defiance. He it was who communicated to the author version B[306] of the Origin Legend. He practised a short medicine rite, was an adept in singing sacred songs, and often led in song in the great rites. His silver-work was in great demand, and he worked hard at his trade. In 1894 he accompanied a circus through the Eastern States, with his workshop as a side-show; but the journey proved too much for him--he died of heart disease on his return to New Mexico. Fig. 4 is a portrait of a Navaho woman named Tánapa, who took her hair out of braid preparatory to standing before the camera. Fig. 5 is a woman named Hádapa, whose smiling face is introduced as a contrast to the stern brow of Tánapa. Figs. 6 and 7 are Navaho men whose names have not been recorded. The expressions of their faces are in marked contrast. CRANIA. 18. As a rule the crania of the Navahoes are brachycephalic, and very few are dolichocephalic. The shortening seems to be due to a flattening in the occipital region (fig. 8). The author is of opinion that this is caused by the use of the baby-case, with a hard, unyielding wooden back (fig. 9), in which the Navaho women carry their infants. This flattening of the Navaho occiput has been the subject of some controversy. It is true that the cradle is padded to a slight extent; but the padding consists of the bark of the cliff rose (Cowania mexicana), called by the Navaho awétsal, or baby-bed, which forms a rather rigid pillow. True, again, when the baby is carried on the mother's back, its head often hangs forward and does not come in contact with the back of the cradle or the pillow; but most of the time the child lies on its back, and its tender occiput is subjected to deforming pressure. LANGUAGE. 19. The language of the Navaho undoubtedly belongs in the main to the Athapascan family. Hubert Howe Bancroft, in his "Native Races of the Pacific States" (vol. iii. p. 583),[292] tells us that the Athapascans or "Tinneh" are "a people whose diffusion is only equalled by that of the Aryan or Semitic nations of the Old World. The dialects of the Tinneh language are by no means confined within the limits of the hyperborean division. Stretching from the northern interior of Alaska down into Sonora and Chihuahua, we have here a linguistic line of more than four thousand miles in length, extending diagonally over forty-two degrees of latitude, like a great tree whose trunk is the Rocky Mountain range, whose roots encompass the deserts of Arizona and New Mexico, and whose branches touch the borders of Hudson Bay and of the Arctic and Pacific Oceans." But the Origin Legend declares it is a mixed language (par. 395), and it is but reasonable to suppose that such a composite race cannot possess a very pure language. The various accessions to the tribe from other stocks have probably added many words of alien origin. What these additions are is not now known, and will not be known until all the languages of the Southwest have been thoroughly studied. HOUSES. 20. The habitations of the Navahoes are usually of a very simple character. The most common form consists of a conical frame, made by setting up a number of sticks at an angle of about forty-five degrees. An opening is left on one side of the cone to answer as a doorway. The frame is covered with weeds, bark, or grass, and earth, except at the apex, where the smoke from the fire in the centre of the floor is allowed to escape. In the doorway an old blanket hangs, like a curtain, in place of a door. But the opening of the door is not a simple hiatus, as many descriptions would lead one to suppose. A cross-piece, forming a lintel, connects the jambs at a convenient height, and the triangular space between the lintel and the smoke-hole is filled in as shown in fig. 10. A picture in Schoolcraft's extensive work[327] (vol. iii. plate 17) is intended to represent a Navaho lodge; but it appears to have been drawn by Captain Eastman from an imperfect description. In this picture the doorway is shown as extended up and continuous with the smoke-hole. 21. Some lodges are made of logs in a polygonal form, as shown in fig. 11. Again they are occasionally built partly of stone, as shown in fig. 12. In cold weather a small storm-door or portico is often erected in front of the door (fig. 10), and an outer and an inner curtain may be hung to more effectually keep out the wind. 22. Shelters.--Contiguous to the hut, the Navaho usually constructs a rude shelter of branches. Here, in fair weather, the family often cook and spend most of the day. Here, too, the women erect their looms and weave or set out their metates and grind corn, and some even choose to sleep here. Such a "corral" is shown in fig. 12. 23. Summer Houses.--In summer they often occupy structures more simple than even the hut described above. Fig. 13 represents a couple of summer houses in the Zuñi Mountains. A structure of this kind is built in a few hours. A couple of forked sticks are set upright in the ground; slanting poles are laid against this in the direction of the prevailing winds, so as to form a windbreak, half wall and half roof, and this is covered with grass, weeds, and earth. The ends may be similarly enclosed, or may be merely covered in with evergreen branches. One side of the house is completely open. In fig. 13 a loom is shown set up for work in one of these rude structures, the aboriginal appearance of which is somewhat marred by having a piece of old canvas lying on top. 24. Medicine-lodges.--The medicine-lodges, when erected in regions where long poles may be cut, are usually built in the form of the ordinary hogáns (huts), though of much greater size (fig. 14). When these large lodges are constructed at low altitudes, where only stunted trees grow, they are built on a rude frame with walls and roof separate, somewhat on the same plan as the lodges formerly used by the Arickarees, Mandans, and other tribes on the Missouri, and seeming a connecting link between the Navaho hogán and the Mandan earth-lodge.[184] 25. Sweat-houses.--The sweat-house or sudatory is a diminutive form of the ordinary hogán or hut as described in par. 20, except that it has no smoke-hole (for fire is never kindled in it), neither has it a storm-door. It is sometimes sunk partly underground and is always thickly covered with earth. Stones are heated in a fire outside and carried, with an extemporized tongs of sticks, into the sudatory. Fig. 15 poorly represents one of these structures. When ceremonially used, the frame is constructed of different materials for different ceremonies, and the house is sometimes decorated with dry-paintings.[82] 26. Modern Houses.--During the past ten years, a few of the more progressive Navahoes have built themselves rectangular stone houses, with flat roofs, glazed windows, wooden doors, and regular chimneys, such as their neighbors, the Mexicans and Pueblo Indians, build. They have had before them, for centuries, examples of such houses, and they are an imitative and docile people. The reason they have not copied at an earlier date is probably a superstitious reason. They believe a house haunted or accursed in which a human being dies.[91] They abandon it, never enter it again, and usually destroy it. With such a superstition prevailing, they hesitate to build permanent dwellings. Perhaps of late years the superstition is becoming weakened, or they have found some mystic way of averting the supposed evil. ARTS. 27. The arts of the Navahoes are not numerous. They make a very rude and inartistic pottery,--vastly inferior to that of the neighboring Pueblo tribes,--and they make but little of it. Their bows and arrows are not equal to those of the northern Indians, and, since they have both money and opportunity to purchase modern firearms, bows and arrows are falling into disuse. They do not consider themselves very expert dressers of deerskin, and purchase their best buckskins from other tribes. The women do very little embroidery, either with beads or porcupine-quills, and this little is unskilfully done. The legends indicate that in former days they stole or purchased embroideries from the Utes. 28. Basketry.--They make excellent baskets, but very few of them, and have a very limited range of forms and patterns. In developing their blanket-making to the highest point of Indian art, the women of this tribe have neglected other labors. The much ruder but allied Apaches, who know nothing of weaving woollen fabrics, make more baskets than the Navahoes, and make them in much greater variety of form, color, and quality. The Navahoes buy most of their baskets and wicker water-jars from other tribes. They would possibly lose the art of basketry altogether if they did not require certain kinds to be used in the rites, and only women of the tribe understand the special requirements of the rites. Figs. 16 and 17 show the patterns of baskets almost exclusively made. These are used in ceremonies, and are called by the author sacred baskets. A further description of them is given in a note.[5] 29. Silver-work.--There are a few silversmiths in the tribe, whose work, considering the rudeness of their tools and processes, is very artistic. It is much sought after by white people, who admire its rude beauty. Probably the art of the smith has not existed long among the Navahoes. In a treatise entitled "Navajo Silversmiths,"[307] the author described the art as it existed in 1881; but the work has improved since that time with the introduction of better tools. Then the smith built his forge on the ground and squatted to do his work; now he builds it on an elevated frame (fig. 10), and sits on a stool or chair to work. Fig. 18 represents silver ornaments made by Jake in 1881. 30. Weaving.--It is in the art of weaving that the Navahoes excel all other Indians within the borders of the United States. In durability, fineness of finish, beauty of design, and variety of pattern, the Navaho blanket has no equal among the works of our aborigines. The author has written a treatise on "Navajo Weavers,"[309] in which he describes their art as it existed some thirteen years ago. But since that treatise was written the art has changed. It has improved in one respect: an important new invention has been made or introduced,--a way of weaving blankets with different designs on opposite sides. It has deteriorated in another respect: fugitive aniline dyes, purchased from the traders, have taken the place of the permanent native dyes formerly used. In the finer blankets, yarn obtained from white traders has supplanted the yarn laboriously twilled on the old distaff. Navaho blankets are represented in figs. 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, and 12. 31. The Navahoes weave diagonal cloth and diamond-shaped diagonals, and to do this a change is made in the mechanism of their simple looms. They weave belts or sashes, garters and saddle-girths, and these articles, too, require changes in the arrangement of the looms and in the methods of weaving. Fig. 20 represents an ordinary loom, with one set of healds. Fig. 21 represents a loom arranged for weaving diagonal cloth with two sets of healds. Fig. 4 shows a woman wearing a belt of native manufacture. The women depicted in figs. 5 and 21 wear dresses of Navaho cloth. 32. It is not only for gain that the Navaho woman weaves her blanket. Having worn it for a time, until it has lost its novelty, she may sell it for a price that scarcely pays her for the yarn. One who possesses large herds, and is wealthy for an Indian, will weave as assiduously as her poorest neighbor. At best, the labor brings low wages. The work is done, to no small extent, for artistic recreation, just as the females of our own race embroider and do "fancy work" for mere pastime. 33. Knitting.--They knit stockings with four needles, but these stockings are devoid of heels and toes. As the needles now used are of wire and obtained from the whites, it might be thought that the art of knitting was learned from our people; but knitted leggings, made of human hair, and wooden knitting-needles, have been found in the Navaho land, in cliff-dwellings which, there is reason to believe, were abandoned before the arrival of the Spaniards. INDUSTRY. 34. It cannot be said of the Navaho men, as it is often said of the men of other Indian tribes, that they are either too proud or too lazy to perform manual labor. They are, and apparently always have been, willing to do any remunerative work. When the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad was constructed near their reservation, in 1881, much of the grading was done by Navaho laborers. The white men who worked with them, and who had the strongest antipathy to Chinese laborers, said that they liked the Indians because they were good comrades on the work and kept up prices. A stalwart man is not ashamed to wash and iron clothes for wages, which he may want only to spend in gambling. They have been employed at Fort Wingate to dig cellars and make adobes, and at the latter work proved themselves more expert than the more experienced men of Zuñi. 35. Begging, which among other tribes is so often annoying to the white man, is little practised by the Navahoes. The few who have ever begged from the author persuaded themselves that they had some claim on him. On the whole, they are a self-supporting people, and add to the wealth of the community at large. But little government aid has been given them since they were released from captivity and supplied with stock in return for that slaughtered by our troops when their land was invaded. POETRY AND MUSIC. 36. For many years the most trusted account of the Navaho Indians of New Mexico and Arizona was to be found in a letter written by Dr. Jonathan Letherman,[303] of the army, and published in the Smithsonian report for 1855. Dr. Letherman had lived three years at Fort Defiance, in the heart of the Navaho country, when he wrote this letter, and he acknowledges his indebtedness, for assistance in preparing it, to Major Kendrick, who long commanded Fort Defiance. Both the doctor and the major were men of unusual ability. The former (having changed the spelling of his name to Letterman) afterwards distinguished himself as medical director of the Army of the Potomac, and the latter was, for many years, professor of chemistry at the National Military Academy. 37. From this letter the following statement concerning the Navahoes is extracted: "Of their religion little or nothing is known, as, indeed, all inquiries tend to show that they have none." "The lack of tradition is a source of surprise. They have no knowledge of their origin or of the history of the tribe." "They have frequent gatherings for dancing." "Their singing is but a succession of grunts, and is anything but agreeable." 38. The evidence of these gentlemen, one would think, might be taken as conclusive. Yet, fifteen years ago, when the author first found himself among the Navahoes, he was not influenced in the least by the authority of this letter. Previous experience with the Indians had taught him of how little value such negative evidence might be, and he began at once to investigate the religion, traditions, and poetic literature, of which, he was assured, the Navahoes were devoid. 39. He had not been many weeks in New Mexico when he discovered that the dances to which Dr. Letherman refers were religious ceremonials, and later he found that these ceremonials might vie in allegory, symbolism, and intricacy of ritual with the ceremonies of any people, ancient or modern. He found, erelong, that these heathens, pronounced godless and legendless, possessed lengthy myths and traditions--so numerous that one can never hope to collect them all, a pantheon as well stocked with gods and heroes as that of the ancient Greeks, and prayers which, for length and vain repetition, might put a Pharisee to the blush. 40. But what did the study of appalling "succession of grunts" reveal? It revealed that besides improvised songs, in which the Navahoes are adepts, they have knowledge of thousands of significant songs--or poems, as they might be called--which have been composed with care and handed down, for centuries perhaps, from teacher to pupil, from father to son, as a precious heritage, throughout the wide Navaho nation. They have songs of travelling, appropriate to every stage of the journey, from the time the wanderer leaves his home until he returns. They have farming songs, which refer to every stage of their simple agriculture, from the first view of the planting ground in the spring to the "harvest home." They have building songs,[6] which celebrate every act in the structure of the hut, from "thinking about it" to moving into it and lighting the first fire. They have songs for hunting, for war, for gambling, in short for every important occasion in life, from birth to death, not to speak of prenatal and post-mortem songs. And these songs are composed according to established (often rigid) rules, and abound in poetic figures of speech. 41. Sacred Songs.--Perhaps the most interesting of their metrical compositions are those connected with their sacred rites,--their religious songs. These rites are very numerous, many of them of nine days' duration, and with each is associated a number of appropriate songs. Sometimes, pertaining to a single rite, there are two hundred songs or more which may not be sung at other rites. 42. The songs must be known to the priest of the rite and his assistants in a most exact manner, for an error made in singing a song may be fatal to the efficacy of a ceremony. In no case is an important mistake tolerated, and in some cases the error of a single syllable works an irreparable injury. A noteworthy instance of this rule is a song sung at the beginning of work on the last night of the great ceremony of the night chant. The rite is one which may cost the patron from two hundred to three hundred dollars. It has lasted eight days and nights, when four singers, after long and careful instruction by the priest, come forth painted, adorned, and masked as gods to sing this song of the atsá`lei. Several hundred people--many from the farthest confines of the Navaho land--have come to sit up all night and witness the public ceremonies. The song is long, and is mostly made up of meaningless or obsolete expressions which convey no idea to the mind of the singer, yet not a single vocable may be omitted, mispronounced, or misplaced. A score or more of critics who know the song by heart are listening with strained attention. If the slightest error is made it is at once proclaimed, the fruitless ceremony terminates abruptly, and the disappointed multitude disperses. 43. The songs all contain significant words; but these, for poetic requirements, are often greatly distorted, and the distortions must be kept in mind. In speaking thus, scant justice is done to the Navaho poets. Similar distortions found in an Aryan tongue with a written literature are spoken of as figures of orthography and etymology, and, although there is yet no standard of spelling for the Navaho language, we would perhaps do well to apply the same terms in speaking of the Navaho compositions. The distortions are not always left to the whim of the composer. They are made systematically, as a rule. If the language were reduced to a standard spelling, we should find that the Navaho poets have as many figures of these classes as the English poets have, and perhaps more. 44. Some of the words, too, are archaic,--they mean nothing in modern Navaho; but the priests assign traditional meanings to them, and this adds to the task of memorizing. But, in addition to the significant words, there are (as instanced above) numerous meaningless vocables in all songs, and these must be recited with a care at least equal to that bestowed on the rest of the composition. These meaningless sounds are commonly introduced in the preludes and refrains of the stanzas and in the verse endings, but they may occur anywhere in the song. 45. The preludes and refrains here referred to are found, with rare exceptions, in every stanza and in every song. Although they are all either totally meaningless or only partly significant, they are the most characteristic parts of the poems, and the singer cons the preludes over when he wishes to call to mind any particular composition, just as we often remember a poem or song by means of the first line. They are rarely or never quite alike in any two songs, and great ingenuity is often displayed in giving them variety. 46. There is yet another burden laid on the memory of the singer of sacred songs, and this is the order of their arrangement. The songs of each ceremony are divided into groups which must follow one another in an established order, and each song has, in the group to which it belongs, a place that must not be changed under penalty of divine displeasure. To sing, during the progress of a rite, the sixth Song of the Whirling Sticks before the fifth song is sung, would be a sacrilege as great as to chant the syllables óhohohó, in place of éhehehé. To remember this exact order of sequence in a set of two hundred or three hundred songs is no easy task.[322] 47. But it may be said: "Perhaps things were different with the Navahoes in Dr. Letherman's day. May they not have learned from other tribes, or have themselves invented all this ceremony and song since he knew them?" The reply to this is, that it is absurd to suppose that such an elaborate system of rites and songs could have grown up among an illiterate people in the twenty-five years that elapsed between Dr. Letherman's departure from the Navaho country and the author's arrival there. Besides, the latter obtained his information from men of advanced age--from sixty to eighty years old--who practised these rites and sang these songs in their youth, and who in turn learned them from men of a departed generation. The shamans who conduct these ceremonies, tell these tales, and sing these songs are scattered widely over the Navaho country. Men who are scarcely acquainted with one another, and who learned from different preceptors, will sing the same sacred songs and to exactly the same tune. All the lore of the Navaho priesthood was undoubtedly extant in Dr. Letherman's time and for ages before. 48. Songless Women.--It is remarkable that, while the Navaho men are such fruitful composers of song and such ardent singers, the women, as a rule, do not sing. Among the wild hunting tribes of the North, as the author knew them thirty years ago, the women not only had songs of their own, but they took part in the ceremonial songs of the men. The Pueblo Indian women of New Mexico, neighbors of the Navahoes, have many fine songs, the song of the corn-grinders, often heard in Zuñi, being especially wild and musical. But usually the Navaho woman is songless. The writer tried a long time to find a woman who could sing, and offered good pecuniary inducements before he got one. She came from a distance of thirty miles. She knew no songs peculiar to her sex, but her father was a medicine-man, who frequently repeated his songs at home in order to familiarize himself with them, and she gradually picked up several of them. She sang in a musical soprano with much spirit, and was one of the most pleasing singers heard in the tribe. 49. Figures of Speech.--It is probable that all rhetorical figures of speech known to our poets may be found in these simple compositions of the Navahoes. But in many cases the allusions are to such recondite matters of symbolism, or incidents in their myths, that they could be made plain, if at all, only by a tedious recital. Thus it would not be easy to make clear in a few words why, when the goddess Estsánatlehi, in one of the songs to her honor, is spoken of as climbing a wand of turquoise, we know the poet means to say she is ascending San Mateo Mountain, in New Mexico, or why, when he speaks of her as climbing a wand of haliotis shell, he is endeavoring to tell us that she is ascending the peak of San Francisco in Arizona. Yet we may gain some idea of the meaning by referring to the myth (par. 193). 50. But some of the metaphors and similes are not so hard to understand. Here is a translation of the Dove Song, one of the gambling songs sung in the game of kesitsé:-- Wos Wos picks them up (seeds), Wos Wos picks them up, Glossy Locks picks them up, Red Moccasin picks them up, Wos Wos picks them up.[273] [316] Here Wos Wos (Wosh Wosh) is an onomatope for the dove, equivalent to our "coo coo"; but it is used as a noun. Glossy Locks and Red Moccasin are figurative expressions for the dove, of obvious significance. Metaphor and synecdoche are here combined. 51. Antithesis is not an uncommon figure with the Navaho poet. Here is an instance of it in a song belonging to the mountain chant, one of the great nine-day ceremonies of the shamans:-- The voice that beautifies the land! The voice above, The voice of the thunder, Among the dark clouds Again and again it sounds, The voice that beautifies the land. The voice that beautifies the land! The voice below, The voice of the grasshopper, Among the flowers and grasses Again and again it sounds, The voice that beautifies the land. Here the great voice of the thunder above is contrasted with the feeble voice of the grasshopper below, yet both are voices that make the world beautiful. 52. Many instances of climax have been noted. One here presented is from the mountain chant. It has but two steps to the ladder:-- Maid Who Becomes a Bear Sought the gods and found them, On the summits of the mountains Sought the gods and found them, Truly with my sacrifice Sought the gods and found them. Somebody doubts it, so I have heard. Holy Young Woman Sought the gods and found them, On the summits of the clouds Sought the gods and found them, Truly with my sacrifice Sought the gods and found them. Somebody doubts it, so I have heard. Maid Who Becomes a Bear (Tsiké Sas Nátlehi)[90] is an important character in Navaho mythology. The last line in each stanza is an instance of irony. 53. It will be seen from the instances given that they understand the value of repetition in poetry. The refrain is a favorite form of expression; but they know of other means of giving verbal melody to their songs, as may be seen in the following original text of the Bluebird (Sialia arctica) Song:-- Tsihayilkáe dóla aní, Áyas dotli'zi biza holó, Biza hozónigo, biza holó, Biza holónigo hwíhe inlí Dóla aní. Dóla aní. To appreciate this a translation is not necessary, but it is given, as the reader may wish to know it:-- Just at daylight Sialia calls. The bluebird has a voice, He has a voice, his voice melodious, His voice melodious that flows in gladness. Sialia calls. Sialia calls. The regular Navaho name for the bluebird "dóli" (changed here to "dóla" for poetic reasons) is translated Sialia, to distinguish it from the descriptive term "áyas dotli'zi" which means literally bluebird. 54. Rhyme.--They are not ignorant of the value of rhyme in poetry, but they more often produce this by the repetition of significant or meaningless syllables than by selecting different words with similar endings. Still we often find this, the more difficult means, resorted to as in the above song of the bluebird. 55. Music.--To the casual listener it may appear that there is much sameness in the music of their songs; but a more careful study will reveal the fact that the variety is great. It is remarkable how, with such rude instruments (an inverted basket for a drum, and a gourd rattle) to accompany them, they succeed, in a series of two hundred or more songs, in producing so many musical changes. In their sacred songs of sequence, where four or more songs of similar import follow one another, as is often the case, the music may be nearly alike (but never quite alike) in all; but when the theme of the poetry changes, the music also takes a decided change. 56. For further information on the subject of music the reader is referred to note 272, which contains remarks by Prof. John Comfort Fillmore, formerly of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, but now of Claremont, California. Over two years ago the writer sent a number of phonographic records of Navaho songs to Professor Fillmore, who has diligently studied them and has written many of them in musical notation. Some of the musical scores are appended to the note. TRIBAL ORGANIZATION. 57. Gentes.--The version of the Origin Legend by Tall Chanter, here given, accounts for only thirty-eight gentes among the Navahoes; but this informant was able to name, in all, forty-three gentes, two of which, he said, were extinct. Lists of the Navaho gentes have been obtained from various sources, and no single authority has been found to give a greater number than this. But no two lists are quite alike; they differ with regard to small or extinct gentes, and one list may supply a name which another has omitted. There would be at least fifty-one gentes extant and extinct in the tribe if each name so far obtained represented a different organization. But we find in the Legend instances of a gens having two names (pars. 386, 405, 428, 445). 58. On the other hand, it is possible that none of the lists may be complete. Gentes derived from women of alien races, added to the tribe since it has grown numerous and widely scattered, may exist in one part of the Navaho country unknown to the best informed persons in another part. Extinct gentes may be forgotten by one informant and remembered by another. 59. The following is a list of the forty-three gentes named by Tall Chanter:-- 1. Tse`dzinki'ni, House of the Black Cliffs (pars. 378-381). 2. Tse`tláni, Bend in a Cañon (par. 382). 3. Dsi'lnaoti'lni, Encircled Mountain (par. 385). 4. Haskánhatso (Haskanhatsódine`), Much Yucca (par. 386). 5. Nahopáni, Brown Streak; Horizontal on the Ground (par. 387). 6. Tsinadzi'ni, Black Horizontal Forest (par. 390). 7. Tha`nezá` (Tha`nezá`ni), Among the Scattered (Hills) (par. 392). 8. Dsiltlá`ni, Base of the Mountain (par. 393). 9. Thá`paha (Thá`pahadine`), Among the Waters (par. 394 et seq.). 10. Tsa`yiski'dni, Sage-brush Hill (par. 399). 11. Tse`zindiaí, Trap Dyke (par. 401). 12. Klógi (Klógidine`), (Name of an old pueblo) (par. 403). 13. Tó`hani, Beside the Water (par. 404). 14. Thá`tsini, Among the Red (Waters or Banks) (par. 405). 15. Kai (Káidine`), Willows (par. 405). 16. Kinlitsí (Kinlitsídine`), Red House (of Stone) (par. 406). 17. Destsíni, Red Streak (par. 408). 18. Tlastsíni, Red Flat (par. 408). 19. Notá (Notádine`), Ute (par. 409). 20. Nakaí (Nakaídine`), White Stranger (Mexican) (par. 410). 21. To`yetlíni, Junction of the Rivers (par. 411). 22. Háltso (Háltsodine`), Yellow Bodies (par. 412). 23. To`ditsíni, Bitter Water (par. 427). 24. Maitó` (Maitó`dine`), Coyote Spring (par. 428). 25. Hasli'zni (Hasli'zdine`), Mud (par. 429). 26. To`dokónzi, Saline Water (par. 430, note 171). 27. Bitá`ni, Folded Arms (par. 431). 28. Tsinsakádni, Lone Tree (par. 441). 29. Pinbitó` (Pinbitó`dine`), Deer Spring (par. 442). 30. Tse`nahapi'lni, Overhanging Rocks (par. 445). 31. Honagá`ni, Place of Walking (pars. 447, 448). 32. Kinaá`ni, High Standing House (par. 458). 33. To`baznaáz (To`baznaázi), Two Come for Water (par. 449). 34. Nanaste'zin, Black Horizontal Stripe Aliens (Zuñi) (par. 452). 35. Dildzéhi, (Not translated) (par. 453). 36. Ásihi (Ásihidine`), Salt (par. 454). 37. Maideski'z (Maideski'zni), Coyote Pass (Jemez) (par. 455). 38. Tse`yanató`ni (extinct), Horizontal Water under Cliffs (par. 457). 39. Tó`tsoni, Great Water (par. 459). 40. Bitáni or Dsiltáni, Brow of Mountain. 41. Tse`yikéhe (Tse`yikéhedine`), Rocks Standing near One Another. 42. Tliziláni, Many Goats (par. 407). 43. To`tsalsitáya (extinct), Water under the Sitting Frog. 60. The following are eight names obtained from other sources, and not mentioned by Tall Chanter:-- 44. Aatsósni, Narrow Gorge. 45. Naa`í (Naa`ídine`), Monocline. 46. Yóo, Beads. 47. Ka`náni, Living Arrows. 48. Tse`tháni, Among the Rocks. 49. Lóka (Lókadine`) Reeds (Phragmites). 50. Tse`deski'zni, Rocky Pass. 51. Hoganláni, Many Huts. 61. More than one translation of a gentile name has often been noted; but in the above lists only one translation is given,--that which the author regards with the most favor. Often, too, different narrators account differently for the origin of the gentile names. Some of the translations are very liberal, and others, again, very brief; but in the paragraphs and notes to which the reader is referred he will find fuller explanations. The Navahoes sometimes, but not invariably, add (as shown in the above lists) a suffix (diné`, ni, or i), signifying people; but in the above translations, to simplify the study, the word "people" is omitted. 62. There are reasons, which the author has set forth in a previous essay[318] and will not now repeat, for believing that most of the Navaho gentes were originally local exogamous groups, and not true gentes according to Morgan's definition.[325] There is little doubt that, in the majority of cases if not in all, the names of Navaho gentes, which are not the names of tribes, are simply designations of localities, even where the Legend states to the contrary; as, for instance, when it tells us that certain gentes of the Western immigrants were named from words that women uttered when they first tasted of the magic fountains (pars. 427, 429, 430). 63. On the other hand, there are passages in the Legend which indicate that a few of the Navaho gentes were once totemic, although no evidence of clan totems is known to exist among the Navahoes at the present time, and it is not improbable that a few of the gentile names may be of totemic origin, although they are now accounted for in other ways in the Origin Legend. The passage (par. 419) which tells us that Estsánatlehi gave certain pets to the wanderers from the West, and that these pets accompanied the people on their journey, refers in all probability to the former use of totemic clan symbols, and possibly to a custom of keeping live totemic animals in captivity,--a custom prevalent among the ancient Mexicans and the modern Pueblos, though not among the modern Navahoes. Other indications of a former totemism may be found in the story of the Deer Spring People (par. 442, note 195; see, also, note 173). 64. In reading the fourth chapter of the Origin Legend--"Growth of the Navaho Nation"--one is impressed with the different degrees of willingness, on both sides, with which new gentes are adopted into the nation. In some instances two parties, meeting for the first time, embrace one another and become friends at once (par. 382). The clans from the Pacific coast--the Western immigrants, as they are here called--learn of the existence of kindred tribes far to the east, take a long and dangerous journey to join them, and, when their march is done, they are received by the Navahoes at once as brethren. On the other hand, the legend tells us of bands that camp long in the neighborhood of the Navahoes before they become incorporated with the latter (par. 394); of other clans descended from captives (pars. 406, 454, 455); and of others that seek refuge among the Navahoes only to escape starvation or persecution at home (pars. 403, 452). On the basis of their mode of adoption, the clans may be divided into the ready and the reluctant. The cause of this is probably one of language. Bands which we know to have been allied in language to the Navahoes--such as those derived from the Apaches--will be found among the ready; while bands which we know to have spoken languages very different to the Navaho--such as those derived from the Utes, from Zuñi, and Jemez--will be found among the reluctant. It is not unreasonable to conclude that the same rule applies to clans of whose original language we know nothing. 65. Phratries.--The gentes of the Navahoes are divided into a number of groups, each of which may be called a phratry. Authorities in the tribe differ as to the number of the phratries, and as to the gentes that compose them. Some make but eight phratries. Captain Bourke[294] has obtained a list of eleven, with three independent gentes. Some of the Navahoes say there are twelve phratries, and suggest that they have some relation to the twelve tribes who dwelt in the first world. But the Navaho phratry seems not to be a homogeneous organization. A case is mentioned in the Legend where a gens has changed its phratral affinities (par. 451). Inquiry, too, has revealed that there are sub-groups. There may be closer bonds of alliance among some gentes in a group than there are among others in the same group. Authorities, then, may differ without invalidating each other's testimony. 66. These groups are indicated in the Legend when it says that one gens has become closely related or affiliated with another (pars. 385, 399, 403 et al.), or when it says that two gentes cannot intermarry (pars. 393, 401, 406). If the Navahoes have a term equivalent to "phratry," it has not been discovered. They have no special names for the different phratries; they often, but not always, speak of a phratry by the name of the most important gens in it. 67. If the Legend is to be taken as evidence, phratries have developed among the Navahoes both by segmentation of gentes and by the addition of new gentes from without; not by either method exclusively. But legendary evidence is not needed to show that gentes which bear to-day the names of alien tribes have been additions to the phratry. 68. Forbidden Degrees of Kindred.--A Navaho belongs to the gens of his mother and takes the name of that gens. Cases have been noted where a Navaho has been known by his gentile name and not by any other. No man may marry one of his own gens; neither may he marry one of his own phratry, though some exceptions seem to be made in the latter case where the limits of the phratry are not well defined. Where this descent in the female line exists among other tribes, it is held by some ethnographers that the man does not regard his father or his father's people as his relations, and may contract a marriage with a woman of his father's gens. Such is certainly not the case among the Navahoes. The gens and the phratry of the father are as much forbidden kindred as those of the mother. RELIGION. 69. Sources of Information.--That the Navahoes have a religion--an elaborate pagan cult--has already been intimated. There is little to be gained by asking a Navaho direct questions about this. Learned controversialists and theologians, capable of analyzing and discussing their faith, have not arisen among them, or, if they have, they cannot easily communicate their philosophy to us. But the civilized scholar has abundant material from which to study their religion, and he must do the analyzing himself. In the great dry-paintings shown on the floors of the medicine-lodges, during their long ceremonies, may be seen pictures of many of the gods, with their hieratic belongings. In the ceremonies, or so-called dances, men are masked to represent gods. In the myths the acts and deeds of the divine ones are described, and we learn their thoughts and feelings,--kind, like Indians, to their kindred; usually cruel, yet often merciful and magnanimous, to their foes. In the countless songs of the rites may be found the poetic side of the divine characters, and in the long prayers we may learn their potency, and discover how man hopes to commune with them and gain their favor. 70. No Supreme God.--The religion of this people reflects their social condition. Their government is democratic. There is no highest chief of the tribe, and all their chiefs are men of temporary and ill-defined authority, whose power depends largely on their personal influence, their oratory, and their reputation for wisdom. It is difficult for such a people to conceive of a Supreme God. Their gods, like their men, stand much on a level of equality. 71. Sun God.--In the version of the Origin Legend here given, the Sun God would seem to have some precedence over the others, but in the beginning he was only one of the people; he never figures conspicuously as a Creator, and is far from omnipotent. Other gods, less potent or less respected, lived before the time of man, and were powerful before the sun was made. 72. Creation.--The Legend begins with an already created world; there is no original creation and no Creator of all. If the Navahoes have a story of the beginning of all things, the author has not learned it. To a god called Békotsidi[78] is given the credit of having made all animals whose creation is not otherwise accounted for in the myths, especially domestic animals. Some of the Indians who have heard vaguely of our Creator are of the opinion that Békotsidi is the God of the Americans. 73. Estsánatlehi.--But it is generally acknowledged by the Navahoes that their most revered deity is Estsánatlehi,[95] the Woman Who Changes (or rejuvenates herself). Much is said of her in the legends, but something more is to be obtained by conversation with the shamans. The name Estsánatlehi is derived by syncopation from estsán, woman, and natéhi, to change or transform. She is so called because, it is supposed, she never remains in one condition, but that she grows to be an old woman, and in the course of time becomes a young girl again, and so passes through an endless course of lives, changing but never dying. It is probable that she is an apotheosis of Nature, or of the changing year. 74. The deity of fruitful Nature is properly a female and a beneficent goddess. She is properly, too, as the legends tell us, the wife of the Sun, to whom Nature owes her fertility. Her home is said to be in the west, probably for the reason that in the Navaho country, which lies mostly on the Pacific slope, the rain comes usually from the west, and from that direction, too, come the thawing breezes in the spring. 75. Yolkaí Estsán.--A divinity called Yolkaí Estsán,[96] or White Shell Woman, created (or found, as some versions say) at the same time as Estsánatlehi, is called the younger sister of the latter. The two goddesses are associated in the myths, but White Shell Woman always acts the subordinate part, and to-day is honored with a less degree of worship than her sister. Estsánatlehi, made of an earthly jewel, turquoise, is related to the land. Yolkaí Estsán, made of white shell from the ocean, is related to the waters. 76. War Gods.--Next in importance to Estsánatlehi, the sacred brethren, Nayénezgani (or Nagénezgani) and To`badzistsíni,[127] seem to stand. The writer designates these as the War Gods, but the Navahoes do not call them thus. According to the version of the Origin Legend here given, one of these was the child of Estsánatlehi and the Sun; the other the child of Yolkaí Estsán and the Water, and this is the version most consistent in all respects. Other versions make both the brothers children of Estsánatlehi. Some say they were born twins. Accepting any of these versions, they would properly be called brothers, according to the Indian system of relationship, and such they are called in the legends. Their chief mission was to destroy the alien gods; but they still help the warriors in battle, and aid the sick who suffer from witchcraft. The longest chapter in the Origin Legend is devoted to recounting their genesis and history. In reading the chapter, it will be apparent to the comparative mythologist that these characters have their counterparts, which need not now be mentioned, in the myths of many races in both hemispheres. From their mythic associations it would appear that Nayénezgani is a god of light, with its associated heat, while To`badzistsíni is a god of darkness, with its associated moisture; yet, apparently in contradiction to this, the representative of the former is painted black and wears a black mask in the ceremonies (plate IV.), while the representative of the latter is painted red and wears a red mask (plate VII.). 77. Nayénezgani, whose name signifies Slayer of the Alien Gods,[127] is spoken of as the elder brother in the legends and always plays the more important part. To`badzistsíni, or Child of the Water,[127] is called the younger brother and always appears as a subordinate character. In the ceremonies, the masquerader who personates Nayénezgani always walks in front, while he who personates To`badzistsíni comes behind. The two gods are always associated in prayer and sacrifice, but here, again, Nayénezgani takes precedence. In all the sacred songs where they are mentioned, the superiority of Nayénezgani is indicated. Antithesis, as has been said, is a favorite figure with the Navaho poets, and they often employ it when speaking of these gods. The "Song of the Approach" of the War Gods in the ceremony of klédzi hatál will serve, as well as many other compositions, to show how they treat this subject. It may be freely translated thus:-- He advances! He advances! Now Slayer of the Alien Gods advances, Above, among the mountain peaks, he advances, In danger he advances. He advances! He advances! Now Child of the Water advances Below, among the foothills, he advances, In danger he advances. Thus both the gods come to the aid of the supplicant; but while the elder strides proudly on the summits of the mountains, the younger walks humbly among the foothills. 78. Yéi.--There are a number of divinities in the Navaho pantheon known as yéi (in compound words often pronounced ye or ge), which is translated "god" or "genius." What distinction exists between the yéi and other gods is not easy to determine definitely. The Zuñians have a class of gods called by the same name, or, more correctly, "yéyi," as Mr. Cushing pronounces it. Certain chiefs or important personages among these gods are called by names which begin with the syllables hastsé--as Hastséyalti[73] (Talking God), Hastséhogan[74] (House God). It is believed that this, if spelled etymologically, would appear as hastyé, but it is not so pronounced, Hast is a prefix denoting age, especially venerable age. We have it in the word hastín, which means a worthy or respected old man. Hastyé would mean a venerable yéi or god. The yéi seem to be deities of minor importance to those previously mentioned and to be more numerous. Thus, while there is but one Estsánatlehi, but one Nayénezgani, and but one To`badzistsíni there are several Hastséhogan and several Hastséyalti, who are chiefs of the yéi. The yéi are supposed to abide in certain localities, and in prayers in their honor the home is mentioned of the yéi to whom appeal is specially made. A place called Tsé`natsi, or Red Horizontal Rock, somewhere north of the San Juan River, Tse`gíhi, another place north of the San Juan, and the White House (fig. 22), in the Chelly Canyon, are important homes of the yéi.[265] Each of the sacred mountains has its group of yéi. In the myths of klédzi hatál, more than a score of places are named where yéi dwell. There are some reasons for believing that the cult of the yéi is derived from the Cliff-dwellers, or from the Pueblos; but there are arguments, too, against this theory. The subject will not be further considered here. The yéi are supposed to be married and have families. The males are called yébaka; the females, yébaad.[200] Hastsézini,[212] the god of fire, and Hastséoltoi,[206] the divine huntress, or goddess of the chase, belong, as their names indicate, to the yéi; while Gánaskidi,[207] the harvest god, and Tó`nenili[98] Water Sprinkler, are associated with them in the legends. 79. Digíni.--Digi'n means sacred, divine, mysterious, or holy. It is not quite synonymous with the Dakota wakán or the Hidatsa hopá. It is not applied to the treatment of disease; it is not applied in a general way to religious ceremonial; it has not been heard applied to the anáye, or other things of evil: for this reason it is often translated "holy." Digíni, derived from digi'n, means holy people, gods, divinities. It is a name applied to the highest and lowest divinities, including the yéi (see notes 92 and 93). 80. Alien Gods.--Such are the gods that are friendly to the human race; but man has his enemies, too, among the mysterious powers. Chief among the latter are the anáye,[7] the alien gods or inimical genii. These, being analogous to the giants and ogres of European folk-lore, are sometimes called giants in this work. They are usually represented as creatures of great size. Many of them are described in the Origin Legend. The worst have been slain, as the story relates; but others, being not unmixed evils, still remain to torment man. The legend, in accounting for their continued existence, shows the philosophic endeavor of our race to reconcile itself to the unwelcome inevitable. 81. Water God.--The position of Tiéholtsodi,[8] the water monster, is one of transferred allegiance. He was once the enemy of our race, but now has become friendly to it in certain ways, though it is probable that he is still thought to be responsible for cases of drowning. Other gods, who were once inimical to man but are now his friends, are mentioned in the legends (par. 354). But we are not without evidence that the Navaho fears to offend his most beneficent gods lest the latter may directly punish him, or at least withhold their succor in his hour of need. 82. Devils.--Besides the alien gods, there are evil spirits haunting the earth which men dread; these are the tsi'ndi, whose name cannot be better translated than by calling them devils. The Navahoes frequently speak of the tsi'ndi (Englished, chindee), and they often use the term as an angry exclamation, just as the profane among ourselves say, "Oh the Devil!" or "You devil!" (see pars. 257, 260), yet they dislike to discuss its character or appearance. They believe there is a devil associated with every corpse, and that it has something of the appearance of a partly decayed corpse. The spirit of the dead man goes to the lower world, which was the former home of the race, yet a demon remains with the dead body. Other Indians believe in a similar corpse spirit, yet the author has never known any who have such dread as the Navahoes of human mortuary remains. (See par. 188 and note 91.) 83. Zoölatry.--The legend tells us that there is a First Man and a First Woman (see pars. 160-165), who came into being in the fourth world as the result of a special act of creation: but they have not died like Adam and Eve; they still live in some form; they are potent; they are immortal; they are divine. But it is not man only that has his divine ancestral prototype: every animal on the face of the earth has its also, and many, if not all, of these are objects of worship. A share of reverence, too, in some cases, as in that of the bear, is bestowed on their mortal descendants. In the rite of the mountain chant[314] many of the sacrifices are sacred to the animals of the mountains. In short, zoölatry is an important element in Navaho worship. 84. Local Gods.--Some of the gods mentioned are also local divinities; thus the War Gods are local divinities at To`ye'tli (par. 374), and the yéi are local divinities at Tsé`natsi. But, in addition to these, there are other gods of places so numerous that a complete list of them will probably never be obtained. In the Origin Legend it is shown that each of the sacred mountains of the Navaho land (seven in number according to Tall Chanter) has its divine pair of indwelling guardians, and these seem to receive more honor than any others which are gods of places only; but the genii of other mountains and of different rocks and canyons have their prayers and sacrifices in some of the rites. 85. Fanciful legends of places are common in all lands and among all races, but no people are more ingenious in composing such tales than our American Indians. The Navaho has unusual sources of inspiration in this direction, and he fails not to profit by them. His land abounds in wonderful geologic formations, in rocks strangely sculptured by rain and by Nature's sand-blast, in vast volcanic peaks and fields of lava; and it abounds also, as might be expected, in myths accounting for these features, and in the genii which belong to the myths. A few of these myths are incorporated in the tales told in this work, but they are very few compared with the total of such legendary lore. 86. The strength of their belief in these local divinities may be illustrated by the following incident: The writer once made a journey, accompanied by two Navahoes, to Tsúskai[9] (Chusca Knoll), which is supposed to be the home of the Tsiké Sas Nátlehi, or Maidens who Become Bears. When the party got to the top of the ridge from which the knoll rises, and about three hundred yards from the base of the knoll, the Indians refused to go farther, saying they feared the divine ones who dwelt in the knoll. The writer proceeded alone, and had much difficulty in riding up the pathless hill, among loose rocks and fallen trees. On the summit he found a little hollow among the rocks full of sand, and, scraping into this, he discovered a number of hand-wrought stone and shell beads, which had been put there as sacrifices. When he descended from the knoll, he found the Indians awaiting him where he had left them, and all set out together to retrace the rough mountain trail down to Red Lake. In a little while, his horse becoming very lame, the writer was obliged to dismount. "What has made your horse lame?" asked the Indians. "He must have struck his leg against some of the fallen trees when he was climbing the knoll," was the answer. "Think not thus, foolish American," they said. "It was not the fallen trees that wounded your horse. The digíni of the mountain have stricken him because you went where you had no right to go. You are lucky if nothing worse happens to you." Of course Indians had been up to the top of the knoll, or the beads could not have been put there; but they went only after preparatory prayer and only to deposit sacrifices. 87. Demonolatry.--There are writers who say that the Indians "worship the Devil" and other malevolent powers; but it is not only learned authors who speak thus. Jesus Alviso, a Mexican captive reared among the Navahoes, said to the author in 1880: "Los Indios hacen figuras de todos sus diablos, señor" ("The Indians make figures of all their devils, sir"), and it was this hint which led to the discovery of their dry-paintings. He called them devils; in this work they are called gods. Perhaps other tribes worship personifications of evil, but certainly the Navahoes do not. The gods who are supposed to love and help men the most receive the greatest honor. The evil spirits are not worshipped except, rumor says, by the witches. It would appear, moreover, from the Origin Legend, that the worst of evil powers--the alien gods--were long ago destroyed, and that only demons of minor influence remain. The chief of witches, Estsán Natán, or Woman Chief, has her home beneath the earth, in one of the lower worlds. CEREMONIES. 88. A great number of ceremonies are practised by the Navaho priests. Many of these are of nine days' duration; there are others that last but a single day or a few hours. To learn one of the great rites so as to become its hatáli (chanter, singer),[16] or priest, is the work of many years, and no one knows more than one such rite perfectly. The older priests know something of other rites, may assist at them and sing songs at them, but are not competent to conduct them. A priest of a great rite may know some of the lesser rites. 89. All the great ceremonies which the writer has witnessed among the Navahoes are primarily for the healing of the sick; but the occasion is always used to ask the gods for various temporal blessings, not only for the sick person but for all,--the shaman, the relations of the sick, and for the people in general. The invalid, for whose benefit the rite is performed, defrays all the expenses of the ceremony, which often amount in value to the sum of two hundred or three hundred dollars. The Navahoes being a scattered and to some extent a wandering people who do not build towns, they lack the organization to have rites of a more public character, such as the village Indians have.[184] Hence these healing ceremonies, in which the sick man and his relations become hosts, are used as occasions for prayer for the common weal, and as occasions in which large numbers may assemble to witness interesting exhibitions and have the social enjoyments which attend the gathering of a crowd. 90. Minor Ceremonies.--Among the minor ceremonies, besides those for healing the sick, are those of planting, harvesting, building, war, nubility, marriage, travel, and many other occasions in life. In addition to these, there are ceremonies for special occasions, as for bringing rain. During an unusually dry season a number of Navahoes may subscribe together and raise a good fee for a priest to sing, pray, sacrifice, and conduct a ceremony to bring rain. 91. Origin of Ceremonies.--The late Mr. A. M. Stephen of Arizona, who for many years studied the rites and myths of both Mokis and Navahoes, has often called the attention of the writer to the many resemblances between the cults of these two tribes, who differ so much in other respects, and he has suggested that the Navahoes may have borrowed from the Mokis. This may be the case, for the Navahoes have, probably, people of Moki descent among them, and they have had intercourse with the Mokis, both peaceful and warlike, for a long time. But, throughout all the Navaho legends so far collected, it is strongly indicated that the Navaho cultus, where borrowed, came from cliff-dwellers, from inhabitants of pueblos now deserted, and from wild tribes. The Mokis figure but little in the Navaho rite-myths. The author is inclined to believe that the Navahoes have not borrowed much directly from the Mokis, but that both tribes have taken inspiration from common sources. In radical points of symbolism, such as the sacred colors and the ceremonial circuit, the Navaho and Moki rites differ widely. 92. Elements of Ceremonies.--In the ceremonies there are numerous minor acts of such diverse character that they cannot be classified and are not described in this work. They can be discussed better in connection with the rites to which they belong. There are other acts of minor importance, such as the ceremonial bath[10] [82] and the administration of pollen,[11] which are considered in the notes. But there are six elements of the worship which constitute such important parts in all the great rites that brief descriptions of them are presented in this introduction. These six are: Sacrifice, painting, masquerade, dance, prayer, and song. The last has been already discussed (par. 41 et seq.). 93. Sacrifices.--The sacrifices of the Navahoes are innocent and bloodless. Their kindly gods are easily propitiated. Like their worshippers, they are all fond of tobacco, and they prize a few feathers and beads. Even the chief war god demands no smoking hearts or blood of captives; a little painted cigarette is all he asks in return for his favors. An extensive chapter might be written about the sacrificial cigarettes and sticks which the Navahoes call ketán (Englished, kethawn), but a short description of them must suffice here. (See note 12.) 94. Cigarettes.--The cigarettes are usually made of the hollow joints of the common reed (Phragmites communis), but other plants are sometimes used. To form a cigarette, a piece of the reed is cut off with a stone knife, the node being excluded; it is rubbed with sandstone, so that the paint may adhere; it is painted with some symbolical device; a wad of feathers is inserted into it to keep the tobacco from falling out; it is filled with some kind of native tobacco,[223] usually the Nicotiana attenuata, or dsi'lnato of the Navahoes; it is sealed with moistened pollen and symbolically lighted with a rock crystal, which is held up to the sky and touched to the tip of the cigarette. After it has been prayed over it is taken out and left for--i.e., sacrificed to--the god for whom it is intended. The god, they say, recognizes it by its symbolic painting and by the place where it is sacrificed. He picks it up, smells and examines it. If he is satisfied that it is properly made and that it is for him, he takes it and bestows on the supplicant the favors asked. 95. Sacrificial Sticks.--Besides the cigarettes, small sticks are used as sacrifices to the gods. These are made from a variety of woods,--different gods and different occasions requiring woods of different sorts,--and they are painted in a variety of ways for the same reasons. They are usually made in pairs, one for the male and the other for the female. Celibacy is not practised by the Navaho gods; every deity has its mate, and she must be propitiated as well as he. The female is distinguished in some way from the male, and this is usually done by cutting a small facet at the tip end of the female stick (see fig. 23), to represent the square mask worn by one who masquerades as a goddess in the ceremonies. He who appears as a god wears a round cap-like mask (fig. 27), and the round cut end of the stick sufficiently represents this. 96. Often the feathers of different kinds of birds are sacrificed with the kethawns, either attached to the latter or separate; also beads of stone or shell and various kinds of powdered vegetable and mineral substances, including pollen,[11] which is the most sacred substance employed by the Navaho priests. 97. Disposal of Kethawns.--The different ways in which kethawns are deposited or sacrificed are as numerous as are their forms, materials, and decorations, and each way has its special symbolism. Some are laid in the branches of a tree, others among rocks, others at the base of a cliff, others, again, at the root of a tree, and others on level ground; a few are thrown away almost at random, but most of them are laid down with care and with rigorous ceremonial form. All that are laid with care are placed with their tips away from the lodge, and each is destined to go toward some particular point of the compass. When the bearer of the sacrifice leaves the lodge, he proceeds in the direction of the place selected for the sacrifice; when he has deposited it he turns to the right and takes a sunwise direction in returning. He does not cross his outgoing trail; he must not walk through an ant-hill; he must run both going and coming.[12] 98. Ceremonial Pictures.--The pictures accompanying the Navaho rites are among the most transitory in the history of art. In previous essays the author has called them dry-paintings. Similar works have been observed among other tribes, both nomadic and sedentary, and the observers have designated them as "sand-paintings," "sand-altars," etc. They are drawn in all the great rites, and even in some of the lesser rites--those of only one day's duration--small but handsome dry-paintings are sometimes made. They vary in size from four to twelve feet in diameter. Sometimes the fire in the centre of the medicine-lodge must be removed in order to accommodate them. The groundwork is sand, which is conveyed in blankets into the medicine-lodge, and spread out over the floor to the depth of about three inches. It is smoothed with the broad oaken battens used in weaving. 99. Before the sand is brought in, the pigments are ground to powder and put on broad pieces of pine bark, which serve as trays--or palettes, shall we say? The pigments are five in number,--white, red, yellow, black, and gray. The white, red, and yellow are made of sandstone. The black is made of powdered charcoal, with which a little sandstone is mixed to facilitate the grinding and give weight to the powder. The gray, made of black and white mixed in suitable proportions, is intended to represent blue, is called blue by the Navahoes, and, combined with the other colors, has the effect of blue in the paintings. It will be spoken of as blue in the subsequent descriptions. The Navahoes use indigo and a native bluish mineral pigment to paint masks, kethawns, and other small objects; but for the dry-paintings such a large quantity is needed that these would be too expensive. To apply the colored powder, a pinch of it is taken up between the thumb and first two fingers and allowed to fall slowly on the sand, while the thumb is moved over the fingers. 100. To paint one of these large pictures may require the labor of several men--a dozen sometimes--working from early morning till late in the afternoon. The picture must be finished before dark, for it is impracticable to work on it with such artificial lights as the Indians can command. While the work is in progress the priest who conducts the ceremonies does little more than direct and criticise. The operators have received a certain initiation. They have seen the picture painted before and are familiar with its details. If an error is made the faulty part is not erased; sand is spread on it to obliterate it, and the corrected drawing is made on the new deposit of sand. The pictures are drawn according to exact and established rules. Some parts are measured by palms and spans, and not a line of the sacred designs may be varied in them. In drawing straight lines the colored powder is poured over a tightened cord. But in a few cases the artist is allowed to indulge his fancy, thus, in drawing the embroidered pouches which the gods wear suspended at the waist (plate I.), the limner may, within certain limits, give his god as handsome a pouch as he wishes and embroider it to suit his notion. The naked forms of the mythical characters are drawn first and then the clothing and ornaments are laid on. 101. When the picture is finished a number of ceremonies (differing somewhat in different rites) are performed over it. Pollen or corn-meal may be placed on certain parts of the sacred figures, and one of these substances may be scattered over it. Water or medicinal infusions may be applied to it. At length the patient is brought in and placed sitting on the picture. Moistening his palms, the shaman or an assistant takes the colored dust from various parts of the divine figures and applies it to similar parts of the subject's body. Medicine is then usually administered in four draughts. When the patient leaves, others in the lodge who are ill, or fancy themselves ill, take dust on their palms from the picture and apply it to their own persons. He who has headache takes dust from the head in the picture and applies it to his own head. He who has sore feet takes dust from the pictured feet. When all are done the picture is badly marred; it is then totally obliterated,--the method and ceremony of obliteration differing in different rites,--and the sand on which it was drawn is taken out of the lodge and thrown away. The floor on the lodge is swept, and the uninitiated, entering a moment later, has no evidence of what has taken place. 102. Plate I. shows pictures of five different gods as they appear separately in the dry-paintings. Figure 29 represents, in black, a complete painting (the original of which was done in five different colors) from the rite of the klédzi hatál, or the night chant. It will be observed that some of the gods or yéi of plate I. are to be seen in fig. 29. 103. The medicine-men declare that these pictures have been transmitted from teacher to pupil, unchanged in all the years since they were revealed to the prophets of the rites. There are good reasons for believing that this is not strictly true: the majority of the great ceremonies may be performed only during the coldest part of the year,--the months when the snakes are dormant. No permanent copies of the pictures were ever preserved until the author painted them; they were carried from season to season in the memories of men, and there was no final authority in the tribe to settle questions of correctness. But it is probable that changes, if they occurred, were unintentional and wrought slowly. After the writer made copies of these pictures, and it became known to the medicine-men that he had copies in his possession, it was not uncommon for the shamans, pending the performance of a ceremony, to bring young men who were to assist in the lodge, ask to see the paintings, and lecture on them to their pupils, pointing out the various important points, and thus, no doubt, saving mistakes and corrections in the medicine-lodge. The water-color copies were always (as the shamans knew) kept hidden at the forbidden season, and never shown to the uninitiated of the tribe. 104. Masquerade.--In the rites, men appear representing gods or other mythic characters. Sometimes such representations are effected by means of paint and equipment only, as in the case of the akáninili, or messenger of the mountain chant,[314] who is dressed to represent the prophet Dsi'lyi Neyáni as he appeared after the Butterfly Goddess had transformed him; but on other occasions masks are added to the dress, as in the rites of the night chant. In this there are twenty-one masks,[267] made of sacred buckskin,[13] for representatives of the gods to wear, besides a mask of yucca leaves[14] trimmed with spruce twigs (fig. 26), which the patient wears on one occasion. The buckskin masks, without plumes or collars, are kept in a sack by the shaman, and he carries them on horseback to the place where the rites are to be performed; there they are freshly painted, and the collars and plumes are added just before they are to be used in the ceremony. 105. Plates IV. and VII. show the masks as they are actually worn, and exhibit men as they are dressed and painted to represent the War Gods. In plate I. we get representations of these masks as they are depicted in the dry-paintings. Fig. 27 shows the mask of Hastséyalti, the Talking God, as it appears when all is ready for the dance, with plume and collar of fresh spruce twigs applied. Fig. 28 depicts the mask of a yébaad, or female yéi. The female masks cover only the face, leaving the hair free. The male masks (fig. 27) cover the entire head, concealing the hair. 106. When a man is dressed in his godly costume he does not speak; he only makes motions and utters a peculiar cry,--each god has his own special cry,--and he may perform acts on the patient with his special weapon or talisman. The masquerader, they say, is, for the time being, no longer a Navaho, but a god, and a prayer to him is a prayer to a god. When he enters the lodge and sits down before the sick man, the latter hands him his sacrifice and prays to him devoutly, well knowing that it may be his own uncle or cousin, disguised in the panoply of divinity, who receives the sacrifice. 107. Dance.--It has been customary with travellers to speak of Indian ceremonials as dances. This is chiefly for the reason that the dance most attracts the attention of white men, and the other portions of the work are likely to pass unheeded. Dancing is rarely the most important element of an Indian ceremonial, and among the Navahoes it is always a minor element. In some of the lesser rites it does not occur at all. In the nine days' ceremony of the mountain chant it occurs only on the last night, and then forms but a part of the show,--rude dramatic performances and feats of legerdemain (see fig. 30) occupying about an equal time until the entertainment ends, soon after dawn. In the nine days' ceremony of the night chant, dancing as a part of the ceremony is confined to the last night, although undress rehearsals of the dance take place after sunset for a few days before. 108. These dances of the Navaho, although accompanied with religious symbolism, and performed often by men wearing sacred costumes, are undoubtedly intended largely to entertain the spectators. While but a few people may be present during the first eight or nine days of a great ceremony, a large crowd always gathers to witness the performances of the last night, and many people stay up all night to do this. On the last night of the mountain chant the dances are picturesque and various. Many of them are borrowed from other rites. They have been described by the author in a previous work. On the last night of the night chant the dance and song vary but little, and to the ordinary observer may seem not to vary at all. Yet the spectators who come to the mountain chant are not more wakeful and watchful than those who come to the night chant. The dancing is always rhythmical and well-timed. Figures are often introduced like those of our quadrilles; but no round dances, like our waltz or polka, have been observed--the rough ground is not suited for such. The dancers and the drummers practise long in private before coming to the public exhibition. 109. Prayer.--In a paper entitled "The Prayer of a Navaho Shaman,"[315] the author has published a long composition, called a prayer by the man from whom he received it, which is a simple narrative and does not contain a word of supplication. This is the only prayer of such character obtained from a Navaho. Many other long prayers have been recorded, all of which are formed on a common plan. The name of a god is mentioned, and some flattering attributes are given to him. If it is a god such as Hastséyalti, of which there are more than one of the same name, his residence is mentioned. He is informed that sacrifices have been prepared for him. He is asked to remove the spell of disease. Immediately he is assured that it is removed. Then he is asked to bestow various blessings on the supplicant and all his kindred and people. The prayer is given out, one sentence at a time, by the shaman, and the patient repeats it after him, sentence by sentence. 110. These prayers, repeated by two voices, sound much like litanies, and all end with an expression (hozóna hastlé) analogous to the amen of Christian prayers, four times repeated; yet the Navaho prayers show in their spirit no indication of the influence of Christian teaching. They are purely pagan compositions. The only evidence of any modern influence they present is the occasional inclusion of a request for increase of wealth in the shape of horses and sheep. A typical Navaho prayer from the rites of klédzi hatál is given in note 288. 111. Besides these long prayers, repeated by two persons, the shamans have many monologue prayers; there are prayers silent and vocal, formulated and extempore, used by both priest and layman; and there are short devotional sayings which may be classed as benedictions and ejaculations. THE LEGENDS. 112. Of the many lengthy myths and legends obtained by the author from the Navahoes, three have been selected for publication in this volume. The first is the Origin Legend of the tribe; the other two are incomplete rite-myths, i.e., rite-myths told by men who were not priests of the associated rites. 113. Versions.--As might be expected among an unlettered people, thinly scattered over a wide territory, the legends of the Navahoes have many variants. No two men will tell the same tale exactly alike, and each story-teller will probably maintain that his own version is the only reliable one. Variations of the Origin Legend, which is the property of the tribe at large, and, unlike the rite-myths, is not in the keeping of any especial order or priesthood, are particularly numerous; but even in the rite-myths, as told by priests of the rites, versions may be found. Notwithstanding these varieties, the tale-tellers agree substantially in the more important matters. Of the two rite-myths given in this work, only one version of each was procured; but several versions of the Origin Legend, complete or partial, were recorded. The one here published was selected as being the most complete, extensive, and consistent of all. Other versions often supplement it. The narrators sometimes acknowledged that they had forgotten episodes which others had remembered and detailed. The learned old shaman, Hatáli Nez, forgot to tell how the stars were made; while a younger and less erudite person, Jake the silversmith, related a fair version of this episode, which came also from other sources to the writer. Jake's version of the Legend, which has already been published, is designated in the notes as Version B;[306] that of old Torlino, a priest of the hozóni hatál, is designated as Version A. Other versions are alluded to, but not designated by letter or number. Some fragmentary versions by other authors[291] [300] have been published, but these are not quoted in the notes. 114. Origin Legend.--The Origin Legend divides itself into four very distinct parts or chapters, which are named: I. The Story of the Emergence; II. Early Events in the Fifth World; III. The War Gods; IV. The Growth of the Navaho Nation. The name of the first part is that given to it by the Navaho story-tellers. The names of the other parts are supplied by the author. The first part, The Story of the Emergence, ends when it is related that the people came out from the fourth world to the surface of this, the fifth world.[15] 115. Rite-myths.--By a rite-myth is meant a myth which accounts for the work of a ceremony, for its origin, for its introduction among the Navahoes, or for all these things combined. The Navahoes celebrate long and costly ceremonies, many of which are of nine days' duration. Each ceremony has connected with it one or more myths, or legends which may not be altogether mythical. 116. When a rite-myth is told by a priest of the rite to which the myth belongs, minute and often tedious particulars concerning the rite, its work, symbolism, and sacrifices are introduced into the tale. When such a myth is told by one who is not a priest of the rite (although he may be a priest of some other rite), these esoteric parts are altogether omitted, or only briefly alluded to. To the latter class belong the two rite-myths given in this book. They are here published because they are among the most interesting and ingenious that have been collected among the Navahoes. The attention of the reader is directed, in the notes, to a few places where esoteric or ceremonial matters are thought to be referred to. Tales containing ceremonial allusions in full are reserved for future publication, along with a description of the rites to which they pertain, as such is considered the more appropriate place for their publication. 117. In one version of the Origin Legend (Version A) a portion of this story is used as a rite-myth. It is embellished with prayers and songs, and interspersed with allusions to ceremonial work which the version of Hatáli Nez does not contain; but in other respects it is inferior to the latter. Thus embellished it contributes a share to the myth of the ceremony of hozóni hatál, or chant of terrestrial beauty. Even in the version of Hatáli Nez, the songs seem introduced from some rite-myth, and scarcely to belong to the original story. 118. Whenever an opportunity has occurred of studying a rite with its associated myth, it has been found that the myth never explains all the symbolism of the rite, although it may account for all the more important acts. A primitive and underlying symbolism, which probably existed previous to the establishment of the rite, remains unexplained by the myth, as though its existence were taken as a matter of course, and required no explanation. Some explanation of this foundation symbolism may be found in the Origin Legend, or in other early legends of the tribe; but something remains which even these do not explain. 119. Myths of the Whirling Logs.--In the ceremony of klédzi hatál there is drawn upon the floor of the medicine-lodge a large dry-painting which is very imperfectly represented in fig. 29. The original was wrought in five colors and was about 12 feet in diameter. It depicts a vision of the prophet Bélahatini, who established the rites of klédzi hatál. On one occasion, says the tale, he was led, in the San Juan valley, to a lake on the borders of which grew four stalks of sacred corn, each of a different color. In the centre of the lake lay two logs crossing one another at right angles. Near both ends of each log sat a pair of yéi, or genii, male and female, making eight in all. On the shore of the lake stood four more yéi, three of whom had staves, by means of which they kept the crossed logs away from the shore and whirling in the waters. The rainbow goddess, the anthropomorphic rainbow of the Navahoes, surrounded the lake. All the circumstances of this strange scene are duly symbolized in the painting. 120. It was in his efforts to get a further explanation of this extraordinary picture that the author came upon the story of Nati'nesthani. It is not the story that explains the picture, although certain passages in it (pars. 481, 488) might seem to explain it. The story to which the picture belongs is that of Bélahatini, which may some day be published in connection with a description of the ceremony of klédzi hatál, or the night chant. The prophet Bélahatini, according to the tale, floated down the San Juan River in a hollow log, until he came to the whirling lake, where he saw the vision depicted in the dry-painting. But when the shaman had finished telling the story of Bélahatini he said: "There is another story of a man who floated down the San Juan River in a hollow log. It is a story belonging to a different rite, the atsósidze hatál. Would you like to hear it?" It was thus that the story of Nati'nesthani came to be told. The narrator of the two tales was a priest of the klédzi hatál, but not of the atsósidze hatál; hence one tale is crowded with allusions to acts in the ceremony, while the other, as here published, has few such allusions. 121. The Great Shell of Kintyél.--The story of the Great Shell of Kintyél, as here given, is a fragment of a rite-myth,--the myth of the yóidze hatál, or yói hatál[250] (bead chant), a nine days' healing ceremony. It conveys a moral often found in Navaho tales, which is, that we must not despise the poor and humble. They may be favored by the gods and prove themselves, to-morrow, more potent than those who yesterday despised and mocked them. It also signalizes the triumph of a poor Navaho over wealthy Pueblos. 122. Translation of Legends.--In rendering the Navaho tales into English, the author has not confined himself to a close literal translation. Such translation would often be difficult to understand, and, more often still, be uninteresting reading. He has believed it to be his duty to make a readable translation, giving the spirit of the original rather than the exact words. The tales were told in fluent Navaho, easy of comprehension, and of such literary perfection as to hold the hearer's attention. They should be translated into English of a similar character, even if words have to be added to make the sense clear. Such privileges are taken by the translators of the Bible and of the classic authors. Still the writer has taken pains never to exceed the metaphor or descriptive force of the original, and never to add a single thought of his own. If he has erred in rendering the spirit of the savage authors, it has been by diminishing rather than by exaggerating. He has erred on the side of safety. He has endeavored to "tune the sitar" rather low than high.15a Again, the original was often embellished with pantomime and vocal modulation which expressed more than the mere words, and which the writer is unable to represent, and it contained extemporized onomatopes which no letters can express. 123. Texts.--The men who narrated to the author the tales contained in this book were not men of unlimited leisure, as many suppose the Indians to be; they were popular shamans, or medicine-men, who had numerous engagements to conduct ceremonies during the summer months, and it was only during the winter months that they permitted themselves to tell the tales. It was usually with difficulty that arrangements were made with one of these shamans to devote a period of two or three weeks to the service of the author. Then, too, they had farms and stock which demanded their care. Neither was the author a man of unbounded leisure. Rarely could he devote more than two or three hours out of twenty-four to the work of ethnography. It has happened more than once that he has been obliged to break an engagement made with a shaman, at a cost of considerable trouble and money, in order to go on detached service away from his proper station. For these reasons it was not practicable to record the original Indian texts of all the stories. The author had to choose between copious texts and copious tales. He chose the latter. But some texts have been recorded. In order that the reader may judge how closely the liberal translation here offered follows the original, the Navaho text of the opening passages--ten paragraphs--of the Origin Legend, with interlinear translations, are given in the notes. The texts of songs, prayers, and interesting passages may also be found in the notes. ALPHABET USED. 124. Ever since the present alphabet of the Bureau of Ethnology was established (in 1880), it has been the author's custom to use it in spelling Indian words. But heretofore he has written mostly for the scientific world, for ethnologists and philologists who either were familiar with the alphabet, or were willing to constantly refer to it in reading. As the present work is designed to reach a wider circle of readers, the propriety of using the alphabet of the Bureau becomes doubtful. Many of the author's friends have begged him not to use it in this collection of tales, believing that its unusual characters would embarrass the average reader and detract from the interest of the work. Another system has, therefore, been devised, according to which consonants printed in Roman letters have the ordinary English sounds, while those printed in Italics have sounds analogous to the English but not identical with them. The vowels, when unmarked, have the continental sounds. When these sounds are modified, diacritical marks are added in accordance with the latest edition of Webster's Dictionary. The sound of English a in what is indicated by a. The only diphthong is ai, which has the sound of English i in pine. One mark not employed in Webster's orthoepy is used in this book, viz., the inverted comma after a vowel to show that it is aspirated. 125. According to this arrangement, the casual reader will find the Indian words easily legible. If he takes the trouble to consult this and the preceding paragraph he may pronounce the words almost exactly as a Navaho would; if not he may, at least, pronounce them in a way that few Navahoes would fail to comprehend. At all events, to the majority of readers, a perfect pronunciation of the Indian words is immaterial. Many white men, living within the borders of the Navaho land, converse with these Indians in a jargon or debased language which might be spelled in English characters with their ordinary English values. For example, let us take the word for hut or house. This is properly pronounced hogán; but the whites in New Mexico generally call it hogán, and the Navahoes never fail to understand the word as thus pronounced. In this form it is an adopted English word in the Southwest. The following are the values of the consonants when printed in Italics:-- d has the sound of English th in this. g has a sound unknown in English, gh imperfectly represents it. It is the g of the Dakota, or the Arabic ghain. h has the sound of German ch in machen. l is an aspirated l unknown in English, hl imperfectly represents it. It is formed with the side rather than with the tip of the tongue. s has the sound of English sh in shot. t has the sound of English th in thing. z has the sound of English z in azure. c, j, q, r, and x are not used. The sound of English ch in church is represented by ts; that of English j in jug, by dz. SPELLING OF NAVAHO. 126. In the many papers about the Navahoes which the author has previously written he has spelled the name of the tribe according to the Spanish system "Navajo," with the plural also in Spanish form, "Navajos." In the present work he spells it, according to English orthography, "Navaho," with an English plural, "Navahoes," and he thus intends to spell it in the future. This he does because the Spanish spelling is misleading to the majority of English readers. It may properly be asked why he should adopt an English orthography for Navaho, a name of Spanish origin, while he retains the misleading Spanish orthography of San Juan. It is not sufficient, in reply, to say that the territory of the Navaho has been in the possession of the United States since 1848, and that we have thus acquired the right to spell this name in our own way; for a thousand other names of Spanish origin have marked our map as long, which we never ventured to change, either in spelling or pronunciation. Perhaps the best defence to be made of our course is that the name Navaho exists nowhere but within our borders. If we change the spelling here, we do not conflict with the spelling elsewhere. But there are scores of San Juans in Spanish America. We could not change the spelling of our San Juan without confusion. It were better that we should follow the example of Lord Byron and pronounce it Jew'an; but this the people of the Southwest will probably never do. They will speak of the stream as the "San Won" or the "San Whon" for all time. Furthermore, the English spelling of Navaho is not a new thing with the writer. Many have already adopted it. NOTES. 126. In preparing the notes the author has usually limited himself to such matters as he believes he only can explain, or such as, at least, he can explain better than any one else. In a few cases he has given information on subjects not generally known and not easily to be investigated. The temptation to wander into the seductive paths of comparative mythology, and to speculate on the more recondite significance of the myths, had to be resisted if the work were to be kept within the limits of one volume. Resemblances between the tales of the Navahoes and those of other peoples, civilized and savage, ancient and modern, are numerous and marked; but space devoted to them would be lost to more important subjects. Again, many of the readers of this book may be prepared, better than the author, to note these resemblances. SHAMANS.[16] 127. So much has been said against the medicine-men of the Indians by various writers, who accuse them of being reactionaries, mischief-makers, and arrant deceivers, that the writer feels constrained to give some testimony in their favor,--in favor, at least, of those he has met among the Navahoes; he will not speak now for other tribes. 128. There are, among the Navahoes, charlatans and cheats who treat disease; men who pretend to suck disease out of the patient and then draw from their own mouths pebbles, pieces of charcoal, or bodies of insects, claiming that these are the disease which they have extracted. But the priests of the great rites are not to be classed with such. All of these with whom the writer is acquainted are above such trickery. They perform their ceremonies in the firm conviction that they are invoking divine aid, and their calling lends dignity to their character. They interfere little with the political affairs of the tribe. 129. Smiling Chanter.--It is a source of great regret that a better likeness cannot be presented of Hatáli Natlói than that shown in fig. 31. It is reproduced from a painting which was copied from a dim kodak photograph. His name may be translated Smiling Chanter, or Smiling Doctor; an angry or unpleasant expression is never seen on his face. He is also called Hatáli Pahozóni, which may be translated Happy or Good-natured Chanter. He is a priest of the klédzi hatál, or night chant. He would be considered a man of high character in any community. He is dignified, courteous, kind, honest, truthful, and self-respecting. But his dignity is not of the pompous kind. He has a keen sense of humor, makes an excellent joke, and is a good mimic; but, for all his fun, he is neither vulgar nor unkind. He never begged from the author, and never made a bargain with him in advance for his services, or named a price for them when he was done. He always took the greatest pains to explain everything, and, after the writer had been duly initiated into the mysteries of his order, he withheld nothing. To him we are indebted for the story of Nati'nesthani. 130. Tall Chanter.--Figure 32 represents an aged priest named Hatáli Nez, or Tall Chanter. He was the first who could be persuaded to explain to the author the ceremonies or relate the rite-myths; but when he set the example, others were found to follow. He also is a priest of the night chant. Of late years he has become unpopular as a shaman, owing to an increasing irritability of temper; but he exhibits no envy of his more popular rivals. He perhaps has a better knowledge of the legends than any other man in the tribe. Before he would confide any of his secrets to the author he said: "The chanters among the Navahoes are all brothers. If you would learn our secrets you must be one of us. You must forever be a brother to me. Do you promise this?" He has ever since addressed the author as Sitsi'li, "My younger brother," and has in turn been called Sinái, "My elder brother." 131. Ethics.--Among themselves, these men have a code of ethics which is, in general, more honestly upheld than the code of our own medical profession. They exhibit no jealousy of one another. They boast not of the excellence of the particular rite they practise. They assist and counsel one another. If a medicine-man, in performing a rite, finds that his supply of some sacred article is exhausted, he sends to the nearest medicine-man for it. If the latter has it, he is obliged to give, and is not allowed to receive payment in return. 132. Torlino.--They are as willing as any other Indians to learn the white man's philosophy. Old Torlino, a priest of hozóni hatál, sent a son to school at Carlisle, and when the young man returned he no doubt imparted to his father much that he had learned there. The writer sent for the old man to get from him the myth of hozóni hatál. Torlino began: "I know the white men say the world is round, and that it floats in the air. My tale says the world is flat, and that there are five worlds, one above another. You will not believe my tale, then, and perhaps you do not want to hear it." Being assured that the tale was earnestly desired, despite of all white men's theories, he proceeded. "I shall tell you the truth, then. I shall tell you all that I heard from the old men who taught me, as well as I can now remember. Why should I lie to you?" And then he made the interesting asseveration which is here literally translated: "I am ashamed before the earth; I am ashamed before the heavens; I am ashamed before the dawn; I am ashamed before the evening twilight; I am ashamed before the blue sky; I am ashamed before the darkness; I am ashamed before the sun; I am ashamed before that standing within me which speaks with me (my conscience!).[274] Some of these things are always looking at me. I am never out of sight. Therefore I must tell the truth. That is why I always tell the truth. I hold my word tight to my breast." 133. Medical Practice.--Often have the shamans come to the author for treatment for themselves and their friends, and they never made any secret of this, but asked for medicine in the presence of the laity of their own tribe. They do not pretend to deal in panaceas. On the other hand, in cases where the author has failed to give prompt relief to a sick Indian, they have come in all sincerity and politeness and said, "I know a remedy for that difficulty. Will you let me try it?" They do not confine themselves to the practice of their shamanistic rites. They use various plants in the treatment of disease, and these, in simple, acute cases, they administer without prayer, sacrifice, or incantation. A LAST WORD (TO POETS AND OTHERS). 134. It is possible that poets, novelists, travellers, and compilers will search this humble volume and cull from it facts and fancies, which, clothed in fairer diction, may add interest to their pages. The author does not ask that such writers shall acknowledge the source of their inspiration. This is more than he has a right to expect. Our greatest poets have borrowed from sources as obscure and never named their creditors. The author has often, ere now, experienced the pleasure of seeing his thoughts and discoveries blazoned in print over other names. But he ventures to make a few requests of the literary borrower. He begs that the latter will not garble or distort what is here written,--that he will not put alien thoughts into the minds of these pagan heroes; that he will not arm them with the weapons nor clothe them in the habiliments of an alien race; that he will not make them act incongruous parts. 135. Stephen Powers, in his "Tribes of California"[326] (page 38), gives, in simple and direct language, the story of how fire came to the Karok nation. A few years after he wrote, some one worked his story into a "poem," which appeared, most artistically illustrated, in one of our leading magazines. In this poem the Coyote, in a quandary, is represented as "stroking his goatee." Coyotes have no goatees; Indians have no goatees. The act of stroking the goatee, in thought or perplexity, is the special mannerism of a nervous American. No allusion could be more out of place in an Indian legend. Should the poet referred to ever select any of the tales in this book to be tortured into a poem, I beg that he will not, even for the sake of making a faulty rhyme, put a beard on the chin of the Navaho Coyote God. WASHINGTON MATTHEWS. 1262 New Hampshire Avenue, Washington, D.C. May 1st, 1896. LEGENDS. THE NAVAHO ORIGIN LEGEND. I. THE STORY OF THE EMERGENCE. 136. At To`bilhaski'di (in the middle of the first world), white arose in the east, and they[17] regarded it as day there, they say; blue rose in the south, and still it was day to them, and they moved around; yellow rose in the west and showed that evening had come; then dark arose in the north, and they lay down and slept.[18] 137. At To`bilhaski'di water flowed out (from a central source) in different directions; one stream flowed to the east, another to the south, and another to the west. There were dwelling-places on the border of the stream that flowed to the east, on that which flowed to the south, and on that which flowed to the west also. 138. To the east there was a place called Tan (Corn), to the south a place called Nahodoóla, and to the west a place called Lókatsosakád (Standing Reed). Again, to the east there was a place called Essalái (One Pot), to the south a place called To`hádzitil (They Come Often for Water), and to the west a place called Dsillitsíbehogán (House Made of the Red Mountain). Then, again, to the east there was a place called Léyahogán (Under-ground House), to the south a place called Tsiltsi'ntha (Among Aromatic Sumac), and to the west a place called Tse`lisíbehogán (House Made of Red Rock). 139. Holatsí Dilyi'le (dark ants) lived there. Holatsí Litsí (red ants) lived there. Tanilaí (dragon flies) lived there. Tsaltsá (yellow beetles) lived there. Wointli'zi (hard beetles) lived there. Tse`yoáli (stone-carrier beetles) lived there. Kinli'zin (black beetles) lived there. Maitsán (coyote-dung beetles) lived there. Tsápani (bats) lived there. Totsó` (white-faced beetles) lived there. Wonistsídi (locusts) lived there. Wonistsídikai (white locusts) lived there. These twelve people started in life there.[19] 140. To the east extended an ocean, to the south an ocean, to the west an ocean, and to the north an ocean. In the ocean to the east lay Tiéholtsodi; he was chief of the people there. In the ocean to the south lived Thaltláhale (Blue Heron), who was chief of the people there. In the ocean to the west lay Tsal (Frog), who was chief of the people there. In the ocean to the north was Idni`dsilkaí (White Mountain Thunder), and he was chief of the people there.[20] 141. The people quarrelled among themselves, and this is the way it happened. They committed adultery, one people with another. Many of the women were guilty. They tried to stop it, but they could not. Tiéholtsodi, the chief in the east, said: "What shall we do with them? They like not the land they dwell in." In the south Blue Heron spoke to them, and in the west Frog said: "No longer shall you dwell here, I say. I am chief here." To the north White Mountain Lightning said: "Go elsewhere at once. Depart from here!" 142. When again they sinned and again they quarrelled, Tiéholtsodi, in the east, would not speak to them; Blue Heron, in the south, would not speak to them; Frog, in the west, would say nothing; and White Mountain Thunder, in the north, would not speak to them. 143. Again, at the end of four nights, the same thing happened. Those who dwelt at the south again committed crime, and again they had contentions. One woman and one man sought to enter in the east (to complain to the chief), but they were driven out. In the south they sought to go in where Blue Heron lay, but again they were driven out. In the west, where Frog was the chief, again they tried to enter; but again they were driven out. To the north again they were driven out. (The chief) said: "None of you (shall enter here). Go elsewhere and keep on going." That night at Nahodoóla they held a council, but they arrived at no decision. At dawn Tiéholtsodi began to talk. "You pay no attention to my words. Everywhere you disobey me; you must go to some other place. Not upon this earth shall you remain." Thus he spoke to them. 144. Among the women, for four nights they talked about it. At the end of the fourth night, in the morning, as they were rising, something white appeared in the east. It appeared also in the south, the west, and the north. It looked like a chain of mountains, without a break, stretching around them. It was water that surrounded them. Water impassable, water insurmountable, flowed all around. All at once they started. 145. They went in circles upward till they reached the sky. It was smooth. They looked down; but there the water had risen, and there was nothing else but water there. While they were flying around, one having a blue head thrust out his head from the sky and called to them, saying: "In here, to the eastward, there is a hole." They entered the hole and went through it up to the surface (of the second world). 146. The blue one belonged to the Hastsósidine`, or Swallow People.[21] The Swallow People lived there. A great many of their houses, rough and lumpy, lay scattered all around. Each tapered toward the top, and at that part there was a hole for entrance. A great many people approached and gathered around[275] the strangers, but they said nothing. 147. The first world was red in color; the second world, into which the people had now entered, was blue.[22] They sent out two couriers, a Locust and a White Locust, to the east, to explore the land and see if there were in it any people like themselves. At the end of two days the couriers returned, and said that in one day's travel they had reached the edge of the world--the top of a great cliff that arose from an abyss whose bottom they could not see; but that they found in all their journey no people, no animals of any kind, no trees, no grass, no sage-brush, no mountains, nothing but bare, level ground. The same couriers were then dispatched in turn to the south, to the west, and to the north. They were gone on each journey two days, and when they returned related, as before, that they had reached the edge of the world, and discovered nothing but an uninhabited waste. Here, then, the strangers found themselves in the centre of a vast barren plain, where there was neither food nor a kindred people. When the couriers had returned from the north, the Swallows visited the camp of the newly arrived people, and asked them why they had sent out the couriers to the east. "We sent them out," was the reply, "to see what was in the land, and to see if there were any people like ourselves here." "And what did your couriers tell you?" asked the Swallows. "They told us that they came to the edge of the world, yet found no plant and no living thing in all the land." (The same questions were asked and the same answers given for the other points of the compass.) "They spoke the truth," said the Swallow People. "Had you asked us in the beginning what the land contained, we would have told you and saved you all your trouble. Until you came, no one has ever dwelt in all this land but ourselves." The people then said to the Swallows: "You understand our language and are much like us. You have legs, feet, bodies, heads, and wings, as we have: why cannot your people and our people become friends?" "Let it be as you wish," said the Swallows, and both parties began at once to treat each other as members of one tribe; they mingled one among the other, and addressed one another by the terms of relationship, as, my brother, my sister, my father, my son, etc.[23] 148. They all lived together pleasantly and happily for twenty-three days; but on the twenty-fourth night one of the strangers made too free with the wife of the Swallow chief, and next morning, when the latter found out what had happened, he said to the strangers: "We have treated you as friends, and thus you return our kindness. We doubt not that for such crimes you were driven from the lower world, and now you must leave this. This is our land and we will have you here no longer. Besides, this is a bad land. People are dying here every day, and, even if we spare you, you cannot live here long." The Locusts took the lead on hearing this; they soared upwards; the others followed, and all soared and circled till they reached the sky. 149. When they reached the sky they found it, like the sky of the first world, smooth and hard with no opening; but while they were circling round under it, they saw a white face peering out at them,--it was the face of Ni'ltsi, the Wind. He called to them and told them if they would fly to the south they would find a hole through which they could pass; so off they flew, as bidden, and soon they discovered a slit in the sky which slanted upwards toward the south; through this slit they flew, and soon entered the third world in the south. 150. The color of the third world was yellow.[22] Here they found nothing but the Grasshopper People. The latter gathered around the wanderers in great numbers, but said nothing. They lived in holes in the ground along the banks of a great river which flowed through their land to the east. The wanderers sent out the same Locust messengers that they had sent out in the second world to explore the land to the east, to the south, to the west, to the north, to find out what the land contained, and to see if there were any kindred people in it; but the messengers returned from each journey after an absence of two days, saying they had reached the end of the world, and that they had found a barren land with no people in it save the Grasshoppers.[24] 151. When the couriers returned from their fourth journey, the two great chiefs of the Grasshoppers visited the strangers and asked them why they had sent out the explorers, and the strangers answered that they had sent them out to see what grew in the land, and to find if there were any people like themselves in it. "And what did your couriers find?" said the Grasshopper chiefs. "They found nothing save the bare land and the river, and no people but yourselves." "There is nothing else in the land," said the chiefs. "Long we have lived here, but we have seen no other people but ourselves until you came." 152. The strangers then spoke to the Grasshoppers, as they had spoken to the Swallows in the second world, and begged that they might join them and become one people with them. The Grasshoppers consented, and the two peoples at once mingled among one another and embraced one another, and called one another by the endearing terms of relationship, as if they were all of the same tribe. 153. As before, all went well for twenty-three days; but on the twenty-fourth one of the strangers served a chief of the Grasshoppers as the chief of the Swallows had been served in the lower world. In the morning, when the wrong was discovered, the chief reviled the strangers and bade them depart. "For such crimes," he said, "I suppose you were chased from the world below: you shall drink no more of our water, you shall breathe no more of our air. Begone!" 154. Up they all flew again, and circled round and round until they came to the sky above them, and they found it smooth and hard as before. When they had circled round for some time, looking in vain for an entrance, they saw a red head stuck out of the sky, and they heard a voice which told them to fly to the west. It was the head of Red Wind which they saw, and it was his voice that spoke to them. The passage which they found in the west was twisted round like the tendril of a vine; it had thus been made by the wind. They flew up in circles through it and came out in the fourth world. Four of the Grasshoppers came with them; one was white, one blue, one yellow, and one black. We have grasshoppers of these four colors with us to this day.[25] 155. The surface of the fourth world was mixed black and white. The colors in the sky were the same as in the lower worlds, but they differed in their duration. In the first world, the white, the blue, the yellow, and the black all lasted about an equal length of time every day. In the second world the blue and the black lasted a little longer than the other two colors. In the third world they lasted still longer. In the fourth world there was but little of the white and yellow; the blue and the black lasted most of the time. As yet there was neither sun, moon, nor star. 156. When they arrived on the surface of the fourth world they saw no living thing; but they observed four great snow-covered peaks sticking up at the horizon,--one at the east, one at the south, one at the west, and one at the north. 157. They sent two couriers to the east. These returned at the end of two days. They related that they had not been able to reach the eastern mountain, and that, though they had travelled far, they had seen no track or trail or sign of life. Two couriers were then sent to the south. When they returned, at the end of two days, they related that they had reached a low range of mountains this side of the great peak; that they had seen no living creature, but had seen two different kinds of tracks, such as they had never seen before, and they described such as the deer and the turkey make now. Two couriers were next sent to the west. In two days these returned, having failed to reach the great peak in the west, and having seen no living thing and no sign of life. At last two couriers were sent to the north. When these got back to their kindred they said they had found a race of strange men, who cut their hair square in front, who lived in houses in the ground and cultivated fields. These people, who were engaged in gathering their harvest, the couriers said, treated them very kindly and gave them food to eat. It was now evident to the wanderers that the fourth world was larger than any of the worlds below. 158. The day following the return of the couriers who went to the north, two of the newly discovered race--Kisáni (Pueblos) they were called--entered the camp of the exiles and guided the latter to a stream of water. The water was red, and the Kisáni told the wanderers they must not walk through the stream, for if they did the water would injure their feet. The Kisáni showed them a square raft made of four logs,--a white pine, a blue spruce, and yellow pine, and a black spruce,--on which they might cross; so they went over the stream and visited the homes of the Kisáni. 159. The Kisáni gave the wanderers corn and pumpkins to eat, and the latter lived for some time on the food given to them daily by their new friends. They held a council among themselves, in which they resolved to mend their manners for the future and do nothing to make the Kisáni angry. The land of the Kisáni had neither rain nor snow; the crops were raised by irrigation. 160. Late in the autumn they heard in the east the distant sound of a great voice calling. They listened and waited, and soon heard the voice nearer and louder. They listened still and heard the voice a third time, nearer and louder than before. Once more they listened, and soon they heard the voice louder still, and clear like the voice of one near at hand. A moment later four mysterious beings appeared to them.[26] These were: Bitsís Lakaí, or White Body, a being like the god of this world whom the Navahoes call Hastséyalti; Bitsís Dotli'z, or Blue Body, who was like the present Navaho god Tó`nenili, or Water Sprinkler; Bitsís Litsói, or Yellow Body; and Bitsís Lizi'n, or Black Body, who was the same as the present Navaho god of fire, Hastsézini. 161. These beings, without speaking, made many signs to the people, as if instructing them; but the latter did not understand them. When the gods had gone, the people long discussed the mysterious visit, and tried to make out what the gods meant by the signs they had made. Thus the gods visited four days in succession. On the fourth day, when the other three had departed, Black Body remained behind and spoke to the people in their own language. He said: "You do not seem to understand the signs that these gods make you, so I must tell you what they mean. They want to make more people, but in form like themselves. You have bodies like theirs; but you have the teeth, the feet, and the claws of beasts and insects. The new creatures are to have hands and feet like ours. But you are uncleanly, you smell badly. Have yourselves well cleansed when we return; we will come back in twelve days." 162. On the morning of the twelfth day the people washed themselves well. The women dried themselves with yellow corn-meal; the men with white corn-meal.[27] Soon after the ablutions were completed they heard the distant call of the approaching gods. It was shouted, as before, four times,--nearer and louder at each repetition,--and, after the fourth call, the gods appeared. Blue Body and Black Body each carried a sacred buckskin. White Body carried two ears of corn, one yellow, one white, each covered at the end completely with grains.[28] 163. The gods laid one buckskin on the ground with the head to the west; on this they placed the two ears of corn, with their tips to the east, and over the corn they spread the other buckskin with its head to the east; under the white ear they put the feather of a white eagle, under the yellow ear the feather of a yellow eagle. Then they told the people to stand at a distance and allow the wind to enter. The white wind blew from the east, and the yellow wind blew from the west, between the skins. While the wind was blowing, eight of the Mirage People came and walked around the objects on the ground four times, and as they walked the eagle feathers, whose tips protruded from between the buckskins, were seen to move. When the Mirage People had finished their walk the upper buckskin was lifted,--the ears of corn had disappeared; a man and a woman lay there in their stead. 164. The white ear of corn had been changed into a man, the yellow ear into a woman. It was the wind that gave them life. It is the wind that comes out of our mouths now that gives us life. When this ceases to blow we die. In the skin at the tips of our fingers we see the trail of the wind; it shows us where the wind blew when our ancestors were created. 165. The pair thus created were First Man and First Woman (Atsé Hastín and Atsé Estsán). The gods directed the people to build an enclosure of brushwood for the pair. When the enclosure was finished, First Man and First Woman entered it, and the gods said to them: "Live together now as husband and wife." At the end of four days hermaphrodite[29] twins were born, and at the end of four days more a boy and a girl were born, who in four days grew to maturity and lived with one another as husband and wife. The primal pair had in all five pairs of twins, the first of which only was barren, being hermaphrodites. 166. In four days after the last pair of twins was born, the gods came again and took First Man and First Woman away to the eastern mountain where the gods dwelt, and kept them there for four days. When they returned all their children were taken to the eastern mountain and kept there for four days. Soon after they all returned it was observed that they occasionally wore masks, such as Hastséyalti and Hastséhogan wear now, and that when they wore these masks they prayed for all good things,--for abundant rain and abundant crops. It is thought, too, that during their visit to the eastern mountain they learned the awful secrets of witchcraft, for the antíhi (witches, wizards) always keep such masks with them and marry those too nearly related to them. 167. When they returned from the eastern mountain the brothers and sisters separated; and, keeping the fact of their former unlawful marriages secret, the brothers married women of the Mirage People and the sisters married men of the Mirage People. They kept secret, too, all the mysteries they had learned in the eastern mountain. The women thus married bore children every four days, and the children grew to maturity in four days, were married, and in their turn had children every four days. This numerous offspring married among the Kisáni, and among those who had come from the lower world, and soon there was a multitude of people in the land. 168. These descendants of First Man and First Woman made a great farm. They built a dam and dug a wide irrigating ditch. But they feared the Kisáni might injure their dam or their crops; so they put one of the hermaphrodites to watch the dam and the other to watch the lower end of the field. The hermaphrodite who watched at the dam invented pottery. He made first a plate, a bowl, and a dipper, which were greatly admired by the people. The hermaphrodite who lived at the lower end of the farm invented the wicker water-bottle.[30] Others made, from thin split boards of cottonwood, implements which they shoved before them to clear the weeds out of the land. They made also hoes from shoulder-blades of deer and axes of stone. They got their seeds from the Kisáni. 169. Once they killed a little deer, and some one among them thought that perhaps they might make, from the skin of the head, a mask, by means of which they could approach other deer and kill them. They tried to make such a mask but failed; they could not make it fit. They debated over the invention and considered it for four days, but did not succeed. On the morning of the fifth day they heard the gods shouting in the distance. As on a previous occasion, they shouted four times, and after the fourth call they made their appearance. They brought with them heads of deer and of antelope. They showed the people how the masks were made and fitted, how the eye-holes were cut, how the motions of the deer were to be imitated, and explained to them all the other mysteries of the deer-hunt.[31] Next day hunters went out and several deer were killed; from these more masks were made, and with these masks more men went out to hunt; after that time the camp had abundance of meat. The people dressed the deerskins and made garments out of them. 170. The people from the third world had been in the fourth world eight years when the following incident occurred: One day they saw the sky stooping down and the earth rising up to meet it. For a moment they came in contact, and then there sprang out of the earth, at the point of contact, the Coyote and the Badger. We think now that the Coyote and the Badger are children of the sky. The Coyote rose first, and for this reason we think he is the elder brother of the Badger. At once the Coyote came over to the camp and skulked round among the people, while the Badger went down into the hole that led to the lower world. 171. First Man told the people the names of the four mountains which rose in the distance. They were named the same as the four mountains that now bound the Navaho land. There was Tsisnadzi'ni in the east, Tsótsil in the south, Dokoslíd in the west, and Depe'ntsa in the north, and he told them that a different race of people lived in each mountain. 172. First Man was the chief of all these people in the fourth world, except the Kisáni. He was a great hunter, and his wife, First Woman, was very corpulent. One day he brought home from the hunt a fine fat deer. The woman boiled some of it and they had a hearty meal. When they were done the woman wiped her greasy hands on her dress, and made a remark which greatly enraged her husband; they had a quarrel about this, which First Man ended by jumping across the fire and remaining by himself in silence for the rest of the night.[32] 173. Next morning First Man went out early and called aloud to the people: "Come hither, all ye men," he said; "I wish to speak to you, but let all the women stay behind; I do not wish to see them." Soon all the males gathered, and he told them what his wife had said the night before. "They believe," he said, "that they can live without us. Let us see if they can hunt game and till the fields without our help. Let us see what sort of a living they can make by themselves. Let us leave them and persuade the Kisáni to come with us. We will cross the stream, and when we are gone over we will keep the raft on the other side." He sent for the hermaphrodites. They came, covered with meal, for they had been grinding corn. "What have you that you have made yourselves?" he asked. "We have each two mealing-stones, and we have cups and bowls and baskets and many other things," they answered. "Then take these all along with you," he ordered, "and join us to cross the stream." Then all the men and the hermaphrodites assembled at the river and crossed to the north side on the raft, and they took over with them their stone axes and farm implements and everything they had made. When they had all crossed they sent the raft down to the Kisáni for them to cross. The latter came over,--six gentes of them,--but they took their women with them. While some of the young men were crossing the stream they cried at parting with their wives; still they went at the bidding of their chief. The men left the women everything the latter had helped to make or raise. 174. As soon as they had crossed the river some of the men went out hunting, for the young boys needed food, and some set to work to chop down willows and build huts. They had themselves all sheltered in four days. 175. That winter the women had abundance of food, and they feasted, sang, and had a merry time. They often came down to the bank of the river and called across to the men and taunted and reviled them. Next year the men prepared a few small fields and raised a little corn; but they did not have much corn to eat, and lived a good deal by hunting. The women planted all of the old farm, but they did not work it very well; so in the winter they had a small crop, and they did not sing and make merry as in the previous winter. In the second spring the women planted less, while the men planted more, cleared more land, and increased the size of their farm. Each year the fields and crops of the men increased, while those of the women diminished and they began to suffer for want of food. Some went out and gathered the seeds of wild plants to eat. In the autumn of the third year of separation many women jumped into the river and tried to swim over; but they were carried under the surface of the water and were never seen again. In the fourth year the men had more food than they could eat; corn and pumpkins lay untouched in the fields, while the women were starving. 176. First Man at length began to think what the effect of his course might be. He saw that if he continued to keep the men and the women apart the race might die out, so he called the men and spoke his thoughts to them. Some said, "Surely our race will perish," and others said, "What good is our abundance to us? We think so much of our poor women starving in our sight that we cannot eat." Then he sent a man to the shore to call across the stream to find if First Woman were still there, and to bid her come down to the bank if she were. She came to the bank, and First Man called to her and asked if she still thought she could live alone. "No," she replied, "we cannot live without our husbands." The men and the women were then told to assemble at the shores of the stream; the raft was sent over and the women were ferried across. They were made to bathe their bodies and dry them with meal. They were put in a corral and kept there until night, when they were let out to join the men in their feasts.[33] 177. When they were let out of the corral it was found that three were missing. After dark, voices were heard calling from the other side of the river; they were the voices of the missing ones,--a mother and her two daughters. They begged to be ferried over, but the men told them it was too dark, that they must wait until morning. Hearing this, they jumped into the stream and tried to swim over. The mother succeeded in reaching the opposite bank and finding her husband. The daughters were seized by Tiéholtsodi, the water monster, and dragged down under the water. 178. For three nights and three days the people heard nothing about the young women and supposed them lost forever. On the morning of the fourth day the call of the gods was heard,--four times as usual,--and after the fourth call White Body made his appearance, holding up two fingers and pointing to the river. The people supposed that these signs had reference to the lost girls. Some of the men crossed the stream on the raft and looked for the tracks of the lost ones; they traced the tracks to the edge of the water, but no farther. White Body went away, but soon returned, accompanied by Blue Body. White Body carried a large bowl of white shell, and Blue Body a large bowl of blue shell. They asked for a man and a woman to accompany them, and they went down to the river. They put both the bowls on the surface of the water and caused them to spin around. Beneath the spinning bowls the water opened, for it was hollow, and gave entrance to a large house of four rooms. The room in the east was made of the dark waters, the room in the south of the blue waters, the room in the west of the yellow waters, and the room in the north of waters of all colors.[36] 179. The man and the woman descended and Coyote followed them. They went first into the east room, but there they found nothing; then they went into the south room, but there they found nothing; next they went into the west room, where again they found nothing; at last they went into the north room, and there they beheld the water monster Tiéholtsodi, with the two girls he had stolen and two children of his own. The man and the woman demanded the children, and as he said nothing in reply they took them and walked away. But as they went out Coyote, unperceived by all, took the two children of Tiéholtsodi and carried them off under his robe. Coyote always wore his robe folded close around him and always slept with it thus folded, so no one was surprised to see that he still wore his robe in this way when he came up from the waters, and no one suspected that he had stolen the children of Tiéholtsodi. 180. Next day the people were surprised to see deer, turkey, and antelope running past from east to west, and to see animals of six different kinds (two kinds of Hawks, two kinds of Squirrels, the Hummingbird, and the Bat) come into their camp as if for refuge. The game animals ran past in increasing numbers during the three days following. On the morning of the fourth day, when the white light rose, the people observed in the east a strange white gleam along the horizon, and they sent out the Locust couriers to see what caused this unusual appearance. The Locusts returned before sunset, and told the people that a vast flood of waters was fast approaching from the east. On hearing this the people all assembled together, the Kisáni with the others, in a great multitude, and they wailed and wept over the approaching catastrophe. They wept and moaned all night and could not sleep. 181. When the white light arose in the east, next morning, the waters were seen high as mountains encircling the whole horizon, except in the west, and rolling on rapidly. The people packed up all their goods as fast as they could, and ran up on a high hill near by, for temporary safety. Here they held a council. Some one suggested that perhaps the two Squirrels (Hazáitso and Hazáistozi) might help them. "We will try what we can do," said the Squirrels. One planted a piñon seed, the other a juniper seed, and they grew so very fast that the people hoped that they would soon grow so tall that the flood could not reach their tops, and that all might find shelter there. But after the trees grew a little way they began to branch out and grew no higher. Then the frightened people called on the Weasels (Glo`dsilkái and Glo`dsilzi'ni). One of these planted a spruce seed and one a pine seed. The trees sprouted at once and grew fast, and again the people began to hope; but soon the trees commenced to branch, and they dwindled to slender points at the top and ceased to grow higher. Now they were in the depths of despair, for the waters were coming nearer every moment, when they saw two men approaching the hill on which they were gathered. 182. One of the approaching men was old and grayhaired; the other, who was young, walked in advance. They ascended the hill and passed through the crowd, speaking to no one. The young man sat down on the summit, the old man sat down behind him, and the Locust sat down behind the old man,--all facing the east. The elder took out seven bags from under his robe and opened them. Each contained a small quantity of earth. He told the people that in these bags he had earth from the seven sacred mountains. There were in the fourth world seven sacred mountains, named and placed like the sacred mountains of the present Navaho land. "Ah! Perhaps our father can do something for us," said the people. "I cannot, but my son may be able to help you," said the old man. Then they bade the son to help them, and he said he would if they all moved away from where he stood, faced to the west, and looked not around until he called them; for no one should see him at his work. They did as he desired, and in a few moments he called them to come to him. When they came, they saw that he had spread the sacred earth on the ground and planted in it thirty-two reeds, each of which had thirty-two joints. As they gazed they beheld the roots of the reeds striking out into the soil and growing rapidly downward. A moment later all the reeds joined together and became one reed of great size, with a hole in its eastern side. He bade them enter the hollow of the reed through this hole. When they were all safely inside, the opening closed, and none too soon, for scarcely had it closed when they heard the loud noise of the surging waters outside, saying, "Yin, yin, yin."[37] 183. The waters rose fast, but the reed grew faster, and soon it grew so high that it began to sway, and the people inside were in great fear lest, with their weight, it might break and topple over into the water. White Body, Blue Body, and Black Body were along. Black Body blew a great breath out through a hole in the top of the reed; a heavy dark cloud formed around the reed and kept it steady. But the reed grew higher and higher; again it began to sway, and again the people within were in great fear, whereat he blew and made another cloud to steady the reed. By sunset it had grown up close to the sky, but it swayed and waved so much that they could not secure it to the sky until Black Body, who was uppermost, took the plume out of his head-band and stuck it out through the top of the cane against the sky, and this is why the reed (Phragmites communis) always carries a plume on its head now.[38] 184. Seeing no hole in the sky, they sent up the Great Hawk, Gini'tso, to see what he could do. He flew up and began to scratch in the sky with his claws, and he scratched and scratched till he was lost to sight. After a while he came back, and said that he scratched to where he could see light, but that he did not get through the sky. Next they sent up a Locust.[39] He was gone a long time, and when he came back he had this story to tell: He had gotten through to the upper world, and came out on a little island in the centre of a lake. When he got out he saw approaching him from the east a black Grebe, and from the west a yellow Grebe.[40] One of them said to him: "Who are you and whence come you?" But he made no reply. The other then said: "We own half of this world,--I in the east, my brother in the west. We give you a challenge. If you can do as we do, we shall give you one half of the world; if you cannot, you must die." Each had an arrow made of the black wind. He passed the arrow from side to side through his heart and flung it down to Wonistsídi, the Locust.[41] The latter picked up one of the arrows, ran it from side to side through his heart, as he had seen the Grebes do, and threw it down.[42] The Grebes swam away, one to the east and one to the west, and troubled him no more. When they had gone, two more Grebes appeared, a blue one from the south and a shining one from the north. They spoke to him as the other Grebes had spoken, and gave him the same challenge. Again he passed the arrow through his heart and the Grebes departed, leaving the land to the locust. To this day we see in every locust's sides the holes made by the arrows. But the hole the Locust made in ascending was too small for many of the people, so they sent Badger up to make it larger. When Badger came back his legs were stained black with the mud, and the legs of all badgers have been black ever since. Then First Man and First Woman led the way and all the others followed them, and they climbed up through the hole to the surface of this--the fifth--world. II. EARLY EVENTS IN THE FIFTH WORLD. 185. The lake[43] was bounded by high cliffs, from the top of which stretched a great plain. There are mountains around it now, but these have been created since the time of the emergence. Finding no way to get out of the lake, they called on Blue Body to help them. He had brought with him from the lower world four stones; he threw one of these towards each of the four cardinal points against the cliffs, breaking holes, through which the waters flowed away in four different directions.[44] The lake did not altogether drain out by this means; but the bottom became bare in one place, connecting the island with the mainland. But the mud was so deep in this place that they still hesitated to cross, and they prayed to Ni'ltsi Dilkóhi, Smooth Wind, to come to their aid.[45] Ni'ltsi Dilkóhi blew a strong wind, and in one day dried up the mud so that the people could easily walk over. While they were waiting for the ground to dry, the Kisáni camped on the east side of the island and built a stone wall (which stands to this day), to lean against and to shelter them from the wind.[46] The other people set up a shelter of brushwood. The women erected four poles, on which they stretched a deerskin, and under the shelter of this they played the game of three-sticks,[47] tsindi', one of the four games which they brought with them from the lower world. 186. When they reached the mainland they sought to divine their fate. To do this some one threw a hide-scraper into the water, saying: "If it sinks we perish, if it floats we live." It floated, and all rejoiced. But Coyote said: "Let me divine your fate." He picked up a stone, and saying, "If it sinks we perish; if it floats we live," he threw it into the water. It sank, of course, and all were angry with him and reviled him; but he answered them saying: "If we all live, and continue to increase as we have done, the earth will soon be too small to hold us, and there will be no room for the cornfields. It is better that each of us should live but a time on this earth and then leave and make room for our children." They saw the wisdom of his words and were silent. The day they arrived at the shore they had two visitors,--Puma and Wolf. "We have heard," said these, "that some new people had come up out of the ground, and we have come over to see them." Puma took a bride from among the new people. 187. On the fourth day of the emergence some one went to look at the hole through which they had come out, and he noticed water welling up there; already it was nearly on a level with the top of the hole, and every moment it rose higher. In haste he ran back to his people and told them what he had seen. A council was called at once to consider the new danger that threatened them. First Man, who rose to speak, said, pointing to Coyote: "Yonder is a rascal, and there is something wrong about him. He never takes off his robe, even when he lies down. I have watched him for a long time, and have suspected that he carries some stolen property under his robe. Let us search him."[48] They tore the robe from Coyote's shoulders, and two strange little objects dropped out that looked something like buffalo calves, but were spotted all over in various colors; they were the young of Tiéholtsodi. At once the people threw them into the hole through which the waters were pouring; in an instant the waters subsided, and rushed away with a deafening noise to the lower world.[49] 188. On the fifth night one of the twin hermaphrodites ceased to breathe. They left her alone all that night, and, when morning came, Coyote proposed to lay her at rest among the rocks. This they did; but they all wondered what had become of her breath. They went in various directions to seek for its trail, but could find it nowhere. While they were hunting, two men went near the hole through which they had come from the lower world. It occurred to one of them to look down into the hole. He did so, and he saw the dead one seated by the side of the river, in the fourth world, combing her hair. He called to his companion and the latter came and looked down, too. They returned to their people and related what they had seen; but in four days both these men died, and ever since the Navahoes have feared to look upon the dead, or to behold a ghost, lest they die themselves.[60] 189. After this it was told around that the Kisáni, who were in camp at a little distance from the others, had brought with them from the lower world an ear of corn for seed. Some of the unruly ones proposed to go to the camp of the Kisáni and take the corn away from them; but others, of better counsel, said that this would be wrong, that the Kisáni had had as much trouble as the rest, and if they had more foresight they had a right to profit by it. In spite of these words, some of the young men went and demanded the corn of the Kisáni. The latter said, after some angry talk on both sides, "We will break the ear in two and give you whichever half you choose." The young men agreed to this bargain, and the woman who owned the ear broke it in the middle and laid the pieces down for the others to choose. The young men looked at the pieces, and were considering which they would take, when Coyote, getting impatient, picked up the tip end of the ear and made off with it. The Kisáni kept the butt, and this is the reason the Pueblo Indians have to-day better crops of corn than the Navahoes. But the Pueblos had become alarmed at the threats and angry language of their neighbors and moved away from them, and this is why the Navahoes and Pueblos now live apart from one another. 190. After the Kisáni moved away, First Man and First Woman, Black Body and Blue Body, set out to build the seven sacred mountains of the present Navaho land. They made them all of earth which they had brought from similar mountains in the fourth world. The mountains they made were Tsisnadzi'ni in the east, Tsótsil (Taylor, San Mateo) in the south, Dokoslíd (San Francisco) in the west, Depe'ntsa (San Juan) in the north, with Dsilnáotil, Tsolíhi, and Akidanastáni (Hosta Butte) in the middle of the land.[61] 191. Through Tsisnadzi'ni,[62] in the east, they ran a bolt of lightning to fasten it to the earth. They decorated it with white shells, white lightning, white corn, dark clouds, and he-rain. They set a big dish or bowl of shell on its summit, and in it they put two eggs of the Pigeon to make feathers for the mountain. The eggs they covered with a sacred buckskin to make them hatch (there are many wild pigeons in this mountain now). All these things they covered with a sheet of daylight, and they put the Rock Crystal Boy and the Rock Crystal Girl[53] into the mountain to dwell. 192. Tsótsil,[54] the mountain of the south, they fastened to the earth with a great stone knife, thrust through from top to bottom. They adorned it with turquoise, with dark mist, she-rain, and all different kinds of wild animals. On its summit they placed a dish of turquoise; in this they put two eggs of the Bluebird, which they covered with sacred buckskin (there are many bluebirds in Tsótsil now), and over all they spread a covering of blue sky. The Boy who Carries One Turquoise and the Girl who Carries One Grain of Corn[55] were put into the mountain to dwell. 193. Dokoslíd,[56] the mountain of the west, they fastened to the earth with a sunbeam. They adorned it with haliotis shell, with black clouds, he-rain, yellow corn, and all sorts of wild animals. They placed a dish of haliotis shell on the top, and laid in this two eggs of the Yellow Warbler, covering them with sacred buckskins. There are many yellow warblers now in Dokoslíd. Over all they spread a yellow cloud, and they sent White Corn Boy and Yellow Corn Girl[57] to dwell there. 194. Depe'ntsa, the mountain in the north, they fastened with a rainbow. They adorned it with black beads (pászini), with the dark mist, with different kinds of plants, and many kinds of wild animals. On its top they put a dish of pászini; in this they placed two eggs of the Blackbird, over which they laid a sacred buckskin. Over all they spread a covering of darkness. Lastly they put the Pollen Boy and Grasshopper Girl[59] in the mountain, to dwell there. 195. Dsilnáotil,[60] was fastened with a sunbeam. They decorated it with goods of all kinds, with the dark cloud, and the male rain. They put nothing on top of it; they left its summit free, in order that warriors might fight there; but they put Boy Who Produces Goods and Girl Who Produces Goods[61] there to live. 196. The mountain of Tsolíhi[62] they fastened to the earth with ni'ltsatlol (the streak or cord of rain). They decorated it with pollen, the dark mist, and the female rain. They placed on top of it a live bird named Tsozgáli,[68]--such birds abound there now,--and they put in the mountain to dwell Boy Who Produces Jewels and Girl Who Produces Jewels.[64] 197. The mountain of Akidanastáni[66] they fastened to the earth with a sacred stone called tse`hadáhonige, or mirage-stone. They decorated it with black clouds, the he-rain, and all sorts of plants. They placed a live Grasshopper on its summit, and they put the Mirage-stone Boy and the Carnelian Girl there to dwell.[66] 198. They still had the three lights and the darkness, as in the lower worlds. But First Man and First Woman thought they might form some lights which would make the world brighter. After much study and debate they planned to make the sun and moon. For the sun they made a round flat object, like a dish, out of a clear stone called tsé`tsagi. They set turquoises around the edge, and outside of these they put rays of red rain, lightning, and snakes of many kinds. At first they thought of putting four points on it, as they afterwards did on the stars, but they changed their minds and made it round. They made the moon of tsé`tson (star-rock, a kind of crystal); they bordered it with white shells and they put on its face hadilki's (sheet lightning), and tó`lanastsi (all kinds of water).[67] 199. Then they counseled as to what they should do with the sun; where they should make it rise first. The Wind of the East begged that it might be brought to his land, so they dragged it off to the edge of the world where he dwelt; there they gave it to the man who planted the great cane in the lower world, and appointed him to carry it. To an old gray-haired man, who had joined them in the lower world, the moon was given to carry. These men had no names before, but now the former received the name of Tsóhanoai, or Tsínhanoai, and the latter the name of Kléhanoai. When they were about to depart, in order to begin their labors, the people were sorry, for they were beloved by all. But First Man said to the sorrowing people: "Mourn not for them, for you will see them in the heavens, and all that die will be theirs in return for their labors."[68] (See notes 69 and 70 for additions to the legend.) 200. Then the people (Diné`, Navahoes) began to travel. They journeyed towards the east, and after one day's march they reached Nihahokaí (White Spot on the Earth) and camped for the night. Here a woman brought forth, but her offspring was not like a child; it was round, misshapen, and had no head. The people counselled, and determined that it should be thrown into a gully. So they threw it away; but it lived and grew up and became the monster Téelget,[131] who afterwards destroyed so many of the people. 201. Next day they wandered farther to the east, and camped at night at Tse`taiská (Rock Bending Back). Here was born another misshapen creature, which had something like feathers on both its shoulders. It looked like nothing that was ever seen before, so the people concluded to throw this away also. They took it to an alkali bed close by and cast it away there. But it lived and grew and became the terrible Tse`na'hale,[135] of whom I shall have much to tell later. 202. The next night, travelling still to the east, they camped at Tse`bináhotyel, a broad high cliff like a wall, and here a woman bore another strange creature. It had no head, but had a long pointed end where the head ought to be. This object was deposited in the cliff, in a hole which was afterwards sealed up with a stone. They left it there to die, but it grew up and became the destroyer Tse`tahotsiltá`li,[142] of whom we shall tell hereafter. Because he was closed into the rock, his hair grew into it and he could not fall. 203. The next night, when they stopped at Tse`ahalzi'ni (Rock with Black Hole), twins were born. They were both roundish with one end tapering to a point. There were no signs of limbs or head, but there were depressions which had somewhat the appearance of eyes. The people laid them on the ground, and next day, when they moved camp, abandoned them. Tse`ahalzi'ni is shaped like a Navaho hut, with a door in the east. It is supposed that, when they were abandoned to die, the twin monsters went into this natural hut to dwell. They grew up, however, and became the Bináye Aháni, who slew with their eyes, and of whom we shall have more to tell. 204. All these monsters were the fruit of the transgressions of the women in the fourth world, when they were separated from the men. Other monsters were born on the march, and others, again, sprang from the blood which had been shed during the birth of the first monsters,[71] and all these grew up to become enemies and destroyers of the people. 205. When they left Tse`ahalzi'ni they turned toward the west, and journeyed until they came to a place called To`intsósoko (Water in a Narrow Gully), and here they remained for thirteen years, making farms and planting corn, beans, and pumpkins every spring. 206. In those days the four-footed beasts, the birds, and the snakes were people also, like ourselves, and built houses and lived near our people close to Depe'ntsa. They increased and became the cliff-dwellers. It must have been the flying creatures who built the dwellings high on the cliffs, for if they had not wings how could they reach their houses? 207. From To`intsósoko they moved to Tse`lakaíia (Standing White Rock), and here they sojourned again for thirteen years. From the latter place they moved to Tse`pahalkaí (White on Face of Cliff), and here, once more, they remained for a period of thirteen years. During this time the monsters began to devour the people. 208. From Tse`pahalkaí they moved to the neighborhood of Kintyél[72] (Broad House), in the Chaco Canyon, where the ruins of the great pueblo still stand. When the wanderers arrived the pueblo was in process of building, but was not finished. The way it came to be built you shall now hear:-- 209. Some time before, there had descended among the Pueblos, from the heavens, a divine gambler, or gambling-god, named Nohoílpi, or He Who Wins Men (at play); his talisman was a great piece of turquoise. When he came he challenged the people to all sorts of games and contests, and in all of these he was successful. He won from them, first, their property, then their women and children, and finally some of the men themselves. Then he told them he would give them part of their property back in payment if they would build a great house; so when the Navahoes came, the Pueblos were busy building in order that they might release their enthralled relatives and their property. They were also busy making a race-track, and preparing for all kinds of games of chance and skill. 210. When all was ready, and four days' notice had been given, twelve men came from the neighboring pueblo of Ki'ndotliz, Blue House, to compete with the great gambler. They bet their own persons, and after a brief contest they lost themselves to Nohoílpi. Again a notice of four days was given, and again twelve men of Ki'ndotliz--relatives of the former twelve--came to play, and these also lost themselves. For the third time an announcement, four days in advance of a game, was given; this time some women were among the twelve contestants, and they, too, lost themselves. All were put to work on the building of Kintyél as soon as they forfeited their liberty. At the end of another four days the children of these men and women came to try to win back their parents, but they succeeded only in adding themselves to the number of the gambler's slaves. On a fifth trial, after four days' warning, twelve leading men of Blue House were lost, among them the chief of the pueblo. On a sixth duly announced gambling day, twelve more men, all important persons, staked their liberty and lost it. Up to this time the Navahoes had kept count of the winnings of Nohoílpi, but afterwards people from other pueblos came in such numbers to play and lose that they could keep count no longer. In addition to their own persons the later victims brought in beads, shells, turquoise, and all sorts of valuables, and gambled them away. With the labor of all these slaves it was not long until the great Kintyél was finished. 211. But all this time the Navahoes had been merely spectators, and had taken no part in the games. One day the voice of the beneficent god, Hastséyalti,[73] was heard faintly in the distance crying his usual call, "Wu`hu`hu`hú." His voice was heard, as it is always heard, four times, each time nearer and nearer, and immediately after the last call, which was loud and clear, Hastséyalti appeared at the door of a hut where dwelt a young couple who had no children, and with them he communicated by means of signs. He told them that the people of Ki'ndotliz had lost at game with Nohoílpi two great shells, the greatest treasures of the pueblo; that the Sun had coveted these shells and had begged them from the gambler; that the latter had refused the request of the Sun and the Sun was angry. In consequence of all this, as Hastséyalti related, in twelve days from his visit certain divine personages would meet in the mountains, in a place which he designated, to hold a great ceremony. He invited the young man to be present at the ceremony and disappeared. 212. The Navaho kept count of the passing days; on the twelfth day he repaired to the appointed place, and there he found a great assemblage of the gods. There were Hastséyalti, Hastséhogan[74] and his son, Ni'ltsi[75] (Wind), Tsalyél (Darkness), Tsápani (Bat), Listsó (Great Snake), Tsilkáli (a little bird), Nasi'zi (Gopher), and many others. Besides these there were present a number of pets or domesticated animals belonging to the gambler, who were dissatisfied with their lot, were anxious to be free, and would gladly obtain their share of the spoils in case their master was ruined. Ni'ltsi (Wind) had spoken to them, and they had come to enter into the plot against Nohoílpi. All night the gods danced and sang and performed their mystic rites for the purpose of giving to the son of Hastséhogan powers, as a gambler, equal to those of Nohoílpi. When the morning came they washed the young neophyte all over, dried him with meal, dressed him in clothes exactly like those the gambler wore, and in every way made him look as much like the gambler as possible, and then they counselled as to what other means they should take to outwit Nohoílpi. 213. In the first place, they desired to find out how he felt about having refused to his father, the Sun, the two great shells. "I will do this," said Ni'ltsi (Wind), "for I can penetrate everywhere, and no one can see me;" but the others said: "No; you can go everywhere, but you cannot travel without making a noise and disturbing people. Let Tsalyél (Darkness) go on this errand, for he also goes wherever he wills, yet he makes no noise." So Tsalyél went to the gambler's house, entered his room, went all through his body while he slept, and searched well his mind, and he came back saying, "Nohoílpi is sorry for what he has done." Ni'ltsi, however, did not believe this; so, although his services had been before refused, he repaired to the chamber where the gambler slept, and went all through his body and searched well his mind; but he, too, came back saying Nohoílpi was sorry that he had refused to give the great shells to his father. 214. One of the games they proposed to play is called taká-thad-sáta, or the thirteen chips. (It is played with thirteen thin flat pieces of wood, which are colored red on one side and left white or uncolored on the other side. Success depends on the number of chips which, being thrown upwards, fall with their white sides up.) "Leave the game to me," said the Bat; "I have made thirteen chips that are white on both sides. I will hide myself in the ceiling, and when our champion throws up his chips I will grasp them and throw down my chips instead." 215. Another game they were to play is called nánzoz.[76] (It is played with two long sticks or poles, of peculiar shape and construction, one marked with red and the other with black, and a single hoop. A long, many-tailed string, called the "turkey-claw," is secured to the end of each pole.) "Leave nánzoz to me," said Great Snake; "I will hide myself in the hoop and make it fall where I please." 216. Another game was one called tsi'nbetsil, or push-on-the-wood. (In this the contestants push against a tree until it is torn from its roots and falls.) "I will see that this game is won," said Nasi'zi, the Gopher; "I will gnaw the roots of the tree, so that he who shoves it may easily make it fall." 217. In the game tsol, or ball, the object was to hit the ball so that it would fall beyond a certain line. "I will win this game for you," said the little bird Tsilkáli, "for I will hide within the ball, and fly with it wherever I want to go. Do not hit the ball hard; give it only a light tap, and depend on me to carry it." 218. The pets of the gambler begged the Wind to blow hard, so that they might have an excuse to give their master for not keeping due watch when he was in danger, and in the morning the Wind blew for them a strong gale. At dawn the whole party of conspirators left the mountain, and came down to the brow of the canyon to watch until sunrise. 219. Nohoílpi had two wives, who were the prettiest women in the whole land. Wherever she went, each carried in her hand a stick with something tied on the end of it, as a sign that she was the wife of the great gambler. 220. It was their custom for one of them to go every morning at sunrise to a neighboring spring to get water. So at sunrise the watchers on the brow of the cliff saw one of the wives coming out of the gambler's house with a water-jar on her head, whereupon the son of Hastséhogan descended into the canyon and followed her to the spring. She was not aware of his presence until she had filled her water-jar; then she supposed it to be her own husband, whom the youth was dressed and adorned to represent, and she allowed him to approach her. She soon discovered her error, however, but, deeming it prudent to say nothing, she suffered him to follow her into the house. As he entered, he observed that many of the slaves had already assembled; perhaps they were aware that some trouble was in store for their master. The latter looked up with an angry face; he felt jealous when he saw the stranger entering immediately after his wife. He said nothing of this, however, but asked at once the important question, "Have you come to gamble with me?" This he repeated four times, and each time the young Hastséhogan said "No." Thinking the stranger feared to play with him, Nohoílpi went on challenging him recklessly. "I'll bet myself against yourself;" "I'll bet my feet against your feet;" "I'll bet my legs against your legs;" and so on he offered to bet every and any part of his body against the same part of his adversary, ending by mentioning his hair. 221. In the mean time the party of divine ones, who had been watching from above, came down, and people from the neighboring pueblos came in, and among these were two boys, who were dressed in costumes similar to those worn by the wives of the gambler. The young Hastséhogan pointed to these and said, "I will bet my wives against your wives." The great gambler accepted the wager, and the four persons, two women and two mock-women, were placed sitting in a row near the wall. First they played the game of thirteen chips. The Bat assisted, as he had promised the son of Hastséhogan and the latter soon won the game, and with it the wives of Nohoílpi. 222. This was the only game played inside the house; then all went out of doors, and games of various kinds were played. First they tried nánzoz. The track already prepared lay east and west, but, prompted by the Wind God, the stranger insisted on having a track made from north to south, and again, at the bidding of Wind, he chose the red stick. The son of Hastséhogan threw the wheel; at first it seemed about to fall on the gambler's pole, in the "turkey-claw" of which it was entangled; but to the great surprise of the gambler it extricated itself, rolled farther on, and fell on the pole of his opponent. The latter ran to pick up the ring, lest Nohoílpi in doing so might hurt the snake inside; but the gambler was so angry that he threw his stick away and gave up the game, hoping to do better in the next contest, which was that of pushing down trees. 223. For this the great gambler pointed out two small trees, but his opponent insisted that larger trees must be found. After some search they agreed upon two of good size, which grew close together, and of these the Wind told the youth which one he must select. The gambler strained with all his might at his tree, but could not move it, while his opponent, when his turn came, shoved the other tree prostrate with little effort, for its roots had all been severed by Gopher. 224. Then followed a variety of games, on which Nohoílpi staked his wealth in shells and precious stones, his houses, and many of his slaves, and lost all. 225. The last game was that of the ball. On the line over which the ball was to be knocked all the people were assembled; on one side were those who still remained slaves; on the other side were the freedmen and those who had come to wager themselves, hoping to rescue their kinsmen. Nohoílpi bet on this game the last of his slaves and his own person. The gambler struck his ball a heavy blow, but it did not reach the line; the stranger gave his but a light tap, and the bird within it flew with it far beyond the line, whereat the released captives jumped over the line and joined their people. 226. The victor ordered all the shells, beads, and precious stones, and the great shells, to be brought forth. He gave the beads and shells to Hastséyalti, that they might be distributed among the gods; the two great shells were given to the Sun.[77] 227. In the mean time Nohoílpi sat to one side saying bitter things, bemoaning his fate, and cursing and threatening his enemies. "I will kill you all with the lightning. I will send war and disease among you. May the cold freeze you! May the fire burn you! May the waters drown you!" he cried. "He has cursed enough," whispered Ni'ltsi to the son of Hastséhogan. "Put an end to his angry words." So the young victor called Nohoílpi to him and said: "You have bet yourself and have lost; you are now my slave and must do my bidding. You are not a god, for my power has prevailed against yours." The victor had a bow of magic power named Eti'n Dilyi'l, or the Bow of Darkness; he bent this upwards, and placing the string on the ground he bade his slave stand on the string; then he shot Nohoílpi up into the sky as if he had been an arrow. Up and up he went, growing smaller and smaller to the sight till he faded to a mere speck and finally disappeared altogether. As he flew upwards he was heard to mutter in the angry tones of abuse and imprecation, until he was too far away to be heard; but no one could distinguish anything he said as he ascended. 228. He flew up in the sky until he came to the home of Békotsidi,[78] the god who carries the moon, and who is supposed by the Navahoes to be identical with the God of the Americans. He is very old, and dwells in a long row of stone houses. When Nohoílpi arrived at the house of Békotsidi he related to the latter all his misadventures in the lower world and said, "Now I am poor, and this is why I have come to see you." "You need be poor no longer," said Békotsidi; "I will provide for you." So he made for the gambler pets or domestic animals of new kinds, different to those which he had in the Chaco valley; he made for him sheep, asses, horses, swine, goats, and fowls. He also gave him bayeta,[79] and other cloths of bright colors, more beautiful than those woven by his slaves at Kintyél. He made, too, a new people, the Mexicans, for the gambler to rule over, and then he sent him back to this world again, but he descended far to the south of his former abode, and reached the earth in old Mexico. 229. Nohoílpi's people increased greatly in Mexico, and after a while they began to move towards the north, and build towns along the Rio Grande. Nohoílpi came with them until they arrived at a place north of Santa Fé. There they ceased building, and he returned to old Mexico, where he still lives, and where he is now the Nakaí Digíni, or God of the Mexicans. 230. The Navaho who went at the bidding of the Sun to the tryst of the gods stayed with them till the gambler was shot into the sky. Then he returned to his people and told all he had seen. The young stranger went back to Tse`gíhi, the home of the yéi. 231. The wanderers were not long at Kintyél, but while they were they met some of the Daylight People. From Kintyél they moved to To`i'ndotsos, and here Mai,[80] the Coyote, married a Navaho woman. He remained in the Navaho camp nine days, and then he went to visit Dasáni, the Porcupine. The latter took a piece of bark, scratched his nose with it till the blood flowed freely out over it, put it on the fire, and there roasted it slowly until it turned into a piece of fine meat. Porcupine then spread some clean herbs on the ground, laid the roasted meat on these, and invited his visitor to partake. Coyote was delighted; he had never had a nicer meal, and when he was leaving he invited his host to return the visit in two days. At the appointed time Porcupine presented himself at the hut of Coyote. The latter greeted his guest, bade him be seated, and rushed out of the house. In a few minutes he returned with a piece of bark. With this he scratched his nose, as he had seen Porcupine doing, and allowed the blood to flow. He placed the bloody bark over the fire, where in a moment it burst into flames and was soon reduced to ashes. Coyote hung his head in shame and Porcupine went home hungry. 232. Soon after this Coyote visited Maítso,[80] the Wolf. The latter took down, from among the rafters of his hut, two of the old-fashioned reed arrows with wooden heads, such as the Navahoes used in the ancient days; he pulled out the wooden points, rolled them on his thigh, moistened them in his mouth, and buried them in the hot ashes beside the fire. After waiting a little while and talking to his guest, he raked out from the ashes, where he had buried the arrow points, two fine cooked puddings of minced meat; these he laid on a mat of fresh herbs and told Coyote to help himself. Coyote again enjoyed his meal greatly, and soon after, when he rose to leave, he invited Wolf to pay him a visit in two days. Wolf went in due time to the house of Coyote, and when he had seated himself the host took two arrow-heads, as Wolf had done, rolled them on his thigh, put them in his mouth, and buried them in the hot ashes. After waiting a while, he raked the ashes and found nothing but two pieces of charred wood where he had placed the arrow-heads. This time he gave no evidence of his disappointment, but sat and talked with his guest just as if nothing had happened, until Wolf, seeing no sign of dinner and becoming very hungry, got up and went home. 233. In those days the Chicken-hawks and the Hummingbirds were known as great hunters. They were friendly to one another and dwelt together in one camp. 234. Coyote went to pay them a visit, and when he arrived at the camp he entered one of the huts of the Hummingbirds. He found therein two beautiful Hummingbird maidens, gayly dressed, with rows of deer-hoof pendants on their skirts and shoulders. He lay down in the lodge and said to the maidens: "Where is everybody to-day? I heard there were many people camped here, but the camp seems deserted." The maidens replied: "There are many people camped here, but to-day the men are all out hunting." 235. Now, Coyote was a dandy; he was always beautifully dressed; he had a nice otter-skin quiver and his face was painted in spots. The maidens, when they had looked well at him, bent their heads together and whispered to one another, "He is a handsome young man. He is beautifully dressed. He must be a person of some importance." He spent the day gossipping with the maidens and telling them wonderful tales about himself. "Would you know who I am?" he said. "I am the God of Tsisnadzi'ni Mountain. I have no need to hunt. All I have to do is to will the death of an animal and it dies. Your people have no need to wear themselves out hunting for game. I can kill all they want without labor." 236. At nightfall, when the hunters returned, the maidens left the lodge, went to where their friends were assembled, and told them all about the visitor. When the maidens had finished their story, the chief directed one of the young men to go over to the hut, peep in over the curtain in the doorway, and see what the stranger looked like. The young man did as he was bidden, making no noise, and looked into the lodge unobserved by Coyote. When he returned to the chief he said: "The stranger is a fine-looking man and is beautifully dressed. Perhaps he is indeed a god." The chief then said: "It may be that all is true which he has told the maidens. We have to travel far in all sorts of weather and to work hard to secure food. He may know some way to save us from labor, so let us be kind to him. Go, one of you maidens, back to the lodge to serve him." Hearing these words, the younger of the two young women returned to the lodge. Her clothing was ornamented with many pendants of bone and hoof that rattled with every movement she made, and for this reason Coyote named her Tsiké Nazi'li, or Young Woman Who Rattles. 237. In the morning she went to the lodge where her people were, and where a good breakfast was already prepared, and she brought a large dishful of the food for Coyote to eat. As she was about to depart with the food her people charged her to tell Coyote nothing of certain bad neighbors of theirs, lest he might visit them and work wonders for their benefit. But their injunctions came too late. Already Tsiké Nazi'li had told him all about these bad neighbors, and he had made up his mind to visit them. 238. When breakfast was over she said: "Now the hunters are going out." He replied: "I will go with them." So he joined the party, and they travelled together till they got to the brow of a high hill which overlooked an extensive country. Here Coyote told his companions to remain concealed while he went into the plain and drove the game toward them. When he got out of sight, he tied to his tail a long fagot of shredded cedar-bark, which he set on fire, and then he ran over the country in a wide circle as fast as he could go. Everywhere the fagot touched it set fire to the grass, and raised a long line of flame and smoke which drove the antelope up to where the hunters were concealed. A great quantity of game was killed; the hunters returned laden with meat, and their faith in Coyote was unbounded. 239. Next morning they all went out once more to hunt. Again the hunters concealed themselves on the brow of a hill, and again Coyote tied the blazing fagot to his tail and ran. The people on the hilltop watched the line of fire advancing over the plain; but when it turned around as if to come back to the place from which it started, it suddenly ceased. Much game was driven toward the party in ambush; but Coyote did not return, and the hunters went to work cutting up the meat and cooking food for themselves. 240. Coyote, in the mean time, had gone to seek the bad neighbors. He untied his brand at the place where the hunters had seen the line of fire cease, and wandered off in a different direction. After a while he came to two great trees, a spruce and a pine, growing close together, and filled with chattering birds of two kinds. The spruce-tree was filled with birds called Tsi'di Béze, and the pine-tree with birds called Tsi'di Sási. They were all busily engaged in playing a game which Coyote had never seen before. They would pull out their eyes, toss these up to the top of the tree, cry "Drop back, my eyes! Drop back!" and catch the eyes as they descended in their proper sockets. Coyote watched their play for a long time, and at length, becoming fascinated with the game, he cried out to the Tsi'di Sási in the pine-tree, "Pull out my eyes for me. I want to play, too." "No," they replied, "we will have nothing to do with you." Again and again he begged to be allowed to join in the sport, and again and again they refused him. But when he had pleaded for the fourth time, they flew down to where Coyote sat, and, taking sharp sticks, they gouged his eyes out. The eyes were thrown up to the top of the pine-tree, and when they fell down Coyote caught them in his orbits and could see again as well as ever. Coyote was delighted with the result of his first venture, and he begged them to pull his eyes out again, but they said angrily: "We do not want to play with you. We have done enough for you now. Go and leave us." But he continued to whine and beg until again they pulled out his eyes and tossed them up with the same happy result as before. Thus four times were his eyes pulled out, thrown upward, and caught back again in the head. But when he begged them to pull out his eyes for the fifth time, they went to a distance and held a council among themselves. When they returned they pulled his eyes out once more; but this time they took pains to pull out the strings of the eyes (optic nerves) at the same time; these they tied together, and, when the eyes were again flung up in the tree, they caught on one of the branches and there they stayed. Now Coyote was in mortal distress. "Drop back, my eyes! Drop back!" he cried. But back they never came, and he sat there with his nose pointed up toward the top of the tree, and he howled and prayed and wept. At last the birds took pity on him and said: "Let us make other eyes for him." So they took a couple of partly dried pieces of pine gum and rolled them into two balls; these were stuck into the empty sockets, and, although they were not good eyes, they gave him sight enough to see his way home. The gum was yellow, and for this reason coyotes have had yellow eyes ever since. 241. He crept back, as best he could, to the place where he had left the hunters, and where he found them cutting and cooking meat. He sat down facing the fire, but he soon found that his gum eyes were getting soft with the heat, so he turned his side to the fire. The hunters gave him a piece of raw liver, supposing he would cook it himself. Not daring to turn towards the fire, lest his eyes should melt altogether, he threw the liver on the coals without looking, and when he tried afterwards to take it up he thrust his hand at random into the fire and caught nothing but hot coals that burned him. Fearing that his strange action was observed, he tried to pass it off as a joke, and every time he picked up a hot coal he cried: "Don't burn me, liver! Don't burn me, liver!" After a while the hunters seated around the fire began to notice his singular motions and words, and one said to another: "He does not act as usual. Go and see what is the matter with him." The hunter who was thus bidden went over in front of Coyote, looked at him closely, and saw melted gum pouring out from between his eyelids. 242. It happened that during the day, while Coyote was absent, a messenger had come to the camp of the hunters from another camp to tell them that an individual named Mai, or Coyote, had left his home, and had been seen going toward the camp of the Hummingbirds, and to warn them against him. "He is an idler and a trickster,--beware of him," said the messenger. So when they found out the condition of their visitor they said: "This must be Coyote of whom we have heard. He has been playing with the Tsi'di Sási and has lost his eyes." 243. When they had arrived at this conclusion they started for camp and led the blind Coyote along. In the mean time they devised a plan for getting rid of him. When they got home they took the rattling dress of Tsiké Nazi'li and gave her an ordinary garment to wear. Then a Chicken-hawk took the dress in his beak, and, flying a little distance above the ground, shook the dress in front of Coyote. The latter, thinking the maiden was there, approached the sound, and as he did so the Chicken-hawk flew farther away, still shaking the dress. Coyote followed the rattling sound, and was thus led on to the brink of a deep canyon. Here the hawk shook the dress beyond the edge of the precipice. Coyote jumped toward where he heard the sound, fell to the bottom of the canyon, and was dashed to pieces. 244. But for all this he did not die. He did not, like other beings, keep his vital principle in his chest, where it might easily be destroyed; he kept it in the tip of his nose and in the end of his tail, where no one would expect to find it; so after a while he came to life again, went back to the camp of the birds, and asked for Tsiké Nazi'li. They told him she was gone away, and ordered him angrily to leave, telling him they knew who he was, and that he was a worthless fellow. 245. Coyote left the camp of the birds, and wandered around till he came to the house of one of the anáye, or alien gods, named Yélapahi,[71] or Brown Giant. He was half as tall as the tallest pine-tree, and he was evil and cruel. Coyote said to the Brown Giant, "Yélapahi, I want to be your servant; I can be of great help to you. The reason that you often fail to catch your enemies is that you cannot run fast enough. I can run fast and jump far; I can jump over four bushes at one bound. I can run after your enemies and help you to catch them." "My cousin," responded Brown Giant, "you can do me service if you will." Coyote then directed the giant to build a sweat-house for himself, and, while the latter was building it, Coyote set out on another errand. 246. In those days there was a maiden of renowned beauty in the land. She was the only sister of eleven divine brothers.[81] She had been sought in marriage by the Sun and by many potent gods, but she had refused them all because they could not comply with certain conditions which she imposed op all suitors. It was to visit her that Coyote went when he left Yélapahi at work on the sweat-house. 247. "Why have you refused so many beautiful gods who want you for a wife?" said Coyote to the maiden after he had greeted her. "It would profit you nothing to know," she replied, "for you could not comply with any one of my demands." Four times he asked her this question, and three times he got the same reply. When he asked her the fourth time she answered: "In the first place, I will not marry any one who has not killed one of the anáye." When he heard this Coyote arose and returned to the place where he had left Yélapahi. 248. On his way back he looked carefully for the bone of some big animal which Great Wolf had slain and eaten. At length he found a long thigh-bone which suited his purpose. He took this home with him, concealing it under his shirt. When Coyote got back, Yélapahi had finished the sweat-house.[82] Together they built the fire, heated the stones, and spread the carpet of leaves. Coyote hung over the doorway four blankets of sky,--one white, one blue, one yellow, and one black, and put the hot stones into the lodge. Then they hung their arms and clothes on a neighboring tree, entered the sudatory, and sat down.[83] 249. "Now," said Coyote, "if you want to become a fast runner, I will show you what to do. You must cut the flesh of your thigh down to the bone and then break the bone. It will heal again in a moment, and when it heals you will be stronger and swifter than ever. I often do this myself, and every time I do it I am fleeter of foot than I was before. I will do it now, so that you may observe how it is done." Coyote then produced a great stone knife and pretended to cut his own thigh, wailing and crying in the mean time, and acting as if he suffered great pain. After a while of this pretence he put the old femur on top of his thigh, held it by both ends, and said to the giant: "I have now reached the bone. Feel it." When the giant had put forth his hand, in the absolute darkness of the sweat-house, and felt the bare bone, Coyote shoved the hand away and struck the bone hard with the edge of his knife several times until he broke the bone, and he made the giant feel the fractured ends. Then he threw away the old bone, rubbed spittle on his thigh, prayed and sang, and in a little while presented his sound thigh to the giant for his examination, saying: "See! my limb is healed again. It is as well as ever." When he had thus spoken Coyote handed his knife to Yélapahi, and the latter with many tears and loud howls slowly amputated his own thigh. When the work was done he put the two severed ends together, spat upon them, sang and prayed, as Coyote had done. "Tóhe! Tóhe! Tóhe!"[84] he cried, "Heal together! Grow together!" he commanded; but the severed ends would not unite. "Cousin," he called to Coyote, "help me to heal this leg." Coyote thought it was now time to finish his work. He ran from the sweat-house, seized his bow, and discharged his arrows into the helpless Yélapahi, who soon expired with many wounds. 250. Coyote scalped his victim, and tied the scalp to the top of a branch which he broke from a cedar-tree; as further evidence of his victory, he took the quiver and weapons of the slain and set out for the lodge of the maiden. He knew she could not mistake the scalp, for the yéi, in those days, had yellow hair,[85] such as no other people had. When he reached the lodge he said to the maiden: "Here is the scalp and here are the weapons of one of the anáye. Now you must marry me." "No," said the maiden, "not yet; I have not told you all that one must do in order to win me. He must be killed four times and come to life again four times." "Do you speak the truth? Have you told me all?" said Coyote. "Yes; I speak only the truth," she replied. Four times he asked this question, and four times he received the same answer. When she had spoken for the fourth time Coyote said: "Here I am. Do with me as you will." The maiden took him a little distance from the lodge, laid him on the ground, beat him with a great club until she thought she had smashed every bone in his body, and left him for dead. But the point of his nose and the end of his tail she did not smash. She hurried back to her hut, for she had much work to do. She was the only woman in a family of twelve. She cooked the food and tanned the skins, and besides she made baskets. At this particular time she was engaged in making four baskets. When she returned to the lodge she sat down and went on with her basket-work; but she had not worked long before she became aware that some one was standing in the doorway, and, looking up, she beheld Coyote. "Here I am," he said; "I have won one game; there are only three more to win." 251. She made no reply, but took him off farther than she had taken him before, and pounded him to pieces with a club. She threw the pieces away in different directions and returned to her work again; but she had not taken many stitches in her basket when again the resurrected Coyote appeared in the doorway, saying: "I have won two games; there are only two more to win." 252. Again she led him forth, but took him still farther away from the lodge than she had taken him before, and with a heavy club pounded him into a shapeless mass, until she thought he must certainly be dead. She stood a long time gazing at the pounded flesh, and studying what she would do with it to make her work sure. She carried the mass to a great rock, and there she beat it into still finer pieces. These she scattered farther than she had scattered the pieces before, and went back to the house. But she had still failed to injure the two vital spots. It took the Coyote a longer time on this occasion than on the previous occasions to pull himself together; still she had not wrought much on her basket when he again presented himself and said: "I have won three games; there is but one more game to win." 253. The fourth time she led him farther away than ever. She not only mashed him to pieces, but she mixed the pieces with earth, ground the mixture, like corn, between two stones, until it was ground to a fine powder, and scattered this powder far and wide. But again she neglected to crush the point of the nose and the tip of the tail. She went back to the lodge and worked a long time undisturbed. She had just begun to entertain hopes that she had seen the last of her unwelcome suitor when again he entered the door. Now, at last, she could not refuse him. He had fulfilled all her conditions, and she consented to become his wife. He remained all the afternoon. At sunset they heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and she said: "My brothers are coming. Some of them are evil of mind and may do you harm. You must hide yourself." She hid him behind a pile of skins, and told him to be quiet. 254. When the brothers entered the lodge they said to their sister: "Here is some fat young venison which we bring you. Put it down to boil and put some of the fat into the pot, for our faces are burned by the wind and we want to grease them." The woman slept on the north side of the lodge and kept there her household utensils. She had about half of the lodge to herself. The men slept on the south side, the eldest next to the door. 255. The pot was put on and the fire replenished, and when it began to burn well an odor denoting the presence of some beast filled the lodge. One of the brothers said: "It smells as if some animal had been in the wood-pile. Let us throw out this wood and get fresh sticks from the bottom of the pile." They did as he desired; but the unpleasant odors continued to annoy them, and again the wood was taken from the fire and thrown away. Thinking the whole pile of wood was tainted with the smell, they went out, broke fresh branches from trees, and built the fire up again; but this did not abate the rank odor in the least. Then one said: "Perhaps the smell is in the water. Tell us, little sister, where did you get the water in the pot?" "I got it at the spring where I always get it," she replied. But they got her to throw out the water and fill the pot with snow, and to put the meat down to boil again. In spite of all their pains the stench was as bad as ever. At length one of the brothers turned to his sister and said: "What is the cause of this odor? It is not in the wood. It is not in the water. Whence comes it?" She was silent. He repeated the question three times, yet she made no answer. But when the question had been asked for the fourth time, Coyote jumped out of his hiding-place into the middle of the lodge and cried: "It is I, my brothers-in-law!" "Run out there!" the brothers commanded, and turning to their sister they said: "Run out you with him!" 256. They both departed from the lodge. As Coyote went out he took a brand from the fire, and with this he lighted a new fire. Then he broke boughs from the neighboring trees and built a shelter for himself and his wife to live in. When this was completed she went back to the lodge of her brothers, took out her pots, skins, four awls, baskets, and all her property, and carried them to her new home. 257. One of the elder brothers said to the youngest: "Go out to-night and watch the couple, and see what sort of a man this is that we have for a brother-in-law. Do not enter the shelter, but lie hidden outside and observe them." So the youngest brother went forth and hid himself near the shelter, where he could peep in and see by the light of the fire what took place and hear what was said. The pair sat side by side near the fire. Presently the woman laid her hand in a friendly manner on Coyote's knee, but Coyote threw it away. These motions were repeated four times, and when he had thrown her hand away for the fourth time he said: "I have sworn never to take a woman for a wife until I have killed her four times." For a while the woman remained silent and gazed at the fire. At length she said: "Here I am. Do with me as you will." (The myth then relates four deaths and resurrections of the woman, similar to those of the Coyote, but it does not state how or where she preserved her vital principle.) When she returned for the fourth time she lay down, and Coyote soon followed her to her couch. From time to time during the night they held long, low conversations, of which the listener could hear but little. At dawn the watcher went home. In reply to the questions of his brothers he said: "I cannot tell you all that I saw and heard, and they said much that I could not hear; but all that I did hear and behold was tsindás" (devilish, evil). 258. Next morning the brothers proposed to go out hunting. While they were getting ready Coyote came and asked leave to join them, but they said to him tauntingly: "No; stay at home with your wife; she may be lonely and may need some one to talk to her," and they chased him out of the lodge. Just as they were about to leave he came back again and begged them to take him with them. "No," they replied, "the woman will want you to carry wood; you must stay at home with her." They bade him begone and set out on their journey. They had not gone far on their way when he overtook them, and for the third time asked to be allowed to join the party; but again they drove him back with scornful words. They travelled on till they came to the edge of a deep canyon bordered with very steep cliffs, and here Coyote was seen again, skulking behind them. For the fourth time he pleaded with them; but now the youngest brother took his part, and suggested that Coyote might assist in driving game towards them. So, after some deliberation, they consented to take Coyote along. At the edge of the canyon they made a bridge of rainbow,[86] on which they proceeded to cross the chasm. Before the brothers reached the opposite bluff Coyote jumped on it from the bridge, with a great bound, and began to frolic around, saying: "This is a nice place to play." 259. They travelled farther on, and after a while came to a mesa, or table-land, which projected into a lower plain, and was connected with the plateau on which they stood by a narrow neck of level land. It was a mesa much like that on which the three eastern towns of the Mokis stand, with high, precipitous sides and a narrow entrance. On the neck of land they observed the tracks of four Rocky Mountain sheep, which had gone in on the mesa but had not returned. They had reason, therefore, to believe that the sheep were still on the mesa. At the neck they built a fire, sat down near it, and sent Coyote in on the mesa to drive the sheep out. Their plans were successful; soon the four sheep came running out over the neck, within easy range of the hunters' weapons, and were all killed. Presently Coyote returned and lay down on the sand. 260. In those days the horns of the Rocky Mountain sheep were flat and fleshy and could be eaten. The eldest brother said: "I will take the horns for my share." "No," said Coyote, "the horns shall be mine: give them to me." Three times each repeated the same declaration. When both had spoken for the fourth time, the eldest brother, to end the controversy, drew out his knife and began to cut one of the horns; as he did so Coyote cried out, "Tsinántlehi! Tsinántlehi! Tsinántlehi! Tsinántlehi!" (Turn to bone! Turn to bone! Turn to bone! Turn to bone!) Each time he cried, the horn grew harder and harder, and the knife slipped as it cut, hacking but not severing the horn. This is why the horns of the Rocky Mountain sheep are now hard, not fleshy, and to this day they bear the marks of the hunter's knife. "Tsi'ndi! Tsindás bilnáalti!" (You devil! You evil companion in travel!) said the hunter to Coyote. 261. The hunters gathered all the meat into one pile, and by means of the mystic power which they possessed they reduced it to a very small compass. They tied it in a small bundle which one person might easily carry, and they gave it to Coyote to take home, saying to him, "Travel round by the head of the canyon over which we crossed and go not through it, for they are evil people who dwell there, and open not your bundle until you get home." 262. The bundle was lifted to his back and he started for home, promising to heed all that had been told him. But as soon as he was well out of sight of his companions he slipped his bundle to the ground and opened it. At once the meat expanded and became again a heap of formidable size, such that he could not bind it up again or carry it; so he hung some of it up on the trees and bushes; he stuck part of it into crevices in the rocks; a portion he left scattered on the ground; he tied up as much as he could carry in a new bundle, and with this he continued on his journey. 263. When he came to the edge of the forbidden canyon he looked down and saw some birds playing a game he had never witnessed before. They rolled great stones down the slope, which extended from the foot of the cliff to the bottom of the valley, and stood on the stones while they were rolling; yet the birds were not upset or crushed or hurt in the least by this diversion. The sight so pleased Coyote that he descended into the canyon and begged to be allowed to join in the sport. The birds rolled a stone gently for him; he got on it and handled himself so nimbly that he reached the bottom of the slope without injury. Again and again he begged them to give him a trial until he thus three times descended without hurting himself. When he asked the birds for the fourth time to roll a stone for him they became angry and hurled it with such force that Coyote lost his footing, and he and the stone rolled over one another to the bottom of the slope, and he screamed and yelped all the way down. 264. After this experience he left the birds and travelled on until he observed some Otters at play by the stream at the bottom of the canyon. They were playing the Navaho game of nánzoz. They bet their skins against one another on the results of the game. But when one lost his skin at play he jumped into the water and came out with a new skin. Coyote approached the Otters and asked to be allowed to take part in the game, but the Otters had heard about him and knew what a rascal he was. They refused him and told him to begone; but still he remained and pleaded. After a while they went apart and talked among themselves, and when they returned they invited Coyote to join them in their game. Coyote bet his skin and lost it. The moment he lost, the Otters all rushed at him, and, notwithstanding his piteous cries, they tore the hide from his back, beginning at the root of his tail and tearing forward. When they came to the vital spot at the end of his nose his wails were terrible. When he found himself denuded of his skin he jumped into the water, as he had seen the Otters doing; but, alas! his skin did not come back to him. He jumped again and again into the water; but came out every time as bare as he went in. At length he became thoroughly exhausted, and lay down in the water until the Otters took pity on him and pulled him out. They dragged him to a badger hole, threw him in there, and covered him up with earth. Previous to this adventure Coyote had a beautiful, smooth fur like that of the otter. When he dug his way out of the badger hole he was again covered with hair, but it was no longer the glossy fur which he once wore; it was coarse and rough, much like that of the badger, and such a pelt the coyotes have worn ever since. 265. But this sad experience did not make him mend his ways. He again went round challenging the Otters to further play, and betting his new skin on the game. "Your skin is of no value; no one would play for it. Begone!" they said. Being often refused and insolently treated, he at length became angry, retired to a safe distance, and began to revile the Otters shamefully. "You are braggarts," he cried; "you pretend to be brave, but you are cowards. Your women are like yourselves: their heads are flat; their eyes are little; their teeth stick out; they are ugly; while I have a bride as beautiful as the sun." He shook his foot at them as if to say, "I am fleeter than you." He would approach them, and when they made motion as if to pursue him, he would take a big jump and soon place himself beyond their reach. When they quieted down, he would approach them again and continue to taunt and revile them. After a while he went to the cliff, to a place of safety, and shouted from there his words of derision. The Otters talked together, and said they could suffer his abuse no longer, that something must be done, and they sent word to the chiefs of the Spiders, who lived farther down the stream, telling them what had occurred, and asking for their aid. 266. The Spiders crept up the bluff, went round behind where Coyote sat cursing and scolding, and wove strong webs in the trees and bushes. When their work was finished they told the Otters what they had done, and the latter started to climb the bluff and attack Coyote. Conscious of his superior swiftness, he acted as if indifferent to them, and allowed them to come quite close before he turned to run; but he did not run far until he was caught in the webs of the Spiders. Then the Otters seized him and dragged him, howling, to the foot of the hill. He clung so hard to the grasses and shrubs as he passed that they were torn out by the roots. When the Otters got him to the bottom of the hill they killed him, or seemed to kill him. The Cliff Swallows (Hastsósi)[21] flew down from the walls of the canyon and tore him in pieces; they carried off the fragments to their nests, leaving only a few drops of blood on the ground; they tore his skin into strips and made of these bands which they put around their heads, and this accounts for the band which the cliff swallow wears upon his brow to-day. 267. It was nightfall when the brothers came home. They saw that Coyote had not yet returned, and they marvelled what had become of him. When they entered the lodge and sat down, the sister came and peeped in over the portière, scanned the inside of the lodge, and looked inquiringly at them. They did not speak to her until she had done this four times, then the eldest brother said: "Go back and sleep, and don't worry about that worthless man of yours. He is not with us, and we know not what has become of him. We suppose he has gone into the canyon, where we warned him not to go, and has been killed." She only said, "What have you done with him?" and went away in anger. 268. Before they lay down to sleep they sent the youngest brother out to hide where he had hidden the night before to watch their sister, and this is what he saw: At first she pretended to go to sleep. After a while she rose and sat facing the east. Then she faced in turn the south, the west, and the north, moving sunwise. When this was done she pulled out her right eye-tooth, broke a large piece from one of her four bone awls and inserted it in the place of the tooth, making a great tusk where the little tooth had once been. As she did this she said aloud: "He who shall hereafter dream of losing a right eye-tooth shall lose a brother." After this she opened her mouth to the four points of the compass in the order in which she had faced them before, tore out her left eye-tooth and inserted in its place the pointed end of another awl. As she made this tusk she said: "He who dreams of losing his left eye-tooth shall lose a sister." 269. The watcher then returned to his brothers and told them what he had seen and heard. "Go back," said they, "and watch her again, for you have not seen all her deeds." When he went back he saw her make, as she had done before, two tusks in her lower jaw. When she had made that on the right she said: "He who dreams of losing this tooth (right lower canine) shall lose a child;" and when she made that on the left she said: "He who dreams of losing this tooth (left lower canine) shall lose a parent." 270. When she first began to pull out her teeth, hair began to grow on her hands; as she went on with her mystic work the hair spread up her arms and her legs, leaving only her breasts bare. The young man now crept back to the lodge where his brethren waited and told them what he had seen. "Go back," they said, "and hide again. There is more for you to see." 271. When he got back to his hiding-place the hair had grown over her breasts, and she was covered with a coat of shaggy hair like that of a bear. She continued to move around in the direction of the sun's apparent course, pausing and opening her mouth at the east, the south, the west, and the north as she went. After a while her ears began to wag, her snout grew long, her teeth were heard to gnash, her nails turned into claws. He watched her until dawn, when, fearing he might be discovered, he returned to his lodge and told his brothers all that had happened. They said: "These must be the mysteries that Coyote explained to her the first night." 272. In a moment after the young man had told his story they heard the whistling of a bear, and soon a she-bear rushed past the door of the lodge, cracking the branches as she went. She followed the trail which Coyote had taken the day before and disappeared in the woods. 273. At night she came back groaning. She had been in the fatal canyon all day, fighting the slayers of Coyote, and she had been wounded in many places. Her brothers saw a light in her hut, and from time to time one of their number would go and peep in through an aperture to observe what was happening within. All night she walked around the fire. At intervals she would, by means of her magic, draw arrow-heads out of her body and heal the wounds. 274. Next morning the bear-woman again rushed past the lodge of her brethren, and again went off toward the fatal canyon. At night she returned, as before, groaning and bleeding, and again spent the long night in drawing forth missiles and healing her wounds by means of her magic rites. 275. Thus she continued to do for four days and four nights; but at the end of the fourth day she had conquered all her enemies; she had slain many, and those she had not killed she had dispersed. The swallows flew up into the high cliffs to escape her vengeance; the otters hid themselves in the water; the spiders retreated into holes in the ground,[87] and in such places these creatures have been obliged to dwell ever since. 276. During these four days, the brothers remained in their camp; but at the end of that time, feeling that trouble was in store for them, they decided to go away. They left the youngest brother at home, and the remaining ten divided themselves into four different parties; one of which travelled to the east, another to the south, another to the west, and another to the north. 277. When they were gone, the Whirlwind, Níyol, and the Knife Boy, Pésasike, came to the lodge to help the younger brother who had remained behind. They dug for him a hole under the centre of the hogán; and from this they dug four branching tunnels, running east, south, west, and north, and over the end of each tunnel they put a window of gypsum to let in light from above. They gave him four weapons,--atsinikli'ska, the chain-lightning arrow; hatsoilhálka (an old-fashioned stone knife as big as the open hand); natsili'tka, the rainbow arrow; and hatsilki'ska, the sheet-lightning arrow. They roofed his hiding-place with four flat stones, one white, one blue, one yellow, and one black. They put earth over all these, smoothing the earth and tramping it down so that it should look like the natural floor of the lodge. They gave him two monitors, Ni'ltsi, the Wind, at his right ear, to warn him by day of the approach of danger; and Tsalyél, darkness, at his left ear, to warn him by night. 278. When morning came and the bear-woman went forth she discovered that her brothers had departed. She poured water on the ground (hali'z) to see which way they had gone. The water flowed to the east; she rushed on in that direction and soon overtook three of the fugitives, whom she succeeded in killing. Then she went back to her hut to see what had become of her other brothers. Again she poured water on the level ground and it flowed off to the south; she followed in that direction and soon overtook three others, whom she likewise slew. Returning to the lodge she again performed her divination by means of water. This time she was directed to the west, and, going that way, she overtook and killed three more of the men. Again she sought the old camp and poured on the ground water, which flowed to the north; going on in this direction she encountered but one man, and him she slew. Once more she went back to discover what had become of her last brother. She poured water for the fifth time on the level ground; it sank directly into the earth. 279. The brothers had always been very successful hunters and their home was always well supplied with meat. In consequence of this they had had many visitors who built in their neighborhood temporary shelters, such as the Navahoes build now when they come to remain only a short time at a place, and the remains of these shelters surrounded the deserted hut. She scratched in all these places to find traces of the fugitive, without success, and in doing so she gradually approached the deserted hut. She scratched all around outside the hut and then went inside. She scratched around the edge of the hut and then worked toward the centre, until at length she came to the fireplace. Here she found the earth was soft as if recently disturbed, and she dug rapidly downward with her paws. She soon came to the stones, and, removing these, saw her last remaining brother hidden beneath them. "I greet you, my younger brother! Come up, I want to see you," she said in a coaxing voice. Then she held out one finger to him and said: "Grasp my finger and I will help you up." But Wind told him not to grasp her finger; that if he did she would throw him upwards, that he would fall half dead at her feet and be at her mercy. "Get up without her help," whispered Ni'ltsi. 280. He climbed out of the hole on the east side and walked toward the east. She ran toward him in a threatening manner, but he looked at her calmly and said: "It is I, your younger brother." Then she approached him in a coaxing way, as a dog approaches one with whom he wishes to make friends, and she led him back toward the deserted hogán. But as he approached it the Wind whispered: "We have had sorrow there, let us not enter," so he would not go in, and this is the origin of the custom now among the Navahoes never to enter a house in which death had occurred.[91] 281. "Come," she then said, "and sit with your face to the west, and let me comb your hair." (It was now late in the afternoon.) "Heed her not," whispered Wind; "sit facing the north, that you watch her shadow and see what she does. It is thus that she has killed your brothers." They both sat down, she behind him, and she untied his queue and proceeded to arrange his hair, while he watched her out of the corner of his eye. Soon he observed her snout growing longer and approaching his head, and he noticed that her ears were wagging. "What does it mean that your snout grows longer and that your ears move so?" he asked. She did not reply, but drew her snout in and kept her ears still. When these occurrences had taken place for the fourth time, Wind whispered in his ear: "Let not this happen again. If she puts out her snout the fifth time she will bite your head off. Yonder, where you see that chattering squirrel, are her vital parts. He guards them for her. Now run and destroy them." He rose and ran toward the vital parts and she ran after him. Suddenly, between them a large yucca[88] sprang up to retard her steps, and then a cane cactus,[89] and then another yucca, and then another cactus of a different kind. She ran faster than he, but was so delayed in running around the plants that he reached the vitals before her, and heard the lungs breathing under the weeds that covered them. He drew forth his chain-lightning arrow, shot it into the weeds, and saw a bright stream of blood spurting up. At the same instant the bear-woman fell with the blood streaming from her side. 282. "See!" whispered Ni'ltsi, the Wind, "the stream of blood from her body and the stream from her vitals flow fast and approach one another. If they meet she will revive, and then your danger will be greater than ever. Draw, with your stone knife, a mark on the ground between the approaching streams." The young man did as he was bidden, when instantly the blood coagulated and ceased to flow. 283. Then the young man said: "You shall live again, but no longer as the mischievous Tsiké Sas Nátlehi.[90] You shall live in other forms, where you may be of service to your kind and not a thing of evil." He cut off the head and said to it: "Let us see if in another life you will do better. When you come to life again, act well, or again I will slay you." He threw the head at the foot of a piñon-tree and it changed into a bear, which started at once to walk off. But presently it stopped, shaded its eyes with one paw, and looked back at the man, saying: "You have bidden me to act well; but what shall I do if others attack me?" "Then you may defend yourself," said the young man; "but begin no quarrel, and be ever a friend to your people, the Diné`. Go yonder to Black Mountain (Dsillizi'n) and dwell there." There are now in Black Mountain many bears which are descended from this bear. 284. The hero cut off the nipples and said to them: "Had you belonged to a good woman and not to a foolish witch, it might have been your luck to suckle men. You were of no use to your kind; but now I shall make you of use in another form." He threw the nipples up into a piñon-tree, heretofore fruitless, and they became edible pine nuts. 285. Next he sought the homes of his friends, the holy ones, Níyol and Pésasike. They led him to the east, to the south, to the west, and to the north, where the corpses of his brothers lay, and these they restored to life for him. They went back to the place where the brothers had dwelt before and built a new house; but they did not return to the old home, for that was now a tsi'ndi hogán and accursed.[91] 286. The holy ones then gave to the young hero the name of Léyaneyani, or Reared Under the Ground, because they had hidden him in the earth when his brethren fled from the wrath of his sister. They bade him go and dwell at a place called Atáhyitsoi (Big Point on the Edge), which is in the shape of a hogán, or Navaho hut, and here we think he still dwells. III. THE WAR GODS. 287. The Diné` now removed to Tse`lakaíia (White Standing Rock), where, a few days after they arrived, they found on the ground a small turquoise image of a woman; this they preserved. Of late the monsters (anáye, alien gods) had been actively pursuing and devouring the people, and at the time this image was found there were only four persons remaining alive;[92] these were an old man and woman and their two children, a young man and a young woman. Two days after the finding of the image, early in the morning, before they rose, they heard the voice of Hastséyalti, the Talking God, crying his call of "Wu`hu`hu`hu" so faint and far that they could scarcely hear it. After a while the call was repeated a second time, nearer and louder than at first. Again, after a brief silence, the call was heard for the third time, still nearer and still louder. The fourth call was loud and clear, as if sounded near at hand;[26] as soon as it ceased, the shuffling tread of moccasined feet was heard, and a moment later the god Hastséyalti stood before them. 288. He told the four people to come up to the top of Tsolíhi after twelve nights had passed, bringing with them the turquoise image they had found, and at once he departed. They pondered deeply on his words, and every day they talked among themselves, wondering why Hastséyalti had summoned them to the mountain. 289. On the morning of the appointed day they ascended the mountain by a holy trail,[93] and on a level spot, near the summit, they met a party that awaited them there. They found there Hastséyalti, Hastséhogan (the Home God), White Body (who came up from the lower world with the Diné`), the eleven brothers (of Maid Who Becomes a Bear), the Mirage Stone People, the Daylight People standing in the east, the Blue Sky People standing in the south, the Yellow Light People standing in the west, and the Darkness People standing in the north. White Body stood in the east among the Daylight People, bearing in his hand a small image of a woman wrought in white shell, about the same size and shape as the blue image which the Navahoes bore. 290. Hastséyalti laid down a sacred buckskin with its head toward the west. The Mirage Stone People laid on the buckskin, heads west, the two little images,--of turquoise and white shell,--a white and a yellow ear of corn, the Pollen Boy, and the Grasshopper Girl. On top of all these Hastséyalti laid another sacred buckskin with its head to the east, and under this they now put Ni'ltsi (Wind). 291. Then the assembled crowd stood so as to form a circle, leaving in the east an opening through which Hastséyalti and Hastséhogan might pass in and out, and they sang the sacred song of Hozóngisin. Four times the gods entered and raised the cover. When they raised it for the fourth time, the images and the ears of corn were found changed to living beings in human form: the turquoise image had become Estsánatlehi, the Woman Who Changes (or rejuvenates herself); the white shell image had become Yolkaí Estsán, the White Shell Woman; the white ear of corn had become Natálkai Asiké; the White Corn Boy and the yellow ear of corn, Natáltsoi Atét the Yellow Corn Girl.[94] After the ceremony, White Body took Pollen Boy, Grasshopper Girl, White Corn Boy, and Yellow Corn Girl with him into Tsolíhi; the rest of the assembly departed, and the two divine sisters, Estsánatlehi[95] and Yolkaí Estsán,[96] were left on the mountain alone. 292. The women remained here four nights; on the fourth morning Estsánatlehi said: "Site'zi (younger sister), why should we remain here? Let us go to yonder high point and look around us." They went to the highest point of the mountain, and when they had been there several days Estsánatlehi said: "It is lonely here; we have no one to speak to but ourselves; we see nothing but that which rolls over our heads (the sun), and that which drops below us (a small dripping waterfall). I wonder if they can be people. I shall stay here and wait for the one in the morning, while you go down among the rocks and seek the other." 293. In the morning Estsánatlehi found a bare, flat rock and lay on it with her feet to the east, and the rising sun shone upon her. Yolkaí Estsán went down where the dripping waters descended and allowed them to fall upon her. At noon the women met again on the mountain top and Estsánatlehi said to her sister: "It is sad to be so lonesome. How can we make people so that we may have others of our kind to talk to?" Yolkaí Estsán answered: "Think, Elder Sister; perhaps after some days you may plan how this is to be done." 294. Four days after this conversation Yolkaí Estsán said: "Elder Sister, I feel something strange moving within me; what can it be?" and Estsánatlehi answered: "It is a child. It was for this that you lay under the waterfall. I feel, too, the motions of a child within me. It was for this that I let the sun shine upon me." Soon after the voice of Hastséyalti was heard four times, as usual, and after the last call he and Tó`nenili[98] appeared. They came to prepare the women for their approaching delivery.[99] 295. In four days more they felt the commencing throes of labor, and one said to the other: "I think my child is coming." She had scarcely spoken when the voice of the approaching god was heard, and soon Hastséyalti and Tó`nenili (Water Sprinkler) were seen approaching. The former was the accoucheur of Estsánatlehi, and the latter of Yolkaí Estsán.[100] To one woman a drag-rope of rainbow was given, to the other a drag-rope of sunbeam, and on these they pulled when in pain, as the Navaho woman now pulls on the rope. Estsánatlehi's child was born first.[101] Hastséyalti took it aside and washed it. He was glad, and laughed and made ironical motions, as if he were cutting the baby in slices and throwing the slices away. They made for the children two baby-baskets, both alike; the foot-rests and the back battens were made of sunbeam, the hoods of rainbow, the side-strings of sheet lightning, and the lacing strings of zigzag lightning. One child they covered with the black cloud, and the other with the female rain.[102] They called the children Sináli (grandchildren), and they left, promising to return at the end of four days. 296. When the gods (yéi) returned at the end of four days, the boys had grown to be the size of ordinary boys of twelve years of age. The gods said to them: "Boys, we have come to have a race with you." So a race was arranged that should go all around a neighboring mountain, and the four started,--two boys and two yéi. Before the long race was half done the boys, who ran fast, began to flag, and the gods, who were still fresh, got behind them and scourged the lads with twigs of mountain mahogany.[103] Hastséyalti won the race, and the boys came home rubbing their sore backs. When the gods left they promised to return at the end of another period of four days. 297. As soon as the gods were gone, Ni'ltsi, the Wind, whispered to the boys and told them that the old ones were not such fast runners, after all, and that if the boys would practice during the next four days they might win the coming race. So for four days they ran hard, many times daily around the neighboring mountain, and when the gods came back again the youths had grown to the full stature of manhood. In the second contest the gods began to flag and fall behind when half way round the mountain, where the others had fallen behind in the first race, and here the boys got behind their elders and scourged the latter to increase their speed. The elder of the boys won this race, and when it was over the gods laughed and clapped their hands, for they were pleased with the spirit and prowess they witnessed. 298. The night after the race the boys lay down as usual to sleep; but hearing the women whispering together, they lay awake and listened. They strained their attention, but could not hear a word of what was uttered. At length they rose, approached the women, and said: "Mothers, of what do you speak?" and the women answered: "We speak of nothing." The boys then said: "Grandmothers, of what do you speak?" but the women again replied: "We speak of nothing." The boys then questioned: "Who are our fathers?" "You have no fathers," responded the women; "you are yutáski (illegitimate)." "Who are our fathers?" again demanded the boys, and the women answered: "The round cactus and the sitting cactus[104] are your fathers." 299. Next day the women made rude bows of juniper wood, and arrows, such as children play with, and they said to the boys: "Go and play around with these, but do not go out of sight from our hut, and do not go to the east." Notwithstanding these warnings the boys went to the east the first day, and when they had travelled a good distance they saw an animal with brownish hair and a sharp nose. They drew their arrows and pointed them toward the sharp-nosed stranger; but before they could shoot he jumped down into a canyon and disappeared. When they returned home they told the women--addressing them as "Mother" and "Grandmother"--what they had seen. The women said: "That is Coyote which you saw. He is a spy for the anáye Téelget." 300. On the following day, although again strictly warned not to go far from the lodge, the boys wandered far to the south, and there they saw a great black bird seated on a tree. They aimed their arrows at it; but just as they were about to shoot the bird rose and flew away. The boys returned to the hogán and said to the women: "Mothers, we have been to the south to-day, and there we saw a great black bird which we tried to shoot; but before we could let loose our arrows it flew off." "Alas!" said the women. "This was Raven that you saw. He is the spy of the Tse`na'hale, the great winged creatures that devour men." 301. On the third day the boys slipped off unknown to the anxious women, who would fain keep them at home, and walked a long way toward the west. The only living thing they saw was a great dark bird with a red skinny head that had no feathers on it. This bird they tried to shoot also; but before they could do so it spread its wings and flew a long way off. They went home and said to the women: "Mothers, we have been to the west, and we have seen a great dark bird whose head was red and bare. We tried to shoot it, but it flew away before we could discharge our arrows." "It was Dzéso, the Buzzard, that you saw," said the women. "He is the spy for Tse`tahotsiltá`li, he who kicks men down the cliffs." 302. On the fourth day the boys stole off as usual, and went toward the north. When they had travelled a long way in that direction, they saw a bird of black plumage perched on a tree on the edge of a canyon. It was talking to itself, saying "a`a`i`." They aimed at it, but before they could let fly their arrows it spread its wings and tail and disappeared down the canyon. As it flew, the boys noticed that its plumes were edged with white. When they got home they told their mothers, as before, what they had seen. "This bird that you saw," said the women, "is the Magpie. He is the spy for the Bináye Aháni, who slay people with their eyes. Alas, our children! What shall we do to make you hear us? What shall we do to save you? You would not listen to us. Now the spies of the anáye (the alien gods) in all quarters of the world have seen you. They will tell their chiefs, and soon the monsters will come here to devour you, as they have devoured all your kind before you." 303. The next morning the women made a corncake and laid it on the ashes to bake. Then Yolkaí Estsán went out of the hogán, and, as she did so, she saw Yéitso,[105] the tallest and fiercest of the alien gods, approaching. She ran quickly back and gave the warning, and the women hid the boys under bundles and sticks. Yéitso came and sat down at the door, just as the women were taking the cake out of the ashes. "That cake is for me," said Yéitso. "How nice it smells!" "No," said Estsánatlehi, "it was not meant for your great maw." "I don't care," said Yéitso. "I would rather eat boys. Where are your boys? I have been told you have some here, and I have come to get them." "We have none," said Estsánatlehi. "All the boys have gone into the paunches of your people long ago." "No boys?" said the giant. "What, then, has made all the tracks around here?" "Oh! these tracks I have made for fun," replied the woman. "I am lonely here, and I make tracks so that I may fancy there are many people around me." She showed Yéitso how she could make similar tracks with her fist. He compared the two sets of tracks, seemed to be satisfied, and went away. 304. When he was gone, Yolkaí Estsán, the White Shell Woman, went up to the top of a neighboring hill to look around, and she beheld many of the anáye hastening in the direction of her lodge. She returned speedily, and told her sister what she had seen. Estsánatlehi took four colored hoops, and threw one toward each of the cardinal points,--a white one to the east, a blue one to the south, a yellow one to the west, and a black one to the north. At once a great gale arose, blowing so fiercely in all directions from the hogán that none of the enemies could advance against it. 305. Next morning the boys got up before daybreak and stole away. Soon the women missed them, but could not trace them in the dark. When it was light enough to examine the ground the women went out to look for fresh tracks. They found four footprints of each of the boys, pointing in the direction of the mountain of Dsilnáotil, but more than four tracks they could not find. They came to the conclusion that the boys had taken a holy trail, so they gave up further search and returned to the lodge. 306. The boys travelled rapidly in the holy trail,[93] and soon after sunrise, near Dsilnáotil, they saw smoke arising from the ground. They went to the place where the smoke rose, and they found it came from the smoke-hole of a subterranean chamber. A ladder, black from smoke, projected through the hole. Looking down into the chamber they saw an old woman, the Spider Woman,[106] who glanced up at them and said: "Welcome, children. Enter. Who are you, and whence do you two come together walking?" They made no answer, but descended the ladder. When they reached the floor she again spoke to them, asking: "Whither do you two go walking together?" "Nowhere in particular," they answered; "we came here because we had nowhere else to go." She asked this question four times, and each time she received a similar answer. Then she said: "Perhaps you would seek your father?" "Yes," they answered, "if we only knew the way to his dwelling." "Ah!" said the woman, "it is a long and dangerous way to the house of your father, the Sun. There are many of the anáye dwelling between here and there, and perhaps, when you get there, your father may not be glad to see you, and may punish you for coming. You must pass four places of danger,--the rocks that crush the traveller, the reeds that cut him to pieces, the cane cactuses that tear him to pieces, and the boiling sands that overwhelm him. But I shall give you something to subdue your enemies and preserve your lives." She gave them a charm called nayéatsos, or feather of the alien gods, which consisted of a hoop with two life-feathers (feathers plucked from a living eagle) attached, and another life-feather, hyiná biltsós,[107] to preserve their existence. She taught them also this magic formula, which, if repeated to their enemies, would subdue their anger: "Put your feet down with pollen.[108] Put your hands down with pollen. Put your head down with pollen. Then your feet are pollen; your hands are pollen; your body is pollen; your mind is pollen; your voice is pollen. The trail is beautiful (biké hozóni). Be still."[109] 307. Soon after leaving the house of Spider Woman, the boys came to Tse`yeinti'li (the rocks that crush). There was here a narrow chasm between two high cliffs. When a traveller approached, the rocks would open wide apart, apparently to give him easy passage and invite him to enter; but as soon as he was within the cleft they would close like hands clapping and crush him to death. These rocks were really people; they thought like men; they were anáye. When the boys got to the rocks they lifted their feet as if about to enter the chasm, and the rocks opened to let them in. Then the boys put down their feet, but withdrew them quickly. The rocks closed with a snap to crush them; but the boys remained safe on the outside. Thus four times did they deceive the rocks. When they had closed for the fourth time the rocks said: "Who are ye; whence come ye two together, and whither go ye?" "We are children of the Sun," answered the boys. "We come from Dsilnáotil, and we go to seek the house of our father." Then they repeated the words the Spider Woman had taught them, and the rocks said: "Pass on to the house of your father." When next they ventured to step into the chasm the rocks did not close, and they passed safely on. 308. The boys kept on their way and soon came to a great plain covered with reeds that had great leaves on them as sharp as knives. When the boys came to the edge of the field of reeds (Lokáadikisi), the latter opened, showing a clear passage through to the other side. The boys pretended to enter, but retreated, and as they did so the walls of reeds rushed together to kill them. Thus four times did they deceive the reeds. Then the reeds spoke to them, as the rocks had done; they answered and repeated the sacred words. "Pass on to the house of your father," said the reeds, and the boys passed on in safety. 309. The next danger they encountered was in the country covered with cane cactuses.[89] These cactuses rushed at and tore to pieces whoever attempted to pass through them. When the boys came to the cactuses the latter opened their ranks to let the travellers pass on, as the reeds had done before. But the boys deceived them as they had deceived the reeds, and subdued them as they had subdued the reeds, and passed on in safety. 310. After they had passed the country of the cactus they came, in time, to Saitád, the land of the rising sands. Here was a great desert of sands that rose and whirled and boiled like water in a pot, and overwhelmed the traveller who ventured among them. As the boys approached, the sands became still more agitated and the boys did not dare venture among them. "Who are ye?" said the sands, "and whence come ye?" "We are children of the Sun, we came from Dsilnáotil, and we go to seek the house of our father." These words were four times said. Then the elder of the boys repeated his sacred formula; the sands subsided, saying: "Pass on to the house of your father," and the boys continued on their journey over the desert of sands.[110] 311. Soon after this adventure they approached the house of the Sun. As they came near the door they found the way guarded by two bears that crouched, one to the right and one to the left, their noses pointing toward one another. As the boys drew near, the bears rose, growled angrily, and acted as if about to attack the intruders; but the elder boy repeated the sacred words the Spider Woman had taught him, and when he came to the last words, "Be still," the bears crouched down again and lay still. The boys walked on. After passing the bears they encountered a pair of sentinel serpents, then a pair of sentinel winds, and, lastly, a pair of sentinel lightnings. As the boys advanced, all these guardians acted as if they would destroy them; but all were appeased with the words of prayer.[111] 312. The house of the Sun God was built of turquoise; it was square like a pueblo house, and stood on the shore of a great water. When the boys entered they saw, sitting in the west, a woman; in the south, two handsome young men;[112] and in the north, two handsome young women. The women gave a glance at the strangers and then looked down. The young men gazed at them more closely, and then, without speaking, they rose, wrapped the strangers in four coverings of the sky, and laid them on a shelf.[113] 313. The boys had lain there quietly for some time when a rattle that hung over the door shook and one of the young women said: "Our father is coming." The rattle shook four times, and soon after it shook the fourth time, Tsóhanoai, the bearer of the sun, entered his house. He took the sun off his back and hung it up on a peg on the west wall of the room, where it shook and clanged for some time, going "tla, tla, tla, tla," till at last it hung still. 314. Then Tsóhanoai turned to the woman and said, in an angry tone: "Who are those two who entered here to-day?" The woman made no answer and the young people looked at one another, but each feared to speak. Four times he asked this question, and at length the woman said: "It would be well for you not to say too much. Two young men came hither to-day, seeking their father. When you go abroad, you always tell me that you visit nowhere, and that you have met no woman but me. Whose sons, then, are these?" She pointed to the bundle on the shelf, and the children smiled significantly at one another. 315. He took the bundle from the shelf. He first unrolled the robe of dawn with which they were covered, then the robe of blue sky, next the robe of yellow evening light, and lastly the robe of darkness. When he unrolled this the boys fell out on the floor. He seized them, and threw them first upon great, sharp spikes of white shell that stood in the east; but they bounded back, unhurt, from these spikes, for they held their life-feathers tightly all the while. He then threw them in turn on spikes of turquoise in the south, on spikes of haliotis in the west, and spikes of black rock in the north; but they came uninjured from all these trials and Tsóhanoai said: "I wish it were indeed true that they were my children." 316. He said then to the elder children,--those who lived with him,--"Go out and prepare the sweat-house and heat for it four of the hardest boulders you can find. Heat a white, a blue, a yellow, and a black boulder." When the Winds heard this they said: "He still seeks to kill his children. How shall we avert the danger?" The sweat-house was built against a bank. Wind dug into the bank a hole behind the sudatory, and concealed the opening with a flat stone. Wind then whispered into the ears of the boys the secret of the hole and said: "Do not hide in the hole until you have answered the questions of your father." The boys went into the sweat-house, the great hot boulders were put in and the opening of the lodge was covered with the four sky-blankets. Then Tsóhanoai called out to the boys: "Are you hot?" and they answered: "Yes, very hot." Then they crept into the hiding-place and lay there. After a while Tsóhanoai came and poured water through the top of the sweat-house on the stones, making them burst with a loud noise, and a great heat and steam was raised. But in time the stones cooled and the boys crept out of their hiding-place into the sweat-house. Tsóhanoai came and asked again: "Are you hot?" hoping to get no reply; but the boys still answered: "Yes, very hot." Then he took the coverings off the sweat-house and let the boys come out. He greeted them in a friendly way and said: "Yes, these are my children," and yet he was thinking of other ways by which he might destroy them if they were not. 317. The four sky-blankets were spread on the ground one over another, and the four young men were made to sit on them, one behind another, facing the east. "My daughters, make these boys to look like my other sons," said Tsóhanoai. The young women went to the strangers, pulled their hair out long, and moulded their faces and forms so that they looked just like their brethren. Then Sun bade them all rise and enter the house. They rose and all went, in a procession, the two strangers last. 318. As they were about to enter the door they heard a voice whispering in their ears: "St! Look at the ground." They looked down and beheld a spiny caterpillar called Wasekede, who, as they looked, spat out two blue spits on the ground. "Take each of you one of these," said Wind, "and put it in your mouth, but do not swallow it. There is one more trial for you,--a trial by smoking." When they entered the house Tsóhanoai took down a pipe of turquoise that hung on the eastern wall and filled it with tobacco. "This is the tobacco he kills with," whispered Ni'ltsi to the boys. Tsóhanoai held the pipe up to the sun that hung on the wall, lit it, and gave it to the boys to smoke. They smoked it, and passed it from one to another till it was finished. They said it tasted sweet, but it did them no harm. 319. When the pipe was smoked out and Tsóhanoai saw the boys were not killed by it, he was satisfied and said: "Now, my children, what do you want from me? Why do you seek me?" "Oh, father!" they replied, "the land where we dwell is filled with the anáye, who devour the people. There are Yéitso and Téelget, the Tse`náhale, the Bináye Aháni, and many others. They have eaten nearly all of our kind; there are few left; already they have sought our lives, and we have run away to escape them. Give us, we beg, the weapons with which we may slay our enemies. Help us to destroy them." 320. "Know," said Tsóhanoai, "that Yéitso who dwells at Tsótsil is also my son, yet I will help you to kill him. I shall hurl the first bolt at him, and I will give you those things that will help you in war." He took from pegs where they hung around the room and gave to each a hat, a shirt, leggings, moccasins, all made of pes (iron or knives),[114] a chain-lightning arrow, a sheet-lightning arrow, a sunbeam arrow, a rainbow arrow, and a great stone knife or knife club (peshál).[115] "These are what we want," said the boys. They put on the clothes of pes, and streaks of lightning shot from every joint.[116] 321. Next morning Tsóhanoai led the boys out to the edge of the world, where the sky and the earth came close together, and beyond which there was no world. Here sixteen wands or poles leaned from the earth to the sky; four of these were of white shell, four of turquoise, four of haliotis shell, and four of red stone.[117] A deep stream flowed between them and the wands. As they approached the stream, Ni'ltsi, the Wind, whispered: "This is another trial;" but he blew a great breath and formed a bridge of rainbow,[86] over which the brothers passed in safety. Ni'ltsi whispered again: "The red wands are for war, the others are for peace;" so when Tsóhanoai asked his sons: "On which wands will ye ascend?" they answered: "On the wands of red stone," for they sought war with their enemies. They climbed up to the sky on the wands of red stone, and their father went with them.[118] 322. They journeyed on till they came to Yágahoka, the sky-hole, which is in the centre of the sky.[119] The hole is edged with four smooth, shining cliffs that slope steeply downwards,--cliffs of the same materials as the wands by which they had climbed from the earth to the sky. They sat down on the smooth declivities,--Tsóhanoai on the west side of the hole, the brothers on the east side. The latter would have slipped down had not the Wind blown up and helped them to hold on. Tsóhanoai pointed down and said: "Where do you belong in the world below? Show me your home." The brothers looked down and scanned the land; but they could distinguish nothing; all the land seemed flat; the wooded mountains looked like dark spots on the surface; the lakes gleamed like stars, and the rivers like streaks of lightning. The elder brother said: "I do not recognize the land, I know not where our home is." Now Ni'ltsi prompted the younger brother, and showed him which were the sacred mountains and which the great rivers, and the younger exclaimed, pointing downwards: "There is the Male Water (San Juan River), and there is the Female Water (Rio Grande); yonder is the mountain of Tsisnadzi'ni; below us is Tsótsil; there in the west is Dokoslíd; that white spot beyond the Male Water is Depe'ntsa; and there between these mountains is Dsilnáotil, near which our home is." "You are right, my child, it is thus that the land lies," said Tsóhanoai. Then, renewing his promises, he spread a streak of lightning; he made his children stand on it,--one on each end,--and he shot them down to the top of Tsótsil (Mt. San Mateo, Mt. Taylor). 323. They descended the mountain on its south side and walked toward the warm spring at Tó`sato.[120] As they were walking along under a high bluff, where there is now a white circle, they heard voices hailing them. "Whither are you going? Come hither a while." They went in the direction in which they heard the voices calling and found four holy people,--Holy Man, Holy Young Man, Holy Boy, and Holy Girl. The brothers remained all night in a cave with these people, and the latter told them all about Yéitso.[121] They said that he showed himself every day three times on the mountains before he came down, and when he showed himself for the fourth time he descended from Tsótsil to Tó`sato to drink; that, when he stooped down to drink, one hand rested on Tsótsil and the other on the high hills on the opposite side of the valley, while his feet stretched as far away as a man could walk between sunrise and noon. 324. They left the cave at daybreak and went on to Tó`sato, where in ancient days there was a much larger lake than there is now. There was a high, rocky wall in the narrow part of the valley, and the lake stretched back to where Blue Water is to-day. When they came to the edge of the lake, one brother said to the other: "Let us try one of our father's weapons and see what it can do." They shot one of the lightning arrows at Tsótsil; it made a great cleft in the mountain, which remains to this day, and one said to the other: "We cannot suffer in combat while we have such weapons as these." 325. Soon they heard the sound of thunderous footsteps, and they beheld the head of Yéitso peering over a high hill in the east; it was withdrawn in a moment. Soon after, the monster raised his head and chest over a hill in the south, and remained a little longer in sight than when he was in the east. Later he displayed his body to the waist over a hill in the west; and lastly he showed himself, down to the knees, over Tsótsil in the north.[122] Then he descended the mountain, came to the edge of the lake, and laid down a basket which he was accustomed to carry. 326. Yéitso stooped four times to the lake to drink, and, each time he drank, the waters perceptibly diminished; when he had done drinking, the lake was nearly drained.[123] The brothers lost their presence of mind at sight of the giant drinking, and did nothing while he was stooping down. As he took his last drink they advanced to the edge of the lake, and Yéitso saw their reflection in the water. He raised his head, and, looking at them, roared: "What a pretty pair have come in sight! Where have I been hunting?" (i.e., that I never saw them before). "Yiniketóko! Yiniketóko!"[124] "Throw (his words) back in his mouth," said the younger to the elder brother. "What a great thing has come in sight! Where have we been hunting?" shouted the elder brother to the giant. Four times these taunts were repeated by each party. The brothers then heard Ni'ltsi whispering quickly, "Akó`! Akó`! Beware! Beware!" They were standing on a bent rainbow just then; they straightened the rainbow out, descending to the ground, and at the same instant a lightning bolt, hurled by Yéitso, passed thundering over their heads. He hurled four bolts rapidly; as he hurled the second, they bent their rainbow and rose, while the bolt passed under their feet; as he discharged the third they descended, and let the lightning pass over them. When he threw the fourth bolt they bent the rainbow very high, for this time he aimed higher than before; but his weapon still passed under their feet and did them no harm. He drew a fifth bolt to throw at them; but at this moment the lightning descended from the sky on the head of the giant and he reeled beneath it, but did not fall.[125] Then the elder brother sped a chain-lightning arrow; his enemy tottered toward the east, but straightened himself up again. The second arrow caused him to stumble toward the south (he fell lower and lower each time), but again he stood up and prepared himself to renew the conflict. The third lightning arrow made him topple toward the west, and the fourth to the north. Then he fell to his knees, raised himself partly again, fell flat on his face, stretched out his limbs, and moved no more. 327. When the arrows struck him, his armor was shivered in pieces and the scales flew in every direction. The elder brother said: "They may be useful to the people in the future."[126] The brothers then approached their fallen enemy and the younger scalped him. Heretofore the younger brother bore only the name of To`badzistsíni, or Child of the Water; but now his brother gave him also the warrior name of Naídikisi (He Who Cuts Around). What the elder brother's name was before this we do not know; but ever after he was called Nayénezgani (Slayer of the Alien Gods).[127] 328. They cut off his head and threw it away to the other side of Tsótsil, where it may be seen to-day on the eastern side of the mountain.[128] The blood from the body now flowed in a great stream down the valley, so great that it broke down the rocky wall that bounded the old lake and flowed on. Ni'ltsi whispered to the brothers: "The blood flows toward the dwelling of the Bináye Aháni; if it reaches them, Yéitso will come to life again." Then Nayénezgani took his peshál, or knife club, and drew with it across the valley a line. Here the blood stopped flowing and piled itself up in a high wall. But when it had piled up here very high it began to flow off in another direction, and Ni'ltsi again whispered: "It now flows toward the dwelling of Sasnalkáhi, the Bear that Pursues; if it reaches him, Yéitso will come to life again." Hearing this, Nayénezgani again drew a line with his knife on the ground, and again the blood piled up and stopped flowing. The blood of Yéitso fills all the valley to-day, and the high cliffs in the black rock that we see there now are the places where Nayénezgani stopped the flow with his peshál.[129] 329. They then put the broken arrows of Yéitso and his scalp into his basket and set out for their home near Dsilnáotil. When they got near the house, they took off their own suits of armor and hid these, with the basket and its contents, in the bushes. The mothers were rejoiced to see them, for they feared their sons were lost, and they said: "Where have you been since you left here yesterday, and what have you done?" Nayénezgani replied: "We have been to the house of our father, the Sun. We have been to Tsótsil and we have slain Yéitso." "Ah, my child," said Estsánatlehi, "do not speak thus. It is wrong to make fun of such an awful subject." "Do you not believe us?" said Nayénezgani; "come out, then, and see what we have brought back with us." He led the women out to where he had hidden the basket and showed them the trophies of Yéitso. Then they were convinced and they rejoiced, and had a dance to celebrate the victory.[130] 330. When their rejoicings were done, Nayénezgani said to his mother: "Where does Téelget[131] dwell?" "Seek not to know." she answered, "you have done enough. Rest contented. The land of the anáye is a dangerous place. The anáye are hard to kill." "Yes, and it was hard for you to bear your child," the son replied (meaning that she triumphed notwithstanding). "He lives at Bikehalzi'n," she said. Then the brothers held a long council to determine what they should do. They made two cigarette kethawns of a plant called azeladiltéhe,[132] one black and one blue, each three finger-widths long; to these they attached a sunbeam and laid them in a turquoise dish. "I shall go alone to fight Téelget," said Nayénezgani, "while you, younger brother, remain at home and watch these kethawns. If they take fire from the sunbeam, you may know that I am in great danger; as long as they do not take fire, you may know that I am safe." This work was finished at sundown.[133] 331. Nayénezgani arose early next morning and set out alone to find Téelget. He came, in time, to the edge of a great plain, and from one of the hills that bordered it he saw the monster lying down a long way off. He paused to think how he could approach nearer to him without attracting his attention, and in the mean time he poised one of his lightning arrows in his hand, thinking how he should throw it. While he stood thus in thought, Nasi'zi, the Gopher, came up to him and said: "I greet you, my friend! Why have you come hither?" "Oh, I am just wandering around," said Nayénezgani. Four times this question was asked and this answer was given. Then Nasi'zi said: "I wonder that you come here; no one but I ever ventures in these parts, for all fear Téelget. There he lies on the plain yonder." "It is him I seek," said Nayénezgani; "but I know not how to approach him." "Ah, if that is all you want, I can help you," said Gopher; "and if you slay him, all I ask is his hide. I often go up to him, and I will go now to show you." Having said this, Nasi'zi disappeared in a hole in the ground. 332. While he was gone Nayénezgani watched Téelget. After a while he saw the great creature rise, walk from the centre in four different directions, as if watching, and lie down again in the spot where he was first seen. He was a great, four-footed beast, with horns like those of a deer. Soon Nasi'zi returned and said: "I have dug a tunnel up to Téelget, and at the end I have bored four tunnels for you to hide in, one to the east, one to the south, one to the west, and one to the north. I have made a hole upwards from the tunnel to his heart, and I have gnawed the hair off near his heart. When I was gnawing the hair he spoke to me and said: 'Why do you take my hair?' and I answered, 'I want it to make a bed for my children.' Then it was that he rose and walked around; but he came back and lay down where he lay before, over the hole that leads up to his heart." 333. Nayénezgani entered the tunnel and crawled to the end. When he looked up through the ascending shaft of which Nasi'zi had told him, he saw the great heart of Téelget beating there. He sped his arrow of chain-lightning and fled into the eastern tunnel. The monster rose, stuck one of his horns into the ground, and ripped the tunnel open. Nayénezgani fled into the south tunnel; Téelget then tore the south tunnel open with his horns, and the hero fled into the west tunnel. When the west tunnel was torn up he fled into the north tunnel. The anáye put his horn into the north tunnel to tear it up, but before he had half uncovered it he fell and lay still. Nayénezgani, not knowing that his enemy was dead, and still fearing him, crept back through the long tunnel to the place where he first met Nasi'zi, and there he stood gazing at the distant form of Téelget. 334. While he was standing there in thought, he observed approaching him a little old man dressed in tight leggings and a tight shirt, with a cap and feather on his head; this was Hazaí, the Ground Squirrel. "What do you want here, my grandchild?" said Hazaí. "Nothing; I am only walking around," replied the warrior. Four times this question was asked and four times a similar answer given, when Ground Squirrel spoke again and inquired: "Do you not fear the anáye that dwells on yonder plain?" "I do not know," replied Nayénezgani; "I think I have killed him, but I am not certain." "Then I can find out for you," said Hazaí. "He never minds me. I can approach him any time without danger. If he is dead I will climb up on his horns and dance and sing." Nayénezgani had not watched long when he saw Hazaí climbing one of the horns and dancing on it. When he approached his dead enemy he found that Hazaí had streaked his own face with the blood of the slain (the streaks remain on the ground squirrel's face to this day), and that Nasi'zi had already begun to remove the skin by gnawing on the insides of the fore-legs. When Gopher had removed the skin, he put it on his own back and said: "I shall wear this in order that, in the days to come, when the people increase, they may know what sort of a skin Téelget wore." He had a skin like that which covers the Gopher to-day. Hazaí cut out a piece of the bowel, filled it with blood, and tied the ends; he cut out also a piece of one of the lungs, and he gave these to Nayénezgani for his trophies.[134] 335. When Nayénezgani came home again, he was received with great rejoicing, for his mother had again begun to fear he would never more return. "Where have you been, my son, and what have you done since you have been gone?" she queried. "I have been to Bikehalzi'n and I have slain Téelget," he replied. "Ah, speak not thus, my son," she said; "he is too powerful for you to talk thus lightly about him. If he knew what you said he might seek you out and kill you." "I have no fear of him," said her son. "Here is his blood, and here is a piece of his liver. Do you not now believe I have slain him?" Then he said: "Mother, grandmother, tell me, where do the Tse`na'hale[135] dwell?" "They dwell at Tsé`bitaï (Winged Rock),"[136] she answered, "but do not venture near them; they are fierce and strong." 336. Next morning early he stole away, taking with him the piece of bowel filled with blood. He climbed the range of mountains where the hill of Tsúskai rises, and travelled on till he came to a place where two great snakes lay. Since that day these snakes have been changed into stone. He walked along the back of one of the snakes, and then he stepped from one snake to the other and went out on the plain that stretched to the east of the mountains, until he came close to Tsé`bitaï, which is a great black rock that looks like a bird. While he was walking along he heard a tremendous rushing sound overhead, like the sound of a whirlwind, and, looking up, he saw a creature of great size, something like an eagle in form, flying toward him from the east. It was the male Tse`na'hale. The warrior had barely time to cast himself prone on the ground when Tse`na'hale swooped over him. Thus four times did the monster swoop at him, coming each time from a different direction. Three times Nayénezgani escaped; but the fourth time, flying from the north, the monster seized him in his talons and bore him off to Tsé`bitaï. 337. There is a broad, level ledge on one side of Tsé`bitaï, where the monster reared his young; he let the hero drop on this ledge, as was his custom to do with his victims, and perched on a pinnacle above. This fall had killed all others who had dropped there; but Nayénezgani was preserved by the life-feather, the gift of Spider Woman, which he still kept. When the warrior fell he cut open the bag of bowel that he carried and allowed the blood of Téelget to flow out over the rock, so that the anáye might think he was killed. The two young approached to devour the body of the warrior, but he said "Sh!" at them. They stopped and cried up to their father: "This thing is not dead; it says 'Sh!' at us." "That is only air escaping from the body," said the father; "Never mind, but eat it." Then he flew away in search of other prey. When the old bird was gone, Nayénezgani hid himself behind the young ones and asked them, "When will your father come back, and where will he sit when he comes?" They answered: "He will return when we have a he-rain,[137] and he will perch on yonder point" (indicating a rock close by on the right). Then he inquired: "When will your mother return, and where will she sit?" "She will come when we have a she-rain,[137] and will sit on yonder point" (indicating a crag on the left). He had not waited long when drops of rain began to fall, the thunder rolled, lightning flashed, the male Tse`na'hale returned and perched on the rock which the young had pointed out. Then Nayénezgani hurled a lightning arrow and the monster tumbled to the foot of Winged Rock dead. After a while rain fell again, but there was neither thunder nor lightning with it. While it still poured, there fell upon the ledge the body of a Pueblo woman, covered with fine clothes and ornamented with ear pendants and necklaces of beautiful shells and turquoise. Nayénezgani looked up and beheld the female Tse`na'hale soaring overhead (she preyed only on women, the male only on men). A moment later she glided down, and was just about to light on her favorite crag, when Nayénezgani hurled another lightning arrow and sent her body down to the plain to join that of her mate. 338. The young ones now began to cry, and they said to the warrior: "Will you slay us, too?" "Cease your wailing," he cried. "Had you grown up here you would have been things of evil; you would have lived only to destroy my people; but I shall now make of you something that will be of use in the days to come when men increase in the land." He seized the elder and said to it, "You shall furnish plumes for men to use in their rites, and bones for whistles." He swung the fledgling back and forth four times; as he did so it began to change into a beautiful bird with strong wings, and it said: "Suk, suk, suk, suk." Then he threw it high in the air. It spread its pinions and soared out of sight, an eagle. To the younger he said: "In the days to come men will listen to your voice to know what will be their future: sometimes you will tell the truth; sometimes you will lie." He swung it back and forth, and as he did so its head grew large and round; its eyes grew big; it began to say, "Uwú, uwú, uwú, uwú," and it became an owl. Then he threw it into a hole in the side of the cliff and said: "This shall be your home."[138] 339. As he had nothing more to do at Tsé`bitaï, he determined to go home, but he soon found that there was no way for him to descend the rock; nothing but a winged creature could reach or leave the ledge on which he stood. The sun was about half way down to the horizon when he observed the Bat Woman walking along near the base of the cliff. "Grandmother," he called aloud, "come hither and take me down." "Tse'dani,"[139] she answered, and hid behind a point of rock. Again she came in view, and again he called her; but she gave him the same reply and hid herself again. Three times were these acts performed and these words said. When she appeared for the fourth time and he begged her to carry him down, he added: "I will give you the feathers of the Tse`na'hale if you will take me off this rock." When she heard this she approached the base of the rock, and soon disappeared under the ledge where he stood. Presently he heard a strange flapping sound,[140] and a voice calling to him: "Shut your eyes and go back, for you must not see how I ascend." He did as he was bidden, and soon after the Bat Woman stood beside him. "Get into this basket, and I will carry you down," she demanded. He looked at the large carrying-basket which she bore on her back, and observed that it hung on strings as thin as the strings of a spider's web. "Grandmother," he said, "I fear to enter your basket; the strings are too thin." "Have no fear," she replied; "I often carry a whole deer in this basket: the strings are strong enough to bear you." Still he hesitated, and still she assured him. The fourth time that he expressed his fear she said: "Fill the basket with stones and you will see that I speak the truth." He did as he was bidden, and she danced around with the loaded basket on her back; but the strings did not break, though they twanged like bowstrings. When he entered the basket she bade him keep his eyes shut till they reached the bottom of the cliff, as he must not see how she managed to descend. He shut his eyes, and soon felt himself gradually going down; but he heard again the strange flapping against the rock, which so excited his curiosity that he opened his eyes. Instantly he began to fall with dangerous rapidity, and the flapping stopped; she struck him with her stick and bade him shut his eyes. Again he felt himself slowly descending, and the flapping against the rock began. Three times more he disobeyed her, but the last time they were near the bottom of the cliff, and both fell to the ground unhurt. 340. Together they plucked the two Tse`na'hale, put the feathers in her basket, and got the basket on her back. He reserved only the largest feather from one wing of each bird for his trophies. As she was starting to leave he warned her not to pass through either of two neighboring localities, which were the dry beds of temporary lakes; one was overgrown with weeds, the other with sunflowers. Despite his warning she walked toward the sunflowers. As she was about to enter them he called after her again, and begged her not to go that way, but she heeded him not and went on. She had not taken many steps among the sunflowers when she heard a fluttering sound behind her, and a little bird of strange appearance flew past her close to her ear. As she stepped farther on she heard more fluttering and saw more birds of varying plumage, such as she had never seen before, flying over her shoulders and going off in every direction. She looked around, and was astonished to behold that the birds were swarming out of her own basket. She tried to hold them in, to catch them as they flew out, but all in vain. She laid down her basket and watched, helplessly, her feathers changing into little birds of all kinds,--wrens, warblers, titmice, and the like,--and flying away, until her basket was empty. Thus it was that the little birds were created.[141] 341. When he got home To`badzistsíni said to him: "Elder brother, I have watched the kethawns all the time you were gone. About midday the black cigarette took fire, and I was troubled, for I knew you were in danger; but when it had burned half way the fire went out and then I was glad, for I thought you were safe again." "Ah, that must have been the time when Tse`na'hale carried me up and threw me on the rocks," said Nayénezgani. He hung his trophies on the east side of the lodge, and then he asked his mother where Tse`tahotsiltá`li[142] dwelt. She told him he lived at Tse`tezá`; but, as on previous occasions, she warned him of the power of the enemy, and tried to dissuade him from seeking further dangers. Next morning he set out to find Tse`tahotsiltá`li, He Who Kicks (People) Down the Cliff. This anáye lived on the side of a high cliff, a trail passed at his feet, and when travellers went that way he kicked them down to the bottom of the precipice. Nayénezgani had not travelled long when he discovered a well-beaten trail; following this, he found that it led him along the face of a high precipice, and soon he came in sight of his enemy, who had a form much like that of a man. The monster reclined quietly against the rock, as if he meditated no harm, and Nayénezgani advanced as if he feared no danger, yet watching his adversary closely. As he passed, the latter kicked at him, but he dodged the kick and asked: "Why did you kick at me?" "Oh, my grandchild," said the anáye, "I was weary lying thus, and I only stretched out my leg to rest myself." Four times did Nayénezgani pass him, and four times did the monster kick at him in vain. Then the hero struck his enemy with his great stone knife over the eyes, and struck him again and again till he felt sure that he had slain him; but he was surprised to find that the body did not fall down the cliff. He cut with his knife under the corpse in different places, but found nothing that held it to the rock until he came to the head, and then he discovered that the long hair grew, like the roots of a cedar, into a cleft in the rock. When he cut the hair,[143] the body tumbled down out of sight. The moment it fell a great clamor of voices came up from below. "I want the eyes," screamed one; "Give me an arm," cried another; "I want the liver," said a third; "No, the liver shall be mine," yelled a fourth; and thus the quarrelling went on. "Ah!" thought Nayénezgani, "these are the children quarrelling over the father's corpse. Thus, perhaps, they would have been quarrelling over mine had I not dodged his kicks." 342. He tried to descend along the trail he was on, but found it led no farther. Then he retraced his steps till he saw another trail that seemed to lead to the bottom of the cliff. He followed it and soon came to the young of the anáye, twelve in number, who had just devoured their father's corpse; the blood was still streaming from their mouths. He ran among them, and hacked at them in every direction with his great stone knife. They fled; but he pursued them, and in a little while he had killed all but one. This one ran faster than the rest, and climbed among some high rocks; but Nayénezgani followed him and caught him. He stopped to take breath; as he did so he looked at the child and saw that he was disgustingly ugly and filthy. "You ugly thing," said Nayénezgani; "when you ran from me so fleetly I thought you might be something handsome and worth killing; but now that I behold your face I shall let you live. Go to yonder mountain of Natsisaán[144] and dwell there. It is a barren land, where you will have to work hard for your living, and will wander ever naked and hungry." The boy went to Natsisaán, as he was told, and there he became the progenitor of the Pahutes, a people ugly, starved, and ragged, who never wash themselves and live on the vermin of the desert.[145] 343. He went to where he had first found the children of Tse`tahotsiltá`li. Nothing was left of the father's corpse but the bones and scalp. (This anáye used to wear his hair after the manner of a Pueblo Indian.) The hero cut a piece of the hair from one side of the head and carried it home as a trophy. When he got home there were the usual questions and answers and rejoicings, and when he asked his mother, "Where is the home of the Bináye Aháni, the people who slay with their eyes," she begged him, as before, to rest contented and run no more risks; but she added: "They live at Tse`ahalzi'ni, Rock with Black Hole."[146] This place stands to this day, but is changed since the anáye dwelt there. It has still a hole, on one side, that looks like a door, and another on the top that looks like a smoke-hole. 344. On this occasion, in addition to his other weapons, he took a bag of salt with him on his journey.[147] When he came to Tse`ahalzi'ni he entered the rock house and sat down on the north side. In other parts of the lodge sat the old couple of the Bináye Aháni and many of their children. They all stared with their great eyes at the intruder, and flashes of lightning streamed from their eyes toward him, but glanced harmless off his armor. Seeing that they did not kill him, they stared harder and harder at him, until their eyes protruded far from their sockets. Then into the fire in the centre of the lodge he threw the salt, which spluttered and flew in every direction, striking the eyes of the anáye and blinding them. While they held down their heads in pain, he struck with his great stone knife and killed all except the two youngest. 345. Thus he spoke to the two which he spared: "Had you grown up here, you would have lived only to be things of evil and to destroy men; but now I shall make you of use to my kind in the days to come when men increase on the earth." To the elder he said: "You will ever speak to men and tell them what happens beyond their sight; you will warn them of the approach of enemies," and he changed it into a bird called Tsidiltói[148] (shooting or exploring bird). He addressed the younger, saying: "It will be your task to make things beautiful, to make the earth happy." And he changed it into a bird called Hostódi,[149] which is sleepy in the daytime and comes out at night. 346. When he reached home with his trophies, which were the eyes[150] of the first Bináye Aháni he had killed, and told what he had done, Estsánatlehi took a piece of the lung of Téelget (which he had previously brought home), put it in her mouth, and, dancing sang this song:-- Nayénezgani brings for me, Of Téelget he brings for me, Truly a lung he brings for me, The people are restored. To`badzistsíni brings for me, Of Tse`na'hale he brings for me, Truly a wing he brings for me, The people are restored. Léyaneyani brings for me, Of Tse`tahotsiltá`li he brings for me, Truly a side-lock he brings for me, The people are restored. Tsówenatlehi[151] brings for me, Of Bináye Aháni he brings for me, Truly an eye he brings for me, The people are restored.[276] 347. When she had finished her rejoicings he asked, "Where shall I find Sasnalkáhi (Bear that Pursues)?" "He lives at Tse`bahástsit (Rock that Frightens)," she replied; but again she pleaded with him, pictured to him the power of the enemy he sought, and begged him to venture no more. 348. Next morning he went off to Rock that Frightens and walked all around it, without meeting the bear or finding his trail. At length, looking up to the top of the rock, he saw the bear's head sticking out of a hole, and he climbed up. The bear's den was in the shape of a cross, and had four entrances. Nayénezgani looked into the east entrance, the south entrance, and the west entrance without getting sight of his enemy. As he approached the north entrance he saw the head of the watching bear again; but it was instantly withdrawn, and the bear went toward the south entrance. The hero ran round fast and lay in wait. In a little while the bear thrust forth his head to look, and Nayénezgani cut it off with his great stone knife. 349. He addressed the head, saying: "You were a bad thing in your old life, and tried only to do mischief; but in new shapes I shall make you of use to the people; in the future, when they increase upon the earth, you will furnish them with sweet food to eat, with foam to cleanse their bodies, and with threads for their clothing." He cut the head into three pieces: he threw one to the east, where it became tsási, or haskán (Yucca baccata); he threw another to the west, where it became tsásitsoz (Yucca angustifolia); and he threw the third to the south, where it became nóta (mescal). He cut off the left forepaw to take home as a trophy. 350. "Where shall I find Tsé`nagahi (Travelling Stone)?" he said after he had returned from his encounter with Pursuing Bear and shown his trophy to his people. "You will find him in a lake near where Tsé`espai points up," answered Estsánatlehi; but she implored him not to go near the lake. He did not heed her, and next morning he went off to seek the Travelling Stone. 351. He approached the lake on the north side, while the wind was blowing from the south, but he saw nothing of the stone. Thence he went around to the south side of the lake. When he got here the stone scented him, rose to the surface, poised itself a moment, and flew toward Nayénezgani as if hurled by a giant hand. Raising his lightning arrow, he held it in the course of the stone and knocked a piece off the latter. When the stone fell he struck another piece off with his knife. Tsé`nagahi now saw it had a powerful foe to contend against; so, instead of hurling itself at him again, it fled and Nayénezgani went in pursuit. He chased it all over the present Navaho land, knocking pieces off it in many places[152] as he followed, until at length he chased it into the San Juan River at Tsintáhokata, where a point of forest runs down toward the river. 352. Travelling Stone sped down with the current and Nayénezgani ran along the bank after it. Four times he got ahead of the stone, but three times it escaped him by dipping deep into the river. When he headed it off for the fourth time, he saw it gleaming like fire under the water, and he stopped to gaze at it. Then the stone spoke and said: "Sawé (my baby, my darling), take pity on me, and I shall no longer harm your people, but do good to them instead. I shall keep the springs in the mountains open and cause your rivers to flow; kill me and your lands will become barren." Nayénezgani answered: "If you keep this promise I shall spare you; but if you ever more do evil as you have done before, I shall seek you again, and then I shall not spare you." Tsé`nagahi has kept his promise ever since, and has become the Tiéholtsodi of the upper world. 353. He brought home no trophy from the contest with Tsé`nagahi. It had now been eight days since he left the house of the Sun.[153] He was weary from his battles with the anáye, and he determined to rest four days. During this time he gave his relatives a full account of his journeys and his adventures from first to last, and as he began he sang a song:-- Nayénezgani to Atsé Estsán began to tell, About Bitéelgeti he began to tell, From homes of giants coming, he began to tell. To`badzistsíni to Estsánatlehi began to tell, About the Tse`na'hale he began to tell, From homes of giants coming, he began to tell. Léyaneyani to Atsé Estsán began to tell, Of Tse`tahotsiltá`li he began to tell, From homes of giants coming, he began to tell. Tsówenatlehi to Estsánatlehi began to tell, About Bináye Aháni he began to tell, From homes of giants coming, he began to tell.[277] 354. There were still many of the anáye to kill; there was White under the Rock, Blue under the Rock, Yellow under the Rock, Black under the Rock, and many yélapahi, or brown giants. Besides these there were a number of stone pueblos, now in ruins, that were inhabited by various animals (crows, eagles, etc.),[154] who filled the land and left no room for the people. During the four days of rest, the brothers consulted as to how they might slay all these enemies, and they determined to visit again the house of the Sun. On the morning of the fourth night they started for the east. They encountered no enemies on the way and had a pleasant journey. When they entered the house of the Sun no one greeted them; no one offered them a seat. They sat down together on the floor, and as soon as they were seated lightning began to shoot into the lodge. It struck the ground near them four times. Immediately after the last flash Tsápani, Bat, and Tó`nenili, Water Sprinkler, entered. "Do not be angry with us," said the intruders; "we flung the lightning only because we feel happy and want to play with you:" still the brothers kept wrathful looks on their faces, until Ni'ltsi whispered into their ears: "Be not angry with the strangers. They were once friends of the anáye and did not wish them to die; but now they are friends of yours, since you have conquered the greatest of the anáye." Then, at last, Tsóhanoai spoke to his children, saying: "These people are rude; they respect no one. Heed them not. Here are seats for you. Be seated." Saying this, he offered the brothers a seat of shell and a seat of turquoise; but Ni'ltsi told the brothers not to take them. "These are seats of peace," he said; "you still want help in war. Nayénezgani, take the seat of red stone, which is the warrior's seat; and you, To`badzistsíni, stand." They did as the Wind bade them. 355. "My children, why do you come to me again?" asked Tsóhanoai, the bearer of the sun. "We come for no special purpose; we come only to pass away the time," Nayénezgani answered. Three times he asked this question and got the same reply. When he asked for the fourth time, he added, "Speak the truth. When you came to me before I gave you all you asked for." Now it was To`badzistsíni who replied: "Oh, father! there are still many of the anáye left, and they are increasing. We wish to destroy them." "My children," said Tsóhanoai, "when I helped you before, I asked you for nothing in return. I am willing to help you again; but I wish to know, first, if you are willing to do something for me. I have a long way to travel every day, and often, in the long summer days, I do not get through in time, and then I have no place to rest or eat till I get back to my home in the east. I wish you to send your mother to the west that she may make a new home for me." "I will do it," said Nayénezgani; "I will send her there." But To`badzistsíni said: "No, Estsánatlehi is under the power of none; we cannot make promises for her, she must speak for herself, she is her own mistress; but I shall tell her your wishes and plead for you." The room they were in had four curtains which closed the ways leading into other apartments. Tsóhanoai lifted the curtain in the east, which was black, and took out of the room in the east five hoops: one of these was colored black, another blue, a third yellow, and a fourth white, the fifth was many-colored and shining. Each hoop had attached to it a knife of the same color as itself. He took out also four great hailstones, colored like the four first hoops. He gave all these to his sons and said: "Your mother will know what to do with these things." 356. When they got their gifts they set out on their homeward journey. As they went on their way they beheld a wonderful vision. The gods spread before them the country of the Navahoes as it was to be in the future when men increased in the land and became rich and happy. They spoke to one another of their father, of what he had said to them, of what they had seen in his house, and of all the strange things that had happened. When they got near their journey's end they sang this song:-- Nayénezgani, he is holy, Thus speaks the Sun, Holy he stands. To`badzistsíni, he is holy, Thus speaks the Moon, Holy he moves. Léyaneyani, he is holy, Thus speaks the Sun, Holy he stands. Tsówenatlehi, he is holy, Thus speaks the Moon, Holy he moves.[278] 357. When they got within sight of their home they sang this song:-- Slayer of Giants, Through the sky I hear him. His voice sounds everywhere, His voice divine. Child of the Water, Through the floods I hear him. His voice sounds everywhere, His voice divine. Reared 'neath the Earth, Through the earth I hear him. His voice sounds everywhere, His voice divine. The Changing Grandchild, Through the clouds I hear him. His voice sounds everywhere, His voice divine.[279] 358. When the brothers got home they said to Estsánatlehi: "Here are the hoops which our father has given us, and he told us you knew all about them. Show us, then, how to use them." She replied: "I have no knowledge of them." Three times she thus answered their questions. When they spoke to her for the fourth time and Nayénezgani was becoming angry and impatient, she said: "I have never seen the Sun God except from afar. He has never been down to the earth to visit me. I know nothing of these talismans of his, but I will try what I can do." She took the black hoop to the east, set it up so that it might roll, and spat through it the black hail, which was four-cornered; at once the hoop rolled off to the east and rolled out of sight. She took the blue hoop to the south, set it up, and spat through it the blue hail, which was six-cornered. Then the hoop rolled away to the south and disappeared. She carried the yellow hoop to the west, set it up, and spat through it the eight-cornered yellow hail; the hoop rolled off to the west and was lost to sight. She bore the white hoop to the north; spat through it the white hail, which had eleven corners, and the hoop sped to the north until it was seen no more. She threw the shining hoop up toward the zenith, threw the four colored knives in the same direction, and blew a powerful breath after them. Up they all went until they were lost to sight in the sky. As each hoop went away thunder was heard.[155] 359. During four days after this nothing of importance happened, and no change came in the weather. At the end of four days they heard thunder high up in the sky, and after this there were four days more of good weather. Then the sky grew dark, and something like a great white cloud descended from above. Estsánatlehi went abroad; she saw in all directions great whirlwinds which uprooted tall trees as if they had been weeds, and tossed great rocks around as if they had been pebbles. "My son, I fear for our house," she said when she came back. "It is high among the mountains, and the great winds may destroy it." When he heard this, Nayénezgani went out. He covered the house first with a black cloud, which he fastened to the ground with rainbows; second, with a black fog, which he fastened down with sunbeams; third, with a black cloud, which he secured with sheet-lightning; and fourth, with a black fog, which he secured with chain-lightning. At sunset that evening they caught a little glimpse of the sun; but after that, continuously for four days and four nights, it was dark; a storm of wind and hail prevailed, such as had never been seen before, and the air was filled with sharp stones carried before the wind. The people stayed safe in the lodge, but they could hear the noise of the great storm without. On the morning of the fifth day the tumult ceased, and Nayénezgani, going out, found that all was calm, though it was still dark. He now proceeded to remove the coverings from the lodge and threw them upwards toward the heavens. As the first covering, a sheet of fog, ascended, chain-lightning shot out of it (with chain-lightning it had been fastened down). As the second covering, a cloud, ascended, sheet-lightning came forth from it. As the third covering, a fog, went up, sunbeams streamed from it; and as the fourth cover, a robe of cloud, floated up, it became adorned with rainbows. The air was yet dark, and full of dust raised by the high wind; but a gentle shower of rain came later, laying the dust, and all was clear again. All the inmates of the lodge now came out, and they marvelled to see what changes the storm had wrought: near their house a great canyon had been formed; the shape of the bluffs around had been changed, and solitary pillars of rock[156] had been hewn by the winds. 360. "Surely all the anáye are now killed," said Estsánatlehi. "This storm must have destroyed them." But Ni'ltsi whispered into Nayénezgani's ear, "San (Old Age) still lives." The hero said then to his mother: "Where used Old Age to dwell?" His mother would not answer him, though he repeated his question four times. At last Ni'ltsi again whispered in his ear and said: "She lives in the mountains of Depe'ntsa." 361. Next morning he set out for the north, and when, after a long journey, he reached Depe'ntsa, he saw an old woman who came slowly toward him leaning on a staff. Her back was bent, her hair was white, and her face was deeply wrinkled. He knew this must be San. When they met he said: "Grandmother, I have come on a cruel errand. I have come to slay you." "Why would you slay me?" she said in a feeble voice, "I have never harmed any one. I hear that you have done great deeds in order that men might increase on the earth, but if you kill me there will be no increase of men; the boys will not grow up to become fathers; the worthless old men will not die; the people will stand still. It is well that people should grow old and pass away and give their places to the young. Let me live, and I shall help you to increase the people." "Grandmother, if you keep this promise I shall spare your life," said Nayénezgani, and he returned to his mother without a trophy. 362. When he got home Ni'ltsi whispered to him: "Hakáz Estsán (Cold Woman) still lives." Nayénezgani said to Estsánatlehi: "Mother, grandmother, where does Cold Woman dwell?" His mother would not answer him; but Ni'ltsi again whispered, saying: "Cold Woman lives high on the summits of Depe'ntsa, where the snow never melts." 363. Next day he went again to the north and climbed high among the peaks of Depe'ntsa, where no trees grow and where the snow lies white through all the summer. Here he found a lean old woman, sitting on the bare snow, without clothing, food, fire, or shelter. She shivered from head to foot, her teeth chattered, and her eyes streamed water. Among the drifting snows which whirled around her, a multitude of snow-buntings were playing; these were the couriers she sent out to announce the coming of a storm. "Grandmother," he said, "a cruel man I shall be. I am going to kill you, so that men may no more suffer and die by your hand," and he raised his knife-club to smite her. "You may kill me or let me live, as you will. I care not," she said to the hero; "but if you kill me it will always be hot, the land will dry up, the springs will cease to flow, the people will perish. You will do well to let me live. It will be better for your people." He paused and thought upon her words. He lowered the hand he had raised to strike her, saying: "You speak wisely, grandmother; I shall let you live." He turned around and went home. 364. When Nayénezgani got home from this journey, bearing no trophy, Wind again whispered in his ear and said: "Tieín (Poverty) still lives." He asked his mother where Poverty used to live, but she would not answer him. It was Wind who again informed him. "There are two, and they dwell at Dsildasdzi'ni." 365. He went to Dsildasdzi'ni next day and found there an old man and an old woman, who were filthy, clad in tattered garments, and had no goods in their house. "Grandmother, grandfather," he said, "a cruel man I shall be. I have come to kill you." "Do not kill us, my grandchild," said the old man: "it would not be well for the people, in days to come, if we were dead; then they would always wear the same clothes and never get anything new. If we live, the clothing will wear out and the people will make new and beautiful garments; they will gather goods and look handsome. Let us live and we will pull their old clothes to pieces for them." So he spared them and went home without a trophy. 366. The next journey was to seek Ditsi'n, Hunger, who lived, as Ni'ltsi told him, at Tlóhadaskaí, White Spot of Grass. At this place he found twelve of the Hunger People. Their chief was a big, fat man, although he had no food to eat but the little brown cactus. "I am going to be cruel," said Nayénezgani, "so that men may suffer no more the pangs of hunger and die no more of hunger." "Do not kill us," said the chief, "if you wish your people to increase and be happy in the days to come. We are your friends. If we die, the people will not care for food; they will never know the pleasure of cooking and eating nice things, and they will never care for the pleasures of the chase." So he spared also the Ditsi'n, and went home without a trophy. 367. When Nayénezgani came back from the home of Hunger, Ni'ltsi spoke to him no more of enemies that lived. The Slayer of the Alien Gods said to his mother: "I think all the anáye must be dead, for every one I meet now speaks to me as a relation; they say to me, 'my grandson,' 'my son,' 'my brother.'"[157] Then he took off his armor--his knife, moccasins, leggings, shirt, and cap--and laid them in a pile; he put with them the various weapons which the Sun had given him, and he sang this song:-- Now Slayer of the Alien Gods arrives Here from the house made of the dark stone knives. From where the dark stone knives dangle on high, You have the treasures, holy one, not I. The Offspring of the Water now arrives, Here from the house made of the serrate knives. From where the serrate knives dangle on high, You have the treasures, holy one, not I. He who was Reared beneath the Earth arrives, Here from the house made of all kinds of knives. From where all kinds of knives dangle on high, You have the treasures, holy one, not I. The hero, Changing Grandchild, now arrives, Here from the house made of the yellow knives. From where the yellow knives dangle on high, You have the treasures, holy one, not I.[280] 368. His song had scarcely ceased when they heard, in the far east, a loud voice singing this song:-- With Slayer of the Alien Gods I come, From the house made of dark stone knives I come, From where dark knives dangle on high I come, With implement of sacred rites I come, Dreadful to you. With Offspring of the Waters now I come, From the house made of serrate knives I come, From where the serrate knives hang high I come, With implement of sacred rites I come, Divine to you. With Reared beneath the Earth now do I come, From house of knives of every kind I come, Where knives of every kind hang high I come, With implement of sacred rites I come, Dreadful to you. Now with the Changing Grandchild here I come, From the house made of yellow knives I come, From where the yellow knives hang high I come, With implement of sacred rites I come, Dreadful to you.[281] 369. As the voice came nearer and the song continued, Estsánatlehi said to the youths: "Put on quickly the clothes you usually wear, Tsóhanoai is coming to see us; be ready to receive him," and she left the lodge, that she might not hear them talk about the anáye. 370. When the god had greeted his children and taken a seat, he said to the elder brother: "My son, do you think you have slain all the anáye?" "Yes, father," replied the son, "I think I have killed all that should die." "Have you brought home trophies from the slain?" the father questioned again. "Yes, my father," was the reply; "I have brought back wing-feathers, and lights and hair and eyes, and other trophies of my enemies." "It is not well," said Tsóhanoai, "that the bodies of these great creatures should lie where they fell; I shall have them buried near the corpse of Yéitso." (He got the holy ones to carry the corpses to San Mateo and hide them under the blood of Yéitso, and this is the reason we do not see them lying all over the land now, but sometimes see them sticking out of the rocks.)[159] He took the trophies and the armor and said: "These I shall carry back to my house in the east and keep them safe. If you ever need them again, come and get them." Promising to come back again in four days, and meet Estsánatlehi on the top of Tsolíhi, he departed. 371. At the end of four days Estsánatlehi went to the top of Tsolíhi and sat down on a rock. Tsóhanoai came, sat beside her, and sought to embrace her; but she avoided him, saying: "What do you mean by this? I want none of your embraces." "It means that I want you for my own," said the bearer of the Sun. "I want you to come to the west and make a home for me there." "But I do not wish to do so," said she. "What right have you to ask me?" "Have I not given your boys the weapons to slay the alien gods?" he inquired, and added: "I have done much for you: now you must reward me." She replied, "I never besought you to do this. You did not do it on my account; you did it of your own good will, and because your sons asked you." He urged another reason: "When Nayénezgani visited me in the east, he promised to give you to me." "What care I for his promise?" she exclaimed; "I am not bound by it. He has no right to speak for me." Thus four times she repulsed him. When he pleaded for the fifth time, saying: "Come to the west and make a home for me," she said: "Let me hear first all you have to promise me. You have a beautiful house in the east. I have never seen it, but I have heard how beautiful it is. I want a house just the same built for me in the west; I want to have it built floating on the water, away from the shore, so that in the future, when people increase, they will not annoy me with too many visits. I want all sorts of gems--white shell, turquoise, haliotis, jet, soapstone, agate, and redstone--planted around my house, so that they will grow and increase. Then I shall be lonely over there and shall want something to do, for my sons and my sister will not go with me. Give me animals to take along. Do all this for me and I shall go with you to the west." He promised all these things to her, and he made elk, buffalo, deer, long-tail deer, mountain sheep, jack-rabbits, and prairie-dogs to go with her. 372. When she started for her new home the Hadáhonestiddine` and the Hadáhonigedine`, two tribes of divine people,[160] went with her and helped her to drive the animals, which were already numerous. They passed over the Tuintsá range at Péslitsi (Red Knife or Red Metal), and there they tramped the mountain down so that they formed a pass. They halted in Tsinlí valley to have a ceremony[161] and a foot-race, and here the animals had become vastly more numerous. When they crossed Dsillizi'n (Black Mountain),[162] the herd was so great that it tramped a deep pass whose bottom is almost on a level with the surrounding plain; at Black Mountain all the buffaloes broke from the herd and ran to the east; they never returned to Estsánatlehi and are in the east still. At Hostódito` the elks went to the east and they never returned. From time to time a few, but not all, of the antelope, deer, and other animals left the herd and wandered east. Four days after leaving Tsinlí valley they arrived at Dokoslíd (San Francisco Mountain), and here they stopped to perform another ceremony. What happened on the way from this mountain to the great water in the west, we do not know, but after a while Estsánatlehi arrived at the great water and went to dwell in her floating house beyond the shore. Here she still lives, and here the Sun visits her, when his journey is done, every day that he crosses the sky. But he does not go every day; on dark, stormy days he stays at home in the east and sends in his stead the serpents of lightning, who do mischief. 373. As he journeys toward the west, this is the song he sings:-- In my thoughts I approach, The Sun God approaches, Earth's end he approaches, Estsánatlehi's hearth approaches, In old age walking The beautiful trail. In my thoughts I approach, The Moon God approaches, Earth's end he approaches, Yolkaí Estsán's hearth approaches, In old age walking The beautiful trail.[282] 374. When Estsánatlehi had departed, Nayénezgani and To`badzistsíni went, as their father had bidden them, to To`ye'tli,[163] where two rivers join, in the valley of the San Juan; there they made their dwelling, there they are to this day, and there we sometimes still see their forms in the San Juan River.[164] The Navahoes still go there to pray, but not for rain, or good crops, or increase of stock; only for success in war, and only the warriors go. IV. GROWTH OF THE NAVAHO NATION. 375. Before Estsánatlehi left, she said to Yolkaí Estsán: "Now, younger sister, I must leave you. Think well what you would most like to do after I am gone." The younger sister replied: "I would most like to go back to Depe'ntsa, where our people came from." "Alas! you will be lonely there," said the elder sister. "You will want for some one around you to make a noise and keep you company." Still, when Estsánatlehi left, Yolkaí Estsán turned her face toward Depe'ntsa. She went with the two brothers as far as To`ye'tli, and, when these stopped there, she set out alone for the mountains. 376. When she got to Depe'ntsa (the San Juan Mountains), she went first to a place lying east of Hadzinaí (the Place of Emergence), named Dsilladiltéhi; in an old ruined pueblo on its side she rested during the day, and at night she went to the top of the mountain to sleep. On the second day she went to a mountain south of the Place of Emergence, called Dsili'ndiltéhi; rested on the side of the mountain during the day, and on its top at night. She began now to feel lonely, and at night she thought of how men might be made to keep her company. She wandered round in thought during the third day, and on the third night she slept on top of Dsiltagiiltéhi, a mountain west of Hadzinaí. On the fourth day she walked around the Place of Emergence, and wandered into the old ruins she found there. On the fourth night she went to the top of Dsiltiniltéz, the mountain which lies to the north of the Place of Emergence, and there she rested, but did not sleep; for she thought all the time about her loneliness, and of how people might be made. On the fifth day she came down to the shores of the lake which surrounded the Place of Emergence, and built a shelter of brush. "I may as well stay here," she said to herself; "what does it avail that I wander round?" She sat up late that night thinking of her lonely condition. She felt that she could not stay there longer without companionship. She thought of her sister in the far west, of the Twelve People, of the gods that dwelt in the different mountains, and she thought she might do well to go and live with some of them. 377. The next morning she heard faintly, in the early dawn, the voice of Hastséyalti shouting his usual "Wu`hu`hu`hú," in the far east. Four times the cry was uttered, each time louder and nearer. Immediately after the last call the god appeared. "Where did you save yourself?" he asked the White Shell Woman, meaning, "Where were you, that you escaped the anáye when they ravaged the land?" "I was at Dsilnáotil with my sister," she said; "but for five nights I have been all alone in these mountains. I have been hoping that something might happen to relieve my great loneliness,--that I might meet some one. Sítsaí (Grandfather), whence do you come?" He replied: "I come from Tse`gíhi,[165] the home of the gods. I pity your loneliness and wish to help you. If you remain where you are, I shall return in four days and bring Estsánatlehi, the divine ones of all the great mountains, and other gods, with me." When he left, she built for herself a good hut with a storm door. She swept the floor clean, and made a comfortable bed of soft grass and leaves. 378. At dawn on the fourth day after the god departed, Yolkaí Estsán heard two voices calling,--the voice of Hastséyalti, the Talking God, and the voice of Hastséhogan, the House God. The voices were heard, as usual, four times, and immediately after the last call the gods appeared. It was dark and misty that day; the sun did not rise. Soon after the arrival of the first two, the other promised visitors came, and they all formed themselves in a circle east of the lodge, each in the place where he or she belonged. Thus the divine ones of Tsisnadzi'ni stood in the east; those of Tsótsil (San Mateo Mountain) in the south; those of Dokoslíd (San Francisco Mountain) in the west; those of Depe'ntsa (San Juan Mountain) in the north. Each one present had his appropriate place in the group. At first Yolkaí Estsán stood in the west; but her sister, Estsánatlehi, said to her: "No, my young sister; go you and stand in the east. My place is in the west," and thus they stood during the ceremony. Estsánatlehi brought with her two sacred blankets called Dilpi'l-naská, the Dark Embroidered, and Lakaí-naská, the White Embroidered. Hastséhogan brought with him two sacred buckskins, and the Nalkénaaz (a divine couple who came together walking arm in arm) brought two ears of corn,--one yellow, one white,--which the female carried in a dish of turquoise. 379. Hastséyalti laid the sacred blankets on the ground, and spread on top of these one of the sacred buckskins with its head to the west. He took from the dish of the female Nalkénaaz the two ears of corn, handing the white ear to Tse`gádinatini Asiké, the Rock Crystal Boy of the eastern mountain, and the yellow ear to Natáltsoi Atét, the Yellow Corn Girl of San Francisco Mountain. These divine ones laid the ears on the buckskin,--the yellow with its tip toward the west, the white with its tip toward the east. Hastséyalti picked up the ears, and nearly laid them down on the buckskin with their tips to the east, but he did not let them touch the buckskin; as he did this he uttered his own cry of "Wu`hu`hu`hú." Then he nearly laid them down with their tips to the south, giving as he did so Hastséhogan's cry of "Ha-wa-u-ú." With similar motions he pointed the ears to the west and the north. Next he raised them toward the sky, and at length laid them down on the buckskin, with their tips to the east. He accompanied each act with a cry of his own or of Hastséhogan, alternating as in the beginning. So the ears were turned in every direction, and this is the reason the Navahoes never abide in one home like the Pueblos, but wander ever from place to place. Over the ears of corn he laid the other sacred buckskin with its head to the east, and then Ni'ltsi, the Wind, entered between the skins. Four times, at intervals, Hastséyalti raised the buckskins a little and peeped in. When he looked the fourth time, he saw that the white ear of corn was changed to a man, and the yellow ear to a woman. It was Ni'ltsi who gave them the breath of life. He entered at the heads and came out at the ends of the fingers and toes, and to this day we see his trail in the tip of every human finger. The Rock Crystal Boy furnished them with mind, and the Grasshopper Girl gave them voices. When Hastséyalti at last threw off the top buckskin, a dark cloud descended and covered like a blanket the forms of the new pair. Yolkaí Estsán led them into her hogán, and the assembled gods dispersed. Before he left, Hastséyalti promised to return in four days. 380. No songs were sung and no prayers uttered during their rites, and the work was done in one day. The hogán near which all these things happened still stands; but since that time it has been transformed into a little hill. To-day (A.D. 1884) seven times old age has killed since this pair was made by the holy ones from the ears of corn. The next very old man who dies will make the eighth time.[166] 381. Early on the fourth morning after his departure Hastséyalti came again as he had promised, announcing his approach by calling four times as usual. When White Shell Woman heard the first call, she aroused the young people and said: "Get up, my children, and make a fire. Hastséyalti is coming." He brought with him another couple, Hadáhonige Asiké (Mirage Boy) and Hadáhonestid Atét (Ground-heat Girl). He gave Yolkaí Estsán two ears of corn, saying, "Grind only one grain at a time," and departed. Yolkaí Estsán said to the newly-arrived couple: "This boy and girl of corn cannot marry one another, for they are brother and sister; neither can you marry one another, for you are also brother and sister, yet I must do something for you all." So she married the boy made of corn to the Ground-heat Girl, and the Mirage Boy to the girl made of corn. After a time each couple had two children,--a boy and a girl. When these were large enough to run around, this family all moved away from Hadzinaí, where they had lived four years, to Tse`lakaíia (White Standing Rock). The two men were busy every day hunting rabbits, rats, and other such animals, for on such game they chiefly lived. From these people are descended the gens of Tse`dzinki'ni,[167] House of the Dark Cliffs; so named because the gods who created the first pair came from the cliff houses of Tse`gíhi, and brought from there the ears of corn from which this first pair was made. 382. After they had lived thirteen years at Tse`lakaíia, during which time they had seen no sign of the existence of any people but themselves, they beheld one night the gleam of a distant fire. They sought for the fire all that night and the next day, but could not find it. The next night they saw it again in the same place, and the next day they searched with greater vigilance, but in vain. On the third night, when the distant gleam shone again through the darkness, they determined to adopt some means, better than they had previously taken, to locate it. They drove a forked stick firmly into the ground; one of the men got down on his hands and knees, spreading them as wide apart as possible, and sighted the fire through the fork of the stick. Next morning he carefully placed his hands and knees in the tracks which they had made the night before, and once more looked through the fork. His sight was thus guided to a little wooded hollow on the side of a far-off mountain. One of the men walked over to the mountain and entered the little hollow, which was small and could be explored in a few moments; but he discovered no fire, no ashes, no human tracks, no evidence of the presence of man. On the fourth night all the adults of the party took sight over the forked stick at the far twinkle, and in the morning when they looked again they found they had all sighted the same little grove on the distant mountain-side. "Strange!" said the man who had hunted there the day before; "the place is small. I went all through it again and again. There was no sign of life there, and not a drop of water that could reflect a ray from a star or from the moon." Then all the males of the family, men and boys, went to explore the little wood. Just as they were about to return, having found nothing, Wind whispered into the ear of one: "You are deceived. That light shines through a crack in the mountain at night. Cross the ridge and you will find the fire."[168] They had not gone far over the ridge when they saw the footprints of men, then the footprints of children, and soon they came to the camp. One party was as much rejoiced as the other to find people like themselves in the wilderness. They embraced one another, and shouted mutual greetings and questions. "Whence do you come?" said the strangers. "From Tse`lakaíia," was the response. "And whence come you?" asked the men of the White Standing Rock. "We tarried last," replied the strangers, "at To`i'ndotsos, a poor country, where we lived on ducks and snakes.[169] We have been here only a few days, and now we live on ground-rats, prairie-dogs, and wild seeds." The new party consisted of twelve persons,--five men, three women, one grown girl, one grown boy, and two small children. The Tse`dzinki'ni people took the strangers home with them, and Yolkaí Estsán welcomed them, saying: "Ahaláni sastsíni!" (Greeting, my children!) The place where the Tse`dzinki'ni found the strangers encamped was called Tsé`tlana (Bend in a Canyon); so they gave them the name of Tse`tláni, or Tse`tlánidine`, and from them is descended the present gens of Tse`tláni in the Navaho nation. 383. The next morning after the arrival of the Tse`tláni, Hastséyalti came once more to the lodge of the White Shell Woman; but he talked with her apart from the others, and when he was gone she told no one what he said. In three days he came back again; again they talked apart, and when Hastséyalti was gone she remained silent. It was her custom to sleep with one of the little girls, who was her favorite and companion. In the morning after the second visit of Hastséyalti she said to this little girl: "I am going to leave you. The gods of Tse`gíhi have sent for me; but I shall not forget your people, and shall come often to watch over them and be near them. Tell them this when they waken." When she had spoken she disappeared from the sight of the little girl, and when the people woke they searched, but could find her nowhere. They supposed she had gone to Tse`gíhi and tarried there a while before she went to Depe'ntsa to dwell forever in the house of White Shell, which had been prepared for her there. The fourth night after the departure of Yolkaí Estsán the little girl had a dream, which she related to her people in the morning. In the vision she saw Yolkaí Estsán, who said to her: "My grandchild, I am going to Depe'ntsa to dwell. I would take you with me, for I love you, were it not that your parents would mourn for you. But look always for the she-rain when it comes near your dwelling, for I shall ever be in the she-rain." 384. While at White Standing Rock the men wandered much around the country in search of food. Some who had been to To`dokónzi (Saline Water) said the latter was a better place than than that in which they lived; that there were some porcupines there, an abundance of rats, prairie-dogs, and seed-bearing plants; and that there were steep-sided mesa points in the neighborhood where they might surround large game.[170] After the departure of Yolkaí Estsán the people all moved to To`dokónzi;[171] but they remained here only a few days, and then went to Tsa`olgáhasze. Here they planted some grains of corn from the two ears that Hastséyalti had given them long ago. This was a very prolific kind of corn; when planted, several stalks sprouted from each grain, and a single grain, when ground, produced a large quantity of meal, which lasted them many days. 385. When they had been fourteen years at Tsa`olgáhasze they were joined by another people, who came from the sacred mountain of Dsilnáotil, and were therefore called Dsilnaoti'lni, or Dsilnaoti'ldine`. These were regarded as diné` digíni, or holy people, because they had no tradition of their recent creation, and were supposed to have escaped the fury of the alien gods by means of some miraculous protection. They did not camp at first with the older settlers, but dwelt a little apart, and sent often to the latter to borrow pots and metates. After a while all joined together as one people, and for a long time these three gentes have been as one gens and have become close relations to one another. The new-comers dug among old ruins and found pots and stone axes; with the latter they built themselves huts. 386. Seven years after the arrival of the Dsilnaoti'lni a fourth gens joined the Navahoes. The new arrivals said they had been seeking for the Dsilnaoti'lni all over the land for many years. Sometimes they would come upon the dead bushes of old camps. Sometimes they would find deserted brush shelters, partly green, or, again, quite green and fresh. Occasionally they would observe faint footprints, and think they were just about to meet another people like themselves in the desolate land; but again all traces of humanity would be lost. They were rejoiced to meet at last the people they so long had sought. The new-comers camped close to the Dsilnaoti'lni, and discovered that they and the latter carried similar red arrow-holders,[172] such as the other gentes did not have, and this led them to believe that they were related to the Dsilnaoti'lni. The Navahoes did not then make large skin quivers such as they have in these days; they carried their arrows in simpler contrivances. The strangers said that they came from a place called Haskánhatso (much Yucca baccata), and that they were the Haskándine`, or Yucca People; but the older gentes called them Haskánhatso, or Haskanhatsódine`, from the place whence they came.[173] 387. Fourteen years after the accession of the fourth gens, the Navahoes moved to Kintyél (which was then a ruin), in the Chaco Canyon. They camped there at night in a scattering fashion, and made so many fires that they attracted the attention of some strangers camped on a distant mountain, and these strangers came down next day to find out who the numerous people were that kindled so many fires. As the strangers, who were also diné` digíni, or holy people, said they came from Nahopá (Place of the Brown Horizontal Streak), the Navahoes called them Nahopáni. They joined the tribe, camping near the Haskánhatso and Dsilnaoti'lni. 388. It was autumn when the fifth gens was received. Then the whole tribe moved to the banks of the San Juan River and settled at a place called Tsintó`betlo[174] (Tree Sweeping Water), where a peculiar white tree hangs over the stream and sweeps the surface of the water with its long branches: there is no other tree of its kind near by. Here they determined to remain some time and raise crops; so they built warm huts for the winter, and all the fall and winter, when the days were fair, they worked in the bottom-lands grubbing up roots and getting the soil ready for gardens to be planted in the spring. The elder gentes camped farther down the stream than those more newly arrived. 389. In those days the language which the Navahoes spoke was not the same they speak now. It was a poor language then; it is better in these days. 390. When the tribe had been living six years on the banks of the San Juan, a band joined them who came from Tsi'nadzin[175] (Black Horizontal Forest), and were named as a gens from the place whence they came. The Navahoes observed that in this band there was a man who talked a great deal to the people almost every morning and evening. The Navahoes did not at first understand what this meant; but after a while they learned he spoke to his people because he was their chief. His name was Nabiniltáhi. 391. While living at the San Juan the people amused themselves much with games. They played mostly nánzoz[76] in the daytime and kesitsé[176] at night. They had as yet no horses, domestic sheep, or goats. They rarely succeeded in killing deer or Rocky Mountain sheep. When they secured deer it was sometimes by still-hunting them, sometimes by surrounding one and making it run till it was exhausted, and sometimes by driving them over precipices. When a man got two skins of these larger animals he made a garment of them by tying the fore-legs together over his shoulders. The woman wore a garment consisting of two webs of woven cedar bark, one hanging in front and one behind; all wore sandals of yucca fibre or cedar bark. They had headdresses made of weasel-skins and rat-skins, with the tails hanging down behind. These headdresses were often ornamented with colored artificial horns, made out of wood, or with the horns of the female mountain sheep shaved thin. Their blankets were made of cedar bark, of yucca fibre, or of skins sewed together.[177] Each house had, in front of the door, a long passageway, in which hung two curtains,--one at the outer, the other at the inner end,--made usually of woven cedar bark. In winter they brought in plenty of wood at night, closed both curtains, and made the house warm before they went to sleep. Their bows were of plain wood then; the Navahoes had not yet learned to put animal fibre on the backs of the bows.[178] Their arrows were mostly of reeds tipped with wood; but some made wooden arrows.[180] The bottom-land which they farmed was surrounded by high bluffs, and hemmed in up-stream and down-stream by jutting bluffs which came close to the river. After a time the tribe became too numerous for all to dwell and farm on this spot, so some went up in the bluffs to live and built stone storehouses in the cliffs,[179] while others--the Tsinadzi'ni--went below the lower promontory to make gardens. Later yet, some moved across the San Juan and raised crops on the other side of the stream.[180] 392. Eight years after the coming of the Tsinadzi'ni, some fires were observed at night on a distant eminence north of the river, and spies were sent out to see who made them. The spies brought back word that they had found a party of strangers encamped at a place called Tha`nezá`, Among the Scattered (Hills). Soon after, this party came in and joined the Navahoes, making a new gens, which was called Tha`nezá`ni. The strangers said they were descended from the Hadáhonigedine`, or Mirage People. The remains of their old huts are still to be seen at Tha`nezá`. 393. Five years after the Tha`nezá`ni were added, another people joined the tribe; but what gods sent them none could tell. They came from a place called Dsiltlá` (Base of Mountain), and were given the name of Dsiltlá`ni. As they had headdresses, bows, arrows, and arrow-holders similar to those of the Tha`nezá`ni they concluded they must be related to the latter. Ever since, these two gentes have been very close friends,--so close that a member of one cannot marry a member of the other. The Dsiltlá`ni knew how to make wicker water-bottles, carrying-baskets, and earthen pots, and they taught their arts to the rest of the people. 394. Five years later, they were joined on the San Juan by a numerous band who came originally from a place called Thá`pahahalkaí, White Valley among the Waters, which is near where the city of Santa Fé now stands. These people had long viewed in the western distance the mountains where the Navahoes dwelt, wondering if any one lived there, and at length decided to go thither. They journeyed westward twelve days till they reached the mountains, and they spent eight days travelling among them before they encountered the Navahoes. Then they settled at To`i'ndotsos and lived there twelve years, subsisting on ducks and fish,[169] but making no farms. All this time they were friendly to the Navahoes and exchanged visits; but, finding no special evidences of relationship with the latter, they dwelt apart. When at length they came to the San Juan to live, marriages had taken place between members of the two tribes, and the people from Among the Waters became a part of the Navaho nation, forming the gens of Thá`paha. They settled at a place called Hyíetyin (Trails Leading Upward), close to the Navahoes. Here was a smooth, sandy plain, which they thought would be good for farming, and the chief, whose name was Góntso, or Big Knee, had stakes set around the plain to show that his people claimed it. The people of the new gens were good hunters, skilled in making weapons and beautiful buckskin shirts, and they taught their arts to the other gentes. 395. The Thá`paha then spoke a language more like the modern Navaho than that which the other gentes spoke. The languages were not alike. The chief of the Tsinadzi'ni and Góntso often visited one another at night, year after year, for the purpose of uniting the two languages and picking out the words in each that were best. But the words of the Thá`paha were usually the best and plainest;[182] so the new language resembles the Thá`paha more than it resembles the old Navaho. 396. While the Thá`paha lived at Hyíetyin they had always abundant crops,--better crops than their neighbors had. Sometimes they could not harvest all they raised, and let food lie ungathered in the field. They built stone storehouses, something like pueblo houses, among the cliffs, and in these stored their corn. The storehouses stand there yet. The Thá`paha remained at Hyíetyin thirteen years, during which time many important events occurred, as will be told, and then they moved to Azdeltsígi. 397. Góntso had twelve wives; four of these were from the gens of Tsinadzi'ni, four from the gens of Dsiltlá`ni, and four from the gens of Tha`nezá`ni. He used to give much grain from his abundant harvests to the gentes to which his wives belonged; but, in spite of his generosity, his wives were unfaithful to him. He complained to their relations and to their chiefs; these remonstrated with the wives, but failed to improve their ways. At last they lost patience with the women and said to Góntso: "Do with them as you will. We shall not interfere." So the next wife whom he detected in crime he mutilated in a shameful way, and she died in consequence. He cut off the ears of the next transgressor, and she, too, died. He amputated the breasts of the third wife who offended him, and she died also. He cut off the nose of the fourth; she did not die. He determined then that cutting the nose should, in future, be the greatest punishment imposed on the faithless wife,--something that would disfigure but not kill,--and the rest of the people agreed with him.[183] But this had no effect on the remaining wives; they continued to lapse from virtue till all were noseless. Then they got together and began to plot mischief against their husband, Big Knee. They spoke so openly of their evil intentions that he feared to let any of them stay in his lodge at night and he slept alone. 398. About this time the people determined to have a great ceremony for the benefit of Big Knee; so they made great preparations and held a rite of nine days' duration.[184] During its progress the mutilated women remained in a hut by themselves, and talked about the unkindness of their people and the vengeance due to their husband. They said one to another: "We should leave our people and go elsewhere." On the last night of the ceremony there was a series of public exhibitions in a corral, or circle of branches, such as the Navahoes have now on the last night of the ceremony of the mountain chant,[185] and among the different alíli, or entertainments of the night, was a dance by the mutilated women. When their time came they entered the circle, each bearing a knife in her hand, and danced around the central fire, peering among the spectators as if searching for their husband; but he was hidden in the wall of branches that formed the circle. As they danced they sang a song the burden of which was "Pésla asilá." (It was the knife that did it to me.) When they had finished their dance they left the corral, and, in the darkness without, screamed maledictions at their people, saying: "May the waters drown ye! May the winters freeze ye! May the fires burn ye! May the lightnings strike ye!" and much more. Having cursed till they were tired, they departed for the far north, where they still dwell, and now, whenever they turn their faces to the south, we have cold winds and storms and lightning. 399. Not long after this memorable ceremony a number of Utes visited the Navahoes. They came when the corn-ears were small, and remained till the corn was harvested. They worked for the Navahoes, and when their stomachs were filled all left except one family, which consisted of an old couple, two girls, and a boy. These at first intended to stay but a short time after their friends had gone; but they tarried longer and longer, and postponed their going from time to time, till they ended by staying with the Navahoes till they died. They made particular friends with the Thá`paha, and got into the way of speaking to the latter people as they would to relations. One of the girls, whose name was Tsá`yiskid (Sage-Brush Hill), lived to be an old woman and the mother of many children. From her is descended the gens of Tsa`yiski'dni, which is so closely allied to the Thá`paha that a member of one of these gentes may not marry a member of the other. 400. Soon after the departure of the Utes the Navahoes were joined by a group of people who, when they came to tell their story, were found to have come from Thá`paha-halkaí, and to have made wanderings similar to those of the people who first came from that place. The new people spoke, also, the same language as the Thá`paha. For these reasons they were not formed into a new gens, but were joined to the gens of Thá`paha. 401. Some years later a large band came from the south to the settlement on the San Juan. It consisted of Apaches, who told the Navahoes that they had left their old tribe forever and desired to become Navahoes. They had not come to visit, they said, but to stay. They all belonged to one gens among the Apaches,--the gens of Tse`zindiaí (Trap-dyke),[186] and they were admitted into the tribe as a new gens with their old name. From the beginning they showed a desire to associate with Thá`paha, and now they are closely related to the latter and must not marry with them. Another band of Apaches, which came a little later, was added to the same gens. 402. About this time there was a great famine in Zuñi, and some people from this pueblo came to the San Juan to dwell with the Navahoes. They came first to the Thá`paha, and, although they had women in the party, they were not formed into a new gens, but added to Thá`paha. The gens of Zuñi was formed later. 403. The famine prevailed also at other pueblos, and some starving people came to the Navahoes from an old pueblo named Klógi, which was near where the pueblo of Jemez now stands. These formed the gens of Klógi, and made special friends of the Thá`paha. 404. The next accession was a family of seven adults, who came from a place called Tó`hani (Near the Water). They first visited the Dsiltlá`ni and remained, forming the gens of Tó`hani, affiliated now with Dsiltlá`ni. 405. The people who joined the Navahoes next after the Tó`hani came from a place called Tha`tsí, Among the Red (Waters or Banks), which was west of the San Juan settlement. From their traditions it appeared that they were not a newly created people; they had escaped in some way from the alien gods, and were for these reasons regarded as diné` digíni, or holy people. They were divided into two gentes, Thá`tsini and Kaídine`, or Willow People, and for a while they formed two gentes among the Navahoes; but in these days all traces of this division have been lost, and all their descendants are now called, without distinction, sometimes Thá`tsini and sometimes Kai or Kaídine`. 406. Before this time the Navahoes had been a weak and peaceable tribe; but now they found themselves becoming a numerous people and they began to talk of going to war. Of late years they had heard much of the great pueblos along the Rio Grande, but how their people had saved themselves from the anáye the Navahoes did not know. A man named Napaílinta got up a war party and made a raid on a pueblo named Kinlitsí (Red House), and returned with some captives, among whom was a girl captured by Napaílinta. From her is descended the gens of Kinlitsí, whose members are now close relations to Tsinadzi'ni (the gens of Napaílinta), and cannot intermarry with the latter. 407. The captives from Kinlitsí were, at first, slaves among the Navahoes;[187] but their descendants became free and increased greatly, and from them came another gens, Tliziláni, Many Goats, also closely related to Tsinadzi'ni. 408. Next in order came a band of Apaches from the south representing two gentes,--Destsíni (Red Streak People), and Tlastsíni (Red Flat Ground People). These were adopted by the Navahoes as two separate gentes and became close relations to the Tsinadzi'ni. 409. Not long after the arrival of these Apaches some Utes came into the neighborhood of the Navahoes, camping at a place called Tsé`di`yikáni (a ridge or promontory projecting into the river), not far from Hyíetyin. They had good arms of all kinds, and two varieties of shields,--one round and one with a crescentic cut in the top. They lived for a while by themselves, and were at first unruly and impertinent; but in the course of time they merged into the Navahoes, forming the gens of Notá or Notádine`, Ute People. 410. About the time they were incorporated by the Navahoes, or soon after, a war party of the Utes made a raid on a Mexican settlement, somewhere near where Socorro now is, and captured a Spanish woman. She was their slave; but her descendants became free among the Navahoes and formed the Nakaídine` (White Stranger People), or Mexican gens, who cannot now intermarry with Notádine`. 411. Góntso, or Big Knee, chief of the Thá`paha, was still alive and was a famous old man; but he had become feeble and had many ailments. There was a great ceremony practised in those days called natsi'd, which lasted all winter,[184] from harvest-time to planting-time; but the Navahoes have long ceased to celebrate it. This ceremony was held one winter for the benefit of Big Knee at the sacred place of To`ye'tli, the home of the War Gods. One night, while the rites were being performed, some strangers joined the Navahoes coming from the direction of the river. Adopted by the Navahoes, they formed the gens of To`yetlíni, and became closely allied to Notádine` and Nakaídine`. 412. On another occasion during the same winter some Apaches came from their country in the south to witness the ceremony of natsi'd. Among the women of the Thá`paha was one who visited the Apache camp and remained all night there. She became attached to an Apache youth, with whom she secretly absconded when the visitors left. For a long time her people did not know what had become of her; but many years after, learning where she was, some of her relations went to the Apache country to persuade her to return. She came back an old woman, bringing her husband and a family of three girls. The girls were handsome, had light skins and fair hair. Their grandmother, who admired them very much, insisted that a new gens should be made of them. So they were called Háltso, Yellow Bodies,[188] and originated the gens of that name. Their father died an old man among the Navahoes. 413. On another night of the same winter, while the ceremony for Big Knee was going on, two strange men, speaking the Navaho language, entered the camp. They said they were the advanced couriers of a multitude of wanderers who had left the shores of the great waters in the west to join the Navahoes. You shall now hear the story of the people who came from the western ocean:-- 414. Surrounding Estsánatlehi's home were four mountains, located like those at the Place of Emergence--one in the east, one in the south, one in the west, and one in the north. She was in the habit of dancing on these mountains,--on the mountain in the east to bring clouds; on the mountain in the south, to bring all kinds of goods,--jewels, clothing, etc.; on the mountain in the west, to bring plants of all kinds; and on the mountain in the north, to bring corn and animals. On these journeys for dancing she passed from the east mountain to the south, the west, and the north mountain, the way the sun goes; and when she was done dancing on the north mountain she retraced her course (without crossing it) to the east; but she never completed the circle, i.e., she never passed from the north directly to the east. Over the space between the north and the east mountains she never travelled. This is the way her trail lay:-- 415. Estsánatlehi had not been long in her western home when she began to feel lonely. She had no companions there. The people who had accompanied her thither did not stay with her. She thought she might make people to keep her company, so one day, when she had completed one of her dancing journeys, she sat down on the eastern mountain. Here she rubbed epidermis from under her left arm with her right hand; she held this in her palm and it changed into four persons,--two men and two women,--from whom descended a gens to which no name was then given, but which afterwards (as will be told) received the name of Honagá`ni. She rubbed the epidermis with her left hand from under her right arm, held it in her palm as before, and it became two men and two women, from whom descended the gens afterwards known as Kinaá`ni. In a similar way, of epidermis rubbed from under her left breast she created four people, from whom descended the gens later known as To`ditsíni; of epidermis from under her right breast, four persons, from whom descended the gens called Bitáni; of epidermis from the middle of her chest, the four whose descendants were called Hasli'zni; and of epidermis from her back between her shoulders, the four whose descendants were called Bitá`ni in later times. 416. She said to these: "I wish you to dwell near me, where I can always see you; but if you choose to go to the east, where your kindred dwell, you may go." She took them from her floating home to the mainland; here they lived for thirty years, during which time they married and had many children. At the end of this time the Twelve People (Diné` Nakidáta), or rather what was left of them, appeared among Estsánatlehi's people and said to them: "We have lost our sister who kept our house for us; we have no home; we know not where else to go; so we have come here to behold our mother, our grandmother. You have kindred in the far east who have increased until they are now a great people. We do not visit them, but we stand on the mountains and look at them from afar. We know they would welcome you if you went to them." And many more things they told about the people in the far east. 417. Now all crossed on a bridge of rainbow to the house of Estsánatlehi on the sea, where she welcomed them and embraced them. Of the Diné` Nakidáta but ten were left, for, as has been told, they lost their sister and their younger brother; but when they came to the home of Estsánatlehi she made for them two more people out of turquoise, and this completed their original number of twelve. She knew with what thoughts her children had come. She opened four doors leading from the central chamber of her house into four other rooms, and showed them her various treasures, saying: "Stay with me always, my children; these things shall be yours, and we shall be always happy together." 418. When the people went back from the house of Estsánatlehi to the mainland, all was gossip and excitement in their camp about what they had heard of the people in the east. Each one had a different part or version of the tale to tell,--of how the people in the east lived, of what they ate, of the way in which they were divided into gentes, of how the gentes were named, and of other things about them they had heard. "The people are few where we live," they said; "we would be better off where there are so many." They talked thus for twelve days. At the end of that time they concluded to depart, and they fixed the fourteenth day after that as the day they should leave. 419. Before they left, the Diné` Nakidáta and Estsánatlehi came to see them. She said: "It is a long and dangerous journey to where you are going. It is well that you should be cared for and protected on the way. I shall give you five of my pets,[189]--a bear, a great snake, a deer, a porcupine, and a puma,--to watch over you. They will not desert you. Speak of no evil deeds in the presence of the bear or the snake, for they may do the evil they hear you speak of; but the deer and the porcupine are good,--say whatever you please to say in their presence." 420. Besides these pets she gave them five magic wands. To those who were afterwards named Honagá`ni she gave a wand of turquoise; to those who later were called Kinaá`ni, a wand of white shell; to those who became To`ditsíni, a wand of haliotis shell; to those who became Bitá`ni, a wand of black stone; and to those who in later days became Hasli'zni, a wand of red stone. "I give you these for your protection," she said, "but I shall watch over you myself while you are on your journey." 421. On the appointed day they set out on their journey. On the twelfth day of their march they crossed a high ridge and came in sight of a great treeless plain, in the centre of which they observed some dark objects in motion. They could not determine what they were, but suspected they were men. They continued their journey, but did not directly approach the dark objects; they moved among the foothills that surrounded the plain, and kept under cover of the timber. As they went along they discerned the dark objects more plainly, and discovered that these were indeed human beings. They got among the foothills to one side of where the strangers were, and camped in the woods at night. 422. In spite of all the precautions taken by the travellers, they had been observed by the people of the plain, and at night two of the latter visited their camp. The visitors said they were Kiltsói, or Kiltsóidine` (People of the Bigelovia graveolens); that their tribe was numerous; that the plain in which they dwelt was extensive; and that they had watermelons getting ripe, with corn and other food, in their gardens. The people of the west concluded to remain here a while. The second night they had two more visitors, one of whom became enamored of a maiden among the wanderers, and asked for her in marriage. Her people refused him at first; but when he came the second night and begged for her again, they gave her to him. He stayed with her in the camp of her people as long as they remained in the valley, except the last two nights, when she went and stayed with his people. These gave an abundance of the produce of their fields to the wanderers, and the latter fared well. When the travellers were prepared to move, they implored the young husband to go with them, while he begged to have his wife remain with him in the valley. They argued long; but in the end the woman's relations prevailed, and the Kiltsói man joined them on their journey. In the mean time four other men of Kiltsói had fallen in love with maidens of the wanderers, and asked for them in marriage. The migrating band refused to leave the girls behind, so the enamored young men left their kindred and joined the travellers. The Kiltsói tried to persuade the others to dwell in their land forever, but without avail. 423. They broke camp at last early in the morning, and travelled all day. At night a great wind arose, and the bear would not rest, but ran around the camp all night, uneasy and watchful. The men looked out and saw some of the Kiltsói trying to approach; but the bear warded them off and they disappeared without doing harm. In the morning it was found that the men of the Kiltsói who had joined them on their journey had now deserted them, and it was supposed that in some way they were in league with their brethren outside. 424. The second day they journeyed far, and did not make camp until after dark. As on the previous night, the bear was awake, watchful, and uneasy all night. They supposed he was still looking out for lurking Kiltsói. Not until daybreak did he lie down and take a little sleep while the people were preparing for the day's march. 425. On the third night the bear was again wakeful and on guard, and only lay down in the morning while the people were breaking camp. "My pet, why are you troubled thus every night?" said one of the men to the bear. The latter only grunted in reply, and made a motion with his nose in the direction whence they had come. 426. On the fourth night they camped, for mutual protection, closer together than they had camped before. The bear sat on a neighboring hill, from which he could watch the sleepers, but slept not himself all night. As before, he took a short sleep in the morning. Before the people set out on their march some one said: "Let us look around and see if we can find what has troubled our pet." They sent two couriers to the east and two to the west. The former returned, having found nothing. The latter said they had seen strange footprints, as of people who had approached the camp and then gone back far to the west. Their pursuers, they thought, had returned to their homes. 427. They had now been four days without finding water, and the children were crying with thirst. On the fifth day's march they halted at noon and held a council. "How shall we procure water?" said one. "Let us try the power of our magic wands," said another. A man of the gens who owned the wand of turquoise stuck this wand into the ground, and worked it back and forth and round and round to make a good-sized hole. Water sprang from the hole. A woman of another gens crouched down to taste it. "It is bitter water," she cried. "Let that, then, be your name and the name of your people," said those who heard her; thus did the gens of To`ditsíni, Bitter Water People, receive its name. 428. When the people had cooked and eaten food and drunk their fill of the bitter water, they said: "Let us try to reach yonder mountain before night." So they pushed on to a distant mountain they had beheld in the east. When they got near the mountain they saw moccasin tracks, and knew there must be some other people at hand. At one place, near the base of the mountain, they observed a cluster of cottonwood trees, and, thinking there might be a spring there, they went straight to the cottonwood. Suddenly they found themselves among a strange people who were dwelling around a spring. The strangers greeted the wanderers in a friendly manner, embraced them, and asked them whence they came. The wanderers told their story briefly, and the strangers said: "We were created at this spring and have always lived here. It is called Maitó`, Coyote Water (Coyote Spring), and we are the Maídine`" (Coyote People). The Navahoes called them Maitó`dine`. 429. The travellers tarried four days at the Coyote Spring, during which time they talked much to their new friends, and at length persuaded the latter to join them on their eastern journey. Before they started, the Coyote People declared that their spring was the only water in the neighborhood; that they knew of no other water within two days' journey in any direction. On the morning of the fifth day they all moved off toward the east. They travelled all day, and made a dry camp at night. The next day at noon they halted on their way, and decided to try again the power of a magic wand. This time the white shell was used by a member of the gens to whom it had been given, in the same way that the turquoise wand was used before. Water sprang up. A woman of another gens said: "It is muddy; it may make the children sick." "Let your people then be named Hasli'zni, Mud People," cried voices in the crowd. Thus the gens of Hasli'z, or Hasli'zni, was named. 430. The second night after leaving Coyote Spring, darkness overtook the wanderers at a place where there was no water, and they rested there for the night. At noon on the following day all were thirsty, and the children were crying. The people halted, and proposed to try again the efficacy of a sacred wand. The wand of haliotis was used this time. When the water sprang up, a woman of the Coyote People stooped first and drank. "It is To`dokónz, alkaline (or sapid) water," she exclaimed. To her and her children the name To`dokónzi was then given, and from them the present gens of that name is descended. Its members may not marry with Maitó`dine`, to whom they are related. 431. On the night after they found the alkaline water, they encamped once more at a place where no water was to be found, and on the following day great were their sufferings from thirst. At midday they rested, and begged the bearers of the black stone wand to try the power of their magic implement. A stream of fine, clear water sprang up when the wand was stuck in the ground. They filled their vessels and all drank heartily, except a boy and a girl of the gens that bore the black stone wand. "Why do you not come and drink before the water is all gone?" some one asked. The children made no reply, but stood and looked at the water. The girl had her arms folded under her dress. They gave then to her and to her gens the name of Bitá`ni,[190] which signifies the arms under the dress. 432. The night after the Bitá`ni was named, the travellers slept once more at a place where no water was to be found, and next day they were very thirsty on their journey. In the middle of the day they stopped, and the power of the red stone wand was tried. It brought forth water from the ground, as the other wands had done, and all drank till they were satisfied; but no member of the gentes still unnamed said anything and no name was given. 433. After this they camped two nights without water. On the second noon they arrived at a spring in a canyon known to the Maídine` and called by them Halkaíto`, Water of the White Valley. They journeyed no farther that day, but camped by the water all night. 434. From Halkaíto` they travelled steadily for twenty-five days, until they came to a little river near San Francisco Mountain, and west of it. During this part of the journey they found sufficient water for their needs every day. They stopped at this river five nights and five days and hunted. Here one man, and one only,--whose name was Bainili'ni (Looks on at a Battle),--killed a deer, a large one, which he cut into small pieces and distributed around so that every one might get a taste. 435. From the banks of this stream they came to the east side of San Francisco Mountain, to where, beside a little peak, there is a spring that has no name. Here the travellers stopped several days, and built around their camp a stone wall that still stands. 436. The puma belonged to the gens that bore the black stone wand, and that was afterwards called Kinaá`ni. While the people were camped at this spring he killed a deer. The bear sometimes killed rabbits. The snake and the porcupine were of no use, but were a trouble instead, since they had to be carried along. The deer ran among the crowd and did neither good nor harm. The people lived mostly on rabbits and other small animals and the seeds of wild plants. 437. From the spring near San Francisco Mountain they travelled to Bitáhotsi (Red Place on Top),[191] and from there to Tsé`zintsidilya. Here they held a council about the big snake. He was of no use to them, and a great encumbrance. They turned him loose among the rocks, and his descendants are there in great numbers to this day. At Natsisaán (Navaho Mountain) they turned the porcupine loose, and that is why there are so many porcupines on the Navaho Mountain now. 438. They next went to the place now called Agála,[192] or Agálani, Much Wool, or Hair, and were now in the land of the Ozaí (Oraibes). They camped all around the peak of Agála and went out hunting. Some who wore deer-masks for decoys, and went to get deer, succeeded in killing a great number. They dressed many skins, and the wind blew the hair from the skins up in a great pile. Seeing this, one of the Honagá`ni proposed that the place be called Agála, so this name was given to it. 439. From Agála the wanderers went to Tse`hotsóbiazi, Little Place of Yellow Rocks, and from there to Yótso, Big Bead. On the way they camped often, and sometimes tarried a day or two to hunt. It was now late in the autumn. At Yótso they saw moccasin tracks, evidently not fresh, and they said to one another: "Perhaps these are the footprints of the people whom we seek." Now there were diverse counsels among the immigrants. Some were in haste to reach the end of the journey, while others, as the season was late, thought it prudent to remain where they were. Thus they became divided into two parties, one of which remained at Yótso, while the other (containing parts of several gentes) continued the journey. Soon after the latter was gone, those who remained at Yótso sent two messengers, and later they sent two more, to induce the seceders to return; but the latter were never overtaken. The couriers came to a place where the runaways had divided into two bands. From one of these the Jicarilla Apaches are supposed to have descended. The other band, it is thought, wandered far off and became part of the Diné` Nahotlóni.[193] 440. The last two messengers sent out pursued one of the fugitive bands some distance, gave up the task, and returned to Yótso. The messengers sent first pursued the other band. After a while they saw its camp-fires; but at such a great distance that they despaired of overtaking it and turned toward the San Juan River, where they found at length the long-sought Navahoes. These two messengers were the men, of whom you have heard before, who entered the camp of Big Knee at To`ye'tli while the dance of natsi'd was going on, and announced the approach of the immigrants from the west. (See par. 143.) 441. When spring-time came, the people who had remained at Yótso set out again on their journey; but before long some of the To`ditsíni got tired. They said that the children's knees were swollen, that their feet were blistered, and that they could not go much farther. Soon after they said this they came to a place where a great lone tree stood, and here they declared: "We shall stop at this tree. After a while the people will come here and find us." They remained and became the gens of Tsinsakádni, People of the (Lone) Tree, who are closely related to To`ditsíni and cannot marry with the latter. 442. At Pinbitó`, Deer Spring, some more of the gens of To`ditsíni halted, because, they said, their children were lame from walking and could travel no farther. Here they formed a new gens of Pinbitó`dine`, People of Deer Spring,[194] who are also closely related to To`ditsíni. At this place they wanted their pet deer to leave them, but he would not go; he remained at the spring with the people who stayed there. What finally became of him is not known.[195] 443. The main body of the immigrants kept on their way, and, soon after passing Deer Spring, arrived at Hyíetyin, where the people of Thá`paha had their farms. Big Knee was still alive when they came; but he was very old and feeble, and was not respected and obeyed as in former days. When Thá`paha and Hasli'zni met, they traced some relationship between the two gentes: their names had much the same meaning; their headdresses and accoutrements were alike; so the Hasli'zni stopped with Thá`paha and became great friends with the latter. Yet to-day a member of one of these gentes may marry a member of the other. 444. The bear was the last of their five pets which the immigrants retained. When they were done their journey they said to him: "Our pet, you have served us well; but we are now safe among our friends and we need your services no more. If you wish you may leave us. There are others of your kind in Tsúskai (the Chusca Mountains). Go there and play with them." They turned him loose in Tsúskai, and bears have been numerous there ever since. 445. Of the people from the west, there was yet one gens--that to which Estsánatlehi had given the wand of turquoise--which had no name. This nameless people did not stay long on the banks of the San Juan before they wandered off far toward the south. One day two men of the party, while hunting, came to a place called Tsé`nahapil, where there were high overhanging rocks. Here they saw the fresh prints of unshod human feet. They followed these tracks but a short distance when they beheld a man watching them from a rocky pinnacle. As soon as he saw that he was observed, he crouched and disappeared. They ran quickly behind the rock on which they had seen him and again observed him, running as fast as he could. "Why do you fly from us?" they shouted. "We mean no harm to you." Hearing this he stopped till they came up to him. Then they found he spoke the same language they did, and they addressed him in terms of relationship. "Where do you live?" they asked. "In a canyon high on the mountain," he replied. "What do you live on?" they queried. "We live mostly on seeds," he answered; "but sometimes we catch wood-rats, and we raise small crops." "We shall have many things to tell one another," said the hunters; "but your home is too far for our people to reach to-day. Tell your people to come to this spot, and we shall tell ours to come up here and meet them." When the hunters got home they found their friends cooking rabbits and making mush of wild seeds. When the meal was finished all climbed the mountain to the appointed place and found the strangers awaiting them. The two parties camped together that night and related to one another their histories and adventures. The strangers said that they had been created at the place where they were all then camped only seven years previously; that they were living not far off at a place called Natanbilhátin, but that they came often to their natal place to pick cactus fruit and yucca fruit. They said they called themselves Tsé`dine`, or Rock People; but the nameless ones gave them the name of Tse`nahapi'lni, Overhanging Rocks People, from the place where they met. With this name they became a gens of the Navahoes. 446. The Tse`nahapi'lni told their new friends that they had some corn and pumpkins cached at a distance, and they proposed to open their stores and get ready for a journey. They knew of some Apaches to the south, whom they would all visit together. These Apaches, they said, had some gentes of the same names as those of the Navahoes. Then they all went to where the provisions were stored, and they made corn-cakes to use on the journey. When they were ready they went to the south and found, at a place called Tsóhanaa, the Apaches, who recognized them as friends, and treated their visitors so well that the latter concluded to remain for a while. 447. At the end of three years the Tse`nahapi'lni went off to join the Navahoes on the San Juan. The nameless people stayed four years longer. About the end of that time they began to talk of leaving, and their Apache friends tried to persuade them to remain, but without avail. When they had all their goods packed and were ready to start, an old woman was observed walking around them. She walked around the whole band, coming back to the place from which she started; then she turned towards them and said: "You came among us without a name, and you have dwelt among us, nameless, for seven years; no one knew what to call you; but you shall not leave us without a name. I have walked around you, and I call you Honagá`ni (Walked-around People)."[196] 448. When the Honagá`ni got back to the San Juan they found that the Tse`nahapi'lni had been long settled there and had become closely related to Tlastsíni, Destsíni, Kinlitsíni, and Tsinadzi'ni. The Honagá`ni in time formed close relationships with Tha`nezá`ni, Dsiltlá`ni, Tó`hani, and Nahopáni. These five gentes are now all the same as one gens, and no member of one may marry a member of another. 449. It happened about this time, while some of the Thá`paha were sojourning at Agála, that they sent two children, one night, to a spring to get water. The children carried out with them two wicker bottles, but returned with four. "Where did you get these other bottles?" the parents inquired. "We took them away from two little girls whom we met at the spring," answered the children. "Why did you do this, and who are the girls?" said the elders. "We do not know. They are strangers," said the little ones. The parents at once set out for the spring to find the strange children and restore the stolen bottles to them; but on their way they met the little girls coming toward the Thá`paha camp, and asked them who they were. The strange children replied: "We belong to a band of wanderers who are encamped on yonder mountain. They sent us two together to find water." "Then we shall give you a name," said the Thá`paha; "we shall call you To`baznaázi," Two Come Together for Water. The Thá`paha brought the little girls to their hut and bade them be seated. "Stay with us," they said. "You are too weak and little to carry the water so far. We will send some of our young men to carry it for you." When the young men found the camp of the strangers they invited the latter to visit them. The Thá`paha welcomed the new-comers as friends, and told them they had already a name for them, To`baznaázi. Under this name they became united to the Navahoes as a new gens, and they are now closely affiliated with Thá`paha.[197] 450. Shortly after the coming of To`baznaázi, the Navahoes were joined by a band of Apaches, who were adopted by Thá`paha and not formed into a new gens. About the same time a band of Pah Utes came and were likewise adopted by Thá`paha. A little later some more Apaches arrived and became a part of Thá`paha; but, although no distinct name is now given them, their descendants are known among the Thá`paha as a people of different origin from the others. 451. Another party of Apaches, who came afterwards, dwelt a long time among the To`dokózi; but later they abode with the Thá`paha, and became closely related to the latter. They are still affiliated with Thá`paha, but these call them To`dokózi. 452. Some years passed before the next accession was made. This was another party of Zuñi Indians, and they were admitted into the gens of the Thá`paha. Soon after them came the Zuñi People, who were at last formed into a separate gens,--that of Nanaste'zin. This is the Navaho name for all the Zuñians, and means Black Horizontal Stripe Aliens.[198] All these people deserted the Zuñi villages on account of scarcity of food. 453. A new people, with painted faces, came from the west about the same time as those who formed the gens of Zuñi, or a little later. They are supposed to have been a part of the tribe now called Mohaves on the banks of the Colorado. They bore the name of Dildzéhi, and their descendants now form a gens of that name among the Navahoes. At first they affiliated with Nanaste'zin; but to-day they are better friends with Thá`tsini than with Nanaste'zin. 454. A war-party, consisting of members of different gentes, was now organized among the Navahoes to attack a pueblo called Saíbehogan, House Made of Sand. At that place they captured two girls and brought them home as slaves. There was a salt lake near their old home, and the girls belonged to a gens of Salt People there. So their numerous descendants now among the Navahoes form the gens of Ásihi, or Salt. The captives were taken by members of the Tse`dzinki'ni, hence Ásihi and Tse`dzinki'ni are now affiliated. 455. Then a war party was gotten up to attack the people of Jemez pueblo. On this raid one of the Tlastsíni captured a Jemez girl, but sold her to one of the Tse`dzinki'ni. She was the progenitor of the gens of Maideski'zni, People of Wolf Pass (i.e., Jemez), which is now affiliated with Tse`dzinki'ni. 456. After the Navahoes attacked Saíbehogan there was a famine there, and some of the people abandoned their homes and joined the Navahoes. They said that in their pueblo there was a gens of Thá`paha, and hearing there was such a gens among the Navahoes they came to join it. Therefore they sought Thá`paha till they found it and became a part of it. 457. There came once a party of seven people from a place called Tse`yanató`ni, Horizontal Water under Cliffs, to pay a short visit to the Navahoes; but from time to time they delayed their departure, and at last stayed forever with the Navahoes. They formed the gens of Tse`yanató`ni, which is now extinct. 458. The people whom Estsánatlehi created from the skin under her right arm, and to whom she gave the wand of white shell, was called, after they came among the Navahoes, Kinaá`ni, High Stone House People; not because they built or dwelt in such a house, but because they lived near one.[199] 459. When the Bitá`ni were encamped at a place called Tó`tso, or Big Water, near the Carrizo Mountains, a man and a woman came up out of the water and joined them. From this pair is descended the gens of Tó`tsoni, People of the Big Water, which is affiliated with Bitá`ni. NATI'NESTHANI. 460. Nati'nesthani,[201] He Who Teaches Himself, lived, with his relations, near the mountain of Dsilnáotil. The few people who lived there used to wander continually around the mountain, hence its name, Encircled Mountain. Nati'nesthani delighted in gambling, but was not successful. He lost at game, not only all his own goods, but all the goods and jewels of his relations, until there was only one article of value left--a necklace consisting of several strings of white beads. His parents and brother lived in one lodge; his grandmother and niece lived in another, a little distance from the first. When the gambler had parted with everything except the necklace, his brother took this to the lodge of his grandmother and gave it to her, saying: "My brother has gambled away everything save this. Should he lose this at game, it is the last thing he will ever lose, for then I shall kill him." 461. Nati'nesthani did not spend all his time gambling; sometimes he hunted for wood-rats and rabbits in the mountains. The day the necklace was brought, in returning from his hunt, he came to the house of his grandmother and saw the necklace hanging up there. "Why is this here?" he asked. "It is put here for safe-keeping," replied his niece. "Your brother values it and has asked us to take care of it. If you lose it in gambling, he has threatened to kill you. I have heard the counsels of the family about you. They are tired of you. If you lose this necklace at play, it is the last thing you will ever lose." On hearing this he only said to his niece, "I must think what I shall do," and he lay down to rest. 462. Next morning he rose early, made his breakfast of wood-rats, and went out to hunt, travelling toward the east. He stopped at one place, set fall-traps for wood-rats, and slept there all night. During the night he pondered on many plans. He thought at first he would go farther east and leave his people forever; but again he thought, "Who will hunt wood-rats for my niece when I am gone?" and he went back to her lodge and gave her all the little animals he had killed. 463. In the morning he breakfasted again on wood-rats, and said to himself: "I shall go to-day to the south and never return." Such was his intention as he went on his way. He travelled to the south, and spent the night out again; but in the morning he changed his mind, and came back to his niece with wood-rats and rabbits and the seeds of wild plants that he had gathered. The women cooked some of the wood-rats for his supper that night. When he lay down he thought of his brother's threats, and made plans again for running away. He had not touched the beads, though he longed to take them. 464. Next morning he went to the west, hunted there all day, and camped out at night as before; but again he could not make up his mind to leave his people, though he thought much about it; so he returned to his niece with such food as he had been able to get for her, and slept in the lodge that night. 465. On the following day he went to the north and hunted. He slept little at night while camping out, for his mind was filled with sad thoughts. "My brother disowns me," he said to himself. "My parents refuse me shelter. My niece, whom I love most, barely looks at me. I shall never go back again." Yet, for all these words, when morning came he returned to the lodge.[19] 466. By this time he was very poor, and so were his grandmother and niece. His sandals, made of grass and yucca-fibre, were worn through, and the blanket made of yucca-fibre and cedar-bark, which covered his back, was ragged.[177] But the people in the other lodge were better off. They gave the grandmother and niece food at times; but always watched these closely when they came for food, lest they should carry off something to give the gambler. "Let him live," said his parents, "on wood-rats and rabbits as well as he can." 467. The night after he returned from his hunt to the north he slept little, but spent the time mostly in thinking and making plans. What these plans were you shall soon know, for the next day he began to carry them out. His thought for his niece was now the only thing that made him care to stay at home. 468. In the morning after this night of thought he asked his niece to roast for him four wood-rats; he tied these together and set out for the San Juan River. When he got to the banks of the river he examined a number of cottonwood trees until he found one that suited him. He burned this down and burned it off square at the base. He kept his fire from burning up the whole trunk by applying mud above the place to be burned. His plan was to make a hollow vessel by which he could go down the San Juan River. It was his own plan. He had never heard of such a thing before. The Navahoes had never anything better than rafts, and these were good only to cross the river. He lay down beside the log to see where he should divide it, for he had planned to make the vessel a little longer than himself, and he burned the log across at the place selected. All this he did in one day, and then he went home, collecting rats on the way; but he told his niece nothing about the log. He slept that night in the lodge. 469. He went back, next morning, to his log on the banks of the San Juan, and spent the day making the log hollow by means of fire, beginning at the butt end. He succeeded in doing only a part of this work in one day. It took him four days to burn the hole through from one end of the log to the other and to make it wide enough to hold his body. At the end of each day's work he returned to his grandmother's lodge, and got wood-rats and rabbits on his way home. 470. The next day, after the hole was finished, was spent in making and inserting plugs. He moistened a lot of shredded cedar-bark and pounded it between stones so as to make a soft mass. He shoved a large piece of this in at the butt end and rammed it down to the tip end. In burning out the log, he had burned, where the tree branched, four holes which he did not need, and these he filled with plugs of the cedar-bark. He prepared another plug to be rammed into the butt from the inside, after he entered the log, and when this was finished he went home to his grandmother's house, collecting wood-rats from his traps as he went. 471. The next morning his niece cooked several wood-rats and ground for him a good quantity--as much as could be held in two hands--of the seeds of tlo`tsózi (Sporobolus cryptandrus). This meal she put in a bag of wood-rat skins sewed together. Thus provided he went back to his log. He put the provisions into the hole and then proceeded to enter, in person, to see if the log was sound and the hole big enough. He entered, head foremost, and crawled inwards until half of his chest was in the log, when he heard a voice crying, "Wu`hu`hu`hú!"[26] and he came out to see who called. He looked in every direction and examined the ground for tracks, but seeing no signs of any intruder he proceeded again to enter the log. This time he got in as far as his waist, when again he heard the cry of "Wu`hu`hu`hú," but louder and nearer than before. Again he came out of the log and looked around farther and more carefully than he did the first time, going in his search to the margin of the river; but. he saw no one, found no tracks, and returned to his log. On the next trial he entered as far as his knees, when for the third time the cry sounded, and he crept out once more to find whence it came. He searched farther, longer, and more closely than on either of the previous occasions, but without success, and he went back to enter the log again. On the fourth trial, when he had entered as far as his feet, he heard the cry loud and near, and he felt some one shaking the log. He crept out for the fourth time and beheld Hastséyalti, the Talking God,[73] standing over him. 472. Hastséyalti did not speak at first, but told the man by signs that he must not get into the log, that he would surely be drowned if he did, and that he must go home. Then Hastséyalti walked off a distance from the log and motioned to the Navaho to come to him. When Nati'nesthani came near the god, the latter spoke, saying: "My grandchild, why are you doing all this work? Where do you intend to go with this log?" The man then told the god all his sad story, and ended by saying: "I am an outcast. I wish to get far away from my people. Take pity on me. Stop me not, but let me go in this log as far as the waters of the Old Age River (San Juan) will bear me." Hastséyalti replied: "No. You must not attempt to go into that log. You will surely be drowned if you do. I shall not allow you." Four times Nati'nesthani pleaded, and four times the god denied him. Then the god said: "Have you any precious stones?" "Yes," replied the man. "Have you white shell beads? Have you turquoise?" and thus the god went on asking him, one by one, if he had all the original eighteen sacred things[202] that must be offered to the gods to gain their favor. To each of his questions the man replied "Yes," although he had none of these things, and owned nothing but the rags that covered him. "It is well," said the god. "You need not enter that log to make your journey. Go home and stay there for four nights. At daylight, after the fourth night, you may expect to see me again. Have yourself and your house clean and in order for my coming. Have the floor and all around the house swept carefully. Have the ashes taken out. Wash your body and your hair with yucca suds the night before I arrive, and bid your niece to wash herself also with yucca. I shall go off, now, and tell the other divine ones about you." 473. As soon as he came home, Nati'nesthani told his niece what things he wanted (except the baskets and the sacred buckskins); but he did not tell her for what purpose he required them, and he asked her to steal them from their neighbors. This she did, a few things at a time, and during many visits. It took her three days to steal them all. On the evening of the third day, after they had washed themselves with the yucca suds, he told her about the baskets and the sacred buckskins which he needed. She went to the neighboring lodge and stole these articles, wrapping the baskets up in the buckskins. When she returned with her booty, he wrapped all the stolen goods up in the skins, put them away in the edge of the lodge, and lay down to rest. He was a good sleeper, and usually slept all night; but on this occasion he woke about midnight, and could not go to sleep again. 474. At dawn he heard, faintly, the distant "Wu`hu`hu`hú" of Hastséyalti. At once he woke his grandmother, saying: "I hear a voice. The digíni (holy ones, divine ones) are coming." "You fool," she replied. "Shut your mouth and go to sleep. They would never come to visit such poor people as we are," and she fell asleep again. In a little while he heard the voice a second time, louder and nearer, and again he shook his grandmother and told her he heard the voices of the gods; but she still would not believe him, and slept again. The third time that he awoke her, when he heard the voices still more plainly, she remained awake, beginning to believe him. The fourth time the call sounded loud and clear, as if cried by one standing at the door. "Hear," he said to his grandmother. "Is that not truly the voice of a divine one?" At last she believed him, and said in wonder: "Why should the digíni come to visit us?" 475. Hastséyalti and Hastséhogan were at the door, standing on the rainbow on which they had travelled. The former made signs to the man, over the curtain which hung in the doorway, bidding him pull the curtain aside and come out. "Grandmother," said the Navaho, "Hastséyalti calls me to him." "It is well," she answered. "Do as he bids you." As he went out, bearing his bundle of sacrificial objects, he said: "I go with the divine ones, but I shall come back again to see you." The niece had a pet turkey[203] that roosted on a tree near the lodge, Hastséyalti made signs to the Navaho to take the turkey along. The Navaho said: "My niece, the gods bid me take your turkey, and I would gladly do it, for I am going among strange people, where I shall be lonely. I love the bird; he would be company to me and remind me of my home. Yet I shall not take him against your will." "Then you may have my turkey pet," replied the niece. The old woman said to the god: "I shall be glad to have my grandchild back again. Will you let him return to us?" Hastséyalti only nodded his head. The gods turned the rainbow around sunwise, so that its head,[204] which formerly pointed to the door of the lodge, now pointed in a new direction. Hastséyalti got on the bow first. He made the Navaho get on behind him. Hastséhogan got on behind the man. "Shut your eyes," commanded Hastséyalti, and the Navaho did as he was bidden. 476. In a moment Hastséyalti cried again: "Open your eyes." The Navaho obeyed and found himself far away from his home at Tsé`tadi, where the digíni dwelt. They led him into a house in the rock which was full of divine people. It was beautiful inside--the walls were covered with rock crystal, which gave forth a brilliant light. Hastséyalti ordered food brought for his visitor. The latter was handed a small earthen cup only so big (a circle made by the thumb and index finger joined at the tips) filled with mush. "What a poor meal to offer a stranger!" thought the Navaho, supposing he would finish it in one mouthful. But he ate, and ate, and ate, and ate, from the cup and could not empty it. When he had eaten till he was satisfied the little cup was as full as in the beginning.[205] He handed the cup, when he was done, back to Hastséyalti, who, with one sweep of his finger, emptied it, and it remained empty. The little cup was then filled with water and given to the guest to drink. He drank till his thirst was satisfied; but the cup was as full when he was done as it was when he began. He handed it again to Hastséyalti, who put it to his own lips and emptied it at a single swallow. 477. The gods opened the bundle of the Navaho and examined the contents to see if he had brought all they required, and they found he had done so. In the mean time he filled his pipe and lighted it. While he was smoking, the gods Nayénezgani, Tó`badzistsíni, and Hastséoltoi[206] arrived from To`ye'tli and entered the house. Nayénezgani said to the visitor: "I hear that you were found crawling into a hole which you had made in a log by burning. Why were you doing this?" In reply the Navaho told his whole story, as he had told it to Hastséyalti, and ended by saying: "I wished to go to To`ye'tli, where the rivers meet, or wherever else the waters would bear me. While I was trying to carry out this plan, my grandfather, Hastséyalti, found me and bade me not to go. For this reason only I gave my plan up and went home." "Do you still wish to go to To`ye'tli?" said Nayénezgani. "Yes," said the Navaho, "I wish to go to To`ye'tli or as far down the San Juan as I can get." "Then you shall go," said the god. 478. Nayénezgani went forth from the house and the other gods followed him. They went to a grove of spruce, and there picked out a tree of unusual size. They tied rainbow ropes to it, so that it might not fall with too great force and break in falling. Nayénezgani and To`badzistsíni cut it near the root with their great stone knives, and it fell to the north. Crooked Lightning struck the fallen tree and went through it from butt to tip. Straight Lightning struck it and went through it from tip to butt. Thus the hole was bored in the log, and this was done before the branches were cut away. The hole that Crooked Lightning bored was too crooked. Straight Lightning made it straight, but still it was too small. Black Wind was sent into the hole, and he made it larger, but not large enough. Blue Wind, Yellow Wind, and White Wind entered the hole, each in turn, and each, as he went through, made it a little larger. It was not until White Wind had done his work that the hole was big enough to contain the body of a man. Hastséyalti supplied a bowl of food, a vessel of water, and a white cloud for bedding. They wrapped the Navaho up in the cloud and put him into the log. They plugged the ends with clouds,--a black cloud in the butt and a blue cloud in the tip,--and charged him not to touch either of these cloudy plugs. When they got him into the log some one said: "How will he get light? How will he know when it is night and when it is day?" They bored two holes in the log, one on each side of his head, and they put in each hole, to make a window, a piece of rock crystal, which they pushed in so tightly that water could not leak in around it. 479. While some of the gods were preparing the log, others were getting the pet turkey ready for his journey, but they did this unknown to the Navaho. They put about his body black cloud, he-rain, black mist, and she-rain. They put under his wings white corn, yellow corn, blue corn, corn of mixed colors, squash seed, watermelon seed, muskmelon seed, gourd seed, and beans of all colors. These were the six gods who prepared the turkey: four of the Gánaskidi[207] from a place called Depéhahatil, one Hastséhogan from Tse`gíhi,[165] and the Hastséhogan from Tsé`tadi,--the one who found the Navaho entering his cottonwood log and took him home to the house in the rocks. 480. The next thing they had to think about was how they should carry the heavy log to the river with the man inside of it. They put under the log (first) a rope of crooked lightning, (second) a rope of rainbow, (third) a rope of straight lightning, and (fourth) another rope of rainbow. They attached a sunbeam to each end of the log. All the gods except those who were engaged in preparing the turkey tried to move the log, but they could not stir it; and they sent for the six who were at work on the turkey to come to their aid. Two of the Gánaskidi were now stationed at each end, and two of the Hastséhogan in the middle. The others were stationed at other parts. The Gánaskidi put their wands under the log crosswise, thus, X. All lifted together, and the log was carried along. Some of them said: "If strength fail us and we let the log fall, we shall not attempt to raise it again, and the Navaho will not make his journey." As they went along some became tired and were about to let the log go, but the winds came to help them--Black Wind and Blue Wind in front, Yellow Wind and White Wind behind, and soon the log was borne to the margin of the river. As they went along, Tó`nenili,[98] the Water Sprinkler, made fun and played tricks, as he now does in the dances, to show that he was pleased with what they were doing. While the gods were at work the Navaho sang five songs, each for a different part of the work; the significant words of the songs were these:-- First Song, "A beautiful tree they fell for me." Second Song, "A beautiful tree they prepare for me." Third Song, "A beautiful tree they finish for me." Fourth Song, "A beautiful tree they carry with me." Fifth Song, "A beautiful tree they launch with me."[283] 481. When they threw the log on the surface of the water it floated around in different directions, but would not go down stream, so the gods consulted together to determine what they should do. They covered the log first with black mist and then with black cloud. Some of the gods standing on the banks punched the log with their plumed wands, when it approached the shore or began to whirl round, and they kept this up till it got into a straight course, with its head pointed down stream, and floated on. When the gods were punching the log to get it into the current, the Navaho sang a song, the principal words of which were:-- 1. "A beautiful tree, they push with me." When the log was about to go down the stream, he sang:-- 2. "A beautiful tree is about to float along with me," and when the log got into the current and went down, he sang:-- 3. "A beautiful tree floats along with me."[284] 482. All went well till they approached a pueblo called Ki'ndotliz, or Blue House,[208] when two of the Kisáni, who were going to hunt eaglets, saw the log floating by, though they could not see the gods that guided its course. Wood was scarce around Blue House. When the men saw the log they said, "There floats a big tree. It would furnish us fuel for many days if we could get it. We must try to bring it to the shore." The two men ran back to the pueblo and announced that a great log was coming down the river. A number of people turned out to seize it. Most of them ran down the stream to a shallow place where they could all wade in, to await the arrival of the log, while a few went up along the bank to herald its approach. When it came to the shallow place they tried to break off branches, but failed. They tied ropes to the branches, and tried to pull it ashore; but the log, hurried on by the current, carried the crowd with it. But the next time the log got to a shallow place the Kisáni got it stranded, and sent back to the pueblo for axes, intending to cut off branches and make the log light. When the gods saw the people coming with axes they said: "Something must be done." They sent down a great shower of rain, but the Kisáni held on to the log. They sent hail, with hailstones as big as two fists; but still the Kisáni held on. They sent lightning to the right--the people to the left held on. They sent lightning to the left--the people to the right held on. They sent lightning in all directions four times, when, at last, the Kisáni let go and the log floated on. Now the gods laid upon the log a cloud so thick that no one could see through it; they put a rainbow lengthwise and a rainbow crosswise over it, and they caused the zigzag lightning to flash all around it. When the Kisáni saw all these things they began to fear. "The gods must guard this log," they said. "Yes," said the chief. "Go to your homes, and let the log pass on. It must be holy." 483. The log floated steadily with the stream till it came to a place where a ridge of rocks, standing nearly straight up, disturbs the current, and here the log became entangled in the rocks. But two of the Fringe-mouths[209] of the river raised it from the rocks and set it floating again. They turned the log around, one standing at each end, until they got it lying lengthwise with the current, and then they let it float away. 484. Thence it floated safely to Tó`hodotliz, where the gods on the bank observed it stopping and slowly sinking, until only a few leaves on the ends of the branches could be seen. It was the sacred people under the water who had pulled the log down this time. These were Tiéholtsodi, Tielín,[210] Frog, Fish, Beaver, Otter, and others. They took the Navaho out of the log and bore him down to their home under the water. The gods on the bank held a council to consider why the tree stuck. They shook it and tried to get it loose, but they could not move it. Then they called on Tó`nenili, Water Sprinkler, to help them. He had two magic water jars, To`sadilyi'l, the black jar, which he carried in his right hand, and To`sadotli'z, the blue jar, which he carried in his left hand; with these he struck the water to the right and to the left, crying as he did so his call of "Tu`wu`wu`wú!" The water opened before him and allowed him to descend. He went around the tree, and when he came to the butt he found that the plug had been withdrawn and that the Navaho was no longer there. He called up to his friends on the bank and told them what he had found. They spread a short rainbow[211] for him to travel on, and he went to the house of the divine ones under the water. This house consisted of four chambers, one under another, like the stories of a pueblo dwelling. The first chamber, that on top, was black; the second was blue; the third yellow; the fourth white.[18] Two of the Tielín, or water pets with blue horns, stood at the door facing one another, and roared as Tó`nenili passed. He descended from one story to another, but found no one till he came to the last chamber, and here he saw Tiéholtsodi, the water monster; Tsal, Frog (a big rough frog); Tsa, Beaver, Tábastin, Otter, Tlo`ayuinli'tigi (a great fish), and the captive Navaho. "I seek my grandchild. Give him to me," said Tó`nenili. "Shut your mouth and begone," said Tiéholtsodi. "Such as you cannot come here giving orders. I fear you not, Water Sprinkler; you shall not have your grandchild." Then Tó`nenili went out again and told his friends what had happened to him, and what had been said in the house of Tiéholtsodi under the water. 485. The gods held another council. "Who shall go down and rescue our grandchild?" was the question they asked one another. While they were talking Hastsézini[212] (Black God), who owns all fire, sat apart and took no part in the council. He had built a fire, while the others waited, and sat with his back to it, as was his custom. "Go tell your grandfather there what has occurred," said the others to Tó`nenili. The latter went over to where Hastsézini sat. "Why are they gathered together yonder and of what do they talk so angrily?" said the Black God. In answer, Tó`nenili told of his adventures under the water and what Tiéholtsodi had said to him. Hastsézini was angry when he heard all this. "I fear not the sacred people beneath the water," he said. "I shall have my grandchild." He hastened to the river, taking Tó`nenili with him, for Tó`nenili had the power to open the water, and these two descended into the river. When they reached the room where Tiéholtsodi sat, the Black God said, "We come together for our grandchild." "Run out there, both of you. Such as you may not enter here," said Tiéholtsodi. "I go not without my grandson. Give him to me, and I shall go," said the other. "Run out," repeated Tiéholtsodi, "I shall not release your grandchild." "I shall take my grandchild. I fear you not." "I shall not restore him to you. I heed not your words." "I never recall what I have once spoken. I have come for my grandchild, and I shall not leave without him." "I said you should not go with him, and I mean what I say. I am mighty." Thus they spoke defiantly to one another for some time. At length Hastsézini said: "I shall beg no longer for my grandchild. You say you are mighty. We shall see which is the more powerful, you or I," and Tiéholtsodi answered: "Neither shall I ask your permission to keep him. I should like to see how you will take him from me." When Hastsézini heard this he took from his belt his fire-stick and fire-drill.[213] He laid the stick on the ground, steadied it with both feet, and whirled the drill around, pausing four times. The first time he whirled the drill there was a little smoke; the second time there was a great smoke; the third time there was flame; the fourth time the surrounding waters all took fire. Then Tiéholtsodi cried: "Take your grandchild, but put out the flames." "Ah," said Hastsézini, "you told me you were mighty. Why do you implore me now? Why do you not put out the fire yourself? Do you mean what you say this time? Do you really want the fire quenched?" "Oh! yes," cried Tiéholtsodi. "Take your grandchild, but put out the flames. I mean what I say." At a sign from Black God, Water Sprinkler took the stoppers out of his jars and scattered water all around him four times, crying his usual "Tu`wu`wu`wú" as he did so, and the flames died out. The water in Tó`nenili's jars consisted of all kinds of water--he-rain, she-rain, hail, snow, lake-water, spring-water, and water taken from the four quarters of the world. This is why it was so potent.[67] 486. When the fire was extinguished the three marched out in single file--Tó`nenili in front, to divide the water, the Navaho in the middle, and Hastsézini in the rear. Before they had quite reached the dry land they heard a flopping sound behind them, and, looking around, they saw Tsal, the Frog. "Wait," said he. "I have something to tell you. We can give disease to those who enter our dwelling, and there are cigarettes, sacred to us, by means of which our spell may be taken away. The cigarette of Tiéholtsodi should be painted black; that of Tielín, blue; those of the Beaver and the Otter, yellow; that of the great fish, and that sacred to me, white." Therefore, in these days, when a Navaho is nearly drowned in the water, and has spewed the water all out, such cigarettes[12] are made to take the water sickness out of him. 487. The gods took Nati'nesthani back to his log. Tó`nenili opened a passage for them through the river, and took the water out of the hollow in the log. The Navaho crawled into the hollow. The gods plugged the butt again, and set the log floating. It floated on and on until it came to a fall in the San Juan River, and here it stuck again. The gods had hard labor trying to get it loose. They tugged and worked, but could not move it. At length the Dsahadoldzá, the Fringe-mouths of the water, came to help. They put the zigzag lightning which was on their bodies[209] under the butt of the log,--as if the lightning were a rope,--and soon they got the log loose and sent it floating down the river. 488. At the end of the San Juan River, surrounded by mountains, there is a whirling lake or large whirlpool called Tó`nihilin, or End of the Water. When the log entered here it whirled around the lake four times. The first time it went around it floated near the shore, but it gradually approached the centre as it went round again and again. From the centre it pointed itself toward the east and got near the shore; but it retreated again to the centre, pointed itself to the south, and at last stranded on the south shore of the lake. When it came to land four gods stood around it thus: Hastséhogan on the east, Hastséyalti on the south, one Gánaskidi on the west, and one on the north. They pried out one of the stoppers with their wands, and the Navaho came out on the land. They took out what remained of the food they had given him, a bow of cedar with the leaves on, and two reed arrows that they had placed in the log before they launched it. This done, they plugged the log again with a black cloud. 489. Then the gods spoke to the Navaho and said: "We have taken you where you wished to go. We have brought you to the end of the river. We have done for you all that in the beginning you asked us to do, and now we shall give you a new name. Henceforth you shall be called Áhodiseli, He Who Floats. Go sit yonder" (pointing out a place), "and turn your back to us." He went and sat as he was told, and soon they called to him and bade him go to a hill west of the lake. When he ascended it he looked around and saw the log moving back in the direction whence, he thought, he had come. He looked all around, but could see no one. The gods had disappeared, and he was all alone. He sat down to think. He felt sad and lonely. He was sorry he had come; yet, he thought, "This is my own deed; I insisted on coming here, and had I stayed at home I might have been killed." Still the more he thought the sadder he felt, and he began to weep. 490. The mountains all around the lake were very precipitous, except on the west side. Here they were more sloping, and he began to think of crossing, when he heard faintly in the distance the gobbling of a turkey. He paused and listened, and soon heard the gobbling again, more distinctly and apparently nearer. In a short time he heard the sound for the third time, but louder and clearer than before. The fourth time that the gobbling was heard it seemed very loud and distinct; and a moment later he beheld, running toward him, his pet turkey, whom he had thought he would never see again. The turkey, which had followed him all the way down the San Juan River, now approached its master from the east, as if it were coming to him at once; but when it got within arm's length of the man it retreated and went round him sunwise, approaching and retreating again at the south, the west, and the north. When it got to the east again it ran up to its master and allowed itself to be embraced. (Fig. 34 shows the way it approached its master.) "Ahaláni, silín (Welcome, my pet)," said Nati'nesthani, "I am sorry for you that you have followed me, I pity you; but now that you are here, I thank you for coming." 491. The man now began to think again of crossing the mountain in the west, but suddenly night came on. He had not noticed the light fading until it was too dark to begin the journey, and he felt obliged to seek a resting-place for the night. They went to a gulch near at hand where there were a few small cedar-trees. They spread out, for a bed, the dead leaves and the soft débris which they found under the trees and lay down, side by side, to sleep. The Navaho spread his bark blanket over himself, and the turkey spread one of its wings over its master, and he slept well that night. 492. Next morning they rose early and went out to hunt wood-rats. They went down a small winding valley till they came to a beautiful flat, through which ran a stream of water. "This would be a good place for a farm if I had but the seeds to plant," said the Navaho aloud. When he had spoken he observed that his turkey began to act in a very peculiar manner. It ran to the western border of the flat, circled round to the north, and then ran directly from north to south, where it rejoined its master, who had in the mean time walked around the edge of the flat from east to west. This (fig. 35) shows how they went. When they met they walked together four times around the flat, gradually approaching the centre as they walked. Here, in the centre, the man sat down and the turkey gambolled around him. "My pet," said the Navaho, "what a beautiful farm I could make here if I only had the seeds." The turkey gobbled in reply and spread out its wings. 493. Nati'nesthani had supposed that when the gods were preparing the log for him they had done something to the turkey, but what they had done he knew not. Now that his pet was acting so strangely, it occurred to him that perhaps it could aid him. "My pet," he said, "can you do anything to help me make a farm here?" The turkey ran a little way to the east and shook its wings, from which four grains of white corn dropped out; then it ran to the south and shook from its wings four grains of blue corn; at the west it shook out four grains of yellow corn, and at the north four grains of variegated corn. Then it ran up to its master from the east and shook its wings four times, each time shaking out four seeds. The first time it dropped pumpkin seeds; the second time, watermelon seeds; the third time, muskmelon seeds; the fourth time, beans. "E`yéhe, silín (Thanks, my pet). I thought you had something for me," said Nati'nesthani. 494. He went away from the flat, roasted wood-rats for a meal, and when he had eaten he made two planting sticks, one of greasewood and one of tsintli'zi[214] (Fendleria rupicola). He returned to the flat and began to make his farm. He dug four holes in the east with the stick of tsintli'zi, and dropped into each hole a grain of white corn. He dug four holes in the south with his greasewood stick, and placed in each hole one grain of blue corn. He dug four holes in the west with the tsintli'zi stick, and planted in each one grain of yellow corn. He made four holes in the north with the greasewood, and put in each one grain of variegated corn. With the implement of tsintli'zi he planted the pumpkin seed between the white corn and the blue corn. With the implement of greasewood he planted watermelon seed between the blue corn and the yellow corn. With the stick of tsintli'zi he planted muskmelon seeds between the yellow corn and the variegated corn. With the stick of greasewood he planted beans between the variegated corn and the white corn.[215] He looked all around to see if he had done everything properly, and he went to the west of his farm among the foothills and camped there. 495. He felt uneasy during the night, fearing that there might be some one else to claim the land, and he determined to examine the surrounding country to see if he had any neighbors. Next day he walked in a circle, sunwise, around the valley, and this he did for four consecutive days, taking a wider circle each day; but he met no people and saw no signs of human life, and he said: "It is a good place for a farm. No one claims the land before me." Each morning, before he went on his journey, he visited his farm. On the fourth morning he saw that the corn had grown half a finger-length above the ground. 496. On the fourth night, after his long day's walk around the valley, when darkness fell, he sat by his fire facing the east, and was surprised to see a faint gleam half way up the side of the mountains in the east. "Strange," he said, "I have travelled all over that ground and have seen neither man nor house nor track nor the remains of fire." Then he spoke to the turkey, saying: "Stay at home to-morrow, my pet; I must go and find out who builds that fire." 497. Next day, leaving his turkey at home, he went off to search the mountain-side, where he had seen the gleam; but he searched well and saw no signs of human life. When he came home he told all his adventures to his turkey and said: "It must have been a great glow-worm that I beheld." He got home pretty early in the day and went out to trap wood-rats, accompanied by his turkey. In the evening when he returned to his camp, he looked again, after dark, toward the eastern mountain, and saw the gleam as he had seen it the night before. He set a forked stick in the ground, got down on his hands and knees, and looked at the fire through the fork. (See par. 382.) 498. On the following morning he placed himself in the same position he was in the night before,--putting his hands and knees in the tracks then made,--and looked again over the forked stick. He found his sight directed to a spot which he had already explored well. Notwithstanding this he went there again, leaving his turkey behind, and searched wider and farther and with greater care than on previous occasions; but he still saw no traces of human life. When he returned to camp he told his turkey all that had happened to him. That night he saw the light again, and once more he sighted over the forked stick with care. 499. When morning came, he found that he had marked the same spot he had marked before; and though he had little hope he set out for the third time to find who made the distant fire. He returned after a time, only to tell his disappointment to his turkey. As usual he spent the rest of the day, accompanied by the turkey, setting traps for wood-rats and other small animals. After dark, when he saw the distant flame again, he set a second forked stick in the ground and laid between the two forks a long, straight stick, which he aimed at the fire as he would aim an arrow. When this was done he went to sleep. 500. Next morning he noted with great care the particular spot to which the straight stick pointed, and set out to find the fire. Before he left he said to his turkey: "I go once more to seek the distant fire; but it is the last time I shall seek it. If I find it not to-day, I shall never try again. Stay here till I return." While he spoke the turkey turned its back on him, and showed its master that it was angry. It acted like a pouting child. He went to the place on the eastern mountain to which the stick pointed, and here he found, what he had not observed before, a shelf in the rocks, which seemed to run back some distance. He climbed to the shelf and discovered there two nice huts. He thought that wealthy people must dwell in them. He felt ashamed of his ragged bark blanket, of his garment of wood-rat skins, of his worn grass sandals; of his poor bow and arrows; so he took these off, laid them in the fork of a juniper-tree, and, retaining only his breech-cloth of wood-rat skins, his belt, tobacco pouch, and pipe, he approached one of the houses. 501. He pushed aside the curtain and saw, sitting inside, a young woman making a fine buckskin shirt which she was garnishing beautifully with fringes and shells. Ashamed of his appearance, he hung his head and advanced, looking at her under his eyebrows. "Where are the men?" he said, and he sat on the ground. The young woman replied: "My father and mother are in the other hut." Just as the Navaho had made up his mind to go to the other house the father entered. Doubtless the Navaho had been observed while disrobing, for the old man, as he came in, brought the poor rags with him. "Why do you not take in my son-in-law's goods?" said the old man to his daughter, as he laid the ragged bundle in a conspicuous place on top of a pile of fine fabrics. Poor Nati'nesthani hung his head again in shame and blushed, while the woman looked sideways and smiled. "Why don't you spread a skin for my son-in-law to sit on?" said the old man to his daughter. She only smiled and looked sideways again. The old man took a finely dressed Rocky Mountain sheep-skin and a deer-skin,--skins finer than the Navaho had ever seen before,--spread them on the ground beside the woman, and said to the stranger: "Why do you not sit on the skins?" Nati'nesthani made a motion as if to rise and take the offered seat, but he sank back again in shame. Invited a second time, he arose and sat down beside the young woman on the skins. 502. The old man placed another skin beside the Navaho, sat on it, tapped the visitor on the knee to attract his attention, and said: "I long for a smoke. Fill your pipe[216] with tobacco and let me smoke it." The Navaho answered: "I am poor. I have nothing." Four times this request was made and this reply given. On the fourth occasion the Navaho added: "I belong to the Ninokádine` (the People up on the Earth),[217] and I have nothing." "I thought the Ninokádine` had plenty of tobacco," said the old man. The young man now drew from his pouch, which was adorned with pictures of the sun and moon, a mixture of native wild tobacco with four other plants.[218] His pipe was made of clay, collected from a place where a wood-rat had been tearing the ground. He filled the pipe with the mixture, lighted it with the sun,[219] sucked it four times till it was well kindled, and handed it to the old man to smoke. When the latter had finished the pipe and laid it down he began to perspire violently and soon fell into a swoon. The young woman thought her father was dead or dying, and ran to the other lodge to tell her mother. The mother gave the young woman a quantity of goods and said: "Give these to my son-in-law and tell him they shall all be his if he restores your father to life." When the daughter returned to the lodge where her father lay, she said to the Navaho: "Here are goods for you. Treat my father. You must surely know what will cure him." They laid the old man out on his side, in the middle of the floor, with his head to the north and his face to the east. The Navaho had in his pouch a medicine called ké`tlo, or atsósi ké`tlo,[220] consisting of many different ingredients. Where he got the ingredients we know not; but the medicine men now collect them around the headwaters of the San Juan. He put some of this medicine into a pipe, lighted it with the sunbeams, puffed the smoke to the earth, to the sky, to the earth, and to the sky again; puffed it at the patient from the east, the south, the west, and the north. When this fumigation was done, the patient began to show signs of life,--his eyelids twitched, his limbs jerked, his body shook. Nati'nesthani directed the young woman to put some of the medicine, with water, to soak in an earthen bowl,--no other kind of bowl is now used in making this infusion,--and when it was soaked enough he rubbed it on the body of the patient. 503. "Sadáni, sitá (My son-in-law, my nephew)," said the old man, when he came to his senses once more, "fill the pipe for me again. I like your tobacco." The Navaho refused and the old man begged again. Four times did the old man beg and thrice the young man refused him; but when the fourth request was made the young man filled the pipe, lit it as before, and handed it to the old man. The latter smoked, knocked out the ashes, laid down the pipe, began to perspire, and fell again into a deathly swoon. As on the previous occasion, the women were alarmed and offered the Navaho a large fee, in goods, if he would restore the smoker to life. The medicine being administered and the ceremonies being repeated, the old man became again conscious. 504. As soon as he recovered he said: "My son-in-law, give me another smoke. I have travelled far and smoked much tobacco; but such fine tobacco as yours I never smoked before." As on the other occasions, the old man had to beg four times before his request was granted. A third time the pipe was filled; the old man smoked and swooned; the women gave presents to the Navaho; the atsósi ké`tlo was administered, and the smoker came to life again. 505. But as soon as he regained his senses he pleaded for another smoke. "The smoke is bad for you," said the Navaho. "It does you harm. Why do you like my tobacco so well?" "Ah! it makes me feel good to the ends of my toes. It smells well and tastes well." "Since you like it so well," said the young man, "I shall give you one more pipeful." This time the old man smoked vigorously; he drew the smoke well into his chest and kept it there a long time before blowing it out. Everything happened now as before, but in addition to the medicine used previously, the Navaho scattered the fragrant yádidinil[221] on the hot coals and let the patient breathe its fumes. The Navaho had now four large bundles of fine goods as pay for his services. When the old man recovered for the fourth time he praised loudly the tobacco of the Navaho. He said he had never felt so happy as when smoking it. He asked the Navaho: "How would you like to try my tobacco?" and he went to the other lodge to fetch his tobacco pouch. While he was gone the Wind People whispered into the ear of the Navaho: "His tobacco will kill you surely. It is not like your tobacco. Those who smoke it never wake again!" 506. Presently the old man returned with a pouch that had pictures of the sun and moon on it, and with a large pipe--much larger than that of the Navaho--decorated with figures of deer, antelope, elk, and Rocky Mountain sheep.[222] The old man filled his pipe, lighted it, puffed the smoke to earth and sky, each twice, alternately, and handed the pipe to the Navaho. The young man said: "I allow no one to fill the pipe for me but myself. My customs differ from yours. You ask a stranger for a smoke. I ask no man for a smoke. I pick my own tobacco. Other people's tobacco makes me ill; that is why I do not use it." Thus he spoke, yet the stuff he had given the old man to smoke was not the same that he used himself. The latter consisted of four kinds of tobacco: glónato, or weasel tobacco, depénato, or sheep tobacco, dsi'lnato, or mountain tobacco, and kósnato, or cloud tobacco.[223] He had different compartments in his pouch for his different mixtures. The old man invited him four times to smoke; but four times the Navaho refused, and said at last: "I have my pipe already filled with my own tobacco. I shall smoke it. My tobacco injures no one unless he is ill." He proceeded to smoke the pure tobacco. When he had done smoking, he said: "See. It does me no harm. Try another pipeful." 507. He now filled his pipe with the mixture of four kinds of real tobacco and handed it to the old man to smoke. When the latter had finished he said: "Your tobacco does not taste as it did before, and I do not now feel the same effect after smoking it as I did at first. Now it cools me; formerly it made me perspire. Why did I fall down when I smoked it before? Tell me, have I some disease?" The Navaho answered: "Yes. It is yasi'ntsogi, something bad inside of you, that makes the tobacco affect you so. There are four diseases that may cause this: they are the yellow disease, the cooked-blood disease, the water-slime disease, and the worm disease. One or more of these diseases you surely have."[224] The old man closed his eyes and nodded his head to show that he believed what was told him. Of course the Navaho did not believe what he himself had said; he only told this to the old man to conceal the fact that he had filled the pipe with poisoned tobacco. 508. While all these things were happening the Navaho had paid no heed to how the day was passing; but now he became suddenly aware that it was late in the afternoon and that the sun was about to set. "I must hasten away. It is late," he said. "No, my son-in-law; do not leave us," pleaded the old man. "Sleep here to-night." He ordered his daughter to make a bed for the stranger. She spread on the floor fine robes of otter-skin and beaver-skin, beautifully ornamented. He laid down on the rugs and slept there that night. 509. Next morning the young woman rose early and went out. Soon after her departure the old man entered the lodge and said to his guest: "I and my daughter were so busy yesterday with all that you did to me, and all the cures you wrought on me, that we had no time to cook food and eat; neither had you. She has gone now to prepare food. Stay and eat with us." Presently the young woman returned, bringing a dish of stewed venison and a basket filled with mush made of wild seeds. The basket was such a one as the Navahoes now use in their rites.[5] On the atáatlo (the part where the coil terminates, the point of finish), the old man had, with the knowledge of his daughter, placed poison. She presented the basket to the stranger, with the point of finish toward him, as her father had directed her to do, saying: "When a stranger visits us we always expect him to eat from the part of the basket where it is finished." As he took the basket the Wind People[75] whispered to him: "Eat not from that part of the basket; death is there, but there is no death in the venison." The young man turned the basket around and began to eat from the side opposite to that which was presented to him, saying: "It is my custom to eat from the edge opposite to the point of finish." He did not eat all the mush. He tried the venison stew; but as it was made of dried meat he did not like it and ate very little of it. When he had done she took the dishes back to the other lodge. "From which side of the basket did my son-in-law eat?" asked the old man. "From the wrong side. He told me it was his custom never to eat from the side where the basket was finished," said the young woman. Her father was surprised. When a visitor came to him he always tried the poisoned tobacco first; if that failed he next tried the poisoned basket. "My husband says he wants to go home now," said the young woman. "Tell him it is not the custom for a man to go home the morning after his marriage. He should always remain four days at least," said the old man. She brought this message back to the Navaho. He remained that day and slept in the lodge at night. 510. Next morning the young woman rose early again and went to the other lodge. Soon after she was gone the old man entered and said to Nati'nesthani: "You would do well not to leave till you have eaten. My daughter is preparing food for you." In a little while, after he left, the young woman entered, bringing, as before, a dish of stewed venison and a basketful of mush, which she handed to the Navaho without making any remark. But Wind whispered: "There is poison all around the edge of the basket this time; there is none in the venison." The Navaho ate some of the stew, and when he took the basket of mush he ate only from the middle, saying: "When I eat just as the sun is about to come up, it is my custom to eat only from the middle of the basket." The sun was about to rise as he spoke. When she went back to the other lodge with the remains of the meal, her father asked: "How did he eat this morning?" She replied: "He ate the stew; but the mush he ate only from the middle of the basket." "Ahahahá!" said the old man, "it never took me so long, before." The Navaho remained in the lodge all that day and all night. 511. The next (third) morning things happened as before: the woman rose early, and while she was gone the old man came into the lodge, saying: "The women are cooking food for you. Don't go out till you have eaten." The reason they gave their visitor only one meal a day was that he might be so ravenous with hunger when it came that he would not notice the poison and would eat plenty of it. When the food was brought in, the Wind People whispered to the Navaho: "Poison is mixed all through the mush, take none of it." He ate heartily of the stew, and when he was done he said to the young woman: "I may eat no mush to-day. The sun is already risen, and I have sworn that the sun shall never see me eat mush." When she went back to the other lodge her father asked: "How did my son-in-law eat this morning?" "He ate only of the stew," she said. "He would not touch the mush." "Ahahahá," said the old man in a suspicious tone; but he said no more. Again the Navaho stayed all day and all night. 512. On the fourth morning when the daughter went to prepare food and the old man entered the lodge, he said: "Go out somewhere to-day. Why do you not take a walk abroad every day? Is it on your wife's account that you stay at home so much, my son-in-law?" When the young woman brought in the usual venison stew and basket of mush, Wind whispered: "All the food is poisoned this morning." When she handed the food to the young man he said: "I do not eat at all to-day. It is my custom to eat no food one day in every four. This is the day that I must fast." When she took the untasted food back to the other lodge, her father inquired: "What did my son-in-law eat this morning?" and she answered: "He ate nothing." The old man was lying when he spoke; he rose when she answered him and carefully examined the food she had brought back. "Truly, nothing has been touched," he said. "This must be a strange man who eats nothing. My daughter, do you tell him anything he should not know?" "Truly, I tell him nothing," she replied. 513. When the young woman came back again from her father's lodge, the Navaho said to her: "I have a hut and a farm and a pet not far from here; I must go home to-day and see them." "It is well," she said. "You may go." He began to dress for the journey by putting on his old sandals. She brought him a pair of fine new moccasins, beautifully embroidered, and urged him to put them on; but he refused them, saying: "I may put them on some other time. I shall wear my old sandals to-day." 514. When Nati'nesthani got back to his farm he found the tracks of his turkey all around, but the turkey itself he could not see. It was evident from the tracks that it had visited the farm and gone back to the hut again. The Navaho made four circuits around the hut--each circuit wider than the preceding--to see whither the tracks led. On the fourth circuit he found they led to the base of a mountain which stood north of the hut. "I shall find my pet somewhere around the mountain," thought the Navaho. The tracks had the appearance of being four days old, and from this he concluded that the turkey had left the same day he had. It took him four days, travelling sunwise and going spirally up the mountain, to reach the summit, where he found many turkey tracks, but still no turkey. He fancied his pet might have descended the mountain again, so he went below and examined the ground carefully, but found no descending tracks. He returned to the summit and, looking more closely than at first, discovered where the bird had flown away from a point on the eastern edge of the summit and gone apparently toward the east. 515. The Navaho sat down, sad and lonely, and wept. "Dear pet," he said, "would that I had taken you with me that day when I set out on my journey. Had I done so I should not have lost you. Dear pet, you were the black cloud; you were the black mist; you were the beautiful he-rain;[225] you were the beautiful she-rain;[137] you were the beautiful lightning; you were the beautiful rainbow; you were the beautiful white corn; you were the beautiful blue corn; you were the beautiful yellow corn; you were the beautiful corn of all colors; you were the beautiful bean. Though lost to me, you shall be of use to men, upon the earth, in the days to come--they shall use your feathers and your beard in their rites." The Navaho never saw his pet again; it had flown to the east, and from it we think the tame turkeys of the white men are descended. But all the useful and beautiful things he saw in his pet are still to be seen in the turkey. It has the colors of all the different kinds of corn in its feathers. The black of the black mist and the black cloud are there. The flash of the lightning and the gleam of the rainbow are seen on its plumes when it walks in the sun. The rain is in its beard; the bean it carries on its forehead. 516. He dried his tears, descended the mountain, and sought his old hut, which was only a poor shelter of brush, and then he went to visit his farm. He found his corn with ears already formed and all the other plants well advanced toward maturity.[226] He pulled one ear from a stalk of each one of the four different kinds of corn, and, wrapping the ears in his mantle of wood-rat skins, went off to see his wife. She saw him coming, met him at the door, and relieved him of his weapons and bundle. "What is this?" she said, pointing to the bundle after she had laid it down. He opened it. She started back in amazement. She had never seen corn before. He laid the ears down side by side in a row with their points to the east, and said: "This is what we call natán, corn. This (pointing to the first ear--the most northerly of the row) is white corn; this (pointing to the next) is blue corn; this (pointing to the third) is yellow corn, and this (pointing to the fourth) is corn of all colors."[227] "And what do your people do with it?" she asked. "We eat it," he replied. "How do you prepare it to eat?" she inquired. He said: "We have four ways when it is green like this. We put it, husk and all, in hot coals to roast. We take off the husk and roast it in hot ashes. We boil it whole in hot water. We cut off the grains and mix it with water to make mush." 517. She wrapped the four ears in a bundle and carried them to the other lodge to show them to her parents. Both were astonished and alarmed. The old man rose and shaded his eyes with his open hand to look at them. They asked her questions about the corn, such as she had asked her husband, and she answered them as he had answered her. She cooked the four ears of corn, each one in a different way, according to the methods her husband described. They increased in cooking so that they made food enough to furnish a hearty meal for all. The old people, who were greatly pleased, said the mush smelled like fawn-cheese.[228] "Where does my son-in-law get this fine stuff? Ask him. I wish to know, it is so delicious. Does he not want some himself?" said the old man to his daughter. She brought a large dish of the corn to her husband in the other lodge, and they ate it together. The Navaho had no fear of poison this time, for the food did not belong to the old man. 518. At night when they were alone together she asked him where he got the corn. "I found it," he said. "Did you dig it out of the ground?" she asked. "No. I picked it up," was his answer. Not believing him, she continued to question him until at last he told her: "These things I plant and they grow where I plant them. Do you wish to see my field?" "Yes, if my father will let me," the woman replied. 519. Next morning she told her father what she had found out on the previous night and asked his advice. He said he would like to have her go with Nati'nesthani to see what the farm looked like and to find out what kind of leaves the plant had that such food grew on. When she came back from her father's lodge she brought with her pemmican made of venison and a basket of mush. The Wind People whispered to him that he need not fear the food to-day, so he ate heartily of it. When the breakfast was over, the Navaho said: "Dress yourself for the journey, and as soon as you are ready I shall take you to my farm." She dressed herself for travel and went to the lodge of her parents, where she said: "I go with my husband now." "It is well," they said; "go with him." 520. The Navaho and his wife set out together. When they came to a little hill from which they could first see the field, they beheld the sun shining on it; yet the rain was falling on it at the same time, and above it was a dark cloud spanned by a rainbow. When they reached the field they walked four times around it sunwise, and as they went he described things in the field to his wife. "This is my white corn, this is my blue corn, this is my yellow corn, and this is my corn of all colors. These we call squashes, these we call melons, and these we call beans," he said, pointing to the various plants. The bluebirds and the yellowbirds were singing in the corn after the rain, and all was beautiful. She was pleased and astonished and she asked many questions,--how the seeds were planted, how the food was prepared and eaten,--and he answered all her questions. "These on the ground are melons; they are not ripe yet. When they are ripe we eat them raw," he explained. When they had circled four times around the field they went in among the plants. Then he showed her the pollen and explained its sacred uses.[11] He told her how the corn matured; how his people husked it and stored it for winter use, how they shelled, ground, and prepared it, and how they preserved some to sow in the spring. "Now, let us pluck an ear of each kind of corn and go home," he said. When she plucked the corn she also gathered three of the leaves and put them into the same bundle with the corn; but as they walked home the leaves increased in number, and when she got to the house and untied the bundle she found not only three, but many leaves in it. 521. He explained to her how to make the dish now known to the Navahoes as ditlógi klesán,[230] and told her to make this of the white corn. He instructed her how to prepare corn as ditlógin tsidikói,[231] and told her to make this of the blue corn. He showed her how to prepare corn in the form of thábitsa,[232] or three-ears, and bade her make this of the yellow corn. He told her to roast, in the husk, the ear of many colors. She took the corn to the other lodge and prepared it as she had been directed. In cooking, it all increased greatly in amount, so that they all had a big meal out of four ears. 522. The old people questioned their daughter about the farm--what it looked like, what grew there. They asked her many questions. She told them of all she had seen and heard: of her distant view of the beautiful farm under the rain, under the black cloud, under the rainbow; of her near view of it--the great leaves, the white blossoms of the bean, the yellow blossoms of the squash, the tassel of the corn, the silk of the corn, the pollen of the corn, and all the other beautiful things she saw there. When she had done the old man said: "I thank you, my daughter, for bringing me such a son-in-law. I have travelled far, but I have never seen such things as those you tell of. I thought I was rich, but my son-in-law is richer. In future cook these things with care, in the way my son-in-law shows you." 523. The old man then went to see his son-in-law and said: "I thank you for the fine food you have brought us, and I am glad to hear you have such a beautiful farm. You know how to raise and cook corn; but do you know how to make and cook the pemmican[229] of the deer?" "I know nothing about it," said the Navaho. (The one knew nothing of venison; the other knew nothing of corn.) "How does it taste to you?" asked the old man. "I like the taste of it and I thank you for what you have given me," replied the Navaho. "Your wife, then, will have something to tell you." When he got back to the other lodge he said: "My son-in-law has been kind to us; he has shown you his farm and taught you how to prepare his food. My daughter, now we must show him our farm." She brought to her husband a large portion of the cooked corn. 524. When night came and they were alone together she asked him to tell her his name. "I have no name," he replied. Three times he answered her thus. When she asked for the fourth time he said: "Why do you wish to know my name? I have two names. I am Nati'nesthani, He Who Teaches Himself, and I am Áhodiseli, He Who Has Floated. Now that I have told you my name you must tell me your father's name." "He is called Píniltani, Deer Raiser. I am Píniltani-bitsí, Deer Raiser's Daughter, and my mother is Píniltani-baád, She Deer Raiser," the young woman answered. 525. In the morning after this conversation they had a breakfast of mush and venison; but Nati'nesthani received no warning from the Wind People and feared not to eat. When the meal was over, the young woman said to her husband: "My father has told me that, as you have shown me your farm, I may now show you his farm. If you wish to go there, you must first bathe your body in yucca-suds and then rinse off in pure water." After he had taken his bath as directed he picked up his old sandals and was about to put them on when she stopped him, saying: "No. You wore your own clothes when you went to your own farm. Now you must wear our clothes when you come to our farm." She gave him embroidered moccasins; fringed buckskin leggings; a buckskin shirt, dyed yellow, beautifully embroidered with porcupine quills, and fringed with stripes of otter-skin; and a headdress adorned with artificial ears called Tsáhadolkohi--they wore such in the old days, and there are men still living who have seen them worn. 526. Dressed in these fine garments he set out with his wife and they travelled toward the southeast. As they were passing the other hut she bade him wait outside while she went in to procure a wand of turquoise. They went but a short distance (about three hundred yards)[233] when they came, on the top of a small hill, to a large, smooth stone, adorned with turquoise, sticking in the ground like a stopple in a water-jar. She touched this rock stopple with her wand in four different directions--east, south, west, north--and it sprang up out of the ground. She touched it in an upward direction, and it lay over on its side, revealing a hole which led to a flight of four stone steps. 527. She entered the hole and beckoned to him to follow. When they descended the steps they found themselves in a square apartment with four doors of rock crystal, one on each side. There was a rainbow over each door. With her wand she struck the eastern door and it flew open, disclosing a vast and beautiful country, like this world, but more beautiful. How vast it was the Navaho knew not, for he could not see the end of it. They passed through the door. The land was filled with deer and covered with beautiful flowers. The air was filled with the odor of pollen and the odor of fragrant blossoms. Birds of the most beautiful plumage were flying in the air, perching on the flowers, and building nests in the antlers of the deer. In the distance a light shower of rain was falling, and rainbows shone in every direction. "This, then, is the farm of my father-in-law which you promised to show me," said the Navaho. "It is beautiful; but in truth it is no farm, for I see nothing planted here." She took him into three other apartments. They were all as beautiful as the first, but they contained different animals. In the apartment to the south there were antelope; in that to the west, Rocky Mountain sheep; in that to the north, elk. 528. When they closed the last door and came out to the central apartment they found Deer Raiser there. "Has my son-in-law been in all the rooms and seen all the game?" he asked. "I have seen all," said Nati'nesthani. "Do you see two sacrificial cigarettes of the deer above the rainbow over the eastern door?" "I see them now," responded the Navaho, "but I did not notice them when I entered." The old man then showed him, over the door in the south, two cigarettes of the antelope; over the door in the west, two cigarettes of the Rocky Mountain sheep; over the door in the north, the single white cigarette of Hastséyalti[234] (the elk had no cigarette), and at the bottom of the steps by which they had entered, two cigarettes of the fawn. "Look well at these cigarettes," said the old man, "and remember how they are painted, for such we now sacrifice in our ceremonies." "Are you pleased?" "Do you admire what you have seen?" "What do you think of it all?" Such were the questions the old man asked, and the Navaho made answer: "I thank you. I am glad that I have seen your farm and your pets. Such things I never saw before." 529. "Now, my daughter," said Deer Raiser, "catch a deer for my son-in-law, that we may have fresh meat." She opened the eastern door, entered, and caught a big buck by the foot (just as we catch sheep in these days). She pulled it out. The Navaho walked in front; the young woman, dragging the buck, came after him, and the old man came last of all, closing the doors and putting in the stopple as he came. They brought the buck home, tied its legs together with short rainbows, cut its throat with a stone arrow point, and skinned it as we now skin deer. 530. Now Deer Raiser began again to plot the death of his son-in-law. He found he could not poison him, so he determined to try another plan. In a neighboring canyon, to which there was but one entrance, he kept four fierce pet bears. He determined to invite his son-in-law out to hunt with him, and get him killed by these bears. The rest of that day the Navaho remained at home with his wife, while the old man took the hoofs of the slain deer and made with them a lot of tracks leading into the canyon of the bears. 531. On the following morning, while the young woman was cooking in the other lodge, Deer Raiser came in where the Navaho sat and said: "My son-in-law, four of my pet deer have escaped from the farm. I have tracked them to a canyon near by, which has only one entrance. As soon as you have eaten I want you to help me to hunt them. You will stand at the entrance of the canyon while I go in to drive the deer toward you, and you can kill them as they come out. No," said the old man after pausing for a while and pretending to think, "you must go into the canyon, my son-in-law, while I stay at the entrance and kill the deer. That will be better." When about to start on his hunt, the Wind People whispered to the Navaho: "Do not enter the canyon." 532. The two men walked along the steep side of the valley, following the tracks until they came to the high rugged cliffs that marked the entrance to the canyon. "When my deer escape, here is where they usually come," said Deer Raiser. A little stream of water ran out of the canyon, and here the old man had raised a dam to make a pool. When they reached the pool he said: "Here I shall stop to shoot the deer. Go you in and drive them out for me." "No, I fear the deer will pass me," said Nati'nesthani. Four times these words were said by both. At last the old man, seeing that his companion was obstinate, said: "Stay here, then, but do not let the deer escape you, and do not climb the hillsides around for fear the deer should see you," and he went himself into the canyon. In spite of all the warnings he had received, Nati'nesthani climbed a rocky eminence where he could watch and be out of danger. After waiting a while in silence he heard a distant cry like that of a wolf,[235] woo-oo-oo-oo, and became aware that something was moving toward him through the brush. He soon descried four bears walking down the canyon in single file, about thirty paces apart, alternately a female and a male. The old man had probably told them there was some one for them to kill, for they advanced with hair bristling, snouts up, and teeth showing. When he saw them coming he said, "I am Nayénezgani. I am Hastséyalti. I am Sasnalkáhi. I am a god of bears," and he mentioned the names of other potent gods. As the bears were passing their hidden enemy he drew arrow after arrow to the head and slew them all, one by one. He killed them as they walked along a ledge of rock, and their bodies tumbled down on the other side of the ledge, where they were hidden from view. Soon the voice of the old man was heard in the distance crying: "Oh, my pets! Oh, Tsananaí! Oh, Tse'skodi! (for the bears had names).[236] Save a piece for me! Save a piece for me!" And a little later he came in sight, running and panting. He did not see his son-in-law till he was right beside him. He showed at once that he was surprised and angry, but he quickly tried to make it appear that he was angry from another cause. "I should have been here. You have let them run by," he cried in angry tones. "Oh, no," said the Navaho, "I have not let them run by. I have killed them. Look over the ledge and you will see them." The old man looked as he was told, and was struck dumb with astonishment and sorrow. He sat down in silence, with his head hanging between his knees, and gazed at the bodies of his dead pets. He did not even thank his son-in-law.[237] 533. Why did Deer Raiser seek the life of his son-in-law? Now Nati'nesthani knew, and now you shall know. The old man was a diné`yiani, or man-eater, and a wizard. He wanted the flesh of the Navaho to eat, and he wanted parts of the dead body to use in the rites of witchcraft. But there was yet another reason; he was jealous of the Navaho, for those who practise witchcraft practise also incest. 534. "Why did you shoot them?" said the old man at last; "the deer went out before them. Why did you not shoot the deer? Now you may skin the bears." "You never drove deer to me," said the Navaho. "These are what you drove to me. When a companion in the hunt drives anything to me I kill it, no matter what it is. You have talked much to me about hunting with you. Now I have killed game and you must skin it." "Help me, then, to skin it," said Deer Raiser. "No. I never skin the game I kill myself.[238] You must do the skinning. I killed for you," said the Navaho. "If you will not help me," said the old man, "go back to the house and tell my daughter to come and assist me to skin the bears. Go back by the way we came when we trailed the deer." 535. Nati'nesthani set off as the Deer Raiser had directed him. As soon as he was out of sight the old man rushed for the house by a short cut. Reaching home, he hastily dressed himself in the skin of a great serpent, went to the trail which his son-in-law was to take, and lay in ambush behind a log at a place where the path led through a narrow defile. As the Navaho approached the log the Wind People told him: "Your father-in-law awaits you behind the log." The Navaho peeped over the log before he got too near, and saw Deer Raiser in his snake-skin suit, swaying uneasily back and forth, poising himself as if preparing to spring. When he saw the young man looking in his direction he crouched low. "What are you doing there?" called the Navaho (in a way which let Deer Raiser know he was recognized),[239] and he drew an arrow on the old man. "Stop! stop!" cried the latter. "I only came here to meet you and hurry you up." "Why do you not come from behind, if that is so? Why do you come from before me and hide beside my path?" said the Navaho, and he passed on his way and went to his wife's house. 536. When Nati'nesthani reached the house he told his wife that he had killed four animals for his father-in-law, but he did not tell her what kind of animals they were, and he told her that her father sent for her mother to help skin the animals and cut up the meat. The daughter delivered the message to her mother, and the latter went out to the canyon to help her husband. When Deer Raiser saw his wife coming he was furious. "It was my daughter I sent for, not you," he roared. "What sort of a man is he who cannot carry my word straight, who cannot do as he is told? I bade him tell my daughter, not you, to come to me." Between them they skinned and dressed the bears and carried them, one at a time, to his house. He sent to his son-in-law to know if he wanted some meat, and the Navaho replied that he did not eat bear meat. When he heard this, Deer Raiser was again furious, and said: "What manner of a man is this who won't eat meat? (He did not say what kind of meat.) When we offer him food he says he does not want to eat it. He never does what he is told to do. We cook food for him and he refuses it. What can we do to please him? What food will satisfy him?" 537. The next morning after the bears were killed, the young woman went out as usual, and the old man entered during her absence. He said to Nati'nesthani: "I wish you to go out with me to-day and help me to fight my enemies. There are enemies of mine, not far from here, whom I sometimes meet in battle." "I will go with you," said the Navaho. "I have long been hoping that some one would say something like this to me," 538. They went from the lodge toward a mountain which was edged on two sides by steep cliffs, which no man could climb. On the top of the mountain the old man said there was a round hole or valley in which his enemies dwelled. He stationed his son-in-law on one side of this round valley where no cliffs were, and he went to the opposite side to drive the enemy, as he said. He promised to join the Navaho when the enemy started. Deer Raiser went around the mountain and cried four times in imitation of a wolf. Then, instead of coming to his comrade's help, he ran around the base of the hill and got behind his son-in-law. Soon after the old man made his cry, the Navaho saw twelve great ferocious bears coming toward him over the crest of the hill. They were of the kind called sasnalkáhi, or tracking bears, such as scent and track a man, and follow till they kill him. They were of all the sacred colors,--white, blue, yellow, black, and spotted. They came toward the Navaho, but he was well armed and prepared to meet them. He fought with them the hardest fight he ever fought; but at length he killed them all, and suffered no harm himself.[240] 539. In the mean time the old man ran off in the direction of his home, sure that his son-in-law was killed. He said: "I think we shall hear no more of Nati'nesthani. I think we shall hear no more of Áhodiseli Hereafter it will be Nati'nesthanini (the dead Nati'nesthani). Hereafter it will be Áhodiselini (the dead Áhodiseli).[241] He can't come back out of the tracking bears' mouths." After killing the bears, the Navaho found the old man's trail and followed it. Presently he came to Deer Raiser, who was sitting on a knoll. The old man could not conceal his astonishment at seeing the Navaho still alive. "When we went out to this battle," said the young man, "we promised not to desert one another. Why did you run away from me?" The Deer Raiser answered: "I am sorry I could not find you. I did not see where you were, so I came on this way. What did you do where I left you? Did you kill any of the bears?" "Yes, I killed all of them," said Nati'nesthani. "I am glad you killed all and came away with your own life, my dear son-in-law," said the old cheat. 540. They started to walk home together, but night fell when they reached a rocky ridge on the way; here they picked out a nice spot of ground to sleep on, built a shelter of brushwood, and made a fire. Before they went to rest the old man said: "This is a bad place to camp. It is called Kedidi'lyena`a` (Ridge of the Burnt Moccasins)." As they lay down to sleep, one on either side of the fire, each took off his moccasins and put them under his head. The old man said: "Take good care of your moccasins, my son-in-law. Place them securely." "Why does he say these things?" asked the Navaho to himself. As he lay awake, thinking of the warning of the old man, he heard the latter snoring. He rose softly, took away the old man's moccasins, put his own in their place, and lay down to sleep with Deer Raiser's moccasins under his head. Later in the night the old man got up, pulled the moccasins from under the young man's head, and buried them in the hot embers. He was anxious to get home next morning before his son-in-law. 541. At dawn the old man aroused his companion with "It is time we were on our road." The young man woke, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and pretended to look for his moccasins. After searching a while he asked: "Where are my moccasins? Have I lost them?" "Huh!" said Deer Raiser. "You did not listen to what I told you last night. I said that this was the Ridge of the Burned Moccasins." In the mean time, on the other side of the fire, the old man was putting on his companion's moccasins, not noticing that they were not his own. "Look. You are putting on my moccasins instead of your own. Give me my moccasins," said the Navaho, reaching across the fire. He took them out of his companion's hands, sat down and put them on. "Now we must hurry back," he said. "I can't see what made you burn your moccasins, but I cannot wait for you. I am going now."[242] 542. Before the young man left, his father-in-law gave him a message. "I cannot travel as fast as you on my bare feet. When you go home, tell my daughter to come out with a pair of moccasins and some food, and meet me on the trail." When the Navaho got home he said to his wife: "I camped with your father last night, and he burned his moccasins. He is limping home barefoot. He bids his wife to come out and meet him with moccasins and food." The daughter delivered the message to her mother, and the latter went out to meet her husband with moccasins, food, and a brand of burning cedar-bark. When the old man met her he was angry. "Why have you come? Why has not my daughter come?" he asked. "Your son-in-law said that I should come," the old woman replied. "Oh, what a fool my son-in-law is," cried Deer Raiser. "He never can remember what he is told to say." He ate his food, put on his moccasins, and hurried home with his wife. 543. When Deer Raiser visited his son-in-law on the following morning he said: "I warn you never to stray alone to the east of the lodge in which you dwell. There is a dangerous place there." The old man went home, and the Navaho pondered all day over what his father-in-law had said, and during the night he made up his mind to do just what the old man had told him not to do. 544. When Nati'nesthani had eaten in the morning he dressed himself for a journey, left the lodge, and travelled straight to the east. He came to a steep white ridge;[243] when he had climbed this about half way, he observed approaching him a man of low stature. His coat, which fitted him skin-tight, was white on the chest and insides of the arms, while it was brown elsewhere, like the skin of a deer. He wore on his head a deer-mask, with horns, such as deer-hunters use. He carried a turquoise wand, a black bow with sinew on the back, and two arrows with featherings of eagle-tail. He was one of the Tsidastóidine`.[244] When the men met, the stranger, who had a pale face,[245] looked out from under his mask and said: "Whence come you, my grandchild?" "I come, my grandfather, from a place near here. I come from the house of Píniltani," the Navaho answered. "My grandchild, I have heard of you. Do you know how my cigarette is made?" said the man with the deer-mask. "No, my grandfather, I never heard of your cigarette," was the reply. "There is a cigarette[12] for me, my grandson," said the stranger. "It is painted white, with a black spot on it, and is so long (second joint of middle finger). It should be laid in the fork of a piñon-tree. I am now walking out, and am going in the direction whence you came. There are people living behind the ridge you are climbing. You should visit them, and hear what they will have to tell you." 545. The Navaho climbed the ridge; and as he began to descend it on the other side, he observed below him two conical tents, such as the Indians of the plains use. The tents were white below and yellow above, representing the dawn and the evening twilight. As he approached the tents he observed that two games of nánzoz were being played,--one beside each tent,--and a number of people were gathered, watching the games. As he advanced toward the crowd a man came forward to meet him, saying: "Go to the lodge in the south. There are many people there." He went to the lodge in the south, as he was bidden. A woman of bright complexion, fairer than the Navahoes usually are, the wife of the owner of the lodge, came out and invited him to enter. 546. When Nati'nesthani entered the lodge he found its owner seated in the middle. The latter was a man past middle age, but not very old. He was dressed in a beautiful suit of buckskin embroidered with porcupine quills. He pointed to a place by his side, and said to the Navaho: "Sit here, my grandchild." When the Navaho was seated his host said: "Whence do you come? The people who live up on the earth are never seen here." "I come from the house of Píniltani," the young man answered. "Oh! Do you?" questioned the host. "And do you know that Deer Raiser is a great villain; that he kills his guests; that he talks softly, and pretends friendship, and lures people to stay with him until he can quietly kill them? Has he never spoken thus softly to you? How long have you been staying with him?" "I have dwelt with him for many days," Nati'nesthani answered. "Ah!" said his host. "Many of our young men have gone over there to woo his daughter; but they have never returned. Some are killed on the first day; others on the second day; others on the third day; others on the fourth; but no one ever lives beyond the fourth day. No one has ever lived there as long as you have." "He seems to be such a man as you describe him," said Nati'nesthani. "He has been trying to kill me ever since I have been with him." "You must be a wise man to have escaped him so long; your prayer must be potent; your charm must be strong,"[246] declared the host. "No, truly, I know no good prayer; I possess no charm," the Navaho replied, and then he went on to tell how he came into that country, and all that happened to him, till he came to the house of Deer Raiser. "He is rich, but he is no good. That daughter of his is also his wife, and that is why he wants to poison her suitors," said the owner of the lodge, and then he described four ways in which Píniltani killed his guests. The Navaho remained silent. He knew all the ways of the Deer Raiser, but he pretended not to know. Then the host went on: "The house of Deer Raiser is a place of danger. You will surely be killed if you stay there. I am sorry you are in such bad company, for you seem to be a good man." "You speak of Deer Raiser as a great man; but he cannot be so great as you think he is. Four times have I killed him with, smoke, and four times have I brought him to life again," said the Navaho, and then he related all his adventures since he had been with Píniltani. 547. The host thanked him for having slain the bears, and went out to call the players and all the crowd that stood around them to come to his tent. They came, for he was their chief, and soon the tent was crowded. Then he spoke to the assembly, and told them the story of the Navaho. There was great rejoicing when they heard it. They thanked Nati'nesthani for what he had done. One said that Deer Raiser had killed his brother; another said he had killed his son; another said the bears had slain his nephew, and thus they spoke of their many woes. 548. The people were of five kinds, or gentes: the Puma People, the Blue Fox People, the Yellow Fox People, the Wolf People, and the Lynx People, and the host was chief of all. 549. The chief ordered one of his daughters to prepare food for the visitor. She brought in deer pemmican. The Navaho ate, and when he was done he said: "I am now ready to go, my grandfather." "Wait a while," said the chief. "I have some medicine to give you. It is an antidote for Deer Raiser's poison." He gave his visitor two kinds of medicine; one was an object the size of the last two joints of the little finger, made of the gall of birds of prey,--all birds that catch with their claws; the other was a small quantity (as much as one might grasp with the tips of all the fingers of one hand) of a substance composed of material vomited by each of the five animals that were the totems of this people. "Now have no fear," said the chief. "The bears are slain, and you have here medicines that will kill the wizard's poison. They are potent against witchcraft."[247] 550. When the Navaho went back to the house where his wife was, she said: "My father has been here inquiring for you. When I told him you had gone to the east he was very angry, and said that he told you not to go there." Soon the old man entered and said fiercely: "Why have you gone to the east? I told you not to go there. I told you it was a bad place." The young man made no reply, but acted as if he had seen and heard nothing while he was gone, and in a little while Deer Raiser calmed down and acted as if he wished to be at peace again with his son-in-law; but before he left he warned him not to go to the south. Nati'nesthani pondered on the words of his father-in-law that night, and made up his mind to again disobey him when morning came. 551. Next day, when he had eaten, he dressed himself for a journey and walked toward the south. He came, in time, to a blue ridge, and when he was ascending it he met a little man, much like the one he had met the day before, but he had a bluish face. Instead of being dressed to look like a deer, he was dressed to look like an antelope; he wore an antelope hunting-mask with horns, he carried a wand of haliotis, and a bow made of a wood called tselkáni, with no sinew on the back, and he had arrows trimmed with the tail feathers of the red-tailed buzzard.[248] Like the little man of the east, he was also one of the Tsidastói People. He told the Navaho how to make the cigarette that belonged to him, to make it the length of the middle joint of the little finger, to paint it blue, spot it with yellow, and deposit it in the fork of a cedar-tree. The little man told the Navaho to go on over the ridge till he came to two lodges and to listen there to what the people would tell him. He went and found two lodges, and people playing nánzoz, and had all things happen to him nearly the same as happened to him in the east. When he returned home he had again an angry talk from his father-in-law, and was warned not to go to the west; but again he determined to pay no heed to the warning. 552. When he went to the west, next day, he found a yellow ridge to cross. The little man whom he met had a yellowish face; he was armed and dressed the same as the little man of the east, except that he had no horns on his deer-mask, for he represented a doe. He described to the Navaho how to make a cigarette sacred to himself, which was to be painted yellow, spotted with blue, and deposited in a piñon-tree, like the cigarette of the east. Other events happened much as on the two previous days. 553. On the fourth of these forbidden journeys the Navaho went to the north. The ridge which he had to cross was black. The little man whom he met was armed and dressed like the man in the south, but he had no horns on his mask. His face was very dark. The cigarette which he described was to be painted black and spotted with white; it was to be the same length as the cigarette of the south, and disposed of in the same way. 554. When he got home from his fourth journey, his father-in-law came into the lodge and reviled him once more with angry words; but this time the Navaho did not remain silent. He told the old man where he had been, what people he had met, what stories he had heard, and all that he knew of him. He told him, too, that he had learned of cigarettes, and medicines, and charms, and rites to protect him against a wizard's power. "You have killed others," said Nati'nesthani, "you have tried to kill me. I knew it all the time, but said nothing. Now I know all of your wickedness." "All that you say is true," said the old man; "but I shall seek your life no more, and I shall give up all my evil ways. While you were abroad on your journeys you learned of powerful sacrifices, and rites, and medicines. All that I ask is that you will treat me with these." His son-in-law did as he was desired, and in doing so performed the first atsósi hatál.[249] 555. After treating his father-in-law, Nati'nesthani returned to his people, taught them all he had learned while he was gone, and thus established the rite of atsósi hatál among the Navahoes. Then he went back to the whirling lake of Tó`nihilin, and he dwells there still. THE GREAT SHELL OF KINTYÉL. 556. Kintyél,[72] Broad House, and Ki'ndotliz, Blue House,[208] are two pueblo houses in the Chaco Canyon. They are ruins now; but in the days when Kinníki lived on earth many people dwelt there. Not far from the ruins is a high cliff called Tse`dezá`, or Standing Rock. Near these places the rite of yói hatál,[250] or the bead chant, was first practised by the Navahoes, and this is the tale of how it first became known to man:-- 557. Two young men, one from Kintyél and one from Ki'ndotliz, went out one day to hunt deer. About sunset, as they were returning to Ki'ndotliz, weary and unsuccessful, they observed a war-eagle soaring overhead, and they stopped to watch his flight. He moved slowly away, growing smaller and smaller to their gaze until at length he dwindled to a black speck, almost invisible; and while they strained their sight to get a last look he seemed to them to descend on the top of Standing Rock. In order to mark the spot where they last saw him they cut a forked stick, stuck it in the ground fork upward, and arranged it so that when they should look over it again, crouching in a certain position, their sight would be guided to the spot. They left the stick standing and went home to Ki'ndotliz.[251] 558. In those days eagles were very scarce in the land; it was a wonder to see one; so when the young men got home and told the story of their day's adventures, it became the subject of much conversation and counsel, and at length the people determined to send four men, in the morning, to take sight over the forked stick, in order to find out where the eagle lived. 559. Next morning early the four men designated went to the forked stick and sighted over it, and all came to the conclusion that the eagle lived on the point of Tse`dezá`. They went at once to the rock, climbed to the summit, and saw the eagle and its young in a cleft on the face of the precipice below them. They remained on the summit all day and watched the nest. 560. At night they went home and told what they had seen. They had observed two young eagles of different ages in the nest. Of the four men who went on the search, two were from Kintyél and two were from Ki'ndotliz, therefore people from the two pueblos met in counsel in an estufa, and there it was decided that Ki'ndotliz should have the elder of the two eaglets and that Kintyél should have the younger. 561. The only way to reach the nest was to lower a man to it with a rope; yet directly above the nest was an overhanging ledge which the man, descending, would be obliged to pass. It was a dangerous undertaking, and no one could be found to volunteer for it. Living near the pueblos was a miserable Navaho beggar who subsisted on such food as he could pick up. When the sweepings of the rooms and the ashes from the fireplaces were thrown out on the kitchen heap, he searched eagerly through them and was happy if he could find a few grains of corn or a piece of paper bread. He was called Nahoditáhe, or He Who Picks Up (like a bird). They concluded to induce this man to make the dangerous descent. 562. They returned to the pueblo and sent for the poor Navaho to come to the estufa. When he came they bade him be seated, placed before him a large basket of paper bread, bowls of boiled corn and meat, with all sorts of their best food, and told him to eat his fill. He ate as he had never eaten before, and after a long time he told his hosts that he was satisfied. "You shall eat," said they, "of such abundance all your life, and never more have to scrape for grains of corn among the dirt, if you will do as we desire." Then they told him of their plan for catching the young eagles, and asked him if he were willing to be put in a basket and lowered to the nest with a rope. He pondered and was silent. They asked him again and again until they had asked him four times, while he still sat in meditation. At last he answered: "I lead but a poor life at best. Existence is not sweet to a man who always hungers. It would be pleasant to eat such food for the rest of my days, and some time or other I must die. I shall do as you wish." 563. On the following morning they gave him another good meal; they made a great, strong carrying-basket with four corners at the top; they tied a strong string to each corner, and, collecting a large party, they set out for the rock of Tse`dezá`. 564. When the party arrived at the top of the rock they tied a long, stout rope to the four strings on the basket. They instructed the Navaho to take the eaglets out of the nest and drop them to the bottom of the cliff. The Navaho then entered the basket and was lowered over the edge of the precipice. They let the rope out slowly till they thought they had lowered him far enough and then they stopped; but as he had not yet reached the nest he called out to them to lower him farther. They did so, and as soon as he was on a level with the nest he called to the people above to stop. 565. He was just about to grasp the eaglets and throw them down when Wind whispered to him: "These people of the Pueblos are not your friends. They desire not to feed you with their good food as long as you live. If you throw these young eagles down, as they bid you, they will never pull you up again. Get into the eagles' nest and stay there." When he heard this, he called to those above: "Swing the basket so that it may come nearer to the cliff. I cannot reach the nest unless you do." So they caused the basket to swing back and forth. When it touched the cliff he held fast to the rock and scrambled into the nest, leaving the empty basket swinging in the air. 566. The Pueblos saw the empty basket swinging and waited, expecting to see the Navaho get back into it again. But when they had waited a good while and found he did not return they began to call to him as if he were a dear relation of theirs. "My son," said the old men, "throw down those little eagles." "My elder brother! My younger brother!" the young men shouted, "throw down those little eagles." They kept up their clamor until nearly sunset; but they never moved the will of the Navaho. He sat in the cleft and never answered them, and when the sun set they ceased calling and went home. 567. In the cleft or cave, around the nest, four dead animals lay; to the east there was a fawn; to the south a hare; to the west the young of a Rocky Mountain sheep, and to the north a prairie-dog. From time to time, when the eaglets felt hungry, they would leave the nest and eat of the meat; but the Navaho did not touch it. 568. Early next day the Pueblo people returned and gathered in a great crowd at the foot of the cliff. They stayed there all day repeating their entreaties and promises, calling the Navaho by endearing terms, and displaying all kinds of tempting food to his gaze; but he heeded them not and spoke not. 569. They came early again on the third day, but they came in anger. They no longer called him by friendly names; they no longer made fair promises to him; but, instead, they shot fire-arrows at the eyry in hopes they would burn the Navaho out or set fire to the nest and compel him to throw it and the eaglets down. But he remained watchful and active, and whenever a fire-arrow entered the cave he seized it quickly and threw it out. Then they abused him and reviled him, and called him bad names until sunset, when again they went home. 570. They came again on the fourth day and acted as they had done on the previous day; but they did not succeed in making the Navaho throw down the little eagles. He spoke to the birds, saying: "Can you not help me?" They rose in the nest, shook their wings, and threw out many little feathers, which fell on the people below. The Navaho thought the birds must be scattering disease on his enemies. When the latter left at sunset they said: "Now we shall leave you where you are, to die of hunger and thirst." He was then altogether three nights and nearly four days in the cave. For two days the Pueblos had coaxed and flattered him; for two days they had cursed and reviled him, and at the end of the fourth day they went home and left him in the cave to die. 571. When his tormentors were gone he sat in the cave hungry and thirsty, weak and despairing, till the night fell. Soon after dark he heard a great rushing sound which approached from one side of the entrance to the cave, roared a moment in front, and then grew faint in the distance at the other side. Thus four times the sound came and went, growing louder each time it passed, and at length the male Eagle lit on the eyry. Soon the sounds were repeated, and the female bird, the mother of the eaglets, alighted. Turning at once toward the Navaho, she said: "Greeting, my child! Thanks, my child! You have not thrown down your younger brother, Donikí."[285] The male Eagle repeated the same words. They addressed the Navaho by the name of Donikí, but afterwards they named him Kinníki, after the chief of all the Eagles in the sky. He only replied to the Eagles: "I am hungry. I am thirsty." 572. The male Eagle opened his sash and took out a small white cotton cloth which contained a little corn meal, and he took out a small bowl of white shell no bigger than the palm of the hand. When the Indian saw this he said: "Give me water first, for I am famishing with thirst." "No," replied the Eagle; "eat first and then you shall have something to drink." The Eagle then drew forth from among his tail feathers a small plant called eltíndzakas,[252] which has many joints and grows near streams. The joints were all filled with water. The Eagle mixed a little of the water with some of the meal in the shell and handed the mixture to the Navaho. The latter ate and ate, until he was satisfied, but he could not diminish in the least the contents of the shell vessel. When he was done eating there was as much in the cup as there was when he began. He handed it back to the Eagle, the latter emptied it with one sweep of his finger, and it remained empty. Then the Eagle put the jointed plant to the Navaho's lips as if it were a wicker bottle, and the Indian drank his fill. 573. On the previous nights, while lying in the cave, the Navaho had slept between the eaglets in the nest to keep himself warm and shelter himself from the wind, and this plan had been of some help to him; but on this night the great Eagles slept one on each side of him, and he felt as warm as if he had slept among robes of fur. Before the Eagles lay down to sleep each took off his robe of plumes, which formed a single garment, opening in front, and revealed a form like that of a human being. 574. The Navaho slept well that night and did not waken till he heard a voice calling from the top of the cliff: "Where are you? The day has dawned. It is growing late. Why are you not abroad already?" At the sound of this voice the Eagles woke too and put on their robes of plumage. Presently a great number of birds were seen flying before the opening of the cave and others were heard calling to one another on the rock overhead. There were many kinds of Eagles and Hawks in the throng. Some of all the large birds of prey were there. Those on top of the rock sang:-- Kinnakíye, there he sits. When they fly up, We shall see him. He will flap his wings.[286] 575. One of the Eagles brought a dress of eagle plumes and was about to put it on the Navaho when the others interfered, and they had a long argument as to whether they should dress him in the garment of the Eagles or not; but at length they all flew away without giving him the dress. When they returned they had thought of another plan for taking him out of the cave. Laying him on his face, they put a streak of crooked lightning under his feet, a sunbeam under his knees, a piece of straight lightning under his chest, another under his outstretched hands, and a rainbow under his forehead. 576. An Eagle then seized each end of these six supports,--making twelve Eagles in all,--and they flew with the Navaho and the eaglets away from the eyry. They circled round twice with their burden before they reached the level of the top of the cliff. They circled round twice more ascending, and then flew toward the south, still going upwards. When they got above the top of Tsótsil (Mt. Taylor), they circled four times more, until they almost touched the sky. Then they began to flag and breathed hard, and they cried out: "We are weary. We can fly no farther." The voice of one, unseen to the Navaho, cried from above: "Let go your burden." The Eagles released their hold on the supports, and the Navaho felt himself descending swiftly toward the earth. But he had not fallen far when he felt himself seized around the waist and chest, he felt something twining itself around his body, and a moment later he beheld the heads of two Arrow-snakes[258] looking at him over his shoulders. The Arrow-snakes bore him swiftly upwards, up through the sky-hole, and landed him safely on the surface of the upper world above the sky. 577. When he looked around him he observed four pueblo dwellings, or towns: a white pueblo in the east, a blue pueblo in the south, a yellow pueblo in the west, and a black pueblo in the north. Wolf was the chief of the eastern pueblo, Blue Fox of the southern, Puma of the western, and Big Snake of the northern. The Navaho was left at liberty to go where he chose, but Wind whispered into his ear and said: "Visit, if you wish, all the pueblos except that of the north. Chicken Hawk[254] and other bad characters dwell there." 578. Next he observed that a war party was preparing, and soon after his arrival the warriors went forth. What enemies they sought he could not learn. He entered several of the houses, was well treated wherever he went, and given an abundance of paper bread and other good food to eat. He saw that in their homes the Eagles were just like ordinary people down on the lower world. As soon as they entered their pueblos they took off their feather suits, hung these up on pegs and poles, and went around in white suits which they wore underneath their feathers when in flight. He visited all the pueblos except the black one in the north. In the evening the warriors returned. They were received with loud wailing and with tears, for many who went out in the morning did not return at night. They had been slain in battle. 579. In a few days another war party was organized, and this time the Navaho determined to go with it. When the warriors started on the trail he followed them. "Whither are you going?" they asked. "I wish to be one of your party," he replied. They laughed at him and said: "You are a fool to think you can go to war against such dreadful enemies as those that we fight. We can move as fast as the wind, yet our enemies can move faster. If they are able to overcome us, what chance have you, poor man, for your life?" Hearing this, he remained behind, but they had not travelled far when he hurried after them. When he overtook them, which he soon did, they spoke to him angrily, told him more earnestly than before how helpless he was, and how great his danger, and bade him return to the villages. Again he halted; but as soon as they were out of sight he began to run after them, and he came up with them at the place where they had encamped for the night. Here they gave him of their food, and again they scolded him, and sought to dissuade him from accompanying them. 580. In the morning, when the warriors resumed their march, he remained behind on the camping-ground, as if he intended to return; but as soon as they were out of sight he proceeded again to follow them. He had not travelled far when he saw smoke coming up out of the ground, and approaching the smoke he found a smoke-hole, out of which stuck an old ladder, yellow with smoke, such as we see in the pueblo dwellings to-day. He looked down through the hole and beheld, in a subterranean chamber beneath, a strange-looking old woman with a big mouth. Her teeth were not set in her head evenly and regularly, like those of an Indian; they protruded from her mouth, were set at a distance from one another, and were curved like the claws of a bear. She was Nastsé Estsán, the Spider Woman. She invited him into her house, and he passed down the ladder. 581. When he got inside, the Spider Woman showed him four large wooden hoops,--one in the east colored black, one in the south colored blue, one in the west colored yellow, and one in the north white and sparkling. Attached to each hoop were a number of decayed, ragged feathers. "These feathers," said she, "were once beautiful plumes, but now they are old and dirty. I want some new plumes to adorn my hoops, and you can get them for me. Many of the Eagles will be killed in the battle to which you are going, and when they die you can pluck out the plumes and bring them to me. Have no fear of the enemies. Would you know who they are that the Eagles go to fight? They are only the bumblebees and the tumble-weeds."[256] She gave him a long black cane and said: "With this you can gather the tumble-weeds into a pile, and then you can set them on fire. Spit the juice of tsildilgi'si[257] at the bees and they cannot sting you. But before you burn up the tumble-weeds gather some of the seeds, and when you have killed the bees take some of their nests. You will need these things when you return to the earth." When Spider Woman had done speaking the Navaho left to pursue his journey. 582. He travelled on, and soon came up with the warriors where they were hiding behind a little hill and preparing for battle. Some were putting on their plumes; others were painting and adorning themselves. From time to time one of their number would creep cautiously to the top of the hill and peep over; then he would run back and whisper: "There are the enemies. They await us." The Navaho went to the top of the hill and peered over; but he could see no enemy whatever. He saw only a dry, sandy flat, covered in one place with sunflowers, and in another place with dead weeds; for it was now late in the autumn in the world above. 583. Soon the Eagles were all ready for the fray. They raised their war-cry, and charged over the hill into the sandy plain. The Navaho remained behind the hill, peeping over to see what would occur. As the warriors approached the plain a whirlwind arose;[258] a great number of tumble-weeds ascended with the wind and surged around madly through the air; and, at the same time, from among the sunflowers a cloud of bumblebees arose. The Eagles charged through the ranks of their enemies, and when they had passed to the other side they turned around and charged back again. Some spread their wings and soared aloft to attack the tumble-weeds that had gone up with the whirlwind. From time to time the Navaho noticed the dark body of an Eagle falling down through the air. When the combat had continued some time, the Navaho noticed a few of the Eagles running toward the hill where he lay watching. In a moment some more came running toward him, and soon after the whole party of Eagles, all that was left of it, rushed past him, in a disorderly retreat, in the direction whence they had come, leaving many slain on the field. Then the wind fell; the tumble-weeds lay quiet again on the sand, and the bumblebees disappeared among the sunflowers. 584. When all was quiet, the Navaho walked down to the sandy flat, and, having gathered some of the seeds and tied them up in a corner of his shirt, he collected the tumble-weeds into a pile, using his black wand. Then he took out his fire-drill, started a flame, and burnt up the whole pile. He gathered some tsildilgi'si, as the Spider Woman had told him, chewed it, and went in among the sunflowers. Here the bees gathered around him in a great swarm, and sought to sting him; but he spat the juice of the tsildilgi'si at them and stunned with it all that he struck. Soon the most of them lay helpless on the ground, and the others fled in fear. He went around with his black wand and killed all that he could find. He dug into the ground and got out some of their nests and honey; he took a couple of the young bees and tied their feet together, and all these things he put into the corner of his blanket. When the bees were conquered he did not forget the wishes of his friend, the Spider Woman; he went around among the dead eagles, and plucked as many plumes as he could grasp in both hands. 585. He set out on his return journey, and soon got back to the house of Spider Woman. He gave her the plumes and she said: "Thank you, my grandchild, you have brought me the plumes that I have long wanted to adorn my walls, and you have done a great service to your friends, the Eagles, because you have slain their enemies." When she had spoken he set out again on his journey. 586. He slept that night on the trail, and next morning he got back to the towns of the Eagles. As he approached he heard from afar the cries of the mourners, and when he entered the place the people gathered around him and said: "We have lost many of our kinsmen, and we are wailing for them; but we have been also mourning for you, for those who returned told us you had been killed in the fight." 587. He made no reply, but took from his blanket the two young bumblebees and swung them around his head. All the people were terrified and ran, and they did not stop running till they got safely behind their houses. In a little while they got over their fear, came slowly from behind their houses, and crowded around the Navaho again. A second time he swung the bees around his head, and a second time the people ran away in terror; but this time they only went as far as the front walls of their houses, and soon they returned again to the Navaho. The third time that he swung the bees around his head they were still less frightened, ran but half way to their houses, and returned very soon. The fourth time that he swung the bees they only stepped back a step or two. When their courage came back to them, he laid the two bees on the ground; he took out the seeds of the tumble-weeds and laid them on the ground beside the bees, and then he said to the Eagle People: "My friends, here are the children of your enemies; when you see these you may know that I have slain your enemies." There was great rejoicing among the people when they heard this, and this one said: "It is well. They have slain my brother," and that one said: "It is well. They have slain my father," and another said: "It is well. They have slain my sons." Then Great Wolf, chief of the white pueblo, said: "I have two beautiful maiden daughters whom I shall give to you." Then Fox, chief of the blue pueblo in the south, promised him two more maidens, and the chiefs of the other pueblos promised him two each, so that eight beautiful maidens were promised to him in marriage. 588. The chief of the white pueblo now conducted the Navaho to his house and into a large and beautiful apartment, the finest the poor Indian had ever seen. It had a smooth wall, nicely coated with white earth, a large fireplace, mealing-stones, beautiful pots and water-jars, and all the conveniences and furniture of a beautiful pueblo home. And the chief said to him: "Sadáni, my son-in-law, this house is yours." 589. The principal men from all the pueblos now came to visit him, and thanked him for the great service he had done for them. Then his maidens from the yellow house came in bringing corn meal; the maidens from the black house entered bringing soap-weed, and the maidens of the white house, where he was staying, came bearing a large bowl of white shell. A suds of the soap-weed was prepared in the shell bowl. The maidens of the white house washed his head with the suds; the maidens of the black house washed his limbs and feet, and those of the yellow house dried him with corn meal. When the bath was finished the maidens went out; but they returned at dark, accompanied this time by the maidens of the blue house. Each of the eight maidens carried a large bowl of food, and each bowl contained food of a different kind. They laid the eight bowls down before the Navaho, and he ate of all till he was satisfied. Then they brought in beautiful robes and blankets, and spread them on the floor for his bed. 590. Next morning the Navaho went over to the sky-hole, taking with him the young bees and the seeds of the tumble-weeds. To the former he said: "Go down to the land of the Navahoes and multiply there. My people will make use of you in the days to come; but if you ever cause them sorrow and trouble, as you have caused the people of this land, I shall again destroy you." As he spoke, he flung them down to the earth. Then taking the seeds of the tumble-weeds in his hands, he spoke to them as he had spoken to the bees, and threw them down through the sky-hole. The honey of the bees and the seeds of the tumble-weeds are now used in the rites of yói hatál, or the bead chant. 591. The Navaho remained in the pueblos of the Eagle People twenty-four days, during which time he was taught the songs, prayers, ceremonies, and sacrifices of the Eagles, the same as those now known to us in the rite of yói hatál;[259] and when he had learned all, the people told him it was time for him to return to the earth, whence he had come. 592. They put on him a robe of eagle plumage, such as they wore themselves, and led him to the sky-hole. They said to him: "When you came up from the lower world you were heavy and had to be carried by others. Henceforth you will be light and can move through the air with your own power." He spread his wings to show that he was ready; the Eagles blew a powerful breath behind him; he went down through the sky-hole, and was wafted down on his outstretched wings until he lit on the summit of Tsótsil. 593. He went back to his own relations among the Navahoes; but when he went back everything about their lodge smelt ill; its odors were intolerable to him, and he left it and sat outside.[260] They built for him then a medicine-lodge where he might sit by himself. They bathed his younger brother, clothed him in new raiment, and sent him, too, into the lodge, to learn what his elder brother could tell him. The brothers spent twelve days in the lodge together, during which the elder brother told his story and instructed the younger in all the rites and songs learned among the Eagles. 594. After this he went to visit the pueblo of Kintyél, whose inmates had before contemplated such treachery to him; but they did not recognize him. He now looked sleek and well fed. He was beautifully dressed and comely in his person, for the Eagles had moulded, in beauty, his face and form. The pueblo people never thought that this was the poor beggar whom they had left to die in the eagles' nest. He noticed that there were many sore and lame in the pueblo. A new disease, they told him, had broken out among them. This was the disease which they had caught from the feathers of the eaglets when they were attacking the nest. "I have a brother," said the Navaho, "who is a potent shaman. He knows a rite that will cure this disease." The people of the pueblo consulted together and concluded to employ his brother to perform the ceremony over their suffering ones. 595. The Navaho said that he must be one of the atsá`lei,[261] or first dancers, and that in order to perform the rite properly he must be dressed in a very particular way. He must, he said, have strings of fine beads--shell and turquoise--sufficient to cover his legs and forearms completely, enough to go around his neck, so that he could not bend his head back, and great strings to pass over the shoulder and under the arm on each side. He must have the largest shell basin to be found in either pueblo to hang on his back, and the one next in size to hang on his chest. He must have their longest and best strings of turquoise to hang to his ears. The Wind told him that the greatest shell basin they had was so large that if he tried to embrace it around the edge, his finger-tips would scarcely meet on the opposite side, and that this shell he must insist on having. The next largest shell, Wind told him, was but little smaller.[262] 596. Three days after this conference, people began to come in from different pueblos in the Chaco Canyon and from pueblos on the banks of the San Juan,--all these pueblos are now in ruins,--and soon a great multitude had assembled. Meantime, too, they collected shells and beads from the various pueblos in order to dress the atsá`lei as he desired. They brought him some great shell basins and told him these were what he wanted for the dance; but he measured them with his arms as Wind had told him, and, finding that his hands joined easily when he embraced the shells, he discarded them. They brought him larger and larger shells, and tried to persuade him that such were their largest; but he tried and rejected all. On the last day, with reluctance, they brought him the great shell of Kintyél and the great shell of Ki'ndotliz. He clasped the first in his arms; his fingers did not meet on the opposite side. He clasped the second in his arms, and the tips of his fingers just met. "These," said he, "are the shells I must wear when I dance." 597. Four days before that on which the last dance was to occur, the pueblo people sent out messengers to the neighboring camps of Navahoes, to invite the latter to witness the exhibition of the last night and to participate in it with some of their alíli (dances or dramas). One of the messengers went to the Chelly Canyon and there he got Gánaskidi, with his son and daughter, to come and perform a dance. The other messengers started for the Navaho camp at the foot of Tsótsil on the south (near where Cobero is now). On his way he met an akáninili, or messenger, coming from Tsótsil to invite the people of the Chaco Canyon to a great Navaho ceremony. (You have heard all about the meeting of these messengers in the legend of the mountain chant. I shall not now repeat it.)[263] The messengers exchanged bows and quivers as a sign they had met one another, and the messenger from Kintyél returned to his people without being able to get the Navahoes to attend. This is the reason that, on the last night of the great ceremony of yói hatál, there are but few different dances or shows. 598. On the evening of the last day they built a great circle of branches, such as the Navahoes build now for the rites of the mountain chant (fig. 37), and a great number of people crowded into the enclosure. They lighted the fires and dressed the atsá`lei in all their fine beads and shells just as he desired them to dress him. They put the great shell of Kintyél on his back, and the great shell of Ki'ndotliz on his chest, and another fine shell on his forehead. Then the Navaho began to dance, and his brother, the medicine-man, began to sing, and this was the song he sang:-- The white-corn plant's great ear sticks up. Stay down and eat. The blue-corn plant's great ear sticks up. Stay down and eat. The yellow-corn plant's great ear sticks up. Stay down and eat. The black-corn plant's great ear sticks up. Stay down and eat. All-colored corn's great ear sticks up. Stay down and eat. The round-eared corn's great ear sticks up. Stay down and eat.[287] 599. This seemed a strange song to the pueblo people, and they all wondered what it could mean; but they soon found out what it meant, for they observed that the dancing Navaho was slowly rising from the ground. First his head and then his shoulders appeared above the heads of the crowd; next his chest and waist; but it was not until his whole body had risen above the level of their heads that they began to realize the loss that threatened them. He was rising toward the sky with the great shell of Kintyél, and all the wealth of many pueblos in shell-beads and turquoise on his body. Then they screamed wildly to him and called him by all sorts of dear names--father, brother, son--to come down again, but the more they called the higher he rose. When his feet had risen above them they observed that a streak of white lightning passed under his feet like a rope, and hung from a dark cloud that gathered above. It was the gods that were lifting him; for thus, the legends say, the gods lift mortals to the sky. When the pueblos found that no persuasions could induce the Navaho to return, some called for ropes that they might seize him and pull him down; but he was soon beyond the reach of their longest rope. Then a shout was raised for arrows that they might shoot him; but before the arrows could come he was lost to sight in the black cloud and was never more seen on earth. NOTES. 1. How and when the name Navajo (pronounced Na'va-ho) originated has not been discovered. It is only known that this name was given by the Spaniards while they still claimed the Navaho land. The name is generally supposed to be derived from navaja, which means a clasp-knife, or razor, and to have been applied because the Navaho warriors carried great stone knives in former days. It has been suggested that the name comes from navájo, a pool or small lake. The Navahoes call themselves Diné` or Diné, which means simply, men, people. This word in the various forms, Dénè, Tinnéh, Tunné, etc., is used as a tribal designation for many branches of the Athapascan stock. 2. The Carrizo Mountains consist of an isolated mountain mass, about 12 miles in its greatest diameter, situated in the northeast corner of Arizona. It is called by the Navahoes Dsilnáodsil, which means mountain surrounded by mountains; such is the appearance of the landscape viewed from the highest point, Pastora Peak, 9,420 feet high. 3. The San Juan River, a branch of the Colorado of the West, flows in a westerly direction through the northern portion of the Navaho Reservation, and forms in part its northern boundary. It is the most important river in the Navaho country. It has two names in the Navaho language: one is Sánbito` (Water of Old Age, or Old Age River), said to be given because the stream is white with foam and looks like the hair of an old man; the other is To`baká (Male Water), given because it is turbulent and strong in contrast to the placid Rio Grande, which the Navahoes call To`baád, or Female Water. (See note 137.) Perhaps the river has other names. 4. Tu-in-tsá is derived from to` or tu (water) and intsá or intsá (abundant, scattered widely). The name is spelled Tuincha, Tuintcha, and Tunicha on our maps. The Tuincha Mountains are situated partly in New Mexico and partly in Arizona, about 30 miles from the northern boundary of both Territories. They form the middle portion of a range of which the Chusca and Lukachokai Mountains form the rest. The portion known as Tuintsá is about 12 miles long. The highest point is 9,575 feet above sea-level. The top of the range, which is rather level and plateau-like, is well covered with timber, mostly spruce and pine, and abounds in small lakes and ponds; hence the name Tuintsá. 5. The basket illustrated in fig. 16 is made of twigs of aromatic sumac (Rhus aromatica, var. trilobata). It is 13' in diameter and 3-3/8' deep. In forming the helical coil, the fabricator must always put the butt end of the twig toward the centre of the basket and the tip end toward the periphery, in accordance with the ceremonial laws governing the disposition of butts and tips (see notes 12 and 319). The sole decoration is a band, red in the middle with black zigzag edges. This band is intersected at one point by a narrow line of uncolored wood. This line has probably no relation to the "line of life" in ancient and modern pueblo pottery. It is put there to assist in the orientation of the basket at night, in the dim light of the medicine-lodge. In making the basket, the butt of the first twig is placed in the centre; the tip of the last twig, in the helix, must be in the same radial line, which is marked by the uncolored line crossing the ornamental band. This line must lie due east and west on certain ceremonial occasions, as for instance when the basket, inverted, is used as a drum during the last five nights of the night chant. The margin of this, as of other Navaho baskets, is finished in a diagonally woven or plaited pattern, and there is a legend, which the author has related in a former paper,[321] accounting for the origin of this form of margin. If the margin is worn through or torn, the basket is unfit for sacred use. The basket is one of the perquisites of the shaman when the rites are done; but he, in turn, must give it away, and must be careful never to eat out of it. Notwithstanding its sacred uses, food may be served in it. Fig. 25 represents a basket of this kind used as a receptacle for sacrificial sticks and cigarettes. In this case the termination of the helix must be in the east, and the sacrifices sacred to the east must be in the eastern quarter of the basket. Fig. 17 shows the other form of sacred basket. It is also made of aromatic sumac, and is used in the rites to hold sacred meal. The crosses are said to represent clouds, and the zigzag lines to indicate lightning. 6. The ceremonies of "House Dedication" are described at some length by Mr. A. M. Stephen in his excellent paper on "The Navajo,"[329] and he gives a free translation of a prayer and a song belonging to these rites. 7. A-na-yé, or a-ná-ye, is composed of two words, aná and yéi or ye. Aná, sometimes contracted to na, signifies a member of an alien tribe,--one not speaking a language similar to the Navaho,--and is often synonymous with enemy. Ye (see par. 78) may be defined as genius or god. The anáye were the offspring of women conceived during the separation of the sexes in the fourth world. 8. Ti-é-hol-tso-di is a water god, or water monster, a god of terrestrial waters,--not a rain god. He seems akin to the Unktehi of the Dakotas. He is said to dwell in the great water of the east, i.e., the Atlantic Ocean. Although commonly spoken of as one, there is little doubt that the Navahoes believe in many of the Tiéholtsodi. Probably every constant stream or spring has its own water god, (See note 152.) A picture of this god is said to be made in a dry-painting of the rite of hozóni hatál, but the author has not seen it. Tiéholtsodi is described as having a fine fur, and being otherwise much like an otter in appearance, but having horns like a buffalo. (See pars. 140, 187, 484, 485.) 9. Tsús-kai or Tsó-is-kai is the name given by the Navahoes to a prominent conical hill rising 8,800 feet above sea-level, in northwestern New Mexico, about twenty-six miles north of Defiance Station on the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad. It is called Chusca Knoll, Chusca Peak, and Choiskai Peak by geographers. It rises abruptly four hundred feet or more above the level of the neighboring ridge, is visible at a great distance from the south (but not from the north), and forms a prominent landmark. The Navahoes limit the name Tsúskai to this knoll, but the Mexicans, and following them the Americans, apply the name in different forms (Chusca Mountains, Sierra de Chusca, Chuska, Chuskai, Tchuskai, etc.) to the whole mountain mass from which the knoll rises. The name, not accurately translated, contains the words for spruce (tso) and white (kai). 10. The bath forms an important part of the Navaho rites, being administered on many occasions, and it is often mentioned in the tales. It usually consists of a suds made in a water-tight wicker basket by soaking the root of some species of yucca (see note 88) in water; the root of Yucca baccata being usually preferred, as it seems richest in saponine. After the application of the suds, the subject is commonly rinsed off with plain water and dried by rubbing on corn meal. In different ceremonies different observances are connected with the bath. In the myth of "The Mountain Chant,"[314] pp. 389, 390, a bath is described as part of the ceremony of the deer-hunt. It is given, no doubt, in preparing for the hunt, for practical as well as religious reasons. It is important that the hunter should divest himself as much as possible of his personal odor when he goes to kill game. 11. Pollen (Navaho, thaditín) is obtained, for sacred uses, from various plants, but Indian corn is the chief source of supply. The pollen is carried in small buckskin bags, which also usually contain small sacred stones, such as rock crystal and pyrophyllite, or small animal fetishes. The administration or sacrifice of pollen is a part of all rites witnessed, and almost always follows or accompanies prayer. It is used in different ways on different occasions; but the commonest way is to take a small pinch from the bag, apply a portion of it to the tongue and a portion to the crown of the head. For some purposes, the shaman collects a quantity of pollen, puts it in a large bag, immerses in it some live bird, insect, or other animal, and then allows the prisoner to escape. This is supposed to add extra virtue to the pollen. In one kind called i`yidezná a bluebird, a yellowbird, and a grasshopper are put in the pollen together. In note 49 we have a mythic account of pollen put on the young of the sea monster and then preserved. Pollen which has been applied to a ceremonial dry-painting is preserved for future uses. Pollen in which a live striped lizard has been placed is used to favor eutocia. The term thaditín is applied to various things having the appearance of an impalpable powder, such as the misty hues of the horizon in the morning and evening, due in Arizona more frequently to dust in the air than to moisture. Captain Bourke, in "The Medicine-men of the Apache,"[295] chapter ii., describes many modes of using pollen which exist also among the Navahoes. 12. The following are a few additional observances with regard to kethawns:-- In cutting the reed used for a series of cigarettes, they cut off a piece first from the end nearest the root, and they continue to cut off as many pieces as may be necessary from butt to point. The pieces, according as they are cut, are notched near the butt (with a stone knife), so that the relations of the two extremities of the piece may not be forgotten. All through the painting of the cigarettes, and the various manipulations that follow, the butt end must be the nearer to the operator, and the tip end the farther away from him. Since the cigarette-maker sits in the west of the medicine-lodge facing the east, the cigarettes, while there, must lie east and west, with the tips to the east. If a number of cigarettes are made for one act of sacrifice, the first piece cut off is marked with one notch near the base, the second piece with two notches, the third piece with three notches, the fourth piece with four notches, all near the butt ends. This is done in order that they may always be distinguished from one another, and their order of precedence from butt to tip may not be disregarded. When they are taken up to be painted, to have the sacred feathers of the bluebird and yellowbird inserted into them, to be filled with tobacco, to be sealed with moistened pollen, or to be symbolically lighted with the rock crystal, the piece that came from nearest the butt (the senior cigarette, let us call it) is taken first, that nearest the tip last. When they are collected to be placed in the patient's hands, when they are applied to his or her person, and finally when they are taken out and sacrificed, this order of precedence is always observed. The order of precedence in position, when sacrifices are laid out in a straight row, is from north to south; the senior sacrifice is in the northern extremity of the row, the junior or inferior in the southern extremity. When they are laid out in a circle, the order is from east back to east by the way of the south, west, and north. The gods to whom the sacrifices are made have commonly also an order of precedence, and when such is the case the senior sacrifice is dedicated to the higher god, the junior sacrifice to the lower god. When it is required that other articles, such as feathers, beads, powdered vegetable and mineral substances, be sacrificed with the cigarettes, all these things are placed in corn-husks. To do this, the husks are laid down on a clean cloth with their tips to the east; the cigarettes are laid in them one by one, each in a separate husk, with their tip ends to the east; and the sacred feathers are added to the bundle with their tips also to the east. When dry pollen is sprinkled on the cigarette, it is sprinkled from butt to tip. When moist pollen is daubed on the side of the cigarette, it is daubed from butt to tip. (From "A Study in Butts and Tips.")[319] The hollow internode of the reed only is used. The part containing the solid node is discarded and is split up, so that when thrown away the gods may not mistake it for a true cigarette and suffer disappointment. All the débris of manufacture is carefully collected and deposited to the north of the medicine-lodge. The tobacco of commerce must not be employed. A plug of feathers, referred to above, is shoved into the tube from tip to butt (with an owl's feather) to keep the tobacco from falling out at the butt. The moistened pollen keeps the tobacco in at the tip end. The rules for measuring kethawns are very elaborate. One or more finger-joints; the span; the width of the outstretched hand, from tip of thumb to tip of little finger; the width of three finger-tips or of four finger-tips joined,--are a few of the measurements. Each kethawn has its established size. This system of sacrifice is common among the pueblo tribes of the Southwest, and traces of it have been found elsewhere. Fig. 23 represents a thing called ketán yaltí, or talking kethawn (described in "The Mountain Chant,"[314] p. 452), consisting of a male stick painted black and a female stick painted blue. Fig. 24 shows a kethawn used in the ceremony of the night chant; a dozen such are made for one occasion, but male and female are not distinguished. Fig. 25 depicts a set of fifty-two kethawns, used also in the night chant: of these the four in the centre are cigarettes lying on meal; the forty-eight surrounding the meal are sticks of wood. Those in the east are made of mountain mahogany, those in the south of Forestiera neo-mexicana, those in the west of juniper, and those in the north of cherry. A more elaborate description of them must be reserved for a future work. 13. "Sacred buckskin" is a term employed by the author, for convenience, to designate those deerskins specially prepared for use in making masks and for other purposes in the Navaho rites. The following are some of the particulars concerning their preparation; perhaps there are others which the author has not learned: The deer which is to furnish the skin must not be shot, or otherwise wounded. It is surrounded by men on foot or horseback, and caused to run around until it falls exhausted; then a bag containing pollen is put over its mouth and nostrils, and held there till the deer is smothered. The dead animal is laid on its back. Lines are marked with pollen, from the centre outwards along the median line of the body and the insides of the limbs. Incisions are made with a stone knife along the pollen lines, from within outwards, until the skin is opened; the flaying may then be completed with a steel knife. When the skin is removed it is laid to the east of the carcass, head to the east, and hairy side down. The fibulæ and ulnæ are cut out and put in the skin in the places where they belong,--i.e., each ulna in the skin of its appropriate fore-leg, each fibula in the skin of its appropriate hind-leg. The hide may then be rolled up and carried off. Both ulnæ are used as scrapers of the skin. If masks are to be made of the skin, the fibulæ are used as awls,--the right fibula in sewing the right sides of the masks, the left fibula in sewing the left sides of the masks. Other rules (very numerous) for making the masks will not be mentioned in this place. Fibulæ and ulnæ other than those belonging to the deer that furnished the skin must not be used on the latter. 14. This mask, made of leaves of Yucca baccata, from which the thick dorsal portions have been torn away, is used in the rite of the night chant. The observances connected with the culling of the leaves, the manufacture of the mask, and the destruction of the same after use, are too numerous to be detailed here. The author never succeeded in getting such a mask to keep (the obligation on the shaman to tear it up when it has served its purpose seemed imperative), but he was allowed to take two photographs of it, one before the fringe of spruce twigs was applied, the other when the mask was finished, as shown in fig. 26. 15. The following account taken from "The Prayer of a Navajo Shaman,"[315] and repeated here at the request of Mr. Newell, shows how definitely fixed was the limit of this part of the tale in the mind of the narrator:-- "In none of my interviews with him (Hatáli Nez) had he shown any impatience with my demands for explanations as we progressed, or with interruptions in our work. He lingered long over his meals, lighted many cigarettes and smoked them leisurely, got tired early in the evening, and was always willing to go to bed as early as I would let him. When, however, he came to relate the creation myth, all this was changed. He arrived early; he remained late; he hastened through his meals; he showed evidence of worry at all delays and interruptions, and frequently begged me to postpone minor explanations. On being urged to explain this change of spirit he said that we were travelling in the land of the dead, in a place of evil and potent ghosts, just so long as he continued to relate those parts of the myth which recount the adventures of his ancestors in the nether world, and that we were in danger so long as our minds remained there; but that when we came to that part of the tale where the people ascend to this--the fifth and last world--we need no longer feel uneasy and could then take our time. His subsequent actions proved that he had given an honest explanation. "It was near sunset one afternoon, and an hour or more before his supper time, that he concluded his account of the subterranean wanderings of the Navajos and brought them safely through the "Place of Emergence," in the San Juan Mountains, to the surface of this world. Then he ceased to speak, rolled a cigarette, said he was tired, that he would not be able to tell me any more that night, and left me. "After his departure I learned that he had announced to some of his friends during the day that he would have to pray at night to counteract the evil effects of his journey through the lower world. After his supper he retired to the apartment among the old adobe huts at Defiance in which he had been assigned room to sleep. I soon followed, and, having waited in the adjoining passage half an hour or more, I heard the voice of the old man rising in the monotonous tones of formulated prayer. Knowing that the rules of the shaman forbade the interruption of any prayer or song, I abruptly entered the room and sat down on the floor near the supplicant." (Thus the prayer in question became known to the author.) 15a. "Tune us the sitar neither low nor high."--The Light of Asia. 16. Hatál, in Navaho, means a sacred song, a hymn or chant,--not a trivial song: hence the names of their great ceremonies contain this word, as dsilyi'dze hatál (the mountain chant); klédzi hatál (the night chant), etc. The man who conducts a ceremony is called hatáli (chanter or singer). As equivalents for this word the author uses the terms shaman, priest, medicine-man, and chanter. One who treats disease by drugs is called azé-eli'ni, or medicine-maker. 17. No antecedent. We are first told to whom "they" refers in paragraph 139. 18. In symbolizing by color the four cardinal points, the Navahoes have two principal systems, as follows:-- East. South. West. North. First System White. Blue. Yellow. Black. Second System Black. Blue. Yellow. White. Both systems are the same, except that the colors black and white change places. The reasons for this change have not been satisfactorily determined. In general, it seems that when speaking of places over ground--lucky and happy places--the first system is employed; while, when places underground--usually places of danger--are described, the second system is used. But there are many apparent exceptions to the latter rule. In one version of the Origin Legend (Version B) the colors are arranged according to the second system both in the lower and upper worlds. In the version of the same legend here published the first system is given for all places in the lower worlds, except in the house of Tiéholtsodi under the waters (par. 178), where the east room is described as dark and the room in the north as being of all colors. Yet the Indian who gave this version (Hatáli Nez), in his Prayer of the Rendition (note 315), applies the second system to all regions traversed below the surface of the earth by the gods who come to rescue the lost soul. Although he does not say that the black chamber is in the east, he shows it corresponds with the east by mentioning it first. Hatáli Natlói, in the "Story of Nati'nesthani," follows the first system in all cases except when describing the house of Tiéholtsodi under the water, where the first chamber is represented as black and the last as white. Although in this case the rooms may be regarded as placed one above another, the black being mentioned first shows that it is intended to correspond with the east. In all cases, in naming the points of the compass, or anything which symbolizes them, or in placing objects which pertain to them (note 227), the east comes first, the south second, the west third, the north fourth. The sunwise circuit is always followed. If the zenith and nadir are mentioned, the former comes fifth and the latter sixth in order. The north is sometimes symbolized by "all colors," i.e., white, blue, yellow, and black mixed (note 22), and sometimes by red. In the myth of dsilyi'dze hatál[314] (the story of Dsi'lyi` Neyáni) five homes of holy people underground are described, in all of which the second system is used. See, also, note 111, where the second system is applied to the house of the sun. In the story of the "Great Shell of Kintyél" at the home of the Spider Woman underground, in the sky world, the east is represented by black and the north by white. (See par. 581 and note 40.) 19. There are but three streams and but nine villages or localities mentioned, while twelve winged tribes are named. Probably three are supposed to have lived in the north where no stream ran, or there may have been a fourth river in the Navaho paradise, whose name is for some reason suppressed. References to the sacred number four are introduced with tiresome pertinacity into all Navaho legends. 20. Version B.--In the first world three dwelt, viz.: First Man, First Woman, and Coyote. 21. The swallow to which reference is made here is the cliff swallow,--Petrochelidon lunifrons. 22. The colors given to the lower worlds in this legend--red for the first, blue for the second, yellow for the third, and mixed for the fourth--are not in the line of ordinary Navaho symbolism (note 18), but they agree very closely with some Moki symbolism, as described by Victor Mindeleff in his "Study of Pueblo Architecture,"[324] p. 129. The colors there mentioned, if placed in order according to the Navaho system (note 18), would stand thus: red (east), blue (south), yellow (west), white (north). Mixed colors sometimes take the place of the north or last in Navaho symbolism. Possibly Moki elements have entered into this version of the Navaho legend. (See par. 91.) 23. Version B.--In the second world, when First Man, First Woman, and Coyote ascended, they found those who afterwards carried the sun and moon, and, beyond the bounds of the earth, he of the darkness in the east, he of the blueness in the south, he of the yellowness in the west, and he of the whiteness in the north (perhaps the same as White Body, Blue Body, etc., of the fourth world in the present version. See par. 160). Sun and First Woman were the transgressors who caused the exodus. 24. Version B.--When the five individuals mentioned in note 23 came from the second world, they found the "people of the mountains" already occupying the third world. 25. Version B.--The people were chased from the third world to the fourth world by a deluge and took refuge in a reed, as afterwards related of the flight from the fourth world. 26. In the Navaho tales, when the yéi (genii, gods) come to visit men, they always announce their approach by calling four times. The first call is faint, far, and scarcely audible. Each succeeding call is louder and more distinct. The last call sounds loud and near, and in a moment after it is heard the god makes his appearance. These particulars concerning the gods' approach are occasionally briefly referred to; but usually the story-teller repeats them at great length with a modulated voice, and he pantomimically represents the recipient of the visit, starting and straining his attention to discern the distant sounds. Nearly every god has his own special call. A few have none. Imperfect attempts have been made in this work to represent some of these calls by spelling them; but this method represents the original no better than "Bob White" represents the call of a quail. Some of the cries have been recorded by the writer on phonographic cylinders, but even these records are very imperfect. In the ceremonies of the Navahoes, the masked representatives of the gods repeat these calls. The calls of Hastséyalti and Hastséhogan are those most frequently referred to in the tales. (Pars. 287, 378, 471, etc.) 27. Yellow corn belongs to the female, white corn to the male. This rule is observed in all Navaho ceremonies, and is mentioned in many Navaho myths. (Pars. 164, 291, 379; note 107, etc.) 28. An ear of corn used for sacred purposes must be completely covered with full grains, or at least must have been originally so covered. One having abortive grains at the top is not used. For some purposes, as in preparing the implements used in initiating females in the rite of klédzi hatál, not only must the ear of corn be fully covered by grains, but it must be tipped by an arrangement of four grains. Such an ear of corn is called tohonoti'ni. 29. The Navaho word nátli or nu'tle is here translated hermaphrodite, because the context shows that reference is made to anomalous creatures. But the word is usually employed to designate that class of men, known perhaps in all wild Indian tribes, who dress as women, and perform the duties usually allotted to women in Indian camps. Such persons are called berdaches (English, bardash) by the French Canadians. By the Americans they are called hermaphrodites (commonly mispronounced "morphodites"), and are generally supposed to be such. 30. These so-called hermaphrodites (note 29) are, among all Indian tribes that the author has observed, more skilful in performing women's work than the women themselves. The Navahoes, in this legend, credit them with the invention of arts practised by women. The best weaver in the Navaho tribe, for many years, was a nátli. 31. Masks made from the skins of deer-heads and antelope-heads, with or without antlers, have been used by various Indian tribes, in hunting, to deceive the animals and allow the hunters to approach them. There are several references to such masks in the Navaho tales, as in the story of Nati'nesthani (par. 544) and in the myth of "The Mountain Chant," page 391.[314] In the latter story, rites connected with the deer mask are described. 32. The quarrel between First Man and First Woman came to pass in this way: When she had finished her meal she wiped her hands in her dress and said: "E`yéhe si-tsod" (Thanks, my vagina). "What is that you say?" asked First Man. "E`éhe si-tsod," she repeated. "Why do you speak thus?" he queried; "Was it not I who killed the deer whose flesh you have eaten? Why do you not thank me? Was it tsod that killed the deer?" "Yes," she replied; "if it were not for that, you would not have killed the deer. If it were not for that, you lazy men would do nothing. It is that which does all the work." "Then, perhaps, you women think you can live without the men," he said. "Certainly we can. It is we women who till the fields and gather food: we can live on the produce of our fields, and the seeds and fruits we collect. We have no need of you men." Thus they argued. First Man became more and more angry with each reply that his wife made, until at length, in wrath, he jumped across the fire. 33. During the separation of the sexes, both the men and the women were guilty of shameful practices, which the story-tellers very particularly describe. Through the transgressions of the women the anáye, alien gods or monsters, who afterwards nearly annihilated the human race, came into existence; but no evil consequences followed the transgressions of the men. Thus, as usual, a moral lesson is conveyed to the women, but none to the men. 34, 35. Notes 34 and 35 are omitted. 36. Version A.--Water in the east, black; south, blue; west, yellow; north, white. In the ceremony of hozóni hatál a picture representing Tiéholtsodi and the four waters is said to be made. 37. Version A says that the nodes were woven by the spider, and that different animals dwelt in the different internodes. Version B says that the great reed took more than one day to grow to the sky; that it grew by day and rested by night; that the hollow internodes now seen in the reed show where it grew by day, and the solid nodes show where it rested by night. Some say four reeds were planted to form one, others that one reed only was planted. 38. Version B.--The Turkey was the last to take refuge in the reed, therefore he was at the bottom. When the waters rose high enough to wet the Turkey he gobbled, and all knew that danger was near. Often did the waves wash the end of his tail; and it is for this reason that the tips of turkeys' tail-feathers are, to this day, lighter than the rest of the plumage. 39. Version A.--First Man and First Woman called on all the digging animals (i'ndatsidi dáltso) to help. These were: Bear, Wolf, Coyote, Lynx, and Badger. First, Bear dug till he was tired; then Coyote took his place, and so on. When badger was digging, water began to drip down from above: then they knew they had struck the waters of the upper world, and sent Locust up. Locust made a sort of shaft in the soft mud, such as locusts make to this day. 40. Version A says there were four cranes; Version B, that there were four swans. Both versions say that the bird of the east was black, that of the south blue, that of the west yellow, and that of the north white. (See note 18.) 41. Two versions, A and B, have it that the bird passed the arrows through from mouth to vent, and vice versa, but all make the Locust pass his arrows through his thorax. Another version relates that two of the birds said: "You can have the land if you let us strike you in the forehead with an axe." Locust consented. They missed their aim and cut off his cheeks, which accounts for his narrow face now. Version A relates that the arrows were plumed with eagle-feathers. 42. Version A.--The Locust, before transfixing himself with the arrows, shoved his vitals down into his abdomen; then he changed his mind and shoved them high into his chest. That accounts for his big chest now. 43. A small lake situated somewhere in the San Juan Mountains is said to be the place through which the people came from the fourth world to this world. It is surrounded, the Indians tell, by precipitous cliffs, and has a small island near its centre, from the top of which something rises that looks like the top of a ladder. Beyond the bounding cliffs there are four mountain peaks,--one to the east, one to the south, one to the west, and one to the north of the lake,--which are frequently referred to in the songs and myths of the Navahoes. These Indians fear to visit the shores of this lake, but they climb the surrounding mountains and view its waters from a distance. The place is called Ha-dzi-naí, or Ni-ho-yos-tsá-tse, which names may be freely translated Place of Emergence, or Land Where They Came Up. The San Juan Mountains abound in little lakes. Which one of these is considered by the Navahoes as their Place of Emergence is not known, and it is probable that it could only be determined by making a pilgrimage thither with a party of Navahoes who knew the place. Mr. Whitman Cross, of the United States Geological Survey, who has made extensive explorations in the San Juan Mountains, relates that Trout Lake is regarded by the Indians as a sacred lake; that they will not camp near it, and call it a name which is rendered Spirit Lake. This sheet of water is designated as San Miguel Lake on the maps of Hayden's Survey. It lies near the line of the Rio Grande Southern Railroad, at the head of the South Fork of San Miguel River. It has no island. A small lake, which accords more in appearance with the Navahoes' description of their sacred lake, is Island Lake. This has a small, rocky island in the middle. It is situated on a branch of the South Fork of Mineral Creek, three miles southeast of Ophir, Colorado, at an altitude of 12,450 feet. Prof. A. H. Thompson has suggested that Silver Lake, about five miles southeasterly from Silverton, Colorado, may be the Place of Emergence. This lake is 11,600 feet above sea-level, and is surrounded by four high mountain peaks, but it has no island. 44. Version A.--Gánaskidi struck the cliffs with his wand. "Gong ê'" it sounded, and broke the cliffs open. Version B.--He of the darkness of the east cut the cliffs with his knife shaped like a horn. 45. Version A.--They prayed to the four Winds,--the black Wind of the east, the blue Wind of the south, the yellow Wind of the west, and the white Wind of the north,--and they sang a wind-song which is still sung in the rite of hozóni hatál. Version B.--They prayed to the four Winds. 46. The Kisáni, being builders of stone houses, set up a stone wall; the others, representing the Navahoes, set up a shelter of brushwood, as is the custom of the Navahoes now. 47. Tsi-di'l, or tsin-di'l is a game played by the Navaho women. The principal implements of the game are three sticks, which are thrown violently, ends down, on a flat stone, around which the gamblers sit. The sticks rebound so well that they would fly far away, were not a blanket stretched overhead to throw them back to the players. A number of small stones, placed in the form of a square, are used as counters; these are not moved, but sticks, whose positions are changed according to the fortunes of the game, are placed between them. The rules of the game have not been recorded. The other games were: dilkón, played with two sticks, each the length of an arm; atsá, played with forked sticks and a ring; and aspi'n. 48. Version A.--Coyote and Hastsézini were partners in the theft of the young of Tiéholtsodi. When Coyote saw the water rising, he pointed with his protruded lips (as Indians often do) to the water, and glanced significantly at his accomplice. First Man observed the glance, had his suspicions aroused, and began to search. 49. Other variants of the story of the restoration of Tiéholtsodi's young speak of sacrifices and peace offerings in keeping with the Indian custom. Version A.--They got a haliotis shell of enormous size, so large that a man's encircling arm could barely surround it. Into this they put other shells and many precious stones. They sprinkled pollen on the young and took some of it off again, for it had been rendered more holy by contact with the bodies of the young sea monsters. Then they put these also into the shell and laid all on the horns of Tiéholtsodi; at once he disappeared under the earth and the waters went down after him. The pollen taken from the young was distributed among the people, and brought them rain and game and much good fortune. Version B.--"At once they threw them (the young) down to their father, and with them a sacrifice of the treasures of the sea,--their shell ornaments. In an instant the waters began to rush down through the hole and away from the lower worlds." 50. Some give the name of the hermaphrodite who died as Natliyilhátse, and say that "she" is now the chief of devils in the lower world,--perhaps the same as the Woman Chief referred to in the "Prayer of a Navaho Shaman." [315] Version B says that the first to die was the wife of a great chief. (See note 68.) 51. Version A describes the making of the sacred mountains thus: Soon after the arrival of the people in the fifth world (after the first sudatory had been built and the first corn planted), some one said: "It would be well if we had in this world such mountains as we had in the world below." "I have brought them with me," said First Man. He did not mean to say he had brought the whole of the mountains with him, but only a little earth from each, with which to start new mountains here. The people laid down four sacred buckskins[18] and two sacred baskets[5] for him to make his mountains on, for there were six sacred mountains in the lower world, just as there are six in this, and they were named the same there as they now are here. The mountain in the east, Tsisnadzi'ni, he made of clay from the mountain of the east below, mixed with white shell. The mountain of the south, Tsótsil, he made of earth from below mixed with turquoise. The mountain of the west he made of earth mixed with haliotis or abalone shell. The mountain of the north he made of earth mixed with cannel coal.[158] Dsilnáotil he made of earth from the similar mountain in the lower world, mixed with goods of all kinds (yúdi althasaí). Tsolíhi he made of earth from below, mixed with shells and precious stones of all kinds (inkli'z althasaí). While they were still on the buckskins and baskets, ten songs were sung which now belong to the rites of hozóni hatál. The burdens of these songs are as follows:-- 1st. Long ago he thought of it. 2d. Long ago he spoke of it. 3d. A chief among mountains he brought up with him. 4th. A chief among mountains he has made. 5th. A chief among mountains is rising. 6th. A chief among mountains is beginning to stand. 7th. A chief among mountains stands up. 8th. A cigarette for a chief among mountains we make. 9th. A chief among mountains smokes. 10th. A chief among mountains is satisfied. When the people came up from the lower world they were under twelve chiefs, but only six of them joined in the singing these songs, and to-day six men sing them. When the mountains were made, the god of each of the four quarters of the world carried one away and placed it where it now stands. The other two were left in the middle of the world and are there still. A pair of gods were then put to live in each mountain, as follows: East, Dawn Boy and Dawn Girl, called also White Shell Boy and White Shell Girl; south, Turquoise Boy and Turquoise Girl; west, Twilight Boy and Haliotis Girl; north, Darkness (or Cannel Coal) Boy and Darkness Girl: at Dsilnáotil, All-goods (Yúdi-althasaí) Boy and All-goods Girl; at Tsolíhi, All-jewels (Inkli'z-althasaí) Boy and All-jewels Girl. Version B speaks of the making of only four mountains, and very briefly of this. 52. Tsis-na-dzi'n-i is the name of the sacred mountain which the Navahoes regard as bounding their country on the east. It probably means Dark Horizontal Belt. The mountain is somewhere near the pueblo of Jemez, in Bernalillo County, New Mexico. It is probably Pelado Peak, 11,260 feet high, 20 miles N.N.E. of the pueblo. White shell and various other objects of white--the color of the east--belong to the mountain. 53. Tse`-gá-di-na-ti-ni A-si-ké (Rock Crystal Boy) and Tse`-gá-di-na-ti-ni A-tét (Rock Crystal Girl) are the deities of Tsisnadzi'ni. They were brought up from the lower world as small images of stone; but as soon as they were put in the mountain they came to life. 54. Tsó-tsil, or Tsó`-dsil, from tso, great, and dsil, a mountain, is the Navaho name of a peak 11,389 feet high in Valencia County, New Mexico. Its summit is over twelve miles distant, in a direct line, east by north, from McCarty's Station on the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad. It is called by the Mexicans San Mateo, and was on September 18, 1849, named Mt. Taylor, "in honor of the President of the United States," by Lieut. J. H. Simpson, U.S. Army.[328] On the maps of the United States Geological Survey, the whole mountain mass is marked "San Mateo Mountains," and the name "Mount Taylor" is reserved for the highest peak. This is one of the sacred mountains of the Navahoes, and is regarded by them as bounding their country on the south, although at the present day some of the tribe live south of the mountain. They say that San Mateo is the mountain of the south and San Francisco is the mountain of the west, yet the two peaks are nearly in the same latitude. One version of the Origin Legend (Version B) makes San Mateo the mountain of the east, but all other versions differ from this. Blue being the color of the south, turquoise and other blue things, as named in the myth, belong to this mountain. As blue also symbolizes the female, she-rain belongs to San Mateo. Plate III. is from a photograph taken somewhere in the neighborhood of Chavez Station, about thirty-five miles in a westerly direction from the summit of the mountain. 55. Dot-li'-zi Lá-i Na-yo-á-li A-si-ké, Boy Who Carries One Turquoise; Na-tá Lá-i Na-yo-á-li Atét, Girl Who Carries One (Grain of) Corn. 56. Do-kos-líd or Do-ko-os-li'd, is the Navaho name of San Francisco Mountain, one of the most prominent landmarks in Arizona. The summit of this peak is distant in a direct line about twelve miles nearly north from the town of Flagstaff, on the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, in Yavapai County, Arizona. The precise meaning of the Indian name has not been ascertained, but the name seems to contain, modified, the words to` and kos, the former meaning water and the latter cloud. It is the sacred mountain of the Navahoes, which they regard as bounding their land on the west. The color of the west, yellow, and the various things, mostly yellow, which symbolize the west, as mentioned in the myth, are sacred to it. Haliotis shell, although highly iridescent, is regarded by the Navahoes as yellow, and hence is the shell sacred to the mountain. In Navaho sacred songs, the peak is called, figuratively, The Wand of Haliotis. Plate II. is from a photograph taken on the south side of the mountain, at a point close to the railroad, two or three miles east of Flagstaff. 57. The name Na-tál-kai A-si-ké (White Corn Boy) is from natán (corn), lakaí (white), and asiké or iské (boy). The name Natáltsoi Atét (Yellow Corn Girl), comes from natán (corn), litsói (yellow), and atét (girl). In paragraph 291 mention is made of the creation of a White Corn Boy and a Yellow Corn Girl. It is not certain whether these are the same as the deities of Dokoslíd, but it is probable the Navahoes believe in more than one divine pair with these names. 58. Depe'ntsa, the Navaho name for the San Juan Mountains in southwestern Colorado, is derived from two words,--depé (the Rocky Mountain sheep) and intsá (scattered all over, widely distributed). These mountains are said to bound the Navaho land on the north. Somewhere among them lies Níhoyostsátse, the Place of Emergence (note 43). Black being the color of the north, various black things, such as pászini (cannel coal),[158] blackbirds, etc., belong to these mountains. There are many peaks in this range from 10,000 to 14,000 feet high. 59. Tha-di-tín A-si-ké (Pollen Boy), A-nil-tá-ni A-tét (Grasshopper Girl). In paragraphs 290, 291, these are referred to again. In a dry-painting of klédzi hatál, Grasshopper Girl is depicted in corn pollen. 60. Dsil-ná-o-til seems to mean a mountain encircled with blood, but the Navahoes declare that such is not the meaning. They say it means the mountain that has been encircled by people travelling around it, and that, when Estsánatlehi and her people lived there they moved their camp to various places around the base of the mountain. Of course this is all mythical. Had the author ever seen this mountain, he might conjecture the significance of the name; but he does not even know its location. The name of the Carrizo Mountains, Dsilnáodsil, meaning Mountain Surrounded with Mountains, is nearly the same; but when the writer visited the Carrizo Mountains in 1892 he was assured by the Indians that the sacred hill was not there. Dsilnáotil is rendered in this work Encircled Mountain, which is only an approximate translation. It is altogether a matter of conjecture why goods of all kinds--yúdi althasaí (see note 61)--are thought to belong to this mountain. 61. Yú-di Nai-di-si's-i A-si-ké, Boy who Produces Goods, or causes the increase of goods; Yú-di Nai-di-si's-i A-tét (Girl Who Produces Goods). Yódi or yúdi is here translated "goods." It originally referred to furs, skins, textile fabrics, and such things as Indians bartered among themselves, except food and jewels. The term is now applied to nearly all the merchandise to be found in a trader's store. 62. Tso-lí-hi, or Tso-lín-i, is one of the seven sacred mountains of the Navaho country. Its location has not been determined, neither has the meaning of its name. Perhaps the name is derived from tsó, the spruce (Pseudotsuga taxifolia). We can only conjecture what relation the mountain may have to jewels. 63. Tsoz-gá-li, a large yellow bird, species undetermined. 64. In-kli'z Nai-di-si's-i A-si-ké (Boy Who Produces Jewels); In-kli'z Nai-di-si's-i Atét (Girl who Produces Jewels). Inkli'z means something hard and brittle. It is here translated "jewels" for want of a better term. It is not usually applied to finished jewels, but to the materials out of which the Navaho jewels are made, such as shells, turquoise in the rough, cannel coal, and other stones, many of which are of little value to us, but are considered precious by the Navahoes. 65. A-ki-da-nas-tá-ni, signifying One-round-thing-sitting-on-top-of-another, is the Navaho name of an eminence called on our maps Hosta Butte, which is situated in Bernalillo County, New Mexico, 14 miles N.N.E. of Chavez Station on the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad. This butte or mesa has an altitude of 8,837 feet. Being surrounded by hills much lower, it is a prominent landmark. 66. Tse`-ha-dá-ho-ni-ge, or mirage-stone, is so called because it is thought in some way to look like a mirage. The writer has seen pieces of this in the pollen bags of the medicine-men, but never could procure a piece of it. They offered to exchange for another piece, but would not sell. A stone (Chinese idol) which they pronounced similar was analyzed by the chemists of the United States Geological Survey in Washington, and found to be silicate of magnesia, probably pyrophyllite. Such, perhaps, is the mirage-stone. The author offered the Chinese idol to one of the shamans in exchange for his mirage-stone; but, having heard that the stone image represented a Chinese god, the shaman feared to make the trade. 67. Tó`-la-nas-tsi is a mixture of all kinds of water, i.e., spring water, snow water, hail water, and water from the four quarters of the world. Such water Tó`nenili is supposed to have carried in his jars. Water used to-day in some of the Navaho rites approximates this mixture as closely as possible. 68. The subject of the dead belonging to the Sun and the Moon is explained at length in the version of Náltsos Nigéhani (Version B) thus: "On the fifth day (after the people came up to the surface of this world) the sun climbed as usual to the zenith and (then) stopped. The day grew hot and all longed for the night to come, but the sun moved not. Then the wise Coyote said: 'The sun stops because he has not been paid for his work; he demands a human life for every day that he labors; he will not move again till some one dies.' At length a woman, the wife of a great chief, ceased to breathe and grew cold, and while they all drew around in wonder, the sun was observed to move again, and he travelled down the sky and passed behind the western mountains.... That night the moon stopped in the zenith, as the sun had done during the day; and the Coyote told the people that the moon also demanded pay and would not move until it was given. He had scarcely spoken when the man who had seen the departed woman in the nether world died, and the moon, satisfied, journeyed to the west. Thus it is that some one must die every night, or the moon would not move across the sky. But the separation of the tribes occurred immediately after this, and now the moon takes his pay from among the alien races, while the sun demands the life of a Navaho as his fee for passing every day over the earth." 69. Many of the Indians tell that the world was originally small and was increased in size. The following is the version of Náltsos Nigéhani (B): "The mountains that bounded the world were not so far apart then as they are now; hence the world was smaller, and when the sun went over the earth he came nearer to the surface than he does now. So the first day the sun went on his journey it was intolerably hot; the people were almost burned to death, and they prayed to the four winds that each one would pull his mountain away from the centre of the earth, and thus widen the borders of the world. It was done as they desired, and the seas that bounded the land receded before the mountains. But on the second day, although the weather was milder, it was still too hot, and again were the mountains and seas removed. All this occurred again on the third day; but on the fourth day they found the weather pleasant, and they prayed no more for the earth to be changed." 70. The story of the making of the stars is told in essentially the same way by many story-tellers. It is surprising that Hatáli Nez totally omitted it. The following is the tale as told by Náltsos Nigéhani: "Now First Man and First Woman thought it would be better if the sky had more lights, for there were times when the moon did not shine at night. So they gathered a number of fragments of sparkling mica of which to make stars, and First Man proceeded to lay out a plan of the heavens, on the ground. He put a little fragment in the north, where he wished to have the star that would never move, and he placed near it seven great pieces, which are the seven stars we behold in the north now. He put a great bright one in the south, another in the east, and a third in the west, and then went on to plan various constellations, when along came Coyote, who, seeing that three pieces were red, exclaimed, 'These shall be my stars, and I will place them where I think best;' so he put them in situations corresponding to places that three great red stars now occupy among the celestial lights. Before First Man got through with his work, Coyote became impatient, and, saying, 'Oh! they will do as they are,' he hastily gathered the fragments of mica, threw them upwards, and blew a strong breath after them. Instantly they stuck to the sky. Those to which locations had been assigned adhered in their proper places; but the others were scattered at random and in formless clusters over the firmament." See "A Part of the Navajo's Mythology," pp. 7, 8.[306] 71. The following are some of the destroyers who sprang from this blood:-- Tse`nagahi, Travelling Stone. Tsindilhásitso, Great Wood That Bites. Bitsóziyeada`a`i, Sánisdzol, Old Age Lying Down. Tse`tlahódilyil, Black Under Cliffs. Tse`tlahódotli'z, Blue Under Cliffs. Tsé`tlahaltsó, Yellow Under Cliffs Tsé`tlahalkaí, White Under Cliffs. Tse`tlahóditsos, Sparkling Under Cliffs. Tsadidahaltáli, Devouring Antelope. Yeitsolapáhi, Brown Yéitso. Lokáadikisi, Slashing Reeds. "You see colors under the rocks, at the bottoms of the cliffs, and when you approach them some invisible enemy kills you. These are the same as the Tse`tlayaltí`, or Those Who Talk Under the Cliffs." Thus said Hatáli Nez when questioned. 72. Kintyél or Kintyê'li.--This name (from kin, a stone or adobe house, a pueblo house, and tyel, broad) means simply Broad Pueblo,--one covering much ground. It is applied to at least two ruined pueblos in the Navaho country. One of these--the Pueblo Grande of the Mexicans, situated "twenty-two or twenty-three miles north of Navaho Springs," a station on the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, in Arizona--is well described and depicted by Mr. Victor Mindeleff in his "Study of Pueblo Architecture."[326] The other--the Kintyél to which reference is made in this story--is in the Chaco Canyon, in New Mexico. With its name spelled "Kintail," and rendered "the Navajo name for ruin," it is mentioned by Mr. F. T. Bickford,[293] and one of his pictures, probably representing Kintyél, is here reproduced (fig. 36). In the Journal of American Folk-Lore, April-June, 1889, the author says: "I have reason to believe that this pueblo is identical with that seen and described in 1849 by Lieut. J. H. Simpson, U.S.A., under the name of Pueblo Chettro Kettle." 73. The name Has-tsé-yal-ti, spelled according to the alphabet of the Bureau of Ethnology "Qastcéyalçi" may be translated Talking God, or Talking Elder of the Gods. Hastséyalti is otherwise called Yébitsai, or the Maternal Grandfather of the Gods. He is a chief or leader among several groups of local divinities who are said to dwell at Kininaékai, in the Chelly Canyon, at Tse'nitse, Tsé`híhi, and at various other sacred places. Although called a talking god, the man who personates him in the rites never speaks while in character, but utters a peculiar whoop and makes signs. In the myths, however, the god is represented as speaking, usually after he has whooped and made signs. (Par. 472.) He is a beneficent character, always ready to help man and rescue him from peril. He is sometimes spoken of and prayed to as if there were but one, but the myths show that the Navahoes believe in many gods of this name, and in some prayers it is distinctly specified which one is meant by naming his home in connection with him. In plate I. he is shown, as represented in the dry-paintings, carrying a tobacco bag made of the skin of Abert's squirrel (Sciurus aberti). In the picture the black tips of toes, nose, and ears, and the reddish (chestnut) spot on the back of the squirrel, are carefully indicated. The dry-painting shows the more important characters of the mask worn by the personator,--the eagle-plumes at the back, the owl-feathers at the base of the plume-ornament, and the peculiar symbols at mouth and eyes,--but it does not show the cornstalk symbol over the nose. Fig. 27, taken from a photograph, shows the mask trimmed with its collar of fresh spruce boughs, as it appears when used in the dance of naakhaí on the last night of the ceremony of klédzi hatál. The personator of Hastséyalti has his whole person clothed, while the representatives of other gods go nearly naked. The proper covering for his back is a number of finely dressed deerskins, one over another, tied together in front by the skins of the legs; but of late years the masquerader often appears in an ordinary calico shirt. The symbol surrounding each of the holes for the eyes and mouth is this [symbol]. It is said to represent the storm cloud hanging above, and the mist rising from below to meet it. Thus cloud and mist often appear in the mountains of the Navaho land during the rainy season, Hastséyalti or the Yébitsai is the principal character in the great rite of klédzi hatál, or the night chant. Our people, who often go to witness the public performance of the last night in this rite, call it the Yébitsai (Yáybichy) dance. The songs and prayers in which Hastséyalti is mentioned are numerous. For the points in which fig. 2, plate I., agree with fig. 1, plate I., see note 74. 74. Has-tsé-ho-gan, spelled with alphabet of Bureau of Ethnology, Qastcéqogan, may be freely translated House God. Hastséhogan is one of the leading personages in each of the local groups of the yéi, or divine beings, who dwell in caves and old cliff-dwellings. He is commonly spoken of as if there were but one; but an examination of the myths shows that the Navahoes believe in many of these gods. Those of Tse`gíhi, Tsé`nihogan, Tsé`nitse, Kininaékai, and the sacred mountains are the ones most commonly worshipped. In most myths he appears as second in authority to Hastséyalti, the Talking God, but occasionally he is represented as equal or even superior to the latter. He is a farm god as well as a house god. To him are attributed the farm-songs sung during the night chant (see note 322), and many other songs. He is a beneficent character and a friend to man. There are many songs and prayers in his honor. In the rite of klédzi hatál, or the night chant, he is represented in the dance by a man wearing a collar of spruce, a blue mask decorated with eagle-plumes and moccasins, with shirt and leggings, which should be (but of late years are not always) of buckskin. He is depicted in the dry-paintings thus (see plate I., fig. 1): He wears a black shirt ornamented with four star-like ornaments embroidered in porcupine quills, and having a fancy fringe of porcupine quills at the bottom; white buckskin leggings; colored garters; quill-embroidered moccasins, tied on with white strings; long ear-pendants of turquoise and coral; bracelets of the same; an otter-skin (hanging below the right ear), from which depend six buckskin strings with colored porcupine quills wrapped around them; a cap-like (male) mask painted blue, fringed with red hair, and adorned with eagle-plumes and owl-feathers. He carries a staff (gis) painted black (with the charcoal of four sacred plants), streaked transversely with white, and adorned with a single cluster of turkey tail-feathers arranged as a whorl, and two eagle plumes, which, like the plumes on the head, are tipped with small, downy eagle-feathers. The yellow stripe at the chin indicates a similar stripe on the mask actually worn, and symbolizes the yellow light of evening (nahotsóí). The neck of this as well as the other divine figures is painted blue, and crossed with four stripes in red. Some say that this indicates the larynx with its cartilaginous rings; others say that it represents the collar of spruce-twigs; others are uncertain of its meaning. If it does not represent the spruce collars, it represents nothing in the costume of the masquerader, which, in other respects, except the quill embroideries, agrees closely with the picture, Hastséyalti is also a dawn god, Hastséhogan a god of evening. 75. In the Navaho tales, men frequently receive friendly warnings or advice from wind gods who whisper into their ears. Some story-tellers--as in the version of the origin myth here given--speak of one wind god only, whom they call simply Ni'ltsi (Wind); while others--as in the story of Nati'nesthani--speak of Ni'ltsi-diné` (Wind People) and Niltsiázi-diné` (Little Wind People) as the friendly prompters. 76. The game of nánzoz, as played by the Navahoes, is much the same as the game of chungkee played by the Mandans, described and depicted by Catlin in his "North American Indians,"[296] vol. i., page 132, plate 59. A hoop is rolled along the ground and long poles are thrown after it. The Mandan pole was made of a single piece of wood. The pole of the Navahoes is made of two pieces, usually alder, each a natural fathom long; the pieces overlap and are bound together by a long branching strap of hide called thágibike, or turkey-claw. 77. These shells may not be altogether mythical. Possibly they are the same as those described in the story of "The Great Shell of Kintyél" given in this book. 78. Vague descriptions only of Bé-ko-tsi-di so far have been obtained. He is not represented by any masked characters in the ceremonies, or by any picture in the dry-paintings. No description of his appearance has been recorded, except that he looks like an old man. There is a myth concerning him of which a brief epitome has been recorded. There are four songs of sequence connected with this myth. If a Navaho wants a fine horse, he thinks he may get it by singing the second and third of these songs and praying to Békotsidi. In his prayer he specifies the color and appearance of the horse desired. Some say that Békotsidi made all the animals whose creation is not otherwise accounted for in the myths. Others say that he and the Sun made the animals together. Others, again, limit his creation work to the larger game animals and the modern domestic animals. In this paragraph (228) it is said he is the god who carries the moon, while in paragraph 199 it is said the moon-bearer is Kléhanoai. Perhaps these are two names for one character. Some say he is the same as the God of the Americans. 79. Bayeta, Spanish for baize. The variety of baize which finds its way into the Navaho country is dyed some shade of crimson, and has a very long nap. It is supposed to be made in England especially for the Spanish-American trade, for each original bale bears a gaudy colored label with an inscription in Spanish. It takes the place in the Southwest of the scarlet strouding which used to form such an important article in the trade of our northern tribes. The bright red figures in the finer Navaho blankets, fifteen years or more ago, were all made of threads of ravelled bayeta. 80. The coyote, or prairie-wolf (Canis latrans), would seem to be regarded by the Navahoes as the type, or standard for comparison, among the wild Canidæ of the Southwest. The coyote is called mai; the great wolf, maítso, which means great coyote; and the kit fox (Vulpes velox) is called maidotli'z, which means blue or gray coyote. 81. Some versions say there were twelve brothers and one sister in this divine family, making thirteen in all. In this version the narrator tells how another brother was created by Estsánatlehi to make up for the loss of Léyaneyani, who left the brotherhood. (Par. 417.) Although called Diné` Nakidáta, or the Twelve People, these brothers are evidently divinities. True, they once died; but they came to life again and are now immortal. They are gifted with superhuman powers. 82. The sweat-house of the Navahoes (par. 25, fig. 15) is usually not more than three feet high. Diaphoresis is produced on the principle of the Turkish (not the Russian) bath. While the Indians of the North pour water on the hot stones and give a steam bath, the Navahoes simply place stones, heated in a fire outside, on the floor of the sweat-house, cover the entrance with blankets, and thus raise a high heat that produces violent perspiration. When the occupant comes out, if the bath is not ceremonial, he rolls himself in the sand, and, when his skin is thus dried, he brushes the sand away. He usually returns then to the sweat-house, and may repeat the operation several times in a single afternoon. If the sweat is ceremonial, the bath of yucca suds usually follows (see note 10), and the subject is dried with corn meal. 83. One version relates that, before they entered the sudatory, Coyote proposed they should produce emesis by tickling their throats,--a common practice among the Navahoes. He placed a large piece of pine bark before each, as a dish, and bade Yélapahi keep his eyes shut till he was told to open them. That day Coyote had fared poorly. He had found nothing to eat but a few bugs and worms, while Yélapahi had dined heartily on fat venison. When the emesis was over, Coyote exchanged the bark dishes and said to Yélapahi: "Open your eyes and see what bad things you have had in your stomach. These are the things that make you sick." The giant opened his eyes and beheld on the bark a lot of bugs and worms. "It is true, my friend, what you tell me," he said. "How did I get such vile things into me? No wonder I could not run fast." Coyote then told the giant to go before him into the sudatory, and when the giant had turned his back the hungry Coyote promptly devoured the contents of the other dish of bark. 84. The word tóhe (Englished thóhay), which may be interpreted stand, stick, or stay, is, in various rites, shouted in an authoritative tone when it is desired that some object shall obey the will of the conjurer. Thus in the dance of the standing arcs, as practised in the rite of the mountain chant, when an arc is placed on the head of a performer, and it is intended that it should stand without apparent means of support, the cry "tóhe" is frequently repeated. (See "The Mountain Chant,"[314] p. 437.) 85. The statement that the hair of the gods, both friendly and alien, is yellow, is made in other tales also. The hair of the ceremonial masks is reddish or yellowish. (See plates IV. and VII.) The hair of the gods is represented by red in the dry-pictures. Dull tints of red are often called yellow by the Navahoes. Various conjectures may be made to account for these facts. 86. The bridge of rainbow, as well as the trail of rainbow, is frequently introduced into Navaho tales. The Navaho land abounds in deep chasms and canyons, and the divine ones, in their wanderings, are said to bridge the canyons by producing rainbows. In the myth of "The Mountain Chant," p. 399 (note 314), the god Hastséyalti is represented as making a rainbow bridge for the hero to walk on. The hero steps on the bow, but sinks in it because the bow is soft; then the god blows a breath that hardens the bow, and the man walks on it with ease. A natural bridge near Fort Defiance, Arizona, is thought by the Navahoes to have been originally one of the rainbow bridges of Hastséyalti (See fig. 38.) 87. The spiders of Arizona are largely of the classes that live in the ground, including trap-door spiders, tarantulas, etc. 88. This legend and nearly all the legends of the Navaho make frequent allusions to yucca. Four kinds are mentioned: 1st, tsási or haskán. Yucca baccata (Torrey); 2d, tsasitsóz, or slender yucca, Yucca glauca (Nuttall), Yucca angustifolia (Pursh); 3d, yebitsasi, or yucca of the gods, probably Yucca radiosa (Trelease), Yucca elata (Engelmann); 4th, tsasibité or horned yucca, which seems to be but a stunted form or dwarf variety of Yucca baccata, never seen in bloom or in fruit by the author. Tsási is used as a generic name. All kinds are employed in the rites, sometimes indifferently; at other times only a certain species may be used. Thus in the sacred game of kesitsé,[176] the counters are made of the leaves of Y. glauca; in the initiation into the mystery of the Yébitsai, the candidate is flogged with the leaf of Y. baccata. Fig. 26 represents a mask used in the rites of klédzi hatál, which must be made only of the leaves of Y. baccata, culled with many singular observances. All these yuccas have saponine in their roots (which are known as tálawus or foam), and all are used for cleansing purposes. All have, in their leaves, long tough fibres which are utilized for all the purposes to which such fibres may be applied. One species only, Yucca baccata, has an edible fruit. This is called haskán (from hos, thorny, and kan, sweet), a name sometimes applied to the whole plant. The fruit is eaten raw and made into a tough, dense jelly, both by the Navaho and Pueblo Indians. The first and second kinds grow abundantly in the Navaho country; the third and fourth kinds are rarer. Fig. 40 represents a drumstick used in the rites of klédzi hatál, which must be made only of four leaves of Yucca baccata. The intricate observances connected with the manufacture, use, destruction, and sacrifice of this drumstick have already been described by the author.[321] 89. The cane cactus is Opuntia arborescens (Engelm.). 90. Tsiké Sas Nátlehi means literally Young Woman Who Changes to a Bear, or Maid Who Becomes a Bear. To judge from this tale, it might be thought that there was but one such character in the Navaho mythology and that she had died. But it appears from other legends and from rituals that the Navahoes believe in several such maidens, some of whom exist to this day. The hill of Tsúskai (note 9) is said in the myth of dsilyi'dze hatál to be the home of several of the Tsiké Sas Nátlehi now. It would seem from the songs of dsilyi'dze hatál that the Maid Who Becomes a Bear of later days is not considered as malevolent as the first of her kind. Her succor is sought by the sick. 91. See par. 26. From the language of this story, the conclusion may be drawn that death is not the only thing that renders a house haunted or evil but that, if great misfortune has entered there, it is also to be avoided. 92. This remark must refer only to the particular group whose story is traced. According to the legend, other bands of Diné` who had escaped the fury of the alien gods, existed at this time, and when they afterwards joined the Navahoes they were known as diné` digíni (holy or mystic people). (See pars. 385 and 387.) 93. The gods, and such men as they favor, are represented in the tales as making rapid and easy journeys on rainbows, sunbeams, and streaks of lightning. Such miraculous paths are called eti'n digíni, or holy trails. They are also represented as using sunbeams like rafts to float through the air. 94. Compare this account with the creation of First Man and First Woman. (Pars. 162-164.) 95. Es-tsá-na-tle-hi (par. 72) is never represented in the rites by a masquerader, and never depicted in the sand-paintings, as far as the author has been able to learn. Other versions of the legend account for her creation in other ways. Version A.--First Man and First Woman stayed at Dsilnáotil and camped in various places around the mountain. One day a black cloud descended on the mountain of Tsolíhi, and remained there four days. First Man said: "Surely something has happened from this; let some one go over there and see." First Woman went. She approached the mountain from the east, and wound four times around it in ascending it. On the top she found a female infant, who was the daughter of the Earth Mother (Naestsán, the Woman Horizontal) and the Sky Father (Yádilyil, the Upper Darkness). She picked up the child, who till that moment had been silent; but as soon as she was lifted she began to cry, and never ceased crying until she got home to Dsilnáotil. Salt Woman said she wanted the child. It is thought the sun fed the infant on pollen, for there was no one to nurse it. In twelve days she grew to be a big girl, and in eighteen days she became a woman, and they held the nubile ceremony over her. Twelve songs belong to this ceremony. Version B only says that First Woman found the infant lying on the ground and took it home to rear it. (See "Some Deities and Demons of the Navajos,"[313] pp. 844, 846.) 96. Yol-kaí Es-tsán signifies White Shell Woman. Yolkaí is derived by syncope from yo (a bead, or the shell from which a bead is made) and lakaí (white). Estsán means woman. As far as known, she is not represented by a character in any of the ceremonies, and not depicted in the dry-paintings. 97. Note omitted. 98. Tó`-ne-ni-li or Tó-ne-ni-li, Water Sprinkler, is an important character in Navaho mythology. He is a rain-god. In the dry-paintings of the Navaho rites he is shown as wearing a blue mask bordered with red, and trimmed on top with life-feathers. Sometimes he is represented carrying a water-pot. In the rite of klédzi hatál, during the public dance of the last night, he is represented by a masked man who enacts the part of a clown. While other masked men are dancing, this clown performs various antics according to his caprice. He walks along the line of dancers, gets in their way, dances out of order and out of time, peers foolishly at different persons, or sits on the ground, his hands clasped across his knees, his body rocking to and fro. At times he joins regularly in the dance; toward the close of a figure, and when the others have retired, pretending he is unaware of their departure, he remains, going through his steps. Then, feigning to suddenly discover the absence of the dancers, he follows them on a full run. Sometimes he carries a fox-skin, drops it on the ground, walks away as if unconscious of his loss; then, pretending to become aware of his loss, he turns around and acts as if searching anxiously for the skin, which lies plainly in sight. He screens his eyes with his hand and crouches low to look. Then, pretending to find the skin, he jumps on it and beats it as if it were a live animal that he seeks to kill. Next he shoulders and carries it as if it were a heavy burden. With such antics the personator of Tó`nenili assists in varying the monotony of the long night's performance. Though shown as a fool in the rites, he is not so shown in the myths. 99. They manipulated the abdominal parietes, in the belief that by so doing they would insure a favorable presentation. This is the custom among the Navahoes to-day. 100. Among the Navahoes, medicine-men act as accoucheurs. 101. Other versions make Estsánatlehi the mother of both War Gods, and give a less imaginative account of their conception. Version A.--The maiden Estsánatlehi went out to get wood. She collected a bundle, tied it with a rope, and when she knelt down to lift it she felt a foot pressed upon her back; she looked up and saw no one. Three times more kneeling, she felt the pressure of the foot. When she looked up for the fourth time, she saw a man. "Where do you live?" he asked. "Near by," she replied, pointing to her home. "On yonder mountain," he said, "you will find four yuccas, each of a different kind, cut on the north side to mark them. Dig the roots of these yuccas and make yourself a bath. Get meal of tohonoti'ni corn (note 28), yellow from your mother, white from your father (note 27). Then build yourself a brush shelter away from your hut and sleep there four nights." She went home and told all this to her foster parents. They followed all the directions of the mysterious visitor, for they knew he was the Sun. During three nights nothing happened in the brush shelter that she knew of. On the morning after the fourth night she was awakened from her sleep by the sound of departing footsteps, and, looking in the direction that she heard them, she saw the sun rising. Four days after this (or twelve days, as some say) Nayénezgani was born. Four days later she went to cleanse herself at a spring, and there she conceived of the water, and in four days more To`badzistsíni, the second War God, was born to her. Version B.--The Sun (or bearer of the sun) met her in the woods and designated a trysting place. Here First Man built a corral of branches. Sun visited her, in the form of an ordinary man, in the corral, four nights in succession. Four days after the last visit she gave birth to twins, who were Nayénezgani and To`badzistsíni. (See "A Part of the Navajos' Mythology,"[306] pp. 9, 10.) 102. Version A thus describes the baby basket of the elder brother: The child was wrapped in black cloud. A rainbow was used for the hood of the basket and studded with stars. The back of the frame was a parhelion, with the bright spot at its bottom shining at the lowest point. Zigzag lightning was laid on each side and straight lightning down the middle in front. Niltsátlol (sunbeams shining on a distant rainstorm) formed the fringe in front where Indians now put strips of buckskin. The carrying-straps were sunbeams. 103. The mountain mahogany of New Mexico and Arizona is the Cercocarpus parvifolius, Nutt. It is called by the Navahoes Tsé`estagi, which means hard as stone. 104. Round cactus, one or more species of Mammilaria. Sitting cactus, Cereus phoeniceus, and perhaps other species of Cereus. 105. Yé-i-tso (from yéi, a god or genius, and tso, great) was the greatest and fiercest of the anáye, or alien gods. (Par. 80, note 7.) All descriptions of him are substantially the same. (See pars. 323, 325, 326.) According to the accounts of Hatáli Nez and Torlino, his father was a stone; yet in par. 320 and in Version B the sun is represented as saying that Yéitso is his child. Perhaps they mean he is the child of the sun in a metaphysical sense. 106. This part of the myth alludes to the trap-door spiders, or tarantulæ of the Southwest, that dwell in carefully prepared nests in the ground. 107. By life-feather or breath-feather (hyiná biltsós) is meant a feather taken from a live bird, especially one taken from a live eagle. Such feathers are supposed to preserve life and possess other magic powers. They are used in all the rites. In order to secure a supply of these feathers, the Pueblo Indians catch eaglets and rear them in captivity (see pars. 560 et seq.); but the Navahoes, like the wild tribes of the north, catch full-grown eagles in traps, and pluck them while alive. This method of catching eagles has been described by the author in his "Ethnography and Philology of the Hidatsa Indians."[305] 108. Pollen being an emblem of peace, this is equivalent to saying, "Put your feet down in peace," etc. 109. Version A in describing the adventure with Spider Woman adds: There were only four rungs to the ladder. She had many seats in her house. The elder brother sat on a seat of obsidian; the younger, on a seat of turquoise. She offered them food of four kinds to eat; they only accepted one kind. When they had eaten, a small image of obsidian came out from an apartment in the east and stood on a serrated platform, or platform of serrate knives. The elder brother stood on the platform beside the image. Spider Woman blew a strong breath four times on the image in the direction of the youth, and the latter became thus endowed with the hard nature of the obsidian, which was to further preserve him in his future trials. From the south room came a turquoise image, and stood on a serrated platform. The younger brother stood beside this. Spider Woman blew on the turquoise image toward him, and he thus acquired the hard nature of the blue stone. To-day in the rites of hozóni hatál they have a prayer concerning these incidents beginning, "Now I stand on pésdolgas." (See note 264.) 110. In describing the journey of the War Gods to the house of the Sun, version A adds something. At Tó`sato or Hot Spring (Ojo Gallina, near San Rafael), the brothers have an adventure with Tiéholtsodi, the water monster, who threatens them and is appeased with prayer. They encounter Old Age People, who treat them kindly, but bid them not follow the trail that leads to the house of Old Age. They come to Hayolkál, Daylight, which rises like a great range of mountains in front of them. (Songs.) They fear they will have to cross this, but Daylight rises from the ground and lets them pass under.... They come to Tsalyél, Darkness. Wind whispers into their ears what songs to sing. They sing these songs and Tsalyél rises and lets them pass under. They come to water, which they walk over. On the other side they meet their sister, the daughter of the Sun, who dwells in the house of the Sun. She speaks not, but turns silently around, and they follow her to the house. 111. According to version A, there were four sentinels of each kind, and they lay in the passageway or entrance to the house. A curtain hung in front of each group of four. In each group the first sentinel was black, the second blue, the third yellow, the fourth white. The brothers sang songs to the guardians and sprinkled pollen on them. 112. Version A gives the names of these two young men as Black Thunder and Blue Thunder. 113. The teller of the version has omitted to mention that the brothers, when they entered the house, declared that they came to seek their father, but other story-tellers do not fail to tell this. 114. Four articles of armor were given to each, and six different kinds of weapons were given to them. The articles of armor were: peské (knife moccasins), pesistlê' (knife leggings), pesê' (knife shirt), and pestsá (knife hat). The word "pes" in the above names for armor, is here translated knife. The term was originally applied to flint knives, and to the flakes from which flint knives were made. After the introduction of European tools, the meaning was extended to include iron knives, and now it is applied to any object of iron, and, with qualifying suffixes, to all kinds of metal. Thus copper is peslitsí, or red metal, and silver, peslakaí, or white metal. Many of the Navahoes now think that the mythic armor of their gods was of iron. Such the author believed it to be in the earlier years of his investigation among the Navahoes, and he was inclined to believe that they borrowed the idea of armored heroes from the Spanish invaders of the sixteenth century. Later studies have led him to conclude that the conception of armored heroes was not borrowed from the whites, and that the armor was supposed to be made of stone flakes such as were employed in making knives in the prehistoric days. The Mokis believe that their gods and heroes wore armor of flint. 115. The weapons were these:-- atsinikli'ska (chain-lightning arrows) hatsilki'ska or hadilki'ska (sheet-lightning arrows) sa`bitlólka (sunbeam arrows) natsili'tka (rainbow arrows) peshál (stone knife-club) hatsoilhál, which some say was a thunderbolt, and others say was a great stone knife, with a blade as broad as the hand. Some say that only one stone knife was given, which was for Nayénezgani, and that only two thunderbolts were given, both of which were for To`badzistsíni. The man who now personates Nayénezgani in the rites carries a stone knife of unusual size (plate IV.); and he who personates To`badzistsíni carries in each hand a wooden cylinder (one black and one red) to represent a thunderbolt. (Plate VII.) 116. Version A adds that when they were thus equipped they were dressed exactly like their brothers Black Thunder and Blue Thunder, who dwelt in the house of the Sun. 117. The man who told this tale explained that there were sixteen poles in the east and sixteen in the west to join earth and sky. Others say there were thirty-two poles on each side. The Navahoes explain the annual progress of the sun by saying that at the winter solstice he climbs on the pole farthest south in rising; that as the season advances he climbs on poles farther and farther north, until at the summer solstice he climbs the pole farthest north; that then he retraces his way, climbing different poles until he reaches the south again. He is supposed to spend about an equal number of days at each pole. 118. Many versions relate that the bearer of the sun rode a horse, or other pet animal. The Navaho word here employed is lin, which means any domesticated or pet animal, but now, especially, a horse. Version A says the animal he rode was made of turquoise and larger than a horse. Such versions have great difficulty in getting the horse up to the sky. Version A makes the sky dip down and touch the earth to let the horse ascend. Of course the horse is a modern addition to the tale. They never saw horses until the sixteenth century, and previous to that time it is not known that any animal was ridden on the western continent. Version B merely says that the Sun "put on his robe of cloud, and, taking one of his sons under each arm, he rose into the heavens." 119. Version B says they all ate a meal on their journey to the sky-hole. Version A says that they ate for food, at the sky-hole, before the brothers descended, a mixture of five kinds of pollen, viz.: pollen of white corn, pollen of yellow corn, pollen of dawn, pollen of evening twilight, and pollen of the sun.[11] These were mixed with tó`lanastsi, all kinds of water.[67] 120. Tó`-sa-to or Warm Spring is at the village of San Rafael, Valencia County, New Mexico. It is about three miles in a southerly direction from Grant's, on the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, five miles from the base and eighteen miles from the summit of Mount Taylor, in a southwesterly direction from the latter. The lake referred to in the myth lies about two miles southeast of the spring. 121. According to Version A, the monsters or anáye were all conceived in the fifth world and born of one woman (a granddaughter of First Woman), who travelled much and rarely stayed at home. According to Version B, the monsters were sent by First Woman, who became offended with man. 122. Version A gives, in addition to Tsótsil, the names of the other three hills over which Yéitso appeared. These were: in the east, Sa`akéa`; in the south, Dsilsitsí (Red Mountain); in the west, Tse`lpaináli (Brown Rock Hanging Down). 123. Version A.--"Hragh!" said he, with a sigh of satisfaction (pantomimically expressed), "I have finished that." 124. Yiniketóko! No etymology has been discovered for this expression. It is believed to be the equivalent of the "Fee Fa Fum!" of the giants in our nursery tales. 125. Version B.--This bolt rent his armor. 126. It is common in this and all other versions to show that evil turns to good (see pars. 338, 345, 349, et al.) and that the demons dead become useful to man in other forms. How the armor of Yéitso became useful to man, the narrator here forgot to state; but it may be conjectured that he should have said that it furnished flint flakes for knives and arrow-heads. 127. Other versions state, more particularly, that, in accordance with the Indian custom, these names were given when the brothers returned to their home, and the ceremony of rejoicing (the "scalp-dance") was held for their first victory. Nayénezgani is derived from na, or aná (alien or enemy: see note 7); yéi, ye or ge (a genius or god; hence anáye, an alien god or giant: see par. 80); nezgá` (to kill with a blow or blows, as in killing with a club); and the suffix ni (person). The name means, therefore, Slayer of the Alien Gods, or Slayer of Giants. As the sounds of g and y before e are interchangeable in the Navaho language, the name is heard pronounced both Nayénezgani and Nagénezgani,--about as often one way as the other. In previous essays the author has spelled it in the latter way; but in this work he gives preference to the former, since it is more in harmony with his spelling of other names containing the word "ye" or "yéi." (See par. 78.) To`-ba-dzis-tsí-ni is derived from to` (water), ba (for him), dzistsín (born), and the suffix ni. The name therefore means, literally, Born for the Water; but the expression badzistsín (born for him) denotes the relation of father and child,--not of a mother and child,--so that a free translation of the name is Child of the Water. The second name of this god, Naídikisi, is rarely used. 128. About 40 miles to the northeast of the top of Mt. San Mateo there is a dark, high volcanic hill called by the Mexicans El Cabezon, or The Great Head. This is the object which, according to the Navaho story-tellers, was the head of Yéitso. Around the base of San Mateo, chiefly toward the east and north, there are several more high volcanic peaks, of less prominence than El Cabezon, which are said to have been the heads of other giants who were slain in a great storm raised by the War Gods. (See pars. 358, 359.) Plate V. shows six of these volcanic hills. The high truncated cone in the distance (17 miles from the point of view) is El Cabezon. Captain Clarence E. Dutton, U.S.A., treats of the geologic character of these cones in his work on Mount Taylor.[299] Plate V. is taken from the same photograph as his plate XXI. In Lieut. Simpson's report,[328] p. 73, this hill is described under the name Cerro de la Cabeza, and a picture of it is given in plate 17 of said report. It is called "Cabezon Pk." on the accompanying map. 129. To the south and west of the San Mateo Mountains there is a great plain of lava rock of geologically recent origin, which fills the valley and presents plainly the appearance of having once been flowing. The rock is dark and has much resemblance to coagulated blood. This is the material which, the Navahoes think, was once the blood of Yéitso. In some places it looks as if the blood were suddenly arrested, forming high cliffs; here the war god is supposed to have stopped the flow with his knife. Plate VI. shows this lava in the valley of the Rio San José, from a photograph supplied by the United States Geological Survey. 130. Version A adds some particulars to the account of the return of the brothers to their home, after their encounter with Yéitso. They first went to Azíhi, the place at which they descended when they came from the sky, and then to Kainipéhi. On their way home they sang twenty songs--the Nidotátsogisin--which are sung to-day in the rites of hozóni hatál. Near Dsilnáotil, just at daybreak, they met Hastséyalti and Hastséhogan, who embraced them, addressed them as grandchildren, sang two songs, now belonging to the rites, and conducted the young heroes to their home. 131. Té-el-get, Tê-el-ge'-ti and Del-gét are various pronunciations of the name of this monster. In the songs he is sometimes called Bi-té-el-ge-ti, which is merely prefixing the personal pronoun "his" to the name. The exact etymology has not been determined. The name has some reference to his horns; tê, or te, meaning horns, and bité, his horns, in Navaho. All descriptions of this anáye are much alike. His father, it is said, was an antelope horn. 132. Arabis holböllii (Hornemann), a-ze-la-dil-té-he, "scattered" or "lone medicine." The plants grow single and at a distance from one another, not in beds or clusters. (See "Navajo Names for Plants,"[312] p. 770.) 133. Version A relates that they sang, while at work on these kethawns, six songs, which, under the name of Atsós Bigi'n, or Feather Songs, are sung now in the rite of hozóni hatál. 134. Version A says that the horns of Téelget were like those of an antelope, and that Nayénezgani cut off the short branch of one as an additional trophy. 135. Tse`na'-ha-le. These mythic creatures, which in a previous paper, "A Part of the Navajos' Mythology,"[306] the author calls harpies, from their analogy to the harpies of Greek mythology, are believed in by many tribes of the Southwest. According to Hatáli Nez they were the offspring of a bunch of eagle plumes. 136. Tsé`-bi-ta-i, or Winged Rock, is a high, sharp pinnacle of dark volcanic rock, rising from a wide plain in the northwestern part of New Mexico, about 12 miles from the western boundary of the Territory, and about 20 miles from the northern boundary. The Navahoes liken it to a bird, and hence the name of Winged Rock, or more literally Rock, Its Wings. The whites think it resembles a ship with sails set, and call it Ship Rock. Its bird-like appearance has probably suggested to the Navahoes the idea of making it the mythic home of the bird-like Tse`na'hale. 137. There are many instances in Navaho language and legend where, when two things somewhat resemble each other, but one is the coarser, the stronger, or the more violent, it is spoken of as male, or associated with the male; while the finer, weaker, or more gentle is spoken of as female, or associated with the female. Thus the turbulent San Juan River is called, by the Navaho, To`baká, or Male Water; while the placid Rio Grande is known as To`baád, or Female Water. A shower accompanied by thunder and lightning is called niltsabaká, or male rain; a shower without electrical display is called niltsabaád, or female rain. In the myth of Nati'nesthani the mountain mahogany is said to be used for the male sacrificial cigarette, and the cliff rose for the female. These two shrubs are much alike, particularly when in fruit and decked with long plumose styles, but the former (the "male") is the larger and coarser shrub. In the myth of Dsilyi` Neyáni another instance may be found where mountain mahogany is associated with the male, and the cliff rose with the female. Again, in the myth of Nati'nesthani a male cigarette is described as made of the coarse sunflower, while its associated female is said to be made of the allied but more slender Verbesina. Instances of this character might be multiplied indefinitely. On this principle the north is associated with the male, and the south with the female, for two reasons: 1st, cold, violent winds blow from the north, while gentle, warm breezes blow from the south; 2d, the land north of the Navaho country is more rough and mountainous than the land in the south. In the former rise the great peaks of Colorado, while in the latter the hills are not steep and none rise to the limit of eternal snow. A symbolism probably antecedent to this has assigned black as the color of the north and blue as the color of the south; so, in turn, black symbolizes the male and blue the female among the Navaho. (From "A Vigil of the Gods.")[328] 138. Version A.--The young birds were the color of a blue heron, but had bills like eagles. Their eyes were as big as a circle made by the thumbs and middle fingers of both hands. Nayénezgani threw the birds first to the bottom of the cliff and there metamorphosed them. 139. The etymology of the word Tse'-da-ni (Englished, chedany) has not been determined. It is an expression denoting impatience and contempt. 140. On being asked for the cause of this sound, the narrator gave an explanation which indicated that the "Hottentot apron" exists among American Indians. The author has had previous evidence corroborative of this. 141. Version B here adds: "Giving up her feathers for lost, she turned her attention to giving names to the different kinds of birds as they flew out,--names which they bear to this day among the Navajos,--until her basket was empty." 142. Tse`-ta-ho-tsil-tá`-li is said to mean He (Who) Kicks (People) Down the Cliff. Some pronounce the name Tse`-ta-yi-tsil-tá`-li. 143. In versions A and B, the hero simply cuts the hair of the monster and allows the latter to fall down the cliff. 144. Na-tsis-a-án is the Navaho Mountain, an elevation 10,416 feet high, ten miles south of the junction of the Colorado and San Juan rivers, in the State of Utah. 145. Thus does the Navaho story-teller weakly endeavor to score a point against his hereditary enemy, the Pah Ute. But it is poor revenge, for the Pah Ute is said to have usually proved more than a match for the Navaho in battle. In Version A, the young are transformed into Rocky Mountain sheep; in Version B, they are changed into birds of prey. 146. This is the place at which the Bináye Aháni were born, as told in par. 203. The other monsters mentioned in Part II. were not found by Nayénezgani at the places where they were said to be born. 147. Other versions make mention, in different places, of a Salt Woman, or goddess of salt, Ásihi Estsán; but the version of Hatáli Nez does not allude to her. Version A states that she supplied the bag of salt which Nayénezgani carried on his expedition. 148. Tsi-dil-tó-i means shooting or exploding bird. The name comes, perhaps, from some peculiarity of this bird, which gives warning of the approach of an enemy. 149. Hos-tó-di is probably an onomatopoetic name for a bird. It is said to be sleepy in the daytime and to come out at night. 150. Version B says that scalps were the trophies. 151. In all versions of this legend, but two hero gods or war gods are prominently mentioned, viz., Nayénezgani and To`badzistsíni; but in these songs four names are given. This is to satisfy the Indian reverence for the number four, and the dependent poetic requirement which often constrains the Navaho poet to put four stanzas in a song. Léyaneyani, or Reared Beneath the Earth (par. 286), is an obscure hero whose only deed of valor, according to this version of the legend, was the killing of his witch sister (par. 281). The deeds of Tsówenatlehi, or the Changing Grandchild, are not known to the writer. Some say that Léyaneyani and Tsówenatlehi are only other names for Nayénezgani and To`badzistsíni; but the best authorities in the tribe think otherwise. One version of this legend says that Estsánatlehi hid her children under the ground when Yéitso came seeking to devour them. This may have given rise to the idea that one of these children was called, also, Reared Beneath the Earth. 152. The following are the names of places where pieces were knocked off the stone:-- Bisdá, Edge of Bank. To`kohokádi, Ground Level with Water. (Here Nayénezgani chased the stone four times in a circle; the chips he knocked off are there yet.) Daatsi'ndaheol, Floating Corn-cob. Nitati's, Cottonwood below Ground. Sasdestsá`, Gaping Bear. Béikithatyêl, Broad Lake. Nánzozilin, Make Nánzoz Sticks. Aki'ddahalkaí, Something White on Top (of something else). Anádsil, Enemy Mountain. Sásbito`, Bear Spring (Fort Wingate). Tse`tyêliski'd, Broad Rock Hill. Tsadihábitin, Antelope Trail Ascending. Kinhitsói, Much Sumac. Tsúskai (Chusca Knoll). Lestsídelkai, Streaks of White Ashes. Dsilnáodsil, Mountain Surrounded by Mountains (Carrizo Mountains.). Tisnáspas, Circle of Cottonwood. The above, it is said, are all places where constant springs of water (rare in the Navaho land) are to be found. Some are known to be such. This gives rise to the idea expressed in note 8. There is little doubt that the Navahoes believe in many of the Tiéholtsodi. Probably every constant spring or watercourse has its water god. 153. Version A adds an account of a wicked woman who dwelt at Ki'ndotliz and slew her suitors. Nayénezgani kills her. It also adds an account of vicious swallows who cut people with their wings. Version B omits the encounter with Sasnalkáhi and Tsé`nagahi. 154. Possibly this refers to Pueblo legends. 155. Version B, which gives only a very meagre account of this destructive storm, mentions only one talisman, but says that songs were sung and dances performed over this. 156. Such pillars as the myth refers to are common all over the Navaho land. 157. Version A makes Nayénezgani say here: "I have been to ni`indahazlágo (the end of the earth); to`indahazlágo (the end of the waters); to yaindahazlágo (the end of the sky); and to dsilindahazlágo (the end of the mountains), and I have found none that were not my friends." 158. Pás-zin-i is the name given by the Navahoes to the hard mineral substance which they use to make black beads, and other sacrifices to the gods of the north. Specimens of this substance have been examined by Prof. F. W. Clark of the United States Geological Survey, who pronounces it to be a fine bituminous coal of about the quality of cannel coal; so it is, for convenience, called cannel coal in this work. It is scarce in the Navaho land and is valued by the Indians. 159. This refers to large fossil bones found in many parts of Arizona and New Mexico. 160. Ha-dá-ho-ni-ge-di-ne` (Mirage People), Ha-dá-ho-nes-tid-di-ne` (Ground-heat People). Hadáhonestid is translated ground-heat, for want of a more convenient term. It refers to the waving appearance given to objects in hot weather, observed so frequently in the arid region, and due to varying refraction near the surface of the ground. 161. The ceremony at Tsinlí (Chinlee Valley) was to celebrate the nubility of Estsánatlehi. Although already a mother, she was such miraculously, and not until this time did she show signs of nubility. Such a ceremony is performed for every Navaho maiden now. The ceremony at San Francisco Mountain occurred four days after that at Tsinlí. It is now the custom among the Navahoes to hold a second ceremony over a maiden four days after the first. On the second ceremony with Estsánatlehi they laid her on top of the mountain with her head to the west, because she was to go to the west to dwell there. They manipulated her body and stretched out her limbs. Thus she bade the people do, in future, to all Navaho maidens, and thus the Navahoes do now, in the ceremony of the fourth day, when they try to mould the body of the maiden to look like the perfect form of Estsánatlehi. Version A makes the nubile ceremony occur before the child was born. 162. Dsil-li-zi'n, or Dsillizi'ni (Black Mountain), is an extensive mesa in Apache County, Arizona. The pass to which the myth refers is believed to be that named, by the United States Geological Survey, Marsh Pass, which is about 60 miles north of the Moki villages. The name of the mesa is spelled "Zilh-le-jini" on the accompanying map. 163. To`-ye't-li (Meeting Waters) is the junction of two important rivers somewhere in the valley of the San Juan River, in Colorado or Utah. The precise location has not been determined. It is a locality often mentioned in the Navaho myths. (See par. 477.) 164. The following appeared in the "American Naturalist" for February, 1887:-- "In the interesting account entitled 'Some Deities and Demons of the Navajos,' by Dr. W. Matthews, in the October issue of the "Naturalist" (note 306), he mentions the fact that the warriors offered their sacrifices at the sacred shrine of Thoyetli, in the San Juan Valley. He says that the Navajos have a tradition that the gods of war, or sacred brothers, still dwell at Thoyetli, and their reflection is sometimes seen on the San Juan River. Dr. Matthews is certain the last part is due to some natural phenomenon. The following account seems to furnish a complete explanation of this part of the myth. Several years ago a clergyman, while travelling in the San Juan Valley, noticed a curious phenomenon while gazing down upon the San Juan River as it flowed through a deep canyon. Mists began to arise, and soon he saw the shadows of himself and companions reflected near the surface of the river, and surrounded by a circular rainbow, the 'Circle of Ulloa.' They jumped, moved away, and performed a number of exercises, to be certain that the figures were their reflections, and the figures responded. There was but slight color in the rainbow. Similar reflections have no doubt caused the superstitious Indians to consider these reflections as those of their deities."--G. A. Brennan, Roseland, Cook County, Illinois, January 12, 1887. 165. Tse`-gí-hi is the name of some canyon, abounding in cliff-dwellings, north of the San Juan River, in Colorado or Utah. The author knows of it only from description. It is probably the McElmo or the Mancos Canyon. It is supposed by the Navahoes to have been a favorite home of the yéi or gods, and the ruined cliff-houses are supposed to have been inhabited by the divine ones. The cliff ruins in the Chelly Canyon, Arizona, are also supposed to have been homes of the gods; in fact, the gods are still thought to dwell there unseen. Chelly is but a Spanish orthography of the Navaho name Tsé`gi, Tséyi or Tséyi. When a Navaho would say "in the Chelly Canyon," he says Tséyigi. The resemblance of this expression to Tse`gíhi (g and y being interchangeable) led the author at first to confound the two places. Careful inquiry showed that different localities were meant. Both names have much the same meaning (Among the Cliffs, or Among the Rocks). 166. The expression used by the story-teller was, "seven times old age has killed." This would be freely translated by most Navaho-speaking whites as "seven ages of old men." The length of the age of an old man as a period of time is variously estimated by the Navahoes. Some say it is a definite cycle of 102 years,--the same number as the counters used in the game of kesitsé (note 176); others say it is "threescore years and ten;" while others, again, declare it to be an indefinite period marked by the death of some very old man in the tribe. This Indian estimate would give, for the existence of the nuclear gens of the Navaho nation, a period of from five hundred to seven hundred years. In his excellent paper on the "Early Navajo and Apache,"[301] Mr. F. W. Hodge arrives at a much later date for the creation or first mention of the Tse`dzinki'ni by computing the dates given in this legend, and collating the same with the known dates of Spanish-American history. He shows that many of the dates given in this story are approximately correct. While the Tse`dzinki'ni is, legendarily, the nuclear gens of the Navahoes, it does not follow, even from the legend, that it is the oldest gens; for the diné` digíni, or holy people (see note 92), are supposed to have existed before it was created. 167. Tse`-dzin-ki'n-i is derived from tse` (rock), dzin (black, dark), and kin (a straight-walled house, a stone or adobe house, not a Navaho hut or hogán). Tse` is here rendered "cliffs," because the house or houses in question are described as situated in dark cliffs. Like nearly all other Navaho gentile names, it seems to be of local origin. 168. The rock formations of Arizona and New Mexico are often so fantastic that such a condition as that here described might easily occur. 169. The author has expressed the opinion elsewhere[318] that we need not suppose from this passage that the story-teller wishes to commiserate the Tse`tláni on the inferiority of their diet; he may merely intend to show that his gens had not the same taboo as the elder gentes. The modern Navahoes do not eat ducks or snakes. Taboo is perhaps again alluded to in par. 394, where it is said that the Thá`paha ate ducks and fish. The Navahoes do not eat fish, and fear fish in many ways. A white woman, for mischief, emptied over a young Navaho man a pan of water in which fish had been soaked. He changed all his clothes and purified himself by bathing. Navahoes have been known to refuse candies that were shaped like fish. 170. A common method of killing deer and antelope in the old days was this: They were driven on to some high, steep-sided, jutting mesa, whose connection with the neighboring plateau was narrow and easily guarded. Here their retreat was cut off, and they were chased until constrained to jump over the precipice. 171. The name To`-do-kón-zi is derived from two words,--to` (water) and dokónz (here translated saline). The latter word is used to denote a distinct but not an unpleasant taste. It has synonyms in other Indian languages, but not in English. It is known only from explanation that the water in question had a pleasant saline taste. 172. The arrow-case of those days is a matter of tradition only. The Indians say it looked something like a modern shawl-strap. 173. In the name of this gens we have possibly another evidence of a former existence of totemism among some of the Navaho gentes. Haskánhatso may mean that many people of the Yucca gens lived in the land, and not that many yuccas grew there. 174. From the description given of this tree, which, the Indians say, still stands, it seems to be a big birch-tree. 175. Tsin-a-dzi'-ni is derived by double syncopation from tsin (wood), na (horizontal), dzin (dark or black), and the suffix ni. The word for black, dzin, in compounds is often pronounced zin. There is a place called Tsi'nadzin somewhere in Arizona, but the author has not located it. 176. Ke-si-tsé, or kesitsé, from ke (moccasins), and sitsé (side by side, in a row), is a game played only during the winter months, at night and inside of a lodge. A multitude of songs, and a myth of a contest between animals who hunt by day and those who hunt by night, pertain to the game. Eight moccasins are buried in the ground (except about an inch of their tops), and they are filled with earth or sand. They are placed side by side, a few inches apart, in two rows,--one row on each side of the fire. A chip, marked black on one side (to represent night), is tossed up to see which side should begin first. The people of the lucky side hold up a screen to conceal their operations, and hide a small stone in the sand in one of the moccasins. When the screen is lowered, one of the opponents strikes the moccasins with a stick, and guesses which one contains the stone. If he guesses correctly, his side takes the stone to hide and the losers give him some counters. If he does not guess correctly, the first players retain the stone and receive a certain number of counters. (See note 88.) A better account of this game, with an epitome of the myth and several of the songs, has already been published.[316] 177. There are many allusions in the Navaho tales to the clothing of this people before the introduction of sheep (which came through the Spanish invaders), and before they cultivated the art of weaving, which they probably learned from the Pueblo tribes, although they are now better weavers than the Pueblos. The Navahoes represent themselves as miserably clad in the old days (par. 466), and they tell that many of their arts were learned from other tribes. (Par. 393.) 178. Allusion is here made to the material used by Indians on the backs of bows, for bow-strings, as sewing-thread, and for many other purposes, which is erroneously called "sinew" by ethnographers and travellers. It is not sinew in the anatomical or histological sense of the word. It is yellow fibrous tissue taken from the dorsal region, probably the aponeurosis of the trapezius. 179. The Navaho country abounds in small caves and rock-shelters, some of which have been walled up by these Indians and used as store-houses (but not as dwellings, for reasons elsewhere given, par. 26). Such store-houses are in use at this day. 180. The legends represent the Navahoes not only as poorly clad and poorly fed in the old days, but as possessing few arts. Here and elsewhere in the legends it is stated that various useful arts became known to the tribe through members of other tribes adopted by the Navahoes. 181. Another version states that when the Western immigrants were travelling along the western base of the Lukachokai Mountains, some wanted to ascend the Tse`inlín valley; but one woman said, "No; let us keep along the base of the mountain." From this they named her Base of Mountain, and her descendants bear that name now. This explanation is less likely than that in par. 393. 182. This statement should be accepted only with some allowance for the fact that it was made by one who was of the gens of Thá`paha. 183. Punishments for adultery were various and severe among many Indian tribes in former days. Early travellers mention amputation of the nose and other mutilations, and it appears that capital punishment for this crime was not uncommon. If there is any punishment for adultery among the Navahoes to-day, more severe than a light whipping, which is rarely given, the author has never heard of it. The position of the Navaho woman is such that grievous punishments would not be tolerated. In the days of Góntso even, it would seem they were scarcely less protected than now, for then the husband, although a potent chief, did not dare to punish his wives--so the legend intimates--until he had received the consent of their relatives. 184. For the performance of these nine-days' ceremonies the Navahoes now build temporary medicine-lodges, which they use, as a rule, for one occasion only. Rarely is a ceremony performed twice in the same place, and there is no set day, as indicated by any phase of any particular lunation, for the beginning of any great ceremony. Many ceremonies may be performed only during the cold months, but otherwise the time for performance is not defined. There is a tradition that their customs were different when they lived in a compact settlement on the banks of the San Juan River (before they became shepherds and scattered over the land); that they then had permanent medicine-lodges, and exact dates for the performance of some ceremonies. In paragraph 411 we hear of a ceremony which lasted all winter. 185. For a description of this ceremony see "The Mountain Chant: a Navaho Ceremony,"[314] by the author. It is an important healing ceremony of nine days' duration. The rites, until the last night, are held in the medicine-lodge and are secret. Just after sunset on the last day, a great round corral, or circle of evergreen branches, is constructed, called ilnásdzin, or the dark circle of branches. This is about forty paces in diameter, about eight feet high, with an opening in the east about ten feet wide. From about eight P.M. on the last night of the ceremony until dawn next morning, a number of dances, dramatic shows, medicine rites, and tricks of legerdemain are performed in this corral, in the presence of a large group of spectators,--several hundred men, women, and children. No one is refused admittance. Fig. 37 shows the dark circle of branches as it appears at sunrise when the rites are over, and, in addition to the original opening in the east, three other openings have been made in the circle. Fig. 30 shows the alíl (rite, show, or ceremony) of nahikáï, which takes place on this occasion, and it is designed largely for the entertainment and mystification of the spectators. The performers march around (and very close to) the great central fire, which emits an intense heat. Their skin would probably be scorched if it were not heavily daubed with white earth. Each actor carries a short wand, at the tip of which is a ball of eagle-down. This ball he must burn off in the fire, and then, by a simple sleight-of-hand trick, seem to restore the ball again to the end of his wand. When this is accomplished, he rushes out of the corral, trumpeting like a sand-hill crane. In "The Mountain Chant" this is called a dance, but the movements of the actors are not in time to music. Nahikáï signifies "it becomes white again," and refers to the reappearance of the eagle-down. The show is very picturesque, and must be mystifying to simple minds. 186. Tse`-zin-di-aí signifies Black Rock Standing (like a wall). It might mean an artificial wall of black rock; but as the result of careful inquiry it has been learned that the name refers to a locality where exists the formation known to geologists as trap-dyke. It cannot be averred that it is applied to all trap-dyke. 187. Slaves were numerous among the Navahoes, and slavery was openly recognized by them until 1883, when the just and energetic agent, Mr. D. M. Riordan, did much to abolish it. Yet as late as 1893, when the writer was last in the Navaho country, he found evidence that the institution still existed, though very occultly, and to a more limited extent than formerly. 188. Some translate Háltso as Yellow Valley, and give a different myth to account for the name. As most Navaho gentile names are undoubtedly of local origin, there may be a tendency to make all gentile names accord with the general rule. 189. The word here translated pet (lin) means also a domestic animal and a personal fetish. (See par. 63.) 190. Although this name, Bi-tá`-ni, seems so much like that of Bitáni that one might think they were but variants of the same word, they are undoubtedly distinct names and must not be confounded. 191. This is believed to be the notable landmark called by the whites Sunset Peak, which is about ten miles east of San Francisco Peak, in Yavapai County, Arizona. Sunset Peak is covered with dark forests nearly to its summit. The top is of brilliant red rock capped by a paler stratum, and it has the appearance, at all hours of the day, of being lighted by the setting sun. 192. This locality is in Apache County, Arizona, about sixty miles from the eastern boundary and twelve miles from the northern boundary of the Territory. A sharp volcanic peak, 6,825 feet high above sea-level, which marks the place from afar, is called "Agathla Needle" on the maps of the United States Geological Survey, and on the accompanying map, which was compiled from the government maps by Mr. Frank Tweedy of the Geological Survey. 193. The Navahoes are aware that in lands far to the north there are kindred tribes which speak languages much like their own. They have traditions that long ago some of their number travelled in search of these tribes and found them. These distant kinsmen are called by the Navaho Diné` Nahotlóni, or Navahoes in Another Place. 194. A version has been recorded which says that, on the march, one woman loitered behind at Deer Spring for a while, as if loath to leave; that for this reason they called her Deer Spring, and that her descendants became the gens of that name. The same version accounts in a similar manner for the names given at the magic fountains. The women did not call out the names of the springs, but they loitered at them. 195. The story of the Deer Spring People affords, perhaps, the best evidence in favor of the former existence of totemism to be found in the legend. Assuming that the immigrants from the west had once totemic names, we may explain this story by saying that it was people of the Deer gens who stayed behind and gave their name to the spring where they remained; that in the course of time they became known as People of the Deer Spring; and that, as they still retain their old name in a changed form, the story-teller is constrained to say that the fate of the deer is not known. Perhaps the name of the Maitó`dine` (par. 428) may be explained in somewhat the same way. (See "The Gentile System of the Navajo Indians," p. 107.[318]) 196. The more proper interpretation of Ho-na-gá`-ni seems to be People of the Walking Place, from ho (locative), nága (to walk), and ni (people). It is not unreasonable to suppose that, like nearly all other Navaho gentile names, this name has a local meaning, and that the story here told to account for its origin is altogether mythical. 197. This episode indicates that kindness and pity are sentiments not unknown to the Navahoes, and that (though there are many thieves) there are honest men and women among them. 198. Na-nas-te'-zin, the Navaho name for the Zuñi Indians, is said to be derived from aná (an alien or an enemy), naste (a horizontal stripe), and zin (black). Some say it refers to the way the Zuñians cut their hair,--"bang" it,--straight across the forehead; others say it is the name of a locality. 199. Kin-a-á`-ni, or Kin-ya-á`-ni, means People of the High Pueblo House,--the high wall of stone or adobe. The name kinaá` might with propriety be applied to any one of hundreds of ruins in the Navaho country, but the only one to which the name is known to be given is a massive ruin six or seven stories high in Bernalillo County, New Mexico, about seventeen miles in a northerly direction from Chaves Station, on the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad. This ruin consists of unusually large fragments of stone, and looks more like a ruined European castle than other old Indian dwellings. It seems too far east and south, and too far away from the settlements on the San Juan, where the western immigrants finished their journey, to be the place, as some say it is, from which the gens of Kinaá`ni derived its name. The high stone wall which the immigrants passed en route, mentioned in par. 435 in connection with the gens of Kinaá`ni, may be the place to which the legend originally ascribed the origin of the name. There are many pueblo remains around San Francisco Mountain. The name is written "Kin-ya-a-ni" on the accompanying map. 200. Plate I., fig. 1, shows a yébaad, or female yéi or goddess, as she is usually represented in the dry-paintings. The following objects are here indicated: (1) A square mask or domino, which covers the face only (see fig. 28), is painted blue, margined below with yellow (to represent the yellow evening light), and elsewhere with lines of red and black (for hair above, for ears at the sides), and has downy eagle-feathers on top, tied on with white strings; (2) a robe of white, extending from the armpits to near the knees, adorned with red and blue to represent sunbeams, and fringed beautifully at the bottom; (3) white leggings secured with colored garters (such as Indians weave); (4) embroidered moccasins; (5) an ornamental sash; (6) a wand of spruce-twigs in each hand (sometimes she is shown with spruce in one hand and a seed-basket in the other); (7) jewels--ear-pendants, bracelets, and necklaces--of turquoise and coral; (8) long strips of fox-skin ornamented at the ends, which hang from wrists and elbows. (For explanation of blue neck, see note 74.) In the dance of the nahikáï, there are properly six yébaad in masquerade; but sometimes they have to get along with a less number, owing to the difficulty in finding suitable persons enough to fill the part. The actors are usually low-sized men and boys, who must contrast in appearance with those who enact the part of males. Each yébaad actor wears no clothing except moccasins and a skirt, which is held on with a silver-studded belt; his body and limbs are painted white; his hair is unbound and hangs over his shoulders; he wears the square female mask and he carries in each hand a bundle of spruce twigs, which is so secured, by means of strings, that he cannot carelessly let it fall. Occasionally females are found to dance in this character: these have their bodies fully clothed in ordinary woman's attire; but they wear the masks and carry the wands just as the young men do. While the male gods, in plate I., except Dsahadoldzá, are represented with white arms, the female is depicted with yellow arms. This symbolism is explained in note 27. 201. The exact etymology of the word Na-ti'n-es-tha-ni has not been determined. The idea it conveys is: He who teaches himself, he who discovers for himself, or he who thinks out a problem for himself. We find the verb in the expression nasinítin, which means, "Teach me how to do it." Here the second and third syllables are pronouns. Although the hero has his name changed after a while, the story-teller usually continues to call him Nati'nesthani to the end of the story. Often he speaks of him as the man or the Navaho. 202. The eighteen articles here referred to are as follows: 1, white shell; 2, turquoise; 3, haliotis shell; 4, pászini or cannel coal; 5, red stone; 6, feathers of the yellow warbler; 7, feathers of the bluebird; 8, feathers of the eagle; 9, feathers of the turkey; 10, beard of the turkey; 11, cotton string; 12, i`yidezná;[11] 13, white shell basket; 14, turquoise basket; 15, haliotis basket; 16, pászini basket; 17, rock crystal basket; 18, sacred buckskin. (See note 13.) These were the sacred articles which the gods were said to require in the myths of klédzi hatál and atsósidze hatál. In the myths of the former rite they are mentioned over and over again, to the weariness of the hearer. They are all used to-day in the rites mentioned, except the five baskets. Now ordinary sacred baskets (note 5, par. 28) are used; the jeweled baskets are legendary only. 203. The knowledge of domestic or pet turkeys is not new to the Navahoes. The Pueblo Indians of the Southwest have kept them for centuries. The Navahoes declare that in former years they kept pet turkeys themselves; but this seems doubtful, considering their mode of life. A conservative Navaho will not now eat turkey flesh, although he will not hesitate to shoot a wild turkey to sell it to a white man. 204. In the Navaho dry-paintings the rainbow is usually depicted with a head at one end and legs and feet at the other. The head is represented with a square mask to show that it is a goddess. It is apotheosized. (See fig. 29.) In one of the dry-paintings of the mountain chant the rainbow is depicted without limbs or head, but terminating at one end with five eagle-plumes, at the other end with five magpie-plumes, and decorated near its middle with plumes of the bluebird and the red-shafted woodpecker. (See "The Mountain Chant," p. 450.[314]) 205. This magic cup figures in many other Navaho myths. (See paragraph 572.) 206. Has-tsé-ol-to-i means the Shooting Hastsé (par. 78), or Shooting Deity. As the personator of this character always wears a female mask (fig. 28), it would seem that this divinity of the chase, like the Roman Diana, is a goddess. The personator (a man) carries a quiver of puma skin, a bow, and two arrows. The latter are made of reed, are headless, and are feathered with the tail and wing feathers of the red-tailed buzzard (Buteo borealis), tied on with fibrous tissue. The tips of the arrows are covered with moistened white earth and moistened pollen. Each arrow is at least two spans and a hand's-breadth long; but it must be cut off three finger-widths beyond a node, and to accomplish this it may be made a little longer than the above dimensions. There are very particular rules about applying the feathers. The man who personates Hastséoltoi, in a rite of succor in the ceremony of the night chant, follows the personators of the War Gods. While the patient stands on a buffalo robe in front of the medicine-lodge, the actor waves with the right hand one arrow at him, giving a peculiar call; then, changing the arrows from one hand to another, he waves the other arrow at the patient. This is done east, south, west, and north. The actor repeats these motions around the lodge; all then enter the lodge; there the patient says a prayer, and, with many formalities, presents a cigarette to the personator (after he has prayed and sacrificed to the War Gods). The three masqueraders then go to the west of the lodge to deposit their sacrifices (that of Hastséoltoi is put under a weed,--Gutierrezia euthamiæ, if possible). When this is done, they take off their masks, don ordinary blankets,--brought out by an accomplice,--hide the masks under their blankets, and return to the lodge in the guise of ordinary Indians. Some speak as if there were but one Hastséoltoi, and say she is the wife of Nayénezgani. Others speak as if there were one at every place where the yéi have homes. 207. The Gán-as-ki-di are a numerous race of divinities. Their chief home is at a place called Depéhahatil (Tries to Shoot Sheep), near Tse`gíhi, north of the San Juan; but they may appear anywhere, and, according to the myths, are often found in company with the yéi and other gods. They belong to the Mountain Sheep People, and often appear to man in the form of Rocky Mountain sheep. In the myths of the night chant it is said that they captured the prophet of the rites, took him to their home, and taught him many of the mysteries of the night chant. In the treatment accompanying these, the tendo-achillis of a mountain sheep is applied to an aching limb to relieve pain; the horn is pressed to an aching head to relieve headache; and water from the sheep's eye is used for sore eyes. The Gánaskidi are gods of plenty and harvest gods. A masquerader, representing one of these, sometimes appears in an act of succor about sundown on the last day of the night chant, following representatives of Hastséyalti and Dsahadoldzá. He wears the ordinary blue mask of a yébaka with the fringe of hair removed. He carries a crown or headdress made of a basket from which the bottom has been cut, so that it may fit on the head. The basket crown is adorned with artificial horns; it is painted on the lower surface black, with a zigzag streak to represent lightning playing on the face of a black cloud; it is painted red on the upper surface (not shown in picture), to indicate the sunlight on the other side of the cloud; and it is decorated with radiating feathers, from the tail of the red-shafted woodpecker (Colaptes mexicanus), to represent the rays of the sun streaming out at the edge of the cloud. The god is crowned with the storm-cloud. The horns on the crown are made of the skin of the Rocky Mountain sheep (sewed with yucca fibre); they are stuffed with hair of the same, or with black wool; they are painted part black and part blue, with white markings; and they are tipped with eagle-feathers tied on with white string. On his back the actor carries a long bag of buckskin, which is empty, but is kept distended by means of a light frame made of the twigs of aromatic sumac, so as to appear full; it is decorated at the back with eagle-plumes, and sometimes also with the plumes of the red-shafted woodpecker; it is painted on the sides with short parallel white lines (12 or 16), and at the back with long lines of four colors. This bag represents a bag of black cloud, filled with produce of the fields, which the god is said to carry. The cloudy bag is so heavy, they say, that the god is obliged to lean on a staff, bend his back, and walk as one bearing a burden; so the personator does the same. The staff, or gis, which the latter carries, is made of cherry (new for each occasion); it is as long as from the middle of the left breast to the tip of the outstretched right hand; it is painted black with the charcoal of four sacred plants; it bears a zigzag stripe in white to represent lightning, and it is trimmed with many turkey-feathers in two whorls, and one eagle-feather. These properties and adornments are conventionally represented in the dry-paintings. (See plate I., fig. 5.) The red powder thinly sprinkled over the eagle-plumes at the back represents pollen. The cloud bag is tied on the god, says the myth, with rainbows. The yellow horizontal line at the chin in the picture represents a yellow line on the mask which symbolizes the evening twilight. The actor wears a collar of fox-skin (indicated by mark under right ear) and ordinary clothing. The elaborate ceremony of succor will not be described here. Gánaskidi means Humpback. The name is sometimes given Nánaskidi. 208. The only Ki'ndoliz, or Ki'ndotliz (Blue House), the writer knows of is a ruined pueblo of that name in the Chaco Canyon; but this can hardly be the Blue House referred to in the myth. There is probably another ruin of this name on the banks of the San Juan. 209. The Dsahadoldzá, or Fringe-mouths, are a class of divine beings of whom little information has been gained. They are represented in the rite of klédzi hatál by sand-paintings, and by masqueraders decked and masked as shown in the pictures. There are two kinds,--Fringe-mouths of the land and Fringe-mouths of the water (plate I., fig. 3), or Thastlátsi Dsahadoldzá; the latter are the class referred to in this story. The zigzag lines on their bodies shown in the pictures represent the crooked lightning, which they used as ropes to lift the log. On the mask (shown in the dry-painting) the mouth is surrounded by white radiating lines; hence the name Fringe-mouths. The actor who represents the Fringe-mouths of the land has one half of his body and one half of his mask painted black, the other half red. He who represents the Fringe-mouths of the water has his body painted half blue and half yellow, as shown in plate I., fig. 3. Both wear a similar mask and a similar crown or headdress. The crown consists of a basket from which the bottom has been cut, so that it may fit on the head; the lower surface is painted black, to represent a dark cloud, and is streaked with white to represent lightning; the upper surface (not shown in the painting) is colored red, to represent the sunlight of the back of the cloud; and feathers of the red-shafted woodpecker are attached to the edge, to represent sunbeams. So far, this crown is like that worn by Gánaskidi (note 207). Ascending from the basket crown is a tripod of twigs of aromatic sumac, painted white; between the limbs of the tripod finely combed red wool is laid, and a downy eagle-feather tips each stick. The actor carries in his left hand a bow adorned with three eagle-plumes and two tufts of turkey feathers, and in his right hand a white gourd rattle, sometimes decorated with two whorls of feathers. His torso, arms, and legs are naked, but painted. He wears a shirt around his loins, and rich necklaces and ear pendants. All these things are plainly indicated in the dry-paintings. The fox-skin collar which he wears is vaguely shown by an appendage at the right ear. The angles of the white lightning on the chest and limbs of the actor are not as numerous as in the paintings. 210. Tielín are ferocious pets that belong to Tiéholtsodi, the water monster, and guard the door of his dwelling. They are said to have blue horns. 211. Na-tsi-li't a-kó-di (short rainbow), the fragmentary or incomplete rainbow. 212. Has-tsé-zin-i signifies Black Hastsé, or Black God. There are several of them (dwelling at Tsení`hodilyil, near Tse`gíhi), but the description will be given in the singular. He is a reserved, exclusive individual. The yéi at other places do not visit him whenever they wish. He owns all fire; he was the first who made fire, and he is the inventor of the fire-drill. It is only on rare occasions that he is represented by a masquerader at a ceremony. When it is arranged to give a night chant without the public dance of the last night (and this seldom occurs), Black God appears in a scene of succor[206] on the evening of the ninth day in company with three other gods,--Nayénezgani, To`badzistsíni, and Hastséoltoi. It is said that the personator is dressed in black clothes; wears a black mask, with white marks and red hair on it, and a collar of fox-skin; and that he carries a fire-drill and a bundle of cedar-bark. The author has never seen Hastsézini represented either in a dry-painting or in masquerade, and he has therefore never witnessed the scene or ceremony of succor referred to. This ceremony, which is very elaborate, has been described to the author by the medicine-men. The actor has to be well paid for his tedious services, which occupy the whole day from sunrise to sunset, though the act of succor lasts but a few minutes. 213. The fire-drill is very little used by the Navahoes at the present time,--matches and flint-and-steel having taken its place; but it is frequently mentioned in the myths and is employed in the ceremonies. Of the many aboriginal fire-drills, described and depicted by Dr. Walter Hough in his excellent paper on "Fire-making Apparatus,"[302] that of the Navahoes is the rudest. It looks like a thing that had been made to order. 214. Tsin-tli'-zi signifies hard, brittle wood. 215. It is probable that the various peculiar acts described in this paragraph have reference to agricultural rites still practised, or recently practised, by the Navahoes, but the writer has never witnessed such rites. 216. The Navahoes now universally smoke cigarettes, but they say that in ancient days they smoked pipes made of terra-cotta. Fragments of such pipes are often picked up in New Mexico and Arizona. The cliff-dwellers also had pipes, and these articles are still ceremonially used by the Mokis. The Navahoes now invariably, in ceremonies, sacrifice tobacco in the form of cigarettes. But cigarettes are not new to the Southwest: they are found in ancient caves and other long-neglected places in New Mexico and Arizona. 217. Ni-no-ká-di-ne` (People up on the Earth) may mean people living up on the mountains, in contradistinction to those dwelling in canyons and valleys; but other tribes use a term of similar meaning to distinguish the whole Indian race from the whites or other races, and it is probable that it is used in this sense here and in other Navaho myths. The people whom Nati'nesthani now meets are probably supposed to be supernatural, and not Indians. 218. The plants mixed with the tobacco were these: tsohodzilaí`, silátso (my thumb), a poisonous weed, azébini`, and azétloi. It has not been determined what plants these are; but the Navaho names are placed on record as possibly assisting in future identification. 219. In the Navaho ceremonies, when sacred cigarettes are finished, and before they are deposited as offerings to the gods, they are symbolically lighted with sunbeams. (See par. 94.) The statement made here, that the hero lighted his pipe with the sun, refers probably to this symbolic lighting. 220. Ke'tlo is a name given to any medicine used externally, i.e., rubbed on the body. Atsósi ke'tlo means the liniment or wash of the atsósi hatál, or feather ceremony. It is also called atsósi azé (feather medicine), and atsósi tsíl (feather herbs). 221. Yá-di-di-nil, the incense of the Navaho priests, is a very composite substance. In certain parts of the healing ceremonies it is scattered on hot coals, which are placed before the patient, and the latter inhales actively the dense white fumes that arise. These fumes, which fill with their odor the whole medicine-lodge, are pungent, aromatic, and rather agreeable, although the mixture is said to contain feathers. The author has obtained a formula for yádidinil, but has not identified the plants that chiefly compose it. 222. These are the animals he raises and controls, as told in par. 527. 223. The Navahoes say they are acquainted with four kinds of wild tobacco, and use them in their rites. Of these the author has seen and identified but two. These are Nicotiana attenuata which is the dsi'lnato, or mountain tobacco; and Nicotiana palmeri, which is the depénato, or sheep tobacco. N. attenuata grows widely but not abundantly in the mountains of New Mexico and Arizona. N. palmeri is rare; the writer has seen it growing only in one spot in the Chelly Canyon. It has not been learned what species are called weasel tobacco and cloud tobacco; but one or more of the three species, N. rustica, N. quadrivalvis, and N. trigonophylla, are probably known to the Navahoes. 224. The description of these diseases given by the narrator of this tale is as follows: "Patients having these diseases are weak, stagger, and lose appetite; then they go to a sweat-house and take an emetic. If they have li'tso, or the yellow disease, they vomit something yellow (bile ?). If they have til-litá, or cooked blood disease, they vomit something like cooked blood. Those having the yellows have often yellow eyes and yellow skin. Thatli't, or slime disease, comes from drinking foul water full of green slime or little fish (tadpoles ?). Tsoxs, worms, usually come from eating worms, which you sometimes do without knowing it; but tsi'lgo, tapeworm, comes from eating parched corn." Probably the last notion arises from the slight resemblance of the joints of Tænia solium to grains of corn. This little chapter in pathology from Hatáli Natlói is hardly in accordance with the prevalent theory that savages regard all disease as of demoniac origin. 225. The adjective yazóni, or yasóni, here used, which is translated "beautiful," means more than this: it means both good (or useful) and beautiful. It contains elements of the words yatí`, good, and of inzóni, nizóni, and hozóni, which signify beautiful. 226. According to the Navaho myths and songs, the corn and other products in the gardens of the yéi or divine ones grow and mature in a very short time. The rapid growth of the crops in Nati'nesthani's farm is supposed to result from the divine origin of the seed. 227. The order in which Nati'nesthani lays down the ears of corn is the order in which sacrificial cigarettes, kethawns, and other sacred objects, when colored, are laid down in a straight row. The white, being the color of the east, has precedence of all and is laid down first. The blue, the color of the south, comes next, for when we move sunwise (the sacred ceremonial circuit of the Navahoes) south follows immediately after east. Yellow, the color of the west, on the same principle, comes third; and black (in this case mixed) comes fourth. Mixed is properly the coloring of the upper region, and usually follows after black; but it sometimes takes the place of black. These apparently superfluous particulars of laying down the corn have a ceremonial or religious significance. In placing sacred objects ceremonially in a straight row, the operator proceeds southward from his starting-point, for this approximates the sunwise circuit, and he makes the tip ends point east. 228. Pín-i-az bi-tsó (fawn-his-cheese), or fawn-cheese, is a substance found in the abdomen of the fawn. A similar substance is found in other young mammals. They say it looks like curds, or cottage cheese, and that it is pleasant to the taste. They eat it raw. The author has not determined by observation what this substance is. Dr. C. Hart Merriam, of the Department of Agriculture, suggests that it is the partly digested milk in the stomach of the fawn, and this is probably the case. 229. The dish offered to Nati'nesthani is called by the Navahoes atsón, which is here translated "pemmican." It consists of dried vension pounded on a stone and fried in grease. 230. To make di-tló-gi kle-sán, cut the grain off the ear, grind it to a pulp on a metate, spread out the embers, lay a number of green corn leaves on them, place the pulp on the leaves, put other leaves on top of the pulp, rake hot embers over all, and leave it to bake. 231. Di-tló-gin tsi-di-kó-i is made of a pulp of green corn ground on a metate, like ditlógi klesán. The pulp is encased in husks, which are folded at the ends, and is then placed between leaves and hot coals to bake. 232. Thá-bi-tsa (three-ears) is made also of pulp of green corn. This is placed in folded cones made of husks; three cones being made of one complete husk, whose leaves are not removed from their stem. It looks like three ears fastened together, whence the name. It is boiled in water. 233. The story-teller said: "about as far as from here to Jake's house,"--a distance which the writer estimated at 300 yards. 234. Over the east door, one cigarette, that for the male, was made of mountain mahogany (tsé`estagi, Cercocarpus parvifolius), perforated, painted blue, and marked with four symbols of deer-tracks in yellow; the other cigarette, that for the female, was made of cliff rose (awétsal, Cowania mexicana), painted yellow and marked with four symbols of deer-tracks in blue. Over the south door the cigarette for the male was made of sunflower (indigíli), painted yellow and dotted with four symbols of antelope-tracks in blue; the cigarette for the female was made of "strong-smelling sunflower" (indigíli niltsóni, Verbesina enceloides), painted white and dotted with four symbols of antelope-tracks in black. Over the west door, the cigarettes were of the same material as those in the east; but one was painted black with symbols of deer-tracks in blue, and the other was painted blue with symbols of deer-tracks in black. At the bottom of the steps, one of the cigarettes was painted black and dotted with four symbols of fawn-tracks in yellow; the other was painted yellow and dotted with four symbols of fawn-tracks in black. The above was written from the description of the narrator. The writer has never seen such cigarettes; but they are said to be employed in some Navaho ceremonies at the present time. In this series of cigarettes the colors are not in the usual order,[18] but there may be a special symbolism for these animals, or the variation may arise because they are the cigarettes of a wizard and therefore unholy. 235. When driving game to a party in ambush, the Navahoes often imitate the cry of the wolf. In this myth the old man is supposed to give the cry, not to drive the bears, but to make Nati'nesthani believe that deer are being driven. 236. The name Tsa-na-naí is derived from tsan, which means dung. Tse'-sko-di means Spread-foot. The narrator said the other bears had names, but he could not remember them. 237. "He did not even thank his son-in-law" is an instance of sarcasm. 238. The bear is a sacred animal with the Navahoes; for this reason the hero did not skin the bears or eat their flesh. The old man, being a wizard, might do both. 239. Há-la-dzi-ni? means "What are you doing?" but it is a jocose expression, used only among intimate relations, or relations by marriage. In employing this interrogatory the Navaho gave the old man to understand that he was recognized. 240. This episode of the twelve bears is the weakest and least artistic in the tale. Moreover, it details a fifth device on the part of Deer Raiser to kill his son-in-law. Under ordinary circumstances we should expect but four devices. It seems an interpolation, by some story-teller less ingenious than he who composed the rest of the tale, introduced to get the men out together once more, so that, on their way home, the incident of the burnt moccasins might occur. The latter incident has been previously recorded by the writer in another connection. (See note 242.) 241. Among the Navahoes, when a person dies, the suffix ni, or ini, is added to his (or her) name, and thus he is mentioned ever afterwards. 242. Before the story of Nati'nesthani was obtained, the writer had already recorded this tale of the burnt moccasins in a version of the Origin Legend. In the latter connection it is introduced as one of the Coyote tales. The mischievous Coyote is made to try this trick on his father-in-law; but the latter, warned by the Wind, foils the Coyote. 243. The ridge which he crosses in the east and also those which he crosses later in the south, west, and north are colored according to the regular order of Navaho symbolism. 244. The narrator described the bird called tsi-das-tó-i thus: When a man passes by where this bird is sitting, the latter does not fly off, but sits and looks at the man, moving its head in every direction. It is about the size of a screech-owl. 245. It must not be supposed that in this and the following paragraph, when pale-faced people are mentioned, any allusion is made to Caucasians. The reference is merely symbolic. White is the color of the east in Navaho symbolism: hence these people in the east are represented as having pale faces. For similar reasons the man in the south (par. 551) is said to have a blue face, the man in the west (par. 552) a yellow face, and the man in the north (par. 553) a dark face. (See note 18.) 246. Bi-za (his treasure), something he specially values; hence his charm, his amulet, his personal fetish, his magic weapon, something that one carries to mysteriously protect himself. Even the divinities are thought to possess such charms. The songs often mention some property of a god which they say is "Bi'za-yedigi'ngo" (The treasure which makes him holy or sacred). (See par. 367 and note 280.) 247. These medicines are still in use among the Navahoes. The medicine made of gall consists mostly of gall of eagles. If a witch has scattered evil medicine on you, use this. If there are certain kinds of food that disagree with you, and you still wish to eat them, use the vomit medicine. Hunters obtain the materials when they go out hunting. All the totemic animals named (puma, blue fox, yellow fox, wolf, and lynx, see par. 548) vomit when they eat too much. So said the narrator. 248. Buteo borealis. The tail is described as red ("bright chestnut red," Coues) by our ornithologists; but the Navahoes consider it yellow, and call the bird atsé-litsói, or yellow-tail. 249. A-tsó-si-dze ha-tál, or a-tsó-si ha-tál means feather chant or feather ceremony. The following particulars concerning the ceremony were given by the narrator of the story. Dry-paintings are made on the floor of the medicine-lodge much like those of the klédzi hatál, and others are made representing different animals. It is still occasionally celebrated, but not often, and there are only four priests of the rite living. It lasts nine days, and it has more stories, songs, and acts than any other Navaho ceremony. A deer dance was part of the rite in the old days, but it is not practised now. The rite is good for many things, but especially for deer disease. If you sleep on a dry, undressed deer-skin or foul one, or if a deer sneezes at you or makes any other marked demonstration at you, you are in danger of getting the deer disease. 250. Yó-i ha-tál, or yói-dze ha-tál (bead chant), is a nine days' ceremony, which is becoming obsolete. The author has been informed that there is only one priest of the rite remaining; that he learned it from his father, but that he does not know as much about it as his father did. 251. The device of setting up forked sticks to assist in locating fires seen by night and in remembering the position of distant objects is often mentioned in the Navaho tales. (See pars. 382 and 497.) 252. Equisetum hiemale, and perhaps other species of Equisetum, or horse-tail. 253. ["Klis-ka', the arrow-snake, is a long slender snake that moves with great velocity,--so great that, coming to the edge of a cliff when racing, he flies for some distance through the air before reaching the ground again. The Navahoes believe he could soar if he wanted to. He is red and blue on the belly, striped on the back, six feet long or longer. Sometimes moves like a measuring-worm."] From the above description Dr. H. C. Yarrow, formerly curator of reptiles in the Smithsonian Institution, is of the opinion that the arrow-snake is Bascanium flagelliforme. 254. Accipiter cooperii, called gíni by the Navahoes. 255. Compare with description of Spider Woman and her home in paragraph 306. It would seem that the Navahoes believe in more than one Spider Woman. (May be they believe in one for each world.) In paragraph 581 we have an instance of black being assigned to the east and white to the north. (See note 18.) 256. There are several plants in New Mexico and Arizona which become tumble-weeds in the autumn, but the particular weed referred to here is the Amarantus albus. It is called tlotáhi nagi'si, or rolling tlotáhi, by the Navahoes. Tlotáhi is a name applied in common to several species of the Amarantaceæ and allied Chenopodiacæ. (See "Navaho Names for Plants."[312]) The seeds of plants of these families formerly constituted an important part of the diet of the Navahoes, and they still eat them to some extent. 257. Tsil-dil-gi'-si is said to mean frightened-weed, scare-weed, or hiding-weed, and to be so named because snakes, lizards, and other animals hide in its dense foliage when frightened. It is a yellow-flowered composite, Gutierrezia euthamiæ (T. and G.), which grows in great abundance in Arizona and New Mexico. It is used extensively in the Navaho ceremonies in preparing and depositing sacrifices, etc. 258. Whirlwinds of no great violence are exceedingly common throughout the arid region. One seldom looks at an extensive landscape without seeing one or more columns of whirling dust arising. 259. In the full myth of yói hatál, as told by a priest of the rite, a complete account of the ceremonies, songs, and sacrifices taught to the Navaho would here be given; but in this account, told by an outsider, the ritual portion is omitted. 260. In the myth of the "Mountain Chant,"[314] p. 410, it is stated, as in this tale, that the wanderer returning to his old home finds the odors of the place intolerable to him. Such incidents occur in other Navaho myths. 261. In the rite of the klédzi hatál, or the night chant, the first four masked characters, who come out to dance in the public performance of the last night, are called atsá`lei. From this story it would seem that a similar character or characters belong to the yói hatál. 262. These great shells are perhaps not altogether mythical. Similar shells are mentioned in the Origin Legend (pars. 211, 213, 226), in connection with the same pueblos. Shells of such size, conveyed from the coast to the Chaco Canyon, a distance of 300 miles or more, before the introduction of the horse, would have been of inestimable value among the Indians. 263. In the myth recorded in "The Mountain Chant: a Navaho Ceremony,"[314] p. 413, there is an account of a journey given by a courier who went to summon some distant bands to join in a ceremony. From this account the following passage is taken: "I ... went to the north. On my way I met another messenger, who was travelling from a distant camp to this one to call you all to a dance in a circle of branches of a different kind from ours. When he learned my errand he tried to prevail on me to return hither and put off our dance until another day, so that we might attend their ceremony, and that they might in turn attend ours; but I refused, saying our people were in haste to complete their dance. Then we exchanged bows and quivers, as a sign to our people that we had met, and that what we would tell on our return was the truth. You observe the bow and quiver I have now are not those with which I left this morning. We parted, and I kept on my way toward the north." In par. 597 of "The Great Shell of Kintyél" reference is made to the same identical meeting of couriers. It is interesting to observe how one legend is made to corroborate the other,--each belonging to a different rite. 264. Pésdolgas is here translated serrate knife. A saw is called benitsíhi, but in describing it the adjective dolgás is used for serrate. The pésdolgas is mentioned often in song and story. It is said to be no longer in use. Descriptions indicate that it was somewhat like the many-bladed obsidian weapon of the ancient Mexicans. 265. The cliff-ruin known as the White House, in the Chelly Canyon, Arizona, has been often pictured and described. It is called by the Navahoes Kin-i-na-é-kai, which signifies Stone House of the White Horizontal Streak (the upper story is painted white). The name White House is a free translation of this. The Navaho legends abound in references to it, and represent it as once inhabited by divinities. (See par. 78 and fig. 22.) 266. Hát-das-tsi-si is a divinity who is not depicted in the dry-paintings, and whose representative the author has not seen. He appears rarely in the ceremonies and is thus described: The actor wears an ordinary Navaho costume, and an ordinary yébaka mask adorned with owl-feathers, but not with eagle-plumes. He carries on his back an entire yucca plant with the leaves hanging down, and a large ring, two spans in diameter, made of yucca leaves (to show that he is a great gambler at nánzoz). He carries a whip of yucca leaves, and goes around among the assembled crowd to treat the ailing. If a man has lumbago he bends over before the actor and presents his back to be flagellated; if he has headache he presents his head. When the actor has whipped the ailing one, he turns away from him and utters a low sound (like the lowing of a cow). When he can find no more people to whip, he returns to the medicine-lodge and takes off his mask. The cigarette (which the author has in his possession) appropriate to this god is painted black, and bears rude figures of the yucca ring and the yucca plant. It is buried east of the lodge beside a growing yucca. Ten songs are sung when the cigarette is being made, and a prayer is repeated when the work is done. The yucca which the actor carries must have a large part of its root-stock over ground. It is kicked out of the ground,--neither pulled nor cut. The principal home of the divinity is at Tsasitsozsakád (Yucca Glauca, Standing), near the Chelly Canyon. 267. The following is a list of the twenty-one divinities represented by masks in the ceremony of the klédzi hatál:-- MALE. 1. Hastséyalti. 2. Gánaskidi. 3. Tó`nenili. 4. Nayénezgani. 5. To`badzistsíni. 6. Dsahadoldzá. 7. Hastsézini. 8. Hastséhogan. 9. Hátdastsisi.[266] 10. Hastséltsi.[271] 11. Tsóhanoai. 12. Kléhanoai, or Tléhanoai. 13. Hastsébaka. Each, for the first seven, wears a different mask. The last six wear masks of one pattern, that of yébaka. (See plate I., fig. 1.) FEMALE. 14. Hastséoltoi. 15 to 21. Hastsébaad, or goddesses. All the female characters wear masks of one kind. (See fig. 28 and plate I., fig. 3.) 268. The language of the Eleventh Census is quoted here, although it differs slightly from the official report of the count of 1869, made by the acting agent, Capt. Frank T. Bennett, U.S.A. Captain Bennett says the count was made on two separate days, October 2d and 18th, and gives the number of Indians actually counted at 8,181. (Report of Commission of Indian Affairs for 1869, p. 237.[298]) 269. Plate IV. represents a man dressed to personate Nayénezgani, or Slayer of the Alien Gods, as he appears in an act of succor in the ceremony of the night chant, on the afternoon of the ninth day, in company with two other masqueraders (To`badzistsíni[270] and Hastséoltoi[206]). The personator has his body painted black with charcoal of four sacred plants, and his hands painted white. He wears a black mask which has a fringe of yellow or reddish hair across the crown and an ornament of turkey's and eagle's feathers on top. Five parallel lines with five angles in each, to represent lightning, are painted on one cheek of the mask (sometimes the right, sometimes the left). Small, diamond-shaped holes are cut in the mask for eyes and mouth, and to the edge of each hole a small white shell is attached. On his body there are drawn in white clay the figures of eight bows; six are drawn as shown in the picture and two more are drawn over the shoulder-blades. All these bows are shown as complete (or strung) except those on the left leg and left side of the back, which are represented open or unstrung, as shown in the plate and fig. 41. The symbol at the left leg is made first, that on the left shoulder last of all. All the component lines of the symbol are drawn from above downward; fig. 41 shows the order in which they must be drawn. The symbols must all turn in one direction. The personator wears a collar of fox-skin, a number of rich necklaces of shell, turquoise and coral, a fine skirt or sash around his loins (usually scarlet baize, bayeta, but velvet or any rich material will do), a belt decorated with silver, and ordinary moccasins. He carries in his right hand a great stone knife, with which, in the scene of succor, he makes motions at the patient and at the medicine-lodge to draw out the disease. The patient prays to him, and gives him a cigarette painted black and decorated with the bow-symbols in white. This cigarette is preferably deposited under a piñon-tree. A dry-painting of this god has never been seen by the author, and he has been told that none is ever made. 270. Plate VII. represents the personator of the War God, To`badzistsíni, or Child of the Water, as he appears in the act of succor described in notes 206 and 269. His body and limbs are painted with a native red ochre; his hands are smeared with white earth; and eight symbols are drawn in his body in white,--two on the chest, two on the arms, two on the legs, and two on the back, partly over the shoulder-blades. As with the bow-symbols of Nayénezgani (note 269), two of the symbols are left open or unfinished,--that on the left leg (painted first) and that over the left shoulder-blade (painted last), to indicate (some say) that the labors of the god are not yet done. Fig. 42 shows the order and direction in which each component line of the symbol must be drawn. The symbols represent a queue, such as the Navahoes now wear (fig. 31). Some say these figures represent the queue of the god's mother, others say they represent the scalps of conquered enemies; the latter is a more probable explanation. The personator wears a mask painted also with red ochre (all except a small triangular space over the face, which is colored black and bordered with white); and it is decorated both in front and behind with a number of queue-symbols (the number is never the same in two masks, but is always a multiple of four). The mask has a fringe of red or yellow hair, and a cockade of turkey-tail and a downy eagle-feather. The holes for the eyes and mouth are diamond-shaped, and have white shells attached to them. The actor carries in his left hand a small round cylinder of cedar-wood painted red, and in his right a cylinder of piñon painted black. With these, in the scene of succor, he makes motions at the patient and at the lodge. Like his companion, the personator of Nayénezgani, he wears a collar of fox-skin (Vulpes velox); rich necklaces of shell, turquoise, and coral; a skirt or sash of bayeta, or some other rich material; a belt adorned with plaques of silver; and ordinary moccasins. The sacrificial cigarette which he receives is painted red, marked with the queue-symbols, and deposited under a cedar-tree. No dry-painting of To`badzistsíni has been seen by the author, and he has been assured that none is made. 271. The name Has-tsél-tsi (Red God) is derived from Hastsé (God, see par. 78) and litsí (red). The Red God, it is said, is never depicted in dry-paintings. The author has never seen the character in masquerade; it seldom appears,--only on the rare occasions when there is no dance of the naakhaí on the last night of the night chant. He seems to be a god of racing. The following account of him is from verbal description: Red God is one of the yéi, and dwells wherever other yéi dwell (hence there are many). His representative never appears in an act of succor and never helps the patient. A fast runner is chosen to play the part. He goes round among the assembled Indians and challenges men, by signs and inarticulate cries, to race with him. If he wins, he whips the loser with two wands of yucca leaves (culled with special observances) which he carries. If he loses, the winner must not whip him. If the loser begs him to whip softly he whips hard, and vice versa. His body is painted red and has queue-symbols drawn on it, like those of To`badzistsíni (plate VII.). His mask, which is a domino and not a cap, is painted red and marked with circles and curves in white. His cigarette is prepared on the fourth day, but it is not given to him to sacrifice; it is placed by other hands. Song and prayer accompany the preparation and sacrifice of the cigarette. The latter is painted red, and decorated in white with queue-symbols, either two or four; if four, two are closed or complete, and two open or incomplete. (Note 270.) NAVAHO MUSIC. BY PROF. JOHN COMFORT FILLMORE. 272. The twenty-eight songs which I have transcribed from phonographic records made by Dr. Washington Matthews have very great scientific interest and value, inasmuch as they throw much light on the problem of the form spontaneously assumed by natural folk-songs. Primitive man, expressing his emotions, especially strongly excited feeling, in song, without any rules or theories, must, of course, move spontaneously along the lines of least resistance. This is the law under which folk-melodies must necessarily be shaped. The farther back we can get toward absolutely primitive expression of emotion in song, the more valuable is our material for scientific purposes; because we can be certain that it is both spontaneous and original, unaffected by contact with civilized music and by any and all theories. In such music we may study the operation of natural psychical laws correlated with physical laws, working freely and coming to spontaneous expression through the vocal apparatus. These Navaho songs are especially valuable because they carry us well back toward the beginnings of music-making. One only needs to hear them sung, or listen to them in the admirable phonographic records of Dr. Matthews, to be convinced of this from the very quality of tone in which they are sung. In all of them the sounds resemble howling more than singing, yet they are unmistakably musical in two very important particulars: (1) In their strongly marked rhythm; (2) In the unquestionably harmonic relations of the successive tones. I shall deal with them, therefore, under the two heads of Rhythm and Harmonic Melody. 1. Rhythm.--Mr. Richard Wallascheck, the distinguished author of "Primitive Music," has lately called attention to the importance of sonant rhythm. Not only does the rhythmic impulse precede the other musical elements, but the superiority of sonant rhythm is such as to serve as an incitement to tone-production. Rhythm tends to set the voice going; and of course vocal sounds, which constitute the first music, do not become music until they are rhythmically ordered. They tend to become so ordered by a natural law of pulsation which need not be discussed here. The regularly recurring pulsations, which specially show themselves in all prolonged emissions of vocal sounds, tend also to form themselves in metrical groups; speaking broadly, these metrical groups are usually twos or threes, or simple multiples of twos or threes. This is so, for the most part, in savage folk-music, in our most advanced culture-music, and in all the development which comes between. The metrical grouping into fives or sevens is comparatively rare; but I have found it more frequently by far in savage folk-music than in our music of civilization. The most striking characteristic of the metrical grouping of tones in the Navaho songs here given is the freedom with which the singer changes from one elementary metre to the other; i.e. from twos to threes and vice versa. So in the compound metres: two twos and three twos, or two threes and three threes, are intermingled with the utmost freedom, so that few of them can be marked in the notation with a single-time signature. Or, if they are, there is almost sure to be an exceptional measure or two here and there which varies from the fundamental metrical type. Thus, the first song on cylinder No. 38 has metrical groupings of three threes and of two threes; i.e. 9/8 and 6/8 time. The two songs on cylinder No. 41 have three twos and two twos, treating the eighth note as a unit; or, better, 2/4 and 3/4 metre, mingled at the pleasure of the singer. Nearly all the songs vary the metre in this way. The one on cylinder No. 62 has an exceptionally rich variety of metrical arrangement; while the second one, on cylinder No. 38, is exceptionally simple and monotonous in metre and rhythm. A few of them, like No. 25, recorded on cylinder No. 143, are singularly irregular. This song would seem to be based on a grouping of simple twos (2/4 time, equal to 4/8) as its fundamental metrical conception; yet a great many measures contain only three eighth notes, and some contain five or even six. The song numbered 28, on cylinder No. 144, has a 8/8 metre as its foundation, but varied by 2/4, equal to 4/8. In respect of metrical grouping, these Navaho songs do not differ in any essential characteristic from the songs of the Omahas, the Kwakiutls, the Pawnees, the Otoes, the Sioux, and other aboriginal folk-music, nor from that of other nations and races, including our own. The complexity of metrical arrangement has been carried much farther by some other tribes, notably the Omahas and the Kwakiutls, than by the Navahoes, so far as appears from the present collection of songs. There is no record here of an accompanying drum-beat, so that, if the combinations of dissimilar rhythms which are so common in the two above-named tribes exist among the Navahoes, they are yet to be recorded and transcribed. 2. Harmonic Melody.--These songs seem to be a real connecting link between excited shouting and excited singing. In quality of tone they are shouts or howls. In pitch-relations they are unmistakably harmonic. Some of them manifest this characteristic most strikingly. For example, the two songs on cylinder No. 41 contain all the tones which compose the chord of C major, and no others. The second one on cylinder No. 38 has the tones D and F sharp and no others, except in the little preliminary flourish at the beginning, and here there is only a passing E, which fills up the gap between the two chord-tones. D is evidently the key-note, and the whole melody is made up of the Tonic chord incomplete. The first song on the same cylinder is similarly made up of the incomplete Tonic chord in C minor; only the opening phrase has the incomplete chord of E flat, the relative major. Cylinder No. 49 has nothing but the Tonic chord in C major, and the chord is complete. No. 61 has the complete chord of B flat minor and nothing else. No. 62 is made up mainly of the chord of F major complete. It has two by-tones occasionally used, G and D, the former belonging to the Dominant and the other to both the Sub-dominant and Relative minor chords. Song No. 9 on cylinder No. 100 has the incomplete chord of D sharp minor, with G sharp, the Sub-dominant in the key, as an occasional by-tone. The last tone of each period, the lowest tone of the song, sounds in the phonograph as if the singer could not reach it easily, and the pitch is rather uncertain. It was probably meant for G sharp; but a personal interview with the singer would be necessary to settle the point conclusively. Song No. 10, on the same cylinder, has the complete Tonic chord in D sharp minor and nothing else except the tone C sharp, which is here not a melodic by-tone, but a harmonic tone, a minor seventh added to the Tonic chord. This is curiously analogous to some of the melodies I heard in the Dahomey village at the World's Fair, and also to some of the melodies of our own Southern negroes. Song No. 11, on the same cylinder, has the same characteristics as No. 9. Nos. 12 and 13, on cylinder No. 135, contain the complete chord of D flat and nothing else. The two songs on cylinder No. 138 contain the complete chord of C major and nothing else, except at the beginning, where A, the relative minor tone, comes in, in the opening phrase. As a rule, whatever by-tones there are in these songs are used in the preliminary phrase or flourish of the song, and then the singer settles down steadily to the line of the Tonic chord. The two songs recorded on No. 139 have the complete major chord of B flat, with G, the relative minor, as a by-tone. The two songs on No. 143 are in C sharp minor and embody the Tonic chord, with F sharp, the Sub-dominant, as a by-tone. Only the first of the two begins with the tone B, which does not occur again. Song No. 27, on cylinder No. 144, embodies only the complete chord of C sharp minor. No. 28 has the same chord, with F sharp as a by-tone. The two songs on No. 145 are in D minor and are made up mainly of the Tonic chord. The by-tones used are G and B flat, which make up two thirds of the Sub-dominant chord, and C, which belongs to the relative major. No. 32, on cylinder No. 146, has more of diatonic melody. It is in G major, and embodies the chord of the Tonic with by-tones belonging to both the Dominant and Sub-dominant chords, one from each chord. No. 33, on the same cylinder, is less melodious, but has the same harmonic elements. Cylinder 147 has two songs in D major which embody the Tonic chord complete, with slight use of a single by-tone, B, the relative minor. The same is true of song No. 36, on cylinder No. 148. Song No. 37, on the same cylinder, has the major chord of C and nothing else. There are two striking facts in all this: (1) When these Navahoes make music spontaneously,--make melodies by singing tones in rhythmically ordered succession,--there is always a tone which forces itself on our consciousness as a key-note, or Tonic, and this tone, together with the tones which make up its chord (whether major or minor), invariably predominates overwhelmingly; (2) Whenever by-tones are employed, they invariably belong to the chords which stand in the nearest relation to the Tonic. I do not care at present to go into any speculations as to why this is so. No matter now what may be the influence of sonant rhythm; what may be the relations of the psychical, physiological, and physical elements; how sound is related to music; how men come to the conception of a minor Tonic when only the major chord is given in the physical constitution of tone. All these questions I wish to waive at this time and only to insist on this one fact, viz.: That, so far as these Navaho songs are concerned, the line of least resistance is always a harmonic line. If we find the same true of all other folk-melodies, I can see no possible escape from the conclusion that harmonic perception is the formative principle in folk-melody. This perception may be sub-conscious, if you please; the savage never heard a chord sung or played as a simultaneous combination of tones in his life; he has no notion whatever of the harmonic relations of tones. But it is not an accident that he sings, or shouts, or howls, straight along the line of a chord, and never departs from it except now and then to touch on some of the nearest related chord-tones, using them mainly as passing-tones to fill up the gap between the tones of his Tonic chord. Such things do not happen by accident, but by law. That these Navahoes do precisely this thing, no listener can doubt who knows a chord when he hears it. But the same thing is true of all the folk-music I have ever studied. Hundreds of Omaha, Kwakiutl, Otoe, Pawnee, Sioux, Winnebago, Iroquois, Mexican Indian, Zuñi, Australian, African, Malay, Chinese, Japanese, Hindoo, Arab, Turkish, and European folk-songs which I have carefully studied, taking down many of them from the lips of the native singers, all tell the same story. They are all built on simple harmonic lines, all imply harmony, are all equally intelligible to peoples the most diverse in race, and consequently owe their origin and shaping to the same underlying formative principles. Mr. Wallascheck has called attention to the fact that the rhythmic impulse precedes the musical tones, and also to the part played by sonant rhythm in setting tone-production going. The rhythmic impulse is doubtless the fundamental one in the origination of music. But when the tone-production is once started by the rhythmic impulse, it takes a direction in accordance with the laws of harmonic perception. I was long ago forced to this conclusion in my study of the Omaha music; and these Navaho songs furnish the most striking corroboration of it. How else can we possibly account for the fact that so many of these songs contain absolutely nothing but chord tones? How can we escape the conclusion that the line of least resistance is a harmonic line? Is it not plain that, in the light of this principle, every phenomenon of folk-music becomes clear and intelligible? Is there any other hypothesis which will account for the most striking characteristics of folk-music? Every student must answer these questions for himself. But I, for my part, am wholly unable to resist the conviction that the harmonic sense is the shaping, formative principle in folk-melody. [In the numbers of The Land of Sunshine (Los Angeles, Cal.), for October and November, 1896, under the title of "Songs of the Navajos," the poetry and music of this tribe have already been discussed by Professor Fillmore and the author. All the music which follows (see pp. 258, 279-290), except that of the "Dove Song," was written by Professor Fillmore.] 273. DOVE SONG. (See par. 50.) Music by Christian Barthelmess. Slow. Wos wos nai-di-la a a, Wos wos nai-di-lo o o, Wos wos nai-di-la a a, Tsi-nol-ka-zi nai-di-la a a, Ke-li-tsi-tsi nai-di-la a a, Wos wos nai-di-lo o o. TEXTS AND INTERLINEAR TRANSLATIONS. 274. ASSEVERATION OF TORLINO (IN PART). Naestsán bayántsin. Earth (Woman Horizontal), for it I am ashamed. Yádilyil bayántsin. Sky (dark above), for it I am ashamed. Hayolkál bayántsin. Dawn, for it I am ashamed. Nahotsói bayántsin. Evening (Land of Horizontal Yellow), for it I am ashamed. Nahodotli'zi bayántsin. Blue sky (Land or Place of Horizontal Blue), for it I am ashamed. Tsalyél bayántsin. Darkness, for it I am ashamed. Tsóhanoai bayántsin. Sun, for it I am ashamed. Si sizíni beyastí`yi bayántsin. In me it stands, with me it talks, for it I am ashamed. 275. BEGINNING OF ORIGIN LEGEND. To`bilhaski'digi haádze lakaígo ta`i'ndilto; tsin Water with Hill Central in to the east white up rose; day dzilínla tsi'ni. Sadaádze dotli'zgo ta`i'ndilto; they thought it they say. To the south blue up rose; tábitsin indzilté tsi'ni. Inádze litsógo still their day they went around they say. To the west yellow ta`i'ndilto; ininála á`le tsi'ni. Akógo náhokosdze up rose; evening always it showed they say. Then to the north dilyi'lgo ta`i'ndilto; akógo dazintsá dádzilkos tsi'ni. dark up rose; then they lay down they slept they say. To`bilhaski'di to`altsáhazlin; Water with Hill Central water flowed from in different directions; haádze la ilín, sadaágo la ilín, la inádze ilín to the east one flowed, at the south one flowed, one to the west flowed tsi'ni. Haádze ilínigi ban kéhodziti; they say. To the east where it flowed its border place where they dwelt; sadaádze eltó`; inádze eltó` ban kéhodziti to the south also; to the west also its border place where they dwelt tsi'ni. they say. Haádze Tan holgé; sadaádze Nahodoóla holgé; To the east Corn a place called; to the south Nahodoóla a place called; inádze Lókatsosakád holgé. Haádze Asalái to the west Reed Great Standing a place called. To the east Pot One holgé; sadaádze To`hádzitil holgé; a place called; to the south Water They Come for Often a place called; inádze Dsillitsíbehogán holgé. Haádze to the west Mountain Red Made of House a place called. To the east Léyahogan holgé; sadaádze Tsiltsi'ntha Earth under House a place called; to the south Aromatic Sumac among holgé; inádze Tse`litsíbehogán holgé. a place called; to the west Rock Red Made of House a place called. Holatsí Dilyi'le kéhati inté. Holatsí Litsí kéhati inté. Tanilaí Ants Dark lived there. Ants Red lived there. Dragon-flies kéhati inté. Tsaltsá kéhati inté. Wointli'zi kéhati lived there. (Yellow beetles) lived there. Beetles (?) hard lived inté. Tse`yoáli kéhati inté. Kinli'zin there. Stone carriers (beetles) lived there. Bugs black (beetles) kéhati inté. Maitsán kéhati inté. Andi'ta Tsápani kéhati lived there. Coyote-dung (beetles) lived there. Besides Bats lived inté. Totsó` kéhati inté. Wonistsídi kéhati inté. there. (White-faced beetles) lived there. Locusts lived there. Wonistsídi Kaí kéhati inté. Nakidátago diné` aísi Locusts White lived there. Twelve people these dezdél. started (in life). Haádze hahóse to`sigi'n tsi'ni; Sadaádze to`sigi'n To the east extended ocean they say; to the south ocean tsi'ni; inádze to`sigi'n tsi'ni; náhokosdze to`sigi'n they say; to the west ocean they say; to the north ocean tsi'ni. Haádze to`sigi'n bígi Tiéholtsodi sitín tsi'ni. they say. To the east ocean within Tiéholtsodi lay they say. Natáni inlíngo; hanantáï tsi'ni. Sadaádze to`sigi'n Chief he was; Chief of the people they say. To the south ocean bígi Thaltláhale sitín tsi'ni. Natáni inlin'go; hanantáï within Blue Heron lay they say. Chief he was; chief of the people tsi'ni. Inádze to`sigi'n bígi Tsal sitín tsi'ni. Natáni they say. To the west ocean within Frog lay they say. Chief inlíngo; hanantáï tsi'ni. Náhokosdze to`sigi'n bígi he was; chief of the people they say. To the north ocean within Idní`dsilkai sitín tsi'ni; hanantáï tsi'ni. Thunder Mountain White lay they say; chief of the people they say. Tígi itégo hazágo kédahatsitigo; e'hyidelnago In this way they quarrelled around where they lived; with one another ahádaztilge tsi'ni. E'hyidelnago estsáni altsan they committed adultery they say. With one another women several tatsikíd tsi'ni. Yúwe tséhalni tsi'ni. Tiéholtsodi committed crime they say. To banish it they failed they say. Tiéholtsodi haádze "Hatégola doléla? Hwehéya to the east "In what way shall we act? Their land holdá`odaka`la." Sadaádze Thaltláhale halní the place they dislike." To the south Blue Heron spoke to them tsi'ni. Inádze "Kat si dokoné kehadzitídolel," Tsal they say. To the west "Now I (say) not here shall they dwell," Frog hatsí Natáni inli'ni, hatsí tsi'ni. Náhokosdze he said Chief he was, he said they say. To the north Idní`dsilkai "Ta`kadá` hádzeta dahízdinolidi" tsi'ni. Thunder Mountain White "Quickly elsewhere they must depart" they say. Haádze Tiéholtsodi ahánadazdeyago To the east Tiéholtsodi when again they committed adultery alkinatsidzé tohatsí tsi'ni. Sadaádze among themselves again fought nothing he said they say. To the south Thaltláhale tatohanantsída tsi'ni. Inádze Tsal natáni Blue Heron again said nothing to them they say. To the west Frog chief inlinéni tatohanantsída tsi'ni. Náhokosdze he formerly was again said nothing to them they say. To the north Idní`dsilkai tatohanantsída tsi'ni. Thunder Mountain White again said nothing to them they say. Tóbiltahozondala tsi'ni. Not with pleasant ways, one they say. Tin naikálago takonáhotsa tsi'ni. Sadaádze Four again ends of nights again the same happened they say. To the south kéhodzitini takonátsidza tsi'ni; kinatsidzé tsi'ni. the dwellers did the same again they say; again they fought they say. Haádze la estsánigo la dinégo yahatsaáz inté; To the east one woman one man tried to enter two together there; tsehodineltsa, tsi'ni. Sadaádze Thaltláhale sitínedze they were driven they say. To the south Blue Heron to where he lay yahanátsataz inté; tsenáhodineltsa again they tried to enter two together there; again they were driven out tsi'ni. Inádze Tsal natáni inli'nedze they say. To the west Frog chief to where he was yahanátsataz inté; tsenáhodineltsa again they tried to enter two together there; again they were driven out tsi'ni. Náhokosdze tsenáhodineltsa "Tóta ní`yila. they say. To the north again they were driven out. "Not one of you. Dainoká` hádzeta," ho`doní tsi'ni. Andi'ta aibitlé Keep on going elsewhere," thus he spoke they say. Besides the same night Nahodoóla bai'ndadzitigo iská' tatoastetsáda Nahodoóla they discussed it the end of the night they did not decide tsi'ni. Na`déyayilkágo Tiéholtsodi hayálti tsi'ni. they say. After dawn Tiéholtsodi began to talk they say. "Todadotsáda tsiní`yitsinyasti hádis tadidotsíl "You pay no attention all I said to you anywhere you will disobey; ní`yila` hádzeta tanelída; koné tóta ti` ni dasakádgi kat all of you elsewhere must go; here not this earth upon stand in now tóta;" hodoní tsi'ni. not;" thus he said they say. Estsánigo tin iskágo basahatsilágo tsi'ni. Among the women four ends of nights, till they talked about it they say. Tín iská` api'nigo názditse inté tsi'ni, Four ends of nights in the morning as they were rising there they say, haádze hatísi lakáigo taigánil tsi'ni; andi'ta sadaádze to the east something white it appeared they say; besides to the south eltó` taigánil tsi'ni; naakoné inádze eltó` taigánil also it appeared they say; again here to the west also it appeared tsi'ni; andi'ta náhokosdze eltó` taigánil tsi'ni. Dsil they say; besides to the north also it appeared they say. Mountains ahyéna`a` náhalini silín tsi'ni; tatobitá`hazani. rising up around like it stretched they say; without opening. To`ahyéintsil tsi'ni; to`tobityió, tatódizaatego Water all around they say; water not to be crossed, not to be climbed ahyéintsilin tsi'ni. Táako tahadiltél tsi'ni. flowed all around they say. At once they started they say. Ahyéiltégo nihiziilté tsi'ni; They went around in circles thus they went they say; yabiilté tsi'ni. Dilkógo. Táado tan indazdéti they went to the sky they say. It was smooth. Thence down they looked tsi'ni; to` i'ndadiltlayengi; to` toahotéhida tsi'ni. they say; water where it had risen; water nothing else there they say. Nité kondé la haznolán tsi'ni; tsi dotli'z léi; There from here one stuck out they say; head blue it had; hatsotsí tsi'ni; "Kónne," tsiné, "haádzego he called to them they say; "In here," he said, "to the eastward ahótsala" tsi'ni. Akónne ooilté tsi'ni; binaká` a hole" they say. In here they went entering they say; through it ilté tsi'ni bagándze hasté tsi'ni. they went they say; to the upper surface they came out they say. Dotli'zeni Hastsósidine` ati'nla tsi'ni. Hastsósidine` The blue one Swallow People belonged to they say. Swallow People kéhatil tsi'ni. Hogánin togólgo nazni'l, lived there they say. The houses rough (lumpy) scattered around, tsi'ni; háhosi` yilá` tsi'ni. Bilathádze they say; a great many were placed they say. Toward their tops dahatsózgo; áde yahadáhaztsa` tsi'ni. Háhosi` they tapered; from that gave entrance an opening they say. A great many diné` altsí kotgá tsi'ni. Háalahazlín tsi'ni. people collected together they say. They crowded together they say. 276. SONG OF ESTSÁNATLEHI. Aieneyá. (No meaning.) Eó eá aiá ahèea aía eeeaía ainá. (A meaningless prelude twice repeated.) I. 1. Yéinaezgani sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Nayénezgani for me he brings, (meaningless.) 2. Kat Bitéelgeti sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Now Téelget for me he brings, (meaningless.) 3. Tsi'da la bidzái sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Truly one his lung for me he brings, (meaningless.) 4. Diné` nahostli'di. Sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. People are restored. For me he brings, (meaningless.) Haía aína aiyéya aína. (Meaningless refrain after each stanza.) II. 1. Kat To`badzistsíni sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Now To`badzistsíni for me he brings, (meaningless.) 2. Tseninaholi'si sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Tse`náhale for me he brings, (meaningless.) 3. Tsi'da la bitái, sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Truly one his wing, for me he brings, (meaningless.) 4. Diné` nahostli'di. Sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. People are restored. For me he brings, (meaningless.) III. 1. Kat Léyaneyani sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Now Léyaneyani for me he brings, (meaningless.) 2. Tse`tahotsiltá`li sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Tse`tahotsiltá`li for me he brings, (meaningless.) 3. Tsi'da bitlapi'le sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Truly his side-lock for me he brings, (meaningless.) 4. Diné` nahostli'di. Sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. People are restored. For me he brings, (meaningless.) IV. 1. Kat Tsówenatlehi sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Now Tsówenatlehi for me he brings, (meaningless.) 2. Bináye Tsagáni sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Bináye Aháni for me he brings, (meaningless.) 3. Tsi'da la binái sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. Truly one his eye for me he brings, (meaningless.) 4. Diné` nahostli'di. Sa` niyi'nigi, yeyeyéna. People are restored. For me he brings, (meaningless.) In line 1, stanza I., Nayénezgani is changed to Yéinaezgani, and in line 1, stanza IV., Bináye Aháni is changed to Bináye Tsagáni. Nahostli'di in the last line of each stanza is rendered here "restored," but the more exact meaning is, not that the original people are called back to life, but that others are given in place of them. This verb is used if a man steals a horse and gives another horse as restitution for the one he stole. 277. SONG OF NAYÉNEZGANI (NAYÉNEZGANI BIGI'N). I. Atsé Estsán Nayénezgani yihaholni'z, Atsé Estsán Nayénezgani began to tell her of, Bitéelgeti yilhaholni'z, Téelget began to tell her of, Nayé holóde yihaholni'z. Anáye from where they are began to tell her of. II. Estsánatlehi To`badzistsíni yilhaholni'z, Estsánatlehi To`badzistsíni began to tell her of, Tse`nahalési yilhaholni'z, Tsé`nahale began to tell her of, Nayé holóde yilhaholni'z. Anáye from where they are began to tell her of. III. Atsé Estsán Léyaneyani yilhaholni'z, Atsé Estsán Léyaneyani began to tell her of, Tse`tahotsiltá`li yilhaholni'z, Tse`tahotsiltá`li began to tell her of, Nayé holóde yilhaholni'z. Anáye from where they are began to tell her of. IV. Estsánatlehi Tsówenatlehi yilhaholni'z, Estsánatlehi Tsówenatlehi began to tell her of, Bináye Tsagáni yilhaholni'z, Bináye Aháni began to tell her of, Nayé holóde yilhaholni'z. Anáye from where they are began to tell her of. Prelude, refrain, and meaningless syllables are omitted from this text. 278. SONG OF NAYÉNEZGANI. I. Kat Nayénezgani koanígo digíni, Now Slayer of the Alien Gods thus he says a holy one, Kat Tsóhanoai koanígo, Now The Sun thus he says, Digi'n yiká` sizíni koanígo. Holy thereon he stands thus he says. II. Kat To`badzistsíni koanígo digíni, Now Child of the Water thus he says a holy one, Kat Kléhanoai koanígo, Now The Moon thus he says, Digi'n yiká` holési koanígo. Holy thereon he goes forth thus he says. III. Kat Léyaneyani koanígo digíni, Now Reared under the Earth thus he says a holy one, Kat Tsóhanoai koanígo, Now The Sun thus he says, Digi'n yiká` sizíni koanígo. Holy thereon he stands thus he says. IV. Kat Tsówenatlehi koanígo digíni, Now Changing Grandchild thus he says a holy one, Kat Kléhanoai koanígo, Now The Moon thus he says, Digi'n yiká` holési koanígo. Holy thereon he goes forth thus he says. Meaningless parts omitted. Koanígo is from kónigo, which is the prose form. 279. SONG OF NAYÉNEZGANI. I. Kat Yénaezgani la disitsáya. Now Slayer of the Alien Gods (Nayénezgani) one I hear him. Ya benikásde la disitsáya. Sky through from one I hear him. Bíniye tsíye ti'snisad lée. His voice sounds in every direction (no meaning). Bíniye tsíye dígini lée. His voice sounds holy, divine (no meaning). II. Kat To`badzistsíni la disitsáya. Now Child of the Water one I hear him. To` benikásde la disitsáya. Water through from one I hear him. Bíniye tsíye ti'snisad lée. His voice sounds in every direction (no meaning). Bíniye tsíye dígini lée. His voice sounds divine (no meaning). III. Kat Léyaneyani la disitsáya. Now Reared under the Ground one I hear him. Ni` benikásde la disitsáya. Earth through from one I hear him. Bíniye tsíye ti 'snisad lée. His voice sounds in every direction (no meaning). Bíniye tsíye dígini lée. His voice sounds divine (no meaning). IV. Kat Tsówenatlehi la disitsáya. Now Changing Grandchild one I hear him. Kos benikásde la disitsáya. Clouds through from one I hear him. Bíniye tsíye ti'snisad lée. His voice sounds in every direction (no meaning). Bíniye tsíye dígini lée. His voice sounds divine (no meaning). Nayénezgani changed to Yénaezgani; bine (his voice) changed to bíniye; digi'n changed to dígini, for poetic reasons. Preludes and refrains omitted. 280. A SONG OF NAYÉNEZGANI. I. Kat Nayénezgani nahaníya, Now Slayer of the Alien Gods he arrives, Pes dilyi'li behogánla ásde nahaníya, Knives dark a house made of from he arrives, Pes dilyi'li da`honíhe ásde nahaníya. Knives dark dangle high from he arrives. Nizáza dinigíni, síka tóta. Your treasures you holy one, for my sake not. II. Kat To`badzistsíni nahaníya, Now Child of the Water he arrives, Pes dolgási behogánla ásde nahaníya, Knives serrate a house made of from he arrives, Pes dolgási da`honíhe ásde nahaníya. Knives serrate dangle high from he arrives. Nizáza dinigíni, síka not. Your treasures you holy one, for my sake tóta. III. Kat Léyaneyani nahaníya, Now Reared under the Earth he arrives, Pes althasaí behogánla ásde nahaníya, Knives of all kinds a house made of from he arrives, Pes althasaí da`honíhe ásde nahaníya. Knives of all kinds dangle high from he arrives. Nizáza dinigíni, síka tóta. Your treasures you holy one, for my sake not. IV. Kat Tsówenatlehi nahaníya, Now Changing Grandchild he arrives, Pes litsói behogánla ásde nahaníya, Knives yellow yellow a house made of from he arrives, Pes litsói da`honíhe ásde nahaníya. Knives yellow dangle high from he arrives. Nizáza dinigíni, síka tóta. Your treasures you holy one, for my sake not. In endeavoring to explain the meaning of this song, the singer related that Nayénezgani said to his mother, "You are the divine one, not I." She replied, "No, you are the divine one." They were exchanging compliments. Then he said, "Not for my sake, but for yours, were these treasures (weapons, etc.) given by the Sun. They are yours." For the meaning of bizá (his treasure), see note 246. Nizá or ni'za means your treasure; the last syllable is here repeated perhaps as a poetic plural. The houses of knives are said to be the different chambers in the house of the Sun. Meaningless syllables are omitted in this text. 281. SONG OF THE SUN. I. Kat Nayénezgani sideyáïye, Now Slayer of the Alien Gods I come (or approach) with, Pes dilyi'li behogánde sideyáïye, Knives dark from house made of I come with, Pes dilyi'li da`honíde sideyáïye, Knives dark from where they dangle high I come with, Sa` alíli sideyáïye, aníhoyéle For me an implement of the rites I come with, to you dreadful aineyáhi ainé. (no meaning). II. Kat To`badzistsíni sideyáïye, Now Child of the Water I come with, Pes dolgási[264] behogánde sideyáïye, Knives serrate from house made of I come with, Pes dolgási da`honíde sideyáïye, Knives serrate from where they dangle high I come with, Sa` alíli sideyáïye, For me an implement of the rites I come with, anídiginle aineyáhi ainé. to you sacred (divine, holy) (no meaning). III. Kat Léyaneyani sideyáïye, Now Reared Beneath the Earth, I come with, Pes althasaí behogánde sideyáïye, Knives of all kinds from house made of I come with, Pes althasaí da`honíde sideyáïye, Knives of all kinds from where they dangle high I come with, Sa` alíli sideyáïye, aníhoyéle, For me an implement of the rites I come with, to you dreadful, aineyáhi ainé. (no meaning). IV. Kat Tsówenatlehi sideyáïye, Now Changing Grandchild I come with, Pes litsói behogánde sideyáïye, Knives yellow from the house made of I come with, Pes litsói da`honíde sideyáïye, Knives yellow from where they dangle high I come with, Sa` alíli sideyáïye, anídiginle For me an implement of the rites I come with, to you sacred aineyáhi ainé. (no meaning.) Alíl or alíli means a show, dance, or other single exhibition of the rites (see fig. 30). It also means a wand or other sacred implement used in the rites. It is thought that the colored hoops for raising a storm, described in par. 355, are the alíli referred to in this song. 282. SONG OF THE SUN. I. Siní` eé deyá aá, deyá aá, My mind approaches, approaches, Tsínhanoai eé deyá aá, The Sun God approaches, Ni`ninéla` eé deyá aá, Border of the Earth approaches, Estsánatlesi bigáni yúnidze deyá aá, Estsánatlehi her house toward the hearth approaches, Sána nagái eé deyá aá, In old age walking approaches, Biké hozóni eé deyá aá. His trail beautiful approaches. Siní` eé deyá aá, deyá aá. My mind approaches, approaches. II. Siní` eé deyá aá, deyá aá, My mind approaches, approaches, Kléhanoai eé deyá aá, The Moon God approaches, Ni`ninéla` eé deyá aá, Border of the Earth approaches, Yolkaí Estsán bigáni yúnidze deyá aá, Yolkaí Estsán her house toward the hearth approaches, Sána nagái eé deyá aá, In old age walking approaches, Biké hozóni eé deyá aá. His trail beautiful approaches. Siní` eé deyá aá deyá aá. My mind approaches, approaches. Yúni, here translated hearth, is a certain part of the floor of the Navaho lodge. Yúnidze means in the direction of the yúni. The expressions Sána, nagái and Biké hozóni appear in many songs and prayers, and are always thus united. Their literal translation is as given above; but they are equivalent to saying, "Long life and happiness;" as part of a prayer, they are a supplication for a long and happy life. Hozóni means, primarily, terrestrially beautiful; but it means also happy, happily, or, in a certain sense, good. Estsánatlehi is often called, in song, Estsánatlesi, and Tsóhanoai is often called (apparently with greater propriety) Tsínhanoai. Siní` = Si'ni. The syllables not translated are meaningless. 283. SIGNIFICANT WORDS OF SONGS OF THE LOG, FIRST SET. First Song:-- Tsin nizóni sa` nii'nitha. Tree (log, stick) beautiful for me they fell. Second Song:--Tsin nizóni sa` haídile. Tree beautiful for me they prepare or trim. Third Song:--Tsin nizóni sa` haiyidíla`. Tree beautiful for me they have prepared. Fourth Song:--Tsin nizóni silá` yidití`yi`. Tree beautiful with me they carry. Fifth Song:--Tsin nizóni silá` tháiyiyitin. Tree beautiful with me they put in the water. The word for beautiful is usually pronounced inzóni, not nizóni as above. 284. SIGNIFICANT WORDS OF SONGS OF THE LOG, SECOND SET. First Song:--Tsin nizóni silá` neyilgó`. Tree beautiful with me they push. Second Song:--Tsin nizóni silá` yidisél. Tree beautiful with me floats. Third Song:--Tsin nizóni silá` yiyilól. Tree beautiful with me moves floating. 285. WORDS OF THE EAGLE. Ahaláni siáz! E`yéhe siáz! Nitsi'li ta Greeting, my child! Thanks, my child! Your younger brother down toadainini'lda, Donikí. you did not throw, Donikí. 286. SONG OF THE EAGLES.--A SONG OF THE BEAD CHANT. I. Aóoóo aiá-hená an an anaié anaié. (Meaningless prelude.) Kinnakíye yéye saaíyista an an, Kinnakíye there he sits, Hayáaaá yéye saaíyista an an, When he rises, there he sits, Yiltsá aá yéye saaíyista an an, We shall see, there he sits, Talpíl aá yéye saaíyista an an. He will flap, there he sits. Aiadoséye aiadoséye an an an ohaneyé. (Meaningless refrain.) Kinnakíye = Kinníki. The vocables not translated have no meaning now. 287. SONG OF THE ASCENSION. I. Aió éo éo éo he, éo óo éo éo he. (Meaningless prelude.) 1. Tsi'natan alkaí eé eé, Plant of corn white, 2. Bidági tso ínyan eé. Its ear sticks up in great to eat. 3. Nantá anán tosé tosé. Stay down. Tosé eyé eyé. II. (Repeat prelude as in stanza I.) 1. Tsi'natan dotli'z eé eé, Plant of corn blue, 2. Bidági tso ínyan eé. Its ear sticks up in great to eat. 3. Nantá anán tosé tosé. Stay down. (Repeat refrain as in stanza I.) III. (Repeat prelude.) 1. Tsi'natan altsói eé eé, Plant of corn yellow, 2. Bidági tso ínyan eé. Its ear sticks up in great to eat. 3. Nantá anán tosé tosé. Stay down. (Repeat refrain.) IV. (Repeat prelude.) 1. Tsi'nataa zi'ni eé eé, Plant of corn black, 2. Bidági tso ínyan eé. Its ear sticks up in great to eat. 3. Nantá anán tosé tosé. Stay down. (Repeat refrain.) V. (Repeat prelude.) 1. Tsi'nat althasaí eé eé, Plant of corn all kinds or colors, 2. Bidági tso ínyan eé. Its ear sticks up in great to eat. 3. Nantá anán tosé tosé. Stay down. (Repeat refrain.) VI. (Repeat prelude.) 1. Tsi'natan ditsól eé eé, Plant of corn round (nubbin), 2. Bidági tso ínyan eé. Its ear sticks up in great to eat. 3. Nantá anán tosé tosé. Stay down. (Repeat refrain.) Great changes are made in some of the words in this song for prosodic reasons. Tsi'natan, tsi'nataa, and tsi'nat (1st lines) are all from tsil (plant) and natán (corn), Bidági (2d lines) is from bidí (its ear), iá` (it sticks up), and gi (in). Alkaí (line 1, stanza I.) = lakaí. Altsói (line 1, stanza III.) = litsói. 288. PRAYER OF FIRST DANCERS FROM THE CEREMONY OF THE NIGHT CHANT. 1. Tse`gíhigi, Tse`gíhi in 2. Hayolkál behogángi, Dawn made of house in, 3. Nahotsói behogángi, Evening twilight made of house in, 4. Kósdilyil behogángi, Cloud dark made of house in, 5. Niltsabaká behogángi, Rain male made of house in, 6. Á`dilyil behogángi, Mist dark made of house in, 7. Niltsabaád behogángi, Rain female made of house in, 8. Thaditín behogángi, Pollen made of house in, 9. Aniltáni behogángi, Grasshoppers made of house in, 10. Á`dilyil dadinlági, Mist dark at the door, 11. Natsílit bikedzétin, Rainbow his trail the road, 12. Atsinikli'si yíki dasizíni, Zigzag lightning on it high stands, 13. Niltsabaká yíki dasizíni, Rain male on it high stands, 14. Hastsébaka, Deity male, 15. Kósdilyil nikégo nahaíniya`. Cloud dark your moccasins come to us. 16. Kósdilyil nisklégo nahaíniya`. Cloud dark your leggings come to us. 17. Kósdilyil niégo nahaíniya`. Cloud dark your shirt come to us. 18. Kósdilyil nitságo nahaíniya`. Cloud dark your headdress come to us. 19. Kósdilyil binininlágo nahaíniya`. Cloud dark your mind enveloping come to us. 20. Niki'dze idní`dilyil dahitágo nahaíniya`. You above thunder dark high flying come to us. 21. Kosistsín bikégo dahitágo nahaíniya`. Cloud having a shape at feet high flying come to us. 22. Intsekádo kósdilyil beatsadasyélgo dahitágo Your head over cloud dark made of far darkness high flying nahaíniya`. come to us. 23. Intsekádo niltsabaká beatsadasyélgo dahitágo Your head over rain male made of far darkness high flying nahaíniya`. come to us. 24. Intsekádo á`dilyil beatsadasyélgo dahitágo Your head over mist dark made of far darkness high flying nahaíniya`. come to us. 25. Intsekádo niltsabaád beatsadasyélgo dahitágo Your head over rain female made of far darkness high flying nahaíniya`. come to us. 26. Intsekádo atsinikli'si hadahatilgo dahitágo Your head over zigzag lightning high out flung high flying nahaíniya`. come to us. 27. Intsekádo natsílit adahazlágo dahitágo nahaíniya`. Your head over rainbow high hanging high flying come to us. 28. Nita`lathá`do kósdilyil beatsadasyélgo dahitágo Your wings on ends of cloud dark made of far darkness high flying nahaíniya`. come to us. 29. Nita`lathá`do niltsabaká beatsadasyélgo dahitágo Your wings on ends of rain male made of far darkness high flying nahaíniya`. come to us. 30. Nita`lathá`do á`dilyil beatsadasyélgo dahitágo Your wings on ends of mist dark made of far darkness high flying nahaíniya`. come to us. 31. Nita`lathá`do niltsabaád beatsadasyélgo dahitágo Your wings on ends of rain female made of far darkness high flying nahaíniya`. come to us. 32. Nita`lathá`do atsinikli'si hadahati'lgo dahitágo Your wings on ends of zigzag lightning high out flung high flying nahaíniya`. come to us. 33. Nita`lathá`do natsílit adahazlágo dahitágo nahaíniya`. Your wings on ends of rainbow high hanging high flying come to us. 34. Kósdilyil, niltsabaká, á`dilyil, niltsabaád bil Cloud dark, rain male, mist dark, rain female with it benatsidasyélgo nahaíniya`. made of near darkness come to us. 35. Ni`gidasyél nahaíniya`. On the earth darkness come to us. 36. Aíbe natátso nitadeél biági tálawus With the same great corn floating over at bottom foam yilto`lín esi'nosin. with water flowing that I wish. 37. Nigel islá`. Your sacrifice I have made. 38. Nadé hilá`. For you smoke I have prepared. 39. Siké saáditlil. My feet for me restore (as they were). 40. Sitsát saáditlil. My legs for me restore. 41. Sitsís saáditlil. My body for me restore. 42. Si'ni saáditlil. My mind for me restore. 43. Siné saáditlil. My voice for me restore. 44. Ádistsin nalíl saádilel. This day your spell for me take out. 45. Ádistsin nalíl saani'nla`. This day your spell for me remove (take away). 46. Sitsádze tahi'ndinla`. Away from me you have taken it. 47. Nizágo sitsa` nénla`. Far off from me it is taken. 48. Nizágo nastlín. Far off you have done it. 49. Hozógo nadedestál. Happily (in a way of beauty) I recover. 50. Hozógo sitáhadinokél. Happily my interior becomes cool. 51. Hozógo siná nahodotlél. Happily my eyes, I regain (the power of). 52. Hozógo sitsé dinokél. Happily my head becomes cool. 53. Hozógo sitsát nahodotlél. Happily my limbs I regain. 54. Hozógo nadedestsíl. Happily again I hear. 55. Hozógo sáhadadoltó`. Happily for me it is taken off. 56. Hozógo nasádo. Happily I walk. 57. Tosohododelnígo nasádo. Impervious to pain I walk. 58. Sitáhago sólago nasádo. My interior light I walk. 59. Saná` nislíngo nasádo. My feelings lively I walk. 60. Hozógo kósdilyil senahotlédo. Happily (in terrestrial beauty) clouds dark I desire (in abundance). 61. Hozógo á`dilyil senahotlédo. Happily mists dark I desire. 62. Hozógo sedaahuiltyído senahotlédo. Happily passing showers I desire. 63. Hozógo nanisé senahotlédo. Happily plants of all kinds I desire. 64. Hozógo thaditín senahotlédo. Happily pollen I desire. 65. Hozógo dató` senahotlédo. Happily dew I desire. 66. Hozógo natálkai yasóni ni`dahazlágo Happily corn white good beautiful to the end of the earth ni`yilokaí. may (it) come with you. 67. Hozógo natáltsoi yasóni ni`dahazlágo Happily corn yellow good beautiful to the end of the earth ni`yilokaí. may come with you. 68. Hozógo natadotli'zi yasóni ni`dahazlágo Happily corn blue good beautiful to the end of the earth ni`yilokaí. may come with you. 69. Hozógo nataalthasaí yasóni ni`dahazlágo Happily corn of all kinds good beautiful to the end of the earth 70. Hozógo nanisé yasóni ni`dahazlágo Happily plants of all kinds good beautiful to the end of the earth ni`yilokaí. may come with you. 71. Hozógo yúdi althasaí yasóni ni`dahazlágo Happily goods of all kinds good beautiful to the end of the earth ni`yilokaí. may come with you. 72. Hozógo inkli'z althasaí yasóni ni`dahazlágo Happily jewels of all kinds good beautiful to the end of the earth ni`yilokaí. may come with you. 73. Tíbe ni`yitsi'de hozógo ni`yilokaí. With these before you happily may come with you. 74. Tíbe ni`yikéde hozógo ni`yilokaí. With these behind you happily may come with you. 75. Tíbe ni`yiyági hozógo ni`yilokaí. With these below you happily may come with you. 76. Tíbe ni`yikígi hozógo ni`yilokaí. With these above you happily may come with you. 77. Tíbe ni`yinagidáltso hozógo ni`yilokaí. With theseall around you happily may come with you. 78. Tibikégo hozógo nahodolál. In this way happily you accomplish your tasks. 79. Hozógo nastúwin ta`nishyítinolil. Happily old men they will look at you. 80. Hozógo sáni ta`nishyítinolil. Happily old women they will look at you. 81. Hozógo tsilké ta`nishyítinolil. Happily young men they will look at you. 82. Hozógo tsiké ta`nishyítinolil. Happily young women they will look at you. 83. Hozógo asiké ta`nishyítinolil. Happily boys they will look at you. 84. Hozógo atéte ta`nishyítinolil. Happily girls they will look at you. 85. Hozógo altsíni ta`nishyítinolil. Happily children they will look at you. 86. Hozógo intanitaí` ta`nishyítinolil. Happily chiefs they will look at you. 87. Hozógo taidoltá` ta`nishyítinolil. Happily scattering in different directions they will look at you. 88. Hozógo nitailté ta`nishyítinolil. Happily getting home they will look at you. 89. Hozógo thaditínke etíngo nitailtéde. Happily pollen trail on road they get home. 90. Hozógo ninádahidoka. Happily may they all get back. 91. Hozógo nasádo. Happily (or in beauty) I walk. 92. Sitsi'dze hozógo nasádo. Me before toward happily I walk. 93. Sikéde hozógo nasádo. Me behind from happily I walk. 94. Siyági hozógo nasádo. Me below in happily I walk. 95. Siki'dze hozógo nasádo. Me above toward happily I walk. 96. Siná dáltso hozógo nasádo. Me around all happily I walk. 97. Hozóna hastlé, In happiness (or beauty) again it is finished (or done), 98. Hozóna hastlé, In beauty again it is finished, 99. Hozóna hastlé, In beauty again it is finished, 100. Hozóna hastlé, In beauty again it is finished, FREE TRANSLATION OF PRAYER. 1. In Tse`gíhi (oh you who dwell!) 2. In the house made of the dawn, 3. In the house made of the evening twilight, 4. In the house made of the dark cloud, 5. In the house made of the he-rain, 6. In the house made of the dark mist, 7. In the house made of the she-rain, 8. In the house made of pollen, 9. In the house made of grasshoppers, 10. Where the dark mist curtains the doorway, 11. The path to which is on the rainbow, 12. Where the zigzag lightning stands high on top, 13. Where the he-rain stands high on top, 14. Oh, male divinity! 15. With your moccasins of dark cloud, come to us. 16. With your leggings of dark cloud, come to us. 17. With your shirt of dark cloud, come to us. 18. With your headdress of dark cloud, come to us. 19. With your mind enveloped in dark cloud, come to us. 20. With the dark thunder above you, come to us soaring. 21. With the shapen cloud at your feet, come to us soaring. 22. With the far darkness made of the dark cloud over your head, come to us soaring. 23. With the far darkness made of the he-rain over your head, come to us soaring. 24. With the far darkness made of the dark mist over your head, come to us soaring. 25. With the far darkness made of the she-rain over your head, come to us soaring. 26. With the zigzag lightning flung out on high over your head, come to us soaring. 27. With the rainbow hanging high over your head, come to us soaring. 28. With the far darkness made of the dark cloud on the ends of your wings, come to us soaring. 29. With the far darkness made of the he-rain on the ends of your wings, come to us soaring. 30. With the far darkness made of the dark mist on the ends of your wings, come to us soaring. 31. With the far darkness made of the she-rain on the ends of your wings, come to us soaring. 32. With the zigzag lightning flung out on high on the ends of your wings, come to us soaring. 33. With the rainbow hanging high on the ends of your wings, come to us soaring. 34. With the near darkness made of the dark cloud, of the he-rain, of the dark mist, and of the she-rain, come to us. 35. With the darkness on the earth, come to us. 36. With these I wish the foam floating on the flowing water over the roots of the great corn. 37. I have made your sacrifice. 38. I have prepared a smoke for you. 39. My feet restore for me. 40. My limbs restore for me. 41. My body restore for me. 42. My mind restore for me. 43. My voice restore for me. 44. To-day, take out your spell for me. 45. To-day, take away your spell for me. 46. Away from me you have taken it. 47. Far off from me it is taken. 48. Far off you have done it. 49. Happily I recover. 50. Happily my interior becomes cool. 51. Happily my eyes regain their power. 52. Happily my head becomes cool. 53. Happily my limbs regain their power. 54. Happily I hear again. 55. Happily for me (the spell) is taken off. 56. Happily I walk. 57. Impervious to pain, I walk. 58. Feeling light within, I walk. 59. With lively feelings, I walk. 60. Happily (or in beauty) abundant dark clouds I desire. 61. Happily abundant dark mists I desire. 62. Happily abundant passing showers I desire. 63. Happily an abundance of vegetation I desire. 64. Happily an abundance of pollen I desire. 65. Happily abundant dew I desire. 66. Happily may fair white corn, to the ends of the earth, come with you. 67. Happily may fair yellow corn, to the ends of the earth, come with you. 68. Happily may fair blue corn, to the ends of the earth, come with you. 69. Happily may fair corn of all kinds, to the ends of the earth, come with you. 70. Happily may fair plants of all kinds, to the ends of the earth, come with you. 71. Happily may fair goods of all kinds, to the ends of the earth, come with you. 72. Happily may fair jewels of all kinds, to the ends of the earth, come with you. 73. With these before you, happily may they come with you. 74. With these behind you, happily may they come with you. 75. With these below you, happily may they come with you. 76. With these above you, happily may they come with you. 77. With these all around you, happily may they come with you. 78. Thus happily you accomplish your tasks. 79. Happily the old men will regard you. 80. Happily the old women will regard you. 81. Happily the young men will regard you. 82. Happily the young women will regard you. 83. Happily the boys will regard you. 84. Happily the girls will regard you. 85. Happily the children will regard you. 86. Happily the chiefs will regard you. 87. Happily, as they scatter in different directions, they will regard you. 88. Happily, as they approach their homes, they will regard you. 89. Happily may their roads home be on the trail of pollen (peace). 90. Happily may they all get back. 91. In beauty (happily) I walk. 92. With beauty before me, I walk. 93. With beauty behind me, I walk. 94. With beauty below me, I walk. 95. With beauty above me, I walk. 96. With beauty all around me, I walk. 97. It is finished (again) in beauty, 98. It is finished in beauty, 99. It is finished in beauty, 100. It is finished in beauty. REMARKS ON THE PRAYER. This prayer is addressed to a mythic thunder-bird, hence the reference to wings; but the bird is spoken of as a male divinity, and is supposed to dwell with other yéi at Tse`gíhi. The prayer is said at the beginning of work, on the last night of the klédzi hatál. The shaman speaks it, verse by verse, as it is here recorded, and one of the atsá`lei or first dancers, repeats it, verse by verse, after him. The word hozó means, primarily, terrestrial beauty. Its derivative hozógo means in a beautiful earthly manner. Hozóni means beautiful on the earth, locally beautiful (inzóni refers to the beauty of objects and persons); Hozóna signifies again beautiful. But the meanings of these words, and others of similar derivation, have been extended to mean happy, happiness, in a happy or joyful manner, etc. In a free translation they must be rendered by various English words. The four final verses have been previously recorded by the author as hozóni haslé (Qojòni qaslè), but he now regards the form hozóna hastlé as more correct.[289] This expression, repeated twice or four times, according to circumstances, ends all Navaho prayers, yet recorded. It is analogous to the Christian Amen. 289. In a few instances, in this work, a Navaho word may be found spelled or accentuated with slight differences in different places. It must not be inferred from this that one form is correct and the other not. As usage varies in the languages of the most cultured races, so does it vary (only in greater degree) in the languages of the unlettered. A word was often heard differently pronounced and was therefore differently recorded by the author. An effort has been made to decide on a single standard of form and always to give preference to this; but, in a few cases, variations may have been overlooked. Words sometimes undergo great changes when they become parts of compound words. Where the form of a word in this work varies from that presented in previous works by the author the variation may be accounted for, in some cases by the difference in the alphabets used, and in others by the changes of opinion which have come to him in time, as the result of a more extended experience or a more advanced study of the language. 290. Note 290 is omitted. BIBLIOGRAPHIC NOTES. BY FREDERICK WEBB HODGE. For the convenience of the reader, a list of the principal works referred to in this book, and of all papers on the subject of the Navahoes written by the author, is here given. 291. Backus, E. An account of the Navajoes of New Mexico. (In Schoolcraft, Information respecting the history, condition and prospects of the Indian tribes of the United States, part IV. pp. 209-215, Philadelphia, 1854.) 292. Bancroft, Hubert Howe. The native races of the Pacific states of North America, vol. III., New York, 1875. 293. Bickford, F. T. Prehistoric cave-dwellings. (In Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, New York, vol. XL. No. 6, pp. 896-911, October, 1890.) 294. Bourke, John Gregory. Snake Dance of the Moquis of Arizona, New York, 1884. 295. ---- The Medicine-men of the Apache. (In ninth annual report of the Bureau of Ethnology, pp. 443-595, Washington, 1892.) 296. Catlin, George. Letters and notes on the manners, customs, and condition of the North American Indians, etc., two vols., London, 1841. 297. Census. Report on Indians taxed and Indians not taxed in the United States (except Alaska) at the eleventh census: 1890, Washington, 1894. 298. Commissioner of Indian Affairs. Report of, to the Secretary of the Interior, for the year 1867, Washington, 1868. The same for 1870, Washington, 1870. 299. Dutton, Clarence E. Mount Taylor and the Zuñi plateau. (In sixth annual report of the U.S. Geological Survey, pp. 105-198, Washington, 1886.) 300. Eaton, J. H. Description of the true state and character of the New Mexican tribes. (In Schoolcraft, Indian Tribes, part IV. pp. 216-221, Philadelphia, 1854.) 301. Hodge, Frederick Webb. The early Navajo and Apache. (In American Anthropologist, vol. VIII. No. 3, pp. 223-240, Washington, July, 1895.) 302. Hough, Walter. Fire-making apparatus in the United States National Museum. (In report of National Museum 1887-88. pp. 531-587, Washington, 1890.) 303. Letherman, Jona. Sketch of the Navajo tribe of Indians, territory of New Mexico. (In Smithsonian report for 1855, pp. 283-297, Washington, 1856.) 304. Mason, Otis Tufton. Cradles of the American Aborigines. (In report of National Museum 1886-87, pp. 161-235, Washington, 1889.) 305. Matthews, Washington. Ethnography and philology of the Hidatsa Indians. (Department of the Interior, United States Geological and Geographical Survey, miscellaneous publications No. 7, Washington, 1877.) 306. ---- A part of the Navajo's mythology. (In American Antiquarian, vol. V. No. 3, pp. 207-224, Chicago, April, 1883.) 307. ---- Navajo Silversmiths. (In second annual report of the Bureau of Ethnology, pp. 169-178, Washington, 1883.) 308. ---- A night with the Navajos. By Zay Elini. (In Forest and Stream, vol. XXIII. pp. 282-283, New York, Nov. 6, 1884.) 309. ---- Navajo weavers. (In third annual report of the Bureau of Ethnology, pp. 371-391, Washington, 1884.) 310. ---- The origin of the Utes. A Navajo myth. (In American Antiquarian, vol. VII. No. 5, pp. 271-274, Chicago, September, 1885.) 311. ---- Mythic dry-paintings of the Navajos. (In American Naturalist, vol. XIX. No. 10, pp. 931-939, Philadelphia, October, 1885.) 312. ---- Navajo names for plants. (In American Naturalist, vol. XX. pp. 767-777, Philadelphia, September, 1886.) 313. ---- Some deities and demons of the Navajos. (In American Naturalist, vol. XX. pp. 841-850, Philadelphia, October, 1886.) 314. ---- The mountain chant: a Navajo ceremony. (In fifth annual report of the Bureau of Ethnology, pp. 379-467, Washington, 1887.) 315. ---- The prayer of a Navajo shaman. (In American Anthropologist, vol. I. No. 2, pp. 149-170, Washington, April, 1888.) 316. ---- Navajo gambling songs. (In American Anthropologist, vol. II. No. 1, pp. 1-19, Washington, January, 1889.) 317. ---- Noqoìlpi, the gambler: a Navajo myth. (In Journal of American Folk-Lore, vol. II. No. ii. pp. 89-94, Boston and New York, April-June, 1889.) 318. ---- The gentile system of the Navajo Indians. (In Journal of American Folk-Lore, vol. III. No. ix. pp. 89-110, Boston and New York, April-June, 1890.) 319. ---- A study in butts and tips. (In American Anthropologist, vol. V. No. 4, pp. 345-350, Washington, October, 1892.) 320. ---- Some illustrations of the connection between myth and ceremony. (In Memoirs of the International Congress of Anthropology, pp. 246-251, Chicago, 1894.) 321. ---- The basket drum. (In American Anthropologist, vol. VII. No. 2, pp. 202-208, Washington, April, 1894.) 322. ---- Songs of sequence of the Navajos. (In Journal of American Folk-Lore, vol. VII. No. xxvi. pp. 185-194, Boston and New York, July-September, 1894.) 323. ---- A vigil of the gods--a Navajo ceremony. (In American Anthropologist, vol. IX. No. 2, pp. 50-57, Washington, February, 1896.) 324. Mindeleff, Victor. A study of pueblo architecture: Tusayan and Cibola. (In eighth annual report of the Bureau of Ethnology, pp. 3-228, Washington, 1891.) 325. Morgan, Lewis Henry. Ancient Society or researches in the lines of human progress from savagery, through barbarism to civilization, New York, 1877. 326. Powers, Stephen. Tribes of California. (Contributions to North American Ethnology, vol. III., Washington, 1877.) 327. Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe. Information respecting the history, condition and prospects of the Indian tribes of the United States, part IV. Philadelphia, 1854. 328. Simpson, James H. Report of an expedition into the Navajo country in 1849. (In senate ex. doc. 64, 31st cong., 1st sess., Washington, 1850.) 329. Stephen, A. M. The Navajo. (In American Anthropologist, vol. VI. No. 4, pp. 345-362, Washington, October, 1893.) MELODIES [1] Recorded on the phonograph by Washington Matthews, and noted from the cylinders by John C. Fillmore. No. 1. SONG OF THE APPROACH OF THE WAR GODS. [Music notation] No. 2. SONG OF THE WAR GODS. [Music notation] No. 3. TWELFTH YIKAÍGIN OR DAYLIGHT SONG. [Music notation] No. 4. A SONG OF THE NAAKHAÍ, OR DANCE OF THE LAST NIGHT OF THE NIGHT CHANT. [Music notation] No. 5. A SONG OF THE NAAKHAÍ. Composed by Thomas Torlino. [Music notation] No. 6. SEVENTH SONG IN THE FARM OF HASTSÉHOGAN. [Music notation] No. 7. TENTH AND ELEVENTH SONGS IN THE FARM OF HASTSÉHOGAN. [Music notation] No. 8. FIFTEENTH SONG IN THE FARM OF HASTSÉHOGAN. [Music notation] This song offers some very curious metrical problems. No. 9. TWENTY-SECOND SONG IN THE FARM OF HASTSÉHOGAN. [Music notation] No. 10. TWENTY-THIRD SONG IN THE FARM OF HASTSÉHOGAN. [Music notation] This Indian howls so that it is much more difficult than usual to be sure of the pitch-relations. Also it is hard to tell, in many places, whether he means a double or a triple rhythm. No. 11. TWENTY-FIFTH SONG IN THE FARM OF HASTSÉHOGAN. [Music notation] NOTE [1] See Note 272. 
55025	----	CELTIC FOLKLORE WELSH AND MANX BY JOHN RHYS, M.A., D.Litt. HON. LL.D. OF THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH PROFESSOR OF CELTIC PRINCIPAL OF JESUS COLLEGE, OXFORD VOLUME I OXFORD AT THE CLARENDON PRESS MDCCCCI TO ALL THOSE WHO HAVE IN ANY WAY CONTRIBUTED TO THE PRODUCTION OF THIS WORK IT IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED IN TOKEN OF HIS GRATITUDE BY THE AUTHOR Our modern idioms, with all their straining after the abstract, are but primitive man's mental tools adapted to the requirements of civilized life, and they often retain traces of the form and shape which the neolithic worker's chipping and polishing gave them. PREFACE Towards the close of the seventies I began to collect Welsh folklore. I did so partly because others had set the example elsewhere, and partly in order to see whether Wales could boast of any story-tellers of the kind that delight the readers of Campbell's Popular Tales of the West Highlands. I soon found what I was not wholly unprepared for, that as a rule I could not get a single story of any length from the mouths of any of my fellow countrymen, but a considerable number of bits of stories. In some instances these were so scrappy that it took me years to discover how to fit them into their proper context; but, speaking generally, I may say, that, as the materials, such as they were, accumulated, my initial difficulties disappeared. I was, however, always a little afraid of refreshing my memory with the legends of other lands lest I should read into those of my own, ideas possibly foreign to them. While one is busy collecting, it is safest probably not to be too much engaged in comparison: when the work of collecting is done that of comparing may begin. But after all I have not attempted to proceed very far in that direction, only just far enough to find elucidation here and there for the meaning of items of folklore brought under my notice. To have gone further would have involved me in excursions hopelessly beyond the limits of my undertaking, for comparative folklore has lately assumed such dimensions, that it seems best to leave it to those who make it their special study. It is a cause of genuine regret to me that I did not commence my inquiries earlier, when I had more opportunities of pursuing them, especially when I was a village schoolmaster in Anglesey and could have done the folklore of that island thoroughly; but my education, such as it was, had been of a nature to discourage all interest in anything that savoured of heathen lore and superstition. Nor is that all, for the schoolmasters of my early days took very little trouble to teach their pupils to keep their eyes open or take notice of what they heard around them; so I grew up without having acquired the habit of observing anything, except the Sabbath. It is to be hoped that the younger generation of schoolmasters trained under more auspicious circumstances, when the baleful influence of Robert Lowe has given way to a more enlightened system of public instruction, will do better, and succeed in fostering in their pupils habits of observation. At all events there is plenty of work still left to be done by careful observers and skilful inquirers, as will be seen from the geographical list showing approximately the provenance of the more important contributions to the Kymric folklore in this collection: the counties will be found to figure very unequally. Thus the anglicizing districts have helped me very little, while the more Welsh county of Carnarvon easily takes the lead; but I am inclined to regard the anomalous features of that list as in a great measure due to accident. In other words, some neighbourhoods have been luckier than others in having produced or attracted men who paid attention to local folklore; and if other counties were to be worked equally with Carnarvonshire, some of them would probably be found not much less rich in their yield. The anglicizing counties in particular are apt to be disregarded both from the Welsh and the English points of view, in folklore just as in some other things; and in this connexion I cannot help mentioning the premature death of the Rev. Elias Owen as a loss which Welsh folklorists will not soon cease to regret. My information has been obtained partly viva voce, partly by letter. In the case of the stories written down for me in Welsh, I may mention that in some instances the language is far from good; but it has not been thought expedient to alter it in any way, beyond introducing some consistency into the spelling. In the case of the longest specimen of the written stories, Mr. J. C. Hughes' Curse of Pantannas, it is worthy of notice in passing, that the rendering of it into English was followed by a version in blank verse by Sir Lewis Morris, who published it in his Songs of Britain. With regard to the work generally, my original intention was to publish the materials, obtained in the way described, with such stories already in print as might be deemed necessary by way of setting for them; and to let any theories or deductions in which I might be disposed to indulge follow later. In this way the first six chapters and portions of some of the others appeared from time to time in the publications of the Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion and in those of the Folk-Lore Society. This would have allowed me to divide the present work into the two well marked sections of materials and deductions. But, when the earlier part came to be edited, I found that I had a good deal of fresh material at my disposal, so that the chapters in question had in some instances to be considerably lengthened and in some others modified in other ways. Then as to the deductive half of the work, it may be mentioned that certain portions of the folklore, though ever apt to repeat themselves, were found when closely scrutinized to show serious lacunæ, which had to be filled in the course of the reasoning suggested by the materials in hand. Thus the idea of the whole consisting of two distinctly defined sections had to be given up or else allowed to wait till I should find time to recast it. But I could no more look forward to any such time than to the eventual possibility of escaping minor inconsistencies by quietly stepping through the looking-glass and beginning my work with the index instead of resting content to make it in the old-fashioned way at the end. There was, however, a third course, which is only mentioned to be rejected, and that was to abstain from all further publication; but what reader of books has ever known any of his authors to adopt that! To crown these indiscretions I have to confess that even when most of what I may call the raw material had been brought together, I had no clear idea what I was going to do with it; but I had a hazy notion, that, as in the case of an inveterate talker whose stream of words is only made the more boisterous by obstruction, once I sat down to write I should find reasons and arguments flowing in. It may seem as though I had been secretly conjuring with Vergil's words viresque adquirit eundo. Nothing so deliberate: the world in which I live swarms with busybodies dying to organize everybody and everything, and my instinctive opposition to all that order of tyranny makes me inclined to cherish a somewhat wild sort of free will. Still the cursory reader would be wrong to take for granted that there is no method in my madness: should he take the trouble to look for it, he would find that it has a certain unity of purpose, which has been worked out in the later chapters; but to spare him that trouble I venture to become my own expositor and to append the following summary:-- The materials crowded into the earlier chapters mark out the stories connected with the fairies, whether of the lakes or of the dry land, as the richest lode to be exploited in the mine of Celtic folklore. That work is attempted in the later chapters; and the analysis of what may briefly be described as the fairy lore given in the earlier ones carries with it the means of forcing the conviction, that the complex group of ideas identified with the little people is of more origins than one; in other words, that it is drawn partly from history and fact, and partly from the world of imagination and myth. The latter element proves on examination to be inseparably connected with certain ancient beliefs in divinities and demons associated, for instance, with lakes, rivers, and floods. Accordingly, this aspect of fairy lore has been dealt with in chapters vi and vii: the former is devoted largely to the materials themselves, while the latter brings the argument to a conclusion as to the intimate connexion of the fairies with the water-world. Then comes the turn of the other kind of origin to be discussed, namely, that which postulates the historical existence of the fairies as a real race on which have been lavishly superinduced various impossible attributes. This opens up a considerable vista into the early ethnology of these islands, and it involves a variety of questions bearing on the fortunes here of other races. In the series which suggests itself the fairies come first as the oldest and lowest people: then comes that which I venture to call Pictish, possessed of a higher civilization and of warlike instincts. Next come the earlier Celts of the Goidelic branch, the traces, linguistic and other, of whose presence in Wales have demanded repeated notice; and last of all come the other Celts, the linguistic ancestors of the Welsh and all the other speakers of Brythonic. The development of these theses, as far as folklore supplies materials, occupies practically the remaining five chapters. Among the subsidiary questions raised may be instanced those of magic and the origin of druidism; not to mention a neglected aspect of the Arthurian legend, the intimate association of the Arthur of Welsh folklore and tradition with Snowdon, and Arthur's attitude towards the Goidelic population in his time. Lastly, I have the pleasant duty of thanking all those who have helped me, whether by word of mouth or by letter, whether by reference to already printed materials or by assistance in any other way: the names of many of them will be found recorded in their proper places. As a rule my inquiries met with prompt replies, and I am not aware that any difficulties were purposely thrown in my way. Nevertheless I have had difficulties in abundance to encounter, such as the natural shyness of some of those whom I wished to examine on the subject of their recollections, and above all the unavoidable difficulty of cross-questioning those whose information reached me by post. For the precise value of any evidence bearing on Celtic folklore is almost impossible to ascertain, unless it can be made the subject of cross-examination. This arises from the fact that we Celts have a knack of thinking ourselves in complete accord with what we fancy to be in the inquirer's mind, so that we are quite capable of misleading him in perfect good faith. A most apposite instance, deserving of being placed on record, came under my notice many years ago. In the summer of 1868 I spent several months in Paris, where I met the historian Henri Martin more than once. On being introduced to him he reminded me that he had visited South Wales not long before, and that he had been delighted to find the peasantry there still believing in the transmigration of souls. I expressed my surprise, and remarked that he must be joking. Nothing of the kind, he assured me, as he had questioned them himself: the fact admitted of no doubt. I expressed further surprise, but as I perceived that he was proud of the result of his friendly encounters with my countrymen I never ventured to return to the subject, though I always wondered what in the world it could mean. A few years ago, however, I happened to converse with one of the most charming and accomplished of Welsh ladies, when she chanced to mention Henri Martin's advent: it turned out that he had visited Dr. Charles Williams, then the Principal of Jesus College, and that Dr. Williams introduced him to his friends in South Wales. So M. Martin arrived among the hospitable friends of the lady talking to me, who had in fact to act as his interpreter: I never understood that he could talk much English or any Welsh. Now I have no doubt that M. Martin, with his fixed ideas about the druids and their teaching, propounded palpably leading questions for the Welsh people whom he wished to examine. His fascinating interpreter put them into terse Welsh, and the whole thing was done. I could almost venture to write out the dialogue, which gave back to the great Frenchman his own exact notions from the lips of simple peasants in that subtle non-Aryan syntax, which no Welsh barrister has ever been able to explain to the satisfaction of a bewildered English judge trying to administer justice among a people whom he cannot wholly comprehend. This will serve to illustrate one of the difficulties with which the collector of folklore in Wales has to cope. I have done my best to reduce the possible extent of the error to which it might give rise; and it is only fair to say that those whom I plagued with my questionings bore the tedium of it with patience, and that to them my thanks are due in a special degree. Neither they, however, nor I, could reasonably complain, if we found other folklorists examining other witnesses on points which had already occupied us; for in such matters one may say with confidence, that in the multitude of counsellors there is safety. JOHN RHYS. Jesus College, Oxford, Christmas, 1900. CONTENTS PAGE GEOGRAPHICAL LIST OF AUTHORITIES xxv LIST OF BIBLIOGRAPHICAL REFERENCES xxxi CHAPTER I Undine's Kymric Sisters 1 I. The legend of Llyn y Fan Fach 2 II. The legend of Llyn y Forwyn 23 III. Some Snowdon lake legends 30 IV. The heir of Ystrad 38 V. Llandegai and Llanllechid 50 VI. Mapes' story of Llyn Syfadon 70 CHAPTER II The Fairies' Revenge 75 I. Bedgelert and its environs 75 II. The Pennant Valley 107 III. Glasynys' yarns 109 IV. An apple story 125 V. The Conwy afanc 130 VI. The Berwyn and Aran Fawdwy 135 VII. The hinterland of Aberdovey 141 VIII. Some more Merioneth stories 146 IX. The Children of Rhys Dwfn 151 X. Southey and the Green Isles of the Sea 169 XI. The curse of Pantannas 173 XII. More fairy displeasure 192 CHAPTER III Fairy Ways and Words 197 I. The folklore of Nant Conwy 197 II. Scenes of the Mabinogi of Math 207 III. Celynnog Fawr and Llanaelhaearn 214 IV. The blind man's folklore 219 V. The old saddler's recollections 222 VI. Traces of Tom Tit Tot 226 VII. March and his horse's ears 231 VIII. The story of the Marchlyn Mawr 234 IX. The fairy ring of Cae Lleidr Dyfrydog 238 X. A Cambrian kelpie 242 XI. Sundry traits of fairy character 244 XII. Ynys Geinon and its fairy treasures 251 XIII. The aged infant 257 XIV. Fairy speech 269 CHAPTER IV Manx Folklore 284 The fenodyree or Manx brownie 286 The sleih beggey or little people 289 The butches or witches and the hare 293 Charmers and their methods 296 Comparisons from the Channel Islands 301 Magic and ancient modes of thought 302 The efficacy of fire to detect the witch 304 Burnt sacrifices 305 Laa Boaldyn or May-day 308 Laa Lhunys or the beginning of harvest 312 Laa Houney or Hollantide beginning the year 315 Sundry prognostications and the time for them 317 CHAPTER V The Fenodyree and his Friends 323 Lincolnshire parallels 323 The brownie of Blednoch and Bwca'r Trwyn 325 Prognostication parallels from Lincolnshire and Herefordshire 327 The traffic in wind and the Gallizenæ 330 Wells with rags and pins 332 St. Catherine's hen plucked at Colby 335 The qualtagh or the first-foot and the question of race 336 Sundry instances of things unlucky 342 Manx reserve and the belief in the Enemy of Souls 346 The witch of Endor's influence and the respectability of the charmer's vocation 349 Public penance enforced pretty recently 350 CHAPTER VI The Folklore of the Wells 354 Rag wells in Wales 354 The question of distinguishing between offerings and vehicles of disease 358 Mr. Hartland's decision 359 The author's view revised and illustrated 360 T. E. Morris' account of the pin well of Llanfaglan 362 Other wishing and divining wells 364 The sacred fish of Llanberis and Llangybi 366 Ffynnon Grassi producing the Glasfryn lake 367 The Morgan of that lake and his name 372 Ffynnon Gywer producing Bala Lake 376 Bala and other towns doomed to submersion 377 The legend of Llyn Llech Owen 379 The parallels of Lough Neagh and Lough Ree 381 Seithennin's realm overwhelmed by the sea 382 Seithennin's name and its congeners 385 Prof. Dawkins on the Lost Lands of Wales 388 Certain Irish wells not visited with impunity 389 The Lough Sheelin legend compared with that of Seithennin 393 The priesthood of the wells of St. Elian and St. Teilo 395 CHAPTER VII Triumphs of the Water-world 401 The sea encroaching on the coast of Glamorgan 402 The Kenfig tale of crime and vengeance 403 The Crymlyn story and its touch of fascination 404 Nennius' description of Oper Linn Liguan compared 406 The vengeance legend of Bala Lake 408 Legends about the Llynclys Pool 410 The fate of Tyno Helig 414 The belief in cities submerged intact 415 The phantom city and the bells of Aberdovey 418 The ethics of the foregoing legends discussed 419 The limits of the delay of punishment 420 Why the fairies delay their vengeance 423 Non-ethical legends of the eruption of water 425 Cutting the green sward a probable violation of ancient tabu avenged by water divinities 427 The lake afanc's rôle in this connexion 428 The pigmies of the water-world 432 The Conwy afanc and the Highland water-horse 433 The equine features of March and Labraid Lore 435 Mider and the Mac Óc's well horses 436 The Gilla Decair's horse and Du March Moro 437 March ab Meirchion associated with Mona 439 The Welsh deluge Triads 440 Names of the Dee and other rivers in North Wales 441 The Lydney god Nudons, Nuada, and Llud 445 The fairies associated in various ways with water 449 The cyhiraeth and the Welsh banshee 452 Ancestress rather than ancestor 454 CHAPTER VIII Welsh Cave Legends 456 The question of classification 456 The fairy cave of the Arennig Fawr 456 The cave of Mynyd y Cnwc 457 Waring's version of Iolo's legend of Craig y Dinas 458 Craigfryn Hughes' Monmouthshire tale 462 The story of the cave occupied by Owen Lawgoch 464 How London Bridge came to figure in that story 466 Owen Lawgoch in Ogo'r Dinas 467 Dinas Emrys with the treasure hidden by Merlin 469 Snowdonian treasure reserved for the Goidel 470 Arthur's death on the side of Snowdon 473 The graves of Arthur and Rhita 474 Elis o'r Nant's story of Llanciau Eryri's cave 476 The top of Snowdon named after Rhita 477 Drystan's cairn 480 The hairy man's cave 481 Returning heroes for comparison with Arthur and Owen Lawgoch 481 The baledwyr's Owen to return as Henry the Ninth 484 Owen a historical man = Froissart's Yvain de Gales 487 Froissart's account of him and the questions it raises 488 Owen ousting Arthur as a cave-dweller 493 Arthur previously supplanting a divinity of the class of the sleeping Cronus of Demetrius 493 Arthur's original sojourn located in Faery 495 CHAPTER IX Place-name Stories 498 The Triad of the Swineherds of the Isle of Prydain 499 The former importance of swine's flesh as food 501 The Triad clause about Coll's straying sow 503 Coll's wanderings arranged to explain place-names 508 The Kulhwch account of Arthur's hunt of Twrch Trwyth in Ireland 509 A parley with the boars 511 The hunt resumed in Pembrokeshire 512 The boars reaching the Loughor Valley 514 Their separation 515 One killed by the Men of Llydaw in Ystrad Yw 516 Ystrad Yw defined and its name explained 516 Twrch Trwyth escaping to Cornwall after an encounter in the estuary of the Severn 519 The comb, razor, and shears of Twrch Trwyth 519 The name Twrch Trwyth 521 Some of the names evidence of Goidelic speech 523 The story about Gwydion and his swine compared 525 Place-name explanations blurred or effaced 526 Enumeration of Arthur's losses in the hunt 529 The Men of Llydaw's identity and their Syfadon home 531 Further traces of Goidelic names 536 A Twrch Trwyth incident mentioned by Nennius 537 The place-name Carn Cabal discussed 538 Duplicate names with the Goidelic form preferred in Wales 541 The same phenomenon in the Mabinogion 543 The relation between the families of Llyr, Dôn, and Pwyll 548 The elemental associations of Llyr and Lir 549 Matthew Arnold's idea of Medieval Welsh story 551 Brân, the Tricephal, and the Letto-Slavic Triglaus 552 Summary remarks as to the Goidels in Wales 553 CHAPTER X Difficulties of the Folklorist 556 The terrors of superstition and magic 557 The folklorist's activity no fostering of superstition 558 Folklore a portion of history 558 The difficulty of separating story and history 559 Arthur and the Snowdon Goidels as an illustration 559 Rhita Gawr and the mad kings Nynio and Peibio 560 Malory's version and the name Rhita, Ritho, Ryons 562 Snowdon stories about Owen Ymhacsen and Cai 564 Goidelic topography in Gwyned 566 The Goidels becoming Compatriots or Kymry 569 The obscurity of certain superstitions a difficulty 571 Difficulties arising from their apparent absurdity illustrated by the March and Labraid stories 571 Difficulties from careless record illustrated by Howells' Ychen Bannog 575 Possible survival of traditions about the urus 579 A brief review of the lake legends and the iron tabu 581 The scrappiness of the Welsh Tom Tit Tot stories 583 The story of the widow of Kittlerumpit compared 585 Items to explain the names Sìli Ffrit and Sìli go Dwt 590 Bwca'r Trwyn both brownie and bogie in one 593 That bwca a fairy in service, like the Pennant nurse 597 The question of fairies concealing their names 597 Magic identifying the name with the person 598 Modryb Mari regarding cheese-baking as disastrous to the flock 599 Her story about the reaper's little black soul 601 Gwenogvryn Evans' lizard version 603 Diseases regarded as also material entities 604 The difficulty of realizing primitive modes of thought 605 CHAPTER XI Folklore Philosophy 607 The soul as a pigmy or a lizard, and the word enaid 607 A different notion in the Mabinogi of Math 608 The belief in the persistence of the body through changes 610 Shape-shifting and rebirth in Gwion's transformations 612 Tuan mac Cairill, Amairgen, and Taliessin 615 D'Arbois de Jubainville's view of Erigena's teaching 617 The druid master of his own transformations 620 Death not a matter of course so much as of magic 620 This incipient philosophy as Gaulish druidism 622 The Gauls not all of one and the same beliefs 623 The name and the man 624 Enw, 'name,' and the idea of breathing 625 The exact nature of the association still obscure 627 The Celts not distinguishing between names and things 628 A Celt's name on him, not by him or with him 629 The druid's method of name-giving non-Aryan 631 Magic requiring metrical formulæ 632 The professional man's curse producing blisters 632 A natural phenomenon arguing a thin-skinned race 633 Cursing of no avail without the victim's name 635 Magic and kingship linked in the female line 636 CHAPTER XII Race in Folklore and Myth 639 Glottology and comparative mythology 640 The question of the feminine in Welsh syntax 642 The Irish goddess Danu and the Welsh Dôn 644 Tynghed or destiny in the Kulhwch story 646 Traces of a Welsh confarreatio in the same context 649 Þokk in the Balder story compared with tynghed 650 Questions of mythology all the harder owing to race mixture 652 Whether the picture of Cúchulainn in a rage be Aryan or not 653 Cúchulainn exempt from the Ultonian couvade 654 Cúchulainn racially a Celt in a society reckoning descent by birth 656 Cúchulainn as a rebirth of Lug paralleled in Lapland 657 Doubtful origin of certain legends about Lug 658 The historical element in fairy stories and lake legends 659 The notion of the fairies being all women 661 An illustration from Central Australia 662 Fairy counting by fives evidence of a non-Celtic race 663 The Basque numerals as an illustration 665 Prof. Sayce on Irishmen and Berbers 665 Dark-complexioned people and fairy changelings 666 The blond fairies of the Pennant district exceptional 668 A summary of fairy life from previous chapters 668 Sir John Wynne's instance of men taken for fairies 670 Some of the Brythonic names for fairies 671 Dwarfs attached to the fortunes of their masters 672 The question of fairy cannibalism 673 The fairy Corannians and the historical Coritani 674 St. Guthlac at Croyland in the Fens 676 The Irish sid, side, and the Welsh Caer Sidi 677 The mound dwellings of Pechts and Irish fairies 679 Prof. J. Morris Jones explaining the non-Aryan syntax of neo-Celtic by means of Egyptian and Berber 681 The Picts probably the race that introduced it 682 The first pre-Celtic people here 683 Probably of the same race as the neolithic dwarfs of the Continent 683 The other pre-Celtic race, the Picts and the people of the Mabinogion 684 A word or two by way of epilogue 686 Additions and Corrections 689 Index 695 We are too hasty when we set down our ancestors in the gross for fools, for the monstrous inconsistencies (as they seem to us) involved in their creed of witchcraft. In the relations of this visible world we find them to have been as rational, and shrewd to detect an historic anomaly, as ourselves. But when once the invisible world was supposed to be opened, and the lawless agency of bad spirits assumed, what measures of probability, of decency, of fitness, or proportion--of that which distinguishes the likely from the palpable absurd--could they have to guide them in the rejection or admission of any particular testimony? That maidens pined away, wasting inwardly as their waxen images consumed before a fire--that corn was lodged, and cattle lamed--that whirlwinds uptore in diabolic revelry the oaks of the forest--or that spits and kettles only danced a fearful-innocent vagary about some rustic's kitchen when no wind was stirring--were all equally probable where no law of agency was understood.... There is no law to judge of the lawless, or canon by which a dream may be criticised. Charles Lamb's Essays of Elia. A GEOGRAPHICAL LIST OF AUTHORITIES AND SOURCES OF THE MORE IMPORTANT CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE WELSH FOLKLORE ANGLESEY. Aberffraw: E. S. Roberts (after Hugh Francis), 240, 241. Llandyfrydog: E. S. Roberts (after Robert Roberts), 239, 240. Llyn yr Wyth Eidion: (no particulars), 429. Mynyd y Cnwc: A writer in the Brython for 1859, 457, 458. Mynyd Mechell: Morris Evans (from his grandmother), 203, 204. Towyn Trewern: John Roberts, 36-8. ? : Lewis Morris, in the Gwyliedyd, 450-2. BRECKNOCKSHIRE. Cwm Tawe: Rd. L. Davies, 256, 257. ,, : Rd. L. Davies (after J. Davies), 251-6. Llangorse: Giraldus, in his Itinerarium Kambriæ, 72. ? : Walter Mapes, in his book De Nugis, 70-2. ? : The Brython for 1863, 73, 74. Llyn Cwm Llwch neighbourhood: Ivor James, 21, 430, 445. ? : Ed. Davies, in his Mythology and Rites, 20, 21. CARDIGANSHIRE. Atpar: John Rhys (from Joseph Powell), 648, 649. Bronnant: D. Ll. Davies, 248, 249. Cadabowen: J. Gwenogvryn Evans, 603, 604. Llanwenog: J. Gwenogvryn Evans, 648. Llyn Eidwen: J. E. Rogers of Abermeurig, 578. Moedin: Howells, in his Cambrian Superstitions, 245. ,, : D. Silvan Evans, in his Ystên Sioned, 271-3. Ponterwyd: John Rhys, 294, 338, 378, 391, 392. ,, : Mary Lewis (Modryb Mari), 601, 602. Swyd Ffynnon: D. Ll. Davies, 246, 247, 250. Tregaron and neighbourhood: John Rhys (from John Jones and others), 577-9. Troed yr Aur } : Benjamin Williams (Gwynionyd), 166-8. and } : Gwynionyd, in the Brython for 1858 and 1860, Verwig? } 151-5, 158-60, 163, 164, 464-6. Ystrad Meurig: Isaac Davies, 245. ,, ,, : A farmer, 601. ? : A writer in the Brython for 1861, 690. CARMARTHENSHIRE. Cenarth: B. Davies, in the Brython, 1858, 161, 162. Llandeilo: D. Lleufer Thomas, in Y Geninen for 1896, 469. ,, : Mr. Stepney-Gulston, in the Arch. Camb. for 1893, 468. Llandybie: John Fisher, 379, 380. ,, : Howells, in his Cambrian Superstitions, 381. ,, : John Fisher and J. P. Owen, 468. Mydfai: Wm. Rees of Tonn, in the Physicians of Mydvai, 2-15. ,, : The Bishop of St. Asaph, 15, 16. ,, : John Rhys, 16. ? : Joseph Joseph of Brecon, 16. ? : Wirt Sikes, in his British Goblins, 17, 18. Mynyd y Banwen: Llywarch Reynolds, 18, 19, 428-30. ? : I. Craigfryn Hughes, 487. CARNARVONSHIRE. Aber Soch: Margaret Edwards, 231. ,, : A blacksmith in the neighbourhood, 232. ? : Edward Llwyd: see the Brython for 1860, 233, 234. ? : MS. 134 in the Peniarth Collection, 572, 573. Aberdaron: Mrs. Williams and another, 228. ? : Evan Williams of Rhos Hirwaen, 230. Bedgelert: Wm. Jones, 49, 80, 81, 94-7, 99, 100-5. ,, : ,, in the Brython for 1861-2, 86-9, 98-9. ,, : The Brython for 1861, 470, 473, 474. Bethesda: David Evan Davies (Dewi Glan Ffrydlas), 60-4, 66. Bettws y Coed: Edward Llwyd: see the Cambrian Journal for 1859, 130-3. Criccieth neighbourhood: Edward Llewelyn, 219-21. ? : Edward Llwyd: see the Camb. Journal for 1859, 201, 202. Dinorwig: E. Lloyd Jones, 234-7. Dolbenmaen: W. Evans Jones, 107-9. Dolwydelan: see Bedgelert. ,, : see Gwybrnant. Drws y Coed: S. R. Williams (from M. Williams and another), 38-40. ? : ,, 89, 90. Edern: John Williams (Alaw Lleyn), 275-9. Four Crosses: Lewis Jones, 222-5. Glasfryn Uchaf: John Jones (Myrdin Fard), 367, 368. ,, ,, : Mr. and Mrs. Williams-Ellis, 368-72. Glynllifon: Wm. Thomas Solomon, 208-14. Gwybrnant: Ellis Pierce (Elis o'r Nant), 476-9. Llanaelhaearn: R. Hughes of Uwchlaw'r Ffynnon, 214, 215, 217-9. Llanberis: Mrs. Rhys and her relatives, 31-6, 604. ,, : M. and O. Rhys, 229. ,, : A correspondent in the Liverpool Mercury, 366, 367. ? : Howell Thomas (from G. B. Gattie), 125-30. ? : Pennant, in his Tours in Wales, 125. Llandegai: H. Derfel Hughes, 52-60, 68. ,, : ,, ,, in his Antiquities, 471, 472. ,, : E. Owen, in the Powysland Club's Collections, 237, 238. Llandwrog: Hugh Evans and others, 207. Llanfaglan: T. E. Morris (from Mrs. Roberts), 362, 363. Llangybi: John Jones (Myrdin Fard), 366. ,, : Mrs. Williams-Ellis, 366, 471. Llaniestin: Evan Williams, 228, 229, 584. Llanllechid: Owen Davies (Eos Llechid), 41-6, 50-2. Nefyn: Lowri Hughes and another woman, 226, 227. ,, : John Williams (Alaw Lleyn), 228. ,, : A writer in the Brython for 1860, 164. Penmachno: Gethin Jones, 204-6. Rhyd Du: Mrs. Rhys, 604. Trefriw: Morris Hughes and J. D. Maclaren, 198-201. ,, : Pierce Williams, 30. Tremadoc: Jane Williams, 221, 222. ,, : R. I. Jones (from his mother and Ellis Owen), 105-7. ,, : Ellis Owen (cited by Wm. Jones), 95. Waen Fawr: Owen Davies, 41. ? : Glasynys, in Cymru Fu, 91-3, 110-23. ? : ,, in the Brython for 1863, 40, 41. ? : A London Eistedfod (1887) competitor, 361, 362. ? : John Jones (Myrdin Fard), 361, 362, 364-8. ? : Owen Jones (quoted in the Brython for 1861), 414, 415. Yspytty Ifan?: A Liverpool Eistedfod (1900) competitor, 692. DENBIGHSHIRE. Bryneglwys: E. S. Roberts (from Mrs. Davies), 241, 242. Eglwyseg: E. S. Roberts (after Thomas Morris), 238. Ffynnon Eilian: Mrs. Silvan Evans, 357. ,, ,, : Isaac Foulkes, in his Enwogion Cymru, 396. ,, ,, : Lewis, in his Topographical Dictionary, 395, 396. ,, ,, : P. Roberts, in his Camb. Popular Antiquities, 396. ,, ,, : A writer in Y Nofeld, 396. Llangollen: Hywel (Wm. Davies), 148. Pentre Voelas: Elias Owen, in his Welsh Folk-Lore, 222. FLINTSHIRE. Nil. GLAMORGANSHIRE. Bridgend: J. H. Davies, D. Brynmor-Jones, J. Rhys, 354, 355. Crymlyn: Cadrawd, in the South Wales Daily News, 405, 406. ? : Wirt Sikes, in his British Goblins, 191, 192, 405. Kenfig: Iolo Morganwg, in the Iolo MSS., 403, 404. ? : David Davies, 402. Llanfabon: I. Craigfryn Hughes, 257-268. Llanwynno: Glanffrwd, in his Plwyf Llanwyno, 26. Merthyr Tydfil: Llywarch Reynolds (from his mother), 269. Quakers' Yard: I. Craigfryn Hughes, 173-91. Rhonda Fechan: Llewellyn Williams, 24, 25. ,, ,, : J. Probert Evans, 25, 27. ,, ,, : Ll. Reynolds (from D. Evans and others), 27-9. Rhonda Valley: D. J. Jones, 356. ? : Dafyd Morganwg, in his Hanes Morganwg, 356. ? : Waring, in his Recollections of Edward Williams, 458-61. MERIONETHSHIRE. Aberdovey: J. Pughe, in the Arch. Camb. for 1853, 142-6, 428. ,, : Mrs. Prosser Powell, 416. ? : M. B., in the Monthly Packet for 1859, 416, 417. Ardudwy: Hywel (Wm. Davies), 147, 148. Bala: David Jones of Trefriw: see Cyfaill yr Aelwyd, 376, 377. ,, : Wm. Davies and Owen M. Edwards, 378. ? : Humphreys' Llyfr Gwybodaeth Gyffredinol, 408-10. ? : J. H. Roberts, in Edwards' Cymru for 1897, 148-51. Dolgelley: Lucy Griffith (from a Dolgelley man), 243, 244. Llandrillo: E. S. Roberts (from A. Evans and Mrs. Edwards), 138-41. Llanegryn: Mr. Williams and Mr. Rowlands, 243. ,, : A Llanegryn man (after Wm. Pritchard), 242. ,, : Another Llanegryn man, 242, 243. Llanuwchllyn: Owen M. Edwards, 147. ? : J. H. Roberts, in Edwards' Cymru for 1897, 215-7, 457. ? : Glasynys, in the Brython for 1862, 137. ? : ,, in the Taliesin for 1859-60, 215, 216, 456, 457. MONMOUTHSHIRE. Aberystruth: Edm. Jones, in his Parish of Aberystruth, 195, 196. Llandeilo Cressenny: Elizabeth Williams, 192, 193. Llanover: Wm. Williams and other gardeners there, 193, 194. ,, : Mrs. Gardner of Ty Uchaf Llanover, 194, 195. ,, : Professor Sayce, 602. Risca?: I. Craigfryn Hughes (from hearsay in the district between Llanfabon and Caerleon), 462-4, 487, 593-6. MONTGOMERYSHIRE. Llanidloes: Elias Owen, in his Welsh Folk-Lore, 275. PEMBROKESHIRE. Fishguard: E. Perkins of Penysgwarne, 172, 173. ,, : Ferrar Fenton, in the Pembroke County Guardian, 160. Llandeilo Llwydarth: The Melchior family, 398. ,, ,, : Benjamin Gibby, 399, 400. Nevern: J. Thomas of Bancau Bryn Berian, 689. Trevine: 'Ancient Mariner,' in the Pembroke County Guardian, 171. ? : Ferrar Fenton, in the Pembroke County Guardian, 171. ? : Ab Nadol, in the Brython for 1861, 165. ? : Southey, in his Madoc, 170. RADNORSHIRE. Nil. TO ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN The author would be glad to hear of unrecorded Welsh stories, or bits of Welsh stories not comprised in this volume. He would also be grateful for the names of more localities in which the stories here given, or variants of them, are still remembered. It will be his endeavour to place on record all such further information, except stories about spooks and ghosts of the ordinary type. LIST OF BIBLIOGRAPHICAL REFERENCES Ab Gwilym: Bardoniaeth Dafyd ab Gwilym, edited by Cyndelw (Liverpool, 1873), 206, 233, 439, 444, 671. Adamnan: The Life of St. Columba, written by Adamnan, edited by William Reeves (Dublin, 1857), 545. Agrippa: H. Cornelius Agrippa De Occulta Philosophia (Paris, 1567), 213. Aneurin: The Book of Aneurin (see Skene), 226, 281, 543. Antiquary, the, a magazine devoted to the study of the past, published by Elliot Stock (London, 1880-), 467. ,, : the Scottish: see Stevenson. Archæologia Cambrensis, the Journal of the Cambrian Archæological Association (London, 1846-), 73, 141-6, 233, 366, 403, 468, 528, 532, 533, 542, 566, 570, 579. Athenæum, the, a journal of English and foreign literature, science, fine arts, music, and the drama (London, 1828-), 335, 612. Atkinson: The Book of Ballymote, a collection of pieces (prose and verse) in the Irish language, compiled about the beginning of the fifteenth century, published by the Royal Irish Academy, with introduction, analysis of contents, and index by Robert Atkinson (Dublin, 1887), 375. ,, : The Book of Leinster, sometimes called the Book of Glendalough, a collection of pieces (prose and verse) in the Irish language, compiled, in part, about the middle of the twelfth century, published by the Royal Irish Academy, with introduction, analysis of contents, and index by Robert Atkinson (Dublin, 1880), 381, 390, 392, 528, 531, 616, 618, 635, 657. Aubrey: Miscellanies collected by John Aubrey (London, 1696) [the last chapter is on second-sighted persons in Scotland], 273. Bastian: Zeitschrift für Ethnologie, edited by A. Bastian and others (Berlin, 1869-), 684. Bathurst: Roman Antiquities at Lydney Park: see 445, 446. Behrens: Zeitschrift für französische Sprache und Litteratur, edited by D. Behrens (Oppeln and Leipsic, 1879-), 480. Bell: Early Ballads, edited by Robert Bell (London, 1877), 317. Bertrand: La Religion des Gaulois, les Druides et le Druidisme, by Alexandre Bertrand (Paris, 1897), 552, 622, 623. Bible: The Holy Bible, revised version (Oxford, 1885), 583. ,, : The Manx Bible, printed for the British and Foreign Bible Society (London, 1819), 288, 297, 348. Boschet: La Vie du Père Maunoir, by Boschet (Paris, 1697), 386. Bourke: The Bull 'Ineffabilis' in four Languages, translated and edited by the Rev. Ulick J. Bourke (Dublin, 1868), 606. Boyd Dawkins: Professor Boyd Dawkins' Address on the Place of a University in the History of Wales (Bangor, 1900), 388, 389. Bray: The Borders of the Tamar and the Tavy, their Natural History, Manners, Customs, Superstitions, &c., in a series of letters to the late Robert Southey, by Mrs. Bray (new ed., London, 1879), 213. Braz: La Légende de la Mort en Basse-Bretagne, Croyances, Traditions et Usages des Bretons Armoricains, by A. le Braz (Paris, 1892), 273. British Archæological Association, the Journal of the: see 674. British Association for the Advancement of Science, Report of the (John Murray, London, 1833-), 103, 310, 346, 590. Brynmor-Jones: The Welsh People, by John Rhys and David Brynmor-Jones (London, 1900), 421, 448, 454, 488, 548, 554, 613, 656, 661. Brython, Y: see Silvan Evans. Cambrian: The Cambrian Biography: see Owen. ,, : The Cambrian Journal, published under the auspices of the Cambrian Institute [the first volume appeared in 1854 in London, and eventually the publication was continued at Tenby by R. Mason, who went on with it till the year 1864], 81, 130, 201, 202, 480, 564. ,, : The Cambrian newspaper, published at Swansea, 468. ,, : The Cambrian Popular Antiquities: see Roberts. ,, : The Cambrian Quarterly Magazine (London, 1829-33), 202. ,, : The Cambrian Register, printed for E. and T. Williams (London, 1796-1818), 217. Campbell: Popular Tales of the West Highlands, with a translation, by J. F. Campbell (Edinburgh, 1860-2), 433, 434, 690. Caradoc: The Gwentian Chronicle of Caradoc of Llancarvan, 404. ,, : The History of Wales written originally in British by Caradoc of Lhancarvan, Englished by Dr. Powell and augmented by W. Wynne (London, 1774), 476, 480. Carmarthen: The Black Book of Carmarthen (see Skene), 543. Carnarvon: Registrum vulgariter nuncupatum 'The Record of Carnarvon,' è Codice msto Descriptum (London, 1838), 70, 201, 488, 567-9, 693. Carrington: Report of the Royal Commission on Land in Wales and Monmouthshire, Chairman, the Earl of Carrington (London, 1896), 488. Chambers: Popular Rhymes of Scotland, by Robert Chambers (Edinburgh, 1841, 1858), 585. Charencey, H. de, in the Bulletin de la Société de Linguistique de Paris, 664. Chaucer: The Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, edited from numerous manuscripts by the Rev. Prof. Skeat (Oxford, 1894), 75. Chrétien: Erec und Enide von Christian von Troyes, published by Wendelin Foerster (Halle, 1890), 375, 672. Cicero: OEuvres Complètes de Cicéron (the Didot ed., Paris, 1875), 652. Clark: Limbus Patrum Morganiæ et Glamorganiæ, being the genealogies of the older families of the lordships of Morgan and Glamorgan, by George T. Clark (London, 1886), 26. Clodd: Tom Tit Tot, an essay on savage philosophy in folklore, by Edward Clodd (London, 1898), 584, 598, 607, 627, 628, 630. Cochrane: The Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, Robert Cochrane, Secretary (Hodges, Figgis & Co., Dublin), 546. Cockayne: Leechdoms, Wortcunning and Starcraft of early England, by the Rev. Oswald Cockayne (Rolls Series, London, 1864-6), 293. Cormac: Cormac's Glossary, translated and annotated by John O'Donovan, edited with notes and indices by Whitley Stokes (Calcutta, 1868), 51, 310, 521, 629, 632. Corneille: Le Cid, by P. Corneille, edited by J. Bué (London, 1889), 655. Cosquin: Contes populaires de Lorraine, by Emmanuel Cosquin (Paris, 1886), 520. Cothi: The Poetical Works of Lewis Glyn Cothi, a Welsh bard who flourished in the reigns of Henry VI, Edward IV, Richard III, and Henry VII, edited for the Cymmrodorion Society by the Rev. John Jones 'Tegid,' and the Rev. Walter Davies 'Gwallter Mechain' (Oxford, 1837), 74, 134, 135, 201. Coulanges: La Cité antique, by N. D. Fustel de Coulanges (Paris, 1864), 649, 650. Courson: Cartulaire de l'Abbaye de Redon en Bretagne, published by M. Aurélien de Courson (Paris, 1863), 544. Craigfryn: Y Ferch o Gefn Ydfa, by Isaac Craigfryn Hughes (Cardiff, 1881), 173. Cregeen: A Dictionary of the Manks Language, by Archibald Cregeen (Douglas, 1835), 288. Cumming: The Isle of Man, its History, Physical, Ecclesiastical, Civil, and Legendary, by Joseph George Cumming (London, 1848), 314. Curry: The Battle of Magh Leana, together with The Courtship of Momera, with translation and notes, by Eugene Curry [later O'Curry] (Dublin, 1855), 393: see also O'Curry. Cyndelw: Cymru Fu, a selection of Welsh histories, traditions, and tales, published by Hughes & Son (Wrexham, 1862) [this was originally issued in parts, and it has never borne the editor's name; but it is understood to have been the late poet and antiquary, the Rev. Robert Ellis 'Cyndelw'], 66, 91, 109, 123, 155, 156, 481. Dalyell: The Darker Superstitions of Scotland illustrated from History and Practice, by John Graham Dalyell (Edinburgh, 1834), 273. Davies: The Mythology and Rites of the British Druids, by Edward Davies (London, 1809), 20. Davies: Antiquæ Linguæ Britannicæ et Linguæ Latinæ Dictionarium Duplex, by Dr. John Davies (London, 1632), 13. Derfel Hughes: Hynafiaethau Llandegai a Llanllechid (Antiquities of Llandegai and Llanllechid), by Hugh Derfel Hughes (Bethesda, 1866), 52, 480. Dionysius: Dionysii Halicarnassensis Antiquitatum Romanorum quæ supersunt (the Didot edition, Paris, 1886), 650. Domesday: Facsimile of Domesday Book, the Cheshire volume, including a part of Flintshire and Leicestershire (Southampton, 1861-5), 563. Dovaston: [John F. M. Dovaston's poetical works appear to have been published in 1825, but I have not seen the book], 410-3. Doyle: Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by A. Conan Doyle (London, 1893), 690. Drayton: The Battaile of Agincourt, by Michaell Drayton (London, 1627), 164. Dugdale: Monasticon Anglicanum, a history of the abbeys and other monasteries in England and Wales, by Sir William Dugdale (vol. v, London, 1825), 443, 469, 479. Edwards: Cymru, a monthly magazine edited by Owen M. Edwards (Welsh National Press, Carnarvon), 148. Elfed: Cyfaill yr Aelwyd a'r Frythones, edited by Elfed (the Rev. H. Elvet Lewis) and Cadrawd (Mr. T. C. Evans), and published by Williams & Son, Llanelly, 23, 376, 418. Elton: Origins of English History, by Charles Elton (London, 1882), 615. Elworthy: The Evil Eye, an Account of this ancient and widespread Superstition, by Frederick Thomas Elworthy (London, 1895), 346. Evans: The Beauties of England and Wales [published in London in 1801-15, and comprising two volumes (xvii and xviii) devoted to Wales, the former of which (by the Rev. J. Evans; published in London in 1812) treats of North Wales], 563. Folk-Lore: Transactions of the Folk-Lore Society (published by David Nutt, 270 Strand, London), 273, 338, 341, 344, 346, 356, 358-60, 584, 585, 593, 608. Foulkes: Geirlyfr Bywgraffiadol o Enwogion Cymru, published and printed by Isaac Foulkes (Liverpool, 1870), 396. Fouqué: Undine, eine Erzählung von Friedrich Baron de la Motte Fouqué (11th ed., Berlin, 1859), 1, 2, 27, 437, 661. Frazer: The Golden Bough, a study in comparative religion, by Dr. J. G. Frazer (London, 1890), 638, 662. ,, : The Origin of Totemism (in the Fortnightly Review for April, 1899), 662, 663. Froissart: OEuvres de Froissart, Chroniques, edited by Kervyn de Lettenhove (Brussels, 1870-7), 489. ,, : Chroniques de J. Froissart, published for the 'Société de l'Histoire de France,' by Siméon Luce (Paris, 1869-), 489-91. ,, : Lord Berners' translation (in black letter), published in London in 1525, and Thomas Johnes', in 1805-6, 490. Gaidoz: Revue Celtique, 'fondée par M. Henri Gaidoz,' 1870-85 [since then it has been edited by H. d'Arbois de Jubainville, and it is now published by Bouillon in Paris (67 Rue de Richelieu)], 60, 374, 375, 387, 389, 390, 427, 432, 435, 480, 519, 546, 573, 580, 581, 603, 618, 619, 629, 631, 649. Geoffrey: Gottfried's von Monmouth Historia Regum Britanniæ und Brut Tysylio, published by San-Marte (Halle, 1854), 4, 280, 281, 374, 406, 448, 503, 507, 547, 562, 611. Gilbert: Leabhar na h-Uidhri, a collection of pieces in prose and verse in the Irish language, compiled and transcribed about A.D. 1100 by Moelmuiri mac Ceileachar, published by the Royal Irish Academy, and printed from a lithograph of the original by O'Longan & O'Looney (preface signed by J. T. Gilbert, Dublin, 1870), 381, 387, 414, 424, 435, 498, 537, 547, 611, 613, 618, 620, 624, 654, 657, 661. Gillen: The Native Tribes of Central Australia, by Baldwin Spencer and F. J. Gillen (London, 1899), 662, 663. Giraldus: Giraldi Cambrensis Itinerarium Kambriæ et Descriptio Kambriæ, edited by James F. Dimock (Rolls Series, London, 1868), 72, 90, 269-71, 303, 389, 414, 441, 507, 509, 660. Glanffrwd: Plwyf Llanwyno: yr hen Amser, yr hen Bobl, a'r hen Droion, by Glanffrwd [the Rev. W. Glanffrwd Thomas] (Pontyprid, 1888), 26. Gottingen: Göttingische gelehrte Anzeigen, unter der Aufsicht der königl. Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften (Gottingen, 1890), 544. Gregor: Notes on the Folk-lore of the North-east of Scotland, by the Rev. Walter Gregor, published for the Folk-Lore Society (London, 1881), 103. Griffin: The Poetical and Dramatic Works of Gerald Griffin (Dublin, 1857), 205, 418. Gröber: Grundriss der romanischen Philologie, unter Mitwirkung von 25 Fachgenossen, edited by Gustav Gröber (Strassburg, 1886), 563. ,, : Zeitschrift für romanische Philologie, edited by Gustav Gröber (Halle, 1877-), 563. Gruter: Iani Gruteri Corpus Inscriptionum (part ii of vol. i, Amsterdam, 1707), 580. Guest: The Mabinogion, from the Llyfr Coch o Hergest and other ancient Welsh manuscripts, with an English translation and notes by Lady Charlotte Guest (London, 1849), 69, 123, 196, 386, 442, 502, 507, 509, 538, 553, 560, 613, 620, 629, 645-7, 649, 672. Gwenogvryn: Facsimile of the Black Book of Carmarthen, reproduced by the autotype mechanical process, with a palæographical note by J. Gwenogvryn Evans (Oxford, 1888), 216, 217, 383, 384, 413, 432, 478, 513, 527, 543, 545, 563, 565, 619, 621. ,, : Report on Manuscripts in the Welsh Language, published by the Historical MSS. Commission (vol. i, London, 1898-9), 280, 330, 487, 573. ,, : The Text of the Bruts from the Red Book of Hergest, edited by John Rhys and J. Gwenogvryn Evans (Oxford, 1890), 163, 201, 442, 506, 512, 562. ,, : The Text of the 'Mabinogion' and other Welsh Tales from the Red Book of Hergest, edited by John Rhys and J. Gwenogvryn Evans (Oxford, 1887), 69, 142, 196, 207, 208, 217, 218, 225, 226, 233, 264, 280, 287, 315, 386, 388, 425, 430, 439, 440, 442, 498, 500, 502, 506, 507, 509-16, 519-27, 529-34, 536, 537, 543, 546-8, 550, 551, 553, 560, 561, 565, 580, 608-10, 613, 619, 620, 622, 628-30, 636, 637, 644, 645, 647, 649, 657, 672. ,, : The Text of the Book of Llan Dâv, reproduced from the Gwysaney manuscript by J. G. Evans, with the co-operation of John Rhys (Oxford, 1893) [this is also known as the Liber Landavensis], 163, 398, 476, 478, 528, 531, 568, 691. Hancock: Senchus Mór, vol. i, prefaced by W. Neilson Hancock (Dublin, 1865), 617. Hardy: Descriptive Catalogue of Materials relating to the History of Great Britain and Ireland, by Thos. Duffus Hardy (vol. i, London, 1862), 476. Hartland: The Legend of Perseus, a study of tradition in story, custom, and belief, by Edwin Sidney Hartland (London, 1894-6), 662. Hartland: The Science of Fairy Tales, an inquiry into fairy mythology, by Edwin Sidney Hartland (London, 1891), 18, 268, 583. Henderson: Fled Bricrend, edited with translation, introduction, and notes, by George Henderson (London, 1899), 501. Henderson: Notes on the Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders, by Wm. Henderson (London, 1879), 340, 346. Herbord: Herbordi Vita Ottonis Ep. Bambergensis, in vol. xiv of Pertz' Monumenta Germaniæ Historica Scriptorum [= Script. vol. xii], edited by G. H. Pertz (Hanover, 1826-85), 553. Hergest: The Red Book of Hergest: see Guest, Gwenogvryn, Skene. Heywood: The Dramatic Works of Thomas Heywood (London, 1874), 694. Higden: Polychronicon Ranulphi Higden Monachi Cestrensis, together with the English translations of John Trevisa and an unknown writer of the fifteenth century, edited by Ch. Babington (Rolls Series, London, 1865-86), 330, 331. Holder: Alt-celtischer Sprachschatz, by Alfred Holder (Leipsic, 1896-), 533, 622, 659. Howells: Cambrian Superstitions, comprising ghosts, omens, witchcraft, and traditions, by W. Howells (Tipton, 1831), 74, 155, 160, 173, 204, 245, 268, 331, 424, 453, 469, 576-9. Hübner: Das Heiligtum des Nodon: see 446. ,, : Inscriptiones Britanniæ Latinæ, edited by Æmilius Hübner and published by the Berlin Academy (Berlin, 1873), 535. Humphreys: Golud yr Oes, a Welsh magazine published by H. Humphreys (vol. i, Carnarvon, 1863), 493. ,, : Llyfr Gwybodaeth Gyffredinol, a collection of Humphreys' penny series (Carnarvon, no date), 408. Iolo: Iolo Manuscripts, a selection of ancient Welsh manuscripts in prose and verse from the collection made by Edward Williams (Iolo Morganwg), with English translations and notes by his son, Taliesin Williams Ab Iolo, and published for the Welsh MSS. Society (Llandovery, 1848), 564, 565, 569, 619. Iolo Goch: Gweithiau Iolo Goch gyda Nodiadau hanesydol a beirniadol, by Charles Ashton, published for the Cymmrodorion Society (Oswestry, 1896), 281, 367. Jacobs: Celtic Fairy Tales, selected and edited by Joseph Jacobs (London, 1892), 567. Jamieson: An Etymological Dictionary of the Scottish Language, by John Jamieson (new ed., Paisley, 1881-2), 591. Jamieson: Popular Ballads and Songs, by Robert Jamieson (Edinburgh, 1806), 592. Jenkins: Bed Gelert, its Facts, Fairies, and Folk-Lore, by D. E. Jenkins (Portmadoc, 1899), 450, 453, 469, 533, 567. Johnstone: Antiquitates Celto-Normannicæ, containing the Chronicle of Man and the Isles, abridged by Camden, edited by James Johnstone (Copenhagen, 1786), 334. Jones: see p. 195 for Edmund Jones' Account of the Parish of Aberystruth (Trevecka, 1779), 195, 196. ,, : see p. 195 as to his Spirits in the County of Monmouth (Newport, 1813), 195, 217, 350. Jones: The Elucidarium and other tracts in Welsh from Llyvyr Agkyr Llandewivrevi, A.D. 1346 (Jesus College MS. 119), edited by J. Morris Jones and John Rhys (Oxford, 1894), 529, 693. Jones: The Myvyrian Archaiology of Wales, collected out of ancient manuscripts, by Owen Jones 'Myvyr,' Edward Williams, and William Owen (London, 1801; reprinted in one volume by Thomas Gee, Denbigh, 1870), 441, 469, 529, 560, 610, 619. Jones: A History of the County of Brecknock, by the Rev. Theophilus Jones (Brecknock, 1805, 1809), 516-8. Joyce: Old Celtic Romances, translated from the Gaelic by P. W. Joyce (London, 1879), 94, 376, 381, 437, 662. Jubainville: Le Cycle mythologique irlandais et la Mythologie celtique, by H. d'Arbois de Jubainville (Paris, 1884), 616, 617, 620. ,, : Essai d'un Catalogue de la Littérature épique de l'Irlande, by H. d'Arbois de Jubainville (Paris, 1883), 549, 616, 617, 620. Kaluza: Libeaus Desconus, edited by Max Kaluza (Leipsic, 1890), 562. Keating: Forus Feasa air Éirinn, Keating's History of Ireland, book i, part i, edited, with a literal translation, by P. W. Joyce (Dublin, 1880), 375. Kelly: Fockleyr Manninagh as Baarlagh, a Manx-English Dictionary by John Kelly, edited by William Gill, and printed for the Manx Society (Douglas, 1866), 316, 349. Kermode: Yn Lioar Manninagh, the Journal of the Isle of Man Natural History and Antiquarian Society, edited by P. M. C. Kermode (Douglas, 1889-), 284, 289, 311, 334, 434. Kuhn: Beiträge zur vergleichenden Sprachforschung auf dem Gebiete der arischen, celtischen und slawischen Sprachen, edited by Kuhn and others (Berlin, 1858-76), 629. ,, : Zeitschrift für vergleichende Sprachforschung auf dem Gebiete der indogermanischen Sprachen, edited by Kuhn and others (Berlin, 1854-), 625. Lampeter: The Magazine of St. David's College, Lampeter, 156. Leem: Canuti Leemii de Lapponibus Finmarchiæ Commentatio (Copenhagen, 1767), 658, 663. Leger: Cyrille et Méthode, Étude historique sur la Conversion des Slaves au Christianisme, by Louis Leger (Paris, 1868), 553. Lewis: A Topographical Dictionary of Wales, by Samuel Lewis (3rd ed., London, 1844), 395, 397, 470. Leyden: The Poetical Works of John Leyden (Edinburgh, 1875), 466. Lhuyd: Commentarioli Britannicæ Descriptionis Fragmentum, by Humfrey Lhuyd (Cologne, 1572), 412. Lindsay: The Latin Language, an historical account of Latin sounds, stems, and flexions, by Wallace Martin Lindsay (Oxford, 1894), 629. Loth: Les Mots latins dans les langues brittoniques, by J. Loth (Paris, 1892), 383. Llais y Wlad, a newspaper published at Bangor, N. Wales, 234. Mabinogion: see Guest and Gwenogvryn. Macbain: The Celtic Magazine, edited by Alexander Macbain (Inverness, 1866-), 520. Malmesbury: De Gestis Pontificum Anglorum Libri Quinque, edited by N. E. S. A. Hamilton (Rolls Series, London, 1870), 547. Malory: Le Morte Darthur, by Syr Thomas Malory, the original Caxton edition reprinted and edited with an introduction and glossary by H. Oskar Sommer (Nutt, London, 1889), 476, 562. ,, : Sir Thomas Malory's Morte Darthur, with a preface by John Rhys, published by J. M. Dent & Co. (London, 1893), 543, 565. Mapes: Gualteri Mapes de Nugis Curialium Distinctiones Quinque, edited by Thomas Wright and printed for the Camden Society, 1850 [at the last moment a glance at the original Bodley MS. 851 forced me to deviate somewhat from Wright's reading owing to its inaccuracy], 70-2, 496. Marquardt: Das Privatleben der Römer, by J. Marquardt (Leipsic, 1886), 650. Martin: A Description of the Western Islands of Scotland, by M. Martin (London, 1703), 615, 691, 692. Maspero: see 682. Maximus: Valerii Maximi factorum dictorumque memorabilium Libri novem ad Tiberium Cæsarem Augustum (the Didot ed., Paris, 1871), 623. Mela: Pomponii Melæ de Chorographia Libri Tres, ed. Gustavus Parthey (Berlin, 1867), 331, 550. Meyer: Festschrift Whitley Stokes, dedicated by Kuno Meyer and others (Leipsic, 1900), 645. ,, : The Vision of MacConglinne, edited with a translation by Kuno Meyer (London, 1892), 393, 501. Meyer: Zeitschrift für celtische Philologie, edited by Kuno Meyer and L. C. Stern (Halle, 1897-), 500. Meyer: Romania, Recueil trimestriel consacré à l'Étude des Langues et des Littératures romanes, edited by Paul Meyer and Gaston Paris (vol. xxviii. Paris, 1899), 690, 693, 694. Meyrick: The History and Antiquities of the County of Cardigan, by Samuel Rush Meyrick (London, 1808), 579. Milton: English Poems, by John Milton, 288. Mind, a quarterly review of psychology and philosophy, edited by G. F. Stout (London, 1876-), 633. Mommsen: Heortologie, antiquarische Untersuchungen über die städtischen Feste der Athener, by August Mommsen (Leipsic, 1864), 310. Monthly Packet, the, now edited by C. R. Coleridge and Arthur Innes (London, 1851-), 416, 417. Moore: The Folk-Lore of the Isle of Man, by A. W. Moore (London, 1891), 284. ,, : The Surnames and Place-names of the Isle of Man, by A. W. Moore (London, 1890), 311, 332, 334. Morgan: An Antiquarian Survey of East Gower, Glamorganshire, by W. Ll. Morgan (London, 1899), 404. Morganwg: Hanes Morganwg, by Dafyd Morganwg [D. W. Jones, F.G.S.] (Aberdare, 1874) [an octavo volume issued to subscribers, and so scarce now that I had to borrow a copy], 356. Morris: Celtic Remains, by Lewis Morris, edited by Silvan Evans and printed for the Cambrian Archæological Association (London, 1878), 148, 413, 564, 566, 694. Myrdin: Prophwydoliaeth Myrdin Wyllt: see 485. Nennius: Nennius und Gildas, edited by San-Marte (Berlin, 1844), 281, 406, 407, 537-9, 570. New English Dictionary, edited by Dr. James H. Murray and Henry Bradley (London and Oxford, 1884-), 317. Nicholson: Golspie, contributions to its folklore, collected and edited by Edward W. B. Nicholson (London, 1897), 317. Nicholson: The Poetical Works of Wm. Nicholson (3rd ed., Castle Douglas, 1878), 325. Notes and Queries (Bream's Buildings, Chancery Lane, E.C.), 563. ,, : Choice Notes from 'Notes and Queries,' consisting of folklore (London, 1859), 140, 213, 217, 325, 418, 453, 454, 494, 596, 601, 611, 612. Nutt: The Voyage of Bran son of Febal to the Land of the Living, by Kuno Meyer and Alfred Nutt (London, 1895, 1897), 618, 620, 622, 657, 662. ,, : Studies on the Legend of the Holy Grail, by Alfred Nutt (London, 1888), 287, 438, 548. O'Curry: On the Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish, a series of lectures delivered by the late Eugene O'Curry (London, 1873), 375, 392, 617, 632: see also Curry. O'Donovan: Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland by the Four Masters, from the earliest period to the year 1616, edited by John O'Donovan (2nd ed., Dublin, 1856), 414, 426-8, 433, 546, 569. O'Grady: Silva Gadelica, a collection of tales in Irish, with extracts illustrating persons and places, edited from manuscripts and translated by Dr. S. H. O'Grady (London, 1892), 381, 437. O'Reilly: An Irish-English Dictionary, by Edward O'Reilly, with a supplement by John O'Donovan (Dublin, 1864), 142. Oliver: Monumenta de Insula Manniæ, being vol. iv of the publications of the Manx Society, by J. R. Oliver (Douglas, 1860), 314, 334. Owen: Ancient Laws and Institutes of Wales, edited by Aneurin Owen for the Public Records Commission (London, 1841), 421. Owen: Welsh Folk-Lore, a collection of the folk-tales and legends of North Wales, being the prize essay of the National Eistedfod in 1887, by the Rev. Elias Owen (Oswestry and Wrexham, 1896), 222, 275, 690. Owen: The Poetical Works of the Rev. Goronwy Owen, with his life and correspondence, edited by the Rev. Robert Jones (London, 1876), 84. Owen: The Description of Pembrokeshire, by George Owen of Henllys, edited with notes and an appendix by Henry Owen (London, 1892), 506, 513, 515. Owen: The Cambrian Biography, or Historical Notices of celebrated men among the Ancient Britons, by William Owen (London, 1803), 169, 170. Paris: Merlin, Roman en Prose du XIIIe Siècle, edited by Gaston Paris and Jacob Ulrich (Paris, 1886), 563. Parthey: Itinerarium Antonini Augusti et Hierosolymitanum ex Libris manu scriptis, edited by G. Parthey and M. Pinder (Berlin, 1848), 514. Pembroke County Guardian, the, a newspaper owned and edited by H. W. Williams and published at Solva, 160, 171, 172. Pennant: A Tour in Scotland, by Thomas Pennant (Warrington, 1774), 310. ,, : A Tour in Scotland and a Voyage to the Hebrides, MDCCLXXII, by Thomas Pennant (Chester, 1774), 692. ,, : Tours in Wales, by Thomas Pennant, edited by J. Rhys (Carnarvon, 1883), 125, 130, 532. Phillimore: Annales Cambriæ and Old-Welsh Genealogies from Harleian MS. 3859, edited by Egerton Phillimore, in vol. ix of the Cymmrodor, 408, 476, 480, 551, 570. 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Pughe: The Physicians of Mydvai (Medygon Mydfai), translated by John Pughe of Aberdovey, and edited by the Rev. John Williams Ab Ithel (Llandovery, 1861) [this volume has an introduction consisting of the Legend of Llyn y Fan Fach, contributed by Mr. William Rees of Tonn, who collected it, in the year 1841, from various sources named], 2, 12. Pughe: A Dictionary of the Welsh Language explained in English, by Dr. Wm. Owen Pughe (2nd ed., Denbigh, 1832), 383, 502. Rastell: A. C. Mery Talys, printed by John Rastell, reprinted in Hazlitt's Shakespeare Jest-books (London, 1844), 599. Rees: An Essay on the Welsh Saints or the primitive Christians usually considered to have been the founders of Churches in Wales, by the Rev. Rice Rees (London and Llandovery, 1836), 163, 217, 396, 534. Rees: Lives of the Cambro-British Saints, by the Rev. W. J. Rees, published for the Welsh MSS. Society (Llandovery, 1853), 693. Rennes: Annales de Bretagne publiées par la Faculté des Lettres de Rennes (Rennes, 1886-), 500. Revue Archéologique (new series, vol. xxiii, Paris, 1800-), 386. Rhys: Celtic Britain, by John Rhys (2nd ed., London, 1884), 72. ,, : Lectures on Welsh Philology, by John Rhys (2nd ed., London, 1879), 566. ,, : Hibbert Lectures, 1886, on the origin and growth of religion as illustrated by Celtic heathendom, by John Rhys (London, 1888), 310, 321, 328, 331, 373, 387, 432, 435, 444, 447, 511, 542, 570, 613, 654, 657, 694. Rhys: Studies in the Arthurian Legend, by John Rhys (Oxford, 1891), 217, 287, 331, 375, 382, 387, 435, 438-41, 466, 494, 496, 561, 573, 610, 613. Rhys: Cambrobrytannicæ Cymraecæve Linguæ Institutiones et Rudimenta ... conscripta à Joanne Dauide Rhæso, Monensi Lanuaethlæo Cambrobrytanno, Medico Senensi (London, 1592), 22, 225. Richard: The Poetical Works of the Rev. Edward Richard (London, 1811), 577. Richards: A Welsh and English Dictionary, by Thomas Richards (Trefriw, 1815) 378. Roberts: The Cambrian Popular Antiquities, by Peter Roberts, (London, 1815), 396. Rosellini: see 682. Rymer: Foedera, Conventiones, Literæ et cujuscunque Generis Acta publica inter Reges Angliæ et alios quosvis Imperatores, Reges, Pontifices, Principes, vel Communitates, edited by Thomas Rymer (vol. viii, London, 1709), 490. Sale: The Koran, translated into English with explanatory notes and a preliminary discourse, by George Sale (London, 1877), 608. Sampson: Otia Merseiana, the publication of the Arts Faculty of University College, Liverpool, edited by John Sampson (London), 393, 451. San-Marte: Beiträge zur bretonischen und celtisch-germanischen Heldensage, by San-Marte (Quedlinburg, 1847), 611. Schwan: Grammatik des Altfranzösischen, by Eduard Schwan (Leipsic, 1888), 563. Scotland: Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland (Edinburgh), 244. 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Speed: The Theatre of the Empire of Great Britaine, by John Speed [not Speede] (London, 1611), 208. Steinmeyer: Die althochdeutschen Glossen, collected and elaborated by Elias Steinmeyer and Eduard Sievers (Berlin, 1879-98), 683. Stengel: Li Romans de Durmart le Galois, altfranzösisches Rittergedicht, published for the first time by Edmund Stengel (Tübingen, 1873), 438. Stephens: The Gododin of Aneurin Gwawdryd, with an English translation and copious notes, by Thomas Stephens; edited by Professor Powel, and printed for the Cymmrodorion Society (London, 1888), 310, 543, 647. Stevenson: The Scottish Antiquary or Northern Notes and Queries, edited by J. H. Stevenson (Edinburgh, 1886-), 693. Stokes: Cormac's Glossary: see Cormac. ,, : Goidelica, Old and Early-Middle-Irish Glosses, Prose and Verse, edited by Whitley Stokes (2nd ed., London, 1872), 295, 374. ,, : Irische Texte mit Uebersetzungen und Wörterbuch, edited by Whitley Stokes and E. 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Robert Williams (London, 1876), 438, 514, 580. Williams: The Doom of Colyn Dolphyn, by Taliesin Williams (London, 1837), 561. ,, : Traethawd ar Gywreined Glynn Ned, by Taliesin Williams: see 439. Williams: Observations on the Snowdon Mountains, by William Williams of Llandegai (London, 1802), 48, 673, 674. Windisch: Irische Texte mit Wörterbuch, by Ernst Windisch (Leipsic, 1880), 501, 657. ,, : Kurzgefasste irische Grammatik (Leipsic, 1879), 291, 501, 502, 531, 546, 547, 603, 613, 618, 691. ,, : Über die irische Sage Noinden Ulad, in the Berichte der k. sächs. Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften (phil.-historische Classe, Dec. 1884), 654. Woodall: Bye-gones, a periodical reissue of notes, queries, and replies on subjects relating to Wales and the Borders, published in the columns of The Border Counties Advertizer, by Messrs. Woodall, Minshall & Co. of the Caxton Press, Oswestry, 169, 378. Wood-Martin: Pagan Ireland, by W. G. Wood-Martin (London, 1895), 612. Worth: A History of Devonshire, with Sketches of its leading Worthies, by R. N. Worth (London, 1895), 307. Wright: The English Dialect Dictionary, edited by Professor Joseph Wright (London and Oxford, 1898-), 66. Wynne: The History of the Gwydir Family, published by Angharad Llwyd in the year 1827, and by Askew Roberts at Oswestry in 1878, 490, 491, 670. Y Cymmrodor, the magazine embodying the transactions of the Cymmrodorion Society of London (Secretary, E. Vincent Evans, 64 Chancery Lane, W.C.), 374, 384, 480, 510, 513, 520, 600, 610, 690, 693, 694. Y Drych, a newspaper published at Utica in the United States of North America, 234. Y Gordofigion, an extinct Welsh periodical: see p. 450. Y Gwyliedyd, a magazine of useful knowledge intended for the benefit of monoglot Welshmen (Bala, 1823-37), 450. Y Nofelyd, a Welsh periodical published by Mr. Aubrey, of Llannerch y Med, 396. Young: Burghead, by H. W. Young (Inverness, 1899), 345. CELTIC FOLKLORE WELSH AND MANX Gallias utique possedit, et quidem ad nostram memoriam. Namque Tiberii Cæsaris principatus sustulit Druidas eorum, et hoc genus vatum medicorumque. Sed quid ego hæc commemorem in arte Oceanum quoque transgressa, et ad naturæ inane pervecta? Britannia hodieque eam attonite celebrat tantis cerimoniis, ut dedisse Persis videri possit. Adeo ista toto mundo consensere, quamquam discordi et sibi ignoto. Nec satis æstimari potest, quantum Romanis debeatur, qui sustulere monstra, in quibus hominem occidere religiosissimum erat, mandi vero etiam saluberrimum. Pliny, Historia Naturalis, XXX. 4. Pline fait remarquer que ces pratiques antipathiques au génie grec sont d'origine médique. Nous les rencontrons en Europe à l'état de survivances. L'universalité de ces superstitions prouve en effet qu'elles émanent d'une source unique qui n'est pas européenne. Il est difficile de les considérer comme un produit de l'esprit aryen; il faut remonter plus haut pour en trouver l'origine. Si, en Gaule, en Grande-Bretagne, en Irlande, tant de superstitions relevant de la magie existaient encore au temps de Pline enracinées dans les esprits à tel point que le grand naturaliste pouvait dire, à propos de la Bretagne, qu'il semblait que ce fût elle qui avait donné la magie à la Perse, c'est qu'en Gaule, en Grande-Bretagne, et en Irlande le fond de la population était composé d'éléments étrangers à la race aryenne, comme les faits archéologiques le démontrent, ainsi que le reconnait notre éminent confrère et ami, M. d'Arbois de Jubainville lui-même. Alexandre Bertrand, La Religion des Gaulois, pp. 55, 56. Une croyance universellement admise dans le monde lettré, en France et hors de France, fait des Français les fils des Gaulois qui ont pris Rome en 390 avant Jésus-Christ, et que César a vaincus au milieu du premier siècle avant notre ère. On croit que nous sommes des Gaulois, survivant à toutes les révolutions qui depuis tant de siècles ont bouleversé le monde. C'est une idée préconçue que, suivant moi, la science doit rejeter. Seuls à peu près, les archéologues ont vu la vérité.... Les pierres levées, les cercles de pierre, les petites cabanes construites en gros blocs de pierre pour servir de dernier asile aux défunts, étaient, croyait-on, des monuments celtiques.... On donnait à ces rustiques témoignages d'une civilisation primitive des noms bretons, ou néo-celtiques de France; on croyait naïvement, en reproduisant des mots de cette langue moderne, parler comme auraient fait, s'ils avaient pu revenir à la vie, ceux qui ont remué ces lourdes pierres, ceux qui les ont fixées debout sur le sol ou même élevées sur d'autres.... Mais ceux qui ont dressé les pierres levées, les cercles de pierres; ceux qui ont construit les cabanes funéraires ne parlaient pas celtique et le breton diffère du celtique comme le français du latin. H. d'Arbois de Jubainville, Les premiers Habitants de l'Europe, II. xi-xiii. CHAPTER I UNDINE'S KYMRIC SISTERS Undine, liebes Bildchen du, Seit ich zuerst aus alten Kunden Dein seltsam Leuchten aufgefunden, Wie sangst du oft mein Herz in Ruh! De la Motte Fouqué. The chief object of this and several of the following chapters is to place on record all the matter I can find on the subject of Welsh lake legends: what I may have to say of them is merely by the way and sporadic, and I should feel well paid for my trouble if these contributions should stimulate others to communicate to the public bits of similar legends, which, possibly, still linger unrecorded among the mountains of Wales. For it should be clearly understood that all such things bear on the history of the Welsh, as the history of no people can be said to have been written so long as its superstitions and beliefs in past times have not been studied; and those who may think that the legends here recorded are childish and frivolous, may rest assured that they bear on questions which could not themselves be called either childish or frivolous. So, however silly a legend may be thought, let him who knows such a legend communicate it to somebody who will place it on record; he will then probably find that it has more meaning and interest than he had anticipated. I. I find it best to begin by reproducing a story which has already been placed on record: this appears desirable on account of its being the most complete of its kind, and the one with which shorter ones can most readily be compared. I allude to the legend of the Lady of Llyn y Fan Fach in Carmarthenshire, which I take the liberty of copying from Mr. Rees of Tonn's version in the introduction to The Physicians of Mydvai [1], published by the Welsh Manuscript Society, at Llandovery, in 1861. There he says that he wrote it down from the oral recitations, which I suppose were in Welsh, of John Evans, tiler, of Mydfai, David Williams, Morfa, near Mydfai, who was about ninety years old at the time, and Elizabeth Morgan, of Henllys Lodge, near Llandovery, who was a native of the same village of Mydfai; to this it may be added that he acknowledges obligations also to Joseph Joseph, Esq., F.S.A., Brecon, for collecting particulars from the old inhabitants of the parish of Llandeusant. The legend, as given by Mr. Rees in English, runs as follows, and strongly reminds one in certain parts of the Story of Undine as given in the German of De la Motte Fouqué, with which it should be compared:-- 'When the eventful struggle made by the Princes of South Wales to preserve the independence of their country was drawing to its close in the twelfth century, there lived at Blaensawde [2] near Llandeusant, Carmarthenshire, a widowed woman, the relict of a farmer who had fallen in those disastrous troubles. 'The widow had an only son to bring up, but Providence smiled upon her, and despite her forlorn condition, her live stock had so increased in course of time, that she could not well depasture them upon her farm, so she sent a portion of her cattle to graze on the adjoining Black Mountain, and their most favourite place was near the small lake called Llyn y Fan Fach, on the north-western side of the Carmarthenshire Fans. 'The son grew up to manhood, and was generally sent by his mother to look after the cattle on the mountain. One day, in his peregrinations along the margin of the lake, to his great astonishment, he beheld, sitting on the unruffled surface of the water, a lady; one of the most beautiful creatures that mortal eyes ever beheld, her hair flowed gracefully in ringlets over her shoulders, the tresses of which she arranged with a comb, whilst the glassy surface of her watery couch served for the purpose of a mirror, reflecting back her own image. Suddenly she beheld the young man standing on the brink of the lake, with his eyes riveted on her, and unconsciously offering to herself the provision of barley bread and cheese with which he had been provided when he left his home. 'Bewildered by a feeling of love and admiration for the object before him, he continued to hold out his hand towards the lady, who imperceptibly glided near to him, but gently refused the offer of his provisions. He attempted to touch her, but she eluded his grasp, saying-- Cras dy fara; Hard baked is thy bread! Nid hawd fy nala. 'Tis not easy to catch me [3]; and immediately dived under the water and disappeared, leaving the love-stricken youth to return home, a prey to disappointment and regret that he had been unable to make further acquaintance with one, in comparison with whom the whole of the fair maidens of Llandeusant and Mydfai [4] whom he had ever seen were as nothing. On his return home the young man communicated to his mother the extraordinary vision he had beheld. She advised him to take some unbaked dough or "toes" the next time in his pocket, as there must have been some spell connected with the hard-baked bread, or "Bara cras," which prevented his catching the lady. 'Next morning, before the sun had gilded with its rays the peaks of the Fans, the young man was at the lake, not for the purpose of looking after his mother's cattle, but seeking for the same enchanting vision he had witnessed the day before; but all in vain did he anxiously strain his eyeballs and glance over the surface of the lake, as only the ripples occasioned by a stiff breeze met his view, and a cloud hung heavily on the summit of the Fan, which imparted an additional gloom to his already distracted mind. 'Hours passed on, the wind was hushed, and the clouds which had enveloped the mountain had vanished into thin air before the powerful beams of the sun, when the youth was startled by seeing some of his mother's cattle on the precipitous side of the acclivity, nearly on the opposite side of the lake. His duty impelled him to attempt to rescue them from their perilous position, for which purpose he was hastening away, when, to his inexpressible delight, the object of his search again appeared to him as before, and seemed much more beautiful than when he first beheld her. His hand was again held out to her, full of unbaked bread, which he offered with an urgent proffer of his heart also, and vows of eternal attachment. All of which were refused by her, saying-- Llaith dy fara! Unbaked is thy bread! Ti ni fynna'. I will not have thee [5]. But the smiles that played upon her features as the lady vanished beneath the waters raised within the young man a hope that forbade him to despair by her refusal of him, and the recollection of which cheered him on his way home. His aged parent was made acquainted with his ill-success, and she suggested that his bread should next time be but slightly baked, as most likely to please the mysterious being of whom he had become enamoured. 'Impelled by an irresistible feeling, the youth left his mother's house early next morning, and with rapid steps he passed over the mountain. He was soon near the margin of the lake, and with all the impatience of an ardent lover did he wait with a feverish anxiety for the reappearance of the mysterious lady. 'The sheep and goats browsed on the precipitous sides of the Fan; the cattle strayed amongst the rocks and large stones, some of which were occasionally loosened from their beds and suddenly rolled down into the lake; rain and sunshine alike came and passed away; but all were unheeded by the youth, so wrapped up was he in looking for the appearance of the lady. 'The freshness of the early morning had disappeared before the sultry rays of the noon-day sun, which in its turn was fast verging towards the west as the evening was dying away and making room for the shades of night, and hope had wellnigh abated of beholding once more the Lady of the Lake. The young man cast a sad and last farewell look over the waters, and, to his astonishment, beheld several cows walking along its surface. The sight of these animals caused hope to revive that they would be followed by another object far more pleasing; nor was he disappointed, for the maiden reappeared, and to his enraptured sight, even lovelier than ever. She approached the land, and he rushed to meet her in the water. A smile encouraged him to seize her hand; neither did she refuse the moderately baked bread he offered her; and after some persuasion she consented to become his bride, on condition that they should only live together until she received from him three blows without a cause, Tri ergyd diachos. Three causeless blows. And if he ever should happen to strike her three such blows she would leave him for ever. To such conditions he readily consented, and would have consented to any other stipulation, had it been proposed, as he was only intent on then securing such a lovely creature for his wife. 'Thus the Lady of the Lake engaged to become the young man's wife, and having loosed her hand for a moment she darted away and dived into the lake. His chagrin and grief were such that he determined to cast himself headlong into the deepest water, so as to end his life in the element that had contained in its unfathomed depths the only one for whom he cared to live on earth. As he was on the point of committing this rash act, there emerged out of the lake two most beautiful ladies, accompanied by a hoary-headed man of noble mien and extraordinary stature, but having otherwise all the force and strength of youth. This man addressed the almost bewildered youth in accents calculated to soothe his troubled mind, saying that as he proposed to marry one of his daughters, he consented to the union, provided the young man could distinguish which of the two ladies before him was the object of his affections. This was no easy task, as the maidens were such perfect counterparts of each other that it seemed quite impossible for him to choose his bride, and if perchance he fixed upon the wrong one all would be for ever lost. 'Whilst the young man narrowly scanned the two ladies, he could not perceive the least difference betwixt the two, and was almost giving up the task in despair, when one of them thrust her foot a slight degree forward. The motion, simple as it was, did not escape the observation of the youth, and he discovered a trifling variation in the mode with which their sandals were tied. This at once put an end to the dilemma, for he, who had on previous occasions been so taken up with the general appearance of the Lady of the Lake, had also noticed the beauty of her feet and ankles, and on now recognizing the peculiarity of her shoe-tie he boldly took hold of her hand. '"Thou hast chosen rightly," said her father; "be to her a kind and faithful husband, and I will give her, as a dowry, as many sheep, cattle, goats, and horses as she can count of each without heaving or drawing in her breath. But remember, that if you prove unkind to her at any time, and strike her three times without a cause, she shall return to me, and shall bring all her stock back with her." 'Such was the verbal marriage settlement, to which the young man gladly assented, and his bride was desired to count the number of sheep she was to have. She immediately adopted the mode of counting by fives, thus:--One, two, three, four, five--One, two, three, four, five; as many times as possible in rapid succession, till her breath was exhausted. The same process of reckoning had to determine the number of goats, cattle, and horses respectively; and in an instant the full number of each came out of the lake when called upon by the father. 'The young couple were then married, by what ceremony was not stated, and afterwards went to reside at a farm called Esgair Llaethdy, somewhat more than a mile from the village of Mydfai, where they lived in prosperity and happiness for several years, and became the parents of three sons, who were beautiful children. 'Once upon a time there was a christening to take place in the neighbourhood, to which the parents were specially invited. When the day arrived the wife appeared very reluctant to attend the christening, alleging that the distance was too great for her to walk. Her husband told her to fetch one of the horses which were grazing in an adjoining field. "I will," said she, "if you will bring me my gloves which I left in our house." He went to the house and returned with the gloves, and finding that she had not gone for the horse jocularly slapped her shoulder with one of them, saying, "go! go!" (dos, dos), when she reminded him of the understanding upon which she consented to marry him:--That he was not to strike her without a cause; and warned him to be more cautious for the future. 'On another occasion, when they were together at a wedding, in the midst of the mirth and hilarity of the assembled guests, who had gathered together from all the surrounding country, she burst into tears and sobbed most piteously. Her husband touched her on her shoulder and inquired the cause of her weeping: she said, "Now people are entering into trouble, and your troubles are likely to commence, as you have the second time stricken me without a cause." 'Years passed on, and their children had grown up, and were particularly clever young men. In the midst of so many worldly blessings at home the husband almost forgot that there remained only one causeless blow to be given to destroy the whole of his prosperity. Still he was watchful lest any trivial occurrence should take place which his wife must regard as a breach of their marriage contract. She told him, as her affection for him was unabated, to be careful that he would not, through some inadvertence, give the last and only blow, which, by an unalterable destiny, over which she had no control, would separate them for ever. 'It, however, so happened that one day they were together at a funeral, where, in the midst of the mourning and grief at the house of the deceased, she appeared in the highest and gayest spirits, and indulged in immoderate fits of laughter, which so shocked her husband that he touched her, saying, "Hush! hush! don't laugh." She said that she laughed "because people when they die go out of trouble," and, rising up, she went out of the house, saying, "The last blow has been struck, our marriage contract is broken, and at an end! Farewell!" Then she started off towards Esgair Llaethdy, where she called her cattle and other stock together, each by name. The cattle she called thus:-- Mu wlfrech, Moelfrech, Brindled cow, white speckled, Mu olfrech, Gwynfrech, Spotted cow, bold freckled, Pedair cae tonn-frech, The four field sward mottled, Yr hen wynebwen, The old white-faced, A'r las Geigen, And the grey Geingen, Gyda'r Tarw Gwyn With the white Bull, O lys y Brenin; From the court of the King; A'r llo du bach, And the little black calf Syd ar y bach, Tho' suspended on the hook, Dere dithau, yn iach adre! Come thou also, quite well home! They all immediately obeyed the summons of their mistress. The "little black calf," although it had been slaughtered, became alive again, and walked off with the rest of the stock at the command of the lady. This happened in the spring of the year, and there were four oxen ploughing in one of the fields; to these she cried:-- Pedwar eidion glas The four grey oxen, Syd ar y maes, That are on the field, Denwch chwithan Come you also Yn iach adre! Quite well home! Away the whole of the live stock went with the Lady across Mydfai Mountain, towards the lake from whence they came, a distance of above six miles, where they disappeared beneath its waters, leaving no trace behind except a well-marked furrow, which was made by the plough the oxen drew after them into the lake, and which remains to this day as a testimony to the truth of this story. 'What became of the affrighted ploughman--whether he was left on the field when the oxen set off, or whether he followed them to the lake, has not been handed down to tradition; neither has the fate of the disconsolate and half-ruined husband been kept in remembrance. But of the sons it is stated that they often wandered about the lake and its vicinity, hoping that their mother might be permitted to visit the face of the earth once more, as they had been apprised of her mysterious origin, her first appearance to their father, and the untoward circumstances which so unhappily deprived them of her maternal care. 'In one of their rambles, at a place near Dôl Howel, at the Mountain Gate, still called "Llidiad y Medygon," The Physicians' Gate, the mother appeared suddenly, and accosted her eldest son, whose name was Rhiwallon, and told him that his mission on earth was to be a benefactor to mankind by relieving them from pain and misery, through healing all manner of their diseases; for which purpose she furnished him with a bag full of medical prescriptions and instructions for the preservation of health. That by strict attention thereto he and his family would become for many generations the most skilful physicians in the country. Then, promising to meet him when her counsel was most needed, she vanished. But on several occasions she met her sons near the banks of the lake, and once she even accompanied them on their return home as far as a place still called "Pant-y-Medygon," The dingle of the Physicians, where she pointed out to them the various plants and herbs which grew in the dingle, and revealed to them their medicinal qualities or virtues; and the knowledge she imparted to them, together with their unrivalled skill, soon caused them to attain such celebrity that none ever possessed before them. And in order that their knowledge should not be lost, they wisely committed the same to writing, for the benefit of mankind throughout all ages.' To the legend Mr. Rees added the following notes, which we reproduce also at full length:-- 'And so ends the story of the Physicians of Mydfai, which has been handed down from one generation to another, thus:-- Yr hên wr llwyd o'r cornel, The grey old man in the corner Gan ci dad a glywod chwedel [6], Of his father heard a story, A chan ci dad fe glywod yntau Which from his father he had heard, Ac ar ei ôl mi gofiais innau. And after them I have remembered. As stated in the introduction of the present work [i.e. the Physicians of Mydvai], Rhiwallon and his sons became Physicians to Rhys Gryg, Lord of Llandovery and Dynefor Castles, "who gave them rank, lands, and privileges at Mydfai for their maintenance in the practice of their art and science, and the healing and benefit of those who should seek their help," thus affording to those who could not afford to pay, the best medical advice and treatment gratuitously. Such a truly royal foundation could not fail to produce corresponding effects. So the fame of the Physicians of Mydfai was soon established over the whole country, and continued for centuries among their descendants. 'The celebrated Welsh Bard, Dafyd ap Gwilym, who flourished in the following century, and was buried at the Abbey of Tal-y-llychau [7], in Carmarthenshire, about the year 1368, says in one of his poems, as quoted in Dr. Davies' dictionary-- Medyg ni wnai mod y gwnaeth A Physician he would not make Mydfai, o chai dyn medfaeth. As Mydfai made, if he had a mead fostered man. Of the above lands bestowed upon the Medygon, there are two farms in Mydfai parish still called "Llwyn Ifan Fedyg," the Grove of Evan the Physician; and "Llwyn Meredyd Fedyg," the Grove of Meredith the Physician. Esgair Llaethdy, mentioned in the foregoing legend, was formerly in the possession of the above descendants, and so was Ty newyd, near Mydfai, which was purchased by Mr. Holford, of Cilgwyn, from the Rev. Charles Lloyd, vicar of Llandefalle, Breconshire, who married a daughter of one of the Medygon, and had the living of Llandefalle from a Mr. Vaughan, who presented him to the same out of gratitude, because Mr. Lloyd's wife's father had cured him of a disease in the eye. As Mr. Lloyd succeeded to the above living in 1748, and died in 1800, it is probable that the skilful oculist was John Jones, who is mentioned in the following inscription on a tombstone at present fixed against the west end of Mydfai Church:-- HERE Lieth the body of Mr. DAVID JONES, of Mothvey, Surgeon, who was an honest, charitable, and skilful man. He died September 14th, Anno Dom 1719, aged 61. JOHN JONES, Surgeon, Eldest son of the said David Jones, departed this life the 25th of November, 1739, in the 44th year of his Age, and also lyes interred hereunder. These appear to have been the last of the Physicians who practised at Mydfai. The above John Jones resided for some time at Llandovery, and was a very eminent surgeon. One of his descendants, named John Lewis, lived at Cwmbran, Mydfai, at which place his great-grandson, Mr. John Jones, now resides. 'Dr. Morgan Owen, Bishop of Llandaff, who died at Glasallt, parish of Mydfai, in 1645, was a descendant of the Medygon, and an inheritor of much of their landed property in that parish, the bulk of which he bequeathed to his nephew, Morgan Owen, who died in 1667, and was succeeded by his son Henry Owen; and at the decease of the last of whose descendants, Robert Lewis, Esq., the estates became, through the will of one of the family, the property of the late D. A. S. Davies, Esq., M.P. for Carmarthenshire. 'Bishop Owen bequeathed to another nephew, Morgan ap Rees, son of Rees ap John, a descendant of the Medygon, the farm of Rhyblid, and some other property. Morgan ap Rees' son, Samuel Rice, resided at Loughor, in Gower, Glamorganshire, and had a son, Morgan Rice, who was a merchant in London, and became Lord of the Manor of Tooting Graveney, and High Sheriff in the year 1772, and Deputy Lieutenant of the county of Surrey, 1776. He resided at Hill House, which he built. At his death the whole of his property passed to his only child, John Rice, Esq., whose eldest son, the Rev. John Morgan Rice, inherited the greater portion of his estates. The head of the family is now the Rev. Horatio Morgan Rice, rector of South Hill with Callington, Cornwall, and J.P. for the county, who inherited, with other property, a small estate at Loughor. The above Morgan Rice had landed property in Llanmadock and Llangenith, as well as Loughor, in Gower, but whether he had any connexion with Howel the Physician (ap Rhys ap Llywelyn ap Philip the Physician, and lineal descendant from Einion ap Rhiwallon), who resided at Cilgwryd in Gower, is not known. 'Amongst other families who claim descent from the Physicians were the Bowens of Cwmydw, Mydfai; and Jones of Dollgarreg and Penrhock, in the same parish; the latter of whom are represented by Charles Bishop, of Dollgarreg, Esq., Clerk of the Peace for Carmarthenshire, and Thomas Bishop, of Brecon, Esq. 'Rees Williams of Mydfai is recorded as one of the Medygon. His great-grandson was the late Rice Williams, M.D., of Aberystwyth, who died May 16, 1842, aged 85, and appears to have been the last, although not the least eminent, of the Physicians descended from the mysterious Lady of Llyn y Fan [8].' This brings the legend of the Lady of the Fan Lake into connexion with a widely-spread family. There is another connexion between it and modern times, as will be seen from the following statement kindly made to me by the Rev. A. G. Edwards, Warden of the Welsh College at Llandovery, since then appointed Bishop of St. Asaph: 'An old woman from Mydfai, who is now, that is to say in January 1881, about eighty years of age, tells me that she remembers "thousands and thousands of people visiting the Lake of the Little Fan on the first Sunday or Monday in August, and when she was young she often heard old men declare that at that time a commotion took place in the lake, and that its waters boiled, which was taken to herald the approach of the Lake Lady and her Oxen."' The custom of going up to the lake on the first Sunday in August was a very well known one in years gone by, as I have learned from a good many people, and it is corroborated by Mr. Joseph Joseph of Brecon, who kindly writes as follows, in reply to some queries of mine: 'On the first Sunday in the month of August, Llyn y Fan Fach is supposed to be boiling (berwi). I have seen scores of people going up to see it (not boiling though) on that day. I do not remember that any of them expected to see the Lady of the Lake.' As to the boiling of the lake I have nothing to say, and I am not sure that there is anything in the following statement made as an explanation of the yearly visit to the lake by an old fisherwoman from Llandovery: 'The best time for eels is in August, when the north-east wind blows on the lake, and makes huge waves in it. The eels can then be seen floating on the waves.' Last summer I went myself to the village of Mydfai, to see if I could pick up any variants of the legend, but I was hardly successful; for though several of the farmers I questioned could repeat bits of the legend, including the Lake Lady's call to her cattle as she went away, I got nothing new, except that one of them said that the youth, when he first saw the Lake Lady at a distance, thought she was a goose--he did not even rise to the conception of a swan--but that by degrees he approached her, and discovered that she was a lady in white, and that in due time they were married, and so on. My friend, the Warden of Llandovery College, seems, however, to have found a bit of a version which may have been still more unlike the one recorded by Mr. Rees of Tonn: it was from an old man at Mydfai last year, from whom he was, nevertheless, only able to extract the statement 'that the Lake Lady got somehow entangled in a farmer's "gambo," and that ever after his farm was very fertile.' A 'gambo,' I ought to explain, is a kind of a cart without sides, used in South Wales: both the name and the thing seem to have come from England, though I cannot find such a word as gambo or gambeau in the ordinary dictionaries. Among other legends about lake fairies, there are, in the third chapter of Mr. Sikes' British Goblins, two versions of this story: the first of them differs but slightly from Mr. Rees', in that the farmer used to go near the lake to see some lambs he had bought at a fair, and that whenever he did so three beautiful damsels appeared to him from the lake. They always eluded his attempts to catch them: they ran away into the lake, saying, Cras dy fara, &c. But one day a piece of moist bread came floating ashore, which he ate, and the next day he had a chat with the Lake Maidens. He proposed marriage to one of them, to which she consented, provided he could distinguish her from her sisters the day after. The story then, so far as I can make out from the brief version which Mr. Sikes gives of it, went on like that of Mr. Rees. The former gives another version, with much more interesting variations, which omit all reference, however, to the Physicians of Mydfai, and relate how a young farmer had heard of the Lake Maiden rowing up and down the lake in a golden boat with a golden scull. He went to the lake on New Year's Eve, saw her, was fascinated by her, and left in despair at her vanishing out of sight, although he cried out to her to stay and be his wife. She faintly replied, and went her way, after he had gazed at her long yellow hair and pale melancholy face. He continued to visit the lake, and grew thin and negligent of his person, owing to his longing. But a wise man, who lived on the mountain, advised him to tempt her with gifts of bread and cheese, which he undertook to do on Midsummer Eve, when he dropped into the lake a large cheese and a loaf of bread. This he did repeatedly, until at last his hopes were fulfilled on New Year's Eve. This time he had gone to the lake clad in his best suit, and at midnight dropped seven white loaves and his biggest and finest cheese into the lake. The Lake Lady by-and-by came in her skiff to where he was, and gracefully stepped ashore. The scene need not be further described: Mr. Sikes gives a picture of it, and the story then proceeds as in the other version. It is a pity that Mr. Rees did not preserve the Welsh versions out of which he pieced together the English one; but as to Mr. Sikes, I cannot discover whence his has been derived, for he seems not to have been too anxious to leave anybody the means of testing his work, as one will find on verifying his references, when he gives any. See also the allusions to him in Hartland's Science of Fairy Tales, pp. 64, 123, 137, 165, 278. Since writing the foregoing notes the following communication has reached me from a friend of my undergraduate days at Jesus College, Oxford, Mr. Llywarch Reynolds of Merthyr Tydfil. Only the first part of it concerns the legend of Llyn y Fan Fach; but as the rest is equally racy I make no apology for publishing it in full without any editing, except the insertion of the meaning of two or three of the Welsh words occurring in it:-- 'Tell Rhys that I have just heard a sequel to the Medygon Mydfai story, got from a rustic on Mynyd y Banwen, between Glynnêd and Glyntawë, on a ramble recently with David Lewis the barrister and Sidney Hartland the folklorist. It was to the effect that after the disappearance of the forwn, "the damsel," into the lake, the disconsolate husband and his friends set to work to drain the lake in order to get at her, if possible. They made a great cutting into the bank, when suddenly a huge hairy monster of hideous aspect emerged from the water and stormed at them for disturbing him, and wound up with this threat:-- Os na cha'i lonyd yn ym lle, If I get no quiet in my place, Fi foda dre' 'Byrhondu! I shall drown the town of Brecon! It was evidently the last braich, "arm," of a Triban Morgannwg, but this was all my informant knew of it. From the allusion to Tre' Byrhondu, it struck me that there was here probably a tale of Llyn Safadon, which had migrated to Llyn y Fan; because of course there would have to be a considerable change in the "levels" before Llyn y Fan and the Sawde could put Brecon in any great jeopardy [9]. 'We also got another tale about a cwmshurwr, "conjurer," who once lived in Ystradgyrlais (as the rustic pronounced it). The wizard was a dyn llaw-harn, "a man with an iron hand"; and it being reported that there was a great treasure hidden in Mynyd y Drum, the wizard said he would secure it, if he could but get some plucky fellow to spend a night with him there. John Gethin was a plucky fellow (dyn "ysprydol"), and he agreed to join the dyn llaw-harn in his diablerie. The wizard traced two rings on the sward touching each other "like a number 8"; he went into one, and Gethin into the other, the wizard strictly charging him on no account to step out of the ring. The llaw-harn then proceeded to trafod 'i lyfrau, or "busy himself with his books"; and there soon appeared a monstrous bull, bellowing dreadfully; but the plucky Gethin held his ground, and the bull vanished. Next came a terrible object, a "fly-wheel of fire," which made straight for poor Gethin and made him swerve out of the ring. Thereupon the wheel assumed the form of the diawl, "devil," who began to haul Gethin away. The llaw-harn seized hold of him and tried to get him back. The devil was getting the upper hand, when the llaw-harn begged the devil to let him keep Gethin while the piece of candle he had with him lasted. The devil consented, and let go his hold of Gethin, whereupon the cwmshurwr immediately blew out the candle, and the devil was discomfited. Gethin preserved the piece of candle very carefully, stowing it away in a cool place; but still it wasted away although it was never lighted. Gethin got such a fright that he took to his bed, and as the candle wasted away he did the same, and they both came to an end simultaneously. Gethin vanished--and it was not his body that was put into the coffin, but a lump of clay which was put in to save appearances! It is said that the wizard's books are in an oaken chest at Waungyrlais farm house to this day. 'We got these tales on a ramble to see "Maen y Gwediau," on the mountain near Coelbren Junction Station on the Neath and Brecon Railway (marked on the Ordnance Map), but we had to turn back owing to the fearful heat.' Before dismissing Mr. Reynolds' letter I may mention a story in point which relates to a lake on the Brecon side of the mountains. It is given at length by the Rev. Edward Davies in his Mythology and Rites of the British Druids (London, 1809), pp. 155-7. According to this legend a door in the rock was to be found open once a year--on May-day, as it is supposed--and from that door one could make one's way to the garden of the fairies, which was an island in the middle of the lake. This paradise of exquisite bliss was invisible, however, to those who stood outside the lake: they could only see an indistinct mass in the centre of the water. Once on a time a visitor tried to carry away some of the flowers given him by the fairies, but he was thereby acting against their law, and not only was he punished with the loss of his senses, but the door has never since been left open. It is also related that once an adventurous person attempted to drain the water away 'in order to discover its contents, when a terrific form arose from the midst of the lake, commanding him to desist, or otherwise he would drown the country.' This form is clearly of the same species as that which, according to Mr. Reynolds' story, threatened to drown the town of Brecon. Subsequent inquiries have elicited more information, and I am more especially indebted to my friend Mr. Ivor James, who, as registrar of the University of Wales, has of late years been living at Brecon. He writes to the following effect:--'The lake you want is Llyn Cwm Llwch, and the legend is very well known locally, but there are variants. Once on a time men and boys dug a gully through the dam in order to let the water out. A man in a red coat, sitting in an armchair, appeared on the surface of the water and threatened them in the terms which you quote from Mr. Reynolds. The red coat would seem to suggest that this form of the legend dates possibly from a time since our soldiers were first clothed in red. In another case, however, the spectre was that of an old woman; and I am told that a somewhat similar story is told in connexion with a well in the castle wall in the parish of Llandew, to the north of this town--Giraldus Cambrensis' parish. A friend of mine is employing his spare time at present in an inquiry into the origin of the lakes of this district, and he tells me that Llyn Cwm Llwch is of glacial origin, its dam being composed, as he thinks, of glacial débris through which the water always percolates into the valley below. But storm water flows over the dam, and in the course of ages has cut for itself a gully, now about ten feet deep at the deepest point, through the embankment. The story was possibly invented to explain that fact. There is no cave to be seen in the rock, and probably there never was one, as the formation is the Old Red Sandstone; and the island was perhaps equally imaginary.' That is the substance of Mr. James' letter, in which he, moreover, refers to J. D. Rhys' account of the lake in his Welsh introduction to his Grammar, published in London in 1592, under the title Cambrobrytannicæ Cymraecæve Linguæ Institutiones et Rudimenta. There the grammarian, in giving some account of himself, mentions his frequent sojourns at the hospitable residence of a nobleman, named M. Morgan Merêdydh, near y Bugeildy ynn Nyphryn Tabhîda o bhywn Swydh Bhaesybhed, that is, 'near the Beguildy in the Valley of the Teme within the county of Radnor.' Then he continues to the following effect:--'But the latter part of this book was thought out under the bushes and green foliage in a bit of a place of my own called y Clun Hîr, at the top of Cwm y Llwch, below the spurs of the mountain of Bannwchdeni, which some call Bann Arthur and others Moel Arthur. Below that moel and in its lap there is a lake of pretty large size, unknown depth, and wondrous nature. For as the stories go, no bird has ever been seen to repair to it or towards it, or to swim on it: it is wholly avoided, and some say that no animals or beasts of any kind are wont to drink of its waters. The peasantry of that country, and especially the shepherds who are wont to frequent these moels and bans, relate many other wonders concerning it and the exceeding strange things beheld at times in connexion with this loch. This lake or loch is called Llyn Cwm y Llwch [10].' II. Before dismissing the story of Llyn y Fan Fach I wish to append a similar one from the parish of Ystrad Dyfodwg in Glamorganshire. The following is a translation of a version given in Welsh in Cyfaill yr Aelwyd a'r Frythones, edited by Elfed and Cadrawd, and published by Messrs. Williams and Son, Llanelly. The version in question is by Cadrawd, and it is to the following effect--see the volume for 1892, p. 59:-- 'Llyn y Forwyn, "the Damsel's Pool," is in the parish of Ystrad Tyfodwg: the inhabitants call it also Llyn Nelferch. It lies about halfway between the farm house of Rhonda Fechan, "Little Rhonda," and the Vale of Safrwch. The ancient tradition concerning it is somewhat as follows:-- 'Once on a time a farmer lived at the Rhonda Fechan: he was unmarried, and as he was walking by the lake early one morning in spring he beheld a young woman of beautiful appearance walking on the other side of it. He approached her and spoke to her: she gave him to understand that her home was in the lake, and that she owned a number of milch cows, that lived with her at the bottom of the water. The farmer fancied her so much that he fell in love with her over head and ears: he asked her on the spot for her hand and heart; and he invited her to come and spend her life with him as his wife at the Rhonda Fechan. She declined at first, but as he was importunate she consented at last on the following conditions, namely, that she would bring her cattle with her out of the lake, and live with him until he and she had three disputes with one another: then, she said, she and the cattle would return into the lake. He agreed to the conditions, and the marriage took place. They lived very happily and comfortably for long years; but the end was that they fell out with one another, and, when they happened to have quarrelled for the third time, she was heard early in the morning driving the cattle towards the lake with these words:-- Prw dre', prw dre', prw'r gwartheg i dre'; Prw Milfach a Malfach, pedair Llualfach, Alfach ac Ali, pedair Ladi, Wynebwen drwynog, tro i'r waun lidiog, Trech llyn y waun odyn, tair Pencethin, Tair caseg du draw yn yr eithin [11]. And into the lake they went out of sight, and there they live to this day. And some believed that they had heard the voice and cry of Nelferch in the whisper of the breeze on the top of the mountain hard by--many a time after that--as an old story (wedal) will have it.' From this it will be seen that the fairy wife's name was supposed to have been Nelferch, and that the piece of water is called after her. But I find that great uncertainty prevails as to the old name of the lake, as I learn from a communication in 1894 from Mr. Llewellyn Williams, living at Porth, only some five miles from the spot, that one of his informants assured him that the name in use among former generations was Llyn Alfach. Mr. Williams made inquiries at the Rhonda Fechan about the lake legend. He was told that the water had long since been known as Llyn y Forwyn, from a morwyn, or damsel, with a number of cattle having been drowned in it. The story of the man who mentioned the name as Llyn Alfach was similar: the maid belonged to the farm of Penrhys, he said, and the young man to the Rhonda Fechan, and it was in consequence of their third dispute, he added, that she left him and went back to her previous service, and afterwards, while taking the cattle to the water, she sank accidentally or purposely into the lake, so that she was never found any more. Here it will be seen how modern rationalism has been modifying the story into something quite uninteresting but without wholly getting rid of the original features, such as the three disputes between the husband and wife. Lastly, it is worth mentioning that this water appears to form part of a bit of very remarkable scenery, and that its waves strike on one side against a steep rock believed to contain caves, supposed to have been formerly inhabited by men and women. At present the place, I learn, is in the possession of Messrs. Davis and Sons, owners of the Ferndale collieries, who keep a pleasure boat on the lake. I have appealed to them on the question of the name Nelferch or Alfach, in the hope that their books would help to decide as to the old form of it. Replying on their behalf, Mr. J. Probert Evans informs me that the company only got possession of the lake and the adjacent land in 1862, and that 'Llyn y Vorwyn' is the name of the former in the oldest plan which they have. Inquiries have also been made in the neighbourhood by my friend, Mr. Reynolds, who found the old tenants of the Rhonda Fechan Farm gone, and the neighbouring farm house of Dyffryn Safrwch supplanted by colliers' cottages. But he calls my attention to the fact, that perhaps the old name was neither Nelferch nor Alfach, as Elfarch, which would fit equally well, was once the name of a petty chieftain of the adjoining Hundred of Senghenyd, for which he refers me to Clark's Glamorgan Genealogies, p. 511. But I have to thank him more especially for a longer version of the fairy wife's call to her cattle, as given in Glanffrwd's Plwyf Llanwyno, 'the Parish of Llanwynno' (Pontyprid, 1888), p. 117, as follows:-- Prw me, prw me, Prw 'ngwartheg i dre'; Prw Melen a Ioco, Tegwen a Rhudo, Rhud-frech a Moel-frech, Pedair Lliain-frech; Lliain-frech ag Eli, A phedair Wen-ladi, Ladi a Chornwen, A phedair Wynebwen; Nepwen a Rhwynog, Tali Lieiniog; Brech yn y Glyn Dal yn dyn; Tair lygeityn, Tair gyffredm, Tair Caseg du, draw yn yr eithin, Deuwch i gyd i lys y Brenin; Bwla, bwla, Saif yn flaena', Saf yn ol y wraig o'r Ty-fry, Fyth nis godri ngwartheg i! The last lines--slightly mended--may be rendered: Bull, bull! Stand thou foremost. Back! thou wife of the House up Hill: Never shalt thou milk my cows. This seems to suggest that the quarrel was about another woman, and that by the time when the fairy came to call her live stock into the lake she had been replaced by another woman who came from the Ty-fry, or the House up Hill [12]. In that case this version comes closer than any other to the story of Undine supplanted by Bertalda as her knight's favourite. Mr. Probert Evans having kindly given me the address of an aged farmer who formerly lived in the valley, my friend, Mr. Llywarch Reynolds, was good enough to visit him. Mr. Reynolds shall report the result in his own words, dated January 9, 1899, as follows:-- 'I was at Pentyrch this morning, and went to see Mr. David Evans, formerly of Cefn Colston. 'The old man is a very fine specimen of the better class of Welsh farmer; is in his eighty-third year; hale and hearty, intelligent, and in full possession of his faculties. He was born and bred in the Rhonda Fechan Valley, and lived there until some forty years ago. He had often heard the lake story from an old aunt of his who lived at the Maerdy Farm (a short distance north of the lake), and who died a good many years ago, at a very advanced age. He calls the lake "Llyn Elferch," and the story, as known to him, has several points in common with the Llyn y Fan legend, which, however, he did not appear to know. He could not give me many details, but the following is the substance of the story as he knows it:--The young farmer, who lived with his mother at the neighbouring farm, one day saw the lady on the bank of the lake, combing her hair, which reached down to her feet. He fell in love at first sight, and tried to approach her; but she evaded him, and crying out, Dali di dim o fi, crâs dy fara! (Thou wilt not catch me, thou of the crimped bread), she sank into the water. He saw her on several subsequent occasions, and gave chase, but always with the same result, until at length he got his mother to make him some bread which was not baked (or not baked so hard); and this he offered to the lady. She then agreed to become his wife, subject to the condition that if he offended her, or disagreed with her three times (ar yr ammod, os byssa fa yn 'i chroesi hi dair gwaith) she would leave him and return into the lake with all her belongings. '1. The first disagreement (croes) was at the funeral of a neighbour, a man in years, at which the lady gave way to excessive weeping and lamentation. The husband expressed surprise and annoyance at this excessive grief for the death of a person not related to them, and asked the reason for it; and she replied that she grieved for the defunct on account of the eternal misery that was in store for him in the other world. '2. The second "croes" was at the death of an infant child of the lady herself, at which she laughed immoderately; and in reply to the husband's remonstrance, she said she did so for joy at her child's escape from this wicked world and its passage into a world of bliss. '3. The third "croes" Mr. Evans was unable to call to mind, but equally with the other two it showed that the lady was possessed of preternatural knowledge; and it resulted in her leaving her husband and returning into the lake, taking the cattle, &c., with her. The accepted explanation of the name of the lake was Llyn El-ferch [13] (= Hela 'r ferch), "because of the young man chasing the damsel" (hela 'r ferch). 'The following is the cattle-call, as given to me by Mr. Evans' aged housekeeper, who migrated with the family from Rhonda Fechan to Pentyrch: Prw i, prw e [14], Prw 'ngwartheg sha [= tua] thre'; Mil a môl a melyn gwtta; Milfach a malfach; Petar [= pedair] llearfach; Llearfach ag aeli; Petar a lafi; Lafi a chornwan [= -wèn]; [...] 'nepwan [= -wèn], 'Nepwan drwynog; Drotwan [= droedwen] litiog; Tair Bryncethin; Tair gyffretin; Tair casag du Draw yn yr ithin [= eithin], Dewch i gyd i lys y brenin. 'Mr. Evans told me that Dyffryn Safrwch was considered to be a corruption of Dyffryn Safn yr Hwch, "Valley of the Sow's Mouth"; so that the explanation was not due to a minister with whom I foregathered on my tramp near the lake the other day, and from whom I heard it first.' The similarity between Mr. Evans' version of this legend and that of Llyn y Fan Fach, tends to add emphasis to certain points which I had been inclined to treat as merely accidental. In the Fan Fach legend the young man's mother is a widow, and here he is represented living with his mother. Here also something depends on the young man's bread, but it is abruptly introduced, suggesting that a part of the story has been forgotten. Both stories, however, give one the impression that the bread of the fairies was regarded as always imperfectly baked. In both stories the young man's mother comes to his help with her advice. Mr. Evans' version ascribes supernatural knowledge to the fairy, though his version fails to support it; and her moralizings read considerably later than those which the Fan legend ascribes to the fairy wife. Some of these points may be brought under the reader's notice later, when he has been familiarized with more facts illustrative of the belief in fairies. III. On returning from South Wales to Carnarvonshire in the summer of 1881, I tried to discover similar legends connected with the lakes of North Wales, beginning with Geirionyd, the waters of which form a stream emptying itself into the Conwy, near Trefriw, a little below Llanrwst. I only succeeded, however, in finding an old man of the name of Pierce Williams, about seventy years of age, who was very anxious to talk about 'Bony's' wars, but not about lake ladies. I was obliged, in trying to make him understand what I wanted, to use the word morforwyn, that is to say in English, 'mermaid'; he then told me, that in his younger days he had heard people say that somebody had seen such beings in the Trefriw river. But as my questions were leading ones, his evidence is not worth much; however, I feel pretty sure that one who knew the neighbourhood of Geirionyd better would be able to find some fragments of interesting legends still existing in that wild district. I was more successful at Llanberis, though what I found, at first, was not much; but it was genuine, and to the point. This is the substance of it:--An old woman, called Siân [15] Dafyd, lived at Helfa Fawr, in the dingle called Cwm Brwynog, along the left side of which you ascend as you go to the top of Snowdon, from the village of lower Llanberis, or Coed y Dol, as it is there called. She was a curious old person, who made nice distinctions between the virtues of the respective waters of the district: thus, no other would do for her to cure her of the defaid gwylltion [16], or cancerous warts, which she fancied that she had in her mouth, than that of the spring of Tai Bach, near the lake called Llyn Ffynnon y Gwas, though she seldom found it out, when she was deceived by a servant who cherished a convenient opinion of his own, that a drop from a nearer spring would do just as well. Old Siân has been dead over thirty-five years, but I have it, on the testimony of two highly trustworthy brothers, who are of her family, and now between sixty and seventy years of age, that she used to relate to them how a shepherd, once on a time, saw a fairy maiden (un o'r Tylwyth Teg) on the surface of the tarn called Llyn Du'r Ardu, and how, from bantering and joking, their acquaintance ripened into courtship, when the father and mother of the lake maiden appeared to give the union their sanction, and to arrange the marriage settlement. This was to the effect that the husband was never to strike his wife with iron, and that she was to bring her great wealth with her, consisting of stock of all kinds for his mountain farm. All duly took place, and they lived happily together until one day, when trying to catch a pony, the husband threw a bridle to his wife, and the iron in that struck her. It was then all over with him, as the wife hurried away with her property into the lake, so that nothing more was seen or heard of her. Here I may as well explain that the Llanberis side of the steep, near the top of Snowdon, is called Clogwyn du'r Ardu, or the Black Cliff of the Ardu, at the bottom of which lies the tarn alluded to as the Black Lake of the Ardu, and near it stands a huge boulder, called Maen du'r Ardu, all of which names are curious, as involving the word du, black. Ardu itself has much the same meaning, and refers to the whole precipitous side of the summit with its dark shadows, and there is a similar Ardu near Nanmor on the Merionethshire side of Bedgelert. One of the brothers, I ought to have said, doubts that the lake here mentioned was the one in old Siân's tale; but he has forgotten which it was of the many in the neighbourhood. Both, however, remembered another short story about fairies, which they had heard another old woman relate, namely, Mari Domos Siôn, who died some thirty years ago: it was merely to the effect that a shepherd had once lost his way in the mist on the mountain on the land of Caeau Gwynion, towards Cwellyn [17] Lake, and got into a ring where the Tylwyth Teg were dancing: it was only after a very hard struggle that he was able, at length, to get away from them. To this I may add the testimony of a lady, for whose veracity I can vouch, to the effect that, when she was a child in Cwm Brwynog, from thirty to forty years ago, she and her brothers and sisters used to be frequently warned by their mother not to go far away from the house when there happened to be thick mist on the ground, lest they should come across the Tylwyth Teg dancing, and be carried away to their abode beneath the lake. They were always, she says, supposed to live in the lakes; and the one here alluded to was Llyn Dwythwch, which is one of those famous for its torgochiaid or chars. The mother is still living; but she seems to have long since, like others, lost her belief in the fairies. After writing the above, I heard that a brother to the foregoing brothers, namely, Mr. Thomas Davies, of Mur Mawr, Llanberis, remembered a similar tale. Mr. Davies is now sixty-four, and the persons from whom he heard the tale were the same Siân Dafyd of Helfa Fawr, and Mari Domos Siôn of Tyn [18] Gadlas, Llanberis: the two women were about seventy years of age when he as a child heard it from them. At my request, a friend of mine, Mr. Hugh D. Jones, of Tyn Gadlas, also a member of this family, which is one of the oldest perhaps in the place, has taken down from Mr. Davies' mouth all he could remember, word for word, as follows:-- Yn perthyn i ffarm Bron y Fedw yr oed dyn ifanc wedi cael ei fagu, nis gwydent faint cyn eu hamser hwy. Arferai pan yn hogyn fynd i'r mynyd yn Cwm Drywenyd a Mynyd y Fedw ar ochr orllewinol y Wydfa i fugeilio, a bydai yn taro ar hogan yn y mynyd; ac wrth fynychu gweld eu gilyd aethant yn ffrindiau mawr. Arferent gyfarfod eu gilyd mewn lle neillduol yn Cwm Drywenyd, lle'r oed yr hogan a'r teulu yn byw, lle y bydai pob danteithion, chwareuydiaethau a chanu dihafal; ond ni fydai'r hogyn yn gwneyd i fyny a neb ohonynt ond yr hogan. Diwed y ffrindiaeth fu carwriaeth, a phan soniod yr hogyn am idi briodi, ni wnai ond ar un amod, sef y bywiai hi hefo fo hyd nes y tarawai ef hi a haiarn. Priodwyd hwy, a buont byw gyda'u gilyd am nifer o flynydoed, a bu idynt blant; ac ar dyd marchnad yn Gaernarfon yr oed y gwr a'r wraig yn medwl mynd i'r farchnad ar gefn merlod, fel pob ffarmwr yr amser hwnnw. Awd i'r mynyd i dal merlyn bob un. Ar waelod Mynyd y Fedw mae llyn o ryw dri-ugain neu gan llath o hyd ac ugain neu deg llath ar hugain o led, ac y mae ar un ochr ido le têg, fford y bydai'r ceffylau yn rhedeg. Daliod y gwr ferlyn a rhoes ef i'r wraig i'w dal heb ffrwyn, tra bydai ef yn dal merlyn arall. Ar ol rhoi ffrwyn yn mhen ei ferlyn ei hun, taflod un arall i'r wraig i roi yn mhen ei merlyn hithau, ac wrth ei thaflu tarawod bit y ffrwyn hi yn ei llaw. Gollyngod y wraig y merlyn, ac aeth ar ei phen i'r llyn, a dyna diwed y briodas. 'To the farm of Bron y Fedw there belonged a son, who grew up to be a young man, the women knew not how long before their time. He was in the habit of going up the mountain to Cwm Drywenyd [19] and Mynyd y Fedw, on the west side of Snowdon, to do the shepherding, and there he was wont to come across a lass on the mountain, so that as the result of frequently meeting one another, he and she became great friends. They usually met at a particular spot in Cwm Drywenyd, where the girl and her family lived, and where there were all kinds of nice things to eat, of amusements, and of incomparable music; but he did not make up to anybody there except the girl. The friendship ended in courtship; but when the boy mentioned that she should be married to him, she would only do so on one condition, namely, that she would live with him until he should strike her with iron. They were wedded, and they lived together for a number of years, and had children. Once on a time it happened to be market day at Carnarvon, whither the husband and wife thought of riding on ponies, like all the farmers of that time. So they went to the mountain to catch a pony each. At the bottom of Mynyd y Fedw there is a pool some sixty or one hundred yards long by twenty or thirty broad, and on one side of it there is a level space along which the horses used to run. The husband caught a pony, and gave it to the wife to hold fast without a bridle, while he should catch another. When he had bridled his own pony, he threw another bridle to his wife for her to secure hers; but as he threw it, the bit of the bridle struck her on one of her hands. The wife let go the pony, and went headlong into the pool, and that was the end of their wedded life.' The following is a later tale, which Mr. Thomas Davies heard from his mother, who died in 1832: she would be ninety years of age had she been still living:-- Pan oed hi'n hogan yn yr Hafod, Llanberis, yr oed hogan at ei hoed hi'n cael ei magu yn Cwmglas, Llanberis, ac arferai dweyd, pan yn hogan a thra y bu byw, y bydai yn cael arian gan y Tylwyth Teg yn Cwm Cwmglas. Yr oed yn dweyd y bydai ar foreuau niwliog, tywyll, yn mynd i le penodol yn Cwm Cwmglas gyda dsygiad o lefrith o'r fuches a thywel glan, ac yn ei rodi ar garreg; ac yn mynd yno drachefn, ac yn cael y llestr yn wag, gyda darn deuswllt neu hanner coron ac weithiau fwy wrth ei ochr. 'When she was a girl, living at Yr Hafod, Llanberis, there was a girl of her age being brought up at Cwmglas in the same parish. The latter was in the habit of saying, when she was a girl and so long as she lived, that she used to have money from the Tylwyth Teg, in the Cwmglas Hollow. Her account was, that on dark, misty mornings she used to go to a particular spot in that Hollow with a jugful of sweet milk from the milking place, and a clean towel, and then place them on a stone. She would return, and find the jug empty, with a piece of money placed by its side: that is, two shillings or half a crown, or at times even more.' A daughter of that woman lives now at a farm, Mr. Davies observes, called Plas Pennant, in the parish of Llanfihangel yn Mhennant, in Carnarvonshire; and he adds, that it was a tale of a kind that was common enough when he was a boy; but many laughed at it, though the old people believed it to be a fact. To this I may as well append another tale, which was brought to the memory of an old man who happened to be present when Mr. Jones and Mr. Davies were busy with the foregoing. His name is John Roberts, and his age is seventy-five: his present home is at Capel Sïon, in the neighbouring parish of Llandeiniolen:-- Yr oed ef pan yn hogyn yn gweini yn Towyn Trewern, yn agos i Gaergybi, gyda hen wr o'r enw Owen Owens, oed yr adeg honno at ei oed ef yn bresennol. Yr oedynt unwaith mewn hen adeilad ar y ffarm; a dywedod yr hen wr ei fod ef wedi cael llawer o arian yn y lle hwnnw pan yn hogyn, a buasai wedi cael ychwaneg oni bai ei dad. Yr oed wedi cudio yr arian yn y ty, ond daeth ei fam o hyd idynt, a dywedod yr hanes wrth ei dad. Ofnai ei fod yn fachgen drwg, mai eu lladrata yr oed. Dywedai ei dad y gwnai ido dweyd yn mha le yr oed yn eu cael, neu y tynnai ei groen tros ei ben; ac aeth allan a thorod wialen bwrpasol at orchwyl o'r fath. Yr oed y bachgen yn gwrando ar yr ymdidan rhwng ei dad a'i fam, ac yr oed yn benderfynol o gadw'r peth yn dirgelwch fel yr oed wedi ei rybudio gan y Tylwyth Teg. Aeth i'r ty, a dechreuod y tad ei holi, ac yntau yn gwrthod ateb; ymbiliai a'i dad, a dywedai eu bod yn berffaith onest ido ef, ac y cai ef ychwaneg os cadwai'r peth yn dirgelwch; ond os dywedai, nad oed dim ychwaneg i'w gael. Mod bynnag ni wrandawai y tad ar ei esgusion na'i resymau, a'r wialen a orfu; dywedod y bachgen mai gan y Tylwyth Teg yr oed yn eu cael, a hynny ar yr amod nad oed i dweyd wrth neb. Mawr oed edifeirwch yr hen bobl am lad yr wyd oed yn dodwy. Aeth y bachgen i'r hen adeilad lawer gwaith ar ol hyn, ond ni chafod byth ychwaneg o arian yno. 'When a lad, he was a servant at Towyn Trewern, near Holyhead, to an old man about his own age at present. They were one day in an old building on the farm, and the old man told him that he had had much money in that place when he was a lad, and that he would have had more had it not been for his father. He had hidden the money at home, where his mother found it and told his father of the affair: she feared he was a bad boy, and that it was by theft he got it. His father said that he would make him say where he got it, or else that he would strip him of the skin of his back, at the same time that he went out and cut a rod fit for effecting a purpose of the kind. The boy heard all this talk between his father and his mother, and felt determined to keep the matter a secret, as he had been warned by the Tylwyth Teg. He went into the house, and his father began to question him, while he refused to answer. He supplicatingly protested that the money was honestly got, and that he should get more if he kept it a secret, but that, if he did not, there would be no more to be got. However, the father would give no ear to his excuses or his reasons, and the rod prevailed; so that the boy said that it was from the Tylwyth Teg he used to get it, and that on condition of his not telling anybody. Greatly did the old folks regret having killed the goose that laid the eggs. The boy went many a time afterwards to the old building, but he never found any more money there.' IV. Through the Rev. Daniel Lewis, incumbent of Bettws Garmon, I was directed to Mr. Samuel Rhys Williams, of the Post Office of that place, who has kindly given me the result of his inquiries when writing on the subject of the antiquities of the neighbourhood for a competition at a literary meeting held there a few years ago. He tells me that he got the following short tale from a native of Drws y Coed, whose name is Margaret Williams. She has been living at Bettws Garmon for many years, and is now over eighty. He does not know whether the story is in print or not, but he is certain that Margaret Williams never saw it, even if it be. He further thinks he has heard it from another person, to wit a man over seventy-seven years of age, who has always lived at Drws y Coed, in the parish of Bedgelert:-- Y mae hanes am fab i amaethwr a breswyliai yn yr Ystrad [20], Betws Garmon [21], pan yn dychwelyd adref o daith yn hwyr un noswaith, darfod ido weled cwmni o'r Tylwyth Teg ynghanol eu hafiaeth a'u glodest. Syfrdanwyd y llanc yn y fan gan degwch anghymarol un o'r rhianod hyn, fel y beidiod neidio i ganol y cylch, a chymeryd ei eilun gydag ef. Wedi idi fod yn trigo gydag ef yn ei gartref am ysbaid, cafod gandi adaw bod yn wraig ido ar amodau neillduol. Un o'r amodau hyn ydoed, na bydai ido gyffwrd yndi ag un math o haiarn. Bu yn wraig ido, a ganwyd idynt dau o blant. Un diwrnod yr oed y gwr yn y maes yn ceisio dal y ceffyl; wrth ei weled yn ffaelu, aeth y wraig ato i'w gynorthwyo, a phan oed y march yn carlamu heibio gollyngod yntau y ffrwyn o'i law, er mwyn ceisio ei atal heibio; a phwy a darawod ond ei wraig, yr hon a diflannod yn y fan allan o'i olwg? 'The story goes, that the son of a farmer, who lived at the Ystrad in Bettws Garmon, when returning home from a journey, late in the evening, beheld a company of fairies in the middle of their mirth and jollity. The youth was at once bewildered by the incomparable beauty of one of these ladies, so that he ventured to leap into the circle and take his idol away with him. After she had tarried awhile with him at his home, he prevailed on her, on special conditions, to become his wife. One of these conditions was that he should not touch her with iron of any description. She became his wife, and two children were born to them. One day the husband was in the field trying to catch the horse; seeing him unsuccessful, the wife went to him to help him, and, when the horse was galloping past him, he let go the bridle at him in order to prevent him from passing; but whom should he strike but his wife, who vanished out of his sight on the spot.' Just as I was engaged in collecting these stories in 1881, a correspondent sent me a copy of the Ystrad tale as published by the late bard and antiquary, the Rev. Owen Wyn Jones, better known in Wales by his bardic name of Glasynys [22], in the Brython [23] for 1863, p. 193. I will not attempt to translate Glasynys' poetic prose with all its compound adjectives, but it comes to this in a few words. One fine sunny morning, as the young heir of Ystrad was busied with his sheep on the side of Moel Eilio, he met a very pretty girl, and when he got home he told the folks there of it. A few days afterwards he met her again, and this happened several times, when he mentioned it to his father, who advised him to seize her when he next met her. The next time he met her he proceeded to do so, but before he could take her away, a little fat old man came to them and begged him to give her back to him, to which the youth would not listen. The little man uttered terrible threats, but the heir of Ystrad would not yield, so an agreement was made between them, that the latter was to have the girl to wife until he touched her skin with iron, and great was the joy both of the son and his parents in consequence. They lived together for many years; but once on a time, on the evening of the Bettws Fair, the wife's horse became restive, and somehow, as the husband was attending to the horse, the stirrup touched the skin of her bare leg, and that very night she was taken away from him. She had three or four children, and more than one of their descendants, as Glasynys maintains, were known to him at the time he wrote in 1863. Glasynys regards this as the same tale which is given by Williams of Llandegai, to whom we shall refer later; and he says that he heard it scores of times when he was a lad. Lastly, I happened to mention these legends last summer among others to the Rev. Owen Davies, curate of Llanberis, a man who is well versed in Welsh literature, and thoroughly in sympathy with everything Welsh. Mr. Davies told me that he knew a tale of the sort from his youth, as current in the parishes of Llanllechid and Llandegai, near Bangor. Not long afterwards he visited his mother at his native place, in Llanllechid, in order to have his memory of it refreshed; and he also went to the Waen Fawr, on the other side of Carnarvon, where he had the same legend told him with the different localities specified. The following is the Waen Fawr version, of which I give the Welsh as I have had it from Mr. Davies, and as it was related, according to him, some forty years ago in the valley of Nant y Bettws, near Carnarvon:-- Ar brydnawngwaith hyfryd yn Hefin, aeth llanc ieuanc gwrol-dewr ac anturiaethus, sef etifed a pherchennog yr Ystrad, i lan afon Gwyrfai, heb fod yn nepell o'i chychwyniad o lyn Cawellyn, ac a ymgudiod yno mewn dyryslwyn, sef ger y fan y bydai poblach y cotiau cochion--y Tylwyth Teg--yn arfer dawnsio. Yr ydoed yn noswaith hyfryd loergannog, heb un cwmwl i gau llygaid y Lloer, ac anian yn distaw dawedog, odigerth murmuriad lledf y Wyrfai, a swn yr awel ysgafndroed yn rhodio brigau deiliog y coed. Ni bu yn ei ymgudfa ond dros ychydig amser, cyn cael difyrru o hono ei olygon a dawns y teulu dedwyd. Wrth syllu ar gywreinrwyd y dawns, y chwim droadau cyflym, yr ymgyniweiriad ysgafn-droediog, tarawod ei lygaid ar las lodes ieuanc, dlysaf, hardaf, lunieidiaf a welod er ei febyd. Yr oed ei chwim droadau a lledneisrwyd ei hagwedion wedi tanio ei serch tu ag ati i'r fath radau, fel ag yr oed yn barod i unrhyw anturiaeth er mwyn ei hennill yn gydymaith ido ei hun. O'i ymgudfa dywyll, yr oed yn gwylio pob ysgogiad er mwyn ei gyfleustra ei hun. Mewn mynud, yn disymwth digon, rhwng pryder ac ofn, llamneidiod fel llew gwrol i ganol cylch y Tylwyth Teg, ac ymafaelod a dwylaw cariad yn y fun luniaid a daniod ei serch, a hynny, pan oed y Tylwyth dedwyd yn nghanol nwyfiant eu dawns. Cofleidiod hi yn dyner garedig yn ei fynwes wresog, ac aeth a hi i'w gartref--i'r Ystrad. Ond diflannod ei chyd-dawnsydion fel anadl Gorphennaf, er ei chroch dolefau am gael ei rhydhau, a'i hymegnion diflino i dianc o afael yr hwn a'i hoffod. Mewn anwylder mawr, ymdygod y llanc yn dyner odiaethol tu ag at y fun deg, ac yr oed yn orawydus i'w chadw yn ei olwg ac yn ei fediant. Llwydod drwy ei dynerwch tu ag ati i gael gandi adaw dyfod yn forwyn ido yn yr Ystrad. A morwyn ragorol oed hi. Godrai deirgwaith y swm arferol o laeth odiar bob buwch, ac yr oed yr ymenyn heb bwys arno. Ond er ei holl daerni, nis gallai mewn un mod gael gandi dyweud ei henw wrtho. Gwnaeth lawer cais, ond yn gwbl ofer. Yn damweiniol ryw dro, wrth yrru Brithen a'r Benwen i'r borfa, a hi yn noswaith loergan, efe a aeth i'r man lle yr arferai y Tylwyth Teg fyned drwy eu campau yng ngoleuni'r Lloer wen. Y tro hwn eto, efe a ymgudiod mewn dyryslwyn, a chlywod y Tylwyth Teg yn dywedyd y naill wrth y llall--'Pan oedym ni yn y lle hwn y tro diwedaf, dygwyd ein chwaer Penelope odiarnom gan un o'r marwolion.' Ar hynny, dychwelod y llencyn adref, a'i fynwes yn llawn o falchder cariad, o herwyd ido gael gwybod enw ei hoff forwyn, yr hon a synnod yn aruthr, pan glywod ei meistr ieuanc yn ei galw wrth ei henw. Ac am ei bod yn odiaethol dlos, a lluniaid, yn fywiog-weithgar, a medrus ar bob gwaith, a bod popeth yn llwydo dan ei llaw, cynygiod ei hun idi yn wr--y celai fod yn feistres yr Ystrad, yn lle bod yn forwyn. Ond ni chydsyniai hi a'i gais ar un cyfrif; ond bod braid yn bendrist oherwyd ido wybod ei henw. Fod bynnag, gwedi maith amser, a thrwy ei daerineb diflino, cydsyniod, ond yn amodol. Adawod dyfod yn wraig ido, ar yr amod canlynol, sef, 'Pa bryd bynnag y tarawai ef hi â haiarn, yr elai ymaith odi wrtho, ac na dychwelai byth ato mwy.' Sicrhawyd yr amod o'i du yntau gyda pharodrwyd cariad. Buont yn cyd-fyw a'u gilyd yn hapus a chysurus lawer o flynydoed, a ganwyd idynt fab a merch, y rhai oedynt dlysaf a llunieidiaf yn yr holl froyd. Ac yn rhinwed ei medrusrwyd a'i deheurwyd fel gwraig gall, rinwedol, aethant yn gyfoethog iawn--yn gyfoethocach na neb yn yr holl wlad. Heblaw ei etifediaeth ei hun--Yr Ystrad, yr oed yn ffarmio holl ogled-barth Nant y Betws, ac odi yno i ben yr Wydfa, ynghyd a holl Gwm Brwynog, yn mhlwyf Llanberis. Ond, ryw diwrnod, yn anffortunus digon aeth y dau i'r dol i dal y ceffyl, a chan fod y ceffylyn braid yn wyllt ac an-nof, yn rhedeg odi arnynt, taflod y gwr y ffrwyn mewn gwylltineb yn ei erbyn, er ei atal, ac ar bwy y disgynnod y ffrwyn, ond ar Penelope, y wraig! Diflannod Penelope yn y fan, ac ni welod byth mo honi. Ond ryw noswaith, a'r gwynt yn chwythu yn oer o'r gogled, daeth Penelope at ffenestr ei ystafell wely, a dywedod wrtho am gymmeryd gofal o'r plant yn y geiriau hyn: Rhag bod anwyd ar fy mab, Yn rhod rhowch arno gób ei dad; Rhag bod anwyd ar liw'r can, Rhodwch arni bais ei mham. Ac yna ciliod, ac ni chlywyd na siw na miw byth yn ei chylch. For the sake of an occasional reader who does not know Welsh, I add a summary of it in English. One fine evening in the month of June a brave, adventurous youth, the heir of Ystrad, went to the banks of the Gwyrfai, not far from where it leaves Cwellyn Lake, and hid himself in the bushes near the spot where the folks of the Red Coats--the fairies--were wont to dance. The moon shone forth brightly without a cloud to intercept her light; all was quiet save where the Gwyrfai gently murmured on her bed, and it was not long before the young man had the satisfaction of seeing the fair family dancing in full swing. As he gazed on the subtle course of the dance, his eyes rested on a damsel, the most shapely and beautiful he had seen from his boyhood. Her agile movements and the charm of her looks inflamed him with love for her, to such a degree that he felt ready for any encounter in order to secure her to be his own. From his hiding place he watched every move for his opportunity; at last, with feelings of anxiety and dread, he leaped suddenly into the middle of the circle of the fairies. There, while their enjoyment of the dance was at its height, he seized her in his arms and carried her away to his home at Ystrad. But, as she screamed for help to free her from the grasp of him who had fallen in love with her, the dancing party disappeared like one's breath in July. He treated her with the utmost kindness, and was ever anxious to keep her within his sight and in his possession. By dint of tenderness he succeeded so far as to get her to consent to be his servant at Ystrad. And such a servant she turned out to be! Why, she was wont to milk the cows thrice a day, and to have the usual quantity of milk each time, so that the butter was so plentiful that nobody thought of weighing it. As to her name, in spite of all his endeavours to ascertain it, she would never tell it him. Accidentally, however, one moonlight night, when driving two of his cows to the spot where they should graze, he came to the place where the fairies were wont to enjoy their games in the light of the moon. This time also he hid himself in a thicket, when he overheard one fairy saying to another, 'When we were last here our sister Penelope was stolen from us by a man.' As soon as he heard this off he went home, full of joy because he had discovered the name of the maid that was so dear to him. She, on the other hand, was greatly astonished to hear him call her by her own name. As she was so charmingly pretty, so industrious, so skilled in every work, and so attended by luck in everything she put her hand to, he offered to make her his wife instead of being his servant. At first she would in no wise consent, but she rather gave way to grief at his having found her name out. However, his importunity at length brought her to consent, but on the condition that he should not strike her with iron; if that should happen, she would quit him never to return. The agreement was made on his side with the readiness of love, and after this they lived in happiness and comfort together for many years, and there were born to them a son and a daughter, who were the handsomest children in the whole country. Owing, also, to the skill and good qualities of the woman, as a shrewd and virtuous wife, they became very rich--richer, indeed, than anybody else in the country around; for, besides the husband's own inheritance of Ystrad, he held all the northern part of Nant y Bettws, and all from there to the top of Snowdon, together with Cwm Brwynog in the parish of Llanberis. But one day, as bad luck would have it, they went out together to catch a horse in the field, and, as the animal was somewhat wild and untamed, they had no easy work before them. In his rashness the man threw a bridle at him as he was rushing past him, but alas! on whom should the bridle fall but on the wife! No sooner had this happened than she disappeared, and nothing more was ever seen of her. But one cold night, when there was a chilling wind blowing from the north, she came near the window of his bedroom, and told him in these words to take care of the children:-- Lest my son should find it cold, Place on him his father's coat: Lest the fair one find it cold, Place on her my petticoat. Then she withdrew, and nothing more was heard of her. In reply to some queries of mine, Mr. O. Davies tells me that Penelope was pronounced in three syllables, Pénelôp--so he heard it from his grandfather: he goes on to say that the offspring of the Lake Lady is supposed to be represented by a family called Pellings, which was once a highly respected name in those parts, and that there was a Lady Bulkeley who was of this descent, not to mention that several people of a lower rank, both in Anglesey and Arfon, claimed to be of the same origin. I am not very clear as to how the name got into this tale, nor have I been able to learn anything about the Pellings; but, as the word appears to have been regarded as a corrupt derivative from Penelope, that is, perhaps, all the connexion, so that it may be that it has really nothing whatever to do with the legend. This is a point, however, which the antiquaries of North Wales ought to be able to clear up satisfactorily. In reply to queries of mine, Mr. O. Davies gave me the following particulars:--'I am now (June, 1881) over fifty-two years of age, and I can assure you that I have heard the legend forty years ago. I do not remember my father, as he died when I was young, but my grandfather was remarkable for his delight in tales and legends, and it was his favourite pastime during the winter nights, after getting his short black pipe ready, to relate stories about struggles with robbers, about bogies, and above all about the Tylwyth Teg; for they were his chief delight. He has been dead twenty-six years, and he had almost reached eighty years of age. His father before him, who was born about the year 1740, was also famous for his stories, and my grandfather often mentioned him as his authority in the course of his narration of the tales. Both he and the rest of the family used to look at Corwrion, to be mentioned presently, as a sacred spot. When I was a lad and happened to be reluctant to leave off playing at dusk, my mother or grandfather had only to say that 'the Pellings were coming,' in order to induce me to come into the house at once: indeed, this announcement had the same effect on persons of a much riper age than mine then was.' Further, Mr. Davies kindly called my attention to a volume, entitled Observations on the Snowdon Mountains, by Mr. William Williams, of Llandegai, published in London in 1802. In that work this tale is given somewhat less fully than by Mr. Davies' informant, but the author makes the following remarks with regard to it, pp. 37, 40:--'A race of people inhabiting the districts about the foot of Snowdon, were formerly distinguished and known by the nickname of Pellings, which is not yet extinct. There are several persons and even families who are reputed to be descended from these people.... These children [Penelope's] and their descendants, they say, were called Pellings, a word corrupted from their mother's name, Penelope. The late Thomas Rowlands, Esq., of Caerau, in Anglesey, the father of the late Lady Bulkeley, was a descendant of this lady, if it be true that the name Pellings came from her; and there are still living several opulent and respectable people who are known to have sprung from the Pellings. The best blood in my own veins is this fairy's.' Lastly, it will be noticed that these last versions do not distinctly suggest that the Lake Lady ran into the lake, that is into Cwellyn, but rather that she disappeared in the same way as the dancing party by simply becoming invisible like one's breath in July. The fairies are called in Welsh, Y Tylwyth Teg, or the Fair Family; but the people of Arfon have been so familiarized with the particular one I have called the Lake Lady, that, according to one of my informants, they have invented the term Y Dylwythes Deg, or even Y Dylwythen Deg, to denote her; but it is unknown to the others, so that the extent of its use is not very considerable. This is, perhaps, the place to give another tale, according to which the man goes to the Lake Maiden's country, instead of her settling with him at his home. I owe it to the kindness of Mr. William Jones, of Regent Place, Llangollen, a native of Bedgelert. He heard it from an old man before he left Bedgelert, but when he sent a friend to inquire some time afterwards, the old man was gone. According to Mr. Jones, the details of the tale are, for that reason, imperfect, as some of the incidents have faded from his memory; but such as he can still remember the tale, it is here given in his own words:-- Ryw noson lawn lloer ac un o feibion Llwyn On yn Nant y Betws yn myned i garu i Glogwyn y Gwin, efe a welod y Tylwyth yn ymlodestu a dawnsio ei hochr hi ar weirglod wrth lan Llyn Cawellyn. Efe a nesaod tuag atynt; ac o dipyn i beth fe'i llithiwyd gan bereiddra swynol eu canu a hoender a bywiogrwyd eu chwareu, nes myned o hono tu fewn i'r cylch; ac yn fuan fe daeth rhyw hud drosto, fel y collod adnabydiaeth o bobman; a chafod ei hun mewn gwlad hardaf a welod erioed, lle'r oed pawb yn treulio eu hamser mewn afiaeth a gorfoled. Yr oed wedi bod yno am saith mlyned, ac eto nid oed dim ond megis breudwyd nos; ond daeth adgof i'w fedwl am ei neges, a hiraeth yndo am weled ei anwylyd. Felly efe a ofynod ganiatad i dychwelyd adref, yr hyn a rodwyd ynghyd a llu o gymdeithion i'w arwain tua'i wlad; ac yn disymwth cafod ei hun fel yn deffro o freudwyd ar y dol, lle gwelod y Tylwyth Teg yn chwareu. Trod ei wyneb tuag adref; ond wedi myned yno yr oed popeth wedi newid, ei rieni wedi meirw, ei frodyr yn ffaelu ei adnabod, a'i gariad wedi priodi un arall.--Ar ol y fath gyfnewidiadau efe a dorod ei galon, ac a fu farw mewn llai nag wythnos ar ol ei dychweliad. 'One bright moonlight night, as one of the sons of the farmer who lived at Llwyn On in Nant y Bettws was going to pay his addresses to a girl at Clogwyn y Gwin, he beheld the Tylwyth Teg enjoying themselves in full swing on a meadow close to Cwellyn Lake. He approached them, and little by little he was led on by the enchanting sweetness of their music and the liveliness of their playing until he had got within their circle. Soon some kind of spell passed over him, so that he lost his knowledge of the place, and found himself in a country, the most beautiful he had ever seen, where everybody spent his time in mirth and rejoicing. He had been there seven years, and yet it seemed to him but a night's dream; but a faint recollection came to his mind of the business on which he had left home, and he felt a longing to see his beloved one. So he went and asked for permission to return home, which was granted him, together with a host of attendants to lead him to his country; and, suddenly, he found himself, as if waking from a dream, on the bank where he had seen the fair family amusing themselves. He turned towards home, but there he found everything changed: his parents were dead, his brothers could not recognize him, and his sweetheart was married to another man. In consequence of such changes he died broken-hearted in less than a week after coming back.' V. The Rev. O. Davies regarded the Llanllechid legend as so very like the one he got about Cwellyn Lake and the Waen Fawr, that he has not written the former out at length, but merely pointed out the following differences: (1) Instead of Cwellyn, the lake in the former is the pool of Corwrion, in the parish of Llandegai, near Bangor. (2) What the Lake Lady was struck with was not a bridle, but an iron fetter: the word used is llyfether, which probably means a long fetter connecting a fore-foot and a hind-foot of a horse together. In Arfon, the word is applied also to a cord tying the two fore-feet together, but in Cardiganshire this would be called a hual, the other word, there pronounced llowethir, being confined to the long fetter. In books, the word is written llywethair, llefethair and llyffethair or llyffethar, which is possibly the pronunciation in parts of North Wales, especially Arfon. This is an interesting word, as it is no other than the English term 'long fetter,' borrowed into Welsh; as, in fact, it was also into Irish early enough to call for an article on it in Cormac's Irish Glossary, where langfiter is described as an English word for a fetter between the fore and the hind legs: in Anglo-Manx it is become lanketer. (3) The field in which they were trying to catch the horse is, in the Llanllechid version, specified as that called Maes Madog, at the foot of the Llefn. (4) When the fairy wife ran away, it was headlong into the pool of Corwrion, calling after her all her milch cows, and they followed her with the utmost readiness. Before going on to mention bits of information I have received from others about the Llanllechid legend, I think it best here to finish with the items given me by Mr. O. Davies, whom I cannot too cordially thank for his readiness to answer my questions. Among other things, he expresses himself to the following effect:-- 'It is to this day a tradition--and I have heard it a hundred times--that the dairy of Corwrion excelled all other dairies in those parts, that the milk was better and more plentiful, and that the cheese and butter were better there than in all the country round, the reason assigned being that the cattle on the farm of Corwrion had mixed with the breed belonging to the fairy, who had run away after being struck with the iron fetter. However that may be, I remember perfectly well the high terms of praise in which the cows of Corwrion used to be spoken of as being remarkable for their milk and the profit they yielded; and, when I was a boy, I used to hear people talk of Tarw Penwyn Corwrion, or "the White-headed Bull of Corwrion," as derived from the breed of cattle which had formed the fairy maiden's dowry.' My next informant is Mr. Hugh Derfel Hughes, of Pendinas, Llandegai [24], who has been kind enough to give me the version, of which I here give the substance in English, premising that Mr. Hughes says that he has lived about thirty-four years within a mile of the pool and farm house called Corwrion, and that he has refreshed his memory of the legend by questioning separately no less than three old people, who had been bred and born at or near that spot. He is a native of Merioneth, but has lived at Llandegai for the last thirty-seven years, his age now being sixty-six. I may add that Mr. Hughes is a local antiquary of great industry and zeal; and that he published a book on the antiquities of the district, under the title of Hynafiaethau Llandegai a Llanllechid, that is 'the Antiquities of Llandegai and Llanllechid' (Bethesda, 1866); but it is out of print, and I have had some trouble to procure a copy:-- 'In old times, when the fairies showed themselves much oftener to men than they do now, they made their home in the bottomless pool of Corwrion, in Upper Arllechwed, in that wild portion of Gwyned called Arfon. On fine mornings in the month of June these diminutive and nimble folk might be seen in a regular line vigorously engaged in mowing hay, with their cattle in herds busily grazing in the fields near Corwrion. This was a sight which often met the eyes of the people on the sides of the hills around, even on Sundays; but when they hurried down to them they found the fields empty, with the sham workmen and their cows gone, all gone. At other times they might be heard hammering away like miners, shovelling rubbish aside, or emptying their carts of stones. At times they took to singing all the night long, greatly to the delight of the people about, who dearly loved to hear them; and, besides singing so charmingly, they sometimes formed into companies for dancing, and their movements were marvellously graceful and attractive. But it was not safe to go too near the lake late at night, for once a brave girl, who was troubled with toothache, got up at midnight and went to the brink of the water in search of the root of a plant that grows there full of the power to kill all pain in the teeth. But, as she was plucking up a bit of it, there burst on her ear, from the depths of the lake, such a shriek as drove her back into the house breathless with fear and trembling; but whether this was not the doing of a stray fairy, who had been frightened out of her wits at being suddenly overtaken by a damsel in her nightdress, or the ordinary fairy way of curing the toothache, tradition does not tell. For sometimes, at any rate, the fairies busied themselves in doing good to the men and women who were their neighbours, as when they tried to teach them to keep all promises and covenants to which they pledged themselves. A certain man and his wife, to whom they wished to teach this good habit, have never been forgotten. The husband had been behaving as he ought, until one day, as he held the plough, with the wife guiding his team, he broke his covenant towards her by treating her harshly and unkindly. No sooner had he done so, than he was snatched through the air and plunged in the lake. When the wife went to the brink of the water to ask for him back, the reply she had was, that he was there, and that there he should be. 'The fairies when engaged in dancing allowed themselves to be gazed at, a sight which was wont greatly to attract the young men of the neighbourhood, and once on a time the son and heir of the owner of Corwrion fell deeply in love with one of the graceful maidens who danced in the fairy ring, for she was wondrously beautiful and pretty beyond compare. His passion for her ere long resulted in courtship, and soon in their being married, which took place on the express understanding, that firstly the husband was not to know her name, though he might give her any name he chose; and, secondly, that he might now and then beat her with a rod, if she chanced to misbehave towards him; but he was not to strike her with iron on pain of her leaving him at once. This covenant was kept for some years, so that they lived happily together and had four children, of whom the two youngest were a boy and a girl. But one day as they went to one of the fields of Bryn Twrw in the direction of Pennard Gron, to catch a pony, the fairy wife, being so much nimbler than her husband, ran before him and had her hand in the pony's mane in no time. She called out to her husband to throw her a halter, but instead of that he threw towards her a bridle with an iron bit, which, as bad luck would have it, struck her. The wife at once flew through the air, and plunged headlong into Corwrion Pool. The husband returned sighing and weeping towards Bryn Twrw, "Noise Hill," and when he had reached it, the twrw, "noise," there was greater than had ever been heard before, namely that of weeping after "Belenë"; and it was then, after he had struck her with iron, that he first learnt what his wife's name was. Belenë never came back to her husband, but the feelings of a mother once brought her to the window of his bedroom, where she gave him the following order:-- Os byd anwyd ar fy mab, If my son should feel it cold, Rho'wch am dano gob ei dad; Let him wear his father's coat; Os anwydog a fyd can [25], If the fair one feel the cold, Rho'wch am dani bais ei mam. Let her wear my petticoat. 'As years and years rolled on a grandson of Belenë's fell in love with a beautiful damsel who lived at a neighbouring farm house called Tai Teulwriaid, and against the will of his father and mother they married, but they had nothing to stock their land with. So one morning what was their astonishment, when they got up, to see grazing quietly in the field six black cows and a white-headed bull, which had come up out of the lake as stock for them from old grannie Belenë? They served them well with milk and butter for many a long year, but on the day the last of the family died, the six black cows and the white-headed bull disappeared into the lake, never more to be seen.' Mr. Hughes referred to no less than three other versions, as follows:--(1) According to one account, the husband was ploughing, with the wife leading the team, when by chance he came across her and the accident happened. The wife then flew away like a wood-hen (iar goed) into the lake. (2) Another says that they were in a stable trying to bridle one of the horses, when the misfortune took place through inadvertence. (3) A third specifies the field in front of the house at Corwrion as the place where the final accident took place, when they were busied with the cows and horses. To these I would add the following traditions, which Mr. Hughes further gives. Sometimes the inhabitants, who seem to have been on the whole on good terms with the fairies, used to heat water and leave it in a vessel on the hearth overnight for the fairies to wash their children in it. This they considered such a kindness that they always left behind them on the hearth a handful of their money. Some pieces are said to have been sometimes found in the fields near Corwrion, and that they consisted of coins which were smaller than our halfpennies, but bigger than farthings, and had a harp on one side. But the tradition is not very definite on these points. Here also I may as well refer to a similar tale which I got last year at Llanberis from a man who is a native of the Llanllechid side of the mountain, though he now lives at Llanberis. He is about fifty-five years of age, and remembers hearing in his youth a tale connected with a house called Hafoty'r Famaeth, in a very lonely situation on Llanllechid Mountain, and now represented only by some old ruined walls. It was to the effect that one night, when the man who lived there was away from home, his wife, who had a youngish baby, washed him on the hearth, left the water there, and went to bed with her little one: she woke up in the night to find that the Tylwyth Teg were in possession of the hearth, and busily engaged in washing their children. That is all I got of this tale of a well-known type. To return to Mr. Hughes' communications, I would select from them some remarks on the topography of the teeming home of the fairies. He estimated the lake or pool of Corwrion to be about 120 yards long, and adds that it is nearly round; but he thinks it was formerly considerably larger, as a cutting was made some eighty or a hundred years ago to lead water from it to Penrhyn Castle; but even then its size would not approach that ascribed to it by popular belief, according to which it was no less than three miles long. In fact it was believed that there was once a town of Corwrion which was swallowed up by the lake, a sort of idea which one meets with in many parts of Wales, and some of the natives are said to be able to discern the houses under the water. This must have been near the end which is not bottomless, the latter being indicated by a spot which is said never to freeze even in hard winters. Old men remember it the resort of herons, cormorants, and the water-hen (hobi wen). Near the banks there grew, besides the water-lily, various kinds of rushes and sedges, which were formerly much used for making mats and other useful articles. It was also once famous for eels of a large size, but it is not supposed to have contained fish until Lord Penrhyn placed some there in recent years. It teemed, however, with leeches of three different kinds so recently that an old man still living describes to Mr. Hughes his simple way of catching them when he was a boy, namely, by walking bare-legged in the water: in a few minutes he landed with nine or ten leeches sticking to his legs, some of which fetched a shilling each from the medical men of those days. Corwrion is now a farm house occupied by Mr. William Griffiths, a grandson of the late bard Gutyn Peris. When Mr. Hughes called to make inquiries about the legend, he found there the foundations of several old buildings, and several pieces of old querns about the place. He thinks that there belonged to Corwrion in former times, a mill and a fuller's house, which he seems to infer from the names of two neighbouring houses called 'Y Felin Hen,' the Old Mill, and 'Pandy Tre Garth,' the Fulling Mill of Tregarth, respectively. He also alludes to a gefail or smithy there, in which one Rhys ab Robert used to work, not to mention that a great quantity of ashes, such as come from a smithy, are found at the end of the lake furthest from the farm house. The spot on which Corwrion stands is part of the ground between the Ogwen and another stream which bears the name of 'Afon Cegin Arthur,' or the River of Arthur's Kitchen, and most of the houses and fields about have names which have suggested various notions to the people there: such are the farms called 'Coed Howel,' whence the belief in the neighbourhood that Howel Da, King of Wales, lived here. About him Mr. Hughes has a great deal to say: among other things, that he had boats on Corwrion lake, and that he was wont to present the citizens of Bangor yearly with 300 fat geese reared on the waters of the same. I am referred by another man to a lecture delivered in the neighbourhood on these and similar things by the late bard and antiquary the Rev. Robert Ellis (Cyndelw), but I have never come across a copy. A field near Corwrion is called 'Cae Stabal,' or the Field of the Stable, which contains the remains of a row of stables, as it is supposed, and of a number of mangers where Howel's horses were once fed. In a neighbouring wood, called 'Parc y Gelli' or 'Hopiar y Gelli,' my informant goes on to say, there are to be seen the foundations of seventeen or eighteen old hut-circles, and near them some think they see the site of an old church. About a mile to the south-east of Corwrion is Pendinas, which Mr. Hughes describes as an old triangular Welsh fortress, on the bank of the Ogwen; and within two stone's-throws or so of Corwrion on the south side of it, and a little to the west of Bryn Twrw mentioned in the legend, is situated Penard Gron, a caer or fort, which he describes as being, before it was razed in his time, forty-two yards long by thirty-two wide, and defended by a sort of rampart of earth and stone several yards wide at the base. It used to be the resort of the country people for dancing, cock-fighting [26], and other amusements on Sundays. Near it was a cairn, which, when it was dug into, was found to cover a kistvaen, a pot, and a quern: a variety of tales attaching to it are told concerning ghosts, caves, and hidden treasures. Altogether Mr. Hughes is strongly of opinion that Corwrion and its immediate surroundings represent a spot which at one time had great importance; and I see no reason wholly to doubt the correctness of that conclusion, but it would be interesting to know whether Penrhyn used, as Mr. Hughes suggests, to be called Penrhyn Corwrion; there ought, perhaps, to be no great difficulty in ascertaining this, as some of the Penrhyn estate appears to have been the subject of litigation in times gone by. Before leaving Mr. Hughes' notes, I must here give his too brief account of another thing connected with Corwrion, though, perhaps, not with the legends here in question. I allude to what he calls the Lantern Ghost (Ysbryd y Lantar):--'There used to be formerly,' he says, 'and there is still at Corwrion, a good-sized sour apple-tree, which during the winter half of the year used to be lit up by fire. It began slowly and grew greater until the whole seemed to be in a blaze. He was told by an old woman that she formerly knew old people who declared they had seen it. In the same way the trees in Hopiar y Gelli appeared, according to them, to be also lit up with fire.' This reminds me of Mr. Fitzgerald's account of the Irish Bile-Tineadh in the Revue Celtique, iv. 194. After communicating to me the notes of which the foregoing are abstracts, Mr. Hughes kindly got me a version of the legend from Mr. David Thomas, of Pont y Wern, in the same neighbourhood, but as it contains nothing which I have not already given from Mr. Hughes' own, I pass it by. Mr. Thomas, however, has heard that the number of the houses making up the town of Corwrion some six or seven centuries ago was about seventy-five; but they were exactly seventy-three according to my next informant, Mr. David Evan Davies, of Treflys, Bethesda, better known by his bardic name of Dewi Glan Ffrydlas. Both these gentlemen have also heard the tradition that there was a church at Corwrion, where there used to be every Sunday a single service, after which the people went to a spot not far off to amuse themselves, and at night to watch the fairies dancing, or to mix with them while they danced in a ring around a glow-worm. According to Dewi Glan Ffrydlas, the spot was the Pen y Bonc, already mentioned, which means, among other things, that they chose a rising ground. This is referred to in a modern rhyme, which runs thus:-- A'r Tylwyth Teg yn dawnsio'n sionc O gylch magïen Pen y Bonc. With the fairies nimbly dancing round The glow-worm on the Rising Ground. Dewi Glan Ffrydlas has kindly gone to the trouble of giving me a brief, but complete, version of the legend as he has heard it. It will be noticed that the discovering of the fairy's name is an idle incident in this version: it is brought in too late, and no use is made of it when introduced. This is the substance of his story in English:--'At one of the dances at Pen y Bonc, the heir of Corwrion's eyes fell on one of the damsels of the fair family, and he was filled with love for her. Courtship and marriage in due time ensued, but he had to agree to two conditions, namely, that he was neither to know her name nor to strike her with iron. By-and-by they had children, and when the husband happened to go, during his wife's confinement, to a merry-making at Pen y Bonc, the fairies talked together concerning his wife, and in expressing their feelings of sympathy for her, they inadvertently betrayed the mystery of her name by mentioning it within his hearing. Years rolled on, when the husband and wife went out together one day to catch a colt of theirs that had not been broken in, their object being to go to Conway Fair. Now, as she was swifter of foot than her husband, she got hold of the colt by the mane, and called out to him to throw her a halter, but instead of throwing her the one she asked for, he threw another with iron in it, which struck her. Off she went into the lake. A grandson of this fairy many years afterwards married one of the girls of Corwrion. They had a large piece of land, but no means of stocking it, so that they felt rather distressed in their minds. But lo and behold! one day a white-headed bull came out of the lake, bringing with him six black cows to their land. There never were the like of those cows for milk, and great was the prosperity of their owners, as well as the envy it kindled in their neighbours' breasts. But when they both grew old and died, the bull and the cows went back into the lake.' Now I add the other sayings about the Tylwyth Teg, which Dewi Glan Ffrydlas has kindly collected for me, beginning with a blurred story about changelings:-- 'Once on a time, in the fourteenth century, the wife of a man at Corwrion had twins, and she complained one day to a witch, who lived close by, at Tydyn y Barcud, that the children were not getting on, but that they were always crying day and night. "Are you sure that they are your children?" asked the witch, adding that it did not seem to her that they were like hers. "I have my doubts also," said the mother. "I wonder if somebody has exchanged children with you," said the witch. "I do not know," said the mother. "But why do you not seek to know?" asked the other. "But how am I to go about it?" said the mother. The witch replied, "Go and do something rather strange before their eyes and watch what they will say to one another." "Well, I do not know what I should do," said the mother. "Well," said the other, "take an egg-shell, and proceed to brew beer in it in a chamber aside, and come here to tell me what the children will say about it." She went home and did as the witch had directed her, when the two children lifted their heads out of the cradle to find what she was doing--to watch and to listen. Then one observed to the other, "I remember seeing an oak having an acorn," to which the other replied, "And I remember seeing a hen having an egg"; and one of the two added, "But I do not remember before seeing anybody brew beer in the shell of a hen's egg." The mother then went to the witch and told her what the twins had said one to the other; and she directed her to go to a small wooden bridge, not far off, with one of the strange children under each arm, and there to drop them from the bridge into the river beneath. The mother went back home again and did as she had been directed. When she reached home this time, she found to her astonishment that her own children had been brought back.' Next comes a story about a midwife who lived at Corwrion. 'One of the fairies called to ask her to come and attend on his wife. Off she went with him, and she was astonished to be taken into a splendid palace. There she continued to go night and morning to dress the baby for some time, until one day the husband asked her to rub her eyes with a certain ointment he offered her. She did so, and found herself sitting on a tuft of rushes, and not in a palace. There was no baby: all had disappeared. Some time afterwards she happened to go to the town, and whom should she there see busily buying various wares, but the fairy on whose wife she had been attending. She addressed him with the question, "How are you to-day?" Instead of answering her, he asked, "How do you see me?" "With my eyes," was the prompt reply. "Which eye?" he asked. "This one," said the woman, pointing to it; and instantly he disappeared, never more to be seen by her.' This tale, as will be seen on comparison later, is incomplete, and probably incorrect. Here is another from Mr. D. E. Davies:--'One day Guto, the farmer of Corwrion, complained to his wife that he lacked men to mow his hay, when she replied, "Why fret about it? look yonder! There you have a field full of them at it, and stripped to their shirt-sleeves (yn llewys eu crysau)." When he went to the spot the sham workmen of the fairy family had disappeared. This same Guto--or somebody else--happened another time to be ploughing, when he heard some person he could not see, calling out to him, "I have got the bins (that is the vice) of my plough broken." "Bring it to me," said the driver of Guto's team, "that I may mend it." When they finished the furrow, they found the broken vice, with a barrel of beer placed near it. One of the men sat down and mended the vice. Then they made another furrow, and when they returned to the spot they found there a two-eared dish filled to the brim with bara a chwrw, or "bread and beer." The word vice, I may observe, is an English term, which is applied in Carnarvonshire to a certain part of the plough: it is otherwise called bins, but neither does this seem to be a Welsh word, nor have I heard either used in South Wales. At times one of the fairies was in the habit, as I was told by more than one of my informants, of coming out of Llyn Corwrion with her spinning-wheel (troell bach) on fine summer days and betaking herself to spinning. While at that work she might be heard constantly singing or humming, in a sort of round tune, the words sìli ffrit. So that sìli ffrit Leisa Bèla may now be heard from the mouths of the children in that neighbourhood. But I have not been successful in finding out what Liza Bella's 'silly frit' exactly means, though I am, on the whole, convinced that the words are other than of Welsh origin. The last of them, ffrit, is usually applied in Cardiganshire to anything worthless or insignificant, and the derivative, ffrityn, means one who has no go or perseverance in him: the feminine is ffriten. In Carnarvonshire my wife has heard ffrityn and ffritan applied to a small man and a small woman respectively. Mr. Hughes says that in Merioneth and parts of Powys sìli ffrit is a term applied to a small woman or a female dwarf who happens to be proud, vain, and fond of the attentions of the other sex (benyw fach neu goraches falch a hunanol a fydai hoff o garu); but he thinks he has heard it made use of with regard to the gipsies, and possibly also to the Tylwyth Teg. The Rev. O. Davies thinks the words sìli ffrit Leisa Bèla to be very modern, and that they refer to a young woman who lived at a place in the neighbourhood, called Bryn Bèla or Brymbèla, 'Bella's Hill,' the point being that this Bella was ahead, in her time, of all the girls in those parts in matters of taste and fashion. This however does not seem to go far enough back, and it is possible still that in Bèla, that is, in English spelling, Bella, we have merely a shortening of some such a name as Isabella or Arabella, which were once much more popular in the Principality than they are now: in fact, I do not feel sure that Leisa Bèla is not bodily a corruption of Isabella. As to sìli ffrit, one might at first have been inclined to render it by small fry, especially in the sense of the French 'de la friture' as applied to young men and boys, and to connect it with the Welsh sil and silod, which mean small fish; but the pronunciation of silli or sìli being nearly that of the English word silly, it appears, on the whole, to belong to the host of English words to be found in colloquial Welsh, though they seldom find their way into books. Students of English ought to be able to tell us whether frit had the meaning here suggested in any part of England, and how lately; also, whether there was such a phrase as 'silly frit' in use. After penning this, I received the following interesting communication from Mr. William Jones, of Llangollen:--The term sìli ffrit was formerly in use at Bedgelert, and what was thereby meant was a child of the Tylwyth Teg. It is still used for any creature that is smaller than ordinary. 'Pooh, a silly frit like that!' (Pw, rhyw sìli ffrit fel yna!). 'Mrs. So-and-So has a fine child.' 'Ha, do you call a silly frit like that a fine child?' (Mae gan hon a hon blentyn braf. Ho, a ydych chwi'n galw rhyw sìli ffrit fel hwnna'n braf?) To return to Leisa Bèla and Belenë, it may be that the same person was meant by both these names, but I am in no hurry to identify them, as none of my correspondents knows the latter of them except Mr. Hughes, who gives it on the authority of the bard Gutyn Peris, and nothing further so far as I can understand, whereas Bèla will come before us in another story, as it is the same name, I presume, which Glasynys has spelled Bella in Cymru Fu. So I wrote in 1881: since then I have ascertained from Professor Joseph Wright, who is busily engaged on his great English Dialect Dictionary, that frit [27] is the same word, in the dialects of Cheshire, Shropshire, and Pembrokeshire, as fright in literary English; and that the corresponding verb to frighten is in them fritten, while a frittenin (= the book English frightening) means a ghost or apparition. So sìli ffrit is simply the English silly frit, and means probably a silly sprite or silly ghost, and sìli ffrit Leisa Bèla would mean the silly ghost of a woman called Liza Bella. But the silly frit found spinning near Corwrion Pool will come under notice again, for that fairy belongs to the Rumpelstiltzchen group of tales, and the fragment of a story about her will be seen to have treated Silly Frit as her proper name, which she had not intended to reach the ears of the person of whom she was trying to get the better. These tales are brought into connexion with the present day in more ways than one, for besides the various accounts of the bwganod or bogies of Corwrion frightening people when out late at night, Mr. D. E. Davies knows a man, who is still living, and who well remembers the time when the sound of working used to be heard in the pool, and the voices of children crying somewhere in its depths, but that when people rushed there to see what the matter was, all was found profoundly quiet and still. Moreover, there is a family or two, now numerously represented in the parishes of Llandegai and Llanllechid, who used to be taunted with being the offspring of fairy ancestors. One of these families was nicknamed 'Simychiaid' or 'Smychiaid'; and my informant, who is not yet quite forty, says that he heard his mother repeat scores of times that the old people used to say, that the Smychiaid, who were very numerous in the neighbourhood, were descended from fairies, and that they came from Llyn Corwrion. At all this the Smychiaid were wont to grow mightily angry. Another tradition, he says, about them was that they were a wandering family that arrived in the district from the direction of Conway, and that the father's name was a Simwch, or rather that was his nickname, based on the proper name Simwnt, which appears to have once been the prevalent name in Llandegai. The historical order of these words would in that case have been Simwnt, Simwch, Simychiaid, Smychiaid. Now Simwnt seems to be merely the Welsh form given to some such English name as Simond, just as Edmund or Edmond becomes in North Wales Emwnt. The objection to the nickname seems to lie in the fact, which one of my correspondents points out to me, that Simwch is understood to mean a monkey, a point on which I should like to have further information. Pughe gives simach, it is true, as having the meaning of the Latin simia. A branch of the same family is said to be called 'y Cowperiaid' or the Coopers, from an ancestor who was either by name or by trade a cooper. Mr. Hughes' account of the Smychiaid was, that they are the descendants of one Simonds, who came to be a bailiff at Bodysgallan, near Deganwy, and moved from there to Coetmor in the neighbourhood of Corwrion. Simonds was obnoxious to the bards, he goes on to say, and they described the Smychiaid as having arrived in the parish at the bottom of a cawell, 'a creel or basket carried on the back,' when chance would have it that the cawell cord snapped just in that neighbourhood, at a place called Pont y Llan. That accident is described, according to Mr. Hughes, in the following doggerel, the origin of which I do not know-- E dorai 'r arwest, ede wan, Brwnt y lle, ar Bont y Llan. The cord would snap, feeble yarn, At that nasty spot, Pont y Llan. Curiously enough, the same cawell story used to be said of a widely spread family in North Cardiganshire, whose surname was pronounced Massn and written Mason or Mazon: as my mother was of this family, I have often heard it. The cawell, if I remember rightly, was said, in this instance, to have come from Scotland, to which were traced three men who settled in North Cardiganshire. One had no descendants, but the other two, Mason and Peel--I think his name was Peel, but I am only sure that it was not Welsh--had so many, that the Masons, at any rate, are exceedingly numerous there; but a great many of them, owing to some extent, probably, to the cawell story, have been silly enough to change their name into that of Jones, some of them in my time. The three men came there probably for refuge in the course of troubles in Scotland, as a Frazer and a Francis did to Anglesey. At any rate, I have never heard it suggested that they were of aquatic origin, but, taking the cawell into consideration, and the popular account of the Smychiaid, I should be inclined to think that the cawell originally referred to some such a supposed descent. I only hope that somebody will help us with another and a longer cawell tale, which will make up for the brevity of these allusions. We may, however, assume, I think, that there was a tendency at one time in Gwyned, if not in other parts of the Principality, to believe, or pretend to believe, that the descendants of an Englishman or Scotsman, who settled among the old inhabitants, were of fairy origin, and that their history was somehow uncanny, which was all, of course, duly resented. This helps, to some extent, to explain how names of doubtful origin have got into these tales, such as Smychiaid, Cowperiaid, Pellings, Penelope, Leisa Bèla or Isabella, and the like. This association of the lake legends with intruders from without is what has, perhaps, in a great measure served to rescue such legends from utter oblivion. As to a church at Corwrion, the tradition does not seem to be an old one, and it appears founded on one of the popular etymologies of the word Corwrion, which treats the first syllable as cor in the sense of a choir; but the word has other meanings, including among them that of an ox-stall or enclosure for cattle. Taking this as coming near the true explanation, it at once suggests itself, that Creuwyryon in the Mabinogi of Math ab Mathonwy is the same place, for creu or crau also meant an enclosure for animals, including swine. In Irish the word is cró, an enclosure, a hut or hovel. The passage in the Mabinogi [28] relates to Gwydion returning with the swine he had got by dint of magic and deceit from Pryderi, prince of Dyfed, and runs thus in Lady Charlotte Guest's translation: 'So they journeyed on to the highest town of Arllechwed, and there they made a sty (creu) for the swine, and therefore was the name of Creuwyryon given to that town.' As to wyryon or wyrion, which we find made into wrion in Corwrion according to the modern habit, it would seem to be no other word than the usual plural of wyr, a grandson, formerly also any descendant in the direct line. If so, the name of an ancestor must have originally followed, just as one of the places called Bettws was once Betws Wyrion Idon, 'the Bettws of Idon's Descendants'; but it is possible that wyrion in Creu- or Cor-wyrion was itself a man's name, though I have never met with it. It is right to add that the name appears in the Record of Carnarvon (pp. 12, 25, 26) as Creweryon, which carries us back to the first half of the fourteenth century. There it occurs as the name of a township containing eight gavels, and the particulars about it might, in the hand of one familiar with the tenures of that time, perhaps give us valuable information as to what may have been its status at a still earlier date. VI. Here, for the sake of comparison with the Northwalian stories in which the fairy wife runs away from her husband in consequence of his having unintentionally touched or hit her with the iron in the bridle, the fetter, or the stirrup, as on pp. 35, 40, 46, 50, 54, 61. I wish to cite the oldest recorded version, namely from Walter Mapes' curious miscellany of anecdotes and legends entitled De Nugis Curialium Distinctiones Quinque. Mapes flourished in the latter part of the twelfth century, and in Distinctio ii. 11 of Thomas Wright's edition, published in the year 1850, one reads the following story, which serves the purpose there of giving the origin of a certain Trinio, of whom Mapes had more to say:-- Aliud non miraculum sed portentum nobis Walenses referunt. Wastinum Wastiniauc secus stagnum Brekeinauc [read Brecheinauc], quod in circuitu duo miliaria tenet, mansisse aiunt et vidisse per tres claras a luna noctes choreas fæminarum in campo avenæ suæ, et secutum eum eas fuisse donec in aqua stagni submergerentur, unam tamen quarta vice retinuisse. Narrabat etiam ille raptor illius quod eas noctibus singulis post submersionem earum murmurantes audisset sub aqua et dicentes, 'Si hoc fecisset, unam de nobis cepisset,' et se ab ipsis edoctum quomodo hanc adepta [read -us] sit, quæ et consensit et nupsit ei, et prima verba sua hæc ad virum suum, 'Libens tibi serviam, et tota obedientiæ devotione usque in diem illum prosilire volens ad clamores ultra Lenem [read Leueni] me freno tuo percusseris.' Est autem Leueni aqua vicina stagno. Quod et factum est; post plurimæ prolis susceptionem ab eo freno percussa est, et in reditu suo inventam eam fugientem cum prole, insecutus est, et vix unum ex filiis suis arripuit, nomine Triunem Uagelauc. 'The Welsh relate to us another thing, not so much a miracle as a portent, as follows. They say that Gwestin of Gwestiniog dwelt beside Brecknock Mere, which has a circumference of two miles, and that on three moonlight nights he saw in his field of oats women dancing, and that he followed them until they sank in the water of the mere; but the fourth time they say that he seized hold of one of them. Her captor further used to relate that on each of these nights he had heard the women, after plunging into the mere, murmuring beneath the water and saying, "If he had done so and so, he would have caught one of us," and that he had been instructed by their own words, as to the manner in which he caught her. She both yielded and became his wife, and her first words to her husband were these: "Willingly will I serve thee, and with whole-hearted obedience, until that day when, desirous of sallying forth in the direction of the cries beyond the Llyfni, thou shalt strike me with thy bridle"--the Llyfni is a burn near the mere. And this came to pass: after presenting him with a numerous offspring she was struck by him with the bridle, and on his returning home, he found her running away with her offspring, and he pursued her, but it was with difficulty that he got hold even of one of his sons, and he was named Trinio (?) Faglog.' The story, as it proceeds, mentions Trinio engaged in battle with the men of a prince who seems to have been no other than Brychan of Brycheiniog, supposed to have died about the middle of the fifth century. The battle was disastrous to Trinio and his friends, and Trinio was never seen afterwards; so Walter Mapes reports the fact that people believed him to have been rescued by his mother, and that he was with her living still in the lake. Giraldus calls it lacus ille de Brecheniauc magnus et famosus, quem et Clamosum dicunt, 'that great and famous lake of Brecknock which they also call Clamosus,' suggested by the Welsh Llyn Llefni, so called from the river Llefni, misinterpreted as if derived from llef 'a cry.' With this lake he connects the legend, that at the bidding of the rightful Prince of Wales, the birds frequenting it would at once warble and sing. This he asserts to have been proved in the case of Gruffud, son of Rhys, though the Normans were at the time masters of his person and of his territory [29]. After dwelling on the varying colours of the lake he adds the following statement:--Ad hæc etiam totus ædificiis consertus, culturis egregiis, hortis ornatus et pomeriis, ab accolis quandoque conspicitur, 'Now and then also it is seen by the neighbouring inhabitants to be covered with buildings, and adorned with excellent farming, gardens, and orchards.' It is remarkable as one of the few lakes in Wales where the remains of a crannog have been discovered, and while Mapes gives it as only two miles round, it is now said to be about five; so it has sometimes [30] been regarded as a stockaded island rather than as an instance of pile dwellings. In the Brython for 1863, pp. 114-15, is to be found what purports to be a copy of a version of the Legend of Llyn Syfadon, as contained in a manuscript of Hugh Thomas' in the British Museum. It is to the effect that the people of the neighbourhood have a story that all the land now covered by the lake belonged to a princess, who had an admirer to whom she would not be married unless he procured plenty of gold: she did not care how. So he one day murdered and robbed a man who had money, and the princess then accepted the murderer's suit, but she felt uneasy on account of the reports as to the murdered man's ghost haunting the place where his body had been buried. So she made her admirer go at night to interview the ghost and lay it. Whilst he waited near the grave he heard a voice inquiring whether the innocent man was not to be avenged, and another replying that it would not be avenged till the ninth generation. The princess and her lover felt safe enough and were married: they multiplied and became numerous, while their town grew to be as it were another Sodom; and the original pair lived on so astonishingly long that they saw their descendants of the ninth generation. They exulted in their prosperity, and one day held a great feast to celebrate it; and when their descendants were banqueting with them, and the gaiety and mirth were at their zenith, ancestors and descendants were one and all drowned in a mighty cataclysm which produced the present lake. Lastly may be briefly mentioned the belief still lingering in the neighbourhood, to the effect that there is a town beneath the waters of the lake, and that in rough weather the bells from the church tower of that town may be heard ringing, while in calm weather the spire of the church may be distinctly seen. My informant, writing in 1892, added the remark: 'This story seems hardly creditable to us, but many of the old people believe it.' I ought to have mentioned that the fifteenth-century poet Lewis Glyn Cothi connects with Syfadon [31] Lake an afanc legend; but this will be easier to understand in the light of the more complete one from the banks of the river Conwy. So the reader will find Glyn Cothi's words given in the next chapter. CHAPTER II THE FAIRIES' REVENGE In th'olde dayes of the king Arthour, Of which that Britons speken greet honour, Al was this land fulfild of fayerye. The elf-queen, with hir joly companye, Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede; This was the olde opinion, as I rede. I speke of manye hundred yeres ago. Chaucer. I. The best living authority I have found on the folklore of Bedgelert, Drws y Coed, and the surrounding district, is Mr. William Jones, of Llangollen. He has written a good deal on the subject in the Brython, and in essays intended for competition at various literary meetings in Wales. I had the loan from him of one such essay, and I have referred to the Brython; and I have also had from Mr. Jones a number of letters, most of which contain some additional information. In harmony, moreover, with my usual practice, I have asked Mr. Jones to give me a little of his own history. This he has been kind enough to do; and, as I have so far followed no particular order in these jottings, I shall now give the reader the substance of his letters in English, as I am anxious that no item should be lost or left inaccessible to English students of folklore. What is unintelligible to me may not be so to those who have made a serious study of the subject. Mr. Jones' words are in substance to the following effect:-- 'I was bred and born in the parish of Bedgelert, one of the most rustic neighbourhoods and least subject to change in the whole country. Some of the old Welsh customs remained within my memory, in spite of the adverse influence of the Calvinistic Reformation, as it is termed, and I have myself witnessed several Knitting Nights and Nuptial Feasts (Neithiorau), which, be it noticed, are not to be confounded with weddings, as they were feasts which followed the weddings, at the interval of a week. At these gatherings song and story formed an element of prime importance in the entertainment at a time when the Reformation alluded to had already blown the blast of extinction on the Merry Nights (Noswyliau Llawen) and Saints' Fêtes [32] (Gwyliau Mabsant) before the days of my youth, though many of my aged acquaintances remembered them well, and retained a vivid recollection of scores of the amusing tales which used to be related for the best at the last mentioned long-night meetings. I have heard not a few of them reproduced by men of that generation. As an example of the old-fashioned habits of the people of Bedgelert in my early days, I may mention the way in which wives and children used to be named. The custom was that the wife never took her husband's family name, but retained the one she had as a spinster. Thus my grandmother on my mother's side was called Ellen Hughes, daughter to Hugh Williams, of Gwastad Annas. The name of her husband, my grandfather, was William Prichard [= W. ab Rhisiart, or Richard's son], son to Richard William, of the Efail Newyd. The name of their eldest son, my uncle (brother to my mother), was Hugh Hughes, and the second son's name was Richard William. The mother had the privilege of naming her first-born after her own family in case it was a boy; but if it happened to be a girl, she took her name from the father's family, for which reason my mother's maiden name was Catharine Williams. This remained her name to the day of her death: and the old people at Bedgelert persisted in calling me, so long as I was at home, William Prichard, after my grandfather, as I was my mother's eldest child. 'Most of the tales I have collected,' says Mr. Jones, 'relate to the parishes of Bedgelert and Dolwydelen. My kindred have lived for generations in those two parishes, and they are very numerous: in fact, it used to be said that the people of Dolwydelen and Bedgelert were all cousins. They were mostly small farmers, and jealous of all strangers, so that they married almost without exception from the one parish into the other. This intermixture helped to carry the tales of the one parish to the other, and to perpetuate them on the hearths of their homes from generation to generation, until they were swept away by another influence in this century. Many of my ancestors seem to have been very fond of stories, poetry, and singing, and I have been told that some of them were very skilled in these things. So also, in the case of my parents, the memory of the past had a great charm for them on both sides; and when the relatives from Dolwydelen and Bedgelert met in either parish, there used to be no end to the recounting of pedigrees and the repeating of tales for the best. By listening to them, I had been filled with desire to become an adept in pedigrees and legends. My parents used to let me go every evening to the house of my grandfather, William ab Rhisiart, the clerk, to listen to tales, and to hear edifying books read. My grandfather was a reader "without his rival," and "he used to beat the parson hollow." Many people used to meet at Pen y Bont in the evenings to converse together, and the stories of some of them were now and then exceedingly eloquent. Of course, I listened with eager ears and open mouth, in order, if I heard anything new, to be able to repeat it to my mother. She, unwilling to let herself be beaten, would probably relate another like it, which she had heard from her mother, her grandmother, or her old aunt of Gwastad Annas, who was a fairly good verse-wright of the homely kind. Then my father, if he did not happen to be busy with his music-book, would also give us a tale which he had heard from his grandmother or grandfather, the old John Jones, of Tyn Llan Dolwydelen, or somebody else would do so. That is one source from which I got my knowledge of folklore; but this ceased when we moved from Bedgelert to Carnarvon in the year 1841. My grandfather died in 1844, aged seventy-eight. 'Besides those,' Mr. Jones goes on to say, 'who used to come to my grandfather's house and to his workshop to relate stories, the blacksmith's shop used to be, especially on a rainy day, a capital place for a story, and many a time did I lurk there instead of going to school, in order to hear old William Dafyd, the sawyer, who, peace be to his ashes! drank many a hornful from the Big Quart without ever breaking down, and old Ifan Owen, the fisherman, tearing away for the best at their yarns, sometimes a tissue of lies and sometimes truth. The former was funny, and a great wag, up to all kinds of tricks. He made everybody laugh, whereas the latter would preserve the gravity of a saint, however lying might be the tale which he related. Ifan Owen's best stories were about the Water Spirit, or, as he called it, Llamhigyn y Dwr, "the Water Leaper." He had not himself seen the Llamhigyn, but his father had seen it "hundreds of times." Many an evening it had prevented him from catching a single fish in Llyn Gwynan, and, when the fisherman got on this theme, his eloquence was apt to become highly polysyllabic in its adjectives. Once in particular, when he had been angling for hours towards the close of the day, without catching anything, he found that something took the fly clean off the hook each time he cast it. After moving from one spot to another on the lake, he fished opposite the Benlan Wen, when something gave his line a frightful pull, "and, by the gallows, I gave another pull," the fisherman used to say, "with all the force of my arm: out it came, and up it went off the hook, whilst I turned round to see, as it dashed so against the cliff of Benlan that it blazed like a lightning." He used to add, "If that was not the Llamhigyn, it must have been the very devil himself." That cliff must be two hundred yards at least from the shore. As to his father, he had seen the Water Spirit many times, and he had also been fishing in the Llyn Glâs or Ffynnon Lâs, once upon a time, when he hooked a wonderful and fearful monster: it was not like a fish, but rather resembled a toad, except that it had a tail and wings instead of legs. He pulled it easily enough towards the shore, but, as its head was coming out of the water, it gave a terrible shriek that was enough to split the fisherman's bones to the marrow, and, had there not been a friend standing by, he would have fallen headlong into the lake, and been possibly dragged like a sheep into the depth; for there is a tradition that if a sheep got into the Llyn Glâs, it could not be got out again, as something would at once drag it to the bottom. This used to be the belief of the shepherds of Cwm Dyli, within my memory, and they acted on it in never letting their dogs go after the sheep in the neighbourhood of this lake. These two funny fellows, William Dafyd and Ifan Owen, died long ago, without leaving any of their descendants blessed with as much as the faintest gossamer thread of the story-teller's mantle. The former, if he had been still living, would now be no less than 129 years of age, and the latter about 120.' Mr. Jones proceeds to say that he had stories from sources besides those mentioned, namely, from Lowri Robart, wife of Rhisiart Edwart, the 'Old Guide'; from his old aunt of Gwastad Annas; from William Wmffra, husband to his grandmother's sister; from his grandmother, who was a native of Dolwydelen, but had been brought up at Pwllgwernog, in Nanmor; from her sister; and from Gruffud Prisiart, of Nanmor, afterwards of Glan Colwyn, who gave him the legend of Owen Lawgoch of which I shall have something to say later, and the story of the bogie of Pen Pwll Coch, which I do not know. 'But the chief story-teller of his time at Bedgelert,' Mr. Jones goes on to say, 'was Twm Ifan Siams (pronounced Siams or Shams), brother, I believe, to Dafyd Siôn Siams, of the Penrhyn, who was a bard and pedigree man. Twm lived at Nanmor, but I know not what his vocation was; his relatives, however, were small farmers, carpenters, and masons. It is not improbable that he was also an artisan, as he was conversant with numbers, magnitude, and letters, and left behind him a volume forming a pedigree book known at Nanmor as the Barcud Mawr, or "Great Kite," as Gruffud Prisiart told me. The latter had been reading it many a time in order to know the origin of somebody or other. All I can remember of this character is that he was very old--over 90--and that he went from house to house in his old age to relate tales and recount pedigrees: great was the welcome he had from everybody everywhere. I remember, also, that he was small of stature, nimble, witty, exceedingly amusing, and always ready with his say on every subject. He was in the habit of calling on my grandfather in his rambles, and very cordial was the reception which my parents always gave him on account of his tales and his knowledge of pedigrees. The story of the afanc, as given in my collection, is from his mouth. You will observe how little difference there is between his version [33] and that known to Edward Llwyd in the year 1695. I had related this story to a friend of mine at Portmadoc, who was grandson or great-grandson to Dafyd Siôn Siams, of Penrhyn, in 1858, when he called my attention to the same story in the Cambrian Journal from the correspondence of Edward Llwyd. I was surprised at the similarity between the two versions, and I went to Bedgelert to Gruffud Rhisiart, who was related to Twm Siôn Siams. I read the story to him, and I found that he had heard it related by his uncle just as it was by me, and as given in the Cambrian Journal. Twm Ifan Siams had funny stories about the tricks of Gwrach y Rhibyn, the Bodach [34] Glas, and the Bwbach Llwyd, which he localized in Nanmor and Llanfrothen; he had, also, a very eloquent tale about the courtship between a sailor from Moel y Gest, near Portmadoc, and a mermaid, of which I retain a fairly good recollection. I believe Twm died in the year 1835-6, aged about ninety-five.' So far, I have merely translated Mr. Jones' account of himself and his authorities as given me in the letter I have already referred to, dated in June of last year, 1881. I would now add the substance of his general remarks about the fairies, as he had heard them described, and as he expressed himself in his essay for the competition on folklore at the Carnarvon Eistedfod of 1880:--The traditions, he says, respecting the Tylwyth Teg vary according to the situation of the districts with which they are connected, and many more such traditions continue to be remembered among the inhabitants of the mountains than by those of the more level country. In some places the Tylwyth Teg are described as a small folk of a thieving nature, living in summer among the fern bushes in the mountains, and in winter in the heather and gorse. These were wont to frequent the fairs and to steal money from the farmers' pockets, where they placed in its stead their own fairy money, which looked like the coin of the realm, but when it was paid for anything bought it would vanish in the pockets of the seller. In other districts the fairies were described as a little bigger and stronger folk; but these latter were also of a thieving disposition. They would lurk around people's houses, looking for an opportunity to steal butter and cheese from the dairies, and they skulked about the cow-yards, in order to milk the cows and the goats, which they did so thoroughly that many a morning there was not a drop of milk to be had. The principal mischief, however, which those used to do, was to carry away unbaptized infants, and place in their stead their own wretched and peevish offspring. They were said to live in hidden caves in the mountains, and he had heard one old man asserting his firm belief that it was beneath Moel Eilio, also called Moel Eilian, a mountain lying between Llanberis and Cwellyn, the Tylwyth Teg of Nant y Bettws lived, whom he had seen many a time when he was a lad; and, if any one came across the mouth of their cave, he thought that he would find there a wonderful amount of wealth, 'for they were thieves without their like.' There is still another species of Tylwyth Teg, very unlike the foregoing ones in their nature and habits. Not only was this last kind far more beautiful and comely than the others, but they were honest and good towards mortals. Their whole nature was replete with joy and fun, nor were they ever beheld hardly, except engaged in some merry-making or other. They might be seen on bright moonlight nights at it, singing and carolling playfully on the fair meadows and the green slopes, at other times dancing lightly on the tops of the rushes in the valleys. They were also wont to be seen hunting in full force on the backs of their grey horses; for this kind were rich, and kept horses and servants. Though it used to be said that they were spiritual and immortal beings, still they ate and drank like human beings: they married and had children. They were also remarkable for their cleanliness, and they were wont to reward neat maid-servants and hospitable wives. So housewives used to exhort their maids to clean their houses thoroughly every night before going to bed, saying that if the Tylwyth Teg happened to enter, they would be sure to leave money for them somewhere; but they were to tell no one in case they found any, lest the Tylwyth should be offended and come no more. The mistresses also used to order a tinful of water to be placed at the foot of the stairs, a clean cloth on the table, with bread and its accompaniments (bara ac enllyn) placed on it, so that, if the Tylwyth came in to eat, the maids should have their recompense on the hob as well as unstinted praise for keeping the house clean, or, as Mr. Jones has it in a couplet from Goronwy Owen's Cywyd y Cynghorfynt-- Cael eu rhent ar y pentan, A llwyr glod o bai llawr glân. Finding the fairies' pay on the hob, With full credit for a clean floor. Thus, whether the fairies came or not to pay a visit to them during their sleep, the house would be clean by the morning, and the table ready set for breakfast. It appears that the places most frequently resorted to by this species were rushy combes surrounded by smooth hills with round tops, also the banks of rivers and the borders of lakes; but they were seldom seen at any time near rocks or cliffs. So more tales about them are found in districts of the former description than anywhere else, and among them may be mentioned Penmachno, Dolwydelan, the sides of Moel Siabod, Llandegái Mountain, and from there to Llanberis, to Nantlle Lakes, to Moel Tryfan [35] and Nant y Bettws, the upper portion of the parish of Bedgelert from Drws y Coed to the Pennant, and the district beginning from there and including the level part of Eifion, on towards Celynnog Fawr. I have very little doubt that there are many traditions about them in the neighbourhood of the Eifl and in Lleyn; I know but little, however, about these last. This kind of fairies was said to live underground, and the way to their country lay under hollow banks that overhung the deepest parts of the lakes, or the deepest pools in the rivers, so that mortals could not follow them further than the water, should they try to go after them. They used to come out in broad daylight, two or three together, and now and then a shepherd, so the saying went, used to talk and chat with them. Sometimes, moreover, he fell over head and ears in love with their damsels, but they did not readily allow a mortal to touch them. The time they were to be seen in their greatest glee was at night when the moon was full, when they celebrated a merry night (noswaith lawen). At midnight to the minute, they might be seen rising out of the ground in every combe and valley; then, joining hands, they would form into circles, and begin to sing and dance with might and main until the cock crew, when they would vanish. Many used to go to look at them on those nights, but it was dangerous to go too near them, lest they should lure the spectator into their circle; for if that happened, they would throw a charm over him, which would make him invisible to his companions, and he would be detained by the fairies as long as he lived. At times some people went too near to them, and got snatched in; and at other times a love-inspired youth, fascinated by the charms of one of their damsels, rushed in foolhardily to try to seize one of them, and became instantly surrounded and concealed from sight. If he could be got out before the cock crew he would be no worse; but once the fairies disappeared without his having been released, he would never more be seen in the land of the living. The way to get the captured man out was to take a long stick of mountain ash (pren criafol), which two or more strong men had to hold with one of its ends in the middle of the circle, so that when the man came round in his turn in the dance he might take hold of it, for he is there bodily though not visible, so that he cannot go past without coming across the stick. Then the others pull him out, for the fairies, no more than any other spirit, dare touch the mountain ash. We now proceed to give some of Mr. Jones' legends. The first is one which he published in the fourth volume of the Brython, p. 70, whence the following free translation is made of it:-- 'In the north-west corner of the parish of Bedgelert there is a place which used to be called by the old inhabitants the Land of the Fairies, and it reaches from Cwm Hafod Ruffyd along the slope of the mountain of Drws y Coed as far as Llyn y Dywarchen. The old people of former times used to find much pleasure and amusement in this district in listening every moonlight night to the charming music of the fair family, and in looking at their dancing and their mirthful sports. Once on a time, a long while ago, there lived at upper Drws y Coed a youth, who was joyous and active, brave and determined of heart. This young man amused himself every night by looking on and listening to them. One night they had come to a field near the house, near the shore of Llyn y Dywarchen, to pass a merry night. He went, as usual, to look at them, when his glances at once fell on one of the ladies, who possessed such beauty as he had never seen in a human being. Her appearance was like that of alabaster; her voice was as agreeable as the nightingale's, and as unruffled as the zephyr in a flower-garden at the noon of a long summer's day; and her gait was pretty and aristocratic; her feet moved in the dance as lightly on the grass as the rays of the sun had a few hours before on the lake hard by. He fell in love with her over head and ears, and in the strength of that passion--for what is stronger than love!--he rushed, when the bustle was at its height, into the midst of the fair crowd, and snatched the graceful damsel in his arms, and ran instantly with her to the house. When the fair family saw the violence used by a mortal, they broke up the dance and ran after her towards the house; but, when they arrived, the door had been bolted with iron, wherefore they could not get near her or touch her in any way; and the damsel had been placed securely in a chamber. The youth, having her now under his roof, as is the saying, endeavoured, with all his talent, to win her affection and to induce her to wed. But at first she would on no account hear of it; on seeing his persistence, however, and on finding that he would not let her go to return to her people, she consented to be his servant if he could find out her name; but she would not be married to him. As he thought that was not impossible, he half agreed to the condition; but, after bothering his head with all the names known in that neighbourhood, he found himself no nearer his point, though he was not willing to give up the search hurriedly. One night, as he was going home from Carnarvon market, he saw a number of the fair folks in a turbary not far from his path. They seemed to him to be engaged in an important deliberation, and it struck him that they were planning how to recover their abducted sister. He thought, moreover, that if he could secretly get within hearing, he might possibly find her name out. On looking carefully around, he saw that a ditch ran through the turbary and passed near the spot where they stood. So he made his way round to the ditch, and crept, on all fours, along it until he was within hearing of the family. After listening a little, he found that their deliberation was as to the fate of the lady he had carried away, and he heard one of them crying, piteously, "O Penelop, O Penelop, my sister, why didst thou run away with a mortal!" "Penelop," said the young man to himself, "that must be the name of my beloved: that is enough." At once he began to creep back quietly, and he returned home safely without having been seen by the fairies. When he got into the house, he called out to the girl, saying, "Penelop, my beloved one, come here!" and she came forward and asked, in astonishment, "O mortal, who has betrayed my name to thee?" Then, lifting up her tiny folded hands, she exclaimed, "Alas, my fate, my fate!" But she grew contented with her fate, and took to her work in earnest. Everything in the house and on the farm prospered under her charge. There was no better or cleanlier housewife in the neighbourhood around, or one that was more provident than she. The young man, however, was not satisfied that she should be a servant to him, and, after he had long and persistently sought it, she consented to be married, on the one condition, that, if ever he should touch her with iron, she would be free to leave him and return to her family. He agreed to that condition, since he believed that such a thing would never happen at his hands. So they were married, and lived several years happily and comfortably together. Two children were born to them, a boy and a girl, the picture of their mother and the idols of their father. But one morning, when the husband wanted to go to the fair at Carnarvon, he went out to catch a filly that was grazing in the field by the house; but for the life of him he could not catch her, and he called to his wife to come to assist him. She came without delay, and they managed to drive the filly to a secure corner, as they thought; but, as the man approached to catch her, she rushed past him. In his excitement, he threw the bridle after her; but, who should be running in the direction of it, but his wife! The iron bit struck her on the cheek, and she vanished out of sight on the spot. Her husband never saw her any more; but one cold frosty night, a long time after this event, he was awakened from his sleep by somebody rubbing the glass of his window, and, after he had given a response, he recognized the gentle and tender voice of his wife saying to him:-- Lest my son should find it cold, Place on him his father's coat; Lest the fair one find it cold, Place on her my petticoat. It is said that the descendants of this family still continue in these neighbourhoods, and that they are easy to be recognized by their light and fair complexion. A similar story is related of the son of the farmer of Braich y Dinas, in Llanfihangel y Pennant, and it used to be said that most of the inhabitants of that neighbourhood were formerly of a light complexion. I have often heard old people saying, that it was only necessary, within their memory, to point out in the fair at Penmorfa any one as being of the breed of the Tylwyth, to cause plenty of fighting that day at least.' The reader may compare with this tale the following, for which I have to thank Mr. Samuel Rhys Williams, whose words I give, followed by a translation:-- Yr oed gwr ieuanc o gymydogaeth Drws y Coed yn dychwelyd adref o Bedgelert ar noswaith loergan lleuad; pan ar gyfer Llyn y Gader gwelai nifer o'r bonedigesau a elwir y Tylwyth Teg yn myned trwy eu chwareuon nosawl. Swynwyd y llanc yn y fan gan brydferthwch y rhianod hyn, ac yn neillduol un o honynt. Collod y llywodraeth arno ei hunan i'r fath radau fel y penderfynod neidio i'r cylch a dwyn yn ysbail ido yr hon oed wedi myned a'i galon mor llwyr. Cyflawnod ei fwriad a dygod y fonediges gydag ef adref. Bu yn wraig ido, a ganwyd plant idynt. Yn damweiniol, tra yn cyflawni rhyw orchwyl, digwydod ido ei tharo a haiarn ac ar amrantiad diflannod ei anwylyd o'i olwg ac nis gwelod hi mwyach, ond darfod idi dyfod at ffenestr ei ystafell wely un noswaith ar ol hyn a'i annog i fod yn dirion wrth y plant a'i bod hi yn aros gerllaw y ty yn Llyny Dywarchen. Y mae y tradodiad hefyd yn ein hysbysu darfod i'r gwr hwn symud i fyw o Drws y Coed i Ystrad Betws Garmon. 'A young man, from the neighbourhood of Drws y Coed, was returning home one bright moonlight night, from Bedgelert; when he came opposite the lake called Llyn y Gader, he saw a number of the ladies known as the Tylwyth Teg going through their nightly frolics. The youth was charmed at once by the beauty of these ladies, and especially by one of them. He so far lost his control over himself, that he resolved to leap into the circle and carry away as his spoil the one who had so completely robbed him of his heart. He accomplished his intention, and carried the lady home with him. She became his wife, and children were born to them. Accidentally, while at some work or other, it happened to him to strike her with iron, and, in the twinkling of an eye, his beloved one disappeared from his sight. He saw her no more, except that she came to his bedroom window one night afterwards, and told him to be tender to the children, and that she was staying, near the house, in the lake called Llyn y Dywarchen. The tradition also informs us that this man moved from Drws y Coed to live at Ystrad near Bettws Garmon.' The name Llyn y Dywarchen, I may add, means the Lake of the Sod or Turf: it is the one with the floating island, described thus by Giraldus, ii. 9 (p. 135):--Alter enim insulam habet erraticam, vi ventorum impellentium ad oppositas plerumque lacus partes errabundam. Hic armenta pascentia nonnunquam pastores ad longinquas subito partes translata mirantur. 'For one of the two lakes holds a wandering island, which strays mostly with the force of the winds impelling it to the opposite parts of the lake. Sometimes cattle grazing on it are, to the surprise of the shepherds, suddenly carried across to the more distant parts.' Sheep are known to get on the floating islet, and it is still believed to float them away from the shore. Mr. S. Rhys Williams, it will be noticed, has given the substance of the legend rather than the story itself. I now proceed to translate the same tale as given in Welsh in Cymru Fu (pp. 474-7 of the edition published by Messrs. Hughes and Son, Wrexham), in a very different dress--it is from Glasynys' pen, and, as might be expected, decked out with all the literary adornments in which he delighted. The language he used was his own, but there is no reason to think that he invented any of the incidents:--'The farmer of Drws y Coed's son was one misty day engaged as a shepherd on the side of the mountain, a little below Cwm Marchnad, and, as he crossed a rushy flat, he saw a wonderfully handsome little woman standing under a clump of rushes. Her yellow and curly hair hung down in ringed locks, and her eyes were as blue as the clear sky, while her forehead was as white as the wavy face of a snowdrift that has nestled on the side of Snowdon only a single night. Her two plump cheeks were each like a red rose, and her pretty-lipped mouth might make an angel eager to kiss her. The youth approached her, filled with love for her, and, with delicacy and affection, asked her if he might converse with her. She smiled kindly, and reaching out her hand, said to him, "Idol of my hopes, thou hast come at last!" They began to associate secretly, and to meet one another daily here and there on the moors around the banks of Llyn y Gader; at last, their love had waxed so strong that the young man could not be at peace either day or night, as he was always thinking of Bella or humming to himself a verse of poetry about her charms. The yellow-haired youth was now and then lost for a long while, and nobody could divine his history. His acquaintances believed that he had been fascinated: at last the secret was found out. There were about Llyn y Dywarchen shady and concealing copses: it was there he was wont to go, and the she-elf would always be there awaiting him, and it was therefore that the place where they used to meet got to be called Llwyn y Forwyn, the Maiden's Grove. After fondly loving for a long time, it was resolved to wed; but it was needful to get the leave of the damsel's father. One moonlight night it was agreed to meet in the wood, and the appointment was duly kept by the young man, but there was no sign of the subterranean folks coming, until the moon disappeared behind the Garn. Then the two arrived, and the old man at once proceeded to say to the suitor: "Thou shalt have my daughter on the condition that thou do not strike her with iron. If thou ever touch her with iron, she will no longer be thine, but shall return to her own." The man consented readily, and great was his joy. They were betrothed, and seldom was a handsomer pair seen at the altar. It was rumoured that a vast sum of money as dowry had arrived with the pretty lady at Drws y Coed on the evening of her nuptials. Soon after, the mountain shepherd of Cwm Marchnad passed for a very rich and influential man. In the course of time they had children, and no happier people ever lived together than their parents. Everything went on regularly and prosperously for a number of years: they became exceedingly wealthy, but the sweet is not to be had without the bitter. One day they both went out on horseback, and they happened to go near Llyn y Gader, when the wife's horse got into a bog and sank to his belly. After the husband had got Bella off his back, he succeeded with much trouble in getting the horse out, and then he let him go. Then he lifted her on the back of his own, but, unfortunately, in trying quickly to place her foot in the stirrup, the iron part of the same slipped, and struck her--or, rather, it touched her at the knee-joint. Before they had made good half their way home, several of the diminutive Tylwyth began to appear to them, and the sound of sweet singing was heard on the side of the hill. Before the husband reached Drws y Coed his wife had left him, and it is supposed that she fled to Llwyn y Forwyn, and thence to the world below to Faery. She left her dear little ones to the care of her beloved, and no more came near them. Some say, however, that she sometimes contrived to see her beloved one in the following manner. As the law of her country did not permit her to frequent the earth with an earthly being, she and her mother invented a way of avoiding the one thing and of securing the other. A great piece of sod was set to float on the surface of the lake, and on that she used to be for long hours, freely conversing in tenderness with her consort on shore; by means of that plan they managed to live together until he breathed his last. Their descendants owned Drws y Coed for many generations, and they intermarried and mixed with the people of the district. Moreover, many a fierce fight took place in later times at the Gwyl-fabsant at Dolbenmaen or at Penmorfa, because the men of Eifionyd had a habit of annoying the people of Pennant by calling them Bellisians.' In a note, Glasynys remarks that this tale is located in many districts without much variation, except in the names of the places; this, however, could not apply to the latter part, which suits Llyn y Dywarchen alone. With this account of the fairy wife frequenting a lake island to converse with her husband on shore, compare the Irish story of the Children of Lir, who, though transformed into swans, were allowed to retain their power of reasoning and speaking, so that they used to converse from the surface of the water with their friends on the dry land: see Joyce's Old Celtic Romances, pp. x, 1-36. Now I return to another tale which was sent me by Mr. William Jones: unless I am mistaken it has not hitherto been published; so I give the Welsh together with a free translation of it:-- Yr oed ystori am fab Braich y Dinas a adrodai y diwedar hybarch Elis Owen o Gefn y Meusyd yn lled debyg i chwedl mab yr Ystrad gan Glasynys, sef ido hudo un o ferched y Tylwyth Teg i lawr o Foel Hebog, a'i chipio i mewn i'r ty drwy orthrech; ac wedi hynny efe a'i perswadiod i ymbriodi ag ef ar yr un telerau ag y gwnaeth mab yr Ystrad. Ond clywais hen fonediges o'r enw Mrs. Roberts, un o ferched yr Isallt, oed lawer hyn na Mr. Owen, yn ei hadrod yn wahanol. Yr oed yr hen wreigan hon yn credu yn nilysrwyd y chwedl, oblegid yr oed hi 'yn cofio rhai o'r teulu, waeth be' deudo neb.' Dirwynnai ei hedau yn debyg i hyn:--Yn yr amser gynt--ond o ran hynny pan oed hi yn ferch ifanc--yr oed llawer iawn o Dylwyth Teg yn trigo mewn rhyw ogofau yn y Foel o Gwm Ystradllyn hyd i flaen y Pennant. Yr oed y Tylwyth hwn yn llawer iawn hardach na dim a welid mewn un rhan arall o'r wlad. Yr oedynt o ran maint yn fwy o lawer na'r rhai cyffredin, yn lan eu pryd tu hwnt i bawb, eu gwallt yn oleu fel llin, eu llygaid yn loyw leision. Yr oedynt yn ymdangos mewn rhyw le neu gilyd yn chwareu, canu ac ymdifyru bob nos deg a goleu; a bydai swn eu canu yn denu y llanciau a'r merched ifainc i fyned i'w gweled; ac os bydent yn digwyd bod o bryd goleu hwy a ymgomient a hwynt, ond ni adawent i un person o liw tywyll dod yn agos atynt, eithr cilient ymaith o fford y cyfryw un. Yrwan yr oed mab Braich y Dinas yn llanc hard, heini, bywiog ac o bryd glan, goleu a serchiadol. Yr oed hwn yn hoff iawn o edrych ar y Tylwyth, a bydai yn cael ymgom a rhai o honynt yn aml, ond yn bennaf ag un o'r merched oed yn rhagori arnynt oll mewn glendid a synwyr; ac o fynych gyfarfod syrthiod y dau mewn cariad a'u gilyd, eithr ni fynai hi ymbriodi ag ef, ond adawod fyned i'w wasanaeth, a chydunod i'w gyfarfod yn Mhant--nid wyf yn cofio yr enw i gyd--drannoeth, oblegid nid oed wiw idi geisio myned gydag ef yn ngwyd y lleill. Felly drannoeth aeth i fynu i'r Foel, a chyfarfydod y rhian ef yn ol ei hadewid, ag aeth gydag ef adref, ac ymgymerod a'r swyd o laethwraig, a buan y dechreuod popeth lwydo o dan ei llaw: yr oed yr ymenyn a'r caws yn cynhydu beunyd. Hir a thaer y bu'r llanc yn ceisio gandi briodi. A hi a adawod, os medrai ef gael allan ei henw. Ni wydai Mrs. Roberts drwy ba ystryw y llwydod i gael hwnnw, ond hynny a fu, a daeth ef i'r ty un noswaith a galwod ar 'Sibi,' a phan glywod hi ei henw, hi a aeth i lewygfa; ond pan daeth ati ei hun, hi a ymfodlonod i briodi ar yr amod nad oed ef i gyffwrd a hi a haiarn ac nad oed bollt haiarn i fod ar y drws na chlo ychwaith, a hynny a fu: priodwyd hwynt, a buont fyw yn gysurus am lawer o flynydoed, a ganwyd idynt amryw blant. Y diwed a fu fel hyn: yr oed ef wedi myned un diwrnod i dori baich o frwyn at doi, a tharawod y cryman yn y baich i fyned adref; fel yr oed yn nesu at y gadlas, rhedod Sibi i'w gyfarfod, a thaflod ynteu y baich brwyn yn direidus tu ag ati, a rhag ido dyfod ar ei thraws ceisiod ei atal a'i llaw, yr hon a gyffyrdod a'r cryman; a hi a diflannod o'r golwg yn y fan yn nghysgod y baich brwyn: ni welwyd ac ni chlywyd dim odiwrthi mwyach. 'There was a story respecting the son of the farmer of Braich y Dinas, which used to be told by the late respected Mr. Ellis Owen, of Cefn y Meusyd, somewhat in the same way as that about the Ystrad youth, as told by Glasynys; that is to say, the young man enticed one of the damsels of the fair family to come down from Moel Hebog, and then he carried her by force into the house, and afterwards persuaded her to become his wife on the same conditions as the heir of Ystrad did. But I have heard an old lady called Mrs. Roberts, who had been brought up at Isallt, and who was older than Mr. Owen, relating it differently. This old woman believed in the truth of the story, as "she remembered some of the family, whatever anybody may say." She used to spin her yarn somewhat as follows:--In old times--but, for the matter of that, when she was a young woman--there were a great many of the fair family living in certain caves in the Foel from Cwm Strállyn [36] down to the upper part of Pennant. This Tylwyth was much handsomer than any seen in any other part of the country. In point of stature they were much bigger than the ordinary ones, fair of complexion beyond everybody, with hair that was as light as flax, and eyes that were of a clear blue colour. They showed themselves in one spot or another, engaged in playing, singing, and jollity every light night. The sound of their singing used to draw the lads and the young women to look at them; and, should they be of clear complexion, the fairies would chat with them; but they would let no person of a dark hue come near them: they moved away from such a one. Now the young man of Braich y Dinas was a handsome, vigorous, and lively stripling of fair, clear, and attractive complexion. He was very fond of looking at the fair family, and had a chat with some of them often, but chiefly with one of the damsels, who surpassed all the rest in beauty and good sense. The result of frequently meeting was that they fell in love with one another, but she would not marry him. She promised, however, to go to service to him, and agreed to meet him at Pant y--I have forgotten the rest of the name--the day after, as it would not do for her to go with him while the others happened to be looking on. So he went up the next day to the Foel, and the damsel met him according to her promise, and went with him home, where she took to the duties of a dairymaid. Soon everything began to prosper under her hand; the butter and the cheese were daily growing in quantity. Long and importunately did the youth try to get her to marry him. She promised to do so provided he could find out her name. Mrs. Roberts did not know by what manoeuvre he succeeded in discovering it, but it was done, and he came into the house one night and called to "Sibi," and when she heard her name she fainted away. When, however, she recovered her consciousness, she consented to marry on the condition that he was not to touch her with iron, and that there was not to be a bolt of iron on the door, or a lock either. It was agreed, and they were married; they lived together comfortably many years, and had children born to them. The end came thus: he had gone one day to cut a bundle of rushes for thatching, and planted the reaping-hook in the bundle to go home. As he drew towards the haggard, Sibi ran out to meet him, and he wantonly threw the bundle of rushes towards her, when she, to prevent its hitting her, tried to stop it with her hand, which touched the reaping-hook. She vanished on the spot out of sight behind the bundle of rushes, and nothing more was seen or heard of her.' Mr. Ellis Owen, alluded to above, was a highly respected gentleman, well known in North Wales for his literary and antiquarian tastes. He was born in 1789 at Cefn y Meusyd near Tremadoc, where he continued to live till the day of his death, which was January 27, 1868. His literary remains, preceded by a short biography, were published in 1877 by Mr. Robert Isaac Jones of Tremadoc; but it contains no fairy tales so far as I have been able to find. A tale which partially reminds one of that given by Dewi Glan Ffrydlas respecting the Corwrion midwife, referred to at p. 63 above, was published by Mr. W. Jones in the fourth volume of the Brython, p. 251: freely rendered into English, it runs thus:-- 'Once on a time, when a midwife from Nanhwynan had newly got to the Hafodyd Brithion to pursue her calling, a gentleman came to the door on a fine grey steed and bade her come with him at once. Such was the authority with which he spoke, that the poor midwife durst not refuse to go, however much it was her duty to stay where she was. So she mounted behind him, and off they went, like the flight of a swallow, through Cwmllan, over the Bwlch, down Nant yr Aran, and over the Gader to Cwm Hafod Ruffyd, before the poor woman had time even to say Oh! When they reached there, she saw before her a magnificent mansion, splendidly lit up with such lamps as she had never seen before. They entered the court, and a crowd of servants in expensive liveries came to meet them, and she was at once led through the great hall into a bed-chamber, the like of which she had never seen. There the mistress of the house, to whom she had been fetched, was awaiting her. The midwife got through her duties successfully, and stayed there until the lady had completely recovered, nor had she spent any part of her life so merrily, for there nought but festivity went on day and night: dancing, singing, and endless rejoicing reigned there. But merry as it was, she found that she must go, and the nobleman gave her a large purse, with the order not to open it until she had got into her own house. Then he bade one of his servants escort her the same way that she had come. When she reached home she opened the purse, and, to her great joy, it was full of money: she lived happily on those earnings to the end of her life.' With this ending of the story one should contrast Dewi Glan Ffrydlas' tale to which I have already alluded; and I may here refer to Mr. Sikes' British Goblins, pp. 86-8, for a tale differing from both Dewi's and Jones', in that the fairies are there made to appear as devils to the nurse, who had accidentally used a certain ointment which she was not to place near her own eyes. Instead of being rewarded for her services she was only too glad to be deposited anyhow near her home. 'But,' as the story goes on to relate, 'very many years afterwards, being at a fair, she saw a man stealing something from a stall, and, with one corner of her eye, beheld her old master pushing the man's elbow. Unthinkingly she said, "How are you, master? how are the children?" He said, "How did you see me?" She answered, "With the corner of my left eye." From that moment she was blind of her left eye, and lived many years with only her right.' Such is the end of this tale given by Mr. Sikes. 'But the fair family did not,' Mr. William Jones goes on to say, 'always give mortals the means of good living: sometimes they made no little fun of them. Once on a time the Drws y Coed man was going home from Bedgelert Fair, rather merry than sad, along the old road over the Gader, when he saw, on coming near the top of the Gader, a fine, handsome house near the road, in which there was a rare merrymaking. He knew perfectly well that there was no such a building anywhere on his way, and it made him think that he had lost his way and gone astray; so he resolved to turn into the house to ask for lodgings, which were given him. At once, when he entered, he took it to be a nuptial feast (neithior) by reason of the jollity, the singing, and the dancing. The house was full of young men, young women, and children, all merry, and exerting themselves to the utmost. The company began to disappear one by one, and he asked if he might go to bed, whereupon he was led to a splendid chamber, where there was a bed of the softest down with snow-white clothes on it. He stripped at once, went into it, and slept quietly enough till the morning. The first thing to come to his mind when he lay half asleep, half awake, was the jollity of the night before, and the fact of his sleeping in a splendid chamber in the strange house. He opened his eyes to survey his bedroom, but it was too wide: he was sleeping on the bare swamp, with a clump of rushes as his pillow, and the blue sky as his coverlet.' Mr. Jones mentions that, within his memory, there were still people in his neighbourhood who believed that the fairies stole unbaptized children and placed their own in their stead: he gives the following story about the farmer's wife of Dyffryn Mymbyr, near Capel Curig, and her infant:-- Yr oed y wraig hon wedi rhodi genedigaeth i blentyn iach a heinif yn nechreu y cynheuaf ryw haf blin a thymhestlog: ac o herwyd fod y tydyn getyn o fford odiwrth lan na chapel, a'r hin mor hynod o lawiog, esgeuluswyd bedydio y plentyn yn yr amser arferol, sef cyn ei fod yn wyth niwrnod oed. Ryw diwrnod teg yn nghanol y cynheuaf blin aeth y wraig allan i'r maes gyda'r rhelyw o'r teulu i geisio achub y cynheuaf, a gadawod y baban yn cysgu yn ei gryd o dan ofal ei nain, yr hon oed hen a methiantus, ac yn analluog i fyned lawer o gwmpas. Syrthiod yr hen wreigan i gysgu, a thra yr oed hi felly, daeth y Tylwyth i fewn, a chymerasant y baban o'r cryd, a dodasant un arall yn ei le. Yn mhen ennyd dechreuod hwn erain a chwyno nes deffro y nain, ac aeth at y cryd, lle y gwelod gleiriach hen eidil crebachlyd yn ymstwyrian yn flin. 'O'r wchw!' ebai hi, 'y mae yr hen Dylwyth wedi bod yma;' ac yn dioed chwythod yn y corn i alw y fam, yr hon a daeth yno yn diatreg; a phan glywod y crio yn y cryd, rhedod ato, a chodod y bychan i fynu heb sylwi arno, a hi a'i cofleidiod, a'i suod ac a'i swcrod at ei bronnau, ond nid oed dim yn tycio, parhau i nadu yn didor yr oed nes bron a hollti ei chalon; ac ni wydai pa beth i wneud i'w distewi. O'r diwed hi a edrychod arno, a gwelod nad oed yn debyg i'w mhebyn hi, ac aeth yn loes i'w chalon: edrychod arno drachefn, ond po fwyaf yr edrychai arno, hyllaf yn y byd oed hi yn ei weled; anfonod am ei gwr o'r cae, a gyrrod ef i ymholi am wr cyfarwyd yn rhywle er mwyn cael ei gynghor; ac ar ol hir holi dywedod rhywun wrtho fod person Trawsfynyd yn gyfarwyd yn nghyfrinion yr ysprydion; ac efe a aeth ato, ac archod hwnnw ido gymeryd rhaw a'i gorchudio a halen, a thori llun croes yn yr halen; yna ei chymeryd i'r ystafell lle yr oed mab y Tylwyth, ac ar ol agor y ffenestr, ei rhodi ar y tan hyd nes y llosgai yr halen; a hwy a wnaethant felly, a phan aeth yr halen yn eiriasboeth fe aeth yr erthyl croes ymaith yn anweledig idynt hwy, ac ar drothwy y drws hwy a gawsant y baban arall yn iach a dianaf. 'This woman had given birth to a healthy and vigorous child at the beginning of the harvest, one wretched and inclement summer. As the homestead was a considerable distance from church or chapel, and the weather so very rainy, it was neglected to baptize the child at the usual [37] time, that is to say, before it was eight days old. One fine day, in the middle of this wretched harvest, the mother went to the field with the rest of the family to try to save the harvest, and left her baby sleeping in its cradle in its grandmother's charge, who was so aged and decrepit as to be unable to go much about. The old woman fell asleep, and, while she was in that state, the Tylwyth Teg came in and took away the baby, placing another in its stead. Very shortly the latter began to whine and groan, so that the grandmother awoke: she went to the cradle, where she saw a slender, wizened old man moving restlessly and peevishly about. "Alas! alas!" said she, "the old Tylwyth have been here"; and she at once blew in the horn to call the mother home, who came without delay. As she heard the crying in the cradle, she ran towards it, and lifted the little one without looking at him; she hugged him, put him to her breast, and sang lullaby to him, but nothing was of any avail, as he continued, without stopping, to scream enough to break her heart; and she knew not what to do to calm him. At last she looked at him: she saw that he was not like her dear little boy, and her heart was pierced with agony. She looked at him again, and the more she examined him the uglier he seemed to her. She sent for her husband home from the field, and told him to search for a skilled man somewhere or other; and, after a long search, he was told by somebody that the parson of Trawsfynyd was skilled in the secrets of the spirits; so he went to him. The latter bade him take a shovel and cover it with salt, and make the figure of the cross in the salt; then to take it to the chamber where the fairy child was, and, after taking care to open the window, to place the shovel on the fire until the salt was burnt. This was done, and when the salt had got white hot, the peevish abortion went away, seen of no one, and they found the other baby whole and unscathed at the doorstep.' Fire was also made use of in Scotland in order to detect a changeling and force him to quit: see the British Association's Report, 1896, p. 650, where Mr. Gomme refers to Mr. Gregor's Folk-lore of the North-east of Scotland, pp. 8-9. In answer to a question of mine with regard to gossamer, which is called in North Wales edafed gwawn, 'gwawn yarn,' Mr. Jones told me in a letter, dated April, 1881, that it used to be called Rhaffau'r Tylwyth Teg, that is to say, the Ropes of the Fair Family, which were associated with the diminutive, mischievous, and wanton kind of fairies who dwelt in marshy and rushy places, or among the fern and the heather. It used to be said that, if a man should lie down and fall asleep in any such a spot, the fairies would come and bind him with their ropes so that he could not move, and that they would then cover him with a sheet made of their ropes, which would make him invisible. This was illustrated by him by the following tale he had heard from his mother:-- Clywais fy mam yn adrod chwedl am fab y Ffrid, yr hwn wrth dychwelyd adref o ffair Bedgelert yn rhywle odeutu Pen Cae'r Gors a welod beth afrifed o'r Tylwyth Bach yn neidio a phrancio ar bennau y grug. Efe a eistedod i lawr i edrych arnynt, a daeth hun drosto; ymollyngod i lawr a chysgod yn drwm. A phan oed felly, ymosodod yr holl lu arno a rhwymasant ef mor dyn fel na allasai symud; yna hwy a'i cudiasant ef a'r tuded gwawn fel na allai neb ei weled os digwydai ido lefain am help. Yr oed ei deulu yn ei disgwyl adref yn gynnar y nos honno, ac wrth ei weled yn oedi yn hwyr, aethant yn anesmwyth am dano ac aethpwyd i'w gyfarfod, eithr ni welent dim odiwrtho, ac aed gan belled a'r pentref, lle en hyspyswyd ei fod wedi myned tuag adref yn gynnar gyda gwr Hafod Ruffyd. Felly aed tua'r Hafod i edrych a oed yno; ond dywedod gwr yr Hafod eu bod wedi ymwahanu ar Bont Glan y Gors, pawb tua'i fan ei hun. Yna chwiliwyd yn fanwl bob ochr i'r fford odiyno i'r Ffrid heb weled dim odiwrtho. Buwyd yn chwilio yr holl ardal drwy y dyd drannoeth ond yn ofer. Fod bynnag odeutu yr un amser nos drannoeth daeth y Tylwyth ac a'i rhydhasant, ac yn fuan efe a deffrôd wedi cysgu o hono drwy y nos a'r dyd blaenorol. Ar ol ido deffro ni wydai amcan daear yn mha le yr oed, a chrwydro y bu hyd ochrau y Gader a'r Gors Fawr hyd nes y canod y ceiliog, pryd yr adnabu yn mha le yr oed, sef o fewn llai na chwarter milltir i'w gartref. 'I have heard my mother relating a tale about the son of the farmer of the Ffrid, who, while on his way home from Bedgelert Fair, saw, somewhere near Pen Cae'r Gors, an endless number of the diminutive family leaping and capering on the heather tops. He sat him down to look at them, and sleep came over him; he let himself down on the ground, and slept heavily. When he was so, the whole host attacked him, and they bound him so tightly that he could not have stirred; then they covered him with the gossamer sheet, so that nobody could see him in case he called for help. His people expected him home early that evening, and, as they found him delaying till late, they got uneasy about him. They went to meet him, but no trace of him was seen, and they went as far as the village, where they were informed that he had started home in good time with the farmer of Hafod Ruffyd. So they went to the Hafod to see if he was there; but the farmer told them that they had parted on Glan y Gors Bridge to go to their respective homes. A minute search was then made on both sides of the road from there to the Ffrid, but without finding any trace of him. They kept searching the whole neighbourhood during the whole of the next day, but in vain. However, about the same time the following night the Tylwyth came and liberated him, and he shortly woke up, after sleeping through the previous night and day. When he woke he had no idea where on earth he was; so he wandered about on the slopes of the Gader and near the Gors Fawr until the cock crew, when he found where he was, namely, less than a quarter of a mile from his home.' The late Mr. Owen, of Cefn Meusyd, has already been alluded to. I have not been able to get at much of the folklore with which he was familiar, but, in reply to some questions of mine, Mr. Robert Isaac Jones of Tremadoc, his biographer, and the publisher of the Brython, so long as it existed, has kindly ransacked his memory. He writes to me in Welsh to the following effect:-- 'I will tell you what I heard from Mr. Owen and my mother when I was a lad, about fifty-seven years ago. The former used to say that the people of Pennant in Eifionyd had a nickname, to wit, that of Belsiaid y Pennant, "the Bellisians of the Pennant"; that, when he was a boy, if anybody called out Belsiaid y Pennant at the Penmorfa Fair, every man jack of them would come out, and fighting always ensued. The antiquary used to explain it thus. Some two or three hundred years ago, Sir Robert of the Nant, one of Sir Richard Bulkeley's ancestors, had a son and heir who was extravagant and wild. He married a gipsy, and they had children born to them; but, as the family regarded this marriage as a disgrace to their ancient stem, it is said that the father, the next time the vagabonds came round, gave a large sum of money to the father of the girl for taking her away with him. This having been done, the rumour was spread abroad that it was one of the fairies the youth had married, and that she had gone with him to catch a pony, when he threw the bridle at the beast to prevent it passing, and the iron of the bridle touched the wife; then that she at once disappeared, as the fairies always do so when touched with iron. However, the two children were put out to nurse, and the one of them, who was a girl, was brought up at Plas y Pennant, and her name was Pelisha [38]; her descendants remain to this day in the Nant, and are called Bellis, who are believed there, to this day, to be derived from the Tylwyth Teg. Nothing offends them more than to be reminded of this.' Mr. R. I. Jones goes on to relate another tale as follows:-- Dywedir fod lle a elwir yr Hafod Rugog mewn cwm anial yn y mynyd lle y bydai y Tylwyth Teg yn arferol a mynychu; ac y bydent yn trwblio'r hen wraig am fenthyg rhywbeth neu gilyd. Dywedod hithau, 'Cewch os caniatewch dau beth cyntaf--i'r peth cyntaf y cyffyrdaf ag ef wrth y drws dorri, a'r peth cyntaf y rhof fy llaw arno yn y ty estyn hanner llath.' Yr oed carreg afael, fel ei gelwir, yn y mur wrth y drws ar ei fford, ac yr oed gandi defnyd syrcyn gwlanen yn rhy fyr o hanner llath. Ond yn anffodus wrth dod a'i chawellad mawn i'r ty bu agos idi a syrthio: rhoes ei llaw ar ben ei chlun i ymarbed a thorod honno, a chan faint y boen cyffyrdod yny ty a'i thrwyn yr hwn a estynnod hanner llath. 'It is said that there was a place called Hafod Rugog in a wild hollow among the mountains, where the fair family were in the habit of resorting, and that they used to trouble the old woman of Hafod for the loan of one thing and another. So she said, one day, "You shall have the loan if you will grant me two first things--that the first thing I touch at the door break, and that the first thing I put my hand on in the house be lengthened half a yard." There was a grip stone (carreg afael), as it is called, in the wall near the door, which was in her way, and she had in the house a piece of flannel for a jerkin which was half a yard too short. But, unfortunately, as she came, with her kreel full of turf on her back, to the house, she nearly fell down: she put her hand, in order to save herself, to her knee-joint, which then broke; and, owing to the pain, when she had got into the house, she touched her nose with her hand, when her nose grew half a yard longer.' Mr. Jones went on to notice how the old folks used to believe that the fairies were wont to appear in the marshes near Cwellyn Lake, not far from Rhyd-Du, to sing and dance, and that it was considered dangerous to approach them on those occasions lest one should be fascinated. As to the above-mentioned flannel and stone a folklorist asks me, why the old woman did not definitely mention them and say exactly what she wanted. The question is worth asking: I cannot answer it, but I mention it in the hope that somebody else will. II. Early in the year 1899 [39] I had a small group of stories communicated to me by the Rev. W. Evans Jones, rector of Dolbenmaen, who tells me that the neighbourhood of the Garn abounds in fairy tales. The scene of one of these is located near the source of Afon fach Blaen y Cae, a tributary of the Dwyfach. 'There a shepherd while looking after his flock came across a ring of rushes which he accidentally kicked, as the little people were coming out to dance. They detained him, and he married one of their number. He was told that he would live happily with them as long as he would not touch any instrument of iron. For years nothing happened to mar the peace and happiness of the family. One day, however, he unknowingly touched iron, with the consequence that both the wife and the children disappeared.' This differs remarkably from stories such as have been already mentioned at pp. 32, 35; but until it is countenanced by stories from other sources, I can only treat it as a blurred version of a story of the more usual type, such as the next one which Mr. Evans Jones has sent me as follows:-- 'A son of the farmer of Blaen Pennant married a fairy and they lived together happily for years, until one day he took a bridle to catch a horse, which proved to be rather an obstreperous animal, and in trying to prevent the horse passing, he threw the bridle at him, which, however, missed the animal and hit the wife so that the bit touched her, and she at once disappeared. The tradition goes, that their descendants are to this day living in the Pennant Valley; and if there is any unpleasantness between them and their neighbours they are taunted with being of the Tylwyth Teg family.' These are, I presume, the people nicknamed Belsiaid, to which reference has already been made. The next story is about an old woman from Garn Dolbenmaen who was crossing y Graig Goch, 'the Red Rock,' 'when suddenly she came across a fairy sitting down with a very large number of gold coins by her. The old woman ventured to remark how wealthy she was: the fairy replied, Wele dacw, "Lo there!" and immediately disappeared.' This looks as if it ought to be a part of a longer story which Mr. Evans Jones has not heard. The last bit of folklore which he has communicated is equally short, but of a rarer description: 'A fairy was in the habit of attending a certain family in the Pennant Valley every evening to put the children to bed; and as the fairy was poorly clad, the mistress of the house gave her a gown, which was found in the morning torn into shreds.' The displeasure of the fairy at being offered the gown is paralleled by that of the fenodyree or the Manx brownie, described in chapter iv. As for the kind of service here ascribed to the Pennant fairy, I know nothing exactly parallel. III. The next four stories are to be found in Cymru Fu at pp. 175-9, whence I have taken the liberty of translating them into English. They were contributed by Glasynys, whose name has already occurred so often in connexion with these Welsh legends, that the reader ought to know more about him; but I have been disappointed in my attempt to get a short account of his life to insert here. All I can say is, that I made his acquaintance in 1865 in Anglesey: at that time he had a curacy near Holyhead, and he was in the prime of life. He impressed me as an enthusiast for Welsh antiquities: he was born and bred, I believe, in the neighbourhood of Snowdon, and his death took place about ten years ago. It would be a convenience to the student of Welsh folklore to have a brief biography of Glasynys, but as yet nothing of the kind seems to have been written. (1) 'When the people of the Gors Goch one evening had just gone to bed, they heard a great row and disturbance around the house. One could not comprehend at all what it was that made a noise at that time of night. Both the husband and the wife had waked up, quite unable to make out what it might be. The children also woke, but no one could utter a word: their tongues had all stuck to the roof of their mouths. The husband, however, at last managed to move, and to ask, "Who is there? What do you want?" Then he was answered from without by a small silvery voice, "It is room we want to dress our children." The door was opened: a dozen small beings came in, and began to search for an earthen pitcher with water; there they remained for some hours, washing and titivating themselves. As the day was breaking, they went away, leaving behind them a fine present for the kindness they had received. Often afterwards did the Gors Goch folks have the company of this family. But once there happened to be there a fine plump and pretty baby in his cradle. The fair family came, and, as the baby had not been baptized, they took the liberty of changing him for one of their own. They left behind in his stead an abominable creature that would do nothing but cry and scream every day of the week. The mother was nearly breaking her heart on account of the misfortune, and greatly afraid of telling anybody about it. But everybody got to see that there was something wrong at the Gors Goch, which was proved before long by the mother dying of longing for her child. The other children died broken-hearted after their mother, and the husband was left alone with the little elf without any one to comfort them. But shortly after, one began to resort again to the hearth of the Gors Goch to dress children, and the gift, which had formerly been silver money, became henceforth pure gold. In the course of a few years the elf became the heir of a large farm in North Wales, and that is why the old people used to say, "Shoe the elf with gold and he will grow" (Fe daw gwidon yn fawr ond ei bedoli ag aur). That is the legend of the Gors Goch.' (2) 'Once when William Ellis, of the Gilwern, was fishing on the bank of Cwm Silin Lake on a dark misty day, he had seen no living Christian from the time when he left Nantlle. But as he was in a happy mood, throwing his line, he beheld over against him in a clump of rushes a large crowd of people, or things in the shape of people about a foot in stature: they were engaged in leaping and dancing. He looked on for hours, and he never heard, as he said, such music in his life before. But William went too near them, when they threw a kind of dust into his eyes, and, while he was wiping it away, the little family took the opportunity of betaking themselves somewhere out of his sight, so that he neither saw nor heard anything more of them.' (3) 'There is a similar story respecting a place called Llyn y Ffynhonnau. There was no end of jollity there, of dancing, harping, and fiddling, with the servant man of Gelli Ffrydau and his two dogs in the midst of the crowd, leaping and capering as nimbly as anybody else. At it they were for three days and three nights, without stopping; and had it not been for a skilled man, who lived not far off, and came to know how things were going on, the poor fellow would, without doubt, have danced himself to death. But he was rescued that time.' (4) The fourth story is one, of which he says, that he heard it from his mother; but he has elaborated it in his usual fashion, and the proper names are undoubtedly his own:--'Once on a time, a shepherd boy had gone up the mountain. That day, like many a day before and after, was exceedingly misty. Now, though he was well acquainted with the place, he lost his way, and walked backwards and forwards for many a long hour. At last he got into a low rushy spot, where he saw before him many circular rings. He at once recalled the place, and began to fear the worst. He had heard, many hundreds of times, of the bitter experiences, in those rings, of many a shepherd who had happened to chance on the dancing place or the circles of the fair family. He hastened away as fast as ever he could, lest he should be ruined like the rest; but, though he exerted himself to the point of perspiring and losing his breath, there he was, and there he continued to be, a long time. At last he was met by an old fat little man, with merry blue eyes, who asked him what he was doing. He answered that he was trying to find his way home. "Oh," said he, "come after me, and do not utter a word until I bid thee." This he did, following him on and on until they came to an oval stone; and the old fat little man lifted it, after tapping the middle of it three times with his walking-stick. There was there a narrow path with stairs visible here and there; and a sort of whitish light, inclining to grey and blue, was to be seen radiating from the stones. "Follow me fearlessly," said the fat man; "no harm will be done thee." So on the poor youth went, as reluctantly as a dog to be hanged. But presently a fine, wooded, fertile country spread itself out before them, with well arranged mansions dotting it all over, while every kind of apparent magnificence met the eye and seemed to smile in the landscape; the bright waters of the rivers meandered in twisted streams, and the hills were covered with the luxuriant verdure of their grassy growth, and the mountains with a glossy fleece of smooth pasture. By the time they had reached the stout gentleman's mansion, the young man's senses had been bewildered by the sweet cadence of the music which the birds poured forth from the groves: then there was gold dazzling his eyes, and silver flashing on his sight. He saw there all kinds of musical instruments and all sorts of things for playing; but he could discern no inhabitant in the whole place; and, when he sat down to eat, the dishes on the table came to their places of themselves, and disappeared when one had done with them. This puzzled him beyond measure; moreover, he heard people talking together around him, but for the life of him he could see no one but his old friend. At length the fat man said to him: "Thou canst now talk as much as it may please thee;" but, when he attempted to move his tongue, it would no more stir than if it had been a lump of ice, which greatly frightened him. At this point, a fine old lady, with health and benevolence beaming in her face, came to them and slightly smiled at the shepherd: the mother was followed by her three daughters, who were remarkably beautiful. They gazed with somewhat playful looks at him, and at length began to talk to him; but his tongue would not wag. Then one of the girls came to him, and, playing with his yellow and curly locks, gave him a smart kiss on his ruddy lips. This loosened the string that bound his tongue, and he began to talk freely and eloquently. There he was, under the charm of that kiss, in the bliss of happiness; and there he remained a year and a day without knowing that he had passed more than a day among them; for he had got into a country where there was no reckoning of time. But by-and-by he began to feel somewhat of a longing to visit his old home, and asked the stout man if he might go. "Stay a little yet," said he, "and thou shalt go for awhile." That passed: he stayed on, but Olwen, for that was the name of the damsel that had kissed him, was very unwilling that he should depart. She looked sad every time he talked of going away; nor was he himself without feeling a sort of a cold thrill passing through him at the thought of leaving her. On condition, however, of returning, he obtained leave to go, provided with plenty of gold and silver, of trinkets and gems. When he reached home, nobody knew who he was: it had been the belief that he had been killed by another shepherd, who found it necessary to betake himself hastily far away to America, lest he should be hanged without delay. But here is Einion Lâs at home, and everybody wonders especially to see that the shepherd had got to look like a wealthy man: his manners, his dress, his language, and the treasure he had with him, all conspired to give him the air of a gentleman. He went back one Thursday night, the first of the moon of that month, as suddenly as he had left the first time, and nobody knew whither. There was great joy in the country below when Einion returned thither, and nobody was more rejoiced at it than Olwen his beloved. The two were right impatient to get married; but it was necessary to do that quietly, for the family below hated nothing more than fuss and noise; so, in a sort of a half-secret fashion, they were wedded. Einion was very desirous to go once more among his own people, accompanied, to be sure, by his wife. After he had been long entreating the old man for leave, they set out on two white ponies, that were, in fact, more like snow than anything else in point of colour. So he arrived with his consort in his old home, and it was the opinion of all that Einion's wife was the handsomest person they had anywhere seen. Whilst at home, a son was born to them, to whom they gave the name of Taliessin. Einion was now in the enjoyment of high repute, and his wife received due respect. Their wealth was immense, and soon they acquired a large estate; but it was not long till people began to inquire after the pedigree of Einion's wife: the country was of opinion that it was not the right thing to be without a pedigree. Einion was questioned about it, but without giving any satisfactory answer, and one came to the conclusion that she was one of the fair family (Tylwyth Teg). "Certainly," replied Einion, "there can be no doubt that she comes from a very fair family; for she has two sisters who are as fair as she, and, if you saw them together, you would admit that name to be a most fitting one." This, then, is the reason why the remarkable family in the Land of Enchantment and Glamour (Hud a Lledrith) is called the fair family.' The two next tales of Glasynys' appear in Cymru Fu, at pp. 478-9; the first of them is to be compared with one already related (pp. 99, 100), while the other is unlike anything that I can now recall:-- (5) 'Cwmllan was the principal resort of the fair family, and the shepherds of Hafod Llan used to see them daily in the ages of faith gone by. Once, on a misty afternoon, one of them had been searching for sheep towards Nant y Bettws. When he had crossed Bwlch Cwmllan, and was hastening laboriously down, he saw an endless number of little folks singing and dancing in a lively and light-footed fashion, while the handsomest girls he had ever seen anywhere were at it preparing a banquet. He went to them and had a share of their dainties, and it seemed to him that he had never in his life tasted anything approaching their dishes. When the twilight came, they spread their tents, and the man never before saw such beauty and ingenuity. They gave him a soft bed of yielding down, with sheets of the finest linen, and he went to rest as proud as if he had been a prince. But, alas! next morning, after all the jollity and sham splendour, the poor man, when he opened his eyes, found that his bed was but a bush of bulrushes, and his pillow a clump of moss. Nevertheless, he found silver money in his shoes, and afterwards he continued for a long time to find, every week, a piece of coined money between two stones near the spot where he had slept. One day, however, he told a friend of his the secret respecting the money, and he never found any more.' (6) 'Another of these shepherds was one day urging his dog at the sheep in Cwmllan, when he heard a kind of low noise in the cleft of a rock. He turned to look, when he found there some kind of a creature weeping plenteously. He approached, and drew out a wee lass; very shortly afterwards two middle-aged men came to him to thank him for his kindness, and, when about to part, one of them gave him a walking-stick, as a souvenir of his good deed. The year after this, every sheep in his possession had two ewe-lambs; and so his sheep continued to breed for some years. But he had stayed one evening in the village until it was rather late, and there hardly ever was a more tempestuous night than that: the wind howled, and the clouds shed their contents in sheets of rain, while the darkness was such that next to nothing could be seen. As he was crossing the river that comes down from Cwmllan, where its flood was sweeping all before it in a terrible current, he somehow let go the walking-stick from his hand; and when one went next morning up the Cwm, it was found that nearly all the sheep had been swept away by the flood, and that the farmer's wealth had gone almost as it came--with the walking-stick.' The shorter versions given by Glasynys are probably more nearly given as he heard them, than the longer ones, which may be suspected of having been a good deal spun out by him; but there is probably very little in any of them of his own invention, though the question whence he got his materials in each instance may be difficult to answer. In one this is quite clear, though he does not state it, namely the story of the sojourn of Elfod the Shepherd in Fairyland, as given in Cymru Fu, p. 477: it is no other than a second or third-hand reproduction of that recorded by Giraldus concerning a certain Eliodorus, a twelfth-century cleric in the diocese of St. David's [40]. But the longest tale published by Glasynys is the one about a mermaid: see Cymru Fu, pp. 434-44. Where he got this from I have not been able to find out, but it has probably been pieced together from various sources. I feel sure that some of the materials at least were Welsh, besides the characters known to Welsh mythology as Nefyd Naf Neifion, Gwyn ab Nud, Gwydion ab Dôn, Dylan, and Ceridwen, who have been recklessly introduced into it. He locates it, apparently, somewhere on the coast of Carnarvonshire, the chief scene being called Ogof Deio or David's Cave, which so far as I know is not an actual name, but one suggested by 'David Jones' locker' as sailors' slang for the sea. In hopes that somebody will communicate to me any bits of this tale that happen to be still current on the Welsh coast, I give an abstract of it here:-- 'Once upon a time, a poor fisherman made the acquaintance of a mermaid in a cave on the sea-coast; at first she screeched wildly, but, when she got a little calmer, she told him to go off out of the way of her brother, and to return betimes the day after. In getting away, he was tossed into the sea, and tossed out on the land with a rope, which had got wound about his waist; and on pulling at this he got ashore a coffer full of treasure, which he spent the night in carrying home. He was somewhat late in revisiting the cave the next day, and saw no mermaid come there to meet him according to her promise. But the following night he was roused out of his sleep by a visit from her at his home, when she told him to come in time next day. On his way thither, he learnt from some fishermen that they had been labouring in vain during the night, as a great big mermaid had opened their nets in order to pick the best fish, while she let the rest escape. When he reached the cave he found the mermaid there combing her hair: she surprised him by telling him that she had come to live among the inhabitants of the land, though she was, according to her own account, a king's daughter. She was no longer stark naked, but dressed like a lady: in one hand she held a diadem of pure gold, and in the other a cap of wonderful workmanship, the former of which she placed on her head, while she handed the latter to Ifan Morgan, with the order that he should keep it. Then she related to him how she had noticed him when he was a ruddy boy, out fishing in his father's white boat, and heard him sing a song which made her love him, and how she had tried to repeat this song at her father's court, where everybody wanted to get it. Many a time, she said, she had been anxiously listening if she might hear it again, but all in vain. So she had obtained permission from her family to come with her treasures and see if he would not teach it her; but she soon saw that she would not succeed without appearing in the form in which she now was. After saying that her name was Nefyn, daughter of Nefyd Naf Neifion, and niece to Gwyn son of Nud, and Gwydion son of Dôn, she calmed his feelings on the subject of the humble cottage in which he lived. Presently he asked her to be his wife, and she consented on the condition that he should always keep the cap she had given him out of her sight and teach her the song. They were married and lived happily together, and had children born them five times, a son and a daughter each time; they frequently went to the cave, and no one knew what treasures they had there; but once on a time they went out in a boat pleasuring, as was their wont, with six or seven of the children accompanying them, and when they were far from the land a great storm arose; besides the usual accompaniments of a storm at sea, most unearthly screeches and noises were heard, which frightened the children and made their mother look uncomfortable; but presently she bent her head over the side of the boat, and whispered something they did not catch: to their surprise the sea was instantly calm. They got home comfortably, but the elder children were puzzled greatly by their mother's influence over the sea, and it was not long after this till they so teased some ill-natured old women, that the latter told them all about the uncanny origin of their mother. The eldest boy was vexed at this, and remembered how his mother had spoken to somebody near the boat at sea, and that he was never allowed to go with his parents to Ogof Deio. He recalled, also, his mother's account of the strange countries she had seen. Once there came also to Ifan Morgan's home, which was now a mansion, a visitor whom the children were not even allowed to see; and one night, when the young moon had sunk behind the western horizon, Ifan and his wife went quietly out of the house, telling a servant that they would not return for three weeks or a month: this was overheard by the eldest son. So he followed them very quietly until he saw them on the strand, where he beheld his mother casting a sort of leather mantle round herself and his father, and both of them threw themselves into the hollow of a billow that came to fetch them. The son went home, broke his heart, and died in nine days at finding out that his mother was a mermaid; and, on seeing her brother dead, his twin sister went and threw herself into the sea; but, instead of being drowned, she was taken up on his steed by a fine looking knight, who then galloped away over the waves as if they had been dry and level land. The servants were in doubt what to do, now that Nefyd Morgan was dead and Eilonwy had thrown herself into the sea; but Tegid, the second son, who feared nothing, said that Nefyd's body should be taken to the strand, as somebody was likely to come to fetch it for burial among his mother's family. At midnight a knight arrived, who said the funeral was to be at three that morning, and told them that their brother would come back to them, as Gwydion ab Dôn was going to give him a heart that no weight could break, that Eilonwy was soon to be wedded to one of the finest and bravest of the knights of Gwerdonau Llion, and that their parents were with Gwyn ab Nud in the Gwaelodion. The body was accordingly taken to the beach, and, as soon as the wave touched it, out of his coffin leaped Nefyd like a porpoise. He was seen then to walk away arm in arm with Gwydion ab Dôn to a ship that was in waiting, and most enchanting music was heard by those on shore; but soon the ship sailed away, hardly touching the tops of the billows. After a year and a day had elapsed Ifan Morgan, the father, came home, looking much better and more gentlemanly than he had ever done before; he had never spoken of Nefyn, his wife, until Tegid one day asked him what about his mother; she had gone, he said, in search of Eilonwy, who had run away from her husband in Gwerdonau Llion, with Glanfryd ab Gloywfraint. She would be back soon, he thought, and describe to them all the wonders they had seen. Ifan Morgan went to bed that night, and was found dead in it in the morning; it was thought that his death had been caused by a Black Knight, who had been seen haunting the place at midnight for some time, and always disappearing, when pursued, into a well that bubbled forth in a dark recess near at hand. The day of Ifan Morgan's funeral, Nefyn, his wife, returned, and bewailed him with many tears; she was never more seen on the dry land. Tegid had now the charge of the family, and he conducted himself in all things as behoved a man and a gentleman of high principles and great generosity. He was very wealthy, but often grieved by the thought of his father's murder. One day, when he and two of his brothers were out in a boat fishing in the neighbouring bay, they were driven by the wind to the most wonderful spot they had ever seen. The sea there was as smooth as glass, and as bright as the clearest light, while beneath it, and not far from them, they saw a most splendid country with fertile fields and dales covered with pastures, with flowery hedges, groves clad in their green foliage, and forests gently waving their leafy luxuriance, with rivers lazily contemplating their own tortuous courses, and with mansions here and there of the most beautiful and ingenious description; and presently they saw that the inhabitants amused themselves with all kinds of merriment and frolicking, and that here and there they had music and engaged themselves in the most energetic dancing; in fact, the rippling waves seemed to have absorbed their fill of the music, so that the faint echo of it, as gently given forth by the waves, never ceased to charm their ears until they reached the shore. That night the three brothers had the same dream, namely that the Black Knight who had throttled their father was in hiding in a cave on the coast: so they made for the cave in the morning, but the Black Knight fled from them and galloped off on the waves as if he had been riding for amusement over a meadow. That day their sisters, on returning home from school, had to cross a piece of sea, when a tempest arose and sunk the vessel, drowning all on board, and the brothers ascribed this to the Black Knight. About this time there was great consternation among the fishermen on account of a sea-serpent that twined itself about the rocks near the caves, and nothing would do but that Tegid and his brothers should go forth to kill it; but when one day they came near the spot frequented by it, they heard a deep voice saying to them, "Do not kill your sister," so they wondered greatly and suddenly went home. But that night Tegid returned there alone, and called his sister by her name, and after waiting a long while she crept towards him in the shape of a sea-serpent, and said that she must remain some time in that form on account of her having run away with one who was not her husband; she went on to say that she had seen their sisters walking with their mother, and their father would soon be in the cave. But all of a sudden there came the Black Knight, who unsheathed a sword that looked like a flame of fire, and began to cut the sea-serpent into a thousand bits, which united, however, as fast as he cut it, and became as whole as before. The end was that the monster twisted itself in a coil round his throat and bit him terribly in his breast. At this point a White Knight comes and runs him through with his spear, so that he fell instantly, while the White Knight went off hurriedly with the sea-serpent in a coil round his neck. Tegid ran away for his life, but not before a monster more terrible than anything he had ever seen had begun to attack him. It haunted him in all kinds of ways: sometimes it would be like a sea, but Tegid was able to swim: sometimes it would be a mountain of ice, but Tegid was able to climb it: and sometimes it was like a furnace of intense fire, but the heat had no effect on him. But it appeared mostly as a combination of the beast of prey and the venomous reptile. Suddenly, however, a young man appeared, taking hold of Tegid's arm and encouraging him, when the monster fled away screeching, and a host of knights in splendid array and on proudly prancing horses came to him: among them he found his brothers, and he went with them to his mother's country. He was especially welcome there, and he found all happy and present save his father only, whom he thought of fetching from the world above, having in fact got leave to do so from his grandfather. His mother and his brothers went with him to search for his father's body, and with him came Gwydion ab Dôn and Gwyn ab Nud, but he would not be wakened. So Tegid, who loved his father greatly, asked leave to remain on his father's grave, where he remains to this day. His mother is wont to come there to soothe him, and his brothers send him gifts, while he sends his gifts to Nefyd Naf Neifion, his grandfather; it is also said that his twin-sister, Ceridwen, has long since come to live near him, to make the glad gladder and the pretty prettier, and to maintain her dignity and honour in peace and tranquillity.' The latter part of this tale, the mention of Ceridwen, invoked by the bards as the genius presiding over their profession, and of Tegid remaining on his father's grave, is evidently a reference to Llyn Tegid, or Bala Lake, and to the legend of Taliessin in the so-called Hanes or history of Taliessin, published at the end of the third volume of Lady Charlotte Guest's Mabinogion. So the story has undoubtedly been pieced together, but not all invented, as is proved by the reference to the curious cap which the husband was to keep out of the sight of his mermaid wife. In Irish legends this cap has particular importance attached to it, of which Glasynys cannot have been aware, for he knew of no use to make of it. The teaching of the song to the wife is not mentioned after the marriage; and the introduction of it at all is remarkable: at any rate I have never noticed anything parallel to it in other tales. The incident of the tempest, when the mermaid spoke to somebody by the side of the boat, reminds one of Undine during the trip on the Danube. It is, perhaps, useless to go into details till one has ascertained how much of the story has been based on genuine Welsh folklore. But, while I am on this point, I venture to append here an Irish tale, which will serve to explain the meaning of the mermaid's cap, as necessary to her comfort in the water world. I am indebted for it to the kindness of Dr. Norman Moore, of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, who tells me, in a letter dated March 7, 1882, that he and the Miss Raynells of Killynon heard it from an old woman named Mrs. Dolan, who lived on the property of the late Mr. Cooke of Cookesborough, in Westmeath. The following was her tale:--'There was a man named Mahon had a farm on the edge of Loch Owel. He noticed that his corn was trampled, and he sat up all night to watch it. He saw horses, colts and fillies rather, come up out of the lake and trample it. He chased them, and they fled into the lake. The next night he saw them again, and among them a beautiful girl with a cap of salmon skin on her head, and it shone in the moonlight; and he caught her and embraced her, and carried her off to his house and married her, and she was a very good housewife, as all those lake people are, and kept his house beautifully; and one day in the harvest, when the men were in the fields, she went into the house, and there she looked on the hurdle for some lard to make colcannon [41] for the men, and she saw her old cap of fish skin, and she put it on her head and ran straight down into the lake and was never seen any more, and Mahon he was terribly grieved, and he died soon after of a decline. She had had three children, and I often saw them in the Mullingar market. They were farmers, too, on Loch Owel.' IV. Let me now return to the fresh-water fairies of Snowdon and give a reference to Pennant's Tours in Wales: in the edition published at Carnarvon in 1883 we are told, ii. 326, how Mr. Pennant learned 'that, in fairy days, those diminutive gentry kept their revels' on the margins of the Snowdon lake, called Llyn Coch. There is no legend now extant, so far as I can ascertain, about the Llyn Coch fairies. So I proceed to append a legend differing considerably from all the foregoing: I owe it to the kindness of my friend Mr. Howell Thomas, of the Local Government Board. It was written out by Mr. G. B. Gattie, and I take the liberty of prefixing to it his letter to Mr. Thomas, dated Walham Grove, London, S.W., April 27, 1882. The letter runs as follows:-- 'I had quite forgotten the enclosed, which I had jotted down during my recent illness, and ought to have sent you long ago. Of course, the wording is very rough, as no care has been taken on that point. It is interesting, as being another version of a very pretty old legend which my mother used to repeat. She was descended from a very old north Welsh family; indeed, I believe my esteemed grandfather went so far as to trace his descent from the great patriot, Owen Glendower himself! My mother delighted not only in the ancient folklore legends and fairy tales of the Principality, with which she was perfectly familiar, but especially in the lovely national melodies, all of which she knew by heart; and, being highly accomplished, would never tire of playing or singing them. You will see the legend is, in the main, much as related by Professor Rhys, though differing somewhat in the singular terms of the marriage contract. The scene of the legend, as related by my late mother, was, of course, a lake, the Welsh name of which I have, unfortunately, forgotten, but it was somewhere, I think, near Llanberis, and the hero a stalwart young farmer.' The legend itself reads as follows:-- 'One hot day, the farmer, riding by the lake, took his horse into the water to drink, and, whilst looking straight down over his horse's ears into the smooth surface, he became aware of a most lovely face, just beneath the tide, looking up archly at him. Quite bewildered, he earnestly beckoned, and by degrees the head and shoulders which belonged to the face emerged from the water. Overcome with emotion, and nearly maddened by the blaze of beauty so suddenly put before him, he leaped from his horse and rushed wildly into the lake to try to clasp the lovely vision to his heart. As this was a clear case of "love at first sight," the poor young man was not, of course, answerable for his actions. But the vision had vanished beneath the waves, to instantly reappear, however, a yard or two off, with the most provoking of smiles, and holding out her beautiful white hands towards her admirer, but slipping off into deep water the moment he approached. 'For many days the young farmer frequented the lake, but without again seeing the beautiful Naiad, until one day he sat down by the margin hoping that she would appear, and yet dreading her appearance, for this latter to him simply meant loss of all peace. Yet he rushed on his fate, like the love-sick shepherd in the old Italian romance, who watched the sleeping beauty, yet dreaded her awakening:--Io perderò la pace, quando si sveglierà! 'The young man had brought the remains of his frugal dinner with him, and was quietly munching, by way of dessert, an apple of rare and delicious quality, from a tree which grew upon a neighbouring estate. Suddenly the lady appeared in all her rare beauty almost close to him, and begged him to "throw" her one of his apples. This was altogether too much, and he replied by holding out the tempting morsel, exhibiting its beautiful red and green sides, saying that, if she really wanted it, she must fetch it herself. Upon this she came up quite close, and, as she took the apple from his left hand, he dexterously seized tight hold of her with his right, and held her fast. She, however, nothing daunted, bawled lustily, at the top of her voice, for help, and made such an outrageous noise, that at length a most respectable looking old gentleman appeared suddenly out of the midst of the lake. He had a superb white beard, and was simply and classically attired merely in a single wreath of beautiful water-lilies wound round his loins, which was possibly his summer costume, the weather being hot. He politely requested to know what was the matter, and what the young farmer wanted with his daughter. The case was thereupon explained, but not without the usual amount of nervous trepidation which usually happens to love-sick swains when called into the awful presence of "Papa" to "explain their intentions!" 'After a long parley the lady, at length, agreed to become the young man's wife on two conditions, which he was to solemnly promise to keep. These conditions were that he was never to strike her with steel or clay (earth), conditions to which the young man very readily assented. As these were primitive days, when people were happy and honest, there were no lawyers to encumber the Holy Estate with lengthy settlements, and to fill their own pockets with heavy fees; matters were therefore soon settled, and the lady married to the young farmer on the spot by the very respectable old lake deity, her papa. 'The story goes on to say that the union was followed by two sons and two daughters. The eldest son became a great physician, and all his descendants after him were celebrated for their great proficiency in the noble healing art. The second son was a mighty craftsman in all works appertaining to the manufacture and use of iron and metals. Indeed it has been hinted that, his little corracle of bull's hide having become old and unsafe, he conceived the brilliant idea of making one of thin iron. This he actually accomplished, and, to the intense amazement of the wondering populace, he constantly used it for fishing, or other purposes, on the lake, where he paddled about in perfect security. This important fact ought to be more generally known, as it gives him a fair claim to the introduction of iron ship-building, pace the shades of Beaufort and Brunel. 'Of the two daughters, one is said to have invented the small ten-stringed harp, and the other the spinning-wheel. Thus were introduced the arts of medicine, manufactures, music, and woollen work. 'As the old ballad says, applying the quotation to the father and mother:-- They lived for more than forty year Right long and happilie! 'One day it happened that the wife expressed a great wish for some of those same delicious apples of which she was so fond, and of which their neighbour often sent them a supply. Off went the farmer, like a good husband that he was, and brought back, not only some apples, but a beautiful young sapling, seven or eight feet high, bearing the same apple, as a present from their friend. This they at once proceeded to set, he digging and she holding; but the hole not being quite deep enough he again set to work, with increased energy, with his spade, and stooping very low threw out the last shovelful over his shoulder--alas! without looking--full into the breast of his wife. She dropped the sapling and solemnly warned him that one of the two conditions of their marriage contract had been broken. Accident was pleaded, but in vain; there was the unfortunate fact--he had struck her with clay! Looking upon the sapling as the cause of this great trouble he determined to return it forthwith to his kind neighbour. Taking a bridle in his hand he proceeded to the field to catch his horse, his wife kindly helping him. They both ran up, one on each side, and, as the unruly steed showed no signs of stopping, the husband attempted to throw the bridle over his head. Not having visited Mexico in his travels, and thereby learned the use of the lasso, he missed his horse's head and--misfortune of misfortunes--struck his wife in the face with the iron bit, thus breaking the second condition. He had struck her with steel. She no sooner received the blow than--like Esau--she "cried with a great and exceeding bitter cry," and bidding her husband a last farewell, fled down the hill with lightning speed, dashed into the lake, and disappeared beneath the smooth and glassy waters! Thus, it may be said that, if an apple--indirectly--occasioned the beginning of her married life, so an apple brought about its sad termination.' Such is Mr. Gattie's tale, and to him probably is to be traced its literary trimming; but even when it is stripped of that accessory, it leaves us with difficulties of somewhat the same order as those attaching to some of the stories which have passed through the hands of Glasynys. However, the substance of it seems to be genuine, and to prove that there has been a Northwalian tradition which traced the medical art to a lake lady like the Egeria of the Physicians of Mydfai. V. Allusion has already been made to the afanc story, and it is convenient to give it before proceeding any further. The Cambrian Journal for 1859, pp. 142-6, gives it in a letter of Edward Llwyd's dated 1693, and contributed to that periodical by the late Canon Robert Williams, of Rhyd y Croesau, who copied it from the original letter in his possession [42], and here follows a translation into English of the part of it which concerns Llyn yr Afanc [43], a pool on the river Conwy, above Bettws y Coed and opposite Capel Garmon:-- 'I suppose it very probable that you have heard speak of Llyn yr Afanc, "the Afanc's Pool," and that I therefore need not trouble to inform you where it stands. I think, also, that you know, if one may trust what the country people say, that it was a girl that enticed the afanc to come out of his abode, namely the pool, so as to be bound with iron chains, whilst he slumbered with his head on her knees, and with the grip of one hand on her breast. When he woke from his nap and perceived what had been done to him, he got up suddenly and hurried to his old refuge, taking with him in his claw the breast of his sweetheart. It was then seen that it was well the chain was long enough to be fastened to oxen that pulled him out of the pool. Thereupon a considerable dispute arose among some of the people, each asserting that he had taken a great weight on himself and pulled far harder than anybody else. "No," said another, "it was I," &c. And whilst they were wrangling in this way, the report goes that the afanc answered them, and silenced their discontent by saying-- Oni bae y dai ag a dyn Ni dactha'r afanc byth o'r llyn. Had it not been for the oxen pulling, The afanc had never left the pool. 'You must understand that some take the afanc to be a corporeal demon; but I am sufficiently satisfied that there is an animal of the same name, which is called in English a bever, seeing that the term ceillie'r afanc signifies bever stones. I know not what kind of oxen those in question were, but it is related that they were twins; nor do I know why they were called Ychain Mannog or Ychain Bannog. But peradventure they were called Ychain Bannog in reference to their having had many a fattening, or fattening on fattening (having been for many a year fattened). Yet the word bannog is not a good, suitable word to signify fattened, as bannog is nought else than what has been made exceeding thick by beating [or fulling], as one says of a thick blanket made of coarse yarn (y gwrthban tew-bannog), the thick bannog [44] blanket. Whilst I was dawdling behind talking about this, the oxen had proceeded very far, and I did not find their footmarks as they came through portions of the parish of Dolyd-Elan (Luedog) until I reached a pass called ever since Bwlch Rhiw'r Ychen, "the Pass of the Slope of the Oxen," between the upper parts of Dolydelan and the upper part of Nanhwynen. In coming over this pass one of the oxen dropped one of its eyes on an open spot, which for that reason is called Gwaun Lygad Ych, "the Moor of the Ox's Eye." The place where the eye fell has become a pool, which is by this time known as Pwll Llygad Ych, "the Pool of the Ox's Eye," which is at no time dry, though no water rises in it or flows into it except when rain falls; nor is there any flowing out of it during dry weather. It is always of the same depth; that is, it reaches about one's knee-joint, according to those who have paid attention to that for a considerable number of years. There is a harp melody, which not all musicians know: it is known as the Ychain Mannog air, and it has a piteous effect on the ear, being as plaintive as were the groanings of these Ychain under the weight of the afanc, especially when one of the pair lost an eye. They pulled him up to Llyn Cwm Ffynnon Las, "the Lake of the Dingle of the Green Well," to which he was consigned, for the reason, peradventure, that some believed that there were in that lake uncanny things already in store. In fact, it was but fitting that he should be permitted to go to his kind. But whether there were uncanny things in it before or not, many think that there is nothing good in it now, as you will understand from what follows. There is much talk of Llyn Cwm Ffynnon Las besides the fact that it is always free from ice, except in one corner where the peat water of clear pools comes into it, and that it has also a variety of dismal hues. The cause of this is, as I suppose, to be sought in the various hues of the rocks surrounding it; and the fact that a whirlwind makes its water mixed, which is enough to give any lake a disagreeable colour. Nothing swims on it without danger, and I am not sure that it would be very safe for a bird to fly across it or not. Throw a rag into its water and it will go to the bottom, and I have with my own ears heard a man saying that he saw a goat taking to this lake in order to avoid being caught, and that as soon as the animal went into the water, it turned round and round, as if it had been a top, until it was drowned.... Some mention that, as some great man was hunting in the Snowdon district (Eryri), a stag, to avoid the hounds when they were pressing on him, and as is the habit of stags to defend themselves, made his escape into this lake: the hunters had hardly time to turn round before they saw the stag's antlers (mwnglws) coming to the surface, but nothing more have they ever seen.... A young woman has been seen to come out of this lake to wash clothes, and when she had done she folded the clothes, and taking them under her arm went back into the lake. One man, whose brother is still alive and well, beheld in a canoe, on this same lake still, an angler with a red cap on his head; but the man died within a few days, having not been in his right mind during that time. Most people regard this as the real truth, and, as for myself, I cannot refuse to believe that such a vision might not cause a man to become so bewildered as to force on a disease ending with his death....' The name Llyn Cwm Ffynnon Las would have led one to suppose that the pool meant is the one given in the ordnance maps as Llyn y Cwm Ffynnon, and situated in the mountains between Pen y Gwryd and the upper valley of Llanberis; but from the writer on the parish of Bedgelert in the Brython for 1861, pp. 371-2, it appears that this is not so, and that the tarn meant was in the upper reach of Cwm Dyli, and was known as Llyn y Ffynnon Las, 'Lake of the Green Well,' about which he has a good deal to say in the same strain as that of Llwyd in the letter already cited. Among other things he remarks that it is a very deep tarn, and that its bottom has been ascertained to be lower than the surface of Llyn Llydaw, which lies 300 feet lower. And as to the afanc, he remarks that the inhabitants of Nant Conwy and the lower portions of the parish of Dolwydelan, having frequent troubles and losses inflicted on them by a huge monster in the river Conwy, near Bettws y Coed, tried to kill it but in vain, as no harpoon, no arrow or spear made any impression whatsoever on the brute's hide; so it was resolved to drag it away as in the Llwyd story. I learn from Mr. Pierce (Elis o'r Nant), of Dolwydelan, that the lake is variously known as Llyn (Cwm) Ffynnon Las, and Llyn Glas or Glaslyn: this last is the form which I find in the maps. It is to be noticed that the Nant Conwy people, by dragging the afanc there, got him beyond their own watershed, so that he could no more cause floods in the Conwy. Here, as promised at p. 74, I append Lewis Glyn Cothi's words as to the afanc in Llyn Syfadon. The bard is dilating in the poem, where they occur, on his affection for his friend Llywelyn ab Gwilym ab Thomas Vaughan, of Bryn Hafod in the Vale of Towy, and averring that it would be as hard to induce him to quit his friend's hospitable home, as it was to get the afanc away from the Lake of Syfadon, as follows:-- Yr avanc er ei ovyn Wyv yn llech ar vin y llyn; O dòn Llyn Syfadon vo Ni thynwyd ban aeth yno: Ni'm tyn mèn nag ychain gwaith, Odiyma hedyw ymaith. [45] The afanc am I, who, sought for, bides In hiding on the edge of the lake; Out of the waters of Syfadon Mere Was he not drawn, once he got there. So with me: nor wain nor oxen wont to toil Me to-day will draw from here forth. From this passage it would seem that the Syfadon story contemplated the afanc being taken away from the lake in a cart or waggon drawn by oxen; but whether driven by Hu, or by whom, one is not told. However, the story must have represented the undertaking as a failure, and the afanc as remaining in his lake: had it been otherwise it would be hard to see the point of the comparison. VI. The parish of Llanfachreth and its traditions have been the subject of some contributions to the first volume of the Taliesin published at Ruthin in 1859-60, pp. 132-7, by a writer who calls himself Cofiadur. It was Glasynys, I believe, for the style seems to be his: he pretends to copy from an old manuscript of Hugh Bifan's--both the manuscript and its owner were fictions of Glasynys' as I am told. These jottings contain two or three items about the fairies which seem to be genuine:-- 'The bottom of Llyn Cynnwch, on the Nannau estate, is level with the hearth-stone of the house of Dôl y Clochyd. Its depth was found out owing to the sweetheart of one of Siwsi's girls having lost his way to her from Nannau, where he was a servant. The poor man had fallen into the lake, and gone down and down, when he found it becoming clearer the lower he got, until at last he alighted on a level spot where everybody and everything looked much as he had observed on the dry land. When he had reached the bottom of the lake, a short fat old gentleman came to him and asked his business, when he told him how it happened that he had come. He met with great welcome, and he stayed there a month without knowing that he had been there three days, and when he was going to leave, he was led out to his beloved by the inhabitants of the lake bottom. He asserted that the whole way was level except in one place, where they descended about a fathom into the ground; but, he added, it was necessary to ascend about as much to reach the hearth-stone of Dôl y Clochyd. The most wonderful thing, however, was that the stone lifted itself as he came up from the subterranean road towards it. It was thus the sweetheart arrived there one evening, when the girl was by the fire weeping for him. Siwsi had been out some days before, and she knew all about it though she said nothing to anybody. This, then, was the way in which the depth of Llyn Cynnwch came to be known.' Then he has a few sentences about an old house called Ceimarch:--'Ceimarch was an old mansion of considerable repute, and in old times it was considered next to Nannau in point of importance in the whole district. There was a deep ditch round it, which was always kept full of water, with the view of keeping off vagabonds and thieves, as well as other lawless folks, that they might not take the inmates by surprise. But, in distant ages, this place was very noted for the frequent visits paid it by the fair family. They used to come to the ditch to wash themselves, and to cross the water in boats made of the bark of the rowan-tree [46], or else birch, and they came into the house to pay their rent for trampling the ground around the place. They always placed a piece of money under a pitcher, and the result was that the family living there became remarkably rich. But somehow, after the lapse of many years, the owner of the place offended them, by showing disrespect for their diminutive family: soon the world began to go against him, and it was not long before he got low in life. Everything turned against him, and in times past everybody believed that he incurred all this because he had earned the displeasure of the fair family.' In the Brython for the year 1862, p. 456, in the course of an essay on the history of the Lordship of Mawdwy in Merioneth, considered the best in a competition at an Eistedfod held at Dinas Mawdwy, August 2, 1855, Glasynys gives the following bit about the fairies of that neighbourhood:--'The side of Aran Fawdwy is a great place for the fair family: they are ever at it playing their games on the hillsides about this spot. It is said that they are numberless likewise about Bwlch y Groes. Once a boy crossed over near the approach of night, one summer eve, from the Gadfa to Mawdwy, and on his return he saw near Aber Rhiwlech a swarm of the little family dancing away full pelt. The boy began to run, with two of the maidens in pursuit of him, entreating him to stay; but Robin, for that was his name, kept running, and the two elves failed altogether to catch him, otherwise he would have been taken a prisoner of love. There are plenty of their dancing-rings to be seen on the hillsides between Aber Rhiwlech and Bwlch y Groes.' Here I would introduce two other Merionethshire tales, which I have received from Mr. E. S. Roberts, master of the Llandysilio School, near Llangollen. He has learnt them from one Abel Evans, who lives at present in the parish of Llandysilio: he is a native of the parish of Llandrillo on the slopes of the Berwyn, and of a glen in the same, known as Cwm Pennant, so called from its being drained by the Pennant on its way to join the Dee. Now Cwm Pennant was the resort of fairies, or of a certain family of them, and the occurrence, related in the following tale, must have taken place no less than seventy years ago: it was well known to the late Mrs. Ellen Edwards of Llandrillo:-- Ryw diwrnod aeth dau gyfaill i hela dwfrgwn ar hyd lannau afon Pennant, a thra yn cyfeirio eu camrau tuagat yr afon gwelsant ryw greadur bychan lliwgoch yn rhedeg yn gyflym iawn ar draws un o'r dolyd yn nghyfeiriad yr afon. Ymaeth a nhw ar ei ol. Gwelsant ei fod wedi myned oditan wraid coeden yn ochr yr afon i ymgudio. Yr oed y dau dyn yn medwl mae dwfrgi ydoed, ond ar yr un pryd yn methu a deall paham yr ymdanghosai i'w llygaid yn lliwgoch. Yr oedynt yn dymuno ei dal yn fyw, ac ymaith yr aeth un o honynt i ffarmdy gerllaw i ofyn am sach, yr hon a gafwyd, er mwyn rhoi y creadur yndi. Yr oed yno dau dwll o tan wraid y pren, a thra daliai un y sach yn agored ar un twll yr oed y llall yn hwthio ffon i'r twll arall, ac yn y man aeth y creadur i'r sach. Yr oed y dau dyn yn medwl eu bod wedi dal dwfrgi, yr hyn a ystyrient yn orchest nid bychan. Cychwynasant gartref yn llawen ond cyn eu myned hyd lled cae, llefarod lletywr y sach mewn ton drist gan dywedyd--'Y mae fy mam yn galw am danaf, O, mae fy mam yn galw am danaf,' yr hyn a rodod fraw mawr i'r dau heliwr, ac yn y man taflasant y sach i lawr, a mawr oed eu rhyfedod a'u dychryn pan welsant dyn bach mewn gwisg goch yn rhedeg o'r sach tuagat yr afon. Fe a diflannod o'i golwg yn mysg y drysni ar fin yr afon. Yr oed y dau wedi eu brawychu yn dirfawr ac yn teimlo mae doethach oed myned gartref yn hytrach nag ymyrraeth yn mhellach a'r Tylwyth Teg. 'One day, two friends went to hunt otters on the banks of the Pennant, and when they were directing their steps towards the river, they beheld some small creature of a red colour running fast across the meadows in the direction of the river. Off they ran after it, and saw that it went beneath the roots of a tree on the brink of the river to hide itself. The two men thought it was an otter, but, at the same time, they could not understand why it seemed to them to be of a red colour. They wished to take it alive, and off one of them went to a farm house that was not far away to ask for a sack, which he got, to put the creature into it. Now there were two holes under the roots of the tree, and while one held the sack with its mouth open over one of them, the other pushed his stick into the other hole, and presently the creature went into the sack. The two men thought they had caught an otter, which they looked upon as no small feat. They set out for home, but before they had proceeded the width of one field, the inmate of the sack spoke to them in a sad voice, and said, "My mother is calling for me; oh, my mother is calling for me!" This gave the two hunters a great fright, so that they at once threw down the sack; and great was their surprise to see a little man in a red dress running out of the sack towards the river. He disappeared from their sight in the bushes by the river. The two men were greatly terrified, and felt that it was more prudent to go home than meddle any further with the fair family.' So far as I know, this story stands alone in Welsh folklore; but it has an exact parallel in Lancashire [47]. The other story, which I now reproduce, was obtained by Mr. Roberts from the same Abel Evans. He learnt it from Mrs. Ellen Edwards, and it refers to a point in her lifetime, which Abel Evans fixes at ninety years ago. Mr. Roberts has not succeeded in recovering the name of the cottager of whom it speaks; but he lived on the side of the Berwyn, above Cwm Pennant, where till lately a cottage used to stand, near which the fairies had one of their resorts:-- Yr oed perchen y bwthyn wedi amaethu rhyw ran fychan o'r mynyd ger llaw y ty er mwyn plannu pytatws yndo. Felly y gwnaeth. Mewn coeden yn agos i'r fan canfydod nyth bran. Fe fedyliod mae doeth fuasai ido dryllio y nyth cyn amlhau o'r brain. Fe a esgynnod y goeden ac a drylliod y nyth, ac wedi disgyn i lawr canfydod gylch glas (fairy ring) odiamgylch y pren, ac ar y cylch fe welod hanner coron er ei fawr lawenyd. Wrth fyned heibio yr un fan y boreu canlynol fe gafod hanner coron yn yr un man ag y cafod y dyd o'r blaen. Hynna fu am amryw dydiau. Un diwrnod dywedod wrth gyfaill am ei hap da a dangosod y fan a'r lle y cawsai yr hanner coron bob boreu. Wel y boreu canlynol nid oed yno na hanner coron na dim arall ido, oherwyd yr oed wedi torri rheolau y Tylwythion trwy wneud eu haelioni yn hysbys. Y mae y Tylwythion o'r farn na dylai y llaw aswy wybod yr hyn a wna y llaw dehau. 'The occupier of the cottage had tilled a small portion of the mountain side near his home in order to plant potatoes, which he did. He observed that there was a rook's nest on a tree which was not far from this spot, and it struck him that it would be prudent to break the nest before the rooks multiplied. So he climbed the tree and broke the nest, and, after coming down, he noticed a green circle (a fairy ring) round the tree, and on this circle he espied, to his great joy, half a crown. As he went by the same spot the following morning, he found another half a crown in the same place as before. So it happened for several days; but one day he told a friend of his good luck, and showed him the spot where he found half a crown every morning. Now the next morning there was for him neither half a crown nor anything else, because he had broken the rule of the fair folks by making their liberality known, they being of opinion that the left hand should not know what the right hand does.' So runs this short tale, which the old lady, Mrs. Edwards, and the people of the neighbourhood explained as an instance of the gratitude of the fairies to a man who had rendered them a service, which in this case was supposed to have consisted in ridding them of the rooks, that disturbed their merry-makings in the green ring beneath the branches of the tree. VII. It would be unpardonable to pass away from Merioneth without alluding to the stray cow of Llyn Barfog. The story appears in Welsh in the Brython for 1860, pp. 183-4, but the contributor, who closely imitates Glasynys' style, says that he got his materials from a paper by the late Mr. Pughe of Aberdovey, by which he seems to have meant an article contributed by the latter to the Archæologia Cambrensis, and published in the volume for 1853, pp. 201-5. Mr. Pughe dwells in that article a good deal on the scenery of the corner of Merioneth in the rear of Aberdovey; but the chief thing in his paper is the legend connected with Llyn Barfog, which he renders into English as the Bearded Lake [48]. It is described as a mountain lake in a secluded spot in the upland country behind Aberdovey; but I shall let Mr. Pughe speak for himself:-- 'The lovers of Cambrian lore are aware that the Triads in their record of the deluge affirm that it was occasioned by a mystic Afanc y Llyn, crocodile [49] of the lake, breaking the banks of Llyn Llion, the lake of waters; and the recurrence of that catastrophe was prevented only by Hu Gadarn, the bold man of power, dragging away the afanc by aid of his Ychain Banawg, or large horned oxen. Many a lakelet in our land has put forward its claim to the location of Llyn Llion; amongst the rest, this lake. Be that as it may, King Arthur and his war-horse have the credit amongst the mountaineers here of ridding them of the monster, in place of Hu the Mighty, in proof of which is shown an impression on a neighbouring rock bearing a resemblance to those made by the shoe or hoof of a horse, as having been left there by his charger when our British Hercules was engaged in this redoubtable act of prowess, and this impression has been given the name of Carn March Arthur, the hoof of Arthur's horse, which it retains to this day. It is believed to be very perilous to let the waters out of the lake, and recently an aged inhabitant of the district informed the writer that she recollected this being done during a period of long drought, in order to procure motive power for Llyn Pair Mill, and that long-continued heavy rains followed. No wonder our bold but superstitious progenitors, awe-struck by the solitude of the spot--the dark sepial tint of its waters, unrelieved by the flitting apparition of a single fish, and seldom visited by the tenants of the air--should have established it as a canon in their creed of terror that the lake formed one of the many communications between this outward world of ours and the inner or lower one of Annwn--the unknown world [50]--the dominion of Gwyn ap Nud, the mythic king of the fabled realm, peopled by those children of mystery, Plant Annwn; and the belief is still current amongst the inhabitants of our mountains in the occasional visitations of the Gwraged Annwn, or dames of Elfin land, to this upper world of ours. A shrewd old hill farmer (Thomas Abergraes by name), well skilled in the folk-lore of the district, informed me that, in years gone by, though when, exactly, he was too young to remember, those dames were wont to make their appearance, arrayed in green, in the neighbourhood of Llyn Barfog, chiefly at eventide, accompanied by their kine and hounds, and that on quiet summer nights in particular, these ban-hounds were often to be heard in full cry pursuing their prey--the souls of doomed men dying without baptism and penance--along the upland township of Cefnrhosucha. Many a farmer had a sight of their comely milk-white kine; many a swain had his soul turned to romance and poesy by a sudden vision of themselves in the guise of damsels arrayed in green, and radiant in beauty and grace; and many a sportsman had his path crossed by their white hounds of supernatural fleetness and comeliness, the Cwn Annwn; but never had any one been favoured with more than a passing view of either, till an old farmer residing at Dyssyrnant, in the adjoining valley of Dyffryn Gwyn, became at last the lucky captor of one of their milk-white kine. The acquaintance which the Gwartheg y Llyn, the kine of the lake, had formed with the farmer's cattle, like the loves of the angels for the daughters of men, became the means of capture; and the farmer was thereby enabled to add the mystic cow to his own herd, an event in all cases believed to be most conducive to the worldly prosperity of him who should make so fortunate an acquisition. Never was there such a cow, never such calves, never such milk and butter, or cheese, and the fame of the Fuwch Gyfeiliorn, the stray cow, was soon spread abroad through that central part of Wales known as the district of Rhwng y dwy Afon, from the banks of the Mawdach to those of the Dofwy [51]--from Aberdiswnwy [52] to Abercorris. The farmer, from a small beginning, rapidly became, like Job, a man of substance, possessed of thriving herds of cattle--a very patriarch among the mountains. But, alas! wanting Job's restraining grace, his wealth made him proud, his pride made him forget his obligation to the Elfin cow, and fearing she might soon become too old to be profitable, he fattened her for the butcher, and then even she did not fail to distinguish herself, for a more monstrously fat beast was never seen. At last the day of slaughter came--an eventful day in the annals of a mountain farm--the killing of a fat cow, and such a monster of obesity! No wonder all the neighbours were gathered together to see the sight. The old farmer looked upon the preparations in self-pleased importance--the butcher felt he was about no common feat of his craft, and, baring his arms, he struck the blow--not now fatal, for before even a hair had been injured, his arm was paralysed--the knife dropped from his hand, and the whole company was electrified by a piercing cry that awakened echo in a dozen hills, and made the welkin ring again; and lo and behold! the whole assemblage saw a female figure clad in green, with uplifted arms, standing on one of the craigs overhanging Llyn Barfog, and heard her calling with a voice loud as thunder:-- Dere di velen Einion, Cyrn Cyveiliorn--braith y Llyn, A'r voel Dodin, Codwch, dewch adre. Come yellow Anvil, stray horns, Speckled one of the lake, And of the hornless Dodin, Arise, come home [53]. And no sooner were these words of power uttered than the original lake cow and all her progeny, to the third and fourth generations, were in full flight towards the heights of Llyn Barfog, as if pursued by the evil one. Self-interest quickly roused the farmer, who followed in pursuit, till breathless and panting he gained an eminence overlooking the lake, but with no better success than to behold the green attired dame leisurely descending mid-lake, accompanied by the fugitive cows and their calves formed in a circle around her, they tossing their tails, she waving her hands in scorn as much as to say, "You may catch us, my friend, if you can," as they disappeared beneath the dark waters of the lake, leaving only the yellow water-lily to mark the spot where they vanished, and to perpetuate the memory of this strange event. Meanwhile the farmer looked with rueful countenance upon the spot where the Elfin herd disappeared, and had ample leisure to deplore the effects of his greediness, as with them also departed the prosperity which had hitherto attended him, and he became impoverished to a degree below his original circumstances; and, in his altered circumstances, few felt pity for one who in the noontide flow of prosperity had shown himself so far forgetful of favours received, as to purpose slaying his benefactor.' Mr. Pughe did a very good thing in saving this legend from oblivion, but it would be very interesting to know how much of it is still current among the inhabitants of the retired district around Llyn Barfog, and how the story would look when stripped of the florid language in which Mr. Pughe thought proper to clothe it. Lastly, let me add a reference to the Iolo Manuscripts, pp. 85, 475, where a short story is given concerning a certain Milkwhite Sweet-milk Cow (y Fuwch Laethwen Lefrith) whose milk was so abundant and possessed of such virtues as almost to rival the Holy Grail. Like the Holy Grail also this cow wandered everywhere spreading plenty, until she chanced to come to the Vale of Towy, where the foolish inhabitants wished to kill and eat her: the result was that she vanished in their hands and has never since been heard of. VIII. Here I wish to add some further stories connected with Merionethshire which have come under my notice lately. I give them chiefly on the authority of Mr. Owen M. Edwards of Lincoln College, who is a native of Llanuwchllyn, and still spends a considerable part of his time there; and partly on that of Hywel's essay on the folklore of the county, which was awarded the prize at the National Eistedfod of 1898 [54]. A story current at Llanuwchllyn, concerning a midwife who attends on a fairy mother, resembles the others of the same group: for one of them see p. 63 above. In the former, however, one misses the ointment, and finds instead of it that the midwife was not to touch her eyes with the water with which she washed the fairy baby. But as might be expected one of her eyes happened to itch, and she touched it with her fingers straight from the water. It appears that thenceforth she was able to see the fairies with that eye; at any rate she is represented some time afterwards recognizing the father of the fairy baby at a fair at Bala, and inquiring of him kindly about his family. The fairy asked with which eye she saw him, and when he had ascertained this, he at once blinded it, so that she never could see with it afterwards. Hywel also has it that the Tylwyth Teg formerly used to frequent the markets at Bala, and that they used to swell the noise in the market-place without anybody being able to see them: this was a sign that prices were going to rise. The shepherds of Ardudwy are familiar, according to Hywel, with a variant of the story in which a man married a fairy on condition that he did not touch her with iron. They lived on the Moelfre and dwelt happily together for years, until one fine summer day, when the husband was engaged in shearing his sheep, he put the gwelle, 'shears,' in his wife's hand: she then instantly disappeared. The earlier portions of this story are unknown to me, but they are not hard to guess. Concerning Llyn Irdyn, between the western slopes of the Llawllech, Hywel has a story the like of which I am not acquainted with: walking near that lake you shun the shore and keep to the grass in order to avoid the fairies, for if you take hold of the grass no fairy can touch you, or dare under any circumstances injure a blade of grass. Lastly, Hywel speaks of several caves containing treasure, as for instance a telyn aur, or golden harp, hidden away in a cave beneath Castell Carn Dochan in the parish of Llanuwchllyn. Lewis Morris, in his Celtic Remains, p. 100, calls it Castell Corndochen, and describes it as seated on the top of a steep rock at the bottom of a deep valley: it appears to have consisted of a wall surrounding three turrets, and the mortar seems composed of cockle-shells: see also the Archæologia Cambrensis for 1850, p. 204. Hywel speaks also of a cave beneath Castell Dinas Brân, near Llangollen, as containing much treasure, which will only be disclosed to a boy followed by a white dog with llygaid arian, 'silver eyes,' explained to mean light eyes: every such dog is said to see the wind. So runs this story, but it requires more exegesis than I can supply. One may compare it at a distance with Myrdin's arrangement that the treasure buried by him at Dinas Emrys should only be found by a youth with yellow hair and blue eyes, and with the belief that the cave treasures of the Snowdon district belong to the Gwydyl or Goidels, and that Goidels will eventually find them: see chapter viii. The next three stories are from Mr. Owen Edwards' Cymru for 1897, pp. 188-9, where he has published them from a collection made for a literary competition or local Eistedfod by his friend J. H. Roberts, who died in early manhood. The first is a blurred version of the story of the Lake Lady and her dowry of cattle, but enough of the story remains to show that, had we got it in its original form, it would be found to differ somewhat on several points from all the other versions extant. I summarize the Welsh as follows:--In ages gone by, as the shepherd of Hafod y Garreg was looking after his sheep on the shores of the Arennig Lake, he came across a young calf, plump, sleek, and strong, in the rushes. He could not guess whence the beast could have come, as no cattle were allowed to approach the lake at that time of the year. He took it home, however, and it was reared until it was a bull, remarkable for his fine appearance. In time his offspring were the only cattle on the farm, and never before had there been such beasts at Hafod y Garreg. They were the wonder and admiration of the whole country. But one summer afternoon in June, the shepherd saw a little fat old man playing on a pipe, and then he heard him call the cows by their names-- Mulican, Molican, Malen, Mair, Dowch adre'r awrhon ar fy ngair. Mulican, Molican, Malen and Mair, Come now home at my word. He then beheld the whole herd running to the little man and going into the lake. Nothing more was heard of them, and it was everybody's opinion that they were the Tylwyth Teg's cattle. The next is a quasi fairy tale, the outcome of which recalls the adventure of the farmer of Drws y Coed on his return from Bedgelert Fair, p. 99 above. It is told of a young harpist who was making his way across country from his home at Yspyty Ifan to the neighbourhood of Bala, that while crossing the mountain he happened in the mist to lose his road and fall into the Gors Fawr, 'the big bog.' There he wallowed for hours, quite unable to extricate himself in spite of all his efforts. But when he was going to give up in despair, he beheld close to him, reaching him her hand, a little woman who was wondrous fair beyond all his conception of beauty, and with her help he got out of the Gors. The damsel gave him a jolly sweet kiss that flashed electricity through his whole nature: he was at once over head and ears in love. She led him to the hut of her father and mother: there he had every welcome, and he spent the night singing and dancing with Olwen, for that was her name. Now, though the harpist was a mere stripling, he thought of wedding at once--he was never before in such a heaven of delight. But next morning he was waked, not by a kiss from Olwen, but by the Plas Drain shepherd's dog licking his lips: he found himself sleeping against the wall of a sheepfold (corlan), with his harp in a clump of rushes at his feet, without any trace to be found of the family with whom he had spent such a happy night. The next story recalls Glasynys' Einion Las, as given at pp. 111-5 above: its peculiarity is the part played by the well introduced. The scene was a turbary near the river called Afon Mynach, so named from Cwm Tir Mynach, behind the hills immediately north of Bala:--Ages ago, as a number of people were cutting turf in a place which was then moorland, and which is now enclosed ground forming part of a farm called Nant Hir, one of them happened to wash his face in a well belonging to the fairies. At dinner-time in the middle of the day they sat down in a circle, while the youth who had washed his face went to fetch the food, but suddenly both he and the box of food were lost. They knew not what to do, they suspected that it was the doing of the fairies; but the wise man (gwr hyspys) came to the neighbourhood and told them, that, if they would only go to the spot on the night of full moon in June, they would behold him dancing with the fairies. They did as they were told, and found the moor covered with thousands of little agile creatures who sang and danced with all their might, and they saw the missing man among them. They rushed at him, and with a great deal of trouble they got him out. But oftentimes was Einion missed again, until at the time of full moon in another June he returned home with a wondrously fair wife, whose history or pedigree no one knew. Everybody believed her to be one of the Tylwyth Teg. IX. There is a kind of fairy tale of which I think I have hitherto not given the reader a specimen: a good instance is given in the third volume of the Brython, at p. 459, by a contributor who calls himself Idnerth ab Gwgan, who, I learn from the Rev. Chancellor Silvan Evans, the editor, was no other than the Rev. Benjamin Williams, best known to Welsh antiquaries by his bardic name of Gwynionyd. The preface to the tale is also interesting, so I am tempted to render the whole into English, as follows:-- 'The fair family were wonderful creatures in the imaginary world: they encamped, they walked, and they capered a great deal in former ages in our country, according to what we learn from some of our old people. It may be supposed that they were very little folks like the children of Rhys Dwfn; for the old people used to imagine that they were wont to visit their hearths in great numbers in ages gone by. The girls at the farm houses used to make the hearths clean after supper, and to place a cauldron full of water near the fire; and so they thought that the fair family came there to play at night, bringing sweethearts for the young women, and leaving pieces of money on the hob for them in the morning. Sometimes they might be seen as splendid hosts exercising themselves on our hills. They were very fond of the mountains of Dyfed; travellers between Lampeter and Cardigan used to see them on the hill of Llanwenog, but by the time they had reached there the fairies would be far away on the hills of Llandyssul, and when one had reached the place where one expected to see the family together in tidy array, they would be seen very busily engaged on the tops of Crug y Balog; when one went there they would be on Blaen Pant ar Fi, moving on and on to Bryn Bwa, and, finally, to some place or other in the lower part of Dyfed. Like the soldiers of our earthly world, they were possessed of terribly fascinating music; and in the autumnal season they had their rings, still named from them, in which they sang and danced. The young man of Llech y Derwyd [55] was his father's only son, as well as heir to the farm; so he was very dear to his father and his mother, indeed he was the light of their eyes. Now, the head servant and the son were bosom friends: they were like brothers together, or rather twin brothers. As the son and the servant were such friends, the farmer's wife used to get exactly the same kind of clothes prepared for the servant as for her son. The two fell in love with two handsome young women of very good reputation in the neighbourhood. The two couples were soon joined in honest wedlock, and great was the merry-making on the occasion. The servant had a suitable place to live in on the farm of Llech y Derwyd; but about half a year after the son's marriage, he and his friend went out for sport, when the servant withdrew to a wild and retired corner to look for game. He returned presently for his friend, but when he got there he could not see him anywhere: he kept looking around for some time for him, shouting and whistling, but there was no sign of his friend. By-and-by, he went home to Llech y Derwyd expecting to see him, but no one knew anything about him. Great was the sorrow of his family through the night; and next day the anxiety was still greater. They went to see the place where his friend had seen him last: it was hard to tell whether his mother or his wife wept the more bitterly; but the father was a little better, though he also looked as if he were half mad with grief. The spot was examined, and, to their surprise, they saw a fairy ring close by, and the servant recollected that he had heard the sound of very fascinating music somewhere or other about the time in question. It was at once agreed that the man had been unfortunate enough to have got into the ring of the Tylwyth, and to have been carried away by them, nobody knew whither. Weeks and months passed away, and a son was born to the heir of Llech y Derwyd, but the young father was not there to see his child, which the old people thought very hard. However, the little one grew up the very picture of his father, and great was his influence over his grandfather and grandmother; in fact he was everything to them. He grew up to be a man, and he married a good-looking girl in that neighbourhood; but her family did not enjoy the reputation of being kind-hearted people. The old folks died, and their daughter-in-law also. One windy afternoon in the month of October, the family of Llech y Derwyd beheld a tall thin old man, with his beard and hair white as snow, coming towards the house, and they thought he was a Jew. The servant maids stared at him, and their mistress laughed at the "old Jew," at the same time that she lifted the children up one after another to see him. He came to the door and entered boldly enough, asking about his parents. The mistress answered him in an unusually surly and contemptuous tone, wondering why the "drunken old Jew had come there," because it was thought he had been drinking, and that he would otherwise not have spoken so. The old man cast wondering and anxious looks around on everything in the house, feeling as he did greatly surprised; but it was the little children about the floor that drew his attention most: his looks were full of disappointment and sorrow. He related the whole of his account, saying that he had been out the day before and that he was now returning. The mistress of the house told him that she had heard a tale about her husband's father, that he had been lost years before her birth while out sporting, whilst her father maintained that it was not true, but that he had been killed. She became angry, and quite lost her temper at seeing "the old Jew" not going away. The old man was roused, saying that he was the owner of the house, and that he must have his rights. He then went out to see his possessions, and presently went to the house of the servant, where, to his surprise, things had greatly changed; after conversing with an aged man, who sat by the fire, the one began to scrutinize the other more and more. The aged man by the fire told him what had been the fate of his old friend, the heir of Llech y Derwyd. They talked deliberately of the events of their youth, but it all seemed like a dream; in short, the old man in the corner concluded that his visitor was his old friend, the heir of Llech y Derwyd, returning from the land of the Tylwyth Teg after spending half a hundred years there. The other old man, with the snow-white beard, believed in his history, and much did they talk together and question one another for many hours. The old man by the fire said that the master of Llech y Derwyd was away from home that day, and he induced his aged visitor to eat some food, but, to the horror of all, the eater fell down dead on the spot [56]. There is no record that an inquest was held over him, but the tale relates that the cause of it was, that he ate food after having been so long in the world of the fair family. His old friend insisted on seeing him buried by the side of his ancestors; but the rudeness of the mistress of Llech y Derwyd to her father-in-law brought a curse on the family that clung to it to distant generations, and until the place had been sold nine times.' A tale like this is to be found related of Idwal of Nantclwyd, in Cymru Fu, p. 85. I said 'a tale like this,' but, on reconsidering the matter, I should think it is the very same tale passed through the hands of Glasynys or some one of his imitators. Another of this kind will be found in the Brython, ii. 170, and several similar ones also in Wirt Sikes' book, pp. 65-90, either given at length, or merely referred to. There is one kind of variant which deserves special notice, as making the music to which the sojourner in Faery listens for scores of years to be that of a bird singing on a tree. A story of the sort is located by Howells, in his Cambrian Superstitions, pp. 127-8, at Pant Shon Shencin, near Pencader, in Cardiganshire. This latter kind of story leads easily up to another development, namely, to substituting for the bird's warble the song and felicity of heaven, and for the simple shepherd a pious monk. In this form it is located at a place called Llwyn y Nef, or 'Heaven's Grove,' near Celynnog Fawr, in Carnarvonshire. It is given by Glasynys in Cymru Fu, pp. 183-4, where it was copied from the Brython, iii. 111, in which he had previously published it. Several versions of it in rhyme came down from the eighteenth century, and Silvan Evans has brought together twenty-six stanzas in point in St. David's College Magazine for 1881, pp. 191-200, where he has put into a few paragraphs all that is known about the song of the Hen Wr o'r Coed, or the Old Man of the Wood, in his usually clear and lucid style. A tale from the other end of the tract of country once occupied by a sprinkling, perhaps, of Celts among a population of Picts, makes the man, and not the fairies, supply the music. I owe it to the kindness of the Rev. Andrew Clark, Fellow of Lincoln College, Oxford, who heard it from the late sexton of the parish of Dollar, in the county of Clackmannan. The sexton died some twelve years ago, aged seventy: he had learnt the tale from his father. The following are Mr. Clark's words:-- 'Glendevon is a parish and village in the Ochils in County Perth, about five miles from Dollar as you come up Glen Queich and down by Gloomhill. Glen Queich is a narrowish glen between two grassy hills--at the top of the glen is a round hill of no great height, but very neat shape, the grass of which is always short and trim, and the ferns on the shoulder of a very marked green. This, as you come up the glen, seems entirely to block the way. It is called the "Maiden Castle." Only when you come quite close do you see the path winding round the foot of it. A little further on is a fine spring bordered with flat stones, in the middle of a neat, turfy spot, called the "Maiden's Well." This road, till the new toll-road was made on the other side of the hills, was the thoroughfare between Dollar and Glendevon.' The following is the legend, as told by the 'Bethrel':--'A piper, carrying his pipes, was coming from Glendevon to Dollar in the grey of the evening. He crossed the Garchel (a little stream running into the Queich burn), and looked at the "Maiden Castle," and saw only the grey hillside and heard only the wind soughing through the bent. He had got beyond it when he heard a burst of lively music: he turned round, and instead of the dark knoll saw a great castle, with lights blazing from the windows, and heard the noise of dancing issuing from the open door. He went back incautiously, and a procession issuing forth at that moment, he was caught and taken into a great hall ablaze with lights, and people dancing on the floor. He had to pipe to them for a day or two, but he got anxious, because he knew his people would be wondering why he did not come back in the morning as he had promised. The fairies seemed to sympathize with his anxiety, and promised to let him go if he played a favourite tune of his, which they seemed fond of, to their satisfaction. He played his very best, the dance went fast and furious, and at its close he was greeted with loud applause. On his release he found himself alone, in the grey of the evening, beside the dark hillock, and no sound was heard save the purr of the burn and the soughing of the wind through the bent. Instead of completing his journey to Dollar, he walked hastily back to Glendevon to relieve his folk's anxiety. He entered his father's house and found no kent face there. On his protesting that he had gone only a day or two before, and waxing loud in his bewildered talk, a grey old man was roused from a doze behind the fire; and told how he had heard when a boy from his father that a piper had gone away to Dollar on a quiet evening, and had never been heard or seen since, nor any trace of him found. He had been in the "castle" for a hundred years.' The term Plant Rhys Dwfn has already been brought before the reader: it means 'the Children of Rhys Dwfn,' and Rhys Dwfn means literally Rhys the Deep, but the adjective in Welsh connotes depth of character in the sense of shrewdness or cunning. Nay, even the English deep is often borrowed for use in the same sense, as when one colloquially says un dîp iawn yw e, 'he is a very calculating or cunning fellow.' The following account of Rhys and his progeny is given by Gwynionyd in the first volume of the Brython, p. 130, which deserves being cited at length:--'There is a tale current in Dyfed, that there is, or rather that there has been, a country between Cemmes, the northern Hundred of Pembrokeshire, and Aberdaron in Lleyn. The chief patriarch of the inhabitants was Rhys Dwfn, and his descendants used to be called after him the Children of Rhys Dwfn. They were, it is said, a handsome race enough, but remarkably small in size. It is stated that certain herbs of a strange nature grew in their land, so that they were able to keep their country from being seen by even the most sharp sighted of invaders. There is no account that these remarkable herbs grew in any other part of the world excepting on a small spot, about a square yard in area, in a certain part of Cemmes. If it chanced that a man stood alone on it, he beheld the whole of the territory of Plant Rhys Dwfn; but the moment he moved he would lose sight of it altogether, and it would have been utterly vain for him to look for his footprints. In another story, as will be seen presently, the requisite platform was a turf from St. David's churchyard. The Rhysians had not much land--they lived in towns. So they were wont in former times to come to market to Cardigan, and to raise the prices of things terribly. They were seen of no one coming or going, but only seen there in the market. When prices happened to be high, and the corn all sold, however much there might have been there in the morning, the poor used to say to one another on the way home, "Oh! they were there to-day," meaning Plant Rhys Dwfn. So they were dear friends in the estimation of Siôn Phil Hywel, the farmer; but not so high in the opinion of Dafyd, the labourer. It is said, however, that they were very honest and resolute men. A certain Gruffyd ab Einon was wont to sell them more corn than anybody else, and so he was a great friend of theirs. He was honoured by them beyond all his contemporaries by being led on a visit to their home. As they were great traders like the Phoenicians of old, they had treasures from all countries under the sun. Gruffyd, after feasting his eyes to satiety on their wonders, was led back by them loaded with presents. But before taking leave of them, he asked them how they succeeded in keeping themselves safe from invaders, as one of their number might become unfaithful, and go beyond the virtue of the herbs that formed their safety. "Oh!" replied the little old man of shrewd looks, "just as Ireland has been blessed with a soil on which venomous reptiles cannot live, so with our land: no traitor can live here. Look at the sand on the sea-shore: perfect unity prevails there, and so among us. Rhys, the father of our race, bade us, even to the most distant descendant, honour our parents and ancestors; love our own wives without looking at those of our neighbours; and do our best for our children and grandchildren. And he said that if we did so, no one of us would ever prove unfaithful to another, or become what you call a traitor. The latter is a wholly imaginary character among us; strange pictures are drawn of him with his feet like those of an ass, with a nest of snakes in his bosom, with a head like the devil's, with hands somewhat like a man's, while one of them holds a large knife, and the family lies dead around the figure. Good-bye!" When Gruffyd looked about him he lost sight of the country of Plant Rhys, and found himself near his home. He became very wealthy after this, and continued to be a great friend of Plant Rhys as long as he lived. After Gruffyd's death they came to market again, but such was the greed of the farmers, like Gruffyd before them, for riches, and so unreasonable were the prices they asked for their corn, that the Rhysians took offence and came no more to Cardigan to market. The old people used to think that they now went to Fishguard market, as very strange people were wont to be seen there.' On the other hand, some Fishguard people were lately of opinion that it was at Haverfordwest the fairies did their marketing: I refer to a letter of Mr. Ferrar Fenton's, in the Pembroke County Guardian of October 31, 1896, in which he mentions a conversation he had with a Fishguard woman as to the existence of fairies: 'There are fairies,' she asserted, 'for they came to Ha'rfordwest market to buy things, so there must be.' With this should be compared pp. 9-10 of Wirt Sikes' British Goblins, where mention is made of sailors on the coast of Pembrokeshire and Carmarthenshire, 'who still talk of the green meadows of enchantment lying in the Irish Channel to the west of Pembrokeshire,' and of men who had landed on them, or seen them suddenly vanishing. The author then proceeds to abstract from Howells' Cambrian Superstitions, p. 119, the following paragraph:--'The fairies inhabiting these islands are said to have regularly attended the markets at Milford Haven and Laugharne. They made their purchases without speaking, laid down their money and departed, always leaving the exact sum required, which they seemed to know without asking the price of anything. Sometimes they were invisible; but they were often seen by sharp-eyed persons. There was always one special butcher at Milford Haven upon whom the fairies bestowed their patronage instead of distributing their favours indiscriminately. The Milford Haven folk could see the green Fairy Islands distinctly, lying out a short distance from land; and the general belief was that they were densely peopled with fairies. It was also said that the latter went to and fro between the islands and the shore, through a subterranean gallery under the bottom of the sea.' Another tale given in the Brython, ii. 20, by a writer who gives his name as B. Davies [57], will serve to show, short though it be, that the term Plant Rhys Dwfn was not confined to those honestly dealing fairies, but was used in a sense wholly synonymous with that of Tylwyth Teg, as understood in other parts of Wales. The story runs as follows, and should be compared with the Dyffryn Mymbyr one given above, pp. 100-3:--'One calm hot day, when the sun of heaven was brilliantly shining, and the hay in the dales was being busily made by lads and lasses, and by grown-up people of both sexes, a woman in the neighbourhood of Emlyn placed her one-year-old infant in the gader, or chair, as the cradle is called in these parts, and out she went to the field for a while, intending to return, when her neighbour, an old woman overtaken by the decrepitude of eighty summers, should call to her that her darling was crying. It was not long before she heard the old woman calling to her; she ran hurriedly, and as soon as she set foot on the kitchen floor she took her little one in her arms as usual, saying to him, "O my little one! thy mother's delight art thou! I would not take the world for thee, &c." But to her surprise he had a very old look about him, and the more the tender-hearted mother gazed at his face, the stranger it seemed to her, so that at last she placed him in the cradle and told her trouble and sorrow to her relatives and acquaintances. And after this one and the other had given his opinion, it was agreed at last that it was one of Rhys Dwfn's children that was in the cradle, and not her dearly loved baby. In this distress there was nothing to do but to fetch a sorcerer, as fast as the fastest horse could gallop. He said, when he saw the child, that he had seen his like before, and that it would be a hard job to get rid of him, though not such a very hard job this time. The shovel was made red hot in the fire by one of the Cefnarth [58] boys, and held before the child's face; and in an instant the short little old man took to his heels, and neither he nor his like was seen afterwards from Aber Cuch to Aber Bargoed at any rate. The mother, it is said, found her darling unscathed the next moment. I remember also hearing that the strange child was as old as the grandfather of the one that had been lost.' As I see no reason to make any profound distinction between lake maidens and sea maidens, I now give Gwynionyd's account of the mermaid who was found by a fisherman from Llandydoch or St. Dogmael's [59], near Cardigan: see the Brython, i. 82:-- 'One fine afternoon in September, in the beginning of the last century, a fisherman, whose name was Pergrin [60], went to a recess in the rock near Pen Cemmes, where he found a sea maiden doing her hair, and he took the water lady prisoner to his boat.... We know not what language is used by sea maidens ... but this one, this time at any rate, talked, it is said, very good Welsh; for when she was in despair in Pergrin's custody, weeping copiously, and with her tresses all dishevelled, she called out: 'Pergrin, if thou wilt let me go, I will give thee three shouts in the time of thy greatest need.' So, in wonder and fear, he let her go to walk the streets of the deep, and visit her sweethearts there. Days and weeks passed without Pergrin seeing her after this; but one hot afternoon, when the sea was pretty calm, and the fishermen had no thought of danger, behold his old acquaintance showing her head and locks, and shouting out in a loud voice: 'Pergrin! Pergrin! Pergrin! take up thy nets, take up thy nets, take up thy nets!' Pergrin and his companion instantly obeyed the message, and drew their nets in with great haste. In they went, past the bar, and by the time they had reached the Pwll Cam the most terrible storm had overspread the sea, while he and his companion were safe on land. Twice nine others had gone out with them, but they were all drowned without having the chance of obeying the warning of the water lady.' Perhaps it is not quite irrelevant to mention here the armorial bearings which Drayton ascribes to the neighbouring county of Cardigan in the following couplet in his Battaile of Agincourt (London, 1631), p. 23:-- As Cardigan the next to them that went, Came with a Mermayd sitting on a Rock. A writer in the Brython, iv. 194, states that the people of Nefyn in Lleyn claim the story of the fisher and the mermaid as belonging to them, which proves that a similar legend has been current there: add to this the fact mentioned in the Brython, iii. 133, that a red mermaid with yellow hair, on a white field, figures in the coat of arms of the family resident at Glasfryn in the parish of Llangybi, in Eifionyd or the southern portion of Carnarvonshire; and we have already suggested that Glasynys' story (pp. 117-25) was made up, to a certain extent, of materials found on the coasts of Carnarvonshire. A small batch of stories about South Wales mermaids is given by a writer who calls himself Ab Nadol [61], in the Brython, iv. 310, as follows:-- 'A few rockmen are said to have been working, about eighty years ago, in a quarry near Porth y Rhaw, when the day was calm and clear, with nature, as it were, feasting, the flowers shedding sweet scent around, and the hot sunshine beaming into the jagged rocks. Though an occasional wave rose to strike the romantic cliffs, the sea was like a placid lake, with its light coverlet of blue attractive enough to entice one of the ladies of Rhys Dwfn forth from the town seen by Daniel Huws off Trefin as he was journeying between Fishguard and St. David's in the year 1858, to make her way to the top of a stone and to sit on it to disentangle her flowing silvery hair. Whilst she was cleaning herself, the rockmen went down, and when they got near her they perceived that, from her waist upwards, she was like the lasses of Wales, but that, from her waist downwards, she had the body of a fish. And, when they began to talk to her, they found she spoke Welsh, though she only uttered the following few words to them: "Reaping in Pembrokeshire and weeding in Carmarthenshire." Off she then went to walk in the depth of the sea towards her home. Another tale is repeated about a mermaid, said to have been caught by men below the land of Llanwnda, near the spot, if not on the spot, where the French made their landing afterwards, and three miles to the west of Fishguard. It then goes on to say that they carried her to their home, and kept her in a secure place for some time; before long, she begged to be allowed to return to the brine land, and gave the people of the house three bits of advice; but I only remember one of them,' he writes, 'and this is it: "Skim the surface of the pottage before adding sweet milk to it: it will be whiter and sweeter, and less of it will do." I was told that this family follow the three advices to this day.' A somewhat similar advice to that about the pottage is said to have been given by a mermaid, under similar circumstances, to a Manxman. After putting the foregoing bits together, I was favoured by Mr. Benjamin Williams with notes on the tales and on the persons from whom he heard them: they form the contents of two or three letters, mostly answers to queries of mine, and the following is the substance of them:--Mr. Williams is a native of the valley of Troed yr Aur [62], in the Cardiganshire parish of that name. He spent a part of his youth at Verwig, in the angle between the northern bank of the Teifi and Cardigan Bay. He heard of Rhys Dwfn's Children first from a distant relative of his father's, a Catherine Thomas, who came to visit her daughter, who lived not far from his father's house: that would now be from forty-eight to fifty years ago. He was very young at the time, and of Rhys Dwfn's progeny he formed a wonderful idea, which was partly due also to the talk of one James Davies or Siàms Mocyn, who was very well up in folklore, and was one of his father's next-door neighbours. He was an old man, and nephew to the musician, David Jenkin Morgan. The only spot near Mr. Williams' home, that used to be frequented by the fairies, was Cefn y Ceirw, 'the Stag's Ridge,' a large farm, so called from having been kept as a park for their deer by the Lewises of Aber Nant Bychan. He adds that the late Mr. Philipps, of Aberglasney, was very fond of talking of things in his native neighbourhood, and of mentioning the fairies at Cefn y Ceirw. It was after moving to Verwig that Mr. Williams began to put the tales he heard on paper: then he came in contact with three brothers, whose names were John, Owen, and Thomas Evans. They were well-to-do and respectable bachelors, living together on the large farm of Hafod Ruffyd. Thomas was a man of very strong common sense, and worth consulting on any subject: he was a good arithmetician, and a constant reader of the Baptist periodical, Seren Gomer, from its first appearance. He thoroughly understood the bardic metres, and had a fair knowledge of music. He was well versed in Scripture, and filled the office of deacon at the Baptist Chapel. His death took place in the year 1864. Now, the eldest of the three brothers, the one named John, or Siôn, was then about seventy-five years of age, and he thoroughly believed in the tales about the fairies, as will be seen from the following short dialogue:-- Siôn: Williams bach, ma'n rhaid i bod nhw'i gâl: yr w i'n cofio yn amser Bone fod marchnad Aberteifi yn llawn o lafir yn y bore--digon yno am fis--ond cin pen hanner awr yr ôd y cwbwl wedi darfod. Nid ôd possib i gweld nhwi: mâ gida nhwi faint a fynnon nhwi o arian. Williams: Siwt na fyse dynion yn i gweld nhwi ynte, Siôn? Siôn: O mâ gida nhwi dynion fel ninne yn pryni drostyn nhwi; ag y mâ nhwi fel yr hen siówmin yna yn gelli gneid pob tric. John: 'My dear Williams, it must be that they exist: I remember Cardigan market, in the time of Bonaparte, full of corn in the morning--enough for a month--but in less than half an hour it was all gone. It was impossible to see them: they have as much money as they like.' Williams: 'How is it, then, that men did not see them, John?' John: 'Oh, they have men like us to do the buying for them; and they can, like those old showmen, do every kind of trick.' At this kind of display of simplicity on the part of his brother, Thomas used to smile and say: 'My brother John believes such things as those;' for he had no belief in them himself. Still it is from his mouth that Mr. Williams published the tales in the Brython, which have been reproduced here, that of 'Pergrin and the Mermaid,' and all about the 'Heir of Llech y Derwyd,' not to mention the ethical element in the account of Rhys Dwfn's country and its people, the product probably of his mind. Thomas Evans, or as he was really called, Tommos Ifan, was given rather to grappling with the question of the origin of such beliefs; so one day he called Mr. Williams out, and led him to a spot about four hundred yards from Bol y Fron, where the latter then lived: he pointed to the setting sun, and asked Mr. Williams what he thought of the glorious sunset before them. 'It is all produced,' he then observed, 'by the reflection of the sun's rays on the mist: one might think,' he went on to say, 'that there was there a paradise of a country full of fields, forests, and everything that is desirable.' And before they had moved away the grand scene had disappeared, when Thomas suggested that the idea of the existence of the country of Rhys Dwfn's Children arose from the contemplation of that phenomenon. One may say that Thomas Evans was probably far ahead of the Welsh historians who try to extract history from the story of Cantre'r Gwaelod, 'the Bottom Hundred,' beneath the waves of Cardigan Bay; but what was seen was probably an instance of the mirage to be mentioned presently. Lastly, besides Mr. Williams' contributions to the Brython, and a small volume of poetry, entitled Briallen glan Ceri, some tales of his were published by Llallawg in Bygones some years ago, and he had the prize at the Cardigan Eistedfod of 1866 for the best collection in Welsh of the folklore of Dyfed: his recollection was that it contained in all thirty-six tales of all kinds; but since the manuscript, as the property of the Committee of that Eistedfod, was sold, he could not now consult it: in fact he is not certain as to who the owner of it may now be, though he has an idea that it is either the Rev. Rees Williams, vicar of Whitchurch, near Solva, Pembrokeshire, or R. D. Jenkins, Esq., of Cilbronnau, Cardiganshire. Whoever the owner may be, he would probably be only too glad to have it published, and I mention this merely to call attention to it. The Eistedfod is to be commended for encouraging local research, and sometimes even for burying the results in obscurity, but not always. X. Before leaving Dyfed I wish to revert to the extract from Mr. Sikes, p. 161 above. He had been helped partly by the article on Gavran, in the Cambrian Biography, by William Owen, better known since as William Owen Pughe and Dr. Pughe, and partly by a note of Southey's on the following words in his Madoc (London, 1815), i. III:-- Where are the sons of Gavran? where his tribe, The faithful? following their beloved Chief, They the Green Islands of the Ocean sought; Nor human tongue hath told, nor human ear, Since from the silver shores they went their way, Hath heard their fortunes. The Gavran story, I may premise, is based on one of the Welsh Triads--i. 34, ii. 41, iii. 80--and Southey cites the article in the Cambrian Biography; but he goes on to give the following statements without indicating on what sources he was drawing--the reader has, however, been made acquainted already with the virtue of a blade of grass, by the brief mention of Llyn Irdyn above, p. 148:-- 'Of these Islands, or Green Spots of the Floods, there are some singular superstitions. They are the abode of the Tylwyth Teg, or the fair family, the souls of the virtuous Druids, who, not having been Christians, cannot enter the Christian heaven, but enjoy this heaven of their own. They however discover a love of mischief, neither becoming happy spirits, nor consistent with their original character; for they love to visit the earth, and, seizing a man, inquire whether he will travel above wind, mid wind, or below wind; above wind is a giddy and terrible passage, below wind is through bush and brake, the middle is a safe course. But the spell of security is, to catch hold of the grass, for these Beings have not power to destroy a blade of grass. In their better moods they come over and carry the Welsh in their boats. He who visits these Islands imagines on his return that he has been absent only a few hours, when, in truth, whole centuries have passed away. If you take a turf from St. David's churchyard, and stand upon it on the sea shore, you behold these Islands. A man once, who thus obtained sight of them, immediately put to sea to find them; but they disappeared, and his search was in vain. He returned, looked at them again from the enchanted turf, again set sail, and failed again. The third time he took the turf into his vessel, and stood upon it till he reached them.' A correspondent signing himself 'the Antient Mariner,' and writing, in the Pembroke County Guardian, from Newport, Pembrokeshire, Oct. 26, 1896, cites Southey's notes, and adds to them the statement, that some fifty years ago there was a tradition amongst the inhabitants of Trevine (Trefin) in his county, that these Islands could be seen from Llan Non, or Eglwys Non, in that neighbourhood. To return to Madoc, Southey adds to the note already quoted a reference to the inhabitants of Arran More, on the coast of Galway, to the effect that they think that they can on a clear day see Hy-Breasail, the Enchanted Island supposed to be the Paradise of the Pagan Irish: compare the Phantom City seen in the same sea from the coast of Clare. Then he asks a question suggestive of the explanation, that all this is due to 'that very extraordinary phenomenon, known in Sicily by the name of Morgaine le Fay's works.' In connexion with this question of mirage I venture to quote again from the Pembroke County Guardian. Mr. Ferrar Fenton, already mentioned, writes in the issue of Nov. 1, 1896, giving a report which he had received one summer morning from Captain John Evans, since deceased. It is to the effect 'that once when trending up the Channel, and passing Grasholm Island, in what he had always known as deep water, he was surprised to see to windward of him a large tract of land covered with a beautiful green meadow. It was not, however, above water, but just a few feet below, say two or three, so that the grass waved and swam about as the ripple flowed over it, in a most delightful way to the eye, so that as watched it made one feel quite drowsy. You know, he continued, I have heard old people say there is a floating island off there, that sometimes rises to the surface, or nearly, and then sinks down again fathoms deep, so that no one sees it for years, and when nobody expects it comes up again for a while. How it may be, I do not know, but that is what they say.' Lastly, Mr. E. Perkins, of Penysgwarne, near Fishguard, wrote on Nov. 2, 1896, as follows, of a changing view to be had from the top of the Garn, which means the Garn Fawr, one of the most interesting prehistoric sites in the county, and one I have had the pleasure of visiting more than once in the company of Henry Owen and Edward Laws, the historians of Pembrokeshire:-- 'May not the fairy islands referred to by Professor Rhys have originated from mirages? During the glorious weather we enjoyed last summer, I went up one particularly fine evening to the top of the Garn behind Penysgwarne to view the sunset. It would have been worth a thousand miles' travel to go to see such a scene as I saw that evening. It was about half an hour before sunset--the bay was calm and smooth as the finest mirror. The rays of the sun made A golden path across the sea, and a picture indescribable. As the sun neared the horizon the rays broadened until the sheen resembled a gigantic golden plate prepared to hold the brighter sun. No sooner had the sun set than I saw a striking mirage. To the right I saw a stretch of country similar to a landscape in this country. A farmhouse and out-buildings were seen, I will not say quite as distinct as I can see the upper part of St. David's parish from this Garn, but much more detailed. We could see fences, roads, and gateways leading to the farmyard, but in the haze it looked more like a panoramic view than a veritable landscape. Similar mirages may possibly have caused our old tadau to think these were the abode of the fairies.' To return to Mr. Sikes, the rest of his account of the Pembrokeshire fairies and their green islands, of their Milford butcher, and of the subterranean gallery leading into their home, comes, as already indicated, for the most part from Howells. But it does not appear on what authority Southey himself made departed druids of the fairies. One would be glad to be reassured on this last point, as such a hypothesis would fit in well enough with what we are told of the sacrosanct character of the inhabitants of the isles on the coast of Britain in ancient times. Take, for instance, the brief account given by Plutarch of one of the isles explored by a certain Demetrius in the service of the Emperor of Rome: see chapter viii. XI. Mr. Craigfryn Hughes, the author of a Welsh novelette [63] with its scene laid in Glamorgan, having induced me to take a copy, I read it and found it full of local colouring. Then I ventured to sound the author on the question of fairy tales, and the reader will be able to judge how hearty the response has been. Before reproducing the tale which Mr. Hughes has sent me, I will briefly put into English his account of himself and his authorities. Mr. Hughes lives at the Quakers' Yard in the neighbourhood of Pontyprid, in Glamorganshire. His father was not a believer [64] in tales about fairies or the like, and he learned all he knows of the traditions about them in his father's absence, from his grandmother and other old people. The old lady's name was Rachel Hughes. She was born at Pandy Pont y Cymmer, near Pontypool, or Pont ap Hywel as Mr. Hughes analyses the name, in the year 1773, and she had a vivid recollection of Edmund Jones of the Tranch, of whom more anon, coming from time to time to preach to the Independents there. She came, however, to live in the parish of Llanfabon, near the Quakers' Yard, when she was only twelve years of age; and there she continued to live to the day of her death, which took place in 1864, so that she was about ninety-one years of age at the time. Mr. Hughes adds that he remembers many of the old inhabitants besides his grandmother, who were perfectly familiar with the story he has put on record; but only two of them were alive when he wrote to me in 1881, and these were both over ninety years old, with their minds overtaken by the childishness of age; but it was only a short time since the death of another, who was, as he says, a walking library of tales about corpse candles, ghosts, and Bendith y Mamau [65], or 'The Mothers' Blessing,' as the fairies are usually called in Glamorgan. Mr. Hughes' father tried to prevent his children being taught any tales about ghosts, corpse candles, or fairies; but the grandmother found opportunities of telling them plenty, and Mr. Hughes vividly describes the effect on his mind when he was a boy, how frightened he used to feel, how he pulled the clothes over his head in bed, and how he half suffocated himself thereby under the effects of the fear with which the tales used to fill him. Then, as to the locality, he makes the following remarks:--'There are few people who have not heard something or other about the old graveyard of the Quakers, which was made by Lydia Phil, a lady who lived at a neighbouring farm house, called Cefn y Fforest. This old graveyard lies in the eastern corner of the parish of Merthyr Tydfil, on land called Pantannas, as to the meaning of which there is much controversy. Some will have it that it is properly Pant yr Aros, or the Hollow of the Staying, because travellers were sometimes stopped there overnight by the swelling of the neighbouring river; others treat it as Pant yr Hanes, the Hollow of the Legend, in allusion to the following story. But before the graveyard was made, the spot was called Rhyd y Grug, or the Ford of the Heather, which grows thereabouts in abundance. In front of the old graveyard towards the south the rivers Taff and Bargoed, which some would make into Byrgoed or Short-Wood, meet with each other, and thence rush in one over terrible cliffs of rock, in the recesses of which lie huge cerwyni or cauldron-like pools, called respectively the Gerwyn Fach, the Gerwyn Fawr, and the Gerwyn Ganol, where many a drowning has taken place. As one walks up over Tarren y Crynwyr, "the Quakers' Rift," until Pantannas is reached, and proceeds northwards for about a mile and a half, one arrives at a farm house called Pen Craig Daf [66], "the Top of the Taff Rock." The path between the two houses leads through fertile fields, in which may be seen, if one has eyes to observe, small rings which are greener than the rest of the ground. They are, in fact, green even as compared with the greenness around them--these are the rings in which Bendith y Mamau used to meet to sing and dance all night. If a man happened to get inside one of these circles when the fairies were there, he could not be got out in a hurry, as they would charm him and lead him into some of their caves, where they would keep him for ages, unawares to him, listening to their music. The rings vary greatly in size, but in point of form they are all round or oval. I have heard my grandmother,' says Mr. Hughes, 'reciting and singing several of the songs which the fairies sang in these rings. One of them began thus:-- Canu, canu, drwy y nos, Dawnsio, dawnsio, ar Waen y Rhos Y' ngoleuni'r lleuad dlos: Hapus ydym ni! Pawb ohonom syd yn llon Heb un gofid dan ei fron: Canu, dawnsio, ar y ton [67]-- Dedwyd ydym ni! Singing, singing, through the night, Dancing, dancing with our might, Where the moon the moor doth light, Happy ever we! One and all of merry mien, Without sorrow are we seen, Singing, dancing on the green, Gladsome ever we! Here follows, in Mr. Hughes' own Welsh, a remarkable story of revenge exacted by the fairies:-- Yn un o'r canrifoed a aethant heibio, preswyliai amaethwr yn nhydyn Pantannas, a'r amser hwnnw yr oed bendith y mamau yn ymwelwyr aml ag amryw gaeau perthynol ido ef, a theimlai yntau gryn gasineb yn ei fynwes at yr 'atras fwstrog, leisiog, a chynllwynig,' fel y galwai hwynt, a mynych yr hiraethai am allu dyfod o hyd i ryw lwybr er cael eu gwared odiyno. O'r diwed hysbyswyd ef gan hen reibwraig, fod y fford i gael eu gwared yn digon hawd, ac ond ido ef rodi godro un hwyr a boreu idi hi, yr hysbysai y fford ido gyrraed yr hyn a fawr dymunai. Bodlonod i'w thelerau a derbyniod yntau y cyfarwydyd, yr hyn ydoed fel y canlyn:--Ei fod i aredig yr holl gaeau i ba rai yr oed eu hoff ymgyrchfan, ac ond idynt hwy unwaith golli y ton glas, y digient, ac na deuent byth mwy i'w boeni drwy eu hymweliadau a'r lle. Dilynod yr amaethwr ei chyfarwydyd i'r llythyren, a choronwyd ei waith a llwydiant. Nid oed yr un o honynt i'w weled odeutu y caeau yn awr; ac yn lle sain eu caniadau soniarus, a glywid bob amser yn dyrchu o Waen y Rhos, nid oed dim ond y distawrwyd trylwyraf yn teyrnasu o gylch eu hen a'u hoff ymgyrchfan. Hauod yr amaethwr wenith, &c., yn y caeau, ac yr oed y gwanwyn gwyrdlas wedi gwthio y gauaf odiar ei sed, ac ymdangosai y maesyd yn arderchog yn eu llifrai gwyrdleision a gwanwynol. Ond un prydnawn, ar ol i'r haul ymgilio i yst felloed y gorllewin, tra yr oed amaethwr Pantannas yn dychwelyd tua ei gartref cyfarfydwyd ag ef gan fod bychan ar ffurf dyn, yn gwisgo hugan goch; a phan daeth gyferbyn ag ef dadweiniod ei gled bychan, gan gyfeirio ei flaen at yr amaethwr, a dywedyd, Dial a daw, Y mae gerllaw. Ceisiod yr amaethwr chwerthin, ond yr oed rhywbeth yn edrychiad sarrug a llym y gwr bychan ag a barod ido deimlo yn hynod o annymunol. Ychydig o nosweithiau yn diwedarach, pan oed y teulu ar ymneillduo i'w gorphwysleoed, dychrynwyd hwy yn fawr iawn gan drwst, fel pe bydai y ty yn syrthio i lawr bendramwnwgl, ac yn union ar ol i'r twrf beidio, clywent y geiriau bygythiol a ganlyn--a dim yn rhagor--yn cael eu parablu yn uchel, Daw dial. Pan oed yr yd wedi cael ei fedi ac yn barod i gael ei gywain i'r ysgubor, yn sydyn ryw noswaith llosgwyd ef fel nad oed yr un dywysen na gwelltyn i'w gael yn un man o'r caeau, ac nis gallasai neb fod wedi gosod yr yd ar dan ond Bendith y Mamau. Fel ag y mae yn naturiol i ni fedwl teimlod yr amaethwr yn fawr oherwyd y tro, ac edifarhaod yn ei galon darfod ido erioed wrando a gwneuthur yn ol cyfarwydyd yr hen reibwraig, ac felly dwyn arno digofaint a chasineb Bendith y Mamau. Drannoeth i'r noswaith y llosgwyd yr yd fel yr oed yn arolygu y difrod achoswyd gan y tan, wele'r gwr bychan ag ydoed wedi ei gyfarfod ychydig o diwrnodau yn flaenorol yn ei gyfarfod eilwaith a chyda threm herfeidiol pwyntiod ei gledyf ato gan dywedyd, Nid yw ond dechreu. Trod gwyneb yr amaethwr cyn wynned a'r marmor, a safod gan alw y gwr bychan yn ol, ond bu y còr yn hynod o wydn ac anewyllysgar i droi ato, ond ar ol hir erfyn arno trod yn ei ol gan ofyn yn sarrug beth yr oed yr amaethwr yn ei geisio, yr hwn a hysbysod ido ei fod yn berffaith fodlon i adael y caeau lle yr oed eu hoff ymgyrchfan i dyfu yn don eilwaith, a rhodi caniatad idynt i dyfod idynt pryd y dewisent, ond yn unig idynt beidio dial eu llid yn mhellach arno ef. 'Na,' oed yr atebiad penderfynol, 'y mae gair y brenin wedi ei roi y byd ido ymdial arnat hyd eithaf ei allu ac nid oes dim un gallu ar wyneb y greadigaeth a bair ido gael ei dynnu yn ol.' Dechreuod yr amaethwr wylo ar hyn, ond yn mhen ychydig hysbysod y gwr bychan y bydai ido ef siarad a'i bennaeth ar y mater, ac y cawsai efe wybod y canlyniad ond ido dyfod i'w gyfarfod ef yn y fan honno amser machludiad haul drennyd. Adawod yr amaethwr dyfod i'w gyfarfod, a phan daeth yr amser apwyntiedig o amgylch ido i gyfarfod a'r bychan cafod ef yno yn ei aros, ac hysbysod ido fod y pennaeth wedi ystyried ei gais yn difrifol, ond gan fod ei air bob amser yn anghyfnewidiol y buasai y dialed bygythiedig yn rhwym o gymeryd lle ar y teulu, ond ar gyfrif ei edifeirwch ef na chawsai digwyd yn ei amser ef nac eido ei blant. Llonydod hynny gryn lawer ar fedwl terfysglyd yr amaethwr, a dechreuod Bendith y Mamau dalu eu hymweliadau a'r lle eilwaith a mynych y clywid sain eu cerdoriaeth felusber yn codi o'r caeau amgylchynol yn ystod y nos. Pasiod canrif heibio heb i'r dialed bygythiedig gael ei gyflawni, ac er fod teulu Pantannas yn cael eu hadgofio yn awr ac eilwaith, y buasai yn sicr o digwyd hwyr neu hwyrach, eto wrth hir glywed y waed, Daw dial, ymgynefinasant a hi nes eu bod yn barod i gredu na fuasai dim yn dyfod o'r bygythiad byth. Yr oed etifed Pantannas yn caru a merch i dirfediannyd cymydogaethol a breswyliai mewn tydyn o'r enw Pen Craig Daf. Yr oed priodas y par dedwyd i gymeryd lle yn mhen ychydig wythnosau ac ymdangosai rhieni y cwpl ieuanc yn hynod o fodlon i'r ymuniad teuluol ag oed ar gymeryd lle. Yr oed yn amser y Nadolig--a thalod y darpar wraig ieuanc ymweliad a theulu ei darpar wr, ac yr oed yno wled o wyd rostiedig yn baratoedig gogyfer a'r achlysur. Eistedai y cwmni odeutu y tan i adrod rhyw chwedlau difyrrus er mwyn pasio yr amser, pryd y cawsant eu dychrynu yn fawr gan lais treidgar yn dyrchafu megis o wely yr afon yn gwaedi Daeth amser ymdïal. Aethant oll allan i wrando a glywent y lleferyd eilwaith, ond nid oed dim i'w glywed ond brochus drwst y dwfr wrth raiadru dros glogwyni aruthrol y cerwyni. Ond ni chawsant aros i wrando yn hir iawn cyn idynt glywed yr un lleferyd eilwaith yn dyrchafu i fyny yn uwch na swn y dwfr pan yn bwrlymu dros ysgwydau y graig, ac yn gwaedi, Daeth yr amser. Nis gallent dyfalu beth yr oed yn ei arwydo, a chymaint ydoed eu braw a'u syndod fel nad allent lefaru yr un gair a'u gilyd. Yn mhen ennyd dychwelasant i'r ty a chyn idynt eisted credent yn dios fod yr adeilad yn cael ei ysgwyd id ei sylfeini gan ryw dwrf y tu allan. Pan yr oed yr oll wedi cael eu parlysio gan fraw, wele fenyw fechan yn gwneuthur ei hymdangosiad ar y bwrd o'u blaen, yr hwn oed yn sefyll yn agos i'r ffenestr. 'Beth yr wyt yn ei geisio yma, y peth bychan hagr?' holai un o'r gwydfodolion. 'Nid oes gennyf unrhyw neges a thi, y gwr hir dafod,' oed atebiad y fenyw fechan. 'Ond yr wyf wedi cael fy anfon yma i adrod rhyw bethau ag syd ar digwyd i'r teulu hwn, a theulu arall o'r gymydogaeth ag a dichon fod o dydordeb idynt, ond gan i mi derbyn y fath sarhad odiar law y gwr du ag syd yn eisted yn y cornel, ni fyd i mi godi y llen ag oed yn cudio y dyfodol allan o'u golwg.' 'Atolwg os oes yn dy fediant ryw wybodaeth parth dyfodol rhai o honom ag a fydai yn dydorol i ni gael ei glywed, dwg hi allan,' ebai un arall o'r gwydfodolion. 'Na wnaf, ond yn unig hysbysu, fod calon gwyryf fel llong ar y traeth yn methu cyrraed y porthlad oherwyd digalondid y pilot.' A chyda ei bod yn llefaru y gair diwedaf diflannod o'u gwyd, na wydai neb i ba le na pha fod! Drwy ystod ci hymweliad hi, peidiod y waed a godasai o'r afon, ond yn fuan ar ol idi diflannu, dechreuod eilwaith a chyhoedi Daeth amser dial, ac ni pheidiod am hir amser. Yr oed y cynulliad wedi cael eu mediannu a gormod o fraw i fedru llefaru yr un gair, ac yr oed llen o brudder yn daenedig dros wyneb pob un o honynt. Daeth amser idynt i ymwahanu, ac aeth Rhyderch y mab i hebrwng Gwerfyl ei gariadferch tua Phen Craig Daf, o ba siwrnai ni dychwelod byth. Cyn ymadael a'i fun dywedir idynt dyngu bythol ffydlondeb i'w gilyd, pe heb weled y naill y llall byth ond hynny, ac nad oed dim a allai beri idynt anghofio eu gilyd. Mae yn debygol i'r llanc Rhyderch pan yn dychwelyd gartref gael ei hun odifewn i un o gylchoed Bendith y Mamau, ac yna idynt ei hud-denu i mewn i un o'u hogofau yn Nharren y Cigfrain, ac yno y bu. Y mae yn llawn bryd i ni droi ein gwynebau yn ol tua Phantannas a Phen Craig Daf. Yr oed rhieni y bachgen anffodus yn mron gwallgofi. Nid oed gandynt yr un drychfedwl i ba le i fyned i chwilio am dano, ac er chwilio yn mhob man a phob lle methwyd yn glir a dyfod o hyd ido, na chael gair o'i hanes. Ychydig i fyny yn y cwm mewn ogof dandaearol trigfannai hen feudwy oedrannus, yr hwn hefyd a ystyrrid yn dewin, o'r enw Gweiryd. Aethant yn mhen ychydig wythnosau i ofyn ido ef, a fedrai rodi idynt ryw wybodaeth parthed i'w mab colledig--ond i ychydig bwrpas. Ni wnaeth yr hyn a adrodod hwnnw wrthynt ond dyfnhau y clwyf a rhoi golwg fwy anobeithiol fyth ar yr amgylchiad. Ar ol idynt ei hysbysu ynghylch ymdangosiad y fenyw fechan ynghyd a'r llais wylofus a glywsent yn dyrchafu o'r afon y nos yr aeth ar goll, hysbysod efe idynt mai y farn fygythiedig ar y teulu gan Fendith y Mamau oed wedi godiwedid y llanc, ac nad oed o un diben idynt fedwl cael ei weled byth mwyach! Ond feallai y gwnelai ei ymdangosiad yn mhen oesau, ond dim yn eu hamser hwy. Pasiai yr amser heibio, a chwydod yr wythnosau i fisoed, a'r misoed i flynydoed, a chasglwyd tad a mam Rhyderch at eu tadau. Yr oed y lle o hyd yn parhau yr un, ond y preswylwyr yn newid yn barhaus, ac yr oed yr adgofion am ei golledigaeth yn darfod yn gyflym, ond er hynny yr oed un yn disgwyl ei dychweliad yn ol yn barhaus, ac yn gobeithio megis yn erbyn gobaith am gael ei weled eilwaith. Bob boreu gyda bod dorau y wawr yn ymagor dros gaerog fynydoed y dwyrain gwelid hi bob tywyd yn rhedeg i ben bryn bychan, a chyda llygaid yn orlawn o dagrau hiraethlon syllai i bob cyfeiriad i edrych a ganfydai ryw argoel fod ei hanwylyd yn dychwelyd; ond i dim pwrpas. Canol dyd gwelid hi eilwaith yn yr un man, a phan ymgollai yr haul fel pelen eiriasgoch o dân dros y terfyngylch, yr oed hi yno. Edrychai nes yn agos bod yn dall, ac wylai ei henaid allan o dyd i dyd ar ol anwyldyn ei chalon. O'r diwed aeth y rhai syd yn edrych drwy y ffenestri i omed eu gwasanaeth idi, ac yr oed y pren almon yn coroni ei phen a'i flagur gwyryfol, ond parhai hi i edrych, ond nid oed neb yn dod. Yn llawn o dydiau ac yn aedfed i'r bed rhodwyd terfyn ar ei holl obeithion a'i disgwyliadau gan angeu, a chludwyd ei gwedillion marwol i fynwent hen Gapel y Fan. Pasiai blynydoed heibio fel mwg, ac oesau fel cysgodion y boreu, ac nid oed neb yn fyw ag oed yn cofio Rhyderch, ond adrodid ei golliad disymwyth yn aml. Dylasem fynegu na welwyd yr un o Fendith y Mamau odeutu y gymydogaeth wedi ei golliad, a pheidiod sain eu cerdoriaeth o'r nos honno allan. Yr oed Rhyderch wedi cael ei hud-denu i fyned gyda Bendith y Mamau--ac aethant ag ef i ffwrd i'w hogof. Ar ol ido aros yno dros ychydig o diwrnodau fel y tybiai, gofynnod am ganiatad i dychwelyd, yr hyn a rwyd ganiatawyd ido gan y brenin. Daeth allan o'r ogof, ac yr oed yn ganol dyd braf, a'r haul yn llewyrchu odiar fynwes ffurfafen digwmwl. Cerdod yn mlaen o Darren y Cigfrain hyd nes ido dyfod i olwg Capel y Fan, ond gymaint oed ei syndod pan y gwelod nad oed yr un capel yno! Pa le yr oed wedi bod, a pha faint o amser? Gyda theimladau cymysgedig cyfeiriod ei gamrau tua Phen Craig Daf, cartref-le ei anwylyd, ond nid oed hi yno, ac nid oed yn adwaen yr un dyn ag oed yno chwaith. Ni fedrai gael gair o hanes ei gariad a chymerod y rhai a breswylient yno mai gwallgofdyn ydoed. Prysurod eilwaith tua Phantannas, ac yr oed ei syndod yn fwy fyth yno! Nid oed yn adwaen yr un o honynt, ac ni wydent hwythau dim am dano yntau. O'r diwed daeth gwr y ty i fewn, ac yr oed hwnnw yn cofio clywed ei dad cu yn adrod am lanc ag oed wedi myned yn disymwyth i goll er ys peth cannoed o flynydoed yn ol, ond na wydai neb i ba le. Rywfod neu gilyd tarawod gwr y ty ei ffon yn erbyn Rhyderch, pa un a diflannod mewn cawod o lwch, ac ni chlywyd air o son beth daeth o hono mwyach. 'In one of the centuries gone by, there lived a husbandman on the farm of Pantannas; and at that time the fairies used to pay frequent visits to several of the fields which belonged to him. He cherished in his bosom a considerable hatred for the "noisy, boisterous, and pernicious tribe," as he called them, and often did he long to be able to discover some way to rid the place of them. At last he was told by an old witch that the way to get rid of them was easy enough, and that she would tell him how to attain what he so greatly wished, if he gave her one evening's milking [68] on his farm, and one morning's. He agreed to her conditions, and from her he received advice, which was to the effect that he was to plough all the fields where they had their favourite resorts, and that, if they found the green sward gone, they would take offence, and never return to trouble him with their visits to the spot. 'The husbandman followed the advice to the letter, and his work was crowned with success. Not a single one of them was now to be seen about the fields, and, instead of the sound of their sweet music, which used to be always heard rising from the Coarse Meadow Land, the most complete silence now reigned over their favourite resort. 'He sowed his land with wheat and other grain; the verdant spring had now thrust winter off its throne, and the fields appeared splendid in their vernal and green livery. 'But one evening, when the sun had retired to the chambers of the west, and when the farmer of Pantannas was returning home, he was met by a diminutive being in the shape of a man, with a red coat on. When he had come right up to him, he unsheathed his little sword, and, directing the point towards the farmer, he said:-- Vengeance cometh, Fast it approacheth. 'The farmer tried to laugh, but there was something in the surly and stern looks of the little fellow which made him feel exceedingly uncomfortable. 'A few nights afterwards, as the family were retiring to rest, they were very greatly frightened by a noise, as though the house was falling to pieces; and, immediately after the noise, they heard a voice uttering loudly the threatening words--and nothing more:-- Vengeance cometh. 'When, however, the corn was reaped and ready to be carried to the barn, it was, all of a sudden, burnt up one night, so that neither an ear nor a straw of it could be found anywhere in the fields; and now nobody could have set the corn on fire but the fairies. 'As one may naturally suppose, the farmer felt very much on account of this event, and he regretted in his heart having done according to the witch's direction, and having thereby brought upon him the anger and hatred of the fairies. 'The day after the night of the burning of the corn, as he was surveying the destruction caused by the fire, behold the little fellow, who had met him a few days before, met him again, and, with a challenging glance, he pointed his sword towards him, saying:-- It but beginneth. The farmer's face turned as white as marble, and he stood calling the little fellow to come back; but the dwarf proved very unyielding and reluctant to turn to him; but, after long entreaty, he turned back, asking the farmer, in a surly tone, what he wanted, when he was told by the latter that he was quite willing to allow the fields, in which their favourite resorts had been, to grow again into a green sward, and to let them frequent them as often as they wished, provided they would no further wreak their anger on him. '"No," was the determined reply, "the word of the king has been given, that he will avenge himself on thee to the utmost of his power; and there is no power on the face of creation that will cause it to be withdrawn." 'The farmer began to weep at this, and, after a while, the little fellow said that he would speak to his lord on the matter, and that he would let him know the result, if he would come there to meet him at the hour of sunset on the third day after. 'The farmer promised to meet him; and, when the time appointed for meeting the little man came, he found him awaiting him, and he was told by him that his lord had seriously considered his request, but that, as the king's word was ever immutable, the threatened vengeance was to take effect on the family. On account, however, of his repentance, it would not be allowed to happen in his time or that of his children. 'That calmed the disturbed mind of the farmer a good deal. The fairies began again to pay frequent visits to the place, and their melodious singing was again heard at night in the fields around. 'A century passed by without seeing the threatened vengeance carried into effect; and, though the Pantannas family were reminded now and again that it was certain sooner or later to come, nevertheless, by long hearing the voice that said-- Vengeance cometh, they became so accustomed to it, that they were ready to believe that nothing would ever come of the threat. 'The heir of Pantannas was paying his addresses to the daughter of a neighbouring landowner who lived at the farm house called Pen Craig Daf, and the wedding of the happy pair was to take place in a few weeks, and the parents on both sides appeared exceedingly content with the union that was about to take place between the two families. 'It was Christmas time, and the intended wife paid a visit to the family of her would-be husband. There they had a feast of roast goose prepared for the occasion. 'The company sat round the fire to relate amusing tales to pass the time, when they were greatly frightened by a piercing voice, rising, as it were, from the bed of the river [69], and shrieking:-- The time for revenge is come. 'They all went out to listen if they could hear the voice a second time, but nothing was to be heard save the angry noise of the water as it cascaded over the dread cliffs of the kerwyni; they had not long, however, to wait till they heard again the same voice rising above the noise of the waters, as they boiled over the shoulders of the rock, and crying:-- The time is come. 'They could not guess what it meant, and so great was their fright and astonishment, that no one could utter a word to another. Shortly they returned to the house, when they believed that beyond doubt the building was being shaken to its foundations by some noise outside. When all were thus paralysed by fear, behold a little woman made her appearance on the table, which stood near the window. '"What dost thou, ugly little thing, want here?" asked one of those present. '"I have nothing to do with thee, O man of the meddling tongue," said the little woman, "but I have been sent here to recount some things that are about to happen to this family and another family in the neighbourhood, things that might be of interest to them; but, as I have received such an insult from the black fellow that sits in the corner, the veil that hides them from their sight shall not be lifted by me." '"Pray," said another of those present, "if thou hast in thy possession any knowledge with regard to the future of any one of us that would interest us to hear, bring it forth." '"No, I will but merely tell you that a certain maiden's heart is like a ship on the coast, unable to reach the harbour because the pilot has lost heart." 'As soon as she had cried out the last word, she vanished, no one knew whither or how. 'During her visit, the cry rising from the river had stopped, but soon afterwards it began again to proclaim:-- The time of vengeance is come; nor did it cease for a long while. The company had been possessed by too much terror for one to be able to address another, and a sheet of gloom had, as it were, been spread over the face of each. The time for parting came, and Rhyderch the heir went to escort Gwerfyl, his lady-love, home towards Pen Craig Daf, a journey from which he never returned. 'Before bidding one another "Good-bye," they are said to have sworn to each other eternal fidelity, even though they should never see one another from that moment forth, and that nothing should make the one forget the other. 'It is thought probable that the young man Rhyderch, on his way back towards home, got into one of the rings of the fairies, that they allured him into one of their caves in the Ravens' Rift, and that there he remained. 'It is high time for us now to turn back towards Pantannas and Pen Craig Daf. The parents of the unlucky youth were almost beside themselves: they had no idea where to go to look for him, and, though they searched every spot in the place, they failed completely to find him or any clue to his history. 'A little higher up the country, there dwelt, in a cave underground, an aged hermit called Gweiryd, who was regarded also as a sorcerer. They went a few weeks afterwards to ask him whether he could give them any information about their lost son; but it was of little avail. What that man told them did but deepen the wound and give the event a still more hopeless aspect. When they had told him of the appearance of the little woman, and the doleful cry heard rising from the river on the night when their son was lost, he informed them that it was the judgement threatened to the family by the fairies that had overtaken the youth, and that it was useless for them to think of ever seeing him again: possibly he might make his appearance after generations had gone by, but not in their lifetime. 'Time rolled on, weeks grew into months, and months into years, until Rhyderch's father and mother were gathered to their ancestors. The place continued the same, but the inhabitants constantly changed, so that the memory of Rhyderch's disappearance was fast dying away. Nevertheless there was one who expected his return all the while, and hoped, as it were against hope, to see him once more. Every morn, as the gates of the dawn opened beyond the castellated heights of the east, she might be seen, in all weathers, hastening to the top of a small hill, and, with eyes full of the tears of longing, gazing in every direction to see if she could behold any sign of her beloved's return; but in vain. At noon, she might be seen on the same spot again; she was also there at the hour when the sun was wont to hide himself, like a red-hot ball of fire, below the horizon. She gazed until she was nearly blind, and she wept forth her soul from day to day for the darling of her heart. At last they that looked out at the windows began to refuse their service, and the almond tree commenced to crown her head with its virgin bloom. She continued to gaze, but he came not. Full of days, and ripe for the grave, death put an end to all her hopes and all her expectations. Her mortal remains were buried in the graveyard of the old Chapel of the Fan [70]. 'Years passed away like smoke, and generations like the shadows of the morning, and there was no longer anybody alive who remembered Rhyderch, but the tale of his sudden missing was frequently in people's mouths. And we ought to have said that after the event no one of the fairies was seen about the neighbourhood, and the sound of their music ceased from that night. 'Rhyderch had been allured by them, and they took him away into their cave. When he had stayed there only a few days, as he thought, he asked for permission to return, which was readily granted him by the king. He issued from the cave when it was a fine noon, with the sun beaming from the bosom of a cloudless firmament. He walked on from the Ravens' Rift until he came near the site of the Fan Chapel; but what was his astonishment to find no chapel there! Where, he wondered, had he been, and how long away? So with mixed feelings he directed his steps towards Pen Craig Daf, the home of his beloved one, but she was not there nor any one whom he knew either. He could get no word of the history of his sweetheart, and those who dwelt in the place took him for a madman. 'He hastened then to Pantannas, where his astonishment was still greater. He knew nobody there, and nobody knew anything about him. At last the man of the house came in, and he remembered hearing his grandfather relating how a youth had suddenly disappeared, nobody knew whither, some hundreds of years previously. Somehow or other the man of the house chanced to knock his walking-stick against Rhyderch, when the latter vanished in a shower of dust. Nothing more was ever heard of him.' Before leaving Glamorgan, I may add that Mr. Sikes associates fairy ladies with Crymlyn Lake, between Briton Ferry and Swansea; but, as frequently happens with him, he does not deign to tell us whence he got the legend. 'It is also believed,' he says at p. 35, 'that a large town lies swallowed up there, and that the Gwraged Annwn have turned the submerged walls to use as the superstructure of their fairy palaces. Some claim to have seen the towers of beautiful castles lifting their battlements beneath the surface of the dark waters, and fairy bells are at times heard ringing from those towers.' So much by the way: we shall return to Crymlyn in chapter vii. XII. The other day, as I was going to Gwent, I chanced to be in the Golden Valley in Herefordshire, where the names in the churchyards seem largely to imply a Welsh population, though the Welsh language has not been heard there for ages. Among others I noticed Joneses and Williamses in abundance at Abbey Dore, Evanses and Bevans, Morgans, Prossers and Prices, not to mention Sayces--that is to say, Welshmen of English extraction or education--a name which may also be met with in Little England in Pembrokeshire, and probably on other English-Welsh borders. Happening to have to wait for a train at the Abbey Dore station, I got into conversation with the tenants of a cottage hard by, and introduced the subject of the fairies. The old man knew nothing about them, but his wife, Elizabeth Williams, had been a servant girl at a place called Pen Pôch, which she pronounced with the Welsh guttural ch: she said that it is near Llandeilo Cressenny in Monmouthshire. It was about forty years ago when she served at Pen Pôch, and her mistress' name was Evans, who was then about fifty years of age. Now Mrs. Evans was in the habit of impressing on her servant girls' minds, that, unless they made the house tidy before going to bed, and put everything in its place overnight, the little people--the fairies, she thinks she called them--would leave them no rest in bed at night, but would come and 'pinch them like.' If they put everything in its place, and left the house 'tidy like,' it would be all right, and 'nobody would do anything to them like.' That is all I could get from her without prompting her, which I did at length by suggesting to her that the fairies might leave the tidy servants presents, a shilling 'on the hearth or the hob like.' Yes, she thought there was something of that sort, and her way of answering me suggested that this was not the first time she had heard of the shilling. She had never been lucky enough to have had one herself, nor did she know of anybody else that 'had got it like.' During a brief but very pleasant sojourn at Llanover in May, 1883, I made some inquiries about the fairies, and obtained the following account from William Williams, who now, in his seventieth year, works in Lady Llanover's garden:--'I know of a family living a little way from here at ----, or as they would now call it in English ----, whose ancestors, four generations ago, used to be kind to Bendith y Mamau, and always welcomed their visits by leaving at night a basinful of bread and milk for them near the fire. It always used to be eaten up before the family got up in the morning. But one night a naughty servant man gave them instead of milk a bowlful of urine [71]. They, on finding it out, threw it about the house and went away disgusted. But the servant watched in the house the following night. They found him out, and told him that he had made fools of them, and that in punishment for his crime there would always be a fool, i.e. an idiot, in his family. As a matter of fact, there was one among his children afterwards, and there is one in the family now. They have always been in a bad way ever since, and they never prosper. The name of the man who originally offended the fairies was ----; and the name of the present fool among his descendants is ----.' For evident reasons it is not desirable to publish the names. Williams spoke also of a sister to his mother, who acted as servant to his parents. There were, he said, ten stepping stones between his father's house and the well, and on every one of these stones his aunt used to find a penny every morning, until she made it known to others, when, of course, the pennies ceased coming. He did not know why the fairies gave money to her, unless it was because she was a most tidy servant. Another Llanover gardener remembered that the fairies used to change children, and that a certain woman called Nani Fach in that neighbourhood was one of their offspring; and he had been told that there were fairy rings in certain fields not far away in Llanover parish. A third gardener, who is sixty-eight years of age, and is likewise in Lady Llanover's employ, had heard it said that servant girls about his home were wont to sweep the floor clean at night, and to throw crumbs of bread about on it before going to bed. Lastly, Mrs. Gardner of Ty Uchaf Llanover, who is ninety years of age, remembers having a field close to Capel Newyd near Blaen Afon, in Llanover Uchaf, pointed out to her as containing fairy rings; and she recollects hearing, when she was a child, that a man had got into one of them. He remained away from home, as they always did, she said, a whole year and a day; but she has forgotten how he was recovered. Then she went on to say that her father had often got up in the night to see that his horses were not taken out and ridden about the fields by Bendith y Mamau; for they were wont to ride people's horses late at night round the four corners of the fields, and thereby they often broke the horses' wind. This, she gave me to understand, was believed in the parish of Llanover and that part of the country generally. So here we have an instance probably of confounding fairies with witches. I have not the means at my command of going at length into the folklore of Gwent, so I will merely mention where the reader may find a good deal about it. I have already introduced the name of the credulous old Christian, Edmund Jones of the Tranch: he published at Trefecca in the year 1779 a small volume entitled, A Geographical, Historical, and Religious Account of the Parish of Aberystruth in the County of Monmouth, to which are added Memoirs of several Persons of Note who lived in the said Parish. In 1813, by which time he seems to have left this world for another, where he expected to understand all about the fairies and their mysterious life, a small volume of his was published at Newport, bearing the title, A Relation of Apparitions of Spirits in the County of Monmouth and the Principality of Wales, with other notable Relations from England, together with Observations about them, and Instructions from them, designed to confute and to prevent the Infidelity of denying the Being and Apparition of Spirits, which tends to Irreligion and Atheism. By the late Rev. Edmund Jones, of the Tranch. Naturally those volumes have been laid under contribution by Mr. Sikes, though the tales about apparitions in them are frequently of a ghastly nature, and sometimes loathsome: on the whole, they remind me more than anything else I have ever read of certain Breton tales which breathe fire and brimstone: all such begin to be now out of fashion in Protestant countries. I shall at present only quote a passage of quite a different nature from the earlier volume, p. 72--it is an interesting one, and it runs thus:--'It was the general opinion in times past, when these things were very frequent, that the fairies knew whatever was spoken in the air without the houses, not so much what was spoken in the houses. I suppose they chiefly knew what was spoken in the air at night. It was also said that they rather appeared to an uneven number of persons, to one, three, five, &c.; and oftener to men than to women. Thomas William Edmund, of Havodavel, an honest pious man, who often saw them, declared that they appeared with one bigger than the rest going before them in the company.' With the notion that the fairies heard everything uttered out of doors may be compared the faculty attributed to the great magician king, Math ab Mathonwy, of hearing any whisper whatsoever that met the wind: see the Oxford Mabinogion, p. 60, and Guest's Mabinogion, iii. 219; see also respectively pp. 94, 96, and pp. 308, 310, as to the same faculty belonging to the fairy people of the Corannians, and the strange precautions taken against them by the brothers Llûd and Llevelys. CHAPTER III FAIRY WAYS AND WORDS Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy! Shakespeare. In the previous chapters, the fairy lore of the Principality was hastily skimmed without any method; and I fear that, now I have to reproduce some of the things which I gleaned somewhat later, there will be, if possible, still less method. The general reader, in case he chances on these pages, will doubtless feel that, as soon as he has read a few of the tales, the rest seem to be familiar to him, and exceedingly tiresome. It may be, however, presumed that all men anxious to arrive at an idea as to the origin among us of the belief in fairies, will agree that we should have as large and exhaustive a collection as possible of facts on which to work. If we can supply the data without stint, the student of anthropology may be trusted in time to discover their value for his inductions, and their place in the history of the human race. I. In the course of the summer of 1882 [72] I was a good deal in Wales, especially Carnarvonshire, and I made notes of a great many scraps of legends about the fairies, and other bits of folklore. I will now string some of them together as I found them. I began at Trefriw [73], in Nant Conwy, where I came across an old man, born and bred there, called Morris Hughes. He appears to be about seventy years of age: he formerly worked as a slater, but now he lives at Llanrwst, and tries to earn a livelihood by angling. He told me that fairies came a long while ago to Cowlyd Farm, near Cowlyd Lake, with a baby to dress, and asked to be admitted into the house, saying that they would pay well for it. Their request was granted, and they used to leave money behind them. One day the servant girl accidentally found they had also left some stuff they were in the habit of using in washing their children. She examined it, and, one of her eyes happening to itch, she rubbed it with the finger that had touched the stuff; so when she went to Llanrwst Fair she saw the same fairy folks there stealing cakes from a standing, and asked them why they did that. They inquired with what eye she saw them: she put her hand to the eye, and one of the fairies quickly rubbed it, so that she never saw any more of them. They were also very fond of bringing their children to be dressed in the houses between Trefriw and Llanrwst; and on the flat land bordering on the Conwy they used to dance, frolic, and sing every moonlight night. Evan Thomas of Sgubor Gerrig used to have money from them. He has been dead, Morris Hughes said, over sixty years: he had on his land a sort of cowhouse where the fairies had shelter, and hence the pay. Morris, when a boy, used to be warned by his parents to take care lest he should be stolen by the fairies. He knew Thomas Williams of Bryn Syllty, or, as he was commonly called, Twm Bryn Syllty, who was a changeling. He was a sharp, small man, afraid of nothing. He met his death some years ago by drowning near Eglwys Fach, when he was about sixty-three years of age. There are relatives of his about Llanrwst still: that is, relatives of his mother, if indeed she was his mother (os oed hi'n fam ido fo, ynté). Lastly, Morris had a tale about a mermaid cast ashore by a storm near Conway. She entreated the fishermen who found her to help her back into her native element; and on their refusing to comply she prayed them to place her tail at least in the water. A very crude rhyme describes her dying of exposure to the cold, thus:-- Y forforwyn ar y traeth, Crio gwaedu'n arw wnaeth, Ofn y deuai drycin drannoeth: Yr hin yn oer a rhewi wnaeth. The stranded mermaid on the beach Did sorely cry and sorely screech, Afraid to bide the morrow's breeze: The cold it came, and she did freeze. But before expiring, the mermaid cursed the people of Conway to be always poor, and Conway has ever since, so goes the tale, laboured under the curse; so that when a stranger happens to bring a sovereign there, the Conway folk, if silver is required, have to send across the water to Llansanffraid for change. My next informant was John Duncan Maclaren, who was born in 1812, and lives at Trefriw. His father was a Scotsman, but Maclaren is in all other respects a Welshman. He also knew the Sgubor Gerrig people, and that Evan Thomas and Lowri his wife had exceeding great trouble to prevent their son Roger from being carried away by the fairies. For the fairy maids were always trying to allure him away, and he was constantly finding fairy money. The fairy dance, and the playing and singing that accompanied it, used to take place in a field in front of his father's house; but Lowri would never let her son go out after the sun had gone to his battlements (ar ol i'r haul fyn'd i lawr i gaera). The most dangerous nights were those when the moon shone brightly, and pretty wreaths of mist adorned the meadows by the river. Maclaren had heard of a man, whom he called Siôn Catrin of Tyn Twll, finding a penny every day at the pistyll or water-spout near the house, when he went there to fetch water. The flat land between Trefriw and Llanrwst had on it a great many fairy rings, and some of them are, according to Maclaren, still to be seen. There the fairies used to dance, and when a young man got into one of the rings the fairy damsels took him away; but he could be got out unharmed at the end of a year and a day, when he would be found dancing with them in the same ring: he must then be dexterously touched by some one of his friends with a piece of iron and dragged out at once. This is the way in which a young man whom my notes connect with a place called Bryn Glas was recovered. He had gone out with a friend, who lost him, and he wandered into a fairy ring. He had new shoes on at the time, and his friends brought him out at the end of the interval of a year and a day; but he could not be made to understand that he had been away more than five minutes, until he was asked to look at his new shoes, which were by that time in pieces. Maclaren had also something to say concerning the history and habitat of the fairies. Those of Nant Conwy dress in green; and his mother, who died about sixty-two years ago, aged forty-seven, had told him that they lived seven years on the earth, seven years in the air, and seven years underground. He also had a mermaid tale, like that of Pergrin from Dyfed, p. 163. A fisherman from Llandrillo yn Rhos, between Colwyn and Llandudno, had caught a mermaid in his net. She asked to be set free, promising that she would, in case he complied, do him a kindness. He consented, and one fine day, a long while afterwards, she suddenly peeped out of the water near him, and shouted: Siôn Ifan, cwyd dy rwyda' a thyn tua'r lan, 'John Evans, take up thy nets and make for the shore.' He obeyed, and almost immediately there was a terrible storm, in which many fishermen lost their lives. The river Conwy is the chief haunt of the mysterious afanc, already mentioned, p. 130, and Maclaren stated that its name used to be employed within his memory to frighten girls and children: so much was it still dreaded. Perhaps I ought to have stated that Maclaren is very fond of music, and that he told me of a gentleman at Conway who had taken down in writing a supposed fairy tune. I have made inquiries of the latter's son, Mr. Hennessy Hughes of Conway; but his father's papers seem to have been lost, so that he cannot find the tune in question, though he has heard of it. Whilst on this question of music let me quote from the Llwyd letter in the Cambrian Journal for 1859, pp. 145-6, on which I have already drawn, pp. 130-3, above. The passage in point is to the following effect:-- 'I will leave these tales aside whilst I go as far as the Ogo Du, "the Black Cave," which is in the immediate vicinity of Crigcieth [74], and into which the musicians entered so far that they lost their way back. One of them was heard to play on his pipe, and another on his horn, about two miles from where they went in; and the place where the piper was heard is called Braich y Bib, and where the man with the horn was heard is called Braich y Cornor. I do not believe that even a single man doubts but that this is all true, and I know not how the airs called Ffarwel Dic y Pibyd, "Dick the Piper's Farewell," and Ffarwel Dwm Bach, "Little Tom's Farewell," had those names, unless it was from the musicians above mentioned. Nor do I know that Ned Puw may not have been the third, and that the air called Ffarwel Ned Puw, "Ned Pugh's Farewell," may not have been the last he played before going into the cave. I cannot warrant this to be true, as I have only heard it said by one man, and he merely held it as a supposition, which had been suggested by this air of Ffarwel Dic y Pibyd.' A story, however, mentioned by Cyndelw in the Brython for 1860, p. 57, makes Ned Pugh enter the cave of Tal y Clegyr, which the writer in his article identifies with Ness Cliff, near Shrewsbury. In that cave, which was regarded as a wonderful one, he says the musician disappeared, while the air he was playing, Ffarwel Ned Puw, "Ned Pugh's Farewell," was retained in memory of him. Some account of the departure of Ned Pugh and of the interminable cave into which he entered, will be found given in a rambling fashion in the Cambrian Quarterly Magazine (London, 1829), vol. i, pp. 40-5, where the minstrel's Welsh name is given as Iolo ap Huw. There we are told that he was last seen in the twilight of a misty Halloween, and the notes of the tune he was last heard to play are duly given. One of the surmises as to Iolo's ultimate fate is also recorded, namely, that in the other world he has exchanged his fiddle for a bugle, and become huntsman-in-chief to Gwyn ab Nûd, so that every Halloween he may be found cheering Cwn Annwn, 'the Hounds of the Other World,' over Cader Idris [75]. The same summer I fell in with Mr. Morris Evans, of Cerrig Mân, near Amlwch. He is a mining agent on the Gwydir Estate in the Vale of Conwy, but he is a native of the neighbourhood of Parys Mountain, in Anglesey, where he acquired his knowledge of mining. He had heard fairy tales from his grandmother, Grace Jones, of Llwyn Ysgaw near Mynyd Mechell, between Amlwch and Holyhead. She died, nearly ninety years of age, over twenty years ago. She used to relate how she and others of her own age were wont in their youth to go out on bright moonlight nights to a spot near Llyn y Bwch. They seldom had to wait there long before they would hear exquisite music and behold a grand palace standing on the ground. The diminutive folks of fairyland would then come forth to dance and frolic. The next morning the palace would be found gone, but the grandmother used to pick up fairy money on the spot, and this went on regularly so long as she did not tell others of her luck. My informant, who is himself a man somewhat over fifty-two, tells me that at a place not far from Llyn y Bwch there were plenty of fairy rings to be seen in the grass; and it is in them the fairies were supposed to dance [76]. From Llanrwst I went up to see the bard and antiquary, Mr. Gethin Jones. His house was prettily situated on the hillside on the left of the road as you approach the village of Penmachno. I was sorry to find that his memory had been considerably impaired by a paralytic stroke from which he had suffered not long before. However, from his room he pointed out to me a spot on the other side of the Machno, called Y Werdon, which means 'The Green Land,' or more literally, 'The Greenery,' so to say. It was well known for its green, grassy fairy rings, formerly frequented by the Tylwyth Teg; and he said he could distinguish some of the rings even then from where he stood. The Werdon is on the Bennar, and the Bennar is the high ground between Penmachno and Dolwydelan. The spot in question is on the part nearest to the Conwy Falls. This name, Y Werdon, is liable to be confounded with Iwerdon, 'Ireland,' which is commonly treated as if it began with the definite article, so that it is made into Y Werdon and Werdon. The fairy Werdon, in the radical form Gwerdon, not only recalls to my mind the Green Isles called Gwerdonau Llïon, but also the saying, common in North Wales, that a person in great anxiety 'sees Y Werdon.' Thus, for instance, a man who fails to return to his family at the hour expected, and believes his people to be in great anxiety about him, expresses himself by saying that they will have 'seen the Werdon on my account' (mi fydan' wedi gwel'd y Werdon am dana'i). Is that Ireland, or is it the land of the fairies, the other world, in fact? If the latter, it might simply mean they will have died of anxiety; but I confess I have not so far been able to decide. I am not aware that the term occurs in any other form of expression than the one I have given; if it had, and if the Werdon were spoken of in some other way, that might possibly clear up the difficulty. If it refers to Ireland, it must imply that sighting Ireland is equivalent to going astray at sea, meaning in this sort of instance, getting out of one's senses; but the Welsh are not very much given to nautical expressions. It reminds me somewhat of Gerald Griffin's allusion to the Phantom City, and the penalty paid by those who catch a glimpse of its turrets as the dividing waves expose them for a moment to view on the western coast of Ireland:-- Soon close the white waters to screen it, And the bodement, they say, of the wonderful sight, Is death to the eyes that have seen it. The Fairy Glen above Bettws y Coed is called in Welsh Ffos 'Nodyn, 'the Sink of the Abyss'; but Mr. Gethin Jones told me that it was also called Glyn y Tylwyth Teg, which is very probable, as some such a designation is required to account for the English name, 'the Fairy Glen.' People on the Capel Garmon side used to see the Tylwyth playing there, and descending into the Ffos or Glen gently and lightly without occasioning themselves the least harm. The Fairy Glen was, doubtless, supposed to contain an entrance to the world below. This reminds one of the name of the pretty hollow running inland from the railway station at Bangor. Why should it be called Nant Uffern, or 'The Hollow of Hell'? Can it be that there was a supposed entrance to the fairy world somewhere there? In any case, I am quite certain that Welsh place-names involve allusions to the fairies much oftener than has been hitherto supposed; and I should be inclined to cite, as a further example, Moel Eilio [77] or Moel Eilian, from the personal name Eilian, to be mentioned presently. Moel Eilian is a mountain under which the fairies were supposed to have great stores of treasure. But to return to Mr. Gethin Jones, I had almost forgotten that I have another instance of his in point. He showed me a passage in a paper which he wrote in Welsh some time ago on the antiquities of Yspyty Ifan. He says that where the Serw joins the Conwy there is a cave, to which tradition asserts that a harpist was once allured by the Tylwyth Teg. He was, of course, not seen afterwards, but the echo of the music made by him and them on their harps is still to be heard a little lower down, under the field called to this day Gweirglod y Telynorion, 'The Harpers' Meadow': compare the extract from Edward Llwyd's correspondence at p. 202 above. Mr. Gethin Jones also spoke to me of the lake called Llyn Pencraig, which was drained in hopes of finding lead underneath it, an expectation not altogether doomed to disappointment, and he informed me that its old name was Llyn Llifon; so the moor around it was called Gwaen Llifon. It appears to have been a large lake, but only in wet weather, and to have no deep bed. The names connected with the spot are now Nant Gwaen Llifon and the Gwaith (or Mine) of Gwaen Llifon: they are, I understand, within the township of Trefriw. The name Llyn Llifon is of great interest when taken in connexion with the Triadic account of the cataclysm called the Bursting of Llyn Llifon. Mr. Gethin Jones, however, believed himself that Llyn Llïon was no other than Bala Lake, through which the Dee makes her way. II. One day in August of the same year, I arrived at Dinas Station, and walked down to Llandwrog in order to see Dinas Dinlle, and to ascertain what traditions still existed there respecting Caer Arianrhod, Llew Llawgyffes, Dylan Eilton, and other names that figure in the Mabinogi of Math ab Mathonwy. I called first on the schoolmaster, and he kindly took me to the clerk, Hugh Evans, a native of the neighbourhood of Llangefni, in Anglesey. He had often heard people talk of some women having once on a time come from Tregar Anthreg to Cae'r 'Loda', a place near the shore, to fetch food or water, and that when they looked back they beheld the town overflowed by the sea: the walls can still be seen at low water. Gwennan was the name of one of the women, and she was buried at the place now called Bed Gwennan, or Gwennan's Grave. He had also heard the fairy tales of Waen Fawr and Nant y Bettws, narrated by the antiquary, Owen Williams of the former place. For instance, he had related to him the tale of the man who slept on a clump of rushes, and thought he was all the while in a magnificent mansion; see p. 100, above. Now I should explain that Tregar Anthreg is to be seen at low water from Dinas Dinlle as a rock not far from the shore. The Caranthreg which it implies is one of the modern forms to which Caer Arianrhod has been reduced; and to this has been prefixed a synonym of caer, namely, tref, reduced to tre', just as Carmarthen is frequently called Tre' Gaerfyrdin. Cae'r 'Loda' is explained as Cae'r Aelodau', 'The Field of the Limbs'; but I am sorry to say that I forgot to note the story explanatory of the name. It is given, I think, to a farm, and so is Bed Gwennan likewise the name of a farm house. The tenant of the latter, William Roberts, was at home when I visited the spot. He told me the same story, but with a variation: three sisters had come from Tregan Anrheg to fetch provisions, when their city was overflowed. Gwen fled to the spot now called Bed Gwennan, Elan to Tydyn Elan, or Elan's Holding, and Maelan to Rhos Maelan, or Maelan's Moor; all three are names of places in the immediate neighbourhood. From Dinas Dinlle I was directed across Lord Newborough's grounds at Glynllifon to Pen y Groes Station; but on my way I had an opportunity of questioning several of the men employed at Glynllifon. One of these was called William Thomas Solomon, an intelligent middle-aged man, who works in the garden there. He said that the three women who escaped from the submerged city were sisters, and that he had learned in his infancy to call them Gwennan bi Dôn, Elan bi Dôn, and Maelan bi Dôn. Lastly, the name of the city, according to him, was Tregan Anthrod. I had the following forms of the name that day:--Tregar Anrheg, Tregar Anthreg, Tregan Anrheg, Tregan Anthreg, and Tregan Anthrod. All these are attempts to reproduce what might be written Tre'-Gaer-Arianrhod. The modification of nrh into nthr is very common in North Wales, and Tregar Anrheg seems to have been fashioned on the supposition that the name had something to do with anrheg, 'a gift.' Tregan Anthrod is undoubtedly the Caer Arianrhod, or 'fortress of Arianrhod,' in the Mabinogi, and it is duly marked as such in a map of Speede's at the spot where it should be. Now the Arianrhod of the Mabinogi of Math could hardly be called a lady of rude virtue, and it is the idea in the neighbourhood that the place was inundated on account of the wickedness of the inhabitants. So it would appear that Gwennan, Elan, and Maelan, Arianrhod's sisters, were the just ones allowed to escape. Arianrhod was probably drowned as the principal sinner in possession; but I did not find, as I expected, that the crime which called for such an expiation was in this instance that of playing cards on Sunday. In fact, this part of the legend does not seem to have been duly elaborated as yet. I must now come back to Solomon's bi Dôn, which puzzles me not a little. Arianrhod was daughter of Dôn, and so several other characters in the same Mabinogi were children of Dôn. But what is bi Dôn? I have noticed that all the Welsh antiquaries who take Don out of books invariably call that personage Dòn or Donn with a short o, which is wrong, and this has saved me from being deceived once or twice: so I take it that bi Dôn is, as Solomon asserted, a local expression of which he did not know the meaning. I can only add, in default of a better explanation, that bi Dôn recalled to my mind what I had shortly before heard on my trip from Aberdaron to Bardsey Island. My wife and I, together with two friends, engaged, after much eloquent haggling, a boat at the former place, but one of the men who were to row us insinuated a boy of his, aged four, into the boat, an addition which did not exactly add to the pleasures of that somewhat perilous trip amidst incomprehensible currents. But the Aberdaron boatmen always called that child bi Donn, which I took to have been a sort of imitation of an infantile pronunciation of 'baby John,' for his name was John, which Welsh infants as a rule first pronounce Donn: I can well remember the time when I did. This, applied to Gwennan bi Dôn, would imply that Solomon heard it as a piece of nursery lore when he was a child, and that it meant simply--Gwennan, baby or child of Dôn. Lastly, the only trace of Dylan I could find was in the name of a small promontory, called variously by the Glynllifon men Pwynt Maen Tylen, which was Solomon's pronunciation, and Pwynt Maen Dulan. It is also known, as I was given to understand, as Pwynt y Wig: I believe I have seen it given in maps as Maen Dylan Point. Solomon told me the following fairy tale, and he was afterwards kind enough to have it written out for me. I give it in his own words, as it is peculiar in some respects:-- Mi'r oed gwr a gwraig yn byw yn y Garth Dorwen [78] ryw gyfnod maith yn ol, ag aethant i Gaer'narfon i gyflogi morwyn ar dyd ffair G'langaeaf, ag yr oed yn arferiad gan feibion a merched y pryd hynny i'r rhai oed yn sefyll allan am lefyd aros yn top y maes presennol wrth boncan las oed yn y fan y lle saif y Post-office presennol; aeth yr hen wr a'r hen wraig at y fan yma a gwelent eneth lan a gwallt melyn yn sefyll 'chydig o'r neilldu i bawb arall; aeth yr hen wraig ati a gofynnod i'r eneth oed arni eisiau lle. Atebod fod, ag felly cyflogwyd yr eneth yn dioed a daeth i'w lle i'r amser penodedig. Mi fydai yn arferiad yr adeg hynny o nydu ar ol swper yn hirnos y gauaf, ag fe fydai y forwyn yn myn'd i'r weirglod i nydu wrth oleu y lloer; ag fe fydai tylwyth teg yn dwad ati hi i'r weirglod i ganu a dawnsio. A ryw bryd yn y gwanwyn pan esdynnod y dyd diangod Eilian gyd a'r tylwythion teg i ffwrd, ag ni welwyd 'mo'ni mwyach. Mae y cae y gwelwyd hi diwethaf yn cael ei alw hyd y dyd hedyw yn Gae Eilian a'r weirglod yn Weirglod y Forwyn. Mi'r oed hen wraig y Garth Dorwen yn arfer rhoi gwraged yn eu gwlâu, a bydai pawb yn cyrchu am dani o bob cyfeiriad; a rhyw bryd dyma wr bonedig ar ei geffyl at y drws ar noswaith loergan lleuad, a hithau yn glawio 'chydig ag yn niwl braid, i 'nol yr hen wreigan at ei wraig; ag felly aeth yn sgil y gwr dïarth ar gefn y march i Ros y Cowrt. Ar ganol y Rhos pryd hynny 'r oed poncan lled uchel yn debyg i hen amdiffynfa a llawer o gerrig mawrion ar ei phen a charned fawr o gerrig yn yr ochor ogledol idi, ag mae hi i'w gwel'd hyd y dyd hedyw dan yr enw Bryn y Pibion. Pan gyrhaedasan' y lle aethan' i ogo' fawr ag aethan' i 'stafell lle'r oed y wraig yn ei gwely, a'r lle crandia' a welod yr hen wraig yrioed. Ag fe roth y wraig yn ei gwely ag aeth at y tan i drin y babi; ag ar ol idi orphen dyna y gwr yn dod a photel i'r hen wraig i hiro llygaid y babi ag erfyn arni beidio a'i gyffwr' a'i llygaid ei hun. Ond ryw fod ar ol rhoi y botel heibio fe daeth cosfa ar lygaid yr hen wraig a rhwbiod ei llygaid â'r un bys ag oed wedi bod yn rhwbio llygaid y baban a gwelod hefo 'r llygad hwnnw y wraig yn gorfed ar docyn o frwyn a rhedyn crinion mewn ogo' fawr o gerrig mawr o bob tu idi a 'chydig bach o dan mewn rhiw gornel, a gwelod mai Eilian oed hi, ei hen forwyn, ag hefo'r llygad arall yn gwel'd y lle crandia' a welod yrioed. Ag yn mhen ychydig ar ol hynny aeth i'r farchnad i Gaer'narfon a gwelod y gwr a gofynnod ido--'Pa sud mae Eilian?' 'O y mae hi yn bur da,' medai wrth yr hen wraig: 'a pha lygad yr ydych yn fy ngwel'd?' 'Hefo hwn,' medai hithau. Cymerod babwyren ag a'i tynod allan ar unwaith. 'An old man and his wife lived at the Garth Dorwen in some period a long while ago. They went to Carnarvon to hire a servant maid at the Allhallows' [79] fair; and it was the custom then for young men and women who stood out for places to station themselves at the top of the present Maes, by a little green eminence which was where the present Post-office stands. The old man and his wife went to that spot, and saw there a lass with yellow hair, standing a little apart from all the others; the old woman went to her and asked her if she wanted a place. She replied that she did, and so she hired herself at once and came to her place at the time fixed. In those times it was customary during the long winter nights that spinning should be done after supper. Now the maid servant would go to the meadow to spin by the light of the moon, and the Tylwyth Teg used to come to her to sing and dance. But some time in the spring, when the days had grown longer, Eilian escaped with the Tylwyth Teg, so that she was seen no more. The field where she was last seen is to this day called Eilian's Field, and the meadow is known as the Maid's Meadow. The old woman of Garth Dorwen was in the habit of putting women to bed, and she was in great request far and wide. Some time after Eilian's escape there came a gentleman on horseback to the door one night when the moon was full, while there was a slight rain and just a little mist, to fetch the old woman to his wife. So she rode off behind the stranger on his horse, and came to Rhos y Cowrt. Now there was at that time, in the centre of the rhos, somewhat of a rising ground that looked like an old fortification, with many big stones on the top, and a large cairn of stones on the northern side: it is to be seen there to this day, and it goes by the name of Bryn y Pibion, but I have never visited the spot. When they reached the spot, they entered a large cave, and they went into a room where the wife lay in her bed; it was the finest place the old woman had seen in her life. When she had successfully brought the wife to bed, she went near the fire to dress the baby; and when she had done, the husband came to the old woman with a bottle of ointment [80] that she might anoint the baby's eyes; but he entreated her not to touch her own eyes with it. Somehow after putting the bottle by, one of the old woman's eyes happened to itch, and she rubbed it with the same finger that she had used to rub the baby's eyes. Then she saw with that eye how the wife lay on a bundle of rushes and withered ferns in a large cave, with big stones all round her, and with a little fire in one corner; and she saw also that the lady was only Eilian, her former servant girl, whilst, with the other eye, she beheld the finest place she had ever seen. Not long afterwards the old midwife went to Carnarvon to market, when she saw the husband, and said to him, "How is Eilian?" "She is pretty well," said he to the old woman, "but with what eye do you see me?" "With this one," was the reply; and he took a bulrush and put her eye out at once.' That is exactly the tale, my informant tells me, as he heard it from his mother, who heard it from an old woman who lived at Garth Dorwen when his mother was a girl, about eighty-four years ago, as he guessed it to have been; but in his written version he has omitted one thing which he told me at Glynllifon, namely, that, when the servant girl went out to the fairies to spin, an enormous amount of spinning used to be done. I mention this as it reminds me of the tales of other nations, where the girl who cannot spin straw into gold is assisted by a fairy, on certain conditions which are afterwards found very inconvenient. It may be guessed that in the case of Eilian the conditions involved her becoming a fairy's wife, and that she kept to them. Lastly, I should like the archæologists of Carnarvonshire to direct their attention to Bryn y Pibion; for they might be expected to come across the remains there of a barrow or of a fort. III. The same summer I happened to meet the Rev. Robert Hughes, of Uwchlaw'r Ffynnon, near Llanaelhaearn, a village on which Tre'r Ceiri, or the Town of the Keiri, looks down in its primitive grimness from the top of one of the three heights of the Eifl, or Rivals as English people call them. The district is remarkable for the longevity of its inhabitants, and Mr. Hughes counted fifteen farmers in his immediate neighbourhood whose average age was eighty-three; and four years previously the average age of eighteen of them was no less than eighty-five. He himself was, when I met him, seventy-one years of age, and he considered that he represented the traditions of more than a century and a half, as he was a boy of twelve when one of his grandfathers died at the age of ninety-two: the age reached by one of his grandmothers was all but equal, while his father died only a few years ago, after nearly reaching his ninety-fifth birthday. Story-telling was kept alive in the parish of Llanaelhaearn by the institution known there as the pilnos, or peeling night, when the neighbours met in one another's houses to spend the long winter evenings dressing hemp and carding wool, though I guess that a pilnos was originally the night when people met to peel rushes for rushlights. When they left these merry meetings they were ready, as Mr. Hughes says, to see anything. In fact, he gives an instance of some people coming from a pilnos across the mountain from Nant Gwrtheyrn to Llithfaen, and finding the fairies singing and dancing with all their might: they were drawn in among them and found themselves left alone in the morning on the heather. Indeed, Mr. Hughes has seen the fairies himself: it was on the Pwllheli road, as he was returning in the grey of the morning from the house of his fiancée when he was twenty-seven. The fairies he saw came along riding on wee horses: his recollection is that he now and then mastered his eyes and found the road quite clear, but the next moment the vision would return, and he thought he saw the diminutive cavalcade as plainly as possible. Similarly, a man of the name of Solomon Evans, when, thirty years ago, making his way home late at night through Glynllifon Park, found himself followed by quite a crowd of little creatures, which he described as being of the size of guinea pigs and covered with red and white spots. He was an ignorant man, who knew no better than to believe to the day of his death, some eight or nine years ago, that they were demons. This is probably a blurred version of a story concerning Cwn Annwn, 'Hell hounds,' such as the following, published by Mr. O. M. Edwards in his Cymru for 1897, p. 190, from Mr. J. H. Roberts' essay mentioned above at p. 148:--'Ages ago as a man who had been engaged on business, not the most creditable in the world, was returning in the depth of night across Cefn Creini, and thinking in a downcast frame of mind over what he had been doing, he heard in the distance a low and fear-inspiring bark; then another bark, and another, and then half a dozen and more. Ere long he became aware that he was being pursued by dogs, and that they were Cwn Annwn. He beheld them coming: he tried to flee, but he felt quite powerless and could not escape. Nearer and nearer they came, and he saw the shepherd with them: his face was black and he had horns on his head. They had come round him and stood in a semicircle ready to rush upon him, when he had a remarkable deliverance: he remembered that he had in his pocket a small cross, which he showed them. They fled in the greatest terror in all directions, and this accounts for the proverb, Mwy na'r cythraul at y groes (Any more than the devil to the cross).' That is Mr. Roberts' story; but several allusions have already been made to Cwn Annwn. It would be right probably to identify them in the first instance with the pack with which Arawn, king of Annwn, is found hunting by Pwyll, king of Dyfed, when the latter happens to meet him in Glyn Cuch in his own realm. Then in a poem in the Black Book of Carmarthen we find Gwyn ab Nûd with a pack led by Dormarth, a hound with a red snout which he kept close to the ground when engaged in the chase; similarly in the story of Iolo ab Huw the dogs are treated as belonging to Gwyn. But on the whole the later idea has more usually been, that the devil is the huntsman, that his dogs give chase in the air, that their quarry consists of the souls of the departed, and that their bark forebodes a death, since they watch for the souls of men about to die. This, however, might be objected to as pagan; so I have heard the finishing touch given to it in the neighbourhood of Ystrad Meurig, by one who, like Mr. Pughe, explained that it is the souls only of notoriously wicked men and well-known evil livers. With this limitation the pack [81] seems in no immediate danger of being regarded as poaching. To return to Llanaelhaearn, it is right to say that good spirits too, who attend on good Calvinists, are there believed in. Morris Hughes, of Cwm Corryn, was the first Calvinistic Methodist at Llanaelhaearn; he was great-grandfather to Robert Hughes' wife; and he used to be followed by two pretty little yellow birds. He would call to them, 'Wryd, Wryd!' and they would come and feed out of his hand, and when he was dying they came and flapped their wings against his window. This was testified to by John Thomas, of Moelfre Bach, who was present at the time. Thomas died some twenty-five years ago, at the age of eighty-seven. I have heard this story from other people, but I do not know what to make of it, though I may add that the little birds are believed to have been angels. In Mr. Rees' Welsh Saints, pp. 305-6, Gwryd is given as the name of a friar who lived about the end of the twelfth century, and has been commemorated on November 1; and the author adds a note referring to the Cambrian Register for 1800, vol. iii. p. 221, where it is said that Gwryd relieved the bard Einion ab Gwalchmai of some oppression, probably mental, which had afflicted him for seven years. Is one to suppose that Gwryd sent two angels in the form of little birds to protect the first Llanaelhaearn Methodist? The call 'Wryd, Wryd,' would seem to indicate that the name was not originally Gwryd, but Wryd, to be identified possibly with the Pictish name Uoret in an inscription at St. Vigean's, near Arbroath, and to be distinguished from the Welsh word gwryd, 'valour,' and from the Welsh name Gwriad, representing what in its Gaulish form was Viriatus. We possibly have the name Wryd in Hafod Wryd, a place in the Machno Valley above Bettws y Coed; otherwise one would have expected Hafod y Gwryd, making colloquially, Hafod Gwryd. Mr. Hughes told me a variety of things about Nant Gwrtheyrn, one of the spots where the Vortigern story is localized. The Nant is a sort of a cul de sac hollow opening to the sea at the foot of the Eifl. There is a rock there called Y Farches, and the angle of the sea next to the old castle, which seems to be merely a mound, is called Y Llynclyn, or 'The Whirlpool'; and this is perhaps an important item in the localizing of Vortigern's city there. I was informed by Mr. Hughes that the grave of Olfyn is in this Nant, with a razed church close by: both are otherwise quite unknown to me. Coming away from this weird spot to the neighbourhood of Celynnog, one finds that the Pennard of the Mabinogi of Math is now called Pennarth, and has on it a well-known cromlech. Of course, I did not leave Mr. Hughes without asking him about Caer Arianrhod, and I found that he called it Tre' Gaer Anrheg: he described it as a stony patch in the sea, and it can, he says, be reached on foot when the ebb is at its lowest in spring and autumn. The story he had heard about it when he was a boy at school with David Thomas, better known by his bardic name of Dafyd Du Eryri, was the following:-- 'Tregaer Anrheg was inhabited by a family of robbers, and among other things they killed and robbed a man at Glyn Iwrch, near the further wall of Glynnllifon Park: this completed the measure of their lawlessness. There was one woman, however, living with them at Tregaer Anrheg, who was not related to them, and as she went out one evening with her pitcher to fetch water, she heard a voice crying out, Dos i ben y bryn i wel'd rhyfedod, that is, Go up the hill to see a wonder. She obeyed, and as soon as she got to the top of the hill, whereby was meant Dinas Dinlle, she beheld Tregaer Anrheg sinking in the sea.' As I have wandered away from the fairies I may add the following curious bit of legend which Mr. Hughes gave me:--'When St. Beuno lived at Celynnog, he used to go regularly to preach at Llandwyn on the opposite side of the water, which he always crossed on foot. But one Sunday he accidentally dropped his book of sermons into the water, and when he had failed to recover it a gylfin-hir, or curlew, came by, picked it up, and placed it on a stone out of the reach of the tide. The saint prayed for the protection and favour of the Creator for the gylfin-hir: it was granted, and so nobody ever knows where that bird makes its nest.' IV. One day in August of the same summer I went to have another look at the old inscribed stone at Gesail Gyfarch [82], near Tremadoc, and, instead of returning the same way, I walked across to Criccieth Station; but on my way I was directed to call at a farm house called Llwyn y Mafon Uchaf, where I was to see Mr. Edward Llewelyn, a bachelor then seventy-six years of age. He is a native of the neighbourhood, and has always lived in it; moreover, he has now been for some time blind. He had heard a good many fairy tales. Among others he mentioned John Roberts, a slater from the Garn, that is Carn Dolbenmaen, as having one day, when there was a little mist and a drizzling rain, heard a crowd of fairies talking together in great confusion, near a sheepfold on Llwytmor Mountain; but he was too much afraid to look at them. He also told me of a man at Ystum Cegid, a farm not far off, having married a fairy wife on condition that he was not to touch her with any kind of iron on pain of her leaving him for ever. Then came the usual accident in catching a horse in order to go to a fair at Carnarvon, and the immediate disappearance of the wife. At this point Mr. Llewelyn's sister interposed to the effect that the wife did once return and address her husband in the rhyme, Os byd anwyd ar fy mab, &c.: see pp. 44, 55 above. Then Mr. Llewelyn enumerated several people who are of this family, among others a girl, who is, according to him, exactly like the fairies. This made me ask what the fairies are like, and he answered that they are small unprepossessing creatures, with yellow skin and black hair. Some of the men, however, whom he traced to a fairy origin are by no means of this description. The term there for men of fairy descent is Belsiaid, and they live mostly in the neighbouring parish of Pennant, where it would never do for me to go and collect fairy tales, as I am told; and Mr. Llewelyn remembers the fighting that used to take place at the fairs at Penmorfa if the term Belsiaid once began to be heard. Mr. Llewelyn was also acquainted with the tale of the midwife that went to a fairy family, and how the thieving husband had deprived her of the use of one eye. He also spoke of the fairies changing children, and how one of these changelings, supposed to be a baby, expressed himself to the effect that he had seen the acorn before the oak, and the egg before the chick, but never anybody who brewed ale in an egg-shell: see p. 62 above. As to modes of getting rid of the changelings, a friend of Mr. Llewelyn's mentioned the story that one was once dropped into the Glaslyn river, near Bedgelert. The sort of children the fairies liked were those that were unlike their own; that is, bairns whose hair was white, or inclined to yellow, and whose skin was fair. He had a great deal to say of a certain Elis Bach of Nant Gwrtheyrn, who used to be considered a changeling. With the exception of this changing of children the fairies seemed to have been on fairly good terms with the inhabitants, and to have been in the habit of borrowing from farm houses a padell and gradell for baking. The gradell is a sort of round flat iron, on which the dough is put, and the padell is the patella or pan put over it: they are still commonly used for baking in North Wales. Well, the fairies used to borrow these two articles, and by way of payment to leave money on the hob at night. All over Lleyn the Tylwyth are represented as borrowing padell a gradell. They seem to have never been very strong in household furniture, especially articles made of iron. Mr. Llewelyn had heard that the reason why people do not see fairies nowadays is that they have been exorcised (wedi eu hoffrymu) for hundreds of years to come. About the same time I was advised to try the memory of Miss Jane Williams, who lives at the Graig, Tremadoc: she was then, as I was told, seventy-five, very quick-witted, but by no means communicative to idlers. The most important information she had for me was to the effect that the Tylwyth Teg had been exorcised away (wedi 'ffrymu) and would not be back in our day. When she was about twelve she served at the Gelli between Tremadoc and Pont Aberglaslyn. Her master's name was Siôn Ifan, and his wife was a native of the neighbourhood of Carnarvon; she had many tales to tell them about the Tylwyth, how they changed children, how they allured men to the fairy rings, and how their dupes returned after a time in a wretched state, with hardly any flesh on their bones. She heard her relate the tale of a man who married a fairy, and how she left him; but before going away from her husband and children she asked the latter by name which they would like to have, a dirty cow-yard (buches fudur) or a clean cow-yard (buches lân). Some gave the right answer, a dirty cow-yard, but some said a clean cow-yard: the lot of the latter was poverty, for they were to have no stock of cattle. The same question is asked in a story recorded by the late Rev. Elias Owen, in his Welsh Folk-lore, p. 82 [83]: his instance belongs to the neighbourhood of Pentrevoelas, in Denbighshire. V. When I was staying at Pwllheli the same summer, I went out to the neighbouring village of Four Crosses, and found a native of the place, who had heard a great many curious things from his mother. His name was Lewis Jones: he was at the time over eighty, and he had formerly been a saddler. Among other things, his mother often told him that her grandmother had frequently been with the fairies, when the latter was a child. She lived at Plâs Du, and once she happened to be up near Carn Bentyrch when she saw them. She found them resembling little children, and playing in a brook that she had to cross. She was so delighted with them, and stayed so long with them, that a search was made for her, when she was found in the company of the fairies. Another time, they met her as she was going on an errand across a large bog on a misty day, when there was a sort of a drizzle, which one might call either dew or rain, as it was not decidedly either, but something between the two, such as the Welsh would call gwlithlaw, 'dew-rain.' She loitered in their company until a search was made for her again. Lewis Jones related to me the story of the midwife--he pronounced it in Welsh 'midwaith'--who attended on a fairy. As in the other versions, she lost the sight of one eye in consequence of her discovering the gentleman fairy thieving; but the fair at which this happened was held in this instance at Nefyn. He related also how a farmer at Pennant had wedded a fairy called Bella. This tale proceeded like the other versions, and did not even omit the fighting at Penmorfa: see pp. 89, 93, 220. He had likewise the tale about the two youths who had gone out to fetch some cattle, and came, while returning about dusk, across a party of fairies dancing. The one was drawn into the circle, and the other was suspected at length of having murdered him, until, at the suggestion of a wizard, he went to the same place at the end of a year and a day: then he found him dancing, and managed to get him out. He had been reduced to a mere skeleton, but he inquired at once if the cattle he was driving were far ahead. Jones had heard of a child changed by the fairies when its mother had placed it in some hay while she worked at the harvest. She discovered he was not her own by brewing in an egg-shell, as usual. Then she refused to take any notice of him, and she soon found her own baby returned; but the latter looked much the worse for its sojourn in the land of the Tylwyth Teg. My informant described to me Elis Bach of Nant Gwrtheyrn, already mentioned, p. 221, who died somewhat more than forty years ago. His father was a farmer there, and his children, both boys and girls, were like ordinary folks, excepting Elis, who was deformed, his legs being so short that his body seemed only a few inches from the ground when he walked. His voice was also small and squeaky. However, he was very sharp, and could find his way among the rocks pretty well when he went in quest of his father's sheep and goats, of which there used to be plenty there formerly. Everybody believed Elis to have been a changeling, and one saying of his is still remembered in that part of the country. When strangers visited Nant Gwrtheyrn, a thing which did not frequently happen, and when his parents asked them to their table, and pressed them to eat, he would squeak out drily, Buta 'nynna buta'r cwbwl, that is to say, 'Eating that means eating all we have.' He told me further that the servant girls used formerly to take care to bring a supply of water indoors at the approach of night, that the fairies might find plenty in which to bathe their children, for fear that they might use the milk instead, if water was wanting. Moreover, when they had been baking, they took care to leave the fairies both padell and gradell, that they might do their baking in the night. The latter used to pay for this kindness by leaving behind them a cake of fairy bread and sometimes money on the hob. I have, however, not been able to learn anything about the quality or taste of this fairy food. He had also a great deal to say about the making of bonfires about the beginning of winter. A bonfire was always kindled on the farm called Cromlech on the eve of the Winter Calends or Nos Galan Gaeaf, as it is termed in Welsh; and the like were to be seen in abundance towards Llithfaen, Carnguwch, and Llanaelhaearn, as well as on the Merioneth side of the bay. Besides fuel, each person present used to throw into the fire a small stone, with a mark whereby he should know it again. If he succeeded in finding the stone on the morrow, the year would be a lucky one for him, but the contrary if he failed to recover it. Those who assisted at the making of the bonfire watched until the flames were out, and then somebody would raise the usual cry, when each ran away for his life, lest he should be found last. This cry, which is a sort of equivalent, well known over Carnarvonshire, of the English saying, 'The devil take the hindmost,' was in the Welsh of that county-- Yr hwch du gwta [84] A gipio'r ola'; that is to say, 'May the black sow without a tail seize the hindmost.' The cutty black sow is often alluded to nowadays to frighten children in Arfon, and it is clearly the same creature that is described in some parts of North Wales as follows:-- Hwch du gwta A cutty black sow Ar bob camfa On every stile, Yn nydu a chardio Spinning and carding Bob nos G'langaea'. Every Allhallows' Eve. In Cardiganshire this is reduced to the words:-- Nos Galan Gaea', On Allhallows' Eve Bwbach ar bob camfa. A bogie on every stile. Welsh people speak of only three Calends--Calan-mai, or the first of May; Calan-gaeaf, the Calends of Winter, or Allhallows; and Y Calan, or The Calends par excellence, that is to say, the first day of January, which last is probably not Celtic but Roman. The other two most certainly are, and it is one of their peculiarities that all uncanny spirits and bogies are at liberty the night preceding each of them. The Hwch du gwta is at large on Allhallows' Eve, and the Scottish Gaels have the name 'Samhanach' for any Allhallows' demon, formed from the word Samhain, Allhallows. The eve of the first of May may be supposed to have been the same, as may be gathered from the story of Rhiannon's baby and of Teyrnon's colt, both of which were stolen by undescribed demons that night--I allude to the Mabinogi of Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed. VI. At Nefyn, in Lleyn [85], I had some stories about the Tylwyth Teg from Lowri Hughes, the widow of John Hughes, who lives in a cottage at Pen Isa'r Dref, and is over seventy-four years of age. An aunt of hers, who knew a great many tales, had died about six years before my visit, at the advanced age of ninety-six. She used to relate to Lowri how the Tylwyth were in the habit of visiting Singrug, a house now in ruins on the land of Pen Isa'r Dref, and how they had a habit of borrowing a padell and gradell for baking: they paid for the loan of them by giving their owners a loaf. Her grandmother, who died not long ago at a very advanced age, remembered a time when she was milking in a corner of the land of Carn Bodüan, and how a little dog came to her and received a blow from her that sent it rolling away. Presently, she added, the dog reappeared with a lame man playing on a fiddle; but she gave them no milk. If she had done so, there was no knowing, she said, how much money she might have got. But, as it was, such singing and dancing were indulged in by the Tylwyth around the lame fiddler that she ran away as fast as her feet could carry her. Lowri's husband had also seen the Tylwyth at the break of day, near Madrun Mill, where they seem to have been holding a sort of conversazione; but presently one of them observed that he had heard the voice of the hen's husband, and off they went instantly then. The fairies were in the habit also of dancing and singing on the headland across which lie the old earthworks called Dinllaen. When they had played and enjoyed themselves enough, they used to lift a certain bit of sod and descend to their own land. My informant had also heard the midwife story, and she was aware that the fairies changed people's children; in fact, she mentioned to me a farm house not far off where there was a daughter of this origin then, not to mention that she knew all about Elis Bach. Another woman whom I met near Porth Dinllaen said, that the Dinllaen fairies were only seen when the weather was a little misty. At Nefyn, Mr. John Williams (Alaw Lleyn) got from his mother the tale of the midwife. It stated that the latter lost the sight of her right eye at Nefyn Fair, owing to the fairy she there recognized, pricking her eye with a green rush. During my visit to Aberdaron, my wife and I went to the top of Mynyd Anelog, and on the way up we passed a cottage, where a very illiterate woman told us that the Tylwyth Teg formerly frequented the mountain when there was mist on it; that they changed people's children if they were left alone on the ground; and that the way to get the right child back was to leave the fairy urchin without being touched or fed. She also said that, after baking, people left the gradell for the fairies to do their baking: they would then leave a cake behind them as pay. As for the fairies just now, they have been exorcised (wedi'ffrymu) for some length of time. Mrs. Williams, of Pwll Defaid, told me that the rock opposite, called Clip y Gylfinir, on Bodwydog mountain, a part of Mynyd y Rhiw, was the resort of the Tylwyth Teg, and that they revelled there when it was covered with mist; she added that a neighbouring farm, called Bodermud Isa', was well known at one time as a place where the fairies came to do their baking. But the most remarkable tale I had in the neighbourhood of Aberdaron was from Evan Williams, a smith who lives at Yr Ard Las, on Rhos Hirwaen. If I remember rightly, he is a native of Llaniestin, and what he told me relates to a farmer's wife who lived at the Nant, in that parish. Now this old lady was frequently visited by a fairy who used to borrow padell a gradell from her. These she used to get, and she returned them with a loaf borne on her head in acknowledgement. But one day she came to ask for the loan of her troell bach, or wheel for spinning flax. When handing her this, the farmer's wife wished to know her name, as she came so often, but she refused to tell her. However, she was watched at her spinning, and overheard singing to the whir of the wheel:-- Bychan a wyda' hi Little did she know Mai Sìli go Dwt That Silly go Dwt Yw f'enw i. Is my name. This explains to some extent the sìli ffrit sung by a Corwrion fairy when she came out of the lake to spin: see p. 64 above. At first I had in vain tried to make out the meaning of that bit of legend; but since then I have also found the Llaniestin rhyme a little varied at Llanberis: it was picked up there, I do not exactly know how, by my little girls this summer. The words as they have them run thus:-- Bychan a wyda' hi Mai Trwtyn-Tratyn Yw f'enw i. Here, instead of Sìli go Dwt or Sìli ffrit, the name is Trwtyn-Tratyn, and these doggerels at once remind one of the tale of Rumpelstiltzchen; but it is clear that we have as yet only the merest fragments of the whole, though I have been thus far unable to get any more. So one cannot quite say how far it resembled the tale of Rumpelstiltzchen: there is certainly one difference, which is at once patent, namely, that while the German Rumpelstiltzchen was a male fairy, our Welsh Sìli ffrit or Sìli go Dwt is of the other sex. Probably, in the Llaniestin tale, the borrowing for baking had nothing to do with the spinning, for all fairies in Lleyn borrow a padell and a gradell, while they do not usually appear to spin. Then may we suppose that the spinning was in this instance done for the farmer's wife on conditions which she was able to evade by discovering the fairy helper's name? At any rate one expects a story representing the farmer's wife laid under obligation by the fairy, and not the reverse. I shall have an opportunity of returning to this kind of tale in chapter x. The smith told me another short tale, about a farmer who lived not long ago at Deunant, close to Aberdaron. The latter used, as is the wont of country people, to go out a few steps in front of his house every night to ---- before going to bed; but once on a time, while he was standing there, a stranger stood by him and spoke to him, saying that he had no idea how he and his family were annoyed by him. The farmer asked how that could be, to which the stranger replied that his house was just below where they stood, and if he would only stand on his foot he would see that what he said was true. The farmer complying, put his foot on the other's foot, and then he could clearly see that all the slops from his house went down the chimney of the other's house, which stood far below in a street he had never seen before. The fairy then advised him to have his door in the other side of his house, and that if he did so his cattle would never suffer from the clwy' byr [86]. The result was that the farmer obeyed, and had his door walled up and another made in the other side of the house: ever after he was a most prosperous man, and nobody was so successful as he in rearing stock in all that part of the country. To place the whole thing beyond the possibility of doubt, Evan Williams assured me that he had often seen the farmer's house with the front door in the back. I mention this strange story in order to compare it, in the matter of standing on the fairy's foot, with that of standing with one's foot just inside a fairy ring. Compare also standing on a particular sod in Dyfed in order to behold the delectable realm of Rhys Dwfn's Children: see p. 158 above. VII. Soon afterwards I went to the neighbourhood of Aber Soch and Llanengan, where I was lucky enough to find Professor Owen of St. David's College, Lampeter, since appointed Bishop of St. David's, on a visit to his native place. He took me round to those of the inhabitants who were thought most likely to have tales to tell; but I found nothing about the fairies except the usual story of their borrowing padell a gradell, and of their changing children. However, one version I heard of the process of recovering the stolen child differs from all others known to me: it was given us by Margaret Edwards, of Pentre Bach, whose age was then eighty-seven. It was to the effect that the mother, who had been given a fairy infant, was to place it on the floor, and that all those present in the house should throw a piece of iron at it. This she thought was done with the view of convincing the Tylwyth Teg of the intention to kill the changeling, and in order to induce them to bring the right child back. The plan was, we are told, always successful, and it illustrates, to my thinking, the supposed efficacy of iron against the fairies. On the way to Aber Soch I passed by an old-fashioned house which has all the appearance of having once been a place of considerable importance; and on being told that its name is Castellmarch, I began thinking of March ab Meirchion mentioned in the Triads. He, I had long been convinced, ought to be the Welsh reflex of Labhraidh Lorc, or the Irish king with horse's ears; and the corresponding Greek character of Midas with ass's ears is so well known that I need not dwell on it. So I undertook to question various people in the neighbourhood about the meaning of the name of Castellmarch. Most of them analysed it into Castell y March, the 'Castle of the Steed,' and explained that the knight of the shire or some other respectable obscurity kept his horses there. This treatment of the word is not very decidedly countenanced by the pronunciation, which makes the name into one word strongly accented on the middle syllable. It was further related to me how Castellmarch was once upon a time inhabited by a very wicked and cruel man, one of whose servants, after being very unkindly treated by him, ran away and went on board a man-of-war. Some time afterwards the man-of-war happened to be in Cardigan Bay, and the runaway servant persuaded the captain of the vessel to come and anchor in the Tudwal Roads. Furthermore he induced him to shell his old master's mansion; and the story is regarded as proved by the old bullets now and then found at Castellmarch. It has since been suggested to me that the bullets are evidence of an attack on the place during the Civil War, which is not improbable. But having got so far as to find that there was a wicked, cruel man associated with Castellmarch, I thought I should at once hear the item of tradition which I was fishing for; but not so: it was not to be wormed out in a hurry. However, after tiring a very old blacksmith, whose memory was far gone, with my questions, and after he had in his turn tired me with answers of the kind I have already described, I ventured to put it to him at last whether he had never heard some very silly tale about the lord of Castellmarch, to the effect that he was not quite like other men. He at once admitted that he had heard it said that he had horse's ears, but that he would never have thought of repeating such nonsense to me. This is not a bad instance of the difficulty which one has in eliciting this sort of tradition from the people. It is true that, as far as regards Castellmarch, nothing, as it happens, would have been lost if I had failed at Aber Soch, for I got the same information later at Sarn Fyllteyrn; not to mention that after coming back to my books, and once more turning over the leaves of the Brython, I was delighted to find the tale there. It occurs at p. 431 of the volume for 1860. It is given with several other interesting bits of antiquity, and at the end the editor has put 'Edward Llwyd, 1693'; so I suppose the whole comes from letters emanating from the great Lhwyd, for so, or rather Lhuyd, he preferred to write his name. It is to the following effect:-- One of Arthur's warriors, whose name was March (or Parch) Amheirchion [87], was lord of Castellmarch in Lleyn. This man had horse's ears (resembling Midas), and lest anybody should know it, he used to kill every man he sought to shave his beard, for fear lest he should not be able to keep the secret; and on the spot where he was wont to bury the bodies there grew reeds, one of which somebody cut to make a pipe. The pipe would give no other sound than 'March Amheirchion has horse's ears.' When the warrior heard this, he would probably have killed the innocent man on that account, if he had not himself failed to make the pipe produce any other sound. But after hearing where the reed had grown, he made no further effort to conceal either the murders or his ears. This story of Edward Llwyd's clearly goes back to a time when some kind of a pipe was the favourite musical instrument in North Wales, and not the harp. VIII. Some time ago I was favoured with a short but interesting tale by Mr. Evan Lloyd Jones, of Dinorwig, near Llanberis. Mr. Lloyd Jones, I may here mention, published not long ago, in Llais y Wlad (Bangor, North Wales), and in the Drych (Utica, United States of North America), a series of articles entitled Llen y Werin yn Sir Gaernarfon, or the Folklore of Carnarvonshire. I happened to see it at a friend's house, and I found at once that the writer was passionately fond of antiquities, and in the habit of making use of the frequent opportunities he has in the Dinorwig quarries for gathering information as to what used to be believed by the people of Arfon and Anglesey. The tale about to be given relates to a lake called Marchlyn Mawr, or the Great Horse-lake, for there are two lakes called Marchlyn: they lie near one another, between the Fronllwyd, in the parish of Llandegai, and the Elidyr, in the parishes of Llandeiniolen and Llanberis. Mr. Lloyd Jones shall tell his tale in his own words:-- Amgylchynir y Marchlyn Mawr gan greigiau erchyll yr olwg arnynt; a dywed tradodiad darfod i un o feibion y Rhiwen [88] unwaith tra yn cynorthwyo dafad oed wedi syrthio i'r creigiau i dod odiyno, darganfod ogof anferth: aeth i fewn idi a gwelod ei bod yn llawn o drysorau ac arfau gwerthfawr; ond gan ei bod yn dechreu tywyllu, a dringo i fynu yn orchwyl anhawd hyd yn nod yn ngoleu'r dyd, aeth adref y noswaith honno, a boreu drannoeth ar lasiad y dyd cychwynnod eilwaith i'r ogof, ac heb lawer o drafferth daeth o hyd idi: aeth i fewn, a dechreuod edrych o'i amgylch ar y trysorau oed yno:--Ar ganol yr ogof yr oed bwrd enfawr o aur pur, ac ar y bwrd goron o aur a pherlau: deallod yn y fan mai coron a thrysorau Arthur oedynt--nesaod at y bwrd, a phan oed yn estyn ei law i gymeryd gafael yn y goron dychrynwyd ef gan drwst erchyll, trwst megys mil o daranau yn ymrwygo uwch ei ben ac aeth yr holl le can dywylled a'r afagdu. Ceisiod ymbalfalu odiyno gynted ag y gallai; pan lwydod i gyrraed i ganol y creigiau taflod ei olwg ar y llyn, yr hwn oed wedi ei gynhyrfu drwydo a'i donnau brigwynion yn cael eu lluchio trwy daned ysgythrog y creigiau hyd y man yr oed efe yn sefyll arno; ond tra yr oed yn parhau i syllu ar ganol y llyn gwelai gwrwgl a thair o'r benywod prydferthaf y disgynod llygad unrhyw dyn arnynt erioed yndo yn cael ei rwyfo yn brysur tuag at enau yr ogof. Ond och! yr oed golwg ofnadwy yr hwn oed yn rhwyfo yn digon i beri iasau o fraw trwy y dyn cryfaf. Gallod y llanc rywfod dianc adref ond ni fu iechyd yn ei gyfansodiad ar ol hynny, a bydai hyd yn nod crybwyll enw y Marchlyn yn ei glywedigaeth yn digon i'w yrru yn wallgof. 'The Marchlyn Mawr is surrounded by rocks terrible to look at, and tradition relates how one of the sons of the farmer of Rhiwen, once on a time, when helping a sheep that had fallen among the rocks to get away, discovered a tremendous cave there; he entered, and saw that it was full of treasures and arms of great value; but, as it was beginning to grow dark, and as clambering back was a difficult matter even in the light of day, he went home that evening, and next morning with the grey dawn he set out again for the cave, when he found it without much trouble. He entered, and began to look about him at the treasures that were there. In the centre of the cave stood a huge table of pure gold, and on the table lay a crown of gold and pearls. He understood at once that they were the crown and treasures of Arthur. He approached the table, and as he stretched forth his hand to take hold of the crown he was frightened by an awful noise, the noise, as it were, of a thousand thunders bursting over his head, and the whole place became as dark as Tartarus. He tried to grope and feel his way out as fast as he could. When he had succeeded in reaching to the middle of the rocks, he cast his eye on the lake, which had been stirred all through, while its white-crested waves dashed through the jagged teeth of the rocks up to the spot on which he stood. But as he continued looking at the middle of the lake he beheld a coracle containing three women, the fairest that the eye of man ever fell on. They were being quickly rowed to the mouth of the cave; but the dread aspect of him who rowed was enough to send thrills of horror through the strongest of men. The youth was able somehow to escape home, but no health remained in his constitution after that, and even the mere mention of the Marchlyn in his hearing used to be enough to make him insane.' Mr. Lloyd Jones appends to the tale a note to the following effect:--There is a small eminence on the shore of the Marchlyn Mawr, in the parish of Llandegai, called Bryn Cwrwgl, or the 'Hill of the Coracle'; and Ogof y Marchlyn, or the 'Marchlyn Cave,' is a name familiar enough to everybody in these neighbourhoods. There were some--unless he ought to say that there still are some--who believed that there was abundance of treasure in the cave. Several young men from the quarries, both of the Cae and of Dinorwig, have been in the midst of the Marchlyn rocks, searching for the cave, and they succeeded in making their way into a cave. They came away, however, without the treasures. One old man, Robert Edwards (Iorwerth Sardis), used to tell him that he and several others had brought ropes from the quarry to go into the cave, but that they found no treasure. So far, I have given the substance of Mr. Jones' words, to which I would add the following statement, which I have from a native of Dinorwig:--About seventy years ago, when the gentry were robbing the poor of these districts of their houses and of the lands which the latter had enclosed out of the commons, an old woman called Siân William of the Garned was obliged to flee from her house with her baby--the latter was known later in life as the Rev. Robert Ellis, of Ysgoldy--in her arms. It was in one of the Marchlyn caves that she found refuge for a day and night. Another kind of tale connected with the Marchlyn Mawr is recorded in the Powys-land Club's Collections, Hist. and Arch., vol. xv. p. 137, by the Rev. Elias Owen, to the effect that 'a man who was fishing in the lake found himself enveloped in the clouds that had descended from the hills to the water. A sudden gust of wind cleared a road through the mist that hung over the lake, and revealed to his sight a man busily engaged in thatching a stack. The man, or rather the fairy, stood on a ladder. The stack and ladder rested on the surface of the lake.' IX. Mr. E. S. Roberts, of Llandysilio School, near Llangollen (p. 138), has sent me more bits of legends about the fairies. He heard the following from Mr. Thomas Parry, of Tan y Coed Farm, who had heard it from his father, the late Evan Parry, and the latter from Thomas Morris, of Eglwyseg, who related it to him more than once:--Thomas Morris happened to be returning home from Llangollen very late on one Saturday night in the middle of the summer, and by the time he reached near home the day had dawned, when he saw a number of the Tylwyth Teg with a dog walking about hither and thither on the declivity of the Eglwyseg Rocks, which hung threateningly overhead. When he had looked at them for some minutes, he directed his steps towards them; but as they saw him approaching they hid themselves, as he thought, behind a large stone. On reaching the spot, he found under the stone a hole by which they had made their way into their subterranean home. So ends the tale as related to Mr. Roberts. It is remarkable as representing the fairies looking rather like poachers; but there are not wanting others which speak of their possessing horses and greyhounds, as all gentlemen were supposed to. One of Mr. Roberts' tales is in point: he had it from Mr. Hugh Francis [89], of Holyhead House, Ruthin, and the latter heard it from Robert Roberts, of Amlwch, who has now been dead about thirty years:--About 105 years ago there lived in the parish of Llandyfrydog, near Llannerch y Med, in Anglesey, a man named Ifan Gruffyd, whose cow happened to disappear one day. Ifan Gruffyd was greatly distressed, and he and his daughter walked up and down the whole neighbourhood in search of her. As they were coming back in the evening from their unsuccessful quest, they crossed the field called after the Dyfrydog thief, Cae Lleidr Dyfrydog, where they saw a great number of little men on ponies quickly galloping in a ring. They both drew nigh to look on; but Ifan Gruffyd's daughter, in her eagerness to behold the little knights more closely, got unawares within the circle in which their ponies galloped, and did not return to her father. The latter now forgot all about the loss of the cow, and spent some hours in searching for his daughter; but at last he had to go home without her, in the deepest sadness. A few days afterwards he went to Mynadwyn to consult John Roberts, who was a magician of no mean reputation. That 'wise man' told Ifan Gruffyd to be no longer sad, since he could get his daughter back at the very hour of the night of the anniversary of the time when he lost her. He would, in fact, then see her riding round in the company of the Tylwyth Teg whom he had seen on that memorable night. The father was to go there accompanied by four stalwart men, who were to aid him in the rescue of his daughter. He was to tie a strong rope round his waist, and by means of this his friends were to pull him out of the circle when he entered to seize his daughter. He went to the spot, and in due time he beheld his daughter riding round in great state. In he rushed and snatched her, and, thanks to his friends, he got her out of the fairy ring before the little men had time to think of it. The first thing Ifan's daughter asked him was, if he had found the cow, for she had not the slightest reckoning of the time she had spent with the fairies. Whilst I am about it, I may as well go through Mr. Roberts' contributions. The next is also a tale related to him by Mr. Hugh Francis, and, like the last, it comes from Anglesey. Mr. Francis' great-grandfather was called Robert Francis, and he had a mill at Aberffraw about 100 years ago; and the substance of the following tale was often repeated in the hearing of Mr. Roberts' informant by his father and his grandfather:--In winter Robert Francis used to remain very late at work drying corn in his kiln. As it was needful to keep a steady fire going, he used to go backwards and forwards from the house, looking after it not unfrequently until it was two o'clock in the morning. Once on a time he happened to leave a cauldron full of water on the floor of the kiln, and great was his astonishment on returning to find two little people washing themselves in the water. He abstained from entering to disturb them, and went back to the house to tell his wife of it. 'Oh,' said she, 'they are fairies.' He presently went back to the kiln and found that they were gone. He fancied they were man and wife. However, they had left the place very clean, and to crown all, he found a sum of money left by them to pay him, as he supposed, for the water and the use of the kiln. The ensuing night many more fairies came to the kiln, for the visitors of the previous night had brought their children with them; and the miller found them busy bathing them and looking very comfortable in the warm room where they were. The pay that night was also more considerable than the night before, as the visitors were more numerous. After this the miller never failed to leave a vessel full of water in the kiln every night, and the fairies availed themselves of it for years, until, in fact, they took offence at the miller telling the neighbours of the presents of money which had been left him in the kiln. Thenceforth no fairies were known to frequent the kiln belonging to the Aberffraw mill. The last tale communicated to me by Mr. Roberts is the following, which he elicited from Margaret Davies, his housekeeper, by reading to her some of the fairy legends published in the Cymmrodor a short while ago--probably the Corwrion series, one of which bears great resemblance to hers. Mrs. Davies, who is sixty-one years of age, says that when her parents, Edward and Ann Williams, lived at Rhoslydan, near Bryneglwys, in Yale, some seventy-five years ago, the servant man happened one day in the spring to be ploughing in a field near the house. As he was turning his team back at one end of the field, he heard some one calling out from the other end, Y mae eisieu hoelen yn y pìl, or 'The peel wants a nail'; for pìl is the English peel, a name given to a sort of shovel provided with a long handle for placing loaves in an oven, and for getting them out again. When at length the ploughman had reached the end of the field whence he guessed the call to have proceeded, he there saw a small peel, together with a hammer and a nail, under the hedge. He saw that the peel required a nail to keep it together, and as everything necessary for mending it were there ready to hand, he did as it had been suggested. Then he followed at the plough-tail until he came round again to the same place, and there he this time saw a cake placed for him on the spot where he had previously found the peel and the other things, which had now disappeared. When the servant related this to his master, he told him at once that it was one of the Tylwyth Teg of that locality that had called out to him. With this should be compared the story of the man who mended a fairy's plough vice: see p. 64 above. X. Early this year I had occasion to visit the well-known Hengwrt Library at Peniarth, and during my stay there Mr. Wynne very kindly took me to see such of the Llanegryn people as were most likely to have somewhat to say about the fairies. Many of the inhabitants had heard of them, but they had no long tales about them. One man, however, told me of a William Pritchard, of Pentre Bach, near Llwyngwryl, who died at sixty, over eighty years ago, and of a Rhys Williams, the clerk of Llangelynin, how they were going home late at night from a cock-fight at Llanegryn, and how they came across the fairies singing and dancing on a plot of ground known as Gwastad Meirionyd, 'the Plain of Merioneth,' on the way from Llwyngwryl to Llanegryn. It consists, I am told by Mr. Robert Roberts of Llanegryn, of no more than some twenty square yards, outside which one has a good view of Cardigan Bay and the heights of Merioneth and Carnarvonshire, while from the Gwastad itself neither sea nor mountain is visible. On this spot, then, the belated cockfighters were surrounded by the fairies. They swore at the fairies and took to their heels, but they were pursued as far as Clawd Du. Also I was told that Elen Egryn, the authoress, some sixty years ago, of some poetry called Telyn Egryn, had also seen fairies in her youth, when she used to go up the hills to look after her father's sheep. This happened near a little brook, from which she could see the sea when the sun was in the act of sinking in it; then many fairies would come out dancing and singing, and also crossing and re-crossing the little brook. It was on the side of Rhiwfelen, and she thought the little folks came out of the brook somewhere. She had been scolded for talking about the fairies, but she firmly believed in them to the end of her life. This was told me by Mr. W. Williams, the tailor, who is about sixty years of age; and also by Mr. Rowlands, the ex-bailiff of Peniarth, who is about seventy-five. I was moreover much interested to discover at Llanegryn a scrap of kelpie story, which runs as follows, concerning Llyn Gwernen, situated close to the old road between Dolgelley and Llanegryn:-- As a man from the village of Llanegryn was returning in the dusk of the evening across the mountain from Dolgelley, he heard, when hard by Llyn Gwernen, a voice crying out from the water:-- Daeth yr awr ond ni daeth y dyn! The hour is come but the man is not! As the villager went on his way a little distance, what should meet him but a man of insane appearance, and with nothing on but his shirt. As he saw the man making full pelt for the waters of the lake, he rushed at him to prevent him from proceeding any further. But as to the sequel there is some doubt: one version makes the villager conduct the man back about a mile from the lake to a farm house called Dyffrydan, which was on the former's way home. Others seem to think that the man in his shirt rushed irresistibly into the lake, and this I have no doubt comes nearer the end of the story in its original form. Lately I have heard a part of a similar story about Llyn Cynnwch, which has already been mentioned, p. 135, above. My informant is Miss Lucy Griffith, of Glynmalden, near Dolgelley, a lady deeply interested in Welsh folklore and Welsh antiquities generally. She obtained her information from a Dolgelley ostler, formerly engaged at the Ship Hotel, to the effect that on Gwyl Galan, 'the eve of New Year's Day,' a person is seen walking backwards and forwards on the strand of Cynnwch Lake, crying out:-- Mae'r awr wedi dyfod a'r dyn heb dyfod! The hour is come while the man is not! The ostler stated also that lights are to be seen on Cader Idris on the eve of New Year's Day, whatever that statement may mean. The two lake stories seem to suggest that the Lake Spirit was entitled to a victim once a year, whether the sacrifice was regarded as the result of accident or design. By way of comparison, one may mention the notion, not yet extinct, that certain rivers in various parts of the kingdom regularly claim so many victims: for some instances at random see an article by Mr. J. M. Mackinlay, on Traces of River Worship in Scottish Folklore, a paper published in the Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 1895-6, pp. 69-76. Take for example the following rhyme:-- Blood-thirsty Dee Each year needs three; But bonny Don She needs none. Or this:-- Tweed said to Till 'What gars ye rin sae still?' Till said to Tweed 'Though ye rin wi' speed An' I rin slaw, Yet whar ye droon ae man I droon twa.' XI. In the neighbourhood of Ystrad Meurig, between the Teifi and the Ystwyth basins, almost everybody can relate tales about the fairies, but not much that is out of the ordinary run of such stories elsewhere. Among others, Isaac Davies, the smith living at Ystrad Meurig, had heard a great deal about fairies, and he said that there were rings belonging to them in certain fields at Tan y Graig and at Llanafan. Where the rings were, there the fairies danced until the ground became red and bare of grass. The fairies were, according to him, all women, and they dressed like foreigners, in short cotton dresses reaching only to the knee-joint. This description is somewhat peculiar, as the idea prevalent in the country around is, that the fairy ladies had very long trains, and that they were very elegantly dressed; so that it is a common saying there, that girls who dress in a better or more showy fashion than ordinary look like Tylwyth Teg, and the smith confessed he had often heard that said. Similarly Howells, pp. 113, 121-2, finds the dresses of the fairies dancing on the Freni, in the north-east of Pembrokeshire, represented as indescribably elegant and varying in colour; and those who, in the month of May, used to frequent the prehistoric encampment of Moedin [90] or Moydin--from which a whole cantred takes its name in Central Cardiganshire--as fond of appearing in green; while blue petticoats are said, he says, to have prevailed in the fairy dances in North Wales [91]. Another showed me a spot on the other side of the Teifi, where the Tylwyth Teg had a favourite spot for dancing; and at the neighbouring village of Swyd Ffynnon, another meadow was pointed out as their resort on the farm of Dôl Bydyë. According to one account I had there, the fairies dressed themselves in very long clothes, and when they danced they took hold of one another's enormous trains. Besides the usual tales concerning men enticed into the ring and retained in Faery for a year and a day, and concerning the fairies' dread of pren cerdingen or mountain ash, I had the midwife tale in two or three forms, differing more or less from the versions current in North Wales. For the most complete of them I am indebted to one of the young men studying at the Grammar School, Mr. D. Lledrodian Davies. It used to be related by an old woman who died some thirty years ago at the advanced age of about 100. She was Pàli, mother of old Rachel Evans, who died seven or eight years ago, when she was about eighty. The latter was a curious character, who sometimes sang maswed, or rhymes of doubtful propriety, and used to take the children of the village to see fairy rings. She also used to see the Tylwyth, and had many tales to tell of them. But her mother, Pàli, had actually been called to attend at the confinement of one of them. The beginning of the tale is not very explicit; but, anyhow, Pàli one evening found herself face to face with the fairy lady she was to attend upon. She appeared to be the wife of one of the princes of the country. She was held in great esteem, and lived in a very grand palace. Everything there had been arranged in the most beautiful and charming fashion. The wife was in her bed with nothing about her but white, and she fared sumptuously. In due time, when the baby had been born, the midwife had all the care connected with dressing it and serving its mother. Pàli could see or hear nobody in the whole place but the mother and the baby. She had no idea who attended on them, or who prepared all the things they required, for it was all done noiselessly and secretly. The mother was a charming person, of an excellent temper and easy to manage. Morning and evening, as she finished washing the baby, Pàli had a certain ointment given her to rub the baby with. She was charged not to touch it but with her hand, and especially not to put any near her eyes. This was carried out for some time, but one day, as she was dressing the baby, her eyes happened to itch, and she rubbed them with her hand. Then at once she saw a great many wonders she had not before perceived; and the whole place assumed a new aspect to her. She said nothing, and in the course of the day she saw a great deal more. Among other things, she observed small men and small women going in and out, following a variety of occupations. But their movements were as light as the morning breeze. To move about was no trouble to them, and they brought things into the room with the greatest quickness. They prepared dainty food for the confined lady with the utmost order and skill, and the air of kindness and affection with which they served her was truly remarkable. In the evening, as she was dressing the baby, the midwife said to the lady, 'You have had a great many visitors to-day.' To this she replied, 'How do you know that? Have you been putting the ointment to your eyes?' Thereupon she jumped out of bed, and blew into her eyes, saying, 'Now you will see no more.' She never afterwards could see the fairies, however much she tried, nor was the ointment entrusted to her after that day. According, however, to another version which I heard, she was told, on being found out, not to apply the ointment to her eyes any more. She promised she would not; but the narrator thought she broke that promise, as she continued to see the fairies as long as she lived. Mr. D. Ll. Davies has also a version like the North Wales ones. He obtained it from a woman of seventy-eight at Bronnant, near Aberystwyth, who had heard it from one of her ancestors. According to her, the midwife went to the fair called Ffair Rhos, which was held between Ystrad Meurig and Pont Rhyd Fendigaid [92]. There she saw a great many of the Tylwyth very busily engaged, and among others the lady she had been attending upon. That being so, she walked up to her and saluted her. The fairy lady angrily asked how she saw her, and spat in her face, which had the result of putting an end for ever to her power of seeing her or anybody of her race. The same aged woman at Bronnant has communicated to Mr. D. Ll. Davies another tale which differs from all those of the same kind that I happen to know of. On a certain day in spring the farmer living at ---- (Mr. Davies does not remember the name of the farm) lost his calves; and the servant man and the servant girl went out to look for them, but as they were both crossing a marshy flat, the man suddenly missed the girl. He looked for her, and as he could not see her he concluded that she was playing a trick on him. However, after much shouting and searching about the place, he began to think that she must have found her way home, so he turned back and asked if the girl had come in, when he found to his surprise that nobody had seen her come back. The news of her being lost caused great excitement in the country around, since many suspected that he had for some reason put an end to her life: some accounted for it in this way, and some in another. But as nothing could be found out about her, the servant man was taken into custody on the charge of having murdered her. He protested with all his heart, and no evidence could be produced that he had killed the girl. Now, as some had an idea that she had gone to the fairies, it was resolved to send to 'the wise man' (Y dyn hysbys). This was done, and he found out that the missing girl was with the fairies: the trial was delayed, and he gave the servant man directions of the usual kind as to how to get her out. She was watched at the end of the period of twelve months and a day coming round in the dance in the fairy ring at the place where she was lost, and she was successfully drawn out of the ring; but the servant man had to be there in the same clothes as he had on when she left him. As soon as she was released and saw the servant she asked about the calves. On the way home she told her master, the servant man, and the others, that she would stay with them until her master should strike her with iron, but they went their way home in great joy at having found her. One day, however, when her master was about to start from home, and whilst he was getting the horse and cart ready, he asked the girl to assist him, which she did willingly; but as he was bridling the horse, the bit touched the girl and she disappeared instantly, and was never seen from that day forth. I cannot explain this story, unless we regard it as made up of pieces of two different stories which had originally nothing to do with one another; consistency, however, is not to be expected in such matters. Mr. D. Ll. Davies has kindly given me two more tales like the first part of the one I have last summarized, also one in which the missing person, a little boy sent by his mother to fetch some barm for her, comes home of himself after being away a year or more playing with the Tylwyth Teg, whom he found to be very nice, pleasant people; they had been exceedingly kind to him, and they even allowed him to take the bottle with the barm home at the last. This was somewhere between Swyd Ffynnon and Carmarthen. Mr. D. Ll. Davies finds, what I have not found anywhere else, that it was a common idea among the old people in Cardiganshire, that once you came across one of the fairies you could not easily be rid of him; since the fairies were little beings of a very devoted nature. Once a man had become friendly with one of them, the latter would be present with him almost everywhere he went, until it became a burden to him. However, popular belief did not adopt this item of faith without another to neutralize it if necessary: so if one was determined to get rid of the fairy companion, one had in the last resort only to throw a piece of rusty iron at him to be quit of him for ever. Nothing was a greater insult to the fairies. But though they were not difficult to make friends of, they never forgave those who offended them: forgiveness was not an element in their nature. The general account my informant gives of the outward appearance of the fairies as he finds them in the popular belief, is that they were a small handsome race, and that their women dressed gorgeously in white, while the men were content with garments of a dark grey colour, usually including knee-breeches. As might be expected, the descriptions differ very much in different neighbourhoods, and even in different tales from the same neighbourhood: this will surprise no one. It was in the night they came out, generally near water, to sing and dance, and also to steal whatever took their fancy; for thieving was always natural to them; but no one ever complained of it, as it was supposed to bring good luck. XII. Mr. Richard L. Davies, teacher of the Board School at Ystalyfera, in the Tawë Valley, has been kind enough to write out for me a budget of ideas about the Cwm Tawë Fairies, as retailed to him by a native who took great delight in the traditions of his neighbourhood, John Davies (Shôn o'r Bont), who was a storekeeper at Ystalyfera. He died an old man about three years ago. I give his stories as transmitted to me by Mr. Davies, but the reader will find them a little hazy now and then, as when the fairies are made into ordinary conjurer's devils:-- Rhywbeth rhyfed yw yr hen Gastell yna (gan olygu Craig Ynys Geinon): yr wyf yn cofio yr amser pan y bydai yn dychryn gan bobl fyned yn agos ato--yn enwedig y nos: yr oed yn dra pheryglus rhag i dyn gael ei gymeryd at Bendith eu Mamau. Fe dywedir fod wmred o'r rheiny yna, er na wn i pa le y maent yn cadw. 'R oed yr hen bobl yn arferol o dweyd fod pwll yn rhywle bron canol y Castell, tua llathen o led, ac yn bump neu chwech llath o dyfnder, a charreg tua thair tynnell o bwysau ar ei wyneb e', a bod fford dan y daear gandynt o'r pwll hynny bob cam i ogof Tan yr Ogof, bron blaen y Cwm (yn agos i balas Adelina Patti, sef Castell Craig y Nos), mai yno y maent yn treulio eu hamser yn y dyd, ac yn dyfod lawr yma i chwareu eu pranciau yn y nos. Mae gandynt, mede nhw, ysgol aur, o un neu dwy ar hugain o ffyn; ar hyd honno y maent yn tramwy i fyny ac i lawr. Mae gandynt air bach, a dim ond i'r blaenaf ar yr ysgol dywedyd y gair hynny, mae y garreg yn codi o honi ei hunan; a gair arall, ond i'r olaf wrth fyned i lawr ei dywedyd, mae yn cauad ar eu hol. Dywedir i was un o'r ffermyd cyfagos wrth chwilio am wningod yn y graig, dygwyd dyweyd y gair pan ar bwys y garreg, idi agor, ac ido yntau fyned i lawr yr ysgol, ond am na wydai y gair i gauad ar ei ol, fe adnabu y Tylwyth wrth y draught yn diffod y canwyllau fod rhywbeth o le, daethant am ei draws, cymerasant ef atynt, a bu gyda hwynt yn byw ac yn bod am saith mlyned; ymhen y saith mlyned fe diangod a llon'd ei het o guineas gando. Yr oed efe erbyn hyn wedi dysgu y dau air, ac yn gwybod llawer am eu cwtches nhw. Fe dywedod hwn y cwbl wrth ffarmwr o'r gymdogaeth, fe aeth hwnnw drachefn i lawr, ac yr oed rhai yn dyweyd ido dyfod a thri llon'd cawnen halen o guineas, hanner guineas, a darnau saith-a-chwech, odiyno yr un diwrnod. Ond fe aeth yn rhy drachwantus, ac fel llawer un trachwantus o'i flaen, bu ei bechod yn angeu ido. Canys fe aeth i lawr y bedwared waith yngwyll y nos, ond fe daeth y Tylwyth am ei ben, ac ni welwyd byth o hono. Dywedir fod ei bedwar cwarter e' yn hongian mewn ystafell o dan y Castell, ond pwy fu yno i'w gwel'd nhw, wn i dim. Mae yn wir ei wala i'r ffarmwr crybwylledig fyned ar goll, ac na chlybuwyd byth am dano, ac mor wir a hynny i'w dylwyth dyfod yn abl iawn, bron ar unwaith yr amser hynny. A chi wydoch gystal a finnau, eu bod nhw yn dywedyd fod ffyrd tandaearol gandynt i ogofau Ystrad Fellte, yn agos i Benderyn. A dyna y Garn Goch ar y Drum (Onllwyn yn awr) maent yn dweyd fod canoed o dynelli o aur yn stôr gandynt yno; a chi glywsoch am y stori am un o'r Gethings yn myned yno i glodio yn y Garn, ac ido gael ei drawsffurfio gan y Tylwyth i olwyn o dân, ac ido fethu cael llonyd gandynt, hyd nes ido eu danfon i wneyd rhaff o sand! Fe fu gynt hen fenyw yn byw mewn ty bychan gerllaw i Ynys Geinon, ac yr oed hi yn gallu rheibo, mede nhw, ac yr oed sôn ei bod yn treulio saith diwrnod, saith awr, a saith mynyd gyda y Tylwyth Teg bob blwydyn yn Ogof y Castell. Yr oed y gred yn lled gyffredinol ei bod hi yn cael hyn a hyn o aur am bob plentyn a allai hi ladrata idynt hwy, a dodi un o'i hen grithod hwy yn ei le: 'doed hwnnw byth yn cynydu. Y fford y bydai hi yn gwneyd oed myned i'r ty dan yr esgus o ofyn cardod, a hen glogyn llwyd-du mawr ar ei chefn, ac o dan hwn, un o blant Bendith y Mamau; a bob amser os bydai plentyn bach gwraig y ty yn y cawell, hi gymerai y swyd o siglo y cawell, a dim ond i'r fam droi ei chefn am fynyd neu dwy, hi daflai y lledrith i'r cawell, ai ymaith a'r plentyn yn gyntaf byth y gallai hi. Fe fu plentyn gan dyn o'r gym'dogaeth yn lingran am flynydau heb gynydu dim, a barn pawb oed mai wedi cael ei newid gan yr hen wraig yr oed; fe aeth tad y plentyn i fygwth y gwr hysbys arni: fe daeth yr hen wraig yno am saith niwrnod i esgus bado y bachgen bach mewn dwfr oer, a'r seithfed bore cyn ei bod yn oleu, hi a gas genad i fyned ag ef dan rhyw bistyll, mede hi, ond medai'r cym'dogion, myned ag ef i newid a wnaeth. Ond, beth bynag, fe wellod y plentyn fel cyw yr wyd o hynny i maes. Ond gorfu i fam e' wneyd cystal a llw wrth yr hen wraig, y gwnai ei dwco mewn dwfr oer bob bore dros gwarter blwydyn, ac yn mhen y chwarter hynny 'doed dim brafach plentyn yn y Cwm. 'That is a wonderful thing, that old castle there, he would say, pointing to the Ynys Geinon Rock. I remember a time when people would be terrified to go near it, especially at night. There was considerable danger that one might be taken to Bendith eu Mamau. It is said that there are a great many of them there, though I know not where they abide. The old folks used to say that there was a pit somewhere about the middle of the Castle, about a yard wide and some five or six yards deep, with a stone about three tons in weight over the mouth of it, and that they had a passage underground from that pit all the way to the cave of Tan yr Ogof, near the top of the Cwm, that is, near Adelina Patti's residence at Craig y Nos Castle: there, it was said, they spent their time during the day, while they came down here to play their tricks at night. They have, they say, a gold ladder of one or two and twenty rungs, and it is along that they pass up and down. They have a little word; and it suffices if the foremost on the ladder merely utters that word, for the stone to rise of itself; while there is another word, which it suffices the hindmost in going down to utter so that the stone shuts behind him. It is said that a servant from one of the neighbouring farms, when looking for rabbits in the rock, happened to say the word as he stood near the stone, that it opened for him, and that he went down the ladder; but that because he was ignorant of the word to make it shut behind him, the fairies discovered by the draught putting out their candles that there was something wrong. So they found him out and took him with them. He remained living with them for seven years, but at the end of the seven years he escaped with his hat full of guineas. He had by this time learnt the two words, and got to know a good deal about the hiding places of their treasures. He told everything to a farmer in the neighbourhood, so the latter likewise went down, and some used to say that he brought thence thrice the fill of a salt-chest of guineas, half-guineas, and seven-and-sixpenny pieces in one day. But he got too greedy, and like many a greedy one before him his crime proved his death; for he went down the fourth time in the dusk of the evening, when the fairies came upon him, and he was never seen any more. It is said that his four quarters hang in a room under the Castle; but who has been there to see them I know not. It is true enough that the above-mentioned farmer got lost, and that nothing was heard respecting him; and it is equally true that his family became very well to do almost at once at that time. You know as well as I do that they say, that the fairies have underground passages to the caves of Ystradfellte, near Penderyn. There is the Garn Goch also on the Drum (now called Onllwyn); they say there are hundreds of tons of gold accumulated by them there, and you have heard the story about one of the Gethings going thither to dig in the Garn, and how he [sic] was transformed by the fairies into a wheel of fire, and that he could get no quiet from them until he sent them to manufacture a rope of sand!'--A more intelligible version of this story has been given at pp. 19-20 above. 'There was formerly an old woman living in a small house near Ynys Geinon; and she had the power of bewitching, people used to say: there was a rumour that she spent seven days, seven hours, and seven minutes with the fairies every year in the cave at the Castle. It was a pretty general belief that she got such and such a quantity of gold for every child she could steal for them, and that she put one of those old urchins of theirs in its place: the latter never grew at all. The way she used to do it was to enter people's houses with the excuse of asking for alms, having a large dark-grey old cloak on her back, and the cloak concealed one of the children of Bendith eu Mamau. Whenever she found the little child of the good woman of the house in its cradle, she would take upon herself to rock the cradle, so that if the mother only turned her back for a minute or two, she would throw the sham child into the cradle and hurry away as fast as she could with the baby. A man in the neighbourhood had a child lingering for years without growing at all, and it was the opinion of all that it had been changed by the old woman. The father at length threatened to call in the aid of "the wise man," when the old woman came there for seven days, pretending that it was in order to bathe the little boy in cold water; and on the seventh day she got permission to take him, before it was light, under a certain spout of water: so she said, but the neighbours said it was to change him. However that was, the boy from that time forth got on as fast as a gosling. But the mother had all but to take an oath to the old woman, that she would duck him in cold water every morning for three months, and by the end of that time there was no finer infant in the Cwm.' Mr. Davies has given me some account also of the annual pilgrimage to the Fan mountains to see the Lake Lady: these are his words on the subject--they recall pp. 15-16 above:-- 'It has been the yearly custom (for generations, as far as I can find) for young as well as many people further advanced in years to make a general excursion in carts, gambos, and all kinds of vehicles, to Llyn y Fan, in order to see the water nymph (who appeared on one day only, viz. the first Sunday in August). This nymph was said to have the lower part of her body resembling that of a dolphin, while the upper part was that of a beautiful lady: this anomalous form appeared on the first Sunday in August (if the lake should be without a ripple) and combed her tresses on the reflecting surface of the lake. The yearly peregrination to the abode of the Fan deity is still kept up in this valley--Cwmtawë; but not to the extent that it used to formerly.' XIII. Mr. Craigfryn Hughes has sent me another tale about the fairies: it has to do with the parish of Llanfabon, near the eastern border of Glamorganshire. Many traditions cluster round the church of Llanfabon, beginning with its supposed building by Saint Mabon, but which of the Mabons of Welsh legend he was, is not very certain. Not very far is a place called Pant y Dawns, or the Dance Hollow, in allusion to the visits paid to the spot by Bendith y Mamau, as the fairies are there called. In the same neighbourhood stand also the ruins of Castell y Nos, or the Castle of the Night [93], which tradition represents as uninhabitable because it had been built of stones from Llanfabon Church, and on account of the ghosts that used to haunt it. However, one small portion of it was usually tenanted formerly by a 'wise man' or by a witch. In fact, the whole country round Llanfabon Church teemed with fairies, ghosts, and all kinds of uncanny creatures:-- Mewn amaethdy ag syd yn aros yn y plwyf a elwir y Berth Gron, trigiannai gwedw ieuanc a'i phlentyn bychan. Yr oed wedi colli ei gwr, a'i hunig gysur yn ei hamdifadrwyd a'i hunigrwyd oed Gruff, ei mab. Yr oed ef yr amser hwn odeutu tair blwyd oed, ac yn blentyn braf ar ei oedran. Yr oed y plwyf, ar y pryd, yn orlawn o 'Fendith y Mamau'; ac, ar amser llawn lloer, bydent yn cadw dynion yn effro a'u cerdoriaeth hyd doriad gwawr. Rhai hynod ar gyfrif eu hagrwch oed 'Bendith' Llanfabon, ac yr un mor hynod ar gyfrif eu castiau. Lladrata plant o'r cawellau yn absenoldeb eu mamau, a denu dynion trwy eu swyno a cherdoriaeth i ryw gors afiach a diffaith, a ymdangosai yn gryn difyrrwch idynt. Nid rhyfed fod y mamau beunyd ar eu gwyliadwriaeth rhag ofn colli eu plant. Yr oed y wedw o dan sylw yn hynod ofalus am ei mab, gymaint nes tynnu rhai o'r cymydogion i dywedyd wrthi ei bod yn rhy orofalus, ac y bydai i ryw anlwc ordiwes ei mab. Ond ni thalai unrhyw sylw i'w dywediadau. Ymdangosai fod ei holl hyfrydwch a'i chysur ynghyd a'i gobeithion yn cydgyfarfod yn ei mab. Mod bynnag, un diwrnod, clywod ryw lais cwynfannus yn codi o gymydogaeth y beudy; a rhag bod rhywbeth wedi digwyd i un o'r gwartheg rhedod yn orwyllt tuag yno, gan adael y drws heb ei gau, a'i mab bychan yn y ty. Ond pwy a fedr desgrifio ei gofid ar ei gwaith yn dyfod i'r ty wrth weled eisiau ei mab? Chwiliod bob man am dano, ond yn aflwydiannus. Odeutu machlud haul, wele lencyn bychan yn gwneuthur ei ymdangosiad o'i blaen, ac yn dywedyd, yn groyw, 'Mam!' Edrychod y fam yn fanwl arno, a dywedod o'r diwed, 'Nid fy mhlentyn i wyt ti!' 'Ië, yn sicr,' atebai y bychan. Nid ymdangosai y fam yn fodlon, na'i bod yn credu mai ei phlentyn hi ydoed. Yr oed rhywbeth yn sisial yn barhaus wrthi mai nid ei mab hi ydoed. Ond beth bynnag, bu gyda hi am flwydyn gyfan, ac nid ymdangosai ei fod yn cynydu dim, tra yr oed Gruff, ei mab hi, yn blentyn cynydfawr iawn. Yr oed gwr bychan yn myned yn fwy hagr bob dyd hefyd. O'r diwed penderfynod fyned at y 'dyn hysbys,' er cael rhyw wybodaeth a goleuni ar y mater. Yr oed yn digwyd bod ar y pryd yn trigfannu yn Nghastell y Nos, wr ag oed yn hynod ar gyfrif ei ymwybydiaeth drwyadl o 'gyfrinion y fall.' Ar ol idi osod ei hachos ger ei fron, ac yntau ei holi, sylwod, 'Crimbil ydyw, ac y mae dy blentyn di gyd a'r hen Fendith yn rhywle; ond i ti dilyn fy nghyfarwydiadau i yn ffydlon a manwl, fe adferir dy blentyn i ti yn fuan. Yn awr, odeutu canol dyd y foru, tor wy yn y canol, a thafl un hanner ymaith odiwrthyt, a chadw y llall yn dy law, a dechreu gymysg ei gynwysiad yn ol a blaen. Cofia fod y gwr bychan gerllaw yn gwneuthur sylw o'r hyn ag a fydi yn ei wneuthur. Ond cofia di a pheidio galw ei sylw--rhaid ennill ei sylw at y weithred heb ei alw: ac odid fawr na ofynna i ti beth fydi yn ei wneuthur. A dywed wrtho mai cymysg pastai'r fedel yr wyt. A rho wybod i mi beth fyd ei ateb.' Dychwelod y wraig, a thrannoeth dilynod gyfarwydyd y 'dyn cynnil' i'r llythyren. Yr oed y gwr bychan yn sefyll yn ei hymyl, ac yn sylwi arni yn fanwl. Ym mhen ychydig, gofynnod, 'Mam, beth 'i ch'i 'neuthur?' 'Cymysg pastai'r fedel, machgen i.' 'O felly. Mi glywais gan fy nhad, fe glywod hwnnw gan ei dad, a hwnnw gan ei dad yntau, fod mesen cyn derwen, a derwen mewn dâr [94]; ond ni chlywais i na gweled neb yn un man yn cymysg pastai'r fedel mewn masgal wy iar.' Sylwod y wraig ei fod yn edrych yn hynod o sarug arni pan yn siarad, ac yr oed hynny yn ychwanegu at ei hagrwch, nes ei wneuthur yn wrthun i'r pen. Y prydnawn hwnnw aeth y wraig at y 'dyn cynnil' er ei hysbysu o'r hyn a lefarwyd gan y còr. 'O,' ebai hwnnw, 'un o'r hen frid ydyw!' 'Yn awr, byd y llawn lloer nesaf ym mhen pedwar diwrnod; mae yn rhaid i ti fyned i ben y pedair heol syd yn cydgyfarfod wrth ben Rhyd y Gloch; am deudeg o'r gloch y nos y byd y lleuad yn llawn. Cofia gudio dy hun mewn man ag y cei lawn olwg ar bennau y croesffyrd, ac os gweli rywbeth a bair i ti gynhyrfu, cofia fod yn llonyd, ac ymatal rhag rhodi ffrwyn i'th deimladau, neu fe distrywir y cynllun, ac ni chei dy fab yn ol byth.' Nis gwydai y fam anffodus beth oed i'w deall wrth ystori ryfed y 'dyn cynnil.' Yr oed mewn cymaint o dywyllwch ag erioed. O'r diwed daeth yr amser i ben; ac ar yr awr apwyntiedig yr oed yn ymgudio yn ofalus tu cefn i lwyn mawr yn ymyl, o ba le y caffai olwg ar bob peth o gylch. Bu am hir amser yno yn gwylio heb dim i'w glywed na'i weled--dim ond distawrwyd dwfn a phrudglwyfus yr hanner nos yn teyrnasu. O'r diwed clywai sain cerdoriaeth yn dynesu ati o hirbell. Nês, nês yr oed y sain felusber yn dyfod o hyd; a gwrandawai hithai gyda dydordeb arni. Cyn hir yr oed yn ei hymyl, a deallod mai gorymdaith o 'Fendith y Mamau' oedynt yn myned i rywle. Yr oedynt yn gannoed mewn rhif. Tua chanol yr orymdaith canfydod olygfa ag a drywanod ei chalon, ac a berod i'w gwaed sefyll yn ei rhedwelïau. Yn cerded rhwng pedwar o'r 'Bendith' yr oed ei phlentyn bychan anwyl ei hun. Bu bron a llwyr anghofio ei hun, a llamu tuag ato er ei gipio ymaith odiarnynt trwy drais os gallai. Ond pan ar neidio allan o'i hymgudfan i'r diben hwnnw medyliod am gynghor y 'dyn cynnil,' sef y bydai i unrhyw gynhyrfiad o'i heido distrywio y cwbl, ac na bydai idi gael ei phlentyn yn ol byth. Ar ol i'r orymdaith dirwyn i'r pen, ac i sain eu cerdoriaeth distewi yn y pellder, daeth allan o'i hymgudfan, gan gyfeirio ei chamrau tua 'i chartref. Os oed yn hiraethol o'r blaen ar ol ei mab, yr oed yn llawer mwy erbyn hyn; a'i hadgasrwyd at y còr bychan oed yn hawlio ei fod yn fab idi wedi cynydu yn fawr iawn, waith yr oed yn sicr yn awr yn ei medwl mai un o'r hen frid ydoed. Nis gwydai pa fod i'w odef am fynud yn hwy yn yr un ty a hi, chwaithach godef ido alw 'mam' arni hi. Ond beth bynnag, cafod digon o ras ataliol i ymdwyn yn wedaid at y gwr bychan hagr oed gyda hi yn y ty. Drannoeth aeth ar ei hunion at y 'dyn cynnil' i adrod yr hyn yr oed wedi bod yn llygad dyst o hono y noson gynt, ac i ofyn am gyfarwydyd pellach. Yr oedd y 'gwr cynnil' yn ei disgwyl, ac ar ei gwaith yn dyfod i'r ty adnabydod wrthi ei bod wedi gweled rhywbeth oed wedi ei chyffroi. Adrodod wrtho yr hyn ag oed wedi ei ganfod ar ben y croesffyrd; ac wedi ido glywed hynny, agorod lyfr mawr ag oed gando, ac wedi hir syllu arno hysbysod hi 'fod yn angenrheidiol idi cyn cael ei phlentyn yn ol gael iâr du heb un plufyn gwyn nac o un lliw arall arni, a'i llad; ac ar ol ei lladd, ei gosod o flaen tan coed, pluf a chwbl, er ei phobi. Mor gynted ag y buasai yn ei gosod o flaen y tan, idi gau pob twll a mynedfa yn yr adeilad ond un, a pheidio a dal sylw manwl ar ol y 'crimbil,' hyd nes bydai y iâr yn digon, a'r pluf i syrthio ymaith oddiarni bob un, ac yna i edrych ym mha le yr oed ef. Er mor rhyfed oed cyfarwydyd y 'gwr,' penderfynod ei gynnyg; a thrannoeth aeth i chwilio ym mhlith y ieir oed yno am un o'r desgrifiad angenrheidiol; ond er ei siomedigaeth method a chael yr un. Aeth o'r naill ffermdy i'r llall i chwilio, ond ymdangosai ffawd fel yn gwgu arni--waith method a chael yr un. Pan ym mron digaloni gan ei haflwydiant daeth ar draws un mewn amaethdy yng nghwr y plwyf a phrynod hi yn dioedi. Ar ol dychwelyd adref gosodod y tan mewn trefn, a lladod yr iâr, gan ei gosod o flaen y tan disglaer a losgai ar yr alch. Pan yn edrych arni yn pobi, anghofiod y 'crimbil' yn hollol, ac yr oed wedi syrthio i rywfath o brudlewyg, pryd y synnwyd hi gan sain cerdoriaeth y tu allan i'r ty, yn debyg i'r hyn a glywod ychydig nosweithiau cyn hynny ar ben y croesffyrd. Yr oed y pluf erbyn hyn wedi syrthio ymaith odiar y iâr, ac erbyn edrych yr oed y 'crimbil' wedi diflannu. Edrychai y fam yn wyllt o'i deutu, ac er ei llawenyd clywai lais ei mab colledig yn galw arni y tu allan. Rhedod i'w gyfarfod, gan ei gofleidio yn wresog; a phan ofynod ym mha le yr oed wedi bod cyhyd, nid oed gando gyfrif yn y byd i'w rodi ond mai yn gwrando ar ganu hyfryd yr oed wedi bod. Yr oed yn deneu a threuliedig iawn ei wed pan adferwyd ef. Dyna ystori 'Y Plentyn Colledig.' 'At a farm house still remaining in the parish of Llanfabon, which is called the Berth Gron, there lived once upon a time a young widow and her infant child. After losing her husband her only comfort in her bereavement and solitary state was young Griff, her son. He was about three years old and a fine child for his age. The parish was then crammed full of Bendith y Mamau, and when the moon was bright and full they were wont to keep people awake with their music till the break of day. The fairies of Llanfabon were remarkable on account of their ugliness, and they were equally remarkable on account of the tricks they played. Stealing children from their cradles during the absence of their mothers, and luring men by means of their music into some pestilential and desolate bog, were things that seemed to afford them considerable amusement. It was no wonder then that mothers used to be daily on the watch lest they should lose their children. The widow alluded to was remarkably careful about her son, so much so, that it made some of the neighbours say that she was too anxious about him and that some misfortune would overtake her child. But she paid no attention to their words, as all her joy, her comfort, and her hopes appeared to meet together in her child. However, one day she heard a moaning voice ascending from near the cow-house, and lest anything had happened to the cattle, she ran there in a fright, leaving the door of the house open and her little son in the cradle. Who can describe her grief on her coming in and seeing that her son was missing? She searched everywhere for him, but it was in vain. About sunset, behold a little lad made his appearance before her and said to her quite distinctly, "Mother." She looked minutely at him, and said at last, "Thou art not my child." "I am truly," said the little one. But the mother did not seem satisfied about it, nor did she believe it was her child. Something whispered to her constantly, as it were, that it was not her son. However, he remained with her a whole year, but he did not seem to grow at all, whereas Griff, her son, was a very growing child. Besides, the little fellow was getting uglier every day. At last she resolved to go to the "wise man," in order to have information and light on the matter. There happened then to be living at Castell y Nos, "Castle of the Night," a man who was remarkable for his thorough acquaintance with the secrets of the evil one. When she had laid her business before him and he had examined her, he addressed the following remark to her: "It is a crimbil [95], and thy own child is with those old Bendith somewhere or other: if thou wilt follow my directions faithfully and minutely thy child will be restored to thee soon. Now, about noon to-morrow cut an egg through the middle; throw the one half away from thee, but keep the other in thy hand, and proceed to mix it backwards and forwards. See that the little fellow be present paying attention to what thou art doing, but take care not to call his attention to it--his attention must be drawn to it without calling to him--and very probably he will ask what thou wouldst be doing. Thou art to say that it is mixing a pasty for the reapers that thou art. Let me know what he will then say." The woman returned, and on the next day she followed the cunning man's [96] advice to the letter: the little fellow stood by her and watched her minutely; presently he asked, "Mother, what are you doing?" "Mixing a pasty for the reapers, my boy." "Oh, that is it. I heard from my father--he had heard it from his father and that one from his father--that an acorn was before the oak, and that the oak was in the earth; but I have neither heard nor seen anybody mixing the pasty for the reapers in an egg-shell." The woman observed that he looked very cross as he spoke, and that it so added to his ugliness that it made him highly repulsive. 'That afternoon the woman went to the cunning man in order to inform him of what the dwarf had said. "Oh," said he, "he is of that old breed; now the next full moon will be in four days--thou must go where the four roads meet above Rhyd y Gloch [97], at twelve o'clock the night the moon is full. Take care to hide thyself at a spot where thou canst see the ends of the cross-roads; and shouldst thou see anything that would excite thee take care to be still and to restrain thyself from giving way to thy feelings, otherwise the scheme will be frustrated and thou wilt never have thy son back." The unfortunate mother knew not what to make of the strange story of the cunning man; she was in the dark as much as ever. At last the time came, and by the appointed hour she had concealed herself carefully behind a large bush close by, whence she could see everything around. She remained there a long time watching; but nothing was to be seen or heard, while the profound and melancholy silence of midnight dominated over all. At last she began to hear the sound of music approaching from afar; nearer and nearer the sweet sound continued to come, and she listened to it with rapt attention. Ere long it was close at hand, and she perceived that it was a procession of Bendith y Mamau going somewhere or other. They were hundreds in point of number, and about the middle of the procession she beheld a sight that pierced her heart and made the blood stop in her veins--walking between four of the Bendith she saw her own dear little child. She nearly forgot herself altogether, and was on the point of springing into the midst of them violently to snatch him from them if she could; but when she was on the point of leaping out of her hiding place for that purpose, she thought of the warning of the cunning man, that any disturbance on her part would frustrate all, so that she would never get her child back. When the procession had wound itself past, and the sound of the music had died away in the distance, she issued from her concealment and directed her steps homewards. Full of longing as she was for her son before, she was much more so now; and her disgust at the little dwarf who claimed to be her son had very considerably grown, for she was now certain in her mind that he was one of the old breed. She knew not how to endure him for a moment longer under the same roof with her, much less his addressing her as "mother." However, she had enough restraining grace to behave becomingly towards the ugly little fellow that was with her in the house. On the morrow she went without delay to the "wise man" to relate what she had witnessed the previous night, and to seek further advice. The cunning man expected her, and as she entered he perceived by her looks that she had seen something that had disturbed her. She told him what she had beheld at the cross-roads, and when he had heard it he opened a big book which he had; then, after he had long pored over it, he told her, that before she could get her child back, it was necessary for her to find a black hen without a single white feather, or one of any other colour than black: this she was to place to bake before a wood [98] fire with its feathers and all intact. Moreover, as soon as she placed it before the fire, she was to close every hole and passage in the walls except one, and not to look very intently after the crimbil until the hen was done enough and the feathers had fallen off it every one: then she might look where he was. 'Strange as the advice of the wise man sounded, she resolved to try it; so she went the next day to search among the hens for one of the requisite description; but to her disappointment she failed to find one. She then walked from one farm house to another in her search; but fortune appeared to scowl at her, as she seemed to fail in her object. When, however, she was nearly disheartened, she came across the kind of hen she wanted at a farm at the end of the parish. She bought it, and after returning home she arranged the fire and killed the hen, which she placed in front of the bright fire burning on the hearth. Whilst watching the hen baking she altogether forgot the crimbil; and she fell into a sort of swoon, when she was astonished by the sound of music outside the house, similar to the music she had heard a few nights before at the cross-roads. The feathers had by this time fallen off the hen, and when she came to look for the crimbil he had disappeared. The mother cast wild looks about the house, and to her joy she heard the voice of her lost son calling to her from outside. She ran to meet him, and embraced him fervently. But when she asked him where he had been so long, he had no account in the world to give but that he had been listening to pleasant music. He was very thin and worn in appearance when he was restored. Such is the story of the Lost Child.' Let me remark as to the urchin's exclamation concerning the cooking done in the egg-shell, that Mr. Hughes, as the result of further inquiry, has given me what he considers a more correct version; but it is no less inconsequent, as will be seen:-- Mi glywais gan fy nhad ac yntau gan ei dad, a hwnnw gan ei dad yntau, Fod mesen cyn derwen a'i phlannu mwn dár: Ni chlywais yn unman am gymysg y bastai yn masgal wy iâr. I heard from my father and he from his father, and that one from his father, That the acorn exists before the oak and the planting of it in the ground: Never anywhere have I heard of mixing the pasty in the shell of a hen's egg. In Dewi Glan Ffrydlas' story from the Ogwen Valley, in Carnarvonshire, p. 62 above, it is not the cooking of a pasty but the brewing of beer in an egg-shell. However what is most remarkable is that the egg-shell is similarly used in stories from other lands. Mr. Hartland cites one from Mecklenburg and another from Scandinavia. He also mentions stories in which the imp measures his own age by the number of forests which he has seen growing successively on the same soil, the formula being of the following kind: 'I have seen the Forest of Ardennes burnt seven times,' 'Seven times have I seen the wood fall in Lessö Forest,' or 'I am so old, I was already in the world before the Kamschtschen Wood (in Lithuania) was planted, wherein great trees grew, and that is now laid waste again [99].' From these and the like instances it is clear that the Welsh versions here in question are partially blurred, as the fairy child's words should have been to the effect that he was old enough to remember the oak when it was yet but an acorn; and an instance of this explicit kind is given by Howells--it comes from Llandrygarn in Anglesey--see p. 139, where his words run thus: 'I can remember yon oak an acorn, but I never saw in my life people brewing in an egg-shell before.' I may add that I have been recently fortunate enough to obtain from Mr. Llywarch Reynolds another kind of estimate of the fairy urchin's age. He writes that his mother remembers a very old Merthyr woman who used to tell the story of the egg-shell cookery, but in words differing from all the other versions known to him, thus:-- Wy'n hén y dyd hedy, Ag yn byw cyn 'y ngeni: Eriôd ni welas i ferwi Bwyd i'r fedal mwn cwcwll [100] wy iâr. I call myself old this day, And living before my birth: Never have I seen food boiled For the reapers in an egg-shell. As to the urchin's statement that he was old and had lived before, it is part of a creed of which we may have something to say in a later chapter. At this point let it suffice to call attention to the same idea in the Book of Taliessin, poem ix:-- Hynaf uyd dyn pan anher A ieu ieu pop amser. A man is wont to be oldest when born, And younger and younger all the time. XIV. Before closing this chapter, I wish to touch on the question of the language of the fairies, though fairy tales hardly ever raise it, as they usually assume the fairies to speak the same language as the mortals around them. There is, however, one well-known exception, namely, the story of Eliodorus, already mentioned, p. 117, as recorded by Giraldus Cambrensis, who relates how Eliodorus, preferring at the age of twelve to play the truant to undergoing a frequent beating by his teacher, fasted two days in hiding in the hollow of a river bank, and how he was then accosted by two little men who induced him to follow them to a land of sports and other delights. There he remained long enough to be able, years later, to give his diocesan, the second Menevian bishop named David [101], a comprehensive account of the people and realm of Faery. After Eliodorus had for some time visited and revisited that land of twilight, his mother desired him to bring her some of the gold of the fairies. So one day he tried to bring away the gold ball with which the fairy king's son used to play; but he was not only unsuccessful, but subjected to indignities also, and prevented from evermore finding his way back to fairyland. So he had to go again to school and to the studies which he so detested; but in the course of time he learned enough to become a priest; and when, stricken in years, he used to be entreated by Bishop David to relate this part of his early history, he never could be got to unfold his tale without shedding tears. Among other things which he said of the fairies' mode of living, he stated that they ate neither flesh nor fish, but lived for the most part on various kinds of milk food cooked after the fashion of stirabout, flavoured as it were with saffron [102]. But one of the most curious portions of Eliodorus' yarn was that relating to the language of the fairies; for he pretended to have learnt it and to have found it to resemble his own Britannica Lingua, 'Brythoneg, or Welsh.' In the words instanced Giraldus perceived a similarity to Greek [103], which he accounted for by means of the fabulous origin of the Welsh from the Trojans and the supposed sojourn made in Greece by those erring Trojans on their way to Britain. Giraldus displays quite a pretty interest in comparative philology, and talks glibly of the Lingua Britannica; but one never feels certain that he knew very much more about it than the author of the Germania, the first to refer to it under that name. Tacitus, however, had the excuse that he lived at a distance and some eleven centuries before the advent of Gerald the Welshman. Giraldus' words prove, on close examination, to be of no help to us on the question of language; but on the other hand I have but recently begun looking out for stories bearing on it. It is my impression that such are not plentiful; but I proceed to subjoin an abstract of a phantom funeral tale in point from Ystên Sioned (Aberystwyth, 1882), pp. 8-16. Ystên Sioned, I ought to explain, consists of a number of stories collected and edited in Welsh by the Rev. Chancellor Silvan Evans, though he has not attached his name to it:--The harvest of 1816 was one of the wettest ever known in Wales, and a man and his wife who lived on a small farm in one of the largest parishes in the Hundred of Moedin (see p. 245 above) in the Demetian part of Cardiganshire went out in the evening of a day which had been comparatively dry to make some reaped corn into sheaves, as it had long been down. It was a beautiful night, with the harvest moon shining brightly, and the field in which they worked had the parish road passing along one of its sides, without a hedge or a ditch to separate it from the corn. When they had been busily at work binding sheaves for half an hour or more, they happened to hear the hum of voices, as if of a crowd of people coming along the road leading into the field. They stopped a moment, and looking in the direction whence the sounds came, they saw in the light of the moon a number of people coming into sight and advancing in their direction. They bent then again to their work without thinking much about what they had seen and heard; for they fancied it was some belated people making for the village, which was about a mile off. But the hum and confused sounds went on increasing, and when the two binders looked up again, they beheld a large crowd of people almost opposite and not far from them. As they continued looking on they beheld quite clearly a coffin on a bier carried on the shoulders of men, who were relieved by others in turns, as usual in funeral processions in the country. 'Here is a funeral,' said the binders to one another, forgetting for the moment that it was not usual for funerals to be seen at night. They continued looking on till the crowd was right opposite them, and some of them did not keep to the road, but walked over the corn alongside of the bulk of the procession. The two binders heard the talk and whispering, the noise and hum as if of so many real men and women passing by, but they did not understand a word that was said: not a syllable could they comprehend, not a face could they recognize. They kept looking at the procession till it went out of sight on the way leading towards the parish church. They saw no more of them, and now they began to feel uneasy and went home leaving the corn alone as it was; but further on the funeral was met by a tailor at a point in the road where it was narrow and bounded by a fence (clawd) on either side. The procession filled the road from hedge to hedge, and the tailor tried to force his way through it, but such was the pressure of the throng that he was obliged to get out of their way by crossing the hedge. He also failed to understand a word of the talk which he heard. In about three weeks after this sham funeral [104], there came a real one down that way from the upper end of the parish. Such, in brief, is the story so charmingly told by Silvan Evans, which he got from the mouths of the farmer and his wife, whom he considered highly honest and truthful persons, as well as comparatively free from superstition. The last time they talked to him about the incident they were very advanced in years, and both died within a few weeks of one another early in the year 1852. Their remains, he adds, lie in the churchyard towards which they had seen the toeli slowly making its way. For toeli is the phonetic spelling in Ystên Sioned of the word which is teulu in North Cardiganshire and in North Wales, for Old Welsh toulu. The word now means 'family,' though literally it should mean 'house-army' or 'house-troops,' and it is practically a synonym for tylwyth, 'family or household,' literally 'house-tribe.' Now the toeli or toulu is such an important institution in Demetian Cardiganshire and some parts of Dyfed proper, that the word has been confined to the phantom, and for the word family in its ordinary significations one has there to have recourse to the non-dialect form teulu [105]. In North Cardiganshire and North Wales the toeli is called simply a cladedigaeth, 'burial,' or anglad, 'funeral'; in the latter also cynhebrwng is a funeral. I may add that when I was a child in the neighbourhood of Ponterwyd, on the upper course of the Rheidol, hardly a year used to pass without somebody or other meeting a phantom funeral. Sometimes one got entangled in the procession, and ran the risk of being carried off one's feet by the throng. There is, however, one serious difference between our phantom funerals and the Demetian toeli, namely, that we recognize our neighbours' ghosts as making up the processions, and we have no trouble in understanding their talk. At this point a question of some difficulty presents itself as to the toeli, namely, what family does it mean?--is it the family and friends of the departed on his way to the grave, or does it mean the family in the sense of Tylwyth Teg, 'Fair Family,' as applied to the fairies? I am inclined to the latter view, but I prefer thinking that the distinction itself does not penetrate very deeply, seeing that a certain species of the Tylwyth Teg, or fairies, may, in point of origin, be regarded as deceased friends and ancestors of the tylwyth, in the ordinary sense of the word. In fact all this kind of rehearsal of events seems to have been once looked at as friendly to the men and women whom it concerned. This will be seen, for instance, in the Demetian account of the canwyll gorff, or corpse candle, as granted through the intercession of St. David to the people of his special care, as a means of warning each to get ready in time for his death; that is to say, to prevent death finding him unprepared. It is hard to guess why it was assumed that the canwyll gorff was unknown in other parts of Wales. One or two instances in point occur in Owen's Welsh Folklore, pp. 298-301; and I have myself heard of them being seen in Anglesey, while they were quite well known to members of Mrs. Rhys' mother's family, who lived in the parish of Waen Fawr, in the neighbourhood of Carnarvon. Nor does it appear that phantom funerals were at all confined to South Wales. Proof to the contrary is supplied to some extent in Owen's Folklore, p. 301; but there is no doubt that in recent times the belief in them, as well as in the canwyll gorff, has been more general and more vivid in South Wales than in North Wales, especially Gwyned. I have not been fortunate enough to come across anything systematic or comprehensive on the origin and meaning of ghostly rehearsals like the Welsh phantom funeral or coffin making. But the subject is an interesting one which deserves the attention of our leading folklore philosophers, as does also the cognate one of second sight, by which it is widely overlapped. Quite recently--at the end of 1899 in fact--I received three brief stories, for which I am indebted to the further kindness of Alaw Lleyn (p. 228), who lives at Bynhadlog near Edern in Lleyn, and two out of the three touch on the question of language. But as the three belong to one and the same district, I give the substance of all in English as follows:-- (1) There were at a small harbour belonging to Nefyn some houses in which several families formerly lived; the houses are there still, but nobody lives in them now. There was one family there to which a little girl belonged: they used to lose her for hours every day; so her mother was very angry with her for being so much away. 'I must know,' said she, 'where you go for your play.' The girl answered that it was to Pin y Wig, 'The Wig Point,' which meant a place to the west of the Nefyn headland: it was there, she said, she played with many children. 'Whose children?' asked the mother. 'I don't know,' she replied; 'they are very nice children, much nicer than I am.' 'I must know whose children they are,' was the reply; and one day the mother went with her little girl to see the children: it was a distance of about a quarter of a mile to Pin y Wig, and after climbing the slope and walking a little along the top they came in sight of the Pin. It is from this Pin that the people of Pen yr Allt got water, and it is from there they get it still. Now after coming near the Pin the little girl raised her hands with joy at the sight of the children. 'O mother,' said she, 'their father is with them to-day: he is not with them always, it is only sometimes that he is.' The mother asked the child where she saw them. 'There they are, mother, running down to the Pin, with their father sitting down.' 'I see nobody, my child,' was the reply, and great fear came upon the mother: she took hold of the child's hand in terror, and it came to her mind at once that they were the Tylwyth Teg. Never afterwards was the little girl allowed to go to Pin y Wig: the mother had heard that the Tylwyth Teg exchanged people's children. Such is the first story, and it is only remarkable, perhaps, for its allusion to the father of the fairy children. (2) There used to be at Edern an old woman who occupied a small farm called Glan y Gors: the same family lives there still. One day this old woman had gone to a fair at Criccieth, whence she returned through Pwllheli. As she was getting above Gors Geirch, which was then a turbary and a pretty considerable bog, a noise reached her ears: she stopped and heard the sound of much talking. By-and-by she beheld a great crowd of men and women coming to meet her. She became afraid and stepped across the fence to let them go by. There she remained a while listening to their chatter, and when she thought that they had gone far enough she returned to the road and began to resume her way home. But before she had gone many steps she heard the same sort of noise again, and saw again the same sort of crowd coming; so she recrossed the fence in great fear, saying to herself, 'Here I shall be all night!' She remained there till they also had gone, and she wondered what they could be, and whether they were people who had been to visit Plas Madrun--afterwards, on inquiry, she found that no such people had been there that day. Now the old woman was near enough to the passers-by to hear them talking (clebran) and chattering (bregliach), but not a word could she understand of what they uttered: it was not Welsh and she did not think that it was English--it is, however, not supposed that she knew English. She related further that the last crowd shouted all together to the other crowd in advance of them Wi, and that the latter replied Wi Wei or something like that. This account Alaw Lleyn has got, he says, from a great-granddaughter of the old woman, and she heard it all from her father, Bard Llechog, who always had faith in the fairies, and believed that they will come again to be seen of men and women. For he thought that they had their periods, a belief which I have come across elsewhere, and more especially in Carnarvonshire [106]. Now what are we to make of such a story? I recollect reading somewhere of a phantom wedding in Scotland, but in Wales we seem to have nothing more closely resembling this than a phantom funeral. Nevertheless what the old woman of Glan y Gors thought she saw looks by no means unlike a Welsh wedding marching on foot, especially when, as I have seen done, one party tried--seemingly in good earnest--to escape the other and to take the bride away from it. Moreover, that the figures making up the two crowds in her story are to be regarded as fairies is rendered probable by the next story, which describes the phantoms therein expressly as little men and little women. (3) The small farm of Perth y Celyn in Edern used to be held by an old man named Griffith Griffiths. In his best days he stood six foot, and he has left behind him a double reputation for bodily strength and great piety. My informant can well remember him walking to chapel with the aid of his two sticks. The story goes that one day, when he was in his prime, he set out from Perth y Celyn at two in the morning to walk to Carnarvon to pay his rent: there was no talk in those days of a carriage for anybody. After passing through Nefyn and Pistyll, he came in due time to Bwlch Trwyn Swncwl [107]: he writes this name also Bwlch Drws Wncwl, with the suggestion that it ought to be Bwlch Drws Encil, and that the place must have been of importance in the wars of the ancient Kymry. The high-road, he goes on to say, runs through the Bwlch, and as Griffith was entering this gap what should he hear but a great deal of talking. He stopped and listened, when to his surprise he saw coming towards him, devoid of all fear, a crowd of little men and little women. They talked aloud, but he could not understand a single word they said: he thought that it was neither Welsh nor English. They passed by him on the road, but he moved aside to the ditch lest they should knock against him; but no feeling of fear came upon him. The old man believed them to have been the Tylwyth Teg. In the story of the Moedin funeral the language of the toeli was not intelligible to the farmer and his wife, or to the tailor, and here in two stories from Lleyn we have it clearly stated that it was neither Welsh nor, probably, English. Since the fairies are always represented as old-fashioned in their ways, it is quite possible that they were once regarded as talking a more ancient language of the country. Which was it? An early version of these legends might perhaps have supplied the answer, and told us that it was Gwydelig or Goidelic, if not an earlier idiom, to wit that of the Aborigines before they learnt Goidelic from the Celts of the first wave of Aryan invasion, whether it was in the region of the Eifl or in the Demetian half of Keredigion. As to the former it is worthy of note that when Griffith had reached Bwlch Trwyn Swncwl he was in the outskirts of the Eifl Mountains, on one of whose heights, not very far off, is the extensive prehistoric fortress of Tre'r Ceiri, or the Town of the Keiri, a vocable which may be provisionally rendered by 'giants.' In any case it dissociates that stronghold from the Brythonic people of Wales. We shall find, however, that a Goidel, or Pict, buried in a cairn on Snowdon, is known as Rhita Gawr, 'Rhita the Giant'; and it is possible that in the Keiri of Tre'r Ceiri we have no other race than that of mixed Goidels and Picts whom the encroaching Brythons found in possession of the west of our island. Nay, one may say that this is rendered probable by the use made of the word ceiri in medieval Welsh: thus in some poetry composed by a certain Dafyd Offeiriad, and copied by Thomas Williams of Trefriw, we have a line alluding to Britain in the words:-- Coron ynys y Ceûri [108]. The Crown of the Giants' Island. Here Ynys y Ceûri inevitably recalls the fact that Britain is called Ynys y Kedyrn, or Island of the Mighty, in the Mabinogion, and also, in effect, in the story of Kulhwch and Olwen. But such stories as these, which enabled Geoffrey to say, i. 16, when he introduced his banal brood of Trojans, that up to that time Britain had only been inhabited by a few giants, are the legends, as will be pointed out later, of the Brythonicized Goidels of Wales. So one may infer that their ancestors had given this country the name of the Island of the Mighty, unless it should prove more accurate to suppose them to have somehow derived the term from the Aborigines. This last surmise is countenanced by the fact that in the Kulhwch story, the British Isles as a group are called Islands of the Mighty. The words are Teir ynys y kedyrn ae their rac ynys; that is, the Three Islands of the Mighty and their Three outpost Islands. That is not all, for in the same story the designation is varied thus: Teir ynys prydein ae their rac ynys [109], or Prydain's Three Islands and Prydain's Three outpost Islands; and the substantial antiquity of the designation 'the Islands of Prydain,' is proved by its virtual identity with that used by ancient Greek authors like Ptolemy, who calls both Britain and Ireland a nêsos Pretanikê, where Pretanic and Prydain are closely related words. Now our Prydain had in medieval Welsh the two forms Prydein and Prydyn. But some time or other there set in a tendency to desynonymize them, so as to make Ynys Prydein, 'the Picts' Island,' mean Great Britain, and Prydyn mean the Pictland of the North. But just as Cymry meant the plural Welshmen and the singular Wales, so Prydyn meant Picts [110] and the country of the Picts. Now the plural Prydyn has its etymological Goidelic equivalent in the vocable Cruithni, which is well known to have meant the Picts or the descendants of the Picti of Roman historians. Further, this last name cannot be severed from that of the Pictones [111] in Gaul, and it is usually supposed to have referred to their habit of tattooing themselves. At all events this agrees with the apparent meaning of the names Prydyn and Cruithni, from pryd and cruth, the words in Welsh and Irish respectively for form or shape, the designation being supposed to refer to the forms or pictures of various animals punctured on the skins of the Picts. So much as to the practical identity of the terms Prydyn, Cruithni, and the Greeks' Pretanic; but how could Cedyrn and Prydein correspond in the terms Ynys y Kedyrn and Ynys Prydein? This one is enabled to understand by means of ceûri or ceiri as a middle term. Now cadarn means strong or valiant, and makes the plural cedyrn; but there is another Welsh word cadr [112] which has also the meaning of valiant or powerful, and may have yielded some such a medieval form as ceidyr in the plural. Now this cadr is proved by its cognates [113] not to have always had the meaning of valiant or strong: its original signification was more nearly 'fine, beautiful, or beautified.' Thus what seems to have happened is, that cadarn, 'strong, powerful, mighty,' influenced the meaning of cadr, 'beautiful,' and eventually usurped its place in the name of the island, which from being Ynys y Ceidyr became Ynys y Cedyrn. But the former meant the 'Island of the fine or beautiful men,' which was closely enough the meaning also of the words Prydain, Cruithni, and Picts, as names of a people who delighted to beautify their persons by tattooing their skins and making themselves distingué in that savage fashion. That is not all, for on examination it turns out that the word ceiri, which has been treated up to this point as meaning giants, is but a double, so to say, of the word cadr in the plural, both as to etymology and original meaning of beautiful. It is a word in constant use in Carnarvonshire, where it is ironically applied to pretentious men fond of showing themselves off, especially in the matter of clothes. 'D ydi nhw 'n geiri! 'Aren't they swells!' Dyna i ch'i gawr! 'There's a fine fellow for you!' and so also with the feminine cawres. Of course the cawr of standard Welsh is familiar enough in the sense of giant to Carnarvonshire people, so the meaning can be best ascertained in the case of the plural ceiri, which they hardly ever meet with in print; and, so far as I have been able to ascertain, by ceiri they mean--in an ironical sense it is true--fine fellows, with reference not to great stature or strength but to their get-up. Thus one arrives at the true interpretation of the name Tre'r Ceiri as the Town of the Prydyn or Cruithni; that is to say, the Town of the Picts or the Aborigines, who showed themselves off decorated with pictures. So far also from Ynys y Ceiri being an echo of Ynys y Cedyrn, it turns out to be really the more original of the two. Such names, when they are closely examined, are apt to prove old beyond all hastily formed expectation. CHAPTER IV MANX FOLKLORE Be it remembrid that one Manaman Mack Clere, a paynim, was the first inhabitour of the ysle of Man, who by his Necromancy kept the same, that when he was assaylid or invaded he wold rayse such mystes by land and sea that no man might well fynde owte the ysland, and he would make one of his men seeme to be in nombre a hundred.--The Landsdowne MSS. The following paper exhausts no part of the subject: it simply embodies the substance of my notes of conversations which I have had with Manx men and Manx women, whose names, together with such other particulars as I could get, are in my possession. I have mostly avoided reading up the subject in printed books; but those who wish to see it exhaustively treated may be directed to Mr. Arthur W. Moore's book on The Folklore of the Isle of Man, to which may now be added Mr. C. Roeder's Contributions to the Folklore of the Isle of Man in the Lioar Manninagh for 1897, pp. 129-91. For the student of folklore the Isle of Man is very fairly stocked with inhabitants of the imaginary order. She has her fairies and her giants, her mermen and brownies, her kelpies and water-bulls. The water-bull or tarroo ushtey, as he is called in Manx, is a creature about which I have not been able to learn much, but he is described as a sort of bull disporting himself about the pools and swamps. For instance, I was told at the village of Andreas, in the flat country forming the northern end of the island, and known as the Ayre, that there used to be a tarroo ushtey between Andreas and the sea to the west: it was before the ground had been drained as it is now. And an octogenarian captain at Peel related to me how he had once when a boy heard a tarroo ushtey: the bellowings of the brute made the ground tremble, but otherwise the captain was unable to give me any very intelligible description. This bull is by no means of the same breed as the bull that comes out of the lakes of Wales to mix with the farmers' cattle, for there the result used to be great fertility among the stock, and an overflow of milk and dairy produce, but in the Isle of Man the tarroo ushtey only begets monsters and strangely formed beasts. The kelpie, or, rather, what I take to be a kelpie, was called by my informants a glashtyn; and Kelly, in his Manx Dictionary, describes the object meant as 'a goblin, an imaginary animal which rises out of the water.' One or two of my informants confused the glashtyn with the Manx brownie. On the other hand, one of them was very definite in his belief that it had nothing human about it, but was a sort of grey colt, frequenting the banks of lakes at night, and never seen except at night. Mermen and mermaids disport themselves on the coasts of Man, but I have to confess that I have made no careful inquiry into what is related about them; and my information about the giants of the island is equally scanty. To confess the truth, I do not recollect hearing of more than one giant, but that was a giant: I have seen the marks of his huge hands impressed on the top of two massive monoliths. They stand in a field at Balla Keeill Pherick, on the way down from the Sloc to Colby. I was told there were originally five of these stones standing in a circle, all of them marked in the same way by the same giant as he hurled them down there from where he stood, miles away on the top of the mountain called Cronk yn Irree Laa. Here I may mention that the Manx word for a giant is foawr, in which a vowel-flanked m has been spirited away, as shown by the modern Irish spelling, fomhor. This, in the plural in old Irish, appears as the name of the Fomori, so well known in Irish legend, which, however, does not always represent them as giants, but rather as monsters. I have been in the habit of explaining the word as meaning submarini; but no more are they invariably connected with the sea. So another etymology recommends itself, namely, one which comes from Dr. Whitley Stokes, and makes the mor in fomori to be of the same origin as the mare in the English nightmare, French cauchemar, German mahr, 'an elf,' and cognate words. I may mention that with the Fomori of mythic origin have doubtless been confounded and identified certain invaders of Ireland, especially the Dumnonians from the country between Galloway and the mouth of the Clyde, some of whom may be inferred to have coasted the north of Ireland and landed in the west, for example in Erris, the north-west of Mayo, called after them Irrus (or Erris) Domnann. The Manx brownie is called the fenodyree, and he is described as a hairy and apparently clumsy fellow, who would, for instance, thrash a whole barnful of corn in a single night for the people to whom he felt well disposed; and once on a time he undertook to bring down for the farmer his wethers from Snaefell. When the fenodyree had safely put them in an outhouse, he said that he had some trouble with the little ram, as it had run three times round Snaefell that morning. The farmer did not quite understand him, but on going to look at the sheep, he found, to his infinite surprise, that the little ram was no other than a hare, which, poor creature, was dying of fright and fatigue. I need scarcely point out the similarity between this and the story of Peredur, who, as a boy, drove home two hinds with his mother's goats from the forest: he owned to having had some trouble with the goats that had so long run wild as to have lost their horns, a circumstance which had greatly impressed him [114]. To return to the fenodyree, I am not sure that there were more than one in Man--I have never heard him spoken of in the plural; but two localities at least are assigned to him, namely, a farm called Ballachrink, in Colby, in the south, and a farm called Lanjaghan, in the parish of Conchan, near Douglas. Much the same stories, however, appear to be current about him in the two places, and one of the most curious of them is that which relates how he left. The farmer so valued the services of the fenodyree, that one day he took it into his head to provide clothing for him. The fenodyree examined each article carefully, and expressed his idea of it, and specified the kind of disease it was calculated to produce. In a word, he found that the clothes would make head and foot sick, and he departed in disgust, saying to the farmer, 'Though this place is thine, the great glen of Rushen is not.' Glen Rushen is one of the most retired glens in the island, and it drains down through Glen Meay to the coast, some miles to the south of Peel. It is to Glen Rushen, then, that the fenodyree is supposed to be gone; but on visiting that valley in 1890 [115] in quest of Manx-speaking peasants, I could find nobody there who knew anything of him. I suspect that the spread of the English language even there has forced him to leave the island altogether. Lastly, with regard to the term fenodyree, I may mention that it is the word used in the Manx Bible of 1819 for satyr in Isaiah xxxiv. 14 [116], where we read in the English Bible as follows: 'The wild beasts of the desert shall also meet with the wild beasts of the island, and the satyr shall cry to his fellow.' In the Vulgate the latter clause reads: et pilosus clamabit alter ad alterum. The term fenodyree has been explained by Cregeen in his Manx Dictionary to mean one who has hair for stockings or hose. That answers to the description of the hairy satyr, and seems fairly well to satisfy the phonetics of the case, the words from which he derives the compound being fynney [117], 'hair,' and oashyr, 'a stocking'; but as oashyr seems to come from the old Norse hosur, the plural of hosa, 'hose or stocking,' the term fenodyree cannot date before the coming of the Norsemen; and I am inclined to think the idea more Teutonic than Celtic. At any rate I need not point out to the English reader the counterparts of this hairy satyr in the hobgoblin 'Lob lie by the Fire,' and Milton's 'Lubber Fiend,' whom he describes as one that Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Lastly, I may mention that Mr. Roeder has a great deal to say about the fenodyree under the name of glashtyn; for it is difficult to draw any hard and fast line between the glashtyn and the fenodyree, or even the water-bull, so much alike do they seem to have been regarded. Mr. Roeder's items of folklore concerning the glashtyns (see the Lioar Manninagh, iii. 139) show that there were male and female glashtyns, and that the former were believed to have been too fond of the women at Ballachrink, until one evening some of the men, dressed as women, arranged to receive some youthful glashtyns. Whether the fenodyree is of Norse origin or not, the glashtyn is decidedly Celtic, as will be further shown in chapter vii. Here it will suffice to mention one or two related words which are recorded in Highland Gaelic, namely, glaistig, 'a she-goblin which assumes the form of a goat,' and glaisrig, 'a female fairy or a goblin, half human, half beast.' The fairies claim our attention next, and as the only other fairies tolerably well known to me are those of Wales, I can only compare or contrast the Manx fairies with the Welsh ones. They are called in Manx, sleih beggey, or little people, and ferrishyn, from the English word fairies, as it would seem. Like the Welsh fairies, they kidnap babies; and I have heard it related how a woman in Dalby had a struggle with the fairies over her baby, which they were trying to drag out of the bed from her. Like Welsh fairies, also, they take possession of the hearth after the farmer and his family are gone to bed. A man in Dalby used to find them making a big fire in his kitchen: he would hear the crackling and burning of the fire when nobody else could have been there except the fairies and their friends. I said 'friends,' for they sometimes take a man with them, and allow him to eat with them at the expense of others. Thus, some men from the northern-most parish, Kirk Bride, went once on a time to Port Erin, in the south, to buy a supply of fish for the winter, and with them went a Kirk Michael man who had the reputation of being a persona grata to the fairies. Now one of the Port Erin men asked a man from the north who the Michael man might be: he was curious to know his name, as he had seen him once before, and on that occasion the Michael man was with the fairies at his house--the Port Erin man's house--helping himself to bread and cheese in company with the rest. As the fairies were regaling themselves in this instance on ordinary bread and cheese at a living Manxman's expense, the story may perhaps be regarded as not inconsistent with one mentioned by Cumming [118] to the following effect:--A man attracted one night as he was crossing the mountains, by fairy music, entered a fairy hall where a banquet was going on. He noticed among them several faces which he seemed to know, but no act of mutual recognition took place till he had some drink offered him, when one of those whom he seemed to know warned him not to taste of the drink if he had any wish to make his way home again. If he partook of it he would become like one of them. So he found an opportunity for spilling it on the ground and securing the cup; whereupon the hall and all its inmates instantaneously vanished. On this I may remark that it appears to have been a widely spread belief, that no one who had partaken of the food for spirits would be allowed to return to his former life, and some instances will be found mentioned by Professor Tylor in his Primitive Culture, ii. 50-2. Like the Welsh fairies, the Manx ones take men away with them and detain them for years. Thus a Kirk Andreas man was absent from his people for four years, which he spent with the fairies. He could not tell how he returned, but it seemed as if, having been unconscious, he woke up at last in this world. The other world, however, in which he was for the four years was not far away, as he could see what his brothers and the rest of the family were doing every day, although they could not see him. To prove this, he mentioned to them how they were occupied on such and such a day, and, among other things, how they took their corn on a particular day to Ramsey. He reminded them also of their having heard a sudden sharp crack as they were passing by a thorn bush he named, and how they were so startled that one of them would have run back home. He asked them if they remembered that, and they said they did, only too well. He then explained to them the meaning of the noise, namely, that one of the fairies with whom he had been galloping the whole time was about to let fly an arrow at his brothers, but that as he was going to do this, he (the missing brother) raised a plate and intercepted the arrow: that was the sharp noise they had heard. Such was the account he had to give of his sojourn in Faery. This representation of the world of the fairies, as contained within the ordinary world of mortals, is very remarkable; but it is not a new idea, as we seem to detect it in the Irish story of the abduction of Conla Rúad [119]: the fairy who comes to fetch him tells him that the folk of Tethra, whom she represents, behold him every day as he takes part in the assemblies of his country and sits among his friends. The commoner way of putting it is simply to represent the fairies as invisible to mortals at will; and one kind of Welsh story relates how the mortal midwife accidentally touches her eyes, while dressing a fairy baby, with an ointment which makes the fairy world visible to her: see pp. 63, 213, above. Like Welsh fairies, the Manx ones had, as the reader will have seen, horses to ride; they had also dogs, just as the Welsh ones had. This I learn from another story, to the effect that a fisherman, taking a fresh fish home, was pursued by a pack of fairy dogs, so that it was only with great trouble he reached his own door. Then he picked up a stone and threw it at the dogs, which at once disappeared; but he did not escape, as he was shot by the fairies, and so hurt that he lay ill for fully six months from that day. He would have been left alone by the fairies, I was told, if he had only taken care to put a pinch of salt in the fish's mouth before setting out, for the Manx fairies cannot stand salt or baptism. So children that have been baptized are, as in Wales, less liable to be kidnapped by these elves than those that have not. I scarcely need add that a twig of cuirn [120] or rowan is also as effective against fairies in Man as it is in Wales. Manx fairies seem to have been musical, like their kinsmen elsewhere; for I have heard of an Orrisdale man crossing the neighbouring mountains at night and hearing fairy music, which took his fancy so much that he listened, and tried to remember it. He had, however, to return, it is said, three times to the place before he could carry it away complete in his mind, which he succeeded in doing at last just as the day was breaking and the musicians disappearing. This air, I am told, is now known by the name of the Bollan Bane, or White Wort. As to certain Welsh airs similarly supposed to have been derived from the fairies, see pages 201-2 above. So far I have pointed out next to nothing but similarities between Manx fairies and Welsh ones, and I find very little indicative of a difference. First, with regard to salt, I am unable to say anything in this direction, as I do not happen to know how Welsh fairies regard salt: it is not improbable that they eschew salt as well as baptism, especially as the Church of Rome has long associated salt with baptism. There is, however, one point, at least, of difference between the fairies of Man and of Wales: the latter are, so far as I can call to mind, never supposed to discharge arrows at men or women, or to handle a bow [121] at all, whereas Manx fairies are always ready to shoot. May we, therefore, provisionally regard this trait of the Manx fairies as derived from a Teutonic source? At any rate English and Scotch elves were supposed to shoot, and I am indebted to the kindness of my colleague, Professor Napier, for calling my attention to the Leechdoms of Early England [122] for cases in point. Now that most of the imaginary inhabitants of Man and its coasts have been rapidly passed in review before the reader, I may say something of others whom I regard as semi-imaginary--real human beings to whom impossible attributes are ascribed: I mean chiefly the witches, or, as they are sometimes called in Manx English, butches [123]. That term I take to be a variant of the English word witch, produced under the influence of the verb bewitch, which was reduced in Manx English to a form butch, especially if one bear in mind the Cumbrian and Scottish pronunciation of these words, as wutch and bewutch. Now witches shift their form, and I have heard of one old witch changing herself into a pigeon; but that I am bound to regard as exceptional, the regular form into which Manx witches pass at their pleasure being that of the hare, and such a swift and thick skinned hare that no greyhound, except a black one without a single white hair, can catch it, and no shot, except a silver coin, penetrate its body. Both these peculiarities are also well known in Wales. I notice a difference, however, between Wales and Man with regard to the hare witches: in Wales only the women can become hares, and this property runs, so far as I know, in certain families. I have known many such, and my own nurse belonged to one of them, so that my mother was reckoned to be rather reckless in entrusting me to y Gota, or 'the Cutty One,' as she might run away at any moment, leaving her charge to take care of itself. But I have never heard of any man or boy of any such family turning himself into a hare, whereas in the Isle of Man the hare witches may belong, if I may say so, to either sex. I am not sure, however, that a man who turns himself into a hare would be called a wizard or witch; and I recollect hearing in the neighbourhood of Ramsey of a man nicknamed the gaaue mwaagh, that is to say, 'the hare smith,' the reason being that this particular smith now and then assumed the form of a hare. I am not quite sure that gaaue mwaagh is the name of a class, though I rather infer that it is. If so, it must be regarded as a survival of the magic skill associated with smiths in ancient Ireland, as evidenced, for instance, in St. Patrick's Hymn in the eleventh or twelfth century manuscript at Trinity College, Dublin, known as the Liber Hymnorum, in which we have a prayer-- Fri brichta ban ocus goband ocus druad. Against the spells of women, of smiths and magicians [124]. The persons who had the power of turning themselves into hares were believed to be abroad and very active, together with the whole demon world, on the eve of May-day of the Old Style. And a middle-aged man from the parish of Andreas related to me how he came three or four times across a woman reputed to be a witch, carrying on her evil practices at the junction of cross-roads, or the meeting of three boundaries. This happened once very early on Old May morning, and afterwards he met her several times as he was returning home from visiting his sweetheart. He warned the witch that if he found her again he would kick her: that is what he tells me. Well, after a while he did surprise her again at work at four cross-roads, somewhere near Lezayre. She had a circle, he said, as large as that made by horses in threshing, swept clean around her. He kicked her and took away her besom, which he hid till the middle of the day. Then he made the farm boys fetch some dry gorse, and he put the witch's besom on the top of it. Thereupon fire was set to the gorse, and, wonderful to relate, the besom, as it burned, crackled and made reports like guns going off. In fact, the noise could be heard at Andreas Church--that is to say, miles away. The besom had on it 'seventeen sorts of knots,' he stated, and the woman herself ought to have been burned: in fact, he added that she did not long survive her besom. The man who related this to me is hale and strong, living now in the parish of Michael, and not in that of Andreas, where he was born. There is a tradition at St. John's, which is overlooked by the mountain called Slieau Whallian, that witches used at one time to be punished by being set to roll down the steep side of the mountain in spiked barrels; but, short of putting them to death, there were various ways of rendering the machinations of witches innocuous, or of undoing the mischief done by them; for the charmers supply various means of meeting them triumphantly, and in case an animal is the victim, the burning of it always proves an effective means of bringing the offender to book: I shall have occasion to return to this under another heading. There is a belief that if you can draw blood, however little, from a witch, or one who has the evil eye, he loses his power of harming you; and I have been told that formerly this belief was sometimes acted upon. Thus, on leaving church, for instance, the man who fancied himself in danger from another would sidle up to him or walk by his side, and inflict on him a slight scratch, or some other trivial wound, which elicited blood; but this must have been a course always attended with more or less danger. The persons able to undo the witches' work, and remove the malignant influence of the evil eye, are known in Manx English as charmers, and something must now be said of them. They have various ways of proceeding to their work. A lady of about thirty-five, living at Peel, related to me how, when she was a child suffering from a swelling in the neck, she had it charmed away by an old woman. This charmer brought with her no less than nine pieces of iron, consisting of bits of old pokers, old nails, and other odds and ends of the same metal, making in all nine pieces. After invoking the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, she began to rub the girl's neck with the old irons; nor was she satisfied with that, for she rubbed the doors, the walls, and the furniture likewise, with the metal. The result, I was assured, was highly satisfactory, as she has never been troubled with a swelling in the throat since that day. Sometimes a passage from the Bible is made use of in charming, as, for instance, in the case of bleeding. One of the verses then pronounced is Ezekiel xvi. 6, which runs thus:--'And when I passed by thee, and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live.' This was told me by a Laxey man, who is over seventy years of age. The methods of charming away warts are various. A woman from the neighbourhood of St. John's explained to me how a charmer told her to get rid of the warts on her hands. She was to take a string and make a knot on it for every wart she had, and then tie the string round her hand, or fingers--I forget which; and I think my informant, on her part, forgot to tell me a vital part of the formula, namely, that the string was to be destroyed. But however that may be, she assured me that the warts disappeared, and have never returned since. A lady at Andreas has a still simpler method of getting rid of warts. She rubs a snail on the warts, and then places the snail on one of the points of a blackthorn, and, in fact, leaves the snail to die, transfixed by the thorn; and as the snail dies the warts disappear. She has done this in the case of her niece with complete success, so far as the wart was concerned; but she had forgotten to notice whether the snail had also succumbed. The lady who in this case applied the remedy cannot be in any sense called a charmer, however much one may insist on calling what she did a charm. In fact, the term charmer tends to be associated with a particular class of charm involving the use of herbs. Thus there used to be at one time a famous charmer living near Kirk Michael, to whom the fishermen were in the habit of resorting, and my informant told me that he had been deputed more than once by his fellow fishermen to go to him in consequence of their lack of success in the fishing. The charmer gave him a packet of herbs, cut small, with directions that they should be boiled, and the water mixed with some spirits--rum, I think--and partly drunk in the boat by the captain and the crew, and partly sprinkled over the boat and everything in it. The charmer clearly defined his position in the matter to my informant. 'I cannot,' he said, 'put the fish in your nets for you; but if there is any mischief in the way of your luck, I can remove that for you.' The fishermen themselves had, however, more exaggerated notions of the charmer's functions, for once on a time my informant spent on drink for his boon companions the money which he was to give the charmer, and then he collected herbs himself--it did not much matter what herbs--and took them to his captain, who, with the crew, went through the proper ritual, and made a most successful haul that night. In fact, the only source of discontent was the charmer's not having distributed the fish over two nights, instead of endangering their nets by an excessive haul all in one night. They regarded him as able to do almost anything he liked in the matter. A lady at Andreas gave me an account of a celebrated charmer who lived between there and the coast. He worked on her husband's farm, but used to be frequently called away to be consulted. He usually cut up wormwood for the people who came to him, and if there was none to be had, he did not scruple to rob the garden of any small sprouts it contained of cabbage or the like. He would chop them small, and give directions about boiling them and drinking the water. He usually charged any one leaving him to speak to nobody on the way, lest he break the charm, and this mysteriousness was evidently an important element in his profession. But he was, nevertheless, a thriftless fellow, and when he went to Peel, and sent the crier round to announce his arrival, and received a good deal of money from the fishermen, he seldom so conducted himself as to bring much of his earnings home. He died miserably some seven or eight years ago at Ramsey, and left a widow in great poverty. As to the present day, the daughter of a charmer now dead is married to a man living in a village on the southern side of the island, and she appears to have inherited her father's reputation for charming, as the fishermen from all parts are said to flock to her for luck. Incidentally, I have heard in the south more than once of her being consulted in cases of sudden and dangerous illness, even after the best medical advice has been obtained: in fact, she seems to have a considerable practice. In answer to my question, how the charmer who died at Ramsey used to give the sailors luck in the fishing, my informant at Andreas could not say, except that he gave them herbs as already described, and she thought also that he sold them wisps to place under their pillows. I gather that the charms were chiefly directed to the removal of supposed impediments to success in the fishing, rather than to any act of a more positive nature. So far as I have been able to ascertain, charming is hereditary, and they say that it descends from father to daughter, and then from daughter to son, and so on--a remarkable kind of descent, on which I should be glad to learn the opinion of anthropologists. One of the best Manx scholars in the island related to me how some fishermen once insisted on his doing the charmer for them because of his being of such and such a family, and how he made fools of them. It is my impression that the charming families are comparatively few in number, and this looks as if they descended from the family physicians or druids of one or two chieftains in ancient times. It is very likely a question which could be cleared up by a local man familiar with the island and all that tradition has to say on the subject of Manx pedigrees. In the case of animals ailing, the herbs were also resorted to; and, if the beasts happened to be milch cows, the herbs had to be boiled in some of their milk. This was supposed to produce wonderful results, described as follows by a man living at a place on the way from Castletown up South Barrule:--A farmer in his parish had a cow that milked blood, as he described it, and this in consequence of a witch's ill-will. He went to the charmer, who gave him some herbs, which he was to boil in the ailing cow's milk, and the charmer charged him, whatever he did, not to quit the concoction while it was on the fire, in spite of any noises he might hear. The farmer went home and proceeded that night to boil the herbs as directed, but he suddenly heard a violent tapping at the door, a terrible lowing of the cattle in the cow-house, and stones coming down the 'chumley': the end of it was that he suddenly fled and sprang into bed to take shelter behind his wife. He went to the charmer again, and related to him what had happened: he was told that he must have more courage the next time, unless he wished his cow to die. He promised to do his best, and this time he stood his ground in spite of the noises and the creaking of the windows--until, in fact, a back window burst into pieces and bodily let a witch in, who craved his pardon, and promised nevermore to molest him or his. This all happened at the farm in question in the time of the present farmer's grandfather. The boiling of the charmer's herbs in milk always produces a great commotion and lowing among the cattle, and it invariably cures the ailing ones: this is firmly believed by respectable farmers whom I could name, in the north of the island in particular, and I am alluding to men whom one might consider fairly educated members of their class. In the last mentioned instance not only is the requisite cure effected, but the witch who caused the mischief is brought on the spot. I have recently heard of a parallel to this in a belief which appears to be still prevalent in the Channel Islands, more especially Guernsey. The following incidents have been communicated to me by an ardent folklorist, who has friends in the islands:-- An old woman in Torteval became ill, and her two sons were told that if they tried one of the charms of divination, such as boiling certain weeds in a pot, the first person to come to the house would prove to be the one who had cast a spell over their mother. Accordingly they made their bouillederie, and who should come to the door but a poor, unoffending Breton onion seller, and as he was going away he was waylaid by the two sons, who beat him within an inch of his life. They were prosecuted and sentenced to terms of imprisonment; but the charming did not come out in the evidence, though it was generally known to have been the reason for the assault. This account was given my informant in 1898, and the incident appears to have happened not very long before. Another is related thus:--A certain family suffered from a plague of lice, which they regarded as the consequence of a spell. They accordingly made their boiling of herbs and looked for the first comer. He turned out to be a neighbour of theirs who wished to buy some turnip seeds. The family abused him roundly. He went away, but he was watched and caught by two of the sons of the house, who beat him cruelly. They, on being prosecuted, had to pay him £5 damages. This took place in the summer of 1898, in the narrator's own parish, in Guernsey. I have also another case of recent date, to the effect that a young woman, whose churning was so unsuccessful that the butter would not come, boiled herbs in the prescribed way. She awaited the first comer, and, being engaged, her intended husband was not unnaturally the first to arrive. She abused him so unsparingly that he broke off the engagement. These instances go far enough to raise the question why the boiling of herbs should be supposed to bring the culprit immediately on the spot, but they hardly go any further, namely, to help us to answer it. Magic takes us back to a very primitive and loose manner of thinking; so the marvellously easy way in which it identifies any tie of association, however flimsy, with the insoluble bond of relationship which educated men and women regard as connecting cause and effect, renders even simpler means than I have described quite equal to the undoing of the evils resulting from the activity of the evil eye. Thus, let us suppose that a person endowed with the evil eye has just passed by the farmer's herd of cattle, and a calf has suddenly been seized with a serious illness, the farmer hurries after the man of the evil eye to get the dust from under his feet. If he objects, the farmer may, as has sometimes been actually done, throw him down by force, take off his shoes, and scrape off the dust adhering to their soles, and carry it back to throw over the calf. Even that is not always necessary, as it appears to be quite enough if he takes up dust where he of the evil eye has just trod the ground. There are innumerable cases on folk-record of both means proving entirely efficacious, and they remind one of a story related in the Itinerarium Kambriæ, i. 11, by Giraldus, as to the archbishop when he was preaching in the neighbourhood of Haverfordwest. A certain woman had lost her sight, but had so much faith in that holy man that she sent her son to try and procure the least bit of the fringe of his clothing. The youth, unable to make his way through the crowd that surrounded the preacher, waited till it dispersed, and then took home to his mother the sod on which he had stood and on which his feet had left their mark. That earth was applied by her to her face and eyes, with the result that she at once recovered her sight. A similar question of psychology presents itself in a practice intended as a preservative against the evil eye rather than as a cure. I allude to what I have heard about two maiden ladies living in a Manx village which I know very well: they are natives of a neighbouring parish, and I am assured that whenever a stranger enters their house they proceed, as soon as he goes away, to strew a little dust or sand over the spot where he stood. That is understood to prevent any malignant influence resulting from his visit. This tacit identifying of a man with his footprints may be detected in a more precarious and pleasing form in a quaint conceit familiar to me in the lyrics of rustic life in Wales, when, for example, a coy maiden leaves her lovesick swain hotly avowing his perfect readiness to cusanu ol ei thraed, that is, to do on his knees all the stages of her path across the meadow, kissing the ground wherever it has been honoured with the tread of her dainty foot. Let me take another case, in which the cord of association is not so inconceivably slender, namely, when two or more persons standing in a close relation to one another are mistakenly treated a little too much as if mutually independent, the objection is heard that it matters not whether it is A or B, that it is, in fact, all the same, as they belong to the same concern. In Welsh this is sometimes expressed by saying, Yr un yw Huw'r Glyn a'i glocs, that is, 'Hugh of the Glen and his clogs are all one.' Then, when you speak in English of a man 'standing in another's shoes,' I am by no means certain, that you are not employing an expression which meant something more to those who first used it than it does to us. Our modern idioms, with all their straining after the abstract, are but primitive man's mental tools adapted to the requirements of civilized life, and they often retain traces of the form and shape which the neolithic worker's chipping and polishing gave them. It is difficult to arrange these scraps under any clearly classified headings, and now that I have led the reader into the midst of matters magical, perhaps I may just as well go on to the mention of a few more: I alluded to the boiling of the herbs according to the charmer's orders, with the result, among other things, of bringing the witch to the spot. This is, however, not the only instance of the importance and strange efficacy of fire. For when a beast dies on a farm, of course it dies, according to the old-fashioned view of things as I understand it, from the influence of the evil eye or the interposition of a witch. So if you want to know to whom you are indebted for the loss of the beast, you have simply to burn its carcase in the open air and watch who comes first to the spot or who first passes by: that is the criminal to be charged with the death of the animal, and he cannot help coming there--such is the effect of the fire. A Michael woman, who is now about thirty, related to me how she watched while the carcase of a bewitched colt was burning, how she saw the witch coming, and how she remembers her shrivelled face, with nose and chin in close proximity. According to another native of Michael, a well informed middle-aged man, the animal in question was oftenest a calf, and it was wont to be burnt whole, skin and all. The object, according to him, is invariably to bring the bewitcher on the spot, and he always comes; but I am not clear what happens to him when he appears. My informant added, however, that it was believed that, unless the bewitcher got possession of the heart of the burning beast, he lost all his power of bewitching. He related, also, how his father and three other men were once out fishing on the west coast of the island, when one of the three suddenly expressed his wish to land. As they were fishing successfully some two or three miles from the shore, they would not hear of it. He, however, insisted that they must put him ashore at once, which made his comrades highly indignant; but they soon had to give way, as they found that he was determined to leap overboard unless they complied. When he got on shore they watched him hurrying away towards where a beast was burning in the corner of a field. Manx stories merge this burning in a very perplexing fashion with what may be termed a sacrifice for luck. The following scraps of information will make it clear what I mean:--A respectable farmer from Andreas told me that he was driving with his wife to the neighbouring parish of Jurby some years ago, and that on the way they beheld the carcase of a cow or an ox burning in a field, with a woman engaged in stirring the fire. On reaching the village to which they were going, they found that the burning beast belonged to a farmer whom they knew. They were further told it was no wonder that the said farmer had one of his cattle burnt, as several of them had recently died. Whether this was a case of sacrifice or not I cannot say. But let me give another instance: a man whom I have already mentioned, saw at a farm nearer the centre of the island a live calf being burnt. The owner bears an English name, but his family has long been settled in Man. The farmer's explanation to my informant was that the calf was burnt to secure luck for the rest of the herd, some of which were threatening to die. My informant thought there was absolutely nothing the matter with them, except that they had too little food. Be that as it may, the one calf was sacrificed as a burnt offering to secure luck for the rest of the cattle. Let me here also quote Mr. Moore's note in his Manx Surnames, p. 184, on the place-name Cabbal yn Oural Losht, or the 'Chapel of the Burnt Sacrifice.' 'This name,' he says, 'records a circumstance which took place in the nineteenth century, but which, it is to be hoped, was never customary in the Isle of Man. A farmer, who had lost a number of his sheep and cattle by murrain, burned a calf as a propitiatory offering to the Deity on this spot, where a chapel was afterwards built. Hence the name.' Particulars, I may say, of time, place, and person, could be easily added to Mr. Moore's statement, excepting, perhaps, as to the deity in question: on that point I have never been informed, but Mr. Moore was probably right in the use of the capital d, as the sacrificer was, according to all accounts, a devout Christian. I have to thank Sir Frederick Pollock for calling my attention to a parallel this side of the sea: he refers me to Worth's History of Devonshire (London, 1886), p. 339, where one reads the following singular passage:--'Living animals have been burnt alive in sacrifice within memory to avert the loss of other stock. The burial of three puppies "brandise-wise" in a field is supposed to rid it of weeds.' The second statement is very curious, and the first seems to mean that preventive sacrifices have been performed in Devonshire within the memory of men living in the author's time. One more Manx instance: an octogenarian woman, born in the parish of Bride, and now living at Kirk Andreas, saw, when she was a 'lump of a girl' of ten or fifteen years of age, a live sheep being burnt in a field in the parish of Andreas, on May-day, whereby she meant the first of May reckoned according to the Old Style. She asserts [125] very decidedly that it was son oural, 'for a sacrifice,' as she put it, and 'for an object to the public': those were her words when she expressed herself in English. Further, she made the statement that it was a custom to burn a sheep on Old May-day for a sacrifice. I was fully alive to the interest of this evidence, and cross-examined her so far as her age allows of it, and I find that she adheres to her statement with all firmness, but I distinguish two or three points in her evidence: 1. I have no doubt that she saw, as she was passing by a certain field on the borders of Andreas parish, a live sheep being burnt on Old May-day. 2. But her statement that it was son oural, or as a sacrifice, was probably only an inference drawn by her, possibly years afterwards, on hearing things of the kind discussed. 3. Lastly, I am convinced that she did hear the May-day sacrifice discussed, both in Manx and in English: her words, 'for an object to the public,' are her imperfect recollection of a phrase used in her hearing by somebody more ambitious of employing English abstract terms than she is; and the formal nature of her statement in Manx, that it was customary on May-day to burn as a sacrifice one head of sheep (Laa Boaldyn va cliaghtey dy lostey son oural un baagh keyrragh), produces the same impression on my mind, that she is only repeating somebody else's words. I mention this more especially as I have failed to find anybody else in Andreas or Bride, or indeed in the whole island, who will now confess to having ever heard of the sheep sacrifice on Old May-day. The time assigned to the sheep sacrifice, namely May-day, leads me to make some remarks on the importance of that day among the Celts. The day meant is, as I have already said, Old May-day, in Manx Shenn Laa Boaldyn, the belltaine of Cormac's Glossary, Scotch Gaelic bealtuinn. This was a day when systematic efforts were made to protect man and beast against elves and witches; for it was then that people carried crosses of rowan in their hats and placed May flowers over the tops of their doors and elsewhere as preservatives against all malignant influences. With the same object in view crosses of rowan were likewise fastened to the tails of the cattle, small crosses which had to be made without the help of a knife: I exhibited a tiny specimen at one of the meetings of the Folk-Lore Society. Early on May morning one went out to gather the dew as a thing of great virtue, as in other countries. At Kirk Michael one woman, who had been out on this errand years ago, told me that she washed her face with the dew in order to secure luck, a good complexion, and safety against witches. The break of this day is also the signal for setting the ling or the gorse on fire, which is done in order to burn out the witches wont to take the form of the hare; and guns, I am told, were freely used to shoot any game met with on that morning. With the proper charge some of the witches were now and then hit and wounded, whereupon they resumed the human form and remained cripples for the rest of their lives. Fire, however, appears to have been the chief agency relied on to clear away the witches and other malignant beings; and I have heard of this use of fire having been carried so far that a practice was sometimes observed--as, for example, in Lezayre--of burning gorse, however little, in the hedge of each field on a farm in order to drive away the witches and secure luck. The man who told me this, on being asked whether he had ever heard of cattle being driven through fire or between two fires on May-day, replied that it was not known to him as a Manx custom, but that it was an Irish one. A cattle-dealer whom he named used on May-day to drive his cattle through fire so as to singe them a little, as he believed that would preserve them from harm. He was an Irishman, who came to the island for many years, and whose children are settled in the island now. On my asking him if he knew whence the dealer came, he answered, 'From the mountains over there,' pointing to the Mourne Mountains looming faintly in the mists on the western horizon. The Irish custom known to my Manx informant is interesting both as throwing light on the Manx custom, and as being the continuation of a very ancient rite mentioned by Cormac. That writer, or somebody in his name, says that belltaine, May-day, was so called from the 'lucky fire,' or the 'two fires,' which the druids of Erin used to make on that day with great incantations; and cattle, he adds, used to be brought to those fires, or to be driven between them, as a safeguard against the diseases of the year. Cormac [126] says nothing, it will be noticed, as to one of the cattle or the sheep being sacrificed for the sake of prosperity to the rest. However, Scottish [127] May-day customs point to a sacrifice having been once usual, and that possibly of human beings, and not of sheep as in the Isle of Man. I have elsewhere [128] tried to equate these Celtic May-day practices with the Thargelia [129] of the Athenians of antiquity. The Thargelia were characterized by peculiar rites, and among other things then done, two adult persons were led about, as it were scapegoats, and at the end they were sacrificed and burnt, so that their ashes might be dispersed. Here we seem to be on the track of a very ancient Aryan practice, although the Celtic season does not quite coincide with the Greek one. Several items of importance for comparison here will be found passed under careful review in a most suggestive paper by Mr. Lawrence Gomme, 'On the Method of determining the Value of Folklore as Ethnological Data,' in the Fourth Report of the Ethnographical Survey Committee [130]. It is probably in some ancient May-day custom that we are to look for the key to a remarkable place-name occurring several times in the island: I allude to that of Cronk yn Irree Laa, which probably means the Hill of the Rise of Day. This is the name of one of the mountains in the south of the island, but it is also borne by one of the knolls near the eastern end of the range of low hills ending abruptly on the coast between Ramsey and Bride parish, and quite a small knoll bears the name, near the church of Jurby [131]. I have heard of a fourth instance, which, as I learn from Mr. Philip Kermode, editor of the Lioar Manninagh, is on Clay Head, near Laxey. It has been attempted to explain it as meaning the Hill of the Watch by Day, in reference to the old institution of Watch and Ward on conspicuous places in the island; but that explanation is inadmissible as doing violence to the phonetics of the words in question [132]. I am rather inclined to think that the name everywhere refers to an eminence to which the surrounding inhabitants resorted for a religious purpose on a particular day in the year. I should suggest that it was to do homage to the rising sun on May morning, but this conjecture is offered only to await a better explanation. The next great day in the pagan calendar of the Celts is called in Manx Laa Lhunys, in Irish Lugnassad, the assembly or fair, which was associated with the name of the god Lug. This should correspond to Lammas, but, reckoned as it is according to the Old Style, it falls on the twelfth of August, which used to be a great day for business fairs in the Isle of Man as in Wales. But for holiday making the twelfth only suited when it happened to be a Sunday: when that was not the case, the first Sunday after the twelfth was fixed upon. It is known, accordingly, as the first Sunday of Harvest, and it used to be celebrated by crowds of people visiting the tops of the mountains. The kind of interference to which I have alluded with regard to an ancient holiday, is one of the regular results of the transition from Roman Catholicism to a Protestant system with only one fixed holiday, namely, Sunday. The same shifting has partly happened in Wales, where Lammas is Gwyl Awst, or the festival of Augustus, since the birthday of Augustus, auspiciously for him and the celebrity of his day, fell in with the great day of the god Lug in the Celtic world. Now the day for going up the Fan Fach mountain in Carmarthenshire was Lammas, but under a Protestant Church it became the first Sunday in August; and even modified in that way it could not long survive under a vigorous sabbatarian régime either in Wales or Man. As to the latter in particular, I have heard it related by persons who were present, how the crowds on the top of South Barrule on the first Sunday of Harvest were denounced as pagans by a preacher called William Gick, some seventy years ago; and how another man called Paric Beg, or Little Patrick, preaching to the crowds on Snaefell in milder terms, used to wind up the service with a collection, which appears to have proved a speedier method of reducing the dimensions of these meetings on the mountain tops. Be that as it may, they seem to have dwindled since then to comparative insignificance. If you ask the reason for this custom now, for it is not yet quite extinct, you are told, first, that it is merely to gather ling berries; but now and then a quasi-religious reason is given, namely, that it is the day on which Jephthah's daughter went forth to bewail her virginity 'upon the mountains': somehow some Manx people make believe that they are doing likewise. That is not all, for people who have never themselves thought of going up the mountains on the first Sunday of harvest or any other, will be found devoutly reading at home about Jephthah's daughter on that day. I was told this first in the south by a clergyman's wife, who, finding a woman in the parish reading the chapter in question on that day, asked the reason for her fixing on that particular portion of the Bible. She then had the Manx view of the matter fully explained to her, and she has since found more information about it, and so have I. It is needless for me to say that I do not quite understand how Jephthah's daughter came to be introduced: perhaps it is vain to look for any deeper reason than that the mention, of the mountains may have served as a sort of catch-word, and that as the Manx people began to cease from visiting the tops of the mountains annually, it struck the women as the next best thing for them to read at home of one who did 'go up and down upon the mountains': they are great readers of the Bible generally. In any case we have here a very curious instance of a practice, originally pagan, modifying itself profoundly to secure a new lease of life. Between May-day and November eve, there was a day of considerable importance in the island; but the fixing on it was probably due to influence other than Celtic: I mean Midsummer Eve, or St. John's. However, some practices connected with it would seem to have been of Celtic origin, such as 'the bearing of rushes to certain places called Warrefield and Mame on Midsummer Even.' Warrefield was made in Manx into Barrule, but Mame, 'the jugum, or ridge,' has not been identified. The Barrule here in question was South Barrule, and it is to the top of that mountain the green rushes were carried, according to Manx tradition, as the only rent or tax which the inhabitants paid, namely, to Manannán mac Lir (called in Welsh Manawydan ab Llyr), whom the same tradition treats as father and founder, as king and chief wizard of the Isle of Man, the same Manannán who is quaintly referred to in the illiterate passage at the head of this chapter [133]. As already stated, the payment of the annual rent of rushes is associated with Midsummer Eve; but it did not prevent the top of South Barrule from being visited likewise later in the year. Perhaps it may also be worth while mentioning, with regard to most of the mountains climbed on the first Sunday of Harvest, that they seem to have near the summit of each a well of some celebrity, which appears to be the goal of the visitors' peregrinations. This is the case with South Barrule, the spring near the top of which cannot, it is said, be found when sought a second time; also with Snaefell and with Maughold Head, which boasts one of the most famous springs in the island. When I visited it last summer in company with Mr. Kermode, we found it to contain a considerable number of pins, some of which were bent, and many buttons. Some of the pins were not of a kind usually carried by men, and most of the buttons decidedly belonged to the dress of the other sex. Several people who had resorted many years ago to St. Maughold's Well, told me that the water is good for sore eyes, and that after using it on the spot, or filling a bottle with it to take home, one was wont to drop a pin or bead or button into the well. But it had its full virtue only when visited the first Sunday of Harvest, and that only during the hour when the books were open at church, which, shifted back to Roman Catholic times, means doubtless the hour when the priest was engaged in saying Mass. Compare the passage in the Mabinogi of Math, where it is said that the spear required for the slaying of Llew Llawgyffes had to be a whole year in the making: the work was to be pursued only so long as one was engaged at the sacrifice on Sunday (ar yr aberth duw sul): see the Oxford Mabinogion, p. 76. To return to Man, the restriction, as might be expected, is not peculiar to St. Maughold's Well: I have heard of it in connexion with other wells, such as Chibbyr Lansh in Lezayre parish, and with a well on Slieau Maggyl, in which some Kirk Michael people have a great belief. But even sea water was believed to have considerable virtues if you washed in it while the books were open at church, as I was told by a woman who had many years ago repeatedly taken her own sister to divers wells and to the sea during the service on Sunday, in order to have her eyes cured of a chronic weakness. The remaining great day in the Celtic year is called Sauin or Laa Houney: in Irish, Samhain, genitive Samhna. The Manx call it in English Hollantide, a word derived from the English All hallowen tide, 'the Season of All Saints [134].' This day is also reckoned in Man according to the Old Style, so that it is our twelfth of November. That is the day when the tenure of land terminates, and when servant men go to their places. In other words, it is the beginning of a new year; and Kelly, in his Manx-English Dictionary, has, under the word blein, 'year,' the following note:--'Vallancey says the Celts began their year with January; yet in the Isle of Man the first of November is called New Year's day by the Mummers, who, on the eve, begin their petition in these words: To-night is New Year's night, Hog-unnaa [135], &c.' It is a pity that Kelly, whilst he was on this subject, did not give the rhyme in Manx, and all the more so, as the mummers of the present day, if he is right, must have changed their words into Noght oie Houney, that is to say, To-night is Sauin Night or Halloween. So I had despaired of finding anybody who could corroborate Kelly in his statement, when I happened last summer to find a man at Kirk Michael who was quite familiar with this way of treating the year. I asked him if he could explain Kelly's absurd statement--I put my question designedly in that form. He said he could, but that there was nothing absurd in it. He then told me how he had heard some old people talk of it: he is himself now about sixty-seven. He had been a farm servant from the age of sixteen till he was twenty-six to the same man, near Regaby, in the parish of Andreas, and he remembers his master and a near neighbour of his discussing the term New Year's Day as applied to the first of November, and explaining to the younger men that it had always been so in old times. In fact, it seemed to him natural enough, as all tenure of land ends at that time, and as all servant men begin their service then. I cross-examined him, without succeeding in any way in shaking his evidence. I should have been glad a few years ago to have come across this piece of information, or even Kelly's note, when I was discussing the Celtic year and trying to prove [136] that it began at the beginning of winter, with May-day as the beginning of its second half. One of the characteristics of the beginning of the Celtic year with the commencement of winter was the belief that indications can be obtained on the eve of that day regarding the events of the year; but with the calendar year gaining ground it would be natural to expect that the Calends of January would have some of the associations of the Calends of Winter transferred to them, and vice versa. In fact, this can, as it were, be watched now going on in the Isle of Man. First, I may mention that the Manx mummers used to go about singing, in Manx, a sort of Hogmanay song [137], reminding one of that usual in Yorkshire and other parts of Great Britain, and now known to be of Romance origin [138]. The time for it in this country was New Year's Eve, according to the ordinary calendar, but in the Isle of Man it has always been Hollantide Eve, according to the Old Style, and this is the night when boys now go about continuing the custom of the old mummers. There is no hesitation in this case between Hollantide Eve and New Year's Eve. But with the prognostications for the year it is different, and the following practices have been usual. I may, however, premise that as a rule I have abstained from inquiring too closely whether they still go on, but here and there I have had the information volunteered that they do. 1. I may mention first a salt prognostication, which was described to me by a farmer in the north, whose wife practises it once a year regularly. She carefully fills a thimble with salt in the evening and upsets it in a neat little heap on a plate: she does that for every member of the family, and every guest, too, if there happen to be any. The plate is then left undisturbed till the morning, when she examines the heaps of salt to see if any of them have fallen; for whoever is found represented by a fallen heap will die during the year. She does not herself, I am assured, believe in it, but she likes to continue a custom which she has learned from her mother. 2. Next may be mentioned the ashes being carefully swept to the open hearth, and nicely flattened down by the women just before going to bed. In the morning they look for footmarks on the hearth, and if they find such footmarks directed towards the door, it means, in the course of the year, a death in the family, and if the reverse, they expect an addition to it by marriage [139]. 3. Then there is an elaborate process of eavesdropping recommended to young women curious to know their future husbands' names: a girl would go with her mouth full of water and her hands full of salt to the door of the nearest neighbour's house, or rather to that of the nearest neighbour but one--I have been carefully corrected more than once on that point. There she would listen, and the first name she caught would prove to be that of her future husband. Once a girl did so, as I was told by a blind fisherman in the south, and heard two brothers quarrelling inside the house at whose door she was listening. Presently the young men's mother exclaimed that the devil would not let Tom leave John alone. At the mention of that triad the girl burst into the house, laughing and spilling the mouthful of water most incontinently. The end of it was that before the year was out she married Tom, the second person mentioned: the first either did not count or proved an unassailable bachelor. 4. There is also a ritual for enabling a girl to obtain other information respecting her future husband: vessels placed about the room have various things put into them, such as clean water, earth, meal, a piece of a net, or any other article thought appropriate. The candidate for matrimony, with her eyes bandaged, feels her way about the house until she puts her hand in one of the aforesaid vessels. If what she lays her hand on is the clean water, her husband will be a handsome man [140]; if it is the earth, he will be a farmer; if the meal, a miller; if the net, a fisherman; and so on into as many of the walks of life as may be thought worthy of consideration. 5. Lastly, recourse may be had to a ritual of the same nature as that observed by the druid of ancient Erin, when, burdened with a heavy meal of the flesh of a red pig, he laid him down for the night in order to await a prophetic dream as to the manner of man the nobles of Erin assembled at Tara were to elect to be their king. The incident is given in the story of Cúchulainn's Sick-bed; and the reader, doubtless, knows the passage about Brian and the taghairm in the fourth Canto of Scott's Lady of the Lake. But the Manx girl has only to eat a salt herring, bones and all, without drinking or uttering a word, and to retire backwards to bed. When she sleeps and dreams, she will behold her future husband approaching to give her drink. Probably none of the practices which I have enumerated, or similar ones mentioned to me, are in any sense peculiar to the Isle of Man; but what interests me in them is the divided opinion as to the proper night for them in the year. I am sorry to say that I have very little information as to the blindman's-buff ritual (No. 4); what information I have, to wit, the evidence of two persons in the south, fixes it on Hollantide Eve. But as to the others (Nos. 1, 2, 3, 5), they are observed by some on that night, and by others on New Year's Eve, sometimes according to the Old Style [141] and sometimes the New. Further, those who are wont to practise the salt heap ritual, for instance, on Hollantide Eve, would be very indignant to hear that anybody should think New Year's Eve the proper night, and vice versa. So by bringing women bred and born in different parishes to compare notes on this point, I have witnessed arguing hardly less earnest than that which characterized the ancient controversy between British and Italian ecclesiastics as to the proper time for keeping Easter. I have not been able to map the island according to the practices prevalent at Hollantide and the beginning of January, but local folklorists could probably do it without much difficulty. My impression, however, is that January is gradually acquiring the upper hand. In Wales this must have been decidedly helped by the influence of Roman rule and Roman ideas; but even there the adjuncts of the Winter Calends have never been wholly transferred to the Calends of January. Witness, for instance, the women who used to congregate in the parish church to discover who of the parishioners would die during the year [142]. That custom, in the neighbourhoods reported to have practised it, continued to attach itself to the last, so far as I know, to the beginning of November. In the Isle of Man the fact of the ancient Celtic year having so firmly held its own, seems to point to the probability that the year of the Pagan Norsemen pretty nearly coincided with that of the Celts [143]. For there are reasons to think, as I have endeavoured elsewhere to show, that the Norse Yule was originally at the end of summer or the commencement of winter, in other words, the days afterwards known as the Feast of the Winter Nights. This was the favourite date in Iceland for listening to soothsayers prophesying with regard to the winter then beginning. The late Dr. Vigfusson had much to say on this subject, and how the local sibyl, resuming her elevated seat at the opening of each successive winter, gave the author of the Volospá his plan of that remarkable poem, which has been described by the same authority as the highest spiritual effort of the heathen muse of the North. CHAPTER V THE FENODYREE AND HIS FRIENDS Emoi de hai sai megalai eutychiai ouk areskousi, to theion epistamenô hôs esti phthoneron..--Herodotus. The last chapter is hardly such as to call for a recapitulation of its principal contents, and I venture to submit instead of any such repetition an abstract of some very pertinent notes on it by Miss M. G. W. Peacock, who compares with the folklore of the Isle of Man the old beliefs which survive in Lincolnshire among the descendants of Norse ancestors [144]. She was attracted by the striking affinity which she noticed between them, and she is doubtless right in regarding that affinity as due in no small degree to the Scandinavian element present in the population alike of Man and the East of England. She is, however, not lavish of theory, but gives us interesting items of information from an intimate acquaintance with the folklore of the district of which she undertakes to speak, somewhat in the following order:-- 1. Whether the water-bull still inhabits the streams of Lincolnshire she regards as doubtful, but the deep pools formed, she says, by the action of the down-flowing water at the bends of the country becks are still known as bull-holes. 2. As to the glashtyn, or water-horse, she remarks that the tatter-foal, tatter-colt, or shag-foal, as he is variously called, is still to be heard of, although his visits take place less often than before the fens and carrs were drained and the open fields and commons enclosed. She describes the tatter-foal as a goblin of the shape and appearance of a small horse or yearling foal in his rough, unkempt coat. He beguiles lonely travellers with his numberless tricks, one of which is to lure them to a stream, swamp, or water-hole. When he has succeeded he vanishes with a long outburst of mockery, half neigh, half human laughter. 3. The fenodyree, one is told, has in Lincolnshire a cousin, but he is diminutive; and, like the Yorkshire Hob or Robin Round-Cap, and the Danish Niss, he is used to befriend the house in which he dwells. The story of his driving the farmer's sheep home is the same practically as in the Isle of Man, even to the point of bringing in with them the little grey sheep, as he called the fine hare that had given him more trouble than all the rest of the flock: see pp. 286-7 above. 4. The story of this manikin's clothing differs considerably from that of the fenodyree. The farmer gives him in gratitude for his services a linen shirt every New Year's Eve; and this went on for years, until at last the farmer thought a hemp shirt was good enough to give him. When the clock struck twelve at midnight the manikin raised an angry wail, saying:-- Harden, harden, harden hemp! I will neither grind nor stamp! Had you given me linen gear, I would have served you many a year! He was no more seen or heard: he vanished for ever. The Cornish counterpart of this brownie reasons in the opposite way; for when, in gratitude for his help in threshing, a new suit of clothes is given him, he hurries away, crying [145]:-- Pisky new coat, and pisky new hood, Pisky now will do no more good. Here, also, one should compare William Nicholson's account of the brownie of Blednoch [146], in Galloway, who wore next to no clothing:-- Roun' his hairy form there was naething seen, But a philabeg o' the rushes green. So he was driven away for ever by a newly married wife wishing him to wear an old pair of her husband's breeches:-- But a new-made wife, fu' o' rippish freaks, Fond o' a' things feat for the first five weeks, Laid a mouldy pair o' her ain man's breeks By the brose o' Aiken-drum. Let the learned decide, when they convene, What spell was him and the breeks between: For frae that day forth he was nae mair seen, And sair missed was Aiken-drum! The only account which I have been able to find of a Welsh counterpart will be found in Bwca'r Trwyn, in chapter x: he differs in some important respects from the fenodyree and the brownie. 5. A twig of the rowan tree, or wicken, as it is called, was effective against all evil things, including witches. It is useful in many ways to guard the welfare of the household, and to preserve both the live stock and the crops, while placed on the churn it prevents any malign influence from retarding the coming of the butter. I may remark that Celts and Teutons seem to have been generally pretty well agreed as to the virtues of the rowan tree. Bits of iron also are lucky against witches. 6. Fairies are rare, but witches and wizards abound, and some of them have been supposed to change themselves into dogs to worry sheep and cattle, or into toads to poison the swine's troughs. But they do not seem to change themselves into hares, as in Man and other Celtic lands. 7. Witchcraft, says Miss Peacock, is often hereditary, passing most frequently from mother to daughter; but when a witch has no daughter her power may appear in a son, and then revert to the female line. This appears far more natural than the Manx belief in its passing from father to daughter and from daughter to son. But another kind of succession is mentioned in the Welsh Triads, i. 32, ii. 20, iii. 90, which speak of Math ab Mathonwy teaching his magic to Gwydion, who as his sister's son was to succeed him in his kingdom; and of a certain Rhudlwm Dwarf teaching his magic to Coll, son of Collfrewi, his nephew. Both instances seem to point to a state of society which did not reckon paternity but only birth. 8. Only three years previous to Miss Peacock's writing an old man died, she says, who had seen blood drawn from a witch because she had, as was supposed, laid a spell on a team of horses: as soon as she was struck so as to bleed the horses and their load were free to go on their way again. Possibly no equally late instance could be specified in the Isle of Man: see p. 296 above. 9. Traces of animal sacrifice may still be found in Lincolnshire, for the heart of a small beast, or of a bird, is necessary, Miss Peacock says, for the efficient performance of several counter-charms, especially in torturing a witch by the reversal of her spells, and warding off evil from houses or other buildings. Apparently Miss Peacock has not heard of so considerable a victim as a sheep or a calf being sacrificed, as in the Isle of Man, but the objects of the sacrifices may be said to be the same. 10. Several pin and rag wells are said to exist in Lincolnshire, their waters being supposed to possess healing virtues, especially as regards eye ailments. 11. Love-spells and prognostications are mentioned, some of them as belonging to Allhallows, as they do partly in the Isle of Man: she mentions the making of dumb cake, and the eating of the salt herring, followed by dreams of the future husband bringing the thirsting lass drink in a jug, the quality of which indicates the bearer's position in life. But other Lincolnshire practices of the kind seem to oscillate between Allhallows and St. Mark's Eve, while gravitating decidedly towards the latter date. Here it is preferable to give Miss Peacock's own words:--'Professor Rhys' mention of the footmark in the ashes reminds me of a love-spell current in the Wapentake of Manley in North Lincolnshire. Properly speaking, it should be put in practice on St. Mark's E'en, that eerie spring-tide festival when those who are skilled may watch the church porch and learn who will die in the ensuing twelvemonth; but there is little doubt that the charm is also used at Hallow E'en, and at other suitable seasons of the year. The spell consists in riddling ashes on the hearthstone, or beans on the floor of the barn, with proper ceremonies and at the proper time, with the result that the girl who works her incantation correctly finds the footprint of the man she is to marry clearly marked on the sifted mass the following morning. It is to be supposed that the spirit of the lover is responsible for the mark, as, according to another folk-belief, any girl who watches her supper on St. Mark's E'en will see the spirit of the man she will wed come into the room at midnight to partake of the food provided. The room must be one with the door and windows in different walls, and both must be open. The spirit comes in by the door (and goes out by the window?). Each girl who undertakes to keep watch must have a separate supper and a separate candle, and all talking is to end before the clock goes twelve, for there must not be any speaking before the spirits. From these superstitions, and from the generally received idea that the spirits of all the parishioners are to be observed entering the church on St. Mark's E'en, it may be inferred that the Manx footprint is made by the wraith of the person doomed to death.' Compare pp. 318-9 above. What Miss Peacock alludes to as watching the church porch was formerly well known in Wales [147], and may be illustrated from a district so far east as the Golden Valley, in Herefordshire, by the following story told me in 1892 by Mrs. Powell of Dorstone, on the strength of what she had learnt from her mother-in-law, the late Mrs. Powell, who was a native of that parish:-- 'On Allhallows Eve at midnight, those who are bold enough to look through the church windows will see the building lighted with an unearthly light, and the pulpit occupied by his Satanic majesty clothed in a monk's habit. Dreadful anathemas are the burden of his preaching, and the names of those who in the coming year are to render up their souls may be heard by those who have courage to listen. A notorious evil liver, Jack of France, once by chance passed the church at this awful moment: looking in he saw the lights and heard the voice, and his own name in the horrid list; and, according to some versions of the story, he went home to die of fright. Others say that he repented and died in good repute, and so cheated the evil one of his prey.' I have no list of places in Wales and its marches which have this sort of superstition associated with them, but it is my impression that they are mostly referred to Allhallows, as at Dorstone, and that where that is not the case they have been shifted to the beginning of the year as at present reckoned; for in Celtic lands, at least, they seem to have belonged to what was reckoned the beginning of the year. The old Celtic year undoubtedly began at Allhallows, and the day next in importance after the Calends of Winter (in Welsh Calangáeaf) was, among the Celts, the beginning of the summer half of the year, or the Calends of May (in Welsh Calánmai), which St. Mark's Eve approaches too nearly for us to regard it as accidental. With this modified agreement between the Lincolnshire date and the Celtic one contrast the irreconcilable English date of St. John's Eve; and see Tylor's Primitive Culture, i. 440, where one reads as follows of 'the well-known superstition,' 'that fasting watchers on St. John's Eve may see the apparitions of those doomed to die during the year come with the clergyman to the church door and knock; these apparitions are spirits who come forth from their bodies, for the minister has been noticed to be much troubled in his sleep while his phantom was thus engaged, and when one of a party of watchers fell into a sound sleep and could not be roused, the others saw his apparition knock at the church door.' With an unerring instinct for the intelligent colligation of facts, Miss Peacock finds the nearest approach to the yearly review of the moritures, if I may briefly so call them, in the wraith's footprint in the ashes. Perhaps a more systematic examination of Manx folklore may result in the discovery of a more exact parallel. For want of knowing where else to put it, I may mention here in reference to the dead, a passage which has been copied for me by my friend Mr. Gwenogvryn Evans, from Manuscript 163 in the Peniarth Collection. I understand it to be of the earlier part of the sixteenth century, and p. 10 has the following passage:-- Yn yr ynys honn [Manaw] y kair gweled liw dyd bobyl a vvessynt veirw / Rrai gwedi tori penav / eraill gwedi torri i haelode / Ac os dieithred a dissyfynt i gweled hwynt / Sengi ar draed gwyr or tir ac velly hwynt a gaent weled yr hyn a welssynt hwyntav. 'In this island [Man] one beholds in the light of day people who have died, some with their heads cut off and others with their limbs cut off. And if strangers desire to see them, they have to stand on the feet of the natives of the land, and in that way they would see what the latter had seen.' A similar instance of the virtue of standing on the feet of another person has been mentioned in reference to the farmer of Deunant, at p. 230 above; the foot, however, on which he had to stand in order to get a glimpse of the fairy world, was a fairy's own foot. Lastly, the passage in the Peniarth Manuscript has something more to say of the Isle of Man, as follows:-- Mawr oed arfer o swynion a chyvaredion gynt yn yr ynys honn / Kanys gwraged a vydynt yno yn gwnevthvr gwynt i longwyr gwedir gav mewn tri chwlm o edav aphan vai eissie gwynt arnynt dattod kwlm or edav anaynt. 'Great was the practice formerly of spells and sorceries in this island; for there used to be there women making wind for sailors, which wind they confined within three knots made on a thread. And when they had need of wind they would undo a knot of the thread.' This was written in the sixteenth century, and based probably on Higden's Polychronicon, book I, chap. xliv. (= I. 42-3), but the same practice of wind making goes on to this day, one of the principal practitioners being the woman to whom reference was made at p. 299. She is said to tie the breezes in so many knots which she makes on the purchasing sailor's pocket-handkerchief. This reminds one of the sibyl of Warinsey, or the Island of Guernsey, who is represented by an ancient Norse poet as 'fashioning false prophecies.' See Vigfusson and Powell's Corpus Poeticum Boreale, i. 136; also Mela's first-century account of the virgins of the island of Sena, which runs to the following effect:--'Sena, in the Britannic Sea, opposite the coast of the Osismi, is famous for its oracle of a Gaulish god, whose priestesses, living in the holiness of perpetual virginity, are said to be nine in number. They call them Gallizenæ, and they believe them to be endowed with extraordinary gifts to rouse the sea and the wind by their incantations, to turn themselves into whatsoever animal form they may choose, to cure diseases which among others are incurable, to know what is to come and to foretell it. They are, however, devoted to the service of voyagers only who have set out on no other errand than to consult them [148].' It is probable that the sacrosanct [149] inhabitants of the small islands on the coasts of Gaul and Britain had wellnigh a monopoly of the traffic in wind [150]. In the last chapter I made allusion to several wells of greater or less celebrity in the Isle of Man; but I find that I have a few remarks to add. Mr. Arthur Moore, in his book on Manx Surnames and Place-Names, p. 200, mentions a Chibber Unjin, which means the Well of the Ash-tree, and he states that there grew near it 'formerly a sacred ash-tree, where votive offerings were hung.' The ash-tree calls to his mind Scandinavian legends respecting the ash, but in any case one may suppose the ash was not the usual tree to expect by a well in the Isle of Man, otherwise this one would scarcely have been distinguished as the Ash-tree Well. The tree to expect by a sacred well is doubtless some kind of thorn, as in the case of Chibber Undin in the parish of Malew. The name means Foundation Well, so called in reference probably to the foundations of an ancient cell, or keeill as it is called in Manx, which lie close by, and are found to measure twenty-one feet long by twelve feet broad. The following is Mr. Moore's account of the well in his book already cited, p. 181:--'The water of this well is supposed to have curative properties. The patients who came to it, took a mouthful of water, retaining it in their mouths till they had twice walked round the well. They then took a piece of cloth from a garment which they had worn, wetted it with the water from the well, and hung it on the hawthorn tree which grew there. When the cloth had rotted away, the cure was supposed to be effected.' I visited the spot a few years ago in the company of the Rev. E. B. Savage of St. Thomas' Parsonage, Douglas, and we found the well nearly dried up in consequence of the drainage of the field around it; but the remains of the old cell were there, and the thorn bush had strips of cloth or calico tied to its branches. We cut off one, which is now in the Pitt-Rivers Museum at Oxford. The account Mr. Savage had of the ritual observed at the well differed a little from that given by Mr. Moore, especially in the fact that it made the patient who had been walking round the well with water from the well in his mouth, empty that water finally into a rag from his clothing: the rag was then tied to a branch of the thorn. It does not appear that the kind of tree mattered much; nay, a tree is not, it seems to me, essential. At any rate, St. Maughold's Well has no tree growing near it now; but it is right to say, that when Mr. Kermode and I visited it, we could find no rags left near the spot, nor indeed could we expect to find any, as there was nothing to which they might be tied on that windy headland. The absence of the tree does not, however, prove that the same sort of ritual was not formerly observed at St. Maughold's Well as at Chibber Undin; and here I must mention another well which I have visited in the island more than once. It is on the side of Bradda Hill, a little above the village of Bradda, and in the direction of Fleshwick: I was attracted to it by the fact that it had, as I had been told by Mr. Savage, formerly an old cell or keeill near it, and the name of the saint to which it belonged may probably be gathered from the name of the well, which, in the Manx of the south of the island, is Chibbyrt Valtane, pronounced approximately Chuvurt Voltáne or Oldáne. The personal name would be written in modern Manx in its radical form as Boltane, and if it occurred in the genitive in Ogam inscriptions I should expect to find it written Boltagni or Baltagni [151]. It is, however, unknown to me, though to be placed possibly by the side of the name of the saint after whom the parish of Santon is called in the south-east of the island. This is pronounced in Manx approximately [152] Santane or Sandane, and would have yielded an early inscriptional nominative SANCTANVS, which, in fact, occurs on an old stone near Llandudno on the Welsh coast: see some notes of mine in point in the Archæologia Cambrensis, 1897, pp. 140-2. To return to the well, it would seem to have been associated with an old cell, but it has no tree growing by. Mr. Savage and I were told, nevertheless, that a boy who had searched the well a short time previously had got some coins out of it, quite recent ones, consisting of halfpennies or pennies, so far as I remember. On my observing to one of the neighbours that I saw no rags there, I was assured that there had been some; and, on my further saying that I saw no tree there to which they could be tied, I was told that they used to be attached to the brambles, which grew there in great abundance. Thus it appears that, in the Isle of Man at any rate, a tree to bear the rags was not an essential adjunct of a holy well. Before leaving these well superstitions the reader may wish to know how they were understood in Ireland not long ago: so I venture to quote a passage from a letter by the late Mr. W. C. Borlase on Rag Offerings and Primitive Pilgrimages in Ireland, as follows:-- 'Among the MSS. of the late Mr. Windele, of Cork, ... I find a passage which cannot fail to interest students of folk-lore. It relates to the custom of affixing shreds of rag to the hawthorn tree, which almost invariably stands by the brink of the typical Irish "holy well," and it gives us the meaning of the custom as understood, some half-century since, by the inhabitants of certain localities in the province of Munster. The idea is, says the writer, that the putting up these rags is a putting away of the evils impending or incurred by sin, an act accompanied by the following ritual words: Air impide an Tiarna mo chuid teinis do fhagaint air an ait so; i. e. By the intercession of the Lord I leave my portion of illness on this place. These words, he adds, should be uttered by whoever performs the round, and they are, no doubt, of extreme antiquity. Mr. Windele doubtless took down the words as he heard them locally pronounced, though, to be correct, for Tiarna should be read Tigerna; for teinis, tinneas; and for fhagaint, fhagaim [153].' From the less known saints Boltane and Santane I wish to pass to the mention of a more famous one, namely, St. Catherine, and this because of a fair called after her, and held on the sixth day of December at the village of Colby in the south of the island. When I heard of this fair in 1888, it was in temporary abeyance on account of a lawsuit respecting the plot of ground on which the fair is wont to be held; but I was told that it usually begins with a procession, in which a live hen is carried about: this is called St. Catherine's hen. The next day the hen is carried about dead and plucked, and a rhyme pronounced at a certain point in the proceedings contemplates the burial of the hen, but whether that ever takes place I know not. It runs thus:-- Kiark Catrina marroo: Gows yn kione as goyms ny cassyn, As ver mayd ee fo'n thalloo. Catherine's hen is dead: The head take thou and I the feet, We shall put her under the ground. A man who is found to be not wholly sober after the fair is locally said to have plucked a feather from the hen (T'eh er goaill fedjag ass y chiark); so it would seem that there must be such a scramble to get at the hen, and to take part in the plucking, that it requires a certain amount of drink to allay the thirst of the over zealous devotees of St. Catherine. But why should this ceremony be associated with St. Catherine? and what were the origin and meaning of it? These are questions on which I should be glad to have light shed. Manx has a word quaail (Irish comhdháil), meaning a 'meeting,' and from it we have a derivative quaaltagh or qualtagh, meaning, according to Kelly's Dictionary, 'the first person or creature one meets going from home,' whereby the author can have only meant the first met by one who is going from home. Kelly goes on to add that 'this person is of great consequence to the superstitious, particularly to women the first time they go out after lying-in.' Cregeen, in his Dictionary, defines the qualtagh as 'the first person met on New Year's Day, or on going on some new work, &c.' Before proceeding to give the substance of my notes on the qualtagh of the present day I may as well finish with Cregeen, for he adds the following information:--'A company of young lads or men generally went in old times on what they termed the qualtagh, at Christmas or New Year's Day, to the houses of their more wealthy neighbours; some one of the company repeating in an audible voice the following rhyme:-- Ollick ghennal erriu as bleïn feer vie, Seihll as slaynt da'n slane lught thie; Bea as gennallys en bio ry-cheilley, Shee as graih eddyr mrane as deiney; Cooid as cowryn, stock as stoyr, Palchey phuddase, as skaddan dy-liooar, Arran as caashey, eeym as roayrt; Baase, myr lugh, ayns uhllin ny soalt; Cadley sauchey tra vees shiu ny lhie, As feeackle y jargan, nagh bee dy mie.' It may be loosely translated as follows:-- A merry Christmas, a happy new year, Long life and health to all the household here. Food and mirth to you dwelling together, Peace and love to all, men and women; Wealth and distinction, stock and store, Potatoes enough, and herrings galore; Bread and cheese, butter and gravy; Die like a mouse in a barn or haggard; In safety sleep while you lie to rest, And by the flea's tooth be not distressed. At present New Year's Day is the time when the qualtagh is of general interest, and in this case he is, outside the members of one's own household, practically the first person one sees on the morning of that day, whether that person meets one out of doors or comes to one's house. The following is what I have learnt by inquiry as to the qualtagh: all are agreed that he must not be a woman or girl, and that he must not be spaagagh or splay footed, while a woman from the parish of Marown told me that he must not have red hair. The prevalent belief, however, is that he should be a dark haired man or boy, and it is of no consequence how rough his appearance may be, provided he be black haired. However, I was told by one man in Rushen that the qualtagh or 'first-foot' need not be a black haired person: he must be a man or boy. But this less restricted view is not the one held in the central and northern parts of the island, so far as I could ascertain. An English lady living in the neighbourhood of Castletown told me that her son, whom I know to be, like his mother, a blond, not being aware what consequences might be associated with his visit, called at a house in Castletown on the morning of New Year's Day, and he chanced to be the qualtagh. The mistress of the house was horrified, and expressed to the English lady her anticipation of misfortunes; and as it happened that one of the children of the house died in the course of the year, the English lady has been reminded of it since. Naturally the association of these events are not pleasant to her; but, so far as I can remember, they date only some eight or nine years ago [154]. By way of bringing Wales into comparison with Man, I may mention that, when I was a very small boy, I used to be sent very early on New Year's morning to call on an old uncle of mine, because, as I was told, I should be certain to receive a calennig or a calends' gift from him, but on no account would my sister be allowed to go, as he would only see a boy on such an occasion as that. I do not recollect anything being said as to the colour of one's hair or the shape of one's foot; but that sort of negative evidence is of very little value, as the qualtagh was fast passing out of consideration. The preference here given to a boy over a girl looks like one of the widely spread superstitions which rule against the fair sex; but, as to the colour of the hair, I should be predisposed to think that it possibly rests on racial antipathy, long ago forgotten; for it might perhaps be regarded as going back to a time when the dark haired race reckoned the Aryan of fair complexion as his natural enemy, the very sight of whom brought with it thoughts calculated to make him unhappy and despondent. If this idea proved to be approximately correct, one might suggest that the racial distinction in question referred to the struggles between the inhabitants of Man and their Scandinavian conquerors; but to my thinking it is just as likely that it goes much further back. Lastly, what is one to say with regard to the spaagagh or splay footed person, now more usually defined as flat footed or having no instep? I have heard it said in the south of the island that it is unlucky to meet a spaagagh in the morning at any time of the year, and not on New Year's Day alone; but this does not help us in the attempt to find the genesis of this belief. If it were said that it was unlucky to meet a deformed person, it would look somewhat more natural; but why fix on the flat footed especially? For my part I have not been trained to distinguish flat footed people, so I do not recollect noticing any in the Isle of Man; but, granting there may be a small proportion of such people in the island, does it not seem strange that they should have their importance so magnified as this superstition would seem to imply? I must confess that I cannot understand it, unless we have here also some supposed racial characteristic, let us say greatly exaggerated. To explain myself I should put it that the non-Aryan aborigines were a small people of great agility and nimbleness, and that their Aryan conquerors moved more slowly and deliberately, whence the former, of springier movements, might come to nickname the latter the flat footed. It is even conceivable that there was some amount of foundation for it in fact. If I might speak from my own experience, I might mention a difficulty I have often had with shoes of English make, namely, that I have always found them, unless made to measure, apt to have their instep too low for me. It has never occurred to me to buy ready-made shoes in France or Germany, but I know a lady as Welsh as I am, who has often bought shoes in France, and her experience is, that it is much easier for her to get shoes there to fit her than in England, and for the very reason which I have already suggested, namely, that the instep in English shoes is lower than in French ones. Again, I may mention that one day last term [155], having to address a meeting of Welsh undergraduates on folklore, I ventured to introduce this question. They agreed with me that English shoes did not, as a rule, fit Welsh feet, and this because they are made too low in the instep: I ought to have said that they all agreed except one undergraduate, who held his peace. He is a tall man, powerful in the football field, but of no dark complexion, and I have never dared to look in the direction of his feet since, lest he should catch me carrying my comparisons to cruel extremes. Perhaps the flatness of the feet of the one race is not emphasized so much as the height of the instep in those of the other. At any rate I find this way of looking at the question somewhat countenanced by a journalist who refers his readers to Wm. Henderson's notes on the Folklore of the Northern Counties, p. 74. The passage relates more particularly to Northumberland, and runs as follows:--'In some districts, however, special weight is attached to the "first-foot" being that of a person with a high-arched instep, a foot that "water runs under." A flat-footed person would bring great ill-luck for the coming year.' These instances do not warrant the induction that Celts are higher in the instep than Teutons, and that they have inherited that characteristic from the non-Aryan element in their ancestry. Perhaps the explanation is, at least in part, that the dwellers in hilly regions tend to be more springy and to have higher insteps than the inhabitants of flatter lands. The statement of Dr. Karl Blind on this point does not help one to a decision when he speaks as follows in Folk-Lore for 1892, p. 89:--'As to the instep, I can speak from personal experience. Almost every German finds that an English shoemaker makes his boots not high enough in the instep. The northern Germans (I am from the south) have perhaps slightly flatter feet than the southern Germans.' The first part of the comparison is somewhat of a surprise to me, but not so the other part, that the southern Germans inhabiting a hillier country, and belonging to a different race, may well be higher in the instep than the more northern speakers of the German language. But on the whole the more one examines the qualtagh, the less clearly one sees how he can be the representative of a particular race. More data possibly would enable one to arrive at greater probability. There is one other question which I should like to ask before leaving the qualtagh, namely, as to the relation of the custom of New Year's gifts to the belief in the qualtagh. I have heard it related in the Isle of Man that women have been known to keep indoors on New Year's Day until the qualtagh comes, which sometimes means their being prisoners for the greater part of the day, in order to avoid the risk of first meeting one who is not of the right sex and complexion. On the other hand, when the qualtagh is of the right description, considerable fuss is made of him; to say the least, he has to accept food and drink, possibly more permanent gifts. Thus a tall, black haired native of Kirk Michael described to me how he chanced on New Year's Day, years ago, to turn into a lonely cottage in order to light his pipe, and how he found he was the qualtagh: he had to sit down to have food, and when he went away it was with a present and the blessings of the family. Now New Year's Day is the time for gifts in Wales, as shown by the name for them, calennig, which is derived from calan, the Welsh form of the Latin calendæ, New Year's Day being in Welsh Y Calan, 'the Calends.' The same is the day for gifts in Scotland and in Ireland, except in so far as Christmas boxes have been making inroads from England: I need not add that the Jour de l'An is the day for gifts also in France. My question then is this: Is there any essential connexion of origin between the institution of New Year's Day gifts and the belief in the first-foot? Now that it has been indicated what sort of a qualtagh it is unlucky to have, I may as well proceed to mention the other things which I have heard treated as unlucky in the island. Some of them scarcely require to be noticed, as there is nothing specially Manx about them, such as the belief that it is unlucky to have the first glimpse of the new moon through glass. That is a superstition which is, I believe, widely spread, and, among other countries, it is quite familiar in Wales, where it is also unlucky to see the moon for the first time through a hedge or over a house. What this means I cannot guess, unless it be that it was once considered one's duty to watch the first appearance of the new moon from the highest point in the landscape of the district in which one dwelt. Such a point would in that case become the chief centre of a moon worship now lost in oblivion. It is believed in Man, as it used to be in Wales and Ireland, that it is unlucky to disturb antiquities, especially old burial places and old churches. This superstition is unfortunately passing away in all three countries, but you still hear of it, especially in the Isle of Man, mostly after mischief has been done. Thus a good Manx scholar told me how a relative of his in the Ronnag, a small valley near South Barrule, had carted away the earth from an old burial ground on his farm and used it as manure for his fields, and how his beasts died afterwards. The narrator said he did not know whether there was any truth in it, but everybody believed that it was the reason why the cattle died; and so did the farmer himself at last: so he desisted from completing his disturbance of the old site. It is possibly for a similar reason that a house in ruins is seldom pulled down, or the materials used for other buildings. Where that has been done misfortunes have ensued; at any rate, I have heard it said so more than once. I ought to have stated that the non-disturbance of antiquities in the island is quite consistent with their being now and then shamefully neglected as elsewhere. This is now met by an excellent statute recently enacted by the House of Keys for the preservation of the public monuments of the island. Of the other and more purely Manx superstitions I may mention one which obtains among the Peel fishermen of the present day: no boat is willing to be third in the order of sailing out from Peel harbour to the fisheries. So it sometimes happens that after two boats have departed, the others remain watching each other for days, each hoping that somebody else may be reckless enough to break through the invisible barrier of 'bad luck.' I have often asked for an explanation of this superstition, but the only intelligible answer I have had was that it has been observed that the third boat has done badly several years in succession; but I am unable to ascertain how far that represents the fact. Another of the unlucky things is to have a white stone in the boat, even in the ballast, and for that I never could get any explanation at all; but there is no doubt as to the fact of this superstition, and I may illustrate it from the case of a clergyman's son on the west side, who took it into his head to go out with some fishermen several days in succession. They chanced to be unsuccessful each time, and they gave their Jonah the nickname of Clagh Vane, or 'White Stone.' Now what can be the origin of this tabu? It seems to me that if the Manx had once a habit of adorning the graves of the departed with white stones, that circumstance would be a reasonable explanation of the superstition in question. Further, it is quite possible they did, and here Manx archæologists could probably help as to the matter of fact. In the absence, however, of information to the point from Man, I take the liberty of citing some relating to Scotland. It comes from Mr. Gomme's presidential address to the Folk-Lore Society: see Folk-Lore for 1893, pp. 13-4:-- 'Near Inverary, it is the custom among the fisher-folk, and has been so within the memory of the oldest, to place little white stones or pebbles on the graves of their friends. No reason is now given for the practice, beyond that most potent and delightful of all reasons in the minds of folk-lore students, namely, that it has always been done. Now there is nothing between this modern practice sanctioned by traditional observance and the practice of the stone-age people in the same neighbourhood and in others, as made known to us by their grave-relics. Thus, in a cairn at Achnacrie opened by Dr. Angus Smith, on entering the innermost chamber "the first thing that struck the eye was a row of quartz pebbles larger than a walnut; these were arranged on the ledge of the lower granite block of the east side." Near Crinan, at Duncraigaig and at Rudie, the same characteristic was observed, and Canon Greenwell, who examined the cairns, says the pebbles "must have been placed there with some intention, and probably possessed a symbolic meaning."' See also Burghead, by Mr. H. W. Young (Inverness, 1899), p. 10, where we read that at Burghead the 'smooth white pebbles, sometimes five or seven of them, but never more,' have been usually arranged as crosses on the graves which he has found under the fallen ramparts. Can this be a Christian superstition with the white stones of the Apocalypse as its foundation? Here I may mention a fact which I do not know where else to put, namely, that a fisherman on his way in the morning to the fishing, and chancing to pass by the cottage of another fisherman who is not on friendly terms with him, will pluck a straw from the thatch of the latter's dwelling. Thereby he is supposed to rob him of his luck in the fishing for that day. One would expect to learn that the straw from the thatch served as the subject of an incantation directed against the owner of the thatch. I have never heard anything suggested to that effect; but I conclude that the plucking of the straw is only a partial survival of what was once a complete ritual for bewitching one's neighbour, unless getting possession of the straw was supposed to carry with it possession of everything belonging to the other man, including his luck in fishing for that day. Owing to my ignorance as to the superstitions of other fishermen than those of the Isle of Man, I will not attempt to classify the remaining instances to be mentioned, such as the unluckiness of mentioning a horse or a mouse on board a fishing-boat: I seem, however, to have heard of similar tabus among Scottish fishermen; and, according to Dr. Blind, Shetland fishermen will not mention a church or a clergyman when out at sea, but use quite other names for both when on board a ship (Folk-Lore for 1892, p. 89). Novices in the Manx fisheries have to learn not to point to anything with one finger: they have to point with the whole hand or not at all. This looks as if it belonged to a code of rules as to the use of the hand, such as prevail among the Neapolitans and other peoples whose chief article of faith is the belief in malign influences: see Mr. Elworthy's volume on The Evil Eye. Whether the Manx are alone in thinking it unlucky to lend salt from one boat to another when they are engaged in the fishing, I know not: such lending would probably be inconvenient, but why it should be unlucky, as they believe it to be, does not appear. The first of May is a day on which it is unlucky to lend anything, and especially to give anyone fire [156]. This looks as if it pointed back to some druidic custom of lighting all fires at that time from a sacred hearth, but, so far as is known, this only took place at the beginning of the other half-year, namely, Sauin or Allhallows, which is sometimes rendered into Manx as Laa 'll mooar ny Saintsh, 'the Day of the great Feast of the Saints.' Lastly, I may mention that it is unlucky to say that you are very well: at any rate, I infer that it is regarded so, as you will never get a Manxman to say that he is feer vie, 'very well.' He usually admits that he is 'middling'; and if by any chance he risks a stronger adjective, he hastens to qualify it by adding 'now,' or 'just now,' with an emphasis indicative of his anxiety not to say too much. His habits of speech point back to a time when the Manx mind was dominated by the fear of awaking malignant influences in the spirit world around him. This has had the effect of giving the Manx peasant's character a tinge of reserve and suspicion, which makes it difficult to gain his confidence: his acquaintance has, therefore, to be cultivated for some time before you can say that you know the workings of his heart. The pagan belief in a Nemesis has doubtless passed away, but not without materially affecting the Manx idea of a personal devil. Ever since the first allusion made in my hearing by Manxmen to the devil, I have been more and more deeply impressed that for them the devil is a much more formidable being than Englishmen or Welshmen picture him. He is a graver and, if I may say so, a more respectable being, allowing no liberties to be taken with his name, so you had better not call him a devil, the evil one, or like names, for his proper designation is Noid ny Hanmey, 'the Enemy of the Soul,' and in ordinary Anglo-Manx conversation he is commonly called 'the Enemy of Souls.' I well remember getting one day into a conversation with an old soldier in the south of the island. He was, as I soon discovered, labouring under a sort of theological monomania, and his chief question was concerning the Welsh word for 'the Enemy of Souls.' I felt at once that I had to be careful, and that the reputation of my countrymen depended on how I answered. As I had no name anything like the one he used for the devil, I explained to him that the Welsh, though not a great nation, were great students of theology, and that they had by no means neglected the great branch of it known as satanology. In fact that study, as I went on to say, had left its impress on the Welsh language: on Sunday the ministers of all denominations, the deacons and elders, and all self-respecting congregations spoke of the devil trisyllabically as diafol, while on the other days of the week everybody called him more briefly and forcibly diawl, except bards concocting an awdl for an Eistedfod, where the devil must always be called diafl, and excepting also sailors, farm servants, post-boys and colliers, together with country gentlemen learning Welsh to address their wouldn't-be constituents--for all these the regulation form was jawl, with an English j. Thus one could, I pointed out to him, fix the social standing of a Welshman by the way he named 'the Enemy of Souls,' as well as appreciate the superiority of Welsh over Greek, seeing that Welsh, when it borrowed diabolos from Greek, quadrupled it, while Greek remained sterile. He was so profoundly impressed that I never was able to bring his attention back to the small fry, spiritually speaking, of the Isle of Man, to wit, the fairies and the fenodyree, or even the witches and the charmers, except that he had some reserve of faith in witches, since the witch of Endor was in the Bible and had ascribed to her a 'terr'ble' great power of raising spirits: that, he thought, must be true. I pointed out to him that a fenodyree (see p. 288) was also mentioned in his Bible: this display of ready knowledge on my part made a deep impression on his mind. The Manx are, as a rule, a sober people, and highly religious; as regards their tenets, they are mostly members of the Church of England or Wesleyan Methodists, or else both, which is by no means unusual. Religious phrases are not rare in their ordinary conversation; in fact, they struck me as being of more frequent occurrence than in Wales, even the Wales of my boyhood; and here and there this fondness for religious phraseology has left its traces on the native vocabulary. Take, for example, the word for 'anybody, a person, or human being,' which Cregeen writes py'agh or p'agh: he rightly regards it as the colloquial pronunciation of peccagh, 'a sinner.' So, when one knocks at a Manx door and calls out, Vel p'agh sthie? he literally asks, 'Is there any sinner indoors?' The question has, however, been explained to me, with unconscious irony, as properly meaning, 'Is there any Christian indoors?' and care is now taken in reading to pronounce the middle consonants of the word peccagh, 'sinner,' so as to distinguish it from the word for a Christian 'anybody': but the identity of origin is unmistakable. Lastly, the fact that a curse is a species of prayer, to wit, a prayer for evil to follow, is well exemplified in Manx by the same words, gwee [157], plural gwecaghyn, meaning both kinds of prayer. Thus I found myself stumbling several times, in reading through the Psalms in Manx, from not bearing in mind the sinister meaning of these words; for example in Psalm xiv. 6, where we have Ta 'n beeal oc lane dy ghweeaghyn as dy herriuid, which I mechanically construed to mean 'Their mouth is full of praying and bitterness,' instead of 'cursing and bitterness'; and so in other cases, such as Ps. x. 7, and cix. 27. It occurred to me on various occasions to make inquiries as to the attitude of religious Manxmen towards witchcraft and the charmer's vocation. Nobody, so far as I know, accuses them of favouring witchcraft in any way whatsoever; but as to the reality of witches and witchcraft they are not likely to have any doubts so long as they dwell on the Biblical account of the witch of Endor, as I have already mentioned in the case of the old Crimean soldier. Then as to charmers I have heard it distinctly stated that the most religious men are they who have most confidence in charmers and their charms; and a lay preacher whom I know has been mentioned to me as now and then doing a little charming in cases of danger or pressing need. On the whole, I think the charge against religious people of consulting charmers is somewhat exaggerated; but I believe that recourse to the charmer is more usual and more openly had than, for example, in Wales, where those who consult a dyn hyspys or 'wise man' have to do it secretly, and at the risk of being expelled by their co-religionists from the Seiet or 'Society.' There is somewhat in the atmosphere of Man to remind one rather of the Wales of a past generation--Wales as it was at the time when the Rev. Edmund Jones could write a Relation of Apparitions of Spirits in the County of Monmouth and the Principality of Wales, as a book 'designed to confute and to prevent the infidelity of denying the being and apparition of spirits, which tends to irreligion and atheism': see pp. 174, 195 above. The Manx peasantry are perhaps the most independent and prosperous in the British Isles; but their position geographically and politically has been favourable to the continuance of ideas not quite up to the level of the latest papers on Darwinism and Evolution read at our Church Congresses in this country. This may be thought to be here wide of the mark; but, after giving, in the previous chapter, specimens of rather ancient superstitions as recently known in the island, it is but right that one should form an idea of the surroundings in which they have lingered into modern times. Perhaps nothing will better serve to bring this home to the reader's mind than the fact, for which there is proof, that old people still living remember men and women clad in white sheets doing penance publicly in the churches of Man. The following is the evidence which I was able to find, and I may state that I first heard in 1888 of the public penance from Mr. Joughin, who was an aged man and a native of Kirk Bride. He related how a girl named Mary Dick gave an impertinent answer to the clergyman when he was catechizing her class, and how she had to do penance for it at church. She took her revenge on the parson by singing, while attending in a white sheet, louder than everybody else in the congregation. This, unless I am mistaken, Mr. Joughin gave me to understand he had heard from his father. I mentioned the story to a clergyman, who was decidedly of opinion that no one alive now could remember anything about public penance. Not long after, however, I got into conversation with a shoemaker at Kirk Michael, named Dan Kelly, who was nearly completing his eighty-first year. He was a native of Ballaugh, and stated that he remembered many successive occupants of the episcopal see. A long time ago the official called the sumner had, out of spite he said, appointed him to serve as one of the four of the chapter jury. It was, he thought, when he was about twenty-five. During his term of office he saw four persons, of whom two were married men and two unmarried women, doing penance in the parish church of Ballaugh for having illegitimate children. They stood in the alley of the church, and the sumner had to throw white sheets over them; on the fourth Sunday of their penance they stood inside the chancel rails, but not to take the communion. The parson, whose name was Stowell or Stowall, made them thoroughly ashamed of themselves on the fourth Sunday, as one of the men afterwards admitted. Kelly mentioned the names of the women and of one of the men, and he indicated to me some of their descendants as well known in the neighbourhood. I cross-examined him all the more severely, as I had heard the other view of the remoteness of the date. But nothing could shake Kelly, who added that soon after the date of the above mentioned cases the civil functionary, known as the vicar-general, put an end to the chapter jury and to public penance: according to his reckoning the penance he spoke of must have taken place about 1832. Another old man, named Kewley, living now near Kirk Michael, but formerly in the parish of Lezayre, had a similar story. He thinks that he was born in the sixth year of the century, and when he was between eighteen and twenty he saw a man doing public penance, in Lezayre Church, I presume, but I have no decided note on that point. However that may be, he remembered that the penitent, when he had done his penance, had the audacity to throw the white sheet over the sumner, who, the penitent remarked, might now wear it himself, as he had had enough of it. Kewley would bring the date only down to about 1825. Lastly, I was in the island again in 1891, and spent the first part of the month of April at Peel, where I had conversations with a retired captain who was then about seventy-eight. He is a native of the parish of Dalby, but he was only 'a lump of a boy' when the last couple of immorals were forced to do penance in white sheets at church. He gave me the guilty man's name, and the name of his home in the parish, and both the captain and his daughter assured me that the man had only been dead six or seven years; that is, the penitent seems to have lived till about the year 1884. I may here mention that the parish of Dalby is the subject of many tales, which go to show that its people were more old-fashioned in their ways than those of the rest of the island. It appears to have been the last, also, to be reached by a cart road; and I was amused by a native's description of the men at Methodist meetings in Dalby pulling the tappag, or forelock, at the name of Jesus, while the women ducked a curtsy in a dangerously abrupt fashion. He and his wife appeared to be quite used to it: the husband was an octogenarian named Quirc, who was born on the coast near the low-lying peninsula called the Niarbyl, that is to say 'the Tail.' To return to the public penance, it seems to us in this country to belong, so to say, to ancient history, and it transports us to a state of things which we find it hard to realize. The lapse of years has brought about profounder changes in our greater Isle of Britain than in the smaller Isle of Man, while we ourselves, helpless to escape the pervading influence of those profounder changes, become living instances of the comprehensive truth of the German poet's words, Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. CHAPTER VI THE FOLKLORE OF THE WELLS ... Iuvat integros accedere fontes.--Lucretius. It is only recently [158] that I heard for the first time of Welsh instances of the habit of tying rags and bits of clothing to the branches of a tree growing near a holy well. Since then I have obtained several items of information in point: the first is a communication received in June, 1892, from Mr. J. H. Davies, of Lincoln College, Oxford--since then of Lincoln's Inn--relating to a Glamorganshire holy well, situated near the pathway leading from Coychurch to Bridgend. It is the custom there, he states, for people suffering from any malady to dip a rag in the water, and to bathe the affected part of the body, the rag being then placed on a tree close to the well. When Mr. Davies passed that way, some three years previously, there were, he adds, hundreds of such shreds on the tree, some of which distinctly presented the appearance of having been very recently placed there. The well is called Ffynnon Cae Moch, 'Swine-field Well,' which can hardly have been its old name; and a later communication from Mr. Davies summarizes a conversation which he had about the well, on December 16, 1892, with Mr. J. T. Howell, of Pencoed, near Bridgend. His notes run thus:--'Ffynnon Cae Moch, between Coychurch and Bridgend, is one mile from Coychurch, one and a quarter from Bridgend, near Tremains. It is within twelve or fifteen yards of the high-road, just where the pathway begins. People suffering from rheumatism go there. They bathe the part affected with water, and afterwards tie a piece of rag to the tree which overhangs the well. The rag is not put in the water at all, but is only put on the tree for luck. It is a stunted, but very old tree, and is simply covered with rags.' A little less than a year later, I had an opportunity of visiting this well in the company of Mr. Brynmor-Jones; and I find in my notes that it is not situated so near the road as Mr. Howell would seem to have stated to Mr. Davies. We found the well, which is a powerful spring, surrounded by a circular wall. It is overshadowed by a dying thorn tree, and a little further back stands another thorn which is not so decayed: it was on this latter thorn we found the rags. I took off a twig with two rags, while Mr. Brynmor-Jones counted over a dozen other rags on the tree; and we noticed that some of them had only recently been suspended there: among them were portions undoubtedly of a woman's clothing. At one of the hotels at Bridgend, I found an illiterate servant who was acquainted with the well, and I cross-examined him on the subject of it. He stated that a man with a wound, which he explained to mean a cut, would go and stand in the well within the wall, and there he would untie the rag that had been used to tie up the wound and would wash the wound with it: then he would tie up the wound with a fresh rag and hang the old one on the tree. The more respectable people whom I questioned talked more vaguely, and only of tying a rag to the tree, except one who mentioned a pin being thrown into the well or a rag being tied to the tree. My next informant is Mr. D. J. Jones, a native of the Rhonda Valley, in the same county of Glamorgan. He was an undergraduate of Jesus College, Oxford, when I consulted him in 1892. His information was to the effect that he knows of three interesting wells in the county. The first is situated within two miles of his home, and is known as Ffynnon Pen Rhys, or the Well of Pen Rhys. The custom there is that the person who wishes his health to be benefited should wash in the water of the well, and throw a pin into it afterwards. He next mentions a well at Llancarvan, some five or six miles from Cowbridge, where the custom prevails of tying rags to the branches of a tree growing close at hand. Lastly, he calls my attention to a passage in Hanes Morganwg, 'The History of Glamorgan,' written by Mr. D. W. Jones, known in Welsh literature as Dafyd Morganwg. In that work, p. 29, the author speaks of Ffynnon Marcros, 'the Well of Marcros,' to the following effect:--'It is the custom for those who are healed in it to tie a shred of linen or cotton to the branches of a tree that stands close by; and there the shreds are, almost as numerous as the leaves.' Marcros is, I may say, near Nash Point, and looks on the map as if it were about eight miles distant from Bridgend. Let me here make it clear that so far we have had to do with four different wells [159], three of which are severally distinguished by the presence of a tree adorned with rags by those who seek health in those waters; but they are all three, as the reader will have doubtless noticed, in the same district, namely, the part of Glamorganshire near the main line of the Great Western Railway. There is no reason, however, to think that the custom of tying rags to a well tree was peculiar to that part of the Principality. One day, in looking through some old notes of mine, I came across an entry bearing the date of August 7, 1887, when I was spending a few days with my friend, Chancellor Silvan Evans, at Llanwrin Rectory, near Machynlleth. Mrs. Evans was then alive and well, and took a keen interest in Welsh antiquities and folklore. Among other things, she related to me how she had, some twenty years before, visited a well in the parish of Llandrillo yn Rhos, namely Ffynnon Eilian, or Elian's Well, between Abergele and Llandudno, when her attention was directed to some bushes near the well, which had once been covered with bits of rags left by those who frequented the well. This was told Mrs. Evans by an old woman of seventy, who, on being questioned by Mrs. Evans concerning the history of the well, informed her that the rags used to be tied to the bushes by means of wool. She was explicit on the point, that wool had to be used for the purpose, and that even woollen yarn would not do: it had to be wool in its natural state. The old woman remembered this to have been the rule ever since she was a child. Mrs. Evans noticed corks, with pins stuck in them, floating in the well, and her informant remembered many more in years gone by; for Elian's Well was once in great repute as a ffynnon reibio, or a well to which people resorted for the kindly purpose of bewitching those whom they hated. I infer, however, from what Mrs. Evans was told of the rags, that Elian's Well was visited, not only by the malicious, but also by the sick and suffering. My note is not clear on the point whether there were any rags on the bushes by the well when Mrs. Evans visited the spot, or whether she was only told of them by the caretaker. Even in the latter case it seems evident that this habit of tying rags to trees or bushes near sacred wells has only ceased in that part of Denbighshire within this century. It is very possible that it continued in North Wales more recently than this instance would lead one to suppose; indeed, I should not be in the least surprised to learn that it is still practised in out of the way places in Gwyned, just as it is in Glamorgan: we want more information. I cannot say for certain whether it was customary in any of the cases to which I have called attention to tie rags to the well tree as well as to throw pins or other small objects into the well; but I cannot help adhering to the view, that the distinction was probably an ancient one between two orders of things. In other words, I am inclined to believe that the rag was regarded as the vehicle of the disease of which the ailing visitor to the well wished to be rid, and that the bead, button, or coin deposited by him in the well, or in a receptacle near the well, formed alone the offering. In opposition to this view Mr. Gomme has expressed himself as follows in Folk-Lore, 1892, p. 89:--'There is some evidence against that, from the fact that in the case of some wells, especially in Scotland at one time, the whole garment was put down as an offering. Gradually these offerings of clothes became less and less till they came down to rags. Also in other parts, the geographical distribution of rag-offerings coincides with the existence of monoliths and dolmens.' As to the monoliths and dolmens, I am too little conversant with the facts to risk any opinion as to the value of the coincidence; but as to the suggestion that the rag originally meant the whole garment, that will suit my hypothesis admirably. In other words, the whole garment was, as I take it, the vehicle of the disease: the whole was accursed, and not merely a part. But Mr. Gomme had previously touched on the question in his presidential address (Folk-Lore for 1892, p. 13); and I must at once admit that he succeeded then in proving that a certain amount of confusion occurs between things which I should regard as belonging originally to distinct categories: witness the inimitable Irish instance which he quotes:--'To St. Columbkill--I offer up this button, a bit o' the waistband o' my own breeches, an' a taste o' my wife's petticoat, in remimbrance of us havin' made this holy station; an' may they rise up in glory to prove it for us in the last day.' Here not only the button is treated as an offering, but also the bits of clothing; but the confusion of ideas I should explain as being, at least in part, one of the natural results of substituting a portion of a garment for the entire garment; for thereby a button or a pin becomes a part of the dress, and capable of being interpreted in two senses. After all, however, the ordinary practices have not, as I look at them, resulted in effacing the distinction altogether: the rag is not left in the well; nor is the bead, button, or pin attached to a branch of the tree. So, in the main, it seemed to me easier to explain the facts, taken altogether, on the supposition that originally the rag was regarded as the vehicle of the disease, and the bead, button, or coin as the offering. My object in calling attention to this point was to have it discussed, and I am happy to say that I have not been disappointed; for, since my remarks were published [160], a paper entitled Pin-wells and Rag-bushes was read before the British Association by Mr. Hartland, in 1893, and published in Folk-Lore for the same year, pp. 451-70. In that paper the whole question is gone into with searching logic, and Mr. Hartland finds the required explanation in one of the dogmas of magic. For 'if an article of my clothing,' he says, 'in a witch's hands may cause me to suffer, the same article in contact with a beneficent power may relieve my pain, restore me to health, or promote my general prosperity. A pin that has pricked my wart ... has by its contact, by the wound it has inflicted, acquired a peculiar bond with the wart; the rag that has rubbed the wart has by that friction acquired a similar bond; so that whatever is done to the pin or the rag, whatever influences the pin or the rag may undergo, the same influences are by that very act brought to bear, upon the wart. If, instead of using a rag, or making a pilgrimage to a sacred well, I rub my warts with raw meat and then bury the meat, the wart will decay and disappear with the decay and dissolution of the meat.... In like manner my shirt or stocking, or a rag to represent it, placed upon a sacred bush, or thrust into a sacred well--my name written upon the walls of a temple--a stone or a pellet from my hand cast upon a sacred image or a sacred cairn--is thenceforth in continual contact with divinity; and the effluence of divinity, reaching and involving it, will reach and involve me.' Mr. Hartland concludes from a large number of instances, that as a rule 'where the pin or button is dropped into the well, the patient does not trouble about the rag, and vice versa.' This wider argument as to the effluence of the divinity of a particular spot of special holiness seems to me conclusive. It applies also, needless to say, to a large category of cases besides those in question between Mr. Gomme and the present writer. So now I would revise my position thus:--I continue to regard the rag much as before, but treat the article thrown into the well as the more special means of establishing a beneficial relation with the well divinity: whether it could also be viewed as an offering would depend on the value attached to it. Some of the following notes may serve as illustrations, especially those relating to the wool and the pin:--Ffynnon Gwynwy, or the Well of Gwynwy, near Llangelynin, on the river Conwy, appears to be partly in point; for it formerly used to be well stocked with crooked pins, which nobody would touch lest he might get from them the warts supposed to attach to them, whence it would appear that a pin might be regarded as the vehicle of the disease. There was a well of some repute at Cae Garw, in the parish of Pistyll, near the foot of Carnguwch, in Lleyn, or West Carnarvonshire. The water possessed virtues to cure one of rheumatism and warts; but, in order to be rid of the latter, it was requisite to throw a pin into the well for each individual wart. For these two items of information, and several more to be mentioned presently, I have to thank Mr. John Jones, better known in Wales by his bardic name of Myrdin Fard, and as an enthusiastic collector of Welsh antiquities, whether in the form of manuscript or of unwritten folklore. On the second day of the year 1893 I paid him a visit at Chwilog, on the Carnarvon and Avon Wen Railway, and asked him many questions: these he not only answered with the utmost willingness, but he also showed me the unpublished materials which he had collected. I come next to a competition on the folklore of North Wales at the London Eistedfod in 1887, in which, as one of the adjudicators, I observed that several of the competitors mentioned the prevalent belief, that every well with healing properties must have its outlet towards the south (i'r dê). According to one of them, if you wished to get rid of warts, you should, on your way to the well, look for wool which the sheep had lost. When you had found enough wool you should prick each wart with a pin, and then rub the wart well with the wool. The next thing was to bend the pin and throw it into the well. Then you should place the wool on the first whitethorn you could find, and as the wind scattered the wool, the warts would disappear. There was a well of the kind, the writer went on to say, near his home; and he, with three or four other boys, went from school one day to the well to charm their warts away. For he had twenty-three on one of his hands; so that he always tried to hide it, as it was the belief that if one counted the warts they would double their number. He forgets what became of the other boys' warts, but his own disappeared soon afterwards; and his grandfather used to maintain that it was owing to the virtue of the well. Such were the words of this writer, whose name is unknown to me; but I guess him to have been a native of Carnarvonshire, or else of one of the neighbouring districts of Denbighshire or Merionethshire. To return to Myrdin Fard, he mentioned Ffynnon Cefn Lleithfan, or the Well of the Lleithfan Ridge, on the eastern slope of Mynyd y Rhiw, in the parish of Bryncroes, in the west of Lleyn. In the case of this well it is necessary, when going to it and coming from it, to be careful not to utter a word to anybody, or to turn to look back. What one has to do at the well is to bathe the warts with a rag or clout which has grease on it. When that is done, the clout with the grease has to be carefully concealed beneath the stone at the mouth of the well. This brings to my mind the fact that I noticed more than once, years ago, rags underneath stones in the water flowing from wells in Wales, and sometimes thrust into holes in the walls of wells, but I had no notion how they came there. On the subject of pin-wells I had in 1893, from Mr. T. E. Morris, of Portmadoc, barrister-at-law, some account of Ffynnon Faglan, or Baglan's Well, in the parish of Llanfaglan, near Carnarvon. The well is situated in an open field to the right of the road leading towards the church, and close to it. The church and churchyard form an enclosure in the middle of the same field, and the former has in its wall the old stone reading FILI LOVERNII ANATEMORI. My friend derived information from Mrs. Roberts, of Cefn y Coed, near Carnarvon, as follows:--'The old people who would be likely to know anything about Ffynnon Faglan have all died. The two oldest inhabitants, who have always lived in this parish of Llanfaglan, remember the well being used for healing purposes. One told me his mother used to take him to it, when he was a child, for sore eyes, bathe them with the water, and then drop in a pin. The other man, when he was young, bathed in it for rheumatism; and until quite lately people used to fetch away the water for medicinal purposes. The latter, who lives near the well, at Tan y Graig, said that he remembered it being cleaned out about fifty years ago, when two basinfuls of pins were taken out, but no coin of any kind. The pins were all bent, and I conclude the intention was to exorcise the evil spirit supposed to afflict the person who dropped them in, or, as the Welsh say, dadwitsio. No doubt some ominous words were also used. The well is at present nearly dry, the field where it lies having been drained some years ago, and the water in consequence withdrawn from it. It was much used for the cure of warts. The wart was washed, then pricked with a pin, which, after being bent, was thrown into the well. There is a very large and well-known well of the kind at C'lynnog, Ffynnon Beuno, "St. Beuno's Well," which was considered to have miraculous healing powers; and even yet, I believe, some people have faith in it. Ffynnon Faglan is, in its construction, an imitation, on a smaller scale, of St. Beuno's Well at C'lynnog.' In the cliffs at the west end of Lleyn is a wishing-well called Ffynnon Fair, or St. Mary's Well, to the left of the site of Eglwys Fair, and facing Ynys Enlli, or Bardsey. Here, to obtain your wish, you have to descend the steps to the well and walk up again to the top with your mouth full of the water; and then you have to go round the ruins of the church once or more times with the water still in your mouth. Viewing the position of the well from the sea, I should be disposed to think that the realization of one's wish at that price could not be regarded as altogether cheap. Myrdin Fard also told me that there used to be a well near Criccieth Church. It was known as Ffynnon y Saint, or the Saints' Well, and it was the custom to throw keys or pins into it on the morning of Easter Sunday, in order to propitiate St. Catherine, who was the patron of the well. I should be glad to know what this exactly meant. Lastly, a few of the wells in that part of Gwyned may be grouped together and described as oracular. One of these, the big well in the parish of Llanbedrog in Lleyn, as I learn from Myrdin Fard, required the devotee to kneel by it and avow his faith in it. When this had been duly done, he might proceed in this wise: to ascertain, for instance, the name of the thief who had stolen from him, he had to throw a bit of bread into the well and name the person whom he suspected. At the name of the thief the bread would sink; so the inquirer went on naming all the persons he could think of until the bit of bread sank, when the thief was identified. How far is one to suppose that we have here traces of the influences of the water ordeal common in the Middle Ages? Another well of the same kind was Ffynnon Saethon, in Llanfihangel Bachellaeth parish, also in Lleyn. Here it was customary, as he had it in writing, for lovers to throw pins (pinnau) into the well; but these pins appear to have been the points of the blackthorn. At any rate, they cannot well have been of any kind of metal, as we are told that, if they sank in the water, one concluded that one's lover was not sincere in his or her love. Next may be mentioned a well, bearing the remarkable name of Ffynnon Gwyned, or the Well of Gwyned, which is situated near Mynyd Mawr, in the parish of Abererch: it used to be consulted in the following manner:--When it was desired to discover whether an ailing person would recover, a garment of his would be thrown into the well, and according to the side on which it sank it was known whether he would live or die. Ffynnon Gybi, or St. Cybi's Well, in the parish of Llangybi, was the scene of a somewhat similar practice; for there, girls who wished to know their lovers' intentions would spread their pocket-handkerchiefs on the water of the well, and, if the water pushed the handkerchiefs to the south--in Welsh i'r dê--they knew that everything was right--in Welsh o dê--and that their lovers were honest and honourable in their intentions; but, if the water shifted the handkerchiefs northwards, they concluded the contrary. A reference to this is made by a modern Welsh poet, as follows:-- Ambell dyn, gwaeldyn, a gyrch I bant gorís Moel Bentyrch, Mewn gobaith mai hen Gybi Glodfawr syd yn llwydaw'r lli. Some folks, worthless [161] folks, visit A hollow below Moel Bentyrch, In hopes that ancient Kybi Of noble fame blesses the flood. The spot is not far from where Myrdin Fard lives; and he mentioned, that adjoining the well is a building which was probably intended for the person in charge of the well: it has been tenanted within his memory. Not only for this but also for several of the foregoing items of information am I indebted to Myrdin; and now I come to Mrs. Williams-Ellis, of Glasfryn Uchaf, who tells me that one day not long ago, she met at Llangybi a native who had not visited the place since his boyhood: he had been away as an engineer in South Wales nearly all his life, but had returned to see an aged relative. So the reminiscences of the place filled his mind, and, among other things, he said that he remembered very well what concern there was one day in the village at a mischievous person having taken a very large eel out of the well. Many of the old people, he said, felt that much of the virtue of the well was probably taken away with the eel. To see it coiling about their limbs when they went into the water was a good sign: so he gave one to understand. As a sort of parallel I may mention that I have seen the fish living in Ffynnon Beris, not far from the parish church of Llanberis. It is jealously guarded by the inhabitants, and when it was once or twice taken out by a mischievous stranger he was forced to put it back again. However, I never could get the history of this sacred fish, but I found that it was regarded as very old [162]. I may add that it appears the well called Ffynnon Fair, 'Mary's Well,' at Llandwyn, in Anglesey, used formerly to have inhabiting it a sacred fish, whose movements indicated the fortunes of the love-sick men and maidens who visited there the shrine of St. Dwynwen [163]. Possibly inquiry would result in showing that such sacred fish have been far more common once in the Principality than they are now. The next class of wells to claim our attention consists of what I may call fairy wells, of which few are mentioned in connexion with Wales; but the legends about them are of absorbing interest. One of them is in Myrdin Fard's neighbourhood, and I questioned him a good deal on the subject: it is called Ffynnon Grassi, or Grace's Well, and it occupies, according to him, a few square feet--he has measured it himself--of the south-east corner of the lake of Glasfryn Uchaf, in the parish of Llangybi. It appears that it was walled in, and that the stone forming its eastern side has several holes in it, which were intended to let water enter the well and not issue from it. It had a door or cover on its surface; and it was necessary to keep the door always shut, except when water was being drawn. Through somebody's negligence, however, it was once on a time left open: the consequence was that the water of the well flowed out and formed the Glasfryn Lake, which is so considerable as to be navigable for small boats. Grassi is supposed in the locality to have been the name of the owner of the well, or at any rate of a lady who had something to do with it. Grassi, or Grace, however, can only be a name which a modern version of the legend has introduced. It probably stands for an older name given to the person in charge of the well; to the one, in fact, who neglected to shut the door; but though the name must be comparatively modern, the story, as a whole, does not appear to be at all modern, but very decidedly the contrary. So I wrote in 1893; but years after my conversation with Myrdin Fard, my attention was called to the fact that the Glasfryn family, of which the Rev. J. C. Williams-Ellis is the head, have in their coat of arms a mermaid, who is represented in the usual way, holding a comb in her right hand and a mirror in her left. I had from the first expected to find some kind of Undine or Liban story associated with the well and the lake, though I had abstained from trying the risky effects of leading questions; but when I heard of the heraldic mermaid I wrote to Mr. Williams-Ellis to ask whether he knew her history. His words, though not encouraging as regards the mermaid, soon convinced me that I had not been wholly wrong in supposing that more folklore attached to the well and lake than I had been able to discover. Since then Mrs. Williams-Ellis has taken the trouble of collecting on the spot all the items of tradition which she could find: she communicated them to me in the month of March, 1899, and the following is an abstract of them, preceded by a brief description of the ground:-- The well itself is at the foot of a very green field-bank at the head of the lake, but not on the same level with it, as the lake has had its waters lowered half a century or more ago by the outlet having been cut deeper. Adjoining the field containing the well is a larger field, which also slopes down to the lake and extends in another direction to the grounds belonging to the house. This larger field is called Cae'r Ladi, 'the Lady's Field,' and it is remarkable for having in its centre an ancient standing stone, which, as seen from the windows of the house, presents the appearance of a female figure hurrying along, with the wind slightly swelling out her veil and the skirt of her dress. Mr. Williams-Ellis remembers how when he was a boy the stone was partially white-washed, and how an old bonnet adorned the top of this would-be statue, and he thinks that an old shawl used to be thrown over the shoulders. Now as to Grassi, she is mostly regarded as a ghostly person somehow connected with the lake and the house of Glasfryn. One story is to the effect, that on a certain evening she forgot to close the well, and that when the gushing waters had formed the lake, poor Grassi, overcome with remorse, wandered up and down the high ground of Cae'r Ladi, moaning and weeping. There, in fact, she is still at times to be heard lamenting her fate, especially at two o'clock in the early morning. Some people say that she is also to be seen about the lake, which is now the haunt of some half a dozen swans. But on the whole her visits appear to have been most frequent and troublesome at the house itself. Several persons still living are mentioned, who believe that they have seen her there, and two of them, Mrs. Jones of Talafon, and old Sydney Griffith of Tydyn Bach, agree in the main in their description of what they saw, namely, a tall lady with well marked features and large bright eyes: she was dressed in white silk and a white velvet bonnet. The woman, Sydney Griffith, thought that she had seen the lady walking several times about the house and in Cae'r Ladi. This comes, in both instances, from a young lady born and bred in the immediate neighbourhood, and studying now at the University College of North Wales; but Mrs. Williams-Ellis has had similar accounts from other sources, and she mentions tenants of Glasfryn who found it difficult to keep servants there, because they felt that the place was haunted. In fact one of the tenants himself felt so unsafe that he used to take his gun and his dog with him to his bedroom at night; not to mention that when the Williams-Ellises lived themselves, as they do still, in the house, their visitors have been known to declare that they heard the strange plaintive cry out of doors at two o'clock in the morning. Traces also of a very different story are reported by Mrs. Williams-Ellis, to the effect that when the water broke forth to form the lake, the fairies seized Grassi and changed her into a swan, and that she continued in that form to live on the lake sixscore years, and that when at length she died, she loudly lamented her lot: that cry is still to be heard at night. This story is in process apparently of being rationalized; at any rate the young lady student, to whom I have referred, remembers perfectly that her grandfather used to explain to her and the other children at home that Grassi was changed into a swan as a punishment for haunting Glasfryn, but that nevertheless the old lady still visited the place, especially when there happened to be strangers in the house. At the end of September last Mrs. Rhys and I had the pleasure of spending a few days at Glasfryn, in the hope of hearing the plaintive wail, and of seeing the lady in white silk revisiting her familiar haunts. But alas! our sleep was never once disturbed, nor was our peace once troubled by suspicions of anything uncanny. This, however, is negative, and characterized by the usual weakness of all such evidence. It is now time to turn to another order of facts: in the first place may be mentioned that the young lady student's grandmother used to call the well Ffynnon Grâs Siôn Gruffud, as she had always heard that Grâs was the daughter of a certain Siôn Gruffyd, 'John Griffith,' who lived near the well; and Mrs. Williams-Ellis finds that Grâs was buried, at a very advanced age, on December 14, 1743, at the parish church of Llangybi, where the register describes her as Grace Jones, alias Grace Jones Griffith. She had lived till the end at Glasfryn, but from documents in the possession of the Glasfryn family it is known that in 1728 Hugh Lloyd of Trallwyn purchased the house and estate of Glasfryn from a son of Grace's, named John ab Cadwaladr, and that Hugh Lloyd of Trallwyn's son, the Rev. William Lloyd, sold them to Archdeacon Ellis, from whom they have descended to the Rev. J. C. Williams-Ellis. In the light of these facts there is no reason to connect the old lady's name very closely with the well or the lake. She was once the dominant figure at Glasfryn, that is all; and when she died she was as usual supposed to haunt the house and its immediate surroundings; and if we might venture to suppose that Glasfryn was sold by her son against her will, though subject to conditions which enabled her to remain in possession of the place to the day of her death, we should have a further explanation, perhaps, of her supposed moaning and lamentation. In the background, however, of the story, one detects the possibility of another female figure, for it may be that the standing stone in Cae'r Ladi represents a woman buried there centuries before Grace ruled at Glasfryn, and that traditions about the earlier lady have survived to be inextricably mixed with those concerning the later one. Lastly, those traditions may have also associated the subject of them with the well and the lake; but I wish to attach no importance to this conjecture, as we have in reserve a third figure of larger possibilities than either Grace or the stone woman. It needs no better introduction than Mrs. Williams-Ellis' own words: 'Our younger boys have a crew of three little Welsh boys who live near the lake, to join them in their boat sailing about the pool and in camping on the island, &c. They asked me once who Morgan was, whom the little boys were always saying they were to be careful against. An old man living at Tal Llyn, "Lake's End," a farm close by, says that as a boy he was always told that "naughty boys would be carried off by Morgan into the lake." Others tell me that Morgan is always held to be ready to take off troublesome children, and somehow Morgan is thought of as a bad one.' Now as Morgan carries children off into the pool, he would seem to issue from the pool, and to have his home in it. Further, he plays the same part as the fairies against whom a Snowdonian mother used to warn her children: they were on no account to wander away from the house when there was a mist, lest the fairies should carry them to their home beneath Llyn Dwythwch. In other words, Morgan may be said to act in the same way as the mermaid, who takes a sailor down to her submarine home; and it explains to my mind a discussion which I once heard of the name Morgan by a party of men and women making hay one fine summer's day in the neighbourhood of Ponterwyd, in North Cardiganshire. I was a child, but I remember vividly how they teased one of their number whose 'style' was Morgan. They hinted at dreadful things associated with the name; but it was all so vague that I could not gather that his great unknown namesake was a thief, a murderer, or any kind of ordinary criminal. The impression left on my mind was rather the notion of something weird, uncanny, or non-human; and the fact that the Welsh version of the Book of Common Prayer calls the Pelagians Morganiaid, 'Morgans,' does not offer an adequate explanation. But I now see clearly that it is to be sought in the indistinct echo of such folklore as that which makes Morgan a terror to children in the neighbourhood of the Glasfryn Lake. The name, however, presents points of difficulty which require some notice: the Welsh translators of Article IX in the Prayer Book were probably wrong in making Pelagians into Morganiaid, as the Welsh for Pelagius seems to have been rather Morien [164], which in its oldest recorded form was Morgen, and meant sea-born, or offspring of the sea. In a still earlier form it must have been Morigenos, with a feminine Morigena, but when the endings came to be dropped both vocables would become Morgen, later Morien. I do not remember coming across a feminine Morgen in Welsh, but the presumption is that it did exist. For, among other things, I may mention that we have it in Irish as Muirgen, one of the names of the lake lady Liban, who, when the waters of the neglected well rushed forth to form Lough Neagh, lived beneath that lake until she desired to be changed into a salmon. The same conclusion may be drawn from the name Morgain or Morgan, given in the French romances to one or more water ladies; for those names are easiest to explain as the Brythonic Morgen borrowed from a Welsh or Breton source, unless one found it possible to trace it direct to the Goidels of Wales. No sooner, however, had the confusion taken place between Morgen and the name which is so common in Wales as exclusively a man's name, than the aquatic figure must also become male. That is why the Glasfryn Morgan is now a male, and not a female like the other characters whose rôle he plays. But while the name was in Welsh successively Morgen and Morien, the man's name was Morcant, Morgant, or Morgan [165], so that, phonologically speaking, no confusion could be regarded as possible between the two series. Here, therefore, one detects the influence, doubtless, of the French romances which spoke of a lake lady Morgain, Morgan, or Morgue. The character varied: Morgain le Fay was a designing and wicked person; but Morgan was also the name of a well disposed lady of the same fairy kind, who took Arthur away to be healed at her home in the Isle of Avallon. We seem to be on the track of the same confusing influence of the name, when it occurs in the story of Geraint and Enid; for there the chief physician of Arthur's court is called Morgan Tut or Morgant Tut, and the word tut has been shown by M. Loth to have meant the same sort of non-human being whom an eleventh-century Life of St. Maudez mentions as quidam dæmon quem Britones Tuthe appellant. Thus the name Morgan Tut is meant as the Welsh equivalent of the French Morgain le Fay or Morgan la Fée [166]; but so long as the compiler of the story of Geraint and Enid employed in his Welsh the form Morgan, he had practically no choice but to treat the person called Morgan as a man, whether that was or was not the sex in the original texts on which he was drawing. Of course he could have avoided the difficulty in case he was aware of it, if he had found some available formula in use like Mary-Morgant, said to be a common name for a fairy on the island of Ouessant, off the coast of Brittany. Summarizing the foregoing notes, we seem to be right in drawing the following conclusions:--(1) The well was left in the charge of a woman who forgot to shut it, and when she saw the water bursting forth, she bewailed her negligence, as in the case of her counterpart in the legend of Cantre'r Gwaelod. (2) The original name of the Glasfryn 'Morgan' was Morgen, later Morien. (3) The person changed into a swan on the occasion of the Glasfryn well erupting was not Grassi, but most probably Morgen. And (4) the character was originally feminine, like that of the mermaid or the fairies, whose rôle the Glasfryn Morgan plays; and more especially may one compare the Irish Muirgen, the Morgen more usually called Líban. For it is to be noticed that when the neglected well burst forth she, Muirgen or Líban, was not drowned like the others involved in the calamity, but lived in her chamber at the bottom of the lake formed by the overflowing well, until she was changed into a salmon. In that form she lived on some three centuries, until in fact she was caught in the net of a fisherman, and obtained the boon of a Christian burial. However, the change into a swan is also known on Irish ground: take for instance the story of the Children of Lir, who were converted into swans by their stepmother, and lived in that form on Loch Dairbhreach, in Westmeath, for three hundred years, and twice as long on the open sea, until their destiny closed with the advent of St. Patrick and the first ringing of a Christian bell in Erin [167]. The next legend was kindly communicated to me by Mr. Wm. Davies already mentioned at p. 147 above: he found it in Cyfaill yr Aelwyd [168], "The Friend of the Hearth," where it is stated that it belonged to David Jones' Storehouse of Curiosities, a collection which does not seem to have ever assumed the form of a printed book. David Jones, of Trefriw, in the Conwy Valley, was a publisher and poet who wrote between 1750 and 1780. This is his story: 'In 1735 I had a conversation with a man concerning Tegid Lake. He had heard from old people that near the middle of it there was a well opposite Llangower, and the well was called Ffynnon Gywer, "Cower's Well," and at that time the town was round about the well. It was obligatory to place a lid on the well every night. (It seems that in those days somebody was aware that unless this was done it would prove the destruction of the town.) But one night it was forgotten, and by the morning, behold the town had subsided and the lake became three miles long and one mile wide. They say, moreover, that on clear days some people see the chimneys of the houses. It is since then that the town was built at the lower end of the lake. It is called Y Bala [169], and the man told me that he had talked with an old Bala man who had, when he was a youth, had two days' mowing of hay [170] between the road and the lake; but by this time the lake had spread over that land and the road also, which necessitated the purchase of land further away for the road; and some say that the town will yet sink as far as the place called Llanfor--others call it Llanfawd, "Drown-church," or Llanfawr, "Great-church," in Penllyn.... Further, when the weather is stormy water appears oozing through every floor within Bala, and at other times anybody can get water enough for the use of his house, provided he dig a little into the floor of it.' In reference to the idea that the town is to sink, together with the neighbouring village of Llanfor, the writer quotes in a note the couplet known still to everybody in the neighbourhood as follows:-- Y Bala aeth, a'r Bala aiff, A Llanfor aiff yn Llyn. Bala old the lake has had, and Bala new The lake will have, and Llanfor too. This probably implies that old Bala is beneath the lake, and that the present Bala is to meet the like fate at some time to come. This kind of prophecy is not very uncommon: thus there has been one current as to the Montgomeryshire town of Pool, called, in Welsh, Trallwng or Trallwm, and in English, Welshpool, to distinguish it from the English town of Pool. As to Welshpool, a very deep water called Llyn Du, lying between the town and the Castell Coch or Powys Castle, and right in the domain of the castle, is suddenly to spread itself, and one fine market day to engulf the whole place [171]. Further, when I was a boy in North Cardiganshire, the following couplet was quite familiar to me, and supposed to have been one of Merlin's prophecies:-- Caer Fyrdin, cei oer fore; Daear a'th lwnc, dw'r i'th le. Carmarthen, a cold morn awaits thee; Earth gapes, and water in thy place will be. In regard to the earlier half of the line, concerning Bala gone, the story of Ffynnon Gywer might be said to explain it, but there is another which is later and far better known. It is of the same kind as the stories related in Welsh concerning Llynclys and Syfadon; but I reserve it with these and others of the same sort for chapter vii. For the next legend belonging here I have to thank the Rev. J. Fisher, a native of the parish of Llandybïe, who, in spite of his name, is a genuine Welshman, and--what is more--a Welsh scholar. The following are his words:--'Llyn Llech Owen (the last word is locally sounded w-en, like oo-en in English, as is also the personal name Owen) is on Mynyd Mawr, in the ecclesiastical parish of Gors Lâs, and the civil parish of Llanarthney, Carmarthenshire. It is a small lake, forming the source of the Gwendraeth Fawr. I have heard the tradition about its origin told by several persons, and by all, until quite recently, pretty much in the same form. In 1884 I took it down from my grandfather, Rees Thomas (b. 1809, d. 1892), of Cil Coll Llandebïe--a very intelligent man, with a good fund of old-world Welsh lore--who had lived all his life in the neighbouring parishes of Llandeilo Fawr and Llandybïe. 'The following is the version of the story (translated) as I had it from him:--There was once a man of the name of Owen living on Mynyd Mawr, and he had a well, "ffynnon." Over this well he kept a large flag ("fflagen neu lech fawr": "fflagen" is the word in common use now in these parts for a large flat stone), which he was always careful to replace over its mouth after he had satisfied himself or his beast with water. It happened, however, that one day he went on horseback to the well to water his horse, and forgot to put the flag back in its place. He rode off leisurely in the direction of his home; but, after he had gone some distance, he casually looked back, and, to his great astonishment, he saw that the well had burst out and was overflowing the whole place. He suddenly bethought him that he should ride back and encompass the overflow of the water as fast as he could; and it was the horse's track in galloping round the water that put a stop to its further overflow. It is fully believed that, had he not galloped round the flood in the way he did, the well would have been sure to inundate the whole district and drown all. Hence the lake was called the Lake of Owen's Flag, "Llyn Llech Owen." 'I have always felt interested in this story, as it resembled that about the formation of Lough Neagh, &c.; and, happening to meet the Rev. D. Harwood Hughes, B.A., the vicar of Gors Lâs (St. Lleian's), last August (1892), I asked him to tell me the legend as he had heard it in his parish. He said that he had been told it, but in a form different from mine, where the "Owen" was said to have been Owen Glyndwr. This is the substance of the legend as he had heard it:--Owen Glyndwr, when once passing through these parts, arrived here of an evening. He came across a well, and, having watered his horse, placed a stone over it in order to find it again next morning. He then went to lodge for the night at Dyllgoed Farm, close by. In the morning, before proceeding on his journey, he took his horse to the well to give him water, but found to his surprise that the well had become a lake.' Mr. Fisher goes on to mention the later history of the lake: how, some eighty years ago, its banks were the resort on Sunday afternoons of the young people of the neighbourhood, and how a Baptist preacher put an end to their amusements and various kinds of games by preaching at them. However, the lake-side appears to be still a favourite spot for picnics and Sunday-school gatherings. Mr. Fisher was quite right in appending to his own version that of his friend; but, from the point of view of folklore, I must confess that I can make nothing of the latter: it differs from the older one as much as chalk does from cheese. It would be naturally gratifying to the pride of local topography to be able to connect with the pool the name of Owen Glyndwr; but it is worthy of note that this highly respectable attempt to rationalize the legend wholly fails, as it does not explain why there is now a lake where there was once but a well. In other words, the euhemerized story is itself evidence corroborative of Mr. Fisher's older version, which is furthermore kept in countenance by Howells' account, p. 104, where we are told who the Owen in question was, namely, Owen Lawgoch, a personage dear, as we shall see later, to the Welsh legend of the district. He and his men had their abode in a cave on the northern side of Mynyd Mawr, and while there Owen used, we are informed, to water his steed at a fine spring covered with a large stone, which it required the strength of a giant to lift. But one day he forgot to replace it, and when he next sought the well he found the lake. He returned to his cave and told his men what had happened. Thereupon both he and they fell into a sleep, which is to last till it is broken by the sound of a trumpet and the clang of arms on Rhiw Goch: then they are to sally forth to conquer. Now the story as told by Howells and Fisher provokes comparison, as the latter suggests, with the Irish legend of the formation of Lough Ree and of Lough Neagh in the story of the Death of Eochaid McMaireda [172]. In both of these legends also there is a horse, a kind of water-horse, who forms the well which eventually overflows and becomes Lough Ree, and so with the still larger body of water known as Lough Neagh. In the latter case the fairy well was placed in the charge of a woman; but she one day left the cover of the well open, and the catastrophe took place--the water issued forth and overflowed the country. One of Eochaid's daughters, named Líban, however, was not drowned, but only changed into a salmon as already mentioned at p. 376 above. In my Arthurian Legend, p. 361, I have attempted to show that the name Líban may have its Welsh equivalent in that of Llïon, occurring in the name of Llyn Llïon, or Llïon's Lake, the bursting of which is described in the latest series of Triads, iii. 13, 97, as causing a sort of deluge. I am not certain as to the nature of the relationship between those names, but it seems evident that the stories have a common substratum, though it is to be noticed that no well, fairy or otherwise, figures in the Llyn Llïon legend, which makes the presence of the monster called the afanc the cause of the waters bursting forth. So Hu the Mighty, with his team of famous oxen, is made to drag the afanc out of the lake. There is, however, another Welsh legend concerning a great overflow in which a well does figure: I allude to that of Cantre'r Gwaelod, or the Bottom Hundred, a fine spacious country supposed to be submerged in Cardigan Bay. Modern euhemerism treats it as defended by embankments and sluices, which, we are told, were in the charge of the prince of the country, named Seithennin, who, being one day in his cups, forgot to shut the sluices, and thus brought about the inundation, which was the end of his fertile realm. This, however, is not the old legend: that speaks of a well, and lays the blame on a woman--a pretty sure sign of antiquity, as the reader may judge from other old stories which will readily occur to him. The Welsh legend to which I allude is embodied in a short poem in the Black Book of Carmarthen [173]: it consists of eight triplets, to which is added a triplet from the Englynion of the Graves. The following is the original with a tentative translation:-- Seithenhin sawde allan. ac edrychuirde varanres mor. maes guitnev rytoes. Boed emendiceid y morvin aehellygaut guydi cvin. finaun wenestir [174] mor terruin. Boed emendiceid y vachteith. ae . golligaut guydi gueith. finaun wenestir mor diffeith. Diaspad mererid y ar vann caer. hid ar duu y dodir. gnaud guydi traha trangc hir. Diaspad mererid . y ar van kaer hetiv. hid ar duu y dadoluch. gnaud guydi traha attreguch. Diaspad mererid am gorchuit heno. ac nimhaut gorlluit. gnaud guydi traha tramguit. Diaspad mererid y ar gwinev kadir kedaul duv ae gorev. gnaud guydi gormot eissev. Diaspad mererid . am kymhell heno y urth uyistauell. gnaud guydi traha trangc pell. Bet seithenhin synhuir vann rug kaer kenedir a glan. mor maurhidic a kinran. Seithennin, stand thou forth And see the vanguard of the main: Gwydno's plain has it covered. Accursed be the maiden Who let it loose after supping, Well cup-bearer of the mighty main. Accursed be the damsel Who let it loose after battle, Well minister of the high sea. Mererid's cry from a city's height, Even to God is it directed: After pride comes a long pause. Mererid's cry from a city's height to-day, Even to God her expiation: After pride comes reflection. Mererid's cry o'ercomes me to-night, Nor can I readily prosper: After pride comes a fall. Mererid's cry over strong wines, Bounteous God has wrought it: After excess comes privation. Mererid's cry drives me to-night From my chamber away: After insolence comes long death. Weak-witted Seithennin's grave is it Between Kenedyr's Fort and the shore, With majestic Mor's and Kynran's. The names in these lines present great difficulties: first comes that of Mererid, which is no other word than Margarita, 'a pearl,' borrowed; but what does it here mean? Margarita, besides meaning a pearl, was used in Welsh, e.g. under the form Marereda [175], as the proper name written in English Margaret. That is probably how it is to be taken here, namely, as the name given to the negligent guardian of the fairy well. It cannot very well be, however, the name belonging to the original form of the legend; and we have the somewhat parallel case of Ffynnon Grassi, or Grace's Well; but what old Celtic name that of Mererid has replaced in the story, I cannot say. In the next place, nobody has been able to identify Caer Kenedyr, and I have nothing to say as to Mor Maurhidic, except that a person of that name is mentioned in another of the Englynion of the Graves. It runs thus in the Black Book, fol. 33a:-- Bet mor maurhidic diessic unben. post kinhen kinteic. mab peredur penwetic. The grave of Mor the Grand, ... prince, Pillar of the ... conflict, Son of Peredur of Penwedig. The last name in the final triplet of the poem which I have attempted to translate is Kinran, which is otherwise unknown as a Welsh name; but I am inclined to identify it with that of one of the three who escaped the catastrophe in the Irish legend. The name there is Curnán, which was borne by the idiot of the family, who, like many later idiots, was at the same time a prophet. For he is represented as always prophesying that the waters were going to burst forth, and as advising his friends to prepare boats. So he may be set, after a fashion, over against our Seithenhin synhuir vann, 'S. of the feeble mind.' But one might perhaps ask why I do not point out an equivalent in Irish for the Welsh Seithennin, as his name is now pronounced. The fact is that no such equivalent occurs in the Irish story in question, nor exactly, so far as I know, in any other. That is what I wrote when penning these notes; but it has occurred to me since then, that there is an Irish name, an important Irish name, which looks as if related to Seithenhin, and that is Setanta Beg, 'the little Setantian,' the first name of the Irish hero Cúchulainn. The nt, I may point out, makes one suspect that Setanta is a name of Brythonic origin in Irish; and I have been in the habit of associating it with that of the people of the Setantii [176], placed by Ptolemy on the coast of what is now Lancashire. Whether any legend has ever been current about a country submerged on the coast of Lancashire I cannot say, but the soundings would make such a legend quite comprehensible. I remember, however, reading somewhere as to the Plain of Muirthemhne, of which Cúchulainn, our Setanta Beg, had special charge, that it was so called because it had once been submarine and become since the converse, so to say, of Seithennin's country. The latter is beneath Cardigan Bay, while the other fringed the opposite side of the sea, consisting as it did of the level portion of County Louth. On the whole, I am not altogether indisposed to believe that we have here traces of an ancient legend of a wider scope than is represented by the Black Book triplets, which I have essayed to translate. I think that I am right in recognizing that legend in the Mabinogi of Branwen, daughter of Llyr. There we read that, when Brân and his men crossed from Wales to Ireland, the intervening sea consisted merely of two navigable rivers, called Lli and Archan. The story-teller adds words to the effect, that it is only since then the sea has multiplied its realms [177] between Ireland and Ynys y Kedyrn, or the Isle of the Keiri, a name which has already been discussed: see pp. 279-83. These are not all the questions which such stories suggest; for Seithennin is represented in later Welsh literature as the son of one Seithyn, associated with Dyfed; and the name Seithyn leads off to the coast of Brittany. For I learn from a paper by the late M. le Men, in the Revue Archéologique for 1872 (xxiii. 52), that the Île de Sein is called in Breton Enez-Sun, in which Sun is a dialectic shortening of Sizun, which is also met with as Seidhun. That being so, one would seem to be right in regarding Sizun as nearly related to our Seithyn. That is not all--the tradition reminds one of the Welsh legend: M. le Men refers to the Vie du P. Maunoir by Boschet (Paris, 1697) p. 126, and adds that, in his own time, the road ending on the Pointe du Raz opposite the Île de Sein passed 'pour être l'ancien chemin qui conduisait à la ville d'Is (Kaer-a-Is, la ville de la partie basse).' It is my own experience, that nobody can go about much in Brittany without hearing over and over again about the submerged city of Is. There is no doubt that we have in these names distant echoes of an inundation story, once widely current in both Britains and perhaps also in Ireland. With regard to Wales we have an indication to that effect in the fact, that Gwydno, to whom the inundated region is treated as having belonged, is associated not only with Cardigan Bay, but also with the coast of North Wales, especially the part of it situated between Bangor and Llandudno [178]. Adjoining it is supposed to lie submerged a once fertile district called Tyno Helig, a legend about which will come under notice later. This brings the inundation story nearer to the coast where Ptolemy in the second century located the Harbour of the Setantii, about the mouth of the river Ribble, and in their name we seem to have some sort of a historical basis for that of the drunken Seithennin [179]. I cannot close these remarks better than by appending what Professor Boyd Dawkins has recently said with regard to the sea between Britain and Ireland:-- 'It may be interesting to remark further that during the time of the Iberian dominion in Wales, the geography of the seaboard was different to what it is now. A forest, containing the remains of their domestic oxen that had run wild, and of the indigenous wild animals such as the bear and the red deer, united Anglesey with the mainland, and occupied the shallows of Cardigan Bay, known in legend as "the lost lands of Wales." It extended southwards from the present sea margin across the estuary of the Severn, to Somerset, Devon, and Cornwall. It passed northwards across the Irish Sea off the coast of Cheshire and Lancashire, and occupied Morecambe Bay with a dense growth of oak, Scotch fir, alder, birch, and hazel. It ranged seawards beyond the ten-fathom line, and is to be found on most shores beneath the sand-banks and mud-banks, as for example at Rhyl and Cardiff. In Cardigan Bay it excited the wonder of Giraldus de Barri [180].' To return to fairy wells, I have to confess that I cannot decide what may be precisely the meaning of the notion of a well with a woman set carefully to see that the door or cover of the well is kept shut. It will occur, however, to everybody to compare the well which Undine wished to have kept shut, on account of its affording a ready access from her subterranean country to the residence of her refractory knight in his castle above ground. And in the case of the Glasfryn Lake, the walling and cover that were to keep the spring from overflowing were, according to the story, not water-tight, seeing that there were holes made in one of the stones. This suggests the idea that the cover was to prevent the passage of some such full-grown fairies as those with which legend seems to have once peopled all the pools and tarns of Wales. But, in the next place, is the maiden in charge of the well to be regarded as priestess of the well? The idea of a priesthood in connexion with wells in Wales is not wholly unknown. I wish, however, before discussing these instances, to call attention to one or two Irish ones which point in another direction. Foremost may be mentioned the source of the river Boyne, which is now called Trinity Well, situated in the Barony of Carbury, in County Kildare. The following is the Rennes Dindsenchas concerning it, as translated by Dr. Stokes, in the Revue Celtique, xv. 315-6:--'Bóand, wife of Nechtán son of Labraid, went to the secret well which was in the green of Síd Nechtáin. Whoever went to it would not come from it without his two eyes bursting, unless it were Nechtán himself and his three cup-bearers, whose names were Flesc and Lám and Luam. Once upon a time Bóand went through pride to test the well's power, and declared that it had no secret force which could shatter her form, and thrice she walked withershins round the well. (Whereupon) three waves from the well break over her and deprive her of a thigh [? wounded her thigh] and one of her hands and one of her eyes. Then she, fleeing her shame, turns seaward, with the water behind her as far as Boyne-mouth, (where she was drowned).' This is to explain why the river is called Bóand, 'Boyne.' A version to the same effect in the Book of Leinster, fol. 191a, makes the general statement that no one who gazed right into the well could avoid the instant ruin of his two eyes or otherwise escape with impunity. A similar story is related to show how the Shannon, in Irish Sinann, Sinand, or Sinend, is called after a woman of that name. It occurs in the same Rennes manuscript, and the following is Stokes' translation in the Revue Celtique, xv. 457:--'Sinend, daughter of Lodan Lucharglan son of Ler out of Tir Tairngire (Land of Promise, Fairyland), went to Connla's Well, which is under sea, to behold it. That is a well at which are the hazels and inspirations (?) of wisdom, that is, the hazels of the science of poetry, and in the same hour their fruit and their blossom and their foliage break forth, and these fall on the well in the same shower, which raises on the water a royal surge of purple. Then the salmon chew the fruit, and the juice of the nuts is apparent on their purple bellies. And seven streams of wisdom spring forth and turn there again. Now Sinend went to seek the inspiration, for she wanted nothing save only wisdom. She went with the stream till she reached Linn Mna Feile, "the Pool of the Modest Woman," that is Bri Ele--and she went ahead on her journey; but the well left its place, and she followed it [181] to the banks of the river Tarr-cáin, "Fair-back." After this it overwhelmed her, so that her back (tarr) went upwards, and when she had come to the land on this side (of the Shannon) she tasted death. Whence Sinann and Linn Mna Feile and Tarr-cain.' In these stories the reader will have noticed that the foremost punishment on any intruder who looked into the forbidden well was the instant ruin of his two eyes. One naturally asks why the eyes are made the special objects of the punishment, and I am inclined to think the meaning to have originally been that the well or spring was regarded as the eye of the divinity of the water. Should this prove well founded it looks natural that the eyes, which transgressed by gazing into the eye of the divinity, should be the first objects of that divinity's vengeance. This is suggested to me by the fact that the regular Welsh word for the source of a river is llygad, Old Welsh licat, 'eye,' as for instance in the case of Licat Amir mentioned by Nennius, § 73; of Llygad Llychwr, 'the source of the Loughor river' in the hills behind Carreg Cennen Castle; and of the weird lake in which the Rheidol [182] rises near the top of Plinlimmon: it is called Llyn Llygad y Rheidol, 'the Lake of the Rheidol's Eye.' By the way, the Rheidol is not wholly without its folklore, for I used to be told in my childhood, that she and the Wye and the Severn sallied forth simultaneously from Plinlimmon one fine morning to run a race to the sea. The result was, one was told, that the Rheidol won great honour by reaching the sea three weeks before her bigger sisters. Somebody has alluded to the legend in the following lines:-- Tair afon gynt a rifwyd Ar dwyfron Pumlumon lwyd, Hafren a Gwy'n hyfryd ei gwed, A'r Rheidol fawr ei hanrhyded. Three rivers of yore were seen On grey Plinlimmon's breast, Severn, and Wye of pleasant mien, And Rheidol rich in great renown. To return to the Irish legends, I may mention that Eugene O'Curry has a good deal to say of the mysterious nuts and 'the salmon of knowledge,' the partaking of which was synonymous with the acquisition of knowledge and wisdom: see his Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish, ii. 142-4. He gives it as his opinion that Connla's Well was situated somewhere in Lower Ormond; but the locality of this Helicon, with the seven streams of wisdom circulating out of it and back again into it, is more intelligible when regarded as a matter of fairy geography. A portion of the note appended to the foregoing legend by Stokes is in point here: he traces the earliest mention of the nine hazels of wisdom, growing at the heads of the chief rivers of Ireland, to the Dialogue of the Two Sages in the Book of Leinster, fol. 186b, whence he cites the poet Néde mac Adnai saying whence he had come, as follows:--a caillib .i. a nói collaib na Segsa ... a caillib didiu assa mbenaiter clessa na súad tanacsa, 'from hazels, to wit, from the nine hazels of the Segais ... from hazels out of which are obtained the feats of the sages, I have come.' The relevancy of this passage will be seen when I add, that Segais was one of the names of the mound in which the Boyne rises; so it may be safely inferred that Bóand's transgression was of the same nature as that of Sinand, to wit, that of intruding on sacred ground in quest of wisdom and inspiration which was not permitted their sex: certain sources of knowledge, certain quellen, were reserved for men alone. Before I have done with the Irish instances I must append one in the form it was told me in the summer of 1894: I was in Meath and went to see the remarkable chambered cairns on the hill known as Sliabh na Caillighe, 'the Hag's Mountain,' near Oldcastle and Lough Crew. I had as my guide a young shepherd whom I picked up on the way. He knew all about the hag after whom the hill was called except her name: she was, he said, a giantess, and so she brought there, in three apronfuls, the stones forming the three principal cairns. As to the cairn on the hill point known as Belrath, that is called the Chair Cairn from a big stone placed there by the hag to serve as her seat when she wished to have a quiet look on the country round. But usually she was to be seen riding on a wonderful pony she had: that creature was so nimble and strong that it used to take the hag at a leap from one hill-top to another. However, the end of it all was that the hag rode so hard that the pony fell down, and that both horse and rider were killed. The hag appears to have been Cailleach Bhéara, or Caillech Bérre, 'the Old Woman of Beare,' that is, Bearhaven, in County Cork [183]. Now the view from the Hag's Mountain is very extensive, and I asked the shepherd to point out some places in the distance. Among other things we could see Lough Ramor, which he called the Virginia Water, and more to the west he identified Lough Sheelin, about which he had the following legend to tell:--A long, long time ago there was no lake there, but only a well with a flagstone kept over it, and everybody would put the flag back after taking water out of the well. But one day a woman who fetched water from it forgot to replace the stone, and the water burst forth in pursuit of the luckless woman, who fled as hard as she could before the angry flood. She continued until she had run about seven miles--the estimated length of the lake at the present day. Now at this point a man, who was busily mowing hay in the field through which she was running, saw what was happening and mowed the woman down with his scythe, whereupon the water advanced no further. Such was the shepherd's yarn, which partly agrees with the Boyne and Shannon stories in that the woman was pursued by the water, which only stopped where she died. On the other hand, it resembles the Llyn Llech Owen legend and that of Lough Neagh in placing to the woman's charge only the neglect to cover the well. It looks as if we had in these stories a confusion of two different institutions, one being a well of wisdom which no woman durst visit without fatal vengeance overtaking her, and the other a fairy well which was attended to by a woman who was to keep it covered, and who may, perhaps, be regarded as priestess of the spring. If we try to interpret the Cantre'r Gwaelod story from these two points of view we have to note the following matters:--Though it is not said that the moruin, or damsel, had a lid or cover on the well, the word golligaut or helligaut, 'did let run,' implies some such an idea as that of a lid or door; for opening the sluices, in the sense of the later version, seems to me out of the question. In two of the Englynion she is cursed for the action implied, and if she was the well minister or well servant, as I take finaun wenestir to mean, we might perhaps regard her as the priestess of that spring. On the other hand, the prevailing note in the other Englynion is the traha, 'presumption, arrogance, insolence, pride,' which forms the burden of four out of five of them. This would seem to point to an attitude on the part of the damsel resembling that of Bóand or Sinand when prying into the secrets of wells which were tabu to them. The seventh Englyn alludes to wines, and its burden is gormod, 'too much, excess, extravagance,' whereby the poet seems to lend countenance to some such a later story as that of Seithennin's intemperance. Lastly, the question of priest or priestess of a sacred well has been alluded to once or twice, and it may be perhaps illustrated on Welsh ground by the history of Ffynnon Eilian, or St. Elian's Well, which has been mentioned in another context, p. 357 above. Of that well we read as follows, s. v. Llandrillo, in the third edition of Lewis' Topographical Dictionary of Wales:--'Fynnon Elian, ... even in the present age, is frequently visited by the superstitious, for the purpose of invoking curses upon the heads of those who have grievously offended them, and also of supplicating prosperity to themselves; but the numbers are evidently decreasing. The ceremony is performed by the applicant standing upon a certain spot near the well, whilst the owner of it reads a few passages of the sacred Scriptures, and then, taking a small quantity of water, gives it to the former to drink, and throws the residue over his head, which is repeated three times, the party continuing to mutter imprecations in whatever terms his vengeance may dictate.' Rice Rees, in his Essay on the Welsh Saints (London, 1836), p. 267, speaks of St. Elian as follows: 'Miraculous cures were lately supposed to be performed at his shrine at Llanelian, Anglesey; and near to the church of Llanelian, Denbighshire, is a well called Ffynnon Elian, which is thought by the peasantry of the neighbourhood to be endued with miraculous powers even at present.' Foulkes, s. v. Elian, in his Enwogion Cymru, published in Liverpool in 1870, expresses the opinion that the visits of the superstitious to the well had ceased for some time. The last person supposed to have had charge of the well was a certain John Evans, but some of the most amusing stories of the shrewdness of the caretaker refer to a woman who had charge of the well before Evans' time. A series of articles on Ffynnon Eilian appeared in 1861 in a Welsh periodical called Y Nofelyd, printed by Mr. Aubrey at Llanerch y Med, in Anglesey. The articles in question were afterwards published, I am told, as a shilling book, which I have not seen, and they dealt with the superstition, with the history of John Evans, and with his confessions and conversion. I have searched in vain for any account in Welsh of the ritual followed at the well. When Mrs. Silvan Evans visited the place, the person in charge of the well was a woman, and Peter Roberts, in his Cambrian Popular Antiquities, published in London in 1815, alludes to her or a predecessor of hers in the following terms, p. 246:--'Near the Well resided some worthless and infamous wretch, who officiated as priestess.' He furthermore gives one to understand that she kept a book in which she registered the name of each evil wisher for a trifling sum of money. When this had been done, a pin was dropped into the well in the name of the victim. This proceeding looks adequate from the magical point of view, though less complicated than the ritual indicated by Lewis. This latter writer calls the person who took charge of the well the owner; and I have always understood that, whether owner or not, he or she used to receive gifts, not only for placing in the well the names of men who were to be cursed, but also from those men for taking their names out again, so as to relieve them from the malediction. In fact, the trade in curses seems to have been a very thriving one: its influence was powerful and widespread. Here there is, I think, very little doubt that the owner or guardian of the well was, so to say, the representative of an ancient priesthood of the well. That priesthood dated its origin probably many centuries before a Christian church was built near the well, and coming down to later times we have unfortunately no sufficient data to show how the right to such priesthood was acquired, whether by inheritance or otherwise; but we know that a woman might have charge of St. Elian's Well. Let me cite another instance, which I unexpectedly discovered some years ago in the course of a ramble in quest of early inscriptions. Among other places which I visited was Llandeilo Llwydarth, near Maen Clochog, in the northern part of Pembrokeshire. This is one of the many churches bearing the name of St. Teilo in South Wales: the building is in ruins, but the churchyard is still used, and contains two of the most ancient post-Roman inscriptions in the Principality. If you ask now for 'Llandeilo' in this district, you will be understood to be inquiring after the farm house of that name, close to the old church; and I learnt from the landlady that her family had been there for many generations, though they have not very long been the proprietors of the land. She also told me of St. Teilo's Well, a little above the house: she added that it was considered to have the property of curing the whooping-cough. I asked if there was any rite or ceremony necessary to be performed in order to derive benefit from the water. Certainly, I was told: the water must be lifted out of the well and given to the patient to drink by some member of the family. To be more accurate, I ought to say that this must be done by somebody born in the house. Her eldest son, however, had told me previously, when I was busy with the inscriptions, that the water must be given to the patient by the heir, not by anybody else. Then came my question how the water was lifted, or out of what the patient had to drink, to which I was answered that it was out of the skull. 'What skull?' said I. 'St. Teilo's skull,' was the answer. 'Where do you get the saint's skull?' I asked. 'Here it is,' was the answer, and I was given it to handle and examine. I know next to nothing about skulls; but it struck me that it was the upper portion of a thick, strong skull, and it called to my mind the story of the three churches which contended for the saint's corpse. That story will be found in the Book of Llan Dâv, pp. 116-7, and according to it the contest became so keen that it had to be settled by prayer and fasting. So, in the morning, lo and behold! there were three corpses of St. Teilo--not simply one--and so like were they in features and stature that nobody could tell which were the corpses made to order and which the old one. I should have guessed that the skull which I saw belonged to the former description, as not having been much thinned by the owner's use of it; but this I am forbidden to do by the fact that, according to the legend, this particular Llandeilo was not one of the three contending churches which bore away in triumph a dead Teilo each. The reader, perhaps, would like to take another view, namely, that the story has been edited in such a way as to reduce a larger number of Teilos to three, in order to gratify the Welsh weakness for triads. Since my visit to the neighbourhood I have been favoured with an account of the well as it is now current there. My informant is Mr. Benjamin Gibby of Llangolman Mill, who writes mentioning, among other things, that the people around call the well Ffynnon yr Ychen, or the Oxen's Well, and that the family owning and occupying the farm house of Llandeilo have been there for centuries. Their name, which is Melchior (pronounced Melshor), is by no means a common one in the Principality, so far as I know; but, whatever may be its history in Wales, the bearers of it are excellent Kymry. Mr. Gibby informs me that the current story solves the difficulty as to the saint's skull as follows:--The saint had a favourite maid servant from the Pembrokeshire Llandeilo: she was a beautiful woman, and had the privilege of attending on the saint when he was on his death-bed. As his end was approaching he gave his maid a strict and solemn command that in a year's time from the day of his burial at Llandeilo Fawr, in Carmarthenshire, she was to take his skull to the other Llandeilo, and to leave it there to be a blessing to coming generations of men, who, when ailing, would have their health restored by drinking water out of it. So the belief prevailed that to drink out of the skull some of the water of Teilo's Well ensured health, especially against the whooping-cough. The faith of some of those who used to visit the well was so great in its efficacy, that they were wont to leave it, he says, with their constitutions wonderfully improved; and he mentions a story related to him by an old neighbour, Stifyn Ifan, who has been dead for some years, to the effect that a carriage, drawn by four horses, came once, more than half a century ago, to Llandeilo. It was full of invalids coming from Pen Clawd, in Gower, Glamorganshire, to try the water of the well. They returned, however, no better than they came; for though they had drunk of the well, they had neglected to do so out of the skull. This was afterwards pointed out to them by somebody, and they resolved to make the long journey to the well again. This time they did the right thing, we are told, and departed in excellent health. Such are the contents of Mr. Gibby's Welsh letter; and I would now only point out that we have here an instance of a well which was probably sacred before the time of St. Teilo: in fact, one would possibly be right in supposing that the sanctity of the well and its immediate surroundings was one of the causes why the site was chosen by a Christian missionary. But consider for a moment what has happened: the well paganism has annexed the saint, and established a belief ascribing to him the skull used in the well ritual. The landlady and her family, it is true, neither believe in the efficacy of the well, nor take gifts from those who visit the well; but they continue, out of kindness, as they put it, to hand the skull full of water to any one who perseveres in believing in it. In other words, the faith in the well continues in a measure intact, while the walls of the church have long fallen into utter decay. Such is the great persistence of some primitive beliefs; and in this particular instance we have a succession which seems to point unmistakably to an ancient priesthood of a sacred spring. NOTES [1] As to the spelling of Welsh names, it may be pointed out for the benefit of English readers that Welsh f has the sound of English v, while the sound of English f is written ff (and ph) in Welsh, and however strange it may seem to them that the written f should be sounded v, it is borrowed from an old English alphabet which did so likewise more or less systematically. Th in such English words as thin and breath is written th, but the soft sound as in this and breathe is usually printed in Welsh dd and written in modern Welsh manuscript sometimes like a small Greek delta: this will be found represented by d in the Welsh extracts edited by me in this volume.--J. R. [2] 'Blaensawde, or the upper end of the river Sawde, is situate about three-quarters of a mile south-east from the village of Llandeusant. It gives its name to one of the hamlets of that parish. The Sawde has its source in Llyn y Fan Fach, which is nearly two miles distant from Blaensawde House.' [3] The rendering might be more correctly given thus: 'O thou of the crimped bread, it is not easy to catch me.'--J. R. [4] 'Mydfai parish was, in former times, celebrated for its fair maidens, but whether they were descendants of the Lady of the Lake or otherwise cannot be determined. An old pennill records the fact of their beauty thus:-- Mae eira gwyn Ar ben y bryn, A'r glasgoed yn y Ferdre, Mae bedw mân Ynghoed Cwm-brân, A merched glân yn Mydfe. Which may be translated, There is white snow On the mountain's brow, And greenwood at the Verdre, Young birch so good In Cwm-brân wood, And lovely girls in Mydfe.' [5] Similarly this should be rendered: 'O thou of the moist bread, I will not have thee.'--J. R. [6] In the best Demetian Welsh this word would be hwedel, and in the Gwentian of Glamorgan it is gwedel, mutated wedel, as may be heard in the neighbourhood of Bridgend.--J. R. [7] This is not generally accepted, as some Welsh antiquarians find reasons to believe that Dafyd ap Gwilym was buried at Strata Florida.--J. R. [8] This is not quite correct, as I believe that Dr. C. Rice Williams, who lives at Aberystwyth, is one of the Medygon. That means the year 1881, when this chapter was written, excepting the portions concerning which the reader is apprised of a later date.--J. R. [9] Later it will be seen that the triban in the above form was meant for neither of the two lakes, though it would seem to have adapted itself to several. In the case of the Fan Fach Lake the town meant must have been Carmarthen, and the couplet probably ran thus: Os na cha'i lonyd yn ym lle, Fi foda dre' Garfyrdin. [10] Llwch is the Goidelic word loch borrowed, and Llyn Cwm y Llwch literally means the Lake of the Loch Dingle. [11] I make no attempt to translate these lines, but I find that Mr. Llewellyn Williams has found a still more obscure version of them, as follows:-- Prw med, prw med, prw'r gwartheg i dre', Prw milfach a malfach, pedair llualfach, Llualfach ac Acli, pedair lafi, Lafi a chromwen, pedair nepwen, Nepwen drwynog, brech yn llyn a gwaun dodyn, Tair bryncethin, tair cyffredin, Tair caseg du, draw yn yr eithin; Dewch i gyd i lys y brenin. [12] The Ty-fry is a house said to be some 200 years old, and situated about two miles from Rhonda Fechan: more exactly it is about one-fourth of a mile from the station of Ystrad Rhonda, and stands at the foot of Mynyd yr Eglwys on the Treorky side. It is now surrounded by the cottages of colliers, one of whom occupies it. For this information I have to thank Mr. Probert Evans. [13] It is to be borne in mind that the sound of h is uncertain in Glamorgan pronunciation, whether the language used is Welsh or English. The pronunciation indicated, however, by Mr. Evans comes near enough to the authentic form written Elfarch. [14] In the Snowdon district of Gwyned the call is drwi, drwi, drw-i bach, while in North Cardiganshire it is trwi, trwi, trw-e fach, also pronounced sometimes with a surd r, produced by making the breath cause both lips to vibrate--tR'wi, tR'wi, which can hardly be distinguished from pR'wi, pR'wi. For the more forcibly the lips are vibrated the more difficult it becomes to start by closing them to pronounce p: so the tendency with R' is to make the preceding consonant into some kind of a t. [15] This is the Welsh form of the borrowed name Jane, and its pronunciation in North Cardiganshire is Siân, with si pronounced approximately like the ti of such French words as nation and the like; but of late years I find the si made into English sh under the influence, probably, to some extent of the English taught at school. This happens in North Wales, even in districts where there are still plenty of people who cannot approach the English words fish and shilling nearer than fiss and silling. Siôn and Siân represent an old importation of English John and Jane, but they are now considered old-fashioned and superseded by John and Jane, which I learned to pronounce Dsiòn and Dsiên, except that Siôn survives as a family name, written Shone, in the neighbourhood of Wrexham. [16] This term dafad (or dafaden), 'a sheep,' also used for 'a wart,' and dafad (or dafaden) wyllt, literally 'a wild sheep,' for cancer or epithelioma, raises a question which I am quite unable to answer: why should a wart have been likened to a sheep? [17] The name is probably a shortening of Cawellyn, and that perhaps of Cawell-lyn, 'Creel or Basket Lake.' Its old name is said to have been Llyn Tardenni. [18] Tyn is a shortening of tydyn, which is not quite forgotten in the case of Tyn Gadlas or Tyn Siarlas (for Tydyn Siarlys), 'Charles' Tenement,' in the immediate neighbourhood. Similarly the Anglesey Farm of Tyn yr Onnen used at one time to be Tydyn yr Onnen in the books of Jesus College, Oxford, to which it belongs. [19] That is the pronunciation which I have learnt at Llanberis, but there is another, which I have also heard, namely Derwenyd. [20] Ystrad is the Welsh corresponding to Scotch strath, and it is nearly related to the English word strand. It means the flat land near a river. [21] Betws (or Bettws) Garmon seems to mean Germanus's Bede-hus or House of Prayer, but Garmon can hardly have come down in Welsh from the time of the famous saint in the fifth century, as it would then have probably yielded Gerfon and not Garmon: it looks as if it had come through the Goidelic of this country. [22] One of the rare merits of our Welsh bards is their habit of assuming permanent noms de plume, by means of which they prevent a number of excellent native names from falling into utter oblivion in the general chaos of Anglo-Hebrew ones, such as Jones, Davies, and Williams, which cover the Principality. Welsh place-names have similarly been threatened by Hebrew names of chapels, such as Bethesda, Rehoboth, and Jerusalem, but in this direction the Jewish mania has only here and there effected permanent mischief. [23] The Brython was a valuable Welsh periodical published by Mr. Robert Isaac Jones, at Tremadoc, in the years 1858-1863, and edited by the Rev. Chancellor Silvan Evans, who was then the curate of Llangïan in Lleyn: in fact he was curate for fourteen years! His excellent work in editing the Brython earned for him his diocesan's displeasure, but it is easier to imagine than to describe how hard it was for him to resign the honorarium of £24 derived from the Brython when his stipend as a clergyman was only £92, at the same time that he had dependent on him a wife and six children. However much some people affect to laugh at the revival of the national spirit in Wales, we have, I think, got so far as to make it, for some time to come, impossible for a Welsh clergyman to be snubbed on account of his literary tastes or his delight in the archæology of his country. [24] This parish is called after a saint named Tegái or Tygái, like Tyfaelog and Tysilio, and though the accent rests on the final syllable nothing could prevent the grammarian Huw Tegai and his friends from making it into Tégai in Huw's name. [25] For can they now usually put Ann, and Mr. Hughes remembers hearing it so many years ago. [26] I remember seeing a similar mound at Llanfyrnach, in Pembrokeshire; and the last use made of the hollow on the top of this also is supposed to have been for cock-fights. [27] My attention has also been called to freit, frete, freet, fret, 'news, inquiry, augury,' corresponding to Anglo-Saxon freht, 'divination.' But the disparity of meaning seems to stand in the way of our ffrit being referred to this origin. [28] The Oxford Mabinogion, p. 63; Guest, iii. 223. [29] See the Itinerarium Kambriæ, i. 2 (pp. 33-5), and Celtic Britain, p. 64. [30] As for example in the Archæologia Cambrensis for 1870, pp. 192-8; see also 1872, pp. 146-8. [31] Howells has also an account of Llyn Savadhan, as he writes it: see his Cambrian Superstitions, pp. 100-2, where he quaintly says that the story of the wickedness of the ancient lord of Syfadon is assigned as the reason why 'the superstitious little river Lewenny will not mix its water with that of the lake.' Lewenny is a reckless improvement of Mapes' Leueni (printed Lenem); and Giraldus' Clamosum implies an old spelling Llefni, pronounced the same as the later spelling Llyfni, which is now made into Llynfi or Llynvi: the river so called flows through the lake and into the Wye at Glasbury. As to Safadan or Syfadon, it is probably of Goidelic origin, and to be identified with such an Irish name as the feminine Samthann: see Dec. 19 in the Martyrologies. To keep within our data, we are at liberty to suppose that this was the name of the wicked princess in the story, and that she was the ancestress of a clan once powerful on and around the lake, which lies within a Goidelic area indicated by its Ogam inscriptions. [32] These were held, so far as I can gather from the descriptions usually given of them, exactly as I have seen a kermess or kirchmesse celebrated at Heidelberg, or rather the village over the Neckar opposite that town. It was in 1869, but I forget what saint it was with whose name the kermess was supposed to be connected: the chief features of it were dancing and beer drinking. It was by no means unusual for a Welsh Gwyl Fabsant to bring together to a rural neighbourhood far more people than could readily be accommodated; and in Carnarvonshire a hurriedly improvised bed is to this day called gwely g'l'absant, as it were 'a bed (for the time) of a saint's festival.' Rightly or wrongly the belief lingers that these merry gatherings were characterized by no little immorality, which made the better class of people set their faces against them. [33] Since the editing of this volume was begun I have heard that it is intended to publish the Welsh collection which Mr. Jones has made: so I shall only give a translation of the Edward Llwyd version of the afanc story: see section v. of this chapter. [34] This word is not in Welsh dictionaries, but it is Scotch and Manx Gaelic, and is possibly a remnant of the Goidelic once spoken in Gwyned. [35] Our charlatans never leave off trying to make this into Tryfaen so as to extract maen, 'stone,' from it. They do not trouble themselves to find out whether it ever was Tryfaen or not: in fact they rather like altering everything as much as they can. [36] Ystrádllyn, with the accent on the penult, is commonly pronounced Strállyn, and means 'the strand of the lake,' and the hollow is named after it Cwm Strállyn, and the lake in it Llyn Cwm Strállyn, which literally means 'the Lake of the Combe of the Strand of the Lake'--all seemingly for the luxury of forgetting the original name of the lake, which I have never been able to ascertain. [37] So Mr. Jones puts it: I have never heard of any other part of the Principality where the children are usually baptized before they are eight days old. [38] I cannot account for this spelling, but the ll in Bellis is English ll, not the Welsh ll, which represents a sound very different from that of l. [39] Where not stated otherwise, as in this instance, the reader is to regard this chapter as written in the latter part of the year 1881. [40] See Giraldus' Itinerarium Kambriæ, i. 8 (pp. 75-8); some discussion of the whole story will be found in chapter iii of this volume. [41] Dr. Moore explains this to be cabbages and potatoes, pounded and mixed with butter or lard. [42] It would be interesting to know what has become of this letter and others of Llwyd's once in the possession of the canon, for it is not to be supposed that the latter ever took the trouble to make an accurate copy of them any more than he did of any other MSS. [43] There is also a Sarn yr Afanc, 'the Afanc's Stepping Stones,' on the Ogwen river in Nant Ffrancon: see Pennant's Tours in Wales, iii. 101. [44] The oxen should accordingly have been called Ychain Pannog; but the explanation is not to be taken seriously. These oxen will come under the reader's notice again, to wit in chapter x. [45] The lines are copied exactly as given at p. 189 (I. vi. 25-30) of The Poetical Works of Lewis Glyn Cothi, edited for the Cymmrodorion by Gwallter Mechain and Tegid, and printed at Oxford in the year 1837. [46] This, I should say, must be a mistake, as it contradicts all the folklore which makes the rowan an object of dread to the fairies. [47] See Choice Notes from 'Notes and Queries' (London, 1859), p. 147. [48] It is more likely that it is a shortening of Llyn y Barfog, meaning the Lake of the Bearded One, Lacus Barbati as it were, the Bearded One being somebody like the hairy monster of another lake mentioned at p. 18 above, or him of the white beard pictured at p. 127. [49] So far from afanc meaning a crocodile, an afanc is represented in the story of Peredur as a creature that would cast at every comer a poisoned spear from behind a pillar standing at the mouth of the cave inhabited by it; see the Oxford Mabinogion, p. 224. The corresponding Irish word is abhac, which according to O'Reilly means 'a dwarf, pigmy, manikin; a sprite.' [50] I should not like to vouch for the accuracy of Mr. Pughe's rendering of this and the other Welsh names which he has introduced: that involves difficult questions. [51] The writer meant the river known as Dyfi or Dovey; but he would seem to have had a water etymology on the brain. [52] This involves the name of the river called Disynni, and Diswnwy embodies a popular etymology which is not worth discussing. [53] It would, I think, be a little nearer the mark as follows:-- Come thou, Einion's Yellow One, Stray-horns, the Particoloured Lake Cow, And the Hornless Dodin: Arise, come home. But one would like to know whether Dodin ought not rather to be written Dodyn, to rhyme with Llyn. [54] Hywel's real name is William Davies, Tal y Bont, Cardiganshire. As adjudicator I became acquainted with several stories which Mr. Davies has since given me permission to use, and I have to thank him for clues to several others. [55] Or Llech y Deri, as Mr. Williams tells me in a letter, where he adds that he does not know the place, but that he took it to be in the Hundred of Cemmes, in North-west Pembrokeshire. I take Llech y Derwyd to be fictitious; but I have not succeeded in finding any place called by the other name either. [56] Perhaps the more usual thing is for the man returning from Faery to fall into dust on the spot: see later in this chapter the Curse of Pantannas, which ends with an instance in point, and compare Howells, pp. 142, 146. [57] B. Davies, that is, Benjamin Davies, who gives this tale, was, as I learn from Gwynionyd, a native of Cenarth. He was a schoolmaster for about twelve years, and died in October, 1859, at Merthyr, near Carmarthen: he describes him as a good and intelligent man. [58] This is ordinarily written Cenarth, the name of a parish on the Teifi, where the three counties of Cardigan, Pembroke, and Carmarthen meet. [59] The name Llan Dydoch occurs in the Bruts, A.D. 987 and 1089, and is the one still in use in Welsh; but the English St. Dogmael's shows that it is derived from that of Dogfael's name when the mutation consonant f or v was still written m. In Welsh the name of the saint has been worn down to Dogwel, as in St. Dogwell's near Fishguard, and Llandogwel in Llanrhudlad parish in Anglesey: see Reece's Welsh Saints, p. 211. It points back to an early Brythonic form Doco-maglos, with doco of the same origin as Latin dux, ducis, 'a leader,' and maglo-s = Irish mal, 'a lord or prince.' Dogfael's name assumes in Llan Dydoch a Goidelic form, for Dog-fael would have to become in Irish Doch-mhal, which, cut down to Doch with the honorific prefix to, has yielded Ty-doch; but I am not clear why it is not Ty-doch. Another instance of a Goidelic form of a name having the local preference in Wales to this day offers itself in Cyfelach and Llan Gyfelach in Glamorganshire. The Welsh was formerly Cimeliauc (Reece, p. 274). Here may also be mentioned St. Cyngar, otherwise called Docwinnus (Reece, p. 183), but the name occurs in the Liber Landavensis in the genitive both as Docunn-i and Docguinni, the former of which seems easily explained as Goidelic for an early form of Cyngar, namely Cuno-caros, from which would be formed To-chun or Do-chun. This is what seems to underlie the Latin Docunnus, while Docguinni is possibly a Goidelic modification of the written Docunni, unless some such a name as Doco-vindo-s has been confounded with Docunnus. In one instance the Book of Llan Dâv has instead of Abbas Docunni or Docguinni, the shorter designation, Abbas Dochou (p. 145), which one must not unhesitatingly treat as Dochon, seeing that Dochou would be in later book Welsh Dochau, and in the dialect of the district Docha; and that this occurs in the name of the church of Llandough near Cardiff, and Llandough near Cowbridge. The connexion of a certain saint Dochdwy with these churches does not appear at all satisfactorily established, but more light is required to help one to understand these and similar church names. [60] This name which may have come from Little England below Wales, was once not uncommon in South Cardiganshire, as Mr. Williams informs me, but it is now mostly changed as a surname into Davies and Jones! Compare the similar fortunes of the name Mason mentioned above, p. 68. [61] I have not succeeded in discovering who the writer was, who used this name. [62] This name as it is now written should mean 'the Gold's Foot,' but in the Demetian dialect aur is pronounced oer, and I learn from the rector, the Rev. Rhys Jones Lloyd, that the name has sometimes been written Tref Deyrn, which I regard as some etymologist's futile attempt to explain it. More importance is to be attached to the name on the communion cup, dating 1828, and reading, as Mr. Lloyd kindly informs me, Poculum Eclyseye de Tre-droyre. Beneath Droyre some personal name possibly lies concealed. [63] Y Ferch o Gefn Ydfa ('The Maid of Cefn Ydfa'), by Isaac Craigfryn Hughes, published by Messrs. Daniel Owen, Howell & Co., Cardiff, 1881. [64] In a letter dated February 9, 1899, he states, however, that as regards folklore the death of his father at the age of seventy-six, in the year 1889, had been a great loss to him; for he adds that he was perfectly familiar with the traditions of the neighbourhood and had associated with older men. Among the latter he had been used to talk with an old man whose father remembered Cromwell passing on his way to destroy the Iron Works of Pant y Gwaith, where the Cavaliers had had a cannon cast, which was afterwards used in the engagement at St. Fagan's. [65] This term is sometimes represented as being Bendith eu Mamau, 'their Mother's Blessing,' as if each fairy were such a delightful offspring as to constitute himself or herself a blessing to his or her mother; but I have not found satisfactory evidence to the currency of Bendith eu Mamau, or, as it would be pronounced in Glamorgan, Béndith i Máma. On the whole, therefore, perhaps one may regard the name as pointing back to the Celtic goddesses known in Gaul in Roman times as the Mothers. [66] On Pen Craig Daf Mr. Hughes gives the following note:--It was the residence of Dafyd Morgan or 'Counsellor Morgan,' who, he says, was executed on Kennington Common for taking the side of the Pretender. He had retreated to Pen y Graig, where his abode was, in order to conceal himself; but he was discovered and carried away at night. Here follows a verse from an old ballad about him:-- Dafyd Morgan ffel a ffol, Taffy Morgan, sly and daft, Fe aeth yn ol ei hyder: He did his bent go after: Fe neidod naid at rebel haid He leaped a leap to a rebel swarm, Pan drod o blaid Pretender. To arm for a Pretender. [67] A tòn is any green field that is used for grazing and not meant to be mown, land which has, as it were, its skin of grassy turf unbroken for years by the plough. [68] On this Mr. Hughes has a note to the effect that the whole of one milking used to be given in Glamorgan to workmen for assistance at the harvest or other work, and that it was not unfrequently enough for the making of two cheeses. [69] Since this was first printed I have learnt from Mr. Hughes that the first cry issued from the Black Cauldron in the Taff (o'r Gerwyn Du ar Daf), which I take to be a pool in that river. [70] The Fan is the highest mountain in the parish of Merthyr Tydfil, Mr. Hughes tells me: he adds that there was on its side once a chapel with a burial ground. Its history seems to be lost, but human bones have, as he states, been frequently found there. [71] The above, I am sorry to say, is not the only instance of this nasty trick associating itself with Gwent, as will be seen from the story of Bwca'r Trwyn in chapter x. [72] This chapter, except where a later date is suggested, may be regarded as written in the summer of 1883. [73] Trefriw means the town of the slope or hillside, and stands for Tref y Riw, not tref y Rhiw, which would have yielded Treffriw, for there is a tendency in Gwyned to make the mutation after the definite article conform to the general rule, and to say y law, 'the hand,' and y raw, 'the spade,' instead of what would be in books y llaw and y rhaw from yr llaw and yr rhaw. [74] Why the writer spells the name Criccieth in this way I cannot tell, except that he was more or less under the influence of the more intelligible spelling Crugcaith, as where Lewis Glyn Cothi. I. xxiv, sang Rhys ab Sion â'r hysbys iaith, Gwr yw acw o Grugcaith. This spelling postulates the interpretation Crug-Caith, earlier Crug y Ceith, 'the mound or barrow of the captives,' in reference to some forgotten interment; but when the accent receded to the first syllable the second was slurred almost out of recognition, so that Crug-ceith, or Cruc-ceith, became Crúceth, whence Crúcieth and Cricieth. The Bruts have Crugyeith the only time it occurs, and the Record of Carnarvon (several times) Krukyth. [75] Out of excessive fondness for our Arthur English people translate this name into Arthur's Seat instead of Idris' Seat; but Idris was also somebody: he was a giant with a liking for the study of the stars. But let that be: I wish to say a word concerning his name: Idris may be explained as meaning 'War-champion,' or the like; and, phonologically speaking, it comes from Iud-rys, which was made successively into Id-rys, Idris. The syllable iud meant battle or fight, and it undergoes a variety of forms in Welsh names. Thus before n, r, l, and w, it becomes id, as in Idnerth, Idloes, and Idwal, while Iud-hael yields Ithel, whence Ab Ithel, anglicized Bethel. At the end, however, it is yd or ud, as in Gruffud or Gruffyd, from Old Welsh Grippiud, and Maredud or Meredyd for an older Marget-iud. By itself it is possibly the word which the poets write ud, and understand to mean lord; but if these forms are related, it must have originally meant rather a fighter, soldier, or champion. [76] There is a special similarity between this and an Anglesey story given by Howells, p. 138: it consists in the sequence of seeing the fairies dance and finding money left by them. Why was the money left? [77] It was so called by the poet D. ab Gwilym, cxcii. 12, when he sang: I odi ac i luchio To bring snow and drifting flakes Odiar lechwed Moel Eilio. From off Moel Eilio's slope. [78] This is commonly pronounced 'Y Gath Dorwen,' but the people of the neighbourhood wish to explain away a farm name which could, strangely enough, only mean 'the white-bellied cat'; but y Garth Dorwen, 'the white-bellied garth or hill,' is not a very likely name either. [79] The hiring time in Wales is the beginning of winter and of summer; or, as one would say in Welsh, at the Calends of Winter and the Calends of May respectively. In North Cardiganshire the great hiring fair was held at the former date when I was a boy, and so, as I learn from my wife, it was in Carnarvonshire. [80] In a Cornish story mentioned in Choice Notes, p. 77, we have, instead of ointment, simply soap. See also Mrs. Bray's Banks of the Tamar, pp. 174-7, where she alludes to H. Cornelius Agrippa's statement how such ointment used to be made--the reference must, I think, be to his book De Occulta Philosophia Libri III (Paris, 1567), i. 45 (pp. 81-2). [81] See the Mabinogion, pp. 1-2; Evans' Facsimile of the Black Book of Carmarthen, fol. 49b-50a; Rhys' Arthurian Legend, pp. 155-8; Edmund Jones' Spirits in the County of Monmouth, pp. 39, 71, 82; and in this volume, pp. 143, 203, above. I may mention that the Cornish also have had their Cwn Annwn, though the name is a different one, to wit in the phrase, 'the Devil and his Dandy-dogs': see Choice Notes, pp. 78-80. [82] As it stands now this would be unmutated Césel Gýfarch, 'Cyfarch's Nook,' but there never was such a name. There was, however, Elgýfarch or Aelgýfarch and Rhygýfarch, and in such a combination as Césel Elgýfarch there would be every temptation to drop one unaccented el. [83] Owing to some oversight he has 'a clean or a dirty cow' instead of cow-yard or cow-house, as I understand it. [84] Cwta makes cota in the feminine in North Cardiganshire; the word is nevertheless only the English cutty borrowed. Du, 'black,' has corresponding to it in Irish, dubh. So the Welsh word seems to have passed through the stages dyv, dyw, before yw was contracted into û, which was formerly pronounced like French û, as proved by the grammar already mentioned (p. 22) of J. D. Rhys, published in London in 1592; see p. 33, to which my attention has been called by Prof. J. Morris Jones. In Old or pre-Norman Welsh m did duty for m and v, so one detects dyv as dim in a woman's name Penardim, 'she of the very black head'; there was also a Penarwen, 'she of the very blonde head.' The look of Penardim having baffled the redactor of the Branwen, he left the spelling unchanged: see the (Oxford) Mabinogion, p. 26. The same sort of change which produced du has produced cnu, 'a fleece,' as compared with cneifio, 'to fleece'; lluarth, 'a kitchen garden,' as compared with its Irish equivalent lubhghort. Compare also Rhiwabon, locally pronounced Rhuabon, and Rhiwallon, occurring sometimes as Rhuallon. But the most notable rôle of this phonetic process is exemplified by the verbal nouns ending in u, such as caru, 'to love,' credu, 'to believe,' tyngu, 'to swear,' in which the u corresponds to an m termination in Old Irish, as in sechem, 'to follow,' cretem, 'belief,' sessam or sessom, 'to stand.' [85] In medieval Welsh poetry this name was still a dissyllable; but now it is pronounced Llyn, in conformity with the habit of the Gwyndodeg, which makes into porfyd what is written porfeyd, 'pastures,' and pronounced porféid in North Cardiganshire. So in the Lleyn name Sarn Fyllteyrn the second vocable represents Maelteyrn, in the Record of Carnarvon (p. 38) Mayltern: it is now sounded Mylltyrn with the second y short and accented. Lleyn is a plural of the people (genitive Llaën in Porth Dinllaën), used as a singular of their country, like Cymru = Cymry, and Prydyn. The singular is llain, 'a spear,' in the Book of Aneurin: see Skene, ii. 64, 88, 92. [86] It is also called dolur byr, or the 'short disease'; I believe I have been told that it is the disease known to 'the vet.' as anthrax. [87] Here the writer seems to have been puzzled by the mh of Amheirchion, and to have argued back to a radical form Parch; but he was on the wrong tack--Amheirchion comes from Ap-Meirchion, where the p helped to make the m a surd, which, with the syllabic accent on the succeeding vowel, became fixed as mh, while the p disappeared by assimilation. We have, later on, a similar instance in Owen y Mhaxen for Owen Amhacsen = O. ap Macsen. Another instance will be found at the opening of the Mabinogi of Branwen, to wit, in the word prynhawngweith, 'once on an afternoon,' from prynhawn, 'afternoon,' for which our dictionaries substitute prydnawn, with the accent on the ultima, though D. ab Gwilym used pyrnhawn, as in poem xl. 30. But the ordinary pronunciation continues to be prynháwn or pyrnháwn, sometimes reduced in Gwyned to pnawn. Let me add an instance which has reached me since writing the above: In the Archæologia Cambrensis for 1899, pp. 325-6, we have the pedigree of the Ameridiths from the Visitation of Devonshire in 1620: in the course of it one finds that Iuan ap Merydeth has a son Thomas Amerideth, who, knowing probably no Welsh, took to writing his patronymic more nearly as it was pronounced. The line is brought down to Ames Amerideth, who was created baronet in 1639. Amerideth of course = Ap Meredyd, and the present member of the family who writes to the Archæologia Cambrensis spells his patronymic more correctly, Ameridith; but if it had survived in Wales it might have been Amheredyd. For an older instance than any of these see the Book of Taliessin, poem xlix (= Skene, ii. 204), where one reads of Beli Amhanogan, 'B. ab Mynogan.' [88] This is pronounced Rhiwan, though probably made up of Rhiw-wen, for it is the tendency of the Gwyndodeg to convert e and ai of the unaccented ultima into a, and so with e in Glamorgan; see such instances as Cornwan and casag, p. 29 above. It is possibly a tendency inherited from Goidelic, as Irish is found to proceed in the same way. [89] I may mention that some of the Francises of Anglesey are supposed to be descendants of Frazers, who changed their name on finding refuge in the island in the time of the troubles which brought there the ancestor of the Frazer who, from time to time, claims to be the rightful head of the Lovat family. [90] According to old Welsh orthography this would be written Moudin, and in the book Welsh of the present day it would have to become Meudin. Restored, however, to the level of Gallo-Roman names, it would be Mogodunum or Magodunum. The place is known as Castell Moedin, and includes within it the end of a hill about halfway between Llannarth and Lampeter. [91] For other mentions of the colours of fairy dress see pp. 44, 139 above, where red prevails, and contrast the Lake Lady of Llyn Barfog clad in green, p. 145. [92] This name means the Bridge of the Blessed Ford, but how the ford came to be so called I know not. The word bendigaid, 'blessed,' comes from the Latin verb benedico, 'I bless,' and should, but for the objection to nd in book Welsh, be bendigaid, which, in fact, it is approximately in the northern part of the county, where it is colloquially sounded Pont Rhyd Fyndiged, Fydiged, or even Fdiged, also Pont Rhyd mdiged, which represents the result of the unmutated form Bdiged coming directly after the d of rhyd. Somewhat the same is the case with the name of the herb Dail y Fendigaid, literally 'the Leaves of the Blessed' (in the feminine singular without any further indication of the noun to be supplied). This name means, I find, 'hypericum androsæmum, tutsan,' and in North Cardiganshire we call it Dail y Fyndiged or Fdiged, but in Carnarvonshire the adjective is made to qualify dail, so that it sounds Dail Bydigad or Bdigad, 'Blessed Leaves.' [93] I am far from certain what y nos, 'the night,' may mean in such names as this and Craig y Nos, 'the Rock of the Night' (p. 254 above), to which perhaps might be added such an instance as Blaen Nos, 'the Point of (the?) Night,' in the neighbourhood of Llandovery, in Carmarthenshire. Can the allusion be merely to thickly overshadowed spots where the darkness of night might be said to lurk in defiance of the light of day? I have never visited the places in point, and leading questions addressed to local authorities are too apt to elicit misleading answers: the poetic faculty is dangerously rampant in the Principality. [94] Dâr is a Glamorgan pronunciation, metri gratiâ of what is written daear, 'earth': compare d'ar-fochyn in Glamorgan for a badger, literally 'an earth pig.' The dwarf's answer was probably in some sort of verse, with dâr and iâr to rhyme. [95] Applied in Glamorgan to a child that looks poorly and does not grow. [96] In Cardiganshire a conjurer is called dyn hysbys, where hysbys (or, in older orthography, hyspys) means 'informed': it is the man who is informed on matters which are dark to others; but the word is also used of facts--Y mae 'r peth yn hysbys, 'the thing is known or manifest.' The word is divisible into hy-spys, which would be in Irish, had it existed in the language, so-scese for an early su-squestia-s, the related Irish words being ad-chiu, 'I see,' pass. preterite ad-chess, 'was seen,' and the like, in which ci and ces have been equated by Zimmer with the Sanskrit verb caksh, 'to see,' from a root quas. The adjective cynnil applied to the dyn hyspys in Glamorgan means now, as a rule, 'economical' or 'thrifty,' but in this instance it would seem to have signified 'shrewd,' 'cunning,' or 'clever,' though it would probably come nearer the original meaning of the word to render it by 'smart,' for it is in Irish conduail, which is found applied to ingenious work, such as the ornamentation on the hilt of a sword. Another term for a wizard or conjurer is gwr cyfarwyd, with which the reader is already familiar. Here cyfarwyd forms a link with the kyvarwyd of the Mabinogion, where it usually means a professional man, especially one skilled in story and history; and what constituted his knowledge was called kyvarwydyt, which included, among other things, acquaintance with boundaries and pedigrees, but it meant most frequently perhaps story; see the (Oxford) Mabinogion, pp. 5, 61, 72, 93. All these terms should, strictly speaking, have gwr--gwr hyspys, gwr cynnil, and gwr cyfarwyd--but for the fact that modern Welsh tends to restrict gwr to signify 'a husband' or 'a married man,' while dyn, which only signifies a mortal, is made to mean man, and provided with a feminine dynes, 'woman,' unknown to good Welsh literature. Thus the spoken language is in this matter nearly on a level with English and French, which have quite lost the word for vir and anêr. [97] Rhyd y Gloch means 'the Ford of the Bell,' in allusion, as the story goes, to a silver bell that used in former ages to be at Llanwonno Church. The people of Llanfabon took a liking to it, and one night a band of them stole it; but as they were carrying it across the Taff the moon happened to make her appearance suddenly, and they, in their fright, taking it to be sunrise, dropped the bell in the bed of the river, so that nothing has ever been heard of it since. But for ages afterwards, and even at the present day indeed, nothing could rouse the natives of Llanfabon to greater fury than to hear the moon spoken of as haul Llanfabon, 'the sun of Llanfabon.' [98] It was peat fires that were usual in those days even in Glamorgan. [99] See Hartland's Science of Fairy Tales, pp. 112-6. [100] In no other version has Mr. Reynolds heard cwcwll wy iâr, but either plisgyn or cibyn wy iâr, to which I may add masgal from Mr. Craigfryn Hughes' versions. The word cwcwll usually means a cowl, but perhaps it is best here to treat cwcwll as a distinct word derived somehow from conchylium or the French coquille, 'a shell.' [101] The whole passage will be found in the Itinerarium Kambriæ, i. 8 (pp. 75-8), and Giraldus fixes the story a little before his time somewhere in the district around Swansea and Neath. With this agrees closely enough the fact that a second David, Dafyd ab Geralld or David Fitzgerald, appears to have been consecrated Bishop of St. David's in 1147, and to have died in 1176. [102] The words in the original are: Nec carne vescebantur, nec pisce; lacteis plerumque cibariis utentes, et in pultis modum quasi croco confectis. [103] Perhaps it is this also that suggested the name Eliodorus, as it were Hêliodôros; for the original name was probably the medieval Welsh one of Elidyr = Irish Ailithir, ailither, 'a pilgrim': compare the Pembrokeshire name Pergrin and the like. It is curious that Elidyr did not occur to Glasynys and prevent him from substituting Elfod, which is quite another name, and more correctly written Elfod for the earlier El-fodw, found not only as Elbodu but also Elbodug-o, Elbodg, Elbot and Elfod: see p. 117 above. [104] For one or two more instances from Wales see Howells, pp. 54-7. Brittany also is a great country for death portents: see A. Le Braz, Légende de la Mort en Basse-Bretagne (Paris, 1893), also Sébillot's Traditions et Superstitions de la Haute-Bretagne (Paris, 1882), i. pp. 270-1. For Scotland see The Ghost Lights of the West Highlands by Dr. R. C. Maclagan in Folk-Lore for 1897, pp. 203-256, and for the cognate subject of second sight see Dalyell's Darker Superstitions of Scotland, pp. 466-88. [105] Another word for the toeli is given by Silvan Evans as used in certain parts of South Wales, namely, tolaeth or dolath, as to which he mentions the opinion that it is a corruption of tylwyth, a view corroborated by Howells using, p. 31, the plural tyloethod; but it could not be easily explained except as a corruption through the medium of English. Elias Owen, p. 303, uses the word in reference to the hammering and rapping noise attending the joinering of a phantom coffin for a man about to die, a sort of rehearsal well known throughout the Principality to every one who has ears spiritually tuned. Unfortunately I have not yet succeeded in locating the use of the word tolaeth, except that I have been assured by a Carmarthen man that it is current in Welsh there as toleth, and by a native of Pumsant that it is in use from Abergwili up to Llanbumsant. [106] See, for instance, pp. 200, 221, 228. [107] Mrs. Williams-Ellis of Glasfryn writes to me that the place is now called Bwlch Trwyn Swncwl, that it is a gap on the highest part of the road crossing from Llanaelhaearn to Pistyll, and that it is quite a little mountain pass between bleak heather-covered hillsides, in fact a very lonely spot in the outskirts of the Eifl, and with Carnguwch blocking the horizon in the direction of Cardigan Bay. [108] For this I am indebted to Mr. Gwenogvryn Evans' Report on MSS. in the Welsh Language, i. 585 k. The words were written by Williams about the beginning of the seventeenth century, and his û does not mean w. He was, however, probably thinking of cawr, cewri, and such instances as tawaf, 'taceo,' and tau, 'tacet.' At all events there is no trace of u in the local pronunciation of the name Tre'r Ceiri. I have heard it also as Tre' Ceiri without the definite article; but had this been ancient one would expect it softened into Tre' Geiri. [109] See the Oxford Mabinogion, pp. 110, 113, and 27-9, 36-41, 44, also 309, where a Triad explains that the outposts were Anglesey, Man, and Lundy. But the other Triads, i. 3 = iii. 67, make them Orkney, Man, and Wight, for which we have the older authority of Nennius. § 8. The designation Tair Ynys Brydain, 'The Three Isles of Prydain,' was known to the fourteenth-century poet, Iolo Goch: see his works edited by Ashton, p. 669. [110] For Prydyn in the plural see Skene's Four Ancient Books of Wales, ii. 209, also 92, where Pryden is the form used. In modern Welsh the two senses of Cymry are distinguished in writing as Cymry and Cymru, but the difference is merely one of spelling and not very ancient. [111] So Geoffrey (i. 12-15) brings his Trojans on their way to Britain into Aquitania, where they fight with the Pictavienses, whose king he calls Goffarius Pictus. [112] Cadarn and cadr postulate respectively some such early forms as catrno-s and cadro-s, which according to analogy should become cadarn and cadr. Welsh, however, is not fond of dr; so here begins a bifurcation: (1) retaining the d unchanged cadro-s yields cadr, or (2) dr is made into dr, and other changes set in resulting in the ceir of ceiri, as in Welsh aneirif, 'numberless,' from eirif, 'number,' of the same origin as Irish áram from *ad-rim = *ad-rima, and Welsh eiliw, 'species, colour,' for ad-liw, in both of which i follows d combinations; but that is not essential, as shown by cader, cadair, for Old Welsh cateir, 'a chair,' from Latin cat[h]edra. The word that serves as our singular, namely cawr, is far harder to explain; but on the whole I am inclined to regard it as of a different origin, to wit, the Goidelic word caur, 'a giant or hero,' borrowed. The plural cewri or cawri is formed from the singular cawr, which means a giant, though, associated in the plural with ceiri, it has sometimes to follow suit with that vocable in connoting dress. [113] The most important of these are the old Breton kazr, now kaer, 'beautiful or pretty,' and old Cornish caer of the same meaning; elsewhere we have, as in Greek, the Doric kekadmai and kekadmenos, to be found used in reference to excelling or distinguishing one's self; also kosmos, 'good order, ornament,' while in Sanskrit there is the theme çad, 'to excel or surpass.' The old meaning of 'beautiful,' 'decorated,' or 'loudly dressed,' is not yet lost in the case of ceiri. [114] For the text see the Oxford Mabinogion, pp. 193-4, and for comparisons of the incident see Nutt's Holy Grail, p. 154 et seq.; and Rhys' Arthurian Legend, pp. 75-6. A more exact parallel, however, is to be mentioned in the next chapter. [115] This chapter was written mostly in 1891. [116] The spelling there used is phynnodderee, to the perversity of which Cregeen calls attention in his Dictionary. In any case the pronunciation is always approximately fun-ó-dur-i or fun-ód-ri, with the accent on the second syllable. [117] I am inclined to think that the first part of the word fenodyree is not fynney, the Manx word for 'hair,' but the Scandinavian word which survives in the Swedish fjun, 'down.' Thus fjun-hosur (for the fjun-hosa suggested by analogy) would explain the word fenodyree, except its final ee, which is obscure. Compare also the magic breeks called finn-brækr, as to which see Vigfusson's Icelandic Dict. s. v. finnar. [118] Cumming's Isle of Man (London, 1848), p. 30, where he refers his readers to Waldron's Description of the Isle of Man: see pp. 28, 105. [119] See Windisch's Irische Grammatik, p. 120. [120] The Manx word for the rowan tree, incorrectly called a mountain ash, is cuirn, which is in Mod. Irish caorthann, genitive caorthainn, Scotch Gaelic caorunn; but in Welsh books it is cerdin, singular cerdinen, and in the spoken language mostly cerdin, cerding, singular cerdinen, cerdingen. This variation seems to indicate that these words have possibly been borrowed by the Welsh from a Goidelic source; but the berry is known in Wales by the native name of criafol, from which the wood is frequently called, especially in North Wales, coed criafol, singular coeden griafol or pren criafol. The sacredness of the rowan is the key to the proper names Mac-Cáirthinn and Der-Cháirthinn, with which the student of Irish hagiology is familiar. They mean the Son and the Daughter of the Rowan respectively, and the former occurs as Maqui Cairatini on an Ogam inscribed stone recently discovered in Meath, not very far from the Boyne. [121] I am sorry to say that it never occurred to me to ask whether the shooting was done with such modern things as guns. But Mr. Arthur Moore assures me that it is always understood to be bows and arrows, not guns. [122] Edited by Oswald Cockayne for the Master of the Rolls (London, 1864-6): see more especially vol. ii. pp. 156-7, 290-1, 401; vol. iii. pp. 54-5. [123] Mr. Moore is not familiar with this term, but I heard it at Surby, in the south; and I find buidseach and buidseachd given as Highland Gaelic words for a witch and witchcraft respectively. [124] See Stokes' Goidelica, p. 151. [125] This chapter was written in 1891, except the portions of it which refer to later dates indicated. [126] See the Stokes-O'Donovan edition of Cormac (Calcutta, 1868), pp. 19, 23. [127] Sir John Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland, xi. 620; Pennant's Tour in Scotland in 1769 (3rd edition, Warrington, 1774), i. 97, 186, 291; Thomas Stephens' Gododin, pp. 124-6; and Dr. Murray in the New English Dictionary, s. v. Beltane. [128] In my Hibbert Lectures on Celtic Heathendom, pp. 517-21. [129] As to the Thargelia and Delia, see Preller's Griechische Mythologie, i. 260-2, and A. Mommsen's Heortologie, pp. 414-25. [130] See section H of the Report of the Liverpool Meeting of the British Association in 1896, pp. 626-56. [131] It is my impression that it is crowned with a small tumulus, and that it forms the highest ground in Jurby, which was once an island by itself. The one between Ramsey and Bride is also probably the highest point of the range. But these are questions which I should like to see further examined, say by Mr. Arthur Moore or Mr. Kermode. [132] Cronk yn Irree Laa, despite the gender, is the name as pronounced by all Manxmen who have not been misled by antiquarians. To convey the other meaning, referring to the day watch, the name would have to be Cronk ny Harrey Laa; in fact, a part of the Howe in the south of the island is called Cronk ny Harrey, 'the Hill of the Watch.' Mr. Moore tells me that the Jurby cronk was one of the eminences for 'Watch and Ward'; but he is now of opinion that the high mountain of Cronk yn Irree Laa in the south was not. As to the duty of the inhabitants to keep 'Watch and Ward' over the island, see the passage concerning it extracted from the Manx Statutes (vol. i. p. 65) by Mr. Moore in his Manx Surnames, pp. 183-3; also my preface to the same work, pp. v-viii. [133] Quoted from Oliver's Monumenta de Insula Manniæ, vol. i. (Manx Society, vol. iv) p. 84: see also Cumming's Isle of Man, p. 258. [134] See the New English Dictionary, s. v. 'Allhallows.' [135] This comes near the pronunciation usual in Roxburghshire and the south of Scotland generally, which is, as Dr. Murray informs me, Hunganay without the m occurring in the other forms to be mentioned presently. But so far as I have been able to find, the Manx pronunciation is now Hob dy naa, which I have heard in the north, while Hob ju naa is the prevalent form in the south. [136] See my Hibbert Lectures, pp. 514-5; and as to hiring fairs in Wales see pp. 210-2 above. [137] See Robert Bell's Early Ballads (London, 1877), pp. 406-7, where the following is given as sung at Richmond in Yorkshire:-- To-night it is the New-Year's night, to-morrow is the day, And we are come for our right, and for our ray, As we used to do in old King Henry's day. Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh. If you go to the bacon-flick, cut me a good bit; Cut, cut and low, beware of your maw; Cut, cut and round, beware of your thumb, That me and my merry men may have some. Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh. If you go to the black-ark bring me X mark; Ten mark, ten pound, throw it down upon the ground, That me and my merry men may have some. Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh. [138] The subject is worked out in Nicholson's Golspie, pp. 100-8, also in the New English Dictionary, where mention is made of a derivation involving calendæ, which reminds me of the Welsh call for a New-Year's Gift--Calennig! or C'lennig! in Arfon 'Y Ngh'lennig i! 'My Calends gift if you please!' [139] On being asked, after reading this paper to the Folk-Lore Society, who was supposed to make the footmarks in the ashes, I had to confess that I had been careless enough never to have asked the question. I have referred it to Mr. Moore, who informs me that nobody, as I expected, will venture on any explanation by whom the footmarks are made. [140] This seems to imply the application of the same adjective, some time or other, to clean water and a handsome man, just as we speak in North Cardiganshire of dwr glân, 'clean water,' and bachgen glân, 'a handsome boy.' [141] In Phillips' Book of Common Prayer this is called Lá nolick y biggy, 'Little Nativity Day,' and Lá ghian blieny, 'The Day of the Year's End,' meaning, of course, the former end of the year, not the latter: see pp. 55, 62, 66. [142] See my Hibbert Lectures, pp. 514-5, and the Brython, ii. 20, 120: an instance in point occurs in the next chapter. [143] This has been touched upon in my Hibbert Lectures, p. 676; but to the reasons there briefly mentioned should be added a reference to the position allotted to intercalary months in the Norse calendar, namely, at the end of the summer half, that is, as I think, at the end of the ancient Norse year. [144] My paper was read before the Folk-Lore Society in April or May, 1891, and Miss Peacock's notes appeared in the journal of the Society in the following December: see pp. 509-13. [145] See Choice Notes, p. 76. [146] See the third edition of Wm. Nicholson's Poetical Works (Castle-Douglas, 1878), pp. 78, 81. [147] See p. 321 above and the references there given; also Howells' Cambrian Superstitions, p. 58. [148] Pomponius Mela De Chorographia, edited by Parthey, iii, chap. 6 (p. 72); see also my Hibbert Lectures, pp. 195-6, where, however, the identification of the name Sena with that of Sein should be cancelled. Sein seems to be derived from the Breton Seidhun, otherwise modified into Sizun and Sun: see chap. vi below. [149] See my Hibbert Lectures, pp. 195-7; also my Arthurian Legend, pp. 367-8, where a passage in point is cited at length from Plutarch De Defectu Oraculorum, xviii. (= the Didot edition of Plutarch's works, iii. 511); the substance of it will be found given likewise in chap. viii below. [150] For an allusion to the traffic in winds in Wales see Howells, p. 86, where he speaks as follows:--'In Pembrokeshire there was a person commonly known as the cunning man of Pentregethen, who sold winds to the sailors, after the manner of the Lapland witches, and who was reverenced in the neighbourhood in which he dwelt, much more than the divines.' [151] This may turn out to be all wrong; for I learn from the Rev. John Quine, vicar of Malew, in Man, that there is a farm called Balthane or Bolthane south of Ballasalla, and that in the computus (of 1540) of the Abbey Tenants it is called Biulthan. This last, if originally a man's name, would seem to point back to some such a compound as Beo-Ultán. In his Manx Names, p. 138, Mr. Moore suggests the possibility of explaining the name as bwoailtyn, 'folds or pens'; but the accentuation places that out of the question. See also the Lioar Manninagh, iii. 167, where Mr. C. Roeder, referring to the same computus passage, gives the name as Builthan in the boundary inter Cross Jvar Builthan. This would be read by Mr. Quine as inter Cross Ivar et Biulthan, 'between Cross-Ivar and Bolthane.' For the text of the boundary see Johnstone's edition of the Chronicon Manniæ (Copenhagen, 1786), p. 48, and Oliver's Monumenta de Insula Manniæ, vol. i. p. 207; see also Mr. Quine's paper on the Boundary of Abbey Lands in the Lioar Manninagh, iii. 422-3. [152] I say 'approximately,' as, more strictly speaking, the ordinary pronunciation is Sndaen, almost as one syllable, and from this arises a variant, which is sometimes written Stondane, while the latest English development, regardless of the accentuation of the Anglo-Manx form, which is Santon, pronounced Sántn, makes the parish into a St. Ann's! For the evidence that it was the parish of a St. Sanctán see Moore's Names, p. 209. [153] The Athenæum for April 1, 1893, p. 415. I may here remark that Mr. Borlase's note on do fhagaint is, it seems to me, unnecessary: let do fhagaint stand, and translate, not 'I leave' but 'to leave.' The letter should be consulted for curious matter concerning Croagh Patrick, its pagan stations, cup-markings, &c. [154] Since this paper was read to the Folk-Lore Society a good deal of information of one kind or another has appeared in its journal concerning the first-foot: see more especially Folk-Lore for 1892, pp. 253-64, and for 1893, pp. 309-21. [155] This was written at the beginning of the year 1892. [156] With this compare what Mr. Gomme has to say of a New Year's Day custom observed in Lanarkshire: see p. 633 of the Ethnographic Report referred to at p. 103 above, and compare Henderson, p. 74. [157] Old-fashioned grammarians and dictionary makers are always delighted to handle Mrs. Partington's broom: so Kelly thinks he has done a fine thing by printing guee, 'prayer,' and gwee, 'cursing.' [158] This was written at the end of 1892, and read to a joint meeting of the Cymmrodorion and Folk-Lore Societies on January 11, 1893. [159] Some account of them was given by me in Folk-Lore for 1892, p. 380; but somehow or other my contribution was printed unrevised, with results more peculiar than edifying. [160] In Folk-Lore for 1893, pp. 58-9. [161] In the neighbourhood I find that the word gwaeldyn in this verse is sometimes explained to mean not a worthless but an ailing person, on the strength of the fact that the adjective gwael is colloquially used both for vile and for ailing. [162] Since writing the above remarks the following paragraph, purporting to be copied from the Liverpool Mercury for November 18, 1896, appeared in the Archæologia Cambrensis for 1899, p. 334:--'Two new fishes have just been put in the "Sacred Well," Ffynnon y Sant, at Tyn y Ffynnon, in the village of Nant Peris, Llanberis. Invalids in large numbers came, during the last century and the first half of the present century, to this well to drink of its "miraculous waters"; and the oak box, where the contributions of those who visited the spot were kept, is still in its place at the side of the well. There have always been two "sacred fishes" in this well; and there is a tradition in the village to the effect that if one of the Tyn y Ffynnon fishes came out of its hiding-place when an invalid took some of the water for drinking or for bathing purposes, cure was certain; but if the fishes remained in their den, the water would do those who took it no good. Two fishes only are to be put in the well at a time, and they generally live in its waters for about half a century. If one dies before the other, it would be of no use to put in a new fish, for the old fish would not associate with it, and it would die. The experiment has been tried. The last of the two fishes put in the well about fifty years ago died last August. It had been blind for some time previous to its death. When taken out of the water it measured seventeen inches, and was buried in the garden adjoining the well. It is stated in a document of the year 1776 that the parish clerk was to receive the money put in the box of the well by visitors. This money, together with the amount of 6s. 4d., was his annual stipend.' Tyn y Ffynnon means 'the Tenement of the Well,' tyn being a shortened form of tydyn, 'a tenement,'as mentioned at p. 33 above; but the mapsters make it into ty'n = ty yn, 'a house in,' so that the present instance, Ty'n y Ffynnon, could only mean 'the House in the Well,' which, needless to say, it is not. But one would like to know whether the house and land were once held rent-free on condition that the tenant took care of the sacred fish. [163] See Ashton's Iolo Goch, p. 234, and Lewis' Top. Dict. [164] See my Hibbert Lectures, p. 229, and the Iolo MSS., pp. 42-3, 420-1. [165] A curious note bearing on this name occurs in the Jesus College MS. 20 (Cymmrodor, viii. p. 86) in reference to the name Morgannwg, 'Glamorgan':--O enw Morgant vchot y gelwir Morgannwc. Ereill a dyweit. Mae o en&wwelsh; Mochteyrn Predein. 'It is from the name of the above Morgan that Morgannwg is called. Others say that it is from the name of the mochdeyrn of Pictland.' The mochteyrn must have been a Pictish king or mórmáer called Morgan. The name occurs in the charters from the Book of Deer in Stokes' Goidelica. pp. 109, 111, as Morcunt, Morcunn, and Morgunn undeclined, also with Morgainn for genitive; and so in Skene's Chronicles of the Picts and Scots, pp. 77, 317, where it is printed Morgaind; see also Stokes' Tigernach, in the Revue Celtique, xvii. 198. Compare Geoffrey's story, ii. 15, which introduces a northern Marganus to account for the name Margan, now Margam, in Morgannwg. [166] M. Loth's remarks in point will be found in the Revue Celtique, xiii. 496-7, where he compares with tut the Breton teuz, 'lutin, génie malfaisant ou bienfaisant'; and for the successive guesses on the subject of the name Morgan tut one should also consult Zimmer's remarks in Foerster's Introduction to his Erec, pp. xxvii-xxxi, and my Arthurian Legend, p. 391, to which I should add a reference to the Book of Ballymote, fo. 360a, where we have o na bantuathaib, which O'Curry has rendered 'on the part of their Witches' in his Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish, iii. 526-7. Compare dá bhantuathaigh, 'two female sorcerers,' in Joyce's Keating's History of Ireland, pp. 122-3. [167] For all about the Children of Lir, and about Liban and Lough Neagh, see Joyce's Old Celtic Romances, pp. 4-36, 97-105. [168] On my appealing to Cadrawd, one of the later editors, he has found me the exact reference, to wit, volume ix of the Cyfaill (published in 1889), p. 50; and he has since contributed a translation of the story to the columns of the South Wales Daily News for February 15, 1899, where he has also given an account of Crymlyn, which is to be mentioned later. [169] Judging from the three best-known instances, y bala meant the outlet of a lake: I allude to this Bala at the outlet of Llyn Tegid; Pont y Bala, 'the Bridge of the bala,' across the water flowing from the Upper into the Lower Lake at Llanberis; and Bala Deulyn, 'the bala of two lakes,' at Nantlle. Two places called Bryn y Bala are mentioned s. v. Bala in Morris' Celtic Remains, one near Aberystwyth, at a spot which I have never seen, and the other near the lower end of the Lower Lake of Llanberis, as to which it has been suggested to me that it is an error for Bryn y Bela. It is needless to say that bala has nothing to do with the Anglo-Irish bally, of such names as Ballymurphy or Ballynahunt: this vocable is in English bailey, and in South Wales beili, 'a farm yard or enclosure,' all three probably from the late Latin balium or ballium, 'locus palis munitus et circumseptus.' Our etymologists never stop short with bally: they go as far as Balaklava and, probably, Ballarat, to claim cognates for our Bala. [170] Cadrawd here gives the Welsh as '2 bladur ... 2 dyd o wair,' and observes that the lacuna consists of an illegible word of three letters. If that word was either sef, 'that is,' or neu, 'or,' the sense would be as given above. In North Cardiganshire we speak of a day's mowing as gwaith gwr, 'a man's work for a day,' and sometimes of a gwaith gwr bach, 'a man's work for a short day.' [171] See By-Gones for May 24, 1899. The full name of Welshpool in Welsh is Trallwng Llywelyn, so called after a Llywelyn descended from Cuneda, and supposed to have established a religious house there; for there are other Trallwngs, and at first sight it would seem as if Trallwng had something to do with a lake or piece of water. But there is a Trallwng, for instance, near Brecon, where there is no lake to give it the name; and my attention has been called to Thos. Richards' Welsh-English Dictionary, where a trallwng is said to be 'such a soft place on the road (or elsewhere) as travellers may be apt to sink into, a dirty pool.' So the word seems to be partly of the same derivation as go-llwng, 'to let go, to give way.' The form of the word in use now is Trallwm, not Trallwng or Trallwn. [172] See the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 39a-41b and Joyce's Old Celtic Romances, pp. 97-105; but the story may now be consulted in O'Grady's Silva Gadelica, i. 233-7, translated in ii. 265-9. On turning over the leaves of this great collection of Irish lore, I chanced, i. 174, ii. 196, on an allusion to a well which, when uncovered, was about to drown the whole locality but for a miracle performed by St. Patrick to arrest the flow of its waters. A similar story of a well bursting and forming Lough Reagh, in County Galway, will be found told in verse in the Book of Leinster; fo. 202b: see also fo. 170a, and the editor's notes, pp. 45, 53. [173] See Evans' autotype edition of the Black Book of Carmarthen, fos. 53b, 54a, also 32a: the punctuation is that of the MS. In the seventh triplet kedaul is written keadaul, which seems to mean kadaul corrected into kedaul; but the a is not deleted, so other readings are possible. [174] In the Iolo MSS., p. 89, finaun wenestir is made into Ffynon-Wenestr and said to be one of the ornamental epithets of the sea; but I am convinced that it should be rather treated as ffynnon fenestr with wenestir or fenestr mutated from menestr, which meant a servant, attendant, cup-bearer: for one or two instances see Pughe's Dictionary. The word is probably, as suggested by M. Loth in his Mots Latins, p. 186. the old French menestre, 'cup-bearer,' borrowed. Compare the mention of Nechtán's men having access to the secret well in Sid Nechtáin, p. 390 below, and note that they were his three menestres or cup-bearers. [175] See the Cymmrodor, viii. 88 (No. xxix), where a Marereda is mentioned as a daughter of Madog son of Meredyd brother to Rhys Gryg. [176] There is another reading which would make them into Segantii, and render it irrelevant--to say the least of it--to mention them here. [177] See the Mabinogion, p. 35: the passage has been mistranslated in Lady Charlotte Guest's Mabinogion, iii. 117. [178] See my Arthurian Legend, pp. 263-4. [179] I do not profess to see my way through the difficulties which the probable etymological connexion between the names Setantii, Setanta, Seithyn, and Seithennin implies. But parts of the following string of guesses may be found to hold good:--Seithyn is probably more correct than Seithin, as it rhymes with cristin = Cristyn (in Cristynogaeth: see Silvan Evans' Geiriadur, s. v., and Skene's Four Ancient Books, ii. 210); and it might be assumed to be from the same stem as Seizun; but, supposing it to represent an earlier Seithynt, it would equate phonologically with Setanta, better Setinte, of which the genitive Setinti actually occurs, as a river name, in the Book of the Dun Cow, fo. 125b: see my Hibbert Lectures, p. 455, and see also the Revue Celtique, xi. 457. It would mean some such an early form Setntio-s, and Seithenhin, another derivative from the same stem, Setntino-s. But the retention of n before t in Setinte proves it not to be unconnected with Seithyn, but borrowed from some Brythonic dialect when the latter was pronounced Seithntio-s. If this be anywhere nearly right one has to assume that the manuscripts of Ptolemy giving the genitive plural as Setantiôn or Segantiôn should have read Sektantiôn, unless one should rather conjecture Segtantiôn with cht represented by gt as in Ogams in Pembrokeshire: witness Ogtene and Maqui Quegte. This conjecture as to the original reading would suggest that the name was derived from the seventh numeral sechtn, just as that of the Galloway people of the Novantæ seems to be from the ninth numeral. Ptolemy's next entry to the Harbour of the Setantii is the estuary of the Belisama, supposed to be the Mersey; and next comes the estuary of the Seteia or Segeia, supposed to be the Dee. Now the country of the Setantii, when they had a country, may have reached from their harbour near the mouth of the Ribble to the Seteia or the Dee without the name Seteia or Segeia having anything to do with their own, except that it may have influenced the latter in the manuscripts of Ptolemy's text. Then we possibly have a representative of Seteia or Segeia in the Saidi or Seidi, sometimes appended to Seithyn's name. In that case Seithyn Saidi, in the late Triad iii. 37, would mean Seithyn of Seteia, or the Dee. A Mab Saidi occurs in the Kulhwch story (Mabinogion, p. 106), also Cas, son of Saidi (ib. 110); and in Rhonabwy's Dream Kadyrieith, son of Saidi (ib. 160); but the latter vocable is Seidi in Triad ii. 26 (ib. 303). It is to be borne in mind that Ptolemy does not represent the Setantii as a people in his time: he only mentions a harbour called after the Setantii. So it looks as if they then belonged to the past--that in fact they were, as I should put it, a Goidelic people who had been conquered and partly expelled by Brythonic tribes, to wit, by the Brigantes, and also by the Cornavii in case the Setantii had once extended southwards to the Dee. This naturally leads one to think that some of them escaped to places on the coast, such as Dyfed, and that some made for the opposite coast of Ireland, and that, by the time when the Cúchulainn stories came to be edited as we have them, the people in question were known to the redactors of those stories only by the Brythonic form of their name, which underlies that of Setanta Beg, or the Little Setantian. Those of them who found a home on the coast of Cardigan Bay may have brought with them a version of the inundation story with Seithennin, son of Seithyn, as the principal figure in it. So in due time he had to be attached to some royal family, and in the Iolo MSS., pp. 141-2, he is made to descend from a certain Plaws Hen, king of Dyfed, while the saints named as his descendants seem to have belonged chiefly to Gwyned and Powys. [180] See the Professor's Address on the Place of a University in the History of Wales, delivered at Bangor at the opening ceremony of the Session of 1899-1900 (Bangor, 1900), p. 6. The reference to Giraldus is to his Itin. Kambriæ, i. 13 (p. 100), and the Expugnatio Hibernica, i. 36 (p. 284). [181] Instead of 'she followed it' one would have expected 'it followed her'; but the style is very loose and rough. [182] As a 'Cardy' I have here two grievances, one against my Northwalian fellow countrymen, that they insist on writing Rheidiol out of sheer weakness for the semivowel i; and the other against the compilers of school books on geography, who give the lake away to the Wye or the Severn. I am told that this does not matter, as our geographers are notoriously accurate about Natal and other distant lands; so I ought to rest satisfied. [183] Professor Meyer has given a number of extracts concerning her in his notes to his edition of The Vision of Mac Conglinne (London, 1892), pp. 131-4, 208-10, and recently he has published The Song of the Old Woman of Beare in the Otia Merseiana (London, 1899), pp. 119-28, from the Trinity College codex, H. 3, 18, where we are told, among other things, that her name was Digdi, and that she belonged to Corcaguiny. The name Béara, or Bérre, would seem to suggest identification with that of Bera, daughter of Eibhear, king of Spain, and wife of Eoghan Taidhleach, in the late story of The Courtship of Moméra, edited by O'Curry in his Battle of Magh Leana (Dublin, 1855); but the other name Digdi would seem to stand in the way. However none of the literature in point has yet been discovered in any really old manuscript, and it may be that the place-name Berre, in Caillech Bérri, has usurped the place of the personal name Béra, whose antiquity in some such a form as Béra or Méra is proved by its honorific form Mo-mera: see O'Curry's volume, p. 166, and his Introduction, p. xx. 
15250	----	Myths & Legends of China By E.T.C. Werner H.B.M. Consul Foochow (Retired) Barrister-at-law Middle Temple Late Member of The Chinese Government Historiographical Bureau Peking Author of "Descriptive Sociology: Chinese" "China of the Chinese" Etc. George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd. London Bombay Sydney In Memoriam _Gladys Nina Chalmers Werner_ Preface The chief literary sources of Chinese myths are the _Li tai shên hsien t'ung chien_, in thirty-two volumes, the _Shên hsien lieh chuan_, in eight volumes, the _Fêng shên yen i_, in eight volumes, and the _Sou shên chi_, in ten volumes. In writing the following pages I have translated or paraphrased largely from these works. I have also consulted and at times quoted from the excellent volumes on Chinese Superstitions by Père Henri Doré, comprised in the valuable series _Variétés Sinologiques_, published by the Catholic Mission Press at Shanghai. The native works contained in the Ssu K'u Ch'üan Shu, one of the few public libraries in Peking, have proved useful for purposes of reference. My heartiest thanks are due to my good friend Mr Mu Hsüeh-hsün, a scholar of wide learning and generous disposition, for having kindly allowed me to use his very large and useful library of Chinese books. The late Dr G.E. Morrison also, until he sold it to a Japanese baron, was good enough to let me consult his extensive collection of foreign works relating to China whenever I wished, but owing to the fact that so very little work has been done in Chinese mythology by Western writers I found it better in dealing with this subject to go direct to the original Chinese texts. I am indebted to Professor H.A. Giles, and to his publishers, Messrs Kelly and Walsh, Shanghai, for permission to reprint from _Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio_ the fox legends given in Chapter XV. This is, so far as I know, the only monograph on Chinese mythology in any non-Chinese language. Nor do the native works include any scientific analysis or philosophical treatment of their myths. My aim, after summarizing the sociology of the Chinese as a prerequisite to the understanding of their ideas and sentiments, and dealing as fully as possible, consistently with limitations of space (limitations which have necessitated the presentation of a very large and intricate topic in a highly compressed form), with the philosophy of the subject, has been to set forth in English dress those myths which may be regarded as the accredited representatives of Chinese mythology--those which live in the minds of the people and are referred to most frequently in their literature, not those which are merely diverting without being typical or instructive--in short, a true, not a distorted image. _Edward Theodore Chalmers Werner_ _Peking_ _February_ 1922 Contents Chapter I. The Sociology of the Chinese II. On Chinese Mythology III. Cosmogony--P'an Ku and the Creation Myth IV. The Gods of China V. Myths of the Stars VI. Myths of Thunder, Lightning, Wind, and Rain VII. Myths of the Waters VIII. Myths of Fire IX. Myths of Epidemics, Medicine, Exorcism, Etc. X. The Goddess of Mercy XI. The Eight Immortals XII. The Guardian of the Gate of Heaven XIII. A Battle of the Gods XIV. How the Monkey Became a God XV. Fox Legends XVI. Miscellaneous Legends The Pronunciation of Chinese Words _Mais cet Orient, cette Asie, quelles en sont, enfin, les frontières réelles?... Ces frontières sont d'une netteté qui ne permet aucune erreur. L'Asie est là où cesse la vulgarité, où naît la dignité, et où commence l'élégance intellectuelle. Et l'Orient est là où sont les sources débordantes de poésie._ _Mardrus_, _La Reine de Saba_ CHAPTER I The Sociology of the Chinese Racial Origin In spite of much research and conjecture, the origin of the Chinese people remains undetermined. We do not know who they were nor whence they came. Such evidence as there is points to their immigration from elsewhere; the Chinese themselves have a tradition of a Western origin. The first picture we have of their actual history shows us, not a people behaving as if long settled in a land which was their home and that of their forefathers, but an alien race fighting with wild beasts, clearing dense forests, and driving back the aboriginal inhabitants. Setting aside several theories (including the one that the Chinese are autochthonous and their civilization indigenous) now regarded by the best authorities as untenable, the researches of sinologists seem to indicate an origin (1) in early Akkadia; or (2) in Khotan, the Tarim valley (generally what is now known as Eastern Turkestan), or the K'un-lun Mountains (concerning which more presently). The second hypothesis may relate only to a sojourn of longer or shorter duration on the way from Akkadia to the ultimate settlement in China, especially since the Khotan civilization has been shown to have been imported from the Punjab in the third century B.C. The fact that serious mistakes have been made regarding the identifications of early Chinese rulers with Babylonian kings, and of the Chinese _po-hsing_ (Cantonese _bak-sing_) 'people' with the Bak Sing or Bak tribes, does not exclude the possibility of an Akkadian origin. But in either case the immigration into China was probably gradual, and may have taken the route from Western or Central Asia direct to the banks of the Yellow River, or may possibly have followed that to the south-east through Burma and then to the north-east through what is now China--the settlement of the latter country having thus spread from south-west to north-east, or in a north-easterly direction along the Yangtzu River, and so north, instead of, as is generally supposed, from north to south. Southern Origin Improbable But this latter route would present many difficulties; it would seem to have been put forward merely as ancillary to the theory that the Chinese originated in the Indo-Chinese peninsula. This theory is based upon the assumptions that the ancient Chinese ideograms include representations of tropical animals and plants; that the oldest and purest forms of the language are found in the south; and that the Chinese and the Indo-Chinese groups of languages are both tonal. But all of these facts or alleged facts are as easily or better accounted for by the supposition that the Chinese arrived from the north or north-west in successive waves of migration, the later arrivals pushing the earlier farther and farther toward the south, so that the oldest and purest forms of Chinese would be found just where they are, the tonal languages of the Indo-Chinese peninsula being in that case regarded as the languages of the vanguard of the migration. Also, the ideograms referred to represent animals and plants of the temperate zone rather than of the tropics, but even if it could be shown, which it cannot, that these animals and plants now belong exclusively to the tropics, that would be no proof of the tropical origin of the Chinese, for in the earliest times the climate of North China was much milder than it is now, and animals such as tigers and elephants existed in the dense jungles which are later found only in more southern latitudes. Expansion of Races from North to South The theory of a southern origin (to which a further serious objection will be stated presently) implies a gradual infiltration of Chinese immigrants through South or Mid-China (as above indicated) toward the north, but there is little doubt that the movement of the races has been from north to south and not _vice versa_. In what are now the provinces of Western Kansu and Ssuch'uan there lived a people related to the Chinese (as proved by the study of Indo-Chinese comparative philology) who moved into the present territory of Tibet and are known as Tibetans; in what is now the province of Yünnan were the Shan or Ai-lao (modern Laos), who, forced by Mongol invasions, emigrated to the peninsula in the south and became the Siamese; and in Indo-China, not related to the Chinese, were the Annamese, Khmer, Mon, Khasi, Colarains (whose remnants are dispersed over the hill tracts of Central India), and other tribes, extending in prehistoric times into Southern China, but subsequently driven back by the expansion of the Chinese in that direction. Arrival of the Chinese in China Taking into consideration all the existing evidence, the objections to all other theories of the origin of the Chinese seem to be greater than any yet raised to the theory that immigrants from the Tarim valley or beyond (_i.e._ from Elam or Akkadia, either direct or _via_ Eastern Turkestan) struck the banks of the Yellow River in their eastward journey and followed its course until they reached the localities where we first find them settled, namely, in the region covered by parts of the three modern provinces of Shansi, Shensi, and Honan where their frontiers join. They were then (about 2500 or 3000 B.C.) in a relatively advanced state of civilization. The country east and south of this district was inhabited by aboriginal tribes, with whom the Chinese fought, as they did with the wild animals and the dense vegetation, but with whom they also commingled and intermarried, and among whom they planted colonies as centres from which to spread their civilization. The K'un-lun Mountains With reference to the K'un-lun Mountains, designated in Chinese mythology as the abode of the gods--the ancestors of the Chinese race--it should be noted that these are identified not with the range dividing Tibet from Chinese Turkestan, but with the Hindu Kush. That brings us somewhat nearer to Babylon, and the apparent convergence of the two theories, the Central Asian and the Western Asian, would seem to point to a possible solution of the problem. Nü Kua, one of the alleged creators of human beings, and Nü and Kua, the first two human beings (according to a variation of the legend), are placed in the K'un-lun Mountains. That looks hopeful. Unfortunately, the K'un-lun legend is proved to be of Taoist origin. K'un-lun is the central mountain of the world, and 3000 miles in height. There is the fountain of immortality, and thence flow the four great rivers of the world. In other words, it is the Sumêru of Hindu mythology transplanted into Chinese legend, and for our present purpose without historical value. It would take up too much space to go into details of this interesting problem of the origin of the Chinese and their civilization, the cultural connexions or similarities of China and Western Asia in pre-Babylonian times, the origin of the two distinct culture-areas so marked throughout the greater part of Chinese history, etc., and it will be sufficient for our present purpose to state the conclusion to which the evidence points. Provisional Conclusion Pending the discovery of decisive evidence, the following provisional conclusion has much to recommend it--namely, that the ancestors of the Chinese people came from the west, from Akkadia or Elam, or from Khotan, or (more probably) from Akkadia or Elam _via_ Khotan, as one nomad or pastoral tribe or group of nomad or pastoral tribes, or as successive waves of immigrants, reached what is now China Proper at its north-west corner, settled round the elbow of the Yellow River, spread north-eastward, eastward, and southward, conquering, absorbing, or pushing before them the aborigines into what is now South and South-west China. These aboriginal races, who represent a wave or waves of neolithic immigrants from Western Asia earlier than the relatively high-headed immigrants into North China (who arrived about the twenty-fifth or twenty-fourth century B.C.), and who have left so deep an impress on the Japanese, mixed and intermarried with the Chinese in the south, eventually producing the pronounced differences, in physical, mental, and emotional traits, in sentiments, ideas, languages, processes, and products, from the Northern Chinese which are so conspicuous at the present day. Inorganic Environment At the beginning of their known history the country occupied by the Chinese was the comparatively small region above mentioned. It was then a tract of an irregular oblong shape, lying between latitude 34° and 40° N. and longitude 107° and 114° E. This territory round the elbow of the Yellow River had an area of about 50,000 square miles, and was gradually extended to the sea-coast on the north-east as far as longitude 119°, when its area was about doubled. It had a population of perhaps a million, increasing with the expansion to two millions. This may be called infant China. Its period (the Feudal Period) was in the two thousand years between the twenty-fourth and third centuries B.C. During the first centuries of the Monarchical Period, which lasted from 221 B.C. to A.D. 1912, it had expanded to the south to such an extent that it included all of the Eighteen Provinces constituting what is known as China Proper of modern times, with the exception of a portion of the west of Kansu and the greater portions of Ssuch'uan and Yünnan. At the time of the Manchu conquest at the beginning of the seventeenth century A.D. it embraced all the territory lying between latitude 18° and 40° N. and longitude 98° and 122° E. (the Eighteen Provinces or China Proper), with the addition of the vast outlying territories of Manchuria, Mongolia, Ili, Koko-nor, Tibet, and Corea, with suzerainty over Burma and Annam--an area of more than 5,000,000 square miles, including the 2,000,000 square miles covered by the Eighteen Provinces. Generally, this territory is mountainous in the west, sloping gradually down toward the sea on the east. It contains three chief ranges of mountains and large alluvial plains in the north, east, and south. Three great and about thirty large rivers intersect the country, their numerous tributaries reaching every part of it. As regards geological features, the great alluvial plains rest upon granite, new red sandstone, or limestone. In the north is found the peculiar loess formation, having its origin probably in the accumulated dust of ages blown from the Mongolian plateau. The passage from north to south is generally from the older to the newer rocks; from east to west a similar series is found, with some volcanic features in the west and south. Coal and iron are the chief minerals, gold, silver, copper, lead, tin, jade, etc., being also mined. The climate of this vast area is not uniform. In the north the winter is long and rigorous, the summer hot and dry, with a short rainy season in July and August; in the south the summer is long, hot, and moist, the winter short. The mean temperature is 50.3° F. and 70° F. in the north and south respectively. Generally, the thermometer is low for the latitude, though perhaps it is more correct to say that the Gulf Stream raises the temperature of the west coast of Europe above the average. The mean rainfall in the north is 16, in the south 70 inches, with variations in other parts. Typhoons blow in the south between July and October. Organic Environment The vegetal productions are abundant and most varied. The rice-zone (significant in relation to the cultural distinctions above noted) embraces the southern half of the country. Tea, first cultivated for its infusion in A.D. 350, is grown in the southern and central provinces between the twenty-third and thirty-fifth degrees of latitude, though it is also found as far north as Shantung, the chief 'tea district,' however, being the large area south of the Yangtzu River, east of the Tungting Lake and great Siang River, and north of the Kuangtung Province. The other chief vegetal products are wheat, barley, maize, millet, the bean, yam, sweet and common potato, tomato, eggplant, ginseng, cabbage, bamboo, indigo, pepper, tobacco, camphor, tallow, ground-nut, poppy, water-melon, sugar, cotton, hemp, and silk. Among the fruits grown are the date, mulberry, orange, lemon, pumelo, persimmon, lichi, pomegranate, pineapple, fig, coconut, mango, and banana, besides the usual kinds common in Western countries. The wild animals include the tiger, panther, leopard, bear, sable, otter, monkey, wolf, fox, twenty-seven or more species of ruminants, and numerous species of rodents. The rhinoceros, elephant, and tapir still exist in Yünnan. The domestic animals include the camel and the water-buffalo. There are about 700 species of birds, and innumerable species of fishes and insects. Sociological Environment On their arrival in what is now known as China the Chinese, as already noted, fought with the aboriginal tribes. The latter were exterminated, absorbed, or driven south with the spread of Chinese rule. The Chinese "picked out the eyes of the land," and consequently the non-Chinese tribes now live in the unhealthy forests or marshes of the south, or in mountain regions difficult of access, some even in trees (a voluntary, not compulsory promotion), though several, such as the Dog Jung in Fukien, retain settlements like islands among the ruling race. In the third century B.C. began the hostile relations of the Chinese with the northern nomads, which continued throughout the greater part of their history. During the first six centuries A.D. there was intercourse with Rome, Parthia, Turkey, Mesopotamia, Ceylon, India, and Indo-China, and in the seventh century with the Arabs. Europe was brought within the sociological environment by Christian travellers. From the tenth to the thirteenth century the north was occupied by Kitans and Nüchêns, and the whole Empire was under Mongol sway for eighty-eight years in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Relations of a commercial and religious nature were held with neighbours during the following four hundred years. Regular diplomatic intercourse with Western nations was established as a result of a series of wars in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Until recently the nation held aloof from alliances and was generally averse to foreign intercourse. From 1537 onward, as a sequel of war or treaty, concessions, settlements, etc., were obtained by foreign Powers. China has now lost some of her border countries and large adjacent islands, the military and commercial pressure of Western nations and Japan having taken the place of the military pressure of the Tartars already referred to. The great problem for her, an agricultural nation, is how to find means and the military spirit to maintain her integrity, the further violation of which could not but be regarded by the student of sociological history as a great tragedy and a world-wide calamity. Physical, Emotional, and Intellectual Characters The physical characters of the Chinese are too well known to need detailed recital. The original immigrants into North China all belonged to blond races, but the modern Chinese have little left of the immigrant stock. The oblique, almond-shaped eyes, with black iris and the orbits far apart, have a vertical fold of skin over the inner canthus, concealing a part of the iris, a peculiarity distinguishing the eastern races of Asia from all other families of man. The stature and weight of brain are generally below the average. The hair is black, coarse, and cylindrical; the beard scanty or absent. The colour of the skin is darker in the south than in the north. Emotionally the Chinese are sober, industrious, of remarkable endurance, grateful, courteous, and ceremonious, with a high sense of mercantile honour, but timorous, cruel, unsympathetic, mendacious, and libidinous. Intellectually they were until recently, and to a large extent still are, non-progressive, in bondage to uniformity and mechanism in culture, imitative, unimaginative, torpid, indirect, suspicious, and superstitious. The character is being modified by intercourse with other peoples of the earth and by the strong force of physical, intellectual, and moral education. Marriage in Early Times Certain parts of the marriage ceremonial of China as now existing indicate that the original form of marriage was by capture--of which, indeed, there is evidence in the classical _Book of Odes_. But a regular form of marriage (in reality a contract of sale) is shown to have existed in the earliest historical times. The form was not monogamous, though it seems soon to have assumed that of a qualified monogamy consisting of one wife and one or more concubines, the number of the latter being as a rule limited only by the means of the husband. The higher the rank the larger was the number of concubines and handmaids in addition to the wife proper, the palaces of the kings and princes containing several hundreds of them. This form it has retained to the present day, though associations now exist for the abolition of concubinage. In early times, as well as throughout the whole of Chinese history, concubinage was in fact universal, and there is some evidence also of polyandry (which, however, cannot have prevailed to any great extent). The age for marriage was twenty for the man and fifteen for the girl, celibacy after thirty and twenty respectively being officially discouraged. In the province of Shantung it was usual for the wives to be older than their husbands. The parents' consent to the betrothal was sought through the intervention of a matchmaker, the proposal originating with the parents, and the wishes of the future bride and bridegroom not being taken into consideration. The conclusion of the marriage was the progress of the bride from the house of her parents to that of the bridegroom, where after various ceremonies she and he worshipped his ancestors together, the worship amounting to little more than an announcement of the union to the ancestral spirits. After a short sojourn with her husband the bride revisited her parents, and the marriage was not considered as finally consummated until after this visit had taken place. The status of women was low, and the power of the husband great--so great that he could kill his wife with impunity. Divorce was common, and all in favour of the husband, who, while he could not be divorced by her, could put his wife away for disobedience or even for loquaciousness. A widower remarried immediately, but refusal to remarry by a widow was esteemed an act of chastity. She often mutilated herself or even committed suicide to prevent remarriage, and was posthumously honoured for doing so. Being her husband's as much in the Otherworld as in this, remarriage would partake of the character of unchastity and insubordination; the argument, of course, not applying to the case of the husband, who by remarriage simply adds another member to his clan without infringing on anyone's rights. Marriage in Monarchical and Republican Periods The marital system of the early classical times, of which the above were the essentials, changed but little during the long period of monarchical rule lasting from 221 B.C. to A.D. 1912. The principal object, as before, was to secure an heir to sacrifice to the spirits of deceased progenitors. Marriage was not compulsory, but old bachelors and old maids were very scarce. The concubines were subject to the wife, who was considered to be the mother of their children as well as her own. Her status, however, was not greatly superior. Implicit obedience was exacted from her. She could not possess property, but could not be hired out for prostitution. The latter vice was common, in spite of the early age at which marriage took place and in spite of the system of concubinage--which is after all but a legalized transfer of prostitutional cohabitation to the domestic circle. Since the establishment of the Republic in 1912 the 'landslide' in the direction of Western progress has had its effect also on the domestic institutions. But while the essentials of the marriage contract remain practically the same as before, the most conspicuous changes have been in the accompanying ceremonial--now sometimes quite foreign, but in a very large, perhaps the greatest, number of cases that odious thing, half foreign, half Chinese; as, for instance, when the procession, otherwise native, includes foreign glass-panelled carriages, or the bridegroom wears a 'bowler' or top-hat with his Chinese dress--and in the greater freedom allowed to women, who are seen out of doors much more than formerly, sit at table with their husbands, attend public functions and dinners, dress largely in foreign fashion, and play tennis and other games, instead of being prisoners of the 'inner apartment' and household drudges little better than slaves. One unexpected result of this increased freedom is certainly remarkable, and is one not likely to have been predicted by the most far-sighted sociologist. Many of the 'progressive' Chinese, now that it is the fashion for Chinese wives to be seen in public with their husbands, finding the uneducated, _gauche_, small-footed household drudge unable to compete with the smarter foreign-educated wives of their neighbours, have actually repudiated them and taken unto themselves spouses whom they can exhibit in public without 'loss of face'! It is, however, only fair to add that the total number of these cases, though by no means inconsiderable, appears to be proportionately small. Parents and Children As was the power of the husband over the wife, so was that of the father over his children. Infanticide (due chiefly to poverty, and varying with it) was frequent, especially in the case of female children, who were but slightly esteemed; the practice prevailing extensively in three or four provinces, less extensively in others, and being practically absent in a large number. Beyond the fact that some penalties were enacted against it by the Emperor Ch'ien Lung (A.D. 1736-96), and that by statute it was a capital offence to murder children in order to use parts of their bodies for medicine, it was not legally prohibited. When the abuse became too scandalous in any district proclamations condemning it would be issued by the local officials. A man might, by purchase and contract, adopt a person as son, daughter, or grandchild, such person acquiring thereby all the rights of a son or daughter. Descent, both of real and personal property, was to all the sons of wives and concubines as joint heirs, irrespective of seniority. Bastards received half shares. Estates were not divisible by the children during the lifetime of their parents or grandparents. The head of the family being but the life-renter of the family property, bound by fixed rules, wills were superfluous, and were used only where the customary respect for the parents gave them a voice in arranging the details of the succession. For this purpose verbal or written instructions were commonly given. In the absence of the father, the male relatives of the same surname assumed the guardianship of the young. The guardian exercised full authority and enjoyed the surplus revenues of his ward's estate, but might not alienate the property. There are many instances in Chinese history of extreme devotion of children to parents taking the form of self-wounding and even of suicide in the hope of curing parents' illnesses or saving their lives. Political History The country inhabited by the Chinese on their arrival from the West was, as we saw, the district where the modern provinces of Shansi, Shensi, and Honan join. This they extended in an easterly direction to the shores of the Gulf of Chihli--a stretch of territory about 600 miles long by 300 broad. The population, as already stated, was between one and two millions. During the first two thousand years of their known history the boundaries of this region were not greatly enlarged, but beyond the more or less undefined borderland to the south were _chou_ or colonies, nuclei of Chinese population, which continually increased in size through conquest of the neighbouring territory. In 221 B.C. all the feudal states into which this territory had been parcelled out, and which fought with one another, were subjugated and absorbed by the state of Ch'in, which in that year instituted the monarchical form of government--the form which obtained in China for the next twenty-one centuries. Though the origin of the name 'China' has not yet been finally decided, the best authorities regard it as derived from the name of this feudal state of Ch'in. Under this short-lived dynasty of Ch'in and the famous Han dynasty (221 B.C. to A.D. 221) which followed it, the Empire expanded until it embraced almost all the territory now known as China Proper (the Eighteen Provinces of Manchu times). To these were added in order between 194 B.C. and A.D. 1414: Corea, Sinkiang (the New Territory or Eastern Turkestan), Manchuria, Formosa, Tibet, and Mongolia--Formosa and Corea being annexed by Japan in 1895 and 1910 respectively. Numerous other extra-China countries and islands, acquired and lost during the long course of Chinese history (at one time, from 73 to 48 B.C., "all Asia from Japan to the Caspian Sea was tributary to the Middle Kingdom," _i.e._ China), it is not necessary to mention here. During the Southern Sung dynasty (1127-1280) the Tartars owned the northern half of China, as far down as the Yangtzu River, and in the Yüan dynasty (1280-1368) they conquered the whole country. During the period 1644-1912 it was in the possession of the Manchus. At present the five chief component peoples of China are represented in the striped national flag (from the top downward) by red (Manchus), yellow (Chinese), blue (Mongolians), white (Mohammedans), and black (Tibetans). This flag was adopted on the establishment of the Republic in 1912, and supplanted the triangular Dragon flag previously in use. By this time the population--which had varied considerably at different periods owing to war, famine, and pestilence--had increased to about 400,000,000. General Government The general division of the nation was into the King and the People, The former was regarded as appointed by the will of Heaven and as the parent of the latter. Besides being king, he was also law-giver, commander-in-chief of the armies, high priest, and master of ceremonies. The people were divided into four classes: (1) _Shih_, Officers (later Scholars), consisting of _Ch'ên_, Officials (a few of whom were ennobled), and _Shên Shih_, Gentry; (2) _Nung_, Agriculturists; (3) _Kung_, Artisans; and (4) _Shang_, Merchants. For administrative purposes there were at the seat of central government (which, first at P'ing-yang--in modern Shansi--was moved eleven times during the Feudal Period, and was finally at Yin) ministers, or ministers and a hierarchy of officials, the country being divided into provinces, varying in number from nine in the earliest times to thirty-six under the First Emperor, 221 B.C., and finally twenty-two at the present day. At first these provinces contained states, which were models of the central state, the ruler's 'Middle Kingdom.' The provincial administration was in the hands of twelve Pastors or Lord-Lieutenants. They were the chiefs of all the nobles in a province. Civil and military offices were not differentiated. The feudal lords or princes of states often resided at the king's court, officers of that court being also sent forth as princes of states. The king was the source of legislation and administered justice. The princes in their several states had the power of rewards and punishments. Revenue was derived from a tithe on the land, from the income of artisans, merchants, fishermen, foresters, and from the tribute brought by savage tribes. The general structure and principles of this system of administration remained the same, with few variations, down to the end of the Monarchical Period in 1912. At the end of that period we find the emperor still considered as of divine descent, still the head of the civil, legislative, military, ecclesiastical, and ceremonial administration, with the nation still divided into the same four classes. The chief ministries at the capital, Peking, could in most cases trace their descent from their prototypes of feudal times, and the principal provincial administrative officials--the Governor-General or Viceroy, governor, provincial treasurer, judge, etc.--had similarly a pedigree running back to offices then existing--a continuous duration of adherence to type which is probably unique. Appointment to office was at first by selection, followed by an examination to test proficiency; later was introduced the system of public competitive literary examinations for office, fully organized in the seventeenth century, and abolished in 1903, when official positions were thrown open to the graduates of colleges established on a modern basis. In 1912, on the overthrow of the Manchu monarchy, China became a republic, with an elected President, and a Parliament consisting of a Senate and House of Representatives. The various government departments were reorganized on Western lines, and a large number of new offices instituted. Up to the present year the Law of the Constitution, owing to political dissension between the North and the South, has not been put into force. Laws Chinese law, like primitive law generally, was not instituted in order to ensure justice between man and man; its object was to enforce subordination of the ruled to the ruler. The laws were punitive and vindictive rather than reformatory or remedial, criminal rather than civil. Punishments were cruel: branding, cutting off the nose, the legs at the knees, castration, and death, the latter not necessarily, or indeed ordinarily, for taking life. They included in some cases punishment of the family, the clan, and the neighbours of the offender. The _lex talionis_ was in full force. Nevertheless, in spite of the harsh nature of the punishments, possibly adapted, more or less, to a harsh state of society, though the "proper end of punishments"--to "make an end of punishing"--was missed, the Chinese evolved a series of excellent legal codes. This series began with the revision of King Mu's _Punishments_ in 950 B.C., the first regular code being issued in 650 B.C., and ended with the well-known _Ta Ch'ing lü li_ (_Laws and Statutes of the Great Ch'ing Dynasty_), issued in A.D. 1647. Of these codes the great exemplar was the _Law Classic_ drawn up by Li K'uei (_Li K'uei fa ching_), a statesman in the service of the first ruler of the Wei State, in the fourth century B.C. The _Ta Ch'ing lü li_ has been highly praised by competent judges. Originally it sanctioned only two kinds of punishment, death and flogging, but others were in use, and the barbarous _ling ch'ih_, 'lingering death' or 'slicing to pieces,' invented about A.D. 1000 and abolished in 1905, was inflicted for high treason, parricide, on women who killed their husbands, and murderers of three persons of one family. In fact, until some first-hand knowledge of Western systems and procedure was obtained, the vindictive as opposed to the reformatory idea of punishments continued to obtain in China down to quite recent years, and has not yet entirely disappeared. Though the crueller forms of punishment had been legally abolished, they continued to be used in many parts. Having been joint judge at Chinese trials at which, in spite of my protests, prisoners were hung up by their thumbs and made to kneel on chains in order to extort confession (without which no accused person could be punished), I can testify that the true meaning of the "proper end of punishments" had no more entered into the Chinese mind at the close of the monarchical _régime_ than it had 4000 years before. As a result of the reform movement into which China was forced as an alternative to foreign domination toward the end of the Manchu Period, but chiefly owing to the bait held out by Western Powers, that extraterritoriality would be abolished when China had reformed her judicial system, a new Provisional Criminal Code was published. It substituted death by hanging or strangulation for decapitation, and imprisonment for various lengths of time for bambooing. It was adopted in large measure by the Republican _régime_, and is the chief legal instrument in use at the present time. But close examination reveals the fact that it is almost an exact copy of the Japanese penal code, which in turn was modelled upon that of Germany. It is, in fact, a Western code imitated, and as it stands is quite out of harmony with present conditions in China. It will have to be modified and recast to be a suitable, just, and practicable national legal instrument for the Chinese people. Moreover, it is frequently overridden in a high-handed manner by the police, who often keep a person acquitted by the Courts of Justice in custody until they have 'squeezed' him of all they can hope to get out of him. And it is noteworthy that, though provision was made in the Draft Code for trial by jury, this provision never went into effect; and the slavish imitation of alien methods is shown by the curiously inconsistent reason given--that "the fact that jury trials have been abolished in Japan is indicative of the inadvisability of transplanting this Western institution into China!" Local Government The central administration being a far-flung network of officialdom, there was hardly any room for local government apart from it. We find it only in the village elder and those associated with him, who took up what government was necessary where the jurisdiction of the unit of the central administration--the district magistracy--ceased, or at least did not concern itself in meddling much. Military System The peace-loving agricultural settlers in early China had at first no army. When occasion arose, all the farmers exchanged their ploughshares for swords and bows and arrows, and went forth to fight. In the intervals between the harvests, when the fields were clear, they held manoeuvres and practised the arts of warfare. The king, who had his Six Armies, under the Six High Nobles, forming the royal military force, led the troops in person, accompanied by the spirit-tablets of his ancestors and of the gods of the land and grain. Chariots, drawn by four horses and containing soldiers armed with spears and javelins and archers, were much in use. A thousand chariots was the regular force. Warriors wore buskins on their legs, and were sometimes gagged in order to prevent the alarm being given to the enemy. In action the chariots occupied the centre, the bowmen the left, the spearmen the right flank. Elephants were sometimes used in attack. Spy-kites, signal-flags, hook-ladders, horns, cymbals, drums, and beacon-fires were in use. The ears of the vanquished were taken to the king, quarter being rarely if ever given. After the establishment of absolute monarchical government standing armies became the rule. Military science was taught, and soldiers sometimes trained for seven years. Chariots with upper storeys or spy-towers were used for fighting in narrow defiles, and hollow squares were formed of mixed chariots, infantry, and dragoons. The weakness of disunion of forces was well understood. In the sixth century A.D. the massed troops numbered about a million and a quarter. In A.D. 627 there was an efficient standing army of 900,000 men, the term of service being from the ages of twenty to sixty. During the Mongol dynasty (1280-1368) there was a navy of 5000 ships manned by 70,000 trained fighters. The Mongols completely revolutionized tactics and improved on all the military knowledge of the time. In 1614 the Manchu 'Eight Banners,' composed of Manchus, Mongolians, and Chinese, were instituted. The provincial forces, designated the Army of the Green Standard, were divided into land forces and marine forces, superseded on active service by 'braves' (_yung_), or irregulars, enlisted and discharged according to circumstances. After the war with Japan in 1894 reforms were seriously undertaken, with the result that the army has now been modernized in dress, weapons, tactics, etc., and is by no means a negligible quantity in the world's fighting forces. A modern navy is also being acquired by building and purchase. For many centuries the soldier, being, like the priest, unproductive, was regarded with disdain, and now that his indispensableness for defensive purposes is recognized he has to fight not only any actual enemy who may attack him, but those far subtler forces from over the sea which seem likely to obtain supremacy in his military councils, if not actual control of his whole military system. It is, in my view, the duty of Western nations to take steps before it is too late to avert this great disaster. Ecclesiastical Institutions The dancing and chanting exorcists called _wu_ were the first Chinese priests, with temples containing gods worshipped and sacrificed to, but there was no special sacerdotal class. Worship of Heaven could only be performed by the king or emperor. Ecclesiastical and political functions were not completely separated. The king was _pontifex maximus_, the nobles, statesmen, and civil and military officers acted as priests, the ranks being similar to those of the political hierarchy. Worship took place in the 'Hall of Light,' which was also a palace and audience and council chamber. Sacrifices were offered to Heaven, the hills and rivers, ancestors, and all the spirits. Dancing held a conspicuous place in worship. Idols are spoken of in the earliest times. Of course, each religion, as it formed itself out of the original ancestor-worship, had its own sacred places, functionaries, observances, ceremonial. Thus, at the State worship of Heaven, Nature, etc., there were the 'Great,' 'Medium,' and 'Inferior' sacrifices, consisting of animals, silk, grain, jade, etc. Panegyrics were sung, and robes of appropriate colour worn. In spring, summer, autumn, and winter there were the seasonal sacrifices at the appropriate altars. Taoism and Buddhism had their temples, monasteries, priests, sacrifices, and ritual; and there were village and wayside temples and shrines to ancestors, the gods of thunder, rain, wind, grain, agriculture, and many others. Now encouraged, now tolerated, now persecuted, the ecclesiastical _personnel_ and structure of Taoism and Buddhism survived into modern times, when we find complete schemes of ecclesiastical gradations of rank and authority grafted upon these two priestly hierarchies, and their temples, priests, etc., fulfilling generally, with worship of ancestors, State or official (Confucianism) and private or unofficial, and the observance of various annual festivals, such as 'All Souls' Day' for wandering and hungry ghosts, the spiritual needs of the people as the 'Three Religions' (_San Chiao_). The emperor, as high priest, took the responsibility for calamities, etc., making confession to Heaven and praying that as a punishment the evil be diverted from the people to his own person. Statesmen, nobles, and officials discharged, as already noted, priestly functions in connexion with the State religion in addition to their ordinary duties. As a rule, priests proper, frowned upon as non-producers, were recruited from the lower classes, were celibate, unintellectual, idle, and immoral. There was nothing, even in the elaborate ceremonies on special occasions in the Buddhist temples, which could be likened to what is known as 'public worship' and 'common prayer' in the West. Worship had for its sole object either the attainment of some good or the prevention of some evil. Generally this represents the state of things under the Republican _régime_; the chief differences being greater neglect of ecclesiastical matters and the conversion of a large number of temples into schools. Professional Institutions We read of physicians, blind musicians, poets, teachers, prayer-makers, architects, scribes, painters, diviners, ceremonialists, orators, and others during the Feudal Period, These professions were of ecclesiastical origin, not yet completely differentiated from the 'Church,' and both in earlier and later times not always or often differentiated from each other. Thus the historiographers combined the duties of statesmen, scholars, authors, and generals. The professions of authors and teachers, musicians and poets, were united in one person. And so it continued to the present day. Priests discharge medical functions, poets still sing their verses. But experienced medical specialists, though few, are to be found, as well as women doctors; there are veterinary surgeons, musicians (chiefly belonging to the poorest classes and often blind), actors, teachers, attorneys, diviners, artists, letter-writers, and many others, men of letters being perhaps the most prominent and most esteemed. Accessory Institutions A system of schools, academies, colleges, and universities obtained in villages, districts, departments, and principalities. The instruction was divided into 'Primary Learning' and 'Great Learning.' There were special schools of dancing and music. Libraries and almshouses for old men are mentioned. Associations of scholars for literary purposes seem to have been numerous. Whatever form and direction education might have taken, it became stereotyped at an early age by the road to office being made to lead through a knowledge of the classical writings of the ancient sages. It became not only 'the thing' to be well versed in the sayings of Confucius, Mencius; etc., and to be able to compose good essays on them containing not a single wrongly written character, but useless for aspirants to office--who constituted practically the whole of the literary class--to acquire any other knowledge. So obsessed was the national mind by this literary mania that even infants' spines were made to bend so as to produce when adult the 'scholarly stoop.' And from the fact that besides the scholar class the rest of the community consisted of agriculturists, artisans, and merchants, whose knowledge was that of their fathers and grandfathers, inculcated in the sons and grandsons as it had been in them, showing them how to carry on in the same groove the calling to which Fate had assigned them, a departure from which would have been considered 'unfilial'--unless, of course (as it very rarely did), it went the length of attaining through study of the classics a place in the official class, and thus shedding eternal lustre on the family--it will readily be seen that there was nothing to cause education to be concerned with any but one or two of the subjects which are included by Western peoples under that designation. It became at an early age, and remained for many centuries, a rote-learning of the elementary text-books, followed by a similar acquisition by heart of the texts of the works of Confucius and other classical writers. And so it remained until the abolition, in 1905, of the old competitive examination system, and the substitution of all that is included in the term 'modern education' at schools, colleges, and universities all over the country, in which there is rapidly growing up a force that is regenerating the Chinese people, and will make itself felt throughout the whole world. It is this keen and shrewd appreciation of the learned, and this lust for knowledge, which, barring the tragedy of foreign domination, will make China, in the truest and best sense of the word, a great nation, where, as in the United States of America, the rigid class status and undervaluation, if not disdaining, of knowledge which are proving so disastrous in England and other European countries will be avoided, and the aristocracy of learning established in its place. Besides educational institutions, we find institutions for poor relief, hospitals, foundling hospitals, orphan asylums, banking, insurance, and loan associations, travellers' clubs, mercantile corporations, anti-opium societies, co-operative burial societies, as well as many others, some imitated from Western models. Bodily Mutilations Compared with the practices found to exist among most primitive races, the mutilations the Chinese were in the habit of inflicting were but few. They flattened the skulls of their babies by means of stones, so as to cause them to taper at the top, and we have already seen what they did to their spines; also the mutilations in warfare, and the punishments inflicted both within and without the law; and how filial children and loyal wives mutilated themselves for the sake of their parents and to prevent remarriage. Eunuchs, of course, existed in great numbers. People bit, cut, or marked their arms to pledge oaths. But the practices which are more peculiarly associated with the Chinese are the compressing of women's feet and the wearing of the queue, misnamed 'pigtail.' The former is known to have been in force about A.D. 934, though it may have been introduced as early as 583. It did not, however, become firmly established for more than a century. This 'extremely painful mutilation,' begun in infancy, illustrates the tyranny of fashion, for it is supposed to have arisen in the imitation by the women generally of the small feet of an imperial concubine admired by one of the emperors from ten to fifteen centuries ago (the books differ as to his identity). The second was a badge of servitude inflicted by the Manchus on the Chinese when they conquered China at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Discountenanced by governmental edicts, both of these practices are now tending toward extinction, though, of course, compressed feet and 'pigtails' are still to be seen in every town and village. Legally, the queue was abolished when the Chinese rid themselves of the Manchu yoke in 1912. Funeral Rites Not understanding the real nature of death, the Chinese believed it was merely a state of suspended animation, in which the soul had failed to return to the body, though it might yet do so, even after long intervals. Consequently they delayed burial, and fed the corpse, and went on to the house-tops and called aloud to the spirit to return. When at length they were convinced that the absent spirit could not be induced to re-enter the body, they placed the latter in a coffin and buried it--providing it, however, with all that it had found necessary in this life (food, clothing, wives, servants, etc.), which it would require also in the next (in their view rather a continuation of the present existence than the beginning of another)--and, having inducted or persuaded the spirit to enter the 'soul-tablet' which accompanied the funeral procession (which took place the moment the tablet was 'dotted,' _i.e._ when the character _wang_, 'prince,' was changed into _chu_, 'lord'), carried it back home again, set it up in a shrine in the main hall, and fell down and worshipped it. Thus was the spirit propitiated, and as long as occasional offerings were not overlooked the power for evil possessed by it would not be exerted against the surviving inmates of the house, whom it had so thoughtlessly deserted. The latter mourned by screaming, wailing, stamping their feet, and beating their breasts, renouncing (in the earliest times) even their clothes, dwelling, and belongings to the dead, removing to mourning-sheds of clay, fasting, or eating only rice gruel, sleeping on straw with a clod for a pillow, and speaking only on subjects of death and burial. Office and public duties were resigned, and marriage, music, and separation from the clan prohibited. During the lapse of the long ages of monarchical rule funeral rites became more elaborate and magnificent, but, though less rigid and ceremonious since the institution of the Republic, they have retained their essential character down to the present day. Funeral ceremonial was more exacting than that connected with most other observances, including those of marriage. Invitations or notifications were sent to friends, and after receipt of these _fu_, on the various days appointed therein, the guest was obliged to send presents, such as money, paper horses, slaves, etc., and go and join in the lamentations of the hired mourners and attend at the prayers recited by the priests. Funeral etiquette could not be _pu'd, i.e._ made good, if overlooked or neglected at the right time, as it could in the case of the marriage ceremonial. Instead of symmetrical public graveyards, as in the West, the Chinese cemeteries belong to the family or clan of the deceased, and are generally beautiful and peaceful places planted with trees and surrounded by artistic walls enclosing the grave-mounds and monumental tablets. The cemeteries themselves are the metonyms of the villages, and the graves of the houses. In the north especially the grave is very often surmounted by a huge marble tortoise bearing the inscribed tablet, or what we call the gravestone, on its back. The tombs of the last two lines of emperors, the Ming and the Manchu, are magnificent structures, spread over enormous areas, and always artistically situated on hillsides facing natural or artificial lakes or seas. Contrary to the practice in Egypt, with the two exceptions above mentioned the conquering dynasties have always destroyed the tombs of their predecessors. But for this savage vandalism, China would probably possess the most magnificent assembly of imperial tombs in the world's records. Laws of Intercourse Throughout the whole course of their existence as a social aggregate the Chinese have pushed ceremonial observances to an extreme limit. "Ceremonies," says the _Li chi_, the great classic of ceremonial usages, "are the greatest of all things by which men live." Ranks were distinguished by different headdresses, garments, badges, weapons, writing-tablets, number of attendants, carriages, horses, height of walls, etc. Daily as well as official life was regulated by minute observances. There were written codes embracing almost every attitude and act of inferiors toward superiors, of superiors toward inferiors, and of equals toward equals. Visits, forms of address, and giving of presents had each their set of formulae, known and observed by every one as strictly and regularly as each child in China learned by heart and repeated aloud the three-word sentences of the elementary _Trimetrical Classic_. But while the school text-book was extremely simple, ceremonial observances were extremely elaborate. A Chinese was in this respect as much a slave to the living as in his funeral rites he was a slave to the dead. Only now, in the rush of 'modern progress,' is the doffing of the hat taking the place of the 'kowtow' (_k'o-t'ou_). It is in this matter of ceremonial observances that the East and the West have misunderstood each other perhaps more than in all others. Where rules of etiquette are not only different, but are diametrically opposed, there is every opportunity for misunderstanding, if not estrangement. The points at issue in such questions as 'kowtowing' to the emperor and the worshipping of ancestors are generally known, but the Westerner, as a rule, is ignorant of the fact that if he wishes to conform to Chinese etiquette when in China (instead of to those Western customs which are in many cases unfortunately taking their place) he should not, for instance, take off his hat when entering a house or a temple, should not shake hands with his host, nor, if he wishes to express approval, should he clap his hands. Clapping of hands in China (_i.e._ non-Europeanized China) is used to drive away the _sha ch'i_, or deathly influence of evil spirits, and to clap the hands at the close of the remarks of a Chinese host (as I have seen prominent, well-meaning, but ill-guided men of the West do) is equivalent to disapproval, if not insult. Had our diplomatists been sociologists instead of only commercial agents, more than one war might have been avoided. Habits and Customs At intervals during the year the Chinese make holiday. Their public festivals begin with the celebration of the advent of the new year. They let off innumerable firecrackers, and make much merriment in their homes, drinking and feasting, and visiting their friends for several days. Accounts are squared, houses cleaned, fresh paper 'door-gods' pasted on the front doors, strips of red paper with characters implying happiness, wealth, good fortune, longevity, etc., stuck on the doorposts or the lintel, tables, etc., covered with red cloth, and flowers and decorations displayed everywhere. Business is suspended, and the merriment, dressing in new clothes, feasting, visiting, offerings to gods and ancestors, and idling continue pretty consistently during the first half of the first moon, the vacation ending with the Feast of Lanterns, which occupies the last three days. It originated in the Han dynasty 2000 years ago. Innumerable lanterns of all sizes, shapes, colours (except wholly white, or rather undyed material, the colour of mourning), and designs are lit in front of public and private buildings, but the use of these was an addition about 800 years later, _i.e._ about 1200 years ago. Paper dragons, hundreds of yards long, are moved along the streets at a slow pace, supported on the heads of men whose legs only are visible, giving the impression of huge serpents winding through the thoroughfares. Of the other chief festivals, about eight in number (not counting the festivals of the four seasons with their equinoxes and solstices), four are specially concerned with the propitiation of the spirits--namely, the Earlier Spirit Festival (fifteenth day of second moon), the Festival of the Tombs (about the third day of the third moon), when graves are put in order and special offerings made to the dead, the Middle Spirit Festival (fifteenth day of seventh moon), and the Later Spirit Festival (fifteenth day of tenth moon). The Dragon-boat Festival (fifth day of fifth moon) is said to have originated as a commemoration of the death of the poet Ch'ü Yüan, who drowned himself in disgust at the official intrigue and corruption of which he was the victim, but the object is the procuring of sufficient rain to ensure a good harvest. It is celebrated by racing with long narrow boats shaped to represent dragons and propelled by scores of rowers, pasting of charms on the doors of dwellings, and eating a special kind of rice-cake, with a liquor as a beverage. The fifteenth day of the eighth moon is the Mid-autumn Festival, known by foreigners as All Souls' Day. On this occasion the women worship the moon, offering cakes, fruit, etc. The gates of Purgatory are opened, and the hungry ghosts troop forth to enjoy themselves for a month on the good things provided for them by the pious. The ninth day of the ninth moon is the Chung Yang Festival, when every one who possibly can ascends to a high place--a hill or temple-tower. This inaugurates the kite-flying season, and is supposed to promote longevity. During that season, which lasts several months, the Chinese people the sky with dragons, centipedes, frogs, butterflies, and hundreds of other cleverly devised creatures, which, by means of simple mechanisms worked by the wind, roll their eyes, make appropriate sounds, and move their paws, wings, tails, etc., in a most realistic manner. The festival originated in a warning received by a scholar named Huan Ching from his master Fei Ch'ang-fang, a native of Ju-nan in Honan, who lived during the Han dynasty, that a terrible calamity was about to happen, and enjoining him to escape with his family to a high place. On his return he found all his domestic animals dead, and was told that they had died instead of himself and his relatives. On New Year's Eve (_Tuan Nien_ or _Chu Hsi_) the Kitchen-god ascends to Heaven to make his annual report, the wise feasting him with honey and other sticky food before his departure, so that his lips may be sealed and he be unable to 'let on' too much to the powers that be in the regions above! Sports and Games The first sports of the Chinese were festival gatherings for purposes of archery, to which succeeded exercises partaking of a military character. Hunting was a favourite amusement. They played games of calculation, chess (or the 'game of war'), shuttlecock with the feet, pitch-pot (throwing arrows from a distance into a narrow-necked jar), and 'horn-goring' (fighting on the shoulders of others with horned masks on their heads). Stilts, football, dice-throwing, boat-racing, dog-racing, cock-fighting, kite-flying, as well as singing and dancing marionettes, afforded recreation and amusement. Many of these games became obsolete in course of time, and new ones were invented. At the end of the Monarchical Period, during the Manchu dynasty, we find those most in use to be foot-shuttlecock, lifting of beams headed with heavy stones--dumb-bells four feet long and weighing thirty or forty pounds--kite-flying, quail-fighting, cricket-fighting, sending birds after seeds thrown into the air, sauntering through fields, playing chess or 'morra,' or gambling with cards, dice, or over the cricket- and quail-fights or seed-catching birds. There were numerous and varied children's games tending to develop strength, skill, quickness of action, parental instinct, accuracy, and sagacity. Theatricals were performed by strolling troupes on stages erected opposite temples, though permanent theatres also existed, female parts until recently being taken by male actors. Peep-shows, conjurers, ventriloquists, acrobats, fortune-tellers, and story-tellers kept crowds amused or interested. Generally, 'young China' of the present day, identified with the party of progress, seems to have adopted most of the outdoor but very few of the indoor games of Western nations. Domestic Life In domestic or private life, observances at birth, betrothal, and marriage were elaborate, and retained superstitious elements. Early rising was general. Shaving of the head and beard, as well as cleaning of the ears and massage, was done by barbers. There were public baths in all cities and towns. Shops were closed at nightfall, and, the streets being until recent times ill-lit or unlit, passengers or their attendants carried lanterns. Most houses, except the poorest, had private watchmen. Generally two meals a day were taken. Dinners to friends were served at inns or restaurants, accompanied or followed by musical or theatrical performances. The place of honour is stated in Western books on China to be on the left, but the fact is that the place of honour is the one which shows the utmost solicitude for the safety of the guest. It is therefore not necessarily one fixed place, but would usually be the one facing the door, so that the guest might be in a position to see an enemy enter, and take measures accordingly. Lap-dogs and cage-birds were kept as pets; 'wonks,' the _huang kou_, or 'yellow dog,' were guards of houses and street scavengers. Aquaria with goldfish were often to be seen in the houses of the upper and middle classes, the gardens and courtyards of which usually contained rockeries and artistic shrubs and flowers. Whiskers were never worn, and moustaches and beards only after forty, before which age the hair grew, if at all, very scantily. Full, thick beards, as in the West, were practically never seen, even on the aged. Snuff-bottles, tobacco-pipes, and fans were carried by both sexes. Nails were worn long by members of the literary and leisured classes. Non-Manchu women and girls had cramped feet, and both Manchu and Chinese women used cosmetics freely. Industrial Institutions While the men attended to farm-work, women took care of the mulberry-orchards and silkworms, and did spinning, weaving, and embroidery. This, the primitive division of labour, held throughout, though added to on both sides, so that eventually the men did most of the agriculture, arts, production, distribution, fighting, etc., and the women, besides the duties above named and some field-labour, mended old clothes, drilled and sharpened needles, pasted tin-foil, made shoes, and gathered and sorted the leaves of the tea-plant. In course of time trades became highly specialized--their number being legion--and localized, bankers, for instance, congregating in Shansi, carpenters in Chi Chou, and porcelain-manufacturers in Jao Chou, in Kiangsi. As to land, it became at an early age the property of the sovereign, who farmed it out to his relatives or favourites. It was arranged on the _ching_, or 'well' system--eight private squares round a ninth public square cultivated by the eight farmer families in common for the benefit of the State. From the beginning to the end of the Monarchical Period tenure continued to be of the Crown, land being unallodial, and mostly held in clans or families, and not entailed, the conditions of tenure being payment of an annual tax, a fee for alienation, and money compensation for personal services to the Government, generally incorporated into the direct tax as scutage. Slavery, unknown in the earliest times, existed as a recognized institution during the whole of the Monarchical Period. Production was chiefly confined to human and animal labour, machinery being only now in use on a large scale. Internal distribution was carried on from numerous centres and at fairs, shops, markets, etc. With few exceptions, the great trade-routes by land and sea have remained the same during the last two thousand years. Foreign trade was with Western Asia, Greece, Rome, Carthage, Arabia, etc., and from the seventeenth century A.D. more generally with European countries. The usual primitive means of conveyance, such as human beings, animals, carts, boats, etc., were partly displaced by steam-vessels from 1861 onward. Exchange was effected by barter, cowries of different values being the prototype of coins, which were cast in greater or less quantity under each reign. But until within recent years there was only one coin, the copper cash, in use, bullion and paper notes being the other media of exchange. Silver Mexican dollars and subsidiary coins came into use with the advent of foreign commerce. Weights and measures (which generally decreased from north to south), officially arranged partly on the decimal system, were discarded by the people in ordinary commercial transactions for the more convenient duodecimal subdivision. Arts Hunting, fishing, cooking, weaving, dyeing, carpentry, metallurgy, glass-, brick-, and paper-making, printing, and book-binding were in a more or less primitive stage, the mechanical arts showing much servile imitation and simplicity in design; but pottery, carving, and lacquer-work were in an exceptionally high state of development, the articles produced being surpassed in quality and beauty by no others in the world. Agriculture and Rearing of Livestock From the earliest times the greater portion of the available land was under cultivation. Except when the country has been devastated by war, the Chinese have devoted close attention to the cultivation of the soil continuously for forty centuries. Even the hills are terraced for extra growing-room. But poverty and governmental inaction caused much to lie idle. There were two annual crops in the north, and five in two years in the south. Perhaps two-thirds of the population cultivated the soil. The methods, however, remained primitive; but the great fertility of the soil and the great industry of the farmer, with generous but careful use of fertilizers, enabled the vast territory to support an enormous population. Rice, wheat, barley, buckwheat, maize, kaoliang, several millets, and oats were the chief grains cultivated. Beans, peas, oil-bearing seeds (sesame, rape, etc.), fibre-plants (hemp, ramie, jute, cotton, etc.), starch-roots (taros, yams, sweet potatoes, etc.), tobacco, indigo, tea, sugar, fruits, were among the more important crops produced. Fruit-growing, however, lacked scientific method. The rotation of crops was not a usual practice, but grafting, pruning, dwarfing, enlarging, selecting, and varying species were well understood. Vegetable-culture had reached a high state of perfection, the smallest patches of land being made to bring forth abundantly. This is the more creditable inasmuch as most small farmers could not afford to purchase expensive foreign machinery, which, in many cases, would be too large or complicated for their purposes. The principal animals, birds, etc., reared were the pig, ass, horse, mule, cow, sheep, goat, buffalo, yak, fowl, duck, goose, pigeon, silkworm, and bee. The Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce, the successor to the Board of Agriculture, Manufactures, and Commerce, instituted during recent years, is now adapting Western methods to the cultivation of the fertile soil of China, and even greater results than in the past may be expected in the future. Sentiments and Moral Ideas The Chinese have always shown a keen delight in the beautiful--in flowers, music, poetry, literature, embroidery, paintings, porcelain. They cultivated ornamental plants, almost every house, as we saw, having its garden, large or small, and tables were often decorated with flowers in vases or ornamental wire baskets or fruits or sweetmeats. Confucius made music an instrument of government. Paper bearing the written character was so respected that it might not be thrown on the ground or trodden on. Delight was always shown in beautiful scenery or tales of the marvellous. Commanding or agreeable situations were chosen for temples. But until within the last few years streets and houses were generally unclean, and decency in public frequently absent. Morality was favoured by public opinion, but in spite of early marriages and concubinage there was much laxity. Cruelty both to human beings and animals has always been a marked trait in the Chinese character. Savagery in warfare, cannibalism, luxury, drunkenness, and corruption prevailed in the earliest times. The attitude toward women was despotic. But moral principles pervaded the classical writings, and formed the basis of law. In spite of these, the inferior sentiment of revenge was, as we have seen, approved and preached as a sacred duty. As a result of the universal _yin-yang_ dualistic doctrines, immorality was leniently regarded. In modern times, at least, mercantile honour was high, "a merchant's word is as good as his bond" being truer in China than in many other countries. Intemperance was rare. Opium-smoking was much indulged in until the use of the drug was forcibly suppressed (1906-16). Even now much is smuggled into the country, or its growth overlooked by bribed officials. Clan quarrels and fights were common, vendettas sometimes continuing for generations. Suicide under depressing circumstances was approved and honoured; it was frequently resorted to under the sting of great injustice. There was a deep reverence for parents and superiors. Disregard of the truth, when useful, was universal, and unattended by a sense of shame, even on detection. Thieving was common. The illegal exactions of rulers were burdensome. In times of prosperity pride and satisfaction in material matters was not concealed, and was often short-sighted. Politeness was practically universal, though said to be often superficial; but gratitude was a marked characteristic, and was heartfelt. Mutual conjugal affection was strong. The love of gambling was universal. But little has occurred in recent years to modify the above characters. Nevertheless the inferior traits are certainly being changed by education and by the formation of societies whose members bind themselves against immorality, concubinage, gambling, drinking, smoking, etc. Religious Ideas Chinese religion is inherently an attitude toward the spirits or gods with the object of obtaining a benefit or averting a calamity. We shall deal with it more fully in another chapter. Suffice it to say here that it originated in ancestor-worship, and that the greater part of it remains ancestor-worship to the present day. The State religion, which was Confucianism, was ancestor-worship. Taoism, originally a philosophy, became a worship of spirits--of the souls of dead men supposed to have taken up their abode in animals, reptiles, insects, trees, stones, etc.--borrowed the cloak of religion from Buddhism, which eventually outshone it, and degenerated into a system of exorcism and magic. Buddhism, a religion originating in India, in which Buddha, once a man, is worshipped, in which no beings are known with greater power than can be attained to by man, and according to which at death the soul migrates into anything from a deified human being to an elephant, a bird, a plant, a wall, a broom, or any piece of inorganic matter, was imported ready made into China and took the side of popular superstition and Taoism against the orthodox belief, finding that its power lay in the influence on the popular mind of its doctrine respecting a future state, in contrast to the indifference of Confucianism. Its pleading for compassion and preservation of life met a crying need, and but for it the state of things in this respect would be worse than it is. Religion, apart from ancestor-worship, does not enter largely into Chinese life. There is none of the real 'love of God' found, for example, in the fervent as distinguished from the conventional Christian. And as ancestor-worship gradually loses its hold and dies out agnosticism will take its place. Superstitions An almost infinite variety of superstitious practices, due to the belief in the good or evil influences of departed spirits, exists in all parts of China. Days are lucky or unlucky. Eclipses are due to a dragon trying to eat the sun or the moon. The rainbow is supposed to be the result of a meeting between the impure vapours of the sun and the earth. Amulets are worn, and charms hung up, sprigs of artemisia or of peach-blossom are placed near beds and over lintels respectively, children and adults are 'locked to life' by means of locks on chains or cords worn round the neck, old brass mirrors are supposed to cure insanity, figures of gourds, tigers' claws, or the unicorn are worn to ensure good fortune or ward off sickness, fire, etc., spells of many kinds, composed mostly of the written characters for happiness and longevity, are worn, or written on paper, cloth, leaves, etc., and burned, the ashes being made into a decoction and drunk by the young or sick. Divination by means of the divining stalks (the divining plant, milfoil or yarrow) and the tortoiseshell has been carried on from time immemorial, but was not originally practised with the object of ascertaining future events, but in order to decide doubts, much as lots are drawn or a coin tossed in the West. _Fêng-shui_, "the art of adapting the residence of the living and the dead so as to co-operate and harmonize with the local currents of the cosmic breath" (the _yin_ and the _yang_: see Chapter III), a doctrine which had its root in ancestor-worship, has exercised an enormous influence on Chinese thought and life from the earliest times, and especially from those of Chu Hsi and other philosophers of the Sung dynasty. Knowledge Having noted that Chinese education was mainly literary, and why it was so, it is easy to see that there would be little or no demand for the kind of knowledge classified in the West under the head of science. In so far as any demand existed, it did so, at any rate at first, only because it subserved vital needs. Thus, astronomy, or more properly astrology, was studied in order that the calendar might be regulated, and so the routine of agriculture correctly followed, for on that depended the people's daily rice, or rather, in the beginning, the various fruits and kinds of flesh which constituted their means of sustentation before their now universal food was known. In philosophy they have had two periods of great activity, the first beginning with Lao Tzu and Confucius in the sixth century B.C. and ending with the Burning of the Books by the First Emperor, Shih Huang Ti, in 213 B.C.; the second beginning with Chou Tzu (A.D. 1017-73) and ending with Chu Hsi (1130-1200). The department of philosophy in the imperial library contained in 190 B.C. 2705 volumes by 137 authors. There can be no doubt that this zeal for the orthodox learning, combined with the literary test for office, was the reason why scientific knowledge was prevented from developing; so much so, that after four thousand or more years of national life we find, during the Manchu Period, which ended the monarchical _régime_, few of the educated class, giants though they were in knowledge of all departments of their literature and history (the continuity of their traditions laid down in their twenty-four Dynastic Annals has been described as one of the great wonders of the world), with even the elementary scientific learning of a schoolboy in the West. 'Crude,' 'primitive,' 'mediocre,' 'vague,' 'inaccurate,' 'want of analysis and generalization,' are terms we find applied to their knowledge of such leading sciences as geography, mathematics, chemistry, botany, and geology. Their medicine was much hampered by superstition, and perhaps more so by such beliefs as that the seat of the intellect is in the stomach, that thoughts proceed from the heart, that the pit of the stomach is the seat of the breath, that the soul resides in the liver, etc.--the result partly of the idea that dissection of the body would maim it permanently during its existence in the Otherworld. What progress was made was due to European instruction; and this again is the _causa causans_ of the great wave of progress in scientific and philosophical knowledge which is rolling over the whole country and will have marked effects on the history of the world during the coming century. Language Originally polysyllabic, the Chinese language later assumed a monosyllabic, isolating, uninflected form, grammatical relations being indicated by position. From the earliest forms of speech several subordinate vernacular languages arose in various districts, and from these sprang local dialects, etc. Tone-distinctions arose--_i.e._ the same words pronounced with a different intonation came to mean different things. Development of these distinctions led to carelessness of articulation, and multiplication of what would be homonyms but for these tones. It is incorrect to assume that the tones were invented to distinguish similar sounds. So that, at the present day, anyone who says _ma_ will mean either an exclamation, hemp, horse, or curse according to the quality he gives to the sound. The language remains in a primitive state, without inflexion, declension, or distinction of parts of speech. The order in a sentence is: subject, verb, complement direct, complement indirect. Gender is formed by distinctive particles; number by prefixing numerals, etc.; cases by position or appropriate prepositions. Adjectives precede nouns; position determines comparison; and absence of punctuation causes ambiguity. The latter is now introduced into most newly published works. The new education is bringing with it innumerable words and phrases not found in the old literature or dictionaries. Japanese idioms which are now being imported into the language are making it less pure. The written language, too well known to need detailed description, a thing of beauty and a joy for ever to those able to appreciate it, said to have taken originally the form of knotted cords and then of notches on wood (though this was more probably the origin of numeration than of writing proper), took later that of rude outlines of natural objects, and then went on to the phonetic system, under which each character is composed of two parts, the radical, indicating the meaning, and the phonetic, indicating the sound. They were symbols, non-agglutinative and non-inflexional, and were written in vertical columns, probably from having in early times been painted or cut on strips of bark. Achievements of the Chinese As the result of all this fitful fever during so many centuries, we find that the Chinese, after having lived in nests "in order to avoid the animals," and then in caves, have built themselves houses and palaces which are still made after the pattern of their prototype, with a flat wall behind, the openings in front, the walls put in after the pillars and roof-tree have been fixed, and out-buildings added on as side extensions. The _k'ang_, or 'stove-bed' (now a platform made of bricks), found all over the northern provinces, was a place scooped out of the side of the cave, with an opening underneath in which (as now) a fire was lit in winter. Windows and shutters opened upward, being a survival of the mat or shade hung in front of the apertures in the walls of the primitive cave-dwelling. Four of these buildings facing each other round a square made the courtyard, and one or more courtyards made the compound. They have fed themselves on almost everything edible to be found on, under, or above land or water, except milk, but live chiefly on rice, chicken, fish, vegetables, including garlic, and tea, though at one time they ate flesh and drank wine, sometimes to excess, before tea was cultivated. They have clothed themselves in skins and feathers, and then in silks and satins, but mostly in cotton, and hardly ever in wool. Under the Manchu _régime_ the type of dress adopted was that of this horse-riding race, showing the chief characteristics of that noble animal, the broad sleeves representing the hoofs, the queue the mane, etc. This queue was formed of the hair growing from the back part of the scalp, the front of which was shaved. Unlike the Egyptians, they did not wear wigs. They have nearly always had the decency to wear their coats long, and have despised the Westerner for wearing his too short. They are now paradoxical enough to make the mistake of adopting the Westerner's costume. They have made to themselves great canals, bridges, aqueducts, and the longest wall there has ever been on the face of the earth (which could not be seen from the moon, as some sinologists have erroneously supposed, any more than a hair, however long, could be seen at a distance of a hundred yards). They have made long and wide roads, but failed to keep them in repair during the last few centuries, though much zeal, possibly due to commerce on oil- or electricity-driven wheels, is now being shown in this direction. They have built honorary portals to chaste widows, pagodas, and arched bridges of great beauty, not forgetting to surround each city with a high and substantial wall to keep out unfriendly people. They have made innumerable implements and weapons, from pens and fans and chopsticks to ploughs and carts and ships; from fiery darts, 'flame elephants,' bows and spears, spiked chariots, battering-rams, and hurling-engines to mangonels, trebuchets, matchlocks of wrought iron and plain bore with long barrels resting on a stock, and gingals fourteen feet long resting on a tripod, cuirasses of quilted cotton cloth covered with brass knobs, and helmets of iron or polished steel, sometimes inlaid, with neck- and ear-lappets. And they have been content not to improve upon these to any appreciable extent; but have lately shown a tendency to make the later patterns imported from the West in their own factories. They have produced one of the greatest and most remarkable accumulations of literature the world has ever seen, and the finest porcelain; some music, not very fine; and some magnificent painting, though hardly any sculpture, and little architecture that will live. CHAPTER II On Chinese Mythology Mythology and Intellectual Progress The Manichæst, _yin-yang_ (dualist), idea of existence, to which further reference will be made in the next chapter, finds its illustration in the dual life, real and imaginary, of all the peoples of the earth. They have both real histories and mythological histories. In the preceding chapter I have dealt briefly with the first--the life of reality--in China from the earliest times to the present day; the succeeding chapters are concerned with the second--the life of imagination. A survey of the first was necessary for a complete understanding of the second. The two react upon each other, affecting the national character and through it the history of the world. Mythology is the science of the unscientific man's explanation of what we call the Otherworld--itself and its denizens, their mysterious habits and surprising actions both there and here, usually including the creation of this world also. By the Otherworld he does not necessarily mean anything distant or even invisible, though the things he explains would mostly be included by us under those terms. In some countries myths are abundant, in others scarce. Why should this be? Why should some peoples tell many and marvellous tales about their gods and others say little about them, though they may say a great deal to them? We recall the 'great' myths of Greece and Scandinavia. Other races are 'poor' in myths. The difference is to be explained by the mental characters of the peoples as moulded by their surroundings and hereditary tendencies. The problem is of course a psychological one, for it is, as already noted, in imagination that myths have their root. Now imagination grows with each stage of intellectual progress, for intellectual progress implies increasing representativeness of thought. In the lower stages of human development imagination is feeble and unproductive; in the highest stages it is strong and constructive. The Chinese Intellect The Chinese are not unimaginative, but their minds did not go on to the construction of any myths which should be world-great and immortal; and one reason why they did not construct such myths was that their intellectual progress was arrested at a comparatively early stage. It was arrested because there was not that contact and competition with other peoples which demands brain-work of an active kind as the alternative of subjugation, inferiority, or extinction, and because, as we have already seen, the knowledge required of them was mainly the parrot-like repetition of the old instead of the thinking-out of the new [1]--a state of things rendered possible by the isolation just referred to. Confucius discountenanced discussion about the supernatural, and just as it is probable that the exhortations of Wên Wang, the virtual founder of the Chou dynasty (1121-255 B.C.), against drunkenness, in a time before tea was known to them, helped to make the Chinese the sober people that they are, so it is probable--more than probable--that this attitude of Confucius may have nipped in the bud much that might have developed a vigorous mythology, though for a reason to be stated later it may be doubted if he thereby deprived the world of any beautiful and marvellous results of the highest flights of poetical creativeness. There are times, such as those of any great political upheaval, when human nature will assert itself and break through its shackles in spite of all artificial or conventional restraints. Considering the enormous influence of Confucianism throughout the latter half of Chinese history--_i.e._ the last two thousand years--it is surprising that the Chinese dared to think about supernatural matters at all, except in the matter of propitiating their dead ancestors. That they did so is evidence not only of human nature's inherent tendency to tell stories, but also of the irrepressible strength of feeling which breaks all laws and commandments under great stimulus. On the opposing unæsthetic side this may be compared to the feeling which prompts the unpremeditated assassination of a man who is guilty of great injustice, even though it be certain that in due course he would have met his deserts at the hands of the public executioner. The Influence of Religion Apart from this, the influence of Confucianism would have been even greater than it was, but for the imperial partiality periodically shown for rival doctrines, such as Buddhism and Taoism, which threw their weight on the side of the supernatural, and which at times were exalted to such great heights as to be officially recognized as State religions. These, Buddhism especially, appealed to the popular imagination and love of the marvellous. Buddhism spoke of the future state and the nature of the gods in no uncertain tones. It showed men how to reach the one and attain to the other. Its founder was virtuous; his commandments pure and life-sustaining. It supplied in great part what Confucianism lacked. And, as in the fifth and sixth centuries A.D., when Buddhism and Taoism joined forces and a working union existed between them, they practically excluded for the time all the "chilly growth of Confucian classicism." Other opponents of myth, including a critical philosopher of great ability, we shall have occasion to notice presently. History and Myth The sobriety and accuracy of Chinese historians is proverbial. I have dilated upon this in another work, and need add here only what I inadvertently omitted there--a point hitherto unnoticed or at least unremarked--that the very word for history in Chinese (_shih_) means impartiality or an impartial annalist. It has been said that where there is much myth there is little history, and _vice versa_, and though this may not be universally true, undoubtedly the persistently truthful recording of facts, events, and sayings, even at the risk of loss, yea, and actual loss of life of the historian as the result of his refusal to make false entries in his chronicle at the bidding of the emperor (as in the case of the historiographers of Ch'i in 547 B.C.), indicates a type of mind which would require some very strong stimulus to cause it to soar very far into the hazy realms of fanciful imagination. Chinese Rigidity A further cause, already hinted at above, for the arrest of intellectual progress is to be found in the growth of the nation in size during many centuries of isolation from the main stream of world-civilization, without that increase in heterogeneity which comes from the moulding by forces external to itself. "As iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend." Consequently we find China what is known to sociology as an 'aggregate of the first order,' which during its evolution has parted with its internal life-heat without absorbing enough from external sources to enable it to retain the plastic condition necessary to further, or at least rapid, development. It is in a state of rigidity, a state recognized and understood by the sociologist in his study of the evolution of nations. The Prerequisites to Myth But the mere increase of constructive imagination is not sufficient to produce myth. If it were, it would be reasonable to argue that as intellectual progress goes on myths become more numerous, and the greater the progress the greater the number of myths. This we do not find. In fact, if constructive imagination went on increasing without the intervention of any further factor, there need not necessarily be any myth at all. We might almost say that the reverse is the case. We connect myth with primitive folk, not with the greatest philosophers or the most advanced nations--not, that is, with the most advanced stages of national progress wherein constructive imagination makes the nation great and strong. In these stages the philosopher studies or criticizes myth, he does not make it. In order that there may be myth, three further conditions must be fulfilled. There must, as we have seen, be constructive imagination, but, nevertheless, there must not be too much of it. As stated above, mythology, or rather myth, is the _unscientific_ man's explanation. If the constructive imagination is so great that it becomes self-critical, if the story-teller doubts his own story, if, in short, his mind is scientific enough to see that his explanation is no explanation at all, then there can be no myth properly so called. As in religion, unless the myth-maker believes in his myth with all his heart and soul and strength, and each new disciple, as it is cared for and grows under his hands during the course of years, holds that he must put his shoes from off his feet because the place whereon he treads is holy ground, the faith will not be propagated, for it will lack the vital spark which alone can make it a living thing. Stimulus Necessary The next condition is that there must be a stimulus. It is not ideas, but feelings, which govern the world, and in the history of mythology where feeling is absent we find either weak imitation or repetition of the myths of other peoples (though this must not be confused with certain elements which seem to be common to the myths of all races), or concoction, contamination, or "genealogical tree-making," or myths originated by "leisurely, peaceful tradition" and lacking the essential qualities which appeal to the human soul and make their possessors very careful to preserve them among their most loved and valued treasures. But, on the other hand, where feeling is stirred, where the requisite stimulus exists, where the people are in great danger, or allured by the prize of some breathless adventure, the contact produces the spark of divine poetry, the myths are full of artistic, philosophic, and religious suggestiveness, and have abiding significance and charm. They are the children, the poetic fruit, of great labour and serious struggles, revealing the most fundamental forces, hopes, and cravings of the human soul. Nations highly strung, undergoing strenuous emotion, intensely energized by constant conflict with other nations, have their imagination stimulated to exceptional poetic creativeness. The background of the Danaïds is Egyptian, not Greek, but it was the danger in which the Greeks were placed in their wars with the sons of the land of the Pharaohs that stimulated the Greek imagination to the creation of that great myth. This explains why so many of the greatest myths have their staging, not in the country itself whose treasured possessions they are, but where that country is 'playing the great game,' is carrying on wars decisive of far-reaching national events, which arouse to the greatest pitch of excitement the feelings both of the combatants and of those who are watching them from their homes. It is by such great events, not by the romance-writer in his peaceful study, that mythology, like literature, is "incisively determined." Imagination, we saw, goes _pari passu_ with intellectual progress, and intellectual progress, in early times, is furthered not so much by the mere contact as by the actual conflict of nations. And we see also that myths may, and very frequently do, have a character quite different from that of the nation to which they appertain, for environment plays a most important part both in their inception and subsequent growth--a truth too obvious to need detailed elaboration. Persistent Soul-expression A third condition is that the type of imagination must be persistent through fairly long periods of time, otherwise not only will there be an absence of sufficient feeling or momentum to cause the myths to be repeated and kept alive and transmitted to posterity, but the inducement to add to them and so enable them to mature and become complete and finished off and sufficiently attractive to appeal to the human mind in spite of the foreign character they often bear will be lacking. In other words, myths and legends grow. They resemble not so much the narrative of the story-teller or novelist as a gradually developing art like music, or a body of ideas like philosophy. They are human and natural, though they express the thought not of any one individual mind, but of the folk-soul, exemplifying in poetical form some great psychological or physiographical truth. The Character of Chinese Myth The nature of the case thus forbids us to expect to find the Chinese myths exhibiting the advanced state and brilliant heterogeneity of those which have become part of the world's permanent literature. We must expect them to be true to type and conditions, as we expect the other ideas of the Chinese to be, and looking for them in the light of this knowledge we shall find them just where we should expect to find them. The great sagas and eddas exalted among the world's literary masterpieces, and forming part of the very life of a large number of its inhabitants, are absent in China. "The Chinese people," says one well-known sinologist, "are not prone to mythological invention." "He who expects to find in Tibet," says another writer, "the poetical charm of Greek or Germanic mythology will be disappointed. There is a striking poverty of imagination in all the myths and legends. A great monotony pervades them all. Many of their stories, taken from the sacred texts, are quite puerile and insipid. It may be noted that the Chinese mythology labours under the same defect." And then there comes the crushing judgment of an over-zealous Christian missionary sinologist: "There is no hierarchy of gods brought in to rule and inhabit the world they made, no conclave on Mount Olympus, nor judgment of the mortal soul by Osiris, no transfer of human love and hate, passions and hopes, to the powers above; all here is ascribed to disembodied agencies or principles, and their works are represented as moving on in quiet order. There is no religion [!], no imagination; all is impassible, passionless, uninteresting.... It has not, as in Greece and Egypt, been explained in sublime poetry, shadowed forth in gorgeous ritual and magnificent festivals, represented in exquisite sculptures, nor preserved in faultless, imposing fanes and temples, filled with ideal creations." Besides being incorrect as to many of its alleged facts, this view would certainly be shown by further study to be greatly exaggerated. Periods Fertile in Myth What we should expect, then, to find from our philosophical study of the Chinese mind as affected by its surroundings would be barrenness of constructive imagination, except when birth was given to myth through the operation of some external agency. And this we do find. The period of the overthrow of the Yin dynasty and the establishment of the great house of Chou in 1122 B.C., or of the Wars of the Three States, for example, in the third century after Christ, a time of terrible anarchy, a medieval age of epic heroism, sung in a hundred forms of prose and verse, which has entered as motive into a dozen dramas, or the advent of Buddhism, which opened up a new world of thought and life to the simple, sober, peace-loving agricultural folk of China, were stimuli not by any means devoid of result. In China there are gods many and heroes many, and the very fact of the existence of so great a multitude of gods would logically imply a wealth of mythological lore inseparable from their apotheosis. You cannot--and the Chinese cannot--get behind reason. A man is not made a god without some cause being assigned for so important and far-reaching a step; and in matters of this sort the stated cause is apt to take the form of a narrative more or less marvellous or miraculous. These resulting myths may, of course, be born and grow at a later time than that in which the circumstances giving rise to them took place, but, if so, that merely proves the persistent power of the originating stimulus. That in China these narratives always or often reach the highest flights of constructive imagination is not maintained--the maintenance of that argument would indeed be contradictory; but even in those countries where the mythological garden has produced some of the finest flowers millions of seeds must have been sown which either did not spring up at all or at least failed to bring forth fruit. And in the realm of mythology it is not only those gods who sit in the highest seats--creators of the world or heads of great religions--who dominate mankind; the humbler, though often no less powerful gods or spirits--those even who run on all fours and live in holes in the ground, or buzz through the air and have their thrones in the shadow of a leaf--have often made a deeper impress on the minds and in the hearts of the people, and through that impress, for good or evil, have, in greater or less degree, modified the life of the visible universe. Sources of Chinese Myth "So, if we ask whence comes the heroic and the romantic, which supplies the story-teller's stock-in-trade, the answer is easy. The legends and history of early China furnish abundance of material for them. To the Chinese mind their ancient world was crowded with heroes, fairies, and devils, who played their part in the mixed-up drama, and left a name and fame both remarkable and piquant. Every one who is familiar with the ways and the language of the people knows that the country is full of common objects to which poetic names have been given, and with many of them there is associated a legend or a myth. A deep river's gorge is called 'the Blind Man's Pass,' because a peculiar bit of rock, looked at from a certain angle, assumes the outline of the human form, and there comes to be connected therewith a pleasing story which reaches its climax in the petrifaction of the hero. A mountain's crest shaped like a swooping eagle will from some one have received the name of 'Eagle Mountain,' whilst by its side another shaped like a couchant lion will have a name to match. There is no lack of poetry among the people, and most striking objects claim a poetic name, and not a few of them are associated with curious legends. It is, however, to their national history that the story-teller goes for his most interesting subjects, and as the so-called history of China imperceptibly passes into the legendary period, and this again fades into the mythical, and as all this is assuredly believed by the masses of the people, it is obvious that in the national life of China there is no dearth of heroes whose deeds of prowess will command the rapt attention of the crowds who listen." [2] The soul in China is everywhere in evidence, and if myths have "first and foremost to do with the life of the soul" it would appear strange that the Chinese, having spiritualized everything from a stone to the sky, have not been creative of myth. Why they have not the foregoing considerations show us clearly enough. We must take them and their myths as we find them. Let us, then, note briefly the result of their mental workings as reacted on by their environment. Phases of Chinese Myth We cannot identify the earliest mythology of the Chinese with that of any primitive race. The myths, if any, of their place of origin may have faded and been forgotten in their slow migration eastward. We cannot say that when they came from the West (which they probably did) they brought their myths with them, for in spite of certain conjectural derivations from Babylon we do not find them possessed of any which we can identify as imported by them at that time. But research seems to have gone at least as far as this--namely, that while we cannot say that Chinese myth was derived from Indian myth, there is good reason to believe that Chinese and Indian myth had a common origin, which was of course outside of China. To set forth in detail the various phases through which Chinese myth has passed would involve a technical description foreign to the purpose of a popular work. It will sufficiently serve our present purpose to outline its most prominent features. In the earliest times there was an 'age of magic' followed by an 'heroic age,' but myths were very rare before 800 B.C., and what is known as primitive mythology is said to have been invented or imitated from foreign sources after 820 B.C. In the eighth century B.C. myths of an astrological character began to attract attention. In the age of Lao Tzu (604 B.C.), the reputed founder of the Taoist religion, fresh legends appear, though Lao Tzu himself, absorbed in the abstract, records none. Neither did Confucius (551-479 B.C.) nor Mencius, who lived two hundred years later, add any legends to history. But in the Period of the Warring States (500-100 B.C.) fresh stimuli and great emotion prompted to mythological creation. Tso-ch'iu Ming and Lieh Tzu Tso-ch'iu Ming, commentator on Confucius's _Annals_, frequently introduced legend into his history. Lieh Tzu (fifth and fourth centuries B.C.), a metaphysician, is one of the earliest authors who deal in myths. He is the first to mention the story of Hsi Wang Mu, the Western Queen, and from his day onward the fabulists have vied with one another in fantastic descriptions of the wonders of her fairyland. He was the first to mention the islands of the immortals in the ocean, the kingdoms of the dwarfs and giants, the fruit of immortality, the repairing of the heavens by Nü Kua Shih with five-coloured stones, and the great tortoise which supports the universe. The T'ang and Sung Epochs Religious romance began at this time. The T'ang epoch (A.B. 618-907) was one of the resurrection of the arts of peace after a long period of dissension. A purer and more enduring form of intellect was gradually overcoming the grosser but less solid superstition. Nevertheless the intellectual movement which now manifested itself was not strong enough to prevail against the powers of mythological darkness. It was reserved for the scholars of the Sung Period (A.D. 960-1280) to carry through to victory a strong and sustained offensive against the spiritualistic obsessions which had weighed upon the Chinese mind more or less persistently from the Han Period (206 B.C.-A.D. 221) onward. The dogma of materialism was specially cultivated at this time. The struggle of sober reason against superstition or imaginative invention was largely a struggle of Confucianism against Taoism. Though many centuries had elapsed since the great Master walked the earth, the anti-myth movement of the T'ang and Sung Periods was in reality the long arm and heavy fist of Confucius emphasizing a truer rationalism than that of his opponents and denouncing the danger of leaving the firm earth to soar into the unknown hazy regions of fantasy. It was Sung scholarship that gave the death-blow to Chinese mythology. It is unnecessary to labour the point further, because after the Sung epoch we do not meet with any period of new mythological creation, and its absence can be ascribed to no other cause than its defeat at the hands of the Sung philosophers. After their time the tender plant was always in danger of being stunted or killed by the withering blast of philosophical criticism. Anything in the nature of myth ascribable to post-Sung times can at best be regarded only as a late blossom born when summer days are past. Myth and Doubt It will bear repetition to say that unless the myth-builder firmly believes in his myth, be he the layer of the foundation-stone or one of the raisers of the superstructure, he will hardly make it a living thing. Once he believes in reincarnation and the suspension of natural laws, the boundless vistas of space and the limitless æons of time are opened to him. He can perform miracles which astound the world. But if he allow his mind to inquire, for instance, why it should have been necessary for Elijah to part the waters of the Jordan with his garment in order that he and Elisha might pass over dryshod, or for Bodhidharma to stand on a reed to cross the great Yangtzu River, or for innumerable Immortals to sit on 'favourable clouds' to make their journeys through space, he spoils myth--his child is stillborn or does not survive to maturity. Though the growth of philosophy and decay of superstition may be good for a nation, the process is certainly conducive to the destruction of its myth and much of its poetry. The true mythologist takes myth for myth, enters into its spirit, and enjoys it. We may thus expect to find in the realm of Chinese mythology a large number of little hills rather than a few great mountains, but the little hills are very good ones after their kind; and the object of this work is to present Chinese myth as it is, not as it might have been had the universe been differently constituted. Nevertheless, if, as we may rightly do, we judge of myth by the sentiments pervading it and the ideals upheld and taught by it, we shall find that Chinese myth must be ranked among the greatest. Myth and Legend The general principles considered above, while they explain the paucity of myth in China, explain also the abundance of legend there. The six hundred years during which the Mongols, Mings, and Manchus sat upon the throne of China are barren of myth, but like all periods of the Chinese national life are fertile in legend. And this chiefly for the reason that myths are more general, national, divine, while legends are more local, individual, human. And since, in China as elsewhere, the lower classes are as a rule less educated and more superstitious than the upper classes--have a certain amount of constructive imagination, but not enough to be self-critical--legends, rejected or even ridiculed by the scholarly class when their knowledge has become sufficiently scientific, continue to be invented and believed in by the peasant and the dweller in districts far from the madding crowd long after myth, properly so called, has exhaled its last breath. CHAPTER III Cosmogony-p'an Ku and the Creation Myth The Fashioner of the Universe The most conspicuous figure in Chinese cosmogony is P'an Ku. He it was who chiselled the universe out of Chaos. According to Chinese ideas, he was the offspring of the original dual powers of Nature, the _yin_ and the _yang_ (to be considered presently), which, having in some incomprehensible way produced him, set him the task of giving form to Chaos and "making the heavens and the earth." Some accounts describe him as the actual creator of the universe--"the ancestor of Heaven and earth and all that live and move and have their being." 'P'an' means 'the shell of an egg,' and 'Ku' 'to secure,' 'solid,' referring to P'an Ku being hatched from out of Chaos and to his settling the arrangement of the causes to which his origin was due. The characters themselves may, however, mean nothing more than 'Researches into antiquity,' though some bolder translators have assigned to them the significance if not the literal sense of 'aboriginal abyss,' or the Babylonian Tiamat, 'the Deep.' P'an Ku is pictured as a man of dwarfish stature clothed in bearskin, or merely in leaves or with an apron of leaves. He has two horns on his head. In his right hand he holds a hammer and in his left a chisel (sometimes these are reversed), the only implements he used in carrying out his great task. Other pictures show him attended in his labours by the four supernatural creatures--the unicorn, phoenix, tortoise, and dragon; others again with the sun in one hand and the moon in the other, some of the firstfruits of his stupendous labours. (The reason for these being there will be apparent presently.) His task occupied eighteen thousand years, during which he formed the sun, moon, and stars, the heavens and the earth, himself increasing in stature day by day, being daily six feet taller than the day before, until, his labours ended, he died that his works might live. His head became the mountains, his breath the wind and clouds, his voice the thunder, his limbs the four quarters of the earth, his blood the rivers, his flesh the soil, his beard the constellations, his skin and hair the herbs and trees, his teeth, bones, and marrow the metals, rocks, and precious stones, his sweat the rain, and the insects creeping over his body human beings, who thus had a lowlier origin even than the tears of Khepera in Egyptian cosmology. [3] This account of P'an Ku and his achievements is of Taoist origin. The Buddhists have given a somewhat different account of him, which is a late adaptation from the Taoist myth, and must not be mistaken for Buddhist cosmogony proper. [4] The Sun and the Moon In some of the pictures of P'an Ku he is represented, as already noted, as holding the sun in one hand and the moon in the other. Sometimes they are in the form of those bodies, sometimes in the classic character. The legend says that when P'an Ku put things in order in the lower world, he did not put these two luminaries in their proper courses, so they retired into the Han Sea, and the people dwelt in darkness. The Terrestrial Emperor sent an officer, Terrestrial Time, with orders that they should come forth and take their places in the heavens and give the world day and night. They refused to obey the order. They were reported to Ju Lai; P'an Ku was called, and, at the divine direction of Buddha, wrote the character for 'sun' in his left hand, and that for 'moon' in his right hand; and went to the Han Sea, and stretched forth his left hand and called the sun, and then stretched forth his right hand and called the moon, at the same time repeating a charm devoutly seven times; and they forthwith ascended on high, and separated time into day and night. [5] Other legends recount that P'an Ku had the head of a dragon and the body of a serpent; and that by breathing he caused the wind, by opening his eyes he created day, his voice made the thunder, etc. P'an Ku and Ymer Thus we have the heavens and the earth fashioned by this wonderful being in eighteen thousand years. With regard to him we may adapt the Scandinavian ballad: It was Time's morning When P'an Ku lived; There was no sand, no sea, Nor cooling billows; Earth there was none, No lofty Heaven; No spot of living green; Only a deep profound. And it is interesting to note, in passing, the similarity between this Chinese artificer of the universe and Ymer, the giant, who discharges the same functions in Scandinavian mythology. Though P'an Ku did not have the same kind of birth nor meet with the violent death of the latter, the results as regards the origin of the universe seem to have been pretty much the same. [6] P'an Ku a Late Creation But though the Chinese creation myth deals with primeval things it does not itself belong to a primitive time. According to some writers whose views are entitled to respect, it was invented during the fourth century A.D. by the Taoist recluse, Magistrate Ko Hung, author of the _Shên hsien chuan_ (_Biographies of the Gods_). The picturesque person of P'an Ku is said to have been a concession to the popular dislike of, or inability to comprehend, the abstract. He was conceived, some Chinese writers say, because the philosophical explanations of the Cosmos were too recondite for the ordinary mind to grasp. That he did fulfil the purpose of furnishing the ordinary mind with a fairly easily comprehensible picture of the creation may be admitted; but, as will presently be seen, it is over-stating the case to say that he was conceived with the set purpose of furnishing the ordinary mind with a concrete solution or illustration of this great problem. There is no evidence that P'an Ku had existed as a tradition before the time when we meet with the written account of him; and, what is more, there is no evidence that there existed any demand on the part of the popular mind for any such solution or illustration. The ordinary mind would seem to have been either indifferent to or satisfied with the abstruse cosmogonical and cosmological theories of the early sages for at least a thousand years. The cosmogonies of the _I ching_, of Lao Tzu, Confucius (such as it was), Kuan Tzu, Mencius, Chuang Tzu, were impersonal. P'an Ku and his myth must be regarded rather as an accident than as a creation resulting from any sudden flow of psychological forces or wind of discontent ruffling the placid Chinese mind. If the Chinese brought with them from Babylon or anywhere else the elements of a cosmogony, whether of a more or less abstruse scientific nature or a personal mythological narrative, it must have been subsequently forgotten or at least has not survived in China. But for Ko Hung's eccentricity and his wish to experiment with cinnabar from Cochin-China in order to find the elixir of life, P'an Ku would probably never have been invented, and the Chinese mind would have been content to go on ignoring the problem or would have quietly acquiesced in the abstract philosophical explanations of the learned which it did not understand. Chinese cosmogony would then have consisted exclusively of the recondite impersonal metaphysics which the Chinese mind had entertained or been fed on for the nine hundred or more years preceding the invention of the P'an Ku myth. Nü Kua Shih, the Repairer of the Heavens It is true that there exist one or two other explanations of the origin of things which introduce a personal creator. There is, for instance, the legend--first mentioned by Lieh Tzu (to whom we shall revert later)--which represents Nü Kua Shih (also called Nü Wa and Nü Hsi), said to have been the sister and successor of Fu Hsi, the mythical sovereign whose reign is ascribed to the years 2953-2838 B.C., as having been the creator of human beings when the earth first emerged from Chaos. She (or he, for the sex seems uncertain), who had the "body of a serpent and head of an ox" (or a human head and horns of an ox, according to some writers), "moulded yellow earth and made man." Ssu-ma Chêng, of the eighth century A.D., author of the _Historical Records_ and of another work on the three great legendary emperors, Fu Hsi, Shên Nung, and Huang Ti, gives the following account of her: "Fu Hsi was succeeded by Nü Kua, who like him had the surname Fêng. Nü Kua had the body of a serpent and a human head, with the virtuous endowments of a divine sage. Toward the end of her reign there was among the feudatory princes Kung Kung, whose functions were the administration of punishment. Violent and ambitious, he became a rebel, and sought by the influence of water to overcome that of wood [under which Nü Kua reigned]. He did battle with Chu Jung [said to have been one of the ministers of Huang Ti, and later the God of Fire], but was not victorious; whereupon he struck his head against the Imperfect Mountain, Pu Chou Shan, and brought it down. The pillars of Heaven were broken and the corners of the earth gave way. Hereupon Nü Kua melted stones of the five colours to repair the heavens, and cut off the feet of the tortoise to set upright the four extremities of the earth. [7] Gathering the ashes of reeds she stopped the flooding waters, and thus rescued the land of Chi, Chi Chou [the early seat of the Chinese sovereignty]." Another account separates the name and makes Nü and Kua brother and sister, describing them as the only two human beings in existence. At the creation they were placed at the foot of the K'un-lun Mountains. Then they prayed, saying, "If thou, O God, hast sent us to be man and wife, the smoke of our sacrifice will stay in one place; but if not, it will be scattered." The smoke remained stationary. But though Nü Kua is said to have moulded the first man (or the first human beings) out of clay, it is to be noted that, being only the successor of Fu Hsi, long lines of rulers had preceded her of whom no account is given, and also that, as regards the heavens and the earth at least, she is regarded as the repairer and not the creator of them. Heaven-deaf (T'ien-lung) and Earth-dumb (Ti-ya), the two attendants of Wên Ch'ang, the God of Literature (see following chapter), have also been drawn into the cosmogonical net. From their union came the heavens and the earth, mankind, and all living things. These and other brief and unelaborated personal cosmogonies, even if not to be regarded as spurious imitations, certainly have not become established in the Chinese mind as the explanation of the way in which the universe came to be: in this sphere the P'an Ku legend reigns supreme; and, owing to its concrete, easily apprehensible nature, has probably done so ever since the time of its invention. Early Cosmogony Dualistic The period before the appearance of the P'an Ku myth may be divided into two parts; that from some early unknown date up to about the middle of the Confucian epoch, say 500 B.C., and that from 500 B.C. to A.D. 400. We know that during the latter period the minds of Chinese scholars were frequently occupied with speculations as to the origin of the universe. Before 500 B.C. we have no documentary remains telling us what the Chinese believed about the origin of things; but it is exceedingly unlikely that no theories or speculations at all concerning the origin of themselves and their surroundings were formed by this intelligent people during the eighteen centuries or more which preceded the date at which we find the views held by them put into written form. It is safe to assume that the dualism which later occupied their philosophical thoughts to so great an extent as almost to seem inseparable from them, and exercised so powerful an influence throughout the course of their history, was not only formulating itself during that long period, but had gradually reached an advanced stage. We may even go so far as to say that dualism, or its beginnings, existed in the very earliest times, for the belief in the second self or ghost or double of the dead is in reality nothing else. And we find it operating with apparently undiminished energy after the Chinese mind had reached its maturity in the Sung dynasty. The Canon of Changes The Bible of Chinese dualism is the _I ching_, the _Canon of Changes_ (or _Permutations_). It is held in great veneration both on account of its antiquity and also because of the "unfathomable wisdom which is supposed to lie concealed under its mysterious symbols." It is placed first in the list of the classics, or Sacred Books, though it is not the oldest of them. When exactly the work itself on which the subsequent elaborations were founded was composed is not now known. Its origin is attributed to the legendary emperor Fu Hsi (2953-2838 B.C.). It does not furnish a cosmogony proper, but merely a dualistic system as an explanation, or attempted explanation, or even perhaps only a record, of the constant changes (in modern philosophical language the "redistribution of matter and motion") going on everywhere. That explanation or record was used for purposes of divination. This dualistic system, by a simple addition, became a monism, and at the same time furnished the Chinese with a cosmogony. The Five Elements The Five Elements or Forces (_wu hsing_)--which, according to the Chinese, are metal, air, fire, water, and wood--are first mentioned in Chinese literature in a chapter of the classic _Book of History_. [8] They play a very important part in Chinese thought: 'elements' meaning generally not so much the actual substances as the forces essential to human, life. They have to be noticed in passing, because they were involved in the development of the cosmogonical ideas which took place in the eleventh and twelfth centuries A.D. Monism As their imagination grew, it was natural that the Chinese should begin to ask themselves what, if the _yang_ and the _yin_ by their permutations produced, or gave shape to, all things, was it that produced the _yang_ and the _yin_. When we see traces of this inquisitive tendency we find ourselves on the borderland of dualism where the transition is taking place into the realm of monism. But though there may have been a tendency toward monism in early times, it was only in the Sung dynasty that the philosophers definitely placed behind the _yang_ and the _yin_ a First Cause--the Grand Origin, Grand Extreme, Grand Terminus, or Ultimate Ground of Existence. [9] They gave to it the name _t'ai chi_, and represented it by a concrete sign, the symbol of a circle. The complete scheme shows the evolution of the Sixty-four Diagrams (_kua_) from the _t'ai chi_ through the _yang_ and the _yin_, the Four, Eight, Sixteen, and Thirty-two Diagrams successively. This conception was the work of the Sung philosopher Chou Tun-i (A.D. 1017-73), commonly known as Chou Tzu, and his disciple Chu Hsi (A.D. 1130-1200), known as Chu Tzu or Chu Fu Tzu, the famous historian and Confucian commentator--two of the greatest names in Chinese philosophy. It was at this time that the tide of constructive imagination in China, tinged though it always was with classical Confucianism, rose to its greatest height. There is the philosopher's seeking for causes. Yet in this matter of the First Cause we detect, in the full flood of Confucianism, the potent influence of Taoist and Buddhist speculations. It has even been said that the Sung philosophy, which grew, not from the _I ching_ itself, but from the appendixes to it, is more Taoistic than Confucian. As it was with the P'an Ku legend, so was it with this more philosophical cosmogony. The more fertile Taoist and Buddhist imaginations led to the preservation of what the Confucianists, distrusting the marvellous, would have allowed to die a natural death. It was, after all, the mystical foreign elements which gave point to--we may rightly say rounded off--the early dualism by converting it into monism, carrying philosophical speculation from the Knowable to the Unknowable, and furnishing the Chinese with their first scientific theory of the origin, not of the changes going on in the universe (on which they had already formed their opinions), but of the universe itself. Chou Tzu's "T'ai Chi T'u" Chou Tun-i, appropriately apotheosized as 'Prince in the Empire of Reason,' completed and systematized the philosophical world-conception which had hitherto obtained in the Chinese mind. He did not ask his fellow-countrymen to discard any part of what they had long held in high esteem: he raised the old theories from the sphere of science to that of philosophy by unifying them and bringing them to a focus. And he made this unification intelligible to the Chinese mind by his famous _T'ai chi t'u_, or Diagram of the Great Origin (or Grand Terminus), showing that the Grand Original Cause, itself uncaused, produces the _yang_ and the _yin_, these the Five Elements, and so on, through the male and female norms (_tao_), to the production of all things. Chu Hsi's Monistic Philosophy The writings of Chu Hsi, especially his treatise on _The Immaterial Principle [li] and Primary Matter [ch'i]_, leave no doubt as to the monism of his philosophy. In this work occurs the passage: "In the universe there exists no primary matter devoid of the immaterial principle; and no immaterial principle apart from primary matter"; and although the two are never separated "the immaterial principle [as Chou Tzu explains] is what is previous to form, while primary matter is what is subsequent to form," the idea being that the two are different manifestations of the same mysterious force from which all things proceed. It is unnecessary to follow this philosophy along all the different branches which grew out of it, for we are here concerned only with the seed. We have observed how Chinese dualism became a monism, and how while the monism was established the dualism was retained. It is this mono-dualistic theory, combining the older and newer philosophy, which in China, then as now, constitutes the accepted explanation of the origin of things, of the universe itself and all that it contains. Lao Tzu's "Tao" There are other cosmogonies in Chinese philosophy, but they need not detain us long. Lao Tzu (sixth century B.C.), in his _Tao-tê ching, The Canon of Reason and Virtue_ (at first entitled simply _Lao Tzu_), gave to the then existing scattered sporadic conceptions of the universe a literary form. His _tao_, or 'Way,' is the originator of Heaven and earth, it is "the mother of all things." His Way, which was "before God," is but a metaphorical expression for the manner in which things came at first into being out of the primal nothingness, and how the phenomena of nature continue to go on, "in stillness and quietness, without striving or crying." Lao Tzu is thus so far monistic, but he is also mystical, transcendental, even pantheistic. The way that can be walked is not the Eternal Way; the name that can be named is not the Eternal Name. The Unnameable is the originator of Heaven and earth; manifesting itself as the Nameable, it is "the mother of all things." "In Eternal Non-Being I see the Spirituality of Things; in Eternal Being their limitation. Though different under these two aspects, they are the same in origin; it is when development takes place that different names have to be used. It is while they are in the condition of sameness that the mystery concerning them exists. This mystery is indeed the mystery of mysteries. It is the door of all spirituality." This _tao_, indefinable and in its essence unknowable, is "the fountain-head of all beings, and the norm of all actions. But it is not only the formative principle of the universe; it also seems to be primordial matter: chaotic in its composition, born prior to Heaven and earth, noiseless, formless, standing alone in its solitude, and not changing, universal in its activity, and unrelaxing, without being exhausted, it is capable of becoming the mother of the universe." And there we may leave it. There is no scheme of creation, properly so called. The Unwalkable Way leads us to nothing further in the way of a cosmogony. Confucius's Agnosticism Confucius (551-479 B.C.) did not throw any light on the problem of origin. He did not speculate on the creation of things nor the end of them. He was not troubled to account for the origin of man, nor did he seek to know about his hereafter. He meddled neither with physics nor metaphysics. There might, he thought, be something on the other side of life, for he admitted the existence of spiritual beings. They had an influence on the living, because they caused them to clothe themselves in ceremonious dress and attend to the sacrificial ceremonies. But we should not trouble ourselves about them, any more than about supernatural things, or physical prowess, or monstrosities. How can we serve spiritual beings while we do not know how to serve men? We feel the existence of something invisible and mysterious, but its nature and meaning are too deep for the human understanding to grasp. The safest, indeed the only reasonable, course is that of the agnostic--to leave alone the unknowable, while acknowledging its existence and its mystery, and to try to understand knowable phenomena and guide our actions accordingly. Between the monism of Lao Tzu and the positivism of Confucius on the one hand, and the landmark of the Taoistic transcendentalism of Chuang Tzu (fourth and third centuries B.C.) on the other, we find several "guesses at the riddle of existence" which must be briefly noted as links in the chain of Chinese speculative thought on this important subject. Mo Tzu and Creation In the philosophy of Mo Ti (fifth and fourth centuries B.C.), generally known as Mo Tzu or Mu Tzu, the philosopher of humanism and utilitarianism, we find the idea of creation. It was, he says, Heaven (which was anthropomorphically regarded by him as a personal Supreme Being) who "created the sun, moon, and innumerable stars." His system closely resembles Christianity, but the great power of Confucianism as a weapon wielded against all opponents by its doughty defender Mencius (372-289 B.C.) is shown by the complete suppression of the influence of Mo Tzuism at his hands. He even went so far as to describe Mo Tzu and those who thought with him as "wild animals." Mencius and the First Cause Mencius himself regarded Heaven as the First Cause, or Cause of Causes, but it was not the same personal Heaven as that of Mo Tzu. Nor does he hang any cosmogony upon it. His chief concern was to eulogize the doctrines of the great Confucius, and like him he preferred to let the origin of the universe look after itself. Lieh Tzu's Absolute Lieh Tzu (said to have lived in the fifth century B.C.), one of the brightest stars in the Taoist constellation, considered this nameable world as having evolved from an unnameable absolute being. The evolution did not take place through the direction of a personal will working out a plan of creation: "In the beginning there was Chaos [_hun tun_]. It was a mingled potentiality of Form [_hsing_], Pneuma [_ch'i_], and Substance [_chih_]. A Great Change [_t'ai i_] took place in it, and there was a Great Starting [_t'ai ch'u_] which is the beginning of Form. The Great Starting evolved a Great Beginning [_t'ai shih_], which is the inception of Pneuma. The Great Beginning was followed by the Great Blank [_t'ai su_], which is the first formation of Substance. Substance, Pneuma, and Form being all evolved out of the primordial chaotic mass, this material world as it lies before us came into existence." And that which made it possible for Chaos to evolve was the Solitary Indeterminate (_i tu_ or the _tao_), which is not created, but is able to create everlastingly. And being both Solitary and Indeterminate it tells us nothing determinate about itself. Chuang Tzu's Super-tao Chuang Chou (fourth and third centuries B.C.), generally known as Chuang Tzu, the most brilliant Taoist of all, maintained with Lao Tzu that the universe started from the Nameless, but it was if possible a more absolute and transcendental Nameless than that of Lao Tzu. He dwells on the relativity of knowledge; as when asleep he did not know that he was a man dreaming that he was a butterfly, so when awake he did not know that he was not a butterfly dreaming that he was a man. [10] But "all is embraced in the obliterating unity of the _tao_, and the wise man, passing into the realm of the Infinite, finds rest therein." And this _tao_, of which we hear so much in Chinese philosophy, was before the Great Ultimate or Grand Terminus (_t'ai chi_), and "from it came the mysterious existence of God [_ti_]. It produced Heaven, it produced earth." Popular Cosmogony still Personal or Dualistic These and other cosmogonies which the Chinese have devised, though it is necessary to note their existence in order to give a just idea of their cosmological speculations, need not, as I said, detain us long; and the reason why they need not do so is that, in the matter of cosmogony, the P'an Ku legend and the _yin-yang_ system with its monistic elaboration occupy virtually the whole field of the Chinese mental vision. It is these two--the popular and the scientific--that we mean when we speak of Chinese cosmogony. Though here and there a stern sectarian might deny that the universe originated in one or the other of these two ways, still, the general rule holds good. And I have dealt with them in this order because, though the P'an Ku legend belongs to the fourth century A.D., the _I ching_ dualism was not, rightly speaking, a cosmogony until Chou Tun-i made it one by the publication of his _T'ai chi t'u_ in the eleventh century A.D. Over the unscientific and the scientific minds of the Chinese these two are paramount. Applying the general principles stated in the preceding chapter, we find the same cause which operated to restrict the growth of mythology in general in China operated also in like manner in this particular branch of it. With one exception Chinese cosmogony is non-mythological. The careful and studiously accurate historians (whose work aimed at being _ex veritate_, 'made of truth'), the sober literature, the vast influence of agnostic, matter-of-fact Confucianism, supported by the heavy Mencian artillery, are indisputable indications of a constructive imagination which grew too quickly and became too rapidly scientific to admit of much soaring into the realms of fantasy. Unaroused by any strong stimulus in their ponderings over the riddle of the universe, the sober, plodding scientists and the calm, truth-loving philosophers gained a peaceful victory over the mythologists. CHAPTER IV The Gods of China The Birth of the Soul The dualism noted in the last chapter is well illustrated by the Chinese pantheon. Whether as the result of the co-operation of the _yin_ and the _yang_ or of the final dissolution of P'an Ku, human beings came into existence. To the primitive mind the body and its shadow, an object and its reflection in water, real life and dream life, sensibility and insensibility (as in fainting, etc.), suggest the idea of another life parallel with this life and of the doings of the 'other self' in it. This 'other self,' this spirit, which leaves the body for longer or shorter intervals in dreams, swoons, death, may return or be brought back, and the body revive. Spirits which do not return or are not brought back may cause mischief, either alone, or by entry into another human or animal body or even an inanimate object, and should therefore be propitiated. Hence worship and deification. The Populous Otherworld The Chinese pantheon has gradually become so multitudinous that there is scarcely a being or thing which is not, or has not been at some time or other, propitiated or worshipped. As there are good and evil people in this world, so there are gods and demons in the Otherworld: we find a polytheism limited only by a polydemonism. The dualistic hierarchy is almost all-embracing. To get a clear idea of this populous Otherworld, of the supernal and infernal hosts and their organizations, it needs but to imagine the social structure in its main features as it existed throughout the greater part of Chinese history, and to make certain additions. The social structure consisted of the ruler, his court, his civil, military, and ecclesiastical officials, and his subjects (classed as Scholars--officials and gentry--Agriculturists, Artisans, and Merchants, in that order). Worship of Shang Ti When these died, their other selves continued to exist and to hold the same rank in the spirit world as they did in this one. The _ti_, emperor, became the _Shang Ti_, Emperor on High, who dwelt in _T'ien_, Heaven (originally the great dome). [11] And Shang Ti, the Emperor on High, was worshipped by _ti_, the emperor here below, in order to pacify or please him--to ensure a continuance of his benevolence on his behalf in the world of spirits. Confusion of ideas and paucity of primitive language lead to personification and worship of a thing or being in which a spirit has taken up its abode in place of or in addition to worship of the spirit itself. Thus Heaven (T'ien) itself came to be personified and worshipped in addition to Shang Ti, the Emperor who had gone to Heaven, and who was considered as the chief ruler in the spiritual world. The worship of Shang Ti was in existence before that of T'ien was introduced. Shang Ti was worshipped by the emperor and his family as their ancestor, or the head of the hierarchy of their ancestors. The people could not worship Shang Ti, for to do so would imply a familiarity or a claim of relationship punishable with death. The emperor worshipped his ancestors, the officials theirs, the people theirs. But, in the same way and sense that the people worshipped the emperor on earth, as the 'father' of the nation, namely, by adoration and obeisance, so also could they in this way and this sense worship Shang Ti. An Englishman may take off his hat as the king passes in the street to his coronation without taking any part in the official service in Westminster Abbey. So the 'worship' of Shang Ti by the people was not done officially or with any special ceremonial or on fixed State occasions, as in the case of the worship of Shang Ti by the emperor. This, subject to a qualification to be mentioned later, is really all that is meant (or should be meant) when it is said that the Chinese worship Shang Ti. As regards sacrifices to Shang Ti, these could be offered officially only by the emperor, as High Priest on earth, who was attended or assisted in the ceremonies by members of his own family or clan or the proper State officials (often, even in comparatively modern times, members of the imperial family or clan). In these official sacrifices, which formed part of the State worship, the people could not take part; nor did they at first offer sacrifices to Shang Ti in their own homes or elsewhere. In what way and to what extent they did so later will be shown presently. Worship of T'ien Owing to T'ien, Heaven, the abode of the spirits, becoming personified, it came to be worshipped not only by the emperor, but by the people also. But there was a difference between these two worships, because the emperor performed his worship of Heaven officially at the great altar of the Temple of Heaven at Peking (in early times at the altar in the suburb of the capital), whereas the people (continuing always to worship their ancestors) worshipped Heaven, when they did so at all--the custom being observed by some and not by others, just as in Western countries some people go to church, while others stay away--usually at the time of the New Year, in a simple, unceremonious way, by lighting some incense-sticks and waving them toward the sky in the courtyards of their own houses or in the street just outside their doors. Confusion of Shang Ti and T'ien The qualification necessary to the above description is that, as time went on and especially since the Sung dynasty (A.D. 960-1280), much confusion arose regarding Shang Ti and T'ien, and thus it came about that the terms became mixed and their definitions obscure. This confusion of ideas has prevailed down to the present time. One result of this is that the people may sometimes state, when they wave their incense-sticks or light their candles, that their humble sacrifice is made to Shang Ti, whom in reality they have no right either to worship or to offer sacrifice to, but whom they may unofficially pay respect and make obeisance to, as they might and did to the emperor behind the high boards on the roadsides which shielded him from their view as he was borne along in his elaborate procession on the few occasions when he came forth from the imperial city. Thus we find that, while only the emperor could worship and sacrifice to Shang Ti, and only he could officially worship and sacrifice to T'ien, the people who early personified and worshipped T'ien, as already shown, came, owing to confusion of the meanings of Shang Ti and T'ien, unofficially to 'worship' both, but only in the sense and to the extent indicated, and to offer 'sacrifices' to both, also only in the sense and to the extent indicated. But for these qualifications, the statement that the Chinese worship and sacrifice to Shang Ti and T'ien would be apt to convey an incorrect idea. From this it will be apparent that Shang Ti, the Supreme Ruler on High, and T'ien, Heaven (later personified), do not mean 'God' in the sense that the word is used in the Christian religion. To state that they do, as so many writers on China have done, without pointing out the essential differences, is misleading. That Chinese religion was or is "a monotheistic worship of God" is further disproved by the fact that Shang Ti and T'ien do not appear in the list of the popular pantheon at all, though all the other gods are there represented. Neither Shang Ti nor T'ien mean the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, or the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost of the New Testament. Did they mean this, the efforts of the Christian missionaries to convert the Chinese would be largely superfluous. The Christian religion, even the Holy Trinity, is a monotheism. That the Chinese religion (even though a summary of extracts from the majority of foreign books on China might point to its being so) is not a monotheism, but a polytheism or even a pantheism (as long as that term is taken in the sense of universal deification and not in that of one spiritual being immanent in all things), the rest of this chapter will abundantly prove. There have been three periods in which gods have been created in unusually large numbers: that of the mythical emperor Hsien Yüan (2698-2598 B.C.), that of Chiang Tzu-ya (in the twelfth century B.C.), and that of the first emperor of the Ming dynasty (in the fourteenth century A.D.). The Otherworld Similar to this World The similarity of the Otherworld to this world above alluded to is well shown by Du Bose in his _Dragon, Image, and, Demon_, from which I quote the following passages: "The world of spirits is an exact counterpart of the Chinese Empire, or, as has been remarked, it is 'China ploughed under'; this is the world of light; put out the lights and you have Tartarus. China has eighteen [now twenty-two] provinces, so has Hades; each province has eight or nine prefects, or departments; so each province in Hades has eight or nine departments; every prefect or department averages ten counties, so every department in Hades has ten counties. In Soochow the Governor, the provincial Treasurer, the Criminal Judge, the Intendant of Circuit, the Prefect or Departmental Governor, and the three District Magistrates or County Governors each have temples with their apotheoses in the other world. Not only these, but every _yamên_ secretary, runner, executioner, policeman, and constable has his counterpart in the land of darkness. The market-towns have also mandarins of lesser rank in charge, besides a host of revenue collectors, the bureau of government works and other departments, with several hundred thousand officials, who all rank as gods beyond the grave. These deities are civilians; the military having a similar gradation for the armies of Hades, whose captains are gods, and whose battalions are devils. "The framers of this wonderful scheme for the spirits of the dead, having no higher standard, transferred to the authorities of that world the etiquette, tastes, and venality of their correlate officials in the Chinese Government, thus making it necessary to use similar means to appease the one which are found necessary to move the other. All the State gods have their assistants, attendants, door-keepers, runners, horses, horsemen, detectives, and executioners, corresponding in every particular to those of Chinese officials of the same rank." (Pp. 358-359.) This likeness explains also why the hierarchy of beings in the Otherworld concerns itself not only with the affairs of the Otherworld, but with those of this world as well. So faithful is the likeness that we find the gods (the term is used in this chapter to include goddesses, who are, however, relatively few) subjected to many of the rules and conditions existing on this earth. Not only do they, as already shown, differ in rank, but they hold _levées_ and audiences and may be promoted for distinguished services, just as the Chinese officials are. They "may rise from an humble position to one near the Pearly Emperor, who gives them the reward of merit for ruling well the affairs of men. The correlative deities of the mandarins are only of equal rank, yet the fact that they have been apotheosized makes them their superiors and fit objects of worship. Chinese mandarins rotate in office, generally every three years, and then there is a corresponding change in Hades. The image in the temple remains the same, but the spirit which dwells in the clay tabernacle changes, so the idol has a different name, birthday, and tenant. The priests are informed by the Great Wizard of the Dragon Tiger Mountain, but how can the people know gods which are not the same to-day as yesterday?" (Pp. 360-361.) The gods also indulge in amusements, marry, sin, are punished, die, are resurrected, or die and are transformed, or die finally. [12] The Three Religions We have in China the universal worship of ancestors, which constitutes (or did until A.D. 1912) the State religion, usually known as Confucianism, and in addition we have the gods of the specific religions (which also originally took their rise in ancestor-worship), namely, Buddhism and Taoism. (Other religions, though tolerated, are not recognized as Chinese religions.) It is with a brief account of this great hierarchy and its mythology that we will now concern ourselves. Besides the ordinary ancestor-worship (as distinct from the State worship) the people took to Buddhism and Taoism, which became the popular religions, and the _literati_ also honoured the gods of these two sects. Buddhist deities gradually became installed in Taoist temples, and the Taoist immortals were given seats beside the Buddhas in their sanctuaries. Every one patronized the god who seemed to him the most popular and the most lucrative. There even came to be united in the same temple and worshipped at the same altar the three religious founders or figure-heads, Confucius, Buddha, and Lao Tzu. The three religions were even regarded as forming one whole, or at least, though different, as having one and the same object: _san êrh i yeh_, or _han san wei i_, "the three are one," or "the three unite to form one" (a quotation from the phrase _T'ai chi han san wei i_ of Fang Yü-lu: "When they reach the extreme the three are seen to be one"). In the popular pictorial representations of the pantheon this impartiality is clearly shown. The Super-triad The toleration, fraternity, or co-mixture of the three religions--ancestor-worship or Confucianism, Chinese Buddhism, and Taoism--explains the compound nature of the triune head of the Chinese pantheon. The numerous deities of Buddhism and Taoism culminate each in a triad of gods (the Three Precious Ones and the Three Pure Ones respectively), but the three religions jointly have also a triad compounded of one representative member of each. This general or super-triad is, of course, composed of Confucius, Lao Tzu, and Buddha. This is the officially decreed order, though it is varied occasionally by Buddha being placed in the centre (the place of honour) as an act of ceremonial deference shown to a 'stranger' or 'guest' from another country. Worship of the Living Before proceeding to consider the gods of China in detail, it is necessary to note that ancestor-worship, which, as before stated, is worship of the ghosts of deceased persons, who are usually but not invariably relatives of the worshipper, has at times a sort of preliminary stage in this world consisting of the worship of living beings. Emperors, viceroys, popular officials, or people beloved for their good deeds have had altars, temples, and images erected to them, where they are worshipped in the same way as those who have already "shuffled off this mortal coil." The most usual cases are perhaps those of the worship of living emperors and those in which some high official who has gained the gratitude of the people is transferred to another post. The explanation is simple. The second self which exists after death is identical with the second self inhabiting the body during life. Therefore it may be propitiated or gratified by sacrifices of food, drink, etc., or theatricals performed in its honour, and continue its protection and good offices even though now far away. Confucianism Confucianism (_Ju Chiao_) is said to be the religion of the learned, and the learned were the officials and the _literati_ or lettered class, which includes scholars waiting for posts, those who have failed to get posts (or, though qualified, prefer to live in retirement), and those who have retired from posts. Of this 'religion' it has been said: "The name embraces education, letters, ethics, and political philosophy. Its head was not a religious man, practised few religious rites, and taught nothing about religion. In its usual acceptation the term Confucianist means 'a gentleman and a scholar'; he may worship only once a year, yet he belongs to the Church. Unlike its two sisters, it has no priesthood, and fundamentally is not a religion at all; yet with the many rites grafted on the original tree it becomes a religion, and the one most difficult to deal with. Considered as a Church, the classics are its scriptures, the schools its churches, the teachers its priests, ethics its theology, and the written character, so sacred, its symbol." [13] Confucius not a God It should be noted that Confucius himself is not a god, though he has been and is worshipped (66,000 animals used to be offered to him every year; probably the number is about the same now). Suggestions have been made to make him the God of China and Confucianism the religion of China, so that he and his religion would hold the same relative positions that Christ and Christianity do in the West. I was present at the lengthy debate which took place on this subject in the Chinese Parliament in February 1917, but in spite of many long, learned, and eloquent speeches, chiefly by scholars of the old school, the motion was not carried. Nevertheless, the worship accorded to Confucius was and is (except by 'new' or 'young' China) of so extreme a nature that he may almost be described as the great unapotheosized god of China. [14] Some of his portraits even ascribe to him superhuman attributes. But in spite of all this the fact remains that Confucius has not been appointed a god and holds no _exequatur_ entitling him to that rank. If we inquire into the reason of this we find that, astonishing though it may seem, Confucius is classed by the Chinese not as a god (_shên_), but as a demon (_kuei_). A short historical statement will make the matter clear. In the classical _Li chi, Book of Ceremonial_, we find the categorical assignment of the worship of certain objects to certain subjective beings: the emperor worshipped Heaven and earth, the feudal princes the mountains and rivers, the officials the hearth, and the _literati_ their ancestors. Heaven, earth, mountains, rivers, and hearth were called _shên_ (gods), and ancestors _kuei_ (demons). This distinction is due to Heaven being regarded as the god and the people as demons--the upper is the god, the lower the evil spirit or demon. Though _kuei_ were usually bad, the term in Chinese includes both good and evil spirits. In ancient times those who had by their meritorious virtue while in the world averted calamities from the people were posthumously worshipped and called gods, but those who were worshipped by their descendants only were called spirits or demons. In the worship of Confucius by emperors of various dynasties (details of which need not be given here) the highest titles conferred on him were _Hsien Shêng_, 'Former or Ancestral Saint,' and even _Win Hsüan Wang_, 'Accomplished and Illustrious Prince,' and others containing like epithets. When for his image or idol there was (in the eleventh year--A.D. 1307--of the reign-period Ta Tê of the Emperor Ch'êng Tsung of the Yüan dynasty) substituted the tablet now seen in the Confucian temples, these were the inscriptions engraved on it. In the inscriptions authoritatively placed on the tablets the word _shên_ does not occur; in those cases where it does occur it has been placed there (as by the Taoists) illegally and without authority by too ardent devotees. Confucius may not be called a _shên_, since there is no record showing that the great ethical teacher was ever apotheosized, or that any order was given that the character _shên_ was to be applied to him. The God of Literature In addition to the ancestors of whose worship it really consists, Confucianism has in its pantheon the specialized gods worshipped by the _literati_. Naturally the chief of these is Wên Ch'ang, the God of Literature. The account of him (which varies in several particulars in different Chinese works) relates that he was a man of the name of Chang Ya, who was born during the T'ang dynasty in the kingdom of Yüeh (modern Chêkiang), and went to live at Tzu T'ung in Ssuch'uan, where his intelligence raised him to the position of President of the Board of Ceremonies. Another account refers to him as Chang Ya Tzu, the Soul or Spirit of Tzu T'ung, and states that he held office in the Chin dynasty (A.D. 265-316), and was killed in a fight. Another again states that under the Sung dynasty (A.D. 960-1280), in the third year (A.D. 1000) of the reign-period Hsien P'ing of the Emperor Chên Tsung, he repressed the revolt of Wang Chün at Ch'êng Tu in Ssuch'uan. General Lei Yu-chung caused to be shot into the besieged town arrows to which notices were attached inviting the inhabitants to surrender. Suddenly a man mounted a ladder, and pointing to the rebels cried in a loud voice: "The Spirit of Tzu T'ung has sent me to inform you that the town will fall into the hands of the enemy on the twentieth day of the ninth moon, and not a single person will escape death." Attempts to strike down this prophet of evil were in vain, for he had already disappeared. The town was captured on the day indicated. The general, as a reward, caused the temple of Tzu T'ung's Spirit to be repaired, and sacrifices offered to it. The object of worship nowadays in the temples dedicated to Wên Ch'ang is Tzu T'ung Ti Chün, the God of Tzu T'ung. The convenient elasticity of dualism enabled Chang to have as many as seventeen reincarnations, which ranged over a period of some three thousand years. Various emperors at various times bestowed upon Wên Ch'ang honorific titles, until ultimately, in the Yüan, or Mongol, dynasty, in the reign Yen Yu, in A.D. 1314, the title was conferred on him of Supporter of the Yüan Dynasty, Diffuser of Renovating Influences, Ssu-lu of Wên Ch'ang, God and Lord. He was thus apotheosized, and took his place among the gods of China. By steps few or many a man in China has often become a god. Wên Ch'ang and the Great Bear Thus we have the God of Literature, Wên Ch'ang Ti Chün, duly installed in the Chinese pantheon, and sacrifices were offered to him in the schools. But scholars, especially those about to enter for the public competitive examinations, worshipped as the God of Literature, or as his palace or abode (Wên Ch'ang), the star K'uei in the Great Bear, or Dipper, or Bushel--the latter name derived from its resemblance in shape to the measure used by the Chinese and called _tou_. The term K'uei was more generally applied to the four stars forming the body or square part of the Dipper, the three forming the tail or handle being called Shao or Piao. How all this came about is another story. A scholar, as famous for his literary skill as his facial deformities, had been admitted as first academician at the metropolitan examinations. It was the custom that the Emperor should give with his own hand a rose of gold to the fortunate candidate. This scholar, whose name was Chung K'uei, presented himself according to custom to receive the reward which by right was due to him. At the sight of his repulsive face the Emperor refused the golden rose. In despair the miserable rejected one went and threw himself into the sea. At the moment when he was being choked by the waters a mysterious fish or monster called _ao_ raised him on its back and brought him to the surface. K'uei ascended to Heaven and became arbiter of the destinies of men of letters. His abode was said to be the star K'uei, a name given by the Chinese to the sixteen stars of the constellation or 'mansion' of Andromeda and Pisces. The scholars quite soon began to worship K'uei as the God of Literature, and to represent it on a column in the temples. Then sacrifices were offered to it. This star or constellation was regarded as the palace of the god. The legend gave rise to an expression frequently used in Chinese of one who comes out first in an examination, namely, _tu chan ao t'ou_, "to stand alone on the sea-monster's head." It is especially to be noted that though the two K'ueis have the same sound they are represented by different characters, and that the two constellations are not the same, but are situated in widely different parts of the heavens. How then did it come about that scholars worshipped the K'uei in the Great Bear as the abode of the God of Literature? (It may be remarked in passing that a literary people could not have chosen a more appropriate palace for this god, since the Great Bear, the 'Chariot of Heaven,' is regarded as the centre and governor of the whole universe.) The worship, we saw, was at first that of the star K'uei, the apotheosized 'homely,' successful, but rejected candidate. As time went on, there was a general demand for a sensible, concrete representation of this star-god: a simple character did not satisfy the popular taste. But it was no easy matter to comply with the demand. Eventually, guided doubtless by the community of pronunciation, they substituted for the star or group of stars K'uei (1), venerated in ancient times, a new star or group of stars K'uei (2), forming the square part of the Bushel, Dipper, or Great Bear. But for this again no bodily image could be found, so the form of the written character itself was taken, and so drawn as to represent a _kuei_ (3) (disembodied spirit, or ghost) with its foot raised, and bearing aloft a _tou_ (4) (bushel-measure). The adoration was thus misplaced, for the constellation K'uei (2) was mistaken for K'uei (1), the proper object of worship. It was due to this confusion by the scholars that the Northern Bushel came to be worshipped as the God of Literature. Wên Ch'ang and Tzu T'ung This worship had nothing whatever to do with the Spirit of Tzu T'ung, but the Taoists have connected Chang Ya with the constellation in another way by saying that Shang Ti, the Supreme Ruler, entrusted Chang Ya's son with the management of the palace of Wên Ch'ang. And scholars gradually acquired the habit of saying that they owed their success to the Spirit of Tzu T'ung, which they falsely represented as being an incarnation of the star Wên Ch'ang. This is how Chang Ya came to have the honorific title of Wên Ch'ang, but, as a Chinese author points out, Chang belonged properly to Ssuch'uan, and his worship should be confined to that province. The _literati_ there venerated him as their master, and as a mark of affection and gratitude built a temple to him; but in doing so they had no intention of making him the God of Literature. "There being no real connexion between Chang Ya and K'uei, the worship should be stopped." The device of combining the personality of the patron of literature enthroned among the stars with that of the deified mortal canonized as the Spirit of Tzu T'ung was essentially a Taoist trick. "The thaumaturgic reputation assigned to the Spirit of Chang Ya Tzu was confined for centuries to the valleys of Ssuch'uan, until at some period antecedent to the reign Yen Yu, in A.D. 1314, a combination was arranged between the functions of the local god and those of the stellar patron of literature. Imperial sanction was obtained for this stroke of priestly cunning; and notwithstanding protests continually repeated by orthodox sticklers for accuracy in the religious canon, the composite deity has maintained his claims intact, and an inseparable connexion between the God of Literature created by imperial patent and the spirit lodged among the stars of Ursa Major is fully recognized in the State ceremonial of the present day." A temple dedicated to this divinity by the State exists in every city of China, besides others erected as private benefactions or speculations. Wherever Wên Ch'ang is worshipped there will also be found a separate representation of K'uei Hsing, showing that while the official deity has been allowed to 'borrow glory' from the popular god, and even to assume his personality, the independent existence of the stellar spirit is nevertheless sedulously maintained. The place of the latter in the heavens above is invariably symbolized by the lodgment of his idol in an upper storey or tower, known as the K'uei Hsing Ko or K'uei Hsing Lou. Here students worship the patron of their profession with incense and prayers. Thus the ancient stellar divinity still largely monopolizes the popular idea of a guardian of literature and study, notwithstanding that the deified recluse of Tzu T'ung has been added in this capacity to the State pantheon for more than five hundred years. Heaven-deaf and Earth-dumb The popular representations of Wên Ch'ang depict the god himself and four other figures. The central and largest is the demure portrait of the god, clothed in blue and holding a sceptre in his left hand. Behind him stand two youthful attendants. They are the servant and groom who always accompany him on his journeys (on which he rides a white horse). Their names are respectively Hsüan T'ung-tzu and Ti-mu, 'Sombre Youth' and 'Earth-mother'; more commonly they are called T'ien-lung, 'Deaf Celestial,' and Ti-ya, 'Mute Terrestrial,' or 'Deaf as Heaven' and 'Mute as Earth.' Thus they cannot divulge the secrets of their master's administration as he distributes intellectual gifts, literary skill, etc. Their cosmogonical connexion has already been referred to in a previous chapter. Image of K'uei Hsing In front of Wên Ch'ang, on his left, stands K'uei Hsing. He is represented as of diminutive stature, with the visage of a demon, holding a writing-brush in his right hand and a _tou_ in his left, one of his legs kicking up behind--the figure being obviously intended as an impersonation of the character _k'uei_ (2). [16] He is regarded as the distributor of literary degrees, and was invoked above all in order to obtain success at the competitive examinations. His images and temples are found in all towns. In the temples dedicated to Wên Ch'ang there are always two secondary altars, one of which is consecrated to his worship. Mr Redcoat The other is dedicated to Chu I, 'Mr Redcoat.' He and K'uei Hsing are represented as the two inseparable companions of the God of Literature. The legend related of Chu I is as follows: During the T'ang dynasty, in the reign-period Chien Chung (A.D. 780-4) of the Emperor Tê Tsung, the Princess T'ai Yin noticed that Lu Ch'i, a native of Hua Chou, had the bones of an Immortal, and wished to marry him. Ma P'o, her neighbour, introduced him one day into the Crystal Palace for an interview with his future wife. The Princess gave him the choice of three careers: to live in the Dragon Prince's Palace, with the guarantee of immortal life, to enjoy immortality among the people on the earth, or to have the honour of becoming a minister of the Empire. Lu Ch'i first answered that he would like to live in the Crystal Palace. The young lady, overjoyed, said to him: "I am Princess T'ai Yin. I will at once inform Shang Ti, the Supreme Ruler." A moment later the arrival of a celestial messenger was announced. Two officers bearing flags preceded him and conducted him to the foot of the flight of steps. He then presented himself as Chu I, the envoy of Shang Ti. Addressing himself to Lu Ch'i, he asked: "Do you wish to live in the Crystal Palace?" The latter did not reply. T'ai Yin urged him to give his answer, but he persisted in keeping silent. The Princess in despair retired to her apartment, and brought out five pieces of precious cloth, which she presented to the divine envoy, begging him to have patience a little longer and wait for the answer. After some time, Chu I repeated his question. Then Lu Ch'i in a firm voice answered: "I have consecrated my life to the hard labour of study, and wish to attain to the dignity of minister on this earth." T'ai Yin ordered Ma P'o to conduct Lu Ch'i from the palace. From that day his face became transformed: he acquired the lips of a dragon, the head of a panther, the green face of an Immortal, etc. He took his degree, and was promoted to be Director of the Censorate. The Emperor, appreciating the good sense shown in his advice, appointed him a minister of the Empire. From this legend it would seem that Chu I is the purveyor of official posts; however, in practice, he is more generally regarded as the protector of weak candidates, as the God of Good Luck for those who present themselves at the examinations with a somewhat light equipment of literary knowledge. The special legend relating to this _rôle_ is known everywhere in China. It is as follows: Mr Redcoat nods his Head An examiner, engaged in correcting the essays of the candidates, after a superficial scrutiny of one of the essays, put it on one side as manifestly inferior, being quite determined not to pass the candidate who had composed it. The essay, moved by some mysterious power, was replaced in front of his eyes, as if to invite him to examine it more attentively. At the same time a reverend old man, clothed in a red garment, suddenly appeared before him, and by a nod of his head gave him to understand that he should pass the essay. The examiner, surprised at the novelty of the incident, and fortified by the approval of his supernatural visitor, admitted the author of the essay to the literary degree. Chu I, like K'uei Hsing, is invoked by the _literati_ as a powerful protector and aid to success. When anyone with but a poor chance of passing presents himself at an examination, his friends encourage him by the popular saying: "Who knows but that Mr Redcoat will nod his head?" Mr Golden Cuirass Chu I is sometimes accompanied by another personage, named Chin Chia, 'Mr Golden Cuirass.' Like K'uei Hsing and Chu I he has charge of the interests of scholars, but differs from them in that he holds a flag, which he has only to wave in front of a house for the family inhabiting it to be assured that among their descendants will be some who will win literary honours and be promoted to high offices under the State. Though Chin Chia is the protector of scholars, he is also the redoubtable avenger of their evil actions: his flag is saluted as a good omen, but his sword is the terror of the wicked. The God of War Still another patron deity of literature is the God of War. "How," it may be asked, "can so peaceful a people as the Chinese put so peaceful an occupation as literature under the patronage of so warlike a deity as the God of War?" But that question betrays ignorance of the character of the Chinese Kuan Ti. He is not a cruel tyrant delighting in battle and the slaying of enemies: he is the god who can _avert war and protect the people from its horrors_. A youth, whose name was originally Chang-shêng, afterward changed to Shou-chang, and then to Yün-chang, who was born near Chieh Liang, in Ho Tung (now the town of Chieh Chou in Shansi), and was of an intractable nature, having exasperated his parents, was shut up in a room from which he escaped by breaking through the window. In one of the neighbouring houses he heard a young lady and an old man weeping and lamenting. Running to the foot of the wall of the compound, he inquired the reason of their grief. The old man replied that though his daughter was already engaged, the uncle of the local official, smitten by her beauty, wished to make her his concubine. His petitions to the official had only been rejected with curses. Beside himself with rage, the youth seized a sword and went and killed both the official and his uncle. He escaped through the T'ung Kuan, the pass to Shensi. Having with difficulty avoided capture by the barrier officials, he knelt down at the side of a brook to wash his face; when lo! his appearance was completely transformed. His complexion had become reddish-grey, and he was absolutely unrecognizable. He then presented himself with assurance before the officers, who asked him his name. "My name is Kuan," he replied. It was by that name that he was thereafter known. The Meat-seller's Challenge One day he arrived at Chu-chou, a dependent sub-prefecture of Peking, in Chihli. There Chang Fei, a butcher, who had been selling his meat all the morning, at noon lowered what remained into a well, placed over the mouth of the well a stone weighing twenty-five pounds, and said with a sneer: "If anyone can lift that stone and take my meat, I will make him a present of it!" Kuan Yü, going up to the edge of the well, lifted the stone with the same ease as he would a tile, took the meat, and made off. Chang Fei pursued him, and eventually the two came to blows, but no one dared to separate them. Just then Liu Pei, a hawker of straw shoes, arrived, interposed, and put a stop to the fight. The community of ideas which they found they possessed soon gave rise to a firm friendship between the three men. The Oath in the Peach-orchard Another account represents Liu Pei and Chang Fei as having entered a village inn to drink wine, when a man of gigantic stature pushing a wheelbarrow stopped at the door to rest. As he seated himself, he hailed the waiter, saying: "Bring me some wine quickly, because I have to hasten to reach the town to enlist in the army." Liu Pei looked at this man, nine feet in height, with a beard two feet long. His face was the colour of the fruit of the jujube-tree, and his lips carmine. Eyebrows like sleeping silkworms shaded his phoenix eyes, which were a scarlet red. Terrible indeed was his bearing. "What is your name?" asked Liu Pei. "My family name is Kuan, my own name is Yü, my surname Yün Chang," he replied. "I am from the Ho Tung country. For the last five or six years I have been wandering about the world as a fugitive, to escape from my pursuers, because I killed a powerful man of my country who was oppressing the poor people. I hear that they are collecting a body of troops to crush the brigands, and I should like to join the expedition." Chang Fêi, also named Chang I Tê, is described as eight feet in height, with round shining eyes in a panther's head, and a pointed chin bristling with a tiger's beard. His voice resembled the rumbling of thunder. His ardour was like that of a fiery steed. He was a native of Cho Chün, where he possessed some fertile farms, and was a butcher and wine-merchant. Liu Pei, surnamed Hsüan Tê, otherwise Hsien Chu, was the third member of the group. The three men went to Chang Fei's farm, and on the morrow met together in his peach-orchard, and sealed their friendship with an oath. Having procured a black ox and a white horse, with the various accessories to a sacrifice, they immolated the victims, burnt the incense of friendship, and after twice prostrating themselves took this oath: "We three, Liu Pei, Kuan Yû, and Chang Fei, already united by mutual friendship, although belonging to different clans, now bind ourselves by the union of our hearts, and join our forces in order to help each other in times of danger. "We wish to pay to the State our debt of loyal citizens and give peace to our black-haired compatriots. We do not inquire if we were born in the same year, the same month, or on the same day, but we desire only that the same year, the same month, and the same day may find us united in death. May Heaven our King and Earth our Queen see clearly our hearts! If any one of us violate justice or forget benefits, may Heaven and Man unite to punish him!" The oath having been formally taken, Liu Pei was saluted as elder brother, Kuan Yü as the second, and Chang Fei as the youngest. Their sacrifice to Heaven and earth ended, they killed an ox and served a feast, to which the soldiers of the district were invited to the number of three hundred or more. They all drank copiously until they were intoxicated. Liu Pei enrolled the peasants; Chang Fei procured for them horses and arms; and then they set out to make war on the Yellow Turbans (Huang Chin Tsei). Kuan Yü proved himself worthy of the affection which Liu Pei showed him; brave and generous, he never turned aside from danger. His fidelity was shown especially on one occasion when, having been taken prisoner by Ts'ao Ts'ao, together with two of Liu Pei's wives, and having been allotted a common sleeping-apartment with his fellow-captives, he preserved the ladies' reputation and his own trustworthiness by standing all night at the door of the room with a lighted lantern in his hand. Into details of the various exploits of the three Brothers of the Peach-orchard we need not enter here. They are written in full in the book of the _Story of the Three Kingdoms_, a romance in which every Chinese who can read takes keen delight. Kuan Yü remained faithful to his oath, even though tempted with a marquisate by the great Ts'ao Ts'ao, but he was at length captured by Sun Ch'üan and put to death (A.D. 219). Long celebrated as the most renowned of China's military heroes, he was ennobled in A.D. 1120 as Faithful and Loyal Duke. Eight years later he had conferred on him by letters patent the still more glorious title of Magnificent Prince and Pacificator. The Emperor Wên (A.D. 1330-3) of the Yüan dynasty added the appellation Warrior Prince and Civilizer, and, finally, the Emperor Wan Li of the Ming dynasty, in 1594, conferred on him the title of Faithful and Loyal Great _Ti_, Supporter of Heaven and Protector of the Kingdom. He thus became a god, a _ti_, and has ever since received worship as Kuan Ti or Wu Ti, the God of War. Temples (1600 State temples and thousands of smaller ones) erected in his honour are to be seen in all parts of the country. He is one of the most popular gods of China. During the last half-century of the Manchu Period his fame greatly increased. In 1856 he is said to have appeared in the heavens and successfully turned the tide of battle in favour of the Imperialists. His portrait hangs in every tent, but his worship is not confined to the officials and the army, for many trades and professions have elected him as a patron saint. The sword of the public executioner used to be kept within the precincts of his temple, and after an execution the presiding magistrate would stop there to worship for fear the ghost of the criminal might follow him home. He knew that the spirit would not dare to enter Kuan Ti's presence. Thus the Chinese have no fewer than three gods of literature--perhaps not too many for so literary a people. A fourth, a Taoist god, will be mentioned later. Buddhism in China Buddhism and its mythology have formed an important part of Chinese thought for nearly two thousand years. The religion was brought to China about A.D. 65, ready-made in its Mahayanistic form, in consequence of a dream of the Emperor Ming Ti (A.D. 58-76) of the Eastern Han dynasty in or about the year 63; though some knowledge of Buddha and his doctrines existed as early as 217 B.C. As Buddha, the chief deity of Buddhism, was a man and became a god, the religion originated, like the others, in ancestor-worship. When a man dies, says this religion, his other self reappears in one form or another, "from a clod to a divinity." The way for Buddhism in China was paved by Taoism, and Buddhism reciprocally affected Taoism by helpful development of its doctrines of sanctity and immortalization. Buddhism also, as it has been well put by Dr De Groot, [17] "contributed much to the ceremonial adornment of ancestor-worship. Its salvation work on behalf of the dead saved its place in Confucian China; for of Confucianism itself, piety and devotion towards parents and ancestors, and the promotion of their happiness, were the core, and, consequently, their worship with sacrifices and ceremonies was always a sacred duty." It was thus that it was possible for the gods of Buddhism to be introduced into China and to maintain their special characters and fulfil their special functions without being absorbed into or submerged by the existing native religions. The result was, as we have seen, in the end a partnership rather than a relation of master and servant; and I say 'in the end' because, contrary to popular belief, the Chinese have not been tolerant of foreign religious faiths, and at various times have persecuted Buddhism as relentlessly as they have other rivals to orthodox Confucianism. Buddha, the Law, and the Priesthood At the head of the Buddhist gods in China we find the triad known as Buddha, the Law, and the Church, or Priesthood, which are personified as Shih-chia Fo (Shâkya), O-mi-t'o Fo (Amita), and Ju-lai Fo (Tathagata); otherwise Fo Pao, Fa Pao, and Sêng Pao (the _San Pao_, 'Three Precious Ones')--that is, Buddha, the prophet who came into the world to teach the Law, Dharma, the Law Everlasting, and Samgha, its mystical body, Priesthood, or Church. Dharma is an entity underived, containing the spiritual elements and material constituents of the universe. From it the other two evolve: Buddha (Shâkyamuni), the creative energy, Samgha, the totality of existence and of life. To the people these are three personal Buddhas, whom they worship without concerning themselves about their origin. To the priests they are simply the Buddha, past, present, or future. There are also several other of these groups or triads, ten or more, composed of different deities, or sometimes containing one or two of the triad already named. Shâkyamuni heads the list, having a place in at least six. The legend of the Buddha belongs rather to Indian than to Chinese mythology, and is too long to be reproduced here. [18] The principal gods of Buddhism are Jan-têng Fo, the Light-lamp Buddha, Mi-lo Fo (Maitrêya), the expected Messiah of the Buddhists, O-mi-t'o Fo (Amitabha or Amita), the guide who conducts his devotees to the Western Paradise, Yüeh-shih Fo, the Master-physician Buddha, Ta-shih-chih P'u-sa (Mahastama), companion of Amitabha, P'i-lu Fo (Vairotchana), the highest of the Threefold Embodiments, Kuan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy, Ti-tsang Wang, the God of Hades, Wei-t'o (Vihârapâla), the Dêva protector of the Law of Buddha and Buddhist temples, the Four Diamond Kings of Heaven, and Bodhidharma, the first of the six Patriarchs of Eastern or Chinese Buddhism. Diamond Kings of Heaven On the right and left sides of the entrance hall of Buddhist temples, two on each side, are the gigantic figures of the four great _Ssu Ta Chin-kang_ or _T'ien-wang_, the Diamond Kings of Heaven, protectors or governors of the continents lying in the direction of the four cardinal points from Mount Sumêru, the centre of the world. They are four brothers named respectively Mo-li Ch'ing (Pure), or Tsêng Chang, Mo-li Hung (Vast), or Kuang Mu, Mo-li Hai (Sea), or To Wên, and Mo-li Shou (Age), or Ch'ih Kuo. The _Chin kuang ming_ states that they bestow all kinds of happiness on those who honour the Three Treasures, Buddha, the Law, and the Priesthood. Kings and nations who neglect the Law lose their protection. They are described and represented as follows: Mo-li Ch'ing, the eldest, is twenty-four feet in height, with a beard the hairs of which are like copper wire. He carries a magnificent jade ring and a spear, and always fights on foot. He has also a magic sword, 'Blue Cloud,' on the blade of which are engraved the characters _Ti, Shui, Huo, Fêng_ (Earth, Water, Fire, Wind). When brandished, it causes a black wind, which produces tens of thousands of spears, which pierce the bodies of men and turn them to dust. The wind is followed by a fire, which fills the air with tens of thousands of golden fiery serpents. A thick smoke also rises out of the ground, which blinds and burns men, none being able to escape. Mo-li Hung carries in his hand an umbrella, called the Umbrella of Chaos, formed of pearls possessed of spiritual properties. Opening this marvellous implement causes the heavens and earth to be covered with thick darkness, and turning it upside down produces violent storms of wind and thunder and universal earthquakes. Mo-li Hai holds a four-stringed guitar, the twanging of which supernaturally affects the earth, water, fire, or wind. When it is played all the world listens, and the camps of the enemy take fire. Mo-li Shou has two whips and a panther-skin bag, the home of a creature resembling a white rat, known as Hua-hu Tiao. When at large this creature assumes the form of a white winged elephant, which devours men. He sometimes has also a snake or other man-eating creature, always ready to obey his behests. Legend of the Diamond Kings The legend of the Four Diamond Kings given in the _Fêng shên yen i_ is as follows: At the time of the consolidation of the Chou dynasty in the twelfth and eleventh centuries B.C., Chiang Tzu-ya, chief counsellor to Wên Wang, and General Huang Fei-hu were defending the town and mountain of Hsi-ch'i. The supporters of the house of Shang appealed to the four genii Mo, who lived at Chia-mêng Kuan, praying them to come to their aid. They agreed, raised an army of 100,000 celestial soldiers, and traversing towns, fields, and mountains arrived in less than a day at the north gate of Hsi-ch'i, where Mo-li Ch'ing pitched his camp and entrenched his soldiers. Hearing of this, Huang Fei-hu hastened to warn Chiang Tzu-ya of the danger which threatened him. "The four great generals who have just arrived at the north gate," he said, "are marvellously powerful genii, experts in all the mysteries of magic and use of wonderful charms. It is much to be feared that we shall not be able to resist them." Many fierce battles ensued. At first these went in favour of the _Chin-kang_, thanks to their magical weapons and especially to Mo-li Shou's Hua-hu Tiao, who terrorized the enemy by devouring their bravest warriors. Hua-hu Tiao devours Yang Chien Unfortunately for the _Chin-kang_, the brute attacked and swallowed Yang Chien, the nephew of Yü Huang. This genie, on entering the body of the monster, rent his heart asunder and cut him in two. As he could transform himself at will, he assumed the shape of Hua-hu Tiao, and went off to Mo-li Shou, who unsuspectingly put him back into his bag. The Four Kings held a festival to celebrate their triumph, and having drunk copiously gave themselves over to sleep. During the night Yang Chien came out of the bag, with the intention of possessing himself of the three magical weapons of the _Chin-kang_. But he succeeded only in carrying off the umbrella of Mo-li Hung. In a subsequent engagement No-cha, the son of Vadjrâ-pani, the God of Thunder, broke the jade ring of Mo-li Ch'ing. Misfortune followed misfortune. The _Chin-kang_, deprived of their magical weapons, began to lose heart. To complete their discomfiture, Huang T'ien Hua brought to the attack a matchless magical weapon. This was a spike 7 1/2 inches long, enclosed in a silk sheath, and called 'Heart-piercer.' It projected so strong a ray of light that eyes were blinded by it. Huang T'ien Hua, hard pressed by Mo-li Ch'ing, drew the mysterious spike from its sheath, and hurled it at his adversary. It entered his neck, and with a deep groan the giant fell dead. Mo-li Hung and Mo-li Hai hastened to avenge their brother, but ere they could come within striking distance of Huang Ti'en Hua his redoubtable spike reached their hearts, and they lay prone at his feet. The one remaining hope for the sole survivor was in Hua-hu Tiao. Mo-li Shou, not knowing that the creature had been slain, put his hand into the bag to pull him out, whereupon Yang Chien, who had re-entered the bag, bit his hand off at the wrist, so that there remained nothing but a stump of bone. In this moment of intense agony Mo-li Shou fell an easy prey to Huang T'ien Hua, the magical spike pierced his heart, and he fell bathed in his blood. Thus perished the last of the _Chin-kang_. The Three Pure Ones Turning to the gods of Taoism, we find that the triad or trinity, already noted as forming the head of that hierarchy, consists of three Supreme Gods, each in his own Heaven. These three Heavens, the _San Ch'ing_, 'Three Pure Ones' (this name being also applied to the sovereigns ruling in them), were formed from the three airs, which are subdivisions of the one primordial air. The first Heaven is Yü Ch'ing. In it reigns the first member of the Taoist triad. He inhabits the Jade Mountain. The entrance to his palace is named the Golden Door. He is the source of all truth, as the sun is the source of all light. Various authorities give his name differently--Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun, or Lo Ching Hsin, and call him T'ien Pao, 'the Treasure of Heaven,' Some state that the name of the ruler of this first Heaven is Yü Huang, and in the popular mind he it is who occupies this supreme position. The Three Pure Ones are above him in rank, but to him, the Pearly Emperor, is entrusted the superintendence of the world. He has all the power of Heaven and earth in his hands. He is the correlative of Heaven, or rather Heaven itself. The second Heaven, Shang Ch'ing, is ruled by the second person of the triad, named Ling-pao T'ien-tsun, or Tao Chün. No information is given as to his origin. He is the custodian of the sacred books. He has existed from the beginning of the world. He calculates time, dividing it into different epochs. He occupies the upper pole of the world, and determines the movements and interaction, or regulates the relations of the _yin_ and the _yang_, the two great principles of nature. In the third Heaven, T'ai Ch'ing, the Taoists place Lao Tzu, the promulgator of the true doctrine drawn up by Ling-pao T'ien-tsun. He is alternatively called Shên Pao, 'the Treasure of the Spirits,' and T'ai-shang Lao-chûn, 'the Most Eminent Aged Ruler.' Under various assumed names he has appeared as the teacher of kings and emperors, the reformer of successive generations. This three-storied Taoist Heaven, or three Heavens, is the result of the wish of the Taoists not to be out-rivalled by the Buddhists. For Buddha, the Law, and the Priesthood they substitute the _Tao_, or Reason, the Classics, and the Priesthood. As regards the organization of the Taoist Heavens, Yü Huang has on his register the name of eight hundred Taoist divinities and a multitude of Immortals. These are all divided into three categories: Saints (_Shêng-jên_), Heroes (_Chên-jên_), and Immortals (_Hsien-jên_), occupying the three Heavens respectively in that order. The Three Causes Connected with Taoism, but not exclusively associated with that religion, is the worship of the Three Causes, the deities presiding over three departments of physical nature, Heaven, earth, and water. They are known by various designations: _San Kuan_, 'the Three Agents'; _San Yüan_, 'the Three Origins'; _San Kuan Ta Ti_, 'the Three Great Emperor Agents'; and _T'ai Shang San Kuan_, 'the Three Supreme Agents.' This worship has passed through four chief phases, as follows: The first comprises Heaven, earth, and water, _T'ien, Ti, Shui_, the sources of happiness, forgiveness of sins, and deliverance from evil respectively. Each of these is called King-emperor. Their names, written on labels and offered to Heaven (on a mountain), earth (by burial), and water (by immersion), are supposed to cure sickness. This idea dates from the Han dynasty, being first noted about A.D. 172. The second, _San Yüan_ dating from A.D. 407 under the Wei dynasty, identified the Three Agents with three dates of which they were respectively made the patrons. The year was divided into three unequal parts: the first to the seventh moon; the seventh to the tenth; and the tenth to the twelfth. Of these, the fifteenth day of the first, seventh, and tenth moons respectively became the three principal dates of these periods. Thus the Agent of Heaven became the principal patron of the first division, honoured on the fifteenth day of the first moon, and so on. The third phase, _San Kuan_, resulted from the first two being found too complicated for popular favour. The _San Kuan_ were the three sons of a man, Ch'ên Tzu-ch'un, who was so handsome and intelligent that the three daughters of Lung Wang, the Dragon-king, fell in love with him and went to live with him. The eldest girl was the mother of the Superior Cause, the second of the Medium Cause, and the third of the Inferior Cause. All these were gifted with supernatural powers. Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun canonized them as the Three Great Emperor Agents of Heaven, earth, and water, governors of all beings, devils or gods, in the three regions of the universe. As in the first phase, the _T'ien Kuan_ confers happiness, the _Ti Kuan_ grants remission of sins, and the _Shui Kuan_ delivers from evil or misfortune. The fourth phase consisted simply in the substitution by the priests for the abstract or time-principles of the three great sovereigns of ancient times, Yao, Shun, and Yü. The _literati_, proud of the apotheosis of their ancient rulers, hastened to offer incense to them, and temples, _San Yüan Kung_, arose in very many parts of the Empire. A variation of this phase is the canonization, with the title of _San Yüan_ or Three Causes, of _Wu-k'o San Chên Chün_, 'the Three True Sovereigns, Guests of the Kingdom of Wu.' They were three Censors who lived in the reign of King Li (Li Wang, 878-841 B.C.) of the Chou dynasty. Leaving the service of the Chou on account of Li's dissolute living, they went to live in Wu, and brought victory to that state in its war with the Ch'u State, then returned to their own country, and became pillars of the Chou State under Li's successor. They appeared to protect the Emperor Chên Tsung when he was offering the _Fêng-shan_ sacrifices on T'ai Shan in A.D. 1008, on which occasion they were canonized with the titles of Superior, Medium, and Inferior Causes, as before, conferring upon them the regencies of Heaven, earth, and water respectively. Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun, or the First Cause, the Highest in Heaven, generally placed at the head of the Taoist triad, is said never to have existed but in the fertile imagination of the Lao Tzuist sectarians. According to them Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun had neither origin nor master, but is himself the cause of all beings, which is why he is called the First Cause. As first member of the triad, and sovereign ruler of the First Heaven, Yü Ch'ing, where reign the saints, he is raised in rank above all the other gods. The name assigned to him is Lo Ching Hsin. He was born before all beginnings; his substance is imperishable; it is formed essentially of uncreated air, air _a se_, invisible and without perceptible limits. No one has been able to penetrate to the beginnings of his existence. The source of all truth, he at each renovation of the worlds--that is, at each new _kalpa_--gives out the mysterious doctrine which confers immortality. All who reach this knowledge attain by degrees to life eternal, become refined like the spirits, or instantly become Immortals, even while upon earth. Originally, Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun was not a member of the Taoist triad. He resided above the Three Heavens, above the Three Pure Ones, surviving the destructions and renovations of the universe, as an immovable rock in the midst of a stormy sea. He set the stars in motion, and caused the planets to revolve. The chief of his secret police was Tsao Chün, the Kitchen-god, who rendered to him an account of the good and evil deeds of each family. His executive agent was Lei Tsu, the God of Thunder, and his subordinates. The seven stars of the North Pole were the palace of his ministers, whose offices were on the various sacred mountains. Nowadays, however, Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun is generally neglected for Yü Huang. An Avatar of P'an Ku According to the tradition of Chin Hung, the God of T'ai Shan of the fifth generation from P'an Ku, this being, then called Yüan-shih T'ien-wang, was an avatar of P'an Ku. It came about in this wise. In remote ages there lived on the mountains an old man, Yüan-shih T'ien-wang, who used to sit on a rock and preach to the multitude. He spoke of the highest antiquity as if from personal experience. When Chin Hung asked him where he lived, he just raised his hand toward Heaven, iridescent clouds enveloped his body, and he replied: "Whoso wishes to know where I dwell must rise to impenetrable heights." "But how," said Chin Hung, "was he to be found in this immense emptiness?" Two genii, Ch'ih Ching-tzu and Huang Lao, then descended on the summit of T'ai Shan and said: "Let us go and visit this Yüan-shih. To do so, we must cross the boundaries of the universe and pass beyond the farthest stars." Chin Hung begged them to give him their instructions, to which he listened attentively. They then ascended the highest of the sacred peaks, and thence mounted into the heavens, calling to him from the misty heights: "If you wish to know the origin of Yüan-shih, you must pass beyond the confines of Heaven and earth, because he lives beyond the limits of the worlds. You must ascend and ascend until you reach the sphere of nothingness and of being, in the plains of the luminous shadows." Having reached these ethereal heights, the two genii saw a bright light, and Hsüan-hsüan Shang-jên appeared before them. The two genii bowed to do him homage and to express their gratitude. "You cannot better show your gratitude," he replied, "than by making my doctrine known among men. You desire," he added, "to know the history of Yüan-shih. I will tell it you. When P'an Ku had completed his work in the primitive Chaos, his spirit left its mortal envelope and found itself tossed about in empty space without any fixed support. 'I must,' it said, 'get reborn in visible form; until I can go through a new birth I shall remain empty and unsettled,' His soul, carried on the wings of the wind, reached Fu-yü T'ai. There it saw a saintly lady named T'ai Yüan, forty years of age, still a virgin, and living alone on Mount Ts'u-o. Air and variegated clouds were the sole nourishment of her vital spirits. An hermaphrodite, at once both the active and the passive principle, she daily scaled the highest peak of the mountain to gather there the flowery quintessence of the sun and the moon. P'an Ku, captivated by her virgin purity, took advantage of a moment when she was breathing to enter her mouth in the form of a ray of light. She was _enceinte_ for twelve years, at the end of which period the fruit of her womb came out through her spinal column. From its first moment the child could walk and speak, and its body was surrounded by a five-coloured cloud. The newly-born took the name of Yüan-shih T'ien-wang, and his mother was generally known as T'ai-yüan Shêng-mu, 'the Holy Mother of the First Cause.'" Yü Huang Yü Huang means 'the Jade Emperor,' or 'the Pure August One,' jade symbolizing purity. He is also known by the name Yü-huang Shang-ti, 'the Pure August Emperor on High.' The history of this deity, who later received many honorific titles and became the most popular god, a very Chinese Jupiter, seems to be somewhat as follows: The Emperor Ch'êng Tsung of the Sung dynasty having been obliged in A.D. 1005 to sign a disgraceful peace with the Tunguses or Kitans, the dynasty was in danger of losing the support of the nation. In order to hoodwink the people the Emperor constituted himself a seer, and announced with great pomp that he was in direct communication with the gods of Heaven. In doing this he was following the advice of his crafty and unreliable minister Wang Ch'in-jo, who had often tried to persuade him that the pretended revelations attributed to Fu Hsi, Yü Wang, and others were only pure inventions to induce obedience. The Emperor, having studied his part well, assembled his ministers in the tenth moon of the year 1012, and made to them the following declaration: "In a dream I had a visit from an Immortal, who brought me a letter from Yü Huang, the purport of which was as follows: 'I have already sent you by your ancestor Chao [T'ai Tsu] two celestial missives. Now I am going to send him in person to visit you.'" A little while after his ancestor T'ai Tsu, the founder of the dynasty, came according to Yü Huang's promise, and Ch'êng Tsung hastened to inform his ministers of it. This is the origin of Yü Huang. He was born of a fraud, and came ready-made from the brain of an emperor. The Cask of Pearls Fearing to be admonished for the fraud by another of his ministers, the scholar Wang Tan, the Emperor resolved to put a golden gag in his mouth. So one day, having invited him to a banquet, he overwhelmed him with flattery and made him drunk with good wine. "I would like the members of your family also to taste this wine," he added, "so I am making you a present of a cask of it." When Wang Tan returned home, he found the cask filled with precious pearls. Out of gratitude to the Emperor he kept silent as to the fraud, and made no further opposition to his plans, but when on his death-bed he asked that his head be shaved like a priest's and that he be clothed in priestly robes so that he might expiate his crime of feebleness before the Emperor. K'ang Hsi, the great Emperor of the Ch'ing dynasty, who had already declared that if it is wrong to impute deceit to a man it is still more reprehensible to impute a fraud to Heaven, stigmatized him as follows: "Wang Tan committed two faults: the first was in showing himself a vile flatterer of his Prince during his life; the second was in becoming a worshipper of Buddha at his death." The Legend of Yü Huang So much for historical record. The legend of Yü Huang relates that in ancient times there existed a kingdom named Kuang Yen Miao Lo Kuo, whose king was Ching Tê, his queen being called Pao Yüeh. Though getting on in years, the latter had no son. The Taoist priests were summoned by edict to the palace to perform their rites. They recited prayers with the object of obtaining an heir to the throne. During the ensuing night the Queen had a vision. Lao Chün appeared to her, riding a dragon, and carrying a male child in his arms. He floated down through the air in her direction. The Queen begged him to give her the child as an heir to the throne. "I am quite willing," he said. "Here it is." She fell on her knees and thanked him. On waking she found herself _enceinte_. At the end of a year the Prince was born. From an early age he showed himself compassionate and generous to the poor. On the death of his father he ascended the throne, but after reigning only a few days abdicated in favour of his chief minister, and became a hermit at P'u-ming, in Shensi, and also on Mount Hsiu Yen, in Yünnan. Having attained to perfection, he passed the rest of his days in curing sickness and saving life; and it was in the exercise of these charitable deeds that he died. The emperors Ch'êng Tsung and Hui Tsung, of the Sung dynasty, loaded him with all the various titles associated with his name at the present day. Both Buddhists and Taoists claim him as their own, the former identifying him with Indra, in which case Yü Huang is a Buddhist deity incorporated into the Taoist pantheon. He has also been taken to be the subject of a 'nature myth.' The Emperor Ching Tê, his father, is the sun, the Queen Pao Yüeh the moon, and the marriage symbolizes the rebirth of the vivifying power which clothes nature with green plants and beautiful flowers. T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu In modern Taoism T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu is regarded as the first of the Patriarchs and one of the most powerful genii of the sect. His master was Hung-chün Lao-tsu. He wore a red robe embroidered with white cranes, and rode a _k'uei niu_, a monster resembling a buffalo, with one long horn like a unicorn. His palace, the Pi Yu Kung, was situated on Mount Tzu Chih Yai. This genie took the part of Chou Wang and helped him to resist Wu Wang's armies. First, he sent his disciple To-pao Tao-jên to Chieh-p'ai Kuan. He gave him four precious swords and the plan of a fort which he was to construct and to name Chu-hsien Chên, 'the Citadel of all the Immortals.' To-pao Tao-jên carried out his orders, but he had to fight a battle with Kuang Ch'êng-tzu, and the latter, armed with a celestial seal, struck his adversary so hard that he fell to the ground and had to take refuge in flight. T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu came to the defence of his disciple and to restore the morale of his forces. Unfortunately, a posse of gods arrived to aid Wu Wang's powerful general, Chiang Tzu-ya. The first who attacked T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu was Lao Tzu, who struck him several times with his stick. Then came Chun T'i, armed with his cane. The buffalo of T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu stamped him under foot, and Chun T'i was thrown to the earth, and only just had time to rise quickly and mount into the air amid a great cloud of dust. There could be no doubt that the fight was going against T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu; to complete his discomfiture Jan-têng Tao-jên cleft the air and fell upon him unexpectedly. With a violent blow of his 'Fix-sea' staff he cast him down and compelled him to give up the struggle. T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu then prepared plans for a new fortified camp beyond T'ung Kuan, and tried to take the offensive again, but again Lao Tzu stopped him with a blow of his stick. Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun wounded his shoulder with his precious stone Ju-i, and Chun-t'i Tao-jên waved his 'Branch of the Seven Virtues.' Immediately the magic sword of T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu was reduced to splinters, and he saved himself only by flight. Hung-chün Lao-tsu, the master of these three genii, seeing his three beloved disciples in the _mêlée_, resolved to make peace between them. He assembled all three in a tent in Chiang Tzu-ya's camp, made them kneel before him, then reproached T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu at length for having taken the part of the tyrant Chou, and recommended them in future to live in harmony. After finishing his speech, he produced three pills, and ordered each of the genii to swallow one. When they had done so, Hung-chün Lao-tsu said to them: "I have given you these pills to ensure an inviolable truce among you. Know that the first who entertains a thought of discord in his heart will find that the pill will explode in his stomach and cause his instant death." Hung-chün Lao-tsu then took T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu away with him on his cloud to Heaven. Immortals, Heroes, Saints An Immortal, according to Taoist lore, is a solitary man of the mountains. He appears to die, but does not. After 'death' his body retains all the qualities of the living. The body or corpse is for him only a means of transition, a phase of metamorphosis--a cocoon or chrysalis, the temporary abode of the butterfly. To reach this state a hygienic regimen both of the body and mind must be observed. All luxury, greed, and ambition must be avoided. But negation is not enough. In the system of nourishment all the elements which strengthen the essence of the constituent _yin_ and _yang_ principles must be found by means of medicine, chemistry, gymnastic exercises, etc. When the maximum vital force has been acquired the means of preserving it and keeping it from the attacks of death and disease must be discovered; in a word, he must spiritualize himself--render himself completely independent of matter. All the experiments have for their object the storing in the pills of immortality the elements necessary for the development of the vital force and for the constitution of a new spiritual and super-humanized being. In this ascending perfection there are several grades: (1) The Immortal (_Hsien_). The first stage consists in bringing about the birth of the superhuman in the ascetic's person, which reaching perfection leaves the earthly body, like the grasshopper its sheath. This first stage attained, the Immortal travels at will throughout the universe, enjoys all the advantages of perfect health without dreading disease or death, eats and drinks copiously--nothing is wanting to complete his happiness. (2) The Perfect Man, or Hero (_Chên-jên_). The second stage is a higher one. The whole body is spiritualized. It has become so subtile, so spiritual, that it can fly in the air. Borne on the wings of the wind, seated on the clouds of Heaven, it travels from one world to another and fixes its habitation in the stars. It is freed from all laws of matter, but is, however, not completely changed into pure spirit. (3) The Saint (_Shêng-jên_). The third stage is that of the superhuman beings or saints. They are those who have attained to extraordinary intelligence and virtue. The God of the Immortals Mu Kung or Tung Wang Kung, the God of the Immortals, was also called I Chün Ming and Yü Huang Chün, the Prince Yü Huang. The primitive vapour congealed, remained inactive for a time, and then produced living beings, beginning with the formation of Mu Kung, the purest substance of the Eastern Air, and sovereign of the active male principle _yang_ and of all the countries of the East. His palace is in the misty heavens, violet clouds form its dome, blue clouds its walls. Hsien T'ung, 'the Immortal Youth,' and Yü Nü, 'the Jade Maiden,' are his servants. He keeps the register of all the Immortals, male and female. Hsi Wang Mu Hsi Wang Mu was formed of the pure quintessence of the Western Air, in the legendary continent of Shên Chou. She is often called the Golden Mother of the Tortoise. Her family name is variously given as Hou, Yang, and Ho. Her own name was Hui, and first name Wan-chin. She had nine sons and twenty-four daughters. As Mu Kung, formed of the Eastern Air, is the active principle of the male air and sovereign of the Eastern Air, so Hsi Wang Mu, born of the Western Air, is the passive or female principle (_yin_) and sovereign of the Western Air. These two principles, co-operating, engender Heaven and earth and all the beings of the universe, and thus become the two principles of life and of the subsistence of all that exists. She is the head of the troop of genii dwelling on the K'un-lun Mountains (the Taoist equivalent of the Buddhist Sumêru), and from time to time holds intercourse with favoured imperial votaries. The Feast of Peaches Hsi Wang Mu's palace is situated in the high mountains of the snowy K'un-lun. It is 1000 _li_ (about 333 miles) in circuit; a rampart of massive gold surrounds its battlements of precious stones. Its right wing rises on the edge of the Kingfishers' River. It is the usual abode of the Immortals, who are divided into seven special categories according to the colour of their garments--red, blue, black, violet, yellow, green, and 'nature-colour.' There is a marvellous fountain built of precious stones, where the periodical banquet of the Immortals is held. This feast is called P'an-t'ao Hui, 'the Feast of Peaches.' It takes place on the borders of the Yao Ch'ih, Lake of Gems, and is attended by both male and female Immortals. Besides several superfine meats, they are served with bears' paws, monkeys' lips, dragons' liver, phoenix marrow, and peaches gathered in the orchard, endowed with the mystic virtue of conferring longevity on all who have the good luck to taste them. It was by these peaches that the date of the banquet was fixed. The tree put forth leaves once every three thousand years, and it required three thousand years after that for the fruit to ripen. These were Hsi Wang Mu's birthdays, when all the Immortals assembled for the great feast, "the occasion being more festive than solemn, for there was music on invisible instruments, and songs not from mortal tongues." The First Taoist Pope Chang Tao-ling, the first Taoist pope, was born in A.D. 35, in the reign of the Emperor Kuang Wu Ti of the Han dynasty. His birthplace is variously given as the T'ien-mu Shan, 'Eye of Heaven Mountain,' in Lin-an Hsien, in Chekiang, and Fêng-yang Fu, in Anhui. He devoted himself wholly to study and meditation, declining all offers to enter the service of the State. He preferred to take up his abode in the mountains of Western China, where he persevered in the study of alchemy and in cultivating the virtues of purity and mental abstraction. From the hands of Lao Tzu he received supernaturally a mystic treatise, by following the instructions in which he was successful in his search for the elixir of life. One day when he was engaged in experimenting with the 'Dragon-tiger elixir' a spiritual being appeared to him and said: "On Po-sung Mountain is a stone house in which are concealed the writings of the Three Emperors of antiquity and a canonical work. By obtaining these you may ascend to Heaven, if you undergo the course of discipline they prescribe." Chang Tao-ling found these works, and by means of them obtained the power of flying, of hearing distant sounds, and of leaving his body. After going through a thousand days of discipline, and receiving instruction from a goddess, who taught him to walk about among the stars, he proceeded to fight with the king of the demons, to divide mountains and seas, and to command the wind and thunder. All the demons fled before him. On account of the prodigious slaughter of demons by this hero the wind and thunder were reduced to subjection, and various divinities came with eager haste to acknowledge their faults. In nine years he gained the power to ascend to Heaven. The Founder of Modern Taoism Chang Tao-ling may rightly be considered as the true founder of modern Taoism. The recipes for the pills of immortality contained in the mysterious books, and the invention of talismans for the cure of all sorts of maladies, not only exalted him to the high position he has since occupied in the minds of his numerous disciples, but enabled them in turn to exploit successfully this new source of power and wealth. From that time the Taoist sect began to specialize in the art of healing. Protecting or curing talismans bearing the Master's seal were purchased for enormous sums. It is thus seen that he was after all a deceiver of the people, and unbelievers or rival partisans of other sects have dubbed him a 'rice-thief'--which perhaps he was. He is generally represented as clothed in richly decorated garments, brandishing with his right hand his magic sword, holding in his left a cup containing the draught of immortality, and riding a tiger which in one paw grasps his magic seal and with the others tramples down the five venomous creatures: lizard, snake, spider, toad, and centipede. Pictures of him with these accessories are pasted up in houses on the fifth day of the fifth moon to forfend calamity and sickness. The Peach-gathering It is related of him that, not wishing to ascend to Heaven too soon, he partook of only half of the pill of immortality, dividing the other half among several of his admirers, and that he had at least two selves or personalities, one of which used to disport itself in a boat on a small lake in front of his house. The other self would receive his visitors, entertaining them with food and drink and instructive conversation. On one occasion this self said to them: "You are unable to quit the world altogether as I can, but by imitating my example in the matter of family relations you could procure a medicine which would prolong your lives by several centuries. I have given the crucible in which Huang Ti prepared the draught of immortality to my disciple Wang Ch'ang. Later on, a man will come from the East, who also will make use of it. He will arrive on the seventh day of the first moon." Exactly on that day there arrived from the East a man named Chao Shêng, who was the person indicated by Chang Tao-ling. He was recognized by a manifestation of himself he had caused to appear in advance of his coming. Chang then led all his disciples, to the number of three hundred, to the highest peak of the Yün-t'ai. Below them they saw a peach-tree growing near a pointed rock, stretching out its branches like arms above a fathomless abyss. It was a large tree, covered with ripe fruit. Chang said to his disciples: "I will communicate a spiritual formula to the one among you who will dare to gather the fruit of that tree." They all leaned over to look, but each declared the feat to be impossible. Chao Shêng alone had the courage to rush out to the point of the rock and up the tree stretching out into space. With firm foot he stood and gathered the peaches, placing them in the folds of his cloak, as many as it would hold, but when he wished to climb back up the precipitous slope, his hands slipped on the smooth rock, and all his attempts were in vain. Accordingly, he threw the peaches, three hundred and two in all, one by one up to Chang Tao-ling, who distributed them. Each disciple ate one, as also did Chang, who reserved the remaining one for Chao Shêng, whom he helped to climb up again. To do this Chang extended his arm to a length of thirty feet, all present marvelling at the miracle. After Chao had eaten his peach Chang stood on the edge of the precipice, and said with a laugh: "Chao Shêng was brave enough to climb out to that tree and his foot never tripped. I too will make the attempt. If I succeed I will have a big peach as a reward." Having spoken thus, he leapt into space, and alighted in the branches of the peach-tree. Wang Ch'ang and Chao Shêng also jumped into the tree and stood one on each side of him. There Chang communicated to them the mysterious formula. Three days later they returned to their homes; then, having made final arrangements, they repaired once more to the mountain peak, whence, in the presence of the other disciples, who followed them with their eyes until they had completely disappeared from view, all three ascended to Heaven in broad daylight. Chang Tao-ling's Great Power The name of Chang Tao-ling, the Heavenly Teacher, is a household word in China. He is on earth the Vicegerent of the Pearly Emperor in Heaven, and the Commander-in-Chief of the hosts of Taoism. He, the chief of the wizards, the 'true [_i.e._ ideal] man,' as he is called, wields an immense spiritual power throughout the land. The present pope boasts of an unbroken line for three-score generations. His family obtained possession of the Dragon-tiger Mountain in Kiangsi about A.D. 1000. "This personage," says a pre-Republican writer, "assumes a state which mimics the imperial. He confers buttons like an emperor. Priests come to him from various cities and temples to receive promotion, whom he invests with titles and presents with seals of office." Kings of Heaven The Four Kings of Heaven, Ssu Ta T'ien-wang, reside on Mount Sumêru (Hsü-mi Shan), the centre of the universe. It is 3,360,000 _li_--that is, about a million miles--high. [19] Its eastern slope is of gold, its western of silver, its south-eastern of crystal, and its north-eastern of agate. The Four Kings appear to be the Taoist reflection of the four _Chin-kang_ of Buddhism already noticed. Their names are Li, Ma, Chao, and Wên. They are represented as holding a pagoda, sword, two swords, and spiked club respectively. Their worship appears to be due to their auspicious appearance and aid on various critical occasions in the dynastic history of the T'ang and Sung Periods. T'ai I Temples are found in various parts dedicated to T'ai I, the Great One, or Great Unity. When Emperor Wu Ti (140-86 B.C.) of the Han dynasty was in search of the secret of immortality, and various suggestions had proved unsatisfactory, a Taoist priest, Miao Chi, told the Emperor that his want of success was due to his omission to sacrifice to T'ai I, the first of the celestial spirits, quoting the classical precedent of antiquity found in the _Book of History_. The Emperor, believing his word, ordered the Grand Master of Sacrifices to re-establish this worship at the capital. He followed carefully the prescriptions of Miao Chi. This enraged the _literati_, who resolved to ruin him. One day, when the Emperor was about to drink one of his potions, one of the chief courtiers seized the cup and drank the contents himself. The Emperor was about to have him slain, when he said: "Your Majesty's order is unnecessary; if the potion confers immortality, I cannot be killed; if, on the other hand, it does not, your Majesty should recompense me for disproving the pretensions of the Taoist priest." The Emperor, however, was not convinced. One account represents T'ai I as having lived in the time of Shên Nung, the Divine Husbandman, who visited him to consult with him on the subjects of diseases and fortune. He was Hsien Yüan's medical preceptor. His medical knowledge was handed down to future generations. He was one of those who, with the Immortals, was invited to the great Peach Assembly of the Western Royal Mother. As the spirit of the star T'ai I he resides in the Eastern Palace, listening for the cries of sufferers in order to save them. For this purpose he assumes numberless forms in various regions. With a boat of lotus-flowers of nine colours he ferries men over to the shore of salvation. Holding in his hand a willow-branch, he scatters from it the dew of the doctrine. T'ai I is variously represented as the Ruler of the Five Celestial Sovereigns, Cosmic Matter before it congealed into concrete shapes, the Triune Spirit of Heaven, earth, and T'ai I as three separate entities, an unknown Spirit, the Spirit of the Pole Star, etc., but practically the Taoists confine their T'ai I to T'ai-i Chên-jên, in which Perfect Man they personify the abstract philosophical notions. [20] Goddess of the North Star Tou Mu, the Bushel Mother, or Goddess of the North Star, worshipped by both Buddhists and Taoists, is the Indian Maritchi, and was made a stellar divinity by the Taoists. She is said to have been the mother of the nine Jên Huang or Human Sovereigns of fabulous antiquity, who succeeded the lines of Celestial and Terrestrial Sovereigns. She occupies in the Taoist religion the same relative position as Kuan Yin, who may be said to be the heart of Buddhism. Having attained to a profound knowledge of celestial mysteries, she shone with heavenly light, could cross the seas, and pass from the sun to the moon. She also had a kind heart for the sufferings of humanity. The King of Chou Yü, in the north, married her on hearing of her many virtues. They had nine sons. Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun came to earth to invite her, her husband, and nine sons to enjoy the delights of Heaven. He placed her in the palace Tou Shu, the Pivot of the Pole, because all the other stars revolve round it, and gave her the title of Queen of the Doctrine of Primitive Heaven. Her nine sons have their palaces in the neighbouring stars. Tou Mu wears the Buddhist crown, is seated on a lotus throne, has three eyes, eighteen arms, and holds various precious objects in her numerous hands, such as a bow, spear, sword, flag, dragon's head, pagoda, five chariots, sun's disk, moon's disk, etc. She has control of the books of life and death, and all who wish to prolong their days worship at her shrine. Her devotees abstain from animal food on the third and twenty-seventh day of every month. Of her sons, two are the Northern and Southern Bushels; the latter, dressed in red, rules birth; the former, in white, rules death. "A young Esau once found them on the South Mountain, under a tree, playing chess, and by an offer of venison his lease of life was extended from nineteen to ninety-nine years." Snorter and Blower At the time of the overthrow of the Shang and establishment of the Chou dynasty in 1122 B.C. there lived two marshals, Chêng Lung and Ch'ên Ch'i. These were Hêng and Ha, the Snorter and Blower respectively. The former was the chief superintendent of supplies for the armies of the tyrant emperor Chou, the Nero of China. The latter was in charge of the victualling department of the same army. From his master, Tu O, the celebrated Taoist magician of the K'un-lun Mountains, Hêng acquired a marvellous power. When he snorted, his nostrils, with a sound like that of a bell, emitted two white columns of light, which destroyed his enemies, body and soul. Thus through him the Chou gained numerous victories. But one day he was captured, bound, and taken to the general of Chou. His life was spared, and he was made general superintendent of army stores as well as generalissimo of five army corps. Later on he found himself face to face with the Blower. The latter had learnt from the magician how to store in his chest a supply of yellow gas which, when he blew it out, annihilated anyone whom it struck. By this means he caused large gaps to be made in the ranks of the enemy. Being opposed to each other, the one snorting out great streaks of white light, the other blowing streams of yellow gas, the combat continued until the Blower was wounded in the shoulder by No-cha, of the army of Chou, and pierced in the stomach with a spear by Huang Fei-hu, Yellow Flying Tiger. The Snorter in turn was slain in this fight by Marshal Chin Ta-shêng, 'Golden Big Pint,' who was an ox-spirit and endowed with the mysterious power of producing in his entrails the celebrated _niu huang_, ox-yellow, or bezoar. Facing the Snorter, he spat in his face, with a noise like thunder, a piece of bezoar as large as a rice-bowl. It struck him on the nose and split his nostrils. He fell to the earth, and was immediately cut in two by a blow from his victor's sword. After the Chou dynasty had been definitely established Chiang Tzu-ya canonized the two marshals Hêng and Ha, and conferred on them the offices of guardians of the Buddhist temple gates, where their gigantic images may be seen. Blue Dragon and White Tiger The functions discharged by Hêng and Ha at the gates of Buddhist temples are in Taoist temples discharged by Blue Dragon and White Tiger. The former, the Spirit of the Blue Dragon Star, was Têng Chiu-kung, one of the chief generals of the last emperor of the Yin dynasty. He had a son named Têng Hsiu, and a daughter named Ch'an-yü. The army of Têng Chiu-kung was camped at San-shan Kuan, when he received orders to proceed to the battle then taking place at Hsi Ch'i. There, in standing up to No-cha and Huang Fei-hu, he had his left arm broken by the former's magic bracelet, but, fortunately for him, his subordinate, T'u Hsing-sun, a renowned magician, gave him a remedy which quickly healed the fracture. His daughter then came on the scene to avenge her father. She had a magic weapon, the Five-fire Stone, which she hurled full in the face of Yang Chien. But the Immortal was not wounded; on the other hand, his celestial dog jumped at Ch'an-yü and bit her neck, so that she was obliged to flee. T'u Hsing-sun, however, healed the wound. After a banquet, Têng Chiu-kung promised his daughter in marriage to T'u Hsing-sun if he would gain him the victory at Hsi Ch'i. Chiang Tzu-ya then persuaded T'u's magic master, Chü Liu-sun, to call his disciple over to his camp, where he asked him why he was fighting against the new dynasty. "Because," he replied, "Chiu-kung has promised me his daughter in marriage as a reward of success." Chiang Tzu-ya thereupon promised to obtain the bride, and sent a force to seize her. As a result of the fighting that ensued, Chiu-kung was beaten, and retreated in confusion, leaving Ch'an-yü in the hands of the victors. During the next few days the marriage was celebrated with great ceremony in the victor's camp. According to custom, the bride returned for some days to her father's house, and while there she earnestly exhorted Chiu-kung to submit. Following her advice, he went over to Chiang Tzu-ya's party. In the ensuing battles he fought valiantly on the side of his former enemy, and killed many famous warriors, but he was eventually attacked by the Blower, from whose mouth a column of yellow gas struck him, throwing him from his steed. He was made prisoner, and executed by order of General Ch'iu Yin. Chiang Tzu-ya conferred on him the kingdom of the Blue Dragon Star. The Spirit of the White Tiger Star is Yin Ch'êng-hsiu. His father, Yin P'o-pai, a high courtier of the tyrant Chou Wang, was sent to negotiate peace with Chiang Tzu-ya, but was seized and put to death by Marquis Chiang Wên-huan. His son, attempting to avenge his father's murder, was pierced by a spear, and his head was cut off and carried in triumph to Chiang Tzu-ya. As compensation he was, though somewhat tardily, canonized as the Spirit of the White Tiger Star. Apotheosized Philosophers The philosophers Lieh Tzu, Huai-nan Tzu, Chuang Tzu, Mo Tzu, etc., have also been apotheosized. Nothing very remarkable is related of them. Most of them had several reincarnations and possessed supernatural powers. The second, who was a king, when taken by the Eight Immortals to the genii's Heaven forgot now and then to address them as superiors, and but for their intercession with Yü Ti, the Pearly Emperor, would have been reincarnated. In order to humiliate himself, he thereafter called himself Huai-nan Tzu, 'the Sage of the South of the Huai.' The third, Chuang Tzu, Chuang Shêng, or Chuang Chou, was a disciple of Lao Tzu. Chuang Tzu was in the habit of sleeping during the day, and at night would transform himself into a butterfly, which fluttered gaily over the flowers in the garden. On waking, he would still feel the sensation of flying in his shoulders. On asking Lao Tzu the reason for this, he was told: "Formerly you were a white butterfly which, having partaken of the quintessence of flowers and of the _yin_ and the _yang_, should have been immortalized; but one day you stole some peaches and flowers in Wang Mu Niang-niang's garden. The guardian of the garden slew you, and that is how you came to be reincarnated." At this time he was fifty years of age. Fanning the Grave One of the tales associated with him describes how he saw a young woman in mourning vigorously fanning a newly made grave. On his asking her the reason of this strange conduct, she replied: "I am doing this because my husband begged me to wait until the earth on his tomb was dry before I remarried!" Chuang Tzu offered to help her, and as soon as he waved the fan once the earth was dry. The young widow thanked him and departed. On his return home, Chuang Shêng related this incident to his wife. She expressed astonishment at such conduct on the part of a wife. "There's nothing to be surprised at," rejoined the husband; "that's how things go in this world." Seeing that he was poking fun at her, she protested angrily. Some little time after this Chuang Shêng died. His wife, much grieved, buried him. Husband and Wife A few days later a young man named Ch'u Wang-sun arrived with the intention, as he said, of placing himself under the instruction of Chuang Shêng. When he heard that he was dead he went and performed prostrations before his tomb, and afterward took up his abode in an empty room, saying that he wished to study. After half a month had elapsed, the widow asked an old servant who had accompanied Wang-sun if the young man was married. On his replying in the negative, she requested the old servant to propose a match between them. Wang-sun made some objections, saying that people would criticize their conduct. "Since my husband is dead, what can they say?" replied the widow. She then put off her mourning-garments and prepared for the wedding. Wang-sun took her to the grave of her husband, and said to her: "The gentleman has returned to life!" She looked at Wang-sun and recognized the features of her husband. She was so overwhelmed with shame that she hanged herself. Chuang Shêng buried her in an empty tomb, and then began to sing. He burnt his house, went away to P'u-shui, in Hupei, and occupied himself in fishing. From there he went on to Chung-t'iao Shan, where he met Fêng Hou and her teacher Hsüan Nü, the Mother of Heaven. In their company he visited the palaces of the stars. One day, when he was attending a banquet at the palace of Wang-mu, Shang Ti gave him as his kingdom the planet Jupiter, and assigned to him as his palace the ancient abode of Mao Mêng, the stellar god reincarnated during the Chou dynasty. He had not yet returned, and had left his palace empty. Shang Ti had cautioned him never to absent himself without his permission. Canonized Generalissimos A large number of military men also have been canonized as celestial generalissimos. A few will serve as examples of the rest. The Three Musical Brothers There were three brothers: T'ien Yüan-shuai, the eldest; T'ien Hung-i, the second; and T'ien Chih-piao, the youngest. They were all musicians of unsurpassed talent. In the K'ai-yüan Period (A.D. 713-42) the Emperor Hsüan Tsung, of the T'ang dynasty, appointed them his music masters. At the sound of their wonderful flute the clouds in the sky stopped in their courses; the harmony of their songs caused the odoriferous _la mei_ flower to open in winter. They excelled also in songs and dances. The Emperor fell sick. He saw in a dream the three brothers accompanying their singing on a mandolin and violin. The harmony of their songs charmed his ear, and on waking he found himself well again. Out of gratitude for this benefit he conferred on each the title of marquis. The Grand Master of the Taoists was trying to stay the ravages of a pestilence, but he could not conquer the devils which caused it. Under these circumstances he appealed to the three brothers and asked their advice as to what course to adopt. T'ien Yüan-shuai had a large boat built, called 'Spirit-boat.' He assembled in it a million spirits, and ordered them to beat drums. On hearing this tumult all the demons of the town came out to listen. T'ien Yüan-shuai, seizing the opportunity, captured them all and, with the help of the Grand Master, expelled them from the town. Besides the canonization of the three T'ien brothers, all the members of their families received posthumous titles. The Dragon-boat Festival This is said to be the origin of the dragon-boats which are to be seen on all the waterways of China on the fifth day of the fifth moon. [21] The Festival of the Dragon-boats, held on that day, was instituted in memory of the statesman-poet Ch'ü Yüan (332-296 B.C.), who drowned himself in the Mi-lo River, an affluent of the Tung-t'ing Lake, after having been falsely accused by one of the petty princes of the State. The people, out of pity for the unfortunate courtier, sent out these boats in search of his body. Chiang Tzu-ya In the wars which resulted in the overthrow of the tyrant Chou Wang and his dynasty and the establishment of the great Chou dynasty, the most influential generalissimo was Chiang Tzu-ya. His family name was Chiang, and his own name Shang, but owing to his descent from one of the ministers of the ancient King Yao, whose heirs owned the fief of Lü, the family came to be called by that name, and he himself was known as Lü Shang. His honorific title was T'ai Kung Wang, 'Hope of T'ai Kung,' given him by Wên Wang, who recognized in the person of Chiang Tzu-ya the wise minister whom his father T'ai Kung had caused him to expect before his death. The Battle of Mu Yeh Chiang Tzu-ya was originally in the service of the tyrant Chou Wang, but transferred his services to the Chou cause, and by his wonderful skill enabled that house finally to gain the victory. The decisive battle took place at Mu Yeh, situated to the south of Wei-hui Fu, in 1122 B.C. The soldiers of Yin, 700,000 in number, were defeated, and Chou, the tyrant, shut himself up in his magnificent palace, set it alight, and was burned alive with all his possessions. For this achievement Chiang Tzu-ya was granted by Wu Wang the title of Father and Counsellor, and was appointed Prince of Ch'i, with perpetual succession to his descendants. A Legend of Chiang Tzu-ya The _Feng shên yen i_ contains many chapters describing in detail the various battles which resulted in the overthrow of the last tyrant of the Shang dynasty and the establishment of the illustrious Chou dynasty on the throne of China. This legend and the following one are epitomized from that work. No-cha defeats Chang Kuei-fang The redoubtable No-cha having, by means of his Heaven-and-earth Bracelet, vanquished Fêng Lin, a star-god and subordinate officer of Chang Kuei-fang, in spite of the black smoke-clouds which he blew out of his nostrils, the defeated warrior fled and sought the aid of his chief, who fought No-cha in some thirty to forty encounters without succeeding in dislodging him from his Wind-fire Wheel, which enabled him to move about rapidly and to perform prodigious feats, such as causing hosts of silver flying dragons like clouds of snow to descend upon his enemy. During one of these fights No-cha heard his name called three times, but paid no heed. Finally, with his Heaven-and-earth Bracelet he broke Chang Kuei-fang's left arm, following this up by shooting out some dazzling rays of light which knocked him off his horse. When he returned to the city to report his victory to Tzu-ya, the latter asked him if during the battle Kuei-fang had called his name. "Yes," replied No-cha, "he called, but I took no heed of him." "When Kuei-fang calls," said Tzu-ya, "the _hun_ and the _p'o_ [_anima_ and _umbra_] become separated, and so the body falls apart." "But," replied No-cha, "I had changed myself into a lotus-flower, which has neither _hun_ nor _p'o_, so he could not succeed in getting me off my magic wheel." Tzu-ya goes to K'un-lun Tzu-ya, however, still uncertain in mind about the finality of No-cha's victories, went to consult Wu Wang (whose death had not yet taken place at this time). After the interview Tzu-ya informed Wu Wang of his wish to visit K'un-lun Mountain. Wu Wang warned him of the danger of leaving the kingdom with the enemy so near the capital; but Tzu-ya obtained his consent by saying he would be absent only three days at most. So he gave instructions regarding the defence to No-cha, and went off in his spirit chariot to K'un-lun. On his arrival at the Unicorn Precipice he was much enraptured with the beautiful scenery, the colours, flowers, trees, bridges, birds, deer, apes, blue lions, white elephants, etc., all of which seemed to make earth surpass Heaven in loveliness. He receives the List of Immortals From the Unicorn Precipice he went on to the Jade Palace of Abstraction. Here he was presented to Yüan-shih. From him he received the List of Promotions to Immortals, which Nan-chi Hsien-wêng, 'Ancient Immortal of the South Pole,' had brought, and was told to go and erect a Fêng Shên T'ai (Spirits' Promotion Terrace) on which to exhibit it. Yüan-shih also warned him that if anyone called him while he was on the way he was to be most careful not to answer. On reaching the Unicorn Precipice on his way back, he heard some one call: "Chiang Tzu-ya!" This happened three times without his paying any heed. Then the voice was heard to say: "Now that you are Prime Minister, how devoid of feeling and forgetful of bygone benefits you must be not to remember one who studied with you in the Jade Palace of Abstraction!" Tzu-ya could not but turn his head and look. He then saw that it was Shên Kung-pao. He said: "Brother, I did not know it was you who were calling me, and I did not heed you as Shih-tsun told me on no account to reply." Shên Kung-pao said: "What is that you hold in your hand?" He told him it was the List of Promotions to Immortals. Shên Kung-pao then tried to entice Tzu-ya from his allegiance to Chou. Among Shên's tactics was that of convincing Tzu-ya of the superiority of the magical arts at the disposal of the supporters of Chou Wang. "You," he said, "can drain the sea, change the hills, and suchlike things, but what are those compared with my powers, who can take off my head, make it mount into space, travel 10,000,000 _li_, and return to my neck just as complete as before and able to speak? Burn your List of Promotions to Immortals and come with me." Tzu-ya, thinking that a head which could travel 10,000,000 _li_ and be the same as before was exceedingly rare, said: "Brother, you take your head off, and if in reality it can do as you say, rise into space and return and be as before, I shall be willing to burn the List of Promotions to Immortals and return with you to Chao Ko." Shên Kung-pao said: "You will not go back on your word?" Tzu-ya said: "When your elder brother has spoken his word is as unchangeable as Mount T'ai, How can there be any going back on my word?" The Soaring Head Shên Kung-pao then doffed his Taoist cap, seized his sword, with his left hand firmly grasped the blue thread binding his hair, and with his right cut off his head. His body did not fall down. He then took his head and threw it up into space. Tzu-ya gazed with upturned face as it continued to rise, and was sorely puzzled. But the Ancient Immortal of the South Pole had kept a watch on the proceedings. He said: "Tzu-ya is a loyal and honest man; it looks as if he has been deceived by this charlatan." He ordered White Crane Youth to assume quickly the form of a crane and fetch Shên Kung-pao's head. The Ancient Immortal saves the Situation Tzu-ya was still gazing upward when he felt a slap on his back and, turning round, saw that it was the Ancient Immortal of the South Pole. Tzu-ya quickly asked: "My elder brother, why have you returned?" Hsien-wêng said: "You are a fool. Shên Kung-pao is a man of unholy practices. These few small tricks of his you take as realities. But if the head does not return to the neck within an hour and three-quarters the blood will coagulate and he will die. Shih-tsun ordered you not to reply to anyone; why did you not hearken to his words? From the Jade Palace of Abstraction I saw you speaking together, and knew you had promised to burn the List of Promotions to Immortals. So I ordered White Crane Youth to bring me the head. After an hour and three-quarters Shên Kung-pao will be recompensed." Tzu-ya said: "My elder brother, since you know all you can pardon him. In the Taoist heart there is no place where mercy cannot be exercised. Remember the many years during which he has faithfully followed the Path." Eventually the Ancient Immortal was persuaded, but in the meantime Shên Kung-pao, finding that his head did not return, became very much troubled in mind. In an hour and three-quarters the blood would stop flowing and he would die. However, Tzu-ya having succeeded in his intercession with the Ancient Immortal, the latter signed to White Crane Youth, who was flying in space with the head in his beak, to let it drop. He did so, but when it reached the neck it was facing backward. Shên Kung-pao quickly put up his hand, took hold of an ear, and turned his head the right way round. He was then able to open his eyes, when he saw the Ancient Immortal of the South Pole. The latter arraigned him in a loud voice saying: "You as-good-as-dead charlatan, who by means of corrupt tricks try to deceive Tzu-ya and make him burn the List of Immortals and help Chou Wang against Chou, what do you mean by all this? You should be taken to the Jade Palace of Abstraction to be punished!" Shên Kung-pao, ashamed, could not reply; mounting his tiger, he made off; but as he left he hurled back a threat that the Chou would yet have their white bones piled mountains high at Hsi Ch'i. Subsequently Tzu-ya, carefully preserving the precious List, after many adventures succeeded in building the Fêng Shên T'ai, and posted the List up on it. Having accomplished his mission, he returned in time to resist the capture of Hsi Ch'i by Chang Kuei-fang, whose troops were defeated with great slaughter. Ch'iung Hsiao's Magic Scissors In another of the many conflicts between the two rival states Lao Tzu entered the battle, whereupon Ch'iung Hsiao, a goddess who fought for the house of Shang (Chou), hurled into the air her gold scaly-dragon scissors. As these slowly descended, opening and closing in a most ominous manner, Lao Tzu waved the sleeve of his jacket and they fell into the sea and became absolutely motionless. Many similar tricks were used by the various contestants. The Gold Bushel of Chaotic Origin succumbed to the Wind-fire Sphere, and so on. Ch'iung Hsiao resumed the attack with some magic two-edged swords, but was killed by a blow from White Crane Youth's Three-precious Jade Sceptre, hurled at her by Lao Tzu's orders. Pi Hsiao, her sister, attempted to avenge her death, but Yüan-shih, producing from his sleeve a magical box, threw it into the air and caught Pi Hsiao in it. When it was opened it was found that she had melted into blood and water. Chiang Tzu-ya defeats Wên Chung After this Lao Tzu rallied many of the skilful spirits to help Chiang Tzu-ya in his battle with Wên Chung, providing them with the Ancient Immortal of the South Pole's Sand-blaster and an earth-conquering light which enabled them to travel a thousand _li_ in a day. From the hot sand used the contest became known as the Red Sand Battle. Jan Têng, on P'êng-lai Mountain, in consultation with Tzu-ya, also arranged the plan of battle. The Red Sand Battle The fight began with a challenge from the Ancient Immortal of the South Pole to Chang Shao. The latter, riding his deer, dashed into the fray, and aimed a terrific blow with his sword at Hsien-wêng's head, but White Crane Youth warded it off with his Three-precious Jade Sceptre. Chang then produced a two-edged sword and renewed the attack, but, being disarmed, dismounted from his deer and threw several handfuls of hot sand at Hsien-wêng. The latter, however, easily fanned them away with his Five-fire Seven-feathers Fan, rendering them harmless. Chang then fetched a whole bushel of the hot sand and scattered it over the enemy, but Hsien-wêng counteracted the menace by merely waving his fan. White Crane Youth struck Chang Shao with his jade sceptre, knocking him off his horse, and then dispatched him with his two-edged sword. After this battle Wu Wang was found to be already dead. Jan Têng on learning this ordered Lei Chên-tzu to take the corpse to Mount P'êng and wash it. He then dissolved a pill in water and poured the solution into Wu Wang's mouth, whereupon he revived and was escorted back to his palace. Further Fighting Preparations were then made for resuming the attack on Wên Chung. While the latter was consulting with Ts'ai-yün Hsien-tzu and Han Chih-hsien, he heard the sound of the Chou guns and the thunder of their troops. Wên Chung, mounting his black unicorn, galloped like a whiff of smoke to meet Tzu-ya, but was stopped by blows from two silver hammers wielded by Huang T'ien-hua. Han Chih-hsien came to Wên's aid, but was opposed by Pi Hsiang-yang. Ts'ai-yün Hsien-tzu dashed into the fray, but No-cha stepped on to his Wind-fire Wheel and opposed him. From all sides other Immortals joined in the terrific battle, which was a turmoil of longbows and crossbows, iron armour and brass mail, striking whips and falling hammers, weapons cleaving mail and mail resisting weapons. In this fierce contest, while Tzu-ya was fighting Wên Chung, Han Chih-hsien released a black wind from his magic wind-bag, but he did not know that the Taoist Barge of Mercy (which transports departed souls to the land of bliss), sent by Kuan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy, had on board the Stop-wind Pearl, by which the black storm was immediately quelled. Thereupon Tzu-ya quickly seized his Vanquish-spirits Whip and struck Han Chih-hsien in the middle of the skull, so that the brain-fluid gushed forth and he died. No-cha then slew Ts'ai-yün Hsien-tzu with a spear-thrust. Thus the stern fight went on, until finally Tzu-ya, under cover of night, attacked Wên Chung's troops simultaneously on all four sides. The noise of slaughter filled the air. Generals and rank and file, lanterns, torches, swords, spears, guns, and daggers were one confused _mêlée_; Heaven could scarcely be distinguished from earth, and corpses were piled mountains high. Tzu-ya, having broken through seven lines of the enemy's ranks, forced his way into Wên Chung's camp. The latter mounted his unicorn, and brandishing his magic whip dashed to meet him. Tzu-ya drew his sword and stopped his onrush, being aided by Lung Hsü-hu, who repeatedly cast a rain of hot stones on to the troops. In the midst of the fight Tzu-ya brought out his great magic whip, and in spite of Wên Chung's efforts to avoid it succeeded in wounding him in the left arm. The Chou troops were fighting like dragons lashing their tails and pythons curling their bodies. To add to their disasters, the Chou now saw flames rising behind the camp, and knew that their provisions were being burned by Yang Chien. The Chou armies, with gongs beating and drums rolling, advanced for a final effort, the slaughter being so great that even the devils wept and the spirits wailed. Wên Chung was eventually driven back seventy _li_ to Ch'i Hill. His troops could do nothing but sigh and stumble along. He made for Peach-blossom Range, but as he approached it he saw a yellow banner hoisted, and under it was Kuang Ch'êng-tzu. Being prevented from escaping in that direction he joined battle, but by use of red-hot sand, his two-edged sword, and his Turn-heaven Seal Kuang Ch'êng-tzu put him to flight. He then made off toward the west, followed by Têng Chung. His design was to make for Swallow Hill, which he reached after several days of weary marching. Here he saw another yellow banner flying, and Ch'ih Ching-tzu informed him that Jan Têng had forbidden him to stop at Swallow Hill or to go through the Five Passes. This led to another pitched battle, Wên Chung using his magic whip and Ch'ih his spiritual two-edged sword. After several bouts Ch'ih brought out his _yin-yang_ mirror, by use of which irresistible weapon Wên was driven to Yellow Flower Hill and Blue Dragon Pass, and so on from battle to battle, until he was drawn up to Heaven from the top of Dead-dragon Mountain. Thousand-li Eye and Favourable-wind Ear Ch'ien-li Yen, 'Thousand-_li_ Eye,' and Shun-fêng Êrh, 'Favourable-wind Ear,' were two brothers named Kao Ming and Kao Chio. On account of their martial bearing they found favour with the tyrant emperor Chou Wang, who appointed them generals, and sent them to serve with Generalissimo Yüan Hung (who was a monkey which had taken human form) at Mêng-ching. Kao Ming was very tall, with a blue face, flaming eyes, a large mouth, and prominent teeth like those of a rhinoceros. Kao Chio had a greenish face and skin, two horns on his head, a red beard, and a large mouth with teeth shaped like swords. One of their first encounters was with No-cha, who hurled at them his mystic bracelet, which struck Kao Chio on the head, but did not leave even a scratch. When, however, he seized his fire-globe the brothers thought it wiser to retreat. Finding no means of conquering them, Yang Chien, Chiang Tzu-ya, and Li Ching took counsel together and decided to have recourse to Fu Hsi's trigrams, and by smearing them with the blood of a fowl and a dog to destroy their spiritual power. But the two brothers were fully informed of what was designed. Thousand-_li_ Eye had seen and Favourable-wind Ear had heard everything, so that all their preparations proved unavailing. Yang Chien then went to Chiang Tzu-ya and said to him: "These two brothers are powerful devils; I must take more effectual measures." "Where will you go for aid?" asked Chiang Tzu-ya. "I cannot tell you, for they would hear," replied Yang. He then left. Favourable-wind Ear heard this dialogue, and Thousand-_li_ Eye saw him leave. "He did not say where he was going," they said to each other, "but we fear him not." Yang Chien went to Yü-ch'üan Shan, where lived Yü-ting Chên-jên, 'Hero Jade-tripod.' He told him about their two adversaries, and asked him how they were to conquer them. "These two genii," replied the Chên-jên, "are from Ch'i-p'an Shan, Chessboard Mountain. One is a spiritual peach-tree, the other a spiritual pomegranate-tree. Their roots cover an area of thirty square _li_ of ground. On that mountain there is a temple dedicated to Huang-ti, in which are clay images of two devils called Ch'ien-li Yen and Shun-fêng Êrh. The peach-tree and pomegranate-tree, having become spiritual beings, have taken up their abode in these images. One has eyes which can see objects distinctly at a distance of a thousand _li_, the other ears that can hear sounds at a like distance. But beyond that distance they can neither see nor hear. Return and tell Chiang Tzu-ya to have the roots of those trees torn up and burned, and the images destroyed; then the two genii will be easily vanquished. In order that they may neither see nor hear you during your conversation with Chiang Tzu-ya, wave flags about the camp and order the soldiers to beat tom-toms and drums." How the Brothers were Defeated Yang Chien returned to Chiang Tzu-ya. "What have you been doing?" asked the latter. Before replying Yang Chien went to the camp and ordered soldiers to wave large red flags and a thousand others to beat the tom-toms and drums. The air was so filled with the flags and the noise that nothing else could be either seen or heard. Under cover of this device Yang Chien then communicated to Chiang Tzu-ya the course advised by the Chên-jên. Accordingly Li Ching at the head of three thousand soldiers proceeded to Ch'i-p'an Shan, pulled up and burned the roots of the two trees, and broke the images to pieces. At the same time Lei Chên-tzu was ordered to attack the two genii. Thousand-_li_ Eye and Favourable-wind Ear could neither see nor hear: the flags effectually screened the horizon and the infernal noise of the drums and gongs deadened all other sound. They did not know how to stop them. The following night Yüan Hung decided to take the camp of Chiang Tzu-ya by assault, and sent the brothers in advance. They were, however, themselves surprised by Wu Wang's officers, who surrounded them. Chiang Tzu-ya then threw into the air his 'devil-chaser' whip, which fell on the two scouts and cleft their skulls in twain. Celestial Ministries The dualistic idea, already referred to, of the Otherworld being a replica of this one is nowhere more clearly illustrated than in the celestial Ministries or official Bureaux or Boards, with their chiefs and staffs functioning over the spiritual hierarchies. The Nine Ministries up aloft doubtless had their origin in imitation of the Six, Eight, or Nine Ministries or Boards which at various periods of history have formed the executive part of the official hierarchy in China. But their names are different and their functions do not coincide. Generally, the functions of the officers of the celestial Boards are to protect mankind from the evils represented in the title of the Board, as, for example, thunder, smallpox, fire, etc. In all cases the duties seem to be remedial. As the God of War was, as we saw, the god who protects people from the evils of war, so the vast hierarchy of these various divinities is conceived as functioning for the good of mankind. Being too numerous for inclusion here, an account of them is given under various headings in some of the following chapters. Protectors of the People Besides the gods who hold definite official posts in these various Ministries, there are a very large number who are also protecting patrons of the people; and, though _ex officio_, in many cases quite as popular and powerful, if not more so. Among the most important are the following: Shê-chi, Gods of the Soil and Crops; Shên Nung, God of Agriculture; Hou-t'u, Earth-mother; Ch'êng-huang, City-god; T'u-ti, Local Gods; Tsao Chün, Kitchen-god; T'ien-hou and An-kung, Goddess and God of Sailors; Ts'an Nü, Goddess of Silkworms; Pa-ch'a, God of Grasshoppers; Fu Shên, Ts'ai Shên, and Shou Hsing, Gods of Happiness, Wealth, and Longevity; Mên Shên, Door-gods; and Shê-mo Wang, etc., the Gods of Serpents. The Ch'êng-huang Ch'êng-huang is the Celestial Mandarin or City-god. Every fortified city or town in China is surrounded by a wall, _ch'êng_, composed usually of two battlemented walls, the space between which is filled with earth. This earth is dug from the ground outside, making a ditch, or _huang_, running parallel with the _ch'êng_. The Ch'êng-huang is the spiritual official of the city or town. All the numerous Ch'êng-huang constitute a celestial Ministry of Justice, presided over by a Ch'êng-huang-in-chief. The origin of the worship of the Ch'êng-huang dates back to the time of the great Emperor Yao (2357 B.C.), who instituted a sacrifice called Pa Cha in honour of eight spirits, of whom the seventh, Shui Yung, had the meaning of, or corresponded to, the dyke and rampart known later as Ch'êng-huang. Since the Sung dynasty sacrifices have been offered to the Ch'êng-huang all over the country, though now and then some towns have adopted another or special god as their Ch'êng-huang, such as Chou Hsin, adopted as the Ch'êng-huang of Hangchou, the capital of Chekiang Province. Concerning Chou Hsin, who had a "face of ice and iron," and was so much dreaded for his severity that old and young fled at his approach, it is related that once when he was trying a case a storm blew some leaves on to his table. In spite of diligent search the tree to which this kind of leaf belonged could not be found anywhere in the neighbourhood, but was eventually discovered in a Buddhist temple a long way off. The judge declared that the priests of this temple must be guilty of murder. By his order the tree was felled, and in its trunk was found the body of a woman who had been assassinated, and the priests were convicted of the murder. The Kitchen-god Tsao Chün is a Taoist invention, but is universally worshipped by all families in China--about sixty millions of pictures of him are regularly worshipped twice a month--at new and full moon. "His temple is a little niche in the brick cooking-range; his palace is often filled with smoke; and his Majesty sells for one farthing." He is also called 'the God of the Stove.' The origin of his worship, according to the legend, is that a Taoist priest, Li Shao-chün by name, of the Ch'i State, obtained from the Kitchen-god the double favour of exemption from growing old and of being able to live without eating. He then went to the Emperor Hsiao Wu-ti (140-86 B.C.) of the Han dynasty, and promised that credulous monarch that he should benefit by the powers of the god provided that he would consent to patronize and encourage his religion. It was by this means, he added, that the Emperor Huang Ti obtained his knowledge of alchemy, which enabled him to make gold. The Emperor asked the priest to bring him his divine patron, and one night the image of Tsao Chün appeared to him. Deceived by this trick, dazzled by the ingots of gold which he too should obtain, and determined to risk everything for the pill of immortality which was among the benefits promised, the Emperor made a solemn sacrifice to the God of the Kitchen. This was the first time that a sacrifice had been officially offered to this new deity. Li Shao-chün gradually lost the confidence of the Emperor and, at his wits' end, conceived the plan of writing some phrases on a piece of silk and then causing them to be swallowed by an ox. This done, he announced that a wonderful script would be found in the animal's stomach. The ox being killed, the script was found there as predicted, but Li's unlucky star decreed that the Emperor should recognize his handwriting, and he was forthwith put to death. Nevertheless, the worship of the Kitchen-god continued and increased, and exists in full vigour down to the present day. This deity has power over the lives of the members of each family under his supervision, distributes riches and poverty at will, and makes an annual report to the Supreme Being on the conduct of the family during the year, for which purpose he is usually absent for from four to seven days. Some hold that he also makes these reports once or twice or several times each month. Various ceremonies are performed on seeing him off to Heaven and welcoming him back. One of the former, as we saw, is to regale him with honey, so that only sweet words, if any, may be spoken by him while up aloft! Ts'an Nü In the kingdom of Shu (modern Ssuch'uan), in the time of Kao Hsing Ti, a band of robbers kidnapped the father of Ts'an Nü. A whole year elapsed, and the father's horse still remained in the stable as he had left it. The thought of not seeing her father again caused Ts'an Nü such grief that she would take no nourishment. Her mother did what she could to console her, and further promised her in marriage to anyone who would bring back her father. But no one was found who could do this. Hearing the offer, the horse stamped with impatience, and struggled so much that at length he broke the halter by which he was tied up. He then galloped away and disappeared. Several days later, his owner returned riding the horse. From that time the horse neighed incessantly, and refused all food. This caused the mother to make known to her husband the promise she had made concerning her daughter. "An oath made to men," he replied, "does not hold good for a horse. Is a human being meant to live in marital relations with a horse?" Nevertheless, however good and abundant food they offered him, the horse would not eat. When he saw the young lady he plunged and kicked furiously. Losing his temper, the father discharged an arrow and killed him on the spot; then he skinned him and spread the skin on the ground outside the house to dry. As the young lady was passing the spot the skin suddenly moved, rose up, enveloped her, and disappeared into space. Ten days later it was found at the foot of a mulberry-tree; Ts'an Nü changed into a silkworm, was eating the mulberry-leaves, and spinning for herself a silken garment. The parents of course were in despair. But one day, while they were overwhelmed with sad thoughts, they saw on a cloud Ts'an Nü riding the horse and attended by several dozens of servants. She descended toward her parents, and said to them: "The Supreme Being, as a reward for my martyrdom in the cause of filial piety and my love of virtue, has conferred on me the dignity of Concubine of the Nine Palaces. Be reassured as to my fate, for in Heaven I shall live for ever." Having said this she disappeared into space. In the temples her image is to be seen covered with a horse's skin. She is called Ma-t'ou Niang, 'the Lady with the Horse's Head,' and is prayed to for the prosperity of mulberry-trees and silkworms. The worship continues even in modern times. The goddess is also represented as a stellar divinity, the star T'ien Ssu; as the first man who reared silkworms, in this character bearing the same name as the God of Agriculture, Pasture, and Fire; and as the wife of the Emperor Huang Ti. The God of Happiness The God of Happiness, Fu Shên, owes his origin to the predilection of the Emperor Wu Ti (A.D. 502-50) of the Liang dynasty for dwarfs as servants and comedians in his palace. The number levied from the Tao Chou district in Hunan became greater and greater, until it seriously prejudiced the ties of family relations. When Yang Ch'êng, _alias_ Yang Hsi-chi, was Criminal Judge of Tao Chou he represented to the Emperor that, according to law, the dwarfs were his subjects but not his slaves. Being touched by this remark, the Emperor ordered the levy to be stopped. Overjoyed at their liberation from this hardship, the people of that district set up images of Yang and offered sacrifices to him. Everywhere he was venerated as the Spirit of Happiness. It was in this simple way that there came into being a god whose portraits and images abound everywhere throughout the country, and who is worshipped almost as universally as the God of Riches himself. Another person who attained to the dignity of God of Happiness (known as Tsêng-fu Hsiang-kung, 'the Young Gentleman who Increases Happiness') was Li Kuei-tsu, the minister of Emperor Wên Ti of the Wei dynasty, the son of the famous Ts'ao Ts'ao, but in modern times the honour seems to have passed to Kuo Tzu-i. He was the saviour of the T'ang dynasty from the depredations of the Turfans in the reign of the Emperor Hsüan Tsung. He lived A.D. 697-781, was a native of Hua Chou, in Shensi, and one of the most illustrious of Chinese generals. He is very often represented in pictures clothed in blue official robes, leading his small son Kuo Ai to Court. The God of Wealth As with many other Chinese gods, the proto-being of the God of Wealth, Ts'ai Shên, has been ascribed to several persons. The original and best known until later times was Chao Kung-ming. The accounts of him differ also, but the following is the most popular. When Chiang Tzu-ya was fighting for Wu Wang of the Chou dynasty against the last of the Shang emperors, Chao Kung-ming, then a hermit on Mount Ô-mei, took the part of the latter. He performed many wonderful feats. He could ride a black tiger and hurl pearls which burst like bombshells. But he was eventually overcome by the form of witchcraft known in Wales as _Ciurp Creadh_. Chiang Tzu-ya made a straw image of him, wrote his name on it, burned incense and worshipped before it for twenty days, and on the twenty-first shot arrows made of peach-wood into its eyes and heart. At that same moment Kung-ming, then in the enemy's camp, felt ill and fainted, and uttering a cry gave up the ghost. Later on Chiang Tzu-ya persuaded Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun to release from the Otherworld the spirits of the heroes who had died in battle, and when Chao Kung-ming was led into his presence he praised his bravery, deplored the circumstances of his death, and canonized him as President of the Ministry of Riches and Prosperity. The God of Riches is universally worshipped in China; images and portraits of him are to be seen everywhere. Talismans, trees of which the branches are strings of cash, and the fruits ingots of gold, to be obtained merely by shaking them down, a magic inexhaustible casket full of gold and silver--these and other spiritual sources of wealth are associated with this much-adored deity. He himself is represented in the guise of a visitor accompanied by a crowd of attendants laden with all the treasures that the hearts of men, women, and children could desire. The God of Longevity The God of Longevity, Shou Hsing, was first a stellar deity, later on represented in human form. It was a constellation formed of the two star-groups Chio and K'ang, the first two on the list of twenty-eight constellations. Hence, say the Chinese writers, because of this precedence, it was called the Star of Longevity. When it appears the nation enjoys peace, when it disappears there will be war. Ch'in Shih Huang-ti, the First Emperor, was the first to offer sacrifices to this star, the Old Man of the South Pole, at Shê Po, in 246 B.C. Since then the worship has been continued pretty regularly until modern times. But desire for something more concrete, or at least more personal, than a star led to the god's being represented as an old man. Connected with this is a long legend which turns on the point that after the father of Chao Yen had been told by the celebrated physiognomist Kuan Lo that his son would not live beyond the age of nineteen, the transposition from _shih-chiu_, nineteen, to _chiu-shih_, ninety, was made by one of two gamblers, who turned out to be the Spirit of the North Pole, who fixes the time of decease, as the Spirit of the South Pole does that of birth. The deity is a domestic god, of happy mien, with a very high forehead, usually spoken of as Shou Hsing Lao T'ou Tzu, 'Longevity Star Old-pate,' and is represented as riding a stag, with a flying bat above his head. He holds in his hand a large peach, and attached to his long staff are a gourd and a scroll. The stag and the bat both indicate _fu_, happiness. The peach, gourd, and scroll are symbols of longevity. The Door-gods An old legend relates that in the earliest times there grew on Mount Tu Shuo, in the Eastern Sea, a peach-tree of fabulous size whose branches covered an area of several thousand square _li_. The lowest branches, which inclined toward the north-east, formed the Door of the Devils (_kuei_), through which millions of them passed in and out. Two spirits, named Shên Shu (or Shu Yü) and Yü Lü, had been instructed to guard this passage. Those who had done wrong to mankind were immediately bound by them and given over to be devoured by tigers. When Huang Ti heard of this he had the portraits of the two spirits painted on peach-wood tablets and hung above the doors to keep off evil spirits. This led to the suspension of the small figures or plaques on the doors of the people generally. Gradually they were supplanted by paintings on paper pasted on the doors, showing the two spirits armed with bows, arrows, spears, etc., Shên Shu on the left, Yü Lü on the right. In later times, however, these Door-gods were supplanted in popular favour by two ministers of the Emperor T'ai Tsung of the T'ang dynasty, by name Ch'in Shu-pao and Hu Ching-tê. T'ai Tsung had fallen sick, and imagined that he heard demons rampaging in his bedroom. The ministers of State, on inquiring as to the nature of the malady, were informed by the physician that his Majesty's pulse was feverish, that he seemed nervous and saw visions, and that his life was in danger. The ministers were in great fear. The Empress summoned other physicians to a consultation, and after the sick Emperor had informed them that, though all was quiet during the daytime, he was sure he saw and heard demons during the night, Ch'in Shu-pao and Hu Ching-tê stated that they would sit up all night and watch outside his door. Accordingly they posted themselves, fully armed, outside the palace gate all night, and the Emperor slept in peace. Next day the Emperor thanked them heartily, and from that time his sickness diminished. The two ministers, however, continued their vigils until the Emperor informed them that he would no longer impose upon their readiness to sacrifice themselves. He ordered them to paint their portraits in full martial array and paste these on the palace doors to see if that would not have the same effect. For some nights all was peace; then the same commotion was heard at the back gates of the palace. The minister Wei Chêng offered to stand guard at the back gates in the same way that his colleagues had done at the front gates. The result was that in a few days the Emperor's health was entirely restored. Thus it is that Wei Chêng is often associated with the other two Door-gods, sometimes with them, sometimes in place of them. Pictures of these _mên shên_, elaborately coloured, and renewed at the New Year, are to be seen on almost every door in China. Chinese Polytheism That the names of the gods of China are legion will be readily conceded when it is said that, besides those already described, those still to be mentioned, and many others to whom space will not permit us to refer, there are also gods, goddesses, patrons, etc., of wind, rain, snow, frost, rivers, tides, caves, trees, flowers, theatres, horses, oxen, cows, sheep, goats, dogs, pigs, scorpions, locusts, gold, tea, salt, compass, archery, bridges, lamps, gems, wells, carpenters, masons, barbers, tailors, jugglers, nets, wine, bean-curd, jade, paper-clothing, eye, ear, nose, tongue, teeth, heart, liver, throat, hands, feet, skin, architecture, rain-clothes, monkeys, lice, Punch and Judy, fire-crackers, cruelty, revenge, manure, fornication, shadows, corners, gamblers, oculists, smallpox, liver complaint, stomach-ache, measles, luck, womb, midwives, hasteners of child-birth, brigands, butchers, furnishers, centipedes, frogs, stones, beds, candle-merchants, fishermen, millers, wig-merchants, incense-merchants, spectacle-makers, cobblers, harness-makers, seedsmen, innkeepers, basket-makers, chemists, painters, perfumers, jewellers, brush-makers, dyers, fortune-tellers, strolling singers, brothels, varnishers, combs, etc., etc. There is a god of the light of the eye as well as of the eye itself, of smallpox-marks as well as of smallpox, of 'benign' measles as well as of measles. After reading a full list of the gods of China, those who insist that the religion of China was or is a monotheism may be disposed to revise their belief. CHAPTER V Myths of the Stars Astrological Superstitions According to Chinese ideas, the sun, moon, and planets influence sublunary events, especially the life and death of human beings, and changes in their colour menace approaching calamities. Alterations in the appearance of the sun announce misfortunes to the State or its head, as revolts, famines, or the death of the emperor; when the moon waxes red, or turns pale, men should be in awe of the unlucky times thus fore-omened. The sun is symbolized by the figure of a raven in a circle, and the moon by a hare on its hind-legs pounding rice in a mortar, or by a three-legged toad. The last refers to the legend of Ch'ang Ô, detailed later. The moon is a special object of worship in autumn, and moon-cakes dedicated to it are sold at this season. All the stars are ranged into constellations, and an emperor is installed over them, who resides at the North Pole; five monarchs also live in the five stars in Leo, where is a palace called Wu Ti Tso, or 'Throne of the Five Emperors.' In this celestial government there are also an heir-apparent, empresses, sons and daughters, and tribunals, and the constellations receive the names of men, animals, and other terrestrial objects. The Great Bear, or Dipper, is worshipped as the residence of the Fates, where the duration of life and other events relating to mankind are measured and meted out. Fears are excited by unusual phenomena among the heavenly bodies. Both the sun and the moon are worshipped by the Government in appropriate temples on the east and west sides of Peking. Various Star-gods Some of the star-gods, such as the God of Literature, the Goddess of the North Star, the Gods of Happiness, Longevity, etc., are noticed in other parts of this work. The cycle-gods are also star-gods. There are sixty years in a cycle, and over each of these presides a special star-deity. The one worshipped is the one which gave light on the birthday of the worshipper, and therefore the latter burns candles before that particular image on each succeeding anniversary. These cycle-gods are represented by most grotesque images: "white, black, yellow, and red; ferocious gods with vindictive eyeballs popping out, and gentle faces as expressive as a lump of putty; some looking like men and some like women." In one temple one of the sixty was in the form of a hog, and another in that of a goose. "Here is an image with arms protruding out of his eye-sockets, and eyes in the palms of his hands, looking downward to see the secret things within the earth. See that rabbit, Minerva-like, jumping from the divine head; again a mud-rat emerges from his occipital hiding-place, and lo! a snake comes coiling from the brain of another god--so the long line serves as models for an artist who desires to study the fantastic." Shooting the Heavenly Dog In the family sleeping-apartments in Chinese houses hang pictures of Chang Hsien, a white-faced, long-bearded man with a little boy by his side, and in his hand a bow and arrow, with which he is shooting the Heavenly Dog. The dog is the Dog-star, and if the 'fate' of the family is under this star there will be no son, or the child will be short-lived. Chang Hsien is the patron of child-bearing women, and was worshipped under the Sung dynasty by women desirous of offspring. The introduction of this name into the Chinese pantheon is due to an incident in the history of Hua-jui Fu-jên, a name given to Lady Fei, concubine of Mêng Ch'ang, the last ruler of the Later Shu State, A.D. 935-964. When she was brought from Shu to grace the harem of the founder of the Sung dynasty, in A.D. 960, she is said to have preserved secretly the portrait of her former lord, the Prince of Shu, whose memory she passionately cherished. Jealously questioned by her new consort respecting her devotion to this picture, she declared it to be the representation of Chang Hsien, the divine being worshipped by women desirous of offspring. Opinions differ as to the origin of the worship. One account says that the Emperor Jên Tsung, of the Sung dynasty, saw in a dream a beautiful young man with white skin and black hair, carrying a bow in his hand. He said to the Emperor: "The star T'ien Kou, Heavenly Dog, in the heavens is hiding the sun and moon, and on earth devouring small children. It is only my presence which keeps him at bay." On waking, the Emperor at once ordered the young man's portrait to be painted and exhibited, and from that time childless families would write the name Chang Hsien on tablets and worship them. Another account describes Chang Hsien as the spirit of the star Chang. In the popular representations Chang Hsien is seen in the form of a distinguished personage drawing a bow. The spirit of the star Chang is supposed to preside over the kitchen of Heaven and to arrange the banquets given by the gods. The Sun-king The worship of the sun is part of the State religion, and the officials make their offerings to the sun-tablet. The moon also is worshipped. At the harvest moon, the full moon of the eighth month, the Chinese bow before the heavenly luminary, and each family burns incense as an offering. Thus "100,000 classes all receive the blessings of the icy-wheel in the Milky Way along the heavenly street, a mirror always bright." In Chinese illustrations we see the moon-palace of Ch'ang O, who stole the pill of immortality and flew to the moon, the fragrant tree which one of the genii tried to cut down, and a hare pestling medicine in a mortar. This refers to the following legend. The sun and the moon are both included by the Chinese among the stars, the spirit of the former being called T'ai-yang Ti-chün, 'the Sun-king,' or Jih-kung Ch'ih-chiang, 'Ch'ih-chiang of the Solar Palace,' that of the latter T'ai-yin Huang-chün, 'the Moon-queen,' or Yüeh-fu Ch'ang O, 'Ch'ang O of the Lunar Palace.' Ch'ih-chiang Tzu-yü lived in the reign of Hsien-yüan Huang-ti, who appointed him Director of Construction and Furnishing. When Hsien-yüan went on his visit to Ô-mei Shan, a mountain in Ssuch'uan, Ch'ih-chiang Tzu-yü obtained permission to accompany him. Their object was to be initiated into the doctrine of immortality. The Emperor was instructed in the secrets of the doctrine by T'ai-i Huang-jên, the spirit of this famous mountain, who, when he was about to take his departure, begged him to allow Ch'ih-chiang Tzu-yü to remain with him. The new hermit went out every day to gather the flowering plants which formed the only food of his master, T'ai-i Huang-jên, and he also took to eating these flowers, so that his body gradually became spiritualized. The Steep Summit One day T'ai-i Huang-jên sent him to cut some bamboos on the summit of Ô-mei Shan, distant more than three hundred _li_ from the place where they lived. When he reached the base of the summit, all of a sudden three giddy peaks confronted him, so dangerous that even the monkeys and other animals dared not attempt to scale them. But he took his courage in his hands, climbed the steep slope, and by sheer energy reached the summit. Having cut the bamboos, he tried to descend, but the rocks rose like a wall in sharp points all round him, and he could not find a foothold anywhere. Then, though laden with the bamboos, he threw himself into the air, and was borne on the wings of the wind. He came to earth safe and sound at the foot of the mountain, and ran with the bamboos to his master. On account of this feat he was considered advanced enough to be admitted to instruction in the doctrine. The Divine Archer The Emperor Yao, in the twelfth year of his reign (2346 B.C.), one day, while walking in the streets of Huai-yang, met a man carrying a bow and arrows, the bow being bound round with a piece of red stuff. This was Ch'ih-chiang Tzu-yü. He told the Emperor he was a skilful archer and could fly in the air on the wings of the wind. Yao, to test his skill, ordered him to shoot one of his arrows at a pine-tree on the top of a neighbouring mountain. Ch'ih shot an arrow which transfixed the tree, and then jumped on to a current of air to go and fetch the arrow back. Because of this the Emperor named him Shên I, 'the Divine Archer,' attached him to his suite, and appointed him Chief Mechanician of all Works in Wood. He continued to live only on flowers. Vanquishes the Wind-spirit At this time terrible calamities began to lay waste the land. Ten suns appeared in the sky, the heat of which burnt up all the crops; dreadful storms uprooted trees and overturned houses; floods overspread the country. Near the Tung-t'ing Lake a serpent, a thousand feet long, devoured human beings, and wild boars of enormous size did great damage in the eastern part of the kingdom. Yao ordered Shên I to go and slay the devils and monsters who were causing all this mischief, placing three hundred men at his service for that purpose. Shên I took up his post on Mount Ch'ing Ch'iu to study the cause of the devastating storms, and found that these tempests were released by Fei Lien, the Spirit of the Wind, who blew them out of a sack. As we shall see when considering the thunder myths, the ensuing conflict ended in Fei Lien suing for mercy and swearing friendship to his victor, whereupon the storms ceased. Dispels the Nine False Suns After this first victory Shên I led his troops to the banks of the Hsi Ho, West River, at Lin Shan. Here he discovered that on three neighbouring peaks nine extraordinary birds were blowing out fire and thus forming nine new suns in the sky. Shên I shot nine arrows in succession, pierced the birds, and immediately the nine false suns resolved themselves into red clouds and melted away. Shên I and his soldiers found the nine arrows stuck in nine red stones at the top of the mountain. Marries the Sister of the Water-spirit Shên I then led his soldiers to Kao-liang, where the river had risen and formed an immense torrent. He shot an arrow into the water, which thereupon withdrew to its source. In the flood he saw a man clothed in white, riding a white horse and accompanied by a dozen attendants. He quickly discharged an arrow, striking him in the left eye, and the horseman at once took to flight. He was accompanied by a young woman named Hêng O [22], the younger sister of Ho Po, the Spirit of the Waters. Shên I shot an arrow into her hair. She turned and thanked him for sparing her life, adding: "I will agree to be your wife." After these events had been duly reported to the Emperor Yao, the wedding took place. Slays Various Dangerous Creatures Three months later Yao ordered Shên I to go and kill the great Tung-t'ing serpent. An arrow in the left eye laid him out stark and dead. The wild boars also were all caught in traps and slain. As a reward for these achievements Yao canonized Shên I with the title of Marquis Pacifier of the Country. Builds a Palace for Chin Mu About this time T'ai-wu Fu-jên, the third daughter of Hsi Wang Mu, had entered a nunnery on Nan-min Shan, to the north of Lo-fou Shan, where her mother's palace was situated. She mounted a dragon to visit her mother, and all along the course left a streak of light in her wake. One day the Emperor Yao, from the top of Ch'ing-yün Shan, saw this track of light, and asked Shên I the cause of this unusual phenomenon. The latter mounted the current of luminous air, and letting it carry him whither it listed, found himself on Lo-fou Shan, in front of the door of the mountain, which was guarded by a great spiritual monster. On seeing Shên I this creature called together a large number of phoenixes and other birds of gigantic size and set them at Shên I. One arrow, however, settled the matter. They all fled, the door opened, and a lady followed by ten attendants presented herself. She was no other than Chin Mu herself. Shên I, having saluted her and explained the object of his visit, was admitted to the goddess's palace, and royally entertained. "I have heard," said Shên I to her, "that you possess the pills of immortality; I beg you to give me one or two." "You are a well-known architect," replied Chin Mu; "please build me a palace near this mountain." Together they went to inspect a celebrated site known as Pai-yü-kuei Shan, 'White Jade-tortoise Mountain,' and fixed upon it as the location of the new abode of the goddess. Shên I had all the spirits of the mountain to work for him. The walls were built of jade, sweet-smelling woods were used for the framework and wainscoting, the roof was of glass, the steps of agate. In a fortnight's time sixteen palace buildings stretched magnificently along the side of the mountain. Chin Mu gave to the architect a wonderful pill which would bestow upon him immortality as well as the faculty of being able at will to fly through the air. "But," she said, "it must not be eaten now: you must first go through a twelve months' preparatory course of exercise and diet, without which the pill will not have all the desired results." Shên I thanked the goddess, took leave of her, and, returning to the Emperor, related to him all that had happened. Kills Chisel-tooth On reaching home, the archer hid his precious pill under a rafter, lest anyone should steal it, and then began the preparatory course in immortality. At this time there appeared in the south a strange man named Tso Ch'ih, 'Chisel-tooth.' He had round eyes and a long projecting tooth. He was a well-known criminal. Yao ordered Shên I and his small band of brave followers to deal with this new enemy. This extraordinary man lived in a cave, and when Shên I and his men arrived he emerged brandishing a padlock. Shên I broke his long tooth by shooting an arrow at it, and Tso Ch'ih fled, but was struck in the back and laid low by another arrow from Shên I. The victor took the broken tooth with him as a trophy. Hêng Ô flies to the Moon Hêng Ô, during her husband's absence, saw a white light which seemed to issue from a beam in the roof, while a most delicious odour filled every room. By the aid of a ladder she reached up to the spot whence the light came, found the pill of immortality, and ate it. She suddenly felt that she was freed from the operation of the laws of gravity and as if she had wings, and was just essaying her first flight when Shên I returned. He went to look for his pill, and, not finding it, asked Hêng Ô what had happened. The young wife, seized with fear, opened the window and flew out. Shên I took his bow and pursued her. The moon was full, the night clear, and he saw his wife flying rapidly in front of him, only about the size of a toad. Just when he was redoubling his pace to catch her up a blast of wind struck him to the ground like a dead leaf. Hêng Ô continued her flight until she reached a luminous sphere, shining like glass, of enormous size, and very cold. The only vegetation consisted of cinnamon-trees. No living being was to be seen. All of a sudden she began to cough, and vomited the covering of the pill of immortality, which was changed into a rabbit as white as the purest jade. This was the ancestor of the spirituality of the _yin_, or female, principle. Hêng Ô noticed a bitter taste in her mouth, drank some dew, and, feeling hungry, ate some cinnamon. She took up her abode in this sphere. As to Shên I, he was carried by the hurricane up into a high mountain. Finding himself before the door of a palace, he was invited to enter, and found that it was the palace of Tung-hua Ti-chün, otherwise Tung Wang Kung, the husband of Hsi Wang Mu. The Sun-palace and the Bird of Dawn The God of the Immortals said to Shên I: "You must not be annoyed with Hêng Ô. Everybody's fate is settled beforehand. Your labours are nearing an end, and you will become an Immortal. It was I who let loose the whirlwind that brought you here. Hêng O, through having borrowed the forces which by right belong to you, is now an Immortal in the Palace of the Moon. As for you, you deserve much for having so bravely fought the nine false suns. As a reward you shall have the Palace of the Sun. Thus the _yin_ and the _yang_ will be united in marriage." This said, Tung-hua Ti-chün ordered his servants to bring a red Chinese sarsaparilla cake, with a lunar talisman. "Eat this cake," he said; "it will protect you from the heat of the solar hearth. And by wearing this talisman you will be able at will to visit the lunar palace of Hêng O; but the converse does not hold good, for your wife will not have access to the solar palace." This is why the light of the moon has its birth in the sun, and decreases in proportion to its distance from the sun, the moon being light or dark according as the sun comes and goes. Shên I ate the sarsaparilla cake, attached the talisman to his body, thanked the god, and prepared to leave. Tung Wang Kung said to him: "The sun rises and sets at fixed times; you do not yet know the laws of day and night; it is absolutely necessary for you to take with you the bird with the golden plumage, which will sing to advise you of the exact times of the rising, culmination, and setting of the sun." "Where is this bird to be found?" asked Shên I. "It is the one you hear calling _Ia! Ia!_ It is the ancestor of the spirituality of the _yang_, or male, principle. Through having eaten the active principle of the sun, it has assumed the form of a three-footed bird, which perches on the _fu-sang_ tree [a tree said to grow at the place where the sun rises] in the middle of the Eastern Sea. This tree is several thousands of feet in height and of gigantic girth. The bird keeps near the source of the dawn, and when it sees the sun taking his morning bath gives vent to a cry that shakes the heavens and wakes up all humanity. That is why I ordered Ling Chên-tzu to put it in a cage on T'ao-hua Shan, Peach-blossom Hill; since then its cries have been less harsh. Go and fetch it and take it to the Palace of the Sun. Then you will understand all the laws of the daily movements." He then wrote a charm which Shên I was to present to Ling Chên-tzu to make him open the cage and hand the golden bird over to him. The charm worked, and Ling Chên-tzu opened the cage. The bird of golden plumage had a sonorous voice and majestic bearing. "This bird," he said, "lays eggs which hatch out nestlings with red combs, who answer him every morning when he starts crowing. He is usually called the cock of heaven, and the cocks down here which crow morning and evening are descendants of the celestial cock." Shên I visits the Moon Shên I, riding on the celestial bird, traversed the air and reached the disk of the sun just at mid-day. He found himself carried into the centre of an immense horizon, as large as the earth, and did not perceive the rotatory movement of the sun. He then enjoyed complete happiness without care or trouble. The thought of the happy hours passed with his wife Hêng O, however, came back to memory, and, borne on a ray of sunlight, he flew to the moon. He saw the cinnamon-trees and the frozen-looking horizon. Going to a secluded spot, he found Hêng O there all alone. On seeing him she was about to run away, but Shên I took her hand and reassured her. "I am now living in the solar palace," he said; "do not let the past annoy you." Shên I cut down some cinnamon-trees, used them for pillars, shaped some precious stones, and so built a palace, which he named Kuang-han Kung, 'Palace of Great Cold.' From that time forth, on the fifteenth day of every moon, he went to visit her in her palace. That is the conjunction of the _yang_ and _yin_, male and female principles, which causes the great brilliancy of the moon at that epoch. Shên I, on returning to his solar kingdom, built a wonderful palace, which he called the Palace of the Lonely Park. From that time the sun and moon each had their ruling sovereign. This _régime_ dates from the forty-ninth year (2309 B.C.) of Yao's reign. When the old Emperor was informed that Shên I and his wife had both gone up to Heaven he was much grieved to lose the man who had rendered him such valuable service, and bestowed upon him the posthumous title of Tsung Pu, 'Governor of Countries.' In the representations of this god and goddess the former is shown holding the sun, the latter the moon. The Chinese add the sequel that Hêng O became changed into a toad, whose outline is traceable on the moon's surface. Star-worship The star-deities are adored by parents on behalf of their children; they control courtship and marriage, bring prosperity or adversity in business, send pestilence and war, regulate rainfall and drought, and command angels and demons; so every event in life is determined by the 'star-ruler' who at that time from the shining firmament manages the destinies of men and nations. The worship is performed in the native homes either by astrologers engaged for that purpose or by Taoist priests. In times of sickness, ten paper star-gods are arranged, five good on one side and five bad on the other; a feast is placed before them, and it is supposed that when the bad have eaten enough they will take their flight to the south-west; the propitiation of the good star-gods is in the hope that they will expel the evil stars, and happiness thus be obtained. The practical effect of this worship is seen in the following examples taken from the Chinese list of one hundred and twenty-nine lucky and unlucky stars, which, with the sixty cycle-stars and the twenty-eight constellations, besides a vast multitude of others, make up the celestial galaxy worshipped by China's millions: the Orphan Star enables a woman to become a man; the Star of Pleasure decides on betrothals, binding the feet of those destined to be lovers with silver cords; the Bonepiercing Star produces rheumatism; the Morning Star, if not worshipped, kills the father or mother during the year; the Balustrade Star promotes lawsuits; the Three-corpse Star controls suicide, the Peach-blossom Star lunacy; and so on. The Herdsman and the Weaver-girl In the myths and legends which have clustered about the observations of the stars by the Chinese there are subjects for pictorial illustration without number. One of these stories is the fable of Aquila and Vega, known in Chinese mythology as the Herdsman and the Weaver-girl. The latter, the daughter of the Sun-god, was so constantly busied with her loom that her father became worried at her close habits and thought that by marrying her to a neighbour, who herded cattle on the banks of the Silver Stream of Heaven (the Milky Way), she might awake to a brighter manner of living. No sooner did the maiden become wife than her habits and character utterly changed for the worse. She became not only very merry and lively, but quite forsook loom and needle, giving up her nights and days to play and idleness; no silly lover could have been more foolish than she. The Sun-king, in great wrath at all this, concluded that the husband was the cause of it, and determined to separate the couple. So he ordered him to remove to the other side of the river of stars, and told him that hereafter they should meet only once a year, on the seventh night of the seventh month. To make a bridge over the flood of stars, the Sun-king called myriads of magpies, who thereupon flew together, and, making a bridge, supported the poor lover on their wings and backs as if on a roadway of solid land. So, bidding his weeping wife farewell, the lover-husband sorrowfully crossed the River of Heaven, and all the magpies instantly flew away. But the two were separated, the one to lead his ox, the other to ply her shuttle during the long hours of the day with diligent toil, and the Sun-king again rejoiced in his daughter's industry. At last the time for their reunion drew near, and only one fear possessed the loving wife. What if it should rain? For the River of Heaven is always full to the brim, and one extra drop causes a flood which sweeps away even the bird-bridge. But not a drop fell; all the heavens were clear. The magpies flew joyfully in myriads, making a way for the tiny feet of the little lady. Trembling with joy, and with heart fluttering more than the bridge of wings, she crossed the River of Heaven and was in the arms of her husband. This she did every year. The husband stayed on his side of the river, and the wife came to him on the magpie bridge, save on the sad occasions when it rained. So every year the people hope for clear weather, and the happy festival is celebrated alike by old and young. These two constellations are worshipped principally by women, that they may gain cunning in the arts of needlework and making of fancy flowers. Water-melons, fruits, vegetables, cakes, etc., are placed with incense in the reception-room, and before these offerings are performed the kneeling and the knocking of the head on the ground in the usual way. The Twenty-eight Constellations Sacrifices were offered to these spirits by the Emperor on the marble altar of the Temple of Heaven, and by the high officials throughout the provinces. Of the twenty-eight the following are regarded as propitious--namely, the Horned, Room, Tail, Sieve, Bushel, House, Wall, Mound, Stomach, End, Bristling, Well, Drawn-bow, and Revolving Constellations; the Neck, Bottom, Heart, Cow, Female, Empty, Danger, Astride, Cock, Mixed, Demon, Willow, Star, Wing, are unpropitious. The twenty-eight constellations seem to have become the abodes of gods as a result of the defeat of a Taoist Patriarch T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu, who had espoused the cause of the tyrant Chou, when he and all his followers were slaughtered by the heavenly hosts in the terrible catastrophe known as the Battle of the Ten Thousand Immortals. Chiang Tzu-ya as a reward conferred on them the appanage of the twenty-eight constellations. The five planets, Venus, Jupiter, Mercury, Mars, and Saturn, are also the abodes of stellar divinities, called the White, Green, Black, Red, and Yellow Rulers respectively. Stars good and bad are all likewise inhabited by gods or demons. A Victim of Ta Chi Concerning Tzu-wei Hsing, the constellation Tzu-wei (north circumpolar stars), of which the stellar deity is Po I-k'ao, the following legend is related in the _Fêng shên yen i_. Po I-k'ao was the eldest son of Wên Wang, and governed the kingdom during the seven years that the old King Was detained as a prisoner of the tyrant Chou. He did everything possible to procure his father's release. Knowing the tastes of the cruel King, he sent him for his harem ten of the prettiest women who could be found, accompanied by seven chariots made of perfumed wood, and a white-faced monkey of marvellous intelligence. Besides these he included in his presents a magic carpet, on which it was necessary only to sit in order to recover immediately from the effects of drunkenness. Unfortunately for Po I-k'ao, Chou's favourite concubine, Ta Chi, conceived a passion for him and had recourse to all sorts of ruses to catch him in her net; but his conduct was throughout irreproachable. Vexed by his indifference, she tried slander in order to bring about his ruin. But her calumnies did not at first have the result she expected. Chou, after inquiry, was convinced of the innocence of Po. But an accident spoiled everything. In the middle of an amusing _séance_ the monkey which had been given to the King by Po perceived some sweets in the hand of Ta Chi, and, jumping on to her body, snatched them from Her. The King and his concubine were furious, Chou had the monkey killed forthwith, and Ta Chi accused Po I-k'ao of having brought the animal into the palace with the object of making an attempt on the lives of the King and herself. But the Prince explained that the monkey, being only an animal, could not grasp even the first idea of entering into a conspiracy. Shortly after this Po committed an unpardonable fault which changed the goodwill of the King into mortal enmity. He allowed himself to go so far as to suggest to the King that he should break off his relations with this infamous woman, the source of all the woes which were desolating the kingdom, and when Ta Chi on this account grossly insulted him he struck her with his lute. For this offence Ta Chi caused him to be crucified in the palace. Large nails were driven through his hands and feet, and his flesh was cut off in pieces. Not content with ruining Po I-k'ao, this wretched woman wished also to ruin Wen Wang. She therefore advised the King to have the flesh of the murdered man made up into rissoles and sent as a present to his father. If he refused to eat the flesh of his own son he was to be accused of contempt for the King, and there would thus be a pretext for having him executed. Wen Wang, being versed in divination and the science of the _pa kua_, Eight Trigrams, knew that these rissoles contained the flesh of his son, and to avoid the snare spread for him he ate three of the rissoles in the presence of the royal envoys. On their return the latter reported this to the King, who found himself helpless on learning of Wen Wang's conduct. Po I-k'ao was canonized by Chiang Tzu-ya, and appointed ruler of the constellation Tzu-wei of the North Polar heavens. Myths of Time T'ai Sui is the celestial spirit who presides over the year. He is the President of the Ministry of Time. This god is much to be feared. Whoever offends against him is sure to be destroyed. He strikes when least expected to. T'ai Sui is also the Ministry itself, whose members, numbering a hundred and twenty, are set over time, years, months, and days. The conception is held by some writers to be of Chaldeo-Assyrian origin. The god T'ai Sui is not mentioned in the T'ang and Sung rituals, but in the Yüan dynasty (A.D. 1280-1368) sacrifices were offered to him in the College of the Grand Historiographer whenever any work of importance was about to be undertaken. Under this dynasty the sacrifices were offered to T'ai Sui and to the ruling gods of the months and of the days. But these sacrifices were not offered at regular times: it was only at the beginning of the Ch'ing (Manchu) dynasty (1644-1912) that it was decided to offer the sacrifices at fixed periods. The Planet Jupiter T'ai Sui corresponds to the planet Jupiter. He travels across the sky, passing through the twelve sidereal mansions. He is a stellar god. Therefore an altar is raised to him and sacrifices are offered on it under the open sky. This practice dates from the beginning of the Ming dynasty, when the Emperor T'ai Tsu ordered sacrifices to this god to be made throughout the Empire. According to some authors, he corresponds to the god of the twelve sidereal mansions. He is also variously represented as the moon, which turns to the left in the sky, and the sun, which turns to the right. The diviners gave to T'ai Sui the title of Grand Marshal, following the example of the usurper Wang Mang (A.D. 9-23) of the Western Han dynasty, who gave that title to the year-star. Legend of T'ai Sui The following is the legend of T'ai Sui. T'ai Sui was the son of the Emperor Chou, the last of the Yin dynasty. His mother was Queen Chiang. When he was born he looked like a lump of formless flesh. The infamous Ta Chi, the favourite concubine of this wicked Emperor, at once informed him that a monster had been born in the palace, and the over-credulous sovereign ordered that it should immediately be cast outside the city. Shên Chên-jên, who was passing, saw the small abandoned one, and said: "This is an Immortal who has just been born." With his knife he cut open the caul which enveloped it, and the child was exposed. His protector carried him to the cave Shui Lien, where he led the life of a hermit, and entrusted the infant to Ho Hsien-ku, who acted as his nurse and brought him up. The child's hermit-name was Yin Ting-nu, his ordinary name Yin No-cha, but during his boyhood he was known as Yin Chiao, _i.e._ 'Yin the Deserted of the Suburb,' When he had reached an age when he was sufficiently intelligent, his nurse informed him that he was not her son, but really the son of the Emperor Chou, who, deceived by the calumnies of his favourite Ta Chi, had taken him for an evil monster and had him cast out of the palace. His mother had been thrown down from an upper storey and killed. Yin Chiao went to his rescuer and begged him to allow him to avenge his mother's death. The Goddess T'ien Fei, the Heavenly Concubine, picked out two magic weapons from the armoury in the cave, a battle-axe and club, both of gold, and gave them to Yin Chiao. When the Shang army was defeated at Mu Yeh, Yin Chiao broke into a tower where Ta Chi was, seized her, and brought her before the victor, King Wu, who gave him permission to split her head open with his battle-axe. But Ta Chi was a spiritual hen-pheasant (some say a spiritual vixen). She transformed herself into smoke and disappeared. To reward Yin Chiao for his filial piety and bravery in fighting the demons, Yü Ti canonized him with the title T'ai Sui Marshal Yin. According to another version of the legend, Yin Chiao fought on the side of the Yin against Wu Wang, and after many adventures was caught by Jan Têng between two mountains, which he pressed together, leaving only Yin Chiao's head exposed above the summits. The general Wu Chi promptly cut it off with a spade. Chiang Tz[u)]-ya subsequently canonized Yin Chiao. Worship of T'ai Sui The worship of T'ai Sui seems to have first taken place in the reign of Shên Tsung (A.D. 1068-86) of the Sung dynasty, and was continued during the remainder of the Monarchical Period. The object of the worship is to avert calamities, T'ai Sui being a dangerous spirit who can do injury to palaces and cottages, to people in their houses as well as to travellers on the roads. But he has this peculiarity, that he injures persons and things not in the district in which he himself is, but in those districts which adjoin it. Thus, if some constructive work is undertaken in a region where T'ai Sui happens to be, the inhabitants of the neighbouring districts take precautions against his evil influence. This they generally do by hanging out the appropriate talisman. In order to ascertain in what region T'ai Sui is at any particular time, an elaborate diagram is consulted. This consists of a representation of the twelve terrestrial branches or stems, _ti chih_> and the ten celestial trunks, _t'ien kan,_ indicating the cardinal points and the intermediate points, north-east, north-west, south-east, and south-west. The four cardinal points are further verified with the aid of the Five Elements, the Five Colours, and the Eight Trigrams. By using this device, it is possible to find the geographical position of T'ai Sui during the current year, the position of threatened districts, and the methods to be employed to provide against danger. CHAPTER VI Myths of Thunder, Lightning, Wind, and Rain The Ministry of Thunder and Storms As already noted, affairs in the Otherworld are managed by official Bureaux or Ministries very similar to those on earth. The _Fêng shên yen i_ mentions several of these, and gives full details of their constitution. The first is the Ministry of Thunder and Storms. This is composed of a large number of officials. The principal ones are Lei Tsu, the Ancestor of Thunder, Lei Kung, the Duke of Thunder, Tien Mu, the Mother of Lightning, Feng Po, the Count of Wind, and Y['u] Shih, the Master of Rain. These correspond to the Buddhist Asuras, the "fourth class of sentient beings, the mightiest of all demons, titanic enemies of the Dêvas," and the Vedic Maruta, storm-demons. In the temples Lei Tsu is placed in the centre with the other four to right and left. There are also sometimes represented other gods of rain, or attendants. These are Hsing T'ien Chün and T'ao T'ien Chün, both officers of Wen Chung, or Lei Tsu, Ma Yüan-shuai, Generalissimo Ma, whose exploits are referred to later, and others. The President of the Ministry of Thunder This divinity has three eyes, one in the middle of his forehead, from which, when open, a ray of white light proceeds to a distance of more than two feet. Mounted on a black unicorn, he traverses millions of miles in the twinkling of an eye. His origin is ascribed to a man named Wên Chung, generally known as Wên Chung T'ai-shih, 'the Great Teacher Wên Chung,' He was a minister of the tyrant king Chou (1154-1122 B.C.), and fought against the armies of the Chou dynasty. Being defeated, he fled to the mountains of Yen, Yen Shan, where he met Ch'ih Ching-tzu, one of the alleged discoverers of fire, and joined battle with him; the latter, however, flashed his _yin-yang_ mirror at the unicorn, and put it out of action. Lei Chên-tzu, one of Wu Wang's marshals, then struck the animal with his staff, and severed it in twain. Wên Chung escaped in the direction of the mountains of Chüeh-lung Ling, where another marshal, Yün Chung-tzu, barred his way. Yün's hands had the power of producing lightning, and eight columns of mysterious fire suddenly came out of the earth, completely enveloping Wên Chung. They were thirty feet high and ten feet in circumference. Ninety fiery dragons came out of each and flew away up into the air. The sky was like a furnace, and the earth shook with the awful claps of thunder. In this fiery prison Wên Chung died. When the new dynasty finally proved victorious, Chiang Tzu-ya, by order of Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun, conferred on Wên Chung the supreme direction of the Ministry of Thunder, appointing him celestial prince and plenipotentiary defender of the laws governing the distribution of clouds and rain. His full title was Celestial and Highly-honoured Head of the Nine Orbits of the Heavens, Voice of the Thunder, and Regulator of the Universe. His birthday is celebrated on the twenty-fourth day of the sixth moon. The Duke of Thunder The Spirit of Thunder, for whom Lei Tsu is often mistaken, is represented as an ugly, black, bat-winged demon, with clawed feet, monkey's head, and eagle's beak, who holds in one hand a steel chisel, and in the other a spiritual hammer, with which he beats numerous drums strung about him, thus producing the terrific noise of thunder. According to Chinese reasoning it is the sound of these drums, and not the lightning, which causes death. A. Gruenwedel, in his _Guide to the Lamaist Collection of Prince Uchtomsky,_ p. 161, states that the Chino-Japanese God of Thunder, Lei Kung, has the shape of the Indian divine bird Garuda. Are we to suppose, then, that the Chinese Lei Kung is of Indian origin? In modern pictures the God of Thunder is depicted with a cock's head and claws, carrying in one hand the hammer, in the other the chisel. We learn, however, from Wang Ch'ung's _Lun Hêng_ that in the first century B.C., when Buddhism was not yet introduced into China, the 'Thunderer' was represented as a strong man, not as a bird, with one hand dragging a cluster of drums, and with the other brandishing a hammer. Thus Lei Kung existed already in China when the latter received her first knowledge of India. Yet his modern image may well owe its wings to the Indian rain-god Vajrapani, who in one form appears with Garuda wings. Lei Kung P'u-sa, the avatar of Lei Kung (whose existence as the Spirit of Thunder is denied by at least one Chinese writer), has made various appearances on the earth. One of these is described below. Lei Kung in the Tree A certain Yeh Ch'ien-chao of Hsin Chou, when a youth, used to climb the mountain Chien-ch'ang Shan for the purpose of cutting firewood and collecting medicinal herbs. One day when he had taken refuge under a tree during a rain-storm there was a loud clap of thunder, and he saw a winged being, with a blue face, large mouth, and bird's claws, caught in a cleft of the tree. This being addressed Yeh, saying: "I am Lei Kung. In splitting this tree I got caught in it; if you will free me I will reward you handsomely." The woodcutter opened the cleft wider by driving in some stones as wedges, and liberated the prisoner. "Return to this spot to-morrow," said the latter, "and I will reward you." The next day the woodcutter kept the appointment, and received from Lei Kung a book. "If you consult this work," he explained, "you will be able at will to bring thunder or rain, cure sickness, or assuage sorrow. We are five brothers, of whom I am the youngest. When you want to bring rain call one or other of my brothers; but call me only in case of pressing necessity, because I have a bad character; but I will come if it is really necessary." Having said these words, he disappeared. Yeh Ch'ien-chao, by means of the prescriptions contained in the mysterious book, could cure illnesses as easily as the sun dissipates the morning mist. One day, when he was intoxicated and had gone to bed in the temple of Chi-chou Ssu, the magistrate wished to arrest and punish him. But when he reached the steps of the _yamên_, Ch'ien-chao called Lei Kung to his aid. A terrible clap of thunder immediately resounded throughout the district. The magistrate, nearly dead with fright, at once dismissed the case without punishing the culprit. The four brothers never failed to come to his aid. By the use of his power Ch'ien-chao saved many regions from famine by bringing timely rain. The Mysterious Bottle Another legend relates that an old woman living in Kiangsi had her arm broken through being struck by lightning, when a voice from above was heard saying: "I have made a mistake." A bottle fell out of space, and the voice again said: "Apply the contents and you will be healed at once." This being done, the old woman's arm was promptly mended. The villagers, regarding the contents of the bottle as divine medicine, wished to take it away and hide it for future use, but several of them together could not lift it from the ground. Suddenly, however, it rose up and disappeared into space. Other persons in Kiangsi were also struck, and the same voice was heard to say: "Apply some grubs to the throat and they will recover." After this had been done the victims returned to consciousness none the worse for their experience. The worship of Lei Kung seems to have been carried on regularly from about the time of the Christian era. Lei Chên-tzu Another Son of Thunder is Lei Chên-tzu, mentioned above, whose name when a child was Wên Yü, who was hatched from an egg after a clap of thunder and found by the soldiers of Wên Wang in some brushwood near an old tomb. The infant's chief characteristic was its brilliant eyes. Wên Wang, who already had ninety-nine children, adopted it as his hundredth, but gave it to a hermit named Yün Chung-tzu to rear as his disciple. The hermit showed him the way to rescue his adopted father from the tyrant who held him prisoner. In seeking for some powerful weapon the child found on the hillside two apricots, and ate them both. He then noticed that wings had grown on his shoulders, and was too much ashamed to return home. But the hermit, who knew intuitively what had taken place, sent a servant to seek him. When they met the servant said: "Do you know that your face is completely altered?" The mysterious fruit had not only caused Lei Chên-tzu to grow wings, known as Wings of the Wind and Thunder, but his face had become green, his nose long and pointed, and two tusks protruded horizontally from each side of his mouth, while his eyes shone like mirrors. Lei Chên-tzu now went and rescued Wên Wang, dispersing his enemies by means of his mystical power and bringing the old man back on his shoulders. Having placed him in safety he returned to the hermit. The Mother of Lightning This divinity is represented as a female figure, gorgeously apparelled in blue, green, red, and white, holding in either hand a mirror from which proceed two broad streams or flashes of light. Lightning, say the Chinese, is caused by the rubbing together of the _yin_ and the _yang_, just as sparks of fire may be produced by the friction of two substances. The Origin of the Spirit of Lightning Tung Wang Kung, the King of the Immortals, was playing at pitch-pot [23] with Yü Nü. He lost; whereupon Heaven smiled, and from its half-open mouth a ray of light came out. This was lightning; it is regarded as feminine because it is supposed to come from the earth, which is of the _yin_, or female, principle. The God of the Wind Fêng Po, the God of the Wind, is represented as an old man with a white beard, yellow cloak, and blue and red cap. He holds a large sack, and directs the wind which comes from its mouth in any direction he pleases. There are various ideas regarding the nature of this deity. He is regarded as a stellar divinity under the control of the star Ch'i, [24] because the wind blows at the time when the moon leaves that celestial mansion. He is also said to be a dragon called Fei Lien, at first one of the supporters of the rebel Ch'ih Yu, who was defeated by Huang Ti. Having been transformed into a spiritual monster, he stirred up tremendous winds in the southern regions. The Emperor Yao sent Shên I with three hundred soldiers to quiet the storms and appease Ch'ih Yu's relatives, who were wreaking their vengeance on the people. Shên I ordered the people to spread a long cloth in front of their houses, fixing it with stones. The wind, blowing against this, had to change its direction. Shên I then flew on the wind to the top of a high mountain, whence he saw a monster at the base. It had the shape of a huge yellow and white sack, and kept inhaling and exhaling in great gusts. Shên I, concluding that this was the cause of all these storms, shot an arrow and hit the monster, whereupon it took refuge in a deep cave. Here it turned on Shên I and, drawing a sword, dared him to attack the Mother of the Winds. Shên I, however, bravely faced the monster and discharged another arrow, this time hitting it in the knee. The monster immediately threw down its sword and begged that its life might be spared. Fei Lien is elsewhere described as a dragon who was originally one of the wicked ministers of the tyrant Chou, and could walk with unheard-of swiftness. Both he and his son Ô Lai, who was so strong that he could tear a tiger or rhinoceros to pieces with his hands, were killed when in the service of Chou Wang. Fei Lien is also said to have the body of a stag, about the size of a leopard, with a bird's head, horns, and a serpent's tail, and to be able to make the wind blow whenever he wishes. The Master of Rain Yü Shih, the Master of Rain, clad in yellow scale-armour, with a blue hat and yellow busby, stands on a cloud and from a watering-can pours rain upon the earth. Like many other gods, however, he is represented in various forms. Sometimes he holds a plate, on which is a small dragon, in his left hand, while with his right he pours down the rain. He is obviously the Parjanya of Vedism. According to a native account, the God of Rain is one Ch'ih Sung-tzu, who appeared during a terrible drought in the reign of Shên Nung (2838-2698 B.C.), and owing to his reputed magical power was requested by the latter to bring rain from the sky. "Nothing is easier," he replied; "pour a bottleful of water into an earthen bowl and give it to me." This being done, he plucked from a neighbouring mountain a branch of a tree, soaked it in the water, and with it sprinkled the earth. Immediately clouds gathered and rain fell in torrents, filling the rivers to overflowing. Ch'ih Sung-tzu was then honoured as the God of Rain, and his images show him holding the mystic bowl. He resides in the K'un-lun Mountains, and has many extraordinary peculiarities, such as the power to go through water without getting wet, to pass through fire without being burned, and to float in space. This Rain-god also assumes the form of a silkworm chrysalis in another account. He is there believed to possess a concubine who has a black face, holds a serpent in each hand, and has other serpents, red and green, reposing on her right and left ears respectively; also a mysterious bird, with only one leg, the _shang yang_, which can change its height at will and drink the seas dry. The following legend is related of this bird. The One-legged Bird At the time when Hsüan-ming Ta-jên instructed Fei Lien in the secrets of magic, the latter saw a wonderful bird which drew in water with its beak and blew it out again in the shape of rain. Fei lien tamed it, and would take it about in his sleeve. Later on a one-legged bird was seen in the palace of the Prince of Ch'i walking up and down and hopping in front of the throne. Being much puzzled, the Prince sent a messenger to Lu to inquire of Confucius concerning this strange behaviour. "This bird is a _shang yang_" said Confucius; "its appearance is a sign of rain. In former times the children used to amuse themselves by hopping on one foot, knitting their eyebrows, and saying: 'It will rain, because the _shang yang_ is disporting himself.' Since this bird has gone to Ch'i, heavy rain will fall, and the people should be told to dig channels and repair the dykes, for the whole country will be inundated." Not only Ch'i, but all the adjacent kingdoms were flooded; all sustained grievous damage except Ch'i, where the necessary precautions had been taken. This caused Duke Ching to exclaim: "Alas! how few listen to the words of the sages!" Ma Yüan-shuai Ma Yüan-shuai is a three-eyed monster condemned by Ju Lai to reincarnation for excessive cruelty in the extermination of evil spirits. In order to obey this command he entered the womb of Ma Chin-mu in the form of five globes of fire. Being a precocious youth, he could fight when only three days old, and killed the Dragon-king of the Eastern Sea. From his instructor he received a spiritual work dealing with wind, thunder, snakes, etc., and a triangular piece of stone which he could at will change into anything he liked. By order of Yü Ti he subdued the Spirits of the Wind and Fire, the Blue Dragon, the King of the Five Dragons, and the Spirit of the Five Hundred Fire Ducks, all without injury to himself. For these and many other enterprises he was rewarded by Yü Ti with various magic articles and with the title of Generalissimo of the West, and is regarded as so successful an interceder with Yü Ti that he is prayed to for all sorts of benefits. CHAPTER VII Myths of the Waters The Dragons The dragons are spirits of the waters. "The dragon is a kind of being whose miraculous changes are inscrutable." In a sense the dragon is the type of a man, self-controlled, and with powers that verge upon the supernatural. In China the dragon, except as noted below, is not a power for evil, but a beneficent being producing rain and representing the fecundating principle in nature. He is the essence of the _yang_, or male, principle. "He controls the rain, and so holds in his power prosperity and peace." The evil dragons are those introduced by the Buddhists, who applied the current dragon legends to the _nagas_ inhabiting the mountains. These mountain _nagas_, or dragons (perhaps originally dreaded mountain tribes), are harmful, those inhabiting lakes and rivers friendly and helpful. The dragon, the "chief of the three hundred and sixty scaly reptiles," is most generally represented as having the head of a horse and the tail of a snake, with wings on its sides. It has four legs. The imperial dragon has five claws on each foot, other dragons only four. The dragon is also said to have nine 'resemblances': "its horns resemble those of a deer, its head that of a camel, its eyes those of a devil, its neck that of a snake, its abdomen that of a large cockle, its scales those of a carp, its claws those of an eagle, the soles of its feet those of a tiger, its ears those of an ox;" but some have no ears, the organ of hearing being said to be in the horns, or the creature "hears through its horns." These various properties are supposed to indicate the "fossil remnants of primitive worship of many animals." The small dragon is like the silk caterpillar. The large dragon fills the Heaven and the earth. Before the dragon, sometimes suspended from his neck, is a pearl. This represents the sun. There are azure, scaly, horned, hornless, winged, etc., dragons, which apparently evolve one out of the other: "a horned dragon," for example, "in a thousand years changes to a flying dragon." The dragon is also represented as the father of the great emperors of ancient times. His bones, teeth, and saliva are employed as a medicine. He has the power of transformation and of rendering himself visible or invisible at pleasure. In the spring he ascends to the skies, and in the autumn buries himself in the watery depths. Some are wingless, and rise into the air by their own inherent power. There is the celestial dragon, who guards the mansions of the gods and supports them so that they do not fall; the divine dragon, who causes the winds to blow and produces rain for the benefit of mankind; the earth-dragon, who marks out the courses of rivers and streams; and the dragon of the hidden treasures, who watches over the wealth concealed from mortals. The Buddhists count their dragons in number equal to the fish of the great deep, which defies arithmetical computation, and can be expressed only by their sacred numerals. The people have a more certain faith in them than in most of their divinities, because they see them so often; every cloud with a curious configuration or serpentine tail is a dragon. "We see him," they say. The scattering of the cloud is his disappearance. He rules the hills, is connected with _fêng-shui_ (geomancy), dwells round the graves, is associated with the Confucian worship, is the Neptune of the sea, and appears on dry land. The Dragon-kings The Sea-dragon Kings live in gorgeous palaces in the depths of the sea, where they feed on pearls and opals. There are five of these divinities, the chief being in the centre, and the other four occupying the north, the west, the south, and the east. Each is a league in length, and so bulky that in shifting its posture it tosses one mountain against another. It has five feet, one of them being in the middle of its belly, and each foot is armed with five sharp claws. It can reach into the heavens, and stretch itself into all quarters of the sea. It has a glowing armour of yellow scales, a beard under its long snout, a hairy tail, and shaggy legs. Its forehead projects over its blazing eyes, its ears are small and thick, its mouth gaping, its tongue long, and its teeth sharp. Fish are boiled by the blast of its breath, and roasted by the fiery exhalations of its body. When it rises to the surface the whole ocean surges, waterspouts foam, and typhoons rage. When it flies, wingless, through the air, the winds howl, torrents of rain descend, houses are unroofed, the firmament is filled with a din, and whatever lies along its route is swept away with a roar in the hurricane created by the speed of its passage. The five Sea-dragon Kings are all immortal. They know each other's thoughts, plans, and wishes without intercommunication. Like all the other gods they go once a year to the superior Heavens, to make an annual report to the Supreme Ruler; but they go in the third month, at which time none of the other gods dare appear, and their stay above is but brief. They generally remain in the depths of the ocean, where their courts are filled with their progeny, their dependents, and their attendants, and where the gods and genii sometimes visit them. Their palaces, of divers coloured transparent stones, with crystal doors, are said to have been seen in the early morning by persons gazing into the deep waters. The Foolish Dragon The part of the great Buddha legend referring to the dragon is as follows: In years gone by, a dragon living in the great sea saw that his wife's health was not good. He, seeing her colour fade away, said: "My dear, what shall I get you to eat?" Mrs Dragon was silent. Just tell me and I will get it," pleaded the affectionate husband. "You cannot do it; why trouble?" quoth she. "Trust me, and you shall have your heart's desire," said the dragon. "Well, I want a monkey's heart to eat." "Why, Mrs Dragon, the monkeys live in the mountain forests! How can I get one of their hearts?" "Well, I am going to die; I know I am." Forthwith the dragon went on shore, and, spying a monkey on the top of a tree, said: "Hail, shining one, are you not afraid you will fall?" "No, I have no such fear." "Why eat of one tree? Cross the sea, and you will find forests of fruit and flowers." "How can I cross?" "Get on my back." The dragon with his tiny load went seaward, and then suddenly dived down. "Where are you going?" said the monkey, with the salt water in his eyes and mouth. "Oh! my dear sir! my wife is very sad and ill, and has taken a fancy to your heart." "What shall I do?" thought the monkey. He then spoke, "Illustrious friend, why did not you tell me? I left my heart on the top of the tree; take me back, and I will get it for Mrs Dragon." The dragon returned to the shore. As the monkey was tardy in coming down from the tree, the dragon said: "Hurry up, little friend, I am waiting." Then the monkey thought within himself, "What a fool this dragon is!" Then Buddha said to his followers: "At this time I was the monkey." The Ministry of Waters In the spirit-world there is a Ministry which controls all things connected with the waters on earth, salt or fresh. Its main divisions are the Department of Salt Waters, presided over by four Dragon-kings--those of the East, South, West, and North--and the Department of Sweet Waters, presided over by the Four Kings (_Ssu Tu_) of the four great rivers--the Blue (Chiang), Yellow (Ho), Huai, and Ch'i--and the Dragon-spirits who control the Secondary Waters, the rivers, springs, lakes, pools, rapids. Into the names and functions of the very large number of officials connected with these departments it is unnecessary to enter. It will be sufficient here to refer only to those whose names are connected with myth or legend. An Unauthorized Portrait One of these legends relates to the visit of Ch'in Shih Huang-ti, the First Emperor, to the Spirit of the Sea, Yang Hou, originally a marquis (_bou_) of the State Yang, who became a god through being drowned in the sea. Po Shih, a Taoist priest, told the Emperor that an enormous oyster vomited from the sea a mysterious substance which accumulated in the form of a tower, and was known as 'the market of the sea' (Chinese for 'mirage'). Every year, at a certain period, the breath from his mouth was like the rays of the sun. The Emperor expressed a wish to see it, and Po Shih said he would write a letter to the God of the Sea, and the next day the Emperor could behold the wonderful sight. The Emperor then remembered a dream he had had the year before in which he saw two men fighting for the sun. The one killed the other, and carried it off. He therefore wished to visit the country where the sun rose. Po Shih said that all that was necessary was to throw rocks into the sea and build a bridge across them. Thereupon he rang his magic bell, the earth shook, and rocks began to rise up; but as they moved too slowly he struck them with his whip, and blood came from them which left red marks in many places. The row of rocks extended as far as the shore of the sun-country, but to build the bridge across them was found to be beyond the reach of human skill. So Po Shih sent another messenger to the God of the Sea, requesting him to raise a pillar and place a beam across it which could be used as a bridge. The submarine spirits came and placed themselves at the service of the Emperor, who asked for an interview with the god. To this the latter agreed on condition that no one should make a portrait of him, he being very ugly. Instantly a stone gangway 100,000 feet long rose out of the sea, and the Emperor, mounting his horse, went with his courtiers to the palace of the god. Among his followers was one Lu Tung-shih, who tried to draw a portrait of the god by using his foot under the surface of the water. Detecting this manoeuvre, the god was incensed, and said to the Emperor: "You have broken your word; did you bring Lu here to insult me? Retire at once, or evil will befall you." The Emperor, seeing that the situation was precarious, mounted his horse and galloped off. As soon as he reached the beach, the stone cause-way sank, and all his suite perished in the waves. One of the Court magicians said to the Emperor: "This god ought to be feared as much as the God of Thunder; then he could be made to help us. To-day a grave mistake has been made." For several days after this incident the waves beat upon the beach with increasing fury. The Emperor then built a temple and a pagoda to the god on Chih-fu Shan and Wên-têng Shan respectively; by which act of propitiation he was apparently appeased. The Shipwrecked Servant Once the Eight Immortals (see Chapter XI) were on their way to Ch'ang-li Shan to celebrate the birthday anniversary of Hsien Wêng, the God of Longevity. They had with them a servant who bore the presents they intended to offer to the god. When they reached the seashore the Immortals walked on the waves without any difficulty, but Lan Ts'ai-ho remarked that the servant was unable to follow them, and said that a means of transport must be found for him. So Ts'ao Kuo-chiu took a plank of cypress-wood and made a raft. But when they were in mid-ocean a typhoon arose and upset the raft, and servant and presents sank to the bottom of the sea. Regarding this as the hostile act of a water-devil, the Immortals said they must demand an explanation from the Dragon-king, Ao Ch'in. Li T'ieh-kuai took his gourd, and, directing the mouth toward the bottom of the sea, created so brilliant a light that it illuminated the whole palace of the Sea-king. Ao Ch'in, surprised, asked where this powerful light originated, and deputed a courier to ascertain its cause. To this messenger the Immortals made their complaint. "All we want," they added, "is that the Dragon-king shall restore to us our servant and the presents." On this being reported to Ao Ch'in he suspected his son of being the cause, and, having established his guilt, severely reprimanded him. The young Prince took his sword, and, followed by an escort, went to find those who had made the complaint to his father. As soon as he caught sight of the Immortals he began to inveigh against them. A Battle and its Results Han Hsiang Tzu, not liking this undeserved abuse, changed his flute into a fishing-line, and as soon as the Dragon-prince was within reach caught him on the hook, with intent to retain him as a hostage. The Prince's escort returned in great haste and informed Ao Ch'in of what had occurred. The latter declared that his son was in the wrong, and proposed to restore the shipwrecked servant and the presents. The Court officers, however, held a different opinion. "These Immortals," they said, "dare to hold captive your Majesty's son merely on account of a few lost presents and a shipwrecked servant. This is a great insult, which we ask permission to avenge." Eventually they won over Ao Ch'in, and the armies of the deep gathered for the fray. The Immortals called to their aid the other Taoist Immortals and Heroes, and thus two formidable armies found themselves face to face. Several attempts were made by other divinities to avert the conflict, but without success. The battle was a strenuous one. Ao Ch'in received a ball of fire full on his head, and his army was threatened with disaster when Tz'u-hang Ta-shih appeared with his bottle of lustral water. He sprinkled the combatants with this magic fluid, using a willow-branch for the purpose, thus causing all their magic powers to disappear. Shui Kuan, the Ruler of the Watery Elements, then arrived, and reproached Ao Ch'in; he assured him that if the matter were to come to the knowledge of Shang Ti, the Supreme Ruler, he would not only be severely punished, but would risk losing his post. Ao Ch'in expressed penitence, restored the servant and the presents, and made full apology to the Eight Immortals. The Dragon in the Pond One day Chang Tao-ling, the 'father of modern Taoism,' was on Ho-ming Shan with his disciple Wang Ch'ang. "See," he said, "that shaft of white light on Yang Shan yonder! There are undoubtedly some bad spirits there. Let us go and bring them to reason." When they reached the foot of the mountain they met twelve women who had the appearance of evil spirits. Chang Tao-ling asked them whence came the shaft of white light. They answered that it was the _yin_, or female, principle of the earth. "Where is the source of the salt water?" he asked again. "That pond in front of you," they replied, "in which lives a very wicked dragon." Chang Tao-ling tried to force the dragon to come out, but without success. Then he drew a phoenix with golden wings on a charm and hurled it into the air over the pond. Thereupon the dragon took fright and fled, the pond immediately drying up. After that Chang Tao-ling took his sword and stuck it in the ground, whereupon a well full of salt water appeared on the spot. The Spirits of the Well The twelve women each offered Chang Tao-ling a jade ring, and asked that they might become his wives. He took the rings, and pressing them together in his hands made of them one large single ring. "I will throw this ring into the well," he said, "and the one of you who recovers it shall be my wife." All the twelve women jumped into the well to get the ring; whereupon Chang Tao-ling put a cover over it and fastened it down, telling them that henceforth they should be the spirits of the well and would never be allowed to come out. Shortly after this Chang Tao-ling met a hunter. He exhorted him not to kill living beings, but to change his occupation to that of a salt-burner, instructing him how to draw out the salt from salt-water wells. Thus the people of that district were advantaged both by being able to obtain the salt and by being no longer molested by the twelve female spirits. A temple, called Temple of the Prince of Ch'ing Ho, was built by them, and the territory of Ling Chou was given to Chang Tao-ling in recognition of the benefits he had conferred upon the people. The Dragon-king's Daughter A graduate named Liu I, in the reign-period I Fêng (A.D. 676-679) of the Emperor Kao Tsung of the T'ang dynasty, having failed in his examination for his licentiate's degree, when passing through Ching-yang Hsien, in Ch'ang-an, Shensi, on his way home, saw a young woman tending goats by the roadside. She said to him: "I am the youngest daughter of the Dragonking of the Tung-t'ing Lake. My parents married me to the son of the God of the River Ching, but my husband, misled by the slanders of the servants, repudiated me. I have heard that you are returning to the Kingdom of Wu, which is quite close to my native district, so I want to ask you to take this letter to my father. To the north of the Tung-t'ing Lake you will find a large orange-tree, called by the natives Protector of the Soil. Strike it three times with your girdle and some one will appear." Some months later the graduate went to the spot, found the orange-tree, and struck it three times, whereupon a warrior arose from the lake and, saluting him, asked what he wanted. "I wish to see your great King," the graduate replied. The warrior struck the waters, opening a passage for Liu I, and led him to a palace. "This," he said, "is the palace of Ling Hsü." In a few minutes there appeared a person dressed in violet-coloured clothes and holding in his hand a piece of jade. "This is our King," said the warrior. "I am your Majesty's neighbour," replied Liu I. "I spent my youth in Ch'u and studied in Ch'in. I have just failed in my licentiate examination. On my way home I saw your daughter tending some goats; she was all dishevelled, and in so pitiable a condition that it hurt me to see her, She has sent you this letter." Golden Dragon Great Prince On reading the letter the King wept, and all the courtiers followed his example. "Stop wailing," said the King, "lest Ch'ien-t'ang hear." "Who is Ch'ien-t'ang?" asked Liu I. "He is my dear brother," replied the King; "formerly he was one of the chief administrators of the Ch'ien-t'ang River; now he is the chief God of Rivers." "Why are you so afraid that he might hear what I have just told you?" "Because he has a terrible temper. It was he who, in the reign of Yao, caused a nine-years flood." Before he had finished speaking, a red dragon, a thousand feet long, with red scales, mane of fire, bloody tongue, and eyes blazing like lightning, passed through the air with rapid flight and disappeared. Barely a few moments had elapsed when it returned with a young woman whom Liu I recognized as the one who had entrusted him with the letter. The Dragon-king, overjoyed, said to him: "This is my daughter; her husband is no more, and she offers you her hand." Liu did not dare to accept, since it appeared that they had just killed her husband. He took his departure, and married a woman named Chang, who soon died. He then married another named Han, who also died. He then went to live at Nanking, and, his solitude preying upon his spirits, he decided to marry yet again. A middleman spoke to him of a girl of Fang Yang, in Chihli, whose father, Hao, had been Magistrate of Ch'ing Liu, in Anhui. This man was always absent on his travels, no one knew whither. The girl's mother, Cheng, had married her two years before to a man named Chang of Ch'ing Ho, in Chihli, who had just died. Distressed at her daughter being left a widow so young, the mother wished to find another husband for her. Liu I agreed to marry this young woman, and at the end of a year they had a son. She then said to her husband: "I am the daughter of the King of the Tung-t'ing Lake. It was you who saved me from my miserable plight on the bank of the Ching, and I swore I would reward you. Formerly you refused to accept my hand, and my parents decided to marry me to the son of a silk-merchant. I cut my hair, and never ceased to hope that I might some time or other be united to you in order that I might show you my gratitude." In A.D. 712, in the reign-period K'ai-yüan of the Emperor Hsüan Tsung of the T'ang dynasty, they both returned to the Tung-t'ing Lake; but the legend says nothing further with regard to them. Shang Ti, the Supreme Ruler, conferred on Liu I the title of Chin Lung Ta Wang, 'Golden Dragon Great Prince.' The Old Mother of the Waters The Old Mother of the Waters, Shul-mu Niang-niang, is the legendary spirit of Ssu-chou, in Anhui. To her is popularly ascribed the destruction of the ancient city of Ssu-chou, which was completely submerged by the waters of the Hung-tsê Lake in A.D. 1574. One author states that this Goddess of the Waters is the younger sister of the White Spiritual Elephant, a guardian of the Door of Buddha. This elephant is the "subtle principle of metamorphosed water." In his _Recherches sur Us Superstitions en Chine_, Père Henri Doré, S.J., relates the legends he had heard with regard to this deity. One of these is as follows: Shui-mu Niang-niang inundated the town of Ssu-chou almost every year. A report was presented to Yu Huang, Lord of the Skies, begging him to put an end to the scourge which devastated the country and cost so many lives. The Lord of the Skies commanded the Great Kings of the Skies and their generals to raise troops and take the field in order to capture this goddess and deprive her of the power of doing further mischief. But her tricks triumphed over force, and the city continued to be periodically devastated by inundations. One day Shui-mu Niang-niang was seen near the city gate carrying two buckets of water. Li Lao-chün suspected some plot, but, an open attack being too risky, he preferred to adopt a ruse. He went and bought a donkey, led it to the buckets of water, and let it drink their contents. Unfortunately the animal could not drink all the water, so that a little remained at the bottom of the buckets. Now these magical buckets contained the sources of the five great lakes, which held enough water to inundate the whole of China. Shui-mu Niang-niang with her foot overturned one of the buckets, and the water that had remained in it was enough to cause a formidable flood, which submerged the unfortunate town, and buried it for ever under the immense sheet of water called the Lake of Hung-tsê. So great a crime deserved an exemplary punishment, and accordingly Yü Huang sent reinforcements to his armies, and a pursuit of the goddess was methodically organized. The Magic Vermicelli Sun Hou-tzu, the Monkey Sun, [25] the rapid courier, who in a single skip could traverse 108,000 _li_ (36,000 miles), started in pursuit and caught her up, but the astute goddess was clever enough to slip through his fingers. Sun Hou-tzu, furious at this setback, went to ask Kuan-yin P'u-sa to come to his aid. She promised to do so. As one may imagine, the furious race she had had to escape from her enemy had given Shui-mu Niang-niang a good appetite. Exhausted with fatigue, and with an empty stomach, she caught sight of a woman selling vermicelli, who had just prepared two bowls of it and was awaiting customers. Shui-mu Niang-niang went up to her and began to eat the strength-giving food with avidity. No sooner had she eaten half of the vermicelli than it changed in her stomach into iron chains, which wound round her intestines. The end of the chain protruded from her mouth, and the contents of the bowl became another long chain which welded itself to the end which stuck out beyond her lips. The vermicelli-seller was no other than Kuan-yin P'u-sa herself, who had conceived this stratagem as a means of ridding herself of this evil-working goddess. She ordered Sun Hou-tzu to take her down a deep well at the foot of a mountain in Hsü-i Hsien and to fasten her securely there. It is there that Shui-mu Niang-niang remains in her liquid prison. The end of the chain is to be seen when the water is low. Hsü, the Dragon-slayer Hsü Chên-chün was a native either of Ju-ning Fu in Honan, or of Nan-ch'ang Fu in Kiangsi. His father was Hsü Su. His personal name was Ching-chih, and his ordinary name Sun. At forty-one years of age, when he was Magistrate of Ching-yang, near the modern Chih-chiang Hsien, in Hupei, during times of drought he had only to touch a piece of tile to turn it into gold, and thus relieve the people of their distress. He also saved many lives by curing sickness through the use of talismans and magic formulæ. During the period of the dynastic troubles he resigned and joined the famous magician Kuo P'o. Together they proceeded to the minister Wang Tun, who had risen against the Eastern Chin dynasty. Kuo P'o's remonstrances only irritated the minister, who cut off his head. Hsü Sun then threw his chalice on the ridgepole of the room, causing it to be whirled into the air. As Wang Tun was watching the career of the chalice, Hsü disappeared and escaped. When he reached Lu-chiang K'ou, in Anhui, he boarded a boat, which two dragons towed into the offing and then raised into the air. In an instant they had borne it to the Lü Shan Mountains, to the south of Kiukiang, in Kiangsi. The perplexed boatman opened the window of his boat and took a furtive look out. Thereupon the dragons, finding themselves discovered by an infidel, set the boat down on the top of the mountain and fled. The Spiritual Alligator In this country was a dragon, or spiritual alligator, which transformed itself into a young man named Shên Lang, and married Chia Yü, daughter of the Chief Judge of T'an Chou (Ch'ang-sha Fu, capital of Hunan). The young people lived in rooms below the official apartments. During spring and summer Shên Lang, as dragons are wont to do, roamed in the rivers and lakes. One day Hsü Chên-chün met him, recognized him as a dragon, and knew that he was the cause of the numerous floods which were devastating Kiangsi Province. He determined to find a means of getting rid of him. Shên Lang, aware of the steps being taken against him, changed himself into a yellow ox and fled. Hsü Chên-chün at once transformed himself into a black ox and started in pursuit. The yellow ox jumped down a well to hide, but the black ox followed suit. The yellow ox then jumped out again, and escaped to Ch'ang-sha, where he reassumed a human form and lived with Ms wife in the home of his father-in-law, Hsü Sun, returning to the town, hastened to the _yamên,_ and called to Shên Lang to come out and show himself, addressing him in a severe tone of voice as follows: "Dragon, how dare you hide yourself there under a borrowed form?" Shên Lang then reassumed the form of a spiritual alligator, and Hsü Sun ordered the spiritual soldiers to kill him. He then commanded his two sons to come out of their abode. By merely spurting a mouthful of water on them he transformed them into young dragons. Chia Yü was told to vacate the rooms with all speed, and in the twinkling of an eye the whole _yamên_ sank beneath the earth, and there remained nothing but a lake where it had been. Hsü Chên-chün, after his victory over the dragon, assembled the members of his family, to the number of forty-two, on Hsi Shan, outside the city of Nan-ch'ang Fu, and all ascended to Heaven in full daylight, taking with them even the dogs and chickens. He was then 133 years old. This took place on the first day of the eighth moon of the second year (A.D. 374) of the reign-period Ning-K'ang of the reign of the Emperor Hsiao Wu Ti of the Eastern Chin dynasty. Subsequently a temple was erected to him, and in A.D. 1111 he was canonized as Just Prince, Admirable and Beneficent. The Great Flood The repairing of the heavens by Nü Kua, elsewhere alluded to, is also attributed to the following incident. Before the Chinese Empire was founded a noble and wonderful queen fought with the chief of the tribes who inhabited the country round about Ô-mei Shan. In a fierce battle the chief and his followers met defeat; raging with anger at being beaten by a woman, he rushed up the mountain-side; the Queen pursued him with her army, and overtook him at the summit; finding no place to hide himself, he attempted in desperation both to wreak vengeance upon his enemies and to end his own life by beating his head violently against the cane of the Heavenly Bamboo which grew there. By his mad battering he at last succeeded in knocking down the towering trunk of the tree, and as he did so its top tore great rents in the canopy of the sky, through which poured great floods of water, inundating the whole earth and drowning all the inhabitants except the victorious Queen and her soldiers. The floods had no power to harm her or her followers, because she herself was an all-powerful divinity and was known as the 'Mother of the Gods,' and the 'Defender of the Gods.' From the mountain-side she gathered together stones of a kind having five colours, and ground them into powder; of this she made a plaster or mortar, with which she repaired the tears in the heavens, and the floods immediately ceased. The Marriage of the River-god In Yeh Hsien there was a witch and some official attendants who collected money from the people yearly for the marriage of the River-god. The witch would select a pretty girl of low birth, and say that she should be the Queen of the River-god. The girl was bathed, and clothed in a beautiful dress of gay and costly silk. She was then taken to the bank of the river, to a monastery which was beautifully decorated with scrolls and banners. A feast was held, and the girl was placed on a bed which was floated out upon the tide till it disappeared under the waters. Many families having beautiful daughters moved to distant places, and gradually the city became deserted. The common belief in Yeh was that if no queen was offered to the River-god a flood would come and drown the people. One day Hsi-mên Pao, Magistrate of Yeh Hsien, said to his attendants: "When the marriage of the River-god takes place I wish to say farewell to the chosen girl." Accordingly Hsi-mên Pao was present to witness the ceremony. About three thousand people had come together. Standing beside the old witch were ten of her female disciples, "Call the girl out," said Hsi-mên Pao. After seeing her, Hsi-mên Pao said to the witch: "She is not fair. Go you to the River-god and tell him that we will find a fairer maid and present her to him later on." His attendants then seized the witch and threw her into the river. After a little while Hsi-mên Pao said: "Why does she stay so long? Send a disciple to call her back." One of the disciples was thrown into the river. Another and yet another followed. The magistrate then said:" The witches are females and therefore cannot bring me a reply." So one of the official attendants of the witch was thrown into the river. Hsi-mên Pao stood on the bank for a long time, apparently awaiting a reply. The spectators were alarmed. Hsi-mên Pao then bade his attendants send the remaining disciples of the witch and the other official attendants to recall their mistress. The wretches threw themselves on their knees and knocked their heads on the ground, which was stained with the blood from their foreheads, and with tears confessed their sin. "The River-god detains his guest too long," said Hsi-mên Pao at length. "Let us adjourn." Thereafter none dared to celebrate the marriage of the River-god. Legend of the Building of Peking When the Mongol Yüan dynasty had been destroyed, and the Emperor Hung Wu had succeeded in firmly establishing that of the Great Ming, Ta Ming, he made Chin-ling, the present Nanking, his capital, and held his Court there with great splendour, envoys from every province within the 'Four Seas' (the Chinese Empire) assembling there to witness his greatness and to prostrate themselves before the Dragon Throne. The Emperor had many sons and daughters by his different consorts and concubines, each mother, in her inmost heart, fondly hoping that her own son would be selected by his father to succeed him. Although the Empress had a son, who was the heir-apparent, yet she felt envious of those ladies who had likewise been blessed with children, for fear one of the princes should supplant her son in the affection of the Emperor and in the succession. This envy displayed itself on every occasion; she was greatly beloved by the Emperor, and exerted all her influence with him, as the other young princes grew up, to get them removed from Court. Through her means most of them were sent to the different provinces as governors; those provinces under their government being so many principalities or kingdoms. Chu-ti One of the consorts of Hung Wu, the Lady Wêng, had a son named Chu-ti. This young prince was very handsome and graceful in his deportment; he was, moreover, of an amiable disposition. He was the fourth son of the Emperor, and his pleasing manner and address had made him a great favourite, not only with his father, but with every one about the Court. The Empress noticed the evident affection the Emperor evinced for this prince, and determined to get him removed from the Court as soon as possible. By a judicious use of flattery and cajolery, she ultimately persuaded the Emperor to appoint the prince governor of the Yen country, and thenceforth he was styled Yen Wang, Prince of Yen. The Sealed Packet The young Prince, shortly after, taking an affectionate leave of the Emperor, left Chin-ling to proceed to his post. Ere he departed, however, a Taoist priest, called Liu Po-wên, who had a great affection for the Prince, put a sealed packet into his hand, and told him to open it when he found himself in difficulty, distress, or danger; the perusal of the first portion that came to his hand would invariably suggest some remedy for the evil, whatever it was. After doing so, he was again to seal the packet, without further looking into its contents, till some other emergency arose necessitating advice or assistance, when he would again find it. The Prince departed on his journey, and in the course of time, without meeting with any adventures worth recording, arrived safely at his destination. A Desolate Region The place where Peking now stands was originally called Yu Chou; in the T'ang dynasty it was called Pei-p'ing Fu; and afterward became known as Shun-t'ien Fu--but that was after the city now called Peking was built. The name of the country in which this place was situated was Yen. It was a mere barren wilderness, with very few inhabitants; these lived in huts and scattered hamlets, and there was no city to afford protection to the people and to check the depredations of robbers. When the Prince saw what a desolate-looking place he had been appointed to, and thought of the long years he was probably destined to spend there, he grew very melancholy, and nothing his attendants essayed to do in hope of alleviating his sorrow succeeded. The Prince opens the Sealed Packet All at once the Prince bethought himself of the packet which the old Taoist priest had given him; he forthwith proceeded to make search for it--for in the bustle and excitement of travelling he had forgotten all about it--in hope that it might suggest something to better the prospects before him. Having found the packet, he hastily broke it open to see what instructions it contained; taking out the first paper which came to hand, he read the following: "When you reach Pei-p'ing Fu you must build a city there and name it No-cha Ch'êng, the City of No-cha. [26] But, as the work will be costly, you must issue a proclamation inviting the wealthy to subscribe the necessary funds for building it. At the back of this paper is a plan of the city; you must be careful to act according to the instructions accompanying it." The Prince inspected the plan, carefully read the instructions, and found even the minutest details fully explained. He was struck with the grandeur of the design of the proposed city, and at once acted on the instructions contained in the packet; proclamations were posted up, and large sums were speedily subscribed, ten of the wealthiest families who had accompanied him from Chin-ling being the largest contributors, supporting the plan not only with their purses, by giving immense sums, but by their influence among their less wealthy neighbours. The City is Founded When sufficient money had been subscribed, a propitious day was chosen on which to commence the undertaking. Trenches where the foundations of the walls were to be were first dug out, according to the plan found in the packet. The foundations themselves consisted of layers of stone quarried from the western hills; bricks of an immense size were made and burnt in the neighbourhood; the moat was dug out, and the earth from it used to fill in the centre of the walls, which, when complete, were forty-eight _li_ in circumference, fifty cubits in height, and fifty in breadth; the whole circuit of the walls having battlements and embrasures. Above each of the nine gates of the city immense three-storied towers were built, each tower being ninety-nine cubits in height. Near the front entrance of the city, facing each other, were built the Temples of Heaven and of Earth. In rear of it the beautiful 'Coal Hill' (better known as 'Prospect Hill') was raised; while in the square in front of the Great Gate of the palace was buried an immense quantity of charcoal (that and the coal being stored as a precaution in case of siege). The palace, containing many superb buildings, was built in a style of exceeding splendour; in the various enclosures were beautiful gardens and lakes; in the different courtyards, too, seventy-two wells were dug and thirty-six golden tanks placed. The whole of the buildings and grounds was surrounded by a lofty wall and a stone-paved moat, in which the lotus and other flowers bloomed in great beauty and profusion, and in the clear waters of which myriads of gold and silver fish disported themselves. The geomancy of the city was similar to that of Chin-ling, When everything was completed the Prince compared it with the plan and found that the city tallied with it in every respect. He was much delighted, and called for the ten wealthy persons who had been the chief contributors, and gave each of them a pair of 'couchant dragon' silk- or satin-embroidered cuffs, and allowed them great privileges. Up to the present time there is the common saying: "Since then the 'dragon-cuffed' gentlefolks have flourished." General Prosperity All the people were loud in praise of the beauty and strength of the newly built city. Merchants from every province hastened to Peking, attracted by the news they heard of its magnificence and the prospect there was of profitably disposing of their wares. In short, the people were prosperous and happy, food was plentiful, the troops brave, the monarch just, his ministers virtuous, and all enjoyed the blessings of peace. A Drought and its Cause While everything was thus tranquil, a sudden and untoward event occurred which spread dismay and consternation on all sides. One day when the Prince went into the hall of audience one of his ministers reported that "the wells are thirsty and the rivers dried up"--there was no water, and the people were all in the greatest alarm. The Prince at once called his counsellors together to devise some means of remedying this disaster and causing the water to return to the wells and springs, but no one could suggest a suitable plan. It is necessary to explain the cause of this scarcity of water. There was a dragon's cave outside the east gate of the city at a place called Lei-chên K'ou, 'Thunder-clap Mouth' or 'Pass' (the name of a village). The dragon had not been seen for myriads of years, yet it was well known that he lived there. In digging out the earth to build the wall the workmen had broken into this dragon's cave, little thinking of the consequences which would result. The dragon was exceedingly wroth and determined to shift his abode, but the she-dragon said: "We have lived here thousands of years, and shall we suffer the Prince of Yen to drive us forth thus? If we _do_ go we will collect all the water, place it in our _yin-yang_ baskets [used for drawing water], and at midnight we will appear in a dream to the Prince, requesting permission to retire. If he gives us permission to do so, and allows us also to take our baskets of water with us, he will fall into our trap, for we shall take the waler with his own consent," The Prince's Dream The two dragons then transformed themselves into an old man and an old woman, went to the chamber of the Prince, who was asleep, and appeared to him in a dream. Kneeling before him, they cried: "O Lord of a Thousand Years, we have come before you to beg leave to retire from this place, and to beseech you out of your great bounty to give us permission to take these two baskets of water with us." The Prince readily assented, little dreaming of the danger he was incurring. The dragons were highly delighted, and hastened out of his presence; they filled the baskets with all the water there was in Peking, and carried them off with them. When the Prince awoke he paid no attention to his dream till he heard the report of the scarcity of water, when, reflecting on the singularity of his dream, he thought there might be some hidden meaning in it. He therefore had recourse to the packet again, and discovered that his dream-visitors had been dragons, who had taken the waters of Peking away with them in their magic baskets; the packet, however, contained directions for the recovery of the water, and he at once prepared to follow them. The Pursuit of the Dragons In haste the Prince donned his armour, mounted his black steed, and, spear in hand, dashed out of the west gate of the city. He pressed on his horse, which went swift as the wind, nor did he slacken speed till he came up with the water-stealing dragons, who still retained the forms in which they had appeared to him in his dream. On a cart were the two identical baskets he had seen; in front of the cart, dragging it, was the old woman, while behind, pushing it, was the old man. An Unexpected Flood When the Prince saw them he galloped up to the cart, and, without pausing, thrust his spear into one of the baskets, making a great hole, out of which the water rushed so rapidly that the Prince was much frightened. He dashed off at full speed to save himself from being swallowed up by the waters, which in a very short time had risen more than thirty feet and had flooded the surrounding country. On galloped the Prince, followed by the roaring water, till he reached a hill, up which he urged his startled horse. When he gained the top he found that it stood out of the water like an island, completely surrounded; the water was seething and swirling round the hill in a frightful manner, but no vestige could he see of either of the dragons. The Waters Subside The Prince was very much alarmed at his perilous position, when suddenly a Buddhist priest appeared before him, with clasped hands and bent head, who bade him not be alarmed, as with Heaven's assistance he would soon disperse the water. Hereupon the priest recited a short prayer or spell, and the waters receded as rapidly as they had risen, and finally returned to their proper channels. The Origin of Chên-shui T'a The broken basket became a large deep hole, some three _mu_ (about half an English acre) in extent, in the centre of which was a fountain which threw up a vast body of clear water. From the midst of this there arose a pagoda, which rose and fell with the water, floating on the top like a vessel; the spire thrusting itself far up into the sky, and swaying about like the mast of a ship in a storm. The Prince returned to the city filled with wonder at what he had seen, and with joy at having so successfully carried out the directions contained in the packet. On all sides he was greeted by the acclamations of the people, who hailed him as the saviour of Peking. Since that time Peking has never had the misfortune to be without water. The pagoda is called the Pagoda on the Hill of the Imperial Spring (Yü Ch'üan Shan T'a; more commonly Chên-shui T'a, 'Water-repressing Pagoda'). [27] The spring is still there, and day and night, unceasingly, its clear waters bubble up and flow eastward to Peking, which would now be a barren wilderness but for Yen Wang's pursuit of the water. CHAPTER VIII Myths of Fire The Ministry of Fire The celestial organization of Fire is the fifth Ministry, and is presided over by a President, Lo Hsüan, whose titular designation is Huo-tê Hsing-chün, 'Stellar Sovereign of the Fire-virtue,' with five subordinate ministers, four of whom are star-gods, and the fifth a "celestial prince who receives fire": Chieh-huo T'ien-chün. Like so many other Chinese deities, the five were all ministers of the tyrant emperor Chou. It is related that Lo Hsüan was originally a Taoist priest known as Yen-chung Hsien, of the island Huo-lung, 'Fire-dragon.' His face was the colour of ripe fruit of the jujube-tree, his hair and beard red, the former done up in the shape of a fish-tail, and he had three eyes. He wore a red cloak ornamented with the _pa kua_; his horse snorted flames from its nostrils and fire darted from its hoofs. While fighting in the service of the son of the tyrant emperor, Lo Hsüan suddenly changed himself into a giant with three heads and six arms. In each of his hands he held a magic weapon. These were a seal which reflected the heavens and the earth, a wheel of the five fire-dragons, a gourd containing ten thousand fire-crows, and, in the other hands, two swords which floated like smoke, and a column of smoke several thousands of _li_ long enclosing swords of fire. A Conflagration Having arrived at the city of Hsi Ch'i, Lo Hsüan sent forth his smoke-column, the air was filled with swords of fire, the ten thousand fire-crows, emerging from the gourd, spread themselves over the town, and a terrible conflagration broke out, the whole place being ablaze in a few minutes. At this juncture there appeared in the sky the Princess Lung Chi, daughter of Wang-mu Niang-niang; forthwith she spread over the city her shroud of mist and dew, and the fire was extinguished by a heavy downpour of rain. All the mysterious mechanisms of Lo Hsüan lost their efficacy, and the magician took to his heels down the side of the mountain. There he was met by Li, the Pagoda-bearer, [28] who threw his golden pagoda into the air. The pagoda fell on Lo Hsüan's head and broke his skull. C'ih Ching-tzu Of the various fire-gods, Ch'ih Ching-tzu, the principle of spiritual fire, is one of the five spirits representing the Five Elements. He is Fire personified, which has its birth in the south, on Mount Shih-t'ang. He himself and everything connected with him--his skin, hair, beard, trousers, cloak of leaves, etc.--are all of the colour of fire, though he is sometimes represented with a blue cap resembling the blue tip of a flame. He appeared in the presence of Huang Lao in a fire-cloud. He it was who obtained fire from the wood of the mulberry-tree, and the heat of this fire, joined with the moisture of water, developed the germs of terrestrial beings. The Red Emperor Chu Jung, though also otherwise personified, is generally regarded as having been a legendary emperor who made his first appearance in the time of Hsien Yuan (2698-2598 B.C.). In his youth he asked Kuang-shou Lao-jên, 'Old Longevity,' to grant him immortality. "The time has not yet come," replied Old Longevity; "before it does you have to become an emperor. I will give you the means of reaching the end you desire. Give orders that after you are dead you are to be buried on the southern slope of the sacred mountain Hêng Shan; there you will learn the doctrine of Ch'ih Ching-tzu and will become immortal." The Emperor Hsien Yüan, having abdicated the throne, sent for Chu Jung, and bestowed upon him the crown. Chu Jung, having become emperor, taught the people the use of fire and the advantages to be derived therefrom. In those early times the forests were filled with venomous reptiles and savage animals; he ordered the peasants to set fire to the brushwood to drive away these dangerous neighbours and keep them at a distance. He also taught his subjects the art of purifying, forging, and welding metals by the action of fire. He was nicknamed Ch'ih Ti, 'the Red Emperor.' He reigned for more than two hundred years, and became an Immortal, His capital was the ancient city of Kuei, thirty _li_ north-east of Hsin-chêng Hsien, in the Prefecture of K'ai-fêng Fu, Honan. His tomb is on the southern slope of Heng Shan. The peak is known as Chu Jung Peak. His descendants, who went to live in the south, were the ancestors of the Directors of Fire. Hui Lu The most popular God of Fire, however, is Hui Lu, a celebrated magician who, according to the _Shên hsien t'ung chien_, lived some time before the reign of Ti K'u (2436-2366 B.C.), the father of Yao the Great, and had a mysterious bird named Pi Fang and a hundred other fire-birds shut up in a gourd. He had only to let them out to set up a conflagration which would extend over the whole country. Huang Ti ordered Chu Jung to fight Hui Lu and also to subdue the rebel Chih Yu. Chu Jung had a large bracelet of pure gold--a most wonderful and effective weapon. He hurled it into the air, and it fell on Hui Lu's neck, throwing him to the ground and rendering him incapable of moving. Finding resistance impossible, he asked mercy from his victor and promised to be his follower in the spiritual contests. Subsequently he always called himself Huo-shih Chih T'u, 'the Disciple of the Master of Fire.' The Fire-emperor Shen Nung, the God of Agriculture, also adds to his other functions those appertaining to the God of Fire, the reason being that when he succeeded the Emperor Fu Hsi on the throne he adopted fire as the emblem of his government, just as Huang Ti adopted the symbol of Earth. Thus he came to be called Huo Ti, the 'Fire-emperor.' He taught his subjects the use of fire for smelting metals and making implements and weapons, and the use of oil in lamps, etc. All the divisions of his official hierarchy were connected in some way with this element; thus, there were the Ministers of Fire generally, the officers of Fire of the North, South, etc. Becoming thus doubly the patron of fire, a second fire symbol (_huo_) was added to his name, changing it from Huo Ti, 'Fire-emperor,' to Yen Ti, 'Blazing Emperor,' CHAPTER IX Myths of Epidemics, Medicine, Exorcism, Etc. The Ministry of Epidemics The gods of epidemics, etc., belong to the sixth, ninth, second, and third celestial Ministries. The composition of the Ministry of Epidemics is arranged differently in different works as Epidemics (regarded as epidemics on earth, but as demons in Heaven) of the Centre, Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter, or as the marshals clothed in yellow, green, red, white, and blue respectively, or as the Officers of the East, West, South, and North, with two additional members: a Taoist who quells the plague, and the Grand Master who exhorts people to do right. With regard to the Ministry of Seasonal Epidemics, it is related that in the sixth moon of the eleventh year (A.D. 599) of the reign of Kao Tsu, founder of the Sui dynasty, five stalwart persons appeared in the air, clothed in robes of five colours, each carrying different objects in his hands: the first a spoon and earthenware vase, the second a leather bag and sword, the third a fan, the fourth a club, the fifth a jug of fire. The Emperor asked Chang Chü-jên, his Grand Historiographer, who these were and if they were benevolent or evil spirits. The official answered: "These are the five powers of the five directions. Their appearance indicates the imminence of epidemics, which will last throughout the four seasons of the year." "What remedy is there, and how am I to protect the people?" inquired the Emperor. "There is no remedy," replied the official, "for epidemics are sent by Heaven." During that year the mortality was very great. The Emperor built a temple to the five persons, and bestowed upon them the title of Marshals to the Five Spirits of the Plague. During that and the following dynasty sacrifices were offered to them on the fifth day of the fifth moon. The President of the Ministry The following particulars are given concerning the President of the Ministry, whose name was Lü Yüeh. He was an old Taoist hermit, living at Chiu-lung Tao, 'Nine-dragon Island,' who became an Immortal. The four members of the Ministry were his disciples. He wore a red garment, had a blue face, red hair, long teeth, and three eyes. His war-horse was named the Myopic Camel. He carried a magic sword, and was in the service of Chou Wang, whose armies were concentrated at Hsi Ch'i. In a duel with Mu-cha, brother of No-cha, he had his arm severed by a sword-cut. In another battle with Huang T'ien-hua, son of Huang Fei-hu, he appeared with three heads and six arms. In his many hands he held the celestial seal, plague microbes, the flag of plague, the plague sword, and two mysterious swords. His faces were green, and large teeth protruded from his mouths. Huang T'ien-hua threw his magic weapon, Huo-lung Piao, and hit him on the leg. Just at that moment Chiang Tzu-ya arrived with his goblin-dispelling whip and felled him with a blow. He was able, however, to rise again, and took to flight. The Plague-disseminating Umbrellas Resolved to avenge his defeat, he joined General Hsü Fang, who was commanding an army corps at Ch'uan-yün Kuan. Round the mountain he organized a system of entrenchments and of infection against their enemies. Yang Chien released his celestial hound, which bit Lü Yüeh on the crown of his head. Then Yang Jên, armed with his magic fan, pursued Lü Yüeh and compelled him to retreat to his fortress. Lü Yüeh mounted the central raised part of the embattled wall and opened all his plague-disseminating umbrellas, with the object of infecting Yang Jên, but the latter, simply by waving his fan, reduced all the umbrellas to dust, and also burned the fort, and with it Lü Yüeh. Similar wonderful achievements are related in short notices in the _Fêng shên yen i_ of the four other officers of the Ministry. Li P'ing, the sixth officer of the Ministry, met a like fate to that of Lü Yüeh after having failed to induce the latter to abandon the cause of the Shang dynasty for that of Chou. The Five Graduates In Père Henri Doré's _Recherches sur les Superstitions en Chine_ is given an interesting legend concerning five other gods of epidemics. These gods are called the Wu Yüeh, 'Five Mountains,' and are worshipped in the temple San-i Ko at Ju-kao, especially in outbreaks of contagious diseases and fevers. A sufferer goes to the temple and promises offerings to the gods in the event of recovery. The customary offering is five small wheaten loaves, called _shao ping_, and a pound of meat. The Wu Yüeh are stellar devils whom Yü Huang sent to be reincarnated on earth. Their names were T'ien Po-hsüeh, Tung Hung-wên, Ts'ai Wên-chü, Chao Wu-chên, and Huang Ying-tu, and they were reincarnated at Nan-ch'ang Fu, Chien-ch'ang Fu, Yen-mên Kuan, Yang Chou, and Nanking respectively. They were all noted for their brilliant intellects, and were clever scholars who passed their graduate's examination with success. When Li Shih-min ascended the throne, in A.D. 627, he called together all the _literati_ of the Empire to take the Doctor's Examination in the capital. Our five graduates started for the metropolis, but, losing their way, were robbed by brigands, and had to beg help in order to reach the end of their journey. By good luck they all met in the temple San-i Ko, and related to each other the various hardships they had undergone. But when they eventually reached the capital the examination was over, and they were out in the streets without resources. So they took an oath of brotherhood for life and death. They pawned some of the few clothes they possessed, and buying some musical instruments formed themselves into a band of strolling musicians. The first bought a drum, the second a seven-stringed guitar, the third a mandolin, the fourth a clarinet, and the fifth and youngest composed songs. Thus they went through the streets of the capital giving their concerts, and Fate decreed that Li Shih-min should hear their melodies. Charmed with the sweet sounds, he asked Hsü Mao-kung whence came this band of musicians, whose skill was certainly exceptional. Having made inquiries, the minister related their experiences to the Emperor. Li Shih-min ordered them to be brought into his presence, and after hearing them play and sing appointed them to his private suite, and henceforth they accompanied him wherever he went. The Emperors Strategy The Emperor bore malice toward Chang T'ien-shih, the Master of the Taoists, because he refused to pay the taxes on his property, and conceived a plan to bring about his destruction. He caused a spacious subterranean chamber to be dug under the reception-hall of his palace. A wire passed through the ceiling to where the Emperor sat. He could thus at will give the signal for the music to begin or stop. Having stationed the five musicians in this subterranean chamber, he summoned the Master of the Taoists to his presence and invited him to a banquet. During the course of this he pulled the wire, and a subterranean babel began. The Emperor pretended to be terrified, and allowed himself to fall to the ground. Then, addressing himself to the T'ien-shih, he said: "I know that you can at will catch the devilish hobgoblins which molest human beings. You can hear for yourself the infernal row they make in my palace. I order you under penalty of death to put a stop to their pranks and to exterminate them." The Musicians are Slain Having spoken thus, the Emperor rose and left. The Master of the Taoists brought his projecting mirror, and began to seek for the evil spirits. In vain he inspected the palace and its precincts; he could discover nothing. Fearing that he was lost, he in despair threw his mirror on the floor of the reception-hall. A minute later, sad and pensive, he stooped to pick it up; what was his joyful surprise when he saw reflected in it the subterranean room and the musicians! At once he drew five talismans on yellow paper, burned them, and ordered his celestial general, Chao Kung-ming, to take his sword and kill the five musicians. The order was promptly executed, and the T'ien-shih informed the Emperor, who received the news with ridicule, not believing it to be true. He went to his seat and pulled the wire, but all remained silent. A second and third time he gave the signal, but without response. He then ordered his Grand Officer to ascertain what had happened. The officer found the five graduates bathed in their blood, and lifeless. The Emperor, furious, reproached the Master of the Taoists. "But," replied the T'ien-shih, "was it not your Majesty who ordered me under pain of death to exterminate the authors of this pandemonium?" Li Shih-min could not reply. He dismissed the Master of the Taoists and ordered the five victims to be buried. The Emperor Tormented After the funeral ceremonies, apparitions appeared at night in the place where they had been killed, and the palace became a babel. The spirits threw bricks and broke the tiles on the roofs. The Emperor ordered his uncomfortable visitors to go to the T'ien-shih who had murdered them. They obeyed, and, seizing the garments of the Master of the Taoists, swore not to allow him any rest if he would not restore them to life. To appease them the Taoist said: "I am going to give each of you a wonderful object. You are then to return and spread epidemics among wicked people, beginning in the imperial palace and with the Emperor himself, with the object of forcing him to canonize you." One received a fan, another a gourd filled with fire, the third a metallic ring to encircle people's heads, the fourth a stick made of wolves' teeth, and the fifth a cup of lustral water. The spirit-graduates left full of joy, and made their first experiment on Li Shih-min. The first gave him feverish chills by waving his fan, the second burned him with the fire from his gourd, the third encircled his head with the ring, causing him violent headache, the fourth struck him with his stick, and the fifth poured out his cup of lustral water on his head. The same night a similar tragedy took place in the palace of the Empress and the two chief imperial concubines. T'ai-po Chin-hsing, however, informed Yü Huang what had happened, and, touched with compassion, he sent three Immortals with pills and talismans which cured the Empress and the ladies of the palace. The Graduates Canonized Li Shih-min, having also recovered his health, summoned the five deceased graduates and expressed his regret for the unfortunate issue of his design against the T'ien-shih. He proceeded: "To the south of the capital is the temple San-i Ko. I will change its name to Hsiang Shan Wu Yüeh Shên, 'Fragrant Hill of the Five Mountain Spirits.' On the twenty-eighth day of the ninth moon betake yourselves to that temple to receive the seals of your canonization." He conferred upon them the title of Ti, 'Emperor.' The Ministry of Medicine The celestial Ministry of Medicine is composed of three main divisions comprising: (1) the Ancestral Gods of the Chinese race; (2) the King of Remedies, Yao Wang; and (3) the Specialists. There is a separate Ministry of Smallpox. This latter controls and cures smallpox, and the establishment of a separate celestial Ministry is significant of the prevalence and importance of the affliction. The ravages of smallpox in China, indeed, have been terrific: so much so, that, until recent years, it was considered as natural and inevitable for a child to have smallpox as for it to cut its teeth. One of the ceremonial questions addressed by a visitor to the parent of a child was always _Ch'u la hua'rh mei yu_? "Has he had the smallpox?" and a child who escaped the scourge was often, if not as a rule, regarded with disfavour and, curiously enough, as a weakling. Probably the train of thought in the Chinese mind was that, as it is the fittest who survive, those who have successfully passed through the process of "putting out the flowers" have proved their fitness in the struggle for existence. Nowadays vaccination is general, and the number of pockmarked faces seen is much smaller than it used to be--in fact, the pockmarked are now the exception. But, as far as I have been able to ascertain, the Ministry of Smallpox has not been abolished, and possibly its members, like those of some more mundane ministries, continue to draw large salaries for doing little or no work. The Medicine-gods The chief gods of medicine are the mythical kings P'an Ku, Fu Hsi, Shên Nung, and Huang Ti. The first two, being by different writers regarded as the first progenitor or creator of the Chinese people, are alternatives, so that Fu Hsi, Shên Nung, and Huang Ti may be said to be a sort of ancestral triad of medicine-gods, superior to the actual God or King of Medicine, Yao Wang. Of P'an Ku we have spoken sufficiently in Chapter III, and with regard to Fu Hsi, also called T'ien Huang Shih, 'the Celestial Emperor,' the mythical sovereign and supposed inventor of cooking, musical instruments, the calendar, hunting, fishing, etc., the chief interest for our present purpose centres in his discovery of the _pa kua_, or Eight Trigrams. It is on the strength of these trigrams that Fu Hsi is regarded as the chief god of medicine, since it is by their mystical power that the Chinese physicians influence the minds and maladies of their patients. He is represented as holding in front of him a disk on which the signs are painted. The Ministry of Exorcism The Ministry of Exorcism is a Taoist invention and is composed of seven chief ministers, whose duty is to expel evil spirits from dwellings and generally to counteract the annoyances of infernal demons. The two gods usually referred to in the popular legends are P'an Kuan and Chung K'uei. The first is really the Guardian of the Living and the Dead in the Otherworld, Fêng-tu P'an Kuan (Fêng-tu or Fêng-tu Ch'êng being the region beyond the tomb). He was originally a scholar named Ts'ui Chio, who became Magistrate of Tz'u Chou, and later Minister of Ceremonies. After his death he was appointed to the spiritual post above mentioned. His best-known achievement is his prolongation of the life of the Emperor T'ai Tsung of the T'ang dynasty by twenty years by changing _i_, 'one,' into _san_, 'three,' in the life-register kept by the gods. The term P'an Kuan is, however, more generally used as the designation of an officer or civil or military attendant upon a god than of any special individual, and the original P'an Kuan, 'the Decider of Life in Hades,' has been gradually supplanted in popular favour by Chung K'uei, 'the Protector against Evil Spirits.' The Exorcism of 'Emptiness and Devastation' The Emperor Ming Huang of the T'ang dynasty, also known as T'ang Hsüan Tsung, in the reign-period K'ai Yüan (A.D. 712-742), after an expedition to Mount Li in Shensi, was attacked by fever. During a nightmare he saw a small demon fantastically dressed in red trousers, with a shoe on one foot but none on the other, and a shoe hanging from his girdle. Having broken through a bamboo gate, he took possession of an embroidered box and a jade flute, and then began to make a tour of the palace, sporting and gambolling. The Emperor grew angry and questioned him. "Your humble servant," replied the little demon, "is named Hsü Hao, 'Emptiness and Devastation,'" "I have never heard of such a person," said the Emperor. The demon rejoined, "Hsü means to desire Emptiness, because in Emptiness one can fly just as one wishes; Hao, 'Devastation,' changes people's joy to sadness. "The Emperor, irritated by this flippancy, was about to call his guard, when suddenly a great devil appeared, wearing a tattered head-covering and a blue robe, a horn clasp on his belt, and official boots on his feet. He went up to the sprite, tore out one of his eyes, crushed it up, and ate it. The Emperor asked the newcomer who he was. "Your humble servant," he replied, "is Chung K'uei, Physician of Tung-nan Shan in Shensi. In the reign-period Wu Tê (A.D. 618-627) of the Emperor Kao Tsu of the T'ang dynasty I was ignominiously rejected and unjustly defrauded of a first class in the public examinations. Overwhelmed with shame, I committed suicide on the steps of the imperial palace. The Emperor ordered me to be buried in a green robe [reserved for members of the imperial clan], and out of gratitude for that favour I swore to protect the sovereign in any part of the Empire against the evil machinations of the demon Hsü Hao." At these words the Emperor awoke and found that the fever had left him. His Majesty called for Wu Tao-tzu (one of the most celebrated Chinese artists) to paint the portrait of the person he had seen in his dream. The work was so well done that the Emperor recognized it as the actual demon he had seen in his sleep, and rewarded the artist with a hundred taels of gold. The portrait is said to have been still in the imperial palace during the Sung dynasty. Another version of the legend says that Chung K'uefs essay was recognized by the examiners as equal to the work of the best authors of antiquity, but that the Emperor rejected him on account of his extremely ugly features, whereupon he committed suicide in his presence, was honoured by the Emperor and accorded a funeral as if he had been the successful first candidate, and canonized with the title of Great Spiritual Chaser of Demons for the Whole Empire. CHAPTER X The Goddess of Mercy The Guardian Angel of Buddhism As Mary is the guiding spirit of Rome, so is Kuan Yin of the Buddhist faith. According to a beautiful Chinese legend, Kuan Yin. when about to enter Heaven, heard a cry of anguish rising from the earth beneath her, and, moved by pity, paused as her feet touched the glorious threshold. Hence her name 'Kuan (Shih) Yin' (one who notices or hears the cry, or prayer, of the world). Kuan Yin was at one time always represented as a man; but in the T'ang dynasty and Five Dynasties we find him represented as a woman, and he has been generally, though not invariably, so represented since that time. In old Buddhism Shâkyamuni was the chief god, and in many temples he still nominally occupies the seat of honour, but he is completely eclipsed by the God or Goddess of Mercy. "The men love her, the children adore her, and the women chant her prayers. Whatever the temple may be, there is nearly always a chapel for Kuan Yin within its precincts; she lives in many homes, and in many, many hearts she sits enshrined. She is the patron goddess of mothers, and when we remember the relative value of a son in Chinese estimation we can appreciate the heartiness of the worship. She protects in sorrow, and so millions of times the prayer is offered, 'Great mercy, great pity, save from sorrow, save from suffering,' or, as it is in the books, 'Great mercy, great pity, save from misery, save from evil, broad, great, efficacious, responsive Kuan Yin Buddha,' She saves the tempest-tossed sailor, and so has eclipsed the Empress of Heaven, who, as the female Neptune, is the patroness of seamen; in drought the mandarins worship the Dragon and the Pearly Emperor, but if they fail the bronze Goddess of Mercy from the hills brings rain. Other gods are feared, she is loved; others have black, scornful faces, her countenance is radiant as gold, and gentle as the moon-beam; she draws near to the people and the people draw near to her. Her throne is upon the Isle of Pootoo [P'u T'o], to which she came floating upon a water-lily. She is the model of Chinese beauty, and to say a lady or a little girl is a 'Kuan Yin' is the highest compliment that can be paid to grace and loveliness. She is fortunate in having three birthdays, the nineteenth of the second, sixth, and ninth moons." There are many metamorphoses of this goddess. The Buddhist Saviour "She is called Kuan Yin because at any cry of misery she 'hears the voice and removes the sorrow.' Her appellation is 'Taking-away-fear Buddha,' If in the midst of the fire the name of Kuan Yin is called, the fire cannot burn; if tossed by mountain billows, call her name, and shallow waters will be reached. If merchants go across the sea seeking gold, silver, pearls, and precious stones, and a storm comes up and threatens to carry the crew to the evil devil's kingdom, if one on board calls on the name of Kuan Yin, the ship will be saved. If one goes into a conflict and calls on the name of Kuan Yin, the sword and spear of the enemy fall harmless. If the three thousand great kingdoms are visited by demons, call on her name, and these demons cannot with an evil eye look on a man. If, within, you have evil thoughts, only call on Kuan Yin, and your heart will be purified, Anger and wrath may be dispelled by calling on the name of Kuan Yin. A lunatic who prays to Kuan Yin will become sane. Kuan Yin gives sons to mothers, and if the mother asks for a daughter she will be beautiful. Two men--one chanting the names of the 6,200,000 Buddhas, in number like the sands of the Ganges, and the other simply calling on Kuan Yin--have equal merit. Kuan Yin may take the form of a Buddha, a prince, a priest, a nun, a scholar, any form or shape, go to any kingdom, and preach the law throughout the earth." Miao Chuang desires an Heir In the twenty-first year of the reign of Ta Hao, the Great Great One, of the Golden Heavenly Dynasty, a man named P'o Chia, whose first name was Lo Yü, an enterprising kinglet of Hsi Yii, seized the throne for twenty years, after carrying on a war for a space of three years. His kingdom was known as Hsing Lin, and the title of his reign as Miao Chuang. The kingdom of Hsing Lin was, so says the Chinese writer, situated between India on the west, the kingdom of T'ien Cheng on the south, and the kingdom of Siam on the north, and was 3000 _li_ in length. The boundaries differ according to different authors. Of this kingdom the two pillars of State were the Grand Minister Chao Chen and the General Ch'u Chieh. The Queen Pao Tê, whose maiden name was Po Ya, and the King Miao Chuang had lived nearly half a century without having any male issue to succeed to the throne. This was a source of great grief to them. Po Ya suggested to the King that the God of Hua Shan, the sacred mountain in the west, had the reputation of being always willing to help; and that if he prayed to him and asked his pardon for having shed so much blood during the wars which preceded his accession to the throne he might obtain an heir. Welcoming this suggestion, the King sent for Chao Chên and ordered him to dispatch to the temple of Hua Shan the two Chief Ministers of Ceremonies, Hsi Hêng-nan and Chih Tu, with instructions to request fifty Buddhist and Taoist priests to pray for seven days and seven nights in order that the King might obtain a son. When that period was over, the King and Queen would go in person to offer sacrifices in the temple. Prayers to the Gods The envoys took with them many rare and valuable presents, and for seven days and seven nights the temple resounded with the sound of drums, bells, and all kinds of instruments, intermingled with the voices of the praying priests. On their arrival the King and Queen offered sacrifices to the god of the sacred mountain. But the God of Hua Shan knew that the King had been deprived of a male heir as a punishment for the bloody hecatombs during his three years' war. The priests, however, interceded for him, urging that the King had come in person to offer the sacrifices, wherefore the God could not altogether reject his prayer. So he ordered Ch'ien-li Yen, 'Thousand-_li_ Eye,' and Shun-fêng Erh, 'Favourable-wind Ear,' [29] to go quickly and ascertain if there were not some worthy person who was on the point of being reincarnated into this world. The two messengers shortly returned, and stated that in India, in the Chiu Ling Mountains, in the village of Chih-shu Yüan, there lived a good man named Shih Ch'in-ch'ang, whose ancestors for three generations had observed all the ascetic rules of the Buddhists. This man was the father of three children, the eldest Shih Wên, the second Shih Chin, and the third Shih Shan, all worthy followers of the great Buddha. The Murder of the Tais Wang Chê, a brigand chief, and thirty of his followers, finding themselves pursued and harassed by the Indian soldiers, without provisions or shelter, dying of hunger, went to Shih Wên and begged for something to eat. Knowing that they were evildoers, Shih Wên and his two brothers refused to give them anything; if they starved, they said, the peasants would no longer suffer from their depredations. Thereupon the brigands decided that it was a case of life for life, and broke into the house of a rich family of the name of Tai, burning their home, killing a hundred men, women, and children, and carrying off everything they possessed. The local _t'u-ti_ at once made a report to Yü Huang. "This Shih family," replied the god, "for three generations has given itself up to good works, and certainly the brigands were not deserving of any pity. However, it is impossible to deny that the three brothers Shih, in refusing them food, morally compelled them to loot the Tai family's house, putting all to the sword or flames. Is not this the same as if they had committed the crime themselves? Let them be arrested and put in chains in the celestial prison, and let them never see the light of the sun again." "Since," said the messenger to the God of Hua Shan, "your gratitude toward Miao Chuang compels you to grant him an heir, why not ask Yü Huang to pardon their crime and reincarnate them in the womb of the Queen Po Ya, so that they may begin a new terrestrial existence and give themselves up to good works?" As a result, the God of Hua Shan called the Spirit of the Wind and gave him a message for Yü Huang. A Message for Yü Huang The message was as follows: "King Miao Chuang has offered sacrifice to me and begged me to grant him an heir. But since by his wars he has caused the deaths of a large number of human beings, he does not deserve to have his request granted. Now these three brothers Shih have offended your Majesty by constraining the brigand Wang Che to be guilty of murder and robbery. I pray you to take into account their past good works and pardon their crime, giving them an opportunity of expiating it by causing them all three to be reborn, but of the female sex, in the womb of Po Ya the Queen. [30] In this way they will be able to atone for their crime and save many souls." Yü Huang was pleased to comply, and he ordered the Spirit of the North Pole to release the three captives and take their souls to the palace of King Miao Chuang, where in three years' time they would be changed into females in the womb of Queen Po Ya. Birth of the Three Daughters The King, who was anxiously expecting day by day the birth of an heir, was informed one morning that a daughter had been born to him. She was named Miao Ch'ing. A year went by, and another daughter was born. This one was named Miao Yin. When, at the end of the third year, another daughter was born, the King, beside himself with rage, called his Grand Minister Chao Chên and, all disconsolate, said to him, "I am past fifty, and have no male child to succeed me on the throne. My dynasty will therefore become extinct. Of what use have been all my labours and all my victories?" Chao Chen tried to console him, saying, "Heaven has granted you three daughters: no human power can change this divine decree. When these princesses have grown up, we will choose three sons-in-law for your Majesty, and you can elect your successor from among them. Who will dare to dispute his right to the throne?" The King named the third daughter Miao Shan. She became noted for her modesty and many other good qualities, and scrupulously observed all the tenets of the Buddhist doctrines. Virtuous living seemed, indeed, to be to her a second nature. Miao Shan's Ambition One day, when the three sisters were playing in the palace garden of Perpetual Spring, Miao Shan, with a serious mien, said to her sisters, "Riches and glory are like the rain in spring or the morning dew; a little while, and all is gone. Kings and emperors think to enjoy to the end the good fortune which places them in a rank apart from other human beings; but sickness lays them low in their coffins, and all is over. Where are now all those powerful dynasties which have laid down the law to the world? As for me, I desire nothing more than a peaceful retreat on a lone mountain, there to attempt the attainment of perfection. If some day I can reach a high degree of goodness, then, borne on the clouds of Heaven, I will travel throughout the universe, passing in the twinkling of an eye from east to west. I will rescue my father and mother, and bring them to Heaven; I will save the miserable and afflicted on earth; I will convert the spirits which do evil, and cause them to do good. That is my only ambition." Her Sisters Marry No sooner had she finished speaking than a lady of the Court came to announce that the King had found sons-in-law to his liking for his two elder daughters. The wedding-feast was to be the very next day. "Be quick," she added, "and prepare your presents, your dresses, and so forth, for the King's order is imperative." The husband chosen for Miao Ch'ing was a First Academician named Chao K'uei. His personal name was Tê Ta, and he was the son of a celebrated minister of the reigning dynasty. Miao Yin's husband-elect was a military officer named Ho Fêng, whose personal name was Ch'ao Yang. He had passed first in the examination for the Military Doctorate. The marriage ceremonies were of a magnificent character. Festivity followed festivity; the newly-wed were duly installed in their palaces, and general happiness prevailed. Miao Shan's Renunciation There now remained only Miao Shan. The King and Queen wished to find for her a man famous for knowledge and virtue, capable of ruling the kingdom, and worthy of being the successor to the throne. So the King called her and explained to her all his plans regarding her, and how all his hopes rested on her. "It is a crime," she replied, "for me not to comply with my father's wishes; but you must pardon me if my ideas differ from yours." "Tell me what your ideas are," said the King. "I do not wish to marry," she rejoined. "I wish to attain to perfection and to Buddhahood. Then I promise that I will not be ungrateful to you." "Wretch of a daughter," cried the King in anger, "you think you can teach me, the head of the State and ruler of so great a people! Has anyone ever known a daughter of a king become a nun? Can a good woman be found in that class? Put aside all these mad ideas of a nunnery, and tell me at once if you will marry a First Academician or a Military First Graduate." "Who is there," answered the girl, "who does not love the royal dignity?--what person who does not aspire to the happiness of marriage? However, I wish to become a nun. With respect to the riches and glory of this world, my heart is as cold as a dead cinder, and I feel a keen desire to make it ever purer and purer." The King rose in fury, and wished to cast her out from his presence. Miao Shan, knowing she could not openly disobey his orders, took another course. "If you absolutely insist upon my marrying," she said, "I will consent; only I must marry a physician." "A physician!" growled the King. "Are men of good family and talents wanting in my kingdom? What an absurd idea, to want to marry a physician!" "My wish is," said Miao Shan, "to heal humanity of all its ills; of cold, heat, lust, old age, and all infirmities. I wish to equalize all classes, putting rich and poor on the same footing, to have community of goods, without distinction of persons. If you will grant me my wish, I can still in this way become a Buddha, a Saviour of Mankind. There is no necessity to call in the diviners to choose an auspicious day. I am ready to be married now." She is Exiled to the Garden At these words the King was mad with rage. "Wicked imbecile!" he cried, "what diabolical suggestions are these that you dare to make in my presence?" Without further ado he called Ho T'ao, who on that day was officer of the palace guard. When he had arrived and kneeled to receive the King's commands, the latter said: "This wicked nun dishonours me. Take from her her Court robes, and drive her from my presence. Take her to the Queen's garden, and let her perish there of cold: that will be one care less for my troubled heart." Miao Shan fell on her face and thanked the King, and then went with the officer to the Queen's garden, where she began to lead her retired hermit life, with the moon for companion and the wind for friend, content to see all obstacles overthrown on her way to Nirvana, the highest state of spiritual bliss, and glad to exchange the pleasures of the palace for the sweetness of solitude. The Nunnery of the White Bird After futile attempts to dissuade her from her purpose by the Court ladies, her parents, and sisters, the King and Queen next deputed Miao Hung and Ts'ui Hung to make a last attempt to bring their misguided daughter to her senses. Miao Shan, annoyed at this renewed solicitation, in a haughty manner ordered them never again to come and torment her with their silly prattle. "I have found out," she added, "that there is a well-known temple at Ju Chou in Lung-shu Hsien. This Buddhist temple is known as the Nunnery of the White Bird, Po-ch'iao Ch'an-ssu. In it five hundred nuns give themselves up to the study of the true doctrine and the way of perfection. Go then and ask the Queen on my behalf to obtain the King's permission for me to retire thither. If you can procure me this favour, I will not fail to reward you later." Miao Chuang summoned the messengers and inquired the result of their efforts. "She is more unapproachable than ever," they replied; "she has even ordered us to ask the Queen to obtain your Majesty's permission to retire to the Nunnery of the White Bird in Lung-shu Hsien." The King gave his permission, but sent strict orders to the nunnery, instructing the nuns to do all in their power to dissuade the Princess when she arrived from carrying out her intention to remain. Her Reception at the Nunnery This Nunnery of the White Bird had been built by Huang Ti, and the five hundred nuns who lived in it had as Superior a lady named I Yu, who was remarkable for her virtue. On receipt of the royal mandate, she had summoned Chêng Chêng-ch'ang, the choir-mistress, and informed her that Princess Miao Shan, owing to a disagreement with her father, would shortly arrive at the temple. She requested her to receive the visitor courteously, but at the same time to do all she could to dissuade her from adopting the life of a nun. Having given these instructions, the Superior, accompanied by two novices, went to meet Miao Shan at the gate of the temple. On her arrival they saluted her. The Princess returned the salute, but said: "I have just left the world in order to place myself under your orders: why do you come and salute me on my arrival? I beg you to be so good as to take me into the temple, in order that I may pay my respects to the Buddha." I Yu led her into the principal hall, and instructed the nuns to light incense-sticks, ring the bells, and beat the drums. The visit to the temple finished, she went into the preaching-hall, where she greeted her instructresses. The latter obeyed the King's command and endeavoured to persuade the Princess to return to her home, but, as none of their arguments had any effect, it was at length decided to give her a trial, and to put her in charge of the kitchen, where she could prepare the food for the nunnery, and generally be at the service of all. If she did not give satisfaction they could dismiss her. She makes Offering to the Buddha Miao Shan joyfully agreed, and proceeded to make her humble submission to the Buddha. She knelt before Ju Lai, and made offering to him, praying as follows: "Great Buddha, full of goodness and mercy, your humble servant wishes to leave the world. Grant that I may never yield to the temptations which will be sent to try my faith." Miao Shan further promised to observe all the regulations of the nunnery and to obey the superiors. Spiritual Aid This generous self-sacrifice touched the heart of Yü Huang, the Master of Heaven, who summoned the Spirit of the North Star and instructed him as follows: "Miao Shan, the third daughter of King Miao Chuang, has renounced the world in order to devote herself to the attainment of perfection. Her father has consigned her to the Nunnery of the White Bird. She has undertaken without grumbling the burden of all the work in the nunnery. If she is left without help, who is there who will be willing to adopt the virtuous life? Do you go quickly and order the Three Agents, the Gods of the Five Sacred Peaks, the Eight Ministers of the Heavenly Dragon, Ch'ieh Lan, and the _t'u-ti_ to send her help at once. Tell the Sea-dragon to dig her a well near the kitchen, a tiger to bring her firewood, birds to collect vegetables for the inmates of the nunnery, and all the spirits of Heaven to help her in her duties, that she may give herself up without disturbance to the pursuit of perfection. See that my commands are promptly obeyed." The Spirit of the North Star complied without delay. The Nunnery on Fire Seeing all these gods arrive to help the novice, the Superior, I Yu, held consultation with the choir-mistress, saying: "We assigned to the Princess the burdensome work of the kitchen because she refused to return to the world; but since she has entered on her duties the gods of the eight caves of Heaven have come to offer her fruit, Ch'ieh Lan sweeps the kitchen, the dragon has dug a well, the God of the Hearth and the tiger bring her fuel, birds collect vegetables for her, the nunnery bell every evening at dusk booms of itself, as if struck by some mysterious hand. Obviously miracles are being performed. Hasten and fetch the King, and beg his Majesty to recall his daughter." Chêng Chêng-ch'ang started on her way, and, on arrival, informed the King of all that had taken place. The King called Hu Pi-li, the chief of the guard, and ordered him to go to the sub-prefecture of Lung-shu Hsien at the head of an army corps of 5000 infantry and cavalry. He was to surround the Nunnery of the White Bird and burn it to the ground, together with the nuns. When he reached the place the commander surrounded the nunnery with his soldiers, and set fire to it. The five hundred doomed nuns invoked the aid of Heaven and earth, and then, addressing Miao Shan, said: "It is you who have brought upon us this terrible disaster." "It is true," said Miao Shan. "I alone am the cause of your destruction." She then knelt down and prayed to Heaven: "Great Sovereign of the Universe, your servant is the daughter of King Miao Chuang; you are the grandson of King Lun. Will you not rescue your younger sister? You have left your palace; I also have left mine. You in former times betook yourself to the snowy mountains to attain perfection; I came here with the same object. Will you not save us from this fiery destruction?" Her prayer ended, Miao Shan took a bamboo hairpin from her hair, pricked the roof of her mouth with it, and spat the flowing blood toward Heaven. Immediately great clouds gathered in all parts of the sky and sent down inundating showers, which put out the fire that threatened the nunnery. The nuns threw themselves on their knees and thanked her effusively for having saved their lives. Hu Pi-li retired, and went in haste to inform the King of this extraordinary occurrence. The King, enraged, ordered him to go back at once, bring his daughter in chains, and behead her on the spot. The Execution of Miao Shan But the Queen, who had heard of this new plot, begged the King to grant her daughter a last chance. "If you will give permission," she said, "I will have a magnificent pavilion built at the side of the road where Miao Shan will pass in chains on the way to her execution, and will go there with our two other daughters and our sons-in-law. As she passes we will have music, songs, feasting, everything likely to impress her and make her contrast our luxurious life with her miserable plight. This will surely bring her to repentance." "I agree," said the King, "to counter-order her execution until your preparations are complete." Nevertheless, when the time came, Miao Shan showed nothing but disdain for all this worldly show, and to all advances replied only: "I love not these pompous vanities; I swear that I prefer death to the so-called joys of this world." She was then led to the place of execution. All the Court was present. Sacrifices were made to her as to one already dead. A Grand Minister pronounced the sacrificial oration. In the midst of all this the Queen appeared, and ordered the officials to return to their posts, that she might once more exhort her daughter to repent. But Miao Shan only listened in silence with downcast eyes. The King felt great repugnance to shedding his daughter's blood, and ordered her to be imprisoned in the palace, in order that he might make a last effort to save her. "I am the King," he said; "my orders cannot be lightly set aside. Disobedience to them involves punishment, and in spite of my paternal love for you, if you persist in your present attitude, you will be executed to-morrow in front of the palace gate." The _t'u-ti_, hearing the King's verdict, went with all speed to Yü Huang, and reported to him the sentence which had been pronounced against Miao Shan. Yü Huang exclaimed: "Save Buddha, there is none in the west so noble as this Princess. To-morrow, at the appointed hour, go to the scene of execution, break the swords, and splinter the lances they will use to kill her. See that she suffers no pain. At the moment of her death transform yourself into a tiger, and bring her body to the pine-wood. Having deposited it in a safe place, put a magic pill in her mouth to arrest decay. Her triumphant soul on its return from the lower regions must find it in a perfect state of preservation in order to be able to re-enter it and animate it afresh. After that, she must betake herself to Hsiang Shan on P'u T'o Island, where she will reach the highest state of perfection." On the day appointed, Commander Hu Pi-li led the condemned Princess to the place of execution. A body of troops had been stationed there to maintain order. The _t'u-ti_ was in attendance at the palace gates. Miao Shan was radiant with joy. "To-day," she said, "I leave the world for a better life. Hasten to take my life, but beware of mutilating my body." The King's warrant arrived, and suddenly the sky became overcast and darkness fell upon the earth. A bright light surrounded Miao Shan, and when the sword of the executioner fell upon the neck of the victim it was broken in two. Then they thrust at her with a spear, but the weapon fell to pieces. After that the King ordered that she be strangled with a silken cord. A few moments later a tiger leapt into the execution ground, dispersed the executioners, put the inanimate body of Miao Shan on his back, and disappeared into the pine-forest. Hu Pi-li rushed to the palace, recounted to the King full details of all that had occurred, and received a reward of two ingots of gold. Miao Shan visits the Infernal Regions Meantime, Miao Shan's soul, which remained unhurt, was borne on a cloud; when, waking as from a dream, she lifted her head and looked round, she could not see her body. "My father has just had me strangled," she sighed. "How is it that I find myself in this place? Here are neither mountains, nor trees, nor vegetation; no sun, moon, nor stars; no habitation, no sound, no cackling of a fowl nor barking of a dog. How can I live in this desolate region?" Suddenly a young man dressed in blue, shining with a brilliant light, and carrying a large banner, appeared and said to her: "By order of Yen Wang, the King of the Hells, I come to take you to the eighteen infernal regions." "What is this cursed place where I am now?" asked Miao Shan. "This is the lower world, Hell," he replied. "Your refusal to marry, and the magnanimity with which you chose an ignominious death rather than break your resolutions, deserve the recognition of Yü Huang, and the ten gods of the lower regions, impressed and pleased at your eminent virtue, have sent me to you. Fear nothing and follow me." Thus Miao Shan began her visit to all the infernal regions. The Gods of the Ten Hells came to congratulate her. "Who am I," asked Miao Shan, "that you should deign to take the trouble to show me such respect?" "We have heard," they replied, "that when you recite your prayers all evil disappears as if by magic. We should like to hear you pray." "I consent," replied Miao Shan, "on condition that all the condemned ones in the ten infernal regions be released from their chains in order to listen to me." At the appointed time the condemned were led in by Niu T'ou ('Ox-head') and Ma Mien ('Horse-face'), the two chief constables of Hell, and Miao Shan began her prayers. No sooner had she finished than Hell was suddenly transformed into a paradise of joy, and the instruments of torture into lotus-flowers. Hell a Paradise P'an Kuan, the keeper of the Register of the Living and the Dead, presented a memorial to Yen Wang stating that since Miao Shan's arrival there was no more pain in Hell; and all the condemned were beside themselves with happiness. "Since it has always been decreed," he added, "that, in justice, there must be both a Heaven and a Hell, if you do not send this saint back to earth, there will no longer be any Hell, but only a Heaven." "Since that is so," said Yen Wang, "let forty-eight flag-bearers escort her across the Styx Bridge [Nai-ho Ch'iao], that she may be taken to the pine-forest to reenter her body, and resume her life in the upper world." The King of the Hells having paid his respects to her, the youth in blue conducted her soul back to her body, which she found lying under a pine-tree. Having reentered it, Miao Shan found herself alive again. A bitter sigh escaped from her lips. "I remember," she said, "all that I saw and heard in Hell. I sigh for the moment which will find me free of all impediments, and yet my soul has re-entered my body. Here, without any lonely mountain on which to give myself up to the pursuit of perfection, what will become of me?" Great tears welled from her eyes. A Test of Virtue Just then Ju Lai Buddha appeared. "Why have you come to this place?" he asked. Miao Shan explained why the King had put her to death, and how after her descent into Hell her soul had re-entered her body. "I greatly pity your misfortune," Ju Lai said, "but there is no one to help you. I also am alone. Why should we not marry? We could build ourselves a hut, and pass our days in peace. What say you?" "Sir," she replied, "you must not make impossible suggestions. I died and came to life again. How can you speak so lightly? Do me the pleasure of withdrawing from my presence." "Well," said the visitor, "he to whom you are speaking is no other than the Buddha of the West. I came to test your virtue. This place is not suitable for your devotional exercises; I invite you to come to Hsiang Shan." Miao Shan threw herself on her knees and said: "My bodily eyes deceived me. I never thought that your Majesty would come to a place like this. Pardon my seeming want of respect. Where is this Hsiang Shan?" "Hsiang Shan is a very old monastery," Ju Lai replied, "built in the earliest historical times. It is inhabited by Immortals. It is situated in the sea, on P'u T'o Island, a dependency of the kingdom of Annam. There you will be able to reach the highest perfection." "How far off is this island?" Miao Shan asked. "More than three thousand _li_," Ju Lai replied. "I fear," she said, "I could not bear the fatigue of so long a journey." "Calm yourself," he rejoined. "I have brought with me a magic peach, of a kind not to be found in any earthly orchard. Once you have eaten it, you will experience neither hunger nor thirst; old age and death will have no power over you: you will live for ever." Miao Shan ate the magic peach, took leave of Ju Lai, and started on the way to Hsiang Shan. From the clouds the Spirit of the North Star saw her wending her way painfully toward P'u T'o. He called the Guardian of the Soil of Hsiang Shan and said to him: "Miao Shan is on her way to your country; the way is long and difficult. Do you take the form of a tiger, and carry her to her journey's end." The _t'u-ti_ transformed himself into a tiger and stationed himself in the middle of the road along which Miao Shan must pass, giving vent to ferocious roars. "I am a poor girl devoid of filial piety," said Miao Shan when she came up. "I have disobeyed my father's commands; devour me, and make an end of me." The tiger then spoke, saying: "I am not a real tiger, but the Guardian of the Soil of Hsiang Shan. I have received instructions to carry you there. Get on my back." "Since you have received these instructions," said the girl, "I will obey, and when I have attained to perfection I will not forget your kindness." The tiger went off like a flash of lightning, and in the twinkling of an eye Miao Shan found herself at the foot of the rocky slopes of P'u T'o Island. Miao Shan attains to Perfection After nine years in this retreat Miao Shan had reached the acme of perfection. Ti-tsang Wang then came to Hsiang Shan, and was so astonished at her virtue that he inquired of the local _t'u-ti_ as to what had brought about this wonderful result. "With the exception of Ju Lai, in all the west no one equals her in dignity and perfection. She is the Queen of the three thousand P'u-sa's and of all the beings on earth who have skin and blood. We regard her as our sovereign in all things. Therefore, on the nineteenth day of the eleventh moon we will enthrone her, that the whole world may profit by her beneficence." The _t'u-ti_ sent out his invitations for the ceremony. The Dragon-king of the Western Sea, the Gods of the Five Sacred Mountains, the Emperor-saints to the number of one hundred and twenty, the thirty-six officials of the Ministry of Time, the celestial functionaries in charge of wind, rain, thunder, and lightning, the Three Causes, the Five Saints, the Eight Immortals, the Ten Kings of the Hells--all were present on the appointed day. Miao Shan took her seat on the lotus-throne, and the assembled gods proclaimed her sovereign of Heaven and earth, and a Buddha. Moreover, they decided that it was not meet that she should remain alone at Hsiang Shan; so they begged her to choose a worthy young man and a virtuous damsel to serve her in the temple. The _t'u-ti_ was entrusted with the task of finding them. While making search, he met a young priest named Shan Ts'ai. After the death of his parents he had become a hermit on Ta-hua Shan, and was still a novice in the science of perfection. Miao Shan ordered him to be brought to her. "Who are you?" she asked. "I am a poor orphan priest of no merit," he replied. "From my earliest youth I have led the life of a hermit. I have been told that your power is equalled only by your goodness, so I have ventured to come to pray you to show me how to attain to perfection." "My only fear," replied Miao Shan, "is that your desire for perfection may not be sincere." "I have now no parents," the priest continued, "and I have come more than a thousand _li_ to find you. How can I be wanting in sincerity?" "What special degree of ability have you attained during your course of perfection?" asked Miao Shan. "I have no skill," replied Shan Ts'ai, "but I rely for everything on your great pity, and under your guidance I hope to reach the required ability." "Very well," said Miao Shan, "take up your station on the top of yonder peak, and wait till I find a means of transporting you." A Ruse Miao Shan called the _t'u-ti_ and bade him go and beg all the Immortals to disguise themselves as pirates and to besiege the mountain, waving torches, and threatening with swords and spears to kill her. "Then I will seek refuge on the summit, and thence leap over the precipice to prove Shan Ts'ai's fidelity and affection." A minute later a horde of brigands of ferocious aspect rushed up to the temple of Hsiang Shan. Miao Shan cried for help, rushed up the steep incline, missed her footing, and rolled down into the ravine. Shan Ts'ai, seeing her fall into the abyss, without hesitation flung himself after her in order to rescue her. When he reached her, he asked: "What have you to fear from the robbers? You have nothing for them to steal; why throw yourself over the precipice, exposing yourself to certain death?" Miao Shan saw that he was weeping, and wept too. "I must comply with the wish of Heaven," she said. The Transformation of Shan Ts'ai Shan Ts'ai, inconsolable, prayed Heaven and earth to save his protectress. Miao Shan said to him: "You should not have risked your life by throwing yourself over the precipice, I have not yet transformed you. But you did a brave thing, and I know that you have a good heart. Now, look down there." "Oh," said he, "if I mistake not, that is a corpse." "Yes," she replied, "that is your former body. Now you are transformed you can rise at will and fly in the air." Shan Ts'ai bowed low to thank his benefactress, who said to him: "Henceforth you must say your prayers by my side, and not leave me for a single day." 'Brother and Sister' With her spiritual sight Miao Shan perceived at the bottom of the Southern Sea the third son of Lung Wang, who, in carrying out his father's orders, was cleaving the waves in the form of a carp. While doing so, he was caught in a fisherman's net, taken to the market at Yüeh Chou, and offered for sale. Miao Shan at once sent her faithful Shan Ts'ai, in the guise of a servant, to buy him, giving him a thousand cash to purchase the fish, which he was to take to the foot of the rocks at P'u T'o and set free in the sea. The son of Lung Wang heartily thanked his deliverer, and on his return to the palace related to his father what had occurred. The King said: "As a reward, make her a present of a luminous pearl, so that she may recite her prayers by its light at night-time." Lung Nü, the daughter of Lung Wang's third son, obtained her grandfather's permission to take the gift to Miao Shan and beg that she might be allowed to study the doctrine of the sages under her guidance. After having proved her sincerity, she was accepted as a pupil. Shan Ts'ai called her his sister, and Lung Nü reciprocated by calling him her dear brother. Both lived as brother and sister by Miao Shan's side. The King's Punishment After King Miao Chuang had burned the Nunnery of the White Bird and killed his daughter, Ch'ieh Lan Buddha presented a petition to Yü Huang praying that the crime be not allowed to go unpunished. Yü Huang, justly irritated, ordered P'an Kuan to consult the Register of the Living and the Dead to see how long this homicidal King had yet to live. P'an Kuan turned over the pages of his register, and saw that according to the divine ordinances the King's reign on the throne of Hsing Lin should last for twenty years, but that this period had not yet expired. [31] "That which has been decreed is immutable," said Yü Huang, "but I will punish him by sending him illness." He called the God of Epidemics, and ordered him to afflict the King's body with ulcers, of a kind which could not be healed except by remedies to be given him by his daughter Miao Shan. The order was promptly executed, and the King could get no rest by day or by night. His two daughters and their husbands spent their time in feasting while he tossed about in agony on his sick-bed. In vain the most famous physicians were called in; the malady only grew worse, and despair took hold of the patient. He then caused a proclamation to be made that he would grant the succession to the throne to any person who would provide him with an effectual remedy to restore him to health. The Disguised Priest-doctor Miao Shan had learnt by revelation at Hsiang Shan all that was taking place at the palace. She assumed the form of a priest-doctor, clothed herself in a priest's gown, with the regulation headdress and straw shoes, and attached to her girdle a gourd containing pills and other medicines. In this apparel she went straight to the palace gate, read the royal edict posted there, and tore it down. Some members of the palace guard seized her, and inquired angrily: "Who are you that you should dare to tear down the royal proclamation?" "I, a poor priest, am also a doctor," she replied. "I read the edict posted on the palace gates. The King is inquiring for a doctor who can heal him. I am a doctor of an old cultured family, and propose to restore him to health." "If you are of a cultured family, why did you become a priest?" they asked. "Would it not have been better to gain your living honestly in practising your art than to shave your head and go loafing about the world? Besides, all the highest physicians have tried in vain to cure the King; do you imagine that you will be more skilful than all the aged practitioners?" "Set your minds at ease," she replied. "I have received from my ancestors the most efficacious remedies, and I guarantee that I shall restore the King to health," The palace guard then consented to transmit her petition to the Queen, who informed the King, and in the end the pretended priest was admitted. Having reached the royal bed-chamber, he sat still awhile in order to calm himself before feeling the pulse, and to have complete control of all his faculties while examining the King. When he felt quite sure of himself, he approached the King's bed, took the King's hand, felt his pulse, carefully diagnosed the nature of the illness, and assured himself that it was easily curable. Strange Medicine One serious difficulty, however, presented itself, and that was that the right medicine was almost impossible to procure. The King showed his displeasure by saying: "For every illness there is a medical prescription, and for every prescription a specific medicine; how can you say that the diagnosis is easy, but that there is no remedy?" "Your Majesty," replied the priest, "the remedy for your illness is not to be found in any pharmacy, and no one would agree to sell it." The King became angry, believed that he was being imposed upon, and ordered those about him to drive away the priest, who left smiling. The following night the King saw in a dream an old man who said to him: "This priest alone can cure your illness, and if you ask him he himself will give you the right remedy." The King awoke as soon as these words had been uttered, and begged the Queen to recall the priest. When the latter had returned, the King related his dream, and begged the priest to procure for him the remedy required. "What, after all, is this remedy that I must have in order to be cured?" he asked. "There must be the hand and eye of a living person, from which to compound the ointment which alone can save you," answered the priest. The King called out in indignation: "This priest is fooling me! Who would ever give his hand or his eye? Even if anyone would, I could never have the heart to make use of them." "Nevertheless," said the priest, "there is no other effective remedy." "Then where can I procure this remedy?" asked the King. "Your Majesty must send your ministers, who must observe the Buddhist rules of abstinence, to Hsiang Shan, where they will be given what is required." "Where is Hsiang Shan, and how far from here?" "About three thousand or more _li_, but I myself will indicate the route to be followed; in a very short time they will return." The King, who was suffering terribly, was more contented when he heard that the journey could be rapidly accomplished. He called his two ministers, Chao Chên and Liu Ch'in, and instructed them to lose no time in starting for Hsiang Shan and to observe scrupulously the Buddhist rules of abstinence. He ordered the Minister of Ceremonies to detain the priest in the palace until their return. A Conspiracy that Failed The two sons-in-law of the King, Ho Fêng and Chao K'uei, who had already made secret preparations to succeed to the throne as soon as the King should breathe his last, learned with no little surprise that the priest had hopes of curing the King's illness, and that he was waiting in the palace until the saving remedy was brought to him. Fearing that they might be disappointed in their ambition, and that after his recovery the King, faithful to his promise, would give the crown to the priest, they entered into a conspiracy with an unscrupulous courtier named Ho Li. They were obliged to act quickly, because the ministers were travelling by forced marches, and would soon be back. That same night Ho Li was to give to the King a poisoned drink, composed, he would say, by the priest with the object of assuaging the King's pain until the return of his two ministers. Shortly after, an assassin, Su Ta, was to murder the priest. Thus at one stroke both the King and the priest would meet their death, and the kingdom would pass to the King's two sons-in-law. Miao Shan had returned to Hsiang Shan, leaving in the palace the bodily form of the priest. She saw the two traitors Ho Fêng and Chao K'uei preparing the poison, and was aware of their wicked intentions. Calling the spirit Yu I, who was on duty that day, she told him to fly to the palace and change into a harmless soup the poison about to be administered to the King and to bind the assassin hand and foot. At midnight Ho Li, carrying in his hand the poisoned drink, knocked at the door of the royal apartment, and said to the Queen that the priest had prepared a soothing potion while awaiting the return of the ministers. "I come," he said, "to offer it to his Majesty." The Queen took the bowl in her hands and was about to give it to the King, when Yu I arrived unannounced. Quick as thought he snatched the bowl from the Queen and poured the contents on the ground; at the same moment he knocked over those present in the room, so that they all rolled on the floor. At the time this was happening the assassin Su Ta entered the priest's room, and struck him with his sword. Instantly the assassin, without knowing how, found himself enwrapped in the priest's robe and thrown to the ground. He struggled and tried to free himself, but found that his hands had been rendered useless by some mysterious power, and that flight was impossible. The spirit Yu I, having fulfilled the mission entrusted to him, now returned to Hsiang Shan and reported to Miao Shan. A Confession and its Results Next morning, the two sons-in-law of the King heard of the turn things had taken during the night. The whole palace was in a state of the greatest confusion. When he was informed that the priest had been killed, the King called Ch'u Ting-lieh and ordered him to have the murderer arrested. Su Ta was put to the torture and confessed all that he knew. Together with Ho Li he was condemned to be cut into a thousand pieces. The two sons-in-law were seized and ordered to instant execution, and it was only on the Queen's intercession that their wives were spared. The infuriated King, however, ordered that his two daughters should be imprisoned in the palace. The Gruesome Remedy Meantime Chao Chên and Liu Ch'in had reached Hsiang Shan. When they were brought to Miao Shan the ministers took out the King's letter and read it to her. "I, Miao Chuang, King of Hsing Lin, have learned that there dwells at Hsiang Shan an Immortal whose power and compassion have no equal in the whole world. I have passed my fiftieth year, and am afflicted with ulcers that all remedies have failed to cure. To-day a priest has assured me that at Hsiang Shan I can obtain the hand and eye of a living person, with which he will prepare an ointment able to restore me to my usual state of health. Relying upon his word and upon the goodness of the Immortal to whom he has directed me, I venture to beg that those two parts of a living body necessary to heal my ulcers be sent to me. I assure you of my everlasting gratitude, fully confident that my request will not be refused." The next morning Miao Shan bade the ministers take a knife and cut off her left hand and gouge out her left eye. Liu Ch'in took the knife offered him, but did not dare to obey the order. "Be quick," urged the Immortal; "you have been commanded to return as soon as possible; why do you hesitate as if you were a young girl?" Liu Ch'in was forced to proceed. He plunged in the knife, and the red blood flooded the ground, spreading an odour like sweet incense. The hand and eye were placed on a golden plate, and, having paid their grateful respects to the Immortal, the envoys hastened to return. When they had left, Miao Shan, who had transformed herself in order to allow the envoys to remove her hand and eye, told Shan Ts'ai that she was now going to prepare the ointment necessary for the cure of the King. "Should the Queen," she added, "send for another eye and hand, I will transform myself again, and you can give them to her." No sooner had she finished speaking than she mounted a cloud and disappeared in space. The two ministers reached the palace and presented to the Queen the gruesome remedy which they had brought from the temple. She, overcome with gratitude and emotion, wept copiously. "What Immortal," she asked, "can have been so charitable as to sacrifice a hand and eye for the King's benefit?" Then suddenly her tears gushed forth with redoubled vigour, and she uttered a great cry, for she recognized the hand of her daughter by a black scar which was on it. Half-measures "Who else, in fact, but his child," she continued amid her sobs, "could have had the courage to give her hand to save her father's life?" "What are you saying?" said the King. "In the world there are many hands like this." While they thus reasoned, the priest entered the King's apartment. "This great Immortal has long devoted herself to the attainment of perfection," he said. "Those she has healed are innumerable. Give me the hand and eye." He took them and shortly produced an ointment which, he told the King, was to be applied to his left side. No sooner had it touched his skin than the pain on his left side disappeared as if by magic; no sign of ulcers was to be seen on that side, but his right side remained swollen and painful as before. "Why is it," asked the King, "that this remedy, which is so efficacious for the left side, should not be applied to the right?" "Because," replied the priest, "the left hand and eye of the saint cures only the left side. If you wish to be completely cured, you must send your officers to obtain the right eye and right hand also." The King accordingly dispatched his envoys anew with a letter of thanks, and begging as a further favour that the cure should be completed by the healing also of his right side. The King Cured On the arrival of the envoys Shan Ts'ai met them in the mutilated form of Miao Shan, and he bade them cut off his right hand, pluck out his right eye, and put them on a plate. At the sight of the four bleeding wounds Liu Ch'in could not refrain from calling out indignantly: "This priest is a wicked man, thus to make a martyr of a woman in order to obtain the succession!" Having thus spoken, he left with his companion for the kingdom of Hsing Lin. On their return the King was overwhelmed with joy. The priest quickly prepared the ointment, and the King, without delay, applied it to his right side. At once the ulcers disappeared like the darkness of night before the rising sun. The whole Court congratulated the King and eulogized the priest. The King conferred upon the latter the title Priest of the Brilliant Eye. He fell on his face to return thanks, and added: "I, a poor priest, have left the world, and have only one wish, namely, that your Majesty should govern your subjects with justice and sympathy and that all the officials of the realm should prove themselves men of integrity. As for me, I am used to roaming about. I have no desire for any royal estate. My happiness exceeds all earthly joys." Having thus spoken, the priest waved the sleeve of his cloak, a cloud descended from Heaven, and seating himself upon it he disappeared in the sky. From the cloud a note containing the following words was seen to fall: "I am one of the Teachers of the West. I came to cure the King's illness, and so to glorify the True Doctrine." The King's Daughter All who witnessed this miracle exclaimed with one voice: "This priest is the Living Buddha, who is going back to Heaven!" The note was taken to King Miao Chuang, who exclaimed: "Who am I that I should deserve that one of the rulers of Heaven should deign to descend and cure me by the sacrifice of hands and eyes?" "What was the face of the saintly person like who gave you the remedy?" he then asked Chao Chên. "It was like unto that of your deceased daughter, Miao Shan," he replied. "When you removed her hands and eyes did she seem to suffer?" "I saw a great flow of blood, and my heart failed, but the face of the victim seemed radiant with happiness." "This certainly must be my daughter Miao Shan, who has attained to perfection," said the King. "Who but she would have given hands and eyes? Purify yourselves and observe the rules of abstinence, and go quickly to Hsiang Shan to return thanks to the saint for this inestimable favour. I myself will ere long make a pilgrimage thither to return thanks in person." The King and Queen taken Prisoners Three years later the King and Queen, with the grandees of their Court, set out to visit Hsiang Shan, but on the way the monarchs were captured by the Green Lion, or God of Fire, and the White Elephant, or Spirit of the Water, the two guardians of the Temple of Buddha, who transported them to a dark cavern in the mountains. A terrific battle then took place between the evil spirits on the one side and some hosts of heavenly genii, who had been summoned to the rescue, on the other. While its issue was still uncertain, reinforcements under the Red Child Devil, who could resist fire, and the Dragon-king of the Eastern Sea, who could subdue water, finally routed the enemy, and the prisoners were released. The King's Repentance The King and Queen now resumed their pilgrimage, and Miao Shan instructed Shan Ts'ai to receive the monarchs when they arrived to offer incense. She herself took up her place on the altar, her eyes torn out, her hands cut off, and her wrists all dripping with blood. The King recognized his daughter, and bitterly reproached himself; the Queen fell swooning at her feet. Miao Shan then spoke and tried to comfort them. She told them of all that she had experienced since the day when she had been executed, and how she had attained to immortal perfection. She then went on: "In order to punish you for having caused the deaths of all those who perished in the wars preceding your accession to the throne, and also to avenge the burning of the Nunnery of the White Bird, Yü Huang afflicted you with those grievous ulcers. It was then that I changed myself into a priest in order to heal you, and gave my eyes and hands, with which I prepared the ointment that cured you. It was I, moreover, who procured your liberty from Buddha when you were imprisoned in the cave by the Green Lion and the White Elephant." Sackcloth and Ashes At these words the King threw himself with his face on the ground, offered incense, worshipped Heaven, earth, the sun, and the moon, saying with a voice broken by sobs: "I committed a great crime in killing my daughter, who has sacrificed her eyes and hands in order to cure my sickness." No sooner were these words uttered than Miao Shan reassumed her normal form, and, descending from the altar, approached her parents and sisters. Her body had again its original completeness; and in the presence of its perfect beauty, and at finding themselves reunited as one family, all wept for joy. "Well," said Miao Shan to her father, "will you now force me to marry and prevent my devoting myself to the attainment of perfection?" "Speak no more of that," replied the King. "I was in the wrong. If you had not reached perfection, I should not now be alive. I have made up my mind to exchange my sceptre for the pursuit of the perfect life, which I wish to lead henceforth together with you." The King renounces the Throne Then, in the presence of all, he addressed his Grand Minister Chao Chên, saying: "Your devotion to the service of the State has rendered you worthy to wear the crown: I surrender it to you." The Court proclaimed Chao Chên King of Hsing Lin, bade farewell to Miao Chuang, and set out for their kingdom accompanied by their new sovereign. Pardon of the Green Lion and the White Elephant Buddha had summoned the White Elephant and the Green Lion, and was on the point of sentencing them to eternal damnation when the compassionate Miao Shan interceded for them. "Certainly you deserve no forgiveness," he said, "but I cannot refuse a request made by Miao Shan, whose clemency is without limit. I give you over to her, to serve and obey her in everything. Follow her." Miao Shan becomes a Buddha The guardian spirit on duty that day then announced the arrival of a messenger from Yü Huang. It was T'ai-po Chin-hsing, who was the bearer of a divine decree, which he handed to Miao Shan. It read as follows: "I, the august Emperor, make known to you this decree: Miao Chuang, King of Hsing Lin, forgetful alike of Heaven and Hell, the six virtues, and metempsychosis, has led a blameworthy life; but your nine years of penitence, the filial piety which caused you to sacrifice your own body to effect his cure, in short, all your virtues, have redeemed his faults. Your eyes can see and your ears can hear all the good and bad deeds and words of men. You are the object of my especial regard. Therefore I make proclamation of this decree of canonization. "Miao Shan will have the title of Very Merciful and Very Compassionate P'u-sa, Saviour of the Afflicted, Miraculous and Always Helpful Protectress of Mortals. On your lofty precious lotus-flower throne, you will be the Sovereign of the Southern Seas and of P'u T'o Isle. "Your two sisters, hitherto tainted with earthly pleasures, will gradually progress till they reach true perfection. "Miao Ch'ing will have the title of Very Virtuous P'u-sa, the Completely Beautiful, Rider of the Green Lion. "Miao Yin will be honoured with the title of Very Virtuous and Completely Resplendent P'u-sa, Rider of the White Elephant. "King Miao Chuang is raised to the dignity of Virtuous Conquering P'u-sa, Surveyor of Mortals. "Queen Po Ya receives the title of P'u-sa of Ten Thousand Virtues, Surveyor of Famous Women. "Shan Ts'ai has bestowed upon him the title of Golden Youth. "Lung Nü has the title of Jade Maiden. "During all time incense is to be burned before all the members of this canonized group." CHAPTER XI The Eight Immortals Pa Hsien Either singly or in groups the Eight Immortals, Pa Hsien, of the Taoist religion are one of the most popular subjects of representation in China; their portraits are to be seen everywhere--on porcelain vases, teapots, teacups, fans, scrolls, embroidery, etc. Images of them are made in porcelain, earthenware, roots, wood, metals. The term 'Eight Immortals' is figuratively used for happiness. The number eight has become lucky in association with this tradition, and persons or things eight in number are graced accordingly. Thus we read of reverence shown to the 'Eight Genii Table' (_Pa Hsien Cho_), the 'Eight Genii Bridge' (_Pa Hsien Ch'iao_), 'Eight Genii Vermicelli' (_Pa Hsien Mien_), the 'Eight Genii of the Wine-cup' (_Tin Chung Pa Hsien_)--wine-bibbers of the T'ang dynasty celebrated by Tu Fu, the poet. They are favourite subjects of romance, and special objects of adoration. In them we see "the embodiment of the ideas of perfect but imaginary happiness which possess the minds of the Chinese people." Three of them (Chung-li Ch'üan, Chang Kuo, and Lü Yen) were historical personages; the others are mentioned only in fables or romances. They represent all kinds of people--old, young, male, female, civil, military, rich, poor, afflicted, cultured, noble. They are also representative of early, middle, and later historical periods. The legend of the Eight Immortals is certainly not older than the time of the Sung dynasty (A.D. 960-1280), and is probably to be assigned to that of the Yüan dynasty (1280-1368). But some, if not all, of the group seem to have been previously celebrated as Immortals in the Taoist legends. Their biographies are usually arranged in the order of their official eminence or seniority in age. Here I follow that adopted in _Hsiu hsiang Pa Hsien tung yu chi_ [32] in which they are described in the order in which they became Immortals. Li T'ieh-kuai Li T'ieh-kuai, depicted always with his crutch and gourd full of magic medicines, was of the family name of Li, his own name being Li Yüan (Hs'üan, now read Yüan). He is also known as K'ung-mu. Hsi Wang Mu cured him of an ulcer on the leg and taught him the art of becoming immortal. He was canonized as Rector of the East. He is said to have been of commanding stature and dignified mien, devoting himself solely to the study of Taoist lore. Hsi Wang Mu made him a present of an iron crutch, and sent him to the capital to teach the doctrine of immortality to Han Chung-li. He is also identified with Li Ning-yang, to whom Lao Tzu descended from Heaven in order to instruct him in the wisdom of the gods. Soon after he had completed his course of instruction his soul left his body to go on a visit to Hua Shan. Some say he was summoned by Lao Tzu, others that Lao Tzu engaged him as escort to the countries of Hsi Yü. He left his disciple Lang Ling in charge of his body, saying that if he did not return within seven days he was to have the body cremated. Unfortunately, when only six days had elapsed the disciple was called away to the death-bed of his mother. In order to be able to leave at once he cremated the body forthwith, and when the soul returned it found only a heap of ashes. Some say the body was not cremated, but only became devitalized through neglect or through being uninhabited for so long a time. The object of the setting of the watch was not only to prevent injury to or theft of the body, but also to prevent any other soul from taking up its abode in it. In a forest near by a beggar had just died of hunger. Finding this corpse untenanted, the wandering spirit entered it through the temples, and made off. When he found that his head was long and pointed, his face black, his beard and hair woolly and dishevelled, his eyes of gigantic size, and one of his legs lame, he wished to get out of this vile body; but Lao Tzu advised him not to make the attempt and gave him a gold band to keep his hair in order, and an iron crutch to help his lame leg. On lifting his hand to his eyes, he found they were as large as buckles. That is why he was called Li K'ung-mu, 'Li Hollow Eyes.' Popularly he is known as Li T'ieh-kuai, 'Li with the Iron Crutch.' No precise period seems to be assigned to his career on earth, though one tradition places him in the Yüan dynasty. Another account says that he was changed into a dragon, and in that form ascended to Heaven. Elsewhere it is related that T'ieh-kuai, after entering the body of the lame beggar, benevolently proceeded to revive the mother of Yang, his negligent disciple. Leaning on his iron staff and carrying a gourd of medicines on his back he went to Yang's house, where preparations were being made for the funeral. The contents of the gourd, poured into the mouth, revived the dead woman. He then made himself known, and, giving Yang another pill, vanished in a gust of wind. Two hundred years later he effected the immortalization of his disciple. During his peregrinations on earth he would hang a bottle on the wall at night and jump into it, emerging on the following morning. He frequently returned to earth, and at times tried to bring about the transmigration of others. An example is the case of Ch'ao Tu, the watchman. T'ieh-kuai walked into a fiery furnace and bade Ch'ao follow. The latter, being afraid of imitating an act evidently associated with the supernatural world of evil spirits, refused to do so. T'ieh-kuai then told Ch'ao to step on to a leaf floating on the surface of the river, saying that it was a boat that would bear him across safely. Again the watchman refused, whereupon T'ieh-kuai, remarking that the cares of this world were evidently too weighty for him to be able to ascend to immortality, stepped on to the leaf himself and vanished. Chung-li Ch'üan Regarding the origin and life of this Immortal several different accounts are given. One states that his family name was Chung-li, and that he lived in the Han dynasty, being therefore called Han Chung-li. His cognomen was Ch'üan, his literary appellation Chi Tao, and his pseudonyms Ho-ho Tzu and Wang-yang Tzu; his style Yün-fang. He was born in the district of Hsien-yang Hsien (a sub-prefecture of the ancient capital Hsi-an Fu) in Shensi. He became Marshal of the Empire in the cyclic year 2496. In his old age he became a hermit on Yang-chio Shan, thirty _li_ north-east of I-ch'êng Hsien in the prefecture of P'ing-yang Fu in Shansi. He is referred to by the title of King-emperor of the True Active Principle. Another account describes Chung-li Ch'üan as merely a vice-marshal in the service of Duke Chou Hsiao. He was defeated in battle, and escaped to Chung-nan Shan, where he met the Five Heroes, the Flowers of the East, who instructed him in the doctrine of immortality. At the end of the T'ang dynasty Han Chung-li taught this same science of immortality to Lü Tung-pin (see p. 297), and took the pompous title of the Only Independent One Under Heaven. Other versions state that Han Chung-li is not the name of a person, but of a country; that he was a Taoist priest Chung Li-tzu; and that he was a beggar, Chung-li by name, who gave to one Lao Chih a pill of immortality. No sooner had the latter swallowed it than he went mad, left his wife, and ascended to Heaven. During a great famine he transmuted copper and pewter into silver by amalgamating them with some mysterious drug. This treasure he distributed among the poor, and thousands of lives were thus saved. One day, while he was meditating, the stone wall of his dwelling in the mountains was rent asunder, and a jade casket exposed to view. This was found to contain secret information as to how to become an Immortal. When he had followed these instructions for some time, his room was filled with many-coloured clouds, music was heard, and a celestial stork came and bore him away on its back to the regions of immortality. He is sometimes represented holding his feather-fan, Yü-mao Shan; at other times the peach of immortality. Since his admission to the ranks of the gods, he has appeared on earth at various times as the messenger of Heaven. On one of these occasions he met Lü Yen, as narrated on p. 297. Lan Ts'ai-ho Lan Ts'ai-ho is variously stated to have been a woman and an hermaphrodite. She is the strolling singer or mountebank of the Immortals. Usually she plays a flute or a pair of cymbals. Her origin is unknown, but her personal name is said to have been Yang Su, and her career is assigned to the period of the T'ang dynasty. She wandered abroad clad in a tattered blue gown held by a black wooden belt three inches wide, with one foot shoeless and the other shod, wearing in summer an undergarment of wadded material, and in winter sleeping on the snow, her breath rising in a brilliant cloud like the steam from a boiling cauldron. In this guise she earned her livelihood by singing in the streets, keeping time with a wand three feet long. Though taken for a lunatic, the doggerel verse she sang disproved the popular slanders. It denounced this fleeting life and its delusive pleasures. When given money, she either strung it on a cord and waved it to the time of her song or scattered it on the ground for the poor to pick up. One day she was found to have become intoxicated in an inn at Fêng-yang Fu in Anhui, and while in that state disappeared on a cloud, having thrown down to earth her shoe, robe, belt, and castanets. According to popular belief, however, only one of the Eight Immortals, namely, Ho Hsien-ku, was a woman, Lan Ts'ai-ho being represented as a young person of about sixteen, bearing a basket of fruit. According to the _Hsiu hsiang Pa Hsien tung yu chi_, he was 'the Red-footed Great Genius,' Ch'ih-chiao Ta-hsien incarnate. Though he was a man, adds the writer, he could not understand how to be a man (which is perhaps the reason why he has been supposed to be a woman). Chang Kuo The period assigned to Chang Kuo is the middle or close of the seventh to the middle of the eighth century A.D. He lived as a hermit on Chung-t'iao Shan, in the prefecture of P'ing-yang Fu in Shansi. The Emperors T'ai Tsung and Kao Tsung of the T'ang dynasty frequently invited him to Court, but he persistently refused to go. At last, pressed once more by the Empress Wu (A.D. 684-705), he consented to leave his retreat, but was struck down by death at the gate of the Temple of the Jealous Woman. His body began to decay and to be eaten by worms, when lo! he was seen again, alive and well, on the mountains of Hêng Chou in P'ing-yang Fu. He rode on a white mule, which carried him thousands of miles in a day, and which, when the journey was finished, he folded up like a sheet of paper and put away in his wallet. When he again required its services, he had only to spurt water upon the packet from his mouth and the animal at once assumed its proper shape. At all times he performed wonderful feats of necromancy, and declared that he had been Grand Minister to the Emperor Yao (2357-2255 B.C.) during a previous existence. In the twenty-third year (A.D. 735) of the reign-period K'ai Yüan of the Emperor Hsüan Tsung of the T'ang dynasty, he was called to Lo-yang in Honan, and elected Chief of the Imperial Academy, with the honourable title of Very Perspicacious Teacher. It was just at this time that the famous Taoist Yeh Fa-shan, thanks to his skill in necromancy, was in great favour at Court. The Emperor asked him who this Chang Kuo Lao (he usually has the epithet Lao, 'old,' added to his name) was. "I know," replied the magician; "but if I were to tell your Majesty I should fall dead at your feet, so I dare not speak unless your Majesty will promise that you will go with bare feet and bare head to ask Chang Kuo to forgive you, in which case I should immediately revive." Hsüan Tsung having promised, Fa-shan then said: "Chang Kuo is a white spiritual bat which came out of primeval chaos." No sooner had he spoken than he dropped dead at the Emperor's feet. Hsüan Tsung, with bare head and feet, went to Chang Kuo as he had promised, and begged forgiveness for his indiscretion. The latter then sprinkled water on Fa-shan's face and he revived. Soon after Chang fell sick and returned to die in the Hêng Chou Mountains during the period A.D. 742-746. When his disciples opened his tomb, they found it empty. He is usually seen mounted on his white mule, sometimes facing its head, sometimes its tail. He carries a phoenix-feather or a peach of immortality. At his interviews with the Emperor Ming Huang in A.D. 723 (when he was alive still) Chang Kuo "entertained the Emperor with a variety of magical tricks, such as rendering himself invisible, drinking off a cup of aconite, and felling birds or flowers by pointing at them. He refused the hand of an imperial princess, and also declined to have his portrait placed in the Hall of Worthies." A picture of Chang Kuo sitting on a donkey and offering a descendant to the newly married couple is often found in the nuptial chamber. It seems somewhat incongruous that an old ascetic should be associated with matrimonial happiness and the granting of offspring, but the explanation may possibly be connected with his performance of wonderful feats of necromancy, though he is said not to have given encouragement to others in these things during his lifetime. Ho Hsien Ku A maiden holding in her hand a magic lotus-blossom, the flower of open-heartedness, or the peach of immortality given her by Lü Tung-pin in the mountain-gorge as a symbol of identity, playing at times the _shêng_ or reed-organ, or drinking wine--this is the picture the Chinese paint of the Immortal Ho Hsien Ku. She was the daughter of Ho T'ai, a native of Tsêng-ch'êng Hsien in Kuangtung. Others say her father was a shopkeeper at Ling-ling in Hunan. She lived in the time of the usurping empress Wu (A.D. 684-705) of the T'ang dynasty. At her birth six hairs were found growing on the crown of her head, and the account says she never had any more, though the pictures represent her with a full head of hair. She elected to live on Yün-mu Ling, twenty _li_ west of Tsêng-ch'êng Hsien. On that mountain was found a stone called _yün-mu shih_, 'mother-of-pearl.' In a dream she saw a spirit who ordered her to powder and eat one of these stones, by doing which she could acquire both agility and immortality. She complied with this injunction, and also vowed herself to a life of virginity. Her days were thenceforth passed in floating from one peak to another, bringing home at night to her mother the fruits she collected on the mountain. She gradually found that she had no need to eat in order to live. Her fame having reached the ears of the Empress, she was invited to Court, but while journeying thither suddenly disappeared from mortal view and became an Immortal. She is said to have been seen again in A.D. 750 floating upon a cloud of many colours at the temple of Ma Ku, the famous female Taoist magician, and again, some years later, in the city of Canton. She is represented as an extremely beautiful maiden, and is remarkable as occupying so prominent a position in a cult in which no system of female asceticism is developed. Lü Tung-pin Lü Tung-pin's family name was Lü; his personal name Tung-pin; also Yen; and his pseudonym Shun Yang Tzu. He was born in A.D. 798 at Yung-lo Hsien, in the prefecture of Ho-chung Fu in Shansi, a hundred and twenty _li_ south-east of the present sub-prefecture of Yung-chi Hsien (P'u Chou). He came of an official family, his grandfather having been President of the Ministry of Ceremonies, and his father Prefect of Hai Chou. He was 5 feet 2 inches in height, and at twenty was still unmarried. At this time he made a journey to Lu Shan in Kiangsi, where he met the Fire-dragon, who presented him with a magic sword, which enabled him at will to hide himself in the heavens. During his visit to the capital, Ch'ang-an in Shensi, he met the Immortal Han Chung-li, who instructed him in the mysteries of alchemy and the elixir of life. When he revealed himself as Yün-fang Hsien-shêng, Lü Yen expressed an ardent desire to aid in converting mankind to the true doctrine, but was first exposed to a series of ten temptations. These being successfully overcome, he was invested with supernatural power and magic weapons, with which he traversed the Empire, slaying dragons and ridding the earth of divers kinds of evils, during a period of upward of four hundred years. Another version says that Han Chung-li was in an inn, heating a jug of rice-wine. Here Lü met him, and going to sleep dreamed that he was promoted to a very high office and was exceptionally favoured by fortune in every way. This had gone on for fifty years when unexpectedly a serious fault caused him to be condemned to exile, and his family was exterminated. Alone in the world, he was sighing bitterly, when he awoke with a start. All had taken place in so short a space of time that Han Chung-li's wine was not yet hot. This is the incident referred to in Chinese literature in the phrase 'rice-wine dream.' Convinced of the hollowness of worldly dignities, he followed Han Chung-li to the Ho Ling Mountains at Chung-nan in Shensi, where he was initiated into the divine mysteries, and became an Immortal. In A.D. 1115 the Emperor Hui Tsung conferred on him the title of Hero of Marvellous Wisdom; and later he was proclaimed King-emperor and Strong Protector. There are various versions of the legend of Lü Tung-pin. One of these adds that in order to fulfil his promise made to Chung-li to do what he could to aid in the work of converting his fellow-creatures to the true doctrine, he went to Yüch Yang in the guise of an oil-seller, intending to immortalize all those who did not ask for additional weight to the quantity of oil purchased. During a whole year he met only selfish and extortionate customers, with the exception of one old lady who alone did not ask for more than was her due. So he went to her house, and seeing a well in the courtyard threw a few grains of rice into it. The water miraculously turned into wine, from the sale of which the dame amassed great wealth. He was very skilful in fencing, and is always represented with his magic Excalibur named Chan-yao Kuai, 'Devil-slaying Sabre,' and in one hand holds a fly-whisk, Yün-chou, or 'Cloud-sweeper,' a symbol common in Taoism of being able to fly at will through the air and to walk on the clouds of Heaven. Like Kuan Kung, he is shown bearing in his arms a male child--indicating a promise of numerous progeny, including _literati_ and famous officials. Consequently he is one of the spiritual beings honoured by the _literati_. Han Hsiang Tzu Han Hsiang Tzu, who is depicted with a bouquet of flowers or a basket of peaches of immortality, is stated to have been a grand-nephew of Han Yü (A.D. 768-824), the great statesman, philosopher, and poet of the T'ang dynasty, and an ardent votary of transcendental study. His own name was Ch'ing Fu. The child was entrusted to his uncle to be educated and prepared for the public examinations. He excelled his teacher in intelligence and the performance of wonderful feats, such as the production from a little earth in a flower-pot of some marvellous flowering plants, on the leaves of which were written in letters of gold some verses to this effect: The clouds hide Mount Ch'in Ling. Where is your abode? The snow is deep on Lan Kuan; Your horse refuses to advance. "What is the meaning of these verses?" asked Han Yü. "You will see," replied Han Hsiang Tzu. Some time afterward Han Yü was sent in disgrace to the prefecture of Ch'ao-chou Fu in Kuangtung. When he reached the foot of Lan Kuan the snow was so deep that he could not go on. Han Hsiang Tzu appeared, and, sweeping away the snow, made a path for him. Han Yü then understood the prophecy in his pupil's verses. When Han Hsiang Tzu was leaving his uncle, he gave him the following in verse: Many indeed are the eminent men who have served their country, but which of them surpasses you in his knowledge of literature? When you have reached a high position, you will be buried in a damp and foggy land. Han Yü also gave his pupil a farewell verse: How many here below allow themselves to be inebriated by the love of honours and pelf! Alone and watchful you persevere in the right path. But a time will come when, taking your flight to the sky, you will open in the ethereal blue a luminous roadway. Han Yü was depressed at the thought of the damp climate of his place of exile. "I fear there is no doubt," he said, "that I shall die without seeing my family again." Han Hsiang Tzu consoled him, gave him a prescription, and said: "Not only will you return in perfect health to the bosom of your family, but you will be reinstated in your former offices." All this took place exactly as he had predicted. Another account states that he became the disciple of Lü Tung-pin, and, having been carried up to the supernatural peach-tree of the genii, fell from its branches, but during his descent attained to the state of immortality. Still another version says that he was killed by the fall, was transformed, and then underwent the various experiences with Han Yü already related. Ts'ao Kuo-chiu Ts'ao Kuo-chiu was connected with the imperial family of the Sungs, and is shown with the tablet of admission to Court in his hand. He became one of the Eight Immortals because the other seven, who occupied seven of the eight grottos of the Upper Spheres, wished to see the eighth inhabited, and nominated him because "his disposition resembled that of a genie." The legend relates that the Empress Ts'ao, wife of the Emperor Jên Tsung (A.D. 1023-64), had two younger brothers. The elder of the two, Ching-hsiu, did not concern himself with the affairs of State; the younger, Ching-chih, was notorious for his misbehaviour. In spite of all warnings he refused to reform, and being at last guilty of homicide was condemned to death. His brother, ashamed at what had occurred, went and hid in the mountains, where he clothed his head and body with wild plants, resolved to lead the life of a hermit. One day Han Chung-li and Lü Tung-pin found him in his retreat, and asked him what he was doing. "I am engaged in studying the Way," he replied. "What way, and where is it?" they asked. He pointed to the sky. "Where is the sky?" they went on. He pointed to his heart. The two visitors smiled and said: "The heart is the sky, and the sky is the Way; you understand the origin of things." They then gave him a recipe for perfection, to enable him to take his place among the Perfect Ones. In a few days only he had reached this much-sought-after condition. In another version we find fuller details concerning this Immortal. A graduate named Yüan Wên-chêng of Ch'ao-yang Hsien, in the sub-prefecture of Ch'ao-chou Fu in Kuangtung, was travelling with his wife to take his examinations at the capital. Ts'ao Ching-chih, the younger brother of the Empress, saw the lady, and was struck with her beauty. In order to gratify his passion he invited the graduate and his young wife to the palace, where he strangled the husband and tried to force the wife to cohabit with him. She refused obstinately, and as a last resort he had her imprisoned in a noisome dungeon. The soul of the graduate appeared to the imperial Censor Pao Lao-yeh, and begged him to exact vengeance for the execrable crime. The elder brother, Ching-hsiu, seeing the case put in the hands of the upright Pao Lao-yeh, and knowing his brother to be guilty of homicide, advised him to put the woman to death, in order to cut off all sources of information and so to prevent further proceedings. The young voluptuary thereupon caused the woman to be thrown down a deep well, but the star T'ai-po Chin-hsing, in the form of an old man, drew her out again. While making her escape, she met on the road an official procession which she mistook for that of Pao Lao-yeh, and, going up to the sedan chair, made her accusation. This official was no other than the elder brother of the murderer. Ching-hsiu, terrified, dared not refuse to accept the charge, but on the pretext that the woman had not placed herself respectfully by the side of the official chair, and thus had not left a way clear for the passage of his retinue, he had her beaten with iron-spiked whips, and she was cast away for dead in a neighbouring lane. This time also she revived, and ran to inform Pao Lao-yeh. The latter immediately had Ts'ao Ching-hsiu arrested, cangued, and fettered. Without loss of time he wrote an invitation to the second brother, Ts'ao Ching-chih, and on his arrival confronted him with the graduate's wife, who accused him to his face. Pao Lao-yeh had him put in a pit, and remained deaf to all entreaties of the Emperor and Empress on his behalf. A few days later the murderer was taken to the place of execution, and his head rolled in the dust. The problem now was how to get Ts'ao Ching-hsiu out of the hands of the terrible Censor. The Emperor Jên Tsung, to please the Empress, had a universal amnesty proclaimed throughout the Empire, under which all prisoners were set free. On receipt of this edict, Pao Lao-yeh liberated Ts'ao Ching-hsiu from the cangue, and allowed him to go free. As one risen from the dead, he gave himself up to the practice of perfection, became a hermit, and, through the instruction of the Perfect Ones, became one of the Eight Immortals. Pa Hsien Kuo Hai The phrase _Pa Hsien kuo hai_, 'the Eight Immortals crossing the sea,' refers to the legend of an expedition made by these deities. Their object was to behold the wondrous things of the sea not to be found in the celestial sphere. The usual mode of celestial locomotion--by taking a seat on a cloud--was discarded at the suggestion of Lü Yen who recommended that they should show the infinite variety of their talents by placing things on the surface of the sea and stepping on them. Li T'ieh-kuai threw down his crutch, and scudded rapidly over the waves. Chung-li Ch'üan used his feather-fan, Chang Kuo his paper mule, Lü Tung-pin his sword, Han Hsiang Tzu his flower-basket, Ho Hsien Ku her lotus-flower, Lan Ts'ai-ho his musical instrument, and Ts'ao Kuo-chiu his tablet of admission to Court. The popular pictures often represent most of these articles changed into various kinds of sea-monsters. The musical instrument was noticed by the son of the Dragon-king of the Eastern Sea. This avaricious prince conceived the idea of stealing the instrument and imprisoning its owner. The Immortals thereupon declared war, the details of which are described at length by the Chinese writers, the outcome being that the Dragon-king was utterly defeated. After this the Eight Immortals continued their submarine exploits for an indefinite time, encountering numberless adventures; but here the author travels far into the fertile region of romance, beyond the frontiers of our present province. CHAPTER XII The Guardian of the Gate of Heaven Li, the Pagoda-bearer In Buddhist temples there is to be seen a richly attired figure of a man holding in his hand a model of a pagoda. He is Li, the Prime Minister of Heaven and father of No-cha. He was a general under the tyrant Chou and commander of Ch'ên-t'ang Kuan at the time when the bloody war was being waged which resulted in the extinction of the Yin dynasty. No-cha is one of the most frequently mentioned heroes in Chinese romance; he is represented in one account as being Yü Huang's shield-bearer, sixty feet in height, his three heads with nine eyes crowned by a golden wheel, his eight hands each holding a magic weapon, and his mouth vomiting blue clouds. At the sound of his Voice, we are told, the heavens shook and the foundations of the earth trembled. His duty was to bring into submission all the demons which desolated the world. His birth was in this wise. Li Ching's wife, Yin Shih, bore him three sons, the eldest Chin-cha, the second Mu-cha, and the third No-cha, generally known as 'the Third Prince.' Yin Shih dreamed one night that a Taoist priest entered her room. She indignantly exclaimed: "How dare you come into my room in this indiscreet manner?" The priest replied: "Woman, receive the child of the unicorn!" Before she could reply the Taoist pushed an object to her bosom. Yin Shih awoke in a fright, a cold sweat all over her body. Having awakened her husband, she told him what she had dreamed. At that moment she was seized with the pains of childbirth. Li Ching withdrew to an adjoining room, uneasy at what seemed to be inauspicious omens. A little later two servants ran to him, crying out: "Your wife has given birth to a monstrous freak!" An Avatar of the Intelligent Pearl Li Ching seized his sword and went into his wife's room, which he found filled with a red light exhaling a most extraordinary odour. A ball of flesh was rolling on the floor like a wheel; with a blow of his sword he cut it open, and a babe emerged, surrounded by a halo of red light. Its face was very white, a gold bracelet was on its right wrist, and it wore a pair of red silk trousers, from which proceeded rays of dazzling golden light. The bracelet was 'the horizon of Heaven and earth,' and the two precious objects belonged to the cave Chin-kuang Tung of T'ai-i Chên-jên, the priest who had bestowed them upon him when he appeared to his mother during her sleep. The child itself was an avatar of Ling Chu-tzu, 'the Intelligent Pearl.' On the morrow T'ai-i Chên-jên returned and asked Li Ching's permission to see the new-born babe. "He shall be called No-cha," he said, "and will become my disciple." A Precocious Youth At seven years of age No-cha was already six feet in height. One day he asked his mother if he might go for a walk outside the town. His mother granted him permission on condition that he was accompanied by a servant. She also counselled him not to remain too long outside the wall, lest his father should become anxious. It was in the fifth moon: the heat was excessive. No-cha had not gone a _li_ before he was in a profuse perspiration. Some way ahead he saw a clump of trees, to which he hastened, and, settling himself in the shade, opened his coat, and breathed with relief the fresher air. In front of him he saw a stream of limpid green water running between two rows of willows, gently agitated by the movement of the wind, and flowing round a rock. The child ran to the banks of the stream, and said to his guardian: "I am covered with perspiration, and will bathe from the rock." "Be quick," said the servant; "if your father returns home before you he will be anxious." No-cha stripped himself, took his red silk trousers, several feet long, and dipped them in the water, intending to use them as a towel. No sooner were the magic trousers immersed in the stream than the water began to boil, and Heaven and earth trembled. The water of this river, the Chiu-wan Ho, 'Nine-bends River,' which communicated with the Eastern Sea, turned completely red, and Lung Wang's palace shook to its foundations. The Dragon-king, surprised at seeing the walls of his crystal palace shaking, called his officers and inquired: "How is it that the palace threatens to collapse? There should not be an earthquake at this time." He ordered one of his attendants to go at once and find out what evil was giving rise to the commotion. When the officer reached the river he saw that the water was red, but noticed nothing else except a boy dipping a band of silk in the stream. He cleft the water and called out angrily: "That child should be thrown into the water for making the river red and causing Lung Wang's palace to shake." "Who is that who speaks so brutally?" said No-cha. Then, seeing that the man intended to seize him, he jumped aside, took his gold bracelet, and hurled it in the air. It fell on the head of the officer, and No-cha left him dead on the rock. Then he picked up his bracelet and said smiling: "His blood has stained my precious horizon of Heaven and earth." He then washed it in the water. The Slaying of the Dragon-king's Son "How is it that the officer does not return?" inquired Lung Wang. At that moment attendants came to inform him that his retainer had been murdered by a boy. Thereupon Ao Ping, the third son of Lung Wang, placing himself at the head of a troop of marines, his trident in his hand, left the palace precincts. The warriors dashed into the river, raising on every side waves mountains high. Seeing the water rising, No-cha stood up on the rock and was confronted by Ao Ping mounted on a sea-monster. "Who slew my messenger?" cried the warrior. "I did," answered No-cha. "Who are you?" demanded Ao Ping. "I am No-cha, the third son of Li Ching of Ch'ên-t'ang Kuan. I came here to bathe and refresh myself; your messenger cursed me, and I killed him. Then--" "Rascal! do you not know that your victim was a deputy of the King of Heaven? How dare you kill him, and then boast of your crime?" So saying, Ao Ping thrust at the boy with his trident. No-cha, by a brisk move, evaded the thrust. "Who are you?" he asked in turn. "I am Ao Ping, the third son of Lung Wang." "Ah, you are a blusterer," jeered the boy; "if you dare to touch me I will skin you alive, you and your mud-eels!" "You make me choke with rage," rejoined Ao Ping, at the same time thrusting again with his trident. Furious at this renewed attack, No-cha spread his silk trousers in the air, and thousands of balls of fire flew out of them, felling Lung Wang's son. No-cha put his foot on Ao Ping's head and struck it with his magic bracelet, whereupon he appeared in his true form of a dragon. "I am now going to pull out your sinews," he said, "in order to make a belt for my father to use to bind on his cuirass." No-cha was as good as his word, and Ao Ping's escort ran and informed Lung Wang of the fate of his son. The Dragon-king went to Li Ching and demanded an explanation. Being entirely ignorant of what had taken place, Li Ching sought No-cha to question him. An Unruly Son No-cha was in the garden, occupied in weaving the belt of dragon-sinew. The stupefaction of Li Ching may be imagined. "You have brought most awful misfortunes upon us," he exclaimed. "Come and give an account of your conduct." "Have no fear," replied No-cha superciliously; "his son's sinews are still intact; I will give them back to him if he wishes." When they entered the house he saluted the Dragon-king, made a curt apology, and offered to return his son's sinews. The father, moved with grief at the sight of the proofs of the tragedy, said bitterly to Li Ching: "You have such a son and yet dare to deny his guilt, though you heard him haughtily admitting it! To-morrow I shall report the matter to Yü Huang." Having spoken thus, he departed. Li Ching was overwhelmed at the enormity of his son's crime. His wife, in an adjoining room, hearing his lamentations, went to her husband. "What obnoxious creature is this that you have brought into the world?" he said to her angrily. "He has slain two spirits, the son of Lung Wang and a steward sent by the King of Heaven. To-morrow the Dragon-king is to lodge a complaint with Yü Huang, and two or three days hence will see the end of our existence." The poor mother began to weep copiously. "What!" she sobbed, "you whom I suffered so much for, you are to be the cause of our ruin and death!" No-cha, seeing his parents so distracted, fell on his knees. "Let me tell you once for all," he said, "that I am no ordinary mortal. I am the disciple of T'ai-i Chên-jên; my magic weapons I received from him; it is they which brought upon me the undying hatred of Lung Wang. But he cannot prevail. To-day I will go and ask my master's advice. The guilty alone should suffer the penalty; it is unjust that his parents should suffer in his stead." Drastic Measures He then left for Ch'ien-yüan Shan, and entered the cave of his master T'ai-i Chên-jên, to whom he related his adventures. The master dwelt upon the grave consequences of the murders, and then ordered No-cha to bare his breast. With his finger he drew on the skin a magic formula, after which he gave him some secret instructions. "Now," he said, "go to the gate of Heaven and await the arrival of Lung Wang, who purposes to accuse you before Yü Huang. Then you must come again to consult me, that your parents may not be molested because of your misdeeds." When No-cha reached the gate of Heaven it was closed. In vain he sought for Lung Wang, but after a while he saw him approaching. Lung Wang did not see No-cha, for the formula written by T'ai-i Chên-jên rendered him invisible. As Lung Wang approached the gate No-cha ran up to him and struck him so hard a blow with his golden bracelet that he fell to the ground. Then No-cha stamped on him, cursing him vehemently. The Dragon-king now recognized his assailant and sharply reproached him with his crimes, but the only reparation he got was a renewal of kicks and blows. Then, partially lifting Lung Wang's cloak and raising his shield, No-cha tore off from his body about forty scales. Blood flowed copiously, and the Dragon-king, under stress of the pain, begged his foe to spare his life. To this No-cha consented on condition that he relinquished his purpose of accusing him before Yü Huang. "Now," went on No-cha, "change yourself into a small serpent that I may take you back without fear of your escaping." Lung Wang took the form of a small blue dragon, and followed No-cha to his father's house, upon entering which Lung Wang resumed his normal form, and accused No-cha of having belaboured him. "I will go with all the Dragon-kings and lay an accusation before Yü Huang," he said. Thereupon he transformed himself into a gust of wind, and disappeared. No-cha draws a Bow at a Venture "Things are going from bad to worse," sighed Li Ching, His son, however, consoled him: "I beg you, my father, not to let the future trouble you. I am the chosen one of the gods. My master is T'ai-i Chên-jên, and he has assured me that he can easily protect us." No-cha now went out and ascended a tower which commanded a view of the entrance of the fort. There he found a wonderful bow and three magic arrows. No-cha did not know that this was the spiritual weapon belonging to the fort. "My master informed me that I am destined to fight to establish the coming Chou dynasty; I ought therefore to perfect myself in the use of weapons. This is a good opportunity." He accordingly seized the bow and shot an arrow toward the south-west. A red trail indicated the path of the arrow, which hissed as it flew. At that moment Pi Yün, a servant of Shih-chi Niang-niang, happened to be at the foot of K'u-lou Shan (Skeleton Hill), in front of the cave of his mistress. The arrow pierced his throat, and he fell dead, bathed in his blood. Shih-chi Niang-niang came out of her cave, and examining the arrow found that it bore the inscription: "Arrow which shakes the heavens." She thus knew that it must have come from Ch'ên-t'ang Kuan, where the magic bow was kept. Another Encounter The goddess mounted her blue phoenix, flew over the fort, seized Li Ching, and carried him to her cave. There she made him kneel before her, and reminded him how she had protected him that he might gain honour and glory on earth before he attained to immortality. "It is thus that you show your gratitude--by killing my servant!" Li Ching swore that he was innocent; but the tell-tale arrow was there, and it could not but have come from the fortress. Li Ching begged the goddess to set him at liberty, in order that he might find the culprit and bring him to her. "If I cannot find him," he added, "you may take my life." Once again No-cha frankly admitted his deed to his father, and followed him to the cave of Shih-chi Niang-niang. When he reached the entrance the second servant reproached him with the crime, whereupon No-cha struck him a heavy blow. Shih-chi Niang-niang, infuriated, threw herself at No-cha, sword in hand; one after the other she wrenched from him his bracelet and magic trousers. Deprived of his magic weapons, No-cha fled to his master, T'ai-i Chên-jên. The goddess followed and demanded that he be put to death. A terrible conflict ensued between the two champions, until T'ai-i Chên-jên hurled into the air his globe of nine fire-dragons, which, falling on Shih-chi Niang-niang, enveloped her in a whirlwind of flame. When this had passed it was seen that she was changed into stone. "Now you are safe," said T'ai-i Chên-jên to No-cha, "but return quickly, for the Four Dragon-kings have laid their accusation before Yü Huang, and they are going to carry off your parents. Follow my advice, and you will rescue your parents from their misfortune." No-cha commits Hara-Kiri On his return No-cha found the Four Dragon-kings on the point of carrying off his parents. "It is I," he said, "who killed Ao Ping, and I who should pay the penalty. Why are you molesting my parents? I am about to return to them what I received from them. Will it satisfy you?" Lung Wang agreed, whereupon No-cha took a sword, and before their eyes cut off an arm, sliced open his stomach, and fell unconscious. His soul, borne on the wind, went straight to the cave of T'ai-i Chên-jên, while his mother busied herself with burying his body. "Your home is not here," said his master to him; "return to Ch'ên-t'ang Kuan, and beg your mother to build a temple on Ts'ui-p'ing Shan, forty _li_ farther on. Incense will be burned to you for three years, at the end of which time you will be reincarnated." A Habitation for the Soul During the night, toward the third watch, while his mother was in a deep sleep, No-cha appeared to her in a dream and said: "My mother, pity me; since my death, my soul, separated from my body, wanders about without a home. Build me, I pray you, a temple on Ts'ui-p'ing Shan, that I may be reincarnated." His mother awoke in tears, and related her vision to Li Ching, who reproached her for her blind attachment to her unnatural son, the cause of so much disaster. For five or six nights the son appeared to his mother, each time repeating his request. The last time he added: "Do not forget that by nature I am ferocious; if you refuse my request evil will befall you." His mother then sent builders to the mountain to construct a temple to No-cha, and his image was set up in it. Miracles were not wanting, and the number of pilgrims who visited the shrine increased daily. Li Ching destroys his Son's Statue One day Li Ching, with a troop of his soldiers, was passing this mountain, and saw the roads crowded with pilgrims of both sexes. "Where are these people going?" he asked. "For six months past," he was told, "the spirit of the temple on this mountain has continued to perform miracles. People come from far and near to worship and supplicate him." "What is the name of this spirit?" inquired Li Ching. "No-cha," they replied. "No-cha!" exclaimed the father. "I will go and see him myself." In a rage Li Ching entered the temple and examined the statue, which was a speaking image of his son. By its side were images of two of his servants. He took his whip and began to beat the statue, cursing it all the while. "It is not enough, apparently, for you to have been a source of disaster to us," he said; "but even after your death you must deceive the multitude." He whipped the statue until it fell to pieces; he then kicked over the images of the servants, and went back, admonishing the people not to worship so wicked a man, the shame and ruin of his family. By his orders the temple was burnt to the ground. When he reached Ch'ên-t'ang Kuan his wife came to him, but he received her coldly. "You gave birth to that cursed son," he said, "who has been the plague of our lives, and after his death you build him a temple in which he deceives the people. Do you wish to have me disgraced? If I were to be accused at Court of having instituted the worship of false gods, would not my destruction be certain? I have burned the temple, and intend that that shall settle the matter once for all; if ever you think of rebuilding it I will break off all relations with you." No-cha consults his Master At the time of his father's visit No-cha was absent from the temple. On his return he found only its smoking remnants. The spirits of his two servants ran up lamenting. "Who has demolished my temple?" he asked. "Li Ching," they replied. "In doing this he has exceeded his powers," said No-cha. "I gave him back the substance I received from him; why did he come with violence to break up my image? I will have nothing more to do with him." No-cha's soul had already begun to be spiritualised. So he determined to go to T'ai-i Chên-jên and beg for his help. "The worship rendered to you there," replied the Taoist, "had nothing in it which should have offended your father; it did not concern him. He was in the wrong. Before long Chiang Tzu-ya will descend to inaugurate the new dynasty, and since you must throw in your lot with him I will find a way to aid you." A New No-cha T'ai-i Chên-jên had two water-lily stalks and three lotus-leaves brought to him. He spread these on the ground in the form of a human being and placed the soul of No-cha in this lotus skeleton, uttering magic incantations the while. There emerged a new No-cha full of life, with a fresh complexion, purple lips, keen glance, and sixteen feet of height. "Follow me to my peach-garden," said T'ai-i Chên-jên, "and I will give you your weapons." He handed him a fiery spear, very sharp, and two wind-and-fire wheels which, placed under his feet, served as a Vehicle. A brick of gold in a panther-skin bag completed his magic armament. The new warrior, after thanking his master, mounted his wind-and-fire wheels and returned to Ch'ên-t'ang Kuan. A Battle between Father and Son Li Ching was informed that his son No-cha had returned and was threatening vengeance. So he took his weapons, mounted his horse, and went forth to meet him. Having cursed each other profusely, they joined battle, but Li Ching was worsted and compelled to flee. No-cha pursued his father, but as he was on the point of overtaking him Li Ching's second son, Mu-cha, came on the scene, and keenly reproached his brother for his unfilial conduct. "Li Ching is no longer my father," replied No-cha. "I gave him back my substance; why did he burn my temple and smash up my image?" Mu-cha thereupon prepared to defend his father, but received on his back a blow from the golden brick, and fell unconscious. No-cha then resumed his pursuit of Li Ching. His strength exhausted, and in danger of falling into the hands of his enemy, Li Ching drew his sword and was about to kill himself. "Stop!" cried a Taoist priest. "Come into my cave, and I will protect you." When No-cha came up he could not see Li Ching, and demanded his surrender from the Taoist. But he had to do with one stronger than himself, no less a being than Wên-chu T'ien-tsun, whom T'ai-i Chên-jên had sent in order that No-cha might receive a lesson. The Taoist, with the aid of his magic weapon, seized No-cha, and in a moment he found a gold ring fastened round his neck, two chains on his feet, and he was bound to a pillar of gold. Peace at the Last At this moment, as if by accident, T'ai-i Chên-jên appeared upon the scene. His master had No-cha brought before Wên-chu T'ien-tsun and Li Ching, and advised him to live at peace with his father, but he also rebuked the father for having burned the temple on Ts'ui-p'ing Shan. This done, he ordered Li Ching to go home, and No-cha to return to his cave. The latter, overflowing with anger, his heart full of vengeance, started again in pursuit of Li Ching, swearing that he would punish him. But the Taoist reappeared and prepared to protect Li Ching. No-cha, bristling like a savage cat, threw himself at his enemy and tried to pierce him with his spear, but a white lotus-flower emerged from the Taoist's mouth and arrested the course of the weapon. As No-cha continued to threaten him, the Taoist drew from his sleeve a mysterious object which rose in the air, and, falling at the feet of No-cha, enveloped him in flames. Then No-cha prayed for mercy. The Taoist exacted from him three separate promises: to live in harmony with his father, to recognize and address him as his father, and to throw himself at his, the Taoist's, feet, to indicate his reconciliation with himself. After this act of reconciliation had been performed, Wên-chu T'ien-tsun promised Li Ching that he should leave his official post to become an Immortal able to place his services at the disposal of the new Chou dynasty, shortly to come into power. In order to ensure that their reconciliation should last for ever, and to place it beyond No-cha's power to seek revenge, he gave Li Ching the wonderful object by whose agency No-cha's feet had been burned, and which had been the means of bringing him into subjection. It was a golden pagoda, which became the characteristic weapon of Li Ching, and gave rise to his nickname, Li the Pagoda-bearer. Finally, Yü Huang appointed him Generalissimo of the Twenty-six Celestial Officers, Grand Marshal of the Skies, and Guardian of the Gate of Heaven. CHAPTER XIII A Battle of the Gods Multifarious Versatile Divinities The _Fêng shên yen i_ describes at length how, during the wars which preceded the accession of the Chou dynasty in 1122 B.C., a multitude of demigods, Buddhas, Immortals, etc., took part on one side or the other, some fighting for the old, some for the new dynasty. They were wonderful creatures, gifted with marvellous powers. They could at will change their form, multiply their heads and limbs, become invisible, and create, by merely uttering a word, terrible monsters who bit and destroyed, or sent forth poison gases, or emitted flames from their nostrils. In these battles there is much lightning, thunder, flight of fire-dragons, dark clouds which vomit burning hails of murderous weapons; swords, spears, and arrows fall from the sky on to the heads of the combatants; the earth trembles, the pillars of Heaven shake. Chun T'i One of these gifted warriors was Chun T'i, a Taoist of the Western Paradise, who appeared on the scene when the armies of the rival dynasties were facing each other. K'ung Hsüan was gallantly holding the pass of the Chin-chi Ling; Chiang Tzu-ya was trying to take it by assault--so far without success. Chun T'i's mission was to take K'ung Hsüan to the abode of the blest, his wisdom and general progress having now reached the required degree of perfection. This was a means of breaking down the invincible resistance of this powerful enemy and at the same time of rewarding his brilliant talents. But K'ung Hsüan did not approve of this plan, and a fight took place between the two champions. At one moment Chun T'i was seized by a luminous bow and carried into the air, but while enveloped in a cloud of fire he appeared with eighteen arms and twenty-four heads, holding in each hand a powerful talisman. The One-eyed Peacock He put a silk cord round K'ung Hsüan's neck, touched him with his wand, and forced him to reassume his original form of a red one-eyed peacock. Chun T'i seated himself on the peacock's back, and it flew across the sky, bearing its saviour and master to the Western Paradise. Brilliantly variegated clouds marked its track through space. Arrangements for the Siege On the disappearance of its defender the defile of Chin-chi Ling was captured, and the village of Chieh-p'ai Kuan, the bulwark of the enemy's forces, reached. This place was defended by a host of genii and Immortals, the most distinguished among them being the Taoist T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu, whose specially effective charms had so far kept the fort secure against every attempt upon it. Lao Tzu himself had deigned to descend from dwelling in happiness, together with Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun and Chieh-yin Tao-jên, to take part in the siege. But the town had four gates, and these heavenly rulers were only three in number. So Chun T'i was recalled, and each member of the quartette was entrusted with the task of capturing one of the gates. Impediments Chun T'i's duty was to take the Chüeh-hsien Mên, defended by T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu. The warriors who had tried to enter the town by this gate had one and all paid for their temerity with their lives. The moment each had crossed the threshold a clap of thunder had resounded, and a mysterious sword, moving with lightning rapidity, had slain him. Offence and Defence As Chun T'i advanced at the head of his warriors terrible lightning rent the air and the mysterious sword descended like a thunderbolt upon his head. But Chun T'i held on high his Seven-precious Branch, whereupon there emerged from it thousands of lotus-flowers, which formed an impenetrable covering and stopped the sword in its fall. This and the other gates were then forced, and a grand assault was now directed against the chief defender of the town. T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu, riding his ox and surrounded by his warriors, for the last time risked the chance of war and bravely faced his four terrible adversaries. With his sword held aloft, he threw himself on Chieh-yin Tao-jên, whose only weapon was his fly-whisk. But there emerged from this a five-coloured lotus-flower, which stopped the sword-thrust. While Lao Tzu struck the hero with his staff, Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun warded off the terrible sword with his jade _ju-i_. Chun T'i now called to his help the spiritual peacock, and took the form of a warrior with twenty-four heads and eighteen arms. His mysterious weapons surrounded T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu, and Lao Tzu struck the hero so hard that fire came out from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Unable to parry the assaults of his adversaries, he next received a blow from Chun T'i's magic wand, which felled him, and he took flight in a whirlwind of dust. The defenders now offered no further resistance, and Yüan-shih T'ien-tsun thanked Chun T'i for the valuable assistance he had rendered in the capture of the village, after which the gods returned to their palace in the Western Heaven. Attempts at Revenge T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu, vanquished and routed, swore to have his revenge. He called to his aid the spirits of the twenty-eight constellations, and marched to attack Wu Wang's army. The honour of the victory that ensued belonged to Chun T'i, who disarmed both the Immortal Wu Yün and T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu. Wu Yün, armed with his magic sword, entered the lists against Chun T'i; but the latter opened his mouth and a blue lotus-flower came out and stopped the blows aimed at him. Other thrusts were met by similar miracles. "Why continue so useless a fight?" said Chun T'i at last. "Abandon the cause of the Shang, and come with me to the Western Paradise. I came to save you, and you must not compel me to make you resume your original form." An insulting flow of words was the reply; again the magic sword descended like lightning, and again the stroke was averted by a timely lotus-flower. Chun T'i now waved his wand, and the magic sword was broken to bits, the handle only remaining in Wu Yün's hand. The Golden-bearded Turtle Mad with rage, Wu Yün seized his club and tried to fell his enemy. But Chun T'i summoned a disciple, who appeared with a bamboo pole. This he thrust out like a fishing-rod, and on a hook at the end of the line attached to the pole dangled a large golden-bearded turtle. This was the Immortal Wu Yün, now in his original form of a spiritual turtle. The disciple seated himself on its back, and both, disappearing into space, returned to the Western Heavens. The Battle Won To conquer T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu was more difficult, but after a long fight Chun T'i waved his Wand of the Seven Treasures and broke his adversary's sword. The latter, disarmed and vanquished, disappeared in a cloud of dust. Chun T'i did not trouble to pursue him. The battle was won. Buddhahood A disciple of T'ung-t'ien Chiao-chu, P'i-lu Hsien, 'the Immortal P'i-lu,' seeing his master beaten in two successive engagements, left the battlefield and followed Chun T'i to the Western Paradise, to become a Buddha. He is known as P'i-lu Fo, one of the principal gods of Buddhism. Chun T'i's festival is celebrated on the sixth day of the third moon. He is generally shown with eight hands and three faces, one of the latter being that of a pig. CHAPTER XIV How the Monkey Became a God The Hsi Yu Chi In dealing with the gods of China we noticed the monkey among them. Why and in what manner he attained to that exalted rank is set forth in detail in the _Hsi yu chi_ [33]--a work the contents of which have become woven into the fabric of Chinese legendary lore and are known and loved by every intelligent native. Its pages are filled with ghosts, demons, and fairies, good and bad, but "it contains no more than the average Chinese really believes to exist, and his belief in such manifestations is so firm that from the cradle to the grave he lives and moves and has his being in reference to them." Its characters are said to be allegorical, though it may be doubted whether these implications may rightly be read into the Chinese text. Thus: Hsüan (or Yüan) Chuang, or T'ang Sêng, is the pilgrim of the _Hsi yu chi_, who symbolizes conscience, to which all actions are brought for trial. The priestly garment of Hsüan Chuang symbolizes the good work of the rectified human nature. It is held to be a great protection to the new heart from the myriads of evil beings which surround it, seeking its destruction. Sun Hou-tzu, the Monkey Fairy, represents human nature, which is prone to all evil. His unreasonable vagaries moved Hsüan Chuang to compel him to wear a Head-splitting Helmet which would contract upon his head in moments of waywardness. The agonizing pressure thus caused would bring him to his senses, irrespective of his distance from his master. The iron wand of Sun Hou-tzu is said to represent the use that can be made of doctrine. It was useful for all purposes, great or small. By a word it could be made invisible, and by a word it could become long enough to span the distance between Heaven and earth. Chu Pa-chieh, the Pig Fairy, with his muck-rake, stands for the coarser passions, which are constantly at war with the conscience in their endeavours to cast off all restraint. Sha Ho-shang, Priest Sha, is a good representation of Mr Faithful in _The Pilgrim's Progress_. In the _Hsi yu chi_ he stands for the human character, which is naturally weak and which needs constant encouragement. Legend of Sun Hou-tzu The deeds of this marvellous creature, the hero of the _Hsi yu chi_, are to be met with continually in Chinese popular literature, and they are very much alive in the popular mind. In certain parts a regular worship is offered to him, and in many temples representations of or legends concerning him are to be seen or heard. Other names by which Sun Hou-tzu is referred to are: Sun Hsing-chê, Sun Wu-k'ung, Mei Hou-wang, Ch'i-t'ien Ta Shêng, and Pi-ma Wên, the last-mentioned being a title which caused him annoyance by recalling the derisive dignity conferred upon him by Yü Huang. [34] Throughout the remainder of this chapter Sun Hou-tzu will be shortly referred to as 'Sun.' Beyond the seas, in the Eastern continent, in the kingdom of Ao-lai, is the mountain Hua-kuo Shan. On the steep sides of this mountain there is a rocky point 36 feet 5 inches high and 24 feet in circumference. At the very top an egg formed, and, fructified by the breath of the wind, gave birth to a stone monkey. The newly-born saluted the four points of the horizon; from his eyes shone golden streaks of lightning, which filled the palace of the North Pole Star with light. This light subsided as soon as he was able to take nourishment. "To-day," said Yü Huang to himself, "I am going to complete the wonderful diversity of the beings engendered by Heaven and earth. This monkey will skip and gambol to the highest peaks of mountains, jump about in the waters, and, eating the fruit of the trees, will be the companion of the gibbon and the crane. Like the deer he will pass his nights on the mountain slopes, and during the day will be seen leaping on their summits or in their caverns. That will be the finest ornament of all for the mountains!" The creature's exploits soon caused him to be proclaimed king of the monkeys. He then began to try to find some means of becoming immortal. After travelling for eighteen years by land and sea he met the Immortal P'u-t'i Tsu-shih on the mountain Ling-t'ai-fang-ts'un. During his travels the monkey had gradually acquired human attributes; his face remained always as it had been originally, but dressed in human apparel he began to be civilized. His new master gave him the family name of Sun, and personal name of Wu-k'ung, 'Discoverer of Secrets.' He taught him how to fly through the air, and to change into seventy-two different forms. With one leap he could cover 108,000 _li_ (about 36,000 miles). A Rod of Iron Sun, after his return to Hua-kuo Shan, slew the demon Hun-shih Mo-wang, who had been molesting the monkeys during his long absence. Then he organized his subjects into a regular army, 47,000 all told. Thus the peace of the simian kingdom was assured. As for himself, he could not find a weapon to suit him, and went to consult Ao Kuang, the Lung Wang, or Dragon-king of the Eastern Sea, about it. It was from him that he obtained the formidable rod of iron, formerly planted in the ocean-bed by the Great Yü (Yü Wang) to regulate the level of the waters. He pulled it out, and modified it to suit his tastes. The two extremities he bound round with gold bands, and on it engraved the words: 'Gold-bound Wand of my Desires.' This magic weapon could accommodate itself to all his wishes; being able to assume the most incredible proportions or to reduce itself to the form of the finest of needles, which he kept hidden in his ear. He terrorized the Four Kings of the sea, and dressed himself at their expense. The neighbouring kings allied themselves with him. A splendid banquet with copious libations of wine sealed the alliance of friendship with the seven kings; but alas! Sun had partaken so liberally that when he was seeing his guests off, no sooner had he taken a few steps than he fell into a drunken sleep. The undertakers of Yen Wang, the King of the Hells, to whom Lung Wang had accused him as the disturber of his watery kingdom, seized his soul, put chains round its neck, and led it down to the infernal regions. Sun awoke in front of the gate of the kingdom of the dead, broke his fetters, killed his two custodians, and, armed with his magic staff, penetrated into the realm of Yen Wang, where he threatened to carry out general destruction. He called to the ten infernal gods to bring him the Register of the Living and the Dead, tore out with his own hand the page on which were written his name and those of his monkey subjects, and then told the King of the Hells that he was no longer subject to the laws of death. Yen Wang yielded, though with bad grace, and Sun returned triumphant from his expedition beyond the tomb. Before long Sun's escapades came to the knowledge of Yü Huang. Ao Kuang and Yen Wang each sent deputies to the Master of Heaven, who took note of the double accusation, and sent T'ai-po Chin-hsing to summon before him this disturber of the heavenly peace. Grand Master of the Heavenly Stables In order to keep him occupied, Sun was appointed Grand Master of the Heavenly Stables, and was entrusted with the feeding of Yü Huang's horses; his official celestial title being Pi-ma Wên. Later on, learning the object of the creation of this derisory appointment, he overturned the Master's throne, seized his staff, broke down the South Gate of Heaven, and descended on a cloud to Hua-kuo Shan. Grand Superintendent of the Heavenly Peach-garden Yü Huang in great indignation organized a siege of Hua-kuo Shan, but the Kings of Heaven and the generals with their celestial armies were repulsed several times. Sun now arrogated to himself the pompous title of Grand Saint, Governor of Heaven. He had this emblazoned on his banners, and threatened Yü Huang that he would carry destruction into his kingdom if he refused to recognize his new dignity. Yü Huang, alarmed at the result of the military operations, agreed to the condition laid down by Sun. The latter was then appointed Grand Superintendent of the Heavenly Peach-garden, the fruit of which conferred immortality, and a new palace was built for him. Double Immortality Having made minute observations on the secret properties of the peaches, Sun ate of them and was thus assured against death. The time was ripe for him to indulge in his tricks without restraint, and an opportunity soon presented itself. Deeply hurt at not having been invited to the feast of the Peach Festival, P'an-t'ao Hui, given periodically to the Immortals by Wang-mu Niang-niang, the Goddess of the Immortals, he resolved upon revenge. When the preparations for the feast were complete he cast a spell over the servants, causing them to fall into a deep sleep, and then ate up all the most juicy meats and drank the fine wines provided for the heavenly guests. Sun had, however, indulged himself too liberally; with heavy head and bleary eye he missed the road back to his heavenly abode, and came unaware to the gate of Lao Chün, who was, however, absent from his palace. It was only a matter of a few minutes for Sun to enter and swallow the pills of immortality which Lao Chün kept in five gourds. Thus Sun, doubly immortal, riding on the mist, again descended to Hua-kuo Shan. Sun Hou-tzu Captured These numerous misdeeds aroused the indignation of all the gods and goddesses. Accusations poured in upon Yü Huang, and he ordered the Four Gods of the Heavens and their chief generals to bring Sun to him. The armies laid siege to Hua-kuo Shan, a net was spread in the heavens, fantastic battles took place, but the resistance of the enemy was as strenuous and obstinate as before. Lao Chün and Êrh-lang, nephew of Yü Huang, then appeared on the scene. Sun's warriors resisted gallantly, but the forces of Heaven were too much for them, and at length they were overcome. At this juncture Sun changed his form, and in spite of the net in the sky managed to find a way out. In vain search was made everywhere, until Li T'ien-wang, by the help of his devil-finding mirror, detected the quarry and informed Êrh-lang, who rushed off in pursuit. Lao Chün hurled his magic ring on to the head of the fugitive, who stumbled and fell. Quick as lightning, the celestial dog, T'ien Kou, who was in Êrh-lang's service, threw himself on him, bit him in the calf, and caused him to stumble afresh. This was the end of the fight. Sun, surrounded on all sides, was seized and chained. The battle was won. Sun escapes from Lao Chün's Furnace The celestial armies now raised the siege, and returned to their quarters. But a new and unexpected difficulty arose. Yü Huang condemned the criminal to death, but when they went to carry out the sentence the executioners learned that he was invulnerable; swords, iron, fire, even lightning, could make no impression on his skin. Yü Huang, alarmed, asked Lao Chün the reason of this. The latter replied that there was nothing surprising about it, seeing that the knave had eaten the peaches of life in the garden of Heaven and the pills of immortality which he had composed. "Hand him over to me," he added. "I will distil him in my furnace of the Eight Trigrams, and extract from his composition the elements which render him immortal." Yü Huang ordered that the prisoner be handed over, and in the sight of all he was shut up in Lao Chün's alchemical furnace, which for forty-nine days was heated white-hot. But at an unguarded moment Sun lifted the lid, emerged in a rage, seized his magic staff, and threatened to destroy Heaven and exterminate its inhabitants. Yü Huang, at the end of his resources, summoned Buddha, who came and addressed Sun as follows: "Why do you wish to possess yourself of the Kingdom of the Heavens?" "Have I not power enough to be the God of Heaven?" was the arrogant reply. "What qualifications have you?" asked Buddha. "Enumerate them." "My qualifications are innumerable," replied Sun. "I am invulnerable, I am immortal, I can change myself into seventy-two different forms, I can ride on the clouds of Heaven and pass through the air at will, with one leap I can traverse a hundred and eight thousand _li_." "Well," replied Buddha, "have a match with me; I wager that in one leap you cannot even jump out of the palm of my hand. If you succeed I will bestow upon you the sovereignty of Heaven." Broad-jump Competition Sun rose into space, flew like lightning in the great vastness, and reached the confines of Heaven, opposite the five great red pillars which are the boundaries of the created universe. On one of them he wrote his name, as irrefutable evidence that he could reach this extreme limit; this done, he returned triumphant to demand of Buddha the coveted inheritance. "But, wretch," said Buddha, "you never went out of my hand!" "How is that?" rejoined Sun. "I went as far as the pillars of Heaven, and even took the precaution of writing my name on one of them as proof in case of need." "Look then at the words you have written," said Buddha, lifting a finger on which Sun read with stupefaction his name as he had inscribed it. Buddha then seized Sun, transported him out of Heaven, and changed his five fingers into the five elements, metal, wood, water, fire, and earth, which instantly formed five high mountains contiguous to each other. The mountains were called Wu Hsing Shan, and Buddha shut Sun up in them. Conditions of Release Thus subdued, Sun would not have been able to get out of his stone prison but for the intercession of Kuan Yin P'u-sa, who obtained his release on his solemn promise that he would serve as guide, philosopher, and friend to Hsüan Chuang, the priest who was to undertake the difficult journey of 108,000 _li_ to the Western Heaven. This promise, on the whole, he fulfilled in the service of Hsüan Chuang during the fourteen years of the long journey. Now faithful, now restive and undisciplined, he was always the one to triumph in the end over the eighty-one fantastical tribulations which beset them as they journeyed. Sha Ho-shang One of the principal of Sun's fellow-servants of the Master was Sha Ho-shang. He is depicted wearing a necklace of skulls, the heads of the nine Chinese deputies sent in former centuries to find the Buddhist canon, but whom Sha Ho-shang had devoured on the banks of Liu-sha River when they had attempted to cross it. He is also known by the name of Sha Wu-ching, and was originally Grand Superintendent of the Manufactory of Stores for Yü Huang's palace. During a great banquet given on the Peach Festival to all the gods and Immortals of the Chinese Olympus he let fall a crystal bowl, which was smashed to atoms. Yü Huang caused him to be beaten with eight hundred blows, drove him out of Heaven, and exiled him to earth. He lived on the banks of the Liu-sha Ho, where every seventh day a mysterious sword appeared and wounded him in the neck. Having no other means of subsistence, he used to devour the passers-by. Sha Ho-shang becomes Baggage-coolie When Kuan Yin passed through that region on her way to China to find the priest who was predestined to devote himself to the laborious undertaking of the quest of the sacred Buddhist books, Sha Ho-shang threw himself on his knees before her and begged her to put an end to all his woes. The goddess promised that he should be delivered by the priest, her envoy, provided he would engage himself in the service of the pilgrim. On his promising to do this, and to lead a better life, she herself ordained him priest. In the end it came about that Hsüan Chuang, when passing the Sha Ho, took him into his suite as coolie to carry his baggage. Yü Huang pardoned him in consideration of the service he was rendering to the Buddhist cause. Chu Pa-chieh Chu Pa-chieh is a grotesque, even gross, personage, with all the instincts of animalism. One day, while he was occupying the high office of Overseer-general of the Navigation of the Milky Way, he, during a fit of drunkenness, vilely assaulted the daughter of Yü Huang. The latter had him beaten with two thousand blows from an iron hammer, and exiled to earth to be reincarnated. During his transition a mistake was made, and entering the womb of a sow he was born half-man, half-pig, with the head and ears of a pig and a human body. He began by killing and eating his mother, and then devoured his little porcine brothers. Then he went to live on the wild mountain Fu-ling Shan, where, armed with an iron rake, he first robbed and then ate the travellers who passed through that region. Mao Êrh-chieh, who lived in the cave Yün-chan Tung, engaged him as carrier of her personal effects, which she afterward bequeathed to him. Yielding to the exhortations of the Goddess Kuan Yin, who, at the time of her journey to China, persuaded him to lead a less dissolute life, he was ordained a priest by the goddess herself, who gave him the name of Chu (Pig), and the religious name of Wu-nêng, 'Seeker after Strength.' This monster was knocked down by Sun when the latter was passing over the mountain accompanied by Hsüan Chuang, and he declared himself a disciple of the pilgrim priest. He accompanied him throughout the journey, and was also received in the Western Paradise as a reward for his aid to the Buddhist propaganda. Hsüan Chuang, the Master The origin of this priest was as follows: In the reign of the Emperor T'ai Tsung of the T'ang dynasty, Ch'ên Kuang-jui, a graduate of Hai Chou, in his examination for the doctor's degree came out as _chuang yüan_, first on the list. Wên Chiao (also named Man-t'ang Chiao), the daughter of the minister Yin K'ai-shan, meeting the young academician, fell in love with him, and married him. Several days after the wedding the Emperor appointed Ch'ên Kuang-jui Governor of Chiang Chou (modern Chên-chiang Fu), in Kiangsu. After a short visit to his native town he started to take up his post. His old mother and his wife accompanied him. When they reached Hung Chou his mother fell sick and they were forced to stay for a time at the Inn of Ten Thousand Flowers, kept by one Liu Hsiao-êrh. Days passed; the sickness did not leave her, and as the time for her son to take over the seals of office was drawing near, he had to proceed without her. The Released Carp Before his departure he noticed a fisherman holding in his hand a fine carp; this he bought for a small sum to give to his mother. Suddenly he noticed that the fish had a very extraordinary look, and, changing his mind, he let it go in the waters of the Hung Chiang, afterward telling his mother what he had done. She congratulated him on his action, and assured him that the good deed would not go unrewarded. The Chuang Yüan Murdered Ch'ên Kuang-jui re-entered his boat with his wife and a servant. They were stopped by the chief waterman, Liu Hung, and his assistant. Struck with the great beauty of Ch'ên Kuang-jui's wife, the former planned a crime which he carried out with the help of his assistant. At the dead of night he took the boat to a retired spot, killed Ch'ên and his servant, threw their bodies into the river, seized his official documents of title and the woman he coveted, passed himself off as the real _chuang yüan_, and took possession of the magistracy of Chiang Chou. The widow, who was with child, had two alternatives--silence or death. Meantime she chose the former. Before she gave birth to her child, T'ai-po Chin-hsing, the Spirit of the South Pole Star, appeared to her, and said he had been sent by Kuan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy, to present her with a son whose fame would fill the Empire. "Above all," he added, "take every precaution lest Liu Hung kill the child, for he will certainly do so if he can." When the child was born the mother, during the absence of Liu Hung, determined to expose it rather than see it slain. Accordingly she wrapped it up carefully in a shirt, and carried it to the bank of the Blue River. She then bit her finger, and with the blood wrote a short note stating the child's origin, and hid it in its breast. Moreover, she bit off the infant's left little toe, as an indelible mark of identity. No sooner had this been done than a gust of wind blew a large plank to the river's edge. The poor mother tied her infant firmly to this plank and abandoned it to the mercy of the waves. The waif was carried to the shore of the isle of Chin Shan, on which stands the famous monastery of Chin-shan Ssu, near Chinkiang. The cries of the infant attracted the attention of an old monk named Chang Lao, who rescued it and gave it the name of Chiang Liu, 'Waif of the River.' He reared it with much care, and treasured the note its mother had written with her blood. The child grew up, and Chang Lao made him a priest, naming him Hsüan Chuang on the day of his taking the vows. When he was eighteen years of age, having one day quarrelled with another priest, who had cursed him and reproached him with having neither father nor mother, he, much hurt, went to his protector Chang Lao. The latter said to him: "The time has come to reveal to you your origin." He then told him all, showed him the note, and made him promise to avenge his assassinated father. To this end he was made a roving priest, went to the official Court, and eventually got into touch with his mother, who was still living with the prefect Liu Hung. The letter placed in his bosom, and the shirt in which he had been wrapped, easily proved the truth of his statements. The mother, happy at having found her son, promised to go and see him at Chin Shan. In order to do this, she pretended to be sick, and told Liu Hung that formerly, when still young, she had taken a vow which she had not yet been able to fulfil. Liu Hung himself helped her to do so by sending a large gift of money to the priests, and allowed her to go with her servants to perform her devotions at Chin-shan Ssu. On this second visit, during which she could speak more freely with her son, she wished to see for herself the wound she had made on his foot. This removed the last shadow of doubt. Hsüan Chuang finds his Grandmother She told Hsüan Chuang that he must first of all go to Hung Chou and find his grandmother, formerly left at the Inn of Ten Thousand Flowers, and then on to Ch'ang-an to take to her father Yin K'ai-shan a letter, putting him in possession of the chief facts concerning Liu Hung, and praying him to avenge her. She gave him a stick of incense to take to her mother-in-law. The old lady lived the life of a beggar in a wretched hovel near the city gate, and had become blind from weeping. The priest told her of the tragic death of her son, then touched her eyes with the stick of incense, and her sight was restored. "And I," she exclaimed, "have so often accused my son of ingratitude, believing him to be still alive!" He took her back to the Inn of Ten Thousand Flowers and settled the account, then hastened to the palace of Yin K'ai-shan. Having obtained an audience, he showed the minister the letter, and informed him of all that had taken place. The Murderer Executed The following day a report was presented to the Emperor, who gave orders for the immediate arrest and execution of the murderer of Ch'ên Kuang-jui. Yin K'ai-shan went with all haste to Chên-chiang, where he arrived during the night, surrounded the official residence, and seized the culprit, whom he sent to the place where he had committed the murder. His heart and liver were torn out and sacrificed to the victim. The Carp's Gratitude Now it happened that Ch'ên Kuang-jui was not dead after all. The carp released by him was in fact no other than Lung Wang, the God of the River, who had been going through his kingdom in that guise and had been caught in the fisherman's net. On learning that his rescuer had been cast into the river, Lung Wang had saved him, and appointed him an officer of his Court. On that day, when his son, wife, and father-in-law were sacrificing the heart of his assassin to his _manes_ on the river-bank, Lung Wang ordered that he return to earth. His body suddenly appeared on the surface of the water, floated to the bank, revived, and came out full of life and health. The happiness of the family reunited under such unexpected circumstances may well be imagined. Ch'ên Kuang-jui returned with his father-in-law to Chên-chiang, where he took up his official post, eighteen years after his nomination to it. Hsüan Chuang became the Emperor's favourite priest. He was held in great respect at the capital, and had innumerable honours bestowed upon him, and in the end was chosen for the journey to the Western Paradise, where Buddha in person handed him the sacred books of Buddhism. Pai Ma, the White Horse When he left the capital, Hsüan Chuang had been presented by the Emperor with a white horse to carry him on his long pilgrimage. One day, when he reached Shê-p'an Shan, near a torrent, a dragon emerged from the deep river-bed and devoured both the horse and its saddle. Sun tried in vain to find the dragon, and at last had to seek the aid of Kuan Yin. Now Yü Lung San T'ai-tzu, son of Ao Jun, Dragonking of the Western Sea, having burnt a precious pearl on the roof of his father's palace, was denounced to Yü Huang, who had him beaten with three hundred blows and suspended in the air. He was awaiting death when Kuan Yin passed on her way to China. The unfortunate dragon requested the goddess to have pity on him, whereupon she prevailed upon Yü Huang to spare his life on condition that he served as steed for her pilgrim on the expedition to the Western Paradise. The dragon was handed over to Kuan Yin, who showed him the deep pool in which he was to dwell while awaiting the arrival of the priest. It was this dragon who had devoured Hsüan Chuang's horse, and Kuan Yin now bade him change himself into a horse of the same colour to carry the priest to his destination. He had the honour of bearing on his back the sacred books that Buddha gave to T'ai Tsung's deputy, and the first Buddhist temple built at the capital bore the name of Pai-ma Miao, 'Temple of the White Horse.' Perils by the Way It is natural to expect that numberless exciting adventures should befall such an interesting quartette, and indeed the _Hsi yu chi_, which contains a hundred chapters, is full of them. The pilgrims encountered eighty difficulties on the journey out and one on the journey home. The following examples are characteristic of the rest. The Grove of Cypress-trees The travellers were making their way westward through shining waters and over green hills, where they found endless luxuriance of vegetation and flowers of all colours in profusion. But the way was long and lonely, and as darkness came on without any sign of habitation the Priest said: "Where shall we find a resting-place for the night?" The Monkey replied: "My Master, he who has left home and become a priest must dine on the wind and lodge on the water, lie down under the moon and sleep in the forest; everywhere is his home; why then ask where shall we rest?" But Pa-chieh, who was the bearer of the pilgrim's baggage, was not satisfied with this reply, and tried to get his load transferred to the horse, but was silenced when told that the latter's sole duty was to carry the Master. However, the Monkey gave Pai Ma a blow with his rod, causing him to start forward at a great pace, and in a few minutes from the brow of a hill Hsüan Chuang espied in the distance a grove of cypress-trees, beneath the shade of which was a large enclosure. This seemed a suitable place to pass the night, so they made toward it, and as they approached observed in the enclosure a spacious and luxurious establishment. There being no indications that the place was then inhabited, the Monkey made his way inside. A Proposal of Marriage He was met by a lady of charming appearance, who came out of an inner room, and said: "Who is this that ventures to intrude upon a widow's household?" The situation was embarrassing, but the lady proved to be most affable, welcomed them all very heartily, told them how she became a widow and had been left in possession of riches in abundance, and that she had three daughters, Truth, Love, and Pity by name. She then proceeded to make a proposal of marriage, not only on behalf of herself, but of her three daughters as well. They were four men, and here were four women; she had mountain lands for fruit-trees, dry lands for grain, flooded fields for rice--more than five thousand acres of each; horses, oxen, sheep, pigs innumerable; sixty or seventy farmsteads; granaries choked with grain; storehouses full of silks and satins; gold and silver enough to last several lifetimes however extravagantly they lived. Why should the four travellers not finish their journey there, and be happy ever afterward? The temptation was great, especially as the three daughters were ladies of surpassing beauty as well as adepts at needlework and embroidery, well read, and able to sing sweetly. But Hsüan Chuang sat as if listening to frogs after rain, unmoved except by anger that she should attempt to divert him from his heavenly purpose, and in the end the lady retired in a rage, slamming the door behind her. The covetous Pa-chieh, however, expressed himself in favour of accepting the widow's terms. Finding it impossible to do so openly, he stole round to the back and secured a private interview. His personal appearance was against him, but the widow was not altogether uncompliant. She not only entertained the travellers, but agreed to Pa-chieh retiring within the household in the character of a son-in-law, the other three remaining as guests in the guest-rooms. Blind Man's Buff But a new problem now arose. If Pa-chieh were wedded to one of the three daughters, the others would feel aggrieved. So the widow proposed to blindfold him with a handkerchief, and marry him to whichever he succeeded in catching. But, with the bandage tied over his eyes, Pa-chieh only found himself groping in darkness. "The tinkling sound of female trinkets was all around him, the odour of musk was in his nostrils; like fairy forms they fluttered about him, but he could no more grasp one than he could a shadow. One way and another he ran till he was too giddy to stand, and could only stumble helplessly about." The prospective mother-in-law then unloosed the bandage, and informed Pa-chieh that it was not her daughters' 'slipperiness,' as he had called it, which prevented their capture, but the extreme modesty of each in being generous enough to forgo her claims in favour of one of her sisters. Pa-chieh thereupon became very importunate, urging his suit for any one of the daughters or for the mother herself or for all three or all four. This was beyond all conscience, but the widow was equal to the emergency, and suggested another solution. Each of her daughters wore a waistcoat embroidered in jewels and gold. Pa-chieh was to try these on in turn, and to marry the owner of the one which fitted him. Pa-chieh put one on, but as he was tying the cord round his waist it transformed itself into strong coils of rope which bound him tightly in every limb. He rolled about in excruciating agony, and as he did so the curtain of enchantment fell and the beauties and the palace disappeared. Next morning the rest of the party on waking up also found that all had changed, and saw that they had been sleeping on the ground in the cypress-grove. On making search they found Pa-chieh bound fast to a tree. They cut him down, to pursue the journey a sadder and wiser Pig, and the butt of many a quip from his fellow-travellers. The Lotus Cave When the party left the Elephant Country, seeing a mountain ahead, the Master warned his disciples to be careful. Sun said: "Master, say not so; remember the text of the Sacred Book, 'So long as the heart is right there is nothing to fear.'" After this Sun kept a close watch on Pa-chieh, who, while professing to be on guard, slept most of the time. When they arrived at Ping-ting Shan they were approached by a woodcutter, who warned them that in the mountain, which extended for 600 _li_ (200 miles), there was a Lotus Cave, inhabited by a band of demons under two chiefs, who were lying in wait to devour the travellers. The woodcutter then disappeared. Accordingly, Pa-chieh was ordered to keep watch. But, seeing some hay, he lay down and went to sleep, and the mountain demons carried him away to the Lotus Cave. On seeing Pa-chieh, the second chief said: "He is no good; you must go in search of the Master and the Monkey." All this time the Monkey, to protect his Master, was walking ahead of the horse, swinging his club up and down and to right and left. The Demon-king saw him from the top of the mountain and said to himself: "This Monkey is famous for his magic, but I will prove that he is no match for me; I will yet feast on his Master." So, descending the mountain, he transformed himself into a lame beggar and waited by the roadside. The Master, out of pity, persuaded the Monkey to carry him. While on the Monkey's back the Demon, by magic skill, threw Mount Mêru on to Sun's head, but the Monkey warded it off with his left shoulder, and walked on. Then the Demon threw Mount Ô-mei on to Sun's head, and this he warded off with his right shoulder, and walked on, much to the Demon's surprise. Lastly the Demon caused T'ai Shan to fall on to his head. This at last stunned the Monkey. Sha Ho-shang now defended the Master with his staff, which was, however, no match for the Demon's starry sword. The Demon seized the Master and carried him under one arm and Sha Ho-shang under the other to the Lotus Cave. The two Demons then planned to take their two most precious things, a yellow gourd and a jade vase, and try to bottle the Monkey. They arranged to carry them upside down and call out the Monkey's name. If he replied, then he would be inside, and they could seal him up, using the seal of the great Ancient of Days, the dweller in the mansion of T'ai Sui. [35] The Monkey under the Mountain When the Monkey found that he was being crushed under the mountain he was greatly distressed about his Master, and cried out: "Oh, Master, you delivered me from under the mountain before, and trained me in religion; how is it that you have brought me to this pass? If you must die, why should Sha Ho-shang and Pa-chieh and the Dragon-horse also suffer?" Then his tears poured down like rain. The spirits of the mountain were astonished at hearing these words. The guardian angels of the Five Religions asked: "Whose is this mountain, and who is crushed beneath it?" The local gods replied: "The mountain is ours, but who is under it we do not know." "If you do not know," the angels replied, "we will tell you. It is the Great Holy One, the Equal of Heaven, who rebelled there five hundred years ago. He is now converted, and is the disciple of the Chinese ambassador. How dare you lend your mountain to the Demon for such a purpose?" The guardian angels and local gods then recited some prayers, and the mountain was removed. The Monkey sprang up, brandishing his spear, and the spirits at once apologized, saying that they were under enforced service to the Demons. While they were speaking Sun saw a light approaching, and asked what it was. The spirits replied: "This light comes from the Demons' magic treasures. We fear they are bringing them to catch you." Sun then said: "Now we shall have some sport. Who is the Demon-chief's associate?" "He is a Taoist," they replied, "who is always occupied in preparing chemicals." The Monkey said: "Leave me, and I will catch them myself." He then transformed himself into a duplicate of the Taoist. The Magic Gourd Sun went to meet the Demons, and in conversation learnt from them that they were on their way to catch the famous Monkey, and that the magic gourd and vase were for that purpose. They showed these treasures to him, and explained that the gourd, though small, could hold a thousand people. "That is nothing," replied Sun. "I have a gourd which can contain all the heavens." At this they marvelled greatly, and made a bargain with him, according to which he was to give them his gourd, after it had been tested as to its capacity to contain the heavens, in exchange for their precious gourd and vase. Going up to Heaven, the Monkey obtained permission to extinguish the light of the sun, moon, and stars for one hour. At noon the next day there was complete darkness, and the Demons believed Sun when he stated that he had put the whole heavens into his gourd so that there could be no light. They then handed over to the Monkey their magic gourd and vase, and in exchange he gave them his false gourd. The Magic Rope On discovering that they had been deceived, the Demons made complaint to their chiefs, who informed them that Sun, by pretending to be one of the Immortals, had outwitted them. They had now lost two out of their five magic treasures. There remained three, the magic sword, the magic palm fan, and the magic rope. "Go," said they, "and invite our dear grandmother to come and dine on human flesh." Personating one of the Demons, Sun himself went on this errand. He told the old lady that he wanted her to bring with her the magic rope, with which to catch Sun. She was delighted, and set out in her chair carried by two fairies. When they had gone some few _li_, Sun killed the ladies, and then saw that they were foxes. He took the magic rope, and thus had three of the magic treasures. Having changed the dead so that they looked like living creatures, he returned to the Lotus Cave. Many small demons came running up, saying that the old lady had been slain. The Demon-king, alarmed, proposed to release the whole party. But his younger brother said: "No, let me fight Sun. If I win, we can eat them; if I fail, we can let them go." After thirty bouts Sun lost the magic rope, and the Demon lassoed him with it and carried him to the cave, and took back the magic gourd and vase. Sun now transformed himself into two false demons. One he placed instead of himself in the lasso bound to a pillar, and then went and reported to the second Demon-chief that Sun was struggling hard, and that he should be bound with a stronger rope lest he make his escape. Thus, by this strategy, Sun obtained possession of the magic rope again. By a similar trick he also got back the magic gourd and vase. The Master Rescued Sun and the Demons now began to wrangle about the respective merits of their gourds, which, each assured the other, could imprison men and make them obey their wishes. Finally, Sun succeeded in putting one of the Demons into his gourd. There ensued another fight concerning the magic sword and palm fan, during which the fan was burnt to ashes. After more encounters Sun succeeded in bottling the second Demon in the magic vase, and sealed him up with the seal of the Ancient of Days. Then the magic sword was delivered, and the Demons submitted. Sun returned to the cave, fetched his Master out, swept the cave clean of all evil spirits, and they then started again on their westward journey. On the road they met a blind man, who addressed them saying: "Whither away, Buddhist Priest? I am the Ancient of Days. Give me back my magic treasures. In the gourd I keep the pills of immortality. In the vase I keep the water of life. The sword I use to subdue demons. With the fan I stir up enthusiasm. With the cord I bind bundles. One of these two Demons had charge of the gold crucible. They stole my magic treasures and fled to the mundane sphere of mortals. You, having captured them, are deserving of great reward." But Sun replied: "You should be severely punished for allowing your servants to do this evil in the world." The Ancient of Days replied: "No, without these trials your Master and his disciples could never attain to perfection." Sun understood and said: "Since you have come in person for the magic treasures, I return them to you." After receiving them, the Ancient of Days returned to his T'ai Sui mansion in the skies. The Red Child Demon By the autumn the travellers arrived at a great mountain. They saw on the road a red cloud which the Monkey thought must be a demon. It was in fact a demon child who, in order to entrap the Master, had had himself bound and tied to the branch of a tree. The child repeatedly cried out to the passers-by to deliver him. Sun suspected that it was a trick; but the Master could no longer endure the pitiful wails; he ordered his disciples to loose the child, and the Monkey to carry him. As they proceeded on their way the Demon caused a strong whirlwind to spring up, and during this he carried off the Master. Sun discovered that the Demon was an old friend of his, who, centuries before, had pledged himself to eternal friendship. So he consoled his comrades by saying that he felt sure no harm would come to the Master. A Prospective Feast Soon Sun and his companions reached a mountain covered with pine-forests. Here they found the Demon in his cave, intent upon feasting on the Priest. The Demon refused to recognize his ancient friendship with Sun, so the two came to blows. The Demon set fire to everything, so that the Monkey might be blinded by the smoke. Thus he was unable to find his Master. In despair he said: "I must get the help of some one more skilful than myself." Pa-chieh was sent to fetch Kuan Yin. The Demon then seized a magic bag, transformed himself into the shape of Kuan Yin, and invited Pa-chieh to enter the cave. The simpleton fell into the trap and was seized and placed in the bag. Then the Demon appeared in his true form, and said: "I am the beggar child, and mean to cook you for my dinner. A fine man to protect his Master you are!" The Demon then summoned six of his most doughty generals and ordered them to accompany him to fetch his father, King Ox-head, to dine off the pilgrim. When they had gone Sun opened the bag, released Pa-chieh, and both followed the six generals. The Generals Tricked Sun thought that as the Demon had played a trick on Pa-chieh, he would play one on his generals. So he hurried on in front of them, and changed himself into the form of King Ox-head. The Demon and his generals were invited into his presence, and Red Child said: "If anyone eats of the pilgrim's flesh, his life will be prolonged indefinitely. Now he is caught and I invite you to feast on him." Sun, personifying the father, said: "No, I cannot come. I am fasting to-day. Moreover, Sun has charge of the pilgrim, and if any harm befall him it will be the worse for you, for he has seventy-two magic arts. He can make himself so big that your cave cannot contain him, and he can make himself as small as a fly, a mosquito, a bee, or a butterfly." Sun then went to Kuan Yin and appealed for help. She gave him a bottle, but he found he could not move it. "No," said Kuan Yin, "for all the forces of the ocean are stored in it." Kuan Yin lifted it with ease, and said: "This dew water is different from dragon water, and can extinguish the fire of passion. I will send a fairy with you on your boat. You need no sails. The fairy needs only to blow a little, and the boat moves along without any effort." Finally, the Red Child, having been overcome, repented and begged to be received as a disciple. Kuan Yin received him and blessed him, giving him the name of Steward. The Demons of Blackwater River One day the Master suddenly exclaimed: "What is that noise?" Sun replied: "You are afraid; you have forgotten the Heart Prayer, according to which we are to be indifferent to all the calls of the six senses--the eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind. These are the Six Thieves. If you cannot suppress them, how do you expect to see the Great Lord?" The Master thought a while and then said: "O disciple, when shall we see the Incarnate Model (Ju Lai) face to face?" Pa-chieh said: "If we are to meet such demons as these, it will take us a thousand years to get to the West." But Sha Ho-shang rejoined: "Both you and I are stupid; if we persevere and travel on, shoulder to shoulder, we shall reach there at last." While thus talking, they saw before them a dark river in flood, which the horse could not cross. Seeing a small boat, the Master said: "Let us engage that boat to take us across." While crossing the river in it, they discovered that it was a boat sent by the Demon of Blackwater River to entrap them in midstream, and the Master would have been slain had not Sun and the Western Dragon come to the rescue. The Slow-carts Country Having crossed the Blackwater River, they journeyed westward, facing wind and snow. Suddenly they heard a great shout as of ten thousand voices. The Master was alarmed, but Sun laughingly went to investigate. Sitting on a cloud, he rose in the air, and saw a city, outside of which there were thousands of priests and carts laden with bricks and all kinds of building materials. This was the city where Taoists were respected, and Buddhists were not wanted. The Monkey, who appeared among the people as a Taoist, was informed that the country was called the Ch'ê Ch'ih, 'Slow-carts Country,' and for twenty years had been ruled by three Taoists who could procure rain during times of drought. Their names were Tiger, Deer, and Sheep. They could also command the wind, and change stones into gold. The Monkey said to the two leading Taoists: "I wonder if I shall be so fortunate as to see your Emperor?" They replied: "We will see to that when we have attended to our business." The Monkey inquired what business the priests could have. "In former times," they said, "when our King ordered the Buddhists to pray for rain, their prayers were not answered. Then the Taoists prayed, and copious showers fell. Since then all the Buddhist priests have been our slaves, and have to carry the building materials, as you see. We must assign them their work, and then will come to you." Sun replied: "Never mind; I am in search of an uncle of mine, from whom I have not heard for many years. Perhaps he is here among your slaves." They said: "You may see if you can find him." Restraints on Freedom Sun went to look for his uncle. Hearing this, many Buddhist priests surrounded him, hoping to be recognized as his lost relative. After a while he smiled. They asked him the reason. He said: "Why do you make no progress? Life is not meant for idleness." They said: "We cannot do anything. We are terribly oppressed." "What power have your masters?" "By using their magic they can call up wind or rain." "That is a small matter," said Sun. "What else can they do?" "They can make the pills of immortality, and change stone into gold." Sun said: "These are also small matters; many can do the same. How did these Taoists deceive your King?" "The King attends their prayers night and day, expecting thereby to attain to immortality." "Why do you not leave the place?" "It is impossible, for the King has ordered pictures of us to be hung up everywhere. In all the numerous prefectures, magistracies, and market-places in Slow-carts Country are pictures of the Buddhist priests, and any official who catches a runaway priest is promoted three degrees, while every non-official receives fifty taels. The proclamation is signed by the King. So you see we are helpless." Sun then said: "You might as well die and end it all." Immortal for Suffering They replied: "A great number have died. At one time we numbered more than two thousand. But through deaths and suicides there now remain only about five hundred. And we who remain cannot die. Ropes cannot strangle us, swords cannot cut us; if we plunge into the river we cannot sink; poison does not kill us." Sun said: "Then you are fortunate, for you are all Immortals." "Alas!" said they, "we are immortal only for suffering. We get poor food. We have only sand to sleep on. But in the night hours spirits appear to us and tell us not to kill ourselves, for an Arhat will come from the East to deliver us. With him there is a disciple, the Great Holy One, the Equal of Heaven, most powerful and tender-hearted. He will put an end to these Taoists and have pity on us Buddhists." The Saviour of the Buddhists Inwardly Sun was glad that his fame had gone abroad. Returning to the city, he met the two chief Taoists. They asked him if he had found his relative. "Yes," he replied, "they are all my relatives!" They smiled and said: "How is it that you have so many relatives?" Sun said: "One hundred are my father's relatives, one hundred my mother's relatives, and the remainder my adopted relatives. If you will let all these priests depart with me, then I will enter the city with you; otherwise I will not enter." "You must be mad to speak to us in this way. The priests were given us by the King. If you had asked for a few only, we might have consented, but your request is altogether unreasonable." Sun then asked them three times if they would liberate the priests. When they finally refused, he grew very angry, took his magic spear from his ear and brandished it in the air, when all their heads fell off and rolled on the ground. Anger of the Buddhist Priests The Buddhist priests saw from a distance what had taken place, and shouted: "Murder, murder! The Taoist superintendents are being killed." They surrounded Sun, saying: "These priests are our masters; they go to the temple without visiting the King, and return home without taking leave of the King. The King is the high priest. Why have you killed his disciples? The Taoist chief priest will certainly accuse us Buddhist priests of the murders. What are we to do? If we go into the city with you they will make you pay for this with your life." Sun laughed. "My friends," he said, "do not trouble yourselves over this matter. I am not the Master of the Clouds, but the Great Holy One, a disciple of the Holy Master from China, going to the Western Paradise to fetch the sacred books, and have come to save you." "No, no," said they, "this cannot be, for we know him." Sun replied: "Having never met him, how can you know him?" They replied: "We have seen him in our dreams. The spirit of the planet Venus has described him to us and warned us not to make a mistake." "What description did he give?" asked Sun. They replied: "He has a hard head, bright eyes, a round, hairy face without cheeks, sharp teeth, prominent mouth, a hot temper, and is uglier than the Thunder-god. He has a rod of iron, caused a disturbance in Heaven itself, but later repented, and is coming with the Buddhist pilgrim in order to save mankind from calamities and misery." With mixed feelings Sun replied: "My friends, no doubt you are right in saying I am not Sun. I am only his disciple, who has come to learn how to carry out his plans. But," he added, pointing with his hand, "is not that Sun coming yonder?" They all looked in the direction in which he had pointed. Sun bestows Talismans Sun quickly changed himself from a Taoist priest, and appeared in his natural form. At this they all fell down and worshipped him, asking his forgiveness because their mortal eyes could not recognize him. They then begged him to enter the city and compel the demons to repent. Sun told them to follow him. He then went with them to a sandy place, emptied two carts and smashed them into splinters, and threw all the bricks, tiles, and timber into a heap, calling upon all the priests to disperse. "Tomorrow," he said, "I am going to see the King, and will destroy the Taoists!" Then they said: "Sir, we dare not go any farther, lest they attempt to seize you and cause trouble." "Have no fear," he replied; "but if you think so I will give you a charm to protect you." He pulled out some hairs, and gave one to each to hold firmly on the third finger. "If anyone tries to seize you," he said, "keep tight hold of it, call out 'Great Holy One, the Equal of Heaven,' and I will at once come to your rescue, even though I be ten thousand miles away." Some of them tried the charm, and, sure enough, there he was before them like the God of Thunder. In his hand he held a rod of iron, and he could keep ten thousand men and horses at bay. The Magic Circle It was now winter. The pilgrims were crossing a high mountain by a narrow pass, and the Master was afraid of wild beasts. The three disciples bade him fear not, as they were united, and were all good men seeking truth. Being cold and hungry they rejoiced to see a fine building ahead of them, but Sun said: "It is another devil's trap. I will make a ring round you. Inside that you will be safe. Do not wander outside it. I will go and look for food." Sun returned with his bowl full of rice, but found that his companions had got tired of waiting, and had disappeared. They had gone forward to the fine building, which Pa-chieh entered. Not a soul was to be seen, but on going upstairs he was terrified to see a human skeleton of immense size lying on the floor. At this moment the Demon of the house descended on them, bound the Master, and said: "We have been told that if we eat of your flesh our white hair will become black again, and our lost teeth grow anew." So he ordered the small devils who accompanied him to bind the others. This they did, and thrust the pilgrims into a cave, and then lay in wait for Sun. It was not long before the Monkey came up, when a great fight ensued. In the end, having failed, notwithstanding the exercise of numerous magic arts, to release his companions, Sun betook himself to the Spiritual Mountain and besought Ju Lai's aid. Eighteen _lohan_ were sent to help him against the Demon. When Sun renewed the attack, the _lohan_ threw diamond dust into the air, which blinded the Demon and also half buried him. But, by skilful use of his magic coil, he gathered up all the diamond dust and carried it back to his cave. The _lohan_ then advised Sun to seek the aid of the Ancient of Days. Accordingly, Sun ascended to the thirty-third Heaven, where was the palace of the god. He there discovered that the Demon was none other than one of the god's ox-spirits who had stolen the magic coil. It was, in fact, the same coil with which Sun himself had at last been subdued when he had rebelled against Heaven. Help from Ju Lai The Ancient of Days mounted a cloud and went with Sun to the cave. When the Demon saw who had come he was terrified. The Ancient of Days then recited an incantation, and the Demon surrendered the magic coil to him. On the recitation of a second incantation all his strength left him, and he appeared as a bull, and was led away by a ring in his nose. The Master and his disciples were then set at liberty, and proceeded on their journey. The Fire-quenching Fan In the autumn the pilgrims found themselves in the Ssu Ha Li Country, where everything was red--red walls, red tiles, red varnish on doors and furniture. Sixty _li_ from this place was the Flaming Mountain, which lay on their road westward. An old man they met told them that it was possible to cross the Flaming Mountain only if they had the Magic Iron Fan, which, waved once, quenched fire, waved a second time produced strong wind, and waved a third time produced rain. This magic fan was kept by the Iron-fan Princess in a cave on Ts'ui-yün Shan, 1500 _li_ distant. On hearing this, Sun mounted a cloud, and in an instant was transported to the cave. The Iron-fan Princess was one of the _lochas_ (wives and daughters of demons), and the mother of the Red Child Demon, who had become a disciple of Kuan Yin. On seeing Sun she was very angry, and determined to be revenged for the outwitting of her husband, King Ox-head, and for the carrying away of her son. The Monkey said: "If you lend me the Iron Fan I will bring your son to see you." For answer she struck him with a sword. They then fell to fighting, the contest lasting a long while, until at length, feeling her strength failing, the Princess took out the Iron Fan and waved it. The wind it raised blew Sun to a distance of 84,000 _li_, and whirled him about like a leaf in a whirlwind. But he soon returned, reinforced by further magic power lent him by the Buddhist saints. The Princess, however, deceived him by giving him a fan which increased the flames of the mountain instead of quenching them. Sun and his friends had to retreat more than 20 _li_, or they would have been burned. The local mountain-gods now appeared, bringing refreshments, and urging the pilgrims to get the Fan so as to enable them to proceed on their journey. Sun pointed to his fan and said: "Is not this the Fan?" They smiled and said: "No, this is a false one which the Princess has given you." They added: "Originally there was no Flaming Mountain, but when you upset the furnace in Heaven five hundred years ago the fire fell here, and has been burning ever since. For not having taken more care in Heaven, we have been set to guard it. The Demon-king Ox-head, though he married the _locha_ Princess, deserted her some two years ago for the only daughter of a fox-king. They live at Chi-lei Shan, some three thousand _li_ from here. If you can get the true Iron Fan through his help you will be able to extinguish the flames, take your Master to the West, save the lives of many people round here, and enable us to return to Heaven once more." Sun at once mounted a cloud and was soon at Chi-lei Shan. There he met the Fox-princess, whom he upbraided and pursued back to her cave. The Ox-demon came out and became very angry with Sun for having frightened her. Sun asked him to return with him to the _locha_ Princess and persuade her to give him the Magic Fan, This he refused to do. They then fought three battles, in all of which Sun was successful. He changed into the Ox-demon's shape and visited the _locha_ Princess. She, thinking he was the Ox-demon, gladly received him, and finally gave him the Magic Fan; he then set out to return to his Master. The Power of the Magic Fan The Ox-demon, following after Sun, saw him walking along, joyfully carrying the Magic Fan on his shoulder. Now Sun had forgotten to ask how to make it small, like an apricot leaf, as it was at first. The Ox-demon changed himself into the form of Pa-chieh, and going up to Sun he said: "Brother Sun, I am glad to see you back; I hope you have succeeded." "Yes," replied Sun, and described his fights, and how he had tricked the Ox-demon's wife into giving him the Fan. The seeming Pa-chieh said: "You must be very tired after all your efforts; let me carry the Magic Fan for you." As soon as he had got possession of it he appeared in his true form, and tried to use it to blow Sun away 84,000 _li_, for he did not know that the Great Holy One had swallowed a wind-resisting pill, and was therefore immovable. He then put the Magic Fan in his mouth and fought with his two swords. He was a match for Sun in all the magic arts, but through the aid of Pa-chieh and the help of the local gods sent by the Master the Monkey was able to prevail against him. The Ox-demon changed himself many times into a number of birds, but for each of these Sun changed himself into a swifter and stronger one. The Ox-demon then changed himself into many beasts, such as tigers, leopards, bears, elephants, and an ox 10,000 feet long. He then said to Sun, with a laugh: "What can you do to me now?" Sun seized his rod of iron, and cried: "Grow!" He immediately became 100,000 feet high, with eyes like the sun and moon. They fought till the heavens and the earth shook with their onslaughts. Defeat of the Ox-demon The Ox-demon being of so fierce and terrible a nature, both Buddha in Heaven and the Taoist Celestial Ruler sent down whole legions of celebrated warriors to help the Master's servant. The Ox-demon tried to escape in every direction, one after the other, but his efforts were in vain. Finally defeated, he was made to promise for himself and his wife to give up their evil ways and to follow the holy precepts of the Buddhist doctrine. The Magic Fan was given to Sun, who at once proceeded to test its powers. When he waved it once the fires on Flaming Mountain died out. When he waved it a second time a gentle breeze sprang up. When he waved it a third time refreshing rain fell everywhere, and the pilgrims proceeded on their way in comfort. The Lovely Women Having travelled over many mountains, the travellers came to a village. The Master said: "You, my disciples, are always very kind, taking round the begging-bowl and getting food for me. To-day I will take the begging-bowl myself." But Sun said: "That is not right; you must let us, your disciples, do this for you." But the Master insisted. When he reached the village, there was not a man to be seen, but only some lovely women. He did not think that it was right for him to speak to women. On the other hand, if he did not procure anything for their meal, his disciples would make fun of him. So, after long hesitation, he went forward and begged food of them. They invited him to their cave home, and, having learnt who he was, ordered food for him, but it was all human flesh. The Master informed them that he was a vegetarian, and rose to take his departure, but instead of letting him go they surrounded and bound him, thinking that he would be a fine meal for them next day. An Awkward Predicament Then seven of the women went out to bathe in a pool. There Sun, in search of his Master, found them and would have killed them, only he thought it was not right to kill women. So he changed himself into an eagle and carried away their clothes to his nest. This so frightened the women that they crouched in the pool and did not dare to come out. But Pa-chieh, also in search of his Master, found the women bathing. He changed himself into a fish, which the women tried to catch, chasing him hither and thither round the pool. After a while Pa-chieh leapt out of the pool and, appearing in his true form, threatened the women for having bound his Master. In their fright the women fled to a pavilion, round which they spun spiders' threads so thickly that Pa-chieh became entangled and fell. They then escaped to their cave and put on some clothes. How the Master was Rescued When Pa-chieh at length had disentangled himself from the webs, he saw Sun and Sha Ho-shang approaching. Having learnt what had happened, they feared the women might do some injury to the Master, so they ran to the cave to rescue him. On the way they were beset by the seven dwarf sons of the seven women, who transformed themselves into a swarm of dragon-flies, bees, and other insects. But Sun pulled out some hairs and, changing them into seven different swarms of flying insects, destroyed the hostile swarm, and the ground was covered a foot deep with the dead bodies. On reaching the cave, the pilgrims found it had been deserted by the women. They released the Master, and made him promise never to beg for food again. Having given the promise, he mounted his horse, and they proceeded on their journey. The Spiders and the Extinguisher When they had gone a short distance they perceived a great building of fine architecture ahead of them. It proved to be a Taoist temple. Sha Ho-shang said: "Let us enter, for Buddhism and Taoism teach the same things. They differ only in their vestments." The Taoist abbot received them with civility and ordered five cups of tea. Now he was in league with the seven women, and when the servant had made the tea they put poison in each cup. Sun, however, suspected a conspiracy, and did not drink his tea. Seeing that the rest had been poisoned, he went and attacked the sisters, who transformed themselves into huge spiders. They were able to spin ropes instead of webs with which to bind their enemies. But Sun attacked and killed them all. The Taoist abbot then showed himself in his true form, a demon with a thousand eyes. He joined battle with Sun, and a terrible contest ensued, the result being that the Demon succeeded in putting an extinguisher on his enemy. This was a new trick which Sun did not understand. However, after trying in vain to break out through the top and sides, he began to bore downward, and, finding that the extinguisher was not deep in the ground, he succeeded in effecting his escape from below. But he feared that his Master and the others would die of the poison. At this juncture, while he was suffering mental tortures on their behalf, a Bodhisattva, Lady Pi Lan, came to his rescue. By the aid of her magic he broke the extinguisher, gave his Master and fellow-disciples pills to counteract the poison, and so rescued them. Shaving a Whole City The summer had now arrived. On the road the pilgrims met an old lady and a little boy. The old lady said: "You are priests; do not go forward, for you are about to pass into the country known as the Country that exterminates Religion. The inhabitants have vowed to kill ten thousand priests. They have already slain that number all but four noted ones whose arrival they expect; then their number will be complete." This old lady was Kuan Yin, with Shên Tsai (Steward), who had come to give them warning. Sun thereupon changed himself into a candle-moth and flew into the city to examine for himself. He entered an inn, and heard the innkeeper warning his guests to look after their own clothes and belongings when they went to sleep. In order to travel safely through the city, Sun decided that they should all put on turbans and clothing resembling that of the citizens. Perceiving from the innkeeper's warning that thieving was common, Sun stole some clothing and turbans for his Master and comrades. Then they all came to the inn at dusk, Sun representing himself as a horse-dealer. Fearing that in their sleep their turbans would fall off, and their shaven heads be revealed, Sun arranged that they should sleep in a cupboard, which he asked the landlady to lock. During the night robbers came and carried the cupboard away, thinking to find in it silver to buy horses. A watchman saw many men carrying this cupboard, and became suspicious, and called out the soldiers. The robbers ran away, leaving the cupboard in the open. The Master was very angry with Sun for getting him into this danger. He feared that at daylight they would be discovered and all be executed. But Sun said: "Do not be alarmed; I will save you yet!" He changed himself into an ant, and escaped from the cupboard. Then he plucked out some hairs and changed them into a thousand monkeys like himself. To each he gave a razor and a charm for inducing sleep. When the King and all the officials and their wives had succumbed to this charm, the monkeys were to shave their heads. On the morrow there was a terrible commotion throughout the city, as all the leaders and their families found themselves shaved like Buddhists. Thus the Master was saved again. The Return to China The pilgrims having overcome the predicted eighty difficulties of their outward journey, there remained only one to be overcome on the homeward way. They were now returning upon a cloud which had been placed at their disposal, and which had been charged to bear them safely home. But alas! the cloud broke and precipitated them to the earth by the side of a wide river which they must cross. There were no ferry-boats or rafts to be seen, so they were glad to avail themselves of the kind offices of a turtle, who offered to take them across on his back. But in midstream the turtle reminded Hsüan Chuang of a promise he had made him when on his outward journey, namely, that he would intercede for him before the Ruler of the West, and ask his Majesty to forgive all past offences and allow him to resume his humanity again. The turtle asked him if he had remembered to keep his word. Hsüan Chuang replied: "I remember our conversation, but I am sorry to say that under great pressure I quite forgot to keep my promise." "Then," said the turtle, "you are at liberty to dispense with my services." He then disappeared beneath the water, leaving the pilgrims floundering in the stream with their precious books. They swam the river, and with great difficulty managed to save a number of volumes, which they dried in the sun. The Travellers Honoured The pilgrims reached the capital of their country without further difficulty. As soon as they appeared in sight the whole population became greatly excited, and cutting down branches of willow-trees went out to meet them. As a mark of special distinction the Emperor sent his own horse for Hsüan Chuang to ride on, and the pilgrims were escorted with royal honours into the city, where the Emperor and his grateful Court were waiting to receive them. Hsüan Chuang's queer trio of converts at first caused great amusement among the crowds who thronged to see them, but when they learned of Sun's superhuman achievements, and his brave defence of the Master, their amusement was changed into wondering admiration. But the greatest honours were conferred upon the travellers at a meeting of the Immortals presided over by Mi-lo Fo, the Coming Buddha. Addressing Hsüan Chuang, the Buddha said, "In a previous existence you were one of my chief disciples. But for disobedience and for lightly esteeming the great teaching your soul was imprisoned in the Eastern Land. Now a memorial has been presented to me stating that you have obtained the True Classics of Salvation, thus, by your faithfulness, completing your meritorious labours. You are appointed to the high office of Controller of Sacrifices to his Supreme Majesty the Pearly Emperor." Turning to Sun, the Buddha said, "You, Sun, for creating a disturbance in the palace of Heaven, were imprisoned beneath the Mountain of the Five Elements, until the fullness of Heaven's calamities had descended upon you, and you had repented and had joined the holy religion of Buddha. From that time you have endeavoured to suppress evil and cherish virtue. And on your journey to the West you have subjugated evil spirits, ghosts, and demons. For your services you are appointed God of Victorious Strife." For his repentance, and for his assistance to his Master, Chu Pa-chieh, the Pig Fairy, was appointed Head Altar-washer to the Gods. This was the highest office for which he was eligible, on account of his inherent greed. Sha Ho-shang was elevated to the rank of Golden Body Perpetual Saint. Pai Ma, the white horse who had patiently carried Hsüan Chuang and his burden of books, was led by a god down the Spirit Mountain to the banks of the Pool of Dragon-transformation. Pai Ma plunged in, when he changed at once into a four-footed dragon, with horns, scales, claws, and wings complete. From this time he became the chief of the celestial dragon tribe. Sun's first thought upon receiving his promotion was to get rid of the Head-splitting Helmet. Accordingly he said to his Master, "Now that I am, like yourself, a Buddha, I want you to relieve my head of the helmet you imposed upon me during the years of my waywardness." Hsüan Chuang replied, "If you have really become a Buddha, your helmet should have disappeared of itself. Are you sure it is still upon your head?" Sun raised his hand, and lo! the helmet was gone. After this the great assembly broke up, and each of the Immortals returned in peace to his own celestial abode. CHAPTER XV Fox Legends The Fox Among the many animals worshipped by the Chinese, those at times seen emerging from coffins or graves naturally hold a prominent place. They are supposed to be the transmigrated souls of deceased human beings. We should therefore expect such animals as the fox, stoat, weasel, etc., to be closely associated with the worship of ghosts, spirits, and suchlike creatures, and that they should be the subjects of, or included in, a large number of Chinese legends. This we find. Of these animals the fox is mentioned in Chinese legendary lore perhaps more often than any other. The subject of fox-lore has been dealt with exhaustively by my respected colleague, the late Mr Thomas Watters (formerly H.B.M. Consul-General at Canton, a man of vast learning and extreme modesty, insufficiently appreciated in his generation), in the _Journal of the North China Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society_, viii, 45-65, to which the reader is referred for details. Generally, the fox is a creature of ill omen, long-lived (living to eight hundred or even a thousand years), with a peculiar virtue in every part of his body, able to produce fire by striking the ground with his tail, cunning, cautious, sceptical, able to see into the future, to transform himself (usually into old men, or scholars, or pretty young maidens), and fond of playing pranks and tormenting mankind. Fox Legends Many interesting fox legends are to be found in a collection of stories entitled _Liao chai chih i_, by P'u Sung-ling (seventeenth century A.D.), part of which was translated into English many years ago by Professor H.A. Giles and appeared in two fascinating volumes called _Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio_. These legends were related to the Chinese writer by various people as their own experiences. Friendship with Foxes A certain man had an enormous stack of straw, as big as a hill, in which his servants, taking what was daily required for use, had made quite a large hole. In this hole a fox fixed his abode, and would often show himself to the master of the house under the form of an old man. One day the latter invited the master to walk into his abode; he at first declined, but accepted on being pressed; and when he got inside, lo! he saw a long suite of handsome apartments. They then sat down, and exquisitely perfumed tea and wine were brought; but the place was so gloomy that there was no difference between night and day. By and by, the entertainment being over, the guest took his leave; and on looking back the beautiful rooms and their contents had all disappeared. The old man himself was in the habit of going away in the evening and returning with the first streaks of morning; and as no one was able to follow him, the master of the house asked him one day whither he went. To this he replied that a friend invited him to take wine; and then the master begged to be allowed to accompany him, a proposal to which the old man very reluctantly consented. However, he seized the master by the arm, and away they went as though riding on the wings of the wind; and in about the time it takes to cook a pot of millet they reached a city and walked into a restaurant, where there were a number of people drinking together and making a great noise. The old man led his companion to a gallery above, from which they could look down on the feasters below; and he himself went down and brought away from the tables all kinds of nice food and wine, without appearing to be seen or noticed by any of the company. After a while a man dressed in red garments came forward and laid upon the table some dishes of cumquats; [36] the master at once requested the old man to go down and get him some of these. "Ah," replied the latter, "that is an upright man: I cannot approach him." Thereupon the master said to himself, "By thus seeking the companionship of a fox, I then am deflected from the true course. Henceforth I too will be an upright man." No sooner had he formed this resolution than he suddenly lost all control over his body, and fell from the gallery down among the revellers below. These gentlemen were much astonished by his unexpected descent; and he himself, looking up, saw there was no gallery to the house, but only a large beam upon which he had been sitting. He now detailed the whole of the circumstances, and those present made up a purse for him to pay his travelling expenses; for he was at Yü-t'ai--a thousand _li_ from home. The Marriage Lottery A certain labourer, named Ma T'ien-jung, lost his wife when he was only about twenty years of age, and was too poor to take another. One day, when out hoeing in the fields, he beheld a nice-looking young lady leave the path and come tripping across the furrows toward him. Her face was well painted, [37] and she had altogether such a refined look that Ma concluded she must have lost her way, and began to make some playful remarks in consequence. "You go along home," cried the young lady, "and I'll be with you by and by." Ma doubted this rather extraordinary promise, but she vowed and declared she would not break her word; and then Ma went off, telling her that his front door faced the north, etc. At midnight the young lady arrived, and then Ma saw that her hands and face were covered with fine hair, which made him suspect at once that she was a fox. She did not deny the accusation; and accordingly Ma said to her, "If you really are one of those wonderful creatures you will be able to get me anything I want; and I should be much obliged if you would begin by giving me some money to relieve my poverty." The young lady said she would; and next evening, when she came again, Ma asked her where the money was. "Dear me!" replied she, "I quite forgot it." When she was going away Ma reminded her of what he wanted, but on the following evening she made precisely the same excuse, promising to bring it another day. A few nights afterward Ma asked her once more for the money, and then she drew from her sleeve two pieces of silver, each weighing about five or six ounces. They were both of fine quality, with turned-up edges, [38] and Ma was very pleased, and stored them away in a cupboard. Some months after this he happened to require some money for use, and took out these pieces; but the person to whom he showed them said they were only pewter, and easily bit off a portion of one of them with his teeth. Ma was much alarmed, and put the pieces away directly, taking the opportunity when evening came of abusing the young lady roundly. "It's all your bad luck," retorted she. "Real gold would be too much for your inferior destiny." There was an end of that; but Ma went on to say, "I always heard that fox-girls were of surpassing beauty; how is it you are not?" "Oh," replied the young lady, "we always adapt ourselves to our company. Now you haven't the luck of an ounce of silver to call your own; and what would you do, for instance, with a beautiful princess? My beauty may not be good enough for the aristocracy; but among your big-footed, bent-backed rustics, [39] why, it may safely be called 'surpassing'!" A few months passed away, and then one day the young lady came and gave Ma three ounces of silver, saying, "You have often asked me for money, but in consequence of your bad luck I have always refrained from giving you any. Now, however, your marriage is at hand, and I here give you the cost of a wife, which you may also regard as a parting gift from me." Ma replied that he was not engaged, to which the young lady answered that in a few days a go-between would visit him to arrange the affair. "And what will she be like?" asked Ma. "Why, as your aspirations are for 'surpassing' beauty," replied the young lady, "of course she will be possessed of surpassing beauty." "I hardly expect that," said Ma; "at any rate, three ounces of silver will not be enough to get a wife." "Marriages," explained the young lady, "are made in the moon; [40] mortals have nothing to do with them." "And why must you be going away like this?" inquired Ma. "Because," answered she, "for us to meet only by night is not the proper thing. I had better get you another wife and have done with you." Then when morning came she departed, giving Ma a pinch of yellow powder, saying, "In case you are ill after we are separated, this will cure you." Next day, sure enough, a go-between did come, and Ma at once asked what the proposed bride was like; to which the former replied that she was very passable-looking. Four or five ounces of silver was fixed as the marriage present, Ma making no difficulty on that score, but declaring he must have a peep at the young lady. [41] The go-between said she was a respectable girl, and would never allow herself to be seen; however, it was arranged that they should go to the house together, and await a good opportunity. So off they went, Ma remaining outside while the go-between went in, returning in a little while to tell him it was all right. "A relative of mine lives in the same court, and just now I saw the young lady sitting in the hall. We have only got to pretend we are going to see my relative, and you will be able to get a glimpse of her." Ma consented, and they accordingly passed through the hall, where he saw the young lady sitting down with her head bent forward while some one was scratching her back. She seemed to be all that the go-between had said; but when they came to discuss the money it appeared that the young lady wanted only one or two ounces of silver, just to buy herself a few clothes, etc., which Ma thought was a very small amount; so he gave the go-between a present for her trouble, which just finished up the three ounces his fox-friend had provided. An auspicious day was chosen, and the young lady came over to his house; when lo! she was humpbacked and pigeon-breasted, with a short neck like a tortoise, and feet which were fully ten inches long. The meaning of his fox-friend's remarks then flashed upon him. The Magnanimous Girl At Chin-ling there lived a young man named Ku, who had considerable ability, but was very poor; and having an old mother, he was very loth to leave home. So he employed himself in writing or painting [42] for people, and gave his mother the proceeds, going on thus till he was twenty-five years of age without taking a wife. Opposite to their house was another building, which had long been untenanted; and one day an old woman and a young girl came to occupy it, but there being no gentleman with them young Ku did not make any inquiries as to who they were or whence they hailed. Shortly afterward it chanced that just as Ku was entering the house he observed a young lady come out of his mother's door. She was about eighteen or nineteen, very clever and refined-looking, and altogether such a girl as one rarely sets eyes on; and when she noticed Mr Ku she did not run away, but seemed quite self-possessed. "It was the young lady over the way; she came to borrow my scissors and measure," said his mother, "and she told me that there is only her mother and herself. They don't seem to belong to the lower classes. I asked her why she didn't get married, to which she replied that her mother was old. I must go and call on her to-morrow, and find out how the land lies. If she doesn't expect too much, you could take care of her mother for her." So next day Ku's mother went, and found that the girl's mother was deaf, and that they were evidently poor, apparently not having a day's food in the house. Ku's mother asked what their employment was, and the old lady said they trusted for food to her daughter's ten fingers. She then threw out some hints about uniting the two families, to which the old lady seemed to agree; but, on consultation with her daughter, the latter would not consent. Mrs Ku returned home and told her son, saying, "Perhaps she thinks we are too poor. She doesn't speak or laugh, is very nice-looking, and as pure as snow; truly no ordinary girl." There ended that; until one day, as Ku was sitting in his study, up came a very agreeable young fellow, who said he was from a neighbouring village, and engaged Ku to draw a picture for him. The two youths soon struck up a firm friendship and met constantly, and later it happened that the stranger chanced to see the young lady of over the way. "Who is that?" said he, following her with his eyes. Ku told him, and then he said, "She is certainly pretty, but rather stern in her appearance." By and by Ku went in, and his mother told him the girl had come to beg a little rice, as they had had nothing to eat all day. "She's a good daughter," said his mother, "and I'm very sorry for her. We must try and help them a little." Ku thereupon shouldered a peck of rice, and, knocking at their door, presented it with his mother's compliments. The young lady received the rice, but said nothing; and then she got into the habit of coming over and helping Ku's mother with her work and household affairs, almost as if she had been her daughter-in-law, for which Ku was very grateful to her, and whenever he had anything nice he always sent some of it in to her mother, though the young lady herself never once took the trouble to thank him. So things went on until Ku's mother got an abscess on her leg, and lay writhing in agony day and night. Then the young lady devoted herself to the invalid, waiting on her and giving her medicine with such care and attention that at last the sick woman cried out, "O that I could secure such a daughter-in-law as you to see this old body into its grave!" The young lady soothed her, and replied, "Your son is a hundred times more filial than I, a poor widow's only daughter." "But even a filial son makes a bad nurse," answered the patient; "besides, I am now drawing toward the evening of my life, when my body will be exposed to the mists and the dews, and I am vexed in spirit about our ancestral worship and the continuance of our line." As she was speaking Ku walked in; and his mother, weeping, said, "I am deeply indebted to this young lady; do not forget to repay her goodness." Ku made a low bow, but the young lady said, "Sir, when you were kind to my mother, I did not thank you; why then thank me?" Ku thereupon became more than ever attached to her; but could never get her to depart in the slightest degree from her cold demeanour toward himself. One day, however, he managed to squeeze her hand, upon which she told him never to do so again; and then for some time he neither saw nor heard anything of her. She had conceived a violent dislike to the young stranger above mentioned; and one evening, when he was sitting talking with Ku, the young lady appeared. After a while she got angry at something he said, and drew from her robe a glittering knife about a foot long. The young man, seeing her do this, ran out in a fright and she after him, only to find that he had vanished. She then threw her dagger up into the air, and _whish!_ a streak of light like a rainbow, and something came tumbling down with a flop. Ku got a light, and ran to see what it was; and lo! there lay a white fox, head in one place and body in another. "There is your _friend_," cried the girl; "I knew he would cause me to destroy him sooner or later." Ku dragged it into the house, and said, "Let us wait till to-morrow to talk it over; we shall then be more calm." Next day the young lady arrived, and Ku inquired about her knowledge of the black art; but she told Ku not to trouble himself about such affairs, and to keep it secret or it might be prejudicial to his happiness. Ku then entreated her to consent to their union, to which she replied that she had already been as it were a daughter-in-law to his mother, and there was no need to push the thing further. "Is it because I am poor?" asked Ku. "Well, I am not rich," answered she, "but the fact is I had rather not." She then took her leave, and the next evening when Ku went across to their house to try once more to persuade her the young lady had disappeared, and was never seen again. The Boon-companion Once upon a time there was a young man named Ch'ê, who was not particularly well off, but at the same time very fond of his wine; so much so that without his three stoups of liquor every night he was quite unable to sleep, and bottles were seldom absent from the head of his bed. One night he had woken up and was turning over and over, when he fancied some one was in the bed with him; but then, thinking it was only the clothes which had slipped off, he put out his hand to feel, and in doing so touched something silky like a cat. Striking a light, he found it was a fox, lying in a drunken sleep like a dog; and then looking at his wine bottle he saw that it had been emptied. "A boon-companion," said he, laughing, as he avoided startling the animal, and, covering it up, lay down to sleep with his arm across it, and the candle alight so as to see what transformation it might undergo. About midnight the fox stretched itself, and Ch'ê cried, "Well, to be sure, you've had a nice sleep!" He then drew off the clothes, and beheld an elegant young man in a scholar's dress; but the young man jumped up, and, making a low obeisance, returned his host many thanks for not cutting off his head. "Oh," replied Ch'ê, "I am not averse to liquor myself; in fact they say I'm too much given to it. If you have no objection, we'll be a pair of bottle-and-glass chums." So they lay down and went to sleep again, Ch'ê urging the young man to visit him often, and saying that they must have faith in each other. The fox agreed to this, but when Ch'ê awoke in the morning his bedfellow had already disappeared. So he prepared a goblet of first-rate wine in expectation of his friend's arrival, and at nightfall sure enough he came. They then sat together drinking, and the fox cracked so many jokes that Ch'ê said he regretted he had not known him before. "And truly I don't know how to repay your kindness," replied the former, "in preparing all this nice wine for me." "Oh," said Ch'ê, "what's a pint or so of wine?--nothing worth speaking of." "Well," rejoined the fox, "you are only a poor scholar, and money isn't so easily to be got. I must see if I can't secure a little wine capital for you." Next evening, when he arrived, he said to Ch'ê, "Two miles down toward the south-east you will find some silver lying by the wayside. Go early in the morning and get it." So on the morrow Ch'ê set off, and actually obtained two lumps of silver, with which he bought some choice morsels to help them out with their wine that evening. The fox now told him that there was a vault in his backyard which he ought to open; and when he did so he found therein more than a hundred strings of cash. [43] "Now then," cried Ch'ê, delighted, "I shall have no more anxiety about funds for buying wine with all this in my purse!" "Ah," replied the fox, "the water in a puddle is not inexhaustible. I must do something further for you." Some days afterward the fox said to Ch'ê, "Buckwheat is very cheap in the market just now. Something is to be done in that line." Accordingly Ch'ê bought over forty tons, and thereby incurred general ridicule; but by and by there was a bad drought, and all kinds of grain and beans were spoilt. Only buckwheat would grow, and Ch'ê sold off his stock at a profit of 1000 per cent. His wealth thus began to increase; he bought two hundred acres of rich land, and always planted his crops, corn, millet, or what not, upon the advice of the fox secretly given him beforehand. The fox looked on Ch'ê's wife as a sister, and on Ch'ê's children as his own; but when subsequently Ch'ê died it never came to the house again. The Alchemist [44] At Ch'ang-an there lived a scholar named Chia Tzu-lung, who one day noticed a very refined-looking stranger; and, on making inquiries about him, learned that he was a Mr Chên who had taken lodgings hard by. Accordingly, Chia called next day and sent in his card, but did not see Chên, who happened to be out at the time. The same thing occurred thrice; and at length Chia engaged some one to watch and let him know when Mr Chên was at home. However, even then the latter would not come forth to receive his guest, and Chia had to go in and rout him out. The two now entered into conversation, and soon became mutually charmed with each other; and by and by Chia sent off a servant to bring wine from a neighbouring wine-shop. Mr Chên proved himself a pleasant boon-companion, and when the wine was nearly finished he went to a box and took from it some wine-cups and a large and beautiful jade tankard; into the latter he poured a single cup of wine, and immediately it was filled to the brim. They then proceeded to help themselves from the tankard; but however much they took out, the contents never seemed to diminish. Chia was astonished at this, and begged Mr Chên to tell him how it was done. "Ah," replied Mr Chên, "I tried to avoid making your acquaintance solely because of your one bad quality--avarice. The art I practise is a secret known to the Immortals only: how can I divulge it to you?" "You do me wrong," rejoined Chia, "in thus attributing avarice to me. The avaricious, indeed, are always poor." Mr Chên laughed, and they separated for that day; but from that time they were constantly together, and all ceremony was laid aside between them. Whenever Chia wanted money Mr Chên would bring out a black stone, and, muttering a charm, would rub it on a tile or a brick, which was forthwith changed into a lump of silver. This silver he would give to Chia, and it was always just as much as he actually required, neither more nor less; and if ever the latter asked for more Mr Chên would rally him on the subject of avarice. Finally Chia determined to try to get possession of this stone; and one day, when Mr Chên was sleeping off the fumes of a drinking-bout, he tried to extract it from his clothes. However, Chên detected him at once, and declared that they could be friends no more, and next day he left the place altogether. About a year afterward Chia was one day wandering by the river-bank, when he saw a handsome-looking stone, marvellously like that in the possession of Mr Chên; and he picked it up at once and carried it home with him. A few days passed away, and suddenly Mr Chên presented himself at Chia's house, and explained that the stone in question possessed the property of changing anything into gold, and had been bestowed upon him long before by a certain Taoist priest whom he had followed as a disciple. "Alas!" added he, "I got tipsy and lost it; but divination told me where it was, and if you will now restore it to me I will take care to repay your kindness." "You have divined rightly," replied Chia; "the stone is with me; but recollect, if you please, that the indigent Kuan Chung [45] shared the wealth of his friend Pao Shu." At this hint Mr Chên said he would give Chia one hundred ounces of silver; to which the latter replied that one hundred ounces was a fair offer, but that he would far sooner have Mr Chên teach him the formula to utter when rubbing the stone on anything, so that he might try the thing once himself. Mr Chên was afraid to do this; whereupon Chia cried out, "You are an Immortal yourself; you must know well enough that I would never deceive a friend." So Mr Chên was prevailed upon to teach him the formula, and then Chia would have tried the art upon the immense stone washing-block [46] which was lying near at hand had not Mr Chên seized his arm and begged him not to do anything so outrageous. Chia then picked up half a brick and laid it on the washing-block, saying to Mr Chên, "This little piece is not too much, surely?" Accordingly Mr Chên relaxed his hold and let Chia proceed; which he did by promptly ignoring the half-brick and quickly rubbing the stone on the washing-block. Mr Chên turned pale when he saw him do this, and made a dash forward to get hold of the stone, but it was too late; the washing-block was already a solid mass of silver, and Chia quietly handed him back the stone. "Alas! alas!" cried Mr Chên in despair, "what is to be done now? For, having thus irregularly conferred wealth upon a mortal, Heaven will surely punish me. Oh, if you would save me, give away one hundred coffins [47] and one hundred suits of wadded clothes." "My friend," replied Chia, "my object in getting money was not to hoard it up like a miser." Mr Chên was delighted at this; and during the next three years Chia engaged in trade, taking care to fulfil always his promise to Mr Chên. At the expiration of that time Mr Chên himself reappeared, and, grasping Chia's hand, said to him, "Trustworthy and noble friend, when we last parted the Spirit of Happiness impeached me before God, [48] and my name was erased from the list of angels. But now that you have carried out my request that sentence has been rescinded. Go on as you have begun, without ceasing." Chia asked Mr Chên what office he filled in Heaven; to which the latter replied that he was only a fox who, by a sinless life, had finally attained to that clear perception of the truth which leads to immortality. Wine was then brought, and the two friends enjoyed themselves together as of old; and even when Chia had passed the age of ninety years the fox still used to visit him from time to time. CHAPTER XVI Miscellaneous Legends The Unnatural People The _Shan hai ching_, or _Hill and River Classic_, contains descriptions of some curious people supposed to inhabit the regions on the maps represented on the nine tripod vases of the Great Yü, first emperor of the Hsia dynasty. The Pygmies The pygmies inhabit many mountainous regions of the Empire, but are few in number. They are less than nine inches high, but are well formed. They live in thatched houses that resemble ants' nests. When they walk out they go in companies of from six to ten, joining hands in a line for mutual protection against birds that might carry them away, or other creatures that might attack them. Their tone of voice is too low to be distinguished by an ordinary human ear. They occupy themselves in working in wood, gold, silver, and precious stones, but a small proportion are tillers of the soil. They wear clothes of a red colour. The sexes are distinguishable by a slight beard on the men, and long tresses on the women, the latter in some cases reaching four to five inches in length. Their heads are unduly large, being quite out of proportion to their small bodies. A husband and wife usually go about hand in hand. A Hakka charcoal-burner once found three of the children playing in his tobacco-box. He kept them there, and afterward, when he was showing them to a friend, he laughed so that drops of saliva flew from his mouth and shot two of them dead. He then begged his friend to take the third and put it in a place of safety before he should laugh again. His friend attempted to lift it from the box, but it died on being touched. The Giants In the Country of the Giants the people are fifty feet in height. Their footprints are six feet in length. Their teeth are like those of a saw. Their finger-nails present the appearance of hooked claws, while their diet consists wholly of uncooked animal food. Their eyebrows are of such length as to protrude from the front of the carts in which they ride, large though it is necessary for these vehicles to be. Their bodies are covered with long black hair resembling that of the bear. They live to the advanced age of eighteen thousand years. Though cannibals, they never eat members of their own tribe, confining their indulgence in human flesh chiefly to enemies taken in battle. Their country extends some thousands of miles along certain mountain ranges in North-eastern Asia, in the passes of which they have strong iron gates, easy to close, but difficult to open; hence, though their neighbours maintain large standing armies, they have thus far never been conquered. The Headless People The Headless People inhabit the Long Sheep range, to which their ancestors were banished in the remote past for an offence against the gods. One of the said ancestors had entered into a controversy with the rulers of the heavens, and they in their anger had transformed his two breasts into eyes and his navel into a mouth, removed his head, leaving him without nose and ears, thus cutting him off from smell and sound, and banished him to the Long Sheep Mountains, where with a shield and axe, the only weapons vouchsafed to the people of the Headless Country, he and his posterity were compelled to defend themselves from their enemies and provide their subsistence. This, however, does not in the least seem to have affected their tempers, as their bodies are wreathed in perpetual smiles, except when they flourish their warlike weapons on the approach of an enemy. They are not without understanding, because, according to Chinese notions of physiology, "their bellies are full of wisdom." The Armless People In the Mountains of the Sun and Moon, which are in the Centre of the Great Waste, are the people who have no arms, but whose legs instead grow out of their shoulders. They pick flowers with their toes. They bow by raising the body horizontal with the shoulders, thus turning the face to the ground. The Long-armed and Long-legged People The Long-armed People are about thirty feet high, their arms reaching from the shoulders to the ground. Once when a company of explorers was passing through the country which borders on the Eastern Sea they inquired of an old man if he knew whether or not there were people dwelling beyond the waters. He replied that a cloth garment, in fashion and texture not unlike that of a Chinese coat, with sleeves thirty feet in length, had been found in the sea. The explorers fitted out an expedition, and the discovery of the Long-armed Country was the result. The natives subsist for the most part on fish, which they obtain by wading in the water, and taking the fish with their hands instead of with hooks or nets. The arms of the Long-legged People are of a normal length, the legs are developed to a length corresponding to that of the arms of the Long-armed People. The country of the latter borders on that of the Long-legs. The habits and food of the two are similar. The difference in their physical structure makes them of mutual assistance, those with the long arms being able to take the shellfish of the shallow waters, while those with the long legs take the surface fish from the deeper localities; thus the two gather a harvest otherwise unobtainable. The One-eyed People and Others A little to the east of the Country of the Long-legs are to be found the One-eyed People. They have but one eye, rather larger than the ordinary human eye, placed in the centre of the forehead, directly above the nose. Other clans or families have but one arm and one leg, some having a right arm and left leg, others a left arm and right leg, while still others have both on the same side, and go in pairs, like shoes. Another species not only has but one arm and one leg, but is of such fashion as to have but one eye, one nostril, and beard on but one side of the face, there being as it were rights and lefts, the two in reality being one, for it is in this way that they pair. The Long-eared People resemble Chinese in all except their ears. They live in the far West among mountains and in caves. Their pendant, flabby ears extend to the ground, and would impede their feet in walking if they did not support them on their hands. They are sensitive to the faintest sound. Still another people in this region are distinguished by having six toes on each foot. The Feathered People, etc. The Feathered People are very tall, and are covered with fluffy down. They have wings in place of arms, and can fly short distances. On the points of the wings are claws, which serve as hands. Their noses are like beaks. Gentle and timid, they do not leave their own country. They have good voices, and like to sing ballads. If one wishes to visit this people he must go far to the south-east and then inquire. There is also the Land of the People with Three Faces, who live in the centre of the Great Waste and never die; the Land of the Three-heads, east of the K'un-lun Mountains; the Three-body Country, the inhabitants of which have one head with three bodies, three arms and but two legs; and yet another where the people have square heads, broad shoulders, and three legs, and the stones on the land are all gold and jade. The People of the Punctured Bodies Another community is said to be composed of people who have holes through their chests. They can be carried about on a pole put through the orifice, or may be comfortably hung upon a peg. They sometimes string themselves on a rope, and thus walk out in file. They are harmless people, and eat snakes that they kill with bows and arrows, and they are very long-lived. The Women's Kingdom The Women's Kingdom, the country inhabited exclusively by women, is said to be surrounded by a sea of less density than ordinary water, so that ships sink on approaching the shores. It has been reached only by boats carried thither in whirlwinds, and but few of those wrecked on its rocks have survived and returned to tell of its wonders. The women have houses, gardens, and shops. Instead of money they use gems, perforated and strung like beads. They reproduce their kind by sleeping where the south wind blows upon them. The Land of the Flying Cart Situated to the north of the Plain of Great Joy, the Land of the Flying Cart joins the Country of the One-armed People on the south-west and that of the Three-bodied People on the south-east. The inhabitants have but one arm, and an additional eye of large size in the centre of the forehead, making three eyes in all. Their carts, though wheeled, do not run along the ground, but chase each other in mid-air as gracefully as a flock of swallows. The vehicles have a kind of winged framework at each end, and the one-armed occupants, each grasping a flag, talk and laugh one to another in great glee during what might be called their aerial recreation were it not for the fact that it seems to be their sole occupation. The Expectant Wife A curious legend is told regarding a solitary, weird figure which stands out, rudely weatherworn, from a hill-top in the pass called Shao-hsing Gorge, Canton Province. This point of the pass is called Lung-mên, or Dragon's Mouth, and the hill the Husband-expecting Hill. The figure itself, which is called the Expectant Wife, resembles that of a woman. Her bent head and figure down to the waist are very lifelike. The story, widely known in this and the neighbouring province, runs as follows. Centuries ago a certain poor woman was left by her husband, who went on a journey into Kwangsi, close by, but in those days considered a wild and distant region, full of dangers. He promised to return in three years. The time went slowly and sadly past, for she dearly loved her lord, but no husband appeared. He, ungrateful and unfaithful spouse, had fallen in love with a fair one in Kwangsi, a sorceress or witch, who threw a spell over him and charmed him to his destruction, turning him at length into stone. To this day his figure may be seen standing near a cave close by the river which is known by the name of the Detained Man Cave. The wife, broken by grief at her husband's failure to return, was likewise turned into a stone, and it is said that a supernatural power will one day bring the couple to life again and reward the ever-faithful wife. The legend receives entire credence from the simple boatmen sad country people. The Wild Men The wild beasts of the mountain have a king. He is a wild man, with long, thick locks, fiery red in colour, and his body is covered with hair. He is very strong: with a single blow of his huge fist, he can break large rocks to pieces; he also can pull up the trees of the forest by the root. His flesh is as hard as iron and is invulnerable to the thrusts of knife, spear, or sword. He rides upon a tiger when he leaves his home; he rules over the wolves, leopards, and tigers, and governs all their affairs. Many other wild men, like him in appearance, live in these mountains, but on account of his great strength he alone is king. These wild men kill and eat all human beings they meet, and other hill tribes live in terror of meeting them. Indeed, who of all these mountain people would have been left alive had not some men, more crafty than their fellows, devised a means of overpowering these fierce savages? This is the method referred to: On leaving his home the herb-gatherer of the mountains arms himself with two large hollow bamboo tubes which he slips over his wrists and arms; he also carries a jar of very strong wine. When he meets one of the wild men he stands still and allows the giant to grasp him by the arm. As the giant holds him fast, as he supposes, in his firm grasp, he quietly and slowly withdraws one arm from the bamboo cuff, and, taking the pot of wine from the other hand, quickly pours it down the throat of the stooping giant, whose mouth is wide open with immoderate laughter at the thought of having captured a victim so easily. The potent draught of wine acts at once, causing the victim to drop to the ground in a dead sleep, whereupon the herb-gatherer either dispatches him summarily with a thrust through the heart, or leaves the drunken tyrant to sleep off the effect of his draught, while he returns again to his work of collecting the health-restoring herbs. In this way have the numbers of these wild men become less and less, until at the present time but few remain. The Jointed Snake The people on Ô-mei Shan tell of a wonderful kind of snake that is said to live there. Part of its life is spent among the branches of the trees; if by chance it falls to the ground it breaks up into two or more pieces. These separate segments later on come together again and unite. Many other marvellous and interesting tales are related of this mountain and its inhabitants. The Casting of the Great Bell In every province of China there is a legend relating to the casting of the great bell swung in the bell tower of the chief city. These legends are curiously identical in almost every detail. The following is the one current in Peking. It was in the reign of Yung Lo, the third monarch of the Ming dynasty, that Peking first became the capital of China. Till that period the 'Son of Heaven' had held his Court at Nanking, and Peking had been of comparatively little note. Now, however, on being honoured by the 'Sacred Presence,' stately buildings arose in all directions for the accommodation of the Emperor and his courtiers. Clever men from all parts of the Empire were attracted to the capital, and such as possessed talent were sure of lucrative employment. About this time the Drum Tower and the Bell Tower were built; both of them as 'look-out' and 'alarm' towers. The Drum Tower was furnished with a monster drum, which it still possesses, of such a size that the thunder of its tones might be heard all over the city, the sound being almost enough to waken the dead. The Bell Tower had been completed some time before attempts were made to cast a bell proportionate to the size of the building. At length Yung Lo ordered Kuan Yu, a mandarin of the second grade, who was skilled in casting guns, to cast a bell the sound of which should be heard, on the least alarm, in every part of the city. Kuan Yu at once commenced the undertaking. He secured the services of a great number of experienced workmen, and collected immense quantities of material. Months passed, and at length it was announced to the Emperor that everything was ready for the casting. A day was appointed; the Emperor, surrounded by a crowd of courtiers, and preceded by the Court musicians, went to witness the ceremony. At a given signal, and to the crash of music, the melted metal rushed into the mould prepared for it. The Emperor and his Court then retired, leaving Kuan Yu and his subordinates to await the cooling of the metal, which would tell of failure or success. At length the metal was sufficiently cool to detach the mould from it. Kuan Yu, in breathless trepidation, hastened to inspect it, but to his mortification and grief discovered it to be honeycombed in many places. The circumstance was reported to the Emperor, who was naturally vexed at the expenditure of so much time, labour, and money with so unsatisfactory a result. However, he ordered Kuan Yu to try again. The mandarin hastened to obey, and, thinking the failure of the first attempt must have resulted from some oversight or omission on his part, he watched every detail with redoubled care and attention, fully determined that no neglect or remissness should mar the success of this second casting. After months of labour the mould was again prepared, and the metal poured into it, but again with the same result. Kuan Yu was distracted, not only at the loss of his reputation, but at the certain loss of the Emperor's favour. Yung Lo, when he heard of this second failure, was very wroth, and at once ordered Kuan Yu into his presence, and told him he would give him a third and last trial, and if he did not succeed this time he would behead him. Kuan Yu went home in a despairing state of mind, asking himself what crime he or any of his ancestors could have committed to have justified this calamity. Now Kuan Yu had an only daughter, about sixteen years of age, and, having no sons, the whole of his love was centred in this girl, for he had hopes of perpetuating his name and fame through her marriage with some deserving young nobleman. Truly she was worthy of being loved. She had "almond-shaped eyes, like the autumn waves, which, sparkling and dancing in the sun, seem to leap up in very joy and wantonness to kiss the fragrant reeds that grow upon the rivers' banks, yet of such limpid transparency that one's form could be seen in their liquid depths as if reflected in a mirror. These were surrounded by long silken lashes--now drooping in coy modesty, anon rising in youthful gaiety and disclosing the laughing eyes but just before concealed beneath them. Eyebrows like the willow leaf; cheeks of snowy whiteness, yet tinged with the gentlest colouring of the rose; teeth like pearls of the finest water were seen peeping from between half-open lips, so luscious and juicy that they resembled two cherries; hair of the jettiest blackness and of the silkiest texture. Her form was such as poets love to describe and painters limn; there was grace and ease in every movement; she appeared to glide rather than walk, so light was she of foot. Add to her other charms that she was skilful in verse-making, excellent in embroidery, and unequalled in the execution of her household duties, and we have but a faint description of Ko-ai, the beautiful daughter of Kuan Yu." Well might the father be proud of and love his beautiful child, and she returned his love with all the ardour of her affectionate nature; often cheering him with her innocent gaiety when he returned from his daily vocations wearied or vexed. Seeing him now return with despair depicted in his countenance, she tenderly inquired the cause, not without hope of being the means of alleviating it. When her father told her of his failures, and of the Emperor's threat, she exclaimed: "Oh, my father, be comforted! Heaven will not always be thus unrelenting. Are we not told that 'out of evil cometh good'? These two failures will but enhance the glory of your eventual success, for success _this_ time _must_ crown your efforts. I am only a girl, and cannot assist you but with my prayers; these I will daily and hourly offer up for your success; and the prayers of a daughter for a loved parent _must_ be heard." Somewhat soothed by the endearments of Ko-ai, Kuan Yu again devoted himself to his task with redoubled energy, Ko-ai meanwhile constantly praying for him in his absence, and ministering to his wants when he returned home. One day it occurred to the maiden to go to a celebrated astrologer to ascertain the cause of these failures, and to ask what means could be taken to prevent a recurrence of them. She thus learned that the next casting would also be a disappointment if the blood of a maiden were not mixed with the ingredients. She returned home full of horror at this information, yet inwardly resolving to immolate herself rather than allow her father to fail. The day for the casting at length came, and Ko-ai requested her father to allow her to witness the ceremony and "to exult in his success," as she laughingly said. Kuan Yu gave his consent, and accompanied by several servants she went, taking up a position near the mould. Everything was prepared as before. An immense concourse assembled to witness the third and final casting, which was to result either in honour or degradation and death for Kuan Yu. A dead silence prevailed through the vast assemblage as the melted metal once more rushed to its destination; this was broken by a shriek, and a cry, "For my father!" and Ko-ai was seen to throw herself headlong into the seething, hissing metal. One of her servants attempted to seize her while in the act of plunging into the boiling fluid, but succeeded only in grasping one of her shoes, which came off in his hand. The father was frantic, and had to be kept by force from following her example; he was taken home a raving maniac. The prediction of the astrologer was fulfilled, for, on uncovering the bell after it had cooled, it was found to be perfect, but not a vestige of Ko-ai was to be seen; the blood of a maiden had indeed been infused with the ingredients. After a time the bell was suspended by order of the Emperor, and expectation was at its height to hear it rung for the first time. The Emperor himself was present. The bell was struck, and far and near was heard the deep tone of its sonorous boom. This indeed was a triumph! Here was a bell surpassing in size and sound any other that had ever been cast! But--and the surrounding multitudes were horror-struck as they listened--the heavy boom of the bell was followed by a low wailing sound like the agonized cry of a woman, and the word _hsieh_ (shoe) was distinctly heard. To this day the bell, each time it is rung, after every boom appears to utter the word 'hsieh,' and people when they hear it shudder and say, "There's poor Ko-ai's voice calling for her shoe." The Cursed Temple The reign of Ch'ung Chêng, the last monarch of the Ming dynasty, was much troubled both by internal broils and by wars. He was constantly threatened by Tartar hordes from without, though these were generally beaten back by the celebrated general Wu San-kuei, and the country was perpetually in a state of anarchy and confusion, being overrun by bands of marauding rebels; indeed, so bold did these become under a chief named Li Tzu-ch'êng that they actually marched on the capital with the avowed intention of placing their leader on the Dragon Throne. Ch'ung Chêng, on the reception of this startling news, with no one that he could trust in such an emergency (for Wu San-kuei was absent on an expedition against the Tartars), was at his wits' end. The insurgents were almost in sight of Peking, and at any moment might arrive. Rebellion threatened in the city itself. If he went out boldly to attack the oncoming rebels his own troops might go over to the enemy, or deliver him into their hands; if he stayed in the city the people would naturally attribute it to pusillanimity, and probably open the gates to the rebels. In this strait he resolved to go to the San Kuan Miao, an imperial temple situated near the Ch'ao-yang Mên, and inquire of the gods as to what he should do, and decide his fate by 'drawing the slip.' If he drew a long slip, this would be a good omen, and he would boldly march out to meet the rebels, confident of victory; if a middle length one, he would remain quietly in the palace and passively await whatever might happen; but if he should unfortunately draw a short one he would take his own life rather than suffer death at the hands of the rebels. Upon arrival at the temple, in the presence of the high officers of his Court, the sacrifices were offered up, and the incense burnt, previous to drawing the slip on which hung the destiny of an empire, while Ch'ung Chêng himself remained on his knees in prayer. At the conclusion of the sacrificial ceremony the tube containing the bamboo fortune-telling sticks was placed in the Emperor's hand by one of the priests. His courtiers and the attendant priests stood round in breathless suspense, watching him as he swayed the tube to and fro; at length one fell to the ground; there was dead silence as it was raised by a priest and handed to the Emperor. _It was a short one!_ Dismay fell on every one present, no one daring to break the painful, horrible silence. After a pause the Emperor, with a cry of mingled rage and despair, dashed the slip to the ground, exclaiming: "May this temple built by my ancestors evermore be accursed! Henceforward may every suppliant be denied what he entreats, as I have been! Those who come in sorrow, may that sorrow be doubled; in happiness, may that happiness be changed to misery; in hope, may they meet despair; in health, sickness; in the pride of life and strength, death! I, Ch'ung Chêng, the last of the Mings, curse it!" Without another word he retired, followed by his courtiers, proceeded at once to the palace, and went straight to the apartments of the Empress. The next morning he and his Empress were found suspended from a tree on Prospect Hill. "In their death they were not divided." The scenes that followed; how the rebels took possession of the city and were driven out again by the Chinese general, assisted by the Tartars; how the Tartars finally succeeded in establishing the Manchu dynasty, are all matters of history. The words used by the Emperor at the temple were prophetic; he _was_ the last of the Mings. The tree on which the monarch of a mighty Empire closed his career and brought the Ming dynasty to an end was ordered to be surrounded with chains; it still exists, and is still in chains. Upward of two hundred and seventy years have passed since that time, yet the temple is standing as of old; but the halls that at one time were crowded with worshippers are now silent, no one ever venturing to worship there; it is the resort of the fox and the bat, and people at night pass it shudderingly--"It is the cursed temple!" The Maniac's Mite An interesting story is told of a lady named Ch'ên, who was a Buddhist nun celebrated for her virtue and austerity. Between the years 1628 and 1643 she left her nunnery near Wei-hai city and set out on a long journey for the purpose of collecting subscriptions for casting a new image of the Buddha. She wandered through Shantung and Chihli and finally reached Peking, and there--subscription-book in hand--she stationed herself at the great south gate in order to take toll from those who wished to lay up for themselves treasures in the Western Heaven. The first passer-by who took any notice of her was an amiable maniac. His dress was made of coloured shreds and patches, and his general appearance was wild and uncouth. "Whither away, nun?" he asked. She explained that she was collecting subscriptions for the casting of a great image of Buddha, and had come all the way from Shantung. "Throughout my life," remarked the madman, "I was ever a generous giver." So, taking the nun's subscription-book, he headed a page with his own name (in very large characters) and the amount subscribed. The amount in question was two cash, equivalent to a small fraction of a farthing. He then handed over the two small coins and went on his way. In course of time the nun returned to Wei-hai-wei with her subscriptions, and the work of casting the image was duly begun. When the time had come for the process of smelting, it was observed that the copper remained hard and intractable. Again and again the furnace was fed with fuel, but the shapeless mass of metal remained firm as a rock. The head workman, who was a man of wide experience, volunteered an explanation of the mystery. "An offering of great value must be missing," he said. "Let the collection-book be examined so that it may be seen whose subscription has been withheld." The nun, who was standing by, immediately produced the madman's money, which on account of its minute value she had not taken the trouble to hand over. "There is one cash," she said, "and there is another. Certainly the offering of these must have been an act of the highest merit, and the giver must be a holy man who will some day attain Buddhahood." As she said this she threw the two cash into the midst of the cauldron. Great bubbles rose and burst, the metal melted and ran like the sap from a tree, limpid as flowing water, and in a few moments the work was accomplished and the new Buddha successfully cast. The City-god of Yen Ch'êng The following story of the Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa of Yen Ch'êng (Salt City) is told by Helena von Poseck in the _East of Asia Magazine_, vol. iii (1904), pp. 169-171. This legend is also related of several other cities in China. The Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa is, as already noted, the tutelary god of a city, his position in the unseen world answering to that of a _chih hsien_, or district magistrate, among men, if the city under his care be a _hsien_; but if the city hold the rank of a _fu_, it has (or used to have until recently) two Ch'êng-huang P'u-sas, one a prefect, and the other a district magistrate. One part of his duty consists of sending small demons to carry off the spirits of the dying, of which spirits he afterward acts as ruler and judge. He is supposed to exercise special care over the _k'u kuei_, or spirits which have no descendants to worship and offer sacrifices to them, and on the occasion of the Seventh Month Festival he is carried round the city in his chair to maintain order among them, while the people offer food to them, and burn paper money for their benefit. He is also carried in procession at the Ch'ing Ming Festival, and on the first day of the tenth month. The Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa of the city of Yen Ch'êng is in the extremely unfortunate predicament of having no skin to his face, which fact is thus accounted for: Once upon a time there lived at Yen Ch'êng an orphan boy who was brought up by his uncle and aunt. He was just entering upon his teens when his aunt lost a gold hairpin, and accused him of having stolen it. The boy, whose conscience was clear in the matter, thought of a plan by which his innocence might be proved. "Let us go to-morrow to Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa's temple," he said, "and I will there swear an oath before the god, so that he may manifest my innocence." They accordingly repaired to the temple, and the boy, solemnly addressing the idol, said: "If I have taken my aunt's gold pin, may my foot twist, and may I fall as I go out of your temple door!" Alas for the poor suppliant! As he stepped over the threshold his foot twisted, and he fell to the ground. Of course, everybody was firmly convinced of his guilt, and what could the poor boy say when his own appeal to the god thus turned against him? After such a proof of his depravity his aunt had no room in her house for her orphan nephew, neither did he himself wish to stay with people who suspected him of theft. So he left the home which had sheltered him for years, and wandered out alone into the cold hard world. Many a hardship did he encounter, but with rare pluck he persevered in his studies, and at the age of twenty odd years became a mandarin. In course of time our hero returned to Yen Ch'êng to visit his uncle and aunt. While there he betook himself to the temple of the deity who had dealt so hardly with him, and prayed for a revelation as to the whereabouts of the lost hairpin. He slept that night in the temple, and was rewarded by a vision in which the Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa told him that the pin would be found under the floor of his aunt's house. He hastened back, and informed his relatives, who took up the boards in the place indicated, and lo! there lay the long-lost pin! The women of the house then remembered that the pin had been used in pasting together the various layers of the soles of shoes, and, when night came, had been carelessly left on the table. No doubt rats, attracted by the smell of the paste which clung to it, had carried it off to their domains under the floor. The young mandarin joyfully returned to the temple, and offered sacrifices by way of thanksgiving to the Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa for bringing his innocence to light, but he could not refrain from addressing to him what one is disposed to consider a well-merited reproach. "You made me fall down," he said, "and so led people to think I was guilty, and now you accept my gifts. Aren't you ashamed to do such a thing? _You have no face!_" As he uttered the words all the plaster fell from the face of the idol, and was smashed into fragments. From that day forward the Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa of Yen Ch'êng has had no skin on his face. People have tried to patch up the disfigured countenance, but in vain: the plaster always falls off, and the face remains skinless. Some try to defend the Ch'êng-huang P'u-sa by saying that he was not at home on the day when his temple was visited by the accused boy and his relatives, and that one of the little demons employed by him in carrying off dead people's spirits out of sheer mischief perpetrated a practical joke on the poor boy. In that case it is certainly hard that his skin should so persistently testify against him by refusing to remain on his face! The Origin of a Lake In the city of Ta-yeh Hsien, Hupei, there is a large sheet of water known as the Liang-ti Lake. The people of the district give the following account of its origin: About five hundred years ago, during the Ming dynasty, there was no lake where the broad waters now spread. A flourishing _hsien_ city stood in the centre of a populous country. The city was noted for its wickedness, but amid the wicked population dwelt one righteous woman, a strict vegetarian and a follower of all good works. In a vision of the night it was revealed to her that the city and neighbourhood would be destroyed by water, and the sign promised was that when the stone lions in front of the _yamên_ wept tears of blood, then destruction was near at hand. Like Jonah at Nineveh, the woman, known to-day simply as Niang-tzu, walked up and down the streets of the city, warning all of the coming calamity. She was laughed at and looked upon as mad by the careless people. A pork-butcher in the town, a noted wag, took some pig's blood and sprinkled it round the eyes of the stone lions. This had the desired effect, for when Niang-tzu saw the blood she fled from the city amid the jeers and laughter of the inhabitants. Before many hours had passed, however, the face of the sky darkened, a mighty earthquake shook the country-side, there was a great subsidence of the earth's surface, and the waters of the Yangtzu River flowed into the hollow, burying the city and villages out of sight. But a spot of ground on which the good woman stood, after escaping from the doomed city, remained at its normal level, and it stands to-day in the midst of the lake, an island called Niang-tzu, a place at which boats anchor at night, or to which they fly for shelter from the storms that sweep the lake. They are saved to-day because of one good woman helped by the gods so long ago. As a proof of the truth of the above story, it is asserted that on clear days traces of the buried city may be seen, while occasionally a fisherman casting his net hauls up some household utensil or relic of bygone days. Miao Creation Legends If the Miao have no written records, they have many legends in verse, which they learn to repeat and sing. The Hei Miao (or Black Miao, so called from their dark chocolate-coloured clothes) treasure poetical legends of the Creation and of a deluge. These are composed in lines of five syllables, in stanzas of unequal length, one interrogative and one responsive. They are sung or recited by two persons or two groups at feasts and festivals, often by a group of youths and a group of maidens. The legend of the Creation commences: Who made Heaven and earth? Who made insects? Who made men? Made male and made female? I who speak don't know. Heavenly King made Heaven and earth, Ziene made insects, Ziene made men and demons, Made male and made female. How is it you don't know? How made Heaven and earth? How made insects? How made men and demons? Made male and made female? I who speak don't know. Heavenly King was intelligent, Spat a lot of spittle into his hand, Clapped his hands with a noise, Produced Heaven and earth, Tall grass made insects, Stories made men and demons, Made male and made female. How is it you don't know? The legend proceeds to state how and by whom the heavens were propped up and how the sun was made and fixed in its place, but the continuation is exceedingly silly. The legend of the Flood is another very silly composition, but it is interesting to note that it tells of a great deluge. It commences: Who came to the bad disposition, To send fire and burn the hill? Who came to the bad disposition, To send water and destroy the earth? I who sing don't know. Zie did. Zie was of bad disposition, Zie sent fire and burned the hill; Thunder did. Thunder was of bad disposition, Thunder sent water and destroyed the earth. Why don't you know? In this story of the flood only two persons were saved in a large bottle gourd used as a boat, and these were A Zie and his sister. After the flood the brother wished his sister to become his wife, but she objected to this as not being proper. At length she proposed that one should take the upper and one the nether millstone, and going to opposite hills should set the stones rolling to the valley between. If these should be found in the valley properly adjusted one above the other she would be his wife, but not if they came to rest apart. The young man, considering it unlikely that two stones thus rolled down from opposite hills would be found in the valley one upon another, while pretending to accept the test suggested, secretly placed two other stones in the valley one upon the other. The stones rolled from the hills were lost in the tall wild grass, and on descending into the valley A Zie called his sister to come and see the stones he had placed. She, however, was not satisfied, and suggested as another test that each should take a knife from a double sheath and, going again to the opposite hill-tops, hurl them into the valley below. If both these knives were found in the sheath in the valley she would marry him, but if the knives were found apart they would live apart. Again the brother surreptitiously placed two knives in the sheath, and, the experiment ending as A Zie wished, his sister became his wife. They had one child, a misshapen thing without arms or legs, which A Zie in great anger killed and cut to pieces. He threw the pieces all over the hill, and next morning, on awaking, he found these pieces transformed into men and women; thus the earth was repeopled. The Dream of the South Branch The dawn of Chinese romantic literature must be ascribed to the period between the eighth and tenth centuries of our era, when the cultivation of the liberal arts received encouragement at the hands of sovereigns who had reunited the Empire under the sway of a single ruler, and whose conquests and distant embassies attracted representatives from every Asiatic nation to their splendid Court. It was during this period that the vast bulk of Indian literature was successfully attacked by a host of Buddhist translators, and that the alchemists and mechanicians of Central Asia, Persia, and the Byzantine Empire introduced their varied acquirements to the knowledge of the Chinese. With the flow of new learning which thus gained admittance to qualify the frigid and monotonous cultivation of the ancient classics and their commentators, there came also an impetus to indulgence in the licence of imagination in which it is impossible to mistake the influence of Western minds. While the Sanskrit fables, on the one hand, passed into a Chinese dress, and contributed to the colouring of the popular mythology, the legends which circulated from mouth to mouth in the lively Arabian bazaars found, in like manner, an echo in the heart of China. Side by side with the mechanical efforts of rhythmical composition which constitute the national ideal of poetry there began, during the middle period of the T'ang dynasty (A.D. 618-907), to grow up a class of romantic tales in which the kinship of ideas with those that distinguish the products of Arabian genius is too marked to be ignored. The invisible world appears suddenly to open before the Chinese eye; the relations of the sexes overstep for a moment the chilling limit imposed by the traditions of Confucian decorum; a certain degree of freedom and geniality is, in a word, for the first time and only for a brief interval infused into the intellectual expression of a nation hitherto closely cramped in the bonds of a narrow pedantry. It was at this period that the drama began to flourish, and the germs of the modern novelist's art made their first appearance. Among the works of imagination dating from the period in question which have come down to the present day there is perhaps none which better illustrates the effect of an exotic fancy upon the sober and methodical authorship of the Chinese, or which has left a more enduring mark upon the language, than the little tale which is given in translation in the following pages. The _Nan k'o mêng_, or _Dream of the South Branch_ (as the title, literally translated, should read), is the work of a writer named Li Kung-tso, who, from an incidental mention of his own experiences in Kiangsi which appears in another of his tales, is ascertained to have lived at the beginning of the ninth century of our era. The _nan k'o_, or South Branch, is the portion of a _huai_ tree (_Sophora Japdonica_, a tree well known in China, and somewhat resembling the American locust-tree) in which the adventures narrated in the story are supposed to have occurred; and from this narrative of a dream, recalling more than one of the incidents recounted in the Arabian Nights, the Chinese have borrowed a metaphor to enrich the vocabulary of their literature. The equivalent of our own phrase "the baseless fabric of a vision" is in Chinese _nan k'o chih mêng_--a dream of the south branch. Ch'un-yü Fên enters the Locust-tree Ch'un-yü Fên, a native of Tung-p'ing, was by nature a gallant who had little regard for the proprieties of life, and whose principal enjoyment was found in indulgence in wine-bibbing in the society of boon-companions. At one time he held a commission in the army, but this he lost through his dissipated conduct, and from that time he more than ever gave himself up to the pleasures of the wine-cup. One day--it was in the ninth moon of the seventh year of Chêng Yüan (A.D. 791)--after drinking heavily with a party of friends under a wide-spreading old locust-tree near his house, he had to be carried to bed and there left to recover, his friends saying that they would leave him while they went to bathe their feet. The moment he laid down his head he fell into a deep slumber. In his dream appeared to him two men clothed in purple, who kneeling down informed him that they had been sent by their master the King of Huai-an ('Locust-tree Peace') to request his presence. Unconsciously he rose, and, arranging his dress, followed his visitors to the door, where he saw a varnished chariot drawn by a white horse. On each side were ranged seven attendants, by whom he was assisted to mount, whereupon the carriage drove off, and, going out of the garden gate, passed through a hole in the trunk of the locust-tree already spoken of. Filled with astonishment, but too much afraid to speak, Ch'un-yü noticed that he was passing by hills and rivers, trees and roads, but of quite a different kind from those he was accustomed to. A few miles brought them to the walls of a city, the approach to which was lined with men and vehicles, who fell back at once the moment the order was given. Over the gate of the city was a pavilion on which was written in gold letters "The Capital of Huai-an." As he passed through, the guard turned out, and a mounted officer, shouting that the husband of the King's daughter had arrived, showed him the way into a hall where he was to rest awhile. The room contained fruits and flowers of every description, and on the tables was laid out a profuse display of refreshments. While Ch'un-yü still remained lost in astonishment, a cry was raised that the Prime Minister was coming. Ch'un-yü got up to meet him, and the two received each other with every demonstration of politeness. He marries the King's Daughter The minister, looking at Ch'un-yü, said: "The King, my master, has brought you to this remote region in order to give his daughter in marriage to you." "How could I, a poor useless wretch," replied Ch'un-yü, "have ever aspired to such honour?" With these words both proceeded toward the audience-chamber, passing through a hall lined with soldiers, among whom, to his great joy and surprise, Ch'un-yü recognized an old friend of his former drinking days, to whom he did not, however, then venture to speak; and, following the Prime Minister, he was ushered into the King's presence. The King, a man of noble bearing and imposing stature, was dressed in plain silk, a jewelled crown reposing on his head. Ch'un-yü was so awe-stricken that he was powerless even to look up, and the attendants on either side were obliged to remind him to make his prostrations. The King, addressing him, said: "Your father, small as my kingdom is, did not disdain to promise that you should marry my daughter." Ch'un-yü could not utter a word; he merely lay prostrate on the ground. After a few moments he was taken back to his apartments, and he busied his thoughts in trying to discover what all this meant. "My father," he said to himself, "fought on the northern frontier, and was taken prisoner; but whether his life was saved or not I don't know. It may be that this affair was settled while he was in those distant regions." That same night preparations were made for the marriage; and the rooms and passages were filled with damsels who passed and repassed, filling the air with the sound of their dancing and music. They surrounded Ch'un-yü and kept up a constant fire of witty remarks, while he sat there overcome by their grace and beauty, unable to say a word. "Do you remember," said one of them, coming up to Ch'un-yü, "the other day when with the Lady Ling-chi I was listening to the service in the courtyard of a temple, and while I, with all the other girls, was sitting on the window step, you came up to us, talking nonsense, and trying to get up a flirtation? Don't you remember how we tied a handkerchief on the stem of a bamboo?" Then she continued: "Another time at a temple, when I threw down two gold hairpins and an ivory box as an offering, you asked the priest to let you look at the things, and after admiring them for a long time you turned toward me, and said that neither the gifts nor the donor were of this world; and you wanted to know my name, and where I lived, but I wouldn't tell you; and then you gazed on me so tenderly, and could not take your eyes off me. You remember this, without doubt?" "I have ever treasured the recollection in my heart; how could I possibly forget it?" was Ch'un-yü's reply, whereat all the maidens exclaimed that they had never expected to see him in their midst on this joyful occasion. At this moment three men came up to Ch'un-yü and stated that they had been appointed his ministers. He stepped up to one of them and asked him if his name was not Tzu-hua. "It is," was the reply; whereupon Ch'un-yü, taking him by the hands, recalled to him their old friendship, and questioned him as to how he had found his way to this spot. He then proceeded to ask him if Chou-pien was also here. "He is," replied the other, "and holding very high office; he has often used his influence on my behalf." As they were talking, Ch'un-yü was summoned to the palace, and as he passed within, a curtain in front of him was drawn aside, disclosing a young girl of about fourteen years of age. She was known as the Princess of the Golden Stem, and her dazzling beauty was well in keeping with her matchless grace. He writes to his Father The marriage was celebrated with all magnificence, and the young couple grew fonder from day to day. Their establishment was kept up in princely style, their principal amusement being the chase, the King himself frequently inviting Ch'un-yü to join him in hunting expeditions to the Tortoise-back Hill. As they were returning one day from one of these excursions, Ch'un-yü said to the King: "On my marriage day your Majesty told me that it was my father's desire that I should espouse your daughter. My father was worsted in battle on the frontier, and for seventeen years we have had no news of him. If your Majesty knows his whereabouts, I would beg permission to go and see him." "Your father," replied the King, "is frequently heard of; you may send him a letter; it is not necessary to go to him." Accordingly a letter and some presents were got ready and sent, and in due time a reply was received, in which Ch'un-yü's father asked many questions about his relations, his son's occupation, but manifested no desire that the latter should come to him. He takes Office One day Ch'un-yü's wife asked him if he would not like to hold office. His answer was to the effect that he had always been a rolling stone, and had no experience of official affairs, but the Princess promised to give him her assistance, and found occasion to speak on the subject to her father. In consequence the King one day told Ch'un-yü that he was not satisfied with the state of affairs in the south of his territory, that the present governor was old and useless, and that he would be pleased if he would proceed thither. Ch'un-yü bowed to the King's commands, and inwardly congratulated himself that such good fortune should have befallen a rover like him. He was supplied with a splendid outfit, and farewell entertainments were given in his honour. Before leaving he acknowledged to the King that he had no great confidence in his own powers, and suggested that he should be allowed to take with him Chou-pien and Tzu-hua as commissioners of justice and finance. The King gave his consent, and issued the necessary instructions. The day of departure having arrived, both the King and the Queen came to see Ch'un-yü and his wife off, and to Ch'un-yü the King said: "The province of Nan-k'o is rich and fertile; and the inhabitants are brave and prosperous; it is by kindness that you must rule them." To her daughter the Queen said: "Your husband is violent and fond of wine. The duty of a wife is to be kind and submissive. Act well toward him, and I shall have no anxiety. Nan-k'o, it is true, is not very far--only one day's journey; still, in parting from you my tears will flow." Ch'un-yü and his bride waved a farewell, and were whirled away toward their destination, reaching Nan-k'o the same evening. Once settled in the place, Ch'un-yü set himself to become thoroughly acquainted with the manners and customs of the people, and to relieve distress. To Chou-pien and Tzu-hua he confided all questions of administration, and in the course of twenty years a great improvement was to be noticed in the affairs of the province. The people showed their appreciation by erecting a monument to his honour, while the King conferred upon him an estate and the dignity of a title, and in recognition of their services promoted Chou-pien and Tzu-hua to very high posts. Ch'un-yü's children also shared their father's rewards; the two sons were given office, while the two daughters were betrothed to members of the royal family. There remained nothing which could add to his fame and greatness. He meets with Disasters About this period the state of T'an-lo made an incursion on the province of Nan-k'o. The King at once commanded that Chou-pien should proceed at the head of 30,000 men to repel the enemy. Chou-pien, full of confidence, attacked the foe, but sustained a disastrous defeat, and, barely escaping with his life, returned to the capital, leaving the invaders to plunder the country and retire. Ch'un-yü threw Chou-pien into prison, and asked the King what punishment should be visited upon him. His Majesty granted Chou-pien his pardon; but that same month he died of disease. A few days later Ch'un-yü's wife also fell ill and died, whereupon he begged permission to resign his post and return to Court with his wife's remains. This request was granted, and Tzu-hua was appointed in his stead. As Ch'un-yü, sad and dejected, was leaving the city with the funeral _cortège_, he found the road lined with people giving loud expression to their grief, and almost ready to prevent his taking his departure. He returns Home As he neared the capital the King and Queen, dressed in mourning, were awaiting the bier in tears. The Princess, after a posthumous title had been conferred upon her, was buried with great magnificence a few miles to the east of the city, while Ch'un-yü remained in the capital, living in such state, and gaining so much influence, that he excited the King's jealousy; and when it was foretold, by means of signs in the heavens, that ruin threatened the kingdom, that its inhabitants would be swept away, and that this would be the work of an alien, the prophecy seemed to point to ambitious designs on the part of Ch'un-yü, and means were taken to keep him under restraint. Ch'un-yü, conscious that he had faithfully filled a high office for many years, felt greatly grieved by these calumnies--a result which the King could not avoid noticing. He accordingly sent for Ch'un-yü, and said: "For more than twenty years we have been connexions, although my poor daughter, unfortunately, has not been spared to be a companion to you in old age. Her mother is now taking care of her children; your own home you have not seen for many years; return to see your friends; your children will be looked after, and in three years you will see them again." "Is not this my home? Whither else am I to go?" was Ch'un-yü's reply. "My friend," the King said laughingly, "you are a human being; you don't belong to this place." At these words Ch'un-yü seemed to fall into a deep swoon, and he remained unconscious for some time, after which he began to recall some glimpses of the distant past. With tears in his eyes he begged that he might be allowed to return to his home, and, saying farewell, he departed. Outside the palace he found the same two officials in purple clothes who had led the way so many years ago. A conveyance was also there, but this time it was a mere bullock-cart, with no outriders. He took the same road as before, and noticed the same hills and streams. The two officials were by no means imposing this time, and when he asked how far was his destination they continued to hum and whistle and paid no attention to him. At last they passed through an opening, and he recognized his own village, precisely as he had left it. The two officials desired him to get down and walk up the steps before him, where, much to his horror, he saw himself lying down in the porch. He was too much bedazed with terror to advance, but the two officials called out his name several times, and upon this he awoke. The servants were bustling about the house, and his two companions were still washing their feet. Everything was as he had left it, and the lifetime he had lived in his dream had occupied only a few moments. Calling out to his two friends, he made them follow him to the locust-tree, and pointed out the opening through which he had begun his journey in dream-land. An axe was sent for, and the interior of the trunk thrown open, whereupon a series of galleries was laid bare. At the root of the tree a mound of earth was discovered, in shape like a city, and swarming with ants. This was the capital of the kingdom in which he had lived in his dream. A terrace surrounded by a guard of ants was the residence of the King and Queen, two winged insects with red heads. Twenty feet or so along another gallery was found an old tortoise-shell covered with a thick growth of moss; it was the Tortoise-back Hill of the dream. In another direction was found a small mound of earth round which was coiled a root in shape like a dragon's tongue; it was the grave of the King's daughter, Ch'un-yü's wife in the vision. As he recalled each incident of the dream he was much affected at discovering its counterpart in this nest of ants, and he refused to allow his companions to disturb it further. They replaced everything as they had found it; but that night a storm of wind and rain came, and next morning not a vestige of the ants was to be seen. They had all disappeared, and here was the fulfilment of the warning in the dream, that the kingdom would be swept away. Ch'un-yü Regenerate At this time Ch'un-yü had not seen Chou-pien and Tzu-hua for some ten days. He sent a messenger to make inquiries about them, and the news he brought back was that Chou-pien was dead and Tzu-hua lying ill. The fleeting nature of man's existence revealed itself to him as he recalled the greatness of these two men in the ant-world. From that day he became a reformed man; drink and dissipation were put aside. After three years had elapsed he died, thus giving effect to the promise of the ant-king that he should see his children once more at the end of three years. Why the Jung Tribe have Heads of Dogs The wave of conquest which swept from north to south in the earliest periods of Chinese history [49] left on its way, like small islands in the ocean, certain remnants of aboriginal tribes which survived and continued to exist despite the sustained hostile attitude of the flood of alien settlers around them. When stationed at Foochow I saw the settlements of one of these tribes which lived in the mountainous country not very many miles inland from that place. They were those of the Jung tribe, the members of which wore on their heads a large and peculiar headgear constructed of bamboo splints resting on a peg inserted in the chignon at the back of the head, the weight of the structure in front being counterbalanced by a pad, serving as a weight, attached to the end of the splints, which projected as far down as the middle of the shoulders. This framework was covered by a mantilla of red cloth which, when not rolled up, concealed the whole head and face, The following legend, related to me on the spot, explains the origin of this unusual headdress. Two Tribes at War In early times the Chief of a Chinese tribe (another version says an Emperor of China) was at war with the Chief of another tribe who came to attack his territory from the west. The Western Chief so badly defeated the Chinese army that none of the generals or soldiers could be induced to renew hostilities and endeavour to drive the enemy back to his own country. This distressed the Chinese Chief very much. As a last resort he issued a proclamation promising his daughter in marriage to anyone who would bring him the head of his enemy, the Chief of the West. The Chief's Promise The people in the palace talked much of this promise made by the Chief, and their conversation was listened to by a fine large white dog belonging to one of the generals. This dog, having pondered the matter well, waited until midnight and then stole over to the tent of the enemy Chief. The latter, as well as his guard, was asleep; or, if the guard was not, the dog succeeded in avoiding him in the darkness. Entering the tent, the dog gnawed through the Chief's neck and carried his head off in his mouth. At dawn he placed it at the Chinese Chief's feet, and waited for his reward. The Chief was soon able to verify the fact that his enemy had been slain, for the headless body had caused so much consternation in the hostile army that it had already begun to retreat from Chinese territory. A Strange Contract The dog then reminded the Chief of his promise, and asked for his daughter's hand in marriage. "But how," said the Chief, "can I possibly marry my daughter to a dog?" "Well," replied the dog, "will you agree to her marrying me if I change myself into a man?" This seemed a safe promise to make, and the Chief agreed. The dog then stipulated that he should be placed under a large bell and that no one should move it or look into it for a space of 280 days. The Chiefs Curiosity This was done, and for 279 days the bell remained unmoved, but on the 280th day the Chief could restrain his curiosity no longer, and tilting up the bell saw that the dog had changed into a man all except his head, the last day being required to complete the transformation. However, the spell was now broken, and the result was a man with a dog's head. Since it was the Chief's fault that, through his over-inquisitiveness, the dog could not become altogether a man, he was obliged to keep his promise, and the wedding duly took place, the bridegroom's head being veiled for the occasion by a red mantilla. The Origin of a Custom Unfortunately the fruit of the union took more after their father than their mother, and though comely of limb had exceedingly ugly features. [50] They were therefore obliged to continue to wear the head-covering adopted by their father at the marriage ceremony, and this became so much an integral part of the tribal costume that not only has it been worn ever since by their descendants, but a change of headgear has become synonymous with a change of husbands or a divorce. One account says that at the original bridal ceremony the bride wore the red mantilla to prevent her seeing her husband's ugly features, and that is why the headdress is worn by the women and not by the men, or more generally by the former than the latter, though others say that it was originally worn by the ugly children of both sexes. And of a Worship This legend explains the dog-worship of the Jung tribe, which now consists of four clans, with a separate surname (Lei, Chung, Lang, and Pan) to each, has a language of its own, and does not intermarry with the Foochow natives. At about the time of the old Chinese New Year (somewhere in February) they paint a large figure of a dog on a screen and worship it, saying it is their ancestor who was victorious over the Western invader. Conclusion If the greatness of nations is to be judged by the greatness of their myths (using the word 'great' in the sense of world-famous and of perennial influence), there would be few great nations, and China would not be one of them. As stated in an earlier chapter, the design has been to give an account of Chinese myth as it is, and not as it might have been under imaginary conditions. But for the Chinese philosophers we should in all probability have had more Chinese myths, but philosophy is unifying, and without it we might have had a break-up of China and perhaps no myths at all, or none specially belonging to China as a whole and separate independent nation. Had there been great, world-stirring myths there could hardly but have been also more wars, more cruelty, more wounding of the "heart that weeps and trembles," more saturating of the earth with human blood. It is not a small thing to have conquered myth with philosophy, especially at a time when the Western world was still steeped in the grossest superstition. Therefore we may be thankful that the Chinese were and are a peace-loving, sober, agricultural, industrial, non-military, non-priest-ridden, literary, and philosophical people, and that we have instead of great myths a great people. But if the real test of greatness is purity and justice, then Chinese myth must be placed among the greatest of all; for it is not obscene, and it is invariably just. The Pronunciation of Chinese Words During the course of Chinese history the restriction of intercourse due to mountain-chains or other natural obstacles between various tribes or divisions of the Chinese people led to the birth of a number of families of languages, which again became the parents of numerous local dialects. These dialects have in most cases restricted ranges, so that that of one district may be partially or wholly unintelligible to the natives of another situated at a distance of only a hundred miles or less. The Court or Government language is that spoken in Peking and the metropolitan district, and is the language of official communication throughout the country. Though neither the oldest nor the purest Chinese dialect, it seems destined more than any other to come into universal use in China. The natives of each province or district will of course continue to speak to each other in their own particular dialect, and foreign missionaries or merchants, for example, whose special duties or transactions are connected with special districts will naturally learn and use the dialects of those districts; but as a means of intercommunication generally between natives of different provinces, or between natives and foreigners, the Court language seems likely to continue in use and to spread more and more over the whole country. It is to this that the following remarks apply. The essentials of correct pronunciation of Chinese are accuracy of sound, tone, and rhythm. Sound _Vowels and Diphthongs_ _a_ as in _father_. _ai_ as in Italian _amái_. _ao_. Italian _ao_ in _Aosta_: sometimes _á-oo,_ the _au_ in _cauto_. _e_ in _eh_, _en_, as in _yet_, _lens_. _ei_. Nearly _ey_ in _grey_, but more as in Italian _lei_, _contei_. _ê_. The vowel-sound in _lurk_. _êi_. The foregoing _ê_ followed enclitically by _y_. _Money_ without the _n_ = _mêi_. _êrh._ The _urr_ in _purr_. _i_. As a single or final syllable the vowel-sound in _ease_, _tree_; in _ih_, _in_, _ing_, as in _chick_, _thing_. _ia_ generally as in the Italian _Maria_. _iai_. The _iai_ in the Italian _vecchiaia_. _iao_ as in _ia_ and _ao_, with the terminal peculiarity of the latter. _ie_ as in the Italian _siesta_. _io_. The French _io_ in _pioche_. _iu_ as a final, longer than the English _ew_. In _liu, niu_, almost _leyew, neyew_. In _chiung, hsiung, iung_, is _eeyong_ (_o_ in _roll_). _o._ Between vowel-sound in _awe_ and that in _roll_. _ou._ Really _êo_; _ou_ in _round_. _ü._ The vowel-sound in the French _tu, eût_. _üa._ Only in _üan_, which in some tones is _üen_. The _u_ as above; the _an_ as in _antic_. _üe_. The vowel-sounds in the French _tu es_. _üo_. A disputed sound, used, if at all, interchangeably with _io_ in certain syllables. _u_. The _oo_ in _too_; in _un_ and _ung_ as in the Italian _punto_. _ua_. Nearly _ooa_, in many instances contracting to _wa_. _uai_ as in the Italian _guai_. _uei._ The vowel-sounds in the French _jouer_. _uê._ Only in final _uên_ = _ú-un_; frequently _wên_ or _wun_. _ui._ The vowel-sounds in _screwy_; in some tones _uei_. _uo._ The Italian _uo_ in _fuori_; often _wo_, and at times nearly _oo_. _u._ Between the _i_ in _bit_ and the _u_ in _shut_. _Consonants_ _ch_ as in _chair_; but before _ih_ softened to _dj_. _ch'_. A strong breathing. _Mu_ch-ha_rm_ without the italicized letters = _ch'a_. _f_ as in farm. _h_ as _ch_ in Scotch _loch_. _hs_. A slight aspirate preceding and modifying the sibilant, which is, however, the stronger of the two consonants; _e.g. hsing_ = _hissing_ without the first _i_, _j_. Nearly the French _j_ in _jaune_; the English _s_ in _fusion_. _k_. _c_ in _car_, _k_ in _king_; but when following other sounds often softened to _g_ in _go, gate_. _k'_. The aspirate as in _ch'_. _Ki_ck-ha_rd_ without the italicized letters = _k'a_; and _ki_ck-he_r_ == _k'ê_. _l_ as in English. _m_ as in English. _n_ as in English. _ng_. The italicized letters in the French mo_n ga_lant = _nga_; mo_n gai_llard = _ngai_; so_n go_sier = _ngo_. _p_ as in English. _p'_ The Irish pronunciation of _p_arty, _p_arliament. _Sla_p-ha_rd_ without the italicized letters = _p'a_. _s_ as in English. _sh_ as in English. _ss_. Only in _ssu_. The object of employing _ss_ is to fix attention on the peculiar vowel-sound _u_ (see above). _t_ as in English. _t'_ The Irish _t_ in _t_orment. _Hi_t-ha_rd_ without the italicized letters = _t'a_. _ts_ as in _jetsam_; after another word softened to _ds_ in _gladsome_. _ts'._ The aspirate intervening, as in _ch'_, etc. _Be_ts-ha_rd_ without the italicized letters = _ts'a_. _tz_. Employed to mark the peculiarity of the final _u_; hardly of greater power than _ts_. _tz'_ like _ts'_. This, _tz_, and _ss_ used only before _u_. _w_ as in English; but very faint, or even non-existent, before _ü_. _y_ as in English; but very faint before _i_ or _ü_. Tone The correct pronunciation of the sound (_yin_) is not sufficient to make a Chinese spoken word intelligible. Unless the tone (_shêng_), or musical note, is simultaneously correctly given, either the wrong meaning or no meaning at all will be conveyed. The tone is the key in which the voice is pitched. Accent is a 'song added to,' and tone is emphasized accent. The number of these tones differs in the different dialects. In Pekingese there are now four. They are best indicated in transliteration by numbers added to the sound, thus: _pa_ (1) _pa_ (2) _pa_ (3) _pa_ (4) To say, for example, _pa_ (3) instead of _pa_ (1) would be as great a mistake as to say 'grasp' instead of 'trumpet.' Correctness of tone cannot be learnt except by oral instruction. Rhythm What tone is to the individual sound rhythm is to the sentence. This also, together with proper appreciation of the mutual modifications of tone and rhythm, can be correctly acquired only by oral instruction. NOTES [1] The inventions of the Chinese during a period of four thousand years may be numbered on the fingers of one hand. [2] _East of Asia Magazine_, i, 15-16. [3] _Cf_. Aristotle's belief that bugs arose spontaneously from sweat. [4] For the Buddhist account see _China Review_, xi, 80-82. [5] Compare the Japanese legend, which relates that the Sun-goddess was induced to come out of a cave by being tempted to gaze at herself in a mirror. See _Myths and Legends of Japan_, F. Hadland Davis, pp. 27-28. [6] See _Myths of the Norsemen_, by H. A. Guerber. These resemblances and the further one--namely, the dualism in the prechaotic epoch (a very interesting point in Scandinavian mythology)--illustrate the danger of inferring identity of origin from similarity of physical, intellectual, or moral results. Several remarkable parallelisms of Chinese religious and mythological beliefs with those recorded in the Hebrew scriptures may also be briefly noted. There is an age of virtue and happiness, a garden with a tree bearing 'apples of immortality,' guarded by a winged serpent (dragon), the fall of man, the beginnings of lust and war (the doctrine of original sin), a great flood, virgin-born god-men who rescue man from barbarism and endow him with superhuman attributes, discipleship, worship of a Virgin Mother, trinities, monasticism, celibacy, fasting, preaching, prayers, primeval Chaos, Paradise, etc. For details see _Chinese Repository,_ vii, 520-521. [7] _Cf._ the dwarfs in the Scandinavian myth. [8] See Legge, _Shu ching_, ii, 320, note. [9] In order to avoid misunderstanding, it is as well to note that the mention of the _t'ai chi_ in the _Canon of Changes (I ching_) no more constituted monism the philosophy of China than did the steam-driven machinery mentioned by Hero of Alexandria constitute the first century B.C. the 'age of steam.' Similarly, to take another example, the idea of the earth's rotundity, though conceived centuries before Ptolemy in the second century, did not become established before the sixteenth century. It was, in fact, from the _I ching_ that the Chinese derived their _dualistic_ (not their monistic) conception of the world. [10] "Formerly, I, Chuang Chou, dreamt that I was a butterfly, flying about and feeling that it was enjoying itself. I did not know that it was Chou. Suddenly I awoke and was myself again, the veritable Chou. I did not know whether it had formerly been Chou dreaming that he was a butterfly, or whether it was now a butterfly dreaming that it was Chou." _Chuang Tzu_, Book II. [11] See the present writer's _China of the Chinese_, chapter viii. [12] See Du Bose, pp. 282, 286, 361, 409, 410, and _Journal of the North China Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society_, xxxiv, 110-111. [13] Du Bose, p. 38. [14] He is sometimes represented as a reincarnation of Wên Chung; see p. 198. [16] See footnote, p. 107. [17] _Religion_, p. 177. [18] See _Myths of the Hindus and Buddhists_, by Sister Nivedita and Ananda Coomaraswamy. [19] The native accounts differ on this point. _Cf._ p. 16. [20] For further details concerning T'ai I see _Babylonian and Oriental Record_, vi, 145-150. [21] _Cf._ Chapter I. [22] She is the same as Ch'ang Ô, the name Hêng being changed to Ch'ang because it was the tabooed personal name of the Emperors Mu Tsung of the T'ang dynasty and Chên Tsung of the Sung dynasty. [23] See p. 45. [24] In Sagittarius, or the Sieve; Chinese constellation of the Leopard. [25] See Chapter XIV. [26] See Chapter XII. [27] This pagoda is distant about twenty _li_ (seven miles) from Peking. It is on the top of the hill, while the spring is at the foot, half a _li_ distant. The imperial family used the water from this spring, whence it was carried to Peking in carts. [28] See Chapter XII. [29] See Chapter IV. [30] This has reference to the change of Kuan Yin from the masculine to the feminine gender, already mentioned. [31] There is evidently a mistake here, since the King was twenty when he ascended the throne and fifty at the birth of Miao Shan. [32] _An Illustrated Account of the Eight Immortals' Mission to the East_. [33] A record of a journey to the Western Paradise to procure the Buddhist scriptures for the Emperor of China. The work is a dramatization of the introduction of Buddhism into China. [34] See p. 329. [35] See p. 195. [36] Literally 'golden oranges.' These are skilfully preserved by the Cantonese, and form a delicious sweetmeat for dessert. [37] Only slave-girls and women of the poorer classes and old women omit this very important part of a Chinese lady's toilet. [38] Alluding probably to the shape of the 'shoe' or ingot of silver. [39] Slave-girls do not have their feet compressed. [40] Wherein resides an old gentleman who ties together with a red cord the feet of those destined to become man and wife. From this bond there is no escape, no matter what distance may separate the affianced pair. [41] This proceeding is highly improper, but is 'winked at' in a large majority of Chinese betrothals. [42] The usual occupation of poor scholars who are ashamed to go into trade and who have not enterprise enough to start as doctors or fortune-tellers. Besides painting pictures and fans, and illustrating books, these men write fancy scrolls in the various ornamental styles so much prized by the Chinese; they keep accounts for people, and write or read business and private letters for the illiterate masses. [43] Say about £10. [44] Alchemy is first mentioned in Chinese history B.C. 133, and was widely cultivated in China during the Han dynasty by priests of the Taoist religion. [45] Kuan Chung and Pao Shu are the Chinese types of friendship. They were two statesmen of considerable ability who flourished in the seventh century B.C. [46] These are used, together with a heavy wooden _bâton_, by the Chinese washerman, the effect being most disastrous to a European wardrobe. [47] To provide coffins for poor people has ever been regarded as an act of transcendent merit. The tornado at Canton in April 1878, in which several thousand lives were lost, afforded an admirable opportunity for the exercise of this form of charity--an opportunity which was largely taken advantage of by the benevolent. [48] For usurping its prerogative by allowing Chia to obtain wealth. [49] See Chapter I. [50] Compare the legend of the tailed Miao Tzu tribes named Yao, 'mountain-dogs' or 'jackals,' living on the mountain ranges in the north-west of Kuangtung Province, related in the _Jih chi so chih_. 
7966	----	THE CHILD AND CHILDHOOD IN FOLK-THOUGHT STUDIES OF THE ACTIVITIES AND INFLUENCES OF THE CHILD AMONG PRIMITIVE PEOPLES, THEIR ANALOGUES AND SURVIVALS IN THE CIVILIZATION OF TO-DAY THE CHILD AND CHILDHOOD IN FOLK-THOUGHT (THE CHILD IN PRIMITIVE CULTURE) BY ALEXANDER FRANCIS CHAMBERLAIN M.A., PH.D. TO HIS FATHER AND HIS MOTHER THEIR SON Dedicates this Book "Vom Vater hab' ich die Statur, Des Lebens ernstes Führen; Vom Mutterchen die Frohnatur Und Lust zu fabulieren."--_Goethe_. PREFATORY NOTE. The present volume is an elaboration and amplification of lectures on "The Child in Folk-Thought," delivered by the writer at the summer school held at Clark University in 1894. In connection with the interesting topic of "Child-Study" which now engages so much the attention of teachers and parents, an attempt is here made to indicate some of the chief child-activities among primitive peoples and to point out in some respects their survivals in the social institutions and culture-movements of to-day. The point of view to be kept in mind is the child and what he has done, or is said to have done, in all ages and among all races of men. For all statements and citations references are given, and the writer has made every effort to place himself in the position of those whose opinion he records,--receiving and reporting without distortion or alteration. He begs to return to his colleagues in the University, especially to its distinguished president, the _genius_ of the movement for "Child-Study" in America, and to the members of the summer school of 1894, whose kind appreciation of his efforts has mainly led to the publication of this work, his sincerest gratitude for the sympathy and encouragement which they have so often exhibited and expressed with regard to the present and allied subjects of study and investigation in the field of Anthropology, pedagogical and psychological. A. F. CHAMBERLAIN CLARK UNIVERSITY, WORCESTER, Mass., April, 1895. CONTENTS. I. CHILD-STUDY II. THE CHILD'S TRIBUTE TO THE MOTHER III. THE CHILD'S TRIBUTE TO THE MOTHER (Continued) IV. THE CHILD'S TRIBUTE TO THE FATHER V. THE NAME CHILD VI. THE CHILD IN THE PRIMITIVE LABORATORY VII. THE BRIGHT SIDE OF CHILD-LIFE: PARENTAL AFFECTION VIII. CHILDHOOD THE GOLDEN AGE IX. CHILDREN'S FOOD X. CHILDREN'S SOULS XI. CHILDREN'S FLOWERS, PLANTS, AND TREES XII. CHILDREN'S ANIMALS, BIRDS, ETC. XIII. CHILD-LIFE AND EDUCATION IN GENERAL XIV. THE CHILD AS MEMBER AND BUILDER OF SOCIETY XV. THE CHILD AS LINGUIST XVI. THE CHILD AS ACTOR AND INVENTOR XVII. THE CHILD AS POET AND MUSICIAN XVIII. THE CHILD AS TEACHER AND WISEACRE XIX. THE CHILD AS JUDGE XX. THE CHILD AS ORACLE-KEEPER AND ORACLE-INTERPRETER XXI. THE CHILD AS WEATHER-MAKER XXII. THE CHILD AS HEALER AND PHYSICIAN XXIII. THE CHILD AS SHAMAN AND PRIEST XXIV. THE CHILD AS HERO, ADVENTURER, ETC. XXV. THE CHILD AS FETICH AND DIVINITY XXVI. THE CHILD AS GOD: THE CHRIST-CHILD XXVII. PROVERBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT PARENTS, FATHER AND MOTHER XXVIII. PROVERBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT THE CHILD, MANKIND, GENIUS XXIX. PROVERBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT MOTHER AND CHILD XXX. PROVERBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT FATHER AND CHILD XXXI. PROVERBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT CHILDHOOD, YOUTH, AND AGE XXXII. PROVERBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT THE CHILD AND CHILDHOOD INDEX TO PROVERBS XXXIII. CONCLUSION BIBLIOGRAPHY SUBJECT-INDEX TO SECTION A OF BIBLIOGRAPHY SUBJECT-INDEX TO SECTION B OF BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX I.--AUTHORITIES INDEX II.--PLACES, PEOPLES, TRIBES, LANGUAGES INDEX III.--SUBJECTS CHAPTER I. CHILD-STUDY. Oneness with Nature is the glory of Childhood; oneness with Childhood is the glory of the Teacher.--_G. Stanley Hall_. Homes ont l'estre comme metaulx, Vie et augment des vegetaulx, Instinct et sens comme les bruts, Esprit comme anges en attributs. [Man has as attributes: Being like metals, Life and growth like plants, Instinct and sense like animals, Mind like angels.]--_Jehan de Meung_. The Child is Father of the Man.--_Wordsworth_. And he [Jesus] called to him a little child, and set him in the midst of them.--_Matthew_ xviii. 2. It was an Oriental poet who sang:-- "On parent knees, a naked, new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st, while all around thee smiled; So live, that, sinking in thy last, long sleep, Calm thou mayst smile, while all around thee weep," and not so very long ago even the anthropologist seemed satisfied with the approximation of childhood and old age,--one glance at the babe in the cradle, one look at the graybeard on his deathbed, gave all the knowledge desired or sought for. Man, big, burly, healthy, omniscient, was the subject of all investigation. But now a change has come over the face of things. As did that great teacher of old, so, in our day, has one of the ministers of science "called to him a little child and set him in the midst of them,"--greatest in the kingdom of anthropology is assuredly that little child, as we were told centuries ago, by the prophet of Galilee, that he is greatest in the kingdom of heaven. The child, together with woman, who, in so many respects in which the essential human characteristics are concerned, so much resembles him, is now beyond doubt the most prominent figure in individual, as well as in racial, anthropology. Dr. D. G. Brinton, in an appreciative notice of the recent volume on _Man and Woman_, by Havelock Ellis, in which the secondary sexual differences between the male and the female portions of the human race are so well set forth and discussed, remarks: "The child, the infant in fact, alone possesses in their fulness 'the chief distinctive characters of humanity. The highest human types, as represented in men of genius, present a striking approximation to the child-type. In man, from about the third year onward, further growth is to some extent growth in degeneration and senility.' Hence the true tendency of the progressive evolution of the race is to become child-like, to become feminine." (_Psych. Rev._ I. 533.) As Dr. Brinton notes, in this sense women are leading evolution--Goethe was right: _Das Ewig-weibliche zieht uns hinan_. But here belongs also the child-human, and he was right in very truth who said: "A little child shall lead them." What new meaning flashes into the words of the Christ, who, after declaring that "the kingdom of God cometh not with observation: neither shall they say, Lo, here! or, There! for lo, the kingdom of God is within you," in rebuke of the Pharisees, in rebuke of his own disciples, "called to him a little child and set him in the midst of them, and said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye turn, and become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven." Even physically, the key to the kingdom of heaven lies in childhood's keeping. Vast indeed is now the province of him who studies the child. In Somatology,--the science of the physical characteristics and constitution of the body and its members,--he seeks not alone to observe the state and condition of the skeleton and its integuments during life, but also to ascertain their nature and character in the period of prenatal existence, as well as when causes natural, or unnatural, disease, the exhaustion of old age, violence, or the like, have induced the dissolution of death. In Linguistics and Philology, he endeavours to discover the essence and import of those manifold, inarticulate, or unintelligible sounds, which, with the long flight of time, develop into the splendidly rounded periods of a Webster or a Gladstone, or swell nobly in the rhythmic beauties of a Swinburne or a Tennyson. In Art and Technology, he would fain fathom the depths of those rude scribblings and quaint efforts at delineation, whence, in the course of ages, have been evolved the wonders of the alphabet and the marvellous creations of a Rubens and an Angelo. In Psychology, he seeks to trace, in childish prattlings and lore of the nursery, the far-off beginnings of mythology, philosophy, religion. Beside the stories told to children in explanation of the birth of a sister or a brother, and the children's own imaginings concerning the little new-comer, he may place the speculations of sages and theologians of all races and of all ages concerning birth, death, immortality, and the future life, which, growing with the centuries, have ripened into the rich and wholesome dogmas of the church. Ethnology, with its broad sweep over ages and races of men, its searchings into the origins of nations and of civilizations, illumined by the light of Evolution, suggests that in the growth of the child from helpless infancy to adolescence, and through the strong and trying development of manhood to the idiosyncrasies of disease and senescence, we have an epitome in miniature of the life of the race; that in primitive tribes, and in those members of our civilized communities, whose growth upward and onward has been retarded by inherited tendencies which it has been out of their power to overcome, or by a _milieu_ and environment, the control and subjugation of which required faculties and abilities they did not possess, we see, as it were, ethnic children; that in the nursery, the asylum, the jail, the mountain fastnesses of earth, or the desert plains, peopled by races whose ways are not our ways, whose criteria of culture are far below ours, we have a panorama of what has transpired since, alone and face to face with a new existence, the first human beings partook of the fruit of the tree of knowledge and became conscious of the great gulf, which, after millenniums of struggle and fierce competition, had opened between the new, intelligent, speaking anthropoids and their fellows who straggled so far behind. Wordsworth has said: "The child is father of the man," and a German writer has expanded the same thought:-- "Die Kindheit von heute Ist die Menschheit von morgen, Die Kindheit von heute Ist die Menschheit von gestern." ["The childhood of to-day Is the manhood of to-morrow, The childhood of to-day Is the manhood of yesterday."] In brief, the child is father of the man and brother of the race. In all ages, and with every people, the arcana of life and death, the mysteries of birth, childhood, puberty, adolescence, maidenhood, womanhood, manhood, motherhood, fatherhood, have called forth the profoundest thought and speculation. From the contemplation of these strange phenomena sprang the esoteric doctrines of Egypt and the East, with their horrible accompaniments of vice and depravity; the same thoughts, low and terrible, hovered before the devotees of Moloch and Cybele, when Carthage sent her innocent boys to the furnace, a sacrifice to the king of gods, and Asia Minor offered up the virginity of her fairest daughters to the first-comer at the altars of the earth-mother. Purified and ennobled by long centuries of development and unfolding, the blossoming of such conceptions is seen in the great sacrifice which the Son of Man made for the children of men, and in the cardinal doctrine of the religion which he founded,--"Ye must be born again,"--the regeneration, which alone gave entrance into Paradise. The Golden Age of the past of which, through the long lapse of years, dreamers have dreamt and poets sung, and the Golden City, glimpses of whose glorious portal have flashed through the prayers and meditations of the rapt enthusiast, seem but one in their foundation, as the Eden of the world's beginning and the heaven that shall open to men's eyes, when time shall be no more, are but closely allied phases, nay, but one and the same phase, rather, of the world-old thought,--the ethnic might have been, the ought to be of all the ages. The imagined, retrospect childhood of the past is twin-born with the ideal, prospective childhood of the world to come. Here the savage and the philosopher, the child and the genius, meet; the wisdom of the first and of the last century of human existence is at one. Childhood is the mirror in which these reflections are cast,--the childhood of the race is depicted with the same colours as the childhood of the individual. We can read a larger thought into the words of Hartley Coleridge:-- "Oh what a wilderness were this sad world, If man were always man, and never child." Besides the anthropometric and psycho-physical investigations of the child carried on in the scientific laboratory with exact instruments and unexceptionable methods, there is another field of "Child-Study" well worthy our attention for the light it can shed upon some of the dark places in the wide expanse of pedagogical science and the art of education. Its laboratory of research has been the whole wide world, the experimenters and recorders the primitive peoples of all races and all centuries,--fathers and mothers whom the wonderland of parenthood encompassed and entranced; the subjects, the children of all the generations of mankind. The consideration of "The Child in Folk-Thought,"--what tribe upon tribe, age after age, has thought about, ascribed to, dreamt of, learned from, taught to, the child, the parent-lore of the human race, in its development through savagery and barbarism to civilization and culture,--can bring to the harvest of pedagogy many a golden sheaf. The works of Dr. Ploss, _Das kleine Kind_, _Das Kind_, and _Das Weib_, encyclopædic in character as the two last are, covering a vast field of research relating to the anatomy, physiology, hygiene, dietetics, and ceremonial treatment of child and mother, of girl and boy, all over the world, and forming a huge mine of information concerning child-birth, motherhood, sex-phenomena, and the like, have still left some aspects of the anthropology of childhood practically untouched. In English, the child has, as yet, found no chronicler and historian such as Ploss. The object of the present writer is to treat of the child from a point of view hitherto entirely neglected, to exhibit what the world owes to childhood and the motherhood and the fatherhood which it occasions, to indicate the position of the child in the march of civilization among the various races of men, and to estimate the influence which the child-idea and its accompaniments have had upon sociology, mythology, religion, language; for the touch of the child is upon them all, and the debt of humanity to the little children has not yet been told. They have figured in the world's history and its folk-lore as _magi_ and "medicine-men," as priests and oracle-keepers, as physicians and healers, as teachers and judges, as saints, heroes, discoverers, and inventors, as musicians and poets, actors and labourers in many fields of human activity, have been compared to the foolish and to the most wise, have been looked upon as fetiches and as gods, as the fit sacrifice to offended Heaven, and as the saviours and regenerators of mankind. The history of the child in human society and of the human ideas and institutions which have sprung from its consideration can have here only a beginning. This book is written in full sympathy with the thought expressed in the words of the Latin poet Juvenal: _Maxima debetur pueris reverentia_, and in the declaration of Jean Paul: "I love God and every little child." CHAPTER II. THE CHILD'S TRIBUTE TO THE MOTHER. A good mother is worth a hundred schoolmasters.--_English Proverb_. The first poet, the first priest, was the first mother. The first empire was a woman and her children.--_O. T. Mason_. When society, under the guidance of the "fathers of the church," went almost to destruction in the dark ages, it was the "mothers of the people" who saved it and set it going on the new right path. --_Zmigrodski_ (adapted). The story of civilization is the story of the mother. --_Zmigrodski_. One mother is more venerable than a thousand fathers. --_Laws of Manu_. If the world were put into one scale, and my mother into the other, the world would kick the beam.--_Lord Langdale_. _Names of the Mother_. In _A Song of Life_,--a book in which the topic of sex is treated with such delicate skill,--occurs this sentence: "The motherhood of mammalian life is the most sacred thing in physical existence" (120. 92), and Professor Drummond closes his _Lowell Institute Lectures on the Evolution of Man_ in the following words: "It is a fact to which too little significance has been given, that the whole work of organic nature culminates in the making of Mothers--that the animal series end with a group which even the naturalist has been forced to call the _Mammalia_. When the savage mother awoke to her first tenderness, a new creative hand was at work in the world" (36. 240). Said Henry Ward Beecher: "When God thought of Mother, he must have laughed with satisfaction, and framed it quickly,--so rich, so deep, so divine, so full of soul, power, and beauty, was the conception," and it was unto babes and sucklings that this wisdom was first revealed. From their lips first fell the sound which parents of later ages consecrated and preserved to all time. With motherhood came into the world song, religion, the thought of immortality itself; and the mother and the child, in the course of the ages, invented and preserved most of the arts and the graces of human life and human culture. In language, especially, the mother and the child have exercised a vast influence. In the names for "mother," the various races have recognized the debt they owe to her who is the "fashioner" of the child, its "nourisher" and its "nurse." An examination of the etymologies of the words for "mother" in all known languages is obviously impossible, for the last speakers and interpreters of many of the unwritten tongues of the earth are long since dead and gone. How primitive man--the first man of the race--called his mother, we can but surmise. Still, a number of interesting facts are known, and some of these follow. The word _mother_ is one of the oldest in the language; one of the very few words found among all the great branches of the widely scattered Aryan race, bearing witness, in ages far remote, before the Celt, the Teuton, the Hellene, the Latin, the Slav, and the Indo-Iranian were known, to the existence of the family, with the _mother_ occupying a high and honourable place, if not indeed the highest place of all. What the etymological meaning was, of the primitive Aryan word from which our _mother_ is descended, is uncertain. It seems, however, to be a noun derived, with the agent-suffix _-t-r_, from the root _ma_, "to measure." Skeat thinks the word meant originally "manager, regulator [of the household]," rejecting, as unsupported by sufficient evidence, a suggested interpretation as the "producer." Kluge, the German lexicographer, hesitates between the "apportioner, measurer," and the "former [of the embryo in the womb]." In the language of the Klamath Indians of Oregon, _p'gishap_, "mother," really signifies the "maker." The Karankawas of Texas called "mother," _kaninma_, the "suckler," from _kanin_, "the female breast." In Latin _mamma_, seems to signify "teat, breast," as well as "mother," but Skeat doubts whether there are not two distinct words here. In Finnish and some other primitive languages a similar resemblance or identity exists between the words for "breast" and "mother." In Lithuanian, _móte_--cognate with our _mother_--signifies "wife," and in the language of the Caddo Indians of Louisiana and Texas _sássin_ means both "wife" and "mother." The familiar "mother" of the New England farmer of the "Old Homestead" type, presents, perhaps, a relic of the same thought. The word _dame_, in older English, from being a title of respect for women--there is a close analogy in the history of _sire_--came to signify "mother." Chaucer translates the French of the _Romaunt of the Rose_, "Enfant qui craint ni père ni mère Ne pent que bien ne le comperre," by "For who that dredeth sire ne dame Shall it abie in bodie or name," and Shakespeare makes poor Caliban declare: "I never saw a woman, But only Sycorax, my dam." Nowadays, the word _dam_ is applied only to the female parent of animals, horses especially. The word, which is one with the honourable appellation _dame_, goes back to the Latin _domina_, "mistress, lady," the feminine of _dominus_, "lord, master." In not a few languages, the words for "father" and "mother" are derived from the same root, or one from the other, by simple phonetic change. Thus, in the Sandeh language of Central Africa, "mother" is _n-amu_, "father," _b-amu_; in the Cholona of South America, _pa_ is "father," _pa-n_, "mother"; in the PEntlate of British Columbia, "father" is _mãa_, "mother," _tãa_, while in the Songish _mãn_ is "father" and _tan_ "mother" (404. 143). Certain tongues have different words for "mother," according as it is a male or a female who speaks. Thus in the Okanak·ên, a Salish dialect of British Columbia, a man or a boy says for "mother," _sk'õi_, a woman or a girl, _tõm_; in Kalispelm the corresponding terms for "my mother" are _isk'õi_ and _intoop_. This distinction, however, seems not to be so common as in the case of "father." In a number of languages the words for "mother" are different when the latter is addressed and when she is spoken of or referred to. Thus in the Kwakiutl, Nootka, and Çatloltq, three British Columbia tongues, the two words for "mother" are respectively _ât_, _abóuk_; _ãt_, _abEmp_; _nikH_, _tãn_. It is to be noted, apparently, that the word used in address is very often simpler, more primitive, than the other. Even in English we find something similar in the use of _ma_ (or _mama_) and _mother_. In the Gothic alone, of all the great Teutonic dialects,--the language into which Bishop Wulfila translated the Scriptures in the fourth century,--the cognate equivalent of our English _mother_ does not appear. The Gothic term is _aithiei,_ evidently related to _atta,_ "father," and belonging to the great series of nursery words, of which our own _ma, mama,_ are typical examples. These are either relics of the first articulations of the child and the race, transmitted by hereditary adaptation from generation to generation, or are the coinages of mother and nurse in imitation of the cries of infancy. These simple words are legion in number and are found over the whole inhabited earth,--in the wigwam of the Redskin, in the tent of the nomad Bedouin, in the homes of cultured Europeans and Americans. Dr. Buschmann studied these "nature-sounds," as he called them, and found that they are chiefly variations and combinations of the syllables _ab, ap, am, an, ad, at, ba, pa, ma, na, da, ta,_ etc., and that in one language, not absolutely unrelated to another, the same sound will be used to denote the "mother" that in the second signifies "father," thus evidencing the applicability of these words, in the earliest stages of their existence, to either, or to both, of the parents of the child (166. 85). Pott, while remarking a wonderful resemblance in the names for parents all over the world, seeks to establish the rather doubtful thesis that there is a decided difference in the nature of the words for "father" and those for "mother," the former being "man-like, stronger," the latter "woman-like, mild" (517. 57). Some languages apparently do not possess a single specialized word for "mother." The Hawaiian, for example, calls "mother and the sisters of the mother" _makua wahine,_ "female parent," that being the nearest equivalent of our "mother," while in Tonga, as indeed with us to-day, sometimes the same term is applied to a real mother and to an adopted one (100. 389). In Japan, the paternal aunt and the maternal aunt are called "little mother." Similar terms and appellations are found in other primitive tongues. A somewhat extended discussion of names for "mother," and the questions connected with the subject, will be found in Westermarck (166. 85). Here also will be found notices of the names among various peoples for the nearest relatives of the mother and father. Incidentally it is worth noting that Westermarck controverts Professor Vambéry's opinion that the Turko-Tartar words for "mother," _ana_, _ene_, originally meant "nurse" or "woman" (from the root _an_, _en_), holding that exactly the reverse is the fact, "the terms for _mother_ being the primitive words." He is also inclined to think that the Aryan roots _pa_, "to protect, to nourish," and _ma_, "to fashion," came from _pa_, "father," and _ma_, "mother," and not _vice versâ_. Mr. Bridges, the missionary who has studied so well the Yahgans of Tierra del Fuego, states that "the names _imu_ and _dabi_--father and mother--have no meaning apart from their application, neither have any of their other very definite and ample list of terms for relatives, except the terms _macu_ [cf. _magu_, "parturition"] and _macipa_ [cf. _cipa_, "female"], son and daughter." This statement is, however, too sweeping perhaps (166. 88). According to Colonel Mallery, the Ute Indians indicate "mother" by placing the index finger in the mouth (497a. 479). Clark describes the common Indian sign as follows: "Bring partially curved and compressed right hand, and strike with two or three gentle taps right or left breast, and make sign for _female_; though in conversation the latter is seldom necessary. Deaf mutes make sign for _female_, and cross hands as in their sign for _baby_, and move them to front and upwards" (420. 262). Somewhat similar is the sign for "father": "Bring the compressed right hand, back nearly outwards, in front of right or left breast, tips of fingers few inches from it; move the hand, mostly by wrist action, and gently tap the breast with tips of fingers two or three times, then make sign for _male_. Some Indians tap right breast for 'father,' and left for 'mother.' Deaf-mutes make sign for _male_, and then holding hands fixed as in their sign for _baby_, but a little higher, move the hands to front and upwards" (420. 167). Interesting is the following statement of Mr. Codrington, the well-known missionary to the Melanesians:-- "In Mota the word used for 'mother' is the same that is used for the division [tribe?] _veve_, with a plural sign _ra veve_. And it is not that a man's kindred are so called after his mother, but that his mother is called his kindred, as if she were the representative of the division to which he belongs; as if he were not the child of a particular woman, but of the whole kindred for whom she brought him into the world." Moreover, at Mota, in like fashion, "the word for 'consort,' 'husband,' or 'wife,' is in a plural form _ra soai_, the word used for members of a body, or the component parts of a canoe" (25. 307-8). _Mother-Right_. Since the appearance of Bachofen's famous book on the matriarchate, "mother-right," that system of society in which the mother is paramount in the family and the line of inheritance passes through her, has received much attention from students of sociology and primitive history. Post thus defines the system of mother-right:-- "The matriarchate is a system of relationship according to which the child is related only to his mother and to the persons connected with him through the female line, while he is looked upon as not related to his father and the persons connected with him through the male line. According to this system, therefore, the narrowest family circle consists not, as with us to-day, of father, mother, and child, but of mother, mother's brother, and sister's child, whilst the father is completely wanting, and the mother's brother takes the father's place with the sister's children. The real father is not the father of his own children, but of his nephews and nieces, whilst the brother of his wife is looked upon as father to his children. The brothers and sisters of the mother form with her a social group, to which belong also the children of the sisters, the children of the daughters of the sisters, etc., but not the children of the brothers, the children of the sisters' sons, etc. With every husband the relationship ceases" (127. I. 13-14). The system of mother-right prevails widely over the whole globe; in some places, however, only in fragmentary condition. It is found amongst nearly all the native tribes of America; the peoples of Malaysia, Melanesia, Australia, Micronesia, and Polynesia, the Dravidian tribes of India; in Africa it is found in the eastern Sahara, the Soudan, the east and west coast, and in the centre of the continent, but not to the exclusion, altogether, of father-right, while in the north the intrusion of Europeans and the followers of Islam has tended to suppress it. Traces of its former existence are discovered among certain of the ancient tribes of Asia Minor, the old Egyptians, Arabs, Greeks, Romans, Teutons, the Aryans of India, the Chinese, Japanese, etc. Mother-right has been recognized by many sociologists as a system of family relationship, perhaps the most widespread, perhaps the most primitive of all. Dr. Brinton says:-- "The foundation of the gentile system, as of any other family life, is ... the mutual affection between kindred. In the primitive period this is especially between children of the same mother, not so much because of the doubt of paternity, as because physiologically and obviously, it is the mother in whom is formed, and from whom alone proceeds, the living being" (412. 47). Professor O. T. Mason, in the course of his interesting address on "Woman's Share in Primitive Culture," remarks (112. 10):-- "Such sociologists as Morgan and McLennan affirm that the primitive society had no family organization at all. They hypothecate a condition in which utter promiscuity prevailed. I see no necessity for this. There is some organization among insects. Birds mate and rear a little family. Many animals set up a kind of patriarchal horde. On the other hand, they err greatly who look among savages for such permanent home life as we enjoy. Marriages are in groups, children are the sons and daughters of these groups; divorces are common. The fathers of the children are not known, and if they were, they would have no authority on that account. The mother never changes her name, the children are named after her, or, at least, are not named after the father. The system of gentes prevails, each gens consisting of a hypothetical female ancestress, and all her descendants through females. These primitive men and women, having no other resort, hit upon this device to hold a band of kin together. Here was the first social tie on earth; the beginning of the state. The first empire was a woman and her children, regardless of paternity. This was the beginning of all the social bonds which unite us. Among our own Indians mother-right was nearly universal. Upon the death of a chief whose office was hereditary, he was succeeded, not by his son, but by the son of a sister, or an aunt, or a niece; all his property that was not buried with him fell to the same parties, could not descend to his children, since a child and the father belonged to different gentes." McLennan has discussed at some length the subject of kinship in ancient Greece (115. 193-246), and maintains that "the system of double kinship, which prevailed in the time of Homer, was preceded by a system of kinship through females only," referring to the cases of Lycaon, Tlepolemus, Helen, Arnaeus, Glaucus, and Sarpedon, besides the evidence in the _Orestes_ of Euripides, and the _Eumenides_ of Aeschylus. In the last, "the jury are equally divided on the plea [that Orestes was not of kin to his mother, Clytemnestra, whom he had killed, --"Do you call _me_ related by blood to my mother?"], and Orestes gains his cause by the casting vote of Athene." According to tradition, "in Greece, before the time of Cecrops, children always bore the name of their mothers," in marked contrast to tha state of affairs in Sparta, where, according to Philo, "the marriage tie was so loose that men lent their wives to one another, and cared little by whom children were begotten, provided they turned out strong and healthy." We have preserved for us, by Plutarch and others, some of the opinions of Greek philosophers on the relation of the father and the mother to the child. Plato is represented as calling "mind the conception, idea, model, and _father_; and matter the mother, _nurse_, or seat and region capable of births." Chrysippus is said to have stated: "The foetus is nourished in the womb like a plant; but, being born, is refrigerated and hardened by the air, and its spirit being changed it becomes an animal," a view which, as McLennan points out, "constitutes the mother the mere nurse of her child, just as a field is of the seed sown in it." The view of Apollo, which, in the council of the gods, influenced Athene to decide for Orestes, is this:-- "The bearer of the so-called offspring is not _the mother_ of it, but only the nurse of the newly conceived foetus. It is the male who is the author of its being; while she, as a stranger, for a stranger, preserves the young plant for those for whom the god has not blighted it in the bud. And I will show you a proof of this assertion; one _may_ become a father without a mother. There stands by a witness of this in the daughter of Olympian Zeus, who was not even nursed [much less engendered or begotten] in the darkness of the womb" (115. 211). "This is akin to the wild discussion in the misogynistic Middle Ages about the possibility of _lucina sine concubitu_. The most recent and most scholarly discussion of all questions involved in "mother-right" will be found people in the world; for it stands on record that the five companies (five hundred men) recruited from the Iroquois of New York and Canada during our civil war stood first on the list among all the recruits of our army for height, vigour, and corporeal symmetry" (412. 82). And it was this people too who produced Hiawatha, a philosophic legislator and reformer, worthy to rank with Solon and Lycurgus, and the founder of a great league whose object was to put an end to war, and unite all the nations in one bond of brotherhood and peace. Among the Choctaw-Muskogee tribes, women-chiefs were also known; the Yuchis, Chetimachas, had "Queens"; occasionally we find female rulers elsewhere in America, as among the Winnebagos, the Nah-ane, etc. Scattered examples of gynocracy are to be found in other parts of the world, and in their later development some of the Aryan races have been rather partial to women as monarchs, and striking instances of a like predilection are to be met with among the Semitic tribes,--Boadicea, Dido, Semiramis, Deborah are well-known cases in point, to say nothing of the Christian era and its more enlightened treatment of woman. The fate of women among those peoples and in those ages where extreme exaltation of the male has been the rule, is sketched by Letourneau in his chapter on _The Condition of Women_ (100. 173-185); the contrast between the Australians, to whom "woman is a domestic animal, useful for the purposes of genesic pleasure, for reproduction, and, in case of famine, for food," the Chinese, who can say "a newly-married woman ought to be merely as a shadow and as an echo in the house," the primitive Hindus, who forbade the wife to call her husband by name, but made her term him "master, lord," or even "god," and even some of our modern races in the eye of whose law women are still minors, and the Iroquois, is remarkable. Such great differences in the position and rights of women, existing through centuries, over wide areas of the globe, have made the study of comparative pedagogy a most important branch of human sociology. The mother as teacher has not been, and is not now, the same the world over. As men holding supreme power have been termed "father," women have in like manner been called "mother." The title of the queen-mother in Ashanti is _nana,_ "Grandmother" (438. 259), and to some of the Indian tribes of Canada Queen Victoria is the "Great White Mother," the "Great Mother across the Sea." In Ashanti the "rich, prosperous, and powerful" are termed _oman enna,_ "mothers of the tribe," and are expected to make suitably large offerings to the dead, else there will be no child born in the neglectful family for a certain period (438. 228). With the Romans, _mater_ and its derivative _matrona,_ came to be applied as titles of honour; and beside the rites of the _parentalia_ we find those of the _matronalia_ (492. 454). In the ancient Hebrew chronicles we find mention of Deborah, that "mother in Israel." With us, off whose tongues "the fathers," "forefathers," "ancestors" (hardly including ancestresses) and the like rolled so glibly, the "Pilgrim Fathers" were glorified long before the "Pilgrim Mothers," and hardly yet has the mother of the "father of his country" received the just remembrance and recognition belonging to her who bore so noble and so illustrious a son. By and by, however, it is to be hoped, we shall be free from the reproach cast upon us by Colonel Higginson, and wake up to the full consciousness that the great men of our land have had mothers, and proceed to re-write our biographical dictionaries and encyclopædias of life-history. In Latin _mater,_ as does _mother_ with us, possessed a wide extent of meaning, "mother, parent, producer, nurse, preparer, cause, origin, source," etc. _Mater omnium artium necessitas,_ "Necessity is the mother of invention," and similar phrases were in common use, as they are also in the languages of to-day. Connected with _mater_ is _materia,_ "matter,"--_mother_-stuff, perhaps,--and from it is derived _matrimonium,_ which testifies concerning primitive Roman sociology, in which the mother-idea must have been prominent, something we cannot say of our word _marriage,_ derived ultimately from the Latin _mas,_ "a male." Westermarck notes the Nicaraguans, Dyaks, Minahassers, Andaman Islanders, Pádam, Munda Kols, Santals, Moors of the Western Soudan, Tuaregs, Teda, among the more or less primitive peoples with whom woman is held in considerable respect, and sometimes, as among the Munda Kols, bears the proud title "mistress of the house" (166. 500, 501). As Havelock Ellis remarks, women have shown themselves the equals of men as rulers, and most beneficial results have flowed from their exercise of the great political wisdom, and adaptation to statecraft which seems to belong especially to the female sex. The household has been a training-school for women in the more extended spheres of human administrative society. _Alma Mater._ The college graduate fondly calls the institution from which he has obtained his degree _Alma Mater_, "nourishing, fostering, cherishing mother," and he is her _alumnus_ (foster-child, nourished one). For long years the family of the benign and gracious mother, whose wisdom was lavished upon her children, consisted of sons alone, but now, with the advent of "sweeter manners, purer laws," daughters have come to her also, and the _alumnae_, "the sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair," share in the best gifts their parent can bestow. To Earth also, the term _Alma Mater_ has been applied, and the great nourishing mother of all was indeed the first teacher of man, the first university of the race. _Alma, alumnus, alumna_, are all derived from _alo_, "I nourish, support." From the radical _al_, following various trains of thought, have come: _alesco_, "I grow up"; _coalesco_, "I grow together"; _adolesco_, "I grow up,"--whence _adolescent_, etc.; _obsolesco_, "I wear out"; _alimentum_, "food"; _alimonium_, "support"; _altor, altrix_, "nourisher"; _altus_, "high, deep" (literally, "grown"); _elementum_, "first principle," etc. Connected With _adolesco_ is _adultus_, whence our _adult_, with the radical of which the English word _old_ (_eld_) is cognate. From the root _al_, "to grow, to make to grow, to nourish," spring also the Latin words _prôles_, "offspring," _suboles_, "offspring, sprout," _indôles_, "inborn or native quality." _"Mother's Son."_ The familiar expression "every mother's son of us" finds kin in the Modern High German _Muttersohn, Mutterkind_, which, with the even more significant _Muttermensch_ (human being), takes us back to the days of "mother-right." Rather different, however, is the idea called up by the corresponding Middle Low German _modersone_, which means "bastard, illegitimate child." _Lore of Motherhood_ A synonym of _Muttermensch_ is _Mutterseele_, for soul and man once meant pretty much, the same. The curious expression _mutterseelenallein_, "quite alone; alone by one's self," is given a peculiar interpretation by Lippert, who sees in it a relic of the burial of the dead (soul) beneath the hearth, threshold, or floor of the house; "wessen Mutter im Hause ruht, der kann daheim immer nur mit seiner Mutterseele selbander allein sein." Or, perhaps, it goes back to the time when, as with the Seminoles of Florida, the babe was held over the mouth of the mother, whose death resulted from its birth, in order that her departing spirit might enter the new being. In German, the "mother-feeling" makes its influence felt in the nomenclature of the lower brute creation. As contrasted with our English female donkey (she-donkey), mare, ewe, ewe-lamb, sow, doe-hare (female hare), queen-bee, etc., we find _Mutteresel_, "mother-donkey "; _Mutterpferd_, "mother-horse"; _Mutterschaf_, "mother-sheep"; _Mutterlamm_, "mother lamb"; _Mutterschwein_, "mother swine"; _Mutterhase_, "mother-hare"; _Mutterbiene_, "mother-bee." Nor is this feeling absent from the names of plants and things inanimate. We have _Mutterbirke_, "birch"; _Mutterblume_, "seed-flower"; _Mutternelke_, "carnation"; _Mutternagelein_ (our "mother-clove"); _Mutterholz_. In English we have "mother of thyme," etc. In Japan a triple arrangement in the display of the flower-vase--a floral trinity--is termed _chichi_, "father"; _haha_, "mother"; _ten_, "heaven" (189. 74). In the nursery-lore of all peoples, as we can see from the fairy-tales and child-stories in our own and other languages, this attribution of motherhood to all things animate and inanimate is common, as it is in the folk-lore and mythology of the adult members of primitive races now existing. _Mother Poet._ The arts of poetry, music, dancing, according to classic mythology, were presided over by nine goddesses, or Muses, daughters of Mnemosyne, goddess of memory, "Muse-mother," as Mrs. Browning terms her. The history of woman as a poet has yet to be written, but to her in the early ages poetry owed much of its development and its beauty. Mr. Vance has remarked that "among many of the lowest races the only love-dances in vogue are those performed by the women" (545a. 4069). And Letourneau considers that "there are good grounds for supposing that women may have especially participated in the creation of the lyric of the erotic kind." Professor Mason, in the course of his remarks upon woman's labour in the world in all ages, says (112. 12):-- "The idea of a _maker_, or creator-of-all-things found no congenial soil in the minds of savage men, who manufactured nothing. But, as the first potters, weavers, house-builders were women, the idea of a divine creator as a moulder, designer, and architect originated with her, or was suggested by her. The three Fates, Clotho, who spins the thread of life; Lachesis, who fixes its prolongation; and Atropos, who cuts this thread with remorseless shears, are necessarily derived from woman's work. The mother-goddess of all peoples, culminating in the apotheosis of the Virgin Mary, is an idea, either originated by women, or devised to satisfy their spiritual cravings." And we have, besides the goddesses of all mythologies, personifying woman's devotion, beauty, love. What shall we say of that art, highest of all human accomplishments, in the exercise of which men have become almost as gods? The old Greeks called the singer [Greek: poiaetaes], "maker," and perhaps from woman the first poets learned how to worship in noble fashion that great _maker_ of all, whose poem is the universe. Religion and poetry have ever gone hand in hand; Plato was right when he said: "I am persuaded, somehow, that good poets are the inspired interpreters of the gods." Of song, as of religion, it may perhaps be said: _Dux foemina facti_. To the mother beside the cradle where lies her tender offspring, song is as natural as speech itself to man. Lullabies are found in every land; everywhere the joyous mother-heart bursts forth into song. The German proverb is significant: "Wer ein saugendes Kind hat, der hat eine singende Frau," and Fischer, a quaint poet of the sixteenth century, has beautifully expressed a like idea:-- "Wo Honig ist, da sammlen sieb die Fliegen, Wo Kinder sind, da singt man um die Wiegen." Ploss, in whose book is to be found a choice collection of lullabies from all over the globe, remarks: "The folk-poetry of all peoples is rich in songs whose texts and melodies the tender mother herself imagined and composed" (326. II. 128). The Countess Martinengo-Cesaresco devotes an interesting chapter of her _Essays in the Study of Folk-Song_ to the subject of lullabies. But not cradle-songs alone have sprung from woman's genius. The world over, dirges and funeral-laments have received their poetical form from the mother. As name-giver, too, in many lands, the mother exercised this side of her imaginative faculty. The mother and the child, from whom language received its chief inspiration, were also the callers forth of its choicest and most creative form. _Mother-Wit._ "An ounce o' mother-wit is worth a pound o' clergy," says the Scotch proverb, and the "mother-wit," _Muttergeist_ and _Mutterwitz_, that instructive common-sense, that saving light that make the genius and even the fool, in the midst of his folly, wise, appear in folk-lore and folk-speech everywhere. What the statistics of genius seem to show that great men owe to their mothers, no less than fools, is summed up by the folk-mind in the word _mother-wit_. Jean Paul says: "Die Mütter geben uns von Geiste Wãrme und die Vãter Licht," and Goethe, in a familiar passage in his _Autobiography_, declares:-- "Vom Vater hab'ich die Statur, Des Lebens ernstes Führen; Vom Mütterchen die Frobnatur, Und Lust zu fabulieren." Shakespeare makes Petruchio tell the shrewish Katherine that his "goodly speech" is "_extempore_ from my mother-wit," and Emerson calls "mother-wit," the "cure for false theology." Quite appropriately Spenser, in the _Faerie Queene_, speaks of "all that Nature by her mother-wit could frame in earth." It is worth noting that when the ancient Greeks came to name the soul, they personified it in Psyche, a beautiful female, and that the word for "soul" is feminine in many European languages. Among the Teton Indians, according to the Rev. J. Owen Dorsey, the following peculiar custom exists: "Prior to the naming of the infant is the ceremony of the transfer of character; should the infant be a boy, a brave and good-tempered man, chosen beforehand, takes the infant in his arms and breathes into his mouth, thereby communicating his own disposition to the infant, who will grow up to be a brave and good-natured man. It is thought that such an infant will not cry as much as infants that have not been thus favoured. Should the infant be a girl, it is put into the arms of a good woman, who breathes into its mouth" (433. 482). Here we have _father_-wit as well as _mother_-wit. _Mother-Tongue_. Where women have no voice whatever in public affairs, and are subordinated to the uttermost in social and family matters, little that is honourable and noble is named for them. In East Central Africa, a Yao woman, asked if the child she is carrying is a boy or a girl, frequently replies: "My child is of the sex that does not speak" (518. XLIII. 249), and with other peoples in higher stages of culture, the "silent woman" lingers yet. _Taceat mulier in ecclesiâ_ still rings in our ears to-day, as it has rung for untold centuries. Though the poet has said:-- "There is a sight all hearts beguiling-- A youthful mother to her infant smiling, Who, with spread arms and dancing feet, And cooing voice, returns its answer sweet," and mothers alone have understood the first babblings of humanity, they have waited long to be remembered in the worthiest name of the language they have taught their offspring. The term _mother-tongue_, although Middle English had "birthe-tonge," in the sense of native speech, is not old in our language; the _Century Dictionary_ gives no examples of its early use. Even immortal Shakespeare does not know it, for, in _King Richard II._, he makes Mowbray say:-- "The language I have learned these forty years (My native English) now must I forego." The German version of the passage has, however, _mein mütterliches Englisch_. Cowper, in the _Task_, does use "mother-tongue," in the connection following:-- "Praise enough To fill the ambition of a private man, That Chatham's language was his mother-tongue." _Mother-tongue_ has now become part and parcel of our common speech; a good word, and a noble one. In Modern High German, the corresponding _Mutterzunge_, found in Sebastian Franck (sixteenth century) has gradually given way to _Muttersprache_, a word whose history is full of interest. In Germany, as in Europe generally, the esteem in which Latin was held in the Middle Ages and the centuries immediately following them, forbade almost entirely the birth or extension of praiseworthy and endearing names for the speech of the common people of the country. So long as men spoke of "hiding the beauties of Latin in homely German words," and a Bacon could think of writing his chief work in Latin, in order that he might be remembered after his death, it were vain to expect aught else. Hence, it does not surprise us to learn that the word _Muttersprache_ is not many centuries old in German. Dr. Lübben, who has studied its history, says it is not to be found in Old High German or Middle High German (or Middle Low German), and does not appear even in Luther's works, though, judging from a certain passage in his _Table Talk_, it was perhaps known to him. It was only in the seventeenth century that the word became quite common. Weigand states that it was already in the _Dictionarium latino-germanicum_ (Zurich, 1556), and in Maaler's _Die Teutsch Spraach_ (Zurich, 1561), in which latter work (S. 262 a) we meet with the expressions _vernacula lingua_, _patrius sermo_, _landspraach_, _muoterliche spraach_, and _muoterspraach_ (S. 295 c). Opitz (1624) uses the word, and it is found in Schottel's _Teutsche Haupt-Sprache_ (Braunschweig, 1663). Apparently the earliest known citation is the Low German _modersprake_, found in the introduction of Dietrich Engelhus' (of Einbeck) _Deutsche Chronik_ (1424). Nowadays _Muttersprache_ is found everywhere in the German book-language, but Dr. Lübben, in 1881, declared that he had never heard it from the mouth of the Low German folk, with whom the word was always _lantsprake, gemene sprake_. Hence, although the word has been immortalized by Klaus Groth, the Low German Burns, in the first poem of his _Quickborn:_-- "Min Modersprak, so slicht un recht, Du ole frame Red! Wenn blot en Mund 'min Vader' seggt, So klingt mi't as en Bed," and by Johann Meyer, in his _Ditmarscher Gedichte:_-- "Vaderhus un Modersprak! Lat mi't nöm'n un lat mi't rop'n; Vaderhus, du belli Sted, Modersprak, da frame Red, Schönres klingt der Nix tohopen," it may be that _modersprak_ is not entirely a word of Low German origin; beautiful though it is, this dialect, so closely akin to our own English, did not directly give it birth. Nor do the corresponding terms in the other Teutonic dialects,--Dutch _moederspraak, moedertaal_, Swedish _modersmål_, etc.,--seem more original. The Romance languages, however, offer a clue. In French, _langue mère_ is a purely scientific term of recent origin, denoting the root-language of a number of dialects, or of a "family of speech," and does not appear as the equivalent of _Muttersprache_. The equivalents of the latter are: French, _langue maternelle_; Spanish, _lengua materna_; Italian, _lingua materna_, etc., all of which are modifications or imitations of a Low Latin _lingua materna_, or _lingua maternalis_. The Latin of the classic period seems not to have possessed this term, the locutions in use being _sermo noster, patrius sermo_, etc. The Greek had [Greek: _ae egchorios glossa ae idia glossa,_] etc. Direct translations are met with in the _moderlike sprake_ of Daniel von Soest, of Westphalia (sixteenth century), and the _muoterliche spraach_ of Maaler (1561). It is from an Italian- Latin source that Dr. Lübben supposes that the German prototypes of _modersprak_ and _Muttersprache_ arose. In the _Bôk der Byen_, a semi-Low German translation (fifteenth century) of the _Liber Apium_ of Thomas of Chantimpré, occurs the word _modertale_ in the passage "Christus sede to er [the Samaritan woman] mit sachte stemme in erre modertale." A municipal book of Treuenbrietzen informs us that in the year 1361 it was resolved to write in the _ydeoma maternale_--what the equivalent of this was in the common speech is not stated--and in the _Relatio_ of Hesso, we find the term _materna lingua_ (105 a). The various dialects have some variants of _Muttersprache_, and in Göttingen we meet with _moimen spraken_, where _moime_ (cognate with Modern High German _Muhme_, "aunt"), signifies "mother," and is a child-word. From the _mother-tongue_ to the _mother-land_ is but a step. As the speech she taught her babe bears the mother's name, so does also the land her toil won from the wilderness. _Mother-Land._ As we say in English most commonly "native city," so also we say "native land." Even Byron sings:-- "Adieu, adieu I my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; * * * * * My native land--good night!" and Fitz-Greene Halleck, in his patriotic poem "Marco Bozzaris," bids strike "For God, and your native land." Scott's far-famed lines:-- "Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said, This is my own, my native land!" and Smith's national hymn, "My country,'tis of thee," know no _mother-land_. In the great _Century Dictionary_, the only illustration cited of the use of the word _mother-land_ is a very recent one, from the _Century Magazine_ (vol. xxix. p. 507). Shakespeare, however, comes very near it, when, in _King John_ (V. ii.), he makes the Bastard speak of "your dear Mother-England," --but this is not quite "mother-land." In German, though, through the sterner influences which surrounded the Empire in its birth and reorganization, _Vaterland_ is now the word, _Mutterland_ was used by Kant, Wieland, Goethe, Herder, Uhland, etc. Lippert suggests an ingenious explanation of the origin of the terms _Mutterland_, _Vaterland_, as well as for the predominance of the latter and younger word. If, in primitive times, man alone could hold property,--women even and children were his chattels,--yet the development of agriculture and horticulture at the hands of woman created, as it were, a new species of property, property in land, the result of woman's toil and labour; and this new property, in days when "mother-right" prevailed, came to be called _Mutterland_, as it was essentially "mothers' land." But when men began to go forth to war, and to conquer and acquire land that was not "mothers' land," a new species of landed property,--the "land of the conquering father,"--came into existence (and with it a new theory of succession, "father-right"), and from that time forward "Vaterland" has extended its signification, until it has attained the meaning which it possesses in the German speech of to-day (492. 33, 36). The inhabitants of the British colonies scattered all over the world speak of Britain as the "mother country," "Mother England"; and R. H. Stoddard, the American poet, calls her "our Mother's Mother." The French of Canada term France over-sea "la mère patrie" (mother fatherland). Even Livy, the Roman historian, wrote _terra quam matrem appellamus_,--"the land we call mother,"--and Virgil speaks of Apollo's native Delos as _Delum maternum_. But for all this, the proud Roman called his native land, not after his mother, but after his father, _patria_; so also in corresponding terms the Greek, [Greek: _patris_], etc. But the latter remembered his mother also, as the word _metropolis_, which we have inherited, shows. [Greek: _Maetropolis_] had the meanings: "mother-state" (whence daughter-colonies went forth); "a chief city, a capital, metropolis; one's mother-city, or mother-country." In English, _metropolis_ has been associated with "mother-church," for a _metropolis_ or a _metropolitan_ city, was long one which was the seat of a bishopric. Among the ancient Greeks the Cretans were remarkable for saying not [Greek: _patris_] (father-land), but [Greek: _maetris_] (mother-land), by which name also the Messenians called their native land. Some light upon the loss of "mother-words" in ancient Greece may be shed from the legend which tells that when the question came whether the new town was to be named after Athene or Poseidon, all the women voted for the former, carrying the day by a single vote, whereupon Poseidon, in anger, sent a flood, and the men, determining to punish their wives, deprived them of the power of voting, and decided that thereafter children were not to be named after their mothers (115. 235). In Gothic, we meet with a curious term for "native land, home," _gabaurths_ (from _gabairan_ "to bear"), which signifies also "birth." As an exemplification of the idea in the Sophoclean phrase "all-nourishing earth," we find that at an earlier stage in the history of our own English tongue _erd_ (cognate with our _earth_) signified "native land," a remembrance of that view of savage and uncivilized peoples in which _earth, land_ are "native country," for these are, in the true sense of the term, _Landesleute, homines_. In the language of the Hervey Islands, in the South Pacific, "the place in which the placenta of an infant is buried is called the _ipukarea_, or _native soil_" (459. 26). Our English language seems still to prefer "native city, native town, native village," as well as "native land," "mother-city" usually signifying an older town from which younger ones have come forth. In German, though _Vaterstadt_ in analogy with _Vaterland_ seems to be the favorite, _Mutterstadt_ is not unknown. Besides _Mutterland_ and _Mutterstadt_, we find in German the following:-- _Mutterboden_, "mother-land." Used by the poet Uhland. _Muttergefilde_, "the fields of mother-earth." Used by Schlegel. _Muttergrund_, "the earth," as productive of all things. Used by Goethe. _Mutterhimmel_, "the sky above one's native land." Used by the poet Herder. _Mutterluft_, "the air of one's native land." _Mutterhaus_, "the source, origin of anything." Uhland even has:-- "Hier ist des Stromes Mutterhaus, Ich trink ihn frisch vom Stein heraus." More far-reaching, diviner than "mother-land," is "mother-earth." CHAPTER III. THE CHILD'S TRIBUTE TO THE MOTHER (_Continued_). To the child its mother should be as God.--_G. Stanley Hall_. A mother is the holiest thing alive.--_Coleridge_. God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offence into everlasting forgetfulness.--_Henry Ward Beecher_. When the social world was written in terms of mother-right, the religious world was expressed in terms of mother-god. There is nothing more charming than to see a mother with a child in her arms, and nothing more venerable than a mother among a number of her children.--_Goethe_. _Mother-Earth_. "Earth, Mother of all," is a world-wide goddess. Professor O.T. Mason, says: "The earth is the mother of all mankind. Out of her came they. Her traits, attributes, characteristics, they have so thoroughly inherited and imbibed, that, from any doctrinal point of view regarding the origin of the species, the earth may be said to have been created for men, and men to have been created out of the earth. By her nurture and tuition they grow up and flourish, and, folded in her bosom, they sleep the sleep of death. The idea of the earth-mother is in every cosmogony. Nothing is more beautiful in the range of mythology than the conception of Demeter with Persephone, impersonating the maternal earth, rejoicing in the perpetual return of her daughter in spring, and mourning over her departure in winter to Hades" (389 (1894). 140). Dr. D.G. Brinton writes in the same strain (409. 238): "Out of the earth rises life, to it it returns. She it is who guards all germs, nourishes all beings. The Aztecs painted her as a woman with countless breasts; the Peruvians called her '_Mama_ Allpa,' _mother_ Earth; in the Algonkin tongue, the words for earth, mother, father, are from the same root. _Homo, Adam, chamaigenes_, what do all these words mean but earth-born, the son of the soil, repeated in the poetic language of Attica in _anthropos_, he who springs up like a flower?" Mr. W. J. McGee, treating of "Earth the Home of Man," says (502. 28):-- "In like manner, mankind, offspring of Mother Earth, cradled and nursed through helpless infancy by things earthly, has been brought well towards maturity; and, like the individual man, he is repaying the debt unconsciously assumed at the birth of his kind, by transforming the face of nature, by making all things better than they were before, by aiding the good and destroying the bad among animals and plants, and by protecting the aging earth from the ravages of time and failing strength, even as the child protects his fleshly mother. Such are the relations of earth and man." The Roman babe had no right to live until the father lifted him up from "mother-earth" upon which he lay; at the baptism of the ancient Mexican child, the mother spoke thus: "Thou Sun, Father of all that live, and thou Earth, our Mother, take ye this child and guard it as your son" (529. 97); and among the Gypsies of northern Hungary, at a baptism, the oldest woman present takes the child out, and, digging a circular trench around the little one, whom she has placed upon the earth, utters the following words: "Like this Earth, be thou strong and great, may thy heart be free from care, be merry as a bird" (392 (1891). 20). All of these practices have their analogues in other parts of the globe. In another way, infanticide is connected with "mother-earth." In the book of the "Wisdom of Solomon" (xiv. 23) we read: "They slew their children in sacrifices." Infanticide--"murder most foul, as in the best it is, but this most foul, strange, and unnatural"--has been sheltered beneath the cloak of religion. The story is one of the darkest pages in the history of man. A priestly legend of the Khonds of India attributes to child-sacrifice a divine origin:-- "In the beginning was the Earth a formless mass of mud, and could not have borne the dwelling of man, or even his weight; in this liquid and ever-moving slime neither tree nor herb took root. Then God said: 'Spill human blood before my face!' And they sacrificed a child before Him. ... Falling upon the soil, the bloody drops stiffened and consolidated it." But too well have the Khonds obeyed the command: "And by the virtues of the blood shed, the seeds began to sprout, the plants to grow, the animals to propagate. And God commanded that the Earth should be watered with blood every new season, to keep her firm and solid. And this has been done by every generation that has preceded us." More than once "the mother, with her boys and girls, and perhaps even a little child in her arms, were immolated together,"--for sometimes the wretched children, instead of being immediately sacrificed, were allowed to live until they had offspring whose sad fate was determined ere their birth. In the work of Reclus may be read the fearful tale of the cult of "Pennou, the terrible earth-deity, the bride of the great Sun-God" (523. 315). In Tonga the paleness of the moon is explained by the following legend: Vatea (Day) and Tonga-iti (Night) each claimed the first-born of Papa (Earth) as his own child. After they had quarrelled a great deal, the infant was cut in two, and Vatea, the husband of Papa, "took the upper part as his share, and forthwith squeezed it into a ball and tossed it into the heavens, where it became the sun." But Tonga-iti, in sullen humour, let his half remain on the ground for a day or two. Afterward, however, "seeing the brightness of Vatea's half, he resolved to imitate his example by compressing his share into a ball, and tossing it into the dark sky during the absence of the sun in Avaiki, or netherworld." It became the moon, which is so pale by reason of "the blood having all drained out and decomposition having commenced," before Tonga-iti threw his half up into the sky (458. 45). With other primitive peoples, too, the gods were infanticidal, and many nations like those of Asia Minor, who offered up the virginity of their daughters upon the altars of their deities, hesitated not to slay upon their high places the first innocent pledges of motherhood. The earth-goddess appears again when the child enters upon manhood, for at Brahman marriages in India, the bridegroom still says to the bride, "I am the sky, thou art the earth, come let us marry" (421. 29). And last of all, when the ineluctable struggle of death is over, man returns to the "mother-earth"--dust to dust. One of the hymns of the Rig-Veda has these beautiful words, forming part of the funeral ceremonies of the old Hindus:-- "Approach thou now the lap of Earth, thy mother, The wide-extending Earth, the ever-kindly; A maiden soft as wool to him who comes with gifts, She shall protect thee from destruction's bosom. "Open thyself, O Earth, and press not heavily; Be easy of access and of approach to him, As mother with her robe her child, So do thou cover him, O Earth!" (421. 31). The study of the mortuary rites and customs of the primitive peoples of all ages of the world's history (548) reveals many instances of the belief that when men, "the common growth of mother-earth," at last rest their heads upon her lap, they do not wholly die, for the immortality of Earth is theirs. Whether they live again,--as little children are often fabled to do,--when Earth laughs with flowers of spring, or become incarnate in other members of the animate or inanimate creation, whose kinship with man and with God is an article of the great folk-creed, or, in the beautiful words of the burial service of the Episcopal Church, sleep "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection," all testifies that man is instinct with the life that throbs in the bosom of Earth, his Mother. As of old, the story ran that man grew into being from the dust, or sprang forth in god-like majesty, so, when death has come, he sinks to dust again, or triumphantly scales the lofty heights where dwell the immortal deities, and becomes "as one of them." With the idea of the earth-mother are connected the numerous myths of the origin of the first human beings from clay, mould, etc., their provenience from caves, holes in the ground, rocks and mountains, especially those in which the woman is said to have been created first (509. 110). Here belong also not a few ethnic names, for many primitive peoples have seen fit to call themselves "sons of the soil, _terrae filii_, _Landesleute_." Muller and Brinton have much to say of the American earth-goddesses, _Toci_, "our mother," and goddess of childbirth among the ancient Mexicans (509. 494); the Peruvian _Pachamama_, "mother-earth," the mother of men (509. 369); the "earth-mother" of the Caribs, who through earthquakes manifests her animation and cheerfulness to her children, the Indians, who forthwith imitate her in joyous dances (509. 221); the "mother-earth" of the Shawnees, of whom the Indian chief spoke, when he was bidden to regard General Harrison as "Father": "No, the sun yonder is my father, and the earth my mother; upon her bosom will I repose," etc. (509. 117). Among the earth-goddesses of ancient Greece and Rome are Demeter, Ceres, Tellus, Rhea, Terra, Ops, Cybele, Bona Dea, Bona Mater, Magna Mater, Gaea, Ge, whose attributes and ceremonies are described in the books of classical mythology. Many times they are termed "mother of the gods" and "mother of men"; Cybele is sometimes represented as a woman advanced in pregnancy or as a woman with many breasts; Rhea, or Cybele, as the hill-enthroned protectress of cities, was styled _Mater turrita_. The ancient Teutons had their _Hertha_, or _Erdemutter_, the _Nertha_ of Tacitus, and fragments of the primitive earth-worship linger yet among the folk of kindred stock. The Slavonic peoples had their "earth-mother" also. The ancient Indian Aryans worshipped Prithîvî-mâtar, "earth-mother," and Dyaus pitar, "sky-father," and in China, Yang, Sky, is regarded as the "father of all things," while Yu, Earth, is the "mother of all things." Among the ancient Egyptians the "earth-mother," the "parent of all things born," was Isis, the wife of the great Osiris. The natal ceremonies of the Indians of the Sia Pueblo have been described at great length by Mrs. Stevenson (538. 132-143). Before the mother is delivered of her child the priest repeats in a low tone the following prayer:-- "Here is the child's sand-bed. May the child have good thoughts and know its mother-earth, the giver of food. May it have good thoughts and grow from childhood to manhood. May the child be beautiful and happy. Here is the child's bed; may the child be beautiful and happy. Ashes man, let me make good medicine for the child. We will receive the child into our arms, that it may be happy and contented. May it grow from childhood to manhood. May it know its mother Ct'sêt [the first created woman], the Ko'pishtaia, and its mother-earth. May the child have good thoughts and grow from childhood to manhood. May it be beautiful and happy" (538. 134). On the fourth morning after the birth of the child, the doctress in attendance, "stooping until she almost sits on the ground, bares the child's head as she holds it toward the rising sun, and repeats a long prayer, and, addressing the child, she says: 'I bring you to see your Sun-father and Ko'pishtaia, that you may know them and they you'" (538. 141). _Mother-Mountain._ Though we are now accustomed, by reason of their grandeur and sublimity, to personify mountains as masculine, the old fable of Phædrus about the "mountain in labour, that brought forth a mouse,"--as Horace has it, _Montes laborabant et parturitur ridiculus mus_,--shows that another concept was not unknown to the ancients. The Armenians call Mount Ararat "Mother of the World" (500. 39), and the Spaniards speak of a chief range of mountains as _Sierra Madre_. In mining we meet with the "mother-lode," _veta, madre_, but, curiously enough, the main shaft is called in German _Vaterschacht_. We know that the Lapps and some other primitive peoples "transferred to stones the domestic relations of father, mother, and child," or regarded them as children of Mother-Earth (529. 64); "eggs of the earth" they are called in the magic songs of the Finns. In Suffolk, England, "conglomerate is called 'mother of stones,' under the idea that pebbles are born of it"; in Germany _Mutterstein_. And in litholatry, in various parts of the globe, we have ideas which spring from like conceptions. _Mother-Night._ Milton speaks of the "wide womb of uncreate night," and some of the ancient classical poets call _Nox_ "the mother of all things, of gods as well as men." "The Night is Mother of the Day," says Whittier, and the myth he revives is an old and wide-spread one. "Out of Night is born day, as a child comes forth from the womb of his mother," said the Greek and Roman of old. As Bachofen (6. 16, 219) remarks: "Das Mutterthum verbindet sich mit der Idee der den Tag aus sich gebierenden Nacht, wie das Vaterrecht dem Reiche des Lichts, dem von der Sonne mit der Mutter Nacht gezeugten Tage." Darkness, Night, Earth, Motherhood, seem all akin in the dim light of primitive philosophy. Yet night is not always figured as a woman. James Ferguson, the Scotch poet, tells us how "Auld Daddy Darkness creeps frae his hole, Black as a blackamoor, blin' as a mole," and holds dominion over earth till "Wee Davie Daylicht comes keekin' owre the hill" (230. 73). An old Anglo-Saxon name for Christinas was _modra-neht,_ "mother's night." _Mother-Dawn._ In Sanskrit mythology Ushas, "Dawn," is daughter of Heaven, and poetically she is represented as "a young wife awakening her children and giving them new strength for the toils of the new day." Sometimes she is termed _gavam ganitri,_ "the mother of the cows," which latter mythologists consider to be either "the clouds which pour water on the fields, or the bright mornings which, like cows, are supposed to step out one by one from the stable of the night" (510. 431). In an ancient Hindu hymn to Ushas we read:-- "She shines upon us like a young wife, rousing every living being to go to his work. When the fire had to be kindled by men, she made the light by striking down darkness. "She rose up, spreading far and wide, and moving everywhere. She grew in brightness, wearing her brilliant garment. The mother of the cows, the leader of the days, she shone gold-coloured, lovely to behold" (421. 29). This daughter of the sky was the "lengthener of life, the love of all, the giver of food, riches, blessings." According to Dr. Brinton, the Quiche Indians of Guatemala speak of Xmucane and Xpiyacoc as being "the great ancestress and the great ancestor" of all things. The former is called _r'atit zih, r'atit zak,_ "primal mother of the sun and light" (411. 119). _Mother-Days_. In Russia we meet with the days of the week as "mothers." Perhaps the most remarkable of these is "Mother Friday," a curious product of the mingling of Christian hagiology and Slavonic mythology, of St. Prascovia and the goddess Siwa. On the day sacred to her, "Mother Friday" wanders about the houses of the peasants, avenging herself on such as have been so rash as to sew, spin, weave, etc., on a Friday (520. 206). In a Wallachian tale appear three supernatural females,--the holy mothers Friday, Wednesday, and Sunday,--who assist the hero in his quest of the heroine, and in another Wallachian story they help a wife to find her lost husband. "Mother Sunday" is said "to rule the animal world, and can collect her subjects by playing on a magic flute. She is represented as exercising authority over both birds and beasts, and in a Slovak story she bestows on the hero a magic horse" (520. 211). In Bulgaria we even find mother-months, and Miss Garnett has given an account of the superstition of "Mother March" among the women of that country (61.I. 330). William Miller, the poet-laureate of the nursery, sings of _Lady Summer_:-- "Birdie, birdie, weet your whistle! Sing a sang to please the wean; Let it be o' Lady Summer Walking wi' her gallant train! Sing him how her gaucy mantle, Forest-green, trails ower the lea, Broider'd frae the dewy hem o't Wi' the field flowers to the knee! "How her foot's wi' daisies buskit, Kirtle o' the primrose hue, And her e'e sae like my laddie's, Glancing, laughing, loving blue! How we meet on hill and valley, Children sweet as fairest flowers, Buds and blossoms o' affection, Rosy wi' the sunny hours" (230. 161). _Mother-Sun_. In certain languages, as in Modern German, the word for "sun" is feminine, and in mythology the orb of day often appears as a woman. The German peasant was wont to address the sun and the moon familiarly as "Frau Sonne" and "Herr Mond," and in a Russian folk-song a fair maiden sings (520. 184):-- "My mother is the beauteous Sun, And my father, the bright Moon; My brothers are the many Stars, And my sisters the white Dawns." Jean Paul beautifully terms the sun "Sonne, du Mutterauge der Welt!" and Hölty sings: "Geh aus deinem Gezelt, Mutter des Tags hervor, und vergülde die wache Welt"; in another passage the last writer thus apostrophizes the sun: "Heil dir, Mutter des Lichts!" These terms "mother-eye of the world," "mother of day," "mother of light," find analogues in other tongues. The Andaman Islanders have their _chän-a bô-dô_, "mother-sun" (498. 96), and certain Indians of Brazil call the sun _coaraçy_, "mother of the day or earth." In their sacred language the Dakota Indians speak of the sun as "grandmother" and the moon as "grandfather." The Chiquito Indians "used to call the sun their mother, and, at every eclipse of the sun, they would shoot their arrows so as to wound it; they would let loose their dogs, who, they thought, went instantly to devour the moon" (100. 289). The Yuchi Indians called themselves "children of the sun." Dr. Gatschet tells us: "The Yuchis believe themselves to be the offspring of the sun, which they consider to be a female. According to one myth, a couple of human beings were born from her monthly efflux, and from, these the Yuchis afterward originated." Another myth of the same people says: "An unknown mysterious being once came down upon the earth and met people there who were the ancestors of the Yuchi Indians. To them this being (_Hi'ki_, or _Ka'la hi'ki_) taught many of the arts of life, and in matters of religion admonished them to call the sun their mother as a matter of worship" (389 (1893). 280). _Mother-Moon_. Shelley sings of "That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon," and in other languages besides Latin the word for moon is feminine, and the lunar deity a female, often associated with childbirth. The moon-goddesses of the Orient--Diana (Juno), Astarte, Anahita, etc.--preside over the beginnings of human life. Not a few primitive peoples have thought of the moon as mother. The ancient Peruvians worshipped _Mama-Quilla_, "mother-moon," and the Hurons regarded Ataensic, the mother or grandmother of Jouskeha, the sun, as the "creatress of earth and man," as well as the goddess of death and of the souls of the departed (509. 363). The Tarahumari Indians of the Sierra of Chihuahua, Mexico, call the sun _au-nau-ru-a-mi_, "high father," and the moon, _je-ru-a-mi_, "high mother." The Tupi Indians of Brazil term the moon _jacy_, "our mother," and the same name occurs in the Omagua and other members of this linguistic stock. The Muzo Indians believe that the sun is their father and the moon their mother (529. 95). Horace calls the moon _siderum regina_, and Apuleius, _regina coeli_, and Milton writes of "mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both." Froebel's verses, "The Little Girl and the Stars," are stated to be based upon the exclamation of the child when seeing two large stars close together in the heavens, "Father-Mother-Star," and a further instance of like nature is cited where the child applied the word "mother" to the moon. _Mother-Fire._ An ancient Greek philosopher, Heraclitus of Ephesus, taught that the world was created from fire, the omnipotent and omniscient essence, and with many savage and barbaric peoples fire-worship has nourished or still flourishes. The Indie Aryans of old produced fire by the method of the twirling stick, and in their symbolism "the turning stick, Pramanta, was the father of the god of fire; the immovable stick was the mother of the adorable and luminous Agni [fire]"--a concept far-reaching in its mystic and mythological relations (100. 564). According to Mr. Gushing the Zuñi Indians term fire the "Grandmother of Men." In their examination of the burial-places of the ancient Indian population of the Salado River Valley in Arizona, the Hemenway Exploring Expedition found that many children were buried near the kitchen hearths. Mr. Cushing offers the following explanation of this custom, which finds analogies in various parts of the world: "The matriarchal grandmother, or matron of the household deities, is the fire. It is considered the guardian, as it is also, being used for cooking, the principal 'source of life' of the family. The little children being considered unable to care for themselves, were placed, literally, under the protection of the family fire that their soul-life might be nourished, sustained, and increased" (501. 149). Boecler tells us that the Esthonian bride "consecrates her new home and hearth by an offering of money cast into the fire, or laid on the oven, for _Tule-ema_, [the] Fire Mother" (545. II. 285). In a Mongolian wedding-song there is an invocation of "Mother Ut, Queen of Fire," who is said to have come forth "when heaven and earth divided," and to have issued "from the footsteps of Mother-Earth." She is further said to have "a manly son, a beauteous daughter-in-law, bright daughters" (484. 38). _Mother-Water._ The poet Homer and the philosopher Thales of Miletus agreed in regarding water as the primal element, the original of all existences, and their theory has supporters among many primitive peoples. At the baptism festivals of their children, the ancient Mexicans recognized the goddess of the waters. At sunrise the midwife addressed the child, saying, among other things: "Be cleansed with thy mother, Chalchihuitlicue, the goddess of water." Then, placing her dripping finger upon the child's lips, she continued: "Take this, for on it thou must live, grow, become strong, and flourish. Through it we receive all our needs. Take it." And, again, "We are all in the hands of Chalchihuitlicue, our mother"; as she washed the child she uttered the formula: "Bad, whatever thou art, depart, vanish, for the child lives anew and is born again; it is once more cleansed, once more renewed through our mother Chalchihuitlicue." As she lifted the child up into the air, she prayed, "O Goddess, Mother of Water, fill this child with thy power and virtue" (326. I. 263). In their invocation for the restoration of the spirit to the body, the Nagualists,--a native American mystic sect,--of Mexico and Central America, make appeal to "Mother mine, whose robe is of precious gems," _i.e._ water, regarded as "the universal mother." The "robe of precious stones" refers to "the green or vegetable life" resembling the green of precious stones. Another of her names is the "Green Woman,"--a term drawn from "the greenness which follows moisture" (413. 52-54). The idea of water as the source of all things appears also in the cosmology of the Indie Aryans. In one of the Vedic hymns it is stated that water existed before even the gods came into being, and the Rig-veda tells us that "the waters contained a germ from which everything else sprang forth." This is plainly a myth of the motherhood of the waters, for in the Brâhmanas we are told that from the water arose an egg, from which came forth after a year Pragâpati, the creator (510. 248). Variants of this myth of the cosmic egg are found in other quarters of the globe. _Mother-Ocean._ The Chinchas of Peru looked upon the sea as the chief deity and the mother of all things, and the Peruvians worshipped _Mama-Cocha_, "mother sea" (509. 368), from which had come forth everything, even animals, giants, and the Indians themselves. Associated with _Mama-Cocha_ was the god _Vira-Cocha_, "sea-foam." In Peru water was revered everywhere,--rivers and canals, fountains and wells,--and many sacrifices were made to them, especially of certain sea-shells which were thought to be "daughters of the sea, the mother of all waters." The traditions of the Incas point to an origin from Lake Titicaca, and other tribes fabled their descent from fountains and streams (412. 204). Here belong, doubtless, some of the myths of the sea-born deities of classical mythology as well as those of the water-origin of the first of the human race, together with kindred conceits of other primitive peoples. In the Bengalese tale of "The Boy with the Moon on his Forehead," recorded by Day, the hero pleads: "O mother Ocean, please make way for me, or else I die" (426. 250), and passes on in safety. The poet Swinburne calls the sea "fair, white mother," "green-girdled mother," "great, sweet mother, mother and lover of men, the sea." _Mother-River._ According to Russian legend "the Dnieper, Volga, and Dvina used once to be living people. The Dnieper was a boy, and the Volga and Dvina his sisters." The Russians call their great river "Mother Volga," and it is said that, in the seventeenth century, a chief of the Don Cossacks, inflamed with wine, sacrificed to the mighty stream a Persian princess, accompanying his action with these words: "O Mother Volga, thou great River! much hast thou given me of gold and of silver, and of all good things; thou hast nursed me and nourished me, and covered me with glory and honor. But I have in no way shown thee my gratitude. Here is somewhat for thee; take it!" (520. 217-220). In the Mahábhárata, the great Sanskrit epic, King Sántanu is said to have walked by the side of the river one day, where "he met and fell in love with a beautiful girl, who told him that she was the river Ganges, and could only marry him on condition he never questioned her conduct. To this he, with a truly royal gallantry, agreed; and she bore him several children, all of whom she threw into the river as soon as they were born. At last she bore him a boy, Bhíshma; and her husband begged her to spare his life, whereupon she instantly changed into the river Ganges and flowed away" (258. 317). Similar folk-tales are to be met with in other parts of the world, and the list of water-sprites and river-goddesses is almost endless. Greater than "Mother Volga," is "Mother Ganges," to whom countless sacrifices have been made. In the language of the Caddo Indians, the Mississippi is called _báhat sássin_, "mother of rivers." _Mother-Plant._ The ancient Peruvians had their "Mother Maize," _Mama Cora_, which they worshipped with a sort of harvest-home having, as Andrew Lang points out, something in common with the children's last sheaf, in the north-country (English and Scotch) "kernaby," as well as with the "Demeter of the threshing-floor," of whom Theocritus speaks (484. 18). An interesting legend of the Indians of the Pueblos of Arizona and New Mexico is recorded by Muller (509. 60). Ages ago there dwelt on the green plains a beautiful woman, who refused all wooers, though they brought many precious gifts. It came to pass that the land was sore distressed by dearth and famine, and when the people appealed to the woman she gave them maize in plenty. One day, she lay asleep naked; a rain-drop falling upon her breast, she conceived and bore a son, from whom are descended the people who built the "Casas Grandes." Dr. Fewkes cites a like myth of the Hopi or Tusayan Indians in which appears _kó-kyan-wüq-ti_, "the spider woman," a character possessing certain attributes of the Earth-Mother. Speaking of certain ceremonies in which _Cá-li-ko_, the corn-goddess, figures, he calls attention to the fact that "in initiations an ear of corn is given to the novice as a symbolic representation of mother. The corn is the mother of all initiated persons of the tribe" (389 (1894). 48). Mr. Lummis also speaks of "Mother Corn" among the Pueblos Indians: "A flawless ear of pure white corn (type of fertility and motherhood) is decked out with a downy mass of snow-white feathers, and hung with ornaments of silver, coral, and the precious turquoise" (302. 72). Concerning the Pawnee Indians, Mr. Grinnell tells us that after the separation of the peoples, the boy (medicine-man) who was with the few who still remained at the place from which the others had departed, going their different ways, found in the sacred bundle--the Shekinah of the tribe--an ear of corn. To the people he said: "We are to live by this, this is our Mother." And from "Mother Corn" the Indians learned how to make bows and arrows. When these Indians separated into three bands (according to the legend), the boy broke off the nub of the ear and gave it to the Mandans, the big end he gave to the Pawnees, and the middle to the Rees. This is why, at the present time, the Pawnees have the best and largest corn, the Rees somewhat inferior, and the Mandans the shortest of all--since they planted the pieces originally given them (480 (1893). 125). The old Mexicans had in Cinteotl a corn-goddess and deity of fertility in whose honour even human sacrifices were made. She was looked upon as "the producer," especially of children, and sometimes represented with a child in her arms (509. 491). In India there is a regular cult of the holy basil (_Ocymum sanetum_), or _Tulasî_, as it is called, which appears to be a transformation of the goddess Lakshmî. It may be gathered for pious purposes only, and in so doing the following prayer is offered: "Mother _Tulasî_, be thou propitious. If I gather thee with care, be merciful unto me. O _Tulasî_, mother of the world, I beseech thee." This plant is worshipped as a deity,--the wife of Vishnu, whom the breaking of even a little twig grieves and torments,--and "the pious Hindus invoke the divine herb for the protection of every part of the body, for life and for death, and in every action of life; but above all, in its capacity of ensuring children to those who desire to have them." To him who thoughtlessly or wilfully pulls up the plant "no happiness, no health, no children." The _Tulasî_ opens the gates of heaven; hence on the breast of the pious dead is placed a leaf of basil, and the Hindu "who has religiously planted and cultivated the _Tulasî_, obtains the privilege of ascending to the palace of Vishnu, surrounded by ten millions of parents" (448. 244). In Denmark, there is a popular belief that in the elder (_Sambucus_) there lives a spirit or being known as the "elder-mother" (_hylde-moer_), or "elder-woman" (_hilde-qvinde_), and before elder-branches may be cut this petition is uttered: "Elder-mother, elder-mother, allow me to cut thy branches." In Lower Saxony the peasant repeats, on bended knees, with hands folded, three times the words: "Lady Elder, give me some of thy wood; then will I also give thee some of mine, when it grows in the forest" (448. 318-320). In Huntingdonshire, England, the belief in the "elder-mother" is found, and it is thought dangerous to pluck the flowers, while elder-wood, in a room, or used for a cradle, is apt to work evil for children. In some parts of England, it is believed that boys beaten with an elder stick will be retarded in their growth; in Sweden, women who are about to become mothers kiss the elder. In Germany, a somewhat similar personification of the juniper, "Frau Wachholder," exists. And here we come into touch with the dryads and forest-sprites of all ages, familiar to us in the myths of classic antiquity and the tales of the nursery (448. 396). In a Bengalese tale, the hero, on coming to a forest, cries: "O mother _kachiri_, please make way for me, or else I die," and the wood opens to let him pass through (426. 250). Perhaps the best and sweetest story of plant mythology under this head is Hans Christian Andersen's beautiful tale of "The Elder-Tree Mother,"--the Dryad whose name is Remembrance (393. 215). _Mother-Thumb._ Our word _thumb_ signifies literally "thick or big finger," and the same idea occurs in other languages. With not a few primitive peoples this thought takes another turn, and, as in the speech of the Karankawas, an extinct Indian tribe of Texas, "the _biggest_, or _thickest_ finger is called '_father_, _mother_, or _old_'" (456. 68). The Creek Indians of the Southeastern United States term the "thumb" _ingi itchki_, "the hand its mother," and a like meaning attaches to the Chickasaw _ilbak-ishke_, Hichiti _ilb-iki_, while the Muskogees call the "thumb," the "mother of fingers." It is worthy of note, that, in the Bakaïri language of Brazil, the thumb is called "father," and the little finger, "child," or "little one" (536. 406). In Samoa the "thumb" is named _lima-matua_, "forefather of the hand," and the "first finger" _lima-tama_, "child of the hand." In the Tshi language of Western Africa a finger is known as _ensah-tsia-abbah_, "little child of the hand," and in some other tongues of savage or barbaric peoples "fingers" are simply "children of the hand." Professor Culin in his notes of "Palmistry in China and Japan," says: "The thumb, called in Japanese, _oya-ubi_, 'parent-finger,' is for parents. The little finger, called in Japanese, _ko-ubi_, 'child-finger,' is for children; the index-finger is for uncle, aunt, and elder brother and elder sister. The third finger is for younger brother and younger sister" (423a). A short little finger indicates childlessness, and lines on the palm of the hand, below the little finger, children. There are very many nursery-games and rhymes of various sorts based upon the hand and fingers, and in not a few of these the thumb and fingers play the _rôle_ of mother and children. Froebel seized upon this thought to teach the child the idea of the family. His verses are well-known:-- "Das ist die Groszmama, Das ist der Groszpapa, Das ist der Vater, Das ist die Mutter, Das ist's kleine Kindchen ja; Seht die ganze Familie da. Das ist die Mutter lieb und gut, Das ist der Vater mit frohem Muth; Das ist der Bruder lang und grosz; Das ist die Schwester mit Puppchen im Schoosz; Und dies ist das Kindchen, noch klein und zart, Und dies die Familie von guter Art." Referring to Froebel's games, Elizabeth Harrison remarks:-- "In order that this activity, generally first noticed in the use of the hands, might be trained into right and ennobling habits, rather than be allowed to degenerate into wrong and often degrading ones, Froebel arranged his charming set of finger-games for the mother to teach her babe while he is yet in her arms; thus establishing the right activity before the wrong one can assert itself. In such little songs as the following:-- 'This is the mother, good and dear; This the father, with hearty cheer; This is the brother, stout and tall; This is the sister, who plays with her doll; And this is the baby, the pet of all. Behold the good family, great and small,' the child is led to personify his fingers and to regard them as a small but united family over which he has control." (257 a. 14). Miss Wiltse, who devotes a chapter of her little volume to "Finger-songs related to Family Life and the Imaginative Faculty," says:-- "The dawning consciousness of the child so turned to the family relations is surely better than the old nursery method of playing 'This little pig went to market'" (384. 45). And from the father and mother the step to God is easy. Dr. Brewer informs us that in the Greek and Roman Church the Trinity is symbolized by the thumb and first two fingers: "The thumb, being strong, represents the _Father_; the long, or second finger, _Jesus Christ_; and the first finger, the _Holy Ghost_, which proceedeth from the Father and the Son" (_Dict. of Phrase and Fable_, P. 299). _Mother-God_. The "Motherhood of God" is an expression that still sounds somewhat strangely to our ears. We have come to speak readily enough of the "Fatherhood of God" and the "Brotherhood of Man," but only a still small voice has whispered of the "Motherhood of God" and the "Sisterhood of Woman." Yet there have been in the world, as, indeed, there are now, multitudes to whom the idea of Heaven without a mother is as blank as that of the home without her who makes it. If over the human babe bends the human mother who is its divinity,-- "The infant lies in blessed ease Upon his mother's breast; No storm, no dark, the baby sees Invade his heaven of rest. He nothing knows of change or death-- Her face his holy skies; The air he breathes, his mother's breath-- His stars, his mother's eyes,"-- so over the infant-race must bend the All-Mother, _das Ewigweibliche._ Perhaps the greatest service that the Roman Catholic Church has rendered to mankind is the prominence given in its cult of the Virgin Mary to the mother-side of Deity. In the race's final concept of God, the embodiment of all that is pure and holy, there must surely be some overshadowing of a mother's tender love. With the "Father-Heart" of the Almighty must be linked the "Mother-Soul." To some extent, at least, we may expect a harking back to the standpoint of the Buddhist Kalmuck, whose child is taught to pray: "O God, who art my father and my mother." In all ages and over the whole world peoples of culture less than ours have had their "mother-gods," all the embodiments of motherhood, the joy of the _Magnificat_, the sacrosanct expression of the poet's truth:-- "Close to the mysteries of God art thou, My brooding mother-heart," the recognition of that outlasting secret hope and love, of which the Gospel writer told in the simple words: "Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother," and faith in which was strong in the Mesopotamians of old, who prayed to the goddess Istar, "May thy heart be appeased as the heart of a mother who has borne children." The world is at its best when the last, holiest appeal is _ad matrem_. Professor O.T. Mason has eloquently stated the debt of the world's religions to motherhood (112. 12):--"The mother-goddess of all peoples, culminating in the apotheosis of the Virgin Mary, is an idea either originated by women, or devised to satisfy their spiritual cravings. So we may go through the pantheons of all peoples, finding counterparts of Rhea, mother-earth, goddess of fertility; Hera, queen of harvests, feeder of mankind; Hestia, goddess of the hearth and home, of families and states, giving life and warmth; Aphrodite, the beautiful, patron of romantic love and personal charms; Hera, sovereign lady, divine caciquess, embodiment of queenly dignity; Pallas Athene, ideal image of that central inspiring force that we learn at our mother's knee, and that shone in eternal splendour; Isis, the goddess of widowhood, sending forth her son Horus, to avenge the death of his father, Osiris; as moon-goddess, keeping alive the light until the sun rises again to bless the world." _The All-Mother._ In Polynesian mythology we find, dwelling in the lowest depths of Avaiki (the interior of the universe), the "Great Mother,"--the originator of all things, _Vari-ma-te-takere_, "the very beginning,"--and her pet child, Tu-metua, "Stick by the parent," her last offspring, inseparable from her. All of her children were born of pieces of flesh which she plucked off her own body; the first-born was the man-fish Vatea, "father of gods and men," whose one eye is the sun, the other the moon; the fifth child was Raka, to whom his mother gave the winds in a basket, and "the children of Raka are the numerous winds and storms which distress mankind. To each child is allotted a hole at the edge of the horizon, through which he blows at pleasure." In the songs the gods are termed "the children of Vatea," and the ocean is sometimes called "the sea of Vatea." Mr. Gill tells us that "the Great Mother approximates nearest to the dignity of creator"; and, curiously enough, the word _Vari_, "beginning," signifies, on the island of Rarotonga, "mud," showing that "these people imagined that once the world was a 'chaos of mud,' out of which some mighty unseen agent, whom they called _Vari_, evolved the present order of things" (458. 3, 21). Another "All-Mother" is she of whom our own poets have sung, "Nature," the source and sustainer of all. _Mother-Nature_. "So übt Natur die Mutterpflicht," sang the poet Schiller, and "Mother Nature" is the key-word of those modern poets who, in their mystic philosophy, consciously or unconsciously, revive the old mythologies. With primitive peoples the being, growing power of the universe was easily conceived as feminine and as motherly. Nature is the "great parent," the "gracious mother," of us all. In "Mother Nature," woman, the creator of the earliest arts of man, is recognized and personified, and in a wider sense even than the poet dreamt of: "One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin." Pindar declared that "gods and men are sons of the same mother," and with many savage and barbaric tribes, gods, men, animals, and all other objects, animate and inanimate, are akin(388.210). As Professor Robertson Smith has said: "The same lack of any sharp distinction between the nature of different kinds of visible beings appears in the old myths in which all kinds of objects, animate and inanimate, organic and inorganic, appear as cognate with one another, with men, and with the gods" (535.85). Mr. Hartland, speaking of this stage of thought, says: "Sun and moon, the wind and the waters, perform all the functions of living beings; they speak, they eat, they marry and have children" (258.26). The same idea is brought out by Count D'Alviella: "The highest point of development that polytheism could reach, is found in the conception of a monarchy or divine family, embracing all terrestrial beings, and even the whole universe" (388.211). Mr. Frank Cushing attributes like beliefs in the kinship of all existences to the Zuni Indians (388.66), and Mr. im Thurn to the Indians of Guiana (388.99). This feeling of kinship to all that is, is beautifully expressed in the words of the dying Greek Klepht: "Do not say that I am dead, but say that I am married in the sorrowful, strange countries, that I have taken the flat stone for a mother-in-law, the black earth for my wife, and the little pebbles for brothers-in-law." (Lady Verney, _Essays_, II. 39.) In the Trinity of Upper Egypt the second person was Mut, "Mother Nature." the others being Armin, the chief god, and their son, Khuns. Among the Slavs, according to Mone, Ziwa is a nature-goddess, and the Wends regard her as "many-breasted Mother Nature," the producing and nourishing power of the earth. Her consort is Zibog, the god of life (125. II. 23). Curiously reminiscent of the same train of ideas which has given to the _moderson_ of Low German the signification of "bastard," is our own equivalent term "natural son." Poets and orators have not failed to appeal to "Mother Nature" and to sing her panegyrics, but there is perhaps nothing more sweet and noble than the words of Elizabeth Cady Stanton: "Nature, like a loving mother, is ever trying to keep land and sea, mountain and valley, each in its place, to hush the angry winds and waves, balance the extremes of heat and cold, of rain and drought, that peace, harmony, and beauty may reign supreme," and the verses of Longfellow:-- "And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying, 'Here is a story-book Thy Father has--written for thee. "'Come wander with me,' she said, 'Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread, In the manuscripts of God.' "And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him, night and day, The rhymes of the universe. "And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail, She--would sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvellous tale." Through the long centuries Nature has been the mother, nurse, and teacher of man. _Other Mother-Goddesses_. Among other "mother-goddesses" of ancient Italy we find _Maia Mater_, _Flora Mater_, both deities of growth and reproduction; _Lua Mater_, "the loosing mother," a goddess of death; _Acca Larentia_, the mother of the Lares (_Acca_ perhaps = _Atta_, a child-word for mother, as Lippert suggests); _Mater matuta_, "mother of the dawn," a goddess of child-birth, worshipped especially by married women, and to whom there was erected a temple at Cære. The mother-goddesses of Germany are quite numerous. Among those minor ones cited by Grimm and Simrock, are: Haulemutter, Mutter Holle, the Klagemütter or Klagemuhmen, Pudelmutter (a name applied to the goddess Berchta), Etelmutter, Kornmutter, Roggenmutter, Mutterkorn, and the interesting Buschgroszmutter, "bush grandmother," as the "Queen of the Wood-Folk" is called. Here the mother-feeling has been so strong as to grant to even the devil a mother and a grandmother, who figure in many proverbs and folk-locutions. When the question is asked a Mecklenburger, concerning a social gathering: "Who was there?" he may answer: "The devil and his mother (_möm_)"; when a whirlwind occurs, the saying is: "The Devil is dancing with his grandmother." In China the position of woman is very low, and, as Mr. Douglas points out: "It is only when a woman becomes a mother that she receives the respect which is by right due to her, and then the inferiority of her sex disappears before the requirements of filial love, which is the crown and glory of China" (434. 125). In Chinese cosmogony and mythology motherhood finds recognition. Besides the great Earth-Mother, we meet with Se-wang-moo, the "Western Royal Mother," a goddess of fairy-land, and the "Mother of Lightning," thunder being considered the "father and teacher of all living beings." Lieh-tze, a philosopher of the fifth century B.C., taught: "My body is not my own; I am merely an inhabitant of it for the time being, and shall resign it when I return to the 'Abyss Mother'" (434. 222, 225, 277). In the Flowery Kingdom there is also a sect "who worship the goddess Pity, in the form of a woman holding a child in her arms." Among the deities and semi-deities of the Andaman Islanders are _chän·a·ê·lewadi_, the "mother of the race,"--Mother E·lewadi; _chän·a·erep_, _chän·a·châ·riâ_, _chän·a·te·liu_, _chän·a·li·mi_, _chän·a·jär·a·ngûd_, all inventors and discoverers of foods and the arts. In the religious system of the Andaman Islanders, _Pû·luga-_, the Supreme Being, by whom were created "the world and all objects, animate and inanimate, excepting only the powers of evil," and of whom it is said, "though his appearance is like fire, yet he is (nowadays) invisible," is "believed to live in a large stone house in the sky with a wife whom he created for himself; she is green in appearance, and has two names, _chän·a·àu·lola_ (Mother Freshwater Shrimp) and _chän·a·pâ·lak-_--(Mother Eel); by her he has a large family, all except the eldest being girls; these last, known as _mô·ro-win--_ (sky-spirits or angels), are said to be black in appearance, and, with their mother, amuse themselves from time to time by throwing fish and prawns into the streams and sea for the use of the inhabitants of the world" (498. 90). With these people also the first woman was _chän·a·ê·lewadi_ (Mother E-lewadi), the ancestress of the present race of natives. She was drowned, while canoeing, and "became a small crab of a description still named after her _ê·lewadi_" (498. 96): Quite frequently we find that primitive peoples have ascribed the origin of the arts or of the good things of life to women whom they have canonized as saints or apotheosized into deities. We may close our consideration of motherhood and what it has given the world with the apt words of Zmigrodzki:-- "The history of the civilization (Kulturgeschichte) of our race, is, so to speak, _the history of the mother-influence_. Our ideas of morality, justice, order, all these are simply _mother-ideas_. The mother began our culture in that epoch in which, like the man, she was _autodidactic_. In the epoch of the Church Fathers, the highly educated mother saved our civilization and gave it a new turn, and only the highly educated mother will save us out of the moral corruption of our age. Taken individually also, we can mark the ennobling, elevating influence which educated mothers have exercised over our great men. Let us strive as much as possible to have highly accomplished mothers, wives, friends, and then the wounds which we receive in the struggle for life will not bleed as they do now" (174. 367). The history of civilization is the story of the mother, a story that stales not with repetition. Richter, in his _Levana_, makes eloquent appeal:-- "Never, never has one forgotten his pure, right-educating mother! On the blue mountains of our dim childhood, towards which we ever turn and look, stand the mothers who marked out for us from thence our life; the most blessed age must be forgotten ere we can forget the warmest heart. You wish, O woman, to be ardently loved, and forever, even till death. Be, then, the mothers of your children." Tennyson in _The Foresters_ uses these beautiful words: "Every man for the sake of the great blessed Mother in heaven, and for the love of his own little mother on earth, should handle all womankind gently, and hold them in all honour." Herein lies the whole philosophy of life. The ancient Germans were right, who, as Tacitus tells us, saw in woman _sanctum aliquid et providum_, as indeed the Modern German _Weib_ (cognate with our _wife_) also declares, the original signification of the word being "the animated, the inspirited." CHAPTER IV. THE CHILD'S TRIBUTE TO THE FATHER. If the paternal cottage still shuts us in, its roof still screens us; and with a father, we have as yet a prophet, priest, and king, and an obedience that makes us free.--_Carlyle_. To you your father should be as a god.--_Shakespeare_. Our Father, who art in Heaven.--_Jesus_. Father of all! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.--_Pope_. _Names of the Father._ _Father_, like _mother_, is a very old word, and goes back, with the cognate terms in Italic, Hellenic, Teutonic, Celtic, Slavonic, and Indo-Aryan speech, to the primitive Indo-European language, and, like _mother_, it is of uncertain etymology. An English preacher of the twelfth century sought to derive the word from the Anglo-Saxon _fédan_, "to feed," making the "father" to be the "feeder" or "nourisher," and some more modern attempts at explanation are hardly better. This etymology, however incorrect, as it certainly is, in English, does find analogies in the tongues of primitive peoples. In the language of the Klamath Indians, of Oregon, the word for "father" is _t'shishap_ (in the Modoc dialect, _p'tishap_), meaning "feeder, nourisher," from a radical _tshi_, which signifies "to give somebody liquid food (as milk, water)." Whether there is any real connection between our word _pap_,--with its cognates in other languages,--which signifies "food for infants," as well as "teat, breast," and the child-word _papa_, "father," is doubtful, and the same may be said of the attempt to find a relation between _teat, tit_, etc., and the widespread child-words for "father," _tat_, _dad_. Wedgewood (Introd. to _Dictionary_), however, maintained that: "Words formed of the simplest articulations, _ma_ and _pa_, are used to designate the objects in which the infant takes the earliest interest,--the mother, the father, the mother's breast, the act of taking or sucking food." Tylor also points out how, in the language of children of to-day, we may find a key to the origin of a mass of words for "father, mother, grandmother, aunt, child, breast, toy, doll," etc. From the limited supply of material at the disposal of the early speakers of a language, we can readily understand how the same sound had to serve for the connotation of different ideas; this is why "_mama_ means in one tongue _mother_, in another _father_, in a third, _uncle_; _dada_ in one language _father_, in a second _nurse_, in another _breast_; _tata_ in one language _father_, in another _son_," etc. The primitive Indo-European _p-tr_, Skeat takes to be formed, with the agent-suffix _tr_, from the radical _pâ_, "to protect, to guard,"--the father having been originally looked upon as the "protector," or "guarder." Max Müller, who offers the same derivation, remarks: "The father, as begetter, was called in Sanskrit _ganitár_, as protector and supporter of his posterity, however, _pitár_. For this reason, in the Veda both names together are used in order to give the complete idea of 'father.' In like manner, _mâtar_, 'mother,' is joined with _ganit_, 'genetrix,' and this shows that the word _mâtar_ must have soon lost its etymological signification and come to be a term, of respect and caress. With the oldest Indo-Europeans, _mâtar_ meant 'maker,' from _mâ_, 'to form.'" Kluge, however, seems to reject the interpretation "protector, defender," and to see in the word a derivative from the "nature-sound" _pa_. So also Westermarck (166. 86-94). In Gothic, presumably the oldest of the Teutonic dialects, the most common word for "father" is _atta_, still seen in the name of the far-famed leader of the Huns, _Attila_, i.e. "little father," and in the _ätti_ of modern Swiss dialects. To the same root attach themselves Sanskrit _atta_, "mother, elder sister"; Ossetic _ädda_, "little father (Väterchen)"; Greek _årra_, Latin _atta_, "father"; Old Slavonic _otí-ci_, "little father"; Old Irish _aite_, "foster-father." _Atta_ belongs to the category of "nature-words" or "nursery-words" of which our _dad_ (_daddy_) is also a member. Another member is the widespread _papa, pa._ Our word _papa_, Skeat thinks, is borrowed, through the French, from Latin _papa_, found as a Roman cognomen. This goes back in all probability to ancient Greek, for, in the Odyssey (vi. 57), Nausicaa addresses her father as [Greek: pappa phile], "dear _papa_." The Papa of German is also borrowed from French, and, according to Kluge, did not secure a firm, place in the language until comparatively late in the eighteenth century. In some of the Semitic languages the word for "father" signifies "maker," and the same thing occurs elsewhere among primitive people (166. 91). As with "mother," so with "father"; in many languages a man (or a boy) does not employ the same term as a woman (or a girl). In the Haida, Okanak'en, and Kootenay, all Indian languages of British Columbia, the words used by males and by females are, respectively: _kun, qat; lEe'u, mistm; tito, so._ In many languages the word for "father," as is also the case with "mother," is different when the parent is addressed from that used when he is spoken of or referred to. In the Tsimshian, Kwakiutl, Nootka, Ntlakyapamuq, four Indian languages of British Columbia, the words for "father" when addressed, are respectively _a'bo, ats, no'we, pap,_ and for "father" in other cases, _nEgua'at, au'mp, nuwe'k'so, ska'tsa._ Here, again, it will be noticed that the words used in address seem shorter and more primitive in character. In the Chinantee language of Mexico, _nuh_ signifies at the same time "father" and "man." In Gothic _aba_ means both "father" and "husband" (492. 33). Here belongs also perhaps the familiar "father" with which the New England housewife was wont to address her husband. With many peoples the name "father" is applied to others than the male parent of the child. The following remarks of McLennan, regarding the Tamil and Telugu of India, will stand for not a few other primitive tribes: "All the brothers of a father are usually called fathers, but, in strictness, those who are older than the father are called _great fathers_, and those who are younger, _little fathers_. With the Puharies, all the brothers of a father are equally fathers to his children." In Hawaii, the term "male parent" "applied equally to the father, to the uncles, and even to distant relations." In Japan, the paternal uncle is called "little father" and the maternal uncle "second little father" (100. 389, 391). A lengthy discussion of these terms, with a wealth of illustration from many primitive languages, will be found in Westermarck (166. 86-94). _Father-Right_. Of the Roman family it has been said: "It was a community comprising men and things. The members were maintained by adoption as well as by consanguinity. The father was before all things the chief, the general administrator. He was called father even when he had no son; paternity was a question of law, not one of persons. The heir is no more than the continuing line of the deceased person; he was heir in spite of himself for the honour of the defunct, for the lares, the hearth, the manes, and the hereditary sepulchre" (100. 423). In ancient Rome the _paterfamilias_ and the _patina potestas_ are seen in their extreme types. Letourneau remarks further: "Absolute master, both of things and of people, the paterfamilias had the right to kill his wife and to sell his sons. Priest and king in turn, it was he who represented the family in their domestic worship; and when, after his death, he was laid by the side of his ancestors in the common tomb, he was deified, and helped to swell the number of the household gods" (100. 433). Post thus defines the system of "father-right":-- "In the system of 'father-right' the child is related only to the father and to the persons connected with him through the male line, but not with his mother and the persons connected with him through the female line. The narrowest group organized according to father-right consists of the father and his children. The mother, for the most part, appears in the condition of a slave to the husband. To the patriarchal family in the wider sense belong the children of the sons of the father, but not the children of his daughters; the brothers and sisters of the same father, but not those merely related to the same mother; the children of the brother of the same father, but not the children of the sisters of the same father, etc. With every wife the relationship ceases every time" (127. I. 24). The system of father-right is found scattered over the whole globe. It is found among the Indo-European peoples (Aryans of Asia, Germans, Slavs, Celts, Romans), the Mongol-Tartar tribes, Chinese, Japanese, and some of the Semitic nations; in northern Africa and scattered through the western part of the continent, among the Kaffirs and Hottentots; among some tribes in Australia and Polynesia and the two Americas (the culture races). The position of the father among those peoples with whom strict mother-right prevails is thus sketched by Zmigrodski (174.206):-- "The only certain thing was motherhood and the maternal side of the family,--mother, daughter, granddaughter, that was the fixed stem continuing with certainty. Father, son, grandson, were only the leaves, which existed only until the autumnal wind of death tore them away, to hurl them into the abyss of oblivion. In that epoch no one said, 'I am the son of such a father and the grandson of such a grandfather,' but 'I am the son of such a mother and the grandson of such a grandmother.' The inheritance went not to the son and grandson, but to the daughter and to the granddaughter, and the sons received a dowry as do the daughters in our society of to-day. In marriage the woman did not assume the name of the man, but _vice versa._ The husband of a woman, although the father of her children, was considered not so near a relative of them as the wife's brother, their uncle." Dr. Brinton says, concerning mother-right among the Indians of North America (412. 48):-- "Her children looked upon her as their parent, but esteemed their father as no relation whatever. An unusually kind and intelligent Kolosch Indian was chided by a missionary for allowing his father to suffer for food. 'Let him go to his own people,' replied the Kolosch, 'they should look after him.' He did not regard a man as in any way related or bound to his paternal parent." In a certain Polynesian mythological tale, the hero is a young man, "the name of whose father had never been told by his mother," and this has many modern parallels (115. 97). On the Gold Coast of West Africa there is a proverb, "Wise is the son that knows his own father" (127.1. 24), a saying found elsewhere in the world,--indeed, we have it also in English, and Shakespeare presents but another view of it when he tells us: "It is a wise father that knows his own child." In many myths and folk-and fairy-tales of all peoples the discovery by the child of its parent forms the climax, or at least one of the chief features of the plot; and we have also those stories which tell how parents have been killed unwittingly by their own children, or children have been slain unawares by their parents. _Father-King_. In his interesting study of "Royalty and Divinity" (75), Dr. von Held has pointed out many resemblances between the primitive concepts "King" and "God." Both, it would seem, stand in close connection with "Father." To quote from Dr. von Held: "Fathership (Vaterschaft, _patriarcha_), lordship (Herrentum), and kingship (Konigtum) are, therefore (like _rex_ and [Greek: _Basileus_]), ideas not only linguistically, but, to even a greater degree really, cognate, having altogether very close relationship to the word and idea 'God.' Of necessity they involve the existence and idea of a people, and therefore are related not only to the world of faith, but also to that of intellect and of material things." The Emperor of China is the "father and mother of the empire," his millions of subjects being his "children"; and the ancient Romans had no nobler title for their emperor than _pater patrice_, the "father of his country," an appellation bestowed in these later days upon the immortal first President of the United States. In the Yajnavalkya, one of the old Sanskrit law-books, the king is bidden to be "towards servants and subjects as a father" (75. 122), and even Mirabeau and Gregoire, in the first months of the States-General, termed the king "le pere de tous les Franqais," while Louis XII. and Henry IV. of France, as well as Christian III. of Denmark, had given to them the title "father of the people." The name _pater patrice_ was not borne by the Caesars alone, for the Roman Senate conferred the title upon Cicero, and offered it to Marius, who refused to accept it. "Father of his Country" was the appellation of Cosmo de' Medici, and the Genoese inscribed the same title upon the base of the statue erected to Andrea Doria. One of the later Byzantine Emperors, Andronicus Palæologus, even went so far as to assume this honoured title. Nor has the name "Father of the People" been confined to kings, for it has been given also to Gabriel du Pineau, a French lawyer of the seventeenth century. The "divinity that doth hedge a king" and the fatherhood of the sovereign reach their acme in Peru, where the Inca was king, father, even god, and the halo of "divine right" has not ceased even yet to encircle the brows of the absolute monarchs of Europe and the East. _Landesvater_ (Vater des Volkes) is the proudest designation of the German Kaiser. "Little Father" is alike the literal meaning of _Attila_, the name of the far-famed leader of the "Huns," in the dark ages of Europe, and of _batyushka_, the affectionate term by which the peasant of Russia speaks of the Czar. _Nana_, "Grandfather," is the title of the king of Ashanti in Africa, and "Sire" was long in France and England a respectful form of address to the monarch. Some of the aboriginal tribes of America have conferred upon the President of the United States the name of the "Great Father at Washington," the "Great White Father," and "Father" was a term they were wont to apply to governors, generals, and other great men of the whites with whom they came into contact. The father as head of the family is the basis of the idea of "father-king." This is seen among the Matchlapis, a Kaffir tribe, where "those who own a sufficient number of cattle to maintain a family have the right to the title of chief"; this resembles the institution of the _pater familias_ in ancient Latium (100. 459,533). Dr. von Held thus expresses himself upon this point: "The first, and one may say also the last, naturally necessary society of man is the family in the manifold forms out of which it has been historically developed. Its beginning and its apex are, under given culture-conditions, the man who founds it, the father. What first brought man experientially to creation as a work of love was fatherhood. This view is not altered by the fact that the father, in order to preserve, or, what is the same, to continue to produce, to bring up, must command, force, punish. If the family depends on no higher right, it yet appears as the first state, and then the father appears not only as father, but also as king" (75. 119). The occurrence to-day of "King" as a surname takes us back to a time when the head of the family enjoyed the proud title, which the Romans conferred upon Cæsar Augustus, _Pater et Princeps_, the natural development from Ovid's _virque paterque gregis_. The Romans called their senators _patres_, and we now speak of the "city fathers," aldermen, _elder_men, in older English, and the "fathers" of many a primitive people are its rulers and legislators. The term "father" we apply also to those who were monarchs and chiefs in realms of human activity other than that of politics. Following in the footsteps of the Latins, who spoke of Zeno as _Pater stoicorum_, of Herodotus as _Pater historioe_, and even of the host of an inn as _Pater cenoe_, we speak of "fathering" an idea, a plot, and the like, and denominate "father," the pioneer scientists, inventors, sages, poets, chroniclers of the race. From _pater_ the Romans derived _patrimonium_, patrimony, "what was inherited from the father," an interesting contrast to _matrimonium_; _patronus_, "patron, defender, master of slaves"; _patria_ (_terra_), "fatherland,"--Ovid uses _paterna terra_, and Horace speaks of _paternum flumen_; _patricius_, "of fatherly dignity, high-born, patrician," etc. Word after word in the classic tongues speaks of the exalted position of the father, and many of these have come into our own language through the influence of the peoples of the Mediterranean. _Father-Priest_. Said Henry Ward Beecher: "Look at home, father-priest, mother-priest; your church is a hundred-fold heavier responsibility than mine can be. Your priesthood is from God's own hands." The priesthood of the father is widespread. Mr. Gomme tells us: "Certainly among the Hindus, the Greeks, the Romans, and, so late down as Tacitus, the Germans, the house-father was priest and judge in his own clan" (461.104). Max Müller speaks to the same effect: "If we trace religion back to the family, the father or head of the family is _ipso facto_ the priest. When families grew into clans, and clans into tribes and confederacies, a necessity would arise of delegating to some heads of families the performance of duties which, from having been the spontaneous acts of individuals, had become the traditional acts of families and clans" (510.183). Africa, Asia, America, furnish us abundant evidence of this. Our own language testifies to it also. We speak of the "Fathers of the Church,"--_patres_, as they were called,--and the term "Father" is applied to an ecclesiastic of the Roman Catholic Church, just as in the Romance languages of Europe the descendants of the Latin _pater_ (French _pere_, Spanish _padre_, Italian _padre_, etc.) are used to denote the same personage. In Russian an endearing term for "priest" is _batyushka_, "father dear"; the word for a village-priest, sometimes used disrespectfully, is _pop_. This latter name is identical with the title of the head of the great Catholic Church, the "Holy Father," at Rome, viz. _papa_, signifying literally "papa, father," given in the early days of Latin Christianity, and the source of our word _Pope_ and its cognates in the various tongues of modern Europe. The head of an abbey we call an _abbot_, a name coming, through the Church-Latin _abbas_, from the Syriac _abba_, "father"; here again recurs the correlation of priest and father. It is interesting to note that both the words _papa_ and _abba_, which we have just discussed, and which are of such importance in the history of religion, are child-words for "father," bearing evidence of the lasting influence of the child in this sphere of human activity. Among the ancient Romans we find a _pater patratus_, whose duty it was to ratify treaties with the proper religious rites. Dr. von Held is of opinion that, "in the case of a special priesthood, it is not so much the character of its members as spiritual fathers, as their calling of servants of God, of servants of a Father-God, which causes them to be termed fathers, papas" (75. 120). _Father-God_. Shakespeare has aptly said, in the words which Theseus addresses to the fair Hermia:-- "To you your father should be as a god; One that composed your beauties, yea, and one To whom you are but as a form in wax, By him imprinted, and within his power To leave the figure or disfigure it," and widespread indeed, in the childhood of the race, has been the belief in the Fatherhood of God. Concerning the first parents of human kind the ancient Hebrew Scripture declares: "And God created man in His own image," and long centuries afterwards, in his memorable oration to the wise men of Athens upon Mars' Hill, the Apostle Paul quoted with approval the words of the Greek poet, Cleanthes, who had said: "For we are all His off-spring." Epictetus, appealing to a master on behalf of his slaves, asked: "Wilt thou not remember over whom thou rulest, that they are thy relations, thy brethren by nature, the offspring of Zeus?" (388.210). At the battle of Kadshu, Rameses II., of Egypt, abandoned by his soldiers, as a last appeal, exclaimed: "I will call upon thee, O my father Amon!" (388. 209). Many prophets and preachers have there been who taught to men the doctrine of "God, the Father," but last and best of all was the "Son of Man," the Christ, who taught his disciples the world-heard prayer: "Our Father, who art in Heaven," who pro-claimed that "in my Father's house are many mansions," and whose words in the agony of Gethsemane were: "Abba, Father, all things are possible unto Thee; remove this cup from me: howbeit not what I will, but what Thou wilt." Between the Buddhist Kalmucks, with whom the newly married couple reverently utter these words: "I incline myself this first time to my Lord God, who is my father and my mother" (518. I. 423), and the deistic philosophers of to-day there is a vast gulf, as there is also between the idea of Deity among the Cakchiquel Indians of Guatemala, where the words for God _alom_ and _achalom_ signify respectively "begetter of children," and "begetter of sons," and the modern Christian concept of God, the Father, with His only begotten Son, the Saviour of the world. The society of the gods of human creation has everywhere been modelled upon that of man. He was right who said Olympus was a Greek city and Zeus a Greek father. According to D'Alviella: "The highest point of development that polytheism could reach is found in the conception of a monarchy or divine family, embracing all terrestrial beings, and even the whole universe. The divine monarch or father, however, might still be no more than the first among his peers. For the supreme god to become the Only God, he must rise above all beings, superhuman as well as human, not only in his power, but in his very nature" (388. 211). Though the mythology of our Teutonic forefathers knew of the "All-Father,"--the holy Odin,--it is from those children-loving people, the Hebrews, that our Christian conception of "God the Father," with some modifications, is derived. As Professor Robertson Smith has pointed out, among the Semites we find the idea of the tribal god as father strongly developed: "But in heathen religions the fatherhood of the gods is a physical fatherhood. Among the Greeks, for example, the idea that the gods fashioned men out of clay, as potters fashion images, is relatively modern. The older conception is that the races of men have gods for their ancestors, or are the children of the earth, the common mother of gods and men, so that men are really of the same stock or kin of the gods. That the same conception was familiar to the older Semites appears from the Bible. Jeremiah describes idolaters as saying to a stock, Thou art my father; and to a stone, Thou hast brought me forth. In the ancient poem, Num. xxi. 29, the Moabites are called the sons and daughters of Chemosh, and, at a much more recent date, the prophet Malachi calls a heathen woman, 'the daughter of a strange god'" (535. 41-43). Professor Smith cites also the evidence furnished by genealogies and personal names: "The father of Solomon's ally, Hiram, King of Tyre, was called _Abibaal_, 'my father is Baal'; Ben-Hadad, of Damascus, is 'the son of the god Hadad'; in Aramæan we find names like _Barlâhâ_, 'son of God,' _Barba'shmîn_, 'son of the Lord of Heaven,' _Barate_, 'son of Ate,' etc." We have also that passage in Genesis which tells how the "sons of God saw the daughters of men that were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose" (vi. 2), while an echo of the same thought dwells with the Polynesians, who term illegitimate children _tamarika na te Atua_, "children of the gods" (458. 121). D'Alviella further remarks: "Presently these family relations of the gods were extended till they embraced the whole creation, and especially mankind. The confusion between the terms for creating and begetting, which still maintained itself in half-developed languages, must have led to a spontaneous fusion of the ideas of creator and father." But there is another aspect of this question. Of the Amazulu Callaway writes: "Speaking generally, the head of each house is worshipped by the children of that house; for they do not know the ancients who are dead, nor their laud-giving names, nor their names. But their father whom they knew is the head by whom they begin and end in their prayer, for they know him best, and his love for his children; they remember his kindness to them whilst he was living; they compare his treatment of them whilst he was living, support themselves by it, and say, 'He will treat us in the same way now he is dead. We do not know why he should regard others beside us; he will regard us only.'" Of these people it is true, as they themselves say: "Our father is a great treasure to us, even when he is dead" (417.144). Here we pass over to ancestor worship, seen at its height in China, whose great sage, Confucius, taught: "The great object of marriage is to beget children, and especially sons, who may perform the required sacrifices at the tombs of their parents" (434. 126). In this connection, the following passage from Max Müller is of interest: "How religious ideas could spring from the perception of something infinite or immortal in our parents, grandparents, and ancestors, we can see even at the present day. Among the Zulus, for instance, _Unkulunkulu_ or _Ukulukulu_, which means the great-great-grandfather, has become the name of God. It is true that each family has its own _Unkulunkulu,_ and that his name varies accordingly. But there is also an _Unkulunkulu_ of all men (_unkulunladu wabantu bonke_), and he comes very near to being a father of all men. Here also we can watch a very natural process of reasoning. A son would look upon his father as his progenitor; he would remember his father's father, possibly his father's grandfather. But beyond that his own experience could hardly go, and therefore the father of his own great-grandfather, of whom he might have heard, but whom he had never seen, would naturally assume the character of a distant unknown being; and, if the human mind ascended still further, it would almost by necessity be driven to a father of all fathers, that is to a creator of mankind, if not of the world" (510. 156). Again we reach the "Father" of Pope's "Universal Prayer"-- "Father of all! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord," having started from the same thought as the Hebrews in the infancy of their race. An Eastern legend of the child Abraham has crystallized the idea. It is said that one morning, while with his mother in the cave in which they were hiding from Nimrod, he asked his mother, "Who is my God?" and she replied, "It is I." "And who is thy God?" he inquired farther. "Thy father" (547.69). Hence also we derive the declaration of Du Vair, "Nous devons tenir nos pères comme des dieux en terre," and the statement of another French writer, of whom Westermarck says: "Bodin wrote, in the later part of the sixteenth century, that, though the monarch commands his subjects, the master his disciples, the captain his soldiers, there is none to whom nature has given any command except the father, 'who is the true image of the great sovereign God, universal father of all things'" (166. 238). _Father-Sky._ "Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky," sang the poet Herbert, unconsciously renewing an ancient myth. As many cosmologies tell, Day and Dawn were born of the embraces of Earth and Sky. Ushas, Eos, Aurora, is the daughter of heaven, and one story of the birth is contained in the Maori myth of Papa and Rangi. Ushas, Max Muller tells us, "has two parents, heaven and earth, whose lap she fills with light" (510. 431). From Rangi, "Father-Sky," and Papa, "Mother-Earth," say the Maoris of New Zealand, sprang all living things; and, in like manner, the Chinese consider the Sky or Heaven,--Yang, the masculine, procreative, active element,--to be the "father of all things," while the Earth,--Yu, the feminine, conceiving, passive element,--is the "mother of all things." From the union of these two everything in existence has arisen, and consequently resembles the one or the other (529. 107). Among the primitive Aryans, the Sky, or Heaven God, was called "Father," as shown by the Sanskrit _Dyaus Pitâr_, Greek _Zeus Patær_, Latin _Jupiter_, all of which names signify "sky father." Dyaus is also called _janitâr_, "producer, father," and Zeus, the "eternal father of men," the "father of gods and men, the ruler and preserver of the world." In the Vedic hymns are invocations of Dyaus (Sky), as "our Father," and of Prithivi (Earth), as "our Mother" (388. 210). Dyaus symbolizes the "bright sky"; from the same primitive Indo-European root come the Latin words _dies_ (day), _deus_ or _divus_ (god); the dark sombre vault of heaven is Varuna, the Greek [Greek: _Ouranós_], Latin _Uranus_. Other instances of the bridal of earth and sky,--of "mother earth," and "father sky,"--are found among the tribes of the Baltic, the Lapps, the Finns (who have Ukko, "Father Heaven," Akka, "Mother Earth"), and other more barbaric peoples. In Ashanti, the new deity, which the introduction of Christianity has added to the native pantheon, is called _Nana Nyankupon_, "Grandfather-sky" (438. 24). The shaman of the Buryats of Alarsk prays to "Father Heaven"; in the Altai Mountains the prayer is to "Father Yulgen, thrice exalted, Whom the edge of the moon's axe shuns, Who uses the hoof of the horse. Thou, Yulgen, hast created all men, Who are stirring round about us, Thou, Yulgen, hast endowed us with all cattle; Let us not fall into sorrow! Grant that we may resist the evil one!" (504. 70, 77). We too have recollections of that "Father-Sky," whom our far-off ancestors adored, the bright, glad, cheerful sky, the "ancestor of all." Max Müller has summed up the facts of our inheritance in brief terms:-- "Remember that this _Dyaush Pitar_ is the same as the Greek [Greek: _Zeus Patær_], and the Latin _Jupiter_, and you will see how this one word shows us the easy, the natural, the almost inevitable transition from the conception of the active sky as a purely physical fact, to the _Father-Sky_ with all his mythological accidents, and lastly to that Father in heaven whom Æschylus meant when he burst out in his majestic prayer to Zeus, _whosoever he is_" (510. 410). Unnumbered centuries have passed, but the "witchery of the soft blue sky" has still firm hold upon the race, and we are, as of old, children of "our Father, who art in Heaven." _Father-Sea._ Montesinos tells us that Viracocha, "sea-foam," the Peruvian god of the sea, was regarded as the source of all life and the origin of all things,--world-tiller, world-animator, he was called (509. 316). Xenophanes of Kolophon, a Greek philosopher of the sixth century B.C., taught that "the mighty sea is the father of clouds and winds and rivers." In Greek mythology Oceanus is said to be the father of the principal rivers of earth. Neptune, the god of the sea,--"Father Neptune," he is sometimes called,--had his analogue in a deity whom the Libyans looked upon as "the first and greatest of the gods." To Neptune, as the "Father of Streams," the Romans erected a temple in the Campus Martius and held games and feasts in his honour. The sea was also spoken of as _pater aequoreus_. _Father-River._ The name "Father of Waters" is assigned, incorrectly perhaps, to certain American Indian languages, as an appellation of the Mississippi. From Macaulay's "Lay of Horatius," we all know "O Tiber, Father Tiber, To whom the Romans pray," and "Father Thames" is a favourite epithet of the great English river. _Father-Frost._ In our English nursery-lore the frost is personified as a mischievous boy, "Jack Frost," to whose pranks its vagaries are due. In old Norse mythology we read of the terrible "Frost Giants," offspring of Ymir, born of the ice of Niflheim, which the warmth exhaled from the sun-lit land of Muspelheim caused to drop off into the great Ginnunga-gap, the void that once was where earth is now. In his "Frost Spirit" Whittier has preserved something of the ancient grimness. We speak commonly of the "Frost-King," whose fetters bind the earth in winter. In Russia the frost is called "Father Frost," and is personified as a white old man, or "a mighty smith who forges strong chains with which to bind the earth and the waters," and on Christmas Eve "the oldest man in each family takes a spoonful of kissel (a sort of pudding), and then, having put his head through the window, cries: 'Frost, Frost, come and eat kissel! Frost, Frost, do not kill our oats! Drive our flax and hemp deep into the ground'" (520.223-230). Quite different is the idea contained in Grimm's tale of "Old Mother Frost,"--the old woman, the shaking of whose bed in the making causes the feathers to fly, and "then it snows on earth." _Father Fire_. Fire has received worship and apotheosis in many parts of the globe. The Muskogee Indians of the southeastern United States "gave to fire the highest Indian title of honour, _grandfather_, and their priests were called 'fire-makers'" (529. 68). The ancient Aztecs called the god of fire "the oldest of the gods, _Huehueteotl_, and also 'our Father,' _Tota_, as it was believed that from him all things were derived." He was supposed "to govern the generative proclivities and the sexual relations," and he was sometimes called _Xiuhtecutli_, "'God of the Green Leaf,' that is, of vegetable fecundity and productiveness." He was worshipped as "the life-giver, the active generator of animate existence,"--the "primal element and the immediate source of life" (413). These old Americans were in accord with the philosopher, Heraclitus of Ephesus, who held that "fire is the element, and all things were produced in exchange for fire"; and Heraclitus, in the fragments in which he speaks of "God," the "one wise," that which "knows all things," means "Fire." In the rites of the Nagualists occurs a "baptism by fire," which was "celebrated on the fourth day after the birth of the child, during which time it was deemed essential to keep the fire burning in the house, but not to permit any of it to be carried out, as that would bring bad luck to the child," and, in the work of one of the Spanish priests, a protest is made: "Nor must the lying-in women and their assistants be permitted to speak of Fire as the father and mother of all things, and the author of nature; because it is a common saying with them that Fire is present at the birth and death of every creature." It appears also that the Indians who followed this strange cult were wont to speak of "what the Fire said and how the Fire wept" (413. 45-46). Among various other peoples, fire is regarded as auspicious to children; its sacred character is widely recognized. In the Zend-Avesta, the Bible of the ancient Persians, whose religion survives in the cult of the Parsees, now chiefly resident in Bombay and its environs, we read of Ahura-Mazda, the "Wise Lord," the "Father of the pure world," the "best thing of all, the source of light for the world." Purest and most sacred of all created things was fire, light (421. 32). In the Sar Dar, one of the Parsee sacred books, the people are bidden to "keep a continual fire in the house during a woman's pregnancy, and, after the child is born, to burn a lamp [or, better, a fire] for three nights and days, so that the demons and fiends may not be able to do any damage and harm." It is said that when Zoroaster, the founder of the ancient religion of Persia, was born, "a demon came at the head of a hundred and fifty other demons, every night for three nights, to slay him, but they were put to flight by seeing the fire, and were consequently unable to hurt him" (258. 96). In ancient Rome, among the Lithuanians on the shores of the Baltic, in Ireland, in England, Denmark, Germany, "while a child remained unbaptized," it was, or is, necessary "to burn a light in the chamber." And in the island of Lewis, off the northwestern coast of Scotland, "fire used to be carried round women before they were churched, and children before they were christened, both night and morning; and this was held effectual to preserve both mother and infant from evil spirits, and (in the case of the infant) from being changed." In the Gypsy mountain villages of Upper Hungary, during the baptism of a child, the women kindle in the hut a little fire, over which the mother with the baptized infant must step, in order that milk may not fail her while the child is being suckled (392. II. 21). In the East Indies, the mother with her new-born child is made to pass between two fires. Somewhat similar customs are known to have existed in northern and western Europe; in Ireland and Scotland especially, where children were made to pass through or leap over the fire. To Moloch ("King"), their god of fire, the Phoenicians used to sacrifice the first-born of their noblest families. A later development of this cult seems to have consisted in making the child pass between two fires, or over or through a fire. This "baptism of fire" or "purification by fire," was in practice among the ancient Aztecs of Mexico. To the second water-baptism was added the fire-baptism, in which the child was drawn through the fire four times (509. 653). Among the Tarahumari Indians of the Mexican Sierra Madre, the medicine-man "cures" the infant, "so that it may become strong and healthy, and live a long life." The ceremony is thus described by Lumholtz: "A big fire of corn-cobs, or of the branches of the mountain-cedar, is made near the cross [outside the house], and the baby is carried over the smoke three times towards each cardinal-point, and also three times backward. The motion is first toward the east, then toward the west, then south, then north. The smoke of the corn-cobs assures him of success in agriculture. With a fire-brand the medicine-man makes three crosses on the child's forehead, if it is a boy, and four, if a girl" (107. 298). Among certain South American tribes the child and the mother are "smoked" with tobacco (326. II. 194). With marriage, too, fire is associated. In Yucatan, at the betrothal, the priest held the little fingers of bridegroom and bride to the fire (509. 504), and in Germany, the maiden, on Christmas night, looks into the hearth-fire to discover there the features of her future husband (392. IV. 82). Rademacher (130a) has called attention to the great importance of the hearth and the fireplace in family life. In the Black Forest the stove is invoked in these terms: "Dear oven, I beseech thee, if thou hast a wife, I would have a man" (130 a. 60). Among the White Russians, before the wedding, the house of the bridegroom and that of the bride are "cleansed from evil spirits," by burning a heap of straw in the middle of the living-room, and at the beginning of the ceremonies, after they have been elevated upon a cask, as "Prince" and "Princess," the guests, with the wedding cake and two tapers in their hands, go round the cask three times, and with the tapers held crosswise burn them a little on the neck, the forehead, and the temples, so that the hair is singed away somewhat. At church the wax tapers are of importance: if they burn brightly and clearly, the young couple will have a happy, merry married life; if feeble, their life will be a quiet one; if they flicker, there will be strife and quarrels between them (392 (1891). 161). Writing of Manabozho, or Michabo, the great divinity of the Algonkian tribes of the Great Lakes, Dr. D. G. Brinton says: "Michabo, giver of life and light, creator and preserver, is no apotheosis of a prudent chieftain, still less the fabrication of an idle fancy, or a designing priestcraft, but, in origin, deeds, and name, the not unworthy personification of the purest conceptions they possessed concerning the Father of All" (409. 469). To Agni, fire, light, "in whom are all the gods," the ancient Hindu prayed: "Be unto us easy of access, as a father to his son" (388. 210), and later generations of men have seen in light the embodiment of God. As Max Müller says, "We ourselves also, though we may no longer use the name of Morning-Light for the Infinite, the Beyond, the Divine, still find no better expression than _Light_ when we speak of the manifestations of God, whether in nature or in our mind" (510. 434). In the Christian churches of to-day hymns of praise are sung to God as "Father of Light and Life," and their neophytes are bidden, as of old, to "walk as Children of Light." _Father-Sun._ At the naming of the new-born infant in ancient Mexico, the mother thus addressed the Sun and the Earth: "Thou Sun, Father of all that live, and thou Earth, our Mother, take ye this child, and guard it as your son." A common affirmation with them was: "By the life of the Sun, and of our Lady, the Earth" (529. 97). Many primitive tribes have the custom of holding the newborn child up to the sun. Not a few races and peoples have called themselves "children of the sun." The first of the Incas of Peru--a male and a female--were children of the Sun "our Father," who, "seeing the pitiable condition of mankind, was moved to compassion, and sent to them, from Heaven, two of his children, a son and a daughter, to teach them how to do him honour, and pay him divine worship "; they were also instructed by the sun in all the needful arts of life, which they taught to men (529. 102). When the "children of the Sun" died, they were said to be "called to the home of the Sun, their Father" (100. 479). The Comanche Indians, who worship the sun with dances and other rites, call him _taab-apa_, "Father Sun," and the Sarcees speak of the sun as "Our Father," and of the earth as "Our Mother" (412. 122, 72). With the Piute Indians "the sun is the father and ruler of the heavens. He is the big chief. The moon is his wife, and the stars are their children. The sun eats his children whenever he can catch them. They fall before him, and are all the time afraid when he is passing through the heavens. When he (their father) appears in the morning, you see all the stars, his children, fly out of sight,--go away back into the blue of the above,--and they do not wake to be seen again until he, their father, is about going to his bed" (485. I. 130). Dr. Eastman says of the Sioux Indians: "The sun was regarded as the father, and the earth as the mother, of all things that live and grow; but, as they had been married a long time and had become the parents of many generations, they were called the great-grandparents" (518 (1894). 89). Widespread over the earth has been, and still is, the worship of the sun; some mythologists, indeed, would go too far and explain almost every feature of savage and barbarous religion as a sun-myth or as smacking of heliolatry. Imagery and figurative language borrowed from the consideration of the aspect and functions of the great orb of day have found their way into and beautified the religious thought of every modern Christian community. The words of the poet Thomson: "Prime cheerer light! Of all material beings first and best! Efflux divine! Nature's resplendent robe! Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapt In unessential gloom; and thou, O Sun! Soul of surrounding worlds! in whom best seen Shines out thy Maker!" find briefer expression in the simple speech of the dying Turner: "The sun is God." _Father-Earth_. Though, in nearly every portion of the globe the apotheosis of earth is as a woman, we find in America some evidences of a cult of the terrestrial Father-God. Concerning the cave-worship of the Mexican aborigines, Dr. Brinton says (413. 38, 50): "The intimate meaning of this cave-cult was the worship of the Earth. The Cave-God, the Heart of the Hills, really typified the Earth, the Soil, from whose dark recesses flow the limpid streams and spring the tender shoots of the food-plants as well as the great trees. To the native Mexican the Earth was the provider of food and drink, the common Father of All; so that, to this day, when he would take a solemn oath, he stoops to the earth, touches it with his hand, and repeats the solemn formula: '_Cuix amo nechitla in toteotzin?_ Does not our Great God see me?'" _Father-Wind_. Dr. Berendt, when travelling through the forests of Yucatan, heard his Maya Indian guide exclaim in awe-struck tones, as the roar of a tornado made itself heard in the distance: _He catal nohoch yikal nohoch tat_, "Here comes the mighty wind of the Great Father." As Dr. Brinton points out, this belief has analogues all over the world, in the notion of the wind-bird, the master of breath, and the spirit, who is father of all the race, for we learn also that "the whistling of the wind is called, or attributed to, _tat acmo_, words which mean 'Father Strong-Bird'" (411. 175). The cartography of the Middle Ages and the epochs of the great maritime discoveries has made us familiar with the wind-children, offspring of the wind-father, from whose mouths came the breezes and the storms, and old Boreas, of whom the sailors sing, has traces of the fatherhood about him. More than one people has believed that God, the Father, is Spirit, breath, wind. _Other Father-Gods_. The ancient Romans applied the term _Pater_ to many of their gods beside the great Jove. Vulcan was called _Lemnus Pater_, the "Lemnian Father"; Bacchus, _Pater Lenæus_; Janus, the "early god of business," is termed by Horace, _Matutinus Pater,_ "Early-morning Father"; Mars is _Mars Pater,_ etc. The Guarayo Indians, of South America, prayed for rain and bountiful harvests to "Tamoï, the grandfather, the old god in heaven, who was their first ancestor and had taught them agriculture" (100. 288). The Abipones, of Paraguay, called the Pleiades their "Grandfather" and "Creator." When the constellation was invisible, they said: "Our Grandfather, Keebet, is ill" (509. 274, 284). In his account of the folk-lore of Yucatan, Dr. Brinton tells us that the giant-beings known as _Hbalamob,_ or _balams,_ are sometimes "affectionately referred to as _yum balam,_ or 'Father Balam.'" The term _yum_ is practically the equivalent of the Latin _pater,_ and of the _"father,"_ employed by many primitive peoples in addressing, or speaking of, their great male divinities (411. 176). In his acute exposition of the philosophy of the Zuñi Indians, Mr. Gushing tells us (424. 11) that "all beings, whether deistic and supernatural, or animistic and mortal, are regarded as belonging to one system; and that they are likewise believed to be related by blood seems to be indicated by the fact that human beings are spoken of as the 'children of men,' while _all_ other beings are referred to as 'the Fathers,' the 'All-Fathers (Á-tä-tchu),' and 'Our Fathers.'" The "Priest'of the Bow," when travelling alone through a dangerous country, offers up a prayer, which begins: "Si! This day, My Fathers, ye Animal Beings, although this country be filled with enemies, render me precious" (424. 41). The hunter, in the ceremonial of the "Deer Medicine," prays: "Si! This day, My Father, thou Game Animal, even though thy trail one day and one night hast (been made) round about; however, grant unto me one step of my earth-mother. Wanting thy life-blood, wanting that flesh, hence I address to thee good fortune, address to thee treasure," etc. When he has stricken down the animal, "before the 'breath of life' has left the fallen deer (if it be such), he places its fore feet back of its horns, and, grasping its mouth, holds it firmly, closely, while he applies his lips to its nostrils and breathes as much wind into them as possible, again inhaling from the lungs of the dying animal into his own. Then, letting go, he exclaims: 'Ah! Thanks, my father, my child. Grant unto me the seeds of earth ('daily bread') and the gift of water. Grant unto me the light of thy favour, do" (424. 36). Something of a like nature, perhaps, attaches to the bear-ceremonials among the Ainu and other primitive peoples of northeastern Asia, with whom that animal is held in great respect and reverence, approaching to deification. Of Pó-shai-an-k'ia, "the God (Father) of the Medicine Societies, or sacred esoteric orders of the Zuñis," Mr. Gushing tells us: "He is supposed to have appeared in human form, poorly clad, and therefore reviled by men; to have taught the ancestors of the Zuñi, Taos, Oraibi, and Coçonino Indians their agricultural and other arts; their systems of worship by means of plumed and painted prayer-sticks; to have organized their medicine societies, and then to have disappeared toward his home in Shi-pä-pu-li-ma (from _shi-pa-a_ = mist, vapour; _u-lin_, surrounding; and _i-mo-na_ = sitting-place of; 'The mist-enveloped city'), and to have vanished beneath the world, whence he is said to have departed for the home of the Sun. He is still the conscious auditor of the prayers of his children, the invisible ruler of the spiritual Shi-pä-pu-li-ma, and of the lesser gods of the medicine orders, the principal 'Finisher of the Paths of our Lives.' He is, so far as any identity can be established, the 'Montezuma' of popular and usually erroneous Mexican tradition" (424. 16). Both on the lowest steps of civilization and on the highest, we meet with this passing over of the Father into the Son, this participation of God in the affairs and struggles of men. CHAPTER V. THE NAME CHILD. Liebe Kinder haben viele Namen [Dear children have many names].--_German Proverb_. Child or boy, my darling, which you will.--_Swinburne_. Men ever had, and ever will have, leave To coin new words well-suited to the age. Words are like leaves, some wither every year, And every year a younger race succeeds.--_Roscommon_. _Child and its Synonyms_. Our word _child_--the good old English term; for both _babe_ and _infant_ are borrowed--simply means the "product of the womb" (compare Gothic _kilthei_, "womb"). The Lowland-Scotch dialect still preserves an old word for "child" in _bairn_, cognate with Anglo-Saxon _bearn_, Icelandic, Swedish, Danish, and Gothic _barn_ (the Gothic had a diminutive _barnilo_, "baby"), Sanskrit _bharna_, which signifies "the borne one," "that which is born," from the primitive Indo-European root _bhr_, "to bear, to carry in the womb," whence our "to _bear_" and the German "ge-_bären_." _Son_, which finds its cognates in all the principal Aryan dialects, except Latin, and perhaps Celtic,--the Greek [Greek: yios] is for [Greek: syios], and is the same word,--a widespread term for "male child, or descendant," originally meant, as the Old Irish _suth_, "birth, fruit," and the Sanskrit _sû_, "to bear, to give birth to," indicate, "the fruit of the womb, the begotten"--an expression which meets us time and again in the pages of the Hebrew Bible. The words _offspring_, _issue_, _seed_, used in higher diction, explain themselves and find analogues all over the world. To a like category belong Sanskrit _gárbha_, "brood of birds, child, shoot"; Pali _gabbha_, "womb, embryo, child"; Old High German _chilburra_, "female lamb"; Gothic _kalbô_, "female lamb one year old"; German _Kalb_; English _calf_; Greek [Greek: _delphus_], "womb"; whence [Greek: _adelphus_], "brother," literally "born of the same womb." Here we see, in the words for their young, the idea of the kinship of men and animals in which the primitive races believed. The "brought forth" or "born" is also the signification of the Niskwalli Indian _ba'-ba-ad_, "infant"; _de-bád-da_, "infant, son"; Maya _al_, "son or daughter of a woman"; Cakchiquel 4_ahol_, "son," and like terms in many other tongues. Both the words in our language employed to denote the child before birth are borrowed. _Embryo_, with its cognates in the modern tongues of Europe, comes from the Greek [Greek: _embruon_], "the fruit of the womb before delivery; birth; the embryo, foetus; a lamb newly born, a kid." The word is derived from _eu_, "within"; and _bruo_, "I am full of anything, I swell or teem with"; in a transitive sense, "I break forth." The radical idea is clearly "swelling," and cognates are found in Greek [Greek: _bruon_], "moss"; and German _Kraut_, "plant, vegetable." _Foetus_ comes to us from Latin, where it meant "a bearing, offspring, fruit; bearing, dropping, hatching,--of animals, plants, etc.; fruit, produce, offspring, progeny, brood." The immediate derivation of the word is _feto_, "I breed," whence also _effetus_, "having brought forth young, worn out by bearing, effete." _Feto_ itself is from an old verb _feuere_, "to generate, to produce," possibly related to _fui_ and our _be_. The radical signification of _foetus_ then is "that which is bred, or brought to be"; and from the same root _fe_ are derived _feles_, "cat" (the fruitful animal); _fe-num_, "hay"; _fe-cundus_, "fertile"; _fe-lix,_ "happy" (fruitful). The corresponding verb in Greek is [Greek: _phuein_], "to grow, to spring forth, to come into being," whence the following: [Greek: _phusis_], "a creature, birth, nature,"--nature is "all that has had birth"; [Greek: _phuton_] "something grown, plant, tree, creature, child"; [Greek: _phulae, philon_] "race, clan, tribe,"--the "aggregate of those born in a certain way or place"; [Greek: _phus_], "son"; [Greek: _phusas_], "father," etc. In English, we formerly had the phrase "to look _babies_ in the eyes," and we still speak of the _pupil_ of the eye, the old folk-belief having been able to assert itself in the every-day speech of the race,--the thought that the soul looked out of the windows of the eyes. In Latin, _pupilla pupila,_ "girl, pupil of the eye," is a diminutive of _pupa_ (_puppa_), "girl, damsel, doll, puppet"; other related words are _pupulus_, "little boy"; _pupillus_, "orphan, ward," our _pupil_; _pupulus_, "little child, boy"; _pupus_, "child, boy." The radical of all these is _pu_, "to beget"; whence are derived also the following: _puer_, "child, boy"; _puella_ (for _puerula_), a diminutive of _puer_, "girl"; _pusus_, "boy"; _pusio_, "little boy," _pusillus_; "a very little boy"; _putus_, "boy"; _putillus_, "little boy"; _putilla_, "little girl,"--here belongs also _pusillanimus_, "small-minded, boy-minded"; _pubis_, "ripe, adult"; _pubertas_, "puberty, maturity"; _pullus_, "a young animal, a fowl," whence our _pullet_. In Greek we find the cognate words [Greek: polos] "a young animal," related to our _foal, filly_; [Greek: polion], "pony," and, as some, perhaps too venturesome, have suggested, [Greek: pais], "child," with its numerous derivatives in the scientifical nomenclature and phraseology of to-day. In Sanskrit we have _putra_, "son," a word familiar as a suffix in river-names,--_Brahmaputra_, "son of Brahma,"--_pota_, "the young of an animal," etc. Skeat thinks that our word _boy_, borrowed from Low German and probably related to the Modern High German _Bube_, whence the familiar "bub" of American colloquial speech, is cognate with Latin _pupus_. To this stock of words our _babe_, with its diminutive _baby_, seems not akin. Skeat, rejecting the theory that it is a reduplicative child-word, like _papa_, sees in it merely a modification (infantine, perhaps) of the Celtic _maban_, diminutive of _mab_, "son," and hence related to _maid_, the particular etymology of which is discussed elsewhere. _Infant_, also, is a loan-word in English. In Latin, _infans_ was the coinage of some primitive student of children, of some prehistoric anthropologist, who had a clear conception of "infancy" as "the period of inability to speak,"--for _infans_ signifies neither more nor less than "not speaking, unable to speak." The word, like our "childish," assumed also the meanings "child, young, fresh, new, silly," with a diminutive _infantulus_. The Latin word _infans_ has its representatives in French and other Romance languages, and has given rise to _enfanter_, "to give birth to a child," _enfantement_, "labour," two of the few words relating to child-birth in which the child is directly remembered. The history of the words _infantry_, "foot-soldiers," and _Infanta_, "a princess of the blood royal" in Spain (even though she be married), illustrates a curious development of thought. Our word _daughter_, which finds cognates in Teutonic, Slavonic, Armenian, Zend, Sanskrit, and Greek, Skeat would derive from the root _dugh_, "to milk," the "daughter" being primitively the "milker," --the "milkmaid,"--which would remove the term from the list of names for "child" in the proper sense of the word. Kluge, however, with justice perhaps, considers this etymology improbable. A familiar phrase in English is "babes and sucklings," the last term of which, cognate with German _Säugling_, meets with analogues far and wide among the peoples of the earth. The Latin words for children in relation to their parents are _filius_ (diminutive _filiolus_), "son," and _filia_ (diminutive _filiola_), "daughter," which have a long list of descendants in the modern Neo-Latin or Romance languages,--French _fils, fille, filleul_, etc.; Italian _figlio, figlia_, etc. According to Skeat, _filius_ signified originally "infant," perhaps "suckling," from _felare_, "to suck," the radical of which, _fe_ (Indo-European _dhe_), appears also in _femina_, "woman," and _femella_, "female," the "sucklers" _par excellence_. In Greek the cognate words are [Greek: _titthae_], "nurse," _thaelus_, "female," _thaelae_, "teat," etc.; in Lithuanian, _dels_, "son." With _nonagan_, "teat, breast," are cognate in the Delaware Indian language _nonoshellaan_, "to suckle," _nonetschik_, "suckling," and other primitive tongues have similar series. The Modern High German word for child is _Kind_, which, as a substantive, finds representatives neither in Gothic nor in early English, but has cognates in the Old Norse _kunde_, "son," Gothic _-kunds_, Anglo-Saxon _-kund_, a suffix signifying "coming from, originating from." The ultimate radical of the word is the Indo-European root _gen_ (Teutonic _ken_), "to bear, to produce," whence have proceeded also _kin_, Gothic _kuni_; _queen_, Gothic _qvêns_, "woman"; _king_, Modern High German _König_, originally signifying perhaps "one of high origin"; Greek _genos_ and its derivatives; Latin _genus, gens, gigno_; Lithuanian _gentis_, "relative"; Sanskrit _janas_, "kin, stock," _janús_, "creature, kin, birth," _jantú_, "child, being, stock," _jâtá_, "son." _Kind_, therefore, while not the same word as our _child_, has the same primitive meaning, "the produced one," and finds further cognates in _kid_ and _colt_, names applied to the young of certain animals, and the first of which, in the slang of to-day, is applied to children also. In some parts of Germany and Switzerland _Kind_ has the sense of _boy_; in Thuringia, for example, people speak of _zwei Kinder und ein Mädchen,_ "two boys and a girl." From the same radical sprang the Modern High German _Knabe_, Old High German _chnabo_, "boy, youth, young fellow, servant," and its cognates, including our English _knave_, with its changed meaning, and possibly also German _Knecht_ and English _knight_, of somewhat similar import originally. To the same original source we trace back Greek [Greek: _genetaer_], Latin _genitor_, "parent," and their cognates, in all of which the idea of _genesis_ is prominent. Here belong, in Greek: [Greek: _genesis_], "origin, birth, beginning"; [Greek: _gynae_], "woman"; [Greek: _genea_], "family, race"; [Greek: _geinomai_], "I beget, produce, bring forth, am born"; [Greek: _gignomai_], "I come into a new state of being, become, am born." In Latin: _gigno_, "I beget, bring forth"; _gens_, "clan, race, nation,"--those born in a certain way; _ingens_, "vast, huge, great,"--"not _gens_," _i.e._ "born beyond or out of its kind"; _gentilis_, "belonging to the same clan, race, tribe, nation," then, with various turns of meaning, "national, foreign," whence our _gentile, genteel, gentle, gentry,_ etc.; _genus_, "birth, race, sort, kind"; _ingenium_, "innate quality, natural disposition"; _ingeniosus_, "of good natural abilities, born well-endowed," hence _ingenious; ingenuus_, "native, free-born, worthy of a free man," hence "frank, _ingenuous_"; _progenies_, "descent, descendants, offspring, progeny"; _gener_, "son-in-law"; _genius_, "innate superior nature, tutelary deity, the god born to a place," hence the _genius_, who is "born," not "made"; _genuinus_, "innate, born-in, _genuine_"; _indigena_, "native, born-there, indigenous"; _generosus_, "of high, noble birth," hence "noble-minded, _generous_"; _genero_, "I beget, produce, engender, create, procreate," and its derivatives _degenero, regenero_, etc., with the many words springing from them. From the same radical _gen_ comes the Latin _(g)nascor_, "I am born," whose stem _(g)na_ is seen also in _natio_, "the collection of those born," or "the birth," and _natura_, "the world of birth,"--like Greek [Greek: _phnsis_],--for "nations" and "nature" have both "sprung into being." The Latin _germen_ (our _germ_), which signified "sprig, offshoot, young bud, sprout, fruit, embryo," probably meant originally simply "growth," from the root _ker_, "to make to grow." From the same Indo-European radical have come the Latin _creare_, "to create, make, produce," with its derivatives _procreare_ and _creator_, which we now apply to the Supreme Being, as the "maker" or "producer" of all things. Akin are also _crescere_, "to come forth, to arise, to appear, to increase, to grow, to spring, to be born," and _Ceres_, the name of the goddess of agriculture (growth and creation), whence our word _cereal_; and in Greek [Greek: Kronos], the son of Uranus (Heaven) and Gæa (Earth), [Greek: kratos], "strength," and its derivatives ("democracy," etc.). Another interesting Latin word is _pario_, "I bring forth, produce," whence _parens_, "producer, parent," _partus_, "birth, bearing, bringing forth; young, offspring, foetus, embryo of any creature," _parturio, parturitio_, etc. _Pario_ is used alike of human beings, animals, birds, fish, while _parturio_ is applied to women and animals, and, by Virgil, even to trees,--_parturit arbos_, "the tree is budding forth,"--and by other writers to objects even less animate. In the Latin _enitor_, "I bring forth or bear children or young,"--properly, "I struggle, strive, make efforts,"--we meet with the idea of "labour," now so commonly associated with child-bearing, and deriving from the old comparison of the tillage of the soil and the bearing of the young. This association existed in Hebrew also, and Cain, the first-born of Adam, was the first agriculturist. We still say the tree _bears_ fruit, the land _bears_ crops, is _fertile_, and the most characteristic word in English belonging to the category in question is "to _bear_" children, cognate with Modern High German _ge-bären_, Gothic _gabairan_, Latin _ferre_ (whence _fertilis_), Greek _[Greek: ferein]_, Sanskrit _bhri_, etc., all from the Indo-European root _bher_, "to carry"--compare the use of _tragen_ in Modern High German: _sie trägt ein Kind unter dem Herzen_. The passive verb is "to be _born_" literally, "to be borne, to be carried, produced," and the noun corresponding, _birth_, cognate with German _Geburt_, and Old Norse _burthr_, which meant "embryo" as well. Related ideas are seen in _burden_, and in the Latin, _fors, fortuna_, for "fortune" is but that which is "borne" or "produced, brought forth," just as the Modern High German _Heil_, "fortune, luck," is probably connected with the Indo-European radical _gen_, "to produce." Corresponding to the Latin _parentes_, in meaning, we have the Gothic _berusjos_, "the bearers," or "parents"; we still use in English, "forbears," in the sense of ancestors. The good old English phrase "with child," which finds its analogues in many other languages, has, through false modesty, been almost driven out of literature, as it has been out of conversational language, by _pregnant_, which comes to us from the Latins, who also used _gravidus_,--a word we now apply only to animals, especially dogs and ants,--and _enceinte_, borrowed from French, and referring to the ancient custom of girding a woman who was with child. Similarly barren of direct reference to the child are _accouchement_, which we have borrowed from French, and the German _Entbindung_. In German, Grimm enumerates, among other phrases relating to child-birth, the following, the particular meanings and uses of which are explained in his great dictionary: _Schwanger, gross zum Kinde, zum Kinde gehen, zum Kinde arbeiten, um's Kind kommen, mit Kinde, ein Kind tragen, Kindesgrosz, Kindes schwer, Kinder haben, Kinder bekommen, Kinder kriegen, niederkommen, entbinden,_ and the quaint and beautiful _eines Kindes genesen_,--all used of the mother. Applied to both parents we find _Kinder machen_, _Kinder bekommen_ (now used more of the mother), _Kinder erzeugen_ (more recently, of the father only), _Kinder erzielen_. Our English word _girl_ is really a diminutive (from a stem _gir_, seen in Old Low German _gör_, "a child") from some Low German dialect, and, though it now signifies only "a female child, a young woman," in Middle English _gerl_ (_girl, gurl_) was applied to a young person of either sex. In the Swiss dialects to-day _gurre_, or _gurrli_, is a name given to a "girl" in a depreciatory sense, like our own "girl-boy." In many primitive tongues there do not appear to be special words for "son" and "daughter," or for "boy" and "girl," as distinguished from each other, these terms being rendered "male-child (man-child)," and "female-child (woman-child)" respectively. The "man-child" of the King James' version of the Scriptures belongs in this category. In not a few languages, the words for "son" and "daughter" and for "boy" and "girl" mean really "little man," and "little woman"--a survival of which thought meets us in the "little man" with which his elders are even now wont to denominate "the small boy." In the Nahuatl language of Mexico, "woman" is _ciuatl_, "girl" _ciuatontli_; in the Niskwalli, of the State of Washington, "man" is _stobsh_, "boy" _stótomish_, "woman" _sláne_, "girl" _cháchas_ (_i.e._ "small") _sláne_; in the Tacana, of South. America, "man" is _dreja_, "boy" _drejave_, "woman" _epuna_, "girl" _epunave_. And but too often the "boys" and "girls" even as mere children are "little men and women" in more respects than that of name. In some languages the words for "son," "boy," "girl" are from the same root. Thus, in the Mazatec language, of Mexico, we find _indidi_ "boy," _tzadi_ "girl," _indi_ "son," and in the Cholona, of Peru, _nun-pullup_ "boy," _ila-pullup_ "girl," _pul_ "son,"--where _ila_ means "female," and _nun_ "male." In some others, as was the case with the Latin _puella_, from _puer_, the word for "girl" seems derived from that for "boy." Thus, we have in Maya, _mehen_ "son," _ix-mehen_ "daughter,"-- _-ix_ is a feminine prefix; and in the Jívaro, of Ecuador, _vila_ "son," _vilalu_, "daughter." Among very many primitive peoples, the words for "babe, infant, child," signify really "small," "little one," like the Latin _parvus_, the Scotch _wean_ (for _wee ane_, "wee one"), etc. In Hawaiian, for example, the "child" is called _keiki_, "the little one," and in certain Indian languages of the Western Pacific slope, the Wiyot _kusha'ma_ "child," Yuke _únsil_ "infant," Wintun _cru-tut_ "infant," Niskwalli _chá chesh_ "child (boy)," all signify literally "small," "little one." Some languages, again, have diminutives of the word for "child," often formed by reduplication, like the _wee wean_ of Lowland Scotch, and the _pilpil_, "infant" of the Nahuatl of Mexico. In the Snanaimuq language, of Vancouver Island, the words _k·ä'ela_, "male infant," and _k·ä'k·ela_, "female infant," mean simply "the weak one." In the Modoc, of Oregon, a "baby" is literally, "what is carried on one's self." In the Tsimshian, of British Columbia, the word _wok·â'ûts_, "female infant," signifies really "without labrets," indicating that the creature is yet too young for the lip ornaments. In Latin, _liberi_, one of the words for "children," shows on its face that it meant only "children, as opposed to the slaves of the house, _servi_"; for _liberi_ really denotes "the free ones." In "the Galibi language of Brazil, _tigami_ signifies 'young brother, son, and little child,' indiscriminately." The following passage from Westermarck recalls the "my son," etc., of our higher conversational or even officious style (166.93):-- "Mr. George Bridgman states that, among the Mackay blacks of Queensland, the word for 'daughter' is used by a man for any young woman belonging to the class to which his daughter would belong if he had one. And, speaking of the Australians, Eyre says, 'In their intercourse with each other, natives of different tribes are exceedingly punctilious and polite; ... almost everything that is said is prefaced by the appellation of father, son, brother, mother, sister, or some other similar term, corresponding to that degree of relationship which would have been most in accordance with their relative ages and circumstances." Similar phenomena meet us in the language of the criminal classes, and the slang of the wilder youth of the country. Among the Andaman Islanders: "Parents, when addressing or referring to their children, and not using names, employ distinct terms, the father calling his son _dar ô-dire,_ i.e. 'he that has been begotten by me,' and his daughter, _dar ô-dire-pail-;_ while the mother makes use of the word _dab ê-tire,_ i.e. 'he whom I have borne,' for the former, and _dab ê-tire pail-_ for the latter; similarly, friends, in speaking of children to their parents, say respectively, _ngar ô-dire,_ or _ngab ê-tire_ (your son), _ngar ô-dire-pail-,_ or _ngab ê-tire-pail-_ (your daughter)" (498. 59). In the Tonkawé Indian language of Texas, "to be born" is _nikaman yekéwa,_ literally, "to become bones," and in the Klamath, of Oregon, "to give birth," is _nkâcgî,_ from _nkák,_ "the top of the head," and _gî,_ "to make," or perhaps from _kák'gî,_ "to produce bones," from the idea that the seat of life is in the bones. In the Nipissing dialect of the Algonkian tongue, _ni kanis,_ "my brother," signifies literally, "my little bone," an etymology which, in the light of the expressions cited above, reminds one of the Greek [Greek: adelphos], and the familiar "bone of my bone," etc. A very interesting word for "child" is Sanskrit _toka,_ Greek [Greek: teknon], from the Indo-European radical _tek,_ "to prepare, make, produce, generate." To the same root belong Latin _texere,_ "to weave," Greek [Greek: technae] "art"; so that the child and art have their names from the same primitive source--the mother was the former of the child as she was of the chief arts of life. _"Flower-Names."_ The people who seem to have gone farthest in the way of words for "child" are the Andaman Islanders, who have an elaborate system of nomenclature from the first year to the twelfth or fifteenth, when childhood may be said to end. There are also in use a profusion of "flower-names" and complimentary terms. The "flower-names" are confined to girls and young women who are not mothers. The following list shows the peculiarity of the name-giving:-- 1. Proper name chosen before birth of child: ._dô'ra_. 2. If child turns out to be a boy, he is called: ._dô'ra-ô'ta_; if a girl, ._dô'ra-kâ'ta_; these names (_ô'ta_ and _kâ'ta_ refer to the genital organs of the two sexes) are used during the first two or three years only. 3. Until he reaches puberty, the boy is called: ._dô'ra dâ'la_, and the girl, _.dô'ra-po'il'ola_. 4. When she reaches maturity, the girl is said to be _ún-lâ-wi_, or _â'kà-lá-wi_, and receives a "flower-name" chosen from the one of "the eighteen prescribed trees which blossom in succession" happening to be in season when she attains womanhood. 5. If this should occur in the middle of August, when the _Pterocarpus dalbergoides_, called _châ'langa_, is in flower, "._dô'ra-po-ilola_ would become ._chà'garu dô'ra_, and this double name would cling to the girl until she married and was a mother, then the 'flower' name would give way to the more dignified term _chän'a_ (madam or mother)._dô'ra_; if childless, a woman has to pass a few years of married life before she is called _chän'a_, after which no further change is made in her name." Much other interesting information about name-giving may be found in the pages of Mr. Man's excellent treatise on this primitive people (498. 59-61; 201-208). _Sign Language._ Interesting details about signs and symbols for "child" may be found in the elaborate article of Colonel Mallery on "Sign Language among North American Indians" (497a), and the book of Mr. W. P. Clark on _Indian Sign Language_ (420). Colonel Mallery tells us that "the Egyptian hieroglyphists, notably in the designation of Horus, their dawn-god, used the finger in or on the lips for 'child.' It has been conjectured in the last instance that the gesture implied, not the mode of taking nourishment, but inability to speak, _in-fans_." This conjecture, however, the author rejects (497a. 304). Among the Arapaho Indians "the sign for _child, baby_, is the forefinger in the mouth, _i.e._ a nursing child, and a natural sign of a deaf-mute is the same;" related seem also the ancient Chinese forms for "son" and "birth," as well as the symbol for the latter among the Dakota Indians (494 a. 356). Clark describes the symbol for "child," which is based upon those for "parturition" and "height," thus: "Bring the right hand, back outwards, in front of centre of body, and close to it, fingers extended, touching, pointing outwards and downwards; move the hands on a curve downwards and outwards; then carry the right hand, back outwards, well out to front and right of body, fingers extended and pointing upwards, hand resting at supposed height of child; the hand is swept into last position at the completion of first gesture. In speaking of children generally, and, in fact, unless it is desired to indicate height or age of the child, the first sign is all that is used or is necessary. This sign also means the young of any animal. In speaking of children generally, sometimes the signs for different heights are only made. Deaf-mutes make the combined sign for male and female, and then denote the height with right hand held horizontally" (420. 109). For "baby," deaf-mutes "hold extended left hand back down, in front of body, forearm about horizontal and pointing to right and front; then lay the back of partially compressed right hand on left forearm near wrist" (420. 57). _Names._ The interesting and extensive field of personal onomatology--the study of personal names--cannot be entered upon exhaustively here. Shakespeare has said:-- "What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet,"-- and the same remark might be made of the children of some primitive peoples. Not infrequently the child is named before it is born. Of the Central Eskimo we read that often before the birth of the child, "some relative or friend lays his hand upon the mother's stomach, and decides what the infant is to be called; and, as the name serves for either sex, it is of no consequence whether it be a girl or a boy" (402. 612, 590). Polle has a good deal to say of the deep significance of the name with certain peoples--"to be" and "to be named" appearing sometimes as synonymous (517. 99). "Hallowed be Thy name" expresses the ideas of many generations of men. With the giving of a name the soul and being of a former bearer of it were supposed to enter into and possess the child or youth upon whom it was conferred. Kink says of the Eskimo of East Greenland, that "they seemed to consider man as consisting of three independent parts,--soul, body, name" (517. 122). One can easily understand the mysterious associations of the name, the taboos of its utterance or pronunciation so common among primitive peoples--the reluctance to speak the name of a dead person, as well as the desire to confer the name of such a one upon a new-born child, spring both from the same source. The folk-lore and ceremonial of name-giving are discussed at length in Ploss, and the special treatises on popular customs. In several parts of Germany, it is held to be ominous for misfortune or harm to the child, if the name chosen for it should be made known before baptism. Sometimes, the child is hardly recognized as existing until he has been given a name. In Gerbstadt in Mansfeld, Germany, the child before it receives its name is known as "dovedung," and, curiously enough, in far-off Samoa, the corresponding appellation is "excrement of the family-god" (517.103). The following statement, regarding one of the American Indian tribes, will stand for many other primitive peoples: "The proper names of the Dakotas are words, simple and compounded, which are in common use in the language. They are usually given to children by the father, grandfather, or some other influential relative. When young men have distinguished themselves in battle, they frequently take to themselves new names, as the names of distinguished ancestors of warriors now dead. The son of a chief when he comes to the chieftainship, generally takes the name of his father or grandfather, so that the same names, as in other more powerful dynasties, are handed down along the royal lines" (524. 44-45). Of the same people we are also told: "The Dakotas have no family or surnames. But the children of a family have particular names which belong to them, in the order of their birth up to the fifth child. These names are for boys, Caske, Hepan, Hepi, Catan, and Hake. For girls they are, Windna, Hapan, Hapistinna, Wanske, and Wihake." _Terms applied to Children._ An interesting study might be made of the words we apply to children in respect of size, _little, small, wee, tiny,_ etc., very many of which, in their etymology, have no reference to childhood, or indeed to smallness. The derivation of little is uncertain, but the word is reasonably thought to have meant "little" in the sense of "deceitful, mean," from the radical _lut_, "to stoop" (hence "to creep, to sneak"). Curiously enough, the German _klein_ has lost its original meaning,--partly seen in our clean,--"bright, clear." _Small_ also belongs in the same category, as the German _schmal_, "narrow, slim," indicates, though perhaps the original signification may have been "small" as we now understand it; a cognate word is the Latin _macer_, "thin, lean," which has lost an s at the beginning. Even wee, as the phrase "a little wee bit" hints, is thought (by Skeat) to be nothing more than a Scandinavian form of the same word which appears in our English _way_. Skeat also tells us that "a little teeny boy," meant at first "a little fractious (peevish) boy," being derived from an old word _teen_, "anger, peevishness." Analogous to _tiny_ is _pettish_, which is derived from _pet_, "mama's pet," "a spoiled child." Endless would the list of words of this class be, if we had at our disposal the projected English dialect dictionary; many other illustrations might be drawn from the numerous German dialect dictionaries and the great Swiss lexicon of Tobler. Still more interesting, perhaps, would be the discussion of the special words used to denote the actions and movements of children of all ages, and the names and appellatives of the child derived from considerations of age, constitution, habits, actions, speech, etc., which are especially numerous in Low German dialects and such forms of English speech as the Lowland Scotch. Worthy of careful attention are the synonyms of child, the comparisons in which the child figures in the speech of civilized and uncivilized man; the slang terms also, which, like the common expression of to-day, _kid_, often go back to a very primitive state of mind, when "children" and "kids" were really looked upon as being more akin than now. Beside the terms of contempt and sarcasm,--_goose_, _loon_, _pig_, _calf_, _donkey_, etc.,--those figures of speech which, the world over, express the sentiment of the writer of the _Wisdom of Solomon_ regarding the foolishness of babes,--we, like the ancient Mexicans and many another lower race, have terms of praise and endearment,--"a jewel of a babe," and the like,--legions of caressives and diminutives in the use of which some of the Low German dialects are more lavish even than Lowland Scotch. In Grimm's great _Deutsches Wörterbuch_, the synonymy of the word _Kind_ and its semasiology are treated at great length, with a multitude of examples and explanations, useful to students of English, whose dictionaries lag behind in these respects. The child in language is a fertile subject for the linguist and the psychologist, and the field is as yet almost entirely unexplored. CHAPTER VI. THE CHILD IN THE PRIMITIVE LABORATORY. As if no mother had made you look nice.--_Proverbial Saying of Songish Indians._ Spare the rod and spoil the child.--_Hebrew Proverb._ Thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting.--_Daniel_ v. 27. He has lost his measure.--_German Saying._ _"Licking into Shape."_ Pope, in the _Dunciad_, has the well-known lines:-- "So watchful Bruin forms, with plastic care, Each growing lump, and brings it to a bear," a conceit found in Burton, Montaigne, Byron, and other writers, and based upon an old folk-belief that the cubs are born a formless lump which the mother-bear has to "lick into shape." The same idea gave rise to the "ours mal léché" of French, and our own colloquial expression "an ill-licked cub." In an Alemanian lullaby sung while washing and combing the child, occurs the following curious passage:-- "I bin e chleine Pumpernickel, I bin e chleine Bär, Und wie mi Gott erschaffe hät, So wagglen ich derher," ["I am a little Pumpernickel, I am a little bear, And just as God has fashioned me I wiggle about,"] which, perhaps, contains the same thought. In a recent article, Professor E. W. Fay offers an etymology of the word "livid" which facilitates the passage from animal to man: "_Lividus_ meant 'licked.' The word derives from an animal's licking hurts and sores on the young. A mother of the human species still kisses (licks) a child's hurt to make it well" (_Mod. Lang. Notes_, IX. 263). Who has not had his mother say: "Does it hurt? Come and let me kiss it, and make it well." Moreover, Reclus tells us, "There are Esquimaux who go further in their demonstrations of affection, and carrying their complaisance as far as Mamma Puss and Mamma Bruin, lick their babies to clean them, lick them well over from head to foot" (523. 38). Nor is it always the mother who thus acts. Mantegazza observes: "I even know a very affectionate child, who, without having learnt it from any one, licks the people to whom he wishes to show friendship" (499. 144). _Massage._ _Che nasce bella nasce maritata_,--"the girl born pretty is born married,"--says the Italian proverb, and many devices there are among primitive races to ensure the beauty which custom demands, but which nature has failed to provide. Among the Songish Indians of British Columbia, there is a saying: _Tôu ô'wuna täns ksEtctcâ'ai_,--"as if no mother had made you look nice." Doctor Boas describes the "making the child look nice" as follows (404. 20):-- "As soon as it is born, the mother rubs it from the mouth towards the ears, so as to press the cheek-bones somewhat upward. The outer corners of the eyes are pulled outward that they may not become round, which is considered ill-looking. The calves of the legs are pressed backward and upward, the knees are tied together to prevent the feet from turning inward, the forehead is pressed down." Among the Nootka Indians, according to the same authority: "Immediately after birth, the eyebrows of the babe are pressed upward, its belly is pressed forward, and the calves of the legs are squeezed from the ankles upward. All these manipulations are believed to improve the appearance of the child. It is believed that the pressing of the eyebrows will give them the peculiar shape that may be noticed in all carvings of the Indians of the North Pacific Coast. The squeezing of the legs is intended to produce slim ankles" (404. 39). The subject of the human physiognomy and physical characteristics in folk-lore and folk-speech is a very entertaining one, and the practices in vogue for beautifying these are legion and found all over the world (204). _Face-Games._ Some recollection of such procedure as that of the Songish Indians seems to linger, perhaps, in the game, which Sicilian nurses play on the baby's features. It consists in "lightly touching nose, mouth, eyes, etc., giving a caress or slap to the chin," and repeating at the same time the verses:-- "Varvaruttedu Vucca d'aneddu, Nasu affilatu, Ocehi di stiddi Frunti quatrata E te 'ccà 'na timpulata." In French we have corresponding to this:-- "Beau front Petits yeux, Nez can can, Bouche d'argent, Menton fleuri, Chichirichi." In Scotch:-- "Chin cherry, Moo merry, Nose nappie, Ee winkie, Broo brinkie, Cock-up jinkie." In English:-- "Eye winker, Tom Tinker, Nose dropper, Mouth eater. Chin chopper." And cognate practices exist all over the globe (204. 21). _Primitive Weighing._ "Worth his weight in gold" is an expression which has behind it a long history of folk-thought. Professor Gaidoz, in his essay on _Ransom by Weight_ (236), and Haberlandt, in his paper on the _Tulâpurusha, Man-Weighing_ (248) of India, have shown to what extent has prevailed in Europe and Asia the giving of one's weight in gold or other precious substances by prisoners to their captors, in order to secure their liberty, by devotees to the church, or to some saint, as a cure for, or a preventitive of disease, or as an act of charity or of gratitude for favours received. The expression used of Belshazzar in Daniel v. 27, "Thou art weighed in the balance, and found wanting" (and the analogue in Job xxxi. 6), has been taken quite literally, and in Brittany, according to the Abbot of Soissons, there was a Chapel of the Balances, "in which persons who came to be cured miraculously, were weighed, to ascertain whether their weight diminished when prayer was made by the monks in their behalf." Brewer informs us that "Rohese, the mother of Thomas Becket, used to weigh her boy every year on his birthday, against the money, clothes, and provisions which she gave to the poor" (191.41). From Gregory of Tours we learn that Charicus, King of the Suevi, when his son was ill, "hearing of the miraculous power of the bones of St. Martin, had his son weighed against gold and silver, and sent the amount to his sepulchre and sanctuary at Tours" (236. 60). Weighing of infants is looked upon with favour in some portions of western Europe, and to the same source we may ultimately trace the modern baby's card with the weight of the newcomer properly inscribed upon it,--a fashion which bids fair to be a valuable anthropometric adjunct. "Hefting the baby" has now taken on a more scientific aspect than it had of yore. The following curious custom of the eastern Eskimo is perhaps to be mentioned here, a practice connected with their treatment of the sick. "A stone weighing three or four pounds, according to the gravity of the sickness, is placed by a matron under the pillow. Every morning she weighs it, pronouncing meanwhile words of mystery. Thus she informs herself of the state of the patient and his chances of recovery. If the stone grows constantly heavier, it is because the sick man cannot escape, and his days are numbered" (523. 39). It is a far cry from Greenland to England, but there are connecting links in respect of folk-practice. Mr. Dyer informs us that in the parish church of Wingrove, near Ailesbury, as late as 1759, a certain Mrs. Hammokes was accused of witchcraft, and her husband demanded the "trial by the church Bible." So "she was solemnly conducted to the parish church, where she was stript of all her clothes to her shift, and weighed against the great parish Bible in the presence of all her neighbours. The result was that, to the no small mortification of her accuser, she outweighed the Bible, and was triumphantly acquitted of the charge" (436. 307, 308). How often has not woman, looked upon in the light of a child, been subjected to the same practices and ceremonies! _Primitive Measurements._ The etymology and original significance of our common English words, _span_, _hand_, _foot_, _cubit_, _fathom_, and their cognates and equivalents in other languages, to say nothing of the self-explanatory _finger's breadth_, _arm's length_, _knee-high_, _ankle-deep_, etc., go back to the same rude anthropometry of prehistoric and primitive times, from which the classic peoples of antiquity obtained their canons of proportion and symmetry of the human body and its members. Among not a few primitive races it is the child rather than the man that is measured, and we there meet with a rude sort of anthropometric laboratory. From Ploss, who devotes a single paragraph to "Measurements of the Body," we learn that these crude measurements are of great importance in folk-medicine:-- "In Bohemia, the new-born child is usually measured by an old woman, who measures all the limbs with a ribbon, and compares them with one another; the hand, _e.g._, must be as long as the face. If the right relations do not subsist, prayers and various superstitious practices are resorted to in order to prevent the devil from injuring the child, and the evil spirits are driven out of the house by means of fumigation. In the case of sick children in Bohemia the measuring is resorted to as a sympathetic cure. In other parts of Germany, on the other hand, in Schleswig-Holstein, Thuringia, Oldenburg, it is thought that measuring and weighing the new-born child may interfere with its thriving and growth" (326. I. 302). Sibree states that in Madagascar, at circumcision, the child is measured and sprinkled with water (214. 6), and Ellis, in his history of that island, gives the following details of the ceremony (_History of Madagascar_, Vol. I. p. 182):-- "The children on whom the rite is to be performed are next led across the blood of the animal just killed, to which some idea of sacredness is attached. They are then placed on the west side of the house, and, as they stand erect, a man holding a light cane in his hand, measures the first child to the crown of the head, and at one stroke cuts off a piece of the cane measured to that height, having first carefully dipped the knife in the blood of the slaughtered sheep. The knife is again dipped in the blood, and the child measured to the waist, when the cane is cut to that height. He is afterwards measured to the knee with similar results. The same ceremony is performed on all the children successively. The meaning of this, if indeed any meaning can be attached to it, seems to be the symbolical removal of all evils to which the children might be exposed,--first from the head to the waist, then from the waist to the knees, and finally, from the knees to the sole of the foot." The general question of the measurement of sick persons (not especially children), and of the payment of an image or a rod of precious metal of the height of a given person, or the height of his waist, shoulders, knee, etc., of the person, in recompense for some insult or injury, has been treated of by Grimm, Gaidoz, and Haberlandt. Gaidoz remarks (236. 74): "It is well known that in Catholic countries it is customary to present the saints with votive offerings in wax, which are representative of the sicknesses for which the saints are invoked; a wax limb, or a wax eye, for instance, are representative of a sore limb or of a sore eye, the cure of which is expected from the saint. Wax bodies were offered in the same way, as we learn from a ludicrous story told by Henri Estienne, a French writer of the sixteenth century. The story is about a clever monk who made credulous parents believe he had saved their child by his prayers, and he says to the father, 'Now your son is safe, thanks to God; one hour ago I should not have thought you would have kept him alive. But do you know what you are to do? You ought to have a wax effigy of his own size made for the glory of God, and put it before the image of the holy Ambrose, at whose intercession our Lord did this favour to you.'" Even poorer people were in the habit of offering wax candles of the height or of the weight of the sick person. In 1888, M. Letourneau (299) called attention to the measurement of the neck as a test of puberty, and even of the virginity of maidens. In Brittany, "According to popular opinion, there is a close relation between the volume of the neck and puberty, sometimes even the virginity of girls. It is a common sight to see three young girls of uncertain age measure in sport the circumference of the neck of one of them with a thread. The two ends of this thread are placed between the teeth of the subject, and the endeavour is made to make the loop of the thread pass over the head. If the operation succeeds, the young girl is declared 'bonne à marier.'" MM. Hanoteau and Letourneau state that among the Kabyles of Algeria a similar measurement is made of the male sex. In Kabylia, where the attainment of the virile state brings on the necessity of paying taxes and bearing arms, families not infrequently endeavour to conceal the puberty of their young men. If such deceit is suspected, recourse is had to the test of neck-measurement. Here again, as in Brittany, if the loop formed by the thread whose two ends are held in the teeth passes over the head, the young man is declared of age, and enrolled among the citizens, whilst his family is punished by a fine. M. Manouvrier also notes that the same test is also employed to discover whether an adolescent is to be compelled to keep the fast of Rhamadan. _Measurements of Limbs and Body._ M. Mahoudeau cites from Tillaux's _Anatomie topographique,_ and MM. Perdrizet and Gaidoz in _Mélusine_ for 1893, quote from the _Secrets merveilleux de la magie naturette et cabalistique du Petit Albert_ (1743) extracts relating to this custom, which is also referred to by the Roman writers C. Valerius, Catullus, Vossius, and Scaliger. The subject is an interesting one, and merits further investigation. Ellis (42. 233) has something to say on the matter from a scientific point of view. Grimm has called attention to the very ancient custom of measuring a patient, "partly by way of cure, partly to ascertain if the malady were growing or abating." This practice is frequently mentioned in the German poems and medical books of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In one case a woman says of her husband, "I measured him till he forgot everything," and another, desirous of persuading hers that he was not of sound mind, took the measure of his length and across his head. In a Zürich Ms. of 1393, "measuring" is included among the unchristian and forbidden things of sorcery. In the region about Treves, a malady known as night-grip (_Nachtgriff_) is ascertained to be present by the following procedure: "Draw the sick man's belt about his naked body lengthwise and breadthwise, then take it off and hang it on a nail with the words 'O God, I pray thee, by the three virgins, Margarita, Maria Magdalena, and Ursula, be pleased to vouchsafe a sign upon the sick man, if he have the nightgrip or no'; then measure again, and if the belt be shorter than before, it is a sign of the said sickness." In the Liegnitz country, in 1798, we are told there was hardly a village without its _messerin_ (measuress), an old woman, whose _modus operandi_ was this: "When she is asked to say whether a person is in danger from consumption, she takes a thread and measures the patient, first from head to heel, then from tip to tip of the outspread arms; if his length be less than his breadth then he is consumptive; the less the thread will measure his arms, the farther has the disease advanced; if it reaches only to the elbow, there is no hope for him. The measuring is repeated from time to time; if the thread stretches and reaches its due length again, the danger is removed. The wise woman must never ask money for her trouble, but take what is given." In another part of Germany, "a woman is stript naked and measured with a piece of red yarn spun on a Sunday." Sembrzycki tells us that in the Elbing district, and elsewhere in that portion of Prussia, the country people are firmly possessed by the idea that a decrease in the measure of the body is the source of all sorts of maladies. With an increase of sickness the hands and feet are believed to lose more and more their just proportional relations one with another, and it is believed that one can determine how much measure is yet to be lost, how long the patient has yet to live. This belief has given rise to the proverbial phrase _das Maas verlieren_--"to lose one's measure" (462. III. 1163-5). Not upon adults alone, however, were these measurements carried out, but upon infants, children, and youths as well. Even in the New World, among the more conservative of the population of Aryan origin, these customs still nourish, as we learn from comparatively recent descriptions of trustworthy investigators. Professor J. Howard Gore, in the course of an interesting article on "The Go-Backs," belief in which is current among the dwellers in the mountain regions of the State of Virginia, tells us that when some one has suggested that "the baby has the 'go-backs,'" the following process is gone through: "The mother then must go alone with the babe to some old lady duly instructed in the art or science of curing this blighting disease. She, taking the infant, divests it of its clothing and places it on its back. Then, with a yarn string, she measures its length or height from the crown of the head to the sole of the heel, cutting off a piece which exactly represents this length. This she applies to the foot, measuring off length by length, to see if the piece of yarn contains the length of the foot an exact number of times. This operation is watched by the mother with the greatest anxiety, for on this coincidence of measure depends the child's weal or woe. If the length of the string is an exact multiple of the length of the foot, nothing is wrong, but if there is a remainder, however small, the baby has the go-backs, and the extent of the malady is proportional to this remainder. Of course in this measuring, the elasticity of the yarn is not regarded, nor repetitions tried as a test of accuracy" (244. 108). Moreover, "the string with which the determination was made must be hung on the hinge of a gate on the premises of the infant's parents, and as the string by gradual decay passes away, so passes away the 'go-backs.' But if the string should be lost, the ailment will linger until a new test is made and the string once more hung out to decay. Sometimes the cure is hastened by fixing the string so that wear will come upon it." Professor Gore aptly refers to the Latin proverb _ex pede Herculem_, which arose from the calculation of Pythagoras, who from the _stadium_ of 6000 feet laid out by Hercules for the Olympian games, by using his own foot as the unit, obtained the length of the foot of the mighty hero, whence he also deduced his height. We are not told, however, as the author remarks, whether or not Hercules had the "go-backs." Among the white settlers of the Alleghanies between southwestern Georgia and the Pennsylvania line, according to Mr. J. Hampden Porter, the following custom is in vogue: "Measuring an infant, whose growth has been arrested, with an elastic cord that requires to be stretched in order to equal the child's length, will set it right again. If the spell be a wasting one, take three strings of similar or unlike colours, tie them to the front door or gate in such a manner that whenever either are opened there is some wear and tear of the cords. As use begins to tell upon them, vigour will recommence" (480. VII. 116). Similar practices are reported from Central Europe by Sartori (392 (1895). 88), whose article deals with the folk-lore of counting, weighing, and measuring. _Tests of Physical Efficiency._ That certain rude tests of physical efficiency, bodily strength, and power of endurance have been and are in use among primitive peoples, especially at the birth of children, or soon after, or just before, at, or after, puberty, is a well-known fact, further testified to by the occurrence of these practices in folk-tales and fairy-stories. Lifting stones, jumping over obstacles, throwing stones, spears, and the like, crawling or creeping through holes in stones, rocks, or trees, have all been in vogue, and some of them survive even to-day in England and in other parts of Europe as popular tests of puberty and virginity. Mr. Dyer, in his _Church Lore Gleanings_, mentions the "louping," or "petting" stone at Belford, in Northumberland (England), a stone "placed in the path outside the church porch, over which the bridal pair with their attendants must leap"--the belief is that "the bride must leave all her pets and humours behind her when she crosses it." At High-Coquetdale, according to Mr. Henderson, in 1868, a bride was made to jump over a stick held by two groomsmen at the church door (436. 125). Another very curious practice is connected with St. Wilfrid's "needle" at Ripon Cathedral--said to be an imitation of the Basilican transenna. Through this passage maidens who were accused of unchastity crept in order to prove their innocence. If they could not pass through, their guilt was presumed. It is also believed that "poor palsied folk crept through in the expectation of being healed." At Boxley Church in Kent, there was a "small figure of St. Rumbold, which only those could lift who had never sinned in thought or deed" (436. 312, 313). At a marriage among the Nootka Indians of Vancouver Island, the groom's party essay feats like these: "Heavy weights are lifted; they try who is the best jumper. A blanket with a hole in the centre is hung up, and men walk up to it blindfolded from a distance of about twenty steps. When they get near it they must point with their fingers towards the blanket, and try to hit the hole. They also climb a pole, on top of which an eagle's nest, or something representing an eagle's nest, is placed. The winner of each game receives a number of blankets from the girl's father. When the games are at an end, the groom's father distributes blankets among the other party" (404. 43). This reminds us of the games at picnics and social gatherings of our own people. In the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for January, 1895, S. O. Addy, in an article entitled "English Surnames and Heredity," points out how the etymologies give us some indications of the physical characteristics of the persons on whom the names were conferred. In primitive times and among the lower races names are even of more importance in this respect. Clark says: "I have seen a baby not two days old snugly tied up in one of these little sacks; the rope tied to the pommel of the saddle, the sack hanging down alongside of the pony, and mother and child comfortably jogging along, making a good day's march in bitter cold winter weather, easily keeping up with a column of cavalry which was after hostile Indians. After being carefully and firmly tied in the cradle, the child, as a rule, is only taken out to be cleaned in the morning, and again in the evening just before the inmates of a lodge go to sleep; sometimes also in the middle of the day, but on the march only morning and evening" (420. 57). In his account of the habits of the Tarahumari Indians, Lumholtz observes: "Heat never seems to trouble them. I have seen young babies sleeping with uncovered heads on the backs of their mothers, exposed to the fierce heat of the summer sun." The same writer tells us that once he pulled six hairs at once from a sleeping child, "without causing the least disturbance," and only when twenty-three had been extracted at once did the child take notice, and then only scratched its head and slept on (107. 297). Colonel Dodge notes the following practice in vogue among the wild Indians of the West:-- "While the child, either boy or girl, is very young, the mother has entire charge, control, and management of it. It is soon taught not to cry by a very summary process. When it attempts to 'set up a yell,' the mother covers its mouth with the palm of her hand, grasps its nose between her thumb and forefinger, and holds on until the little one is nearly suffocated. It is then let go, to be seized and smothered again at the first attempt to cry. The baby very soon comprehends that silence is the best policy" (432.187). Of the Indians of Lower California, who learn to stand and walk before they are a year old, we are told on the authority of the missionary Baegert: "When they are born they are cradled in the shell of a turtle or on the ground. As soon as the child is a few months old, the mother places it perfectly naked astraddle on her shoulders, its legs hanging down on both sides in front. In this guise the mother roves about all day, exposing her helpless charge to the hot rays of the sun and the chilly winds that sweep over the inhospitable country" (306. 185). _Sleep._ Curious indeed are some of the methods in use among primitive peoples to induce sleep. According to Mr. Fraser, the natives of a village near the banks of the Girree, in the Himalayan region of India, had the following custom (_Quart. Rev._ XXIV. 109):-- "The mother, seizing the infant with both arms and aided by the knees, gives it a violent whirling motion, that would seem rather calculated to shake the child in pieces than to produce the effect of soft slumber; but the result was unerring, and in a few seconds the child was fast asleep." Somewhat akin to this procedure is the practice our modern mothers and nurses have of swinging the baby through a sort of semicircle in their arms, accompanying it with the familiar song,-- "This way, And that way," etc. This song and action, their dolls doing duty as children, have been introduced into the kindergarten, and even figure now in "doll-drills" on the stage, and at church festivals and society entertainments. Of the same village the author goes on to say:-- "Several straw sheds are constructed on a bank, above which a cold clear stream is led to water their fields, and a small portion of this, probably of three fingers' breadth, is brought into the shed by a hollow stick or piece of bark, and falls from this spout into a small drain, which carries it off about two feet below. The women bring their children to these huts in the heat of the day, and having lulled them to sleep and wrapt their bodies and feet warm in a blanket, they place them on a small bench or tray horizontally, in such a way that the water shall fall upon the crown of the head, just keeping the whole top wet with its stream. We saw two under this operation, and several others came in while we remained, to place their children in a similar way. Males and females are equally used thus, and their sleep seemed sound and unruffled." _"Heroic Treatment."_ The Andamanese baby "within a few hours of its birth has its head shaved and painted with _kòvob_--(an ochre-mixture), while its diminutive face and body are adorned with a design in _tiela-og_--(white clay); this latter, as may be supposed, is soon obliterated, and requires therefore to be constantly renewed." We are further informed that before shaving an infant, "the mother usually moistens the head with milk which she presses from her breast," while with older children and adults water serves for this purpose (498. 114). The "heroic treatment," meted out by primitive peoples to children, as they approach puberty, has been discussed in detail by Ploss, Kulischer, Daniels. Religion and the desire to attract the affection or attention of the other sex seem to lie very close to the fundamental reasons for many of these practices, as Westermarck points out in his chapter on the "Means of Attraction." (166. 165-212). A divine origin is often ascribed to these strange mutilations. "The Australian Dieyerie, on being asked why he knocks out two front teeth of the upper jaw of his children, can answer only that, when they were created, the Muranaura, a good spirit, thus disfigured the first child, and, pleased at the sight, commanded that the like should be done to every male or female child for ever after. The Pelew Islanders believe that the perforation of the septum of the nose is necessary for winning eternal bliss; and the Nicaraguans say that their ancestors were instructed by the gods to flatten their children's heads. Again, in Fiji it is supposed that the custom of tattooing is in conformity with the appointment of the god Dengei, and that its neglect is punished after death. A similar idea prevails among the Kingsmill Islanders and Ainos; and the Greenlanders formerly believed that the heads of those girls who had not been deformed by long stitches made with a needle and black thread between the eyes, on the forehead, and upon the chin, would be turned into train tubs and placed under the lamps in heaven, in the land of souls" (165. 170, 171). Were all the details of the fairy-tales true, which abound in every land, the cruelty meted out to the child suspected of being a changeling would surpass human belief. Hartland enumerates the following procedures as having been in use, according to legend, to determine the justice of the suspicion: Flinging the child on a dung-heap; putting in the oven; holding a red-hot shovel before the child's face; heating a poker red-hot to mark a cross on its forehead; heating the tongs red-hot to seize it by the nose; throwing on, or into, the fire; suspending over the fire in a pot; throwing the child naked on the glowing embers at midnight; throwing into lake, river, or sea (258. 120-123). These and many more figure in story, and not a few of them seem to have been actually practised upon the helpless creatures, who, like the heathen, were not supposed to call for pity or love. Mr. Hartland cites a case of actual attempt to treat a supposed changeling in a summary manner, which occurred no later than May 17,1884, in the town of Clonmel, Ireland. In the absence of the mother of a three-year-old child (fancied by the neighbours to be a changeling), two women "entered her house and placed the child naked on a hot shovel, 'under the impression that it would break the charm,'"--the only result being, of course, that the infant was very severely burned (258. 121). On the other hand, children of true Christian origin, infants who afterwards become saints, are subject to all sorts of torment at the hands of Satan and his angels, at times, but come forth, like the "children" of the fiery furnace in the time of Daniel, in imitation of whose story many of the hagiological legends have doubtless been put forth, unscathed from fire, boiling water, roaring torrents, and other perilous or deadly situations (191. 9,122). CHAPTER VII. THE BRIGHT SIDE OF CHILD-LIFE: PARENTAL AFFECTION. These are my jewels.--_Cornelia (mother of the Gracchi)_. A simple child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?--_Wordsworth_. Children always turn towards the light.--_Hare_. That I could bask in Childhood's sun And dance o'er Childhood's roses!--_Praed_. Grief fills the room up of my absent child.--_Shakespeare_. _Parental Love_. In his essay on _The Pleasures of Home_, Sir John Lubbock makes the following statement (494. 102):-- "In the _Origin of Civilization_, I have given many cases showing how small a part family affection plays in savage life. Here I will only mention one case in illustration. The Algonquin (North America) language contained no word for 'to love,' so that when the missionaries translated the Bible into it they were obliged to invent one. What a life, and what a language, without love!" How unfortunately inaccurate, how entirely unjustifiable, such a declaration is, may be seen from the study of the words for love in two of the Algonkian dialects,--Cree and Chippeway,--which Dr. Brinton has made in one of his essays, _The Conception of Love in some American Languages_. Let us quote the _ipsissima verba_ (411. 415):-- (1) "In both of them the ordinary words for love and friendship are derived from the same monosyllabic root, _sak_. On this, according to the inflectional laws of the dialects, are built up the terms for the love of man to woman, a lover, love in the abstract, a friend, friendship, and the like. It is also occasionally used by the missionaries for the love of man to God and of God to man." (2) "The Cree has several words which are confined to parental and filial love, and to that which the gods have for men." (3) "In the Chippeway there is a series of expressions for family love and friendship which in their origin carry us back to the same psychological process which developed the Latin _amare_ from the Sanscrit _sam_." (4) "The highest form of love, however, that which embraces all men and all beings, that whose conception is conveyed in the Greek [Greek: _agapæ_], we find expressed in both the dialects by derivatives from a root different from any I have mentioned. It is in its dialectic forms _kis_, _keche_, or _kiji_, and in its origin it is an intensive interjectional expression of pleasure, indicative of what gives joy. Concretely, it signifies what is completed, permanent, powerful, perfected, perfect. As friendship and love yield the most exalted pleasure, from this root the natives drew a fund of words to express fondness, attachment, hospitality, charity; and from the same worthy source they selected that adjective [_kije, kise_], which they applied to the greatest and most benevolent divinity." Surely this people cannot be charged with a lack of words for love, whose language enables them so well to express its every shade of meaning. Nay, they have even seen from afar that "God is Love," as their concept of Michabo tells us they had already perceived that He was "Light." _Motherhood and Fatherhood_. The nobility and the sanctity of motherhood have found recognition among the most primitive of human races. A Mussulman legend of Adam and Eve represents the angel Gabriel as saying to the mother of mankind after the expulsion from Paradise: "Thou shalt be rewarded for all the pains of motherhood, and the death of a woman in child-bed shall be accounted as martyrdom" (547. 38). The natives of the Highlands of Borneo hold that to a special hereafter, known as "Long Julan," go those who have suffered a violent death (been killed in battle, or by the falling of a tree, or some like accident), and women who die in child-birth; which latter become the wives of those who have died in battle. In this Paradise everybody is rich, with no need for labour, as all wants are supplied without work (475. 199). Somewhat similar beliefs prevailed in ancient Mexico and among the Eskimo. Even so with the father. Zoroaster said in the book of the law: "I name the married before the unmarried, him who has a household before him who has none, the father of a family before him who is childless" (125. I. 108). Dr. Winternitz observes of the Jews: "To possess children was always the greatest good-fortune that could befall a Jew. It was deemed the duty of every man to beget a son; the Rabbis, indeed, considered a childless man as dead. To the Cabbalists of the Middle Ages, the man who left no posterity behind him seemed one who had not fulfilled his mission in this world, and they believed that he had to return once more to earth and complete it" (385. 5). Ploss (125. I. 108) and Lallemand (286. 21) speak in like terms of this children-loving people. The Talmud ranks among the dead "the poor, the leprous, the blind, and those who have no children," and the wives of the patriarchs of old cheerfully adopted as their own the children born to their husband by slave or concubine. To be the father of a large family, the king of a numerous people, was the ideal of the true Israelite. So, also, was it in India and China. Ploss and Haberlandt have a good deal to say of the ridicule lavished upon old maids and bachelors among the various peoples and races, and Rink has recorded not a few tales on this head from the various tribes of the Eskimo--in these stories, which are of a more or less trifling and _outré_ character, bachelors are unmercifully derided (525. 465). With the Chippeways, also, the bachelor is a butt for wit and sarcasm. A tale of the Mississagas of Skugog represents a bachelor as "having gone off to a certain spot and built a lot of little 'camps.' He built fires, etc., and passed his time trying to make people believe he was not alone. He used to laugh and talk, and pretend that he had people living there." Even the culture-heroes Gluskap and Näniboju are derided in some of the tales for not being married (166. 376). According to Barbosa (67. 161), a writer of the early part of the sixteenth century, the Nairs, a Dravidian people of the Malabar coast (523. 159), believed that "a maiden who refused to marry and remained a virgin would be shut out of Paradise." The Fijians excluded from Paradise all bachelors; they were smashed to pieces by the god Nangganangga (166. 137). In the early chronicles and mythic lore of many peoples there are tales of childless couples, who, in their quaint fashion, praying to the gods, have been blest with the desired offspring. There is, however, no story more pathetic, or more touching, than the Russian folk-tale cited by Ralston, in which we read concerning an old childless couple (520. 176): "At last the husband went into the forest, felled wood, and made a cradle. Into this his wife laid one of the logs he had cut, and began swinging it, crooning the while a tune beginning:-- 'Swing, blockie dear, swing.' After a little time, behold! the block already had legs. The old woman rejoiced greatly, and began swinging anew, and went on swinging until the block became a babe." The rude prayers and uncouth aspirations of barbarous and savage peoples, these crude ideas of the uncivilized races of men, when sounded in their deepest depths, are the folk-expression of the sacredness of the complete family, the forerunners of the poet's prayer:-- "Seigneur! préservez-moi, préservez ceux que j'aime, Frères, parents, amis, et ennemis même Dans le mal triomphants, De jamais voir, Seigneur! l'été sans fleurs vermeilles, La cage sans oiseaux, la ruche sans abeilles, La maison sans enfants." The affection of the ancient Egyptians for their children is noted by Erman. The child is called "mine," "the only one," and is "loved as the eyes of its parents"; it is their "beauty," or "wealth." The son is the "fair-come" or "welcome"; at his birth "wealth comes." At the birth of a girl it is said "beauty comes," and she is called "the lady of her father" (441. 216-230). Interesting details of Egyptian child-life and education may be read in the recently edited text of Amélineau (179), where many maxims of conduct and behaviour are given. Indeed, in the naming of children we have some evidence of motherly and fatherly affection, some indication of the gentle ennobling influence of this emotion over language and linguistic expression. True is it all over the world:-- Liebe Kinder haben viele Namen. [Dear children have many names.] _The Dead Child_. Parental affection is nowhere more strongly brought out than in the lamentations for the dead among some of the lowest tribes of Californian Indians. Of the Yokaia, Mr. Powers tells us (519. 166):-- "It is their custom to 'feed the spirits of the dead' for the space of one year, by going daily to places which they were accustomed to frequent while living, where they sprinkle piñole upon the ground. A Yokaia mother who has lost her babe goes every day for a year to some place where her little one played while alive, or to the spot where its body was burned, and milks her breasts into the air. This is accompanied by plaintive mourning and weeping and piteous calling upon her little one to return, and sometimes she sings a hoarse and melancholy chant, and dances with a wild, ecstatic swaying of the body." Of the Miwok the same authority says:-- "The squaws wander off into the forest, wringing their arms piteously, beating the air, with eyes upturned, and adjuring the departed one, whom they tenderly call 'dear child,' or 'dear cousin' (whether a relative or not), to return." Of the Niskwaili Indians, of the State of Washington, Dr. Gibbs observes (457. 205):-- "They go out alone to some place a little distant from the lodge or camp, and in a loud, sobbing voice, repeat a sort of stereotyped formula, as, for instance, a mother on the loss of her child:-- 'Ah seahb! shed-da bud-dah ah-ta-bud! ad-de-dah! Ah chief my child dead! alas!' When in dreams they see any of their deceased friends this lamentation is renewed." Very beautiful and touching in the extreme is the conduct of the Kabinapek of California:-- "A peculiarity of this tribe is the intense sorrow with which they mourn for their children when dead. Their grief is immeasurable. They not only burn up everything that the baby ever touched, but everything that they possess, so that they absolutely begin life over again--naked as they were born, without an article of property left" (519. 206). Besides the custom of "feeding the spirits of the dead," just noticed, there exists also among certain of the Californian Indians the practice of "whispering a message into the ear of the dead." Mr. Powers has preserved for us the following most beautiful speech, which, he tells us, was whispered into the ear of a child by a woman of the Karok ere the first shovelful of earth was cast upon it (519. 34): "O, darling, my dear one, good-bye! Never more shall your little hands softly clasp these old withered cheeks, and your pretty feet shall print the moist earth around my cabin never more. You are going on a long journey in the spirit-land, and you must go alone, for none of us can go with you. Listen then to the words which I speak to you and heed them well, for I speak the truth. In the spirit-land there are two roads. One of them is a path of roses, and it leads to the Happy Western Land beyond the great water, where you shall see your dear mother. The other is a path strewn with thorns and briars, and leads, I know not whither, to an evil and dark land, full of deadly serpents, where you wander forever. O, dear child, choose you the path of roses, which leads to the Happy Western Land, a fair and sunny land, beautiful as the morning. And may the great Kareya [the Christ of these aborigines] help you to walk in it to the end, for your little tender feet must walk alone. O, darling, my dear one, good-bye!" This whispering to the dead is found in other parts of the world. Mr. Hose, describing the funeral of a boy, which he witnessed in Borneo, says (475. 198):-- "As the lid of the coffin was being closed, an old man came out on the verandah of the house with a large gong (Tetawak) and solemnly beat it for several seconds. The chief, who was sitting near, informed me that this was done always before closing the lid, that the relations of the deceased might know that the spirit was coming to join them; and upon his arrival in Apo Leggan [Hades] they would probably greet him in such terms as these: 'O grandchild, it was for you the gong was beating, which we heard just now; what have you brought? How are they all up above? Have they sent any messages?'" The new arrival then delivers the messages entrusted to him, and gives the cigarettes--which, rolled up in a banana-leaf, have been placed in his hand--as proof of the truth of what he says. These cigarettes retain the smell of the hand that made them, which the dead relations are thought to be able to recognize. _Motherhood and Infanticide_. The intimate relationship recognized as existing between the infant and its mother has been among many primitive peoples a frequent cause of infanticide, or has been held at least to excuse and justify that crime. Of the natives of Ashanti, Ellis says:-- "Should the mother die in childbirth, and the child itself be born alive, it is customary to bury it with the mother.... The idea seems to be that the child belongs to the mother, and is sent to accompany her to _Srahmanadzi_ [ghost-land], so that her _srahman_ [ghost] may not grieve for it" (438. 234). Post states that in Unyóro, when the mother dies in childbirth, the infant is killed; among the Hottentots it was exposed (if the mother died during the time of suckling, the child was buried alive with her); among the Damara, "when poor women die and leave children behind them, they are often buried with the mother" (127. I. 287). According to Collins and Barrington, among certain native tribes of Australia, "when the mother of a suckling dies, if no adoptive parents can be found, the child is placed alive in the arms of the corpse and buried together with it" (125. II. 589). Of the Banians of Bombay, Niebuhr tells us that children under eighteen months old are buried when the mother dies, the corpse of the latter being burned at ebb tide on the shore of the sea, so that the next tide may wash away the ashes (125. II. 581). In certain parts of Borneo: "If a mother died in childbirth, it was the former practice to strap the living babe to its dead mother, and bury them both, together. 'Why should it live?' say they. 'It has been the death of its mother; now she is gone, who will suckle it?'" (481 (1893). 133). In certain parts of Australia, "children who have caused their mother great pain in birth are put to death" (127. I. 288), and among the Sakalavas of Madagascar, the child of a woman dying in childbed is buried alive with her, the reason given being "that the child may thus be punished for causing the death of its mother" (125. II. 590). As has been noted elsewhere, not a few primitive peoples have considered that death, in consequence of giving birth to a child, gained for the mother entrance into Paradise. But with some more or less barbarous tribes quite a different idea prevails. Among the Ewe negroes of the slave coast of West Africa, women dying in childbirth become blood-seeking demons; so also in certain parts of Borneo, and on the Sumatran island of Nias, where they torment the living, plague women who are with child, and kill the embryo in the womb, thus causing abortion; in Java, they make women in labour crazy; in Amboina, the Uliase and Kei Islands, and Gilolo, they become evil spirits, torturing women in labour, and seeking to prevent their successful delivery; in Gilolo, the Kei group, and Celebes, they even torment men, seeking to emasculate them, in revenge for the misfortune which has overtaken them (397.19). Of the Doracho Indians of Central America, the following statement is made: "When a mother, who is still suckling her child, dies, the latter is placed alive upon her breast and burned with her, so that in the future life she may continue to suckle it with her own milk" (125. II. 589). Powers remarks concerning the Korusi (Patwin) Indians of California (519. 222): "When a woman died, leaving her infant very young, the friends shook it to death in a skin or blanket. This was done even with a half-breed child." Of the Nishinam Indians, the same authority informs us: "When a mother dies, leaving a very young infant, custom allows the relatives to destroy it. This is generally done by the grandmother, aunt, or other near relative, who holds the poor innocent in her arms, and, while it is seeking the maternal fountain, presses it to her breast until it is smothered. We must not judge them too harshly for this. They knew nothing of bottle nurture, patent nipples, or any kind of milk whatever, other than the human" (519. 328). Among the Wintun, also, young infants are known to have been buried when the mother had died shortly after confinement (519. 232). The Eskimo, Letourneau informs us, were wont to bury the little child with its dead mother, for they believed that unless this were done, the mother herself would call from _Killo_, the other world, for the child she had borne (100. 147, 148). _The Dead Mother._ To none of the saintly dead, to none of our race who have entered upon the life beyond the grave, is it more meet to pray than to the mother; folk-faith is strong in her power to aid and bless those left behind on earth. That sympathetic relation existing between mother and child when both are living, is often believed to exist when one has departed into the other world. By the name _wa-hdé ca-pi_, the Dakota Indians call the feeling the (living) mother has for her absent (living) child, and they assert that "mothers feel peculiar pain in their breasts when anything of importance happens to their absent children, or when about to hear from them. This feeling is regarded as an omen." That the mother, after death, should feel the same longing, and should return to help or to nourish her child, is an idea common to the folk-belief of many lands, as Ploss (125. II. 589) and Zmigrodzki have noted. "Amid the song of the angels," says Zmigrodzki (174. 142), "the plaint of her child on earth reaches the mother's ear, and pierces her heart like a knife. Descend to earth she must and does." In Brittany she is said to go to God Himself and obtain permission to visit earth. Her flight will be all the easier, if, before burial, her relatives have loosed her hair. In various parts of Germany and Switzerland, the belief is that for six weeks the dead mother will come at night to suckle her child, and a pair of slippers or shoes are always put into the coffin with the corpse, for the mother has to travel over thistles, thorns, and sharp stones to reach her child. Widespread over Europe is this belief in the return of the mother, who has died in giving life to her little one. Till cock-crow in the morning she may suckle it, wash it, fondle it; the doors open of themselves for her. If the child is being well treated by its relatives, the mother rejoices, and soon departs; but if it has been neglected, she attends to it, and waits till the last moment, making audible her unwillingness to depart. If the neglect continues, the mother descends to earth once more, and, taking the child with her, returns to heaven for good. And when the mother with her offspring approaches the celestial gates, they fly wide open to receive them. Never, in the folk-faith, was entrance readier granted, never was Milton's concept more completely realized, when "Heaven open'd wide Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound, On golden hinges moving." In a modern Greek folk-song three youths plot to escape from Hades, and a young mother, eager to return to earth to suckle her infant child, persuades them to allow her to accompany them. Charon, however, suddenly appears upon the scene and seizes them just as they are about to flee. The beautiful young woman then appeals to him: "Let go of my hair, Charon, and take me by the hand. If thou wilt but give my child to drink, I will never try to escape from thee again" (125. II. 589). The watchful solicitude of the mother in heaven over her children on earth appears also in the Basque country (505. 73), and Ralston, noting its occurrence in Russia, observes (520. 265):-- "Appeals for aid to a dead parent are of frequent occurrence in the songs still sung by the Russian peasantry at funerals or over graves; especially in those in which orphans express their grief, calling upon the grave to open, and the dead to appear and listen and help. So in the Indian story of Punchkin, the seven hungry, stepmother-persecuted princesses go out every day and sit by their dead mother's tomb, and cry, and say, 'Oh, mother, mother, cannot you see your poor children, how unhappy we are,' etc., until a tree grows up out of the grave laden with fruits for their relief. So, in the German tale, Cinderella is aided by the white bird, which dwells in the hazel-tree growing out of her mother's grave." Crude and savage, but born of a like faith in the power of the dead mother, is the inhuman practice of the people of the Congo, where, it is said, "the son often kills his mother, in order to secure the assistance of her soul, now a formidable spirit" (388. 81). Heavy upon her offspring weighs the curse of a mother. Ralston, speaking of the Russian folk-tales, says (520. 363):-- "Great stress is laid in the skazkas and legends upon the terrible power of a parent's curse. The 'hasty word' of a father or a mother will condemn even an innocent child to slavery among devils, and, when it has once been uttered, it is irrevocable," The same authority states, however, that "infants which have been cursed by their mothers before their birth, or which are suffocated during their sleep, or which die from any causes unchristened or christened by a drunken priest, become the prey of demons," and in order to rescue the soul of such a babe from the powers of evil "its mother must spend three nights in a church, standing within a circle traced by the hand of a priest; when the cocks crow on the third morning the demons will give her back her dead child." _Fatherly Affection._ That the father, as well as the mother, feels for his child after death, and appears to him, is an idea found in fairy-story and legend, but nowhere so sweetly expressed as in the beautiful Italian belief that "the kind, dear spirits of the dead relatives and parents come out of the tombs to bring presents to the children of the family,--whatever their little hearts most desire." The proverb,--common at Aci,--_Veni mè patri?--Appressu_, "Is my father coming?--By and by," used "when an expected friend makes himself long waited for," is said to have the following origin:-- "There was once a little orphan boy, who, in his anxiety to see his dead father once again, went out into the night when the kind spirits walk, and, in spite of all the fearful beating of his little heart, asked of every one whom he met: _Veni mè patri?_ and each one answered: _Appressu_. As he had the courage to hold out to the end, he finally had the consolation of seeing his father and having from him caresses and sweetmeats" (449. 327). Rev. Mr. Grill speaks highly of the affection for children of the Polynesians. Following is the translation of a song composed and sung by Rakoia, a warrior and chief of Mangaia, in the Hervey Archipelago, on the death of his eldest daughter Enuataurere, by drowning, at the age of fifteen (459. 32):-- "My first-born; where art thou? Oh that my wild grief for thee, Pet daughter, could be assuaged! Snatched away in time of peace. Thy delight was to swim, Thy head encircled with flowers, Interwoven with fragrant laurel And the spotted-leaved jessamine. Whither is my pet gone-- She who absorbed all my love-- She whom I had hoped To fill with ancestral wisdom? Red and yellow pandanus drupes Were sought out in thy morning rambles, Nor was the sweet-scented myrtle forgotten. Sometimes thou didst seek out Fugitives perishing in rocks and caves. Perchance one said to thee, 'Be mine, be mine, forever; For my love to thee is great.' Happy the parent of such a child! Alas for Enuataurere! Alas for Enuataurere! Thou wert lovely as a fairy! A husband for Enuataurere! Each envious youth exclaims: 'Would that she were mine!' Enuataurere now trips o'er the ruddy ocean. Thy path is the foaming crest of the billow. Weep for Enuataurere-- For Enuataurere." This song, though, published in 1892, seems to have been composed about the year 1815, at a _fête_ in honour of the deceased. Mr. Gill justly calls attention to the beauty of the last stanza but one, where "the spirit of the girl is believed to follow the sun, tripping lightly over the crest of the billows, and sinking with the sun into the underworld (Avaiki), the home of disembodied spirits." Among others of the lower races of men, we find the father, expressing his grief at the loss of a child, as tenderly and as sincerely as, if less poetically than, the Polynesian chief, though often the daughter is not so well honoured in death as is the son. Our American Indian tribes furnish not a few instances of such affectionate lamentation. Much too little has been made of the bright side of child-life among the lower races. But from even the most primitive of tribes all traces of the golden age of childhood are not absent. Powers, speaking of the Yurok Indians of California, notes "the happy cackle of brown babies tumbling on their heads with the puppies" (519. 51), and of the Wintun, in the wild-clover season, "their little ones frolicked and tumbled on their heads in the soft sunshine, or cropped the clover on all-fours like a tender calf" (519. 231). Of the Pawnee Indians, Irving says (478. 214): "In the farther part of the building about a dozen naked children, with faces almost hid by their tangled hair, were rolling and wrestling upon the floor, occasionally causing the lodge to re-echo with their childish glee." Mr. im Thurn, while among the Indians of Guiana, had his attention "especially attracted by one merry little fellow of about five years old, whom I first saw squatting, as on the top of a hill, on top of a turtle-shell twice as big as himself, with his knees drawn up to his chin, and solemnly smoking a long bark cigarette" (477. 39). Of the wild Indians of the West, Colonel Dodge tells us: "The little children are much petted and spoiled; tumbling and climbing, unreproved, over the father and his visitors in the lodge, and never seem to be an annoyance or in the way" (432. 189). Mr. MacCauley, who visited the Seminole Indians of Florida, says: "I remember seeing, one day, one jolly little fellow, lolling and rollicking on his mother's back, kicking her and tugging away at the strings of beads which hung temptingly between her shoulders, while the mother, hand-free, bore on one shoulder a log, which, a moment afterwards, still keeping her baby on her back as she did so, she chopped into small wood for the camp-fire." (496. 498). There is a Zuñi story of a young maiden, "who, strolling along, saw a beautiful little baby boy bathing in the waters of a spring; she was so pleased with his beauty that she took him home, and told her mother that she had found a lovely little boy" (358. 544). Unfortunately, it turned out to be a serpent in the end. _Kissing_. As Darwin and other authorities have remarked, there are races of men upon the face of the earth, in America, in Africa, in Asia, and in the Island world, who, when first seen of white discoverers, knew not what it meant to kiss (499. 139). The following statement will serve for others than the people to whom it refers: "The only kiss of which the Annamite woman is cognizant is to place her nose against the man's cheek, and to rub it gently up and down, with a kind of canine sniff." Mantegazza tells us that Raden-Saleh, a "noble and intelligent" Javanese painter, told him that, "like all Malays, he considered there was more tenderness in the contact of the noses than of the lips," and even the Japanese, the English of the extreme Orient, were once ignorant of the art of kissing (499. 139). Great indeed is the gulf between the Javanese artist and the American, Benjamin West, who said: "A kiss from my mother made me a painter." To a kiss from the Virgin Mother of Christ, legend says, St. Chrysostom owed his "golden mouth." The story runs thus: "St. Chrysostom was a dull boy at school, and so disturbed was he by the ridicule of his fellows, that he went into a church to pray for help to the Virgin. A voice came from the image: 'Kiss me on the mouth, and thou shalt be endowed with all learning.' He did this, and when he returned to his schoolfellows they saw a golden circle about his mouth, and his eloquence and brilliancy astounded them" (347. 621). Among the natives of the Andaman Islands, Mr. Man informs us, "Kisses are considered indicative of affection, but are only bestowed upon infants" (498. 79). _Tears_. "Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some divine despair, Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes, In looking at the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more." Thus sang the great English laureate, and to the simple folk--the treasure-keepers of the lore of the ages--his words mean much. Pliny, the Elder, in his _Natural History_, makes this statement: "Man alone at the very moment of his birth, cast naked upon the naked earth, does she [Nature] abandon to cries and lamentations;" the writer of the _Wisdom of Solomon_, in the Apocrypha, expresses himself in like manner: "When I was born, I drew in the common air, and fell upon the earth, which is of like nature, and the first voice I uttered was crying, as all others do." Burton, in his _Anatomy of Melancholy_, bluntly resumes both: "He is born naked, and falls a-whining at the first." The Spaniards have a proverb, brusque and cynical:-- "Des que naeí lloré, y cada dia nace porqué. [I wept as soon as I was born, and every day explains why.]" A quaint legend of the Jewish Rabbis, however, accounts for children's tears in this fashion:-- "Beside the child unborn stand two angels, who not only teach it the whole Tora [the traditional interpretation of the Mosaic law], but also let it see all the joys of Paradise and all the torments of Hell. But, since it may not be that a child should come into the world endowed with such knowledge, ere it is born into the life of men an angel strikes it on the upper lip, and all wisdom vanishes. The dimple on the upper lip is the mark of the stroke, and this is why new-born babes cry and weep" (385. 6). Curiously enough, as if to emphasize the relativity of folk-explanations, a Mussulman legend states that it is "the touch of Satan" that renders the child "susceptible of sin from its birth," and that is the reason why "all children cry aloud when they are born" (547. 249). Henderson tells us that in the north and south of England "nurses think it lucky for the child to cry at its baptism; they say that otherwise the baby shows that it is too good to live." But there are those also who believe that "this cry betokens the pangs of the new birth," while others hold that it is "the voice of the Evil Spirit as he is driven out by the baptismal water" (469. 16). Among the untaught peasantry of Sicily, the sweet story goes that "Mary sends an angel from Heaven one day every week to play with the souls of the unbaptized children [in hell]; and when he goes away, he takes with him, in a golden chalice, all the tears which the little innocents have shed all through the week, and pours them into the sea, where they become pearls" (449. 326). Here again we have a borrowing from an older myth. An Eastern legend has it that when Eden was lost, Eve, the mother of all men, wept bitterly, and "her tears, which flowed into the ocean, were changed into costly pearls, while those which fell on the earth brought forth all beautiful flowers" (547. 34). In the classic myth, the pearl is said to have been born of the tears of Venus, just as a Greek legend makes _ælektron_ come from the tears of the sisters of Phaëthon, the daughters of the sun, and Teutonic story turns the tears of the goddess Freyja into drops of gold (462. III. 1218). In the _Kalevala_ we read how, after the wonderful harping of Wäinämöinen, the great Finnish hero, which enchanted beasts, birds, and even fishes, was over, the musician shed tears of gratitude, and these, trickling down his body and through his many garments, were transmuted into pearls of the sea. Shakespeare, in _King Henry V_., makes Exeter say to the King,-- "But all my mother came into mine eyes, And gave me up to tears,"-- and the tears of the mother-god figures in the folk-lore of many lands. The vervain, or verbena, was known as the "Tears of Isis," as well as the "Tears of Juno,"--a name given also to an East Indian grass (_Coix lacryma_). The lily of the valley, in various parts of Europe, is called "The Virgin's Tears," "Tears of Our Lady," "Tears of St. Mary." Zmigrodzki notes the following belief as current in Germany: "If the mother weeps too much, her dead child comes to her at night, naked and trembling, with its little shirt in its hand, and says: 'Ah, dearest mother, do not weep! See! I have no rest in the grave; I cannot put on my little shirt, it is all wet with your tears.'" In Cracow, the common saying is, "God forbid that the tears of the mother should fall upon the corpse of her child." In Brittany the folk-belief is that "the dead child has to carry water up a hill in a little bucket, and the tears of the mother increase its weight" (174. 141). The Greeks fabled Eos, the dawn-goddess, to have been so disconsolate at the death of Memnon, her son, that she wept for him every morning, and her tears are the dewdrops found upon the earth. In the mythology of the Samoans of the Pacific, the Heaven-god, father of all things, and the Earth-goddess, mother of all things, once held each other in firm embrace, but were separated in the long ago. Heaven, however, retains his love for earth, and, mourning for her through the long nights, he drops many tears upon her bosom,--these, men call dewdrops. The natives of Tahiti have a like explanation for the thick-falling rain-drops that dimple the surface of the ocean, heralding an approaching storm,--they are tears of the heaven-god. The saying is:-- "Thickly falls the small rain on the face of the sea, They are not drops of rain, but they are tears of Oro." (Tylor, Early Hist. of Mankind, p. 334.) An Indian tribe of California believe that "the rain is the falling tears of Indians sick in heaven," and they say that it was "the tears of all mankind, weeping for the loss of a good young Indian," that caused the deluge, in which all were drowned save a single couple (440. 488). Oriental legend relates, that, in his utter loneliness after the expulsion from Paradise, "Adam shed such an abundance of tears that all beasts and birds satisfied their thirst therewith; but some of them sunk into the earth, and, as they still contained some of the juices of his food in Paradise, produced the most fragrant trees and spices." We are further told that "the tears flowed at last in such torrents from Adam's eyes, that those of his right started the Euphrates, while those of his left set the Tigris in motion" (547. 34). These are some of the answers of the folk to the question of Shakespeare:-- "What's the matter, That this distempered messenger of wet, The many-coloured Iris, rounds thine eye?" And many more are there that run along the lines of Scott's epigrammatic summation:-- "A child will weep a bramble's smart, A maid to see her sparrow part, A stripling for a woman's heart: But woe betide a country, when She sees the tears of bearded men." _Cradles._ According to Mr. Powers: "The conspicuous painstaking which the Modok squaw expends upon her baby-basket is an index of her maternal love. And indeed the Modok are strongly attached to their offspring,--a fact abundantly attested by many sad and mournful spectacles witnessed in the closing scenes of the war of 1873. On the other hand, a California squaw often carelessly sets her baby in a deep, conical basket, the same in which she carries her household effects, leaving him loose and liable to fall out. If she makes a baby-basket, it is totally devoid of ornament; and one tribe, the Miwok, contemptuously call it 'the dog's nest.' It is among Indians like these that we hear of infanticide" (519. 257). The subject of children's cradles, baby-baskets, baby-boards, and the methods of manipulating and carrying the infant in connection therewith, have been treated of in great detail by Ploss (325), Pokrovski, and Mason (306), the second of whom has written especially of the cradles in use among the various peoples of European and Asiatic Eussia, with a general view of those employed by other races, the last with particular reference to the American aborigines. The work is illustrated, as is also that of Ploss, with many engravings. Professor Mason thus briefly sums up the various purposes which the different species of cradle subserve (306. 161-162):-- "(1) It is a mere nest for the helpless infant. "(2) It is a bed so constructed and manipulated as to enable the child to sleep either in a vertical or a horizontal position. "(3) It is a vehicle in which the child is to be transported, chiefly on the mother's back by means of a strap over the forehead, but frequently dangling like a bundle at the saddle-bow. This function, of course, always modifies the structure of the cradle, and, indeed, may have determined its very existence among nomadic tribes. "(4) It is indeed a cradle, to be hung upon the limbs to rock, answering literally to the nursery-rhyme:-- 'Rock-a-bye baby upon the tree-top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock, When the bough bends, the cradle will fall, Down will come baby, and cradle, and all.' "(5) It is also a playhouse and baby-jumper. On many--nearly all--specimens may be seen dangling objects to evoke the senses, foot-rests by means of which the little one may exercise its legs, besides other conveniences anticipatory of the child's needs. "(6) The last set of functions to which the frame is devoted are those relating to what we may call the graduation of infancy, when the papoose crawls out of its chrysalis little by little, and then abandons it altogether. The child is next seen standing partly on the mother's cincture and partly hanging to her neck, or resting like a pig in a poke within the folds of her blanket." Professor Mason sees in the cradle-board or frame "the child of geography and of meteorology," and in its use "a beautiful illustration of Bastian's theory of 'great areas.'" In the frozen North, for example, "the Eskimo mother carries her infant in the hood of her parka whenever it is necessary to take it abroad. If she used a board or a frame, the child would perish with the cold." The varieties of cradles are almost endless. We have the "hood" (sometimes the "boot") of the Eskimo; the birch-bark cradle (or hammock) of several of the northern tribes (as in Alaska, or Cape Breton); the "moss-bag" of the eastern Tinné, the use of which has now extended to the employés of the Hudson's Bay Company; the "trough-cradle" of the Bilqula; the Chinook cradle, with its apparatus for head-flattening; the trowel-shaped cradle of the Oregon coast; the wicker-cradle of the Hupas; the Klamath cradle of wicker and rushes; the Pomo cradle of willow rods and wicker-work, with rounded portion for the child to sit in; the Mohave cradle, with ladder-frame, having a bed of shredded bark for the child to lie upon; the Yaqui cradle of canes, with soft bosses for pillows; the Nez Percé cradle-board with buckskin sides, and the Sahaptian, Ute, and Kootenay cradles which resemble it; the Moki cradle-frame of coarse wicker, with an awning; the Navajo cradle, with wooden hood and awning of dressed buckskin; the rude Comanche cradle, made of a single stiff piece of black-bear skin; the Blackfoot cradle of lattice-work and leather; the shoe-shaped Sioux cradle, richly adorned with coloured bead-work; the Iroquois cradle (now somewhat modernized), with "the back carved in flowers and birds, and painted blue, red, green, and yellow." Among the Araucanians of Chili we meet with a cradle which "seems to be nothing more than a short ladder, with cross-bars," to which the child is lashed. In the tropical regions and in South America we find the habit of "carrying the children in the shawl or sash, and bedding them in the hammock." Often, as in various parts of Africa, the woman herself forms the cradle, the child clinging astride her neck or hips, with no bands or attachments whatever. Of woman as carrier much may be read in the entertaining and instructive volume of Professor Mason (113). The primitive cradle, bed, and carrier, was the mother. _Father and Child._ With many of the more primitive races, the idea so tritely expressed in our familiar saying, "He is a chip of the old block,"--_patris est filius_, "he is the son of his father,"--and so beautifully wrought out by Shakespeare,-- "Behold, my lords, Although the print be little, the whole matter And copy of the father: eye, nose, lip, The trick of his frown, his forehead; nay, the valley, The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; his smiles, The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger," has a strong hold, making itself felt in a thousand ways and fashions. The many rites and ceremonies, ablutions, fastings, abstentions from certain foods and drinks, which the husband has to undergo and submit to among certain more or less uncivilized peoples, shortly before, or after, or upon, the occasion of the birth of a child, or while his wife is pregnant, arise, in part at least, from a firm belief in the influence of parent upon child and the intimate sympathy between them even while the latter is yet unborn. Of the Indians of British Guiana, Mr. im Thurn says, they believe that if the father should eat the flesh of the capybara, the child would have large protruding teeth like that animal, while if he should eat that of the labba, the child's skin would be spotted. "Apparently there is also some idea that for the father to eat strong food, to wash, to smoke, to handle weapons, would have the same result as if the new-born baby ate such food, washed, smoked, or played with edged tools." The connection between the father and the child, the author thinks, is thought by these Indians to be much closer than that existing between the mother and her offspring (477. 218). Much has been written about, and many explanations suggested for, this ancient and widespread custom. The investigations of recent travellers seem to have cast some light upon this difficult problem in ethnology. Dr. Karl von den Steinen (536. 331-337) tells us that the native tribes of Central Brazil not only believe that the child is "the son of the father," but that it _is_ the father. To quote his own significant words: "The father is the patient in so far as he feels himself one with the new-born child. It is not very difficult to see how he arrives at this conclusion. Of the human egg-cell and the Graafian follicle the aborigine is not likely to know anything, nor can he know that the mother lodges the thing corresponding to the eggs of birds. For him the man is the bearer of the eggs, which, to speak plainly and clearly, lays in the mother, and which she hatches during the period of pregnancy. In the linguistic material at hand we see how this very natural attempt to explain generation finds expression in the words for 'father', 'testicle,' and 'egg.' In Guarani _tub_ means 'father, spawn, eggs,' _tupia_ 'eggs,' and even _tup-i_, the name of the people (the _-i_ is diminutive) really signifies 'little father,' or 'eggs,' or 'children,' as you please; the 'father' is 'egg,' and the 'child' is 'the little father.' Even the language declares that the 'child' is nothing else than the 'father.' Among the Tupi the father was also accustomed to take a new name after the birth of each new son; to explain this, it is in no way necessary to assume that the 'soul' of the father proceeds each time into the son. In Karaïbi we find exactly the same idea; _imu_ is 'egg,' or 'testicles,' or 'child.'" Among other cognate tribes we find the same thoughts:-- In the Ipurucoto language _imu_ signifies "egg." In the Bakaïrí language _imu_ signifies "testicles." In the Tamanako language _imu_ signifies "father." In the Makusi language _imu_ signifies "semen." In several dialects _imu-ru_ signifies "child." Dr. von den Steinen further observes: "Among the Bakaïrí 'child' and 'small' are both _iméri_, 'the child of the chief,' _píma iméri_; we can translate as we please, either 'the child of the chief,' or 'the little chief,' and in the case of the latter form, which we can use more in jest of the son, we are not aware that to the Indian the child is really nothing more than the little chief, the miniature of the big one. Strange and hardly intelligible to us is this idea when it is a girl that is in question. For the girl, too, is 'the little _father_,' and not 'the little _mother_'; it is only the father who has made her. In Bakaïrí there are no special words for 'son' and 'daughter,' but a sex-suffix is added to the word for child when a distinction is necessary; _píma iméri_ may signify either the son or the daughter of the chief. The only daughter of the chief is the inheritrix of possession and rank, both of which pass over with her own possession to the husband." The whole question of the "Couvade" and like practices finds its solution in these words of the author: "The behaviour of the mother, according as she is regarded as more or less suffering, may differ much with the various tribes, while the conduct of the father is practically the same with all She goes about her business, if she feels strong enough, suckles her child, etc. Between the father and the child there is no mysterious correlation; the child is a multiplication of him; the father is duplicated, and in order that no harm may come to the helpless, irrational creature, a miniature of himself, he must demean himself as a child" (536. 338). The close relationship between father and child appears also in folk-medicine, where children (or often adults) are preserved from, or cured of, certain ailments and diseases by the application of blood drawn from the father. In Bavaria a popular remedy against cramps consisted in "the father pricking himself in the finger and giving the child in its mouth three drops of blood out of the wound," and at Rackow, in Neu Stettin, to cure epilepsy in little children, "the father gives the child three drops of blood out of the first joint of his ring-finger" (361. 19). In Annam, when a physician cures a small-pox patient, it is thought that the pocks pass over to his children, and among the Dieyerie of South Australia, when a child has met with an accident, "all the relatives are beaten with sticks or boomerangs on the head till the blood flows over their faces. This is believed to lessen the pain of the child" (397. 60, 205). Among some savage and uncivilized peoples, the father is associated closely with the child from the earliest days of its existence. With the Mincopies of the Andaman Islands, it is the father who, "from the day of its birth onwards presses the skull and body of the child to give them the proper form," and among the Macusi Indians of Guiana, the father "in early youth, pierces the ear-lobe, the lower lip, and the septum of the nose," while with the Pampas Indians of the Argentine, in the third year of the child's life, the child's ears are pierced by the father in the following fashion: "A horse has its feet tied together, is thrown to the ground, and held fast. The child is then brought out and placed on the horse, while the father bores its ears with a needle" (326.1.296,301). With some primitive peoples the father evinces great affection for his child. Concerning the natives of Australia whom he visited, Lumholtz observes: "The father may also be good to the child, and he frequently carries it, takes it in his lap, pats it, searches its hair, plays with it, and makes little boomerangs which he teaches it to throw. He, however, prefers boys to girls, and does not pay much attention to the latter" (495.193). Speaking of another region of the world where infanticide prevailed,--the Solomon Islands,--Mr. Guppy cites not a few instances of parental regard and affection. On one occasion "the chief's son, a little shapeless mass of flesh, a few months old, was handed about from man to man with as much care as if he had been composed of something brittle." Of chief Gorai and his wife, whose child was blind, the author says: "I was much struck with the tenderness displayed in the manner of both the parents towards their little son, who, seated in his mother's lap, placed his hand in that of his father, when he was directed to raise his eyes towards the light for my inspection" (466. 47). Of the Patwin Indians of California, who are said to rank among the lowest of the race, Mr. Powers tells us: "Parents are very easygoing with their children, and never systematically punish them, though they sometimes strike them in momentary anger. On the Sacramento they teach them how to swim when a few weeks old by holding them on their hands in the water. I have seen a father coddle and teeter his baby in an attack of crossness for an hour with the greatest patience, then carry him down to the river, laughing good-naturedly, gently dip the little brown smooth-skinned nugget in the waves clear under, and then lay him on the moist, warm sand. The treatment was no less effectual than harmless, for it stopped the perverse, persistent squalling at once" (519. 222). Such demonstrations of tenderness have been supposed to be rare among the Indians, but the same authority says again: "Many is the Indian I have seen tending the baby with far more patience and good-nature than a civilized father would display" (519. 23). Concerning the Eskimo, Eeclus observes: "All over Esquimaux Land fathers and mothers vie with one another in spoiling their offspring, never strike, and rarely rebuke them" (523. 37). Among the Indians of British Guiana, according to Mr. im Thurn, both mother and father are "very affectionate towards the young child." The mother "almost always, even when working, carries it against her hip, slung in a small hammock from her neck or shoulder," while the father, "when he returns from hunting, brings it strange seeds to play with, and makes it necklaces and other ornaments." The young children themselves "seem fully to reciprocate the affection of their parents; but as they grow older, the affection on both sides seems to cool, though, in reality, it perhaps only becomes less demonstrative" (477. 219). Everywhere we find evidence of parental affection and love for children, shining sometimes from the depths of savagery and filling with sunshine at least a few hours of days that seem so sombre and full of gloom when viewed afar off. Mr. Scudder has treated at considerable length the subject of "Childhood in Literature and Art" (350), dealing with it as found in Greek, Roman, Hebrew, Early Christian, English, French, German, American, literature, in mediæval art, and in Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tales. Of Greek the author observes: "There is scarcely a child's voice to be heard in the whole range of Greek poetic art. The conception is universally of the child, not as acting, far less as speaking, but as a passive member of the social order. It is not its individual so much as its related life which is contemplated." The silent presence of children in the rôles of the Greek drama is very impressive (350. 21). At Rome, though childhood is more of a "vital force" than in Greece, yet "it is not contemplated as a fine revelation of nature." Sometimes, in its brutal aspects, "children are reckoned as scarcely more than cubs," yet with refinement they "come to represent the more spiritual side of the family life." The folktale of Romulus and Remus and Catullus' picture of the young Torquatus represent these two poles (350. 32). The scant appearances of children in the Old Testament, the constant prominence given to the male succession, are followed later on by the promise which buds and flowers in the world-child Jesus, and the childhood which is the new-birth, the golden age of which Jewish seers and prophets had dreamt. In early Christianity, it would appear that, with the exception of the representation in art of the child, the infant Christ, "childhood as an image had largely faded out of art and literature" (350. 80). The Renaissance "turned its face toward childhood, and looked into that image for the profoundest realization of its hopes and dreams" (350. 102), and since then Christianity has followed that path. And the folk were walking in these various ages and among these different peoples humbly along the same road, which their geniuses travelled. Of the great modern writers and poets, the author notes especially Wordsworth, through whom the child was really born in our literature, the linker together of the child and the race; Rousseau, who told of childhood as "refuge from present evil, a mournful reminiscence of a lost Paradise, who (like St. Pierre) preached a return to nature, and left his own offspring to the tender mercy of a foundling asylum"; Luther, the great religious reformer, who was ever "a father among his children"; Goethe, who represents German intellectualism, yet a great child-artist; Froebel, the patron saint of the kindergarten; Hans Andersen, the "inventor" of fairy-tales, and the transformer of folk-stories, that rival the genuine, untouched, inedited article; Hawthorne, the child-artist of America. CHAPTER VIII. CHILDHOOD THE GOLDEN AGE. Heaven lies about us in our infancy.--_Wordsworth_. Die Kindheit ist ein Augenblick Gottes.--_Achim v. Arnim_. Wahre dir den Kindersinn, Kindheit blüht in Liebe bin, Kinderzeit ist heil'ge Zeit, Heidenkindheit--Christenheit. --_B. Goltz_. Happy those early days, when I Shined in my angel infancy. --_Henry Vaughan_. Childhood shall be all divine.--_B. W. Proctor_. But Heaven is kind, and therefore all possess, Once in their life, fair Eden's simpleness.--_H. Coleridge_. But to the couch where childhood lies, A more delicious trance is given, Lit up by rays from seraph eyes, And glimpses of remembered heaven.--_W. M. Praed_. O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon!--_Whittier_. _Golden Age_. The English word _world_, as the Anglo-Saxon _weorold_, Icelandic _veröld_, and Old High German _weralt_ indicate, signified originally "age of man," or "course of man's life," and in the mind of the folk the life of the world and the life of man have run about the same course. By common consent the golden age of both was at the beginning, _ab ovo_. With Wordsworth, unlettered thousands have thought:-- "Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!" _Die Kindheit ist ein Augenblick Gottes_, "childhood is a moment of God," said Achim Ton Arnim, and Hartley Coleridge expresses the same idea in other words:-- "But Heaven is kind, and therefore all possess, Once in their life, fair Eden's simpleness." This belief in the golden age of childhood,--_die heilige Kinderzeit_, the heaven of infancy,--is ancient and modern, world-wide, shared in alike by primitive savage and nineteenth-century philosopher. The peasant of Brittany thinks that children preserve their primal purity up to the seventh year of their age, and, if they die before then, go straight to heaven (174. 141), and the great Chinese philosopher, linking together, as others have done since his time, the genius and the child, declared that a man is great only as he preserves the pure ideas of his childhood, while Coleridge, in like fashion tells us: "Genius is the power of carrying the feelings of childhood into the power of manhood." Everywhere we hear the same refrain:-- "Aus der Jugendzeit, aus der Jugendzeit, Klingt ein Lied immerdar; O wie liegt so weit, o wie liegt so weit, Was mein einst war!" The Paradise that man lost, the Eden from which he has been driven, is not the God-planted Garden by the banks of Euphrates, but the "happy days of angel infancy," and "boyhood's time of June," the childhood out of which in the fierce struggle--for existence the race has rudely grown, and back to which, for its true salvation, it must learn to make its way again. As he, who was at once genius and child, said, nearly twenty centuries ago: "Except ye turn and become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter the kingdom of heaven." When we speak of "the halcyon days of childhood," we recall an ancient myth, telling how, in an age when even more than now "all Nature loved a lover," even the gods watched over the loves of Ceyx and Halcyone. Ever since the kingfisher has been regarded as the emblem, of lasting fidelity in love. As Ebers aptly puts it: "Is there anywhere a sweeter legend than that of the Halcyons, the ice-birds who love each other so tenderly that, when the male becomes enfeebled by age, his mate carries him on her outspread wings whithersoever he wills; and the gods desiring to reward such faithful love cause the sun to shine more kindly, and still the winds and waves on the 'Halcyon Days' during which these birds are building their nests and brooding over their young" (390. II. 269). Of a special paradise for infants, something has been said elsewhere. Of Srahmanadzi, the other world, the natives of Ashanti say: "There an old man becomes young, a young man a boy, and a boy an infant. They grow and become old. But age does not carry with it any diminution of strength or wasting of body. When they reach the prime of life, they remain so, and never change more" (438. 157). The Kalmucks believe that some time in the future "each child will speak immediately after its birth, and the next day be capable of undertaking its own management" (518. I. 427). But that blissful day is far off, and the infant human still needs the overshadowing of the gods to usher him into the real world of life. _Guardian Angels and Deities._ Christ, speaking his memorable words about little children to those who had inquired who was greatest in the kingdom of heaven, uttered the warning: "See that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven." In the hagiology of the Christian churches, and in the folk-lore of modern Europe, the idea contained in our familiar expression "guardian angel" has a firm hold; by celestial watchers and protectors the steps of the infant are upheld, and his mind guided, until he reaches maturity, and even then the guardian spirit often lingers to guide the favoured being through all the years of his life (191. 8). The natives of Ashanti believe that special spirits watch over girls until they are married, and in China there is a special mother-goddess who guards and protects childhood. Walter Savage Landor has said:-- "Around the child bend all the three Sweet Graces,--Faith, Hope, Charity," and the "three Fates" of classic antiquity, the three Norns of Scandinavian mythology, the three Sudiêicky or fate-goddesses of the Czechs of Bohemia, the three fate- and birth-goddesses of the other Slavonic peoples, the three [Greek: _Moirai_] of Modern Greece, the three Phatite of Albania, the three white ladies, three virgins, three Mary's, etc., of German legend of to-day, have woven about them a wealth of quaint and curious lore (326. I. 42-47). The survival of the old heathen belief alongside the Christian is often seen, as, e.g., at Palermo, in Sicily, where "the mother, when she lifts the child out of the cradle, says aloud: _'Nuome di Dio_, In God's name,' but quickly adds sotto voce: _'Cu licenzi, signuri mui_, By your leave, Ladies.'" The reference is to the "three strange ladies," representing the three Fates, who preside over the destiny of human beings. Ploss has discussed at length the goddesses of child-birth and infancy, and exhibited their relations to the growing, fertilizing, regenerative powers of nature, especially the earth, sun, moon, etc.; the Hindu _Bhavani_ (moon-goddess); the Persian _Anahita_; the Assyrian _Belit_, the spouse of _Bel_; the Phoenician _Astarte_; the Egyptian _Isis_; the Etruscan _Mater matuta_; the Greek _Hera Eileithyia, Artemis_,; the Roman _Diana, Lucina, Juno_; the Phrygian _Cybele_; the Germanic _Freia, Holla, Gude, Harke_; the Slavonic _Siwa, Libussa, Zlata Baba_ ("the golden woman"); the ancient Mexican _Itzcuinam, Yohmaltcitl, Tezistecatl_; the Chibchan rainbow-goddess _Cuchavira_; the Japanese _Kojasi Kwanon_, and hundreds more. The number of gods and goddesses presiding over motherhood and childhood is legion; in every land divine beings hover about the infant human to protect it and assure the perpetuity of the race. In ancient Rome, besides the divinities who were connected with generation, the embryo, etc., we find, among others, the following tutelary deities of childhood:-- _Parca_ or _Partula_, the goddess of child-birth; _Diespiter_, the god who brings the infant to the light of day; _Opis_, the divinity who takes the infant from within the bosom of mother-earth; _Vaticanus_, the god who opens the child's mouth in crying; _Cunina_, the protectress of the cradle and its contents; _Rumina_, the goddess of the teat or breast; _Ossipaga_, the goddess who hardens and solidifies the bones of little children; _Carna_, the goddess who strengthens the flesh of little children; _Diva potina_, the goddess of the drink of children; _Diva edusa_, the goddess of the food of children; _Cuba_, the goddess of the sleep of the child; _Levana_, the goddess who lifts the child from the earth; _Statanus_, the god, and _Dea Statina_, the goddess, of the child's standing; _Fabulinus_, the god of the child's speech; _Abeona_ and _Adiona_, the protectresses of the child in its goings out and its comings in; _Deus catus pater_, the father-god who "sharpens" the wits of children; _Dea mens_, the goddess of the child's mind; _Minerva_, the goddess who is the giver of memory to the child; _Numeria_, the goddess who teaches the child to count; _Voleta_, the goddess, and _Volumnus_ the god, of will or wishing; _Venilia_, the goddess of hope, of "things to come"; _Deus conus_, the god of counsel, the counsel-giver; _Peragenor_ or _Agenona_, the deity of the child's action; _Cam�na_, the goddess who teaches the child to sing, etc. (398.188). Here the child is overshadowed, watched over, taught and instructed by the heavenly powers:-- "But to the couch where childhood lies A more delicious trance is given, Lit up by rays from seraph eyes, And glimpses of remembered heaven." In line with the poet's thought, though of a ruder mould, is the belief of the Iroquois Indians recorded by Mrs. Smith: "When a living nursing child is taken out at night, the mother takes a pinch of white ashes and rubs it on the face of the child so that the spirits will not trouble, because they say that a child still continues to hold intercourse with the spirit-world whence it so recently came" (534. 69). _Birth-Myths_. President Hall has treated of "The Contents of Children's Minds on Entering School" (252), but we yet lack a like elaborate and suggestive study of "The Contents of Parents' Minds on Entering the Nursery." We owe to the excellent investigation carried on by Principal Russell and his colleagues at the State Normal School in Worcester, Mass., "Some Records of the Thoughts and Reasonings of Children" (194), and President Hall has written about "Children's Lies" (252a), but we are still without a correspondingly accurate and extensive compilation of "The Thoughts and Reasonings of Parents," and a plain, unbiassed register of the "white lies" and equivoques, the fictions and epigrammatic myths, with which parents are wont to answer, or attempt to answer, the manifold questions of their tender offspring. From time immemorial the communication between parent (and nurse) and child, between the old of both sexes and little children, far from being yea and nay, has been cast in the mould of the advice given in the German quatrain:-- "Ja haltet die Aequivocabula nur fest, Sind sie doch das einzige Mittel, Dem Kind die Wahrheit zu bergen und doch Zu brauchen den richtigen Titel." ["Hold fast to the words that we equivoques call; For they are indeed the only safe way To keep from the children the truth away, Yet use the right name after all."] Around the birth of man centres a great cycle of fiction and myth. The folk-lore respecting the provenience of children may be divided into two categories. The first is represented by our "the doctor brought it," "God sent it," and the "van Moor" of the peasantry of North Friesland, which may signify either "from the moor," or "from mother." The second consists of renascent myths of bygone ages, distorted, sometimes, it is true, and recast. As men, in the dim, prehistoric past, ascribed to their first progenitors a celestial, a terrestrial, a subterranean, a subaqueous origin, a coming into being from animals, birds, insects, trees, plants, rocks, stones, etc.,--for all were then akin,--so, after long centuries have rolled by, father, mother, nurse, older brother or sister, speaking of the little one in whom they see their stock renewed, or their kinship widened, resurrect and regild the old fables and rejuvenate and reanimate the lore that lay sunk beneath the threshold of racial consciousness. Once more "the child is father of the man"; his course begins from that same spring whence the first races of men had their remotest origins. George Macdonald, in the first lines of his poem on "Baby" (337. 182):-- "Where did you come from, baby dear? Out of the _everywhere_ into here," has expressed a truth of folk-lore, for there is scarcely a place in the "everywhere" whence the children have not been fabled to come. Children are said to come from heaven (Germany, England, America, etc.); from the sea (Denmark); from lakes, ponds, rivers (Germany, Austria, Japan); from moors and sand-hills (northeastern Germany); from gardens (China); from under the cabbage-leaves (Brittany, Alsace), or the parsley-bed (England); from sacred or hollow trees, such as the ash, linden, beech, oak, etc. (Germany, Austria); from inside or from underneath rocks and stones (northeastern Germany, Switzerland, Bohemia, etc.). It is worthy of note how the topography of the country, its physiographic character, affects these beliefs, which change with hill and plain, with moor and meadow, seashore and inland district. The details of these birth-myths may be read in Ploss (326. I. 2), Schell (343), Sundermann (366). Specially interesting are the _Kindersee_ ("child-lake"), _Kinderbaum_ ("child-tree"), and _Kinderbrunnen_ ("child-fountain") of the Teutonic lands,--offering analogies with the "Tree of Life" and the "Fountain of Eternal Youth" of other ages and peoples; the _Titistein_, or "little children's stone," and the _Kindertruog_ ("child's trough") of Switzerland, and the "stork-stones" of North Germany. Dr. Haas, in his interesting little volume of folk-lore from the island of Rügen, in the Baltic, records some curious tales about the birth of children. The following practice of the children in that portion of Germany is significant: "Little white and black smooth stones, found on the shore, are called 'stork-stones.' These the children are wont to throw backwards over their heads, asking, at the same time, the stork to bring them a little brother or sister" (466 a. 144). This recalls vividly the old Greek deluge-myth, in which we are told, that, after the Flood, Deucalion was ordered to cast behind him the "bones of his mother." This he interpreted to mean the "stones," which seemed, as it were, the "bones" of "mother-earth." So he and his wife Pyrrha picked up some stones from the ground and cast them over their shoulders, whereupon those thrown by Deucalion became men, those thrown by Pyrrha, women. Here belongs, also, perhaps, the Wallachian custom, mentioned by Mr. Sessions (who thinks it was "probably to keep evil spirits away"), in accordance with which "when a child is born every one present throws a stone behind him." On the island of Rügen erratic blocks on the seashore are called _Adeborsteine_, "stork-stones," and on such a rock or boulder near Wrek in Wittow, Dr. Haas says "the stork is said to dry the little children, after he has fetched them out of the sea, before he brings them to the mothers. The latter point out these blocks to their little sons and daughters, telling them how once they were laid upon them by the stork to get dry." The great blocks of granite that lie scattered on the coast of Jasmund are termed _Schwansteine_, "swan-stones," and, according to nursery-legend, the children to be born are shut up in them. When a sister or brother asks: "Where did the little _swan-child_"--for so babies are called--"come from?" the mother replies: "From the swan-stone. It was opened with a key, and a little swan-child taken out." The term "swan-child" is general in this region, and Dr. Haas is inclined to think that the swan-myth is older than the stork-myth (466 a. 143, 144). Curious indeed is the belief of the Hidatsa Indians, as reported by Dr. Matthews, in the "Makadistati, or house of infants." This is described as "a cavern near Knife River, which, they supposed, extended far into the earth, but whose entrance was only a span wide. It was resorted to by the childless husband or the barren wife. There are those among them who imagine that in some way or other their children come from the Makadistati; and marks of contusion on an infant, arising from tight swaddling or other causes, are gravely attributed to kicks received from his former comrades when he was ejected from his subterranean home" (433. 516). In Hesse, Germany, there is a children's song (326. I. 9):-- Bimbam, Glöckchen, Da unten steht ein Stöckchen, Da oben steht ein golden Haus, Da gucken viele schöne Kinder raus. The current belief in that part of Europe is that "unborn children live in a very beautiful dwelling, for so long as children are no year old and have not yet looked into a mirror, everything that comes before their eyes appears to be gold." Here folk-thought makes the beginnings of human life a real golden age. They are Midases of the eye, not of the touch. _Children's Questions and Parents' Answers._ Another interesting class of "parents' lies" consists in the replies to, or comments upon, the questionings and remarks of children about the ordinary affairs of life. The following examples, selected from Dirksen's studies of East-Frisian Proverbs, will serve to indicate the general nature and extent of these. 1. When a little child says, "I am hungry," the mother sometimes answers, "Eat some salt, and then you will be thirsty, too." 2. When a child, seeing its mother drink tea or coffee, says, "I'm thirsty," the answer may be, "If you're thirsty, go to Jack ter Host; there's a cow in the stall, go sit under it and drink." Some of the variants of this locution are expressed in very coarse language (431. I. 22). 3. If a child asks, when it sees that its parent is going out, "Am I not going, too?" the answer is, "You are going along, where nobody has gone, to Poodle's wedding," or "You are going along on Stay-here's cart." A third locution is, "You are going along to the Kükendell fair" (Kükendell being a part of Meiderich, where a fair has never been held). In Oldenburg the answer is: "You shall go along on Jack-stay-at-home's (Janblievtohûs) cart." Sometimes the child is quieted by being told, "I'll bring you back a little silver nothing (enn silwer Nickske)" (431. I. 33). 4. If, when he is given a slice of bread, he asks for a thinner one, the mother may remark, "Thick pieces make fat bodies" (431. I. 35). 5. When some one says in the hearing of the father or mother of a child that it ought not to have a certain apple, a certain article of clothing, or the like, the answer is, "That is no illegitimate child." The locution is based upon the fact that illegitimate children do not enjoy the same rights and privileges as those born in wedlock (431. I. 42). 6. Of children's toys and playthings it is sometimes said, when they are very fragile, "They will last from twelve o'clock till midday" (431.1.43). 7. When any one praises her child in the presence of the mother, the latter says, "It's a good child when asleep" (431. I. 51). 8. In the winter-time, when the child asks its mother for an apple, the latter may reply, "the apples are piping in the tree," meaning that there are no longer any apples on the tree, but the sparrows are sitting there, crying and lamenting. In Meiderich the locution is "Apples have golden stems," _i.e._ they are rare and dear in winter-time (431. I. 75). 9. When the child says, "I can't sit down," the mother may remark, "Come and sit on my thumb; nobody has ever fallen off it" (_i.e._ because no one has ever tried to sit on it) (431. I. 92). 10. When a lazy child, about to be sent out upon an errand, protests that it does not know where the person to whom the message is to be sent lives, and consequently cannot do the errand, the mother remarks threateningly, "I'll show where Abraham ground the mustard," _i.e._ "I give you a good thrashing, till the tears come into your eyes (as when grinding mustard)" (431. I. 105). 11. When a child complains that a sister or brother has done something to hurt him, the mother's answer is, "Look out! He shall have water in the cabbage, and go barefoot to bed" (431. I. 106). 12. Sometimes their parents or elders turn to children and ask them "if they would like to be shown the Bremen geese." If the child says yes, he is seized by the ears and head with both hands and lifted off the ground. In some parts of Germany this is called "showing Rome," and there are variants of the practice in other lands (431. II. 14). 13. When a child complains of a sore in its eye, or on its neck, the answer is: "That will get well before you are a great-grandmother" (431. II. 50). 14. When one child asks for one thing and another for something else, the mother exclaims petulantly, "One calls out 'lime,' the other 'stones.'" The reference is to the confusion of tongues at Babel, which is assumed to have been of such a nature that one man would call out "lime," and another "stones" (431. II. 53). 15. When a child asks for half a slice of bread instead of a whole one, the mother may say, "Who doesn't like a whole, doesn't like a half either" (431. II. 43). 16. When a child says, "That is my place, I sat there," the reply is, "You have no place; your place is in the churchyard" (_i.e._ a grave) (431. II. 76). When the child says "I will," the mother says threateningly, "Your 'will' is in your mother's pocket." It is in her pocket that she carries the rope for whipping the child. Another locution is, "Your will is in the corner" (_i.e._ the corner of the room in which stands the broomstick) (431. II. 81). These specimens of the interchange of courtesies between the child and its parent or nurse might be paralleled from our own language; indeed, many of the correspondences will suggest themselves at once. The deceits practised in the Golden Age of childhood resemble those practised by the gods in the Golden Age of the world, when divine beings walked the earth and had intercourse with the sons and daughters of men. "_Painted Devils_." Even as the serpent marred the Eden of which the sacred legends of the Semites tell, so in the folk-thought does some evil sprite or phantom ever and anon intrude itself in the Paradise of childhood and seek its ruin. Shakespeare has well said:-- "Tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil," and the chronicle of the "painted devils," bogies, scarecrows, _et id genus omne_, is a long one, whose many chapters may be read in Ploss, Hartland, Henderson, Gregor, etc. Some of the "devils" are mild and almost gentlemen, like their lord and master at times; others are fierce, cruel, and bloodthirsty; their number is almost infinite, and they have the forms of women as well as of men. Over a large portion of western Europe is found the nursery story of the "Sand-Man," who causes children to become drowsy and sleepy; "the sand-man is coming, the sand-man has put dust in your eyes," are some of the sayings in use. By and by the child gets "so fast asleep that one eye does not see the other," as the Frisian proverb puts it. When, on a cold winter day, her little boy would go out without his warm mittens on, the East Frisian mother says, warningly: _De Fingerbiter is buten_, "the Finger-biter is outside." Among the formidable evil spirits who war against or torment the child and its mother are the Hebrew Lilith, the long-haired night-flier; the Greek _Strigalai_, old and ugly owl-women; the Roman _Caprimulgus_, the nightly goat-milker and child-killer, and the wood-god Silvanus; the Coptic _Berselia_; the Hungarian "water-man," or "water-woman," who changes children for criples or demons; the Moravian _Vestice_, or "wild woman," able to take the form of any animal, who steals away children at the breast, and substitutes changelings for them; the Bohemian _Polednice_, or "noon-lady," who roams around only at noon, and substitutes changelings for real children; the Lithuanian and Old Prussian _Laume_, a child-stealer, whose breast is the thunderbolt, and whose girdle is the rainbow; the Servian _Wjeschtitza_, or witches, who take on the form of an insect, and eat up children at night; the Russian "midnight spirit," who robs children of rest and sleep; the Wendish "Old mountain-woman"; the German (Brunswick) "corn-woman," who makes off with little children looking for flowers in the fields; the Röggenmuhme ( "rye-aunt"), the _Tremsemutter_, who walks about in the cornfields; the _Katzenveit_, a wood spirit, and a score of bogies called _Popel, Popelmann, Popanz, Butz_, etc.; the Scotch "Boo Man," "Bogie Man," "Jenny wi' the Airn Teeth," "Jenny wi' the lang Pock "; the English and American bogies, goblins, ogres, ogresses, witches, and the like; besides, common to all peoples, a host of werwolves and vampires, giants and dwarfs, witches, ogres, ogresses, fairies, evil spirits of air, water, land, inimical to childhood and destructive of its peace and enjoyment. The names, lineage, and exploits of these may be read in Ploss, Grimm, Hartland, etc. In the time of the Crusades, Richard C�ur de Lion, the hero-king of England, became so renowned among the Saracens that (Gibbon informs us) his name was used by mothers and nurses to quiet their infants, and other historical characters before and after him served to like purpose. To the children of Rome in her later days, Attila, the great Hun, was such a bogy, as was Narses, the Byzantian general (d. 568 A.D.), to the Assyrian children. Bogies also were Matthias Corvinus (d. 1490 A.D.), the Hungarian king and general, to the Turks; Tamerlane (Timur), the great Mongolian conqueror (d. 1405 A.D.), to the Persians; and Bonaparte, at the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, in various parts of the continent of Europe. These, and other historical characters have, in part, taken the place of the giants and bogies of old, some of whom, however, linger, even yet, in the highest civilizations, together with fabulous animals (reminiscent of stern reality in primitive times), with which, less seriously than in the lands of the eastern world, childhood is threatened and cowed into submission. The Ponka Indian mothers tell their children that if they do not behave themselves the Indaciñga (a hairy monster shaped like a human being, that hoots like an owl) will get them; the Omaha bogy is Icibaji; a Dakota child-stealer and bogy is Añungite or "Two Faces" (433. 386, 473). With the Kootenay Indians, of south-eastern British Columbia, the owl is the bogy with which children are frightened into good behaviour, the common saying of mothers, when their children are troublesome, being, "If you are not quiet, I'll give you to the owl" (203). Longfellow, in his _Hiawatha_, speaks of one of the bogies of the eastern Indians:-- "Thus the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rooked him in his linden cradle, Stilled his fretful wail by saying, 'Hush! the naked bear will get thee!'" Among the Nipissing Algonkian Indians, _koko_ is a child-word for any terrible being; the mothers say to their children, "beware of the _koko_." Champlain and Lescarbot, the early chroniclers of Canada, mention a terrible creature (concerning which tales were told to frighten children) called _gougou_, supposed to dwell on an island in the Baie des Chaleurs (200. 239). Among the bogies of the Mayas of Yucatan, Dr. Brinton mentions: the _balams_ (giant beings of the night), who carry off children; the _culcalkin_, or "neckless priest"; besides giants and witches galore (411. 174, 177). Among the Gualala Indians of California, we find the "devil-dance," which Powers compares to the _haberfeldtreiben_ of the Bavarian peasants,--an institution got up for the purpose of frightening the women and children, and keeping them in order. While the ordinary dances are going on, there suddenly stalks forth "an ugly apparition in the shape of a man, wearing a feather mantle on his back, reaching from the arm-pits down to the mid-thighs, zebra-painted on his breast and legs with black stripes, bear-skin shako on his head, and his arms stretched out at full length along a staff passing behind his neck. Accoutred in this harlequin rig, he dashes at the squaws, capering, dancing, whooping; and they and the children flee for life, keeping several hundred yards between him and themselves." It is believed that, if they were even to touch his stick, their children would die (519. 194). Among the Patwin, Nishinam, and Pomo Indians, somewhat similar practices are in vogue (519. 157, 160, 225). From the golden age of childhood, with its divinities and its demons, we may now pass to the consideration of more special topics concerning the young of the races of men. CHAPTER IX. CHILDREN'S FOOD. Der Mensch ist, was er isst.--_Feuerbach_. For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.--_Coleridge_. Man did eat angels' food.--_Psalm_ ixxviii. 25. _Honey_. _Der Mensch ist, was er isst_,--"man is what he eats,"--says Feuerbach, and there were food-philosophies long before his time. Among primitive peoples, the food of the child often smacks of the Golden Age. Tennyson, in _Eleanore_, sings:-- "Or, the yellow-banded bees, Through half-open lattices Coming in the scented breeze, Fed thee, a child lying alone, With white honey, in fairy gardens cull'd-- A glorious child dreaming alone, In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber lull'd." This recalls the story of Cretan Zeus, fed, when an infant, by the nymphs in a cave on Mount Ida with the milk of the goat Amalthæa and honey brought by the bees of the mountain. In the sacred books of the ancient Hindus we read: "The father puts his mouth to the right ear of the new-born babe, and murmurs three times, 'Speech! Speech!' Then he gives it a name. Then he mixes clotted milk, honey, and butter, and feeds the babe with it out of pure gold" (460.129). Among the ancient Frisians and some other Germanic tribes, the father had the right to put to death or expose his child so long as it had not taken food; but "so soon as the infant had drunk milk and eaten honey he could not be put to death by his parents" (286. 69). The custom of giving the new-born child honey to taste is referred to in German counting-out rhymes, and the ancient Germans used to rub honey in the mouth of the new-born child. The heathen Czechs used to drop honey upon the child's lips, and in the Eastern Church it was formerly the custom to give the baptized child milk and honey to taste (392. II. 35). When the Jewish child, in the Middle Ages, first went to school, one of the ceremonial observances was to have him lick a slate which had been smeared with honey, and upon which the alphabet, two Bible verses, and the words "The Tora shall be my calling" were written; this custom is interestingly explanative of the passage in Ezekiel (iii. 3) where we read "Then I did eat it [the roll of a book given the prophet by God]; and it was in my mouth as honey for sweetness." There were also given to the child sweet cakes upon which Bible verses were written. Among the Jews of Galicia, before a babe is placed in the cradle for the first time, it is customary to strew into the latter little pieces of honey-comb. Among the Wotjaks we find the curious belief that those who, in eating honey, do not smear their mouth and hands with it, will die. With children of an older growth,--the second Golden Age,--honey and cakes again appear. Magyar maidens at the new moon steal honey and cakes, cook them, and mix a part in the food of the youth of their desires; among the White Russians, the bridal couple are fed honey with a spoon. Even with us "the first sweet month of matrimony," after the "bless you, my children" has been spoken by parents, church, and state, is called the "honey-moon," for our Teutonic ancestors were in the habit of drinking honey-wine or mead for the space of thirty days after marriage (392. IV. 118,211). In wedding-feasts the honey appears again, and, as Westermarck observes, the meal partaken of by the bride and bridegroom practically constitutes the marriage-ceremony among the Navajos, Santal, Malays, Hovas, and other primitive peoples (166. 419). In Iceland, in ancient times, "the food of sucklings was sweetened by honey," and "in the mouths of weakly children a slice of meat was placed at which they sucked." Among other interesting items from Scandinavia, Ploss (326. II. 182) gives the following: "In Iceland, if the child has been suckled eight (at most, fourteen) days, it is henceforth placed upon the ground; near it is put a vessel with luke-warm whey, in which a reed or a quill is stuck, and a little bread placed before it. If the child should wake and show signs of hunger, he is turned towards the vessel, and the reed is placed in his mouth. When the child is nine months old, it must eat of the same food as its parents do." In Shropshire, England, the first food given a child is a spoonful of sugar and butter, and, in the Highlands of Scotland, "at the birth of an infant the nurse takes a green stick of ash, one end of which she puts into the fire, and, while it is burning, receives in a spoon the sap that oozes from the other, which she administers to the child as its first food." This recalls the sap of the sacred ash of Scandinavian mythology. Solinus states that the ancient Irish mother "put the first food of her newborn son on the sword of her husband, and, lightly introducing it into his mouth, expressed a wish that he might never meet death otherwise than in war and amid arms," and a like custom is said "to have been kept up, prior to the union, in Annandale and other places along the Scottish border" (460. 129, 131). _Salt._ Among the Negritos of the Philippine Islands, when a child is born, one of the other children immediately gives it to eat some salt on the point of a knife (326. I. 258). The virtues of salt are recognized among many peoples. In the Middle Ages, when mothers abandoned their infants, they used to place beside them a little salt in token that they were unbaptized (326. I. 284); in Scotland, where the new-born babe is "bathed in salted water, and made to taste it three times, because the water was strengthening and also obnoxious to a person with the evil eye," the lady of the house first visited by the mother and child must, with the recital of a charm, put some salt in the little one's mouth. In Brabant, during the baptismal ceremony, the priest consecrates salt, given him by the father, and then puts a grain into the child's mouth, the rest being carefully kept by the father. The great importance of salt in the ceremonies of the Zuñi and related Indians of the Pueblos has been pointed out by Mr. Gushing. Salt appears also at modern European wedding-feasts and prenuptial rites, as do also rice and meal, which are also among the first foods of some primitive races. Among the Badagas of the Nilgiri Hills, when the child is named (from twenty to thirty days after birth), the maternal uncle places three small bits of rice in its mouth (326. I. 284). _Folk-Medicine_. Among the Tlingit Indians, of Alaska, the new-born infant "is not given the breast until all the contents of its stomach (which are considered the cause of disease) are removed by vomiting, which is promoted by pressing the stomach" (403. 40), and among the Hare Indians, "the infant is not allowed food until four days after birth, in order to accustom it to fasting in the next world" (396. I. 121). The Songish Indians do not give the child anything to eat on the first day (404. 20); the Kolosh Indians, of Alaska, after ten to thirty months "accustom their children to the taste of a sea-animal," and, among the Arctic Eskimo, Kane found "children, who could not yet speak, devouring with horrible greediness, great lumps of walrus fat and flesh." Klutschak tells us how, during a famine, the Eskimo of Hudson's Bay melted and boiled for the children the blood-soaked snow from the spot where a walrus had been killed and cut up (326. II. 181). In Culdaff, in the county of Donegal, Ireland, "an infant at its birth is forced to swallow spirits, and is immediately afterwards [strange anticipation of Dr. Robinson] suspended by the upper jaw on the nurse's forefinger. Whiskey is here the representative of the Hindu sôma, the sacred juice of the ash, etc., and the administration of alcoholic liquors to children of a tender age in sickness and disease so common everywhere but a few years ago, founded itself perhaps more upon this ancient belief than upon anything else" (401. 180). The study of the food of sick children is an interesting one, and much of value may be read of it in Zanetti (173), Black (401), and other writers who have treated of folk-medicine. The decoctions of plants and herbs, the preparations of insects, reptiles, the flesh, blood, and ordure of all sorts of beasts (and of man), which the doctrines of signatures and sympathies, the craze of _similia similibus_, forced down the throat of the child, in the way of food and medicine, are legion in number, and must be read in Folkard and the herbalists, in Bourke (407), Strack, etc. In some parts of the United States even snail-water and snail-soup are not unknown; in New England, as Mrs. Earle informs us (221. 6), much was once thought of "the admirable and most famous snail-water." _Milk and Honey_. As we have abundantly seen, the first food of the child is the "food of the gods," for so were honey and milk esteemed among the ancient Germans, Greeks, Slavs, Hindus, etc., and of the Paradise where dwelt the Gods, and into which it was fabled children were born, we have some recollection, as Ploss suggests, in the familiar "land flowing with milk and honey," into the possession of which the children of Israel entered after their long wandering in the wilderness (462. II. 696). Of the ancient Hindu god Agni, Letourneau (100. 315) observes: "After being for a long time fed upon melted butter and the alcoholic liquor from the acid asclepias, the sacred Sôma, he first became a glorious child, then a metaphysical divinity, a mediator living in the fathers and living again in the sons." It was the divine _Sôma_ that, like the nectar of the Greeks, the elixirs of the Scandinavians, conferred youth and immortality upon those who drank it. According to Moslem legend, after his birth, Abraham "remained concealed in a cave during fifteen months, and his mother visited him sometimes to nurse him. But he had no need of her food, for Allah commanded water to flow from one of Abraham's fingers, milk from another, honey from the third, the juice of dates from the fourth, and butter from the fifth" (547. 69). _Poison_. In the _Gesta Romanorum_ (Cap. XI.) we read of the "Queen of the North," who "nourished her daughter from the cradle upon a certain kind of deadly poison; and when she grew up, she was considered so beautiful, that the sight of her alone affected one with madness." Moreover, her whole nature had become so imbued with poisons that "she herself had become the deadliest poison in existence. Poison was her element of life. With that rich perfume of her breath she blasted the very air. Her love would have been poison, her embrace death." Hawthorne's story of "Rappaccini's Daughter,"--"who ever since infancy had grown and blossomed with the plants whose fatal properties she had imbibed with the air she breathed,"--comes from the same original source (390. II. 172). Here we are taken back again to the Golden Age, when even poisons could be eaten without harm. _Priest and Food_. With the giving of the child's food the priest is often associated. In the Fiji Islands, at Vitilevu, on the day when the navel-string falls off, a festival is held, and the food of the child is blest by the priest with prayers for his life and prosperity. In Upper Egypt, a feast is held at the house of the father and the child consecrated by the cadi or a priest, to whom is brought a plate with sugar-candy. The priest chews the candy and lets the sweet juice fall out of his mouth into that of the child, and thus "gives him his name out of his mouth" (326. I. 284). The over-indulgence of children in food finds parallels at a later period of life, when, as with the people of southern Nubia and the Sahara between Talifet and Timbuktu, men fatten girls before marriage, making them consume huge quantities of milk, butter, etc. For children, among many primitive peoples, there are numerous _taboos_ of certain classes and kinds of food, from religious or superstitious motives. This _taboo_-system has not lost all its force even to-day, as no other excuse can reasonably be offered for the refusal of certain harmless food to the young. _Tobacco_. Concerning certain Australian tribes, Lumholtz remarks: "Before the children are big enough to hold a pipe in their mouth they are permitted to smoke, and the mother will share her pipe with the nursing babe" (495. 193). In like manner, among the natives of the Solomon Islands, Mr. Guppy witnessed displays of precocity in this regard: "Bright-looking lads, eight or nine years of age, stood smoking their pipes as gravely as Haununo [a chief] himself; and even the smallest babe in its father's arms caught hold of his pipe and began to suck instinctively" (466.42). With the Jivaro Indians of Ecuador, according to Simson, the child, when three or four years old, is initiated into the mysteries of tobacco-smoking, amid great festivities and ceremonies (533. 388). _Drink of Immortality_. Feeding the dead has been in practice among many primitive peoples. The mother, with some of the Indian tribes of New Mexico, used to drop milk from her breast on the lips of her dead babe; and in many parts of the world we meet with the custom of placing food near the grave, so that the spirits may not hunger, or of placing it in the grave or coffin, so that on its way to the spirit-land the soul of the deceased may partake of some refreshment. Among the ancient natives of Venezuela, "infants who died a few days after their birth, were seated around the Tree of Milk, or Celestial Tree, that distilled milk from the extremity of its branches"; and kindred beliefs are found elsewhere (448. 297). We have also the tree associated beautifully with the newborn child, as Reclus records concerning the Todas of the Nilgiri Hills, in India: "Immediately the deliverance has taken place--it always happens in the open air--three leaves of the aforementioned tree [under which the mother and father have passed the night] are presented to the father, who, making cups of them, pours a few drops of water into the first, wherewith he moistens his lips; the remainder he decants into the two other leaves; the mother drinks her share, and causes the baby to swallow his. Thus, father, mother, and child, earliest of Trinities, celebrate their first communion, and drink the living water, more sacred than wine, from the leaves of the Tree of Life" (523. 201). The sacred books of the Hebrews tell us that the race of man in its infancy became like the gods by eating of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and in the legends of other peoples immortality came to the great heroes by drinking of the divine sap of the sacred tree, or partaking of some of its fruit. The ancient Egyptians believed that milk from the breast of the divine mother Isis conferred divinity and immortality upon him who drank of it or imbibed it from the sacred source. Wiedemann aptly compares with this the Greek story of the infancy of Hercules. The great child-hero was the son of the god Jupiter and Alcmena, daughter of Electryon, King of Argos. He was exposed by his mother, but the goddess Athene persuaded Hera to give him her breast (another version says Hermes placed Hercules on the breast of Hera, while she slept) and the infant Hercules drew so lustily of the milk that he caused pain to the goddess, who snatched him away. But Hercules had drunk of the milk of a goddess and had become immortal, and as one of the gods (167. 266). CHAPTER X. CHILDREN'S SOULS. The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.--_Wordsworth_. And rest at last where souls unbodied dwell In ever-flowing meads of Asphodel. --_Homer (Pope's Transl_.). _Baptism_. With certain Hindu castes, the new-born child is sprinkled with cold water, "in order that the soul, which, since its last existence, has remained in a condition of dreamy contemplation, may be brought to the consciousness that it has to go through a new period of trial in this corporeal world" (326. II. 13). Perhaps, among the myriad rites and ceremonies of immersion and sprinkling to which the infant is submitted with other primitive peoples, some traces of similar beliefs may be found. When the new world-religion was winning its way among the gentiles, baptism was the great barrier erected between the babe and the power of ill, spirits of air, earth, and water, survivals of old heathenism antagonistic to Christianity. Before that holy rite was performed, the child lay exposed to all their machinations. Baptism was the armour of the infant against the assaults of Satan and his angels, against the cunning of the wanderers from elfin-land, the fairy-sprites, with their changelings and their impish tricks. Hence, the souls of still-born and unbaptized children came into the power of these evil ones and were metamorphosed into insects, birds, beasts, and the like, whose peculiar notes and voices betray them as having once been little children, or were compelled to join, the train of the wild huntsman, or mingle in the retinue of some other outcast, wandering sprite or devil; or, again, as some deceitful star, or will-o'-the-wisp, mislead and torment the traveller on moor and in bog and swamp, and guide him to an untimely death amid desert solitudes. Ploss, Henderson, and Swainson have a good deal to say on the subject of Frau Berctha and her train, the Wild Huntsman, the "Gabble Retchet," "Yeth Hounds," etc. Mr. Henderson tells us that, "in North Devon the local name is 'yeth hounds,' _heath_ and _heathen_ being both 'yeth' in the North Devon dialect. Unbaptized infants are there buried in a part of the churchyard set apart for the purpose called 'Chrycimers,' i.e. Christianless, hill, and the belief seems to be that their spirits, having no admittance into Paradise, unite in a pack of 'Heathen' or 'yeth' hounds, and hunt the Evil One, to whom they ascribe their unhappy condition" (469. 131, 132). The prejudice against unbaptized children lingers yet elsewhere, as the following extract from a newspaper published in the year 1882 seems to indicate (230. 272):-- "There is in the island of Mull a little burial-ground entirely devoted to unbaptized children, who were thus severed in the grave from those who had been interred in the hope of resurrection to life. Only one adult lies with the little babes--an old Christian woman--whose last dying request it was that she should be buried with the unbaptized children." The Rev. Mr. Thorn has given the facts poetic form and made immortal that mother-heart whose love made holy--if hallowed it needed to be--the lonely burial-ground where rest the infant outcasts:-- "A spot that seems to bear a ban, As if by curse defiled: No mother lies there with her babe, No father by his child." Among primitive peoples we find a like prejudice against still-born children and children who die very young. The natives of the Highlands of Borneo think that still-born infants go to a special spirit-land called _Tenyn lallu_, and "the spirits of these children are believed to be very brave and to require no weapon other than a stick to defend themselves against their enemies. The reason given for this idea is, that the child has never felt pain in this world and is therefore very daring in the other" (475. 199). In Annam the spirits of children still-born and of those dying in infancy are held in great fear. These spirits, called _Con Ranh_, or _Con Lôn_ (from _lôn_, "to enter into life"), are ever seeking "to incorporate themselves in the bodies of others, though, after so doing, they are incapable of life." Moreover, "their names are not mentioned in the presence of women, for it is feared they might take to these, and a newly-married woman is in like manner afraid to take anything from a woman, or to wear any of the clothing of one, who has had such a child. Special measures are necessary to get rid of the _Con Ranh_" (397. 18-19). The Alfurus, of the Moluccas, "bury children up to their waists and expose them to all the tortures of thirst until they wrench from them the promise to hurl themselves upon the enemies of the village. Then they take them out, but only to kill them on the spot, imagining that the spirits of the victims will respect their last promise" (388. 81). On the other hand, Callaway informs us that the Zulu diviner may divine by the _Amatongo_ (spirit) of infants, "supposed to be mild and beneficent" (417. 176). _Transmigration_. Wordsworth, in that immortal poem, which belongs to the jewels of the treasure-house of childhood, has sung of the birth of man:-- "Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar. Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But, trailing clouds of glory, do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy,"-- and the humbler bards of many an age, whose names have perished with the races that produced them, have thought and sung of soul-incarnation, metempsychosis, transmigration, and kindred concepts, in a thousand different ways. In their strangely poetical language, the Tupi Indians, of Brazil, term a child _pitanga_, "suck soul," from _piter_, "to suck," _anga_, "soul." The Seminole Indians, of Florida, "held the baby over the face of the woman dying in child-birth, so that it might receive her parting spirit" (409. 271). A similar practice (with the father) is reported from Polynesia. In a recently published work on "Souls," by Mrs. Mary Ailing Aber, we read:-- "Two-thirds of all the babies that are born in civilized lands to-day have no souls attached to them. These babies are emanations from their parents,--not true entities; and, unless a soul attaches itself, no ordinary efforts can carry one of them to the twentieth year. Souls do attach themselves to babies after birth sometimes so late as the third year. On the other hand, babies who have souls at birth sometimes lose them because the soul finds a better place, or is drawn away by a stronger influence; but this rarely occurs after the third year." This somewhat _outré_ declaration of modern spiritualism finds kindred in some of the beliefs of primitive peoples, concerning which there is much in Ploss, Frazer, Bastian, etc. In one of the Mussulman stories of King Solomon, the Angel of Death descends in human form to take the soul of an aged man, whose wish was to die when he had met the mightiest prophet. He dies talking to the wise Hebrew king. Afterwards the Angel says to Solomon:-- "He [the angel, whose head reaches ten thousand years beyond the seventh heaven, whose feet are five hundred years below the earth, and upon whose shoulders stands the Angel of Death] it is who points out to me when and how I must take a soul. His gaze is fixed on the tree Sidrat Almuntaha, which bears as many leaves inscribed with names as there are men living on the earth. "At each new birth a new leaf, bearing the name of the newly-born, bursts forth; and when any one has reached the end of his life, his leaf withers and falls off, and at the same instant I am with him to receive his soul.... "As often as a believer dies, Gabriel attends me, and wraps his soul in a green silken sheet, and then breathes it into a green bird, which feeds in Paradise until the day of the resurrection. But the soul of the sinner I take alone, and, having wrapped it in a coarse, pitch-covered, woollen cloth, carry it to the gates of Hell, where it wanders among abominable vapours until the last day" (547. 213, 214). According to the belief of the Miao-tse, an aboriginal tribe of the province of Canton, in China, the souls of unborn children are kept in the garden of two deities called "Flower-Grandfather" and "Flower-Grandmother," and when to these have been made by a priest sacrifices of hens or swine, the children are let out and thus appear among men. As a charm against barrenness, these people put white paper into a basket and have the priest make an invocation. The white paper represents the deities, and the ceremony is called _kau fa; i.e._ "Flower Invocation." In Japan, a certain Lake Fakone, owing its origin to an earthquake, and now surrounded by many temples, is looked upon as the abode of the souls of children about to be born (326. I. 3). Certain Californian Indians, near Monterey, thought that "the dead retreated to verdant islands in the West, while awaiting the birth of the infants whose souls they were to form" (396. III. 525). In Calabria, Italy, when a butterfly flits around a baby's cradle, it is believed to be either an angel or a baby's soul, and a like belief prevails in other parts of the world; and we have the classic personification of Psyche, the soul, as a butterfly. Among the uneducated peasantry of Ireland, the pure white butterfly is thought to be the soul of the sinless and forgiven dead on the way to Paradise, whilst the spotted ones are the embodiments of spirits condemned to spend their time of purgatory upon earth, the number of the sins corresponding with the number of spots on the wings of the insect (418. 192). In early Christian art and folk-lore, the soul is often figured as a dove, and in some heathen mythologies of Europe as a mouse, weasel, lizard, etc. In various parts of the world we find that children, at death, go to special limbos, purgatories, or heavens, and the folk-lore of the subject must be read at length in the mythological treatises. The Andaman Islanders "believe that every child which is conceived has had a prior existence, but only as an infant. If a woman who has lost a baby is again about to become a mother, the name borne by the deceased is bestowed on the fetus, in the expectation that it will prove to be the same child born again. Should it be found at birth that the babe is of the same sex as the one who died, the identity is considered to be sufficiently established; but, if otherwise, the deceased one is said to be under the ràu- (_Ficus laccifera_), in _châ-itân-_ (Hades)." Under this tree, upon the fruit of which they live, also dwell "the spirits and souls of all children who die before they cease to be entirely dependent on their parents (_i.e._ under six years of age)" (498. 86, 93). There was a somewhat similar myth in Venezuela (448. 297). Mr. Codrington gives some interesting illustrations of this belief from Melanesia (25. 311):-- "In the island of Aurora, Maewo, in the New Hebrides, women sometimes have a notion that the origin, beginning, of one of their children is a cocoanut or a bread-fruit, or something of that kind; and they believe, therefore, that it would be injurious to the child to eat that food. It is a fancy of the woman, before the birth of the child, that the infant will be the _nunu_, which may be translated the echo, of such an object. Women also fancy that a child is the _nunu_ of some dead person. It is not a notion of metempsychosis, as if the soul of the dead person returned in the new-born child; but it is thought that there is so close a connection that the infant takes the place of the deceased. At Mota, also, in the Banks Islands, there was the belief that each person had a source of his being, his origin, in some animate or inanimate thing, which might, under some circumstances, become known to him." As Mr. Codrington suggests, such beliefs throw light upon the probable origin of totemism and its development. _Spirit-World_. Mrs. Stevenson informs us that "although the Sia do not believe in a return of the spirits of their dead when they have once entered Shipapo [the lower world], there was once an exception to this." The priestly tale, as told to Mrs. Stevenson, is as follows (538. 143):-- "When the years were new, and this village had been built perhaps three years, all the spirits of our dead came here for a great feast. They had bodies such as they had before death; wives recognized husbands, husbands wives, children parents, and parents children. Just after sundown the spirits began arriving, only a few passing over the road by daylight, but after dark they came in great crowds and remained until near dawn. They tarried but one night; husbands and wives did not sleep together; had they done so, the living would have surely died. When the hour of separation came, there was much weeping, not only among the living, but the dead. The living insisted upon going with the dead, but the dead declared they must wait,--that they could not pass through the entrance to the other world; they must first die or grow old and again become little children to be able to pass through the door of the world for the departed. It was then that the Sia first learned all about their future home. They learned that the fields were vast, the pastures beautiful, the mountains high, the lakes and rivers clear like crystal, and the wheat and cornfields flourishing. During the day the spirits sleep, and at night they work industriously in the fields. The moon is father to the dead as the sun is father to the living, the dead resting when the sun travels, for at this time they see nothing; it is when the sun returns to his home at night that the departed spirits work and pass about in their world below. The home of the departed spirits is in the world first inhabited by the Sia." We learn further: "It is the aim of the Sia to first reach the intermediate state at the time the body ceases to develop, and then return gradually back to the first condition of infancy; at such periods one does not die, but sleeps to awake in the spirit-world as a little child. Many stories have come to the Sia by those who have died only for a time; the heart becomes still and the lips cold, and the spirit passes to the entrance of the other world and looks in, but does not enter, and yet it sees all, and in a short time returns to inhabit its earthly body. Great alarm is felt when one returns in this way to life, but much faith is put in the stories afterwards told by the one who has passed over the road of death." In the belief of these Indians of North America we see some foreshadowing of the declaration of Jesus, a rude expression of the fundamental thought underlying his words:-- "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God. Verily I say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall in nowise enter therein." Certain Siouan Indians think: "The stars are all deceased men. When a child is born, a star descends and appears on earth in human form; after death it reascends and appears as a star in heaven" (433. 508). How like this is the poet's thought:-- "Our birth, is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar." CHAPTER XI CHILDREN'S FLOWERS, PLANTS, AND TREES. As for man, his days are as grass; as a flower of the field so he flourishes. --_Psalm_ ciii. 15. A child at play in meadows green, Plucking the fragrant flowers, Chasing the white-winged butterflies,-- So sweet are childhood's hours. We meet wi' blythesome and kythesome cheerie weans, Daffin' and laughin' far adoon the leafy lanes, Wi' gowans and buttercups buskin' the thorny wands-- Sweetly singin' wi' the flower-branch wavin' in their hands. Many savage nations worship trees, and I really think my first feeling would be one of delight and interest rather than of surprise, if some day when I am alone in a wood, one of the trees were to speak to me.--_Sir John Lubbock_. O who can tell The hidden power of herbs, and might of magic spell?--_Spenser_. _Plant Life and Human Life_. Flowers, plants, and trees have ever been interwoven with the fate of man in the minds of poets and folk-thinkers. The great Hebrew psalmist declared: "As for man, his days are as grass; as a flower of the field so he flourisheth," and the old Greeks said beautifully, [greek: _oiæper phyllôn geneæ, toiæde kai andrôn_], "as is the generation of leaves, so is also that of men"; or, to quote the words of Homer (_Iliad_, vi. 146):-- "Like as the generation of leaves, so also is that of men; For the wind strews the leaves on the ground; but the forest, Putting forth fresh buds, grows on, and spring will presently return. Thus with the generation of men; the one blooms, the other fades away." One derivation (a folk-etymology, perhaps) suggested for the Greek [Greek: _anthropos_] connects it with [Greek: _anthos_], making _man_ to be "that which springs up like a flower." We ourselves speak of the "flower of chivalry," the "bloom of youth," "budding youth"; the poets call a little child a "flower," a "bud," a "blossom,"--Herrick even terms an infant "a virgin flosculet." Plants, beasts, men, cities, civilizations, grow and _flourish_; the selfsame words are applied to them all. The same idea comes out strongly in the words relating to birth and childhood in the languages of many primitive peoples. With the Cakchiquel Indians of Guatemala the term _boz_ has the following meanings: "to issue forth; (of flowers) to open, to blow; (of a butterfly) to come forth from the cocoon; (of chicks) to come forth from the egg; (of grains of maize) to burst; (of men) to be born"; in Nahuatl (Aztec), _itzmolini_ signifies "to sprout, to grow, to be born"; in Delaware, an Algonkian Indian dialect, _mehittuk_, "tree," _mehittgus_, "twig," _mehittachpin_, "to be born," seem related, while _gischigin_ means "to ripen, to mature, to be born." In many tongues the words for "young" reveal the same flow of thought. In Maya, an Indian language of Yucatan, _yax_ signifies "green, fresh, young"; in Nahuatl, _yancuic_, "green, fresh, new," and _yancuic pilla_, "a new-born babe"; in Chippeway, _oshki,_ "new, fresh, young," whence _oshkigin_, "young shoot," _oshkinawe_, "lad, youth," _oshkinig_, "newly born," _oshkinaiaa_, "a new or young object," _oshkiaiaans_, "a young animal or bird," oshkiabinodji_, "babe, infant, new-born child"; in Karankawa, an Indian language of Texas, _kwa'-an_, "child, young," signifies literally "growing," from _ka'-awan_, "to grow" (said of animals and plants). Our English words _lad_ and _lass_, which came to the language from Celtic sources, find their cognate in the Gothic _jugga-lauths_, "young lad, young man," where _jugga_ means "young," and _lauths_ is related to the verb _liudan_, "to grow, to spring up," from which root we have also the German _Leute_ and the obsolete English _leet_, for "people" were originally "the grown, the sprung up." _Maid (maiden)_, Anglo-Saxon _moegd_, Modern High German _Magd_, Gothic _magaths_ (and here belongs also old English _may_) is an old Teutonic word for "virgin, young girl." The Gothic _magaths_ is a derivative from _magus_, "son, boy, servant," cognate with Old Irish _mac_, "boy, son, youth," _mog_ (mug), "slave," Old Norse _mqgr_, "son," Anglo-Saxon _mago_, "son, youth, servant, man," the radical of all these terms being _mag_, "to have power, to increase, to grow,"--the Gothic _magus_ was properly "a growing (boy)," a "maid" is "a growing (girl)." The same idea underlies the month-name _May_, for, to the Romans, this was "the month of growth,"--flowery, bounteous May,--and dedicated to _Maia_, "the increaser," but curiously, as Ovid tells us, the common people considered it unlucky to marry in May, for then the rites of Bona Dea, the goddess of chastity, and the feasts of the dead, were celebrated. _Plant-Lore._ The study of dendanthropology and human florigeny would lead us wide afield. The ancient Semitic peoples of Asia Minor had their "Tree of Life," which later religions have spiritualized, and more than one race has ascribed its origin to trees. The Carib Indians believed that mankind--woman especially--were first created from two trees (509. 109). According to a myth of the Siouan Indians, the first two human beings stood rooted as trees in the ground for many ages, until a great snake gnawed at the roots, so that they got loose and became the first Indians. In the old Norse cosmogony, two human beings--man and woman--were created from two trees--ash and elm--that stood on the sea-shore; while Tacitus states that the holy grove of the Semnones was held to be the cradle of the nation, and in Saxony, men are said to have grown from trees. The Maya Indians called themselves "sons of the trees" (509. 180, 264). Doctor Beauchamp reports a legend of the Iroquois Indians, according to which a god came to earth and sowed five handfuls of seed, and these, changing to worms, were taken possession of by spirits, changed to children, and became the ancestors of the Five Nations (480. IV. 297). Classical mythology, along with dryads and tree-nymphs of all sorts, furnishes us with a multitude of myths of the metamorphosis of human beings into trees, plants, and flowers. Among the most familiar stories are those of Adonis, Crocus, Phyllis, Narcissus, Leucothea, Hyacinthus, Syrinx, Clytie, Daphne, Orchis, Lotis, Philemon and Baucis, Atys, etc. All over the world we find myths of like import. A typical example is the Algonkian Indian legend of the transformation of Mishosha, the magician, into the sugar-maple,--the name _aninatik_ or _ininatik_ is interpreted by folk-etymology as "man-tree," the sap being the life-blood of Mishosha. Gluskap, the culture-hero of the Micmacs, once changed "a mighty man" into the cedar-tree. Many of the peculiarities of trees and plants are explained by the folk as resulting from their having once been human creatures. Grimm and Ploss have called attention to the widespread custom of planting trees on the occasion of the birth of a child, the idea being that some sort of connection between the plant and the human existed and would show itself sympathetically. In Switzerland, where the belief is that the child thrives with the tree, or _vice versa_, apple-trees are planted for boys and pear- or nut-trees for girls. Among the Jews, a cedar was planted for a boy and a pine for a girl, while for the wedding canopy, branches were cut from both these trees (385. 6). From this thought the orators and psalmists of old Israel drew many a noble and inspiring figure, such as that used by David: "The righteous shall flourish like the palm-tree: he shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon." Here belong also "flourishing like a green bay-tree," and the remark of the Captain in Shakespeare's _King Richard Second:_-- "'Tis thought the king is dead. We will not stay; The bay-trees in our country are all withered." _Child-Flowers and -Plants._ The planting of trees for the hero or the heroine and the belief that these wither when a death is near, blossom when a happy event approaches, and in many ways react to the fate and fortune of their human fellows, occur very frequently in fairy-tales and legends. There is a sweet Tyrolian legend of "a poor idiot boy, who lived alone in the forest and was never heard to say any words but 'Ave Maria.' After his death a lily sprang up on his grave, on whose petals 'Ave Maria' might be distinctly read." (416. 216). An old Greek myth relates that the Crocus "sprang from the blood of the infant Crocus, who was accidentally struck by a metal disc thrown by Mercury, whilst playing a game" (448.299). In Ossianic story, "Malvina, weeping beside the tomb of Fingal, for Oscar and his infant son, is comforted by the maids of Morven, who narrate how they have seen the innocent infant borne on a light mist, pouring upon the fields a fresh harvest of flowers, amongst which rises one with golden disc, encircled with rays of silver, tipped with a delicate tint of crimson." Such, according to this Celtic legend, was the origin of the daisy (448. 308). The peasants of Brittany believe that little children, when they die, go straight to Paradise and are changed into beautiful flowers in the garden of heaven (174. 141). Similar beliefs are found in other parts of the world, and a like imagery is met with among our poets. Well known is Longfellow's little poem "The Reaper and the Flowers," in which death, as a reaper, reaps not alone the "bearded grain," but also "the flowers [children] that grow between," for:-- "'My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,' The reaper said, and smiled; 'Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child.'" And so:-- "The mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love; She knew she should find them all again In the field of light above." According to a myth of the Chippeway Indians, a star once came down from heaven to dwell among men. Upon consulting with a young man in a dream as to where it should live, it was told to choose a place for itself, and, "at first, it dwelt in the white rose of the mountains; but there it was so buried that it could not be seen. It went to the prairie; but it feared the hoof of the buffalo. It next sought the rocky cliff; but there it was so high that the children whom it loved most could not see it." It decided at last to dwell where it could always be seen, and so one morning the Indians awoke to find the surface of river, lake, and pond covered with thousands of white flowers. Thus came into existence the beautiful water-lilies (440. 68-70). Perhaps the most beautiful belief regarding children's flowers is that embodied in Hans Christian Andersen's tale _The Angel_, where the Danish prose-poet tells us: "Whenever a child dies, an angel from heaven comes down to earth and takes the dead child in his arms, spreads out his great white wings, and flies away over all the places the child has loved and picks quite a handful of flowers, which he carries up to the Almighty, that they may bloom in heaven more brightly than on earth. And the Father presses all the flowers to His heart; but He kisses the flower that pleases Him best, and the flower is then endowed with a voice and can join in the great chorus of praise" (393.341). _Star-Flowers_. Beside this, however, we may perhaps place the following quaint story of "The Devils on the Meadows of Heaven," of which a translation from the German of Rudolph Baumbach, by "C. F. P.," appears in the _Association Record_ (October, 1892), published by the Young Women's Christian Association of Worcester, Mass.:-- "As you know, good children, when they die, come to Heaven and become angels. But if you perhaps think they do nothing the sweet, long day but fly about and play hide-and-seek behind the clouds, you are mistaken. The angel-children are obliged to go to school like the boys and girls on the earth, and on week days must be in the angel-school three hours in the forenoon and two in the afternoon. There they write with golden pens on silver slates, and instead of ABC-books they have story-books with gay-coloured pictures. They do not learn geography, for of what use in Heaven is earth-knowledge; and in eternity one doesn't know the multiplication table at all. Dr. Faust is the angel-school teacher. On earth he was an A.M., and on account of a certain event which does not belong here, he is obliged to keep school in Heaven three thousand years more before the long vacation begins for him. Wednesday and Saturday afternoons the little angels have holiday; then they are taken to walk on the Milky Way by Dr. Faust. But Sunday they are allowed to play on the great meadow in front of the gate of Heaven, and that they joyfully anticipate during the whole week. "The meadow is not green, but blue, and on it grow thousands and thousands of silver and golden flowers. They shine in the night and we men call them stars. "When the angels are sporting about before the gate of Heaven, Dr. Faust is not present, for on Sunday he must recover from the toil of the past week. St. Peter, who keeps watch at the Heavenly gate, then takes charge. He usually sees to it that the play goes on properly, and that no one goes astray or flies away; but if one ever gets too far away from the gate, then he whistles on his golden key, which means 'Back!' "Once--it was really very hot in Heaven--St. Peter fell asleep. When the angels noticed this, they ceased swarming hither and thither and scattered over the whole meadow. But the most enterprising of them went out on a trip of discovery, and came at last to the place where the world is surrounded by a board fence. First they tried to find a crack somewhere through which they might peep, but as they found no gap, they climbed up the board fence and hung dangling and looking over. Yonder, on the other side, was hell, and before its gate a crowd of little devils were just running about. They were coal-black, and had horns on their heads and long tails behind. One of them chanced to look up and noticed the angels, and immediately begged imploringly that they would let them into Heaven for a little while; they would behave quite nice and properly. This moved the angels to pity, and because they liked the little black fellows, they thought they might perhaps allow the poor imps this innocent pleasure. "One of them knew the whereabouts of Jacob's ladder. This they dragged to the place from the lumber-room (St. Peter had, luckily, not waked up), lifted it over the fence of boards, and let it down into hell. Immediately the tailed fellows clambered up its rounds like monkeys, the angels gave them their hands, and thus came the devils upon Heaven's meadows. "At first they behaved themselves in a quite orderly manner. Modestly they stepped along and carried their tails on their arms like trains, as the devil grandmother, who sets great value on propriety, had taught them. But it did not last long; they became frolicsome, turned wheels and somersaults, and shrieked at the same time like real imps. The beautiful moon, who was looking kindly out of a window in Heaven, they derided, thrust out their tongues and made faces (German: long noses) at her, and finally began to pluck up the flowers which grew on the meadow and throw them down on the earth. Now the angels grew frightened and bitterly repented letting their evil guests into Heaven. They begged and threatened, but the devils cared for nothing, and kept on in their frolic more madly. Then, in terror, the angels waked up St. Peter and penitently confessed to him what they had done. He smote his hands together over his head when he saw the mischief which the imps had wrought. 'March in!' thundered he, and the little ones, with drooping wings, crept through the gate into Heaven. Then St. Peter called a few sturdy angels. They collected the imps and took them where they belonged. "The little angels did not escape punishment. Three Sundays in succession they were not allowed in front of Heaven's gate, and, if they were taken to walk, they were obliged to first unbuckle their wings and lay aside their halos; and it is a great disgrace for an angel to go about without wings and halo. "But the affair resulted in some good, after all. The flowers which the devils had torn up and thrown upon the earth took root and increased from year to year. To be sure, the star-flower lost much of its heavenly beauty, but it is still always lovely to look at, with its golden-yellow disk, and its silvery white crown of rays. "And because of its Heavenly origin, a quite remarkable power resides in it. If a maiden, whose mind harbours a doubt, pulls off, one by one, the white petals of the flower-star, whispering meanwhile a certain sentence at the fall of the last little petal, she is quite sure of what she desires to know." The very name _Aster_ is suggestive of star-origin and recalls the lines of Longfellow:-- "Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine." The reference seems to be to Friedrich Wilhelm Carové, of Coblentz, in whose _Märchen ohne Ende_, a forget-me-not is spoken of as "twinkling as brightly as a blue star on the green firmament of earth" (390. II. 149). Another contribution to floral astrology is the brief poem of H. M. Sweeny in the _Catholic World_ for November, 1892:-- "The Milky Way is the foot-path Of the martyrs gone to God; Its stars are the flaming jewels To show us the way they trod. "The flowers are stars dropped lower, Our daily path to light, In daylight to lead us upward As those jewels do at night." Flower-oracles are discussed in another section, and the "language of flowers" of which the poet tells,-- "In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, And they tell in a garland their loves and cares; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bower On its leaves a mystic language bears," must be studied in Dyer, Friend, and Folkard, or in the various booklets which treat of this entertaining subject. Though in Bohemia it is believed that "seven-year-old children will become beautiful by dancing in the flax," and in some parts of Germany "when an infant seems weakly and thrives slowly, it is placed naked upon the turf on Midsummer Day, and flax-seed is sprinkled over it; the idea being, that, as the flax-seed grows, so the child will gradually grow stronger" (435. 278, 279); flowers and plants are sometimes associated with ill-luck and death. In Westphalia and Thuringia the superstition prevails that "any child less than a year old, who is permitted to wreathe himself with flowers, will soon die." In the region about Cockermouth, in the county of Cumberland, England, the red campion (_Lychnis diurna_) is known as "mother-die," the belief being that, if children gather it, some misfortune is sure to happen to the parents. Dyer records also the following: "In West Cumberland, the herb-robert (_Geranium robertianum_) is called 'death come quickly,' from a like reason, while in parts of Yorkshire, the belief is that the mother of a child who has gathered the germander speedwell (_Veronica chamoedrys_) will die ere the year is out" (435. 276). _Children's Plant-Names._ Mr. H. C. Mercer, discussing the question of the presence of Indian corn in Italy and Europe in early times, remarks (_Amer. Naturalist_, Vol. XXVIII., 1894, p. 974):-- "An etymology has been suggested for the name _Grano Turco_ [Turkish grain], in the antics of boys when bearded and moustached with maize silk, they mimic the fierce looks of Turks in the high 'corn.' We cannot think that the Italian lad does not smoke the mock tobacco that must tempt him upon each ear. If he does, he apes a habit no less American in its origin than the maize itself. So the American lad playing with a 'shoe-string bow' or a 'corn-stalk fiddle' would turn to Italy for his inspiration." In the interesting lists of popular American plant-names, published by Mrs. Fanny D. Bergen (400), are found the following in which the child is remembered:-- Babies' breath, _Galium Mollugo._ In Eastern Massachusetts. Babies' breath, _Muscari botryoides._ In Eastern Massachusetts. Babies' feet, _Polygala paucifolia._ In New Hampshire. Babies' slippers, _Polygala paucifolia._ In Western Massachusetts. Babies' toes, _Polygala paucifolia._ In Hubbardston, Mass. Baby blue-eyes, _Nemophila insignis._ In Sta. Barbara, Cal. Blue-eyed babies, _Houstonia coerulea._ In Springfield, Mass. Boys and girls, _Dicentra cucullaria._ In New York. Boys' love, _Artemisia absinthium._ In Wellfleet, Mass. Death-baby, _Phallus sp. (?)._ In Salem, Mass. Girls and boys, _Dicentra cucullaria._ In Vermont. Little boy's breeches, _Dicentra cucullaria._ In Central Iowa. "Blue-eyed babies" is certainly an improvement upon "Quaker ladies," the name by which the _Houstonia_ is known in some parts of New England; "death-baby" is a term that is given, Mrs. Bergen tells us, "from the fancy that they foretell death in the family near whose house they spring up. I have known of intelligent people rushing out in terror and beating down a colony of these as soon as they appeared in the yard." The parents have not been entirely forgotten, as the following names show:-- Mother's beauties, _Calandrina Menziesii_. In Sta. Barbara, Cal. Mother of thousands, _Tradescantia crassifolia_ (?). In Boston, Mass. Daddy-nuts, _Tilia sp._ (?). In Madison, Wis. At La Crosse, Wis., the _Lonicera talarica_, is called "twin sisters," a name which finds many analogues. As we have seen, the consideration of children as flowers, plants, trees, traverses many walks of life. Floral imagery has appealed to many primitive peoples, perhaps to none more than to the ancient Mexicans, with whom children were often called flowers, and the Nagualists termed Mother-Earth "the flower that contains everything," and "the flower that eats everything"--being at once the source and end of life (413. 54). A sweet old German legend has it that the laughter of little children produced roses, and the sweetest and briefest of the "good-night songs" of the German mothers is this:-- "Guten Abend, gute Nacht! Mit Rosen bedacht, Mit Näglein besteckt; Morgen früh, wenn's Gott will, Wirst du wieder geweckt." CHAPTER XII. CHILDREN'S ANIMALS, BIRDS, ETC. My brother, the hare, ... my sisters, the doves. --_St. Francis of Assisi._ Love of animals is inborn. The child that has had no pets is to be pitied.--_G. Stanley Hall._ For what are the voices of birds-- Aye, and of beasts,--but words, our words, Only so much more sweet?--_Browning._ I know not, little Ella, what the flowers Said to you then, to make your cheek so pale; And why the blackbird in our laurel bowers Spoke to you, only: and the poor pink snail Fear'd less your steps than those of the May-shower It was not strange those creatures loved you so, And told you all. 'Twas not so long ago You were yourself a bird, or else a flower. --_Lord Lytton (Owen Meredith)._ _Children and Young Animals._ The comparisons sometimes made of children with various of the lower animals, such as monkeys, bears, pigs, etc., come more naturally to some primitive peoples, who, as Ploss has pointed out, suckle at the breast the young of certain animals simultaneously with their own offspring. In this way, the infant in the Society Islands comes early into association with puppies, as he does also among several of the native tribes of Australia and America; so was it likewise in ancient Rome, and the custom may yet be found among the tent-gypsies of Transylvania, in Persia, and even within the present century has been met with in Naples and Göttingen. The Maori mother, in like manner, suckles young pigs, the Arawak Indian of Guiana young monkeys (as also do the Siamese), the natives of Kamtschatka young bears. An old legend of the city of Breslau has it that the fashion certain ladies have of carrying dogs around with them originated in the fact that Duke Boleslau, in the last quarter of the eleventh century, punished the women of Breslau, for some connubial unfaithfulness, by taking away their suckling children and making them, carry instead puppies at the breast (392. I. 61). Of the Arekuna of Guiana, Schomburgk tells us:--"They bring up children and monkeys together. The monkeys are members of the family, eat with the other members, are suckled by the women, and have great affection for their human nurses. Oftentimes a woman is to be seen with a child and a monkey at the breast, the two nurselings quarrelling" (529. 13). The young children of the less nomadic tribes grow up in close association with the few domestic animals possessed by their parents, tumbling about with the puppies on the wigwam-floor or racing with them around the camp-stead. The history of totemism and fetichism, primitive medicine, and the arts connected therewith, their panaceas, talismans, and amulets, show early association of the child with animals. In the village of Issapoo, on the island of Fernando Po, in Western Africa, there is fastened to a pole in the market-place a snake-skin, to touch which all infants born the preceding year are brought by their mothers during an annual festival (529. 32). In various parts of the world, novices and neophytes are put to dream or fast in seclusion until they see some animal which becomes their tutelary genius, and whose form is often tattooed upon their body. Sir John Maundeville, the veracious mediaeval chronicler, reported that in Sicily serpents were used to test the legitimacy of children; "if the children be illegitimate, the serpents bite and kill them." Hartland cites, on the authority of Thiele, "a story in which a wild stallion colt is brought in to smell two babes, one of which is a changeling. Every time he smells one he is quiet and licks it; but, on smelling the other, he is invariably restive and strives to kick it. The latter, therefore, is the changeling" (258. 111). _Animal Nurses._ Akin to these practices are many of the forms of exposure and abandonment all over the world. Shakespeare, in _The Winter's Tale_, makes Antigonus say:-- "Come on (poor Babe). Some powerful Spirit instruct the Kites and Ravens To be thy Nurses. Wolves and Bears, they say (Casting their savageness aside), have done Like offices of pity." An old Egyptian painting represents a child and a calf being suckled by the same cow, and in Palestine and the Canary Islands, goats are used to suckle children, especially if the mother of the little one has died (125. II. 393). The story of Psammetichus and the legend of Romulus and Remus find parallels in many lands. Gods, heroes, saints, are suckled and cared for in their infancy by grateful beasts. _Wild Children._ Doctor Tylor has discussed at some length the subject of "wild men and beast children" (376), citing examples from many different parts of the globe. Procopius, the chronicler of the Gothic invasion of Italy, states (with the additional information that he saw the child in question himself), that, after the barbarians had ravaged the country, "an infant, left by its mother, was found by a she-goat, which suckled and took care of it. When the survivors came back to their deserted homes, they found the child living with its adopted mother, and called it Aegisthus." Doctor Tylor calls attention to the prevalence of similar stories in Germany after the destruction and devastation of the Napoleonic wars; there appears to be record of several children wild or animal-reared having, during this period, been received into Count von Recke's asylum at Overdyke. Many of these tales we need not hesitate to dismiss as purely fabulous, though there may be truth in some of the rest. Among the best-known cases (some of which are evidently nothing more than idiots, or poor wandering children) are: Peter, the "Wild Boy" of Hameln (in 1724); the child reported in the Hessian Chronicle as having been found by some hunters living with wolves in 1341; the child reported by Bernard Connor as living with she-bears, and the child found with bears at Grodno in Poland; the wolf-child of the Ardennes, mentioned by Koenig, in his treatise on the subject; the Irish boy said to feed on grass and hay, found living among the wild sheep; the girl found living wild in Holland in 1717; the two goat-like boys of the Pyrenees (in 1719); the amphibious wild girl of Châlons sur Marne (in 1731); the wild boy of Bamberg, who lowed like an ox; and, the most renowned of all, Kaspar Hauser. This celebrated "wild boy" has recently been made the subject of a monograph by the Duchess of Cleveland (208), of which the first words are these: "The story of Kaspar Hauser is both curious and instructive. It shows on how commonplace and unpromising a foundation a myth of European celebrity may rest." Sir William Sleeman has something to say of "beast-children" in the Kingdom of Oude (183), and Mr. Ball, who writes of wolf-reared children in India, calls attention to the fact that in that country there seems to have been no instance of a wolf-reared girl (183. 474). In the _Kathâ sarit sâgara_ ("Ocean of the River of Story"), a work belonging to the twelfth century, there is the story of the immoral union of a _yaksha_, or _jin_, and the daughter of a holy man, who was bathing in the Granges. The relatives of the girl by magic changed the two guilty persons into a lion and a lioness. The latter soon died, but gave birth to a human child, which the lion-father made the other lionesses suckle. The baby grew up and became "the world-ruling king, Satavahana" (376. 29). Another Hindu story tells how the daughter of a Brahman, giving birth to a child while on a journey, was forced to leave it in a wood, where it was suckled and nursed by female jackals until rescued by merchants who happened to pass by. Herodotus repeats the tales that Cyrus was nursed and suckled by a bitch; Zeus figures as suckled by a goat; Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome according to the ancient legend, were nursed by a she-wolf; and others of the heroes and gods of old were suckled by animals whose primitive kinship with the race of man the folk had not forgotten. Professor Rauber of Dorpat, in his essay on "Homo Sapiens Ferus" (335), discusses in detail sixteen cases of wild children (including most of those treated by Tylor) as follows: the two Hessian wolf-children, boys (1341-1344); the Bamberg boy, who grew up among the cattle (at the close of the sixteenth century); Hans of Liège; the Irish boy brought up by sheep; the three Lithuanian bear-boys (1657, 1669, 1694); the girl of Oranienburg (1717); the two Pyrenæan boys (1719); Peter, the wild boy of Hameln (1724); the girl of Songi in Champagne (1731); the Hungarian bear-girl (1767); the wild man of Cronstadt (end of eighteenth century); the boy of Aveyron (1795). It will be noticed that in this list of sixteen cases but two girls figure. As a result of his studies Professor Rauber concludes: "What we are wont to call reason does not belong to man as such; in himself he is without it. The appellation _Homo sapiens_ does not then refer to man as such, but to the ability under certain conditions of becoming possessed of reason. It is the same with language and culture of every sort. The title _Homo sapiens ferus_ (Linnæus) is in a strict sense unjustifiable and a contradiction in itself." To prehistoric man these wild children are like, but they are not the same as he; they resemble him, but cannot be looked upon as one and the same with him. From the stand-point of pedagogy, Professor Rauber, from the consideration of these children, feels compelled to declare that "the ABC-school must be replaced by the culture-school." In other words: "The ABC is not, as so many believe, the beginning of all wisdom. In order to be able to admeasure this sufficiently, prehistoric studies are advisable, nay, necessary. Writing is a very late acquisition of man. In the arrangement of a curriculum for the first years of the culture-school, reading and writing are to be placed at the end of the second school year, but never are they to begin the course ... Manual training ought also to be taken up in the schools; it is demanded by considerations of culture-history" (335.133). _Animal Stories._ Professor W. H. Brewer of New Haven, discussing the "instinctive interest of children in bear and wolf stories," observes (192): "The children of European races take more interest in bear and wolf stories than in stories relating to any other wild animals. Their interest in bears is greater than that in wolves, and in the plays of children bears have a much more conspicuous part. There is a sort of fascination in everything relating to these animals that attracts the child's attention from a very early age, and 'Tell me a bear story' is a common request long before it learns to read." After rejecting, as unsatisfactory, the theory that would make it a matter of education with each child,--"the conservative traditions of children have preserved more stories about bears and wolves, parents and nurses talk more about them, these animals have a larger place in the literature for children; hence the special interest,"--Professor Brewer expresses his own belief that "the special interest our children show towards these two animals is instinctive, and it is of the nature of an inherited memory, vague, to be sure, yet strong enough to give a bend to the natural inclinations." He points out that the bear and the wolf are the two animals "which have been and still are the most destructive to human life (and particularly to children) in our latitude and climate," and that "several of the large breeds of dogs,--the wolf-hound proper, the mastiff (particularly the Spanish mastiff), and even the St. Bernard,--were originally evolved as wolf-dogs for the protection of sheep and children." His general conclusion is: "The fear inspired by these animals during the long ages of the childhood of our civilization, and the education of the many successive generations of our ancestors in this fear, descends to us as an inherited memory, or, in other words, an instinct. While not strong, it is of sufficient force to create that kind of fascination which stories of bears and wolves have in children before the instincts are covered up and obscured by intellectual education. The great shaggy bear appeals more strongly to the imagination of children, hence its superior value to play 'boo' with." _Rabbit and Hare._ The rabbit and the hare figure in many mythologies, and around them, both in the Old World and the New, has grown up a vast amount of folk-lore. The rabbit and the child are associated in the old nursery-rhyme:-- "Bye, bye, Baby Bunting, Papa's gone a-hunting, To get a rabbit-skin, To wrap Baby Bunting in," which reminds us at once of the Chinook Indians and the Flat Heads of the Columbia, with whom "the child is wrapped in rabbit-skins and placed in this little coffin-like cradle, from which it is not in some instances taken out for several weeks" (306.174). An Irish belief explains hare-lip as having been caused, before the birth of the child, by the mother seeing a hare. The Chinese think that "a hare or a rabbit sits at the foot of the cassia-tree in the moon, pounding the drugs out of which the elixir of immortality is compounded" (401. 155). The Ungava Eskimo, according to Turner, have a legend that the hare was once a little child, abused by its elders; "it ran away to dwell by itself. The hare has no tail, because as a child he had none; and he lays back his ears, when he hears a shout, because he thinks people are talking about him" (544. 263). In a myth of the Menomoni Indians, reported by Dr. W. J. Hoffman, we read that Manabush [the great culture-hero] and a twin brother were born the sons of the virgin daughter of an old woman named Nokómis. His brother and mother died. Nokómis wrapped Manabush in dry, soft grass, and placed a wooden bowl over him. After four days a noise proceeded from the bowl, and, upon removing it, she saw "a little white rabbit with quivering ears." Afterwards, when grown up, and mourning for the death of his brother, Manabush is said to have hid himself in a large rock near Mackinaw, where he was visited by the people for many years. When he did not wish to see them in his human form, he appeared to them as "a little white rabbit with trembling ears" (389. (1890) 246). Of the white rabbit, the Great Hare, Manabush, Naniboju, etc., more must be read in the mythological essays of Dr. Brinton. Among the tales of the Ainu of Yezo, Japan, recorded by Professor B. H. Chamberlain, is the following concerning the Hare-god:-- "Suddenly there was a large house on top of a hill, wherein were six persons beautifully arrayed, but constantly quarrelling. Whence they came was not known. Thereupon [the god] Okikurumi came, and said: 'Oh, you bad hares! you wicked hares! Who should not know your origin? The children in the sky were pelting each other with snowballs, and the snowballs fell into this world of men. As it would have been a pity to waste heaven's snow, the snowballs were turned into hares, and those hares are you. You who live in this world of mine, this world of human beings, must be quiet. What is it that you are brawling about?' With these words, Okikurumi seized a fire-brand, and beat each of the six with it in turn. Thereupon all the hares ran away. This is the origin of the hare-god, and for this reason the body of the hare is white, because made of snow, while its ears, which are the part which was charred by the fire, are black" (471. 486). The Mayas of Yucatan have a legend of a town of hares under the earth (411. 179). In Germany we meet with the "Easter-Hare" (Oster-Hase). In many parts of that country the custom prevails at or about Easter-tide of hiding in the garden, or in the house, eggs, which, the children are told, have been laid by the "Easter-hare." Another curious term met with in northeastern Germany is "hare-bread" (Hasenbrod). In Quedlinburg this name is given to bread (previously placed there intentionally by the parents) picked up by children when out walking with their parents or elders. In Lüneburg it is applied to dry bread given a hungry child with an exhortation to patience. In the first case, the little one is told that the hare has lost it, and in the second, that it has been taken away from him. The name "hare-bread" is also given to bread brought home by the parents or elders, when returning from a journey, the children being told that it has been taken away from the hare. In the shadow-pictures made on the wall for the amusement of children the rabbit again appears, and the hare figures also in children's games. _Squirrel._ According to the belief of certain Indians of Vancouver Island, there once lived "a monstrous old woman with wolfish teeth, and finger-nails like claws." She used to entice away little children whom she afterwards ate up. One day a mother, who was about to lose her child thus, cried out to the spirits to save her child in any way or form. Her prayer was answered, and "The Great Good Father, looking down upon the Red Mother, pities her; lo! the child's soft brown skin turns to fur, and there slides from the ogress's grip, no child, but the happiest, liveliest, merriest little squirrel of all the West,--but bearing, as its descendants still bear, those four dark lines along the back that show where the cruel claws ploughed into it escaping" (396. III. 52-54). Elsewhere, also, the squirrel is associated with childhood. Familiar is the passage in Longfellow's _Hiawatha,_ where the hero speaks to the squirrel, who has helped him out of a great difficulty:-- "Take the thanks of Hiawatha, And the name which now he gives you; For hereafter, and forever, Boys shall call you _adjidaumo, Tail in air_ the boys shall call you." _Seals._ Those noble and indefatigable missionaries, the Moravians, have more than once been harshly criticised in certain quarters, because, in their versions of the Bible, in the Eskimo language, they saw fit to substitute for some of the figurative expressions employed in our rendering, others more intelligible to the aborigines. In the New Testament Christ is termed the "Lamb of God," but since, in the Arctic home of the Innuit, shepherds and sheep are alike unknown, the translators, by a most felicitous turn of language, rendered the phrase by "little seal of God," a figure that appealed at once to every Eskimo, young and old, men and women; for what sheep were to the dwellers on the Palestinian hillsides, seals are to this northernmost of human races. Rink tells us that the Eskimo mother "reserves the finest furs for her new-born infant," while the father keeps for it "the daintiest morsels from the chase," and, "to make its eyes beautiful, limpid, and bright, he gives it seal's eyes to eat" (523. 37). _Fish._ Mrs. Bramhall tells us how in Japan the little children, playing about the temples, feed the pet fishes of the priests in the temple-lake. At the temple of the Mikado, at Kioto, she saw "six or eight little boys and girls ... lying at full length on the bank of the pretty lake." The fishes were called up by whistling, and the children fed them by holding over the water their open hands full of crumbs (189. 65). Other inhabitants of the sea and the waters of the earth are brought into early relation with children. _Crabs and Crawfishes._ Among the Yeddavanad, of the Congo, a mother tells her children concerning three kinds of crabs: "Eat _kallali,_ and you will become a clever man; eat _hullali,_ and you will become as brave as a tiger; eat _mandalli,_ and you will become master of the house" (449. 297). In the Chippeway tale of the "Raccoon and the Crawfish," after the former, by pretending to be dead, has first attracted to him and then eaten all the crawfish, we are told:-- "While he was engaged with the broken limbs, a little female crawfish, carrying her infant sister on her back, came up seeking her relations. Finding they had all been devoured by the raccoon, she resolved not to survive the destruction of her kindred, but went boldly up to the enemy, and said: 'Here, Aissibun (Raccoon), you behold me and my little sister. We are all alone. You have eaten up our parents and all our friends. Eat us, too!' And she continued to say: 'Eat us, too! _Aissibun amoon, Aissibun amoon!'_ The raccoon was ashamed. 'No!' said he,' I have banqueted on the largest and fattest; I will not dishonour myself with such little prey.' At this moment, Manabozbo [the culture-hero or demi-god of these Indians] happened to pass by. _'Tyau,'_ said he to the raccoon, 'thou art a thief and an unmerciful dog. Get thee up into trees, lest I change thee into one of these same worm-fish; for thou wast thyself a shell-fish originally, and I transformed thee.' Manabozho then took up the little supplicant crawfish and her infant sister, and cast them into the stream. 'There,' said he, 'you may dwell. Hide yourselves under the stones; and hereafter you shall be playthings for little children'" (440. 411, 412). _Games._ The imitation of animals, their movements, habits, and peculiarities in games and dances, also makes the child acquainted at an early age with these creatures. In the section on "Bird and Beast," appropriately headed by the words of the good St. Francis of Assisi--"My brother, the hare, ... my sisters, the doves,"--Mr. Newell notices some of the children's games in which the actions, cries, etc., of animals are imitated. Such are "My Household," "Frog-Pond," "Bloody Tom," "Blue-birds and Yellow-birds," "Ducks fly" (313. 115). _Doves._ Not at Dodona and in Arcadia alone has the dove been associated with religion, its oracles, its mysteries, and its symbolism. In the childhood of the world, according to the great Hebrew cosmologist, "the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters," and a later bard and seer of our own race reanimated the ancient figure of his predecessor in all its pristine strength, when in, the story of Paradise lost and found again, he told how, at the beginning, the creative spirit "Dove-like sat brooding o'er the vast abyss." In the childhood of the race, it was a dove that bore to the few survivors of the great flood the branch of olive, token that the anger of Jahveh was abated, and that the waters no longer covered the whole earth. In the childhood of Christianity, when its founder was baptized of John in the river Jordan, "Lo, the heavens were opened unto Him, and the Spirit of God descended like a dove, and lighted on Him,"--and the "Heavenly Dove" Still beautifies the imagery of oratory and song, the art and symbolism of the great churches, its inheritors. In the childhood of man the individual, the dove has also found warm welcome. At the moment of the birth of St. Austrebertha (630-704 A.D.), as the quaint legend tells, "the chamber was filled with a heavenly odour, and a white dove, which hovered awhile above the house, flew into the chamber and settled on the head of the infant," and when Catherine of Racconigi (1486-1547 A.D.) was only five years old "a dove, white as snow, flew into her chamber and lighted on her shoulder"; strange to relate, however, the infant first took the bird for a tool of Satan, not a messenger of God. When St. Briocus of Cardigan, a Welsh saint of the sixth century, "was receiving the communion for the first time, a dove, white as snow, settled on his head, and the abbot knew that the young boy was a chosen vessel of honour" (191. 107, 108). In a Swedish mother's hymn occurs the following beautiful thought:-- "There sitteth a dove so white and fair, All on the lily spray, And she listeneth how to Jesus Christ The little children pray. "Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, And to Heaven's gate hath sped, And unto the Father in Heaven she bears The prayers which the children have said. "And back she comes from Heaven's gate, And brings, that dove so mild, From the Father in Heaven, who hears her speak, A blessing on every child. "Then, children, lift up a pious prayer! It hears whatever you say; That heavenly dove so white and fair, All on the lily spray" (379. 255). The bird-messenger of childhood finds its analogue in the beliefs of some primitive tribes that certain birds have access to the spirit-land, and are the bearers of tidings from the departed. Into the same category fall the ancient practice of releasing a dove (or some other winged creature) at the moment of death of a human being, as a means of transport of his soul to the Elysian fields, and the belief that the soul itself took its flight in the form and semblance of a dove (509. 257). The Haida Indians, of British Columbia, think that, "in the land of light, children often transform themselves into bears, seals, and birds," and wonderful tales are told of their adventures. Hartley Coleridge found for the guardian angel of infancy, no apter figure than that of the dove:-- "Sweet infant, whom thy brooding parents love For what thou art, and what they hope to see thee, Unhallow'd sprites, and earth-born phantoms flee thee; Thy soft simplicity, a hovering dove, That still keeps watch from blight and bane to free thee, With its weak wings, in peaceful care outspread, Fanning invisibly thy pillow'd head, Strikes evil powers with reverential dread, Beyond the sulphurous bolts of fabled Jove, Or whatsoe'er of amulet or charm Fond ignorance devised to save poor souls from harm." Perhaps the sweetest touch of childhood in all Latin literature is that charming passage in Horace (_Carm._ Lib. III. 4):-- "Me fabulosæ Vulture in Apulo, Nutrices extra limen Apuliæ, Ludo fatigatoque somno Fronde nova puerum palumbes Texere," which Milman thus translates:-- "The vagrant infant on Mount Vultur's side, Beyond my childhood's nurse, Apulia's bounds, By play fatigued and sleep, Did the poetic doves With young leaves cover." The amativeness of the dove has lent much to the figurative language of that second golden age, that other Eden where love is over all. Shenstone, in his beautiful pastoral, says:-- "I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed," and the "love of the turtle," "billing and cooing," are now transferred to human affection. Venus, the goddess of love, and the boy-god Cupid ride in a chariot drawn by doves, which birds were sacred to the sea-born child of Uranus. In the springtime, when "the voice of the turtle is heard in the land," then "a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love." If, from the sacred oaks of Dodona, to the first Greeks, the doves disclosed the oracles of Jove, so has "the moan of doves in immemorial elms" divulged to generation after generation of lovers the mission of his son of the bow and quiver. _Robin._ What the wood-pigeon was to Horace, the robin-redbreast has been to the children of old England. In the celebrated ballad of the "Children in the Wood", we are told that, after their murder by the cruel uncle,-- "No burial these pretty babes Of any man receives, Till Robin Redbreast piously Did cover them with leaves." The poet Thomson speaks of "the redbreast sacred to the household gods," and Gray, in a stanza which, since the edition of 1753, has been omitted from the _Elegy_, wrote:-- "There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen are frequent violets found; The robin loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground." Dr. Robert Fletcher (447) has shown to what extent the redbreast figures in early English poetry, and the belief in his pious care for the dead and for children is found in Germany, Brittany, and other parts of the continent of Europe. In England the robin is the children's favourite bird, and rhymes and stories in his honour abound,--most famous is the nursery song, "Who killed Cock Robin?" A sweet legend of the Greek Church tells us that "Our Lord used to feed the robins round his mother's door, when a boy; moreover, that the robin never left the sepulchre till the Resurrection, and, at the Ascension, joined in the angels' song." The popular imagination, before which the robin appears as "the pious bird with the scarlet breast," found no difficulty in assigning a cause for the colour of its plumage. One legend, current amongst Catholic peoples, has it that "the robin was commissioned by the Deity to carry a drop of water to the souls of unbaptized infants in hell, and its breast was singed in piercing the flames." In his poem _The Robin_, Whittier has versified the story from a Welsh source. An old Welsh lady thus reproves her grandson, who had tossed a stone at the robin hopping about in the apple-tree:-- "'Nay!' said the grandmother; 'have you not heard, My poor, bad boy! of the fiery pit, And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird Carries the water that quenches it? "'He brings cool dew in his little bill, And lets it fall on the souls of sin; You can see the mark on his red breast still Of fires that scorch as he drops it in.'" Another popular story, however, relates that when Christ was on His way to Calvary, toiling beneath the burden of the cross, the robin, in its kindness, plucked a thorn from the crown that oppressed His brow, and the blood of the divine martyr dyed the breast of the bird, which ever since has borne the insignia of its charity. A variant of the same legend makes the thorn wound the bird itself and its own blood dye its breast. According to a curious legend of the Chippeway Indians, a stern father once made his young son undergo the fasting necessary to obtain a powerful guardian spirit. After bravely holding out for nine days, he appealed to his father to allow him to give up, but the latter would not hear of it, and by the eleventh day the boy lay as one dead. At dawn the next morning, the father came with the promised food. Looking through a hole in the lodge, he saw that his son had painted his breast and shoulders as far as he could reach with his hands. When he went into the lodge, he saw him change into a beautiful bird and fly away. Such was the origin of the first robin-redbreast (440. 210). Whittier, in his poem, _How the Robin Came_, has turned the tale of the Red Men into song. As the father gazed about him, he saw that on the lodge-top-- "Sat a bird, unknown before, And, as if with human tongue, 'Mourn me not,' it said, or sung; 'I, a bird, am still your son, Happier than if hunter fleet, Or a brave before your feet Laying scalps in battle won. Friend of man, my song shall cheer Lodge and corn-land; hovering near, To each wigwam I shall bring Tidings of the coming spring; Every child my voice shall know In the moon of melting snow When the maple's red bud swells, And the wind-flower lifts its bells. As their fond companion Men shall henceforth own your son, And my song shall testify That of human kin am I.'" _Stork._ The _Lieblingsvogel_ of German children is the stork, who, as parents say, brings them their little brothers and sisters, and who is remembered in countless folk and children's rhymes. The mass of child-literature in which the stork figures is enormous. Ploss has a good deal to say of this famous bird, and Carstens has made it the subject of a brief special study,--"The Stork as a Sacred Bird in Folk-Speech and Child-Song" (198). The latter says: "It is with a sort of awe (_Ehrfurcht_) that the child looks upon this sacred bird, when, returning with the spring he settles down on the roof, throwing back his beak and greeting the new home with a flap of his wings; or when, standing now on one foot, now on the other, he looks so solemnly at things, that one would think he was devoutly meditating over something or other; or, again, when, on his long stilt-like legs, he gravely strides over the meadows. With great attention we listened as children to the strange tales and songs which related to this sacred bird, as our mother told them to us and then added with solemn mien, 'where he keeps himself during the winter is not really known,' or, 'he flies away over the _Lebermeer_, whither no human being can follow.' 'Storks are enchanted (_verwünscht_) men,' my mother used to say, and in corroboration told the following story: 'Once upon a time a stork broke a leg. The owner of the house upon which the stork had its nest, interested himself in the unfortunate creature, took care of it and attended to it, and soon the broken leg was well again. Some years later, it happened that the kind-hearted man, who was a mariner, was riding at anchor near the North Sea Coast, and the anchor stuck fast to the bottom, so that nothing remained but for the sailor to dive into the depths of the sea. This he did, and lo! he found the anchor clinging to a sunken church-steeple. He set it free, but, out of curiosity, went down still deeper, and far down below came to a magnificent place, the inhabitants of which made him heartily welcome. An old man addressed him and informed him that he had been the stork whose leg the sailor had once made well, and that the latter was now in the real home of the storks.'" Carstens compares this story with that of Frau Holle, whose servant the stork, who brings the little children out of the child-fountain of the Götterburg, would seem to be. In North Germany generally the storks are believed to be human beings in magical metamorphosis, and hence no harm must be done them. Between the household, upon whose roof the stork takes up his abode, and the family of the bird, a close relation is thought to subsist. If his young ones die, so will the children of the house; if no eggs are laid, no children will be born that year; if a stork is seen to light upon a house, it is regarded by the Wends of Lusatia as an indication that a child will be born there the same year; in Switzerland the peasant woman about to give birth to a child chants a brief appeal to the stork for aid. A great variety of domestic, meteorological, and other superstitions are connected with the bird, its actions, and mode of life. The common Low German name of the stork, _Adebar_, is said to mean "luck-bringer"; in Dutch, he is called _ole vaer,_ "old father." After him the wood-anemone is called in Low German _Hannoterblume,_ "stork's-flower." An interesting tale is "The Storks," in Hans Christian Andersen. _Bird-Language._ In the Golden Age, as the story runs, men were able to hold converse with the birds of the air and the beasts of the field, nor had a diversity of dialects yet sprung up among them. In Eden of old the whole world was of one tongue and one speech; nay more, men talked with the gods and with God. Many legends of primitive peoples there are telling how confusion first arose,--every continent has its Babel-myth,--and how men came at last to be unable to comprehend each other's speech. The Indians of Nova Scotia say that this occurred when Gluskap, the culture-hero of the Micmacs, after giving a parting banquet to all creatures of earth, sea, and air, "entered his canoe in the Basin of Minas, and, sailing westward in the moonlight, disappeared. Then the wolves, bears, and beavers, who had before been brothers, lost the gift of common language, and birds and beasts, hating one another, fled into the distant forests, where, to this day, the wolf howls and the loon utters its sad notes of woe" (418. 185). The Mexican legend of the deluge states that the vessel in which were Coxcox,--the Mexican Noah,--and his wife, Xochiquetzal, stranded on a peak of Colhuacan. To them were born fifteen sons, who, however, all came into the world dumb, but a dove gave them fifteen tongues, and thence are descended the fifteen languages and tribes of Anahuac (509. 517). In later ages, among other peoples, the knowledge of the forgotten speech of the lower creation was possessed by priests and seers alone, or ascribed to innocent little children,--some of the power and wisdom of the bygone Golden Age of the race is held yet to linger with the golden age of childhood. In the beautiful lines,-- "O du Kindermund, o du Kindermund, Unbewuszter Weisheit froh, Vogelsprachekund, vogelsprachekund, Wie Salamo!" the poet Rückert attributes to the child that knowledge of the language of birds, which the popular belief of the East made part of the lore of the wise King Solomon. Weil (547. 191) gives the Mussulman version of the original legend:-- "In him [Solomon] David placed implicit confidence, and was guided by him in the most difficult questions, for he had heard, in the night of his [Solomon's] birth, the angel Gabriel exclaim, 'Satan's dominion is drawing to its close, for this night a child is born, to whom Iblis and all his hosts, together with all his descendants, shall be subject. The earth, air, and water with all the creatures that live therein, shall be his servants. He shall be gifted with nine-tenths of all the wisdom and knowledge which Allah has granted to mankind, and understand not only the languages of men, but those also of beasts and birds.'" Some recollection of this appears in Ecclesiastes (x. 20), where we read, "For a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter," and in our own familiar saying "a little bird told me," as well as in the Bulbul-hezar or talking bird of the _Arabian Nights_, and its imitation "the little green bird who tells everything," in the _Fairy Tales_ of the Comtesse d'Aunoy. The interpretation of the cries of birds and animals into human speech has also some light thrown upon it from this source. Various aspects of this subject have been considered by Hopf (474), Swainson (539), Treichel (372), Brunk, Grimm (462). The use of certain birds as oracles by children is well known. A classical example is the question of the Low German child:-- "Kukuk van Hewen, "Wi lank sail ik lewen?' ["Cuckoo of Heaven, How long am I to live?"] Of King Solomon we are told: "He conversed longest with the birds, both on account of their delicious language, which he knew as well as his own, as also for the beautiful proverbs that are current among them." The interpretation of the songs of the various birds is given as follows:-- The cook: "Ye thoughtless men, remember your Creator." The dove: "All things pass away; Allah alone is eternal." The eagle: "Let our life be ever so long, yet it must end in death." The hoopoo: "He that shows no mercy, shall not obtain mercy." The kata: "Whosoever can keep silence goes through life most securely." The nightingale: "Contentment is the greatest happiness." The peacock: "As thou judgest, so shalt thou be judged." The pelican: "Blessed be Allah in Heaven and Earth." The raven: "The farther from mankind, the pleasanter." The swallow: "Do good, for you shall be rewarded hereafter." The syrdak: "Turn to Allah, O ye sinners." The turtle-dove: "It were better for many a creature had it never been born." The King, it appears, chose the hoopoo and the cock for his companions, and appointed the doves to dwell in the temple which he was to erect (547. 200, 201). In fairy-tale and folk-lore bird-speech constantly appears. A good example is the story "Wat man warm kann, wenn man blot de Vageln richti verstan deit," included by Klaus Groth in his _Quickborn_. In the Micmac legend of the _Animal Tamers_, by collecting the "horns" of the various animals a youthful hero comes to understand their language (521. 347). Longfellow, in his account of "Hiawatha's Childhood," has not forgotten to make use of the Indian tradition of the lore of language of bird and of beast possessed by the child:-- "Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in summer, Where they hid themselves in winter, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them 'Hiawatha's Chickens.' "Of all the beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them 'Hiawatha's Brothers.'" In the Middle Ages the understanding of the language of birds, their _Latin_, as it was called, ranked as the highest achievement of human learning, the goal of wisdom and knowledge, and the thousand rhyming questions asked of birds by children to-day are evidence of a time when communication with them was deemed possible. Some remembrance of this also lingers in not a few of the lullabies and nursery-songs of a type corresponding to the following from Schleswig-Holstein:-- "Hör mal, lütje Kind Wo düt lütje Vagel singt Baben in de Hai! Loop, lüt Kind, un hal mi dat lüt Ei." Among the child-loving Eskimo we find many tales in which children and animals are associated; very common are stories of children metamorphosed into birds and beasts. Turner has obtained several legends of this sort from the Eskimo of the Ungava district in Labrador. In one of these, wolves are the gaunt and hungry children of a woman who had not wherewithal to feed her numerous progeny, and so they were turned into ravening beasts of prey; in another the raven and the loon were children, whom their father sought to paint, and the loon's spots are evidence of the attempt to this day; in a third the sea-pigeons or guillemots are children who were changed into these birds for having scared away some seals. The prettiest story, however, is that of the origin of the swallows: Once there were some children who were wonderfully wise, so wise indeed that they came to be called _zulugagnak_, "like the raven," a bird that knows the past and the future. One day they were playing on the edge of a cliff near the village, and building toy-houses, when they were changed into birds. They did not forget their childish occupation, however, and, even to this day, the swallows come to the cliff to build their nests or houses of mud,--"even the raven does not molest them, and Eskimo children love to watch them" (544. 262, 263). From time immemorial have the life and actions of the brute creation been associated with the first steps of education and learning in the child. CHAPTER XIII. CHILD-LIFE AND EDUCATION IN GENERAL. The mother's heart is the child's school-room.--_Henry Ward Beecher_. The father is known from the child.--_German Proverb_. Learn young, learn fair, Learn auld, learn mair. --_Scotch Proverb._ We bend the tree when it is young.--_Bulgarian Proverb_. Fools and bairns should na see things half done. --_Scotch Proverb_. No one is born master.--_Italian Proverb_. _Mother as Teacher_. _Nihil est in intellectu quod non prius in sensu_ is a favourite dictum of philosophy; primitive peoples might, perhaps, be credited with a somewhat different crystallization of thought: _nihil est in puero quod non prius in parenti_, "nothing is in the child which was not before in the parent," for belief in prenatal influence of parent upon child is widely prevalent. The following remarks, which were written of the semi-civilized peoples of Annam and Tonquin, may stand, with suitable change of terms, for very many barbarous and savage races:-- "The education of the children begins even before they come into the world. The prospective mother is at once submitted to a kind of material and moral _regime_ sanctioned by custom. Gross viands are removed from her table, and her slightest movements are regarded that they may be regular and majestic. She is expected to listen to the reading of good authors, to music and moral chants, and to attend learned societies, in order that she may fortify her mind by amusements of an elevated character. And she endeavours, by such discipline, to assure to the child whom she is about to bring into the world, intelligence, docility, and fitness for the duties imposed by social life" (518. XXXI. 629). Among primitive peoples these ceremonies, dietings, doctorings, tabooings, number legion, as may be read in Ploss and Zmigrodzki. The influence of the mother upon her child, beginning long before birth, continued in some parts of the world until long after puberty. The Spartan mothers even preserved "a power over their sons when arrived at manhood," and at the puberty-dance, by which the Australian leaves childhood behind to enter upon man's estate, his significant cry is: "My mother sees me no more!" (398. 153). Among the Chinese, "at the ceremony of going out of childhood, the passage from boyhood into manhood, the goddess of children 'Mother,' ceases to have the superintendence of the boy or girl, and the individual comes under the government of the gods in general." That women are teachers born, even the most uncultured of human races have not failed to recognize, and the folk-faith in their ministrations is world-wide and world-old; for, as Mrs. Browning tells us:-- "Women know The way to rear up children (to be just); They know a simple, merry, tender knack Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, And stringing pretty words that make no sense, And kissing full sense into empty words; Which things are corals to cut life upon, Although such trifles." Intellectually, as well as physically,--as the etymology of the name seems to indicate,--the mother is the "former" of her child. As Henry Ward Beecher has well said, "the mother's heart is the child's school-room." Well might the Egyptian mother-goddess say (167. 261): "I am the mother who shaped thy beauties, who suckled thee with milk; I give thee with my milk festal things, that penetrate thy limbs with life, strength, and youth; I make thee to become the--great ruler of Egypt, lord of the space which the sun circles round." In the land of the Pharaohs they knew in some dim fashion that "the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world." The extensive rôle of the mother, as a teacher of the practical arts of life, may be seen from the book of Professor Mason (113). Language, religion, the social arts, house-building, skin-dressing, weaving, spinning, animal-domestication, agriculture, are, with divers primitive peoples, since they have in great part originated with her, or been promoted chiefly by her efforts, left to woman as teacher and instructor, and well has the mother done her work all over the globe. The function of the mother as priestess--for woman has been the preserver, as, to so large an extent, she has been the creator, of religion--has been exercised age after age, and among people after people. Henry Ward Beecher has said: "Every mother is a priestess ordained by God Himself," and Professor Mason enlarges the same thought: "Scarcely has the infant mind begun to think, ere this perpetual priestess lights the fires of reverence and keeps them ever burning, like a faithful vestal" (112. 12). Though women and mothers have often been excluded from the public or the secret ceremonials and observations of religion, the household in primitive and in modern times has been the temple, of whose _penetralia_ they alone have been the ministers. _Imitation._ Tarde, in his monograph on the "Laws of Imitation," has shown the great influence exerted among peoples of all races, of all grades and forms of culture, by imitation, conscious or unconscious,--a factor of the highest importance even at the present day and among those communities of men most advanced and progressive. Speaking a little too broadly, perhaps, he says (541. 15):-- "All the resemblances, of social origin, noticed in the social world are the direct or indirect result of imitation in all its forms,--custom, fashion, sympathy, obedience, instruction, education, naive or deliberate imitation. Hence the excellence of that modern method which explains doctrines or institutions by their history. This tendency can only be generalized. Great inventors and great geniuses do sometimes stumble upon the same thing together, but these coincidences are very rare. And when they do really occur, they always have their origin in a fund of common instruction upon which, independent of one another, the two authors of the same invention have drawn; and this fund consists of a mass of traditions of the past, of experiments, rude or more or less arranged, and transmitted imitatively by language, the great vehicle of all imitations." In her interesting article on "Imitation in Children," Miss Haskell observes: "That the imitative faculty is what makes the human being educable, that it is what has made progressive civilization possible, has always been known by philosophical educators. The energy of the child must pass from potentiality to actuality, and it does so by the path of _imitation_ because this path offers the least resistance or the greatest attraction, or perhaps because there is no other road. Whatever new and striking things he sees in the movements or condition of objects about him, provided he already has the experience necessary to apperceive this particular thing, he imitates" (260. 31). In the pedagogy of primitive peoples imitation has an extensive _rôle_ to play. Of the Twana Indians, of the State of Washington, Rev. Mr. Eells observes: "Children are taught continually, from youth until grown, to mimic the occupations of their elders." They have games of ball, jumping and running races, and formerly "the boys played at shooting with bows and arrows at a mark, and with spears, throwing at a mark, with an equal number of children on each side, and sometimes the older ones joined in." Now, however, "the'boys mimic their seniors in the noise and singing and gambling, but without the gambling." The girls play with dolls, and sometimes "the girls and boys both play in canoes, and stand on half of a small log, six feet long and a foot wide, and paddle around in the water with a small stick an inch in thickness; and, in fact, play at most things which they see their seniors do, both whites and Indians" (437. 90, 91). Concerning the Seminoles of Florida, we are told: "The baby, well into the world, learns very quickly that he is to make his own way through it as best he may. His mother is prompt to nourish him, and solicitous in her care for him if he falls ill; but, as far as possible, she goes her own way and leaves the little fellow to go his." Very early in life the child learns to help and to imitate its elders. "No small amount," Mr. MacCauley tells us, "of the labour in a Seminole household is done by children, even as young as four years of age. They can stir the soup while it is boiling; they can aid in kneading the dough for bread; they can wash the 'koonti' root, and even pound it; they can watch and replenish the fire; they contribute in this and many other small ways to the necessary work of the home" (496. 497, 498). Of the Indians of British Guiana, Mr. im Thurn reports: "As soon as the children can run about, they are left almost to themselves; or, rather, they begin to mimic their parents. As with the adults, so with the children. Just as the grown-up woman works incessantly, while the men alternately idle and hunt, so the boys run wild, playing not such concerted games as in other parts of the world more usually form child's play, but only with mimic bows and arrows; but the girls, as soon as they can walk, begin to help the older women. Even the youngest girl can peel a few cassava roots, watch a pot on the fire, or collect and carry home a few sticks of firewood. The games of the boy are all such as train him to fish and hunt when he grows up; the girl's occupations teach her woman's work" (477. 219). The children imitate their elders in other ways also, for in nearly every Indian house are to be seen toy vessels of clay; for "while the Indian women of Guiana are shaping the clay, their children, imitating them, make small pots and goglets" (477. 298). And in like manner have been born, no doubt, among other peoples, some of the strange freaks of art which puzzle the _connoisseurs_ in the museums of Europe and America. Mr. Powers, speaking of the domestic economy of the Achomåwi Indians of California, says: "An Achomåwi mother seldom teaches her daughters any of the arts of barbaric housekeeping before their marriage. They learn them by imitation and experiment after they grow old enough to perceive the necessity thereof" (519. 271). This peculiar neglect, however, is not entirely absent from our modern civilization, for until very recently no subject has been so utterly overlooked as the proper training of young girls for their future duties as mothers and housekeepers. The Achomåwi, curiously enough, have the following custom, which helps, no doubt, the wife whose education has been so imperfect: "The parents are expected to establish a young couple in their lodge, provide them with the needful basketry, and furnish them with cooked food for some months, which indulgent parents sometimes continue for a year or even longer; so that the young people have a more real honeymoon than is vouchsafed to most civilized people." Among the Battas of Sumatra, "It is one of the morning duties of women and girls, even down to children of four and five years old, to bring drinking-water in the _gargitis_, a water-vessel made of a thick stalk of bamboo. The size and strength of growing girls are generally measured by the number of _gargitis_ they can carry" (518. XXII. 110). Of the Kaffir children Theal informs us: "At a very early age they commence trials of skill against each other in throwing knobbed sticks and imitation assegais. They may often be seen enjoying this exercise in little groups, those of the same age keeping together, for there is no greater tyrant in the world than a big Kaffir boy over his younger fellows; when above nine or ten years old they practise sham-fighting with sticks; an imitation hunt is another of their boyish diversions" (543. 220). Among the Apaches, as we learn from Reclus: "The child remains with its mother until it can pluck certain fruits for itself, and has caught a rat by its own unaided efforts. After this exploit, it goes and comes as it lists, is free and independent, master of its civil and political rights, and soon lost in the main body of the horde" (523. 131). On the Andaman Islands, "little boys hunt out swarms of bees in the woods and drive them away by fire. They are also expected regularly to collect wood." From their tenth year they are "accustomed to use little bows and arrows, and often attain great skill in shooting." The girls "seek among the coral-reefs and in the swamps to catch little fish in hand-nets." The Solomon Islands boy, as soon as he can walk a little, goes along with his elders to hunt and fish (326. I. 6). Among the Somali, of northeastern Africa, the boys are given small spears when ten or twelve years old and are out guarding the milk-camels (481 (1891). 163). Of the Eskimo of Baffin Land, Dr. Boas tells us that the children, "when about twelve years old, begin to help their parents; the girls sewing and preparing skins, the boys accompanying their fathers in hunting expeditions" (402. 566). Mr. Powers records that he has seen a Wailakki Indian boy of fourteen "run a rabbit to cover in ten minutes, split a stick fine at one end, thrust it down the hole, twist it into its scut, and pull it out alive" (519. 118). Among the games and amusements of the Andamanese children, of whom he says "though not borrowed from aliens, their pastimes, in many instances, bear close resemblance to those in vogue among children in this and other lands; notably is this the case with regard to those known to us as blind-man's buff, leap-frog, and hide-and-seek,"--Mr. Man enumerates the following: _mock pig-hunting_ (played after dark); _mock turtle-catching_ (played in the sea); going after the Evil Spirit of the Woods; swinging by means of long stout creepers; swimming-races (sometimes canoe-races); pushing their way with rapidity through the jungle; throwing objects upwards, or skimming through the air; playing at "duck-and-drakes"; shooting at moving objects; wrestling on the sand; hunting small crabs and fish and indulging in sham banquets, comparable to the "doll's feast" with us; making miniature canoes and floating them about in the water (498. 165). _Education of Boys and Girls._ With the Dakota Indians, according to Mr. Riggs, the grandfather and grandmother are often the principal teachers of the child. Under the care of the father and grandfather the boy learns to shoot, hunt, and fish, is told tales of war and daring exploits, and "when he is fifteen or sixteen joins the first war-party and comes back with an eagle feather in his head, if he is not killed and scalped by the enemy." Among the amusements he indulges in are foot-races, horse-racing, ball-playing, etc. Another branch of his education is thus described: "In the long winter evenings, while the fire burns brightly in the centre of the lodge, and the men are gathered in to smoke, he hears the folk-lore and legends of his people from the lips of the older men. He learns to sing the love-songs and the war-songs of the generations gone by. There is no new path for him to tread, but he follows in the old ways. He becomes a Dakota of the Dakota. His armour is consecrated by sacrifices and offerings and vows. He sacrifices and prays to the stone god, and learns to hold up the pipe to the so-called Great Spirit. He is killed and made alive again, and thus is initiated into the mysteries and promises of the Mystery Dance. He becomes a successful hunter and warrior, and what he does not know is not worth knowing for a Dakota. His education is finished. If he has not already done it, he can now demand the hand of one of the beautiful maidens of the village" (524. 209, 210). Under the care and oversight of the mother and grandmother the girl is taught the elements of household economy, industrial art, and agriculture. Mr. Biggs thus outlines the early education of woman among these Indians: "She plays with her 'made child,' or doll, just as children in other lands do. Very soon she learns to take care of the baby; to watch over it in the lodge, or carry it on her back while the mother is away for wood or dressing buffalo-robes. Little girl as she is, she is sent to the brook or lake for water. She has her little work-bag with awl and sinew, and learns to make small moccasins as her mother makes large ones. Sometimes she goes with her mother to the wood and brings home her little bundle of sticks. When the camp moves, she has her small pack as her mother carries the large one, and this pack is sure to grow larger as her years increase. When the corn is planting, the little girl has her part to perform. If she cannot use the hoe yet, she can at least gather off the old corn-stalks. Then the garden is to be watched while the god-given maize is growing. And when the harvesting comes, the little girl is glad for the corn-roasting." And so her young life runs on. She learns bead-work and ornamenting with porcupine quills, embroidering with ribbons, painting, and all the arts of personal adornment, which serve as attractions to the other sex. When she marries, her lot and her life (Mr. Riggs says) are hard, for woman is much less than man with these Dakotas (524. 210). More details of girl-life among savage and primitive peoples are to be found in the pages of Professor Mason (113. 207-211). In America, the education varied from what the little girl could pick up at her mother's side between her third and thirteenth years, to the more elaborate system of instruction in ancient Mexico, where, "annexed to the temples were large buildings used as seminaries for girls, a sort of aboriginal Wellesley or Vassar" (113 208). _Games and Plays._ In the multifarious games of children, echoes, imitations, re-renderings of the sober life of their elders and of their ancestors of the long ago, recur again and again. The numerous love games, which Mr. Newell (313. 39-62) and Miss Gomme (243) enumerate, such as "Knights of Spain," "Three kings," "Here comes a Duke a-roving," "Tread, tread the Green Grass," "I'll give to you a Paper of Pins," "There she stands a lovely Creature," "Green Grow the Rushes, O!" "The Widow with Daughters to marry," "Philander's March," "Marriage," etc., corresponding to many others all over the globe, evidence the social instincts of child-hood as well as the imitative tendencies of youth. Under "Playing at Work" (313. 80-92), Mr. Newell has classed a large number of children's games and songs, some of which now find their representatives in the kindergarten, this education of the child by itself having been so modified as to form part of the infantile curriculum of study. Among such games are: "Threading the Needle," "Draw a Bucket of Water," "Here I Brew and here I Bake," "Here we come gathering Nuts of May," "When I was a Shoemaker," "Do, do, pity my Case," "As we go round the Mulberry Bush," "Who'll be the Binder?" "Oats, Pease, Beans, and Barley grows." Mr. Newell includes in this category, also, that well-known dance, the "Virginia Reel," which he interprets as an imitation of weaving, something akin to the "Hemp-dressers' Dance," of the time of George III., in England. In a recent interesting and valuable essay, "Education by Plays and Games," by Mr. G. E. Johnson, of Clark University,--an effort "to present somewhat more correctly than has been done before, the educational value of play, and to suggest some practical applications to the work of education in the grades above the kindergarten,"--we have presented to us a list of some five hundred games, classified according to their value for advancing mental or physical education, for cultivating and strengthening the various faculties of mind and body. These games have also been arranged by Mr. Johnson, into such classes and divisions as might be held to correspond to the needs and necessities of the pupils in each of the eight grades above the kindergarten. Of the educational value of play and of "playing at work," there can be no doubt in the mind of any one at all acquainted with the history of the individual and the history of the race. As Mr. Johnson justly observes (269.100): "The field of the study of play is very wide; the plays are well-nigh infinite, and as varied as life itself. No one can estimate the value of them. Given right toys and surroundings, the young child has an almost perfect school. It is marvellous how well he learns, Preyer does not overestimate the facts when he says the child in the first three or four years of his life learns as much as the student in his entire university course. In the making of mud pies and doll dresses, sand-pile farms and miniature roads, tiny dams and water-wheels, whittled-out boats, sleds, dog-harnesses, and a thousand and one other things, the child receives an accumulation of facts, a skill of hand, a trueness of eye, a power of attention and quickness of perception; and in flying kites, catching trout, in pressing leaves and gathering stones, in collecting stamps, and eggs, and butterflies, a culture also, seldom appreciated by the parent or teacher." Upon the banner of the youthful hosts might well be inscribed _in hoc ludo vincemus_. Yet there is danger that the play-theory may be carried to excess. Mr. James L. Hughes, discussing "The Educational Value of Play and the Recent Play-Movement in Germany," remarks: "The Germans had the philosophy of play, the English had an intuitive love of play, and love is a greater impelling force than philosophy. English young men never played in order to expand their lungs, to increase their circulation, to develop their muscles in power and agility, to improve their figures, to add grace to their bearing, to awaken and refine their intellectual powers, or to make them manly, courageous, and chivalrous. They played enthusiastically for the mere love of play, and all these, and other advantages resulted from their play" (265. 328). Swimming is an art soon learned by the children of some primitive races. Mr. Man says of the Andaman Islanders: "With the exception of some of the ê·rem-tâg·a-(inlanders), a knowledge of the art of swimming is common to members of both sexes; the _children_ even, learning almost as soon as they can run, speedily acquire great proficiency" (498. 47). _Language._ With some primitive peoples the ideas as to language-study are pretty much on a par with those prevalent in Europe at a date not so very remote from the present. Of the Káto Pomo Indians of California, Mr. Powers remarks: "Like the Kai Pomo, their northern neighbours, they forbid their squaws from studying languages--which is about the only accomplishment possible to them save dancing--principally, it is believed, in order to prevent them from gadding about and forming acquaintances in neighbouring valleys, for there is small virtue among the unmarried of either sex. But the men pay considerable attention to linguistic studies, and there is seldom one who cannot speak most of the Pomo dialects within a day's journey of his ancestral valley. The chiefs, especially, devote no little care to the training of their sons as polyglot diplomatists; and Robert White affirms that they frequently send them to reside several months with the chiefs of contiguous valleys to acquire the dialects there in vogue" (519. 150). Nevertheless, as Professor Mason observes, among primitive races, woman's share in the "invention, dissemination, conservation, and metamorphosis of language" has been very great, and she has been _par excellence_ the teacher of language, as indeed she is to-day in our schools when expression and _savoir faire_ in speech, rather than deep philological learning and dry grammatical analysis, have been the object of instruction. _Geography._ Much has been said and written about the wonderful knowledge of geography and topography possessed by the Indian of America, and by other primitive peoples as well. The following passage from Mr. Powers' account of the natives of California serves to explain some of this (519. 109):-- "Besides the coyote-stories with which gifted squaws amuse their children, and which are common throughout this region, there prevails among the Mattoal a custom which might almost be dignified with the name of geographical study. In the first place, it is necessary to premise that the boundaries of all the tribes on Humboldt Bay, Eel River, Van Dusen's Fork, and in fact everywhere, are marked with the greatest precision, being defined by certain creeks, cañons, bowlders, conspicuous trees, springs, etc., each one of which objects has its own individual name. It is perilous for an Indian to be found outside of his tribal boundaries, wherefore it stands him well in hand to make himself acquainted with the same early in life. Accordingly, the squaws teach these things to their children in a kind of sing-song not greatly unlike that which was the national _furore_ some time ago in rural singing-schools, wherein they melodiously chanted such pleasing items of information as this: 'California. Sacramento, on the Sacramento River.' Over and over, time and again, they rehearse all these bowlders, etc., describing each minutely and by name, with its surroundings. Then when the children are old enough, they take them around to beat the bounds like Bumble the Beadle; and so wonderful is the Indian memory naturally, and so faithful has been their instruction, that the little shavers generally recognize the objects from the descriptions of them previously given by their mothers. If an Indian knows but little of this great world more than pertains to boundary bush and bowlder, he knows his own small fighting-ground infinitely better than any topographical engineer can learn it." Mr. Powers' reference to "beating the bounds like Bumble the Beadle" is an apt one. Mr. Frederick Sessions has selected as one of his _Folk-Lore Topics_ the subject of "Beating the Bounds" (352), and in his little pamphlet gives us much interesting information concerning the part played by children in these performances. The author tells us: "One of the earliest of my childish pleasures was seeing the Mayor and Corporation, preceded by Sword-bearer, Beadles, and Blue Coat School boys, going in procession from one city boundary-stone to another, across the meadows and the river, or over hedges and gardens, or anything else to which the perambulated border-line took them. They were followed along the route by throngs of holiday makers. Many of the crowd, and all the Blue boys, were provided with willow-wands, _peeled_, if I remember rightly, with which each boundary mark was well flogged. The youngest boys were bumped against the 'city stones.'" In the little town of Charlbury in Oxfordshire, "the perambulations seem to have been performed mostly by boys, accompanied by one or more of their seniors." At Houghton, a village near St. Ives in Huntingdonshire: "The bounds are still beaten triennially. They are here marked by holes in some places, and by stones or trees in others. The procession starts at one of the holes. Each new villager present is instructed in the position of this corner of the boundary by having his head forcibly thrust into the hole, while he has to repeat a sort of mumbo-jumbo prayer, and receives three whacks with a shovel. He pays a shilling for his 'footing' (boys only pay sixpence), and then the forty or fifty villagers march off to the opposite corner and repeat the process, except the monetary part, and regale themselves with bread and cheese and beer, paid for by the farmers who now occupy any portion of the old common lands." In Russia, before the modern system of land-registration came into vogue, "all the boys of adjoining Cossack village communes were 'collected and driven like flocks of sheep to the frontier, whipped at each boundary-stone, and if, in after years two whipped lads, grown into men, disputed as to the precise spot at which they had been castigated, then the oldest inhabitant carrying a sacred picture from the church, led the perambulations, and acted as arbitrator." Here also ought to be mentioned perhaps, as somewhat akin and reminiscent of like practices among primitive peoples, "the _blason populaire_ (as it is neatly called in French), in which the inhabitants of each district or city are nicely ticketed off and distinguished by means of certain abnormalities of feature or form, or certain mental peculiarities attributed to them" (204.19). In parts of Hungary and Transylvania a somewhat similar practice is in vogue (392 (1892). 128). _Story-Telling._ Some Indian children have almost the advantages of the modern home in the way of story-telling. Clark informs us (420.109):-- "Some tribes have regular story-tellers, men who have devoted a great deal of time to learning the myths and stories of their people, and who possess, in addition to a good memory, a vivid imagination. The mother sends for one of these, and, having prepared a feast for him, she and her little 'brood,' who are curled up near her, await the fairy stories of the dreamer, who, after his feast and smoke, entertains them for hours. Many of these fanciful sketches or visions are interesting and beautiful in their rich imagery, and have been at times given erroneous positions in ethnological data." Knortz refers in glowing terms to the _adisoke-winini_, or "storyteller" of the Chippeway Indians, those gifted men, who entertain their fellows with the tales and legends of the race, and who are not mere reciters, but often poets and transformers as well (_Skizzen_, 294). So, too, among the Andaman Islanders, "certain mythic legends are related to the young by _okopai-ads_ [shamans], parents, and others, which refer to the supposed adventures or history of remote ancestors, and though the recital not unfrequently evokes much mirth, they are none the less accepted as veracious" (498. 95). _Morals._ Among some of the native tribes of California we meet with _i-wa-musp_, or "men-women" (519. 132). Among the Yuki, for example, there were men who dressed and acted like women, and "devoted themselves to the instruction of the young by the narration of legends and moral tales." Some of these, Mr. Powers informs us, "have been known to shut themselves up in the assembly-hall for the space of a month, with brief intermissions, living the life of a hermit, and spending the whole time in rehearsing the tribal-history in a sing-song monotone to all who chose to listen." Somewhat similar, without the hermit-life, appear to be the functions of the orators and "prophets" of the Miwok and the peace-chiefs, or "shell-men," of the Pomo (519. 157, 352). Of the Indians of the Pueblo of Tehua, Mr. Lummis, in his entertaining volume of fairy-tales, says: "There is no duty to which a Pueblo child is trained in which he has to be content with the bare command, 'Do thus'; for each he learns a fairy- tale designed to explain how people first came to know that it was right to do thus, and detailing the sad results which befell those who did otherwise." The old men appear to be the storytellers, and their tales are told in a sort of blank verse (302. 5). Mr. Grinnell, in his excellent book about the Blackfeet,--one of the best books ever written about the Indians,--gives some interesting details of child-life. Children are never whipped, and "are instructed in manners as well as in other more general and more important matters." Among other methods of instruction we find that "men would make long speeches to groups of boys playing in the camps, telling them what they ought to do to be successful in life," etc. (464. 188-191). Of the Delaware Indians we are told that "when a mere boy the Indian lad would be permitted to sit in the village councilhouse, and hear the assembled wisdom of the village or his tribe discuss the affairs of state and expound the meaning of the _keekg_' (beads composing the wampum belts).... In this way he early acquired maturity of thought, and was taught the traditions of his people, and the course of conduct calculated to win him the praise of his fellows" (516. 43). This reminds us of the Roman senator who had his child set upon his knee during the session of that great legislative and deliberative body. _Playthings and Dolls._ As Professor Mason has pointed out, the cradle is often the "play-house" of the child, and is decked out to that end in a hundred ways (306. 162). Of the Sioux cradle, Catlin says:--"A broad hoop of elastic wood passes around in front of the child's face to protect it in case of a fall, from the front of which is suspended a little toy of exquisite embroidery for the child to handle and amuse itself with. To this and other little trinkets hanging in front of it, there are attached many little tinselled and tinkling things of the brightest colours to amuse both the eyes and the ears of the child. While travelling on horseback, the arms of the child are fastened under the bandages, so as not to be endangered if the cradle falls, and when at rest they are generally taken out, allowing the infant to reach and amuse itself with the little toys and trinkets that are placed before it and within its reach" (306. 202). In like manner are "playthings of various kinds" hung to the awning of the birch-bark cradles found in the Yukon region of Alaska. Of the Nez Percé, we read: "To the hood are attached medicine-bags, bits of shell, haliotis perhaps, and the whole artistic genius of the mother is in play to adorn her offspring." The old chronicler Lafiteau observed of the Indians of New France: "They put over that half-circle [at the top of the cradle] little bracelets of porcelain and other little trifles that the Latins call _crepundia_, which serve as an ornament and as playthings to divert the child" (306. 167, 187, 207). And so is it elsewhere in the world. Some of the beginnings of art in the race are due to the mother's instinctive attempts to please the eyes and busy the hands of her tender offspring. The children of primitive peoples have their dolls and playthings as do those of higher races. In an article descriptive of the games and amusements of the Ute Indians, we read: "The boy remains under maternal care until he is old enough to learn to shoot and engage in manly sports and enjoyments. Indian children play, laugh, cry, and act like white children, and make their own play-things from which they derive as much enjoyment as white children" (480. IV. 238). Of the Seminole Indians of Florida, Mr. MacCauley says that among the children's games are skipping and dancing, leap-frog, teetotums, building a merry-go-round, carrying a small make-believe rifle of stick, etc. They also "sit around a small piece of land, and, sticking blades of grass into the ground, name it a 'corn-field,'" and "the boys kill small birds in the bush with their bows and arrows, and call it 'turkey-hunting.'" Moreover, they "have also dolls (bundles of rags, sticks with bits of cloth wrapped around them, etc.), and build houses for them which they call 'camps'" (496. 506). Of the Indians of the western plains, Colonel Dodge says: "The little girls are very fond of dolls, which their mothers make and dress with considerable skill and taste. Their baby houses are miniature teepees, and they spend as much time and take as much pleasure in such play as white girls" (432. 190). Dr. Boas tells us concerning the Eskimo of Baffin Land: "Young children are always carried in their mothers' hoods, but when about a year and a half old they are allowed to play on the bed, and are only carried by their mothers when they get too mischievous." The same authority also says: "Young children play with, toys, sledges, kayaks, boats, bow and arrows, and dolls. The last are made in the same way by all the tribes, a wooden body being clothed with scraps of deerskin cut in the same way as the clothing of the men" (402. 568, 571). Mr. Murdoch has described at some length the dolls and toys of the Point Barrow Eskimo. He remarks that "though several dolls and various suits of miniature clothing were made and brought over for sale, they do not appear to be popular with the little girls." He did not see a single girl playing with a doll, and thinks the articles collected may have been made rather for sale than otherwise. Of the boys, Mr. Murdoch says: "As soon as a boy is able to walk, his father makes him a little bow suited to his strength, with blunt arrows, with which he plays with the other boys, shooting at marks--for instance the fetal reindeer brought home from the spring hunt--till he is old enough to shoot small birds and lemmings" (514. 380, 383). In a recent extensive and elaborately illustrated article, Dr. J. W. Fewkes has described the dolls of the Tusayan Indians (one of the Pueblo tribes). Of the _tihus_, or carved wooden dolls, the author says (226. 45): "These images are commonly mentioned by American visitors to the Tusayan Pueblos as idols, but there is abundant evidence to show that they are at present used simply as children's playthings, which are made for that purpose and given to the girls with that thought in mind." Attention is called to the difficulty of drawing the line between a doll and an idol among primitive peoples, the connection of dolls with religion, psychological evidence of which lingers with us to-day in the persistent folk-etymology which connects _doll_ with _idol_. The following remarks of Dr. Fewkes are significant: "These figurines [generally images of deities or mythological personages carved in true archaic fashion] are generally made by participants in the _Ni-mán-Ka-tci-na_, and are presented to the children in July or August at the time of the celebration of the farewell of the _Ka-tci'-nas_ [supernatural intercessors between men and gods]. It is not rare to see the little girls after the presentation carrying the dolls about on their backs wrapped in their blankets in the same manner in which babies are carried by their mothers or sisters. Those dolls which are more elaborately made are generally hung up as ornaments in the rooms, but never, so far as I have investigated the subject, are they worshipped. The readiness with which they are sold for a proper remuneration shows that they are not regarded as objects of reverence." But, as Dr. Fewkes himself adds, "It by no means follows that they may not be copies of images which have been worshipped, although they now have come to have a strictly secular use." Among some peoples, perhaps, the dolls, images of deities of the past, or even of the present, may have been used to impart the fundamentals of theology and miracle-story, and the play-house of the children may have been at times a sort of religious kindergarten of a primitive type. Worthy of note in this connection is the statement of Castren that "the Finns manufacture a kind of dolls, or _paras_, out of a child's cap filled with tow and stuck at the end of a rod. The fetich thus made is carried nine times round the church, with the cry 'synny para' (Para be born) repeated every time to induce a _hal'tia_--that is to say, a spirit--to enter into it" (388. 108). A glance into St. Nicholas, or at the returns to the syllabus on dolls sent out by President Hall, is sufficient to indicate the farreaching associations of the subject, while the doll-congress of St. Petersburg has had its imitators both in Europe and America. A bibliography of doll-poems, doll-descriptions, doll-parties, doll-funerals, and the like would be a welcome addition to the literature of dolls, while a doll-museum of extended scope would be at once entertaining and of great scientific value. The familiar phrase "to cry for the moon" corresponds to the French "prendre la lune avec ses dents." In illustration of this proverbial expression, which Rabelais used in the form _Je ne suis point clerc pour prendre la lune avec les dents_, Loubens tells the amusing story of a servant who, when upbraided by the parents for not giving to a child what it wanted and for which it had been long crying, answered: "You must give it him yourself. A quarter-of-an-hour ago, he saw the moon at the bottom of a bucket of water, and wants me to give it him. That's all." (_Prov. et locut. franç_., p. 225.) To-day children cry for the moon in vain, but 'twas not ever thus. In payment for the church, which King Olaf wanted to have built,--a task impossible, the saint thought,--the giant demanded "the sun and moon, or St. Olaf himself." Soon the building was almost completed, and St. Olaf was in great perplexity at the unexpected progress of the work. As he was wandering about "he heard a child cry inside a mountain, and a giant-woman hush it with these words: 'Hush! hush! to-morrow comes thy father Wind-and-Weather home, bringing both sun and moon, or saintly Olaf's self.'" Had not the king overheard this, and, by learning the giant's name, been enabled to crush him, the child could have had his playthings the next day. In the course of an incarnation-myth of the raven among the Haida Indians of the Queen Charlotte Islands, Mr. Mackenzie tells us (497. 53):-- "In time the woman bore a son, a remarkably small child. This child incessantly cried for the moon to play with, thus--_Koong-ah-ah, Koong-ah-ah_ ('the moon, the moon'). The spirit-chief, in order to quiet the child, after carefully closing all apertures of the house, produced the moon, and gave it to the child to play with." The result was that the raven (the child) ran off with the moon, and the people in consequence were put to no little inconvenience. But by and by the raven broke the original moon in two, threw half up into the sky, which became the sun, while of the other half he made the moon, and of the little bits, which were left in the breaking, all the stars. In the golden age of the gods, the far-off _juventus mundi_, the parts of the universe were the playthings, the _Spielzeug_ of the divine infants, just as peasants and human infants figure in the folk-tales as the toys of giants and Brobdingnagians. Indeed, some of the phenomena of nature and their peculiarities are explained by barbarous or semi-barbarous peoples as the result of the games and sports of celestial and spiritual children. With barbarous or semi-civilized peoples possessing flocks and herds of domesticated animals the child is early made acquainted with their habits and uses. Regarding the Kaffirs of South Africa Theal says that it is the duty of the young boys to attend to the calves in the kraal, and "a good deal of time is passed in training them to run and to obey signals made by whistling. The boys mount them when they are eighteen months or two years old, and race about upon their backs" (543. 220). In many parts of the world the child has played an important role as shepherd and watcher of flocks and herds, and the shepherd-boy has often been called to high places in the state, and has even ascended the thrones of great cities and empires, ecclesiastical as well as political. _Dress._ In his little book on the philosophy of clothing Dr. Schurtz has given us an interesting account of the development and variation of external ornamentation and dress among the various races, especially the negro peoples of Africa. The author points out that with not a few primitive tribes only married persons wear clothes, girls and boys, young women and men even, going about _in puris naturalibus_ (530. 13). Everywhere the woman is better clothed than the girl, and in some parts of Africa, as the ring is with us, so are clothes a symbol of marriage. Among the Balanta, for example, in Portuguese Senegambia, when a man marries he gives his wife a dress, and so long as this remains whole, the marriage-union continues in force. On the coast of Sierra Leone, the expression "he gave her a dress," intimates that the groom has married a young girl (530. 14, 43-49). Often, with many races the access of puberty leads to the adoption of clothing and to a refinement of dress and personal adornment. A relic of this remains, as Dr. Schurtz points out, in the leaving off of knickerbockers and the adoption of "long dresses," by the young people in our civilized communities of to-day (530. 13). With others the clothing of the young is of the most primitive type, and children in very many cases go about absolutely naked. That the development of the sex-feeling, and entrance upon marriage, have with very many peoples been the chief incitements to dress and personal ornamentation, has been pointed out by Schurtz and others (530. 14). Not alone this, but, sometimes, as among the Bura Negroes of the upper Blue Nile region, the advent of her child brings with it a modification in the dress of the mother. With these people, young girls wear an apron in front, married women one in front and one behind, but women who have already had a child wear two in front, one over the other. A similar remark applies to tattooing and kindred ornamentations of the body and its members. Among the women of the Bajansi on the middle Congo, for example, a certain form of tattoo indicated that the woman had borne a child (530. 78). Schurtz points out that the kangaroo-skin breast-covering of the Tasmanian women, the shoulder and arm strips worn by the women of the Monbuttu in Africa, the skin mantles of the Marutse, the thick hip-girdle of the Tupende, and other articles of clothing of a like nature, seem to be really survivals of devices for carrying children, and not to have been originally intended as dress _per se_ (530. 110, 111). Thus early does childhood become a social factor. CHAPTER XIV. THE CHILD AS MEMBER AND BUILDER OF SOCIETY. In great states, children are always trying to remain children, and the parents wanting to make men and women of them. In vile states, the children are always wanting to be men and women, and the parents to keep them children.--_Ruskin_. Children generally hate to be idle; all the care is then that their busy humour should be constantly employed in something of use to them.--_Locke_. Look into our childish faces; See you not our willing hearts? Only love us--only lead us; Only let us know you need us, And we all will do our parts.--_Mary Howitt_. [Greek: Anthropos Phusei zoon politikon] [Man is by nature a political (social) animal].--_Aristotle_. Never till now did young men, and almost children, take such a command in human affairs.--_Carlyle_. Predestination and Caste. "Who can tell for what high cause This darling of the Gods was born?" asks the poet Marvell. But with some peoples the task of answering the question is an easy one; for fate, or its human side, caste, has settled the matter long before the infant comes into the world. The Chinese philosopher, Han Wan-Kung, is cited by Legge as saying: "When Shuh-yu was born, his mother knew, as soon as she looked at him, that he would fall a victim to his love of bribes. When Yang sze-go was born, the mother of Shuh-he-ang knew, as soon as she heard him cry, that he would cause the destruction of all his kindred. When Yueh-tseaou was born, Tzewan considered it was a great calamity, knowing that through him all the ghosts of the Johgaou family would be famished" (487. 89). In India, we meet with the Bidhata-Purusha, a "deity that predestines all the events of the life of man or woman, and writes on the forehead of the child, on the sixth day of its birth, a brief precis of them" (426. 9). India is _par excellence_ the land of caste, but other lands know the system that makes the man follow in his father's footsteps, and often ignores the woman altogether, not even counting her in the census of the people, as was formerly the case even in Japan and China, where a girl was not worthy to be counted beside the son. Of ancient Peru, Letourneau says: "Every male inherited his father's profession; he was not allowed to choose another employment. By right of birth a man was either labourer, miner, artisan, or soldier" (100. 486). Predestination of state and condition in another world is a common theological tenet, predestination of state and condition in this world is a common social theory. Vast indeed is the lore of birth-days, months and years, seasons and skies--the fictions, myths, and beliefs of the astrologist, the spiritualist, the fortune-teller, and the almanac-maker--which we have inherited from those ancestors of ours, who believed in the kinship of all things, who thought that in some way "beasts and birds, trees and plants, the sea, the mountains, the wind, the sun, the moon, the clouds, and the stars, day and night, the heaven and the earth, were alive and possessed of the passions and the will they felt within themselves" (258. 25). Here belongs a large amount of folk-lore and folk-speech relating to the defective, delinquent, and dependent members of human society, whose misfortunes or misdeeds are assigned to atavistic causes, to demoniacal influences. _Parenthood._ Among primitive peoples, the advent of a child, besides entailing upon one or both of the parents ceremonies and superstitious performances whose name and fashion are legion, often makes a great change in the constitution of society. Motherhood and fatherhood are, in more than one part of the globe, primitive titles of nobility and badges of aristocracy. With the birth of a child, the Chinese woman becomes something more than a mere slave and plaything, and in the councils of uncivilized peoples (as with us to-day) the voice of the father of a family carries more weight than that of the childless. With the civilized races to-day, more marriages mean fewer prison-houses, and more empty jails, than in the earlier days, and with the primitive peoples of the present, this social bond was the salvation of the tribe to the same extent and in the same way. As Westermarck points out, there are "several instances of husband and wife not living together before the birth of a child." Here belong the temporary marriages of the Creek Indians, the East Greenlanders, the Fuegians, the Essenes, and some other Old World sects and peoples--the birth of a child completes the marriage--"marriage is therefore rooted in family, rather than family in marriage," in such cases. With the Ainos of the island of Tezo, the Khyens of Farther India, and with one of the aboriginal tribes of China, so Westermarck informs us, "the husband goes to live with his wife at her father's house, and never takes her away till after the birth of a child," and with more than one other people the wife remains with her own parents until she becomes a mother (166. 22, 23). In some parts of the United States we find similar practices among the population of European ancestry. The "boarding-out" of young couples until a child is born to them is by no means uncommon. _Adoption._ Adoption is, among some primitive peoples, remarkably extensive. Among the natives of the Andaman Islands "it is said to be of rare occurrence to find any child above six or seven years of age residing with its parents, and this, because it is considered a compliment and also a mark of friendship for a married man, after paying a visit, to ask his hosts to allow him to adopt one of their children" (498. 57). Of the Hawaiian Islanders, Letourneau remarks (100. 389, 390): "Adoption was rendered extremely easy; a man would give himself a father or sons almost _ad infinitum_." In the Marquesas Islands "it was not uncommon to see elderly persons being adopted by children." Moreover, "animals even were adopted. A chief adopted a dog, to whom, he offered ten pigs and some precious ornaments. The dog was carried about by a _kikino_, and at every meal he had his stated place beside his adopted father." Connected with adoption are many curious rites and ceremonies which may be found described in Ploss and other authorities. Dr. Friedrich S. Krauss (280) has recently treated at some length of a special form of adoption symbolized by the cutting of the hair, and particularly known among the southern Slavonians. The cutting off the hair here represents, the author thinks, the unconditional surrendering of one's body or life to another. The origin of the sacrifice of the hair is to be sought in the fact that primitive peoples have believed that the seat of the soul was in the hair and the blood, which were offered to the spirits or demons in lieu of the whole body. The relation between nurse and child has been treated of by Ploss and Wiedniann (167), the latter with special reference to ancient Egypt and the Mohammedan countries. In ancient Egypt the nurse was reckoned as one of the family, and in the death-steles and reliefs of the Middle Kingdom her name and figure are often found following those of the children and parents of the deceased. The wet-nurse was held in especial honour. The milk-relationship sometimes completely takes the place of blood-relationship. The Koran forbids the marriage of a nurse and a man whom, as a child, she has suckled; the laws of the Hanafi forbid a man to marry a woman from whose breast he has imbibed even a single drop of milk. Among the southern Slavonians: "If of two children who have fed at the breast of the same woman, one is a boy and the woman's own child, and the other (adopted) a girl, these two must never marry." If they are both girls, they are like real sisters in love and affection; if both boys, like real brothers. In Dardistan and Armenia also, milk-relationship prevents marriage (167. 263). In Mingrelia as soon as a child is given to a woman to nurse, she, her husband, children, and grandchildren are bound to it by ties more dear even than those of blood-relationship; she would yield up her life for the child, and the latter, when grown up, is reciprocally dutiful. It is a curious fact that even grown-up people can contract this sort of relationship. "Thus peasant-women are very anxious to have grown-up princesses become then foster-children--the latter simply bite gently the breasts of their foster-mothers, and forthwith a close relationship subsists between them." It is said also that girls obtain protectors in like manner by having youths bite at their breasts, which (lately) they cover with a veil (167. 263). Adoption by the letting or transfusion of blood is also found in various parts of the world and has far-reaching ramifications; as Trumbull, Robertson Smith, and Daniels have pointed out. The last calls attention to the Biblical declaration (Proverbs, xxviii. 24): "There is a friend which sticketh closer than a brother," underlying which seems to be this mystic tie of blood (214. 16). The mourning for the death of children is discussed in another part of this work. It may be mentioned here, however, that the death of a child often entails other, sometimes more serious, consequences. Among the Dyaks of Borneo, "when a father has lost his child, he kills the first man he meets as he goes out of his house; this is to him an act of duty" (100. 238). _Hereditary Bights._ The hereditary rights of children to share in the property of their parents have been made the subject of an interesting study by Clement Deneus (215), a lawyer of Ghent, who has treated in detail of the limitation of the patria potestas in respect to disposition of the patrimony, and the reservation to the children of a portion of the property of their parents--an almost inviolable right, of which they can be deprived only in consequence of the gravest offences. This reservation the author considers "a principle universally recognized among civilized nations," and an institution which marks a progress in the history of law and of civilization (215. 49), while testamentary freedom is unjust and inexpedient. The author discusses the subject from the points of view of history, statute and natural law, social economy, etc., devoting special attention to pointing out the defects of the system of the school of Le Play,--primogeniture, which still obtains in England, in several parts of Germany, in certain localities of the Pyrenees, and in the Basque provinces. In the countries of modern Europe, the testamentary power of the father is limited as follows: _Austria_ (Code of 1812): One-half of parents' property reserved for children. The law of 1889 makes exception in the case of rural patrimonies of moderate size with dwelling attached, where the father has the right to designate his heir. _Denmark_ (Code of 1845): Father can dispose of but one-fourth of the property; nobles, however, are allowed to bestow upon one of their children the half of their fortune. _Germany_: No uniform civil legislation exists as yet for the whole empire. In the majority of the smaller states, in a part of Bavaria, Rügen, eastern Pomerania, Schleswig-Holstein, the _Corpus Juris Civilis_ of Justinian is in force, while the Napoleonic code obtains in Rhenish Prussia, Hesse, and Bavaria, in Baden, Berg, Alsace-Lorraine. In Prussia, the reserve is one-third, if there are less than three children; one-half, if there are three or four. In Saxony, if there are five or more children, the reserve is one-half; if there are four or less, one-third. _Greece:_ The Justinian novels are followed. _Holland:_ The Napoleonic code is in force. _Italy_ (Code of 1866): The reserve is one-half. _Norway_ (Code of 1637, modified in 1800, 1811, 1825): The father is allowed free disposal of one-half of the patrimony, but for religious charities (_fondationspieuses_) only. _Portugal_: The legitimate is two-thirds. _Roumania_ (Code of 1865): The same provision as in the Napoleonic code. _Russia_ (Code of 1835): The father can dispose at pleasure of the personal property and property acquired, but the property itself must be divided equally. In Esthonia, this provision also applies to personal property acquired by inheritance. _Spain_ (Code of 1889): The father can dispose of one-third of the patrimony to a stranger; to a child he can will two-thirds. He can also, in the case of farming, industry, or commerce, leave his entire property to one of his children, except that the legatee has to pecuniarily indemnify his brothers and sisters. _Sweden_ (Code of 1734): In the towns, the father can dispose of but one-sixth of the patrimony; in the country, the patrimonial property must go to the children. The rest is at the will of the father, except that he must provide for the sustenance of his children. _Switzerland:_ At Geneva, the Napoleonic code is in force; in the Canton of Uri, the younger son is sometimes specially favoured; in Zürich, the father can dispose of one-sixth in favour of strangers, or one-fifth in favour of a child; in Bâle, he is allowed no disposal; in the cantons of Neuchâtel and Vaud, the reserve is one-half, in Bern and Schaffhausen, two-thirds, and in Eriburg and Soleure, three-fourths. _Turkey:_ The father can dispose of two-thirds by will, or of the whole by gift (215. 39-41). In Prance, article 913 of the civil code forbids the father to dispose, by gift while living, or by will, of more than one-half of the property, if he leaves at his death but one legitimate child; more than one-third, if he leaves two children; more than one-fourth, if he leave three or more children. In the United States great testamentary freedom prevails, and the laws of inheritance belong to the province of the various States. Among the nations of antiquity,--Egyptians, Persians, Assyrians, Chinese,--according to Deneus (215. 2), the _patria potestas_ probably prevented any considerable diffusion of the family estates. By the time of Moses, the Hebrews had come to favour the first-born, and to him was given a double share of the inheritance. With the ancient Hindus but a slight favouring--of the eldest son seems to have been in vogue, the principle of co-proprietorship of parent and children being recognized in the laws of Manu. In Sparta, the constitution was inimical to a reserve for all the children; in Athens, the code of Solon forbade a man to benefit a stranger at the expense of his legitimate male children; he had, however, the right to make particular legacies, probably up to one-half of the property. Deneus considers that the _penchant_ of the Athenians for equality was not favourable to a cast-iron system of primogeniture, although the father may have been able to favour his oldest child to the extent of one-half of his possessions. In ancient Rome (215. 4-16), at first, a will was an exception, made valid only by the vote of a lex curiata; but afterwards the absolute freedom of testamentary disposition, which was approved in 450 B.C. by the Law of the Twelve Tables,--_Uti legassit super pecunia tutelage suce rei, ita jus esto,_--appears, and the father could even pass by his children in silence and call upon an utter stranger to enjoy his estate and possessions. By 153 B.C., however, the father was called upon to nominally disinherit his children, and not merely pass them over in silence, if he wished to leave his property to a stranger. For some time this provision had little effect, but a breach in the _patria potestas_ has really been made, and by the time of Pliny the Younger (61-115 A.D.), who describes the procedure in detail, the disinherited children were given the right of the _querula inoffidosi testamenti,_ by which the father was presumed to have died intestate, and his property fell in equal shares to all his children. Thus it was that the right of children in the property of the father was first really recognized at Rome, and the _pars legitima,_ the reserve of which made it impossible for the children to attack the will of the father, came into practice. In the last years of the Republic, this share was at least one-fourth of what the legitimate heir would have received in the absence of a will; under Justinian, it was one-third of the part _ab intestate,_ if this was at least one-fourth of the estate; otherwise, one-half. The father always retained the right to disinherit, for certain reasons, in law. With this diminution of his rights over property went also a lessening of his powers over the bodies of his children. Diocletian forbade the selling of children, Constantine decreed that the father who exposed his new-born child should lose the _patria potestas,_ and Valentinian punished such action with death. Among the ancient Gauls, in spite of the father's power of life and death over his offspring, he could not disinherit them, for the theory of co-proprietorship obtained with these western tribes (215. 16). With the ancient Germans, the father appears to have been rather the protector of his children than their owner or keeper; the child is recognized, somewhat rudely, as a being with some rights of his own. Michelet has aptly observed, as Deneus remarks, that "the Hindus saw in the son the reproduction of the father's soul; the Romans, a servant of the father; the Germans, a child" (215. 17). At first wills were unknown among them, for the system of co-proprietorship,--_hoeredes successoresgue sui cuique liberi et nullum testamentum,_--and the solidarity of the family and all its members, did not feel the need of any. The inroad of Roman ideas, and especially, Deneus thinks, the fervour of converts to Christianity, introduced testamentary legacies. The Goths and Burgundians, in their Roman laws, allowed the parent to dispose of three-fourths, the Visigoths one-third or one-fifth, according as the testator disposed of his property in favour of a child or a stranger. The national law of the Burgundians allowed to the father the absolute disposal of his acquisitions, but prescribed the equal sharing of the property among all the children. The ripuarian law of the Franks left the children a reserve of twelve sons, practically admitting absolute freedom of disposition by will (215. 18). The course of law in respect to the inheritance of children during the Middle Ages can be read in the pages of Deneus and the wider comparative aspect of the subject studied in the volumes of Post, Dargun, Engels, etc., where the various effects of mother-right and father-right are discussed and interpreted. _Subdivisions of Land._ In some cases, as in Wurtemburg, Switzerland, Hanover, Thuringia, Hesse, certain parts of Sweden, France, and Russia, the subdivision of property has been carried out to an extent which has produced truly Lilliputian holdings. In Switzerland there is a certain commune where the custom obtains of transmitting by will to each child its proportional share of each parcel; so that a single walnut-tree has no fewer than sixty proprietors. This reminds us of the Maoris of New Zealand, with whom "a portion of the ground is allotted to the use of each family, and this portion is again subdivided into individual parts on the birth of each child." It is of these same people that the story is told that, after selling certain of their lands to the English authorities, they came back in less than a year and demanded payment also for the shares of the children born since the sale, whose rights they declared had not been disposed of. On the islands of the Loire there are holdings "so small that it is impossible to reduce them any less, so their owners have them each in turn a year"; in the commune of Murs, in Anjou, there is "a strip of nine hectares, subdivided into no fewer than thirty-one separate parcels." The limit, however, seems to be reached in Laon, where "it is not rare to find fields scarce a metre (3 ft. 3.37 in.) wide; here an apple-tree or a walnut-tree covers with its branches four or five lots, and the proprietor can only take in his crop in the presence of his neighbours, to whom he has also to leave one-half of the fruit fallen on their lots." No wonder many disputes and lawsuits arise from such a state of affairs. It puts us in mind at once of the story of the sand-pile and the McDonogh farm. The exchange or purchase of contiguous parcels sometimes brings temporary or permanent relief (215. 112, 113). The following figures show the extent to which this Lilliputian system obtained in France in 1884, according to the returns of the Minister of Finance:-- NATURE OF PROPERTY. ABSOLUTE PER TOTAL PER NUMBER OF CENT. HECTARES. CENT. HOLDINGS. Less than 20 ares (100 ares = one hectare) 4,115,463 29.00 Less than 50 ares 6,597,843 47.00 1,147,804 2.31 Less than 1 hectare ( =2-1/2 acres) 8,585,523 61.00 2,574,589 5.19 Less than 2 hectares 10,426,368 74.09 5,211,456 10.53 From 2 to 6 hectares 2,174,188 15.47 7,543,347 15.26 From 6 to 50 hectares 1,351,499 9.58 19,217,902 38.94 From 50 to 200 hectares 105,070 0.74 9,398,057 19.04 More than 200 hectares 17,676 0.12 8,017,542 16.23 Totals..................... 14,074,801 100.00 49,388,304 100.00 Deneus gives other interesting figures from Belgium and elsewhere, showing the extent of the system. Other statistics given indicate that this parcelling-out has reached its lowest point, and that the reaction has set in. It is a curious fact, noted by M. Deneus, that of the 1,173,724 tenant-farmers in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland in the year 1884, no fewer than 852,438 cultivated an acre or less. _Younger Son._ Mr. Sessions, in his interesting little pamphlet (351) calls attention to the important _role_ assigned in legend and story to the "younger son," "younger brother," as well as the social customs and laws which have come into vogue on his account. Sir Henry Maine argued that "primogeniture cannot be the natural outgrowth of the family, but is a political institution, coming not from clansmen but from a chief." Hence the youngest son, "who continues longest with the father, is naturally the heir of his house, the rest being already provided for." Mr. Sessions observes (351. 2): "Among some primitive tribes, as those of Cape York [Australia] and the adjacent islands, the youngest son inherited a double portion of his deceased father's goods. Among the Maoris of New Zealand he takes the whole. Among some hill tribes of India, such as the Todas of the Neilgherries, he takes the house and maintains the women of the family, whilst the cattle, which represent the chief personalities, are equally divided. The Mrus and Kolhs and Cotas have similar customs." Somewhat similar to the code of the Todas was that of the Hindu Aryans, as embodied in the laws of Manu, for "the youngest son has, from time immemorial, as well as the eldest, a place in Hindu legislation." The succession of the youngest prevails among the Mongolian Tartars, and "when in Russia the joint family may be broken up, the youngest takes the house." The right of the youngest was known among the Welsh, Irish, and some other Celtic tribes; the old Welsh law gave the youngest son the house and eight acres, the rest of the land being divided equally between all the sons. Mr. Sessions calls attention to the fact that, while in Old Testament Palestine primogeniture was the rule, the line of ancestry of Christ exhibits some remarkable exceptions. And among primitive peoples the hero or demi-god is very often the younger son. Under the name of "Borough English," the law by which the father's real property descends to the youngest son alone, survives in Gloucester and some few other places in England,--Lambeth, Hackney, part of Islington, Heston, Edmonton, etc. Another interesting tenure is that of gavelkind, by which the land and property of the father was inherited in equal portions by all his sons, the youngest taking the house, the eldest the horse and arms, and so on. This mode of tenure, before the Conquest, was quite common in parts of England, especially Wales and Northumberland, still surviving especially in the county of Kent. Many things, indeed, testify of the care which was taken even in primitive times to secure that the youngest born, the child of old age, so frequently the best-loved, should not fare ill in the struggle for life. _Child-Nurses._ One important function of the child (still to be seen commonly among the lower classes of the civilized races of to-day) with primitive peoples is that of nurse and baby-carrier. Even of Japan, Mrs. Bramhall gives this picture (189. 33):-- "We shall see hundreds of small children, not more than five or six years of age, carrying, fast asleep on their shoulders, the baby of the household, its tiny smooth brown head swinging hither and thither with every movement of its small nurse, who walks, runs, sits, or jumps, flies kites, plays hop-scotch, and fishes for frogs in the gutter, totally oblivious of that infantile charge, whether sleeping or waking. If no young sister or brother be available, the husband, the uncle, the father, or grandfather hitches on his back the baby, preternaturally good and contented." The extent to which, in America, as well as in Europe, to-day, young children are entrusted with the care of infants of their family, has attracted not a little attention, and the "beyond their years" look of some of these little nurses and care-takers is often quite noticeable. The advent of the baby-carriage has rather facilitated than hindered this old-time employment of the child in the last century or so. In a recent number (vol. xvii. p. 792) of _Public Opinion_ we find the statement that from June 17, 1890, to September 15, 1894, the "Little Mothers' Aid Association," of New York, has been the means of giving a holiday, one day at least of pleasure in the year, to more than eight thousand little girls, who are "little mothers, in the sense of having the care of younger children while the parents are at work." In thrifty New England, children perform not a little of the housework, even the cooking; and "little mothers" and "little housekeepers" were sometimes left to themselves for days, while their elders in days gone by visited or went to the nearest town or village for supplies. _Child-Marriages._ "Marriages are made in heaven," says the old proverb, and among some primitive peoples we meet with numerous instances of their having been agreed upon and arranged by prospective parents long before the birth of their offspring. Indeed, the betrothal of unborn children by their parents occurs sporadically to-day in civilized lands. Ploss has called attention to child-marriages in their sociological and physiological bearings (125.1. 386-402), and Post has considered the subject in his historical study of family law. In these authorities the details of the subject may be read. In Old Calabar, men who already possess several wives take to their bosom and kiss, as their new wife, babes two or three weeks old. In China, Gujurat, Ceylon, and parts of Brazil, wives of from four to six years of age are occasionally met with. In many parts of the world wives of seven to nine years of age are common, and wives of from ten to twelve very common. In China it is sometimes the case that parents buy for their infant son an infant wife, nursed at the same breast with him (234. xlii.). Wiedemann, in an article on child-marriages in Egypt (381), mentions the fact that a certain king of the twenty-first dynasty (about 1100 B.C.) seems to have had as one of his wives a child only a few days old. From Dio Cassius we learn that in Rome, at the beginning of the Empire, marriages of children under ten years occasionally took place. In some parts of the world the child-wife does not belong to her child-husband. "Among the Reddies, of India," Letourneau informs us, "a girl from sixteen to twenty years of age is married to a boy of five or six. The wife then becomes the real wife of the boy's uncle, or cousin, or of the father of the reputed husband. But the latter is considered to be the legal father of the children of his pretended wife." So it is only when the boy has grown up that he receives his wife, and he, in turn, acts as his relative before him (100. 354). Temple cites the following curious custom in his tales of the Panjâb (542. I. xviii.):-- "When Raja Vasali has won a bride from Raja Sirkap, he is given a new-born infant and a mango-tree, which is to flower in twelve years, and when it flowers, the girl is to be his wife." The age prescribed by ancient Hindu custom (for the Brahman, Tshetria, and Vysia classes) is six to eight years for the girl, and the belief prevailed that if a girl were to attain her puberty before being married, her parents and brothers go to hell, as it was their duty to have got her married before that period (317. 56). Father Sangermano, writing of Burma a hundred years ago, notices the "habit of the Burmese to engage their daughters while young, in real or fictitious marriages, in order to save them from the hands of the king's ministers, custom having established a rule, which is rarely if ever violated, that no married woman can be seized, even for the king himself" (234. xlii.). The child-marriages of India have been a fruitful theme for discussion, as well as the enforced widowhood consequent upon the death of the husband. Among the most interesting literature on the subject are the "Papers relating to Infant Marriage and Enforced Widowhood in India" (317), Schlagintweit (142), etc. The evils connected with the child-marriages of India are forcibly brought out by Mrs. Steel in several of the short stories in her _From the Five Rivers_ (1893), and by Richard Garbe in his beautiful little novel _The Redemption of the Brahman_(1894). But India and other Eastern lands are not the only countries where "child-marriages" have flourished. Dr. F. J. Furnivall (234), the distinguished English antiquary and philologist, poring over at Chester the "Depositions in Trials in the Bishop's Court from November, 1561 to March, 1565-6," was astonished to find on the ninth page the record: "that Elizabeth Hulse said she was married to George Hulse in the Chapel of Knutsford, when she was but _three or four_ years old, while the boy himself deposed that he was about seven," and still more surprised when he discovered that the volume contained "no fewer than twenty-seven cases of the actual marriage in church of the little boys and girls of middle-class folk." The result of Dr. Furnivall's researches is contained in the one-hundred-and-eighth volume (original series) of the Early English Text Society's Publications, dealing with child-marriages, divorces, ratifications, etc., and containing a wealth of quaint and curious sociological lore. Perhaps the youngest couple described are John Somerford, aged about three years, and Jane Brerton, aged about two years, who were married in the parish church of Brerton about 1553. Both were carried in arms to the church, and had the words of the marriage service said for them by those who carried them. It appears that they lived together at Brerton for ten years, but without sustaining any further marital relations, and when the husband was about fifteen years, we find him suing for a divorce on account of his wife's "unkindness, and other weighty causes." Neither party seemed affectionately disposed towards the other (234.26). Other very interesting marriages are those of Bridget Dutton (aged under five years) and George Spurstowe (aged six) (234. 38); Margaret Stanley (aged five) and Roland Dutton (aged nine), brother of Bridget Dutton (234. 41); Janet Parker (aged five) and Lawrence Parker (aged nine to ten). The rest of the twenty-seven couples were considerably older, the most of the girls ranging between eight and twelve, the boys between ten and fourteen (234. 28). It would Seem that for the most part these young married couples were not allowed to live together, but at times some of the nuptial rites were travestied or attempted to be complied with. In two only of the twenty-seven cases is there mention of "bedding" the newly-married children. John Budge, who at the age of eleven to twelve years, was married to Elizabeth Ramsbotham, aged thirteen to fourteen years, is said to have wept to go home with his father and only by "compulsion of the priest of the Chapel" was he persuaded to lie with his wife, but never had any marital relations with her whatever, and subsequently a petition for divorce was filed by the husband (234. 6). In the case of Ellen Dampart, who at the age of about eight years, was married to John Andrew aged ten, it appears that they slept in the same bed with two of the child-wife's sisters between them. No marital relations were entered upon, and the wife afterwards sues for a divorce (234. 15, 16). The practice seems to have been for each of the children married to go to live with some relative, and if the marriage were not ratified by them after reaching years of consent, to petition for a divorce. In some nine cases the boy is younger than the girl, and Humfrey Winstanley was under twelve when he was married to Alice Worsley aged over seventeen; in this case no marital relations were entered upon, though the wife was quite willing; and the husband afterwards petitions for a divorce (234.2-4). Thomas Dampart, who at the age of ten years, was married to Elizabeth Page, appears to have lived with his wife about eight years and to have kept up marital relations with her until she left him of her own motion. Dr. Furnivall (234. 49-52) cites four cases of ratification of child-marriages by the parties after they have attained years of discretion, in one of which the boy and the girl were each but ten years old when married. The most naive account in the whole book is that of the divorce-petition of James Ballard, who, when about eleven years of age, was married in the parish church of Colne at ten o'clock at night by Sir Roger Blakey, the curate, to a girl named Anne; the morning after the ceremony he is said "to have declared unto his uncle that the said Anne had enticed him with two Apples, to go with her to Colne, and marry her." No marital relations were entered upon, and the curate was punished for his hasty and injudicious action (234. 45). Dr. Furnivall (234. xxxv.) quotes at some length the legal opinion--the law on infant marriages--of Judge Swinburne (died, 1624), from which we learn that "infants" (i.e. children under seven years of age) could not contract spousals or matrimony, and such contracts made by the infants or by their parents were void, unless subsequently ratified by the contracting parties by word or deed,--at twelve the girls ceased to be children, and at fourteen the boys, and were then fully marriageable, as they are to-day in many parts of the world. Of childhood, Judge Swinburne says, "During this age, children cannot contract Matrimony _de praesenti_., but only _de futuro_"; but their spousals could readily be turned into actual marriages after the girls were twelve and the boys fourteen, as Dr. Furnivall points out. The fifth limitation to his general statement, which the learned judge made, is thus strangely and quaintly expressed: "The fifth Limitation is, when the Infants which do contract Spousals are of that _Wit and Discretion_, that albeit they have not as yet accomplished the full Age of Seven Years, yet doth their supra-ordinary understanding fully supply that small defect of Age which thing is not rare in these days, wherein Children become sooner ripe, and do conceive more quickly than in former Ages" (234. xxxvi.). First among the causes of these child-marriages Dr. Furnivall is inclined to rank "the desire to evade the feudal law of the Sovereign's guardianship of all infants," for "when a father died, the Crown had the right to hold the person and estate of the propertied orphan until it came of age, and it could be sold in marriage for the benefit of the Crown or its grantee." Moreover, "if the orphan refused such a marriage with a person of its own rank, it had to pay its guardian a heavy fine for refusing his choice, and selecting a spouse of its own" (234. xxxix.). Property-arrangement also figures as a cause of these alliances, especially where the bride is older than the groom: Elizabeth Hulse (aged four) was married to George Hulse (aged seven) "because her friends thought she should have a living by him" (234. 4). When Elizabeth Ramsbotham (aged 13-14) married John Bridge (aged 11-12), "money was paid by the father of the said Elizaboth, to buy a piece of land" (234. 6); according to the father of Joan Leyland (aged 11-12), who married Ralph Whittall (aged 11-12), "they were married because she should have had by him a pretty bargain, if they could have loved, one the other" (234.12); Thomas Bentham (aged twelve) and Ellen Boltoii (aged ten) were married because Richard Bentham, grandfather of Ellen, "was a very wealthy man, and it was supposed that he would have been good unto them, and bestowed some good farm upon them" (234. 32); the marriage of Thomas Fletcher (aged 10-11) and Anne Whitfield (aged about nine) took place because "John Fletcher, father of the said Thomas, was in debt; and, to get some money of William Whitfield, to the discharge of his debts, married and bargained his sonne to the said Whitfield's daughter." The "compulsion of their friends" seems also to have been a cause of the marriages of children; Peter Hope (about thirteen) married Alice Ellis (aged nine), "because it was his mother's mind, he durst not displease her" (234. 20, 23). So far the evidence has related to unsatisfactory and unfortunate marriages, but, as Dr. Furnivall remarks, "no doubt scores of others ended happily; the child-husband and--wife just lived on together, and--when they had reached their years of discretion (girls twelve, boys fourteen) or attained puberty--ratified their marriage by sleeping in one bed and having children" (234. xix., 203). Some additional cases of child-marriages in the diocese of Chester are noticed by Mr. J. P. Earwaker (234. xiv.), a pioneer in this branch of antiquarian research, whose studies date back to 1885. The case of John Marden, who, at the age of three years, was married to a girl of five is thus described: "He was carried in the arms of a clergyman, who coaxed him to repeat the words of matrimony. Before he had got through his lesson, the child declared he would learn no more that day. The priest answered: 'You must speak a little more, and then go play you.'" Robert Parr, who, in 1538-9, at the age of three, was married to Elizabeth Rogerson, "was hired for an apple by his uncle to go to church, and was borne thither in the arms of Edward Bunburie his uncle ... which held him in arms the time that he was married to the said Elizabeth, at which time the said Robert could scarce speak." Mr. Earwaker says that in the _Inquisitiones post mortem_, "it is by no means unfrequent to read that so and so was heir to his father, and then aged, say, ten years, and was already married" (234. xxi.-xxxiii.). A celebrated child-marriage was that at Eynsham, Oxfordshire, in 1541, the contracting parties being William, Lord Eure, aged 10-11 years, and Mary Darcye, daughter of Lord Darcye, aged four. The parties were divorced November 3, 1544, and in 1548, the boy took to himself another wife. Dr. Furnivall cites from John Smith's _Lives of the Berkeleys_, the statements that Maurice, third Lord Berkeley, was married in 1289, when eight years old, to Eve, daughter of Lord Zouch, and, before he or his wife was fourteen years of age, had a son by her; that Maurice, the fourth Lord Berkeley, when eight years of age, was married in 1338-9, to Elizabeth, daughter of Hugh Lord Spenser, about eight years old; that Thomas, the fourth Lord Berkeley, when about fourteen and one-half years of age, was married, in 1366, to Margaret, daughter of Lord de Lisle, aged about seven. Smith, in quaint fashion, refers to King Josiah (2 Kings, xxiii., xxvi.), King Ahaz (2 Kings, xvi. 2, xviii. 2), and King Solomon (1 Kings, xi. 42, xiv. 21) as having been fathers at a very early age, and remarks: "And the Fathers of the Church do tell us that the blessed Virgin Mary brought forth our Saviour at fifteen years old, or under" (234. xxvii). Even during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries child-marriages are numerously attested. Following are noteworthy cases (234. xxiii.): In 1626 Anne Clopton, aged nearly fourteen, was married to Sir Simonds D'Ewes, aged nearly twenty-four; in 1673, John Power, grandson of Lord Anglesey, was married at Lambeth, by the Archbishop of Canterbury to Mrs. Catherine Fitzgerald, his cousin-german, she being about thirteen, and he eight years old; at Dunton Basset, Leicestershire, in 1669, Mary Hewitt (who is stated to have lived to the good old age of seventy- seven) was married when but three years old; in 1672, the only daughter (aged five) of Lord Arlington was married to the Duke of Grafton, and the ceremony was witnessed by John Evelyn, who, in 1679, "was present at the re-marriage of the child couple"; in 1719, Lady Sarah Cadogan, aged thirteen, was married to Charles, Duke of Eichmond, aged eighteen; in 1721, Charles Powel, of Carmarthen, aged about eleven, was married to a daughter of Sir Thomas Powel, of Broadway, aged about fourteen; in 1729, "a girl of nine years and three months was taken from a boarding school by one of her guardians, and married to his son"; Bridget Clarke, in 1883, is reputed to have been twenty-five years old, to have had seven children, and to have been married when only thirteen; at Deeping, Lincolnshire, a young man of twenty-one married a girl of fourteen, and "it was somewhat of a novelty to observe the interesting bride the following day exhibiting her skill on the skipping-rope on the pavement in the street." Mr. Longstaff, who has studied the annual reports of the registrar-general for 1851-81, finds that during these thirtyone years, "out of 11,058,376 persons married, 154 boys married before 17, and 862 girls before 16. Of these, 11 boys of 15 married girls of 15 (four cases), 16, 18 (two cases), 20, and 21. Three girls of 14 married men of 18, 21, and 25. Five girls of 15 married boys of 16; in 29 marriages both girl and boy were sixteen" (234. xxxiii). Further comments upon infant marriages may be found in an article in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, for September, 1894, the writer of which remarks: "Within recent years, however, the discovery has been made, that, so far from being confined, as had been supposed, to royal or aristocratic houses, infant marriages were, in the sixteenth century, common in some parts of England among all classes" (367. 322). It was said "marriages are made in heaven," and that some times children are married before they are born; it might also be said "marriages are made for heaven," since some children are married after they are dead. In some parts of China (and Marco Polo reported the same practice as prevalent in his time among the Tartars) "the spirits of all males who die in infancy or in boyhood are, in due time, married to the spirits of females who have been cut off at a like early age" (166. 140). As Westermarck observes, "Dr. Ploss has justly pointed out that the ruder a people is, and the more exclusively a woman is valued as an object of desire, or as a slave, the earlier in life is she chosen; whereas, if marriage becomes a union of souls as well as of bodies, the man claims a higher degree of mental maturity from the woman he wishes to be his wife." In so civilized a nation even as the United States, the "age of consent" laws evidence the tenacity of barbarism. The black list of states, compiled by Mr. Powell (180. 201), in a recent article in the _Arena_, reveals the astonishing fact that in three states--Alabama, North Carolina, South Carolina-the "age of consent" is _ten_ years; in four states, twelve years; in three states, thirteen years; in no fewer than twenty states, fourteen years; in two states, fifteen years; in twelve states, sixteen years; and in one state (Florida), seventeen years. In Kansas and Wyoming alone is the "age of consent" eighteen years, and it is worthy of note that Wyoming is the only state in the Union in which women have for any considerable length of time enjoyed the right to vote on exactly the same terms as men. In England, the agitation set going by Mr. Stead, in 1885, resulted in, the passage of a law raising the "age of consent" from thirteen to sixteen years. It is almost beyond belief, that, in the State of Delaware, only a few years ago, the "age of consent" was actually as low as seven years (180.194)! Even in Puritan New England, we find the "age of consent" fixed at thirteen in New Hampshire, and at fourteen in Connecticut, Vermont, and Maine (180. 195). It is a sad comment upon our boasted culture and progress that, as of old, the law protects, and even religion fears to disturb too rudely, this awful sacrifice to lust which we have inherited from our savage ancestors. There is no darker chapter in the history of our country than that which tells of the weak pandering to the modern representatives of the priests of Bacchus, Astarte, and the shameless Venus. The religious aspect of the horrible immolation may have passed away, but wealth and social attractions have taken its place, and the evil works out its destroying way as ever. To save the children from this worse than death, women must fight, and they will win; for once the barbarity, the enormity, the inhumanity of this child-sacrifice is brought home to men they cannot for their own children's sake permit the thing to go on. Here, above all places else, apply the words of Jesus: "Whoso shall cause one of these little ones which believe on me to stumble, it is profitable that a great millstone should be hanged about his neck, and he should be sunk in the depths of the sea." The marriage-laws of some of the states savour almost as much of prehistoric times and primitive peoples. With the consent of her parents, a girl of twelve years may lawfully contract marriage in no fewer than twenty-two states and territories; and in no fewer than twenty, a boy of fourteen may do likewise. Among the twenty-two states and territories are included: Connecticut, Delaware, Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, Vermont; and among the twenty, Connecticut, Delaware, Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, Vermont. In some of the Southern States the age seems to be somewhat higher than in a number of the Northern. The existence of slavery may have tended to bring about this result; while the same fact in the West is to be accounted for by the vigour and newness of the civilization in that part of the country. _Children's Rights._ Where, as in ancient Rome, for example, the _patria potestas_ flourished in primitive vigour,--Mommsen says, "all in the household were destitute of legal rights,--the wife and the child no less than the bullock or the slave" (166. 229), children could in nowise act as members of society. Westermarck (166. 213-239) shows to what extent and to what age the _mundiwm_, or guardianship of the father over his children, was exercised in Rome, Greece, among the Teutonic tribes, in France. In the latter country even now "a child cannot quit the paternal residence without the permission of the father before the age of twenty-one, except for enrolment in the army. For grave misconduct by his children the father has strong means of correction. A son under twenty-five and a daughter under-twenty-one cannot marry without the consent of their parents; and even when a man has attained his twenty-fifth year, and the woman her twenty-first, both are still bound to ask for it, by a formal notification." Westermarck's observations on the general subject are as follows:--"There is thus a certain resemblance between the family institution of savage tribes and that of the most advanced races. Among both, the grown-up son, and frequently the grown-up daughter, enjoys a liberty unknown among peoples at an intermediate stage of civilization. There are, however, these vital differences: that children in civilized countries are in no respect the property of their parents; that they are born with certain rights guaranteed to them by society; that the birth of children gives parents no rights over them other than those which conduce to the children's happiness. These ideas, essential as they are to true civilization, are not many centuries old. It is a purely modern conception the French Encyclopaedist expresses when he says, 'Le pouvoir paternel est plutot un devoir qu'un pouvoir'" (166. 239). _The Child at School._ It was in this spirit also that Count Czaky (when Minister of Education in Hungary), replying to the sarcastic suggestion of one of the Deputies, during the debate on the revision of the curriculum of classical studies, that "the lazy children should be asked whether they liked to study Greek or not," said that "when it became necessary, he would willingly listen to the children themselves." That children have some rights in the matter is a view that is slowly but surely fixing itself in the minds of the people,--that the school should be something more than an intellectual prison-house, a mental and moral tread-mill, a place to put children in out of the way of the family, a dark cave into which happy, freedom-loving, joyous childhood must perforce retire from that communion with nature which makes the health of its body and the salvation of its soul. This false theory of education is vanishing, however tardily, before the teachings of the new psychology and the new anthropology, which demand a knowledge of what the child is, feels, thinks, before they will be party to any attempt to make him be, feel, think, something different. The school is but a modified form of society, of its fundamental institution, the family. Dr. Eiccardi, in the introduction to his _Antropologia e Pedagogia_,-in which he discusses a mass of psychological, sociological, and anthropological observations and statistics,--well says (336. 12):-- "The school is a little society, whose citizens are the scholars. The teacher has not merely to instruct the pupil, but ought also to teach him to live in the little school-society and thus fitly prepare him to live in the great society of humanity. And just as men are classified in human society, so ought to be classified the scholars in the little school-society; and just as the teacher looks upon the great human world in movement upon the earth, so ought he also to look upon that little world called the school, observing its elements with a positive eye, without preconceptions and without prejudices. The teacher, therefore, in regard to the school-organism, is as a legislator in regard to society. And the true and wise legislator does not give laws to the governed, does not offer security and liberty to the citizens, until after he has made a profound study of his country and of society. Let the teacher try for some time to take these criteria into his school; let him try to apply in the school many of those facts and usages which are commonly employed in human society, and he will see how, little by little, almost unnoticeably, the primitive idea of the school will be modified in his mind, and he will see how the school itself will assume the true character which it ought to have, that is, the character of a microscopic social organism. This legislator for our children, by making the children and youths clearly see of themselves that the school is nothing else but a little society, where they are taught to live, and by making them see the points of resemblance and of contact with the great human society, will engender in the minds of the pupils the conscience of duty and of right; will create in them the primitive feeling of justice and of equity. And the pupils, feeling that there is a real association, feeling that they do form part of a little world, and are not something merely gathered together by chance for a few hours, will form a compact homogeneous scholastic association, in which all will try to be something, and of which all will be proud. In this way will the assemblage of disparate, diverse, heterogeneous elements, with which the school begins the year, be able to become homogeneous and create a true school organism. And if the teacher will persevere, whether in the direction of the school, in the classification of the pupils, or in the different contingencies that arise, in applying those criteria, those ideas, those forms, which are commonly employed in society, he will be favouring the homogeneity of the little organism which he has to instruct and to educate. He will thus have always before his mind all the organic, psychic, and moral characteristics of human society and will see the differences from, and the resemblances to, those of the school-organism. In so far will he have an example, a law, a criterion, a form to follow in the direction of the little human society entrusted to him, with its beautiful and its ugly side, its good and its bad, its vices and its virtues. This idea of the school as an organism, however much it seems destined to overturn ideas of the past, will be the crucible from which will be turned out in the near future all the reforms and many new ideas." This view of the school as an organism, a social microcosm, a little society within the great human society, having its resemblances to, and its differences from, the family and the nation, is one that the new development of "child-study" seems bound to promote and advance. Rank paternalism has made its exit from the great human society, but it has yet a strong hold upon the school. It is only in comparatively recent times that motherhood, which, as Zmigrodzki says, has been the basis of our civilization, has been allowed to exercise its best influence upon the scholastic microcosm. Paternalism and celibacy must be made to yield up the strong grasp which they have upon the educational institutions of the land, and the early years of the life of man must be confided to the care of the mother-spirit, which the individual man and the race alike have deified in their golden age. The mother who laid so well the foundations of the great human society, the originator of its earliest arts, the warder of its faiths and its beliefs, the mother, who built up the family, must be trusted with some large share in the building of the school. _Child-Sociology._ In _The Story of a Sand-Pile_ (255), President G. Stanley Hall has chronicled for us the life-course of a primitive social community-nine summers of work and play by a number of boys with a sand-pile in the yard of one of their parents. Here we are introduced to the originality and imitation of children in agriculture, architecture, industrial arts, trade and commerce, money and exchange, government, law and justice, charity, etc. The results of this spontaneous and varied exercise, which, the parents say, "has been of about as much yearly educational value to the boys as the eight months of school," and in contrast with which "the concentrative methodic unities of Ziller seem artificial, and, as Bacon said of scholastic methods, very inadequate to subtlety of nature," Dr. Hall sums up as follows (255. 696):-- "Very many problems that puzzle older brains have been met in simpler terms and solved wisely and well. The spirit and habit of active and even prying observation has been greatly quickened. Industrial processes, institutions, and methods of administration and organization have been appropriated and put into practice. The boys have grown more companionable and rational, learning many a lesson of self-control, and developed a spirit of self-help. The parents have been enabled to control indirectly the associations of their boys, and, in a very mixed boy-community, to have them in a measure under observation without in the least restricting their freedom. The habit of loafing, and the evils that attend it, have been avoided, a strong practical and even industrial bent has been given to their development, and much social morality has been taught in the often complicated _modus vivendi_ with others that has been evolved. Finally, this may perhaps be called one illustration of the education according to nature we so often hear and speak of." This study of child-sociology is a _rara avis in terra_; it is to be hoped, however, that if any other parents have "refrained from suggestions, and left the hand and fancy of the boys to educate each other under the tuition of the mysterious play-instinct," they may be as fortunate in securing for the deeds of their young off-spring, as observant and as sympathetic a historian as he who has told the story of the sand-pile in that little New England town. Bagehot, in the course of his chapter on "Nation-Making," observes (395. 91):-- "After such great matters as religion and politics, it may seem trifling to illustrate the subject from little boys. But it is not trifling. The bane of philosophy is pomposity: people will not see that small things are the miniatures of greater, and it seems a loss of abstract dignity to freshen their minds by object lessons from what they know. But every boarding-school changes as a nation changes. Most of us may remember thinking,' How odd it is that this _half_ should be so unlike last _half_; now we never go out of bounds, last half we were always going; now we play rounders, then we played prisoner's base,' and so through all the easy life of that time. In fact, some ruling spirits, some one or two ascendant boys, had left, one or two others had come, and so all was changed. The models were changed, and the copies changed; a different thing was praised, and a different thing bullied." It was in the spirit of this extract (part of which he quotes), that the editor of the "Johns Hopkins University Studies in Historical and Political Science" happily admitted into that series of monographs, Mr. J. H. Johnson's _Rudimentary Society among Boys_(272), a sociological study of peculiar interest and importance--"a microcosm, not only of the agrarian, but of the political and economic history of society." Mr. Johnson has graphically described the development of society among some fifty boys on the farm belonging to the McDonogh School, not far from the city of Baltimore, Maryland; land-tenure, boy-legislation, judicial procedure, boy-economy, are all treated of in detail and many analogies with the life and habits of primitive peoples brought out, and the author has gone a long way towards realizing the thesis that "To show a decided resemblance between barbarian political institutions and those of communities of civilized children, would be a long step towards founding a science of Social Embryology" (272. 61). _"Gangs."_ Mr. Stewart Culin (212) in his interesting account of the "Street Games of Boys in Brooklyn, N.Y." notices _en passant_ the existence of "gangs" of boys--boys' societies of the ruder and rougher kind. As evidence of the extent to which these organizations have flourished, the following somewhat complete list of those known to have existed in the city of Philadelphia is given:-- Badgers, Bed Bugs, Bleeders, Blossoms, Bouncers, Buena Vistas, Buffaloes, Bull Dogs, Bullets, Bunker Hills, Canaries, Clippers, Corkies, Cow Towners, Cruisers, Darts, Didos, Dirty Dozen, Dumplingtown Hivers, Dung Hills, Muters, Forest Eose, Forties, Garroters, Gas House Tarriers, Glassgous, Golden Hours, Gut Gang, Haymakers, Hawk-Towners, Hivers, Killers, Lancers, Lions, Mountaineers, Murderers, Niggers, Pigs, Pluckers, Pots, Prairie Hens, Railroad Roughs, Rats, Ramblers, Ravens, Riverside, Eovers, Schuylkill Eangers, Skinners, Snappers, Spigots, Tigers, Tormentors, War Dogs, Wayne Towners. Of these Mr. Culin remarks: "They had their laws and customs, their feuds and compacts. The former were more numerous than the latter, and they fought on every possible occasion. A kind of half-secret organization existed among them, and new members passed through a ceremony called 'initiation,' which was not confined to the lower classes, from which most of them were recruited. Almost every Philadelphia boy, as late as twenty years ago, went through some sort of ordeal when he first entered into active boyhood. Being triced up by legs and arms, and swung violently against a gate, was usually part of this ceremony, and it no doubt still exists, although I have no particular information, which indeed is rather difficult to obtain, as boys, while they remain boys, are reticent concerning all such matters" (212. 236). These street-organizations exist in other cities also, and have their ramifications in the school-life of children, who either belong to, or are in some way subject to, these curious associations. Every ward, nay, every street of any importance, seems to have its "gang," and it is no small experience in a boy's life to pass the ordeal of initiation, battle with alien organizations, and retire, as childhood recedes, unharmed by the primitive _entourage_. No doubt, from these street-gangs many pass into the junior criminal societies which are known to exist in many great cities, the training-schools for theft, prostitution, murder, the feeding-grounds for the "White Caps," "Molly Maguires," "Ku-Klux," "Mafia," "Camorra," and other secret political or criminal associations, who know but too well how to recruit their numbers from the young. The gentler side of the social instinct is seen in the formation of friendships among children, associations born of the nursery or the school-room which last often through life. The study of these early friendships offers a tempting field for sociological research and investigation. _Secret Societies of the Young._ There are among primitive peoples many secret societies to which children and youth are allowed to belong, or which are wholly composed of such. Among the secret societies of the Kwakiutl Indians, of British Columbia, Dr. Boas mentions the "Keki'qalak--( = the crows)," formed from the children (403. 53). The same author speaks of the Tsimshians, another British Columbia tribe, in these terms (403. 57):-- "A man who is not a member of a secret society is a 'common man.' He becomes a middle-class man after the first initiation, and attains higher rank by repeated initiations. The novice disappears in the same way as among the Kwakiutl. It is supposed that he goes to heaven. During the dancing season a feast is given, and while the women are dancing the novice is suddenly said to have disappeared. If he is a child, he stays away four days; youths remain absent six days, and grown-up persons several months. Chiefs are supposed to stay in heaven during the fall and entire winter. When this period has elapsed, they suddenly reappear on the beach, carried by an artificially-made monster belonging to their crest. Then all the members of the secret society to which the novice is to belong gather and walk down in grand procession to the beach to fetch the child. At this time the child's parents bring presents, particularly elk skins, strung on a rope as long as the procession, to be given at a subsequent feast. The people surround the novice and lead him into every house in order to show that he has returned. Then he is taken to the house of his parents and a bunch of cedar-bark is fastened over the door, to show that the place is tabooed, and nobody is allowed to enter." The dance and other ceremonies which follow may be read of in Dr. Boas' report. Dr. Daniels, in his study of _Regeneration_, has called attention to "seclusion" and "disappearance," followed by reappearance and adoption as members of society, as characteristic practices in vogue among many savage and semi-civilized tribes with respect to children and those approaching the age of puberty--a change of name sometimes accompanies the "entering upon the new life," as it is often called. Of the Australians we read: "The boy at eight or ten years of age must leave the hut of his father and live in common with the other young men of the tribe. He is called by another name than that which he has borne from birth and his diet is regulated to some extent." In New Guinea, in Africa, and among some of the tribes of American aborigines like habits prevail. The custom of certain Indians formerly inhabiting Virginia is thus described: "After a very severe beating the boys are sent into a secluded spot. There they must stay nine months and can associate with no human being. They are fed during this time with a kind of intoxicating preparation of roots to make them forget all about their past life. After their return home everything must seem strange to them. In this way it is thought that they 'begin to live anew.' They are thought of as having been dead for a short time and are 'numbered among the older citizens after forgetting that they once were boys'" (214. 11-13). In the African district of Quoja existed a secret society called Belly-Paaro, "the members of which had to spend a long time in a holy thicket. Whoever broke the rules of this society was seized upon by the Jannanes, or spirits of the dead, who dwelt in the thicket and brought thither, whence he was unable to return" (127. I. 240). Of this practice Kulischer remarks: "'It is a death and a new birth, since they are wholly changed in the consecrated thicket, dying to the old life and existence, and receiving a new understanding.' When the youths return from the thicket, they act as if they had come into the world for the first time, and had never known where their parents lived or their names, what sort of people they were, how to wash themselves" (214. 12). Of another part of Africa we read: "In the country of Ambamba each person must die once, and come to life again. Accordingly, when a fetich-priest shakes his calabash at a village, those men and youths whose hour is come fall into a state of death-like torpor, from which they recover usually in the course of three days. But if there is any one that the fetich loves, him he takes into the bush and buries in the fetich-house. Oftentimes he remains buried for a long series of years. When he comes to life again, he begins to eat and drink as before, but his reason is gone, and the fetich-man is obliged to train him and instruct him in the simplest bodily movements, like a little child. At first the stick is only the instrument of education, but gradually his senses come back to him, and he begins to speak. As soon as his education is finished, the priest restores him to his parents. They seldom recognize their son, but accept the express assurance of the feticero, who also reminds them of events in the past. In Ambamba a man who has not passed through the process of dying and coming to life again is held in contempt, nor is he permitted to join in the dance" (529. 56). Some recollection, perhaps, of similar customs and ideas appears in the game of "Ruripsken," which, according to Schambach, is played by children in Gottingen: One of the children lies on the ground, pretending to be dead, the others running up and singing out "Ruripsken, are you alive yet?" Suddenly he springs up and seizes one of the other players, who has to take his place, and so the game goes on. Among the Mandingos of the coast of Sierra Leone, the girls approaching puberty are taken by the women of the village to an out-of-the-way spot in the forest, where they remain for a month and a day in strictest seclusion, no one being permitted to see them except the old woman who has charge of their circumcision. Here they are instructed in religion and ceremonial, and at the expiration of the time set, are brought back to town at night, and indulge in a sort of Lady Godiva procession until daybreak. At the beginning of the dry-cool season among the Mundombe "boys of from eight to ten years of age are brought by the 'kilombola-masters' into a lonely uninhabited spot, where they remain for ninety days after their circumcision, during which time not even their own parents may visit them. After the wound heals, they are brought back to the village in triumph" (127. 1. 292). With the Kaffirs the circumcision-rites last five months, "and during this whole time the youths go around with their bodies smeared with white clay. They form a secret society, and dwell apart from the village in a house built specially for them" (127. I. 292). Among the Susu there is a secret organization known as the _Semo_, the members of which use a peculiar secret language, and "the young people have to pass a whole year in the forest, and it is believed right for them to kill any one who comes near the wood, and who is not acquainted with this secret tongue" (127. I. 240). A very similar society exists among the tribes on the Rio Nunez. Here "the young people live for seven or eight years a life of seclusion in the forest." In Angoy there is the secret society of the _Sindungo_, membership in which passes from father to son; in Bomma, the secret orders of the fetich Undémbo; among the Shekiani and the Bakulai, that of the great spirit Mwetyi, the chief object of which is to keep in subjection women and children, and into which boys are initiated when between fourteen and eighteen years old; the Mumbo Jumbo society of the Mandingos, into which no one under sixteen years of age is allowed to enter (127. I. 241-247). Among the Mpongwe the women have a secret society called _Njembe_, the object of which is to protect them against harsh treatment by the men. The initiation lasts several weeks, and girls from ten to twelve years of age are admissible (127. I. 245). Of the Indians of the western plains of the United States of America we are told: "At twelve or thirteen these yearnings can no longer be suppressed; and, banded together, the youths of from twelve to sixteen years roam over the country; and some of the most cold-blooded atrocities, daring attacks, and desperate combats have been made by these children in pursuit of fame" (432. 191). Among the Mandingos of West Africa, during the two months immediately following their circumcision, the youths "form a society called _Solimana_. They make visits to the neighbouring villages, where they sing and dance and are _fèted_ by the inhabitants." In Angola the boys "live for a month under the care of a fetich-priest, passing their time in drum-beating, a wild sort of singing, and rat-hunting." Among the Beit Bidel "all the youths who are to be consecrated as men unite together. They deck themselves out with beads, hire a guitar-player, and retire to the woods, where they steal and kill goats from the herds of their tribe, and for a whole week amuse themselves with sport and song. The Wanika youths of like age betake themselves, wholly naked, to the woods, where they remain until they have slain a man." On the coast of Guinea, after their circumcision, "boys are allowed to exact presents from every one and to commit all sorts of excesses" (127. 1.291-4). "Among the Fulas, boys who have been circumcised are a law unto themselves until the incision has healed. They can steal or take whatever suits them without its being counted an offence. In Bambuk, for fourteen days after the circumcision-_fête_, the young people are allowed to escape from the supervision of their parents. From sunrise to sunset they can leave the paternal roof and run about the fields near the village. They can demand meat and drink of whomsoever they please, but may not enter a house unless they have been invited to do so." In Darfur, "after their circumcision, the boys roamed around the adjacent villages and stole all the poultry" (127. I. 291). _Modern Aspects_. These secret societies and outbursts of primitive lawlessness recall at once to our attention the condition of affairs at some of our universities, colleges, and larger schools. The secret societies and student-organizations, with their initiations, feasts, and extravagant demonstrations, their harassing of the uninitiated, their despisal of municipal, collegiate, even parental authority, and their oftentime contempt and disregard of all social order, their not infrequent excesses and debauches, carry us back to their analogues in the institutions of barbarism and savagery, the accompaniments of the passage from childhood to manhood. Of late years, the same spirit has crept into our high schools, and is even making itself felt in the grammar grades, so imitative are the school-children of their brothers and sisters in the universities and colleges. Pennalism and fagging, so prevalent of old time in Germany and England, are not without their representatives in this country. The "freshman" in the high schools and colleges is often made to feel much as the savage does who is serving his time of preparation for admission into the mysteries of Mumbo- Jumbo. In the revels of "May Day," "Midsummer," "Eogation Week," "Whitsuntide," "All Fools' Day," "New Year's Day," "Hallow E'en," "Christmas," "Easter," etc., children throughout England and in many parts of Europe during the Middle Ages took a prominent part and _rôle_ in the customs and practices which survive even to-day, as may be seen in Brand, Grimm, and other books dealing with popular customs and festivals, social _fêtes_ and merry-makings. In _Tennyson's May_ Queen we read:-- "You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad New Year; Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May." And a "mad, merry day" it certainly was in "merry England," when the fairest lass in the village was chosen "Queen of the May," and sang merry songs of Robin Hood and Maid Marian. Polydore Virgil tells us that in ancient Home the "youths used to go into the fields and spend the Calends of May in dancing and singing in honour of Flora, goddess of fruits and flowers." Westermarck seems to think some of these popular customs have something to do with the increase of the sexual function in spring and early summer (166. 30). In seizing upon this instinct for society-making among children and youth lies one of the greatest opportunities for the prevention of crime and immorality the world has ever known. To turn to good ends this spontaneity of action, to divert into channels of usefulness these currents of child-activity, will be to add immensely to the equipment of mankind in the struggle with vice. A certain bishop of the early Christian Church is credited with having declared that, if the authorities only took charge of the children soon enough, there would be no burning of heretics, no scandalous schisms in the body ecclesiastic; and there is a good deal of truth in this observation. The Catholic Church, and many of the other Christian churches have seen the wisdom of appealing to, and availing themselves of, the child-power in social and socio-religious questions. Not a little of the great spread of the temperance movement in America and Europe of recent years is due to the formation of children's societies,--Bands of Hope, Blue Ribbon Clubs, Junior Temperance Societies and Prohibition Clubs, Young Templars' Associations, Junior Father Matthew Leagues, and the like,-- where a legitimate sphere is open to the ardour and enthusiasm of the young of both sexes. The great Methodist Church has been especially quick to recognize the value of this kind of work, and the junior chapters of the "Epworth League"--whose object is "to promote intelligence and loyal piety in its young members and friends and to train them in experimental religion, practical benevolence, and church work"--now numbers some three thousand, with a membership of about one hundred and twenty thousand. This society was organized at Cleveland, Ohio, May 15, 1889. The "Young People's Society of Christian Endeavour," the first society of which was established at Portland, Maine, February 2,1881, with the object of "promoting an earnest Christian life among its members, increasing their mutual acquaintance, and making them more useful in the service of God," has now enrolled nearly thirty-four thousand "Companies," with a total membership (active and associate) all over the world of over two million; of these societies 28,696 are in the United States and 2243 in Canada. Another society of great influence, having a membership in America and the Old World of some thirty-five thousand, is the "Ministering Children's League," founded by the Countess of Meath in 1885, and having as objects "to promote kindness, unselfishness, and the habit of usefulness amongst children, and to create in their minds an earnest desire to help the needy and suffering; to give them some definite work to do for others, that this desire may be brought to good effect"; there are also the "Lend-a-Hand Clubs" of the Unitarian Church. The Episcopal Church has its "Girls' Friendly Societies," its "Junior Auxiliaries to the Board of Missions"; its "Brotherhood of St. Andrew," and "Brotherhood of Andrew and Philip," for young men. For those of not too youthful years, the "Young Men's Christian Association," the associations of the "White," "Red," and "Iron Cross" exist in the various churches, besides many other "Guilds," "Alliances," "Leagues," etc. For those outside the churches there are "Boys' Clubs," and "Girls' Societies" in the cities and larger towns. The "Bands of Mercy" and the branches of the "Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals" exert a widespread influence for good; while several of the secret benevolent associations, such as the "Foresters," for example, have instituted junior lodges, from which the youth are later on drafted into the society of their elders. There exist also many social clubs and societies, more or less under the supervision of the older members of the community, in which phases of human life other than the purely religious or benevolent find opportunity to display themselves; and between these and the somewhat sterner church-societies a connecting link is formed by the "Friday Night Clubs" of the Unitarian Church and the "Young People's Associations" of other liberal denominations. In the home itself, this society instinct is recognized, and the list of children's teas, dinners, parties, "receptions," "doll-parties," "doll-shows," etc., would be a long one. Among all peoples, barbarous as well as civilized, since man is by nature a social animal, the instinct for society develops early in the young, and the sociology of child-hood offers a most inviting field for research and investigation both in the Old World and in the New. CHAPTER XV. THE CHILD AS LINGUIST. But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry.--Tennyson. Yet she carried a doll as she toddled alone, And she talked to that doll in a tongue her own.--Joaquin Miller. Among savages, children are, to a great extent, the originators of idiomatic diversities.--Charles Rau. It was as impossible for the first child endowed with this faculty not to speak in the presence of a companion similarly endowed, as it would be for a nightingale or a thrush not to carol to its mate. The same faculty creates the same necessity in our days, and its exercise by young children, when accidentally isolated from the teachings and influence of grown companions, will readily account for the existence of all the diversities of speech on our globe.--Horatio Hale. Some scientists have held that mankind began with the _Homo Alalus_, speechless, dumb man, an hypothesis now looked npon by the best authorities as untenable; and the folk have imagined that, were not certain procedures gone through with upon the new-born child, it would remain dumb through life, and, if it were allowed to do certain things, a like result would follow. Ploss informs us that the child, and the mother, while she is still suckling it, must not, in Bohemia, eat fish, else, since fish are mute, the child would be so also; in Servia, the child is not permitted to eat any fowl that has not already crowed, or it would remain dumb for a very long time; in Germany two little children, not yet able to speak, must not kiss each other, or both will be dumb. _The Frenum._ Our English phrase, "an unbridled tongue," has an interesting history and _entourage_ of folk-lore. The subject has been quite recently discussed by Dr. Chervin, of the Institute for Stammerers at Paris (205). Citing the lines of Boileau:-- "Tout charme en un enfant dont la langue sans fard, A peine du filet encore debarrassee Sait d'un air innocent begayer sa pensee," he notes the wide extension of the belief that the cutting of the _filet,_ or _frein,_ the _frenum,_ or "bridle" of the tongue of the newborn infant facilitates, or makes possible, articulate speech. According to M. Sebillot, the cutting of the _sublet,_ as it is called, is quite general in parts of Brittany (Haute Bretagne), and M. Moisset states that in the Yonne it is the universal opinion that neglect to do so would cause the new-born child to remain dumb for life; M. Desaivre cites the belief in Poitou that, unless the _lignoux_ were cut in the child at birth, it would prevent its sucking, and, later on, its speaking. The operation is usually performed by nurses and midwives, with the nail of the little finger, which is allowed to grow excessively long for the purpose (205. 6). Dr. Chervin discusses the scientific aspects of the subject, and concludes that the statistics of stammering and the custom of cutting the _frenum_ of the tongue do not stand in any sort of correlation with each other, and that this ancient custom, noted by Celsus, has no real scientific _raison d'etre_ (205. 9). We say that a child is "tongue-tied," and that one "makes too free with his tongue"; in French we find: _Il a le filet bien coupe,_ "he is a great talker," and in the eighteenth century _Il n'a pas de filet_ was in use; a curious German expression for "tongue-tied" is _mundfaul,_ "mouth-lazy." Following up the inquiry of Dr. Chervin in France, M. Hofler of Tolz has begun a similar investigation for Germany (263). He approves of the suggestion of Dr. Chervin, that the practice of cutting the _frenum_ of the tongue has been induced by the inept name _frenulwm, frein, Bändchen,_ given by anatomists to the object in question. According to H. Carstens the _frenulum_ is called in Low German _keekel-reem_ or _kikkel-reem,_ which seems to be derived from _käkeln,_ "to cry, shriek," and _reem,_ "band, cord," so that the word really signifies "speech-band." If it is cut in children who have difficulty in speaking before the first year of life, or soon after, they will be cured of stuttering and made to speak well. To a man or woman who does a good deal of talking, who has "the gift of the gab," the expression _Em (ehr) is de keekelreem gut snaden_ = "His (her) _frenum_ has been well cut," is applied. In some parts of Low Germany the operation is performed for quite a different reason, viz., when the child's tongue cannot take hold of the mother's breast, but always slips off. Hofler mentions the old custom of placing beneath the child's tongue a piece of ash-bark (called _Schwindholz_), so that the organ of speech may not vanish (schwinden); this is done in the case of children who are hard of speech (263.191, 281). Ploss states that in Konigsberg (Prussia) tickling the soles of the feet of a little child is thought to occasion stuttering; in Italy the child will learn to stutter, unless, after it has been weaned, it is given to drink for the first time out of a hand-bell (326. II. 286). Among the numerous practices in vogue to hasten the child's acquisition of speech, or to make him ready and easy of tongue, are the following: some one returned from the communion breathes into the child's mouth (Austrian Silesia); the mother, when, after supper on Good Friday, she suckles the child for the last time, breathes into its mouth (Bohemia); the, child is given to drink water out of a cow-bell (Servia); when the child, on the arm of its mother, pays the first visit to neighbours or friends, it is presented with three eggs, which are pressed three times to his mouth, with the words, "as the hens cackle, the child learns to prattle" (Thuringia, the Erzgebirge, Bavaria, Franconia, and the Harz); when a child is brought to be baptized, one of the relatives must make a christening-letter (_Pathenbrief_), and, with the poem or the money contained in it, draw three crosses through the mouth of the child (Konigsberg) (326. II. 205). _Speech-Exercises._ Ploss has a few words to say about "Volksgebrauchliche Sprach- Exercitien," or "Zungen-Exercitien," the folk-efforts to teach the child to overcome the difficulties of speech (326. II. 285, 286), and more recently Treichel (373) has treated in detail of the various methods employed in Prussia. In these exercises examples and difficult words are given in several languages, alliteration, sibilation, and all quips and turns of consonantal and vocalic expression, word-position, etc., are in use to test the power of speech alike of child and adult. Treichel observes that in the schools even, use is made of foreign geographical names, names of mountains in Asia, New Zealand, and Aztec names in Mexico; the plain of _Apapurinkasiquinilschiquasaqua_, from Immermann's _Munchhausen_, is also cited as having been put to the like use. The title of doctors' dissertations in chemistry are also recommended (373. 124). Following are examples of these test sentences and phrases from German:-- (1) Acht und achtzig achteckige Hechtskopfe; (2) Bierbrauer Brauer braut braun Bier; (3) De donue Diewel drog den dicke Diewel dorch den dicke Dreek; (4) Esel essen Nosseln gern; (5) In Ulm imd um Ulm und urn Ulm herum; (6) Wenige wissen, wie viel sie wissen mussen, um zu wissen, wie wenig sie wissen; (7) Es sassen zwei zischende Schlangen zwischen zwei spitzigen Steinen und zischten dazwischen; (8) Nage mal de Boll Boll Boll Boll Boll Boll Boll Boll Boll; (9) Fritz, Fritz, friss frische Fische, Fritz; (10) Kein klein Kind kann keinen kleinen Kessel Kohl kochen. There are alliterative sentences for all the letters of the alphabet, and many others more or less alliterative, while the humorous papers contain many exaggerated examples of this sort of thing. Of the last, the following on "Hottentottentaten" will serve as an instance:-- "In dem wilden Land der Kaftern, Wo die Hottentotten trachten Holie Hottentottentitel Zu erwerben in den Schlachten, Wo die Hottentottentaktik Lasst ertonen fern und nah Auf dem Hottentottentamtam Hottentottentattratah; Wo die Hottentottentrotteln, Eh' sie stampfen stark und kuhn. Hottentottentatowirung An sioh selber erst vollzieh'n, Wo die Hottentotten tuten Auf dem Horn voll Eleganz Und nachher mit Grazie tanzen Hottentottentotentanz,-- Dorten bin ich mal gewesen Und iclh habe schwer gelitten, Weil ich Hottentotten trotzte, Unter Hottentottentritten; So 'ne Hottentottentachtel, Die ist nämlich fürchterlich Und ich leid' noch heute An dem Hottentottentatterich" (373. 222). In our older English, and American readers and spelling-books we meet with much of a like nature, and the use of these test-phrases and sentences has not yet entirely departed from the schools. Familiar are: "Up the high hill he heaved a huge round stone; around the rugged riven rock the ragged rascal rapid ran; Peter Piper picked a peck of prickly pears from the prickly-pear trees on the pleasant prairies," and many others still in use traditionally among the school-children of to-day, together with linguistic exercises of nonsense-syllables and the like, pronouncing words backwards, etc. In French we have: (1) L'origine ne se désoriginalisera jamais de son originalité; (2) A la santé de celle, qui tient la sentinelle devant la citadelle de votre coeur! (3) Car Didon dina, dit-on, Du dos d'un dodu dindon. In Polish: (1) Bydlo bylo, bydlo bedzie (It was cattle, it remains cattle); (2) Podawala baba babie przez piec malowane grabie (A woman handed the woman over the stove a painted rake); (3) Chrzaszcz brzmi w trzinie (The beetle buzzes in the pipe). Latin and Greek are also made use of for similar purpose. Treichel cites, among other passages, the following: (1) Quamuis sint sub aqua, sub aqua maledicere tentant (Ovid, _Metam._ VI. 376); (2) At tuba terribili sonitu taratantara dixit (Virgil, _Aen._ IX. 503); (3) Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum (Virgil, _Aen._ VIII. 596); (4) [Greek: _Aytis epeita pedonde kylindeto lâas anchidaês_] (Homer, Odyss. II. 598); (5) [Greek: _Trichthà te kaì tétrachthà diéschesen ìs ánémoio_] (Homer, Odyss. IX. 71, II. III. 363); (6) [Greek: _'O mákar 'Adreídae moiraegenès ólbiodaímon_] (Homer, _Il._ III. 182). These customs are not confined, however, to the civilized nations of Europe. Dr. Pechuel-Loesche tells us that, among the negroes of the Loango coast of Africa, the mother teaches the child little verses, just as illogical as the test-sentences often are which are employed in other parts of the world, and containing intentionally difficult arrangements of words. The child whose skilful tongue can repeat these without stumbling, is shown to visitors and is the cause of much admiration and merriment. And this exhibition of the child's linguistic and mnemonic powers finds vogue among other races than those of the dark continent (373. 125). _Alphabet-Rhymes_. A very curious development of child-linguistics is seen in the so-called _ABC Rhymes_. H. A. Carstensen reports from Risummoor in Low Germany the following arrangement and interpretation of the letters of the alphabet (199. 55):-- A--Aewel B--baeget C(K)--Kaege A--Abel B--bakes C(K)--cakes. D--Detlef E--ët F--fåle. D--Detlef E--eats F--much. G--Grutte H--Hans J--jaeget K--Kraege. G--Great H--Jack J--hunts K--crows. L--Lotte M--maeget N--noerne. L--Lütje M--makes N--names. O--Okke P--plökket Q--Kuerde. O--Okke P--makes Q--wool-cards. R--Rikkert S--sâit T--tuffle. R--Richard S--sews T--slippers U--Uethet V--Volkert W--waeder? U--Fetches V--Volkert W--water? From the North Frisian islands of Silt and Föhr the following ABC rhymes have been recorded, consisting mostly of personal names (199. 192):-- 1. From Silt: _A_nna _B_oyken, _C_hristian _D_ojken, _E_rkel _F_redden, _G_ondel _H_ansen, _J_ens _K_uk, _L_orenz _M_ommen, _N_iels _O_tten, _P_eter _Q_uotten, _R_ink _S_wennen, _T_heide _U_wen, _V_olkert, _W_ilhelm, exerzére. 2. From Föhr: _A_rest _B_uhn, _C_ike _D_uhn, _E_hlen _F_rödden, _G_irre _H_ayen, _I_ngke _K_ayen, _L_urenz _M_unje, _N_ahmen _O_tt, _P_eter _Q_uott, _R_ekkert _s_kär, _T_rintje _u_m, qui _w_eg, _x, y, z_. 3. From Föhr: _A_ntje _b_rawt; _C_isele _d_rug; _E_hlen _f_ald; _G_öntje _h_olp; _I_ngke _k_näd; _L_ena _m_äd; _N_ahmen _O_kken; _P_eter _Q_uast; _R_örd _R_ütjer; _S_ab _S_ütjer; _S_onk _S_tein; _T_hur _O_rdert; _W_ögen _w_uhlet; _Y_ng _Z_uhlet. From Ditmarschen we have the following (199. 290):-- 1. From Süderstapel in Stapelholm: _A-B_eeter, _C-D_eeter, _E-_E_f_ter, _G-H_ater, _I-K_ater, _L-_E_m_der, _N-O_ter, _P_eter Rüster sien Swester harr Büxsen von Manchester, harr'n Kleed vun Kattun, weer Köfft bi Jud'n (Peter Rüster his sister has breeches from Manchester, has a dress of cotton, who buys of Jews). 2. From Tönningstedt and Feddringen: _A-B_eeter, _C-D_eeter, _E-E_fter, _G-H_ater, _J-K_ater, _L-_E_m_der, _N-O_ter, _P-_K_u_ter, _L-_E_s_ter, _T-U_ter, _V-W_eeter, _X-Z_eeter. In Polish we have a rather curious rhyme (199. 260): _A_dam _B_abkie _C_ukier _D_al, _E_wa _F_igi _G_ryzla; _H_anko, _J_eko, _K_arol _L_erch _N_osi _O_rla _P_apa _R_uskigo (Adam to the old woman sugar gave, Eve figs nibbled; Hanko, Jeko, Karol, and Lerch carry the eagle of the Ruthenian priest). Another variant runs: _A_dam _B_abi _C_ucker _d_aje _E_wa _f_igi _g_rizi _H_ala, _i_dzie _K_upic' _l_ala _m_ama _n_ie _p_ozwala (199. 150). At Elberfeld, according to O. Schell, the following rhyme was in use about the middle of this century (199. 42): _A_braham _B_öckmann; _C_epter _D_ickmann; _E_ngel _F_uawenkel; _G_retchen _H_ahn; _I_saak _K_reier; _L_ottchen _M_eyer; _N_ikolas _O_lk; _P_itter _Q_uack; _R_udolf _S_imon; _T_ante _U_hler; _V_ater _W_ettschreck; _X_erxes _Y_ork. From Leipzig, L. Fränkel reports the following as given off in a singing tone with falling rhythm:-- B a ba, b e be, b i bi--babebi; b o bo, b u bu--bobu; ba, be, bi, bo, bu--babebibobu. C a ca (pron. _za,_ not _ka_), c e ce, c i ci --caceci; c o co, c u cu--cocu; ca, ce, ci, co, cu-cacecicocu, etc. From various parts of Ditmarschen come these rhymes:-- A-B ab, | A-B ab, Mus sitt in't Schapp, | Mouse sits in the cupboard, Kater darfår, | Cat in frount, Mak apen de Dår. | Open the door. These child-rhymes and formulae from North Germany find their cognates in our own nursery-rhymes and explanatory letter-lists, which take us back to the very beginnings of alphabetic writing. An example is the familiar:-- "A was an Archer that shot at a frog, B was a Butcher that had a big dog," etc., etc. _Letter-Formulæ._ Here belong also the curious formulæ known all over the United States and English-speaking Canada, to which attention has recently been called by Professor Frederick Starr. When the word _Preface_ is seen, children repeat the words, "_P_eter _R_ice _E_ats _F_ish _a_nd _C_atches _E_els," or backwards, "_E_els _C_atch _A_lligators; _F_ather _E_ats _R_aw _P_otatoes." Professor Starr says that the second formula is not quite so common as the first; the writer's experience in Canada leads him to express just the opposite opinion. Professor Starr gives also formulæ for _Contents_ and _Finis_ as follows: "_F_ive _I_rish _N_iggers _I_n _S_pain," backwards "_S_ix _I_rish _N_iggers _I_n _F_rance"; "_C_hildren _O_ught _N_ot _T_o _E_at _N_uts _T_ill _S_unday" (355. 55). Formulæ like these appear to be widespread among school-children, who extract a good deal of satisfaction from the magic meaning of these quaint expressions. Another series of formulæ, not referred to by Professor Starr, is that concerned with the interpretation of the numerous abbreviations and initials found in the spelling-book and dictionary. In the manufacture of these much childish wit and ingenuity are often expended. In the writer's schoolboy days there was quite a series of such expansions of the letters which stood for the various secret and benevolent societies of the country. _I. O. G. T._ (Independent Order of Good Templars), for example, was made into "I Often Get Tight (_i.e._ drunk)," which was considered quite a triumph of juvenile interpretative skill. Another effort was in the way of explaining the college degrees: _B.A._ = "Big Ape," _M.A._ = "Matured Ape," _B.D._ = "Bull-Dog," _LL.D._ = "Long-Legged Devil," etc. Still another class is represented by the interpretations of the German _u. A. w. g._ (our R. S. V. P.), _i.e._ "um Antwort wird gebeten" (an answer is requested), for which A. Treichel records the following renderings: um Ausdauer wird gebeten (perseverance requested); und Abends wird getanzt (and in the evening there is dancing); und Abends wird gegeigt (and in the evening there is fiddling); und Abends wird gegessen (and in the evening there is eating); und Andere werden gelästert (and others are abused) (392. V. 114). This side of the linguistic inventiveness of childhood, with its _double-entendre_, its puns, its folk-etymologies, its keen discernment of hidden resemblances and analogies, deserves more study than it has apparently received. The formulae and expressions belonging to such games as marbles are worthy of consideration, for here the child is given an opportunity to invent new words and phrases or to modify and disfigure old ones. _Formulae of Defiance, etc._ The formulae of defiance, insult, teasing, etc., rhymed and in prose, offer much of interest. Peculiarities of physical constitution, mental traits, social relationships, and the like, give play to childish fancy and invention. It would be a long list which should include all the material corresponding to such as the following, well known among English-speaking school-children:-- 1. Georgie Porgie, Puddin' Pie, Kissed a girl and made her cry! 2. Blue-eyed beauty, Do your mother's duty! 3. Black eye, pick a pie, Turn around and tell a lie! 4. Nigger, nigger, never-die, Black face and shiny eye! Interesting is the following scale of challenging, which Professor J. P. Fruit reports from Kentucky (430. 229):-- "I dare you; I dog dare you; I double dog dare you. I dare you; I black dog dare you; I double black dog dare you." The language of the school-yard and street, in respect to challenges, fights, and contests of all sorts, has an atmosphere of its own, through which sometimes the most clear-sighted older heads find it difficult to penetrate. The American Dialect Society is doing good work in hunting out and interpreting many of these contributions of childhood to the great mosaic of human speech, and it is to be hoped that in this effort they will have the co-operation of all the teachers of the country, for this branch of childish activity will bear careful and thorough investigation. _Plant-Names._ In the names of some of the plants with which they early come into contact we meet with examples of the ingenuity of children. In Mrs. Bergen's (400) list of popular American plant-names are included some which come from this source, for example: "frog-plant (_Sedum Telephium_)," from the children's custom of "blowing up a leaf so as to make the epidermis puff up like a frog"; "drunkards (_Gaulteria procumbens_)," because "believed by children to intoxicate"; "bread-and-butter (_Smilax rotundifolia_)," because "the young leaves are eaten by children"; "velvets (_Viola pedata_)," a corruption of the "velvet violets" of their elders; "splinter-weed (_Antennaria plantaginifolia_)," from "the appearance of the heads"; "ducks (_Cypripedium_)," because "when the flower is partly filled with sand and set afloat on water, it looks like a duck"; "pearl-grass (_Glyceria Canadensis_)," a name given at Waverley, Massachusetts, "by a few children, some years ago." This list might easily be extended, but sufficient examples have been given to indicate the extent to which the child's mind has been at work in this field. Moreover, many of the names now used by the older members of the community, may have been coined originally by children and then adopted by the others, and the same origin must probably be sought out for not a few of the folk-etymologies and word-distortions which have so puzzled the philologists. "_Physonyms_." In an interesting paper on "physonyms,"--_i.e._ "words to which their signification is imparted by certain physiological processes, common to the race everywhere, and leading to the creation of the same signs with the same meaning in totally sundered linguistic stocks"--occurs the following passage (193. cxxxiii.):-- "One of the best known and simplest examples is that of the widespread designation of 'mother' by such words as _mama_, _nana_, _ana_; and of 'father' by such as _papa_, _baba_, _tata_. Its true explanation has been found to be that, in the infant's first attempt to utter articulate sounds, the consonants _m_, _p_, and _t_ decidedly preponderate; and the natural vowel _a_, associated with these, yields the child's first syllables. It repeats such sounds as _ma-ma-ma_ or _pa-pa-pa_, without attaching any meaning to them; the parents apply these sounds to themselves, and thus impart to them their signification." Other physonyms are words of direction and indication of which the radical is _k_ or _g_; the personal pronouns radical in _n_, _m_ (first person), _k, t, d_ (second person); and demonstratives and locatives whose radical is _s_. The frequency of these sounds in the language of children is pointed out also by Tracy in his monograph on the psychology of childhood. In the formation and fixation of the onomatopes with which many languages abound some share must be allotted to the child. A recent praiseworthy study of onomatopes in the Japanese language has been made by Mr. Aston, who defines an onomatope as "the artistic representation of an inarticulate sound or noise by means of an articulate sound" (394. 333). The author is of opinion that from the analogy of the lower animals the inference is to be drawn that "mankind occupied themselves for a long time with their own natural cries before taking the trouble to imitate for purposes of expression sounds not of their own making" (394. 334). The latter process was gradual and extended over centuries. For the child or the "child-man" to imitate the cry of the cock so successfully was an inspiration; Mr. Aston tells us that "the formation of a word like _cock-a-doodle-do_, is as much a work of individual genius as Hamlet or the Laocoön" (394. 335). Of certain modern aspects of onomatop�ia the author observes: "There is a kindred art, viz. that of the _exact_ imitation of animal cries and other sounds, successfully practised by some of our undergraduates and other young people, as well as by tame ravens and parrots. It probably played some part in the development of language, but I can only mention it here" (394. 333). _College Yells._ The "college yells" of the United States and Canada offer an inviting field for study in linguistic atavism and barbaric vocal expression. The _New York World Almanac_ for 1895 contains a list of the "yells" of some three hundred colleges and universities in the United States. Out of this great number, in which there is a plenitude of "Rah! rah! rah!" the following are especially noteworthy:-- _Benzonia:_ Kala, kala, kala! Sst, Boom, Gah! Benzo, Benzon-iah! Whooo! _Buchtel:_ Ye-ho! Ye-hesa! Hisa! Wow wow! Buchtel! _Dartmouth:_ Wah, who, wah! wah who wah! da-da-da, Dartmouth! wah who wah! T-i-g-e-r! _Heidelberg:_ Killi-killick! Rah, rah, Zik, zik! Ha! Ha! Yi! Hoo! Baru! Zoo! Heidelberg! The "yell" of _Ohio Wesleyan University_, "O-wee-wi-wow! Ala-ka-zu-ki-zow! Ra-zi-zi-zow! Viva! Viva! O. W. U.!" is enough to make the good man for whom the institution is named turn uneasily in his grave. The palm must, however, be awarded to the _University of North Dakota_, whose remarkable "yell" is this: "Odz-dzo-dzi! Ri-ri-ri! Hy-ah! Hy-ah! North Dakota! and Sioux War-Cry." Hardly have the ancestors of Sitting Bull and his people suspected the immortality that awaited their ancient slogan. It is curious that the only "yell" set to proper music is that of the girls of _Wellesley College_, who sing their cheer, "Tra la la la, Tra la la la, Tra la la la la la la, W-E-L-L-E-S-L-E-Y, Welles-ley." As is the case with other practices in collegiate life, these "yells" seem to be making their way down into the high and grammar schools, as well as into the private secondary schools, the popularity and excitement of field-sports and games, baseball, foot-ball, etc., giving occasion enough for their frequent employment. Here fall also the spontaneous shouts and cries of children at work and at play, the _Ki-yah!_ and others of a like nature whose number is almost infinite. Mr. Charles Ledyard Norton, in his _Political Americanisms_ (New York, 1890), informs us that "the peculiar staccato cheer, 'rah, rah, rah!'" was probably invented at Harvard in 1864. In the Blaine campaign of 1884 it was introduced into political meetings and processions together with "the custom, also borrowed from the colleges, of spelling some temporarily significant catch-word in unison, as, for instance, 'S-o-a-p!' the separate letters being pronounced in perfect time by several hundred voices at once." The same authority thinks that the idea of calling out "Blaine--Blaine--James G. Blaine!" in cadenced measure after the manner of the drill-sergeants, "Left--left--left--right--left!" an idea which had many imitations and elaborations among the members of both the great political parties, can be traced back to the Columbia College students (p. 120). _The Child as an Innovator in Language._ But the role of the child in the development of language is concerned with other things than physonyms and onomatopes. In his work on Brazilian ethnography and philology, Dr. von Martius writes (522. 43): "A language is often confined to a few individuals connected by relationship, forming thus, as it were, _a family institute_, which isolates those who use it from all neighbouring or distant tribes so completely that an understanding becomes impossible." This intimate connection of language with the family, this preservation and growth of language, as a family institution, has, as Dr. von Martius points out, an interesting result (522. 44):-- "The Brazilians frequently live in small detachments, being kept apart by the chase; sometimes only a few families wander together; often it is one family alone. Within the family the language suffers a constant remodelling. One of the children will fail to catch precisely the radical sound of a word; and the weak parents, instead of accustoming it to pronounce the word correctly, will yield, perhaps, themselves, and adopt the language of the child. We often were accompanied by persons of the same band; yet we noticed in each of them slight differences in accentuation and change of sound. His comrades, however, understood him, and they were understood by him. As a consequence, their language never can become stationary, but will constantly break off into new dialects." Upon these words of von Martius (reported by Dr. Oscar Peschel), Dr. Charles Rau comments as follows (522. 44): "Thus it would seem that, among savages, _children_ are to a great extent the originators of idiomatic diversities. Dr. Peschel places particular stress on this circumstance, and alludes to the habit of over-indulgent parents among refined nations of conforming to the humours of their children by conversing with them in a kind of infantine language, until they are several years old. Afterward, of course, the rules of civilized life compel these children to adopt the proper language; but no such necessity exists among a hunter family in the primeval forests of South America; here the deviating form of speech remains, and the foundation of a new dialect is laid." _Children's Languages._ But little attention has been paid to the study of the language of children among primitive people. In connection with a brief investigation of child-words in the aboriginal tongues of America, Mr. Horatio Hale communicated to the present writer the following observation of M. l'Abbé Cuoq, of Montreal, the distinguished missionary and linguist: "As far as the Iroquois in particular are concerned, it is certain that this language [langage enfantin] is current in every family, and that the child's relatives, especially the mothers, teach it to their children, and that the latter consequently merely repeat the words of which it is composed" (201. 322). That these "child-words" were invented by children, the Abbé does not seem to hint. The prominence of the mother-influence in the child's linguistic development is also accentuated by Professor Mason, who devotes a chapter of his recent work on woman's part in the origin and growth of civilization to woman as a linguist. The author points out how "women have helped to the selection and preservation of language through onomatopoeia," their vocal apparatus being "singularly adapted to the imitation of many natural sounds," and their ears "quick to catch the sounds within the compass of the voice" (113. 188-204). To the female child, then, we owe a good deal of that which is now embodied in our modern speech, and the debt of primitive races is still greater. Many a traveller has found, indeed, a child the best available source of linguistic information, when the idling warriors in their pride, and the hard-working women in their shyness, or taboo-caused fear, failed to respond at all to his requests for talk or song. Canon Farrar, in his _Chapters on Language_, makes the statement: "It is a well-known fact that the neglected children, in some of the Canadian and Indian villages, who are left alone for days, can and do invent for themselves a sort of _lingua franca_, partially or wholly unintelligible to all except themselves" (200. 237). Mr. W. W. Newell speaks of the linguistic inventiveness of children in these terms (313. 24):-- "As infancy begins to speak by the free though unconscious combination of linguistic elements, so childhood retains in language a measure of freedom. A little attention to the jargons invented by children might have been serviceable to certain philologists. Their love of originality finds the tongue of their elders too commonplace; besides, their fondness for mystery requires secret ways of communication. They, therefore, often create (so to speak) new languages, which are formed by changes in the mother-speech, but sometimes have quite complicated laws of structure and a considerable arbitrary element." The author cites examples of the "Hog Latin" of New England schoolchildren, in the elaboration of which much youthful ingenuity is expended. Most interesting is the brief account of the "cat" language:-- "A group of children near Boston invented the _cat language_, so called because its object was to admit of free intercourse with cats, to whom it was mostly talked, and by whom it was presumed to be comprehended. In this tongue the cat was naturally the chief subject of nomenclature; all feline positions were observed and named, and the language was rich in such epithets, as Arabic contains a vast number of expressions for _lion_. Euphonic changes were very arbitrary and various, differing for the same termination; but the adverbial ending _-ly_ was always _-osh; terribly, terriblosh_. A certain percentage of words were absolutely independent, or at least of obscure origin. The grammar tended to Chinese or infantine simplicity; _ta_ represented any case of any personal pronoun. A proper name might vary in sound according to the euphonic requirements of the different Christian names by which it was preceded. There were two dialects, one, however, stigmatized as _provincial_. This invention of language must be very common, since other cases have fallen under our notice in which children have composed dictionaries of such" (313. 25). This characterization of child-speech offers not a few points of contact with primitive languages, and might indeed almost have been written of one of them. More recently Colonel Higginson (262) has given some details of "a language formed for their own amusement by two girls of thirteen or thereabouts, both the children of eminent scientific men, and both unusually active-minded and observant." This dialect "is in the most vivid sense a living language," and the inventors, who keep pruning and improving it, possess a manuscript dictionary of some two hundred words, which, it is to be hoped, will some day be published. An example or two from those given by Colonel Higginson will serve to indicate the general character of the vocabulary:-- _bojiwassis_, "the feeling you have just before you jump, don't you know--when you mean to jump and want to do it, and are just a little bit afraid to do it." _spygri_, "the way you feel when you have just jumped and are awfully proud of it." _pippadolify_, "stiff and starched like the young officers at Washington." Other information respecting this "home-made dialect," with its revising academy of children and its standard dictionary, must be sought in the entertaining pages of Colonel Higginson, who justly says of this triumph of child-invention: "It coins thought into syllables, and one can see that, if a group of children like these were taken and isolated until they grew up, they would forget in time which words were their own and which were in Worcester's Dictionary; and _stowish_ and _krono_ and _bojiwassis_ would gradually become permanent forms of speech" (262. 108). In his valuable essay on _The Origin of Languages_ (249), Mr. Horatio Hale discusses a number of cases of invention of languages by children, giving interesting, though (owing to the neglect of the observers) not very extensive, details of each. One of the most curious instances of the linguistic inventiveness of children is the case of the Boston twins (of German descent on the mother's side) born in 1860, regarding whose language a few details were given by Miss E. H. Watson, who says: "At the usual age these twins began to talk, but, strange to say, _not_ their 'mother-tongue.' They had a language of their own, and no pains could induce them to speak anything else. It was in vain that a little sister, five years older than they, tried to make them speak their _native language_,--as it would have been. They persistently refused to utter a syllable of English. Not even the usual first words, 'papa,' 'mamma,' 'father,' 'mother,' it is said, did they ever speak; and, said the lady who gave this information to the writer,--who was an aunt of the children, and whose home was with them,--they were never known during this interval to call their mother by that name. They had their own name for her, but never the English. In fact, though they had the usual affections, were rejoiced to see their father at his returning home each night, playing with him, etc., they would seem to have been otherwise completely taken up, absorbed, with each other.... The children had not yet been to school; for, not being able to speak their 'own English,' it seemed impossible to send them from home. They thus passed the days, playing and talking together in their own speech, with all the liveliness and volubility of common children. Their accent was _German_,--as it seemed to the family. They had regular words, a few of which the family learned sometimes to distinguish; as that, for example, for carriage [_ni-si-boo-a_], which, on hearing one pass in the street, they would exclaim out, and run to the window" (249. 11). We are further informed that, when the children were six or seven years old, they were sent to school, but for a week remained "perfectly mute"; indeed, "not a sound could be heard from them, but they sat with their eyes intently fixed upon the children, seeming to be watching their every motion,--and no doubt, listening to every sound. At the end of that time they were induced to utter some words, and gradually and naturally they began, for the first time, to learn their 'native English.' With this accomplishment, the other began also naturally to fade away, until the memory with the use of it passed from their mind" (249. 12). Mr. Horatio Hale, who resumes the case just noticed in his address before the Anthropological Section of the American Association for the Advancement of Science (Buffalo, 1886), gives also valuable details of the language of a little four-year-old girl and her younger brother in Albany, as reported by Dr. E. R. Hun (249. 13). The chief facts are as follows: "The mother observed when she was two years old that she was backward in speaking, and only used the words 'papa' and 'mamma.' After that she began to use words of her own invention, and though she readily understood what was said, never employed the words used by others. Gradually she extended her vocabulary until it reached the extent described below [at least twenty-one distinct words, many of which were used in a great variety of meanings]. She has a brother eighteen months younger than herself, who has learned her language, so that they talk freely together. He, however, seems to have adopted it only because he has more intercourse with her than with others; and in some instances he will use a proper word with his mother, and his sister's word with her. She, however, persists in using only her own words, though her parents, who are uneasy about her peculiarity of speech, make great efforts to induce her to use proper words." More may be read concerning this language in the account of Dr. Hun (published in 1868). Mr. Hale mentions three other cases, information regarding which came to him. The inventors in the first instance were a boy between four and five years old, said to have been "unusually backward in his speech," and a girl a little younger, the children of a widower and a widow respectively, who married; and, according to the report of an intimate friend: "He and the little girl soon became inseparable playmates, and formed a language of their own, which was unintelligible to their parents and friends. They had names of their own invention for all the objects about them, and must have had a corresponding supply of verbs and other parts of speech, as their talk was fluent and incessant." This was in Kingston, Ontario, Canada (249. 16). The second case is that of two young children, twins, a boy and a girl: "When they were three or four years old they were accustomed, as their elder sister informs me, to talk together in a language which no one else understood.... The twins were wont to climb into their father's carriage in the stable, and 'chatter away,' as my informant says, for hours in this strange language. Their sister remembers that it sounded as though the words were quite short. But the single word which survives in the family recollection is a dissyllable, the word for milk, which was _cully_. The little girl accompanied her speech with gestures, but the boy did not. As they grew older, they gradually gave up their peculiar speech" (249. 17). The third case cited by Mr. Hale is that of two little boys of Toronto, Canada,--five or six years of age, one being about a year older than the other, who attended a school in that city: "These children were left much to themselves, and had a language of their own, in which they always conversed. The other children in the school used to listen to them as they chattered together, and laugh heartily at the strange speech of which they could not understand a word. The boys spoke English with difficulty, and very imperfectly, like persons struggling to express their ideas in a foreign tongue. In speaking it, they had to eke out their words with many gestures and signs to make themselves understood; but in talking together in their own language, they used no gestures and spoke very fluently. She remembers that the words which they used seemed quite short" (249. 18). Mr. Hale's studies of these comparatively uninvestigated forms of human speech led him into the wider field of comparative philology and linguistic origins. From the consideration of these data, the distinguished ethnologist came to regard the child as a factor of the utmost importance in the development of dialects and families of speech, and to put forward in definite terms a theory of the origin and growth of linguistic diversity and dialectic profusion, to the idea of which he was led by his studies of the multitude of languages within the comparatively restricted area of Oregon and California (249. 9). Starting with the language-faculty instinct in the child, says Mr. Hale: "It was as impossible for the first child endowed with this faculty not to speak in the presence of a companion similarly endowed, as it would be for a nightingale or a thrush not to carol to its mate. The same faculty creates the same necessity in our days, and its exercise by young children, when accidentally isolated from the teachings and influence of grown companions, will readily account for the existence of all the diversities of speech on our globe" (249. 47). Approaching, in another essay, one of the most difficult problems in comparative philology, he observes: "There is, therefore, nothing improbable in the supposition that the first Aryan family--the orphan children, perhaps, of some Semitic or Accadian fugitives from Arabia or Mesopotamia--grew up and framed their new language on the southeastern seaboard of Persia." Thus, he thinks, is the Aryo-Semitic problem most satisfactorily solved (467. 675). In a second paper (250) on _The Development of Language_, Mr. Hale restates and elaborates his theory with a wealth of illustration and argument, and it has since won considerable support from the scientists of both hemispheres. Professor Romanes devotes not a few pages of his volume on _Mental Evolution in Man_, to the presentation of Mr. Hale's theory and of the facts upon which it is based (338. 138-144). _Secret Languages._ That the use of secret languages and the invention of them by children is widespread and prevalent at home, at school, in the playground, in the street, is evident from the exhaustive series of articles in which Dr. F. S. Krauss (281) of Vienna has treated of "Secret Languages." Out of some two hundred forms and fashions there cited a very large proportion indeed belong to the period of childhood and youth and the scenes of boyish and girlish activity. We have languages for games, for secret societies, for best friends, for school-fellows, for country and town, for boys and girls, etc. Dr. Oscar Chrisman (206) has quite recently undertaken to investigate the nature and extent of use of these secret languages in America, with gratifying results. A study of the child at the period in which the language-making instinct is most active cannot be without interest to pedagogy, and it would not be without value to inquire what has been the result of the universal neglect of language-teaching in the primary and lower grade grammar schools--whether the profusion of secret languages runs parallel with this diversion of the child-mind from one of its most healthful and requisite employments, or whether it has not to some extent atrophied the linguistic sense. The far-reaching ramifications of "secret languages" are evidenced by the fact that a language called "Tut" by school-children of Gonzales, Texas, is almost identical in its alphabet with the "Guitar Language," of Bonyhad, in Hungary, the "Bob Language," of Czernowitz, in Austria, and another language of the same sort from Berg. The travels of the Texas secret language are stated by Dr. Chrisman to be as follows: "This young lady ... learned it from her mother's servant, a negro girl; this girl learned it from a negro girl who got it at a female negro school at Austin, Texas, where it was brought by a negro girl from Galveston, Texas, who learned it from a negro girl who had come from Jamaica" (208. 305). Evidence is accumulating to show that these secret languages of children exist in all parts of the world, and it would be a useful and instructive labour were some one to collect all available material and compose an exhaustive scientific monograph on the subject. Interesting, for comparative purposes, are the secret languages and jargons of adults. As Paul Sartori (528) has recently shown, the use of special or secret languages by various individuals and classes in the communities is widespread both in myth and reality. We find peculiar dialects spoken by, or used in addressing, deities and evil spirits; giants, monsters; dwarfs, elves, fairies; ghosts, spirits; witches, wizards, "medicine men"; animals, birds, trees, inanimate objects. We meet also with special dialects of secret societies (both of men and of women); sacerdotal and priestly tongues; special dialects of princes, nobles, courts; women's languages, etc.; besides a multitude of jargons, dialects, languages of trades and professions, of peasants, shepherds, soldiers, merchants, hunters, and the divers slangs and jargons of the vagabonds, tramps, thieves, and other outcast or criminal classes. Far-reaching indeed is the field opened by the consideration of but a single aspect of child-speech, that doll-language which Joaquin Miller so aptly notes:-- "Yet she carried a doll, as she toddled alone, And she talked to that doll in a tongue her own." _Diminutives._ Both the golden age of childhood and the golden age of love exercise a remarkable influence upon language. Mantegazza, discussing "the desire to merge oneself into another, to abase oneself, to aggrandize the beloved," etc., observes: "We see it in the use of diminutives which lovers and sometimes friends use towards each other, and which mothers use to their children; we lessen ourselves thus in a delicate and generous manner in order that we may be embraced and absorbed in the circle of the creature we love. Nothing is more easily possessed than a small object, and before the one we love we would change ourselves into a bird, a canary--into any minute thing that we might be held utterly in the hands, that we might feel ourselves pressed on all sides by the warm and loving fingers. There is also another secret reason for the use of diminutives. Little creatures are loved tenderly, and tenderness is the supreme sign of every great force which is dissolved and consumes itself. After the wild, passionate, impetuous embrace there is always the tender note, and then diminutives, whether they belong to expression or to language, always play a great part" (499. 137). The fondness of boys for calling each other by the diminutives of their surnames belongs here. In some languages, such as the Nipissing dialect of Algonkian in North America, the Modern Greek or Romaic, Lowland Scotch, and Plattdeutsch, the very frequent employment of diminutives has come to be a marked characteristic of the common speech of the people. The love for diminutives has, in some cases, led to a charm of expression in language which is most attractive; this is seen perhaps at its best in Castilian, and some of the Italian dialects (202 and 219). A careful study of the influence of the child upon the forms of language has yet to be made. CHAPTER XVI. THE CHILD AS ACTOR AND INVENTOR. The child is a born actor. The world's a theatre, the earth a stage, Which God and Nature do with actors fill.--_Heywood_. Man is an imitative creature, and the foremost leads the flock. --_Schiller_. _Imitative Games_. In her article on _Imitation in Children_, Miss Haskell notes the predilection of children for impersonation and dramatic expression, giving many interesting examples. S. D. Warren, in a paper read before the American Association for the Advancement of Science, at the Brooklyn Meeting, 1894 (_Proc_., Vol. xliii., p. 335), also notes these activities of children, mentioning, among other instances, "an annual celebration of the surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown," "playing railroad," playing at pulling hand fire-engines, as the representatives of two rival villages. The mention of the celebration of Cornwallis' surrender by children brings up the question of the child as recorder. As historian and chronicler, the child appears in the countless games in which he preserves more or less of the acts, beliefs, and superstitions of our ancestors. Concerning some of these, Miss Alice Gomme says: "It is impossible that they have been invented by children by the mere effort of imagination, and there is ample evidence that they have but carried on interchangeably a record of events, some of which belong to the earliest days of the nation" (242.11). As Miss Gomme points out, many of the games of English children are simply primitive dramas,--of the life of a woman ("When I was a Young Girl"), of courtship and marriage ("Here comes Three Dukes a-Riding," "Poor Mary sits a-Weeping"), of funerals ("Jenny Jones," "Green Gravel"), of border warfare ("We are the Rovers"), etc. Mr. W. W. Newell had previously remarked the importance of the dramatic element in children's games, citing as historical plays "Miss Jennia Jones" (funeral), "Down she comes as White as Milk," "Green Gravel," "Uncle John," "Barbara Allen," and others more or less partaking of this character, based upon historical ballads, of some of which traces only are now preserved. By means of carved or graven images in wood or stone, given to children as playthings or as targets to practise skill in shooting or striking with miniature bow-and-arrow or spear, an early acquaintance is formed with many animals. The imitation of animals, their habits and peculiarities, often forms no small part of the dances and games of children of the lower races. _The Child as Actor_. Wallaschek, in his study of the primitive drama and pantomime (546. 214-229), notes the presence of children as dancers and performers among the Andaman Islanders, the Tagals of the Philippines, the Tahitians, Fijis, Polynesians and other more or less primitive races. Of Tibet and some portions of China Mr. Rockhill, in his _Diary of a Journey through Mongolia, and Tibet, in 1891 and 1892_ (Washington, D. C., 1894), informs us that the lads in every village give theatrical performances, the companies of young actors being known as _Hsiao sheng huei_, "young men's amateur theatrical company" (p. 68). Among the aborigines of the New World we find also children as actors and participants in the ceremonies and ritual performances of various tribes. In certain ceremonials of the Sia, as Mrs. Stevenson informs us, young children take part. A boy of eight was allowed to hear the sacred songs on one occasion, and to witness the making of the "medicine-water," but a boy of four was not permitted to be present; the boy also took part in the dance (538. 79). In the rain ceremonial of the "Giant Society," a little girl, eight years old, painted the fetiches quite as dexterously as her elders, and took apparently quite as much interest in the proceedings. In the rain ceremonial of the "Knife Society," boys assist, and in the rain ceremonial of the Querränna, a child (boy) with wand and rattle joins in the celebration of the rites, "requiring no rousing to sing and bend his tiny body to the time of the rattle, and joining in the calls upon the cloud-people to gather to water the earth, with as much enthusiasm as his elders." When children, boys or girls, are about ten or twelve years of age, and have, as the Indians say, "a good head," they are initiated, if they so desire, into some of the mysteries of the dances of the Ka'tsuna, in charge of the Querränna Society (538. 106-117). Dr. J. W. Fewkes, in his detailed article on the _Flute Observance_ of the Tusayan Indians of Walpi, an interesting study of primitive dramatization, notes the part played by children in these ceremonies. The principal characters are the "Snake Boy," the "Snake Girl," and some girl carriers of the sacred corn, besides lads as acolytes. The story of the child as an actor has yet to be written. When the ancient Greeks crowded the theatres to hear and see the masterpieces of dramatic and histrionic genius, their "women, slaves, and children" were for the most part left at home, though we do find that later on in history, front seats were provided for the chief Athenian priestesses. No voices of children were heard in chorus, and childhood found no true interpreter upon the stage. In France, in the middle of the seventeenth century, women appear as actors; in England it was not until long after the death of her greatest dramatist that (in 1660) women could fill a _rôle_ upon the stage without serious hindrance or molestation; in Japan, even now, play-acting is not looked upon as a respectable profession for women. For a long time in England and elsewhere, female parts were taken by children and youths. Here also we meet with companies of child-actors, such as the "Boys of the Grammar School at Westminster," "The Children of Paul's," etc. The influence which produced these survives and flourishes to-day in the fondness of high-school pupils and university students for dramatic performances and recitations, and the number of schools of gesture, elocution, and the like, testifies to the abiding interest of the young in the mimic art. This is also evidenced by the number of child actors and actresses in the theatrical world, and the remarkable precocity of the members of the profession in all lands. In England, the pantomime offers a special outlet for this current of expression, and there the child is a most important factor in stage-life. The precocity of girls in these respects is noteworthy. _The Child as Inventor_. Borrowing his figure of speech from the environment of child-hood, C. J. Weber has said: "_Die Gesellschaft ist die Grossmutter der Menschkeit durch ihre Töchter, die Erfindungen_,--Society is the grandmother of humanity through her daughters, the inventions," and the familiar proverb--Necessity is the mother of invention--springs from the same source. Isaac Disraeli aptly says: "The golden hour of invention must terminate like other hours; and when the man of genius returns to the cares, the duties, the vexations, and the amusements of life, his companions behold him as one of themselves,--the creature of habits and infirmities," and not a few of the "golden hours of invention" seem to belong to the golden age of childhood. Even in these "degenerate" days the child appears as an inventor. A contributor to the periodical literature of the day remarks: "Children have taken out a number of patents. The youngest inventor on record is Donald Murray Murphy, of St. John, Canada, who, at the age of six years, obtained from the United States exclusive rights in a sounding toy. Mabel Howard, of Washington, at eleven years, invented an ingenious game for her invalid brother and got a patent for it. Albert Gr. Smith, of Biehwood, Illinois, at twelve years invented and patented a rowing apparatus" (_Current Lit_., K T., xiv. 1893, p. 138). The works of Newell (313), Bolton (187), Gomme (243), amply reveal the riot of childish variation and invention in games and plays. Mr. Newell observes: "It would be strange if children who exhibit so much inventive talent [in language] did not contrive new games; and we find accordingly that in many families a great part of the amusements of the children are of their own devising. The earliest age of which the writer has authentic record of such ingenuity is two and a half years" (313. 25). And among the primitive peoples the child is not without like invention; some, indeed, of the games our children play, were invented by the savage young ones, whose fathers have been long forgotten in the mist of prehistoric ages--the sports of their children alone surviving as memorials of their existence. Theal tells us that the Kaffir children, when not engaged in active exercise, "amuse themselves by moulding clay into little images of cattle, or by making puzzles with strings. Some of them are skilful in forming knots with thongs and pieces of wood, which it taxes the ingenuity of the others to undo. The cleverest of them sometimes practise tricks of deception with grains of maize" (543. 221). The distinguished naturalist, Mr. A. R. Wallace, while on his visit to the Malay Archipelago, thought to show the Dyak boys of Borneo something new in the way of the "cat's cradle," but found that he was the one who needed to learn, for the little brown aborigines were able to show him several new tricks (377. 25). Miklucho-Maclay notes that among the Papuans of north-eastern New Guinea, while the women showed no tendency to ornament pottery, young boys "found pleasure in imprinting with their nails and a pointed stick a sort of ornamental border on some of the pots" (42. 317). Paola Lombroso, daughter of Professor Cesare Lombroso, the celebrated criminologist, in her recent study of child psychology, observes: "Games (and plays) are the most original creation of the child, who has been able to create them, adapt them to his needs, making of them a sort of gymnastics which enables him to develop himself without becoming fatigued, and we, with the aid of memory, can hardly now lay hold of that feeling of infinite, intense pleasure." Moreover, these popular traditional plays and games, handed down from one generation to another of children, "show how instinctive are these forms of muscular activity and imitative expression, which have their roots in a true physiological and psychic necessity, being a species of tirocinium for the experience of childhood" (301. 136). The _magnum opus_, perhaps, of the child as inventor, is the lyre, the discovery of which, classical mythology attributes to the infant Mercury or Hermes. Four hours after his birth the baby god is said to have found the shell of a tortoise, through the opposite edges of which he bored holes, and, inserting into these cords of linen, made the first stringed instrument. The English poet, Aubrey de Vere, singing of an Athenian girl, thus refers to the quaint myth:-- "She loves to pace the wild sea-shore-- Or drop her wandering fingers o'er The bosom of some chorded shell: Her touch will make it speak as well As infant Hermes made That tortoise in its own despite Thenceforth in Heaven a shape star-bright." CHAPTER XVII. THE CHILD AS POET, MUSICIAN, ETC. Poeta nascitur, non fit.--_Latin Proverb_. As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.--_Pope_. _The Child and Music_. "Music," said quaint old Thomas Puller, "is nothing else but wild sounds civilized into time and tune," and Wallaschek, in his recent volume on _Primitive Music_, has shown how every nation under heaven, even the most savage and barbarous of peoples, have had a share in the work of civilization. Music has been called "the language of the gods," "the universal speech of mankind," and, early in the golden age of childhood, the heaven of infancy, is man made captive by "music's golden tongue." As Wallaschek has said of the race, Tracy says of the individual, "no healthy, normal child is entirely lacking in musical 'ear.'" The children of primitive races enjoy music, as well as their fellows in civilized communities. The lullaby, that _quod semper ubique et ab omnibus_ of vocal art, early engages and entrances the infantile ear, and from the musical demonstrations of his elders, the child is not always or everywhere excluded. Indeed, the infant is often ushered into the world amid the din and clamour of music and song which serve to drown the mother's cries of pain, or to express the joy of the family or the community at the successful arrival of the little stranger. Education in music and the dance begins very early with many peoples. At the school of midwifery at Abu-Zabel in Egypt, according to Clot-Bey, in cases of difficult childbirth, a child is made to hop and dance about between the legs of the mother in order to induce the foetus to imitate it (125. II. 159). As understudies and assistants to shamans, "medicine-men," and "doctors," children among many primitive peoples soon become acquainted with dance and song. In Ashanti, boy musicians, singers, and dancers figure in the processions of welcome of the chiefs and kings, and young girls are engaged in the service of the fetiches (438. 258). At a funeral dance of the Latuka, an African tribe, "the women remained outside the row of dancers dancing a slow, stupid step, and screaming a wild and most inharmonious chant, whilst boys and girls in another row beat time with their feet." Burchell, while _en route_ for the Kaffir country, found among certain tribes that "in the evening a whole army of boys would come to his hut and listen with manifest pleasure to the tones of his violin, and would repeat the melodies he played with surprising accuracy" (546. 3, 199). The _meke-meke_, a dance of the Fiji Islanders, "is performed by boys and girls for whom an old musician plays"; at Tahiti the children "are early taught the 'ubus,' songs referring to the legends or achievements of the gods," and "Europeans have at times found pleasure in the pretty, plaintive songs of the children as they sit in groups on the sea-shore" (546. 35, 180, 208). In some of the Polynesian Islands, young girls are "brought up to dance the timorodea, a most lascivious dance, and to accompany it with obscene songs" (100. 62). At Tongatabu, according to Labillardiere, a young girl "sang a song, the simple theme of which she repeated for half-an-hour" (546. 31). Wallaschek calls attention to the importance of the child in song in the following words (546. 75):-- "In some places the children, separated from the adults, sing choruses among themselves, and under certain circumstances they are the chief support of the practice of singing. On Hawaii, Ellis found boys and girls singing in chorus, with an accompaniment of seven drums, a song in honour of a quondam celebrated chief. Even during supper with the Governor, table-music was performed by a juvenile bard of some twelve or fourteen summers, who sang a monotonous song to the accompaniment of a small drum.... In Fiji a man of position deems it beneath him to sing, and he leaves it to his wife and children, so that women sing with women only, and children with children." Speaking of the natives of Australia, with whom he came into contact, Beckler says "the octaves of the women and children at the performance he attended were perfectly in tune, as one rarely hears in a modern opera chorus, they were in exact accord." In the Kuri dance, witnessed by Angas, a number of boys take part (546. 37, 223). In New Guinea "the Tongala-up, a stick with a string whirled in the air, is played by women and children." Among the Tagals of the Philippines, Volliner found (with perhaps a little Spanish influence) "a chorus was performed in a truly charming manner by twelve young girls formed in a circle, one girl standing in the middle to direct." In the Andaman Islands, where the men only, as a rule, sing, "the boys were far the best performers" (546.24, 27, 75). Among the Apache Indians of Arizona and Mexico, "old matrons and small children dance until no longer able to stand, and stop for very exhaustion" (546. 46). _The Child as Poet_. Victor Hugo, in one of his rhapsodies, exclaims: "The most sublime psalm that can be heard on this earth is the lisping of a human soul from the lips of childhood," and the rhythm within whose circle of influence the infant early finds himself, often leads him precociously into the realm of song. Emerson has said, "Every word was once a poem," and Andrew Lang, in his facetious _Ballade of Primitive Man_, credits our Aryan ancestors with speaking not in prose, but "in a strain that would scan." In the statement of the philosopher there is a good nugget of truth, and just a few grains of it in the words of the wit. The analogy between the place and effect of rhythm, music, and poetry in the life of the child and in the life of the savage has been frequently noted. In his recent study of _Rhythm_ (405 a), Dr. Bolton has touched up some aspects of the subject. With children "the habit of rhyming is almost instinctive" and universal. Almost every one can remember some little sing-song or nonsense-verse of his own invention, some rhyming pun, or rhythmic adaptation. The enormous range of variation in the wording of counting-out rhymes, game-songs, and play-verses, is evidence enough of the fertility of invention of child-poets and child-poetesses. Of the familiar counting-out formula _Eeny, meeny, miny, mo_, the variants are simply legion. The well-known lines of Pope:-- "As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came," receive abundant illustration from the lives of the great geniuses of song. Among primitive peoples, if anywhere, _poeta nascitur, non fit_. In her article on _Indian Songs_, Miss Alice C. Fletcher says: "Children make songs for themselves, which are occasionally handed down to other generations. These juvenile efforts sometimes haunt the memory in maturer years. An exemplary old man once sang to me a composition of his childhood, wherein he had exalted the pleasures of disobedience; but he took particular care that his children should not hear this performance. Young men sing in guessing-games, as they gambol with their companions, tossing from hand to hand a minute ball of buffalo hair or a small pebble, moving their arms to the rhythm of the music." This, and the following statement made of the Omaha Indians, will hold for not a few other savage and barbarous tribes: "Children compose ditties for their games, and young men add music to give zest to their sports" (445). Dr. F. Boas says of the Eskimo of Baffin Land (402. 572): "Children tell one another fables and sing short songs, especially comic and satirical ones." The heroes of the Basque legend of Aquelarre are thus described by Miss Monteiro (505. 22):-- "Izar and Lanoa were two orphan children; the first was seven years of age, and the latter nine. These poor children, true wandering bards, frequented the mountains, earning a livelihood by singing ballads and national airs in sweet, infantile voices, in return for a bed of straw and a cupful of meal. Throughout the district these children were known and loved on account of their sad state, as well as for their graceful forms and winning ways." Mr. Chatelain, in his recent work on African folk-tales, says of the natives of Angola: "No Angola child finds difficulty at any time in producing extemporaneous song." Dr. Gatschet, in his study of the Klamath Indians, gives examples of many songs composed and sung by young people, especially girls; and many other Indian tribes, Algonkian, Iroquois, etc., possess such as well. When Darwin reached Tahiti, his arrival was "sung by a young girl in four improvised strophes, which her fellow-maidens accompanied in a pretty chorus"; and among the song-loving people of the islands of the South Sea, the poetic talent develops quite early in both sexes. Among the aborigines of Peake River, in Australia, when a youth--at puberty--has undergone the ceremony of tattooing, and, his wounds having healed, is about to return to his fellows, "a young girl selected for the purpose, sings in her own way a song which she has composed, and, amid dancing, merriment, and feasting, the youth is welcomed back to his family and his kin" (326. 11. 241). Throughout the Orient woman is a dancer and a singer. India has her bayaderes and nautch-girls, whose dancing and singing talents are world-known. The Gypsies, too, that wander-folk of the world, are famed for their love-songs and fortune-telling rhymes, which the youth and girlhood among them so often know how to make and use. Crawford, who has translated the Kalevala, the great epic of the Finns, tells us, "The natural speech of this people is poetry. The young men and maidens, the old men and matrons, in their interchange of ideas unwittingly fall into verse" (423. I. xxvi.). Among the young herdsmen and shepherdesses of the pastoral peoples of Europe and Asia, the same precocity of song prevails. With songs of youth and maiden, the hills and valleys of Greece and Italy resound as of old. In his essay on the _Popular Songs of Tuscany_, Mr. J. A. Symonds observes (540. 600, 602): "Signor Tigri records by name a little girl called Cherubina, who made _Rispetti_ by the dozen, as she watched her sheep upon the hills." When Signor Tigri asked her to dictate to him some of her songs, she replied: "Oh Signore! ne dico tanti quando li canto! ... ma ora ... bisognerebbe averli tutti in visione; se no, proprio non vengono,--Oh Sir! I say so many, when I sing ... but now ... one must have them all before one's mind ... if not, they do not come properly." World-applicable as the boy grows out of childhood--with some little change of season with the varying clime--are the words of Tennyson:-- "In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," and everywhere, if poetry and song be not indeed the very offspring of love, they are at least twin-born with it. Lombroso, in his discussion of the man of genius, gives many examples of precocious poetical and musical talent: Dante (who at nine years of age wrote sonnets), Tasso (wrote at ten years of age), Wieland (who wrote an epic at 16), Lope de Vega (who wrote verses at 12), Calderoii (at 13), Metastasio (who composed at 10), Handel (who wrote a mass at 13, and was director of opera at 19), Eichhorn, Mozart, and Eibler (all three of whom gave concerts at 6), Beethoven (who wrote sonatas at 13), Weber (who wrote his first opera at 14), Cherubini (who wrote a mass at 15), etc. (300.15). Among English poets whose precocity was marked, we find the most noteworthy to be Robert Browning, whose first poetic effusion is ascribed to his fourth year. It is now known, however, that poetry is much more common among children than was at first supposed, and early compositions are not to be expected from geniuses alone, but often from the scions of the ruder commonalty. In her interesting study of individual psychology, Dr. Caroline Miles informs us that out of ninety-seven answers to the question, "Did you express yourself in any art-form before eighteen years of age?" fourteen stated that the person replying used verses alone, fourteen used stories and poetry, three used poetry and drawing or painting, two used poetry and painting. Dr. Miles notes that "those who replied 'no' seemed to take pride in the fact that they had been guilty of no such youthful folly." This is in line with the belief parents sometimes express that the son or daughter who poetizes early is "loony." Some who were not ashamed of these child-expressions volunteered information concerning them, and we learn: "Most interesting was one who wrote a tragedy at ten, which was acted on a little stage for the benefit of her friends; from ten to thirteen, an epic; at thirteen, sentimental and religious poems" (310. 552, 553). Dr. H. H. Donaldson, in his essay on the _Education of the Nervous System_, cites the fact that of the musicians whose biographies were examined by Sully, 95% gave promise before twenty years of age, and 100% produced some work before reaching thirty; of the poets, 75% showed promise before twenty, and 92% produced before they were thirty years of age (216. 118). Precocity and genius seem to go together. CHAPTER XVIII. THE CHILD AS TEACHER AND WISEACRE. The child is father of the man,--_Wordsworth_. And wiser than the gray recluse This child of thine.--_Whittier_. And still to Childhood's sweet appeal The heart of genius turns, And more than all the sages teach From lisping voices learns.--_Whittier_. _Wisdom of Childhood_. In his beautiful verses--forming part of one of the best child-poems in our language-- "And still to childhood's sweet appeal The heart of genius turns, And more than all the sages teach From lisping voices learns,"-- Whittier has expressed that instinctive faith in the wisdom of childhood that seems perennial and pan-ethnic. Browning, in _Pippa's Song_, has sounded even a deeper note:-- "Overhead the tree-tops meet, Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet; There was nought above me, nought below, My childhood had not learned to know: For, what are the voices of birds --Aye, and of beasts,--but words, our words, Only so much more sweet? The knowledge of that with my life begun. But I had so near made out the sun, And counted your stars, the seven and one, Like the fingers of my hand: Nay, I could all but understand Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges; And just when out of her soft fifty changes No unfamiliar face might overlook me-- Suddenly God took me." The power and wisdom of the child are quaintly and naively brought out in the legends and folk-lore of the various races of men, not alone of the present day, but of all eras of the world's history. As an illustration of the truth contained in the words of a great child-lover, "A little child shall lead them," and their echo in those of the Quaker poet,-- "God hath his small interpreters; The child must teach the man," nothing could be more artless and natural than the following legend of the Penobscot Indians of Maine, recorded by Mr. Leland, which tells of the origin of the "crowing of babies" (488. 121):-- When Glooskap, the culture-hero of these Indians, had conquered all his enemies, giants, sorcerers, magicians, evil spirits and ghosts, witches, devils, goblins, cannibals, _et id genus omne_, pride rose within him, and he said to a certain woman, that now his work was done, for he had conquered all. But she told him that he was mistaken; there yet remained "one whom no one has ever yet conquered or got the better of in any way, and who will remain unconquered to the end of time." This was _Wasis_, "the baby," who was sitting contentedly on the floor of the wigwam chewing a piece of maple-sugar. The great Glooskap, so the story runs, "had never married or had a child; he knew nought of the way of managing children"--yet he thought he knew all about it. So he smiled graciously at baby, and, "in a voice like that of a summer bird," bade him come to him. But baby sat still and went on sucking his sugar. Then Glooskap got angry, and in a terrible voice, ordered baby to crawl to him at once. But baby merely cried out and yelled, stirring not. Then Glooskap tried his last resort, magic, "using his most awful spells, and singing the songs which raise the dead and scare the devils." Still baby only smiled, and never budged an inch. At last the great Glooskap could do no more; he gave up the attempt in despair, whereupon "baby, sitting on the floor in the sunshine, went _'goo! goo!'_ and crowed lustily." And to this day, the Indians, when they hear "a babe well-contented going _'goo! goo!'_ and crowing, and no one can tell why," know that it is because he "remembers the time when he overcame the great Master, who had conquered all things. For of all beings that have been since the beginning, baby is alone the invincible one." Manabozho, the culture-hero of the Chippeways and other Algonkian tribes of the Great Lakes, and probably identical with his eastern analogue, Gluskap, was, like the latter, discomfited by a child. This is the legend:-- "One day Manabozho appeared upon the earth in an ill-humour. Walking along, he espied a little child sitting in the sun, curled up with his toe in his mouth. Somewhat surprised at this, and being of a dauntless and boastful nature, he set himself down beside the child; and, picking up his own toe, he essayed to place it in his mouth after the manner of the child. He could not do it. In spite of all twisting and turning, his toe could not be brought to reach his mouth. As he was getting up in great discomfiture to get away, he heard a laugh behind him, and did no more boasting that day, for he had been outwitted by a little child." This characteristic attitude of the child has also been noted by the folk-historians of India; for when, after the death of Brahma, the waters have covered all the worlds, "Vishnu [the 'Preserver,' in the Hindoo Trinity] sits, in the shape of a tiny infant, on a leaf of the pipala (fig-tree), and floats on the sea of milk, sucking the toe of his right foot" (440. 366), and, as Mrs. Emerson points out, "the feat that Manabozho sought in vain to perform is accomplished by the more flexible and lithe Hindoo god, Narayana" (440. 367). In another Micmac legend, given by Leland, Gluskap appears somewhat more to advantage. Of the Turtle [Mikchich], the "Uncle" of Gluskap, for whom the latter had obtained a wife, we read (488. 57):-- "And Turtle lived happily with his wife, and she had a babe. Now it happened in after-days that Glooskap came to see his uncle, and the child cried. 'Dost thou know what he says?' exclaimed the Master. 'Truly, not I,' answered Mikchich, 'unless it be the language of the Mu-se-gisk (spirits of the air), which no man knoweth.' 'Wel,' replied Glooskap, 'he is talking of eggs, for he says, '_Hoowah! hoowah!_' which, methinks, is much the same as '_waw-wun, waw-wun_.' And this in Passamaquoddy means 'egg.' 'But where are there any?' asked Mikchich. Then Glooskap bade him seek in the sand, and he found many, and admired and marvelled over them greatly; and in memory of this, and to glorify the jest of Glooskap, the turtle layeth eggs even to this day." In Mr. Leland's collection, as in the later volume of Dr. Band, there are many other delicate touches of childhood that show that these aborigines have a large measure of that love for children which is present with all races of mankind. In the legends of the saints and heroes of the Christian Church we meet with numberless instances of the wisdom and instruction that came to them from the mouths of little children. Among the stories in the life of St. Augustine is the following: "While St. Augustine was composing his book _On the Trinity_, and was at Cività Vecchia, he saw a little child making a hole in the seashore, and asked him what he was doing. The child replied: 'I am making a hole to contain the water of the sea.' The doctor smiled, telling the child it would not be possible to do so; but the child made answer: 'Not so, Augustine. It would be far easier to drain off the waters of the great deep than for the finite to grasp the Infinite'; and so he vanished. Augustine then knew that the child was an angel of God, sent to warn him, and he diligently set to work to revise what he had written" (191. 355). The best of mankind can still sit at the feet of childhood and learn of its wisdom. But of many a one must it be said:-- "He hath grown so foolish-wise He cannot see with childhood's eyes; He hath forgot that purity And lowliness which are the key Of Nature's mysteries." CHAPTER XIX. THE CHILD AS JUDGE. So, Holy Writ in Babes hath judgment shown, Where Judges have been babes.--_Shakespeare_. O wise young judge I--_Shakespeare_. _The Child as Judge_ Shakespeare in _All's Well that Ends Well_, makes Helen say to the King:-- "He that of greatest works is finisher, Oft does them by the weakest minister: So, Holy Writ in babes hath judgment shown, When judges have been babes." And in the history of the human race, appeal has often been made to the innocence and imputed discernment of the child. As one of the glories of God, David sang in Israel of old: "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength, because of thine enemies, that thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger." And the disciple Matthew reiterates the thought: "Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes"; and, again: "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou perfected praise." _Solomon._ The stories told of Solomon--the judgments of the wise Hebrew monarch, when a child, were as remarkable as those which he made after attaining man's estate--have their counterparts in other lands. One of the most celebrated decisions was rendered by Solomon when he was but thirteen years of age. Well gives the story as follows (547.192):-- "The accuser had sold some property to the other, who, in clearing out a cellar, had found a treasure. He now demanded that the accused should give up the treasure, since he had bought the property without it; while the other maintained that the accuser possessed no right to the treasure, since he had known nothing of it, and had sold the property with all that it contained. After long meditation, David adjudged that the treasure should be divided between them. But Solomon inquired of the accuser whether he had a son, and, when he replied that he had a son, he inquired of the other if he had a daughter; and he also answering in the affirmative, Solomon said: 'If you will adjust your strife so as not to do injustice one to the other, unite your children in marriage, and give them this treasure as their dowry.'" In many other difficult cases, David, after the loss of the tube which, according to legend, the angel Gabriel brought him, was aided in judgment by the wisdom and far-sightedness of his young son. A decision similar to that of Solomon is attributed to Buddha, when a child, and to Christ. _Child-Judgments_. Müllenhoff records two cases of child-judgments in his collection of the folk-lore of Schleswig-Holstein. The first is as follows: "A branch of the river Widau, near Tondern, is named Eenzau, from the little village Eenz in the parish of Burkall. Where the banks are pretty high and steep, a man fell into the water once upon a time, and would have been drowned had not a certain person, hearing his cries, hastened to the river, and, holding out a pole, enabled the drowning man to help himself out. In doing so, however, he put out an eye. The rescued man appeared at the next thing (court), entered a complaint against the other, and demanded compensation for his lost eye. The judges, not knowing what to make of the case, put it off till the next thing, in order to meditate upon it in the meantime. But the third thing came, and the district-judge had not made up his mind about it. Out of humour, he mounted his horse and rode slowly and thoughtfully in the direction of Tondern, where the thing was then held. He reached Rohrkarrberg, and, opposite the house which is still standing there, lay a stone heap, upon which sat three herd-boys, apparently busy with something of importance. 'What are you doing there, children?' asked the judge. 'We are playing thing' (court), was the answer. 'What is the matter before the court?' continued the judge. 'We are trying the case of the man who fell into the Eenzau,' they answered, and the judge held his horse to await the verdict. The boys did not know him, for he was well hidden in his cloak, and his presence did not disturb them. The judgment rendered was, that the man who had been rescued should be thrown into the stream again at the same spot; if he was able to save himself, then he should receive compensation for the eye he had lost; if he could not, the decision was to be in favour of the other. Before the district-judge went away, he put his hand into his pocket and gave the boys some money; then, merrily riding to Tondern, he rendered the same judgment as the boys had given. The fellow was unable to save himself without assistance, and was like to have been drowned; consequently, his rescuer won the case" (508. 87, 88). The other case, said to have occurred at Rapstede, was this:-- "A tailor and a peasant, both possessing nothing more than a wretched hut, made a bargain for so and so many bushels of corn at such and such a price, although the tailor knew that the peasant had no money, and the peasant knew that the tailor had a needle, but no corn. Soon the price of corn rose, and the peasant appeared before the court to demand that the tailor should fulfil his part of the bargain. The judges were at a loss to decide such a matter. In this case, also, boys rendered judgment. The decision was, that the agreement was invalid, for both, being neighbours, had known each other's circumstances, and yet both were culpable for having entered into such a deceitful bargain" (508. 88). These decisions belong to the same category as that rendered by Solomon in the case of the two women, who both claimed the same child,--a judgment which has gone upon record in the Bible (1 Kings, iii. 16-28),--and a multitude of similar interpretations of justice found all over the world (191. 290). Mr. Newell, speaking of children's games in which judicial procedures are imitated, but from whose decisions no serious results ever come, observes (313. 123):-- "In the ancient world, however, where the courts were a place of resort, and law was not a specialized profession, the case was different. Maximus of Tyre tells us that the children had their laws and tribunals; condemnation extended to the forfeiture of toys. Cato the younger, according to Plutarch, had his detestation of tyranny first awakened by the punishment inflicted on a playmate by such a tribunal. One of the younger boys had been sentenced to imprisonment; the doom was duly carried into effect; but Cato, moved by his cries, rescued him." _Children's Ideas of Right_. Mr. Brown, of the formal School at Worcester, Massachusetts, has given us an excellent collection of _Thoughts and Reasonings of Children_ (194), and Signora Paola Lombroso, in her interesting and valuable _Essays on Child-Psychology_, has also contributed to the same subject (301. 45-72). A very recent study is that of _Children's Rights_, by Margaret E. Schallenberger (341), of Leland Stanford, Jr. University, California. The last author has charted the opinions of a large number--some three thousand papers were collected--of boys and girls from six to sixteen years of age, upon the following case, the story being employed as specially appealing to children (341. 89):-- "Jennie had a beautiful new box of paints; and, in the afternoon, while her mother was gone, she painted all the chairs in the parlour, so as to make them look nice for her mother. When her mother came home, Jennie ran to meet her, and said, 'Oh mamma! come and see how pretty I have made the new parlour'; but her mamma took her paints away and sent her to bed. If you had been her mother, what would you have done or said to Jennie?" From this extensive and most ingenious investigation, the following results are thought to have been obtained: "Young children are less merciful than older ones. When they appear cruel and resentful, we know that they are exercising what they honestly consider the right of revenge. Boys are less merciful than girls. Young children judge of actions by their results, older ones look at the motives which prompt them. If a young child disobeys a command and no bad result follows, he doesn't see that he has done wrong. Punishments which, have in them the idea of restitution are common to all ages. Girls consider the why more than boys; they explain to Jennie oftener than boys do. Threats and forced promises do not impress children" (341. 96). _Jurisprudence of Child's Play_. Pitré, the great Italian folklorist, has made a special study, though a very brief one, of the judgments rendered by children in games and plays,--the jurisprudence of child's play (323). His essay, which is devoted to the island of Sicily, touches upon a field which is likely to yield a rich harvest all over the world. The rules of the game; who shall play and who shall not; what is "out," "taw," "in"; when is one "it," "caught," "out"; what can one "bar," and what "choose,"--all these are matters which require the decisions of the youthful judiciary, and call for the frequent exercise of judgment, and the sense of justice and equity. Of the "Boy Code of Honour" some notice is taken by Gregor (246. 21-24). Mr. Newell thus describes the game of "Judge and Jury," as played at Cambridge, Massachusetts (312.123): "A child is chosen to be judge, two others for jurors (or, to speak with our little informant, _juries_), who sit at his right and left hand. Each child must ask the permission of the judge before taking any step. A platter is brought in, and a child, rising, asks the judge, 'May I go into the middle of the room?' 'May I turn the platter?' 'On which side shall it fall?' If the platter falls on the wrong side, forfeit must be paid." In Germany and Switzerland there is a game of the trial of a thief. In the former country: "There is a king, a judge, an executioner, an accuser, and a thief. The parts are assigned by drawing lots, but the accuser does not know the name of the thief, and, if he makes an error, has to undergo the penalty in his stead. The judge finally addresses the king, inquiring if his majesty approves of his decision; and the king replies, 'Yes, your sentence entitles you to my favour'; or, 'No, your sentence entitles you to so many blows.' Thus we see how modern child's play respects the dignity of the king as the fountain of law." In the Swiss version, as Mr. Newell remarks, "the memory of the severity of ancient criminal law is preserved," for "the thief flies, and is chased over stock and stone until caught, when he is made to kneel down, his cap pushed over his brows, and his head immediately struck off with the edge of a board" (313.124). _Boy-Moots_. The most interesting section, perhaps, of Mr. Johnson's _Rudimentary Society among Boys_, is that devoted to "Judicial Procedure" (272. 35-48). Fighting, arbitration, the ordeal and the wager have all been in use as modes of settling quarrels at the McDonogh School--such matters of dispute as arose having been left for the boys to settle among themselves without the control of the faculty. Indeed, the advice which Polonius gives to Laertes seems to have been ever present in the earlier days:-- "Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear't that th' opposed may beware of thee." Following the appeal to fists came the appeal to chance and luck--the "odd or even" marbles, the "longest straw," and like devices came into vogue. The arbitration of a bystander, particularly of "a big boy who could whip the others," and the "expedient of laying a wager to secure the postponement of a quarrel," are very common. But the most remarkable institution at McDonogh is undoubtedly the boy-moot, one of whose decisions is reported in detail by Mr. Johnson,--an institution in action "almost daily," and part and parcel of the life of the school. None but the author's own words can justly portray it (272. 47, 48):-- "The crowd of boys assembled about the contestants, whose verdict decides the controversy, is, in many respects, the counterpart of a primitive assembly of the people in the folk-moot. Every boy has the right to express an opinion, and every boy present exercises his privilege, though personal prowess and great experience in matters of law have their full influence on the minds of the judges. The primitive idea that dispensing justice is a public trust, which the community itself must fulfil towards its members, is embodied in this usage of the 'McDonogh boys.' The judges are not arbitrators chosen by the disputants, nor are they public functionaries whose sole business is to preside over the courts; but the whole body of the population declares by word of mouth the right and wrong of the matter. This tumultuous body of school-fellows, giving decisions in quarrels, and determining questions of custom, reproduces with remarkable fidelity the essential character of the primitive assembly." Mr. Johnson was struck with "the peace and good order generally prevalent in the community," which speaks well for the judicial system there in vogue. The editor, in his introductory remarks, observes:-- "Every schoolboy and every college student in his upward way to real manhood represents the evolution of a primitive savage into a civilized being. Every school and college reproduces the developmental process of a human society in some of its most interesting aspects, such as government and law. There are all stages of social development in the student class, from actual savagery, which frequently crops out in the very best schools and colleges, to effeminate forms of modern civilization. There are all degrees of institutional government, from total anarchy and patriarchal despotism to Roman imperialism and constitutional government; although it must be admitted that self-government among the student class--said to obtain in some American schools and colleges--is not yet a chartered right. The regulation of student society by itself, or by all the powers that be, presents all phases of judicature, from the most savage ordeals to the most humane. Student customs are full of ancient survivals, and some editions of 'College Laws' are almost as archaic as the Code of Manu. One of these days we shall perhaps find men investigating college jurisprudence, college government, and college politics from the comparative point of view, and writing the natural history of the student class" (272. 3). In the community of the sand-pile studied by Dr. Hall, "a general habit of settling disputes, often brought to issue with fists, by means of meetings and specifications, arose." There is room for a volume on the jurisprudence of childhood and youth, and every page would be of intensest interest and of value in the history of the evolution of the ideas of justice in the human race. CHAPTER XX. THE CHILD AS ORACLE-KEEPER AND ORACLE- INTERPRETER. Enfants et fous sont devins [Children and fools are soothsayers]. --_French Proverb._ Children pick up words as chickens peas, And utter them again as God shall please.--_English Proverb_. The fresh face of a child is richer in significance than the forecasting of the most indubitable seer.--_Novalis_. _Child-Oracles_. "Children and fools speak the truth," says an old and wide-spread proverb, and another version includes him who is drunken, making a trinity of truth-tellers. In like manner have the frenzy of wine and the madness of the gods been associated in every age with oracle and sign, and into this oracular trinity enters also the child. Said De Quincey: "God speaks to children also, in dreams and by the oracles that lurk in darkness," and the poet Stoddard has clothed in exquisite language a similar thought:-- "Nearer the gate of Paradise than we, Our children breathe its air, its angels see; And when they pray, God hears their simple prayer, Yea, even sheathes his sword in judgment bare." The passage in Joel ii. 28, "Your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions," might stand for not a few primitive peoples, with whom, once in childhood (or youth) and once again in old age, man communes with the spirits and the gods, and interprets the events of life to his fellows. The Darien Indians, we are told, "used the seeds of the _Datura sanguinea_ to bring on in children prophetic delirium in which they revealed hidden treasures" (545. II. 417). One of the most curious of the many strange practices which the conservatism of the Established Church of England has continued down to the present is one in vogue at the parish church of St. Ives, in Huntingdonshire. A certain Dr. Eobert Wilde, who died in 1678, "bequeathed £50, the yearly interest of which was to be expended in the purchase of six Bibles, not exceeding the price of 7_s_. 6_d_ each, which should be 'cast for by dice' on the communion table every year by six boys and six girls of the town." The vicar was also to be paid 10_s_. a year for preaching an appropriate sermon on the Holy Scriptures. Public opinion has within recent years caused the erection of a table on the chancel steps, where the dice-throwing now takes place, instead of on the communion table as of old. Every May 26th the ceremony is performed, and in 1888 we are told: "The highest throw this year (three times with three dice) was 37, by a little girl. The vicar (the Rev. E. Tottenham) preached a sermon from the words, 'From a child thou hast known the Holy Scriptures'" (390 (1888). 113). _The Child as Vision-Seer_. In the history of the Catholic Church one cannot fail to be struck by the part played by children in the seeing of visions, especially of the Virgin. To St. Agnes of Monte Pulciano (A.D. 1274-1317), when fourteen years of age, the Virgin appeared and told her she should build a monastery before she died (191. 24); Jeanne de Maille (1332-1414) was but eleven when the Virgin Mary with the infant Jesus came before her in a vision; Catherine of Racconigi (1486-1547) was visited by the Virgin when only five years of age (191. 108); in 1075, Hermann of Cologne, while still a boy, saw in a vision the Virgin, who kissed him, and made a secret deposit of food on a certain stone for his benefit. In 1858 a vision of the Immaculate Conception appeared to Bernadetta Soubirous, a sickly child of fourteen, at Lourdes, in the Hautes Pyrenees. No one else saw this vision, said to have occurred on Shrove Tuesday (Feb. 11), four years after Pius IX. had proclaimed the dogma of the Immaculate Conception. The vision lasted for fourteen successive days (191. 484). On Jan. 17, 1871, the Virgin is alleged to have appeared at Pontmain to several children, and a detailed account of the vision has been given by Mgr. Guérin, chamberlain of Pius IX., in his _Vie des Saints_, and this is digested in Brewer. The children who saw the apparition are described as follows: "Eugène Barbedette was the second son of a small farmer living in the village of Pontmain, in the diocese of Laval. He was twelve years old, and his brother Joseph was ten. The other two [Françoise Richer, Jeanne Marie Lebossé] were children from neighbouring cottages, called in to witness the sight. The parents of the children, the pastor of the village, Sister Vitaline, the abbot Guérin, all present, could see nothing, nor could any of the neighbours of outlying villages, who flocked to the place. Only the children mentioned, a sick child, and a babe in the arms of its grandmother, saw the apparition." The description of the Virgin, as seen by Eugène Barbedette that starlight winter night, is quaint and naïve in the extreme: "She was very tall, robed in blue, and her robe studded with stars. Her shoes were also blue, but had red rosettes. Her face was covered with a black veil, which floated to her shoulders. A crown of gold was on her head, but a red line was observed to run round the crown, symbolic of the blood shed by Christ for the sins of the world. Beneath her feet was a scroll, on which were written these words: 'Mais priez, mes enfants, Dieu vous exaucera, en peu de temps mon fils se laisse toucher' (Pray, my children, God will hear you, before long my son will be moved)." Mgr. Guérin thus comments upon the miracle: "In order to make herself manifest to men, the Holy Virgin has chosen rather the simple eyes of childhood; for, like troubled waters, sinful souls would have but ill reflected her celestial image" (191. 26). _Flower- and Animal-Oracles_. Mr. Newell has a chapter on "Flower-Oracles" (313. 105-114), in which he gives many illustrations of the practice noted in the lines of that nature-loving mediaeval German singer, with which he prefaces his remarks:-- "A spire of grass hath made me gay; It saith I shall find mercy mild. I measured in the self-same way I have seen practised by a child." "Come look and listen if she really does: She does, does not, she does, does not, she does. Each time I try, the end so augureth. That comforts me,--'tis right that we have faith." The ox-eye daisy, the common daisy, the marguerite, the corn-flower, the dandelion, the rose, the pansy, the clover, and a score of other flowers and plants (to say nothing of bushes and trees) have their leaves and petals pulled off, their seeds counted, their fruit examined, their seed-tufts blown away, their markings and other peculiarities deciphered and interpreted to determine the fortune of little questioners, the character of the home they are to live in, the clothes they are to be married in, what they are to ride in, the profession they are to adopt, whether they are to marry, remain single, become monk or nun, whether they are to be drowned or hanged, rich or poor, honest or criminal, whether they are to go to hell, purgatory, or paradise. The use of drawing straws or blades of grass from the hand to determine who is "it," or who shall begin the game, the blowing of the dandelion in seed, the counting of apple-pips, or the leaves on a twig, and a hundred other expedients belong to the same category. All these are oracles, whose priest and interpreter is the child; first, in "those sweet, childish days that were as long as twenty days are now," and then again when love rules the heart and the appeal to the arbitrament of nature--for not alone all mankind but all nature loves a lover--is made in deepest faith and confidence. In the golden age of childhood and in the springtime of love all nature is akin to man. The dandelion is especially favoured as an oracle of children, and of those who are but "children of a larger growth." To quote from Folkard (448. 309):-- "The dandelion is called the rustic oracle; its flowers always open about 5 A.M. and shut at 8 P.M., serving the shepherd for a clock. 'Leontodons unfold On the swart turf their ray-encircled gold, With Sol's expanding beam the flowers unclose, And rising Hesper lights them to repose.'--_Darwin_. As the flower is the shepherd's clock, so are the feathery seedtufts his barometer, predicting calm or storm. These downy seedballs, which children blow off to find out the hour of day, serve for other oracular purposes. Are you separated from the object of your love? Carefully pluck one of the feathery heads; charge each of the little feathers composing it with a tender thought; turn towards the spot where the loved one dwells; blow, and the seed-ball will convey your message faithfully. Do you wish to know if that dear one is thinking of you? blow again; and if there be left upon the stalk a single aigrette, it is a proof you are not forgotten. Similarly, the dandelion is consulted as to whether the lover lives east, west, north, or south, and whether he is coming or not. 'Will he come? I pluck the flower leaves off, And, at each, cry yes, no, yes; I blow the down from the dry hawkweed, Once, twice--hah! I it flies amiss!'--Scott." Many interesting details about flower-oracles may be read in the pages of Friend (453) and Folkard (448) and in Mr. Dyer's chapters on _Plants and the Ceremonial Use_ (435. 145-162), _Children's Rhymes and Games_ (435. 232-242), etc. Beasts, birds, and insects are also the child's oracles. Mr. Callaway tells us that among the Amazulu, when cattle are lost, and the boys see the bird called _Isi pungumangati_ sitting on a tree, "they ask it where the cattle are, and go in the direction in which it points with its head." The insect known as the _mantis_, or "praying insect," is used for a similar purpose (417. 339). In the Sollinger forest (Germany), on St. Matthew's day, February 24, the following practice is in vogue: A girl takes a girl friend upon her back and carries her to the nearest sheep-pen, at the door of which both knock. If a lamb is the first to bleat, the future husbands of both girls will be young; if an old sheep bleats first, they will both marry old men (391. II. 10). _The Child as Oracle in the Primitive Community._ In primitive social economy the services of the child, as an unprejudiced or oracular decider of fates and fortunes, were often in demand. In the community of Pudu-vayal, in the Carnatic (southeastern India), "when the season for cultivation arrives, the arable land in the village is allotted to the several shareholders in the following manner: The names of each lot and each share-holder are written on pieces of the leaf of the palm-tree, such as is used for village records, and the names of each division of land to be allotted are placed in a row. A child, selected for the purpose, draws by lot a leaf with the name of the principal share-holder, and places under it a number, thus,-- 1--Tannappa. 2--Nina. 3--Narrappa. 4--Malliyan. It is thus settled by lottery that Tannappa and his under-share-holders are to cultivate the land of the principal share lotted under No. 1. Tannappa next proceeds to settle in the same way each under-shareholder's portion included in his principal share, and so on, until the sixty-four shareholders receive each his allotment (461. 32)." At Haddenham, in the county of Buckingham, England, a somewhat similar practice survived: "The method of deciding the ownership, after the meadow was plotted out, was by drawing lots. This was done by cutting up a common dock-weed into the required number of pieces to represent the lots, a well understood sign being carved on each piece, representing crows' feet, hog-troughs, and so on. These were placed in a hat and shaken up. Before this could be done, however, notice must be given by one of the men, calling out, at the top of his voice, 'Harko,' and using some sort of rigmarole, calling people to witness that the lots were drawn fairly and without favour.... The hat being shaken up, and one of the boys standing by, looking on with the greatest interest, is pitched upon as a disinterested person to draw the lots, and each owner had to 'sup up' with the lot that fell to him" (461.270). In the manor of Aston, in the parish of Bampton, Oxfordshire, a like custom prevailed: "When the grass was fit to cut, the grass stewards and Sixteens [stewards] summoned the freeholders and tenants to a general meeting, and the following ceremony took place: Four of the tenants came forward, each bearing his mark cut on a piece of wood, which, being thrown into a hat, were shaken up and drawn by a boy. The first drawing entitled its owner to have his portion of the common meadow in set one, the second drawn in set two, etc., and thus four of the tenants have obtained their allotments. Four others then came forward, and the same process is repeated until all the tenants have received their allotments" (461. 166). In Kilkenny, "when the division is made out, lots are prepared. Each man takes a bit of stick or particular stone, well marked; these are enveloped in a ball of clay, and a child or stranger is called to place each ball upon some one of the lots, by which each man's share is determined" (461. 141). The Kaffir boy who is to tend the calves in the kraal, while his fellows sport and romp about, is selected by lot: "As many blades of grass as there are boys are taken, and a knot is made on the end of one of them. The biggest boy holds the blades between the fingers and thumb of his closed hand, and whoever draws the blade with the knot has to act as herdsman" (543. 221). Nowadays, children are employed to turn roulette-wheels, sort cards, pick out lottery-tickets, select lucky numbers, set machinery going for the first time, and perform other like actions; for, though men are all "children of fortune," there is something about real children that brings luck and prospers all enterprises of chance and hazard. Unconscious action and selection by children have no doubt profoundly influenced individual men and society at times. De Quincey tells us that "the celebrated Dr. Doddridge is said to have been guided in a primary act of choice, influencing his whole after life, by a few chance words from a child reading aloud to his mother." The story of the conversion of drunken John Stirling by the naïve remark of his four-year-old boy, as the mother was reading Matthew xxv. 31-33, "Will father be a goat, then, mother?" finds parallels in other lives and other lands (191.356). Here may be considered as belonging some of the "guessing-games," certain of which, in forms remarkably like those in use to-day, were known to the ancients, as Mr. Newell has pointed out, from references in Xenophon and Petronius Arbiter (313. 147-152). _Oracular Games_. As we of to-day see in the sports and games of children some resemblance to the realities of life of our ancestors of long ago, and of those primitive peoples who have lingered behind in the march, of culture, so have the folk seen in them some echo, some oracular reverberation, of the deeds of absent elders, some forecast of the things to come. Among the Shushwap Indians of British Columbia, the following belief is current regarding twins: "While they are children their mother can see by their plays whether her husband, when he is out hunting, will be successful or not. When the twins play about and feign to bite each other, he will be successful; if they keep quiet, he will return empty-handed" (404. 92). In Saxon Transylvania, "when children play games in which dolls and the like are buried, play church, or sing hymns in the street, it is thought to foretell the approaching death of some one in the place" (392 (1893).18). Similar superstitions attach to others of the games and sports of childhood, in which is reproduced the solemn earnest of an earlier manhood; for, with some peoples, the conviction that what is acted in pantomime must occur at a later date in all its reality, finds ready acceptance, and hence children are sometimes even now debarred from carrying out some of their games, from a vague fear that ill will come of them in the manner indicated. CHAPTER XXI. THE CHILD AS WEATHER-MAKER. Rain, rain, go away, Come again, another day.--_Children's Rhyme._ Perhaps the most naive tale in which, the child figures as a weather-maker occurs in the life-story of St. Vincent Ferrier (1357-1419 A.D.), who is credited with performing, in twenty years, no fewer than 58,400 miracles. While the saint was not yet a year old, a great dearth prevailed in Valencia, and one day, while his mother was lamenting over it, "the infant in swaddling-clothes said to her distinctly, 'Mother, if you wish for rain, carry me in procession.' The babe was carried in procession, and the rain fell abundantly" (191.356). Brewer informs us that in 1716 "Mrs. Hicks and her daughter (a child nine years of age) were hung at Huntingdon [England], for 'selling their souls to the devil; and raising a storm by pulling off their stockings and making a lather of soap'" (191. 344). Saints and witches had power to stop rains and lay storms as well as to bring them on. H. F. Feilberg has given us an interesting account of "weather-making," a folk-custom still in vogue in several parts of Denmark. It would appear that this strange custom exists in Djursland, Samse, Sejere, Nexele, in the region of Kallundborg. Here "the women 'make weather' in February, the men in March, all in a fixed order, usually according to the numbers of the tax-register. The pastor and his wife, each in his and her month, 'make weather' on the first of the month, after them the other inhabitants of the village. If the married men are not sufficient to fill out the days of the months, the unmarried ones and the servants are called upon,--the house-servant perhaps 'making weather' in the morning, the hired boy in the afternoon, and in like manner the kitchen-maid and the girl-servant" (392 (1891). 56, 58). In this case we have a whole family, household, community of "weather-makers," old and young, and are really taken back to a culture-stage similar to that of the Caribs and Chibchas of America, with whom the chief was weather-maker as well as ruler of his people (101. 57). _The "Bull-Roarer."_ In Mr. Andrew Lang's _Custom and Myth_ there is an entertaining chapter on "The Bull Roarer," which the author identifies with the [Greek: rombos] mentioned by Clemens of Alexandria as one of the toys of the infant Dionysus. The "bull-roarer," known to the modern English boy, the ancient Greek, the South African, the American Indian, etc., is in actual use to-day by children,--Mr. Lang does not seem to be aware of the fact,--as a "wind-raiser," or "weather-maker." Mr. Gregor, speaking of northeastern Scotland, says: "During thunder it was not unusual for boys to take a piece of thin wood a few inches wide and about half a foot long, bore a hole in one end of it, and tie a few yards of twine into the hole. The piece of wood was rapidly whirled around the head under the belief that the thunder would cease, or that the thunder-bolt would not strike. It went by the name of the 'thunner-spell'" (246. 153). Among the Kaffirs, according to Mr. Theal:-- "There is a kind of superstition connected with the _nowidu_ [the South African 'bull-roarer'], that playing with it invites a gale of wind. Men will, on this account, often prevent boys from using it when they desire calm weather for any purpose" (543. 223). Dr. Boas tells us that the Shushwap Indians of British Columbia attribute supernatural powers to twins, and believe: "They can make good and bad weather. In order to produce rain they take a small basket filled with water, which they spill into the air. For making clear weather, they use a small stick to the end of which a string is tied. A small flat piece of wood is attached to the end of the string, and this implement is shaken. Storm is produced by strewing down on the ends of spruce branches" (404. 92). The Nootka Indians have a like belief regarding twins: "They have the power to make good and bad weather. They produce rain by painting their faces with black colour and then washing them, or by merely shaking their heads" (404. 40). Among some of the Kwakiutl Indians, upon the birth of twins "the father dances for four days after the children have been born, with a large square rattle. The children, by swinging this rattle, can cure disease and procure favourable winds and weather" (404. 62). In Prussia, when it snows, the folk-belief is "the angels are shaking their little beds," and Grimm's story of "Old Mother Frost" has another rendering of the same myth: "What are you afraid of, my child! Stop with me: if you will put all things in order in my house, then all shall go well with you; only you must take care that you make my bed well, and shake tremendously, so that the feathers fly; then it snows upon earth. I am Old Mother Frost." An Eskimo legend states that thunder and lightning are caused by an adult person and a child, who went up in the sky long, long ago; they carry a dried seal-skin, which, when rattled, makes the thunder, and torches of tar, which, when waved, cause the lightning. The Mississaga Indians explain a fierce storm of thunder and lightning by saying that "the young thunder-birds up in the sky are making merry and having a good time." In like manner, the Dakotas account for the rumbling of thunder, "because the old thunder-bird begins the peal and the young ones take it up and continue." In the poetry of the ancient Aryans of Asia the wind is called "the heavenly child," some idea of which survives in the old pictures in books representing the seasons, and in maps, where infants or cherubs are figured as blowing at the various points of the compass. But to return to rain-making. Grimm has called attention to several instances in Modern Europe where the child figures as "rain-maker." _Girl Rain-Makers_. One of the charms in use in the Rhine country of Germany in the eleventh century, as recorded by Burchard of Worms, was this: "A little girl, completely undressed and led outside the town, had to dig up henbane with the little finger of her right hand, and tie it to the little toe of her right foot; she was then solemnly conducted by the other maidens to the nearest river, and splashed with water" (462. II. 593). In Servia the rain-maker is well known, and the procedure is as follows: "A girl, called the _dodola_, is stript naked, but so wrapt up in grass, herbs, and flowers, that nothing of her person is to be seen, not even the face. Escorted by other maidens, _dodola_ passes from house to house; before each house they form a ring, she standing in the middle and dancing alone. The goodwife comes out and empties a bucket of water over the girl, who keeps dancing and whirling all the while; her companions sing songs, repeating after every line the burden _oy dodo, oy dodo le_." Following is one of the rain-songs:-- "To God doth our doda call, oy dodo oy dodo le! That dewy rain may fall, oy dodo oy dodo le! And drench the diggers all, oy dodo oy dodo le! The workers great and small, oy dodo oy dodo le! Even those in house and stall, oy dodo oy dodo le!" Corresponding to the Servian _dodola_, and thought to be equally efficacious, is the [Greek: _pyrperuna_] of the Modern Greeks. With them the custom is: "When it has not rained for a fortnight or three weeks, the inhabitants of villages and small towns do as follows. The children choose one of themselves, who is from eight to ten years old, usually a poor orphan, whom they strip naked and deck from head to foot with field herbs and flowers: this child is called pyrperuna. The others lead her round the village, singing a hymn, and every housewife has to throw a pailful of water over the pyrperuna's head and hand the children a para (1/4 of a farthing)" (462. I. 594). In a Wallachian song, sung by children when the grain is troubled by drought, occurs the following appeal: "Papaluga (Father Luga), climb into heaven, open its doors, and send down rain from above, that well the rye may grow!" (462. II. 593). This brings us naturally to the consideration of the rain-rhymes in English and cognate tongues. _Rain-Rhymes_. Mr. Henderson, treating of the northern counties of England, tells us that when the rain threatens to spoil a boy's holiday, he will sing out:-- "'Rain, rain, go away, Come again another summer's day; Rain, rain, pour down, And come no more to our town.' or:-- 'Rain, rain, go away, And come again on washing day,' or, more quaintly, yet:-- 'Rain, rain, go to Spain; Fair weather, come again,' and, _sooner_ or _later_, the rain will depart. If there be a rainbow, the juvenile devotee must look at it all the time. The Sunderland version runs thus:-- 'Rain, rain, pour down Not a drop in our town, But a pint and a gill All a-back of Building Hill.'" Mr. Henderson remarks that "such rhymes are in use, I believe, in every nursery in England," and they are certainly well known, in varying forms in America. A common English charm for driving away the rainbow brings the child at once into the domain of the primitive medicine-man. Schoolboys were wont, "on the appearance of a rainbow, to place a couple of straws or twigs across on the ground, and, as they said, 'cross out the rainbow.' The West Riding [Yorkshire] receipt for driving away a rainbow is: 'Make a cross of two sticks and lay four pebbles on it, one at each end'" (469. 24, 25). Mr. Gregor, for northeastern Scotland, reports the following as being sung or shouted at the top of the voice by children, when a rainbow appears (246. 153, 154):-- (1) "Rainbow, rainbow, Brack an gang hame, The coo's wi' a calf, The yow's wi' a lam, An' the coo 'ill be calvt, Or ye win hame." (2) "Rainbow, rainbow, Brack an gang hame; Yir father an yir mither's aneth the layer-stehm; Yir coo's calvt, yir mare's foalt, Yir wife'll be dead Or ye win hame." (3) "Rainbow, rainbow, Brack an gang hame, Yir father and mither's aneth the grave stehn." Even more touching is the appeal made by the children in Berwickshire, according to Mr. Henderson (469. 24, 25):-- "Rainbow, rainbow, hand awa' hame, A' yer bairns are dead but ane, And it lies sick at yon gray stane, And will be dead ere you win hame. Gang owre the Drumaw [a hill] and yont the lea And down by the side o' yonder sea; Your bairn lies greeting [crying] like to dee, And the big tear-drop is in his e'e." Sometimes the child-priest or weather-maker has to employ an intermediary. On the island of Rugen and in some other parts of Germany the formula is (466 a. 132):-- "Leeve Katriene Lat de stinnen schienen, Lat'n ragen overgahn, Lat de stunnen wedder kam'n." ["Dear (St.) Catharine, Let the sun shine, Let the rain pass off, Let the sun come again."] In Eugen the glow-worm is associated with "weather-making." The children take the little creature up, put it on their hand and thus address it (466 a. 133):-- "Sunnskurnken fleeg weech, Bring mi morgen good wader, Lat 'en ragen overgahn, Lat de sunnen wedder kam'n, Bring mi morgen good wader." If the insect flies away, the good weather will come; if not, there will be rain. The Altmark formula, as given by Danneil (_Worterb_., p. 81) is:-- "Herrgottswörmk'n, flêg nao'n Himmel, segg dîn Vaoder un Mutter, dat't morgen un äöwermorg'n gôd Wäd'r wart." ["Little God's-worm, fly to heaven, tell your father and mother to make it fine weather to-morrow and the day after to-morrow."] Another rain-rhyme from Altmark, sung by children in the streets when it rains, is harsh in tone, and somewhat derisive as well (p. 153):-- "Räg'n blatt, maok mi nich natt, Maok den olln Paop'n natt De'n Büd'l vull Geld hat." ["Rain, don't make me wet, Make the old priest wet, Who has a purse full of money."] Concerning the Kansa Indians, Rev. J. Owen Dorsey informs us that the members of the Tcihacin or Kanze gens are looked upon as "wind people," and when there is a blizzard the other Kansa appeal to them: "O, Grandfather, I wish good weather! Please cause one of your children to be decorated!" The method of stopping the blizzard is as follows: "Then the youngest son of one of the Kanze men, say one over four feet high, is chosen for the purpose, and painted with red paint. The youth rolls over and over in the snow and reddens it for some distances all around him. This is supposed to stop the storm" (433. 410). With the Kwakiutl Indians of Vancouver Island, as with the Shushwaps and Nootka, twins are looked upon in the light of wonderful beings, having power over the weather. Of them it is said "while children they are able to summon any wind by motions of their hands, and can make fair or bad weather. They have the power of curing diseases, and use for this purpose a rattle called K.'oã'qaten, which has the shape of a flat box about three feet long by two feet wide." Here the "weather-maker" and the "doctor" are combined in the same person. Among the Tsimshian Indians, of British Columbia, twins are believed to control the weather, and these aborigines "pray to wind and rain: 'Calm down, breath of the twins'" (403. 51). In the creation-legend of the Indians of Mt. Shasta (California), we are told that once a terrific storm came up from the sea and shook to its base the wigwam,--Mt. Shasta itself,--in which lived the "Great Spirit" and his family. Then "The 'Great Spirit' commanded his daughter, little more than an infant, to go up and bid the wind be still, cautioning her at the same time, in his fatherly way, not to put her head out into the blast, but only to thrust out her little red arm and make a sign before she delivered her message." But the temptation to look out on the world was too strong for her, and, as a result, she was caught up by the storm and blown down the mountain-side into the land of the grizzly-bear people. From the union of the daughter and the grizzly-bear people sprang a new race of men. When the "Great Spirit" was told his daughter still lived, he ran down the mountain for joy, but finding that his daughter had become a mother, he was so angry that he cursed the grizzly-people and turned them into the present race of bears of that species; them and the new race of men he drove out of their wigwam,--Little Mt. Shasta,--then "shut to the door, and passed away to his mountains, carrying his daughter; and her or him no eye has since seen." Hence it is that "no Indian tracing his descent from the spirit mother and the grizzly, will kill a grizzly-bear; and if by an evil chance a grizzly kill a man in any place, that spot becomes memorable, and every one that passes casts a stone there till a great pile is thrown up" (396. III. 91). Here the weather-maker touches upon deity and humanity at once. CHAPTER XXII. THE CHILD AS HEALER AND PHYSICIAN. Fingunt se medicos quivis idiota, sacerdos, Iudæus, monachus, histrio, rasor, anus. [Any unskilled person, priest, Jew, monk, actor, barber, old woman, turns himself into a physician.]--_Medical Proverb_. _The Child as Healer and Physician_. Though Dr. Max Bartels' (397) recent treatise--the best book that has yet appeared on the subject of primitive medicine--has no chapter consecrated to the child as healer and physician, and Mr. Black's _Folk-Medicine_ (401) contains but a few items under the rubric of personal cures, it is evident from data in these two works, and in many other scattered sources, that the child has played a not unimportant rôle in the history of folk-medicine. Among certain primitive peoples the healing art descends by inheritance, and in various parts of the world unbaptized children, illegitimate children, and children born out of due time and season, or deformed in some way, have been credited with special curative powers, or looked upon as "doctors born." In Spain, to kiss an unbaptized child before any one else has done so, is a panacea against toothache (258. 100). In north-eastern Scotland, "a seventh son, without a daughter, if worms were put into his hand before baptism, had the power of healing the disease (ring-worm) simply by rubbing the affected part with his hand. The common belief about such a son was that he was a doctor by nature" (246. 47). In Ireland, the healing powers are acquired "if his hand has, before it has touched anything for himself, been touched with his future medium of cure. Thus, if silver is to be the charm, a sixpence, or a three-penny piece, is put into his hand, or meal, salt, or his father's hair, 'whatever substance a seventh son rubs with must be worn by his parents as long as he lives.'" In some portions of Europe, the seventh son, if born on Easter Eve, was able to cure tertian or quartan fevers. In Germany, "if a woman has had seven sons in succession, the seventh can heal all manner of hurt,"--his touch is also said to cure wens at the throat (462. III. 1152). In France, the _marcou_, or seventh son, has had a great reputation; his body is said to be marked with a _fleur-de-lis_, and the cure is effected by his simply breathing upon the diseased part, or by allowing the patient to touch a mark on his body. Bourke calls attention to the fact that among the Cherokee Indians of the southeastern United States is this same belief that the seventh son is "a natural-born prophet with the gift of healing by touch" (406. 457). In France similar powers have also been attributed to the fifth son. The seventh son of a seventh son is still more famous, while to the twenty-first son, born without the intervention of a daughter, prodigious cures are ascribed. Nor is the other sex entirely neglected. In France a "seventh daughter" was believed to be able to cure chilblains on the heels (462. III. 1152), and in England, as recently as 1876, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter claimed great skill as an herb-doctor. In northeastern Scotland, "a posthumous child was believed to possess the gift of curing almost any disease by looking on the patient" (246. 37), and in Donegal, Ireland, the peasants "wear a lock of hair from a posthumous child, to guard against whooping-cough," while in France, such a child was believed to possess the power of curing wens, and a child that has never known its father was credited with ability to cure swellings and to drive away tumours (462. III. 1152). Twins, in many countries, have been regarded as prodigies, or as endowed with unusual powers. In Essex, England, "a 'left twin' (_i.e._ a child who has survived its fellow-twin) is thought to have the power of curing the thrush by blowing three times into the patient's mouth, if the patient is of the opposite sex" (469. 307). Among the Kwakiutl Indians of British Columbia, twins are said to be able to cure disease by swinging a rattle, and in Liberia (Africa) they are thought to possess great healing powers, for which reason most of them become doctors (397. 75). In Sweden, "a first-born child that has come into the world with teeth can cure a bad bite." In Scotland, "those who were born with their feet first possessed great power to heal all kinds of sprains, lumbago, and rheumatism, either by rubbing the afflicted part, or by trampling on it. The chief virtue lay in the feet" (246. 45). In Cornwall, England, the mother of such a child also possessed the power to cure rheumatism by trampling on the patients. The natives of the island of Mas, off the western coast of Sumatra, consider children born with their feet first specially gifted for the treatment of dislocations (397. 75). Among the superstitions prevalent among the Mexicans of the Rio Grande region in Texas, Captain Bourke mentions the belief: "To cure rheumatism, stroke the head of a little girl three times--a golden-haired child preferred" (407. 139). The Jews of Galicia seek to cure small-pox by rubbing the pustules with the tresses of a girl, and think that the scrofula will disappear "if a _Bechôr_, or first-born son, touches it with his thumb and little finger" (392 (1893). 142). The power of curing scrofula--touching for the "King's Evil"--possessed by monarchs of other days, was thought to be hereditary, and seems to have been practised by them at a tender age. In England this "cure" was in vogue from the time of Edward the Confessor until 1719, when, according to Brewer, the "office" disappeared from the Prayer-book. The French custom dated back to Anne of Clovis (A.D. 481). In the year of his coronation (1654 A.D.), when Louis XV. was but eleven years old, he is said to have touched over two thousand sufferers (191. 308). _Blood of Children_. In the dark ages the blood of little children had a wide-spread reputation for its medicinal virtue. The idea that diseased and withered humanity, having failed to discover the fountain of eternal youth, might find a new well-spring of life in bathing in, or being sprinkled with, the pure blood of a child or a virgin, had long a firm hold upon the minds of the people. Hartmann von Aue's story, _Der arme Heinrich_, and a score of similar tales testify of the folk-faith in the regeneration born of this horrible baptism--a survival or recrudescence of the crassest form of the doctrine that the life dwells in the blood. Strack, in his valuable treatise on "Human Blood, in Superstition and Ceremonial," devotes a brief section to the belief in the cure of leprosy by means of human blood (361. 20-24). The Targumic gloss on Exodus ii. 23--the paraphrase known as the Pseudo-Jonathan--explains "that the king of Egypt, suffering from leprosy, ordered the first-born of the children of Israel to be slain that he might bathe in their blood," and the Midrasch Schemoth Rabba accounts for the lamentation of the people of Israel at this time, from the fact that the Egyptian magicians had told the king that there was no cure for this loathsome disease, unless every evening and every morning one hundred and fifty Jewish children were slain and the monarch bathed twice daily in their blood. Pliny tells us that the Egyptians warmed with human blood the seats in their baths as a remedy against the dreaded leprosy. According to the early chroniclers, Constantine the Great, on account of his persecution of the Christians, was afflicted with leprosy, which would yield neither to the skill of native nor to that of foreign physicians. Finally, the priests of Jupiter Capitolinus recommended a bath in the blood of children. The children were gathered together, but "the lamentations of their mothers so affected the Emperor, that he declared his intention of suffering the foul disease, rather than be the cause of so much woe and misery." Afterwards he was directed in a dream to Pope Sylvester, was converted, baptized into the Church, and restored to health (361. 22). Other instances of this fearful custom are mentioned in the stories of Percival (in the history of the Holy Grail), of Giglan de Galles et Geoffrey de Mayence, and the wide-spread tale of Amicus and Amelius and its variants, Louis and Alexander, Engelhard and Engeltrut, Oliver and Arthur, etc., in all of which one of the friends is afflicted with leprosy, but is cured through the devotion of the other, who sacrifices his own children in order to obtain the blood by which alone his friend can be restored to health. Usually, we are told, God rewards his fidelity and the children are restored to life. The physicians of King Richard I. of England are said, in one of the fictions which grew up about his distinguished personality, to have utterly failed to give relief to the monarch, who was suffering from, leprosy. At last a celebrated Jew, after exhausting his skill without curing the monarch, told him that his one chance of recovery lay in bathing in the fresh blood of a newborn child, and eating its heart just as it was taken out of the body. That the king adopted this horrible remedy we are left to doubt, but of Louis XI of France, several chroniclers affirm that he went even farther than the others, and, in order to become rejuvenated, drank large quantities of the blood of young children. In all these cases the character of the child as fetich seems to be present, and the virtues ascribed to the blood drawn from children (not always killed) belong not alone to medicine, but also to primitive religion (361. 23). Even the dead body of a child or some one of its members plays a _role_ in folk-medicine in many parts of the globe. Grimm cites from a document of 1408 A.D., a passage recording the cure of a leper, who had been stroked with the hand of a still-born (and, therefore, sinless) child, which had been rubbed with salve (361. 34). In Steiermark, so Dr. Strack informs us, "a favourite cure for birth-marks is to touch them with the hand of a dead person, especially of a child" (361. 35). Among the charges made by the Chinese against the foreigners, who are so anxious to enter their dominions, is one of "kidnapping and buying children in order to make charms and medicines out of their eyes, hearts, and other portions of their bodies." This belief induced the riot of June, 1870, an account of which has been given by Baron Hubner, and similar incidents occurred in 1891 and 1892. Somewhat the same charges have been made (in 1891, for example) by the natives of Madagascar against the French and other foreigners (361. 37). _Medicine-Men._ Among many primitive peoples, as is the case with the Zulus, Bechuana, Japanese (formerly), Nez Perces, Cayuse, Walla-Wallas, Wascos, etc., the office of "doctor" is hereditary, and is often exercised at a comparatively early age (397. 275). Dr. Pitre has recently discussed some interesting cases in this connection in modern Italy (322). Among certain Indian tribes of the Rocky Mountain region of the northwestern United States, although he cannot properly practise his art until he reaches manhood, the "medicine-man" (here, doctor) begins his candidacy in his eighth or tenth year. Of the "wizards," or "doctors" of the Patagonians, Falkner says, that they "are selected in youth for supposed qualifications, especially if epileptic" (406. 456). While among the Dieyerie of South Australia, the "doctor" is not allowed to practise before having been circumcised, or to enter upon the duties of his office before completing his tenth year, those young people become "doctors," who, as children, "have seen the devil," i.e. have seen in a troubled dream the demon _Kutchie_, or have had the nightmare. The belief is, that in this way, the power to heal has been imparted to the child (397. 75). Among the Yuki Indians of California, "the 'poison-doctor' is the most important member of the profession. The office is hereditary; a little child is prepared for holding it by being poisoned and then cured, which, in their opinion, renders him invulnerable ever afterward" (519. 131). Among the Tunguses, of Siberian llussia, a child afflicted with cramps or with bleeding at the nose and mouth, is declared by an old shaman ("medicine-man," or "medicine-woman") to be called to the profession, and is then termed _hudildon_. After the child has completed its second year, it is taken care of by an old shaman, who consecrates it with various ceremonies; from this time forth it is called _jukejeren_, and is instructed by the old man in the mysteries of his art (482. III. 105). With these people also the female shamans have the assistance of boys and girls to carry their implements and perform other like services (397. 66). An excellent account of shamanism in Siberia and European Eussia has been given by Professor Mikhailovskii (504), of Moscow, who gives among other details a notice of the _kamlanie_, or spirit-ceremonial of a young shaman belonging to one of the Turkish tribes of the Altai Mountains (504. 71). Among the Samoyeds and Ostiaks of Siberia, "the shamans succeed to the post by inheritance from father to son" (504. 86). On the death of a shaman, "his son, who desires to have power over the spirits, makes of wood an image of the dead man's hand, and by means of this symbol succeeds to his father's power. Those destined to be shamans spend their youth in practices which irritate the nervous system and excite the imagination." Among the Buryats of southern Siberia, it is thought that "the dead ancestors who were shamans choose from their living kinsfolk a boy who is to inherit their power. This child is marked by signs; he is often thoughtful, fond of solitude, a seer of prophetic visions, subject, occasionally, to fits, during which he is unconscious. The Buryats believe that at such a time the boy's soul is with the spirits, who are teaching him; if he is to be a white shaman, with the western spirits; if he is to be a black shaman, among the eastern spirits." Usually, the youth does not enter upon his duties until he has reached his twentieth year (504.87). The tribes of the Altai believe that "the ability to shamanize is inborn; instruction only gives a knowledge of the chants, prayers, and external rites." There is in early life an innate tendency to sickness and frenzy, against which, we are told, the elect struggle in vain (504.90): "Those who have the shamanist sickness endure physical torments; they have cramps in the arms and legs, until they are sent to a _kam_ [shaman] to be educated. The tendency is hereditary; a _kam_ often has children predisposed to attacks of illness. If, in a family where there is no shaman, a boy or a girl is subject to fits, the Altaians are persuaded that one of its ancestors was a shaman. A _kam_ told Potanin that the shamanist passion was hereditary, like noble birth. If the _kam's_ own son does not feel any inclination, some one of the nephews is sure to have the vocation. There are cases of men becoming shamans at their own wish, but these _kams_ are much less powerful than those born to the profession." Thus the whole training of the _kam_ from childhood up to exercise of his official duties is such as "to augment his innate tendencies, and make him an abnormal man, unlike his fellows." When fully qualified, he functions as "priest, physician, wizard, diviner." _Moses_. Of the childhood of Moses Oriental legend has much to say. One story tells how the daughter of Pharaoh, a leper, was healed as she stretched out her hand to the infant whom she rescued from the waters of Nile. Well thus resumes the tale (547.122):-- "The eldest of the seven princesses first discovered the little ark and carried it to the bank to open it. On her removing the lid, there beamed a light upon her, which her eyes were not able to endure. She cast a veil over Moses, but at that instant her own face, which hitherto had been covered with scars and sores of all the most hideous colours imaginable, shone like the moon in its brightness and purity, and her sisters exclaimed in amazement, 'By what means hast thou been so suddenly freed from leprosy?' 'By the miraculous power of this child,' replied the eldest. The glance which beamed upon me when I beheld it unveiled, has chased away the impurity of my body, as the rising sun scatters the gloom of night.' The six sisters, one after the other, now lifted the veil from Moses' face, and they, too, became fair as if they had been formed of the finest silver. The eldest then took the ark upon her head, and carried it to her mother, Asia, relating to her in how miraculous a manner both she and her sisters had been healed." We also learn that when Moses was six years old, being teased by Pharaoh until he was angry, he kicked the throne over so that the king fell and injured himself so that he bled at the mouth and nose. The intercession of Asia and the seven princesses seemed vain, and the king was about to thrust Moses through with his sword, when "there flew a white cock toward the king, and cried: 'Pharaoh, if thou spill the blood of this child, thy daughters shall be more leprous than before.' Pharaoh cast a glance upon the princesses; and, as if from dread and fright, their faces were already suffused with a ghastly yellow, he desisted again from his bloody design" (547. 127). _Child-Saints._ To other heroes, kings, saints, the power to heal which characterized their years of discretion is often ascribed to them in childhood, especially where and when it happens that the same individual is prophet, priest, and king. In the unnumbered miracles of the Church children have often figured. Lupellus, in his life of St. Frodibert (seventh century A.D.), says: "When Frodibert was a mere child he cured his mother's blindness, as, in the fulness of love and pity, he kissed her darkened eyes, and signed them with the sign of the cross. Not only was her sight restored, but it was keener than ever" (191. 45). Of St. Patrick (373-464 A.D.) it is told: "On the day of his baptism he gave sight to a man born blind; the blind man took hold of the babe's hand, and with it made on the ground a sign of the cross." Another account makes the miracle a triple one: "A blind man, taking hold of St. Patrick's right hand, guided it into making on the ground a cross, when instantly three miracles ensued: (1) A spring of water bubbled from the dry ground; (2) the blind man, bathing his eyes with this water, received his sight; and (3) the man, who before could neither write nor read, was instantly inspired with both these gifts" (191. 237). Brewer relates other instances of the miraculous power of the child-saint from the lives of St. Genevieve (423-512, A.D.), St. Vitus, who at the age of twelve caused the arms and legs of the Emperor Aurelian to wither, but on the Emperor owning the greatness of God, the "child-magician," as the monarch had termed him, made Aurelian whole again; St. Sampson (565 A.D.), who cured a fellow schoolboy of a deadly serpent's bite; Marianne de Quito (1618-1645 A.D.), who cured herself of a gangrened finger (191. 442). In his interesting chapters on _Fairy Births and Human Midwives_, Mr. Hartland informs us that young girls have sometimes been called upon to go to fairy-land and usher into the world of elves some little sprite about to be born. Instances of this folk-belief are cited from Pomerania, Swabia, Silesia. Rewards and presents are given the maiden on her return, and often her whole family is blest, if she has acted well (258. 37-92). Close, indeed, are often the ties between the saint and the physician; the healer of the soul and the healer of the body are frequently the same. Other links bind the doctor to the hero and to the god. Of AEsculapius, the great son of Apollo, exposed in childhood by his mother, but nurtured by the goat of the shepherd Aresthanas, and guarded by his dog, when he grew up to manhood, became so skilled in the uses of herbs and other medicines that he received divine honours after his death and came to be looked upon as the inventor of medicine as well as god of the healing art. _Origin of the Healing Art_ With some primitive peoples even the child is their. AEsculapius, at once human and divine, hero and god. An Iroquois legend recorded by Mrs. Smith attributes to a boy the discovery of witch-charms: "A certain boy while out hunting came across a beautiful snake. Taking a great fancy to it, he caught it and cared for it, feeding it on birds, etc., and made a bark bowl in which he kept it. He put fibres, down, and small feathers into the water with the snake, and soon found that these things had become living beings. From this fact he naturally conjectured that the snake was endowed with supernatural powers." So he went on experimenting, and discovered many of the virtues of the snake water: rubbing it on his eyes would make him see in the dark and see hidden things; pointing his finger, after having dipped it in the bowl, at any one would bewitch that person; by using it in certain other ways he could become like a snake, travel very fast, even become invisible; deadly indeed were arrows dipped in this liquid, and pointing a feather so dipped at any game-animal would cause it to start for the creature and kill it. In this fashion the boy learned the secret art of witchcraft. Afterwards, by experimenting, he discovered, among the various roots and herbs, the proper antidotes and counteracting agents (534, 69, 70). In his detailed account of the medicine-society of the Ojibwa, Dr. Hoffman tells how the mysteries of the "Grand Medicine" were taught to the Indians by the Sun-spirit, who at the request of the great Manido, came down to earth and dwelt among men in the form of a little boy, raising to life again his dead play-mate, the child of the people who adopted him. After his mission was fulfilled, he "returned to his kindred spirits, for the Indians would have no need to fear sickness, as they now possessed the Grand Medicine which would enable them to live. He also said that his spirit could bring a body to life but once, and he would now return to the sun, from which they would feel his influence." So the institution of "medicine" among the Ojibwa is called _Kwí-wí-sens' we-di'-shi-tshi ge-wi-nip_, "Little-boy-his-work" (473. 172,173). CHAPTER XXIII. THE CHILD AS SHAMAN AND PRIEST. Nearer the gates of Paradise than we Our children breathe its air, its angels see; And when they pray, God hears their simple prayer, Yea, even sheathes his sword, in judgment bare. --_R. H. Stoddard._ The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is nature's priest.--_Wordsworth_. _Priestly Training_. Instruction in the priestly art in Africa begins sometimes almost at birth. Bastian informs us (529. 58):-- "Women who have been long barren, or who have lost their children, are wont to dedicate to the service of the fetich the unborn fruit of the womb, and to present to the village priest the new-born babe. He exercises it, at an early age, in those wild dances with deafening drum-accompaniment, by means of which he is accustomed to gain the requisite degree of spiritual exaltation; and in later years he instructs his pupil in the art of understanding, while his frame is wracked with convulsions, the inspirations of the demon and of giving fitting responses to questions proposed." Of the one sex we read (529. 56):-- "Every year the priests assemble the boys who are entering the state of puberty, and take them into the forest. There they settle and form an independent commonwealth, under very strict regulations, however; and every offence against the rules is sternly punished. The wound given in circumcision commonly heals in one week, yet they remain in the woods for a period of six months, cut off from all intercourse with the outside world, and in the meanwhile each receives separate instruction how to prepare his medicine-bag. Forever after, each one is mystically united with the fetich who presides over his life. Even their nearest relatives are not allowed to visit the boys in this retreat; and women are threatened with the severest punishment if they be only found in the neighbourhood of a forest containing such a boy-colony. When the priest declares the season of probation at an end, the boys return home and are welcomed back with great rejoicings." Concerning the other, Bosman, as reported by Schultze, says that among the negroes of Whida, where snake-worship prevails (529. 80)-- "Every year the priestesses, armed with clubs, go about the country, picking out and carrying away girls of from eight to twelve years of age, for the service of the god. These children are kindly treated and instructed in songs and dances _in majorem gloriam_ of his snakeship. In due time they are consecrated by tattooing on their bodies certain figures, especially those of serpents. The negroes suppose it is the snake himself that marks his elect thus. Having received their training and consecration, which are paid for by the parents according to their means, the children return home; and when they attain their majority are espoused to the Serpent." In Ashanti, according to Ellis, the children of a priest or of a priestess "are not ordinarily educated for the priestly profession, one generation being usually passed over [a curious primitive recognition of the idea in our common saying, "genius skips a generation"], and the grand-children selected" (438. 121). At the village of Suru several children (male and female) and youths are handed over to the priests and priestesses to be instructed in the service of the gods, when the goddess was thought to be offended, and in the ceremonials when the new members are tested, youths and children take part, smeared all over with white (438. 130). Among the natives of the Andaman Islands, as Mr. Man informs us, sometimes even "a young boy is looked upon as a coming _oko-paiad_." The word signifies literally "dreamer," and such individuals are "credited with the possession of supernatural powers, such as second sight" (498. 28). Captain Bourke, in his detailed account of the "medicine-men" of the Apaches, speaking of the Pueblos Indians, says: "While I was at Tusayan, in 1881, I heard of a young boy, quite a child, who was looked up to by the other Indians, and on special occasions made his appearance decked out in much native finery of beads and gewgaws, but the exact nature of his duties and supposed responsibilities could not be ascertained." He seems to have been a young "medicine-man" (406. 456). Into the "medicine-society" of the Delaware Indians "the boys were usually initiated at the age of twelve or fourteen years, with very trying ceremonies, fasting, want of sleep, and other tests of their physical and mental stamina." Of these same aborigines the missionary Brainerd states: "Some of their diviners (or priests) are endowed with the spirit in infancy; others in adult age. It seems not to depend upon their own will, nor to be acquired by any endeavours of the person who is the subject of it, although it is supposed to be given to children sometimes in consequence of some means which the parents use with them for that purpose" (516. 81). Among the Chippeway (Ojibwa), also, children are permitted to belong to the "Midéwewin or 'Grand Medicine Society,'" of which Dr. W. J. Hoffman has given so detailed a description--Sikassige, a Chippeway of Mille Lacs, having taken his "first degree" at ten years of age (473.172). _The Angakok_. Among the Eskimo the _angakok_, or shaman, trains his child from infancy in the art of sorcery, taking him upon his knee during his incantations and conjurations. In one of the tales in the collection of Rink we read (525. 276): "A great _angakok_ at his conjurations always used to talk of his having been to Akilinek [a fabulous land beyond the ocean], and his auditors fully believed him. Once he forced his little son to attend his conjurations, sitting upon his knee. The boy, who was horribly frightened, said: 'Lo! what is it I see? The stars are dropping down in the old grave on yonder hill.' The father said: 'When the old grave is shining to thee, it will enlighten thy understanding.' When the boy had been lying in his lap for a while, he again burst out: 'What is it I now see? The bones in the old grave are beginning to join together.' The father only repeating his last words, the son grew obstinate and wanted to run away, but the father still kept hold of him. Lastly, the ghost from the grave came out, and being called upon by the _angakok_, he entered the house to fetch the boy, who only perceived a strong smell of maggots, and then fainted away. On recovering his senses, he found himself in the grave quite naked, and when he arose and looked about, his nature was totally altered--he found himself able at a sight to survey the whole country to the farthest north, and nothing was concealed from him. All the dwelling-places of man appeared to be close together, side by side; and on looking at the sea, he saw his father's tracks stretching across to Akilinek. When going down to the house, he observed his clothes flying through the air, and had only to put forth his hands and feet to make them cover his body again. But on entering the house he looked exceedingly pale, because of the great _angakok_ wisdom he had acquired down in the old grave. After he had become an _angakok_ himself, he once went on a flight to Akilinek." Besides this interesting account of an _angakok_ séance, the same authority, in the story of the _angakok_ Tugtutsiak, records the following (525. 324): "Tugtutsiak and his sister were a couple of orphans, and lived in a great house. It once happened that all the grown-up people went away berry-gathering, leaving all children at home. Tugtutsiak, who happened to be the eldest of them, said: 'Let us try to conjure up spirits'; and some of them proceeded to make up the necessary preparations, while he himself undressed, and covered the door with his jacket, and closed the opening at the sleeves with a string. He now commenced the invocation, while the other children got mortally frightened, and were about to take flight. But the slabs of the floor were lifted high in the air, and rushed after them. Tugtutsiak would have followed them, but felt himself sticking fast to the floor, and could not get loose until he had made the children come back, and ordered them to uncover the door, and open the window, on which it again became light in the room, and he was enabled to get up." Girls, too, among the Eskimo, could become _angakoks_ or shamans. Rink tells of one who visited the under-world, where she received presents, but these, while she was carrying them home, "were wafted out of her hands, and flew back to their first owners." Of the Pawnee Indians, Mr. Grinnell informs us that the legend of their wanderings tells of a boy in whose possession was the sacred "medicine-bundle" of the tribe, and who was regarded as the oracle-interpreter (480 (1893). 125). _Witches_. As Dr. Mackay has remarked, in all the woeful annals of the witch-persecutions, there is nothing so astounding and revolting as the burning and putting to death of mere children for practising the arts of the devil. Against innocents of both sexes counting no more than ten or twelve years, there appear on the records the simple but significant words _convicta et combusta_--convicted and burned. Here the degradation of intellect and morals reaches its lowest level; it was Satan and not Jesus who bade the children come unto him; their portion was the kingdom of hell, not that of heaven. In Würzburg, between 1627 and 1629, no fewer than 157 persons suffered death for witchcraft (guilty and innocent), and among these were included "the prettiest girl in the town"; two mere boys; a wandering boy of twelve; a maiden of nine and her sister, younger in years; two boys of twelve; a girl of fifteen; a boy of ten and a boy of twelve; three boys of from ten to fifteen years of age. At Lille, in 1639, a whole school of girls--fifty in number--barely escaped burning as witches (496 a. II. 266-287). Everywhere the maddened, deluded people made sacrifice of their dearest and holiest, tainted, they thought, with the touch of the evil one (496 a. II. 285). It is a sad comment upon civilization that the last execution for witchcraft in England, which took place in 1716, was that of "Mrs. Hicks and her daughter, _a child nine years of age_, who were hung at Huntingdon, for 'selling their souls to the devil; and raising a storm, by pulling off their stockings and making a lather of soap'" (191. 344). In the _London Times_ for Dec. 8, 1845, appeared the following extract from the _Courier_, of Inverness, Scotland: "Our Wick contemporary gives the following recent instance of gross ignorance and credulity: 'Not far from Louisburg there lives a girl who, until a few days ago, was suspected of being a witch. In order to cure her of the witchcraft, a neighbour actually put her into a creed half-filled with wood and shavings, and hung her above a fire, setting the shavings in a blaze. Fortunately for the child and himself, she was not injured, and it is said that the gift of sorcery has been taken away from her. At all events, the intelligent neighbours aver that she is not half so witch-like in appearance since she was singed" (408. III. 14). Concerning the sect of the Nagualists or "Magicians" of Mexico and Central America Dr. Brinton tells us much in his interesting little book (413). These sorcerers recruited their ranks from both sexes, and "those who are selected to become the masters of these arts are taught from, early childhood how to draw and paint these characters and are obliged to learn by heart the formulas, and the names of the ancient Nagualists, and whatever else is included in these written documents" (413. 17). We learn that "in the sacraments of Nagualism, woman was the primate and hierophant," the admission of the female sex to the most exalted positions and the most esoteric degrees being a remarkable feature of this great secret society (413. 33). Indeed, Aztec tradition, like that of Honduras, speaks of an ancient sorceress, mother of the occult sciences, and some of the legends of the Nagualists trace much of their art to a mighty enchantress of old (413. 34). In 1713, the Tzendals of Chiapas rose in insurrection under the American Joan of Arc, an Indian girl about twenty years of age, whose Spanish name was Maria Candelaria. She was evidently a leader of the Nagualists, and after the failure of the attempt at revolution disappeared in the forest and was no more heard of (413. 35). Dr. Brinton calls attention to the fact that Mr. E. G. Squier reports having heard, during his travels in Central America, of a "_sukia_ woman, as she was called by the coast Indians, one who lived alone amid the ruins of an old Maya temple, a sorceress of twenty years, loved and feared, holding death and life in her hands" (413. 36). There are many other instances of a like nature showing the important position assigned to girls and young women in the esoteric rites, secret societies, magic, sorcery, and witch- craft of primitive peoples. "_Boy-Bishop_." A curious custom attached itself to the day of St. Nicholas, of Patara in Lycia (died 343 A.D.), the patron saint of boys, after whom the American boys' magazine _St. Nicholas_ is aptly named. Brewer, in his _Dictionary of Phrase and Fable_, has the following paragraph concerning the "Boy-Bishop," as he is termed: "The custom of choosing a boy from the cathedral choir, etc., on St. Nicholas day (6th December), as a mock bishop is very ancient. The boy possessed episcopal honour for three weeks, and the rest of the choir were his prebends. If he died during the time of his prelacy, he was buried _in pontificalibus_. Probably the reference is to Jesus Christ sitting in the Temple among the doctors while he was a boy. The custom was abolished in the reign of Henry Eighth" (p. 110). Brand gives many details of the election and conduct of the "Boy-Bishops," and the custom seems to have been in vogue in almost every parish and collegiate church (408. I. 415-431). Bishop Hall thus expresses himself on the subject: "What merry work it was here in the days of our holy fathers (and I know not whether, in some places it may not be so still), that upon St. Nicholas, St. Katherine, St. Clement, and Holy Innocents' Day, children were wont to be arrayed in chimers, rochets, surplices, to counterfeit bishops and priests, and to be led with songs and dances from house to house, blessing the people, who stood grinning in the way to expect that ridiculous benediction. Yea, that boys in that holy sport were wont to sing masses, and to climb into the pulpit to preach (no doubt learnedly and edifyingly) to the simple auditory. And this was so really done, that in the cathedral church of Salisbury (unless it be lately defaced) there is a perfect monument of one of these Boy-Bishops (who died in the time of his young pontificality), accoutred in his episcopal robes, still to be seen. A fashion that lasted until the later times of King Henry the Eighth, who, in 1541, by his solemn Proclamation, printed by Thomas Bertlet, the king's printer, _cum privilegio_, straitly forbad the practice." When King Edward First was on his way to Scotland, in 1299, we are told, "he permitted one of these Boy-Bishops to say vespers before him in his Chapel at Heton, near Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and made a considerable present to the said bishop, and certain other boys that came and sang with him on the occasion, on the 7th of December, the day after St. Nicholas's Day" (408. I. 422). The records of the churches contain many particulars of the election, duties, and regalia of these boy-bishops, whence it would appear that expense and ceremony were not spared on these occasions. Another boy-bishop was paid "thirteen shillings and sixpence for singing before King Edward the Third, in his chamber, on the day of the Holy Innocents" (408. I. 428). The Boy-Bishop of Salisbury, whose service set to music is printed in the _Processionale et usum insignis et preclare Ecclesie Sarum,_ 1566, is actually said "to have had the power of disposing of such prebends there as happened to fall vacant during the days of his episcopacy" (408. I. 424). With the return of Catholicism under Mary, as Brand remarks, the Boy-Bishop was revived, for we find an edict of the Bishop of London, issued Nov. 13, 1554, to all the clergy of his diocese, to the effect that "they should have a Boy-Bishop in procession," and Warton notes that "one of the child-bishop's songs, as it was sung before the Queen's Majesty, in her privy chamber; at her manor of St. James in the Field's on St. Nicholas's Day, and Innocents' Day, 1555, by the child-bishop of St. Paul's, with his company, was printed that year in London, containing a fulsome panegyric on the queen's devotions, comparing her to Judith, Esther, the Queen of Sheba, and the Virgin Mary" (408. I. 429-430). The places at which the ceremonies of the Boy-Bishop have been particularly noted are: Canterbury, Eton, St. Paul's, London, Colchester, Winchester, Salisbury, Westminster, Lambeth, York, Beverly, Rotherham, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, etc. The Boy-Bishop was known also in Spain and in France; in the latter country he was called Pape-Colas. In Germany, at the Council of Salzburg, in 1274, on account of the scandals they gave rise to, the _ludi noxii quos vulgaris eloquentia_ Episcopatus Puerorum _appellat,_ were placed under the ban (408. I. 426). It would appear from the mention of "children strangely decked and apparelled to counterfeit priests, bishops, and women," that on these occasions "divine service was not only performed by boys, but by little girls," and "there is an injunction given to the Benedictine Nunnery of Godstowe in Oxfordshire, by Archbishop Peckham, in the year 1278, that on Innocents' Day the public prayers should not any more be said in the church of that monastery _per parvulas, i.e._ little girls" (408. I. 428). Though with the Protestantism of Elizabeth the Boy-Bishop and his revels were put down by the authorities, they continued to survive, in some places at least, the end of her reign. Puttenham, in his _Art of Poesie_ (1589), observes: "On St. Nicholas's night, commonly, the scholars of the country make them a bishop, who, like a foolish boy, goeth about blessing and preaching with such childish terms as make the people laugh at his foolish counterfeit speeches" (408. 427). Brand recognizes in the _iter ad montem_ of the scholars at Eton the remnants of the ceremonies of the Boy-Bishop and his associates (408. 432); and indeed a passage which he cites from the _Status Scholæ Etonensis_ (1560) shows that "in the Papal times the Eton scholars (to avoid interfering, as it should seem, with the boy-bishop of the college there on St. Nicholas's Day) elected _their_ boy-bishop on St. Hugh's Day, in the month of November." In the statutes (1518) of St. Paul's School, we meet with the following: "All these children shall every Childermas Day come to Pauli's Church, and hear the Child-bishop sermon; and after he be at the high mass, and each of them offer a 1_d_. to the Child-bishop, and with them the masters and surveyors of the school." Brand quotes Strype, the author of the _Ecclesiastical Memorials_, as observing: "I shall only remark, that there might be this at least said in favour of this old custom, that it gave a spirit to the children; and the hopes that they might one time or other attain to the real mitre made them mind their books." In his poem, _The Boy and the Angel_, Robert Browning tells how Theocrite, the boy-craftsman, sweetly praised God amid his weary toil. On Easter Day he wished he might praise God as Pope, and the angel Gabriel took the boy's place in the workshop, while the latter became Pope in Rome. But the new. Pope sickened of the change, and God himself missed the welcome praise of the happy boy. So back went the Pope to the workshop and boyhood, and praise rose up to God as of old. Somewhat different from the poet's story is the tale of the lama of Tibet, a real boy-pope. The Grand Lama, or Pope, is looked upon as an incarnation of Buddha and as immortal, never suffering death, but merely transmigration (100. 499). Among various peoples, the child has occupied all sacerdotal positions from acolyte to pope--priest he has been, not in barbarism alone, but in the midst of culture and civilization, where often the jest begun has ended in sober earnest. In the ecclesiastical, as well as in the secular, kingdom, the child has often come to his throne when "young in years, but in sage counsel old." CHAPTER XXIV. THE CHILD AS HERO, ADVENTURER, ETC. O wonderful son, that can so astonish a mother!--_Shakespeare._ Who can foretell for what high cause This Darling of the Gods was born?--_Marvell._ The haughty eye shall seek in vain What innocence beholds; No cunning finds the keys of heaven, No strength its gate unfolds. Alone to guilelessness and love That gate shall open fall; The mind of pride is nothingness, The childlike heart is all.--_Whittier._ Carlyle has said: "The History of the World is the Biography of Great Men." He might have added, that in primitive times much of the History of the World is the Biography of Great Children. Andrew Lang, in his edition of _Perrault's Tales,_ speaking of _Le Petit Poucet_ (Hop o' My Thumb), says: "While these main incidents of Hop o' My Thumb are so widely current, the general idea of a small and tricksy being is found frequently, from the Hermes of the Homeric Hymn to the Namaqua Heitsi Eibib, the other _Poucet_, or Tom Thumb, and the Zulu Uhlakanyana. Extraordinary precocity, even from the day of birth, distinguishes these beings (as Indra and Hermes) in _myth._ In _Marchen_, it is rather their smallness and astuteness than their youth that commands admiration, though they are often very precocious. The general sense of the humour of 'infant prodigies' is perhaps the origin of these romances" (p. ex.). This world-homage to childhood finds apt expression in the verses of Mrs. Darmesteter:-- "Laying at the children's feet Each his kingly crown, Each, the conquering power to greet, Laying humbly down. Sword and sceptre as is meet." All over the globe we find wonder-tales of childhood, stories of the great deeds of children, whose venturesomeness has saved whole communities from destruction, whose heroism has rid the world of giants and monsters of every sort, whose daring travels and excursions into lands or skies unknown have resulted in the great increase of human knowledge and the advancement of culture and civilization. In almost all departments of life the child-hero has left his mark, and there is much to tell of his wonderful achievements. _Finnish Child-Heroes_. In Finnish story we meet with _Pikku mies_, the dwarf-god, and in Altaic legend the child _Kan Püdai_, who was fed upon two hundred hares, who tames wild animals, makes himself a bow and bow-string, and becomes a mighty hero. In Esthonian folk-lore we have the tale of the seven-year-old wise girl, the persecution to which she was subjected at the hands of her stepmother, and the great deeds she accomplished (422. II. 144, 147, 154). But, outside of the wonderful infancy of Wäinämöinen, the culture-hero of the Finns, whom the _Kalevala_ has immortalized, we find some striking tributes to the child-spirit. In the closing canto of this great epic, which, according to Andrew Lang, tells, in savage fashion, the story of the introduction of Christianity, we learn how the maiden Marjatta, "as pure as the dew is, as holy as stars are that live without stain," was feeding her flocks and listening to the singing of the golden cuckoo, when a berry fell into her bosom, and she conceived and bore a son, whereupon the people despised and rejected her. Moreover, no one would baptize the infant: "The god of the wilderness refused, and Wäinämöinen would have had the young child slain. Then the infant rebuked the ancient demi-god, who fled in anger to the sea." As Wäinämöinen was borne away in his magic barque by the tide, he lifted up his voice and sang how when men should have need of him they would look for his return, "bringing back sunlight and moonshine, and the joy that is vanished from the world." Thus did the rebuke of the babe close the reign of the demi-gods of old (484. 171-177). _Italian_. On the other hand, it is owing to a child, says a sweet Italian legend, that "the gates of heaven are forever ajar." A little girl-angel, up in heaven, sat grief-stricken beside the gate, and begged the celestial warder to set the gates ajar:-- "I can hear my mother weeping; She is lonely; she cannot see A glimmer of light in the darkness, Where the gates shut after me. Oh! turn the key, sweet angel, The splendour will shine so far!" But the angel at the gate dared not, and the childish appeal seemed vain until the mother of Jesus touched his hand, when, lo! "in the little child-angel's fingers stood the beautiful gates ajar." And they have been so ever since, for Mary gave to Christ the keys, which he has kept safe hidden in his bosom, that every sorrowing mother may catch a glimpse of the glory afar (379. 28-30). _Persian Deed-Maiden_. _I fatti sono maschi, le parole femmine_,--deeds are masculine, words feminine,--says the Italian proverb. The same thought is found in several of our own writers. George Herbert said bluntly: "Words are women, deeds are men"; Dr. Madden: "Words are men's daughters, but God's sons are things"; Dr. Johnson, in the preface to his great dictionary, embodies the saying of the Hindus: "Words are the daughters of earth, things are the sons of heaven." In compensation for so ungracious a distinction, perhaps, the religion of Zoroaster, the ancient faith of Persia, teaches that, on the other side of death, the soul is received by its good deeds in the form of a beautiful maiden who conducts it through the three heavens to Ahura (the deity of good), and it is refreshed with celestial food (470. II. 421). That children should be brought into close relationship with the stars and other celestial bodies is to be expected from the _milieu_ of folk-life, and the feeling of kinship with all the phenomena of nature. _Moon-Children_. In his exhaustive essay on _Moon Lore_, Rev. Mr. Harley tells us that in the Scandinavian mythology, Mâni, the moon, "once took up two children from the earth, Bill and Hiuki, as they were going from the well of Byrgir, bearing on their shoulders the bucket Soeg, and the pole Simul," and placed them in the moon, "where they could be seen from the earth." The modern Swedish folk-lore represents the spots on the moon as two children carrying water in a bucket, and it is this version of the old legend which Miss Humphrey has translated (468. 24-26). Mr. Harley cites, with approval, Rev. S. Baring-Gould's identification of Hiuki and Bill, the two moon-children, with the Jack and Jill of the familiar nursery rhyme:-- "Jack and Jill went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after." According to Mr. Duncan, the well-known missionary to certain of the native tribes of British Columbia, these Indians of the far west have a version of this legend: "One night a child of the chief class awoke and cried for water. Its cries were very affecting--'Mother, give me to drink!' but the mother heeded not. The moon was affected and came down, entered the house, and approached the child, saying, 'Here is water from heaven: drink.' The child anxiously laid hold of the pot and drank the draught, and was enticed to go away with the moon, its benefactor. They took an underground passage till they got quite clear of the village, and then ascended to heaven" (468. 35, 36). The story goes on to say that "the figure we now see in the moon is that very child; and also the little round basket which it had in its hand when it went to sleep appears there." The Rev. George Turner reports a Polynesian myth from the Samoan Islands, in which the moon is represented as coming down one evening and picking up a woman, and her child, who was beating out bark in order to make some of the native cloth. There was a famine in the land; and "the moon was just rising, and it reminded her of a great bread-fruit. Looking up to it, she said, 'Why cannot you come down and let my child have a bit of you?' The moon was indignant at the idea of being eaten, came down forthwith, and took her up, child, board, mallet, and all." To this day the Samoans, looking at the moon, exclaim: "Yonder is Sina and her child, and her mallet and board." Related myths are found in the Tonga Islands and the Hervey Archipelago (468. 59). The Eskimo of Greenland believed that the sun and the moon were originally human beings, brother and sister. The story is that "they were playing with others at children's games in the dark, when _Malina_, being teased in a shameful manner by her brother _Anninga_, smeared her hands with the soot of the lamp, and rubbed them over the face and hands of her persecutor, that she might recognize him by daylight. Hence arise the spots in the moon. _Malina_ rushed to save herself by flight, but her brother followed at her heels. At length she flew upwards, and became the sun. _Anninga_, followed her, and became the moon; but being unable to mount so high he runs continually round the sun in hopes of some time surprising her" (468. 34). There are many variants of this legend in North and in Central America. In her little poem _The Children in the Moon_, Miss Humphrey has versified an old folk-belief that the "tiny cloudlets flying across the moon's shield of silver" are a little lad and lass with a pole across their shoulders, at the end of which is swinging a water-bucket. These children, it is said, used to wander by moonlight to a well in the northward on summer nights to get a pail of water, until the moon snatched them up and "set them forever in the middle of his light," so that-- "Children, ay, and children's children, Should behold my babes on high; And my babes should smile forever, Calling others to the sky!" Thus it is that-- "Never is the bucket empty, Never are the children old, Ever when the moon is shining We the children may behold" (224. 23-25). In Whittier's _Child Life_, this poem is given as "from the Scandinavian," with the following additional stanzas:-- "Ever young and ever little, Ever sweet and ever fair! When thou art a man, my darling, Still the children will be there. "Ever young and ever little, They will smile when thou art old; When thy locks are thin and silver, Theirs will still be shining gold. "They will haunt thee from their heaven, Softly beckoning down the gloom; Smiling in eternal sweetness On thy cradle, on thy tomb" (379. 115-117). The Andaman Islanders say that the sun is the wife of the moon, and the stars are their children--boys and girls--who go to sleep during the day, and are therefore not seen of men (498. 92). The sun is termed chä'n'a bo'do, "Mother Sun"; the moon, _mai'a 'o-gar_, "Mr. Moon" (498. 59). In many other mythologies the stars, either as a whole, or in part, figure as children. In the figurative language of ancient records the patriarchs are promised descendants as numerous as the stars of heaven, and in the Tshi language of Western Africa, the stars are termed _woh-rabbah_, from _woh_, "to breed, multiply, be fruitful," and _abbah_, "children." The South Australian natives thought the stars were groups of children, and even in the classic legends of Greece and Rome more than one child left earth to shine in heaven as a star. In the belief of the natives of the Hervey Islands, in the South Pacific, the double star µ¹ and µ² _Scorpii_ is a brother and sister, twins, who, fleeing from a scolding mother, leapt up into the sky. The bright stars [Greek: _m_] and [Greek: _l_] _Scorpii_ are their angry parents who follow in pursuit, but never succeed in overtaking their runaway children, who, clinging close together,--for they were very fond of each other,--flee on and on through the blue sky. The girl, who is the elder, is called _Inseparable_, and Mr. Gill tells us that a native preacher, alluding to this favourite story, declared, with a happy turn of speech, that "Christ and the Christian should be like these twin stars, ever linked together, come life, come death." He could scarcely have chosen a more appropriate figure. The older faith that was dying lent the moral of its story to point the eloquence of the new (458. 40-43). _Hindu Child-Heroes_. In the Rig-Veda we have the story of the three brothers, the youngest of whom, Tritas, is quite a child, but accomplishes wonderful things and evinces more than human knowledge; also the tale of Vikramâdityas, the wise child (422. II. 136). In the interesting collection of Bengalese folk-tales by Rev. Lal Behari Day we find much that touches upon childhood: The story of the "Boy whom Seven Mothers Suckled," and his wonderful deeds in the country of the Rakshasis (cannibals)--how he obtained the bird with whose life was bound up that of the wicked queen, and so brought about her death; the tale of the "Boy with the Moon on his Forehead"--how he rescued the beautiful Lady Pushpavati from the power of the Rakshasis over-sea! We have also the wonder-tales of Buddha. In a tale of the Panjâb, noted by Temple (542. II. xvi.), "a couple of gods, as children, eat up at a sitting a meal meant for 250,000 people"; and in a Little Russian story "a mother had a baby of extraordinary habits. When alone, he jumped out of the cradle, no longer a baby, but a bearded old man, gobbled up the food out of the store, and then lay down again a screeching babe." He was finally exorcised (258. 119). A huge appetite is a frequent characteristic of changelings in fairy-stories (258.108). _Japanese Child-Heroes_. The hero of Japanese boys is Kintaro, the "Wild Baby," the "Golden Darling." Companionless he played with the animals, put his arm around their necks, and rode upon their backs. Of him we are told: "He was prince of the forest; the rabbits, wild boars, squirrels and pheasants and hawks, were his servants and messengers." He is the apotheosis of the child in Japan, "the land of the holy gods," as its natives proudly termed it (245.121). Another boy-hero is Urashima, who visited Elysium in a fishing-boat. A third phenomenal child of Japanese story is "Peach Darling," who, while yet a baby, lifted the wash-tub and balanced the kettle on his head (245. 62). We must remember, however, that the Japanese call their beautiful country "the land of the holy gods," and the whole nation makes claim to a divine ancestry. Visits to the other world, the elfin-land, etc., are found all over the world. _German._ In Germany and Austria we have the stories of (258. 140-160): The girl who stole the serpent-king's crown; the Pomeranian farmer's boy who, after quenching his thirst with the brown beer of the fairies, tried to run off with the can of pure silver in which it was contained (in a Cornish legend, however, the farmer's boy pockets one of the rich silver goblets which stood on the tables in the palace of the king of the piskies, or fairies, and proves the truth of the story he has afterwards to tell by producing the goblet, "which remained in the boy's family for generations, though unfortunately it is no longer forthcoming for the satisfaction of those who may still be sceptical." A like origin has been suggested for the celebrated "Luck of Edenhall," and the "Horn of Oldenburg," and other like relics); the Carinthian girl, who, climbing a mountain during the noon-hour, entered through a door in the rock, and remained away a whole year, though it seemed but a little while; the baker's boy who visited the lost Emperor in the mountain--the Barbarossa-Otto legend; the baker's daughter of Ruffach, who made her father rich by selling bread to the soldiers in a great subterranean camp; the girl of Silesia, who is admitted into a cavern, where abides a buried army; and many more of a similar nature, to be read in Grimm and the other chroniclers of fairy-land (258. 216. 217). Among the Danish legends of kindred type we find the tales of: The boy who ran off with the horn out of which an elf-maiden offered him a drink, and would not return it until she had promised to bestow upon him the strength of twelve men, with which, unluckily, went also the appetite of twelve men (258. 144). _Celtic_. Among the Welsh tales of the child as hero and adventurer are: The visit of Elidorus (afterwards a priest), when twelve years old, to the underground country, where he stole a golden ball, which, however, the pigmies soon recovered; the youths who were drawn into the fairies' ring and kept dancing for a year and a day until reduced to a mere skeleton; the little farmer's son, who was away among the fairies for two years, though he thought he had been absent but a day; corresponding is the Breton tale of the girl who acts as godmother to a fairy child, and remains away for ten long years, though for only two days in her own mind (258. 135, 136, 168, 170). Very interesting is the Breton legend of the youth who undertook to take a letter to God,--_Monsieur le Bon Dieu_,--in Paradise. When he reaches Paradise, he gives the letter to St. Peter, who proceeds to deliver it. While he is away, the youth, noticing the spectacles on the table, tries them on, and is astonished at the wonders he sees, and still more at the information given him by St. Peter on his return, that he has been gazing through them five hundred years. Another hundred years he passes in looking at the seat kept for him in Paradise, and then receives the answer to the letter, which he is to take to the parish priest. After distributing in alms the hundred crowns he is paid for his services, he dies and goes to Paradise to occupy the seat he has seen. As Mr. Hartland remarks, "the variants of this traditional Pilgrim's Progress are known from Brittany to Transylvania, and from Iceland to Sicily" (258. 192). _Basque_. A remarkable child-hero tale is the Basque legend of the orphans, Izar (seven years old) and Lañoa (nine years old), and their adventures with Satan and the witches,--how Izar cured the Princess and killed the great toad which was the cause of her complaint, and how Lañoa defied Satan to his face, meeting death by his action, but gaining heaven (505. 19-41). _American Indian Child-Heroes_. In a legend of the Tlingit Indians concerning the visit of Ky'itlac', a man who had killed himself, to the upper country ruled by Tahit, whither go such as die a violent death, we read that-- "When he looked down upon the earth, he saw the tops of the trees looking like so many pins. But he wished to return to the earth. He pulled his blanket over his head and flung himself down. He arrived at the earth unhurt, and found himself at the foot of some trees. Soon he discovered a small house, the door of which was covered with mats. He peeped into it, and heard a child crying that had just been born. He himself was that child, and when he came to be grown up he told the people of Tahit. They had heard about him before, but only then they learnt everything about the upper world" (403. 48, 49). In a legend of the Kwakiutl Indians of Vancouver Island, a chief killed by a rival goes to the other world, but returns to earth in his grandson: "It was Ank-oa'lagyilis who was thus born again. The boy, when a few years old, cried and wanted to have a small boat made, and, when he had got it, asked for a bow and arrows. His father scolded him for having so many wishes. Then the boy said, 'I was at one time your father, and have returned from heaven.' His father did not believe him, but then the boy said, 'You know that Ank-oa'lagyilis had gone to bury his property, and nobody knows where it is. I will show it to you.' He took his father right to the place where it lay hidden, and bade him distribute it. There were two canoe-loads of blankets. Now the people knew that Ank'oa'lagyilis had returned. He said, 'I was with _ata_ [the deity], but he sent me back.' They asked him to tell about heaven, but he refused to do so." The boy afterwards became a chief, and it is said he refused to take revenge upon his murderer (404. 59). In the mythology of the Siouan tribes we meet with the "Young Rabbit," born of a piece of the clotted blood of the Buffalo killed by Grizzly Bear, which the Rabbit had stolen. According to legend the Rabbit "addressed the blood, calling it his son, and ordering it to become a little child, and when he had ordered it to advance from infancy, through boyhood to youth, and from youth to manhood, his commands were obeyed." The "Young Rabbit" kills the Grizzly and delivers his own father (480 (1892). 293-304). The legend of the "Blood-clot Boy" is also recorded from the narration of the Blackfeet Indians by Bev. John MacLean and Mr. Grinnell. The tale of his origin is as follows: "There lived, a long time ago, an old man and his wife, who had three daughters and one son-in-law. One day, as the mother was cooking some meat, she threw a clot of blood into the pot containing the meat. The pot began to boil, and then there issued from it a peculiar hissing noise. The old woman looked into the pot, and was surprised to see that the blood-clot had become transformed into a little boy. Quickly he grew, and, in a few moments, he sprang from the pot, a full-grown young man." Kûtoyîs, as the youth was named, became an expert hunter, and kept the family in food. He also killed his lazy and quarrelsome brother-in-law, and brought peace to the family. Of Kûtoyïs it is said he "sought to drive out all the evil in the world, and to unite the people and make them happy" (480(1893).167). Concerning the Micmac Indians of Nova Scotia, Mr. Band informs us (521.xlii.):-- "Children exposed or lost by their parents are miraculously preserved. They grow up suddenly to manhood, and are endowed with superhuman powers; they become the avengers of the guilty and the protectors of the good. They drive up the moose and the caribou to their camps, and slaughter them at their leisure. The elements are under their control; they can raise the wind, conjure up storms or disperse them, make it hot or cold, wet or dry, as they please. They can multiply the smallest amount of food indefinitely, evade the subtlety and rage of their enemies, kill them miraculously, and raise their slaughtered friends to life." A characteristic legend of this nature is the story of Noojekêsîgünodâsît and the "magic dancing-doll." Noojekêsîgûnodâsît,--"the sock wringer and dryer," so-called because, being the youngest of the seven sons of an Indian couple, he had to wring and dry the moccasin-rags of his elders,--was so persecuted by the eldest of his brothers, that he determined to run away, and "requests his mother to make him a small bow and arrow and thirty pairs of moccasins." He starts out and "shoots the arrow ahead, and runs after it. In a short time he is able to outrun the arrow and reach the spot where it is to fall before it strikes the ground. He then takes it up and shoots again, and flies on swifter than the arrow. Thus he travels straight ahead, and by night he has gone a long distance from home." His brother starts in pursuit, but, after a hundred days, returns home discouraged. Meanwhile, the boy travels on and meets a very old man, who tells him that the place from whence he came is a long way off, for "I was a small boy when I started, and since that day I have never halted, and you see that now I am very old." The boy says, however, that he will try to reach the place, and, after receiving from the old man a little box in return for a pair of moccasins,--for those of the traveller were quite worn out,--he goes his way. By and by the boy's curiosity leads him to open the box, and "As soon as he has removed the cover, he starts with an exclamation of surprise, for he sees a small image, in the form of a man, dancing away with all his might, and reeking with perspiration from the long-continued exertion. As soon as the light is let in upon him, he stops dancing, looks up suddenly, and exclaims, 'Well, what is it? What is wanted?' The truth now flashes over the boy. This is a supernatural agent, a _manitoo_, a god, from the spirit world, which can do anything that he is requested to do." The boy wished "to be transported to the place from whence the old man came," and, closing the box, "suddenly his head swims, the darkness comes over him, and he faints. When he recovers he finds himself near a large Indian village." By the aid of his doll--_weedapcheejul_, "little comrade," he calls it--he works wonders, and obtains one of the daughters of the chief as his wife, and ultimately slays his father-in-law, who is a great "medicine-man." This story, Mr. Rand says he "wrote down from the mouth of a Micmac Indian in his own language"; it will bear comparison with some European folk-tales (521. 7-13). Another story of boy wonder-working, with some European trappings, however, is that of "The Boy who was transformed into a Horse." Of this wonderful infant it is related that "at the age of eighteen months the child was able to talk, and immediately made inquiries about his elder brother [whom his father had 'sold to the devil']." The child then declares his intention of finding his lost brother, and, aided by an "angel,"--this tale is strangely hybrid,--discovers him in the form of a horse, restores him to his natural shape, and brings him safely home; but changes the wicked father into a horse, upon whose back an evil spirit leaps and runs off with him (521. 31). Other tales of boy adventure in Dr. Rand's collection are: "The History of Kïtpooseâgûnow" [i.e. "taken from the side of his mother," as a calf of a moose or a caribou is after the mother has fallen] (521. 62-80); "The Infant Magician"; "The Invisible Boy," who could change himself into a moose, and also become invisible (521. 101-109); "The Badger and his Little Brother" (521. 263-269), in which the latter helps the former decoy the water-fowl to destruction, but, repenting at the wanton slaughter, gives the alarm, and many birds escape; "The Little Boy who caught a Whale" (521. 280-281). The story of "The Small Baby and the Big Bird" contains many naïve touches of Indian life. The hero of the tale is a foundling, discovered in the forest by an old woman, "so small that she easily hides it in her mitten." Having no milk for the babe, which she undertakes to care for, the woman "makes a sort of gruel from the scrapings of the inside of raw-hide, and thus supports and nourishes it, so that it thrives and does well." By and by he becomes a mighty hunter, and finally kills the old culloo (giant bird) chief, tames the young culloo, and discovers his parents (521. 81-93). In the mythologic tales of the Iroquois, the child appears frequently as a hero and an adventurer. Mrs. Erminnie A. Smith, in treating of _The Myths of the Iroquois_ (534), relates the stories of the infant nursed by bears; the boy whom his grandmother told never to go west, but who at last started off in that direction, and finally killed the great frog (into which form the man who had been tormenting them turned himself); the boy who, after interfering with his uncle's magic wand and kettle, and thereby depriving the people of corn, set out and managed to return home with plenty of corn, which he had pilfered from the witches who guarded it,--all interesting child exploits. Among the myths of the Cherokees,--a people related in speech to the Iroquois,--as reported by Mr. James Mooney, we find a story somewhat similar to the last mentioned,--"Kânátî and Sélu: the Origin of Corn and Game" (506. 98-105), the heroes of which are _Inage Utasuhi,_ "He who grew up Wild," a wonderful child, born of the blood of the game washed in the river; and the little son of Kanati ("the lucky hunter") and Selu ("Corn," his wife), his playmate, who captures him. The "Wild Boy" is endowed with magic powers, and leads his "brother" into all sorts of mischief. They set out to discover where the father gets all the game he brings home, and, finding that he lifted a rock on the side of a mountain, allowing the animal he wished to come forth, they imitated him some days afterwards, and the result was that the deer escaped from the cave, and "then followed droves of raccoons, rabbits, and all the other four-footed animals. Last came great flocks of turkeys, pigeons, and partridges." From their childish glee and tricksiness the animals appear to have suffered somewhat, for we are told (506. 100): "In those days all the deer had their tails hanging down like other animals, but, as a buck was running past, the 'wild boy' struck its tail with his arrow, so that it stood straight out behind. This pleased the boys, and when the next one ran by, the other brother struck his tail so that it pointed upward. The boys thought this was good sport, and when the next one ran past, the 'wild boy' struck his tail so that it stood straight up, and his brother struck the next one so hard with his arrow that the deer's tail was curled over his back. The boys thought this was very pretty, and ever since the deer has carried his tail over his back." When Kanati discovered what had occurred (506. 100), was furious, but, without saying a word, he went down into the cave and kicked the covers off four jars in one corner, when out swarmed bedbugs, fleas, lice, and gnats, and got all over the boys. "After they had been tortured enough, Kanati sent them home, telling them that, through their folly," whenever they wanted a deer to eat they would have to hunt all over the woods for it, and then may be not find one. "When the boys got home, discovering that Selu was a witch, they killed her and dragged her body about a large piece of ground in front of the house, and wherever the blood fell Indian corn sprang up. Kanati then tried to get the wolves to kill the two boys, but they trapped them in a huge pound, and burned almost all of them to death. Their father not returning from his visit to the wolves, the boys set out in search of him, and, after some days, found him. After killing a fierce panther in a swamp, and exterminating a tribe of cannibals, who sought to boil the "wild boy" in a pot, they kept on and soon lost sight of their father." At "the end of the world, where the sun comes out," they waited "until the sky went up again" [in Cherokee cosmogony "the earth is a flat surface, and the sky is an arch of solid rock suspended above it. This arch rises and falls continually, so that the space at the point of juncture is constantly opening and closing, like a pair of scissors"], and then "they went through and climbed up on the other side." Here they met Kanati and Selu, but, after staying with them seven days, had to "go toward the sunset land, where they are still living." Dr. G. M. Dawson records, from the Shushwap Indians of British Columbia, the story of an old woman,--husbandless, childless, companionless,--who, "for the sake of companionship, procured some pitch and shaped from it the figure of a girl, which became her daughter," whom many adventures befell (425. 33). There is a very interesting Tahitian myth telling of the descent of little Tavai to the invisible world. Tavai was his mother's pet, and one day, for some slight fault, was beaten by the relatives of his father. This made Ouri, his mother, so angry, that Oema, her husband, out of shame, went down to Hawaii, the under-world, whither Tavai, accompanied by his elder brother, journeyed, and, after many adventures, succeeded in bringing to their mother the bones of Oema, who had long been dead when they found him (458. 250). Legion in number and world-wide in their affiliations are the stories of the visits of children and youths, boys and girls, to heaven, to the nether-world, to the country of the fairies, and to other strange and far-off lands, inhabited by elves, dwarfs, pigmies, giants, "black spirits and white." Countless are the variants of the familiar tale of "Jack and the Bean Stalk," "Jack, the Giant-Killer," and many another favourite of the nursery and the schoolroom. Tylor, Lang, Clouston, and Hartland have collated and interpreted many of these, and the books of fairy-tales and kindred lore are now numbered by the hundred, as may be seen from the list given by Mr. Hartland in the appendix to his work on fairy-tales. Grimm, Andersen, and the _Arabian Nights_ have become household names. For children to speak before they are born is a phenomenon of frequent occurrence in the lives of saints and the myths of savage peoples, especially when the child about to come into the world is an incarnation of some deity. Of Gluskap, the Micmac culture-hero, and Malumsis, the Wolf, his bad brother, we read (488. 15,16):-- "Before they were born, the babes consulted to consider how they had best enter the world. And Glooskap said: 'I will be born as others are.' But the evil Malumsis thought himself too great to be brought forth in such a manner, and declared that he would burst through his mother's side. And, as they planned it, so it came to pass. Glooskap as first came quietly to light, while Malumsis kept his word, killing his mother." Another version of the same story runs: "In the old time, far before men knew themselves in the light before the sun, Glooskap and his brother were as yet unborn. They waited for the day to appear. Then they talked together, and the youngest said: 'Why should I wait? I will go into the world and begin my life at once;' when the elder said: 'Not so, for this were a great evil.' But the younger gave no heed to any wisdom; in his wickedness he broke through his mother's side, he rent the wall; his beginning of life was his mother's death" (488. 106). Very similar is the Iroquois myth of the "Good Mind" and the "Bad Mind," and variants of this American hero-myth may be read in the exhaustive treatise of Dr. Brinton. Very interesting is the Maya story of the twins Hun-Ahpu and Xbalanque, sons of the virgin Xquiq, who, fleeing from her father, escaped to the upper world, where the birth took place. Of these children we are told "they grew in strength, and performed various deeds of prowess, which are related at length in the Popul Vuh [the folk-chronicle of the Quiches of Guatemala], and were at last invited by the lords of the underworld to visit them." The chiefs of the underworld intended to slay the youths, as they had previously slain their father and uncle, but through their oracular and magic power the two brothers pretended to be burned, and, when their ashes were thrown into the river, they rose from its waters and slew the lords of the nether world. At this the inhabitants of Hades fled in terror and the twins "released the prisoners and restored to life those who had been slain. The latter rose to the sky to become the countless stars, while Hunhun-Ahpu and Vukub-Hun-Ahpu [father and uncle of the twins] ascended to dwell, the one in the sun, the other in the moon" (411. 124). Born of a virgin mother were also Quetzalcoatl, the culture-hero of Mexico, and other similar characters whose lives and deeds may be read in Dr. Brinton's _American Hero-Myths_. From the Indians of the Pueblo of Isleta, New Mexico, Dr. A. S. Gatschet has obtained the story of the "Antelope-Boy," who, as the champion of the White Pueblo, defeated the Plawk, the champion of the Yellow Pueblo, in a race around the horizon. The "Antelope-Boy" was a babe who had been left on the prairie by its uncle, and brought up by a female antelope who discovered it. After some trouble, the people succeeded in catching him and restoring him to his mother. Another version of the same tale has it that "the boy-child, left by his uncle and mother upon the prairie, was carried to the antelopes by a coyote, after which a mother-antelope, who had lost her fawn, adopted the tiny stranger as her own. By an ingenious act of the mother-antelope the boy was surrendered again to his real human mother; for when the circle of the hunters grew smaller around the herd, the antelope took the boy to the northeast, where his mother stood in a white robe. At last these two were the only ones left within the circle, and when the antelope broke through the line on the northeast, the boy followed her and fell at the feet of his own human mother, who sprang forward and clasped him in her arms." The Yellow Pueblo people were wizards, and so confident were they of success that they proposed that the losing party, their villages, property, etc., should be burnt. The White Pueblo people agreed, and, having won the victory, proceeded to exterminate the conquered. One of the wizards, however, managed to hide away and escape being burned, and this is why there are wizards living at this very day (239. 213, 217). In the beginning, says the Zuni account of the coming of men upon earth, they dwelt in the lowermost of four subterranean caverns, called the "Four Wombs of the World," and as they began to increase in numbers they became very unhappy, and the children of the wise men among them besought them to deliver them from such a life of misery. Then, it is said, "The 'Holder of the Paths of Life,' the Sun-Father, created from his own being two children, who fell to earth for the good of all beings. The Sun-Father endowed these children with immortal youth, with power even as his own power, and created for them a bow (the Rainbow) and an arrow (the Lightning). For them he made also a shield like unto his own, of magic power, and a knife of flint.... These children cut the face of the world with their magic knife, and were borne down upon their shield into the caverns in which all men dwelt. There, as the leaders of men, they lived with their children, mankind." They afterwards led men into the second cavern, then into the third, and finally into the fourth, whence they made their way, guided by the two children, to the world of earth, which, having been covered with water, was damp and unstable and filled with huge monsters and beasts of prey. The two children continued to lead men "Eastward, toward the Home of the Sun-Father," and by their magic power, acting under the directions of their creator, the Sun-Father, they caused the surface of the earth to harden and petrified the fierce animals who sought to destroy the children of men (which accounts for the fossils of to-day and the animal-like forms of rocks and boulders) (424. 13). Of this people it could have been said most appropriately, "a little child shall lead them." Mr. Lummis' volume of folk-tales of the Pueblos Indians of New Mexico contains many stories of the boy as hero and adventurer. The "Antelope-Boy" who defeats the champion of the witches in a foot-race (302. 12-21); Nah-chu-ru-chu (the "Bluish Light of the Dawn"), the parentless hero, "wise in medicine," who married the moon, lost her, but found her again after great trouble (302. 53-70); the boy who cursed the lake (302. 108-121); the boy and the eagle, etc. (302. 122-126). But the great figures in story at the Pueblo of Queres are the "hero-twins," Maw-Sahv and Oo-yah-wee, sons of the Sun, wonderful and astonishing children, of whom it is said that "as soon as they were a minute old, they were big and strong and began playing" (302. 207). Their mother died when they were born, but was restored to life by the Crow-Mother, and returned home with her two children, whose hero-deeds, "at an age when other boys were toddling about the house," were the cause of infinite wonder. They killed the Giant-Woman and the Giant-Baby, and performed unnumbered other acts of heroism while yet in childhood and youth. To the same cycle seems to belong also the story of "The Magic Hide-and-Seek" (302.87-98). From the Pueblo of Sia, Mrs. Stevenson has recorded the story of the twins Ma'asewe and U'yuuyewe, sons of the Sun-Father by the virgin Ko'chinako; how they visited their father, and the adventures that befell them on their long journey; how they killed the wolf of the lake, the cougar, the bear, the bad eagles, burned the cruel witch, and other great enemies of the people, organized the cult societies, and then "made their home in the Sandia Mountain, where they have since remained." At the entrance to the crater, we are told, "the diminutive footprints of these boys are yet to be seen by the good of heart" (538. 43-57). Among the American Indians it is difficult, if not impossible, to distinguish the child-hero from the divinity whom he so often closely resembles. CHAPTER XXV. THE CHILD AS FETICH, DEITY, GOD. Childhood shall be all divine.--_Proctor_. A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink, Might tempt, should Heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss.--_Swinburne_. Their glance might cast out pain and sin, Their speech make dumb the wise, By mute glad godhead felt within A baby's eyes.--_Swinburne_. _The Child as Fetich._ It is easy to understand how, among barbarous or semi-civilized peoples, children born deformed or with any strange marking or defect should be looked upon as objects of fear or reverence, fetiches in fact. Post informs us regarding certain African tribes (127. I. 285, 286):-- "The Wanika, Wakikuyu, and Wazegua kill deformed children; throttle them in the woods and bury them. The belief is, that the evil spirit of a dead person has got into them, and such a child would be a great criminal. The Somali let misformed children live, but regard them with superstitious fear. In Angola all children born deformed are considered 'fetich.' In Loango dwarfs and albinos are regarded as the property of the king, and are looked upon as sacred and inviolable." Here we see at least some of the reasons which have led up to the eulogy and laudation, as well as to the dread suspicion, of the dwarf and the hunchback, appearing in so many folk-tales. We might find also, perhaps, some dim conception of the occasional simultaneity of genius with physical defects or deformities, a fact of which a certain modern school of criminal sociologists has made so much. Concerning albinos Schultze says (529. 82):-- "In Borneo albinos are objects of fear, as beings gifted with supernatural power; in Senegambia, if they are slaves, they are given their freedom, are exempted from all labour, and are cheerfully supported at others' expense. In Congo the king keeps them in his palace as 'fetiches which give him influence over the Europeans.' They are held in such respect that they may take whatever they will; and he who is deprived of his property by them, esteems himself honoured. In Loango they are esteemed above the Gangas (priests), and their hair is sold at a high price as a holy relic. Thus may a man become a fetich." At Moree, in West Africa, Ellis informs us, "Albinos are sacred to Aynfwa, and, on arriving at puberty, become her priests and priestesses. They are regarded by the people as the mouth-pieces of the goddess." At Coomassie a boy-prisoner was painted white and consecrated as a slave to the tutelary deity of the market (438. 49, 88). Coeval with their revival of primitive language-moulds in their slang, many of our college societies and sporting clubs and associations have revived the beliefs just mentioned in their mascots and luck-bringers--the other side of the shield showing the "Jonahs" and those fetiches of evil import. Even great actors, stock-brokers, and politicians have their mascots. We hear also of mascots of regiments and of ships. A little hunchback, a dwarf, a negro boy, an Italian singing-girl, a child dressed in a certain style or colour, all serve as mascots. Criminals and gamblers, those members of the community most nearly allied in thought and action with barbarous and primitive man, have their mascots, and it is from this source that we derive the word, which Andran, in his opera _La Mascotte_, has lifted to a somewhat higher plane, and now each family may have a mascot, a fetich, to cause them to prosper and succeed in life (390 (1888). 111, 112). One of the derivations suggested for this word, viz. from _masque_ = _coiffe_, in the expression _ne coiffe_, "born with a caul," would make the _mascot_ to have been originally a child born with the caul on its head, a circumstance which, as the French phrase _etre ne coiffe_, "to be born lucky," indicates, betokened happiness and good-fortune for the being thus coming into the world. In German the caul is termed "Glückshaube," "lucky hood," and Ploss gives many illustrations of the widespread belief in the luck that falls to the share of the child born with one. A very curious custom exists in Oldenburg, where a boy, in order to be fortunate in love, carries his caul about with him (326. I. 12-14). Other accidents or incidents of birth have sufficed to make fetiches of children. Twins and triplets are regarded in many parts of the world as smacking of the supernatural and uncanny. The various views of the races of mankind upon this subject are given at length in Ploss (326. II. 267-275), and Post has much to say of the treatment of twins in Africa. In Unyoro twins are looked upon as "luck-bringers, not only for the family, but for the whole village as well. Great feasts are held in their honour, and if they die, the house in which they were born is burned down." Among the Ishogo, from fear that one of the pair may die, twins are practically isolated and _taboo_ until grown up (127. I. 282, 284). To the Ovaherero, according to Ploss, "the birth of twins is the greatest piece of good-fortune that can fall to the lot of mortals," and such an event makes the parents "holy." Among this Kaffir people, moreover: "Every father of twins has the right to act as substitute for the village-chief in the exercise of his priestly functions. If the chief is not present, he can, for example, exorcise a sick person. Even the twin-child himself has all priestly privileges. For a twin boy there is no forbidden flesh, no forbidden milk, and no one would ever venture to curse him. If any one should kill a twin-child, the murderer's whole village would be destroyed. As a twin-boy, he inherits the priestly dignity at the death of the chief, and even when an older brother succeeds the father as possessor of the village, it is, however, named after the younger twin-brother, who is clothed with the priestly dignity" (326. II. 271-274). Among the Songish Indians of Vancouver Island, it is believed that "twins, immediately after their birth, possess supernatural powers. They are at once taken to the woods and washed in a pond in order to become ordinary men." The Shushwap Indians believe that twins retain this supernatural power throughout their lives (404. 22, 92). Of children whose upper teeth break out before the lower, some primitive tribes are in fear and dread, hastening to kill them, as do the Basutos, Wakikuyu, Wanika, Wazegua, and Wasawahili. Among the Wazaramo, another African people, such children "are either put to death, given away, or sold to a slave-holder, for the belief is that through them sickness, misfortune, and death would enter the house." The Arabs of Zanzibar, "after reading from the Koran, administer to such a child an oath that it will do no harm, making it nod assent with its head" (127. I. 287). From what has preceded, we can see how hard it is sometimes to draw the line between the man as fetich and the priest, between the divinity and the medicine-man. _Fetiches of Criminals._ It is a curious fact that St. Nicholas is at once the patron saint of children and of thieves,--the latter even Shakespeare calls "St. Nicholas's clerks." And with robbers and the generality of evil-doers the child, dead or alive, is much of a fetich. Anstey's _Burglar Bill_ is humorously exaggerated, but there is a good deal of superstition about childhood lingering in the mind of the lawbreaker. Strack (361) has discussed at considerable length the child (dead) as fetich among the criminal classes, especially the use made of the blood, the hand, the heart, etc. Among the thieving fraternity in Middle Franconia it is believed that "blood taken up from the genitals of an innocent boy on three pieces of wood, and carried about the person, renders one invisible when stealing" (361. 41). The same power was ascribed to the eating of the hearts (raw) of unborn children cut out of the womb of the mother. Male children only would serve, and from the confession of the band of the robber-chief "King Daniel," who so terrified all Ermeland in the middle of the seventeenth century, it would appear that they had already killed for this purpose no fewer than fourteen women with child (361. 59). As late as 1815, at Heide in Northditmarsch, one Claus Dau was executed for "having killed three children and eaten their hearts with the belief of making himself invisible" (361. 61). This eating of little children's hearts was thought not alone to confer the gift of invisibility, but "when portions of nine hearts had been eaten by any one, he could not be seized, no matter what theft or crime he committed, and, if by chance he should fall into the power of his enemies, he could make himself invisible and thus escape." The eating of three hearts is credited with the same power in an account of a robber of the Lower Rhine, in 1645. In the middle of the last century, there was executed at Bayreuth a man "who had killed eight women with child, cut them open, and eaten the warm, palpitating hearts of the children, in the belief that he would be able to fly, if he ate the hearts of nine such children" (361. 58). Only a few years ago (April, 1888), at Oldenburg, a workman named Bliefernicht was tried for having killed two girls, aged six and seven years. The examination of the remains showed that "one of the bodies not only had the neck completely cut through, but the belly cut open, so that the entrails, lungs, and liver were exposed. A large piece of flesh had been cut out of the buttocks and was nowhere to be found, the man having eaten it. His belief was, that whoever ate of the flesh of innocent girls, could do anything in the world without any one being able to make him answer for it" (361. 62). Strack has much to say of the _main-de-gloire_ and the _chandelle magique._ Widespread among thieves is the belief in the "magic taper." At Meesow, in the Regenwald district of Pomerania, these tapers are made of the entrails of unborn children, can only be extinguished with milk, and, as long as they burn, no one in the house to be robbed is able to wake. It is of the hands, however, of unbaptized or unborn children that these tapers were most frequently made. At Nürnberg, in 1577 and 1701, there were executed two monsters who killed many women in their pursuit for this fetich; at Vechta, in Oldenburg, the finger of an unborn child "serves with thieves to keep asleep the people of the house they have entered, if it is simply laid on the table"; at Konow, the fat of a woman with child is used to make a similar taper. In the Ukrain district of Poland, it is believed that the hand of the corpse of a five-year-old child opens all locks (361. 42). This belief in the _hand-of-glory_ and the _magic candle_ may be due to the fact that such children, being unbaptized and unborn, were presumed to be under the influence of the Evil One himself. Of the wider belief in the _chandelle magique_ and _main-de-gloire_ (as obtained from criminal adults) in Germany, France, Spain, etc., nothing need be said here. At Konow, in the Kammin district of Pomerania, "if a thief takes an unborn child, dries it, puts it in a little wooden box, and carries it on his person, he is rendered invisible to everybody, and can steal at will" (361. 41). The history of the robbers of the Rhine and the Main, of Westphalia, the Mark, and Silesia, with whom the child appears so often as a fetich, evince a bestiality and inhumanity almost beyond the power of belief. _Magic._ But it is not to the criminal classes alone that superstitions of this nature belong. Of the alchemy, magic, black art, sorcery, and "philosophy" of the Dark Ages of Europe, the practice of which lingered in some places well on into the seventeenth century, horrible stories are told, in which children, their bodies, their souls even, appear as fetishes. The baptism of blood is said still to be practised in parts of Russia by parents "to preserve their child from the temptations of the prince of darkness," and in 1874, "a country-school teacher of the Strassburg district, and his wife, upon the advice of a somnambulist, struck their own aunt with the fire-tongs until the blood flowed, with which they sprinkled their child supposed to have been bewitched by her" (361. 73). Here it is the blood of adults that is used, but the practice demands the child's also. According to C. F. A. Hoffmann (1817), there lived in Naples "an old doctor who had children by several women, which he inhumanly killed, with peculiar ceremonies and rites, cutting the breast open, tearing out the heart, and from its blood preparing precious drops which were preservative against all sickness." Well known is the story of Elizabeth Bathori, a Hungarian woman of the early part of the seventeenth century, who, it is said, receiving on her face a drop of blood which spurted from a waiting-girl whose ears she had severely boxed, and noticing afterward, when she wiped it away, that her skin at that spot appeared to be more beautiful, whiter, and finer than before, resolved to bathe her face and her whole body in human blood, in order to increase her charms and her beauty. Before her monstrous actions were discovered, she is thought to have caused the death of some 650 girls with the aid of accomplices (361. 46). _Fetiches of Religion._ The use of human blood in ritual has been treated of in detail by Strack, and in his pages many references to children will be found. He also discusses in detail the charge of the Anti-Semitics that the Jews kill little children of their Christian neighbours for the purpose of using their blood and certain parts of their bodies in religious rites and ceremonies, showing alike the antiquity of this libel as well as its baselessness. Against the early Christians like charges appear to have been made by the heathen, and later on by the Saracens; and indeed, this charge is one which is generally levelled at new-comers or innovators in the early history of Christian religion and civilization. Strack points out also that, during the contest of the Dominicans and Franciscans in Bern, in 1507 A.D., it was charged that the former used the blood of Jewish children, the eyebrows and hair of children, etc., in their secret rites (361. 68, 69). Brewer, who gives little credit to the stories, cites the account of numerous crucifixions of children alleged to have been carried out by Jews in various parts of Europe, for the purpose of using their flesh and blood in their rituals, or merely out of hatred to the Christian religion. The principal cases are: Andrew of Innspruck; Albert of Swirnazen in Podolia, aged four (1598); St. Hugh of Lincoln, aged eleven (1255); St. Janot of Cologne (1475); St. Michael of Sappendelf in Bavaria, aged four and one-half (1340); St. Richard of Pontoise, aged twelve (1182); St. Simon of Trent, aged twenty-nine months and three days (1475); St. William of Norwich, aged twelve (1137); St. Wernier (Garnier), aged thirteen (1227). The _Acta Sanctorum_ of the Bollandists give a long list of nameless children, who are claimed to have suffered a like fate in Spain, France, Hungary, Austria, Germany, Italy, etc. The later charges, such as those made in the celebrated case of the girl Esther Solymasi, whose death was alleged to have been brought about by the Jews of Tisza-Eszlar in Hungary, in 1882, are investigated by Strack, and shown to be utterly without foundation of fact, merely the product of frenzied Anti-Semitism (191. 171-175). The use of blood and the sacrifice of little children, as well as other fetichistic practices, have been charged against some of the secret religious sects of modern Russia. _Dead Children._ In Annam the natives "surround the beds of their children suffering from small-pox with nets, and never leave them alone, fearing lest a demon, in the form of a strange child, should sneak in and take possession of them" (397. 169, 242). This belief is akin with the widespread superstitions with respect to changelings and other metamorphoses of childhood, to the discussion of which Ploss and Hartland have devoted much space and attention, the latter, indeed, setting apart some forty pages of his book on fairy-tales to the subject. In Devonshire, England, it was formerly believed lucky to put a stillborn child into an open grave, "as it was considered a sure passport to heaven for the next person buried there." In the Border country, on the other hand, it is unlucky to tread on the graves of unbaptized children, and "he who steps on the grave of a stillborn or unbaptized child, or of one who has been overlaid by its nurse, subjects himself to the fatal disease of the grave-merels, or grave-scab." In connection with this belief, Henderson cites the following popular verses, of considerable antiquity:-- "Woe to the babie that ne'er saw the sun, All alane and alane, oh! His bodie shall lie in the kirk 'neath the rain, All alane and alane, oh! "His grave must be dug at the foot o' the wall, All alane and alane, oh! And the foot that treadeth his body upon Shall have scab that will eat to the bane, oh! "And it ne'er will be cured by doctor on earth, Tho' every one should tent him, oh! He shall tremble and die like the elf-shot eye, And return from whence he came, oh!" (469. 13). Among the natives of the Andaman Islands, after a dead child has been buried and the parents have mourned for about three months, the remains are exhumed, cleansed at the seashore by the father, and brought back to the hut, where the bones are broken up to make necklaces, which are distributed to friends and relatives as mementos. Moreover, "the mother, after painting the skull with _kòi-ob_--[a mixture of yellow ochre, oil, etc.] and decorating it with small shells attached to pieces of string, hangs it round her neck with a netted chain, called _râb--._ After the first few days her husband often relieves her by wearing it himself" (498. 74,75). According to Lumholtz, "a kind of mummy, dried by the aid of fire and smoke, is also found in Australia. Male children are most frequently prepared in this manner. The corpse is then packed into a bundle, which is carried for some time by the mother. She has it with her constantly, and at night sleeps with it at her side. After about six months, when nothing but the bones remain, she buries it in the earth. Full-grown men are sometimes treated in this manner, particularly the bodies of great heroes" (495. 278). Among the western Eskimo, "the mother who loses her nursling places the poor 'papoose' in a beautifully ornamented box, which she fastens on her back and carries about her for a long while. Often she takes the miserable mummy in her arms and makes it a kind of toilette, disinfecting it, and removing the mouldiness" (523. 102). According to the traveller Lander, a woman of Yoruba, in Africa, "carries for some time a wooden figure of her lost child, and, when she eats, puts part of her food to its lips"; and Catlin writes of the Mandan Indians: "They place the skulls of their dead in a circle. Each wife knows the skull of her former husband or child, and there seldom passes a day that she does not visit it with a dish of the best cooked food ... There is scarcely an hour in a pleasant day, but more or less of these women may be seen sitting or lying by the skull of their dead child or husband, talking to it in the most pleasant and endearing language they can use (as they were wont to do in former days), and seemingly getting an answer back" (Spencer, _Princ. of Soc.,_ 1882, I. 332, 326). Of the Nishinam Indians of California, Mr. Powers tells us: "When a Nishinam wife is childless, her sympathizing female friends sometimes make out of grass a rude image of a baby, and tie it in a miniature baby-basket, according to the Indian custom. Some day, when the woman and her husband are not at home, they carry this grass baby and lay it in their wigwam. When she returns and finds it, she takes it up, holds it to her breast, pretends to nurse it, and sings it lullaby songs. All this is done as a kind of conjuration, which they hope will have the effect of causing the barren woman to become fertile" (519. 318). Of certain Indians of the northern United States we read, in the early years of the present century: "The traders on the river St. Peter's, Mississippi, report that some of them have seen in the possession of the Indians a petrified child, which they have often wished to purchase; but the savages regard it as a deity, and no inducement could bribe them to part with it" (_Philos. Mag._ XXIX., p. 5). _Child-Worship._ As Count D'Alviella has pointed out, we have in the apocryphal book of the _Wisdom of Solomon_ the following interesting passage: "For a father afflicted with untimely mourning, when he hath made an image of his child soon taken away, now honoured him as a god, which was then a dead man; and delivered to those that were under him ceremonies and sacrifices." Mrs. Stevenson, in a Zuñi tale of motherly affection, relates how, in crossing a river in the olden time, the children clinging to their mothers were transformed into such ugly and mischievous shapes that the latter let many of them fall into the river. Some held their children close, and on the other side these were restored to their natural forms. Those who had lost their children grieved and would not be comforted; so two twin-brothers--sons of the sun, they are called--went beneath the waters of a lake to the dwelling of the children, who asked them to tell how it fared with their mothers. Their visitors told them of the grief and sorrow of the parents, whereupon the children said: "Tell our mothers we are not dead, but live and sing in this beautiful place, which is the home for them when they sleep. They will wake here and be always happy. And we are here to intercede with the sun, our father, that he may give to our people rain and the fruits of the earth, and all that is good for them." Since that time these children have been "worshipped as ancestral gods, bearing the name of kok-ko" (358. 541). This reminds us strikingly of the great Redeemer, of whom it was said that he is "an Advocate for us with the Father," and who himself declared: "In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you." In not a few mythologies we meet with the infant god in the arms of its mother or of some other woman. Of the goddess of pity in the Celestial Empire we read: "The Chinese Lady of Mercy in her statues is invariably depicted as young, symmetrical, and beautiful. Sometimes she stands or sits alone. Sometimes she holds an infant god in her lap. Sometimes she holds one, while a second plays about her knee. Another favourite picture and statue represents her standing on the head of a great serpent, with a halo about her face and brows, and spirits encircling her. In the sixth, she stands upon a crescent, awaiting a bird approaching her from the skies. In a seventh, she stands smiling at a beautiful child on the back of a water-buffalo. In an eighth, she is weeping for the sins of either humanity or the female portion of it. She is the patron saint of all her sex, and intercedes for them at the great throne of Heaven. She is a very old divinity. The Chinese themselves claim that she was worshipped six thousand years ago, and that she was the first deity made known to mankind. The brave Jesuit missionaries found her there, and it matters not her age; she is a credit to herself and her sex, and aids in cheering the sorrowful and sombre lives of millions in the far East." We also find "the saintly infant Zen-zai, so often met with in the arms of female representations of the androgynous Kwanon." Mr. C. N. Scott, in his essay on the "Child-God in Art" (344), is hesitant to give to many mythologies any real child-worship or artistic concept of the child as god. Not even Rama and Krishna, or the Greek Eros, who had a sanctuary at Thespiae in Boeotia, are beautiful, sweet, naive child-pictures; much less even is Hercules, the infant, strangling the serpents, or Mercury running off with the oxen of Admetus, or bacchic Dionysus. In Egypt, in the eleventh, or twelfth dynasty, we do find a family of gods, the triad, father (Amun), mother (Maut), child (Khuns). Mr. Scott follows Ruskin in declaring that classic Greek art gives no real child-concept; nor does Gothic art up to the thirteenth century, when the influence of Christianity made itself felt, that influence which made art lavish its genius upon the Madonna and the Santo Bambino--the Virgin and the Christ-Child. CHAPTER XXVI. THE CHRIST-CHILD. The holy thing that is to be born shall be called the Son of God.--_Luke_ i. 35. There is born to you this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is anointed Lord.--_Luke_ ii. 11. Great little One! whose all-embracing birth Lifts Earth to Heaven, stoops Heaven to Earth.--_Richard Crashaw._ Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling hands control the damnèd crew.--_Milton._ The heart of Nature feels the touch of Love; And Angels sing: "The Child is King! See in his heart the life we live above."--_E. P. Gould._ During the nineteen centuries that have elapsed since Jesus of Nazareth was born, art and music, eloquence and song, have expended their best talents in preserving forever to us some memories of the life and deeds of Him whose religion of love is winning the world. The treasures of intellectual genius have been lavished in the interpretation and promulgation of the faith that bears his name. At his shrine have worshipped the great and good of every land, and his name has penetrated to the uttermost ends of the earth. But in the brief record of his history that has come down to us, we read: "The common people heard him gladly"; and to these, his simple life, with its noble consecration and unselfish aims, appealed immeasurably more even than to the greatest and wisest of men. This is evident from a glance into the lore that has grown up among the folk regarding the birth, life, and death of the Christ. Those legends and beliefs alone concern us here which cluster round his childhood,--the tribute of the lowly and the unlearned to the great world-child, who was to usher in the Age of Gold, to him whom they deemed Son of God and Son of Man, divinely human, humanly divine. _Nature and the Christ-Birth._ The old heathen mythologies and the lore of the ruder races of our own day abound in tales of the strange and wonderful events that happened during the birth, passion, and death of their heroes and divinities. Europe, Africa, Asia, America, and the Isles of the Sea, bring us a vast store of folk-thought telling of the sympathy of Mother Nature with her children; how she mourned when they were sad or afflicted, rejoiced when they were fortunate and happy. And so has it been, in later ages and among more civilized peoples, with the great good who have made their influence felt in the world,--the poets, musicians, artists, seers, geniuses of every kind, who learned to read some of the secrets of the universe and declared them unto men. They were a part of Nature herself, and she heralded their coming graciously and wept over them when they died. This deep feeling of kinship with all Nature pervades the writings of many of our greatest poets, who "live not in themselves," but are become "a portion of that around them." In the beautiful words of Scott:-- "Call it not vain; they do not err Who say, that, when the poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies; Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed bard make moan; That mountains weep in crystal rill; That flowers in tears of balm distil; Through his loved groves the breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave." And with a holier fervour, even, are all things animate and inanimate said to feel the birth of a great poet, a hero, a genius, a prophet; all Nature thrills with joy at his advent and makes known her satisfaction with the good that has fallen to the lot of earth. With such men, as Goethe said, Nature is in eternal league, watching, waiting for their coming. How Nature must have rejoiced on that auspicious day, nineteen centuries ago, when the Messiah, long looked for, long expected, came! The sacred historians tell us that the carol of angels heralded his birth and the bright star in the East led the wise men to the modest manger where he lay. Never had there been such gladness abroad in the world since "The morning stars sang together, And all the sons of God shouted for joy." Shakespeare, in _Hamlet,_--a play in which so many items of folk-lore are to be found,--makes Marcellus say:-- "It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time," to which Horatio replies:-- "So have I heard, and do in part believe it." This belief in the holy and gracious season of the birth of Christ,--a return to the old ideas of the Golden Age and the kinship of all Nature,--finds briefest expression in the Montenegrin saying of Christmas Eve: "To-night, Earth is blended with Paradise." According to Bosnian legend, at the birth of Christ: "The sun in the East bowed down, the stars stood still, the mountains and the forests shook and touched the earth with their summits, and the green pine tree bent; heaven and earth were bowed." And when Simeon took the Holy Child from the mother's arms:-- "The sun leaped in the heavens and the stars around it danced. A peace came over mountain and forest. Even the rotten stump stood straight and healthy on the green mountain-side. The grass was beflowered with opening blossoms, and incense sweet as myrrh pervaded upland and forest, and birds sang on the mountain-top, and all gave thanks to the great God" (_Macmil-lan's Mag.,_ Vol. XLIII, p. 362). Relics of the same thoughts crop out from a thousand Christmas songs and carols in every country of Europe, and in myriads of folk-songs and sayings in every language of the Continent. And in those southern lands, where, even more than with us, religion and love are inseparable, the environment of the Christ-birth is transferred to the beloved of the human heart, and, as the Tuscans sing in their _stornelli_ (415. 104):-- "Quando nascesti tu, nacque un bel flore; La luna si fermò di camminare, Le stelle si cambiaron di colore," in Mrs. Busk's translation:-- "Thy birth, Love, was the birth of a fair flower; The moon her course arrested at that hour, The stars were then arrayed in a new colour," so, in other lands, has the similitude of the Golden Age of Love and the Golden Time of Christmas been elaborated and adorned by all the genius of the nameless folk-poets of centuries past. _Folk-Lore of Christmas Tide._ Scottish folk-lore has it that Christ was born "at the hour of midnight on Christmas Eve," and that the miracle of turning water into wine was performed by Him at the same hour (246. 160). There is a belief current in some parts of Germany that "between eleven and twelve the night before Christmas water turns to wine"; in other districts, as at Bielefeld, it is on Christmas night that this change is thought to take place (462. IV. 1779). This hour is also auspicious for many actions, and in some sections of Germany it was thought that if one would go to the cross-roads between eleven and twelve on Christmas Day, and listen, he "would hear what most concerns him in the coming year." Another belief is that "if one walks into the winter-corn on Holy Christmas Eve, he will hear all that will happen in the village that year." Christmas Eve or Christmas is the time when the oracles of the folk are in the best working-order, especially the many processes by which maidens are wont to discover the colour of their lover's hair, the beauty of his face and form, his trade and occupation,--whether they shall marry or not, and the like. The same season is most auspicious for certain ceremonies and practices (transferred to it from the heathen antiquity) of the peasantry of Europe in relation to agriculture and allied industries. Among those noted by Grimm are the following:-- On Christmas Eve thrash the garden with a flail, with only your shirt on, and the grass will grow well next year. Tie wet strawbands around the orchard trees on Christmas Eve and it will make them fruitful. On Christmas Eve put a stone on every tree, and they will bear the more (462. IV. 1790-1825). Beat the trees on Christmas night, and they will bear more fruit (448. 337). In Herefordshire, Devonshire, and Cornwall, in England, the farmers and peasantry "salute the apple-trees on Christmas Eve," and in Sussex they used to "worsle," _i.e._ "wassail," the apple-trees and chant verses to them in somewhat of the primitive fashion (448. 219). Some other curious items of Christmas folk-lore are the following, current chiefly in Germany (462. IV. 1779-1824):-- If after a Christmas dinner you shake out the table-cloth over the bare ground under the open sky, crumb-wort will grow on the spot. If on Christmas Day, or Christmas Eve, you hang a wash-clout on a hedge, and then groom the horses with it, they will grow fat. As often as the cock crows on Christmas Eve, the quarter of corn will be as dear. If a dog howls the night before Christmas, it will go mad within the year. If the light is let go out on Christmas Eve, some one in the house will die. When lights are brought in on Christmas Eve, if any one's shadow has no head, he will die within a year; if half a head, in the second half-year. If a hoop comes off a cask on Christmas Eve, some one in the house will die that year. If on Christmas Eve you make a little heap of salt on the table, and it melts over night, you will die the next year; if, in the morning, it remain undiminished, you will live. If you wear something sewed with thread spun on Christmas Eve, no vermin will stick to you. If a shirt be spun, woven, and sewed by a pure, chaste maiden on Christmas Day, it will be proof against lead or steel. If you are born at sermon-time on Christmas morning, you can see spirits. If you burn elder on Christmas Eve, you will have revealed to you all the witches and sorcerers of the neighbourhood (448. 319). If you steal hay the night before Christmas, and give the cattle some, they thrive, and you are not caught in any future thefts. If you steal anything at Christmas without being caught, you can steal safely for a year. If you eat no beans on Christmas Eve, you will become an ass. If you eat a raw egg, fasting, on Christmas morning, you can carry heavy weights. The crumbs saved up on three Christmas Eves are good to give as physic to one who is disappointed (462. IV. 1788-1801). It is unlucky to carry anything forth from the house on Christmas morning until something has been brought in. It is unlucky to give a neighbour a live coal to kindle a fire with on Christmas morning. If the fire burns brightly on Christmas morning, it betokens prosperity during the year; if it smoulders, adversity (246. 160). These, and many other practices, ceremonies, beliefs, and superstitions, which may be read in Grimm (462), Gregor (246), Henderson (469), De Gubernatis (427, 428), Ortwein (3l5), Tilte (370), and others who have written of Christmas, show the importance attached in the folk-mind to the time of the birth of Christ, and how around it as a centre have fixed themselves hundreds of the rites and solemnities of passing heathendom, with its recognition of the kinship of all nature, out of which grew astrology, magic, and other pseudo-sciences. _Flowers of the Christ-Child._ Many flowers are believed to have first sprung into being or to have first burst into blossom at the moment when Christ was born, or very near that auspicious hour. The Sicilian children, so Folkard tells us, put pennyroyal in their cots on Christmas Eve, "under the belief that at the exact hour and minute when the infant Jesus was born this plant puts forth its blossom." Another belief is that the blossoming occurs again on Midsummer Night (448. 492). In the East the Rose of Jericho is looked upon with favour by women with child, for "there is a cherished legend that it first blossomed at our Saviour's birth, closed at the Crucifixion, and opened again at Easter, whence its name of Resurrection Flower" (448. 528). Gerarde, the old herbalist, tells us that the black hellebore is called "Christ's Herb," or "Christmas Herb," because it "flowreth about the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ" (448. 281). Certain varieties of the hawthorn also were thought to blossom on Christmas Day. The celebrated Abbey of Glastonbury in England possessed such a thorn-tree, said to have sprung from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea, when he stuck it into the ground, in that part of England, which he is represented as having converted. The "Glastonbury Thorn" was long believed to be a convincing witness to the truth of the Gospel by blossoming without fail every Christmas Day (448. 352, 353). Many plants, trees, and flowers owe their peculiarities to their connection with the birth or the childhood of Christ. The _Ornithogalum umbellatum_ is called the "Star of Bethlehem," according to Folkard, because "its white stellate flowers resemble the pictures of the star that indicated the birth of the Saviour of mankind" (448. 553). The _Galium verum,_ "Our Lady's Bedstraw," receives its name from the belief that the manger in which the infant Jesus lay was filled with this plant (448. 249). The flight of the Holy Family into Egypt has attracted to it as a centre a large group of legends belonging to this category, many of which are to be found in Folkard and Busk. Of a certain tree, with leaves like the sensitive plant, in Arabia, we read that this peculiarity arose from the fact that when near the city of Heliopolis "Joseph led the dromedary that bore the blessed Mother and her Divine Son, under a neighbouring tree, and as he did so, the green branches bent over the group, as if paying homage to their Master." Near Mataria there was said to be a sycamore-tree, called "the Tree of Jesus and Mary," which gave shelter at nightfall to the Holy Family, and to this fact the Mohammedans are reported to attribute the great longevity and verdure of the sycamore (448. 558). A widespread tradition makes the "Rose of Jericho," called also "St. Mary's Rose," spring up on every spot where the Holy Family rested on their way to Egypt. The juniper owes the extraordinary powers with which it is credited in the popular mind to the fact that it once saved the life of the Virgin and the infant Christ. The same kind offices have been attributed to the hazel-tree, the fig, the rosemary, the date-palm, etc. Among the many legends accounting for the peculiarity of the aspen there is one, preserved in Germany, which attributes it to the action of this tree when the Holy Family entered the dense forest in which it stood (448. 230):-- "As they entered this wilderness, all the trees bowed themselves down in reverence to the infant God; only the Aspen, in her exceeding pride and arrogance, refused to acknowledge Him, and stood upright." In consequence of this "the Holy Child pronounced a curse against her; ... and, at the sound of His words, the Aspen began to tremble through all her leaves, and has not ceased to tremble to this day." According to a Sicilian legend, "the form of a hand is to be seen in the interior of the fruit of the pine," representing "the hand of Jesus blessing the tree which had saved Him during the flight into Egypt by screening Him and His mother from Herod's soldiers" (448. 496). We have from Rome the following tradition (415. 173):-- "One day the Madonna was carrying the Bambino through a lupine-field, and the stalks of the lupines rustled so, that she thought it was a robber coming to kill the Santo Bambino. She turned, and sent a malediction over the lupine-field, and immediately the lupines all withered away, and fell flat and dry on the ground, so that she could see there was no one hidden there. When she saw there was no one hidden there, she sent a blessing over the lupine-field, and the lupines all stood straight up again, fair and flourishing, and with ten-fold greater produce than they had at first." In a Bolognese legend the lupines are cursed by the Virgin, because, "by the clatter and noise they made, certain plants of this species drew the attentions of Herod's minions to the spot where the tired and exhausted travellers had made a brief halt" (448. 473). Another tradition, found over almost all Italy, says that when the Holy Family were fleeing from the soldiers of King Herod:-- "The brooms and the chick-peas began to rustle and crackle, and by this noise betrayed the fugitives. The flax bristled up. Happily for her, Mary was near a juniper; the hospitable tree opened its branches as arms and enclosed the Virgin and Child within their folds, affording them a secure hiding-place. Then the Virgin uttered a malediction against the brooms and the chick-peas, and ever since that day they have always rustled and crackled." The story goes on to tell us that the Virgin "pardoned the flax its weakness, and gave the juniper her blessing," which accounts for the use of the latter for Christmas decorations, --like the holly in England and France (448. 395). _Birds of the Christ-Child._ Several birds are associated with the infant Christ in the folk-lore of Europe and the East. In Normandy, the wren is called _Poulette de Dieu, Oiseau de Dieu,_ "God's Chicken," "God's Bird,"--corresponding to the old Scotch "Our Lady's Hen,"--because, according to legend, "she was present at the birth of the Infant Saviour, made her nest in his cradle, and brought moss and feathers to form a coverlet for the Holy Child" (539. 35). A Tyrolian folk-tale informs us that in days of yore the ravens were "beautiful birds with plumage white as snow, which they kept clean by constant washing in a certain stream." It happened, once upon a time, that "the Holy Child, desiring to drink, came to this stream, but the ravens prevented him by splashing about and befouling the water. Whereupon he said: 'Ungrateful birds! Proud you may be of your beauty, but your feathers, now so snowy white, shall become black and remain so till the judgment day!'" In consequence of their uncharitable action have the ravens continued black ever since (539. 92). In his childhood Christ is often represented as playing with the other little Jewish children. One Sabbath day He and His playmates amused themselves by making birds out of clay, and after the children had been playing a while, a Sadducee chanced to pass that way. The story goes on to tell that "He was very old and very zealous, and he rebuked the children for spending their Sabbath in so profane an employment. And he let it not rest at chiding alone, but went to the clay birds and broke them all, to the great grief of the children. Now, when Christ saw this, He waved His hands over all the birds He had fashioned, and they became forthwith alive, and soared up into the heavens" (539. 181). From Swainson we learn that in the Icelandic version of the legend the birds are thought to have been the golden plover "whose note 'deerin' sounds like to the Iceland word 'dyrdhin,' namely 'glory,' for these birds sing praise to their Lord, for in that He mercifully saved them from the merciless hand of the Sadducee." A Danish legend, cited by Swainson, accounts for the peculiar cry of the lapwing, which sounds like "Klyf ved! klyf ved!" i.e. "Cleave wood! cleave wood!" as follows (539. 185):--"When our Lord was a wee bairn, He took a walk out One day, and came to an old crone who was busy baking. She desired Him to go and split her a little wood for the oven, and she would give Him a new cake for His trouble. He did as He was bid, and the old woman went on with her occupation, sundering a very small portion of the dough for the promised recompense. But when the batch was drawn, this cake was equally large with the rest. So she took a new morsel of the dough still less than before, and made and baked another cake, but with the like result. Hereupon she broke out with 'That's a vast overmuckle cake for the likes o' you; thee's get thy cake anither time.' When our Lord saw her evil disposition, His wrath was stirred, and He said to the woman: 'I split your wood as you asked me, and you would not so much as give me the little cake you promised me. Now you shall go and cleave wood, and that, too, as long as the world endures!' With that he changed her into a weep (_vipa_) [lapwing]." Among the many legends of Isa, as Jesus is called by the Moslems, current among the Mohammedan peoples is a variant of the story of the clay-birds, as follows: "When Isa was seven years old, he and his companions made images in clay of birds and beasts, and Isa, to show his superiority, caused his images to fly and walk at his command." Clouston informs us that this story is also found in the Gospel of the Pseudo-Matthew, and in that of the Infancy (422. II. 408). In Champagne, France, legend makes the cuckoo to have issued from a Christmas log (462. I. 113), and in a Latin poem of the Middle Ages we are told that "the crossbill hatches its eggs at Christmas and the young birds fly in full plumage at Easter" (539. 67). _Animals._ At Christmas certain animals become more human, or express their joy at the birth of Christ in unmistakable fashion. There was an old Scottish belief that "at the exact hour of the Saviour's birth bees in their hive emitted a buzzing sound" (246. 147). According to a Breton folk-tale the ox and the ass can converse for a single hour, "between eleven and twelve on Christmas night." At the same hour, in German folk-lore, all cattle stand up; another version, however, makes them devoutly kneel (462. IV. 1481). Among the animals which folk-thought has brought into connection with the Christ-Child is the horse. A Russian legend tells us that the flesh of the horse is deemed unclean because "when the infant Saviour was hidden in the manger, the horse kept eating the hay under which the babe was concealed, whereas the ox not only would not touch it, but brought back hay on its horns to replace what the horse had eaten" (520. 334). From a Spanish-American miracle-play, we learn that the oxen and asses around the manger kept the little babe warm with their breath. In Ireland the following folk-beliefs obtain regarding the ass and the cow:-- "Joseph and Mary fled into Egypt with the infant Jesus, on an ass. Since that date the ass has had a cross on its back. This same ass returned to Nazareth seven years later with them on its back, travelling in the night, since which time it has been the wisest of all animals; it was made sure-footed for Christ to ride on his triumphal entry into Jerusalem, and it remains the most sure-footed of all beasts. The ass and cow are looked upon as sacred, because these animals breathed upon the infant Jesus in the manger and kept the child warm. Old women sprinkle holy water on these animals to drive away disease" (480 (1893) 264). In _I Henry IV._ (Act II. Sc. 4) Falstaff says: "The lion will not touch the true Prince," and the divinity which hedged about the princes of human blood was ever present with the son of Joseph and Mary, whose divinity sprang from a purer, nobler fount than that of weak humanity. _The Holy Family._ We have several word-pictures of the Holy Family from the mouth of the folk. Among the hymns sung by the Confraternities of the Virgin in Seville, is one in which occurs the following figure (_Catholic World,_ XXIV. 19):-- "Es Maria la nave de gracia, San Jose la vela, el Nino el timon; Y los remos son las buenas almas Que van al Rosario con gran devocion." _i.e._ ["Mary is the ship of grace, St. Joseph is the sail, The Child (Jesus) is the helm, And the oars are the pious souls who devoutly pray."] One of the little Italian songs called _razzi neddu,_ recorded by Mrs. Busk, is even briefer:-- "Maruzza lavava, Giuseppe stinnia, Gesu si stricava Ca minna vulia." ["Sweet Mary was washing, Joseph was hanging out the clothes to dry, Jesus was stretching Himself on the ground, For so His mother willed."] A popular Spanish lullaby recorded by De Gubernatis in his great study of birth customs and usages, runs as follows in translation (500. 310):-- "The Baby Child of Mary, Now cradle He has none; His father is a carpenter, And he shall make Him one. "The Lady, good St. Anna, The Lord St. Joachim, They rock the Baby's cradle, That sleep may come to Him. "Then sleep, thou too, my baby, My little heart so dear; The Virgin is beside thee, The Son of God is near." Among the many versions and variants of the familiar child's prayer, "Now I lay me down to sleep," cited by the Countess Martinengo-Cesaresco (500. 202-213), is to be included the following, found among the Greeks of the Terra d'Otranto, in Italy:-- "I lay me down to sleep in my little bed; I lay me down to sleep with my Mamma Mary; the Mamma Mary goes hence and leaves me Christ to keep me company." Some of the most naïve legends are those which deal with the Child and His mother in the early years of life. "Our Lady's Thistle" (_Carduus Marianus_) receives its name "because its green leaves have been spotted white ever since the milk of the Virgin fell upon it, when she was nursing Jesus, and endowed it with miraculous virtues." A German tradition tells the same story of the _Polypodium vulgare_ (Marienmilch), based upon an older legend of the goddess Freia, many of whose attributes, with the lapse of heathendom, passed over to the central female figure of Christianity (448. 499). A similar origin of the white lily from the milk of Juno is given in Greek mythology (462. IV. 1671). In Devonshire, the custom of burning a faggot of ash at Christmas, is traced back to the fact that "the Divine Infant at Bethlehem was first washed and dressed by a fire of ash-wood" (448. 235). In Spain the rosemary is believed to blossom on the day of Christ's passion, and the legend accounting for this tells us that "the Virgin Mary spread on a shrub of rosemary the underlinen and little frocks of the infant Jesus." The peasantry believe that rosemary "brings happiness on those families who employ it in perfuming the house on Christmas night" (448. 526). _Joseph and Mary._ The suspicions entertained by Joseph (as indicated in the narrative of St. Matthew i. 19), when the birth of the child of Mary was first announced, have found deep expression in folk-thought. According to one Oriental legend, the infant Christ himself spoke, declaring that "God had created Him by His word, and chosen Him to be His servant and prophet" (547. 254). Another tradition, cited by Folkard, states that (448. 279): "Before the birth of our Saviour, the Virgin Mary longed extremely to taste of some tempting cherries which hung upon a tree high above her head; so she requested Joseph to pluck them. Joseph, however, not caring to take the trouble, refused to gather the cherries, saying sullenly, 'Let the father of thy child present thee with the cherries if he will!' No sooner had these words escaped his lips, than, as if in reproof, the branch of the cherry-tree bowed spontaneously to the Virgin's hand, and she gathered its fruit and ate it. Hence the cherry is dedicated to the Virgin Mary." In Finland the white side of the flounder "is said to have been caused by the Virgin Mary's laying her hand upon it," and an Eastern legend states that "the Angel Gabriel restored a sole to life, to assure the Virgin Mary of the truth of the miraculous conception." Ralston cites from the Kherson Government in Russia the following:-- "At the time of the Angelic Salutation, the Blessed Virgin told the Archangel Gabriel that she would give credit to his words, if a fish, one side of which had already been eaten, were to come to life again. That moment the fish came to life, and was put back into the water." This legend, accounting for the shape of the sole, finds perhaps its origin in "the old Lithuanian tradition that the Queen of the Baltic Sea once ate half of it and threw the other half into the sea again"--another example of the transference of older stories to the cycle of the Virgin Mary (520. 334). De Gubernatis records from Andalusia, in Spain, a legend which tells how the Holy Family, journeying one day, came to an orange-tree guarded by an eagle. The Virgin "begged of it one of the oranges for the Holy Child. The eagle miraculously fell asleep, and the Virgin thereupon plucked not one but three oranges, one of which she gave to the infant Jesus, another to Joseph, and the third she kept for herself. Then, and not till then, the eagle that guarded the orange-tree awoke" (448. 478). A beautiful pendant to this Spanish tale is found in the Roumanian story cited by Folkard:-- "The infant Jesus, in the arms of the Blessed Virgin, becomes restless, will not go to sleep, and begins to cry. The Virgin, to calm the Holy Child, gives Him two apples. The infant throws one upwards and it becomes the Moon; He then throws the second, and it becomes the Sun. After this exploit, the Virgin Mary addresses Him and foretells that He will become the Lord of Heaven" (448.222). In his recent book on _Childhood in Literature and Art,_ Mr. Scudder treats of the Christ-Child and the Holy Family in mediaeval and early Christian art and literature (350. 57-65, 83-99), calling special attention to a series of twelve prints executed in the Netherlands, known as _The Infancy of our Lord God and Saviour, Jesus Christ,_ in which we have "a reproduction of the childhood of the Saviour in the terms of a homely Netherland family life, the naturalistic treatment diversified by the use of angelic machinery" (350.91). _Moslem Lore of the Christ._ In the _Toldoth Jesú,_ which Clouston terms "a scurrilous Jewish 'Life of Christ,'"--the Hebrew text with a Latin translation and explanatory notes, appeared at Leyden in 1705, under the title _Historiæ Jeschuce Nazareni,_--the many wonders admitted to have been performed by Christ are ascribed to his "having abstracted from the Temple the Ineffable Name and concealed it in his thigh,"--an idea thought to be of Indian origin. Clouston goes so far as to say: "Legends of the miracles of Isa, son of Maryam, found in the works of Muslim writers, seem to have been derived from the Kurán, and also from early Christian, or rather _quasi_-Christian traditions, such as those in the apocryphal gospels, which are now for the most part traceable to Buddhist sources." One belief of the Mohammedans was that "the breath of the Messiah had the virtue of restoring the dead to life" (422. II. 395, 408, 409). In the first volume of the _Orientalist,_ Muhammed Casim Siddi Lebbe gives an account of the views of Arabian writers regarding the Virgin Mary and Jesus. Weil has also devoted a section of his work on Mussulman legends to "John, Mary, and Christ." When the child Jesus was born, we are told, the withered trunk of a date tree against which the Virgin leaned, "blossomed, and its withered branches were covered with fresh dates," while "a fountain of fresh water gushed forth from the earth at her feet" (547. 249-264). _The Christ-Child To-day._ Folk-stories and churchly legends tell us that the Christ-Child still walks the earth, and appears unto the saints and sinners of this world. Folkard reports a tradition from the Havel country in North Germany:-- "One Christmas Eve a peasant felt a great desire to eat cabbage and, having none himself, he slipped into a neighbour's garden to cut some. Just as he had filled his basket, the Christ-Child rode past on his white horse, and said: 'Because thou hast stolen on the holy night, thou shalt immediately sit in the moon with thy basket of cabbage.'" And so, we are told, "the culprit was immediately wafted up to the moon," and there he can still be seen as "the man in the moon" (448. 265). Brewer gives many of the churchly legends in which the Christ-Child appears to men and women upon earth, either in the arms of the Virgin, as he came to St. Agnes of Monte Pulciano and to Jeanne Marie de Maille, or as a glorious child, in which form he appeared alone to St. Alexander and Quirinus the tribune, in the reign of Hadrian; to St. Andrew Corsini, to call him to the bishopric of Fiesole; to St. Anthony of Padua, many times; to St. Cuthbert, to rebuke him (a child of eight years) for wasting his time in play; to St. Emiliana of Florence, with the same purpose; to St. Oxanna, and to St. Veronica of Milan (191. 59, 60). Among the rude peasantry of Catholic Europe belief in the visitations of the Christ-Child lingers, especially at the season of His birth. With them, as Milton thought,--"Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth." Yet not unseen, but seen often of the good and wise, the simple and innocent, and greatest of these visitants of earth is the Child Jesus, ever occupied about His Father's business. CHAPTER XXVII. PROVERBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT PARENTS, FATHER AND MOTHER. 1. Be a father to virtue, but a father-in-law to vice. 2. Bread is our father, but _kasha_ [porridge] is our mother. --_Russian_. 3. Call not that man wretched, who, whatever ills he suffers, has a child he loves.--_Southey_. 4. Children suck the mother when they are young, and the father when they are old. 5. Children see in their parents the past, they again in their children the future; and if we find more love in parents for their children than in children for their parents, this is sad and natural. Who does not fondle his hopes more than his recollections?--_Eötvös_. 6. Choose a good mother's daughter, though her father were the devil.--_Gaelic_. 7. Die Menschheit geben uns Vater und Mutter, die Menschlichkeit aber gibt uns nur die Erziehung. [Human nature we owe to father and mother, but humanity to education alone.]--_Weber_. 8. Die Mütter geben uns von Geiste Wärme, und die Väter Licht. [Our mothers give us warmth of spirit; our fathers, light.]--_Jean Paul_. 9. Die Mutter sagt es, der Vater glaubt es, ein Narr zweifelt daran. [The mother says it, the father believes it, the fool doubts it.]--_Pistorius._ 10. Dos est magna parentum Virtus. [The virtue of parents is a great dowry.]--_Horace._ 11. En olle kan beter söfen kinner erneren, as söfen kinner ên olle. [A parent can more easily maintain seven children than seven children one parent.]--_Low German._ 12. Fader og Moder ere gode, end er Gud bedre. [Father and mother are kind, but God is better.]--_Danish._ 13. He knows not what love is that hath no children. 14. He that loveth father and mother more than me is not worthy of me.--_Jesus._ 15. If poverty is the mother of crimes, want of sense is the father of them.--_La Bruyere._ 16. Keep thy father's commandment, and forsake not the law of thy mother.--_Bible._ 17. La buena vida padre y madre olvida. [Prosperity forgets father and mother.]--_Spanish._ 18. Laus magna natis obsequi parentibus. [Great praise comes to children for having complied with the wishes of their parents.] --_Phoedrus._ 19. Look at home, father priest, mother priest; your church is a hundred-fold heavier responsibility than mine can be. Your priesthood is from God's own hands.--_Henry Ward Beecher._ 20. One mother is more venerable than a thousand fathers. --_Laws of Manu._ 21. Parents are the enemies of their children, if they refuse them education.--_Eastern Proverb._ 22. Parents' blessings can neither be drowned in water, nor consumed in fire. 23. Parents we can have but once.--_Dr. Johnson._ 24. Parents say: "Our boy is growing up." They forget his life is shortening.--_Afghan._ 25. Respect for one's parents is the highest duty of civil life. --_Chinese._ 26. The bazaar knows neither father nor mother.--_Turkish._ 27. The crow says: "O my son, whiter than muslin."--_Afghan._ 28. The eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it.--_Bible._ 29. The house of the childless is empty; and so is the heart of him that hath no wife.--_Hitopadesa._ 30. The joys of parents are secret, and so are their griefs and fears.--_Bacon._ 31. These are my jewels.--_Cornelia (mother of the Gracchi)._ 32. They who have lost an infant are never, as it were, without an infant child.--_Leigh Hunt._ 33. To a father, when his child dies, the future dies; to a child, when his parents die, the past dies.--_Auerbach._ 34. To make a boy despise his mother's care is the straightest way to make him also despise his Redeemer's voice; and to make him scorn his father and his father's house, the straightest way to make him deny his God and his God's heaven.--_Ruskin._ 35. Unworthy offspring brag most of their worthy descent. --_Danish._ 36. Vom Vater hab'ich die Statur, Des Lebens ernstes Fuhren; Von Mutterchen die Frohnatur Und Lust zu fabulieren. [My father's stature I possess And life's more solemn glory; My mother's fund of cheerfulness, Her love for song and story.]--_Goethe._ 37. Was der Mutter an's Herz geht, das geht dem Vater nur an die Kniee. [What goes to the mother's heart goes only to the father's knees.]--_German._ 38. Wer nicht Kinder hat, der weiss nicht, warum er lebt. [Who has not children knows not why he lives.]--_German._ 39. Whoso curseth his father or his mother, his lamp shall be put out in obscure darkness.--_Bible._ 40. Whoso robbeth his father or his mother, and saith, It is no transgression, the same is the companion of a destroyer.--_Bible._ CHAPTER XXVIII. PROVERBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT THE CHILD, MANKIND, GENIUS, ETC. 1. Argument is like an arrow from a cross-bow, which has great force, though shot by a child.--_Bacon_. 2. Childhood often holds a truth in its feeble fingers, which the grasp of manhood cannot retain, and which it is the pride of utmost age to recover.--_Ruskin_. 3. Children always turn toward the light.--_Hare_. 4. Der grösste Mensch bleibt stets ein Menschenkind. [The greatest man always remains a son of man.]--_Goethe_. 5. Dieu aide á trois sortes de personnes,--aux fous, aux enfants, et aux ivrognes. [God protects three sorts of people,--fools, children, and drunkards.]--_French_. 6. Enfants et fous sont devins. [Children and fools are soothsayers.]--_French_. 7. Every child is, to a certain extent, a genius, and every genius is, to a certain extent, a child.--_Schopenhauer_. 8. Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven.--_Jesus_. 9. Fede ed innocenzia son reperte Solo ne' pargoletti. [Faith and innocence we find Only in the children's mind.] --_Dante_. 10. Genius is the power of carrying the feelings of childhood into the powers of manhood.--_Coleridge_. 11. Genius must be born, and never can be taught.--_Dryden_. 12. Genius should be the child of genius, and every child should be inspired.--_Emerson_. 13. God is kind to fou [_i.e._ drunken] folk and bairns.--_Scotch_. 14. God watches over little children and drunkards.--_Russian_. 15. Heaven lies about us in our infancy.--_Wordsworth_. 16. I love God and little children.--_Jean Paul_. 17. If children grew up according to early indications, we should have nothing but geniuses.--_Goethe_. 18. Infancy presents body and spirit in unity; the body is all animated.--_Coleridge_. 19. Ingenio non ætate adipiscitur sapientia. [Wisdom comes by nature, not by age.]--_Latin_. 20. Kinder und Narren sprechen die Wahrheit. [Children and fools tell the truth.]--_German_. 21. Kloke kinner ward nit old. [Wise children don't live long.] --_Frisian_. 22. L'homme est toujours l'enfant, et l'enfant toujours l'homme. [The man is always the child, and the child is always the man.] --_French_. 23. Mankind at large always resembles frivolous children; they are impatient of thought, and wish to be amused.--_Emerson_. 24. Men are but children of a larger growth; Our appetites are apt to change as theirs, And full as craving, too, and full as vain.--_Dryden_. 25. Men are unwiser than children; they do not know the hand that feeds them.--_Carlyle_. 26. Men deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.--_Cowper_. 27. Men fear death as children to go into the dark.--_Bacon_. 28. Nature is full of freaks, and now puts an old head on young shoulders, and then a young heart beating under fourscore winters.--_Emerson_. 29. Nothing is so intelligible to the child, nothing seems so natural to him as the marvellous or the supernatural.--_Zacharia_. 30. Odi puerulos præcoci ingenio. [I hate boys of precocious genius.]--_Cicero_. 31. _on oi theoi philousin apothnaeskei neos_. [He whom the gods love dies young.]--_Menander_. 32. Poeta nascitur, non fit. [A poet is born, not made.]--_Latin_. 33. Prophete rechts, Prophete links, Das Weltkind in der Mitten. [Prophets to right of him, prophets to left of him, The world-child in the middle.]--_Goethe_. 34. So wise, so young, they say, do ne'er live long. --_Shakespeare_ (Rich. III. iii. 1). 35. Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.--_Jesus_. 36. The best architecture is the expression of the mind of man-hood by the hands of childhood.--_Ruskin_. 37. The birth of a child is the imprisonment of a soul.--_Simons_. 38. The boy's story is the best that is ever told.--_Dickens_. 39. The child is father of the man.--_Wordsworth_. 40. The childhood shows the man As morning shows the day.--_Milton_. 41. The wisest doctor is gravelled by the inquisitiveness of a child.--_Emerson_. 42. These moving things, ca'ed wife and weans, Wad move the very heart o' stanes.--_Burns_. 43. They who have lost an infant are never, as it were, without an infant child.--_Leigh Hunt_. 44. To be young is to be as one of the immortals.--_Hazlitt_. 45. Wage du zu irren und zu traumen: Hoher Sinn liegt oft im kind'schen Spiel. [Dare thou to err and dream; Oft deep sense a child's play holds.]--_Schiller_. 46. Wer darf das Kind beim rechten Namen nennen? [Who dare give the child its right name?]--_Goethe_. 47. Whilst we converse with what is above us, we do not grow old but grow young.--_Emerson_. 48. Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein.--_Jesus_. 49. Ye are but children.--_Egyptian Priest (to Solon)_. CHAPTER XXIX. PROVERBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT THE MOTHER AND CHILD. 1. A child may have too much of its mother's blessing. 2. A kiss from my mother made me a painter.--_Benj. West._ 3. Ama sinhesten, ezduenac, ain zuna. [Who does not follow his mother will follow his stepmother, i.e. who will not hear must feel.]--_Basque_. 4. A mother curses not her son.--_Sanskrit_. 5. An ounce o' mother-wit is worth a pound o' clergy.--_Scotch_. 6. As if he had fallen out of his mother's mouth (i.e. so like his mother).--_Low German_. 7. Barmherzige Mütter ziehen grindige Töchter. [Compassionate mothers bring up scabby daughters.]--_German_. 8. Choose cloth by its edge, a wife by her mother.--_Persian_. 9. Das Kind, das seine Mutter verachtet, hat einen stinkenden Atem. [The child that despises its mother has a fetid breath.]--_German_. 10. Das Kind fällt wieder in der Mutter Schooss. [The child falls back into its mother's bosom.]--_German_. 11. Das Kind folgt dem Busen. [The child follows the bosom.]--_German_. 12. Die Mutter eine Hexe, die Tochter auch eine Hexe. [Mother a witch, daughter also a witch.]--_German_. 13. Die Tochter ist wie die Mutter. [Like mother, like daughter.]--_German_. 14. Es meinet jede Frau, ihr Kind sei ein Pfau. [Every woman thinks her child a peacock.]--_German_. 15. Es ist kein' so böse Mutter, sie zöhe gern ein frommes Kind. [There is no mother so bad but that she will bring up a good child.]--_German_. 16. Fleissige Mutter hat faule Tochter. [A diligent mother has a lazy daughter.]--_German_. 17. God pardons like a mother who kisses the offence into everlasting forgetfulness.--_Henry Ward Beecher_. 18. Happy is the boy whose mother is tired of talking nonsense to him before he is old enough to know the sense of it.--_Hare_. 19. He deceives thee, who tells thee that he loves thee more than thy mother does.--_Russian_. 20. He has faut [i.e. need] o' a wife that marries mam's pet. --_Scotch_. 21. He that is born of a hen must scrape for a living. 22. I have always found that the road to a woman's heart lies through her child.--_Haliburton_. 23. I would desire for a friend the son who never resisted the tears of his mother.--_Lacretelle_. 24. If the world were put into one scale and my mother into the other, the world would kick the beam.--_Lord Langdale_. 25. In a matter of life and death don't trust even your mother; she might mistake a black bean [nay] for a white one [yea].--_Alcibiades_. 26. lst eine Mutter noch so arm, so giebt sie ihrem Kinde warm. [However poor a mother is, she keeps her child warm.]--_German_. 27. It is not as thy mother says, but as thy neighbours say. --_Hebrew_. 28. Jedes Mutterkind ist schon. [Every mother's child is beautiful.]--_German_. 29. Keine Mutter tragt einen Bastart. [No mother bears a bastard.]--_German_. 30. La madre pitiosa fa la figluola tignosa. [A merciful mother makes a scabby daughter.]--_Italian_. 31. Like mother, like daughter. 32. Mai agucosa, filha preguicosa. [Diligent mother, idle daughter.]--_Portuguese_. 33. Mere piteuse fait sa fille rogneuse. [A merciful mother makes her daughter scabby.]-_French_. 34. Milk with water is still milk [i.e. though, your mother is bad, she is nevertheless your mother].--_Badaga_. 35. Mothers' darlings are but milksop heroes. 36. Mothers' love is the cream of love. 37. Muttertreu wird taglich neu. [Mother's truth keeps constant youth.]--_German_. 38. Mysterious to all thought, A mother's prime of bliss, When to her eager lips is brought Her infant's thrilling kiss.--_Keble_. 39. Nature sent women into the world that they might be mothers and love children, to whom sacrifices must ever be offered, and from whom none can be obtained.--_Jean Paul_. 40. No bones are broken by a mother's fist.--_Russian_. 41. No hay tal madre come la que pare. [There is no mother like her who bears.]--_Spanish_. 42. O l'amour d'une mere! amour quo nul n'oublie! Pain merveilleux, que Dieu partage et multiplie! Table toujours servie au paternel foyer! Chacun en a sa part, et tous l'ont tout entier. [O mother-love! love that none ever forgets! Wonderful bread, that God divides and multiplies! Table always spread beside the paternal hearth! Each one has his part of it, and each has it all!] --_Victor Hugo_. 43. One good mother is worth a hundred schoolmasters. 44. One scream of fear from a mother may resound through the whole life of her daughter.--_Jean Paul_. 45. Seem I not as tender to him As any mother? Ay, but such a one As all day long hath rated at her child, And vext his day, but blesses him asleep. --_Tennyson_. 46. Sind die Kinder klein, so treten sie der Mutter auf den Schooss; sind die Kinder gross, so treten sie der Mutter auf das Herz. [When the children are small they tread upon the mother's breast; when they are large they tread upon the mother's heart.]--_German._ 47. So moder, so dogter. [Like mother, like daughter.]--_Frisian_. 48. Stabat Mater dolorosa Juxta crucem lacrymosa Quo pendebat Filius. [Sorrow-stricken stood the Mother Weeping by the cross On which hung her Son.] --_Mediaeval Latin Hymn_. 49. Tendresse maternelle toujours se renouvelle. [A mother's affection is forever new.]--_French_. 50. The child is often kissed for the mother's (nurse's) sake. 51. The elephant does not find his trunk heavy, nor the mother her babe.--_Angolese_ (Africa). 52. The future destiny of the child is always the work of the mother.--_Napoleon_. 53. The good mother says not "Will you?" but gives.--_Italian_. 54. The mother's heart is always with her children. 55. The mother's breath is aye sweet.--_Scotch_. 56. The mother knows best if the child be like the father. 57. The mother makes the house or mars it. 58. The nurse's bread is better than the mother's cake. --_Frisian_. 59. The prayer of the mother fetches her child out of the bottom of the sea.--_Russian_. 60. The watchful mother tarries nigh, Though sleep has closed her infant's eye.--_Keble_. 61. There is nothing more charming to see than a mother with her child in her arms, and there is nothing more venerable than a mother among a number of her children.--_Goethe_. 62. Though a mother be a wolf, she does not eat her cub's flesh.--_Afghan_. 63. Timidi mater non flet. [The coward's mother need not weep.]--_Latin_. 64. To a child in confinement its mother's knee is a binding-post. --_Hitopadesa_. 65. Unhappy is the man for whom his own mother has not made all mothers venerable.--_Jean Paul_. 66. Unless the child cries even the mother will not give it suck.--_Telugu_. 67. Wer ein saugendes Kind hat, der hat eine singende Frau. [Whoever has a suckling child, has a singing wife.]--_German_. 68. Wer dem Kinde die Nase wischt, kusst der Mutter den Backen. [Whoever wipes a child's nose kisses the mother's cheek.]--_German_. 69. What a mother sees coils itself up, but does not come out [i.e. the faults of her child].-_Angolese_ (Africa). 70. You desire, O woman, to be loved ardently and forever until death; be the mothers of your children.--_Jean Paul_. 71. Zu solchen Kindern gehort eine solche Mutter. [To such children belongs such a mother.]--_German_. CHAPTER XXX. PROVERBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT FATHER AND CHILD. 1. An dem Kind kennt man den Vater wohl. [The father is known from the child.]--_German_. 2. Bone does not let go flesh, nor father son.--_Angolese_. 3. Bose Kinder machen den Vater fromm. [Bad children make the father good.]--_German_. 4. Chi non ha figluoli non sa qualche cosa sia amore. [Who has not children knows not what love is.]--_Italian_. 5. Child's pig, but father's bacon. 6. Ein Vater ernahrt ehei zehn Kinder, denn zehn Kinder einen Vater. [One father can better nourish ten children, than ten children one father.]--_German_. 7. Fathers alone a father's heart can know.--_Young_. 8.Fathers first enter bonds to Nature's ends, And are her sureties ere they are a friend's. --_George Herbert_. 9.Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind; But fathers that wear bags Do make their children kind. --_Shakespeare_ (King Lear, ii. 4). 10.Fathers their children and themselves abuse, That wealth a husband for their daughters choose. --_Shirley_. 11. Happy is he that is happy in his children. 12. Happy is the child whose father went to the devil. 13. Haur nizar-galeac aitari bizzarra thira. [The child that will cry, pulls at its father's beard.]--_Basque_. 14. He has of [i.e. is like] his father.--_Russian_. 15. He is a chip of the old block. 16. He is cut out of his father's eyes [i.e. very like his father].--_Frisian_. 17. He is the son of his father. 18. He is a wise child that knows his own father. 19. He that can discriminate is the father of his father.--_Veda_. 20. He that hath wife and children wants not business. 21. He that marries a widow and three children marries four thieves.--_Spanish_. 22. He that hath a wife and children hath given hostages to fortune; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief.--_Bacon_. 23. He was scant o' news that told that his father was hanged. --_Scotch_. 24. He who hath but one hog makes him fat; he who hath but one son makes him a fool.--_Italian_. 25. It is a wise father that knows his own child.--_Shakespeare_ (Merch. of Venice, ii. 2). 26. Like father, like son.--_Arabic_. 27. Man sieht dem Kind an, was er fur einen Vater hat. [By the child one sees what sort of man his father is.]--_German_. 28. Many a father might say ... "I put in gold into the furnace, and there came out this calf."--_Spurgeon_. 29. Many a good father has a bad son. 30. On est toujours le fils de quelqu'un. Cela console. [One is always the son of somebody. That is a consolation.]--_French_. 31. Patris est filius. [He is the son of his father.]--_Latin_. 32. Such a father, such a son.--_Spanish_. 33. Tel pere, tel fils. [Like father, like son.]--_French_. 34. The child is the father of the man.--_Wordsworth_. 35. The child has a red tongue like its father. 36. The Devil's child, the Devil's luck. 37. The father can no more destroy his son than the cloud can extinguish by water the lightning which precedes from itself.--_Raghuvansa_. 38. The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge.--_Bible_. 39. The glory of children are their fathers.--_Bible_. 40. The gods do not avenge on the son the misdeeds of the father. Each, good or bad, reaps the just reward of his own actions. The blessing of the parents, not their curse, is inherited.--_Goethe_. 41. The ungrateful son is a wart on his father's face; to leave it is a blemish, to cut it a pain.--_Afghan_. 42. The words that a father speaks to his children in the privacy of home are not heard by the world, but, as in whispering-galleries, they are clearly heard at the end and by posterity.--_Jean Paul_. 43. To a father, who is growing old, there is nothing dearer than a daughter.--_Euripides_. 44. To a father, when his child dies, the future dies; to a child, when his parents die, the past dies.--_Auerbach_. 45. Vinegar the son of wine [_i.e._ an unpopular son of a popular father].--_Talmud_. 46. Whoso wishes to live without trouble, let him keep from step-children and winter-hogs.--_Low German_. CHAPTER XXXI. PROVERBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT CHILDHOOD, YOUTH, AND AGE. 1. A' are guid lasses, but where do a' the ill wives come frae? --_Scotch_. 2. Age does not make us childish, as people say; it only finds us still true children.--_Goethe_. 3. Aliud legunt pueri, aliud viri, aliud senes. [Children read one way, men another, old men another.]--_Terence_. 4. A man at five may be a fool at fifteen. 5. A man at sixteen will prove a child at sixty. 6. An old knave is no babe. 7. A smiling boy seldom proves a good servant. 8. Auld folk are twice bairns.--_Scotch_. 9. Aus gescheidenen Kindern werden Gecken. [From clever children come fools.]--_German_. 10. Aus Kindern werden Leute, aus Jungfern werden Bräute. [From children come grown-up people, from maidens come brides.] --_German_. 11. Better bairns greet [_i.e._ weep] than bearded men. --_Scotch_. 12. Childhood and youth see all the world in persons. --_Emerson_. 13. Childhood often holds a truth in its feeble fingers, which the grasp of manhood cannot retain, and which it is the pride of utmost age to recover.--_Ruskin_. 14. Childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day.--_Milton_. 15. Der Jüngling kämpft, damit der Greis geniesse. [The youth fights, in order that the old man may enjoy.]--_Goethe_. 16. Een diamant van een dochter wordt een glas van eene vrouw. [A diamond of a daughter becomes a glass of a wife.]--_Dutch_. 17. Eident [_i.e._ diligent] youth makes easy age.--_Scotch_. 18. Ewig jung zu bleiben Ist, wie Diehter schreiben, Höchstes Lebensgut; Willst du es erwerben, Musst du frühe sterben. [To remain ever-young Is, as poets write, The highest good of life; If thou wouldst acquire it, Thou must die young.]--_Rückert_. 19. Fanciulli piccioli, dolor di testa; fanciulli grandi dolor di cuore. [Little children bring head-ache, big children, heart-ache.] --_Italian_. 20. Giovine santo, diavolo vecchio. [Young saint, old devil.] --_Italian_. 21. Hang a thief when he's young, and he'll no steal when he's auld.--_Scotch_. 22. Happy child! the cradle is still to thee an infinite space; once grown into a man, and the boundless world will be too small to thee.--_Schiller_. 23. He cometh to you with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimney-corner.--_Sir Philip Sidney_. 24. He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mocked in age and death.--_Blake_. 25. How little is the promise of the child fulfilled in the man! --_Ovid_. 26. If you lie upon roses when young, you will lie upon thorns when old. 27. Ihr Kinder, lernet jetzt genug, Ihr lernt nichts mehr in alten Zeiten. [Ye children, learn enough now; When time has passed, you will learn nothing more.]--_Pfeffel_. 28. In childhood a linen rag buys friendship.--_Angolese_. 29. In childhood be modest, in youth temperate, in manhood just, and in old age prudent.--_Socrates_. 30. In the opening bud you see the youthful thorns.--_Talmud_. 31. In youth one has tears without grief; in age, grief without tears.--_Jean Paul._ 32. Invention is the talent of youth, and judgment of age. --_Swift._ 33. It's no child's play, when an old woman dances.--_Low German._ 34. Jong rijs is te buigen, maar geen oude boomen. [A young twig can be bent, but not old trees.]--_Dutch._ 35. Jonge lui, domme lui; oude lui, koude lui. [Young folk, silly folk; old folk, cold folk.]--_Dutch._ 36. Junge Faullenzer, alte Bettler. [Young idlers, old beggars.] --_German._ 37. Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth When thought is speech, and speech is truth.--_Scott._ 38. La jeunesse devrait etre une caisse d'épargne. [Youth ought to be a savings-bank.]--_Mme. Svetchin._ 39. Learn young, learn fair; Learn auld, learn mair.--_Scotch._ 40. Let the young people mind what the old people say, And where there is danger, keep out of the way. 41. Levity is artlessness in a child, a shameful fault in men, and a terrible folly in old age.--_La Rochefoucauld._ 42. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.--_Shakespeare_ (As You Like It, iv. 1). 43. Man schont die Alten, wie man die Kinder schont. [We spare old people, as we spare children.]--_Goethe._ 44. Man mut de kinner bugen, so lange se junk sunt. [Children must be bent while they are young.]--_Frisian._ 45. Man's second childhood begins when a woman gets hold of him.--_Barrie._ 46. My son's my son till he hath got him a wife, But my daughter's my daughter all the days of her life. 47. Nicht die Kinder bloss speist man mit Mãrchen ab. [Not children alone are put off with tales.]--_Leasing._ 48. Old head and young hand. 49. Old heads will not suit young shoulders. 50. Old men are twice children.--_Greek_. 51. Once a man and twice a child. 52. Se il giovane sapesse, se il vecchio potesse, c' non c' è cosa che non si facesse. [If the youth but knew, if the old man but could, there is nothing which would not be done.]--_Italian_. 53. Study is the bane of boyhood, the element of youth, the indulgence of manhood, and the restorative of age.--_Landor_. 54. The household is the home of the man as well as of the child.--_Emerson_. 55. The man whom grown-up people love, children love still more.--_Jean Paul_. 56. There are in man, in the beginning, and at the end, two blank book-binder's leaves,--childhood and age.--_Jean Paul_. 57. We are children for the second time at twenty-one, and again when we are gray and put all our burden on the Lord.--_Barrie_. 58. We bend the tree when it is young.--_Bulgarian_. 59. When bairns are young they gar their parents' heads ache; when they are auld they make their hearts break.--_Scotch_. 60. When children, we are sensualists, when in love, idealists. --_Goethe_. 61. Wie die Alten sungen, so zwitschern auch die Jungen. [As the old birds sing, the young ones twitter.]--_German_. 62. Wir sind auch Kinder gewesen. [We too were once children.] --_German_. 63. Young men think that old men are fools; but old men know young men are fools.--_Chapman_. 64. Youth is a blunder; manhood, a struggle; old age, a regret. --_Disraeli_. 65. Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short; Youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and age is tame.--_Shakespeare_. CHAPTER XXXII. PBOVEKBS, SAYINGS, ETC., ABOUT THE CHILD AND CHILDHOOD. 1. A beltless bairn cannot lie.--_Scotch._ 2. A burnt child dreads the fire. 3. A child is a Cupid become visible.--_Novalis._ 4. A daft nurse makes a wise wean.--_Scotch._ 5. A growing youth has a wolf in his belly. 6. A hungry belly has no ears. 7. A lisping lass is good to kiss. 8. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. 9 An infant crying in the night, An infant crying for the light; And with no language but a cry.--_Tennyson._ 10. A pet lamb makes a cross ram. 11. A reasonable word should be received even from a child or a parrot.--_Sanskrit._ 12. A simple child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?--_Wordsworth._ 13. As sair greets [as much weeps] the bairn that's paid at e'en as he that gets his whawks in the morning.--_Scotch._ 14. A tarrowing bairn was never fat.--_Scotch._ 15. Auld men are twice bairns.--_Scotch._ 16. Auld wives and bairns make fools of physicians.--_Scotch._ 17. Bairns are certain care, but nae sure joy.--_Scotch._ 18. Be born neither wise nor fair, but lucky.--_Russian._ 19. Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law, Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.--_Pope._ 20. Better be unborn than untaught.--_Gaelic_. 21. Birth's good, but breeding's better.--_Scotch_. 22. Bon sang ne peut mentir. Qui naquit chat court après les souris. [Good blood cannot lie. The kitten will chase the mouse.]--_French_. 23. Broken bread makes hale bairns.--_Scotch_. 24. By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd, The sports of children satisfy the child.--_Goldsmith_. 25. Çe que l'enfant entend au foyer, est bientôt connu jusqu'au Moistre. [What children hear at the fireside is soon known as far as Moistre (a town in Savoy).]--_French_. 26. Che nasce bella nasce maritata. [A beautiful girl is born married.]--_Italian_. 27. Childhood and youth see the world in persons.--_Emerson_. 28. Childhood is the sleep of Reason.--_Rousseau_. 29. Children and chickens are always a-picking. 30. Children and drunken people tell the truth. 31. Children and fools speak the truth.--_Greek_. 32. Children and fools have many lives. 33. Children are certain sorrows, but uncertain joys.--_Danish_. 34. Children are the poor man's wealth.--_Danish_. 35. Children are very nice observers, and they will often perceive your slightest defects.--_Fénelon_. 36. Children cry for nuts and apples, and old men for gold and silver. 37. Children have more need of models than of critics.--_Jouberi_. 38. Children have wide ears and long tongues. 38a. Children increase the cares of life, but they mitigate the remembrance of death. 39. Children, like dogs, have so sharp and fine a scent, that they detect and hunt out everything--the bad before all the rest.--_Goethe_. 40. Children of wealth, or want, to each is given One spot of green, and all the blue of heaven.--_Holmes_. 41. Children pick up words as chickens peas, And utter them again as God shall please. 42. Children should have their times of being off duty, like soldiers.--_Ruskin_. 43. Children to bed, and the goose to the fire. 44. Children should laugh, but not mock; and when they laugh, it should not be at the weaknesses and faults of others.--_Buskin._ 45. Children sweeten labours, but they make misfortunes more bitter.--Bacon. 46. Children tell in the streets what they hear round the hearth.--_Portuguese._ 47. Das kann ein Kind machen. [A child can do that--that is very easy.]--_German._ 48. Das Kind mit dem Bade verschutten. [To throw away the child with the bath--to reject the good along with the bad.]--_German._ 49. Dat is en kinnerspil. [That's child's play--very easy.] --_Frisian._ 50. Dat lutjeste un lefste. [The youngest and dearest.] --_Frisian._ 51. Dawted [i.e. petted] bairns dow bear little.--_Scotch._ 52. Dawted dochters mak' dawly [slovenly] wives.--_Scotch._ 53. Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot.--_Thomson._ 54. De wesen wil bemint, de nem sin naver kind. [Who would be loved, let him take his neighbour's child.]--Frisian. 55. Die Kinder sind mein liebster Zeitvertreib. [Children are my dearest pastime.]--_Chamisso._ 56. Dochders zijn broze waaren. [Daughters are brittle ware.]--_Dutch._ 57. Do not meddle wi' the de'il and the laird's bairns.--_Scotch._ 58. Do not talk of a rape [rope] to a chiel whose father was hangit.--_Scotch._ 59. Do not train boys to learning by force or harshness; but direct them to it by what amuses their minds, so that you may be the better able to discover with accuracy the peculiar bent of the genius of each.--_Plato._ 60. Education begins its work with the first breath of life. --_Jean Paul._ 61. Education commences at the mother's knee, and every word spoken within the hearing of little children tends towards the formation of character.--_Ballou._ 62. Eet maar Brod, dann wardst du grôt. [Eat bread and you'll grow.]--_Frisian_. 63. Ein Kind, kein Kind, zwei Kind, Spielkind, drei Kind, viel Kind, vier Kind, ein ganzes Hausvoll Kinder. [One child, no child; two children, playing children; three children, many children; four children, a whole house full of children.]--_German_ (with numerous variants). 64. Ein Laster kostet mehr als zwei Kinder. [One crime costs more than two children.]--_German_. 65. Es ist besser zehn Kinder gemacht, als ein einziges umgebracht. [It is better to have made ten children than to have destroyed one.]--_German_. 66. Fools and bairns shouldna see things half done.--_Scotch_. 67. Fools with bookish learning are children with edged tools; they hurt themselves, and put others in pain.--_Zimmermann_. 68. Fremde Kinder, wir lieben sie nie so sehr als die eignen. [We never love the children of others so well as our own.]--_Goethe_. 69. Fremde Kinder werden wohl erzogen. [Other people's children are well brought up.]--_German_. 70. Gie a bairn his will, And a whelp his fill, Nane o' them will e'er do well.--_Scotch_. 71. Give a child till he craves, and a dog while his tail doth wag, and you'll have a fair dog, but a foul knave. 72. Gie a dog an ill name and he'll soon be hanged.--_Scotch_. 73. God is kind to fou [_i.e._ drunken] folk and bairns.--_Scotch_. 74. God ne'er sent the mouth but He sent the meat wi't.--_Scotch_. 75. God watches over little children and drunkards.--_Russian_. 76. Gude bairns are eith [easy] to lear [teach].--_Scotch_. 77. Happy is he that is happy in his children. 78. He who sends mouths will send meat. 79. Heimerzogen Kind ist bei den Leuten wie ein Rind. [A home-bred child acts like a cow.]--_German_. 80. He that's born to be hanged will never be drowned. 81. He that is born under a tippeny [two-penny] planet will ne'er be worth a groat.--_Scotch_. 82. I cuori fanciulli non veston a bruno. [A child's heart puts on no mourning.]--_Zendrini._ 83. If our child squints, our neighbour's has a cast in both eyes. 84. Ill bairns are best heard at hame.--_Scotch._ 85. It is the squalling child that gets the milk.--_Turkish._ 86. Je lieberes Kind, je scharfere Rute. [The dearer the child, the sharper the rod.]--_German._ 87. Kinder hat man, Kinder kriegt man. [Children bring children.]--_German._ 88. Kinder kommen von Herzen und gehen zu Herzen. [Children come from the heart, and go to the heart.]--_German._ 89. Kinder und Bienstocke nehmen bald ab bald zu. [Children and bee-hives now decrease, now increase.]--_German._ 90. Kind's hand is ball fullt, Kind's zurn is ball stillt. [A child's hand is soon filled, A child's anger is soon stilled.]--_Low German._ 91. Late children are early orphans.--_Spanish._ 92. Les enfants sont ce qu'on les fait. [Children are what we make them.]--_French._ 93. Let thy child's first lesson be obedience, and the second will be what thou wilt.--_Franklin._ 94. Liebe Kinder haben viele Namen. [Dear children have many names.]--_German._ 95. Lieber ungezogene, als verzogene Kinder. [Better unbred children than ill-bred ones.]--_German._ 96. Like the wife wi' the mony daughters, the best comes hindmost.--_Scotch._ 97. Little pitchers have big ears. 98. Little ones are taught to be proud of their clothes before they can put them on.--_LocJce._ 99. Lutze potten hebben ok oren [i.e. little children have ears].--_Low German._ 100. Man is wholly man only when he plays.--_Schiller._ 101. Maxima debetur pueris reverentia. [The greatest respect is due to boys (youth).]--_Juvenal._ 102. Men are generally more careful of the breed of their horses and dogs than of their children.--_William Penn._ 103. Mony a ane kisses the bairn for love of the nurice.--_Scotch._ 104. More children, more luck.--_German._ 105. Nessuno nasce maestro. [No one is born master.]--_Italian._ 106. 'N gôd Kind, wen't slöpt. [A good child, when it sleeps.] --_Frisian._ 107. O banish the tears of children! Continual rains upon the blossoms are hurtful.--_Jean Paul._ 108. O formose puer, nimium ne crede colori. [Oh, beauteous boy, trust not too much to thy rosy cheeks.]--_Virgil._ 109. Of bairns' gifts ne'er be fain, Nae sooner they give but they seek them again.--_Scotch._ 110. One chick keeps a hen busy. 111. Our young men are terribly alike.--_Alex. Smith._ 112. Pars minima est ipsa puella sui. [The girl herself is the smallest part of herself.]--_Ovid._ 113. Parvum parva decent. [Small things become the small.] --_Horace._ 114. Play is the first poetry of the human being.--_Jean Paul._ 115. Qui aime bien, châtie bien. [Who loves well chastises well.]--_French._ 116. Qui parcit virgæ odit filium. [Who spareth the rod hateth his child.]--_Latin._ 117. Reckless youth maks ruefu' eild [age].--_Scotch._ 118. Royet [wild] lads may make sober men.--_Scotch._ 119. Rule youth well, for eild will rule itself.--_Scotch._ 120. Salt and bread make the cheeks red.--_German._ 121. Seven nurses cost the child an eye.--_Russian._ 122. Small birds [_i.e._ children] must have meat. 123. Sores are not to be shown to flies, and children are not to be taught to lie.--_Malay._ 124. Spare the rod and spoil the child. 125. Teach your children poetry; it opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom, and makes the heroic virtues hereditary.--_Mahomet._ 126. Tenez la bride haute à votre fils. [Keep a tight rein over your son.]--_French._ 127. That's the piece a step-bairn never gat.--_Scotch._ 128. The bairn speaks in the field what he hears at the fireside. --_Scotch._ 129. The bearing and the training of a child is woman's wisdom. --_Tennyson._ 130. The best horse needs breeding and the aptest child needs teaching.--_Arabic._ 131. The boy's will is the wind's will.--_Lapp._ 132. The chief art is to make all that children have to do sport and play.--_Locke._ 133. The child says nothing but what he heard at the fireside. --_Spanish._ 134. The de'il's bairns hae the de'il's luck.--_Scotch._ 135. The heart is a child; it desires what it sees.--_Turkish._ 136. The heart of childhood is all mirth.--_Keble._ 137. The king is the strength of the weak; crying is the strength of children.--_Sanskrit._ 138. The right law of education is that you take the best pains with the best material.--_Ruskin._ 139. The spring is the youth of trees, wealth is the youth of men, beauty is the youth of women, intelligence is the youth of the young.--_Sanskrit._ 140. The plays of children are the germinal leaves of all later life.--_Froebel._ 141. The time of breeding is the time of doing children good. --_George Herbert._ 142. They were scant o' bairns that brought you up.--_Scotch._ 143. The youth gets together his materials to build a bridge to the moon, or perchance a palace on the earth; at length middle-aged, he concludes to build a woodshed with them.--_Thoreau._ 144. They who educate children well are more to be honoured than they who produce them; these gave them life only, those the art of well-living.--_Aristotle._ 145. To a child all weather is cold. 146. To endure is the first and most necessary lesson a child has to learn.--_Rousseau._ 147. To write down to children's understandings is a mistake; set them on the scent, and let them puzzle it out.--_Scott._ 148. Un enfant brûlé craint le feu. [A burnt child dreads the fire.]--_French._ 149. Ungezogene Kinder gehen zu Werk wie Binder. [Unbred children go to work like cattle.]--_German._ 150. Viel Kinder viel Vaterunser, viel Vaterunser viel Segen. [Many children, many Paternosters; many Paternosters, many blessings.]--_German_. 151. We ought not to teach the children the sciences, but give them a taste for them.--_Rousseau_. 152. Wen de gôsen wâter sên, dan willen se drinken. [When the geese (_i.e._ children) see water, they want to drink.]--_Frisian_. 153. Wenn das Kind ertrunken ist, deckt man den Brunnen. [When the child is drowned, the well is covered.]--_German_. 154. Wenn Kinder und Narren zu Markte gehen, lösen die Krämer Geld. [When children and fools go to market, the dealers make money.]--_German_. 155. Wenn Kinder wohl schreien, so lebeu sie lange. [When children cry well, they live long.]--_German_. 156. Wer wil diu kint vraget, der wil si liegen leren. [Who asks children many questions teaches them to lie.]--_Old High German_. 157. What children hear at home soon flies abroad. 158. When children remain quiet, they have done something wrong. 159. Women and bairns lein [hide] what they ken not.--_Scotch_. 160. Women and children should retire when the sun does. --_Portuguese_. 161. You should lecture neither child nor woman.--_Russian_. _Index to Proverbs, etc._ Following is an index of peoples and authors for the foregoing proverbs and sayings (the references are to pages):-- _A, PEOPLES._ Afghan, 377,379,385,389. Angolese, 385,386,387,391. Arabic, 388,400. Badaga, 384. Basque, 382,387. Bulgarian, 393. Chinese, 377. Danish, 377,378,395. Dutch, 391,392,396. Egyptian, 381. English, 376,377,380,382,383,384,385,387,388,390,392,393,394, 395,396,397,398,399,400,401. French, 379,380,383,385,388,395,398,399,400. Frisian, 380,385,392,396,397,399,401. Gaelic, 376,395. German,378,380,382,383,384,385,387,388,390,392,393,396,397,398, 399,400,401. Greek, 393,395. Hebrew, 383. Hindu, 377. Italian, 383,385,387,388,391,393,395,399. Lapp, 400. Latin, 380, 385, 388, 399. Low German, 377, 382, 389, 392, 398. Malay, 399. Oriental, 377. Persian, 382. Portuguese, 383,396, 401. Roman, 378. Russian, 376, 380, 383, 384, 385, 387, 394, 397, 399, 401. Sanskrit, 377, 382, 394, 400. Scotch, 380, 382, 383, 385, 388, 390, 391, 392, 393, 394, 395, 396, 397, 398, 399, 400, 401. Spanish, 377, 384, 388, 398. Telugu, 386. Turkish, 377, 398, 400. B, AUTHORS, ETC. Alcibiades, 383. Aristotle, 400. Auerbach, 378, 389. Bacon, 377, 379, 380, 388, 396. Ballon, 396. Barrie, 392, 393. Beecher, 377, 383. Bible, 377, 378, 388. Blake, 391. Burns, 381. Carlyle, 380. Chamisso, 396. Chapman, 393. Cicero, 380. Coleridge, 379, 380. Cornelia, 378. Cowper, 380. Dante, 379. Dickens, 381. Disraeli, 393. Dryden, 379, 380. Emerson, 379, 380, 381, 390, 393, 395. Eötvös, 376. Euripides, 389. Fénelon, 395. Franklin, 398. Froebel, 400. Goethe, 378, 379, 380, 381, 385, 389, 390, 392, 393, 395, 397. Goldsmith, 395. Haliburton, 383. Hare, 379, 383. Hazlitt, 381. Herbert, 387, 400. Hitopadesa, 377, 385. Holmes, 395. Horace, 376, 399. Hugo, 384. Hunt, 378, 381. Jean Paul, 376, 380, 384, 385, 386, 389, 392, 393, 396, 399. Jesus, 377, 379, 381. Johnson, 377. Joubert, 395. Juvenal, 398. Keble, 384, 385, 400. La Bruyère, 377. Lacretelle, 383. Landor, 393. Langdale, 383. La Rochefoucauld, 392. Lessing, 392. Locke, 398, 400. Mahomet, 399. Manu, 377. Menander, 380. Milton, 381, 390. Napoleon, 385. Novalis, 394. Ovid, 391, 399. Penn, 398. Pfeffel, 391. Phædrus, 377. Pistorius, 376. Plato, 396. Pope, 394. Raghuvansa, 388. Rousseau, 395, 400, 401. Rückert, 391. Ruskin, 378, 379, 381, 390, 395, 396, 400. Schiller, 381, 391, 398. Schopenhauer, 379. Scott, 400. Shakespeare, 381, 387, 388, 392, 393. Shirley, 387. Sidney, 391. Simons, 381. Smith, 399. Socrates, 392. Southey, 376. Spurgeon, 388. Svetchin, 392. Swift, 392. Talmud, 389, 392. Tennyson, 384, 394, 400. Terence, 390. Thomson, 396. Thoreau, 400. Veda, 388. Virgil, 399. Weber, 376. West, 382. Wordsworth, 380, 381, 388, 394. Young, 387. Zachari, 380. Zendrini, 398. Zimmermann, 397. For the collection of proverbs and sayings here given, the writer acknowledges his indebtedness to the numerous dictionaries of quotations and proverbs, of which he has been able to avail himself. CHAPTER XXXIII. CONCLUSION. In these pages the "Child in Primitive Culture" has been considered in many lands and among many peoples, and the great extent of the activities of childhood among even the lowest races of men fully demonstrated. That the child is as important to the savage, to the barbarous peoples, as to the civilized, is evident from the vast amount of lore and deed of which he is the centre both in fact and in fiction. The broader view which anthropologists and psychologists are coming to take of the primitive races of man must bring with it a larger view of the primitive child. Still less than the earliest men, were their children, mere animals; indeed, possibly, nay even probably, the children of primitive man, while their childhood lasts, are the equals, if not the superiors, of those of our own race in general intellectual capacity. With the savage as with the European of to-day, the "child is father of the man." The primitive child, as language and folk-lore demonstrate, has been weighed, measured, and tested physically and mentally by his elders, much as we ourselves are doing now, but in ruder fashion--there are primitive anthropometric and psychological laboratories as proverb and folk-speech abundantly testify, and examinations as harassing and as searching as any we know of to-day. Schools, nay primitive colleges, even, of the prophets, the shamans, and the _magi_, the race has had in earlier days, and everywhere through the world the activities of childhood have been appealed to, and the race has wonderfully profited by its wisdom, its _naïveté_, its ingenuity, and its touch of divinity. Upon, language, religion, society, and the arts the child has had a lasting influence, both passive and active, unconscious, suggestive, creative. History, the stage, music, and song have been its debtors in all ages and among all peoples. To the child language owes many of its peculiarities, and the multiplicity of languages perhaps their very existence. Religion has had the child long as its servant, and from the faith and confidence of youth and the undying mother-love have sprung the thought of immortality and the Messiah-hope that greets us all over the globe. Even among the most primitive races, it is the children who are "of the Kingdom of Heaven," and the "Fall of Man" is not from a fabled Garden of Eden, but from the glory of childhood into the stern realities of manhood. As a social factor the child has been of vast importance; children have sat upon thrones, have dictated the policies of Church and of State, and from them the wisest in the land have sought counsel and advice. As oracles, priests, shamans, and _thaumaturgi_, children have had the respect and veneration of whole peoples, and they have often been the very mouth-piece of deity, standing within the very gates of heaven. As hero and adventurer, passing over into divinity, the child has explored earth, sea, and sky, descending into nethermost hell to rescue the bones of his father, and setting ajar the gates of Paradise, that the radiant glory may be seen of his mother on earth. Finally, as Christ sums up all that is divine in men, so does the Christ-Child sum up all that is God- like in the child. The Man-Jesus stands at the head of mankind, the Child-Jesus is the first of the children of men. All the activities and callings of the child, the wisdom, the beauty, the innocence of childhood find in folk-belief and folk-faith their highest, perfect expression in the Babe of Bethlehem. True is it as ten thousand years ago:-- "Before life's sweetest mystery still The heart in reverence kneels; The wonder of the primal birth The latest mother feels." Motherhood and childhood have been the world's great teachers, and the prayer of all the race should be:-- "Let not (the) cultured years make less The childhood charm of tenderness." BIBLIOGRAPHY. 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Paris, 1886. 489 pp. 12mo. 162. VOLKOV, T.: Rites et usages nuptiaux en Ukraine. _Anthropologie_ (Paris). Vol. II. (1891), pp. 537-587; Vol. III. (1892), pp. 541-588. 163. WAKE, C. S.: The Development of Marriage and Kinship. London, 1889. 164. WASSEKZIEHER, DK.: Das Weib in der Sprache. _Am Ur-Quell,_ III. Bd., S. 214-215. 165. WEINHOLD, K.: Die deutschen Frauen in dem Mittelalter. 2 Bde. 2. Aufl. Wien, 1882. 166. WESTERMARCK, C.: The History of Human Marriage. 2d ed. London and New York, 1894. xx, 644 pp. 8vo. 167. WIEDEMANN, A.: Die Milchverwandschaft im alten Aegypten. _Am. Ur-Quell._ III. Bd. (1892), S. 260-267. 168. WILKEN, G. A.: Das Matriarchat bei den alten Arabern. (Germ. Trans.) Leipzig, 1884. 169. WINTERNITZ, M.: On a Comparative Study of Indo-European Customs with Special Reference to the Marriage Customs. _Trans. Intern. Folk-Lore, Congr._ London, 1891. 170. WLISLOCKI, H. v.: Aus dem Volksleben der Magyaren. Ethnologische Mittheilungen. München, 1893. 171. WLISLOCKI, H. v.: Volksglaube und Volksbrauch der Siebenbürger Sachsen. Berlin, 1893. 172. WLISLOCKI, H. v.: Die Stamm-und Familienverhältnisse der transsilvanischen Zeltzigeuner. _Globus_. L. Bd. (1888), S. 183 fl. 173. ZANETTI, Z.: La medicina delle nostre donne. Studio folklorico. Castello, 1892. xviii, 271 pp. 8vo. 174. ZMIGRODZKI, M. v.: Die Mutter bei den Völkern des arisehen Stammes. Eine anthropologisch-historische Skizze als Beitrag zur Lösung der Frauenfrage. München, 1886. 444 S. 8vo. 175. ZUCCARELLI, A.: Divorzio e scienza antropologica. Napoli, 1893. 46 pp. Following is a subject-index to the titles of Section A:-- Abnormal and delinquent, 49, 86, 104, 110, 116, 185, 148, 144, 148, l57. Africa, 14, 48. Amazons, 154. American Indians, 13, 27, 51, 52, 63, 69, 72, 73. Arabia, 80a, 151, 168. Assyria, 138. Australia, 54, 55-57. Babylonia, 74, 138. Celibacy, 71, 94. Ceylon, 10. Child-birth, l6a, 43, 48, 83. China, 81, 123. Chirography, 65, 66. Divorce, 15, 25a, 47, 106, 183, 175. Egypt, 19, 88. Epigram, 17, 45, 122, 126. Esthonian, 145. Evolution, 36, 37. Family, 26, 32, 44, 68, 76, 89, 92, 99, 103, 119, 123, 128, 139, 140, 151, 152, 163, 166, 169. Father, 114, 130a, 151. Father-right, 9, 82, 80, 114. Fiji, l6a. France, 85, 160. Gender, 3, 68. Germany, 29, 81, 54, 98, 141, 165. Girls, 7, 54, 116. Gypsies, 172. India, 5, 16, 85. Italy, 33, 173. Japan, 7, 78, 105. Jews, 12, 41, 102. Language, 19, 74, 158, 164. Literature, 78, 126. Magyars, 170. Man, names for, 158. Marriage, 1, 10, 12, 13, 25a, 30, 31, 33, 41, 55-57, 68, 69, 72, 73, 88, 91, 98, 99, 102, 106, 109, 115, 141, 145, 151, 161-163, 166, 169. Medicine, 173. Mexico, 8. Morals, 96. Mordwins, 109. Mother, 4, 39, 67, 150, 156, 174. Matriarchate and mother-right, 6, 9, 31, 32, 80, 168. Mother and child, 27. Mother-in-law, 17, 58. Mourning, 16. Mummy, 19. New Britain, 30. Old maids, 71. Oriental, 159. Papua, 139. Poetry of motherhood, 39. Poets, 22, 149. Polyandry, 5, 40. Proverbs, 45, 132, 133. Relationship, 13, 41, 108, 118, 147, 167. Religion, 73, 124. Rome, 92, 159. Royalty, 75. Russia, 84, 136. Samoa, 89. Satire, 17, 45. Scotland, 134. Servia, 140. Sex-relations, 20, 28, 42, 46, 53, 54, 59, 60, 62, 64, 86, 90, 110, 120, 125, 128, 135, 137, 143, 144, 157, 161. Siberia, 11. Slavonic, 87, 88. Sociology, 8, 25, 85, 51, 52, 81, 82, 84, 95, 100, 101, 107, 117, 127, 130, 184, 136, 138, 170, 172. Tibet, 5. Transylvania, 171, 172. Turkey, 61, 80a. Ukraine, 167. United States, 25a. Woman, names for, 164. Woman's position and labours, 2, 11, 21-24, 29, 34, 88, 46, 50, 61, 69, 77, 78, 80a, 85, 97, 104, 105, 111-118, 121, 122, 125, 132, 146, 158, 155, 160, 165. _B_. CHILDREN, CHILDHOOD, CHILD-LIFE, ETC. 176. "A.," and MENELLA SMEDLEY: Poems Written for a Child. 177. "A.," and MENELLA SMEDLEY: The Child's World. 178. ADAMS, J. D.: Child-Life and Girlhood of Remarkable Women. New York, 1894. 179. 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Würzburg, 1882. xiii, 156 S. 8vo. 186. BOAS, F.: The Game of Cat's Cradle. _Intern. Arch. f. Ethnogr._ I. Bd. (1888), S. 229. 187. BOLTON, H. C.: The Counting-Out Rhymes of Children, their Antiquity, Origin, and Wide Distribution. A Study in Folk-Lore. New York, 1888. ix, 123 pp. Gr. 8vo. 188. BONFIGLI, C.: Dei fattori sociali della pazzia in rapporto con l'educazione infantile. Roma, 1894. 189. BRAMHALL, MAE ST. JOHN: The Wee Ones of Japan. New York, 1894. 137pp. 12mo. 190. BRAMLEY, H. R., and JOHN STAINER: Christmas Carols New and Old. London, n.d. 94 pp. 191. BREWER, E. C.: A Dictionary of Miracles. London, 1884. xliv, 582 pp. 8vo. 192. BREWER, W. H.: The Instinctive Interest of Children in Bear and Wolf Stories. _Proc. Amer. Ass. Adv. Sci._ Vol. XLII. (1893), Salem, 1894, pp. 309-311. 193. BRINTON, D. G.: On the Physiological Correlations of Certain Linguistic Radicals. _Amer. Orient. Soc. Proc._, March, 1894, pp. cxxxiii-iv. 194. BROWN, H. W.: Some Records of the Thoughts and Reasonings of Children. From the Collection of Observations at the State Normal School at Worcester, Mass. _Pedag. Sem._ Vol. II. (1893), pp. 358-396. 195. BULWER-LYTTON, E. R.: Fables in Song. London, 1874. 196. BYJRNHAM, W. H.: The Study of Adolescence. _Pedag. Sem._ Vol. I. (1891), pp. 174-198. 197. CAMPBELL HELEN: Child-Life in the Slums of New York. _Demorest's Fam. Mag._ (New York), 1892. 198. CARSTENS, H.: Die Schwalbe im Volksmunde und im Kinderlied. _Am. Urdhs-Brunnen._ II. Bd., S. 240-242. 198 a. CARSTENS, H.: Der Storch als heiliger Vogel im Volksmund und im Kinderlied. _Am Urdhs-Srunnen._ Heft 1, 1881, S. 12-14. 199. CARSTENSEN, H. H.: A B C Spiel. _Am Ur-Quell._ IV. Bd. (1893), S. 55, 150, 260; V. Bd. (1894), S. 114, 192, 290; VI. Bd. (1895), 42-3. 200. CHAMBERLAIN, A. F.: Notes on Indian Child-Language. _Amer. Anthr._ Vol. III. (1890), pp. 237-241. 201. CHAMBERLAIN, A. F.: Further Notes on Indian Child-Language. _Ibid._ Vol. VI. (1893), pp. 321-322. 202. CHAMBERLAIN, A. F.: The Use of Diminutives in -_ing_ by Some Writers in Low German Dialects. _Public. Mod. Lung. Asso. Amer._ Vol. VII. (1892), pp. 212-247. 203. CHAMBERLAIN, A. F.: The Coyote and the Owl (Tales of the Kootenay Indians). _Mem. Intern. Congr. Anthr._ (1893), Chicago, 1894, pp. 282-284. 204. CHAMBERLAIN, A. F.: Human Physiognomy and Physical Characteristics in Folk-Lore and Folk-Speech. _Journ. Amer. Folk-Lore._ Vol. VI. (1893), pp. 13-24. 205. CHERVIN, A.: Faut-il conper le frein de la Langue (Extr. de _La Voix Parlée et Chantée_, frévrier, 1894). Paris, 1894. 16 pp. 206. CHRISMAN, O.: Secret Language of Children. _Science_ (New York). Vol. XXII. (1893), pp. 303-305. 207. Christmas with the Poets. London, n.d. x, 202 pp. 208. CLEVELAND, DUCHESS OF: The True Story of Kaspar Hauser. From Official Documents. London and New York, 1893. 122pp. Sm. 8vo. 209. COFFIGNON, A.: L'Enfant à Paris. Paris, 1890. xxii, 440 pp. 210. CORIVEAU, A.: La Santé de nos Enfants. Paris, 1890. 288 pp. 8vo. 211. CUIR, A. F.: Les Petits Écoliers. Lectures morales sur les Défauts et les Qualités des Enfants. Paris, 1893. 12mo. 212. CULIN, S.: Street Games of Brooklyn. _Journ. Amer. Folk-Lore._ Vol. IV. (1891), pp. 221-236. 213. CULIN, S.: Exhibit of Games in the Columbian Exposition. _Ibid._ Vol. VI. (1893), pp. 205-227. 214. DANIELS, A. H.: The New Life: A Study of Regeneration (Repr. from _Amer. Journ. Psych._, Vol. VI., 1893, pp. 61-106). Worcester, Mass., 1893. 48 pp. 8vo. 215. DENEUS, CLÉMENT.: De la Réserve héréditaire des Enfants (Art. 913 du code civil). Étude historique, philosophique et économique. Gand, Paris, 1894. xvii, 231 pp. 8vo. 216. DONALDSON, H. H.: Education of the Nervous System. _Educ. Rev_. (New York). Vol. IX. (1895), pp. 105-121. 217. DORSET, J. O.: Games of the Teton-Dakota Children. _Amer. Anthr_. Vol. IV. (1891), pp. 329-345. 218. DRAGOMANO, M.: Slavonic Folk-Tales about the Sacrifice of One's Own Children. (Transl. O. Wardrop). _Journ. Anthr. Inst_. (London). Vol. XXI. (1892), pp. 456-469. 219. DREYLING, G.: Die Ausdrucksweise der übertriebenen Verkleinerung im altfränzösichen Karlepos. Marburg, 1888. 220. DÜRINGSFELD, J. V., und O. V. REINSBERG-DÜRINGSFELD: Sprichwörter sammlung. 6 Bde. (Das Sprichwort als Kosmopolit. 3 Bde. Intern. Titulaturen. 2 Bde. Das Kind im Sprichwort). Leipzig, 1863-1864. 8vo. 221. EARLE, ALICE M.: Customs and Fashions in Old New England. [Chapter I., pp. 1-35, Child-Life.] New York, 1893. iii, 387 pp. 8vo. 222. EASTMAN, C. A.: Recollections of Wild-Life. III. Games and Sports. _St. Nicholas_ (New York). Vol. XXI. (1893-4), pp. 306-308. 223. EELLS, M.: Twins among Indians of Puget Sound. _Science_ (New York). Vol. XX. (1892), p. 192. 224. ELIOT, S.: Poetry for Children. Boston, [1879]. xii, 327 pp. Sm. 8vo. 225. ENFANT (L') chez les sauvages et chezles civilisés. _Revue Britannique_, Nov., 1880. 226. FEWKES, J. W.: Dolls of the Tusayan Indians (Repr. fr. _Intern. Arch. f. Ethnogr_., VII. Bd., 1894, pp. 45-73). Leiden, 1894. 30 pp. 4to. Five coloured plates. 226 a. FIELD, EUGENE: Love Songs of Childhood. Chicago, 1895. 227. FLETCHER, ALICE C.: Glimpses of Child-Life among the Omaha Indians. _Journ. Amer. Folk-Lore_. Vol. I. (1888), pp. 115-123. 228. FLOWER, B. O.: Lust Fostered by Legislation. _Arena_ (Boston). Vol. XI. (1895), pp. 167-175. 229. FLOWER, W. H.: Fashion in Deformity. London, 1881. 85 pp. 8vo. 230. FORD, R.: Ballads of Bairnhood. Selected and edited with notes by Robert Ford. Paisley, 1894. xix, 348 pp. 8vo. 231. FOSTER, MARY J. C.: The Kindergarten of the Church. New York, 1894. 227 pp. 8vo. 232. FRACASETTI, L.: I giovani nella vita pubblica. Conferenza. Udine, 1893. 233. FROEBEL, F.: Mother's Songs, Games, and Stories. Froebel. Mutter- und Kose-Lieder rendered in English by Frances and Emily Lord. New and revised edition. London, 1890. xxxvi, 212 + 75 (music) pp. 8vo. 234. FURNIVALL, F. J.: Child-Marriages, Divorces, Ratifications, etc. In the Diocese of Chester, A.D. 1561-6. Depositions in Trials in the Bishop's Court, Chester, concerning: 1. Child-Marriages, Divorces, and Ratifications. 2. Trothplights. 3. Adulteries. 4. Affiliations. 5. Libels. 6. Wills. 7. Miscellaneous Matters. 8. Clandestine Marriages. Also Entries from the Mayors' Books, Chester, A.D. 1558-1600. Edited from the MS. written in court while the witnesses made their depositions, and from the Mayors' Books. London, 1897 [1894]. lxxxviii, 256 pp. 8vo. 235. GAIDOZ, H.: Un vieux rite médical. Paris, 1892. ii, 85 pp. Sm. 8vo. 236. GAIDOZ, H.: Ransom by Weight. _Am Ur-Quell_. II. Bd. (1891), S. 39-42, 59-61, 74-75. 237. GAIDOZ, H., et M. PEKDRIZET: La Mesure du Cou. _Mélusine_ (Paris). Tome VI. (1893), No. 10. See also _Amer. Anthr_., VI. (1893), p. 408. 238. GARBINI, A.: Evoluzione della Voce nella Infanzia. Verona, 1892. 53 pp. 8vo. 239. GATSCHET, A. S.: A Mythic Tale of the Isleta Indians: The Race of the Antelope and the Hawk around the Horizon. _Proc. Amer. Philos. Soc._ (Philadelphia). Vol. XXIX., pp. 208-218. 240. GESSMANN, G. W.: Die Kinderhand und ihre Bedeutung für Erziehung und Berufswahl. Eine physioguomische Studie. Berlin, 1894. 88 S. 8vo. 31 Abbild. 241. GILL, V. W.: Child-Birth Customs of the Loyalty Islands. _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ (London). Vol. XIX. (1890), pp. 503-505. 242. GOMME, ALICE B.: Children's Singing Games with the Tunes to which they are sung. Collected and edited by Alice B. Gomme. London and New Tork, 1894. 243. GOMME, ALICE B.: The International Games of England, Scotland, and Ireland, with Tunes, Singing Rhymes, and Method of Playing according to the variants extant and recorded in different parts of the Kingdom. Vol. I. According ... Nuts in May. London, 1894. xix, 453 pp. 8vo. 244. GORE, J. H.: The Go-Backs. _Journ. Amer. Folk-Lore._ Vol. V. (1892), pp. 107-109. 245. GRIFFIS, W. E.: Japanese Fairy World. Schenectady, N.Y., 1880. vii, 304 pp. 12mo. 246. GREGOR, W.: Notes on the Folk-Lore of the North-East of Scotland. London, 1881. xii, 238 pp. 8vo. [Chap. I., pp. 4-6, Birth; II., 7-10, The Child; III., 11-13, Baptism; IV., 14-20, Nursery; V., 21-24, "Boy Code of Honour."] 247. GÜLL, F.: Kinderheimat in Liedern. Volksausgabe. Gütersloh, 1875. 225 S. 8vo. 247 a. HAAS,--A.: Das Kind im Glauben und Branch der Pommern. _Am Ur-Quell._ V. Bd. (1894), 179-180, 252-255, 278-279; VI., 22-24. 248. HABERLANDT, M.: Ueber tulâpurusha der Inder. _Mitt. d. anthr. Gesellsch._ (Wien), n. F. IX. Bd. (1889), S. 160-164. 249. HALE, HORATIO: The Origin of Languages and the Antiquity of Speaking Man. Cambridge, 1886 (Repr. fr. _Proc. Am. Ass. Adv. Sci._). 47 pp. 8vo. 250. HALE, HORATIO: The Development of Language. _Proc. Canad. Inst._ (Toronto), 3 s. Vol. VI. (1888), pp. 92-134. 251. HALE, HORATIO: Language as a Test of Mental Capacity. _Trans. Roy. Soc. Canada._ Vol. IX. (1891), Sect. II., pp. 77-112. 252. HALL, G. S.: The Contents of Children's Minds on Entering School. _Pedag. Sem._ Vol. I. (1891), pp. 139-172. 252 a. HALL, G. S.: Children's Lies. _Ibid_., pp. 211-218. 253. HALL, G. S.: The Moral and Religious Training of Children and Adolescents. _Ibid_., pp. 196-210. 254. HALL, G. S.: Child-Study: The Basis of Exact Education. _Forum_ (New York). Vol. XVI. (1893-4), pp. 429-441. 255. HALL, G. S.: The Story of a Sand-Pile. _Scribner's Mag._ (New York). Vol. III. (1888), pp. 690-695. 256. HARQUEVAUX, E., et L. PELLETIER: 200 jeux d'enfants en plein air et à la maison. Paris, 1893. 257. HARRIS, W. T.: Eighth Annual Report of the Commissioner of Education, 1892. Industrial Education. Washington, 1892. 707 pp. 8vo. 257 a. HARRISON, ELIZABETH: A Study of Child-Nature from the Kindergarten Standpoint. 3d. edition. Chicago, 1891. 207 pp. 8vo. 258. HARTLAND, E. S.: The Science of Fairy Tales. An Inquiry into Fairy Mythology. London, 1891. viii, 372 pp. 8vo. 259. HARTMANN, B.: Die Analyse des kindlichen Gedankenkreises als die naturgemässige Grundlage des ersten Schulunterrichts. Zweite verm. Aufl. Annaberg i. Erzgeb., 1890. 116 S. 260. HASKELL, ELLEN M.: Imitation in Children. _Pedag. Sem._ Vol. III. (1894-5), pp. 30-47. 261. HERVEY, T. K.: The Book of Christmas. Boston, 1888. vi, 356 pp. 262. HIGGINSON, T. W.: Concerning All of Us. New York, 1893. vi, 210 pp. 12mo. [Pp. 103-109, "A Home Made Dialect."] 263. HÖFLER, M.: Die Lösung des Zungenbändchens. _Am Ur-Quell._ V. Bd. (1894), S. 191, 281. 264. HOYT, W. A.: The Love of Nature as the Root of Teaching and Learning the Sciences. _Pedag. Sem._ Vol. III. (1894-5), pp. 61-86. 265. HUGHES, J. L.: The Educational Value of Play, and the Recent Play- Movement in Germany. _Edue. Rev._ (New York). Vol. VIII., pp. 327-336. 266. HURLL, ESTELLE M.: Child-Life in Art. New York, 1894. 267. IM THURN, E. F.: Games of Guiana Indians. _Timehri_ (Georgetown). Vol. III. (1889), pp. 270-307. 268. JOCELYN, E.: The Mother's Legacy to her Unborn Child. New York, 1894. 269. JOHNSON, G. E.: Education by Plays and Games. _Pedag. Sem._ Vol. III., pp. 97-133. 270. JOHNSON, J. H.: Rudimentary Society amongst Boys. _Overl. Mo.,_ 1883 271. JOHNSON, J. H.: Judicial Procedure amongst Boys. _Ibid_., 1884. 272. JOHNSON, J. H.: Rudimentary Society among Boys (J. H. Univ. Studies ... No. XI., 2d ser.). Baltimore, 1884. 56pp. 8vo. 273. JOHNSON, J., Jr.: The Savagery of Boyhood. _Pop. Sci. Mo._ (New York). Vol. XXXI (1881), pp. 796-800. 274. KALMANT, L.: Kinderschrecker und Kinderräuber im magyarischen Volksglauben. _Ethnol. Mitt. aus Ungarn_ (Buda-Pest). III. Bd. (1893), S. 188-193. 275. KEBER, A.: Zur Philosophie der Kindersprache. Gereimtes und Un-gereimtes. Zweite verm. Aufl. Leipzig, 1890. 96 S. 8vo. 276. KIPLING, E.: The Jungle Book. New York, 1894. xvii, 303 pp. 8vo. 277. KISS, A.: Magyar gyermekjátek gyütemény [Collection of Hungarian Children's Games, etc.]. Buda-Pest, 1891. viii, 518 pp. 8vo. 278. KLEINPAUL, R.: Menschenopfer und Ritualmorde. Leipzig, 1892. 80 S. 8vo. 279. KRAUSS, F. S.: Serbischer Zauber und Brauch Kinder halber. _Am Ur-Quell_. III. Bd. (1892). S. 160-161, 276-279. 280. KRAUSS, F. S.: Haarschurgodschaft bei den Südslaven (Sep. Abdr. aus: _Intern. Arch. f. Ethnog._ VII. bd. S. 161-198). Leiden, 1894. 38 S. 48to. 281. KRAUSS, F. S.: Geheime Sprachweisen _Am Ur-Quell_. II. Bd. (1891). S. 21-23, 48-49, 65, 79-80; 98-99, 111-112, 127-128; 143-144, 187-189; III. Bd. (1892), 43-44, 106-107, 135-136, 167, 225-226, 328; IV. Bd. (1893), S. 76-78, 147; V. Bd. (1894), 74-78; VI. Bd. (1895), 37-40. 282. KEUSCHE, G.: Litteratur der weiblichen Eiziehung und Bildung in Deutschland von 1700 bis 1886. Langensalza, 1887. 43 S. 8vo. 283. KULISCHER, M.: Die Behandlung der Kinder und der Jugend auf den primitiven Kulturstufen. _Ztschr. f. Ethnol_. (Berlin), 1883. S. 191-203. 283 a. KULISCHER, M.: Eine Geschichte des Umgangs mit Kindern [in Russian]. Sslowo, 1878, H. 11. 284. KÜSTER, E.: Abergläubisches aus Schlesien [Superstitions about Childhood, Birth, Death]. _Am Urdhs-Brunnen_. IV. Bd. (1886). S. 190-191. 285. LAIBLE, H.: Jesus Christus im Thalmud. Berlin, 1891. 122 S. 8vo. 286. LAILLEMAND, L.: Histoire des Enfants abandonnés et délaissés. Études sur la protection de l'enfance aux diverses époques de la civilisation. Paris, 1885. vii, 791 pp. 8vo. 287. LALLEMAND, L.: La question des Enfants abandonnés et delaissés au XIXième Siècle. Paris, 1885. vi, 238 pp. 288. LANGE, HELENE: Higher Education of Women in Europe. New York, 1890. 186 pp. 8vo. 289. LAURIE, S. S.: Lectures on the Rise and Early Constitution of Universities, with a Survey of Mediæval Education, A.D. 200-300. London, 1886. 293 pp. 8vo. 290-296. LAURIE, S. S.: The History of Early Education. [Several Articles in the _School Review_ (Ithaca, N. Y.), Vol. I. and II., 1893-1894, dealing with Egyptian, Semitic, Assyro-Babylonian, Indo-Aryan. (Hindu, Persian, Medo-Persian), Hellenic and Roman Education]. 297. LAURIE, S. S.: Historical Survey of Pre-Christian Education. New York, 1895. 298. LEIPZIGER, H. M.: The Education of the Jews (Educ. Monogr. Publ. by the N. Y. Coll. for the Training of Teachers. Vol. III., No. 6. Nov., 1890). New York, 1890. 39pp. 8vo. 299. LETOURNEAU, M.: Les Mensurations du Cou en Bretagne et en Kabylie. _Bull. Soc. d'Anthr_. (Paris). III^e série. Tome XI. (1888), pp. 458-461, 472-473. 300. LOMBROSO, C.: The Man of Genius. London and New York, 1895. xvi, 370 pp. 301. LOMBROSO, PAOLA: Saggi di Psicologia del Bambino. Torino-Roma, 1894. xii, 284 pp. 12mo. 302. LUMMIS, C. F.: The Man who Married the Moon, and other Pueblo Indian Folk-Stories. New York, 1894. x, 239 pp. 8vo. 303. MACDONALD, A.: Abnormal Man, being Essays on Education and Crime, and Related Subjects, with Digests of Literature and a Bibliography (Bureau of Education, Circ. of Inform., No. 4, 1893). Washington, 1893. 445 pp. 8vo. 304. MAGNUS, LADY: The Boys of the Bible. London, 1894. 305. MARENHOLZ-BÜLOW, BARONESS: The Child and Child-Nature. 5th ed. London, 1890. x, 186 pp. 8vo. 306. MASON, O. T.: Cradles of the American Aborigines. _Rep. U. S. Nat. Mus_., 1886-87, pp. 161-212. 307. MAUPATÉ, L.: Recherches d'anthropologie criminelle chez l'enfant; criminalité et dégénérescence. Lyon, 1893. 228 pp. 8vo. 308. McLEAN, J. E.: Psychic View of Infant Prodigies. _Metaphys. Rev_. (New York). Vol. I. (1895), pp. 156-164. 309. MEHNERT, A.: Bin indischer Kaspar Hauser. Eine Erzählung aus dem anglo-indischen Volksleben. Dresden-Leipzig, 1893. 108 S. Kl. 8vo. 310. MILES, CAROLINE: A Study of Individual Psychology. _Amer. Journ. Psych_. Vol. VI. (1895), pp. 534-558. 311. MORENO, H. DE: La festa del natale in Sicilia. Palermo, 1893. 312. MOUTIER, A.: Contribution à l'étude de la protection de l'enfanee à Rome. Paris, 1884. 313. NEWELL, W. W.: Games and Songs of American Children. New York, 1884. xii, 242 pp. Sm. 4to. 314. NICOLAY, F.: Les enfants mal élevés. Paris, 1890. 315. ORTWEIN, F.: Deutsche Weihnachten. Der Weihnachtsfestkreis nach seiner Entstehung, seinen Sitten und Bräuchen deutscher Völker. Gotha, 1892. 133 S. 8vo. 316. OWENS, J. G.: Natal Ceremonies of the Hopi Indians. Journ. Amer. Ethn. and Arch. Vol. II. (1892), pp. 161-175. 317. Papers Relating to Infant Marriage and Enforced Widowhood in India. Calcutta, 1886. 318. Pedagogical Seminary (The). An International Record of Educational Institutions, Literature and Progress. Edited by G. Stanley Hall. Worcester, Mass. Vols. I.-III. (1891-1895). 319. PEREZ, B.: Le Caractère de l'Enfant à l'Homme. Paris, 1892. 320. PEREZ, B.: L'Art et la Poésie chez l'Enfant. Paris, 1888. 308 pp. 321. PITRÉ, G.: Usi e Credenze dei Fanciulli in Sicilia. Palermo, 1889. 16 pp. Sm. 8vo. 322. PITRÉ, G.: Mirabile facolta di alcune famiglie di guarire certe malattie. Palermo, 1889. 13 pp. Gr. 8vo. 323. PITRÉ, G.: Folk-lore giuridico dei Fanciulli in Sicilia. Palermo, 1890. 6 pp. 324. PITRÉ, G.: Il pesce d'Aprile. V. Ed. con moltiss. giunte. Palermo, 1891. 25 pp. Gr. 8vo. 325. PLOSS, H.: Das kleine Kind vom Tragbett bis zum ersten Schritt. Ueber das Legen, Tragen und Wiegen, Gehen, Stehen und Sitzen der kleinen Kinder bei verschiedenen Völkern der Erde. Leipzig, 1881. xii, 121 S. 8vo. 326. PLOSS, H.: Das Kind in Brauch und Sitte der Völker. Anthropologische Studien von Dr. H. Ploss. Zweite, neu durchges. u. stark vermehrte Aufl. Neue Ausgabe. Leipzig, 1884. 2 Bd. x, 394; iv, 478 S. 8vo. 327. POKROVSKI, E. A.: Fizicheskoe vospitanie detei u. raznich narodov preimutshestvenno Rossii; materiali dlja medico-antropologiche-skago izsledovanija [Physical Education of Children in Different Nations, especially in Russia; materials for medico-anthropological Research]. Moskva, 1884. iv, 379 pp. Fol. 328. POKROVSKI, E. A.: Pervonachalnoe fizicheskoe vospitanie dietei (po-puljarnoe nukovodsto dlja materei). [The Early Physical Education of Children (popular manual for mothers)]. Moskva, 1888. 261 pp. 8vo. 329. POKROVSKI, E. A.: Ob ucho die za malymi dietmi [on the care of little children]. Moskva, 1889. viii, 100 pp. 16mo. 330. POKROVSKI, E. A.: Detskija igry preimushestvenno russkija (V. svjazi s istorei, etnografei, pedagogiei, i gigienoi) [Children's Games, especially Russian] (from an historical, pedagogical, and hygienic point of view). Moskva, 1887. vi, 368 pp. 8vo. 331. PORTER, J. H.: Notes on the Artificial Deformation of Children among Savage and Civilized Peoples. Rep. U. S. Nat. Mus., 1886-87, pp. 213-235. 332. POST, A. H.: Mittheilungen aus dem bremischen Volkleben [Zungenübungen]. Am Ur-Quell. V. Bd. (1894). S. 176-179. 332a. PODLSSON, E.: Finger-Plays for Nursery and Kindergarten. Boston, 1893. 333. RAND, K. E.: The Childhood of an Affinity. New York, 1893. vi, 304 pp. 8vo. 334. RASSIER, M: Valeur du témoignage des enfants en justice. Lyons, 1893. 88 pp. 335. RAUBER, A.: Homo Sapiens Ferus oder die Zustände der Verwilderten in ihrer Bedeutung für Wissenschaft, Politik und Schule. Biolo-gische Untersuchung. Zweite Aufl. Leipzig, 1888. 134 S. 8vo. 336. RICCARDI, A.: Antropologia e Pedagogia. Introduzione ad una Scienza della Educazione (Osservazioni psioologiche; ricerche statistiche; misure antropologiche, ecc.). Parte Prima. Osservazioni psicologiche; ricerche statistiche e sociologiche. Modena, 1892. 172 pp. 4to. 336a. RILEY, J. W.: Rhymes of Childhood. Indianapolis, 1894. 186 pp. 8vo. 337. ROBERTSON, E. S.: The Children of the Poets. An Anthology from English and American Writers of Three Centuries. Edited with Introduction by Eric S. Eobertson. London and Neweastle-on-Tyne, 1886. xxxviii, 273 pp. 12mo. 337 a. ROBINSON, L.: The Primitive Child. _N. Amer. Rev._ (N. Y.), 1895. 338. ROMANES, G. J.: Mental Evolution in Man. New York, 1883. 338 a. ROY, RAJ COOMAR: Child Marriage in India. _N. Amer. Rev.,_ Oct., 1888, pp. 415-423. 339. [RUNKLE, K. B.]: A Collection for Christmas. The New Year. Easter. Boston, 1884. xii, 388 pp. 340. SAUBERT, DR.: Maikäfer, Frau Holle's Bote. _Am Urdhs-Brunnen._ VI. Bd. (1888-1889). S. 22-24. 341. SCHALLENBERGER, MARGARET E.: A Study of Children's Rights as seen by themselves. _Pedag. Sem._ Vol. III. (1894-1895), pp. 87-96. 342. SCHECHTER, S.: The Child in Jewish Literature. _Jewish Quarterly_ (London). Vol. II. (1889). 343. SCHELL, O.: Woher kommen die Kinder? _Am Ur-Quell._ IV. Bd. (1893), S. 224-226; V. Bd. (1894), S. 80-81, 162, 254, 255, 287. 344. SCOTT, C. N.: The Child-God in Art. _Contemp. Bev._ (London). Vol. L. (1886), pp. 97-111. 345. SCRIPTURE, E. W.: Arithmetical Prodigies. _Amer. Journ. Psychol._ Vol. IV., pp. 1-59. 346. SCUDDER, H. M.: Childhood in Greek and Roman Literature. _Atlantic Mo._ (Boston). Vol. LV., pp. 13-23. 347. SCUDDER, H. M.: Childhood in Early Christianity. _Ibid._, pp. 617-625. 348. SCUDDER, H. M.: Childhood in Medieval Art. _Ibid._, LVI. (1885), pp. 24-31. 349. SCUDDER, H. M.: Childhood in English Literature and Art. Ibid., pp. 369-380, 471-484. 349 a. SCUDDER, H. M.: Childhood in Modern Literature and Art. _Ibid._, pp. 751-767. 350. SCUDDER, H. M.: Childhood in Literature and Art, with Some Observations on Literature for Children, Boston, 1894. Cr. 8vo. 351. SESSIONS, F.: The Younger Son (Folk-Lore Topics, No. 5). Eepr. from Gloucester Journal, March 3d, 1894. Gloucester (Engld.), 1894. 8 pp. 352. SESSIONS, F.: Beating the Bounds (Folk-Lore Topics, No. 4). Eepr. from G-loucester Journ., Feb. 17, 1894. 353. SHINN, MILLICENT W.: Some Comments on Babies [of Various Eaces]. Overt. Mo. (San Francisco). Vol. XXIII (1894), pp. 2-19. 354. SOHNKEY, H.: Geburt und Taufe in der Gegend des Sollinger Waldes. Am Ur-Quell. II. Bd. (1894), S. 197-202. 355. STARR, F.: A Page of Child-Lore. Journ, Amer. Folk-Lore. Vol. IV. (1891), pp. 55-56. 356. STEEL, F. A., and E. C. TEMPLE: Wide Awake Stories. A Collection of Tales told by Little Children between Sunset and Sunrise, in the Panjab and Kashmir. Bombay, 1884. 357. STEINMETZ, S. E.: De "Fosterage" of Opvoeding in Vreemde Families [Eepr. from Tijdschr. v. Ji. Jconinkl. Nederl. Aardrijksk. Genootsch.]. Leiden, 1893. 92 pp. 8vo. 358. STEVENSON, Mrs. T. E.: The Religious Life of a ZnEi Child. Fifth Ann. Sep. Bur. of Ethnol. (Washington), pp. 533-555. 359. STEVENSON, E. L.: A Child's Garden of Verse, 1885. 360. STORK, T.: The Children of the New Testament. Philadelphia, 1856. xi, 185 pp. 8vo. 361. STRACK, H. C.: Der Blutaberglaube in der Menschheit, Blutmorde und Blutritus. Vierte neu bearb. Aufl. Mlinchen, 1892. xii, 156 S. 8vo. 361a. STRASZBURGER, B.: Geschichte der Erziehung und des Unterrichts bei dea Israeliten. Von der vortalmudischen Zeit his auf die Gegenwart. Mit einem Anhang.: Bibliographie der judischen Padagogie. Stuttgart, 1885. xv, 210 S. 362. STRETTELL, ALMA: Lullabies of Many Lands. New York, 1894. 363. STRONG, G. D.: Child-Life in Many Lands. Boston, 1870. iv, 210 pp. 8vo. 364. Studentensprache und Studentenlied in Halle von 100 Jahren. Neudruck des Idiotikon der Burschensprache von 1795 und der Studentenlieder von 1781. Halle, 189-. xliii, 118 S.; viii, 127 S. 365. SULLY, J.: Studies of Childhood. [Numerous articles in Pop. Sei. Mo. (New York). Vols. XLVI. and XLVII.]. 366. SUNDERMANN, F.: Woher kommen die Kinder? Eine Beantwortung dieser Frage aus Ostfriesland. Am Urdhs-Brunnen. I. Bd. (1881), Heft II., S. 14-18; Heft V., S. 14. 367. "SYLVANUS URBAN": Infant-Marriages. Gentlm. Mag. (Load.) Vol. 277 (1894), pp. 322-324, 427-428. 368. The Feeble-Minded Child and Adult. A Report on an Investigation of the Physical and Mental Condition of 50,000 School Children, with Suggestions for the Better Education and Care of Feeble-Minded Children and Adults. (Charity Organization). London, 1893. xii, 159 pp. 8vo. 369. The Epileptic and Crippled Child and Adult. London, 1893. xxi, 132 pp. 8vo. 370. TILTE, M.: Die Geschichte der deutschen Weihnacht. Leipzig, 1894. 371. TRACY, F.: The Psychology of Childhood. Sec. Ed. Boston, 1894. xiii, 107 pp. 8vo. 372. TREICHEL, A.: Provinzielle Sprache zu und von Thieren und ihre Namen. _Alt-Preuss. Monatsschr_. XXIX. Bd., Hefte I., II. 373. TREICHEL, A.: Zungenübungen aus Preussen. _Am Ur-Quell_. V. Bd. (1894), S. 122-126, 144-148, 180-182, 222-224. 374. TUCKER, ELIZABETH S.: Children of Colonial Days. New York, 1894. 375. TUCKWELL, Mrs. G. M.: The State and its Children. London, 1894. 376. TYLOR E. B.: Wild Men and Beast Children. _Anthrop. Rev_. (London). Vol. I. (1863), pp. 21-32. 377. TYLOR, E. B.: Remarks on the Geographical Distribution of Games. _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ (London). Vol. IX. (1879), pp. 23-30. 378. VOSTROVSKY, CLARA: A Study of Children's Imaginary Companions. _Education_ (Boston). Vol. XV. (1895), pp. 393-398. 379. WHITTIER, J. G.: Child-Life. A Collection of Poems. Edited by J. G. Whittier. Boston, n.d. xii, 263 pp. Gr. 8vo. 380. WHITTIER, J. G.: Child-Life in Prose. Boston, n.d. 381. WIEDEMANN, A.: Kinderehe bei den alten AEgyptern. _Am Ur-Quell_. VI. Bd. (1895), S. 3-4. 382. WIGGIN, KATE D.: Children's Eights. A Book of Nursery Logic. Boston and New York, 1893. 235 pp. 16mo. 383. Wild Babies. _Harper's Monthly_ (New York). Vol. LVII. (1878), pp. 829-838. 384. WILTSE, SARAH E.: The Place of the Story in Early Education, and Other Essays. Boston, 1892. vi, 137 pp. 8vo. 385. WINTERNITZ, M.: Das Kind bei den Juden. _Am Ur-Quell_. II. Bd. (1891), S. 5-7, 34-36. 386. WOSSIDLO, R.: Volksthümliches aus Mecklenburg. De Jung [Pro- verbial Sayings of Children]. _Plattd. Sünndagsbl_. (Bielefeld). III. Bd. (1890), S. 75-77. 387. YODER, A. H.: The Study of the Boyhood of Great Men. _Pedag. Sem._ Vol. III. (1894-5), pp. 134-156. Following is a subject-index of titles under Section B:-- Abandoned children, 28. Abnormal man, 188, 197, 303. Adolescence, 196. Adoption, 280. Age of consent, 180. American Indians, 211, 222, 223, 226, 227, 239, 267, 302, 306, 816, 358, 383. Animals, 276, 372. Animal-reared children, 183, 376. "April fool," 324. Arabia, 289. Art and poetry, 320. Assyria, 290. Babylonia, 290. Birth-customs, etc., 241, 311, 316, 354. Birth-myths, 343, 366. Bogies, 203, 275. Boys of Bible, 304. Boyhood of genius, 387. Brittany, 299. Brooklyn, 212. California, 184. Ceremonial, 235, 279, 361. Character, 216, 319. Child and race, 182. Child-god, 344. Child and state, 312, 375. Child as--witness, 334. Childhood in literature, 346-350. Child-criminal, 307. Child-life, 178, 180 a, 184, 189, 197, 209, 221, 225, 227, 246, 266, 283, 283 a, 325, 326, 329, 333, 342, 353, 363, 374, 383, 385. Child-marriages, 234, 317, 338 a, 367, 381. Child-psychology, 252, 259, 301, 305, 310, 336, 365, 371. Children of New Testament, 360. Child-study, 254, 378. Chirography, 240. Christ, 285. Christmas, 190, 207, 261, 315, 339, 370. Cradles, 306. Defectives and delinquents, 197, 314, 368, 369. Deformations, 229, 331. Diminutives, 202, 219. Dolls, 226. Education, 257, 288-298. Egypt, 179, 288, 381. England, 243, 349. Fairy-tales, stories, 192, 245, 258, 302, 356, 384. Folk-lore, 246, 284, 321, 355. Fosterage, 357. France, 219. Games and songs, 181, 186, 187, 198, 199, 212, 213, 217, 222, 233, 242, 243, 260, 265, 267, 269, 277, 313, 330, 332 a, 377. Genius, 178, 300, 387. Germany, 315, 354, 366, 370, 386. Girlhood, 178, 228, 282. Greece, 296-7, 346. Hair-cutting, 280. Hygiene, 210, 330. Hungary, 277. Imitation, 260. India, 183, 248, 290, 309. Infanticide, 218. Infant-prodigies, 304, 345. Insects, 340. Ireland, 243. Japan, 180 a, 189, 245. Jews, 298, 342, 361 a, 385. Justice, 271, 323, 341. Kabylia, 299. Kaspar Hauser, 208, 309. Language, 193, 200, 201, 205, 206, 249, 250, 257, 262, 263, 275, 281, 332, 372, 373. Lies, 253. Loyalty Is., 241. Lullabies, 362. Measurements, 237, 244, 299. Medicine, 322. Mental evolution, 182, 194, 211, 338. Miracles, 179. Morals, 179. Mother and child, 268. Nature, 264. New England, 221. New York, 197. Paris, 209. Persia, 291. Phoenicians, 290. Physical education, 327, 328. Physiognomy, 204. Poetry for and about children, 176, 177, 195, 224, 226 a, 230, 247, 336a, 337, 359, 379. Proverbs, 220, 386. Public life, 232. Puberty, 214. Regeneration, 214. Religion, 184 a, 231, 253, 358. Rights, 215, 382. Rome, 297, 312, 346. Russia, 327, 328, 330. Sacrifice, 218, 228, 278, Savagery, 273. Scotland, 243. Servia, 279. Secret languages, 206, 281. Sicily, 321, 322, 323. Silesia, 284. Slavonic, 218, 280. Sociology, 270, 272, 255, 378. Stork, 198 a. Studentdom, 185, 364. Swallow, 198. Twins, 223. United States, 180. Voice, 238. Washington, D.C., 181. Weighing, 236, 238. Wild children, 335. Younger son, 351. C. GENERAL. 388. D'ALVIELLA, COUNT GOBLET: Lectures on the Origin and Growth of the Conception of God as illustrated by Anthropology and History. (Hibbert Lectures, 1891.) London, 1892. xvi, 296 pp. 8vo. 389. American Anthropologist (Washington): Vols. I.-VIII. (1888-1895). 390. American Notes and Queries (Phila.) Vols. I.-VI. (1888-1891). 391. Am Urdhs-Brunnen (Dahrenwurth bei Lunden, Holstein). I.-VII. Bde. (1881-1890). 392. Am Ur-Quell (Lunden). I.-VI. Bde. (1890-1895). Continuation of No. 391. 393. ANDERSEN, HANS C.: Fairy Tales and Stories. (Transl. Dr. H. W. Dulcken). N.Y., n.d. iv, 377 pp. 8vo. 394. ASTON, W. G.: Japanese Onomatopes and the Origin of Language. _Jour. Anthr. Inst._ (London). Vol. XXIII. (1894), pp. 332-362. 395. BAGEHOT, W.: Physics and Politics. New York, 1887. 396. BANCROFT, H. H.: The Native Races of the Pacific Coast. 5 vols. New York, 1874-1876. 8vo. 397. BARTELS, M.: Die Medicin der Naturvolker: Ethnologische Beitrage zur Urgeschichte der Medicin. Leipzig, 1893. 361 S. 8vo. 398. BASTIAN, A.: Zur naturwissenschaftlichen Behandlungsweise der Psychologie durch und filr die Volkerkunde. Berlin, 1883. xxxviii, 230 S. 8vo. 399. BASTIAN, A.: Die Seele indischer und hellenischer Philosophie in den Gespenstern moderner Geisterscherei. Berlin, 1886. xlviii, 223 S. 8vo. 400. BEKGEN, FANNY D.: Popular American Plant-Names. _Jour. Amer. Folk-Lore._ Vol. V. (1872), pp. 88-106; VI. (1893), pp. 135-142; VII. (1894), pp. 89-104. 401. BLACK, W. G.: Folk-Medicine: A Chapter in the History of Culture. London, 1883. iii, 228 pp. 8vo. 402. BOAS, F.: The Central Eskimo. _Sixth Ann. Hep. Bur. Ethnol._ (Washington), pp. 399-669. 403. BOAS, F.: British Association for the Advancement of Science. Neweastle-upon-Tyne Meeting, 1889. Fifth Report of the Committee appointed for the purpose of investigating and publishing Reports on the Physical Characters, Languages, and Industrial and Social Condition of the North-Western Tribes of the Dominion of Canada. First General Report on the Indians of British Columbia. By Dr. Franz Boas. London, 1889. 104 pp. 8vo. 404. BOAS, F.: Sixth Report, etc. Second General Report on the Indians of British Columbia. By Dr. Franz Boas. London, 1890. 163 pp. 8vo. 405. BOAS, F.: Seventh Report, etc. London, 1891. 43 pp. 8vo. 405 a. BOLTON, T. L.: Rhythm. _Amer. Jour. Psychol._ Vol. VI., pp. 145-238. 406. BOURKE, J. G.: The Medicine-Men of the Apaches. _Ninth, Ann. Rep. Bur. of Ethnol._ (1887-88). Washington, 1892 [1893]. pp. 443-603. 407. BOURKE, J. G.: Popular Medicine, Customs and Superstitions of the Rio Grande. _Jour. Amer. Folk-Lore_. Vol. VII. (1894), pp. 119-146. 408. BRAND, J.: Observations on the Popular Antiquities of Great Britain. Ed. Sir H. Ellis. 3 vols. London, 1882-1888. 409. BRINTON, D. G.: The Myths of the New World. A Treatise on the Symbolism and Mythology of the Red Race of America. 2d ed. New York, 1876. 331 pp. 8vo. 410. BRINTON, D. G.: American Hero-Myths. A Study in the Native Religions of the Western Continent. Philadelphia, 1882. 261 pp. 8vo. 411. BRINTON, D. G.: Essays of an Americanist. Philadelphia, 1890. 489 pp. 8vo. 412. BRINTON, D. G.: The American Race. A Linguistic Classification and Description of the Native Tribes of North and South America. New York, 1891. 392 pp. 8vo. 413. BRINTON, D. G.: Nagualism. A Study in Native American Folk-Lore and History. Philadelphia, 1894. 65 pp. 8vo. 414. BKINTON, D. G.: Ancient Nahuatl Poetry. Philadelphia, 1887. viii, 9-177 pp. 8vo. 415. BUSK, R. H.: The Folk-Lore of Rome. London, 1874. 416. BUSK, R. H.: The Valleys of Tirol, Their Traditions, etc. London, 1869. 417. CALLAWAY, Rev. Canon: Religious System of the Amazulu. London, 1870. viii, 448 pp. 8vo. 418. CHAMBERLAIN, A. F.: The Prehistoric Naturalist. _University Quarterly Rev._ (Toronto). Vol. I. (1890), pp. 179-197. 419. CHAMBERLAIN, A. F.: Nanibozhu among the Otchipwe, Mississagas, and other Algonkian Tribes. _Journ. Amer. Folk-Lore._ Vol. IV. (1891), pp. 193-213. 420. CLARK, W. P.: The Indian Sign-Language, etc. Philadelphia, 1885. 443 pp. 8vo. 421. CLODD, E.: The Childhood of Religions. New York, 1883. 5lpp. 8vo. 422. CLOUSTON, W. A.: Popular Tales and Fictions; Their Migrations and Transformations. 2 vols. London, 1887. xvii, 485; vii, 515 pp. 8vo. 423. CRAWFORD, J. M.: The Kalevala. New York, 1888. 2 vols. 8vo. 423 a. CULIN, S.: Notes of Palmistry in China and Japan. _Overl. Mo._, 1894. pp. 476-480. 424. CUSHING, F. H.: Zuni Fetiches. _Sec. Ann. Rep. Bur. of Ethnol_. (1880-81), Washington, 1883, pp. 3-45. 425. DAWSON, G. M.: Notes on the Shushwap People of British Columbia. _Trans. Roy. Soc. Canada_, 1891, Sect. II., pp. 3-44. 426. DAY, LAL BEHARI: Folk-Tales of Bengal. London, 1889. VII., 284 pp. 8vo. 427. DE GUBERNATIS, A.: Zoological Mythology, or the Legends of Animals. 2 vols. London, 1872. xxvii, 432; viii, 442 pp. 8vo. 428. DE GUBERNATIS, A.: La Mythologie des Plantes, ou Legendes du Regne Vegetal. Paris. Tome I., 1878; Tome II., 1882. 429. DAVIDS, W. R.: Buddhist Birth-Stories (Ed. Fausboll). London, 18--. 430. Dialect Notes (Amer. Dialect Soc.). Cambridge, Mass., 1890-1894. Parts I.-VII., pp. 1-355. 431. DIRKSEN, C.: Ostfriesische Sprichworter und sprichwortliche Redensarten mit historischen und sprachlichen Amnerkungen. I. Heft (Zweite Aufl). Ruhrort, 1889. 109 S. 8vo.; II. Heft. Ruhrort, 1891. 95 S. 8vo. 432. DODGE, R. I.: Our Wild Indians. Hartford, Conn., 1890. xxxix, 653 pp. 8vo. 433. DORSET, J. O.: A Study of Siouan Cults. _Eleventh Ann. Rep. Bur. of Ethnol._ (1889-90). Washington, 1894. pp. 351-544. 434. DOUGLAS, R. K.: Confucianism and Taouism. London (S. P. C. K.), n.d. 287 pp. 12mo. 435. DYER, T. F. T.: The Folk-Lore of Plants. New York, 1889. 328 pp. 8vo. 436. DYER, T. F. T.: Church-Lore Gleanings. London, 1891. vi, 352pp. 8vo. 437. EELLS, REV. M.: The Twana Indians of the Skokomish Reservation in Washington Territory. _Bull. U. S. Geol. and Geogr. Surv, of Territ._ III. (1877), pp. 57-114. 438. ELLIS, A. B.: The Tshi-speaking Peoples of the Gold Coast of West Africa. Their Religion, Manners, Customs, Laws, Language, etc. London, 1887. vii, 343 pp. 8vo. 439. ELLIS, HAVELOCK: The Criminal. London, 1890. viii, 337 pp. 8vo. 440. EMERSON, ELLEN R.: Indian Myths, or Legends, Traditions, and Symbols of the Aborigines of America, compared with those of other Countries. Boston, 1884. xviii, 667 pp. 8vo. 441. ERMAN, A.: Aegypten und aegyptisches Leben im Altertum. 2 Bde. Tübingen, 1885. xvi, 350 S.; viii, 351-742 S. Kl. 4to. 442. FARRAR, F. W.: The Life of Christ as Represented in Art. New York, 1894. 443. FEWKES, J. W.: A Summer Ceremonial at the Tusayan Pueblos. _Journ. Amer. Arch, and Ethnol._ I. (1891), pp. 1-62; II. (1892), pp. 1-160. 444. FEWKES, J. W.: The Na-ác-nai-ya: A Tusayan Initiation Ceremony. _Journ. Amer. folk-Lore._ Vol. V. (1892), pp. 189-221. 445. FLETCHEE, ALICE C.: Indian Songs. Personal Studies of Indian Life. _Century_ (New York). Vol. XLVII. (1893-4), pp. 421-431. 446. FLETCHER, ALICE C.: A Study of Omaha Music, etc. _Archoeol. and Ethnol. Papers of Peab. Mus._ (Cambridge, Mass.). Vol. L, No. 5, 1893, pp. vi, 152. 8vo. 447. FLETCHEE, R.: Myths of the Robin Redbreast in Early English Poetry. _Amer. Anthrop._ Vol. II. (1889), pp. 97-118. 448. FOLKARD, RICHARD, JR.: Plant Lore, Legends, and Lyrics, embracing the Myths, Traditions, Superstitions, and Folk-Lore of the Plantkingdom. London, 1884. xxiv, 610 pp. 8vo. 449. Folk-Lore Journal (London). Vol. VII. (1889). 450. FRAZER, J. G.: The Golden Bough. A Study in Comparative Religion. 2 vols. London and New York, 1890. 451. FRAZER, J. G.: Totemism. Edinburgh, 1887. viii, 96 pp. 451 a. FRAZER, J. G.: Primitive Theories of the Soul. _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ (London). Vol. XV. pp. 64-104. 452. FREYTAG, L.: Pflanzen-Aberglauben in den Alpen. _Am Urdhs- Brunnen_, 1888-9. S. 33-41, 49-52. 453. FRIEND, H.: Flowers and Flower-Lore. 2 vols. London, 1884. xvi, 352, 353-704 pp. 8vo. 454. FRISCHBIER, H.: Volksglauben aus Preussen. I. Kindheit. _Am Urquell._ I. Bd. (1890), S. 132-134, 151-152, 164-165. 455. GATSCHET, A. S.: The Klamath Indians of South-Western Oregon (Dept. of Int. U. S. Geogr. and Geol. Surv., etc.). (_Contrib. to North Amer. Ethnol._ Vol. II., Washington, 1890.) Pt. I., cvi, 711 pp.; Pt. II., 711 pp. 4to. 456. GATSCHET, A. S.: The Karankawa Indians. (_Arch, and Ethnol. Papers, Peab. Mus._, Vol. I., No. 2). Cambridge, Mass., 1891. viii, 9-103 pp. 8vo. 456 a. GERBER, A.: Great Russian Animal Tales. _Public Mod. Lang. Assoc. Amer._ Vol. VI. (1891), No. 2. 457. GIBBS, G.: Tribes of Western Washington and Northwestern Oregon. _Contrib. to North Amer. Ethnol._ (U. S. Geogr. and Geol. Surv., etc.). Vol. I. (1877), pp. 157-361. 458. GILL, W. W.: Myths and Songs of the South Pacific. London, 1876. xxiv, 328 pp. 8vo. 459. GILL, W. W.: The South Pacific and New Guinea, Past and Present. Sydney (N. S. W. Govt.), 1892. 38 pp. 8vo. 460. GOMME, G. L.: Ethnology in Folk-Lore. New York, 1892. vii, 203 pp. 461. GOMME, G. L.: The Village Community. London, 1890. xi, 299 pp. 462. GRIMM, J.: Teutonic Mythology. Transl. J. S. Stallybrass. 4 vols. London, 1880-1888. 463. GRIMM, GEBR.: Kinder- und Haus-Märchen gesammelt durch die Gebr. Grimm, Stuttgart-Wien. 189-. v, 466. S. 4to. 464. GRINNELL, G. B.: Blackfoot Lodge Tales. The Story of a Prairie People. New York, 1892. xv, 310 pp. 8vo. 465. GRINNELL, G. B.: Pawnee Hero-Stories and Folk-Tales, with Notes on the Origin, Customs, and Character of the Pawnee People. New York, 1889. Cr. 8vo. 466. GUPPY, H. B.: The Solomon Islands and their Natives. London, 1887. xvi, 384 pp. 8vo. 466 a. HAAS, A.: Rügensche Sagen und Märchen. Greifswald, 1891. 467. HALE, HORATIO: The Aryans in Science and History. _Pop. Sci. Mo._ (New York), March, 1889, pp. 677-686. 468. HARLEY, T.: Moon-Lore. London, 1885. xvi, 296 pp. 8vo. 469. HENDERSON, W.: Notes on the Folk-Lore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders. New ed. London, 1879. xviii, 391 pp. 8vo. 470. HENNE AM RHYN, O.: Die Kultur der Vergangenheit, Gegenwart und Zukunft in vergleichender Darstellung. 2 Bde. Danzig-Leipzig-Wien, 1890. 471. HITCHCOCK, E.: The Ainos of Yesso, Japan. _Rep. U. S. Nat. Mus._ (Washington), 1890. pp. 429-502. 472. HOFLEH, M.: Wald--und Baumkultus in Beziehung zur Volksmedizin. Munohen, 1892. viii, 170 S. 8vo. 473. HOFFMAN, W. J.: The Mide'wiwin, or "Grand Medicine Society" of the Ojibwa. _Seventh Ann. Rep. Bur. of Ethnol._ (1885-86), Washington, 1891, pp. 143-300. 474. HOPF, L.: Thierorakel und Orakelthiere in alter und neuer Zeit. Eine ethnol.-zool. Studie. Stuttgart, 1888. xi, 271 S. 8vo. 475. HOSE, C. A.: Journey up the Baranu River to Mount Dulit and the Highlands of Borneo. _Geogr. Journ._ (London), Vol. I. (1893), pp. 193-208. 476. IHERING, J. VON: Die kunstliche Deformirung der Zahne. _Ztschr. f. Ethnol._ XIV. Bd. (1882), S. 213-262. 477. IM THURN, E. F.: Among the Indians of Guiana. London, 1883. xvi, 445 pp. 8vo. 478. IRVING, J. T.: Indian Sketches. New York and London, 1888. 479. JOEST, W.: Tatowiren, Narbenzeichnen und Korperbemalung. Ein Beitrag zur vergleichenden Ethnologic. Berlin, 1890. x, 112 S. 480. Journal of American Folk-Lore (Cambridge, Mass.). Vols. I.-VIII. (1888-1895). 481. Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland (London). Vols. I.-XXIV. (1872-1895). 482. KLEMM, G.: Allgemeine Culturgeschichte der Menschheit. 10 Bde. Leipzig, 1843-52. 483. KOHLER, C. S.: Das Thierleben im Sprichwort der Griechen und Romer. Nach Quellen und Stellen in Parallele mit den deutschen Sprichwortern. Leipzig, 1881. 484. LANG, A.: Custom and Myth. 2d ed. London, 1885. 312 pp. 8vo. 485. LANG, A.: Myth, Ritual, and Religion. 2 vols. London, 1887. xvi, 340; vii, 370 pp. 8vo. 486. LEFEVRE, A.: Mythologie du monde mineral; lecon professee a I'ecole d'anthropologie. _Rev. de Trad. Pop._ Nov. 1889. 487. LEGGE, J.: The Life and Works of Mencius. Philadelphia, 1875. vii, 402 pp. 8vo. 488. LELAND, C. G.: The Algonquin Legends of New England. 2d ed. Boston, 1885. xviii, 379 pp. 8vo. 489. LETOURNEAU, CH.: The Origin of Literary Form. _Pop. Sci. Mo._ (New York). Vol. XLIII. (1893), pp. 673-682. 490. LETOURNEAU, CH.: L'Evolution Litteraire dans les diverses Races humaines. Paris, 1894. 582 pp. 8vo. 491. LETOURNEAU, CH.: L'Evolution Religieuse dans les diverses Races humaines. Paris, 1892. 492. LIPPERT, J.: Die Religionen der europaischen Kulturvolker, der Litauer, Slaven, Germanen, Griechen und Romer, in ihrem geschichtlichen Ursprunge. Berlin, 1881. xvi, 496 S. 8vo. 493. LIPPERT, J.: Allgemeine Geschichte des Priestertums. 2 Bde. Berlin, 1884 494. LUBBOCK, J.: The Pleasures of Life. Philadelphia, 1894. xiv, 332 pp. 12mo. 495. LUMHOLTZ, C.: Among Cannibals. London, 1889. 395 pp. 8vo. 496. MACCAULEY, C.: The Seminole Indians of Florida. _Fifth Ann. Rep. Bur. of Ethnol_. (Washington), pp. 469-535. 496 a. MACKAY, CHARLES: Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions. 3 vols. London, 1841. 497. MACKENZIE, A.: Descriptive Notes on Certain Implements, Weapons, etc., from Graham Island, Queen Charlotte Islands, B.C. _Trans. Hoy. Soo. Canada_, 1891, Sect. II., pp. 45-59. 497a. MALLERY, G.: Sign-Language among North American Indians compared with that among other Peoples and Deaf Mutes. _First Ann. Sep. Bur. Ethnol_. (1879-80). Washington, 1881. pp. 263-552. 498. MANN, H.: On the Aboriginal Inhabitants of the Andaman Islands. London, 1884. xxviii, 224, and 73 pp. 8vo. 499. MANTEGAZZA, P.: Physiognomy and Expression. London, 1890. x, 327 pp. 8vo. 500. MARTINENGO-CESARESCO, COUNTESS E.: Essays in the Study of Folk-Song. London, 1886. 8vo. 501. MATTHEWS, W.: The Human Bones of the Hemenway Collection in the U. S. Army Medical Museum at Washington. _Nat. Acad. of Sci._, Vol. VI., Seventh Memoir, pp. 139-286. 502-503. McGEE, W. J.: The Earth the Home of Man (Anthrop. Soc. of Washington, Special Papers, No. 2). Washington, 1894. 28pp. 8vo. 504. MIKHAILOVSKII, V. M.: Shamanism in Siberia and European Russia. _Journ. Anthr. Inst_. (London). Vol. XXIV. (1894-5), pp. 62-110. 505. MONTEIRO MARIANA: Legends and Popular Tales of the Basque People. New York, 1887. vii, 274 pp. 8vo. 506. MOONEY, J.: Myths of the Cherokees. _Jour. Amer. Folk-Lore_. Vol. I. (1888), pp. 97-108. 507. MOONEY, J.: Sacred Formulas of the Cherokees. _Seventh Ann. Sep. Bur. of Ethnol_. (Washington, 1891.) pp. 306-395. 508. MÜLLENHOFF, K.: Sagen, Märchen und Lieder der Herzogthümer Schleswig-Holstein und Lauenburg. Kiel, 1845. 8vo. 509. MÜLLER, J. G.: Geschichte der amerikanischen Urreligionen. Basel, 1867. viii, 706 S. 8vo. 510. MÜLLER, F. MAX: Natural Religion (Gifford Lectures, 1888). London, 1889. six, 608 pp. 8vo. 511. MÜLLER, F. MAX: Anthropological Religion. London, 1892. 486 pp. 8vo. 512. MÜLLER, F. MAX: Physical Religion. London, 1891. 513. MÜLLER, F. MAX: Theosophical Religion. London, 1892. 514-515. MURDOCH, J.: Ethnological Results of the Point Barrow Expedition. _Ninth Ann. Sep. Bur. Ethnol_., pp. 3-441. 516. NELSON, W.: The Indians of New Jersey. Paterson, N.J., 1894 168 pp. 8vo. 517. POLLE, F.: Wie denkt das Volk fiber die Sprache? Leipzig, 1889. 518. Popular Science Monthly (The). New York. Vols. I.-XLVI. (1871- 1895). 519. POWERS, S.: Tribes of California (_Contrib. to North Amer. Ethnol.,_ Vol. III.). Washington, 1877. 635 pp. 4to. 520. RALSTON, W. R.: Russian Folk-Tales. New York, 1873. 388 pp. 8vo. 521. RAND, S. T.: Legends of the Micmaos. New York and London, 1894. xlvi, 452 pp. 8vo. 522. RAU, C.: Von Martius on Some Points of South American Ethnology. _Journ. Anthrop. Inst._ (New York). Vol. I. (1871-72), pp. 43-46. 523. RECLUS, E.: Primitive Folk. Studies in Comparative Ethnology. London, 1890. xiv, 339 pp. 8vo. 524. RIGGS, S. R.: Dakota Grammar, Texts, and Ethnography (Contrib. to North Amer. Ethnol., Vol. IX.). Washington, 1893. 239pp. 4to. 525. RINK, H.: Tales and Traditions of the Eskimo. London, 1874. xiii, 472 pp. 8vo. 526. ROLLAND, E.: Faune Populaire de la France. 6 vols. Paris, 1877- 1883. 527. ROSKOFF, G.: Das Religionswesen der rohesten Naturvolker. Leipzig, 1880. xiv, 179 S. 8vo. 528. SARTORI, P.: Sondersprachen. _Am Ur-Quell._ V. Bd. (1894), S. 72-78, 99-100. 529. SCHULTZE, F.: Fetichism. A Contribution to Anthropology and the History of Religion. Trans. J. Fitzgerald. New York, 1885. 112 pp. 8vo. 530. SCHURTZ, H.: Grundzuge einer Philosophic der Tracht. Stuttgart, 1891, 148 S. 8vo. 531. SESSIONS, F.: Three Epics of Heroes (Folk-Lore Topics, No. 1). Repr. from _Gloucester_ (England) _Journal_, Jan. 6, 1894. 8 pp. 532. SIMROOK, K.: Deutsche Mythologie. Sechste durchgeseh. Aufl. Bonn, 1887. xii, 643 S. 8vo. 533. SIMSON, A..Notes on the Jivaros and Canelos Indians. _Journ. Anthr. Inst._ (London), 1879, pp. 385-394. 534. SMITH, MRS. E. A.: Myths of the Iroquois. _Sec. Ann. Rep. Bur. of Ethn._ (1880-81), Washington, 1883, pp. 47-116. 535. SMITH, W. R.: Lectures on the Religion of the Semites. First Series. Fundamental Institutions. New York, 1889. xii, 488 pp. 8vo. 536. STEINEN, K. v. DEN: Unter den Naturvolkern Zentral-Brasiliens. Berlin, 1894. 537. STEINMETZ, S. R.: Ethnologische Studien zur ersten Entwickelung der Strafe, nebst einer psychologischen Abhandlung uber Grausamkeit und Rachsucht. 2 Bde. Leiden, 1894. xiv, 486; vii, 425 S. Gr. 8vo. 538. STEVENSON, MATILDA C.: The Sia. _Eleventh Ann. Rep. Bur. of Ethnol._, pp. 3-157. 539. SWAINSON, C.: The Folk-Lore and Provincial Names of British Birds. London, 1886. viii, 243 pp. 8vo. 540. SYMONDS, J. A.: Popular Songs of Tuscany. _Fortn. Rev._ (London). Vol. XX. (1873), pp. 596-613. 541. TARDE, G.: Les lois de l'Imitation. Étude Sociologique. Paris, 1890. viii, 431 pp. 8vo. 542. TEMPLE, R. C.: The Legends of the Panjâb. 2 vols. London, n.d. xxvii, 546; xxii, 580 pp. 8vo. 543. THEAL, G. McC.: Kaffir Folk-Tales. London, 1886. xii, 226 pp. 8vo. 544. TURNER, L. M. Ethnology of the Ungava District, Hudson Bay Territory. _Eleventh Ann. Rep. Bur. of Ethnol._ (Washington), pp. 159-350. 545. TYLOR, E. B.: Primitive Culture. Researches into the Development of Mythology, Philosophy, Religion, Language, Art, and Custom. Third Amer. ed., 2 vols. New York, 1878. 545 a. VANCE, L. J.: The Meaning of Folk-Dance. _Open Court_ (Chicago). Vol. VIII. (1894), pp. 4069-4070. 546. WALLASCHEK, R.: Primitive Music. London, 1893. xi, 326 + 8 pp. 8vo. 547. WEIL, G.: The Bible, the Koran, and the Talmud; or Biblical Legends of the Mussulmans. New York, 1846. xvi, 264 pp. 8vo. 548. YARROW, H. C.: Introduction to the Study of Mortuary Customs among the North American Indians. Washington, 1880. ix, 114 pp. 4to. 549. YARROW, H. C.: A Further Contribution to the Study of the Mortuary Customs of the North American Indians. _First Ann. Rep. Bur. of Ethnol._ (1879-1880), Washington, 1881, pp. 87-203. INDEX I. AUTHORITIES AND WRITERS CITED OR REFERRED TO. Aber. Adams. Addy. Aeschylus. Alcibiades. D'Alviella. Amelineau. _American Anthropologist_. _American Notes and Queries_. _Am Urdhs-Srunnen_. _Am Ur-Quell_. Andersen. Andran. Angas. Anstey. _Apocrypha_. Apuleius. _Arabian Nights_. _Arena_. Aristotle. Arnim (v.). Aston. Auerbach. D'Aunoy. Bachofen. Bacon. Baegert. Bagehot. Ball. Ballou. Bancroft. Barbosa. Baring-Gould. Barrie. Barrington. Bartels. Bastian. Baumbach. Beauchamp. Beckler. Beecher. Beethoven. Bergen. Berendt. _Bible_. Black. Blake. Boas. Bodin. Boceder. Boileau. Bolton (H. C.). Bolton (T. L.). Bosman. Bourke. Brainerd. Bramhall. Brand. Brewer (J. C.). Brewer (W. H.). Bridges. Bridgman. Brinton. Brown. Browning (E. B.). Browning (R.). Buddha. Burchard. Burns. Burton. Buschmann. Busk. Byron. Calderon. Callaway. Carlyle. Carové. Carstens. Carstensen. Castren. _Catholic World_. Catlin. Cato. Catullus. G. F. P. Celsus. _Century Dictionary_. _Century Magazine_. Champlain. Chamberlain (A. F.). Chamberlain (B. H.). Chamisso. Chantimpre (de). Chapman. Chatelain. Chaucer. Cherubina. Cherubini. Chervin. Chrisman. Cicero. Clark. Clemens. Cleveland. Clodd. Clot-Bey. Clouston. Codriugton. Coleridge (H.). Coleridge (S. T.). Collins. Confucius. Connor. Constantine. Cornelia. Cowper. Crashaw. Crawford. Culin. Cuoq. _Current Literature_. Cushing. Czaky. Daniels. Danneil. Dante. Dargun. Darmesteter (Mrs.). Darwin (C.). Darwin (E.). David. Dawson. Day. De Gubernatis. De Meung. Deneus. De Quincey. Desaivre. De Vere. _Dialect Notes_. Dickens. Dio Cassius. Diocletian. Dirksen. Disraeli. Doddridge. Dodge. Donaldson. Dorsey. Douglas. Dreyling. Drummoud. Dryden. Duncan. Du Vair. Dyer. Earle. Earwaker. Eastman. Ebers. Eells. Eibler. Eichhorn. Ellis (A. B.). Ellis (H.). Ellis (W.). Emerson (Mrs. E. E.). Emerson (R. W.). Engelhus. Engels. Eotvos. Epictetus. Erman. Estienne. Euripides. Eyre. Falkner. Farrar. Fay. Feilberg. Fenelon. Ferguson. Feuerbach. Fewkes. Fischer, 20. Fletcher (Miss A. C.). Fleteher (R.). _Folk-Lore Journal_. Folkard. Ford. Franck. Frankel. Franklin. Fraser. Frazer. Friend. Froebel. Fruit. Fuller. Furnivall. Gaidoz. Garbe. Garnett. Gatsehet. Gerarde. Gibbs. Gill. Girard-Teulon. Gladstone. Goethe. Goltz. Goldsmith. Gomme (Miss A.). Gomme (L.). Gore. Gould. Gray. Gregoire. Gregor. Griffis. Grimm (J.). Grinnell. Groth. Guérin. Guppy. Haas. Haberlandt. Hale. Haliburton. Hall (Bishop). Hall (G. S.). Halleck. Handel. Hanoteau. Han Wân-Rung. Hare. Harley. Harrison. Hartland. Hartmann von Aue. Haskell. Hawthorne. Hazlitt. Held (v.). Henderson. Henne am Rhyn. Heraclitus. Herbert. Herder. Herodotus. Herrick. Hesso. Heywood. Hiawatha. Higginson. _Hitopadesa_. Höfler. Hoffman. Holmes. Hölty. Homer. Hopf. Horace. Hose. Howitt. Hübner. Hughes. Hugo. Humphrey. Hun. Hunt. Immermann. Im Thurn. Irving. Isaiah. Jean Paul (Richter). Jesus. Job. Joel. Johnson (G. E.). Johnson (J. H.). Johnson (S.). _Journal of American_. _Folk-Lore_. _Journ. of Anthrop. Inst._ Joubert. Justinian. Juvenal. Kane. Kant. Keble. Klemm. Kluge. Knortz. _Koran_. Krauss. Kulischer. La Bruyère. Lacretelle. Laflteau. Lallemand. Lander. Landor. Lang. Langdale. La Rochefoucauld. Lebbe. Legge. Leland. Le Play. Lescarbot. Lessing. Letourneau. Lippert. Livy. Locke. Lombroso (C.). Lombroso (P.). Longstaff. Longfellow. Lope de Vega. Loubens. Lowell. Lübben. Lubbock. Luke, (St.). Lumholtz. Lummis. Luther. Lycurgus. Lytton. Maaler. Macaulay. MacCauley. Macdonald. MacKay. Mackenzie. Maclean. _Macmillan's Magazine_. Madden. Mahomet. Mahoudeau. Maikhallovskii. Maine. Mallery. Man. Manouvrier. Mantegazza. Manu. Marco Polo. Martinengo-Cesaresco. Martins (v.). Marvell. Mason. Matthew (St.). Matthews. Maundeville. Maximus. McGee. McLennan. Menander. Mercer. Metastasio. Meung (de). Meyer. Michelet. Miklucho-Maclay. Miles. Miller (J.). Miller (W.). Milman. Milton. Mirabeau. Moisset. Mommsen. Mone. Montaigne. Monteiro. Montesinos. Mooney. Morgan. Morley. Mozart. Müllenhoff. Müller (F. Max). Müller (J. G.). Murdoch. Napoleon. Nelson. Newell. Niebuhr. Norton. Novalis. Opitz. Orientalist. Ortwein. Ossian. Ovid. Paul (St.). Pechuel-Loesche. Peckham. Penn. Percival. Perdrizet. Perrault. Peschel. Petronius Arbiter. Pfeffel. Phaedrus. Philo. _Philosophical Magazine_. Pindar. Pistorius. Pitré'. Plato. Pliny (Elder). Pliny (Younger). Ploss. Plutarch. Pokrovski. Polle. Polydore Virgil. Pope. Popular Science Monthly. Porter. Post. Pott. Powell. Powers. Praed. Preyer. Procopius. Proctor. _Psychological Review_. _Public Opinion_. Puttenham. Pythagoras. _Quarterly Review_. Rabelais. Rademacher. _Raghuvansa_. Ralston. Rameses. Rand. Rau. Rauber. Reclus. Riccardi. Ricnter (see Jean Paul). Riggs. Rink. Robinson. Rockhill. Romanes. Roscommon. Rousseau. Rückert. Ruskin. Russell. Sangermano. Sartori. Scaliger. Schallenberger. Schambaeh. Schell. Schiller. Schlagintweit. Schlegel. Schomburgk. Schopenhauer. Schottel. Schultze. Schurtz. Scott (C. N.). Scott (W.). Scudder. Sébillot. Sembrzycki. Sessions. Shakespeare. Shelley. Shenstone. Shirley. Sibree. Sidney. Simons. Simrock. Simson. Skeat. Sleeman. Smith (E.). Smith (J.). Smith (R.). Smith (S. F.). Socrates. Soest (v.). Solomon. Solon. Sophocles. Southey. Spencer. Spenser. Spurgeon. Squier. Stanton. Starr. Stead. Steel. Steineu (v. den). Stevenson. St. Francis. Stoddard. St. Pierre. Strack. Strype. Sully. Sundermann. Svetchin. Swainson. Sweeny. Swinburne (A. C.). Swinburne (Judge). "Sylvanus Urban." Symonds. Tacitus. _Talmud_. Tarde. Tasso. Temple. Tennyson. Terence. Thales. Theal. Theocritus. Thiele. Thom. Thomson. Thoreau. Tillaux. Tilte. Tigri. Tobler. _Toldoth Jesu_. _Tora_. Tracy. Treichel. Trumbull (H. C.). Turner. Turner (G.). Turner (L. N.). Tylor. Uhland. Valentinian. Valerius. Vambéry. Vance. Vaughan. _Vedas_. Vere (de). Verney. Virgil. Vogelweide. Volliner. Vossius. Wallace. Wallaschek. Warton. Warren. Watson. Weber. Webster. Wedgwood. Weigand. Weil. West. Westermarck. Whittier. Wiedemann. Wieland. Wiltse. Winternitz. _World Almanac_. Wordsworth. Wulfila. Xenophon. Xenophanes. Yarrow. Young. Zachariä. Zanetti. Zendrini. Ziller. Zimmermann. Zmigrodzki. Zoroaster. INDEX II. PLACES, PEOPLES, TRIBES, LANGUAGES, ETC. Abipones. Abu-Zabel. Accadians. Achomâwi. Afghan. Africa. Ainu (Ainos). Alabama. Alarsk. Alaska. Albania. Albany. Alemanian. Alfurus. Algeria. Algonkian (Algonquin). Alleghanies. Alsace. Altai. Altmark. Amazulu. Ambamba. Amboina. America. Anahuac. Andalusia. Andaman Islands. Angola. Angoy. Anjou. Annam (Annamites). Apaches. Arabia (Arabs). Aramæan. Arapahos. Ararat, Mt. Araucanians. Arawak. Arcadia. Ardennes. Arekuna. Argentine. Arizona. Armenia (Armenian). Aryan. Ashanti. Asia. Asia Minor. Assyria. Aston. Athens. Aurora. Australia (Australians). Austria. Aveyron. Aztecs (see Nahuatl, Mexico). Badagas. Baden. Baffin Land. Bajansi. Bakaïri. Bakulai. Balanta. Bâle. Bamberg. Bambuk. Bampton. Banians. Banks Islands. Basques. Basutos. Battas. Bavaria. Bayreuth. Bechuanas. Bedouins. Beit-Bidel. Belford. Belgium. Bengal (Bengalese). Berg. Bern. Berwickshire. Beverly. Bielefeld. Bilqula (Bella Coola). Blackfoot (Blackfeet). Boeotia. Bohemia. Bologna. Bomba. Bomma. Bonyhad. Borneo. Bornoo (Bornu). Bosnia. Boston. Boxley. Brabant. Brahmans. Brazil. Bremen. Brerton. Breslau. British Columbia. Brittany (Breton). Brooklyn. Buckinghamshire. Buddhists. Bulgaria. Burgundians. Burma (Burmese). Buru. Buryats (Buriats). Byzantium. Caddos. Cakchiquels. Calabar. Calabria. California. Cambridge. Canada. Canary Islands. Canterbury. Cape Breton. Cape York. Caribs. Carinthia. Camatic. Carthage. Castilian. Çatloltq. Cuyuse. Celebes. Celts (Celtic). Central America. Ceylon. Chalons. Champagne. Cbarlbury. Cherokees. Chester. Chetimachus. Chiapas. Chibchas. Chickasaws. Chilli. China (Chinese). Chinantec. Chinchas. Chinook. Chippeway (Ojibwa). Chiquito. Choctaw. Cholona. Clonmel. Coçonino. Colchester. Colhuacan. Comanches. Colne. Cologne. Congo. Connecticut. Coomassie. Coptic. Cornwall (Cornish). Cossacks. Cotas. Cracow. Cree. Creeks. Crete. Cronstadt. Cumberland. Czechs. Czernowitz. Dakotas. Damaras. Damascus. Dardistan. Darfur. Darien. Deeping. Delaware. Delawares. Denmark (Danish). Devonshire. Dieyerie. Ditmarsh. Dnieper. Dodona. Donegal. Doracho. Dravidian. Dutch. Dvina. Dyaks. East Indies. Egypt (Egyptian). Elberfeld. Elbing. England (English). Ermeland. Erzgebirge. Eskimo (Esquimaux). Essenes. Essex. Esthonia (Esthonian). Eton. Etruscan. Euphrates. Europe. Ewe. Eynsham. Feddringen. Fernando Po. Fiji. Finland (Finns). Flat Heads. Florence. Florida. Föhr. France (French). Franconia. Franks. Friburg. Frisian. Fuegians. Fulas. Gaelic. Galibi. Galicia. Ganges. Gauls. Geneva. Genoa. Georgia. Gerbstädt. Germany (German). Gilolo. Glastonhnry. Gloucester. Godstowe. Gothic (Goths). Göttingen. Greece (Greek). Greenland. Grodno. Gualalas. Guarani. Guarayo. Guatemala. Guiana. Guinea. Gujurat. Gypsies. Hackney. Haddenham. Haidas. Hameln. Hanafi. Hanover. Hare Indians. Harz. Havel. Hawaii (Hawaiian). Hebrews (Jews). Heide. Heliopolis. Hellene. Herefordshire. Hervey Islands. Hesse. Heston. Heton. Hichitis. Hidatsa. High-Coquetdale. Himalayas. Hindus (Hindoos). Holland. Honduras. Hopi. Hottentots. Houghton. Hovas. Hungary (Hungarian). Huns. Huntingdonshire. Hupas. Hurous. Iceland (Icelandic). India. Indians, American (see also various tribal names). Indo-Iranian. Innspruck. Iowa. Ipurucoto. Ireland (Irish). Iroquois. Ishogo. Isleta. Islington. Italy (Italian). Jamaica. Japan (Japanese). Jasmund. Java. Jericho. Jews (see Hebrews). Jivaro. Kabinapek. Kabylia (Kabyles). Kaffirs (Kafirs). Kalispelm. Kallundborg. Kalmucks. Kammin. Kamtschatka. Kansa. Kansas. Karaïbi. Karankawa. Karok. Káto Pomo. Kei Islands. Kent. Kentucky. Kherson. Khonds. Khyens. Kiché (Quiché). Kilkenny. Kingsmill Islands. Kingston. Klamath. Knutsford. Kolosh. Kols (Kolhs). Königsberg. Konow. Kootenays. Korosi. Kwakiutl. Labrador. Lambeth. Laon. Lapps. Latin (Roman). Latuka. Leipzig. Lewis. Liberia. Libya. Liege. Lille. Lincolnshire. Lithuania. Loango. Loire. London. Louisiana. Lourdes. Low German. Lowland Scotch. Lüneburg. Lusatia. Lycia. Madagascar. Magyars. Maine. Makusi (Macusi). Malabar. Malay. Malaysia. Mandans. Mandingos. Mangaia. Mansfeld. Maoris. Mark. Marquesas Islands. Marutse. Maryland. Massachusetts. Mataria. Matchlapi. Maya. Mazatec. Mecklenburg. Meesow. Meiderich. Melanesia. Menomoni. Mesopotamia. Messenia. Mexico (Mexican). Miao-tse. Micmacs. Micronesia. Milan. Minahassers. Mincopies. Mingrelia. Mississagas. Mississippi. Miwok. Moabites. Modocs (Modok). Mohaves. Mohammedans (Moslems). Moki (Moqui). Moluccas. Monbuttu (Monboddo). Mongols. Montenegro. Monte Pulciano. Moors. Moravians. Moree. Moslems (Muslim, Mussulmans). Mosquito. Mota. Mpongwe. Mull. Munda Kols. Mundombe. Murs. Muskogees. Mussulmans. Muzo. Nah'ane. Nahuatl (Aztec). Nairs. Namaqua. Naples. Navajos (Navahos). Negritos. Neo-Latin (Romance). Netherlands. Neuchâtel. Neu-Stettin. Newcastle-on-Tyne. New England. New Guinea. New Hampshire. New Hebrides. New Jersey. New Mexico. New York. New Zealand. Nias. Nicaragua. Nile. Nilgiris (Neilgherries). Nipissings. Nishinam. Niskwalli. Nootkas. Normandy. North Carolina. Northumberland. Norway (Norwegian). Norwich. Nova Scotia. Ntlakyapamuq. Nubia. Nürnberg. Ojibwa (see Chippeway). Okanak-en. Oldenburg. Omagua. Omahas. Oraibi. Oranienburg. Oregon. Oriental. Ossetic. Ostiaks. Otranto. Oude. Ovaherero. Oxfordshire. Pádam. Padua. Palestine. Pali. Pampas. Panjâb (Punjab). Papuans. Paraguay. Parsees. Patwin. Pawnees. Peake River. Pelew Islands. Pennsylvania. Penobscots. Pentlate. Persia (Persian). Peru (Peruvian). Philadelphia. Philippine Islands. Phoenicia. Phrygia. Piutes. Plattdeutsch. Podolia. Poitou. Poland. Polynesia. Pomerania. Porno. Ponkas. Pontmain. Pontoise. Portugal (Portuguese). Prussia. Pt. Barrow. Pudu-vayal. Pueblos Indians. Puharies. Pyrenees. Quedlmburg. Queen Charlotte Islands. Queensland. Queres. Quichés (Kichés). Rackow. Rapstede. Rarotonga. Reddies. Rees. Regenwald. Rhode Island. Rio Grande. Rio Nunez. Ripon. Rome (Roman). Rotherham. Roumania. Rügen. Russia (Russian). Sahaptin. Sahara. Sakalavas. Salisbury. Salish. Salzburg. Samoa. Samoyeds. Sandeh. Sanskrit. Santals. Sappendelf. Saracens. Sarcees. Saxony. Scandinavian. Sehaffhausen. Schleswig-Holstein. Scotland (Scotch). Seminoles. Semites (Semitic). Semnoues. Senegambia. Servia (Servian). Seville. Shasta. Shawnees. Shekiani. Shropshire. Shushwaps. Sia. Siam. Siberia. Sicily (Sicilian). Sierra Leone. Silesia. Silt. Siouan (Sioux). Slavonian (Slavonic). Snanaimuq. Society Islands. Soissons. Soleure. Sollinger Wald. Solomon Islands. Somali. Songi. Songish. Soudan. South America. South Carolina. Spain (Spanish). Spanish-American. Sparta. Stapelholm. Steiermark. St. Ives. St. Petersburg. Strassburg. Suevi. Sunderland. Suru. Susu. Sumatra. Swabia. Sweden (Swedish). Switzerland (Swiss). Syriac. Tacana. Tafllet. Tagals. Tahiti. Tamil. Tamanako. Tarahumari. Tartars. Tasmanians. Tedâ. Tehua. Telugu. Teton. Teutonic. Texas. Thames. Thuringia. Tiber. Tibet. Tierra del Fuego. Tigris. Timbuktu (Timbuctoo). Tinné. Tiszla-Eszlar. Tlingit. Todas. Tondern. Tonga. Tongatabu. Tonkawe'. Tonningstedt. Tonquin. Transylvania. Trent. Treves. Tshi (see Ashanti). Tsimshian. Tuareg. Tunguses. Tupende. Tupi. Turko-Tartars. Turks. Tusayan. Tuscany. Twana. Tyre. Tyrol. Tzendals. Ukrain. Uliase Islands. Ungava. United States. Unyoro. Utes. Vancouver Island. Vaud. Venezuela. Vermont. Virginia. Visigoths. Vitilevu. Volga. Wailakki. Wakikuyu. Wales (Welsh). Wallachia. Walla-Walla. Walpi. Wanika. Wasco. Washington. Wazaramo. Wazegua. Wends. Westminster. Westphalia. Whida. Winchester. Wingrove. Winnebagos. Wintun. Wisconsin. Wiyots. Wrek. Wurtemburg. Würzburg. Wyoming. Yahgans. Yao. Yaqui. Yeddavanad. Yezo (Yesso). Yokaia. York. Yorkshire. Yoruba. Yucatan. Yuchi. Yuke. Yuki. Yukon. Yurok. Zanzibar. Zend. Zulus. Zuñi. Zürich. INDEX III SUBJECTS Abandonment. _Abba._ _Abbas._ _Abbot._ Abbreviations. ABC. --rhymes. _Abeona._ Abortion. Abraham. Abyss-mother. _Accouchement._ Acolytes. Actions, goddess of. Activities of childhood. Acting (actor). _Adam._ Adam. _Adebar._ [Greek: _adelphos_]. _Adeona. Adolescence._ Adoption. _Adult._ Adventures. AEsculapius. Affection. Age of consent. of marriage. _Agenona._ Agni. Agriculture. Akka. Albinos. Alcohol. All-father. "All-fathers." "All Fools'Day." Alliteration. All-mother. _Alma mater._ Alphahet. --rhymes. _Alumna, alumnus._ Amicus and Amelias. Amun (Amon). Amusements. Anahita. Ancestor-worship. Angakok (child). Angels. Animal-food. --gods. --language. --nurses. --oracles. --tamer. Animals. and Christ. _Ankle-deep._ "Annexes." Answers (parents'). Antelope-boy. _Antennaria._ Anthropometry. [Greek: _anthropos_]. Anti-Semitism. Aphrodite. Apple-pips. --temptation. Apples. Ararat, Mt. _Arm's length._ Art. Artemis. _Artemisia._ Ash. Ashes. Ashtaroth. Aspen. Ass. Astarte. _Aster. Atta. Attila._ Atys. Awakening of soul. B. A. _Babe._ Babel. "Babes in wood." Babies. "Babies in eyes." "Babies' breath." "Babies' feet." Babies' food. "Babies' slippers." Babies' souls. "Babies' toes." _Baby_. --signs for. --words for. --basket. "Baby blue-eyes." "Baby-bunting." Baby-carrier. "Baby-talk." Bacchus. Bachelors. _Bairn_. Balams. Ballads. Bambino, Santo. Band of Hope. Bands of Mercy. _Bandchen._ Baptism. --(blood). --(fire). "Bar." "Barbara Allen." Barbarossa. Basil. Bastard. Bathing. _Batyushka._ Baucis. Bayaderes. Bay-tree. B. D. Beans. _Bear_ (to). Bear-boy. --girl. --lick. --stories. Bears. Beast-children. --oracles. Beating. "Beating the Bounds." Beauty. --bath. Bed. Bees. Begetting. Bel. Belit. Bell. "Bellypaaro." Berselia. _Berusjos._ Bhavani. Bible-verses. Bibliography. Bidhata-Purusha. "Billing and cooing." "Binder." Bird-language. --messenger. --oracle. --soul. Birds. --of Christ. Birth, birth-myths. --days. --marks. --of Christ. Bitch-nurse. Biting. "Black art." Blackness of raven. _Blason populaire._ Blessing. "Blind-man's buff." Blindness. Blizzard. Blood. "Blood-clot Boy." Blood-covenant. "Bloody Tom." _Blossoming._ _Blow_ (to). "Bluebirds." "Blue-eyed babies." Blue-ribbon Clubs. Body. Bogies. _Bojiwassis._ _Bona dea._ --_mater._ Bonaparte. Bones. "Boo." "Boo Man." Born (to be). "Borough-English." Bounds. Bow-and-arrows. _Boy_. Boy-bards. --bishop. --code. --colonies. --cornstealer. --gangs. --heroes. --husband. --martyrs. --"medicine man." --moots. --oracle. --pope. --priest. --shaman. --societies. --travellers. --weather-maker. --whale-catcher. --wonder-worker. Boyish excesses. Boys. "Boys and Girls." Boys' Clubs. "Boys' love." Bread. "Bread and butter." Breath. "Bremen geese." "Brew and Bake." Bridal of earth and sky. Bride. Bridegroom. Bridle (tongue). Brightness of sun. Bright side of child-life. Broom. Brother (bone). (younger). Brotherhoods. Brother-stars. Bruises. "_Bub_." _Bube_. _Bud_. Buddha. Bulbulhezar. "Bull-roarer." Buried armies. Buschgroszmutter. Butter. Butterfly. Butz. Cabbages. Cackling. _Calandrina_. _Calf_. Calling. _Camoaena_. Candy. Cannibals. Canoes. Caprimulgus. _Carduus marianus_. _Carna_. Carving. Caste. Casting dice. lots. "Cat-language." Cato. "Cat's cradle." Cattle. "Caught." Caul. Caves. Cedar. _Cereal_. _Ceres_. Chalchihuitlicue. Challenges. _Chamaigenes_. "Chandelle magique." Changelings. Changes at school. Chant. Cheers. Chemical terms. Cherry-tree. Chick-peas. Chief. Chilblains. _Child_. Child-actor. --adventurer. --birth. --bringer. --carrier. --conjurer. --crucifixion. --dancer. --deity. --dice-thrower. --discoverer. --fetich. "Child-finger." "Child-fount." Child-god. --healer. --heroes. --historian. --inventor. --judge. "Child-lake." Child-language. --leader. --linguist. Child lot-caster. --marriage. --mascot. --musician. --names. --nurses. --oracle. --physician. --poet. --priest. --prophet. --sacrifice. --saint. --shaman. --singer. --societies. --sociology. --soul. --spirit. --stealers. "Child-stone." Child-study. --teacher. --thaumaturgist. "Child-tree." "Child-trough." Child-verdicts. --vision-seer. --weather-maker. --wiseacre. --witch. --words. --worship. and father. and fire. and mother. and music. and nature. and race. and rhythm. Child and spirit-world. and woman. in art. in ceremonial. in language. in moon. in _proverbs_. in religion. in school. Childhood and age. in art and literature. Childhood's golden age. Childlessness. Children and fools. as stars. "Children of God." "Children of hand." "Children of Light." "Children of Paul's." "Children of sun." Children's animals and birds. blood. clothing. courts. ditties. flowers and plants. food. games. holidays. justice. lies. minds. names. parties. paradise. questions. reasonings. rights. Children's souls. thoughts. tree. Child's kiss. Chin. "Chip of old block." Chipmunk. "Choose." Christ. Christ-child. Christening letter. Christianity. Christmas. --herb. --oracle. Chrysostom, St. Church and children. Cinderella. Cinteotl. Circumcision. Clay-birds. Clocks (flower). Clothing. Clytie. Cock. "Cock-a-doodle-doo." Cock-robin. Code of honour. _Coiffe._ Cold. Cold water. Collecting. College-fetiches. --societies. --yells. Colleges, primitive. Colonies (boy). _Colt._ Comparisons with animals. with plants. Confusion of tongues. Conglomerate. Consent, age of. Constantine. Constructing. C-o-n-t-e-n-t-s. Contents of mind. Corn. "Corn-field." Cornflower. Corn-goddess. --mother. "Corn-stalk fiddle." Corn-tobacco. Corn-woman. Counsel, god of. Counting, goddess of. Counting-out rhymes. Courtship-games. "Couvade." Cows. Crab-hunting. --mother. Crabs. Cradle-goddess. Cradles. Cramps. Crawfish. Creation. _Creator._ _Crepundia._ Cries of animals. of birds. Criminal-fetiches. --societies. Crocus. Crossbill. Crowing of babies. of cock. Crumbs. Crying. "Crying for Moon." Crying, god of. Cub. _Cuba._ _Cubit._ Cucalkin. Cuchavira. Cuckoo. Culture-hero. --school. _Cunina._ Cupid. Curses. Cybele. Cyrus. _Dad._ _Dada._ "Daddy darkness." "Daddy-nuts." Daisy. _Dam._ _Dame._ Dancing. Dandelion. Daphne. Date-palm. _Daughter._. "Davie daylicht." Dawn-maidens. --mother. Day-father. Days of week. Dead child. hand. mother. _Dea mens._ _Statin_ Death. "Death-baby." "Death-eome-quickly." Death-reaper. Deborah. Deceits. Decoctions. Dedication, Deed-angel. Deformation. Deformed children. _Degenerate._ Delirium. Demeter. Deudanthropology. _Der arme Heinrich._ Deucalion. _Deus._ _catus pater._ _conus._ Devastation. "Devil-dances." Devils. Devil's grandmother. mother. Dew-drops. Dialects. Dialect-Society. Diaua. _Dicentra._ Dictionaries. _Diespiter._ Diminutives. Dionysus. Disappearances. Discovery of medicine. Disease-curers. Disinheritance. Dislocation. _Diva edusa._. _Diva potina._. Divination. Divinity of childhood. "Doctor born." Doctors. Dodola. Dogs. Doll-clothing. --congress. --houses. --language. --parties. --shows. --spirits. Dolls. Donkey. "Dove dung." Doves. Dramatics. Drawing lots. Dreams. Dress. Drink, goddess of. Drink of immortality. "Drunkards." "Ducks." "Ducks and Drakes." "Ducks Fly." "Duke-a-roving." Dulness cured. Dumbness. Dwarfs. _Dyaus-Pitar._ "Dying." Eagle. Ears of hare. Earth-father. --flower. --god. --goddesses. --mother. --wife. Easter. "Easter-hare." Eating. "Eating the roll." Eden. Education, primitive. Eel-mother. Effigies. Efflux of sun. Egg, cosmic. Eggs. "Eggs of earth." Eileithyia. Elder. Elder brother. Elder-mother. _Eldermen._ Eldest son. Elidorus. Elixirs of life. Elizabeth Bathori. Elysium. _Embryo._ Embryology of society. Emperor-father. _Enfanter._ Engelhart. _EntMndung._ Eos. Epilepsy. Epworth League. Equivoques. _Erd._ Erdenmutter. Eros. Etelmutter. Eternal youth. Ethics. Ethnic origins. Ethnology. Eve. Evil. and good. "Everywhere." Evolution. "Ewig-weibliche (das)." Excesses. "Excrement of gods." Execution. _Ex pede Herculem._ Eyes. "Eyes, babies in." Fables. _Fabulinus._ Faculty of speech. Fagging. Fairies. Fairy-beer. --tales. Family. "Farming." Fasting. Fates. _Father._ Father Amun. Father animal-god. --balam. --earth. --fire. --frost. --giants. --god. --gods. --heart. --heaven. --king. Fatherhood, lore of. _Fatherland._ Fatherless. Father-light. --moon. --priest. --right. --river. --sea. --sky. --strong-bird. --sun. Thames. --thumb. --thunder. Tiber. --wind. --worship. and child. as _masseur._ in Heaven. in Proverbs. of country. of history. of inventions. of medicine. of people. Father (to). "Fathers." "Fathers, Pilgrim." "Fathers of the Church." "Fathers (Our)." Father's dieting. taboos. _Fathom._ Faust, Dr. Feast of dead. Feature-plays. "Feeding the dead." Feet. _Female._ Female animals. colleges. element. societies. _Femina._ Fetiches. Fever. Fifth son. Fig-tree. _Filet._ _Filia._ _Filius._ _Filly._ "Finger-biter." Finger-games. --names. --plays. --rhymes. _Finger's breadth._ Fingers. F-i-n-i-s. Fire. Fire-father. --grandfather. --mother. --place. and marriage. First-born. First-food. First-kiss. Fishes. Fishing. Fits. Flax. Flesh, goddess of. Flight into Egypt. Flogging. Floral Trinity. Florigeny. Flounder. _Flourish._ Flower-child. --grandfather. --grandmother. --language. --names. --oracles. --stars. Flowers. _Foal._ _Foetus._ Folk-lore of Christmas. --medicine. --thought. Food. goddess of. of gods. --taboos. _Foot._ "Footing." Foot-races. Forehead. Foreign words. "Foresters, Junior." Forget-me-not. Formulæ. _Fortune._ Fortune-telling. Foster-animals. --children. --mother. Fountains. Fountain of youth. Fran Beretha. Holle. Wachholder. Freia. _Frein._ _Frenulum._ _Frenum._ _Fresh._ Frenzy. Friday-Mother. "Friday-Night Clubs." Friendships. "Frog-plant." "Frog Pond." Frost. Frost-father. --mother. Fruit. Funeral-plays. --rites. _Gabaurths._ "Gabble retchet." Gabriel. Gæa. _Galium._ Gambling. Game-formulæ. --oracles. --songs. Games. Gangs. Garden of souls. Gates of heaven. _Gaultheria._ Gavelkind. Ge. _Genesis._ _Genius._ _Gens._ _Genteel._ _Gentile._ _Gentle._ _Genuine._ _Genus._ Geoffrey de Mayence. Geography. Geographical rhymes. _Geranium._ _Germ._ _Germander._ Ghost-hunts. Giants. Giants' playthings. Giglan de Galles. _Girl._ Girl-angakoks. Girl-carriers. --dancer. --education. --figure. --inventor. --linguist. --poet. --priest. --rain-maker. --sorcerer, witch. --vision-seer. "Girls and Boys." Girls' Friendly Society. Girls, wild. Glastonbury Thorn. Glow-worm. Glüskap (Glooskap). _Glyceria._ Goats. "Go backs." Goblins. God, idea of. as begetter. as creator. as father. as mother. as potter. "God's bird." Gods and goddesses of childhood. Gods, playthings of. Going out. Gold. Golden Age. of childhood. of love. "Golden Darling." Golden House. Gold-seers. Good and evil. Goose. Götterburg. Graces. Grammar. --school. "Grandfather." Grandfather-fire. --Pleiades. --sky, 65. "Grandmother." Grandmother-fire. of devil. of men. Grass. --image. Grateful beasts. _Gravid._ Great children. eaters. "Great Father." Great-grandmother. "Great Hare." "Great Mother." "Green Gravel." Grizzly bear. _Grow._ Guardian angels, and deities. Gude. Guessing-games. Guillemots. Gypsy-singers. _Haberfeldtreiben._ Hades. Hair. --cutting. --sacrifice. "Halcyon days." "Half." "Hallow E'en." Hand. Hare. "Hare-bread." Hare-child. "Hare-eggs." Hare-god. --lip. --town. Harke. Harvest-home. Haulemutter. Hawthorne. Hazel. "Head, good." Heart. "Heart of Hills." Hearth. Heat. Heathen. Heaven. Heaven-father. visited. _Heil._ Hell. Hellebore. Hera. Herb-robert. Hercules. Heredity. Hermes. Hermits. Hero (child). --myths. --twins. "Heroic treatment." Hertha. Hestia. Hiawatha. "Hide and Seek." "High Father." "High Mother." High Schools. Historian (child). Historical bogies. games. History. "Hog Latin." Holdings, small. Hole. Holidays. Holle. Holly. Holy Family. "Home-made dialect." _Homo._ _alalus._ _sapiens._ Honey. "Honey-moon." Hoopoo. Hope, goddess of. Hop-o'-my-thumb. Horn of Oldenburg. Horns. Horse. Horse-boy. Household arts. _Houstonia._ Hunchback. Hunger. Hunting. Hurt. Hyacinthus. Hydrolatry. Idols and dolls. Illegitimate children. Images. Imitation. of animals. Imitative games. Immortality. Improvvisatrici. "In." Incarnation. Infancy. deities of. _Infant._ Infant-magician. --marriage. --prodigy. --spirit. _Infanta._ Infanticide. _Infantry._ _Ingenious._ _Ingenuous._ Inheritance. Initials. Insult. Intoxication. Inventiveness of children. Invisibility. I. O. G. T. _Ipukarea._ Isis. Isles of West. Istar. "It." "Iter ad montem." Itzcuinam. "Jack and Jill." "Jack and Bean Stalk." "JacktheGiant-Killer." "Jack Stay-at-Home." Jackal. Jacob's ladder. _Janitar._ Janus. Jargons. Jehovah. "Jennia Jones." "Jenny Lang Pock." "Jenny Iron-Teeth." Jesus (see Christ). Jewels. Jin. "Jonah." Joseph. of Arimathea. Judge (child). "Judge and Jury." Judicial folk-lore. games. Jurisprudence of child's play. Jumping. Juniper. Juno. Kalevala. Kaspar Hauser. Kata. Katzeuveit. _Keekel-reem._ "Kernaby." Key. Khuns. _Kid._ Kidnapping. _Kin._ _Kind._ "Kinderbaum." "Kinderbrunnen." Kindergarten. "Kindersee." "Kindertruog." King. King-father. Kingdom of heaven. "King's Evil." Kinship of Nature. Kintaro. Kissing. _Ki-yah!_ Klagemiitter. _Klein._ _Kndbe._ _Knave._ _Knecht._ _Knee-high._ Knickerbockers. Knife-point. _Knight._ "Knights of Spain." Knowledge-tree. Koko. Kok-ko. Koran. Krishna. _Krono._ "Kiikkendell fair." Kwanon. "Labour." _Lad._ "Lady Summer." Lake. Lama. Lamb. _Landesleute._ _Landesvater._ "Land of milk and honey." Language. (bird). (flower). --study. _Langue maternelle-._ Lapwing. _Lass._ _Latin._ Laughter-roses. Laume. Leap-frog. Leaves. "Left twin." Leprosy. Leucothea. _Levana._ Libussa. Licking. Lies (children's). (parents'). Life-tree. Lifting. Light. Light-children. --father. --god. Lightning-mother. Lilies. Lilith. Lilliputian farms. Lime. _Lingua materna._ Linguist (child). Linguistic exercises. faculty. inventiveness. Linguistics. Litholatry. _Little._ "Little boy's breeches." "Little Boy's Work." Little children. "Little man." "Little mothers." "Little seal of God." "Little woman." _Livid._ Lizard. LL.D. _Lonicera._ Loon. "Lose measure (to)." Lotis. Lots (casting). Louis and Alexander. Louis XI. Louis XV. Love. and language. and song. Love-games. --oracles. Lower world visited. Lucina. _Lucina sine concubitu._ "Luck-bringer." "Luck of Edenhall." Lullabies. Lumbago. Lupine. _Lychnis._ Lyre. _Ma._ M. A. Madonna. Mafia. Magic. Magic doll. taper. _Magnificat._ _Maia._ _Maid._ Maids, old. _Main-de-gloire._ Malumsis. _Mama._ _Mama Allpa._ _Cocha._ _Cora._ _Mamma._ _Mammalia._ Manabozho (Manabush, Naniboju). Manhood. Man-in-moon. Manners. Manslaughter. Man-tree. Maple. _Marchen._ March-mother. _Marcou._ Marguerite. Maria Candelaria. Marianne de Quito. _Marienmilch_. Marks of shaman. _Marriage._ _Marriage_ (before birth). (spirit). --age. --games. --oracles. Marriages (child). Mars Pater. Mary (Virgin). Mary's, three. _Mascot._ Masculine element. Massage. _Matar._ _Mater._ _alma._ _Flora._ _Mater Lua._ _Maia._ _Matuta._ _Turrita._ Matriarchate. Matricide. _Matron._ _Matronalia._ Matthias Corvinus. Matutinus Pater. Maut. _May._ May-day. --festivities. --Queen. McDonogh School. Mead. Measuring. Meat. Medicine (folk). Melted butter. Member of society (child). Memnon. Memory. "Men-women." Mercury. _Mere-patrie (la)._ "Merry Month" (May). Messages. Messenger-bird. _Messerin._ Metamorphoses. Metempsychosis. [Greek: _Maetris_]. _Metropolis._ Midas. Midnight. Midsummer. Milk. "Milk and Honey." Milk-tree. Milky Way. Mimicry. Mind-goddess. Minds (children's). (parents'). Minerva. Miniatures. "Ministering Children's League." Miracles. Mishosha. Mississippi. Mistress. Mock pig-hunting. tobacco. turtle-catching. Modelling. _Moderson. Modersprak. Moedertaal. Moimenspraken._ [Greek: _Moîrai._] Moloch. "Molly Maguires." Money. Monkeys. Montezuma. Month-mother. Month. Moon. Moon-children. --father. --god. --goddess. --maiden. --mother. --plaything. --spots. Morals. Moses. _Mother._ Mother (dead). Mother-abyss. --animals. --antelope. --basil. --corn. Mother-crab. --crow. --dawn. "Mother-die." Mother-Dnieper. --Dvina. --earth. --elder. --eel. --feeling. --fire. --flower. --forest. --Friday. --frost. --Ganges. --God. --influence. --inventor. --land. --lode. --March. --matter. --moon. --mountain. --mud. --names. --nature. --night. --ocean. --plants. --poet. --priest. --queen. --right. --river. --sea. --shrimp. --soul. --spirit. --sun. --Sunday. --teacher. --thumb. --tongue. --Volga. --water. --Wednesday. --wit. --worship. Mother and child. Motherhood. Mother in proverbs. Mother of cows. of devil. of fingers. of hand. of heaven. of Lares. of light. of lightning. of men. of rivers. of stones. of sun. "Mother of thousands." "Mother's beauties." Mother's curse. kiss. land. night. "Mother's son." Mother's soul. spirit. tears. "Mothers." "Mothers, little." Mother-in-law. Mountain-mother. Mourning. Mouse. Mouth. Mud-mother. Mud-pies. "Mulberry Bush." Mumbo-jumbo. Mummies. _Mundfaul. Muscari._ Muse-mother. Music. Musician (child). Mustard. Mut (Maut). Mutilations. _Mutterbiene. Mutterbirke. Mutterblume. Mutterboden. Mutteresel. Muttergefilde. Muttergrund. Mutterhase. Mutterhaus. Mutterhimmel._ Mutter Holle. _Mutterholz. Mutterkind. Mutterland. Mutterlamm. Mutterluft. Muttermensch. Mutternelke. Mutterpferd. Mutterschaf. Mutterschwein. Mutterseele. Mutterseelenallein. Muttersohn. Muttersprache. Mutterstadt. "Mutterstein." Muttertiere, Mutterzunge._ "My Household." Mysteries. Myth-tellers. Myths of birth. Nagualism. Names (child). Names (father). Names (mother). Names (plant). Nänibojü (Manabozho, Manabush). Narcissus. Narses. Natal ceremonies. "Natal soil." _Nation._ "Native country." "Natural son." Nature. Nature-mother. Nautch-girls. Neck-measurement. "Needle." _Nemophila._ Neptune. New-birth. New-born. New Life. New Year. "Nice (to make look)." Night. Night-father. --mare. --mother. Nightingale. Njembe. Noon-lady. Norus. Nose. Nose-bleed. _Nowidu._ Nox. _Numeria. Nunu_. Nurse. "Nuts of May." Oath. "Oats, Pease" etc. Ocean-mother. Oceanus. Odin. Ogres. Old men reciters. "Old Mountain Woman." Oliver and Arthur. Onomatology. Onomatopoeia. Opis. Ops. Oracle-keeper (child). Oracles. Oranges. Oratory. Orchis. Ornament. _Ornithogalum_. Orphans. Osiris. _Ossipaga_. Other-world visited. "Our Father in Heaven." "Our Fathers." "Our Lady's Bed-Straw." "Our Lady's Thistle." "Out." Owl. Owl-women. Ox-boy. Oxen. Pa. Pachamama. Pain. "Painted devils." [Greek: _Pais._] Paleness of moon. Pallas Athene. Palm-tree. Pansy. Pantomime. _Papa_. Papa (Earth). (priest). Luga. "Paper of Pins." _Para_. Paradise. Lost. visited. _Parca. Parent_. Parent-finger. Parental affection. Parentalia. Parents' answers. lies. minds. Parsley. Parties. Partition of land. Partula. Parvus. Pater. cense. familias. patratus. patriae. Patres. Patria. Patria potestas. Patriarch. Patrician. Patrimony. Patriotism. [Greek: _patris_]. Patrius sermo. Patron. Peacock. "Pearl grass." Pearls. Pebbles. Pedagogy (Primitive). of play. Peevish. Pelican. Pennalism. Peunou. Pennyroyal. Peragenor. Perambulation. Percival. Personal names. Pet, pettish. Phallus. Pharaoh. Phatite. Philemon. Philology (see Linguistics). Philosophy. [Greek: _phusi_]. Phyllis. Physical efficiency. Physiognomy. "Physonyms." Pigs. Pine. Pinks. Pippadolify. "Pity my Case." "Place, my." Plant-food. --mother, --names. --oracles. Planting trees. Plants. Play. Play-courts. --railroad. --spirit. --theory. --things. --verses. --work. "Playing at work." Pleiades. Plover. Poet (child). Poet (mother). Poeta nascitur. "Poison-doctor." Poison-food. Polednice. Politics. Polygala. Polyglots. Polypodium. Ponds. "Poodle's Wedding." Popanz. Pope. Popelmann. Posthumous child. Post-mortem marriages. Pottery. Pramantha. Prayer. Precocity. Predestination. Pre-existence. P-r-e-f-a-c-e. Pregnant. Pre-natal marriages. Presents. Priest (child). (father). (mother). Priest and food. Primogeniture. Prithivi-matar. "Prophets." Proverbs (age). (child). (father). (genius). (mother). (parents). (youth). Proverbs of birds. Psammetichus. Psyche. Psychology. Puberty. Pudelmutter. Puella. Puer. Pullet. Punchkin. Pupil. Puppies. Purgatory. [Greek: _Purperouna_]. Quarrels. Queen. "Queen of Heaven." Queen-mother. Questions (children's). Quetzalcoatl. Rabbit. Raccoon. Race. Races. 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! Rain. Rain-bow. Rainbow-goddess. Rain-drops. Rain-makers (children). --oracles. --rhymes. --stillers. Raising to life. Rama. Rangi. "Rappaccini's Daughter." Raven. Reaper (Death). Reasonings (children's). Re-birth. Reciters. Regeneration. _Regina coeli_. Relatives. Religion. Renascence of myths. Reserve (children's). Resurrection-flower. Return of dead mother. Rhea. Rhymes (alphabet). (counting out). Rhyming. Rhythm. Rice. Richard Coeur de Lion. Right (father). Right (mother). Rights (children's). River-father. River-mother. Rivers. Roaming. Robberies. Robin. Rocks. "Rogation." Röggenmuhme. Roggenmutter. Roll-eating. [Greek: _Rombo_]. "Rome (to show)." Romulus and Remus. Rosemary. Rose of Jericho. Roses. "Rovers." R. S. V. P. Rules of same. _Rumina_. Rûripsken. "Rye-aunt." Sacred trees. Sacrifice to lust. Sacrifice of children. Sand-hills. "Sand-man." Sand-pile, history of. Sap. Satan. Satavahana. School. School-jargons. --language. --organism. --revels. --rights. --society. School in heaven. Scrofula. Sea. Sea-father. Sea-mother. Seals. Seclusion. Secret languages. Secret societies. Seed. Selection of doctors. Selection of priests. Semo. Sentences (test). Sermons (primitive). Serpents. Seventh daughter. son. Sewing. Sex and clothing. "Sex, the speechless." Shaman (child). Sham-fights. She-bear. --goat. --wolf. Shepherds. "Shoemaker." "Shoe-string bow." Shooting. "Show (to), Rome." "Show (to), Bremen Geese." Shrimp-mother. Sickness. _Siderum regina. Sierra Madre_. Sign-language. Signs for child. for father. for mother. Signs of shaman. Silk (corn). _Similia similibus_. Sindungo. Singers (children). Singing, goddess of. _Sire_. Sister-dawns. Sitting-down. Siwa. Sky-father. --god. Sky-grandfather. --land. Sleep. Sleep, goddess of. _Small_. Small holdings. Small-pox. Smell. _Smilax_. Smile-roses. "Smoking." Smoking (tobacco). Snail-water. Snakes. Snow. Snow-balling. Social embryology. Social factor, child as. Social instinct. Societies. (secret). "Sock-wringer." Sole. Solomon. Solomon's judgment. wisdom. Sôma. Somatology. _Son_. Son, eldest. youngest. Song. "Sons of God." "Sons of trees." Sorcerers. Sore. Soul. (child's). (father's). (mother's). Soul-bird. --butterfly. --leaf. --star. --tree. _Span_. Spear-throwing. Speech. --band. --exercises. --god. Spelling-yells. Spices. Spinning. Spirit-feeding. --land. --marriage. Spirits. Spots (moon). Sprains. Sprinkling. _Spygri_. Squalling. Squirrel. Srahmanadzi. "Staccato cheer." Standing, deities of. Star-child. --flower. --soul. of Bethlehem. Stars. _Statina (Dea)_. St. Augustine. Austrebertha. Briocus. Catherine. Stealing. St. Francis. Frodibert. Géneviève. Stick. Still-born children. Stilling the wind. St. Nicholas. Stomach. Stones. Stone-mother. Stork. Stork-flower. --land. Stork-men. --names. --stones. Storm-laying. --making. Story-telling. _Stowish_. St. Patrick. Strigalai. String-puzzles. Stroking. St. Sampson. Stuttering. St. Vincent. Vitus. Subdivisions of land. Suckling. "Suck-soul." Sudiêcky. Sugar. Sukia-woman. Sun. --children. --father. --god. --goddess. --mother. Sunday-mother. Sunset-land. Surnames. Survivals. Swallows. "Swan-child." "Swan-stones." Swans. Swimming. Swinging. Sword. Sycamore. Sylvester (Pope). Sympathy of nature. Syrdak. Syrinx. Taboos. Tales. Talking birds. Tamerlane. Tamoï Taper (magic). _Tata_. Tattooing. "Taw." Teacher (child). (mother). Teachers (primitive). Tears. _Teat_. Technology. "Teethed babes." "Teetotum." _Tékvov_. Tellus. Temperance societies. Terra. Test-sentences. Tests (physical). Tezistecatl. Theft. Theocrite. Thieves. Thieves' fetiches. saint. Thoughts (children's). (parents'). "Thread Needle." Three Brothers. "Three Dukes." "Three Kings." "Three Mary's." Throwing. "Thrush." Thumb. --lather. --mother. Thunder. --birds. --lather. "Thunner spell." Tihus (dolls). _Tilia_. _Tiny_. Titistein. Tobacco. Toci. Tongue. "Tongue-cut." "Tongue-tied." Tooth-ache. Topography. Totemism. Touching. Toys. _Tradescantia_. Training of priests and shamans. Transfer of character. of soul. Transfusion. Transmigration. "Tread the Green Grass." Tree of Knowledge. of Life. of milk. of souls. Trees. Tremsemutter. Trinity. Triplets. Tulasî. Tule-ema. _Tupi_. "Turkey-hunting." "Turks." Turtle. Turtle-dove. Tut-language. Twenty-first son. Twin-healers. --heroes. luck-bringers. "Twin-sisters." Twin weather-makers. Twins. Twins' breath. U. A. w. g. Ukko. Unbaptized children. Unborn children. "Unbridled tongue." "Uncle John." Undeformed. Under-world visited. Upper jaw. Upper-world visited. Uranus. Urashima. Ut. Ut'sèt. Vampires. "Van Moor." Varuna. Vatea. _Vaterland. Vaterschacht. Vaterstadt. Vaticanus_. "Velvets." _Venilia_. Venus. Vermin. _Veronica_. Vestice. _Vera madre_. Violet. Viracocha. "Virginia Reel." Virginity. Virgin Mary. Virgin-Mother. Virgins. Vishnu. Vision-seers (children). _Voleta. Volumnus_. Vomiting. Vulcan. Waïnamoïnen. Walrus-fat. War. "Wassail." Water. --carrier. --father. --lilies. "Water-man." "Water-mother." "Water-woman." Weak children. _Wean_. Weasel. Weather-makers (children). Weddings. Wednesday-mother. _Wee_. Weighing. Wens. Werwolves. Whey. Whipping. Whiskey. Whispering. "White as Milk." "White Caps." "White Ladies." "White lies." Whiteness of hare. Whitsuntide. Whooping-cough. "Widow and Daughters." Widows. "Wild baby." "Wild boy." Wild children. girls. huntsman. woman. "Will." Will-deities. Will-o'-the-wisp. Wills. Wind-children. --father. --people. --raiser. --stiller. Wisdom of childhood. Wiseacre (child). "Wise Child." Wish-deities. Witchcraft. Witches (children). Withering of trees. Wit. Wits, god of. Wizards. Wjeschtitza. Wolf-children. --stories. Wolves. Woman, as linguist. as poet. as teacher. position and place of. Womanly, the eternal. Woman's arts. Woman's dress. share in primitive culture. Wooden figure. Wood-pigeons. Word-interpretation. Words descriptive of child. _World_. Worms. Xmucane. Xpiyacoc. Yang. "Yells" (college). "Yeth hounds." Y. M. C. A. Yohmalteitl. _Young_. Young couples. "Young Peoples' Societies." "Young Templars." Younger brother. Youngest son. Youth, eternal. Y. P. S. C. E. Yu. _Yum_. Y. W. C. A. Zenzaï. Zeus. Zinog. Ziwa. Zlata-Baba. MENTAL DEVELOPMENT IN THE CHILD AND THE RACE. METHODS AND PROCESSES. BY JAMES MARK BALDWIN, M.A., Ph.D. _Stuart Professor of Psychology in Princeton University; Author of "Handbook of Psychology," "Elements of Psychology"; Co-Editor of "The Psychological Review."_ WITH SEVENTEEN FIGURES AND TEN TABLES. SECOND EDITION, CORRECTED. Price $2.60, net. NOTICES. "The great problem of the evolution of mind has received many notable contributions towards its solution of late years. We question, however, if there are any which, in time to come, will occupy a higher place than the work now before us. This it owes partly to its subject, partly to its treatment. Mr. Baldwin with rare skill has traced the thread of development from individuals to races, and has shown how the element of heredity plays a much larger part than is supposed in the economy of mental evolution.... The book is evidently the result of years of close observation and study. Its method is admirable, the induction is broad and reliable, while the conclusions drawn in most cases are both rigorously logical and avoid even the suspicion of exaggeration. We predict a high place in the annals of biological science will yet be assigned to this admirable work."--_The Liberal_. "It is a most valuable contribution to biological psychology, which is a field of modern naturalism in which few have labored."--_The Critic_. "'Mental Development' must be regarded as an epoch-making book: it suggests a new field for experiments and observations, and throws down the gauntlet to existing theories of mental growth."--_The Churchman_. "It is of the greatest value and importance."--_The Outlook_. "The author emphasizes the motor elements in mental evolution, and thus introduces into psychogenesis a point of view which is eminently characteristic of modern psychology.... This summary sketch can give no idea of the variety of topics which Professor Baldwin handles or of the originality with which the central thesis is worked out. No psychologist can afford to neglect the book, and its second part will be eagerly expected."--PROF. TITCHENER, _Cornell University_. THE INSTITUTES OF EDUCATION: COMPRISING A RATIONAL INTRODUCTION TO PSYCHOLOGY. BY S. S. LAURIE, LL.D., F.R.S.E. _Professor of the Institutes and History of Education, University of Edinburgh; Author of "Metaphysica" and "Ethica" etc._ 16mo. Price $1.00, net. NOTICE. "That book is strongest which makes the reader think the most keenly, vigorously, and wisely, and, judged by this standard, this seems to be the most useful book of the season. We would put it in the hands of a working teacher more quickly than any other book that has come to our desk for many a month."--_Journal of Education._ A COURSE OF LECTURES ON THE GROWTH AND MEANS OF TRAINING THE MENTAL FACULTY. DELIVERED IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE BY FRANCIS WARNER, M.D. (Lond.), F.R.C.P., F.R.C.S. (Eng.). _Physician to the London Hospital; Lecturer on Therapeutics and on Botany at the London Hospital College; Formerly Hunterian Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in the Royal College of Surgeons of England._ 12mo. Cloth. Price 90 cents, net. NOTICES. "It is original, thorough, systematic, and wonderfully suggestive. Every superintendent should study this book. Few works have appeared lately which treat the subject under consideration with such originality, vigor, or good sense."--_Education._ "A valuable little treatise on the physiological signs of mental life in children, and on the right way to observe these signs and classify pupils accordingly ... The book has great originality and it should be very helpful to the teacher on a side of his work much neglected by the ordinary treatises on pedagogy."--_Literary World._ "The eminence and experience of the author, and the years of careful study he has devoted to this and kindred subjects, are a sufficient guarantee for the value of the book; but those who are fortunate enough to examine it will find their expectations more than fulfilled ... A great deal may be learned from these lectures, and we strongly commend them to our readers."--_Canada Educational Journal._ MACMILLAN & CO. 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 
8299	----	Filipino Popular Tales Collected and Edited with Comparative Notes By Dean S. Fansler, 1921 PREFACE. The folk-tales in this volume, which were collected in the Philippines during the years from 1908 to 1914, have not appeared in print before. They are given to the public now in the hope that they will be no mean or uninteresting addition to the volumes of Oriental Märchen already in existence. The Philippine archipelago, from the very nature of its geographical position and its political history, cannot but be a significant field to the student of popular stories. Lying as it does at the very doors of China and Japan, connected as it is ethnically with the Malayan and Indian civilizations, Occidentalized as it has been for three centuries and more, it stands at the junction of East and West. It is therefore from this point of view that these tales have been put into a form convenient for reference. Their importance consists in their relationship to the body of world fiction. The language in which these stories are presented is the language in which they were collected and written down,--English. Perhaps no apology is required for not printing the vernacular herewith; nevertheless an explanation might be made. In the first place, the object in recording these tales has been a literary one, not a linguistic one. In the second place, the number of distinctly different languages represented by the originals might be baffling even to the reader interested in linguistics, especially as our method of approach has been from the point of view of cycles of stories, and not from the point of view of the separate tribes telling them. In the third place, the form of prose tales among the Filipinos is not stereotyped; and there is likely to be no less variation between two Visayan versions of the same story, or between a Tagalog and a Visayan, than between the native form and the English rendering. Clearly Spanish would not be a better medium than English: for to-day there is more English than Spanish spoken in the Islands; besides, Spanish never penetrated into the very lives of the peasants, as English penetrates to-day by way of the school-house. I have endeavored to offset the disadvantages of the foreign medium by judicious and painstaking directions to my informants in the writing-down of the tales. Only in very rare cases was there any modification of the original version by the teller, as a concession to Occidental standards. Whatever substitutions I have been able to detect I have removed. In practically every case, not only to show that these are bona fide native stories, but also to indicate their geographical distribution, I have given the name of the narrator, his native town, and his province. In many cases I have given, in addition, the source of his information. I am firmly convinced that all the tales recorded here represent genuine Filipino tradition so far as the narrators are concerned, and that nothing has been "manufactured" consciously. But what is "native," and what is "derived"? The folklore of the wild tribes--Negritos, Bagobos, Igorots--is in its way no more "uncontaminated" than that of the Tagalogs, Pampangans, Zambals, Pangasinans, Ilocanos, Bicols, and Visayans. The traditions of these Christianized tribes present as survivals, adaptations, modifications, fully as many puzzling and fascinating problems as the popular lore of the Pagan peoples. It should be remembered, that, no matter how wild and savage and isolated a tribe may be, it is impossible to prove that there has been no contact of that tribe with the outside civilized world. Conquest is not necessary to the introduction of a story or belief. The crew of a Portuguese trading-vessel with a genial narrator on board might conceivably be a much more successful transmitting-medium than a thousand praos full of brown warriors come to stay. Clearly the problem of analyzing and tracing the story-literature of the Christianized tribes differs only in degree from that connected with the Pagan tribes. In this volume I have treated the problem entirely from the former point of view, since there has been hitherto a tendency to neglect as of small value the stories of the Christianized peoples. However, for illustrative material I have drawn freely on works dealing with the non-Christian tribes, particularly in the case of stories that appear to be native; and I shall use the term "native" to mean merely "existent in the Islands before the Spaniards went there." In the notes, I have attempted to answer for some of the tales the question as to what is native and what imported. I have not been able to reach a decision in the case of all, because of a lack of sufficient evidence. While the most obvious sources of importation from the Occident have been Spain and Portugal, the possibility of the introduction of French, Italian, and even Belgian stories through the medium of priests of those nationalities must not be overlooked. Furthermore, there is a no inconsiderable number of Basque sailors to be found on the small inter-island steamers that connect one end of the archipelago with the other. Even a very cursory glance at the tales in this collection reveals the fact that many of them are more or less close variants and analogues of tales distributed throughout the world. How or when this material reached the Philippines is hard to say. The importation of Arabian stories, for example, might have been made over many routes. The Hindoo beast-tales, too, might have quite circled the globe in their progress from east to west, and thus have been introduced to the Filipinos by the Spaniards and Portuguese. Again, the germs of a number of widespread Märchen may have existed in the archipelago long before the arrival of the Europeans, and, upon the introduction of Occidental civilization and culture, have undergone a development entirely consistent with the development that took place in Europe, giving us as a result remarkably close analogues of the Western tales. This I suspect to have been the case of some of our stories where, parallel with the localized popular versions, exist printed romances (in the vernacular) with the mediaeval flavor and setting of chivalry. To give a specific case: the Visayans, Bicols, and Tagalogs in the coast towns feared the raids of Mindanao Mussulmans long before white feet trod the shores of the Islands, and many traditions of conflicts with these pirates are embedded in their legends. The Spaniard came in the sixteenth century, bringing with him stories of wars between Christians and Saracens in Europe. One result of this close analogy of actual historical situation was, I believe, a general tendency to levelling: that is, native traditions of such struggles took on the color of the Spanish romances; Spanish romances, on the other hand, which were popularized in the Islands, were very likely to be "localized." A maximum of caution and a minimum of dogmatism, then, are imperative, if one is to treat at all scientifically the relationship of the stories of a composite people like the Filipinos to the stories of the rest of the world. A word might be added as to the nature of the tales. I have included only "hero tales, serious and droll," beast stories and fables, and pourquoi or "just-so" stories. Myths, legends, and fairy-tales (including all kinds of spirit and demon stories) I have purposely excluded, in order to keep the size of the volume within reasonable limits. I have, however, occasionally drawn upon my manuscript collection of these types to illustrate a native superstition or custom. Columbia University, May, 1918. CONTENTS. I. HERO TALES AND DROLLS. 1. (a) Suan's Good Luck 1 (b) Suan Eket 2 2. The Charcoal-Maker who became King 10 3. The Story of Carancal 17 4. (a) Suac and his Adventures 29 (b) The Three Friends,--the Monkey, the Dog, and the Carabao 31 5. (a) How Suan became Rich 35 (b) The King's Decisions 37 6. (a) The Four Blind Brothers 42 (b) Juan the Blind Man 43 (c) Teofilo the Hunchback, and the Giant 46 (d) Juan and the Buringcantada 47 (e) The Manglalabas 49 7. (a) Sagacious Marcela 53 (b) King Tasio 55 8. (a) The Story of Zaragoza 64 (b) Juan the Peerless Robber 69 9. The Seven Crazy Fellows 75 10. (a) Juan Manalaksan 79 (b) Juan the Poor, who became Juan the King 81 11. (a) Lucas the Strong 89 (b) Juan and his Six Companions 92 (c) The Story of King Palmarin 98 12. (a) The Three Brothers 116 (b) Three Brothers of Fortune 118 (c) Pablo and the Princess 120 (d) Legend of Prince Oswaldo 122 13. (a) The Rich and the Poor 137 (b) Lucas the Rope-Maker 140 14. (a) The King and the Dervish 144 (b) The Mysterious Book 145 15. The Miraculous Cow 150 16. The Clever Husband and Wife 152 17. The Three Brothers 155 18. Juan and his Adventures 171 19. Juan wearing a Monkey's Skin 178 20. (a) How Salaksak became Rich 183 (b) Clever Juan and Envious Diego 186 (c) Ruined because of Invidiousness 188 (d) The Two Friends 190 (e) Juan the Orphan 192 21. Is he the Crafty Ulysses? 197 22. The Reward of Kindness 207 23. Pedro and Satan 211 24. The Devil and the Guachinango 214 25. Juan Sadut 223 26. An Act of Kindness 227 27. The Indolent Husband 231 28. Cecilio, the Servant of Emilio 237 29. Chonguita 244 30. The Golden Lock 248 31. Who is the Nearest Relative? 257 32. With One Centavo Juan marries a Princess 262 33. (a) The Three Humpbacks 265 (b) The Seven Humpbacks 267 34. (a) Respect Old Age 271 (b) The Golden Rule 271 35. Cochinango 276 36. Pedro and the Witch 279 37. The Woman and her Coles Plant 285 38. A Negrito Slave 287 39. Alberto and the Monsters 291 40. Juan and Maria 295 41. The Enchanted Prince 301 42. The Prince's Dream 304 43. The Wicked Woman's Reward 309 44. The Magic Ring 310 45. (a) Maria and the Golden Slipper 314 (b) Abadeja 316 46. Juan the Poor 319 47. The Fate of an Envious Woman 323 48. (a) The Monkey and Juan Pusong Tambi-Tambi 326 (b) Andres the Trapper 332 49. Juan the Fool 338 50. Juan and his Painted Hat 353 51. Juan and Clotilde 355 52. The Poor Man and his Three Sons 359 53. The Denied Mother 361 54. Tomarind and the Wicked Datu 363 II. FABLES AND ANIMAL STORIES. 55. The Monkey and the Turtle (three versions) 366 56. The Monkey and the Crocodile (two versions) 374 57. The Monkeys and the Dragon-Flies 379 58. The Monkey, the Turtle, and the Crocodile 382 59. The Iguana and the Turtle 383 60. (a) The Trial among the Animals 385 (b) The Pugu's Case 386 (c) Why Mosquitoes hum and try to get into the Holes of our Ears 387 (d) A Tyrant 388 61. The Greedy Crow 391 62. The Humming-Bird and the Carabao 393 63. The Camanchile and the Passion 394 64. Auac and Lamiran 395 III. "JUST-SO" STORIES. 65. Why the Ant is not so Venomous as the Snake 398 66. Why Locusts are Harmful 399 67. How Lansones became Edible 401 68. Why Cocks fight One Another 403 69. Why Bats fly at Night 404 70. Why the Sun shines more brightly than the Moon 404 71. (a) Why the Culing has a Tonsure 407 (b) The Culeto and the Crow 407 (c) The Hawk and the Coling 408 72. (a) Why the Cow's Skin is Loose on the Neck 410 (b) The First Loose-Skinned Cow and the First Tight-Skinned Carabao 411 73. Why the Monkey is Wise 412 74. (a) The Lost Necklace 414 (b) The Cock and the Sparrow-Hawk 415 75. The Story of our Fingers 416 76. Why Snails climb up Grass 417 77. Why the Cuttlefish and Squids produce a Black Liquid 419 78. Why Cocks have Combs on their Heads 420 79. (a) How the Crow became Black 420 (b) Why the Crow is Black 421 (c) The Dove and the Crow 422 80. Why the Ocean is Salty 425 81. (a) Why the Sky is Curved 426 (b) Why the Sky is High 426 82. An Unequal Match; or, Why the Carabao's Hoof is split 428 FILIPINO STORIES GIVEN IN THE NOTES. [Only stories from my own manuscript collection are listed here. Titles of those given in full are printed in Roman; of those given merely in abstract, in Italics. A "(C)" after a title indicates that the story is taken from one of the native corridos, or metrical romances printed in the vernacular.] Pedro's Fortunes 15 Pusong 23 Cabagboc 23 Sandapal 23 Sandangcal 23 Greedy Juan 23 Juan Tapon 23 Dangandangan 23 Tangarangan 23 Kakarangkang 29 How Piro became Rich 14 The Cripple and the Blind Man 51 Marcela outwits the King 56 Cay Calabasa (C) 57 Rodolfo (C) 60 Juan and his Six Friends 78 Edmundo (C) 87 The Three Brothers 127 The Priest and his Pupil 148 Abu-Hasan (C) 154 Don Agustin, Don Pedro, and Don Juan (C) 169 The Adarna Bird (C) (two versions) 169 Pedro and the Giants 175 The Monkey becomes King 182 Juan the Ashes-Trader 195 Colassit and Colaskel 195 Juan the Poor 202 Juan Bachiller (C) 202 Mabait and the Duende 217 The Fortunes of Andoy, an Orphan 241 Peter the Violinist 241 Duke Almanzor (C) 251 The Seven Hunchbacked Brothers 268 Juan and his Father 275 Pugut Negro (C) 280 Juan Tiñoso (C) 283 Juan and Maria (C) 298 Pitong 299 The Wonderful Tree 318 King Asuero and Juan the Poor (C) 322 Ricardo and his Adventures 347 Juan and the Robbers 348 The Adventure of Two Robbers 349 Juan Sadut 351 Juan Loco 352 The Monkey and the Crocodile 377 The Battle between the Birds and the Beasts 381 The Bacuit's Case 389 Why the Ant is not so Venomous as the Snake 399 The Origin of Locusts 399 The Origin of Locusts 400 The Adam and Eve of the Tagalogs 402 How Lanzones became Edible 402 The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars 405 The Sun and the Moon 406 Origin of the Monkey 413 The First Monkey 413 The Deer and the Snail 429 APPENDIX 431 INDEX 447 BIBLIOGRAPHY. [The following list includes only such works as are referred to in abbreviated form in the notes throughout the volume.] AARNE, ANTTI. Vergleichende Märchenforschungen. Helsingfors, 1908. Arabian Nights' Entertainments. Translated by Sir RICHARD BURTON. 10 vols., 1885. Supplemental Nights, 6 vols., 1886-88. Bahar-i-Danush. Translated from the Persian by JONATHAN SCOTT. 3 vols. Shrewsbury, 1799. BAIN, R. NISBET. Russian Fairy Tales. From the Skazki of Polevoi. New York, N.D. BASILE, G. Pentamerone. Translated by Sir RICHARD BURTON. 2 vols. London, 1893. BATEMAN, G.W. Zanzibar Tales. Chicago, 1901. BENFEY, THEODOR. Pantschatantra: fünf Bücher indischer Fabeln, Märchen und Erzählungen. Aus dem Sanskrit übersetzt, mit Einleitung und Anmerkungen. 2 vols. Leipzig, 1859. BLUMENTRITT, FERDINAND. Diccionario mitológico (in Retana's Archivo del bibliófilo filipino, Vol. 2, Madrid, 1896). BOLTE (JOHANNES) UND POLÍVKA (GEORG). Anmerkungen zu den Kinder- und Hausmärchen der Brüder Grimm. 2 vols. Leipzig, 1913, 1915. (Cited Bolte-Polívka.) BOMPAS, C.H. Folklore of the Santal Parganas. London, 1909. BURTON, Sir RICHARD. See Arabian Nights' Entertainments, and Basile. (BUSK.) Sagas from the Far East; or Kalmouk and Mongolian Traditionary Tales. London, 1873. (Compiled by RACHEL HARRIETTE BUSK.) CABALLERO, FERNAN. Cuentos y poesias populares Andaluces. Leipzig, 1866. See also Ingram. CAMPBELL, A. Santal Folk-Tales. Pokhuria, India, 1891. CAMPBELL, J. F. Popular Tales of the West Highlands. 4 vols. 1890. CAMPBELL, KILLIS. The Seven Sages of Rome. Boston, 1907. CHILD, FRANCIS J. English and Scottish Popular Ballads. 5 vols. in 10 parts. Boston, 1882-98. CLOUSTON, W.A. Book of Noodles. London, 1888. (Cited Clouston 1.) --A Group of Eastern Romances. 1889. Privately printed. (Cited Clouston 2.) --Popular Tales and Fictions. 2 vols. London, 1888. (Cited Clouston 3.) COLE, FAY-COOPER. Traditions of the Tinguian. Chicago, 1915. (Cited Cole.) COLE, MABEL COOK. Philippine Folk Tales. Chicago, 1916. (Cited M. C. Cole.) COMPARETTI, D. Novelline Popolari Italiane. Rome, 1875. COSQUIN, EMMANUEL. Contes Populaires de Lorraine. 2 vols. Paris (1887). CRANE, THOMAS F. Italian Popular Tales. Boston, 1885. CROOKE, W. Religion and Folklore of Northern India. 2 vols. Westminster, 1896. DÄHNHARDT, OSKAR. Natursagen. Eine Sammlung naturdeutender Sagen, Märchen, Fabeln und Legenden. 4 vols. Leipzig, 1907-12. DASENT, G. W. Popular Tales from the Norse. London, N.D. (The London Library.) DAYRELL, ELPHINSTONE. Folk Stories from Southern Nigeria, West Africa. London, 1910. DRACOTT, ALICE E. Simla Village Tales. London, 1906. DUNLOP, JOHN COLIN. History of Fiction. Edited by H. WILSON. 2 vols. London, 1896. EVANS, IVOR H. N. Folk Stories of the Tempassuk and Tuaran Districts, British North Borneo (in the Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 43 [1913]: 422-479). (Cited Evans.) FANSLER, HARRIOTT E. Types of Prose Narratives. Chicago, 1911. FLEESON, KATHERINE NEVILLE. Laos Folk-Lore of Farther India. Chicago, 1899. Folk-Lore Journal. Folk-Lore Society. 7 vols. London, 1883-89. (Cited FLJ.) Folk-Lore: A Quarterly Review, current since 1890. (Cited FL.) FRERE, M. Old Deccan Days, or Hindoo Fairy Legends Current in Southern India. London, 1868. GEROULD, G.H. The Grateful Dead. (Folk-Lore Society.) London, 1907. Gesta Romanorum. Translated by the Rev. CHARLES SWAN. Revised edition. London, 1906. GONZENBACH, LAURA. Sicilianische Märchen. 2 vols. Leipzig, 1870. GRIMM, THE BROTHERS. Household Tales: with the Author's Notes. Translated from the German, and edited by M. Hunt. With an Introduction by Andrew Lang. 2 vols. London, 1884. GROOME, F.H. Gypsy Folk Tales. London, 1899. HAHN, J. G. VON. Griechische und albanesische Märchen. 2 vols. Leipzig, 1864. HARTLAND, E.S. Science of Fairy Tales. London, 1891. HONEY, JAMES A. South African Folk Tales. New York, 1910. HOSE (CHARLES) and McDOUGALL (WILLIAM). The Pagan Tribes of Borneo. 2 vols. London, 1912. (Cited Hose-McDougall.) Indian Antiquary--A Journal of Oriental Research in Archaeology, History, Literature, Languages, Philosophy, Religion, etc. Bombay (current). INGRAM, J. H. Spanish Fairy Tales. Translated from Fernan Caballero. New York, N.D. JACOBS, JOSEPH. Indian Fairy Tales. New York and London, 1913. (Cited Jacobs 1.) --The Fables of Æsop. I. History of the Æsopic Fable. London, 1889. (Cited Jacobs 2.) Jataka, or Stories of the Buddha's Former Births. Translated from the Pali by various hands. Edited by E. B. COWELL. 6 vols. Cambridge, V.D. Journal of American Folk-Lore. (Cited JAFL.) --Bayliss, Clara K., Tagalog Folk-Tales (JAFL 21 : 45-53). --Benedict, Laura W., Bagobo Myths (JAFL 26 : 13-63). --Chamberlain, A. F., Notes on Tagal Folk-Lore (JAFL 15 : 196-198). --Gardner, Fletcher, Tagalog Folk-Tales (JAFL 20 : 104-116, 300-310). --Maxfield, B. L., and Millington, W. H., Visayan Folk-Tales (JAFL 19 : 97-112; 20 : 89-103, 311-318). Journal of Philology. Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Bengal, N.S. (Cited JRASB.) Katha-sarit-sagara. See Somadeva. KINGSCOTE, Mrs. HOWARD. Tales of the Sun, or Folklore of Southern India. London, 1890. KITTREDGE, GEORGE L. Arthur and Gorlagon (in Harvard Studies and Notes in Philology and Literature). KNOWLES, the Rev. J.H. Folk-Tales of Kashmir. 2d ed. London, 1893. KOHLER, REINHOLD. Kleinere Schriften. I. Zur Märchenforschung. Edited by J. BOLTE. Weimar, 1898. (Cited Köhler-Bolte.) LAL BEHARI DAY. Folk-Tales of Bengal. London, 1883. LANG, ANDREW. Custom and Myth. 2d ed. London, 1885. LEGRAND, E. Recueil de contes populaires grecs. Paris, 1881. MACCULLOCH, J.A. The Childhood of Fiction: A Study of Folk Tales and Primitive Thought. London, 1905. MCCULLOCH, WILLIAM. Bengali Household Tales. London, 1912. MEIER, E. Deutsche Volksmärchen aus Schwaben. Stuttgart, 1852. METELERKAMP, SANNI. Outa Karel's Stories: South African Folk-Lore Tales. London, 1914. MIJATOVIES, Mme. Serbian Folk-Lore. London, 1874. Orient und Occident, insbesondere in ihren gegenwärtigen Beziehungen, etc. 3 vols. Göttingen, 1860-64. Pantschatantra. See Benfey. PANZER, FRIEDRICH. Studien zur germanischen Sagengeschichte. I. Beowulf. München, 1910. Persian Tales: The 1001 Days. Translated by AMBROSE PHILLIPS. 2 vols. London, 1722. (References are to the 6th edition.) PITRÈ, G. Fiabe, Novelline e Racconti Popolari Siciliane. 4 vols. Palermo, 1875. PRÖHLE, H. Kinder- und Volksmärchen. Leipzig, 1853. RADLOFF, W. Proben der Volkslitteratur der Turkischen Stämme Sud-Sibiriens. 6 vols. St. Petersburg, 1866-86. RALSTON, W. R. S. Russian Folk Tales. London, 1873. (Cited Ralston 1.) --Tibetan Tales. London, 1882. (Cited Ralston 2.) RETANA, WENCESLAO. Aparato Bibliográfico. 3 vols. Madrid, 1906. RITTERSHAUS, ADELINE. Die Neuisländischen Volksmärchen. Halle, 1902. RIVIERE, J. Recueil de contes populaires de la Kabylie. Paris, 1882. Romancero General. 2 vols. Ed. DURAN. Romania: Recueil trimestriel. Ed. par P. MEYER et G. PARIS. Paris, current since 1872. Rondallayre. Lo Rondallayre. Quentos populars catalans, colleccionats per Fr. Maspons y Labros. Barcelona, 1875. ROTH, H. LING. The Natives of Sarawak and British North Borneo. 2 vols. London, 1896. ROUSE, W. H.D. The Talking Thrush and Other Tales from India. London, 1899. SCHIEFNER, ANTON VON. See Tibetan Tales. SCHLEICHER, AUGUST. Litauische Märchen, Sprichworte, Rätsel und Lieder. Weimar, 1857. SCHNELLER, C. Märchen und Sagen aus Wälschtirol. Innsbruck, 1867. SCHOTT, ARTHUR und ALBERT. Walachische Maerchen. Stuttgart, 1845. SCOTT, JONATHAN. See Bahar-i-Danush. SELLERS, C. Tales from the Land of Nuts and Grapes. London, 1888. SKEAT, W. W. Fables and Folk-Tales from an Eastern Forest. Cambridge, 1901. (Cited Skeat 1.) SKEAT, W.W. Malay Magic. London, 1900. (Cited Skeat 2.) SOMADEVA. Katha-sarit-sagara. Translated into English by C. H. TAWNEY. 2 vols. Calcutta, 1880, 1884. STEEL (F. A.) and TEMPLE (R. C.). Wideawake Stories = Tales of the Punjab. London, 1894. (Cited Steel-Temple.) STEERE, E. Swahili Tales. London, 1870. STOKES, MAIVE. Indian Fairy Tales. London, 1880. STRAPAROLA, GIOVAN F. Tredici piacevoli Notti. The Nights, now first translated into English by W. G. WATERS. 2 vols. London, 1894. TAWNEY, C.H. See Somadeva. THORNHILL, MARK. Indian Fairy Tales. London, 1888. THORPE, B. Yule-Tide Stories. London, 1853. Thousand and One Nights. See Arabian Nights' Entertainment. Tibetan Tales. Translated from the Tibetan of the Kah-Gyur by F. ANTON VON SCHIEFNER. Done into English from the German, with an Introduction, by W. R. S. RALSTON. London, 1882. (Cited Ralston 2.) Tootinameh; or Tales of a Parrot. Persian text with English translation. Calcutta, 1792. WALDAU, A. Böhmisches Märchenbuch. Prag, 1860. WARDROP, M. Georgian Folk Tales. London, 1894. WEBSTER, WENTWORTH. Basque Legends. London (2d ed.), 1879. WRATISLAW, A. H. Sixty Slavonic Folk-Tales. Boston, 1890. WUK. Volksmärchen der Serben. Berlin, 1854. FILIPINO POPULAR TALES PART I HERO TALES AND DROLLS. TALE 1 SUAN'S GOOD LUCK. Narrated by Macaria Garcia. The story is popular among the Pampangans. There was once an old woman who had an only son named Suan. [2] Suan was a clever, sharp-witted boy. His mother sent him to school. Instead of going to school, however, Suan climbed up the tree that stood by the roadside. As soon as his mother had passed by from the market, Suan hurried home ahead of her. When she reached home, he cried, "Mother, I know what you bought in the market to-day." He then told her, article by article. This same thing happened so repeatedly, that his mother began to believe in his skill as a diviner. One day the ring of the datu's [3] daughter disappeared. All the people in the locality searched for it, but in vain. The datu called for volunteers to find the lost ring, and he offered his daughter's hand as a prize to the one who should succeed. Suan's mother heard of the proclamation. So she went to the palace and presented Suan to the datu. "Well, Suan, to-morrow tell me where the ring is," said the datu. "Yes, my lord, I will tell you, if you will give your soldiers over to me for to-night," Suan replied. "You shall have everything you need," said the datu. That evening Suan ordered the soldiers to stand around him in a semicircle. When all were ready, Suan pointed at each one of them, and said, "The ring is here, and nowhere else." It so happened that Suan fixed his eyes on the guilty soldier, who trembled and became pale. "I know who has it," said Suan. Then he ordered them to retire. Late in the night this soldier came to Suan, and said, "I will get the ring you are in search of, and will give it to you if you will promise me my safety." "Give it to me, and you shall be safe," said Suan. Very early the next morning Suan came to the palace with a turkey in his arms. "Where is the ring?" the datu demanded. "Why, sir, it is in this turkey's intestines," Suan replied. The turkey was then killed, and the ring was found inside it. "You have done very well, Suan. Now you shall have my daughter's hand," said the datu. So Suan became the princess's husband. One day the datu proposed a bet with any one who wished to prove Suan's skill. Accordingly another datu came. He offered to bet seven cascos [4] of treasure that Suan could not tell the number of seeds that were in his orange. Suan did not know what to do. At midnight he went secretly to the cascos. Here he heard their conversation, and from it he learned the number of seeds in the orange. In the morning Suan said boastfully, "I tell you, your orange has nine seeds." Thus Suan won the whole treasure. Hoping to recover his loss, the datu came again. This time he had with him fourteen cascos full of gold. He asked Suan to tell him what was inside his golden ball. Suan did not know what to say. So in the dead of night he went out to the cascos, but he could learn nothing there. The next morning Suan was summoned into the presence of the two datus. He had no idea whatever as to what was in the ball; so he said scornfully, "Nonsense!" "That is right, that is right!" shouted a man. "The ball contains nine cents." Consequently Suan won the fourteen cascos full of gold. From now on, nobody doubted Suan's merit. Suan Eket. Narrated by Manuel Reyes, a Tagalog from Rizal province. He heard the story from his grandfather. Many years ago there lived in the country of Campao a boy named Suan. While this boy was studying in a private school, it was said that he could not pronounce the letter x very well--he called it "eket." So his schoolmates nick-named him "Suan Eket." Finally Suan left school, because, whenever he went there, the other pupils always shouted at him, "Eket, eket, eket!" He went home, and told his mother to buy him a pencil and a pad of paper. "I am the wisest boy in our town now," said he. One night Suan stole his father's plough, and hid it in a creek near their house. The next morning his father could not find his plough. "What are you looking for?" said Suan. "My plough," answered his father. "Come here, father! I will guess where it is." Suan took his pencil and a piece of paper. On the paper he wrote figures of various shapes. He then looked up, and said,-- "Ararokes, ararokes, Na na nakawes Ay na s'imburnales,"-- which meant that the plough had been stolen by a neighbor and hidden in a creek. Suan's father looked for it in the creek near their house, and found it. In great wonder he said, "My son is truly the wisest boy in the town." News spread that Suan was a good guesser. One day as Suan was up in a guava-tree, he saw his uncle Pedro ploughing. At noon Pedro went home to eat his dinner, leaving the plough and the carabao [5] in the field. Suan got down from the tree and climbed up on the carabao's back. He guided it to a very secret place in the mountains and hid it there. When Pedro came back, he could not find his carabao. A man who was passing by said, "Pedro, what are you looking for?" "I am looking for my carabao. Somebody must have stolen it." "Go to Suan, your nephew," said the man. "He can tell you who stole your carabao." So Pedro went to Suan's house, and told him to guess who had taken his carabao. Suan took his pencil and a piece of paper. On the paper he wrote some round figures. He then looked up, and said, "Carabaues, carabaues, Na nanakawes Ay na sa bundokes,"-- which meant that the carabao was stolen by a neighbor and was hidden in the mountain. For many days Pedro looked for it in the mountain. At last he found it in a very secret place. He then went to Suan's house, and told him that the carabao was truly in the mountain. In great wonder he said, "My nephew is surely a good guesser." One Sunday a proclamation of the king was read. It was as follows: "The princess's ring is lost. Whoever can tell who stole it shall have my daughter for his wife; but he who tries and fails, loses his head." When Suan's mother heard it, she immediately went to the palace, and said, "King, my son can tell you who stole your daughter's ring." "Very well," said the king, "I will send my carriage for your son to ride to the palace in." In great joy the woman went home. She was only ascending the ladder [6] when she shouted, "Suan Suan, my fortunate son!" "What is it, mother?" said Suan. "I told the king that you could tell him who stole the princess's ring." "Foolish mother, do you want me to die?" said Suan, trembling. Suan had scarcely spoken these words when the king's carriage came. The coachman was a courtier. This man was really the one who had stolen the princess's ring. When Suan was in the carriage, he exclaimed in great sorrow, "Death is at hand!" Then he blasphemed, and said aloud to himself, "You will lose your life now." The coachman thought that Suan was addressing him. He said to himself, "I once heard that this man is a good guesser. He must know that it was I who stole the ring, because he said that my death is at hand." So he knelt before Suan, and said, "Pity me! Don't tell the king that it was I who stole the ring!" Suan was surprised at what the coachman said. After thinking for a moment, he asked, "Where is the ring?" "Here it is." "All right! Listen, and I will tell you what you must do in order that you may not be punished by the king. You must catch one of the king's geese to-night, and make it swallow the ring." The coachman did what Suan had told him to do. He caught a goose and opened its mouth. He then dropped the ring into it, and pressed the bird's throat until it swallowed the ring. The next morning the king called Suan, and said, "Tell me now who stole my daughter's ring." "May I have a candle? I cannot guess right if I have no candle," said Suan. The king gave him one. He lighted it and put it on a round table. He then looked up and down. He went around the table several times, uttering Latin words. Lastly he said in a loud voice, "Mi domine!" "Where is the ring?" said the king. Suan replied,-- "Singsing na nawala Ninakao ang akala Ay nas' 'big ng gansa,"-- which meant that the ring was not stolen, but had been swallowed by a goose. The king ordered all the geese to be killed. In the crop of one of them they found the ring. In great joy the king patted Suan on the back, and said, "You are truly the wisest boy in the world." The next day there was a great entertainment, and Suan and the princess were married. In a country on the other side of the sea was living a rich man named Mayabong. This man heard that the King of Campao had a son-in-law who was a good guesser. So he filled one of his cascos with gold and silver, and sailed to Campao. He went to the palace, and said, "King, is it true that your son-in-law is a good guesser?" "Yes," said the king. "Should you like to have a contest with me? If your son-in-law can tell how many seeds these melons I have brought here contain, I will give you that casco filled with gold and silver on the sea; but if he fails, you are to give me the same amount of money as I have brought." The king agreed. Mayabong told him that they would meet at the public square the next day. When Mayabong had gone away, the king called Suan, and said, "Mayabong has challenged me to a contest. You are to guess how many seeds the melons he has contain. Can you do it?" Suan was ashamed to refuse; so, even though he knew that he could not tell how many seeds a melon contained, he answered, "Yes." When night came, Suan could not sleep. He was wondering what to do. At last he decided to drown himself in the sea. So he went to the shore and got into a tub. "I must drown myself far out, so that no one may find my body. If they see it, they will say that I was not truly a good guesser," he said to himself. He rowed and rowed until he was very tired. It so happened that he reached the place where Mayabong's casco was anchored. There he heard somebody talking. "How many seeds has the green melon?" said one. "Five," answered another. "How many seeds has the yellow one?"--"Six." When Suan heard how many seeds each melon contained, he immediately rowed back to shore and went home. The next morning Suan met Mayabong at the public square, as agreed. Mayabong held up a green melon, and said, "How many seeds does this melon contain?" "Five seeds," answered Suan, after uttering some Latin words. The melon was cut, and was found to contain five seeds. The king shouted, "We are right!" Mayabong then held up another melon, and said, "How many does this one contain?" Seeing that it was the yellow melon, Suan said, "It contains six." When the melon was cut, it was found that Suan was right again. So he won the contest. Now, Mayabong wanted to win his money back again. So he took a bottle and filled it with dung, and covered it tightly. He challenged the king again to a contest. But when Suan refused this time, because he had no idea as to what was in the bottle, the king said, "I let you marry my daughter, because I thought that you were a good guesser. Now you must prove that you are. If you refuse, you will lose your life." When Mayabong asked what the bottle contained, Suan, filled with rage, picked it up and hurled it down on the floor, saying, "I consider that you are all waste to me." [7] When the bottle was broken, it was found to contain waste, or dung. In great joy the king crowned Suan to succeed him. Thus Suan lived happily the rest of his life with his wife the princess. Notes. Two other printed variants are-- (c) "Juan the Guesser" (in H. E. Fansler's Types of Prose Narratives [Chicago, 1911], pp. 73-77). (d) "Juan Pusong" (JAFL 19 : 107-108). This story seems to be fairly widespread among the Filipinos: there is no doubt of its popularity. The distinguishing incidents of the type are as follows:-- A1 Lazy son decides that he will go to school no longer, and (A2) with his ABC book or a pencil and pad of paper, he has no trouble in making his parents think him wise. (A3) He tells his mother that he has learned to be a prophet and can discover hidden things. (A4) He spies on his mother, and then "guesses" what she has prepared for supper. B He hides his father's plough (cattle), and then finds it for him. (B1) Plays similar trick on his uncle, thereby establishing his reputation as a diviner. C King's daughter loses ring, and the king sends for Juan to find it under penalty of death if he fails, or (C1) his mother volunteers her son's services. (C2) He accidentally discovers the thief by an ejaculation of sorrow, or (C3) shrewdly picks out the guilty one from among the soldiers. In either case he causes the ring to be hid in a secret place or swallowed by a goose (turkey), in whose body it is found the next day. D Juan marries the princess. E By overhearing a conversation, Juan is able to tell the number of seeds in an orange (melon), and to win a large sum of money from a neighboring king who has come to bet with hero's father-in-law. F Hero required to accept another bet, as to the contents of three jars. (Method as in E,--swimming out to neighboring king's casco and overhearing conversation.) G Ejaculation guess as to contents of golden ball (bottle). H Afraid of being called on for further demonstration of his skill, hero burns his "magic" book. These incidents are distributed among the four forms of the story as follows:-- Version a A1A4C1C3DEG Version b A1A2BB1C1C2DEG Version c A1A2BCC2DE(accidentally hears answer)FH Version d A1A3A4EB A concluding adventure is sometimes added to version c, "Juan the Guesser." King and queen of another country visit palace of Juan's father-in-law and want their newly-born child baptized. Juan is selected to be godfather. When called upon to sign the baptism certificate, he instantly dies of shame, pen in hand: he cannot write even his own name. A connection between our story and Europe at once suggests itself. "Dr. Knowall" (Grimm, No. 98) is perhaps the best-known, though by no means the fullest, Western version. Bolte and Polívka (2 [1915] : 402) give the skeleton of the cycle as follows:-- A1 A peasant with the name of Crab (Cricket, Rat), who buys a physician's costume and calls himself Dr. Knowall, or (A2) who would like to satiate himself once with three days' eating, (B) discovers the thieves who have stolen from a distinguished gentleman a ring (treasure), by calling out upon the entrance of the servants (or at the end of the three days), "That is the first (second, third)!" (C) He also guesses what is in the covered dish (or closed hand) while commiserating himself, "Poor Crab (Cricket, Rat)!" (D1) Through a purgative he by chance helps to find a stolen horse, or (D2) he discovers the horse that has previously been concealed by him. (E) He gets a living among the peasants, upon whom he has made an impression with a short or unintelligible sermon or through the crashing-down of the pulpit, which has previously been sawed through by him. Bolte lists over a hundred and fifty stories containing one or more incidents of this cycle. The discovery of the ring inside a domestic fowl (sometimes animal) is found in most of the European versions, as is likewise the "ejaculation guess" (our C3 and G). These two details, however, are also found in Oriental forms of the story, which, as a whole, have some peculiarly distinctive traits. These (see Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 407) are (1) the rôle of the wife, (2) the collapsing of the room, (3) the burning of the magic book. The appearance in the Philippine versions of two of these motifs (one in modified form), together with a third (the betting-contest between the two kings, which is undoubtedly Eastern in origin), leads us to believe that our story of "Juan the Guesser" is in large measure descended directly from Oriental tradition, though it may owe something to Occidental influence. In two of our variants it is the mother who in her fond pride places her son in jeopardy of losing his head. As the hero is a young bachelor when the story opens, the exploitation of his prowess would naturally devolve upon his mother. The burning of the magic book is found in version c, though the incident of the collapsing of the room or house is lacking in all our variants. The most characteristic episode, however, in the Philippine members of this cycle, is the betting-contest between the two kings. It is introduced five times into the four tales. Its only other occurrence that I know of in this cycle is in an Arabian story cited by Cosquin (2 : 192), which follows. One day, when the king was boasting of his conjurer before some other kings, they said to him, "We too have some diviners. Let us compare their wits with the wisdom of your man." The kings then buried three pots,--one filled with milk, another with honey, and the third with pitch. The conjurers of the other kings could not say what was in the pots. Then Asfour (the hero) was called. He turned to his wife, and said, "All this (trouble) comes of you. We could have left the country. The first (time) it was milk; the second, honey; the third, pitch." The kings were dumfounded. "He has named the milk, the honey, and the pitch without hesitation," they said, and they gave him a pension. The close resemblance between this detail and the corresponding one (F) in "Juan the Guesser" is immediately evident. The fact that the difficulty in Juan's career is overcome, not by an "ejaculation guess," but by a providential accident (much the same thing, however), does not decrease the significance of the two passages. That the betting-contest between the two kings is an Oriental conception (very likely based on actual early custom) is further borne out by its appearance in a remarkable group of Eastern stories of the "Clever Lass" type (see Child, English and Scottish Ballads, 1 : 11). "The gist of these narratives," writes Professor Child, "is that one king propounds tasks to another; in the earlier ones, with the intent to discover whether his brother-monarch enjoys the aid of such counsellors as will make an attack on him dangerous; in the later, with the demand that he shall acquit himself satisfactorily, or suffer a forfeit: and the king is delivered from a serious strait by the sagacity either of a minister . . . or of the daughter of his minister, who came to her father's assistance .... These tasks are always such as require ingenuity of one kind or another, whether in devising practical experiments, in contriving subterfuges, in solving riddles, or even in constructing compliments." One other Oriental variant of this story may be cited because of its similarity to two of our tales (cf. our episodes C and C2). This is an Anamese version, printed in the "Chrestomathie cochin-chinoise" (Paris, 1872), 1 : 30:-- There was once a man who, being qualified for nothing, and not knowing how to earn a living, made up his mind one day to become a diviner. As luck had many times served him, the public came to believe in his oracles.... He amassed a good round sum, and day by day his success made him more bold and boastful. Once a golden tortoise disappeared from the palace of the king. As all searches for it resulted in nothing, some one mentioned the diviner to the king, and begged permission to summon him. The king ordered his litter prepared, the escort and the umbrellas of honor, and sent to have the conjurer fetched. When the conjurer learned what was the matter, he was very much disturbed, but he could not resist the commands of the king. Accordingly he dressed himself, entered the litter, and set out. Along the road the poor diviner continually bemoaned his fate. Finally he cried out, "What is the use of groaning? The stomach (bung) has caused it all; the belly (da) will suffer for it" (an Anamese proverb). Now, it happened that the two litter-bearers were named Bung and Da, and it was they who had stolen the king's gold tortoise. When they heard the exclamation of the diviner, they believed that they had been discovered. They begged him to have pity on them; they confessed that they had stolen the tortoise and had hidden it in the gutter. "Very well," said the diviner, "I will spare you; I will say nothing; reassure yourselves." When he reached the palace, he went through some magical performances, found the tortoise, and was overwhelmed by the king with rewards and honors.--COSQUIN, 2 : 192. It is entirely possible that this story and our two stories containing the same situation are connected. Trading between Manila and Indo-China has been going on for centuries. The history of the Philippine story has probably been something like this: To an early narrative about a wager between two neighboring kings or datus, in which the winner was aided by the shrewdness of an advisor (originally having a considerable amount of real ability), were added other adventures showing how the advisor came to have his post of honor. The germ of this story doubtless came from India via the Malay migrations; the additional details possibly belong to a much later period. It is, moreover, not impossible that this whole cycle of the lucky "anti-hero" grew up as a conscious antithesis to the earlier cycle of the genuinely "Clever Lass" (see No. 7 in this collection). In conclusion I might call attention to Benfey's treatment of this droll in "Orient und Occident" (1 : 371 et seq.). Benfey traces the story from the Orient, but considers that its fullest form is that given in Schleicher's Lithuanian legends. The tale is also found in "Somadeva," Chapter XXX (Tawney, 1 : 272-274). TALE 2 THE CHARCOAL-MAKER WHO BECAME KING. Narrated by José R. Perez, a Tagalog living in Manila, who heard the story when a boy from his nurse. Once upon a time there lived a king who had one beautiful daughter. When she was old enough to be married, her father, as was the custom in ancient times, made a proclamation throughout his kingdom thus: "Whosoever shall be able to bring me ten car-loads of money for ten successive days shall have the hand of my beautiful daughter and also my crown. If, however, any one undertakes and fails, he shall be put to death." A boy, the only son of a poor charcoal-maker, heard this announcement in his little town. He hurried home to his mother, and said that he wanted to marry the beautiful princess and to be king of their country. The mother, however, paid no attention to what her foolish son had said, for she well knew that they had very little money. The next day the boy, as usual, took his hatchet and went to the forest to cut wood. He started to cut down a very huge tree, which would take him several days to finish. While he was busy with his hatchet, he seemed to hear a voice saying, "Cut this tree no more. Dip your hand into the hole of the trunk, and you will find a purse which will give you all the money you wish." At first he did not pay any attention to the voice, but finally he obeyed it. To his surprise, he got the purse, but found it empty. Disappointed, he angrily threw it away; but as the purse hit the ground, silver money rolled merrily out of it. The youth quickly gathered up the coins; then, picking up the purse, he started for home, filled with happiness. When he reached the house, he spread petates [8] over the floor of their little hut, called his mother, and began shaking the purse. The old woman was amazed and delighted when she saw dollars coming out in what seemed to be an inexhaustible stream. She did not ask her son where he had found the purse, but was now thoroughly convinced that he could marry the beautiful princess and be king afterwards. The next morning she ordered her son to go to the palace to inform his Majesty that he would bring him the money he demanded in exchange for his daughter and his crown. The guard of the palace, however, thought that the youth was crazy; for he was poorly dressed and had rude manners. Therefore he refused to let him in. But their talk was overheard by the king, who ordered the guard to present the youth before him. The king read the announcement, emphasizing the part which said that in case of failure the contestant would be put to death. To this condition the charcoal-maker agreed. Then he asked the king to let him have a talk with his daughter. The meeting was granted, and the youth was extremely pleased with the beauty and vivacity of the princess. After he had bidden her good-by, he told the king to send the cars with him to get the first ten car-loads of money. The cars were sent with guards. The drivers and the guards of the convoy were astonished when they saw the poor charcoal-maker fill the ten cars with bright new silver dollars. The princess, too, at first was very much pleased with such a large sum of money. Five days went by, and the youth had not failed to send the amount of money required. "Five days more, and I shall surely be married!" said the princess to herself. "Married? Yes, married life is like music without words. But will it be in my case? My future husband is ugly, unrefined, and of low descent. But--he is rich. Yes, rich; but what are riches if I am going to be wretched? No, I will not marry him for all the world. I will play a trick on him." The next day the guard informed her that the riches of the young man were inexhaustible, for the purse from which he got his money seemed to be magical. When she heard this, she commanded the guard to tell the young man that she wished to see him alone. Filled with joy because of this sign of her favor, the youth hastened to the palace, conducted by the guard. The princess entertained him regally, and tried all sorts of tricks to get possession of the magical purse. At last she succeeded in inducing him to go to sleep. While he was unconscious, the deceitful princess stole the purse and left him alone in the chamber. When he awoke, he saw that the princess had deserted him and that his purse was gone. "Surely I am doomed to die if I don't leave this kingdom at once," said he to himself. "My purse is gone, and I cannot now fulfil my contract." He at once hurried home, told his parents to abandon their home and town, and he himself started on a journey for another kingdom. After much travelling, he reached mountainous places, and had eaten but little for many a day. By good luck he came across a tree heavily laden with fruits. The tree was strange to him; but the delicious appearance of its fruit, and his hunger, tempted him to try some. While he was eating, he was terrified to find that two horns had appeared on his forehead. He tried his best to pull them off, but in vain. The next day he saw another tree, whose fruit appeared even more tempting. He climbed it, picked some fruits, and ate them. To his surprise, his horns immediately fell off. He wrapped some of this fruit up in his handkerchief, and then went back to find the tree whose fruit he had eaten the day before. He again ate some of its fruit, and again two horns grew out of his head. Then he ate some of the other kind, and the horns fell off. Confident now that he had a means of recovering his purse, he gathered some of the horn-producing fruits, wrapped them in his shirt, and started home. By this time he had been travelling for nearly two years, and his face had so changed that he could not be recognized by his own parents, or by his town-mates who had been hired by the king to search for him for execution. When he reached his town, he decided to place himself in the king's palace as a helper of the royal cook. As he was willing to work without pay, he easily came to terms with the cook. One of the conditions of their agreement was that the cook would tell him whatever the king or the king's family were talking about. After a few months the charcoal-maker proved himself to be an excellent cook. In fact, he was now doing all the cooking in the palace; for the chief cook spent most of his time somewhere else, coming home only at meal times. Now comes the fun of the story. One day while the cook was gone, the youth ground up the two kinds of fruit. He mixed the kind that produced horns with the king's food: the other kind, which caused the horns to fall off, he mixed with water and put into a jar. The cook arrived, and everything was ready. The table was prepared, and the king and his family were called to eat. The queen and the king and the beautiful princess, who were used to wearing golden crowns set with diamonds and other precious stones, were then to be seen with sharp ugly horns on their heads. When the king discovered that they all had horns, he summoned the cook at once, and asked, "What kind of food did you give us?" "The same food that your Highness ate a week ago," replied the cook, who was terrified to see the royal family with horns. "Cook, go and find a doctor. Don't tell him or any one else that we have horns. Tell the doctor that the king wants him to perform an operation," ordered the king. The cook set out immediately to find a doctor; but he was intercepted by the charcoal-maker, who was eager to hear the king's order. "Where are you going? Say, cook, why are you in such a hurry? What is the matter?" "Don't bother me!" said the cook. "I am going to find a doctor. The king and his family have horns on their heads, and I am ordered to find a doctor who can take them off." "I can make those horns fall off. You needn't bother to find a doctor. Here, try some of this food, cook!" said the helper, giving him some of the same food he had prepared for the king. The cook tried it, and it was good; but, to his alarm, he felt two horns on his head. To prevent rumors from reaching the ears of the king, the youth then gave the cook a glass of the water he had prepared, and the horns fell off. While the charcoal-maker was playing this trick on the cook, he related the story of his magical purse, and how he had lost it. "Change your clothes, then, and get ready, and I will present you to the king as the doctor," said the cook. The helper then dressed himself just like a doctor of surgery, and was conducted by the cook into the king's presence. "Doctor, I want you to do all you can, and use the best of your wisdom, to take off these horns from our heads. But before doing it, promise me first that you will not unfold the matter to the people; for my queen, my daughter, and I would rather die than be known to have lived with horns. If you succeed in taking them off, you shall inherit one-half of my kingdom and have the hand of my fair daughter," said the king. "I do promise. But listen, O king! In order to get rid of those horns, you must undergo the severest treatment, which may cause your death," replied the doctor. "It is no matter. If we should die, we would rather die hornless than live with horns," said the king. After the agreement was written out, the doctor ordered the treatment. The king and the queen were to be whipped until they bled, while the princess was to dance with the doctor until she became exhausted. These were the remedies given by the doctor. While the king and queen were being whipped, the doctor who, we must remember, was the cook's helper--went to the kitchen to get the jar of water which he had prepared. The cruel servants who were scourging the king and the queen took much delight in their task, and did not quit until the king and queen were almost lifeless. The doctor forgot the royal couple while he was dancing with the princess, and found them just about to die. He succeeded, however, in giving them some of the fruit-water he had made ready, and the horns fell off. The princess, exhausted, also asked for a drink when she stopped dancing, and the horns fell off her head too. A few days afterwards the king and the queen died, and the doctor succeeded to the throne, with the beautiful princess as his wife. Then the doctor told her that he was the poor charcoal-maker who had owned the magic purse that she had stolen from him. As soon as he was seated on the throne, he made his friend the cook one of his courtiers. Although the new king was uneducated and unrefined, he welcomed all wise men to his palace as his counsellors, and his kingdom prospered as it had never done under its previous rulers. Notes. Another Tagalog version, called "Pedro's Fortunes" and narrated by Facundo Esquivel of Nueva Ecija, represents the hero as inheriting the inexhaustible purse from his father. Pedro, with his wealth, soon attracts the notice of the princess, who slyly wheedles his purse away from him. Bent on revenge, he sets out travelling. Hunger soon drives him to eat some beautiful blossoms he finds on a strange tree in the mountains. No sooner has he eaten, however, than horns grow out of his forehead. At first in despair, but later becoming philosophical, he eats some of the leaves of the tree. Horns disappear. Taking blossoms and leaves with him, he goes on. He finds another tree with blossoms similar to the first. He eats: fangs from upper jaw. Eats leaves from the same tree: fangs disappear. Takes with him specimens of both flowers and leaves. Third tree: blossoms tail-producing. When he reaches home, he makes a decoction of the three kinds of flowers, then goes to the palace and sells "lemonade from Paradise." King, queen, and princess drink: horns, fangs, tails. All efforts to remove them vain. Proclamation that princess's hand will be given to whoever can cure the royal family. Disguised as a doctor, Pedro cures king, queen, and princess with a decoction of the three kinds of leaves, first, however, demanding and getting back his purse. Pedro is married to princess. These two stories (No. 2 and the variant) belong to the type in which the hero loses a magic article (or three magic articles) through the trickery of a princess, but recovers it (them) again by the aid of fruits (blossoms) which, if eaten, cause bodily deformity,--leprosy, horns, a tail, a long nose, transformation into an animal, or the like. The princess, a victim of one of these fruits, which the hero causes her to eat unwittingly, can be restored to her former beauty only by eating of another fruit which the hero, disguised as a physician, supplies on condition that the magic articles first stolen be given up. A detailed study of this cycle has been made by Antti Aarne (pp. 85-142). Aarne names the cycle "The Three Magic Articles and the Wonderful Fruit." After an examination of some hundred and forty-five variants of the story, all but four of which are European, he concludes that the tale arose among the Celts (British Isles and France) and spread eastward (p. 135), and that the farther we go from these two lands, the more freely are the original details of the story handled (p. 137). The prototype of this folk-tale Aarne reconstructs as follows (pp. 124-125):-- There are three brothers, soldiers. Each comes into the possession of a specific magic article. One obtains a purse which is never empty; the second, a horn which when blown raises an army; and the third, a mantle which transports its owner wherever he commands it to go. (The owner of the purse begins to lead such a luxurious life, that he becomes acquainted with the king and his family.) The king's daughter deprives the hero of his magic purse. He gets from his brother the second magic article, but the same thing happens again: the princess steals the horn likewise. A third time the hero goes to the princess, taking the mantle given him by his brother. With the help of this, the hero succeeds in punishing the princess by transporting her to a distant island. But she cheats him again. In the magic mantle she wishes herself home, leaving him on the island. He happens upon an apple-tree. He eats some of the fruit, but notices with dismay that horns have grown from his head. After a time he finds other apples; and when he has eaten them, the horns disappear, and he regains his original form. Unrecognized, the youth sets out to sell to the king's daughter some of the first apples. Without suspecting any evil, she eats them, and horns appear on her head. No one is able to cure her. Then the hero appears as a foreign physician at the court of the king, and makes ready his cure. He gives the princess enough of the good apple to cause the horns to decrease in size. In this way he compels her to give him back the stolen articles. The Tagalog versions of the story differ considerably from this archetype. No brothers of the hero are mentioned. There is but one magic object, an inexhaustible purse: hence there is no magic flight to an island. In none of Aarne's variants do we find blossoms producing horns which may be removed only by leaves from the same tree, as in our variant. The tail-producing fruit is found in nine European versions (five Finnish, two Russian, two Italian), but the fang-producing blossom is peculiar only to our variant; likewise the "lemonade from Paradise" method of dispensing the extract. In thirty-five of the Finnish and Russian forms of the story the hero whips the princess to make her give up the stolen articles, or introduces whipping as a part of the cure (cf. No. 2). Both Filipino versions end with the marriage of the hero to the princess, a detail often lacking in the other versions. It is impossible to say when or whence this tale reached the Philippines. The fact that the story does not seem to be widespread in the Islands suggests that its introduction was recent, while the separate incidents point to some Finnish or Russian version as source. The only crystallized elements found in the Philippines are the poor hero's obtaining a magic purse, his aspiring to the hand of the princess, her theft of the magic object, and its recovery by means of horn-producing fruits. The complete story (2) seems to be more native and less "manufactured" than the variant. Besides Aarne, for a general discussion of this cycle see Cosquin, 1 : 123-132; R. Köhler's notes to Gonzenbach's No. 31, and his variants of this story in Zeitschrift des Vereins für Volkskunde (1896); Von Hahn, 2 : 246-247; Grimm, notes to No. 122, "Donkey Cabbages" (in Tales [ed. Hunt], 2 : 419-423). F. H. Groome's "The Seer" (No. 23), a part of which resembles very closely the literary form of the story in the Gesta Romanorum (ch. 120), seems to have been overlooked by Aarne. TALE 3 THE STORY OF CARANCAL. Narrated by José P. Caedo, a Tagalog from Batangas, Batangas. Once upon a time there lived a couple who had long been married, but had no child. Every Sunday they went to church and begged God to give them a son. They even asked the witches in their town why God would not give them a child. The witches told them that they would have one after a year, but that when born he would be no longer than a span. Nevertheless the couple gave thanks. After a year a son was born to them. He was very small, as the witches had foretold, but he was stronger than any one would expect such a small child to be. "It is strange," said a neighbor. "Why, he eats more food than his stomach can hold." The boy grew larger and larger, and the amount of food he ate became greater and greater. When he became four feet tall, his daily requirements were a cavan [9] of rice and twenty-five pounds of meat and fish. "I can't imagine how so small a person can eat so much food," said his mother to her husband. "He is like a grasshopper: he eats all the time." Carancal, as the boy was called, was very strong and very kind-hearted. He was the leader of the other boys of the town, for he could beat all of them in wrestling. After a few years the family's property had all been sold to buy food for the boy. Day after day they became poorer and poorer, for Carancal's father had no other business but fishing. So one day when Carancal was away playing, the wife said to her husband, "What shall we do with Carancal? He will make us as poor as rats. It is better for us to tell him to go earn his living, for he is old enough to work." "No, it is a shame to send him off," said the father, "for we asked God for him. I will take him to the forest and there kill him; and if the neighbors ask how he died, we will say that an accident befell him while cutting trees." Early the next morning his father led Carancal to the forest, and they began to cut down a very big tree. When the tree was about to fall, Carancal's father ordered the son to stand where the tree inclined; so that when it fell, Carancal was entirely buried. The father immediately went home, thinking that his son had surely been killed; but when he and his wife were talking, Carancal came home with the big tree on his shoulders. "Father, father, why did you leave me alone in the forest?" said the obedient boy. The father could not move or speak, for shame of himself. He only helped his son unload the heavy burden. The mother could not speak either, for fear Carancal might suspect their bad intentions toward him. Accordingly she and her husband planned another scheme. The next day Carancal was invited by his father to go fishing. They rowed and rowed until they were far out into the blue sea. Then they put their net into the water. "Carancal, dive down and see that our net is sound," said the father. Carancal obeyed. In about a minute the water became red and began to foam. This made the old man think that his son had been devoured by a big fish, so he rowed homeward. When he reached home, his wife anxiously asked if Carancal was dead; and the husband said, "Yes." They then cooked their meal and began to eat. But their supper was not half finished when Carancal came in, carrying a big alligator. He again asked his father why he had left him alone to bring such a big load. The father said, "I thought you had been killed by a large fish." Carancal then asked his mother to cook him a cavan of rice, for he was tired from swimming such a long distance. The couple were now discouraged; they could not think of any way by which to get rid of Carancal. At last the impatient woman said, "Carancal, you had better go out into the world to see what you can do toward earning your own living. You know that we are becoming poorer and poorer." . . . "Mother," interrupted the boy, "I really did not wish to go away from you; but, now that you drive me as if I were not your son, I cannot stay." He paused for a moment to wipe the tears from his cheeks. "You know that I love you; but you, in turn, hate me. What shall I do? I am your son, and so I must not disobey you. But before I depart, father and mother, please give me a bolo, [10] a big bolo, to protect myself in case of danger." The parents willingly promised that he should have one, and after two days an enormous bolo five yards long was finished. Carancal took it, kissed the hands of his parents, [11] and then went away with a heavy heart. When he had left his little village behind, he did not know which way to go. He was like a ship without a rudder. He walked and walked until he came to a forest, where he met Bugtongpalasan. [12] Carancal asked him where he was going; and Bugtongpalasan said, "I am wandering, but I do not know where to go. I have lost my parents, and they have left me nothing to inherit." "Do you want to go with me?" said Carancal. "Yes," said Bugtongpalasan. "Let us wrestle first, and the loser will carry my bolo," said Carancal as a challenge. They wrestled; and Bugtongpalasan was defeated, so he had to carry the big bolo. Then they continued their journey until they met Tunkodbola, [13] whom Carancal also challenged to a wrestling-match. Tunkodbola laughed at Carancal, and said, "Look at this!" He twisted up a tree near by, and hurled it out of sight. "That is all right. Let us wrestle, and we will see if you can twist me," said Carancal scornfully. So they wrestled. The earth trembled, trees were uprooted, large stones rolled about; but Tunkodbola was defeated. "Here, take this bolo and carry it!" said Carancal triumphantly; and they continued their journey. When they reached the top of a mountain, they saw a big man. This was Macabuhalbundok. [14] Carancal challenged him; but Macabuhalbundok only laughed, and pushed up a hill. As the hill fell, he said, "Look at this hill! I gave it only a little push, and it was overthrown." "Well, I am not a hill," said Carancal. "I can balance myself." They wrestled together, and Carancal was once more the winner. The four companions now walked on together. They were all wandering about, not knowing where to go. When they were in the midst of a thick wood, they became hungry; so Carancal, their captain, ordered one of them to climb a tall tree and see if any house was nigh. Bugtongpalasan did so, and he saw a big house near the edge of the forest. They all went to the house to see if they might not beg some food. It was a very large house; but all the windows were closed, and it seemed to be uninhabited. They knocked at the door, but no one answered. Then they went in, and found a table covered with delicious food; and as they were almost famished, they lost no time in devouring what seemed to have been prepared for them. After all had eaten, three of them went hunting, leaving Bugtongpalasan behind to cook more food for them against their return. While Bugtongpalasan was cooking, he felt the earth tremble, and in a short time he saw a big giant ascending the stairs of the house, saying, "Ho, bajo tao cainco," [15] which means "I smell a man whom I will eat." Bugtongpalasan faced him, but what could a man do to a big giant? The monster pulled a hair out of his head and tied Bugtongpalasan to a post. Then he cooked his own meal. After eating, he went away, leaving his prisoner in the house. When the three arrived, they were very angry with Bugtongpalasan because no food had been prepared for them; but they untied him, and made him get the meal. Tunkodbola was the next one left behind as cook while the others went hunting, but he had the same experience as Bugtongpalasan. Then Macabuhalbundok; but the same thing happened to him too. It was now the turn of Carancal to try his wit, strength, and luck. Before the three left, he had them shave his head. When the giant came and saw that Carancal's head was white, he laughed. "It is a very fine thing to have a white head," said the giant. "Make my head white, too." "Your head must be shaved to be white," said Carancal, "and it is a very difficult thing to shave a head." "Never mind that! I want to have my head shaved," said the giant impatiently. Carancal then got some ropes and wax. He tied the giant tightly to a post, and then smeared his body with wax. He next took a match and set the giant's body on fire. Thus the giant was destroyed, and the four lived in the house as if it were their own. Not long afterwards a rumor reached their ears. It was to this effect: that in a certain kingdom on the other side of the sea lived a king who wanted to have a huge stone removed from its place. This stone was so big that it covered much ground. The prize that would be given to the one who could remove it was the hand of the king's prettiest daughter. The four set out to try their strength. At that time there were no boats for them to sail on, so they had to swim. After three weeks' swimming, they landed on an island-like place in the sea, to rest. It was smooth and slippery, which made them wonder what it could be. Carancal, accordingly, drew his bolo and thrust it into the island. How fast the island moved after the stroke! It was not really an island, but a very big fish. Fortunately the fish carried the travellers near the shores of the kingdom they were seeking. When the four arrived, they immediately presented themselves to the king, and told him that they would try to move the stone. The king ordered one of his soldiers to show them the stone. There a big crowd of people collected to watch the four strong men. The first to try was Bugtongpalasan. He could hardly budge it. Then Tunkodbola tried, but moved it only a few yards. When Macabuhalbundok's turn came, he moved the great stone half a mile; but the king said that it was not satisfactory. Carancal then took hold of the rope tied to the stone, and gave a swing. In a minute the great stone was out of sight. The king was very much pleased, and asked Carancal to choose a princess for his wife. "I am not old enough to marry, my lord," said Carancal sadly (sic!). "I will marry one of my companions to your daughter, however, if you are willing." The king agreed, and Bugtongpalasan was made a prince. The three unmarried men lived with Bugtongpalasan. By this time they were known not only throughout the whole kingdom where they were, but also in other countries. They had not enjoyed a year's hospitality in Bugtongpalasan's home when a letter addressed to the four men came. It was as follows:-- I have heard that you have superhuman strength, which I now greatly need. About a week ago a monster fish floated up to the shore of my town. It is decaying, and has a most offensive odor. My men in vain have tried to drag the fish out into the middle of the sea. I write to inform you that if you can rid us of it, I will let one of you marry my prettiest daughter. King Walangtacut. [16] After Carancal had read the letter, he instantly remembered the fish that had helped them in travelling. The three companions made themselves ready, bade Bugtongpalasan good-by, and set out for Walangtacut's kingdom. They travelled on foot, for the place was not very far away. In every town they passed through, the people cried, "Hurrah for the strong men!" The king received them with a banquet, and all the houses of the town were decorated with flags. In a word, every one welcomed them. After the banquet was over, the three men marched with the king and all his counsellors, knights, dukes, and the common people to where the decaying fish lay. In this test, too, Carancal was the only successful one. Again he refused to marry; but as the princess was very anxious to have a strong man for her husband, Tunkodbola was chosen by Carancal, and he became her husband. The fame of the strong men was now nearly universal. All the surrounding kings sent congratulations. The heroes received offers of marriage from many beautiful ladies of the neighboring kingdoms. One day when Carancal and Macabuhalbundok were talking together, one of them suggested that they go on another journey. The other agreed, and both of them made preparations. But when they were about to start, a letter from another king came, addressed to Carancal. The king said in his letter that a great stone had fallen in his park. "It is so big that I thought it was the sky that fell," he wrote. "I am willing to marry you to my youngest daughter if you can remove it from its present place," said the king. The two friends accepted the invitation, and immediately began their journey. They travelled by land and sea for many a day. At last they reached the place. There they found the same stone which they had removed before. As he knew that he could not move it far enough, Macabuhalbundok did not make any attempt: Carancal was again the one who did the work. Once more Carancal refused to marry. "I am too young yet to marry," he said to the king. "In my place I will put my companion." So Macabuhalbundok was married. Carancal remained a bachelor, for he did not wish to have a wife. The three princes considered him as their father, though he was younger than any of them. For a long time Carancal lived with each of them a year in rotation. Not long after the marriage of Macabuhalbundok, the father-in-law of Bugtongpalasan died, and so Bugtongpalasan became the king. Then the following year Tunkodbola's father-in-law died, and Tunkodbola became also a king. After many years the father-in-law of Macabuhalbundok died, and Macabuhalbundok succeeded to the throne. Thus Carancal was the benefactor of three kings. One day Carancal thought of visiting his cruel parents and of living with them. So he set out, carrying with him plenty of money, which the three kings had given him. This time his parents did not drive him away, for he had much wealth. Carancal lived once more with his parents, and had three kings under him. Notes. Of this story I have eight variants, as follows:-- (a) "Pusong" (Visayan), narrated by Fermin Torralba. (b) "Cabagboc" (Bicol), narrated by Pacifico Buenconsejo. (c) "Sandapal" (Tagalog), narrated by Pilar Ejercito. (d) "Sandangcal" (Pampangan), narrated by Anastacia Villegas. (e) "Greedy Juan" (Pampangan), narrated by Wenceslao Vitug. (f) "Juan Tapon" (Ilocano), narrated by C. Gironella. (g) "Dangandangan" (Ilocano), narrated by Salvador Reyes. (h) "Tangarangan" (Ibanag), narrated by Candido Morales. The incidents of this cycle may be tabulated thus. A The hero, when born, is only a span in length, and never grows taller than four feet. He early develops an enormous appetite, and by the time he is twelve years old he has eaten his parents out of everything. B Attempts of parents (or uncle) to get rid of the hero: (B1) by letting a tree fall on him, (B2) by throwing him into a deep well and then stoning him, (B3) by commanding him to dive into a river to repair a fishing-net, (B4) by persuading him to enter wrestling-match with the king's champion, (B5) by pushing him into the sea or by pushing rocks on him at the seashore. C Hero's first exploits: (C1) carrying tree home on his shoulders, (C2) killing crocodile in river, or king of fishes in the sea, (C3) escape from the well, (C4) defeating champion. D The hero now decides to leave home, (D1) taking with him a strong club, an enormous bolo, or an enormous top, sword, and sheath. E On his travels he meets two (three) strong men, whom he surpasses in strength-tests; or (E1) three men, whom he hires. They all journey along together, seeking adventures. F Tasks of the companions: (F1) killing of troublesome giant by the hero after the monster has worsted the two other strong men, (F2) removal of large stone from king's grounds, (F3) removal of enormous decaying fish, (F4) killing of two giants, (F5) killing seven-headed man, (F6) battering, blowing, and running contest with king's strong men. G Hero marries off his companions, but remains single himself, and (G1) returns home to live with his parents, either for good or for only a short time. These incidents are distributed among the different versions thus:-- No. 3 AB1B3C1C2DD1EF1F2F3GG1 Version a AB1B5D Version b C1DD1EF3F4F5GG1 Version c AB5B1B4C1C2C4 Version d AB1B2C1C3DE1F6 Version e AB1B3C1C2DG1 Version f AB4B1C1C4 Version g AB1B2C1C3DD1EF4G Version h AB1B2C1C3DD1 Up to the point where the hero leaves home, these various Filipino stories agree in the main: i.e., the hero is a dwarf of superhuman strength and extraordinary eating-capacity; his parents (or guardian) are driven by poverty to attempt to kill him (usually twice, sometimes thrice), but their efforts are vain; he finally determines to leave home, often taking with him some mighty weapon. From this point on, the narratives differ widely. All are alike in this respect, however: the hero never marries. Obviously this group of stories is connected with two well-known European cycles of folk-tales,--"Strong Hans" and "John the Bear." The points of resemblance will be indicated below in an analysis of the incidents found in the members of our group. (Variants are referred to by italicized lower-case letters thus: a [Pusong], b [Cabagboc], etc. No. 3 refers to our complete story of "Carancal.") A Hero is born as result of childless couple's unceasing petitions to Heaven (3, a, f, g), and is only a span in length when born (c, d, g). Three of the tales do not mention anything definite about the hero's birth (b, e, h). In all, however, his name is significant, indicating the fact that he is either a dwarf, or wonderfully strong, or a glutton (3 Carancal, from Tag. dangkal, "a palm;" [a] Pusong, from Vis. puso, "paunch, belly;" [b] Cabagboc, from Bicol, "strong;" [c] Sandapal, from Tag. dapal, "a span;" [d] Sandangcal, from Pampangan dangkal = Tag.; [f] Tapon, Ilocano for "short;" [g] and [h] Tangarangan and Dangandangan, from Ilocano dangan, "a span"). a describes the hero as having "a big head and large stomach," but as being "very, very strong, he ate a sack of corn or rice every day." In b the hero "had great strength even when an infant." Sandangcal (d) required a carabao-liver every meal. In e the hero's voracious appetite is mentioned. The hero in c "would eat everything in the house, leaving no food for his parents." Juan Tapon (f), when three years old, "used to eat daily half a ganta of rice and a pound of meat, besides fish and vegetables;" the quantity of food he required increased steadily until, when he was fourteen, his parents could no longer support him. However, he never grew taller than a six-year-old boy. Dangandangan (g) could walk and talk the day he was born. He could eat one cavan of rice and one carabao daily. The hero of h was so greedy that by the time he was a "young man" his father could no longer support him. He is described as a "dwarf" In c and d there is nothing to indicate that the hero was not always a Tom Thumb in size. Nearly all these details may be found duplicated in Märchen of the "John the Bear" and "Strong Hans" types. For analogues, see Friedrich Panzer's Beowulf, pp. 28-33, 47-48, 50-52. In Grimm's story of the "Young Giant" (No. 90) the hero, when born, was only as big as a thumb, and for several years did not grow one hair's breadth. But a giant got hold of him and suckled him for six years, during which time he grew tall and strong, after the manner of giants. It is interesting to note that none of the nine Filipino versions make any reference to an animal parentage or extraordinary source of nourishment of the hero. B The poverty of the parents is the motive for their attempts on his life in a, c, d, e, f, h. In a the mother proposes the scheme; in h, the father; in g it is the boy's uncle, by whom he had been adopted when his parents died. This "unnatural parents" motif is lacking in the European variants. B1-5 With the various attempts to destroy the hero may be discussed his escapes (C1-3). The "falling-tree" episode occurs in all the stories but one (b). The events of this incident are conducted in various ways. In a, c, h, the hero is told to "catch the tree when it falls," so that he can carry it home (in c the hero is pushed clear into the ground by the weight of the tree). In d the father directs his son to stand in a certain place, "so that the tree will not fall on him;" but when Sandangcal sees that he is about to be crushed, he nimbly jumps aside unobserved by his father, who thinks him killed. In f the tree is made to fall on the body of the sleeping hero. In g Darangdarang is told to stand beside the tree being cut: it falls on him. In all the stories but d the hero performs the feat of carrying home a tree on his shoulders (C1). This episode is not uncommon in the European versions (see Panzer, op. cit., p. 35), but there the hero performs it while out at service. By the process of contamination these two incidents (B1C1) have worked their way into another Filipino story not of our cycle,--the Visayan story of "Juan the Student" (see JAFL 19 : 104). B2 Of the other methods of putting an end to the hero's life, the "well" episode is the most common. In d and h father and son go to dig a well. When it is several metres deep, the father rains stones on the boy, who is working at the bottom, and leaves him for dead. In g the hero is sent down a well to find a lost ring; and while he is there, stones and rocks are thrown on him by his treacherous uncle. In all three the hero escapes, wiser, but none the worse, for his adventure (C3). This incident is very common in European members of the cycle. Bolte and Polívka (2 : 288-292) note its occurrence in twenty-five different stories. B3 In our story of "Carancal," as has been remarked, and in e, the father commands his son to dive into deep water to see if the fishing-net is intact. Seeing blood and foam appear on the surface of the water, the father goes home, confident that he is rid of his son at last; but not long afterward, when the parents are eating, the hero appears, carrying on his shoulder a huge crocodile he has killed (C2). Analogous to this exploit is Sandapal's capture of the king of the fishes, after his father has faithlessly pushed him overboard into the deep sea (c). The hero's fight under water with a monstrous fish or crocodile, the blood and foam telling the story of a desperate struggle going on, reminds one strongly of Beowulf's fight with Grendel's dam. B4 In c, as a last resort, the father takes his son to the king, and has the best royal warrior fight the small boy. Sandapal conquers in five minutes. In f the father persuades his son to enter a wrestling-match held by the king. Juan easily throws all his opponents. With this incident compare the Middle-English "Tale of Gamelyn" (ll. 183-270) and Shakespeare's "As You Like It" (act i, sc. ii). B5 In a the father, at the instigation of his wife, pushes large rocks from a cliff down upon his son by the seashore; but the son returns home later, rolling an immense bowlder that threatens to crush the house. D, D1 Satisfied that he is no longer wanted at home, the hero sets out on adventures (a, g, h), taking along with him as a weapon a bolo five yards long (3), or a mighty bolo his father had given him,--such a one that none but the hero could wield it (g), or a short stout club (h). In b the parents are not cruel to their son. The hero leaves home with the kindest of feeling for his father. He carries along with him an enormous top, so heavy that four persons could not lift it, and which, when spun, could be heard for miles; a long sword made by a blacksmith; and a wooden sheath for it made by the father. In the European versions of the story the weapons of the hero play an important part (see Panzer, 39-43). In c the story ends with the sale of Sandapal to the king. In d, after Sandangcal has escaped from the well, he comes home at night, and, finding his parents asleep, shakes the house. Thinking it is an earthquake, they jump from the windows in terror, and are killed. (This incident is also told as a separate story; see JAFL 20 : 305, No. 17.) After the hero has eaten up all the livestock he had inherited by their death, he sells his property and sets out on his travels. In e the father sells his greedy son to merchants. In f the parents finally give up attempts on their son's life, and he goes away to join the army. E The companions--Carancal (3), Cabagboc (b), Sandangcal (d), and Dangandangan (g)--meet with extraordinary men, who accompany them on their travels. Cabagboc surpasses Cabual ("Breaker") and Cagabot ("Uprooter") in a contest of skill, and they agree to go with him as his servants. Dangandangan meets two strong men,--Paridis, who uproots forests with his hands; and Aolo, [17] the mighty fisher for sharks, whose net is so large that weights as big as mortars are needed to sink it. But neither of these two can turn the hero's bolo over, hence they become his servants. Sandangcal (d), who nowhere in the story displays any great strength, rather only craftiness and greed, meets one at a time three strong fellows, whom he persuades to go with him by promising to double the sum they had been working for. These men are Mountain-Destroyer, who could destroy a mountain with one blow of his club; Blower, who could refresh the whole world with his breath; and Messenger, whose steps were one hundred leagues apart. This story, which seems to be far removed from the other tales of the group, has obviously been influenced by stories of the "Skilful Companions" cycle (see No. 11), where the hero merely directs his servants, doing none of the work himself. On the other hand, in 3, b, g, the wonderful companions are more or less impedimenta: the hero himself does all the hard work; they are merely his foil. For the "Genossen" in other Märchen of "John the Bear" type, see Panzer, 66-74; Cosquin, 1 : 9, 23-27. F1 The adventure with the demon in the house in the forest, related in 3, is not found in the other Filipino versions of the tale. It is found in the Islands, however, in the form of a separate story, two widely different variants of which are printed below (4, [a] and [b]). This incident occurs in nearly all the folk-tales of the "John the Bear" type. Bolte and Polívka, in their notes to Grimm, No. 91 (2 : 301-315), indicate its appearance in one hundred and eighty-three Western and Eastern stories. As Panzer has shown (p. 77) that the mistreatment of the companions by the demon in the woods usually takes place while the one left behind is cooking food for the others out on the hunt, this motif might more exactly be called the "interrupted-cooking" episode than "Der Dämon im Waldhaus" (Panzer's name for it). For Mexican and American Indian variants, see JAFL 25 : 244-254, 255. Spanish and Hindoo versions are cited by Bolte and Polívka (2 : 305, 314). It is pretty clear that the episode as narrated in our stories 3 and 4 owes nothing to the Spanish variants mentioned by Bolte. F2-5 The removal of an enormous stone is a task that Carancal has to perform twice. This exhibition of superhuman strength is of a piece with the strong hero's other exploits, and has nothing in common with the transplanting of mountains by means of magic. (F3) The removal of a monstrous decaying fish is found in b as well as in 3. Cabagboc catches up the fish on the end of his sword, and hurls the carcass into the middle of the ocean. These exploits of the rock and the fish are not unlike the feat of the Santal hero Gumda, who throws the king's elephant over seven seas (Campbell, 59). (F4) In b the task of slaying the man-eating giant falls upon Cabagboc, and his companion Uprooter, as the other comrade, Breaker, has been married to the king's daughter. The giants are finally despatched by the hero, who cuts off their heads with his sword. In g the two strong men Paridis and Aolo are about to be slain by the man-eating giant against whom they have been sent by the hero to fight, when the hero suddenly appears and cuts off the monster's head with his mighty bolo. (F5) The killing of a seven-headed dragon is a commonplace in folk-tales; a seven-headed man is not so usual. Cabagboc, after both of his comrades have been given royal wives, journeys alone. He comes to a river guarded by a seven-headed man who proves invulnerable for a whole day. Then a mysterious voice tells the hero to strike the monster in the middle of the forehead, as this is the only place in which it can be mortally wounded. Cabagboc does so and conquers. (F6) The hero's wagering his strong men against a king's strong men will be discussed in the notes to No. 11. The task of Pusong (a) has not been mentioned yet. After Pusong leaves home, he journeys by himself, and finally comes to a place where the inhabitants are feverishly building fortifications against the Moros, who are threatening the island. By lending his phenomenal strength, Pusong enables the people to finish their forts in one night. Out of gratitude they later make him their leader. Months later, when the Moros make their raid, they are defeated by Pusong, and captured with all their slaves. Among the wounded slaves are the parents of Pusong. On recognizing their son, they instantly die of shame for their past cruelty to him. Nor can the hero bear the shock any better than they: he too falls dead. ADDITIONAL NOTES.--The three weeks' swim in 3 suggests Beowulf's swim of a week and his fight with the sea-monsters (Beowulf 535 ff.). The mistaking of a monster fish for an island seems to be an Oriental notion. It occurs in the "1001 Nights" ("First Voyage of Sindbad the Sailor;" see Lane's note 8 to this story). G The denouement. Cabagboc finally reaches home, and spends the rest of his life with his parents (b); Sandapal (c) is bought by the king, and amuses the court lords and ladies by his feats of strength; Sandangcal (d) distributes ten billion pesos among his three helpers, and lives the rest of his days feasting on carabao-livers; Greedy Juan (e) comes back home with a magic money-producing goat, which he leaves to his parents, while he by chance finds a wonderful house in the forest with plenty to eat, and there he remains; Juan Tapon (f) joins the king's army to fight a neighboring monarch; Dangandangan (g) becomes a general in the king's army; Tangarangan (h) performs marvellous deeds abroad, but never returns home again. Two other variants remain to be noticed briefly. One of these I have only in abstract, the other is avowedly a confusion of two stories by the narrator. Both are Ilocano tales. The hero's name in both is Kakarangkang (from kaka, a term of respect given to either a senior or a junior; and dangkang, "a span"). In both, the hero is a great eater and prodigiously strong. The only adventure of Kakarangkang recorded in the abstract is an adventure with a crocodile. Kakarangkang goes fishing and hooks a crocodile; but, while trying to draw it to shore, he is thrown into the air, falls into the reptile's mouth, and is swallowed. He manages, however, to cut his way out. In the other story, besides some incidents properly belonging to the story of "The Monkey and the Turtle" (cf. also 4 [b]), we find this same adventure with the crocodile, the slaying of a seven-headed giant (F5), and the removal of an enormous decaying fish (F3). The diminutive hero receives the hand of the king's daughter in return for this last service,--an honor which the heroes of our other versions decline. The incident of the small hero being swallowed by an animal and ultimately emerging into the light of day alive, at once suggests Tom Thumb's adventure in the cow and the wolf. For "swallow" tales in general, see Macculloch, 47-51; Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 395-398; Cosquin, 2 : 150-155. The combination of the "interrupted-cooking" episode (F1), which properly belongs to the "John the Bear" cycle, with motifs from "The Monkey and the Turtle" and "The Monkey and the Crocodile" stories, will be discussed in the notes to Nos. 4, 55, and 56. TALE 4 SUAC AND HIS ADVENTURES. Narrated by Anastacia Villegas of Arayat, Pampanga, who heard the story from her grandmother. Once upon a time, in a certain town in Pampanga, there lived a boy named Suac. In order to try his fortune, one day he went a-hunting with Sunga and Sacu in Mount Telapayong. When they reached the mountain, they spread their nets, and made their dogs ready for the chase, to see if any wild animals would come to that place. Not long afterwards they captured a large hog. They took it under a large tree and killed it. Then Sunga and Suac went out into the forest again. Sacu was left to prepare their food. While he was busy cooking, he heard a voice saying, "Ha, ha! what a nice meal you are preparing! Hurry up! I am hungry." On looking up, Sacu saw on the top of the tree a horrible creature,--a very large black man with a long beard. This was Pugut. Sacu said to him, "Aba! [18] I am not cooking this food for you. My companions and I are hungry." "Well, let us see who shall have it, then," said Pugut as he came down the tree. At first Sacu did not want to give him the food; but Pugut knocked the hunter down, and before he had time to recover had eaten up all the food. Then he climbed the tree again. When Sunga and Suac came back, Sunga said to Sacu, "Is the food ready? Here is a deer that we have caught." Sacu answered, "When the food was ready, Pugut came and ate it all. I tried to prevent him, but in vain: I could not resist him." "Well," said Sunga, "let me be the cook while you and Suac are the hunters." Then Sacu and Suac went out, and Sunga was left to cook. The food was no sooner ready than Pugut came again, and ate it all as before. So when the hunters returned, bringing a hog with them, they still had nothing to eat. Accordingly Suac was left to cook, and his companions went away to hunt again. Suac roasted the hog. Pugut smelled it. He looked down, and said, "Ha, ha! I have another cook; hurry up! boy, I am hungry." "I pray you, please do not deprive us of this food too," said Suac. "I must have it, for I am hungry," said Pugut. "Otherwise I shall eat you up." When the hog was roasted a nice brown, Pugut came down the tree. But Suac placed the food near the fire and stood by it; and when Pugut tried to seize it, the boy pushed him into the fire. Pugut's beard was burnt, and it became kinky. [19] The boy then ran to a deep pit. He covered it on the top with grass. Pugut did not stay to eat the food, but followed Suac. Suac was very cunning. He stood on the opposite side of the pit, and said, "I pray you, do not step on my grass!" "I am going to eat you up," said Pugut angrily, as he stepped on the grass and fell into the pit. The boy covered the pit with stones and earth, thinking that Pugut would perish there; but he was mistaken. Suac had not gone far when he saw Pugut following him; but just then he saw, too, a crocodile. He stopped and resolutely waited for Pugut, whom he gave a blow and pushed into the mouth of the crocodile. Thus Pugut was destroyed. Suac then took his victim's club, and returned under the tree. After a while his companions came back. He related to them how he had overcome Pugut, and then they ate. The next day they returned to town. Suac, on hearing that there was a giant who came every night into the neighborhood to devour people, went one night to encounter the giant. When the giant came, he said, "You are just the thing for me to eat." But Suac gave him a deadly blow with Pugut's club, and the giant tumbled down dead. Later Suac rid the islands of all the wild monsters, and became the ruler over his people. The Three Friends,--The Monkey, the Dog, and the Carabao. Narrated by José M. Hilario, a Tagalog from Batangas, Batangas. Once there lived three friends,--a monkey, a dog, and a carabao. They were getting tired of city life, so they decided to go to the country to hunt. They took along with them rice, meat, and some kitchen utensils. The first day the carabao was left at home to cook the food, so that his two companions might have something to eat when they returned from the hunt. After the monkey and the dog had departed, the carabao began to fry the meat. Unfortunately the noise of the frying was heard by the Buñgisñgis in the forest. Seeing this chance to fill his stomach, the Buñgisñgis went up to the carabao, and said, "Well, friend, I see that you have prepared food for me." For an answer, the carabao made a furious attack on him. The Buñgisñgis was angered by the carabao's lack of hospitality, and, seizing him by the horn, threw him knee-deep into the earth. Then the Buñgisñgis ate up all the food and disappeared. When the monkey and the dog came home, they saw that everything was in disorder, and found their friend sunk knee-deep in the ground. The carabao informed them that a big strong man had come and beaten him in a fight. The three then cooked their food. The Buñgisñgis saw them cooking, but he did not dare attack all three of them at once, for in union there is strength. The next day the dog was left behind as cook. As soon as the food was ready, the Buñgisñgis came and spoke to him in the same way he had spoken to the carabao. The dog began to snarl; and the Buñgisñgis, taking offence, threw him down. The dog could not cry to his companions for help; for, if he did, the Buñgisñgis would certainly kill him. So he retired to a corner of the room and watched his unwelcome guest eat all of the food. Soon after the Buñgisñgis's departure, the monkey and the carabao returned. They were angry to learn that the Buñgisñgis had been there again. The next day the monkey was cook; but, before cooking, he made a pitfall in front of the stove. After putting away enough food for his companions and himself, he put the rice on the stove. When the Buñgisñgis came, the monkey said very politely, "Sir, you have come just in time. The food is ready, and I hope you'll compliment me by accepting it." The Buñgisñgis gladly accepted the offer, and, after sitting down in a chair, began to devour the food. The monkey took hold of a leg of the chair, gave a jerk, and sent his guest tumbling into the pit. He then filled the pit with earth, so that the Buñgisñgis was buried with no solemnity. When the monkey's companions arrived, they asked about the Buñgisñgis. At first the monkey was not inclined to tell them what had happened; but, on being urged and urged by them, he finally said that the Buñgisñgis was buried "there in front of the stove." His foolish companions, curious, began to dig up the grave. Unfortunately the Buñgisñgis was still alive. He jumped out, and killed the dog and lamed the carabao; but the monkey climbed up a tree, and so escaped. One day while the monkey was wandering in the forest, he saw a beehive on top of a vine. "Now I'll certainly kill you," said some one coming towards the monkey. Turning around, the monkey saw the Buñgisñgis. "Spare me," he said, "and I will give up my place to you. The king has appointed me to ring each hour of the day that bell up there," pointing to the top of the vine. "All right! I accept the position," said the Buñgisñgis. "Stay here while I find out what time it is," said the monkey. The monkey had been gone a long time, and the Buñgisñgis, becoming impatient, pulled the vine. The bees immediately buzzed about him, and punished him for his curiosity. Maddened with pain, the Buñgisñgis went in search of the monkey, and found him playing with a boa-constrictor. "You villain! I'll not hear any excuses from you. You shall certainly die," he said. "Don't kill me, and I will give you this belt which the king has given me," pleaded the monkey. Now, the Buñgisñgis was pleased with the beautiful colors of the belt, and wanted to possess it: so he said to the monkey, "Put the belt around me, then, and we shall be friends." The monkey placed the boa-constrictor around the body of the Buñgisñgis. Then he pinched the boa, which soon made an end of his enemy. Notes. The pugut, among the Ilocanos and Pampangos, is a nocturnal spirit, usually in the form of a gigantic Negro, terrifying, but not particularly harmful. It corresponds to the Tagalog cafre. [20] Its power of rapid transformation, however, makes it a more or less formidable opponent. Sometimes it takes the form of a cat with fiery eyes, a minute later appearing as a large dog. Then it will turn into an enormous Negro smoking a large cigar, and finally disappear as a ball of fire. It lives either in large trees or in abandoned houses and ruined buildings. Buñgisñgis is defined by the narrator as meaning "a large strong man that is always laughing." The word is derived from the root ñgisi, "to show the teeth" (Tag.). This giant has been described to me as being of herculean size and strength, sly, and possessing an upper lip so large that when it is thrown back it completely covers the demon's face. The Buñgisñgis can lift a huge animal as easily as if it were a feather. Obviously these two superhuman demons have to be overcome with strategy, not muscle. The heroes, consequently, are beings endowed with cleverness. After Suac has killed Pugut and has come into possession of his victim's magic club, he easily slays a man-eating giant (see F4 in notes to preceding tale). The tricks played on the Buñgisñgis by the monkey ("ringing the bell" and the "king's belt") are found in the Ilocano story "Kakarangkang" and in "The Monkey and the Turtle," but in the latter tale the monkey is the victim. It would thus seem that a precedent for the mixture of two old formulas by the narrator of "Kakarangkang" already existed among the Tagalogs (cf. the end of the notes to No. 3). We have not a large enough number of variants to enable us to determine the original form of the separate incidents combined to form the cycles represented by stories Nos. 3, 4, and 55; but the evidence we have leads to the supposition that Carancal motifs ABCDF1 are very old in the Islands, and that these taken together probably constituted the prototype of the "Carancal" group. I cannot but believe that the "interrupted-cooking" episode, as found in the Philippines, owes nothing to European forms of "John the Bear;" for nowhere in the Islands have I found it associated with the subsequent adventures comprising the "John the Bear" norm,--the underground pursuit of the demon, the rescue of the princesses by the hero, the treachery of the companions, the miraculous escape of the hero from the underworld, and the final triumph of justice and the punishment of the traitors (see No. 17 and notes). For a Borneo story of a "Deer, Pig, and Plandok (Mouse-Deer)," see Roth, 1 : 346. In this tale, as well as in another from British North Borneo (Evans, 471-473, "The Plandok and the Gergasi"), it is the clever plandok who alone is able to outwit the giant. In the latter story there are seven animals,--carabao, ox, dog, stag, horse, mouse-deer, and barking-deer. The carabao and horse in turn try in vain to guard fish from the gergasi (a mythical giant who carries a spear over his shoulder). The plandok takes his turn now, after his two companions have been badly mishandled, and tricks the giant into letting himself be bound and pushed into a well, because the "sky is falling." There he is killed by the other animals when they return. With this last incident compare the trick of the fox in the Mongolian story in our notes to No. 48. In two other stories of the cunning of the plandok, "The Plandok and the Tiger" (Evans, 474) and "The Plandok and the Bear" (ibid.), we meet with the "king's belt" trick and the "king's gong" trick respectively. For an additional record from Borneo, see Edwin H. Gomes, "Seventeen Years among the Sea Dyaks of Borneo" (Lond., 1911), 255-261. TALE 5 HOW SUAN BECAME RICH. Narrated by Bonifacio Ynares, a Tagalog living in Pasig, Rizal. Pedro and Suan were friends. Pedro inherited a great fortune from his parents, who had recently died; but Suan was as poor as the poorest of beggars that ever lived. Early one morning Suan went to his friend, and said, "I wonder if you have a post that you do not need." "Yes, I have one," said Pedro. "Why? Do you need it?" "Yes, I need one badly, to build my house." "Very well, take it," said Pedro. "Do not worry about paying for it." Suan, who had not thought evil of his friend, took the post and built his house. When it was finished, his house was found to surpass that of his friend. This fact made Pedro so envious of Suan, that at last he went to him and asked Suan for the post back again. "Why, if I take it from its place, my house will be destroyed. So let me pay you for it, or let me look for another post in the town and get it for you!" "No," said Pedro, "I must have my own post, for I wish to use it." Finally Suan became so greatly annoyed by his friend's insistence, that he exclaimed, "I will not give you back your post." "Take heed, Suan! for I will accuse you before the king." "All right! do as you please." "We will then go to the king Monday," said Pedro. "Very well; I am always ready." When Monday came, both prepared to go to the palace. Pedro, who cared for his money more than for anything else, took some silver coins along with him for the journey. Suan took cooked rice and fish instead. Noon came while they were still on the road. Suan opened his package of food and began to eat. Pedro was also very hungry at this time, but no food could be bought on the way. So Suan generously invited Pedro to eat with him, and they dined together. After eating, the two resumed their journey. At last they came to a river. The bridge over it was broken in the middle, and one had to jump in order to get to the other side. Pedro jumped. Suan followed him, but unfortunately fell. It so happened that an old man was bathing in the river below, and Suan accidentally fell right on him. The old man was knocked silly, and as a consequence was drowned. When Isidro, the son, who dearly loved his father, heard of the old man's death, he at once made up his mind to accuse Suan before the king. He therefore joined the two travellers. After a while the three came to a place where they saw Barbekin having a hard time getting his carabao out of the mire. Suan offered to help. He seized the carabao by the tail, and pulled with great force. The carabao was rescued, but its tail was broken off short by a sudden pull of Suan. Barbekin was filled with rage because of the injury done to his animal: so he, too, resolved to accuse Suan before the king. When they came to the palace, the king said, "Why have you come here?" Pedro spoke first. "I have come," he said, "to accuse Suan to you. He has one of my posts, and he won't return it to me." On being asked if the accusation was true, Suan responded with a nod, and said in addition, "But Pedro ate a part of my rice and fish on the way here." "My decision, then," said the king, "is that Suan shall give Pedro his post, and that Pedro shall give Suan his rice and fish." Isidro was the next to speak. "I have come here to accuse Suan. While my father was bathing in the river, Suan jumped on him and killed him." "Suan, then, must bathe in the river," said the king, "and you may jump on him." When Barbekin was asked why he had come, he replied, "I wish to accuse Suan. He pulled my carabao by the tail, and it was broken off short." "Give Suan your carabao, then," said the king. "He shall not return it to you until he has made its tail grow to its full length." The accused and the accusers now took their leave of the king. "Give me the carabao now," said Suan to Barbekin when they had gone some distance from the palace. The carabao was young and strong, and Barbekin hated to give it up. So he said, "Don't take the carabao, and I will give you fifty pesos." "No; the decision of the king must be fulfilled," said Suan. Barbekin then raised the sum to ninety pesos, and Suan consented to accept the offer. Thus Suan was rewarded for his work in helping Barbekin. When they came to the bridge, Suan went down into the river, and told Isidro to jump on him. But the bridge was high, and Isidro was afraid to jump. Moreover, he did not know how to swim, and he feared that he would but drown himself if he jumped. So he asked Suan to pardon him. "No, you must fulfil the decision of the king," answered Suan. "Let me off from jumping on you, and I will give you five hundred pesos," said Isidro. The amount appealed to Suan as being a good offer, so he accepted it and let Isidro go. As soon as Suan reached home, he took Pedro's post from his house, and started for Pedro's house, taking a razor along with him. "Here is your post," he said; "but you must lie down, for I am going to get my rice and fish from you." In great fright Pedro said, "You need not return the post any more." "No," said Suan, "we must fulfil the decision of the king." "If you do not insist on your demand," said Pedro, "I will give you half of my riches." "No, I must have my rice and fish." Suan now held Pedro by the shoulder, and began to cut Pedro's abdomen with the razor. He had no sooner done that, than Pedro, in great terror, cried out,-- "Don't cut me, and you shall have all my riches!" Thus Suan became the richest man in town by using his tact and knowledge in outwitting his enemies. The King's Decisions. Narrated by José M. Hilario, a Tagalog from Batangas, who heard the story from his father. Once a poor man named Juan was without relatives or friends. Life to him was a series of misfortunes. A day often passed without his tasting even a mouthful of food. One day, weakened with hunger and fatigue, as he was walking along the road, he passed a rich man's house. It so happened that at this time the rich man's food was being cooked. The food smelled so good, that Juan's hunger was satisfied merely with the fragrance. When the rich man learned that the smell of his food had satisfied Juan, he demanded money of Juan. Juan refused to give money, however, because he had none, and because he had neither tasted nor touched the rich man's food. "Let's go to the king, then," said Pedro, the rich man, "and have this matter settled!" Juan had no objection to the proposal, and the two set out for the palace. Soon they came to a place where the mire was knee-deep. There they saw a young man who was trying to help his horse out of a mud-hole. "Hey, you lazy fellows! help me to get my horse out of this hole," said Manuel. The three tried with all their might to release the horse. They finally succeeded; but unfortunately Juan had taken hold of the horse's tail, and it was broken off when Juan gave a sudden hard pull. "You have got to pay me for injuring my horse," said Manuel. "No, I will not give you any money, because I had no intention of helping you until you asked me to," said Juan. "Well, the king will have to settle the quarrel." Juan, who was not to be frightened by threats, went with Pedro and Manuel. Night overtook the three on their way. They had to lodge themselves in the house of one of Pedro's friends. Juan was not allowed to come up, but was made to sleep downstairs. At midnight the pregnant wife of the host had to make water. She went to the place under which Juan was sleeping. Juan, being suddenly awakened and frightened, uttered a loud shriek; and the woman, also frightened because she thought there were robbers or ghosts about, miscarried. The next morning the husband asked Juan why he had cried out so loud in the night. Juan said that he was frightened. "You won't fool me! Come with us to the king," said the husband. When the four reached the palace, they easily gained access to the royal presence. Then each one explained why he had come there. "I'll settle the first case," said the king. He commanded the servant to fetch two silver coins and place them on the table. "Now, Pedro, come here and smell the coins. As Juan became satisfied with the smell of your food, so now satisfy yourself with the smell of the money." Pedro could not say a word, though he was displeased at the unfavorable decision. "Now I'll give my decisions on the next two cases. Manuel, you must give your horse to Juan, and let him have it until another tail grows.--And you, married man, must let Juan have your wife until she gives birth to another child." Pedro, Manuel, and the married man went home discontented with the decisions of the king,--Pedro without having received pay, Manuel without his horse, and the other man without his wife. Notes. These two Tagalog stories, together with another, "How Piro became Rich," which is almost identical with No. 5(a), may possibly be descended directly from an old Buddhist birth-story ("Gamani-canda-jataka," No. 257),--a tale in which W. A. Clouston (see Academy, No. 796, for Aug. 6, 1887) sees the germ of the "pound-of-flesh" incident. An abstract of the first part of this Jataka will set forth the striking resemblance between our stories and this old Hindoo apologue, [21] The part of the Jataka that interests us is briefly the account of how a man was haled to the king's tribunal for injuries done unwittingly, and how the king passed judgment thereupon. The abstract follows:-- Gamani, a certain old courtier of the ruling king's dead father, decided to earn his living by farming, as he thought that the new king should be surrounded with advisers of his own age. He took up his abode in a village three leagues from the city, and, after the rainy season was over, one day borrowed two oxen from a friend, with which to help him do his ploughing. In the evening he returned the oxen; but the friend being at dinner, and not inviting Gamani to eat, Gamani put the oxen in the stall, and got no formal release from his creditor. That night thieves stole the cattle. Next day the owner of the oxen discovered the theft, and decided to make Gamani pay for the beasts. So the two set out to lay the case before the king. On the way they stopped for food at the house of a friend of Gamani's. The woman of the house, while climbing a ladder to the store-room for rice for Gamani, fell and miscarried. The husband, returning that instant, accused Gamani of hitting his wife and bringing on untimely labor: so the husband set off with Gamani's first accuser to get justice from the king. On their way they met a horse that would not go with its groom. The owner of the horse shouted to G. to hit the horse with something and head it back. G. threw a stone at the animal, but broke its leg. "Here's a king's officer for you," shouted the man; "you've broken my horse's leg." G. was thus three men's prisoner. By this time G. was in despair, and decided to kill himself. As soon as opportunity came, he rushed up a hill near the road, and threw himself from a precipice. But he fell on the back of an old basket-maker and killed him on the spot. The son of the basket-maker accused G. of murder and went along with the three other plaintiffs to the king. (I omit here the various questions that persons whom G. meets along the road beg him to take to the king for an answer.) All five appearing in the presence of the king, the owner of the oxen demanded justice. In answer to the king's question, he at first denied having seen G. return the oxen, but later admitted that he saw them in the stall. G. was ordered to pay twenty-four pieces of money for the oxen; but the plaintiff, for lying, was condemned to have his eyes plucked out by G. Terrified at the prospect, he threw money to G. and rushed away. The judgment in the case of the second false accuser was this: G. was to take his friend's wife and live with her until she should bear another son to take the place of the child that miscarried. Again G. was bought off by the plaintiff. In the third case the owner of the horse at first denied having requested G. to hit the beast, but later admitted the truth. Judgment: G. was to pay a thousand pieces (which the king gave him) for the injured animal, but was also to tear out his false accuser's tongue. The fellow gave G. a sum of money and departed. The fourth decision was as follows: inasmuch as G. could not restore the dead father to life, he was to take the dead man's widow to his home and be a father to the young basket-maker; but he, rather than have his old home broken up, gave G. a sum of money and hurried away. It is to be regretted that this Buddhistic birth-story was not known to Theodor Benfey, who, in his exhaustive discussion of our present cycle, particularly from the point of view of the "pound-of-flesh" incident (1 : 393-410), writes, "I may remark that this recital [i.e., of the decisions], which here borders on the comic, is based upon serious traditional legends which have to do with Buddhistic casuistry" (p. 397). Benfey's fragmentary citations are not very convincing; but this Jataka proves that his reasoning, as usual, was entirely sound. An Indo-Persian version called the "Kází of Emessa," cited by Clouston (op. cit.), might be mentioned here, as it too has close resemblances to our stories. While a merchant is being taken by a Jew before the king because the merchant will not pay his bond of a pound of flesh, he meets with the following accidents: (1) In attempting to stop a runaway mule, he knocks out one of the animal's eyes with a stone; (2) while sleeping on a flat roof, he is aroused suddenly by an uproar in the street, and, jumping from the roof, he kills an old man below; (3) in trying to pull an ass out of the mud, he pulls its tail off. The owner of the mule, the sons of the dead man, and the owner of the ass, go along with the Jew to present their cases before the king, whose decisions are as follows: (1') The owner of the mule, valued at 1000 dínárs, is to saw the animal in two lengthwise, and is to give the blind half to the merchant, who must pay 500 dínárs for it. As the owner refuses, he is obliged to pay the merchant 100 dínárs for bringing in a troublesome suit. (2') Merchant must stand below a roof and allow himself to be jumped on by the sons of the dead man; but they refuse to take the risk, and are obliged to pay the merchant 100 dínárs for troubling him. (3') The owner of the tailless ass is compelled to try to pull out the tail of the Kází's mule. Naturally the animal resents such treatment, and the accuser is terribly bruised. Finally, to avoid further punishment, he says that his own animal never had a tail. Hence he is forced to give the merchant 100 dínárs for bringing in a false suit. In the "Katha-sarit-sagara" (translated by C. H. Tawney, 2 : 180-181) occurs this story:-- One day, when Brahman Devabhúti had gone to bathe, his wife went into the garden to get vegetables, and saw a donkey belonging to a washerman eating them. She took up a stick and ran after the donkey; the animal, trying to escape, fell into a pit and broke its hoof. When the master heard of that, he came in a passion, and beat and kicked the Brahman woman. Accordingly she, being pregnant, had a miscarriage; but the washerman returned home with his donkey. Her husband, hearing of it, went, in his distress, and complained to the chief magistrate of the town. The foolish man, after hearing both sides of the case, delivered this judgment: "Since the donkey's hoof is broken, let the Brahman carry the donkey's load for the washerman until the donkey is again fit for work; and let the washerman make the Bráhman's wife pregnant again, since he made her miscarry." When the Bráhman and his wife heard this decision, they, in their despair, took poison and died; and when the king heard of it, he put to death that inconsiderate judge. The Tagalog story of "How Piro became Rich," which I have not printed here, is identical with "How Suan became Rich," with this exception, that a horse's tail, instead of a carabao's, is pulled off by the hero. And there is this addition: while travelling to the king's court, Piro hears cries for help coming from the woods. He rushes to the spot, and sees a young lady fighting a swarm of bees. Piro helps kill the bees with his stick, but, in doing so, injures the woman somewhat severely. Her father, angered, joins the accusers, and requests the king that he order Piro to cure his daughter. The king rules that if Piro is to do this, and if the young woman is to get the best care, she must become Piro's wife. For relinquishing his right to the girl, Piro receives a hundred alfonsos from the father. All in all, the close agreement between our stories and the three Eastern versions cited above makes it reasonably certain that the "Wonderful Decisions" group in the Philippines derives directly from India. TALE 6 THE FOUR BLIND BROTHERS. Narrated by Eutiqiano Garcia, a Pampangan, who said he heard the story from a boy from Misamis, Mindanao. There was once a man who had eight sons. Four of them were blind. He thought of sending the children away, simply because he could not afford to keep them in the house any longer. Accordingly one night he called his eight children together, and said, "He who does not provide for the future shall want in the present. You are big enough and are able to support yourselves. To-morrow I shall send you away to seek your fortunes." When morning came, the boys bade their father good-by. The blind sons went together in one party, and the rest in another. Now begins the pathetic story of the four blind brothers. They groped along the road, each holding the hand of the other. After a day of continuous walking, the four brothers were very far away from their town. They had not tasted food during all that time. In the evening they came to a cocoanut-grove. "Here are some cocoanut-trees," said one of them. "Let us get a bunch of cocoanuts and have something to eat!" So the eldest brother took off his camisa china [22] and climbed up one of the trees. When he reached the top, the tree broke. "Bung!" Down came the poor fellow. "One!" cried the youngest brother. "Three more!" shouted the rest. "Don't come down until you have dropped four!" they all cried at once. Who would answer them? Their brother lay dead on the ground. While they were waiting for the second "Bung!" the second brother climbed up the same tree. What had happened to the first happened also to him, and so to the third in turn. As soon as the youngest brother heard the third fall, he thought of looking for his share. He crept about to find the cocoanuts. Alas! he discovered that his three brothers lay dead on the ground. He went away from the place crying very loud. Now, his crying happened to disturb the patianac, [23] who were trying to sleep. They went out to see what was the matter. When they found the poor helpless blind man, they were very much moved, and they gave him food and shelter for the night. They also gave him the tail of a pagui, [24] which would help him find his fortune, they said. At daybreak they showed him the way out of the grove. The blind man walked on and on, until he was hailed by a lame man resting under a shady tree. "Friend, carry me on your shoulders, and let us travel together!" said the lame man to the blind. "Willingly," replied the blind man. They travelled for many hours, and at last came to a big, lonely house. They knocked at the open door, but nobody answered. At last they entered, and found the place empty. While they were searching through the house, the owner came. He was a two-headed giant. The blind man and the lame man were upstairs. The giant was afraid to enter the house, but he called in a voice of thunder, "Who's there?" "We are big men," answered the two companions. "How big are you?" asked the giant. "We are so big that the foundation of the house shakes when we walk," the two replied. "Give me a proof that you are really big men!" cried the giant again. "We will show you one of our hairs," they answered, and they dropped from the window the tail of the pagui. The giant looked at it in wonder. He was immediately convinced that they were more powerful than he was. So, picking up the "hair," the giant went away, afraid to face such antagonists in single combat. So the prediction of the patianac came true. The house and all the property of the giant fell into the hands of the blind man and the lame man. They lived there happily all the rest of their lives. Juan the Blind Man. Narrated by Pedro D. L. Sorreta, a Bicol from Virac, Catanduanes, where the story is common. Many years ago there lived in a little village near a thick forest eight blind men who were close friends. In spite of their physical defects, they were always happy,--perhaps much happier than their fellow-villagers, for at night they would always go secretly to one of the neighboring cocoanut-groves, where they would spend their time drinking tuba [25] or eating young cocoanuts. One evening a severe typhoon [26] struck the little village, and most of the cocoanut-trees were broken off at the top. The next afternoon the joyous party went to the cocoanut-grove to steal fruits. As soon as they arrived there, seven of them climbed trees. Juan, the youngest of all, was ordered to remain below so as to count and gather in the cocoanuts his friends threw down to him. While his companions were climbing the trees, Juan was singing,-- "Eight friends, good friends, One fruit each eats; Good Juan here bends, Young nuts he takes." He had no sooner repeated his verse three times than he heard a fall. "One," he counted; and he began to sing the second verse:-- "Believe me, that everything Which man can use he must bring, No matter at all of what it's made; So, friends, a counter you need." Crrapup! he heard another fall, which was followed by three in close succession. "Good!" he said, "five in all. Three more, friends," and he raised his head as if he could see his companions. After a few minutes he heard two more falls. "Six, seven--well, only seven," he said, as he began searching for the cocoanuts on the ground. "One more for me, friends--one more, and every one is satisfied." But it was his friends who had fallen; for, as the trees were only stumps, the climbers fell off when they reached the tops. Juan, however, did not guess what had happened until he found one of the dead bodies. Then he ran away as fast as he could. At last he struck Justo, a lame man. After hearing Juan's story, Justo advised Juan not to return to his village, lest he be accused of murder by the relatives of the other men. After a long talk, the two agreed to travel together and seek a place of refuge, for the blind man's proposal seemed a good one to the lame man:-- "Blind man, strong legs; Lame man, good eyes; Four-footed are pigs; Four-handed are monkeys. But we'll walk on two, And we'll see with two." So when morning dawned, they started on their journey. They had not travelled far when Justo saw a horn in the road, and told Juan about it. Juan said,-- "Believe me, that everything Which man can use he must bring, No matter at all of what it's made; So, friend, a horn too we need." The next thing that Justo saw was a rusted axe; and after being told about it, Juan repeated his little verse again, ending it with, "So, friend, an axe too we need." A few hours later the lame man saw a piece of rope; and when the blind man knew of it, he said,-- "Bring one, bring two, bring all, The horn, the axe, the rope as well." And last of all they found an old drum, which they took along with them too. Soon Justo saw a very big house. They were glad, for they thought that they could get something to eat there. When they came near it, they found that the door was open; but when they entered it, Justo saw nothing but bolos, spears, and shields hanging on the walls. After a warm discussion as to what they should do, they decided to hide in the ceiling of the house, and remain there until the owner returned. They had no sooner made themselves comfortable than they heard some persons coming. When Justo saw the bloody bolos and spears of the men, and the big sack of money they carried, he was terrified, for he suspected that they were outlaws. He trembled; his hair stood on end; he could not control himself. At last he shouted, "Ay, here?" The blind man, who could not see the danger they were in, stopped the lame man, but not before the owners of the house had heard them. "Ho, you mosquitoes! what are you doing there?" asked the chief of the outlaws as he looked up at the ceiling. "Aha, you rascals! we are going to eat you all," answered the blind man in the loudest voice he could muster. "What's that you say?" returned the chief. "Why, we have been looking for you, for we intend to eat you all up," replied Juan; "and to show you what kind of animals we are, here is one of my teeth," and Juan threw down the rusted axe. "Look at one of my hairs!" continued Juan, as he threw down the rope. The outlaws were so frightened that they were almost ready to run away. The chief could not say a single word. "Now listen, you ants, to my whistle!" said Juan, and he blew the horn. "And to show you how big our stomachs are, hear us beat them!" and he beat the drum. The outlaws were so frightened that they ran away. Some of them even jumped out of the windows. When the robbers were all gone, Juan and Justo went down to divide the money; but the lame man tried to cheat the blind man, and they had a quarrel over the division. Justo struck Juan in the eyes with the palm of his hand, and the blind man's eyes were opened so that he could see. Juan kicked Justo so hard, that the lame man rolled toward one corner of the house and struck a post. His lameness was cured, so that he could stand and walk. When they saw that each had done the other a great service, they divided the money fairly, and lived ever after together as close friends. Teofilo the Hunchback, and the Giant. Narrated by Loreta Benavides, a Bicol student, who heard the story from her aunt. Once there lived a hunchback whose name was Teofilo. He was an orphan, and used to get his food by wandering through the woods. He had no fixed home. Sometimes he even slept under large trees in the forest. His one blind eye, as well as his crooked body, would make almost any one pity his miserable condition. One day, while he was wandering through the woods looking for something to eat, he found a piece of large rope. He was very glad; for he could sell the rope, and in that way get money to buy food. Walking a little farther, he found a gun leaning against a fence. This gun, he supposed, had been left there by a hunter. He was glad to have it, too, for protection. Finally, while crossing a swampy place, he saw a duck drinking in the brook. He ran after the duck, and at last succeeded in catching it. Now he was sure of a good meal. But it had taken him a long time to capture the duck. Night soon came on, and he had to look for a resting-place. Fortunately he came to a field, and his eye caught a glimpse of light on the other side. He went towards the light, and found it to come from a house, all the windows of which were open. He knocked at the door, but nobody answered; so he just pushed it open and entered. He then began to feel very comfortable. He prepared his bed, and then went to sleep. He did not know that he was in a giant's house. At midnight Teofilo was awakened by a loud voice. He made a hole in the wall and looked out. There in the dark he saw a very tall man, taller even than the house itself. It was the giant. The giant said, "I smell some one here." He tried to open the door, but Teofilo had locked it. "If you are really a strong man and braver than I," said the giant, "let me see your hair!" Teofilo then threw out the piece of rope. The giant was surprised at its size. He then asked to see Teofilo's louse, and Teofilo threw out the duck. The giant was terrified, for he had never seen such a large louse before. Finally the giant said, "Well, you seem to be larger than I. Let me hear your voice!" Teofilo fired his gun. When the giant heard the gun and saw it spitting fire, he trembled, for he thought that the man's saliva was burning coals. Afraid to challenge his strange guest any more, the giant ran away and disappeared forever. And so Teofilo the hunchback lived happily all the rest of his days in the giant's house without being troubled by any one. Juan and the Buringcantada. Narrated by Pacifico Buenconsejo, a Bicol, who heard the story from his grandmother. A long time ago, when the Bicols had not yet been welded into one tribe, there lived a couple in the mountains of Albay who had one son, named Juan. Before the boy was five years old, his father died. As Juan grew up, he became very lazy: he did not like to work, nor would he help his mother earn their daily bread. Despite his laziness, Juan was dearly loved by his mother. She did not want him to work in the field under the hot sun. Because of his mother's indulgence, he grew lazier and lazier. Every afternoon Juan used to take a walk while his mother was working. She was a kind-hearted woman, and often told her son to help anybody he met that needed help. One afternoon, while he was walking in a field, he saw two carabaos fighting. One was gored by the other, and was about to die. Juan, mindful of what his mother told him, went between the two animals to help the wounded one. Suddenly the two animals gored him in the back, and he fell to the ground. A man, passing by, found him, and took him to his home. When Juan's mother learned why her son had been gored, she was greatly distressed that her son was so foolish. Juan soon recovered, and one day he invited his mother to go with him to look for money. He insisted so hard, that finally she agreed to accompany him. On their way they found an axe, which Juan picked up and took along with him. They had not gone much farther, when they saw a long rope stretching across the road. Juan's mother did not want him to take it, but he said that it would be of some use to them later. By and by they came to a river, on the bank of which they found a large drum. Juan took this with him, too. When they had been travelling about a week, they came upon a big house. Juan said that he wanted to go see what was in the house, but his mother told him that he should not go. However, he kept urging and urging, until at last his mother consented, and went with him. When they reached the hall, they found it well decorated with flowers and leaves. They visited all the apartments of the house; and when they came to the dining-room, they saw a large hole in the ceiling. Juan told his mother that they had better hide in the ceiling until they found out who the owner of the house was. The mother thought that the plan was a wise one; so they went to the ceiling, taking with them the axe, the rope, and the drum. They had not been hiding many minutes, when the Buringcantada, a giant with one eye in the middle of his forehead and with two long tusks that projected from the sides of his mouth, came in with his friends and servants. When the dinner was ready, the servant called his master and his guests into the dining-room. While they were eating, Juan said in a loud voice,-- "Tawi cami Sa quisami Qui masiram Na ulaman." [27] The Buringcantada was very angry to hear the voice of a man in the ceiling, and he said in a thundering voice, "If you are a big man like me, let me see one of your hairs!" Juan showed the rope from the hole in the ceiling. Astonished at the size of the hair, the Buringcantada said again, "Let me see one of your teeth!" Juan showed the axe. By this time Juan's mother was almost dead with fear, and she told her son not to move. After a few minutes the Buringcantada said again, "Beat your stomach, and let me hear the sound of it!" When Juan beat the drum, the Buringcantada and all the guests and servants ran away in fright, for they had never heard such a sound before. Then Juan and his mother came down from the ceiling. In this house they lived like a rich family, for they found much money in one of the rooms. As for the Buringcantada, he never came back to his house after he left it. The Manglalabas. Narrated by Arsenio Bonifacio, a Tagalog, who heard the story from his father. Once upon a time, in the small town of Balubad, there was a big house. It was inhabited by a rich family. When the head of the family died, the house was gloomy and dark. The family wore black clothes, and was sad. Three days after the death of the father, the family began to be troubled at night by a manglalabas. [28] He threw stones at the house, broke the water-jars, and moved the beds. Some pillows were even found in the kitchen the next day. The second night, Manglalabas visited the house again. He pinched the widow; but when she woke up, she could not see anything. Manglalabas also emptied all the water-jars. Accordingly the family decided to abandon the house. A band of brave men in that town assembled, and went to the house. At midnight the spirit came again, but the brave men said they were ready to fight it. Manglalabas made a great deal of noise in the house. He poured out all the water, kicked the doors, and asked the men who they were. They answered, "We are fellows who are going to kill you." But when the spirit approached them, and they saw that it was a ghost, they fled away. From that time on, nobody was willing to pass a night in that house. In a certain barrio [29] of Balubad there lived two queer men. One was called Bulag, because he was blind; and the other, Cuba, because he was hunchbacked. One day these two arranged to go to Balubad to beg. Before they set out, they agreed that the blind man should carry the hunchback on his shoulder to the town. So they set out. After they had crossed the Balubad River, Cuba said, "Stop a minute, Bulag! here is a hatchet." Cuba got down and picked it up. Then they proceeded again. A second time Cuba got off the blind man's shoulder, for he saw an old gun by the roadside. He picked this up also, and took it along with him. When they reached the town, they begged at many of the houses, and finally they came to the large abandoned house. They did not know that this place was haunted by a spirit. Cuba said, "Maybe no one is living in this house;" and Bulag replied, "I think we had better stay here for the night." As they were afraid that somebody might come, they went up into the ceiling. At midnight they were awakened by Manglalabas making a great noise and shouting, "I believe that there are some new persons in my house!" Cuba, frightened, fired the gun. The ghost thought that the noise of the gun was some one crying. So he said, "If you are truly a big man, give me some proofs." Then Cuba took the handle out of the hatchet and threw the head down at the ghost. Manglalabas thought that this was one of the teeth of his visitor, and, convinced that the intruder was a powerful person, he said, "I have a buried treasure near the barn. I wish you to dig it up. The reason I come here every night is on account of this treasure. If you will only dig it up, I will not come here any more." The next night Bulag and Cuba dug in the ground near the barn. There they found many gold and silver pieces. When they were dividing the riches, Cuba kept three-fourths of the treasure for himself. Bulag said, "Let me see if you have divided fairly," and, placing his hands on the two piles, he found that Cuba's was much larger. Angry at the discovery, Cuba struck Bulag in the eyes, and they were opened. When Bulag could see, he kicked Cuba in the back, and straightway his deformity disappeared. Therefore they became friends again, divided the money equally, and owned the big house between them. Notes. A Pampango version, "The Cripple and the Blind Man" (I have it only in abstract), is almost identical with the second part of "The Four Blind Brothers." A blind man and a cripple travel together, blind man carrying, cripple guiding. Rope, drum, hatchet, etc. But these two companions do not quarrel over the distribution of the wealth: they live peacefully together. I have printed in full five of the versions, because, while they are members of a very widespread family of tales in which a poor but valiant hero deceives and outwits a giant, ogre, ghost, or band of robbers, they form a more restricted brotherhood of that large family, and the deception is of a very definite special sort. The hero and the outwitted do not meet face to face, nor is there a contest of prowess between them. Merely by displaying as tokens of his size and strength certain seemingly useless articles which he has picked up and carried along with him on his travels, the hero frightens forever from their rich home a band of robbers or a giant or a ghost, and remains in possession of the treasures of the deceived one. Trolls, ogres, giants, robbers, dragons, are proverbially stupid, and a clever hero with more wits than brawn has no difficulty in thoroughly frightening them. Grimm's story of "The Brave Little Tailor" (No. 20), with its incidents of "cheese-squeezing," "bird-throwing," "pretended carrying of the oak-tree," "springing over the cherry-tree," and "escape from the bed," and opening with the "seven-at-a-blow" episode, is typical of one large group of tales about a giant outwitted. (For an enumeration of the analogues, see Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 148-165; for a fuller discussion of some of them, see Cosquin, 1 : 96-102.) In another group the hero takes service with the giant, dragon, etc., keeps up the deception of being superhumanly strong, but gets the monster to do all the work, and finally wins his way to wealth and release (see Grimm, No. 183; Von Hahn, No. 18 and notes; Crane, 345, note 34; Dasent, Nos. v and xxxii). Then there is the group of stories in which the cannibal witch is popped into her own oven, which she had been heating for her victim (cf. Grimm, No. 15; and Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 123). Our particular group of stories, however, seems to owe little or nothing to the types just mentioned. It appears to belong peculiarly to the Orient. In fact, I do not know of its occurrence outside of India and the Philippines. That the tale is well known in the Islands at least as far north as central Luzon, our five variants attest; and that it is fairly widespread in India,--I refer particularly to the method of the deception, for on this the whole story turns,--three Hindoo versions may be cited as evidence. (1) "The Blind Man, the Deaf Man, and the Donkey" (Frere, No. 18) presents many close correspondences to "Juan the Blind Man." In the Indian tale a blind man and a deaf man enter into partnership. One day, while on a long walk with his friend, the deaf man sees a donkey with a large water-jar on its back. Thinking the animal will be useful to them, they take it and the jar with them. Farther along they collect some large black ants in a snuff-box. Overtaken by storm, they seek shelter in a large, apparently deserted house, and lock the door; but the owner, a terrible Rakshas, returns, and loudly demands entrance. The deaf man, looking through a chink in the wall, is greatly frightened by the appearance of the monster; but the blind man boldly says that he is Bakshas, Rakshas's father. Incredulous, the Rakshas wishes to see his father's face. Donkey's head shown. On his desiring to see his father's body, the huge jar is rolled with a thundering noise past the chink in the door. Rakshas asks to hear Bakshas scream. Deaf man puts ants into the donkey's ear: the animal, bit by the insects, brays horribly, and the Rakshas flees in fright... (Rakshas returns the next morning, and seeing the blind man, deaf man, and donkey, laden with treasures, leaving his house, he determines to be avenged; but by a lucky series of accidents the travellers succeed in discomfiting and thoroughly terrifying the Rakshas and his six companions summoned to help him, and travel on). In the division of the spoils, the deaf man attempts to cheat the blind man, who in a rage gives him so tremendous a box on the ear, that his hearing is restored! In return, the deaf man gives his neighbor so hard a blow in the face, that the blind man's eyes are opened. They are both so astonished, that they become good friends at once, and divide the wealth equally. (2) "The Brahmin Girl that married a Tiger" (Kingscote, No. x). In this story, three brothers, on their way to rescue their sister who had been married to a tiger, take along with them an ass, an ant, a palmyra-tree, and a big iron washing-tub. The sister hides her brothers and their possessions in a loft. The tiger comes home, and frightens the brothers into making a noise and thus betraying their presence. He asks to hear their voice. Youngest brother puts his ant into the ear of the ass, which, when bit, begins to bawl out horribly. Asking to see their legs, tiger is shown the trunk of the palmyra-tree, and, on asking to see their bellies, is shown the iron tub. Frightened, he runs away, and the sister is rescued. (3) "Learning and Motherwit" (McCulloch, No. xxvi). Here Motherwit, as in the other stories, deceives a Raghoshi by means of a thick rope (shown for hair), spades (shown for finger-nails), and wet lime (shown for spittle). At last with sharp-pointed hot iron rods, Ulysses fashion, he puts out the monster's eyes. In another Bengal story, "The Ghost who was afraid of being Bagged" (Lal Behari Day, No. xx), a barber frightens a ghost with a looking-glass and becomes rich. An interesting parallel to the incident of the death of the blind brothers by climbing up too high on palm-trees the tops of which have been broken off, is to be found in the Arabian story of "The Blind Thief" (JRASB 3 : 645-660, No. iii). A thief who used to steal dates from off the trees became blind, but he still went on thieving. The people planned to get rid of him. In the presence of the blind man, some one praised the dates of So-and-so. (Now, this tree was withered, and no longer had any leaves.) The covetous thief, with his rope, started to climb the tree that night; but his rope slipped off over the naked top of the palm, and he fell to the ground and was killed. The situation of a blind man and a lame man joining forces and travelling together, the blind man carrying the lame man, who directs the way, is found in the Gesta Romanorum, tale LXXI. Certain of the false proofs in the Filipino stories have no parallel in the Indian tales; viz., duck for louse, gun or horn for voice, tail of sting-ray (pagui) for hair. The suggestion for this last comparison may have come from the belief among the Filipinos that the tail of the sting-ray is a very efficacious charm against demons and witches. It is a "specific" against the mangkukulam. [30] On the other hand, there are certain details of the Indian versions lacking in the Filipino,--the donkey, the palmyra-tree, the wash-tub. Nevertheless the close agreement, not only of motifs, but of motifs in the same sequence, makes it certain beyond all reasonable doubt that the story as we find it in the Islands (most fully represented by the Bicol "Juan the Blind Man") goes back directly to southern India, possibly to the parent story of Miss Frere's old Deccan narrative. TALE 7 SAGACIOUS MARCELA. Narrated by Lorenzo Licup, a Pampangan. Long, long before the Spaniards came, there lived a man who had a beautiful, virtuous, and, above all, clever daughter. He was a servant of the king. Marcela, the daughter, loved her father devotedly, and always helped him with his work. From childhood she had manifested a keen wit and undaunted spirit. She would even refuse to obey unjust orders from the king. No question was too hard for her to answer, and the king was constantly being surprised at her sagacity. One day the king conceived a plan by which he might test the ingenious Marcela. He bade his servants procure a tiny bird and carry it to her house. "Tell her," said the king, "to make twelve dishes out of that one bird." The servants found Marcela sewing. They told her of the order of the king. After thinking for five minutes, she took one of her pins, and said to the servants, "If the king can make twelve spoons out of this pin, I can also make twelve dishes out of that bird." On receiving the answer, the king realized that the wise Marcela had gotten the better of him; and he began to think of another plan to puzzle her. Again he bade his servants carry a sheep to Marcela's house. "Tell her," he said, "to sell the sheep for six reales, and with the money this very same sheep must come back to me alive." At first Marcela could not make out what the king meant for her to do. Then she thought of selling the wool only, and not the whole sheep. So she cut off the wool and sold it for six reales, and sent the money with the live sheep back to the king. Thus she was again relieved from a difficulty. The king by this time realized that he could not beat Marcela in points of subtlety. However, to amuse himself, he finally thought of one more scheme to test her sagacity. It took him two weeks to think it out. Summoning a messenger, he said to him, "Go to Marcela, and tell her that I am not well, and that my physician has advised me to drink a cup of bull's milk. Therefore she must get me this medicine, or her father will lose his place in the palace." The king also issued an order that no one was to bathe or to wash anything in the river, for he was going to take a bath the next morning. As soon as Marcela had received the command of the king and had heard of his second order, she said, "How easy it will be for me to answer this silly order of the king!" That night she and her father killed a pig, and smeared its blood over the sleeping-mat, blanket, and pillows. When morning came, Marcela took the stained bed-clothing to the source of the river, where the king was bathing. As soon as the king caught sight of her, he said in a voice of thunder, "Why do you wash your stuff in the river when you know I ordered that nobody should use the river to-day but me?" Marcela replied, "It is the custom, my lord, in our country, to wash the mat, pillows, and other things stained with blood, immediately after a person has given birth to a child. As my father gave birth to a child last night, custom forces me to disobey your order, although I do it much against my will." "Nonsense!" said the king. "The idea of a man giving birth to a child! Absurd! Ridiculous!" "My lord," said Marcela, "it would be just as absurd to think of getting milk from a bull." Then the king, recollecting his order, said, "Marcela, as you are so witty, clever, and virtuous, I will give you my son for your husband." King Tasio. Narrated by Leopoldo Faustino, a Tagalog, who says that the story is popular and common among the people of La Laguna province. Juan was a servant in the palace of King Tasio. One day King Tasio heard Juan discussing with the other servants in the kitchen the management of the kingdom. Juan said that he knew more than anybody else in the palace. The king called Juan, and told him to go down to the seashore and catch the rolling waves. "You said that you are the wisest man in the palace," said the king. "Go and catch the waves of the sea for me." "That's very easy, O king!" said Juan, "if you will only provide me with a rope made of sand taken from the seashore." The king did not know what to answer. He left Juan without saying anything, went into his room, and began to think of some more difficult work. The next day he called Juan. "Juan, take this small bird and make fifty kinds of food out of it," said the king. "Yes, sir!" said Juan, "if you will only provide me with a stove, a pan, and a knife made out of this needle," handing a needle to the king, "with which to cook the bird." Again the king did not know what to do. He was very angry at Juan. "Juan, get out of my palace! Don't you let me see you walking on my ground around this palace without my consent!" said the king. "Very well, sir!" said Juan, and he left the palace immediately. The next day King Tasio saw Juan in front of the palace, riding on his paragos [31] drawn by a carabao. "Did I not tell you not to stand or walk on my ground around this palace? Why are you here now? Do you mean to mock me?" shouted the king. "Well," said Juan, "will your Majesty's eyes please see whether I am standing on your ground or not? This is my ground." And he pointed to the earth he had on his paragos. "I took this from my orchard." "That's enough, Juan," said King Tasio. "I can have no more foolishness." The king felt very uncomfortable, because many of his courtiers and servants were standing there listening to his talk with Juan. "Juan, put this squash into this jar. Be careful! See that you do not break either the squash or the jar," said the king, as he handed a squash and a jar to Juan. Now, the neck of the jar was small, and the squash was as big as the jar. So Juan had indeed a difficult task. Juan went home. He put a very small squash, which he had growing in his garden, inside the jar. He did not, however, cut it from the vine. After a few weeks the squash had grown big enough to fill the jar. Juan then picked off the squash enclosed in the jar, and went to the king. He presented the jar to the king when all the servants, courtiers, and visitors from other towns were present. As soon as the king saw the jar with the squash in it, he fainted. It was many hours before he recovered. Notes. A third version (c), a Bicol story entitled "Marcela outwits the King," narrated by Gregorio Frondoso of Camarines, resembles closely the Pampango story of Marcela, with these minor differences:-- The heroine is the daughter of the king's adviser Bernardo. To test the girl's wit, the king sends her a mosquito he has killed, and tells her to cook it in such a way that it will serve twelve persons. She sends back a pin to him, with word that if he can make twelve forks from the pin, the mosquito will serve twelve persons. The second and third tasks are identical with those in the Pampango version. At last, satisfied with her sagacity, the king makes her his chief counsellor. In addition to the three popular tales of the "Clever Lass" cycle, two chap-book versions of the story, containing incidents lacking in the folk-tales, may be mentioned here:-- A Buhay nang isang pastorang tubo sa villa na naguing asaua nang hari sa isang calabasa. ("Life of a Shepherdess who was born in a town, and who became the Wife of a King because of a Pumpkin.") Manila, 1908. This story is in verse, and comprises sixty-six quatrains of 12-syllable assonanced lines. It is known only in Tagalog, I believe. B Buhay na pinagdaanan ni Rodolfo na anac ni Felizardo at ni Prisca sa cahariang Valencia. ("Life of Rodolfo, Son of Felizardo and Prisca, in the Kingdom of Valencia.") Maynila, 1910. Like the preceding, this corrido is known only in Tagalog, and is written in 12-syllable assonanced lines. Of these two printed versions, I give below a literal translation of the first (A), not only because it is short (264 lines), but also because it will be seen to be closely connected with the folk-tales. For help in making this translation I am under obligation to Mr. Salvador Unson, which I gratefully acknowledge. The second story (B) I give only in partial summary. It is much too long to be printed in full, and, besides, contains many incidents that have nothing to do with our cycle. It will be noticed that "Rodolfo" (B) resembles rather the European forms of the story; while A and the three folk-tales are more Oriental, despite the conventional historical setting of A. TALE A "Cay Calabasa: The Life of a Shepherdess born in a town, who became the Wife of a King because of a Pumpkin." 1. Ye holy angels in the heavens, help my tongue to express and to relate the story I will tell. 2. In early times, when Adoveneis, King of Borgoña, was still alive, he went out into the plains to hunt for deer, and accidentally became separated from his companions. 3. In his wandering about, he saw a hut, which had a garden surrounding it. A beautiful young maiden took care of the garden, in which were growing melons and pumpkins. 4. The king spoke to the maiden, and asked, "What plants are you growing here?" The girl replied, "I am raising pumpkins and melons." 5. Now, the king happened to be thirsty, and asked her for but a drink. "We were hunting in the heat of the day, and I felt this thirst come on me." 6. The maiden replied, "O illustrious king! we have water in a mean jar, but it is surely not fitting that your Majesty should drink from a jar! 7. "If we had a jar of pure gold, in which we could put water from a blest fountain, then it would be proper for your Majesty. It is not right or worthy that you should drink from a base jar." 8. The king replied to the girl, "Never mind the jar, provided the water is cool." The maiden went into the house, and presently the king drank his fill. 9. After he had drunk, he handed her back the jar; but when the maiden had received it (in her hands), she suddenly struck it against the staircase. The jar was shattered to bits. 10. The king saw the act and wondered at it, and in his heart he thought that the maiden had no manners. For the impudence of her action, he decided to punish her. 11. (He said) "You see in me, the traveller, a noble king, and (you know) that I hold the crown. Why did you shatter that jar of yours, received from my hands?" 12. The maiden replied, "The reason I broke the jar, long kept for many years by my mother, O king! is that I should not like to have it used by another." 13. After hearing that, the king made no reply, but returned (back) towards the city, believing in his heart that the woman to whom he had spoken was virtuous. 14. After some time the king one day ordered a soldier to carry to the maiden a new narrow-necked jar, into which she was to put a pumpkin entire. 15. He also ordered the soldier to tell the girl that she should not break the jar, but that the jar and pumpkin should remain entire. 16. Inasmuch as the maiden was clever, her perception good, and her understanding bold, she answered with another problem: she sent him back a jar that already had a pumpkin in it. 17. She delivered it to the soldier, and the upshot of her reply was this: "The pumpkin and the jar are whole. The king must remove the pumpkin without breaking the jar." 18. The soldier shouldered it and went back to the king, and told him that her answer was that he should take the pumpkin out of the jar, and leave both whole. 19. When the king saw the jar, he said nothing; but he thought in his heart that he would send her another puzzle. 20. Again by the soldier he sent her a bottle, and requested that it be filled with the milk of a bull. (He further added,) that, if the order was not complied with, she should be punished. 21. The girl's answer to the king was this: "Last night my father gave birth to a child; and even though you order it, it is impossible for me to get (you?) any bull's milk (to-day?)." 22. Who would not wonder, when he comes to hear of it, at the language back and forth between the king and the girl! For what man can give birth to a child, and what bull can give milk? 23. At a great festival which the king gave, attended by knights and counts, he sent a pipit [32] to the girl, and ordered her to cook seven dishes of it. 24. The maiden (in reply) sent the king a needle, and asked him to make a steel frying-pan, knife, and spit out of it, which she might use in cooking the pipit. 25. The king again sent to her with this word: "If you are really very intelligent and if you are truly wise, you will catch the waves and bind them." 26. The soldier returned at once to the maiden, and told her that the orders of the king were that she should catch and bind the waves. 27. The maiden sent back word by the soldier that it is not proper to disobey a king. "Tell the king to make me a rope out of the loam I am sending." 28. Again the soldier returned to the palace, and, taking the black earth to the king, he said, "Make her a rope out of this loam, with which she will catch and bind the waves." 29. After the soldier had delivered his message, the king was almost shaking with rage. "Who under heaven can make a rope out of loam?" 30. Now he ordered the soldier to fetch the maiden. "And for her impudence," he said, "I will punish her." 31. He ordered the soldier to make haste and to return at once. The maiden did not resist her punishment, and was placed in a well. 32. Now, this well into which she was cast lay in front of the window of the king, so that whenever he should look out of the window he might see her. 33. One morning, as he looked out and saw her there below him, she asked him to give her fire. 34. The king said to her, "I am a world-famed king, and it is not my desire to descend just because of your request. Go ask fire from the mountain." 35. The girl made no answer to his jesting reply. Some time later the king held some games, and ordered that the maiden be taken out of the well. 36. The king told her that she was pardoned for all her offences. "But as long as I have visitors (?)," he said, "you are to be my cook." 37. Then this order was given to the girl: "You are to cook the food. Everything must be well prepared. All the food must be palatable and tasty." 38. The maiden, however, deliberately left all the food unsalted; but she fastened to the bottom of the plate the necessary salt. 39. When at the table the king and his council were not satisfied with the food, because there was no salt in it, the maiden was again summoned. 40. "I ordered you to cook because you were clever; but you took no care of the cooking. Why am I thus insulted and my honor destroyed before my guests?" 41. The maiden at once returned answer to the council and to his Majesty: "Look underneath the plates; and if there is not the necessary salt, my lord, condemn me as you see fit." 42. She had those near the king lift their plates, and she had him look under. The salt was found not lacking, and the king ceased from his contention and thought about the matter. 43. Then he said, "If you had mixed in a little with the food, then it would have been good and palatable. Explain to me the significance of your act." 44. "O great king!" answered the maiden, "I can easily reply to your question. By leaving the salt out, I meant me, and no one else [i.e., she meant to suggest her own case when she was in the well]. 45. "You instructed me to get fire from the mountain. Why can you not taste this salt, which is just under the plate? 46. "Because I am an unfortunate person, an unworthy shepherdess from the woods. If I were a city-bred person, even though most ordinary, I should be honored in your presence." 47. To the reply of the girl the king shook his head, and pressed his forehead (in thought). He had fallen in love, and his heart was oppressed. He determined to marry her. 48. They were married at once, and at once she was clothed as a queen; although she was only a lowly shepherdess, she was loved because of the sweetness of her voice. 49. After living together a long time, they had a quarrel: the king had conceived a dislike for her cleverness. 50. "Return at once to your father and mother," he said. "Go back to the mountains and live there. 51. "I will allow you to take with you whatever you want,--gold, silver, dresses. Take with you also two maids." 52. The queen could not utter a word; silently she let her tears fall. She thought that bad fortune had come upon her. 53. To be brief, the king got up from his chair and lay down in his bed. He pretended to go to sleep in order that he might not see the queen depart. 54. When the queen saw that the king was really sleeping, she covered him up (in her sorrow), and summoned the servants. 55. She ordered them to lift him up and carry him to the mountains. "In carrying him, be careful not to wake him until the mountains are reached." 56. They lifted the bed and took him downstairs; but when they were carrying it out of the palace, the bed struck against the front door. The king awoke in surprise. 57. He said, "What is the reason for carrying away a sleeping man?" He asked them whether they intended to throw away their sovereign. 58. At once he summoned the guards of the palace and ordered the arrest of the servants; but they protested that they were merely obeying the orders of the queen. 59. Then the king asked where the queen was who had ordered that. He had her brought before him, and demanded of her why she wished to cast him away. 60. The queen answered, reminding him thus: "My husband, my beloved, what did you tell me some time ago when you were driving me away? 61. "Did you not tell me to select whatever I might desire, including gold and silver, and take it with me? You are my choice. 62. "Even if I should become very good and very rich, I should still be without honor before God and the people. 63. "It would be shameful to the Divine Word for us married people to separate. You would be taunted by your counsellors for having married some one beneath you." 64. Her reply reminded the king that whatever might happen, they were married, and should remain together all their lives. 65. "Forgive me, my wife, light of my eyes! Forgive the wrongs I have done! I am to blame for the mistake [i.e., for my thoughtlessness]." 66. From then on, they loved each other the more, and were happy because they never quarrelled further. TALE B THE STORY OF RODOLFO. Rodolfo was the only son of Felizardo and Prisca, who lived in Valencia. When Rodolfo was seven years old, he was sent to school, and proved to be an apt scholar; but his father died within a few years, and the boy was obliged to abandon his studies because of poverty. At the suggestion of his mother, Rodolfo one day set out for the capital, where he sought a place in the palace as servant. In time he was appointed head steward (mayor-domo) in the royal household. The king became so fond of this trusty servant, whose bravery, executive ability, and cleverness he could not help noticing, that finally he determined to make him his son-in-law by marrying him to the princess Leocadia. When Rodolfo was offered Leocadio's hand by her father, however, he respectfully declined the honor, saying that though he admired the beauty of the princess, he did not admire her character, and could not take her as his wife. The king was so angry that he ordered Rodolfo cast into prison; but after a few days' consideration, he had him released, and promised to pardon him for the insult if within a month he could bring before the king as his wife just such a virtuous woman as he had stipulated his wife should be. Rodolfo left the palace, taking with him only a pair of shoes and an umbrella. On his way he saw an old man, whom he invited to go along with him. Shortly afterwards they saw a funeral procession, and Rodolfo asked his companion whether the man that was to be buried was still alive. The old man did not reply, because he thought that his companion was a fool. Outside the city they met many persons planting highland rice on a mountain-clearing (kaingin). Again Rodolfo spoke, and asked if the rice that the farmers were planting was already eaten; but the old man remained silent. In the course of their journey they reached a shallow river. Rodolfo put on his shoes and waded across. When he reached the other bank, he removed his shoes again and carried them in his hand. Next they passed a great plain. When they became tired from the heat, they rested by the side of the road under a big tree. Here Rodolfo opened his umbrella, which he had not used when they were crossing the hot plain. Once more the old man believed that his companion was crazy. At last the travellers reached the old man's house, but the old man did not invite Rodolfo to spend the night with him. Rodolfo went into the house, however, for he saw that a young woman lived in the house. This was Estela, the old man's daughter, who received the stranger very kindly. That night, when Estela set the table for supper, she gave to her father the head and neck of the chicken, the wings to her mother, the body to Rodolfo, and the legs to herself. After eating their meal, the old man and his wife left Estela and Rodolfo together in the dining-room. Rodolfo expressed his love for her, for he had already recognized her worth. When she found that he was in earnest, she said that she would accept him if her parents consented to the marriage. Then they joined the old couple in the main room; but there the father scolded her for showing hospitality to a visitor whom he considered a fool. He also felt insulted for having been given only the head and neck of the chicken. Accordingly the old man told his daughter how Rodolfo had foolishly asked him if the person to be buried was still alive, and whether the rice that the farmers were planting on the mountain-clearing had already been eaten. He also mentioned the fact that Rodolfo wore his shoes only when crossing the river, and that he had opened his umbrella only when they were in the shade of the tree. Estela, in reply, cleverly explained to her father the meaning of all Rodolfo had said and done. "The memory of a man who has done good during his lifetime will never be forgotten. Rodolfo wished to know whether the man to be buried was kind to his fellow-men. If he was, he will always be remembered, and he is not dead. When Rodolfo asked you whether the rice which the farmers were planting was already eaten, he wished to know if those farmers had borrowed so much rice from their landlords that the next harvest would only be enough to pay it back. In a river it is impossible to see the thorns which may hurt one's feet, so it is wise to wear shoes while crossing a river. The idea of opening an umbrella under a tree is a very good one, because it forms a protection against falling branches and fruits. I will tell you why I divided the chicken as I did. I gave you the head and neck because you are the head of the family; the wings I gave my mother because she took care of me in my childhood; the body I gave to Rodolfo, because it is courteous to please a visitor; the legs I kept myself, because I am your feet and hands." The anger of Estela's father was pacified by her explanation. He was now convinced that Rodolfo was not a fool, but a wise man, and he invited Rodolfo to live with them. Rodolfo staid and helped with all the work about the house and in the field. At last, when the old man realized that Rodolfo loved Estela, he gave his consent to their marriage; and the next day they became husband and wife. After his marriage, Rodolfo returned to Valencia, leaving Estela at her home in Babilonia, and reported to the king that he had found and taken as his wife a virtuous woman,--The rest of the story turns on the "chastity-wager" motif, and ends with the establishment of the purity of Rodolfo's wife. (For this motif, constituting a whole story, see "The Golden Lock," No. 30.) An examination of the five representatives of this cycle of the "Clever Lass" in the Philippines reveals at least nine distinct problems (tasks or riddles) to be solved. For most of these, parallels may be found in other Oriental and in Occidental stories. (1) Problem: catching waves of the sea. Solution: demanding rope of sand for the work. This identical problem and solution are found in a North Borneo story, "Ginas and the Rajah" (Evans, 468-469). In the "Maha-ummagga-jataka," No. 546, a series of nineteen tasks is set the young sage Mahosadha. One of these is to make a rope of sand. The wise youth cleverly sent some spokesmen to ask the king for a sample of the old rope, so that the new would not vary from the old. See also Child, 1 : 10-11, for a South Siberian story containing the counter-demand for thread of sand to make shoes from stone. (2) Problem: making many kinds of food from one small bird, or twelve portions from mosquito. Solution: requiring king to make stove, pan, and bolo (or twelve forks) from needle (pin). Analogous to this task is Bolte and Polívka's motif B3 (2 : 349), the challenge to weave a cloth out of two threads. Bolte and Polívka enumerate thirty-five European folk-tales containing their motif B3. (3) Problem: putting large squash whole into narrow-necked jar. Solution: hero grows squash in the jar (and sometimes demands that king remove the squash without breaking either it or the jar). I know of no other folk-tale occurrences of this task; it is not found in any of the European stories of this cycle, and may be an addition of the Tagalog narrators. It is a common enough trick, however, to grow a squash or cucumber in a small-necked bottle. (4) Problem: getting milk from bull. Solution: hero tells king that his father has given birth to a child. Compare "Jataka," No. 546 (tr. by Cowell and Rouse, 6 : 167-168), in which the king sends his fattened bull to East Market-town with this message: "Here is the king's royal bull, in calf. Deliver him, and send him back with the calf, or else there is a fine of a thousand pieces." The solution of this difficulty is the same as above. See also Child, 1 : 10-11, for almost identical situation. This problem and No. 1 are to be found in a Tibetan tale (Ralston 2, 138, 140-141). (5) Problem: selling lamb for a specified sum of money, and returning both animal and coin. Solution: heroine sells only the wool. Two of these problems, (3) and (5), are soluble, and belong in kind with the "halb-geritten" motif, where the heroine is ordered to come to the king not clothed and not naked, not walking and not riding, not in the road and not out of the road, etc. The other three problems are not solved at all, strictly speaking: the heroine gets out of her difficulties by demanding of her task-master the completion of counter-tasks equally hard, or by showing him the absurdity of his demands. (See Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 362-370, for a full discussion of these subgroups.) "In all stories of the kind," writes Child, "the person upon whom a task is imposed stands acquitted if another of no less difficulty is devised which must be performed first. This preliminary may be something that is essential for the execution of the other, as in the German ballads, or equally well something that has no kind of relation to the original requisition, as in the English ballads." It will be seen that in the nature of the counter-demands the Filipino stories agree rather with the German than the English. (6) Hero is forbidden to walk on the king's ground. To circumvent the king, hero fills a sledge with earth taken from his own orchard, and has himself drawn into the presence of his Majesty. When challenged, the hero protests that he is not on the king's ground, but his own. This same episode is found in "Juan the Fool," No. 49 (q. v.). (7) The stealing of the sleeping king by the banished wife, who has permission to take with her from the palace what she loves best, is found only in A. This episode, however, is very common elsewhere, and forms the conclusion of more than seventy Occidental stories of this cycle. (See Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 349-355.) (8) The division of the hen, found in B and also at the end of "Juan the Fool" (No. 49), is fully discussed by Bolte and Polívka (2 : 360). See also R. Köhler's notes to Gonzenbach, 2 : 205-206. The combination of this motif with the "chastity-wager" motif found in "Rodolfo" (B), is also met with in a Mentonais story, "La femme avisée" (Romania, 11 : 415-416). (9) For wearing of shoes only when crossing rivers, and raising umbrella only when sleeping under a tree, see again "Juan the Fool." A rather close parallel to this incident, as well as to the seemingly foolish questions Rodolfo asks Estela's father, and the daughter's wise interpretation of them, may be found in the Kashmir story, "Why the Fish laughed" (Knowles, 484-490 = Jacob 1, No. XXIV). See also a Tibetan story in Ralston 2 : 111; Benfey in "Ausland," 1859, p. 487; Spence Hardy, "Manual of Buddhism," pp. 220-227, 364. Compare especially Bompas, No. LXXXIX, "The Bridegroom who spoke in Riddles." Finally mention may be made of two Arabian stories overlooked by Bolte and Polívka, in one of which a woman sends supper to a stranger, and along with the food an enigmatical message describing what she has sent. The Negress porter eats a part of the food, but delivers the message. The stranger shrewdly guesses its meaning, and sends back a reply that convicts the Negress of theft of a part of the gift. The other story opens with the "bride-wager" riddle, and later enumerates many instances of the ingenuity of the clever young wife. See Phillott and Azoo, "Some Arab Folk-Tales from Hazramaut," Nos. I and XVII (in JRASB 2 [1906] : 399-439). Benfey (Ausland, 1859, passim) traces the story of the "Clever Lass" back to India. The original situation consisted of the testing of the sagacity of a minister who had fallen into disgrace. This minister aids his royal master in a riddle-contest with a neighboring hostile king. Later in the development of the cycle these sagacity tests were transferred to a wife who helps her husband, or to a maiden who helps her father, out of similar difficulties. (Compare the last part of my note to No. 1 in this collection.) Bolte and Polívka, however (2 : 373) seem to think it probable that the last part of the story--the marriage of the heroine, her expulsion, and her theft of the sleeping king--was native to Europe. The Filipino folk-tales belonging to this cycle appear to go back directly to India as a source. Incident 4 (see above) seems to me conclusive evidence, as this is a purely Oriental conception, being recorded only in India, Tibet, and South Siberia. The chap-book version (A) doubtless owes much to popular tradition in the Islands, although the anonymous author, in his "Preface to the Reader," says that he has derived his story from a book (unnamed),--hañgo sa novela. I have not been able to trace his original; there is no Spanish form of the tale, so far as I know. Compare with this whole cycle No. 38, "A Negrito Slave," and the notes. TALE 8 THE STORY OF ZARAGOZA. Narrated by Teodato P. Macabulos, a Tagalog from Manila. Years and years ago there lived in a village a poor couple, Luis and Maria. Luis was lazy and selfish, while Maria was hard-working and dutiful. Three children had been born to this pair, but none had lived long enough to be baptized. The wife was once more about to be blessed with a child, and Luis made up his mind what he should do to save its life. Soon the day came when Maria bore her second son. Luis, fearing that this child, like the others, would die unchristened, decided to have it baptized the very next morning. Maria was very glad to know of her husband's determination, for she believed that the early deaths of their other children were probably due to delay in baptizing them. The next morning Luis, with the infant in his arms, hastened to the church; but in his haste he forgot to ask his wife who should stand as godfather. As he was considering this oversight, a strange man passed by, whom he asked, "Will you be so kind as to act as my child's godfather?" "With all my heart," was the stranger's reply. They then entered the church, and the child was named Luis, after his father. When the services were over, Luis entreated Zaragoza--such was the name of the godfather--to dine at his house. As Zaragoza had just arrived in that village for the first time, he was but too ready to accept the invitation. Now, Zaragoza was a kind-hearted man, and soon won the confidence of his host and hostess, who invited him to remain with them for several days. Luis and Zaragoza became close friends, and often consulted each other on matters of importance. One evening, as the two friends were conversing, their talk turned upon the affairs of the kingdom. Luis told his friend how the king oppressed the people by levying heavy taxes on all sorts of property, and for that reason was very rich. Zaragoza, moved by the news, decided to avenge the wrongs of the people. Luis hesitated, for he could think of no sure means of punishing the tyrannical monarch. Then Zaragoza suggested that they should try to steal the king's treasure, which was hidden in a cellar of the palace. Luis was much pleased with the project, for he thought that it was Zaragoza's plan for them to enrich themselves and live in comfort and luxury. Accordingly, one evening the two friends, with a pick-axe, a hoe, and a shovel, directed their way towards the palace. They approached the cellar by a small door, and then began to dig in the ground at the foot of the cellar wall. After a few hours of steady work, they succeeded in making an excavation leading into the interior. Zaragoza entered, and gathered up as many bags of money as he and Luis could carry. During the night they made several trips to the cellar, each time taking back to their house as much money as they could manage. For a long time the secret way was not discovered, and the two friends lost no opportunity of increasing their already great hoard. Zaragoza gave away freely much of his share to the poor; but his friend was selfish, and kept constantly admonishing him not to be too liberal. In time the king observed that the bulk of his treasure was considerably reduced, and he ordered his soldiers to find out what had caused the disappearance of so much money. Upon close examination, the soldiers discovered the secret passage; and the king, enraged, summoned his counsellors to discuss what should be done to punish the thief. In the mean time the two friends were earnestly discussing whether they should get more bags of money, or should refrain from making further thefts. Zaragoza suggested that they would better first get in touch with the secret deliberations of the court before making another attempt. Luis, however, as if called by fate, insisted that they should make one more visit to the king's cellar, and then inquire about the unrest at court. Persuaded against his better judgment, Zaragoza followed his friend to the palace, and saw that their secret passage was in the same condition as they had lately left it. Luis lowered himself into the hole; but lo! the whiz of an arrow was heard, and then a faint cry from Luis. "What is the matter? Are you hurt?" asked Zaragoza. "I am dying! Take care of my son!" These were Luis's last words. Zaragoza knew not what to do. He tried to pull up the dead body of his friend; but in vain, for it was firmly caught between two heavy blocks of wood, and was pierced by many arrows. But Zaragoza was shrewd; and, fearing the consequences of the discovery of Luis's corpse, he cut off the dead man's head and hurried home with it, leaving the body behind. He broke the fatal news to Maria, whose grief was boundless. She asked him why he had mutilated her husband's body, and he satisfied her by telling her that they would be betrayed if Luis were recognized. Taking young Luis in her arms, Maria said, "For the sake of your godson, see that his father's body is properly buried." "Upon my word of honor, I promise to do as you wish," was Zaragoza's reply. Meantime the king was discussing the theft with his advisers. Finally, wishing to identify the criminal, the king decreed that the body should be carried through the principal streets of the city and neighboring villages, followed by a train of soldiers, who were instructed to arrest any person who should show sympathy for the dead man. Early one morning the military procession started out, and passed through the main streets of the city. When the procession arrived before Zaragoza's house, it happened that Maria was at the window, and, seeing the body of her husband, she cried, "O my husband!" Seeing the soldiers entering their house, Zaragoza asked, "What is your pleasure?" "We want to arrest that woman," was the answer of the chief of the guard. "Why? She has not committed any crime." "She is the widow of that dead man. Her words betrayed her, for she exclaimed that the dead man was her husband." "Who is her husband? That remark was meant for me, because I had unintentionally hurt our young son," said Zaragoza smiling. The soldiers believed his words, and went on their way. Reaching a public place when it was almost night, they decided to stay there until the next morning. Zaragoza saw his opportunity. He disguised himself as a priest and went to the place, taking with him a bottle of wine mixed with a strong narcotic. When he arrived, he said that he was a priest, and, being afraid of robbers, wished to pass the night with some soldiers. The soldiers were glad to have with them, as they thought, a pious man, whose stories would inspire them to do good. After they had talked a while, Zaragoza offered his bottle of wine to the soldiers, who freely drank from it. As was expected, they soon all fell asleep, and Zaragoza succeeded in stealing the corpse of Luis. He took it home and buried it in that same place where he had buried the head. The following morning the soldiers woke up, and were surprised to see that the priest and the corpse were gone. The king soon knew how his scheme had failed. Then he thought of another plan. He ordered that a sheep covered with precious metal should be let loose in the streets, and that it should be followed by a spy, whose duty it was to watch from a distance, and, in case any one attempted to catch the sheep, to ascertain the house of that person, and then report to the palace. Having received his orders, the spy let loose the sheep, and followed it at a distance. Nobody else dared even to make a remark about the animal; but when Zaragoza saw it, he drove it into his yard. The spy, following instructions, marked the door of Zaragoza's house with a cross, and hastened to the palace. The spy assured the soldiers that they would be able to capture the criminal; but when they began to look for the house, they found that all the houses were similarly marked with crosses. For the third time the king had failed; and, giving up all hopes of catching the thief, he issued a proclamation pardoning the man who had committed the theft, provided he would present himself to the king within three days. Hearing the royal proclamation, Zaragoza went before the king, and confessed that he was the perpetrator of all the thefts that had caused so much trouble in the court. True to his word, the king did not punish him. Instead, the king promised to give Zaragoza a title of nobility if he could trick Don Juan, the richest merchant in the city, out of his most valuable goods. When he knew of the desire of the king, Zaragoza looked for a fool, whom he could use as his instrument. He soon found one, whom he managed to teach to say "Si" (Spanish for "yes") whenever asked a question. Dressing the fool in the guise of a bishop, Zaragoza took a carriage and drove to the store of D. Juan. There he began to ask the fool such questions as these: "Does your grace wish to have this? Does not your grace think that this is cheap?" to all of which the fool's answer was "Si." At last, when the carriage was well loaded, Zaragoza said, "I will first take these things home, and then return with the money for them;" to which the fool replied, "Si." When Zaragoza reached the palace with the rich goods, he was praised by the king for his sagacity. After a while D. Juan the merchant found out that what he thought was a bishop was really a fool. So he went to the king and asked that he be given justice. Moved by pity, the king restored all the goods that had been stolen, and D. Juan wondered how his Majesty had come into possession of his lost property. Once more the king wanted to test Zaragoza's ability. Accordingly he told him to bring to the palace an old hermit who lived in a cave in the neighboring mountains. At first Zaragoza tried to persuade Tubal to pay the visit to the king, but in vain. Having failed in his first attempt, Zaragoza determined to play a trick on the old hermit. He secretly placed an iron cage near the mouth of Tubal's cave, and then in the guise of an angel he stood on a high cliff and shouted,-- "Tubal, Tubal, hear ye me!" Tubal, hearing the call, came out of his cave, and, seeing what he thought was an angel, knelt down. Then Zaragoza shouted,-- "I know that you are very religious, and have come to reward your piety. The gates of heaven are open, and I will lead you thither. Go enter that cage, and you will see the way to heaven." Tubal meekly obeyed; but when he was in the cage, he did not see the miracle he expected. Instead, he was placed in a carriage and brought before the king. Thoroughly satisfied now, the king released Tubal, and fulfilled his promise toward Zaragoza. Zaragoza was knighted, and placed among the chief advisers of the kingdom. After he had been raised to this high rank, he called to his side Maria and his godson, and they lived happily under the protection of one who became the most upright and generous man of the realm. Juan the Peerless Robber. Narrated by Vicente M. Hilario, a Tagalog from Batangas, who heard the story from a Batangas student. Not many centuries after Charlemagne died, there lived in Europe a famous brigand named Juan. From childhood he had been known as "the deceitful Juan," "the unrivalled pilferer," "the treacherous Juan." When he was twenty, he was forced to flee from his native land, to which he never returned. He visited Africa, where he became acquainted with a famous Ethiopian robber named Pedro. Not long after they had met, a dispute arose between them as to which was the more skilful pickpocket. They decided to have a test. They stood face to face, and the Ethiopian was first to try his skill. "Hey!" exclaimed Juan to Pedro, "don't take my handkerchief out of my pocket!" It was now Juan's turn. He unbuckled Pedro's belt and slipped it into his own pocket. "What's the matter with you, Juan?" said Pedro after a few minutes. "Why don't you go ahead and steal something?" "Ha, ha, ha!" said Juan. "Whose belt is this?" Pedro generously admitted that he had been defeated. Although these two thieves were united by strong ties of common interest, nevertheless their diverse characteristics and traits produced trouble at times. Pedro was dull, honorable, and frank; Juan was hawk-eyed and double-faced. Pedro had so large a body and so awkward and shambling a gait, that Juan could not help laughing at him and saying sarcastic things to him. Juan was good-looking and graceful. While they were travelling about in northern Africa, they heard the heralds of the King of Tunis make the following proclamation: "A big bag of money will be given to the captor of the greatest robber in the country." The two friends, particularly Juan, were struck by this announcement. That night Juan secretly stole out of his room. Taking with him a long rope, he climbed up to the roof of the palace. After making a hole as large as a peso [33] in the roof, he lowered himself into the building by means of the rope. He found the room filled with bags of gold and silver, pearls, carbuncles, diamonds, and other precious stones. He took the smallest bag he could find, and, after climbing out of the hole, went home quickly. When Pedro heard Juan's thrilling report of the untold riches, he decided to visit the palace the following night. Early in the morning Juan went again to the palace, taking with him a large tub. After lowering it into the room, he departed without delay. At nightfall he returned to the palace and filled the tub with boiling water. He had no sooner done this than Pedro arrived. Pedro was so eager to get the wealth, that he made no use of the rope, but jumped immediately into the room when he reached the small opening his treacherous friend had made in the roof. Alas! instead of falling on bags of money, Pedro fell into the fatal tub of water, and perished. An hour later Juan went to look for his friend, whom he found dead. The next day he notified the king of the capture and death of the greatest of African robbers. "You have done well," said the king to Juan. "This man was the chief of all the African highwaymen. Take your bag of money." After putting his gold in a safe place, Juan went out in search of further adventures. On one of his walks, he heard that a certain wealthy and devout abbot had been praying for two days and nights that the angel of the lord might come and take him to heaven. Juan provided himself with two strong wings. On the third night he made a hole as large as a peso through the dome of the church. Calling the abbot, Juan said, "I have been sent by the Lord to take you to heaven. Come with me, and bring all your wealth." The abbot put all his money into the bag. "Now get into the bag," said Juan, "and we will go." The old man promptly obeyed. "Where are we now?" said he, after an hour's "flight." "We are within one thousand miles of the abode of the blessed," was Juan's reply. Twenty minutes later, and they were in Juan's cave. "Come out of the bag, and behold my rude abode?" said Juan to the old man. The abbot was astounded at the sight. When he heard Juan's story, he advised him to abandon his evil ways. Juan listened to the counsels of his new friend. He became a good man, and he and the abbot lived together until their death. Notes. The story of "Zaragoza" is of particular interest, because it definitely combines an old form of the "Rhampsinitus" story with the "Master Thief" cycle. In his notes to No. 11, "The Two Thieves," of his collection of "Gypsy Folk Tales," F. H. Groome observes, "(The) 'Two Thieves' is so curious a combination of the 'Rhampsinitus' story in Herodotus and of Grimm's 'Master Thief,' that I am more than inclined to regard it as the lost original, which, according to Campbell of Islay, 'it were vain to look for in any modern work or in any modern age.'" By "lost original" Mr. Groome doubtless meant the common ancestor of these two very widespread and for the most part quite distinct cycles, "Rhampsinitus" and the "Master Thief." Both of these groups of stories about clever thieves have been made the subjects Of investigation. The fullest bibliographical study of the "Rhampsinitus" saga is that by Killis Campbell, "The Seven Sages of Rome" (Boston, 1907), pp. lxxxv-xc. Others have treated the cycle more or less discursively: R. Köhler, "Ueber J. F. Campbell's Sammlung gälischer Märchen," No. XVII (d) (in Orient und Occident, 2 [1864] : 303-313); Sir George Cox, "The Migration of Popular Stories" (in Fraser's Magazine, July, 1880, pp. 96-111); W. A. Clouston, "Popular Tales and Fictions" (London, 1887), 2 : 115-165. See also F. H. Groome, 48-53; McCulloch, 161, note 9; and Campbell's bibliography. The "Master Thief" cycle has been examined in great detail as to the component elements of the story by Cosquin (2 : 274-281, 364-365). See also Grimm's notes to the "Master Thief," No. 192 (2 : 464); and J. G. von Hahn, 2 : 178-183. F. Max Müller believed that the story of the "Master Thief" had its origin in the Sanscrit droll of "The Brahman and the Goat" (Hitopadesa, IV, 10 = Panchatantra, III, 3), which was brought to Europe through the Arabic translation of the "Hitopadesa." Further, he did not believe that the "Master Thief" story had anything to do with Herodotus's account of the theft of Rhampsinitus's treasure (see Chips from a German Workshop [New York, 1869], 2 : 228). Wilhelm Grimm, however, in his notes to No. 192 of the "Kinder- und Hausmärchen," says, "The well-known story in Herodotus (ii, 121) ... is nearly related to this." As Sir G. W. Cox remarks (op. cit., p. 98), it is not easy to discern any real affinity either between the Hitopadesa tale and the European traditions of the "Master Thief," or between the latter and the "Rhampsinitus" story. M. Cosquin seems to see at least one point of contact between the two cycles: "The idea of the episode of the theft of the horse, or at least of the means which the thief uses to steal the horse away .... might well have been borrowed from Herodotus's story ... of Rhampsinitus" (Contes de Lorraine, 2 : 277). A brief analysis of the characteristic incidents of these two "thieving" cycles will be of some assistance, perhaps, in determining whether or not there were originally any definite points of contact between the two. The elements of the "Rhampsinitus" story follow:-- A Two sons of king's late architect plan to rob the royal treasure-house. (A1 In some variants of the story the robbers are a town thief and a country thief.) A2 They gain an entrance by removing a secret stone, a knowledge of which their father had bequeathed them before he died. B The king discovers the theft, and sets a snare for the robbers. C Robbers return; eldest caught inextricably. To prevent discovery, the younger brother cuts off the head of the older, takes it away, and buries it. D The king attempts to find the confederate by exposing the headless corpse on the outer wall of the palace. D1 The younger thief steals the body by making the guards drunk. He also shaves the right side of the sleeping guards' beards. E King makes second attempt to discover confederate. He sends his daughter as a common courtesan, hoping that he can find the thief; for she is to require all her lovers to tell the story of their lives before enjoying her favors. E1 The younger thief visits her and tells his story; when she tries to detain him, however, he escapes by leaving in her hand the hand of a dead man he had taken along with him for just such a contingency. F The king, baffled, now offers to pardon and reward the thief if he will discover himself. The thief gives himself up, and is married to the princess. In some of the later forms of the story the king makes various other attempts to discover the culprit before acknowledging himself defeated, and is met with more subtle counter-moves on the part of the thief: (D2) King orders that any one found showing sympathy for the corpse as it hangs up shall be arrested; (D3) by the trick of the broken water-jar or milk-jar, the widow of the dead robber is able to mourn him unsuspected. (D4) The widow involuntarily wails as the corpse is being dragged through the street past her house; but the thief quickly cuts himself with a knife, and thus explains her cry when the guards come to arrest her. They are satisfied with the explanation. (E2) The king scatters gold-pieces in the street, and gives orders to arrest any one seen picking them up; (E3) the thief, with pitch or wax on the soles of his shoes, walks up and down the road, and, unobserved, gathers in the money. (E4) The king turns loose in the city a gold-adorned animal, and orders the arrest of any person seen capturing it. The thief steals it as in D1, or is observed and his house-door marked. Then as in E6. (E5) Old woman begging for "hind's flesh" or "camel-grease" finds his house; but the thief suspects her and kills her; or (E6) she gets away, after marking the house-door so that it may be recognized again. But the thief sees the mark, and proceeds to mark similarly all the other doors in the street. (E7) The king puts a prohibitive price on meat, thinking that only the thief will be able to buy; but the thief steals a joint. However many the changes and additions of this sort (king's move followed by thief's move) rung in, almost all of the stories dealing with the robbery of the king's treasury end with the pardon of the thief and his exaltation to high rank in the royal household. In none of the score of versions of the "Rhampsinitus" story cited by Clouston is the thief subjected to any further tests of his prowess after he has been pardoned by the king. We shall return to this point. The "Master Thief" cycle has much less to do with our stories than has the "Rhampsinitus" cycle: hence we shall merely enumerate the incidents to be found in it. (For bibliography of stories containing these situations, see Cosquin.) A Hero, the youngest of three brothers, becomes a thief. For various reasons (the motives are different in Grimm 192, and Dasent xxxv) he displays his skill:-- B1 Theft of the purse (conducted as a droll: the young apprentice-thief, noodle-like, brings back purse to robber-gang after throwing away the money). B2 Theft of cattle being driven to the fair. This trick is usually conducted in one of four ways: (a) two shoes in road; (b) hanging self; (c) bawling in the wood like a strayed ox; (d) exciting peasant's curiosity,--"comedy of comedies," "wonder of wonders." B3 Theft of the horse. This is usually accomplished by the disguised thief making the grooms drunk. B4 Stealing of a live person and carrying him in a sack to the one who gave the order. (The thief disguises himself as an angel, and promises to conduct his victim to heaven.) Other instances of the "Master Thief's" cleverness, not found in Cosquin, are-- B5 Stealing sheet or coverlet from sleeping person (Grimm, Dasent). B6 Stealing roast from spit while whole family is guarding it (Dasent). We may now examine the members of the "Rhampsinitus" group that contain situations clearly belonging to the "Master Thief" formula. These are as follows:-- Groome, No. II, "The Two Thieves," B2 (d), B4. F. Liebrecht in a Cyprus story (Jahrb. f. rom. und eng. lit., 13 : 367-374 = Legrand, Contes grecs, p. 205), "The Master Thief," B2(a, c, d). Wardrop, No. XIV, "The Two Thieves," B4. Radloff, in a Tartar story (IV, p. 193), B4. Prym and Socin, in a Syriac story (II, No. 42), B4. It seems very likely that the Georgian, Tartar, and Syriac stories are nearly related to one another. The Roumanian gypsy tale, too, it will be noted, adds to the "Rhampsinitus" formula the incident of the theft of a person in a sack. This latter story, again, is connected with the Georgian tale, in that the opening is identical in both. One thief meets another, and challenges him to steal the eggs (feathers) from a bird without disturbing it. While he is doing so, he is in turn robbed unawares of his drawers by the first thief. (Compare Grimm, No. 129; a Kashmir story in Knowles, 110-112; and a Kabylie story, Rivière, 13.) The number of tales combining the two cycles of the "Master Thief" and "Rhampsinitus's Treasure-House" is so small compared with the number of "pure" versions of each cycle, that we are led to think it very unlikely that there ever was a "lost original." There seems to be no evidence whatsoever that these two cycles had a common ancestor. Besides the fact that the number of stories in which the contamination is found is relatively very small, there is also to be considered the fact that these few examples are recent. No one is known to have existed more than seventy-five years ago. Hence the "snowball" theory will better explain the composite nature of the gypsy version and our story of "Zaragoza" than a "missing-link" theory. These two cycles, consisting as they do of a series of tests of skill, are peculiarly fitted to be interlocked. The wonder is, not that they have become combined in a few cases, but that they have remained separate in so many more, particularly as both stories are very widespread; and, given the ingredients, this is a combination that could have been made independently by many story-tellers. Could not the idea occur to more than one narrator that it is a greater feat to steal a living person (B4) than a corpse (D1), a piece of roast meat guarded by a person who knows that the thief is coming (B6) than a piece of raw meat from an unsuspecting butcher (E7)? All in all, it appears to me much more likely that the droll and certainly later cycle of the "Master Thief" grew out of the more serious and earlier cycle of "Rhampsinitus's Treasure-House" (by the same process as is suggested in the notes to No. 1 of this present collection) than that the two are branches from the same trunk. In any case, our two stories make the combination. When or whence these Tagalog versions arose I cannot say. Nor need they be analyzed in detail, as the texts are before us in full. I will merely call attention to the fact that in "Zaragoza" the king sets a snare (cf. Herodotus) for the thief, instead of the more common barrel of pitch. There is something decidedly primitive about this trap which shoots arrows into its victim. Zaragoza's trick whereby he fools the rich merchant has an analogue in Knowles's Kashmir story of "The Day-Thief and the Night-Thief" (p. 298). "Juan the Peerless Robber," garbled and unsatisfactory as it is in detail and perverted in dénouement, presents the interesting combination of the skill-contest between the two thieves (see above), the treachery of one (cf. the Persian Bahar-i-Danush, 2 : 225-248), and the stealing of the abbot in a sack. TALE 9 THE SEVEN CRAZY FELLOWS. Narrated by Cipriano Seráfica, from Mangaldan. Pangasinan. Once there were living in the country in the northern part of Luzon seven crazy fellows, named Juan, Felipe, Mateo, Pedro, Francisco, Eulalio, and Jacinto. They were happy all the day long. One morning Felipe asked his friends to go fishing. They staid at the Cagayan River a long time. About two o'clock in the afternoon Mateo said to his companions, "We are hungry; let us go home!" "Before we go," said Juan, "let us count ourselves, to see that we are all here!" He counted; but because he forgot to count himself, he found that they were only six, and said that one of them had been drowned. Thereupon they all dived into the river to look for their lost companion; and when they came out, Francisco counted to see if he had been found; but he, too, left himself out, so in they dived again. Jacinto said that they should not go home until they had found the one who was lost. While they were diving, an old man passed by. He asked the fools what they were diving for. They said that one of them had been drowned. "How many were you at first?" said the old man. They said that they were seven. "All right," said the old man. "Dive in, and I will count you." They dived, and he found that they were seven. Since he had found their lost companion, he asked them to come with him. When they reached the old man's house, he selected Mateo and Francisco to look after his old wife; Eulalio he chose to be water-carrier; Pedro, cook; Jacinto, wood-carrier; and Juan and Felipe, his companions in hunting. When the next day came, the old man said that he was going hunting, and he told Juan and Felipe to bring along rice with them. In a little while they reached the mountains, and he told the two fools to cook the rice at ten o'clock. He then went up the mountain with his dogs to catch a deer. Now, his two companions, who had been left at the foot of the mountain, had never seen a deer. When Felipe saw a deer standing under a tree, he thought that the antlers of the deer were the branches of a small tree without leaves: so he hung his hat and bag of rice on them, but the deer immediately ran away. When the old man came back, he asked if the rice was ready. Felipe told him that he had hung his hat and the rice on a tree that ran away. The old man was angry, and said, "That tree you saw was the antlers of a deer. We'll have to go home now, for we have nothing to eat." Meanwhile the five crazy fellows who had been left at home were not idle. Eulalio went to get a pail of water. When he reached the well and saw his image in the water, he nodded, and the reflection nodded back at him. He did this over and over again; until finally, becoming tired, he jumped into the water, and was drowned. Jacinto was sent to gather small sticks, but he only destroyed the fence around the garden. Pedro cooked a chicken without removing the feathers. He also let the chicken burn until it was as black as coal. Mateo and Francisco tried to keep the flies off the face of their old mistress. They soon became tired, because the flies kept coming back; so they took big sticks to kill them with. When a fly lighted on the nose of the old woman, they struck at it so hard that they killed her. She died with seemingly a smile on her face. The two fools said to each other that the old woman was very much pleased that they had killed the fly. When the old man and his two companions reached home, the old man asked Pedro if there was any food to eat. Pedro said that it was in the pot. The old man looked in and saw the charred chicken and feathers. He was very angry at the cook. Then he went in to see his wife, and found her dead. He asked Mateo and Francisco what they had done to the old woman. They said that they had only been killing flies that tried to trouble her, and that she was very much pleased by their work. The next thing the crazy fellows had to do was to make a coffin for the dead woman; but they made it flat, and in such a way that there was nothing to prevent the corpse from falling off. The old man told them to carry the body to the church; but on their way they ran, and the body rolled off the flat coffin. They said to each other that running was a good thing, for it made their burden lighter. When the priest found that the corpse was missing, he told the six crazy fellows to go back and get the body. While they were walking toward the house, they saw an old woman picking up sticks by the roadside. "Old woman, what are you doing here?" they said. "The priest wants to see you." While they were binding her, she cried out to her husband, "Ah! here are some bad boys trying to take me to the church." But her husband said that the crazy fellows were only trying to tease her. When they reached the church with this old woman, the priest, who was also crazy, performed the burial-ceremony over her. She cried out that she was alive; but the priest answered that since he had her burial-fee, he did not care whether she was alive or not. So they buried this old woman in the ground. When they were returning home, they saw the corpse that had fallen from the coffin on their way to the church. Francisco cried that it was the ghost of the old woman. Terribly frightened, they ran away in different directions, and became scattered all over Luzon. Notes. I have a Bicol variant, "Juan and his Six Friends," narrated by Maximina Navarro, which is much like the story of "The Seven Crazy Fellows." In the Bicol form, Juan and his six crazy companions go bathing in the river. Episode of the miscounting. On the way home, the seven, sad because of the loss of one of their number, meet another sad young man, who says that his mother is dying and that he is on his way to fetch a priest. He begs the seven to hurry to his home and stay with his mother until he returns. They go and sit by her. Juan mistakes a large mole on her forehead for a fly, and tries in vain to brush it away. Finally he "kills it" with a big piece of bamboo. The son, returning and finding his mother dead, asks the seven to take her and bury her. They wrap the body in a mat, but on the way to the cemetery the body falls out. They return to look for the corpse, but take the wrong road. They see an old woman cutting ferns; and, thinking that she is the first old woman trying to deceive them, they throw stones at her. The story ends with the burial of this second old woman, whom the seven admonish, as they put her into the ground, "never to deceive any one again." These two noodle stories are obviously drawn from a common source. The main incidents to be found in them are (1) the miscounting of the swimmers and the subsequent correct reckoning by a stranger (this second part lacking in the Bicol variant); (2) the killing of the fly on the old woman's face; (3) the loss of the corpse and the burial of the old fagot-gathering woman by mistake. (1) The incident of not counting one's self is found in a number of Eastern stories (see Clouston 1, 28-33; Grimm, 2 : 441). For a Kashmir droll recording a similar situation, where a townsman finds ten peasants weeping because they cannot account for the loss of one of their companions, see Knowles, 322-323. (2) Killing of fly on face is a very old incident, and assumes various forms. In a Buddhist birth-story (Jataka, 44), a mosquito lights on a man's head. The foolish son attempts to kill it with an axe. In another (Jataka, 45) the son uses a pestle. Italian stories containing this episode will be found in Crane, 293-294 (see also Crane, 380, notes 13-15). In a Bicol fable relating a war between the monkeys and the dragon-flies, the dragon-flies easily defeat the monkeys, who kill one another in their attempts to slay their enemies, that have, at the order of their king, alighted on the monkeys' heads (see No. 57). Full bibliography for this incident may be found in Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 519. (3) The killing of a living person thought to be a corpse come to life occurs in "The Three Humpbacks" (see No. 33 and notes). Our story as a whole seems to owe nothing to European forms, though it has some faint general resemblances to the "Seven Swabians" (Grimm, No. 119). All three incidents of our story are found separately in India. Their combination may have taken place in the Islands, or even before the Malay migration. TALE 10 JUAN MANALAKSAN. Narrated by Anicio Pascual of Arayat, Pampanga, who heard the story from an old Pampangan woman. Once upon a time there lived in a certain village a brave and powerful datu who had only one son. The son was called Pedro. In the same place lived a poor wood-cutter whose name was Juan Manalaksan. Pedro was rich, and had no work to do. He often diverted himself by hunting deer and wild boars in the forests and mountains. Juan got his living by cutting trees in the forests. One day the datu and his son went to the mountain to hunt. They took with them many dogs and guns. They did not take any food, however, for they felt sure of catching something to eat for their dinner. When they reached the mountain, Pedro killed a deer. By noon they had become tired and hungry, so they went to a shady place to cook their game. While he was eating, Pedro choked on a piece of meat. The father cried out loudly, for he did not know what to do for his dying son. Juan, who was cutting wood near by, heard the shout. He ran quickly to help Pedro, and by pulling the piece of meat out of his throat he saved Pedro's life. Pedro was grateful, and said to Juan, "To-morrow come to my palace, and I will give you a reward for helping me." The next morning Juan set out for the palace. On his way he met an old woman, who asked him where he was going. "I am going to Pedro's house to get my reward," said Juan. "Do not accept any reward of money or wealth," said the old woman, "but ask Pedro to give you the glass which he keeps in his right armpit. The glass is magical. It is as large as a peso, and has a small hole in the centre. If you push a small stick through the hole, giants who can give you anything you want will surround you." Then the old woman left Juan, and went on her way. As soon as Juan reached the palace, Pedro said to him, "Go to that room and get all the money you want." But Juan answered, "I do not want you to give me any money. All I want is the glass which you keep in your right armpit." "Very well," said Pedro, "here it is." When Juan had received the glass, he hurried back home. Juan reached his hut in the woods, and found his mother starving. He quickly thought of his magic glass, and, punching a small stick through the hole in the glass, he found himself surrounded by giants. "Be quick, and get me some food for my mother!" he said to them. For a few minutes the giants were gone, but soon they came again with their hands full of food. Juan took it and gave it to his mother; but she ate so much, that she became sick, and died. In a neighboring village ruled another powerful datu, who had a beautiful daughter. One day the datu fell very ill. As no doctor could cure him, he sent his soldiers around the country to say that the man who could cure him should have his daughter for a wife. Juan heard the news, and, relying on his charm, went to cure the datu. On his way, he asked the giants for medicine to cure the sick ruler. When he reached the palace, the datu said to him, "If I am not cured, you shall be killed." Juan agreed to the conditions, and told the datu to swallow the medicine which he gave him. The datu did so, and at once became well again. The next morning Juan was married to the datu's daughter. Juan took his wife to live with him in his small hut in the woods. One day he went to the forest to cut trees, leaving his wife and magic glass at home. While Juan was away in the forest, Pedro ordered some of his soldiers to go get the wood-cutter's wife and magic glass. When Juan returned in the evening, he found wife and glass gone. One of his neighbors told him that his wife had been taken away by some soldiers. Juan was very angry, but he could not avenge himself without his magical glass. At last he decided to go to his father-in-law and tell him all that had happened to his wife. On his way there, he met an old mankukulam, [34] who asked him where he was going. Juan did not tell her, but related to her all that had happened to his wife and glass while he was in the forest cutting trees. The mankukulam said that she could help him. She told him to go to a certain tree and catch the king of the cats. She furthermore advised him, "Always keep the cat with you." Juan followed her advice. One day Pedro's father commanded his soldiers to cut off the ears of all the men in the village, and said that if any one refused to have his ears cut off, he should be placed in a room full of rats. The soldiers did as they were ordered, and in time came to Juan's house; but, as Juan was unwilling to lose his ears, he was seized and placed in a room full of rats. But he had his cat with him all the time. As soon as he was shut up in the room, he turned his cat loose. When the rats saw that they would all be killed, they said to Juan, "If you will tie your cat up there in the corner, we will help you get whatever you want." Juan tied his cat up, and then said to the rats, "Bring me all the glasses in this village." The rats immediately scampered away to obey him. Soon each of them returned with a glass in its mouth. One of them was carrying the magical glass. When Juan had his charm in his hands again, he pushed a small stick through the hole in the glass, and ordered the giants to kill Pedro and his father, and bring him his wife again. Thus Juan got his wife back. They lived happily together till they died. Juan the Poor, Who became Juan the King. Narrated by Amando Clemente, a Tagalog, who heard the story from his aunt. Once upon a time there lived in a small hut at the edge of a forest a father and son. The poverty of that family gave the son his name,--Juan the Poor. As the father was old and feeble, Juan had to take care of the household affairs; but there were times when he did not want to work. One day, while Juan was lying behind their fireplace, his father called him, and told him to go to the forest and get some fire-wood. "Very well," said Juan, but he did not move from his place. After a while the father came to see if his son had gone, but he found him still lying on the floor. "When will you go get that fire-wood, Juan?" "Right now, father," answered the boy. The old man returned to his room. As he wanted to make sure, however, whether his son had gone or not, he again went to see. When he found Juan in the same position as before, he became very angry, and said,-- "Juan, if I come out again and find you still here, I shall surely give you a whipping." Juan knew well that his father would punish him if he did not go; so he rose up suddenly, took his axe, and went to the forest. When he came to the forest, he marked every tree that he thought would be good for fuel, and then he began cutting. While he was chopping at one of the trees, he saw that it had a hole in the trunk, and in the hole he saw something glistening. Thinking that there might be gold inside the hole, he hastened to cut the tree down; but a monster came out of the hole as soon as the tree fell. When Juan saw the unexpected being, he raised his axe to kill the monster. Before giving the blow, he exclaimed, "Aha! Now is the time for you to die." The monster moved backward when it saw the blow ready to fall, and said,-- "Good sir, forbear, And my life spare, If you wish a happy life And, besides, a pretty wife." Juan lowered his axe, and said, "Oho! is that so?" "Yes, I swear," answered the monster. "But what is it, and where is it?" said Juan, raising his axe, and feigning to be angry, for he was anxious to get what the monster promised him. The monster told Juan to take from the middle of his tongue a white oval stone. From it he could ask for and get whatever he wanted to have. Juan opened the monster's mouth and took the valuable stone. Immediately the monster disappeared. The young man then tested the virtues of his charm by asking it for some men to help him work. As soon as he had spoken the last word of his command, there appeared many persons, some of whom cut down trees, while others carried the wood to his house. When Juan was sure that his house was surrounded by piles of fire-wood, he dismissed the men, hurried home, and lay down again behind the fireplace. He had not been there long, when his father came to see if he had done his work. When the old man saw his son stretched out on the floor, he said, "Juan have we fire-wood now?" "Just look out of the window and see, father!" said Juan. Great was the surprise of the old man when he saw the large piles of wood about his house. The next day Juan, remembering the pretty wife of which the monster had spoken, went to the king's palace, and told the king that he wanted to marry his daughter. The king smiled scornfully when he saw the rustic appearance of the suitor, and said, "If you will do what I shall ask you to do, I will let you marry my daughter." "What are your Majesty's commands for me?" said Juan. "Build me a castle in the middle of the bay; but know, that, if it is not finished in three days' time, you lose your head," said the king sternly. Juan promised to do the work. Two days had gone by, yet Juan had not yet commenced his work. For that reason the king believed that Juan did not object to losing his life; but at midnight of the third day, Juan bade his stone build a fort in the middle of the bay. The next morning, while the king was taking his bath, cannon-shots were heard. After a while Juan appeared before the palace, dressed like a prince. When he saw the king, he said, "The fort is ready for your inspection." "If that is true, you shall be my son-in-law," said the king. After breakfast the king, with his daughter, visited the fort, which pleased them very much. The following day the ceremonies of Juan's marriage with the princess Maria were held with much pomp and solemnity. Shortly after Juan's wedding a war broke out. Juan led the army of the king his father-in-law to the battlefield, and with the help of his magical stone he conquered his mighty enemy. The defeated general went home full of sorrow. As he had never been defeated before, he thought that Juan must possess some supernatural power. When he reached home, therefore, he issued a proclamation which stated that any one who could get Juan's power for him should have one-half of his property as a reward. A certain witch, who knew of Juan's secret, heard of the proclamation. She flew to the general, and told him that she could do what he wanted done. On his agreeing, she flew to Juan's house one hot afternoon, where she found Maria alone, for Juan had gone out hunting. The old woman smiled when she saw Maria, and said, "Do you not recognize me, pretty Maria? I am the one who nursed you when you were a baby." The princess was surprised at what the witch said, for she thought that the old woman was a beggar. Nevertheless she believed what the witch told her, treated the repulsive woman kindly, and offered her cake and wine; but the witch told Maria not to go to any trouble, and ordered her to rest. So Maria lay down to take a siesta. With great show of kindness, the witch fanned the princess till she fell asleep. While Maria was sleeping, the old woman took from underneath the pillow the magical stone, which Juan had forgotten to take along with him. Then she flew to the general, and gave the charm to him. He, in turn, rewarded the old woman with one-half his riches. Meanwhile, as Juan was enjoying his hunt in the forest, a huge bird swooped down on him and seized his horse and clothes. When the bird flew away, his inner garments were changed back again into his old wood-cutter's clothes. Full of anxiety at this ill omen, and fearing that some misfortune had befallen his wife, he hastened home on foot as best he could. When he reached his house, he found it vacant. Then he went to the king's palace, but that too he found deserted. For his stone he did not know where to look. After a few minutes of reflection, he came to the conclusion that all his troubles were caused by the general whom he had defeated in battle. He also suspected that the officer had somehow or other got possession of his magical stone. Poor Juan then began walking toward the country where the general lived. Before he could reach that country, he had to cross three mountains. While he was crossing the first mountain, a cat came running after him, and knocked him down. He was so angry at the animal, that he ran after it, seized it, and dashed its life out against a rock. When he was crossing the second mountain, the same cat appeared and knocked him down a second time. Again Juan seized the animal and killed it, as before; but the same cat that he had killed twice before tumbled him down a third time while he was crossing the third mountain. Filled with curiosity, Juan caught the animal again: but, instead of killing it this time, he put it inside the bag he was carrying, and took it along with him. After many hours of tiresome walking, Juan arrived at the castle of the general, and knocked at the door. The general asked him what he wanted. Juan answered, "I am a poor beggar, who will be thankful if I can have only a mouthful of rice." The general, however, recognized Juan. He called his servants, and said, "Take this wretched fellow to the cell of rats." The cell in which Juan was imprisoned was very dark; and as soon as the door was closed, the rats began to bite him. But Juan did not suffer much from them; for, remembering his cat, he let it loose. The cat killed all the rats except their king, which came out of the hole last of all. When the cat saw the king of the rats, it spoke thus: "Now you shall die if you do not promise to get for Juan his magical stone, which your master has stolen." "Spare my life, and you shall have the stone!" said the king of the rats. "Go and get it, then!" said the cat. The king of the rats ran quickly to the room of the general, and took Juan's magical stone from the table. As soon as Juan had obtained his stone, and after he had thanked the king of the rats, he said to his stone, "Pretty stone, destroy this house with the general and his subjects, and release my father-in-law and wife from their prison." Suddenly the earth trembled and a big noise was heard. Not long afterwards Juan saw the castle destroyed, the general and his subjects dead, and his wife and his father-in-law free. Taking with him the cat and the king of the rats, Juan went home happily with Maria his wife and the king his father-in-law. After the death of the king, Juan ascended to the throne, and ruled wisely. He lived long happily with his lovely wife. Notes. These two stories belong to the "Magic Ring" cycle, and are connected with the well-known "Aladdin" tale. Antti Aarne (pp. 1-82) reconstructs the original formula of this type, which was about as follows:-- A youth buys the life of a dog and a cat, liberates a serpent, and receives from its parent a wishing-stone, by means of which he builds himself a magnificent castle and wins as his wife a princess. But a thief steals the stone and removes castle and wife over the sea. Then the dog and the cat swim across the ocean, catch a mouse, and compel it to fetch the stone from out of the mouth of the thief. Upon their return journey, cat and dog quarrel, and the stone falls into the sea. After they have obtained it again with the help of a frog, they bring it to their master, who wishes his castle and wife back once more. In nearly every detail our stories vary from this norm: (1) The hero does not buy the life of any animals, (2) he does not acquire the charm from a grateful serpent that he has unselfishly saved from death, (3) the dog does not appear at all, (4) castle and wife are not transported beyond the sea, (5) the cat does not serve the hero voluntarily out of gratitude, (6) the hero himself journeys to recover his stolen charm. And yet there can be no doubt of the connection of our stories with this cycle. The acquirement of a charm, through the help of which the hero performs a difficult task under penalty of death, and thus wins the hand of a ruler's daughter; the theft of the charm and the disappearance of the wife; the search, which is finally brought to a successful close through the help of a cat and the king of the rats; the recovery of wife and charm, and the death of the hero's enemies, these details in combination are unmistakable proofs. Most of the characteristic details, however, of the "Magic Ring" cycle are to be found in the Philippines, although they are lacking in these two stories. For instance, in No. 26 the hero buys the life of a snake for five cents, and is rewarded by the king of the serpents with a magic wishing-cloth (cf. E. Steere, 403). In a Visayan pourquoi story, "Why Dogs wag their Tails" (see JAFL 20 : 98-100), we have a variant of the situation of the helpful dog and cat carrying a ring across a body of water, the quarrel in mid-stream, and the loss of the charm. In the same volume (pp. 117-118) is to be found a Tagalog folk-version of the "Aladdin" tale. [35] Neither "Juan Manalaksan" nor "Juan the Poor, who became Juan the King," can be traced, I believe, to any of the hundred and sixty-three particular forms of the story cited by Aarne. The differences in detail are too many. The last part of Pedroso's Portuguese folk-tale, No. xxx, is like (b), in that the hero himself seeks the thief, takes along with him a cat, is recognized by the thief and imprisoned, and by means of the cat threatens the king of the rats, who recovers the charm for him. But the first part is entirely different: the charm is an apple obtained from a hind, and the hero's wife is not stolen along with the charm. No Spanish version has been recorded. It is not impossible that the story in the Philippines is prehistoric. "Juan Manalaksan," which the narrator took down exactly as it was told to him, clearly dates back to a time when the tribe had its own native datu government, possibly to a time even before the Pampangans migrated to the Philippines. The whole "equipment" of this story is primitive to a degree. Moreover, the nature of the charm in both stories--a piece of glass and an oval stone instead of the more usual ring--points to the primitiveness of our versions, as does likewise the fact that the charm is not stolen from the hero by his wife, but by some other person (see Aarne, pp. 43, 45). For further discussions of this cycle of folk-tales, and its relation to the Arabian literary version, see Aarne, 61 et seq. Compare also Macculloch, 201-202, 237-238; Groome, 218-220; Clouston's "Variants of Button's Supplemental Arabian Nights," pp. 564-575; Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 451-458; Benfey, 1 : 211 ff. Add to Aarne's and Bolte's lists Wratislaw, No. 54. See also Dähnhardt, 4 : 147-160. In conclusion, I may add in the way of an Appendix, as it were, a brief synopsis of a Tagalog romance entitled "Story of Edmundo, Son of Merced in the Kingdom of France; taken from a novela and composed by one who enjoys writing the Tagalog language. Manila 1909." This verse-form of a story at bottom the same as our two folk-tales is doubtless much more recent than our folk-tales themselves, and is possibly based on them directly, despite the anonymous author's statement as to the unnamed novela that was his source. In the following summary of the "Story of Edmundo," the numbers in parentheses refer to stanzas of the original Tagalog text. "Edmundo." In Villa Amante there lived a poor widow, Merced by name, who had to work very hard to keep her only son, the infant Edmundo, alive. Her piety and industry were rewarded, however; and by the time the boy was seven years old, she was able to clothe him well and send him to school. Her brother Tonio undertook the instruction of the youth. Edmundo had a good head, and made rapid progress. (7-41) One day Merced fell sick, and, although she recovered in a short time, Edmundo decided to give up studying and to help his mother earn their living. He became a wood-cutter. (42-53) At last fortune came to him. In one of his wanderings in the forest in search of dry wood, he happened upon an enormous python. He would have fled in terror had not the snake spoken to him, to his amazement, and requested him to pull from its throat the stag which was choking it. He performed the service for the reptile, and in turn was invited to the cave where it lived. Out of gratitude the python gave Edmundo a magic mirror that would furnish the possessor with whatever he wanted. With the help of this charm, mother and son soon had everything they needed to make them happy. (54-91) At about this time King Romualdo of France decided to look for a husband for his daughter, the beautiful Leonora. He was unable to pick out a son-in-law from the many suitors who presented themselves; and so he had it proclaimed at a concourse of all the youths of the realm, "Whoever can fill my cellar with money before morning shall have the hand of Leonora." Edmundo was the only one to accept the challenge, for failure to perform the task meant death. At midnight he took his enchanted mirror and commanded it to fill the king's cellar with money. In the morning the king was astonished at the sight, but there was no way of avoiding the marriage. So Leonora became the wife of the lowly-born wood-cutter. The young couple went to Villa Amante to live. There, to astonish his wife, Edmundo had a palace built in one night. She was dumfounded to awake in the morning and find herself in a magnificent home; and when she asked him about it, he confided to her the secret of his wonderful charm. Later, to gratify the humor of the king, who visited him, Edmundo ordered his mirror to transport the palace to a seacoast town. There he and his wife lived very happily together. (92-211) One day Leonora noticed from her window two vessels sailing towards the town. Her fears and premonitions were so great, that Edmundo, to calm her, sank the ships by means of his magic power. But the sinking of these vessels brought misfortunes. Their owner, the Sultan of Turkey, learned of the magic mirror possessed by Edmundo (how he got this information is not stated), and hired an old woman to go to France in the guise of a beggar and steal the charm. She was successful in getting it, and then returned with it to her master. The Sultan then invaded France, and with the talisman, by which he called to his aid six invincible giants, conquered the country. He took the king, queen, and Leonora as captives back with him to Turkey. Edmundo was left in France to look after the affairs of the country. (212-296) Edmundo became melancholy, and at last decided to seek his wife. He left his mother and his servant behind, and took with him only a diamond ring of Leonora's, his cat, and his dog. While walking along the seashore, wondering how he could cross the ocean, he saw a huge fish washed up on the sand. The fish requested him to drag it to the water. When Edmundo had done so, the fish told him to get on its back, and promised to carry him to Leonora. So done. The fish swam rapidly through the water, Edmundo holding his dog and cat in his breast. The dog was soon washed "overboard," but the cat clung to him. After a ride of a day and a night, the fish landed him on a strange shore. It happened to be the coast of Turkey. (297-313) Edmundo stopped at an inn, pretending to be a shipwrecked merchant. There he decided to stay for a while, and there he found out the situation of Leonora in this wise. Now, it happened that the Sultan used to send to this inn for choice dishes for Leonora, whom he was keeping close captive. By inquiry Edmundo learned of the close proximity of his wife, and one day he managed to insert her ring into one of the eggs that were to be taken back to her. She guessed that he was near; and, in order to communicate with him, she requested permission of the king to walk with her maid in the garden that was close by the inn. She saw Edmundo, and smiled on him; but the maid noticed the greeting, and reported it to the Sultan. The Sultan ordered the man summoned; and when he recognized Edmundo, he had him imprisoned and put in stocks. (314-350) Edmundo was now in despair, and thought it better to die than live; but his faithful cat, which had followed him unnoticed to the prison, saved him. In the jail there were many rats. That night the cat began to kill these relentlessly, until the captain of the rats, fearing that his whole race would be exterminated, requested Edmundo to tie up his cat and spare them. Edmundo promised to do so on condition that the rat bring him the small gold-rimmed mirror in the possession of the Sultan. At dawn the rat captain arrived with the mirror between its teeth. Out of gratitude Edmundo now had his mirror bring to life all the rats that had been slain. (351-366) Then he ordered before him his wife, the king, the queen, the crown and sceptre of France. All, including the other prisoners of the Sultan, were transported back to France. At the same time the Sultan's palace and prison were destroyed. Next morning, when the Grand Sultan awoke, he was enraged to find himself outwitted; but what could he do? Even if he were able to jump as high as the sky, he could not bring back Leonora. (367-376) When the French Court returned to France, Edmundo was crowned successor to the throne: the delight of every one was unbounded. (377-414) The last six stanzas are occupied with the author's leave-taking. (415-420) Groome (pp. 219-220) summarizes a Roumanian-Gypsy story, "The Stolen Ox," from Dr. Barbu Constantinescu's collection (Bucharest, 1878), which, while but a fragment, appears to be connected with this cycle of the "Magic Ring," and presents a curious parallel to a situation in "Edmundo:"-- "... The lad serves the farmer faithfully, and at the end of his term sets off home. On his way he lights on a dragon, and in the snake's mouth is a stag. Nine years had that snake the stag in its mouth, and been trying to swallow it, but could not because of its horns. Now, that snake was a prince; and seeing the lad, whom God had sent his way, 'Lad,' said the snake, 'relieve me of this stag's horns, for I've been going about nine years with it in my mouth.' So the lad broke off the horns, and the snake swallowed the stag. 'My lad, tie me round your neck and carry me to my father, for he doesn't know where I am.' So he carried him to his father, and his father rewarded him." It is curious to see this identical situation of the hero winning his magic reward by saving some person or animal from choking appearing in Roumania and the Philippines, and in connection, too, with incidents from the "Magic Ring" cycle. The resemblance can hardly be fortuitous. TALE 11 LUCAS THE STRONG. Narrated by Paulo Macasaet, a Tagalog, who heard the story from a Tagalog farmer. Once there was a man who had three sons,--Juan, Pedro, and Lucas. His wife died when his children were young. Unlike most of his countrymen, he did not marry again, but spent his time in taking care of his children. The father could not give his sons a proper education, because he was poor; so the boys grew up in ignorance and superstition. They had no conception of European clothes and shoes. Juan and Pedro were hard workers, but Lucas was lazy. The father loved his youngest son Lucas, nevertheless; but Juan and Pedro had little use for their brother. The lazy boy used to ramble about the forests and along river-banks looking for guavas and birds' nests. One day, when Lucas was in the woods, he saw a boa-constrictor [Tag. sawang bitin]. He knew that this reptile carried the centre of its strength in the horny appendage at the end of its tail. Lucas wished very much to become strong, because the men of strength in his barrio were the most influential. So he decided to rob the boa of its charm. He approached the snake like a cat, and then with his sharp teeth bit off the end of its tail, and ran away with all his might. The boa followed him, but could not overtake him; for Lucas was a fast runner, and, besides, the snake had lost its strength. Lucas soon became the strongest man in his barrio. He surprised everybody when he defeated the man who used to be the Hercules of the place. One day the king issued a proclamation: "He who can give the monarch a carriage made of gold shall have the princess for his wife." When Juan and Pedro heard this royal announcement, they were very anxious to get the carriage and receive the reward. Juan was the first to try his luck. He went to a neighboring mountain and began to dig for gold. While he was eating his lunch at noon, an old leper with her child approached him, and humbly begged him to give her something to eat. "No, the food I have here is just enough for me. Go away! You are very dirty," said Juan with disgust. The wretched old woman, with tears in her eyes, left the place. After he had worked for three weeks, Juan became discouraged, gave up his scheme of winning the princess, and returned home. Pedro followed his brother, but he had no better luck than Juan. He was also unkind to the old leper. Lucas now tried his fortune. The day after his arrival at the mountain, when he was eating, the old woman appeared, and asked him to give her some food. Lucas gave the woman half of his meat. The leper thanked him, and promised that she would give him not only the carriage made of gold, but also a pair of shoes, a coat, and some trousers. She then bade Lucas good-by. Nine days passed, and yet the woman had not come. Lucas grew tired of waiting, and in his heart began to accuse the woman of being ungrateful. He repented very much the kindness he had shown the old leper. Finally she appeared to Lucas, and told him what he had been thinking about her. "Do not think that I shall not fulfil my promise," she said. "You shall have them all." To the great astonishment of Lucas, the woman disappeared again. The next day he saw the golden carriage being drawn by a pair of fine fat horses; and in the carriage were the shoes, the coat, and the trousers. The old woman appeared, and showed the young man how to wear the shoes and clothes. Then he entered the carriage and was driven toward the palace. On his way he met a man. "Who are you?" said Lucas. "I am Runner, son of the good runner," was the answer. "Let us wrestle!" said Lucas. "I want to try your strength. If you defeat me, I will give you a hundred pesos; but if I prove to be the stronger, you must come with me." "All right, let us wrestle!" said Runner. The struggle lasted for ten minutes, and Lucas was the victor. They drove on. They met another man. When Lucas asked him who he was, the man said, "I am Sharpshooter, son of the famous shooter." Lucas wrestled with this man too, and overcame him because of his superhuman strength. So Sharpshooter went along with Lucas and Runner. Soon they came up to another man. "What is your name?" said Lucas. "My name is Farsight. I am son of the great Sharp-Eyes." Lucas proposed a wrestling-match with Farsight, who was conquered, and so obliged to go along with the other three. Last of all, the party met Blower, "son of the great blower." He likewise became one of the servants of Lucas. When Lucas reached the palace, he appeared before the king, and in terms of great submission he told the monarch that he had come for two reasons,--first, to present his Majesty with the golden carriage; second, to receive the reward which his Majesty had promised. The king said, "I will let you marry my daughter provided that you can more quickly than my messenger bring to me a bottle of the water that gives youth and health to every one. It is found at the foot of the seventh mountain from this one," he said, pointing to the mountain nearest to the imperial city. "But here is another provision," continued the king: "if you accept the challenge and are defeated, you are to lose your head." "I will try, O king!" responded Lucas sorrowfully. The king then ordered his messenger, a giant, to fetch a bottle of the precious water. Lucas bade the monarch good-by, and then returned to his four friends. "Runner, son of the good runner, hasten to the seventh mountain and get me a bottle of the water that gives youth and health!" Runner ran with all his might, and caught up with the giant; but the giant secretly put a gold ring in Runner's bottle to make him sleep. Two days passed, but Runner had not yet arrived. Then Lucas cried, "Farsight, son of the great Sharp-Eyes, see where the giant and Runner are!" The faithful servant looked, and he saw Runner sleeping, and the giant very near the city. When he had been told the state of affairs, Lucas called Blower, and ordered him to blow the giant back. The king's messenger was carried to the eighth mountain. Then Lucas said, "Sharpshooter, son of the famous shooter, shoot the head of the bottle so that Runner will wake up!" The man shot skilfully; Runner jumped to his feet, ran and got the precious water, and arrived in the city in twelve hours. Lucas presented the water to the king, and the monarch was obliged to accept the young man as his son-in-law. The wedding-day was a time of great rejoicing. Everybody was enthusiastic about Lucas except the king. The third day after the nuptials, the giant reached the palace. He said that he was very near the city when a heavy wind blew him back to the eighth mountain. Juan and His Six Companions. Narrated by Vicente M. Hilario, a Tagalog from Batangas, who heard the story from an old woman from Balayan. Not very long after the death of our Saviour on Calvary, there lived in a far-away land a powerful king named Jaime. By judicious usurpations and matrimonial alliances, this wise monarch extended his already vast dominions to the utmost limits. Instead of ruling his realm as a despot, however, he devoted himself to the task of establishing a strong government based on moderation and justice. By his marvellous diplomacy he won to his side counts, dukes, and lesser princes. To crown his happiness, he had an extremely lovely daughter, whose name was Maria. Neither Venus nor Helen of Troy could compare with her in beauty. Numerous suitors of noble birth from far and near vied with one another in spending fortunes on this pearl of the kingdom; but Maria regarded all suitors with aversion, and her father was perplexed as to how to get her a husband without seeming to show favoritism. After consulting gravely with his advisers, the monarch gave out this proclamation: "He who shall succeed in getting the golden egg from the moss-grown oak in yonder mountain shall be my son-in-law and heir." This egg, whose origin nobody knew anything about, rendered its possessor very formidable. When the proclamation had been made public, the whole kingdom was seized with wild enthusiasm; for, though the task was hazardous, yet it seemed performable and easy to the reckless. For five days and five nights crowds of lovers, adventurers, and ruffians set sail for the "Mountain of the Golden Egg," as it was called; but none of the enterprisers ever reached the place. Some were shipwrecked; others were driven by adverse winds and currents to strange lands, where they perished miserably; and the rest were forced to return because of the horrible sights of broken planks and mangled bodies. Some days after the return of the last set of adventurers, three brothers rose from obscurity to try their fortunes in this dangerous enterprise. They were Pedro, Fernando, and Juan. They had been orphans since they were boys, and had grown up amid much suffering and hardship. The three brothers agreed that Pedro should try first; Fernando second; and Juan last, provided the others did not succeed. After supplying himself with plenty of food, a good boat, a sword, and a sharp axe, Pedro embraced his brothers and departed, never to return. He took a longer and safer route than that of his predecessors. He had no sooner arrived at the mountain than an old gray-headed man in tattered clothes came limping towards him and asking for help; but the selfish Pedro turned a deaf ear to the supplications of the old man, whom he pushed away with much disrespect. Ignorant of his doom, and regardless of his irreverence, Pedro walked on with hasty steps and high animal spirits. But lo! when his axe struck the oak, a large piece of wood broke off and hit him in the right temple, killing him instantly. Fernando suffered the same fate as his haughty brother. Juan alone remained. He was the destined possessor of the egg, and the conqueror of King Jaime. Juan's piety, simplicity, and goodness had won for him the good-will of many persons of distinction. After invoking God's help, he set sail for the mountain, where he safely arrived at noon. He met the same old man, and he bathed, dressed, and fed him. The old man thanked Juan, and said, "You shall be amply requited," and immediately disappeared. With one stroke of his axe Juan broke the oak in two; and in a circular hole lined with down he found the golden egg. In the afternoon he went to King Jaime, to whom he presented the much-coveted egg. But the shrewd and successful monarch did not want to have a rustic son-in-law. "You shall not marry my daughter," he said, "unless you bring me a golden ship." The next morning Juan, very disconsolate, went to the mountain again. The old man appeared to him, and said, "Why are you dejected, my son?" Juan related everything that had happened. "Dry your eyes and listen to me," said the old man. "Not very far from this place you will find your ship all splendidly equipped. Go there at once!" The old man disappeared, and Juan ran with all possible speed to where the ship was lying. He went on deck, and a few minutes later the ship began to move smoothly over stumps and stones. While he was thus travelling along, Juan all of a sudden saw a man running around the mountain in less than a minute. "Corrin Corron, [36] son of the great runner!" shouted Juan, "what are you doing?" The man stopped, and said, "I'm taking my daily exercise." "Never mind that!" said Juan, "come up here and rest!" And Corrin Corron readily accepted the offer. Pretty soon Juan saw another man standing on the summit of a high hill and gazing intently at some distant object. "Mirin Miron, [37] son of the great Farsight!" said Juan, "what are you doing?" "I'm watching a game of tubigan [38] seven miles away," answered the other. "Never mind!" said Juan, "come up here and eat with me!" And Mirin Miron gladly went on deck. After a while Juan saw a hunter with gun levelled. "Puntin Punton, [39] son of the great Sureshot!" said Juan, "what are you doing?" "Three miles away there is a bat-fly annoying a sheep. I want to kill that insect." "Let the creature go," said Juan, "and come with me!" And Puntin Punton, too, joined the party. Not long after, Juan saw a man carrying a mountain on his shoulders. "Carguin Cargon, [40] son of the great Strong-Back!" shouted Juan, "what are you doing?" "I'm going to carry this mountain to the other side of the country to build a dam across the river," said the man. "Don't exert yourself so much," said Juan. "Come up here and take some refreshment!" The brawny carrier threw aside his load; and, as the mountain hit the ground, the whole kingdom was shaken so violently that the inhabitants thought that all the volcanoes had simultaneously burst into eruption. By and by the ship came to a place where Juan saw young flourishing trees falling to the ground, with branches twisted and broken. "Friends," said Juan, "is a storm blowing?" "No, sir!" answered the sailors, amazed at the sight. "Master Juan," shouted Mirin Miron, "sitting on the summit of yonder mountain," pointing to a peak three miles away, "is a man blowing with all his might." "He is a naughty fellow," muttered Juan to himself; "he will destroy all the lumber-trees in this region if we do not stop him." Pretty soon Juan himself saw the mischievous man, and said, "Soplin Soplon, [41] son of the great Blast-Blower, what are you doing?" "Oh, I'm just exercising my lungs and trumpeter's muscles," replied the other. "Come along with us!" After blowing down a long line of trees like grain before a hurricane, Soplin Soplon went on board. As the ship neared the capital, Juan saw a man lying on a bed of rushes, with his ear to the ground. "What are you doing, friend?" said Juan. "I'm listening to the plaintive strains of a young man mourning over the grave of his deceased sweetheart, and to the touching love-ditties of a moonstruck lover," answered the man. "Where are those two men?" asked Juan. "They are in a city twelve miles away," said the other. "Never mind, Oirin Oiron, [42] son of the great Hear-All!" said Juan. "Come up and rest on a more comfortable bed! My divans superabound." When Oirin Oiron was on board, Juan said to the helmsman, "To the capital!" In the evening the magnificent ship, with sails of silk and damask, masts of gold heavily studded with rare gems, and covered with thick plates of gold and silver, arrived at the palace gate. Early in the morning King Jaime received Juan, but this time more coldly and arrogantly than ever. The princess bathed before break of day. With cheeks suffused with the rosy tint of the morning, golden tresses hanging in beautiful curls over her white shoulders, hands as delicate as those of a new-born babe, eyes merrier than the humming-bird, and dressed in a rich outer garment displaying her lovely figure at its best, she stood beside the throne. Such was the appearance of this lovely mortal, who kindled an inextinguishable flame in the heart of Juan. After doffing his bonnet and bowing to the king, Juan said, "Will you give me the hand of your daughter?" Everybody present was amazed. The princess's face was successively pale and rosy. Juan immediately understood her heart as he stood gazing at her. "Never!" said the king after a few minutes. "You shall never have my daughter." "Farewell, then, until we meet again!" said Juan as he departed. When the ship was beyond the frontier of Jaime's kingdom, Juan said, "Carguin Cargon, overturn the king's realm." Carguin Cargon obeyed. Many houses were destroyed, and hundreds of people were crushed to death. When the ship was within seven miles of the city, Oirin Oiron heard the king say, "I'll give my daughter in marriage to Juan if he will restore my kingdom." Oirin Oiron told Juan what he had heard. Then Juan ordered Carguin Cargon to rebuild the kingdom; but when the work was done, Jaime again refused to fulfil his promise. Juan went away very angry. Again the kingdom was overturned, and more property and lives were destroyed. Again Oirin Oiron heard the king make a promise, again the kingdom was rebuilt, and again the king was obstinate. Juan went away again red with anger. After they had been travelling for an hour, Oirin Oiron heard the tramp of horses and the clash of spears and shields. "I can see King Jaime's vast host in hot pursuit of us," said Mirin Miron. "Where is the army?" said Juan. "It is nine miles away," responded Mirin Miron. "Let the army approach," said Soplin Soplon. When the immense host was within eight hundred yards of the ship, Soplin Soplon blew forcible blasts, which scattered the soldiers and horses in all directions like chaff before a wind. Of this formidable army only a handful of men survived, and these were crippled for life. Again the king sued for peace, and promised the hand of his daughter to Juan. This time he kept his word, and Juan and Maria were married amidst the most imposing ceremonies. That very day King Jaime abdicated in favor of his more powerful son-in-law. On the site of the destroyed houses were built larger and more handsome ones. The lumber that was needed was obtained by Soplin Soplon and Carguin Cargon from the mountains: Soplin Soplon felled the trees with his mighty blasts, and Carguin Cargon carried the huge logs to the city. Juan made Corrin Corron his royal messenger, and Soplin Soplon commander-in-chief of the raw troops, which later became a powerful army. The other four friends were assigned to high positions in the government. The royal couple and the six gifted men led a glorious life. They conquered new lands, and ruled their kingdom well. The Story of King Palmarin. Paraphrased from the vernacular by Anastacia Villegas of Arayat, Pampanga. [NOTE.--While the following story is not, strictly speaking, a folk-tale, since it is a native student's close paraphrase of a Pampango corrido, or metrical romance, it is typically Filipino in many respects, and is closely connected with the two foregoing folk-tales. Moreover, it presents significant features lacking in the other stories. As it is too long to be relegated to the notes, I take the liberty of printing it here in full. My justification is the fact that, after all, sagas, or printed folk-tales, are only the crystallized sources--or products, as the case may be--of folk-tales.] Long, long ago, the kingdom of Marsella was ruled over by the worthy King Palmarin and his wife Isberta. They were attentive to their duty, and kind to their subjects, whose love they won. All Marsella admired the goodness and generosity of the king. To whatever he wanted, his counsellors agreed; and because of his good judgment, his reign was peaceful. Time came when the queen gave birth to a child. The whole kingdom rejoiced, and a great feast was prepared. "Let the feast last six months," said Zetnaen, chief adviser. The new baby was a girl of peerless beauty. The holy bishop was summoned to baptize the child. As the Virgin Mary was the patron saint of the king and queen, they asked the worthy prelate to name the little princess Maria; and so she was named. One day the king went to hunt in the mountains. There was no forest or cave that the party did not visit. All the animals in the mountains were thrown into confusion when they heard the great noise. Bears, tigers, and lions came out of their dens. As soon as these wild beasts reached the plain, they began to pursue the king and his men. The noise and confusion cannot be imagined. By the help of God, the king and his men put to flight their savage foes; and when the chase was ended, nobody had been hurt. After the hunters had been gathered together by the sound of the trumpet, they all returned home, thankful that no one had been injured. The king, however, had unwittingly lost his favorite reliquary. When King Palmarin reached Marsella and discovered that his locket was missing, he at once sent many of his soldiers back to look for it. They searched all parts of the mountain and even the valley. At last they returned to the capital, and said to the king, "We, whom your Majesty commanded to look for the reliquary, have come to tell you that, after a thorough search through the entire forest and valley, we have not been able to find it." The king was very sad to hear this report; but he kept his sorrow to himself, and did not reveal his heart to his counsellors. He grieved, not because of the value of the reliquary, but because it had been handed down to him by his father, whose will and recommendations it contained. As time went on, the king forgot his lost reliquary. He ceased looking for it. His daughter the princess was now grown up. She was beautiful, happy, good-natured, and modest. Those who saw her said that she was not inferior even to Elsa, Judith, or Anne Boleyn. Now, the king wished his daughter to marry, so that there might be some one to inherit his throne when he died. He made his desire known to his counsellors. He told them that, if they agreed, he would issue proclamations throughout the whole kingdom and the neighboring cities, towns, and villages. While this meeting with his council was going on, the king stood up to powder his face. He took his powder-case out of his pocket; but when he opened it, there inside he found, to his surprise, a tuma. [43] He could not imagine how this tiny insect had got into his box to eat the powder. Feeling very much ashamed, he did not powder his face: he merely closed the box. The meeting was adjourned without being finished; for when the king stood up, the counsellors rose from their seats and silently left the room. The king retired to his room, and opened his powder-case to look at the tuma again. He was thoroughly astonished to find that what had been but a tiny insect a moment before now filled the whole box. He was indeed perplexed; so he consulted God. Then it came to his mind to take the tuma from the box and place it in the cellar of the palace. After three days the king found that a miracle had happened. The cellar was filled with the tuma. He was not a little surprised. He said to himself, "What a wonderful animal it is! In three days it has grown to such an enormous size! If I let it live, I fear that it will destroy the whole kingdom." Then he heard a voice saying, "You need not fear, for the tuma you nourish shall not produce bad fruit. But if you let it live, it will have a long life, and will fill all of Marsella with its huge body. Listen to me, and obey what I tell you! Let the tuma be killed. Burn all its flesh, but save its skin. Use the skin for the covers of a drum. When you have done all these things, write to all your neighboring kingdoms and bet with them. Let them guess the kind of skin out of which the heads of the drum are made. If you will but obey me, and take care not to let any one know what I have told you, you will become very rich." Then the voice ceased. The king comprehended well all that the voice had told him: so he called his Negro servant, and led him secretly into his room. The king then said softly, "Let no one know of the secret that I am to disclose to you, and you shall profit by it. I have a tuma which accidentally got into my powder-case. One day I put the insect into the cellar, where it has grown to an enormous size. Now, my command to you is to kill the tuma, burn all its flesh, and clean its skin. Then have the skin made into a drum. When everything is done perfectly, I will repay you." Accordingly the Negro servant killed the tuma. He followed minutely the king's directions. When the drum was finished, he presented it to the king. Instead of receiving the promised reward, however, the poor Negro was instantly put to death, for the king feared that he might betray the secret. King Palmarin then summoned all his counsellors. He said to them, "I want you to spread the news of my desire." Taking out the drum and putting it on the table, he continued: "Let all the villages, cities, and kingdoms know of the wager. Any one who can guess of what skin the covers of this drum are made, be he rich or poor, if he is unmarried, he shall be my son-in-law. But if he fails to guess aright, his property shall be forfeited to the crown if he is rich; he shall lose his head if he is poor." The counsellors proclaimed the edict. Many rich nobles, lords, princes, and knights heard of it. All those who ventured lost their fortune, for they could not guess what the drum was made of. So the king gained much wealth. Among them there was one particularly rich, who declared to the king his great desire to win the princess's hand. King Palmarin said to this knight, "Examine the drum carefully." After looking at it closely, he said, "This drum is made of sheep's hide."--"Your observation has deceived you," said the king. "Now all the wealth you have brought with you shall be mine." "What can I do if fortune turns against me?" said the knight. "Let your Majesty send his servants to get all my property from the ship." The names of the hides of all known animals were given, but no one guessed correctly. At last some of those who had been defeated said to the king, "Of what is the drum made?" "I cannot tell you yet," replied the king. In one of the villages where the edict was proclaimed there lived a young man named Juan. He was an orphan. After the death of his parents, the property he had inherited from them he gave to the poor. One day me met the king's messengers, who explained the edict minutely to him, so that he might tell about it to others. Don Juan then went away. He was sad, for he had no wealth to take with him to Marsella. Though he had inherited much property, he had given away most of it, so that now very little was left to him. One day, while he was looking about his farm, he saw all of a sudden some dead persons lying prostrate in the thicket. They had been murdered by bandits. He hired men to bury these corpses decently in the sacred ground, and paid the priest to celebrate masses for their souls. He then returned home sad, meditating on his bad luck. At midnight, while he was sleeping soundly, he heard a voice saying to him, "Go to Marsella and take part in the wager of King Palmarin. Do not be troubled because you have no riches. Your horses are enough. Equip them in the best way you can." Then the voice ceased. Don Juan felt very glad. The next morning he prepared materials for equipping his horses, and hired laborers, whom he paid double so as to hasten the work. The harnesses were of pure gold, decorated with pearls and rubies. The saddle-cloths were embroidered. Two of the horses (they were all very fat, and had long manes) were hazel-colored, two were spotted, two were orange-colored, and one was white. When everything was ready, Don Juan mounted the white one, and loaded on the other six his baggage. God rewarded Don Juan for what he had done to the dead bodies. He called St. Michael, and said to him, "Go to purgatory and get six of the souls who were benefited by Don Juan, for now is the time for them to repay him. They shall go back to the world to meet Don Juan on his way, follow him to Marsella, and provide him with everything he needs. They must not leave him until you call them back, for there are many serious dangers on his way." The angel went on his errand. He selected six souls, and told them to return to the world to help Don Juan. The spirits were glad to go, for they longed to repay their benefactor. Don Juan was now on his journey. As he rode along, the birds in the forest sang to cheer him, so that the long journey might not tire him. By and by he saw a man in the middle of the forest, lying on his face. "Grandpa, what are you doing there?" said Juan. "I am observing the world. Are you not a nobleman? Whither are you bound?" "To Marsella," replied Don Juan. "To bet? If that is your purpose, you are sure to lose, for it is certain that you cannot guess of what the drum is made," interrupted the man. "I entreat you to tell me the right answer, if you know it," said Don Juan. "I will not only tell it to you, but I will also accompany you. That is why I am here. I was waiting for you to pass," said the man. "Grandpa, I'm astonished. You must be a prophet." "You are right. I am the sage prophet Noet Noen, [44] who will go with you to King Palmarin." "I appreciate your help and am grateful to you, grandpa," said Don Juan. "You had better ride on one of the horses." Noet Noen and Don Juan rode on together. The prophet then related to Juan the whole story of the tuma that had got into the powder-case of the king. While the two travellers were talking, they saw a man sitting under a tree. As it was very hot, they dismounted so that their horses might rest. Don Juan was surprised at the stranger. He was whistling; and every time he whistled, the wind blew strong, so that the trees in the forest were broken off. This man was Supla Supling, a companion and friend of Noet Noen. "Supla Supling, why are you here?" said Noet Noen. "To follow you," was the reply. "If that is your desire," said Don Juan, "you will please mount one of the horses." So the three men went on their journey. They had not gone far when they met a man walking alone. Noet Noen said to him, "What are you here for? Come along with us!" This man was Miran Miron, who had a wonderfully loud voice. When he shouted, his sound was more sonorous than thunder. He also had very keen sight. He could see clearly an object, though it were covered with a cover a hundred yards thick. When the four travellers had gone a little farther, they saw a man walking swiftly on one leg. They spurred up their horses to overtake him, but in vain. At last Noet Noen said, "I think that is my friend Curan Curing, so there is little hope of our catching him." "Let me call him!" said Miran Miron, and he shouted. When Curan Curing heard the voice, he stopped, so they reached him. Miran Miron said to him, "You are in a great hurry. Where are you going?" "You know that I cannot stop my feet when I walk," said Curan Curing. "Why do you hold up one of your legs as if it were in pain?" said Don Juan. "Do not be surprised at my walking on one foot; for, if I should let loose the other one, I should walk straight out of the world." "Will you join us, Curan Curing?" said Noet Noen. "Oh, yes! Let me have a horse! If I should walk, you might lose me on account of my speed," replied Curan Curing. So the five adventurers went on together. As it soon grew very warm, they stopped to rest under a tree. Then they saw a wounded deer coming toward them. As they were hungry, they killed it and cooked it. While they were eating, the hunter Punta Punting came. He said, "Have you seen a wounded deer?" "Oh, yes! here it is. We are eating it already," said Supla Supling, "for we are very hungry." "I'm glad that the deer I wounded relieves your hunger," said Punta Punting. "What are you all doing here? Where are you going? Why don't you take me with you?" "If that is your wish, we are very glad to have you," said Don Juan. The little party rode on, but suddenly stopped; for a mountain was walking toward them. As it approached, they saw that a man was carrying the mountain. Don Juan was not a little surprised at this astonishing feat of strength. "Where have you been, Carguen Cargon? Where did you get that mountain?" said Noet Noen. "I took it from behind the church of Candaba, for I want to transfer it here, where the land is level. This mountain is not fitted for Candaba; for the natives, rich or poor, build their houses out of wood,--even the poorest, who cannot afford such luxury. They desolate its forests, for they cut down even the young trees." Then with a great thunder Carguen Cargon dropped his burden on the land of Arayat, just behind the church. On account of its immense size, this mountain reached clear to de la Paz. The slopes reached Calumpit, and its base was in view of Apalit. Thus we see that Mount Alaya (Arayat) has come from Candaba. The original site of this mountain became a river, swamps, and brooks. Now Candaba has many ponds. "Friend, I entreat you to come with us!" said Noet Noen. "I shall be glad to go with you, if I shall only have the opportunity of serving you with my strength," replied Carguen Cargon. Now the little band of seven travelled on. When they came near the gates of Marsella, Noet Noen said, "Let us rest here first!" There they hired a house, where they staid at the expense of Don Juan. The next morning Don Juan made himself ready to go on alone. Leading his horses, he was about to start for the palace, when Noet Noen called to him, and said, "Be sure not to forget the name of the skin I told you. Put it in the depths of your heart." "Have no fear that I shall forget," said Don Juan. "Furthermore, Don Juan, I want you to undertake to do whatever the king may ask of you. Do not refuse. No matter how hard the task the king may impose on you, do not hesitate to undertake it; for God Almighty is ever merciful, and will help you. If the king requires you to do anything, just come back here and let me know of it. Now you may go. Take courage, for God loves a person who suffers," said Noet Noen. "Good-by to every one of you!" said Don Juan to his companions. Then he went on his journey. When he reached the palace, he asked the soldier who was on guard to announce him to the king. When the king heard of the message, he said to the soldier, "Let him come in, if his purpose is to bet; but assure him that, if he loses, he shall also lose his life." Then the soldier went back to the gate, and said to the stranger, "The king admits you into his presence." Don Juan entered the palace. He saluted the king. "What is it that you want? Tell it to me, so that I may know," said the king. "O king! pardon me for disturbing your Majesty. It is the edict your Highness issued that gives me the right to come here, and that has made me forget my inferiority; for I do rely entirely on the fact that your word in the proclamation will never be broken. So now I hope, that, if fortune goes with me, your Majesty will carry out his promise." These words made the king laugh, for he was sure that there was no one who could beat him in the wager: so he said, "What property have you with you that you wish to risk?" Don Juan replied, "Six horses, of which your Highness can make use." The king looked out the window, and there he saw Don Juan's horses. King Palmarin was much pleased at their beauty, sleekness, and elegance of equipment. Turning to Don Juan, he said, "Do you really wish to bet? I feel as if you were already beaten. Princes and wise kings have taken part in the wager, and all have lost. I tell you about them because I do not want you to repent in the end. Moreover, I have pity for your life and your property." "What can I do if fortune turns against me? I will never lay the fault on anybody." "Well," said the king, leading Don Juan to the table where the drum was, "try your skill." Holding and sounding the drum, and pretending to examine it carefully, Juan said softly to the king, "I think that it is made of the skin of a tuma," and he went on relating to the king the whole story of the tuma from the time it got into his powder-case, until the king finally interrupted, "Enough! You have beaten me." "I am glad if I have. I hope that the terms of the proclamation will be fulfilled," said Don Juan. The king remarked, "You are not fitted to join my royal family. Such a low person as you would disgrace me, and humble my dynasty. So take your horses with you and go back to your country." "O king! I am not at fault in the least. It is your Majesty who issued the edict that any one, rich or poor, who could beat you in the wager, should be wedded to your daughter. Now I only cling to the right your Majesty has given me," returned Don Juan. "I had been thinking that the proclamation your Highness signed would be kept; for it is known far and wide that you are a king." By this answer King Palmarin was perplexed. He stopped for a moment to consider the matter. Then the thought of getting rid of Don Juan--that is, of killing him--came into his mind: so he said, "Though you are far below my family, if you can do what I shall ask you to do now, I will admit you into the royal line." "I am always ready to obey your Majesty's command," said Don Juan. "I had a reliquary, which I inherited from my royal father. I lost it while I was hunting once in the forest twenty years ago. Now I want you to look for it. I will give you three days. If you do not find it in that time, you shall be severely punished," said the king. Don Juan left the court and returned to his companions. He told them what had passed between him and the king in the palace. Noet Noen encouraged him, and said, "Do not be sad! for by the aid of God the reliquary shall be found. Remember, there is nothing difficult if you call on God.--What do you say, comrades? It is now time for you to help Don Juan, so as to distract him from his sorrow.--Miran Miron, as you have keen eyes, it will not take you long to find it. Try your best, and look everywhere." "Trust me; I'll be responsible for finding it," said Miran Miron. "To-morrow I will set out in quest of it." As to the king, he was at ease, for he was sure that Don Juan could not find the reliquary. The next day Miran Miron set out in search of the reliquary, which he found covered with thirty yards of earth. He dug out the earth until he reached the locket; then he returned to his companions, and delivered it to Don Juan. His comrades, seeing him rejoice at the sight of the reliquary, said, "Again we have beaten the king." Noet Noen said, "Don Juan, to-morrow take King Palmarin his reliquary." The next day Don Juan set out for the court. When he reached the palace, he saluted the king, who was astonished. "How! Don Juan, have you given up so soon? How goes the quest?" "Here, I have found the reliquary," said Don Juan, taking it out and putting it on the table. Then he continued, "Let your Majesty examine to see if it is the right one." The king looked at it carefully. Indeed, it was his own reliquary. He said to himself, "What a wonder Don Juan is! In two days without any difficulty he has found the reliquary. I did not even tell him the exact place where I lost it, and many people failed to come across it as soon as it was missed. Here in Marsella he has no equal." Then he said to Don Juan, "I am astonished at the ability you have shown. There is no tongue that can express my gratitude to you for bringing me back my reliquary, the delight of my heart." Don Juan replied, "If there is yet something to be done, let your Highness command his loyal vassal, who is always ready to obey." "If that is so, in order that you may obtain what you wish," said the king, "go to Rome and take my letter to the Pope. Wait for his answer. I will also send another person to carry the same message. The one who comes after the other shall receive death as a punishment," said the king. "Your loyal subject will try to obey you," said Don Juan. So the king wrote two letters to the holy Pope, and gave one to Don Juan, who immediately left the palace and went to his friends. He was sad, meditating on his fate. The king's messenger, Bruja, [45] set out for Rome that very moment. He was told to use his charm and to hurry up. So he went flying swiftly, like an arrow shot from a bow. When Don Juan reached his comrades, he said, "I gave the reliquary to the king. Now he wants me to go to Rome to deliver this letter to the Pope and wait for his answer. At the same time the king has sent another messenger. If I come after his arrival in Marsella, I shall lose my life. You see what a hard task the king has given me. I do not know very well the way to Rome, and, besides, the wise Bruja is winged." "Do not worry," said Noet Noen. "If God will, we shall defeat the king. Even if he has Bruja to send, you have some one also: so pluck up your courage!" "What do you say, Curan Curing? Show your skill, and go to Rome flying like the wind," said Noet Noen. "Do not be troubled, Don Juan," said Curan Curing. "I will carry the letter even to the gates of heaven. For me a journey to Rome is not far--in just one leap I shall be there. Give me the letter. To-morrow I will set out. To-day I will rest, so that I can walk fast." Don Juan gave Curan Curing the letter, and they all went to sleep. Perhaps by this time Bruja had already arrived at Rome. The next morning Curan Curing started on his journey to deliver the letter to the Pope. When he was half way to Rome, he met Bruja walking very swiftly, and already returning to Marsella. "Are you Don Juan?" said Bruja, "and are you just going to Rome now? You are beaten. Do not waste your energy any more. If you walk like that, you cannot reach Rome in two months." Bruja spoke so, because Curan Curing was walking on only one leg. But when he heard these words, he let loose his other leg and went faster than a bullet. He arrived almost instantly at Rome, and delivered the letter to the holy Pope, who, after reading it, wrote an answer and gave it to the messenger. Curan Curing then made his way back towards his companions. He went as fast as the wind, and overtook Bruja on the road. "What! Are you still here? What is the matter? How is it that you have not reached Marsella yet? Where is that boast of yours, that I am already beaten? Now I am sure that you will disappoint your king, who relies too much upon your skill," said Curan Curing. Bruja, fearing that he should be defeated, for Don Juan's messenger was very spry, planned to trick Curan Curing. So Bruja said, "Friend, let us rest here a while! I have a little wine with me. We will drink it, if it pleases you, and take a little rest while the sun is so hot." "Oh, yes! if you have some wine. It will be a fine thing for us to drink to quench our thirst," replied Curan Curing. The wine was no sooner handed to him than he fell asleep. Then Bruja put on one of Curan Curing's fingers a ring, so as to insure victory for the king. Whoever had Bruja's ring would sleep soundly and never wake as long as the charmed ring was on his finger. So Bruja, with a light heart, flew away and left the sleeping messenger. Bruja flew so swiftly, that in a moment he was seen by Curan Curing's companions. When they saw the king's messenger coming swiftly near them, they felt very sad. But as soon as Supla Supling was sure that it was Bruja flying through the air toward them, he said, "Let me manage him! I will make his journey longer. I will blow him back, so that he will not win." Supla Supling then breathed deeply and blew. Bruja was carried back beyond Rome. How Don Juan's companions rejoiced! Bruja did not sleep during the whole night: he was trying his best to reach Marsella. The next morning Noet Noen said, "I never thought that our friend Curan Curing would be so slow. He has not come yet. Bruja has made him drink wine and has put him to sleep. The trickish fellow has placed on one of Curan Curing's fingers a magic ring, which keeps him in a profound sleep." When Punta Punting heard Noet Noen's words, he shot his arrow, though he could not see the object he was aiming at. But the ring was hit, and the arrow returned to its master with the magic ring on it. Such was the virtue of Punta Punting's arrow. As for Curan Curing, he was awakened. He felt the ring being moved from his finger; but the charm was still working in him, and he fell asleep again. Noet Noen, knowing that Curan Curing was again asleep, called Miran Miron, and said, "Pray, wake the sleeper under the tree !" Miran Miron then shouted. Curan Curing awoke suddenly, frightened at the noise. Now, being wide awake, he realized the trick Bruja had played on him. He looked to see if he still had the Pope's letter. Luckily Bruja had not stolen it. Curan Curing then began his journey. Though he went faster than the lightning, he could not overtake Bruja, who was very far ahead of him. In the mean time Bruja was seen by Miran Miron. He was enraged, and cried out loud. When Supla Supling heard his friend shout, he blew strongly. Bruja got stuck in the sky: he was scorched by the glowing sun. Not long afterwards Curan Curing arrived, and gave the letter to Don Juan. Don Juan at once set out for Marsella. When he reached the palace, he delivered the Pope's letter to the king. The king, realizing that he was beaten, said to Don Juan, "Though you have won, I will not grant your request, for you are too inferior. You may go." Don Juan replied, "Great King, nobody ordered your Highness to issue the decree to which your hand did sign your name. I trusted your word, and I ventured to take part in the wager. Now, honorable king, my complaint is that your Majesty breaks his word." The king was meditating as to what to do next to check Don Juan. At last he said, "I want you to show me some more of your wisdom. If you can sail on dry land, and I can see your ship to-morrow morning moored here in front of the palace, I will believe in your power and wisdom. So you may go. My subjects, the queen, and I will be here to see you sail on dry land to-morrow morning." Don Juan did not complain at all. He rose from his seat, sad and melancholy, and bade the king good-by. When he reached his companions, Noet Noen said, "You need not speak. I know what is the matter. I will manage the business, and all our comrades will help, so that our sailing on dry land to-morrow will not be delayed.--Carguen Cargon, my friend, go to the inn and fetch a large strong ship." Carguen Cargon went on his errand. It was not long before he found the right ship. So, shouldering it, he brought it back to his companions. The next day everything was ready for the journey. Noet Noen said, "You will be in charge of the rudder, Carguen Cargon, so that the ship may go smoothly.--Supla Supling, sit at the stern and blow the sails, so that we may go fast.--The rest of us will serve as mariners. Cry 'Happy voyage!' as soon as we enter the city." Accordingly Supla Supling blew the sails. The wind roared, and many trees fell down. The little band sailed through the kingdom. All the people who saw them were wondering. They said, "Were this deed not by enchantment, they could not sail on dry land. Where do you think this ship came from, if not from the land of enchanters?" When the sailors reached the city, they found King Palmarin looking out of the window of his palace. Don Juan then disembarked from his ship and went before the king to greet him. Don Juan said, "Your Majesty's servant is here. He is ready to obey your will: so, if there is anything more to be done, let your Highness order him." The king felt ashamed for being a liar, and did not ask Don Juan to perform any more miracles. "Don Juan, I have now seen your wonderful wisdom. You may return to your country, for I will not give you the hand of my daughter," said King Palmarin. "Farewell, O king! Your own order has caused all that has happened. Though I have not succeeded in accomplishing my purpose, I have no reason to be ashamed to face anybody. What troubles me is, that, in spite of your widespread reputation for honor, you do not keep even one of your thousand million words. After some one has done you some service, you turn him away. Farewell, king! To my own country I will return," said Don Juan as he left the palace. The king did not say anything, for he realized the truth of the knight's statement. Don Juan went to the boat. He and his companions sailed back to their station. As they passed out of the city, the people hailed them. His companions cheered him up and encouraged him. When they arrived at their lodging-place, Noet Noen said, "Let us stay a little longer and wait for God's aid, which He always gives to the humble! All that has happened is God's will, so do not worry, Don Juan." "I will do whatever you wish," said Don Juan. So they staid in the ship. Several months passed by, but nothing was heard. At last the Moors invaded Marsella. They put to death many of the inhabitants, and shut up the king and the rest of his men in jail. He, the queen, and the princess grieved very much, for they suffered many hardships in their narrow prison. When news of this conquest reached the seven, Noet Noen said to his companions, "Now is our turn to help Marsella. Use all your skill; for in driving away the Moors we serve a double purpose: first, we help the Christians; second, Don Juan." "Let me be general!" said Curan Curing. "If I rush at the Moors, they will not know what to do." Supla Supling said, "As for me, no Moor can stay near me, for I will blow him away, and he will be lost in the air." "Though I have no weapons, no one can face me in battle without tumbling down in fear," said Miran Miron. Carguen Cargon joined in. "I will pull up a tree and carry it with me; so that, even if all the Moors unite against me, they shall lie prostrate before me." "My arrow is enough for me to face Moors with," said Punta Punting. At the command of Noet Noen they set out. Curan Curing walked with one leg; still he was far ahead of his companions. He then would stop, return to his friends, and say impatiently, "Hurry up!" At last they told him that he would be overtired. "The general ought to get weary if he commands," said Curan Curing. "But I shall never get tired from walking at this rate!" When they arrived at Marsella, Noet Noen encouraged his companions. Carguen Cargon pulled up a tree fifteen yards tall and six yards in circumference. He rushed at the Moors, and, by swinging the tree constantly, he swept away the enemy. Curan Curing walked with both his legs. He crushed the enemy, who fell dead as he stepped on them. Miran Miron shouted. His loud voice frightened the Moors. Punta Punting shot with his arrow. Whenever it had killed a Moor, it returned to its master. After many Moors had fallen, the rest could not maintain the fight, and they fled. Noet Noen then gathered together his men, and said, "Let us look for the king!" They opened all the jails and freed the prisoners. The six victors cried, "Hurrah for Don Juan!" and said to the released persons, "All of you who have been held prisoners must thank Don Juan; for, were it not for him, we should not have come to your aid." "Who is this benefactor? We wish to know to whom we owe our lives," said the king. Noet Noen said, "By God's will we gained the victory. It is Don Juan who brought us here to save you from the hands of the infidels. So he is indeed the benefactor." "Don Juan!" the crowd then shouted. "Our lives we owe to you.--Hurrah for our savior! Hurrah for the whole kingdom!" The king, queen, princess, counsellors, and the victors went to the palace. They were all happy. When they had taken their seats, the king spoke thus: "What shall we give the victor? As for me, even the whole kingdom is too small a reward for saving us. Lend me your advice." Noet Noen answered, "Let me make a suggestion, O king! You already know what Don Juan desires. Do him justice, for he not only beat you in the wager, but also succeeded in accomplishing all your commands. Now he saves you and your kingdom, and restores you to power. Let your issued decree be carried out." The king then consulted the queen, and said that the stranger was right. The counsellors said, "King, Don Juan deserves the reward named in the edict; for, were it not for him, your people and even you would now be slaves." So at last the king agreed, and, as a bishop was present, the marriage was performed immediately. After the marriage ceremony, the king said, "Hear me, counsellors! As I am now too old to rule, and can no longer perform the duty of king, I am going to abdicate in favor of my son-in-law.--Don Juan, on your head I lay the crown with its sceptre. Do whatever you will, for you are now full king." The queen rose from her seat, and, taking off the diadem from her head, she placed it on her daughter, saying, "My darling, receive the diadem of the kingdom, so that all may recognize you as their new queen." All the counsellors then rose, and shouted, "Hurrah for the new couple! May God give them long lives! May they be successful!" The entire kingdom rejoiced, and held banquets. When Don Juan had become king, he made a trip with his six companions throughout the entire kingdom, giving alms to the needy and sick. When the royal visit was over, he returned with his friends to the palace. Then Noet Noen said to the king, "Our king, Don Juan, do not be astonished at what I am going to tell you. Since you have now got what you wanted, we now bid you farewell." "Why are you going away? What is there in me that you do not like? Pray do not leave me until I have repaid you!" He then called each of the six, and expressed his great gratitude to him, and begged him not to go away. "I will even abdicate the throne if you want me to," Don Juan said, "for your departure will kill me." The queen also begged the six men not to leave. At last Noet Noen said, "Don Juan, long have we lived together; yet you know not whence we come, for we have never told you. We cannot be absent from there much longer." The prophet then related minutely to the king who they were, and why they had come to his aid. Then the six men disappeared. Notes. The course of events common to these three stories is this: A king proclaims that he will give the hand of his daughter to the one who can furnish him with a very costly or marvellous conveyance. The poor young hero, because of his kindness to a wretched old man or woman (or corpse), is given the wonderful conveyance. On his way to the palace to present his gift, he meets certain extraordinary men, whom he takes along with him as companions. The king, realizing the low birth of the hero, refuses the hand of his daughter until additional tasks have been performed. With the help of his companions, the hero performs these, and finally weds the princess. This group of stories was almost certainly imported into the Philippines from Europe, where analogues of it abound. I know of no significant Eastern variants. Parallels to certain incidents can be found in Malayan and Filipino lore, but the cycle as a whole is clearly not native to the Islands. In a broad sense, our stories belong to the "Bride Wager" formula (see Von Hahn, 1 : 54, Nos. 23 and 24). The requirement that a suitor shall guess correctly the kind of skin from which a certain drum-head is made (usually a louse-skin) is to be found in Italian (Basile, 1 : 5; cf. Gonzenbach, No. 22; Schneller, No. 31), Spanish (Caballero, trans, by J. H. Ingram, "The Hunchback"), German (Grimm, 2 : 467, "The Louse," where the princess makes a dress, not a drum, from the skin of the miraculous insect). Only Basile's story combines the louse-skin motif with the wonderful companions,--a combination found in our "King Palmarin." There seems to be no close connection, however, between these two tales. Although Oriental Märchen turning on this motif of the louse-skin drum are lacking, the Filipino corrido need not have got the conception from Europe: it is Malayan. In a list of the Jelebu regalia occurs this item: "The royal drums (gendang naubat); said to be 'headed' with the skins of lice (kulit tuma)" (see Skeat 2, 27). We have already met with the extraordinary companions (No. 3; see especially variant d, "Sandangcal," which relates a contest between the hero's runner and the king's messenger). For the formula, see Bolte-Polívka's notes to Grimm, No. 71. Benfey (Ausland, 1858, pp. 1038 et seq., 1067 et seq.) believes the "Skilful Companions" cycle as represented by Grimm, Nos. 71 and 134; Basile, Nos. 28 and 36; Straparola, 4 : 1, etc.--to be a kind of humorous derivative of the cycle we shall call the "Rival Brothers" (q.v., No. 12 of this collection), and which he shows to have spread into Europe from India. There are significant differences, however, between these two groups; and Benfey's treatment of them together causes confusion. In the "Skilful Companions" cycle, the extraordinary men are in reality servants of the hero, who sets out and wins the hand of a princess. They are picked up by chance. In the "Rival Brothers" cycle, on the other hand, the three (or four) brothers set out to learn trades and to win their fortunes, often wonderful objects of magic; the brothers meet later by appointment, combine their skill to succor a princess, and then quarrel as to which deserves her most. In stories of the "Strong Hans" type (e.g., Grimm, No. 166) or "John the Bear" (Cosquin, No. 1), where the extraordinary companions also appear, they turn out to be rascals, who faithlessly desert the hero. In our stories, however, the specially-endowed men are supplied by a grateful supernatural being, to help the kind-hearted hero win in his contests with the stubborn king. (Compare Gonzenbach's Sicilian story, No. 74, which includes a thankful saint, with characteristics of the "Grateful Dead," a "Land-and-water Ship," and "Skilful Companions.") The names of the companions in "King Palmarin" and "Juan and his Six Friends" are clearly derived from the Spanish. In Caballero's story of "Lucifer's Ear" we find these names: Carguin ("carrier"), Oidin ("hearer"), Soplin ("sigher or blower"). All three occur in "Juan and his Six Friends." In the three Filipino tales the total number of different strong men is only seven,--Know-All, Blower, Farsight, Runner, Hunter, Carrier, Sharp-Ear. This close conformity, when we consider the wide variety to be found in the European stories (see Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 87-94; Panzer, Beowulf, 66-74), suggests an ultimate common source for our variants. The phrase "Soplin Soplon, son of the great blower" (in "Juan and his Six Friends") is almost an exact translation of "Soplin Soplon, hijo del buen soplador" (Caballero, "Lucifer's Ear"). This same locution in the vernacular is found in the Tagalog folk-tale of "Lucas the Strong." The ship that will sail on land is often met with in European stories. See R. Köhler, "Orient und Occident," 2 : 296-299; also his notes to Gonzenbach, No. 74. Compare also the Argonaut saga; and Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 87-95 passim. In two of our stories the hero's runner is almost defeated by the king's messenger, who treacherously makes use of a magic sleep-producing ring. One of the other companions, however, discovers the trick, and the skilful hunter awakens the sleeper with a well-aimed shot. For this feat of Sharpshooter's, see Gonzenbach, No. 74; Grimm, No. 71; Meier, No. 8; Ey, Harzmärchenbuch, 116. Of native beliefs found in our stories, two are deserving of comment. The method by which Lucas becomes possessed of great strength reflects a notion held by certain old Tagalogs. Some of the men around Calamba, Laguna province, make an incision in the wrist and put in it a small white bone taken from the end of the tail of the sawang bitin (a species of boa). The cut is then sewed up. Those who have a talisman of this sort believe that at night it travels all over the body and produces extraordinary strength. (For similar Malayan superstitions, see Skeat 2, 303-304.) The legend (in "King Palmarin") about the origin of Mount Arayat and the swamp of Candaba is but one of many still told by old Pampangans. Its insertion into a romance with European setting is an instance of the Filipino romance writers' utter disregard or ignorance of geographical propriety. In conclusion, attention may be called to the fact that while these three stories have the same basic framework, each has its own peculiar variations. The testimony of the narrator of "Juan and his Six Companions," that his informant, an old Balayan woman, said that the story was very popular in her section of the country, is a bit of evidence that the tale has been known in the Philippines for decades, probably. Whether or not her form of the story was derived from a printed account, I am unable to say; but I suspect that it was; the diction sounds "bookish." Nevertheless I have found no external evidence of a Tagalog corrido treating the story we have printed. TALE 12 THE THREE BROTHERS. Narrated by Clodualdo Garcia, an llocano, who was told the story by his mother when he was a small boy. There was once an old woman who had three sons. The father died when Tito, the youngest brother, was only five years old; and the mother was left alone to bring up her three boys. The family was very poor; but the good woman worked hard, and her sons grew into sturdy young men. One day the mother called her sons before her, and said, "Now, my sons, as you see my strength is failing me, I want each of you to go into the world to seek his fortune. After nine years, come back home and show me what you have learned to do." The three brothers consented, and resolved to leave home the very next morning. Early the following day the three brothers--An-no the oldest, Berto the second, and Tito the youngest--bade their mother good-by, and set out on their travels. They followed a wide road until they came to a place where it branched in three directions. Here they stopped and consulted. It was at last agreed that An-no should take the north branch, Berto the south branch, and Tito the east branch. Before they separated, An-no proposed that at the end of the nine years they should all meet at the cross-roads before presenting themselves to their mother. Then each, wishing the others good luck, proceeded on his way. Well, to make a long story short, at the end of the nine years the three brothers met again at the place designated. Each of them told what he had learned during that time. An-no had been in the company of glass-makers, and he had learned the art of glass-making. Berto had been employed in a shipyard, and during the nine years had become an expert boat-builder. The youngest brother, unfortunately, had fallen into the company of bad men, some notorious robbers. While he was with this band, he became the best and most skilful robber in the gang. After each had heard of the others' fortunes, they started for their home. Their mother felt very glad to have all her sons with her once more. Shortly after this family had been re-united, the king issued a proclamation stating that his daughter, the beautiful princess Amelia, had been kidnapped by a brave stranger, and that whoever could give any information about her and restore her to the palace should be allowed to marry her. When the three brothers heard this news, they resolved to use their knowledge and skill to find the missing princess. An-no had brought home with him a spy-glass in which everything hidden from the eyes of men could be seen. With this instrument, he told his brothers, he could locate the princess. He looked through his glass, and saw her confined in a tower on an island. When An-no had given this information to the king, the next question was how to rescue her. "We'll do the rest," said the two younger brothers. Accordingly Berto built a ship. When it was finished, the three brothers boarded her and sailed to the island where the princess was confined; but there they found the tower very closely guarded by armed soldiers, so that it seemed impossible to get into it. "Well, that is easy," said Tito. "You stay here and wait for my return. I will bring the princess with me." The famous young robber then went to work to steal the princess. Through his skill he succeeded in rescuing her and bringing her to the ship. Then the four sailed directly for the king's palace. The beautiful princess was restored to her father. With great joy the king received them, and a great feast was held in the palace in honor of the rescue of his daughter. After the feast the king asked the three brothers to which of them he should give his daughter's hand. Each claimed the reward, and a quarrel arose among them. The king, seeing that all had played important parts in the rescue of the princess, decided not to bestow his daughter on any of them. Instead, he gave half his wealth to be divided equally among An-no, Berto, and Tito. Three Brothers of Fortune. Narrated by Eugenio Estayo, a Pangasinan, who heard the story from Toribio Serafica, a native of Rosales, Pangasinan. In former times there lived in a certain village a wealthy man who had three sons,--Suan, Iloy, and Ambo. As this man was a lover of education, he sent all his boys to another town to school. But these three brothers did not study: they spent their time in idleness and extravagance. When vacation came, they were ashamed to go back to their home town, because they did not know anything; so, instead, they wandered from town to town seeking their fortunes. In the course of their travels they met an old woman broken with age. "Should you like to buy this book, my grandsons?" asked the old woman as she stopped them. "What is the virtue of that book, grandmother?" asked Ambo. "My grandsons," replied she, "if you want to restore a dead person to life, just open this book before him, and in an instant he will be revived." Without questioning her further, Ambo at once bought the book. Then the three continued their journey. Again they met an old woman selling a mat. Now, Iloy was desirous of possessing a charm, so he asked the old woman what virtue the mat had. "Why, if you want to travel through the air," she said, "just step on it, and in an instant you will be where you desire to go." Iloy did not hesitate, but bought the mat at once. Now, Suan was the only one who had no charm. They had not gone far, however, before he saw two stones, which once in a while would meet and unite to form one round black stone, and then separate again. Believing that these stones possessed some magical power, Suan picked them up; for it occurred to him that with them he would be able to unite things of the same or similar kind. This belief of his came true, as we shall see. These three brothers, each possessing a charm, were very happy. They went on their way light-hearted. Not long afterward they came upon a crowd of persons weeping over the dead body of a beautiful young lady. Ambo told the parents of the young woman that he would restore her to life if they would pay him a reasonable sum of money. As they gladly agreed, Ambo opened his book, and the dead lady was brought back to life. Ambo was paid all the money he asked; but as soon as he had received his reward, Iloy placed his mat on the ground, and told his two brothers to hold the young woman and step on the mat. They did so, and in an instant all four were transported to the seashore. From that place they took ship to another country; but when they were in the middle of the sea, a severe storm came, and their boat was wrecked. All on board would have been drowned had not Suan repaired the broken planks with his two magical stones. When they landed, a quarrel arose among the three brothers as to which one was entitled to the young woman. Ambo said, "I am the one who should have her, for it was I who restored her to life." "But if it had not been for me, we should not have the lady with us," said Iloy. "And if it had not been for me," said Suan, "we should all be dead now, and nobody could have her." As they could not come to any agreement, they took the question before the king. He decided to divide the young woman into three parts to be distributed among the three brothers. His judgment was carried out. When each had received his share, Iloy and Ambo were discontented because their portions were useless, so they threw them away; but Suan picked up the shares of his two brothers and united them with his own. The young woman was brought to life again, and lived happily with Suan. So, after all, Suan was the most fortunate. Pablo and the Princess. Narrated by Dolores Zafra, a Tagalog from La Laguna. She heard the story from her father. Once upon a time there lived three friends,--Pedro, Juan, and Pablo. One morning they met at the junction of three roads. While they were talking, Pedro said, "Let each of us take one of these roads and set out to find his fortune! there is nothing for us to do in our town." The other two agreed. After they had embraced and wished each other good luck, they went their several ways. Before separating, however, they promised one another to meet again in the same plate, with the arrangement that the first who came should wait for the others. Pedro took the road to the right. After three months' travelling, sometimes over mountains, sometimes through towns, he met an old man. The old man asked him for food, for he was very hungry. Pedro gave him some bread, for that was all he had. The old man thanked the youth very much, and said, "In return for your kindness I will give you this carpet. It looks like an ordinary carpet, but it has great virtue. Whoever sits on it may be transported instantly to any place he desires to be." Pedro received the carpet gladly and thanked the old man. Then the old man went on his way, and Pedro wandered about the town. At last, thinking of his two friends, he seated himself on his carpet and was transported to the crossroads, where he sat down to wait for Juan and Pablo. Juan had taken the road to the left. After he had travelled for three months and a half, he, too, met an old man. This old man asked the youth for something to eat, as he was very hungry, he said. So Juan, kind-heartedly, shared with him the bread he was going to eat for his dinner. As a return for his generosity, the old man gave him a book, and said, "This book may seem to you of no value; but when you know of its peculiar properties, you will be astonished. By reading in it you will be able to know everything that is happening in the world at all times." Juan was overjoyed with his present. After thanking the old man and bidding him good-by, the youth returned to the meeting-place at the cross-roads, where he met Pedro. The two waited for Pablo. Pablo took the road in the middle, and, after travelling four months, he also met an old man, to whom he gave the bread he was going to eat for his dinner. "As you have been very kind to me," said the old man, "I will give you this ivory tube as a present. Perhaps you will say that it is worthless, if you look only at the outside; but when you know its value, you will say that the one who possesses it is master of a great treasure. It cures all sick persons of every disease, and, even if the patient is dying, it will restore him instantly to perfect health if you will but blow through one end of the tube into the sick person's nose." Pablo thanked the old man heartily for his gift, and then set out for the meeting-place. He joined his friends without mishap. The three friends congratulated one another at having met again in safety and good health. Then they told one another about their fortunes. While Pedro was looking in Juan's book, he read that a certain princess in a distant kingdom was very sick, and that the king her father had given orders that any person in the world who could cure his daughter should be her husband and his heir. When Pedro told his companions the news, they at once decided to go to that kingdom. They seated themselves on the carpet, and were transported in a flash to the king's palace. After they had been led into the room of the sick princess, Pablo took his tube and blew through one end of it into her nose. She immediately opened her eyes, sat up, and began to talk. Then, as she wanted to dress, the three friends retired. While the princess was dressing, Pablo, Juan, and Pedro went before the king, and told him how they had learned that the princess was sick, how they had been transported there, and who had cured her. The king, having heard all each had to say in his own favor, at last spoke thus wisely to them:-- "It is true, Pablo, that you are the one who cured my daughter; but let me ask you whether you could have contrived to cure her if you had not known from Juan's book that she was sick, and if Pedro's carpet had not brought you here without delay.--Your book, Juan, revealed to you that my daughter was sick; but the knowledge of her illness would have been of no service had it not been for Pedro's carpet and Pablo's tube. And it is just the same way with your carpet, Pedro.--So I cannot grant the princess to any one of you, since each has had an equal share in her cure. As this is the case, I will choose another means of deciding. Go and procure, each one of you, a bow and an arrow. I will hang up the inflorescence of a banana-plant. This will represent the heart of my daughter. The one who shoots it in the middle shall be the husband of my daughter, and the heir of my kingdom." The first to shoot was Pedro, whose arrow passed directly through the middle of the banana-flower. He was very glad. Juan shot second. His arrow passed through the same hole Pedro's arrow had made. Now came Pablo's turn; but when Pablo's turn came, he refused to shoot, saying that if the banana-flower represented the heart of the princess, he could not shoot it, for he loved her too dearly. When the king heard this answer, he said, "Since Pablo really loves my daughter, while Pedro and Juan do not, for they shot at the flower that represents her heart, Pablo shall marry the princess." And so Pablo married the king's daughter, and in time became king of that country. Legend of Prince Oswaldo. Narrated by Leopoldo Uichanco, a Tagalog from Calamba, La Laguna. Once upon a time, on a moonlight night, three young men were walking monotonously along a solitary country road. Just where they were going nobody could tell: but when they came to a place where the road branched into three, they stopped there like nails attracted by a powerful magnet. At this crossroads a helpless old man lay groaning as if in mortal pain. At the sight of the travellers he tried to raise his head, but in vain. The three companions then ran to him, helped him up, and fed him a part of the rice they had with them. The sick old man gradually regained strength, and at last could speak to them. He thanked them, gave each of the companions a hundred pesos, and said, "Each one of you shall take one of these branch-roads. At the end of it is a house where they are selling something. With these hundred pesos that I am giving each of you, you shall buy the first thing that you see there." The three youths accepted the money, and promised to obey the old man's directions. Pedro, who took the left branch, soon came to the house described by the old man. The owner of the house was selling a rain-coat. "How much does the coat cost?" Pedro asked the landlord. "One hundred pesos, no more, no less." "Of what value is it?" said Pedro. "It will take you wherever you wish to go." So Pedro paid the price, took the rain-coat, and returned. Diego, who took the middle road, arrived at another house. The owner of this house was selling a book. "How much does your book cost?" Diego inquired of the owner. "One hundred pesos, no more, no less." "Of what value is it?" "It will tell you what is going on in all parts of the world." So Diego paid the price, took the book, and returned. Juan, who took the third road, reached still another house. The owner of the house was selling a bottle that contained some violet-colored liquid. "How much does the bottle cost?" said Juan. "One hundred pesos, no more, no less." "Of what value is it?" "It brings the dead back to life," was the answer. Juan paid the price, took the bottle, and returned. The three travellers met again in the same place where they had separated; but the old man was now nowhere to be found. The first to tell of his adventure was Diego. "Oh, see what I have!" he shouted as he came in sight of his companions. "It tells everything that is going on in the world. Let me show you!" He opened the book and read what appeared on the page: "'The beautiful princess of Berengena is dead. Her parents, relatives, and friends grieve at her loss.'" "Good!" answered Juan. "Then there is an occasion for us to test this bottle. It restores the dead back to life. Oh, but the kingdom of Berengena is far away! The princess will be long buried before we get there." "Then we shall have occasion to use my rain-coat," said Pedro. "It will take us wherever we wish to go. Let us try it! We shall receive a big reward from the king. We shall return home with a casco full of money. To Berengena at once!" He wrapped the rain-coat about all three of them, and wished them in Berengena. Within a few minutes they reached that country. The princess was already in the church, where her parents were weeping over her. Everybody in the church wore deep mourning. When the three strangers boldly entered the church, the guard at the door arrested them, for they had on red clothes. When Juan protested, and said that the princess was not dead, the guard immediately took him to the king; but the king, when he heard what Juan had said, called him a fool. "She is only sleeping," said Juan. "Let me wake her up!" "She is dead," answered the king angrily. "On your life, don't you dare touch her!" "I will hold my head responsible for the truth of my statement," said Juan. "Let me wake her up, or rather, not to offend your Majesty, restore her to life!" "Well, I will let you do as you please," said the king; "but if your attempt fails, you will lose your head. On the other hand, should you be successful, I will give you the princess for a wife, and you shall be my heir." Blinded by his love for the beautiful princess, Juan said that he would restore her to life. "May you be successful!" said the king; and then, raising his voice, he continued, "Everybody here present is to bear witness that I, the King of Berengena, do hereby confirm an agreement with this unknown stranger. I will allow this man to try the knowledge he pretends to possess of restoring the princess to life. But there is this condition to be understood: if he is successful, I will marry him to the princess, and he is to be my heir; but should he fail, his head is forfeit." The announcement having been made, Juan was conducted to the coffin. He now first realized what he was undertaking. What if the bottle was false! What if he should fail! Would not his head be dangling from the ropes of the scaffold, to be hailed by the multitude as the remains of a blockhead, a dunce, and a fool? The coffin was opened. With these meditations in his mind, Juan tremblingly uncorked his bottle of violet liquid, and held it under the nose of the princess. He held the bottle there for some time, but she gave no signs of life. An hour longer, still no trace of life. After hours of waiting, the people began to grow impatient. The king scratched his head, the guards were ready to seize him; the scaffold was waiting for him. "Nameless stranger!" thundered the king, with indignant eyes, "upon your honor, tell us the truth! Can you do it, or not? Speak. I command it!" Juan trembled all the more. He did not know what to say, but he continued to hold the bottle under the nose of the princess. Had he not been afraid of the consequences, he would have given up and entreated the king for mercy. He fixed his eyes on the corpse, but did not speak. "Are you trying to joke us?" said the king, his eyes flashing with rage. "Speak! I command!" Just as Juan was about to reply, he saw the right hand of the princess move. He bade the king wait. Soon the princess moved her other hand and opened her eyes. Her cheeks were fresh and rosy as ever. She stared about, and exclaimed in surprise, "Oh, where am I? Where am I? Am I dreaming? No, there is my father, there is my mother, there is my brother." The king was fully satisfied. He embraced his daughter, and then turned to Juan, saying, "Stranger, can't you favor us now with your name?" With all the rustic courtesy he knew, Juan replied to the king, told his name, and said that he was a poor laborer in a barrio far away. The king only smiled, and ordered Juan's clothes to be exchanged for prince's garments, so that the celebration of his marriage with the princess might take place at once. "Long live Juan! Long live the princess!" the people shouted. When Diego and Juan heard the shout, they could not help feeling cheated. They made their way through the crowd, and said to the king, "Great Majesty, pray hear us! In the name of justice, pray hear us!" "Who calls?" asked the king of a guard near by. "Bring him here!" The guard obeyed, and led the two men before the king. "What is the matter?" asked the king of the two. "Your Majesty shall know," responded Diego. "If it had not been for my book, we could not have known that the princess was dead. Our home is far away, and it was only because of my magic book that we knew of the events that were going on here." "And his Majesty shall be informed," seconded Pedro, "that Juan's good luck is due to my rain-coat. Neither Diego's book nor Juan's bottle could have done anything had not my raincoat carried us here so quickly. I am the one who should marry the princess." The king was overwhelmed: he did not know what to do. Each of the three had a good reason, but all three could not marry the princess. Even the counsellors of the king could not decide upon the matter. While they were puzzling over it, an old man sprang forth from the crowd of spectators, and declared that he would settle the difficulty. "Young men," he said, addressing Juan, Pedro, and Diego, "none of you shall marry the princess.--You, Juan, shall not marry her, because you intended to obtain your fortunes regardless of your companions who have been helping you to get them.--And you, Pedro and Diego, shall not have the princess, because you did not accept your misfortune quietly and thank God for it.--None of you shall have her. I will marry her myself." The princess wept. How could the fairest maiden of Berengena marry an old man! "What right have you to claim her?" said the king in scorn. "I am the one who showed these three companions where to get their bottle, rain-coat, and book," said the old man. "I am the one who gave each of them a hundred pesos. I am the capitalist: the interest is mine." The old man was right; the crowd clapped their hands; and the princess could do nothing but yield. Bitterly weeping, she gave her hand to the old man, who seemed to be her grandfather, and they were married by the priest. The king almost fainted. But just now the sun began to rise, its soft beams filtering through the eastern windows of the church. The newly-married couple were led from the altar to be taken home to the palace; but, just as they were descending the steps that lead down from the altar, the whole church was flooded with light. All present were stupefied. The glorious illumination did not last long. When the people recovered, they found that their princess was walking with her husband, not an old man, however, but a gallant young prince. The king recognized him. He kissed him, for they were old-time acquaintances. The king's new son-in-law was none other than Prince Oswaldo, who had just been set free from the bonds of enchantment by his marriage. He had been a former suitor of the princess, but had been enchanted by a magician. With magnificent ceremony the king's son-in-law was conducted to the royal residence. He was seated on the throne, the crown and sceptre were transferred to him, and he was hailed as King Oswaldo of Berengena. Notes. I have still a fifth Filipino story (e) of three brothers setting out to seek their fortunes, their rich father promising his estate to the son who should show most skill in the profession he had chosen. This Bicol version, which was narrated by Simeon Paz of Nueva Caceres, Camarines, contains a long introduction telling how the youngest brother was cruelly treated by the two older. After the three have left home in search of professions, the older brothers try to kill the youngest, but he escapes. In his wanderings he meets with an old hermit, who, on hearing the boy's story, presents him with a magic booklet and dagger. These articles can furnish their possessor with whatever he wishes. At the appointed time the three brothers meet again at home, and each demonstrates his skill. The oldest, who has become an expert blacksmith, shoes a horse running at full speed. The second brother, a barber, trims the hair of a running man. The youngest causes a beautiful palace to appear instantly. The father, somewhat unfairly, perhaps, bestows his estate on the youngest, who has really displayed no skill at all. These five Filipino stories belong to a large group of tales to which we may give the name of the "Rival Brothers." This cycle assumes various forms; but the two things that identify the relationship of the members are the rivalry of the brothers and the conundrum or "problem" ending of the stories. Within this cycle we can distinguish at least three simple, distinct types, and a compound fourth made up of parts of two of the others. These four types may be very generally outlined as follows: (I) A number of artisans (usually not brothers), by working cumulatively, as it were, make and bring to life a beautiful woman; they then quarrel as to which one has really produced her and is therefore entitled to have her. (II) Through the combined skill of three suitors (sometimes brothers, oftener not), a maiden is saved from death, and the three quarrel over the possession of her. The difficulty is solved satisfactorily by her father or by some one else appointed to judge. (III) A father promises his wealth to the son that shall become most skilful in his profession; the three sons seek their fortunes, and at an appointed time return, and are tested by their father. He judges which is most worthy of the estate. (IV) A combination of the first part of the third type with the second. Benfey (in Ausland, 1858 : 969, 995, 1017, 1038, 1067) has made a somewhat exhaustive study of the Märchen, which he calls "Das Märchen von den Menschen mit den wunderbaren Eigenschaften." As a matter of fact, he examines particularly the stories of our type II (see above), to which he connects the folk-tales of our types III and IV as a later popular development. As has been said in the notes to No. 11 Benfey thinks that the "Skilful Companions" cycle is a droll or comic offshoot of this much older group. Our type I he does not discuss at all, possibly thinking that it is not a part of the "Rival Brothers" cycle. It strikes me, however, as being a part fully as much as is the "Skilful Companions" cycle, which is perhaps more nearly related to the "Bride Wager" group than to the "Rival Brothers." Professor G. L. Kittredge, in his "Arthur and Gorlagon" (Harvard Studies and Notes in Philology and Literature, No. 8), 226, has likewise failed to differentiate clearly the two cycles, and his outline of the "Skilful Companions" is that of our type II of the "Rival Brothers." I am far from wishing to quarrel over nomenclature,--possibly "Rival Brothers" is no better name for the group of tales under discussion than is "Skilful Companions,"--but, as G. H. Gerould has remarked ("The Grateful Dead," Folk-Lore Society, 1907 : 126, note 3), Kittredge's analysis would not hold for all variants, even when uncompounded. However, Mr. Gerould does not attempt to explain the cause of the confusion, nor was he called upon to do so in his study of an entirely distinct cycle. Consequently, as no one else has yet done so, for the sake of clearness, I propose a division of the large family of sagas and folk-tales dealing with men endowed with extraordinary powers [46] into at least two cycles, --the "Rival Brothers" and the "Skilful Companions" (see No. 11). The former of these, which is the group discussed here, I subdivide, as has already been indicated, into four types. Of intermixtures of these types with other cycles we shall not concern ourselves here, though they have been many. [47] We now turn to an examination of the four types. [48] (I) Type I had its origin in India, doubtless. The oldest form seems to be that found in the Sanscrit "Vetâlapancavinçati," No. 22, whence it was incorporated into Somadeva's story collection (twelfth century) called the "Kathásaritságara." An outline of this last version (Tawney's translation, 2 : 348-350) is as follows. Story of the Four Brahman Brothers who Resuscitated the Lion. Four Bráhman brothers, sons of a very poor man, leave home to beg. After their state has become even more miserable, they decide to separate and to search through the earth for some magic power. So, fixing upon a trysting-place, they leave one another, one going east, one west, one north, one south. In the course of time they meet again, and each tells of his accomplishments: the first can immediately produce on a bit of bone the flesh of that animal; the second can produce on that flesh skin and hair appropriate to that animal; the third can create the limbs of the animal after the flesh, skin, and hair have been formed; the fourth can endow the completed carcass with life. The four now go into the forest to find a piece of bone with which to test their skill; they find one, but are ignorant that it is the bone of a lion. The first Brahman covers the bone with flesh; the second gives it skin and hair; the third completes the animal by supplying appropriate limbs; the fourth endows it with life. The terrible beast, springing up, charges the four brothers and slays them on the spot. The question which the vetála now asks the king is, "Which of these four was guilty in respect of the lion who slew them all?" King Vikramasena answers, "The one that gave life to the lion is guilty. The others produced flesh, skin, hair, and limbs without knowing what kind of animal they were making. Therefore, being ignorant, they were not guilty. But the fourth, seeing the complete lion's shape before him, was guilty of their death, because he gave the creature life." The "Pancatantra" version (v, 4) varies slightly. Here, as in the preceding, there are four brothers, but only three of them possess all knowledge; the fourth possesses common sense. The first brother joins together the bones of a lion; the second covers them with skin, flesh, and blood; the third is about to give the animal life, when the fourth brother--he who possessed common sense--says, "If you raise him to life, he will kill us all." Finding that the third brother will not desist from his intention, the fourth climbs a tree and saves himself, while his three brothers are torn to pieces. For a modern Indian popular form, see Thornhill, 289. In the Persian "Tûtî-nâmah" (No. 5) the story assumes a decidedly different form, as may be seen from the following abstract. (I think that there can be no doubt, however, that this tale was inspired by some redaction of "Vetâlapancavinçati," No. 22, not unlikely in combination with "Vetâlapancavinçati," No. 2.) The Goldsmith, the Carpenter, the Tailor, and the Hermit who Quarrelled about a Wooden Woman. A goldsmith, a carpenter, a tailor, and a hermit, travelling together, come to a desert place where they must spend the night. They decide that each shall take a watch during the night as guard. The carpenter's turn is first: to prevent sleep he carves out a wooden figure. When his turn comes, the goldsmith shows his skill by preparing jewels and adorning the puppet. The tailor's turn is next: he sees the beautiful wooden woman decked with exquisite jewels, but naked; consequently he makes neat clothes becoming a bride, and dresses her. When the hermit's turn to watch comes, he prays to God that the figure may have life; and it begins to speak like a human being. In the morning all four fall desperately in love with the woman, and each claims her as his. Finally they come to a fifth person, and refer the matter to him. He claims her to be his wife, who has been seduced from his house, and hails the four travellers before the cutwal. But the cutwal falls in love with the woman, says that she is his brother's wife, accuses the five of his brother's murder, and carries them before the cazi. The cazi, no less enamoured, says that the woman is his bondmaid, who had absconded with much money. After the seven have disputed and wrangled a long time, an old man in the crowd that has meantime gathered suggests that the case be laid before the Tree of Decision, which can be found in a certain town. When they have all come before the tree with the woman, the tree divides, the woman runs into the cleft, the tree unites, and she has disappeared forever. A voice from the tree then says, "Everything returns to its first principles." The seven suitors are overwhelmed with shame. A Mongolian form, to be found in the Ardschi-Bordschi saga (see Busk, 298-304), seems to furnish the link of connection between the "Tûtî-nâmah" version and "Vetâlapancavinçati," Nos. 22 and 2:-- Who Invented Woman? Four shepherd youths pasture their flocks near one another, and when they have time amuse themselves together. One day one of them there alone, to pass away the time, takes wood and sculptures it until he has fashioned a beautiful female form. When he sees what he has done, he cares no more for his companions, but goes his way. The next day the second youth comes alone to the place, and, finding the image, he paints it fair with the five colors, and goes his way. On the third day the third youth finds the statue, and infuses into it wit and understanding. He, too, cares no more to sport with his companions, and goes his way. On the fourth day the fourth youth finds the figure, and, breathing softly into its lips, behold! he gives it a soul that can be loved,--a beautiful woman. When the other three see what has happened, they come back and demand possession of her by right of invention. Each urges his claim; but they can come to no decision, and so they lay the matter before the king. The question is, Who has invented the woman, and to whom does she belong by right? The answer of the king is as follows: "The first youth stands in the place of a father to her; the second youth, who has tinted her fairly, stands in the place of a mother; the third, is he not Lama (Buddhist priest, hence instructor)? The fourth has given her a soul that can be loved, and it is he alone who has really made her. She belongs to him, and therefore he is her husband." I cannot refrain from giving a résumé of "Vetâlapancavinçati," No. 2, because it has been overlooked by Benfey, and seems to be of no little significance in connection with our cycle: it establishes the connection between types I and II. This abstract is taken from Tawney's translation of Somadeva's redaction, 2 : 242-244:-- Story of the Three Young Brahmans who Restored a Dead Lady to Life. Bráhman Agnisvámin has a beautiful daughter, Mandáravatí. Three young Bráhmans, equally matched in accomplishments, come to Agnisvámin, and demand the daughter, each for himself. Her father refuses, fearing to cause the death of any one of them. Mandáravatí remains unmarried. The three suitors stay at her house day and night, living on the sight of her. Then Mandáravatí suddenly dies of a fever. The three Bráhmans take her body to the cemetery and burn it. One builds a hut there, and makes her ashes his bed; the second takes her bones, and goes with them to the sacred river Ganges; the third becomes an ascetic, and sets out travelling. While roaming about, the third suitor reaches a village, where he is entertained by a Bráhman. From him the ascetic steals a magic book that will restore life to dead ashes. (He has seen its power proved after his hostess, in a fit of anger, throws her crying child into the fire.) With his magic book he returns to the cemetery before the second suitor has thrown the maiden's bones into the river. After having the first Bráhman remove the hut he had erected, the ascetic, reading the charm and throwing some dust on the ashes of Mandáravatí, causes the maiden to rise up alive, more beautiful than ever. Then the three quarrel about her, each claiming her as his own. The first says, "She is mine, for I preserved her ashes and resuscitated her by asceticism." The second says, "She belongs to me, for she was produced by the efficacy of sacred bathing-places." The third says, "She is my wife, for she was won by the power of my charm." The vetâla, who has been telling the story, now puts the question to King Vikramasena. The king rules as follows: "The third Bráhman must be considered as her father; the second, as her son; and the first, as her husband, for he lay in the cemetery embracing her ashes, which was an act of deep affection." A modern link is the Georgian folk-tale of "The King and the Apple" (Wardrop, No. XVI), in which the king's magic apple tells three riddle-stories to the wonderful boy:-- (1) A woman is travelling with her husband and brother. The party meets brigands, and the two men are decapitated. Their heads are restored to them by the woman through the help of a magic herb revealed to her by a mouse. However, she gets her husband's head on her brother's body. Q.--Which man is the right husband? A.--The one with the husband's head. (2) A joiner, a tailor, and a priest are travelling. When night comes, they appoint three watches. The joiner, for amusement, cuts down a tree and carves out a man. The tailor, in his turn, takes off his clothes and dresses the figure. The priest, when his turn comes, prays for a soul for the image, and the figure becomes alive. Q.-Who made the man? A.--He who gave him the soul. (3) A diviner, a physician, and a swift runner are met together. The diviner says, "There is a certain prince ill with such and such a disease." The physician says, "I know a cure." The swift runner says, "I will run with it." The physician prepares the medicine, the runner runs with it, and the prince is cured. Q.--Who cured the king's son? A.--He who made the medicine. These three stories, with their framework, appear to be descended in part from the Ardschi-Bordschi saga. A connection between the third and our type II is obvious. A Bohemian form of this type is No. 4 of Wratislaw's collection. (II) Type II, according to Benfey, also originated in India. The oldest known form of the story is the "Vetâlapancavinçati," No. 5. A brief summary of Somadeva's version, "The Story of Somaprabhá and her Three Suitors" (Tawney, 2 : 258-260), may be given here:-- In Ujjayiní there lived a Bráhman who had an excellent son and a beautiful proud daughter. When the time for her to be married came, she told her mother to give the following message to her father and her brother: "I am to be given in marriage only to a person possessed of heroism, knowledge, or magic power." A noble Brahman (No. 1) in time came to the father and asked for his daughter's hand. When told of the conditions, he said, "I am possessed of magic power," and to demonstrate, he made a chariot and took the father for a ride in the clouds. Then Harisvámin, the father, promised his daughter to the Bráhman possessed of magic power, and set the marriage day seven days hence. Another Bráhman (No. 2) came and asked the son for his sister's hand. When told the conditions, he said that he was a hero, and he displayed his skill in the use of weapons. The brother, ignorant of what his father had done, promised his sister's hand to this man, and by the advice of an astrologer he selected the same day for the wedding as his father had selected. A third Bráhman (No. 3) on that same day asked the mother for her daughter's hand, saying that he was possessed of wisdom. Ignorant of what her husband and her son had done, she questioned this Bráhman about the past and the future, and at length promised him her daughter's hand on the same seventh day. On the same day, then, three bridegrooms appeared, and, strange to say, on that very day the bride disappeared. No. 3, with his knowledge, discovered that she had been carried off by a Rákshasa. No. 1 made a chariot equipped with weapons, and the three suitors and Harisvámin were carried to the Rákshasa's abode. There No. 2 fought and killed the demon, and all returned with the maiden. A dispute then arose among the Bráhmans as to which was entitled to the maiden's hand. Each set forth his claim. The vetâla, who has been telling the story, now makes King Vikramasena decide which deserves the girl. The king says that the girl ought to be given to No. 2, who risked his life in battle to save her. Nos. 1 and 3 were only instruments; calculators and artificers are always subordinate to others. The story next passed over into Mongolia, growing by the way. The version in the "Siddhi-Kür," No. 13, is interesting, because it shows our story already linked up with another cycle, the "True Brothers." Only the last part, which begins approximately where the companions miss the rich youth, corresponds to the Sanscrit above. (This Mongolian version may be found in English in Busk, 105-114.) The story then moved westward, and we next meet it in the Persian and the Turkish "Tûtî-nâmah," "The Story of the Beautiful Zehra." (For an English rendering from the Persian, see "The Tootinameh; or, Tales of a Parrot," Persian text with English translation [Calcutta, 1792], pp. 111-114.) W. A. Clouston (Clouston 3, 2 : 277-288) has discussed this group of stories, and gives abstracts of a number of variants that Benfey does not mention: Dozon, "Albanian Tales," No. 4; a Persian manuscript text of the "Sindibád Náma;" a Japanese legend known as early as the tenth century; the "1001 Nights" story of "Prince Ahmed and the Peri Bánú;" Powell and Magnussen's "Icelandic Legends," pp. 348-354, "The Story of the Three Princes;" Von Hahn, "Contes Populaires Grecs" (Athens and Copenhagen, 1879), No. II, p. 98. Of these he says (p. 285), "We have probably the original of all these different versions in the fifth of the 'Vetálapanchavinsati,'"--but hardly from No. 5 alone, probably in combination with Nos. 2 and 22 (cf. above). At least, the Arabian, Icelandic, and Greek forms cited by Clouston include the search for trades or magic objects by rival brothers, a detail not found in No. 5, but occurring in Nos. 22 and 2. Clouston calls attention to the fact that in No. 5 and in the "Tûtî-nâmah" version the damsel is not represented as being ill, while in the "Sindibád-Námá" and in the Arabian version she is so represented. (III) The third type seems to be of European origin. It is perhaps best represented by Grimm, No. 124, "The Three Brothers." In his notes, Grimm calls this story an old lying and jesting tale, and says that it is apparently very widespread. He cites few analogues of it, however. He does mention an old one (sixteenth century) which seems to be the parent of the German story. It is Philippe d'Alcripe's "Trois frères, excellens ouvriers de leurs mestiers" (No. 1 in the 1853 Paris edition, Biblioth. Elzevirien). As in Grimm, the three skilled brothers in the French tale are a barber, a horse-shoer, and a swordsman; and the performances of skill are identical in the two stories. The French version, however, ends with the display of skill: no decision is made as to which is entitled to receive the "petite maison," the property that the father wishes to leave to the son who proves himself to be the best craftsman. Our fifth story, the Bicol variant, clearly belongs to this type, although it has undergone some modifications, and has been influenced by contact with other cycles. (IV) The fourth type represents the form to which our four printed stories most closely approximate. As remarked above, it is a combination of the third and the second types. This combination appears to have been developed in Europe, although, as may be seen from the analysis of "Vetâlapancavincati," No. 2, it might easily have been suggested by the Sanscrit. Compare also the "Siddhi-Kür" form of type II, where, although not brothers, and six in number instead of three, the six comrades set out to seek their fortunes. But here there is no suggestion of the six acquiring skill: they have that before they separate. The earliest known European version of this type is Morlini's, Nov. 30 (about 1520). His Latin was translated by Straparola (about 1553) in the "Tredici piacevoli Notti," VII, 5. In outline his version runs about as follows:-- Three brothers, sons of a poor man, voluntarily leave home to seek their fortunes, promising to return in ten years. After determining on a meeting-place, they separate. The first takes service with soldiers, and becomes expert in the art of war: he can scale walls, dagger in hand. The second becomes a master shipwright. The third spends his time in the woods, and becomes skilled in the tongues of birds. After ten years they meet again, as appointed. While they are sitting in an inn, the youngest hears a bird say that there is a great treasure hidden by the corner-stone of the inn. This they dig up, and return as wealthy men to their father's house. Another bird announces the imprisonment of the beautiful Aglea in a tower on an island in the Ægean Sea. She is guarded by a serpent. The second brother builds a swift ship, in which all three sail to the island. There the first brother climbs the tower, rescues Aglea, and plunders all the serpent's treasure. With the wealth and the lady the three return. A dispute now arises as to which brother has the best claim over her. The matter is left undecided by the story-teller. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, Basile, working very likely on oral tradition, and independent of Straparola (with whose work he does not appear to have been acquainted), gives another version, "Pentamerone," v, 7:-- Pacione, a poor father, sends his five good-for-nothing sons out into the world for one year to learn a craft. They return at the appointed time. During the year the eldest son has learned thieving; the second has learned boat-building; the third, how to shoot with the cross-bow; the fourth has learned of an herb that will cause the dead to rise; the fifth has learned the language of birds. While the five sons are eating with their father, the youngest son hears sparrows saying that a ghoul has stolen the princess, daughter of the King of Autogolfo. The father suggests that his five sons go to her rescue. So a boat is built, the princess is stolen from the ghoul, the ghoul pursues and is blinded by a shot from the bow, the princess falls in a dead faint and is restored by the life-giving herb. After the five brothers have returned the princess to her father, they dispute as to who did the greatest deed of prowess, so as to be worthy of being her husband. Her father the king decides the dispute by giving his daughter to Pacione, because he is the parent-stem of all these branches. Benfey thinks that the brother who knows of the life-restoring herb is an original addition of Basile's or of his immediate source; but this character is to be found in the cycle from earliest times (see "Vetâlapancavinçati," No. 2; and "Siddhi-Kür," No. 13). The story is next found as a Märchen pretty well scattered throughout Europe. German, Russian, Bohemian, Italian, Greek, and Serbian forms are known (see Benfey's article, and Grimm's notes to No. 129). We may examine briefly six interesting versions not mentioned by Benfey or Grimm:-- Greek (Von Hahn, No. 47).--A king with three sons wishes to marry off the eldest. He seeks a suitable wife for the prince; but when she is found and brought to the court, she is so beautiful, that all three brothers want her. To decide their dispute, the king, on advice, sends them abroad, promising the hand of the princess to the one who shall bring back the most valuable article. The three brothers set out; they separate at Adrianople, agreeing to meet there again at an appointed time. On his travels, the eldest buys a telescope through which he can see anything he wishes to see. The second buys an orange that will restore to life the dying if the sick person but smells of the fruit. The third buys a magic transportation-carpet. They all meet as agreed. By means of the telescope one of the brothers learns that the princess is dying. The magic carpet carries them all home instantaneously, and the orange cures the maiden. A quarrel arises as to which brother deserves her hand. The king, unable to decide, marries her himself. Bohemian (Waldau [Prag, 1860], "Das Weise Urteil").--In this there are three rival brothers. One has a magic mirror; another, a magic chariot; and the third, three magic apples. The first finds out that the lady is desperately ill; the second takes himself and his rivals to her; and the third restores her to health. A dispute arising, an old man decides that the third brother should have her, as his apples were consumed as medicine, while the other two still have their chariot and mirror respectively. (Compare the decision in the Georgian folk-tale under type II.) Serbian (Mme. Mijatovies, 230 ff., "The Three Suitors").--Three noblemen seek the hand of a princess. As the king cannot make a choice, he says to the three, "Go travel about the world. The one who brings home the most remarkable thing shall be my son-in-law." As in the Greek story, one gets a transportation-carpet; another, a magic telescope; and the third, a wonder-working ointment that will cure all diseases and even bring the dead to life. The three noblemen meet, learn through the telescope of the princess's mortal illness, and, hastening to her side with the help of the magic carpet, cure her with the ointment. A dispute arises as to which suitor shall have her. The king decides that each has as good a claim as the others, and persuades all to give up the idea of marrying the princess. They do so, go to a far-off desert, and become hermits, while the king marries his daughter to another noble. The story does not end here, but thus much is all we are interested in. Italian Tyrolese (Schneller, No. 14, "Die Drei Liebhaber").--This story is like Von Hahn, No. 47. The magic objects are an apple, a chair, and a mirror. In the magic mirror the three suitors see the bride on the point of death. They are carried to her in the magic chair, and she is saved by means of the apple. The story ends as a riddle: Who married the maiden? Icelandic (Rittershaus, No. XLIII, "Die drei Freier um eine Braut").--This story, which closely follows the "1001 Nights" version and is probably derived from it, agrees in the first part with Von Hahn, No. 47. When a folk-tribunal is called to decide which brother most deserves the princess and is unable to agree, the king proposes another test,--a shooting-match. The princess is to be given to the one who can shoot his arrow the farthest. The youngest really wins; but, as his arrow goes out of sight and cannot be found, the princess is given to the second brother. From this point on, the adventures of the hero are derived from another cycle that does not belong with our group. Icelandic (Rittershaus, No. XLII, "Die Kunstreichen Brüder").--Although this story is very different from any of ours, I call attention to it here because Dr. Rittershaus says (p. 181) that in it we have, "in allerdings verwischter Form, das Märchen von 'der Menschen mit den wunderbaren Eigenschaften,'" and she refers to Benfey's "Ausland" article. The collector states, however, that the story is so different from the other Märchen belonging to this family, that no further parallels can be adduced. As a matter of fact, this Icelandic story is a combination of the "Skilful Companions" cycle with the "Child and the Hand" cycle. For this combined Märchen, see Kittredge, "Arthur and Gorlagon," 222-227. It might be noted, in passing, that a connection between this type of the "Rival Brothers" and the "Skilful Companions" cycle is established through Gonzenbach's Sicilian story of "The Seven Brothers who had Magic Articles," No. 45. (See Köhler's notes to this tale and also to No. 74; to Widter-Wolf, No. 6 [Jahrb. f. rom. und eng. lit., VII]; and to V. Tagic, No. 46 [Köhler-Bolte, 438-440].) I have not attempted to give an exhaustive bibliographical account of this cycle of the "Rival Brothers," but have merely suggested points that seem to me particularly significant in its history and development. So far as our four Filipino examples are concerned, I think that it is perfectly clear that in their present form, at least, they have been derived from Europe. There is so much divergence among them, however, and they are so widely separated from one another geographically, that it would be fruitless to search for a common ancestor of the four. The Ilocano story is the best in outline, and is fairly close to Grimm, No. 129, though there are only three brothers in the Filipino tale, and there is no skill contest held by the mother before the youths set out to rescue the princess. The all-seeing telescope and the clever thief, however, are found in both. The solution at the end is the same: the king keeps his daughter, and divides half a kingdom among her rescuers. The Pangasinan tale has obviously been garbled. The use of two magic articles with properties so nearly the same, the taking ship by the three brothers when they had a transportation-mat at their service, and finally the inhuman decision of the king, [49]--all suggest either a confusion of stories, or a contamination of old native analogies, or crude manufacture on the part of some narrator. It may be remarked, however, that the life-restoring book is analogous to the magic book in "Vetâlapancavinçati," No. 2, while the repairing of the shattered ship by means of the magic stones suggests the stitching-together of the planks in Grimm, No. 129. The setting appears to be modern. In the first Tagalog story (c) the three men are not brothers. They are given the magic objects as a reward for kindness. The sentimental dénouement reads somewhat smug and strained after all three men have been represented as equally kind-hearted. The shooting-contest with arrows to decide the question, however, may be reminiscent of the "1001 Nights" version. For the resuscitating flute in droll stories, see Bolte-Polívka's notes to Grimm, No. 61 (episode G1). The book of knowledge suggests the magic book in the Pangasinan version. TALE 13 THE RICH AND THE POOR. Narrated by José L. Gomez, a Tagalog from Rizal province. Once upon a time there lived in the town of Pasig two honest men who were intimate friends. They were called Mayaman [50] and Mahirap, [51] because one was much richer than the other. One pleasant afternoon these two men made up their minds to take a long walk into the neighboring woods. Here, while they were talking happily about their respective fortunes, they saw in the distance a poor wood-cutter, who was very busy cutting and collecting fagots for sale. This wood-cutter lived in a mean cottage on the outskirts of a little town on the opposite shore of the lake, and he maintained his family by selling pieces of wood gathered from this forest. When they saw the poor man, Mayaman said to his friend, "Now, which one of us can make that wood-cutter rich?" "Well, even though I am much poorer than you," said Mahirap, "I can make him rich with just the few cents I have in my pocket." They agreed, however, that Mayaman should be the first to try to make the poor man rich. So Mayaman called out to the wood-cutter, and said, "Do you want to be rich, my good man?" "Certainly, master, I should like to be rich, so that my family might not want anything," said the wood-cutter. Pointing to his large house in the distance, Mayaman said, "All right. Come to my house this evening on your way home, and I will give you four bags of my money. If you don't become rich on them, come back, and I will give you some more." The wood-cutter was overjoyed at his good luck, and in the evening went to Mayaman's house, where he received the money. He placed the bags in the bottom of his banca, [52] and sailed home. When he reached his little cottage, he spread out all the gold and silver money on the floor. He was delighted at possessing such wealth, and determined first of all to buy household articles with it; but some dishonest neighbors, soon finding out that the wood-cutter had much money in the house, secretly stole the bags. Then the wood-cutter, remembering the rich man's promise, hastily prepared his banca and sailed across to Pasig. When Mayaman saw the wood-cutter, he said, "Are you rich now, my good man?" "O kind master!" said the wood-cutter, "I am not yet rich, for some one stole my bags of money." "Well, here are four more bags. See that you take better care of them." The wood-cutter reached home safely with this new wealth; but unfortunately it was stolen, too, during the night. Three more times he went to Mayaman, and every time received four bags of money; but every time was it stolen from him by his neighbors. Finally, on his sixth application, Mayaman did not give the wood-cutter money, but presented him with a beautiful ring. "This ring will preserve you from harm," he said, "and will give you everything you ask for. With it you can become the richest man in town; but be careful not to lose it!" While the wood-cutter was sailing home that evening, he thought he would try the ring by asking it for some food. So he said, "Beautiful ring, give me food! for I am hungry." In an instant twelve different kinds of food appeared in his banca, and he ate heartily. But after he had eaten, the wind calmed down: so he said to the ring, "O beautiful ring! blow my banca very hard, so that I may reach home quickly." He had no sooner spoken than the wind rose suddenly. The sail and mast of his little boat were blown away, and the banca itself sank. Forgetting all about his ring, the unfortunate man had to swim for his life. He reached the shore safely, but was greatly distressed to find that he had lost his valuable ring. So he decided to go back to Mayaman and tell him all about his loss. The next day he borrowed a banca and sailed to Pasig; but when Mayaman had heard his story, he said, "My good man, I have nothing more to give you." Then Mayaman turned to his friend Mahirap, and said, "It is your turn now, Mahirap. See what you can do for this poor man to enrich him." Mahirap gave the poor wood-cutter five centavos,--all he had in his pocket,--and told him to go to the market and buy a fish with it for his supper. The wood-cutter was disappointed at receiving so small an amount, and sailed homeward in a very downcast mood; but when he arrived at his town, he went straight to the market. As he was walking around the fish-stalls, he saw a very fine fat fish. So he said to the tendera, [53] "How much must I pay for that fat fish?" "Well, five centavos is all I'll ask you for it," said she. "Oh, I have only five centavos; and if I give them all to you, I shall have no money to buy rice with. So please let me have the fish for three!" said the wood-cutter. But the tendera refused to sell the fish for three centavos; and the wood-cutter was obliged to give all his money for it, for the fish was so fine and fat that he could not leave it. When he went home and opened the fish to clean it, what do you suppose he found inside? Why, no other thing than the precious ring he had lost in the lake! He was so rejoiced at getting back his treasure, that he walked up and down the streets, talking out loud to his ring:-- "Ha, ha, ha, ha! I have found you now; You are here, and nowhere else." When his neighbors who had stolen his bags of money from him heard these words, they thought that the wood-cutter had found out that they were the thieves, and was addressing these words to them. They ran up to him with all the bags of money, and said, "O wood-cutter! pardon us for our misdoings! Here are all the bags of money that we stole from you." With his money and the ring, the wood-cutter soon became the richest man in his town. He lived happily with his wife the rest of his days, and left a large heritage to his children. So Mahirap, with five centavos only, succeeded in making the wood-cutter rich. Lucas the Rope-maker. Narrated by Elisa Cordero, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, Laguna. Miss Cordero says that the story is well known and is old. Luis and Isco were intimate friends. They lived in a country called Bagdad. Though these two friends had been brought up together in the same school, their ideas were different. Luis believed that gentleness and kindness were the second heaven, while Isco's belief was that wealth was the source of happiness and peace in life. One day, while they were eating, Isco said, "Don't you believe, my friend, that a rich man, however cruel he may be, is known everywhere and has great power over all his people? A poor man may be gentle and kind, but then he is disdainfully looked upon by his neighbors." "Oh," answered Luis, "I know it, but to me everybody is the same. I love them all, and I am not enchanted by anything that glisters." "My friend," said Isco, "our conversation is becoming serious. Let us take a walk this afternoon and see how these theories work out in the lives of men." That afternoon Luis and Isco went to a town called Cohija. On their way they saw a rope-maker, Lucas by name, who by his condition showed his great suffering from poverty. He approached Lucas and gave him a roll of paper money, saying, "Now, Lucas, take this money and spend it judiciously." Lucas was overjoyed: he hardly knew what to do. When he reached home, he related to his wife Zelima what had happened to him. As has been said, Lucas was very poor and was a rope-maker. He had six little children to support; but he had no money with which to feed them, nor could he get anything from his rope-making. Some days he could not sell even a yard of rope. When Lucas received the money from Luis, and had gone home and told his wife, he immediately went out again to buy food. He had one hundred pesos in paper money. He bought two pounds of meat, and a roll of cañamo; [54] and as there was some more money left, he put it in one of the corners of his hat. Unfortunately, as he was walking home, an eagle was attracted by the smell of the meat, and began flying about his head. He frightened the bird away; but it flew so fast that its claws became entangled in his hat, which was snatched off his head and carried away some distance. When he searched for the money, it was gone. He could not find it anywhere. Lucas went home very sad. When his wife learned the cause of his sorrow, she became very angry. She scolded her husband roundly. As soon as the family had eaten the meat Lucas bought, they were as poor as before. They were even pale because of hunger. One day Luis and Isco decided to visit Lucas and see how he was getting along. It happened that while they were passing in the same street as before, they saw Lucas weeping under a mango-tree near his small house. "What is the matter?" said Luis. "Why are you crying?" Poor Lucas told them all that had happened to him,--how the money was lost, and how his wife had scolded him. At first Luis did not believe the rope-maker's story, and became angry at him. At last, however, when he perceived that Lucas was telling the truth, he pardoned him and gave him a thousand pesos. Lucas returned home with delight, but his wife and children were not in the house. They were out asking alms from their neighbors. Lucas then hid the bulk of the money in an empty jar in the corner of the room, and then went out to buy food for his wife and children. While he was gone, his wife and children returned. They had not yet eaten anything. Not long afterward a man came along selling rice. Zelima said to him, "Sir, can't you give us a little something to appease our hunger? I'll give you some darak [55] in exchange." "Oh, yes!" said the man, "I'll give you some rice, but you do not need to give me anything." Zelima took the rice gladly; and as she was looking for something with which to repay the man, she happened to see the empty jar in which her husband had secretly put his money. She filled the jar with darak and gave it to the rice-seller. When Lucas came home, he was very happy. He told his wife about the money he had hidden. But when he found out that the money was gone, he was in despair: he did not know what to do. He scolded his wife for her carelessness. As he could not endure to see the suffering of his children, he tried to kill himself, but his children prevented him. At last he concluded to be quiet; for he thought, "If I hurt my wife, and she becomes sick, I can't stand it. I must take care of her." Two months passed by, and Luis and Isco again visited their friend Lucas. While they were walking in the street, Luis found a big piece of lead. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. When they reached Lucas's house, they were astonished to see him in a more wretched condition than before. Luis asked what was the matter. Lucas related to him all that had occurred; but Luis just said, "Oh, no! you are fooling us. We will not believe you." Lucas was very sad. He asked pardon of Luis for his carelessness, and said, "Don't increase the burden of my suffering by your scolding!" Now, Luis was by nature gentle and pitiful. He could not endure to see his friend suffering. So he gave him the lead he had found in the street, saying, "Now, take care of that! Maybe your wealth will come from it." Luis accepted the lead unwillingly, for he thought that Luis was mocking him. When Lucas went into the house, he threw the lead away in the corner, and went to sleep. During the night a neighbor knocked at their door, asking for a piece of lead for her husband. The neighbor said, "My husband is going fishing early in the morning, and he asked me to buy him some lead for his line, but I forgot it. I know he will scold me if I don't have some ready for him." Lucas, who was wakened by the talk, told his wife to get the lead he had thrown in the corner. When Zelima found it, she gave it to their neighbor, who went away happy, promising that she would bring them the first fish her husband should catch. The next morning Lucas woke very late. The neighbor was already there with a big fish, and Zelima was happy at having so much to eat. While she was cleaning the fish, she found a bright stone inside it. As she did not know of the value of the stone, she gave it to her youngest son to play with; but when the other children saw it, they quarrelled with their brother, and tried to take it away from him. Lucas, too, was ignorant of the fact that the stone was worth anything. In front of their house lived a rich man named Don Juan. When he heard the noise of his neighbor's children quarrelling, he sent his wife to see what was the matter. Don Juan's wife saw the stone, and wanted to have it very much. She asked Zelima to sell it to her, but Zelima said that she would wait and ask her husband. The rich man's wife went home and told her husband about the jewel. He went to Lucas's house, and offered the rope-maker a thousand pesos for the stone; but Lucas refused, for now he suspected that it was worth more than that. At last he sold it for twenty thousand pesos. Lucas was now a rich man. He bought clothes for his wife and children, renewed his house, which was falling to pieces, and bought a machine for making rope. As his business increased, he bought another machine. But although Lucas was the richest man in town, he was very kind. His house was open to every comer. He supported crippled persons, and gave alms to the poor. When Luis and Isco visited Lucas the last time, they were surprised and at the same time delighted to see him so rich. Lucas did not know how to thank them. He gave a banquet in honor of these two men. After the feast was over, Lucas told his friends every detail of all that had happened to him, how he had lent the lead, how his wife had found the stone in the fish, and how a rich man had bought it for twenty thousand pesos. Luis was now convinced that Lucas was honest, and had told the truth on former occasions. Lucas lived in his big house happily and in peace with his wife and children. Notes. These two Tagalog stories are probably derived from the same ultimate source; the second, "Lucas the Rope-Maker," being very much closer to the original. That source is the "History of Khevajah Hasan al-Habbal" in the "Arabian Nights Entertainments" (see Burton's translation, Supplemental Nights, III : 341-366). There is also a Tagalog literary version of this story,--"Life of a Rope-maker in the Kingdom of Bagdad," by Franz Molteni. I have at present no copy of this chap-book; but the work may safely be dated 1902-05, as those were the years in which Molteni published. This story follows faithfully the "Arabian Nights" tale. The two rich friends are Saadi and Saad, and the name of the rope-maker is Cojia Hasan. Our second folk-tale (b) seems to stand half way between this literary version and "The Rich and the Poor,"--not chronologically, to be sure, but so far as fidelity to the Arabian story is concerned. Although the events are practically the same in (b) and in Molteni, the proper names differ throughout. It is possible that (b) derives from an earlier Tagalog literary version that is no longer extant. (a) is definitely localized on Laguna de Bay, and the story as a whole seems thoroughly native. It is likely much older than either of the other two forms. A Bengal tale somewhat similar to these is to be found in McCulloch's "Bengali Household Tales," No. III; it is also connected with the Dr. Knowall cycle (our No. 1). Caballero has a Spanish story (see Ingram, "Dame Fortune and Don Money"). For a discussion of the continuously unlucky hero, see Clouston 2, 489-493. In Ralston 1, I95 f., may be found a group of stories dealing with luck. Compare also Thorpe's "Yule-tide Stories," 460 f., for the North German story of "The Three Gifts." For the "ejaculation guess" in No. 13(a), see notes to No. 1 (pp. 7-8). TALE 14 THE KING AND THE DERVISH. Narrated by José M. Hilario of Batangas, Batangas, who heard the story from his father, a Tagalog. Once there lived a young and brave king with his gentle and loving wife. Both had enjoyed an easy, comfortable, and, best of all, happy life. The king ruled his people well. The queen was a good wife as well as a good sovereign: she always cheered her husband when he was sad. One day a dervish came to the palace. He told the king that he possessed magical power, and straightway they became friends. This dervish had the power to leave his body and enter that of a dead animal or person. Now, the king was fond of hunting, and once he took his new friend with him to shoot deer. After a few hours of hard chasing, they succeeded in killing a buck. To show his power, the dervish left his body and entered that of the dead deer. Then he resumed his former shape. The king was very anxious to be able to do the same thing; whereupon the dervish gave him minute instructions, and taught him the necessary charms. Then the king left his body, and took possession of that of the deer. In an instant the dervish entered the king's body and went home as the monarch. He gave orders that a deer with certain marks should be hunted out and killed. The true king was very unhappy, especially when he saw his own men chasing him to take his life. In his wanderings through the forest, he saw a dead nightingale. He left the deer's body and entered the bird's. Now he was safe, so he flew to his palace. He sang so sweetly, that the queen ordered her attendants to catch him. He gladly allowed himself to be caught, and to be cared for by the queen. Whenever the dervish took the bird in his hands, the bird pecked him; but the beautiful singer always showed signs of satisfaction when the queen smoothed his plumage. Not long after the bird's capture, a dog died in the palace. The king underwent another change: he left the bird's body and entered that of the dog. On waking up in the morning, the queen found that her pet was dead. She began to weep. Unable to see her so sad, the dervish comforted her, and told her that he would give the bird life again. Consequently he left the king's body and entered the bird's. Seeing his chance, the real king left the dog's body and resumed his original form. He then went at once to the cage and killed the ungrateful bird, the dervish. The tender queen protested against the king's act of cruelty; but when she heard that she had been deceived by the dervish, she died of grief. The Mysterious Book. Narrated by Leopoldo Uichanco, a Tagalog from Calamba, La Laguna. Once upon a time there lived a poor father and a poor son. The father was very old, and was named Pedro. The son's name was Juan. Although they were very poor, Juan was afraid of work. One day the two did not have a single grain of rice in the house to eat. Juan now realized that he would have to find some work, or he and his father would starve. So he went to a neighboring town to seek a master. He at last found one in the person of Don Luzano, a fine gentleman of fortune. Don Luzano treated Juan like a son. As time went on, Don Luzano became so confident in Juan's honesty, that he began to intrust him with the most precious valuables in the house. One morning Don Luzano went out hunting. He left Juan alone in the house, as usual. While Juan was sweeping and cleaning his master's room, he caught sight of a highly polished box lying behind the post in the corner. Curious to find out what was inside, he opened the box. There appeared another box. He opened this box, and another box still was disclosed. One box appeared after another until Juan came to the seventh. This last one contained a small triangular-shaped book bound in gold and decorated with diamonds and other precious gems. Disregarding the consequences that might follow, Juan picked up the book and opened it. Lo! at once Juan was carried by the book up into the air. And when he looked back, whom did he see? No other than Don Luzano pursuing him, with eyes full of rage. He had an enormous deadly-looking bolo in his hand. As Don Luzano was a big man, he could fly faster than little Juan. Soon the boy was but a few yards in front of his antagonist. It should also be known that the book had the wonderful power of changing anybody who had laid his hands on it, or who had learned by heart one of its chapters, into whatever form that person wished to assume. Juan soon found this fact out. In an instant Juan had disappeared, and in his place was a little steed galloping as fast as he could down the street. Again, there was Don Luzano after him in the form of a big fast mule, with bubbling and foaming mouth, and eyes flashing with hate. The mule ran so fast, that every minute seemed to be bringing Juan nearer his grave. Seeing his danger, Juan changed himself into a bird,--a pretty little bird. No sooner had he done so than he saw Don Luzano in the form of a big hawk about to swoop down on him. Then Juan suddenly leaped into a well he was flying over, and there became a little fish. Don Luzano assumed the form of a big fish, and kept up the chase; but the little fish entered a small crack in the wall of the well, where the big fish could not pursue him farther. So Don Luzano had to give up and go home in great disappointment. The well in which Juan found himself belonged to three beautiful princesses. One morning, while they were looking into the water, they saw the little fish with its seven-colored scales, moving gracefully through the water. The eldest of the maidens lowered her bait, but the fish would not see it. The second sister tried her skill. The fish bit the bait; but, just as it was being drawn out of the water, it suddenly released its hold. Now the youngest sister's turn came. The fish allowed itself to be caught and held in the tender hands of this beautiful girl. She placed the little fish in a golden basin of water and took it to her room, where she cared for it very tenderly. Several months later the king issued a proclamation throughout his realm and other neighboring kingdoms, saying that the youngest princess was sick. "To any one who can cure her," he said, "I promise to give one-half of my kingdom." The most skilful doctors had already done the best they could, but all their efforts were in vain. The princess seemed to grow worse and worse every day. "Ay, what foolishness!" exclaimed Don Luzano when he heard the news of the sick princess. "The sickness! Pshaw! That's no sickness, never in the wide world!" The following morning there was Don Luzano speaking with the king. "I promise to cure her," said Don Luzano. "I have already cured many similar cases." "And your remedy will do her no harm?" asked the king after some hesitation. "No harm, sir, no harm. Rely on my honor." "Very well. And you shall have half of my kingdom if you are successful." "No, I thank you, your Majesty. I, being a faithful subject, need no payment whatever for any of my poor services. As a token from you, however, I should like to have the fish that the princess keeps in her room." "O my faithful subject!" exclaimed the king in joy. "How good you are! Will you have nothing except a poor worthless fish?" "No more" that's enough." "Well, then," returned the king, "prepare your remedy, and on the third day we shall apply it to the princess. You can go home now, and you may be sure that you shall have the fish." Don Luzano took his leave of the king, and then went home. On the third day this daring magician came back to the palace to apply his remedy to the princess. Before he began any part of the treatment, however, he requested that the fish be given to him. The king consented to his request: but as he was about to dip his hand into the basin, the princess boldly stopped him. She pretended to be angry on the ground that Don Luzano would soil with his hands the golden basin of the monarch. She told him to hold out his hands, and she would pour the fish into them. Don Luzano did as he was told: but, before the fish could reach his hands, the pretty creature jumped out. No fish now could be seen, but in its stead was a beautiful gold ring adorning the finger of the princess. Don Luzano tried to snatch the ring, but, as the princess jerked her hand back, the ring fell to the floor, and in its place were countless little mungo [56] seeds scattered about the room. Don Luzano instantly took the form of a greedy crow, devouring the seeds with extraordinary speed. Juan, who was contained in one of the seeds that had rolled beneath the feet of the princess, suddenly became a cat, and, rushing out, attacked the bird. As soon as you could wink your eyes or snap your fingers, the crow was dead, miserably torn to pieces. In place of the cat stood Juan in an embroidered suit, looking like a gay young prince. "This is my beloved," confessed the princess to her father as she pointed to Juan. The king forgave his daughter for concealing from him the real condition of her life, and he gladly welcomed his new son-in-law. Prince Juan, as we shall now call our friend, was destined to a life of peace and joy. He was rid of his formidable antagonist; he had a beautiful princess (who was no longer sick) for a wife; and he had an excellent chance of inheriting the throne. There is no more. Notes. A third form (c) I have only in abstract; it is entitled "The Priest and his Pupil:"-- A boy learns a number of magic tricks from the priest, his master. He changes himself into a hog, and is sold to the priest; then he runs away, transforms himself into a horse, and is again sold to his master for much money. The horse breaks loose and runs off. The priest now realizes the truth, and, transforming himself into a horse, pursues the first horse. When they come to a river, the first horse becomes a small fish, and the second a large fish, and the chase continues. Then the two fish become birds wheeling aloft, the larger chasing the smaller. As he flies over the palace of the King of Persia, the boy becomes a small cocoanut-ring, and drops on to the finger of the princess. The defeated priest returns home, and threatens the King of Persia with war if he will not give up the ring. When the priest calls at the court, the boy has changed himself from a ring into a dog. The priest is told that he shall have the ring provided he becomes a duck. Immediately when he has complied, the dog seizes him and kills him. The hero later weds the princess. A fourth form (d) is the Tagalog story "The Battle of the Enchanters," printed in JAFL 20 : 309-310. Both of these variants (c and d) bear a close resemblance to our second story of "The Mysterious Book," and all three probably go back to a common source; but that source is not the "Arabian Nights" (as Gardner hints, JAFL 20 : 309, note), although the second calendar's tale in that collection represents one form of the "Transformation Combat" cycle. These three Filipino variants are members of the large family of Oriental and European folk-tales of which the Norse "Farmer Weathersky" (Dasent, No. XLI) or the German "The Thief and his Master" (Grimm, No. 68) may be taken as representatives. The essential elements of this form of the "Transformation Combat" cycle have been noted by Bolte-Polívka (2 : 61) as follows:-- A A father gives his son up to a magician to be taught, the condition being that the father at the end of a year must be able to recognize his son in animal form. B The son secretly learns magic and thieving. C In the form of a dog, ox, horse, he allows his father to sell him, finally to the magician himself, to whom the father, contrary to directions, also hands over the bridle. D1 The son, however, succeeds in slipping off the bridle, and (D2) overcomes the magician in a transformation combat (hare, fish, bird, etc.). D3 Usually, after the hero has flown in the guise of a bird to a princess and is concealed by her in the form of a ring, the magician appears to the king her father, who has become sick, and demands the ring as payment for a cure. The princess drops the ring, and there lies in its place a pile of millet-seed, which the magician as a hen starts to pick up; but the hero quickly turns himself into a fox, and bites off the hen's head. With slight variations from the formula as given above, these elements are distributed thus in our stories:-- (b) BD2D3 (c) BCD2D3 (d) BCD1D3 Bolte and Polívka (2 : 66) cite a number of Oriental versions of the story (Hindoo and Arabian) which in their main outlines are practically identical with our variants. In the absence of the story in any Spanish version, it seems most reasonable to look to India as the source of our tales; unless, as is possible, they were introduced into the Islands from Straparola (viii, 5), whose collection of stories might have found their way there through the Spaniards. For further discussions of this cycle, see Macculloch, 164-166; Clouston 3, 1 : 413 ff.; Köhler-Bolte, 1 : 138 ff., 556 f.; Benfey, 1 : 410-413. Our first story, "The King who became a Deer, a Nightingale, and a Dog," while containing the "transformation combat" between magician and pupil, differs from the other members of this group in one important respect: the transformation cannot take place unless there is a dead body for the transformer's spirit to enter. It is also to be noted that, as soon as a spirit leaves a body, that body becomes dead. There can be no doubt that this story of ours is derived from the 57th to the 60th "Days" in the "1001 Days" (Persian Tales, 1 : 212 ff.; Cabinet des Fées, XlV, p. 326 f.), the story of Prince Fadlallah. For other variants of this cycle, see Benfey, 1 : 122 f., especially 126. The Persian story might have reached the Philippines through the medium of the French translation, of which our tale appears to be little more than the baldest abstract. Benfey explains the "transformation combat" as originating in the disputes between Buddhists and Brahmans. Doubtless the story first grew up in India. A very ancient Oriental analogue, which has not hitherto been pointed out, I believe, is the Hebrew account of Aaron's magical contest with the Egyptian sorcerers (see Exodus, vii, 9-12). Compare also the betting-contest between the two kings in No. 1 of this collection, and see the notes. TALE 15 THE MIRACULOUS COW. Narrated by Adela Hidalgo, a Tagalog from Manila, who heard the story from another Tagalog student. There was once a farmer driving home from his farm in his carreton. [57] He had tied his cow to the back of his cart, as he was accustomed to do every evening on his way home. While he was going along the road, two boys saw him. They were Felipe and Ambrosio. Felipe whispered to Ambrosio, "Do you see the cow tied to the back of that carreton? Well, if you will untie it, I will take it to our house." Ambrosio approached the carreton slowly, and untied the cow. He handed the rope to Felipe, and then tied himself in the place of the animal. "Come on, Ambrosio! Don't be foolish! Come on with me!" whispered Felipe impatiently. "No, leave me alone! Go home, and I will soon be there!" answered the cunning Ambrosio. After a while the farmer happened to look back. What a surprise for him! He was frightened to find a boy instead of his cow tied to the carreton. "Why are you there? Where is my cow?" he shouted furiously. "Rascal, give me my cow!" "Oh, don't be angry with me!" said Ambrosio. "Wait a minute, and I will tell you my story. Once, when I was a small boy, my mother became very angry with me. She cursed me, and suddenly I was transformed into a cow; and now I am changed back into my own shape. It is not my fault that you bought me: I could not tell you not to do so, for I could not speak at the time. Now, generous farmer, please give me my freedom! for I am very anxious to see my old home again." The farmer did not know what to do, for he was very sorry to lose his cow. When he reached home, he told his wife the story. Now, his wife was a kind-hearted woman; so, after thinking a few minutes, she said, "Husband, what can we do? We ought to set him free. It is by the great mercy of God that he has been restored to his former self." So the wily boy got off. He rejoined his friend, and they had a good laugh over the two simple folks. Notes. Like the preceding, this story is of Oriental origin. It must have grown up among a people to whom the idea of metempsychosis was well known, but who at the same time held a skeptical view of that doctrine. Whether or not this droll reached the Philippines by way of the Iberian Peninsula, is hard to say definitely. A Spanish folk-tale narrating practically the same incident is to be found in C. Sellers, pp. 1 ff.: "The Ingenious Student." There the shrewd but poverty-stricken Juan Rivas steals a mule from the pack-train of a simple-minded muleteer; and while the companions escape with the animal and sell it, Juan puts on the saddle and bridle, and takes the place of the stolen beast. His explanation that he has just fulfilled a long period of punishment imposed on him by Mother Church satisfies the astonished mule-owner, and Juan escapes with only the admonition never again to incur the wrath of his spiritual Mother. The oldest version with which I am familiar is the "Arabian Nights" anecdote of "The Simpleton and the Sharper" (Burton's translation, v : 83). This story is practically identical with ours, except that the Filipino version lacks the additional final comical touch of the Arabian. The owner of the ass, after the adventure with the sharper, went to the market to buy another beast, "and, lo! he beheld his own ass for sale. And when he recognized it, he advanced to it, and, putting his mouth to its ear, said, 'Wo to thee, O unlucky! Doubtless thou hast returned to intoxication and beaten thy mother again. By Allah, I will never again buy thee!'" The sharper had previously given as the reason of his transformation the fact that his mother had cursed him when he, in a fit of drunkenness, had beaten her. Clouston tells this story in his "Book of Noodles" (81-83). Stories of the transformation of a child into an animal because of a parent's curse are found all over Europe. This motif is also widespread in the Philippines among both the Christian and the Pagan tribes. It is usually incorporated in an origin story, such as "The Origin of Monkeys." For this belief among a non-Christian people in northern Luzon, see Cole, Nos. 65-67. None of these tales, however, assume the droll form: they are told as serious etiological myths. TALE 16 THE CLEVER HUSBAND AND WIFE. Narrated by Elisa Cordero, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, La Laguna. She heard the story from her servant. Pedro had been living as a servant in a doctor's house for more than nine years. He wanted very much to have a wife, but he had no business of any kind on which to support one. One day he felt very sad. His look of dejection did not escape the notice of his master, who said, "What is the matter, my boy? Why do you look so sad? Is there anything I can do to comfort you?" "Oh, yes!" said Pedro. "What do you want me to do?" asked the doctor. "Master," the man replied, "I want a wife, but I have no money to support one." "Oh, don't worry about money!" replied his master. "Be ready to-morrow, and I will let you marry the woman you love." The next day the wedding was held. The doctor let the couple live in a cottage not far from his hacienda, [58] and he gave them two hundred pieces of gold. When they received the money, they hardly knew what to do with it, as Pedro had never had any business of any sort. "What shall we do after we have spent all our money?" asked the wife. "Oh, we can ask the doctor for more," answered Pedro. Years passed by, and one day the couple had not even a cent with which to buy food. So Pedro went to the doctor and asked him for some money. The doctor, who had always been kind to them, gave him twenty pieces of gold; but these did not last very long, and it was not many days before the money was all spent. The husband and wife now thought of another way by which they could get money from the doctor. Early one day Pedro went to the doctor's house weeping. He said that his wife had died, and that he had nothing with which to pay for her burial. (He had rubbed onion-juice on his eyes, so that he looked as if he were really crying.) When the doctor heard Pedro's story, he pitied the man, and said to him, "What was the matter with your wife? How long was she sick?" "For two days," answered Pedro. "Two days!" exclaimed the doctor, "why did you not call me, then? We should have been able to save her. Well, take this money and see that she gets a decent burial." Pedro returned home in good spirits. He found his wife Marta waiting for him at the door, and they were happy once more; but in a month the money was all used up, and they were on the point of starving again. Now, the doctor had a married sister whom Pedro and his wife had worked for off and on after their marriage. Pedro told his wife to go to the doctor's sister, and tell her that he was dead and that she had no money to pay for the burial. Marta set out, as she was told; and when she arrived at the sister's house, the woman said to her, "Marta, why are you crying?" "My husband is dead, and I have no money to pay for his burial," said Marta, weeping. "You have served us well, so take this money and see that masses are said for your husband's soul," said the kind-hearted mistress. That evening the doctor visited his sister to see her son who was sick. The sister told him that Marta's husband had died. "No," answered the doctor, "it was Marta who died." They argued and argued, but could not agree; so they finally decided to send one of the doctor's servants to see which one was dead. When Pedro saw the servant coming, he told his wife to lie flat and stiff in the bed as if she were dead; and when the servant entered, Pedro showed him his dead wife. The servant returned, and told the doctor and his sister that it was Marta who was dead; but the sister would not believe him, for she said that perhaps he was joking. So they sent another servant. This time Marta made Pedro lie down stiff and flat in the bed; and when the servant entered the house, he saw the man lying as if dead. So he hurried back and told the doctor and his sister what he had seen. Now neither knew what to believe. The next morning, therefore, the doctor and his sister together visited the cottage of Pedro. They found the couple both lying as if dead. After examining them, however, the doctor realized that they were merely feigning death. He was so pleased by the joke, and so glad to find his old servants alive, that he took them home with him and made them stay at his house. Notes. This droll seems to be derived from the "1001 Nights" (271st to 290th nights of the Breslau edition, "The Story of Abu-l-hasan the Wag, or the Sleeper Awakened"). The Arabian story is not only more detailed, but contains much preliminary matter that is altogether lacking in our story. In fact, the two are so dissimilar, except for the trick the husband and wife play on their benefactor to get more money, that it is hard to demonstrate a historical connection between the two. I have in text and translation (the latter unpublished) a Tagalog metrical version of the Arabian story. This metrical version, which is told in 1240 lines, is entitled (in translation) "The Story of Abu-Hasan, Who dreamed when he was Awake. Poem by Franz Molteni. First edition, Manila." Although this work is not dated, it probably appeared after 1900. In general, the Tagalog poem agrees with the "1001 Nights" story, though it differs in details. An analysis of the differences in the first part of the narratives need not concern us here, as our folk-tale is connected with only the last third of the romance. In the metrical version, after Abu, through the favor of the sultan, has been married to Nuzhat, one of the ladies-in-waiting, the new couple begin to live extravagantly, and soon exhaust the dowry and wedding gifts. Then after much deliberation Abu decides to go to the sultan, tell him that Nuzhat his wife is dead, and ask for money for her burial. The ruse succeeds; Abu returns home with a thousand ounces of gold. He at once counsels his wife to go to the sultana with a similar story that he is dead and that money is needed for his funeral. Nuzhat, too, receives a thousand ounces from the sultana. The sultan now visits his wife, and tells her of the death of Nuzhat. She insists that it is Abu who is dead, and they argue violently about the matter. Finally the sultan decides to send one of his servants to report the truth. When Abu sees the servant coming, he bids his wife lie on the bier, and the servant is shown her corpse. He reports that it is Nuzhat who is dead. The sultana is enraged at the servant's statement, and sends her nurse for the truth. This time Abu lies on the bier, and Nuzhat shows his body to the nurse. When the old woman returns with her contradictory story, the sultan's servant calls her a black falsifying witch. At last the sultan and sultana themselves go to see. Both Abu and Nuzhat are found lying as if dead. The sultan and his wife now argue so violently as to which of their favorites died first, that the deceitful couple, fearful of the outcome, kneel before their rulers, confess the trick, and beg forgiveness. The royal pair laugh at the joke, and give Abu and his wife enough to support them the rest of their days. The last part of the Arabian story is substantially as given above, only Nuzhat goes first to the sultana with the account of Abu's death, after which Abu visits the sultan and tells him of Nuzhat's death. Then follows the quarrel between the sultan and his wife over the contradictory reports brought back by the two messengers. All four go in person to discover the truth. Both Nuzhat and Abu are found dead. Sultan: "I would give a thousand pieces of gold to know which died first." Abu jumps up, says that he died first, and claims the reward. Ending as above. This story of Abu is also told as a folk-tale in Simla, northern India (Dracott, 166-173), where it retains the Arabic title, "Abul Hussain," and is almost identical with the "1001 Nights" version. In the Simla tale, however, the despatching of servants to learn which one is really dead is lacking. The sultan and his wife together go to Abul's house, and find both dead. "If we could only find out which died first!" etc. Our story, the Tagalog folk-tale, is told almost as an anecdote. The sultan has been transformed into a doctor; the sultana, into the doctor's sister; Abu, into a poor servant, Pedro; and Nuzhat, into Marta. The glitter of the Oriental harem has vanished, as indeed has also the first two-thirds of the story. The descent in setting and language has been so great, that I am inclined to suspect that this droll has existed--at least, in one family--for a long time. It could hardly have been derived from Molteni's poetic version. For the same sort of relationship between another folk-tale and an "Arabian Nights" story, see No. 13 and the notes. TALE 17 THE THREE BROTHERS. Narrated by Gregorio Frondoso, a Bicol from Tigaon, Camarines. The narrator says, "This story was told to me by an old man who happened to stay at our house one night. He was a traveller. I was then a little boy." Once upon a time, when wishing was having, there dwelt in the joyous village of Delight a poor farmer, Tetong, with his loving wife Maria. His earning for a day's toil was just enough to sustain them; yet they were peaceful and happy. Nevertheless they thought that their happiness could not be complete unless they had at least one child. So morning and night they would kneel before their rustic altar and pray God to grant them their desire. As they were faithful in their purpose, their wish was fulfilled. A son was born to them, and joy filled their hearts. The couple's love for their child grew so intense, that they craved for another, and then for still another. The Lord was mindful of their prayers; and so, as time went on, two more sons were born to them. The second son they named Felipe; and the youngest, Juan. The name of the oldest was Pedro. All three boys were lovely and handsome, and they greatly delighted their parents. In the course of time, however, when they were about eight, seven, and six years old, Pedro, Felipe, and Juan became monstrously great eaters. Each would eat at a single meal six or seven chupas [59] of rice: consequently their father was obliged to work very hard, for he had five mouths to feed. In this state of affairs, Tetong felt that, although these children had been born to him and his wife as an increase of their happiness, they would finally exhaust what little he had. Nor was Maria any the less aware of the gluttony of her sons. By degrees their love for their sons ripened into hatred, and at last Tetong resolved to do away with his children. One night, while he and his wife were sitting before their dim light and their three sons were asleep, Tetong said to his wife, "Do you not think it would be better to get rid of our sons? As you see, we are daily becoming poorer and poorer because of them. I have decided to cast them away into some distant wild forest, where they may feed themselves on fruits or roots." On hearing these words of her husband, Maria turned pale: her blood ran cold in her veins. But what could she do? She felt the same distress as her husband. After a few moments of silence, she replied in a faltering voice, "My husband, you may do as you wish." Accordingly Tetong made ready the necessary provisions for the journey, which consisted of a sack of rice and some preserved fish. The next morning, on the pretext of planting camotes [60] and corn on the hill some thirty miles away from the village, he ordered his sons to accompany him. When they came to a forest, their father led them through a circuitous path, and at last took them to the hill. As soon as they arrived there, each set to work: one cut down trees, another built a shed, and the others cleared a piece of land in which to plant the camotes and corn. After two weeks their provisions were almost used up. Tetong then called his sons together, and said to them, "My sons, we have very little to eat now. I am going to leave you for some days: I am going back to our village to get rice and fish. Be very good to one another, and continue working, for our camotes will soon have roots, and our corn ears." Having said these words, he blessed them and left. Days, weeks, and months elapsed, but Tetong did not reappear. The corn bore ears, and the camotes produced big sound roots; but these were not sufficient to support the three brothers. Nor did they know the way back to their home. At last, realizing that their father and mother did not care for them any more, they agreed to wander about and look for food. They roved through woods, thickets, and jungles. At last, fatigued and with bodies tired and bruised, they came to a wide river, on the bank of which they stopped to rest. While they were bewailing their unhappy lot, they caught sight, on the other side of the river, of banana-trees with bunches of ripe fruit. They determined to get those fruits; but, as they knew nothing about swimming, they had to cut down bamboos and join them together to bridge the stream. So great was their hunger, that each ate three bunches of the ripe bananas. After they had satisfied their hunger, they continued on their way refreshed. Soon they came upon a dark abyss. Curious to know what it might contain, the three brothers looked down into it, but they could not see the bottom. Not contented, however, with only seeing into the well, they decided to go to the very bottom: so they gathered vines and connected them into a rope. Pedro was the first to make the attempt, but he could not stand the darkness. Then Felipe tried; but he too became frightened, and could not stay long in the dark. At last Juan's turn came. He went down to the very bottom of the abyss, where he found a vast plain covered with trees and bushes and shrubs. On one side he saw at a short distance a green house. He approached the house, and saw a most beautiful lady sitting at the door. When she saw him, she said to him in friendly tones, "Hail, Juan! I wonder at your coming, for no earthly creature has ever before been here. However, you are welcome to my house." With words of compliment Juan accepted her invitation, and entered the house. He was kindly received by that lady, Maria. They fell in love with each other, and she agreed to go with Juan to his home. They had talked together but a short while, when Maria suddenly told Juan to hide, for her guardian, the giant, was coming. Soon the monster appeared, and said to Maria in a terrible voice, "You are concealing some one. I smell human flesh." She denied that she was, but the giant searched all corners of the house. At last Juan was found, and he boldly fought with the monster. He received many wounds, but they were easily healed by Maria's magic medicine. After a terrific struggle, the giant was killed. Maria applauded Juan's valor. She gave him food, and related stories to him while he was eating. She also told him of her neighbor Isabella, none the less beautiful than she. Juan, in turn, told her of many things in his own home that were not found in that subterranean plain. When he had finished eating and had recovered his strength, Juan said that they had better take Isabella along with them too. Maria agreed to this. Accordingly Juan set out to get Isabella. When he came to her house, she was looking out the window. As soon as she saw him, she exclaimed in a friendly manner, "O Juan! what have you come here for? Since my birth I have never seen an earthly creature like you!" "Madam," returned Juan in a low voice, "my appearance before you is due to some Invisible Being I cannot describe to you." The moment Isabella heard these words, she blushed. "Juan," she said, "come up!" Juan entered, and related to her his unfortunate lot, and how he had found the abyss. Finally, struck with Isabella's fascinating beauty, Juan expressed his love for her. They had not been talking long together, when footsteps were heard approaching nearer and nearer. It was her guardian, the seven-headed monster. "Isabella," it growled, with an angry look about, "some human creature must be somewhere in the house." "There is nobody in the house but me," she exclaimed. The monster, however, insisted. Seeking all about the house, it at last discovered Juan, who at once attacked with his sword. In this encounter he was also successful, cutting off all the seven heads of the monster. With great joy Juan and Isabella returned to Maria's house. Then the three went to the foot of the well. There Juan found the vine still suspended. He tied one end of it around Isabella's waist, and then she was pulled up by the two brothers waiting above. When they saw her, Pedro and Felipe each claimed her, saying almost at the same time, "What a beauty! She is mine." Isabella assured them that there were other ladies below prettier than she. When he heard these words, Felipe dropped one end of the vine again. When Maria reached the top of the well, Felipe felt glad, and claimed her for himself. As the two brothers each had a maiden now, they would not drop the vine a third time; but finally Maria persuaded them to do so. On seeing only their brother's figure, however, the two unfeeling brothers let go of the vine, and Juan plunged back into the darkness. "O my friends!" said Maria, weeping, "this is not the way to treat a brother. Had it not been for him, we should not be here now." Then she took her magic comb, saying to it, "Comb, if you find Juan dead, revive him; if his legs and arms are broken, restore them." Then she dropped it down the well. By means of this magic comb, Juan was brought back to life. The moment he was able to move his limbs, he groped his way in the dark, and finally he found himself in the same subterranean plain again. As he knew of no way to get back to earth, he made up his mind to accept his fate. As he was lazily strolling about, he came to a leafy tree with spreading branches. He climbed up to take a siesta among its fresh branches. Just as he closed his eyes, he heard a voice calling, "Juan, Juan! Wake up! Go to the Land of the Pilgrims, for there your lot awaits you." He opened his eyes and looked about him, but he saw nothing. "It is only a bird," he said, "that is disturbing my sleep." So he shut his eyes again. After some moments the same voice was heard again from the top of the tree. He looked up, but he could not see any one. However, the voice continued calling to him so loudly, that he could not sleep. So he descended from the tree to find that land. In his wanderings he met an old man wearing very ragged, worn-out clothes. Juan asked him about the Land of the Pilgrims. The old man said to him, "Here, take this piece of cloth, which, as you see, I have torn off my garment, and show it to a hermit you will find living at a little distance from here. Then tell him your wish." Juan took the cloth and went to the hermit. When the hermit saw Juan entering his courtyard without permission, he was very angry. "Hermit," said Juan, "I have come here on a very important mission. While I was sleeping among the branches of a tree, a bird sang to me repeatedly that I must go to the Land of the Pilgrims, where my lot awaits me. I resolved to look for this land. On my way I met an old man, who gave me this piece of cloth and told me to show it to you and ask you about this place I have mentioned." When the hermit saw the cloth, his anger was turned into sorrow and kindness. "Juan," he said, "I have been here a long time, but I have never seen that old man." Now, this hermit had in his care all species of animals. He summoned them all into his courtyard, and asked each about the Land of the Pilgrims; but none could give any information. When he had asked them all in vain, the hermit told Juan to go to another hermit living some distance away. Accordingly Juan left to find this hermit. At first, like the other, this hermit was angry on seeing Juan; but when he saw the piece of cloth, his anger was turned into pity and sorrow. Juan told him what he was looking for, and the hermit sounded a loud trumpet. In a moment there was an instantaneous rushing of birds of every description. He asked every one about the Land of the Pilgrims, but not one knew of the place. But just as Juan was about to leave, suddenly there came an eagle swooping down into the courtyard. When asked if it knew of the Land of the Pilgrims, it nodded its head. The hermit then ordered it to bear Juan to the Land of the Pilgrims. It willingly obeyed, and flew across seas and over mountains with Juan on its back. After Juan had been carried to the wished-for land, the eagle returned to its master. Here Juan lived with a poor couple, who cared for him as if he were their own child, and he served them in turn. He asked them about the land they were living in. They told him that it was governed by a tyrannical king who had a beautiful daughter. They said that many princes who courted her had been put to death because they had failed to fulfil the tasks required of them. When Juan heard of this beautiful princess, he said to himself, "This is the lot that awaits me. She is to be my wife." So, in spite of the dangers he ran the risk of, he resolved to woo her. One day, when her tutors were away, he made a kite, to which he fastened a letter addressed to the princess, and flew it. While she was strolling about in her garden, the kite suddenly swooped down before her. She was surprised, and wondered. "What impudent knave," she said, "ventures to let fall his kite in my garden?" She stepped towards the kite, looked at it, and saw the letter written in bold hand. She read it. After a few moments' hesitation, she replaced it with a letter of her own in which she told him to come under the window of her tower. When he came there, the princess spoke to him in this manner: "Juan, if you really love me, you must undergo hardships. Show yourself to my father to-morrow, and agree to do all that he commands you to do. Then come back to me." Juan willingly promised to undertake any difficulties for her sake. The next morning Juan waited at the stairway of the king's palace. The king said to him, "Who are you, and what do you come here for?" "O king! I am Juan, and I have come here to marry your daughter." "Very well, Juan, you can have your wish if you perform the task I set you. Take these grains of wheat and plant them in that hill, and to-morrow morning bring me, out of these same grains, newly baked bread for my breakfast. Then you shall be married immediately to my daughter. But if you fail to accomplish this task, you shall be beheaded." Juan bowed his head low, and left. Sorrowful he appeared before the princess. "What's the matter, Juan?" she said. "O my dear princess! your father has imposed on me a task impossible to perform. He gave me these grains of wheat to be planted in that hill, and to-morrow he expects a newly baked loaf of bread from them." "Don't worry, Juan. Go home now, and to-morrow show yourself to my father. The bread will be ready when he awakes." The next morning Juan repaired to the palace, and was glad to find the bread already on the table. When the king woke up, he was astonished to see that Juan had performed the task. "Now, Juan," said the king, "one more task for you. Under my window I have two big jars,--one full of mongo, [61] the other of very fine sand. I will mix them, and you have to assort them so that each kind is in its proper jar again." Juan promised to fulfil this task. He passed by the window of the princess, and told her what the king had said. "Go home and come back here to-morrow," she said to him. "The king will find the mongo and sand in their proper jars." The next morning Juan went back to the palace. The king, just arisen from bed, looked out of the window, and was astounded to see the mongo and sand perfectly assorted. "Well, Juan," said the king, "you have successfully performed the tasks I required of you. But I have one thing more to ask of you. Yesterday afternoon, while my wife and I were walking along the seashore, my gold ring fell into the water. I want you to find it, and bring it to me to-morrow morning." "Your desire shall be fulfilled, O king!" replied Juan. He told the princess of the king's wish. "Come here tomorrow just before dawn," she said, "and bring a big basin and a bolo. We will go together to find the ring." Just before dawn the next day he went to her tower, where she was waiting for him in the disguise of a village maid. They went to the seashore where the ring was supposed to have been lost. There the princess Maria--that was her name--said to him, "Now take your basin and bolo and cut me to pieces. Pour out the chopped mass into the water in which my father's ring was dropped, but take care not to let a single piece of the flesh fall to the ground!" On hearing these words, Juan stood dumfounded, and began to weep. Then in an imploring tone he said, "O my beloved! I would rather have you chop my body than chop yours." "If you love me," she said, "do as I tell you." Then Juan reluctantly seized the bolo, and with closed eyes cut her body to pieces and poured the mass into the water where the ring was supposed to be. In five minutes there rose from the water the princess with the ring on her finger. But Juan fell asleep; and before he awoke, the ring fell into the water again. "Oh, how little you love me!" she exclaimed. "The ring fell because you did not catch it quickly from my finger. Cut up my body as before, and pour the mass of flesh into the water again." Accordingly Juan cut her to pieces a second time, and again poured the mass into the water. Then in a short time Maria rose from the water with the ring on her finger; but Juan fell asleep again, and again the ring fell back into the water. Now Maria was angry: so she cut a gash on his finger, and told him to cut her body to pieces and pour the mass out as before. At last the ring was found again. This time Juan was awake, and he quickly caught the ring as she rose from the water. That morning Juan went before the king and presented the ring to him. When the monarch saw it, he was greatly astonished, and said to himself, "How does he accomplish all the tasks I have given him? Surely he must be a man of supernatural powers." Raising his head, he said to Juan, "Juan, you are indeed the man who deserves the hand of my daughter; but I want you to do me one more service. This will be the last. Fetch me my horse, for I want to go out hunting to-day." Now, this horse could run just as fast as the wind. It was a very wild horse, too, and no one could catch it except the king himself and the princess. Juan promised, however, and repaired to Maria's tower. When she learned her father's wish, she went with Juan and helped him catch the horse. After they had caught it, she caught hers too. Then they returned to the palace. Juan and Maria now agreed to run away. So after Juan had tied the king's horse near the stairway, they mounted Maria's horse and rode off rapidly. When the king could not find his daughter, he got on his horse and started in pursuit of Juan and Maria, who were now some miles ahead. But the king's horse ran so fast, that in a few minutes he had almost overtaken the fugitives. Maria, seeing her father behind them, dropped her comb, and in the wink of an eye a thick grove of bamboos blocked the king's way. By his order, a road was made through the bamboo in a very short time. Then he continued his chase; but just as he was about to overtake them a second time, Maria flung down her ring, and there rose up seven high hills behind them. The king was thus delayed again; but his horse shot over these hills as fast as the wind, so that in a few minutes he was once more in sight of the fugitives. This time Maria turned around and spat. Immediately a wide sea appeared behind them. The king gave up his pursuit, and only uttered these words: "O ungrateful daughter!" Then he turned back to his palace. The young lovers continued their journey until they came to a small village. Here they decided to be married, so they at once went to the village priest. He married them that very day. Juan and Maria now determined to live in that place the rest of their lives, so they bought a house and a piece of land. As time went by, Juan thought of his parents. One day he asked permission from his wife to visit his father and mother. "You may go," she said; "but remember not to let a single drop of your father's or mother's tears fall on your cheeks, for you will forget me if you do." Promising to remember her words, Juan set out. When his parents saw him, they were so glad that they embraced him and almost bathed him with tears of joy. Juan forgot Maria. It happened that on the day Juan reached home, Felipe, his brother, was married to Maria, the subterranean lady, and a feast was being held in the family circle. The moment Maria recognized Juan, whom she loved most, she annulled her marriage with Felipe, and wanted to marry Juan. Accordingly the village was called to settle the question, and Maria and Juan were married that same day. The merrymaking and dancing continued. In the mean time there came, to the surprise of every one, a beautiful princess riding in a golden carriage drawn by fine horses. She was invited to the dance. While the people were enjoying themselves dancing and singing, they were suddenly drawn together around this princess to see what she was doing. She was sitting in the middle of the hall. Before her she had a dog chained. Then she began to ask the dog these questions:-- "Did you not serve a certain king for his daughter?" "No!" answered the dog. "Did he not give you grains of wheat to be planted in a hill, and the morning following you were to give him newly baked bread made from the wheat?" "No!" "Did he not mix together two jars of mongo and sand, then order you to assort them so that the mongo was in one jar and the sand in the other?" "No!" "Do you not remember when you and a princess went together to the seashore to find the ring of her father, and when you cut her body to pieces and poured the chopped mass into the water?" When Juan, who was watching, heard this last question, he rushed from the ring of people that surrounded her and knelt before her, saying, "O my most precious wife! I implore your forgiveness!" Then the new-comer, who was none other than Maria, Juan's true wife, embraced him, and their former love was restored. So the feast went on. To the great joy of Felipe, Maria, the subterranean lady, was given back to him; and the two couples lived happily the rest of their lives. Notes. This story, which is a mixture of well-known motifs and incidents, really falls into two parts, though an attempt is made at the end to bind them together. The first part, ending with the treachery of the brothers after the hero has made his underground journey and rescued the two beautiful maidens from their giant captors, has resemblances to parts of the "Bear's Son" cycle. The second half of the story is a well-developed member of the "Forgotten Betrothed" cycle, preserving, in fact, all the characteristic incidents, and also prefacing to this whole section details that form a transition between it and part 1. I am unable to point out any European parallels to the story as a whole, but analogues of both parts are very numerous. As the latter half constitutes the major portion of our story, we shall consider it first. The fundamental and characteristic incidents of the "Forgotten Betrothed" cycle (sometimes called the "True Bride" cycle) are as follows:-- A The performance by the hero of difficult tasks through the help of the loved one, who is usually the daughter of a magician. B The magic flight of the couple, either with transformations of themselves or with the casting behind them of obstacles to retard the pursuer. C The forgetting of the bride by the hero because he breaks a taboo (the cause of the forgetting is usually a parental kiss, which the hero should have avoided). D The re-awakened memory of the hero during his marriage ceremony or wedding feast with a new bride, either through the conversation of the true bride with an animal or through the true bride's kiss. In some forms of the story, the hero's memory is restored on the third of three nights sold to the heroine by the venial second bride. [62] E The marriage of the hero and heroine. Andrew Lang (Custom and Myth, 2d ed., 87-102) traces incidents A and B as far back as the myth of Jason, the earliest literary reference to which is in the Iliad (vii, 467; XXIII, 747). But this story does not contain the last three incidents: clearly they have come from some other source, and have been joined to the first two,--a natural process in the development of a folk-tale. The episode of the magic flight is very widely distributed: Lang mentions Zulu, Gaelic, Norse, Malagasy, Russian, Italian, and Japanese versions. Of the magic flight combined with the performance of difficult tasks set by the girl's father, the stories are no less widely scattered: Greece, Madagascar, Scotland, Russia, Italy, North America (Algonquins), Finland, Samoa (p. 94). The only reasonable explanation of these resemblances, according to Lang, is the theory of transmission; and if Mr. Lang, the champion of the "anthropological theory," must needs explain in this rather business-like way a comparatively simple tale, what but the transmission theory can explain far more complicated stories of five or six distinct incidents in the same sequence? The "Forgotten Betrothed" cycle was clearly invented but once; when or where, we shall not attempt to say. But that its excellent combination of rapid, marvellous, and pathetic situations has made it a tale of almost universal appeal, is attested to by the scores of variants that have been collected within the last half-century and more. In his notes to Campbell's Gaelic story, "The Battle of the Birds," No. 2, Köhler cites Norwegian, Swedish, Italian, German, and Hungarian versions (Orient und Occident, 2 : 107). Ralston (pp. 132-133), Cosquin (2 : No. 32 and notes), Crane (No. XV and notes, pp. 343-344), Bolte (in his additions to Köhler, 1 : 170-174), and Bolte-Polívka (to Nos. 51, 56, 113) have added very full bibliographies. It is unnecessary here to list all the variants of this story that have been collected, but we will examine some of the analogues to our tale from the point of view of the separate incidents. After the hero of our present story has been deserted by his treacherous brothers, and has found himself once more in the under-world, he is told by a mysterious voice to go to the Land of the Pilgrims, where he will find his fate. He meets an old man, who directs him to a hermit. The hermit, in turn, directs the youth to another hermit, who learns from an eagle where the Land of the Pilgrims is, and directs the bird to carry the youth thither. While the story does not state that the Land of the Pilgrims is on the "upper-world," we must suppose that it is, and that the eagle is the means whereby the hero escapes from the underground kingdom. In a large number of members of the "Bear's Son" cycle, to which, as has been said, the first part of our story belongs, this is the usual means of escape. The incident is also found in a large number of tales not connected otherwise with this group (see Cosquin, 2 : 141-144). It is sometimes combined with the quest for the water of life, with which in turn is connected the situation of the hero's being referred from one guide to another (giants, sages, hermits, etc.), as in our story (cf. Grimm, No. 97, and notes; also Bolte-Polívka to No. 97, especially 2 : 400; Thorpe, 158; Tawney, 1 : 206; Persian Tales, 2 : 171). This whole section appears to have been introduced as a transition between parts 1 and 2. The second part of our story opens with the "bride-wager" incident (see Von Hahn, 1 : 54, "Oenomaosformel"), though I can point to no parallel of Juan's method of making love to the princess; that is, by means of a letter conveyed by a kite. The tasks which the hero is obliged to perform vary greatly in the different members of the "Forgotten Betrothed" cycle. Juan has to plant wheat and bake bread from the ripened grain in twenty-four hours, separate a jar of mongo from a jar of sand, and fetch a ring from the sea. The first task imposed by the king has analogies in a number of European tales. In Groome's No. 34 the Devil says to the hero, "Here is one more task for you: drain the marsh, and plough it, and sow it, and to-morrow bring me roasted maize" (p. 106). In Groome's No. 7 the king says to the old man, "See this great forest! Fell it all, and make it a level field; and plough it for me, and break up all the earth; and sow it with millet by to-morrow morning. And mark well what I tell you: you must bring me a cake [made from the ripened millet-seed, clearly; see p. 23] made with sweet milk." Cosquin (2 : 24) cites a Catalan and a Basque story in which the hero has not only to fell a great forest, but to sow grain and harvest it. In kind this is the same sort of impossible task imposed on Truth in a Visayan story (JAFL 19 : 100-102), where the hero has to beget, and the princess his wife to bring forth, in one night, three children. Helpful eagles solve this difficulty for Truth by conveying to him three newly-born babes. The second task is a well-known one, and is found in many members of the "Grateful Animals" cycle. Usually it is ants, which the hero has earlier spared, that perform the service of separating two kinds of seed, etc. (see Tawney, 1 : 361 and note). The mixture of sand and mongo, in our story, is not a very happy conception. Originally it must have been either gravel and mongo, or else mongo and some other kind of lentil nearly resembling it in size. The third task, with the method of accomplishing it, is perhaps the most interesting of all. In a Samoan story of the "Forgotten Betrothed" cycle (Lang, op. cit., p. 98), the heroine bids the hero cut her body into pieces and cast them into the sea. There she becomes a fish and recovers the ring. In a Catalan tale (Rondallayre, 1 : 41) the hero is also required to fetch a ring from the bottom of the sea. His loved one tells him to cut her to pieces, taking care not to let any part drop to the ground, and to throw all into the water. In spite of all his care, he lets fall to earth one drop of blood. The heroine recovers the ring, but lacks the first joint of her little finger when she resumes her original shape. The "magic flight" is discussed by Cosquin (1 : 152-154) and Macculloch (167 ff.). Two kinds of transformation are to be noted in connection with this escape: the pursued either transform themselves, and thus escape detection by the pursuer, or else cast behind them magic objects, which turn into retarding and finally insurmountable obstacles in the path of the pursuer. In our story the transformations are of the second type, as they are in the story of "Pedro and the Witch" (No. 36). So far as I know, the first type does not occur in Filipino folk-tales. Both types are found frequently in Occidental Märchen, but in Oriental stories the second seems to predominate over the first (see Cosquin's citations of Oriental occurrences of this incident). In Somadeva (Tawney, 1 : 355 ff.) we have two flights and both types of escape. As to the details of the flight itself in our story, we may note that the comb becoming a thicket of thorns has many analogues. The ring becoming seven mountains suggests with its magic number an Oriental origin. With spittle turning into a lake or sea, compare similar transformations of drops of water and a bladder full of water (Macculloch, 171-172). The incident of the "forgetting of the betrothed" is usually motivated with some sort of broken taboo. When the hero desires to visit his parents, and leaves his sweetheart outside the city, she usually warns him not to allow himself to be kissed. In a Gaelic Märchen he is forbidden to speak; sometimes he is warned by his wife not to eat, etc. (Köhler-Bolte, 172). In our story the taboo is somewhat unusual: the hero is to allow no tears of joy shed by his parents to fall on his cheeks. The idea behind this charge, however, is the same as that behind the forbidden kiss. With the taboo forbidding the partaking of food, compare the episode of the "Lotus-Eaters" in the Odyssey. In most of the Märchen of this group the re-awakening of the memory of the hero is accomplished through the conversation of two birds (doves or hens) which the forgotten betrothed manages to introduce into the presence of her lover just before he is married to another (Köhler-Bolte, 172; Rittershaus, 150). In our story the heroine asks a dog questions about the tasks she had helped the hero perform. I can point to no exact parallel of this situation, though it agrees in general with the methods used in the other members of the group. For the first part of our story (with the exception of the introduction), compare Köhler-Bolte, 292-296, 537-543; Gonzenbach, No. 58 and notes; F. Panzer's "Beowulf," passim. See also the notes to Nos. 3 and 4 of this collection. In connection with our story as a whole, I will cite in conclusion two native metrical romances that preserve many of the incidents we have been discussing. The first is a Pangasinan romance (of which I have not the text) entitled "Don Agustin, Don Pedro, and Don Juan." This story contains the pursuit by the three princes of a snake to cure the sick king their father (the "quest" motif), the descent into the well by the youngest brother, his fight with monsters in the underworld and his rescue of three princesses, the treachery of the older brothers, the final rescue of the hero by the youngest princess. While this story lacks the "forgotten-betrothed" motif, it is unquestionably related with the first part of our folk-tale, [63] The second romance, which is one of the most popular and widespread in the Islands, having been printed in at least five of the dialects,--Tagalog, Pampango, Visayan, Ilocano, and Bicol,--I will synopsize briefly, because it is either the source of our folk-tale or has been derived from it. The fact that not all the literary versions agree entirely, and that the story as a folk-tale seems to be so universally known, makes it seem more likely that the second alternative expresses the truth; i.e., that the romance has been derived from the folk-tale. In the Tagalog version the title runs thus: "The Story of Three Princes, sons of King Fernando and Queen Valeriana in the Kingdom of Berbania. The Adarna Bird." The poem is long, containing 4136 octosyllabic lines. The date of my copy is 1906; but Retana mentions an edition before 1898 (No. 4169). Briefly the story runs as follows:-- King Fernando of Berbania has three sons,--Diego, Pedro, and Juan. One night the king dreams that Juan was killed by robbers. He immediately becomes sick, and a skilful physician tells him that the magic Adarna bird is the only thing that can cure his illness. Diego sets out to find the bird, but is unsuccessful; he is turned to stone. A year later Pedro sets out--meets the same fate. At last Juan goes, seeing that his brothers do not return. Because of his charity a leper directs the youth to a hermit's house. The hermit tells Juan how to avoid the enchantment, secure the bird, and liberate his brothers. Juan successful. On the return, however, the envious brothers beat Juan senseless, and, taking the bird from him, make their way back to their father's kingdom alone. But the bird becomes very ugly in appearance, refuses to sing, and the king grows worse. Juan, meantime, is restored by an angel sent from heaven. He finally reaches home; and the Adarna bird immediately becomes beautiful again, and sings of the treachery of Diego and Pedro. The king, recovered, wishes to banish his two older sons; but Juan pleads for them, and they are restored to favor. The king now charges his three sons with the safe-keeping of the bird, threatening with death the one who lets it fly away. One night, while Juan is on watch, he falls asleep. His envious brothers open the cage, and the bird escapes. When Juan awakens and sees the mischief done, he leaves home to look for the Adarna. Next day the king, missing both Juan and the bird, sends Pedro and Diego in search of their brother. They find him in the mountains of Armenia. In their joint search for the bird, the three come to a deep well. Diego and Pedro try in turn to go down, but fear to make the descent to the bottom. Juan is then lowered. At the foot of the well he finds beautiful fields. In his wanderings he comes to a large house where a princess is looking out of the window. She tells Juan that she is in the power of a giant; and so, when the monster returns, Juan kills it. He likewise liberates her sister Leonora, who is in the power of a seven-headed snake. All three--Juan and the two princesses--are hoisted to the top of the well; but when Juan starts back for a ring that Leonora has forgotten, his cruel brothers cut the rope. Leonora sends her pet wolf to cure Juan, and the two brothers with the two princesses return to Berbania. Juana is married to Diego; but Leonora refuses to marry Pedro, asking for a seven-year respite to wait for Juan's return. Meantime Juan has been restored. One day the Adarna bird appears, and sings over his head that there are three beautiful princesses in the kingdom "de los Cristales." Juan sets out to find that place. He meets an old man, who gives him a piece of his shirt and tells him to go to a certain hermit for directions. The hermit receives Juan on presentation of the token, and summons all the animals to question them about the kingdom "de los Cristales;" but none of the animals knows where the kingdom is. This hermit now directs Juan to another hermitage. There the holy man summons all the birds. One eagle knows where it is; and after Juan gets on its back, the eagle flies for a month, and finally reaches the kingdom sought. There, in accordance with the bird's directions, while the princesses are bathing, Juan steals the clothes of the youngest, and will not return them until she promises to marry him. She agrees, and later helps him perform the difficult tasks set him by her enchanter father (levelling mountain, planting wheat, newly-baked bread--recovering flask from sea--removing mountain--recovering ring from sea [same method as in our folk-tale]--catching king's horse). Then the two escape, pursued by the magician. Transformation flight (needle, thorns; piece of soap, mountain; withe [? coje], lake). The baffled magician curses his daughter, and says that she will be forgotten by Juan. When Juan reaches home and sees Leonora, he forgets Maria. On his wedding day with Leonora, an unknown princess comes to attend the festivities. From a small bottle which she has she produces a small Negress and Negro, who dance before the young bridal couple. After each dance the Negress addresses Juan, and recounts to him what Maria has done for him. Then she beats the Negro, but Juan feels the blows. Finally, since Juan remains inflexible, Maria threatens to dash to pieces the bottle, which contains Juan's life. Juan consents to marry her; but Leonora protests, saying that her wolf saved Juan's life. Archbishop called to arbitrate the matter, decides in favor of Leonora. When Maria now floods the country and threatens the whole kingdom with destruction, King Fernando persuades Leonora to take his oldest son Pedro. Juan and Maria are married, and return to the kingdom "de los Cristales." The Visayan version of the "Adarna Bird" is practically identical with the Tagalog up to the point where Juan rescues the two princesses from the underworld. When he and they have been drawn to the top of the well by the two older brothers, Juan tells Pedro and Diego to return home with the two maidens, but says that he will continue the search for the magic bird. He later learns that it is in the possession of Maria, daughter of the King of Salermo. He directs his steps thither, falls in love with the princess, and, together with the bird, they return to Berbania. The three brothers are married at the same time. It will be noticed that here the "forgotten-betrothed" motif is lacking altogether. For a Tagalog folk-tale connected with this romance, but changed so that it is hardly recognizable as a relative, see the story of "The Adorna (sic) Bird" (JAFL 20 : 107-108). It is interesting to note that the Tagalog romance is definitely reminiscent of the "Swan Maidens" cycle in the method Juan uses to win the affections of Maria, the enchanter's daughter. For parallels to Juan's trick of stealing Maria's clothes while she and her sisters are bathing, see Macculloch, 342 f. For a large collection of "Swan Maiden" stories in abstract, see Hartland, chapters X and XI. Considering the fact that both parts of our story are practically world-wide in their distribution, it is almost impossible to say where and when the two in combination first existed. I am inclined to think, on the whole, that our Filipino folk-tale is an importation, and is not native. As to the relationship between the popular and the literary versions of the story, I believe that in general the literary has been derived from the popular. TALE 18 JUAN AND HIS ADVENTURES. Narrated by José Ma. Katigbak, a Tagalog from Lipa, Batangas. He heard the story from Angel Reyes, another Batangueño. Once in a certain village there lived a couple who had three daughters. This family was very poor at first. Near the foot of a mountain was growing a tree with large white leaves. [64] Pedro the father earned their living by selling the leaves of that tree. In time he got so much money from them that he a ordered a large house to be built. Then they left their old home, and went to live in the new house. The father kept on selling the leaves. After a year he decided to cut down the tree, so that he could sell it all at once and get much money. So he went to the foot of the mountain one day, and cut the tree down. As soon as the trunk had crashed to the ground, a large snake came out from the stump. Now, this snake was an enchanter, and was the friend of the kings of the lions, eagles, and fishes, as we shall see. The snake said to Pedro, "I gave you the leaves of this tree to sell; and now, after you have gotten much money from it, you cut it down. There is but one suitable punishment for you: within three days you must bring all your daughters here and give them to me." The man was so astonished at first, that he did not know what to do. He made no reply, and after a few minutes went home. His sadness was so great that he could not even eat. His wife and daughters, noticing his depression, asked him what he was thinking about. At first he did not want to tell them; but they urged and begged so incessantly, that finally he was forced to do so. He said to them, "To-day I cut down the tree where I got the leaves which I sold. A snake came out from the stump, and told me that I should bring you three girls to him or we should all die." "Don't worry, father! we will go there with you," said the three daughters. The next day they prepared to go to the snake. Their parents wept very much. Each of the three girls gave her mother a handkerchief as a remembrance. After they had bidden good-by, they set out on their journey with their father. As soon as they reached the foot of the mountain, the three daughters disappeared at once, and the poor father returned home cheerless. A year had not passed by before a son was born to the old couple. They named him Juan. When the boy was about eighteen years old, his mother showed him the handkerchiefs of his sisters. "Have I any sister?" said Juan to his mother. "Yes, you have three; but they were taken away by a snake," she told him. Juan was so angry, that he asked his parents to give him permission to go in search of his sisters. At first they hesitated, but at last they gave him leave. So, taking the three handkerchiefs with him, Juan set out, and went to the mountain. After travelling for more than ten days, Juan came across three boys quarrelling over the possession of a cap, a pair of sandals, and a key. He went near them, and asked them why they all wanted those three things. The boys told him that the cap would make the person who wore it invisible, the sandals would give their owner the power to fly, and that the key would open any door it touched. Juan told the three boys that it would be better for them to give him those articles than to quarrel about them; and the boys agreed, because they did not want either of the others to have them. So Juan put the key in his pocket, the cap on his head, and the sandals on his feet, and flew away. After he had passed over many mountains, he descended. Near the place where he alighted he saw a cave. He approached its mouth, and opened the door with his key. Inside he saw a girl sitting near a window. He went up to her and took off his cap. "Who are you?" said the girl, startled. "Aren't you my sister?" said Juan. "I have no brother," said the lady, but she was surprised to see the handkerchiefs which Juan showed her. After he had told her his story, she believed that he was really her brother. "You had better hide," said the lady, holding Juan's hand, "for my husband is the king of the lions, and he may kill you if he finds you here." Not long afterwards the lion appeared. She met him at the door. "You must have some visitors here," said the lion, sniffing the air with wide-open nostrils. "Yes," answered the lady, "my brother is here, and I hid him, for I feared that you might kill him." "No, I will not kill him," said the lion. "Where is he?" Juan came out and shook hands with the lion. After they had talked for a few hours, Juan said that he would go to look for his other sisters. The lion told him that they lived on the next two mountains. Juan did not have much trouble in finding his other two sisters. Their husbands were the kings of the fishes and the eagles, and they received him kindly. Juan's three brothers-in-law loved him very much, and promised to aid him whenever he needed their help. Juan now decided to return home and tell his parents where his three sisters were; but he took another way back. He came to a town where all the people were dressed in black, and the decorations of the houses were of the same color. He asked some people what had happened in that town. They told him that a princess was lost, and that he who could bring her back to the king should receive her hand in marriage and also half the property of the king. Juan then went to the king and promised to restore his daughter to him. The king agreed to reward him as the townspeople had said, if he should prove successful. Early the next morning Juan, with his cap, sandals, and key, set out to look for the princess. After a two-days' journey he came to a mountain. Here he descended and began to look around. Finally he saw a huge rock, in which he found a small hole. He put the key in it, and the rock flew open. With his cap of invisibility on his head, he entered. There within he saw many ladies, who were confined in separate rooms. In the very last apartment he found the princess with a giant beside her. He went near the room of the princess, and opened the door with his key. The walls of all the rooms were like those of a prison, and were made of iron bars. Juan approached the princess, and remained near her until the giant went away. As soon as the monster was out of sight, Juan took off his cap. The princess was surprised to see him, but he told her that he had come to take her away. She was very glad, but said that they had better wait for the giant to go away before they started. After a few minutes the giant went out to take a walk. When they saw that he had passed through the main door, they went out also. Juan put on his sandals and flew away with the princess. But when they were very near the king's palace, the princess disappeared: she was taken back by the giant's powerful magic. Juan was very angry, and he returned at once to the giant's cave. He succeeded in opening the main door, but he could not enter. After struggling in vain for about an hour, he at last determined to go to his brothers-in-law for help. When he had explained what he wanted, the king of the eagles said to him, "Juan, the life and power of the giant are in a little box at the heart of the ocean. No one can get that box except the king of the fishes, and no one can open it except the king of the lions. The life of the giant is in a little bird which is inside the box. This bird flies very swiftly, and I am the only one who can catch it. The strength of the giant is in a little egg which is in the box with the bird." When the king of the eagles had finished his story, Juan went to the king of the fishes. "Will you fetch me the box which contains the life and strength of the giant?" said Juan to the king of the fishes. After asking him many questions, his brother-in-law swam away, and soon returned with the box. When Juan had received it from him, he thanked him and went to the king of the lions. The king of the lions willingly opened the box for him. As soon as the box was opened, the little bird inside flew swiftly away. Juan took the egg, however, and went back to the king of the eagles, and asked him to catch the bird. After the little bird had been caught, Juan pushed on to the cave of the giant. When he came there, he opened the door and entered, holding the bird in one hand and the egg in the other. Enraged at the sight of Juan, the giant rushed at him; and Juan was so startled, that he crushed the egg and killed the bird. At once the giant fell on his back, and stretched out his legs to rise no more. Juan now went through the cave, opening all the prison doors, and releasing the ladies. He carried the princess with him back to the palace. As soon as he arrived, a great celebration was held, and he was married to the princess. After the death of the king, Juan became ruler. He later visited his parents, and told them of all his adventures. Then he took them to his own kingdom, where they lived happily together. Notes. A Tagalog variant of this story, entitled "Pedro and the Giants," and narrated by José Hilario from Batangas, runs thus in abstract:-- Two orphan sisters living with their brother Pedro are stolen by two powerful giants. Pedro goes in search of his sisters, and finds them. Contrary to the expectations of all, the two grim brothers-in-law welcome Pedro, and offer to serve him. Pedro later wishes to marry a princess, and the giants demand her of the king her father. He refuses to give her up, although she falls in love with Pedro. To punish his daughter, the king exposes her to the hot sun: but one of the giants shades her with his eagle-like wings. Then the other giant threatens the king; but the monarch says he is safe, for his life is contained in two eggs in an iron box guarded by two clashing rocks. With great personal risk the giant obtains the eggs; and, upon the king's still refusing to give his daughter to Pedro, the giant dashes the eggs to the ground, and the king falls dead. Pedro and the princess are then married. This analogue of our story is not very close in details, yet there are enough general resemblances between the two to make it pretty certain that they are distantly related. Our story of "Juan and his Adventures" belongs to the "Animal Brothers-in-Law" cycle, a formula for which Von Hahn (1 : 53) enumerates the following incidents:-- A Three princes who have been transformed into animals marry the sisters of the hero. B The hero visits his three brothers-in-law. C They help him perform tasks. D They are disenchanted by him. As Crane says (p. 60), this formula varies, of course. Sometimes there are but two sisters (cf. our variant), and the brothers-in-law are freed from their enchantment in some other way than by the hero. For a bibliography of this group, see Crane, 342-343, note 23, to No. 13. Perhaps the best version of this story is that found in Basile, 4 : 3, the argument of which, as given in Burton's translation (2 : 372), runs thus:-- Ciancola, son of the King of Verde-colle, fareth to seek his three sisters, married one with a falcon, another with a stag, and the other with a dolphin; after long journeying he findeth them, and on his return homewards he cometh upon the daughter of a king, who is held prisoner by a dragon within a tower, and calling by signs which had been given him by the falcon, stag, and dolphin, all three came before him ready to help him, and with their aid he slayeth the dragon, and setteth free the princess, whom he weddeth, and together they return to his realm. This argument does not quite do justice to the similarities between Basile's story and ours. For instance, in the Italian story, when the daughters leave, they give their mother three identical rings as tokens. Then a son is born to the queen. When he is fifteen years old, he sets out to look for his sisters, taking the rings with him. Nor, again, does this argument mention the fact that in the end the animal brothers-in-law are transformed into men,--a feature which is found in Basile, but not in our story. In the main, however, it will be seen that the two are very close. In Von Hahn, No. 25, the brothers-in-law are a lion, a tiger, and an eagle. The opening of our story, so far as I know, is not found in any of the other members of this cycle. Usually the sisters are married to the animals in consequence of a king's decision to give his daughters to the first three persons who pass by his palace after a certain hour (Crane, No. XIII); or else the animals present themselves as suitors after the death of the king, who has charged his sons to see that their sisters are married (Von Hahn, No. 25; compare the opening of Wratislaw No. XLI = Wuk, No. 17). In our story, however, Pedro is deprived of his daughters in consequence of his greed. With this situation compare the "Maha-vanija-jataka," No. 493, which tells how some merchants find a magic banyan-tree. From this tree the merchants receive wonderful gifts; but they are insatiable, and finally plan to cut it down to see if there is not large treasure at the roots. The guardian-spirit of the tree, the serpent-king, punishes them. It is not impossible that some such parable as this lies behind the introduction to our story. There is abundant testimony from early travellers in the Islands that the natives in certain sections regarded trees as sacred, and could not be hired to cut them down for fear of offending the resident-spirit. The three handkerchiefs which the sisters leave with their mother as mementos are to be compared with the three rings in Basile's version. In a Serbian story belonging to this cycle (Wuk, No. 5), the three sisters are blown away by a strong wind (cf. our story of "Alberto and the Monsters," No. 39), and fall into the power of three dragons. When the brother, yet unborn at the time of their disappearance, reaches his eighteenth year, he sets out to seek his sisters, taking with him a handkerchief of each. The obtaining of magic articles by a trick of the hero is found in many folk-tales. In Grimm, No. 197, which is distantly related to our story, the hero cheats two giants out of a wishing-cap over which they are quarrelling. In Grimm, No. 92, where we find the same situation, the magic articles are three,--a sword which will make heads fly off, a cloak of invisibility, a pair of transportation-boots (see Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 320 f., especially 331-335). In Grimm, No. 193, a flying saddle is similarly obtained. In Crane, No. XXXVI (p. 136 f.), Lionbruno acquires a pair of transportation-boots, an inexhaustible purse, and a cloak of invisibility. This incident is also found in Somadeva (Tawney, 1 : 14), where the articles are a pair of flying-shoes, a magic staff which writes what is going to happen, and a vessel which can supply any food the owner asks for. In another Oriental collection (Sagas from the Far East, pp. 23-24), the prince and his follower secure a cap of invisibility from a band of quarrelling boys, and a pair of transportation-boots from some disputing demons. Compare Tawney's note for other instances. This incident is also found in an Indian story by Stokes, No. XXII, "How the Raja's Son won the Princess Labam." In this the hero meets four fakirs, whose teacher (and master) has died, and has left four things,--"a bed which carried whosoever sat on it whithersoever he wished to go; a bag that gave its owner whatever he wanted,--jewels, food, or clothes; a stone bowl which gave its owner as much water as he wanted; and a stick that would beat enemies, and a rope that would tie them up." Compare also the "Dadhi-vahana-jataka," No. 186, which is connected with our No. 27. In the Filipino story of "Alberto and the Monsters" (No. 39) the hero acquires a transportation-boot from two quarrelling boys; from two young men, a magic key that will unlock any stone; and from two old men wrangling over it, a hat of invisibility. In another Tagalog story, "Ricardo and his Adventures" (notes to No. 49), appears a flying saddle, but this is not obtained by trickery. For the "Fee-fi-fo-fum" formula hinted at in our story, see Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 289-292. In many of the members of this cycle, when the hero takes his leave of his brothers-in-law, he is given feathers, hair, scales, etc., with which he can summon them in time of need. In our story, however, Juan has no such labor-saving device: he has to visit his brothers a second time when he desires aid against the giant. The last part of our story turns on the idea of the "separable soul or strength" of the dragon, snake, demon, giant, or other monster. This idea has been fully discussed by Macculloch (chapter V). As this conception is widespread in the Orient and is found in Malayan literature (e.g., in "Bidasari"), there is no need of tracing its occurrence in the Philippines to Europe. In the norm of this cycle, the animal brothers-in-law help the hero perform tasks which the king requires all suitors for his daughter's hand to perform. Here the beasts help the hero secure the life and strength of the giant who is holding the princess captive. Taken as a whole, our story seems to have been imported into the Philippines from the Occident, for the reason that no Oriental analogues of it appear to exist, while not a few are known from southern Europe. Our two variants are from the Tagalog province of Batangas, and, so far as I know, the story is not found elsewhere in the Islands. As suggested above, however, the introduction is probably native, or at least very old, and the conclusion has been modified by the influence of another cycle well known in the Orient. TALE 19 JUAN WEARING A MONKEY'S SKIN. Narrated by Lorenzo Licup, a Pampango from Angeles, Pampanga. Once upon a time there was a couple which was at first childless. The father was very anxious to have a son to inherit his property: so he went to the church daily, and prayed God to give him a child, but in vain. One day, in his great disappointment, the man exclaimed without thinking, "O great God! let me have a son, even if it is in the form of a monkey!" and only a few days later his wife gave birth to a monkey. The father was so much mortified that he wanted to kill his son; but finally his better reason prevailed, and he spared the child. He said to himself, "It is my fault, I know; but I uttered that invocation without thinking." So, instead of putting the monkey to death, the couple just hid it from visitors; and whenever any one asked for the child, they merely answered, "Oh, he died long ago." The time came when the monkey grew to be old enough to marry. He went to his father, and said, "Give me your blessing, father! for I am going away to look for a wife." The father was only too glad to be freed from this obnoxious son, so he immediately gave him his blessing. Before letting him go, however, the father said to the monkey, "You must never come back again to our house." "Very well, I will not," said the monkey. The monkey then left his father's house, and went to find his fortune. One night he dreamed that there was a castle in the midst of the sea, and that in this castle dwelt a princess of unspeakable beauty. The princess had been put there so that no one might discover her existence. The monkey, who had been baptized two days after his birth and was named Juan, immediately repaired to the palace of the king. There he posted a letter which read as follows: "I, Juan, know that your Majesty has a daughter." Naturally the king was very angry to have his secret discovered. He immediately sent soldiers to look for Juan. Juan was soon found, and brought to the palace. The king said to him, "How do you know that I have a daughter? If you can bring her here, I will give her to you for a wife. If not, however, your head shall be cut off from your body." "O your Majesty!" said Juan, "I am sure that I can find her and bring her here. I am willing to lose my head if within three days I fail to fulfil my promise." After he had said this, Juan withdrew, and sadly went out to look for the hidden princess. As he was walking along the road, he heard the cry of a bird. He looked up, and saw a bird caught between two boughs so that it could not escape. The bird said to him, "O monkey! if you will but release me, I will give you all I have." "Oh, no!" said the monkey. "I am very hungry, and would much rather eat you." "If you will but spare my life," said the bird, "I will give you anything you want." "On one condition only will I set you free," said the monkey. "You must procure for me the ring of the princess who lives in the midst of the sea." "Oh, that's an easy thing to do," said the bird. So the monkey climbed the tree and set the bird free. The bird immediately flew to the island in the sea, where fortunately it found the princess refreshing herself in her garden. The princess was so charmed with the song of the bird, that she looked up, and said, "O little bird! if you will only promise to live with me, I will give you anything you want." "All right," said the bird. "Give me your ring, and I will forever live with you." The princess held up the ring; and the bird suddenly snatched it and flew away with it. It gave the ring to the monkey, who was, of course, delighted to get it. Now the monkey jogged along the road until finally he saw three witches. He approached them, and said to them, "You are the very beings for whom I have spent the whole day looking. God has sent me here from heaven to punish you for your evil doings toward innocent persons. So I must eat you up." Now, witches are said to be afraid of ill-looking persons, although they themselves are the ugliest beings in all the world. So these three were terribly frightened by the monkey's threat, and said, "O sir! spare our lives, and we will do anything for you !" "Very well, I will spare you if you can execute my order. From this shore you must build a bridge which leads to the middle of the sea, where the castle of the princess is situated." "That shall be speedily done," replied the witches; and they at once gathered leaves, which they put on their backs. Then they plunged into the water. Immediately after them a bridge was built. Thus the monkey was now able to go to the castle. Here he found the princess. She was very much surprised to see this evil-looking animal before her; but she was much more frightened when the monkey showed her the ring which the bird had given him, and claimed her for his wife. "It is the will of God that you should go with me," said the monkey, after the princess had shown great repugnance towards him. "You either have to go with me or perish." Thinking it was useless to attempt to resist such a mighty foe, the princess finally yielded. The monkey led her to the king's palace, and presented her before her parents; but no sooner had the king and queen seen their daughter in the power of the beast, than they swooned. When they had recovered, they said simultaneously, "Go away at once, and never come back here again, you girl of infamous taste! Who are you? You are not the princess we left in the castle. You are of villain's blood, and the very air which you exhale does suffocate us. So with no more ado depart at once!" The princess implored her father to have pity, saying that it was the will of God that she should be the monkey's wife. "Perhaps I have been enchanted by him, for I am powerless to oppose him." But all her remonstrance was in vain. The king shut his ears against any deceitful or flattering words that might fall from the lips of his faithless and disobedient daughter. Seeing that the king was obstinate, the couple turned their backs on the palace, and decided to find a more hospitable home. So the monkey now took his wife to a neighboring mountain, and here they settled. One day the monkey noticed that the princess was very sad and pale. He said to her, "Why are you so sad and unhappy, my darling? What is the matter?" "Nothing. I am just sorry to have only a monkey for my husband. I become sad when I think of my past happiness." "I am not a monkey, my dear. I am a real man, born of human parents. Didn't you know that I was baptized by the priest, and that my name is Juan?" As the princess would not believe him, the monkey went to a neighboring hut and there cast off his disguise (balit cayu). He at once returned to the princess. She was amazed to see a sparkling youth of not more than twenty years of age--nay, a prince--kneeling before her. "I can no longer keep you in ignorance," he said. "I am your husband, Juan." "Oh, no! I cannot believe you. Don't try to deceive me! My husband is a monkey; but, with all his defects, I still cling to him and love him. Please go away at once, lest my husband find you here! He will be jealous, and may kill us both." "Oh, no! my darling, I am your husband, Juan. I only disguised myself as a monkey." But still the princess would not believe him. At last she said to him, "If you are my real husband, you must give me a proof of the fact." So Juan [we shall hereafter call him by this name] took her to the place where he had cast off his monkey-skin. The princess was now convinced, and said to herself, "After all, I was not wrong in the belief I have entertained from the beginning,--that it was the will of God that I should marry this monkey, this man." Juan and the princess now agreed to go back to the palace and tell the story. So they went. As soon as the king and queen saw the couple, they were very much surprised; but to remove their doubt, Juan immediately related to the king all that had happened. Thus the king and queen were finally reconciled to the at first hated couple. Juan and his wife succeeded to the throne on the death of the king, and lived peacefully and happily during their reign. The story is now ended. Thus we see that God compensated the father and mother of Juan for their religious zeal by giving them a son, but punished them for not being content with what He gave them by taking the son away from them again, for Juan never recognized his parents. Notes. A Bicol version, "The Monkey becomes King," narrated by Gregorio Frondoso, who heard the story from an old man of his province, is almost identical with this Pampango tale. There are a few slight differences, however. "In the Bicol, the rich parents give their monkey-offspring away to a man, who keeps the animal in a cage. Finally the monkey manages to escape, and sets out on his travels. Now the king of that country builds a high tower in the middle of the sea, imprisons his daughter there, and promises her hand to the one who can take her from the tower. The monkey succeeds, as in the Pampango. The rest of the story is practically as given in the text, except that the narrator mentions the fact that the monkey's parents fall into poverty, and in their distress seek aid from their son, now become king. However, he refuses to recognize them, because of their former harshness to him, and drives them away." With both these stories may be compared two other Filipino tales already in print, "The Enchanted Shell" (JAFL 20 : 90-91) and "The Living Head" (ibid., 19 : 106). The "Animal Child" cycle, of which our story and its variants are members is widely spread throughout Europe. The main incidents of this group are the following. A In accordance with the wish of the parents, a child in the form of an animal is brought into the world. This phenomenon usually takes place in consequence of a too vehement prayer for children, or an inconsiderate wish for a son even if he should prove to be only an animal. B The animal offspring grows up, is married usually through his own ingenuity, and is finally disenchanted through the burning of his animal disguise either with or without his consent. European representatives of this type are Grimm, Nos. 108, 144; Von Hahn, Nos. 14, 31, 43, 57, 100; Wuk, No. 9; Pröhle, No. 13; Straparola 2 : i; Basile, No. 15; Schott, No. 9; Pitrè, No. 56 (see also his notes); Comparetti, Nos. 9, 66. Compare also Köhler-Bolte, 318-319. Related Oriental forms of this story are discussed by Benfey, 1 : 254 ff. (section 92). Although our stories are related to this large family of "Animal Child" tales, it appears to be the Oriental branch rather than the Occidental with which they are the more closely connected. The monkey-child, the castle in the midst of the sea, the building of the bridge from the mainland to the island, the retirement of the monkey and his royal wife to live in the forest,--all suggest vaguely but unmistakably Indian material. I am unable to point to any particular story as source, and our tale appears to have incorporated in it other Märchen motifs; but it seems to be faintly reminiscent of the "Ramayana." The imprisoning or hiding of a princess, and the promise of her hand to the one who can discover her, are found in our No. 21 (q.v.). No. 29, too, should be compared. Among the Santals, the theme of a girl's marrying a monkey is common in Märchen (see Bompas, No. XV, "The Monkey Boy;" No. XXXII, "The Monkey and the Girl;" and No. LXX, "The Monkey Husband"). In none of these stories, however, is there a transformation of the animal into a human being. TALE 20 HOW SALAKSAK BECAME RICH. Narrated by Lorenzo Licup, a Pampango from Angeles, Pampanga. Once upon a time there lived two brothers. The elder was named Cucunu, and the younger Salaksak. Their parents were dead, so they divided the property that had been left to them. In accordance with this division, each received a cow and a piece of land. Salaksak separated from his brother, and built a small house of his own. Now, the rice of Cucunu grew faster than that of his brother: so his brother became jealous of him. One night Salaksak turned his cow loose in his brother's field. When Cucunu heard of this, he went to his brother, and said to him, "If you let your cow come into my field again, I shall whip you." But Salaksak paid no attention to his brother's threat, and again he let his cow go into the field of Cucunu. At last his brother grew so impatient that he killed the cow. When Salaksak went to look for his animal, all he found was its skin. As he was ashamed of his deed and afraid of his brother, he dared not accuse him: so he took the skin and put it into a basket. Not long afterward several hundred cows passed him along the road. He followed them. While the herdsmen were eating their dinner, Salaksak threw his skin among the cows. Then he went up to the hut where the herdsmen were, and said to the chief of the herdsmen, "Friend, it is now a week since I lost my cow, and I am afraid that she has become mixed up with your herd. Please be so kind, therefore, as to count them." The chief immediately went over to where the cows were. As he was counting them, Salaksak picked up the skin, and, shaking his head, he said, "Alas! here is the mark of my cow, and this must be my cow's skin. You must pay me a thousand pesos, or else you shall be imprisoned. My cow was easily worth a thousand pesos; for when she was alive, she used to drop money every day." In their great fear, the herdsmen paid Salaksak the money at once. Salaksak now went home and told his brother of his good fortune. Hoping to become as rich as his brother, Cucunu immediately killed his cow. He took the skin with him, and left the flesh to Salaksak. As he was in the street calling out, "Who wants to buy a hide?" he was summoned by the ruler of the town, and was accused of having stolen the hide, and he was whipped so badly that he could hardly walk home. Maddened by the disgrace he had suffered, Cucunu burned the house of his brother one day while he was away. When Salaksak came home, he found nothing but ashes. These he put into a sack, however, and set out to seek his fortune again. On his way he overtook an old man who was carrying a bag of money on his back. Salaksak asked him, "Are you going to the ruler's house?" "Yes," replied the old man, "I have to give this money to him." "I am sorry for you, old man. I, too, am going to the palace. What do you say to exchanging loads? Mine is very light in comparison with yours." "With all my heart, kind boy!" said the old man; and so they exchanged sacks. After they had travelled together a short distance, Salaksak said, "Old man, you seem to be stronger when you have a light load. Let me see how fast you can run." The old man, having no suspicion of his companion, walked ahead as fast as he could. As soon as Salaksak came to a safe place along the road to hide, he deserted his companion. He went to his brother's house, and told him that he had gotten a sack of silver for a sack of ashes. "Why," said his brother, "my house is bigger than yours! I ought to get two sacks of ashes if I burn it. I think that would be a good bargain." So he burned his house, too. Then he went through the town, crying, "Who wants to buy ashes?" "What a foolish man!" said the housewives. "Why should we buy ashes when we don't know what to do with those that come from our own stoves?" When Cucunu came near the house of the ruler, the ruler said to his servants, "I think that fellow is the same one I bade you whip before. Call him in and give him a good thrashing, for he is only making a fool of himself." So Cucunu was summoned and lashed again. Thoroughly enraged, Cucunu determined that his brother should not deceive him a third time. He thought and thought of what he should do to get rid of him. At last he decided to throw his brother into the river. For this purpose he made a strong cage. One day he caught his brother and confined him in it. "I will give you three days to repent," said Cucunu. "Now you cannot deceive me any more." He then left his brother in the cage by the bank of the river. As a young man was passing by, Salaksak began to cry out, "They have put me into this cage because I do not want to marry the ruler's daughter." The young man, who had vainly striven for the hand of the girl, immediately approached Salaksak, and said, "If you will let me take your place, so that I may marry her, I will give you all the cows I have with me." So by this trick Salaksak escaped. Cucunu, thinking that the man in the cage was his brother, would not listen to what he said, but unmercifully threw him into the river. A few days later, Salaksak went to his brother's house, and told him that it was quite beautiful under the water. "There," he said, "I saw our father and mother. They told me I was not old enough to stay with them, so they sent me back here with a large number of cows." "Well, well!" said Cucunu, "I too must go see our parents." He then hastened to the river, and threw himself in and was drowned. Thus Salaksak grew rich because of his craftiness. Clever Juan and Envious Diego. Narrated by Pablo Anzures, a Tagalog from Manila, who heard the story from another Tagalog from Santa Maria, Bulakan. There were once two brothers named Diego and Juan. Their father had died a long time before, so they lived only with their good mother. In character these two brothers were very different. Diego, the older, was envious and foolish; Juan was clever. One morning, while Diego was away, Juan called his mother, and said, "Mother, help me fool Diego! Please lie down as if you were dead; and when he arrives, I will blow air through your nose through a bamboo tube. As soon as you feel me blowing, get up and try to look like a woman that has risen from the dead." His mother agreed to do all that she had been told. Then Juan watched and waited for Diego. When he saw him coming, he called to his mother and told her to lie down. Then he pretended to be crying. When Diego came in and saw his brother, he said, "Juan, why are you crying?" "Don't you see? Our mother is dead," said Juan. Then Diego felt very sorry, and he too began to weep. Juan then said, "O brother! I remember that I have a magic instrument that resuscitates dead persons." He opened his trunk and took out a short bamboo tube, and began to blow through it into his mother's nose. His mother then pretended to revive, as she had been told. Diego rejoiced; he too was very much surprised at his brother's possession. The next day the envious Diego stole the bamboo tube and went to the churchyard. There he waited for a funeral to pass by. After a short time the funeral procession of a small boy came along. Diego stopped it, and called to the mother of the boy, "Don't cry! your son is only sleeping. Lay him down here, and you will soon see that he is alive." The mother then ordered the carriers to lay the coffin on the ground. Diego took out his bamboo tube, and, after he had opened the coffin, he began to blow air into the boy's nose; but the boy did not move. He blew harder and harder, but the boy remained as stiff and lifeless as ever. Then the mother of the dead boy became angry; she kicked Diego, and said, "You are only trying to fool us!" Diego was very much ashamed, so he threw away the bamboo tube and ran home. Some days later the mother of Diego and Juan became ill and died. She left her sons two carabaos for an inheritance. As Diego was the older, he took the fat carabao for himself, and gave the thin one to Juan. Juan was angry: so he killed his carabao, and decided to sell the hide. He tried to sell it in the neighboring villages, but he could not find a buyer. He then walked on and on until he came to a forest. Not very far off, and coming towards him, he saw a band of Tulisanes. [65] They were on horseback, and had a large amount of treasure with them. Juan was afraid: so he climbed a tree, and hid himself with his hide among the branches and leaves. He had no more than concealed himself when the Tulisanes came up and stopped to eat under that very tree. Juan watched them closely. He unintentionally moved the hide which was on the branch beside him, and it fell crashing down on the Tulisanes. Frightened by this most unexpected noise, they ran away as fast as they could, not stopping to take anything with them. Juan descended quickly, mounted a horse, and made off with as much as he could carry. When he reached home, his brother said to him, "Where did you get all those riches?" Juan replied that he had been given them by the neighboring villages in return for his carabao-hide. Again Diego envied his brother. He went out and killed his fat carabao and dried its hide. Next he went to the neighboring villages and tried to sell it; but many days passed, and still no one would buy. Now Diego was very angry. He took a wooden box and put his brother inside. He bound the box and carried it to the seashore. He was about to throw it into the water when he remembered that it was not locked: so he left it, and went back to the house to get the key. Meanwhile a Chinese peddler selling gold rings came along. Juan heard him, and shouted, "Chino, Chino, come and see these beautiful and precious things inside!" The Chinaman approached, and opened the box. Juan came out, and said, "I will put you inside, and you will see many beautiful things in the bottom." The Chinaman was willing, so Juan put him in and closed the box. He then took the Chino's gold rings and ran away. Not many minutes later Diego came up, and, after locking the box, he threw it into the ocean. That same day, while Diego was eating his dinner, Juan came along with some fine gold rings. Diego was astonished to see his brother, and said, "How did you manage to get out of the box, and where did you get those rings?" Juan answered that he sank to the bottom of the ocean, where he saw his mother, and that she had given him all those rings. The foolish Diego believed everything that Juan told him, so he asked his brother to put him into a box and throw him into the ocean. Juan lost no time in obeying. He got a box, put Diego inside, took it to the seashore, and there cast it into the deep water. After that Juan lived happily for many years. Ruined because of Invidiousness. Narrated by Facundo Esquivel, a Tagalog from Jaen, Nueva Ecija, who was told the story when he was a boy. In time out of memory there lived two brothers, Pedro and Juan. Pedro was rich, for he had a large herd of cattle: consequently he did not have much use for his younger brother, who was very poor. Juan had nothing that he could call his own but a cow. One day, disappointed over his life of poverty, he killed his cow, and some days afterward he set out to find his fortune. He took nothing with him but the hide of his cow. When he reached the next town, he saw large piles of cattle-hides in front of a butcher's shop. Late that night he stole out secretly and put the skin of his cow in one of the piles. The next morning he went to the shop to talk with the butcher. "Mr. Butcher," he said, "I have come here to look for my lost cow. Have you not killed a cow with a mark J on the right hip?" "No," answered the honest man, "all the cows which were killed here came from my herd out there in the mountains." Juan stood musing for a few moments, and then said, "Let us look through these piles of hide to see whether you killed my cow or not!" "All right," answered the butcher, and so they began the investigation. When they found the hide which Juan had put there, he began to quarrel with the man. "You must pay me five hundred pesos for my cow, or else I shall bring a law-suit before the court against you," he said angrily. "I wonder how this could have happened!" the butcher exclaimed. "There is no use of wondering," said Juan impatiently. "You stole my cow, and now you have to pay for it." The man, who was very much afraid of being brought before the court, gave Juan the five hundred pesos; and Juan went away with the money in his pocket, and the hide on his head. On his way home he came to a tree standing at a cross-roads. He was very tired and thirsty, but he could not find a house where to ask for water. He climbed the tree to look for a place to go to, but, instead of a house, he saw a company of armed men coming down the road. The men stopped under the tree to rest. Juan was so terrified that he hardly knew what to do. As he was trembling with fright, the hide fell down from the tree and frightened the men away. They thought that it was a curse from heaven because of their misdeeds. When Juan realized that the men were gone, he recovered from his fright and quickly descended. There on the ground he saw a number of sacks full of money, and, loading a horse with two of the sacks, he started for his home town. As soon as he reached his house, he went to his brother's to borrow a salop. [66] Then he inserted several pesetas and ten-centavo pieces in the cracks of the salop, and returned the measure. When Pedro saw the coins sticking in the cracks of his measure, he said, "What did you do with the salop?" "I measured money," said Juan. "Where did you get the money?" Pedro demanded. "Where did I get the money?" retorted Juan. "Don't you know that I went to the neighboring town to sell my cowhide?" "Yes," said Pedro. Then he added, "The price of hides there must be very high, I suppose." "There is no supposing about it," said Juan. "Just think! one hide is worth two sacks of money." Pedro, who was envious of his brother's good fortune, killed all his cattle, old and young, and threw the meat into the river. The he started with several carretons [67] full of hides; but he was disappointed when he came to the town, for nobody would buy hides. Discouraged and tired out, he returned. He found Juan living comfortably in a fine new home. Thus Pedro lost all his property because of his invidiousness. The Two Friends. Narrated by Tomas V. Vargas (of Iloilo?). Once there lived in a certain village two friends, Juan and Andres. Juan, a very rich man, was tall, big, and strong; while Andres, a very poor man, was small, weak, and short. Andres worked very hard to earn his living, while Juan spent most of his time on pleasure. One morning Andres went to his friend Juan, and asked to borrow one of his mules. Juan consented, but told Andres that, if any one should ask who the owner of the mule was, he should tell the truth. Andres promised, and went off with the mule. He set to work immediately to plough his small farm. Very soon two neighbors of Andres passed by, and, seeing him with a mule, asked him where he got it. Andres said that he had bought it. The men wondered how a poor man like Andres could buy a mule, and they spread the news about the village. When this news reached Juan, he was very angry, and he ordered his servant to go bring back the mule. The animal was brought back, and Juan was determined not to lend it to his friend any more. A week later two of Juan's mules, including that which Andres had borrowed, died. Juan threw the carcasses away, but Andres took the skins of those dead mules and dried them to sell in the next town. The next day Andres set out for the town, resting now and then on account of his heavy load. He was overtaken by night near a solitary house between his village and the town where he was going to sell the hides. He knocked at the house, and asked a woman he found there for a night's lodging. She told him that she could not do anything for him until her husband arrived. So Andres had to wait on the road near the house. Not long afterwards a man came towards the house. Andres went up to him, and asked him if he was the master of the house; but the man said he was not, so Andres had to go back to the road. From where he was sitting, Andres could see that the woman inside was preparing a good supper for the stranger, who meanwhile had entered. While she and the stranger were sitting at the table, Andres saw another man approaching in the distance. The woman hastily opened a big empty trunk and hid the man inside, then she put all the cooked fish in the cupboard. When the other man, who was the husband, arrived, Andres asked for a night's lodging, and was received kindly. While the husband and Andres were talking, the wife told them that supper was ready, and they went to the table to eat: but there they found nothing for them but rice; so Andres told the husband that he had an enchanted hide, and that they could have fish if he wished. The husband wished to see the skin tested. Andres ordered the skin to bring a man into the trunk; and when the trunk was opened, there was the man. Next he ordered the skin to bring cooked fish to the cupboard; and when the cupboard was opened, there was the cooked fish. The husband then offered Andres a very high price for the enchanted skin, and Andres willingly sold it. Early the next morning Andres left the house before the others were up. It was not long, however, before the husband found out that the skin was not magic, and he was determined to punish the skin-seller if he should catch him again. Meanwhile Andres had returned to the village. There he met Juan, who, noticing the money in his pocket, asked him where he had gotten it. Andres told him that it was the price of the skins of his dead mules, which he had sold in the neighboring town. On hearing this, Juan went directly home, killed all his mules, and flayed them. As he was passing by the solitary house on his way to the town, he cried out that he had skins for sale. The husband in the house thought that it must be the same man who had sold him the enchanted skin, so he went down and whipped Juan nearly to death. After this experience, Juan returned home, determined to kill his friend. But Andres was very cunning, and avoided him. Finally Juan, angry beyond all measure, killed the mother of Andres. When Andres found that his mother was dead, he dressed her very well and took her to town. Then he went directly to the town doctor, to whom he explained definitely the sickness of his mother. The doctor immediately prepared medicine for the patient; but just after she had been given the medicine, he noticed that the woman was dead. Andres then accused him of having poisoned his mother; and the doctor, fearing the consequences if Andres should seek justice, agreed to pay him a large sum of money. Andres returned to his village richer than ever. Juan became friendly again, and asked him where he had gotten his money. Andres told him that it was the price of his mother's corpse, which he had sold in the town. When Juan heard this, he went home and killed his mother. Then he took the corpse to town to sell it; but, as he was passing along the street, a crowd of men began to abuse him, and he narrowly escaped with his life. Now, Juan was determined not to let Andres escape him. He was after him all the time. Finally one day he caught Andres. He put him inside a sack and carried it down to the seashore. On the way to the sea, he saw a house, and, wishing to have a smoke, he left Andres on the road, and went to the house to get a light. Meanwhile Andres, who was bound in the sack, was crying out that he did not wish to marry the daughter of the king, and that he was being forced against his will. At this instant a cowboy with his herd of cows passed by. He heard Andres, and said that he was willing to marry the king's daughter. Andres told him to unbind the sack, then. He did so, and Andres put the cowherd in his stead. Then Andres hurried away with the cows. Juan came back, picked up the sack, and threw it into the sea. When he returned home, he found Andres there with a fine herd of cows. He asked Andres where he had found them, and Andres said that he had gotten them from under the sea. So Juan, envious as ever, ordered Andres to put him in a sack and throw him into the sea. Andres gladly did so. Juan the Orphan. Narrated by Leopoldo Uichanco, a Tagalog from Calamba, La Laguna. There once lived a boy whose name was Juan. His parents had died, leaving Juan nothing but a horse. As he did not have a place at home in which to keep the animal, he begged his Uncle Diego to let the horse stay in his stable. From time to time Juan went to the stable to feed his horse. He loved the animal, and took as great care of it as a father would of a son. One day Uncle Diego noticed that Juan's horse was growing fatter and more beautiful than any of his own animals. In his envy he killed the horse of his nephew, and said to the innocent boy that the animal had been stricken by "bad air." Being thus deprived of his sole wealth, Juan cut off the best meat from the dead horse, and with this food for his only provision he set out to seek his fortune in another country. On his way through a forest he came across an old man dying of starvation; but the old man had with him a bag full of money. "Pray," said the old man, talking with difficulty in his pain and weakness, "what have you in your sack, my son?" "Some dried horse-meat," said Juan. "Let me see!" The old man looked into the sack, and saw with watering mouth the sweet-smelling meat. "Will you exchange your sack of meat for my sack of money?" he said to Juan. "I have money here, but I cannot eat it. Nor can I go to the town to buy food, because I am too weak. Since you are stronger, my son, pray take this sack of money in exchange, and go to the town and buy meat with it for yourself. For God's sake, leave this meat to me! I am starving to death." Juan accepted the money in exchange for his meat, and pretended to feel great pity for the old man. He put the heavy bag of money on his shoulder, and with difficulty carried it home. "Uncle Diego!" Juan called out from the foot of his uncle's ladder, "come here! Please come here and help me carry this bag upstairs!" "Tremendous sum of money," Uncle Diego remarked to his nephew. "Where did you get it?" "I sold the meat of my dead horse. This is what I got for it," said Juan. The uncle once more became jealous of Juan. "If with only one horse," he muttered to himself, "he could gain so much money, how much should I get for my fifteen horses!" So he killed all the horses he had in his stable and cut the meat from them. Then he placed the meat in bags, and, carrying two on his shoulders, he cried as he went along the street, "Meat, meat! Horse-meat! Who wishes to buy fresh horse-meat?" "How much?" asked a gray-headed old woman who was looking out of the window. "Three hundred ninety-nine thousand pesos, ninety-nine pesetas, six and one half centavos a pound," said Uncle Diego. The people who heard him only laughed, and thought that something was the matter with his head. Nobody would buy his meat. Nobody cared to deal with him in earnest, and all his meat decayed. He went home in despair, and planned to take vengeance on his nephew for the mischief he had done him. He cast the little orphan into a big sack, and sewed the mouth of the little prison all up. Then he said that at night he would take the sack and throw it into the river. However, Juan managed to get out of the bag, and in his place he put a muzzled dog. When night came, the uncle shouldered the bag, took it to the river, and hurled it into the deep water. He hoped that Juan would perish there, and that he himself could gain full possession of his nephew's money. But when morning came, Uncle Diego saw Juan smilingly enter the door of his house. "Juan," said the uncle, "I am surprised to see you again. Tell me all about how you managed to escape from the sack." "Oh, no, Uncle!" returned Juan, "I haven't time; there is not a moment to lose. I have only come here to bid you good-by." "And where are you going?" "Back to the bottom of the river. My love, the Sirena, [68] is waiting for me." "O Juan!" pleaded the uncle, "if I could only go with you!" "No, no, no!" protested the boy. "Only one can go at a time. The Sirena would be angry, and she would consequently refuse to admit to her glorious habitation any being from this outside world." "Then let me go first!" "No, no, no!" said the boy. But the uncle pleaded so earnestly, that finally the boy yielded with pretended reluctance. The uncle then covered himself with a rice-sack, and Juan tied the mouth of the bag securely. "I will fool him," Uncle Diego said to himself. "When I am under the water and the Sirena takes me to her house to become her husband, I shall never come back to Juan. Ha, ha, ha!" "I will fool him," Juan said to himself. "There is no such thing as the Sirena in the river. Thank God, my dreadful uncle will soon be disposed of!" At midnight Juan hurled his happy uncle into the river, saying, "There is no one who owes that must not pay his debt. [69] May my act be justified!" The heavy sack sank to the bottom of the river, and nothing more was heard of Uncle Diego. Notes. Two other variants, which were collected by Mr. Rusk, and which I have only in abstract, run about as follows:-- Juan the Ashes-Trader.--Juan, a poor dealer in ashes, was in the woods when he heard some robbers coming, and climbed a tree for safety. While they were busy at the foot of the tree, counting their money, he dropped the sack of ashes among them. They ran away in fright, and he acquired all their gold. When the people of the town heard Juan tell how valuable ashes had become, they all burned their houses and took the ashes to the forest, where they arrived just in time to suffer from the wrath of the robbers. Only two escaped to accuse Juan; but Juan was already on a journey, doing good with his money. A dying woman, whom he helped, gave him a magic cane; and when the angry villagers at last found him, he summoned a legion of soldiers by means of his cane, and all of his assailants were killed. [With the second half of this story, cf. No. 28 and notes.] Colassit and Colaskel.--Colassit was good but poor; Colaskel, rich but bad. Colaskel, quarrelling with Colassit, killed the latter's only carabao. Colassit skinned his dead animal, and took the hide to Laoag to sell it, but could find no purchaser. At night he asked for shelter at a house, but was refused on the ground that the husband was away from home; yet he boldly staid under the house. At midnight he heard the clatter of dishes above, looked up through a hole in the floor, and saw the woman dining merrily with a man. Just then the husband arrived home and knocked at the door. Colassit saw the woman put her paramour into a box in the corner, and the food in another box. Colassit now appeared at the door, and was invited in by the hospitable husband. On being asked what was in his bag, Colassit replied that it was a miraculous thing, which, when it made a noise, as it had a moment before when he had stepped on it, desired to say something. On being asked to interpret, Colassit said that the skin told him that there was delicious food in one of the boxes. Thereupon the food was produced. Now, it was said in the neighborhood that this house was haunted by the Devil, and the owner thought this a good opportunity to find out by magic where the Devil was. Colassit interpreted for the carabao-hide. The Devil was in the other box, he said. After tying the box with heavy ropes, Colassit started toward the river with it. He repeated a jingle which informed the man inside of his imminent fate. The latter replied (also in verse) that he would give a thousand pesos ransom. Colassit accepted, and so became rich. [The narrator says that this is only one of ten adventures belonging to the complete story. It is a pity that the other nine are missing.] The cycle of tales to which all our variants belong, and which may appropriately be called the "Master Cheat" cycle, is one of the most popular known. It occurs in many different forms; indeed, the very nature of the story--merely a succession of incidents in which a poor but shrewd knave outwits his rich friend or enemy (the distinction matters little to the narrator), and finally brings about his enemy's death while he himself becomes rich--is such as to admit of indefinite expansion, so far as the number and variety of the episodes are concerned. There have been at least four comprehensive descriptive or bibliographical studies of this cycle made,--Köhler's (on Campbell's Gaelic story, No. 39), Cosquin's (notes to Nos. 10 and 20), Clouston's (2 : 229-288), and Bolte-Polívka's (on Grimm, No. 61). Of these, the last, inasmuch as it is the latest (1914) and made use of all the preceding, is the most complete. From it (2 : 10) we learn that the characteristic incidents of this family of drolls are as follows:-- A1 A rabbit (goat, bird) as carrier of messages. A2 A wolf sold for a ram. B A gold-dropping ass (or horse). C A self-cooking vessel. D A hat which pays the landlord. E1 Dirt (ashes) given (sold, substituted) for gold. E2 Money which was alleged to be in a chest, demanded from the storer of the chest. F1 Cowhide (or "talking" bird) sold to adulteress, or (F2) sold to her husband, or (F3) exchanged for the chest in which the paramour is concealed, or (F4) elsewhere exchanged for money. G1 A flute (fiddle, staff, knife) which apparently brings to life again the dead woman. G2 The dead mother killed a second time, and paid for by the supposed murderer. H Escape of the hero from the sack (chest) by exchanging places with a shepherd. J Death of the envious one, who wishes to secure some "marine cattle." The opponents in this group of stories, says Bolte, "are either village companions, or unacquainted marketers, or a rich and an avaricious brother." In addition to the episodes enumerated above, might be mentioned two others not uncommonly found in this cycle:-- F5 Frightening robbers under tree by dropping hide or table on them. F6 Borrowed measure returned with coins adhering to it. As these last two occur in other stories, both droll and serious (e.g., Grimm, No. 59; and "1001 Nights," "Ali Baba"), they may not originally have belonged to our present group. However, see Cosquin's notes on his No. xx, "Richedeau" (1 : 225 f.). It is hard to say with certainty just what was originally the one basic motif to which all the others have at one time or another become attached; but it seems to me likely that it was incident H, the sack-by-the-sea episode, for it is this which is the sine qua non of the cycle. To be sure, our third story (c) lacks it, but proves its membership in the family by means of other close resemblances. Of the elements mentioned by Bolte-Polívka, our five stories and two variants have the following: "How Salaksak became Rich," F4BE1HJ; "Clever Juan and Envious Diego," G1F5HJ; "Ruined because of Invidiousness," F4F5F6; "The Two Friends," F2G2HJ; "Juan the Orphan," F4H (modified) J; "Juan the Ashes-Trader," E1F5; "Colassit and Colaskel," F3. In a Visayan tale (JAFL 19 : 107-109) we find a combination of HJ with a variant of our No. 1. Incident D (hat paying landlord) forms a separate story, which we give below,--No. 50, "Juan and his Painted Hat." Incident B is also narrated as a droll by the Tagalogs; the sharper of the story scattering silver coins about the manure of his cow, and subsequently selling the "magic" animal for a large sum. An examination of the incidents distributed among the Filipino members of this cycle reveals the fact that episode A1 (hare as messenger) is altogether lacking. I have not met with it in any native story, and am inclined to believe that it is not known in the Islands. It is found widespread in Europe, but does not appear to be common in India: among fifteen Indian variants cited by Bolte it is found only twice (i.e., Indian Antiquary, 3 : 11 f.; Bompas, No. 80, p. 242). These Indian versions show, however, that the story in one form or another is found quite generally throughout that country, the Santali furnishing the largest number of variants (six, in all). It would seem reasonable to conclude, therefore, considering the fact that at least seven forms of the tale are known in the Philippines, extending from the Visayas to the northernmost part of Luzon, that the source of the incidents common to these and the Indian versions need not be sought outside the Orient. The case of incidents F1F2F3 seems different. They are lacking in the Far-Eastern representatives of this cycle; and their appearance in the Philippines may be safely traced, I think, to European influence. However, an Indian source for these incidents may yet be discovered, just as sources already have been for so many Italian novella and French fabliaux of a similar flavor. The fact that the earliest form of the "Master Cheat" cycle known is a Latin poem of the eleventh, possibly tenth, century (Köhler-Bolte, 233-234), is of course no proof that elements F4G1HJ, found in that poem, were introduced into India from Europe, though it might be an indication. TALE 21 IS HE THE CRAFTY ULYSSES? Narrated by Lorenzo Licup, a Pampango from Angeles, Pampanga. Balbino and Alaga had only one child, a son named Suguid, who was at first greatly beloved by them. The couple was very rich, and therefore the boy wanted nothing that was not granted by his parents. Now, the son was a voracious eater. While still a baby, he used to pull up the nails from the floor and eat them, when his mother had no more milk to give him. When all the nails were exhausted, he ate the cotton with which the pillows were stuffed. Thus his parents used to compare him to a mill which consumes sugarcane incessantly. It was not many years before the wealth of the couple had become greatly diminished by the lavish expenditure they had to make for Suguid's food. So Suguid became more and more intolerable every day. At last his parents decided to cast him away into a place from which he might not be able to find his way home again. One day they led him to a dense forest, and there abandoned him. Luckily for Suguid, a merchant soon passed by that place. The merchant heard him crying, and looked for him. He found the boy, and, being a good-natured man, he took the boy home with him. It was not long before the merchant realized that Suguid was a youth of talent, and he put him in school. In a few weeks the boy showed his superiority over his classmates. In time he beat even the master in points of learning. And so it was that after only five months of studying he left the school, because he found it too small for his expanding intellect. By some mathematical calculation, so the tradition says, or by certain mysterious combinations of characters that he wrote on paper, Suguid discovered one day that a certain princess was hidden somewhere. She had been concealed in such a way that her existence might not be known other than by her parents and the courtiers. Suguid immediately went to the palace of the king, and posted a paper on the palace-door. The paper read as follows: "Your Majesty cannot deny me the fact that he has a daughter secluded somewhere. Your humble servant, Suguid Bociu." When the king read this note, he became very angry, as he could now no longer keep the secret of his daughter's existence. He immediately despatched his soldiers to look for the presumptuous Suguid. The soldiers found the boy without much difficulty, and brought him before the king. Bursting with anger, the king said, "Are you the one who was bold enough to post this paper?" "Yes, your Majesty." "Can you prove what you have stated?" "Yes, your Majesty." "Very well," said the king; "if you can, I will give you my daughter for your bride. If within three days you fail to produce her before me, however, you shall be unconditionally executed." "I will not fail to fulfil my promise, your Majesty," said Suguid. After this brief interview, Suguid went directly home. He told the merchant all about his plan to marry the princess. "Why did you dare tell the king that you know where his daughter is," said the merchant, "when there is no certainty at all of your finding her or of gaining her consent?" "Oh, do not be afraid, father!" said Suguid. "If you will but provide me with twelve of the best goldsmiths that can be found in the whole city, I have no doubt of finding and captivating the fair princess." As the merchant was a rich man, and influential too, he summoned in an hour all the good goldsmiths that could be found in the city. When all the goldsmiths were assembled, Suguid ordered them to make a purlon. This purlon was made of gold, silver, and precious stones. It was oblong in shape, and hollow inside, being five feet high, three feet deep, and four feet long. Inside it were placed a chair and a lamp. By means of a certain device a person inside the purlon could breathe. Altogether its construction was so beautiful, that it seemed as if it were intended for the sight of the gods alone. When all was ready, Suguid entered the purlon, taking with him all the necessary provisions,--food, fine clothes, a poniard, and a guitar. Every part of the purlon was so well joined, that no opening whatever could be detected. Before going into the purlon, Suguid told the merchant to take the goldsmiths home, and not to allow them to leave the house for three days, lest they should reveal the secret. Suguid then ordered five men to carry the purlon towards the king's palace. In the mean time he was playing the sweetest piece of music that mortal ears had ever heard. When the purlon was near the palace, the king was so charmed by the melodious music, that he asked the master of the carriers to halt for a moment. "Pray," he said, "are you the owner of that thing?" "No, sir! a certain man in our district owns it," said the carrier. "Who gave him this divine gift?" "Your Majesty, this purlon, as it is called, is of a rather mysterious origin. The owner of this (pointing to the purlon) was a religious man. He was formerly very wealthy; but because he gave much alms to the poor and the needy, his riches soon came to an end. He is now so poor, that his silken clothes have all been exchanged for ragged cotton ones. Early one morning, when he was about to go to the church, he was surprised to find this purlon at his door, giving out music as you hear it now." The king turned to the queen, who was sitting beside him, and said, "Oh, how happy our daughter would be if she should hear this enchanting piece of music!--Sir, if you will lend me this purlon, you may ask of me as a compensation any favor that you may want." "Your Majesty, I will lend it to you with all my heart, but on condition that it be returned within two days, lest the owner scold me for having given it up." "Yes," answered the king, "I will give it back as soon as my daughter has seen it." The king and queen then immediately ordered that the purlon be carried before the princess. The princess's joy need not be described if we only think how happy we should be if we were in the same situation as she. She was so bewitched by the music, that she told her father never to take it away from her. "O daughter!" said the king, "we have just borrowed this purlon, and we promised to return it as soon as you had seen it. However, you may have it the whole night." The king and the queen, convinced that their daughter was quite happy, soon bade her good-by. Before leaving, the king said, "You must not spend the whole night in listening to the sweet music." "Have no fear, father! I will go to sleep early." Suguid, who was inside the purlon, listened very carefully to the retreating footsteps of the king and queen. As soon as he thought they were too far away to hear their daughter in case she should cry out, he came out from the purlon, poniard in hand. The princess, of course, was very much frightened when she saw Suguid kneeling before her, and saying, "Fair princess, let not my presence cause any fear! In coming here, I had no other purpose than to reveal to you a secret that I have long cherished in my heart. It is universally acknowledged that you are the most beautiful, the most virtuous, the most accomplished living mortal on earth, and as such you have awakened in me an intense love. So, taking no heed of the danger that I might encounter on the way, I ventured to search for you, Lily of the Valley and Rose of the Town--to love you, to adore you as a living saint. Your ring, my adored princess, will give me life or death,--life, because I shall be spared from being beheaded; death, for I have promised your father to present your ring to him within three days as a token of your acceptance of my suit. Therefore, Queen of Beauty, choose, your ring, or my death. I have my poniard ready, and I prefer a hundred times to die--nay, die smiling--at your hands." The princess was so moved by this passionate speech, that she was mute for some time. After a difficult struggle within herself, she said, "Seeing your intense love and devotion for me, I cannot but consent to your proposal. Were not the matter pressing, however, I should not give my consent in so short a time. Here is the ring, if pleasure it will give you." Suguid took the ring courteously, and said, "How can I paint in words my pleasure and gratitude! As it were, you have snatched me from the cold hands of Death. You have saved me from the fury of your father. You have given me a heaven of joy. Oh, how shall I describe it! I thank you very much. But now I must leave you and go into the purlon,--the blessed purlon,--as it is almost morning. Your father will soon come and take this purlon away. But I must let you know this one fact: as soon as I have presented this ring to the king, you will be taken away from here. You will be made my beloved wife." "Yes, I have no objection to that," said the princess. Suguid, being thus assured of his success, entered the purlon again. Morning came, and the king and queen went to the princess's palace at ten o'clock. They talked a while with their daughter, who assured them of her great satisfaction with the purlon. Then they bade her good-by, as there was important business to be transacted that day. They took the purlon with them, and returned it to the agent. On the appointed day Suguid appeared at the king's palace, carrying with him the emblem of his victory,--the ring. On seeing Suguid approaching so cheerfully, the king knew that he was lost. He therefore swooned, but on recovering he realized that he had to abide by his promise. He reluctantly caused the princess to be summoned from her palace, and she and Suguid were married together; and it was not long before the king and queen began to appreciate the talent of their humble and lowly son-in-law. By Suguid's wise policy the kingdom prospered, and for the first time learned what peace really meant. Notes. I have a variant of this story, "Juan the Poor," told more briefly, narrated by Andrea Mariano, a Tagalog, who heard it from her little brother. It runs thus in outline:-- Juan is the son of a beggar. The beggar dies, and the son sells himself to a merchant for money to bury his father properly. After Juan has been educated, he posts this sign in front of the merchant's house: "I can trace everything that is lost.--Juan." The king sees the sign, and requires the boy to discover his hidden daughter. Method: Golden carriage with Juan playing music inside; old man hired to push it. The king borrows the carriage and takes it to his daughter. When alone with the princess, Juan declares his love, and she gives him her ring. Next day the carriage is returned to the old man. Juan takes the ring to the king, and is given the princess's hand in marriage because he is so wise. For another Tagalog variant see "The King, the Princess, and the Poor Boy" (JAFL 20 : 307). This is almost identical with the variant above, except that the hero is advised by two statues how to discover where the princess is. Furthermore, the hero is discovered with the princess after he has gained access to her by means of the gilt carriage and music-box. The fullest form of the story, however, is the Tagalog metrical romance popularly known under the title "Juan Bachiller." The full title runs as follows: "The Sad Life of a Father and of his Son named Juan, in the Kingdom of Spain. The son sold himself to a merchant on condition that he would bury the corpse of his father." My copy bears the date 1907, but this is merely a reprint of an older edition. Retana cites an edition dated 1902 (No. 4337) and one before 1898 (No. 4156). The poem is in 12-syllable lines, and contains 350 quatrains. It is still very popular among the Tagalogs, but does not appear to have been printed in any of the other Philippine languages. Inasmuch as there is a close connection between our variants and the verse form of the story, I give a prose paraphrase of the latter:-- There was once a poor beggar, Serbando, who had an only son named Juan. They lived in the kingdom of Spain. They had a little hut outside the city in which Serbando used to go to beg their living. One morning, when Juan returned home from school and was playing around their little hovel, he heard many kinds of birds speaking to him thus: "Juan, be patient and toil in poverty. The time will come when God will reward you." Then a large bird flew to him, and said, "Juan, leave your little miserable hut; go and seek your fortune." When his father returned home, Juan told him all about the advice of the birds. Serbando did not believe that birds could talk, and doubted, of course, the truth of what his son said. Now, it happened that Serbando became sick, and after a short time died, leaving his son alone in the world. Poor Juan wept bitterly over the dead body. He did not know what to do. He covered the corpse of his father, and then went crying out through the streets of the city, "Who wants to buy a slave?" A merchant heard him. "I will serve you as long as I live if you will only see to the burial of my dead father," said Juan to the merchant. Without hesitation the merchant assented, and together they went to the little hut. The merchant ordered and paid for a funeral; there was a procession, a mass, and after the burial a banquet. Then the merchant took the boy to live with him in the city where the king and queen lived. Moreover, this kind merchant sent Juan to school, and treated him as a son. In time Juan took his bachelor's degree, and was greatly admired and respected by his teachers. One afternoon Juan put a notice on the door of the merchant's house, which read thus: "If we use money, there is nothing we cannot discover." It happened that on that same afternoon the king and queen were driving through the streets of the city. The king chanced to fix his eyes on the sign which Juan had put up. He did not believe that the notice was true; and so, when he arrived at the palace, he ordered the merchant to appear before him. The merchant was very much frightened at the summons, so Juan himself went and presented himself before the king. "Is the notice on your door true?" asked the king. "It is true, your Majesty," said Juan. "Then go and find my daughter. If you can find her, she shall be your wife; if not, you shall lose your head three days from now," said the king, who hid his daughter in a secret room in the palace. Juan went home and called all the best goldsmiths in the kingdom. He told them to make a little wagon of pure gold, with a secret cell inside in which a man could sit with a musical instrument and play it. The goldsmiths finished the wagon in two days and were paid off. Then Juan called a man and told him to drag this little wagon along the street toward the palace, and then to the plaza. After entering the secret cell with his musical instrument, he told the driver to do as he had been directed. The man began to drag the wagon along the street toward the palace. Men, women, and children crowded both sides of the street to see this wagon of pure gold, which gave out such sweet music. When the wagon passed in front of the palace, the queen was amazed at it. She asked the king to summon the driver before him. So the king called the driver, and asked him to bring the golden wagon into the hall where the queen was. "How much will you sell this for?" asked the queen. "I will not sell it," answered the driver. "Can you not lend it to me until this afternoon?" said the king; and at last the driver agreed to lend the wagon for a few hours. The queen then dragged the wagon along the hall, and took it to her daughter in the secret room. The princess was delighted. As she pushed it forwards and backwards, sweet music charmed her ears. At last Juan came out of the secret cell in the wagon and knelt before the princess. He told her why he had been led to play this trick, and last of all he told her that he would have lost his life on the morrow if he had not been able to find her. He also began to express his love for her. At first she hesitated to accept his protestations of affection; but at last she accepted him, and gave him one of her rings as a sign that she would marry him. Fearing that he might be caught in the room by some one else, Juan now entered the secret cell of the wagon again. At last the king came, and started to drag the wagon out of the palace to the place where the driver was waiting. Juan suddenly opened the door of the secret cell and stood before the king. "O king!" he said, "now I have accomplished your command. I have found and seen your daughter in the secret room, and she has given me this ring." The king was amazed, and said to himself that, had he known that the wagon contained any one inside, he would not have allowed it to be brought to his hidden daughter. He said to Juan, "You have told the truth, that anything can be discovered if money is used; but you shall not marry my daughter." "Remember your promise," said Juan. "Wait, and I will ask the princess," said the king. "She might refuse." "Whether she refuses or not, she is to be my wife, for I have seen her and found her," replied Juan. "Then you shall have her," said the king. So Juan was married to the princess, and there was great rejoicing in the kingdom. The king, however, was very sorry that his daughter had married Juan, who had now the right to inherit the throne from him. He could not endure the idea, so he pondered night and day how to kill Juan under some pretext or other. Juan learned of the king's plot, and decided to leave the city for a while. He asked his wife for permission to go and visit the little hut in which he was born, and at last she consented. One day Juan left the palace and went to the country. While he was walking in the woods near his old home, two birds flew to him. "Juan, take this ring with you: it has magic power, and will furnish you whatever you ask of it," said the male bird. "Here, take this pen-point, and use it whenever the king asks you to write for him," said the female bird. "Remember, Juan, you do not need to have any ink; you can use your saliva," it continued. "Now go back to the kingdom, and do not be afraid of the king's plots," said the two birds together. So Juan went back to the palace, and lived there with his wife. One day the king called Juan, and ordered him to write something. The king thought that if Juan should make any mistakes in the writing, he would order him to be executed. Juan used the pen-point which the second bird had given him. The king furnished him only paper, but no ink, so Juan used his saliva. "Write this, Juan," said the king: "'It is not right that you should be heir to my crown, and successor to the throne.'" Juan wrote the words just as the king had given them, and they appeared on the paper in letters of pure gold. The king was very much surprised by this demonstration of Juan's ability. Then the king continued, "Write this: 'You ought not to inherit the crown, you who were born in a little village, and whose ancestors are unknown.'" Juan wrote this dictation, and, as before, the letters were of pure gold. Again the king said, "Write now what I shall say: 'You cannot cheat a king like me; you saw my daughter the princess because you were hiding in the wagon of gold.'" Juan wrote these words, and they were in pure gold too. The king was now sad, for he could think of no other way in which to detect a fault in Juan. So he dismissed his son-in-law, and showed the queen the golden letters that Juan had written. Juan returned to his apartments. When night came, Juan decided to ask his magic ring for a tower which should stand beside the palace of the king. During the night the tower was erected; it was garrisoned with field-marshals, colonels, and soldiers. Early in the morning the king was surprised to see this tall tower standing beside his palace. He said to himself, "I rule the kingdom, and the kingdom is mine; this tower is in my kingdom, therefore the tower is mine." So the king went out of the palace and entered the tower. No one saluted him. Then he called Juan, and asked him about the tower. Juan answered that its presence there was due to the will and power of God. When Juan and the king together entered the tower, all the soldiers lined up and saluted Juan, and music was heard everywhere. Everything inside was made of solid silver and gold. The king was astounded at the magic power of his son-in-law, whom he was trying to kill. "Juan," said the king, "wipe away this tower and erect at this moment a palace in its place. If you can do this, you shall be the king of the whole of Spain." By the magic power of the ring, Juan was able to fulfil the command, and the tower was changed into a beautiful palace. The council of the kingdom, at the order of the king, agreed to crown Juan and his wife king and queen. There was great rejoicing throughout the realm. The old king and his wife abandoned the palace, and went to live in an abbey, where they died. Juan now called the merchant, his former master, to the palace. The merchant was afraid, for he feared that the king wished to do him mischief; he did not know that Juan was now king. But Juan received him affectionately, and from that time on the merchant, Juan, and the beautiful princess lived together happily in the palace. It will be noticed that the Tagalog poem differs from the three oral versions, in that after Juan has won the first wager from the king, his skill is subjected to further tests, which he comes out of successfully through the aid of magic objects given him by birds. In other words, the poem carries on the folk-tale by adding some additional episodes. The fact that the folk-tales, both Pampango and Tagalog, preserve the simple structure, while only the printed Tagalog verse-form seeks to elaborate and extend the tale, suggests that the simpler form is the older, and that the anonymous author of the romance added to the oral material for mere purposes of length. As it is, the poem is very short compared with the other popular metrical stories, which average well over 2000 lines. The localization of the events in Spain signifies nothing. The story is known also in southern Europe: e.g., in Greece (Von Hahn, No. 13), in Sicily (Gonzenbach, No. 68; Pitrè, Nos. 95, 96). In the Greek version, after the hero has decided to risk his neck for the hand of the hidden princess, he goes to a shepherd and has himself covered with the hide of a lamb with golden fleece. In this disguise he is taken to the princess. In the night he throws off his fleece covering and makes love to the princess, who finally accepts him, and tells him how he may be able to recognize her among her maidens, all of whom, herself included, her father will change into ducks, and then will require the youth to pick out the duck which is the princess. He succeeds, and wins her hand in marriage. In Gonzenbach, No. 68, the hero is one of three brothers who set out to seek their fortunes. They each come in succession to the beautiful city where the king has issued the proclamation that whoever can find his hidden daughter within eight days shall receive her hand in marriage; whoever tries and fails, loses his head. The first two brothers fail and are killed. The youngest, arriving in the city and reading the proclamation, determines to take the risk. He is advised by an old beggar-woman how to find the princess. He has goldsmiths make a golden lion with crystal eyes. The animal is so contrived that it plays continually beautiful music. The hero hides inside, and the old woman takes the lion to the king, to whom she lends it. Then follow the discovery of the princess, her acceptance of the hero's love, the token given to the hero, etc. The hero is obliged to pick the princess out from among her eleven maids who look exactly like her. In Pitrè, No. 95, we find practically the same incidents recorded: two older sons of a merchant go off to seek their fortunes, and lose their heads because they cannot discover the princess "within a year, a month, and a day." The youngest comes in turn to the same country, wagers his head, and searches a year and fifteen days in vain. On the advice of an old woman, he has built a golden àcula (just what this word means I have been unable to determine) large enough to contain a person playing a musical instrument. Four men carry the àcula to the palace; discovery of the princess follows. Second test: to pick the princess out from twenty-four maidens dressed exactly alike. In none of these three stories (nor in Pitrè, No. 96, which is a shorter variant of No. 95) does the opening resemble our forms of the tale. Nor in any of the three, either, does the hero bring the wager on himself because of the announcement he makes that he who has gold can discover anything. With this detail, however, compare the couplet which the hero displays in Pitrè, No. 96:-- "Cu' havi dinari fa chiddu chi voli, Cu' havi bon cavallu va unni voli." The line "He who has gold can do whatever he wishes" is almost identical with the corresponding line in the Tagalog verse story. It is to be noted that the bride-wager incident in this group of stories resembles closely the same episode in our No. 19. The opening of our No. 21 has been influenced by the setting of the stories of the Carancal group (No. 3). TALE 22 THE REWARD OF KINDNESS. Narrated by Elisa Cordero, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, La Laguna, who heard the story from a Tagalog friend. In a certain town there once lived a couple who had never had a child. They had been married for nearly five years, and were very anxious for a son. The name of the wife was Clara; and of the man, Philip. One cloudy night in December, while they were talking by the window of their house, Clara said to her husband that she was going to pray the novena, [70] so that Heaven would give them a child. "I would even let my son serve the Devil, if he would but give us a son!" As her husband was willing that she should pray the novena, Clara began the next day her fervent devotions to the Virgin Mary. She went to church every afternoon for nine days. She carried a small prayer-book with her, and prayed until six o'clock every evening. At last she finished her novenario; [71] but no child was born to them, and the couple was disappointed. A month had passed, when, to their great happiness, Clara gave birth to a son. The child they nicknamed Idó. Idó was greatly cherished by his parents, for he was their only child; but he did not care much to stay at home. He early began to show a fondness for travelling abroad, and was always to be found in the dense woods on the outskirts of the town. One afternoon, when the family was gathered together around a small table, talking, a knock was heard at the door. "Come in!" said Philip. "No, I just want to talk with your wife," answered a hoarse voice from without. Clara, trembling, opened the door, and, to her great surprise, she saw standing there a man who looked like a bear. "A devil, a devil!" she exclaimed, but the Devil pacified her, and said, "Clara, I have come here to get your son you promised me a long time ago. Now that the day has come when your son can be of some service to me, will you deny your promise?" Clara could make no reply at first. She merely called her son; and when he came, she said to the Devil, "Here is my son. Take him, since he is yours." Idó, who was at this time about seventeen years old, was not frightened by the Devil. "Come," said the Devil, "and be my follower!" At first Idó refused; but he finally consented to go, because of his mother's promise. The Devil now took Idó to his cave, far away outside the town. He tried in many ways to tempt Idó, but was unable to do so, because Idó was a youth of strong character. Finally the Devil decided to exchange clothes with him. Idó was obliged to put on the bear-like clothes of the Devil and to give him his own soldier-suit. Then the Devil produced a large bag full of money, and said to Idó, "Take this money and go travelling about the world for seven years. If you live to the end of that time, and spend this money only in doing good, I will set you free. If, however, you spend the money extravagantly, you will have to go to hell with me." When he had said these words, he disappeared. Idó now began his wanderings from town to town. Whenever people saw him, they were afraid of him, and would refuse to give him shelter; but Idó would give them money from his bag, and then they would gather about him and be kind to him. After many years he happened to come to a town where he saw an old woman summoned before a court of justice. She was accused of owing a sum of money, but was unable to pay her debt and the fine imposed on her. When Idó paid her fine for her and thus released her from prison, the woman could hardly express her gratitude. As most of the other people about were afraid of Idó and he had no place to sleep, this woman decided to take him home with her. Now, this old woman had three daughters. When she reached home with the bear-like man, she called her eldest daughter, and said, "Now, my daughter, here is a man who delivered me from prison. As I can do nothing to reward him for his great kindness, I want you to take him for your husband." The daughter replied, "Mother, why have you brought this ugly man here? No, I cannot marry him. I can find a better husband." On hearing this harsh reply, the mother could not say a word. She called her second daughter, and explained her wishes to her; but the younger daughter refused, just as her sister had refused, and she made fun of the man. The mother was very much disappointed, but she was unable to persuade her daughters to marry her benefactor. Finally she determined to try her youngest daughter. When the daughter heard her mother's request, she said, "Mother, if to have me marry this man is the only way by which you can repay him for his kindness, I'll gladly marry him." The mother was very much pleased, but the two older daughters were very angry with their sister. The mother told the man of the decision of her youngest daughter, and a contract was signed between them. But before they were married, the bear-like man asked permission from the girl to be absent for one more year to finish his duty. She consented to his going, and gave him half her ring as a memento. At the end of the year, which was the last of his seven years' wandering, the bear-like man went to the Devil, and told him that he had finished his duty. The Devil said, "You have beaten me. Now that you have performed your seven years' wandering, and have spent the money honestly, let us exchange clothes again!" So the man received back his soldierlike suit, which made him look like a knight, and the Devil took back his bear-skin. Then the man returned to Clara's [72] house. When his arrival was announced to the family, the two older daughters dressed themselves in their best, for they thought that he was a suitor come to see them; but when the man showed the ring and asked for the hand of Clara's youngest daughter, the two nearly died with vexation, while the youngest daughter was very happy. Notes. This story is a variant of Grimm, No. 101, "Bear-Skin," which it follows fairly closely from the point where the hero makes his pact with the Devil. The bibliography of this cycle is fully given in Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 427-435, to which I have nothing to add except this story itself! Our version is the only one so far recorded from the Orient, and there can be no doubt that it is derived directly from Europe. Ralston and Moe seem to detect a relationship between this cycle and a Hindoo saga translated into Chinese in the seventh century, and from the Chinese into French in the middle of the nineteenth century, by the French orientalist Stanislas Julien; but Bolte is of the opinion (p. 435) that there is probably no connection between the two. In any case, to judge from recorded variants, the Tagalog story is an importation from the Occident. And yet there are not a few deviations in our version from the norm, if Grimm's tale may be considered representative of the cycle. The most important of these is the opening, which is one form of the "Promised Child" opening (see Macculloch, 415 ff.). This formula of a childless couple finally promising in despair to let their child serve even the Devil if they are granted offspring, or to be satisfied with an animal-child or some other monstrosity, is a favorite one in Filipino Märchen (cf. Nos. 3 and variants, 19 and variant, and 23), and its use here may have been influenced by the beginning of the next tale. Other differences may be noted briefly: (1) The compact made between the hero and the Devil does not include the characteristic prohibitions in the European versions; namely, that the hero is not to comb his hair, wash himself, trim his beard, etc., during his seven years of wandering. The Devil seems to rely merely on his bear-suit, which he makes the hero wear, to produce insurmountable difficulties. It may be that the prohibitions mentioned above were omitted because they involved conditions wholly foreign to Filipino conception. The natives take great pride in their hair, and always dress it carefully, are scrupulously clean personally, and are beardless! I can cite no parallel in folk-tales for the condition substituted; i.e., if the wanderer does good with his money, the Devil will have no power over him at the end of the seven years, while, if he spends it extravagantly and foolishly, he goes to hell. Perhaps none need be sought outside of actual experience. (2) The hero is supplied with money from a large bag which the Devil gives him, not from the inexhaustible pockets of a magic green coat, as in Grimm. The mention of the hero's soldier-suit, by the way, since nothing has been said earlier in the story of his having followed the profession of arms, is likely a reminiscence of the characteristic opening of the European versions, where it is a poor soldier who has the experience with the Devil. (3) The person ransomed by the hero in our story is an old woman instead of an old man. (4) The two disappointed sisters do not kill themselves, and hence the Devil does not reappear at the end of the story,--as he does in Grimm,--and say, "I have now got two souls in the place of thy one!" The broken-ring recognition on the return home is a feature which I believe occurs in no other Filipino folk-tale, but is met with not infrequently in European saga and story (cf. Köhler-Bolte, 117, 584; see also Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 234; 2 : 348). TALE 23 PEDRO AND SATAN. Narrated by Pedro D. L. Sorreta, a Bicol from Catanduanes, who heard the story when he was a little boy. Once upon a time there lived a very rich man, whose wife had never given birth to a child. The couple had already made several pilgrimages, and had spent great sums of money for religious services, in the hope that God might give them a child, even though a sickly one, to inherit their money; but all their efforts were in vain. Disappointed, the man resolved to rely upon Satan for the performance of his wish. One dark night, when he was thinking hard about the matter, he heard a voice say, "Your wish will be quickly fulfilled if you but ask me for it." The rich man was so filled with joy, that he turned towards the voice and knelt before the invisible speaker: "I will give you my life, and even my wife's, in return for a son who will be the heir to my riches," said the man. Meanwhile he perceived in front of him a figure which in an instant assumed the form of Satan. At first he was frightened; but his fear was only momentary, and he was eager to hurry up the agreement with Satan, so that he might receive the child. They therefore made a golden document which provided that the first child of the heir was to be given to the Devil at the age of ten, and that the man and his wife were no longer God's subjects, but Satan's. After the agreement had been made, the Devil promised the rich man that his wife would give birth to the longed-for son early the next morning. Then he disappeared. The child was born at the appointed time, and grew wonderfully fast, for in five days he was a full-grown youth. But the parents could not but blame themselves for their impious act. They intended to keep the secret from their son; but they could not do so, for the boy was always asking about the nature of his existence. So when Pedro--they called him by this name--knew of his pitiful lot, he decided not to marry until he had succeeded in wresting the golden document from the hands of Satan. Now, Pedro knew that devils do not like crosses, and cannot even stay where they have to look at them. So one day he asked his mother to make for him two gowns, one having little crosses hanging from it. When these had been finished, Pedro asked his father to give him over to Satan, so that he might work with the demons in hell. No sooner had he expressed his desire to his father than the Devil appeared and took the young man off to his kingdom. There Pedro was assigned the task of directing the demons in hauling the logs that were to be used for fuel. Pedro ordered the demons to tie a strong piece of rope to one end of a log, and ordered them to pull it while he stood on the other end. Every time he counted "One, two, three!" he would hold up his outer gown; and the demons, seeing the crosses, would run away in confusion. As the devils could not endure Pedro's conduct, they ran to their master Satan, and asked him to send the young man away, for he could not do any work. The demons could not say anything about Pedro's trick, however, for they did not dare even speak the word "cross." Satan then summoned Pedro to his office, and had him work there. Now, the young man had put a strong piece of rope under his gown. One day, when Satan was taking his siesta in a rocking-chair, Pedro tied him fast to the chair. Then he removed his outer gown and woke Satan. The Devil with closed eyes struggled hard to escape; but he could not get loose. So he humbly requested Pedro to go away and leave him alone; but Pedro would neither leave him nor let him go. He demanded the document, but Satan would not give it up. So Pedro kept on frightening the Devil until at last Satan said that he would give up the document if Pedro would release him. Pedro put on his outer robe, and the Devil called his secretary and told him to give the golden document to the young man. Pedro threw the bond into the fire; and when he saw that it was completely melted, he took off his outer robe again, and turned Satan loose. The Devil ran away exceedingly terrified. Then Pedro went home, where his parents received him with great joy. Thus by his cleverness he saved his parents and his future child from a terrible fate. Notes. Like the preceding, this story is doubtless also an importation into the Islands from Europe. It belongs to the general family of tales known as the "Promised Child," but the narrative takes a turn which leads into a special group of this family. The members of this group are usually not long; and the stories, on the whole, are simple. A parent promises, wittingly or unwittingly, his child to the Devil in return for some service, and gives his signature to the bond. The child grows up, and, noticing the dejection of his parents, forces from them the secret of the pact. After equipping himself for the struggle, he sets out for hell to recover the contract. In hell he frightens or annoys the devils in various ways, and becomes such a nuisance that finally the arch-fiend is glad to get rid of him by surrendering the bond. In a Lorraine story (Cosquin, No. LXIV, "Saint Etienne") "a woman in confinement is visited by a grand gentleman, who persuades her to sell her child to him for a large sum of money. He is to come for the child in six or seven years. One day after a visit of the stranger, the mother begins to suspect him of being the Devil. Her son notices her sadness, and learns the secret that is troubling her. 'I'm not afraid of the Devil,' he says boldly, and tells her to provide him with a sheep-skin filled with holy water. Thus equipped, he sets off with the stranger when the time comes, and, reaching hell, so frightens the devils by sprinkling them with the holy water, that they are glad to leave him in peace to return to his mother." In this story nothing is said of a contract; but in a variant mentioned by Cosquin (2 : 232) a poor man signs in blood a bond according to which he agrees to give up his son at the age of twenty to the rich stranger (Devil in disguise) who has consented to be godfather to the infant. The demon is finally put to flight with the aid of an image of the cross and with the liberal use of holy water. In a Wallachian story (Schott, No. 15) we find a close parallel of incident to our story: the hero, acting on the advice of his school-master, makes some ecclesiastical garments decorated with crosses, and, dressed in these, he goes to hell and knocks on the door. The demons, frightened by the sight, want to drive him away; but he will not go until they surrender the parchment signed by his father. This story differs from ours in the opening, however; for the father is a poor fisherman, and promises unwittingly "that which he loves most at home" in exchange for great riches. At the end of the story, too, is added an episode of the conversion by the hero of a band of robbers. With the beginning of this Wallachian story compare the Italian "Lionbruno" (Crane, No. XXXVI). In a Lithuanian tale (Chodzko, Contes des paysans et des pâtres slaves [Paris 1864], p. 107), the hero, before setting out to meet the Devil, arms himself with holy water and a piece of chalk blessed by the priest. With the chalk he draws a magic circle about him, from which he throws water on the demons until they give up the contract. For other variants, see Cosquin, No. LXXV and notes. Our story, while somewhat crude in style, is well motivated throughout, and has one amusing episode for which I know no parallel, the tying of Satan in his rocking-chair while he is taking his siesta, and then frightening him into compliance, when he wakes, by displaying, before him the cross-embroidered gown. The first task the hero is put to when he enters hell--directing the hauling of logs for fuel--seems more appropriate than that of draining two ponds, which the hero is obliged to perform in Cosquin's "La Baguette Merveilleuse," No. LXXV. The testimony of the narrator that he heard the story from one of his playmates when he was a little boy, throws an interesting ray of light on the way in which popular stories circulate in the Philippines. TALE 24 THE DEVIL AND THE GUACHINANGO. Narrated by José Laki of Guagua, Pampanga. He got the story from his uncle, who heard it from an old Pampango story-teller. There once lived in a suburb of a town a very religious old widow who had a beautiful daughter, Piriang by name. Young men from different parts of the town came to court Piriang, and the mother always preferred the rich to the poor. Whenever Piriang's friends told her that the man whom she rejected would have been a good match for her, she always answered that she would rather have a devil for a husband than such a man. One day a devil heard Piriang giving this answer to one of her friends. Thus encouraged, he disguised himself as a young man of noble blood, and went to Piriang's house to offer her his love. The mother and daughter received this stranger with great civility, for he appeared to them to be the son of a nobleman. In the richness of his dress he was unexcelled by his rivals. After he had been going to Piriang's house for a few weeks, the old widow told him one day to come prepared to be married on the following Tuesday. On the Sunday before the wedding-day he had a long conversation with Piriang. He calmly asked her to take off the cross that she had about her neck, for it made her look ugly, he said. She refused to do so, however, because she had worn this cross ever since she was a child. After he had departed, Piriang told her mother what he had asked her to do. The next day the mother went to the church. She told the priest that Piriang's bridegroom had ordered her to take off her cross from her neck. The priest said that that man was a devil; for no man, as a son of God, would say that a cross made the one who wore it look ugly. The priest gave the mother a small image of the Virgin Mary. He instructed her to show the image to the bridegroom. If when he beheld it he turned his back on her as she was holding it, she was to tie him around the neck with her cintas. [73] Then she was to put him in a large jar, and bury him at least twenty-one feet under the ground. The mother went home very much distressed because she had allowed her daughter to become engaged to a devil. She told Piriang not to talk with her bridegroom, because she feared that he was a devil. That night he came with his friend dressed like him. The mother was very gracious to them. They talked about the wedding. When the old woman held up the image of the Virgin Mary, the two men turned their backs on her. She immediately wound her cintas around the neck of her daughter's bridegroom, and Piriang came in with the dried tail of a sting-ray in her right hand. She whipped him with this as hard as she could. [74] Then the two together forced him to get into a large jar. After warning him not to come back to earth again, the old woman covered the jar with a piece of cloth wet with holy water. The other devil suddenly disappeared. The next morning a guachinango [75] happened to pass by the house of the old woman. She called him in, showed him the jar, and told him to bury it at least twenty-one feet deep. When he asked how much she would pay him, she promised to give him ten pesos. He agreed: so, putting the jar on his right shoulder, he set out. When he reached a quiet place, he heard whispers behind him. He stopped and looked around, but could see nothing. Then he put the jar on the ground to rest a few minutes. Now he discovered that the whispers were coming from inside the jar. He was very much surprised. "What are you?" asked the guachinango. "Are you a man, or a devil?" "I am a devil, my friend," answered the voice. "The old woman forced me to go into this jar. Be kind to me, my friend, and liberate me!" "I shall obey the old woman in order to get my pay," said the guachinango. "I will bury you even deeper than twenty-one feet." "If you will bury me just three feet deep," said the devil, "I will give you a large sum of money." "I will bury you just one and a half feet deep, if you can give me much money," said the guachinango. "I will give you five hundred pesos," said the devil. "Dig the ground near the stump of that mabolo-tree. There you will find the money in a dirty black purse." After the guachinango had buried the devil, he went to the mabolo-tree and took the money. Then he went to the nearest village and played casino. As soon as he lost all his money, he returned to the devil. "I have lost all the money you gave me," he said. "I will now bury you twenty-one feet deep." "No, do not bury me so deep as that, my friend!" said the devil calmly. "I can give you twice as much money as I gave you before. You will find it in the same place that you found the other." The guachinango took the money and went to the village again to gamble. Again he lost. He returned to the devil, and asked him angrily why he always lost the money he gave him. "I don't know," answered the devil. "I have given you fifteen hundred pesos, but you haven't even a cent now. You ought to set me free at once." "Aha! I won't let you go," said the guachinango. "I will bury you thirty-nine feet now." "I have a plan in mind," said the devil, "which will benefit you extremely; but before I explain my plan, let me ask you if you would like to marry the daughter of the king." "I have a great desire to be king some day," said the guachinango; "but how can you make me the husband of a princess, when you are only a devil, and I am nothing but a poor guachinango?" "As soon as you set me free," said the devil, "I will enter the mouth of the princess and go into her brains. Then I will give her a very painful headache which no physician can cure. The king will make an announcement saying that he who can cure his daughter of her disease shall marry her. When you hear this announcement, go to the palace at once, and offer your services to the king. As soon as you reach the princess, tell me that you have come, and I will leave her immediately. The princess will then recover her former health, and you will be married to her. Do not fail to go to the palace, for I am determined to reward you for your kindness to me." After the guachinango had liberated the devil, he immediately set out for the city. He had not been there three days when he met a group of soldiers crying that "he who could cure the princess should have her to wife." The guachinango stopped the soldiers, and said that he could cure the princess. They took him before the king, where a written agreement was made. If he could not cure the princess in three days, he should lose his life; but if he cured her by the end of the third day, he should marry her. The guachinango was then conducted to the room of the princess. When he approached her, he said to the devil that he had come. "You must leave the princess now; for, if you don't, I shall be executed." But the devil refused to leave, because he wanted to get revenge. He further told the guachinango that he wanted him to die, for then his soul would go to hell. The guachinango became more and more hopeless. On the morning of the third day he thought of a good plan to get rid of his enemy. He asked the king to order all the bells of the neighboring churches to be tolled, while every one in the palace was to cry out loud, "Here she comes!" While all this noise was going on, the guachinango approached the princess, and told the devil that the old woman was coming with her cintas. When the devil heard this, he was terribly frightened, and left the princess and disappeared. The next day the guachinango was married to the princess. Notes. From the testimony of the narrator, this capital story appears to have been known in Pampanga for some time. The incident of the demon entering the body of the princess, and then leaving at the request of one who has befriended him, occurs in a Tagalog story also, which I will give for the purpose of comparison. While the story is more of a fairy-tale than a Märchen proper, it appears to be a variant of our No. 24. Significant differences between the two will be noted, however. The Tagalog story was collected and written down for me by Manuel Reyes, a native of Manila. It runs as follows: Mabait and the Duende. Menguita, a king of Cebu, had two slaves,--Mabait and Masama. Mabait was honest and industrious, while Masama was envious and lazy. Mabait did nearly all of the hard work in the palace, so he was admired very much by the king. Masama, who was addicted to gambling, envied Mabait. One night, while Mabait was asleep, a duende [76] awakened him, and said, "I have seen how you labor here patiently and honestly. I want to be your friend." Mabait was amazed and frightened. He looked at the duende carefully, and saw that it resembled a very small man with long hair and a white beard. It was about a foot high. It had on a red shirt, a pair of green trousers, a golden cap, and a pair of black shoes. At last Mabait answered in a trembling voice, "I don't want to be a friend of an evil spirit." "I am not evil, I am a duende." "I don't know what duendes are, so I don't want to be your friend." "Duendes are wealthy and powerful spirits. They can perform magic. If you are the friend of one of them, you will be a most fortunate man." "How did you come into the world?" said Mabait. "Listen! When Lucifer was an angel, a contest in creating animals arose between him and God. He and his followers were defeated and thrown into hell. Many angels in that contest belonged neither to God's side not to Lucifer's. They were dropped on the earth. Those that fell in the forests became tigbalangs, ikis, and mananangals; [77] those in the seas became mermaids and mermen; and those in the cities became duendes." "Ah, yes! I know now what duendes are." "Now let our friendship last forever," said the duende. "I am ready at any time to help you in your undertakings." From that time on Mabait and the duende were good friends. The duende gave Mabait two or three isabels [78] every day, and by the end of the month he had saved much money. He bought a fine hat and a pair of wooden shoes. Masama wondered how Mabait, who was very poor, could buy so many things. At last he asked, "Where do you get money? Do you steal it?" "No, my friend gives it to me." "Who is your friend?" "A duende." Masama, in great envy, went to the king, and said, "Master, Mabait, your favorite slave, has a friend. This friend is a duende, which will be injurious to us if you let it live here. As Mabait said, it will be the means of his acquiring all of your wealth and taking your daughter for his wife." The king, in great rage, summoned Mabait, and punished him severely by beating his palms with a piece of leather. Then he ordered his servants to find the duende and kill it. The duende hid in a small jar. Masama saw it, and covered the mouth of the jar with a saint's dress. The duende was afraid of the dress, and dared not come out. "Open the jar, and I will give you ten isabels," said the little man. "Give me the money first." After Masama received the money, he went away to the cockpit without opening the jar. On his way there he lost his money. He went back to the duende, and said, "Friend, give me ten isabels more, and I will open the jar." "I know that you will cheat me," answered the duende. "Just let me come out of the jar, and I promise that you shall have the princess here for your wife." "What! Will the princess be my wife?" "Yes." "How can you make her love me?" "I will enter the princess's abdomen. I will talk, laugh, and do everything to make her afraid. I will not leave her for anybody but you." "Good, good!" Masama opened the jar, and the duende, flew a way to the princess's tower. Only a few weeks after that time a proclamation of the king was read in public. It was as follows: "The princess, my daughter, has something in her abdomen. It speaks and laughs. No one knows what it is, and no one can force it to come out. Whoever can cure my daughter shall be my heir and son-in-law; but he who tries and fails shall lose his head." When Masama heard this, he said to Mabait, "Why don't you cure the princess? You are the only one who can cure her." "Don't flatter me!" answered Mabait. "I'm not flattering you. It is the duende, your friend, who is in her abdomen, and no one can persuade it to come out but you. So go now, for fortune is waiting for you." Mabait was at last persuaded, and so he departed. Before going to the king, he first went to a church, and there he prayed Bathala that he might be successful in his undertakings. When Mabait was gone, Masama said to himself, "It is not fortune, but it is death, that is waiting for him. When he is dead, I shall not have anybody to envy." After sitting for about a half-hour, Masama also set out for the princess's tower, but he reached the palace before Mabait. There he told the king that he could cure his daughter. He was conducted into the princess's room. He touched her abdomen, and said, "Who are you?" "I am the duende." "Why are you there?" "Because I want to be here." "Go away!" "No, I won't." "Don't you know me?" "Yes, I know you. You are Masama, who cheated me once. Give your head to the king." So the executioner cut Masama's head off. Then Mabait came, and told the king that he could cure the princess. After he was given permission to try, he said to the duende, "Who are you?" "I am the duende, your friend." "Will you please come out of the princess's abdomen?" "Yes, I will, for the sake of our friendship." Mabait was married to the princess, was crowned king, and lived happily with his friend the duende. Before attempting to decide anything concerning the provenience of these two tales, we shall first examine versions of the story from other parts of the world. The nearest European analogue that I am familiar with is an Andalusian story printed by Caballero in 1866 (Ingram, 107, "The Demon's Mother-in-Law"). An outline of the chief elements of this tale follows:-- Mother Holofernes, while very neat and industrious, was a terrible termagant and shrew. Her daughter Panfila, on the contrary, was so lazy and thoughtless, that once, when the old woman burnt herself badly because her daughter was listening to some lads singing outside, instead of helping her mother with the boiling lye for washing, the enraged Mother Holofernes shouted to her offspring, "Heaven grant that you may marry the Evil One himself!" Not long afterward a rich little man presented himself as a suitor for Panfila's hand. He was accepted by the mother, and preparations for the marriage went forward. The old woman, however, began to dislike the suitor, and, recalling her curse, suspected that he was none other than the Devil himself. Accordingly, on the night of the wedding, she bade Panfila lock all the windows and doors of the room, and then beat her husband with a branch of consecrated olive. So done. The husband tried to escape from his wife by slipping through the key-hole; but his mother-in-law anticipated this move. She caught him in a glass bottle, which she immediately sealed hermetically. Then the old lady climbed to the summit of a mountain, and there deposited the bottle in an out-of-the-way place. Ten years the imp remained there a prisoner, suffering cold, heat, hunger, thirst. One day a soldier, returning to his native town on leave, took a short cut over the mountain, and spied the bottle. When he picked it up, the imp begged to be released, and told him of all he had suffered; but the soldier made a number of conditions,--his release from the army, a four-dollar daily pension, etc.,--and finally the imp promised to enter the body of the daughter of the King of Naples. The soldier was to present himself at court as a physician, and demand any reward he wished to, in return for a cure. So done. The king accepted the services of the soldier, but stipulated that if in three days he had not cured the princess, he should be hanged. The soldier accepted the conditions; but the demon, seeing that he had his arrogant enemy's life in his hands, and bent on revenge, refused to leave the body of the princess. On the last day, however, the soldier ordered all the bells rung. On the demon's asking what all the noise was about, the soldier said, "I have ordered your mother-in-law summoned, and she has just arrived." In great terror the Devil at once quitted the princess, and the soldier was left "in victorious possession of the field." It will be noticed that the last episode is almost identical with the ending of our story "The Devil and the Guachinango," while there is a considerable amount of divergence between the two elsewhere. For versions collected before 1860 I am indebted to Benfey's treatment of this cycle. It is found in his "Pantschatantra," 1 : 519 ff. I take the liberty of summarizing it in this place, first, because it is the only exhaustive handling of the story I know of; and, second, because Benfey's brilliant work, while constantly referred to and quoted, has long been out of print, and has never been accessible in English. The occasion for Benfey's dissertation on this particular tale is the relationship he sees between it and the large family of stories turning on the motive of a marvellous cure, a representative of which is "Pantschatantra," 5 : 12, "The Miraculous Cure of a Blind Man, a Humpback, and a Three-breasted Princess." [79] While the story we are discussing cannot be considered in any sense an offshoot of the Pantschatantra tale, it can scarcely be denied, says Benfey, that between the two there is a definite internal relationship, which is further manifested by the fact that in its later development the latter is actually joined to the former (p. 519). The earliest form of our story is found in the "Cukasaptati," where it is told as the story for the 45th and 46th nights. In this version,-- A Brahman, driven away from home by the malice of his wife, is befriended by a demon who had formerly lived in the Brahman's house, but who had also fled in fear from her shrewish tongue. The demon enters the body of a princess; and the Brahman, appearing as a conjurer, forces him to leave, in accordance with their pact, and wins half a kingdom and the hand of the princess. The demon now goes to another city where he possesses the queen, an aunt of the Brahman's new father-in-law. The Brahman, whose reputation as an enchanter has become great, is summoned to cure this queen. When he arrives, the demon threatens and insults him, refusing to leave the queen because they are now quits. The Brahman, however, whispers in the woman's ear, "My wife is coming here close on my heels, I have come only to warn you;" whereupon the demon, terror-stricken, at once leaves the queen. The Brahman is highly honored. Benfey conjectures that this story must have passed over into the Persian redaction of the "Cukasaptati" (i.e., the "Tuti-nameh"), but what changes it underwent in the transmission cannot yet be determined. The earliest European form of the tale is that found in the Turkish "Forty Vezirs" (trans. by Behrnauer, p. 277). Here a young wood-cutter saves money to buy a rope; but his shrewish wife, thinking that he is going to spend it on a sweetheart, insists on accompanying him to his work in the mountains, so that she can keep him under her eye. In the mountains the husband decides to abandon his wife in a well. He tells her to hold a rope while he descends to fetch a treasure which he pretends is concealed at the bottom; but she is so avaricious, that she insists on being let down first. Then he drops the rope, and returns home free. A few days later, conscience-smitten, he goes back to rescue his wife, and, lowering another rope, he calls to her that he will draw her up; but he hauls a demon to the surface instead. The demon thanks the wood-cutter for rescuing him from a malicious woman "who some days ago descended, and has made my life unbearable ever since." As in the Cukasaptati story, the demon enters a princess and makes her insane, and the wood-cutter cures her and marries her. Then the demon enters another princess. The wood-cutter is summoned; he has to resort to the well-known trick to force the imp to leave this second maiden. In the Persian form of this story, in the "1001 Days" (Prenzlau ed.), 11 : 247, is added the death-penalty in case the hero fails to perform the second cure, which consists in persuading the spirit, in the form of a snake, to unwind itself from the body of the vezir's daughter. The hero had already cured the sultan's daughter and married her. A Serbian story (Wuk, No. 37) is closer to the "Forty Vezirs" version than is the "1001 Days." The only essential difference is that the opening of the Serbian tale is the well-known fabliau of the "Meadow that was mowed." Here the wife falls into a pit. When the husband attempts to draw her out again, a devil appears. The devil is thankful; and, to reward the man, it enters the body of the emperor's daughter. Here the hero appears, not as an enchanter, but as a physician. Practically identical is the story of "The Bad Wife and the Devil," in Vogl, "Slowenische Volksmärchen" (Wien, 1837). In a Finnish version of the story (Benfey, 524-525) the hero, as in the preceding, assumes the rôle of a physician. The husband pushes his bad wife into an abyss. When he attempts to draw her out again, another woman appears. She is the Plague. [80] Out of gratitude for her liberation from that other wicked woman, she proposes to him that they travel together through the world: she, the pest, will make people ill; he, as physician, will cure them. So done. As a result the man becomes rich. But at last he grows weary of his excessive work: so he procures a snappish dog, and puts it in a sack. The next time he is called to the side of a person made sick by the pest, he says to her, "Enter human beings no more: if you do, I will liberate from this sack the woman that tormented you in the abyss," at the same time irritating the dog so that it growls. The Plague, full of terror, begs him for God's sake not to set the woman free, and promises to reform. It will be seen that in its method of the "sickness and the cure," this story is related to Grimm, No. 44, "Godfather Death," where Death takes the place of the Plague, and where, instead of gratitude, the motive is the godfather relationship of Death toward the hero. This folk-tale, says Benfey (p. 525), was early put into literary form in Europe. Among others, he cites Machiavelli's excellent version in his story of "Belfagor" (early sixteenth century):-- Belfagor, a devil, is sent to earth by his master to live as a married man for ten years, to see whether certain accusations made against women by souls in hell are true or slanderous. Belfagor marries in Florence; but his imperious wife causes him so much bad fortune, that he is compelled to flee from his creditors. A peasant conceals him, and out of gratitude Belfagor tells his rescuer his story, and promises to make him rich by possessing women and allowing himself to be driven out only by the peasant himself. So done. The peasant wins great renown; and at last Belfagor says that his obligations have been fulfilled, and that the peasant must look out for himself if they meet again. The devil now enters the daughter of Ludwig II, King of France. The peasant is summoned to cure her, but is afraid, and refuses. At last he is compelled to go, like the physician, against his will (see Benfey, 515 ff.). Belfagor rages when he sees the peasant, and threatens him vehemently. At last the peasant employs the usual trick: "Your wife is coming!" and the devil flees in consternation, choosing rather to rush back to hell than into the arms of his wife. Benfey considers a Bohemian story in Wenzig's collection (West-slawische Märchen, Leipzig, 1857, p. 167) to be the best of all the popular versions belonging to this group, and he reproduces it in full (pp. 527-534). This long story we may pass over, since it contains no new features that are found in our story. In fact, it little resembles ours or any of the others, except in general in two or three episodes. Benfey concludes his discussion of this cycle by stating that there have been many other imitations of this tale, and he mentions some of these (p. 534). It may be added that further references will be found in Wilson's note in his edition of Dunlop, 2 : 188-190. The question of the origin of the Pampango version of this story is not easy to answer definitely, for the reason that it presents details not found in any of the other variants. However, since nearly all the machinery of our story turns on the teachings of the Roman Church, and since the denouement is practically identical with the ending of Caballero's Andalusian story, I conclude that in its main outlines our version was derived from Spain. At the same time, I think it likely that the fairy-tale of "Mabait and the Duende" was already existent earlier in the Islands (though this, too, may have been imported), and that the motivation of the spirit's desire to revenge himself on his tormentor for his avarice and greed was incorporated into the Märchen from the fairy-tale. My reasons for thinking the fairy-tale the older are: (1) its crudeness (the good and the bad hero are a very awkward device compared with the combination of qualities in the guachinango); (2) its local references and its native names; (3) its use of native superstitions and beliefs. TALE 25 JUAN SADUT. Narrated by Nicolas Zafra, an Ilocano from San Fernando, La Union. The story is very popular among the country people about San Fernando, he reports. Many years ago there lived a certain old couple who had an only son. Juan, for that was the boy's name, was known throughout the village as an idler, and for this reason he was called Juan Sadut. He had no liking for any kind of work; in fact, his contempt for all work was so great, that he never even helped his father or mother. One day his father took him to the fields to have him help harvest their crops; but, instead of going to work, Juan betook himself to a shady spot on the edge of the field, and fell asleep. His father, who was very much enraged by this conduct of his son, determined then and there to dispose of him. He carried the sleeping boy to another part of the field, and laid him down just beside a large snake-hole. He expected that the snake, when it came out of its hole, would sting the sleeping idler, who would thus be disposed of quietly. When Juan awoke, he found a large snake coiled near him. In his fright, he sprang to his feet to run away; but the snake looked up at him sympathetically, and then began to speak: "Why do you fear me? Don't you know that I am the king of the snakes? I am going to give you a wonderful gift that will make you happy forever;" and having said this, it dropped a gold ring on the ground, and bade Juan pick it up and wear it on his finger. The ring was of pure gold, and it had on it initials that Juan could not understand. "Keep that ring carefully, for it will be of great use to you," said the snake. "Consult it for anything you want, and it will advise you how to proceed to obtain the object of your desire." After thanking the snake for its gift, Juan set out on his travels. He never worried about his food from day to day, for from his magic ring he could get anything he needed. In his wanderings, word reached Juan's ears that the king of that country would give his beautiful daughter to any one who could fulfil three conditions. Juan was thrilled with joy on hearing this news, for he was sure that he would be the successful competitor for the hand of the princess. When he presented himself before the court, his slovenly appearance and awkward movements only excited laughter and mirth among the nobles. "What chance have you of winning the prize?" they asked him in derision. "Let me know the conditions, and time will show," said Juan. "You must fulfil three conditions before I give my daughter to you," said the king. "First, you must fight with my tiger, and kill it if you can; second, you must go get and bring back to me the burning stone that the dragon in the mountains has in its possession; third, you must answer correctly a question that I shall ask you." "Very well," said Juan as he turned to go, "I will do all you require of me." Now, many a young man had risked his life for the hand of the beautiful princess; but no one had yet succeeded in winning even the first contest. The king's tiger was ferocious and strong, and as agile as a mouse. Then there was the formidable dragon in the mountains, whose breath alone was deadly poisonous. This dragon lived in a cave the entrance to which was guarded by poisonous serpents. Every morning it would come out of its cave to play with its wonderful stone by tossing it up into the air and catching it in its mouth when it fell. Hence it was difficult, if not impossible, to succeed in these undertakings. The young men who had been stirred by their intense love for the princess had bartered away their lives for her hand. When Juan arrived home, he took up his little ring, and said to it, "Advise me as to how I may overcome the king's tiger." "Get a handful of sand," replied the ring, "and mix with it an equal quantity of red pepper. Take the mixture with you into the arena, and when the tiger comes near you, fling the sand into its eyes." Juan prepared the sand and pepper as he had been advised. The next day he stepped into the arena amid the shouts and cheers of the spectators. He looked, as usual, to be an idle, slow-moving fellow, who would have no chance at all against the wild beast. The tiger soon appeared at the opposite end of the arena, and advanced rapidly towards Juan. When the animal was about three yards from him, he flung the mixture of sand and pepper into its eyes. The tiger was blinded. Juan then drew his dagger and buried it deep into the animal's heart. The next task he had to perform was to obtain the dragon's fiery stone. The ring advised him thus: "Go to the cave, and, in order to gain admittance, show me to the serpents. I am sacred to them, and they will fulfil whatever commands my possessor gives them." Juan proceeded to the cave in the mountains. He had no sooner entered it than hissing serpents came towards him in threatening attitudes. Juan, however, showed them the signet ring; and they at once became tame, and showed him that they were glad to obey whatever he should command them to do. "Go and get the dragon's stone," he ordered, and soon they came back with the much-coveted treasure. When the king saw that Juan had fulfilled two of the hardest conditions, he became alarmed because the new bridegroom was to be a person of very low birth: so he devised the most difficult question possible, with the view of preventing Juan from winning his daughter the princess. Juan now presented himself before the king and his court to perform the third and last task. "What am I thinking about now?" asked the king. Juan appeared to hesitate a moment, but he was really consulting his ring. The ring said to him, "The king has in mind the assurance that you will not be able to answer his question." Then looking up, Juan answered the king's question in the precise words of the ring, and thus answered it correctly. Astonished at the wonderful power of Juan, the king gave his daughter to him; and when he died, the young couple inherited the crown of the kingdom. Notes. I know of no parallels to this story as a whole. In its separate incidents it is reminiscent of other tales; and in its main outline, from the point where the hero sets out to seek adventures with the help of his magic ring, the narrative belongs to the "Bride Wager" group. In this group Von Hahn distinguishes at least two types (1 : 54, Nos. 23 and 24): in the one, the hero bets his head against the bride, and wins by performing difficult tasks; in the other, he wins by answering riddles. In our story there is no formal staking of his head by the hero, but undertaking the first two tasks amounts to the same thing. The third task, it will be noticed, is the answering of a difficult question, which in a way connects our story with Von Hahn's second type. The two distinctive features in our story are the introduction and the first task. The cruelty displayed by the hero's father is not unusual in folk-tales, but his method of getting rid of his son is. The benevolence of the snake, which is not motivated at all, may be at bottom connected with some such moralizing tradition as is found in Somadeva, "The Story of the Three Brahmin Brothers" (Tawney, 1 : 293), where two older brothers, in order to get rid of the youngest, who has been slandered by their wives ("Potiphar's wife" situation), order him to dig up an ant-hill in which lives a venomous snake. Because of his virtue, however, he finds a pitcher filled with gold! There is nothing else in this story which even in the remotest way suggests ours. While Benfey (1 : 214-215, note) has shown that the conception of the snake-jewel is essentially Indian,--and the belief in one form or another is widespread in the Philippines,--he also shows that it was held in Europe even in classical times; and, as every one knows, the idea is a commonplace in folk-lore. Obviously nothing can be concluded as to the origin of our story from this detail alone. The first task, which is performed without supernatural aid, though the hero asks his ring for advice, may be a remnant of tradition; if so, it is of Indian or Malayan tradition, not Philippine, for the tiger is not found in the Islands. TALE 26 AN ACT OF KINDNESS. Narrated by Pacita Cordero, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, La Laguna. Early one morning Andres went out to buy five cents' worth of rice. On his way he came across a man who was about to kill a small snake. "Please don't kill the poor creature!" said Andres. "Did it harm you?" "No," answered the man, "but it may bite us or some other passer-by," and he again drew out his bolo; but Andres restrained him. "What do you want this snake for?" said the merciless man. "Leave it alone, for pity's sake!" cried Andres. "Here are five cents! Don't injure the harmless creature!" The man, very glad to get the money, did not say a word, and went away. After the man was gone, the snake said to Andres, "Kind friend, come home with me. There you will find our huge chief snake, and many others like myself. But don't fear anything! Trust me, for I will never lead you into danger. When we reach out dwelling, I will recommend you to our chief. He will be harsh to you at first, since you are a stranger; but never mind that! When he asks you what you want, ask him to give you his red cloth. This enchanted cloth can supply you with whatever you want." So the two friends started for the horrible snake-cave. "Who is that stranger with you,--a murderer, or a robber?" hissed the chief as soon as the snake and Andres entered. "He is neither of the two," replied the snake. "Please don't do a bit of harm to him! Had it not been for him, my life would have been lost. He rescued me from the hands of a cruel person who found me creeping through the grass." "Well," said the chief to Andres, "what reward do you want me to give you?" "Only your red cloth, and nothing else," answered Andres. The chief hesitated for a moment. Then he went into a very dark cell, and got out the red cloth. He returned with it, and said to Andres, "Since you have saved the life of one of our number, I give you this cloth as a reward. You can ask of it anything you want." Andres thanked the chief, and went away. It was now ten o'clock, and he had not yet bought rice for breakfast. "Poor mother! she must be very hungry." Andres himself felt hungry, so he asked the red cloth to bring him food. Soon a breakfast, richer than the ordinary ones he was accustomed to, was spread before him. Having eaten his hearty meal under the shade of a tree, he resumed his journey homeward. He had yet several miles to go. After a few hours' walk he again became hungry. He went to a hut and asked the old woman there if he might eat in her house. He said that he had brought his own food with him. The old woman invited him in, and Andres asked his red cloth for food. In an instant a fine luncheon was before them. Andres invited the old woman to eat with him, which she willingly did. She liked the food so very much, that she asked Andres to let her have his wonderful red cloth. She said, "Give me this cloth, and I will let you have my two stones in exchange. When you want to get rid of persons who annoy you, just tell these two stones where to go, and they will inflict heavy blows on the evil-doers." Andres agreed to the exchange. He proceeded on his way, taking with him the two stones. Tired and exhausted from his long journey, Andres again began to feel hungry. Now what would become of him? His red cloth was gone, and he had nothing to eat. Fortunately he saw another hut by the roadside. He went to it, and easily gained admittance. The witch, the only person in the cottage, had just finished her dinner. She had nothing left to give the starving boy. Andres then said to his stones, "Go to your former mistress, the old woman, and tell her that I take back my red cloth. If she refuses to give it to you, do what you think it best to do." The two stones went back to the hut. There they found the old woman eating. "We have come here," they said, "to take the red cloth away from you. Our master, the boy who was here this afternoon, wants it back again." The old woman refused to give up the cloth, so the stones struck her with heavy blows until she fell down senseless on the floor. Then the stones rolled themselves in the red cloth and hastened back to their master with it. Andres spread it out and ate his dinner. He asked for an extraordinary breakfast besides. Then he said to the witch, "You need not prepare anything for your breakfast to-morrow. Here is a good meal that I have asked my red cloth to give to you, you have been so kind in letting me come to your hut." The witch was very glad, and thanked the boy. She said to him, "Boy, I have here two magic canes which I want to dispose of. I am very old now, and don't need them any more. They have served me well. These canes can kill your enemies, or any bad persons whom you want to be put to death. Just give them directions, and they will obey you." Andres now had three enchanted possessions. It was very late when he reached home, and his mother was very hungry and very angry. He had no more than reached the foot of the stairs when she met him with a loud scolding. But Andres just laughed. He asked his red cloth to bring his mother a good dinner; and while she was eating, he related to her the occurrences of the day. Andres and his mother were not rich, and their wealthy neighbors were greatly surprised to see them become rich so soon. One particularly selfish neighbor, already rich, who was eager to deprive Andres and his mother of their wealth, sent a band of robbers to the cottage one night. At midnight Andres heard his dogs barking, and he knew that there was some one lurking about. When he saw the robbers coming, he took out his magic stones and canes, and commanded them to get rid of the thieves. In a few minutes all the robbers lay dead. Andres and his mother remained rich. Notes. Through its main incidents and situations, this story is connected with a number of tales, although, as in the case of the preceding narrative, I can point to no complete analogue for it. The introduction has some points of close resemblance to the introduction of the "Language of Animals" cycle, where the hero saves the life of a snake, usually from fire, and is consequently rewarded by the king of snakes with the gift of understanding the tongues of birds and beasts. This cycle has been fully discussed by Benfey (Orient und Occident, 2 : 133-171, "Ein Märchen von der Thiersprache, Quelle und Verbreitung"). Additional bibliographical details may be found in Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 132-133, note 1. The invitation of the rescued snake to its savior to visit the king of snakes, and its advice that he ask for one particular magic reward only, are found in many versions of the "Language of Animals" group, as well as in our story; but this is as far as the similarity between the two extends. From this point on, our story deviates altogether, except for the vaguest reminiscences. Again, in the fact that Andres does not save the snake from an accidental death, but buys its life from a cruel person about to kill it, our story appears to be connected with the "Magic Ring" cycle. We have already discussed two variants of this cycle in No. 10; but, as has been pointed out in the notes to those stories, the most characteristic beginning is lacking there. In most of the members of the "Magic Ring" group, the kind-hearted hero spends all his money to ransom from death certain animals, including a snake which invites him to the home of its father, and then tells him what to ask for. But in our present story, only the snake is saved; the recompense is a magic wishing-cloth that can do only one thing, not a stone or ring that fulfils any command; and as in the case above of the "Language of Animals" cycle, so here, from this point on, our story is entirely different from the "Magic Ring" group, and attaches itself to still another family of tales. This, for want of a better title, may be called the "Knapsack, Hat, and Horn" cycle. I use this name merely because the most familiar member of that family (Grimm, No. 54) bears it. In Grimm, No. 54, the youngest of three poverty-stricken brothers who set out to seek their fortunes finds a little table-cloth, which, when spread out and told to cover itself, instantly becomes covered with choice food. Not yet satisfied with his luck, he takes the cloth and continues his wandering. One night he meets a charcoal-burner who is about to make his meal off potatoes. The youth invites the man to eat with him. The charcoal-burner, thinking the cloth just what he needs in his solitude, offers to trade for it an old knapsack, from which, whenever it is tapped, out jump a corporal and six soldiers to do whatever they are ordered to do. The exchange is made. The youth travels on, taps the knapsack, and orders the soldiers to bring him the wishing-cloth that the charcoal-burner has. In this same way the youth acquires from two other charcoal-burners successively a magic hat which shoots off artillery and destroys the owner's enemies, and a magic horn a blast from which throws down walls, fortifications, and houses. By means of these articles the hero finally wins the king's daughter to wife, and becomes ruler. Further adventures follow when the wife tries, but without ultimate success, to steal his treasures from him. The magic articles are not at all constant in this cycle, as may be seen from an examination of Bolte-Polívka's variants (1 : 467-470), but most of the lists include the wishing-cloth and articles in the nature of weapons or soldiers for offensive purposes. A comparison of our story with this formula discloses an undoubted relationship between the two. The hero trades his wishing-cloth for two fighting stones, which he later sends back to fetch the cloth. He then acquires two magic canes (but not by trickery this time). Later, when he becomes an object of envy, and an attempt is made by a rich neighbor to steal his wealth (corresponding to the envy of the king), the magic stones and canes kill all his opponents. Compare the Tagalog variant in the notes to the following tale (No. 27). The extraordinary articles are found as machinery in other Philippine stories, though not in the above sequence: a "table, spread yourself" and a magic cane occur in No. 27; a magic guitar, in No. 28; a magic buyo, cane, purse, and guitar, in No. 35. Compare also the magic articles in the various forms of No. 12. I know of no other occurrence in folk-tales of two fighting stones. This detail sounds very primitive. It might be compared with the magic "healing stones" in No. 12 (b), "Three Brothers of Fortune," though the two objects are wholly dissimilar in power. As a whole, while our story is reminiscent of at least three different cycles of tales, it nevertheless does not sound like a modern bit of patchwork, but appears to be old; how old, I am unable to say. The most unreasonable part of our narrative is the fact that the hero should find himself so many miles from home when going to buy five cents' worth of rice. It must be supposed that the trip to the snake-cave occupied much more time than it appears in the story to have taken. TALE 27 THE INDOLENT HUSBAND. Narrated by Gregorio Frondoso, a Bicol from Tigaon, Camarines, who heard the story when he was a small boy. One of the servants told it to him. Many hundreds of years ago there lived in the isolated village of Hignaroy a poor couple who had many children to care for. Barbara, the wife, was an industrious but shrewish woman. She worked all day in a factory to support her many children. The husband, Alejo, on the other hand, idled away his time. He either ate, or drank, or slept all the time his wife was away at work. In the course of time Barbara naturally became disgusted with her husband's indolence; and every time she came home, she would rail at him and assail him with hot, insolent words, taxing him with not doing anything, and with caring nothing about what was going on in the house: for, on her return home in the evening, she would always find him asleep; while the floor would always be strewn with chairs, benches, and pictures, which the children had left in a disorderly way after playing. Alejo seemed to take no heed of what she said; he became more sluggish, and had no mind for anything but sleeping all day. What was worse, was that he would eat such big meals, that he left but little food for his wife and children. Barbara's anger and impatience grew so strong, that she no longer used words as a means to reform her husband. She would kick him as he lay lazily on his bed, and would even whip him like a child. Finally the thought of leaving home came into his head; he determined to travel to some distant land, partly with the purpose of getting away from his wife, who was always interfering with his ease, and partly with the purpose of seeking his fortune. One day he set out on a long journey, wandering through woods, over hills, and along the banks of rivers, where no human creature could be seen. After roaming about a long time, he became tired, and lay down to rest in the shade of a tree near the bank of a river. While he was listening to the melodious sounds of the birds and the sweet murmur of the water, and was meditating on his wretched condition, an old humpback came upon him, and addressed him in this manner: "What is the matter, my friend? Why do you look so sad?" "I am in great trouble," said Alejo. "I will tell you all about it. I am married, and have many children to support; but I am poor. I have been idling away my time, and my wife has been kicking and whipping me like a child for not doing anything all day. So I have finally left home to seek my fortune." "Don't be worried, my son!" said the old man. "Here, take this purse! It has nothing in it; but, if you need money at any time, just say these words,--'Sopot, ua-ua sopot!' [81]--and it will give you money." Alejo was very glad to have found his fortune so quickly. He took the purse from the old man, and, after thanking him for it, started for his home with lively spirits. Soon he reached the village. Before going home, however, he went to the house of his compadre and comadre, [82] and related to them what he had found. They entertained him well; they drank and sang. While they all were feeling in good spirits, Alejo took out his magic purse to test it before his friends. "Friends," said Alejo, now somewhat drunk, "watch my purse!" at the same time pronouncing the words "Sopot, ua-ua sopot!" Then showers of silver coins dropped on the floor. When the couple saw this wonder, they thought at once that their friend was a magician. They coveted the purse. So they amused Alejo, gave him glass after glass of wine,--for he was a great drinker,--until finally he was dead-drunk. At last he was overcome by drowsiness, and the couple promptly provided him with a bed. Just as he fell asleep, the wife stealthily untied the purse from Alejo's waist, and put in its place one of their own. After a good nap of an hour or two, Alejo awoke. He thanked his friends for their kind reception and entertainment, and, after bidding them good-by, went to his own home. There he found his wife busy sewing by the fireside. He surprised her with his affectionate greeting. "My dear, lovely wife, be cheerful! Here I have found something useful,--a magic purse which will furnish us with money." "O you rogue!" she replied, "don't bother me with your foolishness! How could you ever get anything useful? You are lying to me." "Believe me, my dear, I am telling the truth." "All right; prove it to me at once." "Call all out children, so that they may also see what I have found." When all the children were called together, Alejo asked the purse for money, just as the old man had showed him how to ask; but no shower of coins dropped to the floor, for, as you know, it was not the magic purse. Barbara was so enraged, that she stormed at him with all the bitter words that can be imagined, and drove him from the house. Alejo was a tender-hearted, if lazy, husband, and it never occurred to him to beat his wife in turn. In fact, he loved her and his children very much. He wandered away again in the direction of the place where he had met the old humpback. Here he found the old man, who said to him, "Where are you going, Alejo?" "Guiloy, your purse did not prove to be any good." "Well, take this goat home with you. It will give you money if you ask for it. Whenever you want any money, just say these words: 'Canding, pag coroquinanding!'" [83] Alejo gladly accepted the goat, and set out for home again. Again he passed by his friends' house. There he stopped, and they entertained him as before: they drank, danced, and sang. Alejo told them about the virtues of his magic goat when he was feeling in a jovial mood; and when he fell asleep, they exchanged his beast for one of their own. After his nap, Alejo started home, his goat flung over his shoulder; but again, when he tried to demonstrate to his wife the magic powers of the goat, the animal did nothing, but stood looking as foolish as before Alejo spoke the words the old man had taught him. Barbara was more angry than ever, and, after railing at her husband, would have nothing more to do with him. Alejo immediately left home to find the old man again. In a short time he met him. "How now, Alejo? What's the matter?" "Your magic goat would not obey my command," said Alejo. "Try this table, then," said the old man. "It will provide you with all kinds of delicious food and drink. Just say, 'Tende la mesa!' [84] and all kinds of foods will be served you." Thanking the old man and bidding him good-by, Alejo shouldered the magic table and left. He was invited into his friends' house as before, and was entertained by the deceitful couple. Alejo imparted to them the secret of his table. "Tende la mesa!" he said, and in the wink of an eye every kind of food you could wish for appeared on the table. They ate, and drank wine. Again Alejo drank so much, that soon he was asleep, and again the false couple played a trick on him: they exchanged his magic table for a common one of their own. When Alejo woke up, he hastened to his own home, carrying the table on his shoulder. He called his wife, and assured her that the table would provide them with every variety of food. Now, this was indeed good news to Barbara, so she called all their children about them. When every one was seated about the table, Alejo exclaimed, "Tende la mesa!"... You cannot imagine what blows, what pinches, what whips, Alejo received from his wife's hands when not even a single grain of rice appeared on the table! Alejo now felt greatly ashamed before his wife. He wondered why it was that when before his friends' eyes the purse, the goat, and the table displayed their magic properties, they failed to display them before his wife. However, he did not give up hope. He immediately set out to seek the old man again. After a long wandering through the same woods and hills and along river-banks, he came to the place where he usually met him. "Did the table prove good?" said the old man. "No, Guiloy; so I have come here again." "Well, Alejo," said the old man, "I pity you, indeed. Take this cane as my last gift. Be very careful in using it, for I have no other object to give you. The secret of this cane is this: if somebody has done you wrong, say to the cane, 'Baston, pamordon!' [85] and then it will lash that person. There are no princes, kings, or emperors that it will not punish." Taking the cane and thanking the old man, Alejo hastily returned home. This time, when he reached the village, he did not pass by his friends' house, but went directly home. He told his wife to go call in all their friends, relatives, and neighbors, for they were going to have a sort of banquet. At first Barbara was unwilling to do so, because she remembered how she had been deceived before; but at last Alejo persuaded her to do as he wished. When all their friends, relatives, and neighbors were gathered in his house, Alejo shut all the doors and even the windows. Then he shouted to his magic cane, "Baston, pamordon!" and it at once began to lash all the people in the house, throwing them into great confusion. At last Alejo's two friends, the deceitful couple, exclaimed almost in one voice, "Compadre, please stop, and we will give you back your magic purse, goat, and table." When Alejo heard them say this, he was filled with joy, and commanded the cane to cease. That very day the magic purse, goat, and table were returned to him by his compadre and comadre, and now Barbara realized that her husband's wanderings had been profitable. The husband and wife became rich, and they lived many happy years together. Notes. A Tagalog story resembling the Bicol tale in some respects is "The Adventures of Juan" (JAFL 20 : 106-107), in which A magic tree furnishes the lad who spares it a goat that shakes silver money from its whiskers, a net which will catch fish even on dry ground, a magic pot always full of rice, and spoons full of whatever vegetables the owner wishes, and finally a stick that will beat and kill. The first three articles a false friend steals from Juan by making him drunk. With the help of his magic cane, however, he gets them back, and becomes rich and respected. One night a hundred robbers come to break into the house, to take all his goods and kill him; but he says to the stick, "Boombye, boom-ha!" and with the swiftness of lightning the stick flies around, and all those struck fall dead, until there is not one left. Juan is never troubled again by robbers, and in the end marries a princess and lives happily ever after. The last part of this story I have given in full, because it is almost identical with the episode at the end of the preceding tale (No. 26, q.v.), and consequently connects that story with our present cycle. In a "Carancal" variant (III, e) the hero finds a magic money-producing goat. The hero of our tale is a lazy, good-natured man, whose industrious wife's reproaches finally drive him from home. Analogous to this beginning, but not furnishing a complete parallel, is Caballero's "Tio Curro el de la porra" (Ingram, 174-180). Uncle Curro is pleasure-loving and improvident, and soon finds himself and his family in the direst need. Unable finally to bear the reproaches of his wife, he goes out in the field to hang himself, when a little fairy dressed like a friar appears, and blames him for his Judas-like thought. The fairy then gives him an inexhaustible purse, but this is stolen from him by a rascally public-house keeper. Again he goes to hang himself; but the fairy restrains him, and gives him a cloak that will furnish him with all kinds of cooked food. This is likewise stolen. The third time he is given a cudgel. While on his way home, he is met by his wife and children, who begin to insult him. "Cudgel, beat them!" Magistrates and officers are summoned. These are put to rout; and finally Uncle Curro and his stick make such havoc among all sent to restrain him, that the king promises him a large estate in America. This version differs from the usual form, in that the inn-keeper is not punished, nor are the first two magic objects recovered. The "Ass-Table-Stick" cycle, of which the "Indolent Husband" is clearly a member, is one of the most widespread Märchen in the world. For a full bibliography of this group, see Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 346-361 (on Grimm, No. 36). The usual formula for this cycle is as follows:-- A young servant (or a poor man) is presented by his master (or by some powerful personage--in some of the versions, God himself) on two different occasions with a magic object, usually a gold-giving animal, and a table or cloth which miraculously supplies food. When in an inn, he is robbed of the magic object and magic animal by the inn-keeper or his wife, and worthless objects resembling those that are stolen are substituted while the hero sleeps (or is drunk). The third magic article, which he gets possession of in the same way as he acquired the other two, is a magic cudgel or cane, through the aid of which he recovers his stolen property. This is the form of the story as it is found in Basile (1 : i), Gonzenbach (No. 52), Cosquin (Nos. IV and LVI), Schott (No. 20), Schneller (No. 15), Jacobs (English Fairy Tales, "The Ass, the Table, and the Stick"), Dasent (No. XXXIV, "The Lad Who Went to the North Wind" = Asbjörnsen og Moe, 1868, No. 7), Crane (No. XXXII, "The Ass that Lays Money"); and it is this formula that our story follows. Grimm, No. 36, however, differs from these stories in two respects: (1) it has a framework-story of the deceitful goat on whose account the father drives from home his three sons; (2) the story proper concerns three brothers, one of whom acquires the little wishing-table, another the gold-ass, and the third the cudgel. However, as in the other tales, the possessor of the stick compels the thieving inn-keeper to return the property stolen from his brothers. In their details we notice a large number of variations, even among the European forms. The personage from whom the poor man receives the magic objects is sometimes God, Fortune, a fairy, a statue, a magician, a dwarf, a priest, a lord, a lady, etc. (Cosquin, 1 : 52). The old humpback in our story may be some saint in disguise, though the narrator does not say so. The gold-producing animal is not always an ass, either: it may be a ram (as in the Norse and Czech versions), a sheep (Magyar, Polish, Lithuanian), a horse (Venetian), a mule (Breton), a he-goat (Lithuanian, Norwegian), a she-goat (Austrian), a cock (Oldenburg), or a hen (Tyrolese, Irish). For references see Macculloch, 215. The Indian members of this cycle are Lal Behari Day, No. 3, "The Indigent Brahman;" Minajev, "Indiislda Skaski y Legendy" (1877), No. 12; Stokes, No. 7, "The Foolish Sakhouni;" Frere, No. 12, "The Jackal, the Barber, and the Brahmin who had Seven Daughters." Of these versions, Day's most closely resembles the European form (Cosquin, 1 : 57). Numerous as are the Indian and other Oriental variants, it seems to me very likely that out story was not derived directly from them, but from Europe. However, I shall not undertake to name the parent version. TALE 28 CECILIO, THE SERVANT OF EMILIO. Narrated by Sancho B. de Leon, a Tagalog from Santa Cruz, Laguna. He heard the story from his grandfather. Once upon a time there lived a witty orphan whose name was Cecilio. His parents had died when he was six years old. After that time he became a servant of Emilio, a man of wealth living in a very lonely and desolate barrio. The boy was faithful and kind-hearted, but his master was cruel. Cecilio had no wages at all. In short, he served Emilio for four years, and at the end of that time he was given five hundred centavos as a payment for his services. Cecilio thought that he had been given too much: he was so simple-minded, that he did not know he had been cheated by his master, who should have given him ten times five hundred centavos. Cecilio put his money in a new purse, and rushed out into the main road of the barrio to find his companions and tell them of the reward he had received. He was so very happy, that before he knew it, and without feeling at all tired, he had reached another barrio. Suddenly on his way he met two men with drawn bolos. They stopped him, and said, "Boy, your money, or your life!" Cecilio was much amazed at these words, but was also so frightened that he gave up the money at once. He only said to himself, "Well, since I am not strong enough to defend myself, I either have to surrender my money or die." He sat under a tree lamenting his fortune. But the two robbers were in trouble, because one of them wanted a greater share than the other. The second robber said that their shares should be the same, for they had stolen the money together; but the former answered, "I am in all respects better than you are."--"Oh, no! for we have not yet had a trial," said the second. At this they began to fight; and soon both fell so severely wounded, that they died before Cecilio, who had heard the noise of the struggle, could reach the place where they were disputing. Now the boy was very happy again, for he had gotten his money back. As he had already travelled very far, he did not know where he was: he was lost. But he proceeded along the road until he met another man, who said roughly to him, "Give me your money, or else you will die!" Cecilio, thinking that he would rather live than try to defend his wealth, which he would lose in any case, gave his purse to the man. Then the boy went away and wept. While he was crying over his bad luck, a very old woman came near him, and said, "Why are you weeping, my boy?" The boy replied, "I am weeping because somebody took my money." "Well, why did you give it up?" said the old woman. "I gave it up because he said that he would kill me if I didn't." Then the old woman said, "Take this cane with you, and whenever you see him, let it loose and pronounce these words:-- "'Sigue garrote, sigue garrote, [86] Strike that fellow over there!' "When you want the cane to stop, all you need to say is-- "'Stop, stop, For that is enough!'" The boy then said, "Is that all?" "After you have recovered your money," said the old woman, "you must turn back here; but you had better hurry up now." Cecilio then bade the old woman good-by, and at once ran away to overtake the man who had robbed him. When he saw the man, he said, "Give me back my money, or else you now shall die, and not I!" The man laughed at him, and said, "Of course I shall not give you back your money." When he heard these words, the boy said, "Is that so?" and, letting go of his cane, he uttered the formula that the old woman had told him to pronounce. The cane at once began to rain blows on the stranger's head and body. When he could no longer endure the blows, and saw that he could not catch the stick, the man said, "If you will call off your cane, I will return your purse." "Very well, I will pardon you," said Cecilio; "but if you had treated me as you should have treated me and others, you would not have been harmed." Then he said to the cane,-- "Stop, stop, For that is enough!" At once the magic stick stopped, and returned to its owner. The money was given back, and the man promised Cecilio that he would not rob any poor boy again. On his way back toward the old woman, Cecilio met another man who wanted to rob him; but the boy said, "Don't you dare attempt to take my purse, or you will get yourself into trouble!" The man became angry, and rushed at Cecilio to knock him down; but the boy pronounced the words which the old woman had taught him, and let the cane loose. The cane at once began to rain blows on the man's head and body. When he could no longer endure the pain, the man asked Cecilio's pardon. As the youth was kind-hearted, he forgave the man. When he reached the old woman's house, Cecilio told her that the cane had been very useful to him, for it had saved both his life and his money. Then he returned the stick to the old woman, and thanked her very much. She now offered to sell him a guitar which she had, the price of which was five hundred centavos. Since she had been so good to him, Cecilio at once agreed to the exchange; and after he had once more bade her good-by, he set out for his master's house. When he came near his old home, Cecilio saw his master Emilio shooting at a very handsome bird on the top of a bamboo-tree. The bird fell down, and the man ran to pick it up. As Emilio was making his way up to the bird through the thorny bamboo undergrowth, Cecilio sat down to wait for him, and, having nothing else to do, began to play his guitar. The master at once began to dance among the bamboo-trees, and he received many wounds because of the sharp spines. Now, in reality, the boy was playing his guitar unintentionally, and did not know of its magic power; but Emilio thought that Cecilio had discovered the deceit that had been practised on him, and was playing for revenge. Now, it happened that Emilio had a purse of money with him to give to the laborers working in his hacienda, so he promised to give all this money to Cecilio if he would only stop playing. The boy, who had by this time learned of the magic power of his guitar, stopped his music and received the money. The crafty Emilio, however, at once hastened to the town, and asked the magistrate to apprehend Cecilio, a young robber. Cecilio set out for the old woman's house again; but the policemen soon overtook him, arrested him, and took him before the magistrate. There the boy was sentenced to death the next morning. Emilio's money was given back to him. The following day, when he was about to be shot, Cecilio asked permission to play his guitar once more, and he was not refused it. As soon as he began to play, all began to dance, even his master, who was still sore from the previous day's exercise. Finally Emilio could endure no more. He begged Cecilio to stop playing, and promised to give him all his wealth. He then told the soldiers to set the boy free, for it was all his own fault. Cecilio stopped playing, and was liberated by the magistrate. Emilio kept his word, and bestowed on the boy all his wealth. When the old man died, Cecilio was the richest man in the town. He became a capitan, [87] and was greatly honored by the inhabitants of his barrio. Notes. A Tagalog variant of this story by the same narrator may be given here in abstract. While this briefer form seems to bear evidence of some contamination with the tale of "Cecilio," each, nevertheless, preserves characteristics lacking in the other; and again, while the two seem to be more or less distinct versions, there can be no doubt that they go back to the same original. The title of the variant is "The Fortunes of Andoy, an Orphan." In abstract it runs thus:-- Once a poor orphan named Andoy, while taking a walk, found a purse. On his way home he met a man who, without a word, took the purse from him. The boy beginning to cry, the man had pity on him, and returned the purse, keeping only a few coins for himself. Andoy next met two hunters, who robbed him; but these men had not gone far when two genuine robbers met them, and a fight ensued in which all four were killed. When Andoy heard the noise of the struggle, he ran to see what was happening. He found hunters and robbers dead; so he recovered his purse and went on. Not long afterward he met a hermit, who sold him a magic cane. The next man he encountered was looking for a purse he had lost in the road, and, when he saw Andoy's, took it without a word; but the money did not really belong to this man. The boy immediately turned his cane loose on his assailant, who, after being badly beaten, confessed that the purse was not his, and promised Andoy half his wealth if he would call off his stick. The rich man kept his word; and when he died, Andoy received his entire fortune. Another variant, which was collected by Mr. R. L. Rusk of Indiana University, and which I have only in abstract, is called "Peter the Violinist." It runs thus:-- Peter, a lazy ne'er-do-well, ran away from home, leaving his parents to die of grief. For being kind to a sick "old woman" he was given a magic violin. Soon after, he was arrested for climbing into a house at night. When he was about to be hanged for a thief, he was granted a last request. He asked to be allowed to play his favorite piece on his violin. As soon as he began, every one commenced to dance. He continued, and all cried out for him to stop; but he would not cease until they pardoned him and promised to make him king besides. The history of the cycle of tales to which our story and the two variants belong has been traced briefly in Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 491-503. The earliest forms of the Märchen are the Middle-English poems of the fifteenth century entitled "Jack and his Step-Dame" and "The Frere and the Boye." Here the hero is Jack, who is hated by his step-mother. Since his father is not willing to turn him out of the house altogether, the step-mother manages to bring it about that Jack is set to watch the cattle, and she allows him only rotten food. An old man with whom he shares his victuals grants him three wishes in return for his kindness. He asks for a bow and a fife; and the old man gives him a bow that never misses its aim, and a fife that compels every one to dance. He also grants Jack's third wish, that every time his step-mother hurls a bad word at him or about him, she shall give forth another noise not permitted in polite society. When this happens that evening at home to the amusement of all, the step-mother plans to send the monk Tobias into the field the next day to punish Jack. However, Jack asks the monk to fetch from the brambles a bird which he has shot, and then he begins to play dance-music for the monk. All scratched and bloody, Tobias returns home. That night the father calls his son to account; but he is so pleased at the effects of the magic fife, that he decides not to punish the boy. The official, too, the bishop's agent, at whose court the next Friday step-mother and monk bring charges of witchcraft against Jack, has to hear the fife, and is obliged to dance until he promises to let Jack go unpunished. The English story seems to have passed over into Holland, where in 1528 a Dutch form appeared, with some additions. A most significant modification appears in a German handling of the Dutch form, by Dieterich Albrecht in 1599:-- Here the hero is not a cowherd plagued by his malicious step-mother, but a simple-minded servant who serves an avaricious master for three years and receives as pay three pfennigs for the whole time. Pleased with his earnings, however, he goes away singing. When he meets two beggars who ask him for alms, he gives them his three coins. They grant him three wishes in return for his goodness; and he gets a "never-miss" crossbow, a magic fiddle that makes all dance, and the promise that no one shall ever be able to deny him a request. By a lake he meets a monk, who jeers at his shooting-ability, and undertakes, if the youth can bring down a raven there on the island, to swim over naked and fetch the bird. Soon, however, the monk regrets his bargain, for the crossbow does not miss. While the monk stands naked in the bushes on the island, the boy begins to fiddle. Wailing and moaning, the ecclesiastic promises the youth the hundred ducats that he has stolen from the monastery, and he is now permitted to return and get his clothes. But he treacherously follows the youth, lodges a complaint against him with the council of the nearest city, and succeeds in getting him condemned. When the youth is already on the gallows ladder, he requests the judge to allow him to play just one more song; and he makes all those present dance so violently, that the judge agrees to pardon him if he will only cease playing. Then the monk confesses his own theft and deceit, and receives his deserved punishment. In this version, as Bolte and Polívka note (2 : 493), the chief deviations from the English-Dutch form of the story are the omission of the step-mother rôle, the nature of the third wish, and the modification of the character of the monk, who, from a mere tool of the step-mother, has here developed into a thieving rascal. A Czech redaction (1604) of the German poem substitutes for the runaway monk a Jew. This substitution is also found in the German prose tale "Von Knecht Treurecht" (about 1690). Of the modern oral folk-versions of the story, some are based on the Middle-English droll; but by far the larger number omit the hostile step-mother, and retain only the dance of the monk or the Jew and the scene at the gallows. For a complete list of stories of this second type, see Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 495-501. All the variants, both literary and popular, cited in this bibliography, are Occidental; and we must inevitably conclude that the story was imported into the Philippines some time during the Spanish occupation of the Islands. Some rather important differences are presented by our versions, however; and these we shall call attention to briefly, first mentioning the details that definitely connect our forms with the European. The opening of the story of "Cecilio" is like that of Albrecht's, given above. Our hero works four years for a cruel master, and receives five hundred centavos as pay,--a sum with which he is more than satisfied. At this point our story digresses. After two adventures with robbers, in the first of which he recovers his money by a lucky accident (this incident is considerably elaborated in the variant), he meets an old woman who lends him a magic cane, and with its help he is able to regain his money from a second robber. This feature of the magic beating-stick seems to be borrowed from the preceding story. He now returns the cane to the old woman, and she sells him a magic guitar. The next adventure--with his former master, who is substituted for the knavish monk--contains a distorted reminiscence of the shooting of the bird, and ends with the dance among the thorns (here bamboo-spines). The hero is bought off by his master, who immediately rushes to town and accuses him of theft. The rest is practically as in Albrecht. While our version introduces two magic articles, it can be seen that the first does not properly belong to the story. The "three-wishes" incident, and accordingly the third wish itself, is lacking altogether. A rather artistic attempt to unify the story as a whole is the substitution of the rascally master introduced in the beginning of the story, for the knavish monk or Jew later on; though it is to be noticed that the narrator falls to motivate the hero's return to the house that he had apparently left for good when he was paid off. The episode of the shooting is obscure, and appears to be only a vague echo of the detail definitely connected with one of the three gifts in some of the European literary forms. Again, in "Cecilio" the musical instrument is a guitar instead of the usual violin or fife; while in the variant "Andoy" the magic cane is the only enchanted object, no musical instrument appearing at all. The episode of the two robbers killing each other over the treasure (paralleled in "Andoy," where two robbers fight with two hunters, and all four are killed) is an interesting addition, the source of which I am unable to point out. It may be derived from some moral tale related in kind to the "Vedabbha-jataka," No. 48; "Cento Novelle Antiche," No. 82; Morlini, No. 42; Chaucer's "Pardoner's Tale," etc.; although the characteristic treachery emphasized in those stories is lacking here. The incident is not found in other versions of our tale that I know of. I am unable to name the immediate source of our story of "Cecilio" and of the two variants; though, as has been remarked above, it was pretty certainly European. None of the three seems to owe anything in particular to the Spanish ballad printed in the "Romancero General," No. 1265, which Bolte and Polívka think is based directly on Grimm, No. 110. The local modifications in our story, and the definite native atmosphere maintained throughout, suggest that it is not a recent importation. An interesting animal version from South Africa, containing the magic bow and magic fiddle, is given by Honeÿ (p. 14), "The Monkey's Fiddle." This story was doubtless taken over by the natives from the Dutch. TALE 29 CHONGUITA. Narrated by Pilar Ejercito, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, Laguna. She heard the story from her aunt, who had heard it when she was still a little girl. There was a king who had three sons, named Pedro, Diego, and Juan. One day the king ordered these three gentlemen to set out from the kingdom and seek their fortunes. The three brothers took different directions, but before they separated they agreed to meet in a certain place in the forest. After walking for many days, Don Juan met an old man on the road. This old man gave Don Juan bread, and told him to go to a palace which was a mile away. "But as you enter the gate," said the old man, "you must divide the bread which I have given you among the monkeys which are guarding the gate to the palace; otherwise you will not be able to enter." Don Juan took the bread; and when he reached the palace, he did as the old man had advised him. After entering the gate, he saw a big monkey. Frightened at the sight of the animal, Don Juan was about to tun away, when the animal called to him, and said, "Don Juan, I know that your purpose in coming here was to find your fortune; and at this very moment my daughter Chonguita will marry you." The archbishop of the monkeys was called, and Don Juan and Chonguita were married without delay. A few days afterwards Don Juan asked permission from his wife to go to the place where he and his brothers had agreed to meet. When Chonguita's mother heard that Don Juan was going away, she said to him, "If you are going away, take Chonguita with you." Although Don Juan was ashamed to go with Chonguita because she was a monkey, he was forced to take her, and they set out together. When Don Juan met his two brothers and their beautiful wives at the appointed place, he could not say a word. Don Diego, noticing the gloomy appearance of his brother, said, "What is the matter with you? Where is your wife, Don Juan?" Don Juan sadly replied, "Here she is." "Where?" asked Don Pedro. "Behind me," replied Don Juan. When Don Pedro and Don Diego saw the monkey, they were very much surprised. "Oh!" exclaimed Don Pedro, "what happened to you? Did you lose your head?" Don Juan could say nothing to this question. At last, however, he broke out, "Let us go home! Our father must be waiting for us." So saying, Don Juan turned around and began the journey. Don Pedro and Don Diego, together with their wives, followed Don Juan. Chonguita walked by her husband's side. When the return of the three brothers was announced to the king, the monarch hastened to meet them on the stairs. Upon learning that one of his sons had married a monkey, the king fainted; but after he had recovered his senses, he said to himself, "This misfortune is God's will. I must therefore bear it with patience." The king then assigned a house to each couple to live in. But the more the king thought of it, the greater appeared to be the disgrace that his youngest son had brought on the family. So one day he called his three sons together, and said to them, "Tell your wives that I want each one of them to make me an embroidered coat. The one who falls to do this within three days will be put to death." Now, the king issued this order in the hope that Chonguita would be put to death, because he thought that she would not be able to make the coat; but his hope was disappointed. On the third day his daughters-in-law presented to him the coats that they had made, and the one embroidered by Chonguita was the prettiest of all. Still anxious to get rid of the monkey-wife, the king next ordered his daughters-in-law to embroider a cap for him in two days, under penalty of death in case of failure. The caps were all done on time. At last, thinking of no other way by which he could accomplish his end, the king summoned his three daughters-in-law, and said, "The husband of the one who shall be able to draw the prettiest picture on the walls of my chamber within three days shall succeed me on the throne." At the end of the three days the pictures were finished. When the king went to inspect them, he found that Chonguita's was by far the prettiest, and so Don Juan was crowned king. A great feast was held in the palace in honor of the new king. In the midst of the festivities Don Juan became very angry with his wife for insisting that he dance with her, and he hurled her against the wall. At this brutal action the hall suddenly became dark; but after a while it became bright again, and Chonguita had been transformed into a beautiful woman. Notes. A Visayan variant of this story, though differing from it in many details, is the story of the "Three Brothers," printed in JAFL 20 : 91-93. A number of Indian Märchen seem to be related more or less closely to our story. Benfey cites one (1 : 261) which appears in the "Asiatic Journal" for 1833. Some princes are to obtain their wives by this device: each is to shoot an arrow; and where the arrow strikes, there will each find his bride. The arrow of the youngest hits a tamarind-tree; he is married to it, but his bride turns out to be a female monkey. However, he lives happily with her, but she never appears at his father's court. The sisters-in-law are curious to know what kind of wife he has. They persuade the father-in-law to give a least for all his sons' wives. The prince is grieved over the fact that the secret will come out. Then his wife comforts him; she lays off her monkey covering, and appears as a marvellously beautiful maiden. She enjoins him to preserve the monkey-skin carefully, since otherwise great danger threatens her; but he, in order to keep her in her present beautiful human form, burns the hide while she is at the feast. She disappears instantly. The prince seeks her again, and at last discovers her in heaven as the queen of the monkeys. There he remains with her. In a Simla tale, "The Story of Ghose" (Dracott, 40 f.), the animal is a squirrel, which is finally changed by the god Mahadeo into a human being, after the little creature has performed many services for her husband. Somewhat analogous, also, is Maive Stokes, "The Monkey Prince" (No. x, p. 41 ff.). Compare also the notes to our No. 19 and Benfey's entire discussion of "The Enchanted Son of the Brahman" (1 : 254-269). These forms are not close enough to our version, however, to justify our tracing it directly to any one of them. Both it and the Visayan variant are members of the European cycle of tales represented by Grimm's "Three Feathers" (No. 63). The skeleton outline of this family group Bolte and Polívka construct as follows (2 : 37):-- A father wishes to test the skill of his three sons (or their wives), and requests that they produce extraordinary or costly articles. The despised youngest son wins the reward with the help of an enchanted princess in the form of a cat, rat, frog, lizard, monkey, or as a doll, or night-cap, or stocking. At last she regains her human form. The disenchantment is sometimes accomplished by a kiss, or by beheading, or by the hero's enduring for three nights in silence the blows of spirits. In only two of the variants cited by Bolte-Polívka (to Grimm, No. 63) is the animal wife a monkey,--Comparetti, No. 58, "Le Scimmie;" and Von Hahn, No. 67, "Die Aeffin." Of these, only the Greek story resembles our tale; but here the similarities are so many, that I will summarize briefly the main points of Von Hahn's version:-- An old king once called his three sons to him, and said, "My sons, I am old; I should like to have you married, so that I may celebrate your wedding with you before I die. Therefore each of you are to shoot an arrow into the air, and to follow its course, for there each will find what is appointed for him." The eldest shot first: his arrow carried him to a king's daughter, whom he married. The second obtained a prince's daughter. But the arrow of the third stuck in a dung-hill. He dug a hole in it, and came to a marble slab, which, when raised, disclosed a flight of stairs leading down. Courageously he descended, and came to a cellar in which a lot of monkeys were sitting in a circle. The mother of the monkeys approached him, and asked him what he wanted. He answered, that, according to the flight of his arrow, he was destined to have a monkey-wife. "Choose one for yourself," she said. "Here sit my maids; there, my daughters." He selected one, and took her back to his father. His brothers, however, ridiculed him. After a time the eldest son asked the king to divide up his kingdom, as he was already old and was likely to die. "I'll give you three tasks," said the king to his sons. "The one who performs them best shall be king." The first count was to be won by the son whose house forty days thence was cleanest and most beautifully adorned. The youngest son was very sad when inspection-time approached. "Why so sad?" said his wife. He told her; and she said to him on the morning of the last day, "Go to my mother, and ask her for a hazel-nut and an almond." He did so. When the time for inspection arrived, the monkey-wife cracked the hazel-nut and drew from it a diamond covering for the whole house. From the almond she drew a very beautiful carpet for the king to walk on. Youngest son won the first count, naturally. The second task was to furnish the king with fresh fruits in the winter-time. The two oldest sons were unable to get any, but the youngest son got a fine supply from the monkeys' garden under the dunghill. The third count was to be won by the son whose wife should be declared the most beautiful at a feast to be given ten days thence. The monkey-wife sent her husband again for an almond, a hazel-nut, two stallions, and five servants. When he returned with them, she cracked the almond and drew from it a magnificent dress for herself. From the hazelnut she drew her own beauty, and handsome equipment for her husband. When she was arrayed, she rode into the courtyard of the king, and tried to escape without being recognized; but the king was too quick for her: she was caught, and her husband was declared the final winner. He became king when his father died. This Greek story can hardly have any immediate relationship with "Chonguita," though it does appear in its first half to be connected with the 1833 Indian Märchen given above. Our story, it will be noticed, lacks the shooting of arrows, so characteristic of the European forms; it mentions the monkey-kingdom to which the youngest prince was directed by an old man, and where Chonguita is forced on him; it represents the king as requiring his daughters-in-law to perform difficult tasks because he wishes to find an excuse for putting to death the animal-wife. Moreover, the three tasks themselves are different, although the first two are reminiscent of some found in the Occidental versions. For the third I know of no folk-tale parallel. On the whole, I am prone to believe that our story was not imported from Europe, but that it belongs to an Oriental branch of the family. The disenchantment of the monkey-wife by hurling her in anger against the wall is exactly like the disenchantment of the frog-prince in Grimm, No. 1. This conceit is most unusual, and, it might be added, unreasonable. Hence this identity of detail in two stories so far removed in every other way is particularly striking. I know of no further occurrences of the incident. TALE 30 THE GOLDEN LOCK. Narrated by Vicente Hilario of Batangas, Batangas, who heard the story from an old man (now deceased) from the barrio of Balayan. Long ago there lived in a distant kingdom an influential noble named Ludovico, who vastly increased his wealth by his marriage to a rich heiress called Clotilde. During the first ten years of their union she had never peeped out of her window or stirred out of her room: she only walked to the door of her chamber to bid farewell to her husband or to receive his parting kiss when he was off to attend to his official business, and to meet him with a tender embrace when he returned. Nobody else but Ludovico and her chaperon could see or talk with her: to these two persons only did Clotilde reveal her secrets and convey the thoughts of her spotless soul. She spent her time in voluntary seclusion, not in the luxuries of the court or the gaieties of society, but in embroidery, knitting, and in the unnecessary embellishment of her extremely lovely person. But an incident now happened that seriously threatened to destroy the foundations of their blissful union, for there may be eddies and counter-currents in the steady and swift flow of a stream. The king invited all the nobles in the land to a sumptuous banquet to be given in one of the principal frontier cities. Ludovico was among the first persons to accept the king's invitation. When the luxurious repast was over, the guests gathered in groups around small tables in the adjoining grounds to while away the sultry hours and to discuss the questions of the day. One of these groups was composed of Ludovico and six other nobles, among whom was a bold, sharp-tongued rich youth named Pio. The conversation touched on topics concerning the fair sex, especially of women historically famous for their personal charms, virtues, and vices. The garrulous Pio ridiculed the noble constancy and other excellent traits of the fair Clotilde. "I will bet you anything you want to bet, that you cannot learn the secrets of my wife in fifteen days," said Ludovico, his face flushed with wrath. "All right," said Pio, exasperated by Ludovico's boast. "The loser shall be hanged. I will bet my life that I'll know the secrets of your wife within fifteen days." The terms of the contract were carefully written down, solemnly ratified by the king, and signed by the two contestants and by the other high-born gentlemen. Pio set out the next day for Ludovico's home town. The inexperienced youth looked in vain for Ludovico's residence. Finally he asked a jolly fellow, who showed him the house after a long roundabout conversation. Pio went upstairs, where he saw the gray-haired chaperon sitting alone in the spacious hall, which was decorated to vie in magnificence with the most gorgeously furnished apartment of the king. The accomplished Pio doffed his bonnet to the old woman, and politely asked for her mistress. "Nobody but her husband and me is allowed to see her," said the ugly old hag. Pio then sat down and began to talk to her. By his persuasive language and the magnetic touch of his hands he easily insinuated himself into her confidence. Then, dropping a piece of gold on her palm, he said, "Will you tell me the secrets of your mistress?" The old woman looked at him suspiciously, but the brilliant coin proved too great a temptation for her. "Clotilde," she said, "has three golden [88] locks of hair under her left armpit. I know this fact, because I bathe her every day." Pio heaved a deep groan and turned his face aside. After recovering himself, he dropped another gold-piece into the hand of the chaperon, and said, "Will you get one of those locks for me?" She hesitated, but his eloquence was irresistible. "I'll give you the lock to-morrow," she said. Pio then departed, and she returned to her mistress. Early the next morning, while the old woman was bathing Clotilde as usual, she pulled out one of Clotilde's golden locks. "Aray!" exclaimed Clotilde, "what's the matter with you?" "Never mind, never mind!" said the old woman with many caresses. "This is the only reward I want for my many faithful services to you." Ignorant of the treasonable intrigues of her chaperon, Clotilde said nothing more. Before noon Pio arrived. With trembling hands and pale cheeks, the old woman gave him the golden lock. She was amply rewarded with a purse of gold. Ignorant of the fatal consequences of her treacherous act, she gayly went back to Clotilde's private chamber. Pio left the town late in the afternoon, and soon arrived at the capital. Ludovico was struck aghast at the sight of the golden lock. He at once wrote a letter to his wife which ran in part as follows:-- "I have spent ten years of my life in perfect happiness with you. I expected to enjoy such blissful days for a much longer period. But now everything is hopeless. My life shall be ended by violence, because of your faithlessness. We shall see each other no more. Receive the sad farewell of your Ludovico." When Clotilde read this letter, she swooned. When she came to her senses, she awoke as from a trance. But when she beheld the letter again, she read again the opprobrious word "faithlessness" in her husband's handwriting. She did not know what act of disloyalty she had committed. She moved about in her room by fits and starts. At last a thought came to her mind: she sent for the best goldsmith in town, and told him to make her a gold slipper adorned with precious stones. Under her strict supervision the work was completed in a marvellously short time. Then she put on her best clothes and the precious slipper, and with all possible expedition set out for Ludovico. Clotilde arrived in the city just a few minutes before the execution. She drove directly to the king's pavilion. Her only companion was the same old woman who had caused all this trouble. The turbulent persons who had gathered in the public square to witness the horrible spectacle were awed by the loveliness and magnificent attire of Clotilde. When she reached the king, and asked him for all the details concerning Ludovico's case, and when the king had given her all the information he could, she turned and pointed toward Pio, and said, "That man has stolen my other slipper which looks like this one I am wearing." The king called Pio from the place where he was standing, and told him all about the fair lady's accusation. "I have not committed any crime against her," said Pio angrily. "I don't even know her. This is the first time I have ever seen her." "Sir," said Clotilde sneeringly, "why, then, did you tell his Majesty and other persons that you have discovered my secrets? I am the wife of Ludovico, whose life you have threatened to end by your deceit. I know now by what means you got possession of my golden lock." Clotilde's statement sealed Pio's fate. He was hanged in place of Ludovico, who deeply regretted having doubted his faithful wife. And what happened to the old woman, who preferred the gold of an impostor to the kindness of a virtuous woman? The hag was sentenced to spend the remainder of her life in a damp, dreary dungeon. Notes. A close Tagalog parallel is to be found in the last part of the metrical romance entitled (in English translation) "The Life of Duke Almanzor and the Kind and Clever Maria, in the Kingdom of Toledo when it was under the Moors." My copy bears no date, but Retana mentions an edition before 1898 (No. 4159). The poem is in 402 quatrains of 12-syllable lines. The section which resembles our story begins at line 1260, and may be paraphrased in prose as follows:-- Soon after this, Almanzor was baptized (he had been a Moor), and was married to Maria. After a few months of happy life, the duke was called away to Cordova on important business. When Duke Almanzor arrived at the court of the Governor of Cordova, he found that all the noblemen were present. As he arrived somewhat late, he excused himself by saying that he was newly married, and that he could not leave his wife any sooner. Among the nobles was a proud, self-confident man named Abdala, who, when Almanzor had finished speaking, remarked that he (Abdala) did not mean to marry, as he could very easily seduce any woman, be she unmarried or a wife. Almanzor was angered by this remark. He said to Abdala, "I have my wife in Toledo: go and see if you can seduce her." Abdala said that there was no doubt of his being able to do so. A wager of death for the loser was agreed upon. Abdala immediately set out for Toledo. He tried to gain access to the duke's palace; but ever since her husband's departure, Maria had ordered the servants to keep all the windows and doors closed. Moreover, nobody but women were allowed to enter the palace. Abdala was about to give up in despair, when he met a sorceress, who offered to help him. This witch gained admittance into the palace, and was allowed to pass the night there. At midnight the hag secretly went to Maria's bedroom and jotted down a brief description of it. Then she cut off a lock of Maria's hair. The next morning the witch left the palace. She went to Abdala, and gave him the lock of hair, together with the description of the bedroom. Abdala hurriedly returned to Cordova. When he reached the palace, the governor at once assembled the nobles. Abdala then showed the lock of hair, and described minutely Maria's bedroom. Almanzor was asked what he had to say. The noble duke said that he acknowledged to be true everything that Abdala had said. Then the governor ordered his guards to take the duke to prison. The duke was to be beheaded on the third day. While in prison, Duke Almanzor wrote to his wife, telling her of his coming death. Maria resolved at once to save her husband. She went to Cordova, carrying with her all her wealth. She had a famous jeweller make for her a large, beautiful ear-ring. The third day came, and the soldiers took Duke Almanzor out of prison. The governor and all the nobles accompanied the duke to the plaza where he was to be executed. Maria stopped the procession, and addressed the governor thus: "My lord, do you see this ear-ring?" The governor nodded. "Then I ask you to give me justice. My other ear-ring was stolen by that gentleman who is standing near you," and she pointed at Abdala as she made the accusation. Abdala became very angry. He said, "I don't know you; I have never seen you before. How could I steal your ear-ring?"--"Do you say that you have never seen me before?" Maria asked. "I do say so," said Abdala emphatically. "Why, then, do you claim that you have been in my room, and that I gave you a lock of my hair?" Maria demanded. Abdala could not answer. "Answer, Abdala," the governor said, But Abdala could not utter a single word. At last he confessed that he had never seen Maria, and that the description of the room and the lock of hair had been furnished him by a sorceress. The governor then ordered him to be seized. Duke Almanzor was set free. His wife gently reprimanded him for risking his life so foolishly. As for Abdala, he was beheaded, and the sorceress who helped him was burned at the stake. In our notes to No. 7 we have already summarized the first part of the "Story of Rodolfo." The last episode of this romance is an analogue of our present story, and runs briefly thus:-- After his marriage, Rodolfo went back to Valencia, and informed the king that he had found a virtuous woman and had married her. She was then in Babilonia. The king detained him for a few days in the palace. At the same time he sent Fortunato, a gallant, to court Rodolfo's wife, to test whether or not she was true to her husband. Fortunato went to Babilonia and declared his love to Estela; but she would have nothing to do with him. Ashamed to return to the palace without having won her affection, Fortunato stole her underskirt and took it to the king, stating that Estela had given it to him as a remembrance. Rodolfo was summoned: and when he saw the skirt with Adela's name on it, he was thunderstruck. The king then said, "You see, your wife is no more virtuous than my daughter Leocadia. Remember your boast; your life is forfeit." Rodolfo, however, asked for a complete investigation of his wife's alleged treachery. Estela was accordingly summoned to Valencia; and when asked how her underskirt happened to be there in the palace, she asked in turn who had brought it. "Fortunato," she was told. Then she said, "The underskirt is mine. The knight Fortunato declared his love to me, but I rejected it because I am married. He stole the underskirt while I was taking a bath, and ought to be punished." When confronted with the charge, Fortunato denied the theft, and maintained that he had been given the garment by Estela as a token of her love for him. When Rodolfo heard this denial, he begged the king to assemble all the dignitaries and judges in the kingdom. Before the court Rodolfo asked Fortunato for definite proof to back up his assertions. He was unable to give any, and was consequently sentenced to be deported for ten years to a lonely island. Rodolfo and his wife were now honored by the king, and Rodolfo was finally made a knight. Although this portion of the romance is only a distant analogue of out story, inasmuch as it lacks both the wager and the clever trick of the wife to get her maligner to convict himself, I give it, because this same combination of the "chastity-wager" motive with the "hen-divided" motive (see first part of "Rodolfo," notes to No. 7) occurs in a Mentonese story, "La Femme Avisée" (Romania, II : 415-416). The tale may be briefly summarized:-- A prince benighted in a forest is entertained for the night at a countryman's house. At dinner the prince carves the fowl, and gives the head to the father, the stomach to the mother, and the heart to the daughter. On the old man's complaining later of his guest's strange division of the bird, the girl explains to her father just why the prince acted as he did. The prince overhears her, admires her wit, falls in love with her, and marries her. Some time afterward the prince is called to Egypt on business. He leaves his wife behind at home, and she promises to be very discreet. The prince communicates her promise to a friend, who wagers that he will be able to tell the prince of any defects on her body. The friend goes to the home of the prince and bribes the lady-in-waiting. She informs him, that, beautiful as the young wife is, she has a strawberry-mark on her shoulder. When the prince, on his return, is told this intimate detail by his friend, he is very angry, and, going home, accuses his wife of faithlessness. She proves her innocence by going before the king and swearing that her maligner has stolen one of her golden slippers. He denies the charge, and swears that he has never seen his accuser before. Thus self-convicted, he is imprisoned for many years. The Mentonese folk-tale and "Rodolfo" emphasize not only the virtue of the wife, but her cleverness as well, and definitely connect the "Chastity Wager" cycle with our No. 7. While it would be difficult to maintain successfully that the "Chastity Wager" cycle and the "Clever Lass" group are descended from the same parent,--I really believe the latter to be much the older,--it seems that we have a sort of combination of the two as early as the time of the "Tuti-nameh" collection. In the following story taken from that compilation, traces of both cycles may be discerned, though clearly the tale is more nearly related as a whole to the "Chastity Wager" group. This Persian story is entitled "The Nobleman and the Soldier's Wife, whose Virtue he put to the Proof" (No. 4, pp. 42 ff., of "The Tootinameh; or, Tales of a Parrot" in the Persian Language, with an English Translation; Calcutta, 1792). An abridged version of it follows:-- In a certain city dwelt a military man who had a very beautiful wife. He was always under apprehension on her account; and one day, after he had been idle a long time, she asked him why he had quitted his profession. He answered, "I have no confidence in you, and therefore I do not go anywhere in quest of employment." The wife told him that he was perverse; for no one could seduce a virtuous woman, and a vicious woman no husband could guard successfully. Then she told him a story to illustrate the second type of wife. When he asked if she had anything more to say to him, she replied, "It is right for you to travel and seek service. I will give you a fresh nosegay: as long as the nosegay continues in this stare, you may be assured that I have not committed any bad action; if the nosegay should wither, you will then know that I have been guilty of some fault." The soldier heeded her words, and set out on a journey, taking the nosegay with him. When he arrived at a certain city, he entered the service of a nobleman of that place. Winter came on, and the nobleman was astonished to see the soldier wearing a fresh nosegay every day, though flowers were practically unattainable, and he asked him about it. The soldier told him that his wife had given the nosegay to him as an emblem of her chastity; that as long as it continued fresh, he was sure that her honor was unspotted. Now, the nobleman had two cooks remarkable for their cunning and adroitness. To one of these he said, "Repair to the soldier's country, where, through artifice and deceit, contrive to form an intimacy with his wife, and return quickly with a particular account of her. Then we shall see whether this nosegay continues fresh or not." The cook, in accordance with his master's command, went to the soldier's city, and sent a procuress to the wife with his message. The wife did not assent directly, but told the procuress to send the man to her, so that she might see whether he was agreeable or not. The wife made a secret assignation with the cook, but trapped him in a dry well; and when he found that he could not get out, he confessed the nobleman's plot. When the cook did not return, the nobleman sent the second cook; but he fared no better: he too was captured in the same way by the clever wife. Now the nobleman resolved to go himself. He set out under the pretext of hunting, accompanied by the soldier. When they arrived at the soldier's city, the soldier went to his own home and presented the fresh nosegay to his wife, who told him all that had happened. So the next day the soldier conducted the nobleman to his home, where a hospitable entertainment was given him. The two cooks, under promise of subsequent liberty, consented to dress as women and wait on the guests. When the nobleman saw them, he failed to recognize them, for their long confinement and bad air had made them thin and pale. He asked the soldier about the "girls," but the soldier told the cooks to tell their own story. Then the nobleman recognized them; and when they testified to the woman's chastity, he was abashed, and asked forgiveness for his offences. Another Oriental form of this story is given by Somadeva, chapter XIII (Tawney, 1 : 85 f.), "The Story of Devasmita." It runs in part as follows:-- Here, on the departure of the husband, the divinity Siva says to the couple, "Take each of you one of these red lotuses; and, if either of you shall be unfaithful during your separation, the lotus in the hand of the other shall fade, but not otherwise." Then the husband set out for another city, where he began to buy and sell jewels. Four merchants of that country, astonished at the never-fading lotus in his hand, wormed the secret out of the husband by making him drunk, and then planned the seduction of the wife out of mere curiosity. To aid them in their plan, they had recourse to a female ascetic. She went to the wife, and attempted to move her to pity by showing her a weeping bitch, which she said was once a woman, but was transformed into a dog because of her hard-heartedness [for this device worked with better success; see Gesta Romanorum, chap. XXVIII]. The wife divined the plot and the motive of the young merchants, and appeared to be glad to receive them; but when they came at appointed times, she drugged them, and branded them on the forehead with an iron dog's foot. Then she cast them out naked in a dung-heap. The procuress was later served even worse: her hose and ears were cut off. The young wife, fearing that for revenge the four merchants might go slay her husband, told her whole story to her mother-in-law. The mother-in-law praised her for her conduct, and devised a plan to save her son. The wise wife disguised herself as a merchant, and embarked in a ship to the country where her husband was. When she arrived there, she saw him in the midst of a circle of merchants. He, seeing her afar off in the dress of a man, thought to himself, "Who may this merchant be that looks so like my beloved wife?" But she went to the king, said that she had a petition to present, and asked him to assemble all his subjects. He did so, and asked her what her petition was. She replied, "There are residing here four escaped slaves of mine; let the king give them back to me." She was told to pick out her slaves, which she did, choosing the four merchants who had their heads tied up. When asked how these distinguished merchants' sons could be her slaves, she said, "Examine their foreheads, which I marked with a dog's foot." So done. The truth came out; the other merchants paid the wife a large sum of money to ransom the four, and also a fine to the king's treasury. There can be no doubt of a rather close relationship between the Persian and the Indian stories; nor can there be any doubt, it seems to me, of the relationship of these two with the "Chastity Wager" cycle. The additional details in Somadeva's narrative connect it with European Märchen; e.g., J. F. Campbell, No. 18, and Groome, No. 33. Our story of the "Golden Lock," as well as the variants, is unquestionably an importation from Europe; but what the immediate source of the tale is, I am unable to say. For the convenience of any, however, who are interested in this group of stories, and care to make a further study of it, I give here a list of the occurrences of the tale in literature and in popular form. In literature, this story in Europe dates from the end of the twelfth century. Roman de Guillaume de Dole (c. 1200). Ed. by G. Servois for the Soc. des Anc. Textes français. Paris, 1893. Roman de la Violette (13th century). Ed. by Michel. 1834. Roman du Comte de Poitiers (13th century). Ed. by Michel. 1831. Le roi Flore et la belle Jehanne (a 13th century prose story). Published by L. Moland et C. d'Hericault in Nouvelles françaises en prose du xiiie siècle, 1856 : 87-157; also in Monmerqué et Michel, Théâtre français au Moyen Age, 1842 : 417. Miracle de Othon, roy d'Espaigne (a 14th century miracle), in the Miracles de Nostre Dame. Published by G. Paris and U. Robert for the Soc. des Anc. Textes français, 4 : 315-388; and in Monmerqué et Michel, op. cit., p. 431 f. Perceforest, bk. iv, ch. 16, 17 (an episode, where the chastity token is a rose), retold by Bandello, part I, nov. 21 (cf. R. Köhler, in Jahrb. für rom. u. eng. lit., 8 : 51 f.). Boccaccio's Decameron, 2 : 9 (cf. Landau, Die Quellen des Dekameron, 1884 : 135 ff.). Two important treatments of the story in dramatic form are sixteenth-century Spanish, Lope de Rueda's "Eufemia," where the heroine tricks her maligner by accusing him of having spent many nights with her and of finally having stolen a jewel from under her bed; he denies all knowledge of her (cf. J. L. Klein, Geschichte des Dramas, 9 [1872] : 144-156); and English, Shakespeare's "Cymbeline." For modern dramas and operas dealing with this theme, see G. Servois, op. cit., p. xvi, note 5. In ballad form the story occurs in "The Twa Knights" (Child, 5 : 21 ff., No. 268). Popular stories belonging to this cycle and containing the wager are the following:-- J. F. Campbell, No. 18. J. W. Wolf, p. 355. Simrock, Deutsche Märchen, No. 51 (1864 ed., p. 235). H. Pröhle, No. 61, p. 179 (cf. also p. xlii). Ausland, 1856 : 1053, for a Roumanian story. F. Miklosisch, Märchen und Lieder der Zigeuner der Bukowina, No. 14. D. G. Bernoni, Fiabe popolari veneziane, No. I. Gonzenbach, No. 7. G. Pitrè, Nos. 73, 75. V. Imbriani, La Novellaja Fiorentina, p. 483. Other folk-tales somewhat more distantly related are,-- Comparetti, Nos. 36 and 60. Webster, Basque Legends, p. 132. F. Kreutzwald, Estnische Märchen (übersetzt von F. Löwe), 2d Hälfte, No. 6. H. Bergh, Sogur m. m. fraa Valdris og Hallingdal, p. 16. For the story in general, see the following:-- Landau on the Dekameron, op. cit. A. Rochs, Ueber den Veilchen Roman und die Wanderung der Euriant saga. Halle, 1882. (Reviewed as a worthless piece of work by R. Köhler in Literaturblatt für germ. und rom. Philologie, 1883 : No. 7.) R. Ohle, Shakespeares Cymbeline und seine Romanischen Vorläufer. Berlin, 1890. (This does not discuss the popular versions at all.) H. A. Todd, Guillaume de Dole, in Transactions and Proceedings of the Modern Language Association of America, 2 (1887) : 107 ff. Von der Hagen, Gesammtabenteuer, 3 : LXXXIII. G. Servois, op. cit., Introduction. For some additional bibliographical items in connection with this cycle, see Köhler, "Literaturblatt," etc., p. 274. To the list above should be added finally, of course, the stories given in more detail earlier in this note. TALE 31 WHO IS THE NEAREST RELATIVE? Narrated by Leopoldo Uichanco, a Tagalog of Calamba, Laguna. "On my life!" exclaimed old Julian one day to his grandson Antonio, who was clinging fast to his elbows and bothering him, as usual, "you will soon become insane with stories. Now, I will tell you a story on this condition: you must answer the question I shall put at the end of the narrative. If you give the correct answer, then I will tell you some more tales; if not, why, you must be unfortunate." Antonio nodded, and said, "Very well!" as he leaned on the table to listen to his grandfather. Then the old man began:-- "There was once a young man who had completed his course of study and was to be ordained a priest. Now, whenever a man was about to be entrusted with the duty of being a minister of God, and Christ's representative on earth, it was the custom to trace his ancestry back as far as possible, to see that there was no bad member on any branch of his family tree. Inquiries were made and information was sought regarding the young man's relatives. Unfortunately his mother's brother was an insurrecto. But the boy wanted very much to become a priest, so he set out for Mount Banahaw to look for his uncle. "As he was walking along the mountain road, he came across his uncle, but neither knew the other. The uncle had a long bolo in his hand. 'Hold!' shouted the old man as the boy came in sight. 'Hands up!' "'Mercy!' entreated the young man. 'I am a friend, not an enemy.' "'What are you doing in this part of the country, then? Have you come to spy?' "'No,' said the youth. 'I have come in search of my uncle named Paulino, general of the Patriots of Banahaw.' "'And who are you to seek for him? What is your name?' "'Federico.' "The uncle stared at him. 'If that is so,' he said, 'I am the man you are looking for. I am your uncle.' Federico was amazed, but was very glad to have found his uncle so easily. Then the old man took his nephew to the cave where he dwelt with his soldiers. "Weeks passed by, months elapsed, but Federico never thought of going back to his mother. So one day Federico's father went out to seek for his son, and soon found him and his uncle. The father, too, remained there with the soldiers, and never thought of going back home. "One day Josefa received news that the bandits of Banahaw had been caught by the government authorities. Among the prisoners were her brother Paulino, her son Federico, and her husband. The captives were to be executed at sunrise without any trial. Josefa hurried to the capitan general, and pleaded with him to release her husband, her son, and her brother. Besides, the woman presented the officer with some gifts. She pleaded so hard, that finally the capitan general was moved with pity. He consented to release one of the prisoners, but one only. Josefa did not know what to do. Whom should she select of the three,--her husband, the other half of her life; her son, the fruit of her love; or her brother, that brother who came from the same womb and sucked the same milk from the same mother? To take one would mean to condemn the other two to death. She wished to save them all, but she was allowed to select only one." "If you, Antonio, were in her place, whom would you select?" Antonio did not speak for some moments, but with knitted eyebrows looked up to the ceiling and tried to think of the answer. "Nonsense!" exclaimed the grandfather; "you cannot find the answer in the ceiling! You really do not know, do you? Very well. I will give you until next Tuesday to get your answer. You have one week in which to think it out. Tell me the correct answer before you go to school on that day." When Tuesday came, Antonio had gotten the answer to his grandfather's puzzle-tale; but the rascally little boy deceived the old man: he had sought the information from his uncle. "If you were in the place of the woman," asked the playful grandfather with a smile on his face, "whom would you select?" Antonio timidlv said that he would select the brother. "You are only guessing, aren't you?" said old Julian doubtfully. "Bah! No, sir!" said the boy. "I can give you a reason for my selection." "Very well, give your reason, then." "The woman would be right in selecting her brother"-- "Because"-- "Because, what to a woman is a husband? She can marry again; she can find another." "That is true," said the old man. "And what to a woman is her son? Is it not possible to bear another one after she marries again?" "To be sure," said old Julian. "But," continued the boy, raising his voice, "is it possible for her to bring into the world another brother? Is it possible? The woman's parents were dead. Therefore she would be right in selecting her brother instead of her husband or her son." "Exactly so, my boy," returned the satisfied old man, nodding his gray head. "Since you have answered correctly, to-morrow I will tell you another story." Notes. This saga-like story is of peculiar literary interest because of its ancient connections. I know of no modern analogues; but there are two very old parallels, as well as two unmistakable references to the identical situation in our story which date from before the Christian era, and also a Persian Märchen that goes back as far as the twelfth century. Herodotus (III, 119) first tells the story of a Persian woman who chooses rather to save the life of her brother than of her husband and children. "When all the conspirators against Darius had been seized [i.e., Intaphernes, his children, and his family], and had been put in chains as malefactors condemned to death, the wife of Intaphernes came and stood continually at the palace-gates, weeping and wailing. So Darius after a while, seeing that she never ceased to stand and weep, was touched with pity for her, and bade a messenger go to her and say, 'Lady, King Darius gives thee as a boon the life of one of thy kinsmen; choose which thou wilt of the prisoners.' Then she pondered a while before she answered, 'If the king grants the life of one alone, I make choice of my brother.' Darius, when he heard the reply, was astonished, and sent again, saying, 'Lady, the king bids thee tell him why it is that thou passest by thy husband and thy children, and preferrest to have the life of thy brother spared. He is not so near to thee as thy children, not so dear as thy husband.' She answered, 'O king! if the gods will, I may have another husband and other children when these are gone; but, as my father and mother are no more, it is impossible that I should have another brother. That was my thought when I asked to have my brother spared.' The woman appeared to Darius to have spoken well, and he granted to her the one that she asked and her eldest son, he was so pleased with her. All the rest he put to death." This story from the Greek historian clearly supplied not merely the thought but also the form of the reference in lines 909-912 of Sophocles' "Antigone." In Campbell's English translation of the Greek play, the passage, which is put into the mouth of the heroine, runs thus:-- "A husband lost might be replaced; a son, If son were lost to me, might yet be born; But with both parents hidden in the tomb, No brother may arise to comfort me." Chronologically, the next two occurrences of the story are Indian. In the "Ucchanga-jataka" (Fausböll, No. 67, of uncertain date, but possibly going back to the third century B.C.) we are told-- "Three husbandmen were by mistake arrested on a charge of robbery, and imprisoned. The wife of one came to the King of Kosala, in whose realm the event took place, and entreated him to set her husband at liberty. The king asked her what relation each of the three was to her. She answered, 'One is my husband, another my brother, and the third is my son.' The king said, 'I am pleased with you, and I will give you one of the three; which do you choose?' The woman answered, 'Sire, if I live, I can get another husband and another son; but, as my parents are dead, I can never get another brother. So give me my brother, sire.' Pleased with the woman, the king set all three men at liberty." In the Cambridge translation of this "Jataka," the verse reply of the woman is rendered thus:-- "A son's an easy find; of husbands too An ample choice throngs public ways. But where With all my pains another brother find?" In the "Ramayana," the most celebrated art epic of India, we are told how, in the battle about Lanka, Lakshmana, the favorite brother and inseparable companion of the hero Rama, is to all appearances killed. Rama laments over him in these words: "Anywhere at all I could get a wife, a son, and all other relatives; but I know of no place where I might be able to acquire a brother. The teaching of the Veda is true, that Parjanya rains down everything; but also is the proverb true that he does not rain down brothers." (Ed. Gorresio, 6 : 24, 7-8.) This parallel was pointed out by R. Pischel in "Hermes," 28 (1893) : 465. The Persian Märchen alluded to above is cited by Th. Nöldeke in "Hermes," 29 : 155. In this story the wife, when she is given the opportunity to choose which she will save of her three nearest relatives,--i.e., her husband, her son, and her brother, who have been selected to be the food for the man-eating snake that grows from the devil-prince Dahak's shoulder,--says, "I am still a young woman. I can get another husband, and it may happen that I might have another child by him: so that the fire of separation I can quench somewhat with the water of hope, and for the poison of the death of a husband find a cure in the antidote of the survival of a son; but it is not possible, since my father and mother are dead, for me to get another brother; therefore I bestow my love on him [i.e., she chooses the brother]." The Dahak is moved to pity, and spares her the lives of all three. The riddle form in which our story is cast is possibly an invention of the narrator; but folk-tales ending thus are common (see notes to No. 12). Again, our story fails to state whether or not all three men were pardoned. The implication is that they were not. The localization of the events seems to point either to a long existence of the story in La Laguna province or to exceptional adaptive skill on the part of the narrator. TALE 32 WITH ONE CENTAVO JUAN MARRIES A PRINCESS. Narrated by Gregorio Frondoso, a Bicol, who heard the story from another Bicol student. The latter said that the story was traditional among the Bicols, and that he had heard it from his grandfather. In ancient times, in the age of foolishness and nonsense, there lived a poor gambler. He was all alone in the world: he had no parents, relatives, wife, or children. What little money he had he spent on cards or cock-fighting. Every time he played, he lost. So he would often pass whole days without eating. He would then go around the town begging like a tramp. At last he determined to leave the village to find his fortune. One day, without a single cent in his pockets, he set out on his journey. As he was lazily wandering along the road, he found a centavo, and picked it up. When he came to the next village, he bought with his coin a small native cake. He ate only a part of the cake; the rest he wrapped in a piece of paper and put in his pocket. Then he took a walk around the village; but, soon becoming tired, he sat down by a little shop to rest. While resting, he fell asleep. As he was lying on the bench asleep, a chicken came along, and, seeing the cake projecting from his pocket, the chicken pecked at it and ate it up. Tickled by the bird's beak, the tramp woke up and immediately seized the poor creature. The owner claimed the chicken; but Juan would not give it up, on the ground that it had eaten his cake. Indeed, he argued so well, that he was allowed to walk away, taking the chicken with him. Scarcely had he gone a mile when he came to another village. There he took a rest in a barber-shop. He fell asleep again, and soon a dog came in and began to devour his chicken. Awakened by the poor bird's squawking, Juan jumped up and caught the dog still munching its prey. In spite of the barber's protest and his refusal to give up his dog, Juan seized it and carried it away with him. He proceeded on his journey until he came to another village. As he was passing by a small house, he felt thirsty: so he decided to go in and ask for a drink. He tied his dog to the gate and went in. When he came out again, he found his dog lying dead, the iron gate on top of him. Evidently, in its struggles to get loose, the animal had pulled the gate over. Without a word Juan pulled off one of the iron bars from the gate and took it away with him. When the owner shouted after him, Juan said, "The bar belongs to me, for your gate killed my dog." When Juan came to a wide river, he sat down on the bank to rest. While he was sitting there, he began to play with his iron bar, tossing it up into the air, and catching it as it fell. Once he missed, and the bar fell into the river and was lost. "Now, river," said Juan, "since you have taken my iron bar, you belong to me. You will have to pay for it." So he sat there all day, watching for people to come along and bathe. It happened by chance that not long after, the princess came to take her bath. When she came out of the water, Juan approached her, and said, "Princess, don't you know that this river is mine? And, since you have touched the water, I have the right to claim you." "How does it happen that you own this river?" said the astonished princess. "Well, princess, it would tire you out to hear the story of how I acquired this river; but I insist that you are mine." Juan persisted so strongly, that at last the princess said that she was willing to leave the matter to her father's decision. On hearing Juan's story, and after having asked him question after question, the king was greatly impressed with his wonderful reasoning and wit; and, as he was unable to offer any refutation for Juan's argument, he willingly married his daughter to Juan. Notes. I know of no complete analogues of this droll; but partial variants, both serious and comic, are numerous. In our story a penniless, unscrupulous hero finds a centavo, and by means of sophistical arguments with foolish persons makes more and more profitable exchanges until he wins the hand of a princess. A serious tale of a clever person starting with no greater capital than a dead mouse, and finally succeeding in making a fortune, is the "Cullaka-setthi-jataka," No. 4. This story subsequently made its way into Somadeva's great collection (Tawney, 1 : 33-34), "The Story of the Mouse Merchant" (ch. VI). Here it runs approximately as follows:-- A poor youth, whose mother managed to give him some education in writing and ciphering, was advised by her to go to a certain rich merchant who was in the habit of lending capital to poor men of good family. The youth went; and, just as he entered the house, that rich man was angrily talking to another merchant's son: "You see this dead mouse here upon the floor; even that is a commodity by which a capable man would acquire wealth; but I gave you, you good-for-nothing fellow, many dinars, and, so far from increasing them, you have not even been able to preserve what you got." The poor stranger-youth at once said to the merchant that he would take the dead mouse as capital advanced, and he wrote a receipt for it. He sold the mouse as cat-meat to a certain merchant for two handfuls of gram. Next he made meal of the gram, and, taking his stand by the road, civilly offered food and drink to a band of wood-cutters that came by. Each, out of gratitude, gave him two pieces of wood. This wood he sold, bought more gram with a part of the price, and obtained more wood from the wood-cutters the next day, etc., until he was able in time to buy all their wood for three days. Heavy rains made a dearth of wood, and he sold his stock for a large sum. Then he set up a shop, began to traffic, and became wealthy by his own ability. Now he had a golden mouse made, which he sent to the rich merchant from whom he had gotten his start, and that merchant bestowed the hand of his daughter on the once poor youth. The comic atmosphere, it will be seen, is altogether absent from this Buddhistic parable. A slight resemblance to our story may be traced in Bompas, No. XLIX, "The Foolish Sons," where the clever youngest (of six brothers) manages to acquire ten rupees, starting with one anna. He proceeds by "borrowing," and paying interest in advance. The trick used here is the same as that practised on the foolish wife in "Wise Folks" (Grimm, No. 104), where a sharper buys three cows, and leaves one with the seller as a pledge for the price of the three (see Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 440 f.). Much closer parallels than the preceding, to the incidents of out story, are to be found in a cycle of tales discussed by Bolte-Polívka (2 : 201-202) in connection with "Hans in Luck" (Grimm, No. 83). It will be recalled that in the Grimm story the foolish Hans exchanges successively gold for horse, horse for cow, cow for pig, pig for goose, goose for grindstone, which he is finally glad to get rid of by throwing it into the water. "A counterpart of this story," say Bolte and Polívka, "is the Märchen of the 'profitable exchange,' in which a poor man acquires from another a hen because it has eaten up a pea or millet-seed that belonged to him; for the hen he gets a pig which has killed it; for the pig, a cow; for the cow, a horse. But when he finally levies his claim for damages upon a girl, and places her in a sack, his luck changes: strangers liberate the maiden without the knowledge of her captor, and put in her place a big dog, which falls upon him when he opens the sack." It is to be noted that the cycle as here outlined consists really of two parts,--the "biter biting" and the "biter bit." Cosquin (2 : 209) believes that the last two episodes--the maiden gained by chicanery, and the substitution of an animal for her in the sack--form a separate theme not originally a part of the cumulative motive; and, to prove his belief, he cites a number of Oriental tales containing the former, but lacking the cumulative motive (ibid., 209-212). Cosquin seems to be correct in this; although, on the other hand, he is able to cite only one story (Rivière, p. 95) in which there is not some trace of the "biter-bit" idea. Moreover, even in the animal stories belonging to this group,--and he analyzes Stokes, No. 17, and Rivière, p. 79,--the animal-rogue meets with an unlucky end. The same is true of Steel-Temple, No. 2, "The Rat's Wedding." In another Indian story, however, "The Monkey with the Tom-Tom" (Kingscote, No. XIV, a rather pointless tale), the monkey, whose last exchange is puddings for a tom-tom, is left at the top of a tree lustily beating his drum and enumerating his clever tricks. A very similar story is to be found in Rouse, p. 132, "The Monkey's Bargains." It will thus be seen that Bolte and Polívka's analysis holds for the larger number of human hero tales of this cycle, as well as for the animal tales; but that the first half of the sequence of events, where the hero's good luck is continually on the increase, is also to be found as a separate story,--Kingscote's, Rouse's, and our own. The Filipino version appears to be old, and I am inclined to think that it is native; that is, if any stories may be called native. Several facts point to the primitiveness of the tale: (1) the local color and realistic touches, slight though they are; (2) the non-emphasis of the comic possibilities of the situations; (3) the somewhat unsystematic arrangement of incidents, the third demand and exchange (iron rod for dead dog) not appearing to be an upward progression; (4) the crudity of invention displayed in this same third exchange (though an iron-picketed fence seems modern). My reasons for thinking our story not imported from the Occident are the differences in beginning, middle, and end between it and the European versions cited by Bolte-Polívka (loc. cit.). The good luck coming to the hero from the exchange of dead animals suggests a distant basic connection between our story and the "Jataka," although it must be admitted that the idea could occur independently to many different peoples. TALE 33 THE THREE HUMPBACKS. Narrated by Pacita Cordero, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, Laguna, who heard the story from her lavandera, or washer-woman. Pablo was badly treated by his older brothers Pedro and Juan. The coarsest food was given to him. His clothes were ragged. He slept on the floor, while his two brothers had very comfortable beds. In fact, he was deprived of every comfort and pleasure. In the course of time this unfortunate youth fell in love with a well-to-do girl, and after a four-years engagement they were married. Thus Pablo was separated from his brothers, to their great joy. Pedro and Juan now began spending their money lavishly on trifles. They learned how to gamble. Pablo, however, was now living happily and out of want with his wife. Every morning he went to fish, for his wife owned a large fishery. One day, as Pablo was just leaving the house at the usual hour to go fishing, he said to his wife, "Wife, if two humpbacks like myself ever come here, do not admit them. As you know, they are my brothers, and they used to treat me very badly." Then he went away. That very afternoon Pedro and Juan came to pay their brother a visit. They begged Marta, Pablo's wife, to give them some food, for they were starving. They had squandered all their money, they said. Marta was so impressed by the wretched appearance of her brothers-in-law, that she admitted them despite her husband's prohibition. She gave them a dinner. When they had finished eating, she said to them, "It is now time for my husband to come home. He may take vengeance on you for your past unkindness to him, if he finds you here, so I'll hide you in two separate trunks. You stay there till to-morrow morning, and I'll let you out when my husband is gone again." She had scarcely locked the trunks when Pablo entered. He did not find out that his brothers had been there, however. The next morning Pablo went to his work, as usual. Marta had so much to do about the house that day, that she forgot all about Pedro and Juan. The poor boys, deprived of air and food, died inside the trunks. Not until two days later did Marta think of the two humpbacks. She ran and opened the trunks, and found their dead bodies inside. Her next thought was how to dispose of them. At last a plan occurred to her. She called to her neighbor, and asked him to come bury one of her brothers-in-law who had just died in her house. She promised to pay him five pesos when he came back from his work. The neighbor lifted the heavy body of Pedro, and, putting it on his shoulder, carried it away to a far place. There he dug a hole that was waist deep, put the corpse into it, and covered it up. Then he hastened back to Marta, and said, "Madam, I have buried the dead man in a very deep grave." "No, you have not," said Marta. "What is that lying over there?" and she pointed to the corpse of Juan. "That's very strange!" exclaimed the neighbor, scratching his head. "You are very artful," he said to the dead body of Juan. He was very angry with the corpse now, for he had not yet received his pay. So he bore the corpse of Juan to the seashore. He got a banca [89] and dug a very deep grave beneath the water. Then he said to the corpse, "If you can come out of this place, you are the wisest person in the world." He then returned to Marta's house. On his way back he happened to look behind him, when he saw, to his great surprise, the humpback following him, carrying some fish. The gambler gazed at him; and when he saw that he resembled exactly the corpse that he had just buried, he said, "So you have come out of the grave again, have you, you naughty humpback!" And with these words he killed the humpback that very instant. This humpback was Marta's husband returning home from the fishery. Thus Marta tried to deceive, but she was the one who was deceived. The Seven Humpbacks. Narrated by Teofilo Reyes, a Tagalog from Manila. Once there lived seven brothers who were all humpbacks, and who looked very much alike. Ugly as these humpbacks were, still there was a lady who fell in love with one of them and married him. This lady, however, though she loved her husband well, was a very stingy woman. Finally the time came when the unmarried humpbacks had to depend on the other one for food. Naturally this arrangement was very displeasing to the wife; and in time her hate grew so intense, that she planned to kill all her brothers-in-law. One day, when her husband was away on business, she murdered the six brothers. Next she hired a man to come and bury a corpse. She told him of only one corpse, because she wanted to deceive the man. When he had buried one of the bodies, he came back to get paid for his work. The woman, however, before he had time to speak, began to reproach him for not burying the man in the right place. "See here!" she said, showing him the corpse of the second brother, "you did not do your work well. Go and bury the body again. Remember that I will not pay you until you have buried the man so that he stays under the earth." The man took the second corpse and buried it; but when he returned, there it was again. And so on: he repeated the operation until he thought that he had buried the same corpse six times. But after the sixth, the last humpback, had been buried, the married humpback came home from his work. When the grave-digger saw this other humpback, he immediately seized and killed him, thinking he was the same man he had buried so many times before. When the wicked woman knew that her very husband had been killed, she died of a broken heart. Notes. A Pampango variant (c), which I have only in abstract, is entitled "The Seven Hunchbacked Brothers." It was collected by Wenceslao Vitug of Lubao, Pampanga. It runs thus:-- There were seven hunchbacked brothers that looked just alike. One of them married, and maintained the other six in his house. The wife, however, grew tired of them, and locked them up in the cellar, where they starved to death. In order to save burial-expenses, the woman fooled the grave-digger. When he had buried one man and returned for his money, she had another body lying where the first had lain, and told him that he could not have his money until the man was buried to stay. Thus the poor gravedigger buried all six corpses under the impression that he was working with the same one over and over again. On his way back from burying the sixth, he met the husband riding home on horseback. Thinking him to be the corpse, which he exactly resembled, the grave-digger cried out, "Ah! so this is the way you get ahead of me!" and he struck the living hunchback with his hoe and killed him. This Pampango variant, although it is a little more specific than the Tagalog, is identical with our second version. Our two stories and the variant represent a family of tales found scattered all over Europe. They are also connected distantly with one of the stories in the "1001 Nights," and thus with the Orient again. For a discussion of this cycle, see Clouston, "Popular Tales and Fictions," 2 : 332 ff., where are cited and abstracted versions from the Old-English prose form of the "Seven Wise Masters," from the Gesta Romanorum, also the fabliau "Destourmi;" then five other fabliaux from Legrand's and Barbasan's collections, especially the trouvere Dutant's "Les Trois Bossus;" and the second tale of the seventh sage in the "Mishlé Sandabar," the Hebrew version of the book of Sindibad. On pp. 344-357 Clouston gives variants of the related story in which the same corpse is disposed of many times. For further bibliography, see Wilson's Dunlop, 2 : 42, note. The nearest parallel I know of to our first story is Straparola, 5 : 3, from which it was probably derived. There were three humpbacked brothers who looked very much alike. The wife of one of them, disobeying the order of her husband, secretly received her two brothers-in-law. When her husband returned unexpectedly, she hid the brothers in the kitchen, in a trough used for scalding pigs. There the two humpbacks smothered before the wife could release them. In order to rid herself of their corpses, she hired a body-carrier to cast one of them into the Tiber; and when he returned for his pay, she informed him that the corpse had come back. After the man had removed the second corpse, he met the humpbacked husband, whom he now likewise cast into the river. The identity of this story with ours makes a direct connection between the two practically certain. The two stories differ in this respect, however: the Italian has a long introduction telling of the enmity between the hunchback brothers, and of the knavish tricks of Zambo, the oldest, who goes out to seek his fortune, and is finally married in Rome. All this detail is lacking in the Filipino version, as is likewise the statement (found in Straparola) that the wife rejoiced when she learned that she had been rid of her husband as well as of the corpses of her brothers-in-law. In our other story and the Pampango variant we note some divergences from the preceding tale. Here the one married brother charitably supports his six indigent brothers, whom the wife subsequently murders. In the majority of the European versions the deaths are either accidental or are contrived by the husband and wife together (e.g., Gesta Romanorum; and Von der Hagen, No. 62). While I am inclined to think these two stories of ours imported, they do not appear to be derived immediately from the same source (Straparola). However, the facts that the seven men are brothers and are humpbacks, and that the husband is killed by mistake, make an Occidental source for our second story and for the Pampango variant most probable. I know of no Oriental analogues to the story as a whole, though the trick of getting a number of corpses buried for one appears in several stories from Cochin-China, Siam, and the Malay Archipelago:-- (1) Landes, No. 180, which I summarize here from Cosquin (2 : 337): In the course of some adventures more or less grotesque, four monks are killed at one time near an inn. The old woman who keeps this hostelry, fearful of being implicated in a murder, wishes to get rid of the corpses. She hides three of the bodies, and has one buried by a monk who is passing by. She pretends that the dead man is her nephew. The monk, returning to the inn after his task, is stupefied to see the corpse back there again. The old woman tells him not to be astonished, for her nephew loved her so much that he could not bear to leave her; he would have to be buried deeper. The monk carries this corpse away, and on his return has the same experience with the third and fourth corpses. After the last time, he meets, while crossing a bridge, another, live monk resembling those he has interred. "Halloo!" he says, "I have been burying you all day, and now you come back to be buried again!" With that he pushes the fifth monk into the river. (2) Skeat, I : 36-37, "Father Follow-My-Nose and the Four Priests:" Father Follow-My-Nose would walk straight, would climb over a house rather than turn aside. One day he had climbed up one side of a Jerai-tree and was preparing to descend, when four yellow-robed priests, lest he should fall, held a cloak for him. But he jumped without warning, and the four cracked their heads together and died. Old Father Follow-My-Nose travelled on till he came to the hut of a crone. The crone went back and got the bodies of the four priests. An opium-eater passed by; and the crone said, "Mr. Opium-Eater, if you'll bury me this yellow-robe here, I'll give you a dollar." The opium-eater agreed, and took the body away to bury it; but when he came back for his money, there was a second body waiting for him. "The fellow must have come to life again," he said; but he took the body and buried it too. After he had buried the fourth in like manner, it was broad daylight, and he was afraid to go collect his money. (3) A story communicated to me by a Chinese student, Mr. Jut L. Fan of Canton, who says that he saw the tale acted at a popular theatre in Canton in 1913. The story I give is but the synopsis of the play: In Canton, the capital of Kwong Tung, a mile's walk from the marketplace, stood a prehistoric abbey, away from the busy streets, and deep in the silent woods. In this old monastery an aged abbot ruled over five hundred young monks; but they were far from being like their venerable master. Men and women, rich and poor, for fear of the dread consequences if they should incur the displeasure of the gods, went in great numbers to worship in the ancient buildings, kneeling in long rows before the sacred figures and incense. These gatherings made it possible for the young monks and the young girls to become intimately acquainted,--so intimate, that sometimes shame and disgrace followed. One young girl who had been seduced, on an appropriate occasion and after great consideration, persuaded seven of the disciples who had been engaged in her ruin to enter her house. Then she invited them into her private chamber. As if by chance, there came a sharp rap on the locked door; so she hid her unusual visitors in a big wardrobe. What this young lady next did might seem unnatural; but, with the help of her servants, she poured boiling oil into the wardrobe, and killed the miscreants. She next hired a porter to convey one body to the river near by and bury it. This porter was not informed as to the number of corpses he would have to bury; but every time he came back for his pay, there was another body for him. So one after another he dropped the bodies of the young monks into the swift-flowing stream, wondering all the while by what magic the lifeless body managed to return to the original spot. Just after he had disposed of the seventh, up came the old abbot himself, with dignified mien. "Ah! I see now how you return," said the drudger, and he laid hold of the priest and ended his natural days. The old abbot thus suffered the fate of his seven unworthy disciples. TALE 34 RESPECT OLD AGE. Narrated by José Ignacio, a Tagalog from Malabon, Rizal. Once there lived a poor man who had to support his family, the members of which were a hot-headed wife who predominated over the will of her husband; a small boy of ten; and an old man of eighty, the boy's grandfather. This old man could no longer work, because of his feebleness. He was the cause of many quarrels between the husband and wife, but was loved by their son. One rainy morning the husband was forced by his wife to send his father away. He called his son, and ordered him to carry a basket full of food and also a blanket. He told the boy that they were to leave the old man in a hut on their farm some distance away. The boy wept, and protested against this harsh treatment of his grandfather, but in vain. He then cut the blanket into two parts. When he was asked to explain his action, he said to his father, "When you grow old, I will leave you in a hut, and give you this half of the blanket." The man was astonished, hurriedly recalled his order concerning his father, and thereafter took good care of him. The Golden Rule. Narrated by Cipriano Seráfica, a Pangasinan from Mangaldan, Pangasinan. A long time ago there lived in a town a couple who had a son. The father of the husband lived with his son and daughter-in-law happily for many years. But when he grew very old, he became very feeble. Every time he ate at the table, he always broke a plate, because his hands trembled so. The old man's awkwardness soon made his son angry, and one day he made a wooden plate for his father to eat out of. The poor old man had to eat all his food from this wooden plate. When the grandson noticed what his father had done, he took some tools and went down under the house. There he took a piece of board and began to carve it. When his father saw him and said to him, "What are you doing, son?" the boy replied to him, "Father, I am making wooden plates for you and my mother when you are old." As the son uttered these words, tears gushed from the father's eyes. From that time on, the old man was always allowed to eat at the table with the rest of the family, nor was he made to eat from a wooden plate. MORAL: Do unto others as you want them to do unto you. Notes. A Pampango variant of these stories, entitled "The Old Man, his Son, and his Grandson," and narrated by Eutiquiano Garcia of Mexico, Pampanga, has been printed by H. E. Fansler (p. 100). Mr. Garcia says that he heard the story told by his father at a gathering of a number of old story-tellers at his home during the Christmas vacation in 1908. The tale has every appearance of having long been naturalized in the Islands, if not of being native. It is brief, and may be reprinted here:-- In olden times, when men lived to be two or three hundred years old, there dwelt a very poor family near a big forest. The household had but three members,--a grandfather, a father, and a son. The grandfather was an old man of one hundred and twenty-five years. He was so old, that the help of his housemates was needed to feed him. Many a time, and especially after meals, he related to his son and his grandson his brave deeds while serving in the king's army, the responsible positions he filled after leaving a soldier's life; and he told entertaining stories of hundreds of years gone by. The father was not satisfied with the arrangement, however, and planned to get rid of the old man. One day he said to his son, "At present I am receiving a peso daily, but half of it is spent to feed your worthless grandfather. We do not get any real benefit from him. To-morrow let us bind him and take him to the woods, and leave him there to die." "Yes, father," said the boy. When the morning came, they bound the old man and took him to the forest. On their way back home the boy said to his father, "Wait! I will go back and get the rope."--"What for?" asked his father, raising his voice. "To have it ready when your turn comes," replied the boy, believing that to cast every old man into the forest was the usual custom. "Ah! if that is likely to be the case with me, back we go and get your grandfather again." This exemplum is known in many countries and in many forms. For the bibliography, see Clouston, "Popular Tales and Fictions," 2 : 372-378; T. F. Crane, "Exempla of Jacques de Vitry" (FLS, 1890 : No. 288 and p. 260); Bolte-Polívka (on Grimm, No. 78), 2 : 135-140. The most complete of these studies is the last, in which are cited German, Latin, Dutch, English, French, Spanish, Greek, Croatian, Albanian, Bulgarian, Polish, Russian, Lettish, Turkish, and Indian versions. Full as Bolte-Polívka's list is, however, an old important Buddhistic variant has been overlooked by them,--the "Takkala-jataka," No. 446. This Indian form of the story, it seems to me, has some close resemblances to our Pampango variant; and I give it here briefly, summarizing from Mr. Rouse's excellent English translation:-- In a certain village of Kasi there lived a man who supported his old father. The father regretted seeing his son toil so hard for him, and against the son's will sent for a woman to be his daughter-in-law. Soon the son began to be pleased with his new wife, who took good care of his father. As time went on, however, she became tired of the old man, and planned to set his son against him. She accused her father-in-law of being not only very untidy, but also fierce and violent, and forever picking quarrels with her, and at last, by constant dinning her complaints in his ear, persuaded her husband to agree to take the old man into a cemetery, kill him, and bury him in a pit. Her small son, a wise lad of seven, overheard the plot, and decided to prevent his father from committing murder. The next day he insisted on accompanying his father and grandfather. When they reached the cemetery, and the father began to dig the pit, the small boy asked what it was for. The father replied,-- "Thy grandsire, son, is very weak and old, Opprest by pain and ailments manifold; Him will I bury in a pit to-day; In such a life I could not wish him stay." The boy caught the spade from his father's hands, and at no great distance began to dig another pit. His father asked why he dug that pit; and he answered,-- "I too, when thou art aged, father mine, Will treat my father as thou treatest thine; Following the custom of the family, Deep in a pit I too will bury thee." By repeating a few more stanzas the son convinced his father that he was about to commit a great crime. The father, penitent, seated himself in the cart with his son and the old man, and they returned home. There the husband gave the wicked wife a sound drubbing, bundled her heels over head out of the house, and bade her never darken his doors again. [The rest of the story, which has no connection with ours, tells how the little son by a trick made his mother repent and become a good woman, and brought about a reconciliation between her and his father.] The chief difference between our Pampango variant and the "Jataka," it will be seen, is in the prominent rôle played by the wife in the latter. She is lacking altogether in the Filipino story. The resemblances are strong, on the other hand. The father plans to kill the grandfather,--a turn seldom found in the Occidental versions,--and, accompanied by his son, he goes out to the forest (in the Indian, cemetery) to despatch the old man. The small boy's thinking (or pretending to think) it a family custom to put old men out of the way is found in both stories. Our Pampango variant appears to me to represent a form even older than the "Jataka," but at the same time a form that is historically connected with that Indian tale. Of our two main stories,--"Respect Old Age" and "The Golden Rule,"--the second is very likely derived from Europe. Compare it, for instance, with Grimm, No. 78. The "machinery" of the wooden plates establishes the relationship, I believe. This form of the story, however, is not unlike an Oriental Märchen cited by Clouston (op. cit., 2 : 377). It is from a Canarese collection of tales called the "Kathá Manjarí," and runs thus:-- A rich man used to feed his father with congi from an old broken dish. His son saw this, and hid the dish. Afterwards the rich man, having asked his father where it was, beat him [because he could not tell]. The boy exclaimed, "Don't beat grandfather! I hid the dish, because, when I become a man, I may be unable to buy another one for you." When the rich man heard this, he was ashamed, and afterwards treated his father kindly. The Pangasinanes may have got this story of "The Golden Rule" through the Church, from some priest's sermon. Our first example, "Respect Old Age," is the only one of the three which turns on the "housse partie" idea. This is the form found in the thirteenth-century French fabliau "La Housse Partie;" and a variant of it is given by Ortensio Lando, an Italian novelist of the sixteenth century (Dunlop, 2 : 206). The only Spanish example I know of is found in the fourteenth-century "El Libro de los Enxemplos" (printed in Bibliotéca de Autores Españoles, vol. 51 [Madrid, 1884]), No. CCLXXII. It runs in the original as follows:-- Patri qualis fueris, tibi filius talis erit. Cual fueres á tu padre que trabajó por tí, El fijo que engendrares tal será á tí. Cuentan que un viejo dió á un fijo que lo sirvió mucho bien todos sus bienes; mas despues que gelos hobo dado, echólo de la cámara onde dormia é tomóla para él é para su mujer, é fizo facer á su padre el lecho tras la puerta. É de que vino el invierno el viejo habia frio, ca el fijo le habia tornado la buena ropa con que se cobria, é rogó á un su nieto, fijo de su fijo, que rogase á su padre que le diese alguna ropa para se cobrir; é el mozo apenas pudo alcanzar de su padre dos varas de sayal para su abuelo, é quedábanle al fijo otros dos. É el mozo llorando rogó al padre que le diese las otros dos, é tanto lloró, que gelas hobo de dar, é demandóle que para qué las queria, é respondióle: "Quiérolas guardar fasta que tú seas tal commo es agora tu padre, é estonce non te daré mas, así commo tú non quieres dar á tu padre." Finally may be given another Indian story, No. 16 in the "Antarakathasamgraha" of Rajasekhara (Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 139), which connects the "divided-blanket" motif with the old "Jataka." Rajasekhara flourished about A.D. 900. This story runs thus:-- In Haripura lived a merchant named Sankha, who had four sons. When he became old, he handed over his business and all his wealth to them. But they would no longer obey him; their wives mistreated him; and the old man crept into a corner of the house, wasted by hunger and oppressed with years. Once in the cold time of the year he asked his oldest son, Kumuda, for a cloth to protect him from the night frost. Kumuda spoke this verse:-- "For an old man whose wife is dead, who is dependent on his sons for money, who is cut by the words of his step-daughters, death is better than life." But at the same time he said to his son Kuntala, "Give him that curtain there!" Kuntala, however, gave the old man only half of the small curtain. When the old man showed the piece to Kumuda, Kumuda angrily asked his son why he had not given his grandfather the whole curtain. Respectfully placing his hands together, Kuntala replied, "Father, when old age also overtakes you, there will be ready for you the half-curtain which corresponds to the one here." Then Kumuda was shamed; and he said, "Son, we have been instructed by you; you have become a support for us whose senses have been stupefied by the delirium of power and wealth." And from that time on he began to show his father love, and so did the whole family. In conclusion, and by way of additional illustrative material, I give in full another brief Tagalog moral tale which seems to be distantly related to our stories. It was collected by Felix Guzman, a Tagalog from Gapan, Nueva Ecija, who got it from his uncle. It is entitled "Juan and his Father." Five hundred years ago there lived in Pagao an old man, and his son named Juan. The latter had a wife. As Juan's father was very weak on account of old age, and could not do any work in the house, Juana, his daughter-in-law, became discontented. One day the old man became sick. He moaned day and night so constantly, that Juana could get no sleep at all. So she said to her husband, "If you do not drive your father away from the house immediately, I shall go away myself. I cannot sleep, because he is always moaning." Juan then drove his poor father away for the sake of his wife. The poor old man went begging about the neighborhood. After a long walk, he found at last a cave where he could live. After he had recovered his health, he found in the cave a bag of ashes. He further discovered, that, whenever he took some of the ashes and exposed them to the light, they became money. Now the old man went back to his son with the magic bag. On his arrival, he was welcomed, for the couple saw that he was carrying a bag that might contain something useful for them. The old man next gave his son a certain sum of money, and said, "Juan, with this you may find another wife." So Juan gladly took the money and went and bought him another wife. When he returned, the old man gave his son some more money, and said, "Go over there, Juan, and buy an old man in that house to serve us as our servant." When Juan reached the house where the other old man was, he said, "I want to buy your father, the old man." Juan had scarcely got the sentence out of his mouth when the son of the old man fell on him with a whip and drove him away. Juan went running to his father, and said, "Father, I only said that I wanted to buy their father, but they began to whip me. Why did they do that?" "You see," said the old man, "you can buy a wife with money, but not a single father can you buy." Compare this last story with No. 31. TALE 35 COCHINANGO. Narrated by Felix Y. Velasco, who heard the story from his grandmother, a native of Laoag, Ilocos Norte. Once upon a time there lived in a small village on the border of a powerful kingdom a poor farmer, who had a son. This son was called a fool by many; but a palmer predicted that Cochinango would some day dine with the king, kiss the princess, marry her, and finally would himself be king. Cochinango wondered how he could ever marry the princess and himself be king, for he was very poor. One day he heard that the king had summoned all those who would like to attempt to answer the questions of the princess. It was announced that the person who could answer them all without fall should marry her. Cochinango thought that the time had now come for him to try his fortune, so he mounted his ass and rode towards the king's palace. On his way Cochinango had to pass through a wide forest. Just at the edge of the wood he met a weary traveller. Cochinango had forgotten to bring buyo with him, so he asked the traveller for some. The traveller said, "I have with me a magic buyo that will answer any question you put to it. If you give me some food, I will give you my buyo." Cochinango willingly exchanged a part of his provisions for it. Then he rode on. He came to a stream, where he met an old man leaning on his cane. Seeing that the old man wanted to get on the other side, but was too weak to swim, Cochinango offered to carry him across. In return for his kindness, the old man gave him his cane. "You are very kind, young man," said he. "Take this cane, which will furnish you with food at any time." Cochinango thanked the old man, took the cane, and rode on. It is to be known that this old man was the same one who had given him the magic buyo. It was God himself, who had come down on earth to test Cochinango and to reward him for his kindness. Cochinango had not ridden far when he met a wretched old woman. Out of pity he gave her a centavo, and in return she gave him an empty purse from which he could ask any sum of money he wanted. Cochinango rode on, delighted with his good fortune, when he met God again, this time in the form of a jolly young fellow with a small guitar. He asked Cochinango to exchange his ass for the guitar. At first Cochinango hesitated; but, when he was told that he could make anybody dance by plucking its strings, he readily agreed to exchange. Cochinango now had to proceed on foot, and it took him two days to reach the gates of the palace. Luckily he arrived on the very day of the guessing-contest. In spite of his mean dress, he was admitted. The princess was much astonished at Cochinango's appearance, and disgusted by his boldness; but she was even more chagrined when he rightly answered her first question. Yet she denied that his answer was correct. She asked him two more questions, the most difficult that she could think of; but Cochinango, with the help of his magic buyo, answered both. The princess, however, could not admit that his answers were right. She shrunk from the idea of being married to a poor, foolish, lowly-born man. So she asked her father the king to imprison the insolent peasant, which was instantly done. In the prison Cochinango found many nobles who, like himself, were victims of the guessing-match. Night came, and they were not given any food. The princess wanted to starve them to death. Cochinango told them not to worry; he struck a table with his cane, and instantly choice food appeared. When this was reported to the princess by the guards, she went to the prison and begged Cochinango to give her the cane; but he would not give it up unless she allowed him to kiss her. At last she consented, and went away with the cane, thinking that this was the only way by which she could starve her prisoners. The next day Cochinango asked for a large sum of money from his magic purse. He distributed it among his companions and among the guards, and they had no difficulty in getting food. Again the princess went to the prison, and asked Cochinango for the purse; but he would give it up only on condition that he be allowed to dine with the king. Accordingly he was taken to the king's table, where he ate with the king and the princess; but he was put in prison again as soon as the dinner was over. At last Cochinango began to be tired of prison life, so he took up his wonderful guitar and began to play it. No sooner had he touched the strings than his fellow-prisoners and the guards began to dance. As he played his guitar louder and louder, the inmates of the palace heard it, and they too began to dance. He kept on playing throughout the night; and the king, princess, and all got no rest whatsoever. By morning most of them were tired to death. At last the king ordered the guards to open the prison doors and let the prisoners go free; but Cochinango would not stop playing until the king consented to give him the princess in marriage. The princess also at last had to agree to accept Cochinango as her husband, so he stopped playing. The next day they were married with great pomp and ceremony. Thus the poor, foolish boy was married to a princess. More than once he saved the kingdom from the raiding Moros by playing his guitar; for all his enemies were obliged to dance when they heard the music, and thus they were easily captured or killed. When the king died, Cochinango became his successor, and he and the princess ruled happily for many years. Notes. I know of no parallel to this story as a whole; the separate incidents found in it, however, are widespread. The first part of the story--the prophecy concerning the hero recalls the opening of many Märchen; but our narrative is so condensed, that it is impossible to say just what material was drawn on to furnish this section. The riddle-contest for the hand of a princess forms a separate cycle, to which we have already referred (notes to No. 25); but the turn the motive takes here is altogether different from the norm. Our hero, provided with his magic buyo, has really won the wager before the contest is begun. As for the magic objects, the last three--cane, purse, guitar--we have met with before, with properties either identical with or analogous to those attributed in this story. The method of the hero's acquiring them, too, is not new (cf. No. 27). The magic buyo, however, is unusual: it is very likely native Ilocano belief, or else a detail borrowed from the Ilocanos' near neighbors, the Tinguian (see Cole, 18-19, Introduction, for betel-nuts with magic powers). In No. 25, it will be recalled, the hero's magic ring furnishes the answer to the king's question, just as the buyo does in this tale. Indeed, there may be some association of idea between a buyo and a ring suggested here. The last part of the story--the imprisonment of the hero, and his success in thwarting the evil designs of the obstinate princess--is reminiscent of various cycles of tales, but I know of no exact analogue. With the general outline of the story of "Cochinango" might be compared a Tagalog tale,--"The Shepherd who became King" (H. E. Fansler, 78 ff.), though the resemblances between the two are only vague. The Tagalog story, it might be noted in passing, is connected with the second half of Grimm, No. 17, and with Grimm, No. 165. For the "sack full of words" in the Tagalog tale, see Rittershaus, 419-421 (No. CXVIII, and notes). The reference at the end to raiding Moros appears to be a remnant of very old native tradition. TALE 36 PEDRO AND THE WITCH. Narrated by Santiago Dumlao of San Narciso, Zambales. Pedro was the son of a poor man. He lived with his father and mother by the seashore. Early one morning his parents went to look for food, leaving him alone in the house. He staid there all day waiting for them to return. Evening came, but his father and mother did not appear; some misfortune had overtaken them. Pedro felt very hungry, but he could find no food in the house. In the middle of the night he heard some one tapping at the door. Thinking that it was his mother, he arose and went to meet her. When he opened the door, however, he saw that it was not his mother who had rapped, but Boroka, [90] whom children are very much afraid of. Now, Boroka was a witch. She had wings like a bird, four feet like a horse, but a head like that of a woman. She devoured boys and girls, and was especially fond of their liver. As soon as Pedro opened the door, she seized him and carried him off to her home in the mountains. Pedro was not afraid of the witch; he was obedient to her, and soon she made him her housekeeper. Whenever she went out at night to look for food, he was sure to have flesh and liver for breakfast the next day. Whenever the witch was away, Pedro used to amuse himself riding on the back of a horse that would often come to see him. It taught him how to ride well, and the two became great friends. One day when children began to get scarce, and Boroka was unable to find any to eat, she made up her mind to kill Pedro. She left the house and went to invite the other witches, so that they might have a great feast. While she was gone, the horse came and told Pedro of his danger, and advised him what to do. It gave him two handkerchiefs,--one red and the other white. Then Pedro jumped on the horse's back, and the horse ran away as fast as it could. Not long afterward he noticed that the witches were pursuing them. When they came nearer, Pedro dropped the red handkerchief, which was immediately changed into a large fire. The wings of the witches were all burnt off. However, the witches tried to pursue the horse on foot, for they could run very fast. When they were almost upon him again, Pedro dropped the white handkerchief, which became a wide sea through which the witches could not pass. Pedro was now safe, and he thanked the horse for its great help. Notes. While this story is not much more than a fragment, I have given it because of its interesting connections. The chief elements appear to be three: (1) the kidnapping of the hero by a cannibal witch, (2) the friendly horse, (3) the transformation-flight and the escape of the hero. Clearly much is missing. What becomes of the hero is not stated, except that he escapes from the witches. The story is in the form rather of a fairy-tale than of a Märchen proper, since it deals primarily with an ogress fond of the flesh of children. On its surface it might be mistaken for a native demon-story told as an exemplum to children not to answer strange knocks at the door at night. But a glance below the surface reveals the fact that the details of the story must have been imported, as they are not indigenous,--Boroka, horse, transformation-flight; and a little search for possible sources reveals the fact that this tale represents the detritus of a literary tradition from Europe. To demonstrate, I will cite a Pampangan metrical romance and a Tagalog romance, the former probably the parent of our folk-tale. These two romances, in turn, will be shown to be a borrowing from the Occident. The Pampangan romance is a long story in 954 quatrains of 12-syllable lines, and is entitled "Story of the Life of King Don Octavio and Queen Teodora, together with that of their son Don Fernando, in the Kingdom of Spain [no date]." The inside of the cover bears the statement that the work is the property of Doña Modesta Lanuza. Señora Lanuza was doubtless the redactor of this version; her name appears on other corridos (see JAFL 29 : 213). Although a consideration of this literary form takes us somewhat out of the realm of popular stories, strictly speaking, we may give as our excuse for summarizing it the fact that the related Tagalog romance, "Juan Tiñoso," is one of the most widely-known stories in the Islands, and is told as a folk-tale in many of the provinces where no printed translations of it exist. The story of "Don Octavio"--or "Pugut Negro," as it is popularly known among the Pampangans--runs as follows:-- In Spain there lived a king whose queen, in the ninth month of pregnancy, longed greatly for some pau (a species of mango). As it was the custom then to procure any kind of fruit a pregnant woman might desire to eat, the whole kingdom was stirred up in search of some pau, but in vain. At last a general and a company of soldiers who had been sent out to scour the kingdom found a pau-tree in the mountain of Silva; but the owner, a giant, Legaspe by name, would not give up any of the fruit except to the king himself. When the king was informed of this, he went to the giant, and was obliged to agree that the giant should be the godfather of the expected child. Then he was given the fruit. Not long after this event the queen gave birth to a son. While the baby was being carried to the church to be baptized, the giant appeared and claimed his right. After the baptism, the giant snatched the boy from the nurse's hands and carried him off to his cave. He found an old woman to take care of the infant, which grew to be a fine youth. Now, this giant fed on human flesh. One day, when the boy was about fifteen, the giant gave this horrible command to the old woman: "If I fail to catch any human beings for dinner to-day, you will have to cook my godchild, for I am intolerably hungry." No sooner had the giant disappeared than the old woman woke up the youth, and said to him, "My master wants me to cook you for his dinner, but I cannot do such a thing. I will save you. Yonder you see a horse. Fetch it to me, so that we can depart at once." The boy got the horse, and he and the old woman mounted it and rode off as fast as they could. They had not gone very far, however, when they heard the giant roaring after them. The old woman immediately dropped her comb to the ground, and it became a big mountain. Thus they gained some time; but the giant was soon after them again. The old woman dropped her pin, which became a dense underbrush of thorns; but the giant got through this too. Now the old woman poured out the contents of a small bottle, and all at once there was a large sea, in which the giant was drowned. By this time the two companions were a great distance from Spain. Then the old woman said to the young prince, "Take this whip. On your way home you will see a dead Negro. Flay him, and put on his skin so that you will be disguised. Cultivate humility, be kind to others, and look to the whip in time of need." Having given these directions, the old woman, who was none other than the Virgin Mary in disguise, disappeared. Pugut-Negru ("disguised Negro") went on his way, and soon found the dead Negro. When he had flayed him and put on the black skin, he mounted his horse and rode facing its tail. When he reached the capital of Albania, he was greatly ridiculed by every one. However, he went to the king and applied for work. The king said that he might take care of his sheep which were in a certain meadow. When he had been conducted to the meadow where the sheep were, he saw the bones of many men. It was said that every shepherd in that place had been killed by "spirits" (multos). That night the spirits threw bones at Pugut-Negru; but he chastised them with his whip, and was left in peace. This Negro disguise of Prince Fernando, however, was only for Albania. Leaving Albania for a time, he went in his princely garments to visit his parents. He found them in the power of the Moors, who had conquered the kingdom of Spain. With his whip he drove all the Moors out of the country, and freed his family. Later he went to Navarre, and won a tournament and the hand of the princess. Instead of marrying her, however,--for he had already fallen in love with the youngest daughter of the King of Albania,--he went back and resumed his old work as shepherd, disguised as a Negro. Some time afterwards it was proclaimed that whoever could cure the king's illness would be amply rewarded. The king had an eye-disease, but none of the learned doctors could help him. Finally it was said that Pugut-Negru knew how to cure eye-diseases, and so the king summoned him. "If you can cure my disease," said the afflicted king, "I will marry one of my daughters to you. If you cannot, you shall be hung."--"I'll do my best, your Majesty," said Pugut-Negru humbly. Then he gathered certain herbs, and applied them to the king's eyes. The king soon got well, and asked his three daughters which of them wanted to marry his savior. "I won't!" said the eldest. "Neither will I," rejoined the second. But the youngest and prettiest one said, "I am at your disposal, father." So Pugut-Negru took the youngest for his wife. After the ceremony he went back to his sheep, but he did not live with his wife; he left her at the palace. It was not many months after the king had been cured when the queen fell ill. As before, it was proclaimed that any one who could cure her would receive one of her daughters in marriage. Two princes presented themselves, and promised to get the lion's milk that was needed to make the queen well. After they had started on their search, they came to the dwelling of Pugut-Negru, whom they forced to accompany them. Pugut-Negru pretended to be lame, and so he could not keep up with them. As he was so slow, they mercilessly threw him into a bush of thorns and left him there. But he said to his magical whip, "Build me at once, along the road in which the two princes will pass, a splendid palace; and let lions, leopards, and other animals be about it." No sooner was the order given than the palace was built, and Pugut-Negru was in it, attired like a king. When the two princes came up, they said to him, "May we have some of your lion's milk?"--"Yes, on one condition I will give you the milk: you must let me brand you with my name." Although this condition was very bitter to them, they agreed. Then they hastened back to present the milk to the queen, who at once married them to her two older daughters. Pugut-Negru went back to his old life as shepherd. Not long after this event the Moors declared war on the Christians. The king's country was invaded, and the Christians were about to be disastrously defeated, when a strange knight with a magic whip (Pugut-Negru) appeared on the field and put the Saracens to flight. This knight wounded himself in his left arm so that he might receive the attention of the princess. The king's youngest daughter (Pugut-Negru's own wife) dressed his wound without recognizing her husband. After the battle was over, the knight said to the king, "Do you know where my brother Pugut-Negru lives?" But the king was ashamed at the way he had treated Pugut-Negru, so he denied all knowledge of him. Although the king pressed the strange knight to come to the palace, he refused. He hastened back to his sheep, and donned his disguise once more. One day the youngest princess, the wife of Don Fernando, went stealthily to the hut of Pugut-Negru. She found him undisguised, and at once recognized her handkerchief with which she had tied the strange knight's wound. She embraced her husband with joy, and hastened back to the palace to tell the king of her discovery. The king immediately despatched his prime-minister to the hut in the fields, and Don Fernando was brought back in state. When he had been welcomed to the palace, he told all about his treatment by the two cruel princes, who he said were his slaves. When the king was convinced of their imposture,--they said they had got the lion's milk by their own bravery,--he drove them and their heartless wives from his kingdom. After many other adventures, in which he was always successful, Don Fernando took his wife Maria to Spain, where they lived with his father, King Octavio. While it is not absolutely certain that our folk-tale of "Pedro and the Witch" was derived from the first part of this romance, I think it most likely. The problem here is the same as that we have met with in the notes to Nos. 13, 16, and 21: Which are earlier,--the more elaborate literary forms, or the simpler popular forms? Obviously no general rule can be made that will hold: each particular case must be examined. In the present instance, as I have shown at the beginning of the note, the evidence seems to point to the folk-tale as being the derivative, not necessarily of this particular form of the story, but at any rate of the source of the romance. The romance of "Prince Don Juan Tiñoso, Son of King Artos and Queen Blanca of the Kingdom of Valencia, and the Four Princesses, the Daughters of Don Diego of Hungary," which we have spoken of above as a Tagalog romance, has been printed also in the Pampangan, Visayan, Ilocano, Bicol, and Pangasinan dialects. As to the date of the Tagalog version, Retana mentions an edition between 1860 and 1898 (No. 4176). This romance is not directly connected with our folk-tale, it will be seen, but is related closely (in the second half, at least) with "Pugut-Negru." Briefly the life of Juan Tiñoso runs thus:-- King Artos and Queen Blanca of Valencia had one son, Don Juan Tiñoso,--handsome, brave, strong, kind. One day, while passing the prison, Don Juan heard sounds of great lamentation. On being admitted, he saw the giant Mauleon, a captive of his father's. Moved by the giant's entreaties, Juan freed him; and the monster, grateful in return, gave him a magic handkerchief that would furnish him with everything he wanted, and would, if displayed, subdue all wild animals. Then the giant departed. King Artos, extremely wroth with his son for freeing one of his captives, drove Juan out of his kingdom. Juan went to the mountains, and there became king of the animals. One night Juan dreamed of the beautiful Flocerpida, the youngest and most beautiful of the four daughters of Diego, King of Hungary. But, determined to do penance for the liberty he had taken in freeing Mauleon, Juan asked his magic handkerchief for the disguise of an old leper, which he vowed he would wear for seven years. He went to Hungary and entered the service of King Diego as a gardener. The princess Flocerpida was very compassionate toward the old leper, and Juan's love grew stronger. One night, when Juan was bathing, Flocerpida saw him without his disguise, and immediately fell in love with him. One day King Diego summoned all the knights of his kingdom, so that his daughters might choose husbands. The three older princesses threw their golden granadas, which were caught by men of rank; but Flocerpida refused to throw hers. Angry, the king next day ordered all his subjects to be present, and required his daughter to throw her golden apple. She threw it to the old leprous gardener, and the two were married; but the king drove his daughter from the palace. Soon King Diego grew sick. The doctors prescribed lion's milk, and the three noble sons-in-law set out to get it. They forced the gardener, their brother-in-law, to go with them, reviling him all the way; but, as he was on foot, they soon left him behind. By means of his magic handkerchief, Juan procured a prince's armor and mount, and, riding fast, he anticipated his brothers-in-law at the cave of the lioness. They soon came up and asked for milk. Juan, king of the animals, would give it to them only on condition that they allowed themselves to be branded on the back with an inscription saying that they were the servants of Don Juan Tiñoso. They agreed, and received the milk. On the return Don Juan again outstripped them, resumed his old disguise, and was reviled by the brothers when they came up. King Diego drank the milk and recovered his health. Later King Diego received an embassy from the Moors saying that they were coming to fight him. He appointed his three sons-in-law generals. While they were at the war, Juan Tiñoso summoned three giants, and told them to go fight the Moors too, to get the Moorish flag, and to exchange it with the generals for their three golden granadas. On the return of the Christian army, a big fiesta was prepared to honor the successful princes. King Artos and Queen Blanca of Valencia were invited. On the first day some of the guests asked about Flocerpida, and the king gave orders that she should appear on the morrow in an old beggar's gown that he was sending her; but Juan Tiñoso supplied her with beautiful clothes and a coach, and he himself was dressed as a prince. They went to the fiesta, where, in the presence of the king, he demanded his three servants, pointing to his three brothers-in-law. They were made to undress, and the brands on their backs became clear. Then Juan Tiñoso told his story: he said that it was he who obtained the lion's milk, who won against the Moors, (and showed the golden granadas exchanged for the enemy's standard.) King Diego and King Artos were then reconciled to him and Flocerpida, and the other three princes and their wives were driven out of Hungary. Next to "Doce Pares" and "Bernardo Carpio," this romance is the most popular of the metrical romances circulating in the Philippines. It is read, told as a folk-tale, and acted as a moro-moro (see JAFL 29 : 205 [note], 206). It belongs to the same cycle of stories as Grimm, No. 136, "Iron John," which has many members. (For bibliography, see Köhler-Bolte, 330-334; Cosquin, I : 138-154.) These members vary greatly, and some of them (e.g., Cosquin, No. XII) establish definitely the connection between the "Pugut-Negru" type--kidnapping of hero, friendly horse, transformation-flight, disguise of hero, etc.--and the "Juan Tiñoso" type, although it will be seen that our second romance lacks the first three incidents mentioned. This whole family of stories is one well worth studying in detail. Unfortunately the war has held up the appearance of Bolte-Polívka's "Anmerkungen," Volume III, which is to contain the notes to the Grimm story; but, with the references furnished by Köhler-Bolte and Cosquin, a good beginning towards such a study might be made. Compare also Rittershaus, No. XXlV and notes; Von Hahn, No. 6 and notes; Macculloch, 173. It might be added as an item of some interest that "Juan Tiñoso" is written as a sequel to another story of widespread popularity, "The Story of Prince Oliveros and Princess Armenia in the Kingdom of England, and that of Prince Artos and Princess Blanca, who were the Father and Mother of Don Juan Tiñoso in the Kingdom of Valencia." This tale of Oliveros and Artos is directly derived from a Spanish romance of chivalry, and is one form of the "Grateful Dead" type (see Gerould, "The Grateful Dead," FLS 1907). TALE 37 THE WOMAN AND HER COLES PLANT. Narrated by José Hilario of Batangas, who says that the tale is common among the Tagalogs, especially among the people living in the city of Batangas. One summer afternoon I saw several men talking to one another. They seemed to be lively and enjoying themselves, for they had finished their work for the day. I went towards them; and, upon coming within earshot, I found out that they were telling tales to one another. The following was one of the stories I heard that afternoon:-- Once there lived a very poor woman. She lived practically by begging, but sometimes she got money with which to buy rice by selling small vegetables in the market. She had a little garden, and one day planted some seeds. Out of one of these seeds there grew up a plant which we call coles. [91] This plant grew very fast, and in a few months it reached the sky. Out of curiosity, one day the woman began to climb the plant. When she was assured that it was strong, she kept on climbing, and did not stop until she reached the sky. There she called to St. Peter, and asked him to give her a magic wand from which she could ask anything she wished. St. Peter gave her what she asked for, but told her not to disturb him again. Then she descended, and went down so quickly that she almost hurt herself. When she reached her little hut, she at once asked the wand for food. Immediately there appeared a table on which was the best food in the world. When she had finished eating, she commanded the table to disappear, and it disappeared instantly. Now she became very proud on account of her wonderful possession. She did not recognize her friends any more. One day an archbishop arrived in the town in which she was living, and all the bells were rung in his honor. She then became very angry, and wondered why the bells were not rung for her whenever she passed in front of the church. So she went to the tower where the bells were, and commanded them to toll for her. They began to ring, but she was struck on the head and was knocked senseless. When she recovered, she hastened home, and began to climb the plant to ask St. Peter for another gift; but, before she had covered one-half the distance to the sky, the plant broke, and she was killed by her fall. Thus she was punished for her vanity. Notes. This story is a sort of exemplum of the sin of pride and avarice. In this respect it is connected in idea with Grimm's story of "The Fisherman and his Wife" (No. 19). In its method and machinery, again, it belongs to the "Jack and the Beanstalk" cycle, the main feature of which is a magic plant which grows rapidly until it reaches the sky and enables its owner to climb to the upper regions and secure magic articles. Macculloch devotes a whole chapter (XVI) to the discussion of this cycle, and cites many folk-tales turning on the incident of the magic plant reaching from earth to heaven (see especially pp. 434-435). Brief, and lacking in detail though our story is, it is nevertheless interesting as a combination of incidents from the two cycles just mentioned; and in its combination it shows, I believe, that it has been derived from some southern European Märchen,--such a one, perhaps, as the following from Normandy (given in Köhler-Bolte, 102-103), the story of poor Misère and his ever-dissatisfied wife:-- Misère meets Christ and St. Peter, and begs from them. Christ gives him a bean, and tells him to be satisfied with it. Misère goes home with his gift, and sticks the bean in the hearth inside his hut. Straightway a plant grows out of the bean, and rapidly pushes its way up through the chimney. The next day its top is entirely out of sight. The wife now orders Misère to find out if there are any beans on it ready to be picked. He climbs up the plant, and, since he finds no pods, continues higher and higher, until he finds himself before a large golden house. This house is Paradise. St. Peter opens the door for him, and in answer to his request promises him that he will find at home food and drink. The next day Misère's wife gives her husband no rest until he again climbs up to Paradise and asks St. Peter for a new house. Some days later Misère is again forced to visit St. Peter and ask him to make him and his wife king and queen. The saint fulfils this wish likewise, but warns Misère against coming any more. In brief, however, Misère's wife is still unsatisfied, and even wishes to become the Holy Virgin and her husband to be made God himself. When Misère, with this request, comes again to Paradise, St. Peter angrily sends him away; and the poor man finds on earth his old hut and everything else just as it was in the first place. Köhler (ibid., p. 103) says that probably the heaven-reaching plant did not originally belong to this story of the poor man's proud wife, and that it was probably taken over from the English folk-tale of "Jack and the Beanstalk." Bolte and Polívka, in their notes to Grimm, No. 19 (1 : 147), observe: "It can easily be seen that these stories (i.e., the variants of the 'Fisherman and his Wife') fall into two groups. In the one, which is particularly widespread among the Germanic and Slavic peoples, but is also found in France and Spain, a captive goblin in the form of a fish grants his captor three or more wishes; among the French and Italians, on the other hand, it is usually God or the door-keeper of heaven who grants the same wishes to a poor man who reaches Paradise by means of a bean-stalk. This beanstalk here may have originated from the story of 'Jack and the Beanstalk' or from the 'lying-story,' Grimm No. 112." In a French folk-tale given by Carnoy (Romania, 8 : 250), "La Tige de Fève," the husband plants a bean which he has received from a beggar, and climbs up the stalk to heaven. When he asks for his last wish, he plunges down to earth. This story, it will be seen, resembles ours in its tragic conclusion, although the protagonist, as in the Normandy version, is a man instead of a woman. The fact that in our story no husband is mentioned counts for little, as practically all the exempla of this type are directed against woman's vanity; and the woman's case in our story illustrates the punishment for that vanity, or pride. There appears to be recorded no Spanish story containing the insatiable wife and the heaven-reaching plant. It seems reasonable to conclude, therefore, that our folk-tale was derived from the French or Italian, and probably through the medium of the clergy. TALE 38 A NEGRITO SLAVE. Narrated by Jesus de la Rama, a Visayan from Valladolid, Negros Occidental. Once upon a time there were three princes who owned a Negrito slave. Although he was called a slave, he was not really one: he was only nominally a slave; for the princes, especially the youngest, whom he loved most, treated him kindly. One striking characteristic of this Negrito was that his grinning was like that of a monkey; and he often grinned, and grinned without cause. He would often follow his young master when he went out for a walk; and he had a suit similar to the prince's, so that, when they were out on the street, they looked very much alike. The only difference between them was that he was black, and the prince was white. Yet he owned a ring, a charm which had been given him by a woman for saving her from the hands of a robber. This ring gave him power to call for anything he wanted; and this was the reason, doubtless, why he was treated with kindness by his masters. In a neighboring land there was a king who had a beautiful daughter. This princess wanted to marry. She was so desirous of having a companion, that she could not sleep day or night, meditating on how she could have a husband that would suit both herself and her father. At last, won over by her many entreaties, the king proclaimed to all the world that his daughter would marry any one who had a handsome appearance, and who could answer his three difficult questions. Those who came to the court and were unable to answer the questions of the king were to lose their lives. The three princes were all handsome. The two elder brothers tried to answer the king's questions, but lost their lives. The youngest remained, and, although he wanted to try, he was sure that he would fail too. The Negrito determined to help him. By means of his ring he was able to make his skin white. He also got a mask that was exactly like the face of his young master. Then he dressed himself to resemble the prince, and went to the court of the king. The king said to him, "Will you have your head cut off, too?" He answered, "Yes, if I cannot answer your questions; but let us see!" "All right," said the king. Then he asked, "Who owns this kingdom?" The prince answered, "God owns this kingdom." The king was surprised at his bold reply. However, he could not say that it was not God's, for that would be untrue: therefore he could not compel the prince to answer that it was his, the king's. The next question was this: "How much am I worth?" The prince answered, "You are not worth more than thirty pieces of silver." The king was furious when he heard this, and said that, if the prince could not give a good reason for his insulting words, he would be put to death instantly. "Yes, yes!" said the Negrito. "Our Saviour was sold for that much: therefore you, who are inferior to the Saviour, cannot be worth more than he was sold for." The people at the court were astounded by this bold answer; and they murmured to one another, "The prince is wise. He is wise, indeed!" "Well," said the king, "answer this third question, and you shall be married to my daughter: Can you drink all the fresh water in the world?" "Yes," said the prince. "Well, then," said the king, "drink it." "But here," answered the prince, "in many parts of the world the water of the ocean mixes with the fresh water: so, before I drink, you must separate the fresh water from the salt." As the king was unable to do this, he acknowledged himself vanquished. "All right," said the king. "To-morrow come here for the wedding." The Negrito hastened home, and told his young master all that had happened. The prince gave him five thousand pesetas, and promised him that he would urge the princess to give her consent to the marriage of the Negrito with her maid of honor. The next morning the prince and the princess were married, and the following day the Negrito received the maid of honor for his wife. Notes. Like the preceding, this story was doubtless imported from Europe, and probably through the medium of the religious. The occasion for the three questions, as well as the questions themselves, varies widely in the many different forms of the story; but the relationship among the members of the cycle is unmistakable. A general outline that would embrace most of the variants is this: A certain person, on penalty of losing his head if he fails, is required to give satisfactory answers to three (or four) difficult questions; a friend of the contestant, who resembles him, wears the other's clothes, and answers the questions ingeniously, thus saving his friend's life and winning a considerable reward for him and himself. The fullest bibliography of this cycle is that given by Oesterley in his edition of Pauli's "Schimpf und Ernst" (Stuttgart, 1866), p. 479. For other references to the group of stories, see Grimm, No. 152, and his notes; Rittershaus, 404-408 (No. CXV, "Der König und der Bischof"); Köhler-Bolte, 82 (on Moncaut's French story "Le Meunier et le Marquis"), 267 (on J. F. Campbell's No. 50), and 492 (on the Turkish Nasreddin's 70th jest). The opening of our story is like that of many of the tales in the "Bride Wager" group, in which the youngest of three brothers, after the two older have lost their lives, risks his. Compare, for instance, the European variants cited in our notes to No. 21. This opening, which does not belong to our present cycle, was doubtless attached to the story of the three questions in the Islands themselves. The combination does not appear to have been very happily effected, although it is easy to see the basis for the association (cf. Von Hahn's formula 24 and bibliography). Very little distinction is made between the good qualities of the three brothers, and the Negrito's determination to help the last only is not motivated. The Negrito himself, however, is necessary to the story,--he takes the place of the miller in most of the European forms,--and he had to be fitted in as best he could. The magic ring of the slave, with the aid of which he is able to make himself look exactly like his master, does not appear in any of the other variants that I know of. In many of the European forms the occasion of the questions is this: A king or a nobleman becomes angry with a priest or bishop, and threatens him with death if he cannot answer within a definite time three questions that are put to him. As the chief interest of the story is in the solving of the riddles or problems, it is easy to see how there might be a wide variation in setting if the story passed around much by word of mouth. The questions themselves are curious. Here are some of those found in the European versions: (1) How much water is there in the sea? (2) How many days have passed since Adam lived? (3) Where is the centre of the earth? (4) How far is it from earth to heaven? (5) What is the breadth of heaven? (6) What is the exact value of the king and his golden crown? (7) How long a time would it take to ride around the whole world? (8) What is the king thinking of this very moment? (9) How far is fortune removed from misfortune? (10) How far is it from East to West? (11) How heavy is the moon? (12) How deep is water? Some of the answers to these questions are clever; others are only less stupid than the persons who asked the questions. The solutions to the twelve just given are: (1) "A tun."--"How can you prove that?"--"Just order all the streams which flow into the sea to stand still." This reply is not unlike the counter-demand to the third question in our story. (2) "Seven; and when they come to an end, they begin again." (3) "Where my church stands: let your servants measure with a cord, and if there is the breadth of a blade of grass more on one side than on the other, I have lost my church." (4) "Just so far as a man's voice can easily be heard." (5) "A thousand fathoms and a thousand ells: then take away the sun and moon and all the stars, and press all together, and it will be no broader." (6) This question is answered exactly as the second in out story. (7) "If you set out with the Sun and ride with him, you will get around the earth in twenty-four hours." (8) "The king thinks I'm an abbot, and I'm only a shepherd (or miller)." With this question and answer compare the last task in our No. 25. (9) "Only one night, for yesterday I was a shepherd, and to-day I am an abbot." (10) "A day's journey." (11) "A quarter (of a pound): if the king doesn't believe it, let him weigh the moon himself." (12) "A stone's throw." The method of answering the questions asked in this cycle of stories, and the obscure origin of the clever substitute, form a direct connection, I believe, between this group and the "Clever Lass" cycle. Not only do we find in both the situation of a person out of favor required to answer difficult riddles, and the task assumed voluntarily by some one humbler but more clever than he, but even some of the questions themselves, and the same style of answers, are found in both cycles. For example, compare questions and answers 1, 3, 5, 7, above, with tasks 1, 2, 4, in the notes to our No. 7. In Grimm, No. 152, "The Shepherd Boy," the hero is asked three questions impossible to answer,--How many drops of water are there in the sea? How many stars are in the heavens? How many seconds has eternity? He gets out of his difficulty just as the "Clever Lass" gets out of hers,--by making equally impossible counter-demands, or else giving answers that cannot be proved incorrect. TALE 39 ALBERTO AND THE MONSTERS. Narrated by Pacita Cordero of Pagsanjan, Laguna. She says, "This story is common among the Tagalogs. It was told to me by my nurse when I was a little girl." Once there was a king in Casiguran named Luis. King Luis had three beautiful daughters, but the youngest was the fairest of all. One day the three princesses went to the orchard to amuse themselves. It happened that on that day the wind blew very hard, and they were swept away. The king felt very sad over the loss of his daughters; and he issued proclamations in all parts of his kingdom, saying that any one who could find his daughters within three days would be allowed to choose one of the three for his wife. At that time there was also in the neighboring kingdom of Sinucuan a king who had a brave son named Alberto. When Alberto heard of the matter, he went to the king, and said that he would look for his lost daughters. King Luis accepted his offer. Prince Alberto now began his search. He walked and walked until he came to a large forest where he found two boys fighting. "What are you fighting about?" he said. The one answered that the other boy was taking his boot away from him. Alberto then said to the other boy, "Why don't you give the boy his boot? The boot is old." The boy said that the boot, if worn by any one, would carry him to whatever place he wanted to go, provided he kicked the ground. To settle the contest between the two, Prince Alberto took the boot from them, and said, "Go over by that large tree, and the one who can run here first shall have the boot." While the boys were walking towards the tree, the prince put on the boot and kicked the ground. He was at once carried far away. When the boys got back to the original place, Alberto had disappeared. At the place where the boot carried him Alberto found two young men fighting over a rusty key. He said to them, "Why do you fight for such an old rusty key? You are not children: you are young men. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves." The elder of them answered that the key, if it were knocked against a stone, would open the stone, however hard it might be. The prince took the key from them, and said, "Go to a certain place, and face back here. The one to reach here first shall have the key." The two agreed, and started away. While they were gone, Alberto kicked the ground, and the boot carried him to another place. When the young men came back, the prince was no longer there. This time Prince Alberto found two old men fighting. He asked them the same question as he had asked the others; and one of them answered, "If that hat is worn by any one, his body will be invisible; he will not be seen." The prince secured the hat from these old men by telling them the same thing he had told the others. While they were running their race, he put the hat on and kicked the ground. The boot now brought him before a huge rock which had a small hole in it. Alberto put the key in the hole, and the rock suddenly opened. When he entered it, he found a street leading to a palace. He went up to the palace; and when he entered the door, a beautiful princess met him. Before Alberto could say a word, the princess told him to go away; for she said that a seven-headed monster was living with her. "If that is the case," said the prince, "show me his sword, and I will kill him." The princess pointed to the sword, which was hanging on the wall. The prince went to get it, but it was too heavy for him: he could not even move it. Then the princess gave him a pail of water to drink. She said that that was the water the monster always drank before touching his sword. The prince drank the water, and then sat down on an iron chair, and the chair broke. The princess now told him that he was strong. Soon steps were heard on the stairs. Prince Alberto put on his hat, and stood by the door, sword in hand. When the monster came up, he thrust one of his heads through a window near the door, and said, "I smell something human!" The prince cut off that head. "Somebody must be here!" cried the monster; but the princess answered that there was no one there with her. The prince then cut off the monster's heads one after another until only the main one was left. The monster waved his arms, but he could not grasp anything. At last he entered the door. The prince cut off his last head, and he fell dead. Inexpressible was the joy of the princess when she saw the monster lying dead on the floor. She embraced the prince, and thanked him for her deliverance. Then she told him how she happened to be there. When the prince knew that she was one of the daughters of King Luis, he said to her that she was the very one for whom he was looking. The princess then told the prince about her two sisters, who were kept prisoners in the same way. So Prince Alberto left her, saying that he would go save her two sisters and then return. He went outside and kicked the ground, and was brought before another huge rock. He entered it, and another princess met him. After asking him a few questions, she told him to go away, for the ten-headed monster who was living with her would soon return. But the prince said that he did not fear anything, and he told her to give him the monster's sword. Before he could lift the sword he had to drink two pails of water, which the princess gave him. Then he sat down on an iron bed, and the bed broke in two, so he thought he was strong enough. When the ten-headed monster came home, Alberto killed him in the same way he had killed the other. The princess rejoiced, and told the prince that he had saved her life. Then she embraced him and thanked him. Her joy was increased when Alberto told her that he had saved her younger sister. She begged him to save her eldest sister, who was in the next rock. The prince answered that that was what he had come for. So he left her without further talk, for it was already the night of the second day. He then kicked the ground, and found himself in front of another huge rock, which he opened. Here the third princess greeted him. After asking him several questions as to how he had come there, she begged him to go away, for she said that it was time for the twelve-headed monster to come home. But he did not go away. He asked for the sword of the monster, but of course he could not move it. So the princess gave him three pails of water to drink. When the monster came home, the prince cut his heads off one after another, as he had done to the other two. The main head was now the only one left. Then the prince removed his hat, and presented himself before the monster, who thought that he could easily kill him, now that he could see him. He said, "Wait, I'll go and get my sword." But he could not find it, for the prince had already taken it. When he returned, he said to the prince, "You have my sword." He had scarcely spoken these words when Alberto cut off his remaining head. When Alberto told the princess that he had already saved her two sisters, she jumped with joy and embraced him. Alberto now took the princess in his arms, kicked the ground, and they were brought to the palace of the second sister. Then the prince kicked the ground again, and all three were carried to the palace of the youngest sister. But there was no time for delay, as the third day was nearly gone. So he quickly brought all three princesses back to their father's kingdom. When they arrived at the palace, King Luis was overjoyed to see his daughters again. He told the prince to decide which one he wanted for a wife. While the three princesses were talking about their life with the monsters, Alberto managed, without being noticed, to give his handkerchief to the youngest. The next day Alberto called at the palace. "Have you decided whom you are going to take for a wife?" said the king. The prince answered, "The one who has a handkerchief just like mine shall be my wife." Now, all three were anxious to have the brave prince for their husband, so they hastened to their rooms to get their handkerchiefs. The two older sisters first presented theirs, but neither resembled Alberto's. Then the youngest showed the one which Alberto had given her the day before, and so she was married to him. For three days banquets of thanksgiving were held, and the marriage festivities lasted for two days. The other two princesses were also married to kings' sons. Notes. There is a striking analogy between the opening of our story and that of a Servian tale (Wuk, No. 5), where a Kaiser has three daughters whom he rears in close confinement, but whom he permits one day, after they have become of marriageable age, to dance the kolo. While they are dancing, a storm blows up, and carries them all away. The rest of the story is a variant of our No. 18, with which our present story, too, has some points of contact. For the magic articles secured by the hero from certain persons quarrelling over them, and for the "Fee-fi-fo-fum" formula, see notes to No. 18. The hero's drinking a pail of magic water, and becoming so strong that when he sits in an iron chair it breaks down under him, recalls the similar feat of Strong Hans (Grimm, No. 166). The three monsters of increasingly greater formidability--Seven-Heads, Ten-Heads, Twelve-Heads--which are slain by the hero, who uses their own Weapons on them, recall the underworld monsters killed by the hero in the "Bear's Son" cycle (cf. our notes to No. 17). Although the events of our story are located in the Philippines, the Casiguran mentioned probably being the town in Tayabas on the west toast of Luzon, the tale as a whole appears to have been imported. The Sinucuan referred to is probably the famous legendary King of Pampanga, of whom the Pampangans have a rich oral literature. He is said to have lived on Mount Arayat. He figures in our No. 79 (b). TALE 40 JUAN AND MARIA. Narrated by Anicio Pascual of Arayat, Pampanga, who says, "This story is often told by Pampangan grandmothers to their grandchildren. I have heard it many times. Lately it was told to me again by an old woman." Once there lived in a barrio an old beggar couple. They had a son named Juan, and a daughter Maria. The proceeds from their begging were hardly enough to support the family. One day, after the old man had returned home from town, he ordered his wife to cook the rice that had been given him. The old woman obeyed him. When he saw that the rice was not enough for him and his wife and children, he angrily said to her, "From now on, don't let me see our children in this house. Chase them as far as you can, and let them find their own food." The old mother wept when she heard the words of her cruel husband. She did not want to be separated from her children; but she feared that she would be whipped if she kept them, so she obeyed the cruel order. At first the poor children did not want to go away; but, when they saw that their bad father was going to kick them, they ran off crying. Soon the children came to a wild forest. "Maria, what will become of us here?" said Juan. "I am very hungry," said the little girl. "I don't think that I can get you any food in this wilderness," said the kind brother, "but let me see!" He then looked around. By good luck he found a guava-tree with one small fruit on it. He immediately climbed up for the guava, and gave it to his hungry sister. Then the two children resumed their journey. As they were walking along, Maria found a hen's egg on the grass. She picked it up and carried it along with her in her dirty ragged skirt. At last they saw a very small hut roofed with dry talahib (coarse, long grass). An old woman in the hut welcomed them, and asked them where they were going. After Juan had told her their story, she invited the tired children to stay in the hut with her. She promised that she would treat them as her little son and daughter. From that time on, Juan and Maria lived with the kind old woman. Juan grew to be a strong fine man, and Maria became a beautiful young woman. Juan spent almost all his time hunting in the mountains and woods. One morning he caught a black deer. While he was taking the animal home, the deer said to him, "Juan, as soon as you reach your home, kill me, eat my flesh, and put my hide in your trunk. After three days open your trunk, and you will see something astonishing." When Juan reached home, he did as the deer had told him to do. On the third day he found in the trunk golden armor. He was greatly delighted by the precious gift. Maria had not been living long with the old woman when she found that the egg had hatched into a chick, which soon grew into a fine fighting cock. One morning the cock crowed, "Tok-to-ko-kok! Take me to the cockpit. I'll surely win!" Maria told the old woman what the cock had said, and the next Sunday Juan took the fighting cock to the cockpit. There the rooster was victorious, and won much money for Juan. One day Juan heard that a tournament would be held in front of the king's palace. The winner of the contest was to become the husband of the princess, and would inherit the throne. Juan quickly put on his golden armor, and hastened to the palace to try his skill. He defeated all his opponents. The next day his bridal ceremony was celebrated, and the crown was placed on his head. That very day he ascended the throne to rule over the kingdom. Although Juan was now king, he was not proud. He and the queen visited Maria to get her to live in the palace; but the old woman would not allow her to go with her brother, as she had no other companion in the hut. One day a prince was lost in the forest. He happened to come across the hut in which Maria was living. He fell in love with her, and wanted to marry her. As the old woman offered no objections to the proposal of the prince, the following day Maria became a queen, just as her brother had become king. Although the parents of Juan and Maria had been very cruel, yet the king and queen did not forget them. The brother and sister visited their father and mother, whom they found in the most wretched condition. When the father saw that his children had become king and queen, he wept greatly for his former cruelty to them. Notes. A Tagalog folk-tale printed in the "Journal of American Folk-Lore" (20 : 306), "Tagalog Babes in the Woods," is related to our story. "There the twins Juan and Maria are driven to the forest by their cruel father. After days of wandering, Juan climbs a tree, and sees in the distance a house. They approach it, and, having asked permission to enter, are invited in; but there is no one to be seen in this magic house, although food and drink and clothing are supplied the two wanderers in abundance." The story is evidently incomplete. It is based on a metrical romance, "The Life of the Brother and Sister, Juan and Maria, in the Kingdom of Spain," of which I will give a brief synopsis, since the chap-book version contains details which are lacking in the fragment cited above. This metrical romance is printed in both Tagalog and Pampangan. My Tagalog copy, which contains 1836 lines, bears the date 1910, but is clearly a reprint. The Pampangan text is slightly shorter, with 1812 lines. Retana (No. 4164) cites a Pampangan version some time between the years 1860 and 1898, and a later reprint of 1902 (No. 4349). The summary that follows is based on the Tagalog. Juan and Maria. During the reign of King Charles the Fifth there lived in Spain a poor couple, Fernando and Juana. They had a son Juan, ten years old, and a daughter Maria, but eight months in age. Fernando was very cruel to his wife and children. He was also very selfish. During meal-times he ate alone, without inviting the rest of his family to eat with him. One day Fernando said to his wife, "You must send our two children away. If my command is not executed, your life shall answer for your disobedience." The broken-hearted mother summoned her children, and with tears in her eyes told them of the cruel order of their father. The children had to obey their father, for they feared him, and so set off for the mountains. For many days they wandered around, living on wild fruits, and sleeping under trees. One day Juan was greatly surprised to hear Maria ask for some water to drink, for she had never spoken before. They were far from any stream, and Juan did not know what to do to satisfy his sister. At last he climbed a tree to see whether there was any water near by, and he saw in a valley not far off a beautiful house surrounded with flowers. Juan quickly came down the tree, and the two children set out for the house. When they reached it, they knocked at the door, but no one answered. After knocking again in vain, the boy decided to enter. He pushed open the door, and found himself in a golden salon, luxuriously furnished with gold and silver chairs. On the silver wall hung an image of the Immaculate Conception. The two children knelt down in front of the image and prayed. Then they went to the dining-room, where they found a golden table with exquisite dishes of all kinds. Several years passed by. Under the care of the Virgin, Maria grew to be a beautiful young woman. One day, as Maria was praying, the Virgin spoke to her through the image. She said that the gallant prince of Borgoña would come to the mountains to hunt deer, and that he would lose his way in the woods. He would come to their house to ask for some water, and would fall in love with Maria. Everything turned out as had been predicted. The gallant prince was so attracted by the beauty and grace of Maria, that he could not help saying to her, "I love you." With the consent of her guardian the Virgin, Maria accepted the Prince of Borgoña, and the day for their wedding was set. The king, his son, and all the nobility of Borgoña, set out for the mountains to get Maria, and on their arrival were surprised at the magnificence of her house. The bishop who was with the company married the couple, and all the retinue went back to the capital. When Juan now found himself left all alone in the house, he knelt before the image and complained to the Virgin of his situation. The Virgin said to him, "Don't worry! To-morrow mount the horse which is in the stable, clothe yourself in iron, and go to the kingdom of Moscobia to help the king drive the Moors away." Juan did so, and upon his arrival in Moscobia he found thousands of Moors threatening the king. With his sword he killed half the enemy: the rest were routed. Because of his great services, the king married his daughter to Juan, and the new couple were proclaimed king and queen. Some time afterwards, Juan wrote to his sister, suggesting that they visit their parents. The two couples, accompanied by many of the nobles of their kingdoms, set out for Spain. Their cruel father was astounded to see his children raised to such a lofty position, and he begged their pardon for his former harsh treatment of them. They forgave him, and then returned to their respective kingdoms, where they lived peacefully for many years. The connection between our folk-tale and the romance is not very clear. In both we have the abandoned children, the discovery of the house in the woods where the children are reared to manhood and womanhood, and the marriage of Maria with a prince who loses his way in the forest. In both Juan becomes a king, and in both the two children seek again their cruel parents and forgive them. On the other hand, there is much in the folk-tale that is lacking in the romance; e.g., the incident of the egg that hatches into a fighting cock, and the incident of the black deer with the miraculous hide. In the folk-tale Juan becomes king because of his skill in a tournament; in the romance, because, with the help of the Virgin, he defeats a large Moorish army. In the one, the shelter in the woods is but a thatch-roofed hut inhabited by a kindly old woman; in the other, it is a magnificent house occupied by no one except the image of the Virgin. The correspondences as well as the differences between the two versions, neither of which appears to be new, suggest that the source of the folk-tale and the romance is one and the same, but that the folk-tale went its own way, the way of the people, and thus acquired its more native appearance. That the common source was some European story, can hardly be doubted, I think. The opening of our story is not unlike that of the German "Hänsel und Gretel" (Grimm, No. 15). Bolte and Polívka (1 : 123) note that various different Märchen have this beginning "of children whom their father, either because of bitter necessity or because he is forced by their step-mother, takes to the woods and there abandons." One of the most widespread cycles in which it occurs is "Hop o' my Thumb," a version of which is told among the Tagalogs. I will give this Tagalog version here in the notes, by way of compromise, as it were: for while the story is a bona fide Tagalog tale, in that it is told in the dialect, it must have been received directly from Europe; and it appears to have retained the form in which it was received, with but few modifications. No other Oriental form whatsoever of this story has been recorded (see Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 124-126). The Tagalog story was narrated by Pacita Cordero of Pagsanjan, Laguna, and runs thus:-- Pitong. Melanio and Petrona had seven sons. The father was a woodman. They were so poor, that sometimes the whole family went without dinner. One day Melanio said to his wife, "Petrona, our children are growing, and I don't see how we shall be able to support them all. At present they cannot help us earn a living, because they are too small. Don't you think we should get along better without them?"--"Yes," answered Petrona, "if we could only get rid of them some way!"--"Well, to-morrow I will take them to the forest to gather fuel," said the husband. "While they are busy, I will leave them on the pretext of looking for better kinds of wood, and will hurry home. They will not be able to get home, for they won't know the way." The wife agreed to this cruel plan. But the youngest son overheard the conversation, and told his brothers about it. At last Pitong (seventh), for that was the name of the youngest, and he was the wisest of all, made this suggestion: "Before we go to the forest to-morrow, I will pick up white stones. I will carry them with me, and as we go along I will drop them one by one. I'll walk behind, so that father will not notice what I am doing. Then, if he leaves us, we can easily follow the track of stones back home." While the six brothers consented to the plan, their minds were troubled, for they doubted the ability of so small a boy to save them. The next day the children marched straight into the forest with their father as if they were going on a picnic. Pitong dropped his stones one by one. When they reached the woods, their father commanded them to get together what sticks they could find. He left them there, promising that he would meet them in a certain place; but really he hurried home and told his wife. "We are now rid of a heavy burden," he said, and the two were very happy. When the poor boys had finished their work, they looked in vain for their father. Of course they could not find him; but Pitong led the company, and they followed the track of stones. The boys reached home safely, and the parents were route with astonishment. The next morning Melanio took his sons out with him again. This time all the boys took white stones with them, besides bread, which they intended to eat if they should get hungry; but the part of the forest to which they went was so far, that all the stones were used up before they got there. Pitong did not eat his bread; he broke it into pieces, and dropped them on the ground as they went along. They now reached the nook where their father proposed to leave them. This place was grown up with wild shrubs, so that there were plenty of twigs to keep the boys busy. Melanio slipped away from them without their noticing it. After the seven brothers had worked a long time, they thought of returning home. But they could not find the track: the pieces of bread had been eaten by the ants. They cried out, "Father, father! where are you?" When they were so hungry and tired that they could not shout any more, they sat down on the ground and began to weep. It began to grow dark. Pitong advised his brothers to pluck up courage, and said to them, "Follow me." So they went on without taking any particular course, and in about a half-hour they came to a tall tree. Pitong climbed it to see if there was a road near by. When he reached the top, he said, "Brothers, I see a lighted house from here. Let us go look for the house! Maybe we can get something to eat there." When they came near the house, they saw that it was well lighted and richly adorned, as if there were a banquet going on; only it was very quiet. Pitong, followed by his brothers, knocked at the door. A woman kindly admitted them, and the boys begged for some food. They told her how they had been deserted by their selfish father. The woman said to them, "I have a giant husband who is a great eater of human beings. If he finds you here, you will surely be devoured; but I can give you something to eat. I will hide you before he comes, and you must remain perfectly still." The boys had hardly finished dinner when a loud sound was heard from without. The woman said to them, "Here comes my husband! Boys, follow me into that room! You all get into this big trunk and stay here." The door was suddenly flung open. As soon as the giant entered, he said in a fierce voice, "I smell something human: somebody must be here." He said this many times; and although the wife did not want to show him the boys, she finally did so, for she feared that she would be punished. She beckoned to them to come out of the trunk. "Welcome, my young friends!" said the giant. "I am very glad to have you here." Pitong gazed fearlessly at him, but the others trembled with fright. "Give these boys some food, and prepare them a comfortable bed," said the giant to his wife. "To-morrow early in the morning they will all be killed." These words increased the terror of the six older brothers. They could not swallow a morsel more of food when the old woman set it before them. Pitong, however, kept trying to think of a plan by which he could save them all. Now, the room in which they were to sleep was also the room of the giant's seven sons, who were about the same height as the woodman's sons. But the giant's sons had on rich garments. At midnight Pitong awoke his brothers. They quietly and carefully exchanged clothes with the giant's sons, and then pretended to sleep. At four o'clock in the morning the giant came in. He paused before the two beds, but at last turned to the one his sons were in. When he felt their rough clothes, he thought them the strangers, and with his axe he cut off the heads of all seven. Then he went away and slept again. Now Pitong and his six brothers stealthily hurried away into the forest. When morning came, and the giant found that he had killed his own children, he was enraged. He at once took his magic cane, and put on his magic boots and cap. When the boys heard the giant coming after them, they went down into a big hole they had dug. There they hid. But the giant had a keen sense of smell, and he walked around and around, looking for them. At last he became tired; he leaned against a tree and fell asleep. Pitong peeped through a small opening from under the ground. When he saw that the giant was asleep, he called out to his brothers. They quickly stole the magic boot, cap, and cane of the giant, and were soon carried home. Their parents were very much surprised to see them back; but they welcomed their children when they knew of the magic objects. By means of these the family became rich. As for the giant, when he awoke, he was deprived of all his power. He was so weak that he could not even get up from the ground, so he died there in the woods. TALE 41 THE ENCHANTED PRINCE. Narrated by Pedro D. L. Sorreta, a Bicol from Virac, Albay, who heard the story from his grandfather. Many years ago there lived a very rich king in a beautiful city near a wild forest, the home of many wicked witches. The king had a gallant son named Ucay, who fell in love with a beautiful young witch, the daughter of the most bitter enemy of his father. When Ucay became old enough to marry, his father requested him to select the most beautiful lady in the city for his wife; but the prince would neither select one, nor would he tell his father about his love for the witch. So the rich king ordered his soldiers to bring to the palace all the beautiful women that could be found in the kingdom. His order was soon obeyed, but none of the girls suited the prince. So the king took the matter of selection into his own hands; and, after choosing a very handsome girl, he forced his son to marry her. Out of fear, Ucay consented to do as his father bade him. But the beautiful young witch to whom he had already pledged his love became angry with him for his timidity, and so she resolved to change the city into a forest of beautiful trees. Her fickle lover she transformed into a monkey, who should live in the tallest tree, and who should not be able to recover his human shape till five centuries had passed, when a charming girl would live with him and love him more than anything else. Moreover, she changed the king's subjects into other animals as she pleased. No sooner had the marriage of the prince been proclaimed, then, than the desire of the witch was accomplished, to the great surprise of the neighboring cities. Four centuries had already passed. The wonderful disappearance of the city was already forgotten, and people from other places began to build houses in the enchanted city. The monkey-prince was always watching for an opportunity to catch a beautiful girl who should break the spell that kept him in his miserable condition. Soon a church was built near the foot of the tree in which he lived. He had already succeeded in capturing two ladies, but they had died of fear. After incalculable suffering and extraordinary patience, the time for his recovery came at last. One Sunday morning before the mass was over, a very beautiful girl, the daughter of a poor man, came out of the church and sat at the foot of the tree. She had been disappointed in her love with a rich man's son, who had forsaken her in order to marry the daughter of a rich man. So she wished to die. When the monkey-prince saw her sitting there alone, he noiselessly went down, carefully took her by the right hand, and carried her to the top of the tree. She would have died of fright, as was the fate of the two former women, had she not seen in the monkey's eyes a noble look that filled her with wonder and sympathy. As days went by, she lived on delicious fruits which were entirely strange to her; and her love for the poor creature grew greater and greater, until at last she loved him more than anything else. On the evening of the tenth day she was surprised to find herself beside a gallant prince in a richly-decorated room. At first she thought that she was dreaming; but when the prince woke up, kissed her, and then told her the history of his life, she knew that it was real. She was so astonished, that she exclaimed, "Ah, me! God is wise!" The next morning she was crowned queen of her husband's happy subjects, whom she had restored from the enchantment of the wicked witch. Every one in the kingdom loved his new queen as long as he lived. Notes. I know of no parallels to this interesting story, which appears to be old native tradition. The hero transformed by enchantment into a beast, and saved by the devotion of the human lover, suggests the "Beauty and Beast" cycle (Macculloch, ch. IX; Crane, 7, 324 [notes 5 and 6]; Ralston, Tibetan Tales, p. XXXVII f.); only it is to be noted that those stories are, after all, heroine tales, not hero tales, for the interest in them is centred on the disenchantment brought about by the maiden who comes to love the prince in his beast form. The curse by a disappointed witch, and the prophecy that only after five hundred years will the curse be removed, suggest in a way the "Sleeping Beauty" cycle (Grimm, No. 50; and Bolte-Polívka's exhaustive notes); only here, too, the resemblance is but vague. There is no magic sleep in our story, but a Circe-like transformation of the prince and all his subjects into animals, the city itself being changed into a forest of trees. We have already met with stories in the Philippines based on the idea of animal-marriages (e.g., Nos. 18, 19, 29); but, even were it demonstrable that all those tales were imported, it would not necessarily follow that the savage idea behind them, too, was imported. Their adoption by the natives might indicate, on the contrary, that the basic idea was already well known. I might call attention to the fact that the number 500 and the monkey-prince suggest vaguely Buddhistic lore. TALE 42 THE PRINCE'S DREAM. Narrated by Gregorio Frondoso, a Bicol of Tigaon, Camarines. The narrator says, "This story was told to me by my guardian while I was in Nueva Caceres. He told it to me in the Bicol dialect, and said that this must be a Bicol story." Once there lived a young prince who, after his father's death, succeeded to the throne as the sole heir of a vast, rich kingdom. He indulged himself in all worldly pleasures. He gave dances, and all sorts of merry-making surrounded his court to attract the most beautiful ladies of the kingdom. Meanwhile the royal treasury was being drained, and his subjects were becoming disloyal to him; for, his time being chiefly absorbed in personal cares, he often neglected his duties as king. Disappointed by his conduct, his counsellors plotted against him: they resolved to dismiss him from the realm. The prince's mother, the widowed queen, learned of their plot. So, when he returned to the palace from his evening walk one day, she said to him, "My son, I wish you would turn from your foolish trifling, and govern your people as you ought to do; for your advisers are planning to dethrone you." The prince, who was not bad at heart, followed his mother's sensible advice: he now began to devote himself to the welfare of his subjects. His ministers, too, gave up their plan, and aided the young king in his royal tasks. One noon, when the prince was taking his siesta, he had a dream. A ghost appeared to him, and spoke in this manner: "Your father left a hidden treasure of gold and diamonds, which he forgot to mention in his will. Should you care to have that treasure, go to the city of Black. There you will find a Negro, the richest in that city, who will tell you all about the treasure." On hearing these words, the prince woke up, and hurriedly acquainted his mother with his dream. "Undeceive yourself," she said. "Never believe in dreams. I don't believe in them myself." In spite of his mother's words, he decided to look for the Negro. The next day, disguising himself as a poor traveller, the prince set out for the city of Black. He arrived there at ten o'clock at night, and the gate of the city was closed; for there was a law there, that, after the bell had rung ten, no person could enter the city. So he had to sleep outside the walls. Then the very same ghost that had spoken to him in his palace appeared to him, and said, "Go back to your palace, prince, and there in the cellar you will find the treasure I spoke of." The moment he heard the voice, the prince got up and returned to his own city. When his mother saw him, she said to him, "Did you find what you were looking for?"--"Mother, the very same ghost told me that the treasure is buried in the cellar of the palace." "I have told you that dreams are never true," she said. "The ghost must be joking you. You see, you have gone to a faraway land in vain. Banish all thoughts of that treasure, and continue ruling your kingdom well, and you will be very much better off." At first the prince followed his mother's counsel, and tried to rid his mind of the thought of the treasure; but the ghost haunted him in his sleep, day and night, reminding him of the gold and diamonds. Early one morning, without the knowledge of his mother, he took a pointed iron bar and went down into the cellar of the palace. There he dug where the treasure was supposed to be. He dug and dug to find the coveted gold and diamonds. He remained there several hours, and had excavated a hole some three metres deep, but had found no sign of the hidden wealth. Just as he was about to give up, his bar struck something hard which produced a metallic sound. He went on digging until finally he uncovered an iron platform in the form of a square. It was locked with a padlock, and the key was in the lock. He lifted the platform, and to his great surprise and wonder found a low ladder made of diamond bars, leading down into a small apartment all shining bright as if it were day. Here he found two columns of diamond bars, each a foot in thickness and a metre in height, whose brightness shot through all the corners like sunbeams. This subterranean chamber immediately led to another in which there was a big safe about five feet in height and three feet wide. He opened the safe, and from out of it flowed gold coins like water in torrents from a cliff. His eyes were dazzled by their brightness; and he was so startled at the inexhaustible flow of money, that he said to himself, "Are these gold coins and diamonds real, or am I simply dreaming?" To assure himself, he filled his cap with the gold coins and went up into the sunlight. He rubbed his eyes and examined the coins: they were of pure gold. Greatly delighted by his discovery, he hastened to his mother, and said, "I have found the treasure, I have found the treasure!" When the queen saw the gold glittering in her son's hand, she was very glad. Now both mother and son hurried down to the cellar. There the prince continued his search for the hidden treasure, while his mother contemplated in awe the columns of diamonds she saw in those underground apartments. Now the prince came to a third chamber, in which he found two more columns of diamonds like those in the first room; and finally he came to a fourth apartment, in which he saw a wide curtain of silk hanging on the wall. Back of this wall was another apartment, but it was securely locked. On the curtain were embroidered the following words in big golden letters: "Inside this chamber is another column of diamonds twice as large and twice as high as those in the other two; none can unlock this apartment but the wealthiest Negro in the city of Black." Anxious to have this last column of diamonds, the prince determined to find the Negro. Disguising himself again as a poor traveller, he set out for the city of Black. There he found the Negro, who received him very kindly. In the course of their talk the prince spoke of his dream, and told how he found the gold coins and the diamond columns, and finally gave the reason for his coming there as a poor traveller. Furthermore, the prince mentioned his father's name. On hearing the prince's story, the Negro knelt down before him, saying, "My prince, I was the most beloved servant of your father. I acknowledge you as my master, and am disposed and ready to do anything for your sake. As to the chamber you spoke of, I have not the power to unlock it. There is but one man who can unlock it, who knows very well your dead father, and who was his friend. He knows me, too, very well. This man is the king of the demons. And to him we will go together; but before we go, we should eat our dinner." Then the Negro ordered all kinds of delicious dishes, and the two feasted together. After they had dined, they set out on their journey to the palace of the king of the demons. Soon they came to a river. There the Negro instructed the prince not to say anything if he should see any extraordinary sights, lest some terrible danger befall them. The Negro waved his hand, and in a moment there came a sphinx paddling a small banca towards them. They got into it, and the sphinx rowed back to the other side. Then they walked on till they came to the palace of the king of the demons, which was protected by two circular walls. They knocked at the gate of the first. The moment they knocked, it became dark all around them; lightnings flashed before their eyes, and it thundered. Then the gate opened. After passing through the first gate, they came to the second. "They knocked, and the gate flung open. At once two lions ran out towards them with eyes glowing like balls of fire, and were ready to spring upon them and devour them; but on coming nearer the strangers, and recognizing the Negro, these two kings of beasts wagged their tails as a sign of welcome. The Negro and the prince were conducted to the king's throne. The king of the demons asked them what they wanted. The prince spoke: "King of the demons, I have found in the cellar of my palace a store of gold coins and several diamond columns, my father's hidden treasure which he forgot to mention in his will. The last column is locked up in a separate apartment, and there is none who has the power to unlock it but yourself." "Young king," replied the king of the demons, "it is true that I am the only one who can unlock it. I gave that diamond column to your father as a gift which he might bequeath to his son; and if you are his son, you shall have it. But, before giving it to you, I should like to have you do me a favor in return for that rich gift. If you will bring me a very beautiful woman to be my companion, one whose heart is untainted by any worldly passion, I will unlock for you your wished-for treasure, the diamond room." At this request the young man stood speechless for some time. At last, perplexed, he replied, "O king of the demons! it seems to me impossible to fulfil your wish. I am not a man of superhuman power to read into a woman's heart." "Well," returned the king of the demons, taking out of his pocket a small oval mirror, "if you see a beautiful woman, hold this mirror before her face. If the surface of the mirror becomes clouded, leave her; but if the surface of the mirror remains as clear as before, bring her to me, for she is the one I want for my comfort." The prince took the mirror, and with his Negro companion left the palace to look for the desired girl for the king of the demons. They visited cities and villages. In three days they had searched through three cities and three villages, but every girl that looked on the magic mirror clouded its surface. Then, discouraged by their failure, the travellers decided to go back to the palace of the king of the demons. On their return they felt very tired, and so stopped in a small village to rest. There they found a most beautiful girl, the daughter of a poor farmer. It was the very girl desired by the king of the demons; for, after she had looked on the magic mirror, its surface remained as clear as before. Then with joyful hearts the Negro and the prince set out with the lady for the abode of the king of the demons. On their way, the prince, fascinated by her beauty, fell in love with the girl. He did not want to give her up to the king of the demons, and so proposed to the Negro that they take her to his palace. But the Negro would not consent, for the king of the demons knew all about their doings, he said. So the prince gave up his plan on condition that the girl's face be veiled. When they arrived at the palace, the king of the demons gladly met them, and said to the prince, "Now you have fulfilled my wish. You may go back to your palace, and there you will find the diamond apartment unlocked for you." The sorrowing prince turned his back and left the palace with heavy heart; for he no longer thought of the treasure of gold and diamonds, but had his whole soul centred in that beautiful maiden that he had given up to the king of the demons. He reached his own palace sad and dejected. Yet, to divert his mind from the thought of her, he went to the subterranean apartment; and there he found the last chamber unlocked. After some hesitation, he went into the apartment. There he found two veiled figures,--the one in the form of a king with his sceptre and crown; the other, a maiden. He unveiled the one with the crown, and was astounded to find the very same king of the demons. "Prince, unveil that figure," said the king of the demons to him. The young king did so, and to his great joy saw the beautiful maiden he had lost his heart to. At once his sadness disappeared. Then the king of the demons said to the prince, "Young king, since on your way to my palace you fell in love with this maiden, I deem it fit that you should have her for your companion; but do not expect the diamond column any more." Then the king of the demons disappeared. The prince at once embraced the maiden, and conducted her up to his palace. That same day their marriage was celebrated with pomp and luxury. Note. Dr. Franz Boas informs me that this story is from the "Arabian Nights," "The Tale of Zayn Al-Asnam" (see Burton, Supplemental Nights," iii, 3-38; for Clouston's discussion of variants and analogues, ibid., 553-563). TALE 43 THE WICKED WOMAN'S REWARD. Narrated by Gregorio Frondoso, a Bicol from Camarines. The story was told by a father to one of his sons. Once there lived a certain king. He had concubines, five in number. Two of them he loved more than the others, for they were to bear him children. He said that the one who should give birth to a male baby he would marry. Soon one of them bore a child, but it was a girl, and shortly afterward the other bore a handsome boy. The one which had given birth to the baby girl was restless: she wished that she might have the boy. In order to satisfy her wish, she thought of an ingenious plan whereby she might get possession of the boy. One midnight, when all were sound asleep, she killed her own baby and secretly buried it. Then she quietly crept to her rival's bed and stole her boy, putting in his place a newborn cat. Early in the morning the king went to the room of his concubine who had borne the boy, and was surprised to find a cat by her side instead of a human child. He was so enraged, that he immediately ordered her to be drowned in the river. His order was at once executed. Then he went into the room of the wicked woman. The moment he saw the boy baby, he was filled with great joy, and he smothered the child with kisses. As he had promised, he married the woman. After the marriage the king sent away all his other concubines, and he harbored a deep love for his deceitful wife. Soon afterwards there was a great confusion throughout the kingdom. Everybody wondered why it was that the river smelled so fragrant, and the people were very anxious to find out the cause of the sweet odor. It was not many days before the townspeople along the river-bank found the corpse of the drowned woman floating in the water; and this was the source of the sweetness that was causing their restlessness. It was full of many different kinds of flowers which had been gathered by the birds. When the people attempted to remove the corpse from the water, the birds pecked them, and would not let the body be taken away. At last the news of the miracle was brought to the ears of the king. He himself went to the river to see the wonderful corpse. As soon as he saw the figure of the drowned woman, he was tortured with remorse. Then, to his great surprise and fear, the corpse suddenly stood up out of the water, and said to him in sorrowful tones, "O king! as you see, my body has been floating on the water. The birds would have buried me, but I wanted you to know that you ordered me to be killed without any investigation of my fault. Your wife stole my boy, and, as you saw, she put a cat by my side." The ghost vanished, and the king saw the body float away again down the river. The king at once ordered the body of his favorite to be taken out of the water and brought to the palace; and he himself was driven back to the town, violent with rage and remorse. There he seized his treacherous wife and hurled her out of the window of the palace, and he even ordered her body to be hanged. Having gotten rid of this evil woman, the king ordered the body of the innocent woman to be buried among the noble dead. The corpse was placed in a magnificent tomb, and was borne in a procession with pompous funeral ceremonies. He himself dressed entirely in black as a sign of his genuine grief for her; yet, in spite of his sorrow for his true wife, he took comfort in her son, who grew to be a handsome boy. As time went on, the prince developed into a brave youth, who was able to perform the duties of his father the king: so, as his father became old, no longer able to bear the responsibilities of regal power, the prince succeeded to the throne, and ruled the kingdom well. He proved himself to be the son of the good woman by his wise and just rule over his subjects. Note. I know of no other versions of this story. The incident of the animal substitution for child is a commonplace in folk-tales, though it is usually ascribed to an envious step-mother rather than an envious co-wife. For abstracts of Filipino stories containing this incident see JAFL 29 : 226 et seq., 228, 229; 19 : 265-272. TALE 44 THE MAGIC RING ("ANG SINGSING NGA TANTANAN"). Narrated by Encarnacion Gonzaga, a Visayan from Jaro, Iloilo. The story, she says, is very popular among the Visayans. In the town of X, not far from the kingdom of Don Fernando, there lived an old religious woman named Carmen. She had a son named Carlos. She had been a widow since Carlos was nine months old. She was poor--poor even to raggedness. One day she said to her son, "I have named you Carlos because I love you. For me, no name is prettier than yours. Every letter in it means something." Carlos asked his mother to tell him the meaning of his name; but she said to him, "I'll tell it to you later. First go to the king's palace, and there beg something for us to eat. O my son! if you only knew the miseries I have had to endure to bring you up, you would not refuse this request of your poor mother," she said, weeping. Carlos pitied his mother very much, so he ran towards the king's palace to beg some food; but when he reached the gate, he hesitated to enter. He was ashamed to beg, so he went and stood silently under the orange-tree which was not far from the princess's window. "If I should obey my mother's request," he said to himself, "what would the princess say? She would probably say to me, 'You are too young to beg.' What a disgrace then would it be for me!" As Carlos was looking at the declining sun with tears in his eyes, the princess raised her window and unintentionally spit on his head. Carlos's eyes flashed. He looked at the princess sternly, and said, "If the Goddess of the Sea, who has a star on her forehead [92] and a moon on her throat, does not dare to spit on me, how can you--you who are but the shadow of her power and beauty?" At these harsh words the princess fainted. When she came to herself, she cried. Her tears were like drops of dew falling from the leaves in the morning. Her father entered her room, and found her in her sorrow. "Why do you weep, Florentina?" asked Don Fernando. "O Father!" answered Florentina, "my heart is broken. I have been disgraced." "Why should you say so?" replied her father. "Who broke your heart, and who disgraced you?" "There's a man under the orange-tree," answered the princess, "who said to me these words"--and she repeated what Carlos had said to her. The king instantly ordered Carlos to be seized and brought into his presence. Carlos stood fearless before him, and answered all his questions. Don Fernando at last said, "If within a week you cannot show me that what you said to my daughter is true, you'll be hanged without mercy." These words frightened Carlos. With tears in his eyes and with his thoughts devoted to God, who alone could give him consolation, he walked down the shore of the Golden River. He sat down to rest under a pagatpat-tree [93]. An eagle which had a nest at the very top of the tree saw him crying, and said to him, "Why do you weep, Carlos?" "O Eagle, queen of the birds! I'd be very thankful to you if you'd only tell me where the home of the Goddess of the Sea is," said Carlos. "Why do you want her house?" asked the eagle. "Don't you know that no human being is able to see her?" "I didn't know that; but if I cannot see her, my life is lost," said Carlos sadly. The eagle pitied Carlos very much: so she said, "Come, Carlos, come! and I'll lead you to the right path." Carlos followed her until they came to the mouth of the river. There they stopped. The eagle shouted, "O king of the fishes! come and help me, for I am in great need of assistance." The king of the fishes appeared, and asked what the eagle needed. The eagle told him the story of Carlos, and asked him if he could take Carlos to the home of the Goddess of the Sea. As the fish could not refuse the request of the queen of the birds, he said to Carlos, "Carlos, lie on my back and close your eyes: within five minutes you'll be in the home of the goddess." Carlos obeyed the fish. When he opened his eyes, he found that he was in a very beautiful house. He was lying on a golden bed, and beside him was standing a beautiful woman with a star on her forehead and a moon on her throat. Carlos could not believe that the vision was true. By and by he heard a sweet voice saying, "What has brought you to this place?" Carlos trembled, and answered, "I have come here to ask for your help." "What help do you desire?" asked the goddess. Carlos related his story. The goddess could not refuse help to one who had spoken so well of her beauty, so she took her diamond ring off her finger and gave it to Carlos, saying, "Take this ring with you. Whenever you want or need my help, touch the ring thrice, and say, 'O God, help me!' If the king wants my presence, touch the ring six times, and I'll appear before you." Carlos received the ring, and, humbly kneeling before the goddess, said, "I can find no words in which to express to you my gratitude. I thank you with all my heart." The goddess then called to the king of the fishes, and ordered him to take Carlos back to land. When Carlos arrived at the shore of the river, he met the eagle, who showed him the way to the king's palace. The king Don Fernando, on seeing Carlos once more before him, said, "You wretch! one day more is all you have to live." "To-morrow," replied Carlos, "I'll come before your Highness, and I'll show to you that what I said to the princess is true." When morning came the next day, Carlos was ordered into the king's presence. All the lords and nobles of the kingdom were in the palace, anxious to see the Goddess of the Sea. It was already eight o'clock, and the goddess had not yet appeared. The king asked, "Where is she, Carlos?" "She cannot come," replied Carlos; "but, if your Highness wants me to, I'll give you a trunk filled with gold in exchange for my life." "No," said the king angrily: "what we want is the Goddess of the Sea. If you cannot show her to us, prepare to be hanged." Carlos touched the ring six times, and the beautiful Goddess of the Sea appeared. All were amazed to see a woman with curly hair, a star on her forehead, a moon on her throat, and wearing a white dress glistening with diamonds. "Carlos is an enchanter!" cried the king, and he ran to embrace the goddess. In five minutes she disappeared, and Carlos's life was saved. Don Fernando now proposed to marry his daughter Florentina to Carlos. At first the princess hesitated to say yes, but at last she consented. Carlos was glad to marry the beautiful princess; but, before the marriage took place, he went to get his poor mother, who was anxiously awaiting his return home. Carlos with his diamond ring could now have everything he needed. In fact, he made the chapel in which he was married all of gold. The wedding-dress of the princess was adorned with diamonds. Immediately after the wedding, poor Carmen died of happiness. Carlos continued to live in the palace with his wife Florentina, but he never came to know the meaning of his name. Note. I know of no variants of this story. The detail of the helpful animals is common in Filipino Märchen; here, however, the kindness of the eagle and the fish lack the usual motivation. TALE 45 MARIA AND THE GOLDEN SLIPPER. Narrated by Dolores Zafra, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, Laguna. She says that this is a Tagalog story, and was told to her when she was a little girl. Once there lived a couple who had an only daughter, Maria. When Maria was a little girl, her mother died. A few years later Maria's father fell in love with a widow named Juana, who had two daughters. The elder of these daughters was Rosa, and the younger was Damiana. When Maria was grown to be a young woman, her father married the woman Juana. Maria continued to live with her father and step-mother. But Juana and her two daughters treated Maria as a servant. She had to do all the work in the house,--cook the food, wash the clothes, clean the floors. The only clothes she herself had to wear were ragged and dirty. One day Prince Malecadel wanted to get married: so he gave a ball, to which he invited all the ladies in his kingdom. He said that the most beautiful of all was to be his wife. When Damiana and Rosa knew that all the ladies were invited, they began to discuss what clothes they would wear to the ball; but poor Maria was in the river, washing the clothes. Maria was very sad and was weeping, for she had no clothes at all in which she could appear at the prince's fête. While she was washing, a crab approached her, and said, "Why are you crying, Maria? Tell me the reason, for I am your mother." Then Maria said to the crab, "I am treated by my aunt (sic!) and sisters as a servant; and there will be a ball to-night, but I have no clothes to wear." While she was talking to the crab, Juana came up. The step-mother was very angry with Maria, and ordered her to catch the crab and cook it for their dinner. Maria seized the crab and carried it to the house. At first she did not want to cook it, for she knew that it was her mother; but Juana whipped her so hard, that at last she was forced to obey. Before it was put in the earthen pot to be cooked, the crab said to Maria, "Maria, don't eat my flesh, but collect all my shell after I am eaten, and bury the pieces in the garden near the house. They will grow into a tree, and you can have what you want if you will only ask the tree for it." After her parents had eaten the flesh of the crab, Maria collected all its shell and buried it in the garden. At twilight she saw a tree standing on the very spot where she had buried the shell. When night came, Rosa and Damiana went to the ball, and Juana retired for the night as soon as her daughters were gone. When Maria saw that her aunt was sleeping, she went into the garden and asked the tree for what she wanted. The tree changed her clothes into very beautiful ones, and furnished her with a fine coach drawn by four fine horses, and a pair of golden slippers. Before she left, the tree said to her, "You must be in your house before twelve o'clock. If you are not, your clothes will be changed into ragged, dirty ones again, and your coach will disappear." After promising to remember the warning of the tree, Maria went to the ball, where she was received by the prince very graciously. All the ladies were astonished when they saw her: she was the most beautiful of all. Then she sat between her two sisters, but neither Rosa nor Damiana recognized her. The prince danced with her all the time. When Maria saw that it was half-past eleven, she bade farewell to the prince and all the ladies present, and went home. When she reached the garden, the tree changed her beautiful clothes back into her old ones, and the coach disappeared. Then she went to bed and to sleep. When her sisters came home, they told her of everything that had happened at the ball. The next night the prince gave another ball. After Rosa and Damiana had dressed themselves in their best clothes and gone, Maria again went to the garden to ask for beautiful clothes. This time she was given a coach drawn by five (?) horses, and again the tree warned her to return before twelve. The prince was delighted to see her, and danced with her the whole evening. Maria was so enchanted that she forgot to notice the time. While she was dancing, she heard the clock striking twelve. She ran as fast as she could down stairs and out the palace-door, but in her haste she dropped one of her golden slippers. This night she had to walk home, and in her old ragged clothes, too. One of her golden slippers she had with her; but the other, which she had dropped at the door, was found by one of the guards, who gave it to the prince. The guard said that the slipper had been lost by the beautiful lady who ran out of the palace when the clock was striking twelve. Then the prince said to all the people present, "The lady whom this slipper fits is to be my wife." The next morning the prince ordered one of his guards to carry the slipper to every house in the city to see if its owner could be found. The first house visited was the one in which Maria lived. Rosa tried to put the slipper on her foot, but her foot was much too big. Then Damiana put it on her foot, but her foot was too small. The two sisters tried and tried again to make the slipper fit, but in vain. Then Maria told them that she would try, and see if the slipper would fit her foot; but her sisters said to her, "Your feet are very dirty. This golden slipper will not go on your foot, for your feet are larger than ours." And they laughed at her. But the guard who had brought the slipper said, "Let her try. It is the prince's order that all shall try." So he gave it to Maria. Then Maria put it on, and it fitted her foot exactly. She then drew the other slipper from underneath her dress, and put it on her other foot. When the two sisters saw the two slippers on Maria's feet, they almost fainted with astonishment. So Maria became the wife of the prince, and from that time on she was very dear to her sisters and aunt. Abadeja. This is a Visayan story from Leyte. Unfortunately I have no record of the name of the narrator. Once upon a time there lived in the town of Baybay a man whose name was Abac. The name of his wife was Abadesa. They had a beautiful daughter named Abadeja. The mother died when her daughter was about thirteen years old; and in a year her father married again, a widow who had three daughters. The second wife envied her step-daughter because Abadeja was much more beautiful than her own children: consequently she treated the poor girl very badly, and made her do all the hard work. When Abadeja could not do the work, her step-mother punished her severely. One evening the step-mother said to Abadeja, "Take these two handkerchiefs to the river and wash them. The white one must be black, and the black one white, when you bring them back to me. If they are not, I shall beat you." Abadeja went to the river, where she sat down on a rock and began to cry. In a little while she heard a noise that made her look up. There in front of her stood a beautiful woman. The woman asked Abadeja why she was crying. Abadeja replied, "I am crying because my step-mother has commanded me to do the impossible. She told me that I must change this white handkerchief into black, and the black one into white." The woman took the handkerchiefs, and in an instant they were transformed. Then she gave them back to Abadeja, and invited the girl to come see her any time she needed help. After she had spoken thus, she disappeared. Abadeja went home and gave the handkerchiefs to her cruel step-mother, who now had no excuse to punish her. The next morning Abadeja was ordered to put some rice on a mat in the sun to dry. While she was in the house doing other work, a pig came, ate up the rice, and tore the mat to pieces. When the step-mother knew what had happened, she whipped Abadeja severely for having lost the rice, and told her that she would have to repair the mat so that it was as good as new. Abadeja took the mat and went across the river, crying. The beautiful woman met her again, and, taking her by the hand, led her to her home among the high trees. Then she asked Abadeja what she wanted. Abadeja told her friend that her step-mother had ordered her to repair the mat so that it would be as good as new. The woman took the mat from the girl and waved it in the air. Immediately it became a whole mat again. Then she gave Abadeja a beautifully-colored chicken. Abadeja thanked her for her help and her gift, and hurried home, for she knew that her step-mother would be waiting to scold her if she were late. The next day when Abadeja was away from the house, her cruel step-mother took the chicken, killed it, and cooked it. When the girl returned, only the feet of her chicken were left. She cried over her loss, and ran to the river to ask the beautiful woman what she should do. The beautiful woman, when she heard what had happened, told the girl to take the chicken's feet and plant them in the forest. Abadeja went home, took the feet, and carried them with her to the forest. There she made a little garden, in which she planted the right foot toward the east, and the left foot toward the west. A month later she visited her garden in the woods, and was astonished to see that the feet had grown up into the air, and that they bore pearls, diamonds, gold dresses, rings, bracelets, shoes, necklaces, and ear-rings. She was delighted, but she did not tell her step-mother about her garden. One day the son of the richest man in Baybay came across this little garden in the forest. He picked off a ring and put it on his finger. When he reached home, his finger began to swell. His father called in all the best physicians, but they could not remove the ring. Then he called in all the girls of the town, and said that the one who could take the ring from the finger of his son should be his son's wife. All the girls of the town tried except Abadeja. She did not try, because her mother would not allow her to go. At last some one told the rich man that there was still a girl who had not tried, and that it was Abadeja: so he sent for her. Now, her step-mother did not dare refuse to let her go. Abadeja ran to her little garden, put on one of the gold dresses, and went to the rich man's house. As soon as she touched the ring, it slid off. The next day Abadeja was married to the son of the rich man. The beautiful woman attended the wedding unseen by every one except Abadeja. The young couple lived happily for many years. Notes. In another variant (c), "The Wonderful Tree," which was collected by Mr. Rusk, and of which I have only an abstract,-- Maria's mother was drowned by the cruel husband, a fisherman, who desired to marry another woman. The daughter was now ill-treated by her step-mother, and often went to the seashore to talk with the spirit of her dead mother. When the mother could no longer continue the meetings with Maria, she told her to plant in a certain place all the fins of all the fish the family should eat on a certain day. From these fins there grew up a magic tree of gold and precious stones. One day a prince, hearing the music made by the wind in the magic tree, approached the tree and found the beautiful Maria. Later he married her. For still other Philippine variants of the Cinderella story, see JAFL 19 : 265-272, where Fletcher Gardner gives two oral Tagalog versions. In the same journal (29 : 226 f.) I have given synopses of two Tagalog metrical romances which open with the Cinderella setting. The Cinderella story is perhaps the most widespread Märchen in the world. See M. R. Cox's bibliographical study of it: "Cinderella, 345 Variants of Cinderella, Catskin, and Cap o' Rushes, abstracted and tabulated, with a discussion of medieval analogues, and notes. London, 1893." Bolte-Polívka's notes to Grimm, No. 21, examine Miss Cox's material from a somewhat new angle, and are very useful for reference. It seems hardly necessary to attempt to add here to those two exhaustive monographs. Attention may be called to the fact, however, that our story of "Abadeja," which comes from Leyte, presents a number of interesting items not found in the other Filipino variants: e.g., (1) the task of washing a black handkerchief white, and vice-versâ; (2) the magic tree growing up from the feet of a wonderful chicken given the heroine by the mysterious woman; (3) the unusual device for providing a rich husband for the heroine. There are some slight resemblances between these last two details and corresponding incidents in Mr. Rusk's variant "The Wonderful Tree." TALE 46 JUAN THE POOR. Narrated by Dolores Zafra, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, who heard this story from her grandfather. Many years ago there lived a king who was always sad. He used to go to a mountain and climb the highest tree that was growing there. One day when he was in the top of the tree, he saw on another high mountain a beautiful princess, Doña Maria. When he returned home to his palace, he sent a proclamation all over his kingdom, saying that the one who could take Doña Maria from her mountain and bring her before him should have one-half of his kingdom. Juan was a beggar; and it was his custom, whenever he saw a beggar like himself, to share with that beggar the alms which had been given him. One day he saw a wretched old woman, and out of pity for her he gave her all the food he had begged that day. Then the old woman, who knew of the proclamation of the king, said to Juan, "You must tell the king, my boy, that you will fetch Doña Maria for him." Juan did not want to, because he said that he did not know where and how he might get Doña Maria; but the old woman at last persuaded Juan to go by telling him that she would accompany him, and promising her help. After Juan had visited the palace and told the king that he would bring the princess Doña Maria to him, the poor boy and the old woman set out on their journey to the distant mountain. When they reached the gates of the city, the old woman said to Juan, "Juan, I am very tired, and I cannot go any farther, but I will give you this handkerchief. When you come to the first mountain, you must spread the handkerchief on the ground, and many fat horses will approach you; but I advise you not to choose any of them. You must choose the very last one, which will be lean and weak-looking. That is the horse which can endure hardships, and which will be able to carry you to the princess's palace." Juan followed the advice of the old woman, when the time came, and chose the thin horse. He mounted on its back, and rode on towards the mountain of Doña Maria. When he had ridden very far, he saw before him a hill full of ants. He was afraid to try to pass over this hill, lest the ants should devour him and his animal. The horse said to him, "You must ask the handkerchief for food, and we will feed the ants." Juan spread out the handkerchief, and asked it to bring him much food. After he had scattered it on the ground for the ants, the leader of the ants approached Juan, and said, "Since you have been very kind to us, I will give you one of my legs; and at any time you want aid from us, you must burn the leg, and let the ashes be carried by the wind. Then we will come to help you." When Juan had again gone a long distance from the hill, he saw the sky full of birds flying around and looking for food. Again the horse told Juan to ask for food from the handkerchief; so that they might feed the birds, and not be killed by them and eaten. Juan did so, and gave the birds all they wanted to eat. Then the king of the birds, the eagle, flew up to Juan, and said, "To repay you for your kindness, I will give you some feathers from my wings. Any time you want aid from us, just burn some of the feathers, and let the ashes be carried by the wind. Then we will come to you." Juan thanked the bird, and put the feathers in his pocket where he kept the leg of the ant. Then he continued his journey. When they came near the palace of Doña Maria, the horse told Juan to hide, and said that he alone would enter her garden; but before he should hide, Juan should ask his handkerchief for a complete equipment of saddle and bridle, so that the horse could be mounted by a lady. Juan did so, hid himself, and the horse wandered into the garden of Doña Maria. When the princess saw the horse, she became very angry, and said, "Who is the one who is so bold as to let his horse enter my garden?" She looked all about, but could see no one: so she said to herself, "I will mount this horse and find out who its owner is." She mounted the horse, which immediately ran to the place where Juan was hiding, and told him to get up on its back. Then the horse carried them swiftly back to the small house of Juan. When he reached home, Juan sent word to the king that the princess Doña Maria was in his home. The king, accompanied by all his retinue, went in great state to Juan's house, made over to him one-half of his dominion, and took Doña Maria back to his palace. Now, Doña Maria was very beautiful, and the king fell deeply in love with her. When he was alone with her in the palace, he began to court her. He asked her to be his wife; but Doña Maria said, "Only the one who can do what I wish him to do shall be my husband. I will mix one hundred cavans of husked rice with one hundred cavans of unhusked rice (palay). He who in one night can separate the two kinds of rice, and also bring my palace here to your kingdom, shall be married to me." The king said that no one could accomplish those things; but Doña Maria told him that there was one who could accomplish the tasks, and that was Juan. The king then sent for Juan, and said to him, "Juan, here are one hundred cavans of husked rice mixed with one hundred cavans of unhusked rice. To-night you must separate the grain into two piles, and also transport the palace of Doña Maria to my kingdom. If you have not done both by to-morrow morning, you shall lose your head." Juan went away very sad toward the mountain. As he was walking along, he met the thin horse which had helped him before. The horse said to him, "Why are you so sad, Juan?" Juan told the horse what the king had ordered him to do. Then the horse said, "Don't be sad, Juan! you can accomplish both those difficult tasks. Don't you remember the leg of the ant and the feathers of the eagle which were given to you, and the promise of the ant and eagle?" So Juan took the ant's leg and the feathers from his pocket, burned them, and threw the ashes into the air. In a short time thousands of birds and ants came to him and asked him what he wanted. Then Juan said, "I want the palace of Doña Maria brought here before daybreak, and the two hundred cavans of mixed rice separated." When they heard Juan's order, the birds flew to the mountain to get the palace, and the ants hastened to the king's grounds to separate the unhusked from the husked rice. By morning both tasks were completed: so Juan was married to Doña Maria, for she would have no other husband. Notes. Although this story is clearly derived from the Tagalog romance of the "Life of King Asuero," nevertheless it is also told as a folk-tale, and for that reason I have included it in this collection. As has been intimated already so many times, it is often hard to draw the line between folk-tales and literary tales, especially when the latter are widely told and read. Since our object in this collection is to present to Occidental readers a comprehensive account of what is in Philippine popular literature, it has seemed unwise to exclude this story. The full title of the romance is "The Story and Life of King Asuero, Doña Maria, and Juan the Poor, in the City of Jerusalem." My copy is dated 1905; Retana (No. 4192) mentions an edition between the years 1860 and 1898. In outline the folk-tale differs little from the romance, hence it is unnecessary to give a detailed summary of the printed version. The more important variations might be noted, however. The romance opens thus:-- Once there lived an old man whose name was Asuero. He was the king of Jerusalem. One night he dreamed that he should be dethroned, and that a poor young countryman would take his place. He awoke and became sad and thoughtful. Unable to go to sleep again, he climbed a tower of his palace, and began to look around with a spy-glass. When he directed his gaze toward a mountain-region beyond the Nile (!), he saw an enchantress who was looking out of her window. She was Doña Maria. He was charmed by her beauty, and became restless. At length he resolved to relate to his council of chiefs what he had seen, and to ask their advice. Many suggestions were made, and many objections. Since the king could not be deterred from his purpose of attempting to get possession of Doña Maria, his chief counsellor proposed an assembly of all the people of the kingdom, where the king's desire might be made known. At the assembly the king promised money to any one who dared to undertake the adventure, and his appointment as chief counsellor if he were successful. The folk-tale and the romance are practically identical, except that the romance is more detailed, up to the point where the horse leaves Juan to go to entice Doña Maria from her palace and get her in its power. The horse told Juan that it would go with the golden bit and saddle and get Doña Maria, while Juan should hide in a bush near by until they should come back. The horse also told Juan that when it passed by the bush, he should seize its tail and hold on tight. Then the horse left, and after a time came to the garden of Doña Maria. When the maiden saw the animal, she became angry at its owner for letting it into her garden. After looking about for the rider in vain, she claimed the horse, and was about to mount it when the animal spoke to her, and told her to put on a better dress, one which would be more appropriate for the golden saddle. When she returned, she had on a magnificent gown, and wore a magic ring. The horse told her that it had been sent by God to be her faithful steed, and then suggested that she visit the abode of the eagles. She was very anxious to see this wonderful place, and agreed to be taken there. Before they set out, the horse asked her for her magic ring, saying that he would carry it safely for her in his mouth. She surrendered the ring, and the horse carried her to the place where Juan was concealed. Juan seized the tail of the horse, and the animal flew into the air and alighted beyond the sea. Here, by the magic power of the handkerchief, Juan produced food, a table, and two chairs at the request of the horse. Six maids served them. The horse now gave Juan the ring of Doña Maria; and as long as he kept this, he was sure of keeping the maiden. After eating, Doña Maria asked Juan why she had been brought there; but Juan, following the advice of the horse, made no reply. She flattered him and tried to get him to sleep, but he paid no attention to her. At length the horse told them that they must resume their journey. The horse travelled rapidly, and soon reached the royal palace; but the gates were closed, for it was then about midnight. So the riders decided to spend the rest of the night at Juan's house. There the old mother received them all gladly. When the saddle and bit had been taken from the horse, the animal said that it would return the following morning and carry Juan to the palace. It further warned Juan not to sleep if he valued his life .... The romance closes with the inevitable war with the Moors, and the rescue of the kingdom from the hands of the Pagans by the invincible Juan. The exact source of this romance I am unable to point to; but without question it is Occidental, I believe. TALE 47 THE FATE OF AN ENVIOUS WOMAN. Narrated by Vicente M. Hilario, a Tagalog from Batangas, Batangas. He was told the story by his gardener. There lived once upon a time a young couple of the middle class. The man was a reckless scapegrace and spendthrift; but the woman was a pious, faithful, and virtuous housewife. Juan was the husband's name; Maria, the wife's. One of the worst things about Juan was that he spent on another woman the greater part of the money which Maria could with difficulty scrape together. This other woman's name was Flora. It is true that she surpassed Maria in personal charm, but in real worth Flora was greatly Maria's inferior. Hence we should not wonder at the fact that Maria soon grew distasteful to her husband, and that after a year of married life he should seek to be entertained by a more beautiful woman. He spent most of his time in listless indolence by the side of Flora, returning home only to get his meals, which Maria prepared with the greatest care. But her efforts were all to no purpose. In vain did Maria array herself in her best clothes, and scent herself with the most delicate perfumes: her face remained pitted with small-pox scars, as before. Years came and passed, and Juan became more and more harsh to his wife. At last Maria sought the aid of St. Vicente Ferrer. She knelt before the image, and asked the saint to rescue her husband from the pit into which he had fallen. Her prayers were soon answered. The image became animated. It touched her face several times, and in a few seconds Maria was converted into an extraordinary beauty. Her once rough skin was now smooth and velvety. She then went to the window to await her husband's return. When he arrived an hour later, he was at first unwilling to come up into the house, for he did not believe that the beautiful woman was his wife; but at last she disclosed her true self to him. A great change now came over Juan. The once despised wife now began to enjoy the caresses of her husband, who pressed her close to his heart. Days elapsed, and Flora began to get uneasy at her home. She wondered why Juan did not come to see her. At length she went to his house. After asking Maria how she had acquired her beauty, Flora decided to try her fortune also. She too knelt before the image of St. Vicente Ferrer. But, alas! instead of becoming as white and as beautiful as the women of a Turkish harem, she became as black and as ugly as the mistress of a Kaffir household. Her once delicate lips became thick and coarse, and her nose became as long as a monkey's tail. Filled with shame at her appearance, and with a consciousness of her own guilt, she went home, where she pined away and died. The once homely Maria, whose home had rung with laughter by the taunt and ridicule of those who made fun of her ugliness, [94] now graced her house with sweet smiles and engaging features, which drew scores of visitors to her home. Juan confessed his sins, and underwent penance for his wickedness; and the two lived together in peace and happiness the rest of their lives. Notes. A Visayan variant, "The Two Wives and the Witch," may be found in JAFL 19 : 105. In the southern version "Juan puts away his first, plain-looking wife, and takes another, handsomer one. The first wife, weeping by a well, is transformed by a witch into a beautiful woman. She wins her husband's affections back again. The second wife, deserted in turn, weeps by the well, and is transformed by the witch into such a hideous old hag, that, when she looks at herself in the glass and sees her ugliness, she refuses to eat, and in a few days dies." In a broad way this story and ours belong to the "Toads and Diamonds" group (see Grimm, No. 13 ["The Three Little Men in the Wood"] and No. 24 ["Mother Holle"]; and Bolte-Polívka's notes to the two stories). In these groups, however, the two young women are sisters,--one bad, and the other good. About all there is in common between the norm of the "Toads and Diamonds" cycle and our tales is the situation of the plain-looking but faithful, unselfish, good-hearted woman being granted by some supernatural creature wealth and beauty; while the handsome but selfish and wicked woman, envious of her rival's good luck, becomes loathsome and miserable when she asks a boon from the same supernatural source. The only other member of this group that narrates the story of two wives instead of two sisters is Lal Behari Day's No. 22. This Bengal tale, it appears to me, is related both to our stories and to those of the "Mother Holle" group, thus linking ours with the latter also. Following is Cosquin's summary of Day's story (2 : 123):-- A man had two wives,--one young, and one old. The latter was treated by the other as if she were a slave. One day her rival, in a fit of anger, snatched from the old woman's head the one tuft of hair she had, and drove her from the door. The old woman went into the forest. Passing by a cotton-tree, she saw that the ground round about the tree needed sweeping, and she swept it. The tree, much pleased, showered its blessings on her. She did the same thing for other trees--a banana and a tulasi--and also for a bull, whose stall she swept out. All blessed her. She arrived next at the hut of a venerable mouni (a kind of ascetic), and she told him of her misery. The mouni told her to go plunge herself once, but only once, in a certain pool. She obeyed, and came up out of the water with the most beautiful hair in the world, and altogether rejuvenated. The mouni next told her to enter his hut and to select from among many willow baskets that which pleased her. The woman took one very simple in appearance. The mouni bade her open it: it was filled with gold and precious stones, and was never empty. On her way back home she passed in front of the tulasi. The tree said to her, "Go home in peace! your husband will love you to madness." Next the bull gave her some shell ornaments which were about its horns, and told her to place them on her wrists: if she would but shake them, she would have all the ornaments she could wish. The banana-tree gave her one of its large leaves, which filled itself of its own accord with excellent dishes. And, last of all, the cotton-tree gave her one of its branches, which would give her, if she shook it, every kind of beautiful garment. When she returned to the house, the other wife could hardly believe her eyes. Having learned of the old woman's adventures, she too went into the forest: but she passed by the trees and the bull without stopping. And instead of dipping herself only once in the pool, as the mouni told her to do, she plunged in a second time, hoping to become even more beautiful; and so she came out of the water as ugly as before. The mouni did not give her any present, either; and thenceforth, disdained by her husband, she finished her life as a servant in his house. It is unsafe to attempt to trace a story with only three examples as data: but it appears to me not unreasonable to suppose that our Tagalog story is a refined, pious, Christianized modernization of the Visayan form represented by "The Two Wives and the Witch;" and that the Visayan form, in turn, goes back to some Indian or Malayan moral tale of two wives, rivals for the affection of their husband. The Bengali tale can hardly be the direct source of our Visayan form, but it appears to be fairly closely related to that source. TALE 48 THE MONKEY AND JUAN PUSONG TAMBI-TAMBI. Narrated by Encarnacion Gonzaga, a Visayan from Jaro, Iloilo. She says that she has often heard this story; that it was very popular among the "inhabitants of yesterday;" and that even now many are fond of it. Tiring-tirang was a barrio in the town of Tang-tang, situated at the foot of a hill which was called "La Campana" because of its shape. Around the hill, about a mile from the barrio, flowed the Malogo River, in which the people of the town used to bathe. It so happened that one time an epidemic broke out in the community, killing off all the inhabitants except one couple. This couple had an only son named Juan Pusong Tambi-tambi. When Juan had reached his twelfth year, his father died: consequently the boy had to go to work to earn money for the support of himself and his mother. At first Juan followed the occupation of his father, that of fisherman; but, seeing that he made little money from this, he decided to become a farmer. His mother had now reached the age of seventy (!), and was often sick. Juan frequently had to neglect his farm in order to take care of her. One day Juan went to Pit-pit to buy medicine for his mother. On his way to the town he saw a flock of crows eating up his corn. He paid no attention to the birds; but on his way back, when he saw these same birds still eating his corn, he became angry. He picked up a stone about the size of his fist, and crept into a bush near by. He had hardly hidden himself when the birds heard a rustling, and began to fly off. Juan jumped up, and hurled his stone with such accuracy and force that one of the crows fell dead to the ground. He tied the dead crow to a bamboo pole, and planted it in the middle of his cornfield. No sooner was he out of sight than the crows flew back to the field again; but when they saw their dead companion, they flew off, and never troubled Juan again. For six months Juan had no trouble from birds. He did not know, however, that not far from his field there was a monkey (chongo) living in a large tree. This monkey used to come to his field every day and steal two or three ears of corn. One day, as Juan was walking across his field, he saw many dead cornstalks. He said to himself, "I wonder who it is that comes here and steals my corn! I am no longer troubled by birds; and yet I find here many husks." He went home and made an image of a crooked old man like himself. This he covered with sticky wax. He placed it in the middle of the field. The next morning, when the sun was shining very brightly, the monkey felt hungry, so he ran towards the field to steal some corn to eat. There he saw the statue. Thinking that it was Juan, he decided to ask permission before he took any corn. "Good-morning, Juan!" said the monkey in a courteous tone; but the image made no reply. "You are too proud to bend your neck, Juan," continued the monkey. "I have only come to ask you for three or four ears of corn. I have not eaten since yesterday, you know; and if you deny me this request, I shall die before morning." The waxen statue still stood motionless. "Do you hear me, Juan?" said the monkey impatiently. Still the statue made no reply. "Since you are too proud to answer me, I will soon give you some presents. Look out!" he cried, and with his right paw he slapped the statue which he thought was Juan; but his paw stuck to the wax, and he could not get free. "Let my hand loose!" the monkey shouted, "or you will get another present." Then he slapped the statue with his left paw, and, as before, stuck fast. "You are foolish, Juan. If you do not let me go this very moment, I'll kick you." He did so, first with one foot, and then with the other. At last he could no longer move, and he began to curse the statue. Juan, who had been hiding in a bush near by, now presented himself, and said to the monkey, "Now I have caught you, you thief!" He would have killed the monkey at once, had not the monkey begged for mercy, and promised that he would at some future time repay him for his kindness if he would only spare his life. So Juan set the monkey free. It was now the month of April. The monkey, impatient to fulfil his word to Juan, went one day to the field, and there he found Juan hard at work. "Good-morning, Master Juan!" he cried. "I see that you are busy." "Busy indeed!" replied Juan. "Master Juan, do you want to marry the king's daughter? If you do, I'll arrange everything for you," said the monkey. Juan replied, "Yes," little thinking that what the monkey promised could be true. The monkey scampered off towards the market. When he entered the market, he saw a boy counting his money. The monkey pretended to be looking in the other direction, but walked towards the boy. When he saw that the money was fairly within his reach, he seized it and ran back to Juan. After telling his master what he had done, the monkey went to the king's palace, and said, "Sir, my master, Juan, wants to borrow your ganta, for he desires to measure his money." The king gave him the ganta. In three days the monkey appeared at the palace again to return the measure, in the bottom of which he stuck three centavos. "My master, Juan, thanks you for your kindness," said the monkey. The monkey was about to leave the room when the king perceived the three centavos sticking to the bottom of the measure. "Here, monkey, here are your three cents!" said the king. "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!" answered the monkey, laughing, "my master cares not for three cents. He has too much money. He is very, very rich." The king was much surprised to hear that there was a man richer than himself. Two weeks later the monkey returned to the palace again, and said, "Pray, king, my master, Juan, desires to borrow your ganta again. He wants to finish measuring his money." The king was filled with curiosity; and he said, "I'll let you borrow the ganta, monkey, but you must tell me first who is this Juan whom you call your master." "My master, Juan," replied the monkey, "is the richest man in the world." Before giving the measure to the monkey, the king went to his room and stuck four pieces of gold on the four corners of the ganta. "I'll find out who is the richer, Juan or I," he said to himself. The monkey took the measure, and left the hall with a polite bow. As he was walking towards Juan's farm, the monkey noticed the four pieces of gold sticking to the corners of the ganta. He knew that they had been artfully placed there by the king himself. Two weeks later he went back to the palace to return the measure, not forgetting to stick a gold dollar on each corner. "Good-afternoon, king!" said he, "my master, Juan, returns you your ganta with a thousand thanks." "Very well," replied the king; "but tell me all about this master of yours who measures his money. I am a king; still I only count my money." The monkey remained silent. Not receiving a prompt reply, the king turned to Cabal, one of his lords, and said in a whisper, "Do you know who this Juan is who measures his money?" "I have not heard of him," replied the lord, "except from this monkey and yourself." The king then turned to the monkey, and said, "Monkey, if you don't tell me who your master is, where he lives, and all about him, I'll hang you." Doubtless the king was jealous of Juan because of his great wealth. Fearing that he would lose his life, the monkey said to the king, "My master, Juan, the richest and best man in the world, lives in the town of XYZ. He goes to church every morning wearing his striped (tambi-tambi) clothes. This is why he is known among his people as Juan Pusong Tambi-tambi. If you will just look out of your window to-morrow morning, you will see him pass by your garden." The king's anger was appeased by this explanation. Early the next morning he was at his window, anxious to get a glimpse of Juan. He had not been there long when his attention was attracted by the appearance of a crooked man dressed in striped clothes. "This must be the man whom the monkey described to me yesterday," he said to himself. Soon his servant entered the room, and said, "The monkey desires to see you." The king left the window and went to where the monkey was waiting for him. As soon as the monkey saw the king, he bowed politely, and said, "My master, Juan, sends me to tell you frankly that he loves your daughter, and that, if it pleases you, he will marry her." At first the king was angry to hear these words; but, being very desirous to get more money, he at last consented without even asking his daughter. "If my master does not call on you to-day, he will surely come to-morrow." So saying, the monkey left the palace, and ran about town, trying to think of some way he might escape the great danger he was in. It so happened that an old man who was carrying a bundle of clothes to his son in the mountains passed along the same road where the monkey was. The sun was very hot, so the old man decided to rest under a leafy tree. No sooner was he seated there than the cunning monkey climbed the tree, and shook the branches with such force that twigs and fruits fell all around the old man. Panic-stricken, he ran away as fast as his feet would carry him, leaving everything behind him. When the man was out of sight, the monkey climbed down the tree, picked up the bundle of clothes, and carried it to Juan. "To-morrow, Juan," said the monkey, "you will marry the princess. I'll arrange everything for you if you will only follow my advice." Half doubting and half believing, Juan asked the monkey if he really meant what he said. "What do you think of me?" asked the monkey. Without waiting for a reply from Juan, the monkey left the hut, and ran towards the home of the Burincantadas who lived on the summit of the hill. As soon as he entered the gate, he began to scoop up the ground as fast as he could. The Burincantadas, who at that very moment were looking out of the window, saw the monkey. They rushed downstairs, and, half frightened, said to him, "What are you trying to do?" "Why, our king has been defeated in the war. The enemies have already taken possession of the crown. The princess is dead, and it is said that everybody will be killed before tomorrow noon," replied the monkey, his teeth chattering. "I am resolved to hide myself under the ground to save my life." The three Burincantadas seized him by the arm, and said, "For mercy's sake, have pity on us! Tell us where we can hide!" They were already trembling with fear. "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! let me loose! The enemy are coming!" On hearing these words, the Burincantadas all shouted at once, "Tell us where to hide!" "If you will not let me scoop out a hole here, I'll jump into the well," said the monkey in a hoarse voice. As soon as the Burincantadas heard the word "well," they all ran as fast as they could, following the monkey. "Let me jump first!" said the monkey. "No, let us jump first!" shouted the Burincantadas; and so they did. The monkey made a motion as if he were going to follow; but, instead, he lifted up the biggest stone he could find and threw it down the well. "They are dead," he said to himself, laughing. "Ah, I have caught you! Ha, ha!" The Burincantadas now being dead, the monkey was at leisure to decide what to do next. He entered their palace, and there he found everything magnificent. "This is the very place where my master shall live!" He opened the first room, but there he found nothing but bones. He closed the door and opened the second, where he found many prisoners who were waiting to be eaten. He set them all free, and told them to clean up the palace at once. The prisoners set to work, not forgetting to thank the monkey for his kindness. Before he left the palace, he addressed the crowd as follows: "My brothers and sisters, if any one comes and asks you who your master is, tell him that he is Don Juan Pusong Tambi-tambi." Then he left the crowd of people busy cleaning the palace, and went to the farm, where he found thousands of horses, cows, and sheep. "My master is indeed rich," he said to himself. He called the shepherd who was lying under the tree, and said to him, "Tell your other companions that, if any one comes and asks whose animals these are, they must answer that they all belong to Don Juan Pusong. Don Juan is your master now." After seeing that everything was in order, the monkey hastened to his master, who was still ploughing, and said, "Throw away your plough. Let's go to the king's palace, for to-night you will be married to the princess Doña Elena." Night came. The palace was splendidly adorned. The princess was sitting by her father, when Don Juan, dressed in his striped clothes and accompanied by the monkey, entered the gate of the palace. Soon the priest came, and the princess was called to the reception-hall. When she saw her bridegroom, she ran away in despair, and cried to her father, "Father, how dare you accept as my husband such a base, dirty, crooked man! Look at him! Why, he is the meanest of the mean." But the king replied, "He is rich. If you don't marry him, I'll punish you very severely." The princess had to obey her father; but, before giving her hand to Juan Pusong, she said, "O God! let me die." When the marriage ceremony was over, the king called the monkey, and asked, "Where is the couple going to live?" "In Don Juan's palace," was the reply of the monkey. The king immediately ordered carriages to be gotten ready. Then they started on their journey. Four hours passed, and still no palace was to be seen. The king became impatient, and said to the monkey, "Monkey, if what you have said to me is not true, your head shall answer for your lie." Hardly had he said these words when he beheld before him a number of men watching a herd of cattle. "I wonder who owns these, monkey!" said the king. The monkey made some signs, and soon three shepherds came running up to them. "Good-evening, king!" they said. "Good-evening!" replied the king. "Whose cattle are these?" "They are all owned by Don Juan Pusong," said the shepherds. The king nodded, and said to himself, "He is truly rich." The palace was now in sight. The king could hardly express his joy on seeing such a magnificent building. "Why, it is not a palace; it is heaven itself," he said. They were now upstairs. The king, on seeing still more beauties, said, "I confess, I am not the richest man on earth." Soon he died of joy, and his body was placed in a golden coffin and buried in the church. The couple inherited his dominion; but Queen Elena could not endure her ugly husband, and two weeks later she died broken-hearted. So Juan was left as sole ruler of two kingdoms. The monkey became his chief minister. This story shows that a compassionate man oftentimes gets his reward. Andres the Trapper. Narrated by Domingo Perez of San Carlos, Pangasinan, who heard the story from his grandfather, now dead. The story is popular among the Pangasinanes. Once upon a time there lived in a village a poor widow who had an only son named Andres. They lived in a small hut situated near the Patacbo forest. When Andres was between twelve and thirteen years old, his mother died. From now on he lived alone in his mean little hut, where he had to cook his own food and wash his clothes. One morning some boys invited Andres to go to the woods with them to trap. When they got to the forest, his companions set their traps in the places where the wild chickens used to feed. Then they went home. In the afternoon they returned to the woods, where they found that each trap had caught a wild cock. Now Andres became envious of his companions: so when he reached home, he took his knife and made two traps of his own. After he had finished them, he ran to the forest and set them. Early the next morning he went to the woods to see if he had caught anything. There he found two wild cocks snared. He took them home, sold one, and ate the other for his dinner. When he had finished eating, he made many traps, which he set up that afternoon. From now on he made his living by trapping, often catching as many as fifteen birds in a day. From the money he earned he was able to feed himself and buy clothes. One day, after Andres had been a trapper for many years, he went to the forest, as usual, to see what he had caught. He found that his traps had been moved, and that in one of them was a big monkey caught by the leg. As Andres was about to kill the monkey with a big stick which he picked up, the animal said to him, "My dear Andres, don't harm me! and I will be your helper by and by." Andres was much astonished to hear the monkey talk. He was moved to pity, and set the animal free. When he started toward his home, the monkey followed him. From now on they lived together. Soon the monkey learned how to sell wild chickens in the market. Now, in that town there lived a very rich man by the name of Toribio, who had a daughter named Aning. The people considered Aning the most beautiful lady in the province. However, none of the young men of the town courted Aning, for they felt unworthy and ashamed to woo the richest and most beautiful girl. One fine day the monkey went to town and sold wild chickens, as usual. On his way home he stopped at Don Toribio's house. Don Toribio asked what he wanted, and the monkey said that his master had sent him to borrow their money-measure. "Who is your master?" said Don Toribio. "Don't you know? Don Andres, a very rich, handsome young gentleman who lives in the valley of Obong," said the monkey. Don Toribio at once lent the ganta-measure to the monkey, who thanked him and hurried home. Before he returned it to the owner the next morning, he put a peso, a fifty-centavo piece, a peseta, and a media-peseta in the cracks of the measure. When the monkey handed the ganta back to Don Toribio, the man said, "Why do you return it? Has your master finished measuring his money?" "No, sir!" said the monkey, "we have not finished; but this box is too small, and it takes us too long to measure with it." "Well," said Don Toribio, "we have a bigger one than that; do you want to borrow it?" "Yes, I do, if you will let me keep it till to-morrow," said the monkey. Don Toribio then brought a cavan, which equals about twenty-five gantas. When the monkey reached home carrying the large measure, Andres said to him, "Where did you get that box?" The monkey said that it had been lent to him by the richest man in the town. "What did you tell the man that you were going to do with it?" said Andres. "I told him that you wanted to count your money," said the monkey. "Ah, me!" said Andres, "what money are you going to count? Don't you know that we are very poor?" "Let me manage things, Andres," said the monkey, "and I promise you that you shall marry the beautiful daughter of the rich man." The following day Andres caught many wild chickens. When the monkey had sold them all in the market, he went back to their hut, and took the cavan which he had borrowed. Before returning it to Don Toribio, he stuck money in the cracks, as he had done to the first measure. "Good-morning, Don Toribio!" said the monkey. Don Toribio was sitting in a chair by the door of his house. "Good-morning, monkey! How do you do?" replied the rich man. "Have you come to return the box?" "Yes, sir!" said the monkey, "we have finished. My master sends his thanks to you." When Don Toribio took the box and saw the money inside, he told the monkey about it; but the monkey said, "Never mind! we have plenty more in our house." "I am the richest man in town, yet I cannot throw money away like the master of this fellow," said Don Toribio to himself. "Perhaps he is even richer than I am." When the monkey was about to take his leave, the rich man told him to tell his master to come there on the third day. The monkey said that he would, and thanked Don Toribio for the invitation. On his way home, the monkey stopped at the market to buy a pair of shoes, some ready-made clothes, and a hat for Andres. He took these things home to his master, and in three days had taught Andres how to walk easily with shoes on, how to speak elegantly, how to eat with a spoon and fork and knife, and how to tell Don Toribio that he wanted to marry his daughter. When the time came, Andres and the monkey set out for the town. They were welcomed by Don Toribio and his daughter Aning. After a short talk, Andres spoke of his purpose in coming there. He said that he wanted to marry Don Toribio's daughter. Don Toribio gladly accepted the offer, and said that the wedding would be held the next morning. Hasty preparations were made for the ceremony. In the morning a priest came, and Andres and Aning were married. Many guests were present, and everybody had a good time. A few years later Don Toribio died, and Andres inherited all his wealth. He then became a very rich man. Notes. Two other Philippine variants of the "Puss in Boots" cycle have been printed,--one Visayan, "Masoy and the Ape" (JAFL 20 : 311-314); and the other Tagalog, "Juan and the Monkey" (ibid., 108-109). It would thus appear, not only from the fact of its wide distribution, but also from the testimony of the recorders of the stories, that the tale is fairly well known and popular throughout the Archipelago. The most complete bibliography of this cycle is Bolte-Polívka's notes on Grimm, No. 33 (a), "Puss in Boots" (Anmerkungen, I : 325-334). See also Köhler's notes to Gonzenbach, No. 65, "Vom Conte Piro" (2 : 242 f.); Macculloch, ch. VIII (p. 225 f.); W. R. S. Ralston in the "Nineteenth Century" (13 [1883] : 88-104). The oldest known version of the story is Straparola's (XI, i), which is translated in full by Crane (pp. 348-350). The second oldest is also Italian, by Basile (2 : iv); the third, French, Perrault's "Le Chat Botté." In all three the helpful animal is a cat, as it is without exception in the German, Scandinavian, English, and French forms. In the Italian the animal is usually a cat, though the fox takes its place in a number of Sicilian tales. In the Greek, Roumanian, Bulgarian, Serbian, Russian, and in general all East European forms, the helpful animal is regularly the fox, as it is also in the examples collected from Siberia, Kurdestan, Daghestan, and Mongolia. In the four Indian variants known, the animal is a jackal; in the four from the Philippines, a monkey. In a Swahili tale (Steere, p. 13) it is a gazelle. It is not hard to see how, through a process of transmission, jackal, fox, and cat might become interchanged; but where the Philippine monkey, consistently used in all versions, came from, is more difficult to explain; so the Swahili gazelle. I have, however, attempted an explanation below. An examination of the four members of the Philippine group reveals some striking family resemblances: (1) The motive of the monkey's gratitude is the same in all the stories: the thieving animal is caught in some sort of trap, and promises to serve the hero for life if he will only spare it. The animal is true to its word. (2) In all the stories occurs the incident of the borrowed measure returned with coins sticking to it. (3) In all the versions occurs the marriage of the poor hero with the chief's daughter, brought about by the ingenious monkey. (4) In three of the versions (all except the Pangasinan) we have as the final episode the destruction of a powerful witch or demon, and the winning of all its fortune by the monkey for the hero. In the Hindoo variants we find that the motive of the jackal's gratitude agrees with the motive in our versions. In other respects they differ (with the exception of the marriage, which is found in nearly all members of the "Puss in Boots" cycle): the Hindoo tales lack the incidents of the borrowed measure and the destruction of the demon. So far as the opening is concerned, then, our variants and the Indian belong to the same family. The separation, however, must have taken place ages ago; for in India the animal is consistently a jackal, and in the Philippines a monkey. The only other form that I know of in which the animal is a monkey is the Arabian, in the "1001 Nights," "Aboo Mohammed the Lazy;" but here the helpful ape later turns out to be a malicious demon, who treacherously abducts the hero's beautiful wife. At last, through the aid of a friendly jinnee, the hero recovers her, captures the ape, and encloses it forever in a bottle of brass. He then gains possession of all the demon's enormous wealth. It is difficult to see any immediate connection between the Arabian version and ours. Our two Visayan forms are of particular interest in that they make use of the "Tar Baby" device to catch the monkey. If Joseph Jacobs is correct in tracing this incident to the Buddhist birth-story, the "Pancavudha-jataka," No. 55 (see Indian Fairy Tales, pp. 305 ff.), the Philippines may easily have derived it directly from India along with other Buddhistic fables (e.g., "The Monkey and the Crocodile," No. 56, below). Indeed, Batten's ingenious explanation that the Brer Rabbit of Negro lore is a reminiscence of an incarnation of Buddha may be applied equally well to the monkey in our Visayan tales, for the monkey is a much more common form for the Bodhisatta than is the hare. In the five hundred and forty-seven Jatakas, Buddha is born as a hare only once; whereas in eleven separate stories he appears as a monkey,--oftener, indeed, than as any other animal (lion, ten times; stag, nine; elephant, seven). This same explanation (viz., that "Puss in Boots" is the Bodhisatta) would account for the gazelle (deer) in the Swahili tale. The extreme cleverness of the Bodhisatta in most of his animal manifestations might easily have suggested the "Puss in Boots" cycle. Another point worth noticing in connection with this theory is the consistent faithfulness of the animal. The ingratitude of the human hero, which is found even in some of the Occidental versions, and the gratitude of the animal, form a favorite Buddhistic contrast. Altogether it appears to me wholly reasonable to derive not only the "Tar Baby" incident, but also the whole "Puss in Boots" cycle, from Buddhistic lore. For the appearance of both in the Philippines we do not need to go to Europe as a source. The "Tar Baby" device to catch a thieving jackal is found in a Santal story, "The Jackal and the Chickens" (Bompas, No. CXII). See also two South African tales in Honeÿ,--"The Story of a Dam" (p. 73), and "Rabbit's Triumph" (p. 79). For other references, see Dähnhardt, 4 : 26-43 (ch. 2). There is a connection, however, between some of the Occidental versions and three of ours,--the incident of the destruction of the demon. This detail, as I have pointed out, is hinted at in the "1001 Nights" version. [95] In spite of the fact that it exists in a number of the oldest European literary forms of the story and is not found in modern Indian folk-tales, I believe that this incident is of Oriental origin. In Straparola it has been rationalized, so to speak. A significant version intermediary between the Orient and Occident in this respect, as well as geographically, is the Mongolian tale of "Boroltai Ku" (FLJ 4 : 32 f):-- This story has the Oriental opening: the animal is a fox, which the hero digs out of its hole and spares. Through its cleverness the fox brings about the marriage of Boroltai Ku, the man who spared its life, with the daughter of Gurbushtên Khan. After the wedding the khan sends the new couple back to their home, and with them an official attendant. On the return journey the fox runs on ahead, and requests every herdsman it meets to say, if he is asked whose cattle he is tending, "It is the cattle of Boroltai Ku, the rich khan." At last the fox comes to the tent of Khan Manguis, and groans. "What's the matter?" says the khan. "A storm is coming," says the fox. "That is a misfortune for me too," says the khan. "How so? You can order a hole ten fathoms deep to be dug, and can hide in it," says the fox. So done. Boroltai Ku and his party now appear, and he occupies the khan's tent as if it were his own. The fox assures the official attendant that the tent is Boroltai Ku's, but that it has one defect. "What is that?"--"Under the tent lives a demon. Won't you bring down lightning to slay him?" The attendant brings down lightning and slays Khan Manguis, who is sitting in the hole. Boroltai Ku becomes khan, and takes all the possessions, cattle, and people of Khan Manguis, and goes to live near his father-in-law. In this story, it will be noticed, the animal's ruse is the same as ours,--it persuades the rich khan (demons in ours) to hide himself in a pit. There he is subsequently killed. The borrowed measure returned with coins sticking to it has already been met with in No. 20 (c). The incident occurs elsewhere in Filipino drolls. It is curious to find it so consistently a part of the Filipino "Puss in Boots" stories. In conclusion may be noted the fact that in "Andres the Trapper" the monkey's solicitude over the appearance his master will make at the rich man's house has a parallel in the jackal's similar concern in the Santal story:-- Before the wedding-feast, the jackal gave Jogeswhar some hints as to his behavior. He warned him that three or four kinds of meats and vegetables would be handed round with the rice, and bade him to be sure to help himself from each dish; and when betel-nut was handed to him after the feast, he was not to take any until he had a handful of money given him; by such behavior he would lead every one to think he was really a prince.--BOMPAS, p. 175. In Dracott's story the human hero is a weaver also, as in the Santal. His last exploit has been borrowed from another Indian tale not connected with our group, "Valiant Vicky the Weaver" (Steel-Temple, p. 80; cf. Kingscote, No. IX). TALE 49 JUAN THE FOOL. This story was narrated by Remedios Mendoza of Manila, but the story itself comes from the Tagalog province of Bulakan. (NARRATOR'S NOTE.--This story was told to me by a student. He said that he first heard it in one of the informal gatherings which are very common in Bocawe, Bulakan, during the hot season. The young men often assemble at a little shop kept by a young woman, and there the story-teller of the barrio tells stories. This story of Juan was told at one of these gatherings by an old man about fifty years old.) Juan is twenty years old. At this age he begins to become famous in his little barrio. He is short in stature. His eyes are neither bright nor dull: they are very black, and slowly roll in their sockets. His mouth is narrow. He has a double chin, and a short flat nose. His forehead is broad, and his lips are thick. His hair is black and straight. His body is round like a pumpkin, and his legs are short. He seems to be always tired. In spite of all these physical peculiarities, however, he is invited to every bayluhan and katapusan, [96] because he is sure to bring with him laughter and merriment. Juan lives in a poor barrio, which consists of a few poor nipa huts. It has a small chapel of stone, with a turret and bells. In the courtyard in front of the chapel is erected a cross. A few nipa cottages are scattered along the lonely streets of the barrio. There is a rivulet just outside the village. Its course is hidden and lost in a thick forest which extends to the foot of a mountain. At the time the story opens Juan is eating his breakfast with his mother. She is an old widow, whose sole ambition is to establish Juan in a good social position. She is constantly advising her son, when there is any occasion to preach, to be on the lookout for a virtuous wife. She tells him that, since she is an old and experienced woman, he must follow her advice. Her advice is that a good wife is always quiet and tongue-tied, and does not go noisily about the house. As Juan is an obedient son, he soon determines to get him a good wife. After a short time Juan comes home to his mother, and says to her, "Mother, I have found the girl you will like,--the one who shall be my wife. She is speechless and motionless. Her eyes are staring in just one place. Though I have watched her closely for about twelve hours, I have not observed the slightest motion in her lips and eyelids. She remained quiet in her bed, although there were many noisy people in the house." "And is that all?" says his mother. "No, mother," says Juan, "her hands were very cold. She was deaf, and she did not answer me. This fact makes her all the lovelier, and I am sure you will like her. There is only one thing you did not tell me, however." "I think," says the mother, "that I advised you well." "Yes, I think so too," says Juan. "The girl had a stinking waxy-like odor." "O Juan!" exclaims his mother, "I already suspected from your long description that you followed my instructions too literally. The girl you found is a dead one. Now, remember: those who stink are dead." "Thanks, mother," says Juan quietly, "I will never forget that." A few days later, when Juan and his mother are eating their breakfast, Juan smells a stinking odor. He looks around the little room. As he does not see any one else there, he thinks that his mother is dead. Then, when his mother is taking her siesta, Juan says to himself, "Surely mother is dead." He goes out quietly and digs a grave for her. Then he buries her in it, and mourns for her nine days. Now Juan is alone in the world. One morning, when Juan is eating his breakfast by himself, he smells again a stinking odor. He looks around, and, as he does not see any one, he thinks that he himself is dead. There is nobody to bury him. So he goes to the river, takes five or six banana-trunks, and makes a raft of them. He lies down on the raft, and lets the current of the river carry him away. In three hours the current has carried him into the woods. While he is floating through the forest, all of a sudden he is called in a fierce voice by some one on shore. This man was the captain of a band of robbers. Juan does not stir in his place. The second shout is accompanied by a terrible oath. Juan opens his eyes. He sadly looks at the robbers, and tells them that he is a dead man. The robbers laugh; but when Juan insists on remaining on the river, the captain frightens Juan, and says that he will shoot if he does not get up. As Juan does not care for the taste of bullets, he goes to the bank of the river, still thinking that he is a walking dead body. Juan goes with the robbers into the woods. Their house is in a deserted spot. The captain appoints Juan their housekeeper. He tells him to cook rice, but orders him to keep very still and quiet, for they may be caught by the Spanish soldiers (cazadores). Then the robbers go out on an expedition, and Juan is left alone in the house. He shuts the windows, and everything is quiet and undisturbed. He even tries to control his breathing for fear of the noise it may make. He cautiously takes an earthen pot and puts rice and water into it. Then he places the pot on the fire, and sits down near it. Everything is silent. But suddenly a murmuring sound seems to come from the pot. (The water is beginning to boil.) Soon the sound seems to be very loud. Juan thinks that the pot is saying, "Buluk ka." This expression means, "You are decayed." So Juan gets very angry. He whispers to the pot to stop; but the pot does not seem to hear him, for the murmuring sound becomes louder and louder. At last Juan is so exasperated, that he takes a piece of bamboo-bellows (ihip) and gives the pot a fatal blow. This puts an end to the pot, the rice, and the flames. At noon the hungry robbers come home. They find Juan almost breathless in the darkest corner of the house, the pot broken, and the rice scattered over the floor. They ask Juan what is the matter. Juan says that the naughty pot was making too much noise, and was mocking him; and, as the captain bade him be careful about making a noise, he struck the pot and broke it into pieces. The captain cannot help smiling at Juan's foolishness, and he tells Juan to prepare a lunch with anything he can find in the house. The next day comes, and all the food is eaten. The captain gives Juan some money, and tells him to go to the market to buy some earthen pots and some crabs. When Juan reaches the barrio, he buys all the crabs he can find, and about two dozen large earthen pots. He next finds out that the pots are too bulky for him to carry, although they are not heavy. At last he thinks of a good way to carry them. He has the pots carried to one corner of the market, where he buys a long piece of rattan. He sharpens one end of the rattan and passes it through the bottoms of all the pots, so that they are now very easy to be carried. He slings them over his shoulder, and starts for home with the pots and the crabs. Soon he comes to a large, wide river with a very strong current. He sits down on the bank and wonders what is to be done. He remembers that crabs are good swimmers, so he decides to untie them and let them swim to the other side of the river. As he unties the crabs, he says, "Now, crabs, we have to cross this broad river. I know that you are good swimmers. I am a slow swimmer myself, and especially with these pots to carry. Please swim to the other side of the river as quickly as you can, for I cannot carry you. If you reach the other side before I do, you may go straight home, or wait for me." With this warning, he releases the crabs one by one so that they may go in a straight line. He is very glad to see them swim so fast. Then with the help of a piece of bamboo, and after a long struggle, he himself reaches the opposite shore. He looks around for the crabs; but, seeing none, he says to himself, "Perhaps they have become tired of waiting for me and have gone straight home, as I ordered them to do. What a surprise for the captain!" Juan is very glad at the decision of the crabs, and he sets out for the robbers' house, always hoping to overtake the rear of the long procession of crabs. He soon reaches home. He asks the robbers if the crabs have arrived. When Juan finds out that not one of the naughty crabs obeyed him, he blames himself for his quiet nature, and swears that he will never trust a crab again. The captain asks him about the pots. Juan tells him that they are all safe, and that the captain must thank him for his wit in solving the problem of how to carry two dozen large pots at the same time. All the robbers are eager to see what Juan's scheme was. When they find out what Juan has done, and see the holes in the bottom of all the pots, they cannot help laughing. The captain, however, addresses Juan with all the epithets found in a common slang dictionary. The captain now decides never to let Juan stay in the house alone, and from that time on takes him with them on their expeditions. Several days later the captain calls Juan one night, and tells him to get ready, for they are going to rob a certain house. They go through the forest, and soon come to a clearing, in the middle of which stands a large nipa house. While they are still in the thicket, the captain calls Juan to him, and says, "Juan, go into the silong [97] of the house, and see if the people are awake. Now, remember, if you feel something hot, it is a man; but if it is cold, it is a bolo. Do you understand?" Juan answers, "Yes," and obediently goes to the house, repeating to himself the orders of the captain. He cautiously goes under the house, and looks around. After a while something hot falls on his back. He quickly runs away, and begins to cry, "Tao, tao!" ("Man, man!") All the robbers get frightened, so they run away too. After a few minutes they come together. Seeing that they are not pursued, the captain calls Juan, and says to him, "Juan, why did you fool us? Nobody is pursuing us." "Well," says Juan, "I followed your orders. You said that if I felt something hot, it was a man; but if cold, it was a bolo. I went into the silong. I looked up. There was a faint light, and I saw a large mat outlined on the floor. As I was looking at it, a hot thing fell on my back. Then I ran away to warn you." "Let us see," says the captain impatiently, "what tao that is which has fallen on your back." One of the robbers lights a match. The robbers examine Juan's back, and they see only a little lizard clinging to his worn-out camisa (loose, thin cotton coat). [98] Some of the robbers get angry, and some laugh at Juan's foolishness. The captain tells Juan that he may go away, for he is not worth anything. He also tells Juan not to tell anybody that he has been with them, for, if he does, they will kill him. Juan leaves the band of robbers, and decides to live up in a tree, because he is all alone, he says. He takes a low bamboo table and goes up into a very large mango-tree. He chooses a well-hidden place, and there he ties his table firmly to the branches. He spends the day in the neighboring towns looking for food, but at night he comes back to the tree and sleeps there. Early one morning Juan wakes up and hears faint whispers. He looks down, and sees two men talking very earnestly together. One is carrying a bag of money. Juan loosens his table and lets it fall on the men. It makes a loud crash, and they run away. Juan quickly climbs down the tree and makes off with the bag of money. He now decides to live in town. After he has found a barrio that suits him, he buys a house, a carabao, and a cart. He lives peacefully in his new house. Sometimes he works; but he spends most of his time sleeping, for he is a very lazy fellow. One morning the capitan of the town sends a town crier around to announce an order to the people. The town crier says, "The capitan orders you all to sprinkle with water the street in front of your houses." Juan takes a small cocoanut-shell full of water, and goes out and sprinkles the street. In the afternoon the capitan of the town goes about the streets to see if the people have obeyed his orders. He sees that everybody has obeyed him except Juan. He goes to Juan's house, and asks him why he has not sprinkled the street; and Juan tells him what he has done. The capitan then tells him that he must use much water. As soon as the capitan has left, Juan begins to pour buckets of water on the street. But when the water all flows away, Juan thinks that his irrigation is not good enough: so he takes his cart and carabao, and with their help he digs a large ditch. All night long Juan works filling the ditch with water. The next morning, when the capitan sees the ditch, he becomes very angry, and summons Juan. Juan excuses himself by saying that the laws of the town are not stated clearly. So the capitan has to let Juan go. When Sunday comes, Juan goes to church. In the pulpit the priest tells the people to put a little cross on their street doors. When Juan goes home, he takes a piece of tinting (the rib of a cocoanut-leaf) and makes a little cross about two inches high. When the priest makes his rounds, he does not see the cross, for it is so small. He asks Juan where his cross is. Juan shows him; and the priest tells him to make a large one, for it is too small, and the evil spirits will not be able to see it. Juan takes his bolo and cuts two long pieces of bamboo. This time his cross is so large, that the priest cannot see it, either. The priest becomes so angry at Juan's stupidity, that he expels him from the town. Juan good-naturedly goes away. He sells his house, and with his cart and carabao he moves on to another town. He settles in a barrio where the soil is red. Here he lives several weeks, but he is always longing to go back to his old home. He finally says to himself that he is going there in spite of the anger of the priest. He fills his cart with red earth, and hitches his carabao to it. He sits in the middle of his cart, and slowly drives to the town where he had lived before. As he is driving down the main street in the afternoon, whom should he meet but the priest himself! The priest cries, "Juan, so you are here again! Didn't I tell you that you must never tread the soil of this town again? If you do not go away, I shall tell the capitan to imprison you." "Dear priest," says Juan humbly, "before you accuse me, use your eyes. I am not treading on your soil. This earth which I have in my cart is my own." The priest looks in the cart. By this time there are many people around them, and they too look in the cart. They laugh at Juan's wit. The priest wants to laugh too; but he controls himself, for he is afraid that the people will not respect him any more if he laughs. So he angrily threatens Juan, and tells him to leave the town instantly. Poor Juan has nothing to do but go. He sells his carabao and cart, and spends the money foolishly in the neighboring villages. Soon Juan is reduced to poverty again, so he decides to go back to his native town. There he finds everything changed: the houses are better, and the little chapel is prettier. He looks for relatives or friends, but he finds only his old grandmother, who lives by herself in the field. He goes to her and tells her the history of his family. The old woman recognizes him at last, and asks him if he is not the Juan who buried his mother. Juan answers, "Yes," but excuses himself by saying that he only obediently followed his mother's advice. Juan now stays with his grandmother. Her hut, which is very small, is surrounded by a small garden of vegetables. Juan does nothing but eat and sleep. He soon develops the bad habit of throwing things out of the window. His grandmother tells him that he must throw them far away. One morning the old woman does not find Juan, and he does not appear until midnight. She asks him where he has been, and he tells her that he went to the other side of the mountain to throw away a banana-skin which was left on his plate. She tells him that he does not need to go so far, that he can throw the banana-skins behind the fence. One day early in the morning the old woman leaves Juan in charge of the house, for she is going to town. She tells him to cook two small measures (chupas) of rice for her, for perhaps she will be very hungry when she gets home. Then she goes away quite happy, thinking that Juan understands her. As soon as she leaves, Juan thinks it is time to begin to cook. He is surprised to find only one measure in the earthen jar. He looks for the other one everywhere; but, as he cannot find it, he thinks his grandmother was mistaken when she told him to cook two measures of rice. So he takes his bolo, goes outside, cuts a piece of bamboo, and makes a wooden measure just like the other one. This takes him a long time; but when he has finished, he fills the two measures with dry rice, and puts them in the fire. While the measures are burning, the grandmother arrives. She calls Juan, and asks him if the rice is ready, for she is very hungry. Juan tells her that it is quite ready. The old woman sees that it is very bright in the house, and she fears that it is on fire. Juan says that it is the two measures burning. When the old woman sees what Juan has done, she becomes angry. However, she controls herself, and teaches Juan how to cook rice. Under the supervision of the old woman, Juan takes an earthen pot, cleans it, and puts rice into it. Then he puts water into the pot, and finally puts the pot on the fire. The old woman goes to rest, telling him to watch the rice. After a while she calls to Juan, and says, "Did you cover the pot [tinungtungan mo na ang paliok]?" [99] "No, I did not," says Juan. "Cover the pot, then [tungtungan mo]!" she cries. "That is impossible," says Juan. "Why impossible?" cries the old woman. "The rice will have a smoky taste if you don't." "All right," says Juan, getting up. He goes to the fireplace and thinks for a little while. Then he jumps up to the rafters of the ceiling, which are but two feet above his head. He goes just above the pot, adjusts his feet very well, and then lets himself fall. The pot is broken to pieces. The old woman wakes up at the noise of the crash, and says, "What is that, Juan? Is the rice cooked?" "Why do you ask me that?" says Juan impatiently. "You told me to step on the pot, and now you ask me if the rice is cooked!" She goes out to the kitchen; and when she sees her broken pot, the old woman becomes truly angry. She drives Juan from the house, telling him that he cannot live with her any more because he is too troublesome. Juan now goes off, and wanders from town to town. Sometimes he is obliged to work in order to get anything to eat. Finally he comes to a large town where the people wear shoes and carry umbrellas. He becomes enchanted with the shoes and umbrellas: so he works hard, and saves enough money to buy both. But he surprises every one who sees him; for he carries his shoes dangling at his belt, and his umbrella closed under his arm. Some of the more curious fellows follow after him. They see that, although it rains or the sun is very hot, Juan never opens his umbrella except when he sits to rest under a tree; and also that he never puts his shoes on when he is on dry land, but only when he is crossing a river. At last they ask him why he does such foolish things. Juan says, "Don't you know that there are many worms and loose branches in a tree? If, for example, a snake should fall down, well, it would hit my umbrella. As for the shoes, it is better for one to wear his shoes when he crosses a river, for there he cannot see the ground." The people leave him alone; but some persons think he is wise, and imitate his example. Juan goes on with his travels. At last he falls in love. He serves the girl's parents, and becomes their cook. He always keeps the best parts of the chicken for the girl and himself, and gives only the bones to the parents. They ask him why he gives them the worst parts. Juan replies, "I do that because you are our supporters. The bones, compared with a house, are the foundation and framework." The parents find Juan's reasoning so good, that they at once marry their daughter to him. After this Juan is a good and sensible fellow, and does not do foolish things any more. Notes. This long, loosely-constructed droll is not of any fixed length, according to the narrator; adventures are added or omitted at the caprice of the story-teller. It would be useless to attempt to parallel the tale as a whole, because of the very nature of its composition. The separate incidents, however, we may examine, pointing out analogues already in print, and citing others from my own manuscript collection. (1) "If it smells bad, it's dead." This joke is common among the Tagalogs and Pampangans, and forms the basis of many of their comical stories. As an example I will give the opening of a story entitled "Ricardo and his Adventures" narrated by Paulo Macasaet, a Tagalog from Batangas:-- Ricardo and his Adventures. Once there was a widow who had a son named Ricardo. One day the mother said to the boy, "Ricardo, I want you to go to school, so that you may learn something about our religion." Ricardo was willing enough, so he took his Catechism and set out. Instead of going to the school, however, he went to a neighboring pond and listened to the merry croaking of the frogs. When eleven o'clock came, he went home and told his mother about the real school. The poor woman was very happy, thinking that her son was spending his time wisely. Ricardo took great delight in joining the chorus of the frogs, for his mother gave him food as a reward for his diligence. One morning the woman asked her son to read his lesson. The boy opened his Catechism and croaked very loudly. His mother was glad when she heard that her son could croak so well, because she thought that that was the way to read the book. As Ricardo was playing with his schoolmates one day, he saw a dead cat. It smelled very bad, so he left the pond and went home. He said, "Mother, I saw a cat lying near our school. It had a very bad odor." The mother said, "My son, remember this: whenever a body smells bad, you may be sure that it is dead." Ricardo repeated the words of his mother many times to himself, and learned them by heart. One day, when he was on his way to the pond, Ricardo smelled something bad. He looked in every direction, but he could not find anybody. So he said, "Since I cannot find any dead body here, I must be the one who is dead." He lay down on the ground, and said, "Ricardo is dead! I cannot eat any more. O how unhappy I am!" While he was lying there, he saw a ripe guava above his head. He exclaimed, "Delicious fruit, you are very fortunate! If I were alive, I would eat you." He wished to get the fruit, but he dared not do so. After a while, when he could no longer smell the stink, he got up and went home, and told his mother his story. [As the rest of the story is not droll, and is in no way connected with our present tale, it may be given in abstract.] One day Ricardo learned from his mother how his father had been killed by a giant who had afterwards carried away his sister. The boy set out in search of the giant. An old man along the way, whom he treated kindly, gave him two bottles of magic water,--one that would make invulnerable the man who should drink it, another that would take away all the strength of him on whose head it should be poured. Later a leprous old woman to whom he gave some food presented him with a magic saddle that would carry him through the air. So equipped, he soon arrived at the cave of the giant. He succeeded in killing that seven-headed monster and in freeing his sister and many other prisoners. Ten barrels of money were found in the cave. Of these, Ricardo took two; the rest he gave to the prisoners he had freed. Later Ricardo married a beautiful woman named Lucia. (2) Destruction of the singing rice-pot. Another Tagalog form of this incident, likewise connected with Juan's experiences while cook for a band of robbers, was collected from Singalong, Manila. It was related by Crisanto H. Aragon, and runs as follows:-- Juan and the Robbers. Once there was a young man named Juan, who left his parents to seek his fortune. While he was wandering in the mountains, he reached the cave of some robbers. Juan decided to be a robber, and asked the chief to admit him. The chief accepted Juan. One night Juan was left alone in the cave, for his companions had gone to town to make a raid. Before leaving, the chief said, "Juan, you will stay here and take care of our property. If you hear a noise, take your bolo and kill whoever makes that noise, for he is our enemy. Cook some rice, so that when we return we may have something to eat." While Juan was cooking the rice, to his great surprise he heard a noise. Faithful to the command that had been laid upon him, Juan took his bolo and walked around the cave to see where the noise came from. When he reached the kitchen, he noticed that the noise was louder. After a careful observation, he concluded that it was coming from the rice-pot. "The enemies must be here," said Juan, pointing to the rice-pot; and, without a moment's hesitation or fear, Juan smashed the pot into a thousand pieces. The noise stopped at once, and Juan was satisfied. When the robbers came home and asked Juan for rice, he told them what had happened. The chief realized that the fault was his, so he only laughed at Juan; but, from that time on, Juan was never allowed to stay alone in the cave. One night the robbers decided to rob the captain of the Municipal Police in a town near by. When they reached the captain's house, they saw that it was empty: so they took everything they could find. Juan entered the captain's bedroom, but, instead of searching for valuables, he took the captain's uniform and put it on. Then Juan went out to join his companions. But as soon as the robbers saw the uniformed man, they thought it was the captain, and ran away as fast as their legs would carry them. Juan ran too, for he thought that the captain must be after them. The robbers were so frightened, that they separated; but Juan decided to follow the chief. Finally the chief became so tired, that he made up his mind to stop and fight his pursuer; but when Juan came up, the chief recognized him, and it was only then that both of them felt that they had gotten rid of the real captain. For a Santal story of a stupid hero joining a band of thieves, see A. Campbell, "Jhorea and Jhore," pp. 11-12; Bompas, p. 19. (3) Adventure with the crabs. Compare "The Adventures of Juan" (JAFL 20 : 106), in which Juan's mother sends her foolish son to town to buy meat to eat with the boiled rice. He buys a live crab, which he sets down in the road and tells to go to his mother to be cooked for dinner. The crab promises, but, as soon as Juan's back is turned, runs in another direction. Clearly our version of the incident is superior to this. (4) Juan as a thief. With this incident may be compared another Tagalog story, narrated by Adolfo Scheerer. It is entitled-- The Adventure of two Robbers. There were once two robbers, who, hearing of the trip that a certain family was about to make, decided to rob them during the night. They were encouraged in their purpose by the thought that everything in the house would be in a state of great confusion. During the night the two thieves climbed a tree which grew close by a window of this house. From this place they could easily observe what the people inside were doing. As they sat there waiting, they saw two servants packing something which seemed to be very heavy. They believed that the bundle contained much money, so they decided to steal it. In the dead of night one of the robbers went up into the house, took the bundle, and passed it to his companion below. When he joined the other, they took to their heels, carrying the bundle between them on their shoulders. When they had gone some way, the one in the rear began to get curious as to what they were carrying, so he cut an opening in the mat that was wrapped around the contents. To his great surprise, he noticed a human toe stick out; and he at once shouted, "Man, man, man!" The one in front took this shout as a warning that some one was chasing them, so he ran faster. The other only continued to shout, "Man, man!" but his companion paid no attention to him. Finally his foot caught in the root of a tree, and he fell down. When he understood the situation, the two villains left the bundle and ran away. (5) Frightening robbers under tree. This incident is widespread, and has made its way into many Märchen cycles. It is distinctly comic in its nature. For references to its occurrence, see Köhler-Bolte, 99 and 341 (sub "Herabwerfen der Thür"); Crane, 380, note 19; Cosquin, I : 243 f.; and especially Bolte-Polívka, I : 521-525 (on Grimm, No. 59), episode F. (6) Walking on his own soil. This trick of Juan's we have already met with in "King Tasio," No. 7 (b). (7) Cooking rice-measures. Juan's misunderstanding about cooking two measures of rice is almost exactly paralleled in a Santal story in Bompas, No. I. The story is entitled "Bajun and Jhore," and this is the first of a series of noodle-like incidents:-- Once upon a time there were two brothers named Bajun and Jhore. Bajun was married, and one day his wife fell ill of fever. So, as he was going ploughing, Bajun told Jhore to stay at home and cook the dinner, and he bade him put into the pot three measures of rice. Jhore staid at home, and filled the pot with water and put it on to boil; then he went to look for rice-measures. There was only one in the house; and Jhore thought, "My brother told me to put in three measures, and if I only put in one, I shall get into trouble." So he went to a neighbor's house and borrowed two more measures, and put them into the pot, and left them to boil. At noon Bajun came back from ploughing, and found Jhore stirring the pot, and asked him whether the rice was ready. Jhore made no answer: so Bajun took the spoon from him, saying, "Let me feel how it is getting on!" but when he stirred with the spoon, he heard a rattling noise; and when he looked into the pot, he found no rice, but only three wooden measures floating about. Then he turned and abused Jhore for his folly; but Jhore said, "You yourself told me to put in three measures, and I have done so." So Bajun had to set to work and cook the rice himself, and got his dinner very late. This ludicrous mistake suggests a not dissimilar droll of the Tinguian (Cole, 198, No. 86):-- A man went to the other town. When he got there, the people were eating bamboo sprouts (labon). He asked them what they ate, and they said pangaldanen (the bamboo ladder is called aldan). He went home and had nothing to eat but rice: so he cut his ladder into small pieces, and cooked all day, but the bamboo was still very hard. He could not wait longer, so he called his friends, and asked why he could not make it like the people had in the other town. Then his friends laughed and told him his mistake. For an almost identical Santal story, see Bompas, No. CXXIV, "The Fool and his Dinner." (8) The last two episodes--wearing of shoes only when crossing rivers and raising umbrella under tree, and the division of the fowl--we have discussed in the notes to No. 7 (see pp. 63-64, [9], [8]). Add to the bibliography given there, Bompas, No. CXXVIII, "The Father-in-law's Visit," which contains a close parallel to the first episode. In conclusion I will give two other Filipino noodle stories, which, while not variants of any of those given above, have the same combination of stupidity and success as that found in "Juan the Fool." The first is an Ilocano story narrated by Presentacion Bersamin of Bangued, Abra, and runs thus:-- Juan Sadut. Juan Sadut was a very lazy fellow. His mother was a poor old woman, who earned their living by husking rice. What she earned each day was hardly enough to last them until the next. When a boy, Juan was left at home to watch over their hens and chickens. One day, as his mother went to work, she told Juan to take care of the little chicks, lest a hawk should get them. Now, Juan had been told this so many times, that he had grown tired of watching chickens: consequently, when his mother went away, he tied all the chickens and hens together, and hung them on a tree. He did this, because he thought that no bird of prey could see them there. In the evening, when his mother came home, she asked if everything was all right. Juan said, "Nana, I tied all the hens and chickens by their legs, and hung them in that tree, so that they would be safe." The mother asked where they were. Juan showed them to her, but they were all dead. The mother was angry, and whipped Juan very severely. Time passed on, and Juan grew up to be a man; but he was as lazy as ever. He wanted to get married, but the girl he had picked out was the daughter of a rich man; and his mother told him that he was not a good match for the girl, for they were very poor, and, besides, he was too lazy to support a wife. Still Juan was determined to marry the girl, and he thought out a way to get her. One day Juan went to work in the fields, and earned a peseta. The next day he earned another. Then he said to his mother, "Nana, please go to the father of Ines Cannogan (for such was the name of the girl) and borrow their salup (a half cocoanut-shell used for measuring). The mother went, and Ines asked her who had sent for the salup. The mother told her that her son Juan was a merchant that had just arrived from a successful trip. So the salup was lent. When returning the measure, Juan put the two pesetas in the husk of the cocoanut-shell, and told his mother to take it back to Ines, pesetas and all. When Ines examined the salup, she found the pesetas, and told her father all about them. Not long afterwards Juan sent his mother again to borrow the measure. Again Juan returned it with money sticking in the husk of the shell. This he did several times, until at last Ines's father believed that Juan was very rich. Juan now had a chance to talk with Ines's father about his daughter, and of course the old man accepted his proposal immediately. So Juan and Ines were married. After their marriage, when the old man found out that his new son-in-law was not only very poor, but also very lazy, he repented of his rashness. However, he compelled both Juan and his wife to go work on his farm. Once, when Ines was taking her siesta, many wild cocks and hens came to eat the rice which she had put in the sun to dry. Juan was too lazy to get up and drive them away, so he took Ines's gold hairpin and threw it at the birds. When Ines awoke, she missed her hairpin. Juan told her what he had done with it. She scolded him so severely, that he felt hurt, and began to weep bitterly, for even his wife disliked him. The next day Juan went to look for the hairpin at the place where he had thrown it. To his great surprise, he found a bush with golden branches, and on one of them was the hairpin. Immediately he called his wife. They pulled up the bush, and discovered at its roots a jar full of gold and silver money. Now Ines was very proud of her husband's luck. They went to the town to tell their father of their good fortune. From now on, the old man no longer hated Juan, hut loved him, and gave him all his property to supervise. Thus Juan Sadut became a rich man without any effort. Fortune favors the lazy--sometimes. The other story comes from the other end of the Archipelago, from the province of Misamis. It was narrated by Antonio Cosin of Tagoloan, Misamis, and is a Visayan tale. As may easily be seen, it is distantly related to Grimm, No. 7, "A Good Bargain." For the "sale to animals" comic episode, see Grimm's notes; Clouston, "Book of Noodles," p. 148; and Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 60. For the "sale to statue" incident, which is analogous to our third episode below, see Clouston, ibid., p. 146; Crane, 379, note 12; Cosquin, 2 : 178. The story follows:-- Juan Loco. A great many years ago there lived a certain fool that went by the name of Juan Loco. He was the son of a butcher, in so far as the following experiences of his are concerned; he had many other experiences that are not recorded in this story. Juan could not be intrusted with anything, he was such a dunce; but one day he persuaded his father to let him go out and sell meat. So about eight in the morning Juan left home with about three pesos' worth of pork, full of many a hopeful expectation. After having wandered through many streets, he noticed that a big horse-fly was following him with an imploring murmur. Imagining that the fly wanted to buy meat, this sapient vender said to it, "Do you want to buy meat?" The fly answered with a "buzzzzz." For Juan this was a sufficient answer: so he left one-third of the pork with the fly, saying that he was coming back again for his pay. Next he met a hungry and greatly-abused pig, and he asked it if it wanted to buy meat. The pig merely said, "hack, hack," and gave a few angry nods, but Juan understood it to be saying, "Yes:" so he threw it one-half of the meat he had left, with the same warning as he gave the fly,--that he was coming back to collect the price of the meat. His third customer was himself, or his reflection. Warm, tired, and thirsty from his wanderings, he came to a well, where he thought he would take a drink. On looking down, however, he saw a man in the bottom of the well. When Juan shouted to him and made gestures, the man--or his reflection and the echo of his own voice--returned some sort of inarticulate sound, and made the same gestures as Juan. For the third time this sufficed for a "Yes." So Juan threw the rest of his pork down the well, and said he would come back for his money. Now comes the collection, which he found to be quite easy. He entered a dry-goods store, where he saw a fly on the hand of the shop-keeper. Juan talked to the fly and demanded his money. It did not answer: so he began chasing it around the room, sometimes striking at it when it was on some customer's hand. At last, tired of the disturbance, the shop-keeper paid him off to get rid of him. Next Juan came to a garden where there was a pig. With the pig he encountered the same obstinate silence. He began to chase the pig, and he beat it whenever he was near enough to hit it. When the owner of the animal saw what he was doing, and realized that he was crazy, he paid him off, too. Now, as to his third customer. The reflection in the pool simply mocked him and made him disgusted. So Juan got a long pole and stirred the bottom of the well. When he found that this treatment simply made his customer disappear, he began shouting at the top of his voice. Finally the owner of the well came; and, to avoid further disturbance, he also paid him off, for every one could easily see that the vender was crazy (loco) from the way he talked and acted. So Juan went home in ecstasy. He received much praise from his father, who promised to let him sell meat every day; and the poor fellow gloried in being thus praised. For other noodle stories of the Filipinos, see our No. 9 and JAFL 20 : 104-106. TALE 50 JUAN AND HIS PAINTED HAT. Narrated by Adolfo Scheerer, a Tagalog from Manila, who heard the story from their native servant some fifteen years ago. There once lived a man by the name of Juan, who did nothing but fool people all the time. Once, when he had only seventy pesos left in his pockets, he determined to resort to the following scheme: he bought a balangut hat (a very cheap straw), and painted it five different colors. In the town where Juan was to operate, there were only three stores. He went to each one of them and deposited twenty pesos, saying to the owner of each, "I will deposit twenty pesos in your store, and to-morrow afternoon I will bring some friends here with me. We will perhaps take some refreshments or buy some goods, but in any case I will see to it that the total amount of the things we take is not over the twenty pesos. Then, when we leave, do not ask me to pay you for the things. I will simply make you a bow with my hat, and your attendants should thank me with much courtesy. That mere bow with my hat is to be the payment. You may keep the twenty pesos, but you must also keep this little plan a secret." The owners of the three stores promised. The next day Juan was walking in the street with his painted hat on, when one of his friends met him. "Halloo, Juan!" exclaimed his friend, "where did you get that funny hat?" Juan looked serious, and said, "Don't be foolish! Don't you know that this hat is the only means I have of earning a living?" "Means of living?" returned the other. "Why, of course. I can go in any store, take anything I please, and pay for it with a mere bow of my hat." By this time two other friends of Juan had come along, and they too were surprised to see what Juan had on his head. To convince them of the marvellous character of the hat, Juan took his friends to one of the stores. There they sat down, and Juan ordered some refreshments. They ate much, and of the best that the store could furnish. After they had had enough, Juan stood up, made a bow to the proprietor with his hat, and then they all left. Then they visited another store, where the same thing took place. The friends of Juan were very much astonished, and each wished to possess the hat. One offered him a thousand pesos for it; another, two thousand; and the third, one-half of all his property, which amounted to about five thousand pesos. Juan, of course, was willing to sell it to the highest bidder; but when the sale was about to be concluded, the buyer began to doubt the power of the hat. So he asked Juan to take him to another store to prove once more the qualities of the hat, after which trial, he said, he would pay him the money. Juan took his friend to the third store, and the friend was now sure that the hat could really work wonders. So he paid Juan the five thousand pesos. When he had received the money, Juan left his friends, went on board ship, and sailed away to a foreign country. One day the friend who had bought the hat desired to make a showing with it. So he invited several friends, among them some ladies. He took them to one of the stores, and there ordered some refreshments to be served them. When they had finished, the man bowed with his hat, and started to leave. "Thank you, sir!" said the owner of the store, "but where is my payment for the refreshments you have just eaten?" The owner of the hat was astonished, and, thinking that perhaps he held the hat in the wrong way, or else his fingers were not on the right color, he turned the hat around. Then he made another bow. The owner of the shop now became angry, and began to swear at the man. The other became excited, twirling the hat around, and holding it in as many different ways as he could think of. Finally the shop-keeper ordered the man arrested. When the owner of the hat heard how Juan had played his trick by paying twenty pesos in advance, he fainted and became very sick. In the mean time Juan was performing other tricks in some different country. Notes. This droll was without doubt imported from Europe, where it has a fairly wide distribution. It does not appear hitherto to have been found in the Orient. In the European forms we find it both as a separate tale, like our story, and also as a part of the "Master Cheat" cycle, which we have discussed in the notes to No. 20. For a complete list of the known occurrences of the "hat pays" episode, see Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 10-15, incident D (on Grimm, No. 61). According to their classification, versions from Holland, Denmark, Sweden, Rumania, Serbo-Croatia, Poland, Russia, and Lithuania are known. See also Köhler-Bolte, 246, 251 (note 1). TALE 51 JUAN AND CLOTILDE. Narrated by Vicente Hilario, a Tagalog, who heard the story from an old man living in Batangas. In ages vastly remote there lived in a distant land a king of such prowess and renown, that his name was known throughout the four regions of the compass. His name was Ludovico. His power was increased twofold by his attachment to an aged magician, to whom he was tied by strong bonds of friendship. Ludovico had an extremely lovely daughter by the name of Clotilde. Ever since his arrival at the palace the magician had been passionately in love with her; but his extreme old age and his somewhat haughty bearing were obstacles in his path to success. Whenever he made love to her, she turned aside, and listened instead to the thrilling tales told by some wandering minstrel. The magician finally succumbed to the infirmities of old age, his life made more burdensome by his repeated disappointments. He left to the king three enchanted winged horses; to the princess, two magic necklaces of exactly the same appearance, of inimitable workmanship and of priceless worth. Not did the magician fall to wreak vengeance on the cause of his death. Before he expired, he locked Clotilde and the three magic horses in a high tower inaccessible to any human being. She was to remain in this enchanted prison until some man succeeded in setting her free. Naturally, King Ludovico wanted to see his daughter before the hour of his death, which was fast approaching. He offered large sums of money, together with his crown and Clotilde's hand, to anybody who could set her free. Hundreds of princes tried, but in vain. The stone walls of the tower were of such a height, that very few birds, even, could fly over them. But a deliverer now rose from obscurity and came into prominence. This man was an uneducated but persevering peasant named Juan. He possessed a graceful form, herculean frame, good heart, and unrivalled ingenuity. His two learned older brothers tried to scale the walls of the tower, but fared no better than the others. At last Juan's turn came. His parents and his older brothers expostulated with him not to go, for what could a man unskilled in the fine arts do? But Juan, in the hope of setting the princess free, paid no attention to their advice. He took as many of the biggest nails as he could find, a very long rope, and a strong hammer. As he lived in a town several miles distant from the capital, he had to make the trip on horseback. One day Juan set out with all his equipment. On the way he met his disappointed second brother returning after a vain attempt. The older brother tried in every way he could to divert Juan from his purpose. Now, Juan's parents, actuated partly by a sense of shame if he should fail, and partly by a deep-seated hatred, had poisoned his food without his knowledge. When he felt hungry, he suspected them of some evil intention: so before eating he gave his horse some of his provisions. The poor creature died on the road amidst terrible sufferings, and Juan was obliged to finish the journey on foot. When he arrived at the foot of the tower, he drove a nail into the wall. Then he tied one end of his rope to this spike. In this way he succeeded in making a complete ladder of nails and rope to the top of the tower. He looked for Clotilde, who met him with her eyes flooded with tears. As a reward for his great services to her, she gave him one of the magic necklaces. While they were whispering words of love in each other's ears, they heard a deafening noise at the bottom of the tower. "Rush for safety to your ladder!" cried Clotilde. "One of the fiendish friends of the magician is going to kill you." But, alas! some wanton hand had pulled out the nails; and this person was none other then Juan's second brother. "I am a lost man," said Juan. "Mount one of the winged horses in the chamber adjoining mine," said Clotilde. So Juan got on one of the animals without knowing where to go. The horse flew from the tower with such velocity, that Juan had to close his eyes. His breath was almost taken away. In a few seconds, however, he was landed in a country entirely strange to his eyes. After long years of struggle with poverty and starvation, Juan was at last able to make his way back to his native country. He went to live in a town just outside the walls of the capital. A rich old man named Telesforo hired him to work on his farm. Juan's excellent service and irreproachable conduct won the good will of his master, who adopted him as his son. At about this time King Ludovico gave out proclamations stating that any one who could exactly match his daughter's necklace should be his son-in-law. Thousands tried, but they tried in vain. Even the most dextrous and experienced smiths were baffled in their attempts to produce an exact counterfeit. When word of the royal proclamations was brought to Juan, he decided to try. One day he pretended to be sick, and he asked Telesforo to go to the palace to get Clotilde's necklace. The old man, who was all ready to serve his adopted son, went that very afternoon and borrowed the necklace, so that he might try to copy it. When he returned with the magic article, Juan jumped from his bed and kissed his father. After supper Juan went to his room and locked himself in. Then he took from his pocket the necklace which Clotilde had given him in the tower, and compared it carefully with the borrowed one. When he saw that they did not differ in any respect, he took a piece of iron and hammered it until midnight. Early the next morning Juan wrapped the two magic necklaces in a silk handkerchief, and told the old man to take them to the king. "By the aid of the Lord!" exclaimed Clotilde when her father the king unwrapped the necklaces, "my lover is here again. This necklace," she said, touching the one she had given Juan, "is not a counterfeit" for it is written in the magician's book of black art that no human being shall be able to imitate either of the magic necklaces.--Where is the owner of this necklace, old man?" she said, turning to Telesforo. "He is at home," said Telesforo with a bow. "Go and bring him to the palace," said Clotilde. Within a quarter of an hour Juan arrived. After paying due respect to the king, Juan embraced Clotilde affectionately. They were married in the afternoon, and the festivities continued for nine days and nine nights. Juan was made crown-prince, and on the death of King Ludovico he succeeded to the throne. King Juan and Queen Clotilde lived to extreme old age in peace and perfect happiness. Notes. This Tagalog Märchen appears to be closely related to an eighteenth-century Spanish ballad by Alonso de Morales. The ballad is No. 1263 in the "Romancero General," and is entitled, "Las Princesas Encantadas, y Deslealdad de Hermanos." Although in general outline the two stories are very close to each other, there are some significant differences. In the Spanish, the king's name is Clotaldo, and he rules in Syria. The king builds a very high tower, and puts in it his three beautiful daughters; then he calls a powerful magician to cast a spell about the place, so that the tower cannot be scaled until the king wishes it to be. Confined in the tower with the princesses are three winged horses (o satánicas arpias). The king then issues a proclamation that whoever can reach the princesses shall be married to them. The three brothers that make the attempt are knights from Denmark. The two older proceed to Syria on horseback, fail, and on their return home meet their youngest brother making his way leisurely in a bullock-cart. He too is going to try, and is taking with him abundant provisions, many nails, and a rope. After they have tried in rain to persuade him to return home, they accompany him. [The episode of the poisoned food is lacking.] Juan gains the top of the tower, lowers the two older princesses, and then, last of all, the youngest, who gives him a necklace before she descends. The treacherous brothers now destroy Juan's means of escape, and make off with the three maidens, leaving him on the tower. He mounts one of the winged horses, and it flies with him to a distant country. Making his way back to Syria on foot, he exchanges clothes with a drover, and appears in Clotaldo's kingdom in disguise, pretending to be simple-minded. The king has already married his two older daughters to Juan's treacherous brothers, and is now trying to persuade his youngest daughter to marry: but she wishes only her rescuer. She paints a necklace in every respect like the one which she gave Juan, and says that she will marry only when a person is found who can make a necklace exactly like the picture. The king sends the painting to an alchemist in the city, and orders him, under penalty of death if he falls, to produce the necklace in two months. He is unable to do so, and becomes downcast. Juan, who has been in service as a porter, and is the one who carried the command of the king to the alchemist, asks him why he is sad. He tells the reason. Juan gives the alchemist his necklace. [The rest is practically as in our story.] There is a sequel to this ballad, No. 1264, which has a close resemblance to the Tagalog "Juan Tiñoso," already summarized in the notes to No. 36. The Spanish story, says the editor of the "Romancero General," is one of those founded directly on Oriental material which was transmitted by the Arabs. It is curious that so few of these tales, which have been preserved for generations as oral tradition, have made their way into print. The differences noticeable between our Märchen and the ballad may be due to a tradition somewhat divergent from that on which Alonso de Morales's poem is based. TALE 52 THE POOR MAN AND HIS THREE SONS. Narrated by Gregorio Velasquez, a Tagalog from Pasig, Rizal. He says, "This is a primitive Tagalog fable. I think. I heard it from old people." Once there lived a poor man who had three sons. When the father was on his death-bed, he called his sons, and said to them, "My sons, I shall die very soon; and I shall not be able to leave you much wealth, for wealth I have not. But I will give each one of you something which, if you will only be able to find a place in which it has no equal, will make you happy men." The father then gave to one a rooster, to another a cat, and to the third a scythe. Then he died. The owner of the scythe was the first to try his fortune and test his father's advice. He left his brothers, and went on a journey until he came to a town where he saw the people harvesting rice by pulling the stalks out of the ground. He showed the people the convenience of the scythe. They were so delighted and astonished, that they offered to give him a large sum of money in exchange for the tool. Of course he was willing to sell it, and he went home a rich man. The owner of the rooster, seeing the good luck of his brother, next resolved to try his fortune with the bird. Like his brother, he travelled until he came to a town where there was no rooster. The people were very much interested in the rooster's crowing, and asked the owner why the bird crowed. He said that the bird told the time of day by its crowing. "The first crow in the night announces midnight," he said; "the second, three o'clock in the morning; and the third crow announces five o'clock." The people were very anxious to get the rooster for their town, and offered to buy it. The owner was willing, and he returned to his home as rich as his brother who had sold the scythe. The last brother now set out to try his luck with his cat. At last he came to a town where the rats were vexing the people very much. He showed them the use of his cat. With wonder the people watched the cat kill the rats, and were astounded to see how the rats fled from this strange animal. The news of the cat reached the king, who summoned its owner to the palace. The king asked the brother to try his cat on the rats in the palace, and so the cat was turned loose. In a short time all the rats had either been killed or driven away. The king wanted the cat, and offered to pay a large sum of money for it. So the owner of the cat, after the king had paid him, went home as rich as his other two brothers. Thus the three brothers became rich, because they followed their father's wise advice: select the right place in which to trade. Notes. This story, like the preceding, is clearly an importation from the Occident. The bibliography of the cycle to which it belongs may be found in Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 69-71 (on Grimm, No. 70). German, Breton, French, Flemish, Swedish, Catalan, Serbian, Bulgarian, Czech, Polish, Russian, Lithuanian, and Finnish versions have been recorded. The story as a whole does not appear to have been collected from the Far East hitherto, though separate tales turning on the sale of a cat in a catless country (Dick Whittington type) are found among the Jews and in Africa. Bolte and Polívka give the bibliography of this latter group of stories on pp. 71-76. The oldest form of our story known is that found in Nicholas de Troyes' "Grand Parangon des nouvelles Nouvelles," No. X, dating from 1535. The three things here bequeathed by the father are a cock, a cat, and a sickle, as in our version. I think it probable that the tale was introduced into the Philippines through the medium of a French religious. The Catalan form differs from the French in mentioning a fourth "heirloom," a raven, and was probably not the parent of our Tagalog version. TALE 53 THE DENIED MOTHER. Narrated by Leopoldo Uichanco, a Tagalog from Calamba, Laguna. (One day little Antonio fell down and sprained his elbow. His grandfather told him to put on his camisa and they would go to Tandang Fruto, an old manghihilot (a man who pretends to correct dislocated bones by means of certain prayers). On their way they met a beggar with a guitar. He sat down on a stone in front of a house and began to sing. Antonio wished to hear him, and so did the old grandfather: so they stopped and listened. The beggar sang the story of "The Denied Mother" in Tagalog verse. The story is this:--) In a certain country there lived a king who had a pet dog. He loved the dog so much and treated it so kindly, that, wherever he went, the dog followed him. In the course of time the dog gave birth to three puppies. The most striking thing about these new-born creatures was that they were real human beings in every particular. So the king ordered them to be baptized. The eldest sister was named Feliza; the second, Juana; and the youngest, Maria. When they grew up into beautiful young women, they married three princes, each of a different kingdom. After the marriage-festivities, each went to live in the country of her husband. Feliza was very happy: she dressed elegantly, and had all that a woman of her rank could wish for. One day, when her husband was away from home, a lean, dirty, spectre-looking dog came to her. It was Feliza's mother, who, after the death of her master the king, had been cast out of the palace. The poor dog had had nothing to eat for many days. She had been driven away from every house, and had been frightened by mischievous boys with sticks and stones. Although Feliza's kingdom was very far away, she had managed, in spite of difficulty, to reach it. She hoped to gain her daughter's pity. "My daughter," she said, as she ascended the steps of the ladder(!), "have compassion on me! I, your mother, am in a very wretched condition." "What care I?" returned Feliza. "What business have you to come here? Don't you know that I will never sacrifice anything for your sake? Get out of here!" And she kicked the poor dog until it fell tumbling to the ground. Feliza did not want her husband to find out that her mother was a dog. Sadly the dog went away, and decided to go to her daughter Juana's kingdom. The country was far away, but what else could she do? As Juana was coming out of the church with her husband, she saw the dog hurrying after her. Like Feliza, she was ashamed of her mother. She whispered to one of the guards to catch the dog and tie it securely in a distant forest, so that it might no longer annoy her. Not long after this, Maria, the youngest daughter, was riding through the forest with her husband. There they found the poor dog crying and yelping in a pitiful manner. Maria recognized her mother. She got out of the carriage, and with her own hands untied the dog. She wrapped her veil around it, and ordered the carriage to turn back to the palace. "Husband," she said as she ascended the steps of the royal residence, "this dog that I am carrying is my mother, so please your Majesty." The husband only said, "Thank God!" and not another word. Maria ordered the cook to prepare delicious food for the dog. She assigned the best chamber in the palace to the animal. While the dog was eating with Maria, the prince, and the courtiers, the dining-room was suddenly illuminated with a bright light. The dog disappeared, and in its place stood a beautiful woman in glorious attire. The woman kissed Maria, and said, "I am the dog your mother. God bless you, my good child!" Notes. I can offer no close parallels for this somewhat savage tale, though a few analogies to incidents in our story are to be found in an Indian story in Frere (No. 2, "A Funny Story"), the first part of which may be abstracted here for comparison. A certain Rajah and Ranee are sad because they have no children and the little dog in the palace has no puppies; but at last the Ranee is confined, and bears two puppies, while the little dog at the same time gives birth to two female infants. In order to keep her offspring from the Ranee, who wishes to substitute her own for the dog's, the dog carries its two daughters to the forest, and there rears them. When they have become of marriageable age, they are found by two princes, who take them away and make them their wives. For twelve years the poor dog looks in vain for her lost children. One day the eldest daughter looks out of her window, and sees a dog running down the street. "That must be my long-lost mother!" she exclaims to herself; and she runs out, gets the animal, bathes it and feeds it. The dog now wants to go visit her younger daughter, although the elder tries in vain to dissuade her mother from going. When the younger daughter sees the dog, she says, "That must be my mother! What will my husband think of me if he learns that this wretched, ugly, miserable-looking dog is my mother?" She orders the servants to throw stones at it and drive it away. Wounded in the head, the dog runs back to her elder daughter, but dies, in spite of the tender care it receives. The daughter now tries to conceal the body until she can bury it. The husband discovers the corpse of the dog, but it has become a statue of gold set with diamonds and other precious stones. He asks where the treasure came from. His wife lies, and says, "Oh, it is only a present my parents sent me!" [The rest of the story has nothing to do with ours: it is a variant of the "Toads and Diamonds" cycle (see notes to No. 47).] It will be noticed that in the Indian tale the rôles of the daughters are the reverse of what they are in our story. TALE 54 TOMARIND AND THE WICKED DATU. Narrated by Eutiquiano Garcia of Mexico. Pampanga. He says that this is an old Pampangan tale. Before the Spanish occupation there were in the Philippines many petty kingdoms headed by native princes known as datus. Luzon, the scene of countless ravages and hard fightings of warlike tribes, was the home of Datu Nebucheba. His kingdom--at first only a few square miles--was greatly extended by the labor of his young brave warrior, Tomarind. Tomarind had a very beautiful wife, with whom Datu Nebucheba fell in love; but the ruler kept his vile desire secret in his heart for many years. Many times he thought of getting rid of his warrior Tomarind, and thus getting possession of his beautiful wife. One day Tomarind was sent on a dangerous errand. He was ordered to get an enchanted marble ball from one of the caves in a certain mountain. Two monsters of terrible aspect, whose joy was the burning of villages, and whose delight was the killing of human beings, guarded the entrance of that cave. Many persons had entered the door of that death-chamber, but nobody had come from it alive. Suspicious of the coming danger, Tomarind did not go directly to the cave. He sought the famous witch of Tipuca, and told her about his situation. Immediately the witch performed a sort of diabolical ceremony, gave Tomarind a magic cane, and sent him away. When he reached the cave, those that guarded the cave received Tomarind very kindly, and they delivered the enchanted marble ball to him. "To-morrow," said Nebucheba to himself, "the wife of Tomarind will be mine." Alas for him! very early the next morning Tomarind presented the marble ball to Datu Nebucheba. "How quickly he executed my orders!" exclaimed Nebucheba. "What shall I do to destroy this brave man? The next time he will not escape the danger. I will ask him to take a letter to my parents, who are living under ground, in the realm of the spirits," he said to himself. The datu caused a well to be dug, and big stones to be piled near the mouth of it. When everything was ready, he summoned the brave warrior. He gave him the letter, and told him to start the next morning. Tomarind went again to the witch of Tipuca. "This is a very great task," said the witch; "but never mind! you will get even with Datu Nebucheba." That night the witch, with the help of unseen spirits, made a subterranean passage connecting the bottom of the datu's well with that of Tomarind's. "Nebucheba," the witch said to Tomarind, "will ask you to go down into his well; and as soon as you are at the bottom, he will order that the pile of stones be thrown on you. Lose no time, but go in to the subterranean passage that I have prepared for you." When morning came, Tomarind went to execute the orders of the datu. Now, Nebucheba firmly believed that Tomarind was dead. There was great rejoicing in the datu's house. In the evening, while the revelry was going on, Tomarind appeared with the pretended answer from Nebucheba's parents. The letter read, "We wish you to come and see us here. We have a very beautiful girl for you." Nebucheba was greatly surprised. He made up his mind to go down into the well the next day. He gathered all his subjects together, and said to them, "I am going to see my parents. If the place there is better than the place here, I shall not come back. Tomarind will be my successor." In the morning Nebucheba's subjects took him to the well and lowered him slowly into it. When he reached the bottom, Tomarind threw big stones down on him, and Nebucheba was crushed to death. The people never saw him again. Tomarind became datu, and he ruled his subjects with justice and equity for many years. Note. I know of no variants of this tale, which pretty evidently represents old tribal Pampangan tradition. The device by which Tomarind lures the wicked datu to his death is not unlike incident J in our No. 20 (see notes), but there is clearly no other connection between the two stories. PART II FABLES AND ANIMAL STORIES. TALE 55 THE TURTLE AND THE MONKEY. Narrated by Eutiquiano Garcia of Mexico, Pampanga. It was mid-day. The blinding heat of the sun forced all the water-loving animals--such as pigs, carabaos, and turtles--to go to the river-banks and there seek to cool themselves in the water. On that part of the bank where a big shady tree stood, a monkey and a turtle were having a good time, discussing the past, present, and future. Just then they saw a banana-stalk floating by. "Don't you think that it would be a wise thing for us to get that banana-stalk and plant it?" said the monkey. "Can you swim?" replied the turtle. "No, I can't, but you can," said the monkey. "I will get the banana-tree," said the turtle, "on condition that we divide it. You must allow me to have the upper part, where the leaves are." The monkey agreed; but when the stalk was brought to shore, the monkey took the leaves himself, and gave the turtle only the roots. As the humble turtle was unable to fight the monkey, all he could do was to pick up his share and take it to the woods and plant it. It was not strange that the monkey's part died, while that of the turtle brought forth clusters of ripe bananas in time. When the monkey learned that the bananas were ripe, he went to visit his friend the turtle. "I will give you half the bananas," said the turtle, "if you will only climb the stalk and get the fruit for me." "With great pleasure," replied the monkey. In less than a minute he was at the top of the tree. There he took his time, eating all he could, and stopping now and then to throw a banana-peeling down to his friend below. What could the poor turtle do? It was impossible for him to climb. "I know what I'll do!" he said to himself. He gathered pointed sticks, and set them all around the base of the tree. Then he cried out to the monkey, saying, "The hunters are coming! The hunters are coming!" The monkey was very much frightened, so he jumped down in the hope of escaping; but he was pierced by the sharp sticks, and in a few hours he died. Thus the turtle got his revenge on the selfish monkey. When the monkey was dead, the turtle skinned him, dried his meat, and sold it to the other monkeys in the neighborhood. But, in taking off the skin, the turtle was very careless: he left here and there parts of the fur sticking to the meat; and from this fact the monkeys which had bought the meat judged the turtle guilty of murder of one of their brethren. So they took the turtle before their chief, and he was tried. When the turtle's guilt had been established, the monkey-chief ordered him to be burned. "Fire does not do me any harm," said the turtle. "Don't you see the red part on my back? My father has burned me many times." "Well, if fire doesn't harm him, cut him to pieces," said the monkey-chief angrily. "Neither will this punishment have any effect on me," continued the wise turtle. "My back is full of scars. My father used to cut me over and over again." "What can we do with him?" said the foolish monkeys. At last the brightest fellow in the group said, "We will drown him in the lake." As soon as the turtle heard this, he felt happy, for he knew that he would not die in the water, However, he pretended to be very much afraid, and he implored the monkeys not to throw him into the lake. But he said to himself, "I have deceived all these foolish monkeys." Without delay the monkeys took him to the lake and threw him in. The turtle dived; and then he stuck his head above the surface of the water, laughing very loud at them. Thus the turtle's life was saved, because he had used his brains in devising a means of escape. The Monkey and the Turtle. Narrated by Bienvenido Gonzales of Pampanga. He heard the story from his younger brother, who heard it in turn from a farmer. It is common in Pampanga. Once there lived two friends,--a monkey and a turtle. One day they saw a banana-plant floating on the water. The turtle swam out and brought it to land. Since it was but a single plant and they had to divide it, they cut it across the middle. "I will have the part with the leaves on," said the monkey, thinking that the top was best. The turtle agreed and was very well pleased, but she managed to conceal her joy. The monkey planted his part, the top of the tree; and the turtle planted hers, the roots. The monkey's plant died; but that of the turtle grew, and in time bore much fine fruit. One day, since the turtle could not get at the bananas, she asked the monkey to climb the tree and bring down the bananas. In return for this service she offered to give him half the fruit. The monkey clambered up the tree, but he ate all the fruit himself: he did not give the turtle any. The turtle became very angry, waiting in vain; so she collected many sharp sticks, and stuck them in the trunk of the tree. Then she went away. When the monkey slid down to the ground, he injured himself very badly on the sharp sticks; so he set off to find the turtle and to revenge himself. The monkey looked for a long time, but finally found the turtle under a pepper-plant. As the monkey was about to strike her, she said, "Keep quiet! I am guarding the king's fruits." "Give me some!" said the monkey. "Well, I will; here are some!" said the turtle. "But you must promise me not to chew them until I am far away; for the king might see you, and then he would punish me." The monkey agreed. When the turtle was a long way off, he began to chew the peppers. They were very hot, and burned his mouth badly. He was now extremely angry, and resolved that it would go hard with the turtle when he should catch her. He searched all through the woods and fields for her. At last he found her near a large snake-hole. The monkey threatened to kill the turtle; but she said to him, "Friend monkey, do you want to wear the king's belt?" "Why, surely! Where is it?" said the monkey. The turtle replied, "It will come out very soon: watch for it!" As soon as the snake came out, the monkey caught it; but the snake rolled itself around his body, and squeezed him nearly to death. He finally managed to get free of the snake; but he was so badly hurt, that he swore he would kill the turtle as soon as he should find her. The turtle hid herself under a cocoanut-shell. The monkey was by this time very tired, so he sat down on the cocoanut-shell to rest. As he sat there, he began to call loudly, "Turtle, where are you?" The turtle answered in a low voice, "Here I am!" The monkey looked all around him, but he saw nobody. He thought that some part of his body was joking him. He called the turtle again, and again the turtle answered him. The monkey now said to his abdomen, "If you answer again when I don't call you, stomach, I'll punish you." Once more he called the turtle; and once more she said, "I am here!" This was too much for the monkey. He seized a big stone, and began to hit his belly with it. He injured himself so much, that he finally died. The Monkey and the Turtle. Narrated by José M. Katigbak of Batangas, Batangas. This is a genuine Tagalog story, he says, which he heard from his friend Angel Reyes. Once upon a time there was a turtle who was very kind and patient. He had many friends. Among them was a monkey, who was very selfish. He always wanted to have the best part of everything. One day the monkey went to visit the turtle. The monkey asked his friend to accompany him on a journey to the next village. The turtle agreed, and they started early the next morning. The monkey did not take much food with him, because he did not like to carry a heavy load. The turtle, on the contrary, took a big supply. He advised the monkey to take more, but the monkey only laughed at him. After they had been travelling five days, the monkey's food was all gone, so the turtle had to give him some. The monkey was greedy, and kept asking for more all the time. "Give me some more, friend turtle!" he said. "Wait a little while," said the turtle. "We have just finished eating." As the monkey made no reply, they travelled on. After a few minutes the monkey stopped, and said, "Can't you travel a little faster?" "I can't, for I have a very heavy load," said the turtle. "Give me the load, and then we shall get along more rapidly," said the monkey. The turtle handed over all his food to the monkey, who ran away as fast as he could, leaving the turtle far behind. "Wait for me!" said the turtle, doing his best to catch his friend; but the monkey only shouted, "Come on!" and scampered out of sight. The turtle was soon very tired and much out of breath, but he kept on. The monkey climbed a tree by the roadside, and looked back. When he saw his friend very far in the rear, he ate some of the food. At last the turtle came up. He was very hungry, and asked the monkey for something to eat. "Come on a little farther," said the selfish monkey. "We will eat near a place where we can get water." The turtle did not say anything, but kept plodding on. The monkey ran ahead and did the same thing as before, but this time he ate all the food. "Why did you come so late?" said the monkey when the turtle came up panting. "Because I am so hungry that I cannot walk fast," answered the turtle. "Will you give me some food?" he continued. "There is no more," replied the monkey. "You brought very little. I ate all there was, and I am still hungry." As the turtle had no breath to waste, he continued on the road. While they were on their way, they met a hunter. The monkey saw the hunter and climbed a tree, but the man caught the turtle and took it home with him. The monkey laughed at his friend's misfortune. But the hunter was kind to the turtle: he tied it near a banana-tree, and gave it food every hour. One day the monkey happened to pass near the house of the hunter. When he saw that his friend was tied fast, he sneered at him; but after he had remained there a few hours, and had seen how the turtle was fed every hour, he envied the turtle's situation. So when night came, and the hunter was asleep, the monkey went up to the turtle, and said, "Let me be in your place." "No, I like this place," answered the turtle. The monkey, however, kept urging and begging the turtle, so that finally the turtle yielded. Then the monkey set the turtle free, and tied himself to the tree. The turtle went off happy; and the monkey was so pleased, that he could hardly sleep during the night for thinking of the food the hunter would give him in the morning. Early the next morning the hunter woke and looked out of his window. He caught sight of the monkey, and thought that the animal was stealing his bananas. So he took his gun and shot him dead. Thus the turtle became free, and the monkey was killed. MORAL: Do not be selfish. Notes. The story of these two opponents, the monkey and the turtle, is widespread in the Philippines. In the introduction to a collection of Bagobo tales which includes a version of this fable, Laura Watson Benedict says (JAFL 26 [1913] : 14), "The story of 'The Monkey and the Turtle' is clearly modified from a Spanish source." In this note I hope to show not only that the story is native in the sense that it must have existed in the Islands from pre-Spanish times, but also that the Bagobo version represents a connecting link between the other Philippine forms and the original source of the whole cycle, a Buddhistic Jataka. Merely from the number of Philippine versions already collected, it seems reasonable to suspect that the story is Malayan: it is found from one end of the Archipelago to the other, and the wild tribes have versions as well as the civilized. In addition to our one Tagalog and two Pampangan versions, five other Philippine forms already exist in print, and may be cited for comparison. These are the following:-- (d) Bagobo, "The Monkey and the Tortoise" (JAFL 26 : 58). (e) Visayan, "Ca Matsin and Ca Boo-ug" (JAFL 20 : 316). (f) Tagalog, "The Monkey and the Turtle" (JAFL 21 : 46). (g) Tinguian, "The Turtle and the Monkey" (Cole, 195, No. 77). (k) Tagalog, Rizal's "Monkey and the Turtle." [100] Before discussing the origin of the story, we may examine the different incidents found in the Philippine versions. That they vary considerably may be seen from the following list:-- A The division of the banana-stalk: monkey takes top; and turtle, roots. Monkey's share dies, turtle's grows, or (A1) monkey and turtle together find banana-tree growing; turtle unable to climb, but monkey easily gets at the fruit. B Monkey steals turtle's bananas and will not give him any, or (B1) sticks banana up his anus and throws it to turtle, or (B2) drops his excrement into turtle's mouth. C Turtle, in revenge, plants sharp stakes (or thorns) around base of the banana-tree; and when monkey descends, he is severely injured, or (C1) he is killed. D Turtle sells monkey-flesh to other monkeys; either his trick is discovered accidentally by the monkeys, or (D1) the turtle jeers them for eating of their kind. E Turtle is sentenced to death. He says, "You may burn me or pound me, but for pity's sake don't drown me!" The monkeys "drown" the turtle, and he escapes. F The monkeys attempt to drink all the water in the lake, so as to reach the turtle: they burst themselves and perish. Or (F1) they get a fish to drain the pond dry; fish is punctured by a bird, water rushes out, and monkeys are drowned. Or (F2) monkeys summon all the other animals to help them drink the lake dry. The animals put leaves over the ends of their urethras, so that the water will not flow out; but a bird pecks the leaves away, and the monkeys turn to revenge themselves on the bird. (F3) They catch him and pluck out all his feathers; but the bird recovers, and revenges himself as below (G). G Monkeys and other animals are enticed to a fruit-tree in a meadow, and are burned to death in a jungle fire kindled by the turtle and his friend the bird. H Episode of guarding king's fruit-tree or bread-tree (Chile peppers). J Episode of guarding king's belt (boa-constrictor). K Turtle deceives monkey with his answers, so that the monkey thinks part of his own body is mocking him. Enraged, he strikes himself with a stone until he dies. L Turtle captured by hunter gets monkey to exchange places with him by pointing out the advantages of the situation. Monkey subsequently shot by the hunter. These incidents are distributed as follows: Version (a) ABC1DE Version (b) ABCHJK Version (c) (Opening different, but monkey greedy as in B) L Version (d) A1B2C1D1EF2F3G Version (e) ABC1DEF1 Version (f) A1BC (glass on trunk of tree) EF (monkey in his rage leaps after turtle and is drowned) Version (g) AB1C1 (sharp shells) DEF (monkeys dive in to catch fish when they see turtle appear with one in his mouth, and are drowned). Incidents K and a form of J are found in the story of "The Turtle and the Lizard" (Cole, 196) The incidents common to most of these versions are some form of ABCDEF; and these, I think, we must consider as integral parts of the story. It will be seen that one of our versions (c) properly does not belong to this cycle at all, except under a very broad definition of the group. In all these tales the turtle is the injured creature: he is represented as patient and quiet, but clever. The monkey is depicted as selfish, mischievous, insolent, but stupid. In general, although the versions differ in details, they are all the same story, in that they tell how a monkey insults a turtle which has done him no harm, and how he finally pays dearly for his insult. The oldest account I know of, telling of the contests between the monkey and the turtle, is a Buddhist birth-story, the "Kacchapa-jataka," No. 273, which narrates how a monkey insulted a tortoise by thrusting his penis down the sleeping tortoise's throat, and how the monkey was punished. Although this particular obscene jest is not found in any of our versions, I think that there is a trace of it preserved in the Bagobo story. The passage runs thus (loc. cit. pp. 59-60): "At that all the monkeys were angry [incident D], and ran screaming to catch the tortoise. But the tortoise hid under the felled trunk of an old palma brava tree. As each monkey passed close by the trunk where the tortoise lay concealed, the tortoise said, 'Drag (or lower) your membrum! Here's a felled tree.' Thus every monkey passed by clear of the trunk, until the last one came by; and he was both blind and deaf. When he followed the rest, he could not hear the tortoise call out, and his membrum struck against the fallen trunk. He stopped, and became aware of the tortoise underneath. Then he screamed to the rest; and all the monkeys came running back, and surrounded the tortoise, threatening him." This incident, in its present form obscure and unreasonable (it is hard to see how following the tortoise's directions would have saved the monkeys from injury, and how the blind and deaf monkey "became aware" of the tortoise just because he hit the tree), probably originally represented the tortoise as seizing the last monkey with his teeth (present form, "his membrum struck against the fallen trunk"), so that in this way the monkey became painfully aware of the tortoise's close proximity. Hence his screams, too,--of pain. With incident B2 two other Buddhist stories are to be compared. The "Mahisa-jataka," No. 278, tells how an impudent monkey voids his excrement on a patient buffalo (the Bodhisatta) under a tree. The vile monkey is later destroyed when he plays the same trick on another bull. In the "Kapi-jataka," No. 404, a bad monkey drops his excrement first on the head and then into the mouth of a priest, who later takes revenge on the monkey by having him and all his following of five hundred destroyed. All in all, the agreement in general outline and in some details between these Hindoo stories and ours justifies us, I believe, in assuming without hesitation that our stories are descended directly from Buddhistic fables, possibly these very Jatakas. Compare also the notes to Nos. 48 and 56. For a Celebes variant of the story of "The Monkey and the Turtle," see Bezemer, p. 287. The sources of the other incidents, which I have not found in the Buddhistic stories, I am unable to point out. However, many of them occur in the beast tales of other Oriental and Occidental countries: for instance, incident E is a commonplace in "Brer Rabbit" stories both in Africa and America, whence it has made its way into the tales of the American Indians (see, for example, Honeÿ, 82; Cole, 195, note; Dähnhardt, 4 : 43-45); incident J and another droll episode found in an Ilocano story--"king's bell" (= beehive) motif--occur in a Milanau tale from Sarawak, Borneo, "The Plandok, Deer, and the Pig" (Roth, 1 : 347), and in two other North Borneo stories given by Evans (p. 474), "Plandok and Bear" and "Plandok and Tiger." In Malayan stories in general, the mouse-deer (plandok) is represented as the cleverest of animals, taking the rôle of the rabbit in African tales, and of the jackal in Hindoo. In the Ilocano story referred to, both these incidents--"king's belt" and "king's bell"--are found, though the rest of the tale belongs to the "Carancal" group (No. 3; see also No. 4 [b]), Incident L is found among the Negroes of South Africa (Honeÿ, 84, where the two animals are a monkey and a jackal). With incident G compare a Tibetan story (Ralston, No. XLII), where men take counsel as to how to kill a troop of monkeys that are destroying their corn. The plan is to cut down all the trees which stand about the place, one Tinduka-tree only being allowed to remain. A hedge of thorns is drawn about the open space, and the monkeys are to be killed inside the enclosure when they climb the tree in search of food. The monkeys escape, however; for another monkey goes and fires the village, thus distracting the attention of the men. Incident D, the Thyestean banquet, is widespread throughout European saga and Märchen literature: but even this incident Cosquin (I : xxxix) connects with India through an Annamite tale. With incident F3 compare a story from British North Borneo (Evans, 429-430), in which the adjutant-bird (lungun) and the tortoise revenge themselves on monkeys. The monkeys pull out all of the bird's feathers while it is asleep. In two months the feathers grow in again, and the bird seeks vengeance. It gets the tortoise to help it by placing its body in a large hole in the bottom of a boat, so that the water will not leak in; the bird then sails the boat. The monkeys want a ride, and the bird lets forty-one of them in. When the boat is out in the ocean and begins to roll, the bird advises the monkeys to tie their tails together two and two and sit on the edge of the boat to steady it. Then the bird flies away, the tortoise drops out of the hole, and the boat sinks. All the monkeys are drowned but the odd one. TALE 56 THE MONKEY AND THE CROCODILE. Tagalog Version. Narrated by Engracio Abasola of Manila. He heard the story from his nephew. One day, while a clever monkey was searching for his food along the river-bank, he saw a tall macopa-tree laden with ripe fruits. The tree was standing just by the shore of a river where a young crocodile lived. After eating all the fruit he wanted, the monkey climbed down the tree. He suddenly conceived the desire of getting on the other side of the wide river, but he found no means by which to cross. At last he saw the crocodile, who had just waked up from his siesta; and the monkey said to him in a friendly way, "My dear crocodile, will you do me a favor?" The crocodile was greatly surprised by this amicable salutation of the monkey. However, he answered humbly, "Oh, yes! If there is anything I can do for you, I shall be glad to do it." The monkey then told the crocodile that he wanted to reach the other side of the river. Then the crocodile said, "I'll take you over with all my heart. Just sit on my back, and we'll go at once." When the monkey was firmly seated on the crocodile's back, they began their trip. In a short while they reached the middle of the stream, and the crocodile began to laugh aloud. "Now, you foolish monkey!" it said, "I'll eat your liver and kidneys, for I'm very hungry." The monkey became nervous; but he concealed his anxiety, and said, "To be sure! I thought myself that you might be hungry, so I prepared my liver and kidneys for your dinner; but unfortunately, in our haste to depart, I left them hanging on the macopa-tree. I'm very glad that you mentioned the matter. Let us return, and I'll get you the food." The foolish crocodile, convinced that the monkey was telling the truth, turned back toward the shore they had just left. When they were near, the monkey nimbly jumped on to the dry land and scampered up the tree. When the crocodile saw how he had been deceived, he said, "I am a fool." Zambal Version. Narrated by Leopoldo Uichanco, a Tagalog, who heard the story from a native of Zambales. One stormy day a monkey was standing by the shore of a river, wondering how he could get to the other side. He could not get over by himself; for the water was deep, and he did not know how to swim. He looked about for some logs; but all he saw was a large crocodile with its mouth wide open, ready to seize him. He was very much frightened; but he said, "O Mr. Crocodile! pray, do not kill me! Spare my life, and I will lead you to a place where you can get as many monkeys as will feed you all your life." The crocodile agreed, and the monkey said that the place was on the other side of the river. So the crocodile told him to get on his back, and he would carry him across. Just before they reached the bank, the monkey jumped to land, ran as fast as he could, and climbed up a tree where his mate was. The crocodile could not follow, of course: so he returned to the water, saying, "The time will come when you shall pay." Not long afterwards the monkey found the crocodile lying motionless, as if dead. About the place were some low Chile pepper-bushes loaded with numerous bright-red fruits like ornaments on a Christmas tree. The monkey approached the crocodile, and began playing with his tail; but the crocodile made a sudden spring, and seized the monkey so tightly that he could not escape. "Think first, think first!" said the monkey. "Mark you, Mr. Crocodile! I am now the cook of his Majesty the king. Those bright-red breads have been intrusted to my care," and the monkey pointed to the pepper-shrubs. "The moment you kill me, the king will arrive with thousands of well-armed troops, and will punish you." The crocodile was frightened by what the monkey said. "Mr. Monkey, I did not mean to harm you," he said. "I will set you free if you will let me eat only as many pieces of bread as will relieve my hunger." "Eat all you can," responded the monkey kindly. "Take as many as you please. They are free to you." Without another word, the crocodile let the monkey go, and rushed at the heavily-laden bushes. The monkey slipped away secretly, and climbed up a tree, where he could enjoy the discomfiture of his voracious friend. The crocodile began to cough, sneeze, and scratch his tongue. When he rushed to the river to cool his mouth, the monkey only laughed at him. MORAL: Use your own judgment; do not rely on the counsel of others, for it is the father of destruction and ruin. Notes. Like the monkey and the turtle, the monkey and the crocodile have been traditional enemies from time immemorial. In our present group of stories, however, the rôles are reversed: the monkey is clever; the water-animal (crocodile), cruel and stupid. Two very early forms of this tale are the "Vanarinda-jataka," No. 57, which tells how the crocodile lay on a rock to catch the monkey, and how the latter outwitted the crocodile; and the "Sumsumara-jataka," No. 208, in which a crocodile wanted the heart of a monkey, and the monkey pretended that it was hanging on a fig-tree. From the Buddhistic writings the story made its way into the famous collection known as the "Kalilah and Dimnah," of which it forms the ninth chapter in De Sacy's edition, and the fifth section in the later Syriac version (English translation by I. G. N. Keith-Falconer, Cambridge, 1885). In the "Pancatantra" this story forms the framework for the fourth book. For a discussion of the variations this tale underwent when it passed over into other collections and spread through Europe, see Benfey, 1 : 421 ff. Apparently Benfey did not know of these two Buddhistic birth-stories; but he has shown very ingeniously that most of the fables in the "Pancatantra" go back to Buddhistic writings. Nor can there be any doubt in this case, either, though it is not to be supposed that the five hundred and forty-seven Jatakas were invented by the Buddhistic scribes who wrote them down. Many of them are far older than Buddhism. Our Zambal form of the story does not represent the purest version. A variant much closer to the Buddhistic and close to the Tagalog is a tale collected by Wenceslao Vitug of Lubao, Pampanga. He says that the story is very common throughout his province, and is well known in the Visayas. His version follows in abstract form:-- A crocodile goes out to look for a monkey-liver for his wife, who is confined at home. As the crocodile starts to cross a stream, a monkey asks for passage on its back. The crocodile gladly complies, and, on arriving in mid-stream, laughs at the credulous monkey, and tells him that he must have a monkey-liver. The monkey says, "Why didn't you tell me before? There's one on a tree near the bank we just left." The simple crocodile went back to the bank, whereupon the monkey escaped and scrambled up into a tree to laugh at the crocodile. The crocodile then tried to "play dead," but he could not fool the monkey. Next he decided to go to the monkey's house. The monkey, suspecting his design, said aloud, "When no one is in my house, it answers when I call." The crocodile inside was foolish enough to answer when the monkey called to his house, and the monkey ran away laughing. Our Zambal story has evidently been contaminated with the story of "The Monkey and the Turtle;" for it lacks the characteristic incident of the monkey-heart (or liver), and contains incident H from our No. 55. However, it does preserve an allusion to the principal episode of the cycle,--in the ride the monkey takes on the crocodile's back across the stream. Other Oriental versions of the "heart on tree" incident are the following: Chinese, S. Beal's "Romantic Legend of Sâkya Buddha" (London, 1875), pp. 231-234, where a dragon takes the place of the crocodile; Swahili, Steere, p. i, where, instead of a crocodile, we have a shark (so also Bateman, No. I); Japanese, W. E. Griffis's "Japanese Fairy World," p. 144, where the sea-animal is a jelly-fish. An interesting Russian variant, in which a fox takes the place of the monkey, is printed in the Cambridge Jataka, 2 : 110. Once upon a time the king of the fishes was wanting in wisdom. His advisers told him that, once he could get the heart of a fox, he would become wise. So he sent a deputation consisting of the great magnates of the sea,--whales and others. "Our king wants your advice on some state affairs." The fox, flattered, consented. A whale took him on his back. On the way the waves beat upon him. At last he asked what they really wanted. They said what their king really wanted was to eat his heart, by which he hoped to become clever. He said, "Why didn't you tell me that before? I would gladly sacrifice my life for such a worthy object. But we foxes always leave our hearts at home. Take me back, and I'll fetch it. Otherwise I'm sure your king will be angry." So they took him back. As soon as he got near to the shore, he leaped on land, and cried, "Ah, you fools! Have you ever heard of an animal not carrying his heart with him?" and ran off. The fish had to return empty. A reminiscence of this incident is also found in Steel-Temple, No. XXI, "The Jackal and the Partridge," where a partridge induces a crocodile to carry her and the jackal across a river, and en route suggests that he should upset the jackal, but at last dissuades him by saying that the jackal had left his life behind him on the other shore. Related to our Zambal story are two modern Indian folk-tales in which a jackal is substituted for the monkey (this substitution is analogous to the Indian substitution of the jackal for the Philippines monkey in the "Puss-in-Boots" cycle). In the first of these--Frere, No. XXIV, "The Alligator and the Jackal"--we have the incident of the house answering when the owner calls. In Steel-Temple, No. XXXI, "The Jackal and the Crocodile," the jackal makes love to the crocodile, and induces her, under promise of marriage, to swim him across a stream to some fruit he wants to eat. When she has brought him back, he says that he thinks it may be a long time before he can make arrangements for the wedding. The crocodile, in revenge, watches till he comes to drink, and then seizes him by the leg. The jackal tells her that she has got hold of a root instead of his leg: so she lets go, and he escapes. Next she goes to his den to wait for him, and shams dead. When the jackal sees her, he says that the dead always wag their tails. The crocodile wags hers, and the jackal skips off. Closely connected with this last is a story by Rouse, No. 20, "The Cunning Jackal," only here the jackal's opponent is a turtle. The original, unadapted story runs thus as given in the notes by Mr. Rouse:-- Jackal sees melons on the other side of the river. Sees a tortoise. "How are you and your family?"--"I am well, but I have no wife."-"Why did you not tell me? Some people on the other side have asked me to find a match for their daughter."--"If you mean it, I will take you across." Takes him across on his back. When the melons are over (gone?), the jackal dresses up a jhan-tree as a bride. "There is your bride, but she is too modest to speak till I am gone." Tortoise carries him back. Calls to the stump. No answer,--Goes up and touches it. Finds it a tree. Vows revenge. As jackal drinks, catches his leg. "You fool! you have got hold of a stump by mistake; see, here is my leg!" pointing to stump. Tortoise leaves hold, Jackal escapes. Tortoise goes to jackal's den. Jackal returns, and sees the footprints leading into the den. Piles dry leaves at the mouth, and fires them. Tortoise expires. Compare also a Borneo tale of a mouse-deer and a crocodile (Evans, 475). In a Santal story (Bompas, No. CXXIII, "The Jackal and the Leopards") a jackal tricks some leopards. In the second half he outwits a crocodile. Crocodile seizes jackal's leg. Jackal: "What a fool of a crocodile to seize a tree instead of my leg!" Crocodile lets go, and jackal escapes. Crocodile hides in a straw-stack to wait for jackal. Jackal comes along wearing a sheep-bell it has found. Crocodile says, "What a bother! Here comes a sheep, and I am waiting for the jackal." Jackal hears the exclamation, bums the straw-stack, and kills the crocodile. The "Vanarinda-jataka," No. 57, contains what I believe is the original of the "house-answering owner" droll episode in our Pampangan variant. The monkey suspected the crocodile of lurking on the rock to catch him: so he shouted, "Hi, rock!" three times, but received no answer. Then he said, "How comes it, Friend Rock, that you won't answer me to-day?" The crocodile, thinking that perhaps it was the custom of the rock to return the greeting, answered for the rock; whereupon the monkey knew of his presence, and escaped by a trick. The "house-answering owner" episode is also found in a Zanzibar tale of "The Hare and the Lion" (Bateman, No. 2, pp. 42-43). The hare here suggests a Buddhistic source. Of all the modern Oriental forms of the story, our Tagalog version and Pampangan variant are closest to the Jatakas, and we may conclude without hesitation that they mark a direct line of descent from India. The fact that the story is popular in many parts of the Islands makes it highly improbable that it was re-introduced to the Orient through a Spanish translation of the "Kalilah and Dimnah." For further bibliography and discussion of this cycle, see Dähnhardt, 4 : 1-26. TALE 57 THE MONKEYS AND THE DRAGON-FLIES. Narrated by Pedro D. L. Sorreta, a Bicol from Albay, who says that the story is very common in the island of Catanduanes. One day, when the sun was at the zenith and the air was very hot, a poor dragon-fly, fatigued with her long journey, alighted to rest on a branch of a tree in which a great many monkeys lived. While she was fanning herself with her wings, a monkey approached her, and said, "Aha! What are you doing here, wretched creature?" "O sir! I wish you would permit me to rest on this branch while the sun is so hot," said the dragon-fly softly. "I have been flying all morning, and I am so hot and tired that I can go no farther," she added. "Indeed!" exclaimed the monkey in a mocking tone. "We don't allow any weak creature such as you are to stay under our shelter. Go away!" he said angrily, and, taking a dry twig, he threw it at the poor creature. The dragon-fly, being very quick, had flown away before the cruel monkey could hit her. She hurried to her brother the king, and told him what had happened. The king became very angry, and resolved to make war on the monkeys. So he despatched three of his soldiers to the king of the monkeys with this challenge:-- "The King of the Monkeys. "Sir,--As one of your subjects has treated my sister cruelly, I am resolved to kill you and your subjects with all speed. "DRAGON." The monkey-king laughed at the challenge. He said to the messengers, "Let your king and his soldiers come to the battle-field, and they will see how well my troops fight." "You don't mean what you say, cruel king," answered the messengers. "You should not judge before the fight is over." "What fools, what fools!" exclaimed the king of the monkeys. "Go to your ruler and tell him my answer," and he drove the poor little creatures away. When the king of the dragon-flies received the reply, he immediately ordered his soldiers to go to the battle-field, but without anything to fight with. Meanwhile the monkeys came, each armed with a heavy stick. Then the monkey-king shouted, "Strike the flying creatures with your clubs!" When King Dragon heard this order, he commanded his soldiers to alight on the foreheads of their enemies. Then the monkeys began to strike at the dragon-flies, which were on the foreheads of their companions. The dragon-flies were very quick, and were not hurt at all: but the monkeys were all killed. Thus the light, quick-witted dragon-flies won the victory over the strong but foolish monkeys. Notes. A Visayan variant, "The Ape and the Firefly" (JAFL 20 : 314) shows the firefly making use of the same ruse the dragon-flies employ to get the monkeys to slay one another. The first part of this variant is connected with our No. 60. The "killing fly on head" incident we have already met with in No. 9, in the notes to which I have pointed out Buddhistic parallels. It also occurs in No. 60 (d). In a German story (Grimm, No. 68, "The Dog and the Sparrow") the sparrow employs the same trick to bring ruin and death on a heartless wagoner who has cruelly run over the dog. A closer analogue is the Celebes fable of "The Butterfly and the Ten Monkeys," given in Bezemer, p. 292. Our story belongs to the large cycle of tales in which is represented a war between the winged creatures of the air and the four-footed beasts. In these stories, as Grimm says in his notes to No. 102, "The Willow-Wren and the Bear," "the leading idea is the cunning of the small creatures triumphing over the large ones .... The willow-wren is the ruler, for the saga accepts the least as king as readily as the greatest." For the bibliography of the cycle and related cycles, see Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 517-519, and 2 : 435-438, to which add the "Latukika-jataka," No. 357, which tells how a quail brought about the destruction of an elephant that had killed her young ones. I am inclined to think that the Bicol and Visayan stories belonging to this group are native--at least, have not been derived through the Spanish. I have another Visayan story, however, relating a war between the land and the air creatures, which may possibly have come from the Occident. It was narrated by José R. Cuadra, and runs thus:-- The Battle between the Birds and the Beasts. A great discussion once took place between the lion, king of the land-animals, and the bat, king of the air-animals, over the relative strength of each. The lion claimed to be more powerful than the bat, while the bat claimed to be more powerful than the lion. The final outcome was a declaration of war. The lion then called a general meeting of all his subjects. Among them were tigers, leopards, elephants, carabaos, wolves, and other fierce land-animals. The carabao was appointed leader of the army. Each animal in turn made a speech to the king, promising a sure victory for him. At the same time the bat also called a general meeting of his subjects. There were present all kinds of birds and insects. The leadership of the army was given to the bees and the wasps. Early in the morning the two opposing armies were assembled on the battle-field. At a given signal the battle began. The land-animals tried to chase the air-animals, but in vain, for they could not leave the ground. The bees and wasps were busy stinging the eyes and bodies of their enemy. At last the land-animals retired defeated, because they could not endure longer their severe punishment. TALE 58 THE MONKEY, THE TURTLE, AND THE CROCODILE. Narrated by Vicente Hilario, a Tagalog from Batangas. He heard the story from his father, who said that it is common among the country people around Batangas town. There was once a monkey who used to deceive everybody whom he met. As is the case with most deceivers, he had many enemies who tried to kill him. One day, while he was walking in the streets of his native town, he met in a by-lane a turtle and a crocodile. They were so tired that they could hardly breathe. "I'll try to deceive these slow creatures of the earth," said the monkey to himself. So said, so done. He approached the crocodile and turtle, and said to them, "My dear sirs, you are so tired that you can hardly move! Where did you come from?" The two travellers were so much affected by the kind words of the monkey, that they told him all about themselves with the greatest candor imaginable. They said, "We are strangers who have just made a long journey from our native town. We don't know where to get food or where to spend this cold night." "I'll conduct you to a place where you can spend the night and get all you want to eat," said the monkey. "All right," said the two travellers. "Lead on! for we are very hungry and at the same time very tired." "Follow me," said the crafty monkey. The turtle and the crocodile followed the monkey, and soon he brought them to a field full of ripe pumpkins. "Eat all the pumpkins you want, and then rest here. Meanwhile I'll go home and take my sleep, too." While the two hungry travellers were enjoying a hearty meal, the owner of the plantation happened to pass by. When he saw the crocodile, he called to his laborers, and told them to bring long poles and their bolos. The turtle clung to the tail of the crocodile, and away they went. "Don't cling to my tail! Don't cling to my tail!" said the crocodile. "I cannot run fast if you cling to my tail. Let go! for the men will soon overtake us." "I have to cling to your tail," said the turtle, "or else there will be no one to push you." But their attempt to escape was unsuccessful. The men overtook them and killed them both. Such was the unhappy end of the turtle and the crocodile. MORAL: Never trust a new friend or an old enemy. Notes. I know of no exact parallels for this story, though the character of the monkey as depicted here is similar to that in No. 55. Compare with it the rôle of the deceitful jackal in some of the South African stories (e.g., Metelerkamp, No. v; Honeÿ, 22, 24, 45, 105, etc.). This may be a sort of "compensation story," manufactured long ago, however, in which the monkey gets even with his two traditional opponents, the crocodile and the turtle. TALE 59 THE IGUANA AND THE TURTLE. Narrated by Sixto Guico of Binalonan, Pangasinan, who says that the story is fairly common among the Pangasinanes. Once upon a time there lived two good friends,--an iguana and a turtle. They always went fishing together. One day the turtle invited the iguana to go catch fish in a certain pond that he knew of. After they had been there about two hours, the old man who owned the pond came along. The iguana escaped, but the turtle was caught. The old man took the turtle home, tied a string around its neck, and fastened it under the house. Early in the morning the iguana went to look for his friend the turtle. The iguana wandered everywhere looking for him, and finally he found him under the old man's house, tied to a post. "What are you doing here, my friend?" said the iguana. "That old man wants me to marry his daughter, but I do not want to marry her," said the turtle. Now, the iguana very much wanted a wife, and he was delighted at this chance. So he asked the turtle to be allowed to take his place. The turtle consented. So the iguana released the turtle, and was tied up in his place. Then the turtle made off as fast as he could. When the old man woke up, he heard some one saying over and over again, "I want to marry your daughter." He became angry, and went down under the house to see who was talking. There he found the iguana saying, "I want to marry your daughter." The old man picked up a big stick to beat its head, but the iguana cut the string and ran away. On his way he came across the turtle again, who was listening to the sound produced by the rubbing of two bamboos when the wind blew. "What! are you here again?" said the iguana. "Be quiet!" said the turtle. "I am listening to the pipe of my grandfather up there. Don't you hear it?" The iguana wanted to see the turtle's grandfather, so he climbed up the tree, and put his mouth between the two bamboos that were rubbing together. His mouth was badly pinched, and he fell down to the ground. The turtle meanwhile had disappeared. MORAL: This teaches that the one who believes foolishly will be injured. Notes. This story is doubtless native. A Tinguian tale related to ours is given by Cole (No. 78), whose abstract runs thus:-- A turtle and lizard go to stem ginger. The lizard talks so loudly that he attracts the attention of the owner. The turtle hides; but the lizard runs, and is pursued by the man. The turtle enters the house, and hides under a cocoanut-shell. When the man sits on the shell, the turtle calls. He cannot discover source of noise, and thinks it comes from his testicles. He strikes these with a stone, and dies. The turtle and the lizard see a bees' nest. The lizard hastens to get it, and is stung. They see a bird-snare, and turtle claims it as the necklace of his father. Lizard runs to get it, but is caught and killed. Some of the incidents found in the Tinguian story we have met with in No. 55; e.g., episodes K, J, L, and "king's bell." Indeed, there appears to be a close connection between the "Monkey and Turtle" group and this story. A Borneo tale of the mouse-deer (plandok), small turtle (kikura), long-tailed monkey (kra), and bear contains the "king's necklace" incident, and many other situations worthy of notice. A brief summary of the droll, which may be found in Roth, 1 : 342-346, is here given:-- The Kikura deceives the Plandok with the necklace sell (snare), and the Plandok is caught. When the hunter comes up, the little animal feigns death, and is thrown away. Immediately it jumps up, and is off to revenge itself on the turtle. It entices the turtle into a covered pit by pretending to give it a good place to sleep. Man examining pitfall discovers turtle, and fastens it with a forked stick. Monkey comes along, exchanges places with the turtle, but escapes with his life by feigning dead, as did the Plandok. Monkey, turtle, and Plandok go fishing. Monkey steals ride across stream on back of good-natured fish, which he later treacherously kills. The three friends prepare the fish, and Bruin comes along. Fearing the size of the bear's appetite, they send him to wash the pan; and when he returns, fish, monkey, turtle, and mouse-deer have disappeared. The escape of snared animals and birds by shamming dead, and then making off when the bunter or fowler throws them aside as worthless, is commonly met with in Buddhistic fables. TALE 60 THE TRIAL AMONG THE ANIMALS. Narrated by Domingo Pineda of Pampanga. In ancient times Sinukuan, the judge of the animals, lived in one of the caves of Mount Arayat. He had formerly lived in a neighboring town; but, since he was so brave and strong, the people began to envy him, then to hate him. At last they made so many plots against his life, that he gave up all his property and friends in the town, and went to live in Mount Arayat, where he devoted all his time to gaining the friendship of the animals there. Now, it was not hard for Sinukuan to win the love of the animals, for he had the power of changing himself into whatever form he pleased; and he always took the form of those animals who came to him. It was not long before all the animals realized the power, wisdom, and justice of their good companion, so they made him their judge. One day a bird came to Sinukuan's court, and asked Sinukuan to punish the frog for being so noisy during the night, while it was trying to sleep. Sinukuan summoned the troublesome frog, and asked him the reason for his misbehavior. The frog answered respectfully, "Sir, I was only crying for help, because the turtle was carrying his house on his back, and I feared that I might be buried under it." "That is good enough reason," said Sinukuan; "you are free." The turtle was the next to be summoned to Sinukuan's court. On his arrival, he humbly replied to the question of the judge, "Honorable Judge, I carried my house with me, because the firefly was playing with fire, and I was afraid he might set fire to my home. Is it not right to protect one's house from fire?" "A very good reason; you are free," said Sinukuan. In the same way the firefly was brought to court the next day, and when the judge asked him why he was playing with fire, he said in a soft voice, "It was because I have no other means with which to protect myself from the sharp-pointed dagger of the mosquito." This seemed a reasonable answer, so the firefly was liberated too. Finally the mosquito was tried; and, since he did not have any good reason to give for carrying his dagger, Sinukuan sentenced him to three days' imprisonment. The mosquito was obliged to submit; and it was during this confinement of the mosquito that he lost his voice. Ever since, the male mosquito has had no voice; and he has been afraid to carry his dagger, for fear of greater punishment. The Pugu's Case. Narrated by Bienvenido Tan of Manila, who got the story from Pampanga. "Why, horse," said the pugu (a small bird), "did you touch my eggs, so that now they are broken?" "Because," said the horse, "the cock crowed, and I was startled." "Why, cock," said the pugu, "did you crow, so that the horse was startled and broke my eggs?" "Because," said the cock, "I saw the turtle carrying his house; that made me crow." "Why, turtle," said the pugu, "did you carry your house with you, so that the cock crowed, and the horse was startled and broke my eggs?" "Because," said the turtle, "the firefly was carrying fire, and I was afraid that he would burn my house." "Why, firefly," said the pugu, "did you bring fire, so that the turtle was frightened and carried his house, and the cock crowed when he saw him, and the horse was startled and broke my eggs?" "Because," said the firefly, "the mosquito will sting me if I have no light." "Why, mosquito," said the pugu, "did you try to sting the firefly, so that he had to carry fire, so that the turtle was frightened and carried his house, so that the cock laughed at the turtle, so that the horse was startled and broke my eggs?" "Because," said the mosquito, "Juan put up his mosquito-net, and there was nobody for me to sting except the firefly (alipatpat.)" "Why, Juan," said the pugu, "did you put up your mosquito-net? The mosquito could not sting you, and tried to harm the firefly; the firefly brought fire; the turtle was frightened, and carried his house with him; the cock crowed when he saw the turtle; the horse was startled when he heard the cock, and broke my eggs." "Because," said Juan, "I did not care to lose any blood." Why Mosquitoes Hum and Try to get into the Holes of our Ears. Narrated by Fermin Torralba, a Visayan from Tagbilaran, Bohol. He heard the story from an old man of his province. A long time ago, when the world was much quieter and younger than it is now, people told and believed many strange stories about wonderful things which none of us have ever seen. In those very early times, in the province of Bohol, there lived a creature called Mangla; [101] he was king of the crabs. One night, as he was very tired and sleepy, Mangla ordered his old sheriff, Cagang, [102] leader of the small land-crabs, to call his followers, Bataktak, [103] before him. Although the sheriff was old, yet he brought them all in in a very short time. Then Mangla said to the Bataktak, "You must all watch my house while I am sleeping; but do not make any noise that will waken me." The Bataktak said, "We are always ready to obey you." So Mangla went to sleep. While he was snoring, it began to rain so hard that the guards could not help laughing. The king awoke very angry; but, as he was still very tired and sleepy, he did not immediately ask the Bataktak why they laughed. He waited till morning came. So, as soon as the sun shone, he called the Bataktak, and said to them, "Why did you laugh last night? Did I not tell you not to make any noise?" The Bataktak answered softly, "We could not help laughing, because last night we saw our old friend Hu-man [104] carrying his house on his shoulder." On account of this reasonable reply, the king pardoned the Bataktak. Then he called his sheriff, and told him to summon Hu-man. In a short time he came. The king at once said to him, "What did you do last night?" "Sir," replied Hu-man humbly, "I was carrying my house, because Aninipot [105] was bringing fire, and I was afraid that my only dwelling would be burned." This answer seemed reasonable to the king, so he pardoned Hu-man. Then he told his sheriff Cagang to summon Aninipot. When Aninipot appeared, the king, with eyes flashing with anger, said to the culprit, "Why were you carrying fire last night?" Aninipot was very much frightened, but he did not lose his wits. In a trembling voice he answered, "Sir, I was carrying fire, because Lamoc [106] was always trying to bite me. To protect myself, I am going to carry fire all the time." The king thought that Aninipot had a good reason, so he pardoned him also. The king now realized that there was a great deal of trouble brewing in his kingdom, of which he would not have been aware if he had not been awakened by the Bataktak. So he sent his sheriff to get Lamoc. In a short time Cagang appeared with Lamoc. But Lamoc, before he left his own house, had told all his companions to follow him, for he expected trouble. Before Lamoc reached the palace, the king was already shouting with rage, so Lamoc approached the king and bit his face. Then Mangla cried out, "It is true, what I heard from Bataktak, Hu-man, and Aninipot!" The king at once ordered his sheriff to kill Lamoc; but, before Cagang could carry out the order, the companions of Lamoc rushed at him. He killed Lamoc, however, and then ran to his home, followed by Lamoc's friends, who were bent on avenging the murder. As Cagang's house was very deep under the ground, Lamoc's friends could not get in, so they remained and hummed around the door. Even to-day we can see that at the doors of the houses of Cagang and his followers there are many friends of Lamoc humming and trying to go inside. It is said that the Lamoc mistake the holes of our ears for the house of Cagang, and that that is the reason mosquitoes hum about our ears now. A Tyrant. Narrated by Facundo Esquivel of Jaen, Nueva Ecija. This is a Tagalog story. Once there lived a tyrannical king. One of his laws prohibited the people from talking loudly. Even when this law had been put in force, he still was not satisfied: so he ordered the law to be enforced among the animals. One of his officers once heard a frog croak. The officer caught the frog and carried it before the king. The king began the trial by saying, "Don't you know that there is a law prohibiting men and animals from making a noise?" "Yes, your Majesty," said the frog, "but I could not help laughing to see the snail carrying his house with him wherever he goes." The king was satisfied with the frog's answer, so he dismissed him and called the snail. "Why do you always carry your house with you?" asked the king. "Because," said the snail, "I am always afraid the firefly is going to burn it." The king next ordered the firefly to appear before him. The king then said to the firefly, "Why do you carry fire with you always?" "Because the mosquitoes will bite me if I do not carry this fire," said the firefly. This answer seemed reasonable to the king, so he summoned the mosquito. When the mosquito was asked why he was always trying to bite some one, he said, "Why, sir, I cannot live without biting somebody." The king was tired of the long trial, so with the mosquito he determined to end it. After hearing the answer of the mosquito, he said, "From now on you must not bite anybody. You have no right to do so." The mosquito tried to protest the sentence, but the king seized his mallet and determined to crush the mosquito with it. When the mosquito saw what the king was going to do, he alighted on the forehead of the king. The king became very angry at this insult, and hit the mosquito hard. He killed the mosquito, but he also put an end to his own tyranny. MORAL: It is foolish to carry matters to extremes. Notes. A fifth form (e) of this "clock" story is "The Bacuit's Case," narrated by W. Vitug of Lubao, Pampanga. As I have this tale only in abstract, I give it here in that form:-- The bacuit (small, light gray bird which haunts marshes and ponds) went to the eagle-king and brought suit against the frog because the latter croaked all night, thus keeping the bacuit awake. The frog said he croaked for fear of the turtle, who always carried his house with him. The turtle, being summoned, explained that he carried his house with him for fear that the firefly would set it on fire. The firefly, in turn, showed that it was necessary for him to carry his lamp in order to find his food. There is a striking agreement of incident in all these stories, as may be seen from the following abstracts of the versions. Version a (Pampango), "Trial among Animals." Bird vs. frog; frog vs, turtle; turtle vs. firefly; firefly vs. mosquito. Version b (Pampango), "The Pugu's Case." Pugu vs. horse; horse vs. cock; cock vs. turtle; turtle vs. firefly, firefly vs. mosquito; mosquito vs. Juan. Version c (Visayan), "Why Mosquitoes Hum." Crab vs. frogs; frogs vs. snail; snail vs. firefly; firefly vs. mosquito. Version d (Tagalog) "A Tyrant". King's officer vs. frog; frog vs. snail; snail vs. firefly; firefly vs. mosquito. Version e (Pampango), "The Bacuit's Case." Bacuit vs. frog; frog vs. turtle; turtle vs. firefly. With the exception of the substitution of snail for turtle, and crab for bird, in the Tagalog and Visayan versions, four of these forms (a, c, d, e) are practically identical. Pampango e lacks the fourth link in the chain (firefly vs. mosquito). Pampango b adds one link (horse vs. cock), and substitutes cock for frog; the method of narration varies somewhat from the others, also. The punishment of the mosquito differs in a, c, and d. "The Trial among Animals" develops into a "just-so" story, and may be a connecting link between a Tinguian fable (Cole, No. 84) and two Borneo sayings (Evans, 447). In the Tinguian, a mosquito came to bite a man. The man said, "You are very little, and can do nothing to me." The mosquito answered, "If you had no ears, I would eat you." The Bajan (Borneo) saying is, "Mosquitoes do not make their buzzing unless they are near men's ears; and then they say, 'If these were not your ears, I would swallow you.'" The Dusun version (Borneo) is, "The mosquito says, 'If these were not your horns, I would swallow you.'" The "killing fly on face" droll episode, which terminates the Tagalog version (d), we have already met with twice, Nos. 9 and 57 (q.v.). The link "firefly vs. mosquito" is found in the Visayan story "The Ape and the Firefly" (JAFL 20 : 314). There can be no question but that this cycle is native to the Islands, and was not imported from the Occident. A Malayan story given by Skeat (Fables and Folk-Tales from an Eastern Forest, 9-12), "Who Killed the Otter's Babies?" is clearly related to our tales, at least in idea and method:-- The mouse-deer (plandok) is charged with killing the otter's babies by trampling them to death, but excuses himself by saying that he was frightened because the woodpecker sounded his war-gong. In the trial before King Solomon, the above facts come out, and the woodpecker is asked why he sounded the war-gong. WOODPECKER. Because the great lizard was wearing his sword. GREAT LIZARD. Because the tortoise had donned his coat of mail. TORTOISE. Because King Crab was trailing his three-edged pike. KING CRAB. Because Crayfish was shouldering his lance. CRAYFISH. Because Otter was coming down to devour my children. Thus the cause of the death of the otter's children is traced to the otter himself. Another Far-Eastern story from Laos (French Indo-China), entitled "Right and Might" (Fleeson, 27), is worth notice:-- A deer, frightened by the noise of an owl and a cricket, flees through the forest and into a stream, where it crushes a small fish almost to death. The fish complains to the court; and the deer, owl, cricket, and fish have a lawsuit. In the trial comes out this evidence: As the deer fled, he ran into some dry grass, and the seed fell into the eye of a wild chicken, and the pain caused by the seed made the chicken fly up against a nest of red ants. Alarmed, the red ants flew out to do battle, and in their haste bit a mongoose. The mongoose ran into a vine of wild fruit, and shook several pieces of it on the head of a hermit, who sat thinking under a tree. The hermit then asked the fruit why it fell, and the fruit blamed the mongoose; mongoose blamed ants; ants blamed chicken; chicken blamed seed; seed blamed deer; deer blamed owl. "O Owl!" asked the hermit, "why didst thou frighten the deer?" The owl replied, "I called but as I am accustomed to call; the cricket, too, called." Having heard the evidence, the judge says, "The cricket must replace the crushed parts of the fish and make it well," as he, the cricket, called and frightened the deer. Since the cricket is smaller and weaker than the owl or the deer, he had to bear the penalty. TALE 61 THE GREEDY CROW. Narrated by Agapito O. Gaa, from Taal, Batangas. He heard the story from an old Tagalog man who is now dead. One day a crow found a piece of meat on the ground. He picked it up and flew to the top of a tree. While he was sitting there eating his meat, a kasaykasay (a small bird) passed by. She was carrying a dead rat, and was flying very fast. The crow called to her, and said, "Kasaykasay, where did you get that dead rat that you have?" But the small bird did not answer: she flew on her way. When the crow saw that she paid no attention to him, he was very angry; and he called out, "Kasaykasay, Kasaykasay, stop and give me a piece of that rat, or I will follow you and take the whole thing for myself!" Still the small bird paid no attention to him. At last, full of greed and rage, the crow determined to have the rat by any means. He left the meat he was eating, and flew after the small creature. Although she was only a little bird, the Kasaykasay could fly faster than the crow--so he could not catch her. While the crow was chasing the Kasaykasay, a hawk happened to pass by the tree where the crow had left his meat. The hawk saw the meat, and at once seized it in his claws and flew away. Although the crow pursued the Kasaykasay a long time, he could not overtake her: so at last he gave up his attempt, and flew back to the tree where he had left his meat. But when he came to the spot, and found that the meat was gone, he was almost ready to die of disappointment and hunger. By and by the hawk which had taken the meat passed the tree again. He called to the crow, and said to him, "Mr. Crow, do you know that I am the one who took your meat? If not, I will tell you now, and I am very sorry for you." The crow did not answer the hawk, for he was so tired and weak that he could hardly breathe. The moral of this story is this: Do not be greedy. Be contented with what you have, and do not wish for what you do not own. Notes. This fable appears to be distantly related to the European fable of "The Dog and his Shadow." More closely connected, however, is an apologue incorporated in a Buddhistic birth-story, the "Culladhanuggaha-jataka," No. 374. In this Indian story,-- An unfaithful wife eloping with her lover arrives at the bank of a stream. There the lover persuades her to strip herself, so that he may carry her clothes across the stream, which he proceeds to do, but never returns. Indra, seeing her plight, changes himself into a jackal bearing a piece of meat, and goes down to the bank of the stream. In its waters fish are disporting; and the Indra-jackal, laying aside his meat, plunges in after one of them. A vulture hovering near seizes hold of the meat and bears it aloft; and the jackal, returning unsuccessful from his fishing, is taunted by the woman, who had observed all this, in the first gatha:-- "O jackal so brown! most stupid are you; No skill have you got, not knowledge, nor wit; Your fish you have lost, your meat is all gone, And now you sit grieving all poor and forlorn." To which the Indra-jackal repeats the second gatha:-- "The faults of others are easy to see, But hard indeed our own are to behold; Thy husband thou hast lost, and lover eke, And now, I ween, thou grievest o'er thy loss." The same story is found in the "Pancatantra" (V, viii; see Benfey, I : 468), whence it made its way into the "Tuti-nameh." It does not appear to be known in the Occident in this form (it is lacking in the "Kalilah and Dimnah"). Although the details of our story differ from those of the Indian fable of "The Jackal and the Faithless Wife," the general outlines of the two are near enough to justify us in supposing a rather close connection between them. I know of no European analogues nearly so close, and am inclined to consider "The Greedy Crow" a native Tagalog tale. From the testimony of the narrator, it appears that the fable is not a recent importation. TALE 62 THE HUMMING-BIRD AND THE CARABAO. Narrated by Eusebio Lopez, a Tagalog from the province of Cavite. One hot April morning a carabao (water-buffalo) was resting under the shade of a quinine-tree which grew near the mouth of a large river, when a humming-bird alighted on one of the small branches above him. "How do you do, Friend Carabao?" said the humming-bird. "I'm very well, little Hum. Do you also feel the heat of this April morning?" replied the carabao. "Indeed, I do, Friend Carabao! and I am so thirsty, that I have come down to drink." "I wonder how much you can drink!" said the carabao jestingly. "You are so small, that a drop ought to be more than enough to satisfy you." "Yes, Friend Carabao?" answered little Hum as if surprised. "I bet you that I can drink more than you can!" "What, you drink more than I can, you little Hum!" "Yes, let us try! You drink first, and we shall see." So old carabao, ignorant of the trick that was being played on him, walked to the bank of the river and began to drink. He drank and drank and drank; but it so happened that the tide was rising, and, no matter how much he swallowed, the water in the river kept getting higher and higher. At last he could drink no more, and the humming-bird began to tease him. "Why, Friend Carabao, you have not drunk anything. It seems to me that you have added more water to the river instead." "You fool!" answered the carabao angrily, "can't you see that my stomach is almost bursting?" "Well, I don't know. I only know that you have added more water than there was before. But it is now my turn to drink." But the humming-bird only pretended to drink. He knew that the tide would soon be going out, so he just put his bill in the water, and waited until the tide did begin to ebb. The water of the river began to fall also. The carabao noticed the change, but he could not comprehend it. He was surprised, and agreed that he had been beaten. Little Hum flew away, leaving poor old Carabao stupefied and hardly able to move, because of the great quantity of water he had drunk. Notes. That this story was not imported from the Occident is pretty clearly established by the existence in North Borneo of a tale almost identical with it. The Borneo fable, which is told as a "just-so" story, and is entitled "The Kandowei [rice-bird] and the Kerbau [carabao]," may be found in Evans (pp. 423-424). It runs about as follows:-- The bird said to the buffalo, "If I were to drink the water of a stream, I could drink it all."--"I also," said the buffalo, "could finish it; for I am very big, while you are very small."--"Very well," said the bird, "tomorrow we will drink." In the morning, when the water was coming down in flood, the bird told the buffalo to drink first. The buffalo drank and drank; but the water only came down the faster, and at length he was forced to stop. So the buffalo said to the bird, "You can take my place and try, for I cannot finish." Now, the bird waited till the flood had gone down; and when it had done so, he put his beak into the water and pretended to drink. Then he waited till all the water had run away out of the stream, and said to the buffalo, "See, I have finished it!" And since the bird outwitted the buffalo in this manner, the buffalo has become his slave, and the bird rides on his back. I know of no other Philippine versions, but I dare say that many exist between Luzon and Mindanao. TALE 63 THE CAMANCHILE AND THE PASSION. Narrated by Fernando M. Maramag of Ilagan, Isabella province. He says that this is an Ilocano story. Once upon a time there grew in a forest a large camanchile-tree [107] with spreading branches. Near this tree grew many other trees with beautiful fragrant flowers that attracted travellers. The camanchile had no fragrant flowers; but still its crown was beautifully shaped, for the leaves received as much light as the leaves of the other trees. But the beauty of the crown proved of no attraction to travellers, and they passed the tree by. One day Camanchile exclaimed aloud, "Oh, what a dreary life I lead! I would that I had flowers like the others, so that travellers would visit me often!" A vine by the name of Passion, which grew near by, heard Camanchile's exclamation. Now, this vine grew fairly close to the ground, and consequently received "only a small amount of light. Thinking that this was its opportunity to improve its condition, it said, "Camanchile, why is your life dreary?" "Ah, Passion!" replied Camanchile, "just imagine that you were unappreciated, as I am! Travellers never visit me, for I have no flowers." "Oh, that's easy!" said Passion. "Just let me climb on you, and I'll display on your crown my beautiful flowers. Then many persons will come to see you." Camanchile consented, and let Passion climb up on him. After a few days Passion reached the top of the tree, and soon covered the crown. A few months later Camanchile realized that he was being smothered: he could not get light, so he asked Passion to leave him. "O Passion! what pain I am in! I can't get light. Your beauty is of no value. I am being smothered: so leave me, I beg of you!" Passion would not leave Camanchile, however, and so Camanchile died. MORAL: Be yourself. Note. With this story compare the "Palasa-jataka," No. 370, which tells how a Judas-tree was destroyed by the parasitic growth of a banyan-shoot. The general idea is the same in both stories, though I hardly suspect that ours is descended from the Indian. The situation of a tree choked to death by a parasite is such a commonplace in everyday experience, that a moral story based on it might arise spontaneously almost anywhere. TALE 64 AUAC AND LAMIRAN. Narrated by Anastacia Villegas of Arayat, Pampanga. She heard the story from her father, and says that it is well known among the Pampangans. Once Auac, a hawk, stole a salted fish which was hanging in the sun to dry. He flew with it to a branch of a camanchile-tree, where he sat down and began to eat. As he was eating, Lamiran, a squirrel who had his house in a hole at the foot of the tree, saw Auac. Lamiran looked up, and said, "What beautiful shiny black feathers you have, Auac!" When he heard this praise, the hawk looked very dignified. Nevertheless he was much pleased. He fluttered his wings. "You are especially beautiful, Auac, when you walk; for you are very graceful," continued the squirrel. Auac, who did not understand the trick that was being played on him, hopped along the branch with the air of a king. "I heard some one say yesterday that your voice is so soft and sweet, that every one who listens to your song is charmed. Please let me hear some of your notes, you handsome Auac!" said the cunning Lamiran. Auac, feeling more proud and dignified than ever, opened his mouth and sang, "Uac-uac-uac-uac!" As he uttered his notes, the fish in his beak fell to the ground, and Lamiran got it. A heron which was standing on the back of a water-buffalo near by saw the affair. He said, "Auac, let me give you a piece of advice. Do not always believe what others tell you, but think for yourself; and remember that 'ill-gotten gains never prosper.'" Notes. This is the old story of the "Fox and Crow [and cheese]," the bibliography for which is given by Jacobs (2 : 236). Jacobs sees a connection between this fable and two Buddhistic apologues:-- (1) The "Jambu-khadaka-jataka," No. 294, in which we find a fox (jackal) and a crow flattering each other. The crow is eating jambus, when he is addressed thus by the jackal:-- "Who may this be, whose rich and pleasant notes Proclaim him best of all the singing birds, Warbling so sweetly on the jambu-branch, Where like a peacock he sits firm and grand!" The crow replies,-- "'Tis a well-bred young gentleman who knows To speak of gentlemen in terms polite! Good sir,--whose shape and glossy coat reveal The tiger's offspring,--eat of these, I pray!" Buddha, in the form of the genius of the jambu-tree, comments thus on their conversation:-- "Too long, forsooth, I've borne the sight Of these poor chatterers of lies,-- The refuse-eater and the offal-eater Belauding each other." (2) The "Anta-jataka," No. 295, in which the rôles are reversed, the crow wheedling flesh from the jackal; here, too, the Buddha comments as above. Our Pampangan story is of particular interest because of the moralizing of the heron at the end, making the form close to that of the two Jatakas. Possibly our story goes back to some old Buddhistic fable like these. The squirrel (or "wild-cat," as Bergafio's "Vocabulario," dated 1732, defines lamiran) is not a very happy substitution for the original ground-animal, whatever that was; for the squirrel could reach a fish hanging to dry almost as easily as a bird could. Besides, squirrels are not carnivorous. Doubtless the older meaning of "wild-cat" should be adopted for lamiran. PART III "JUST-SO" STORIES. TALE 65 WHY THE ANT IS NOT SO VENOMOUS AS THE SNAKE. Narrated by Francisco M. Africa of Lipa, Batangas. This is a Tagalog story. God first created the earth. Then he took a rock from the earth and threw it on the terrestrial surface. When the rock was broken into many small pieces, he breathed into them the breath of life, and they became living creatures. At first these creatures, though differing in shapes and sizes, were not given different powers. Among these creatures of God's were the snake and the ant. One day the snake went to God to ask for power. It said, "I come to thee, O God! to ask for thy favor. The world thou hast just created is wild with confusion. I have come to ask thee to give me the special power to kill all those that are rebellious and troublesome." "Go back to your fellow-creatures!" answered God. "Hereafter you are endowed with the power to store in your teeth this poison. When you bite the vile and contemptible, inject into the wound some of this poison, and they will be killed; but first of all, observe their actions, and be conscientious and thoughtful." Then God gave the snake the poison. The snake returned to the earth in great joy. When the ant heard that the snake was endowed with such power, it at once went to God to ask that the same privilege be granted it. The ant found God on his heavenly throne, instructing his host of angels. The ant approached God, and addressed him thus: "O thou almighty God! my brother the snake has been granted a great privilege by thee. Why art thou so unkind to me? Give me the same power, and I will be of great aid to the snake in destroying sinners." God, thinking that the snake might need an assistant, gave the ant the same privilege that he had given the snake. The ant was so greatly overjoyed, that it ran as fast as it could to the earth. When God saw it running, he called to the ant, but it paid no attention to him. Then God, being very much enraged, took away some of the ant's power, lest the ant might use it unreasonably. And so to-day the ant's bite is not so poisonous as the snake's. Notes. Another form of this story, recorded by Andrea Silva, also of Lipa, Batangas, runs as follows:-- In the olden times, when this great universe was still young, the inhabitants of this Archipelago had a sacred belief in a superior god whom they called Bathala. He was the creator of all things. One day Bathala called the animals one by one, and bestowed upon each a gift, or the power of doing something. To the bird he gave the power to fly. Next Bathala called the ant, likewise intending to bestow on it more power than on any other animals, because it was so very small; but the ant was the most stupid and lazy of all creatures. It did not pay any attention to the summons of the god, but pretended to be deaf. Whereupon Bathala became so angry that he called the snake and gave to it the wonderful power that he had intended to give the ant. "You, Sir Snake, shall seldom be caught by any person, for you shall have the power of being very nimble. Besides, every one shall be afraid of you." When finally the ant appeared before the god, asking him for the gift he had promised, Bathala said, "O you poor, tiny, imprudent creature! Since you disobeyed your god, from now on you and your tribe shall meet with death very often, for you shall be pinched by those whom you bite." And so it is to-day that we pinch to death the ants whenever they bite us. The narrator testified that she heard the story from an old woman in her town of Lipa. So far as I know, this "just-so" fable of "The Ant and the Snake and God" has not been recorded outside of Lipa, Batangas; and I am inclined to believe that it represents old local tradition. TALE 66 WHY LOCUSTS ARE HARMFUL. Narrated by Francisco M. Africa. During the dawn of humanity, some angels headed by Satanas revolted against God. They wanted to establish a kingdom for themselves. In a battle against the army of God, in which God himself was present, Satanas threw a handful of sand into God's face; but the heavenly monarch just laughed, and said, "I turn the sand back to thee. The particles shall become the scourge of all ages to thee and to thy followers, O Satanas!" No sooner had God uttered these words than the particles of sand became a mighty swarm of locusts, that flew in all directions. Such was the beginning of the pest. Notes. A tribal Bicol-story narrated by Maximina Navarro of Albay runs thus:-- The Origin of Locusts. Many years ago there lived a head man whose home was situated in a very fertile valley, all the inhabitants of which he governed. He was not a good ruler, however; for he was so greedy, that he wanted to hoard up all the rice produced by his people. Every year, therefore, he squeezed from his subjects as much rice as he could get, so that at the end of four years his granaries were full to bursting. It happened that in the fifth year the crop failed, and the people knew that they should starve unless their ruler would let them have rice from his barns. At first they were afraid to go petition the head man, for they feared that he would refuse them; but, when nearly one-half of the children had died from starvation, they agreed to send some representatives to beg for rice. Seven men were chosen to be the ambassadors. When they reached the house of the datu, for so they called their ruler, they asked for admittance, crying that they wanted rice for their wives and children. When the datu heard their cry, he went to the door and made a motion as if he would knock the petitioners off the ladder leading to the house. He lost his balance and fell, striking his head sharply on the bottom of the ladder. Thinking that he was dead, the seven men made no attempt to help him, but went home, proclaiming that soon there would be rice enough for all. But the datu was not dead, only badly stunned. The next morning, as he was walking around his granaries, they exploded with a loud noise; and all the rice flew away in the form of insects, and vanished from his sight. This kind of insect which originated from the rice we call doron (from the Spanish word duro), on account of the toughness of its skin. A more intelligible version of this story is the following related by Felix de la Llana, who was told it by an old farmer of Candelaria, Zambales. It appears to represent old Pagan tradition modified somewhat by Christianity. The Origin of Locusts. When all the surface of the earth was yet a wilderness and the people were very few, there lived a farmer who wished to become rich all at once. So he told his wife to pray to Kayamanan, the goddess of riches, to give them fortune. One night the goddess with arms extended appeared to them in a dream, and advised the ambitious farmer to build six large barns. Then she went to the goddess of plenty, Kainomayan, and asked her to give this farmer abundant crops. When the farmer harvested his rice the next season, he was astounded to find that the crop more than filled his six barns. So delighted was he, and so greedy, that he and his wife thought no more of the source of their good fortune, and they neglected to celebrate a feast in honor of God and his goddesses. He felt like a powerful monarch, and did not wish to work any more. However, his riches did not last long, as we shall see. One day the goddess Kayamanan disguised herself, and in the form of a beggar came to the house of the rich farmer. She begged him to let her rest for a little while under his roof, for she had been travelling in many countries, she said. When she asked for some remnants of rice to eat, the ungrateful farmer said to her, "Get off my grounds! don't come here to bother me! If you don't leave at once, I shall let this dog loose, and you will be its food." The poor beggar went away without a word, but she begged almighty God to give her the power to change anything to any form or creature she wished. As she was God's favorite, her request was granted. So she assumed her own form, and went again to the farmer's house. To him she said, "You who became rich by my aid, and have denied food and shelter to a beggar, shall be punished. Since you have neglected your duty both to the poor and to me, I therefore, with the consent of the almighty God, punish you thus: your rice shall turn to a swarm of locusts, which will destroy all the crops of the farmers of your own race and those of other countries." The punishment was carried out, and the farmer was left destitute. This story is also known in the Tagalog province of Batangas. In a Rumanian saga (Dähnhardt, 3 : 250) a swarm of locusts is sent by God to punish an emperor who would not invite any priests or nuns to his wedding-banquet. When the guests were about to eat the feast prepared, the insects appeared and devoured everything. Since that time locusts have appeared whenever mankind has forgotten God. TALE 67 HOW LANSONES BECAME EDIBLE. Narrated by Francisco M. Africa. Once upon a time the fruit of the lansone-tree was very poisonous. Its very juice could make a man sick with leprosy. One day a very religious old man was passing through a forest to attend the fiesta of the neighboring town. When he reached the middle of the thick wood, he became very hungry and tired, and he felt that he could go no farther. No matter where he looked, he could see nothing but the poisonous lansone-trees. So he lay down on the soft grass. Hardly a moment had passed, when a winged being from heaven approached him, and said, "My good Christian pilgrim, take some of these lansone-fruits, eat them, and you will be much relieved." At first the old man would not do it, but the angel picked some of the fruits and handed them to the pilgrim. He then ate, and soon his hunger was removed. After thanking Heaven, he continued on his journey. Ever since this time, lansones have been good to eat. All the fruits still bear the marks of the angel's fingers. Notes. The lanson (Lansium domesticum) is a small tree of Malaysia, extensively cultivated for its fruit, which resembles a yellow plum (from E. Ind. lansa). It is not native to the Philippines, and was probably introduced into the Islands by the Malays in prehistoric times. Our story, which I think we must consider not imported, is based on a fancied etymological connection between lanson and lason (Tag. for "poison"), and does not appear to be known except to the Tagalogs of La Laguna province, although in Pampango also the word lason means "poison." Lason itself is derived from the Malay rachun, perhaps through the Sulu lachun. Two other Tagalog versions, both from Laguna province, also show the influence of Christianity, but vary enough from our story to be worthy of record here. One, related by Manuel Gallego of San Antonio, Nueva Ecija, is entitled "The Adam and Eve of the Tagalogs." Mr. Gallego heard the story from a farmer living in Lubang, La Laguna. It runs as follows:-- Many hundreds of years ago, when Luzon was still uninhabited, Bathala, our supreme god, was envious of Laon, the god of the Visayans, because Laon had many subjects, while Bathala's kingdom was a barren desert. It was within the power of Bathala to create human beings, but not food for them; and so he asked for advice from Diwata, the supreme god of the universe. Diwata told Bathala that the next day he would send an angel to earth with seeds to be planted. The promise was fulfilled, and Bathala scattered the seeds all over Luzon. Within a short time the island was covered with trees and shrubs, and was then ready for human habitation. Accordingly Bathala created Adam and Eve, the ancestors of the Tagalogs. In spite of the fact that they were forbidden to eat the green fruit of a certain plant, they disobeyed and ate it; so, as a punishment, they were poisoned and made very sick. They did not die, however. As a result of their experience, they gave the name lason ("poison") to this plant. Conscious of their fault, Adam and Eve implored forgiveness of Diwata. By order of Diwata, Bathala forgave the criminals; but the lason still remained poisonous. In order to rid it of its dangerous properties, an angel was sent to earth. He put the marks of his finger-nails on the surface of the pulp of each lason-seed, and these marks may be seen to this day. Afterwards the name of the plant was changed from lason to lanzon, the name by which it has been known ever since. In the other Tagalog version, narrated by Eulogio Benitez of Pagsanjan, La Laguna, the incident of the finger-prints is told as a local saint-legend of Paete. The story is entitled "How Lanzones became Edible." The little town of Paete, on the southern and western shore of Laguna de Bay, produces more lanzones than any other town in the province. Steamers call daily at her wharves for the fruits which have made her famous. In the church of this town may still be seen the image of the mother of God, the Virgin Mary, leading her child. One evening a long time ago it was discovered that the beautiful image was missing from its accustomed place in the church. The news spread like wildfire, and all the people were in great amazement and consternation. While all was confusion in the town, a heavenly sight was being presented in a little place outside the municipality. A beautiful woman dressed in white was walking over the grass with a child in her arms. They were going towards a lanzon-tree on the other side of the meadow. The boy, who was evidently tired of being carried, asked to be put down. When the child saw the fruits scattered all over the ground, he felt very thirsty, and, picking up one of the tempting fruits, began to open it. The mother told her son that the fruit was poisonous; but the child said that he was very thirsty, and could go no farther if he did not have a drink. Then the mother took the fruit from his hands, and with her delicate white fingers pinched the pulp gently. Turning to her son, she said, "Now you may take this and eat it. You will find it the most delicious and refreshing of all fruits." The child obeyed, and the fruit was indeed sweet. This is the way by which the lanzones were transformed from a poisonous, dangerous fruit to a sweet, delicate food. If any one discredits this story, all he needs to do to prove its truth is to open up any lanzon he finds, and he will see without fall the finger-prints of the Virgin. TALE 68 WHY COCKS FIGHT ONE ANOTHER. Narrated by Francisco M. Africa. Once upon a time in an unknown country there lived a royal couple endowed with almost all the blessings of God. Their palace was decorated with all kinds of precious stones, diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds. They were often honored with visits from the celestial beings. There was hardly an hour of the day when some sort of jubilation or festival was not being held in the royal home. But, in spite of all his riches, there was a melancholy in the mind of the king,--a brooding, a cankering thought, that would not give him an hour of rest or contentment. In spite of all the favors lavished on him by God, he felt miserable and uneasy. He had a happy and wealthy kingdom, but--he had no heir. There was nobody to manage the government after his death. Whenever the thought of death came to his mind, he fell on his knees and implored the Almighty to give him a son: "Have mercy on me, O God! Give me a son to manage my kingdom after I am gone!" One evening an angel from Paradise came to visit him, and, on finding the king at his prayers, said, "Dry thy tears, O king! Thy royal prayer is heard in heaven. Thou shalt be given more than a son, but not in the same shape as thou art. Thy sons shall see the light of day crowned with their own flesh." The king was so greatly overjoyed, that he could not speak a single word of gratitude in reply. Not long afterward the queen gave birth to a cock that crowed on seeing the light of day. The couple were very glad: night and day they caressed the royal babe, and they would have made for him a cage of gold had not God forbidden them to do so. Every year a cock was born into the royal family, until the feathered sons numbered thirteen. But these sons were jealous of one another: each thought that the others had no right to wear crowns. At last the old king and queen died, and no one was left to manage the royal demesne but the dumb sons. Thereafter the feathered orphans began fighting one another, each one trying to wrest the crown from the others. Note. I know of no variant of this story. TALE 69 WHY BATS FLY AT NIGHT. Narrator, Francisco M. Africa. Many years ago the earth was inhabited by only one man. His body was composed of minute organisms that were incessantly warring against one another. One day this man became so weak that he could not obtain food for his support. He laid himself down on some soft moss by the bank of a river, and there he remained till night. The organisms that lived in his body began to fight against one another most fiercely. Each ate his fellow until he became very big. At last the man died, and only one organism remained alive. This organism then flew away, and became the ancestor of the bats. The light of day so dazzled his eyes, that he could not fly very far, so he decided to fly only at night. And ever since, his descendants, too, have hidden themselves in the day-time, and come out only when it is dark. Note. This somewhat unsatisfactory pourquoi story appears to represent at bottom a very ancient tradition. I know of no parallels; but tales explaining why the bat flies at night are found among many peoples (e.g., Dähnhardt, 3 : 94, 267, 270; Dayrell, Nos. VII, XII). TALE 70 WHY THE SUN SHINES MORE BRIGHTLY THAN THE MOON. A Tagalog story narrated by Francisco M. Africa. Long, long ago there lived a fairy with two very beautiful daughters. Araw, the elder daughter, was very amiable, and had a kindly disposition; but Buwan, unlike her sister, was disobedient, cruel, and harsh. She was always finding fault with Araw. One night, when the fairy came home from her nocturnal rambles and saw Buwan badly mistreating her elder sister, she asked God for help against her unruly daughter. Before this time God had prepared very valuable gifts for the two sisters. These gifts were two enormous diamonds that could light the whole universe. When God heard the prayer of the fairy, he descended to earth disguised as a beggar. On learning for himself how bad-tempered Buwan was, and how sweet and kind-hearted Araw, God gave the older sister her diamond as a reward. Buwan was greatly angered by this favoritism on the part of the Almighty, so she went to the heavenly kingdom and stole one of God's diamonds. Then she returned to earth with the precious stone, but there she found that her jewel was not so brilliant as Araw's. When God went back to heaven and learned what Buwan had done, he sent two angels to punish her. But the angels abused their commission: they seized both sisters and hurled them into the sea. Then they threw the two stones upward into the sky, and there they stuck. But Araw's diamond was bigger and brighter than the one Buwan stole. Thereafter the bigger jewel was called Araw ("day" or "sun"); and the smaller one, Buwan ("moon"). Notes. A Pangasinan myth, narrated by Emilio Bulatao of San Carlos, Pangasinan, tells how the light from the sun and the moon proceeds from two fiery palaces. The story follows:-- The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars. There was once a powerful god called Ama ["father"], the father and ruler of all others, and the creator of man. He had a wonderful aerial abode, from which he could see everything. Of all his sons, Agueo ["sun, day"] and Bulan ["moon"] were his two favorites, and to these he gave each a fiery palace. In accordance with the wish of their father, Agueo and Bulan daily passed across the earth side by side, and together they furnished light to mankind. Now, Agueo was of a morose and taciturn disposition, but he was always very obedient to his father; Bulan, on the other hand, was merry and full of mischief. Once, when they were near the end of their day's labor, they saw thieves on the earth below, wishing that it were night so that they might proceed with their unlawful business. Bulan, who was one of their kind, urged Agueo to be quick, so that the earth might soon be left in darkness. As Agueo obstinately refused to be hurried, a quarrel ensued between the two brothers. Their father, who had been watching the two boys and had heard all that passed between them, became very angry with the mischievous Bulan; and, in his wrath, he seized an enormous rock and hurled it whistling through the air. The rock struck the palace of Bulan, and was broken into thousands of pieces, which got perpetual light from contact with the fiery palace. These may still be seen in the heavens, and they are called Bituen ["stars"]. Bulan was forbidden to travel with Agueo any more, but was commanded to light the ways of thieves henceforth with his much-dimmed fiery palace. A somewhat similar Pampango myth may also be given here, as it has never before been printed. It was narrated by Leopoldo Layug of Guagua, Pampanga, and is entitled "The Sun and the Moon." Long ago the earth was created and ruled by Bathala. He had two children, Apolaqui and Mayari. From the eyes of these two children the earth received its first light. The people, the birds of the air, the animals of the mountains, and even the fishes of the sea, were glad because they had light, and so they were great friends of the two children. Bathala loved his children tenderly, and never wanted them to be separated from him. So, no matter how tired he was, he always followed them in their daily walks. But as time went on, and Bathala became old and feeble and could no longer keep up with his active son and daughter, he asked them to stay with him at all times; but they were so absorbed in their pleasures, that they paid no heed to their father's wish. One day he became sick, and died suddenly, without leaving any written will as to the disposition of his kingdom. Now Apolaqui wanted to rule the earth without giving any power to his sister Mayari. She refused to consent to her brother's plan, and a bitter conflict arose between them. For a long time they fought with bamboo clubs. At last Mayari had one of her eyes put out. When Apolaqui saw what he had done to his sister, he felt very sorry for her, and said that they should struggle no longer, but that they should exercise equal power on the earth, only at different times. Since that time, Apolaqui, who is now called the Sun, has ruled the earth during the day, and from his eyes we receive bright light. Mayari, who is called the Moon, rules the world at night. Her light, however, is fainter than her brother's, for she has but one eye. This same struggle between the two great luminaries is reflected in two short cradle-songs that Pampangan mothers sing to their children to still them. These verses were contributed by Lorenzo Licup of Angeles:-- Ing bulan ilaning aldo Mitatagalan la baho Pangaras da quetang cuarto Nipag sundang, mipagpusto. "The Moon and the Sun chased each other above. When they came into a room, they took their daggers from their sides and were ready to fight each other." Ing aldo ilaning bulan Mitatagalan la lalan Pangaras da quetang Pampang Mipagpustu, 't, mitabacan. "The Sun and the Moon chased each other below. When they came to a bank, they first made preparation, and then began to fight each other with bolos." The two stories and the two stanzas just given appear to be genuine old native tradition, unmodified by Christianity. For Tinguian, Bukidnon, Mandaya, and Visayan myths of the sun, moon, and stars, see M. C. Cole, 65, 124, 145, 201. TALE 71 WHY THE CULING HAS A TONSURE. Narrated by Francisco M. Africa. In a certain field there lived two birds,--Pogô ("quail") and Culing (a small black bird that has no feathers on the top of its head). One day Pogô, while scratching the ground for food, met Culing. When Culing saw Pogô, he said in a taunting tone, "Where are you going, lazy one? Be more active. Don't be as lazy as a leech!" Pogô became very angry. "You call me lazy!" he said. "You are much lazier than I. Let us see which can fly higher into the sky!" Thereupon Culing agreed, and he began to fly upward until he was lost from sight. He flew so high, that his head touched the surface of the sky. As the sky was hot, all the feathers on the top of his head were burned off; and ever since, the culing has had a tonsure. The Culeto and the Crow. Narrated by Leopoldo Uichanco, a Tagalog from Calamba, La Laguna. He says, "This tradition is a favorite one among Tagalog children. I have often heard the story told by old men while I was waiting my turn at barber-shops in my province." The culeto is a fine singer, but it is bald-headed. The natives often capture it and train it to talk. Formerly this little black bird was not so bald as it is to-day: its head, in fact, was covered with a thick growth of feathers. And the crow, too: it was not black once, but its feathers were as white as starch. Once upon a time, shortly after the Deluge, the crow was merrily crowing on the branch of a tree when the culeto came by. The voice of the crow was so harsh, that the culeto made fun of it. "Good-morning, Mr. Crow!" said the culeto, "I am very glad to hear you sing. Your voice is so fine, that I cannot help closing my ears." "Pray, think first of yourself!" answered the crow. "What do I care for a good voice, so long as I have a strong body? Why don't you laugh at yourself? See how weak and tiny you are!" "Weak!" said the culeto. "Do you call me weak? I would fly a race even with an eagle." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the crow. "The idea of racing the eagle when you do not even dare race me!" "Race with you! Why, you would only disgrace yourself," retorted the culeto. "Wait!" answered the crow. "Eat some more rice, drink some more water, fill your body with more air! And wait till you grow bigger before you venture to race with me!" "The strength of a person," said the culeto, nettled, "is not to be judged by his size. Don't you know that it is the smallest pepper that is the hottest?" "Well, then," replied the crow, "if you wish to race me now at your own risk, let us begin!" "One, two, three!" counted the culeto, and up they flew. During their flight the two birds became separated from each other by a dense cloud. The culeto flew at full speed so high upward, that he knocked his head very hard against the door of the sky,--so hard, in fact, that a large piece of skin was scraped from his scalp. The crow, having lost his way, flew so near the sun, that his feathers were burned black. It is on account of this bet between the culeto and the crow that all the descendants of the former have been bald-headed, while all the descendants of the crow have black feathers to-day. The Hawk and the Coling. Narrated by Agapito Gaa of Taal, Batangas. He says that this Tagalog story is well known in every town in Batangas province. He heard the story from his grandfather. Early one morning a hawk sallied forth from his nest to find something to eat. He flew so high that he could hardly be seen from the earth. He looked down; but as he could not see anything, he flew lower and lower, until he came to the top of a tree. On one of the branches he saw sitting quietly a coling. The hawk despised the little bird, and at once made up his mind to challenge him to a flight upward. So the hawk said to the coling, "Do you wish to fly up into the sky with me to see which of us can fly the faster and the higher?" The coling did not answer at once, but he thought of the matter for a while. Then he said to the hawk, "When do you want to have the race?" "That is for you to decide," said the hawk. "If you wish to have it now, well and good." "Well," said the coling, "let us have it to-morrow morning before sunrise!" "All right," said the hawk. "But," said the coling, "each of us is to carry a load with him to make the flight a little more difficult." "Well, what do you want to take with you?" said the hawk. "I will take some salt," said the coling. "Then I will take some cotton," replied the hawk. "Let us meet here in this tree early to-morrow!" This agreed upon, the two birds separated. The hawk went to the cotton-field and got his load of cotton, while the coling went to the sea and got some salt. The next morning they met in the tree, each having the object he would carry with him in his flight. They asked the crow, who was present, to be the judge of the contest. The crow accepted the commission, and said that he would give a caw as a signal for them to start. He did so, and the two contestants were off. At first the hawk flew faster and higher than the coling; but very soon it began to rain. The cotton on the hawk's back became soaked with water, and soon was very heavy; but the salt on the coling's back was soon dissolved, and then he had no load at all. Under these conditions, the coling soon overtook the bigger bird. For a time they flew side by side; but after a few minutes the coling had the best of the race, and in a little while longer the hawk could no longer see his rival. But the coling flew so high, that at last his head touched the sun, and all the feathers on the top were burned off. The hawk now flew down to the crow, and said that he had won the race, for the coling had fallen to the ground dead. But by and by the coling himself came. He showed them the top of his head as a proof that he had won the race. The crow gave his decision in favor of the coling, and the hawk flew off disgraced. From that time all colings have had the tops of their heads bald to show that they are the descendants of the victorious bird. Notes. These three forms of the "flight-contest" incident are all from southern Luzon,--the provinces of La Laguna and Batangas. The tale seems to be definitely localized there. I know of its occurrence nowhere else in the Islands. Nor have I found any Malayan variants. For other pourquoi stories of why certain birds are bald, see Dähnhardt, 3 : 11-14. Dähnhardt (ibid., 142) cites a Ceylon tale of the crow and the drongo, who had a bet as to which could fly the higher carrying a load. Crow selected tree-cotton for his burden; but Drongo, noticing the black rain-clouds overhead, carried salt, and thus won; for his load became constantly lighter, while Crow's became heavier. With the explanation given in the second tale of this group of why the crow is black, compare a Pawnee story (JAFL 6 : 126), in which a crow, which is sent to the sun to get fire, has all his feathers singed. TALE 72 WHY THE COW'S SKIN IS LOOSE ON THE NECK. Narrated by Francisco M. Africa. There was once a poor farmer who possessed a cow and a carabao. These two animals were his only wealth. Every day he led them to the field to plough. He worked his animals so hard, that they often complained to him; but the cruel master would not even listen to their words. One day the cow, who had grown tired of this kind of life, said to the carabao, "Let us run away from this evil man! Though we are very dirty, he is not willing for us even to take a bath. If we remain here with him, we shall be as ugly and as filthy as pigs. If we run away from him, however, he will have to do his own work, and then we shall be revenged. Hurry up! Let us go!" The spirit of the carabao was aroused: he jumped with a loud roar, and said, "I too have long been meditating escape, but I hesitated because I was afraid you might not be willing to join me in flight. We are so ill-treated by our cruel master, that God will have pity on us. Come on! Let us go!" The two animals at once set out, running as fast as they could, always trying to avoid any human beings. When they came to a river, the cow said, "We are very dirty. Let us take a bath before we go on! The water of this river is so clean and clear, that we shall soon be as clean as we were before our contemptible master got hold of us." The carabao answered, "We would better run a little farther, for perhaps our master is already in pursuit of us. Besides, we are very tired now, and I have been told that to take a bath when one is tired injures the health." "Don't believe that!" returned the cow. "Our bodies are so big, that we do not need to fear sickness." At last the carabao was persuaded by the arguments of the cow; and he said, "All right! Let us take off our clothes before we go into the water!" The two animals then stripped themselves of all their clothes, then they plunged into the deep, cool river. They had been in the water less than an hour, however, when they saw their master coming after them with a big stick in his hand. They ran up to where their clothes were; but in their haste the carabao put on the cow's clothes, and the cow got the carabao's. As soon as they were dressed, they continued their mad flight; and as their master was very tired, he had to give up the chase and return home disappointed. Since the carabao was larger than the cow, the skin on the cow's neck has been loose ever since, because the two friends were separated and could never exchange clothes again. And likewise the skin on the carabao's neck has been tight ever since these two animals made their mistake in dressing. The First Loose-Skinned Cow and the First Tight-Skinned Carabao. Narrated by Amanda Morente, a Tagalog from Pinamalayan, Mindoro. She heard the story from an old woman of her town. Many years ago, when the people of the world were still few in number and the animals took the place of servants, an old man bought a cow and a carabao from his neighbor. With these animals he travelled until he reached the top of a mountain. There they saw a cave, and the old man told his servants to enter and see if there was any danger inside. With slow and cautious steps the carabao and the cow went in, examining every corner. All at once the cow perceived something moving. In his fright he jumped back, and hid behind his companion; but the slow-going carabao did not see the figure, and suddenly he felt his hind leg seized in a strong grasp. The god of the cave had caught him. Then the god of the cave spoke. His voice was terrifying, but his words were kind. He told them how for many days he had been hungry, and he asked for meat. The cow, whose courage had by this time been somewhat restored, gladly offered him some of her master's provisions, which she was carrying. In return for this kindness, the god gave each of the animals a dress: to the carabao he gave one of gold; and to the cow, one of bronze. He also invited the two to remain with him and be his servants. Some time after the two friends had been installed in their new home, the god of the cave sent them one day to gather fruits. The carabao and the cow were delighted at this prospect of a change, and they jumped with joy. They rushed out into the woods; and when they came to a pond, they took off their new clothes and plunged into the soft mud. While they were enjoying their bath, they saw their master coming. He was carrying a big stick. They knew very well that he would beat them, for they had been away the whole morning. In their haste to get their clothes back on, they made a mistake: the carabao got into the cow's dress, and the cow into the carabao's. After that they never exchanged their clothes, which finally became their outer skin. So to-day the carabao has a tight bronze-colored skin; and the cow, a loose golden-colored one. Note. Like the preceding, this story appears to be a native Tagalog tale. I know of no other variants. TALE 73 WHY THE MONKEY IS WISE. Narrated by Francisco M. Africa. Once upon a time there lived a poor man who had seven sons. These young men, all except the youngest, helped their aged father with the work; but the family became poorer and poorer. One day, when they had exhausted all their means of support, the father called his sons before him. To every son he assigned a certain kind of work, so that there might be cooperation, and hence efficiency, in the labors of the humble family. To the youngest son was assigned the task of gathering sticks in the forest for fuel. Not long afterwards a pestilence broke out in the little town where the old man lived, and all his sons but the youngest died. The father was left to starve on his bed, for his only living son was so ungrateful as not to give any help to his father in his last years. When the old man was about to breathe his last, he called his son to give him his final benediction; but the ungrateful boy, instead of going to his dying father, ran away into the woods, and the old man passed away without anybody to care for him. But God punished the unfilial son; he cursed him; and the boy lost his power of speech, and was condemned to live in the forests ever after as a monkey. Thus, although monkeys cannot talk, they are wise because they are descended from a human being. Notes. I know of no analogues of this story, but will cite two other Filipino myths accounting for the origin of monkeys. The first was narrated by Antonio Maceda, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, who heard it from his grandfather. The story follows. Origin of the Monkey. A long time ago the world, which was divided into earth and heaven, was very lonesome, for Bathala was the only living being in it. He lived in heaven. One day Bathala felt so lonely, that the thought of creating some living beings for his companions came into his mind. He had never thought of this before, although with his infinite power he could do anything he pleased. So he came down to earth to get some clay; but he found the ground very dry, for there was no such thing as rain on the earth. Immediately he said, "Let there be rain!" and the rain fell down. Then, with a large load of slippery clay, Bathala returned to heaven and began the work of creation. He created men, birds, plants, mountains, and rivers (sic!). While he was in the act of creating men, however, an accident occurred. As he was moulding a piece of clay into the shape of a man, the mould slipped from his left hand. Bathala was quick enough to grasp the back of this lifeless mass of clay; but the clay was so soft that it stretched out into a long rope, and the mould fell into a tree. In his anger, Bathala said, "I curse thee! Thou shalt have life, but thou shalt inhabit trees. The part of thy body that has been stretched out into a rope shall become thy tail." The lifeless mould was at once changed into a monkey, the great-grandfather of all the monkeys. The following story was written down by Sotero Albano, an Ilocano from Dingras, Ilocos Norte:-- The First Monkey. Long years ago there lived in a thick forest a young girl under the care of the goddess of weaving. Here she lived happily and without care, for everything that she wanted to eat was provided for her by her patroness. One day the goddess said to the girl, "Take this cotton, clean it, and make out of it a dress for yourself." Now, the girl knew nothing about making cloth and weaving it: so she said to the goddess, "When the cotton is cleaned, is it ready for use?" "No," answered her guardian; "after it is cleaned, it must be beaten." "Well, after it is beaten, is it ready for use?" said the lazy girl. The goddess said that before it could be used, it would have to be spun. "Well, after it is spun," persisted the saucy maiden, "is it ready for use?" "No; it must next be woven into cloth, cut, and sewed," answered the patient goddess. "Oh!" said the girl, "it will take a long time and much hard work to make clothes that way. This leather hide, which you have given me to beat the cotton on, will make me better clothing, because it will wear longer." So she covered herself with the leather. The goddess was so angry at the girl for her laziness, that she determined that the leather should not only be her dress, but also become her very skin. Then the goddess took the stick for beating the cotton, and, thrusting it between the maiden's buttocks, said to her, "This stick will become a part of your body, and you will use it for climbing-purposes. As a penalty for your laziness, henceforth you shall live in trees in the forest, and there you will find your food." Thus originated the first monkey with a coat of leather and a tail. Obviously connected with this Ilocano story are three Tinguian myths recorded by Cole, who abstracts them thus:-- (No. 65.) A lazy man, who is planting corn, constantly leans on his planting-stick. It becomes a tail, and he turns into a monkey. (No. 66.) A boy is too lazy to strip sugarcane for himself. His mother, in anger, tells him to stick it up his anus. He does so, and becomes a monkey. (No. 67.) A lazy girl pretends she does not know how to spin. Her companions, in disgust, tell her to stick the spinning-stick up her anus. She does so, and at once changes into a monkey. Compare also a Bagobo story collected by Miss Benedict (JAFL 26 : 21), where a ladle becomes a monkey's tail; also an African saga in Dähnhardt (3 : 488). The Filipinos have other explanatory myths which credit Lucifer with the creation of monkeys and snakes. TALE 74 THE LOST NECKLACE. Narrated by Facundo Esquivel, a Tagalog, who heard the story from a friend from Cebu. The story is Visayan. Once a crow bought a fine necklace from a merchant. He was very proud of his purchase, which he immediately put around his neck, so that everybody could see it. Then he flew away, and came to a beautiful little garden, where he met his old friend the hen strutting about, with her chicks following her. The hen said to him, "Oh, what a fine necklace you have! May I borrow it? I will return it to you to-morrow without fail." Now, the crow liked the hen: so he willingly lent her the necklace for a day. The next morning, when the crow returned for his property, he found the hen and her chicks scratching the ground near an old wall. "Where is my necklace?" said the crow. "It is lost," said the hen. "My chicks took it yesterday while I was asleep, and now they do not remember where they put it. We have been looking for it all day, and yet we have not been able to find it." "You must pay for it at once," said the crow, "or else I shall go to the king and tell him that you stole my necklace." The hen was frightened at this reply, and she began to wonder how she could raise the necessary money. The crow, who was on his way to a fiesta, at last said impatiently, "I will take one of your chicks every day in payment of what you owe me. As soon as you find the necklace, give it to me, and then I will stop eating your chicks." The hen had to be satisfied with this arrangement, for she feared that the crow would go to the king if she refused. Unto this day, then, you can find hens and chicks together looking for the lost necklace by scratching the ground; and the crows are still exacting payment for the lost jewel by eating chicks. It is said that the hens and chickens will never cease scratching the ground until the lost necklace is found. The Cock and the Sparrow-Hawk. Narrated by Dolores Asuncion of Manila. She heard the story from an old Tagalog. Long ago the sparrow-hawk and the cock were very good friends. Once, when the cocks were going to hold a great fiesta in the neighboring village, a proud young rooster, who wished to get the reputation for being rich and consequently win him a wife, went to the sparrow-hawk, and said, "My friend, please lend me your bracelet! I am going to our fiesta; and I wish to make some young hens there believe that I am rich, in order that they may love me." The sparrow-hawk answered, "With much pleasure, my friend." So the cock went to the fiesta wearing the borrowed bracelet. While he was dancing, however, he lost the jewel, and could find it nowhere. At last he went back to the sparrow-hawk, and said, "I am very sorry, my friend, but I lost your bracelet while I was dancing, and I can find it nowhere. What do you wish me to give you in payment for it?" The sparrow-hawk answered, "Since that bracelet was an heirloom, I valued it very highly. You must go back to the place where you think you lost it, and there look for it until you find it. In the mean time I reserve the right to take from your flock a chicken whenever I please." So, ever since that time sparrow-hawks are often seen carrying off young chickens, while the cocks have been busy scratching the ground to find the lost bracelet. Hens also scratch the soil, for they hate to lose their chicks, and they want to find the bracelet as soon as possible. They look up into the sky to see if the sparrow-hawk is near; then they scratch the soll vigorously, and cry, "Tac-ta-laoc!" which means, "Come and help me!" Note. Another Visayan variant of these two stories may be found in the "Journal of American Folk-Lore" (20 : 100), whence it has been reprinted by M. C. Cole (p. 212), "The Hawk and the Hen." An African analogue may be found in Dayrell (No. xv, p. 62). TALE 75 THE STORY OF OUR FINGERS. Narrated by Leopoldo Uichanco, a Tagalog from Calamba, La Laguna. "Why," said Antonio to his grandfather one day, "does our thumb stand separate from the other fingers?" "That is only so in our days," replied old Julian. "In the days of long ago the fingers of our ancestors stood together in the same position. One day one of these fingers, the one we call the little finger, became very hungry, and he asked the finger next to him to give him some food. "'O brother!' said the Ring-Finger in reply, 'I am hungry also; but where shall we get food?' "'Heaven is merciful,' put in the Middle-Finger, trying to comfort his two brothers; 'Heaven will give us some.' "'But, Brother Middle-Finger,' protested the Forefinger, 'what if Heaven gives us no food?' "'Well, then,' interposed the Thumb, 'let us steal!' "'Steal!' echoed the Forefinger, not at all pleased by the advice that had just been given. 'Mr. Thumb knows better than to do that, I hope!' "'That is bad policy, Mr. Thumb,' concluded the other three unanimously. 'Your idea is against morality, against God, against yourself, against everybody. Our conscience will not permit us to steal.' "'Oh, no, no!' returned Thumb angrily, 'you are greatly mistaken, my friends! Haven't you sense enough even to know how foolish you are to oppose my plan? Do you call my scheme bad policy,--to save your lives and mine?' "'Ay, if that be your plan,' said the other four fingers, 'you can go your own way. As for us, we would rather starve and die than steal.' Then the four virtuous brothers drove Thumb in shame out of their community, and would have nothing more to do with him. "So that is why," concluded old Julian, "we see our thumbs separated from the other four fingers. He was a thief; and the other four, who were honest, did not care to live with him. And it is because Little-Finger did not have enough to eat, that we see him lean and weak these days." Note. I know of no other Filipino accounts of why the thumb is separated from the rest of the fingers. As an interesting curiosity, however, I might cite a Bicol children's jingle of five lines which characterize briefly the five fingers (the thumb is the last described) :-- Maya-mayang saday Magayon na singsignan Daculang mangmang Atrevido Hababang tao "Pretty little sparrow, Beautiful for a ring, Long but lazy fellow, Froward, insolent thing, Dumpy, dwarfish one." TALE 76 WHY SNAILS CLIMB UP GRASS. Narrated by José E. Tomeldan of Binalonan, Pangasinan. Long ago, when the various kinds of animals dwelt together in a kind of community, a dalag (a kind of mud-fish), a dragonfly, a wasp, and a snail agreed to live together in a common house. They furthermore agreed to divide up the different household duties according to their power and skill. Accordingly, Dalag, since he was the biggest and strongest of all, was made the head of the house. He was also to provide food for his little companions. Dragon-Fly was made the messenger, because he was the swiftest of them all, but was too weak for any other kind of work. Wasp was made the house-guard because of his poisonous sting. Besides being guard, he was also to keep the house in repair, because he could carry bits of earth and other building-materials. Snail was made the cook, because he was too slow for any other duty except tending the house. Early one day Dalag went out to look for food. He swam slowly here and there among the water-plants, when suddenly he saw something moving on the surface of the water. When he approached nearer, he saw that it was a big frog swimming helplessly among the duck-weeds. "This is a big piece of sweet food for us," thought Dalag, and without hesitation he seized the frog. When he had assured himself that it could not get away from him, he started to swim home. But, alas! he never reached his companions; for a sharp hook was inside the frog, and poor Dalag was caught fast. He tried hard to free himself, but in rain. Soon a fisherman came, and, putting Dalag in his basket, took him home and ate him. In the mean time Dalag's three companions were anxiously waiting for him. When they realized that he was lost, Dragon-Fly was sent out to look for him. Before he went, Dragon-Fly spent a long time arranging his neck-tie. Then he flew away, turning his head in all directions to look for Dalag. At last he met Bolasi (a kind of fish whose lips always move in and out on the surface of the water), and he became very angry because he thought that Bolasi was laughing at his neck-tie. Dragon-Fly thought that his tie must be too loose, so he tightened it. Still Bolasi laughed every time he saw Dragon-Fly. Dragon-Fly kept drawing his tie tighter and tighter, until at last he cut his own head off, and that was the end of him. Two days had now passed; still Dalag and Dragon-Fly were missing from home. By this time Wasp and Snail were very hungry. But Snail had the advantage over Wasp; for Snail could eat mud to pass away the time, while Wasp could not eat mud, but could only draw in his belt a little tighter. At last Wasp could no longer endure his hunger. His abdomen by this time had become very slender: so he flew forth in search of either Dalag or Dragon-Fly. While he was flying about, his hunger oppressed him so much, that he tightened his belt again and again, until he finally broke in two; and that was the end of Wasp. Now only Snail was left. He set out from his home, and wandered everywhere in search of his three companions, weeping as he went. His food consisted mostly of mud. Whenever he could find a stalk of grass or the stem of a water-plant, Snail would climb up to look around and to see if any of his old friends were in sight. Even to-day the snails still weep; and whenever they see a stalk of grass projecting above the surface of the water, they climb up and look around, trying to discover their old friends. TALE 77 WHY THE CUTTLE-FISH AND SQUIDS PRODUCE A BLACK LIQUID. Narrated by Victoria Ciudadano of Batangas. She says she heard the story from an old woman. It is known by both the Tagalogs and the Visayans. A long time ago, after Bathala [108] had created the fishes, he assigned a certain day for all of them to meet in the Dark Sea. The object of this convention was to appoint some officers. Early in the morning of the day designated, the fishes were to be seen hurrying to the meeting. When they reached the assembly hall, they found Bathala sitting on a beautiful stone, waiting for them. He called the roll when it seemed that all of the fishes were present. It was found that the cuttle-fish and squid were absent, so they waited for them a half-hour; but still they did not come. At last Bathala arose, and said, "The meeting will come to order." After the fishes had taken their proper positions, Bathala continued, "The object of this meeting is to appoint some officers and to issue their appointments." At once all the fishes became very quiet and respectful, for all were anxious to know what offices each was going to hold. Bathala appointed the sting-ray sergeant-at-arms: hence all sting-rays now have whip-like tails. The crocodile was appointed cadaver-carrier: so now all its children have a coffin-like skin on their backs. The crab was made a soldier: so to-day all its descendants have large and strong fore-legs. Bathala had not finished giving out his appointments when the two missing members came. They at once interrupted the meeting by asking what it was all about. Bathala became very angry at the interruption, so he scolded the sting-ray and the squid severely. The rebuke humiliated them so, that they agreed between themselves to go get mud and throw it on the official appointments. When they had gotten the mud, they came back and asked Bathala to give them something to do; but, instead of appointing them to some work, he only scolded them for being late. Angered, they now threw mud on all the appointments that had already been drawn up. This insulting act of the cuttle-fish and the squid so enraged Bathala, that he stood up, and said in thundering tones, "Now I shall punish you. From this time on, you and your descendants shall carry pouches of mud with you all the time. Besides, you shall be very slow in moving because of your heavy loads." The squid tried to make excuses, but Bathala became angrier than ever, and said, "You are the naughtiest creature I ever had. As a punishment, you and your children shall remain the same size as you are now." And all of Bathala's words have turned out to be true. TALE 78 WHY COCKS HAVE COMBS ON THEIR HEADS. Narrated by Rosita Nieva, a Tagalog from Boac, Marinduque. She heard the story from her grandmother. Once upon a time there was a magician named Pablo, who had a son called Juan. Pablo was very industrious, but Juan was lazy and disobedient. Juan cared for nothing but fine clothes and his own appearance; he would not help his father. One day Pablo went into his son's room to find out what he was doing. There he was, standing before a mirror, and combing his hair. Pablo was so angry at his son, that he immediately snatched the comb from his hand. Then he angrily struck the boy's head with the comb, and spoke these harsh words: "Since you always want to use the comb, let it be on your head forever! I prefer to have no son at all. I would rather see you changed into a bird than to remain such a disobedient, worthless boy." The father struck his son's head so hard, that the comb stuck deep into the skull. By Pablo's magic power, Juan was immediately changed into a cock, and the comb on his head was changed into flesh. We can see it to-day on the heads of all the descendants of Juan. Note. I know of no variants of stories Nos. 76-78. TALE 79 HOW THE CROW BECAME BLACK. Narrated by Vicente L. Neri, a Visayan from Cagayan, Misamis. He was told the story by his grandmother. A long time ago, when Bathala, the god of the land, was peacefully ruling his dominions, he had many pets. Among these, his two favorites were the dove and the crow. The crow was noted for its bright, pretty plumage. One day Bathala had a quarrel with Dumagat, the god of the sea. Bathala's subjects had been stealing fish, which were the subjects of Dumagat. When Dumagat learned of this, and could get no satisfaction from Bathala, he retaliated. He opened the big pipe through which the water of the world passes, and flooded the dominions of Bathala, until nearly all the people were drowned. When the water had abated somewhat, Bathala sent the crow, his favorite messenger, to find out whether all his subjects had been killed. The crow flew out from the palace where the god lived, and soon saw the corpses of many persons floating about. He descended, alighted on one, and began to eat the decaying cadaver. When Bathala saw that it was late and that the crow had not returned, he sent the dove on the same errand, telling the bird also to find out what had become of the first messenger. The dove flew away, looking for any signs of life. At last he saw the crow eating some of the decaying bodies. Immediately he told the crow that the king had sent for him, and together they flew back to Bathala's palace. When the two birds arrived at the king's court, the dove told Bathala that the crow had been eating some dead bodies, and consequently had not done what he had been sent to do. Bathala was very angry at this disobedience. Without saying a word, he seized his big inkstand filled with black ink and threw it at the crow, which was immediately covered. Bathala then turned to the dove, and said, "You, my dove, because of your faithfulness, shall be my favorite pet, and no longer shall you be a messenger." Then he turned to the crow, and said, "You, foul bird, shall forever remain black; you shall forever be a scavenger, and every one shall hate you." So that is why to-day the dove is loved by the people, and the crow hated. The crows to-day are all black, because they are descendants of the bird punished by Bathala. Why the Crow is Black. Narrated by Ricardo Ortega, an Ilocano living in Tarlac. The story, however, is Pampangan. The first crow that lived on the earth was a beautiful bird with a sweet voice. The universe was ruled over by the god Sinukuan, and all his subjects were either plants or animals. No human beings were yet in existence. Sinukuan lived in a beautiful palace surrounded with gardens of gold. In these gardens lived two crows who sang sweet songs, and did nothing but fly about among the flowers and trees. Their golden plumage was beautiful to see, and Sinukuan took great delight in them. Once a terrible pestilence visited the earth, and a great many of Sinukuan's animals began to die. In his distress and sorrow, Sinukuan at once set out and made a tour of his kingdom to give what relief he could to his suffering subjects. After being away three days, he returned to his palace, his mind weighted down by all the death and sickness he had seen. When he reached his garden, he called to his two birds to come sing for him and relieve his mental anguish; but neither of the birds came. Sinukuan went through his gardens, but he called in rain. "O birds! where are you?" he cried. Thinking that perhaps they had flown away and had been attacked by the pestilence, he determined to make another trip through his kingdom and look for them. He had not walked a mile, when, approaching a number of dead animals, he saw the pair feasting on the decaying flesh. When they saw their master, they bowed their heads in shame. Had not Sinukuan restrained himself, he might have killed them that very moment; but he thought of a better way to punish them. "Now," he said, as he cursed them, "from this time on, you shall be very ugly black birds; you shall lose your beautiful voice, and shall be able to make only a harsh cry." From that time on, those birds were black, and their offspring are the crows of to-day. The Dove and the Crow. Narrated by Restituto D. Carpio, a Zambal from Cabangan, Zambales. A few days after the inundation of the world, God sent a crow down to earth to see how deep the water was on the land. When the crow flew down to earth, he was surprised to see so many dead animals everywhere. It came to his mind that perhaps they would taste good, so he alighted on one of them and began to eat. He was so very much pleased with the abundance of food about him, that he forgot all about the command God had given him, and he remained on the earth. On the third day, since the crow had not returned, God sent a dove down to earth to find out the depth of the water, and to make other observations of the things that had taken place on the earth. As the dove was a faithful creature, she did not forget what God told her. When she reached the earth, she did not alight on any dead animal, but alighted directly in the water. Now, the water was red from the blood of so many creatures that had been slain. When the dove stood in the bloody water, she found that it was only an inch deep. She at once flew back to heaven, where, in the presence of God, she related what she had seen on earth, while the crimson color on her feet was evidence of the depth of the water. After a short time the crow returned. He came before God, who spoke to him thus: "What made you so long? Why did you not return sooner from the earth?" As the crow had no good reason to give for his delay, he said nothing: he simply bent his head. God punished the crow by putting a chain on his legs. So that to-day the crow cannot walk: all he can do is to hop from place to place. The dove, which was faithful to God, is now the favorite pet bird the world over. The red color on her feet may be seen to-day as evidence that she performed her duty. Notes. None of our stories presents the exact sequence of events found in other folk-tales of the sending-out of the raven and the dove after the Deluge to measure the depth of the water; but there can be no doubt that the Zambal story (c) derives immediately from one of these. The Visayan account mentions a flood, but not the Deluge. In the fact that the cause of the great inundation is a quarrel between two chief Pagan deities, there seems to be preserved an old native tradition. In the Pampangan story not only is the curse of the crow attributed to a Pagan deity, Sinukuan, but the occasion of the bird's downfall is a pestilence. There is no mention whatever of a flood, nor is the dove alluded to. Dähnhardt (1 : 283-287) has discussed a number of folk-tales and traditions of the punishment of the raven and the rewarding of the dove. These are for the most part associated with popular accounts of events immediately after the Deluge. Two that seem to be nearly related to our versions may be reproduced here in English:-- (Polish story of the dove.) When Noah had despatched a dove from the Ark, the bird alighted on an oak, but soiled its feet in the water of the Flood, which was all red from the blood of the multitudes that had been drowned. Since then, doves have all had red feet. (This detail appears in part word for word in our Zambal story.) (Arabian tradition recorded by the ninth-century historian Tabarî.) Noah said to the raven, "Go and set foot on the earth and see how deep the water is now." The raven flew forth. But on the way it found a corpse; it began to eat of it, and did not return to Noah. Noah, troubled, cursed the raven: "May God make you despised of mankind, and may your food always be corpses!" Then Noah sent the dove forth. The dove flew away, and without alighting dipped its feet in the water. But the water of the Flood was salty and stinging; it burned the dove's feet so that the feathers did not grow in again, and the skin dropped off. Those doves that have red feet without feathers are the descendants of the dove that Noah sent forth. Then Noah said, "May God make you welcome among mankind!" For this reason the dove is even to-day beloved of mankind. (This version is of especial interest in connection with the Visayan story, which comes from Mindanao, the home of Mohammedanism in the Philippines. Note the close correspondences.) While it appears to me more than likely that our Filipino stories derive ultimately from Arabian sources through the Moros of the southern islands rather than through the Spaniards, nevertheless to settle the question absolutely more variants are needed for comparison. Attention might be called to incidents peculiar to the Philippine accounts and not found in any of the versions cited by Dähnhardt:-- (1) A deity, not Noah, sends out the birds. (2) The crows of Sinukuan (b), in addition to becoming black, are condemned forever afterward to have raucous, unpleasant voices. (3) In the Visayan story Bathala makes the crow black by hurling an inkstand at it. This undignified detail may have been taken over from one of the popular metrical romances ("Baldovinos" or "Doce Pares") in which Charlemagne loses his temper and throws an inkwell at Roland (see JAFL 29 : 208, 214, 215). Or it is just barely possible that this popular bit of machinery became attached to our story of the crow on the analogy of an Annamite tale (Landes, Contes annamites, p. 210 f., cited by Dähnhardt, 3 : 65):-- The raven and the coq de pagode were once men in the service of the saint (Confucius), who transformed them into birds as a punishment for disobedience. In order to undo the punishment and to make the saint laugh, the raven smeared itself all over with ink. The coq de pagode wished to do the same to itself, but had only enough black ink for half its body; for the rest it was obliged to use red. Therefore the raven is black, and the coq de pagode is half red, half black. (4) In the Zambal story the crow is punished, not by being made black, but by having a chain put on its legs; so that the crows to-day cannot walk, but must hop from place to place. In conclusion I will cite merely for completeness an American Indian version not found in Dähnhardt. It is referred to by Sir J. G. Frazer (Folk-Lore in the Old Testament [1918], 1 : 297), who writes as follows:-- "The same missionary [i.e., Mgr. Faraud, in Annales de la Propagation de la Foi, xxxvi (1864), 388 et seq.] reports a deluge legend current among the Crees, another tribe of the Algonquin stock in Canada; but this Cree story bears clear traces of Christian influence, for in it the man is said to have sent forth from the canoe, first a raven, and second a wood-pigeon. The raven did not return, and as a punishment for his disobedience the bird was changed from white to black; the pigeon returned with his claws full of mud, from which the man inferred that the earth was dried up; so he landed." For other folk explanations of the black color of the crow or raven, see Dähnhardt, 3 : 59, 65-66, 71, 369. An entirely different account of how the crow's feathers, which were originally as white as starch, became black, is given in out No. 71 (b). TALE 80 WHY THE OCEAN IS SALTY. Narrated by José M. Paredes of Bangued, Ilocos Sur. He heard the story from a farmer. A few years after the creation of the world there lived a tall giant by the name of Ang-ngalo, the only son of the god of building. Ang-ngalo was a wanderer, and a lover of work. He lived in the mountains, where he dug many caves. These caves he protected from the continual anger of Angin, the goddess of the wind, by precipices and sturdy trees. One bright morning, while Ang-ngalo was climbing to his loftiest cave, he spied across the ocean--the ocean at the time was pure, its water being the accumulated tears of disappointed goddesses--a beautiful maid. She beckoned to him, and waved her black handkerchief: so Ang-ngalo waded across to her through the water. The deep caverns in the ocean are his footprints. This beautiful maid was Sipgnet, the goddess of the dark. She said to Ang-ngalo, "I am tired of my dark palace in heaven. You are a great builder. What I want you to do for me is to erect a great mansion on this spot. This mansion must be built of bricks as white as snow." Ang-ngalo could not find any bricks as white as snow: the only white thing there was then was salt. So he went for help to Asin, the ruler of the kingdom of Salt. Asin gave him pure bricks of salt, as white as snow. Then Ang-ngalo built hundreds of bamboo bridges across the ocean. Millions of men were employed day and night transporting the white bricks from one side of the ocean to the other. At last the patience of Ocean came to an end: she could not bear to have her deep and quiet slumber disturbed. One day, while the men were busy carrying the salt bricks across the bridges, she sent forth big waves and destroyed them. The brick-carriers and their burden were buried in her deep bosom. In time the salt dissolved, and today the ocean is salty. Note. I know of no close analogues to this etiological myth. The hero of the tale, Ang-ngalo, is the same as the Aolo (Angalo) mentioned in the notes to No. 3 (p. 27, footnote). Blumentritt (s.v.) writes, "Angangalo is the name of the Adam of the Ilocanos. He was a giant who created the world at the order of the supreme God." TALE 81 WHY THE SKY IS CURVED. Narrated by Aurelia Malvar, a Tagalog from Santo Tomas, Batangas. Her father told her the story. Many, many years ago, when people were innocent, as soon as they died, their souls went directly to heaven. In a short time heaven was crowded with souls, because nearly every one went there. One day, while God was sitting on his throne, he felt it moved by some one. On looking up, he saw that the souls were pushing towards him, because the sky was about to fall. At once he summoned five angels, and said to them, "Go at once to the earth, and hold up the sky with your heads until I can have it repaired." Then God called together all his carpenters, and said to them, "Repair the heavens as soon as possible." The work was done; but it happened that the tallest angel was standing in the centre of the group; and so, ever since, the sky has been curved. Why the Sky is High. Narrated by Deogracias Lutero of Janiuay, Iloilo. He says that the story is often heard in his barrio. In olden days the sky was low,--so low that it could be reached by a stick of ordinary length. The people in those days said that God had created the sky in such a way that he could hear his people when they called to him. In turn, God could send his blessings to earth as soon as men needed them. Because of this close connection between God and his subjects, the people were well-provided for, and they did not need to work. Whenever they wanted to eat, they would simply call God. Before their request was made, almost, the food would be on the table; but after the expulsion of Adam and Eve, God made men work for their own living. With this change in their condition came the custom of holding feasts, when the men would rest from their labors. One day one of the chiefs, Abing by name, held a feast. Many people came to enjoy it. A sayao, or native war-dance, was given in honor of the men belonging to the chief, and it was acted by men brandishing spears. While acting, one of the actors, who was drunk, tried to show his skill, but he forgot that the sky was so low. When he darted his spear, he happened to pierce the sky, and one of the gods was wounded. This angered God the Father: so he raised the sky as we have it to-day, far from the earth. Notes. I have come across no variants of the Tagalog story of why the sky is curved. Our second story, however, "Why the Sky is High," is without doubt a Malayan tradition, as analogues from the Bagobos and the Pagan tribes of Borneo attest. Miss Benedict (JAFL 26 : 16-17) furnishes two Bagobo myths on "Why the Sky Went Up:"-- (a) "In the beginning the sky lay low over the earth--so low that when the Mona wanted to pound their rice, they had to kneel down on the ground to get a play for the arm. Then the poor woman called Tuglibung said to the sky, 'Go up higher! Don't you see that I cannot pound my rice well?' So the sky began to move upwards. When it had gone up about five fathoms, the woman said again, 'Go up still more!' This made the sun angry at the woman, and he rushed up very high." (b) "In the beginning the sky hung so low over the earth that the people could not stand upright, could not do their work. For this reason the man in the sky said to the sky, 'Come up!' Then the sky went up to its present place." With Miss Benedict's first version, compare Hose and McDougall (2 : 142):-- "According to an old man of the Long Kiputs of Borneo, the stars are holes in the sky made by the roots of trees in the world above the sky projecting through the floor of that world. At one time, he explained, the sky was close to the earth, but one day Usai, a giant, when working sago with a wooden mallet, accidentally struck his mallet against the sky; since which time the sky has been far up out of the reach of man." A different explanation of why the sky went up is current in British North Borneo. It is embodied in the story of "The Horned Owl and the Moon" (Evans, JRAI 43 : 433):-- "The moon is male and the Pwak (horned owl) is female. "Long ago, when the sky was very low down, only a man's height from the ground, the moon and the Pwak fell in love and married. At that time there was a man whose wife was with child. The woman came down from the house, and as the heat of the sun struck her on the stomach, she became ill, for the sky was very low. Then the man was very angry because his wife was ill, and he made seven blow-pipe arrows. Early the next morning he took his blow-pipe with him and went to the place where the sun rises, and waited. Now at that time there were seven suns. When they rose, he shot six of them and left one remaining; then he went home. At the time the man shot the suns the Pwak was sitting on the house-top in the sky combing her hair. The comb fell from the sky to the ground, and the Pwak flew down to get it; but when she found it, she could no longer fly back to the sky; for, while she had been looking for the comb, the sky had risen to its present place; since, when the man had shot the six suns, the remaining sun, being frightened, ran away up into the air and took the sky with it. And so on the present day, whenever the moon comes out, the Pwak cries to it; but the moon says to it, 'What can I do, for you are down there below, while I am up here in the sky?'" TALE 82 AN UNEQUAL MATCH; OR, WHY THE CARABAO'S HOOF IS SPLIT. Narrated by Godofredo Rivera, a Tagalog from Pagsanjan, La Laguna. Once a carabao and a turtle met on a road. They walked in the woods, and had a fine talk together. The turtle was a sort of humorist, and was constantly giving exhibitions of his dexterity in getting food by trickery. But he was especially anxious to win the friendship of the carabao; for he thought that, if they were friendly, this big fellow would help him whenever he got into trouble. So he said to the carabao, "Let us live together and hunt out food together! thus we shall break the monotony of our solitary lives." But the carabao snorted when he heard this proposal; and he replied, "You slow thing! you ought to live with the drones, not with a swift and powerful person like me." The turtle was very much offended, and to get even he challenged the carabao to a race. At first the carabao refused to accept the challenge, for he thought it would be a disgrace for him to run against a turtle. The turtle said to the carabao, "If you will not race with me, I will go to all the forests, woods, and mountains, and tell all your companions and all my friends and all the animal kingdom that you are a coward." Now the carabao was persuaded; and he said, "All right, only give me three days to get ready for the race." The turtle was only too glad to have the contest put off for three days, for then he too would have a chance to prepare his plans. The agreement between the turtle and the carabao was that the race should extend over seven hills. The turtle at once set out to visit seven of his friends; and, by telling them that if he could win this race it would be to the glory of the turtle kingdom, he got them to promise to help him. So the next day he stationed a turtle on the top of each hill, after giving them all instructions. The third day came. Early the next morning the turtle and the carabao met at the appointed hill. At a given signal the race began, and soon the runners lost sight of each other. When the carabao reached the second hill, he was astonished to see the turtle ahead of him, shouting, "Here I am!" After giving this yell, the turtle at once disappeared. And at every hill the carabao found his enemy ahead of him. When the carabao was convinced at the seventh hill that he had been defeated, he became so angry that he kicked the turtle. On account of the hardness of its shell, the turtle was uninjured; but the hoof of the carabao was split in two, because of the force of the blow. And even to-day, the carabaos still bear the mark which an unjust action on the part of their ancestor against one whom he knew was far inferior to him in strength produced on himself. Notes. A Pampangan story furnished by Wenceslao Vitug of Lubao, Pampanga, runs thus in abstract:-- The Deer and the Snail. Snail challenges deer to race, and stations his friends at intervals along the way. Every time deer stops and calls out to see where his antagonist is, a snail answers from a spot a few yards ahead of deer. At the end of the course the defeated deer falls fainting. His gall is sucked out by the snails near him. To this day snails taste bitter, and the deer has no gall. For a similar Visayan tale see "The Snail and the Deer" (JAFL 20 : 315). A Tinguian version may be found in Cole (No. 82, p. 198). This very widespread story is comprehensively discussed by Dähnhardt (4 : 46-97), who gives a large number of variants from all parts of the world. The Philippine forms of it may reasonably be adjudged native, I believe; at any rate, they need not have been derived from Europe. A Borneo version (Evans, 475-476) not given in Dähnhardt may be mentioned here in conclusion. In it the plandok (mouse-deer), which has deceived and brought about the deaths of all the larger animals, agrees to tun a race with the omong (hermit-crab). The crab stations three companions at corners of the square race-course, and wins. The mouse-deer runs itself to death. APPENDIX. [Additional notes, chiefly in the nature of American Indian, Negro, and Sinhalese (Ceylon) variants.] Supplementary Bibliography. BOLTE (JOHANNES) UND POLÍVKA (GEORG). Anmerkungen zu den Kinder- und Hausmärchen der Brüder Grimm. Vol. 3 (Nos. 121-225). Leipzig, 1918. Journal of American Folk-Lore. (Cited JAFL.) --Boas, F. Notes on Mexican Folk-Lore (JAFL 25 : 204-260). 1912. --Bolduc (E.), Tremblay (M.), and Barbeau (C.-M.). Contes populaires canadiens (troisième série) (JAFL 32 : 90-167). 1919. --Bundy, R.C. Folk-Tales from Liberia (JAFL 32 : 406-427). 1919. --Espinosa, A.M. Comparative Notes on New-Mexican and Mexican Spanish Folk-Tales (JAFL 27 : 211-231). 1914. ----New-Mexican Spanish Folk-Lore (JAFL 27 : 105-147). 1914. ----New-Mexican Spanish Folk-Lore: Folk-Tales (JAFL 24 : 397-444). 1911. --Folk-Tales from Alabama (JAFL 32 : 397-401). 1919. --Folk-Tales from Georgia (JAFL 32 : 402-405). 1919. --Mason, J.A. Folk-Tales of the Tepecanos (JAFL 27 : 148-210). 1914. --Mechling, W. H. Stories and Songs from the Southern Atlantic Coastal Region of Mexico (JAFL 29 : 547-558). 1916. --Stories from Tuxtepec, Oaxaca (JAFL 25 : 199-203). 1912. Parsons, E. C. Pueblo-Indian Folk-Tales, probably of Spanish Provenience (JAFL 31 : 216-255). 1918. --Tales from Guilford County, North Carolina (JAFL 30 : 168-200). 1917. --Recinos, Adrián. Cuentos populares de Guatemala (JAFL 31 : 472-487). 1918. --Skinner, Alanson. European Tales from the Plains Ojibwa (JAFL 29 : 330-340). 1916. ----Plains Ojibwa Tales (JAFL 32 : 280-305). 1919. --Speck, F.G. Malecite Tales (JAFL 30 : 479-485). 1917. --Stewart, Sadie E. Seven Folk-Tales from the Sea Islands, South Carolina (JAFL 32 : 394-396). 1919. --Teit, James. European Tales from the Upper Thompson Indians (JAFL 29 : 301-329). 1916. LAIDLAW, GEORGE E. Ojibwa Myths and Tales (reprinted from the Archæological Report, 1918). PARKER, H. Village Folk-Tales of Ceylon. London: Vol. 1, 1910; Vol. 2, 1914; Vol. 3, 1914. PARSONS, ELSIE CLEWS. Folk-Tales of Andros Island, Bahamas (Memoirs of the American Folk-Lore Society, Vol. 13). New York, 1918. (Cited MAFLS 13.) See also under Journal of American Folk-Lore. RADIN-ESPINOSA. El Folklore de Oaxaca, recogido por Paul Radin y publicado por Aurelio M. Espinosa (Anales de la Escuela Internacional de Arqueología y Etnología Americanas). New York, 1917. SAUNIÈRE, S. DE. Cuentos populares araucanos y chilenos (Revista de folklore chileno, Vol. 7). Santiago de Chile, 1918. THOMPSON, STITH. European Tales among the North American Indians (Colorado College Publication). Colorado Springs, 1919. Supplementary Notes. 1. [109] Dr. Boas gives the bibliography of "Dr. Know-All" in America in JAFL 25 : 151. A Sinhalese variant may be found in Parker, 1 : 179-185 (No. 23). 2. Page 11 (footnote). Dr. Boas informs me that petate is a Mexican-Spanish word borrowed from the Nahuatl. Full bibliography of Grimm, No. 122 ("Donkey Cabbages") is given in Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 3-9. In JAFL 28 : 56 is a Penobscot story containing the loss of three magic objects, transportation to a distant place, escape of princess by means of transportation-cap, discovery by hero of magic apples, punishment of princess, and the recovery of the magic objects (see Thompson, 401). 3. Page 25 (A). For a list of Hindoo stories in which the hero is only a span high, see Parker, 2 : 256. Page 25-26 (B1-5). In a Biloxi tale not belonging in other respects to our group, the hero's uncle puts the hero to some hard tests, hoping to make away with him (see Thompson, 376). Page 26 (B2). The attempts to kill the hero in a well by throwing huge rocks on him are found in some of the American variants of the "Strong John" cycle. (See Thompson, 435-436, for French-Canadian and Maliseet versions.) Page 26 (D.) In a Maliseet tale (Thompson, 340) the strong hero sets out on his travels with a giant cane that will hold fifty salted cattle. Page 27 (E). In ten of the American Indian versions of "John the Bear" are found the extraordinary companions (see Thompson, 336-344). Page 29. With Kakarangkang's adventure inside the crocodile, compare an Araucano story (Saunière, No. 3), in which the heroine with a knife is swallowed by the big king of fishes. She cuts her way out, saving her brother and others imprisoned. 4. Interrupted-cooking episode. For a Negro version from Bahamas, see MAFLS 13, No. 93; also bibliography on p. 142 (footnote). In his analysis of "John the Bear" stories among the American Indians, Thompson (336-342) notes this episode in Assiniboin, Tehuano, Shoshone, Thompson River, Maliseet, Loucheux, and Micmac versions. Bee-hive hoax. Three Mexican variants on this idea may be noted. In one (JAFL 25 : 237), rabbit pretends that the bee-hive is a school, which he permits coyote to keep. In another (ibid., 206) rabbit pretends that a wasp-nest is a cradle, and gets coyote to rock it. The third is a Cora story given in abstract by Dr. Boas (ibid., 260), which is nearest the form of the incident as found in our tales. Opossum pretends that the bee-hive is a bell which coyote is to ring when he hears the sky-rockets. In a New-Mexican Spanish story (JAFL 27 : 134-135) fox tells coyote that the bee-hive is his school humming. 5. Parker's Sinhalese story "The Elephant-Fool" (3 : 100-111, No. 203) tells of a man who borrowed another's elephant; but the beast died before it could be returned. The borrower offers payment or another animal, but the owner will accept nothing but his own elephant alive. Through the cleverness of his wife, the borrower is able to make the obdurate man break a water-pot, and in turn demands his very water-pot back unbroken. Unable to do anything else, the owner of the elephant says that the two debts cancel each other, and goes away. Parker notes that in another Sinhalese form of this story both persons institute law-suits. He also cites a Chinese variant (p. 111). 6. Page 51, line 41. For bibliography of Grimm, No. 183, see Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 333-335. Parker (2 : 247-268, No. 137) gives a Sinhalese story, with three variants, which is definitely connected with our tales, and confirms my belief that the "False-Proofs" cycle is native to southern India. In Parker's main story the false proofs are five,--ass (voice), two winnowing-trays (ears), two bundles of creepers (testicles?), a tom-tom (eye), and two elephant tusks (teeth). In variant b the false proofs are drum (roar), deer-hide rope (hair), pair of elephant tusks (teeth). For another Sinhalese story of how a man and his wife "bluffed" a terrible Yaka hiding under the bed to kill him, see Parker, 1 : 148-149 (No. 17). 7. Page 62. Analogous to the task cited from Jataka, No. 546, is one of the problems in the Liberian story "Impossible vs. Impossible" (JAFL 32 : 413). Problem: Make a mat from rice-grains. Solution: Old rice-mat demanded as pattern.--For making rope out of husks, and analogous tasks, see Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 513. Page 62 (3). In Parker, No. 79, a king requires a man to put a hundred gourd-fruits in a hundred small-mouthed vessels. His clever daughter grows them there. Parker cites a story from Swynnerton's Indian Night's Entertainment, in which a clever girl sends melons in jars to a prince and requires him to remove the melons without injuring them or the jars. This problem is identical with one on our p. 58 (16-17). In still another Sinhalese story a foolish king requires a Panditaya, under penalty of death, to teach the royal white horse to speak. The wise man's daughter saves her father's life by telling him what to reply to the king (Parker, 1 : 199-200, No. 27).--In Parker, 3 : 112-113 (No. 204), a country-girl meets a prince, to whose questions she gives enigmatical replies. He is clever enough to interpret them correctly. Page 63 (4). In Parker, 2 : 7-9 (No. 78), a king requires milk from oxen. The clever village girl's answer is of a kind with Marcela's (our collection, p. 55): she sets out for the washerman's with a bundle of cloths, is met by the king, and tells him her father has come of age in the same manner as women (i.e., he has menstruated). 8. For stealing eggs from under bird, see Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 57-58. Bolte-Polívka's notes on Grimm, No. 192, include a discussion of both the "Master Thief" cycle (3 : 379-395) and the Rhampsinitus "Treasure-House" saga (3 : 395-406). Two Sinhalese variants of the latter cycle, lacking in Bolte-Polívka's bibliography, are Parker's No. 189 and variant (3 : 41-46). Here the thieves are father and son; son cuts off father's head to prevent identification. The stories end with the exposure of the body and the escape of the son, who falls from a tree when his mother bursts into laments at the sight of her husband's corpse. Four American Indian versions of the "Master Thief" are analyzed by Thompson (427-429),--Maliseet, Dakota, Thompson River, Wyandot. A Oaxaca version of the "Master Thief" is given in Radin-Espinosa, 226-227 (No. 116): it preserves a number of features of the Rhampsinitus story. Likewise a New-Mexican Spanish tale (JAFL 24 : 423-424), in which, after preliminary skill-tests, the two thieves rob the king. The Mexican thief is caught; the Spanish thief cuts off his head. The corpse, by order of the king, is carried through town, and the house of the mourner is marked with blood. The Spanish thief escapes by marking all the houses with blood. (For the bibliography of marking all the house-doors with chalk to prevent discovery, see Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 145, note.) 9. Page 78. Not counting self. This incident occurs in a Sinhalese story (Parker, 1 : 258, No. 44). (See ibid., 259, for three variants from India and one from China.) Comparative bibliography of this motif is given in Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 149 (note 1). Page 78. Killing fly on face. Sinhalese (Parker, 1 : 319-321, No. 58): The stupid hero strikes with a rice-pestle at a fly on his mother's head, and kills her. Wyandot (Thompson, 423): The numskull hero hits the head of a sleeping child to kill mosquito, and kills child. Ojibwa (Laidlaw, 63): Flies on baby's head "killed" with rubber boot. 10. Page 87. Add to the bibliography of the "Magic Ring" cycle three American forms of the story,--French-Canadian, Micmac, and Maliseet (analyzed by Thompson, 398-399). An interesting Sinhalese version is Parker's No. 208 (3 : 127-131). Here a lazy prince buys a cobra, parrot, and cat. From the snake-king he receives a ring by means of which he can create anything he wants. He creates a palace and a princess. The princess and ring are stolen by an old woman acting as agent for a king who came to know of the beautiful princess (hair floating down-stream). Through the aid of his faithful animals, especially the cat, which coerces the king of the rats, the hero recovers his wife and magic object. (See also Parker's extensive notes [131-135] for other Oriental versions.) 11. Page 114. See Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 483-486, for notes on Grimm's fragment "The Louse." Bolte and Polívka (3 : 84-85) give brief notes on Grimm, No. 134, mostly in the nature of addenda to their notes on Grimm, No. 71, with which this story is closely related. Three American Indian variants of Grimm, No. 71, are analyzed by Thompson (346-347). For a Negro version from the Bahamas, see MAFLS 13, No. 20. 12. Page 125, line 21. For "Diego and Juan" read "Diego and Pedro." Page 128, note 3. Dr. Farnham presents a fuller and more recent study of the cycle of the "Contending Lovers" in Publications of the Modern Language Association, 28 (1920): 247-323. Page 128. Full bibliographical treatment of our Type I, the "Creation of Woman," may be found in Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 53-57. Page 133. Bibliography of Grimm, No. 124, will be found in Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 10-12; of Grimm, No. 129, ibid., 45-58. Bolte and Polívka are of the opinion that Grimm, Nos. 71, 124, and 129, are all related (3 : 45). A New-Mexican Spanish variant of Grimm, No. 129 (JAFL 24 : 411-414), tells of three brothers sent out to learn trades. One becomes a carpenter; another, a silversmith; and the third, a thief. They are tested by the king, who is satisfied that they have learned their trades well. A Negro version from the Bahamas (MAFLS 13 : 43-44, No. 23) tells of four brothers who went out and became skilled (tailor, robber, thief, archer). Skill-test with egg (stealing from nest, shooting it into four parts, stitching egg together, replacing under bird). Rescue of princess stolen by dragon (stitching planks of shattered ship together). Very close to the Bahamas tale, except in the dénouement, is a Sinhalese story (Parker, 2 : 33 ff., No. 82). Four princes set out to learn sciences: the first learns sooth; the second, theft; the third, archery; the fourth, carpentry. They are tested by their father the king (stealing egg from crow, cutting it with arrow, repairing it, and restoring it to nest). They then search for and bring back the queen, who had been stolen by a Rakshasa. They then quarrel as to who should have the sovereignty. In variant a (ibid., 36-39) a nobleman's five sons learn sciences (soothsayer, marksman, thief, runner, physician) and jointly restore a dead princess to life. In variant b (39-42) seven princes become skilled. In variant c four Brahmans learn sciences to win the hand of a princess, and afterwards restore her to life. As they cannot settle their quarrel, they all give her up. (For other versions, see Parker, 2 : 43-45, 157-159 [No. 109]). Page 136, line 31. For "Tagic" read "Jagic." 13. In a Oaxaca story (Radin-Espinosa, 249-250, No. 137) a rich compadre tries with no success to advance the fortunes of his poor compadre, and comes to the conclusion that he who is born to be poor will always be poor. 14 b. A Oaxaca version of "The Thief and his Master," with the transformation-combat detail, is given in Radin-Espinosa, 240 (No. 131). An analogous story has also been recorded by F. Boas at Zuñi. Three Sinhalese versions of "The Magician and his Pupil" may be found in Parker, 3 : 400-407 (No. 266). Many other Oriental variants are given in abstract in the notes to these stories (ibid., 408-410). 15. In JAFL 31 : 480-481 is given a Guatemala droll which is clearly derived from the Arabian Nights form of our story. For additional bibliography of the tricky thief who pretends he had been transformed into the ass which he has just stolen from the simple peasant, see Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 9. Related to this motif are two Oriental tales given in abstract by Parker (3 : 205-206). 17. Page 161. Identical with our first task is one found in a Oaxaca version (Radin-Espinosa, 223, No. 112). No. 109 in this same collection is a variant of "John the Bear." An excellent New-Mexican Spanish version of "John the Bear" is given by Espinosa (JAFL 24 : 437-444). (For American Indian versions of this cycle, see Thompson, 336-344.) Page 165. For comparative bibliography of the "Forgotten Betrothed" cycle, see Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 516-527 (on Grimm, No. 113) ; for American versions of the tasks and magic flight, MAFLS 13 : 54 n2; and for American Indian versions of this cycle as a whole. Thompson, 370-381. In only four of the twenty Indian stories analyzed, however, does the incident of the forgetting of his fiancée by the hero occur. The first part of the "Forgotten Betrothed" cycle is found in an Araucano story (Saunière, No. 9), in which the hero takes service with a supernatural being, falls in love with his daughter, performs two difficult tasks and answers three questions, and flees with her in a transformation-flight that ends with the death of the pursuer. In a Negro story from Bahamas (MAFLS 13 : No. 27) are found the tasks, magic-flight, and forgotten-betrothed elements. 18. Our story is closely related to Grimm, No. 82 a (see Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 190-196, for text), a story derived from Musäus. Grimm, No. 197 (Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 424-443), is also related. Thompson (410) cites a Micmac version that agrees with ours in its main outlines,--a version which he believes goes back to a French original. A very brief Kutenai version is given in Boas, "Kutenai Tales" (Bulletin 59, Bureau of American Ethnology), p. 34. 19. See Bolte-Polívka's notes on Grimm, No. 108 (2 : 234 ff.). 20. Page 196. The following American Indian variants of motifs found in our stories are analyzed by Thompson (419-426):-- Fatal imitation (G1): Maliseet (wife), Ojibwa, Dakota, Zuñi. Substitute for execution (H): Maliseet, Ojibwa, Wyandot, Thompson River, Dakota, Tepecano, Creek, Yuchi, Jicarilla Apache, Pochulta, Chalina, Aztec, Tuxtepec. Marine cattle (J): Micmac, Maliseet, Ojibwa, Thompson River, Dakota, Tepecano. Frightening robbers under tree (F5): Micmac, Maliseet, Wyandot, Ojibwa (for Ojibwa see also Laidlaw, 196). For a Negro (Bahamas) variant of G1, see MAFLS 13, No. 41; of F5, ibid., No. 46. In a Oaxaca story, "Los Dos Compadres" (Radin-Espinosa, 198-199, No. 101), one compadre frightens a band of robbers unwittingly and acquires treasure (sale-of-ashes incident). Then follows the incident of the borrowed measure returned with coins adhering, whereupon the rich compadre tries to "sell ashes," and is killed by the robbers. For bibliography of the motif coins sticking to borrowed measure, see Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 520; 2 : 6; 3 : 143 n. The incident of frightening robbers under tree appears to be characteristic of the Pedro di Urdemales group (see JAFL 27 : 119-134, especially 125, 133). For the sack-by-sea episode in the same story, see ibid., 134. To Bolte-Polívka's bibliography of Grimm, No. 61, should be added a Sinhalese version (Parker, 2 : 116-119, No. 101), which contains the rejuvenating-cudgel, sack-by-sea, and marine-cattle motifs. 21. Page 206. In a Oaxaca story (Radin-Espinosa, 246, No. 134) closely related to our No. 21, a king sentences a gentleman to death for having said, "El que tiene dinero hace lo que quiere." This sentiment is almost identical with that found in the Sicilian story by Pitrè. In both, too, the device by means of which the hero discovers the hidden princess is a golden eagle which gives forth beautiful music. In a New-Mexican Spanish version (JAFL 27 : 135-137) the hero gains access to the princess by means of a bronze eagle. 23. Page 213. In a New-Mexican Spanish story (JAFL 27 : 128) one of the adventures of Pedro di Urdemales is to make a pact with the Devil in return for much money. In hell he wins his freedom by sticking the demons to their chairs with varnish and then frightening them with a cross. This version seems nearly related to our story. In a Tepecano tale of the same hero (ibid., 171) Pedro frightens and beats devils with a holy palm-leaf. 24. Page 221. Add to Benfey's Oriental versions a Sinhalese story by Parker (2 : 288-291, No. 141). Parker analyzes three other Hindoo variants which should be noted. Page 222. Parker, No. 252 (3 : 339-341), "How Maraya was put in the Bottle," is a close variant of Grimm, No. 44. Death is finally outwitted by the hero, who persuades him to creep into a bottle to demonstrate that he had been able to enter a closed room through a keyhole. Thereafter all the hero has to do to cure a sick person is to place the bottle at his head! This detail of enclosing a demon in a bottle is found in Caballero's story. In another Sinhalese story (Parker, 3 : 185-186, No. 222) a water-snake, pleased by a beggar's actions, promises to make him rich by creeping up the trunk of the king's tusk elephant and making the animal mad. The beggar "cures" the elephant when he tells the snake to leave, and becomes wealthy. 27. Thompson (413-414) cites two American Indian stories, Penobscot and Maliseet, which open with the obtaining of a gold-dropping horse from an old man because of kindness, the loss of it at an inn at the bands of a rascally landlord, and the recovery of the animal through the generous use of a magic cudgel. The remainder of the two stories is connected with the last part of the "Golden Goose" cycle (Grimm, No. 64). Page 237. To the East Indian variants of this story add Parker, No. 97 (2 : 101-104), in which an indigent man who frightens a Yaka obtains from the demon a magic self-filling plate, a ring which when sold will always return to its owner, and a gold-dropping cow. These are stolen from him on successive days by a Hettiyä, and worthless imitations substituted. Then the Yaka gives the hero a magic cudgel, with which he regains his magic articles. (See Parker, ibid., 104-105, for other Oriental versions.) 29. Page 247. A Sinhalese story, "The Mouse Maiden" (Parker, 1 : 308 f., No. 54), tells of a princess in the form of a mouse who was married to a prince. Her permanent disenchantment is brought about by the burning of her mouse-jacket. Similarly in No. 223 (Parker, 3 : 187-188) the youngest of seven princes is married to a female hare, which is permanently disenchanted when her husband burns her hare-skin. This story and another cited by Parker, in which the youngest of seven princes married a female monkey who in the end proved to be a fairy and took off her monkey-skin (Chilli: Folk Tales of Hindustan, 54), appear to be related to the Indian Märchen cited by Benfey (1 : 251). For other tales of animal-marriages with transformation, see Parker, Nos. 151, 207 (turtle), No. 163 (snake), No. 164 (lizard), No. 165 (frog); without transformation, No. 158 (bear), No. 159 (leopard). 30. A Sinhalese variant of the "Chastity-Wager" story is Parker, No. 149 (2 : 334-336). 33. In a French-Canadian version (JAFL 32 : 161-163), while a jealous hunchback is away from home, three other hunchbacks (unrelated to the husband) apply to the wife for food. While they are eating, she sees her husband returning. She hides her three guests in a chest, where they are smothered. The remainder of the story is regular. 35. Page 278. Our story appears to be related to some of the variants of Grimm, No. 22, though there is little resemblance between it and the German story itself. Compare, however, an Ojibwa tale (JAFL 29 : 337), in which a princess is offered in marriage to whoever can propose a riddle she cannot solve (in our story it is the hero who must give the answer to the princess's riddle). On his way to court, the hero receives magic objects. He successfully outriddles his opponent, but is put in prison. He wins release and the princess's hand by means of the magic objects. (See Thompson, 415-416.) 36. Page 283. A New-Mexican Spanish variant of "Juan Tiñoso" (JAFL 24 : 403-408) combines features from "John the Bear." Page 284. The "Iron Hans" cycle (Grimm, No. 136) Bolte and Polívka (3 : 97) outline as follows:-- (A1) A prince sets free a wild man, Iron Hans, whom his father has captured; (A2) the prince flees from the machinations of his hostile or wanton step-mother; (A3) the wild man bestows on a childless couple a son, who, however, after a definite term, must be surrendered to him. (B) While with Iron Hans, whose orders he disobeys, the boy acquires golden halt, and (B1) is either forgiven and restored to favor, or (B2) escapes on a talking horse. (C) After covering his gold hair with a hat or cloth, he takes service as a gardener at a king's palace, where the princess falls in love with him. (D) At a tournament he appears three times on a magnificent horse that Iron Hans has furnished him with, and he gains the hand of the king's daughter. (E) He manifests his nobility as victor in a combat, as a dragon-killer, as a bringer of a cure for the sick king (cf. No. 97), or on a hunt, where he disgraces his mocking brothers-in-law. (F) Iron Hans or the helpful horse is disenchanted. For American Indian variants of the "Iron Hans" cycle, see Thompson, 350-357. Page 284, line 3. For throwing of apples to intended husbands, see Bolte-Polívka, 2 : 381; 3 : 111. Line 16. For the branding of the brothers-in-law, see Grimm, Nos. 59, 91, 97; also Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 114 (note 1). Juan Tiñoso means John the Scabby. Two French versions have exactly the same title, "Jean le Teignous" and "Jean le Tigneux" (Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 99). A somewhat distant Sinhalese relative of "Juan Tiñoso," in which the hero is a turtle, is Parker, No. 151 (2 : 345-352). In an Osage Indian story occurs the release of an imprisoned monster by a boy (Thompson, 331). 38. Page 288. For bibliography of the question "How much is the king worth?" see Bolte-Polívka, 3 : 232. The Negrito's counter-demand to the king's third task (i.e., drink all the fresh water) is identical with the counter-demand to the task of counting the drops in the sea (ibid., 3 : 231). Page 291. Bolte and Polívka (3 : 214) emphasize the fact of the mutual borrowing of incidents by this cycle and the "Clever Lass" cycle. Two Sinhalese stories not unlike our No. 38 are given by Parker,--"The Three Questions" (1 : 150-152), "The Four Difficult Questions" (153-154). 40. Page 299, "Pitong." In a Oaxaca story (Radin-Espinosa, 204, No. 104) occur the abandoned-children opening, corn-trail, fruit-trail, ogre's house, advice of rat, ogre pushed in oven. A Chile version of "Le Petit Poucet" is "Piñoncito" (Saunière, 262). The following American Indian versions are noticed by Thompson (361-365): Thompson River (3), Shuswap (2), Ojibwa, Maliseet, Ponka, Bellacoola, Mewan, Uintah Ute. 45. For a Negro (Bahamas) version of "Cinderella," see MAFLS 13, No. 17; for American Indian versions, Thompson, 384-385. 47. Compare a Negro story from the Bahamas (MAFLS 13, No. 14); also a Sinhalese tale, "The Roll of Cotton" (Parker, 1 : 364-366, No. 69), in which the two women are sisters. 48. Two Hindoo (Sinhalese) versions of the "Puss-in-Boots" cycle are Parker, No. 49 (1 : 278-283) and No. 235 (3 : 243-248). These are of extreme importance in trying to establish the provenience of our stories: for in both the helpful animal is a monkey; both contain the incident of the borrowed measure, the incident of the killing of the demon by the monkey (obscure but unmistakable in No. 49) and the claiming of the monster's palace as his master's; in both the monkey marries his master to a king's daughter. These two stories differ from ours in the conclusion: the master proves ungrateful, and the faithful monkey runs off into the forest. Again, too, in the opening, these two Sinhalese stories differ from ours: the monkey's gratitude is not motivated; the animal is not a thieving animal, hence there is no tar-baby device. Page 336, Tar-Baby. For the distribution of the "Tar-Baby" story among the American Indians, see Boas (JAFL 25 : 249), supplemented by Thompson (444-446). For Negro versions, see MAFLS 13 : Nos. 10, 11, 12; JAFL 30 : 171, 222; Thompson, 440. Other American versions are Mexico (JAFL 29 : 549); Guatemala (JAFL 31 : 472 f.); Oaxaca (Radin-Espinosa, 120-121, 183, 197; JAFL 25 : 200, 201, 235-236). 49. In a Sinhalese noodle-story the foolish hero joins a band of thieves and tries to steal a millstone, wakening the owner of the house and asking him for assistance (Parker, 2 : 70-75, No. 90). In another tale in the same collection, No. 57 (1 : 317-318), a gang of robbers steal a devil-dancer's box. While they are sleeping, one of their number, a fool, puts on the costume. They awake, think he is the Devil, and flee, the fool pursuing and calling, "Stay there! stay there!" This story is like our "Juan and the Robbers" (348-349). Compare also the story cited by Parker on p. 318. 50. Since writing the notes to No. 50, I have found a Sinhalese version of the "Hat-pays-landlord" story which is essentially the same as ours, only a three-cornered hat, not a painted one, is the hoax. The motive of the hero's trick is his desire for revenge on three sharpers who have cozened him out of a bull which they pretend is a goat (Parker, 3 : 200-205, No. 226). For this last situation, compare our No. 15 and notes. 53. In the Sinhalese "Story of the Bitch" (Parker, 3 : 102-104, No. 201) a bitch gives birth to two princesses, who marry princes. Later the elder daughter drives her dog-mother away when it seeks to visit her, but the younger treats it kindly. The elder daughter is killed by a cobra-bite because of her avariciousness. This version is nearly related to Miss Frere's old Deccan story. 54. In the latter part of a long Sinhalese story (Parker, No. 145) a king conceives a passion for the hero's wife, and resorts to the same ruse as the wicked datu in our story,--underground tunnel, and letter to parents in the underworld. The hero escapes by means of a cross-tunnel, returns with marvellous raiment (provided by heroine) and news that the king's father and mother are happy. The avaricious king makes the same trip, and is destroyed. Parker, No. 146 (2 : 313-314), contains almost the identical situation. 55. Page 371 (E). Probably the earliest literary version of the drowning-turtle motif (undoubtedly the prototype of the brier-patch punishment) is Buddhistic: Jataka, No. 543. This motif occurs in a Sinhalese story otherwise wholly unrelated to the cycle of which this punishment is usually a part (Parker, No. 150, 2 : 339-340; see also 343-344). For additional bibliography of the brier-patch punishment, in many of the American Indian versions of which the turtle or tortoise is substituted for the rabbit, see Thompson, 446-447; JAFL 31 : 229 (note). Thompson (440) also lists some American Negro variants. Page 372. With Jataka, No. 273, compare a Negro story from the Bahamas (MAFLS 13 : 92, No. 45, II). Skinner (JAFL 32 : 295-297) gives an Ojibwa story in which occurs the "drowning" of the turtle and the biting-off of otter's testicles by the turtle. This second detail appears reminiscent of the turtle's revenge discussed on our pp. 372-373. 56. Page 379. Some American versions of the house-answering-owner episode are the following: Oaxaca (Radin-Espinosa, 184-185; 194, rabbit and coyote; JAFL 25 : 208, rabbit and crocodile); Chile (JAFL 26 : 248, a curious modification of the motif); Mexico (JAFL 29 : 552). In another Mexican story we find the episode of the rabbit crossing the river on the crocodile's back (JAFL 29 : 551-552). In a Sinhalese story of "The Crocodile and the Jackal" (Parker, 1 : 380-381, No. 75), the crocodile shams dead. Jackal says, "In our country dead crocodiles wag their tails." (This appears to me a variant of the house-answering-owner motif.) Later follows the incident of the seizure of the foot of the jackal, who pretends crocodile has hold of a root. (See also Parker, No. 36 [1 : 235 f.] for deceptions turtle practises on jackal.) 57. Page 381. A Oaxaca story (Radin-Espinosa, 190, No. 94) combines an account of a war between the animals and the winged creatures (animals defeated) with a race between the lion and the cricket. 59. American versions of the let-me-take-your-place motif are numerous: Oaxaca (Radin-Espinosa, 121, 153, 183, 185, 197; JAFL 25 : 201, 236); Mexico (JAFL 29 : 550); Tepecano (JAFL 27 : 162); Negro (JAFL 32 : 400, 402; MAFLS 13 : Nos. 12, 33, 39). 60. The following American forms of the accumulative story may be noted: Guatemala (JAFL 31 : 482-483); Mexico (JAFL 25 : 219 f.); Oaxaca (Radin-Espinosa, 195, No. 99); New-Mexican Spanish (JAFL 27 : 138); Tepecano (JAFL 27 : 175). See also Thompson, 453-454. The stories resemble ours only in general method, not at all in detail. For discussion and abstracts of some South American variants that are closer to our form than are those of Central and North America, see Boas (JAFL 25 : 352-353 and notes). A curious Sinhalese accumulative story, No. 251 in Parker's collection (3 : 336-338), tells how, when some robbers were apprehended for digging into the king's palace and were sentenced, they replied that the mason who made the walls was at fault, not they. The mason accused his lime-mixer; the lime-mixer, a beautiful woman for having distracted his attention; the woman, a goldsmith. The goldsmith is condemned, but by a ruse succeeds in getting a wholly innocent fat-bellied Mohammedan trader executed in his place. Parker abstracts a similar story from southern India (p. 338). (See also his No. 28 [1 : 201-205] for another kind of "clock-story" nearer the type of "The Old Woman and her Pig.") 61. Page 392. Parker's No. 107 (2 : 146-149) is an elaboration of Jataka, No. 374. (For other Oriental variants of this theme, see ibid., 149-150.) 71. For a Negro version of a flight-contest (not etiological) between a crow and a pigeon, see MAFLS 13 : No. 53. 79. The Upper Thompson Indians have a story of how the raven and the crow were sent out after the Flood to find land. They did not return, but fed on the corpses of the drowned people. For this reason they were transformed into birds of black color, where formerly they were white-skinned (JAFL 29 : 329). 82. For bibliography of the relay-race motif among the American Indians see Boas (JAFL 25 : 249; Thompson, 448-449). Thompson cites fourteen American Indian versions, in all but two of which the winner is the turtle. In one, the clever animal is a gopher; in the other, a frog. For American Negro variants, see Thompson, 441; JAFL 31 : 221 (note 2); JAFL 32 : 394. In a Negro version from Bahamas (MAFLS 13 : No. 54), horse and conch race; horse is defeated, and kicks the little conches to death (cf. the ending of our No. 82). For a Mexican version (rabbit and toad) see JAFL 25 : 214-215; for Oaxaca (toad and deer), Radin-Espinosa, 193. In an Araucano story (Saunière, No. XI) the race between the fox and the crawfish does not assume the relay form. NOTES [1] I am greatly indebted to Professor E. Arsenio Manuel, Department of Anthropology, University of the Philippines, for biographical and other data with regard to Dean S. Fansler. Mr. E. D. Hester kindly furnished additional details. [2] A common nickname for "Juan," equivalent to the English "Jack." [3] Datu, old native name for "village chieftain." [4] Casco, a commodious wooden cargo-boat commonly used in rivers and propelled by poling. [5] Carabao, a gray water-buffalo used throughout the Archipelago as a draught-animal. [6] The usual means of getting into a native grass house is a bamboo ladder. [7] This is a common Tagalog expression, and means, "I consider that you are all inferior to me in every respect." [8] Petate (Sp.-Mexican), a sleeping-mat made of woven straw. [9] Cavan, a dry measure used in the Philippines, equal to about 75 quarts. [10] Bolo, a cutlass-like knife used by the natives either for agricultural or war purposes. [11] The usual Filipino salute of respect for parents or grandparents. [12] This name literally means, "only one palasan [a large plant of llana]." The hero was so called because he was the strongest man in his town. [13] So called because he used as a cane (Tag. tungkod) the large cylindrical piece of iron used for crushing sugarcane (Tag. bola). [14] Literally, "one who can overturn a mountain." [15] For the "Fee-fi-fo-fum" phrase in folk-tales, see Bolte-Polívka, 1 : 289-292. [16] Literally, "without fear, fearless." [17] Paridis may possibly be identified with Paderes, the strong man whom Rodrigo de Villas (the Cid) meets in the woods, who uproots a huge tree with which to fight the hero, but who is finally overcome. Paderes and Rodrigo become fast friends. This character occupies a prominent place in the metrical romance entitled "Rodrigo de Villas," which has been printed in the Pampango, Ilocano, Tagalog, and Bicol dialects. Aolo may be a corruption of Afigalo, represented in Ilocano saga as a great fisherman. Many legends told to-day by the Ilocanos in connection with the Abra River, in northern Luzon, centre about the heroic Afigalo. [18] Aba! a very common exclamation of surprise. It sometimes expresses disgust. [19] We seem here to have a myth element explaining why the Negrito's hair is kinky. See notes for definition of pugut. [20] The root pugut is found in many of the dialects, and has two distinct meanings: (1) "a Negro or Negrito of the mountains;" (2) "decapitated, or with the hands or feet cut off." Among the Tagalogs, Bicols, and Visayans, the word is not used to designate a night-appearing demon or monster. Tag. cafre, which is equivalent to Iloc. pugut, is Spanish for Kaffir. Blumentritt defines cafre thus: "Nombre árabe (kafir), importado por los Españoles ó Portugueses; lo dan los campesinos Tagalos de la provincia de Tayabas á un duende antropófago, al que no gusta la sal. En las provincias Ilocanas denominan asi los Españoles al Pugot." Speaking of the demons and spirits of northern India, W. Crooke writes (1 : 138) that "some of the Bhût [= pugut ?], like the Kâfari [= cafre ?], the ghost of a murdered Negro, are black, and are particularly dreaded." [21] For full translation, see Jataka, ed. by E. B. Cowell (Cambridge University Press, 1895), 2 : 207-215; and FLJ 3 : 337 f. See also C. H. Tawney's discussion of the story in the Journal of Philology, 12 : 112-119. [22] Camisa china, a thin native coat-shirt worn outside the trousers. [23] Patianac, mischievous birth-spirits that live in the woods and fields, and lead travellers astray at night. [24] Pagui, the sting-ray, or skate-fish. Its tail is very efficacious against evil spirits and witches, according to native belief. [25] Tuba. a wine distilled from the coco and other palm trees. [26] Typhoon (Ar. tufan), a wind of cyclonic force and extraordinary violence. [27] Literally, "Give us here in the ceiling some good food." [28] Manglalabas, literally, "the one who appears;" i.e., apparition. [29] Barrio, a small collection of houses forming a kind of suburb to a town. [30] Mangkukulam, an old woman endowed with the powers of a witch. [31] Paragos, a kind of rude, low sledge drawn by carabaos and used by farmers. [32] Pipit, a tiny bird. [33] Why peso, I cannot say. A hole the size of a peso would accommodate a rope, but hardly a man or a large tub. The story is clearly imperfect in many respects. [34] Mankukulam, see note 1, p. 53. [35] As Mr. Gardner notes, a chap-book form of "Aladdin" exists in Tagalog. The full title of my copy runs thus (in translation): "The Wonderful story of Aladin, who got possession of the Marvelous Lamp, and of his Marriage with the Princess of China the Great. Manila, 1901. (Pp. 127.)" W. Retana, in his "Aparato Bibliográfico" (Madrid, 1906), cites an edition before 1898 (see item No. 4161). The story has also been printed in the Pampango, Ilocano, Bicol, and Visayan dialects. [36] From the Spanish corredor ("runner"). [37] From the Spanish mirador ("seer, gazer"). [38] A Tagalog boys' game played in the streets, with lines marked off by water (tubig). [39] From the Spanish puntador ("gunner"). [40] From the Spanish cargador ("carrier"). [41] From the Spanish soplador ("ventilator, blower"). [42] From the Spanish oidor ("hearer"). These six proper names are given here exactly as they appear in the original narrative. Strictly speaking, they are not derivatives from the Spanish: they merely suggest the Spanish words from which they have been coined as patronymics. [43] Tuma, Tagalog, Pampangan, and Malayan for "louse." [44] Perhaps from the Spanish conocer ("to know, understand"). For the names of the other companions, see footnotes to the preceding tale. [45] In Spanish this word means "witch, sorceress." [46] Whether or not these powers reside in the men themselves, who have acquired them through practice, or in magic objects which they find or are presented with. Benfey (loc. cit., p. 969) makes two distinct cycles on an entirely different basis from mine, both derived from India: the one telling of the extraordinary endowments of men; the other, of extraordinary properties of objects (i.e., magic objects). It seems to me a mistake, however, to make a cycle of this second group, for magic articles are only machinery in a story. A family of folk-tales cannot turn merely on things; the magic objects are only latently powerful until guided and controlled by the human hero. [47] For example, "The Grateful Dead," "John the Bear," "The Child and the Hand," "The Ransomed Woman," etc. [48] The most recent investigation of this cycle that I know of is that of W. E. Farnham in connection with the sources of Chaucer's "Parlement of Foules" (in Publications of the Modem Language Association, 32 : 502-513 [1917]). Dr. Farnham has named the cycle "The Contending Lovers," the stories of which, he says, fall into six clearly marked types. My discussion of the cycle may require some modification in the light of his study; but I have printed it here as I wrote it, some two years before Dr. Farnham's article came to my notice. [49] For practically this identical judgment, see the Dsanglun (St. Petersburg, 1843), p. 94 (cited by Benfey, 1 : 396, note 2). [50] Tag. for "rich." [51] Tag. for "poor." [52] A native dug-out or canoe. [53] A Spanish word meaning "a woman who keeps a little shop or store [tienda]." [54] Cañamo, ordinarily a kind of coarse cloth made from hemp. Here the word probably means the thread from which hempen ropes are made. [55] Darak, "bran, shorts, chaff." [56] Mungo. a small legume about the size and shape of a lentil. Same as mongo. [57] Carreton, a heavy two-wheeled springless cart drawn by a carabao. [58] Hacienda, a ranch of considerable extent. The fact of Pedro's living at some distance from the doctor might account for the success of the ruse. [59] Chupa, a measure, equal roughly to about four handfuls of raw rice. [60] Camotes, sweet potatoes. [61] Mongo, a variety of legume slightly smaller than the lentil (same as mungo). [62] This episode is found in a Tagalog folk-tale collected by Gardner (JAFL 20 : 304). This folk-tale, it might be noted, is based directly on a corrido, The Story of the Life of Doña Maria of Murcia, Manila, 1909. The romance has been printed in Pampango and Tagalog. Retana (No. 4166) mentions an edition between 1860 and 1898, and one dated 1901 (No. 4307). [63] I have the text and a complete English paraphrase of a Tagalog metrical romance which combines incidents from this story with incidents from "The Adarna Bird" (supra). The romance is entitled "The Story of the Life of King Don Luis, his Three Sons, and Queen Mora. Manila 1906." Retana (Nos. 4190, 4362) cites editions 1860-98 and 1902. This story contains the quest for the water of healing, the two hermits, the flight on the eagle's back, the sleeping enchanted queen, the stolen favor and the theft of the slipper, the ransoming of the two older brothers, their treachery, the hero disguised as servant in his father's palace, the invasion by the magic queen and her recovery of her lover the hero. This story is closely related to Groome No. 55. Compare also Groome's summary of Vernaleken's Austrian story of the "Accursed Garden" (p. 232), which in some respects resembles this Filipino romance more closely than does the Gypsy tale. [64] These were the leaves of a plant which the Tagalogs call Colis (see note 2, p. 285). [65] Tulisanes, highway robbers or bandits. [66] Salop, a dry measure of about fifteen centimetres cube. [67] Carreton, a heavy two-wheeled springless cart. [68] Sirena, a beautiful enchantress, half woman and half fish, who was supposed to dwell in certain rivers. This belief is fairly common in La Laguna province, especially in the town of Pagsanjan. [69] One of the most common Tagalog proverbs. [70] Novena, a devotion consisting of prayers held for nine consecutive days and asking for some special favor. [71] Novenario, the act of performing or holding a novena. [72] There seems to be an inconsistency here,--Clara was the mother of Idó,--or, if not an inconsistency (there might be two Claras), at least a useless and confusing repetition of names. [73] Cintas, a holy belt worn by women. [74] See note 1 on pagui ("sting-ray"), p. 43. [75] Guachinango, defined by the narrator as "vagabond." The word is used in Cuba as a nickname for the natives of Mexico. [76] While the term duende is Spanish, the other three spirits mentioned--tigbalang, iki, mananangal--are good old native demons. [77] See footnote 1, p. 217. [78] Same as the Cuban isabelina. [79] The episode of a mutual cure being effected by a blind man and a lame man, we have already met with in two of the versions of our No. 6. [80] It may be noted, in passing, that among certain of the Tagalogs the pestilence (cholera particularly) is personified as an old woman dressed in black, who goes about the town at night knocking for admittance. If any one pays attention to her summons, the result is fatal to him. This evil spirit is known as salut. [81] That is, "Purse, spit money from your throat!" [82] Compadre and comadre, the godfather and godmother of one's child. [83] That is, "Goat, leap about!" [84] That is, "Table, spread yourself!" [85] That is, "Cane, whip!" [86] (Spanish) "At him, cudgel!" [87] Capitan. In the Philippines this word is used as a title of address to a justice of the peace (gobernadorcillo). It is also used to designate the office itself. [88] "Golden," in this story, does not mean merely "of the color of gold," but also "made of gold." [89] Banca, a native dug-out. [90] Boroka, apparently a corruption of the Spanish bruja ("witch"). [91] Coles,--Memecylon edule Roxb. (Melastomata taceæ), a common and widely distributed shrub in the forests, with small purple flowers and small black or purple berries. It is found in the Indo-Malayan region generally. [92] For this very old symbol of beauty and noble lineage, see Prato, Zeitschrift für Volkskunde, 5 : 376; 6 : 28. [93] Mangrove tree. [94] The Filipinos have many mocking children's rhymes making fun of personal deformities, such as pock-marks, cross-eyes, very black skin, etc. They always raise a laugh when recited. [95] The Arabian story, I believe, is well worth study in connection with the theory of the Buddhistic origin of this cycle. The rôle of the ape; the conflict between the good and bad jinn, the ape belonging with the latter group; and the narrator's statement, "All this I have received from the bounty of God, whose name be exalted!"--suggest at the base of this version the struggle between Buddhism and Mohammedanism; with Mohammedanism triumphant, of course. [96] Bayluhan (from the Spanish baile), "a dancing-party." Katapusan (Tag.; from tapus, "end, finish"), a fiesta given nine days after the death of an adult, or three days after the death of a child. [97] Silong, the ground floor of a Filipino house. Usually it has only a dirt floor, and is not finished off. [98] The narrator has probably made the original episode a little more delicate here. There are inconsistencies in the present form of the story: a lizard would feel cold, not hot; besides, it would hardly remain clinging to Juan's coat as he rushed through the forest. Clearly, something other than a lizard fell on Juan. [99] Tuntung is the earthen cover of an earthen pot. The verb derived from it, tuntungan, has two meanings: one is "to cover something," the other is: to step on or over something." Hence Juan's mistake. [100] Unfortunately this work is inaccessible at present, and I am unable to indicate definitely its episodes. It contains nothing unique, however. [101] Mangla, big land-crabs. [102] Cagang, small land-crabs. [103] Bataktak, non-edible frogs. [104] Hu-man, land-snails. [105] Aninipot, fireflies. [106] Lamoc, mosquitoes. [107] Camanchile, Pithecolobium dulce Benth. (Leguminosæ), a native of tropical America; introduced into the Philippines by the Spaniards probably in the first century of Spanish occupation; now thoroughly naturalized and widely distributed in the Archipelago. [108] Bathala, the Supreme Being of the ancient Tagalogs. [109] This and the serial numbers following refer to corresponding numbers of tales.